diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-06 21:12:33 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-02-06 21:12:33 -0800 |
| commit | bf6a154cf3fb9a339d5fb4e28c93095fcc82bf0a (patch) | |
| tree | 87c147de3bd1daffb1e832b198d99665fb5cf7a9 | |
| parent | 9916ff133fdc15d2db4e8269ccd62c9114eba17b (diff) | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54053-0.txt | 16009 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54053-0.zip | bin | 348539 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54053-h.zip | bin | 437540 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54053-h/54053-h.htm | 15915 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54053-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 75597 -> 0 bytes |
8 files changed, 17 insertions, 31924 deletions
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..b68f3ed --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54053 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54053) diff --git a/old/54053-0.txt b/old/54053-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1eaf6ac..0000000 --- a/old/54053-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16009 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story, by -Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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/license - - -Title: The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: January 25, 2017 [EBook #54053] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAIRD OF NORLAW *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - THE - - LAIRD OF NORLAW. - - A SCOTTISH STORY. - - BY THE AUTHOR OF - - “MARGARET MAITLAND,” “LILLIESLEAF,” “ORPHANS,” - “THE DAYS OF MY LIFE,” ETC., ETC. - - NEW YORK: - - HARPER & BROTHERS, - - FRANKLIN SQUARE. - - 1859. - - - - - THE LAIRD OF NORLAW. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -The house of Norlaw stands upon the slope of a low hill, under shelter -of the three mystic Eildons, and not very far from that little ancient -town which, in the language of the author of “Waverley,” is called -Kennaquhair. - -A low, peaceable, fertile slope, bearing trees to its top-most height, -and corn on its shoulders, with a little river running by its base, -which manages, after many circuits, to wind its way into Tweed. The -house, which is built low upon the hill, is two stories in front, but, -owing to the unequal level, only one behind. The garden is all at the -back, where the ground is sheltered, but in front, the green, natural -surface of the hill descends softly to the water without any thing to -break its verdure. There are clumps of trees on each side, straying as -nature planted them, but nothing adorns the sloping lawn, which is not -called a lawn, nor used for any purposes of ornament by the household of -Norlaw. - -Close by, at the right hand of this homely house, stands an -extraordinary foil to its serenity and peacefulness. The old castle of -Norlaw, gaunt and bare, and windowless, not a towered and battlemented -pile, but a straight, square, savage mass of masonry, with windows -pierced high up in its walls in even rows, like a prison, and the gray -stone-work below, as high under the first range of windows as the roof -of the modern house, rising up blank, like a rock, without the slightest -break or opening. To see this strange old ruin, in the very heart of the -peaceful country, without a feature of nature to correspond with its -sullen strength, nor a circumstance to suggest the times and the danger -which made that necessary, is the strangest thing in the world; all the -more that the ground has no special capacities for defense, and that the -castle is not a picturesque baronial accumulation of turrets and -battlements, but a big, austere, fortified dwelling-house, which modern -engineering could make an end of in half a day. - -It showed, however, if it did nothing better, that the Livingstones were -knights and gentlemen, in the day when the Border was an unquiet -habitation--and for this, if for nothing else, was held in no little -honor by the yeoman Livingstone, direct descendant of the Sir Rodericks -and Sir Anthonys, who farmed the remains of his paternal property, and -dwelt in the modern house of Norlaw. - -This house was little more than a farm-house in appearance, and nothing -more in reality. The door opened into a square hall, on either side of -which was a large room, with three deep-set windows in each; four of -these windows looked out upon the lawn and the water, while one broke -each corner of the outer wall. On the side nearest the castle, a little -behind the front level of the house, was an “outshot,” a little wing -built to the side, which formed the kitchen, upon the ever-open door of -which the corner window of the common family sitting room kept up a -vigilant inspection. A plentiful number of bed-chambers up-stairs were -reached by a good stair-case, and a gallery which encircled the hall; -the architecture was of the most monotonous and simple regularity; so -many windows on one side soberly poising so many windows on the other. -The stair-case made a rounded projection at the back of the house, which -was surmounted by a steep little turret roof, blue-slated, and bearing a -tiny vane for its crown, after the fashion of the countryside; and this, -which glimmered pleasantly among the garden fruit trees when you looked -down from the top of the hill--and the one-storied projection, which was -the kitchen, were the only two features which broke the perfect -plainness and uniformity of the house. - -But though it was July when this history begins, the flush of -summer--and though the sunshine was sweet upon the trees and the water, -and the bare old walls of the castle, there was little animation in -Norlaw. The blinds were drawn up in the east room, the best -apartment--though the sun streamed in at the end window, and “the -Mistress” was not wont to leave her favorite carpet to the tender -mercies of that bright intruder; and the blinds were down in the -dining-room, which nobody had entered this morning, and where even the -Mistress’s chair and little table in the corner window could not keep a -vicarious watch upon the kitchen door. It was not needful; the two maids -were very quiet, and not disposed to amuse themselves. Marget, the elder -one, who was the byrewoman, and had responsibilities, went about the -kitchen very solemnly, speaking with a gravity which became the -occasion; and Janet, who was the house-servant, and soft-hearted, stood -at the table, washing cups and saucers, very slowly, and with the most -elaborate care, lest one of them should tingle upon the other, and -putting up her apron very often to wipe the tears from her eyes. -Outside, on the broad stone before the kitchen door, a little ragged boy -sat, crying bitterly--and no one else was to be seen about the house. - -“Jenny,” said the elder maid, at last, “give that bairn a piece, and -send him away. There’s enow of us to greet--for what we’re a’ to do for -a puir distressed family, when aince the will o’ God’s accomplished this -day, I canna tell.” - -“Oh, woman, dinna speak! he’ll maybe win through,” cried Jenny, with -renewed tears. - -Marget was calm in her superior knowledge. - -“I ken a death-bed from a sick-bed,” she said, with solemnity; “I’ve -seen them baith--and weel I kent, a week come the morn, that it was -little good looking for the doctor, or wearying aye for his physic time, -or thinking the next draught or the next pill would do. Eh sirs! ane -canna see when it’s ane’s ain trouble; if it had been ony ither man, the -Mistress would have kent as weel as me.” - -“It’s an awfu’ guid judge that’s never wrang,” said Jenny, with a little -impatience. “He’s a guid faither, and a guid maister; it’s my hope he’ll -cheat you a’ yet, baith the doctor and you.” - -Marget shook her head, and went solemnly to a great wooden press, which -almost filled one side of the kitchen, to get the “piece” which Jenny -showed no intention of bestowing upon the child at the door. Pondering -for a moment over the basket of oat cakes, Marget changed her mind, and -selected a fine, thin, flour one, from a little pile. - -“It’s next to funeral bread,” she said to herself, in vindication of her -choice; “Tammie, my man, the maister would be nae better if ye could -mak’ the water grit with tears--run away hame, like a good bairn; tell -your mother neither the Mistress nor me will forget her, and ye can say, -I’ll let her ken; and there’s a piece to help ye hame.” - -“I dinna want ony pieces--I want to ken if he’s better,” said the boy; -“my mother said I wasna to come back till there was good news.” - -“Whisht, sirrah, he’ll hear you on his death-bed,” said Marget, “but -it’ll no do _you_ ony harm, bairn; the Mistress will aye mind your -mother; take your piece and run away.” - -The child’s only answer was to bury his face in his hands, and break -into a new fit of crying. Marget came in again, discomfited; after a -while she took out a little wooden cup of milk to him, and set it down -upon the stone without a word. She was not sufficiently hard-hearted to -frown upon the child’s grief. - -“Eh, woman Jenny!” she cried, after an interval, “to think a man could -have so little pith, and yet get in like this to folk’s hearts!” - -“As if ye didna ken the haill tale,” cried Jenny, with indignant tears, -“how the maister found the wean afield with his broken leg, and carried -him hame--and how there’s ever been plenty, baith milk and meal, for -thae puir orphants, and Tammie’s schooling, and aye a kind word to mend -a’--and yet, forsooth, the bairn maunna greet when the maister’s at his -latter end!” - -“We’ll a’ have cause,” said Marget, abruptly; “three bonnie lads that -might be knights and earls, every one, and no’ a thing but debt and -dool, nor a trade to set their hand to. Haud yer peace!--do ye think -there’s no trade but bakers and tailors, and the like o’ that? and -there’s Huntley, and Patie, and Cosmo, my bonnie bairns!--there never -was three Livingstones like them, nor three of ony other name as far as -Tyne runs--and the very bairn at the door has muckle to look to as -they!” - -“But it’s nae concern o’ yours, or o’ mine. I’m sure the maister was aye -very good to me,” said Jenny, retiring into tears, and a _non sequitur_. - -“No, that’s true--it’s nae concern o’ yours--_you’re_ no’ an auld -servant like me,” said her companion, promptly, “but for mysel’ I’ve -sung to them a’ in their cradles; I would work for them with my hands, -and thankful; but I wouldna desire that of them to let the like o’ me -work, or the Mistress toil, to keep them in idleset. Na, woman--I’m -jealous for my bairns--I would break my heart if Huntley was content to -be just like his father; if either the Mistress or the lads will listen -to me, I’ll gie my word to send them a’ away.” - -“Send them away--and their mother in mourning? Oh, my patience! what -for?” - -“To make their fortune,” said Marget, and she hung the great pot on the -great iron hook above the fire, with a sort of heroic gesture, which -might have been amusing under other circumstances--for Marget believed -in making fortunes, and had the impulse of magnificent hope at her -heart. - -“Eh, woman! you’re hard-hearted,” said her softer companion, “to blame -the Maister at his last, and plan to leave the Mistress her lane in the -world! I would make them abide with her to comfort her, if it was me.” - -Marget made no answer--she had comforted herself with the flush of fancy -which pictured these three sons of the house, each completing his -triumph--and she was the byrewoman and had to consider the cattle, and -cherish as much as remained of pastoral wealth in this impoverished -house. She went out with her dark printed gown carefully “kilted” over -her red and blue striped petticoat, and a pail in her hand. She was a -woman of forty, a farm servant used to out-of-door work and homely ways, -and had neither youth nor sentiment to soften her manners or enlarge her -mind. Yet her heart smote her when she thought of the father of the -house, who lay dying while she made her criticism upon him, true though -it was. - -“Has he no’ been a good master to me? and would I spare tears if they -could ease him?” she said to herself, as she rubbed them away from her -eyes. “But folk can greet in the dark when there’s no work to do,” she -added, peremptorily, and so went to her dairy and her thoughts. -Tender-hearted Jenny cried in the kitchen, doing no good to any one; but -up-stairs in the room of death, where the family waited, there were -still no tears. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Half a mile below Norlaw, “as Tyne runs,” stood the village of -Kirkbride. Tyne was but one of the many undistinguished Tynes which -water the south of Scotland and the north of England, a clear trout -stream, rapid and brown, and lively, with linns and pools, and bits of -woodland belonging to it, which the biggest brother of its name could -not excel; and Kirkbride also was but one of a host of Kirkbrides, which -preserved through the country, long after every stone of it had -mouldered, the name of some little chapel raised to St. Bridget. This -was an irregular hamlet, straggling over two mounds of rising ground, -between which Tyne had been pleased to make a way for himself. The -morsel of village street was on one bank of the water, a row of -irregular houses, in the midst of which flourished two shops; while at -the south end, as it was called, a little inn projected across the road, -giving, with this corner, and the open space which it sheltered, an air -of village coziness to the place which its size scarcely warranted. The -other bank of the water was well covered with trees--drooping birches -and alders, not too heavy in their foliage to hide the half dozen -cottages which stood at different elevations on the ascending road, nor -to vail at the summit the great jargonel pear-tree on the gable wall of -the manse, which dwelt upon that height, looking down paternally and -with authority upon the houses of the village. The church was further -back, and partially hidden by trees, which, seeing this edifice was in -the prevailing fashion of rural Scottish churches--a square barn with a -little steeple stuck upon it--was all the better for the landscape. A -spire never comes amiss at a little distance, when Nature has fair play -and trees enough--and the hillock, with its foliage and its cottages, -its cozy manse and spire among the trees, filled with thoughts of rural -felicity the stray anglers who came now and then to fish in Tyne and -consume the produce of their labor in the gable parlor of the Norlaw -Arms. - -The doctor had just passed through the village. On his way he had been -assailed by more than one inquiry. The sympathy of the hamlet was -strong, and its curiosity neighborly,--and more than one woman retired -into her cottage, shaking her head over the news she received. - -“Keep us a’! Norlaw! I mind him afore he could either walk or speak--and -_then_ I was in service, in the auld mistress’s time, at Me’mar,” said -one of the village grandmothers, who stood upon the threshold of a very -little house, where the village mangle was in operation. The old woman -stood at the door, looking after the doctor, as he trotted off on his -stout pony; she was speaking to herself, and not to the little audience -behind, upon whom, however, she turned, as the wayfarer disappeared from -her eyes, and laying down her bundle on the table, with a sigh, “Eh, -Merran Hastie!” she exclaimed, “he’s been guid to you.” - -The person thus addressed needed no further inducement to put her apron -to her eyes. The room was very small, half occupied by the mangle, which -a strong country girl was turning; and even in this summer day the -apartment was not over bright, seeing that the last arrival stood in the -doorway, and that the little window was half covered by a curtain of -coarse green gauze. Two other village matrons had come with their -“claes,” to talk over the danger of their neighbor and landlord, and to -comfort the poor widow who had found an active benefactor in “Norlaw.” -She was comforted, grateful and grieved though she was; and the gossips, -though they looked grave, entered _con amore_ into the subject; what the -Mistress was likely to do, and how the family would be “left.” - -“My man says they’ll a’ be roupit, baith stock and plenishing,” said the -mason’s wife. “Me’mar himsel’ gave our John an insight into how it was. -I judge he maun have lent Norlaw siller; for when he saw the dry-stane -dike, where his ground marches with Norlaw, he gave ane of his humphs, -and says he to John, ‘A guid kick would drive it down;’ says he, ‘it’ll -last out _his_ time, and for my part, I’m no a man for small fields;’ so -grannie, there’s a family less, you may say already, in the -country-side.” - -“I’ll tarry till I see it,” said the old woman; “the ane of his family -that’s likest Norlaw, is his youngest son; and if Me’mar himsel’, or the -evil ane, his marrow, get clean the better of Huntley and Patrick, not -to say the Mistress, it’ll be a marvel to me.” - -“Norlaw was aye an unthrift,” said Mrs. Mickle, who kept the grocer’s -shop in Kirkbride; “nobody could tell, when he was a young man, how he -got through his siller. It aye burnt his pockets till he got it spent, -and ye never could say what it was on.” - -“Oh, whisht!” exclaimed the widow; “me, and the like of me, can tell -well what it was on.” - -“Haud a’ your tongues,” said the old woman; “if any body kens about -Norlaw, it’s me; I was bairn’s-maid at Me’mar, in the time of the auld -mistress, as a’ the town kens, and I’m well acquaint with a’ his -pedigree, and mind him a’ his life, and the truth’s just this, whatever -any body may say. He didna get his ain fancy when he was a young lad, -and he’s never been the same man ever sinsyne.” - -“Eh! was Norlaw crossed in love?” said the girl at the mangle, staying -her grinding to listen; “but I’m no sorry for him; a man that wasna -content with the Mistress doesna deserve a good wife.” - -“Ay, lass; you’re coming to have your ain thoughts on such like matters, -are ye?” said the old woman; “but take you my word, Susie, that a woman -may be the fairest and the faithfu’est that ever stood on a hearthstane, -but if she’s no her man’s fancy, she’s nae guid there.” - -“Susie’s very right,” said the mason’s wife; “he wasna blate! for a -better wife than the Mistress never put her hand into ony housewifeskep, -and it’s her that’s to be pitied with a man like you; and our John -says--” - -“I kent about Norlaw before ever you were born, or John either,” said -the old woman; “and what I say’s _fac_, and what you say’s fancy. Norlaw -had never a thought in his head, from ten to five-and-twenty, but half -of it was for auld Me’mar’s ae daughter. I’m no saying he’s a strong man -of his nature, like them that clear their ain road, or make their ain -fortune; but he might have held his ain better than he’s ever done, if -he had been matched to his fancy when he was a young lad, and had a’ his -life before him; that’s just what I’ve to say.” - -“Weel, grannie, its awfu’ hard,” said the mason’s wife; “the Mistress -was a bonnie woman in her day, and a spirit that would face onything; -and to wear out her life for a man that wasna heeding about her, and be -left in her prime a dowerless widow!--Ye may say what ye like--but I -wouldna thole the like for the best man in the country-side, let alone -Norlaw.” - -“Naebody would, if they kent,” said the oracle, “but what’s a woman to -do, if she’s married and bound, and bairns at her foot, before she ever -finds out what’s been lying a’ the time in her man’s heart?” - -“Then it was just a shame!” cried Susie, at the mangle, with tears in -her eyes; “a burning shame! Eh Grannie, to find it out _then_! I would -rather dee!” - -“Ay, ay,” said the old woman, shaking her head; “young folk think -so--but that’s life.” - -“I’ll never think weel of Norlaw again--I’ll never believe a lad mair! -they might be thinking ony mischief in their heart,” cried Susie, -hastily putting up her particular bundle, and dashing a tear off her hot -cheek. “They can greet for him that likes; I’ll think of naebody but the -Mistress--no me!” - -Whereupon this keen sympathizer, who had some thoughts of her own on the -matter, rushed forth, disturbing the elder group, whose interest was -calmer and more speculative. - -“Aweel, aweel! we’re a’ frail and full of shortcomings,” said the widow; -“but naebody kens how kind Norlaw has been to me. My little Tammie’s -away somegate about the house now. I thought the bairn’s heart would -break when he heard the news first. I’m sure there’s no one hour, night -or day, that he wouldna lay down his life for Norlaw.” - -“He was aye a kind man and weel likit--most folk are that spend their -siller free, and take a’ thing easy,” said Mrs. Mickle, with a sigh -which was partly for that weakness of human nature, and partly for the -departing spirit. - -Then new customers began to come in, and the group dispersed. By this -time it was getting late in the afternoon, and John Mellerstone’s wife -had to bethink herself of her husband’s supper, and Mrs. Mickle of her -evening cup of tea. The sun had begun to slant over the face of the brae -opposite to them, brightening the drooping bushes with touches of gold, -and glowing upon the white gable wall of the manse, obscured with the -wealthy branches of its jargonel tree. The minister was making his way -thoughtfully up the path, with his hat over his face a little, and his -hands under the square skirts of his coat, never pausing to look down, -as was his custom when his mind was at ease. He, too, had been at -Norlaw, and his thoughts were still there. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -The sun was shining into the west chamber at Norlaw. It was the room -immediately over the dining-room, a large apartment, paneled and painted -in a faint green color, with one window to the front and one to the side -of the house. The side window looked immediately upon the old castle, -and on the heavy masses of blunt-leaved ivy which hung in wild festoons -everywhere from this front of the ruin; and the sun shone in gloriously -to the sick chamber, with a strange mockery of the weakness and the -sorrow there. This bed was what used to be called a “tent-bed,” with -heavy curtains of dark brown moreen, closely drawn at the foot, but -looped up about the pillows. At the side nearest the sunshine, the -Mistress, whose place had been there for weeks, stood by the bed -measuring out some medicine for the sufferer. A fortnight’s almost -ceaseless watching had not sufficed to pale the cheek of health, or -waste the vigor of this wife, who was so soon to be a widow. Her fresh, -middle-aged, matronly bloom, her dress careful and seemly, her anxious -and troubled brow, where deep solicitude and hope had scarcely given way -to the dread certainty which everybody else acknowledged, made a very -strange contrast, indeed, to the wasted, dying, eager face which lay -among those pillows, with already that immovable yellow pallor on its -features which never passes away; a long, thin hand, wasted to the bone, -was on the coverlid, but the sufferer looked up, with his eager, large -black eyes toward the medicine glass in his wife’s hand with a singular -eagerness. He knew, at last, that he was dying, and even in the -solemnity of those last moments, this weak, graceful mind, true to the -instincts of its nature, thought with desire and anxiety of dying well. - -The three sons of the house were in the room watching with their mother. -Huntley, who could scarcely keep still, even in the awe of this shadow -of death, stood by the front window, often drawing close to the bed, but -unable to continue there. The second, who was his mother’s son, a -healthful, ruddy, practical lad, kept on the opposite side of the bed, -ready to help his mother in moving the patient. And at the foot, -concealed by the curtains, a delicate boy of fifteen, with his face -buried in his hands, sat upon an old square ottoman, observing nothing. -This was Cosmo, the youngest and favorite, the only one of his children -who really resembled Norlaw. - -The caprice of change was strong upon the dying man; he wanted his -position altered twenty times in half an hour. He had not any thing much -to say, yet he was hard to please for the manner of saying it; and -longed, half in a human and tender yearning for remembrance, and half -with the weakness of his character, that his children should never -forget these last words of his, nor the circumstances of his dying. He -was a good man, but he carried the defects of his personality with him -to the very door of heaven. When, at last, the pillows were arranged -round him, so as to raise him on his bed in the attitude he wished, he -called his children, in his trembling voice. Huntley came forward from -the window, with a swelling heart, scarcely able to keep down the tears -of his first grief. Patrick stood by the bed-side, holding down his -head, with a stubborn composure--and Cosmo, stealing forward, threw -himself on his knees and hid his sobbing in the coverlid. They were all -on one side, and on the other stood the mother, the care on her brow -blanching into conviction, and all her tremulous anxiety calmed with a -determination not to disturb this last scene. It _was_ the last. Hope -could not stand before the look of death upon that face. - -“My sons,” said Norlaw, “I am just dying; but I know where I am in this -strait, trusting in my Saviour. You’ll remember I said this, when I’m -gone.” - -There was a pause. Cosmo sobbed aloud in the silence, clinging to the -coverlid, and Huntley’s breast heaved high with a tumultuous motion--but -there was not a word said to break the monologue of the father, who was -going away. - -“And now you’ll have no father to guide you further,” he continued, with -a strange pity for them in his voice. “There’s your mother, at my -side--as true a wife and as faithful, as ever a man had for a blessing. -Boys, I leave your mother, for her jointure, the love you’ve had for me. -Let her have it all--all--make amends to her. Martha, I’ve not been the -man I might have been to you.” - -These last words were spoken in a tone of sudden compunction, strangely -unlike the almost formal dignity of the first part of his address, and -he turned his eager, dying eyes to her, with a startled apprehension of -this truth, foreign to all his previous thoughts. She could not have -spoken, to save his life. She took his hand between hers, with a low -groan, and held it, looking at him with a pitiful, appealing face. The -self-accusation was like an injury to her, and he was persuaded to feel -it so, and to return to the current of his thoughts. - -“Let your mother be your counselor; she has ever been mine,” he said -once more, with his sad, dying dignity. “I say nothing about your plans, -because plans are ill adjuncts to a death-bed; but you’ll do your best, -every one, and keep your name without blemish, and fear God and honor -your mother. If I were to speak for a twelvemonth I could not find more -to say.” - -Again a pause; but this time, besides the sobs of Cosmo, Patrick’s tears -were dropping, like heavy drops of rain, upon the side of the bed, and -Huntley crushed the curtain in his hand to support himself, and only -staid here quite against his nature by strong compulsion of his will. -Whether he deserved it or not, this man’s fortune, all his life, had -been to be loved. - -“This night, Huntley will be Livingstone of Norlaw,” continued the -father; “but the world is fading out of my sight, boys--only I mind, and -you know, that things have gone ill with us for many a year--make just -the best that can be made, and never give up this house and the old name -of your fathers. Me’mar will try his worst against you; ay, I ought to -say more; but I’m wearing faint--I’m not able; you’ll have to ask your -mother. Martha, give me something to keep me up a moment more.” - -She did so hurriedly, with a look of pain; but when he had taken a -little wine, the sick man’s eye wandered. - -“I had something more to say,” he repeated, faintly; “never mind--your -mother will tell you every thing;--serve God, and be good to your -mother, and mind that I die in faith. Bairns, when ye come to your -latter end, take heed to set your foot fast upon the rock, that I may -find you all again.” - -They thought he had ended now his farewell to them. They laid him down -tenderly, and, with awe and hidden tears, watched how the glow of -sunset faded and the evening gray stole in over that pallid face which, -for the moment, was all the world to their eyes. Sometimes, he said a -faint word to his wife, who sat holding his hand. He was conscious, and -calm, and departing. His sins had been like a child’s sins--capricious, -wayward, fanciful transgressions. He had never harmed any one but -himself and his own household--remorseful recollections did not trouble -him--and, weak as he was, all his life long he had kept tender in his -heart a child’s faith. He was dying like a Christian, though not even -his faith and comfort, nor the great shadow of death which he was -meeting, could sublime his last hours out of nature. God does not always -make a Christian’s death-bed sublime. But he was fast going where there -is no longer any weakness, and the calm of the evening rest was on the -ending of his life. - -Candles had been brought softly into the room; the moon rose, the night -wore on, but they still waited. No one could withdraw from that watch, -which it is agony to keep, and yet worse agony to be debarred from -keeping, and when it was midnight, the pale face began to flush by -intervals, and the fainting frame to grow restless and uneasy. Cosmo, -poor boy, struck with the change, rose up to look at him, with a wild, -sudden hope that he was getting better; but Cosmo shrunk appalled at the -sudden cry which burst as strong as if perfect health had uttered it -from the heaving, panting heart of his father. - -“Huntley, Huntley, Huntley!” cried the dying man, but it was not his son -he called. “Do I know her name? She’s but Mary of Melmar--evermore Mary -to me--and the will is there--in the mid chamber. Aye!--where is -she?--your mother will tell you all--it’s too late for me.” - -The last words were irresolute and confused, dropping back into the -faint whispers of death. When he began to speak, his wife had risen from -her seat by the bed-side--her cheeks flushed, she held his hand tight, -and over the face of her tenderness came an indescribable cloud of -mortification, of love aggrieved and impatient, which could not be -concealed. She did not speak, but stood watching him, holding his hand -close in her own, even after he was silent--and not even when the head -sank lower down among the pillows, and the eyes grew dim, and the last -hour came, did the watcher resume the patient seat which she had kept -so long. She stood by him with a mind disquieted, doing every thing that -she could do--quick to see, and tender to minister; but the sacramental -calm of the vigil was broken--and the widow still stood by the bed when -the early summer light came in over her shoulder, to show how, with the -night, this life was over, and every thing was changed. Then she fell -down by the bed-side, scarcely able to move her strained limbs, and -struck to the heart with the chill of her widowhood. - -It was all over--all over--and the new day, in a blaze of terrible -sunshine, and the new solitude of life, were to begin together. But her -sons, as they were forced to withdraw from the room where one was dead, -and one lost in the first blind agony of a survivor, did not know what -last pang of a long bitterness that was, which struck its final sting, -to aggravate all her grievous trouble, into their mother’s heart. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Those slow days of household gloom and darkness, when death lies in the -house, and every thought and every sound still bears an involuntary -reference to the solemn inmate, resting unconscious of them all, went -slowly over the roof of Norlaw. Sunday came, doubly mournful; a day in -which Scottish decorum demanded that no one should stir abroad, even to -church, and which hung indescribably heavy in those curtained rooms, and -through the unbroken stillness of its leisure, upon the three youths who -had not even their mother’s melancholy society to help them through the -day. The Mistress was in her own room, closely shut up with her Bible -and her sorrow, taking that first Sabbath of her widowhood, a solitary -day of privilege and indulgence, for her own grief. Not a sound was -audible in the house; Jenny, who could be best spared, and who was -somewhat afraid of the solemn quietness of Norlaw, had been sent away -early this morning, to spend the Sabbath with her mother, in Kirkbride, -and Marget sat alone in the kitchen, with a closed door and partially -shuttered window, reading to herself half aloud from the big Bible in -her lap. In the perfect stillness it was possible to hear the monotonous -hum of her half-whispering voice, and sometimes the dull fall of the -ashes on the kitchen hearth, but not a sound besides. - -The blinds were all down in the dining-room, and the lower half of the -shutters closed. Though the July sun made triumphant daylight even in -spite of this, it was such a stifling, closed-in, melancholy light, -bright upon the upper walls and the roof, but darkened and close around -the lads, that the memory of it never quite passed out of their hearts. -This room, too, was paneled and painted of that dull drab color, which -middle-class dining-rooms even now delight in; there were no pictures on -the walls, for the family of Norlaw were careless of ornaments, like -most families of their country and rank. A dull small clock upon the -black marble mantel-piece, and a great china jar on the well-polished, -old-fashioned sideboard, were the only articles in which any thing -beyond use was even aimed at. The chairs were of heavy mahogany and -hair-cloth--a portion of the long dining-table, with a large leaf folded -down, very near as black as ebony, and polished like a mirror, stood -between the front windows--and the two round ends of this same -dining-table stood in the centre of the room, large enough for family -purposes, and covered with a red and blue table-cover. There was a heavy -large chintz easy-chair at the fire-place, and a little table supporting -a covered work-basket in the corner window--yet the room had not been -used to look a dull room, heavy and dismal though it was to-day. - -The youngest boy sat by the table, leaning over a large family Bible, -full of quaint old pictures. Cosmo saw the pictures without seeing -them--he was leaning both his elbows on the table, supporting his head -with a pair of long, fair hands, which his boy’s jacket, which he had -outgrown, left bare to the wrists. His first agony of grief had fallen -into a dull aching; his eyes were observant of the faintest lines of -those familiar wood-cuts, yet he could not have told what was the -subject of one of them, though he knew them all by heart. He was -fair-haired, pale, and delicate, with sensitive features, and dark eyes, -like his father’s, which had a strange effect in contrast with the -extreme lightness of his hair and complexion. He was the tender boy--the -mother’s child of the household, and it was Cosmo of whom the village -gossips spoke, when they took comfort in the thought that only his -youngest son was like Norlaw. - -Next to Cosmo, sitting idly on a chair, watching how a stream of -confined sunshine came in overhead, at the side of the blind, was -Huntley, the eldest son. He was very dark, very ruddy, with close curls -of black hair, and eyes of happy hazel-brown. Heretofore, Huntley -Livingstone’s principal characteristic had been a total incapacity to -keep still. For many a year Marget had lamented over him, that he would -not “behave himself,” and even the Mistress had spoken her mind only too -often on the same subject. Huntley would not join, with gravity and -decorum, even the circle of evening visitors who gathered on unfrequent -occasions round the fireside of Norlaw. He had perpetually something on -hand to keep him in motion, and if nothing better was to be had, would -rummage through lumber-room and family treasury, hunting up dusty old -sets of newspapers and magazines, risking the safety of precious old -hereditary parchments, finding a hundred forgotten trifles, which he had -nothing to do with. So that it was rare, even on winter evenings, to -find Huntley at rest in the family circle; it was his wont to appear in -it at intervals bringing something with him which had no right to be -there--to be ordered off peremptorily by his mother with the intruding -article; to be heard, all the evening through, knocking in nails, and -putting up shelves for Marget, or making some one of the countless -alterations, which had always to be made in his own bed-chamber and -private sanctuary; and finally, to reappear for the family worship, -during which he kept as still as his nature would permit, and the family -supper, at which Huntley’s feats, in cutting down great loaves of bread, -and demolishing oat-cakes, were a standing joke in the household. This -was the old Huntley, when all was well in Norlaw. Now he sat still, -watching that narrow blade of sunshine, burning in compressed and close -by the side of the blind; it was like his own nature, in those early -days of household grief. - -Patrick was a less remarkable boy than either of his brothers; he was -most like Huntley, and had the same eyes, and the same crisp, short -curls of black hair. But Patrick had a medium in him; he did what was -needful, with the quickest practical sense; he was strong in his -perception of right and justice; so strong, that the Quixotry of boyish -enthusiasm had never moved him; he was not, in short, a describable -person; at this present moment, he was steadily occupied with a volume -of sermons; they were extremely heavy metal, but Patrick went on with -them, holding fast his mind by that anchor of heaviness. It was not that -his gravity was remarkable, or his spiritual appreciation great; but -something was needful to keep the spirit afloat in that atmosphere of -death; the boys had been “too well brought up” to think of profaning the -Sabbath with light literature; and amusing themselves while their father -lay dead was a sin quite as heinous. So Patrick Livingstone read, with a -knitted brow, sermons of the old Johnsonian period, and Cosmo pondered -the quaint Bible woodcuts, and Huntley watched the sunshine; and they -had not spoken a word to each other for at least an hour. - -Huntley was the first to break the silence. - -“I wish to-morrow were come and gone,” he exclaimed, suddenly, rising up -and taking a rapid turn through the room; “a week of this would kill -me.” - -Cosmo looked up, with an almost feminine reproof in his tearful black -eyes. - -“Well, laddie,” said the elder brother; “dinna look at me with these -e’en! If it would have lengthened out his days an hour, or saved him a -pang, would I have spared years to do it? but what is _he_ heeding for -all this gloom and silence now?” - -“Nothing,” said the second brother, “but the neighbors care, and so does -my mother; it’s nothing, but it’s all we can give--and he _would_ have -heeded and been pleased, had he thought beforehand on what we should be -doing now.” - -It was so true, that Huntley sat down again overpowered. Yes, _he_ would -have been pleased to think of every particular of the “respect” which -belonged to the dead. The closed houses, the darkened rooms, the funeral -train; that tender human spirit would have clung to every one of them in -his thoughts, keeping the warmth of human sympathy close to him to the -latest possibility, little, little though he knew about them now. - -“What troubles me is standing still,” said Huntley, with a sigh. “I can -not tell what’s before us; I don’t think even my mother knows; I -believe it’s worse than we can think of; and we’ve neither friends, nor -money, nor influence. Here are we three Livingstones, and I’m not -twenty, and we’ve debts in money to meet, and mortgages on the land, and -nothing in the world but our hands and our heads, and what strength and -wit God has given us. I’m not grumbling--but to think upon it all, and -to think now that--that he’s gone, and we’re alone and for -ourselves--and to sit still neither doing nor planning, it’s that that -troubles me!” - -“Huntley, it’s Sabbath day!” said Cosmo. - -“Ay, I ken! it’s Sabbath and rest, but not to us,” cried the young man; -“here’s me, that should have seen my way--I’m old enough--me that should -have known where I was going, and how I was going, and been able to -spare a hand for you; and I’m the biggest burden of all; a man without a -trade to turn his hand to, a man without knowledge in his head or skill -in his fingers--and to sit still and never say a word, and see them -creeping down, day by day, and every thing put back as if life could be -put back and wait. True, Patie! what would you have me do?” - -“Make up your mind, and wait till it’s time to tell it,” said Patie, -without either reproof or sympathy; but Cosmo was more moved--he came to -his eldest brother with a soft step. - -“Huntley,” said Cosmo, in the soft speech of their childhood, “what -makes ye speak about a trade, you that are Livingstone of Norlaw? It’s -for us to gang and seek our fortunes; you’re the chief of your name, and -the lands are yours--they canna ruin _you_, Huntley. I see the -difference mysel’, the folks see it in the country-side; and as for -Patie and me, we’ll seek our fortunes--we’re only the youngest sons, -it’s our inheritance; but Norlaw, and home, and the name, are with you.” - -This appeal had the strangest effect upon Huntley; it seemed to -dissipate in an instant all the impatience and excitement of the youth’s -grief; he put his arm round Cosmo, with a sudden melting of heart and -countenance. - -“Do ye hear him, Patie?” cried Huntley, with tears; “he thinks home’s -home forever, because the race has been here a thousand years; he thinks -I’m a prince delivering my kingdom! Cosmo, the land’s gone; I know -there’s not an acre ours after to-morrow. I’ve found it out, bit by -bit, though nobody said a word; but we’ll save the house, and the old -castle, if we should never have a penny over, for mother and you.” - -The boy stared aghast into his brother’s face. The land! it had been -Cosmo’s dream by night, and thought by day. The poetic child had made, -indeed, a heroic kingdom and inheritance out of that little patrimonial -farm. Notwithstanding, he turned to Patie for confirmation, but found no -comfort there. - -“As you think best, Huntley,” said the second son, “but what is a name? -My mother will care little for Norlaw when we are gone, and the name of -a landed family has kept us poor. _I’ve_ found things out as well as -you. I thought it would be best to part with all.” - -“It was almost his last word,” said Huntley, sadly. - -“Ay, but he could not tell,” said the stout-hearted boy; “he was of -another mind from you or me; he did not think that our strength and our -lives were for better use than to be wasted on a word. What’s Norlaw -Castle to us, more than a castle in a book? Ay, Cosmo, it’s true. Would -you drag a burden of debt at Huntley’s feet for the sake of an acre of -corn-land, or four old walls? We’ve been kept down and kept in prison, -us and our forbears, because of Norlaw. I say we should go free.” - -“And I,” cried Cosmo, lifting his long, white hand in sudden passion, -“I, if Huntley does not care for the name, nor for my father’s last -wish, nor for the house of our ancestors; I will never rest night nor -day, though I break my heart or lose my life, till I redeem Norlaw!” - -Huntley, whose arm still rested on the boy’s shoulder, drew him closer, -with a look which had caught a tender, sympathetic, half-compassionate -enthusiasm from his. - -“We’ll save Norlaw for my father’s son,” said the elder brother; and, -young as Huntley was, he looked with eyes full of love and pity upon -this boy, who inherited more from his father than his name. Huntley had -been brought up in all the natural love and reverence of a well-ordered -family; he knew there was weakness in his father’s character, beautiful, -lovable, tender weakness, for which, somehow, people only seem to like -him better. He had not permitted himself to see yet what harm and -selfish unconsciousness of others that graceful temperament had hidden. -He looked at Cosmo, thinking as a strong mind thinks of that -constitution which is called poetic--of the sensitive nature which would -shrink from unkindness, and the tender spirit which could not bear the -trials of the world; and the lad’s heart expanded over his father’s son. - -Patie got up from his chair, and went to the little bookcase in the -corner to look for another book of sermons. This boy could not blind his -eyes, even with family affection. He loved his father, but he knew -plainly, and in so many words, that his father had ruined their -inheritance. He could not help seeing that this amiable tenderness bore -no better fruit than selfishness or cruelty. He thought it would be -right and just to all their hopes to part with even the name of Norlaw. -But it was not his concern; he was ready to give his opinion at the -proper time, but not to stand out unreasonably against the decision of -his elder brother; and when he, too, looked at Cosmo, it was with -soberer eyes than those of Huntley--not that he cared less for his -father’s son--but Patrick could not help seeing with those clear eyes of -his; and what he feared to see was not the sensitive nature and the -tender spirit, but the self-regard which lay beneath. - -Which of them was right, or whether either of them were right, this -history will best show. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Sabbath night; a July night, sweet with summer stars and moonlight, and -with no darkness in it: the water running soft with its quietest murmur, -the thrush and blackbird beguiled to sing almost as late as the -southland nightingale; the scent of the late roses coming round the -corner of the house on the faint breeze; the stars clustered in a little -crowd over the gaunt castle walls, and in the distance the three weird -Eildons, standing out dark against the pale azure blue and flood of -moonlight; a Sabbath evening with not a sound in it, save the sweetest -sounds of nature, a visible holy blessing of quiet and repose. - -But the table was spread in the dining-parlor at Norlaw; there was a -basket of oat-cakes and flour “bannocks” upon the table, in a snowy -napkin, and butter, and milk, and cheese, all of the freshest and most -fragrant, the produce of their own lands. Two candles made a little spot -of light upon the white table-cloth, but left all the rest of the room -in dreary shadow. To see it was enough to tell that some calamity -oppressed the house--and when the widow came in, with her face of -exhaustion, and eyes which could weep no more for very weariness, when -the boys followed slowly one by one, and Marget coming in with the -solemn, noiseless step, so unusual to her, hovered about them with all -her portentous gravity, and unwonted attendance, it was not hard to -conclude that they ate and drank under the shadow of death. The Mistress -had not appeared that day, from the early breakfast until now; it was -the only time before or after when she faltered from the ways of common -life. - -When they had ended the meal, which no one cared to taste, and when the -lads began to think with some comfort, in the weariness of their youth, -that the day at last was over, Mrs. Livingstone drew her chair away from -the table, and looked at them all with the sorrowful tenderness of a -mother and a widow. Then, after a long interval, she spoke. - -“Bairns!” she said, with a voice which was hoarse with solicitude and -weeping, “you’re a’ thinking what you’re to do, and though it’s the -Sabbath day, I canna blame ye, but me, I’m but a weak woman--I could not -say a word to counsel ye, if it was to save the breaking of my heart -this day.” - -“We never looked for it, mother. There’s time enough! do you think we -would press our plans on you?” cried the eager Huntley, who had been -groaning but a few hours ago, at this compulsory delay. - -“Na, I could not do it,” said the mother, turning her head aside, and -drawing the hem of her apron through her fingers, while the tears -dropped slowly out of her tired eyes; “this is the last Sabbath day that -him and me will be under the same roof. I canna speak to you, bairns; -I’m but a weak woman, and I’ve been his wife this five-and-twenty -years.” - -After a pause, the Mistress dried her eyes, and went on hurriedly:-- - -“But I ken ye must have your ain thoughts; the like of you canna keep -still a long summer day, though it is a Sabbath; and, bairns, I’ve just -this to say to you; ye canna fear mair than we’ll have to meet. I’m -thankful even that he’s gane hame before the storm falls; for you’re a’ -young, and can stand a blast. There’s plenty to do, and plenty to bear. -I dinna forbid ye thinking, though it’s Sabbath night, and death is -among us; but oh! laddies, think in a godly manner, and ask a -blessing--dinna darken the Sabbath with worldly thoughts, and him lying -on his last bed up the stair!” - -The boys drew near to her simultaneously, with a common impulse. She -heard the rustle and motion of their youthful grief, but she still kept -her head aside, and drew tightly through her fingers the hem of her -apron. - -“The day after the morn,” continued the widow, “I’ll be ready with all -that I ken, and ready to hear whatever you think for yourselves; think -discreetly, and I’ll no’ oppose, and think soberly, without pride, for -we’re at the foot of the brae. And we’ve nae friends to advise us, -bairns,” continued the Mistress, raising her head a little with the very -pride which she deprecated; “we’ve neither kith nor kin to take us by -the hand, nor give us counsel. Maybe it’s a’ the better--for we’ve only -Providence to trust to now, and ourselves.” - -By this time she had risen up, and taking the candle which Patrick had -lighted for her, she stood with the little flat brass sconce in her -hand, and the light flickering over her face, still looking down. Yet -she lingered, as if she had something more to say. It burst from her -lips, at last, suddenly, almost with passion. - -“Bairns! take heed, in your very innermost hearts, that ye think no -blame!” cried the widow; and when she had said these words, hastened -away, as if afraid to follow up or to weaken them by another syllable. -When she was gone, the lads stood silently about the table, each of them -with an additional ache in his heart. There _was_ blame which might be -thought, which might be spoken; even she was aware of it, in the jealous -regard of her early grief. - -“The Mistress has bidden you a’ good night,” said Marget, entering -softly; “ye’ve taen nae supper, and ye took nae dinner; how are ye to -live and work, growing laddies like you, if you gang on at this rate? Ye -mean to break my heart amang you. If ye never break bread, Huntley -Livingstone, how will you get through the morn?” - -“I wish it was over,” cried Huntley, once more. - -“And so do I. Eh! bairns, when I see those blinds a’ drawn down, it -makes my heart sick,” cried Marget, “and grief itsel’s easier to thole -when ane has ane’s wark in hand. But I didna come to haver nonsense -here. I came to bid ye a’ gang to your beds, like good laddies. Ye’ll a’ -sleep; that’s the good of being young. The Mistress, I daur to say, and -even mysel’, will not close an eye this night.” - -“Would my mother let you remain with her, Marget?” said Huntley; “I -can’t bear to think she’s alone in her trouble. Somebody should have -come to stay with her; Katie Logan from the manse, perhaps. Why did not -some one think of it before?” - -“Whisht! and gang to your beds,” said Marget; “no fremd person, however -kindly, ever wins so far into the Mistress’s heart. If she had been -blessed with a daughter of her ain, it might have been different. Na, -Huntley, your mother wouldna put up with me. She’s no ane to have either -friend or servant tending on her sorrows. Some women would, but no’ the -Mistress; and I’m o’ the same mind mysel’. Gang to your beds, and get -your rest, like good bairns; the morn will be a new day.” - -“Shut up the house and sleep; that’s all we can do,” said Cosmo; “but I -canna rest--and he’ll never be another night in this house. Oh, father, -father! I’ll keep the watch for your sake!” - -“If he’s in this house, he’s here,” said Patrick, suddenly, to the great -amazement of his hearers, moved for once into a higher imagination than -any of them; “do you hear me Cosmo? if he’s out of heaven, he’s here; -he’s no’ on yon bed dead. It’s no’ _him_ that’s to be carried to -Dryburgh. Watching’s past and done, unless he watches us; he’s either in -heaven, or he’s here.” - -“Eh, laddie! God bless you, that’s true!” cried Marget, moved into -sudden tears. There was not composure enough among them to add another -word; they went to their rooms silently, not to disturb their mother’s -solitude. But Huntley could not rest; he came softly down stairs again, -through the darkened house, to find Marget sitting by the fire which she -had just “gathered” to last all night, reading her last chapter in the -big Bible, and startled her by drawing the bolts softly aside and -stepping out into the open air. - -“I must breathe,” the lad said with a voice full of broken sobs. - -The night was like a night of heaven, if such a glory is, where all -glories are. The moon was more lavish in her full, mellow splendor, than -she had ever been before, to Huntley’s eyes; the sky seemed as light as -day, almost too luminous to show the stars, which were there shining -softly in myriads, though you could scarcely see them; and the water -flowed, and the trees rustled, with a perfection of still music, -exquisite, and silent, and beyond description, which Nature only knows -when she is alone. The youth turned back again with a sob which eased -his heart. Out of doors nothing but splendor, glory, a beatitude calm -and full as heaven; within, nothing but death and the presence of death, -heavy, like a pall, upon the house and all its inmates. He went back to -his rest, with the wonder of humanity in his heart; when, God help us, -should this terrible difference be over? when should the dutiful -creation, expanding thus, while the rebel sleeps, receive once more its -fullest note of harmony, its better Eden, the race for whom sin and -sorrow has ended for evermore? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The day of the funeral rose with a merciful cloud over its brightness--a -sorrowful bustle was in the house of Norlaw; some of the attendants of -the burial train were to return to dine, as the custom was, and Marget -and Jenny were fully employed in the kitchen, with the assistance of the -mother of the latter, who was a widow herself, full of sorrowful -experience, and liked, as is not unusual in her class, to assist in the -melancholy labors of such an “occasion.” The east room was open for the -reception of the funeral guests, and on the table were set out decanters -of wine, and liberal plates of a delicate cake which used to bear the -dismal title of funeral biscuit in Scotland. The widow, who put on for -the first time to-day, the dress which henceforward she should wear all -her life, kept her own apartment, where the wife of the principal farmer -near, and Catharine Logan, the minister’s daughter, had joined her; for -though she would much rather have been left alone, use and precedent -were strong upon the Mistress, and she would not willingly have broken -through any of the formal and unalterable customs of the country-side. -The guests gathered gradually about the melancholy house; it was to be -“a great funeral.” As horseman after horseman arrived, the women in the -kitchen looked out from the corner of their closed shutters, with -mournful pride and satisfaction; every household of any standing in the -district came out to show “respect” to Norlaw--and even the widow in her -darkened room felt a certain pleasure in the sounds which came softened -to her ear, the horses’ hoofs, the clash of stirrup and bridle, and the -murmur of open-air voices, which even the “occasion” could not subdue -beyond a certain measure. - -The lads were all assembled in the east room to receive their guests, -and with them, the earliest arrival of all, was the minister, lending -his kindly support and aid to Huntley, in this earliest and saddest -exercise of his new duties as head of the house. One good thing was, -that the visitors did not feel themselves called upon to overwhelm the -fatherless youth with condolences. A hearty grasp of rough hands; a -subdued word of friendship and encouragement, as one by one, or in -little clusters, those great rustic figures, all in solemn mourning, -collected in the room, were all that “the family” were called upon to -undergo. - -The hum of conversation which immediately began, subdued in tone and -grave in expression, but still conversation such as rural neighbors use, -interspersed with inquiries and shakes of the head, as to how this -household was “left,” was a relief to the immediate mourners, though -perhaps it was not much in accordance with the sentiment of the time. It -was etiquette that the wine and cake should be served to all present, -and when all the guests were assembled, the minister rose, and called -them to prayer. They stood in strange groups, those stalwart, ruddy -southland men, about the table--one covering his eyes with his hand, one -standing erect, with his head bowed, some leaning against the wall, or -over the chairs. Perhaps eyes unaccustomed to such a scene might have -thought there was little reverence in the fashion of this funeral -service; but there was at least perfect silence, through which the grave -voice of the minister rose steadily, yet not without a falter of -personal emotion. It was not the solemn impersonal words which other -churches say over every man whom death makes sacred. It was an -individual voice, asking comfort for the living, thanking God for the -dead--and when that was done the ceremonial was so far over, and Norlaw -had only now to be carried to his grave. - -All the preparations were thus far accomplished. The three brothers and -Dr. Logan had taken their place in the mourning coach; some distant -relatives had taken possession of another; and the bulk of the guests -had mounted and were forming into a procession behind. Every thing had -progressed thus far, when some sudden obstruction became visible to the -horsemen without. The funeral attendants closed round the hearse, the -horses were seized by strangers, and their forward motion checked; -already the farmers behind, leaping from their horses, crowded on to -ascertain the cause of the detention; but the very fact of it was not -immediately visible to the youths who were most interested. When the -sudden contention of voices startled Huntley, the lad gazed out of the -window for a moment in the wild resentment of grief, and then dashing -open the door, sprang into the midst of the crowd; a man who was not in -mourning, and held a baton in his hand, stood firm and resolute, with -his hand upon the door of the hearse; other men conspicuous among the -funeral guests, in their every-day dress, kept close by him, supporting -their superior. The guides of the funeral equipage were already in high -altercation with the intruders, yet, even at their loudest, were visibly -afraid of them. - -“Take out the horses, Grierson--do your duty!” shouted the leader at the -hearse door; “stand back, ye blockheads, in the name of the law! I’m -here to do my orders; stand back, or it’ll be waur for ye a’--ha! wha’s -here?” - -It was Huntley, whose firm young grasp was on the sturdy shoulder of the -speaker. - -“Leave the door, or I’ll fell you!” cried the lad, in breathless -passion, shaking with his clutch of fury the strong thick-set frame -which had double his strength; “what do you want here?--how do you dare -to stop the funeral? take off your hand off the door, or I’ll fell you -to the ground!” - -“Whisht, lad, whisht--it’s a sheriff’s officer; speak him canny and -he’ll hear reason,” cried one of the farmers, hastily laying a detaining -grasp on Huntley’s arm. The intruder stood his ground firmly. He took -his hand from the door, not in obedience to the threat, but to the grief -which burned in the youth’s eyes. - -“My lad, it’s little pleasure to me,” he said, in a voice which was not -without respect, “but I must do my duty. Felling me’s no’ easy, but -felling the law is harder still. Make him stand aside, any of you that’s -his friend, and has sense to ken; there’s no mortal good in resisting; -this funeral can not gang on this day.” - -“Let go--stand back; speak to _me_,” said Huntley, throwing off the -grasp of his friend, and turning to his opponent a face in which bitter -shame and distress began to take the place of passion; “stand aside, -every man--what right have _you_ to stop us burying our dead? I’m his -son; come here and tell me.” - -“I am very sorry for you, my lad, but I can not help it,” said the -officer; “I’m bound to arrest the body of Patrick Livingstone, of -Norlaw. It may be a cruel thing, but I must do my duty. I’m Alexander -Elliot, sheriff’s officer at Melrose; I want to make no disturbance more -than can be helped. Take my advice. Take in the coffin to the house and -bid the neighbors back for another day. And, in the meantime, look up -your friends and settle your scores with Melmar. It’s the best you can -do.” - -“Elliot,” said Dr. Logan, over his shoulder, “do you call this law, to -arrest the dead? He’s far beyond debt and trouble now. For shame!--leave -the living to meet their troubles, but let them bury their dead.” - -“And so I would, minister, if it was me,” said Elliot, twirling his -baton in his hand, and looking down with momentary shame and confusion; -“but I’ve as little to do with the business as you have,” he added, -hurriedly. “I give you my advice for the best, but I must do my duty. -Grierson, look to thae youngsters--dang them a’--do ye ca’ that mair -seemly? it’s waur than me!” - -Cosmo Livingstone, wild with a boy’s passion, and stupefied with grief, -had sprung up to the driving-seat of the hearse while this discussion -proceeded; and lashing the half-loosed horses, had urged them forward -with a violent and unseemly speed, which threw down on either side the -men who were at their heads, and dispersed the crowd in momentary alarm. -The frightened animals dashed forward wildly for a few steps, but -speedily brought up in their unaccustomed career by the shouts and -pursuit of the attendants, carried the melancholy vehicle down the slope -and paused, snorting, at the edge of the stream, through which, the boy, -half mad with excitement, would have driven them. Perhaps the wild -gallop of the hearse, though only for so short a distance, horrified the -bystanders more than the real interruption. One of the funeral guests -seized Cosmo in his strong arms, and lifted him down like a child; the -others led the panting horses back at the reverential pace which became -the solemn burden they were bearing; and after that outbreak of passion, -the question was settled without further discussion. Patrick -Livingstone, his eyes swollen and heavy with burning tears, which he -could not shed, led the way, while the bearers once more carried to his -vacant room all that remained of Norlaw. - -The mass of the funeral guests paused only long enough to maintain some -degree of quietness and decency; they dispersed with natural good -feeling, without aggravating the unfortunate family with condolence or -observation. Huntley, with the minister and the principal farmer of the -district, Mr. Blackadder, of Tyneside, who happened to be also an old -and steady friend of their father, stood at a little distance with the -officer, investigating the detainer which kept the dead out of his -grave; the melancholy empty hearse and dismal coaches crept off slowly -along the high road; and Cosmo, trembling in every limb with the -violence of his excitement, stood speechless at the door, gazing after -them, falling, in the quick revulsion of his temperament, from unnatural -passion into utter and prostrate despondency. The poor boy scarcely knew -who it was that drew him into the house, and spoke those words of -comfort which relieved his overcharged heart by tears. It was pretty -Katie Logan, crying herself, and scarcely able to speak, who had been -sent down from the widow’s room, by Mrs. Blackadder, to find out what -the commotion was; and who, struck with horror and amazement, as at a -sacrilege, was terrified to go up again, to break the tender, proud -heart of Norlaw’s mourning wife, with such terrible news. - -Presently the mournful little party came in to the east room, which -still stood as they had left it, with the funeral bread and wine upon -the table. Patrick came to join them immediately, and the two lads bent -their heads together over the paper: a thousand pounds, borrowed by a -hundred at a time from Mr. Huntley, of Melmar, over and above the -mortgages which that gentleman held on the better part of the lands of -Norlaw. The boys read it with a passion of indignation and shame in -their hearts; their father’s affairs, on his funeral day, publicly -“exposed” to all the countryside; their private distress and painful -prospects, and his unthrift and weakness made the talk of every gossip -in the country. Huntley and Patrick drew a hard breath, and clasped each -other’s hands with the grip of desperation. But Norlaw lay unburied on -his death-bed; they could not bury him till this money was paid; it was -an appalling sum to people in their class, already deeply impoverished, -and in the first tingle of this distressing blow, they saw no light -either on one side or the other, and could not tell what to do. - -“But I can not understand,” said Dr. Logan, who was a man limited and -literal, although a most pious minister and the father of his people; “I -can not understand how law can sanction what even nature holds up her -hand against. The dead--man! how dare ye step in with your worldly -arrests and warrants, when the Lord has been before you? how dare ye put -your bit baton across the grave, where a righteous man should have been -laid this day?” - -“I have to do my duty,” said the immovable Elliot, “how daur ye, is -naething to me. I must do according to my instructions--and ye ken, -doctor, it’s but a man’s body can be apprehended ony time. Neither you -nor me can lay grips on his soul.” - -“Hush, mocker!” cried the distressed clergyman; “but what is to be done? -Mr. Blackadder, these bairns can not get this money but with time and -toil. If that will do any good, I’ll go immediately to Me’mar myself.” - -“Never,” cried Huntley; “never--any thing but that. I’ll sell myself for -a slave before I’ll take a favor from my father’s enemy.” - -“It’s in Whitelaw’s hands, the writer in Melrose. I’ll ride down there -and ask about it,” said Blackadder; “whisht, Huntley! the minister’s -presence should learn you better--and every honest man can but pity and -scorn ane that makes war with the dead; I’ll ride round to Whitelaw. My -wife’s a sensible woman--she’ll break it softly to your mother--and see -you do nothing to make it worse. I suppose, Elliot, when I come back -I’ll find you here.” - -“Ay, sir, I’m safe enough,” said the officer significantly, as -“Tyneside” rose to leave the room. Huntley went with him silently to the -stable, where his horse stood still saddled. - -“I see what’s in your eye,” said Blackadder, in a whisper; “take heart -and do it; trust not a man more than is needful, and dinna be violent. -I’ll be back before dark, but I may not chance to speak to you again. Do -what’s in your heart.” - -Huntley wrung the friendly hand held out to him, and went in without a -word. His old restless activity seemed to have returned to him, and -there was a kindling fire in his hazel eyes which meant some purpose. - -Good Dr. Logan took the lad’s hands, and poured comfort and kindness -into his ears; but Huntley could scarcely pause to listen. It was not -strange--and it seemed almost hard to bid the youth have patience when -the vulgar law--stubborn and immovable--the law of money and -merchandise, kept joint possession with death of this melancholy house. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Huntley could not see his mother after this outrage became known to her. -The widow resented it with all a woman’s horror and passion, and with -all the shame of a Scottish matron, jealous, above all things, of -privacy and “respect.” Pretty Katie Logan sat at her feet crying in -inarticulate and unreasoning sympathy, which was better for the Mistress -than all the wisdom and consolation with which good Mrs. Blackadder -endeavored to support her. In the kitchen, Jenny and her mother cried -too, the latter telling doleful stories of similar circumstances which -she had known; but Marget went about with a burning cheek, watching “the -laddies” with a jealous tenderness, which no one but their mother could -have surpassed, eager to read their looks and anticipate their meaning. -It was a sultry, oppressive day, hot and cloudy, threatening a thunder -storm; and it is impossible to describe the still heavier oppression of -distress and excitement in this closed-up and gloomy house. When Marget -went out to the byre, late in the afternoon, several hours after these -occurrences, Huntley came to her secretly by a back way. What he said -roused the spirit of a hero in Marget’s frame. She put aside her pail on -the instant, smoothed down her new black gown over her petticoat, and -threw a shawl across her head. - -“This moment, laddie--this instant--ye may trust me!” cried Marget, with -a sob; and before Huntley, passing round behind the offices, came in -sight of the high road, his messenger had already disappeared on the way -to Kirkbride. - -Then Huntley drew his cap over his eyes, threw round him a gray -shepherd’s plaid, as a partial disguise, and set out in the opposite -direction. Before he reached his journey’s end, the sweeping deluge of a -thunder storm came down upon those uplands, in white sheets of falling -water. The lad did not pause to take shelter, scarcely to take breath, -but pushed on till he reached some scattered cottages, where the men -were just returning from their day’s work. At that time the rain and the -western sun, through the thickness of the thunder cloud, made a -gorgeous, lurid, unearthly glow, like what it might make through the -smoke of a great battle. Huntley called one of the men to him into a -little hollow below the hamlet. He was one of the servants of Norlaw, as -were most of these cottagers. The young master told his tale with little -loss of words, and met with the hearty and ready assent of his horrified -listener. - -“I’ll no’ fail ye, Maister Huntley; neither will the Laidlaws. I’ll -bring them up by the darkening; ye may reckon upon them and me,” said -the laborer; “and what use burdening yoursel’ with mair, unless it were -to show respect. There’s enow, with ane of you lads to take turns, and -us three.” - -“Not at the darkening--at midnight, Willie; or at earliest at eleven, -when it’s quite dark,” said Huntley. - -“At eleven! mid nicht! I’m no heeding; but what will we say to the -wives?” said Willie, scratching his head in momentary dismay. - -“Say--but not till you leave them--that you’re coming to serve Norlaw in -extremity,” said Huntley; “and to make my brothers and me debtors to -your kindness forever.” - -“Whisht about that,” said Willie Noble; “mony a guid turn’s come to us -out of Norlaw;--and Peggie’s nae like the maist of women--she’ll hear -reason. If we can aince win owre Tweed, we’re safe, Maister Huntley; but -it’s a weary long way to there. What would you say to a guid horse and a -light cart? there’s few folk about the roads at night.” - -Huntley shrunk with involuntary horror from the details even of his own -arrangement. - -“I’ll take care for that,” he said, hurriedly; “but we could not take a -carriage over Tweed, and that is why I ask this help from you.” - -“And kindly welcome; I wish to heaven it had been a blyther errand for -your sake,” said the man, heartily; “but we maun take what God sends; -and wha’s to keep the officer quiet, for that’s the chief of the haill -plan?” - -“I’ve to think of that yet,” said Huntley, turning his face towards home -with a heavy sigh. - -“I’d bind him neck and heels, and put him in Tyne to cool himsel’!” said -Willie, with a fervent effusion of indignation. Huntley only bade him -remember the hour, shook his hard hand, and hurried away. - -It was a painful, troubled, unhappy evening, full of the excitement of a -conspiracy. When Huntley and Patrick communicated with each other it was -impossible to say, for they never seemed to meet alone, and Patrick had -taken upon himself the hard duty of keeping Elliot company. - -The minister and his daughter departed sadly in the twilight, knowing no -comfort for the family they left. And Mr. Blackadder returned gloomily -from his visit to the attorney, bringing the news that he had no -authority to stop proceedings till he consulted with his principal, -after which, in good time, and with a look and grasp of Huntley’s hand, -which were full of meaning, the good farmer, too, took his wife away. - -Then came the real struggle. The officer kept his watch in the -dining-room, to which he had shifted from some precautionary notion, and -sat there in the great chintz easy-chair, which the hearts of the lads -burned to see him occupy, perfectly content to talk to Patie, and to -consume soberly a very large measure of toddy, the materials for which -stood on the table the whole evening. Patie discharged his painful -office like a hero. He sat by the other side of the table, listening to -the man’s stories, refusing to meet Huntley’s eye when by chance he -entered the room, and taking no note of the reproachful, indignant -glances of Cosmo, who still knew nothing of their plans, and could not -keep his patience when he saw his brother entertaining this coarse -intruder in their sorrowful affairs. - -Huntley, meanwhile, moved about stealthily, making all the arrangements. -It was a considerable discouragement to find that the officer had made -up his mind to spend the night in the dining-room, where Marget, with a -swell and excitement in her homely form, which, fortunately, Elliot’s -eyes were not sufficiently enlightened to see, prepared the hair-cloth -sofa for his night’s repose. He was sober, in spite of the toddy, but it -seemed more than mortal powers could bear, keeping awake. - -It was midnight; and Huntley knew by Marget’s face that his assistants -were in attendance, but still they scarcely ventured to say to each -other that every thing was ready for their melancholy office. - -Midnight, and the house was still. Yet such a perturbed and miserable -stillness, tingling with apprehension and watchfulness! The widow had -left her sorrowful retirement up-stairs; she stood outside on the -gallery in the darkness, with her hands clasped close together, keeping -down all natural pangs in this unnatural hardship. Marget, who was -strong and resolute, stood watching breathless at the closed door of the -dining-room, with a great plaid in her hands, which nobody understood -the occasion for. No one else was to be seen, save a train of four black -figures moving noiselessly up the stairs. At every step these midnight -emissaries took, Marget held her breath harder, and the Mistress clasped -her hand upon her heart with an agonizing idea that its throbs must be -heard throughout the house. A single faint ray of light directed their -way to the room where the dead lay; all beside was in the deepest -darkness of a stormy night--and once more with a merciful noise -pattering loud upon the trees without, came down the deluge of the -thunder storm. - -It was at this moment that Cosmo, sitting in his own room, trying to -compose his heart with a chapter in his Bible, saw, for he could not -hear, his door open, and Huntley’s face, pale with agitation, look in. - -“Come!” said the elder brother, who was almost speechless with strong -excitement. - -“Where?” cried the amazed boy. - -Huntley held up his hand to bar speaking. - -“To bury my father,” he answered, with a voice which, deep in solemn -meaning, seemed, somehow, to be without common sound, and rather to -convey itself to the mind, than to speak to the ear. - -Without a word, Cosmo rose and followed. His brother held him fast upon -the dark gallery, in a speechless grip of intense emotion. Cosmo could -scarcely restrain the natural cry of terror, the natural sob out of his -boy’s heart. - -It went down solemnly and noiselessly, down the muffled stair, that -something, dark and heavy, which the noiseless figures carried. At the -foot of the stairs, Patie, his own pale face the only thing there on -which the light fell fully, held with a steady, patient determination, -and without a tremble, the little rush light, hid in a lantern, which -guided their descent, and in the darkness above stood the Mistress, like -a figure in a dream, with her hands pressed on her heart. - -Then a blast of colder air, a louder sound of the thunder-rain. The two -brothers stole down stairs, Huntley still holding fast by Cosmo’s -arm--and in another moment the whole procession stood safe and free, in -the garden, under the blast of big rain and the mighty masses of cloud. -So far, all was safe; and thus, under shelter of the midnight, set forth -from his sad house, the funeral of Norlaw. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -That night was a night of storms. When the heavy rain ceased, peals of -thunder shook the house, and vivid lightning flashed through the -darkness. When the funeral procession was safe, Marget fastened her -plaid across the door of the dining-room as a precaution, and went up -stairs to attend to the Mistress. She found the widow kneeling down, -where she had stood, leaning her hands and her face against the railings -of the gallery, not fainting, perfectly conscious, yet in a condition in -comparison with which a swoon would have been happiness. Her hands clung -tight and rigid about the rails. She had sunk upon her knees from pure -exhaustion, and kept that position for the same reason. Yet she was -terribly conscious of the approach of Marget, afraid of her in the -darkness, as if she were an enemy. The faithful servant managed to rouse -her after great pains, and at last was able to lead her down stairs, to -the gathered fire in the kitchen, where the two sat in the darkness, -with one red spark of fire preserving some appearance of life in the -apartment, listening to the blast of rain against the window, watching -the flashes of wild light which blazed through the three round holes in -the kitchen shutter, and the thunder which echoed far among the distant -hills. Sitting together without a word, listening with feverish anxiety -to every sound, and fearing every moment that the storm must wake their -undesired inmate, who could not stir in the dining-room without their -hearing. It was thus the solemn night passed, lingering and terrible, -over the heads of the women who remained at home. - -And through that wild summer midnight--through the heavy roads, where -their feet sank at every step, and the fluttering ghostly branches on -the hedgerows, which caught the rude pall, a large black shawl, which -had been thrown over the coffin--the melancholy clandestine procession -made its way. When they had gone about half a mile, they were met by the -old post-chaise from the Norlaw Arms, at Kirkbride, which had been -waiting there for them. In it, relieving each other, the little party -proceeded onward. At length they came to Tweed, to the pebbly beach, -where the ferryman’s boat lay fastened by its iron ring and hempen -cable. But for the fortunate chance of finding it here, Huntley, who was -unrivaled in all athletic exercises, had looked for nothing better than -swimming across the river, to fetch the boat from the other side. -Rapidly, yet reverently, their solemn burden was laid in the boat; two -of the men, by this time, had ventured to light torches, which they had -brought with them, wrapt in a plaid. The rain had ceased. The broad -breast of Tweed “grit” with those floods, and overflowing the pebbles -for a few yards before they reached the real margin of the stream, -flowed rapidly and strongly, with a dark, swift current, marked with -foam, which it required no small effort to strike steadily across. The -dark trees, glistening with big drops of rain--the unseen depths on -either side, only perceptible to their senses by the cold full breath of -wind which blew over them--the sound of water running fierce in an -expanded tide; and as they set out upon the river, the surrounding gleam -of water shining under their torches, and the strong swell of downward -motion, against which they had to struggle, composed altogether a scene -which no one there soon forgot. The boat had to return a second time, to -convey all its passengers; and then once more, with the solemn tramp of -a procession, the little party went on in the darkness to the grave. - -And then the night calmed, and a wild, frightened moon looked out of the -clouds into solemn Dryburgh, in the midst of her old monkish orchards. -Through the great grass-grown roofless nave, the white light fell in a -sudden calm, pallid and silent as death itself, yet looking on like an -amazed spectator of the scene. - -The open grave stood ready as it had been prepared this morning--a dark, -yawning breach in the wet grass, its edge all defined and glistening in -the moonlight. It was in one of the small side chapels, overgrown with -grass and ivy, which are just distinguishable from the main mass of the -ruin; here the torches blazed and the dark figures grouped together, and -in a solemn and mysterious silence these solitary remains of the old -house of God looked on at the funeral. The storm was over; the thunder -clouds rolled away to the north; the face of the heavens cleared; the -moon grew brighter. High against the sky stood out the Catherine window -in its frame of ivy, the solitary shafts and walls from which the trees -waved--and in a solemn gloom, broken by flashes of light which magnified -the shadow, lay those morsels of the ancient building which still -retained a cover. The wind rustled through the trees, shaking down great -drops of moisture, which fell with a startling coldness upon the faces -of the mourners, some of whom began to feel the thrill of superstitious -awe. It was the only sound, save that of the subdued footsteps round the -grave, and the last heavy, dreadful bustle of human exertion, letting -down the silent inhabitant into his last resting-place, which sounded -over the burial of Norlaw. - -And now, at last, it was all over; the terrible excitement, the dismal, -long, self-restraint, the unnatural force of human resentment and -defiance which had mingled with the grief of these three lads. At last -he was in his grave, solemnly and safely; at last he was secure where no -man could insult what remained of him, or profane his dwelling-place. As -the moon shone on the leveled soil, Cosmo cried aloud in a boyish agony -of nature, and fell upon the wet grass beside the grave. The cry rang -through all the solemn echoes of the place. Some startled birds flew out -of the ivied crevices, and made wild, bewildered circles of fright among -the walls. A pang of sudden terror fell upon the rustic attendants; the -torch bearers let their lights fall, and the chief among them hurriedly -entreated Huntley to linger no longer. - -“A’s done!” said Willie Noble, lifting his bonnet reverently from his -head. “Farewell to a good master that I humbly hope’s in heaven lang -afore now. We can do him nae further good, and the lads are timid of the -place. Maister Huntley, may I give them the word to turn hame?” - -So they turned home; the three brothers, last and lingering, turned back -to life and their troubles--all the weary weight of toil which _he_ had -left on their shoulders, for whom this solemn midnight expedition was -their last personal service. The three came together, hand in hand, -saying never a word--their hearts “grit” like Tweed, and flowing full -with unspeakable emotions--and passed softly under the old fruit trees, -which shed heavy dew upon their heads, and through the wet paths which -shone in lines of silver under the moon; Tweed, lying full in a sudden -revelation of moonlight, one bank falling off into soft shadows of -trees, the other guarding with a ledge of rock some fair boundary of -possession, and the bubbles of foam gleaming bright upon the rapid -current, was not more unlike the invisible gloomy river over which they -passed an hour ago, than was their own coming and going. The strain was -out of their young spirits, the fire of excitement had consumed itself, -and Norlaw’s sons, like lads as they were, were melting, each one -silently and secretly, into the mood of tears and loving recollections, -the very tenderness of grief. - -And when Marget took down the shutter from the window, to see by the -early morning light how this night of watching had at last taken the -bloom from the Mistress’ face, three other faces, white with the wear of -extreme emotion, but tender as the morning faces of children, appeared -to her coming slowly and calmly, and with weariness, along the green -bank before the house. They had not spoken all the way. They were worn -out with passion and sorrow, and want of rest--even with want of -food--for these days had been terrible days for boys of their age to -struggle through. Marget could not restrain a cry of mingled alarm and -triumph. That, and the sound of the bolts withdrawn from the door, did -what the thunder storm could not do. It broke the slumbers of the -sheriff’s officer, who had slept till now. He ran to the window hastily, -and drew aside the curtain--he saw the face of the widow at the -kitchen-door; the lads, travel-soiled and weary, with their wet clothes -and exhausted faces, coming up to meet her; and the slumbrous sentinel -rushed out of the room to entangle himself in the folds of Marget’s -plaid, and overwhelm her with angry questions; for she came to his call -instantly, with a pretense of care and solicitude exasperating enough -under any circumstances. - -“Where have the lads been?” cried Elliot, throwing down at her, torn -through the middle, the plaid which she had hung across his door. - -“They’ve been at their father’s funeral,” said Marget, solemnly, “puir -bairns!--through the storm and the midnicht, to Dryburgh, to the family -grave.” - -The man turned into the room again in a pretended passion--but, -sheriff’s officer though he was, perhaps he was not sorry for once in -his life to find himself foiled. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“Put on your bonnet, Katie, and come with me--the like of you should be -able to be some comfort to that poor widow at Norlaw,” said Dr. Logan to -his daughter, as they stood together in the manse garden, after their -early breakfast. - -After the storm, it was a lovely summer morning, tender, dewy, -refreshed, full of the songs of birds and odors of flowers. - -Katie Logan was only eighteen, but felt herself a great deal older. She -was the eldest child of a late marriage, and had been mother and -mistress in the manse for four long years. The minister, as is the fate -of ministers, had waited long for this modest preferment, and many a -heavy thought it gave him to see his children young and motherless, and -to remember that he himself was reaching near the limit of human life; -but Katie was her father’s comfort in this trouble, as in most others; -and it seemed so natural to see her in full care and management of her -four little brothers and sisters, that the chances of Katie having a -life of her own before her, independent of the manse, seldom troubled -the thoughts of her father. - -Katie did not look a day older than she was; but she had that -indescribable elder-sister bearing, that pretty shade of thoughtfulness -upon her frank face, which an early responsibility throws into the looks -of very children. Even a young wife, in all the importance of -independent sway, must have looked but a novice in presence of the -minister’s daughter, who had to be mistress and mother at fourteen, and -had kept the manse cosy and in order, regulated the economies, darned -the stockings, and even cut out the little frocks and pinafores from -that time until now. Katie knew more about measles and hooping-cough -than many a mother, and was skilled how to take a cold “in time,” and -check an incipient fever. The minister thought no one else, save his -dead wife, could have managed the three hundred pounds of the manse -income, so as to leave a comfortable sum over every year, to be laid by -for “the bairns,” and comforted himself with the thought that when he -himself was “called away,” little Johnnie and Charlie, Colin and Isabel, -would still have Katie, the mother-sister, who already had been their -guardian so long. - -“I’m ready, papa!” said Katie; “but Mrs. Livingstone does not care about -a stranger’s sympathy. It’s no’ like one belonging to herself. She may -think it very kind and be pleased with it, in a way; but it still feels -like an interference at the bottom of her heart.” - -“She’s a peculiar woman,” said Dr. Logan, “but you are not to be called -a stranger, my dear: and it’s no small pleasure to me, Katie, to think -that there are few houses in the parish where you are not just as -welcome as myself.” - -Katie made no reply to this. She did not think it would much mend the -matter with the Mistress to be reckoned as one of the houses in the -parish. So she tied on her bonnet quietly, and took her father’s arm, -and turned down the brae toward Norlaw; for this little woman had the -admirable quality of knowing, not only how to speak with great good -sense, but how to refrain. - -“I’m truly concerned about this family,” said Dr. Logan; “indeed, I may -say, I’m very much perplexed in my mind how to do. A state of things -like this can not be tolerated in a Christian country, Katie. The dead -denied decent burial! It’s horrible to think of; so I see no better for -it, my dear, than to take a quiet ride to Melmar, without letting on to -any body, and seeing for myself what’s to be done with _him_.” - -“I don’t like Mr. Huntley, papa,” said Katie, decidedly. - -“That may be, my dear; but still, I suppose he’s just like other folk, -looking after his own interest, without meaning any particular harm to -any body, unless they come in his way. Oh, human nature!” said the -minister; “the most of us are just like that, Katie, though we seldom -can see it; but there can be little doubt that Melmar was greatly -incensed against poor Norlaw, who was nobody’s enemy but his own.” - -“And his sons!” said Katie, hastily. “Poor boys! I wonder what they’ll -do?” This was one peculiarity of her elder-sisterly position which Katie -had not escaped. She thought it quite natural and proper to speak of -Patie and Huntley Livingstone, one of whom was about her own age, and -one considerably her senior, as the “boys,” and to take a maternal -interest in them; even Dr. Logan, excellent man, did not see any thing -to smile at in this. He answered with the most perfect seriousness, -echoing her words:-- - -“Poor boys! We’re short-sighted mortals, Katie; but there’s no -telling--it might be all the better for them that they’re left to -themselves, and are no more subject to poor Norlaw. But about Melmar? I -think, my dear, I might as well ride over there to-day.” - -“Wait till we’ve seen Mrs. Livingstone, papa,” said the prudent Katie. -“Do you see that man on the road--who is it? He’s in an awful hurry. I -think I’ve seen him before.” - -“Robert Mushet, from the hill; he’s always in a hurry, like most idle -people,” said the minister. - -“No; it’s not Robbie, papa; he’s as like the officer as he can look,” -said Katie, straining her eyes over the high bank which lay between his -path and the high-road. - -“Whisht, my dear--the officer? Do you mean the exciseman, Katie? It -might very well be him, without making any difference to us.” - -“I’m sure it’s him--the man that came to Norlaw yesterday!” cried Katie, -triumphantly, hastening the good doctor along the by-road at a pace to -which he was not accustomed. “Something’s happened! Oh papa, be quick -and let us on.” - -“Canny, my dear, canny!” said Dr. Logan. “I fear you must be mistaken, -Katie; but if you’re right, I’m very glad to think that Melmar must have -seen the error of his way.” - -Katie was very indifferent about Melmar; but she pressed on eagerly, -full of interest to know what had happened at Norlaw. When they came in -sight of the house, it was evident by its changed aspect that things -were altered there. The windows were open, the blinds drawn up, the -sunshine once more entering freely as of old. The minister went forward -with a mind perturbed; he did not at all comprehend what this could -mean. - -The door was opened to them by Marget, who took them into the east room -with a certain solemn importance, and who wore her new mourning and her -afternoon cap with black ribbons, in preparation for visitors. - -“I’ve got them a’ persuaded to take a rest--a’ but Huntley,” said -Marget; “for yesterday and last night were enough to kill baith the -laddies and their mother--no’ a morsel o’ meat within their lips, nor a -wink of sleep to their e’en.” - -“You alarm me, Marget; what does all this mean?” cried Dr. Logan, waving -his hand towards the open windows. - -Katie, more eager and more quick-witted, watched the motion of Marget’s -lips, yet found out the truth before she spoke. - -“The maister’s funeral,” said Marget, with a solemn triumph, though her -voice broke, in spite of herself, in natural sorrow, “took place -yestreen, at midnicht, sir, as there was nae other way for it, in the -orderings of Providence. Maister Huntley arranged it so.” - -“Oh, poor boys!” cried Katie Logan, and she threw herself down on a -chair, and cried heartily in sympathy, and grief, and joy. Nothing else -was possible; the scene, the circumstances, the cause, were not to be -spoken of. There was no way but that way, of showing how this young -heart at least felt with the strained hearts of the family of Norlaw. - -“Ye may say sae, Miss Katie,” said Marget, crying too in little -outbursts, from which she recovered to wipe her eyes and curtsey -apologetically to the minister. “After a’ they gaed through yesterday, -to start in the storm and the dark, and lay him in his grave by -torchlight in the dead of the night--three laddies, that I mind, just -like yesterday, bits of bairns about the house--it’s enough to break -ane’s heart!” - -“I am very much startled,” said Dr. Logan, pacing slowly up and down the -room; “it was a very out-of-the-way proceeding. Dear me!--at -midnight--by torchlight!--Poor Norlaw! But still I can not say I blame -them--I can not but acknowledge I’m very well pleased it’s over. Dear -me! who could have thought it, without asking my advice or any -body’s,--these boys! but I suppose, Katie, my dear, if they are all -resting, we may as well think of turning back, unless Marget thinks Mrs. -Livingstone would like to have you beside her for the rest of the day.” - -“No, papa; she would like best to be by herself--and so would I, if it -was me,” said Katie, promptly. - -“Eh, Miss Katie! the like of you for understanding--and you so young!” -cried Marget, with real admiration; “but the minister canna gang away -till he’s seen young Norlaw.” - -“Who?” cried Dr. Logan, in amazement. - -“My young master, sir, the present Norlaw,” said Marget, with a curtsey -which was not without defiance. - -The good minister shook his head. - -“Poor laddie!” said Doctor Logan, “I wish him many better things than -his inheritance; but I would gladly see Huntley. If you are sure he’s up -and able to see us, tell him I’m here.” - -“I’ll tell him _wha’s_ here,” said Marget, under her breath, as she went -softly away; “eh, my puir bairn! I’d gie my little finger cheerful for -the twa of them, to see them draw together; and mair unlikely things -have come to pass. Guid forgive me for thinking of the like in a house -of death!” - -Yet, unfortunately, it was hard to avoid thinking of such profane -possibilities in the presence of two young people like Huntley and -Katie--especially for a woman; not a few people in the parish, of -speculative minds, who could see a long way before them, had already -lightly linked their names together as country gossips use, and perhaps -Huntley half understood what was the meaning of the slight but -significant emphasis, with which Marget intimated that “the minister and -_Miss Katie_” were waiting to see him. - -The youth went with great readiness. They were, at least, of all others, -the friends whom Huntley was the least reluctant to confide in, and -whose kindness he appreciated best. - -And when pretty Katie Logan sprang forward, still half crying, and with -bright tears hanging upon her eye-lashes, to take her old playmate’s -hand, almost tenderly, in her great concern and sympathy for him, the -lad’s heart warmed, he could scarcely tell how. He felt involuntarily, -almost unwillingly, as if this salutation and regard all to himself was -a sudden little refuge of brighter life opened for him out of the -universal sorrow which was about his own house and way. The tears came -to Huntley’s eyes--but they were tears of relief, of ease and comfort to -his heart. He almost thought he could have liked, if Katie had been -alone, to sit down by her side, and tell her all that he had suffered, -all that he looked forward to. But the sight of the minister, -fortunately, composed Huntley. Dr. Logan, excellent man as he was, did -not seem so desirable a confidant. - -“I don’t mean to blame you, my dear boy,” said the minister, earnestly; -“it was a shock to my feelings, I allow, but do not think of getting -blame from me, Huntley. I was shut up entirely in the matter, myself; I -did not see what to do; and I could not venture to say that it was not -the wisest thing, and the only plan to clear your way.” - -There was a little pause, for Huntley either would not, or could not, -speak--and then Dr. Logan resumed: - -“We came this morning, Katie and me, to see what use we could be; but -now the worst’s over, Huntley, I’m thinking we’ll just go our way back -again, and leave you to rest--for Katie thinks your mother will be best -pleased to be alone.” - -“Do you think so?” said Huntley, looking eagerly into Katie’s face. - -“Yes, unless I could be your real sister for a while, as long as Mrs. -Livingstone needed me,” said Katie, with a smile, “and I almost wish I -could--I am so good at it--to take care of you boys.” - -“There is no fear of us now,” said Huntley. “The worst’s over, as the -minister says. We’ve had no time to think what we’re to do, Dr. Logan; -but I’ll come and tell you whenever we can see what’s before us.” - -“I’ll be very glad, Huntley; but I’ll tell you what’s better than -telling me,” said Dr. Logan. “Katie has a cousin, a very clever writer -in Edinburgh--I knew there was something I wanted to tell you, and I had -very near forgotten--if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go in, it’s not -very far, and get him to manage the whole thing for you. Here’s the -address that Katie wrote down last night. Tell your mother about it, -Huntley, and that it’s my advice you should have a sound man in the law -to look after your concerns; and come down to the manse as soon as you -can, if it were only for a change; and you’ll give your mother our -regards, and we’ll bid you good-day.” - -“And dinna think more than you should, or grieve more, Huntley--and come -and see us,” said Katie, offering him her hand again. - -Huntley took it, half joyfully, half inclined to burst out into boyish -tears once more. He thought it would have been a comfort and refreshment -to have had her here, this wearied, melancholy day. But somehow, he did -not think with equal satisfaction of Katie’s cousin. It seemed to -Huntley he would almost rather employ any “writer” than this one, to -smooth out the raveled concerns of Norlaw. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Common daylight, common life, the dead buried out of their sight, the -windows open, the servants coming to ask common questions about the -cattle and the land. Nothing changed, except that the father was no -longer visible among them--that Huntley sat at the foot of the table, -and the Mistress grew familiar with her widow’s cap. Oh, cruel life! -This was how it swallowed up all the solemnities of their grief. - -And now it was the evening, and the eager youths could be restrained no -longer. Common custom had aroused even the Mistress out of her inaction, -sitting by the corner window, she had once more begun mechanically to -notice what went and came at the kitchen door--had been very angry with -the packman, who had seduced Jenny to admit him--and with Jenny for so -far forgetting the decorum due to “an afflicted house;” had even once -noticed, and been partially displeased by the black ribbons in Marget’s -cap, which it was extravagant to wear in the morning; and with -melancholy self-reproof had opened the work basket, which had been left -to gather dust for weeks past. - -“I needna be idle _now_"--the Mistress said to herself, with a heavy -sigh; and Huntley and Patie perceived that it was no longer too early to -enter upon their own plans and views. - -With this purpose, they came to her about sunset, when she had settled -herself after her old fashion to her evening’s work. She saw -instinctively what was coming, and, with natural feeling, shrunk for the -moment. She was a little impatient, too, her grief taking that form. - -“Keep a distance, keep a distance, bairns!” cried the Mistress; “let me -have room to breathe in! and I’m sure if ye were but lassies, and could -have something in your hands to do, it would be a comfort to me. There’s -Jenny, the light-headed thing, taken her stocking to the door, as if -nothing was amiss in the house. Pity me!--but I’ll not be fashed with -_her_ long, that’s a comfort to think of. Laddies, laddies, can ye no -keep still? What are ye a’wanting with me?” - -“Mother, it’s time to think what we’re to do; neither Patie nor me can -keep quiet, when we think of what’s before us,” said Huntley--“and -there’s little comfort in settling on any thing till we can speak of it -to you.” - -The Mistress gave way at these words to a sudden little outbreak of -tears, which you might almost have supposed were tears of anger, and -which she wiped off hurriedly with an agitated hand. Then she proceeded -very rapidly with the work she had taken up, which was a dark gray -woolen stocking--a familiar work, which she could get on with almost -without looking at it. She did look at her knitting, however, intently, -bending her head over it, not venturing to look up at her children; and -thus it was that they found themselves permitted to proceed. - -“Mother,” said Huntley, with a deep blush--“I’m a man, but I’ve learned -nothing to make my bread by. Because I’m the eldest, and should be of -most use, I’m the greatest burden. I understand about the land and the -cattle, and after a while I might manage a farm, but that’s slow work -and weary--and the first that should be done is to get rid of me.” - -“Hold your peace!” cried the Mistress, with a break in her voice; “how -dare ye say the like of that to your mother? Are you not my eldest son, -the stay of the house? Wherefore do ye say this to me?” - -“Because it’s true, mother,” said Huntley, firmly; “and though it’s true -I’m not discouraged. The worst is, I see nothing I can do near you, as I -might have done if I had been younger, and had time to spare to learn a -trade. Such as it is, I’m very well content with my trade, too; but what -could I do with it here? Get a place as a grieve, maybe, through -Tyneside’s help, and the minister’s, and be able to stock a small farm -by the time I was forty years old. But that would please neither you nor -me. Mother, you must send me away!” - -The Mistress did not look up, did not move--went on steadily with her -rapid knitting--but she said:-- - -“Where?” with a sharp accent, like a cry. - -“I’ve been thinking of that,” said Huntley, slowly; “If I went to -America, or Canada, or any such place, I would be like to stay. My -mind’s against staying; I want to come back--to keep home in my eye. So -I say Australia, mother.” - -“America, Canada, Australia!--the laddie’s wild!” cried the Mistress. -“Do you mean to say ye’ll be an emigrant? a bairn of mine?” - -Emigration was not then what it is now; it was the last resort--sadly -resisted, sadly yielded to--of the “broken man;” and Huntley’s mother -saw her son, in imagination, in a dreary den of a cabin, in a poor -little trading ship, with a bundle on the end of a stick, and despair in -his heart, when he spoke of going away. - -“There’s more kinds of emigrants than one kind, mother,” said Patie. - -“Ay,” said the Mistress, her imagination shifting, in spite of her, to a -dismal family scene, in which the poor wife had the baby tied on her -back in a shawl, and the children at her feet were crying with cold and -hunger, and the husband at her side looking desperate. “I’ve seen folk -on the road to America--ay, laddies, mony a time. I’m older than you -are. I ken what like they look; but pity me, did I ever think the like -of that would be evened to a bairn of mine!” - -“Mother,” said Huntley, with a cheerfulness which he did not quite feel, -“an emigrant goes away to stay--I should not do that--I am going, if I -can, to make a fortune, and come home--and it’s not America; there are -towns _there_ already like our own, and a man, I suppose, has only a -greater chance of getting bread enough to eat. I could get bread enough -in our own country-side; but I mean to get more if I can--I mean to get -a sheep farm and grow rich, as everybody does out there.” - -“Poor laddie! Do they sell sheep and lands out there to them that have -no siller?” said the Mistress. “If you canna stock a farm at hame, where -you’re kent and your name respected, Huntley Livingstone, how will you -do it there?” - -“That’s just what I have to find out,” said Huntley, with spirit; “a -man may be clear he’s to do a thing, without seeing how at the moment. -With your consent, I’m going to Australia, mother; if there’s any thing -over, when all our affairs are settled, I’ll get my share--and as for -the sheep and the land, they’re in Providence; but I doubt them as -little as if they were on the lea before my eyes. I’m no’ a man out of a -town that knows nothing about it. I’m country bred and have been among -beasts all my days. Do you think I’m feared! Though I’ve little to start -with, mother, you’ll see me back rich enough to do credit to the name of -Norlaw!” - -His mother shook her head. - -“It’s easy to make a fortune on a summer night at hame, before a lad’s -twenty, or kens the world,” she said. “I’ve seen mony a stronger man -than you, Huntley, come hame baith penniless and hopeless--and the like -of such grand plans, they’re but trouble and sadness to me.” - -Perhaps Huntley was discouraged by the words; at all events he made no -reply--and the mind of his mother gradually expanded. She looked up from -her knitting suddenly, with a rapid tender glance. - -“Maybe I’m wrong,” said the Mistress; “there’s some will win and some -will fail in spite of the haill world. The Lord take the care of my -bairns! Who am I, that I should be able to guide you, three lads, coming -to be men? Huntley, you’re the auldest, and you’re strong. I canna say -stay at hame--I dinna see what to bid you do. You must take your ain -will, and I’ll no’ oppose.” - -If Huntley thanked his mother at all it was in very few words, for the -politenesses were not cultivated among them, the feelings of this -Scottish family lying somewhat deep, and expressing themselves otherwise -than in common words; but the Mistress brushed her hand over her eyes -hurriedly, with something like a restrained sob, intermitting for a -single instant, and no longer, the rapid glitter of her “wires"--but you -would scarcely have supposed that the heart of the mother was moved thus -far, to hear the tone of her next words. She turned to her second son -without looking at him. - -“And where are _you_ for, Patie Livingstone?” said the Mistress, with -almost a sarcastic sharpness. “It should be India, or the North Pole to -pleasure you.” - -Patie was not emboldened by this address; it seemed, indeed, rather to -discomfit the lad; not as a reproach, but as showing a greater -expectation of his purposes than they warranted. - -“You know what I aimed at long ago, mother,” he said, with hesitation. -“It may be that we can ill afford a ’prentice time now--but I’m no’ -above working while I learn. I can scramble up as well as Huntley. I’ll -go either to Glasgow or to Liverpool, to one of the founderies there.” - -“Folk dinna learn to be _civil_ engineers in founderies,” said the -Mistress; “they’re nothing better than smiths at the anvil. You wanted -to build a light-house, Patie, when ye were a little bairn--but you’ll -no’ learn there.” - -“I’ll maybe learn better. There’s to be railroads soon, everywhere,” -said Patie, with a little glow upon his face. “I’ll do what I can--if -I’m only to be a smith, I’ll be a smith like a man, and learn my -business. The light-house was a fancy; but I may learn what’s as good, -and more profitable. There’s some railroads already, mother, and there’s -more beginning every day.” - -“My poor bairn!” said the Mistress, for the first time bestowing a -glance of pity upon Patie--“if your fortune has to wait for its making -till folk gang riding over a’ the roads on steam horses, like what’s -written in the papers, I’ll never live to see it. There’s that man they -ca’ Stephenson, he’s made something or other that’s a great wonder; but, -laddie, you dinna think that roads like that can go far? They may have -them up about London--and truly you might live to make another, I’ll no’ -say--but I would rather build a tower to keep ships from being wrecked -than make a road for folk to break their necks on, if it was me.” - -“Folk that are born to break their necks will break them on any kind of -road,” said Patie, with great gravity; “but I’ve read about it all, and -I think a man only needs to know what he has to do, to thrive; and -besides, mother, there’s more need for engines than upon railroads. It’s -a business worth a man’s while.” - -“Patie,” said the Mistress, solemnly, “I’ve given my consent to Huntley -to gang thousands of miles away over the sea; but if _you_ gang among -thae engines, that are merciless and senseless, and can tear a living -creature like a rag of claith--I’ve seen them, laddie, with my own e’en, -clanging and clinking like the evil place itself--I’ll think it’s Patie -that’s in the lion’s mouth, and no’ my eldest son.” - -“Well, mother!” said Patie, sturdily--“if I were in the lion’s mouth, -and yet had room to keep clear, would you be feared for me?” - -This appeal took the Mistress entirely without preparation. She brushed -her hands hastily over her eyes once more, and went on with her -knitting. Then a long, hard-drawn breath, which was not a sigh, came -from the mother’s breast; in the midst of her objections, her -determination not to be satisfied, a certain unaccountable pride in the -vigor, and strength, and resolution of her sons rose in the kindred -spirit of their mother. She was not “feared"--neither for one nor the -other of the bold youths by her side. Her own strong vitality went forth -with them, with an indescribable swell of exhilaration--yet she was -their mother, and a widow, and it wrung her heart to arrange quietly how -they were to leave her and their home. - -“And me?” said Cosmo, coming to his mother’s side. - -_He_ had no determination to announce--he came out of his thoughts, and -his musings, and his earnest listening, to lay that white, long hand of -his upon his mother’s arm. It was the touch which made the full cup run -over. The widow leaned her head suddenly upon her boy’s shoulder, -surprised into an outburst of tears and weakness, unusual and -overpowering--and the other lads came close to this group, touched to -the heart like their mother. They cried out among their tears that Cosmo -must not go away--that he was too young--too tender! What they had not -felt for themselves, they felt for him--there seemed something forlorn, -pathetic, miserable, in the very thought of this boy going forth to meet -the world and its troubles. This boy, the child of the house, the son -who was like his father, the tenderest spirit of them all! - -Yet Cosmo, who had no plans, and who was only sixteen, was rather -indignant at this universal conclusion. He yielded at last, only because -the tears were still in his mother’s eyes, and because they were all -more persistent than he was--and sat down at a little distance, not -sullen, but as near so as was possible to him, his cheek glowing with a -suspicion that they thought him a child. But soon the conversation -passed to other matters, which Cosmo could not resist. They began to -speak of Melmar, their unprovoked enemy, and then the three lads looked -at each other, taking resolution from that telegraphic conference; and -Huntley, with the blood rising in his cheeks, for the first time asked -his mother, in the name of them all, for that tale which her husband, on -his death-bed, had deputed her to tell them, the story of the will which -was in the mid-chamber, and that Mary who was Mary of Melmar evermore in -the memory of Norlaw. - -At the question the tears dried out of the Mistress’s eyes, an impatient -color came to her face--and it was so hard to elicit this story from her -aggrieved and unsympathetic mind, that it may be better for Mrs. -Livingstone, in the estimation of other people, if we tell what she told -in other words than hers. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Yet we do not see why we are called upon to defend Mrs. Livingstone, who -was very well able, under most circumstances, to take care of herself. -She did not by any means receive her sons’ inquiries with a good grace. -On the contrary, she evaded them hotly, with unmistakable dislike and -impatience. - -“Mary of Me’mar! what is she to you?” said the Mistress. “Let bygones be -bygones, bairns--she’s been the fash of my life, one way and another. -Hold your peace, Cosmo Livingstone! Do you think I can tell this like a -story out of a book. There’s plenty gossips in the countryside could -tell you the ins and the outs of it better than me--” - -“About the mid-chamber and the will, mother?” asked Patrick. - -“Weel, maybe, no about that,” said the Mistress, slightly mollified; “if -that’s what ye want. This Mary Huntley, laddies, I ken very little about -her. She was away out of these parts before my time. I never doubted she -was light-headed, and liked to be admired and petted. She was Me’mar’s -only bairn; maybe that might be some excuse for her--for he was an auld -man and fond. But, kind as he was, she ran away from him to marry some -lad that naebody kent--and went off out of the country with her -ne’er-do-weel man, and has never been heard tell of from that time to -this--that’s a’ I ken about her.” - -This was said so peremptorily and conclusively, setting aside at once -any further question, that even these lads, who were not particularly -skilled in the heart or its emotions, perceived by instinct, that their -mother knew a great deal more about her--more than any inducement in the -world could persuade her to tell. - -“I’ve heard that Me’mar was hurt to the heart,” said the Mistress, “and -no much wonder. His bairn that he had thought nothing too good for! and -to think of her running off from _him_, a lone auld man, to be married -upon a stranger-lad without friends, that naebody kent any good o’, and -that turned out just as was to be expected. Oh, aye! it does grand to -make into a story--and the like of you, you think it all for love, and a -warm heart, and a’ the rest of it; but I think it’s but an ill heart -that would desert hame and friends, and an auld man above three-score, -for its ain will and pleasure. So Me’mar took it very sore to heart; he -would not have her name named to him for years. And the next living -creature in this world that he liked best, after his ungrateful -daughter, was--laddies, you’ll no’ be surprised--just him that’s gone -from us--that everybody likit weel--just Norlaw.” - -There was a pause after this, the Mistress’s displeasure melting into a -sob of her permanent grief; and then the tale was resumed more gently, -more slowly, as if she had sinned against the dead by the warmth and -almost resentment of her first words. - -“Me’mar lived to be an auld man,” said the Mistress. “He aye lived on -till Patie was about five years auld, and a’ our bairns born. He was -very good aye to me; mony’s the present he sent me, when I was a young -thing, and was more heeding for bonnie-dies, and took great notice of -Huntley, and was kind to the whole house. It was said through a’ the -country-side that ye were to be his heirs, and truly so you might have -been, but for one thing and anither; no’ that I’m heeding--you’ll be a’ -the better for making your way in the world yourselves.” - -“And the will, mother?” said Huntley, with a little eagerness. - -“I’m coming to the will; have patience;” said the Mistress, who had not -a great deal herself, to tell the truth. “Bairns, it’s no’ time yet for -me to speak to you of your father; but he was aye a just man, with a -tender heart for the unfortunate--you ken that as well as me. He wouldna -take advantage of another man’s weakness, or another man’s ill-doing, -far less of a poor silly lassie, that, maybe, didna ken what she was -about. And when the old man made his will, Norlaw would not let him -leave his lands beyond his ain flesh and blood. So the will was made, -that Mary Huntley, if she ever came back, was to be heir of Melmar, and -if she never came back, nor could be heard tell of, every thing was left -to Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw.” - -It was impossible to restrain the start of amazement with which Huntley, -growing red and agitated, sprang to his feet, and the others stirred out -of their quietness of listening. Their mother took no time to answer the -eager questions in their eyes, nor to hear even the exclamations which -burst from them unawares. She bent her head again, and drew through her -fingers, rapidly, the hem of her apron. She did not see, nor seem to -think of, her children. Her mind was busy about the heaviest epoch of -her own life. - -“When Melmar died, search was caused to be made every place for his -daughter,” said the Mistress, passing back and forwards through her -hands this tight strip of her apron. “Your father thought of nothing -else, night nor day; a’ for justice, bairns, doubtless for justice--that -nobody might think he would take an advantage of his kinswoman, though -he could not approve of her ways! He went to Edinburgh himself, and from -there to London. I was young then, and Cosmo little mair than an infant, -and a’ thing left in my hands. Aye this one and the other one coming to -tell about Mary Huntley--and Norlaw away looking for her--and the very -papers full of the heiress--and me my lane in the house, and little used -to be left to mysel’. I mind every thing as if it had happened this very -day.” - -The Mistress paused once more--it was only to draw a long breath of -pain, ere she hurried on with the unwelcome tale, which now had a -strange interest, even for herself. The boys could not tell what was -the bitterness of the time which their mother indicated by these -compressed and significant words; but it was impossible to hear even her -voice without perceiving something of the long-past troubles, intense -and vivid as her nature, which nothing in the world could have induced -her to disclose. - -“The upshot was, she could not be found,” said the Mistress, abruptly; -“either she never heard tell that she was sought for, or she took guilt -to herself, and would not appear. They kept up the search as long as a -year, but they never heard a word, or got a clue to where she was.” - -“And then?” cried Huntley, with extreme excitement. - -“And then,” said the Mistress--“was he a man to take another person’s -lands, when but a year had gane?” She spoke with a visible -self-restraint, strong and bitter--the coercion which a mind of energy -and power puts upon itself, determining not to think otherwise than with -approbation of the acts of a weaker nature--and with something deeper -underlying even this. “He said she would still come hame some day, as -was most likely. He would not take up her rights, and her living, as he -was persuaded in his mind. The will was proved in law, for her sake, but -he would not take possession of the land, nor put forward his claims to -it, because he said she lived, and would come hame. So, laddies, there’s -the tale. A Mr. Huntley, a writer, from the northcountry, a far-away -friend, came in and claimed as next of kin. Mary of Melmar was lost and -gane, and could not be found, and Norlaw would not put in his ain claim, -though it was clear. He said it would be taking her rights, and that -then she would never come back to claim her land. So the strange man got -possession and kept it, and hated Norlaw. And from that day to this, -what with having an enemy, and the thought of that unfortunate woman -coming back, and the knowledge in his heart that he had let a wrongful -heir step in--what with all that bairns, and more than that, another day -of prosperity never came to this house of Norlaw.” - -“Then we are the heirs of Me’mar!” said Huntley; “we, and not my -father’s enemy! Mother, why did we never hear this before?” - -“Na, lads,” said the Mistress, with an indescribable bitterness in her -tone; “it’s her and her bairns that are the heirs--and they’re to be -found, and claim their inheritance, soon or syne.” - -“Then this is what I’ll do,” cried Cosmo, springing to his feet; “I’ll -go over all the world, but I’ll find Mary of Melmar! I’m not so strong -as Huntley, or as Patie, but I’m strong enough for this. I’ll do what my -father wished--if she should be in the furtherest corner of the earth, -I’ll bring her hame!” - -To the extreme amazement of the boys, the Mistress laid a violent hand -on Cosmo’s shoulder, and, either with intention or unconsciously, shook -the whole frame of the slender lad with her impetuous grasp. - -“Will ye?” cried his mother, with a sharpness of suffering in her voice -that confounded them. “Is it no’ enough, all that’s past? Am I to begin -again? Am I to bring up _sons_ for her service? Oh, patience, patience! -it’s more than a woman like me can bear!” - -Amazed, grieved, disturbed by her words and her aspect, her sons -gathered around her. She pushed them away impatiently, and rose up. - -“Bairns, dinna anger me!--I’m no’ meek enough,” said the Mistress, her -face flushing with a mixture of mortification and displeasure. “You’ve -had your will, and heard the story--but I tell you this woman’s been a -vexation to me all my life--and it’s no’ your part, any one of you, to -begin it a’ over again.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -This story, which Mrs. Livingstone told with reluctance, and, in fact, -did not tell half of, was, though the youths did not know it, the story -of the very bitterest portion of their mother’s life. The Mistress never -told, either to them or to any one else, how, roused in her honest love -and wifely sincerity into sympathy with her husband’s generous efforts -to preserve her own inheritance to his runaway cousin, she had very soon -good reason to be sick of the very name of Mary of Me’mar; how she found -out that, after years long of her faithful, warm-hearted, affectionate -society, after the birth of children and consecration of time, after all -the unfailing courage and exertions, by which her stout spirit had done -much to set him right in the world, and, above all, in spite of the -unfeigned and undivided love of a full heart like her own, the visionary -heart of her husband had all this time been hankering after his first -love. - -Without preparation, and without softening, the Mistress found this out. -He would not advantage his own family at the cost of Mary; he would seek -for Mary through the whole world. These had been the words of Norlaw, -ten years after Mary of Melmar’s disappearance, and even years after he -had become the father of Huntley. The unsuspecting wife thought no harm; -then he went and came for a whole year seeking for his cousin; and -during that time, left alone day after day, and month after month, the -mistress of Norlaw found out the secret. It was a hard thing for her, -with her strong personality and burning individual heart, to bear; but -she did bear it with an indignant heroism, never saying a word to mortal -ear. He himself never knew that she had discovered his prior love, or -resented it. She would have scorned herself could she have reproached -him or even made him conscious of her own feelings. Good fortune and -strong affection at the bottom happily kept contempt out of the -Mistress’s indignation; but her heart continued sore for years with the -discovery--sore, mortified, humiliated. To think that all her wifely, -faithful regard had clung unwittingly to a man who, professing to -cherish her, followed, with a wandering heart, a girl who had run away -from him years before to be another man’s wife! The Mistress had borne -it steadily and soberly, so that no one knew of her discovery, but she -had never got beyond this abiding mortification and injury; and it was -not much wonder that she started with a sudden burst of exasperated -feeling, when Cosmo, her own son, echoed his father’s foolish words. Her -youngest boy, her favorite and last nursling, the one bird that was to -be left in the nest, could stir to this same mad search, when he had not -yet ambition enough to stir for his own fortune. It was the last drop -which made all this bitterness run over. No wonder that the Mistress -lost command of herself for once, and going up to her own room in a gust -of aggravated and angry emotions, thrust Cosmo away from her, and -cried, “Am I to bring up sons for _her_ service?” in the indignation of -her heart. - -Yes, it was a very pretty story for romance. The young girl running -away, “all for love"--the faithful forsaken lover thinking of her in -secret--rising up to defend her rights after ten long years--eagerly -searching for her--and, with a jealous tenderness, refusing to do any -thing which might compromise her title, while he alone still fondly -believed in her return. A very pretty story, with love, and nothing -else, for its theme. Yet, unfortunately, these pretty stories have a -dark enough aspect often on the other side; and the Mistress, mortified, -silent, indignant, cheated in her own perfect confidence and honest -tenderness, when you saw her behind the scenes of the other pretty -picture, took a great deal of the beauty out of that first-love and -romantic constancy of Norlaw. - -When Mrs. Livingstone went to her room, the sons, vexed and troubled, -were a long time silent. Cosmo withdrew into a corner, and leaned his -head on his mother’s little table. He, too, was deeply mortified, and -could not keep back the hot boyish tears from his eyes--he felt himself -set aside like a child--he felt the shame of a sensitive temperament at -perceiving how greatly his mother was disturbed. Somehow she seemed to -have betrayed herself, and Cosmo, jealous for her perfect honor, was -uneasy and abashed at this disturbance of it; while still his heart, -young, eager, inexperienced, loving romance, secretly longed to hear -more of this mystery, and secretly repeated his determination. Huntley, -who was pacing up and down the room, lifting and replacing every thing -in his way which could be lifted, was simply confounded and -thunderstruck, which emotions Patie shared with his elder brother. -Patie, however, was the most practical of the three, and it was he who -first broke the silence. - -“Somehow or other this vexes my mother,” said Patie; “let us ask her no -more questions about it; but, Huntley, you ought to know all the -hiding-holes about the house. You should look up this will and put it in -safe hands.” - -“In safe hands?--I’ll act upon it forthwith! Are we to keep terms with -Melmar after all that’s past, and with power to turn him out of his -seat?” cried Huntley; “no, surely; I’ll put it into hands that will -carry it into effect, and that without delay.” - -“They would want either this Mary, or proof that she was dead, before -they would do any thing in it,” said Patie, doubtfully; “and yet it’s a -shame!” - -“She is not dead!” interrupted Cosmo; “why my mother should be angry, I -can’t tell; but I’ll find out Mary of Melmar, I know I shall, though it -should be twenty years!” - -“Be quiet, Cosmo,” said his elder brother, “and see that no one troubles -my mother with another question; she does not like it, and I will not -have her disturbed; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We know little about -business, and we’re not of a patient race. Me’mar had better not come -near any of us just now, unless it were you, Patie, that can master -yourself. I should like to knock him down, and my mother would do worse. -I’ll write to this friend of the minister’s, this writer, and put it all -in his hands--it’s the best thing I can see. What do you say?” - -Patie gave his assent readily; Cosmo did not say any thing. The boy -began to feel his youth somewhat bitterly, and to think that they did -not care for his opinion; so he went out, and swung himself up by an old -elm tree into one of the vacant windows of the castle, a favorite seat -of Cosmo, where, among the cool ivy, and hidden by the deep recess of -the thick old wall, he could see the sunset, and watch how the shadows -stole over the earth. The Eildons were at his right hand, paling -gradually out of their royal purple against the pale sky in the east, -and the last long rays of the sunset, too low to reach them, fell -golden-yellow upon Tyne, and shed a pathetic light on the soft green -bank before the door of Norlaw. The common sounds of life were not so -subdued now about this lonely house; even the cackle of poultry and bark -of dogs seemed louder since the shutters were opened and the curtains -drawn back--and Marget went firmly forth upon her errands to the byre, -and the hush and stealth of mourning had left the place already. Who -would not escape somewhere into some personal refuge out of the -oppressive shadow of grief, while youth remains to make that possible? -Huntley had been startled to feel that there was such an escape for -himself when Katie Logan took his hand in the fullness of her -sympathy--and Huntley and Patie together were seeking a similar ease now -in discussing the plans of their future life together. Cosmo was only a -boy; he had no plans yet which could be called plans--and he was too -young to be moved by the hand or the voice of any woman. So he sat among -the ivy in the ledge of the deep old window, with his head uncovered, -his fair hair falling over his long white hands, and those dark liquid -eyes of his gazing forth upon as fair a landscape as ever entered into -the dream of a poet. - -If Cosmo was a poet he was not aware of it; yet his heart was easing -itself after his fashion. He was too young to apprehend the position of -his mother, and how it broke into the superficial romance of his -father’s life. He thought only of Mary of Melmar, of the girl, -beautiful, young, and unfortunate, who ran away “for love,” and had -literally left all for her husband’s sake; he thought of displacing his -father’s enemy and restoring his father’s first love to her rights. In -imagination he pursued her through all the storied countries to which a -young fancy naturally turns. He saw himself delivering her out of -dangers, suddenly appearing when she was in peril or poverty, dispersing -her enemies like a champion of chivalry, and bringing her home in -triumph. This was how, while his brothers comforted themselves with an -earnest discussion of possibilities, and while his mother, differing -from them as age differs from youth--and as personal bereavement, which -nothing can ever make up, and which changes the whole current of a life, -differs from a natural removal and separation--returned into the depths -of the past and lived them over again--this is how Cosmo made his first -personal escape out of his first grief. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -“Oh! Patricia! Sinclair has been telling me such a story,” cried a young -girl, suddenly rushing upon another, in a narrow winding road through -the woods which clothed a steep bank of Tyne; at this spot, for one -exclusive mile, the rapid little river was “private property,” the -embellishment of a gentleman’s grounds--shut out from vulgar admiration. -Tyne, indifferent alike to admiration and exclusivism, was not less -happy on that account; but foamed over his stony channel as brisk, as -brown, and as clear, as when he ran in unrestricted freedom by the old -castle walls of Norlaw. The path was slippery and irregular with great -roots of trees, and one or two brooks, unseen, trickled down the brae -below the underwood, only detected by the slender, half visible rivulet -on the path which you had to step across, or the homely plank half -penetrated by water, which bridged over Tyne’s invisible tributary. They -did not appear, these fairy springs, but they added each a tingle, like -so many harp strings, to the many sounds of Nature. Through this winding -road, or rather upon it, for she was not going anywhere, the elder of -these two interlocutors had been for some time wandering. She was a -delicate looking girl of seventeen, with blue eyes and pale golden hair, -rather pretty, but very slight, and evidently not in strong health. The -sudden plunge down upon her, which her younger sister made from the top -of the brae, took away Patricia’s breath, and made her drop the book -which she had been reading. This was no very great matter, for the book -was rather an indifferent production, being one of those books of poetry -which one reads at seventeen, and never after--but it was rather more -important that the color came violently into her pale cheek, and she -clasped her hands upon her side, with a gasp which terrified the young -hoiden. - -“Oh, I forgot!” she cried, in sympathy, as eager as her onslaught had -been. “Oh! have I hurt you? I did not mean it, you know.” - -“No, Joanna,” said Patricia, faintly, “but you forget my nerves -always--you never had any yourself.” - -Which was perfectly true, and not to be denied. These two, Patricia and -Joanna Huntley, were the only daughters of their father’s house--the -only children, indeed, save one son, who was abroad. There were not many -feminine family names in this branch of the house of Huntley, and -invention in this matter being very sparely exercised in these parts, it -came about that the girls were called after their uncles, and that the -third girl, had there been such an unlucky little individual, following -in the track of her sisters, would have turned out Jemima or Robina, -according as the balance rose in favor of her father’s brother or her -mother’s. Fortunately, Joanna was the last fruit of the household tree, -which had blossomed sparely. She was only fifteen, tall, strong, red -haired, and full of vigor--the greatest contrast imaginable to her -pretty pale sister, whom Joanna devoutly believed in as a beauty, but -secretly did somewhat grieve over as a fool. The younger sister was not -in the least pretty, and knew it, but she was clever, and Joanna knew -that also, which made an agreeable counterpoise. She was extremely -honest, downright and straightforward, speaking the truth with less -elegance than force, but speaking it always; and on the whole was a good -girl, though not always a very pleasant one. At this present moment she -was flushed, breathless, and eager, having run all the way from the -house with something to tell. But Patricia’s “nerves” could not bear the -sudden announcement, though that delicate young lady loved a piece of -news fully as well as her sister. Joanna, therefore, stood still, making -hasty and awkward apologies, and eager to do something to amend her -mistake, while her delicate companion recovered breath. There was -something more than nerves in the young lady’s discomposure. She was -feeble by nature, the invalid of the family, which Joanna, knowing no -sympathetic ailment in her own vigorous person, sometimes had the ill -luck to forget. - -“And my poor book!” said poor Patricia, picking up the unfortunate -volume, which lay fluttering with open leaves on the very edge of that -tiny current trickling over the brown path, which, save that it moved -and caught an occasional sparkle of light, you could not have -distinguished to be a burn. “Oh, Joanna, you are so thoughtless! what -was all this haste about?” - -“Oh, such a story!” cried Joanna, eagerly. “It’s easy to speak about -nerves--but when I heard it I could have run to papa and given him a -good shake--I could! and he deserved it! for they say it was all his -blame.” - -“I should like to hear what it was,” said Patricia, with an exasperating -and intolerable meekness, which usually quite overpowered the patience -of her sister. - -But Joanna was too much interested in the present instance. - -“It was Mr. Livingstone of Norlaw,” she said, sinking her voice; “he’s -dead, and his funeral was stopped because he was in debt, and it was -papa that did it--and the three boys got up at midnight and carried him -on their shoulders, with torches in their hands, to Dryburgh, and buried -him there. Sinclair says it’s true, every word; and I don’t know whether -Huntley did not swim over Tweed to get the boat. Oh, Patricia! I feel as -if I could both greet and cry hurra, if I were to see them; and as for -papa, he deserves--I don’t know what he does not deserve!” - -“I wish you would talk like a lady, Joanna,” said her sister, without -taking any notice of this unfilial sentiment; “greet! you could just as -well say cry, or weep, for that matter--and it’s only common people that -say Tweed, as if they meant a person instead of a river; why don’t you -say _the_ Tweed, as people of education say?” - -“He’s the truest person I know,” cried Joanna. “Tweed and Tyne! you may -say that they’re just streams of water, if you like, but they’re more to -me; but the question is papa--I knew he was ill enough and hard-hearted, -but I never, never thought he could have been so bad as that--and I mean -to go this very moment and ask him how it was.” - -“I suppose papa knows better than we do,” said Patricia, with a slight -sigh; “but I wish he would not do things that make people talk. It is -very annoying. I dare say everybody will know about this soon, if it’s -true. If it was all himself it would not so much matter, and you never -go out anywhere, Joanna, so you don’t feel it--but is very unpleasant to -mamma and me.” - -“I was not thinking of either mamma or you; I was thinking of the -Livingstones,” cried Joanna, with a flush of shame on her cheeks; “and I -mean to go in this very instant, and ask him what it means.” - -So saying, the impetuous girl rushed up the path, slowly followed by -Patricia. It was one of the loveliest bits of woodland on the whole -course of Tyne. Mosses and wild flowers, and the daintiest ferns known -to Scotland, peeped out of every hollow--and overhead and around, -stretching down half way across the river, and thrusting out, with -Nature’s rare faculty of composition, their most graceful curves of -foliage against the sky, were trees, not too great or ancient to -overshadow the younger growth; trees of all descriptions, birches and -beeches and willows, the white-limbed ash, with its green bunches of -fruit, and the tender lime, with its honey blossoms. You could have -almost counted every separate flash of sunshine which burned through the -leaves, misty with motes and dazzling bright with that limitation; and -yet the shadow overhead trembled and fluctuated with such a constant -interchange, that the spot which was in shade one moment was in the -brightest light the very next. The light gleamed in Joanna’s red hair, -as she plunged along in her impetuous way towards the house, and fell in -touches here and there upon the graceful little figure of her sister, in -her close cottage bonnet and muslin gown, as Patricia came softly over -the same road, book in hand. But we are bound to confess that neither of -the two, perfectly accustomed and familiar as they were, found a -moment’s leisure among their other thoughts to pause upon this scene; -they went towards the house, the one after the other--Patricia with a -due regard to decorum as well as to her nerves and feebleness of -frame--Joanna totally without regard for either the one or the other; -and both occupied, to the entire neglect of every thing else, with -thoughts of their own. - -The house of Melmar was placed upon a level platform of land, of a -considerably lower altitude than this brae. Pausing to look at it, as -neither Joanna nor Patricia did, on the rustic bridge which crossed the -Tyne, and led from this woodland path into the smooth lawn and properly -arranged trees of “the private grounds,” Melmar appeared only a large -square house, pretentious, yet homely, built entirely for living in, and -not for looking at. If Nature, with her trees, and grass, and bits of -garden land, softening the angles and filling in the gaps, had done her -best to make it seemly, the house was completely innocent of aiding in -any such attempt. Yet, by sheer dint of persistence, having stood there -for at least a hundred years, long enough to have patches of lichen here -and there upon its walls, Melmar had gained that look of steadiness and -security, and of belonging to the soil, which harmonizes even an ugly -feature in a landscape. The door, which was sheltered by a little -portico, with four tall pillars, in reality stone, but looking -considerably like plaster, opened from without after the innocent -fashion of the country. Running across the lawn, Joanna opened the door -and plunged in, without further ado, into her father’s study, which was -at the end of a long passage looking out upon the other side of the -house. He was not there--so the girl came rushing back again to the -drawing-room, the door of which stood open, and once more encountering -her sister there, did her best to disturb the delicate nerves a second -time, and throw Patricia out of breath. - -This papa, whom Joanna had no hesitation about bearding in his own den, -could not surely be such an ogre after all. He was not an ogre. You -could not have supposed, to look at him, that any exaltation of enmity, -any heroic sentiment of revenge, could lodge within the breast of Mr. -Huntley, of Melmar. He was a tall man, with a high, narrow head, and -reddish grizzled hair. A man with plenty of forehead, making up in -height for its want of breadth. He was rather jovial than otherwise in -his manner, and carried about with him a little atmosphere of his own, a -whiff of two distinct odors, not unusual attendants of elderly Scotsmen, -twenty years ago, reminiscences of toddy and rappee. He looked around -with a smile at the vehement entrance of Joanna. He permitted all kinds -of rudenesses on the part of this girl, and took a certain pleasure in -them. He was not in the slightest degree an exacting or punctilious -father; but not all his indulgence, nor the practical jokes, banter, and -teasing, which he administered to all children, his own, among the rest, -when they were young enough--had secured him either fondness or respect -at their hands. They got on very well on the whole. Patricia pouted at -him, and Joanna took him to task roundly when they differed in -opinion--but the affection they gave him was an affection of habit, and -nothing more. - -“I’ve come to speak to you, papa,” cried Joanna. “I’ve just been hearing -the whole story, every word--and oh, I think shame of you!--it’s a -disgrace, it’s a sin--I wonder you dare look any of us in the face -again!” - -“Eh? what’s all this?” said Melmar; “Joan in one of her tantrums -already? Three times in a day! that’s scarcely canny--I’ll have to speak -to your aunt Jean.” - -“Oh, papa!” cried Joanna, indignantly, “it’s no fun--who do you think -would carry _you_ to Dryburgh if somebody stopped your funeral? not one! -You would have to stay here in your coffin and never be buried--and I -wouldna be sorry! You would deserve it, and nothing better--oh, I think -shame on you!” - -“What? in my coffin? that’s a long look beforehand,” said Melmar. “You -may have time to think shame of me often enough before that time, Joan; -but let’s hear what’s all this about Dryburgh and a funeral--who’s been -here?” - -“Sinclair was here,” cried Joanna, “and he heard it all at -Kirkbride--every word--and he says you had better not be seen there, -after all you’ve done at Norlaw.” - -“I am sure, papa, it’s very hard,” said Patricia. “You set everybody -talking, and then people look strange at us. Mamma knows they do; and I -could cry when I think that we’re going out to-morrow, and it would have -been such a nice party. But now everybody knows about this, and nobody -will speak to us--it’s too bad of you, papa.” - -“What is it, my darling?” cried Mrs. Huntley, from her easy chair. - -“Eh, fat’s this?” said Aunt Jean, wheeling round upon hers. - -A popular commotion was rising; Melmar saw the premonitory tokens, and -made his escape accordingly. - -“Joan,” he said, pulling her ear as he passed her, “you’re an impudent -monkey; but you may spare your wrath about Norlaw--I knew as little as -you did that the man was dead--however, he is dead, and I don’t break my -heart; but you can tell Sinclair I’ll tell him a word of my mind the -next time I’m near Kirkbride.” - -“Sinclair doesna care!” said Joanna; but Melmar pulled a thick curl of -her red hair, and betook himself to his study, leaving the rising gust -of questions to wear itself out as it might. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -The drawing-room of Melmar was a large room tolerably well furnished. -Three long windows on one side of the apartment looked out upon the lawn -before the house, carefully avoiding the view “up Tyne,” which a little -management might have made visible. The fire-place was at the upper end -of the room, sparkling coldly with polished steel and brass, and -decorated with a very elaborate construction of cut paper. The chairs -were all covered with chintz in a large-flowered pattern, red and -green--chintz which did not fit on well, and looked creasy and -disorderly. A large crumb-cloth, spread over the bright-colored carpet, -had the same disadvantage; one corner of it was constantly loose, -folding up under the chairs and tripping unwary passengers. There was a -round rose-wood table, sparely covered with books and ornaments, and -another oblong one with a cover on it, which was meant for use. - -By this last sat Mrs. Huntley, with some knitting in her lap, reclining -in a cushioned chair, with her feet upon a high footstool. She was pale, -with faint pink cheeks, and small, delicate features, a woman who had, -to use her own expression, “enjoyed very bad health” all her life. She -had very little character, not much animation, nothing very good nor -very bad about her. It would scarcely have been true even to say that -she loved her children; she was fond of them--particularly of -Patricia--gave them a great many caresses and sweetmeats while they were -young enough, and afterwards let them have their own will without -restraint; but there did not seem enough of active life in her to -deserve the title of any active sentiment. She was deeply learned in -physic and invalid dietry, and liked to be petted and attended, to come -down stairs at twelve o’clock, to lie on the sofa, to be led out for a -little walk, carefully adapted to her weakness, and to receive all the -little attentions proper to an invalid. Her exclusive pretensions in -this respect had, it is true, been rather infringed upon of late years -by Patricia, who sometimes threatened to be a more serious invalid than -her mother, and who certainly assumed the character with almost equal -satisfaction. However, Patricia was pretty well at the present moment, -and Mrs. Huntley, supported by her maid, had only about half an hour ago -come down stairs. She had a glass of toast-and-water on the table beside -her, a smelling-bottle, an orange cut into quarters upon a china plate, -a newspaper within reach of her hand, and her knitting in her lap. We -beg Mrs. Huntley’s pardon, it was not knitting, but netting--her -industry consisted in making strange, shapeless caps, bags, and -window-curtains, which became excessively yellow after they were washed, -and were of no use to any creature; for the refined art of crotchet was -not then invented, nor had fancy-work reached that perfection which -belongs to it now. - -In an arm-chair by one of the windows sat a very different person--an -old woman, black-eyed, white-haired, wearing an old-fashioned black -dress, with a snowy white muslin handkerchief pinned down to her waist -in front and behind--a large muslin apron of the same spotless -complexion, a cap of clear cambric trimmed with rich old-fashioned lace, -and bound round with a broad black ribbon, which was tied in a bow on -the top of her head. This was a relative of Mrs. Huntley, known as Aunt -Jean in the house of Melmar. She was the last survivor of her family, -and had a little annuity, just enough to keep her muslin kerchiefs and -aprons and old-fashioned caps from wearing out. She was quite kindly -used in this house where nobody paid any particular regard to her, but -where long ago it had seemed very good fun to Melmar himself to get up a -little delusion on the score of Aunt Jean’s wealth, which, according to -the inventor of it, was to be bequeathed to his daughter Joanna. This -was a favorite joke of the head of the house; he was never tired of -referring to Aunt Jean’s fortune, or threatening Joanna with the chance -of forfeiting it, which delicate and exquisite piece of fun was always -followed by a loud laugh, equally delicate and characteristic. Aunt -Jean, however, fortunately, was deaf, and never quite understood the wit -of her nephew-in-law; she stuck quietly to her corner, made rather a pet -of Joanna, persisted in horrifying Patricia by her dress and her -dialect, which breathed somewhat strongly of Aberdeenshire, and by dint -of keeping “thretty pennies,” as she said, in the corner of her -old-fashioned leather purse--pennies which were like the oil in the -widow’s cruse, often spent, yet always existing--and in her drawers in -her own room an unfailing store of lace, and muslins, and ribbons, old -dresses, quaint examples of forgotten fashion, and pieces of rich stuff, -such as girls love to turn over and speculate on possible uses for--kept -up an extensive popularity. Aunt Jean was not in the very slightest -degree an invalid--the tap of her little foot, which wore high-heeled -shoes, was almost the smartest in the house. She sat in winter by the -fire, in summer by one of the windows, knitting endless pairs of -stockings, mits, and those shapeless little gloves, with a separate -stall for the thumb, and one little bag for all the fingers, in which -the hapless hands of babies are wont to be imprisoned. It was from an -occupation of this kind that Aunt Jean turned, when the din of Joanna’s -accusation penetrated faintly into her ears. - -“Eh, fat’s that?” said Aunt Jean; it was something about a debt and a -funeral, two things which were not particularly likely to interest -Joanna. Something remarkably out of the usual course must have happened, -and the old lady had all the likings of an old woman in the country. -Gossip was sweet to her soul. - -“Oh, mamma, so vexatious!” cried Patricia, in a voice which could not by -any possibility reach the ears of Aunt Jean; “papa has been doing -something to Mr. Livingstone, of Norlaw--he’s dead, and there’s been -something done that looks cruel--oh! I’m sure I don’t know exactly what -it is--Joanna knows;--but only think how the people will look at us -to-morrow night.” - -“Perhaps I may not be able to go, my dear,” said Mrs. Huntley, with a -sigh. - -“Not able to go? after promising so long! mamma, that is cruel!” cried -Patricia; “but nobody cares for me. I never have what other people have. -I am to be shut up in this miserable prison of a place all my life--not -able to go! Oh, mamma! but you’ll all be sorry when there’s no poor -Patricia to be shut up and made a victim of any more!” - -“I do think you’re very unreasonable, Patricia,” said Mrs. Huntley; -“I’ve gone out three times this last month to please you--a great -sacrifice for a person in my weak health--and Dr. Tait does not think -late hours proper for you; besides, if there is any thing disagreeable -about your papa, as you say, I really don’t think my nerves could stand -it.” - -“Fat’s all this about?” said Aunt Jean; “you ken just as well as me that -I canna hear a word of fat you’re saying. Joan, my bairn, come you -here--fa’s dun wrang? Fat’s happened? Eh! there’s Patricia ta’en to the -tears--fat’s wrang?” - -Nothing loth, Joanna rushed forward, and shouted her story into the old -woman’s ears. It was received with great curiosity and interest by the -new hearers. Aunt Jean lifted up her hands in dismay, shook her head, -made all the telegraphic signs with eye and mouth which are common to -people restrained from full communication with their companions. Mrs. -Huntley, too, was roused. - -“It’s like a scene in a novel,” she said, with some animation; “but -after all, Mr. Livingstone should not have been in debt to papa, you -know. What with Oswald abroad, and you two at home, you can tell Aunt -Jean we need all our money, Joanna; and if people die when they’re in -debt, what can they expect? I don’t see, really, in my poor health, that -I’m called upon to interfere.” - -“Fat’s this I hear?” said Aunt Jean; “Livingstone o’ Norlaw? Na, Jeanie, -if that’s true, your good man’s been sair left to himself. Eh, woman! -Livingstone! fat’s a’body’s thinking of? I would sooner have cut off my -little finger if I had been Me’mar; that man!” - -“Oh, what about him, Aunt Jean?” cried Joanna. - -“Ay, bairn, but I maun think,” said the old woman. “I’m no’ so clear -it’s my duty to tell you. Your father kens his ain concerns, and so does -your mother, in a measure, and so do I myself. I canna tell onybody mair -than my ain secret, Joan. Hout ay! I’ll tell you, fun I was a young -lass, fat happened to me.” - -“I want to hear about Norlaw,” cried Joanna, screaming into the old -woman’s ear. - -“Aunt Jean!” cried Mrs. Huntley, making a sudden step out of her chair. -“If you do, Me’mar will kill me--oh! hold your tongues, children! Do you -think I can bear one of papa’s passions--a person in my poor health? -Aunt Jean, if you do, I’ll never speak to you again!” - -Aunt Jean contemplated her niece, with her twinkling black eyes, making -a _moue_ of vivid contempt as she nodded her head impatiently. - -“Fat for can ye no hold your peace for a fool-wife?” said Aunt Jean; -“did ye think I had as little wit as you? What about Norlaw? You see the -laird here and him were aye ill friends. Hout ay! mony a ane’s ill -friends with Me’mar. I mind the bairns just fun you were born, Joan. Twa -toddling wee anes, and ane in the cradle. Pity me! I mind it because I -was losing my hearing, and turning a cankered auld wife; and it was them -that took and buried their father? Honest lads! I would like to do them -a good turn.” - -“But I know there’s something more about Norlaw,” cried Joanna, “and -I’ll say you’re a cankered auld wife till you tell me--I will! and you -would have told me before now but for mamma. Do you hear, Aunt Jean?” - -“Hout ay, I hear,” said the old woman, who could manage her deafness -like most people who possess that defect--(where it is not extreme, a -little deafness is in its way quite a possession) “but I maun take time -to think fat it was I promised to tell you. Something that happened when -I was a young lass. Just that, Joan--I was staying at my married -sister’s, that was your grandmother, and Jeanie, there, your mamaw, was -a bit little bairn--she was aye a sma’ thing of her years, taking physic -for a constancy. There was a poor gentleman there, ane of the Gordons, -as good blood in his veins as ony man in the kingdom, and better than -the king’s ain, that was only a German lairdie--but ye see this lad was -poor, and fat should save him but he got into debt, and fat should help -him but he died. So the sheriff’s officers came and stopped the funeral; -and the lads rose, a’ the friends that were at it, and all the men on -the ground, and fat should ail them to crack the officers’ crowns, and -lay them up in a chamber; but I’ve heard say it was a sair sicht to see -the hearse rattling away at a trot, and a’ the black coaches afterhand, -as if it was a bridal--oh fie!--nothing else was in everybody’s mouth on -our side of the water, a’ the mair because the Gordon lad that died was -of the English chapel, and behoved to have a service o’er his grave, and -the English minister was faint-hearted and feared. It wasna done at -nicht, but in broad daylicht, and by the strong hand--and that -happened--I wouldna say but it was forty year ago; for I was a young -lass and your mamaw there a little bairn.” - -“I daresay, mamma,” said Patricia, who had dried her tears, “that people -don’t know of it yet; and at the worst it was all papa’s fault--I don’t -think we should be afraid to go--it wasn’t our blame, I’m sure.” - -“If I should be able, my dear,” said Mrs. Huntley, with her languid -sigh--whereupon Patricia exerted herself to arrange her mother’s -pillow, and render her sundry little attentions which pleased her. - -Poor little Patricia loved “society;” she wanted to shine and to be -admired “like other girls"--even the dull dinner-parties of the -surrounding lairds excited the fragile little soul, who knew no better, -and she spent the rest of the day, oblivious of her former terrors -concerning public opinion, in coaxing Mrs. Huntley into betterness; -while Joanna, for her part, persecuted Aunt Jean with an unavailing but -violent pertinacity, vainly hoping to gain some insight into a family -secret. Patricia was successful in her endeavors; but there never was a -more signal failure than that attack upon Aunt Jean. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -“Bless me callants! what are ye doing here?” said Marget, looking in at -the door of the mid-chamber, where Huntley and Patrick Livingstone were -together. - -It was a small apartment, originally intended for a dressing-room, and -communicating by a door locked and barricaded on both sides with the -east room, which was the guest-chamber of the house. Almost its sole -piece of furniture was a large old-fashioned mahogany desk, standing -upon a heavy frame of four tall legs, and filling half the space; it was -not like the bureau of romance, with that secret drawer where some -important document is always being discovered. The heavy lid was held -open by Huntley’s head, as he carried on his investigations. There were -drawers enough, but they were all made by the hand of the joiner of -Kirkbride, who knew nothing of secret contrivances--and these, as well -as all the remaining space of the desk, were filled with the gatherings -of Norlaw’s life, trifles which some circumstance or other made -important to him at the moment they were placed there, but which were -now pathetic in their perfect insignificance and uselessness, closely -connected as they were with the dead man’s memory. Old letters, old -receipts, old curiosities, a few coins and seals, and trifling -memorials, and a heap of papers quite unintelligible and worthless, -made up the store. In one drawer, however, Huntley had found what he -wanted--the will--and along with it, carefully wrapped in at least a -dozen different folds of paper, a little round curl of golden hair. - -They were looking at this when Marget, whose question had not been -answered, entered and closed the door. The lads were not aware of her -presence till this sound startled them; when they heard it, Huntley -hurriedly refolded the covers of this relic, which they had been looking -at with a certain awe. Eye of stranger, even though it was this faithful -old friend and servant, ought not to pry into their father’s secret -treasure. The Mistress’s hair was of the darkest brown. It was not for -love of their mother that Norlaw had kept so carefully this childish -curl of gold. - -“Laddies,” said Marget, holding the door close behind her, and speaking -low as she watched with a jealous eye the covering up of this secret, -“some of ye’s been minding the Mistress of auld troubles. I said to -myself I would come and give you a good hearing--the haill three--what’s -Mary o’ Melmar to you?” - -“Did my mother tell you?” asked Huntley, with amazement. - -“Her, laddies! na, it’s little ye ken! _her_ name the like o’ that to -the like o’ me! But Cosmo behoved to ask about the story--he would part -with his little finger to hear a story, that bairn--and ’deed I ken fine -about it. What for could ye no’ speak to me?” - -“There was more than a story in Huntley’s thoughts and in mine,” said -Patrick, shutting up the desk with some decision and authoritativeness. - -“Hear him! my certy! that’s setting up!” cried Marget; “I ken every -thing about it for a’ you’re so grand. And I ken the paper in Huntley’s -hand is the will, and I ken I would run the risk o’ firing the haill -house, but I would have burnt it, afore he got sight o’t, if it had been -me.” - -“Why?” said Huntley, with a little impatience. It was not possible that -the youth could read this bequest conferring Melmar, failing the natural -heiress, on his father and himself, without a thrill of many emotions. -He was ambitious, like every young man; he could not think of this -fortune, which seemed almost to lie within his reach, without a stirring -of the heart. - -“It did nothing but harm to your father, and it can do nothing but -mischief to you,” said Marget, solemnly; “you’re young and strong, and -fit to make a fortune. But I tell you, Huntley Livingstone, if you -attempt to seek this lass over the world, as your father did, you’re a -ruined man.” - -“Neither Huntley nor me believe in ruined men,” said Patie; “we’ll take -care for that--go to your kye, and never mind.” - -“Don’t be angry, Marget,” said Huntley, who was more tender of the -faithful retainer of the house; “trust us, as Patie says--besides, if -she should never be found, Melmar’s mine.” - -“Eh, whisht, lad! she’ll come hame with half a dozen bairns before e’er -your feet’s across the door,” cried Marget; “tell me to trust you, that -are only callants, and dinna ken! Trust me, the twa of you! Gang and -spend a’ the best years of your life, if you like, seeking her, or -witness that she’s dead. If ye find her, ye’re nane the better, if ye -dinna find her, ye’re aye deluded with the thought of a fortune ye canna -claim--and if ye get word she’s dead, there’s still Melmar himself, that -was bred a writer and kens a’ the cheats of them, to fight the battle! -They might say it was a false will--they might say, Guid forgive them! -that Norlaw had beguiled the auld man. There’s evil in’t but nae guid; -Huntley, you’re your father’s son, you’re to make his amends to her. -Dinna vex the Mistress’s life with Mary of Melmar ony mair!” - -“The short and the long of it all, Marget,” said Patrick, who was at -once more talkative and more peremptory than usual--“is, that you must -mind your own business and we’ll mind ours. Huntley’s not a knight in a -story-book, seeking a distressed lady. Huntley’s not in love with Mary -of Melmar; but if she’s to be found she shall be found; and if she’s -dead my brother’s the heir.” - -“No’ till you’re done wi’ a’ her bairns,” cried Marget; “say there’s nae -mair than three of them, like yoursels--and the present Me’mar’s been -firm in his seat this thirteen years. Weel, weel, I daur to say Patie’s -right--it’s nae business o’ mine; but I’d sooner see you a’ working for -your bread, if it was just like laboring men, and I warn ye baith, the -day’s coming when ye’ll think upon what I say!” - -Marget disappeared, solemnly shaking her head as she said these last -words. For the moment, the two youths said nothing to each other. The -desk was locked softly, the will placed in an old pocket-book, to be -deposited elsewhere, and then, for the first time, the young men’s eyes -met. - -“She’s right,” said Patie, with sudden emphasis; “if you seek her -yourself, Huntley, you’ll neither get Me’mar nor fortune--it’s true.” - -Huntley paid little attention to his brother. He stood looking out from -the window, where, in the distance, to the north, the banks of Tyne rose -high among the woods of Melmar--opposite to him, fertile fields, rich in -the glow of coming harvest, lay the wealthy lands of his father’s -enemy--those lands which perhaps now, if he but knew it, were -indisputably his own. He stood fascinated, looking out, tracing with an -unconscious eagerness the line of the horizon, the low hills, and trees, -and ripening corn, which, as far as he could see before him, were still -part of the same inheritance. He was not a dreamy boy like Cosmo--he -thought little of his father’s old love, or of the triumph of restoring -her to her inheritance. The Mary of Norlaw’s fancy was but a shadow upon -the future of his own. He thought, with a glow of personal ambition, of -the fair stretch of country lying before him. Generous, high-spirited, -and incapable of meanness, Huntley still had the impulse of conquest -strong within him. He could not but think, with a rising heart, of this -visible fortune which lay at his feet and seemed to be almost within his -grasp. He could not but think, with indignant satisfaction, of unseating -the false heir whose enmity had pursued Norlaw to the very grave. All -the excitement which had gathered into these few past weeks still -throbbed in Huntley’s heart and stirred his brain. He could not moderate -the pace of his thoughts or subdue his mind at anybody’s bidding. If it -should be hard to get justice and a hearing for his claims, this very -difficulty increased the attraction--for it was his claims he thought of -while the others were thinking of Mary of Melmar. He was not selfish, -but he was young, and had an ardent mind and a strong individual -character. Mary of Melmar--a white ghost, unreal and invisible--faded -from his mind entirely. He thought, instead, of the man who had -arrested Norlaw’s funeral, and of the inheritance of which he was the -rightful heir. - -With all these fumes in his brain it was quite impossible that Huntley -could listen soberly to the sober counsels of Patie, or to the warnings -of the old servant. _They_ begged him not to think of a search for Mary. -_He_ thought of nothing of the kind. Mary had taken no position of -romance in the young man’s fancy. The romance which blossomed in his -eyes was a much less disinterested one than that which Cosmo mused upon -in the old window of the castle. He thought of himself, of his own -family, of all the possibilities and powers of an extensive land-owner, -and with the flush of youthful self-belief, of a great life. He had -stood thus at the window a long time gazing out, and paying no attention -to the occasional words of his sensible brother, when the sound of some -one coming roused them both. It was the Mistress’s firm footsteps -ascending the stair--they both left the room immediately, agreed, at -least, in one thing, to trouble their mother no more with recollections -disagreeable to her. Then Patie went about his business, somewhat -disturbed by the thought that Huntley meant to throw away a portion of -his life in the same fruitless folly which had injured their father; -while Huntley himself, remembering something that had to be done at -Kirkbride, set off along the banks of Tyne at a great pace, which did -not, however, overtake the swing of his thoughts. Marget, coming out to -her kitchen door to look after him, held up her hands and exclaimed to -herself, “The laddie’s carried!” as she watched his rapid -progress--which meaning, as it did, that Huntley was fairly lifted off -his feet and possessed by a rapid and impetuous fancy, was perfectly -correct--though the fancy itself was not such as Marget thought. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -The village lay bright under the afternoon sun when Huntley Livingstone -came in sight of it that day. It was perfectly quiet, as was its -wont--some small children playing at the open doors, the elder ones, -save here and there an elder daughter charged with the heavy -responsibility of a baby, being for the most part safe at school. At the -door of the Norlaw Arms an angler-visitor, with his rod over his -shoulder, a single figure becalmed in the sunshine, stood lazily gazing -about him--and in the shadow of the projecting gable of the inn, another -stranger stood holding his horse before the door of the smithy, from -whence big John Black, the smith, was about to issue to replace a lost -shoe. John was the master of this important rural establishment, and was -a big, soft-hearted giant, full of the good-humored obtuseness which so -often accompanies great personal size and strength. Inside, in the fiery -obscurity of the village Pandemonium, toiled a giant of quite a -different order--a swarthy, thick-set little Cyclops, with a hump on his -shoulder, and one eye. This was John’s brother, the ruling spirit of -mischief in Kirkbride, whom all the mothers of sons held in disgust and -terror, and whom Dr. Logan himself could make no improvement in. Jacob, -or Jaacob, as he was popularly called, was as strong as he was ugly, -and, it was generally understood, as wicked as both. By natural -consequence, his rustic neighbors found a considerable attraction in his -society, and liked to repeat his sayings, which were not always funny, -with explosions of laughter. Huntley’s errand, as it happened, was with -this individual, who was somewhat of a genius in his way, which was the -way of agricultural implements. Jaacob had even taken out what he called -a “paatent” for a new harrow of his own invention, and was, in right of -this, the authority, on all such matters, of the country-side. - -“Ye’ll be carrying on the farm then?” said Jaacob. “A plow needs mair -than a new coulter to drive it through a furrow--it’ll be new work to -you, Mr. Huntley, to gang atween the stilts yoursel’.” - -Huntley had descended suddenly out of the hurry of his fancies about -Melmar, of which he already saw himself master. He came to the ground -with rather a rude shock when he heard these words, and found himself on -the hard earthen floor of the smithy, with the red sparks flying into -the darkness over his head, and Jaacob’s one eye twinkling at him in the -fiery light. He was not the laird of Melmar to Jaacob, but only the son -of the ruined Norlaw. - -“What we want in the meantime is the plow,” said Huntley, somewhat -sharply, his face flushing in spite of himself; then he added, after a -pause, all the humiliation of debt and poverty recurring to his mind, -which had been defended for some time against that lesser pain by the -excitement of grief, and to-day by the violent flush of ambitious hope. -“I believe there is a bill--but if you’ll send it up to the house I’ll -see to it without delay.” - -Bowed Jaacob was not ungenerous in his way, but he scorned to defend -himself from any imputation of ungenerosity. He did not hasten, -therefore, as might have been supposed, to say that the aforesaid bill -was of no importance, and could wait. On the contrary, he proceeded, -with sarcastic dryness in his tone: - -“You’ll find it hard work to get in your craps. How many acres have ye -in wheat the year, Mr. Huntley? You’ll no’ ken? Houts, man! that’s an -ill beginning for a lad that farms his ain land.” - -In spite of himself, tears of mortification stole into Huntley’s eyes. -He turned his head away with a muttered exclamation. - -“I don’t know that we’ve half an acre safe!” cried Huntley, in the -bitterness of his heart. His dream was broken. Me’mar, who was their -chief creditor--Me’mar, whom he had not yet displaced--might be able to -get into his hard worldly hands, for aught Huntley knew, every slope of -Norlaw. - -“Aweel, aweel, lad,” said Jaacob, striking his hammer fiercely upon the -glowing iron, “a’ the better for you--you’ll be your ain man--but I -wouldna cheat myself with fancies if I was you. Make up your mind ae way -or another, but dinna come here and speak to me about plows, as if that -was what your mind was set on. I’m no’ a Solomon, but if you mean to -thrive, never delude yoursalf with a sham.” - -“What’s a’ that?” said big John, as his customer mounted the reshod -horse, and trotted off in leisurely fashion as became the day; “has -Jaacob won to his books, Mr. Huntley? but I reckon he has his match when -he has you.” - -John, however, who was rather proud of his brother’s intellectual -powers, thought no such thing--neither did the little Cyclops himself. - -“Mind your ain business,” said Jaacob, briefly; “what do you think a man -learns out of books, you haverel? Na, if I’m onything, I’m a man of -observation; and take my word, lad, there never was a man trove yet till -he saw distinck where he was, and ordered his ways according. There’s -mysel’--do you think I could ever make ony progress, ae way or another, -if I minded what a’ these stupid ideots say?” - -“What do they say?” said Huntley, who was too much occupied with his own -thoughts to perceive the drift of Jaacob’s personal observations. - -“Na, d’ye think I’m heeding?” said Jaacob; “a man can rarely be more -enlightened than his neighbors without suffering for’t. A’ this auld -machinery of the world creaks like an auld bellows. There’s naething but -delusions on every side of ye. Ye canna be clear of a single thing that -ye havena conquished for yoursel’.” - -Huntley, who had come out of the languid August afternoon, red in a glow -of sunshine and heat, to which the very idea of long labor was alien, -which accorded well enough with his own ambitious dreams and thoughts of -sudden fortune--could not help feeling somehow as if Jaacob’s hammer, -beneath the strokes of which the sparks flew, struck himself as well as -the iron. Melmar dissipated into thin air, in the ruddy atmosphere of -the smithy. The two darkling giants, large and small, moving about in -the fierce glow of the firelight, the puff of the bellows, plied by an -attendant demon, and the ceaseless clank of the hammer, all combined to -recall to reality and the present, the thoughts of the dreaming lad. In -this atmosphere the long labors of the Australian emigrant looked much -more reasonable and likely than any sudden enrichment; and with the -unconscious self-reference of his age, Huntley took no pains to find out -what Jaacob meant, but immediately applied the counsel to his own case. - -“I suppose you’re very right, Jacob,” said Huntley; “but it’s hard work -making a fortune; maybe it’s safer in the end than what comes to you -from another man’s labors; but still, to spend a life in gathering -money, is no very great thing to look forward to.” - -“Money!” said Jaacob, contemptuously. “Na, lad; if that’s your thought, -you’re no’ in my way. Did you ever hear of a rich philosopher? ne’er a -are have I heard tell o’, though I ken the maist of that fraternity. -Money! na! it’s ideas, and no that sordid trash, that tempts me.” - -“And the mair fuil you!” said big John, half in chagrin, half in -admiration. “You might have made your fortune twenty times over, if it -hadna been for your philosophy.” - -“Whew!” whistled bowed Jaacob, with magnificent disdain; “what’s a’ the -siller in the world and a’ its delichts--grand houses, grand leddies, -and a’ the rest of thae vanities--to the purshuit of truth? That’s what -I’m saying, callant--take every thing on trust because you’ve heard sae -a’ your days, and your faither believed it before ye, gin ye please; but -as for me, I’m no’ the man for sham--I set my fit, if a’ the world -should come against me, on ideas I’ve won and battled for mysel’.” - -“When they’re as reasonable as the harrow, I’ve nae objection,” said big -John; “but ilka man canna write his idies in wud and iron, Mr. Huntley. -The like o’ that may be a’ very well for _him_, but it doesna answer you -and me. Eh, man, but it’s warm! If it wasna that philosophy’s an awfu’ -drouthy thing--and the wife comes down on me like murder when I get a -gill--I wouldna say but it’s the best kind of wark for this weather. -Ye’ll be goin’ up bye to the manse, Mr. Huntley. I hear they’re aye very -well pleased to see onybody out of Norlaw; but ye maunna say ye’ve been -here, for Jaacob and the minister, they’re at daggers drawn.” - -“Pish! nae such thing,” cried Jaacob, with complacency; “the like of a -man like yon shouldna mell with a man like me. It’s no’ a fair battle--I -aye say sae--I can tak his measure fast enough, but he can nae mair tak -mine than he can flee. Eh, lad! have you ta’en the gate? and no’ a word -mair about the plow?” - -“I’ll take your advice, Jacob,” said Huntley; “the plow can stand till -we see what use we’ll have for it; but as for going between the stilts -myself, if I do you’ll see me draw as fair a furrow as any plowman about -Kirkbride.” - -“Hurray!” said Jaacob; “the lad has some speerit after a’; never you -mind--we’ll send down somebody to see to the plow.” - -With this assurance, Huntley left the smithy; but not till Jaacob had -begun to sing in the most singular of cracked and elvish voices, -beating time with emphatic strokes of his hammer, “The Flaxen-headed -Cowboy,” a rustic and ancient ditty, much in favor in the country-side. -Whether it was the gestures of the gnome which called them forth, or a -ludicrous application of the song to himself, Huntley could not tell; -but big John and the boy accompanied the chant with audible, yet -restrained explosions of laughter. Huntley grew very red in spite of -himself, as he hurried along to the little bridge. What a change from -the fancy which possessed him as he came up the village street half an -hour ago! He could not have believed that his hypothetical inheritance -could have vanished so utterly; somehow he could not even recall that -evanescent splendor. It was no longer the heir of Melmar who ascended -the brae of Tyne, through the trees and scattered cottages towards the -white-gabled manse. It was the same Huntley Livingstone who had buried -his father at midnight, who had set his face against the evil fortune -which seemed ready to overwhelm his house, and who had pledged himself -to win in a new country a new and stable fortune for the race of Norlaw. - -But the young man was by no means contented to part so lightly with his -magnificent vision. He did all he could by dint of thinking to bring it -back to his mind; but even when he paused at the top of the little hill -and surveyed once more the fair fields of Melmar, he could not recover -the enthusiasm and fervor of his former thoughts. Bowed Jaacob, with the -odd philosophy which perceived other people’s mistakes, but could not -see its own ludicrous pretensions--big John, who believed in his -brother--and the ruddy darkness of the smithy, where reality made a rude -assault upon his vision--had disenchanted Huntley. He stood on the brae -of Tyne, seeing every thing with practical and undazzled eyes, feeling -himself to have a certain claim, difficult and doubtful, yet real, upon -the lands before him; but seeing all the obstacles which lay in its way. -And, distinct from this, far apart and separate, with a world between, -lay the fortune far more secure and certain which Huntley had to make -with his own hands. - -It was with these thoughts that he entered the manse of Kirkbride. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -Dr. Logan was in his study writing his sermon--Katie was alone in the -manse parlor. It was a cheerful room, looking over the little front -garden and down the brae to the roofs of the village from its front -window, and peeping out through a flush of foliage upon Tyne and the -Melmar woods from the other. The furniture was very simple, the carpet -old, the walls painted of an ash-green, which was just one degree better -than the drab-colored complexion of the Norlaw dining-room; but -notwithstanding, the room was perfect and could not have been improved -upon. There was only one easy-chair, and that was sacred to the -minister; the others were of the ancient fashion of drawing-room chairs, -once elaborately painted and gilded, but now much dimmed of their -pristine splendor. Katie’s own hands had made all the pretty chintz -covers, which fitted without a wrinkle, and the result was extremely -satisfactory--very much more agreeable to look upon than the crumpled -covers of the Melmar drawing-room. There was a wonderful screen of -needle work, in a very slim ebony frame in one corner, an old-fashioned -work table, with a crimson bag and inlaid top, which could answer as a -chess-board, in another--and a low bookcase, full of books, between the -door and the end window. On the table, at this present moment, stood a -basket, of goodly dimensions, full of stockings--and by the side of that -a little pile of freshly-mangled linen, pinafores and other small -garments in want of strings and buttons. It was Friday, very near the -end of the week--so the minister, too wise to leave his preparations to -the latest day, made ready for his weekly duty in the study, while Katie -did her weekly mendings on the same principle in her own domain. - -“You may go to the study if you please Huntley--my father will be glad -to see you,” said the young mistress of the manse, once more drawing -Johnnie’s sock over her hand after she had welcomed her visitor. Huntley -did not avail himself of the privilege so soon as he might have done, -considering that he had come with the intention of asking advice from -the minister. It was pleasant to sit down in that quiet, bright, -home-like room, which looked as though nothing could disturb its -cheerful composure, and see that careful little woman among her family -labors, so fresh, and bright, and young, yet so perfectly in her place -among these pleasant cares. Huntley, whose mind was in a tumult of -unaccustomed anxieties, and who felt himself oppressed with a burden of -responsibility, and the new necessity of deciding for himself, sank into -a chair opposite Katie, with a sensation of rest and relief which he had -not felt for weeks before. She looked up to him brightly with those -smiling brown eyes which were so young and yet so full of elder-sisterly -thoughtfulness. She saw in a moment the shadow on Huntley’s face, and -proceeded to minister to it as if it had been a cloud upon the boyish -horizon of one of her own young brothers. Katie could not help being -half maternal even to Huntley. - -“Something ails you,” said the little woman--“are you tired, Huntley? -Oh, I mind when grief was here, what hard, hard work it was keeping up a -smile. Never mind me; look sorrowful, if you like, and take a rest. It -makes me think how I felt myself when dear mamma died, to see you -keeping up a face like that.” - -“Oh, Katie, I wish we had you at Norlaw!” cried the lad, with sudden -earnestness. - -“Yes,” said Katie, simply, “if you had only had a sister, Huntley!--but -Mrs. Livingstone does not care for strangers. And mothers are sometimes -fondest of their sons--everybody says so; but I know you’re the eldest, -and every thing comes on you.” - -“Patie is the wisest,” said Huntley, with a momentary smile; “I think he -could manage better without me--and, Katie, I’ll have to go away.” - -She looked up at him with a question in her eyes. She asked nothing -audibly, but merely suspended her work, and turned, with a friendly -anxiety, her steady, kind gaze upon Huntley’s face. The young man was -not “in love"--he was still too familiar with this sisterly face, and -too much occupied with all the sudden troubles in which he had himself -been plunged, to think of any such thing; but, unconsciously, Huntley -paused before answering--paused to take the peaceful scene, the home -apartment, the bright serious eyes into his memory, a picture of -strange influence and tenderness never to fade. - -“I thought of going to Australia,” he said; “they say a man with a will -to work and some knowledge, especially of cattle, is sure to thrive -there. It matters but little, I think, Katie, whether I’m a hundred or a -thousand miles away, so long as I _am_ away; and I think the best place -for me is there.” - -“But Australia is many a thousand miles away,” said Katie, “at the other -end of the world; and you can not come home to see your friends as you -might do from a nearer place. If you go there, Huntley, we’ll never see -you again.” - -“I’ll go there, that I may come back,” said Huntley, eagerly; then he -began to play with the ball of cotton which Katie was mending her -children’s stockings with; then he looked round the room wistfully once -more. “And when I do come home,” said the lad, “Katie, I wonder, I -wonder, what changes I’ll see here?” - -“Oh, whisht!” cried Katie, with a little overflow of tears; “papa’s not -young, but he’s no’ very old; and if it’s God’s will, we’ll aye be the -same.” - -“It might be ten--fifteen years,” said Huntley; “and I was not thinking -of the minister; I was thinking of--other things.” - -Katie did not ask what these other things might be. The color rose in -her cheek a little, but not enough to confuse her. - -“The little ones will be all grown up,” she said, with a quiet laugh; -“perhaps some of them away too, Huntley, into the battle; and me an old -Katie with a cap, keeping house for papa.” - -She glanced across the table for her cotton as she spoke, and, meeting -Huntley’s eye, blushed a little more, yet was not discomposed. The young -man’s heart beat louder, he could not very well tell why. Some confused -words came rushing into his mind, but none of them were fit to say. His -own face flushed with a hasty flood of unaccustomed and unascertained -emotions; he rose up hastily, scarcely knowing how it was that the -repose of the manse parlor was broken, yet feeling it. Dr. Logan called -Katie from his study, and Huntley answered the call. He gave back the -ball of cotton, and said hurriedly:-- - -“Dinna forget me, Katie, when _that_ time comes;” and so went away. - -That time! what time? Huntley could have given no explanation of what he -meant; neither could Katie, who put up her hand softly to her eyes, and -smiled a very faint smile, and said, “Poor boy!” with a little sigh as -the door closed upon him. But perhaps explanations would have done but -little good, and every thing answered perfectly well as it was. - -Huntley came with a blush into the presence of the innocent and -unconscious minister, who had forgotten his own youth many a long day -ago, and had never yet been roused into consciousness that his little -Katie might be something else than a good child and elder sister, in the -perverse imaginations of other people. He looked up from his desk and -his manuscript, and pushed up his spectacles on his forehead when the -young man entered. - -“Huntley! is that you? What’s wrong, my man?” said Dr. Logan. He thought -the lad could not have seen Katie, or he must have become more composed -by this time; and the excellent pastor thought of nothing else than some -new accident or coil at Norlaw. - -“Nothing’s wrong,” said Huntley, who only blushed the more in shamefaced -self-consciousness, “but I wanted to ask your advice.” - -Dr. Logan laid down his pen with resignation; it was a new pen, sharply -nibbed, such as the minister loved, and he had just got a capital idea -for the third head of his sermon, an idea which might be nowhere before -Huntley had half stated his case. The minister paused a moment, trying -very hard to connect his idea with something in the room which might -recall it to him when his visitor was gone. He tried the inkstand, the -pretty paper-weight on the table, and even his large red and green -pocket-handkerchief, in vain. At last he thought he had secured it on -the knob of the glass door of his bookcase; he nodded ruefully to -Huntley and made a knot on his handkerchief. - -“Now, Huntley, proceed, my boy,” said the minister with a sigh; he held -the knot on the handkerchief in his hand, and fixed his eyes on the -bookcase. Certainly he had it safe now. - -Huntley, glad to get out of his embarrassment so, plunged at once into -his tale. He could not quite make out how it was that the excellent -doctor looked so steadily at the bookcase, and gave himself such divided -and wandering answers. However, at last the minister forgot his idea, -and threw away the handkerchief in despair. - -“Eh? what was that you were saying, Huntley?” said Dr. Logan. The story -had to be gone over again. But, to Huntley’s surprise, his friend knew -all about it, more about it indeed than he did himself, and shook his -head when Huntley vehemently declared his conviction that he was the -true heir of Melmar. - -“I make no doubt,” said the minister, “that if _she_ could be found, the -will would stand--but I mind the writer laying it down very clear to me -and Norlaw at the time that ye behoved to produce her alive or -dead--that is, by evidence in the last case, no doubt--before your case -could stand. It might be well worth a man’s while that had enough to -keep him, and nothing else to do--but I would not advise _you_ to put -off your time seeking Mary Huntley. You’re the eldest son and the prop -of your family. I would not advise it, Huntley, my man.” - -“Nor do I mean it,” said Huntley, with a blush at his own wild fancies; -“and if I had known that you knew it so well, I should not even have -troubled you. No, doctor, I’ve written to your friend in Edinburgh--I -want him to take all our affairs in hand, and save, if it is possible, -Norlaw itself for my mother. What we’ll have to begin upon after, I -can’t very well tell--but Cosmo is the only one of us too young to set -out for himself. I will leave the other matter with Mr. Cassilis, and he -can do what he thinks best.” - -“Very wise, Huntley, very wise,” said the minister, whose mind was still -fumbling after his idea; “and you’re thinking of going abroad yourself, -they tell me?--I don’t doubt it’s a shock to your mother, but I would -say it was the best thing you could do. Charlie Cassilis, no doubt, will -be coming here. He’s aye very willing to come to the manse. I’ll make -Katie write him a line to-day, to say we’ll expect him--and any thing I -can do to further the business, you know you can rely upon--eh? what was -that you said?” - -“Nothing,” said Huntley, “except that there’s little time to lose, and I -am interrupting you. Good-bye, Dr. Logan--I’ll see you again before I go -away.” - -“Before he goes away,” said the minister, with perplexity, half rising -to follow Huntley, as he hurried from the room; “what does the callant -mean?” But just then Dr. Logan’s eye returned to the knob of the -bookcase, which no longer recalled that precious lost idea. “Poor human -nature!” said the good man, with a sigh. He thought it rather selfish of -Huntley to have disturbed his studies just at that particular -moment--and it was the young man’s human nature over which he sighed. - -Huntley, meanwhile, went back again to Norlaw in a greater tumult of -mind than that which had brought him forth. But he no longer thought of -Melmar as he had done in that sudden golden vision of fortune and -conquest. His heart leaped within him like one on the verge of a new -world. These three scenes through which he had passed:--bowed Jaacob’s -odd philosophy and startling groundwork--“Trust in nothing that you have -not conquered for yourself;” Katie’s quiet home-parlor, her blush and -glance of kindness, which perhaps understood his unspoken and sudden -fervor as well as he did himself; and, beyond these, the sober, calm -every-day minister, giving only an outside and momentary attention to -those matters in which this young life had all its hopes at stake, -minding his sermon, and only kindly indifferent to Huntley, had brought -the youth on a long way in the education of his life. He could not have -put it all into words, or explained it to the satisfaction of the -philosopher; yet the shock of reality and actual life which brought him -back to himself in the little smithy of Kirkbride--the warm light of -Katie’s eyes which had stirred, with something of personal and distinct -identity, separate from family interests, and individual in the world, -the young man’s heart and spirit--and not least, though very different, -the composed friendliness of the minister, pre-occupied with his sermon, -who had only a very spare amount of attention to bestow upon Huntley, -and showed him that the world in general was not likely to be much -absorbed by his interests, or startled by his hopes--were all very real, -practical and permanent lessons. They sent him back to Norlaw an older -man. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Mr. Cassilis came to the manse in answer to Katie’s invitation and the -business of Huntley. He was young and did not particularly commend -himself to the liking of the young master of Norlaw; but as he pleased -all the other people very tolerably well, there were, perhaps, various -reasons for the less friendly sentiment of Huntley. He was, however, a -brisk man of business, and not sufficiently over-burdened with -occupation to prevent him entering heartily into the concerns of the -half-ruined family. - -All this time Patrick Livingstone had been quietly busy, collecting and -arranging all his father’s memoranda which seemed to throw any light -upon their circumstances; among these were many hurried, and only half -intelligible notes of transactions with the former Huntley of Melmar, -from which it very shortly appeared that Norlaw’s debts had all been -contracted to his old kinsman, and had only come into possession of “the -present Melmar,” when he took possession of the house and property, as -heir-at-law, on the old man’s death. They had suspected this before, for -it seemed very unlikely that one man should borrow of another, whose -claims were so entirely antagonistic to his own--but these were their -only real evidence--for Norlaw had been so irregular and unsystematic -that it was impossible to tell what money might or might not have passed -through his hands. - -The lawyer took all these scratchy memorandums out of Patrick’s hands, -and examined them carefully in presence of the lads. They were in the -east room, in the midst of a pile of old papers from which these had -been selected. Patie had not completed his task--he was going over his -father’s letters, to see whether they threw any light on these forgotten -transactions. It was no small task; for Norlaw, like most other men of -trifling habits and unimportant correspondence, kept every thing that -everybody wrote to him, and even scrawls of his own letters. Some of -these scrawls were curious enough--among them were one or two anxious -and elaborate epistles to people abroad, whom his search for his lost -love had brought him into contact with; some, dating still further back, -were intimations of the birth of his children, and other family events -of importance to his wife’s relations. They were all composed with -considerable care, and in somewhat pompous diction; they threw wonderful -light upon the weaknesses and vanities of this departed life, and -indifferent people might have laughed at them--but Huntley and Patie -blushed instead of laughing, or folded the scrawls away hurriedly with -tears in their eyes. To them these memorials were still pathetic, -tender, full of a touching appeal to their affection, too sacred to meet -the common eye. - -Presently, however, Patie caught a glimpse of a handwriting still more -scratchy than his father’s--the trembling characters of old age. It was -a letter from old Melmar, the most important they had yet lighted -upon--and ran thus:-- - -“DEAR PATRICK, - - “Touching the matter that was under discussion betwixt us the last - time I saw you, I have just this to say, namely, that I hold your - receipts and acknowledgments for money in the interests of your - wife and family, and not in my own. I know well what would happen - if you knew yourself free to incur more responsibility; so, mind - you, though you’ll get them all at my death, and most likely Melmar - to the boot, I’ll take care, as long as I’m to the fore, to keep my - hand over you for your good. You can let the Mistress see this if - you please, and I’ll wager a bodle she agrees with me. I can not - give you them back--but unless you behave all the worse, they’ll - never leave my hands until they return to your own. - -“H. HUNTLEY.” - - - - -“Eh! what’s that?” said Mr. Cassilis, looking up from his little lot of -papers, as he saw the two brothers pass this letter between them. - -They were half reluctant to show it; and when Huntley at last handed it -across the table it was with a proud apology. - -“My father was generous and liberal to the extreme. I suppose he was not -what people call prudent; few understood him,” said Huntley. - -The lawyer took the paper with a half perceptible smile. He knew already -what other people said of Norlaw. - -However, he added old Melmar’s letter with care to his own heap of -scribbled memoranda. - -“It’s not very much good,” he said, “but it shows intention. -Unquestionably, neither the giver nor the receiver had any thought of -payment for these loans. I had better see the present man to-morrow. -What with the will and these he ought to come to reason.” - -“Me’mar?” cried Huntley--“no, I can have no appeal made to him on our -behalf. Do you know how he persecuted my father?” - -“I’m not much of an appealing man,” said Cassilis, “but I had better see -him. Don’t be afraid--I’ll not compromise you. You did not know much of -the matter yourself, I understand, till recently. Be charitable--suppose -he were as ignorant as you?” - -“Stop!” cried Patie, “never mind personal feelings--is that all the -value of the will?--to bring him to reason?” - -“Not if I find Mary Huntley,” said the young lawyer. - -If _I_ find. The young men exchanged glances--not quite sure that they -were pleased with this transference of their interests. - -“If she’s to be found alive--or if she’s dead, and we can prove it, -every thing, of course, becomes as clear as daylight,” said the -minister’s nephew, “and many a man would tell you that in these days -either the one thing or the other is certain; but I’ve had some -experience. I know there have been cases in which every effort was -baffled; and failing either, I don’t see at this moment what’s to be -done. You expect me to say, go to law, of course, but who’s to pay the -piper? Law’s a very expensive luxury. Wait till you’re rich, and then -come down upon him--that is to say, if this search fails.” - -“But it is at least worth while to make the search,” said Huntley, -hastily, “and if it is so, it is too soon to treat with Melmar. -Friendship is out of the question. Let us deal with him honestly. I can -not accept a favor from a man one day and commence a lawsuit against him -the next; it is not possible.” - -“In the meantime,” said Cassilis, coolly sweeping all his papers up into -a pocket-book, “you’ve committed your affairs into my hands, and I mean -to do my best for my client, begging your pardon, whether my client -perceives my tactics or no. Don’t be offended. I’ll claim these said -acknowledgments as your right, and not as a favor. I want to see what -kind of an animal this is that we’re to fight; and to let you see what I -mean, I may as well say that I’ve heard all the history of the last few -weeks, and that I understand your feelings; but feelings, Livingstone, -recollect, as your brother says, have little to do with the law.” - -Huntley could make very little further opposition; but he did not -respond by any means to his new agent’s friendliness; he received it -even with a little _hauteur_ and surliness, like a ridiculous young -hero, finding out condescension and superiority, and sundry other of -those agreeable figments of the jealous imagination, in the natural -frankness of the young lawyer. If he had been fifty, or had known -nothing of the manse, possibly Mr. Charles Cassilis, W. S., would have -made a more favorable impression upon Huntley Livingstone. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -“Do I look like a fool?” - -The speaker was Huntley of Melmar, seated at that moment in his large -leathern easy-chair at his own study-table; this was a long dim room, -lined with dusty-looking bookcases, and lighted faintly by one window, -from which nothing could be seen but a funereal yew-tree, which kept the -room in perpetual shade. The whole apartment had a stifled, unventilated -look, as if fresh air never entered it, as sunshine certainly never did; -even in winter no fire could be coaxed into a blaze in Melmar’s -study--every thing was dusty, choked, and breathless, partaking in the -general want of order visible through the house, with private additions -of cheerlessness peculiarly its own. - -And there could not well be a greater contrast than the two people in -this room; Cassilis was young, good-looking, rather careless in manner, -shrewd and quick, as became his profession, but by no means formal, as -might have become it. He was not the solemn bearer of a legal -challenge--a messenger of heroical enmity or hereditary dislike; he was -only a morning visitor in a morning coat, quite as ready to talk of the -last change of ministry or the ensuing election as of the immediate -business which brought him here. Melmar sat watching him like an old -cat, stealthy and absorbed. In _his_ day business was managed in a -different manner; and the old Aberdeen attorney watched with a chuckle -of professional contempt and private satisfaction the informal -proceedings of his younger brother and adversary. Mr. Huntley thought -himself much too “deep” for the fathoming of this careless neophyte, -while his visitor, on the other hand, found equal satisfaction in -setting down the Laird of Melmar as one of the old school. - -“Not exactly,” said Cassilis, “but it’s odd how often a fool and a man -of sense are convertible terms. A man does a thing from a generous -motive, and that’s ridiculous, eh, Mr. Huntley? absurd to men of the -world like you and me, who don’t recognize the principle; but mind you, -there _might_ be circumstances which _might_ induce the most sagacious -of us, out of pure self-regard and prudence, to do the very same thing -as the blockhead did out of generosity; the result would be the same, -you know, in both cases--and who is to judge whether it is done by a -wise man or a fool?” - -“Aye, man, you’re ironical, are you?” said Melmar, “very good practice, -but it does not do with me--I’m too old for inuendoes; come, to the -point. You’ve got a foolish case by the hand, though, of course, as an -older man and member of the profession, I think it perfectly right of -you not to seem conscious of that--_perfectly_ proper. I highly approve -of your demeanor in a professional point of view, my young friend.” - -“Which is very kind of you,” said Cassilis, laughing; “I think it all -the more so because I can’t agree with you. Do you know, I hear -everywhere about the country that there could not be a greater -difference than between young Livingstone and his father?--quite a -different man, I understand.” - -“Eh? and what’s that to me?” asked Melmar, sharply. - -“Well, you know, between ourselves as professional men,” said Cassilis, -laughing and speaking with the most delightful frankness, “if this -Norlaw had been a man of spirit and energy, like his son, or indeed -worth his salt, as people say, you know just as well as I do--possibly -far better, for I bow to your experience--that you could not have had a -chance of reigning here as you have done for so many years.” - -“What the deevil do you mean, sir?” cried Melmar, growing red and half -rising from his chair; “is this language to hold to me, in my own -house?” - -“Nay, I was only appealing to your professional knowledge,” said the -young man, carelessly. “When you speak to me of the profession, of -course I necessarily conclude that you are, at least, as well-informed -as I am--and this is clear to anybody with half an eye. Mind you, I -don’t mean to say that young Livingstone’s claim is weaker than his -father’s--you know it is not. I feel indeed that the whole matter is -immensely simplified by having a professional man like yourself to deal -with--for I don’t presume to suppose that I am telling you any thing -that you don’t know already; but possibly--I can’t tell--the young man -may not feel it for his interest to push his claims at this moment. It’s -for _my_ interest that he should, of course, for it will be a capital -case--but we can both wait; however, under the circumstances, I am -perfectly justified in asking you to consider whether the little -restitution I suggested to you would be the act of a fool or of a wise -man.” - -Melmar had been gazing with a kind of hazy, speechless wrath at the -speaker, who passed so jauntily and lightly over this subject, and took -his own perfect acquaintance with its right and wrong, for granted, with -so much coolness. When Cassilis came to this pause, however, no -explosion followed. The florid face grew redder with a bursting fiery -fullness, in which even the grizzled red fringes of hair -sympathized--but, in spite of himself, Melmar was afraid. His “young -friend,” whom he had patronized and despised, seemed somehow to have got -him completely in his power--seemed to see into the very thoughts of the -old worldling, who thought himself so much wiser than his adversary. He -made a pause of consideration, and felt much the reverse of comfortable. -The unconcerned air of his visitor, which had relieved him at first, -seemed somehow to give greater weight to his words now. If these -downright blows were given in play, what should the serious strokes of -the same hand be? and Melmar knew very well that the strength of his -opponent’s case lay in plain right and justice, while his was only to -be held by art and stratagem. While he pondered, a sudden thought struck -him--he rose, went to the window, glanced out there for a moment--then -to the door, opened it and glanced along the long passage to make sure -there were no listeners--then he returned to his chair, and bent towards -the young lawyer, who had been watching all his proceedings with a half -amused curiosity. - -“To make an end of all this,” said Melmar, with a very good imitation of -impatience, “and because they are relatives of the old family, and -friends, and all the rest of it--and to prove that I’m sorry for what -took place at Norlaw’s funeral--I’ll tell you what I’ll consent to do--” - -“Well?” said Cassilis, quietly. - -“I’ll consent,” continued Melmar, “because I’m not a man to have a will, -or a bill, or any thing of the sort stuck into my face every moment of -my life--I’ll consent to give up all Norlaw’s papers, every one of them, -as a matter of favor, on condition that this document, that you’ve all -made so much work about, shall be placed in my hands. After which I’ll -be able to look after my kinswoman’s interests in the proper way--for, -as for the fiction about those Livingstones, who have no more claim to -Melmar than you have, _that’s_ quite beneath any notice from me. But on -that condition, and to be done with the business, I’ll consent to give -up all my claims against Norlaw; and a more liberal offer never was -made.” - -The young man looked steadily, and with a smile, into the old man’s -face--indeed, Mr. Cassilis went a step further, and did what is -sometimes extremely impertinent, and always embarrassing. He looked into -Melmar’s eyes with a keen, yet laughing gaze, which his companion could -by no means bear, and which made the florid face once more fiery red -with a troubled and apprehensive rage. - -“Would you advise me to accept this offer as one professional man might -advise another?” said Cassilis, quietly, with his smile. That smile, and -that look, and that question, silenced Melmar a thousand times more -effectually than a vehement refusal of his proposition. This man was -sometimes bold, but he was never brave. He saw himself found out in the -laughing eyes of his young antagonist. He thought he had committed -himself and exposed his weak point--somehow he seemed to stand -self-betrayed and unvailed before this stranger, whose gaze was -intolerable, and whose question he should have liked to answer with a -curse, proper man as he was, if he had dared. But he did not dare, -though the self-restraining effort brought the perspiration to his -forehead. He scattered some papers on the table with an irrestrainable -movement, a little safety-valve for his secret fury. - -“Do as you please, you’ll get no better,” he said, hoarsely, gathering -them up again, and turning his face from his young adversary, who did -not now seem quite an opponent to be despised. - -“I tell you frankly,” said Mr. Cassilis, with that engaging candor of -his, “that it’s very much for my interest that young Livingstone should -carry on his suit at once. It’s for my interest, in short, to protract -the whole business to my utmost ability; and a highly attractive case I -have no doubt we should make of it--especially, Mr. Huntley, -_especially_ permit me to say, after the proposal you have just made. -However, we understand all that, both you and I, and I must ask you -again to consider what I said at first; here is this old man’s letter, -proving his intentions pretty distinctly; on our part we will not pay a -penny under less than compulsion. I leave it entirely in your own -hands--what will you do?” - -Patricia Huntley was all alone in the drawing-room. She knew when Mr. -Cassilis entered; she knew he had been shut up with papa for a very -considerable time. She did not know any thing of the questions which -were being put in the study, or how hard they were to answer. Though she -read poetry-books, this poor little creature had very little to occupy -her, save her bad health and her limited imagination--a visitor was an -event to Patricia--especially when the visitor was young, rather -handsome, and newly come from Edinburgh. She thought she might as well -take an accidental stroll into the garden, and see what the gentlemen -were about in the study. Accordingly, with her poetry-book in her hand, -Patricia stole behind the yew-tree just at this particular moment and -crisis of the conversation. She could see them both through the dim -window, papa tumbling about his papers, and looking very stormy, Mr. -Cassilis, smiling and genial as he always was. Perhaps the younger face -of the two, being much the pleasanter, was, spite of filial veneration, -the most attractive to Patricia. She thought Mr. Cassilis, who had been -so long a time in the study, must surely have some very pleasant news to -tell--but at the same time, with sincere and disinterested concern, felt -that he must be dreadfully bored by so long an interview with papa. With -a generous impulse she approached the window, and knocked on the glass -playfully with her fingers. - -“Papa, when do you mean to come to luncheon?” cried Patricia. - -Melmar started up, opened the window, cried “Get away, you little -fool!--who wanted you?” and shook his fist at her menacingly. Poor -Patricia sprang back in terror, and lost her breath immediately. She did -not know, and perhaps if she had known, would not have appreciated, the -great relief which this little ebullition was to Melmar. He went back -quite refreshed to finish his fight; but his poor little daughter, who -did not understand it, first fell a-crying, and then, drying her eyes, -proceeded to revenge herself. She sought out Joanna immediately, and -informed that heroine of something extraordinary and mysterious going on -in the study--and of the unaccountable and inexcusable affront to -herself, “before Mr. Cassilis!” which Patricia could not forgive. -Luncheon was ordered immediately, half an hour before its time, and -Joanna herself went off to the study like a gale of wind, to order papa -into the dining-room. But the scene had changed by this time in Melmar’s -private apartment. Mr. Cassilis was writing when Joanna entered, while -her father stood by him holding some papers, and looking, stealthily -watchful, over the young man’s shoulder, so like an old brindled big cat -in the most feline concentration of vigilance, that Joanna’s irreverent -imagination was tickled with the resemblance. - -“Eh, papa,” cried the girl, with a sudden laugh, “I would not like to be -a mouse in your way!--but Mr. Cassilis is too big for a mouse,” added -Joanna; “come to luncheon, it’s ready--but I don’t believe Patricia will -ever speak to you again--what are these?” - -“No business of yours, you gipsy!” said Melmar, as she pulled at his -papers. - -“Eh, but it is--I can see Norlaw’s name!” cried Joanna; “Mr. Cassilis, -tell Mrs. Livingstone that we know--and that I think shame of papa!--and -if it was not that I could not help it, I never, never, would have -spoken to him again! What are _you_ getting all these papers for? If -it’s to hurt the boys you shanna take them out of Melmar! You sha’n’t, -whatever he may say!” - -“Softly--Mr. Huntley of Melmar will hurt the Livingstones no more,” said -Cassilis. - -Meanwhile Melmar read the young lawyer’s receipt for these precious bits -of paper with no very pleasant face. It was a great deal too carefully -worded to be of any ulterior service. Even the pettifogging ingenuity of -the “old school” did not see at present any capabilities in it. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -On the afternoon of the same day the young lawyer dropped in quietly, -with a smile on his lace, to Norlaw. - -Huntley was busy in the out-buildings of the farm. He was taking an -inventory of all their stock and belongings, and making such an estimate -as he could, which was a very correct one on the whole, of the value of -this primitive property. Every thing about the house was going on very -much as usual. The Mistress was seated at the end window of the -dining-room, in a position which not only commanded the kitchen door and -all its comings and goings, but was likewise a good post of observation -for the farm-yard in which Huntley was. The stillness and heat of summer -brooded over the old castle walls, and even over the farm-yard, where -the very poultry drowsed in their afternoon siesta. The apples were -growing ruddy on the Norlaw trees, and the slope of the hill brightened -in russet gold towards the harvest. An Irish “shearer,” with his sickle -over his shoulder, waited at a humble distance, till the young master -was ready to hear his application for work; the weather was unusually -favorable and the season early. In another week or ten days everybody -prophesied the harvest would begin. - -Huntley Livingstone, however, was not thinking of the harvest. His mind -was busy with thoughts of the wild bush far away, the savage young -colonies then but little advanced in their progress, and the long years -of solitary labor which lay before him. He was not by any means in high -spirits. Melmar had faded out of his fancy like a dream. He thought he -perceived just what degree of probability there was in that vision of -fortune, and turning his back upon it, he set his face towards the -sober, homely, real future which must begin by the serious and solitary -toil of so many years. - -So that Huntley was by no means delighted to be interrupted in the midst -of his task by the salutation of the young lawyer. He turned round -immediately and put down his memorandum-book, but not with much -cordiality. Cassilis was smiling--he always smiled; on the whole, this -rather aggravated Huntley. - -“I’ve got something for you,” said the lawyer, holding up the same -pocket-book into which he had put Norlaw’s memoranda. He spoke with real -glee and triumph. Independent altogether of the interests of the family, -he felt he had made quite a professional success, and enjoyed it -accordingly. - -“What?” said Huntley--he was half unwilling to perceive that this was -some advantage gained over the enemy. He had made up his mind in a -different direction, and did not want to be moved back again by any new -shift of fortune. But when the pocket-book was opened and its contents -disclosed--when Huntley saw before him, safe and certain, those old -yellow bonds and obligations signed with his father’s name, the young -man was startled--and the first idea of his unfriendliness was, that -they had been purchased by some concession. - -“You have given up our interests in the more important matter!” cried -Huntley; “I warn you I will not adopt any such bargain; better ruin now -than any sacrifice either of right or of honor.” - -“For what do you take me, Mr. Livingstone?” said the other, coldly; but -as he was too good-natured and much too triumphant to keep malice, he -continued, after a moment, in his usual tone:--“Don’t be foolish; take -these affairs and burn them--they’re better out of harm’s way; and go -in, gather the family together, and hold a council of war. Now I’ve seen -the man and understand the question, I’m ready to fight it out. We can -but take our chance. _You_ have every thing in your favor--he nothing -but blood and possession. You are not ruined, Livingstone, you have -enough to begin with--I am inclined to change my advice; if I were you, -I should wait no longer, but put it to the touch. The chances are ten to -one in your favor.” - -“This is quite different from your former opinion,” said Huntley, in -amazement. - -“Not opinion, say advice,” said Cassilis, who was now somewhat excited; -“I believed, begging your pardon, Livingstone, that you were likely to -need for your own immediate uses every penny you could scrape together; -I thought your father had seriously injured your cause by taking no -steps in the matter, and that the other side might think themselves -justified in saying that he knew this will either to be unfairly got or -invalid. But my visit to Melmar has dispelled these doubts. I think the -course is quite clear if you choose to try.” - -This sudden suggestion took away Huntley’s breath; the color mounted in -his cheek in spite of himself--it was impossible to think of such a -prospect unmoved--for Melmar, with its moderate rank and easy fortune, -was very much more agreeable to think of than the bush and all its -peradventures of hardship and solitude. He listened with only a -half-attention while Cassilis explained to him how Mr. Huntley had been -induced to relinquish these valuable scraps of paper. The whole sum -represented by them was not very considerable, but it made all the -difference between bare, absolute stripped poverty, and the enough which -would satisfy everybody’s demands, and leave a little over for -themselves. There were still heavy mortgages upon the little property of -Norlaw, but when Huntley took his father’s canceled bonds in his hand, -he knew there was no longer cause to apprehend a forced and ruinous sale -of all their stock and crop and little possessions. He heard the lawyer -speak of Melmar’s fears, his proposal about the will--his gradual and -growing apprehensions; but all that appeared visible to Huntley was the -fact of their changed circumstances, and the new position in which the -family stood. His companion perceived after a while that the young man -was absorbed in his own thoughts, and paid no attention to what he said, -and Cassilis wisely left him, once more bidding him hold a council of -war. When he was alone, Huntley put aside his memorandum-book, drew his -cap over his eyes, and set off on a rapid walk to the top of the hill. -He scarcely drew breath till he had reached the summit of that fertile -slope from whence he could just see in the distance the gray towers of -Melrose and the silvery gleam of Tweed shining in the hazy golden -sunshine beyond the purple Eildons. The broad country shone before him -in all its tints of color and glow of summer light, wide, great, and -silent as the life upon whose brink he stood--and at his feet lay -Norlaw, with its humble homestead and its ruined castle, where sat this -lad’s mother, who was a widow. He stood there perfectly silent, full of -thought, turning over half unconsciously in his mind the words of his -adviser. - - “He either fears his fate too much, - Or his deserts are small, - Who dares not put it to the touch, - To gain or lose it all.” - -Somehow these lines floated in upon Huntley’s mind as he stood gazing -upon the summer landscape. To win Melmar with all its wealth and -influence, or to lose what remained of Norlaw, with all the associations -and hereditary bonds that belonged to that home of his race--should he -put it to the touch? A conflict, not less stormy that it was entirely -unexpressed, rose within the young, ambitious, eager mind, gazing over -those fields and hills. A certain personification and individuality came -to the struggling powers within him. On either side stood a woman, one a -pale, unknown shadow, hovering upon the chances of his triumph, ready to -take the prize, when it was won, out of his hands--the other his own -well-beloved, home-dwelling mother, whose comfort and certain habitation -it was in Huntley’s power at once to secure. Should he put it to the -touch? should he risk all that he might win all?--and the tempters that -assailed Huntley suddenly vailed over to his eyes all that sunny home -landscape, and spread before him the savage solitudes of the far -country, the flocks and the herds which should be his sole -companions--the hut in the strange woods; oh beautiful home valleys, -glorious hills, dear gleams of water-springs! oh, love hiding sweet -among the trees, whispering ere it comes!--oh tender friends and bonds -of youth!--shall he put it to the touch? The council of war held its -debate among the dust and din of battle, though the summer sunshine -shone all the time in an undisturbed and peaceful glory upon the slope -of Norlaw. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -“Do you think _I_ could bear the thought--me!” cried the Mistress -energetically; “have ye kent me all your days, Huntley Livingstone, and -do ye dare to think your mother would baulk your fortune for ease to -hersel’? is it like me? would any mortal even me with the like, but your -ainsel’?” - -The Mistress stood by herself in the middle of the room, with her hand -on the table--her eyes shone with a mortified and grieved fire through -unshed tears--her heightened color--her frame, which seemed to vibrate -with a visible pang--the pain of unappreciated love, which looked like -anger in her face--showed how little congenial to her mind was Huntley’s -self-abnegation. There was no sacrifice in the world which she herself -could not and would not have made for her children; but to feel herself -the person for whom a sacrifice was needed, a hindrance to her son’s -prospects, a person to be provided for, struck with intense and bitter -mortification the high spirit of the Mistress. She could not be content -with this subordinate and passive position. Poverty, labor, want itself, -would have come easier to her proud, tender motherhood, than thus to -feel herself a bar upon the prospects of her boy. - -When Huntley looked into his mother’s face, he thanked God silently -within himself, that he had held his council of war upon the hill-side, -and not in the Norlaw dining-parlor. It was the first time in his life -that the young man had made an arbitrary personal decision, taking -counsel with none; he had been naturally somewhat doubtful in his -statement of it, being unused to such independent action--but now he -rejoiced that he had made his conclusion alone. He came to his mother -with tenderness, which perhaps if it touched her secretly, made her -displeasure only the greater so far as appearance went--for the mother -of this house, who was not born of a dependent nature, was still too -young and vigorous in her own person, and too little accustomed to think -of her sons as men, to be able to receive with patience the new idea -that their relative positions were so far changed, and that it was now -her children’s part to provide for her, instead of hers to provide for -them. - -“Mother, suppose we were to fail--which is as likely as success,” said -Huntley, “and I had to go away--after all, should you like me to leave -no home to think of--no home to return to?--is that not reason enough to -make you content with Norlaw?” - -“Hold your peace!” cried the Mistress--“hame! do you mean to tell me -that I couldna make a cothouse in Kirkbride, or a lodging in a town look -like hame to my own bairns, if Providence ordained it sae, and their -hearts were the same? What’s four walls here or there?--till you’ve -firesides of your ain, your mother’s your hame wherever she may be. Am I -a weak auld wife to be maintained at the ingleside with my son’s -toil--or to have comfort, or fortune, or hope sacrificed to me? Eh, -laddie, Guid forgive ye!--me that would shear in the harvest field, or -guide the kye, or do any day’s work in this mortal world, with a -cheerful heart, if it was needful, for the sake of you!” - -“Ay, mother,” cried Cosmo, suddenly springing up from the table where he -had been sitting stooping over a book in his usual attitude, without any -apparent notice of the conversation. “Ay, mother,” cried the boy, “you -could break your heart, and wear out your life for us, because it’s in -your nature--but you’re too proud to think that it’s our nature as well, -and that all you would do for your sons, your sons have a right to do -for you!” - -The boy’s pale face shone, and his eyes sparkled; his slender, tall, -overgrown boyish figure, his long arms stretching out of the narrow -sleeves of his jacket, his long slender hands, and long hair, the entire -and extreme youthfulness of his whole appearance, so distinct from the -fuller strength and manhood of his brothers, and animated by the touch -of a delicate spirit, less sober and more fervid than theirs, struck -strangely and suddenly upon the two who had hitherto held this -discussion alone. An instantaneous change came over the Mistress’s face; -the fire in her eyes melted into a tender effusion of love and sorrow, -the yearning of the mother who was a widow. Those tears, which her proud -temper and independent spirit had drawn into her eyes, fell with a -softness which their original cause was quite incapable of. She could -not keep to her first emotions; she could not restrain the expansion of -her heart toward the boy who was still only a boy, and his father’s son. - -“My bairn!” cried the Mistress, with a short sob. He was the youngest, -the tenderest, the most like him who was gone--and Cosmo’s words had an -unspeakable pathos in their enthusiasm--the heroism of a child! - -After this the mother dropped into her chair, altogether softened, while -Huntley spoke to her low and earnestly. - -“Melmar is nothing to me,” said her eldest son, in the half-whispered -forcible words which Cosmo did not hear, but in which his mother -recognized the distinct resolution of a nature as firm as her own; -“nothing at least except a chance of wealth and fortune--only a chance -which can wait; but Norlaw is every thing--house, family, ancestors, -every thing that makes me proud of my name. Norlaw and the Livingstones -must never be disconnected while we can prevent it--and, mother, for -Cosmo’s sake!” - -“Eh, Huntley, God forgive me if I set more weight upon him than I should -set!” said the Mistress, with tears; “no’ to your detriment, my own son; -but look at the bairn! is he not _his_ very image that’s gane?” - -Not a single shadow of envy or displeasure crossed Huntley’s face; he -stood looking at his young brother with a love almost as tender as their -mother’s, with besides an unconscious swell of manhood and power in his -own frame. He was the eldest brother, the head of the house, and the -purest saint on earth could not have condemned the generous pride which -rose in Huntley’s breast. It was not a weak effusion of sentimental -self-sacrifice--his own hopes, his own heart, his own life, were strong -with an individual identity in the young man’s nature. But the tender -son of this house for the first time had made his own authoritative and -masterly decision. To set aside his ambition and let it wait--to -postpone fortune to labor--to do the first duty of a man on his own sole -and unadvised responsibility--to provide for those of his own house, and -set them above the anxieties of poverty. He was proud, when he thought -of it, to feel the strength in his own arm, the vigor of his own -step--but the pride was such as almost an angel might have shared. - -When Huntley left the room, the Mistress called Cosmo to her side. She -had resumed her seat by the corner window, and they could see him going -out, disappearing behind the old castle walls, in the glory of the -autumn sunset. - -“Do you see him, Cosmo?” said the Mistress, with renewed tears, which -this time were of mingled pride and tenderness; “I resisted, but I never -wronged his thoughts. Do ye see your brother? Yonder he is, a young lad, -proud, and bold, and masterful--he’s no’ like you--he has it in his -heart to seek power, and riches, and honors, and to take pleasure in -them--and he’s that daring that the chance of a battle would be more -pleasant to Huntley than any thing in this world that was secure. -Yet--do you hear me, laddie? he’s put them all aside, every ane, for the -sake of this hame and name, and for you and me!” - -And the color rose high upon the Mistress’s cheek in a flush of triumph; -the necessity and blessing of women came upon her in a sudden flood--she -could not be heroic herself, though she might covet the glory--but with -a higher, tenderer, more delicious pride, she could rejoice and triumph -in the courage of her boy. Her voice rose even in those restrained and -moderate words of common speech as if in a song; there was an -indescribable something in her tone which reminded one involuntarily of -the old songs of Scripture, the old triumphant Hebrew parallelisms of -Miriam and Deborah. She grasped Cosmo’s shoulder with an emphatic -pressure, and pointed with the other hand to the retiring figure of -Huntley, passing slowly and with a thoughtful step by the wall of the -old castle. Cosmo leaned out beside her, catching a flush upon his -delicate cheek from hers, but gazing upon the scene with a different -eye. Insensibly the poetic glance of the boy left his brother, to dwell -upon the other features of this picture before him. Those stern old -walls with their windowless sockets, through which once the sunshine -shone and the summer breezes entered to former generations of their -name--that sweet evening glory of sunshine, pouring aslant in a -lingering tender flood upon the world and the day, which it seemed sad -to leave--that sunshine which never grew old--insensibly his own romance -stole back into Cosmo’s mind. He forgot, with the inadvertence of his -years, that it was not a romance agreeable to his mother, or that, even -if it had been, she was not of a temper to bear the intrusion of other -subjects when her mind was so fully occupied with concerns of her own. - -“Mother, Huntley is right,” cried Cosmo; “Melmar can not be his if _she_ -is alive--it would not become him to seek _it_ till he has sought -her--and as Huntley can not seek her, for her sake and for my father’s, -_I_ will, though it should take the half of my life!” - -Once more the Mistress’s face changed; a glance of fiery impatience -flashed from her eyes, her cheek grew violently red, the tears dried as -if by a spell, and she put Cosmo away hastily with the same arm which -had held him. - -“Get away to your plays, bairn--dinna trouble me!” cried the Mistress, -with a harsh contempt, which was as strong as it was unjust; “to think I -should open my heart to you that thinks of nothing but your romances and -story books! Go! I’ve different things to think of--dinna trouble me!” - -And she rose with a murmur of indignation and anger, and went hurriedly, -with a flushed cheek, to seek her usual work, and take refuge in -occupation. If the lost heiress had been her dearest friend, she would -still have resented urgently the introduction of an intruder into her -sudden burst of mother-pride. As it was, it overturned temper and -patience entirely. She brushed past Cosmo with a hasty contempt, which -humiliated and mortified the boy beyond expression. He did not attempt -to justify himself--perhaps a kindred spark of resentment, and the -bitterness with which youth appreciates injustice, helped to silence -him--but when his mother resumed her seat and worked on hurriedly in a -disdainful and angry silence, Cosmo withdrew out of the room and out of -the house with a swelling heart. Too proud to betray how much he was -wounded, he stole round behind the farm offices to his favorite perch -among the ruins, where the lad brooded in mournful mood, sinking into -the despairing despondency of his years and temperament, feeling himself -misunderstood and unappreciated, and meditating a hundred melancholy -heroisms. Mary of Melmar, so far, seemed as little propitious to -Norlaw’s son as she had once been to Norlaw. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -“Go wherever you like, bairns, or travel straight on, if you please--I -canna see a step before me, for my part--it’s you and no’ me that must -take the lead,” said the Mistress, with a heavy sigh. These words were -said as the little party, Huntley, Patrick and herself, were left -standing by a little pile of luggage, in the dusk of a harvest evening, -in front of the coach office on the Edinburgh pavement. They were on -their way to Liverpool, from which place Huntley was to sail in an -emigrant ship for Port Philip. Princes Street was full of the open-air -and street-loving crowd which gives to that splendid promenade, on -summer nights, so much of a continental aspect. The dusk of the twilight -fell softly in the valley which lay behind, the lights in the high -houses on the other side hung softly midway in the air, the voices of -the passengers, and sounds of the city, though doubtless many of these -were sad enough, mingled in the soft-shadowed air to a harmonious hum of -pleasant sound, which echoed with a mocking gayety into the heavy heart -of the mother who was about to part with her boys. She was bewildered -for the moment with her journey, with the unknown place and unusual -animation around her, and it was only very slowly and by degrees that -her mind regained its usual self-possession. She stood gazing blankly -round her, while the boys made arrangements about their superfluous -packages, which were to be left at the coach office, and finally came up -to her, carrying between them the little trunk which contained the -necessaries for their journey. Cabs were not in those days, and the -Mistress would have been horrified into perfect self-possession by the -preposterous idea of “a noddy.” When they were thus far ready, she -turned with them briskly enough, leading the way without any -uncertainty, for, in spite of her exclamation, it had been already -arranged where they were to go, and the Mistress had been at school in -Edinburgh in her young days, and was by no means unacquainted with the -town. They went along in this order--Mrs. Livingstone carrying a -considerable bag on her own arm, and the young men with a trunk between -them--across the North Bridge towards the old town, that scene of magic -to every stranger; the valley, the hill, the dim gray turrets of -Holyrood, the soft darkness of the night full of sounds, lying beneath -them--the rugged outline, picturesque and noble, of the lofty old street -before--the lights shining here and there like fairy stars in irregular -specks among the high windows, and everywhere the half-seen, -unrecognizable throng of wayfarers, and the world of subdued sound on -every side made but small impression upon the absorbed minds of the -little party. They knew it all before, and their thoughts were otherwise -occupied; yet involuntarily that noble landscape, which no one could -look upon with absolute indifference, soothed them all, in spite of -themselves. Their destination was the High Street, where, in one of the -more respectable closes, and at the top of an interminable ascent of -stairs, there lived a native of Kirkbride, who was in the habit of -letting lodgings to students, and with whom they were to find -accommodation for the night. Mrs. Purdie gave to the Mistress a little -room boasting a “concealed bed,” that is to say, a recess shut in by -folding-doors, and just large enough to contain a bedstead, and to the -lads a bed-closet, with a borrowed light, both of which inventions -specially belong to the economy of flats and great subdivided houses, -and are the most unfavorable features in the same. But the window of -Mrs. Livingstone’s room, where they had tea, looked abroad over that -great panorama, bounded by the gleam of the Firth, and the low green -line of the Fife hills, which makes it worth while to ascend stairs and -watch at lofty windows in Edinburgh. The yellow harvest moon had risen -ere they had finished the simple meal, which none of them had any heart -for, and Huntley drew his mother to the window to bid her look at the -wonderful broad moonlight lying white upon the long line of street -below, and thrusting out all the monuments of the little hill into bold -and striking relief against the luminous sky. The Mistress turned away -from the window, with big tears in her eyes. - -“Eh, Huntley, laddie, what do I care? if it was the grandest view that -ever was, do you think I could see it?” cried his mother, “when I ken -that I’ll never see the light of the moon mair without weary thoughts -and yearning to where my bairns are, hundreds and thousands of miles -away from me!” - -“But, mother, only till we come home,” said Huntley, with his arm round -his mother, speaking low in her ear. - -The Mistress only turned towards the dim little table, with its dim -candles, hurriedly wiping the tears from her eyes. This was -endurable--but the night and the calm, and the glory of the heavens and -the earth, were too much for the mother. If she had remained there -looking out, it almost seemed to her as if she must have wept her very -heart dry. - -The next morning they set out once more upon their journey--another -day’s travel by the canal to Glasgow. The canal was not to be despised -in those days; it was cheaper, and it was not a great deal slower than -the coach; and if the errand had been happier, the mode of traveling, in -that lovely harvest weather, with its gradual glide and noiseless -progress, was by no means an unpleasant one. Glasgow itself, a strange, -unknown, smoky Babel, where, after Huntley was gone, the Mistress was to -part with her second son, bewildered her mind completely with its first -aspect; she could make nothing of it as they pursued their way from the -canal to the river, through a maze of perplexing and noisy streets, -where she felt assured hundreds of people might lose themselves, never -to be found again. And, with a feeling half of awe and half of disgust, -Mrs. Livingstone contemplated the place, so unlike the only other large -town she knew, where Patie was to pass the next half dozen years of his -life. Instinctively she caught closer hold of him, forgetting Huntley -for the moment--Huntley’s dangers would be those of nature, the sea and -the wilderness--but temptation! ill-doing! The Mistress grasped her -son’s sleeve with tenacious fingers, and looked into his face with half -an entreaty, half a defiance. - -“If I should ever see the like of that in a bairn of mine!” she cried -aloud, as they passed a corner where stood some of those precocious men, -haggard and aged beyond double their years, whom it is the misfortune of -a great town sometimes to produce. The idea struck her with an impatient -dread which overcame even her half-apprehensive curiosity about the -voyage they were going to undertake; and she had scarcely overcome this -sudden alarm, when they embarked in the snorting steamer which was to -convey them to Liverpool. Standing on the deck, surrounded by the pile -of boxes which formed Huntley’s equipment, and looking with startled and -disapproving eyes upon the arriving passengers, and the crowded sheds of -the Broomielaw, the Mistress saw the same moon rising above the masts, -and housetops, and smoke of Glasgow, without any thing like the same -feelings which had moved her on the previous night. Her mind was -excited, her active spirit stirred, her very nerves, steady as they -were, influenced a little by the entirely new anticipation of the -voyage; a night at sea!--it seemed almost as great looking forward to it -as Huntley’s journey, though that was to the other end of the world. - -And so they glided down the beautiful Clyde, the breeze freshening about -them, as hills began to rise black in the moonlight, and little towns to -glimmer on the water’s edge. The mother and the sons walked about the -deck together, talking earnestly, and when the vessel rose upon the -bigger waves, as they stole out to sea, and every thing but the water -and the sky, and the moonlight, gradually sank out of sight, the -Mistress, with a little thrill of danger and adventure at her heart, -forgot for the moment how, presently, she should return alone by the -same road, and almost could suppose that she was setting out with -Huntley. The fancy restored her to herself: she was not much of an -advice giver. Her very cautions and counsels, perhaps, were arbitrary -and slightly impatient, like her nature; but she was their true mother, -heart and soul; and the lads did not forget for long years after what -the Mistress said as she paced about the deck between them, with a firm, -yet sometimes uncertain foot, as the midnight glided into morning, and -the river disappeared in the bigger waters of the sea. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -The voyage, as it happened, was a very favorable one--even the -Mistress’s inland terrors were scarcely aroused by the swell of that -summer sea; and Huntley himself, though his ideas expanded to a much -longer journey, unconsciously took it as a good omen that his first -night at sea should be so calm and fair. They came into the great -seaport late on another summer evening. It was not nearly so extensive -then as it is now, but still the masts were in forests, the ships in -navies; and their inexperienced eyes, unenlightened by the hasty and -darkling glimpse of the Clyde, and knowing nothing greater or busier -than the Forth, with its great bosom diversified by an island and a -sail, the one scarcely more plentiful than the other, opened wide with -amazement at the fleet of vessels in the Mersey. Insensibly to herself, -the Mistress drew a certain comfort from the fact, as the Glasgow -steamer went gliding up the river, in the late summer sunset. Ships were -moored in the deep calm and shadow of the banks; ships were coming and -going in the midwaters of the river, and lines of spars and masts, -indistinguishable and without number, fringed the whole water edge, from -which the smoke of the town, reddened by a last ray of sunshine, rose -inland, out of sight, in a great overhanging cloud. The sight of such a -throng brought a momentary comfort to the heart of Huntley’s mother. The -very sea, it almost seemed, could not be so lonely, when all these big -wayfarers, and thousands more, were tracking its waters day by day. - -“Mony a mother’s son is there,” she said to herself softly, as she stood -gazing about her--and even the community of hardship had a solace in it. -As the steamboat puffed and snorted to its destination, a big ship, -crowded with pensive faces, bare of sails, and tugged along by a little -steamer, came lumbering silently along through the peaceful evening -light, going out to sea. Two or three voices round announced it “an -emigrant ship,” and the Mistress gazed into it and after it, clasping -her son’s arm with a thrill at her heart. Evening; the sweet daylight -fading into a charmed and tender twilight--the sky growing pale with -very calm; the houses and churches and piles of buildings beginning to -stand out black against the colorless, mysterious light which casts no -shadows; the water gleaming in long, still ripples, as pale as the -sky--every thing softening and darkening into natural rest--yet, through -all, the great ship departing silently, with her throng of travelers, -beginning to unfold the sails of her wayfaring, beginning to vibrate to -the quickening wave, as she neared the sea. - -“God go with them!” said the Mistress, with a sob out of her full heart. -“Oh, Huntley, laddie! mony a mother’s son is there!” - -The landing, when they came to it; the rush of porters and vagabonds -from the pier; the half light, in which it seemed doubly necessary to -the Mistress, roused into prompt and vigorous self-defense, to keep the -most vigilant watch on the luggage--and the confusion with which both -mother and sons contemplated the screaming, shouting crowd who -surrounded them with offers of service, and bawled to them from the -shore, made altogether a very serious business of the arrival. The -Mistress never knew how she came through that ordeal; the “English -tongue,” which had a decidedly Irish brogue in that scene, and under -these circumstances, deafened the rural Scottish woman. The crowd of -spectators, and the foray upon everybody’s luggage made by some scores -of ragged fellows, whom her uncharitable imagination set down as robbers -or madmen, filled her with indignation and a strong propensity to -resistance; and it was not till she found herself safely deposited in an -odd little sitting-room of a little inn, close to the docks, with all -her packages safe and undiminished, that a measure of calmness returned -to the ruffled bosom of Mrs. Livingstone. Then, after they had rested -and refreshed themselves, Huntley and Patrick went out with natural -curiosity to see the new scene and the new country--for the whole party -fully considered that it was “England,” not Liverpool, in which they now -found themselves--and the Mistress was left alone. She sat in the little -parlor under the unfamiliar gas-light, looking round with forlorn eyes -upon the room. There was a little model of a ship upon the mantel-piece -in front of the little mirror, and another upon a small side-table under -the barometer; other odd little ornaments, such as sailors bring home, -shells and curious boxes, and little painted glass cups of Dutch art, -gave a very nautical aspect to the shabby apartment, which, further, -bore traces of having recently been smoked in, which disgusted the -Mistress. Then all the noises of a noisy and not very well-behaved -quarter seemed to rise up to her window, mingled with a jar of music -from a big blazing drinking-place, almost next door--and the private -tumult of the inn itself, voices and footsteps, shutting of doors and -ringing of bells, still further oppressed the solitary stranger. - -“Mercy on me! is that what they ca’ speaking English?” cried the -Mistress to herself, disturbed, lonely, sick at heart, and almost -offended with her sons for leaving her. She put her hands to her ears -with a gesture of disdain; the unfamiliar accent was quite an -aggravation and insult to her solitude--and then her thoughts settled -down upon the circumstances which brought her here. But a day or two -more, and she might never see Huntley again. - -Meanwhile the boys were straying through the mean, noisy streets, -blazing with light, which only showed their squalor the more, where a -whole disreputable population seemed to be exerting all its arts for the -fascination of the sailors, who were the patrons and support of all this -quarter. It was quite a new phase of life to the lads, fresh from their -rural solitudes, and all the proprieties of a respectable Scottish -family--but the novelty beguiled them on, though it disgusted them. They -went wandering about, curious, astonished, revolted, till they found -themselves among dark mazes of warehouses from which it was not easy to -find their way back. When they did get back it was late, though the -noise remained undiminished, and the Mistress’s temper was not improved, -if truth must be told, by her solitude. She had been trying to look out -from the window, where opposite there was nothing but the high brick -walls of the docks, and beneath, upon the lighted pavement, only such -scenes as horrified the soul of the Mistress within her. - -“It’s a marvel to me what pleasure even thoughtless laddies could find -wandering about a place like that,” said the Mistress; “England, quotha! -I thought mysel’ there must be something worth seeing in a place that -folk make such a wark about; but instead of that, it’s waur than the -Cowgate; pity me! and sharp tongues that gang through my head like a -bell!” - -“But Liverpool is not England,” said Huntley, coming to a slow -perception of that fact, and laughing at himself as he said it. - -“And maybe this is not Liverpool,” said Patie, with still greater -enlightenment. - -“Hold your peace, bairns,” cried the Mistress, peremptorily; “what can -you ken, twa laddies that have no more insight into life than babes -unborn--how can the like of you tell? Do I no’ see sin outbye there with -a painted face, and sounds of fiddling and laughing, and light enough -to burn up the haill town? Eh, bairns, if ever ye touch such dirt with -but the ends of your fingers, the mother that bore ye will think shame -of ye--burning shame! It sounds like pleasure--do ye hear?--but it’s no -pleasure, it’s destruction!--and I canna tell, for my ain part, how a -decent woman can daur to close her e’en, kenning what evil’s nigh. But -I’m no’ meaning that for you,” added the Mistress, changing her tone; -“the like of you young things need sleep and rest, and though I canna -tell where we’re to get the things we want in a miserable place like -this, we’ll have to be stirring early the morn.” - -“And we’ll find a better place,” said Huntley; “don’t be afraid, -mother--but for that and all the rest that we have to do and to bear, -you must try to rest yourself.” - -“Aye, laddie,” said the Mistress, hurriedly wiping her eyes, “but I -canna get my thoughts out of that ship that’s on the sea this nicht! and -maybe mony a lone woman sitting still with nae sons to come in to -her--and whiles I canna but mind what’s coming to mysel’.” - -“I am only twenty, mother, and Patie but eighteen,” said Huntley; “would -you like us to remain as we are, knowing nothing of life, as you say? or -are you afraid to trust your sons in the battle, like other men?” - -“Na! no’ me!” cried the Mistress; “you’re baith right, and I approve in -my mind--but only just this, bairns;--I’m your mother--and yon ship is -sailing in the dark before my very e’en, as plain as if I saw her now!” - -And whether it was thinking of that ship, or of the sons of other -mothers who were errant in her, or of her own boy, so soon to join their -journey, the Mistress heard the last sound that disturbed the house that -night, and the earliest in the morning. Her eyes were dry and sore when -she got up to see the daylight aspect of the unknown and unlovely world -around her; and the lads were still fast asleep in their privilege of -youth, while their mother stood once more wistfully looking out upon the -high black wall of the dock, and the masts appearing over it. She could -not see the river, or any thing more gracious than this seaman-tempting -street. There was nothing either within or without to divert her from -her own thoughts; and as she watched the early sunshine brighten upon a -scene so different from that of her own hills and streams, these -thoughts were forlorn enough. - -During the day, the little party went out to make some last purchases -for Huntley. The young man was to carry with him, in the securest form -which they could think of, a little fortune of a hundred pounds, on -which he was to make his start in the world, nothing doubting to find in -it a nucleus of wealth; and the Mistress, spite of the natural economy -of her ideas, and her long habit of frugality, was extravagant and -lavish in her anxiety to get every thing for Huntley that he could or -might require. When they came into the region of shops, she began to -drop behind, anxiously studying the windows, tempted by many a possible -convenience, which, if she had acted on her first impulse and purchased -each incontinently, would have made Huntley’s outfit an unbelievable -accumulation of peddlery. - -As it was, his mother’s care and inexperience freighted the young man -with a considerable burden of elaborate conveniences--cumbrous machines -of various forms, warranted invaluable for the voyage or for the bush, -which Huntley lugged about with many a year after, and tried to use for -his mother’s sake. When they got back to their inn, the Mistress had -suffered herself to be convinced that the noisy street outside the docks -was not Liverpool, much less England. But the “English tongue,” which -“rang through her head like a knife,” to vary the image--the mean brick -houses at which the triumphant Scotchwoman pointed her finger with -unspeakable contempt, the narrow streets, and noise and dust of the -great commercial town, filled her patriotic spirit with a disdainful -complacency. - -“Weel, laddies,” said Mrs. Livingstone, when they reached the inn, very -tired, that night; and the Mistress spoke with the natural satisfaction -of a traveled person; “I have aye heard a great wark made about -England--but I’m very sure, now that we’ve been in it, and seen for -ourselves, none of us desires to gang any further. Bits of brick houses -that you can mostly see through!--streets that neighbors could shake -hands across!--and for my part, ilka time I hear them speak, I think -they’re flyting. Eh, bairns, such sharp tongues! I wouldna gie Melrose -though it’s wee-er and hasna sae mony shops, for twenty of this -place--and as for Edinburgh--!” - -But the contrast was unspeakable, and took away the Mistress’s breath. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -They were detained for some days waiting the sailing of the ship, which -already the little party had gone over, the Mistress with awe and -solemnity, the brothers with eager interest and excitement, more than -once. The bark Flora, Captain Gardner master, bound for Port -Philip--through those days and nights of suspense, when they hoped and -feared every morning to hear that this was the last day, this name might -have been heard even among the dreams of Huntley’s mother. Yet this -procrastination of the parting was not good even for her. She said her -farewell a hundred times in the bitterness of imagination before the -real moment came, and as they all went down every morning early to one -of the piers, opposite to which in the river the Flora lay, and made a -mournful, anxious promenade up and down, gazing at the anchored ship, -with her bare cordage, the emigrant encampments on her big deck, and the -fresh vegetables strung in her bows, noting with sharp and solicitous -eyes any signs of preparation there, the pain of parting was -indefinitely repeated, though always with a pang of joy at the -end--another day. However, even emigrant ships have to make up their -minds some time. At last came the last night, when they all sat -together, looking into each other’s faces, knowing that, after -to-morrow, they might never meet again. The Mistress had not a great -deal to say on that last night; what she did say was of no one -continuous tone. She could not make sermons to her boys--it might be -that there was abruptness and impatience even in her motherly warnings. -The grief of this farewell did not change her character, though it -pierced to her heart. - -“Try and get a decent house to live in--dinna be about inns or such like -places,” said the Mistress; “I ken by mysel’, just the time we’ve been -here, Huntley--and if it’s unsettling to the like of me, what should it -be to a young lad?--but dinna be owre great friends either with them -that put you up--I’m no fond of friendship out of folks’ ain degree, -though I ken weel that nobody that’s kind to my bairn will find an -ungrateful thought in me; but mind aye what ye are, and wha ye are, and -a’ that’s looked for at your hands.” - -“A poor emigrant, mother,” said Huntley, with rather a tremulous smile. - -“Hold your peace, laddie, dinna be unthankful,” said the Mistress; “a -lad with a good house and lands at hame, and a hundred pound clear in -his pocket, no’ to say how mony conveniences and handy things in his -boxes, and a’ the comforts that ye can carry. Dinna sin your mercies, -Huntley, before me.” - -“It would not become me,” said Huntley, “for I might have had few -comforts but for you, mother, that thought of every thing; as every -thing I have, if I needed reminding, would make me think of home and -you.” - -“Whisht, whisht, bairn!” said the Mistress, with a broken voice and a -sob, two big tears falling out of her eyes upon her trembling hands, -which she wiped off hurriedly, almost with a gesture of shame; “and -ye’ll no’ forget your duty, Huntley,” she added with agitated haste; -“mind what the minister said; if there be nae kirk, as there might not -be, seeing it’s a savage place, never let the Sabbath day slip out of -your hand, as if there was na difference. Kirks and ministers are a -comfort, whiles--but, Huntley, mind God’s aye nigh at hand. I bid ye -baith mind that--I’m no’ what I should be--I canna say a’ that’s in my -heart--but, oh, laddies, mind if you should never hear another word out -of your mother’s lips! They speak about ships and letters that make -far-away friends nigh each other, but, bairns, the Lord Himsel’ is the -nighest link between you and me--as He’s the only link between us a’ and -him that’s gane.” - -There was a long pause after this burst out of the desolate heart of -Norlaw’s widow and Huntley’s mother; a pause in which words would have -been vain, even if any one of them could have found any words to say, -and in which the fatherless sons, and the mother who was a widow, turned -their faces from each other, shedding those hurried, irrestrainable -tears, which they dared not indulge. It was the Mistress who found -composure first, but she did not prolong the emotion of the little party -by continuing the same strain. Like herself, she had no sooner found her -voice, than, shy of revealing the depths of her heart, even to her -children, she resumed on a totally different theme. - -“If ye gang up into the country, Huntley, dinna bide aye among the -beasts,” said the Mistress, abruptly; “mind, it’s no’ that I put very -much faith in this lad Cassilis, but still, whatever’s possible shouldna -be forgotten. You might be Melmar, with a great estate, before mony -years were past, and, at any rate, you’re master of your ain land, and -have as good a name to bear as ever came of _that_ house. It’s my hope -to see you back at the head of your household, a man respected--so dinna -you sink into a solitary, Huntley, or dwell your lane ower lang. I’ve -nothing to say against the making of siller--folk canna live without it -in this world--but a fortune’s no equal to a man--and if ye canna make -the ane without partly sacrificing the other, come hame.” - -“I will, mother,” said Huntley, seriously. - -“And there’s just one thing mair,” added the Mistress, not without a -look of uneasiness, “be aye particular about the kind of folk you make -friends o’--and specially--weel, weel, you’re both young lads. I canna -keep ye bairns--you’ll soon be thinking of the like of that yoursel’. -I’m no fond of strangers, Huntley Livingstone, I dinna understand their -ways; dinna bring me a daughter of that land to vex me as the fremd -women vexed Rebecca. No’ that I’m meaning to put bondage on you--na--I -wouldna have it said I was jealous of my sons--but you’re young, and -young lads are easily beguiled; wait till you come hame.” - -“I give you my word for that, mother!” cried Huntley, eagerly, the blood -rushing over his face, as he grasped the Mistress’s hand with a quite -unnecessary degree of fervor. - -Perhaps his mother found him rather more in earnest than the vague -nature of her advice seemed to justify. She looked at him with a -startled glance of suspicion and dawning displeasure. - -“Ay, laddie!” cried the Mistress; “ane would think you had made up your -mind!” and she turned her eyes upon the glow and brightening of -Huntley’s face, with a little spark of impatience. But at that moment -the clock below stairs began to strike twelve; it startled them all as -they sat listening--and gradually, as stroke followed stroke with that -inevitable regularity, the heart of Huntley’s mother sank within her. -She took the hand, which she had been half angry to find grasping hers -in confirmation of his earnestness, tenderly between her own--she -stroked the strong young fingers with that hand of hers, somewhat -large, somewhat wrinkled, without an ornament upon it save its worn -wedding-ring, the slow, fond, loving touch of which brought hot tears to -Huntley’s eyes. The Mistress did not look up, because her own face was -moved with a grief and tenderness unspeakable and beyond the reach of -words--she could not say any thing--she could only sit silent, keeping -down the sob in her throat, the water that gathered in her eyes, fondly -holding her son’s hand, caressing it with an indescribable pathetic -gesture, more touching than the wildest passionate embrace. - -Then they all stood up together to say good-night. - -“Laddies, it’s no more night!--it’s morning, and Huntley sails this -day,” said the Mistress; “oh, my bairns!--and I canna speak; dinna say a -word to me!--but gang and lie down and take your rest, and the Lord send -sleep to us a’ and make us ready for what’s to come.” - -It was with this good-night, and no more, that they parted, but the -sleep and rest for which she had prayed did not come to the mother. She -was up by daybreak, once more looking over the last box which Huntley -was to take with him on board, to see if any thing could be added to its -stores. - -She stole into her sons’ room to look at them in their sleep, but would -not suffer any one to wake them, though the lads slept long, worn out by -excitement and emotion. Then the Mistress put on her bonnet, and went -out by herself to try if she could not get something for their -breakfast, more delicate and dainty than usual, and, when she returned, -arranged the table with her own hands, pausing often to wipe away, not -tears, but a sad moisture with which her eyes were always full. But she -was perfectly composed, and went about all these homely offices of love -with a smile more touching than grief. The emergency had come at last, -and the Mistress was not a woman to break down or lose the comfort of -this last day. Time enough to break her heart when Huntley was gone. - -And the inevitable hours went on, as hours do before one of those -life-partings--slow, yet with a flow and current in their gradual -progress, which seemed to carry them forward more forcibly than the -quickest tide of pleasure. And at last it was time to embark. They went -down to the river together, saying very little; then on the river, in a -boat, to reach the ship. - -It was a glorious harvest-day, warm, sunny, overflowing with happiness -and light. The opposite bank of the river had never looked so green, the -villages by its side had never detached themselves so brightly from the -fields behind and the sands before. The very water swelling under their -boat rippled past with a heave and swell of enjoyment, palpitating under -the sunshine; and the commonest boatman and hardest-laboring sailor on -these rejoicing waters looked like a man whose life was holiday. People -on the pier, ignorant bystanders, smiled even upon this little party as -their boat floated off into the midway of the sun-bright stream, as if -it was a party of pleasure. Instinctively the Mistress put down her -thick, black vail, worked with big, unearthly flowers, which made so -many blots upon the sunshine, and said to Huntley, from behind its -shelter:-- - -“What a pleasure it was to see such a day for the beginning of his -voyage!” - -They all repeated the same thing over mechanically at different times, -and that was almost the whole substance of what they said until they -reached the ship. - -And presently, the same little boat glided back again over the same -gleaming, golden waters, with Patie, very pale and very red by turns, in -one end of it, and the Mistress, with her black vail over her face, -sitting all alone on one side, with her hands rigidly clasped in her -lap, and her head turned towards the ship. When the Flora began to move -from her place, this silent figure gave a convulsive start and a cry, -and so Huntley was gone. - -He was leaning over the bulwark of the ship, looking out at this speck -in the water--seeing before him, clearer than eyes ever saw, the faces -of his mother, his brothers, his dead father--perhaps even of others -still--with a pang at his heart, which was less for himself than for the -widow who could no longer look upon her son; his heart rising, his heart -sinking, as his own voyage hence, and her voyage home, rose upon his -imagination--living through the past, the present, and the future--the -leave-taking to which his mind vibrated--the home-coming which now -seemed almost as near and certain--the unknown years of absence, which -fled before him like a dream. - -He, too, started when the vessel moved upon the sunny river--started -with a swell of rising enterprise and courage. The daring of his -nature, and the gay wind blowing down the river; fresh and favorable, -dried the tears in Huntley’s eyes; but did not dry that perpetual -moisture from the pained eyelids of the Mistress, as she turned to Patie -at last, with faltering lips, to repeat that dreary congratulation:-- - -“Eh, Patie! what a blessing, if we could but think upon it, to see such -a day as this for a guid beginning on the sea!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -It was very well for the Mistress’s spirit, though scarcely for her -purse, that she was roused the next day to horror and indignation, -scarcely restrainable, by the supposed exorbitant bill of the inn. She -thought it the most monstrous imposition which ever had been practiced, -and could scarcely be persuaded to depart from her first resolution of -seeking out a “decent writer,” “if there is such a person in this wicked -town,” as she added, scornfully--to arbitrate between her and the -iniquitous publican. At last, however, Patie succeeded in getting his -mother safely once more within the Glasgow steamer. - -It was a melancholy voyage, for every breath of wind that blew, agitated -Huntley’s mother with questions of his safety; and she had no better -prospect than to part with Patie at this journey’s end. They reached -their destination in the afternoon, when the great, smoky, dingy -Glasgow, looked almost hotter and more stifled than the other great -seaport they had left. From the Broomielaw, they went upon their weary -way, through the town, to a humble lodging recommended by Dr. Logan, -whose letter to the manager of one of the founderies Patie carried in -his pocket. The house which the travelers sought was up three long -flights of stairs, in a dark-complexioned close, where each flat was -divided into two houses. The “land,” or block of buildings in which it -was placed, formed one side of a little street, just behind the place -where Patie was to work; and the windows of their lodging looked across -the black yard and big buildings of this great, noisy foundery, to a -troubled, smoky glimpse of the Clyde, and Glasgow Green upon the other -side. - -After he had seen his mother safely arrived in this shelter, Patie had -to set out immediately to deliver his letter. The Mistress was left once -more by herself to examine her new resting-place. It was a little room, -with a little bed in the corner, hung with dark, unlined chintz. It was -also what is called in these regions “coomcieled,” which is to say, the -roof sloped on one side, being close under the leads. A piece of carpet -in the centre, a little table in the centre of that, three chairs, a -chest of drawers, and a washing stand, completed the equipment of the -room. Was this to be Patie’s room--the boy’s only substitute for home? - -The Mistress went to the window, to see if any comfort was to be found -there; but there was only the foundery--the immense, black, coaly, smoky -yard into which these windows looked; and, a little to the right, a -great cotton factory, whence, at the sound of a big bell, troops of -girls came crowding out, with their uncovered heads shining in the -evening sun. The Mistress turned abruptly in again, much discomposed by -the prospect. With their colored petticoats and short gowns, and -shining, uncovered hair, the Glasgow mill girls were--at this distance -at least--rather a pretty sight; and a perfectly uninterested person -might have thought it quite seemly and natural that the black moleskin -giants of the foundery, issuing from their own cavernous portals at the -same time, should have exchanged sundry jokes and rough encounters of -badinage with their female neighbors. - -But the Mistress, whose son was to be left at this same foundery, awoke -in a horror of injured pride and aristocracy to contemplate an -unimagined danger. - -“A barefooted lassie from a mill!--a bairn of mine!” cried the Mistress, -with looks aghast; and she drew a chair carefully out of reach of the -window, and sat down at the table to consider the matter. - -But when she looked round upon the bare, mean room, and thought of the -solitary lad, who knew nobody in Glasgow, who had been used to the -kindly cares of home all his life, and who was only a boy, although a -“bairn of mine!” it is not very wonderful, perhaps, that the Mistress -should have done even the staid and sensible Patie the injustice of -supposing him captivated by some one of that crowd of dumpy daughters of -St. Mungo, who were so far beneath the dignity of a son of Norlaw. Even -Huntley, far away at sea, disappeared, for the moment, from her anxious -sight. Worse dangers than those of sea or storm might be here. - -Patie, meanwhile, thinking of no womankind in the world, not even of his -mother, was explaining very forcibly and plainly to Dr. Logan’s friend, -the manager, his own wishes and intentions; railways were a very recent -invention in those days, and steamboats not an old one--it was the -bright day of engineering, while there still lingered a certain romance -about those wondrous creations of steel and steam, with which the world -had not yet grown too familiar--gentlemen apprentices were not uncommon -in those great Cyclopean workshops--but Patrick Livingstone did not mean -to be a gentleman apprentice. He wanted to put himself to school for a -couple of years, to learn his craft like a man, without privilege of -gentility, he was too old for the regular trade apprenticeship, but he -desired nothing more than a lessening of the time of that probation--and -whatever circumstances might lead him to do at the end of it, Patie was -not afraid of being found wanting in needful skill or knowledge. Dr. -Logan had given a most flattering description of his family and -“station,” partly stimulated thereto by the zeal with which his nephew -Cassilis took up the cause of the Livingstones--and Mr. Crawford, the -Glasgow manager, was very civil to the lad, who was the son of a landed -proprietor, and whose brother might, in a few years, be one of the first -gentlemen in the county of Melrose; the interview on the whole was a -very satisfactory one, and Patie plodded his way back to the little room -where he had left his mother, engaged to return next day with her, to -conclude the arrangement by which he should enter the foundery; the lad -was satisfied, even exhilarated, in his sober fashion, to find himself -thus upon the threshold of a more serious life. Though he observed -perfectly the locality and appearances around him, they had not so much -effect upon Patie as they might have had on a more imaginative temper. -His calmer and more practical mind, paradox though it seems to say so, -was less affected by external circumstances than either his mother or -Huntley, and a thousand times less than Cosmo would have been. He did -not concern himself about his surroundings--_they_ had little debasing -or depressing influence upon his thoughts--he scarcely noticed them -indeed, if they were sufficient for his necessities. Patie could very -well contrive to live without beauty, and could manage to get on with a -very moderate degree of comfort, so long as his own vigorous mind -approved his life, and he had plenty to do. - -In consequence of which it happened that Patie scarcely comprehended his -mother’s dissatisfaction with the room; if he remained here, it was the -only room the mistress of the house could give her lodger. He thought it -very well, and quite as much as he required, and apprehended no -particular cheerlessness in consequence of its poverty. - -“It is not home, of course,” he said, with great nonchalance, “but, -granting that, mother, I don’t see what difference it makes to me. It’s -all well enough. I don’t want any thing more--it’s near the work, and -it’s in a decent house--that should be enough to please you.” - -“Hold your peace, Patie--do you think I’m careless of my bairn’s -comfort?” cried the Mistress, with a half tone of anger; “and wha’ was -ever used to a place like this, coming out of Norlaw?” - -“But there can not be two Norlaws,” said Patie, “nor two homes. I want -but one, for my part. I have no desire at present to like a second place -as well.” - -“Eh, laddie, if you can but keep that thought, and be true!” cried the -Mistress, “I wouldna heed, save for your ain comfort, where you were -then.” - -“Do you doubt me, mother? what are you feared for? tell me, and I’ll -know what to do,” said Patie, coming close to her, with his look of -plain, unmistakable sincerity. - -“I’m no’ feared,” said the Mistress, those ever-rising, never-falling -tears dimming her eyes again, while yet a little secondary emotion, half -shame of her own suspicions, half petulance, rose to her voice; “but -it’s a poor place for a laddie like you, bred up at hame--and it’s a -great town, full of temptations--and night and day in a place like this, -ilka street is full of evil--and naething but bare bed and board instead -of hame. Oh! Patie if I was feared, it was because I knew mony a dreary -story of lads that meant as well as yoursel’!” - -“Perhaps I was presumptuous, mother,” said Patie; “I will not say -there’s no fear;--but there’s a difference between one man and another, -and time and your own judgment will prove what’s temptation to me. Now, -come, if you have rested enough--the air will do you more good than -sitting here.” - -The Mistress was persuaded, and went out accordingly with her son, -feeling strangely forlorn and solitary in the crowded thoroughfares, -where she was struck with the common surprise of country people, to meet -so many and to know no one. Still there was a certain solace in the calm -summer evening, through which the moon was rising in that pale sky so -far away and clear, above the hanging smoke of the town--and in Patie’s -arm, which seemed to support her with more pride and tenderness now that -Huntley was gone. The soft moon shining down upon the river, which here -was not the commercial Clyde, of ships and steamers, the many -half-distinguishable figures upon the Green opposite, from which color -and light were fading, and the tranquillity of the night even here, bore -back the thoughts of the mother into a tenderer channel. She put up her -hand to her eyes to clear them. - -“Eh Patie! I think I see my son on the sea, looking up at that very -sky,” said the Mistress, with a low sob; “how will I look at it from -Norlaw, where Cosmo and me will be our lane?--and now but another day -more, and I’ll lose you!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -The Mistress traveled home once more by the slow canal to Edinburgh, and -from thence by the stage-coach to Kirkbride. She had left Patie, at -last, with some degree of confidence, having seen Mr. Crawford, the -manager of the foundery, and commended her son specially to his care; -and having, besides, done what she could to improve the comfort of -Patie’s little apartment, and to warn him against the temptations of -Glasgow. It was rather heavy work afterward, gliding silently home alone -by the monotonous motion of that canal, seeing the red-tiled cottages, -the green slopes, the stubble-fields move past like a dream, and -remembering how she had left her boys behind, one on the sea, and one -among strangers, both embarked upon the current of their life. She sat -still in the little cabin of the boat by one of the windows, moving -nothing but her fingers, which clasped and unclasped mechanically. Her -big black vail hung over her bonnet, but did not shroud her face; there -was always moisture in her eyes, but very seldom tears that came the -length of falling; and her mind was very busy, and with life in its -musings--for it was not alone of the past she was thinking, but also of -the future--of her own life at home, where Huntley’s self-denial had -purchased comfort for his mother, and where his mother, not to be -outdone, silently determined upon the course of those days, which she -did not mean to be days of leisure. This Melmar, which had been a -bugbear to the Mistress all her days, gradually changed its aspect now. -It no longer reminded her of the great bitterness of her life--it was -her son’s possible inheritance, and might be the triumphant occasion of -Huntley’s return. - -It was late on a September afternoon, when she descended from the coach -at the door of the Norlaw Arms, and found Cosmo and Marget waiting there -to welcome her. The evening sunshine streamed full in their faces, -falling in a tender glory from the opposite brae of Tyne, where the -white manse at the summit, and the cottages among the trees, shone in -the tranquil light, with their kindliest look of home. The Mistress -turned hurriedly from the familiar prospect, to repose her tired and wet -eyes on the shadowed corner of the village street, where the gable of -the little inn kept out the sunshine, and where the ostler had lifted -down her trunk. She grasped Cosmo’s hand hastily, and scarcely ventured -to look the boy in the face; it was dreary coming home alone; as she -descended, bowed Jaacob at the smithy door took off his cowl in token of -respect, and eyed her grimly with his twinkling eye. Jaacob, who was a -moral philosopher, was rather satisfied, on the whole, with the demeanor -of the family of Norlaw under their troubles, and testified his -approbation by a slightly authoritative approval. The Mistress gave him -a very hasty nod, but could not look even at Jaacob; a break-down, or -public exhibition of emotion, being the thing of all others most -nervously avoided by respectable matrons of her country and temper, a -characteristic very usual among Scotchwomen, of middle age and sober -mind. She would have “thought shame” to have been seen crying or “giving -way,” “in the middle of the town,” as, even now, enlightened by the -sight of Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Liverpool, the Mistress still called -the village street of Kirkbride; another hasty nod acknowledged the -sympathetic courtesy of the widow who kept the village mangle, and whose -little boy had wept at the door of Norlaw when its master was dying; and -then Cosmo and Marget took the trunk between them, and the Mistress drew -down her vail, and the little party set out, across the foot-bridge, -through the tender slanting sunshine going home. - -Then, at last, between the intervals of question and answer as to the -common matters of country life, which had occurred during her absence, -the Mistress’s lips were opened. Marget and Cosmo went on before, along -the narrow pathway by the river, and she followed. Cosmo had spent half -of his time at the manse, it appeared, and all the neighbors had sent to -make kindly inquiry when his mother was expected home. - -“It’s my hope you didna gang oftener than you were welcome, laddie,” -said the Mistress, with a characteristic doubt; “but I’ll no deny the -minister’s aye very kind, and Katie too. You should not call her Katie -now, Cosmo, she’s woman grown. I said the very same to Huntley no’ a -week ago, but _he’s_ no like to offend onybody, poor lad, for many a day -to come. And I left him very weel on the whole--oh, yes, very weel, in a -grand ship for size, and mony mair in her--and they say they’ll soon be -out of our northerly seas, and win to grand weather, and whiles I think, -if there was _great_ danger, fewer folk would gang--no’ to say that the -Almighty’s no’ a bit nigher by land than he is by sea.” - -“Eh! and that’s true!” cried Marget, in an involuntary amen. - -The Mistress was not perfectly pleased by the interruption. This tender -mother could not help being imperative even in her tenderest -affections; and even the faithful servant could not share her -mother-anxieties without risk of an occasional outbreak. - -“How’s a’ the kye?” said the Mistress with a momentary sharpness. “I’ve -never been an unthrifty woman, I’m bauld to say; but every mutchkin of -milk maun double itself now, for my bairns’ sakes.” - -“Na, mem,” said Marget, touched on her honor, “it canna weel do that; -but you ken yoursel’, if you had ta’en my advice, the byre might have -been mair profit years ago. Better milkers are no’ in a’ the Lowdens; -and if you sell Crummie’s cauf, as I aye advised--” - -“You’re aye very ready with your advice, my woman. I never meant any -other thing,” said the Mistress, with some impatience; “but after this, -the house of Norlaw maun even get a puir name, if it must be so; for I -warn ye baith, my thoughts are upon making siller; and when I put my -mind to a thing, I canna do it by halves.” - -“Then, mother, you must, in the first place, do something with me,” said -Cosmo. “I’m the only useless person in the house.” - -“Useless, laddie!--hold you peace!” said the Mistress. “You’re but a -bairn, and you’re tender, and you maunna make a profitless beginning -till you win to your strength. Huntley and Patie--blessings on -them!--were both strong callants in their nature, and got good time to -grow; and I’ll no’ let my youngest laddie lose his youth. Eh, Cosmo, my -man! if you were a lassie, instead of their brother, thae twa laddies -that are away could not be mair tender of you in their hearts!” - -A flush came over Cosmo’s face, partly gratified affection, partly a -certain shame. - -“But I’ll soon be a man,” he said, in a low and half excited tone; “and -I can not be content to wait quietly at home when my brothers are -working. I have a right to work as well.” - -“Bless the bairn!” cried Marget, once more involuntarily. - -“Dinna speak nonsense,” said the Mistress. “There’s a time for every -thing; and because I’m bereaved of twa, is that a reason my last bairn -should leave me? Fie, laddie! Patie’s eighteen--he’s come the length of -a man--there’s a year and mair between him and you. But what I was -speaking of was the kye. There’s nae such stock in the country as the -beasts that are reared at Tyneside; and I mean to take a leaf out of Mr. -Blackadder’s book, if I’m spared, and see what we can do at Norlaw.” - -“Eh, Mistress, Mr. Blackadder’s a man in his prime!” cried Marget. - -“Weel, you silly haverel, what am I? Do you think a man that’s laboring -just for good name and fame, and because he likes it, and that has nae -kin in the world but a far-away cousin, should be stronger for his wark -than a widow woman striving for her bairns?” cried the Mistress, with a -hasty tear in her eye, and a quick flush on her cheek; “but I’ll let you -a’ see different things, if I’m spared, in Norlaw.” - -While she spoke with this flush of resolution, they came in sight of -their home; but it was not possible to see the westerly sunshine -breaking through those blank eyes of the old castle, and the low, modern -house standing peacefully below, those unchanged witnesses of all the -great scenes of all their lives, without a strain of heart and courage, -which was too much for all of them. To enter in, remembering where the -father took his rest, and how the sons began their battle--to have it -once more pierced into the depths of her heart, that, of all the family -once circling her, there remained only Cosmo, overpowered the Mistress, -even in the midst of her new purpose, with a returning agony. She went -in silent, pressing her hand upon her heart. It was a sad coming home. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -“And so you’re the only ane of them left at hame?” said bowed Jaacob, -looking up at Cosmo from under his bushy brows, and pushing up his red -cowl off his forehead. - -And there could not have been a more remarkable contrast of appearance -than between this slight, tall, fair boy, and the swart little demon, -who considered him with a scientific curiosity, keen, yet not unkindly, -from the red twilight of the blacksmith’s shop. - -“I should be very glad not to be left at home,” said Cosmo, with a -boyish flush of shame; “and it will not be for long, if I can help it.” - -“Weel, I’ll no’ say but ye a’ show a good spirit--a very good spirit, -considering your up-bringing,” said Jaacob, “which was owre tender for -laddies. I’ve little broo, for my ain part, of women’s sons. We’re a’ -that, more or less, doubtless, but the less the better, lad. I kent -little about mothers and such like when I was young mysel’.” - -“They say,” said Cosmo, who, in spite of his sentiment, had a quick -perception of humor, and was high in favor with the little Cyclops, -“they say you were a fairy, and frightened everybody from your cradle, -Jacob, and that your mother fainted with fear when she saw you first--is -it true?” - -“True!--aye, just as true as a’ the rest,” said Jaacob. “They’ll say -whatever ye like that’s marvellous, if ye’ll but listen to them. A man -o’ sense is an awfu’ phenomenon in a place like this. He’s no’ to be -accounted for by the common laws o’ nature; that’s the philosophy of the -matter. _You’re_ owre young yet to rouse them; but they’ll make their -story, or a’s one--take my word for it--of a lad of genius like -yoursel’.” - -“Genius, Jacob!” - -The boy’s face grew red with a sudden, violent flush; and an intense, -sudden light shone in his dark eyes. He did not laugh at the -compliment--it awoke some powerful sentiment of vanity or -self-consciousness in his own mind. The lighting-up of his eyes was like -a sudden gleam upon a dark water--a revelation of a hundred unknown -shadows and reflections which had been there unrevealed for many a day -before. - -“Aye, genius. I ken the true metal when I hear it ring,” said Jaacob. -“Like draws to like, as ony fool can tell.” - -And then the boy turned away with a sudden laugh--a perfectly mirthful, -pure utterance of the half-fun, half-shame, and wholly ludicrous -impression which this climax made upon him. - -Strangely enough, Jaacob was not offended. He went on, moving about the -red gloom of his workshop, without the slightest appearance of -displeasure. He had no idea that the lad whom he patronized could laugh -at him. - -“I can not say but I’m surprised at your brother for a’ that,” said -Jaacob. “Huntley’s a lad of spirit; but he should have stood up to -Me’mar like a man.” - -“Do you know about Me’mar, too?” cried Cosmo, in some surprise. - -“I reckon I do; and maist things else,” said Jaacob, dryly. “I’m no’ -vindictive mysel’, but when a man does me an ill turn, I’ve a real good -disposition to pay him back. He aye had a grudge against the late -Norlaw, this Aberdeenawa’ man; and if _I_ had been your faither, Cosmo, -lad, I’d have fought the haill affair to the last, though it cost me -every bodle I had; for wha does a’ the land and the rights belong to, -after all?--to _her_, and no’ to him!” - -“Did you know her?” asked Cosmo, breathlessly, not perceiving, in his -eager curiosity, how limited Jaacob’s real knowledge of the case was. - -“Aye,” said Jaacob; and the ugly little demon paused, and breathed from -his capacious lungs a sigh, which disturbed the atmosphere of the smithy -with a sudden convulsion. Then he added, quietly, and in an undertone, -“I had a great notion of her mysel’.” - -“You!” said Cosmo. - -The boy did not know whether to fall upon his companion with sudden -indignation, and give him a hearty shake by his deformed shoulders, or -to retire with an angry laugh of ridicule and resentment. Both the more -violent feelings, however, merged into the unmitigated amazement with -which Cosmo at last gazed at the swarthy hunchback, who had ventured to -lift his eyes to Norlaw’s love. - -“And what for no’ me?” said Jaacob, sturdily; “do ye think it’s good -looks and naught else that takes a woman’s e’e? do you think I havena -had them in my offer as weel favored as Mary Huntley? Na, I’ll do them -this justice; a woman, if she’s no’ a downright haverel, kens a man of -sense when she sees him. Mony a wiselike woman has cast her e’e in at -this very smiddy; but I’m no’ a marrying man.” - -“You would have made many discontented, and one ungrateful,” said the -boy, laughing. “Is that what kept you back, Jacob?” - -“Just that,” said the philosopher, with a grim smile; “but I had a great -notion of Miss Mary Huntley; she was aulder than me; that’s aye the way -with callants; ye’ll be setting your heart on a woman o’ twenty -yoursel’. I’d have gane twenty miles a-foot, wet or dry, just to shoe -her powny; and I wouldna have let her cause gang to the wa’, as your -father did, if it had been me.” - -“Was she beautiful? what like was she, Jacob?” cried Cosmo, eagerly. - -“I can not undertake to tell you just what she was like, a callant like -you,” said Jaacob; then the dark hobgoblin made a pause, drawing himself -half into his furnace, as the boy could suppose. “She was like a man’s -first fancy,” continued the little giant, abruptly, drawing forth a -red-hot bar of iron, which made a fiery flash in the air, and lighted up -his own swart face for the moment; “she was like the woman a lad sets -his heart on, afore he kens the cheats of this world,” he added, at -another interval, with a great blow of his hammer, which made the sparks -fly; and through the din and the flicker no further words came. Cosmo’s -imagination filled up the ideal. The image of Mary of Melmar rose -angel-like out of the boy’s stimulated fancy, and there was not even a -single glimmer of the grotesque light of this scene to diminish the -romantic halo which rose around his father’s first love. - -“As for me, if you think the like of me presumed in lifting his e’en,” -said Jaacob, “I’ll warn you to change your ideas, my man, without delay; -a’ that auld trash canna stand the dint of good discussion and opinion -in days like these. Speak about your glorious revolutions! I tell you, -callant, we’re on the eve of the real glorious revolution, the time when -every man shall have respect for his neighbors--save when his neighbor’s -a fool; nane o’ your oligarchies for a free country; we’re men, and -we’ll have our birthright; and do you think I’m heeding what a coof’s -ancestors were, when I ken I’m worth twa o’ him--ay, or ten o’ him!--as -a’ your bits o’ lords and gentlemen will find as soon as we’ve The -Bill.” - -“An honorable ancestor is an honor to any man,” said Cosmo, firing with -the pride of birth. “I would not take the half of the county, if it was -offered me, in place of the old castle at Norlaw.” - -“Well,” said Jaacob, with a softening glance, “it’s no’ an ill sentiment -that, I’ll allow, so far as the auld castle gangs; but ony man that -thinks he’s of better flesh and bluid than me, no’ to say intellect and -spirit, on the strength of four old wa’s, or the old rascals that -thieved in them--I’ll tell ye, Cosmo, my lad, I think he’s a fool, and -that’s just the short and the long o’ the affair.” - -“Better flesh and blood, or better intellect and spirit!” said the boy, -with a half-meditative, half-mirthful smile. “Homer was a beggar, and so -was Belisarius, and so was Blind Harry, of Wallace’s time.” - -This highly characteristic, school-boyish, and national confusion of -heroes, moved the blacksmith-philosopher with no sensation of the -absurd. Homer and Blind Harry were by no means unfit companions in the -patriotic conception of bowed Jaacob, who, nevertheless, knew Pope’s -Homer very tolerably, and was by no means ignorant of the pretensions of -the “blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle.” - -“A feesical disqualification, Cosmo, is quite a different matter,” said -Jaacob; “nae man could make greater allowance for the like of that than -me, that might have been supposed at one time to be on the verge of it -mysel’.” - -And as he spoke, his one bright eye twinkled in Jaacob’s head with -positive scintillations, as if Nature had endowed it with double power -to make up for its solitude. - -“The like of Homer and Blind Harry, however, belong to a primitive age,” -said Jaacob; “the minstrel crew were aye vagrants--no’ to say it was -little better than a kind of a servile occupation at the best, praises -of the great. But the world’s wiser by this time. I would not say I -would make the Bill final, mysel’, but let’s aince get it, laddie, and -ye’ll see a change. We’ll hae nae mair o’ your lordlings in the high -places--we’ll hae naething but _men_.” - -“Did you ever hear any thing, Jacob,” said Cosmo, somewhat abruptly--for -the romantic story of his kinswoman was more attractive to the boy’s -mind than politics--“of where the young lady of Me’mar went to, or who -it was she married? I suppose not, since she was searched for so long.” - -“No man ever speered at me before, so far as I can mind,” said Jaacob, -with a little bitterness; “your father behoved to manage the haill -business himsel’, and he was na great hand. I’m no’ fond of writers when -folk can do without them, but they’re of a certain use, nae doubt, like -a’ other vermin; a sharp ane o’ them would have found Mary Huntley, ye -may take my word for that. I was aince in France mysel’.” - -“In France?” cried Cosmo, with, undeniable respect and excitement. - -“Ay, just that,” said Jaacob, dryly; “it’s nae such great thing, though -folk make a speech about it. I wasna far inower. I was at a bit seaport -place on the coast; Dieppe they ca’ it, and deep it was to an innocent -lad like what I was at the time--though I could haud my ain with maist -men, both then and at this day.” - -“And you saw there?"--cried Cosmo, who became very much interested. - -“Plenty of fools,” said Jaacob, “and every wean in the streets jabbering -French, which took me mair aback than onything else I heard or saw; but -there was ae day a lady passed me by. I didna see her face at first, but -I saw the bairn she had in her hand, and I thought to mysel’ I could not -but ken the foot, that had a ring upon the path like siller bells. I -gaed round about, and round about, till I met her in the face, but -whether it was her or no I canna tell; I stood straight afore her in the -midroad, and she passed me by with a glance, as if she kent nae me.” - -The tone in which the little hunchback uttered these words was one of -indescribable yet suppressed bitterness. He was too proud to acknowledge -his mortification; yet it was clear enough, even to Cosmo, that this -pride had not only prevented him from mentioning his chance meeting at -the proper time, but that even now he would willingly persuade himself -that the ungrateful beauty, who did not recognize him, could not be the -lady of his visionary admiration. - -“Do you think it was the Lady of Melmar?” asked the boy, anxiously, for -Jaacob’s “feelings,” though they had no small force of human emotion in -them, were, for the moment, rather a secondary matter to Cosmo. - -“If it had been her, she would have kent _me_,” said Vulcan, with -emphasis, and he turned to his hammering with vehemence doubly -emphatic. Jaacob had no inclination to be convinced that Mary of Melmar -might forget him, who remembered her so well. He returned to the Bill, -which was more or less in most people’s thoughts in those days, and -which was by no means generally uninteresting to Cosmo--but the boy’s -thoughts were too much excited to be amused by Jaacob’s politics; and -Cosmo went home with visions in his mind of the quaint little Norman -town, where Mary of Melmar had been seen by actual vision, and which -henceforth became a region of dreams and fancy to her young knight and -champion, who meant to seek her over all the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -Ere the winter had fully arrived, visible changes had taken place in the -house and steading of Norlaw. As soon as all the operations of the -harvest were over, the Mistress dismissed all the men-servants of the -farm, save two, and let, at Martinmas, all the richer portion of the -land, which was in good condition, and brought a good rent. Closely -following upon the plowmen went Janet, the younger maidservant, who -obtained, to her great pride, but doubtful advantage, a place in a great -house in the neighborhood. - -The Norlaw byres were enlarged and improved--the Norlaw cattle increased -in number by certain choice and valuable specimens of “stock,” -milch-kine, sleek and fair, and balmy-breathed. Some few fields of -turnips and mangelwurzel, and the rich pasture lands on the side of Tyne -behind the castle, were all that the Mistress retained in her own hands, -and with Marget for her factotum, and Willie Noble, the same man who had -assisted in Norlaw’s midnight funeral, for her chief manager and -representative out of doors, Mrs. Livingstone began her new undertaking. - -She was neither dainty of her own hands, nor tolerant of any languid -labor on the part of others. Not even in her youth, when the hopes and -prospects of Norlaw were better than the reality ever became, had the -Mistress shown the smallest propensity to adopt the small pomp of a -landed lady. She was always herself, proud, high-spirited, somewhat -arbitrary, by no means deficient in a sense of personal importance, yet -angrily fastidious as to any false pretensions in her house, and -perceiving truly her real position, which, with all the added dignity of -proprietorship, was still in fact that of a farmer’s wife. All the -activity and energy with which she had toiled all her life against her -thriftless husband’s unsteady grasp of his own affairs, and against the -discouraging and perpetual unprosperity of many a year, were intensified -now by the consciousness of having all her purposes within her own hand -and dependent on herself. Naked and empty as the house looked to the -eyes which had been accustomed to so many faces, now vanished from it, -there began to grow an intention and will about all its daily work, -which even strangers observed. Though the Mistress sat, as usual, by the -corner window with her work in the afternoon, and the dining-parlor was -as homelike as ever, and the neighbors saw no change, except the change -of dress which marked her widowhood, Marget, half ashamed of the -derogation, half proud of the ability, and between shame and pride -keeping the secret of these labors, knew of the Mistress’s early toils, -which even Cosmo knew very imperfectly; her brisk morning hours of -superintendence and help in the kitchen and in the dairy, which, with -all its new appliances and vigorous working, became “just a picture,” as -Marget thought, and the pride of her own heart. Out of the produce of -those carefully tended precious “kye,” out of the sweet butter, smelling -of Tyne gowans, and the rich, yellow curds of cheese, and the young, -staggering, long-limbed calves which Willie Noble had in training, the -Mistress, fired with a mother’s ambition, meant to return tenfold to -Huntley his youthful self-denial, and even to lay up something for her -younger sons. - -It was still only fourteen years since the death of the old Laird of -Melmar, the father of the lost Mary; and there was yet abundant time for -the necessary proceedings to claim her inheritance, without fear of the -limiting law, which ultimately might confirm the present possessor -beyond reach of attack. The last arrangement made by Huntley had -accordingly been, that all these proceedings should be postponed for -three or four years, during which time the lost heiress might reappear, -or, more probable still, the sanguine lad thought, his own fortunes -prosper so well, that he could bear the expense of the litigation -without touching upon the little patrimony sacred to his mother. After -so long an interval, a few years more or less would not harm the cause, -and in the meantime every exertion was to be made by Cassilis, as -Huntley’s agent, for the discovery of Mary of Melmar. This was the only -remaining circumstance of pain in the whole case to the Mistress. She -could not help resenting everybody’s interest about this heiress, who -had only made herself interesting by her desertion of that “home and -friends,” which, to the Mistress herself, were next to God in their -all-commanding, all-engrossing claim. She was angry even with the young -lawyer, but above all, angry that her own boys should be concerned for -the rights of the woman who had forsaken all her duties so violently, -and with so little appearance of penitence; and if sometimes a thought -of despondency and bitterness crossed the mind of the Mistress at night, -as she sat sewing by the solitary candle, which made one bright speck of -light, and no more, in the dim dining-room of Norlaw, the aggrieved -feeling found but one expression. “I would not say now, but what after -we’ve a’ done our best--me among the beasts, and my laddie ower the -seas, and the writers afore the Fifteen,” were the words, never spoken, -but often conceived, which rose in the Mistress’s heart; “I would not -wonder but then, when the land’s gained and a’s done, she’ll come hame. -It would be just like a’ the rest!” And let nobody condemn the Mistress. -Many a hardly-laboring soul, full of generous plans and motives, has -seen a stranger enter into its labors, or feared to see it, and felt the -same. - -In the meantime, Cosmo, who had got all that the parish schoolmaster of -Kirkbride--no contemptible teacher--could give him, had been drawing -upon Dr. Logan’s rusty Latin and Greek, rather to the satisfaction of -the good minister than to his own particular improvement, and tired of -reading every thing that could be picked up in the shape of reading from -the old parchment volumes of second-rate Latin divinity, which the -excellent minister never opened, but had a certain respect for, down to -the _Gentle Shepherd_ and the floating ballad literature of the -country-side, began to grow more and more anxious to emulate his -brothers, and set out upon the world. The winter nights came on, -growing longer and longer, and Cosmo scorched his fair hair and stooped -his slight shoulders, reading by the fire-light, while his mother worked -by the table, and while the November winds began to sound in the echoing -depths of the old castle. The house was very still of nights, and missed -the absent sorely, and both the Mistress and her faithful servant were -fain to shut up the house and go to rest as soon as it was seemly, a -practice to which their early habits in the morning gave abundant -excuse, though its real reason lay deeper. - -“Ane can bear mony a thing in good daylight, when a’ the work’s in -hand,” Marget said; “but womenfolk think lang at night, when there’s nae -blythe step sounding ower the door, nor tired man coming hame.” And -though she never said the same words, the same thought was in the -Mistress’s heart. - -One of these slow nights was coming tardily to a close, when Cosmo, who -had been gathering up his courage, having finished his book on the -hearth-rug, where the boy half sat and half reclined, rose suddenly and -came to his mother at the table. Perhaps some similar thoughts of her -own had prepared the Mistress to anticipate what he was about to say. -She did not love to be forestalled, and, before Cosmo spoke, answered -with some impatience to the purpose in his eye. - -“I ken very well what you’re going to say. Weel, I wot the night’s lang, -and the house is quiet--mair folk than you can see that,” said the -Mistress, “and you’re a restless spirit, though I did not think it of -you. Cosmo, do you ken what _I_ would like you to do?” - -“I could guess, mother,” said the boy. - -“Ay, ’deed, and ye could object. I might have learned that,” said his -mother. - -“I’ve got little of my ain will a’ my life, though a fremd person would -tell you I was a positive woman. Most things I’ve set my heart on have -come to naught. Norlaw’s near out of our hands, and Huntley and Patie -are in the ends of the earth, and I’m a widow woman, desolate of my -bairns; weel, weel, I’m no complaining--but when I saw you first in your -cradle, Cosmo--you were the bonniest of a’ my bairns--I put my hands on -your head, and I said to myself--‘I’ll make him my offering to the Lord, -because he’s the fairest lamb of a’.’ Na, laddie--never mind, I’m no -heeding. You needna put your arms round me. It’s near seventeen year -ago, and mony a weary day since then, but I’ve aye thought upon my vow.” - -“Mother, if I can, I’ll fulfill it!” cried Cosmo; “but how could I know -your heart was in it, when you never spoke of it before?” - -“Na,” said the Mistress, restraining herself with an effort. “I’ve done -my best to bring you up in the fear of the Lord, and it’s no written -that you maun be a minister, before you can serve Him. I’ll no’ put a -burden on your conscience; but just I was a witless woman, and didna -mind when I saw the bairn in the cradle that before it came that length, -it would have a will of its own.” - -“Send me to college, mother!” said Cosmo, with tears in his eyes. “I -have made no plans, and if I had I could change them--and at the worst, -if we find I can not be a minister, I will never forget your vow--put -your hands on my head and say it over again.” - -But when the boy knelt down at her side with the enthusiasm of his -temper, and lifted his glowing, youthful face, full of a generous young -emotion, which was only too generous and ready to be swayed by the -influences of love, the Mistress could only bend over him with a silent -burst of tenderness. - -“God bless my dearest bairn!” she said at last, with her broken voice. -“But no, no!--I’ve learned wisdom. The Lord make ye a’ His ain -servants--every ane--I can say nae mair.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -It was accordingly but a very short time after these occurrences when -Cosmo, with his wardrobe carefully over-looked, his “new blacks” -supplemented by a coarser every-day suit, which took the place of the -jacket which the lad had outgrown, and a splendid stock of linen, -home-made, snow-white and bleached on the gowans--took his way to -Edinburgh in all the budding glory of a student. In those days few -people had begun to speculate whether the Scotch Universities were or -were not as good as the English ones, or what might be the -characteristic differences of the two. The academic glories of Edinburgh -still existed in the fresh glories of tradition, if they had begun to -decline in reality--and chairs were still held in the northern college -by men at whose feet statesmen had learned philosophy. - -The manner in which Cosmo Livingstone went to college was not one, -however, in which anybody goes to Maudlin or Trinity. The lad went to -take up his humble lodging at Mrs. Purdie’s in the High Street, and from -thence dropped shyly to the college, paid his fees and matriculated, and -there was an end of it. There were no rooms to look after, no tutors to -see, no “men” to be made acquainted with. He had a letter in his pocket -to one of the professors, and one to the minister of one of the lesser -city churches. His abode was to be the same little room with the -“concealed bed” and window overlooking the town, in which his mother had -rested as she passed through Edinburgh, and the honest Kirkbride woman, -who was his landlady, had been already engaged at a moderate weekly rate -to procure all that he wanted for him. - -After which fashion--feeling very shy and lonely, somewhat embarrassed -by the new coat which his mother called a surtoo and regarded with -respect, dismayed by the necessity of entering shops and making -purchases for himself, and standing a little in awe of the other -students and of the breakfast to which the professor had invited -him--Cosmo began the battle of his life. - -He was now nearly seventeen, young enough to be left by himself in that -little lantern and watch-house hanging high over the picturesque heights -and hollows of the beautiful old town, where the lad sat at his window -in the winter evenings, watching the gorgeous frosty sunset, how it -purpled with royal gleams and shadows all the low hills of Fife, and -shed a distant golden glow--sometimes a glow redder and fiercer than -gold--upon the chilly glories of the Firth. Then, as the light faded -from the western horizon, and Inchkeith and Inchcolm no longer stood out -in vivid relief against the illuminated waters, how the lights of the -town, scarcely less fairy-like, began to steal along the streets and to -sparkle out in the windows, hanging in irregular lines from the -many-storied houses at the other side of the North Bridge, and gleaming -like glow-worms in the dark little valley between. - -Cosmo sat at his window with a book in his hand, but did not read -much--perhaps the lad was not thinking much either, as he sat in the -silent little room, listening to all the voices of all the population -beneath him, which rose in a softened swell of sound to his high window; -sometimes mournful, sometimes joyful, sometimes with a sharp cry in it -like an appeal to God, sometimes full of distinct tones, inarticulate -yet individual, sometimes sweet with the hum of children--a great, full, -murmuring chorus never entirely silenced, in which the heart of humanity -seemed, somehow, to betray itself, and reveal unawares the unspeakable -blending of emotions which no one man can ever confess for himself. - -Cosmo, who had spent a due portion of his time in his class-room, had -taken notes of the lectures, and been, if not a remarkably devoted, at -least a moderately conscientious student, often found himself very -unwilling to light the candle, and sometimes even let his fire go out, -in the charmed idleness of his window-seat, which was so strangely -different from his old meditative haunt in the old castle, yet which -absorbed him even more--and then Mrs. Purdie would come in with brisk -good-humor, and rate him soundly for sitting in the dark, and make up -the much-enduring northern coals into a blaze for him, and sweep the -hearth, and light the candle, and bring in the little tray with its -little tea-pot and blue and white cup and saucer, and the bread and -butter--which Cosmo did full justice to, in spite of his dreams. When -she came to remove the things again, Mrs. Purdie would stand with one -arm a-kimbo to have a little talk with her young lodger; perhaps to tell -him that she had seen the Melrose courier, or met somebody newly arrived -by the coach from Kirkbride, or encountered an old neighbor, who -“speered very kindly” for his mother; or, on the other hand, to confide -to him her fear that the lad from the Highlants in her little garret -overhead, who provided himsel’, would perish with cauld in this frosty -weather, and was just as like as no’ to starve himsel’, and didna keep -up a decent outside, puir callant, without mony a sair pinch that -naebody kent onything about; or that her other lodger, who was also a -student, was in a very ill way, coming in at a’ the hours of the night, -and spending hard-won siller, and that she would be very glad to let his -father and mother ken, but it didna become her to tell tales. - -These, and a great many other communications of the same kind, Mrs. -Purdie relieved her mind by making to Cosmo, whose youth and good-looks -and local claims upon her regard, made him a great favorite with the -kind-hearted, childless woman, who compounded “scones” for his tea, and -even occasionally undertook the trouble of a pudding, “a great fash and -fyke,” as she said to herself, puddings being little in favor with -humble Scotchwomen of her class. - -Under the care of this motherly attendant, Cosmo got on very well in his -little Edinburgh lodging, and even in some degree enjoyed the solitude -which was so new and so strange to the home-bred boy. He used to sally -out early in the morning, perhaps to climb as far as St. Anthony’s -Chapel, or mount the iron ribs of the Crags, to watch the early mists -breaking over the lovely country, and old Edinburgh rising out of the -cloud like a queen--or perhaps only to hasten along the cheerful length -of Princes Street, when the same mists parted from the crags of the -Castle, or lay white in the valley. The boy knew nothing about his own -sentiments, what manner of fancies they were, and did not pause to -inquire whether any one else thought like him. He hurried in thereafter -to breakfast, fresh and blooming, and then with his books to college, -encountering often enough that grave, gaunt Highlander in the garret, -who had no time for poetic wanderings, and perhaps not much capacity, -but who struggled on towards his own aim, with a desperate fortitude and -courage, which no man of his name ever surpassed in a forlorn hope, or -on a battle-field. The Highland student was nearly thirty, a man full -grown and labor-hardened, working his way through his “humanity” and -Divinity classes, looking forward, as the goal of his ambition, to some -little Gaelic-speaking parish in the far north, where some day, perhaps, -the burning Celtic fervor, imprisoned under his slow English speech and -impenetrable demeanor, might make him the prophet of his district; and -as he entered day by day at the same academic gates, side-by-side with -the seventeen-year-old boy, a strange tenderness for the lad came into -the man’s heart. They grew friends shyly yet warmly, unlike as they -were, though Cosmo never was admitted to any of those secrets of his -friend’s _menage_, which Mrs. Purdie guessed at, but which Cameron would -never have forgiven any one for finding out; and next to the household -of Norlaw, and the strange, half-perceived knowledge that came stealing -to his mind, like a fairy, in his vigils by his window, Cameron was -Cosmo’s first experience of what he was to meet in life. - -The Highlander lived in his garret, you could not believe or understand -how, gentleman-commoner--and would have tossed, not only your shoes, but -you out of his high window, had you tried to be benevolent to him, as -you tried it once to that clumsy sizar of Pembroke; notwithstanding, he -was no ignoble beginning for a boy’s friendship, a fact which Cosmo -Livingstone had it in him to perceive. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -“I mean to call on Miss Logan at the manse to-day,” said Patricia -Huntley, as she took her place with great dignity in “the carriage,” -which she had previously employed Joanna to bully Melmar into ordering -for her conveyance. Mrs. Huntley was too great an invalid to make calls, -and Aunt Jean was perfectly impracticable as a companion, so Patricia -armed herself with her mother’s card-case, and set out alone. - -Alone, save for the society of Joanna, who was glad enough of a little -locomotion, but did not much enjoy the call-making portion of the -enterprise. Joanna, whom no pains, it was agreed, could persuade into -looking genteel, had her red hair put up in bows under her big bonnet, -and a large fur tippet on her shoulders. Her brown merino frock was -short, as Joanna’s frocks invariably became after a few weeks’ wearing; -and the abundant display of ankle appearing under it said more for the -strength than the elegance of its proprietor. Patricia, for her part, -wore a colored silk cloak, perfectly shapeless, and as long as her -dress, with holes for her arms, and a tippet of ermine to complete it. -It was a dress which was very much admired, and “quite the fashion” in -those days; when the benighted individuals who wore such vestments -actually supposed themselves as well-dressed as _we_ have the comfort of -knowing ourselves now. - -“For I am sure,” said Patricia, as they drove along towards Kirkbride, -“that there is some mystery going on. I am quite sure of it. I never -will forget how shamefully papa treated me that day Mr. Cassilis was at -Melmar--before a stranger and a gentleman too! and you know as well as I -do, Joanna, how often that poor creature, Whitelaw, from Melrose, has -been at our house since then.” - -“Yes, I know,” said Joanna, carelessly. “I wonder what Katie Logan will -say when she knows I’m going to school?” - -“What a selfish thing you are, always thinking about your own concerns,” -said Patricia; “do you hear what I say? I think there’s a mystery--I’m -sure there’s a secret--either papa is not the right proprietor, or -somebody else has a claim, or there’s something wrong. He is always -making us uncomfortable some way or other; wouldn’t it be dreadful if we -were all ruined and brought to poverty at the end?” - -“Ruined and brought to poverty? it would be very good fun to see what -mamma and you would do,” cried the irreverent Joanna. “_I_ could do -plenty things; but I’m no’ feared--it’s you, that’s always reading -story-books.” - -“It’s not a story-book; I almost heard papa say it,” said Patricia, -reddening slightly. - -“Then you’ve been listening!” cried her bolder sister. “I would scorn to -do that. I would ask him like a man what it was, if it was me, but I -wouldna go stealing about the passages like a thief. I wouldna do it for -twice Melmar--nor for all the secrets in the world!” - -“I wish you would not be so violent, Joanna! my poor nerves can not -stand it,” said Patricia; “a thoughtless creature like you never looks -for any information, but I’m older, and I know we’ve no fortunes but -what papa can give us, and we need to think of ourselves. Think, Joanna, -if you can think. If anybody were to take Melmar from papa, what would -become of you and me?” - -“You and me!” the girl cried, in great excitement. “I would think of -Oswald and papa himsel’, if it was true. Me! I could nurse bairns, or -keep a school, or go to Australia, like Huntley Livingstone. I’m no’ -feared! and it would be fun to watch _you_, what you would do. But if -papa had cheated anybody and was found out--oh, Patricia! could you -think of yourself instead of thinking on that?” - -“When a man does wrong, and ruins his family, he has no right to look -for any thing else,” said Patricia. - -“I would hate him,” cried Joanna, vehemently, “but I wouldna forsake -him--but it’s all havers; we’ve been at Melmar almost as long as I can -mind, and never any one heard tell of it before.” - -“I mean to hear what Katie Logan says--for Mr. Cassilis is her cousin,” -said Patricia, “and just look, there she is, on the road, tying little -Isabel’s bonnet. She’s just as sure to be an old maid as can be--look -how prim she is! and never once looking to see what carriage it is, as -if carriages were common at the manse. Don’t call her Katie, Joanna; -call her Miss Logan; I mean to show her that there is a difference -between us and the minister’s daughter at Kirkbride.” - -“And I mean no such thing,” cried Joanna, with her head half out at the -window; “she’s worth the whole of us put together, except Oswald and -Auntie Jean. Katie! Katie Logan! we’re going to the manse to see you--oh -don’t run away!” - -The day was February, cold but sunny, and the manse parlor was almost as -bright in this wintry weather as it had been in summer. The fire -sparkled and crackled with an exhilaration in the sound as well as the -warmth and glow it made, and the sunshine shone in at the end window, -through the leafless branches, with a ruddy wintry cheerfulness, which -brightened one’s thoughts like good news or a positive pleasure. There -were no stockings or pinafores to be mended, but instead, a pretty -covered basket, holding all Katie’s needles and thread, and scraps of -work in safe and orderly retirement, and at the bright window, in an -old-fashioned china flower-pot, a little group of snow-drops, the -earliest possibility of blossom, hung their pale heads in the light. -Joanna Huntley threw herself into the minister’s own easy-chair with a -riotous expression of pleasure. - -“Fires never burn as if they liked to burn in Melmar,” cried Joanna; -“oh, Katie Logan, what do you do to yours? for every thing looks as if -something pleasant happened here every day.” - -“Something pleasant is always happening,” said Katie, with a smile. - -“It depends upon what people think pleasure,” said Patricia. “I am sure -you that have so much to do, and all your little brothers and sisters to -look after, and no society, should be worse off than me and Joanna; but -it’s very seldom that any thing pleasant happens to us.” - -“Never mind her, Katie. Listen to me. I’m going to Edinburgh to school,” -cried Joanna. “I don’t know whether to like it or to be angry. What -would you do, if you were me?” - -“I don’t think I could fancy myself you, Joanna,” said Katie, laughing; -“but I should have liked it when I was younger, and had less to do. I’m -to go in with papa if he goes to the Assembly this May. We have friends -in Edinburgh, and I like it for that--besides the Assembly and all the -things country folk see there.” - -“But Edinburgh is a very poor place after being in London,” said -Patricia; “if you could only see Clapham, where _I_ was at school! But -Mr. Cassilis is a cousin of yours--is he not? I suppose he told you how -papa behaved to me when he was last at Melmar.” - -“No, indeed--he did not,” said Katie, with some curiosity. - -“Oh! I thought perhaps he noticed it, being a stranger,” said Patricia; -“do you know what was his business with papa?” - -“No.” - -“You might tell _us_--for we ought to hear, if it is any thing -important,” said Patricia; “and as for papa, he never lets us know any -thing till everybody else has heard it first. I am sure it was some -business, and business which made papa as cross as possible; do tell us -what it was.” - -“I don’t know any thing about it,” said Katie. “My cousin staid here -only two or three days, and he never spoke of business to me.” - -“Oh! but you know what he came here about,” insisted Patricia. - -“He came to see us, and also--oh, yes--to manage something for the -Livingstones, of Norlaw,” said Katie, with a slight increase of color. - -For the moment she had actually forgotten this last and more important -reason for the visit of the young lawyer, having a rather uncomfortable -impression that “to see us” was a more urgent inducement to Cousin -Charlie than it had better be. She paused accordingly with a slight -embarrassment, and began to busy herself opening her work basket. -Patricia Huntley was not a person of the liveliest intelligence in -general, but she was quick-sighted enough to see that Katie stumbled in -her statement, and drew up her small shoulders instantly with two -distinct sentiments of jealous offense and disapproval, the first -relating to the presumption of the minister’s daughter in appropriating -the visit of Cassilis to herself, and the second to a suggestion of the -possible rivalry, which could affect the house of Melmar in the family -of Norlaw. - -“I think we are never to be done with these Livingstones,” cried -Patricia, “and all because the old man owed papa a quantity of money. -_We_ can’t help it when people owe us money, and I am sure I am very -much surprised at Mr. Cassilis, if he came to annoy papa about a thing -like that. I thought he was a gentleman! I thought it must be something -important he came to say.” - -“Perhaps it might be,” said Katie, quietly, coloring rather more, but -losing her embarrassment; “and the more important it was, the less -likely is it that my cousin would tell it to any one whom it did not -concern. Mr. Huntley could answer your questions better than I.” - -“Oh, I see you’re quite offended. I see you’re quite offended. I am sure -I did not know Mr. Cassilis was any particular kind of cousin,” said -Patricia, spitefully. “If I had known I should have taken care how I -spoke; but if my papa was like yours, and was not very able to afford a -housekeeper, it would need to be another sort of a man from Mr. Cassilis -who could make _me_ go away and leave my home.” - -“Katie, you should flyte upon her,” said Joanna. “She does not -understand any thing else--never mind her--talk to me--are all the -Livingstones away but Cosmo? Patricia thinks there’s a mystery and -papa’s wronged somebody. If he has, it’s Norlaw.” - -“I don’t think any thing of the sort--hold your tongue, Joanna,” said -her sister. - -“Eh, what else?” cried the young lady, roused to recrimination. “Katie, -do you think Mrs. Livingstone knows? for I would go and ask her in a -minute. I would not forsake papa if he was poor, but if he’s wronged -anybody, I’ll no’ stand it--for it would be my blame as well as his the -moment I knew!” - -“I don’t think you have any thing to do with it,” said Katie, with -spirit, “nor Patricia either. Girls were not set up to keep watch over -their fathers and mothers; are you the constable at Melmar, Joanna, to -keep everybody in order? I wish you were at the manse sometimes when the -boys have a holiday. Our Johnnie would be a match for you. The -Livingstones are all away,--Cosmo, too; he’s gone to college in -Edinburgh, and some day, perhaps, you’ll hear him preach in Kirkbride.” - -“I am quite sure papa would not give him the presentation; he’s promised -it to a cousin of our own,” said Patricia, eagerly. - -Katie grew very red, and then very pale. - -“My father is minister of Kirkbride,” she said, with a great deal of -simple dignity; “there is no presentation in anybody’s power just now.” - -“Katie, I wish you would not speak to her, she’s a cat!” cried Joanna, -with intense disgust, turning her back upon her sister; “oh I wish you -would write Cosmo to come and see me! I’ll be just the same as at -college, too; and I’m sure I’ll like him a great deal better than any of -the girls. Or, never mind; if that’s not right, I’ll be sure to meet him -in the street. I’m to go next week, Katie, and there’s a French -governess and a German master, and an Italian master, and nothing but -vexation and trouble. It’s quite true, and we’re not even to speak our -own tongue, but jabber away at French from morning to night. English is -far better--I know I’ll quarrel with them a’.” - -“Do you call your language English, Joanna?” said her sister, with -contempt. - -“If it’s no’ English it’s Scotch, and that’s far better,” cried Joanna, -with an angry blush; “wha cares for English? They never say their r’s -and their h’s, except when they shouldna say them, and they never win -the day except by guile, and they canna do a thing out of their own head -till Scotsmen show them how! and it’s a’ true, and I’d rather be a -servant-maid in Melmar, than one of your Clapham fine ladies, so you -needna speak your English either to Katie or me.” - -And it must be confessed that Katie, sensible as she was, laughed and -applauded, and that poor little Patricia, who could find nothing -heroical to say on behalf of Clapham, was very much disposed to cry with -vexation, and only covered her defeat by a retreat to the carriage, -where Joanna followed, only after a few minutes’ additional conversation -with Katie, who was by no means disposed to aid the elder sister. When -they were gone, however, Katie Logan shook her wise little -elder-sisterly head over the pair of them. She thought if Charlie (which -diminutive in the manse meant Charlotte) and Isabel grew up like -Patricia and Joanna, she would “break her heart;” and the little -mistress of the manse went into the kitchen to oversee the progress of a -birthday cake and give her homely orders, without once thinking of the -superior grandeur of the carriage, as it rolled down the slope of the -brae and through the village, the scene of a continued and not very -temperate quarrel between the two daughters of Melmar, which was only -finished at last by the sudden giving way of Patricia’s nerves and -breath, to the most uncomfortable triumph of Joanna. Joanna kept sulkily -in her corner, and refused to alight while the other calls were made. On -the whole, it was not a very delightful drive. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -Three months later, in the early sweetness of May, Cosmo Livingstone -stood upon an “outside stair,” one of those little flights of stone -steps, clearing the half-cellar shops of the lowest story, which are not -unfrequent in the High Street of Edinburgh, and which make a handy -platform when any thing is to be seen, or place of refuge when any thing -is to be escaped from. A little further down, opposite to him, was the -Tron Church, with its tall steeple striking up into the sunny mid-day -heavens; and above, at a little distance, the fleecy white clouds hung -over the open crown of St. Giles’s, with the freshness of recent rain. -Many bystanders stood on the other “stair-heads,” and groups of heads -looked out from almost every window of the high houses on every side. -The High Street of Edinburgh, lined with expectant lookers-on, darkening -downwards towards the picturesque slope of the Canongate, with its two -varied and noble lines of lofty old houses, black with time, between -which the sunshine breaks down in a moted and streamy glory, as into a -well, is no contemptible object among street sights; and the population -of Edinburgh loves its streets as perhaps only the populations of places -rich in natural beauty can love them. A man who has seen a crowd in the -High Street might almost be tempted to doubt, indeed, whether the -Scottish people were really so reserved and grave and self-restraining -as common report pronounces them. The women on the landings of the -stairs shrilly claiming here and there a Tam or a Sandy, or else -discussing in chorus the event of the moment; the groups of men -promenading up and down upon the pavement with firm-set mouth and -gleaming eyes--the mutter of forcible popular sentiment saying rather -more than it means, and saying that in the plainest and most emphatic -words; and the stir of general excitement in a scene which has already -various recollections of tumults which are historical, make altogether a -picturesque and striking combination, which is neither like a Parisian -mob nor a London one, yet is quite as characteristic as either. It was -not, however, a mob on this day, when Cosmo Livingstone stood on the -stair-head in front of a little bookseller’s shop, the owner of which, -in high excitement, came every minute or two to the door, uttering -vehement little sentences to the little crowd on his steps:-- - -“We’ll have it oot o’ them if we have to gang to St. Stephen’s very -doors for’t!” cried the shopkeeper. “King William had better mind his -crown than mind his wife. We’re no’ to lose the Bill for a German -whimsey. Hey, laddies! dinna make so muckle clatter--they’re coming! do -ye hear them?” - -They were coming, as the increased hum and cluster of the bystanders -told clearly enough--an extraordinary procession of its kind. Without a -note of music, without a tint of color, with a tramp which was not the -steady tramp of trained footsteps, but only the sound of a slowly -advancing crowd, to which immense excitement gave a kind of -solemnity--a long line of men in their common dress, unornamented, -unattended, keeping a mysterious silence, and carrying a few flags, -black, and with ominous devices, which only the strain of a great climax -of national feeling could have suffered to pass without that ridicule -which is more fatal than state prosecutions. Nobody laughed, so far as -we are aware, at the skulls and cross-bones of this voiceless -procession; and the tramp of that multitude of men, timed and cheered by -no music, broken by no shouts, lightened by no gleam of weapons, or -glitter of emblems, or variety of color, and only accompanied by the -agitated hum of the bystanders, had a very remarkable and somewhat -“gruesome” impressiveness. The people who were looking on grew silent -gradually, and held their breath as the long train went slowly past. It -might not be a formidable band. _Punch_--if _Punch_ had been in those -days--might very likely have found a comfortable amount of laughter in -the grim looks of the processionists, who were not likely to do much in -justification of their deadly-looking flags. But the occasion was a -remarkable occasion in the national history; the excitement was such--so -general and overpowering--as no subsequent agitation has been able to -equal. The real force of popular emotion in it covered even its own -mock-heroics, which is no small thing to say; and there was something -solemn in the unanimity of so many sober persons, who were not under the -immediate sway and leadership of any demagogue, nor could be supposed to -look for personal advantages, and whose extreme fervor and excitement at -the same time were not revolutionary, but simply political. The “Bill,” -on which the popular hope had fixed itself, had just met with one of its -failures, and this was the exaggerated, yet expressive way in which the -Edinburgh crowd demonstrated the popular sentiment of the day. - -These things can not be judged in cold blood; at that time everybody was -excited. Cosmo Livingstone, white with boyish fervor, watched and -counted them as they passed, with irresistible exclamations--“twenty, -forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred!” the boy cried aloud with triumph, as -score after score went past; and the women on the lower steps of the -stair began to share his calculations and exult in them. The very -children beneath, who were looking on with restless and excited -curiosity, knew something about the “Bill,” which day by day, as the -coach from the south, with the London mails, came in, they had been sent -to learn tidings of; and the bookseller in the little shop could not -restrain himself. - -“There will be news of this!” he cried, as the last detachment passed; -“when the men of Edinburgh take up a matter, nothing can stand before -them. There ne’er was a march like it that I ever heard o’ in a’ my -reading. Kings, Lords, and Commons--I defy them to stand against it--how -many?--hurra for Auld Reekie! Our lads, when they do a thing, never make -a fool o’t. Hark to the tramp of them! man, it’s grand!” - -“I’ve seen the sodgers out for far less in my day,” said an old woman. - -“A snuff for the sodgers!” cried the excited shopkeeper, snapping his -fingers; “‘a wheen mercenaries, selling their bluid for a trade. They -daur nae mair face a band like that than I dare face Munch Meg.” - -“Oh, Cosmo--Cosmo Livingstone!” cried a voice from below; “it’s me--look -this way!--do you no’ mind me?--I’m Joanna; come down this moment and -tell us how we’re to get home.” - -Cosmo looked down through the railings, close to the bottom of which the -owner of the voice had been pressed by the crowd. She had a little silk -umbrella in her hand, with the end of which, thrust between the rails, -she was impatiently, and by no means lightly, beating upon his foot. - -An elderly person, looking very much frightened, clung close to her arm, -and a girl somewhat younger stood a little apart, looking with bright, -vivacious eyes and parted lips after the disappearing procession. - -The swarm of lads, of idle women and children, who followed in the wake -of the Reformers, as of every other march, had overwhelmed for a moment -this little group, which was not like them; and the tumult of voices, -which rose when the sight was over, made it difficult to hear even -Joanna, clear, loud, and unhesitating as her claim was. - -“Miss Huntley!” cried Cosmo, with a momentary start--but it was not so -much to witness his recognition as to save his foot from further -chastisement. - -“It’s no’ Miss Huntley--it’s me!” cried Joanna; “we’ve lost our -road--come and tell us how we’re to go. Oh, madame, don’t hold so fast -to my arm!” - -Cosmo made haste to swing himself down over the railings, when Joanna’s -elderly companion immediately addressed herself to him in a long and -most animated speech, which, unfortunately, however, was in French, and -entirely unintelligible to the poor boy. He blushed violently, and stood -listening with a natural deference, but without the slightest hope of -comprehending her--making now and then a faint attempt to interrupt the -stream. Joanna in the meantime, who was not a great deal more -enlightened than he was, vainly endeavored to stay the course of -madame’s eloquence by pulling her shawl and elbow. - -“He does not understand you! he canna understand you!” cried Joanna, in -words which, the Frenchwoman comprehended as little as Cosmo did _her_ -address. - -During this little episode, the other girl stood by with an evident -impulse to laughter, and a sparkle of amusement in her black eyes. At -last she started forward with a rapid motion, said something to madame -which succeeded better than the remonstrances of Joanna, and addressed -Cosmo in her turn. - -“Madame says,” said the lively little stranger, “that she can not -understand your countrymen--they are so grave, so impassionate, so -sorrowful, she knows not if they march in _le corétge funêbre_ or go to -make the barricades. Madame says there is no music, no shouts, no voice. -She demands what the _jeune Monsieur_ thinks of a so grave procession.” - -“The men are displeased,” said Cosmo, hastily; “they think that the -government trifles with them, and they warn it how they feel. They don’t -mean to make a riot, or break the peace--we call it a demonstration -here.” - -“A de-mon-stracion!” said the little Frenchwoman; “I shall look for it -in my dictionary. They are angry with the king--_eh bien!_--why do not -they fight?” - -“Fight! they could fight the whole world if they liked!” cried Joanna; -“but they would scorn to fight for every thing like people that have -nothing else to do. Desirée and I wanted to see it, Cosmo, and madame -did not know in the least where we were bringing her to--and so we got -into the crowd, and I don’t know how to get back to Moray Place, unless -you’ll show us the way.” - -“Madame says,” said the other girl laughing, after receiving another -vehement communication from the governess, “that _ce jeune Monsieur_ is -to go with us only to Princes Street--then we shall find our own way. He -is not to go with you, _belle_ Joanna; and madame demands to know what -all the people say.” - -“What all the people say!--they’re gossiping, and scolding, and speaking -about the procession, and about us, and about their own concerns, and -about every thing,” said Joanna; “and how can I tell her? Oh, Cosmo, -I’ve looked everywhere for you! but you never walk where we walk; and I -saw your mother at the church, and I saw Katie Logan, and I told Katie -to write you word to come and see me--but everybody teazes us to death -about being proper; however, come along, and I’ll tell you all about -everybody--wasn’t it grand to see the procession? Papa’s a terrible -Tory, and says it’ll destroy the country--so I hope they’ll get it. Are -you for the Reform?” - -“Yes,” said Cosmo, but the truth was, the boy felt considerably -embarrassed walking onward by the side of Joanna, with the governess and -the little Frenchwoman behind, talking in their own language with a -rapidity which made Cosmo dizzy, interrupted by occasional bursts of -laughter from the girl, which he, being still very young and -inexperienced, and highly self-conscious, could not help suspecting to -be excited by himself--an idea which made him excessively awkward. -However, Joanna trudged along, with her umbrella in one hand, and with -the other holding up the skirt of her dress, which, however, was neither -very long nor very wide. Joanna’s tall figure might possibly be handsome -some day--but it certainly wanted filling up and rounding in the -meantime--and was not remarkably elegant at present, either in garb or -gait. - -But her young companion was of a very different aspect. She was little, -graceful, light, with a step which, even in the High Street, reminded -Cosmo of Jaacob’s bit of sentiment--“a foot that rang on the path like -siller bells"--with sparkling black eyes, a piquant rosy mouth, and so -bright and arch a look, that the boy forgave her for laughing at -himself, as he supposed she was doing. Desirée!--there was a charm too -in the strange foreign name which he could not help saying over to -himself--and if Joanna had been less entirely occupied with talking to -him, she could not have failed to notice how little he answered, and how -gravely he conducted the party to Princes Street, from whence the -governess knew her way. Joanna shook hands with Cosmo heartily at -parting, and told him she should write to Katie Logan to say she had -seen him--while Desirée made him a pretty parting salutation, half a -curtsey, with a mischievous glance out of her bright eyes, and madame -made him thanks in excellent French, which the lad did not appreciate. - -By that time, as he turned homeward, Cosmo had forgotten all about the -procession, we are grieved to say, and was utterly indifferent to the -fate of the “Bill.” - -He was quite confused in his thoughts, poor boy, as he betook himself to -his little room and his high window. This half frolic, half adventure, -which gave the two girls a little private incident to talk of, such as -girls delight in, buzzed about Cosmo’s brain with embarrassing pleasure. -He felt half disposed to begin learning French on the instant--not that -he might have a better chance of improving his acquaintance with -Desirée--by no means--but only that he might never feel so awkward and -so mortified again as he did to-day, when he found himself addressed in -a language which he did not know. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Cosmo saw nothing more of Joanna Huntley, nor of her bright-eyed -companion for a long time. He fell back into his old loneliness, with -his high window, and his landlady, and the Highland student for society. -Cameron, whom the boy made theories about, and wistfully contemplated on -the uncomprehended heights of his maturer age, knew a good deal by this -time of the history of the Livingstones, a great deal more than Cosmo -was aware of having told him, and had heard all about the adventure in -the High Street, about Desirée’s laugh and the old French grammar which -Cosmo had secretly bought at a book-stall. - -“If she had only taken to Latin, as the philosophers used to do at the -Reformation time,” cried Cosmo, with a little fun and a great deal of -seriousness, “but women never learn Latin now-a-days. Why shouldn’t -they?” - -“Does it do _us_ so much good?” said Cameron, brushing a little dust -carefully from the sleeve of that black coat of his, which it went to -his heart to see growing rustier every day, and casting a momentary -glance of almost envy at the workmen in their comfortable fustian -jackets. Cameron was on his way to knock the “Rudiments” into the heads -of three little boys, in whose service the gaunt Highlander tasted the -sweets of “private tuition,” so that at the moment he had less -appreciation than usual of the learning after which he had toiled all -his life. - -“If any one loves scholarship, you should!” cried Cosmo, with a little -enthusiasm. - -“Why?” said the elder man, turning round upon him with a momentary gleam -of proud offense in his eye. The Highlander wanted no applause for the -martyrdoms of his life. On the contrary, it galled him to think that his -privations should be taken into account by any one as proofs of his love -of learning. His strong, absolute, self-denying temper wanted that last -touch of frankness and candor which raises the character above -detraction and above narrowness. He could not acknowledge his poverty, -and take his stand upon it boldly. It was a necessity of his nature to -conceal what he could manfully endure. But the glance which rested on -Cosmo softened. - -“Letters may be humane and humanizing, Cosmo,” said the Highland -student, with a little humor; “but I doubt if men feel this particular -influence of them in teaching little callants. I don’t think, in a -general way, that either my genteel boys in Fette’s Row, or my little -territorial villains in St. Mary’s Wynd, improve _my_ humanity.” - -“Yet the last, at least, is purely a voluntary office and labor of -love,” said Cosmo, earnestly. - -Cameron smiled. - -“I’m but a limited man,” he said; “love takes but narrow bounds with the -like of me. Two or three at the most are as many as my heart can hold. -Are you horrified to hear it, Cosmo? I’ll do my neighbor a good turn if -I can, and I’ll not think ill of him if I can help it; but love, laddie, -love!--that’s for one friend--for a mother or--a wife--not for every -common man or every bairn I see in the street and have compassion on. -No! Love is a different concern.” - -“Is it duty, then?” said Cosmo, with a small shrug of his boyish -shoulders. - -“Hush! If I can not love every man I see, I can love Him who loves all!” -said the Highlander, raising his high head with an unconscious loftiness -and elevation of gesture. Cosmo made no answer and no comment--he was -awed for the moment with the personal reality of that heavenly affection -which made this limited earthly man, strong in his own characteristic -individualities, and finding it impossible to abound in universal -tenderness, still to do with fervor those works of the Evangelist which -were for love of One who loved the all, whom he himself had not a heart -expansive enough to love. - -When Cameron arrived at the house of his pupils, Cosmo wandered back -again toward the region of his friend’s unrewarded labors;--ah! those -young champions of Maudlin and Trinity!--what a difference between this -picture and that. Let us confess that the chances are that Cameron, at -the height of his hardly-earned scholarship, would still be a world -behind a double-first; and it is likely, unless sheer strength had done -it, that nothing earthly could have made a stroke-oar of the -Highlandman. If any one could have watched him through the course of one -of his laborious days, getting up to eat his rude and scanty breakfast, -going out to his lecture and classes, from thence to one quarter and -another to his pupils--little boys in the “Rudiments;” from thence to -St. Mary’s Wynd to do the rough pioneer evangelist work of a degraded -district--work which perhaps his Divinity professor, perhaps the -minister of his church urged upon him as the best preparation for his -future office--then home to his garret to a meal which he would not have -liked any one to see or share, to labor over his notes, to read, to get -up his college work for the next day, to push forward, steadily, -stoutly, silently, through almost every kind of self-denial possible to -man. - -Then, when the toilsome session was over, perhaps the weary man went -home--not to Switzerland or Wales with a reading party--not to shoot, -nor to fish, nor to travel, nor to give himself up to the pure delights -of uninterrupted study--perhaps, instead, to return to weary days of -manual labor, to the toils of the field, or the trials of the -schoolmaster; or perhaps finding the expense of the journey too much for -him, or thinking it inexpedient to risk his present pupils, lingered -through the summer in Edinburgh, teaching, reading, pinching, refreshing -himself by his work in St. Mary’s Wynd. The result of all this was not -an elegant divine, nor an accomplished man of the world--very possibly -it might be an arbitrary optimist, a one-sided Christian--but it was -neither an idle nor a useless man. - -Some thoughts of this kind passed through the mind of Cosmo Livingstone -as he went through the same St. Mary’s Wynd, pondering the occupations -and motives of his friend--the only comparison which he made, thinking -of Cameron, was with himself; forgetting the difference of their age -entirely, as such a boy was likely to do, Cosmo could not be -sufficiently disgusted and discontented with his own dependence and -worthlessness. Then he had, at the present moment, no particular -vocation for the church. St. Mary’s Wynd, so far from attracting him, -even failed at this moment to convey to the visionary lad the sentiment -which it wrote with words of fire upon the less sensitive mind of -Cameron. Love for the inhabitants of those wretched closes--for the -miserable squalid forms coming and going through those high, dark, -narrow, winding stairs, down which sometimes a stray sunbeam, piercing -through a dusty window, threw a violent glory into the darkness, like a -Rembrandt or an indignant angel, seemed something impossible. He -believed in the universal love of the Lord, but it only filled him with -awe and wonder--he did not understand it as Cameron did--and Cosmo could -not see how reaching ultimately into the position of teaching, -preaching, laboring, wearing out, for the benefit of such a population, -was worth the terrible struggle of preparation which at present taxed -all the energies of his friend. He repeated to himself dutifully what he -had heard--that to save a soul was better than to win a kingdom--but -such words were still only of the letter, and not of the spirit, for -Cosmo. And he was glad at last to escape from the subject, and hasten to -the fresh and breezy solitude of the hill, which was not a mile from -this den of misery, yet seemed as far away as another world. - -It was spring, and the air was full of that invigorating hopefulness, -which was none the worse to Cosmo for coming on a somewhat chilly -breeze. The glory of the broad, blue Firth, with its islands and its -bays, and the world of bright, keen, sunny air in which its few sails -shone with a dazzling indescribable whiteness, like nothing but -themselves--the round white clouds ranging themselves in lines and -fantastic groups over the whole low varied line of the opposite -coast--and the intoxication of that free, unbroken breeze, coming fresh -over miles of country and leagues of sea, lifted Cosmo out of his former -thoughts, only to rouse in him a vague heroical excitement--a longing -after something, he knew not what, which any tangible shaping would but -have vulgarized. The boy spread out his arms with an involuntary -enthusiasm, drinking in that wine of youth. What would he do?--he stood -upon the height of the hill like a young Mercury, ready to fly over all -the world on the errands of the gods--but even the voice of Jupiter, -speaking out of the clouds, would only have been prose and bathos to the -unconscious, unexplainable poetic elevation of the lad, who neither knew -himself nor the world. - -A word of any kind, even the sublimest, would have brought him to his -feet and to a vague sense of shame and self-ridicule in a moment--which -consummation happened to him before he was aware. - -The word was a name--a name which he had only heard once before--and the -voice that spoke it was at some distance, for the sound came ringing to -him, faint yet clear, brightened into a cry of pleasure by the breath of -the hills on which it came. “Desirée!” The boy started, blushed at -himself in the awaking of his dream, and pausing only a moment, rushed -down the slope of Arthur’s Seat toward Duddingstone, where, on the first -practicable road which he approached, he perceived a solemn procession -of young ladies, two-and-two, duly officered and governed, and behaving -themselves irreproachably. Cosmo did not make a rush down through their -seemly and proper ranks, to find out Desirée or Joanna; instead, the lad -watched them for a moment, and then turned round laughing, and went back -to his lodging--laughing the shamefaced rosy laugh of his years, when -one can feel one has been a little ridiculous without feeling one’s self -much the worse for it, and when it strikes rather comically than -painfully to find how different one’s high-flown fancies are, to all the -sober arrangements of the every-day world. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -The end of the season arrived, Cosmo came home, leaving his -fellow-student, who would not even accept an invitation to Norlaw, -behind him in Edinburgh. Cameron thought it half a weakness on his part, -the sudden affection to which the boy had moved him, but he would not -yield so much to it as to lay himself under “an obligation,” nor suffer -any one to suppose that any motive whatever, save pure liking, mingled -in the unlikely friendship he had permitted himself to form. Inveterate -poverty teaches its victims a strange suspiciousness; he was half afraid -that some one might think he wanted to share the comforts of Cosmo’s -home; so, as he was not going home himself, he remained in Edinburgh, -working and sparing as usual, and once more expanding a little with the -idea, so often proved vain hitherto, of getting so much additional work -as to provide for his next session, leaving it free to its own proper -studies; and Cosmo returned to rejoice the hearts of the women in -Norlaw. - -Who found him grown and altered, and “mair manlike,” and stronger, and -every way improved, to their hearts’ content. The Mistress was not given -to caresses or demonstrations of affection--but when the lad got home, -and saw his mother’s eye brighten, and her brow clear every time she -looked at him, he felt, with a compunction for his own discontented -thoughts, of how much importance he was to the widow, and tried hard to -restrain the instinct of wandering, which many circumstances had -combined to strengthen in his mind, although he had never spoken of it. -Discontent with his present destination for one thing; the example of -Huntley and Patrick; the perpetual spur to his energy which had been -before him during all his stay in Edinburgh, in the person of Cameron; -his eager visionary desire to seek Mary of Melmar, whom the boy had a -strong fancy that _he_ was destined to find; and, above and beyond all, -a certain vague ambition, which he could not have described to any one, -but which lured him with a hundred fanciful charms--moved him to the new -world and the unknown places, which charmed chiefly because they were -new and unknown. Cosmo had written verses secretly for a year or two, -and lately had sent some to an Edinburgh paper, which, miracle of -fortune! published them. He was not quite assured that he was a poet, -but he thought he could be something if he might but reach that big, -glorious world which all young fancies long for, and the locality of -which dazzling impossible vision, is so oddly and so often placed in -London. Cosmo was not sure that it was in London--but he rather thought -it was not in Edinburgh, and he was very confident it could not be in -Norlaw. - -About the same time, Joanna Huntley came home for the long summer -holidays. Joanna had persuaded her father into giving her a pony, on -which she trotted about everywhere unattended, to the terror of her -mother and the disgust of Patricia, who was too timid for any such -impropriety. Pony and girl together, on their rambles, were perpetually -falling in with Cosmo Livingstone, whom Joanna rather meant to make a -friend of, and to whom she could speak on one subject which occupied, at -the present time, two thirds of her disorderly thoughts, and deafened, -with perpetual repetition, the indifferent household of Melmar. - -This was Desirée. The first of first loves for a girl is generally -another girl, or young woman, a little older than herself; and nothing -can surpass the devotion of the worshiper. - -Desirée was only a year older than Joanna, but she was almost every -thing which Joanna was not; and she was French, and had been in Paris -and London, and was of a womanly and orderly temper, which increased the -difference in years. She was, for the time being, Joanna’s supreme -mistress, queen, and lady-love. - -“I’m very glad you saw her, Cosmo,” cried the girl, in one of their -encounters, “because now you’ll know that what I say is true. They laugh -at me at Melmar; and Patricia (she’s a cat!) goes on about her Clapham -school, and says Desirée is only a little French governess--as if I did -not know better than that!” - -“Is she a governess?” asked Cosmo. - -“She’s a lady!” said Joanna, reddening suddenly; “but she does not pay -as much as we do; and she talks French with the girls, and sometimes -she helps the little ones on with their music, and--but as for a -governess like madame, or like Miss Trimmer, or even Mrs. Payne -herself--she is no more like one of them than you are. Cosmo. I think -Desirée would like you!” - -“Do you think so?” said Cosmo, with a boyish blush and laugh. - -Joanna, however, was far too much occupied to notice his shamefacedness. - -“I’ll tell you just what I would like,” she said, as they went on -together, the pony rambling along at its own will, with the reins lying -on its neck, while Cosmo, half-attracted, half-reluctant, walked by its -side. “I don’t think I should tell you either,” said Joanna, “for I -don’t suppose you care about us. Cosmo Livingstone, I am sure, if I were -you, I would hate papa; but you’ll no’ tell--I would like Desirée to -come here and marry my brother Oswald, and be lady of Melmar. I would -not care a bit what became of _me_. Though she’s French, there’s nobody -like her; and that’s just what I would choose, if I could choose for -myself. Would it not be grand? But you don’t know Oswald--he’s been away -nearly as long as I can mind; but he writes me letters sometimes, and I -like him better than anybody else in the world.” - -“Where is he?” said Cosmo. - -“He’s in Italy. Whiles he writes about the places, whiles about Melmar; -but he never seems to care for coming home,” said Joanna. “However, I -mean to write him to tell him he _must_ come this summer. Your Huntley -is away too. Isn’t it strange to live at home always the same, and have -so near a friend as a brother far, far away, and never, be able to know -what he is doing? Oswald might be ill just now for any thing we know; -but I mean to write and tell him he must come to see Desirée, for that -is what I have set my heart upon since I knew her first.” - -Joanna, for sheer want of breath, came to a pause; and Cosmo made no -reply. He walked on, rather puzzled by the confidence she gave him, -rather troubled by this other side of the picture--the young man in -Italy, who very likely thought himself the unquestionable heir, -perfectly entitled to marry and bring home a lady of Melmar. The whole -matter embarrassed Cosmo. Even his acquaintance with Joanna, which was -not of his seeking, seemed quite out of place and inappropriate. But the -girl was as totally unconscious as the pony of the things called -improprieties, and had taken a friendship for Cosmo as she had taken a -love for Desirée--partly because the house of Norlaw bore a certain -romance to her fancy--partly because “papa would be mad"--and partly -because, in all honesty, she liked the boy, who was not much older, and -was certainly more refined and gentle than herself. Joanna was not -remarkably amiable in her present development, but she could appreciate -excellence in others. - -“And she’s beautiful, too--don’t you think so?” said Joanna; “not -pretty, like Patricia, nor bonnie, like Katie Logan--but beautiful. I -wish I could bring her to Melmar--I wish Oswald could see her--and I’ll -do any thing in the world rather than let Desirée go to anybody’s house -like any other governess. Isn’t it a shame? A delicate little lady like -her has to go and teach little brats of children, and me that am strong -and big, and could do lots of things--I never have any thing to do! I -don’t understand it--they say it’s providence. I would not make things -be like that if it was me. What do you think? You never say a word. I -suppose you just listen, and laugh at me because I speak every thing -out. What for do you not speak like a man?” - -“A man sometimes has nothing to say, Miss Huntley,” said Cosmo, with a -rather whimsical shyness, which he was half-inclined himself to laugh -at. - -“Miss Huntley!--I’m Joanna!” cried the girl, with contempt. “I would -like to be friends with you, Cosmo, because papa behaved like a wretch -to your father; and many a time I think I would like to come and help -Mrs. Livingstone, or do any thing for any of you. I canna keep in Melmar -in a corner, and never say a word to vex folk, like Patricia, and I -canna be good, like Katie Logan. Do you want to go away and no’ to speak -to me? You can if you like--I don’t care! I know I’m no’ like a lady in -a ballad; but neither are you like one of the old knights of Norlaw!” - -“Not if you think me rude, or dull, or ungrateful for your frankness!” -cried Cosmo, touched by Joanna’s appeal, and eager to make amends; but -the girl pulled up the pony’s reins, and darted away from him in mighty -dudgeon, with the slightest touch of womanish mortification and shame -heightening her childish wrath. Perhaps this was the first time it had -really occurred to Joanna that, after all, there was a certain soul of -truth in the proprieties which she hated, and that it might not be -perfectly seemly to bestow her confidence, unasked, upon Cosmo--a -confidence which was received so coldly. - -She comforted herself by starting off at a pace as near a gallop as she -and her steed were equal to, leaving Cosmo rather disconcerted in his -turn, and not feeling particularly pleased with himself, but with many -thoughts in his mind, which were not there when he left Norlaw. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -Day by day, the summer went over Cosmo’s head, leaving his thoughts in -the same glow and tumult of uncertainty, for which, now and then, the -lad blamed himself bitterly, but which, on the whole, he found very -bearable. Every thing went on briskly at Norlaw. The Mistress, -thoroughly occupied, and feeling herself, at last, after so many -unprosperous years, really making some forward progress, daily recovered -heart and spirit, and her constant supervision kept every thing alive -and moving in the house. Here Cosmo filled the place of natural -privilege accorded to him alike as the youngest child and the -scholar-son. Though the Mistress’s heart yearned over the boys who were -away, she expected to be most tenderly proud of Cosmo, whose kirk and -manse she could already see in prospect. - -It is not a very great thing to be a minister of the Church of Scotland, -but, in former days, at least, when the Church was less divided than it -is now, the people of Scotland regarded with a particular tenderness of -imagination the parish pastor. He was less elevated above his flock than -the English rector, and sprang very seldom from the higher classes; but -even among wealthy yeomen families in the country, the manse was still a -kind of _beau ideal_ of modest dignity and comfort, the pride and -favorite fancy of the people. It was essentially so to the Mistress, -whose very highest desire it had been to move her boy in this direction, -and whose project of romance now, in which her imagination amused -itself, was, above all other things, the future home and establishment -of Cosmo. She had no idea to what extent her favorite idea was -threatened in secret. - -For the moment, however, Melmar and their connection with that house -seemed to have died out of everybody’s mind save Cosmo’s. It never could -quite pass from his so long as he took his place at sunset in that -vacant window of the old castle, where the ivy tendrils waved about him, -and where the romance of Norlaw’s life seemed to have taken up its -dwelling. The boy could not help wandering over the new ground which -Joanna had opened to him--could not help associating that Mary of -Melmar, long lost in some unknown country, with Oswald Huntley, a -stranger from home for years; and the boy started with a jealous pang of -pain to think how likely it was that these two might meet, and that -another than his father’s son should restore the inheritance to its true -heir. This idea was galling in the extreme to Cosmo. He had never -sympathized much in the thought that Melmar was Huntley’s, nor been -interested in any proceedings by which his brother’s rights were to be -established; but he had always reserved for himself or for Huntley the -prerogative of finding and reinstating the true lady of the land, and -Cosmo was human enough to regard “the present Melmar” with any thing but -amiable feelings. He could not bear the idea of being left out entirely -in the management of the concern, or of one of the Huntleys exercising -this champion’s office, and covering the old usurpation with a vail of -new generosity. It was a most uncomfortable view of the subject to -Cosmo, and when his cogitations came to that point, the lad generally -swung himself down from his window-seat and went off somewhere in high -excitement, scarcely able to repress the instant impulse to sling a -bundle over his shoulder and set off upon his journey. But he never -could rouse his courage to the point of reopening this subject with his -mother, little witting, foolish boy, that this admirable idea of his -about Oswald Huntley was the very inducement necessary to make the -Mistress as anxious about the recovery of Mary of Melmar as he himself -was--and the only thing in the world which could have done so. - -It happened on one of these summer evenings, about this time, when his -own mind was exceedingly restless and unsettled, that Cosmo, passing -through Kirkbride as the evening fell, encountered bowed Jaacob just out -of the village, on the Melrose road. The village street was full of -little groups in earnest and eager discussion. It was still daylight, -but the sun was down, and lights began to sparkle in some of the -projecting gable windows of the Norlaw Arms, beneath which, in the -corner where the glow of the smithy generally warmed the air, a little -knot of men stood together, fringed round with smaller clusters of -women. A little bit of a moon, scarcely so big as the evening star which -led her, was already high in the scarcely shadowed skies. Every thing -was still--save the roll of the widow’s mangle and the restless feet of -the children, so many of them as at this hour were out of bed--and most -of the cottage doors stood open, revealing each its red gleam of fire, -and many their jugs of milk, and bowls set ready on the table for the -porridge or potatoes which made the evening meal. On the opposite brae -of Tyne was visible the minister, walking home with an indescribable -consciousness and disapproval, not in his face, for it was impossible to -see that in the darkness, but in his figure and bearing, as he turned -his back upon his excited parishioners, which was irresistibly ludicrous -when one knew what it meant. Beyond the village, at the opposite -extremity, was Jaacob, in his evening trim, with a black coat and hat, -which considerably changed the little dwarf’s appearance, without -greatly improving it. He had his face to the south, and was pushing on -steadily, clenching and opening, as he walked, the great brown fist -which came so oddly out of the narrow cuff of his black coat. Cosmo, who -was quite ready to give up his own vague fancies for the general -excitement, came up to Jaacob quite eagerly, and fell into his pace -without being aware of it. - -“Are you going to Melrose for news? I’ll go with you,” said Cosmo. - -The road was by no means lonely; there were already both men and boys -before them on the way. - -“We should hear to-night, as you ken without me telling you,” said -Jaacob. “I’m gaun to meet the coach; you may come if you like--but what -matter is’t to the like o’ you?” - -“To me! as much as to any man in Scotland,” cried Cosmo, growing red; he -thought the dignity of his years was impugned. - -“Pish! you’re a blackcoat, going to be,” said Jaacob; “there’s your -friend the minister there, gaun up the brae. I sent _him_ hame wi’ a -flea in his lug. What the deevil business has the like of him to meddle -in our concerns? The country’s coming to ruin, forsooth! because the -franchise is coming to a man like me! Get away with you, callant! as -soon as you come to man’s estate you’ll be like a’ the rest! But ye may -just as weel take an honest man’s, advice, Cosmo. If we dinna get it -we’ll tak it, and that’ll be seen before the world afore mony days are -past.” - -“What do you think the news will be?” asked Cosmo. - -“Think! I’m past thinking,” cried Jaacob, thrusting some imaginary -person away; “haud your tongue--can a man think when he’s wound up the -length of taking swurd in hand, if need should be? If we dinna get it, -we’ll tak it--do ye hear?--that’s a’ I’m thinking in these days.” - -And Jaacob swung along the road, working his long arms rather more than -he did his feet, so that their action seemed part of his locomotive -power. It was astonishing, too, to see how swiftly, how steadily, and -with what a “way” upon him, the little giant strode onward, swinging the -immense brown hands, knotted and sinewy, which it was hard to suppose -could ever have been thrust through the narrow cuffs of his coat, like -balancing weights on either side of him. Before them was the long line -of dusty summer road disappearing down a slope, and cut off, not by the -sky, but by the Eildons, which began to blacken in the fading -light--behind them the lights of the village--above, in a pale, warm -sky, the one big dilating star and the morsel of moon; but the thoughts -of Jaacob, and even of Cosmo, were on a lesser luminary--the red lantern -of the coach, which was not yet to be seen by the keenest eyes advancing -through the summer dimness from the south. - -“Hang the lairds and the ministers!” cried Jaacob, after a pause, “it’s -easy to see what a puir grip they have, and how well they ken it. Free -institutions dinna agree with the like of primogeniture and thae -inventions of the deevil. Let’s but hae a reformed Parliament, and we’ll -learn them better manners. There’s your grand Me’mar setting up for a -leader amang the crew, presenting an address, confound his impudence! as -if he wasna next hand to a swindler himself.” - -“Jacob, do you know any thing about his son?” asked Cosmo, eagerly. - -“He’s a virtuoso--he’s a dilettawnti; I ken nae ill of him,” said -Jaacob, who pronounced these titles with a little contempt, yet secretly -had a respect for them; “he hasna been seen in this country, so far as -I’ve heard tell of, for mony a day. A lad’s no aye to blame for his -father and his mother; it’s a thing folk in general have nae choice -in--but he’s useless to his ain race, either as friend or foe.” - -“Is he a good fellow, then? or is he like Me’mar?” cried Cosmo. - -“Tush! dinna afflict me about thae creatures in bad health,” said -Jaacob; “what’s the use o’ them, lads or lasses, is mair than I can -tell--can they no’ dee and be done wi’t? I tell you, a docken on the -roadside is mair guid to a country than the like of Me’mar’s son!” - -“Is he in bad health?” asked the persistent Cosmo. - -“They’re a’ in bad health,” said Jaacob, contemptuously, “as any auld -wife could tell you; a’ but that red-haired lassie, that Joan. Speak o’ -your changelings! how do ye account to me, you that’s a philosopher, for -the like of an honest spirit such as that, cast into the form of a -lassie, and the midst of a hatching o’ sparrows like Me’mar? If she had -but been a lad, she would have turned them a’ out like a cuckoo in the -nest.” - -“And Oswald Huntley is ill--an invalid?” said Cosmo, softly returning to -the thread of his own thoughts. - -Jaacob once more thrust with contempt some imaginary opponent out of the -way. - -“Get away with you down Tyne or into the woods wi’ your Oswald -Huntleys!” cried Jaacob, indignantly--“do you think I’m heeding about -ane of the name? Whisht! what’s that? Did you hear onything?--haud your -tongue for your life!” - -Cosmo grew almost as excited as Jaacob--he seized upon the lowest bough -of a big ash tree, and swung himself up, with the facility of a country -boy, among the fragrant dark foliage which rustled about him as he stood -high among the branches as on a tower. - -“D’ye see onything?” cried Jaacob, who could have cuffed the boy for the -noise he made, even while he pushed him up from beneath. - -“Hurra! here she comes--I can see the light!” shouted Cosmo. - -The lad stood breathless among the rustling leaves, which hummed about -him like a tremulous chorus. Far down at the foot of the slope, nothing -else perceptible to mask its progress, came rushing on the fiery eye of -light, red, fierce, and silent, like some mysterious giant of the night. -It was impossible to hear either hoofs or wheels in the distance, still -more to see the vehicle itself, for the evening by this time was -considerably advanced, and the shadow of the three mystic hills lay -heavy upon the road. - -“She’s late,” said Jaacob, between his set teeth. The little Cyclops -held tight by the great waving bough of the ash, and set his foot in a -hollow of its trunk, crushing beneath him the crackling underwood. Here -the boy and he kept together breathless, Cosmo standing high above, and -his companion thrusting his weird, unshaven face over the great branch -on which he leaned. “She’s up to Plover ha’--she’s at the toll--she’s -stopped. What’s that! listen!” cried Cosmo, as some faint, far-off -sound, which might have been the cry of a child, came on the soft -evening air towards them. - -Jaacob made an imperative gesture of silence with one hand, and grasped -at the branch with the other till it shook under the pressure. - -“She’s coming on again--she’s up to the Black ford--she’s over the -bridge--another halt--hark again!--that’s not for passengers--they’re -hurraing--hark, Jaacob! hurra! she’s coming--they’ve won the day!” - -Jaacob, with the great branch swinging under his hands like a willow -bough, bade the boy hold his peace, with a muttered oath through his set -teeth. Now sounds became audible, the rattle of the hoofs upon the road, -the ring of the wheels, the hum of exclamations and excited voices, -under the influence of which the horses “took the brae” gallantly, with -a half-human intoxication. As they drew gradually nearer, and the noise -increased, and the faint moonlight fell upon the flags and ribbons and -dusty branches, with which the coach was ornamented, Cosmo, unable to -contain himself, came rolling down on his hands and feet over the top of -Jaacob, and descended with a bold leap in the middle of the road. -Jaacob, muttering fiercely, stumbled after him, just in time to drag the -excited boy out of the way of the coach, which was making up for lost -time by furious speed, and on which coachman, guard, and outside -passengers, too much excited to be perfectly sober, kept up their -unanimous murmurs of jubilee, with only a very secondary regard to the -road or any obstructions which might be upon it. - -“Wha’s there? get out o’ my road, every soul o’ ye! I’ll drive the gait -blindfold, night or day, but I’ll no’ undertake the consequence if ye -rin among my wheels,” cried the driver. - -“Hurra! lads! the Bill’s passed--we’ve won! Hurra!” shouted another -voice from the roof of the vehicle, accompanying the shout with a -slightly unsteady wave of a flag, while, with a little swell of -sympathetic cheers, and a triumphant flourish of trumpet from the guard, -the jubilant vehicle dashed on, rejoicing as never mail-coach rejoiced -before. - -Jaacob took off his hat, tossed it into the air, crushed it between his -hands as it came down, and broke into an extraordinary shout, bellow, or -groan, which it was impossible to interpret; then, turning sharp round, -pursued the coach with a fierce speed, like the run of a little tiger, -setting all his energies to it, swinging his long arms on either side of -him, and raising about as much dust as the mail which he followed. -Cosmo, left behind, followed more gently, laughing in spite of himself, -and in spite of the heroics of the day, which included every national -benefit and necessity within the compass of “the Bill,” at the grotesque -little figure disappearing before him, twisting its great feet, and -swinging its arms in that extraordinary race. When the boy reached -Kirkbride, the coach was just leaving the village amid a chorus of -cheers and shouts of triumph. No one could think of any thing else, or -speak of any thing else; everybody was shaking hands with everybody, and -in the hum of amateur speechifying, half a dozen together, Cosmo had -hard work to recall even that sober personage, the postmaster, who felt -himself to some extent a representative of government and natural -moderator of the general excitement, to some sense of his duties. -Cosmo’s exertions, however, were rewarded by the sight of three letters, -with which he hastened home. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -“The Reform Bill’s passed, mother! we’ve won the day!” cried Cosmo, -rushing into the Norlaw dining-parlor with an additional hurra! of -exultation. After all the din and excitement out of doors, the summer -twilight of the room, with one candle lighted and one unlit upon the -table, and the widow seated by herself at work, the only one living -object in the apartment, looked somewhat dreary--but she looked up with -a brightening face, and lighted the second candle immediately on her -son’s return. - -“Eh, laddie, that’s news!” cried the Mistress; “are you sure it’s true? -I didna think, for my part, the Lords had as much sense. Passed! come to -be law!--eh, my Huntley! to think he’s at the other end of the world and -canna hear.” - -“He’ll hear in time,” said Cosmo, with a little agitation, producing his -budget of letters. “Mother, I’ve more news than about the Bill. I’ve a -letter here.” - -His mother rose and advanced upon him with characteristic vehemence:-- - -“Do you dare to play with your mother, you silly bairn? Give it to me,” -said the Mistress, whom Cosmo’s hurried, breathless, joyful face had -already enlightened; “do you think I canna bear gladness, me that never -fainted with sorrow? Eh Huntley, my bairn!” - -And in spite of her indignation, Huntley’s mother sank into the nearest -chair, and let her tears fall on his letter as she opened it. It did -not, however, prove to be the intimation of his arrival, which they -hoped for. It was written at sea, three months after his departure, when -he was still not above half way on his journey; for it was a more -serious business getting to Australia in those days than it is now. -Huntley wrote out of his little berth in the middle of the big ocean, -with all the strange creaks of the ship and voices of his -fellow-passengers to bear him company, with a heart which was still at -Norlaw. The Mistress tried very hard to read his letter aloud; she drew -first one and then the other candle close to her, exclaiming against the -dimness of the light; she stopped in the middle of a sentence, with -something very like a sob, to bid Cosmo sharply be quiet and no’ -interrupt her, like a restless bairn, while she read his brother’s -letter; but at last the Mistress broke down and tried no further. It was -about ten months since she bade him farewell, and this was the first -token of Huntley’s real person and existence which for all that -lingering and weary time had come to his mother, who had never missed -him out of her sight for a week at a time, all his life before. - -There was not a very great deal in it even now, for letter-writing had -been a science little practiced at Norlaw, and Huntley had still nothing -to tell but the spare details of a long sea voyage; there was, however, -in it, what there is not in all letters, nor in many--even much more -affectionate and effusive epistles than this--Huntley himself. When the -Mistress had come to the end, which was but slowly, in consideration of -the dimness of the candles or her eyes, she gave it to Cosmo, and waited -rather impatiently for his perusal of the precious letter. Then she went -over it again, making hasty excuse, as she did so; for “one part I didna -make out,” and finally, unable to refrain, got up and went to the -kitchen, where Marget was still busy, to communicate the good news. - -The kitchen door was open; there was neither blind nor shutter upon the -kitchen-window, and the soft summer stars, now peeping out in half -visible hosts like cherubs, might look in upon Marget, passing back and -forward through the fire light, as much and as often as they pleased. -From the open door a soft evening breath of wind, with the fragrance of -new growth and vegetation upon it, which is almost as sweet as positive -odors, came pleasantly into the ruddy apartment, where the light found a -hundred bright points to sparkle in, from the “brass pan” and copper -kettle on the shelf to the thick yolks of glass in one or two of the -window-panes. It was not quite easy to tell what Marget was doing; she -was generally busy, moving about with a little hum of song, setting -every thing in order for the night. - -“Marget, my woman, you’ll be pleased to hear--I’ve heard from my son,” -said the Mistress, with unusual graciousness. She came and stood in -front of the fire, waiting to be questioned, and the fire light still -shone with a very prismatic radiance through the Mistress’s eyelashes, -careful though she had been, before she entered, to remove the dew from -her eyes. - -“You’re no’ meaning Mr. Huntley? Eh! bless him! has he won there?” cried -Marget, letting down her kilted gown, and hastening forward. - -And then the Mistress was tempted to draw forth her letter, and read “a -bit here and a bit there,” which the faithful servant received with sobs -and exclamations. - -“Bless the laddie, he minds every single thing at Norlaw--even the like -of me!” cried Marget; upon which the Mistress rose again from the seat -she had taken, with a little start of impatience:-- - -“Wherefore should he no’ mind you?--you’ve been about the house a’ his -life; and I hope I’ll never live to see the day when a bairn of mine -forgets his hame and auld friends! It’s time to bar the door, and put up -the shutter. You should have had a’ done, and your fire gathered by this -time; but it’s a bonnie night!” - -“’Deed, ay!” said Marget to herself, when Huntley’s mother had once more -joined Cosmo in the dining-room; “the bonniest night that’s been to her -this mony a month, though she’ll no’ let on--as if I didna ken how her -heart yearns to that laddie on the sea, blessings on him! Eh, sirs! to -think o’ thae very stars shining on the auld castle and the young laird, -though the world itsel’s between the twa--and the guid hand of -Providence ower a’--God be thanked!--to bring the bairn hame!” - -When the Mistress returned to the dining-parlor, she found Cosmo quite -absorbed with another letter. The lad’s face was flushed with -half-abashed pleasure, and a smile, shy, but triumphant, was on his lip. -It was not Patie’s periodical letter, which still lay unopened before -her own chair, where it had been left in the overpowering interest of -Huntley’s. The Mistress was not perfectly pleased. To care for what -anybody else might write--“one of his student lads, nae doubt, or some -other fremd person,” in presence of the first letter from Huntley, was -almost a slight to her first-born. - -“You’re strange creatures, you laddies,” said the Mistress. “I dinna -understand you, for my part. There are you, Cosmo Livingstone, as -pleased about your nonsense letter, whatever it may be, as if there was -no such person as my Huntley in the world--him that aye made such a wark -about you!” - -“This is not a nonsense letter--will you read it, mother?” said Cosmo. - -“Me!--I havena lookit at Patie’s letter yet!” cried the Mistress, -indignantly. “Do you think I’m a person to be diverted with what one -callant writes to another? Hold your peace, bairn, and let me see what -my son says.” - -The Mistress accordingly betook herself to Patrick’s letter with great -seriousness and diligence, keeping her eyes steadily upon it, and away -from Cosmo, whom, nevertheless, she could still perceive holding _his_ -letter, his own especial correspondence, with the same look of shy -pleasure, in his hand. Patie’s epistle had nothing of remarkable -interest in it, as it happened, and the Mistress could not quite resist -a momentary and troubled speculation, Who was Cosmo’s correspondent, who -pleased him so much, yet made him blush? Could it be a woman? The idea -made her quite angry in spite of herself--at his age! - -“Now, mother, read this,” said Cosmo, with the same smile. - -“If it’s any kind of bairn’s nonsense, dinna offer it to me,” said the -Mistress, impatiently. “Am I prying into wha writes you letters? I tell -you I’ve had letters enough for ae night. Peter Todhunter!--wha in the -world is he?” - -“Read it, mother,” repeated Cosmo. - -The Mistress read in much amazement; and the epistle was as follows: - -“NORTH BRITISH COURANT OFFICE, -“EDINBURGH. - -“DEAR SIR, - - “Hearing that you are the C. L. N. who have favored the _North - British Courant_ from time to time with poetical effusions which - seem to show a good deal of talent, I write to ask whether you have - ever done any thing in the way of prose romance, or essays of a - humorous character in the style of Sterne, or narrative poetry. I - am just about to start (with a good staff of well-known - contributors) a new monthly, to be called the _Auld Reekie - Magazine_, a miscellany of general literature; and should be glad - to receive and give my best consideration to any articles from your - pen. The rates of remuneration I can scarcely speak decisively - about until the success of this new undertaking is in some degree - established; but this I may say--that they shall be _liberal_ and - _satisfactory_, and I trust may be the means of inaugurating a new - and better system of mutual support between publishers and - authors--the accomplishment of which has long been a great object - of my life. - -“Your obedient servant, -“PETER TODHUNTER.” - - - - -“The _North British Courant!_ poetry! writing for a magazine!--what does -it a’ mean?” cried the Mistress. “Do you mean to tell me you’re an -author, Cosmo Livingstone?--and me never kent--a bairn like you!” - -“Nothing but some--verses, mother,” said the boy, with a blush and a -laugh, though he was not insensible to the importance of Mr. Todhunter’s -communication. Cosmo’s vanity was not sufficiently rampant to say poems. -“I did not send them with my name. I wanted to do something better -before I showed them to you.” - -“And here they’re wanting the callant for a magazine!” cried the -Mistress. “Naething but a bairn--the youngest! a laddie that was never -out of Norlaw till within six months time! And I warrant they ken what’s -for their ain profit, and what kind of a lad they’re seeking after--and -me this very night thinking him nae better than a bairn!” - -And the Mistress laughed in the mood of exquisite pride at its highest -point of gratification, and followed up her laugh by tears of the same. -The boy was pleased, but his mother was intoxicated. The _North British -Courant_ and the _Auld Reekie Magazine_ were glorious in her eyes as -celestial messengers of fame, and she could not but follow the movements -of her boy with the amazed observation of a sudden discovery. He who was -“naething but a bairn” had already proved himself a genius, and -Literature urgent called him to her aid. He might be a Scott--he might -turn out a Shakespeare. The Mistress looked at him with no limit to her -wonder, and for the moment none in her faith. - -“And just as good a laddie as he aye was,” she murmured to herself, -stroking his hair fondly--“though mony a ane’s head would have been -clean turned to see themsels in a printed paper--no’ to say in a book. -Eh, bairn! and to think how little I kent, that am your mother, what God -had put among my very bairns!” - -“Mother, it may turn out poor enough, after all,” cried Cosmo, half -ashamed--“I don’t know yet myself what I can do.” - -“I daresay no’,” said the Mistress, proudly, “but you may take my word -this decent man does, Cosmo, seeing his ain interest is concerned. Na, -laddie, _I_ ken, if you dinna, the ways of this world, and I wouldna say -but they think they’ve got just a prize in my bairn. Eh! if the laddies -were but here and kent!--and oh, Cosmo! what _he_ would have thought of -it that’s gone!” - -When the Mistress had dried her eyes, she managed to draw from the boy a -gradual confession that the _North British Courant_, sundry numbers of -it, were snugly hid in his own trunk up stairs, from which concealment -they were brought forth with much shamefacedness by Cosmo, and read with -the greatest triumph by his mother. The Mistress had no mind to go to -rest that night--she staid up looking at him--wondering over him; and -Cosmo confessed to some of his hitherto secret fancies--how he would -like to go abroad to see new countries, and to hear strange tongues, and -how he had longed to labor for himself. - -“Whisht! laddie--I would have been angry but for this,” said the -Mistress. “The like of you has nae call to work; but I canna say -onything mair, Cosmo, now that Providence has taken it out of my hand. -And I dinna wonder you would like to travel--the like of you canna be -fed on common bread like common folk--and you’ll hae to see every thing -if you’re to be an author. Na, laddie, no’ for the comfort of seeing you -and hearing you would I put bars on your road. I aye thought I would -live to be proud of my sons, but I didna ken I was to be overwhelmed in -a moment, and you naething but a bairn!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -The result of this conversation was that Cosmo made a little private -visit to Edinburgh to determine his own entrance into the republic of -letters, and to see the enterprising projector of the _Auld Reekie -Magazine_ through whom this was to take place. The boy went modestly, -half abashed by his good fortune and dawning dream of fame, yet full of -a flush of youthful hope, sadly out of proportion to any possible -pretensions of the new periodical. He saw it advertised in the newspaper -which one of his fellow-passengers on the coach read on the way. He saw -a little printed hand-bill with its illustrious name in the window of -the first bookseller’s shop he looked into on his arrival in Edinburgh, -and Cosmo marched over the North Bridge with his carpet-bag in his hand, -with a swell of visionary glory. He could not help half wondering what -the indifferent people round him would think, if they knew--and then -could not but blush at himself for the fancy. Altogether the lad was in -a tumult of delightful excitement, hope, and pleasure, such as perhaps -only falls to the lot of boys who hope themselves poets, and think at -eighteen that they are already appreciated and on the highway to fame. - -As he ascended the stairs to Mrs. Purdie’s, he met Cameron coming down. -There was a very warm greeting between them--a greeting which surprise -startled into unusual affectionateness on the part of the Highlander. -Cameron forgot his own business altogether to return with Cosmo, and -needed very little persuasion to enter the little parlor, which no other -lodger had turned up to occupy, and share the refreshment which the -overjoyed landlady made haste to prepare for her young guest. This was -so very unusual a yielding on Cameron’s part, that Cosmo almost forgot -his own preoccupation in observing his friend, who altogether looked -brightened and smoothed out, and younger than when they parted. The -elder and soberer man, who knew a little more of life and the world than -Cosmo, though very little more of literature, could not help a -half-perceptible smile at the exuberance of Cosmo’s hopes. Not that -Cameron despised the _Auld Reekie Magazine_; far from that, the -Divinity student had all the reverence for literature common to those -who know little about it, which reverence, alas! grows smaller and -smaller in this too-knowing age. But at thirty years old people know -better than at eighteen how the sublimest undertakings break down, and -how sometimes even “the highest talent” can not float its venture. So -the man found it hard not to smile at the boy’s shy triumph and -undoubting hope, yet could not help but be proud, notwithstanding, with -a tenderness almost feminine, of the unknown gifts of the lad, whose -youth, he could not quite tell how, had found out the womanish corner of -his own reserved heart, in which, as he said himself, only two or three -could find room at any time. - -“But you never told me of these poetical effusions, Cosmo,” said his -friend, as he put up the bookseller’s note. - -“Don’t laugh at Mr. Todhunter. _I_ only call them verses,” said Cosmo, -with that indescribable blending of vanity and humility which belongs to -his age; “and I knew you would not care for them; they were not worth -showing to you.” - -“I’m not a poetical man,” said Cameron, “but I might care for _your_ -verses in spite of that; and now Cosmo, laddie, while you have been -thinking of fame, what novel visitor should you suppose had come to me?” - -“Who?--what?” cried Cosmo, with eager interest. - -“What?” echoed Cameron, “either temptation or good fortune--it’s hard to -say which--only I incline to the first. Satan’s an active chield, and -thinks little of trouble; but I doubt if the other one would have taken -the pains to climb my stair. I’ve had an offer of a tutorship, Cosmo--to -go abroad for six months or so with a callant like yourself.” - -“To go abroad!” Cosmo’s eyes lighted up with instant excitement, and he -stretched his hand across the table to his friend, with a vehemence -which Cameron did not understand, though he returned the grasp. - -“An odd enough thing for me,” said the Highlandman, “but the man’s an -eccentric man, and something has possessed him that his son would be in -safe hands; as in safe hands he might be,” added the student in an -undertone, “seeing I would be sorry to lead any lad into evil--but as -for _fit_ hands, that’s to be seen, and I’m far from confident it would -be right for me.” - -“Go, and I’ll go with you,” said Cosmo, eagerly. “I’ve set my heart upon -it for years.” - -“More temptation!” said the Highlandman. “Carnal inclinations and -pleasures of this world--and I’ve little time to lose. I can not afford -a session--whisht! Comfort and ease to the flesh, and pleasure to the -mind, are hard enough to fight with by themselves without help from -you.” - -It was almost the first time he had made the slightest allusion to his -own hard life and prolonged struggle, and Cosmo was silent out of -respect and partially in the belief that if Cameron’s mind had not been -very near made up in favor of this new proposal, he would not have -suffered himself to refer to it. The two friends sat up late together -that night. Cosmo pouring out all his maze of half-formed plans and -indistinct intentions into Cameron’s ears--his projects of authorship, -his plan for a tragedy of which Wallace wight should be the hero; of a -pastoral poem and narrative, something between Colin Clout and the -Gentle Shepherd--and of essays and philosophies without end; while -Cameron on his part smiled, as he could not but smile by right of his -thirty years, yet somehow began to believe, like the Mistress, in the -enthusiastic boy, with all that youthful flush and fervor in the face -which his triumph and inspiration of hope made beautiful. The elder man -could not give his own confidence so freely as Cosmo did, but he opened -himself as far as it was his nature to do, in droppings of shy -frankness--a little now and a little then--which were in reality the -very highest compliment which such a man could pay to his companion. -When they separated, Cameron, it is true, knew all about Cosmo, while -Cosmo did not know all about Cameron; but the difference was not even so -much a matter of temperament as of years, and the lad, without hearing -many particulars, or having a great deal of actual confidence given to -him, knew the man better at the end of this long evening than ever he -had done before. - -In the morning Cosmo got up full of pleasurable excitement, and set out -early to call on Mr. Todhunter. The _North British Courant_ office was -in one of the short streets which run between Princes Street and George -Street, and in the back premises, a long way back, through a succession -of rooms, Cosmo was ushered into the especial little den of the -publisher. Mr. Todhunter was of a yellow complexion, with loose, thick -lips, and wiry black hair. The lips were the most noticeable feature in -his face, from the circumstance that when he spoke his mouth seemed -uncomfortably full of moisture, which gave also a peculiar character to -his voice. He was surrounded by a mass of papers, and had paste and -scissors--those palladiums of the weekly press--by his side. If there -was one thing more than another on which the _North British Courant_ -prided itself, it was on the admirable collection of other people’s -opinions which everybody might find in its columns. Mr. Todhunter made -no very great stand upon politics. What he prized was a reputation which -he thought “literary,” and a skill almost amounting to genius for making -what he called “excerpts.” - -“Very glad to make your personal acquaintance, Mr. Livingstone,” said -the projector of the _Auld Reekie Magazine_, “and still more to receive -your assurances of support. I’ve set my heart on making this a real, -impartial, literary enterprise, sir--no’ one of your close boroughs, as -they say now-a-days, for a dozen or a score of favored contributors, but -open to genius, sir--genius wherever it may be--rich or poor.” - -Cosmo did not know precisely what to answer, so he filled in the pause -with a little murmur of assent. - -“Ye see the relations of every thing’s changing,” said Mr. Todhunter; -“old arrangements will not do--wull not answer, sir, in an advancing -age. I have always held high opinions as to the claims of literary men, -myself--it’s against my nature to treat a man of genius like a -shopkeeper; and my principle, in the _Auld Reekie Magazine_, is just -this--first-rate talent to make the thing pay, and first-rate pay to -secure the talent. That’s my rule, and I think it’s a very safe guide -for a plain man like me.” - -“And it’s sure to succeed,” said Cosmo, with enthusiasm. - -“I think it wull, sir--upon my conscience, if you ask me, I think it -wull,” said Mr. Todhunter; “and I have little doubt young talent will -rally round the _Auld Reekie Magazine_. I’m aware it’s an experiment, -but nothing shall ever make me give in to an ungenerous principle. Men -of genius must be protected, sir; and how are they protected in your -old-established periodicals? There’s one old fogy for this department, -and another old fogy for that department; and as for a genial -recognition of young talent, take my word for’t, there’s no such -thing.” - -“I know,” said Cosmo, “it is the hardest thing in the world to get in. -Poor Chatterton, and Keats, and--” - -“Just that,” said Mr. Todhunter. “It’s for the Keatses and the -Chattertons of this day, sir, that I mean to interpose; and no lad of -genius shall go to the grave with a pistol in his hand henceforward if I -can help it. I admire your effusions very much, Mr. Livingstone--there’s -real heart and talent in them, sir--in especial the one to Mary, which, -I must say, gave me the impression of an older man.” - -“I am pretty old in practice--I have been writing a great many years,” -said Cosmo, with that delightful, ingenuous, single-minded, youthful -vanity, which it did one’s heart good to see. Even Mr. Todhunter, over -his paste and scissors, was somehow illumined by it, and looked up at -the lad with the ghost of a smile upon his watery lips. - -“And what do you mean to provide us for the opening of the feast?” said -the bookseller, “which must be ready by the 15th, at the very latest, -and be the very cream of your inspiration. It’s no small occasion, sir. -Have you made up your mind what is to be your _deboo_?” - -“It depends greatly upon what you think best,” said Cosmo, candid and -impartial; “and as you know what articles you have secured already, I -should be very glad of any hint from you.” - -“A very sensible remark,” said Mr. Todhunter. “Well, I would say, a good -narrative now, in fine, stirring, ballad verse--a narrative always -pleases the public fancy--or a spirited dramatic sketch, or a historical -tale, to be completed, say, in the next number. I should say, sir, any -one of these would answer the _Auld Reekie_;--only be on your mettle. I -consider there’s good stuff in you--real good stuff--but, at the same -time, many prudent persons would tell me I was putting too much reliance -on so young a man.” - -“I will not disappoint you,” said Cosmo, with a little pride; “but, -supposing this first beginning over, could it do any good to the -magazine, do you think, to have a contributor--letters from abroad--I -had some thoughts--I--I wished very much to know--” - -“Were you thinking of going abroad?” said the bookseller, benignantly. - -“I can scarcely say _think_--but, there was an opportunity,” said -Cosmo, with a blush; “that is, if it did not stand in the way of--” - -“_Auld Reekie?_ Certainly not--on the contrary, I know nothing I would -like better,” said Mr. Todhunter. “Some fine Italian legends, now, or a -few stories from the Rhine, with a pleasant introduction, and a little -romantic incident, to show how you heard them--capital! but I must see -you at my house before you go. And as for the remuneration, we can -scarcely fix on that, perhaps, till the periodical’s launched--but ye -know my principle, and I may say, sir, with confidence, no man was left -in the lurch that put reliance upon me. I’m a plain man, as you see me, -but I appreciate the claims of genius, and young talent shall not want -its platform in this city of Edinburgh; or, if it does, it shall be no -fault of mine.” - -With a murmured applause of this sentiment, and in a renewed tumult of -pleasure, Cosmo left his new friend, and went home lingering over the -delightful thought of Italian legends and stories of the Rhine, told in -the very scenes of the same. The idea intoxicated him almost out of -remembrance of Mary of Melmar, and if the boy’s head was not turned, it -seemed in a very fair way of being so, for the sentiments of Mr. -Todhunter--a publisher!--a practical man!--one who knew the real value -of authorship! filled the lad with a vague glory in his new craft. A -London newspaper proprietor, who spoke like the possessor of the _North -British Courant_, would have been, the chances are, a conscious humbug, -and perhaps so might an Edinburgh bookseller of the present time, who -expressed the same sentiments. Mr. Todhunter, however, was not a humbug. -He was like one of those dabblers in science who come at some simple -mechanical principle by chance, and in all the flush of their discovery, -claim as original and their own what was well known a hundred years -since. He was perfectly honest in the rude yet simple vanity with which -he patronized “young talent,” and in his vulgar, homely fashion, felt -that he had quite seized upon a new idea in his _Auld Reekie -Magazine_--an idea too original and notable to yield precedence even to -the _Edinburgh Review_. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -The pace of events began to quicken with Cosmo. When he encountered his -fellow-lodger in the evening, he found that Cameron had been permitting -his temptation to gain more and more ground upon him. The Highlander, -humbly born and cottage bred as he was, and till very recently bounded -by the straitest prospects as to the future, had still a deep reserve of -imaginative feeling, far away down where no one could get at it--under -the deposit left by the slow toil and vulgar privations of many years. -Unconsciously to himself, the presence and society of Cosmo Livingstone -had recalled his own boyhood to the laboring man, in the midst of that -sweat of his brow in which he ate his scanty bread in the Edinburgh -garret. Where was there ever boyhood which had not visions of adventure -and dreams of strange countries? All that last winter, through which his -boy companion stole into his heart, recollections used to come suddenly -upon the uncommunicating Highlander of hours and fancies in his own -life, which he supposed he had long ago forgotten--hours among his own -hills, herding sheep, when he lay looking up at the skies, and entranced -by the heroic lore with which he was most familiar, thinking of David’s -well at Bethlehem, and the wine-press where Gideon thrashed his wheat, -and the desert waters where Moses led his people, and of all the -glorious unknown world beside, through which his path must lie to the -Holy Land. Want, and labor, and the steady, desperate aim, with which he -pushed through every obstacle towards the one goal of his ambition, had -obscured these visions in his mind, but Cosmo’s fresh boyhood woke them -by degrees, and the unusual and unexpected proposal lately made to him, -had thrilled the cooled blood in Cameron’s veins as he did not suppose -it could be thrilled. Ease, luxury (to him), and gratification in the -meantime, with a reserve fund great enough to carry him through a -session without any extra labor. Why did he hesitate? He hesitated -simply because it might put off for six months--possibly for a year--the -accomplishment of his own studies and the gaining of that end, which was -not a certain living, however humble, but merely a license to preach, -and his chance with a hundred others of a presentation to some poor -rural parish, or a call from some chapel of ease. But he did hesitate -long and painfully. He feared, in his austere self-judgment, to prefer -his own pleasure to the work of God, and it was only when his -boy-favorite came back again and threw all his fervid youthful influence -into the scale, that Nature triumphed with Cameron, and that he began to -permit himself to remember that, toilworn as he was, he was still young, -and that the six months’ holiday might, after all, be well expended. The -very morning after Cosmo’s arrival, after lying awake thinking of it -half the night, he had gone to the father of his would-be-pupil to -explain the condition on which he would accept the charge, which was, -that Cosmo might be permitted to join the little party. Cameron’s patron -was a Highlander, like himself--obstinate, one-sided, and imperious. He -did not refuse the application. He only issued instant orders that Cosmo -should be presented to him without delay, that he might judge of his -fitness as a traveling companion--and Cameron left him, pledged, if his -decision should be favorable, to accept the office. - -The next day was a great day in Edinburgh--an almost universal holiday, -full of flags, processions, and all manner of political rejoicings--the -Reform Jubilee. Cosmo plunged into the midst of it with all the zeal of -a young politician and all the zest of a school-boy, and was whirled -about by the crowd through all its moods and phases, through the heat, -and the dust, and the sunshine, through the shouts and groans, the -applauses and the denunciations, to his heart’s content. He came in -breathless somewhere about midday, as he supposed, though in reality it -was late in the afternoon, to snatch a hurried morsel of the dinner -which Mrs. Purdie had vainly endeavored to keep warm for him, and to -leave a message for Cameron to be ready for him in the evening, to go -out and see the illumination. When Cosmo reappeared again, flushed, -tired, excited, yet perfectly ready to begin once more, it was already -darkening towards night. Cameron was ready, and the boy was not to be -persuaded to lose the night and “the fun,” which already began to look -rather like mischief. The two companions, so unlike each other, made -haste to the Calton Hill, where a great many people had already preceded -them. Oh, dwellers on the plains! oh, cockney citizens!--spite of your -gas stars and your transparencies--your royal initials and festoons of -lamps, don’t suppose that you know any thing about an illumination; you -should have seen the lines of light stealing from slope to slope along -the rugged glory of that antique Edinburgh--the irregular gleams -descending into the valley, the golden threads, here and there broken, -that intersected the regular lines of the new town. Yonder tall houses, -seven stories high, where every man is a Reformer, and where the lights -come out in every window, star by star, in a flicker and glow, as if the -very weakness of those humble candles gave them the animation and -humanness of a breathing triumph--swelling higher towards the dark -Castle, over whose unlighted head the little moon looks down, a serene -spectator of all this human flutter and commotion--undulating down in -rugged breaks towards lowly Holyrood, sometimes only a thin line visible -beneath the roof--sometimes a whole house aglow. The people went and -came, in excited groups, upon the fragrant grass of the Calton Hill; -sometimes turning to the other side of the landscape, to see the more -sparely lighted streets of gentility, or the independent little sparkle -which stout little Leith in the distance threw out upon the Firth--but -always returning with unfailing fascination to this scene of magic--the -old town shining with its lamps and jewels, like a city in a dream. - -But it was not destined to be a perfectly calm summer evening’s -spectacle. The hum of the full streets grew riotous even to the -spectators on the hill. Voices rose above the hum, louder than peaceful -voices ever rise. The triumph was a popular triumph, and like every -other such, had its attendant mob of mischief. Shouts of rising clamor -and a noise of rushing footsteps ran through the busy streets--then came -a sharp rattle and peal like a discharge of musketry. What was it? The -crowd on the hill poured down the descent, in fright, in excitement, in -precaution--some into the mischief, some eager to escape out of it. -“It’s the sodgers,” “it’s the police,” “it’s the Tories,” shouted the -chorus of the crowd--one suggestion after another raising the fury of -some and the terror of others; again a rattling, dropping, continued -report--one after another, with rushes of the crowd between, and -perpetual changes of locality in the sound, which at last indicated its -nature beyond mistake. It was no interference of authority--no firing -of “the sodgers.” It was a sound less tragic, yet full of mischief--the -crash of unilluminated windows, the bloodless yet violent revenge of the -excited mob. - -The sound--the swell--the clamor--the tramp of feet--the shouts--the -reiterated volleys, now here, now there, in constant change and -progress, the silent flicker and glow of the now neglected lights, the -hasty new ones thrust into exposed windows, telling their story of -sudden alarm and reluctance, and above all the pale, serene sky, against -which the bold outline of Arthur’s Seat stood out as clear as in the -daylight, and the calm, unimpassioned shining of the little moon, -catching the windows of the Castle and church beneath with a glimmer of -silver, made altogether a scene of the most singular excitement and -impressiveness. But Cosmo Livingstone had forgotten that he was a -poet--he was only a boy--a desperate, red-hot Radical--a friend of the -people. Despite all Cameron’s efforts, the boy dragged him into the -crowd, and hurried him along to the scene of action. The rioters by this -time were spreading everywhere, out of the greater streets into the calm -of the highest respectability, where not one window in a dozen was -lighted, and where many had closed their shutters in defiance--far to -the west in the moonlight, where the illuminations of the old town were -invisible, and where wealth and conservatism dwelt together. Breathless, -yet dragging his grave companion after him, Cosmo rushed along one of -the dimmest and stateliest of these streets. The lad leaped back again -into the heart of a momentary fancy, which was already old and -forgotten, though it had been extremely interesting a month ago. He -cried “Desirée!” to himself, as he rushed in the wake of the rioters -through Moray Place. He did not know which was the house, yet followed -vaguely with an instinct of defense and protection. In one of the houses -some women appeared, timidly putting forward candles in the highest line -of windows; perhaps out of exasperation at this cowardice, perhaps from -mere accident, some one among the crowd discharged a volley of stones -against one of the lower range. There was a moment’s pause, and it -remained doubtful whether this lead was to be followed, when suddenly -the door of the house was thrown open, and a girl appeared upon the -threshold, distinctly visible against the strong light from the hall. -Though Cosmo sprang forward with a bound, he could not hear what she -said, but she rushed down on the broad step, and made a vehement address -to the rioters, with lively motions of her hands, and a voice that -pierced through their rough voices like a note of music. This lasted -only a moment; in another the door had closed behind her with a loud -echo, and all was dark again. Where was she? Cosmo pushed through the -crowd in violent excitement, thrusting them away on every side with -double strength. Yes, there she stood upon the step, indignant, -vehement, with her little white hands clasped together, and her eyes -flashing, from the rioters before her to the closed door behind. - -“You English!--you are cowards!” cried the violent little heroine; “you -do not fight like men, with balls and swords--you throw pebbles, like -children--you wound women--and when one dares to go to speak to the -madmen, she is shut out into the crowd!” - -“We’re no’ English, missie, and naebody meant to hurt you; chap at the -door for her, yin o’ you lads--and let the poor thing alone--she’s a -very good spirit of her ain. I’m saying, open the door,” cried one of -the rioters, changing his soothing tone to a loud demand, as he shook -the closed door violently. By this time Cosmo was by the little -Frenchwoman’s side. - -“I know her,” cried Cosmo, “they’ll open when you’re past--pass on--it’s -a school--a housefull of women--do you mean to say you would break a -lady’s windows that has nothing to do with it?--pass on!--is that sense, -or honor, or courage? is that a credit to the Bill, or to the country? -I’ll take care of the young lady. Do you not see they think you robbers, -or worse? They’ll not open till you pass on.” - -“He’s in the right of it there--what are ye a’ waiting for?” cried some -one in advance. The throng moved on, leaving a single group about the -door, but this little incident was enough to damp them. Moray Place -escaped with much less sacrifice of glass and temper than might have -been looked for--while poor little Desirée, subsiding out of her -passion, leaned against the pillar of the inhospitable door, crying -bitterly, and sobbing little exclamations of despair in her own tongue, -which sounded sweet to Cosmo’s ear, though he did not know what they -were. - -“Mademoiselle Desirée, don’t be afraid,” cried the boy, blushing in the -dark. “I saw you once with Joanna Huntley--I’m a friend. Nobody will -meddle with you. When they see these fellows gone, they’ll open the -door.” - -“And I despise them!” cried Desirée, suddenly suspending her crying; -“they will shut me out in the crowd for fear of themselves. I despise -them! and see here!” - -A stone had struck her on the temple; it was no great wound, but Desirée -was shocked and excited, and in a heroic mood. - -“And they will leave me here,” cried the little Frenchwoman, -pathetically, with renewed tears; “though it is my mother’s country, and -I meant to love it, they shut me out among strangers, and no one cares. -Ah, they would not do so in France! there they do not throw stones at -women--they kill men!” - -Cosmo was horrified by the blow, and deeply impressed by the heroics. -The boy blushed with the utmost shame for his townsmen and -co-politicians. He thought the girl a little Joan of Arc affronted by a -mob. - -“But it was accident; and every man would be overpowered with shame,” -cried Cosmo, while meanwhile Cameron, who had followed him, knocked -soberly and without speaking, at the door. - -After a little interval, the door was opened by the mistress of the -school, a lady of grave age and still graver looks; a couple of -women-servants in the hall were defending themselves eagerly. - -“I was up stairs, and never heard a word of it, mum,” said one. “Eh, it -wasna me!” cried another; “the French Miss flew out upon the steps, and -the door just clashed behind her; it was naebody’s blame but her ain.” - -In the midst of these self-exculpatory addresses, the mistress of the -house held the door open. - -“Come in, Mademoiselle Desirée,” she said gravely. - -The excited little Frenchwoman was not disposed to yield so quietly. - -“Madame, I have been wounded, I have been shut out, I have been left -alone in the crowd!” cried Desirée; “I demand of you to do me -justice--see, I bleed! One of the _vauriens_ struck me through the -window with a stone, and the door has been closed upon me. I have stood -before all the crowd alone!” - -“I am sorry for it, my dear,” said the lady, coldly; “come in--you ought -never to have gone to the door, or exposed yourself; young ladies do not -do so in this country. Pray come in, Mademoiselle Desirée. I am sorry -you are hurt--and, gentlemen, we are much obliged to you--good night.” - -For the girl, half-reluctantly, half-indignantly, had obeyed her -superior, and the door was calmly closed in the faces of Cosmo and -Cameron, who stood together on the steps. Cosmo was highly incensed and -wrathful. He could have had the heart to plunge into that cold, proper, -lighted hall, to snatch the little heroine forth, and carry her off like -a knight of romance. - -“Do you hear how that woman speaks to her?” he cried, indignantly. - -Cameron grasped his arm and drew him away. - -“She’s French!” said the elder man, laconically, and without any -enthusiasm; “and not to anger you, Cosmo, the lady is perfectly right.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -Cosmo went home that evening much excited by his night’s adventures. -Mrs. Payne, of Moray Place, was an ogre in the boy’s eyes, the Giantess -Despair, holding bewitched princesses in vile durance and -subjection--and Desirée, with the red mark upon her pretty forehead, -with her little white hands clasped together, and her black eyes -sparkling, was nothing less than a heroine. Cosmo could not forget the -pretty attitude, the face glowing with resentment and girlish boldness; -nor the cold gravity of the voice which bade her enter, and the -unsympathetic disapproval in the lady’s face. He could not rest for -thinking of it when he got home. In his new feeling of importance and -influence as a person privileged to address the public, his first idea -was to call upon Mrs. Payne in the morning, by way of protector to -Desirée, to explain how the whole matter occurred; but on further -thoughts Cosmo resolved to write a very grave and serious letter on the -subject, vindicating the girl, and pointing out, in a benevolent way, -the danger of repressing her high spirit harshly. - -As soon as he was alone, he set about carrying out this idea in an -epistle worthy the pages of the _Auld Reekie Magazine_, and written with -a solemn authority which would have become an adviser of eighty instead -of eighteen. He wrote it out in his best hand, put it up carefully, and -resolved to leave it himself in the morning, lest the post (letters were -dear in those days) might miscarry with so important a document. But -Cosmo, who was much worn out, slept late in the morning, so late that -Cameron came into his room, and saw the letter before he was up. It -excited the curiosity of the Highlander, and Cosmo, somewhat shyly, -admitted him to the privilege of reading it. It proved too much, -however, for the gravity of his friend; and, vexed and ashamed at last, -though by no means convinced the lad tore it in bits, and threw it into -the fire-place. Cameron kept him occupied all day, breaking out, -nevertheless, into secret chuckles of amusement now and then, which it -was very difficult to find a due occasion for; and Cosmo was not even -left to himself long enough to pass the door of the house in Moray -Place, or to ask after the “wound” of his little heroine. He did the -only thing which remained possible to him, he made the incident into a -copy of verses, which he sent to the _North British Courant_, and which -duly appeared in that enlightened newspaper--though whether it ever -reached the eyes of Desirée, or touched the conscience of the -schoolmistress by those allusions which, though delicately vailed, were -still, Cosmo flattered himself, perfectly unmistakable by the chief -actors in the scene, the boy could not tell. - -These days of holiday flew, however, as holidays will fly. Cameron’s -Highland patron had Cosmo introduced to him, and consented that his son -should travel in the company of the son of “Mrs. Livingstone, of -Norlaw,” and the lad went home, full of plans for his journey, to which -the Mistress as yet had given only a very vague and general consent, and -of which she scarcely still understood the necessity. When Cosmo came -home, he had the mid-chamber allotted to him as a study, and went to -work with devotion. The difficulty was rather how to choose between the -narrative in ballad verse, the spirited dramatic sketch, and the -historical tale, than how to execute them, for Cosmo had that facility -of language, and even of idea, which many very youthful people, with a -“literary turn,” (they were very much less common in those days) often -possess, to the half-amusement, half-admiration of their seniors and -their own intense confusion in maturer days. Literature was not then -what it is now, the common resource of most well-educated young men, who -do not know what else to do with themselves. It was still a rare glory -in that rural district where the mantle of Sir Walter lay only over the -great novelist’s grave, and had descended upon nobody’s shoulders; and -as Cosmo went on with his venture, the Mistress, glowing with -mother-pride and ambition, hearing the little bits of the -“sketch"--eighteen is always dramatical--which seemed, to her loving -ears, melodious, and noble, and life-like, almost above comparison, -became perfectly willing to consent to any thing which was likely to -perfect this gift of magic. “Though I canna weel see what better they -could have,” she said to herself, as she went down from Cosmo’s study, -wiping her eyes. Cosmo’s muse had sprung, fully equipped, like Minerva, -into a glorious existence--at least, so his mother, and so, too, if he -had permitted himself to know his own sentiments--perhaps also Cosmo -thought. - -The arrangement was concluded, at last, on the completion of Cosmo’s -article. Cameron and his young pupil were to start in August; and the -Mistress herself went into Edinburgh to buy her boy-author the handiest -of portmanteaus, and every thing else which her limited experience -thought needful for him; the whole country-side heard of his intended -travels, and was stirred with wonder and no small amount of derision. -The farmers’ wives wondered what the world was coming to, and their -husbands shook their heads over the folly of the widow, who would ruin -her son for work all his days. The news was soon carried to Melmar, -where Mr. Huntley by no means liked to hear it, where Patricia turned up -her little nose with disgust, and where Joanna wished loudly that she -was going too, and announced her determination to intrust Cosmo with a -letter to Oswald. Even in the manse, the intelligence created a little -ferment. Dr. Logan connected it vaguely--he could not quite tell -how--with the “Bill,” which the excellent minister feared would -revolutionize every thing throughout the country, and confound all the -ranks and degrees of social life; and shook his head over the idea of -Cosmo Livingstone, who had only been one session at college, and was but -eighteen, writing in a magazine. - -“Depend upon it, Katie, my dear, it’s an unnatural state of things,” -said the Doctor, whose literature was the literature of the previous -century, and who thought Cosmo’s pretensions unsafe for the stability of -the country. - -And sensible Katie, though she smiled, felt still a little doubtful -herself, and, in her secret heart, thought of Huntley gone away to labor -at the other end of the world, while his boy-brother tasted the sweets -of luxury and idleness in an indulgence so unusual to his station. - -“Poor Huntley!” said Katie to herself, with a gentle recollection of -that last scene in the manse parlor, when she mended her children’s -stockings and smiled at the young emigrant, as he wondered what changes -there might be there when he came back. Katie put up her hand very -softly to her eyes, and stood a long time in the garden looking down the -brae into the village--perhaps only looking at little Colin, who was -visible amid some cottage boys on the green bank of Tyne--perhaps -thinking of Cosmo, who was going “to the Continent,"--perhaps traveling -still further in her thoughts, over a big solitary sea; but Katie said -“nothing to nobody,” and was as blythe and busy in the manse parlor when -the minister rejoined her, as though she had not entered with a little -sigh. - -All this time Cosmo never said a word to his mother of Mary of Melmar; -but he leaped up into the old window of the castle every evening to -dream his dream, and a hundred times, in fancy, saw a visionary figure, -pale, and lovely, and tender, coming home with him to claim her own. He, -too, looked over the woods of Melmar as his brother had done, but with -feelings very different--for no impulse of acquisition quickened in the -breast of Cosmo. He thought of them as the burden of a romance, the -chorus of a ballad--the inheritance to which the long lost Mary must -return; and while the Mistress stocked his new portmanteau, and made -ready his traveling wardrobe, the lad was hunting everywhere with -ungrateful pertinacity for scraps of information to guide him in this -search which his mother had not the most distant idea was the real -motive of his journey. If she had known it, scarcely even the discovery -of her husband’s longing after his lost love could have affected the -Mistress with more overpowering bitterness and disgust. Marget shut the -door when Cosmo came to question her on the subject, and made a vehement -address to him under her breath. - -“Seek her, if you please,” said Marget, in a violent whisper; “but if -your mother ever kens this--sending out her son into the world with a’ -this pride and pains for _her_ sake--I’d rather the auld castle fell on -our heads, Cosmo Livingstone, and crushed every ane of us under a -different stane!” - -“Hush, Marget! my mother is not unjust,” said Cosmo, with some -displeasure. - -“She’s no’ unjust; but she’ll no’ be second to a stranger woman that has -been the vexation of her life,” said Marget, “spier where you like, -laddie. Ye dinna ken, the like of you, how things sink into folks’ -hearts, and bide for years. I ken naething about Mary of Melmar--neither -her married name nor naught else--spier where ye like, but dinna spier -at me.” - -But it did not make very much matter where Cosmo made inquiry. Never was -disappearance more entire and complete than that of Mary of Melmar. He -gathered various vague descriptions of her, not quite so poetical in -sentiment as Jaacob’s, but quite as confusing. She was “a great toast -among a’ the lads, and the bonniest woman in the country-side"--she was -“as sweet as a May morning"--she was “neither big nor little, but just -the best woman’s size"--she was, in short, every thing that was pretty, -indefinite, and perplexing. And with no clue but this, Cosmo set out, on -a windy August morning, on his travels, to improve his mind, and write -for the _Auld Reekie Magazine_, as his mother thought--and to seek for -the lost heir of the Huntleys, as he himself and the Laird of Melmar -knew. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -“Oh, papa,” cried Joanna Huntley, bursting into Melmar’s study like a -whirlwind, “they’re ill-using Desirée! they shut her out at the door -among a crowd, and they threw stones at her, and she might have been -killed but for Cosmo Livingstone. I’ll no’ stand it! I’ll rather go and -take up a school and work for her mysel’.” - -“What’s all this?” said Melmar, looking up in amazement from his -newspaper; “another freak about this Frenchwoman--what is she to you?” - -“She’s my friend,” said Joanna, “I never had a friend before, and I -never want to have another. You never saw anybody like her in all your -life; Melmar’s no’ good enough for her, if she could get it for her very -own--but I think she would come here for me.” - -“That would be kind,” said Mr. Huntley, taking a somewhat noisy pinch of -snuff; “but if that’s all you have to tell me, it’ll keep. Go away and -bother your mother; I’m busy to-day.” - -“You know perfectly well that mamma’s no’ up,” said Joanna, “and if she -was up, what’s the use of bothering _her_? Now, papa, I’ll tell you--I -often think you’re a very, very ill man--and Patricia says you have a -secret, and I know what keeps Oswald year after year away--but I’ll -forgive you every thing if you’ll send for Desirée here.” - -“You little monkey!” cried Melmar, swinging his arm through the air with -a menaced blow. It did not fall on Joanna’s cheek, however, and perhaps -was not meant to fall--which was all the better for the peace of the -household--though feelings of honor or delicacy were not so -transcendentally high in Melmar as to have made a parental chastisement -a deadly affront to the young lady, even had it been inflicted. “You -little brat!” repeated the incensed papa, growing red in the face, “how -dare you come to me with such a speech--how dare you bother me with a -couple of fools like Oswald and Patricia?--begone this moment, or -I’ll--” - -“No, you will not, papa,” interrupted Joanna. “Oswald’s no’ a fool--and -I’m no’ a monkey nor a brat, nor little either--and if any thing was to -happen I would never forsake you, whatever you had done--but I like -Desirée better than ever I liked any one--and she knows every thing--and -she could teach me better than all the masters and mistresses in -Edinburgh--and if you don’t send for her here to be my governess, I may -go to school, but I’ll never learn a single thing again!” - -Melmar was perfectly accustomed to be bullied by his youngest child; he -had no ideal of feminine excellence to be shocked by Joanna’s rudeness, -and in general rather enjoyed it, and took a certain pleasure in the -disrespectful straightforwardness of the girl, who in reality was the -only member of his family who had any love for him. His momentary -passion soon evaporated--he laughed and shook his closed hand at her, no -longer threateningly. - -“If you like to grow up a dunce, Joan,” he said, with a chuckle, “what -the deevil matter is’t to me?” - -“Oh, yes, but it is, though,” said Joanna. “I know better--you like -people to come to Melmar as well as Patricia does--and Patricia never -can be very good for any thing. She canna draw, though she pretends--and -she canna play, and she canna sing, and I could even dance better -myself. It’s aye like lessons to see her and hear her--and nobody cares -to come to see mamma--it’s no’ her fault, for she’s always in bed or on -the sofa; but if _I_ like to learn--do you hear, papa?--and I would like -if Desirée was here--_I_ know what Melmar might be!” - -It was rather odd to look at Joanna, with her long, angular, girl’s -figure, her red hair, and her bearing which promised nothing so little -as the furthest off approach to elegance, and to listen to the -confidence and boldness of this self-assertion--even her father -laughed--but, perhaps because he was her father, did not fully perceive -the grotesque contrast between her appearance and her words; on the -contrary, Melmar was considerably impressed with these last, and put -faith in them, a great deal more faith than he had ever put in -Patricia’s prettiness and gentility, cultivated as these had been in the -refined atmosphere of the Clapham school. - -“You are a vain little blockhead, Joan,” said Mr. Huntley, “which I -scarcely looked for--but it’s in the nature of woman. When Aunt Jean -leaves you her fortune, we’ll see what a grand figure you’ll make in the -country. A French governess, forsooth! the bairn’s crazy. I’ll get her -to teach _me_.” - -“She could teach you a great many things, papa,” said Joanna, with -gravity, “so you need not laugh. I’m going to write to her this moment, -and say she’s to come here--and you’re to write to Mrs. Payne and tell -her what you’ll give, and how she’s to come, and every thing. Desirée is -not pleased with Mrs. Payne.” - -“What a pity!” said Melmar, laughing; “and possibly, Joan--you ought to -consider--Desirée might not be pleased with me.” - -“You are kind whiles--when you like, papa,” said Joanna, taking this -possibility into serious consideration, and fixing her sharp black eyes -upon her father, with half an entreaty, half a defiance. - -Somehow this appeal, which he did not expect, was quite a stroke of -victory, and silenced Melmar. He laughed once more in his loud and not -very mirthful fashion, and the end of the odd colloquy was, that Joanna -conquered, and that, to the utter amazement of mother, sister, and Aunt -Jean, the approaching advent of a French governess for Joanna became a -recognized event in the house. Patricia spent one good long summer -afternoon crying over it. - -“No one ever thought of getting a governess for me!” sobbed Patricia, -through a deluge of spiteful tears. - -And Aunt Jean put up her spectacles from her eyes, and listened to the -news which Joanna shouted into her ear, and shook her head. - -“If she’s a Papist it’s a tempting of Providence,” said Aunt Jean, “and -they’re a’ Papists, if they’re no’ infidels. She may be nice enough and -bonnie enough, but I canna approve of it, Joan. I never had any broo of -foreigners a’ my days. Deseery? fhat ca’ you her name? I like names to -be Christian-like, for my part. Did ever ye hear that, or the like o’ -that, in the Scriptures? Na, Joan, it’s very far from likely she should -please me.” - -“Her name is _Desirée_, and it means desired; it’s like a Bible name for -that,” cried Joanna. “My name means nothing at all that ever I heard -of--it’s just a copy of a boy’s--and I would not have copied a man if -anybody had asked me.” - -“What’s that the bairn says?” said Aunt Jean. “I like old-fashioned -plain names, for my part, but that’s to be looked for in an old woman; -but I can tell you, Joan, I’m never easy in my mind about French -folk--and never can tell fha they may turn out to be; and ’deed in this -house, it’s no canny; and I never have ony comfort in my mind about your -brother Oswald, kenning faur he was.” - -“Why is it not canny in this house, Aunt Jean?” asked Joanna. - -“Eh, fhat’s that?” said the old woman, who heard perfectly, “fhat’s no -canny? just the Pope o’ Rome, Joan, and a’ his devilries; and they’re as -fu’ o’ wiles, every ane, as if ilka bairn was bred up a priest. Oh, fie, -na! you ma ca’ her desired, if you like, but she’s no’ desired by me.” - -“Desired!” cried Patricia; “a little creature of a governess, that is -sure always to be scheming and trying to be taken notice of, and making -herself as good as we are. It’s just a great shame! it’s nothing else! -no one ever _thought_ of a governess for me. But it’s strange how I -always get slighted, whatever happens. I don’t think any one in the -world cares for me!” - -“Fhat’s Patricia greeting about?” said Aunt Jean, “eh, bairns! if I were -as young as you I would save up a’ my tears for real troubles. You’ve -never kent but good fortune a’ your days, but that’s no’ to say ill -fortune can never come. Whisht then, ye silly thing! I can see you, -though I canna hear you. Fhat’s she greeting for, Joan? eh! speak -louder, I canna hear.” - -“Because Desirée is coming,” shouted Joan. - -“Aweel, aweel, maybe I’m little better mysel’,” said the old woman. “I’m -just a prejudiced auld wife, I like my ain country best--but’s no malice -and envie with me; fhat ails Patricia at her for a stranger she doesna -ken? She’s keen enough about strangers when they come in her ain way. -You’re a wild lassie, Joan, you’re no’ just fhat I would like to see -you--but there’s nae malice in _you_, so far as I ken.” - -“Oh, Auntie Jean,” cried Joanna, with enthusiasm, “wait till you see -what I shall be when Desirée comes!” - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -After a little time Desirée came to Melmar. She had been placed in -charge of Mrs. Payne by an English lady, who had brought her from her -home in France with the intention of making a nursery governess of the -little girl, but who, finding her either insufficiently trained or not -tractable enough, had transferred her, with the consent of her mother, -to the Edinburgh boarding-school as half pupil, half teacher. When -Melmar’s proposal came, Desirée, still indignant at her present ruler, -accepted it eagerly, declared herself quite competent to act -independently, and would not hear of anybody being consulted upon the -matter. She herself, the little heroine said, with some state, would -inform her mother, and she made her journey accordingly half in spite of -Mrs. Payne, who, however, was by no means ill pleased to transfer so -difficult a charge into other hands. Desirée arrived alone on an August -afternoon, by the coach, in Kirkbride. The homely little Scotch village, -so unlike any thing she had seen before, yet so pretty, dwelling on the -banks of its little brown stream, pleased the girl’s fanciful -imagination mightily. Two or three people--among them the servant from -Melmar who had come to meet her--stood indolently in the sultry sunshine -about the Norlaw Arms. In the shadow of the corner, bowed Jaacob’s weird -figure toiled in the glow of the smithy. One or two women were at the -door of the cottage which contained the widow’s mangle, and the opposite -bank lay fair beneath the light, with that white gable of the manse -beaming down among its trees like a smile. The wayward, excitable little -Frenchwoman had a tender little heart beneath all her vivacity and -caprices. Somehow her eyes sought instinctively that white house on the -brae, and instinctively the little girl thought of her mother and -sister. Ah, yes, this surely, and not Edinburgh, was her mother’s -country! She had never seen it before, yet it seemed familiar to her; -they could be at home here. And thoughts of acquiring that same white -house, and bringing her mother to it in triumph, entered the wild little -imagination. Women make fortunes in France now and then; she did not -know any better, and she was a child. She vowed to herself to buy the -white house on the brae and bring mamma there. - -Melmar pleased Desirée, but not so much; she thought it a great deal too -square and like a prison; and Patricia did not please her at all, as she -was not very slow to intimate. - -“Mademoiselle does not love me, Joanna,” she said to her pupil as they -wandered about the banks of Tyne together, “to see every thing,” as -Joanna said before they began their lessons; “and I never can love any -one who does not love me.” - -“Patricia does not love anybody,” cried Joanna, “unless maybe herself, -and not herself either--right; but never mind, Desirée, _I_ love you, -and by-and-by so will Aunt Jean; and oh! if Oswald would only come -home!” - -“I hope he will not while I am here,” said Desirée, with a little frown; -“see! how pretty the sun streams among the trees; but I do not like -Melmar so well as that white house at the village; I should like to live -there.” - -“At the manse?” cried Joanna. - -“What is the manse? it is not a great house; would they sell it?” said -Desirée. - -“Sell it!” Joanna laughed aloud in the contempt of superior knowledge; -“but it’s only because you don’t know; they could as well sell the -church as the manse.” - -“I don’t want the church, however--it’s ugly,” said Desirée; “but if I -had money I should buy that white house, and bring mamma and Maria -there.” - -“Eh, Desirée! your mamma is English--I heard you say so,” cried Joanna. - -“_Eh bien!_ did I ever tell you otherwise?” said the little Frenchwoman, -impatiently; “she would love that white house on the hill.” - -“Did _she_ teach you to speak English?” asked Joanna, “because everybody -says you speak so well for a Frenchwoman--and I think so myself; and -papa said you looked quite English to him, and he thought he knew some -one like you, and you were not like a foreigner at all.” - -The pretty little shoulders gave an immediate shrug, which demonstrated -their nationality with emphasis. - -“Every one must think what every one pleases,” said Desirée. “Who, then, -lives in that white house? I remember mamma once spoke of such a house, -with a white gable and a great tree. Mamma loves rivers and trees. I -think, when she was a child, she must have been here.” - -“Why?” asked Joanna, opening her eyes wide. - -“I know not why,” said Desirée, still with a little impatience, as she -glanced hurriedly round with a sudden look of half-confused -consideration; “but either some one has told me of this place, or I have -been here in a dream.” - -It was the loveliest dell of Tyne. The banks rose so high on either -side, and were so richly dotted with trees, that it was only here and -there, through breaks in the foliage, that you could catch a momentary -glimpse of the brown river, foaming over a chance rock, or sparkling -under some dropping line of sunshine which reached it, by sweet caprice -and artifice of nature, through an avenue of divided branches. The path -where the two girls stood together was at a considerable height above -the stream; and close by them, in a miniature ravine, thickly fringed -with shrubs, poured down a tiny, dazzling waterfall, white as foam -against the background of dark soil and rocks, the special feature of -the scene. Desirée stood looking at it with her little French hands -clasped together, and the chiming of the water woke strange fancies in -her mind. Had she seen it somewhere, in fairy-land or in dreams?--or had -she heard of it in that time which was as good as either--when she was a -child? She stood quite silent, saying nothing to Joanna, who soon grew -weary of this pause, complimentary as it might be. Desirée was confused -and did not know what to make of it. She said no more of the white -house, and not much more of her own friends, and kept wondering to -herself as she went back, answering Joanna’s questions and talking of -their future lessons, what strange sentiment of recollection could have -moved her in sight of that waterfall. It was very hard to make it out. - -And no doubt it was because Desirée’s mother was English that Aunt Jane -could not keep up her prejudice against the foreigner, but gradually -lapsed to Joanna’s opinion, and day by day fell in love with the little -stranger. She was not a very, very good girl--she was rather the -reverse, if truth must be told. She had no small amount of pretty little -French affectations, and when she was naughty fell back upon her own -language, especially with Patricia, whose Clapham French was not much -different from the French of Stratford-atte-Bowe, and who began with -vigor and reality to entertain, not a feeble prejudice but a hearty -dislike, to the invader. Neither did she do what good governesses are so -like to do, at least in novels--she did not take the place of her -negligent daughters with the invalid Mrs. Huntley, nor remodel the -disorderly household. Sometimes, indeed, out of pure hatred to things -ugly, Desirée put a sofa-cover straight, or spread down a corner of the -crumb-cloth; but she did not captivate the servants, and charm the young -ladies into good order and good behavior; she exercised no very -astonishing influence in that way over even Joanna. She was by no means -a model young lady in herself, and had no special authority, so far as -she was aware of. She taught her pupil, who was one half bigger than -herself, to speak French very tolerably, and to practice a certain time -every day. She took charge of Joanna’s big hands, and twisted, and -coaxed, and pinched them into a less clumsy thump, upon the trembling -keys of the piano. She mollified her companion’s manners even -unconsciously, and suggested improvements in the red hair and brown -merino frock; but having done this, Desirée was not aware of having any -special charge of the general morals and well-being of the family; she -was rather a critic of the same, indeed, but she was not a Mentor nor a -reformer. She obeyed what rules there were in the sloven house--she -shrugged her little French shoulders at the discomforts and quarrels. -She sometimes pouted, or curled her little disdainful upper lip; but she -took nobody’s part save Joanna’s, whom she always defended manfully. It -was not a particularly brilliant or entertaining life for Desirée. -Melmar himself, with his grizzled red hair, and heated face; Mrs. -Huntley, who sometimes never left her room all day, and who, when she -did, lay on a sofa; Patricia, who was spiteful, and did her utmost to -shut out both Joanna and Desirée when any visitors came to break the -tedium--were not remarkably delightful companions; and as the winter -closed in, and there were long evenings, and less pleasure out of -doors--winter, when all the fires looked half choked, and would not -burn, and when a perennial fog seemed to lie over Melmar, did not -increase the comforts of the house. Yet it happened that Desirée was by -no means unhappy; perhaps at sixteen it is hard to be really unhappy, -even when one feels one ought, unless one has some very positive reason -for it. Joanna and she sat together at the scrambling breakfast, which -Patricia was always too late for; then they went to the music lesson, -which tried Joanna’s patience grievously, but which Desirée managed to -get some fun out of, and endured with great philosophy. Then they read -together, and the unfortunate Joanna inked her fingers over her French -exercise. In the afternoon they walked--save when Joanna was compelled -to accompany her sister “in the carriage,” a state ceremonial in which -the little governess was never privileged to share; and after their -return from their walk, Desirée taught her pupil all manner of fine -needleworks, in which she was herself more than usually learned, and -which branch of knowledge was highly prized by Aunt Jean, and even by -Mrs. Huntley. Such was the course of study pursued by Joanna under the -charge of her little governess of sixteen. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -“A French governess!--she is not French, though she might be born in -France. Anybody might be born in France,” said Patricia, with some -scorn; “but her mother was Scotch--no, not English, Joanna, I know -better--just some Scotchwoman from the country; I should not wonder if -she was a little impostor, after all.” - -“You had better take care,” cried Joanna, “I’m easier affronted than -Desirée; you had better not say much more to me.” - -“It is true though,” said Patricia, with triumph; “she took quite a -fancy to Kirkbride, when she came first, and was sure she had heard of -the Kelpie waterfall. _I_ expect it will turn out some poor family from -this quarter that have gone to France and changed their name. Joanna may -be as foolish about her as she likes, but _I_ know she never was a true -Frenchwoman by her look. I have seen French people many a time in -England.” - -“Yet you always look as if you would like to eat Desirée when she speaks -to you in French,” said Joanna, with a spice of malice; “if you knew -French people, you should like the language.” - -“Low people don’t pronounce as ladies do,” said Patricia. “Perhaps she -was not even born in France, for all she says--and I am _quite_ sure her -mother was some country girl from near Kirkbride.” - -“What is that you say?” said Melmar, who was present, and whose -attention had at last been caught by the discussion. - -“I say Joanna’s French governess is not French, papa. Her mother was a -Scotchwoman and came from this country,” cried Patricia, eagerly. “I -think she belongs to some poor family who have gone abroad and changed -their name--perhaps her father was a poacher, or something, and had to -run away.” - -“And that is all because Desirée thinks she must have heard her mamma -speak of the Kelpie waterfall,” said Joanna; “because she thought she -knew it as soon as she saw it--that is all!--did you ever hear the like, -papa?” - -Melmar’s face grew redder, as was its wont when he was at all disturbed. -He laid down his paper. - -“She thought she knew the Kelpie, did she?--hum! and her mother is a -Scotchwoman--for that matter, so is yours. What is to be made of that, -eh, Patricia?” - -“_I_ never denied where I belonged to,” said Patricia, reddening with -querulous anger; “and I did not speak to you, papa, so you need not take -the trouble to answer. But her mother _was_ Scotch--and I do not believe -she is a proper Frenchwoman at all. I never did think so; and as for a -governess, Joanna could learn as much from mamma’s maid.” - -Joanna burst out immediately into a loud defense, and denunciation of -her sister. Melmar took no notice what, ever of their quarrel, but he -still grew redder in the face, twisted about his newspaper, got up and -walked to the window, and displayed a general uneasiness. He was -perfectly indifferent as to the tone and bearing of his daughters, but -he was not indifferent to what they said in this quarrel, which was all -about Desirée. Presently, however, both the voices ceased with some -abruptness. Melmar looked round with curiosity. Desirée herself had -entered the room, and what his presence had not even checked, her -presence put an end to. Desirée wore a brown merino frock, like Joanna, -with a little band and buckle round the waist, and sleeves which were -puffed out at the shoulders, and plain at the wrists, according to the -fashion of the time. It had no ornament whatever except a narrow binding -of velvet at the neck and sleeves, and was not so long as to hide the -handsome little feet, which were not in velvet slippers, but in stout -little shoes of patent leather, more suitable a great deal for Melmar, -and the place she held there. The said little feet came in lightly, yet -not noiselessly, and both the sisters turned with an immediate -acknowledgment of the stranger’s entrance. Patricia’s delicate pink -cheeks were flushed with anger, and Joanna looked eager and defiant, but -quarrels were so very common between them that Desirée took no notice of -this one. She came to a table near which Melmar was standing, and opened -a drawer in it to get Joanna’s needlework. - -“You promised to have--oh, such an impossible piece, done to-day!” said -Desirée, “and look, you naughty Joanna!--look here.” - -She shook out a delicate piece of embroidery as she spoke, with a merry -laugh. It was a highly-instructive bit of work, done in a regular -succession of the most delicate perfection and the utmost bungling, to -wit, Desirée’s own performance and the performance of her pupil. As the -little governess clapped her hands over it, Joanna drew near and put her -arms round the waist of her young teacher, overtopping her by all her -own red head and half her big shoulders. - -“I’ll never do it like you, Desirée,” said the girl, half in real -affection, half with the benevolent purpose of aggravating her sister. -“I’ll never do any thing so well as you, if I live to be as old as Aunt -Jean.” - -“Ah, then, you will need no governess,” said Desirée, “and if you did it -as well as I, now, you should not want me, Joanna. I shall leave it for -you there--and now it is time to come for one little half hour to the -music. Will mademoiselle do us the honor to come and listen? It shall be -only one little half hour.” - -“No, thank you! I don’t care to hear girls at their lessons--and -Joanna’s time is always so bad,” said the fretful Patricia. “Oh, I -can’t help having an ear! I can hear only too well, thank you, where I -am.” - -Desirée made a very slight smiling curtsey to her opponent, and pressed -Joanna’s arm lightly with her fingers to keep down the retort which -trembled on that young lady’s lips. Then they went away together to the -little supplementary musical lesson. Melmar had never turned round, nor -taken the slightest notice, but he observed, notwithstanding, not only -all that was done, but all that was looked and said, and it struck him, -perhaps for the first time, that the English of Desirée was perfectly -familiar and harmonious English, and that she never either paused for a -word nor translated the idiom of one tongue into the speech of another. -Uneasy suspicions began to play about his mind: he could scarcely say -what he feared, yet he feared something. The little governess was French -undeniably and emphatically--and yet she was not French, either, yet -bore an unexplainable something of familiarity and home-likeness which -had won for her the heart of Aunt Jean, and had startled himself -unawares from her first introduction to Melmar. He stood at the window, -looking out upon the blank, winterly landscape, the leafless trees in -the distance, the damp grass and evergreens near the door, as the -cheerful notes of Joanna’s music came stealing through the cold -passages. The music was not in bad time, and it was in good taste, for -Joanna was ambitious, and Desirée, though not an extraordinary musician -herself, kept her pupil to this study with the most tenacious -perseverance. As Melmar listened, vague thoughts, almost of fear, stole -over him. He had been a lawyer, and a lawyer of a low class, smart in -schemes and trickeries. He was ready to suspect everybody of cunning and -the mean cleverness of deceit. Perhaps this was a little spy whom he -fostered in his house. Perhaps her presence in the Edinburgh school was -a trick to attract Joanna, and her presence here a successful plot to -undermine and find out himself. His face grew redder still as he “put -things together;” and by the time the music ceased, Melmar had concocted -and found out (it is so easy to find out what one has concocted one’s -own self,) a very pretty little conspiracy. He _had_ found it out, he -was persuaded, and it should go no further--trust him for that! - -Accordingly, when his daughter and her governess returned, Melmar paid -them a compliment upon their music, and was disposed to be friendly, as -it appeared. Finally, after he had exhausted such subjects of chat as -occurred to him, he got up, looking at Desirée, who was now busy with -her embroidery. - -“I rather think, mademoiselle, you have been more than three months -here,” said Melmar, “and I have been inconsiderate and ungallant enough -to forget the time. I’ll speak with you about that in my study, if -you’ll favor me by coming there. I never speak of business but in my own -room--eh, Joan? You got your thrashings there when you were young -enough. Where does mademoiselle give you them now?” - -“Don’t be foolish, papa,” said Joanna, jerking her head aside as he -pinched her ear. “What do you want of Desirée? if it’s for Patricia, and -you’re going to teaze her, I’ll not let her go, whatever you say.” - -“And it is not quite three months, yet,” said Desirée, looking up with a -smile. “Monsieur is too kind, but it still wants a week of the time.” - -“Then, lest I should forget again when the week was over, we’ll settle -it now, mademoiselle,” said Melmar. Desirée rose immediately to follow -him. They went away through the long passage, he leading, suspicious and -stealthy, she going after him, with the little feet which rang frankly -upon the stones. Desirée thought the study miserable when she went into -it. She longed to throw open the window, to clear out the choked -fire--she did not wonder that her pupil’s papa had a heated face, even -before dinner; the wonder seemed how any one could breathe here. - -They had a conference of some duration, which gradually diverged from -Desirée’s little salary, which was a matter easily settled. Mr. Huntley -took an interest in her family. He asked a great many questions, which -the girl answered with a certain frankness and a certain reserve, the -frankness being her own, and the reserve attributable to a letter which -Desirée kept in her pocket, and beyond the instructions of which nothing -could have tempted her to pass. Mr. Huntley learned a great deal during -that interview, though not exactly what he expected and intended to -learn. The afternoon was darkening, and as he sat in the dubious light, -with the window and the yew-tree on the other side of him, he became -more and more like the big, brindled, watchful cat, which he had so -great a tendency to resemble. Then he dismissed “mademoiselle” with a -kindly caution. He thought she had better not mention--not even to any -one in the house, that her mother was a Scotchwoman--as she was French -herself, he thought the less said about that the better--he would not -even speak of it much to Joanna, he thought, if she would take his -advice--it might injure her prospects in life--and with this fatherly -advice he sent Desirée away. - -When she was gone, he looked out stealthily for some one else, though he -had taken previous precautions to make sure that no one could listen. It -was Patricia for whom her father looked, poor little delicate Patricia, -who _would_ steal about those stone-cold passages, and linger in all -manner of draughts at half-closed doors, to gain a little clandestine -information. When Melmar had watched a few minutes, he discovered her -stealing out of a little store-room close by, and pounced upon the poor -little stealthy, chilly figure. He did not care that the grasp of his -fingers hurt her delicate shoulders, and that her teeth chattered with -cold; he drew her roughly into the dusk of the study, where the pale -window and the black yew were by no means counterbalanced by any light -from the fire. Once here, Patricia began to vindicate herself, and -upbraid papa’s cruelty. Her father silenced her with a threatening -gesture. - -“At it again!” said Melmar; “what the deevil business have you with my -affairs? let me but catch you prying when there is any thing to learn, -and for all your airs, I’ll punish you! you little cankered elf! hold -your tongue, and hear what I have to say to you. If I hear another word -against that governess, French or no French--or if you try your hand at -aggravating her, as I know you have done, I’ll turn you out of this -house!” - -For once in her life Patricia was speechless; she made no answer, but -stood shivering in his grasp, with a hundred terrified malicious fancies -in her mind, not one of which would come to utterance. Melmar -proceeded:-- - -“If anybody asks you who she is, or what she is, you can tell them _I_ -know--which is more than you know, or she either--and if you let any -mortal suppose she’s slighted at Melmar, or give her ground to take -offense, or are the means of making her wish to leave this place--if it -should be midnight, or the depths of winter, I’ll turn you out of doors -that moment! Do you hear?” - -Patricia did hear, with sullen terror and wicked passion, but she did -not answer; and when she was released, fled to her own room, ready, out -of the mere impotence of her revengeful ill-humor to harm herself, since -she could not harm Desirée, and with all kinds of vile suspicions in her -mind--suspicions further from the reality than Melmar’s had been, and -still more miserable. When she came to herself a little, she cried and -made her eyes red, and got a headache, and the supernumerary maid was -dispatched up stairs to nurse her, and be tormented for the evening. -Suffering is very often vicarious in this world, and poor Jenny Shaw -bore the brunt which Desirée was not permitted to bear. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - - -“I should like to live here,” said Desirée, looking out of the window of -the manse parlor, with a little sigh. - -Katie Logan looked up at her with some little doubt. She had come by -herself to the manse, in advance of Joanna, who had been detained to -accompany her sister. The two girls had been invited some time before to -“take tea” at the manse--and Desirée had been very curious and -interested about her first visit to her white house on the hill. Now -that she had accomplished it, however, it subdued her spirit a little, -and gave the little Frenchwoman for once a considerable inclination to -get “low,” and cry. The house and the room were very unlike any house -she had ever known--yet they were so homelike that Desirée’s thoughts -grew tender. And Katie Logan looked at her doubtfully. Desirée’s -impulsive little heart had clung to Katie every time she saw her. She -was so sweet and neat--so modest and natural--so unlike Patricia and -Joanna, and all the womankind of that sloven house of Melmar. The girl, -who had a mother and an elder sister, and was far from home, yearned to -Katie--but the little mistress of the manse looked with doubt upon the -French governess--principally, to tell the truth, because she was -French, and Katie Logan, with all her good sense, was only a country -girl, and had but a very, very small experience of any world beyond -Kirkbride. - -“Mamma came from this country,” said Desirée, again, softly. She had a -letter in her pocket--rather a sentimental letter--from mamma, which -perhaps a wiser person might have smiled at a little--but it made -Desirée’s heart expand toward the places which mamma too had seen in her -youth, and remembered still. - -“Indeed! then you are a little bit Scotch, you are not all French,” said -Katie, brightening a little; “is it very long since your mamma went -away?--is she in France now? Is she likely to come back again?” - -Desirée shook her head. - -“I should like to be rich, and buy this house, and bring her here--I -love this house,” cried the girl. - -A little cloud came upon Katie’s face. She was jealous of any inference -that some time or other the manse might change hands. She could not bear -to think of that--principally because Katie had begun to find out with -painful anxiety and fear, that her father was growing old, that he felt -the opening chill of winter a great deal more than he used to do--and -that the old people in the village shook their heads, and said to -themselves that the minister was “failing” every time he passed their -doors. - -“This house can never be sold,” said Katie, briefly--even so briefly as -though the words were rather hard to say. - -“It is not like Melmar,” said Desirée. “I want the air and the sun to -come into that great house--it can not breathe--and how the people -breathe in it I do not know.” - -“But they are very kind people,” said Katie, quickly. - -Desirée lifted her black eyes and looked full at her--but Katie was -working and did not meet the look. - -“Joanna is fond of you,” said Desirée, “and I like her--and I am fond of -the old lady whom they call Aunt Jean.” - -This distinct summary of the amount of her affection for the household -amused Katie, who was half afraid of a governess-complaint against her -employers. - -“Do you like to be so far from home?” she said. - -“Like!” Desirée became suddenly vehement. “I should like to live with -mamma--but,” cried the girl, “how could you ask me?--do not _you_ know?” - -“I have no mother,” said Katie, very quietly; “boys are always eager to -leave home--girls might sometimes wish it too. Do you know Cosmo -Livingstone, whom you saw in Edinburgh, has gone abroad for no reason at -all that I know--and his brothers have both gone to work, and make their -fortunes if they can--and my little brothers speak already of what they -are going to do when they grow men--they will all go away.” - -“In this country, people always talk of making fortunes. I should like -to make a fortune too,” said Desirée, “but I do not know what to do.” - -“Girls never make fortunes,” said Katie, with a smile. - -“Why?” cried the little governess, “but I wish it--yes, very -much--though I do not know how to do it; here I have just twenty pounds -a year. What should you do if you had no papa, and had to work for -yourself.” - -Katie rose from her chair in trouble and excitement. - -“Don’t speak so--you frighten me!” she cried, with an involuntary pang. -“I have all the children. You do not understand it--you must not speak -of _that_.” - -“Of what?” asked Desirée, with a little astonishment. But she changed -the subject with ready tact when she saw the painful color on Katie’s -face. “I should like mamma to see you,” she said in a vein of perfectly -natural and sincere flattery. “When I tell her what kind of people I -live among, I do not speak of mademoiselle at Melmar, or even of -Joanna--I tell her of you, and then she is happy--she thinks poor little -Desirée is very well where she is with such as these.” - -“I am afraid you are too good to me,” said Katie, with a half conscious -laugh--“you don’t know me well enough yet--is it Patricia whom you call -mademoiselle?” - -Desirée shrugged her little shoulders slightly; she gave no other -answer, but once more looked out from the window down the pretty brae of -Tyne, where all the cottages were so much the clearer from the winterly -brown aspect of the trees, stripped of their foliage. It was not like -any other scene familiar to Desirée, still it did seem familiar to -her--she could not tell how--as if she had known it all her life. - -“Does Cosmo Livingstone, whom you spoke of, live near?” asked Desirée, -“and will you tell me of _his_ mother? Is she by herself, now that all -her boys are gone?--is she a lady? Are they great people or are they -poor? Joanna speaks of a great old castle, and I think I saw it from the -road. They must be great people if they lived there.” - -“They are not great people now,” said Katie, the color warming in her -cheek--“yet the castle belonged to them once, and they were different. -But they are good people still.” - -“I should like to hear about them,” said Desirée, suddenly coming up to -Katie, and sitting down on a stool by her feet. Katie Logan was slightly -flattered, in spite of herself. She thought it very foolish, but she -could not help it. Once more a lively crimson kindled in her cheek. She -bent over her work with great earnestness, and never turned her eyes -toward the questioning face of the girl. - -“I could not describe the Mistress if I were to try all day,” said Katie -at last, in a little burst, after having deliberated. Desirée looked up -at her very steadily, with grave curiosity. - -“And that is what I want most,” said the little Frenchwoman. “What! can -you not tell if she has black eyes or blue ones, light hair or dark -hair?--was she pretty before she grew old--and does she love her -boys--and did her husband love her? I want to know all that.” - -Desirée spoke in the tone of one who had received all these questions -from another person, and who asked them with a point-blank quietness and -gravity, for the satisfaction of some other curiosity than her own; but -the investigation was half amusing, half irritating to Katie. She shook -her head slightly, with a gesture expressing much the same sentiment as -the movement of her hand, which drew away the skirts on which Desirée -almost leaned. Her doubt changed into a more positive feeling. Katie -rather feared Desirée was about to fulfill all her unfavorable -anticipations as to the quality of French governesses. - -“Don’t go away,” said Desirée, laying her little white hand upon the -dress which Katie withdrew from her touch. “I like to sit by you--I like -to be near you--and I want to hear; not for me. Tell me only what you -please, but let me sit here till Joanna comes.” - -There was a little pause. Katie was moved slightly, but did not know -what to say, and Desirée, too, sat silent, whether waiting for her -answer or thinking, Katie could not tell. At last she spoke again with -emotion, grasping Katie’s dress. - -“I like Joanna,” said Desirée, with tears upon her eyelashes--“but I am -older than she is--a great deal older--and no one else cares for me. You -do not care for me--it is not likely; but let me sit here and forget all -that house and every thing till Joanna comes. Ah, let me! I am far away -from home--I am a little beggar girl, begging at your window--not for -crumbs, or for sous, but for love. I am so lonely. I do not think of it -always--but I have thought so long and so often of coming here.” - -“You must come oftener then,” said Katie, who, unused to any -demonstration, did not quite know what to say. - -“I can not come often,” said Desirée, softly, “but let me sit by you and -forget all the others--only for a very, very little time--only till -Joanna comes. Ah, she is here!” - -And the little Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders, and ran to the window -to look out, and came back with a swift gliding motion to take Katie’s -hand out of her work and kiss it. Katie was surprised, startled, moved. -She did not half understand it, and she blushed, though the lips which -touched her hand were only those of a girl; but almost before she could -speak, Desirée had sprung up again, and stood before her with a smile, -winking her pretty long eyelashes to clear them of those wayward April -tears. She was very pretty, very young, with her little foreign graces. -Katie did not understand the rapid little girl, who darted from one -thought to another, so quickly, yet with such evident truthfulness--but -her heart was touched and surprised. Joanna came in immediately, to put -an end to any further confidences. Joanna, loudly indignant at -Patricia’s selfishness, and making most audible and uncompromising -comparisons between Melmar and the manse, which Desirée skillfully -diverted, soothed, and gradually reduced to silence, to Katie’s much -amazement. On the whole, it was a very pleasant little tea-party to -everybody concerned; but Katie Logan, when she stood at the door in the -clear frosty moonlight, looking after her young guests, driving away in -the double gig which had been sent for them, still doubted and wondered -about Desirée, though with a kindly instead of an unfavorable sentiment. -What could the capricious little foreigner mean, for instance, by such -close questions about Norlaw? - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - - -At Norlaw every thing was very quiet, very still, in this early winter. -The “beasts” were thriving, the dairy was prosperous, the Mistress’s -surplus fund--spite of the fifty pounds which had been given out of it -to Cosmo--grew at the bank. Willie Noble, the factotum, lived in his -cosy cottage at a little distance, and throve--but no one knew very well -how the Mistress and Marget lived by themselves in that deserted house. -No one could have told any external difference in the house, save for -its quietness. It was cheerful to look upon in the ruddy winter -sunshine, when the glimmer of the fire shone in the windows of the -dining-parlor, and through the open door of Marget’s kitchen; and not -even the close pressure of the widow’s cap could bring decay or -melancholy to the living looks of the Mistress, who still was not old, -and had much to do yet in the world where her three boys were wandering. -But it was impossible to deny that both Mistress and servant had a -little dread of the long evenings. They preferred getting up hours -before daylight, when, though it was dark, it was morning, and the -labors of the day could be begun--they took no pleasure in the night. - -It was a habitual custom with the minister, and had been for years, to -“take tea” occasionally, now and then, without previous invitation, at -Norlaw. When Dr. Logan was new in his pastorate, he thought this device -of dropping in to take tea the most admirable plan ever invented for -“becoming acquainted with his people,” and winning their affections; and -what was commenced as a famous piece of wisdom, had fallen years ago -into natural use and wont, a great improvement upon policy. From the -same astute reasoning, it had been the fancy of the excellent minister, -whose schemes were all very transparent, and, indeed, unconcealable, to -take Katie with him in these domestic visitations. “It pleased the -people,” Dr. Logan thought, and increased the influence of the -ecclesiastical establishment. The good man was rather complacent about -the manner in which he had conquered the affections of his parish. It -was done by the most elaborate statesmanship, if you believed Dr. Logan, -and he told the young pastors, with great satisfaction, the history of -his simple devices, little witting that his devices were as harmless as -they were transparent, and that it was himself, and not his wisdom, -which took the hearts of his people. But in the meantime, those plans of -his had come to be the course of nature, and so it was that Katie Logan -found herself seated with her work in the Norlaw dining-parlor at sunset -of a wintry afternoon, which was not exactly the day that either she or -the Mistress would have chosen for her visit there. - -For that day the Mistress had heard from her eldest son. Huntley had -reached Australia--had made his beginning of life--had written a long, -full-detailed letter to his mother, rich in such particulars as mothers -love to know; and on that very afternoon Katie Logan came with her -father to Norlaw. Now in her heart the Mistress liked Katie as well, -perhaps better, than she liked any other stranger out of the narrow -magic circle of her own blood and family--but the Mistress was warm of -temper and a little unreasonable. She could not admit the slightest -right on Katie’s part, or on the part of any “fremd person,” to share in -the communication of her son. She resented the visit which interrupted -her in the midst of her happiness and excitement with a suggestion of -some one else who might claim a share in Huntley. She knew they were not -lovers, she knew that not the shadow of an engagement bound these two, -she believed that they had never spoken a word to each other which all -the world might not have heard--yet, notwithstanding all these -certainties, the Mistress was clear-sighted, and had the prevision of -love in her eyes, and with the wildest unreasonableness she resented the -coming of Katie, of all other days in the year, upon that day. - -“She needna have been in such an awfu’ hurry; she might have waited a -while, if it had only been for the thought of what folk might say,” -muttered the Mistress to herself, very well knowing all the time, -though she would not acknowledge it to herself, that Katie Logan had no -means whatever of knowing what precious missive had come in the -Kirkbride letter-bag that day. - -And when the Mistress intimated the fact with a little heat and -excitement, Katie blushed and felt uncomfortable. She was conscious, -too; she did not like to ask a natural question about Huntley. She sat -embarrassed at the homely tea-table, looking at the cream scones which -Marget had made in honor of the minister, while Dr. Logan and the -Mistress kept up the conversation between them--and when her father rose -after tea to go out, as was his custom, to call at the nearest cottages, -Katie would fain have gone too, had that not been too great an invasion -of established rule and custom, to pass without immediate notice. She -sat still accordingly by the table with her work, the Mistress sitting -opposite with _her_ work also, and her mind intent upon Huntley’s -letter. The room was very still and dim, with its long background of -shade, sometimes invaded by a red glimmer of fire, but scarcely -influenced by the steady light of the two candles, illuminating those -two faces by the table; and the Mistress and her visitor sat in silence -without any sound but the motion of their hands, and the little rustle -of their elbows as they worked. This silence became very embarrassing -after a few minutes, and Katie broke it at last by an inquiry after -Cosmo--where was he when his mother heard last? - -“The laddie is a complete wanderer,” said the Mistress, not without a -little complacence. “I could not undertake to mind, for my part, all the -places he’s been in--though they’re a’ names you see in books--he’s been -in Eetaly, and he’s been in Germany, and now he’s back again in France; -but I canna say he forgets hame either,” she added, with a tender pride, -“only the like of him must improve his mind; and foreign travel, folk -say, is good for that--though I canna say I ever had much to do with -foreigners, or likit them mysel’.” - -“Did you ever hear of any one from this country marrying a Frenchman, -Mrs. Livingstone?” asked Katie. - -“Marrying a Frenchman? I’ll warrant have I--it’s no’ such a great -wonder, but the like of me might hear tell of it in a lifetime,” said -the Mistress, with a little offense, “but marriage is no’ aye running -in everybody’s head, Miss Katie, and there’s little fear of my Cosmo -bringing me hame a French wife.” - -“No, I did not think of that,” said Katie, with a smile, “I was thinking -of the little French governess at Melmar, whose mother, they say, came -from this quarter, or near it. She is an odd little girl and yet I like -her--Cosmo saw her in Edinburgh, and she was very anxious, when she came -to the manse, to hear about Norlaw. I thought perhaps you might have -known who her mother was.” - -The Mistress was slightly startled--she looked up at Katie quickly, with -a sparkle of impatience in her eye, and a rising color. - -“Me!” said the Mistress. “How should I ken? There might have been a -hundred young women in the countryside married upon Frenchmen for any -thing I could tell. ‘This quarter’ is a wide word. I ken nae mair about -Melrose and what happens there, wha’s married or wha dies, than if it -was a thousand miles away. And many a person has heard tell of Norlaw -that I ken naething about, and that never heard tell of me.” - -Katie paused to consider after this. She knew and understood so much of -the Mistress’s character that she neither took offense nor wished to -excite it. This had not been a quite successful essay at conversation, -and Katie took a little time to think before she began again. - -But while Katie’s thoughts left this subject, those of the Mistress held -to it. Silence fell upon them again, disturbed only by the rustle of -their sleeves as they worked, and the crackle of the fire, which burned -brightly, when suddenly the Mistress asked:-- - -“What like is she?” with an abruptness which took away Katie’s breath. - -“She?"--it required an effort to remember that this was Desirée of whom -they had been speaking--“the little girl at Melmar?” asked Katie. “She -is little and bright, and pretty, with very dark eyes and dark hair, a -quick little creature, like a bird or a fairy. I confess I was half -afraid of her, because she was French,” admitted the little mistress of -the manse with a blush and a laugh, “but she is a very sweet, winning -little girl, with pretty red lips, and white teeth, and black eyes--very -little--less than me.” - -The Mistress drew a long breath and looked relieved. - -“I do not know any thing about her,” she said slowly; and it seemed -quite a comfort to the Mistress to be able to say so, distinctly and -impartially. “And so she’s at Melmar--a governess--what is that for, -Katie? The oldest is woman grown, and the youngest is more like a laddie -than a lassie. What are they wanting with a governess? I canna say I ken -much of the present family mysel’, though my Huntley, if he had but -sought his ain, as he might have done--but you’ll hear a’ that through -your cousin, without me.” - -“No,” said Katie. - -“Ah, Katie Logan! you speak softly and fairly, and you’re a good lassie, -and a comfort to the house you belong to,” cried the Mistress. “I ken a’ -that, and I never denied it a’ your days! But my Huntley, do you ken -what that laddie did before he went away? He had a grand laird-ship -within his hand if he would gang to the law and fight it out, as the -very writer, your ain cousin, advised him to do. But my son said, ‘No; -I’ll leave my mother her house and her comfort, though they’re a’ mine,’ -said my Huntley. ‘I’ll gang and make the siller first to fight the -battle with.’ And yonder he is, away at the end of the world, amang his -beasts and his toils. He wouldna listen to me. I would have lived in a -cothouse or one room, or worked for my bread rather than stand in the -way of my son’s fortune; but Huntley’s a man grown, and maun have his -way; and the proud callant had that in his heart that he would make his -mother as safe as a queen in her ain house before he would think of -either fortune or comfort for himsel’.” - -The Mistress’s voice was broken with her mother-grief, and pride, and -triumph. It was, perhaps, the first time she had opened her heart so -far--and it was to Katie, whose visit she had resented, and whose secret -hold on Huntley’s heart was no particular delight to his mother. But -even in the midst of the angry impatience with which the Mistress -refused to admit a share in her son’s affections, she could not resist -the charm of sympathy, the grateful fascination of having some one -beside her to whom every thing concerning Huntley was almost as -interesting as to herself. Huntley’s uncommunicated letter was very near -running over out of her full heart, and that half-apologetic, -half-defiant burst of feeling was the first opening of the tide. -Katie’s eyes were wet--she could not help it--and they were shining and -glowing behind their tears, abashed, proud, joyous, tender, saying what -lips can not say--she glanced up, with all her heart in them, at the -Mistress, and said something which broke down in a half sob, half laugh, -half sigh, and was wholly and entirely inarticulate, though not so -unintelligible as one might have supposed. It was a great deal better -than words, so far as the Mistress was concerned--it expressed what was -inexpressible--the sweet, generous tumult in the girl’s heart--too shy -even to name Huntley’s name, too delicate to approve, yet proud and -touched to its depths with an emotion beyond telling. The two women did -not rush into each other’s arms after this spontaneous burst of mutual -confidence. On the contrary, they sat each at her work--the Mistress -hurriedly wiping off her tears, and Katie trying to keep her’s from -falling, if that were possible, and keeping her eyes upon the little -glancing needle, which flashed in all manner of colors through the sweet -moisture which filled them. Ah! that dim, silent dining-parlor, which -now there was neither father nor children to fill and bless!--perhaps by -the solitary fireside, where she had sat for so many hours of silent -night, alone commanding her heart, a new, tender, soothing, unlooked for -relationship suddenly surprised the thoughts of the Mistress. She had -not desired it, she had not sought it, yet all at once, almost against -her will, a freshness came to her heart like the freshness after -showers. Something had happened to Huntley’s mother--she had an -additional comfort in the world after to-night. - -But when Dr. Logan returned, after seeing Willie Noble, the good -minister, with pleasant consciousness of having done his duty, was not -disturbed by any revelation on the part of the Mistress, or confession -from his daughter. He heard a great many extracts read from Huntley’s -letter, feeling it perfectly natural and proper that he should hear -them, and expressing his interest with great friendliness and good -pleasure; and then Marget was called in, and the minister conducted -family worship, and prayed with fervor for the widow’s absent sons, like -a patriarch. “The Angel which redeemed me from all evil bless the lads,” -said the minister in his prayer; and then he craved a special blessing -on the first-born, that he might return with joy, and see the face of -his mother, and comfort her declining years. Then the excellent pastor -rose from his knees placidly, and shook the Mistress’s hand, and wended -his quiet way down Tyne through the frosty moonlight, with his daughter -on his arm. He thought the Mistress was pleased to see them, and that -Katie had been a comfort to her to-night. He thought it was a very fine -night, and a beautiful moon, and there were Orion, Katie, and the Plow; -and so Dr. Logan went peacefully home, and thought he had spent a very -profitable night. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - - -It was frost, and Tyne was “bearing” at Kirkbride, where the village -held a carnival of sliding and skating, and where even the national -winter sport, the yearly curling matches, began to be talked of. There -was, however, no one at Melmar to tempt Tyne to “bear,” even had it been -easy to reach his glassy surface through the slippery whitened trees, -every twig of which was white and stiff with congealed dew. The Kelpie -fell scantily, with a drowsy tinkle, over its little ravine, reduced to -the slenderest thread, while all the branches near it were hung with -mocking icicles. The sun was high in the blue, frosty midday skies, but -had only power enough to clear here and there an exposed branch, and to -moisten the path where some little burn crept half frozen under a crust -of ice. It was a clear, bracing, invigorating day, and Joanna and -Desirée, spite of the frost, were on Tyne-side among the frozen woods. - -When standing close together, investigating a bit of moss, both -simultaneously heard a crackling footstep among the underwood, and -turning round at the same moment, saw some one approaching from the -house. He was one of her own countrymen, Desirée thought, with a little -flutter at her heart. He wore a large blue cloak, with an immense fur -collar, a very French hat, a moustache, and long black hair; Desirée -gazed at him with her heart in her eyes, and her white little French -hands clasped together. No doubt he brought some message from mamma. -But Desirée’s hopes were brought to an abrupt conclusion when Joanna -sprang forward, exclaiming: - -“Oh, Oswald, Oswald! have you really come home? I am so glad you have -come home!” with a plunge of welcome which the stranger looked half -annoyed, half pleased to encounter. He made a brotherly response to it -by stooping to kiss Joanna, a salutation which the girl underwent with a -heightened color, and a half-ashamed look; she had meant to shake both -his hands violently; any thing in the shape of an embrace being much out -of Joanna’s way--but Oswald’s hands were occupied with his cloak, which -he could not permit to fall from his shoulders in the fervor of his -brotherly pleasure. Holding it fast, he had only half a hand to give, -which Joanna straightway possessed herself of, repeating as she did so -her cry of pleasure: “Oh, Oswald, how glad I am! I have wished for such -a long time that you would come home!” - -“It was very kind of my little sister--or should I say my big sister,” -said the stranger, looking gallant and courtier-like, “but why, may I -ask, were you so anxious for me now? that was a sudden thought, Joanna.” - -Joanna grew very red as she looked up in his face--then unconsciously -she looked at Desirée. Mr. Oswald Huntley was a man of the world, and -understood the ways and fancies of young ladies--at least he thought so. -He followed Joanna’s glance, and a comical smile came to his lips. He -took off his hat with an air half mocking, half reverential. - -“May I hope to be introduced to your friend, Joanna?” said the new-found -brother. With great haste, heat, and perturbation, blushing fiery red, -and feeling very uncomfortable, Joanna stumbled through this ceremony, -longing for some private means of informing the new-comer who “her -friend” was, ere accident or Patricia made him unfavorably aware of it. -He was a little amazed evidently by the half-pronounced, -half-intelligible name. - -“Mademoiselle Desirée?” he repeated after Joanna, with an evident -uncertainty, and an air of great surprise. - -“Oh, Oswald, you have never got my last letter,” cried Joanna; “did you -really not know that Desirée was here?” - -“I am the governess,” cried Desirée, with immense pride and dignity, -elevating her little head and drawing up her small figure. Patricia had -done her best during these three months to annoy and humiliate the -little Frenchwoman--but her pride had never been really touched until -to-day. - -Oswald’s countenance cleared immediately into suavity and good-humor--he -smiled, but he bowed, and looked with great graciousness upon the two -girls. He could see at a glance how pretty and graceful was this -addition to the household of Melmar--and Oswald Huntley was a -dilettanti. He liked a pretty person as well as a pretty picture. He -begged to know how they could find any pleasure out of doors in this -ferocious climate on such a day--and with a glance, and a shrug and a -shiver at the frosty languor of the diminished Kelpie, drew his cloak -close round him, and turned towards the house, whither, Joanna eagerly, -and Desirée with great reluctance and annoyance, the girls were -constrained to follow. He walked between them, inclining his ear to his -sister, who overwhelmed him with questions, yet addressing now and then -a courteous observation to Desirée which gradually mollified that little -lady. He was a great deal more agreeable than Melmar or than -Patricia--he was something new in the house at least--he knew her own -country, perhaps her own very town and house. Desirée became much -softened as they drew near the house, and she found herself able to -withdraw and leave the brother and sister together. To know the real -value of a new face and a new voice, one needs to live for a long winter -in a country house like Melmar, whose hospitality was not very greatly -prized in the country-side. Desirée had quite got over her anger by the -time she reached her own apartment. She made rather a pretty toilet for -the evening, and was pleased, in spite of herself, that there would be -some one else to talk to besides Melmar, and Aunt Jean and Joanna. The -whole house, indeed, was moved with excitement. A dark Italian servant, -whom he had brought with him, was regulating with a thermometer, to the -dismay and wonder of all the maids, the temperature of Mr. Oswald’s -room, where these unscientific functionaries had put on a great, -uncomfortable fire, piled half-way up the chimney. Patricia had entered -among them to peer over her brother’s locked trunks, and see if there -was any thing discoverable by curiosity. Mrs. Huntley was getting up in -haste to see her son, and even Aunt Jean trotted up and down stairs on -her nimble little feet, on errands of investigation and assistance. It -made no small commotion in the house when the only son of Melmar came -home. - -Oswald Huntley, but for his dark hair, was like his sister Patricia. He -was tall, but of a delicate form, and had small features, and a faint -color which said little for his strength. When they all met together in -the evening, the traveled son was by much the most elegant member of the -household circle. His dainty, varnished boots, his delicate white hands, -his fine embroidered linen, filled Joanna with a sentiment which was -half impatience and half admiration. Joanna would rather have had Oswald -despise these delicacies of apparel, which did not suit with her ideal -of manhood. At the same time she had never seen any thing like them, and -they dazzled her. As for Patricia, she looked from her brother to -herself, and colored red with envious displeasure. One of Oswald’s rings -would have purchased every thing in the shape of jewelry which Patricia -ever had or hoped for--his valet, his dress, his “style,” at once awed -and irritated his unfortunate sister. If papa could afford to keep -Oswald thus, was it not a disgrace to confine “me!” within the tedious -bounds of this country house? Poor little Patricia could have cried with -envy and self pity. - -In the meantime, Oswald made himself very agreeable, and drew the little -party together as they seldom were drawn. His mother sat up in her easy -chair, looking almost pretty with her pink cheeks, and for once without -any invalid accompaniments of barley-water or cut oranges. Melmar -himself staid in the drawing-room all the evening, displaying his -satisfaction by some occasional rude fun with Joanna and jokes at -“Mademoiselle,” and listening to his son very complacently though he -seldom addressed him. Aunt Jean had drawn her chair close to Mrs. -Huntley, and seriously inclined, not her ear only, which was but a dull -medium, but the lively black eyes with which she seemed almost able to -hear as well as see. Joanna hung upon her mother’s footstool, eagerly -and perpetually asking questions. The only one out of the family group -was Desirée, who kept apart, working at her embroidery, but whom Mr. -Oswald by no means neglected. The new comer had good taste. He thought -the little table which held the governess’s thread and scissors, and -little crimson work-bag, and the little chair close by, where the little -governess herself sat working with her pretty white hands, her graceful -girlish dress, her dark hair in which the light shone, and her -well-formed, well-poised head bending over her embroidery, was the -prettiest bit in the room, and well worth looking at. He looked at it -accordingly as he talked, distributing his favors impartially among the -family, and wondered a little who this little girl might be, and what -brought her here. When Oswald stooped forward to say something politely -to the little Frenchwoman--when he brought a flush to her cheek by -addressing her in her own language, though Desirée’s own good sense -taught her that it was best to reply in English--when he pronounced -himself a connoisseur in embroidery, and inspected the pretty work in -her hands--his ailing mother and his deaf aunt, as well as the spiteful -Patricia, simultaneously perceived something alarming in the courtesy. -Desirée was very young and very pretty, and Oswald was capricious, -fanciful, and the heir of Melmar. What if the little governess, sixteen -years old, should captivate the son, who was only five-and-twenty? The -fear sprang from one feminine mind to another, of all save Joanna, who -had already given her thoughts to this catastrophe as the most desirable -thing in the world. Oswald’s experience and knowledge of the world, on -which he prided himself, went for nothing in the estimation of his -female relatives. They thought Desirée, at sixteen, more than a match -for him, as they would have thought any other girl in the same -circumstances. People say women have no _esprit du corps_, but they -certainly have the most perfect contempt for any man’s powers of -resistance before the imagined wiles and fascinations of “a designing -girl.” These ladies almost gave Oswald over, as he stood, graceful and -self-satisfied, in the midst of them--a monarch of all he -surveyed--extending his lordly courtesies to the poor little governess. -Had he but known! but he did not know any thing about it, and said to -himself compassionately, “Poor little thing--how pretty she is!--what -could bring her here?” as he threw himself back upon the pillow in that -room of which Antonio had regulated the temperature, and thought no more -about Desirée; whereas poor little Desirée, charmed with the new voice, -and the new grace, and the unusual kindness, dreamed of him all night. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - - -“Am I to understand that our title is somehow endangered? I do not quite -comprehend your last letter,” said Oswald, addressing his father -somewhat haughtily. They were in Melmar’s study, where everybody went to -discuss this business, and where the son sat daintily upon a chair which -he had selected from the others for his own use, leaning the points of -his elbows upon the table, and looking elaborately uncomfortable--so -much so, that some faint idea that this study, after all, could not be a -very pleasant apartment, entered, for the first time, the mind of -Melmar. - -“Come nearer to the fire, Oswald,” said Mr. Huntley, suddenly. He was -really solicitous about the health and comfort of his son. - -“Thank you; I can scarcely breathe _here_,” said the young man, -ungratefully. “Was I right, sir, in supposing _that_ to be your reason -for writing me such a letter as your last?” - -“You were right in supposing that I wanted to see you,” said the father, -with some natural displeasure. “You live a fine life in foreign parts, -my lad; you’ve little to put you about; but what could you do for -yourself if the funds at Melmar were to fail?” - -“Really the idea is disagreeable,” said Oswald, laughing. “I had rather -not take it into consideration, unless it is absolutely necessary.” - -“If it were so,” said Melmar, with a little bitterness, “which of you -could I depend upon--which of you would stretch out a helping hand to -help me?” - -“To help _you_? Upon my word, sir, I begin to think you must be in -earnest,” said his son. “What does this mean? Is there really any other -claimant for the estate? Have we any real grounds for fear? Were not you -the heir-at-law?” - -“I was the heir-at-law; and there is no other claimant,” said Melmar, -dryly; “but there is a certain person in existence, Oswald Huntley, who, -if she but turns up soon enough--and there’s two or three years yet to -come and go upon--can turn both you and me to the door, and ruin us with -arrears of income to the boot.” - -Oswald grew rather pale. “Is this a new discovery?” he said, “or why did -I, who am, next to yourself, the person most concerned, never hear of it -before?” - -“You were a boy, in the first place; and in the second place, a -head-strong, self-willed lad; nextly, delicate,” said Melmar, still with -a little sarcasm; “and it remains to be seen yet whether you’re a -reasonable man.” - -“Oh, hang reason!” cried the young man with excitement. “I understand -all that. What’s to be done? that seems the main thing. Who is this -certain person that has a better right to Melmar than we?” - -“Tell me first what you would do if you knew,” said Mr. Huntley, bending -his red gray eyes intently upon his son. Melmar knew that there were -generous young fools in the world, who would not hesitate to throw -fortune and living to the winds for the sake of something called honor -and justice. He had but little acquaintance with his son; he did not -know what stuff Oswald was made of. He thought it just possible that the -spirit of such Quixotes might animate this elegant mass of good breeding -and dillettanteism; for which reason he sat watching under his grizzled, -bushy eyebrows, with the intensest looks of those fiery eyes. - -“Pshaw! do? You don’t suppose _I_ would be likely to yield to any one -without a struggle. Who is it?” said Oswald; “let me know plainly what -you mean.” - -“It is the late Me’mar’s daughter and only child; a woman with children; -a woman in poor circumstances,” replied Mr. Huntley, still with a -certain dry sarcasm in his voice. - -“But she was disinherited?” said Oswald, eagerly. - -“Her father left a will in her favor,” said Melmar, “reinstating her -fully in her natural rights; that will is in the hands of our enemies, -whom the old fool left his heirs, failing his daughter: she and her -children, and these young men, are ready to pounce upon the estate.” - -“But she was lost--did I not hear so?” cried Oswald, rising from his -chair in overpowering excitement. - -“Ay!” said his father, “but I know where she is.” - -“In Heaven’s name, what do you mean?” cried the unfortunate young man; -“is it to bewilder and overwhelm me that you tell me all this? Have we -no chance? Are we mere impostors? Is all this certain and beyond -dispute? What do you mean?” - -“It is all certain,” said Melmar, steadily; “her right is -unquestionable; she has heirs of her own blood, and I know where she -is--she can turn us out of house and home to-morrow--she can make me a -poor writer, ruined past redemption, and you a useless fine gentleman, -fit for nothing in this world that I know of, and your sisters -servant-maids, for I don’t know what else they’re good for. All this she -can do, Oswald Huntley, and more than this, the moment she makes her -appearance--but she is as ignorant as you were half an hour ago. _I_ -know--but _she_ does not know.” - -What will Oswald do?--he is pacing up and down the little study, no -longer elegant, and calm, and self-possessed; the faint color on his -cheeks grows crimson--the veins swell upon his forehead--a profuse cold -moisture comes upon his face. Pacing about the narrow space of the -study, thrusting the line of chairs out of his way, clenching his -delicate hand involuntarily in the tumult of his thoughts, there could -not have been a greater contrast than between Oswald at his entrance and -Oswald now. His father sat and watched him under his bushy -eyebrows--watched him with a steady, fixed, fascinating gaze, which the -young man’s firmness was not able to withstand. He burst out into -uneasy, troubled exclamations. - -“What are we to do, then?--must we go and seek her out, and humble -ourselves before her?--must we bring her back in triumph to her -inheritance? It is the only thing we can do with honor. What _are_ we to -do?” - -“Remember, Oswald,” said Melmar, significantly, “_she_ does not know.” - -The young man threw himself into a chair, hid his face in his hands, and -broke into low, muttered groans of vexation and despair, which sounded -like curses, and perhaps were so. Then he turned towards his father -violently and suddenly, with again that angry question, “What are we to -do?” - -He was not without honor, he was not without conscience; if he had there -could have been little occasion for that burning color, or for the cold -beads of moisture on his forehead. The sudden and startling intelligence -had bewildered him for a moment--then he had undergone a fierce but -brief struggle, and then Oswald Huntley sank into his chair, and into -the hands of his father, with that melancholy confession of his -weakness--a question when the matter was unquestionable--“what are we to -do?” - -“Nothing,” said Melmar, grimly, regarding his son with a triumph which, -perhaps, after all, had a little contempt in it. This, then, was all the -advantage which his refinement and fine-gentlemanliness gave him--a -moment’s miserable, weakly hesitation, nothing more nor better. The -father, with his coarse methods of thought, and unscrupulous motives, -would not have hesitated: yet not a whit stronger, as it appeared, was -the honor or courage of the son. - -“Nothing!” said Melmar; “simply to keep quiet, and be prepared against -emergencies, and if possible to stave off every proceeding for a few -years more. They have a clever lad of a lawyer in their interests, which -is against us, but you may trust me to keep him back if it is possible; -a few years and we are safe--I ask nothing but time.” - -“And nothing from me?” said Oswald, rising with a sullen shame upon his -face, which his father did not quite comprehend. The young man felt that -he had no longer any standing ground of superiority; he was humiliated, -abased, cast down. Such advantage as there was in moral obtuseness and -strength of purpose lay altogether with Melmar. His son only knew -better, without any will to do better. He was degraded in his own eyes, -and angrily conscious of it, and a sullen resentment rose within him. If -he could do nothing, why tell him of this to give him a guilty -consciousness of the false position which he had not courage enough to -abandon? Why drag him down from his airy height of mannerly and educated -elevation to prove him clay as mean as the parent whom he despised? It -gave an additional pang to the overthrow. There was nothing to be -done--the misery was inflicted for nothing--only as a warning to guard -against an emergency which, perhaps, had it come unguarded, might not -have stripped Oswald so bare of self-esteem as this. - -“We’ll see that,” said Melmar, slowly; then he rose and went to the door -and investigated the passages. No one was there. When he returned, he -said something in his son’s ear, which once more brought a flush of -uneasy shame to his cheek. The father made his suggestion lightly, with -a chuckle. The young man heard it in silence, with an indescribable look -of self-humiliation. Then they separated--Oswald to hurry out, with his -cloak round him, to the grounds where he could be alone--Melmar to bite -his pen in the study, and muse over his victory. What would come of -it?--his own ingenuity and that last suggestion which he had breathed in -Oswald’s ear. Surely these were more than enough to baffle the foolish -young Livingstones of Norlaw, and even their youthful agent? He thought -so. The old Aberdonian felt secure in his own skill and cunning--he had -no longer the opposition of his son to dread. What should he fear? - -In the meantime, Patricia, who had seen her brother leave the house in -great haste, like a man too late for an appointment, and who had spied a -light little figure crossing the bridge over Tyne before, wrapped -herself up, though it was a very cold day, and set out also to see what -she could discover. Malice and curiosity together did more to keep her -warm than the cloak and fur tippet, yet she almost repented when she -found herself among the frozen, snow-sprinkled trees, with the faint -tinkle of the Kelpie striking sharp, yet drowsy, like a little stream of -metal through the frost-bound stillness, and no one visible on the path, -where now and then her foot slid upon a treacherous bit of ice, inlaid -in the hard brown soil. Could they have left the grounds of Melmar? -Where could they have gone? If they had not met, one of them must -certainly have appeared by this time; and Patricia still pushed on, -though her cheeks were blue and her fingers red with cold, and though -the intensity of the chill made her faint, and pierced to her poor -little heart. At last she was rewarded by hearing voices before her. -Yes, there they were. Desirée standing in the path, looking up at the -trunk of a tree, from which Oswald was stripping a bit of velvet moss, -with bells of a little white fungus, delicate and pure as flowers, -growing upon it. As Patricia came up, her brother presented the prize to -the little Frenchwoman, almost with the air of a lover. The breast of -his poor little sister swelled with bitterness, dislike, and malicious -triumph. She had found them out. - -“Oswald! I thought you were quite afraid of taking cold,” cried -Patricia--“dear me, who could have supposed that you would have been in -the woods on such a day! I am sure Mademoiselle ought to be very -proud--you would not have come for any one else in the house.” - -“I am extremely indebted to you, Patricia, for letting Mademoiselle know -so much,” said Oswald. “One does not like to proclaim one’s own merits. -Was it on Mademoiselle’s account that you, too, undertook the walk, poor -child? Come, I will help you home.” - -“Oh, I’m sure she does not want _me_!” exclaimed Patricia, ready to cry -in the height of her triumph. “Papa and you are much more in her way -than I am--as long as she can make you gentlemen do what she pleases, -she does not care any thing about your sisters. Oh, I know all about -it!--I know papa is infatuated about her, and so are you, and she is a -designing little creature, and does not care a bit for Joanna. You may -say what you please, but I know I am right, and I will not stand it -longer--I shall go this very moment and tell mamma!” - -“Mademoiselle Huntley shall not have that trouble,” cried Desirée, who -had been standing by utterly amazed for the first few moments, with -cheeks alternately burning red and snow pale. “_I_ shall tell Mrs. -Huntley; it concerns me most of any one. Mademoiselle may be unkind if -she pleases--I am used to that--but no one shall dare,” cried the little -heroine, stamping her little foot, and clapping her hands in sudden -passion, “to say insulting words to me! I thank you, Monsieur -Oswald--but it is for me, it is not for you--let me pass--I shall tell -Mrs. Huntley this moment, and I shall go!” - -“Patricia is a little fool, Mademoiselle,” said Oswald, vainly -endeavoring to divert the seriousness of the incident. “Nay--come, we -shall all go together--but every person of sense in the house will be -deeply grieved if you take this absurdity to heart. Forget it; she shall -beg your pardon. Patricia!” exclaimed the young man, in a deep undertone -of passion, “you ridiculous little idiot! do you know what you have -done?” - -“Oh, I know! I’ve told the truth--I am too clear-sighted!” sobbed -Patricia, “_I_ can not help seeing that both papa and you are crazy -about the governess--it will break poor mamma’s heart!” - -Though Desirée was much wounded, ashamed, and angry, furious rather, to -tell the truth, she could not resist the ludicrous whimper of this mock -sorrow. She laughed scornfully. - -“I shall go by myself, please,” she said, springing through a by-way, -where Oswald was not agile enough or sufficiently acquainted with to -follow. “I shall tell Mrs. Huntley, instantly, and she will not break -her heart--but no one in the world shall dare to speak thus again to -me.” - -So Desirée disappeared like a bird among the close network of frozen -branches, and Patricia and her brother, admirable good friends, as one -might suppose, together pursued their way home. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - - -A series of violent scenes in Melmar made a fitting climax to this -little episode in the wood. Desirée demanded an interview with Mrs. -Huntley, and obtained it in that lady’s chamber, which interview was not -over when Patricia appeared, and shortly after Melmar himself, and -Oswald, who sent both the governess and her enemy away, and had a -private conference with the unfortunate invalid, who was not unwilling -to take up her daughter’s suspicions, and condemn the little Frenchwoman -as a designing girl, with schemes against the peace of the heir of -Melmar. Somehow or other, the father and son together managed to still -these suspicions, or to give them another direction; for, on the -conclusion of this conference Desirée was sent for again to Mrs. -Huntley’s room; the little governess in the meanwhile had been busy in -her own, putting her little possessions together with angry and -mortified haste, her heart swelling high with a tumult of wounded pride -and indignant feeling. Desirée obeyed with great stateliness. She found -the mother of the house lying back upon her pillow, with a flush upon -her pink cheeks, and angry tears gleaming in her weak blue eyes. Mrs. -Huntley tried to be dignified, too, and to tell Desirée that she was -perfectly satisfied, and there was not the slightest imputation upon -her, the governess; but finding this not answer at all, and that the -governess still stood in offended state, like a little queen before her, -Mrs. Huntley took to her natural weapons--broke down, cried, and -bemoaned herself over the trouble she had with her family, and the -vexation which Patricia gave her. “And now, when I had just hoped to see -Joanna improving, then comes this disturbance in the house, and my poor -nerves are shattered to pieces, and my head like to burst, and you are -going away!” sobbed Mrs. Huntley. Desirée was moved to compassion; she -went up to the invalid, and arranged her cushions for her, and trusted -all this annoyance would not make her ill. Mrs. Huntley seized the -opportunity; she went on bewailing herself, which was a natural and -congenial amusement, and she made Desirée various half-sincere -compliments, with a skill which no one could have suspected her of -possessing. The conclusion was, that the little Frenchwoman yielded, and -gave up her determination to leave Melmar; instead of that she came and -sat by Mrs. Huntley all day, reading to her, while Patricia was shut -out; and a storm raged below over that exasperated and unhappy little -girl. The next day there was calm weather. Patricia was confined to her -room with a headache. Joanna was energetically affectionate to her -governess, and Mrs. Huntley came down stairs on purpose to make Desirée -feel comfortable. Poor little Desirée, who was so young, and in reality -so simple-hearted, forgot all her resentment. Her heart was touched by -the kindness which they all seemed so anxious to show her--impulses of -affectionate response rose within herself--she read to Mrs. Huntley, she -put her netting in order for her, she arranged her footstool as the -invalid declared no one had ever been able to do it before; and Desirée -blushed and went shyly away to her embroidery, when Oswald came to sit -by his mother’s little table. Oswald was very animated, and anxious to -please everybody; he found a new story which nobody had seen, and read -it aloud to them while the ladies worked. The day was quite an Elysian -day after the troubles of the previous one; and Desirée, with a little -tumult in her heart, found herself more warmly established in Melmar -that evening than she had ever been hitherto; she did not quite -comprehend it, to tell the truth. All this generous desire to make her -comfortable, though the girl accepted it without question as real, and -never suspected deceit in it, was, notwithstanding, alien to the -character of the household, and puzzled her unconsciously. But Desirée -did not inquire with herself what was the cause of it. If some fairy -voice whispered a reason in her ear, she blushed and tried to forget it -again. No, his father and mother were proud of Oswald; they were -ambitious for him; they would think such a fancy the height of folly, -could it even be possible that he entertained it. No, no, no! it could -not be that. - -Yet, next day, when Joanna and Desirée went out to walk, Oswald -encountered them before they had gone far, and seemed greatly pleased to -constitute himself the escort of his sister and her governess. If he -talked to Joanna sometimes, it was to Desirée that his looks, his cares, -his undertones of half-confidential conversation were addressed. He -persuaded them out of “the grounds” to the sunny country road leading to -Kirkbride, where the sun shone warmer; but where all the country might -have seen him stooping to the low stature of his sister’s governess. -Desirée was only sixteen; she was not wise and fortified against the -blandishments of man;--she yielded with a natural pleasure to the -natural pride and shy delight of her position. She had never seen any -one so agreeable; she had never received before that unspoken but -intoxicating homage of the young man to the young woman, which puts an -end to all secondary differences and degrees. She went forward with a -natural expansion at her heart--a natural brightening in her eyes--a -natural radiance of young life and beauty in her face. She could not -help it. It was the first tender touch of a new sunshine upon her heart. - -A woman stood by herself upon the road before them, looking out, as it -seemed, for the entrance of a little by-way, which ran through the -Melmar woods, and near the house, an immemorial road which no proprietor -could shut up. Desirée observed Joanna run up to this bystander; -observed the quick, lively, middle-aged features, the pleasant -complexion and bright eyes, which turned for a moment to observe the -party; yet would have passed on without further notice but for hearing -the name of Cosmo. Cosmo! could this be his mother? Desirée had her own -reasons for desiring to see the Mistress; she went forward with her -lively French self-possession to ask if it was Mrs. Livingstone, and if -she might thank her for her son’s kindness in Edinburgh. The Mistress -looked at her keenly, and she looked at the Mistress; both the glances -were significant, and meant more than a common meeting; half a dozen -words, graceful and proper on Desirée’s part, and rather abrupt and -embarrassed on that of the Mistress, passed between them, and then they -went upon their several ways. The result of the interview, for the -little Frenchwoman, was a bright and vivid little mental photograph of -the Mistress, very clear in external features, and as entirely wrong in -its guess at character as was to be expected from the long and far -difference between the little portrait-painter and her subject. Desirée -broke through her own pleasant maze of fancy for the moment to make her -rapid notes upon the Mistress. She was more interested in her than there -seemed any reason for; certainly much more than simply as the mother of -Cosmo, whom she had seen but twice in her life, and was by no means -concerned about. - -“Who is that?” asked Oswald, when the Mistress had passed. - -“It is Mrs. Livingstone, of Norlaw,” said Joanna, “Cosmo’s mother; -Desirée knows; but I wonder if she’s going up to Melmar? I think I’ll -run and ask her. I don’t know why she should go to Melmar, for I’m sure -she ought to hate papa.” - -“That will do; I am not particularly curious--you need not trouble -yourself to ask on my account,” said Oswald, putting out his hand to -stop Joanna, “and, pray, how does Mademoiselle Desirée know? I should -not suppose that ruddy countrywoman was much like a friend of _yours_.” - -“I have never seen her before,” said Desirée. - -“Ah, I might have trusted that to your own good taste,” said Oswald, -with a bow and a smile; “but you must pardon me for feeling that such a -person was not an acquaintance meet for you.” - -Desirée made no answer. The look and the smile made her poor little -heart beat--she did not ask herself why he was so interested in her -friendships and acquaintances. She accepted it with downcast eyes and a -sweet, rising color; he _did_ concern himself about all the matters -belonging to her--that was enough. - -“Mrs. Livingstone of Norlaw is not a common person--she is as good as we -are, if she is not as rich,” cried Joanna. “_I_ like her! I would rather -see her than a dozen fine ladies, and, Desirée, you ought to stand up -for her, too. If you think Norlaw is no’ as good as Melmar, it’s because -you’re not of this country and don’t know--that is all.” - -Desirée, looking up, saw to her surprise an angry and menacing look upon -the face, which a minute ago had been bent with such gallant courtesy -towards her own, and which was now directed to Joanna. - -“Norlaw may be as good as Melmar,” said the gentle Oswald, with an -emphasis which for the moment made him like Patricia; “but that is no -reason why one of that family should be a worthy acquaintance for -Mademoiselle Desirée, who is not much like you, Joanna, nor your -friends.” - -Joanna loved Desirée with all her heart--but this was going too far even -for her patience; she ended the conversation abruptly by a bewildered -stare in her brother’s face, and a burst of tears. - -“Desirée used to be fond of me, till you came--_she_ was my only -friend!” cried poor Joanna, whom Desirée’s kiss scarcely succeeded in -comforting. She did not know what to do, this poor little governess--it -seemed fated that Oswald’s attentions were to embroil her with all his -family--yet somehow one can not resent with very stern virtue the -injustice which shows particular favor to one’s self. Desirée still -thought it was very kind of Oswald Huntley to concern himself that she -should have proper friends. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - - -Katie Logan was by herself in the manse parlor. Though the room was as -bright as ever, the little housekeeper did not look so bright. She was -darning the little stockings which filled the basket, but she was not -singing her quiet song, nor thinking pleasant thoughts. Katie’s eyes -were red, and her cheeks pale. She was beginning to go, dark and -blindfold, into a future which it broke her heart to think of. Those -children of the manse, what would become of them when they had neither -guide nor guardian but Katie? This was question enough to oppress the -elder sister, if every thing else had not been swallowed in the thought -of her father’s growing weakness, of the pallor and the trembling which -every one observed, and of the exhaustion of old age into which the -active minister visibly began to fall. Katie was full of these thoughts -when she heard some one come to the door; she went immediately to look -at herself in the mirror over the mantel-piece, and to do her best to -look like her wont; but it was alike a wonder and a relief to Katie, -looking round, to find the Mistress, a most unusual visitor, entering -the room. - -The Mistress was not much in the custom of paying visits--it embarrassed -her a little when she did so, unless she had some distinct errand. She -dropped into a chair near the door, and put back her vail upon her -bonnet, and looked at Katie with a little air of fatigue and past -excitement. - -“No, no, thank ye,” said the Mistress, “I’ve been walking, I’ll no’ come -to the fire; it’s cold, but it’s a fine day outbye--I just thought I -would take a walk up by Whittock’s Gate.” - -“Were you at Mrs. Blackadder’s?” asked Katie. - -“No,” said the Mistress, with a slightly confused expression. “I was no -place, but just taking a walk. What for should I no’ walk for pleasure -as well as my neighbors? but indeed, to tell the truth, I had a very -foolish reason, Katie,” she added, after a little interval. “I’ve never -had rest in my mind after what you said of the French lassie at Melmar. -I did ken of a person that was lost and married long ago, and might just -as well be in France as in ony other place. She was no friend of mine, -but I kent of her, and I’ve seen her picture and heard what like she -was, so, as I could not help but turn it over in my mind, I just took -the gate up there, a wise errand, to see if I could get a look of this -bairn. I meant to go through the Melmar footpath, though that house and -them that belong to it are little pleasure to me; but as guid fortune -was, I met them in the road.” - -“Joanna and the governess?” said Katie. - -“And mair than them,” answered the Mistress. “A lad that I would take -to be the son that’s been so long away. An antic with a muckle cloak, -and a black beard, and a’ the looks of a French fiddler; but Joanna -called him by his name, so he bid to be her brother; and either he’s -deluding the other bit lassie, or she’s ensnaring him.” - -Katie smiled, so faintly and unlike herself, that it was not difficult -to perceive how little her heart was open to amusement. The Mistress, -however, who apprehended every thing after her own fashion, took even -this faint expression of mirth a little amiss. - -“You needna laugh--there’s little laughing matter in it,” said the -Mistress. “If a bairn of mine were to be led away after ony such -fashion, do ye think _I_ could find in my heart to smile? Na, they’re -nae friends of mine, the present family of Melmar; but I canna see a son -of a decent house maybe beguiled by an artfu’ foreign woman, however -great an antic he may be himself, and take ony pleasure in it. It’s aye -sure to be a grief to them he belongs to, and maybe a destruction to the -lad a’ his life.” - -“But Desirée is only sixteen, and Oswald Huntley, if it was Oswald--is a -very great deal older--he should be able to take care of himself,” said -Katie, repeating the offense. “You saw her, then? Do you think she was -like the lady you knew?” - -“I never said I knew any lady,” said the Mistress, testily. “I kent of -one that was lost mony a year ago. Na, na, this is naebody belonging to -_her_. She was a fair, soft woman that, with blue e’en, and taller than -me; but this is a bit elf of a thing, dark and little. I canna tell what -put it into my head for a moment, for Melmar was the last house in the -world to look for a bairn’s of _hers_ in; but folk canna help nonsense -thoughts. Cosmo, you see, he’s a very fanciful laddie, as indeed is no’ -to be wondered at, and he wrote me hame word about somebody he had -seen--and then hearing of this bairn asking questions about me; but it -was just havers, as I kent from the first--she is no more like her than -she’s like you or me. But I’m sorry about the lad. Naething but ill and -mischief can come of the like, so far as I’ve seen. If he’s deluding the -bairn, he’s a villain, Katie, and if she’s leading him on--and ane can -never tell what snares are in these Frenchwomen from their very -cradle--I’m sorry for Melmar and his wife, though they’re no friends to -me.” - -“I think Oswald Huntley ought to be very well able to take care of -himself,” repeated Katie--“and to know French ways, too. I like Desirée, -and I don’t like him. I hope she will not have any thing to say to him. -When is Cosmo coming home?” - -The Mistress, however, looked a little troubled about Cosmo. She did not -answer readily. - -“He’s a fanciful bairn,” she said, half fondly, half angrily--“as indeed -what else can you expect? He’s ane of the real auld Livingstones of -Norlaw--aye some grand wild plan in his head for other folks, and no’ -that care for himself that might be meet. He would have been a knight -like what used to be in the ballads in my young days, if he hadna lived -ower late for that.” - -Pausing here, the Mistress closed her lips with a certain emphatic -movement, as though she had nothing more to say upon this subject, and -was about proceeding to some other, when they were both startled by the -noisy opening of a door, which Katie knew to be the study. The sound was -that of some feeble hand, vainly attempting to turn the handle, and -shaking the whole door with the effort which was at last successful; -then came a strange, incoherent, half-pronounced “Katie!” Katie flew to -the door, with a face like death itself. The Mistress rose and waited, -breathless, yet too conscious of her own impatience of intrusion to -follow. Then a heavy, slow fall, as of some one whose limbs failed under -him, a cry from Katie, and the sudden terrified scream of one of the -maids from the kitchen moved the Mistress beyond all thoughts but those -of help. She ran into the little hall of the manse, throwing her cloak -off her shoulders with an involuntary promise that she could not leave -this house to-day. There she saw a melancholy sight, the minister, with -a gray ashen paleness upon his face, lying on the threshold of his -study, not insensible, but powerless, moving with a dreadful impotence -those poor, pale, trembling lips, from which no sound would come. Katie -knelt beside him, supporting his head, almost as pallid as he, -aggravating, unawares, the conscious agony of his helplessness by -anxious, tender questions, imploring him to speak to her--while the maid -stood behind, wringing her hands, crying, and asking whether she should -bring water? whether she should get some wine? what she should do? - -“Flee this moment,” cried the Mistress, pushing this latter to the door, -“and bring in the first man you can meet to carry him to his bed--that’s -what _you’re_ to do--and, Katie, Katie, whisht, dinna vex him--he canna -speak to you. Keep up your heart--we’ll get him to his bed, and we’ll -get the doctor, and he’ll come round.” - -Katie lifted up her woeful white face to the Mistress--the poor girl did -not say a word--did not even utter a sob or shed a tear. Her eyes said -only, “it has come! it has come!” The blow which she had been trembling -for had fallen at last. And the Mistress, who was not given to tokens of -affection, stooped down in the deep pity of her heart and kissed Katie’s -forehead. There was nothing to be said. This sudden calamity was beyond -the reach of speech. - -They got the sufferer conveyed to his room and laid on his bed a few -minutes after, and within a very short time the only medical aid which -the neighborhood afforded was by the bed-side. But medical aid could do -little for the minister--he was old, and had long been growing feeble, -and nobody wondered to hear that he had suffered “a stroke,” and that -there was very, very little hope of his recovery. The old people in -Kirkbride clustered together, speaking of it with that strange, calm -curiosity of age, which always seems rather to congratulate itself that -some one else is the present sufferer, yet is never without the -consciousness that itself may be the next. A profound sympathy, -reverence, and compassion was among all the villagers--passive towards -Dr. Logan, active to Katie, the guardian and mother of the little -household of orphans who soon were to have no other guardian. They said -to each other, “God help her!” in her youth and loneliness--what was she -to do? - -As for the Mistress, she was not one of those benevolent neighbors who -share in the vigils of every sick room, and have a natural faculty for -nursing. To her own concentrated individual temper, the presence of -strangers in any household calamity was so distasteful, that she could -scarcely imagine it acceptable to others; and she never offered services -which she would not have accepted. But there was neither offer nor -acceptance now. The Mistress sent word at once to Marget, took off her -bonnet, and without a word to any one, took her place in the afflicted -house. Even now she was but little in the sick chamber. - -“If he kens her, he’ll like best to see Katie--and if he doesna ken her, -it’ll aye be a comfort to herself,” said the Mistress. “I’ll take the -charge of every thing else--- but his ain bairn’s place is there.” - -“I only fear,” said the doctor, “that the poor thing will wear herself -out.” - -“She’s young, and she’s a good bairn,” said the Mistress, “and she’ll -have but one father, if she lives ever so long a life. I’m no feared. -No, doctor, dinna hinder Katie; if she wears herself out, poor bairn, -she’ll have plenty of sad time to rest in. Na, I dinna grudge her -watching; she doesna feel it now, and it’ll be a comfort to her a’ her -life.” - -It was, perhaps, a new doctrine to the country doctor; but he -acknowledged the truth of it, and the Mistress, wise in this, left Katie -to that mournful, silent, sick room, where the patient lay motionless -and passive in the torpor of paralysis, perhaps conscious, it was hard -to know--but unable to communicate a word of all that might be in his -heart. The children below, hushed and terror-stricken, had never been -under such strict rule, yet never had known so many indulgences all -their lives before; and the Mistress took _her_ night’s rest upon the -sofa, wrapped in a shawl and morning gown, ready to start in an instant, -should she be called; but she did not disturb the vigil of the daughter -by her father’s bed-side. - -And Katie, absorbed by her own sorrows, hardly noticed--hardly -knew--this characteristic delicacy. She sat watching him with an -observation so intent, that she almost fancied she could see his breath, -watching the dull, gray eyes, half closed and lustreless, to note if, -perhaps, a wandering light of expression might kindle in them; watching -the nerveless, impotent hands, if perhaps, motion might be restored to -them; watching the lips, lest they should move, and she might lose the -chance of guessing at some word. There was something terrible, -fascinating, unearthly in the task; he was there upon the bed, and yet -he was not there, confined in a dismal speechless prison, to which -perhaps--they could not tell--their own words and movements might -penetrate, but out of which nothing could come. His daughter sat beside -him, looking forward with awe into the blank solemnity of the future. No -mother, no father; only the little dependent children, who had but -herself to look to. She went over and over again the very same ground. -Orphans, and desolate; her thoughts stopped there, and went no further. -She could not help contemplating the terrible necessity before her; but -she could not make plans while her father lay there, speechless yet -breathing, in her sight. - -She was sitting thus, the fourth day after his seizure, gazing at him; -the room was very still--the blinds were down--a little fire burned -cheerfully in the grate--her eyes were fixed upon his eyes, watching -them, and as she watched it seemed to Katie that her father’s look -turned towards a narrow, ruddy, golden arrow of sunshine, which streamed -in at the side of the window. She rose hastily and went up to the bed. -Then his lips began to move--she bent down breathlessly; God help -her!--he spoke, and she was close to his faltering lips; but all Katie’s -strained and agonizing senses could not tell a word of what he meant to -say. What matter? His eyes were not on her, but on the sunshine--the -gleam of God’s boundless light coming in to the chamber of -mortality--his thoughts were not with her in her sore youthful trouble. -He was as calm as an angel, lying there in the death of his old age and -the chill of his faculties. But she--she was young, she was desolate, -she was his child--her heart cried out in intolerable anguish, and would -not be satisfied. Could it be possible? Would he pass away with those -moving lips, with that faint movement of a smile, and she never know -what he meant to say? - -With the restlessness of extreme and almost unbearable suffering, Katie -rang her bell--the doctor had desired to know whenever his patient -showed any signs of returning consciousness. Perhaps the sound came to -the ear of the dying man, perhaps only his thoughts changed. But when -she turned again, Katie found the reverent infantine calm gone from his -face, and his eyes bent upon her with a terrible struggle after speech, -which wrung her very heart. She cried aloud involuntarily with an echo -of the agony upon that ashen face. The sound of her voice, of her hasty -step and of the bell, brought the Mistress to the room, and the -terrified servants to the door. Katie did not see the Mistress; she saw -nothing in the world but the pitiful struggle of those palsied lips to -speak to her, the anguish of uncommunicable love in those opened eyes. -She bent over him, putting her very ear to his month; when that failed, -she tried, Heaven help her, to look as if she had heard him, to comfort -his heart in his dying. The old man’s eyes opened wider, dilating with -the last effort--at last came a burst of incoherent sound--he had -spoken--what was it? The Mistress turned her head away and bowed down -upon her knees at the door, with an involuntary awe and pity, too deep -for any expression, but Katie cried, “Yes, father, yes, I hear you!” -with a cry that might have rent the skies. If she did, Heaven knows; she -thought so--and so did he; the effort relaxed--the eyes closed--and word -of human language the good minister uttered never more. - -It was all over. Four little orphans sat below crying under their -breath, unaware of what was their calamity--and Katie Logan above, at -nineteen, desolate and unsupported, and with more cares than a mother, -stood alone upon the threshold of the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - - -While the peaceful Manse of Kirkbride was turned into a house of -mourning, a strange little drama was being played at Melmar. The -household there seemed gradually clustering, a strange chorus of -observation, round Oswald and Desirée, the two principal figures in the -scene. Melmar himself watched the little Frenchwoman with cat-like -stealthiness, concentrating his regard upon her. Aunt Jean sat in her -chair apart, troubled and unenlightened, perpetually calling Desirée to -her, and inventing excuses to draw her out of the presence and society -of Oswald. Patricia, when she was present in the family circle, directed -a spiteful watch upon the two, with the vigilance of an ill-fairy; while -even Joanna, a little shocked and startled by the diversion of Desirée’s -regard from herself, a result which she had not quite looked for, -behaved very much like a jealous lover to the poor little governess, -tormenting her by alternate sulks and violent outbursts of fondness. -Oswald himself, though he was always at her side, though he gave her a -quite undue share of his time and attention, and made quite fantastical -exhibitions of devotion, was a lover, if lover he was, ill at ease, -capricious and overstrained. He knew her pretty, he felt that she was -full of mind, and spirit, and intelligence--but still she was a little -girl to Oswald Huntley, who was not old enough to find in her fresh -youth the charm which has subdued so many a man of the world--nor young -enough to meet her on equal ground. Why he sought her at all, unless he -had really “fallen in love” with her, it seemed very hard to find out. -Aunt Jean, looking on with her sharp black eyes, could only shake her -head in silent wonder, and doubt, and discomfort. He could have “nae -motive"--but Aunt Jean thought that lovers looked differently in her -days, and a vague suspicion disturbed the mind of the old woman. She -used to call Desirée to her own side, to keep her there talking of her -embroidery, or telling her old stories of which the girl began to tire, -being occupied by other thoughts. The hero himself was unaware of, and -totally indifferent to, Aunt Jean’s scrutiny, but Melmar himself -sometimes turned his fiery eyes to her corner, with a glance of doubt -and apprehension. She was the only spectator in the house of whose -inspection Mr. Huntley was at all afraid. - -Meanwhile Desirée herself lived in a dream--the first dream of extreme -youth, of a tender heart and gentle imagination, brought for the first -time into personal contact with the grand enchantress and Armida of -life. Desirée was not learned in the looks of lover’s eyes--she had no -“experience,” poor child! to guide her in this early experiment and -trembling delight of unfamiliar emotion. She knew she was poor, young, -solitary, Joanna’s little French governess, yet that it was she, the -little dependent, whom Joanna’s graceful brother, everybody else’s -superior, singled out for his regard. Her humble little heart responded -with all a young girl’s natural flutter of pride, of gratitude, of -exquisite and tremulous pleasure. There could be but one reason in the -world to induce this unaccustomed homage and devotion. She could not -believe that Oswald admired or found any thing remarkable in herself, -only--strange mystery, not to be thought of save with the blush of that -profoundest humility which is born of affection!--only, by some -unexplainable, unbelievable wonder, it must be love. Desirée did not -enter into any questions on the subject; she yielded to the -fascination; it made her proud, it made her humble, it filled her with -the tenderest gratitude, it subdued her little fiery spirit like a -spell. She was very, very young, she knew nothing of life or of the -world, she lived in a little world of her own, where this grand figure -was the centre of every thing; and it was a grand figure in the dewy, -tender light of Desirée’s young eyes--in the perfect globe of Desirée’s -maiden fancy--but it was not Oswald Huntley, deeply though the poor -child believed it was. - -So they all grouped around her, watching her, some of them perplexed, -some of them scheming; and Oswald played his part, sometimes loathing -it, but, for the most part, finding it quite agreeable to his vanity, -while poor little Desirée went on in her dream, thinking she had fallen -upon a charmed life, seeing every thing through the glamour in her own -eyes, believing every thing was true. - -“Dr. Logan is ill,” said Melmar, on one of those fairy days, when they -all met round the table at lunch; all but Mrs. Huntley, who had relapsed -into her quiescent invalidism, and was made comfortable in her own -room--“very ill--so ill that I may as well mind my promise to old Gordon -of Ruchlaw for his minister-son.” - -“Oh, papa, don’t be so hard-hearted!” cried Joanna--“he’ll maybe get -better yet. He’s no’ such a very old man, and he preached last -Sabbath-day. Oh, poor Katie! but he has not been a week ill yet, and -he’ll get better again.” - -“Who is Gordon of Ruchlaw? and who is his minister-son?” asked Oswald. - -Joanna made a volunteer answer. - -“A nasty, snuffy, disagreeable man!” cried Joanna, with enthusiasm. “I -am sure I would never enter the church again if he was there; but it’s -very cruel and hard-hearted, and just like papa, to speak of him. Dr. -Logan is only ill. I would break my heart if I thought he was going to -die.” - -“Gordon would be a very useful man to us,” said Melmar--“a great deal -more so than Logan ever was. I mean to write and ask him here, now that -his time’s coming. Be quiet, Joan, and let’s have no more nonsense. I’ll -tell Auntie Jean. If you play your cards well, you might have a good -chance of him yourself, you monkey, and with Aunt Jean’s fortune to -furnish the manse, you might do worse. Ha! ha! I wonder what Patricia -would say?” - -“Patricia would say it was quite good enough for Joanna,” said that -amiable young lady. “A poor Scotch minister! I am thankful _I_ never had -such low tastes. Nobody would speak of such a thing to me.” - -“Don’t quarrel about the new man till the old man is dead, at least,” -said Oswald, laughing. “Mademoiselle Desirée quite agrees with me, I -know. She is shocked to hear all this. Is it not so?” - -“I thought of his daughter,” said Desirée, who was very much shocked, -and had tears in her eyes. “She will be an orphan now.” - -“And Desirée was very fond of Katie,” said Joanna, looking half -jealously, half fondly at the little governess, “and so am I too; and -she has all the little ones to take care of. Oh, papa, I’ll never -believe that Dr. Logan is going to die.” - -“Fhat is all this, Joan? tell me,” cried Aunt Jean, who had already -shown signs of curiosity and impatience. This was the signal for -breaking up the party. When Joanna put her lips close to the old woman’s -ear, and began to shout the required information, the others dispersed -rapidly. Desirée went to her room to get her cloak and bonnet. It was -her hour for walking with her pupil, and that walk was now an enchanted -progress, a fairy road, leading ever further and further into her fairy -land. As for Oswald, he stood in the window, looking out and shrugging -his shoulders at the cold. His blood was not warm enough to bear the -chill of the northern wind; the sight of the frost-bound paths and -whitened branches made him shiver before he went out. He meant to attend -the girls in their walk, in spite of his shiver; but the frosty path by -the side of Tyne was not a fairy road to him. - -Joanna had left them on some erratic expedition among the trees; they -were alone together, Desirée walking by Oswald’s side, very quiet and -silent, with her eyes cast down, and a tremor at her heart. The poor -little girl did not expect any thing particular, for they were often -enough together thus--still she became silent in spite of herself, as -she wandered on in her dream by Oswald’s side, and, in spite of herself, -cast down her eyes, and felt the color wavering on her cheek. Perhaps he -saw it and was pleased--he liked such moments well enough. They had all -the amusing, tantalizing, dramatic pleasure of moments which might be -turned to admirable account, but never were so--moments full of -expectation and possibility, of which nothing ever came. - -At this particular moment Oswald was, as it happened, very tenderly -gracious to Desirée. He was asking about her family, or rather her -mother, whom, it appeared, he had heard of without hearing of any other -relative, and Desirée, in answering, spoke of Marie--who was Marie? “Did -I never, then, tell you of my sister?” said Desirée with a blush and -smile. - -“Your sister?--I was not aware--” stammered Oswald--and he looked at her -so closely and coldly, and with such a scrutinizing air of suspicion, -that Desirée stared at him, in return, with amazement and -half-terror--“Perhaps Mademoiselle Desirée has brothers also,” he said, -in the same tone, still looking at her keenly. What if she had brothers? -Would it have been wrong? - -“No,” said Desirée, quietly. The poor child was subdued by the dread of -having wounded him. She thought it grieved him to have so little of her -confidence; it could be nothing but that which made him look so cold and -speak so harsh. - -“Then Mademoiselle Marie is a little sister--a child?” said Oswald, -softening slightly. - -Desirée clapped her hands and laughed with sudden glee. “Oh, no, no,” -she cried merrily, “she is my elder sister; she is not even -Mademoiselle; she is married! Poor Marie!” added the little girl, -softly. “I wish she were here.” - -And for the moment Desirée did not see the look that regarded her. When -she lifted her eyes again, she started and could not comprehend the -change. Oswald’s lip was blue with cold, with dismay, with contempt, -with a mixture of feelings which his companion had no clue to, and could -not understand. “Mademoiselle has, no doubt, a number of little nephews -and nieces,” he said, with a sinister curl of that blue lip over his -white teeth. The look struck to Desirée’s heart with a pang of amazement -and terror--what did it mean? - -“Oh, no, no, not any,” she said, with a deep blush. She was startled and -disturbed out of all her maiden fancies--was it a nervous, jealous -irritation, to find that she had friends more than he knew. It was very -strange--and when Joanna rejoined them shortly, Oswald made an excuse -for himself, and left them. The girls followed him slowly, after a time, -to the house; Desirée could scarcely answer Joanna’s questions, or -appear interested in her pupil’s interests. What was the reason? She -bewildered her poor little head asking this question; but no answer -came. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX. - - -It was a kind of twilight in Aunt Jean’s room, though it was still -daylight out of doors; the sun, as it drew to the west, threw a ruddy -glory upon this side of the house of Melmar, and coming in at Aunt -Jean’s window, had thrown its full force upon the fire-place half an -hour ago. It was the old lady’s belief that the sun put out the fire, so -she had drawn down her blind, and the warm, domestic glimmer of the -firelight played upon the high bed, with those heavy, dull, moreen -curtains, which defied all brightness--upon the brighter toilet-glass on -the table, and upon the old lofty chest of drawers, polished and black -like ebony, which stood at the further side of the room. Aunt Jean -herself sat in a high-backed arm-chair by the fire, where she loved to -sit--and Desirée and Joanna, kneeling on the rug before her, were -turning out the contents of a great basket, full of such scraps as Aunt -Jean loved to accumulate, and girls have pleasure in turning over; there -were bits of silk, bits of splendid old ribbon, long enough for “bows,” -in some cases, but in some only fit for pin-cushions and needle-books of -unbelievable splendor, bits of lace, bits of old-fashioned embroidery, -bits of almost every costly material belonging to a lady’s wardrobe. It -was a pretty scene; the basket on the rug, with its many-colored stores, -the pretty little figure of Desirée, with the fire-light shining in her -hair, the less graceful form of Joanna, which still was youthful, and -honest, and eager, as she knelt opposite the fire, which flushed her -face and reddened her hair at its will; and calmly seated in her -elbow-chair, overseeing all, Aunt Jean, with her white neckerchief -pinned over her gown, and her white apron warm in the fire-light, and -the broad black ribbon bound round her old-fashioned cap, and the -vivacious sparkle of those black eyes, which were not “hard of hearing,” -though their owner was. The pale daylight came in behind the old lady, -faintly through the misty atmosphere and the closed blind--but the -ruddier domestic light within went flickering and sparkling over the -high-canopied bed, the old-fashioned furniture, and the group by the -hearth. When Joanna went away, the picture was even improved perhaps, -for Desirée still knelt half meditatively by the fire, turning over with -one hand the things in the basket, listening to what the old lady said, -and wistfully pondering upon her own thoughts. - -“Some o’ the things were here when I came,” said Aunt Jean. “I was not -so auld then as I am now--I laid them a’ away, Deseery, for fear the -real daughter of the house should ever come hame; for this present -Melmar wasna heir by nature. If right had been right, there’s ane before -him in the succession to this house; but, poor misguided thing, fha was -gaun to seek her; but I laid by the bits o’ things; I thought they might -’mind her some time of the days o’ her youth.” - -“Who was she?” said Desirée, softly: she did not ask so as to be heard -by her companion--she did not ask as if she cared for an answer--she -said it quietly, in a half whisper to herself; yet Aunt Jean heard -Desirée’s question with her lively eyes, which were fixed upon the -girl’s pretty figure, half kneeling, half reclining at her feet. - -“Fha was she? She was the daughter of this house,” said Aunt Jean, “and -fhat’s mair, the mistress of this house, Deseery, if she should ever -come hame.” - -The little Frenchwoman looked up sharply, keenly, with an alarmed -expression on her face. She did not ask any further question, but she -met Aunt Jean’s black eyes with eyes still brighter in their youthful -lustre, yet dimmed with an indefinable cloud of suspicion and fear. - -What was in the old woman’s mind it was hard to tell. Whether she had -any definite ground to go upon, or merely proceeded on an impulse of the -vague anxiety in her mind. - -“’Deed, ay,” said Aunt Jean, nodding her lively little head, “I’ll tell -you a’ her story, my dear, and you can tell me fhat you think when I’m -done. She was the only bairn and heir of that silly auld man that was -Laird of Melmar before this present lad, my niece’s good-man--she was -very bonnie, and muckle thought of, and she married and ran away, and -that’s all the folk ken of her, Deseery; but whisht, bairn, and I’ll -tell you mair.” - -Desirée had sunk lower on her knees, leaning back, with her head turned -anxiously towards the story-teller. She was an interested listener at -least. - -“It’s aye thought she was disinherited,” said Aunt Jean, “and at the -first, when she ran away, maybe so she was--but nature will speak. When -this silly auld man, as I’m saying, died, he left a will setting up her -rights, and left it in the hand of another silly haverel of a man, that -was a bit sma’ laird at Norlaw. This man was to be heir himsel’ if she -never was found--but he had a sma’ spirit, Deseery, and he never could -find her. She’s never been found from that day to this--but it’ll be a -sore day for Melmar when she comes hame.” - -“Why?” said Desirée, somewhat sharply and shrilly, with a voice which -reached the old woman’s ears, distant though they were. - -“Fhat for?--because they’ll have to give up all the lands, and all the -siller, and all their living into her hand--that’s fhat for,” said Aunt -Jean; “nae person in this country-side can tell if she’s living, or -fhaur she is; she’s been away langer than you’ve been in this life, -Deseery; and Melmar, the present laird--I canna blame him, he was the -next of the blood after hersel’, nae doubt he thought she was dead and -gane, as a’body else did when he took possession--and his heart rose -doubtless against the other person that was left heir, failing her, -being neither a Huntley nor nigh in blood; but if aught should befall to -bring her hame--ay, Deseery, it would be a sore day for this family, and -every person in this house.” - -“Why?” asked Desirée again with a tremble--this time her voice did not -reach the ear of Aunt Jean, but her troubled, downcast eyes, her -disturbed look, touched the old woman’s heart. - -“If it was a story I was telling out of a book,” said the old woman, “I -would say they were a’ in misery at keeping her out of her rights--or -that the man was a villain that held her place--but you’re no’ to think -that. I dinna doubt he heeds his ain business mair than he heeds -her--it’s but natural, fha would do otherwise? and then he takes comfort -to his mind that she must be dead, or she would have turned up before -now, and then he thinks upon his ain family, and considers his first -duty is for them; and then--’deed ay, my dear, memory fails--I wouldna -say but he often forgets that there was another person in the world but -himsel’ that had a right--that’s nature, Deseery, just nature--folk -learn to think the way it’s their profit to think, and believe what -suits them best, and they’re sincere, too, except maybe just at the -first; you may not think it, being a bairn, yet it’s true.” - -“If it were me,” cried Desirée, with a vehemence which penetrated Aunt -Jean’s infirmity, “the money would burn me, would scorch me, till I -could give it back to the true heir!” - -“Ay,” said Aunt Jean, shaking her head, “I wouldna say I could be easy -in my mind mysel’--but it’s wonderful how weel the like of you and me, -my dear, can settle ither folks’ concerns. Melmar, you see, he’s no’ an -ill man, he thinks otherwise, and I daur to say he’s begun to forget a’ -about her, or just thinks she’s dead and gane, as most folk think. I -canna help aye an expectation to see her back before I die mysel’--but -that’s no’ to say Me’mar has ony thought of the kind. Folk that are away -for twenty years, and never seen, nor heard tell o’, canna expect to be -minded upon and waited upon. It’s very like, upon the whole, that she -_is_ dead many a year syne--and fhat for should Melmar, that kens -nothing about her--aye except that she could take his living away frae -him--fhat for, I’m asking, should Melmar gang away upon his travels -looking for her, like yon other haverel of a man?” - -“What other man?” cried Desirée, eagerly. - -“Oh, just Norlaw; he was aince a wooer himsel’, poor haverel,” said Aunt -Jean; “he gaed roaming about a’ the world, seeking after her, leaving -his wife and his bonny bairns at hame; but fhat good did he?--just -nought ava, Deseery, except waste his ain time, and lose his siller, and -gie his wife a sair heart. She’s made muckle mischief in her day, this -Mary of Melmar. They say she was very bonnie, though I never saw her -mysel’; and fhat for, think you, should the present lad, that kens -nought about her, take up his staff and gang traveling the world to -seek for her? Oh, fie, nae!--he has mair duty to his ain house and -bairns, than to a strange woman that he kens not where to seek, and that -would make him a beggar if he found her; I canna see she deserves ony -such thing at his hand.” - -At first Desirée did not answer a word; her cheek was burning hot with -excitement, her face shadowed with an angry cloud, her little hand -clenched involuntarily, her brow knitted. She was thinking of something -private to herself, which roused a passion of resentment within the -breast of the girl. At last she started up and came close to Aunt Jean. - -“But if you knew that she was living, and where she was?” cried Desirée, -“what would you do?” - -“Me! Oh, my bairn!” cried Aunt Jean, in sudden dismay. “Me! what have I -to do with their concerns?--me! it’s nane of my business. The Lord keep -that and a’ evil out of a poor auld woman’s knowledge. I havena eaten -his bread--I never would be beholden that far to any mortal--but I’ve -sitten under his roof tree for mony a year. Me!--if I heard a word of -such awfu’ news, I would gang furth of this door this moment, that I -mightna be a traitor in the man’s very dwelling;--eh, the Lord help me, -the thought’s dreadful! for I behoved to let her ken!” - -“And what if he knew?” asked Desirée, in a sharp whisper, gazing into -Aunt Jean’s eyes with a look that pierced like an arrow. The old woman’s -look fell, but it was not to escape this gaze of inquiry. - -“The Lord help him!” said Aunt Jean, pitifully. “I can but hope he would -do right, Deseery; but human nature’s frail; I canna tell.” - -This reply softened for the moment the vehement, angry look of the -little Frenchwoman. She came again to kneel before the fire, and was -silent, thinking her own thoughts; then another and a new fancy seemed -to rise like a mist over her face. She looked up dismayed to Aunt Jean, -with an unexplained and terrified question, which the old woman could -not interpret. Then she tried to command herself with an evident -effort--but it was useless. She sprang up, and came close, with a -shivering chill upon her, to put her lips to Aunt Jean’s ear. - -“Do they all know of this story?” she asked, in the low, sharp voice, -strangely intent and passionate, which even deafness itself could not -refuse to hear; and Desirée fixed her gaze upon the old woman’s eyes, -holding her fast with an eager scrutiny, as though she trembled to be -put off with any thing less than the truth. - -“Hout, no!” said Aunt Jean, disturbed a little, yet confident; “fha -would tell the like of Patricia or Joan--fuils and bairns! and as for -the like of my niece herself, she’s muckle taken up with her ain bits of -troubles; she might hear of it at the time, but she would forget the day -after; naebody minds but me.” - -“And--Oswald?” cried Desirée, sharply, once again. - -“Eh! ay--I wasna thinking upon him; he’s the heir,” said Aunt Jean, -turning her eyes sharp and keen upon her young questioner. “I canna tell -fhat for you ask me so earnest, bairn; you maunna think mair of Oswald -Huntley than becomes baith him and you; ay, doubtless, you’re right, -whatever learned ye--_he_ kens.” - -Desirée did not say another word, but she clasped her hands tightly -together, sprang out of the room with the pace of a deer, and before -Aunt Jean had roused herself from her amazement, had thrown her cloak -over her shoulders, and rushed out into the gathering night. - - - - -CHAPTER L. - - -The sunset glory of this January evening still shone over the tops of -the trees upon the high bank of Tyne, leaving a red illumination among -the winter clouds; but low upon the path the evening was gathering -darkly and chilly, settling down upon the ice-cold branches, which -pricked the hasty passenger like thorns, in the black dryness of the -frost. The Kelpie itself was scarcely recognizable in the torpid and -tiny stream which trickled down its little ravine; only the sharp sound -of its monotone in the tingling air made you aware of its vicinity; and -frozen Tyne no longer added his voice to make the silence musical. The -silence was dry, hard, and harsh, the sounds were shrill, the air cut -like a knife. No creature that could find shelter was out of doors; yet -poor little Desirée, vehement, willful, and passionate, with her cloak -over her shoulders, and her pretty uncovered head, exposed to all the -chill of the unkindly air, went rushing out, with her light foot and -little fairy figure, straight as an arrow over Tyne, and came up the -frozen path, into the wood and the night. - -One side of her face was still scorched and crimsoned with the fervor of -Aunt Jean’s fire, before which she had been bending; the other, in -comparison, was already chilled and white. She ran along up the icy, -chilly road, with the night-wind cutting her delicate little ears, and -her rapid footsteps sliding upon the knots of roots in the path, -straight up to that height where the Kelpie trickled, and the last red -cloud melted into gray behind the trees. The dubious, failing twilight -was wan among those branches, where never a bird stirred. There was not -a sound of life anywhere, save in the metallic tinkle of that drowsing -waterfall. Desirée rushed through the silence and the darkness, and -threw herself down upon the hard path, on one of the hard knots, beneath -a tree. She was not sorry, in her passionate _abandon_, to feel the air -prick her cheek, to see the darkness closing over her, to know that the -cold pierced to the bone, and that she was almost unprotected from its -rigor. All this desolation was in keeping with the tumult which moved -the willful heart of the little stranger. The prick of the wind -neutralized somewhat the fiery prick in her heart. - -Poor little Desirée! She had, indeed, enough to think of--from her -morning’s flush of happiness and dawning love to plunge into a cold -profound of treachery, deceit, and falsehood like that which gaped at -her feet, ready to swallow her up. For the moment it was anger alone, -passionate and vivid as her nature, which burned within her. She, frank, -child-like, and unsuspicious, had been degraded by a pretended love, a -false friendship; had been warned, “for her own sake,” by the -treacherous host whom Desirée hated, in her passion, to say nothing of -her descent or of her mother. For her own sake! and not a syllable of -acknowledgment to confess how well the wily schemer knew who that mother -was. Yet, alas, if that had but been all!--if there had been nothing to -do but to confound Melmar, to renounce Joanna, to shake off the dust of -her indignant feet against the house where they would have kept her in -bondage!--if that had but been all! But Desirée clenched her little -hands with a pang of angry and bitter resentment far more overpowering. -To think that she should have been insulted with a false love! Bitter -shame, quick, passionate anger, even the impulse of revenge, came like a -flood over the breast of the girl, as she sat shivering with cold and -passion at the foot of that tree, with the dark winter night closing -over her. She could almost fancy she saw the curl of Oswald Huntley’s -lip as he heard to-day, on this very spot, that she had a sister; she -could almost suppose, if he stood there now, that she had both strength -and will to thrust him through the rustling bushes down to the -crackling, frozen Tyne, to sink like a stone beneath the ice, which was -less treacherous than himself. Poor little desolate, solitary stranger! -She sat in the darkness and the cold, with the tears freezing in her -eyes, but passion burning in her heart; she cried aloud in the silence -with an irrepressible cry of fury and anguish--the voice of a young -savage, the uncontrolled, unrestrained, absolute violence of a child. -She was half crazed with the sudden downfall, the sudden injury; she -could think of nothing but the sin that had been done against her, the -vengeance, sharp and sudden as her passion, which she would inflict if -she could. - -But as poor little Desirée crouched beneath the tree, not even the -vehemence of her resentment could preserve her from the influences of -Nature. Her little feet seemed frozen to the path; her hands were numb -and powerless, and ice-cold as the frozen water beneath. The chill stole -to her heart with a sickening faintness, then a gradual languor crept -over her passion; by degrees she felt nothing but the cold, the sharp -rustle of the branches, the chill gloom of the night, the harsh wind -that blew in at her uncovered ears. Her hair fell down on her neck, and -her fingers were too powerless to put it up. She had no heart to return -to the house from which she fled in so violent an excess of insulted -feeling--it almost seemed that she had no place in the world to go to, -poor child, but this desolate winter woodland, which in its summer -beauty she had associated with her mother. The night blinded her, and so -did the growing sickness of extreme cold. Another moment, and poor -little Desirée sank against the tree, passionless and fainting--the -last thought in her heart a low outcry for her mother, who was hundreds -of miles away and could not hear. - -The cold was still growing sharper and keener as the last glimmer of -daylight faded out of the skies. She might have slid down into the -frozen Tyne, as she had imagined her enemy, or she might have perished -in her favorite path, in the cold which was as sharp as an Arctic frost. -But Providence does not desert those poor, suffering, wicked children -who fly to death’s door at the impulse of passion as Desirée did. A -laborer, hastening home by the footpath through the Melmar woods, -wandered out of his way, by chance, and stumbled over the poor little -figure lying in the path. When the man had got over his first alarm, he -lifted her up and carried her like a child--she was not much more--to -Melmar, where he went to the side door and brought her in among the -servants to that great kitchen, which was the most cheerful apartment in -the house. The maids were kind-hearted, and liked the poor little -governess--they chafed her hands and bathed her feet, and wrapped her in -blankets, and, at last, brought Desirée to her senses. When she came -alive again, the poor, naughty child looked round her bewildered, and -did not know where she was--the place was strange to her--and it looked -so bright and homely that Desirée’s poor little heart was touched by a -vague contrasting sense of misery. - -“I should like to go to bed,” she said, sadly, turning her face away -from the light to a kind housemaid, who stood by her, and who could not -tell what ailed “the French miss,” whom all the servants had thought -rather too well-used of late days, and whose look of misery seemed -unaccountable. - -“Eh, Missie, but ye maun wait until the fire’s kindled,” said the maid. - -Desirée did not want a fire--she had no desire to be comforted and -warmed, and made comfortable--she would almost rather have crept out -again into the cold and the night. Notwithstanding, they carried her up -stairs carefully, liking the stranger all the better for being sad and -in trouble and dependent on them--and undressed her like a child, and -laid her in bed in her little room, warm with firelight, and looking -bright with comfort and kindness. Then the pretty housemaid, whom -Patricia exercised her tempers on, brought Desirée a warm drink and -exhorted her to go to sleep. - -“What made ye rin out into the cauld night, Missie, without a thing on -your head,” said Jenny Shaw, compassionately; “but lie still and keep -yoursel’ warm--naebody kens yet but us in the kitchen, or Miss Joan -would be here; but I thought you would like best to be quiet, and it -would do you mair good.” - -“Oh, dear Jenny, don’t let any one know--don’t tell them--promise!” -cried Desirée, half starting from her bed. - -The maid did not know what to make of it, but she promised, to compose -the poor little sufferer; and so Desirée was left by herself in the -little room, with the warm fire light flickering about the walls, and -her little hands and feet, which had been so cold, burning and prickling -with a feverish heat, her limbs aching, her thoughts wandering, her -heart lost in an ineffable, unspeakable melancholy. She could not return -to her passion, to the bitter hurry and tumult of resentful fancies -which had occupied her out of doors. She lay thinking, trying to think, -vainly endeavoring to confine the wandering crowd of thoughts, which -made her head ache, and which seemed to float over every subject under -heaven. She tried to say her prayers, poor child, but lost them in an -incoherent mist of fancy. She fell asleep, and awoke in a few minutes, -thinking she had slept for hours--worse than that, she fell half asleep -into a painful drowse, where waking thoughts and dreams mingled with and -confused each other. Years of silence and unendurable solitude seemed to -pass over her before Jenny Shaw came up stairs again to ask her how she -was, and the last thing clear in Desirée’s remembrance was that Jenny -promised once more not to tell any one. Desirée did not know that the -good-hearted Jenny half slept, half watched in her room all that night. -The poor child knew nothing next day but that her limbs ached, and her -head burned, and that a dull sense of pain was at her heart. She was -very ill with all her exposure and suffering--she was ill for some time, -making a strange commotion in the house. But no one had any idea of the -cause of her illness, save perhaps Aunt Jean, who did not say a word to -any one, but trotted about the sick-room, “cheering up” the little sick -stranger and finding out her wants with strange skill in spite of her -deafness. All the time of Desirée’s illness Aunt Jean took not the -slightest notice of Oswald Huntley--she was doubly deaf when he -addressed her--she lost even her sharp and lively eyesight when he -encountered her on the stair. Aunt Jean did not know what ailed Desirée -besides the severe cold and fever which the doctor decided on, but the -old woman remembered perfectly at what point of their conversation it -was that the little girl rushed from her side and fled out of the -house--and she guessed at many things with a keen and lively penetration -which came very near the truth. And so Desirée was very ill, and got -slowly well again, bringing with her out of her sickness a thing more -hard to cure than fever--a sick heart. - - - - -CHAPTER LI. - - -While all these new events and changes were disturbing the quiet life of -the home district at Melmar, and Norlaw, and Kirkbride, Cosmo -Livingstone wandered over classic ground with Cameron and his young -pupil, and sent now and then, with modest pride, his contribution to the -_Auld Reekie Magazine_ which had now been afloat for four months, and on -account of which Mr. Todhunter, in his turn, sent remittances--not -remarkably liberal, yet meant to be so, in letters full of a rude, yet -honest, vanity, which impressed the lad with great ideas of what the new -periodical was to do for the literary world. So far, all was -satisfactory with Cosmo. He was very well off also in his companions. -Cameron, who had been shy of undertaking a manner of life which was so -new to him, and whom all the innkeepers had fleeced unmercifully on the -first commencement of their travels--for the very pride which made him -starve in his garret at home, out of everybody’s ken, made him, unused -and inexperienced as he was, a lavish man abroad, where everybody was -looking on, and where the thought of “meanness” troubled his spirit. But -by this time, even Cameron had become used to the life of inns and -journeys, and was no longer awed by the idea that landlords and waiters -would suspect his former poverty, or that his pupil himself might -complain of undue restraint. The said pupil, whose name was Macgregor, -was good-natured and companionable, without being any thing more. They -had been in Italy, in Switzerland, and in Germany. They had all acquired -a traveler’s smattering of all the three tongues familiar on their -road--they had looked at churches, and pictures, and palaces, till those -eyes which were unguided by _Murray_, and knew just as much, or rather -as little, of art, as the bulk of their countrymen at the time, became -fairly bewildered, and no longer recollected which was which. They were -now in France, in chilly February weather, on their way home. Why they -pitched upon this town of St. Ouen for their halt it would have been -hard to explain. It was in Normandy, for one reason, and Cosmo felt -rather romantically interested in that old cradle of the conquering -race. It was within reach of various places, of historic interest. -Finally, young Macgregor had picked up somewhere a little archaic lore, -which was not a common accomplishment in those days, and St. Ouen was -rich in old architecture. Thus they lingered, slow to leave the shores -of France, which was not sunny France in that February, but had been the -beginning and was about to be the end of their pleasant wandering, and -where accordingly they were glad to rest for a little before returning -home. - -Though, to tell the truth, Cosmo would a great deal rather have tarried -on the very edge of the country, at the little sea-port which bowed -Jaacob called “Deep,” and where that sentimental giant had seen, or -fancied he had seen, the lady of his imagination. Cosmo had enjoyed his -holiday heartily, as became his temperament and years, yet he was -returning disappointed, and even a little chagrined and ashamed of -himself. He had started with the full and strong idea that what his -father could not succeed in doing, and what advertisements and legal -search had failed in, he himself, by himself, could do--and he was now -going home somewhat enlightened as to this first fallacy of youth. He -had not succeeded, he had not had the merest gleam or prospect of -success; Mary of Melmar was as far off, as totally lost, as though Cosmo -Livingstone, who was to be her knight and champion, had never known the -story of her wrongs, and Time was gliding away with silent, inevitable -rapidity. A year and a half of the precious remaining interval was over. -Huntley had been at his solitary work in Australia for nearly a whole -year, and Huntley’s heart was bent on returning to claim Melmar, if he -could but make money enough to assert his right to it. This Cosmo knew -from his brother’s letters, those to himself, and those which his mother -forwarded to him (in copy). He loved Huntley, but Cosmo thought he loved -honor more--certainly he had more regard for the favorite dream of his -own imagination, which was to restore the lost lady to her inheritance. -But he had not found her, and now he was going home! - -However, they were still in St. Ouen. Since Cameron recovered himself -out of his first flutter of shy extravagance and fear lest he should be -thought “mean,” they had adopted an economical method of living when -they staid long in any one place. Instead of living at the inn, they had -taken rooms for themselves, a proceeding which Cameron flattered himself -made them acquainted with the natives. On this principle they acted at -St. Ouen. Their rooms were, two on the _premier étage_ for Cameron and -his pupil, and one _au troisième_ for Cosmo. Cosmo’s was a little room -in a corner, opening by a slim, ill-hung door upon the common -stair-case--where rapid French voices, and French feet, not very light, -went up the echoing flight above to the _mansarde_, and made jokes, -which Cosmo did not understand, upon the young Englishman’s boots, -standing in forlorn trustfulness outside his door, to be cleaned. Though -Cosmo had lived in a close in the High Street, he was quite unused to -the public traffic of this stair-case, and sometimes suddenly -extinguished his candle with a boy’s painful modesty, at the sudden -fancy of some one looking through his keyhole, or got up in terror with -the idea that a band of late revelers might pour in and find him in bed, -in spite of the slender defense of lock and key. The room itself was -very small, and had scarcely a feature in it, save the little clock on -the mantel-piece, which always struck in direct and independent -opposition to the great bell of St. Ouen. The window was in a corner, -overshadowed by the deep projection of the next house, which struck off -from Cosmo’s wall in a right angle, and kept him obstinately out of the -sunshine. Up in the corner, _au troisième_, with the next door -neighbor’s blank gable edging all his light away from him, you would -not have thought there was any thing very attractive in Cosmo’s -window--yet it so happened that there was. - -Not in the window itself, though that was near enough the clouds--but -Cosmo, looking down, looked, as his good fortune was, into another -window over the way, a pretty second floor, with white curtains and -flowers to garnish it, and sunshine that loved to steal in for half the -day. It was a pretty point of itself, with its little stand of -early-blooming plants, and its white curtains looped up with ribbon. The -plants were but early spring flowers, and did not at all screen the -bright little window which Cosmo looked at, as though it had been a -picture--and even when the evening lamp was lighted, no jealous blinds -were drawn across the cheerful light. The lad was not impertinent nor -curious, yet he sat in the dusk sometimes, looking down as into the -heart of a little sacred picture. There were only two people ever in the -room, and these were ladies, evidently a mother and daughter--one of -them an invalid. That there was a sofa near the fire, on which some one -nearly always lay--that once or twice in the day this recumbent figure -was raised from the couch, and the two together paced slowly through the -room--and that, perhaps once a week, a little carriage came to the door -to take the sick lady out for a drive, was all that Cosmo knew of the -second person in this interesting apartment; and the lad may have been -supposed to be sufficiently disinterested in his curiosity, when we say -that the only face which he ever fully saw at that bright window was the -face of an _old_ lady--a face as old as his mother’s. It was she who -watered the flowers and looped the curtains--it was she who worked -within their slight shadow, always visible--and it was she who, -sometimes looking up and catching his eye, smiled either at or to Cosmo, -causing him to retreat precipitately for the moment, yet leaving no -glance of reproach on his memory to forbid his return. - -Beauty is not a common gift; it is especially rare to the fanciful, -young imagination, which is very hard to please, save where it loves. -This old lady, however, old though she was, caught Cosmo’s poetic eye -with all the glamour, somehow tenderer than if she had been young, of -real loveliness. She must have been beautiful in her youth. She had -soft, liquid, dark-blue eyes, full of a motherly and tender light -now-a-days, and beautiful light-brown hair, in which, at this distance, -it was not possible to see the silvery threads. She was tall, with a -natural bend in her still pliant form, which Cosmo could not help -comparing to the bend of a lily. He said to himself, as he sat at his -window, that he had seen many pretty girls, but never any one so -beautiful as this old lady. Her sweet eyes of age captivated Cosmo; he -was never weary of watching her. He could have looked down upon her for -an hour at a time, as she sat working with her white hands, while the -sun shone upon her white lace cap, and on the sweet old cheek, with its -lovely complexion, which was turned to the window; or when she half -disappeared within to minister to the other half visible figure upon the -sofa. Cosmo did not like to tell Cameron of his old lady, but he sat -many an hour by himself in this little room, to the extreme wonderment -of his friend, who supposed it was all for the benefit of the _Auld -Reekie Magazine_, and smiled a little within himself at the lad’s -literary enthusiasm. For his part, Cosmo dreamed about his opposite -neighbors, and made stories for them in his own secret imagination, -wondering if he ever could come to know them, or if he left St. Ouen, -whether they were ever likely to meet again. It certainly did not seem -probable, and there was no photography in those days to enable Cosmo to -take pictures of his beautiful old lady as she sat in the sunshine. He -took them on his own mind instead, and he made them into copies of -verses, which the beautiful old lady never would see, nor if she saw -could read--verses for the _Auld Reekie Magazine_ and the _North British -Courant_. - - - - -CHAPTER LII. - - -The house of Cosmo’s residence was not a great enough house to boast a -regular _portière_ or _concierge_. A little cobbler, who lived in an odd -little ever-open room, on the ground floor, was the real renter and -landlord of the much-divided dwelling place. He and his old wife lived -and labored without change or extension in this one apartment, which -answered for all purposes, and in which Baptiste’s scraps of leather -contended for preëminence of odor over Margot’s _pot au feu_; and it was -here that the lodgers hung up the keys of their respective chambers, and -where the letters and messages of the little community were left. -Cameron and Cosmo were both very friendly with Baptiste. They understood -him but imperfectly, and he, for his part, kept up a continual chuckle -behind his sleeve over the blunders of _les Anglais_. But as they -laughed at each other mutually, both were contented, and kept their -complacence. Cosmo had found out by guess or inference, he could not -quite tell how, that madame in the second floor opposite, with the -invalid daughter, was the owner of Baptiste’s house--a fact which made -the cobbler’s little room very attractive to the lad, as it was easy to -invent questions, direct or indirect, about the beautiful old lady. One -morning, Baptiste looked up, with a smirk, from his board, as he bid -good-day to his young lodger. He had news to tell. - -“You shall now have your wish,” said Baptiste; “Madame has been asking -Margot about the young Englishman. Madame takes interest in _les -Anglais_. You shall go to present yourself, and make your homage when -her poor daughter is better. She loves your country. Madame is _Anglais_ -herself.” - -“Is she?” cried Cosmo, eagerly; “but I am not English, unfortunately,” -added the lad, with a jealous nationality. “I am a Scotsman, Baptiste; -madame will no longer wish to see me.” - -“Eh, bien!” said Baptiste, “I know not much of your differences, you -islanders--but madame is _Ecossais_. Yes, I know it. It was so said when -Monsieur Jean brought home his bride. Ah, was she not beautiful? too -pretty for the peace of the young man and the ladies; they made poor -Monsieur Jean jealous, and he took her away.” - -“Is that long ago?” asked Cosmo. - -“It was the year that Margot’s cousin, Camille, was drawn in the -conscription,” said Baptiste, smiling to himself at his own private -recollections. “It is twenty years since. But madame was lovely! So poor -Monsieur Jean became jealous and carried her away. They went, I know not -where, to the end of the world. In the meantime the old gentleman died. -He was of the old _régime_--he was of good blood--but he was poor--he -had but this house here and that other to leave to his son--fragments, -monsieur, fragments, crumbs out of the hands of the Revolution; and -Monsieur Jean was gay and of a great spirit. He was not a _bourgeois_ to -go to become rich. The money dropped through his fine fingers. He came -back, let me see, but three years ago. He was a gentleman, he was a -noble, with but a thousand francs of rent. He did not do any thing. -Madame sat at the window and worked, with her pretty white hands. Eh, -bien! what shall you say then? she loved him--nothing was hard to her. -He was made to be loved, this poor Monsieur Jean.” - -“It is easy to say so--but he could not have deserved such a wife,” -cried Cosmo, with a boy’s indignation; “he ought to have toiled for her -rather, night and day.” - -“Ah, monsieur is young,” said Baptiste, with a half satirical smile and -shrug of his stooping French shoulders. “We know better when we have -been married twenty years. Monsieur Jean was not made to toil, neither -night nor day; but he loved madame still, and was jealous of her--he was -a _beau garçon_ himself to his last days.” - -“Jealous!” Cosmo was horrified; “you speak very lightly, Baptiste,” said -the boy, angrily, “but that is worst of all--a lady so beautiful, so -good--it is enough to see her to know how good she is--the man deserved -to be shot!” - -“Nay, nay,” cried Baptiste, laughing, “monsieur does not understand the -ways of women--it pleased madame--they love to know their power, and to -hear other people know it; all the women are so. Madame loved him all -the better for being a little--just a little afraid of her beauty. But -he did not live long--poor Monsieur Jean!” - -“I hope she was very glad to be rid of such a fellow,” cried Cosmo, who -was highly indignant at the deficient husband of his beautiful old lady. -Baptiste rubbed the corner of his own eye rather hard with his knuckle. -The cobbler had a little sentiment lingering in his ancient bosom for -the admired of his youth. - -“But he had an air noble--a great spirit,” cried Baptiste. “But madame -loved him! She wept--all St. Ouen wept, monsieur--and he was the last of -an old race. Now there are only the women, and madame herself is a -foreigner and a stranger, and knows not our traditions. Ah, it is a -great change for the house of Roche de St. Martin! If you will believe -it, monsieur, madame herself is called by the common people nothing but -Madame Roche!” - -“And that is very sad, Baptiste,” said Cosmo, with a smile. Baptiste -smiled too; the cobbler was not particularly sincere in his -aristocratical regrets, but, with the mingled wit and sentiment of his -country, was sufficiently ready to perceive either the ludicrous or the -pathetic aspect of the decayed family. - -Cosmo, however, changed his tone with the most capricious haste. Whether -she was a plain Madame Roche, or a noble lady, it did not matter much to -the stranger. She was at the present moment, in her lovely age and -motherhood, the lady of Cosmo’s dreams, and ridicule could not come near -her. She was sacred to every idea that was most reverential and full of -honor. - -“And she is a widow, now, and has a sick daughter to take care of,” said -Cosmo, meditatively; “strange how some people in the world have always -some burden upon them. Had she no one to take care of _her_?” - -“If monsieur means _that_,” said Baptiste, with a comical smile, “I do -not doubt madame might have married again.” - -“Married--she! how dare you say so, Baptiste,” cried the lad, coloring -high in indignation; “it is profane!--it is sacrilege!--but she has only -this invalid daughter to watch and labor for--nothing more?” - -“Yes--it is but a sad life,” said Baptiste; “many a laboring woman, as I -tell Margot, has less to do with her hard fingers than has madame with -those pretty white hands--one and another all her life to lean upon her, -and now, alas! poor Mademoiselle Marie!” - -The cobbler looked as if something more than mere compassion for her -illness moved this last exclamation, but Cosmo was not very much -interested about Mademoiselle Marie, who lay always on the sofa, and, -hidden in the dimness of the chamber, looked older than her mother, as -the lad fancied. He went away from Baptiste, however, with his mind very -full of Madame Roche. For a homeborn youth like himself, so long -accustomed to the family roof and his mother’s rule and company, he had -been a long time now totally out of domestic usages and female -society--longer than he had ever been in his life before--he was -flattered to think that his beautiful old lady had noticed him, and an -affectionate chivalrous sentiment touched Cosmo’s mind with unusual -pleasure. He loved to imagine to himself the delicate womanly fireside, -lighted up by a smile which might remind him of his mother’s, yet would -be more refined and captivating than the familiar looks of the Mistress. -He thought of himself as something between a son and a champion, -tenderly reverent and full of affectionate admiration. No idea of -Mademoiselle Marie, nor of any other younger person with whom it might -be possible to fall in love, brought Cosmo’s imagination down to the -vulgar level. He felt as a lad feels who has been brought up under the -shadow of a mother heartily loved and honored. It was still a mother he -was dreaming about; but the delicate old beauty of his old lady added an -indefinable charm to the impulse of affectionate respect which animated -Cosmo. It made him a great deal more pleased and proud to think she had -noticed him, and to anticipate perhaps an invitation to her very -presence. It made him think as much about her to-day as though she had -been a girl, and he her lover. The sentiment warmed the lad’s heart. - -He was wandering around the noble old cathedral later in the day, when -the February sun slanted upon all the fretted work of its pinnacles and -niches, and playing in, with an ineffectual effort, was lost in the -glorious gloom of the sculptured porch. Cosmo pleased himself straying -about this place, not that he knew any thing about it, or was at all -enlightened as to its peculiar beauties--but simply because it moved him -with a sense of perfectness and glory, such as, perhaps, few other human -works ever impress so deeply. As he went along, he came suddenly upon -the object of his thoughts. Madame Roche--as Baptiste lamented to think -the common people called her--was in an animated little discussion with -a market-woman, then returning home, about a certain little bundle of -sweet herbs which remained in her almost empty basket. Cosmo hurried -past, shyly afraid to be supposed listening; but he could hear that -there was something said about an omelette for Mademoiselle Marie, which -decided the inclinations of his old lady. He could not help standing at -the corner of the lane to watch her when she had passed. She put the -herbs into her own little light basket, and was moving away towards her -house, when something called her attention behind, and she looked back. -She could not but perceive Cosmo, lingering shy and conscious at the -corner, nor could she but guess that it was herself whom the lad had -been looking at. She smiled to him, and made him a little courtesy, and -waved her hand with a kindly, half-amused gesture of recognition, which -completed the confusion of Cosmo, who had scarcely self-possession -enough left to take off his hat. Then the old lady went on, and he -remained watching her. What a step she had!--so simple, so -straightforward, so unconscious, full of a natural grace which no -training could have given. It occurred to Cosmo for a moment, that he -had seen but one person walk like Madame Roche. Was it a gift universal -to French women?--but then she was not a Frenchwoman--she was -English--nay--hurrah! better still--she was his own countrywoman. Cosmo -had not taken time to think of this last particular before--his eye -brightened with a still more affectionate sentiment, his imagination -quickened with new ground to go upon. He could not help plunging into -the unknown story with quite a zest and fascination. Perhaps the little -romance which the lad wove incontinently, was not far from the truth. -The young heir of the house of Roche de St. Martin, whom the Revolution -left barely “lord of his presence and no land beside"--the stately old -French father, perhaps an _emigré_--the young man wandering about the -free British soil, captivated by the lovely Scottish face, bringing his -bride here, only to carry her away again, a gay, volatile, mercurial, -unreliable Frenchman. Then those wanderings over half the world, those -distresses, and labors, and cares which had not been able to take the -sweet bloom from her cheek, nor that elastic grace from her step--and -now here she was, a poor widow with a sick daughter, bargaining under -the shadow of St. Ouen for the sweet herbs for Marie’s omelette. Cosmo’s -young heart rose against the incongruities of fortune. She who should -have been a fairy princess, with all the world at her feet, how had she -carried that beautiful face unwithered and unfaded, that smile undimmed, -that step unburthened, through all the years and the sorrows of her -heavy life? - -It seemed very hard to tell--a wonderful special provision of Providence -to keep fresh the bloom which it had made; and Cosmo went home, thinking -with enthusiasm that perhaps it was wrong to grudge all the poverty and -trials which doubtless she had made beautiful and lighted up by her -presence among them. Cosmo was very near writing some verses on the -subject. It was a very captivating subject to a poet of his years--but -blushed and restrained himself with a truer feeling, and only went to -rest that night wondering how poor Mademoiselle Marie liked her -omelette, and whether Madame Roche, the next time they met, would -recognize him again. - - - - -CHAPTER LIII. - - -The next day Cameron came up stairs to Cosmo’s room, where the lad was -writing by the window, with an open letter in his hand and rather a -comical expression on his face. - -“Here is for you, Cosmo,” said Cameron. “The like of me does not -captivate ladies. Macgregor and I must make you our reverence. We never -would have got this invitation but for your sake.” - -“What is it?” cried Cosmo, rising eagerly, with a sudden blush, and -already more than guessing, as he leaned forward to see it, what the -communication was. It was a note from Madame Roche, oddly, yet prettily, -worded, with a fragrance of French idiom in its English, which made it -quite captivating to Cosmo, who was highly fantastical, and would not -have been quite contented to find his beautiful old lady writing a -matter-of-fact epistle like other people. It was an invitation to “her -countrymen” to take a cup of tea with her on the following evening. She -had heard from Baptiste and his wife that they were English travelers, -and loved to hear the speech of her own country, though she had grown -unfamiliar with it, and therewith she signed her name, “Mary Roche de -St. Martin,” in a hand which was somewhat stiff and old-fashioned, yet -refined. Cosmo was greatly pleased. His face glowed with surprised -gratification; he was glad to have his old heroine come up so entirely -to his fancy, and delighted to think of seeing and knowing her, close at -hand in her own home. - -“You will go?” he said, eagerly. - -Cameron laughed--even, if truth must be told, the grave Highlander -blushed a little. He was totally unused to the society of women; he was -a little excited by the idea of making friends in this little foreign -town, and already looked forward with no small amount of expectation to -Madame Roche’s modest tea-drinking. But he did not like to betray his -pleasure; he turned half away, as he answered:-- - -“For your sake, you know, laddie--Macgregor and I would have had little -chance by ourselves--yes, we’ll go,” and went off to write a very stiff -and elaborate reply, in the concoction of which Cameron found it more -difficult to satisfy himself than he had ever been before all his life. -It was finished, how ever, and dispatched at last. That day ended, the -fated evening came. The Highland student never made nor attempted so -careful a toilette--he, too, had found time to catch a glimpse of -Cosmo’s beautiful old lady, and of the pale, fragile daughter, who went -out once a week to drive in the little carriage. Mademoiselle Marie, -whom Cosmo had scarcely noticed, looked to Cameron like one of the -tender virgin martyrs of those old pictures which had impressed his -uncommunicative imagination without much increasing his knowledge. He -had watched her, half lifted, half helped into the little carriage, with -pity and interest greater than any one knew of. He was a strong man, -unconscious in his own person of what illness was--a reserved, solitary, -self-contained hermit, totally ignorant of womankind, save such as his -old mother in her Highland cottage, or the kind, homely landlady in the -High Street whose anxiety for his comfort sometimes offended him as -curiosity. A lady, young, tender, and gentle--a woman of romance, -appealing unconsciously to all the protecting and supporting impulses of -his manhood, had never once been placed before in Cameron’s way. - -So Cosmo and his friend, with an interest and excitement almost equal, -crossed the little street of St. Ouen, towards Madame Roche’s second -floor, in the early darkness of the February night, feeling more -reverence, respect, and enthusiasm than young courtiers going to be -presented to a queen. As for their companion, Cameron’s pupil, he was -the only unconcerned individual of the little party. _He_ was not -unaccustomed to the society of ladies--Madame Roche and her daughter -had no influence on his imagination; he went over the way with the most -entire complacency, and not a romantical sentiment within a hundred -miles of him; he was pleased enough to see new faces, and share his own -agreeable society with some one else for the evening, and he meant to -talk of Italy and pictures and astonish these humble people, by way of -practice when he should reach home--Macgregor was not going to any -enchanted palace--he only picked his steps over the causeway of the -little street of St. Ouen, directing his way towards Madame Roche’s -second floor. - -This chamber of audience was a small room, partly French and party -English in its aspect; the gilded clock and mirror over the -mantel-piece--the marble table at the side of the room--the cold -polished edge of floor on which Cameron’s unwary footsteps almost -slid--the pretty lamp on the table, and the white maze of curtains -artistically disposed at the window, and looped with pink ribbons, were -all indigenous to the soil; but the square of thick Turkey carpet--the -little open fire-place, where a wood fire burned and crackled merrily, -the warm-colored cover on the table, where stood Madame Roche’s pretty -tea equipage, were home-like and “comfortable” as insular heart could -wish to see. On a sofa, drawn close to the fire-place, half sat, half -reclined, the invalid daughter. She was very pale, with eyes so blue, -and mild, and tender, that it was impossible to meet their gentle glance -without a rising sympathy, even though it might be impossible to tell -what that sympathy was for. She was dressed--the young men, of course, -could not tell how--in some invalid dress, so soft, so flowing, so -seemly, that Cameron, who was as ignorant as a savage of all the graces -of the toilette, could not sufficiently admire the perfect gracefulness -of those most delicate womanly robes, which seemed somehow to belong to, -and form part of, this fair, pale, fragile creature, whose whole -existence seemed to be one of patience and suffering. Madame Roche -herself sat on the other side of the table. She was not in widow’s -dress, though she had not been many years a widow. She wore a white lace -cap, with spotless, filmy white ribbons, under which her fair hair, -largely mixed with silver, was braided in soft bands, which had lost -nothing of their gloss or luxuriance. Her dress was black satin, soft -and glistening--there was no color at all about her habiliments, -nothing but soft white and black. She did not look younger than she was, -nor like any thing but herself. She was not a well-preserved, carefully -got-up beauty. There were wrinkles in her sweet old face, as well as -silver in her hair. Notwithstanding, she sat there triumphant, in the -real loveliness which she could not help and for which she made no -effort, with her beautiful blue eyes, her soft lips, her rose cheek, -which through its wrinkles was as sweet and velvety as an infant’s, her -pretty white hands and rosy finger tips. She was not unconscious either -of her rare gift--but bore it with a familiar grace as she had borne it -for fifty years. Madame Roche had been beautiful all her life--she did -not wonder nor feel confused to know that she was beautiful now. - -And she received them, singular to say, in a manner which did not in the -slightest degree detract from Cosmo’s poetic admiration, asking familiar -questions about their names, and where, and how, and why they traveled, -with the kindly interest of an old lady, and with the same delightful -junction of English speech with an occasional French idiom, which had -charmed the lad in her note. Cameron dropped shyly into a chair by the -side of the couch, and inclined his ear, with a conscious color on his -face, to the low voice of the invalid, who, though a little surprised, -took polite pains to talk to him, while Cosmo as shyly, but not with -quite so much awkwardness, took up his position by the side of Madame -Roche. She made no remark, except a kindly smile and bow, when she heard -the names of Cameron and Macgregor, but when Cosmo’s was named to her -she turned round to him with a special and particular kindness of -regard. - -“Ah! Livingstone!” she said; “I had a friend once called by that name,” -and Madame Roche made a little pause of remembrance, with a smile and a -half sigh, and that look of mingled amusement, complacence, gratitude, -and regret, with which an old lady like herself remembers the name of an -old lover. Then she returned quietly to her tea-making. She did not -notice Macgregor much, save as needful politeness demanded, and she -looked with a little smiling surprise into the shadow where Cameron had -placed himself by the side of her daughter, but her own attention was -principally given to Cosmo, who brightened under it, and grew shyly -confidential, as was to be looked for at his age. - -“I have seen you at your window,” said Madame Roche. “I said to Marie, -this young man, so modest, so ingenuous, who steals back when we come to -the window, I think he must be my countryman. I knew it by your -looks--all of you, and this gentleman, your tutor--ah, he is not at all -like a Frenchman. He has a little forest on his cheeks and none on his -chin, my child--that is not like what we see at St. Ouen.” - -The old lady’s laugh was so merry that Cosmo could not help joining in -it--“He is my dear friend,” said Cosmo, blushing to find himself use the -adjective, yet using it with shy enthusiasm; “but he is only Macgregor’s -tutor not mine.” - -“Indeed! and who then takes care of you?” said the old lady. “Ah, you -are old enough--you can guard yourself--is it so? Yet I know you have a -good mother at home.” - -“I have indeed; but, madame, how do you know?” cried Cosmo, in -amazement. - -“Because her son’s face tells me so,” cried Madame Roche, with her -beautiful smile. “I know a mother’s son, my child. I know you would not -have looked down upon an old woman and her poor daughter so kindly but -for your mother at home; and your good friend, who goes to talk to my -poor Marie--has he then a sick sister, whom he thinks upon when he sees -my poor wounded dove?” - -Cosmo was a little puzzled; he did not know what answer to make--he -could not quite understand, himself, this entirely new aspect of his -friend’s character. “Cameron is a very good fellow,” he said, with -perplexity; but Cosmo did not himself perceive how, to prove himself a -good fellow, it was needful for Cameron to pay such close reverential -regard to the invalid on her sofa, whom he seemed now endeavoring to -amuse by an account of their travels. The reserved and grave Highlander -warmed as he spoke. He was talking of Venice on her seas, and Rome on -her hills, while Marie leaned back on her pillows, with a faint flush -upon her delicate cheek, following his narrative with little assenting -gestures of her thin white hand, and motions of her head. She was not -beautiful like her mother, but she was so fragile, so tender, so -delicate, with a shadowy white vail on her head like a cap, fastened -with a soft pink ribbon, which somehow made her invalid delicacy of -complexion all the more noticeable, that Cosmo could not help smiling -and wondering at the contrast between her and the black, dark, -strong-featured face which bent towards her. No--Cameron had no sick -sister--perhaps the grave undemonstrative student might even have smiled -at Madame Roche’s pretty French sentiment about her wounded dove; yet -Cameron, who knew nothing about women, and had confessed to Cosmo long -ago how little of the universal benevolence of love he found himself -capable of, was exerting himself entirely out of his usual fashion, with -an awkward earnestness of sympathy which touched Cosmo’s heart, for the -amusement of the poor sick Marie. - -“We, too, have wandered far, but not where you have been,” said Madame -Roche. “We do not know your beautiful Rome and Venice--we know only the -wilderness, I and my Marie. Ah, you would not suppose it, to find us -safe in St. Ouen; but we have been at--what do you call it?--the other -side of the world--down, down below here, where summer comes at -Christmas--ah! in the Antipodes.” - -“And I would we were there now, mamma,” said Marie, with a sigh. - -“Ah, my poor child!--yes, we were there, gentlemen,” said Madame Roche. -“We have been great travelers--we have been in America--we were savages -for a long time--we were lost to all the world; no one knew of us--they -forgot me in my country altogether; and even my poor Jean--they scarce -remembered _him_ in St. Ouen. When we came back, we were like people who -drop from the skies. Ah, it was strange! His father and his friends were -dead, and me--it was never but a place of strangers to me--this town. I -have not been in my country--not for twenty years; yet I sometimes think -I should wish to look at it ere I die, but for Marie.” - -“But the change might be of use to her health,” said Cameron, eagerly. -“It often is so. Motion, and air, and novelty, of themselves do a great -deal. Should you not try?” - -“Ah, I should travel with joy,” said Marie, clasping her white, thin -hand, “but not to Scotland, monsieur. Your fogs and your rains would -steal my little life that I have. I should go to the woods--to the great -plains--to the country that you call savage and a wilderness; and there, -mamma, if you would but go you should no longer have to say--‘Poor -Marie!’” - -“And that is--where?” said Cameron, bending forward to the bright sick -eyes, with an extraordinary emotion and earnestness. His look startled -Cosmo. It was as if he had said, “Tell me but where, and I will carry -you away whosoever opposes!” The Highlandman almost turned his back upon -Madame Roche. This sick and weak Marie was oppressed and thwarted in her -fancy. Cameron looked at her in his strong, independent manhood, with an -unspeakable compassion and tenderness. It was in his heart to have -lifted her up with his strong arms and carried her to the place she -longed for, wherever it was--that was the immediate impulse upon him, -and it was so new and so strange that it seemed to refresh and expand -his whole heart. But Marie sank back upon her pillows with a little -movement of fatigue, perhaps of momentary pettishness, and only her -mother spoke in quite another strain. - -“You do not know my country, my child,” said Madame Roche. “I have -another little daughter who loves it. Ah, I think some day we shall go -to see the old hills and the old trees; but every one forgets me there, -and to say truth, I also forget,” said the old lady, smiling. “I think I -shall scarcely know my own tongue presently. Will you come and teach me -English over again?” - -“You should say Scotch, madam--it is all he knows,” said Cameron, -smiling at Cosmo, to whom she had turned. It was an affectionate look on -both sides, and the boy blushed as he met first the beautiful eyes of -his lovely old lady, and then the kind glance of his friend. He -stammered something about the pleasure of seeing them in Scotland, and -then blushed for the common-place. He was too young to remain unmoved -between two pair of eyes, both turned so kindly upon him. - -“He is his mother’s son, is he not?” said Madame Roche, patting Cosmo’s -arm lightly with her pretty fingers. “I knew his name when I was young. -I had a friend called by it. You shall come and talk to me of all you -love--and you and I together, we will persuade Marie.” - -Cameron glanced as she spoke, with a keen momentary jealous pang, from -the handsome lad opposite to him, to the invalid on the sofa. But Marie -was older than Cosmo--a whole world apart, out of his way, uninteresting -to the boy as she lay back on her cushions, with her half-shut eyes and -her delicate face. It was strange to think how strong and personal was -this compassion, the growth of a day, in the Highlander’s stern nature -and uncommunicating heart. - - - - -CHAPTER LIV. - - -The days glided on imperceptibly over the travelers as they rested in -St. Ouen--rested longer than there seemed any occasion for resting, and -with so little inducement that Macgregor began to grow restive, and even -Cosmo wondered; Cameron was no longer the same. The fiery heart of the -Highlander was moved within him beyond all power of self-restraint. He -was calm enough externally by the necessity of his nature, which forbade -demonstration--but within, the fountains were breaking, the ice melting, -a fiery and fervid activity taking the place of the long quiescence of -his mind. He neither understood it himself nor reasoned upon it. He -yielded because he could not help yielding. An arbitrary, imperious -impulse, had taken possession of him, strengthening itself in his own -strength and force, and taking into consideration no possibility of -obstacles. His big, strong heart yearned over the tender weakness which -could not help itself--he could think of nothing but of taking it up in -his powerful arms and carrying it into safety. It was the first -awakening of his native passionate fervor--he could acknowledge nothing, -perceive nothing to stand in the way. He was as unreasonable and -arbitrary as the merest boy--more so, indeed, for boys do not know -emotions so stormy and violent. It had an extraordinary effect -altogether upon this grave, reserved, toil-worn man; sometimes he was -capricious, impatient, and fitful in his temper--at other times more -tender than a woman--often half ashamed of himself--and only clear -about one thing as it seemed, which was, that he would not go away. - -Another point he was angrily jealous upon; he neither lingered in -Baptiste’s room himself, nor, if he could possibly prevent it, permitted -Cosmo to do so. He would have no questions asked, no gossiping entered -into about Madame Roche. “These ladies should be sacred to us--what they -wish us to know they will tell us,” said Cameron almost haughtily, on -one occasion, when he interrupted a conversation between the cobbler and -his young companion. Cosmo was half disposed to resent at once the -interference, and the supposition that he himself would gossip about any -one, or acquire information by such undignified means--but the serious -feeling in his friend’s face, almost stern in its earnestness, impressed -the lad. It was evidently of tenfold importance to Cameron more than to -himself, much as he was interested in his beautiful old lady. Cosmo -yielded with but little demonstration of impatience and wonder, -half-guessing, yet wholly unable to comprehend what this could mean. - -Another day, when Cosmo sat by his little window in the corner, to which -he had been shy of going since he knew Madame Roche, but which had still -a great attraction for him, Cameron entered his room hurriedly and found -him at his post. The Highlandman laid his powerful hand roughly on the -lad’s shoulder, and drew him away, almost in violence. “How dare ye pry -upon them?” he cried, with excitement; “should not their _home_ be -sacred, at least?” Almost a quarrel ensued, for Cosmo struggled in this -strong grasp, and asserted his independence indignantly. He pry upon any -one! The lad was furious at the accusation, and ready to abjure forever -and in a moment the friend who judged him so unjustly; and had it not -been that Cameron himself melted into an incomprehensible caprice of -softness, there must have been an open breach and separation. Even then, -Cosmo could scarcely get over it; he kept away from his window proudly, -was haughty to his companions, passed Baptiste without the civility of a -recognition, and even, in the strength of his ill-used and injured -condition, would not go to see Madame Roche. Out of this sullen fit the -lad was awakened by seeing Cameron secretly selecting with his uncouth -hands such early flowers as were to be found in the market of St. Ouen, -and giving shy, private orders about others, more rare and delicate, -which were to be sent to Madame Roche, in her second floor. Cosmo was -very much perplexed, and did not comprehend it, any more than he -comprehended why it was that the Highlandman, without motive or object, -and in face of the protestations of his pupil, persisted in lingering -here in St. Ouen. - -Thus a week passed--a fortnight, and no period was yet assigned for -their stay. They became familiar with that pretty, little, half French, -half English apartment, where poor Marie lay on the sofa, and her mother -sat working by the window. Madame Roche was always kind, and had a smile -for them all. Marie was sometimes vivacious, sometimes fatigued, -sometimes broke forth in little outbursts of opposition to mamma, who -was always tender and forbearing to her! sometimes Cosmo thought the -gentle invalid was even peevish, lying back among her cushions, with her -half closed eyes, taking no notice of any one. This poor Marie was not -only weak in frame--she was unsatisfied, discontented, and had -“something on her mind.” She started into sudden effusions of longing -and weariness, with eager wishes to go away somewhere, and anticipations -of being well, if mamma would but consent, which Madame Roche quietly -evaded, and, during which, Cameron sat gazing at her with all his heart -inquiring in his eyes, where? But Marie showed no inclination to make a -confidant of her mother’s countryman. She listened to him with a languid -interest, gave him a partial attention, smiled faintly when her mother -thanked him for the flowers he sent, but treated all these marks of -Cameron’s “interest” in herself with a fatal and total indifference, -which the Highlandman alone either did not or would not perceive. It did -not even appear that Marie contemplated the possibility of any special -reference to herself in the stranger’s courtesies. She treated them all -alike; paying no great regard to any of the three. She was amiable, -gentle, mild in her manners, and pleasant in her speech; but throughout -all, it was herself and her own burdens, whatever these might be, that -Marie was thinking of. Perhaps they were enough to occupy the poor -tender spirit so closely confined within those four walls. Cosmo did not -know--but _his_ sympathies were with the bright old mother, whose -beautiful eyes always smiled, who seemed to have no time to spend in -impatience or discontent, and whose perpetual care was lavished on her -daughter, whether Marie was pleased or no. - -Madame Roche, it would appear, was not too sensitive--her husband, who -loved and was jealous of her, and who died and left her a widow, had not -broken her heart; neither could her child, though she was ill and -peevish, and not very grateful. Perhaps Cosmo would rather, in his -secret spirit, have preferred to see his beautiful old lady, after all -her hard life and troubles, and with still so many cares surrounding -her, show greater symptoms of heart-break, but Madame Roche only went on -working and smiling, and saying kind words, with an invincible patience, -which was the patience of a natural temper, and not of exalted -principle. She could not help her sweetness and affectionate disposition -any more than she could help the beauty which was as faithful to her in -age as in youth. She was kind even to Macgregor, who was totally -indifferent to her kindness; perhaps she might be as kind to the next -wandering party of travelers who were thrown in her way. Cosmo would not -allow himself to believe so, yet, perhaps, it was true. - -And in the meantime Macgregor grumbled, and wrote discontented letters -home; and even Cosmo could give no reason to himself for their stay in -St. Ouen, save Madame Roche and her daughter--a reason which he -certainly would not state to the Mistress, who began to be impatient for -her boy’s return. Cameron had no letters to write--no thoughts to -distract him from the one overpowering thought which had taken -possession of his mind. The arbitrary fancy, absolute and not to be -questioned, that his own errand in the little Norman town was to restore -liberty, health, content, and comfort to Marie Roche de St. Martin. He -felt he could do it, as his big heart expanded over Madame Roche’s -“wounded dove"--and Cameron, on the verge of middle age, experienced by -privations and hardships, fell into the very absoluteness of a boy’s -delusion. He did not even take into account that, upon another -capricious, willful, human heart depended all his power over the future -he dreamed of--he only knew that he could do it, and therefore would, -though all the world stood in his way. Alas, poor dreamer! the world -gave itself no trouble whatever on the subject, and had no malice -against him, nor doom of evil for Marie. So he went on with his -imperious determination, little witting of any obstacle before him which -could be still more imperious and absolute than he. - - - - -CHAPTER LV. - - -On one of these days Cameron came again to Cosmo with a letter in his -hand. His look was very different now--it was grave, resolute, -determined, as of a man on the verge of a new life. He showed the letter -to his young companion. It was from Macgregor’s father, intimating his -wish that they should return immediately, and expressing a little -surprise to hear that they should have remained so long in St. Ouen. -Cameron crushed it up in his hand when it was returned to him; a gesture -not so much of anger as of high excitement powerfully restrained. - -“We must go, then, I suppose?” said Cosmo; but the lad looked up rather -doubtfully and anxiously in his friend’s face--for Cameron did not look -like a man obedient, who was ready to submit to a recall. - -“I will tell you to-morrow,” said the Highlander; “yes--it is time--I -don’t resent what this man says--he is perfectly right. I will go or I -will not go to-morrow.” - -What did this mean? for the “will not go” was a great deal more than a -passive negative. It meant--not a continued dallying in St. Ouen--it -meant all that Cameron imagined in that great new torrent of hopes, and -loves, and purposes, which he now called life. Then he went to Cosmo’s -window and glanced out for a moment; then he returned with a deep, -almost angry flush on his face, muttering something about “never -alone,"--then he thrust his arm into Cosmo’s, and bade him come along. - -“I am going to see Madame Roche,” cried Cameron, with a certain -recklessness of tone. “Come--you’re always welcome there--and four is -better company than three.” - -It was no little risk to put Cosmo’s temper to--but he yielded, though -he was somewhat piqued by the address, feeling an interest and anxiety -for something about to happen, which he could not perfectly define. -They found Madame Roche alone, seated by the window working, as -usual--but Marie was not there. The old lady received them graciously -and kindly, as was her wont. She answered to Cameron’s inquiries that -Marie’s headache was more violent than usual, and that she was lying -down. Poor Marie! she was very delicate; she suffered a great deal, the -dear child! - -“Invalids have sometimes a kind of inspiration as to what will cure -them,” said Cameron, steadily fixing his eyes upon Madame Roche, “why -will you not let her go where she wishes to go? Where is it? I should -think the trial worth more than fatigue, more than labor, ay--if man had -more to give--more even than life!” - -Madame Roche looked up at him suddenly, with a strange surprise in her -eyes--a painful, anxious, terrified wonder, which was quite inexplicable -to Cosmo. - -“Alas, poor child!” she said hurriedly, and in a low voice. “I would -grudge neither fatigue nor labor for my Marie; but it is vain. So you -are going away from St. Ouen? ah, yes, I know--I hear every thing. I saw -your young Monsieur Macgregor half an hour ago; he said letters had -come, and you were going. We shall grieve when you are gone, and we -shall not forget you, neither I nor my Marie.” - -Cameron’s face changed; a sweetness, an elevation, a tender emotion, -quite unusual to those strong features, came over them. - -“It is by no means certain that I shall go,” he said, in a low and -strangely softened voice. - -“Does Mademoiselle Marie know?” - -And once more he glanced round the room, and at her vacant sofa, with a -tender reverence and respect which touched Cosmo to the heart, and -filled the lad with understanding at once and pity. Could he suppose -that it was hearing of this that aggravated Marie’s headache? could he -delude himself with the thought that she was moved by the prospect of -his departure? Poor Cameron! Madame Roche was looking at him too with a -strange anxiety, trying to read his softened and eloquent face. The old -lady paused with an embarrassed and hesitating perplexity, looking from -Cosmo to Cameron, from Cameron back again to Cosmo. The lad thought she -asked an explanation from him with her eyes, but Cosmo had no -explanation to give. - -“My friend,” said Madame Roche, at last, trying to recover her smile, -but speaking with an evident distress which she endeavored in vain to -conceal--“you must not say _Mademoiselle_ Marie. The people do so, for -they have known her as a girl; but they all know her story, poor child! -I fancied you must have heard it from Baptiste or Margot, who love to -talk. Ah! have they been so prudent?--it is strange.” - -Madame Roche paused again, as if to take breath. Cosmo instinctively and -silently moved his chair further away, and only looked on, a -deeply-moved spectator, not an actor in the scene. Cameron did not say a -word, but he grasped the little marble table with a hand as cold as -itself, and looked at Madame Roche with the face of a man whose tongue -clove to his mouth, and who could not have spoken for his life. She, -trembling a little, afraid to show her emotion, half frightened at the -look of the person she addressed, proceeded, after her pause, with a -rapid, interrupted voice. - -“My poor, tender Marie--poor child!” said the mother. “Alas! she is no -more mademoiselle--she is married; she was married years ago, when she -was too young. Ah, it has wrung my heart!” cried the old lady, speaking -more freely when her great announcement was made; “for her husband loves -her no longer; yet my poor child would seek him over the world if she -might. Strange--strange, is it not? that there should be one most dear -to her who does not love Marie?” - -But Cameron took no notice of this appeal. He still sat gazing at her, -with his blank, dark face, and lips that were parched and motionless. -She was full of pity, of distress, of anxiety for him; she went on -speaking words which only echoed idly on his ear, and which even Cosmo -could not attend to, expatiating in a breathless, agitated way, to cover -his emotion and to gain a little time, upon the troubles of Marie’s lot, -upon the desertion of her husband, her broken health and broken heart. -In the midst of it, Cameron rose and held out his hand to her. The -trembling mother of Marie took it, rising up to receive his farewell. -She would have made a hundred anxious apologies for the involuntary and -unconscious deceit from which he had suffered, but dared not. He shook -hands with her hastily, with an air which could not endure speaking to. - -“I shall leave St. Ouen so soon, that I may not be able to see you -again,” said Cameron, with a forcible and forced steadiness which put -all her trembling compassion to flight; and he looked full in her eyes, -as if to dare her suspicions. “If I can not, farewell, and thank you for -your kindness. I can but leave my best wishes for--Mademoiselle Marie.” - -Before Cosmo could follow him--before another word could be said, -Cameron was gone. They could hear him descending the stair, with an -echoing footstep, as they stood together, the old lady and the lad, in -mutual distress and embarrassment. Then Madame Roche turned to Cosmo, -took his hand, and burst into tears. - -“Could I tell?” cried Marie’s mother--“alas, my child! could I think -that your tutor, so grave, so wise, would be thus moved? I am beside -myself! I am grieved beyond measure! Alas, what shall I do?--a good man -is in distress, and I am the cause!” - -“Nay, it is not your fault, madame,” said Cosmo; “it’s no one’s fault--a -mistake, a blunder, an accident; poor Cameron!” and the lad had enough -ado to preserve his manhood and keep in his own tears. - -Then Madame Roche made him sit down by her and tell her all about his -friend. Cosmo would rather have gone away to follow Cameron, and know -his wishes immediately about leaving St. Ouen, but was persuaded, -without much difficulty, that it was kinder to leave the Highlander -alone in the first shock of the discovery he had made. And Madame Roche -was much interested in the story of the student, whose holiday had ended -so sadly. She wished, with tears in her eyes, that she could do any -thing to comfort, any thing to help him on. And in turn she told the -story of her own family to Cosmo; how Marie’s husband had turned out a -vagabond, and worthless; how he had deserted his girlish wife in the -beginning of her illness, leaving her alone and unattended, at a -distance even from her mother; how they had heard nothing of him for -three years--yet how, notwithstanding all, the poor Marie wept for him -constantly, and tried to persuade her mother to set out on the hopeless -enterprise of finding him again. - -“My poor child!” said Madame Roche; “she forgets every thing, my friend, -but that she loves him. Ah, it is natural to us women; we remember that, -and we remember nothing more.” - -Cosmo could not help a momentary spark of indignation. He thought Marie -very selfish and cold-hearted, and could not forgive her his friend’s -heart-break:-- - -“Mademoiselle Marie should not forget _you_,” he said. - -Though he dealt with such phenomena occasionally in his verses, and made -good sport with them, like other young poets, Cosmo was, -notwithstanding, too natural and sensible, not to pause with a momentary -wonder over this strange paradox and contradiction of events. To think -of such a man as Cameron losing his wits and his heart for love of this -weak and perverse woman, who vexed her mother’s heart with perpetual -pining for the husband who had ill-used and deserted her! How strange it -was! - -“Marie does not forget me, my child; she is not to blame,” said Madame -Roche; “it is nature; do not I also know it? Ah, I was undutiful myself! -I loved my poor Jean better than my father; but I have a little one who -is very fond of me; she is too young for lovers; she thinks of nothing -but to make a home in my own country for Marie and me. My poor Marie! -she can not bear to go away from St. Ouen, lest he should come back to -seek her; she will either go to seek _him_, or stay; and so I can not go -to Desirée nor to my own country. Yet, perhaps, if Marie would but be -persuaded! My little Desirée is in Scotland. They think much of her -where she is. It is all very strange; she is in a house which once was -home to me when I was young. I think it strange my child should be -there.” - -“Desirée?” repeated Cosmo, gazing at his beautiful old lady with -awakened curiosity. He remembered so well the pretty little figure whose -bearing, different as they were otherwise, was like that of Madame -Roche. He looked in her face, anxious, but unable, to trace any -resemblance. Desirée! Could it be Joanna’s Desirée--the heroine of the -broken windows--she who was at Melmar? The lad grew excited as he -repeated the name--he felt as though he held in his hand the clue to -some secret--what could it be? - -“Do you know the name? Ah, my little one was a true Desirée,” said -Madame Roche; “she came when the others were taken away--she was my -comforter. Nay, my friend--she wrote to me of one of your name! One--ah, -look at me!--one who was son of my old friend. My child, let me see your -face--can it be you who are son of Patrick, my good cousin? What!--is -it then possible? Are you the young Livingstone of Norlaw?” - -Cosmo rose up in great excitement, withdrawing from the half embrace -into which Madame Roche seemed disposed to take him; the lad’s heart -bounded with an audible throb, rising to his throat:-- - -“Do you know me? Did you know my father? Was he your cousin?” he cried, -with an increasing emotion. “He was Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw, a -kinsman of the old Huntleys; and you--you--tell me! You are Mary of -Melmar! I know it! I have found you! Oh, father! I have done my work at -last.” - -The lad’s voice broke into a hoarse cry--he had no words to express -himself further, as he stood before her with burning cheeks and a -beating heart, holding out his hands in appeal and in triumph. He had -found her! he could not doubt, he could not hesitate--gazing into that -beautiful old face, the whole country-side seemed to throng about him -with a clamorous testimony. All those unanimous witnesses who had told -him of her beauty, the little giant at the smithy to whom her foot rung -“like siller bells,” the old woman who remembered her face “like a May -morning,” rushed into Cosmo’s memory as though they had been present by -his side. He cried out again with a vehement self-assurance and -certainty, “You are Mary of Melmar!” He kissed her hand as if it had -been the hand of a queen--he forgot all his previous trouble and -sympathy--he had found her! _his_ search had not been made in vain. - -“I am Mary Huntley, the daughter of Melmar,” said the old lady, with her -beautiful smile. “Yes, my child, it is true--I left my father and my -home for the sake of my poor Jean. Ah, he was very fond of me! I am not -sorry; but you sought me?--did you seek me?--that is strange, that is -kind; I know not why you should seek me. My child, do not bring me into -any more trouble--tell me why you sought for _me_?” - -“I sought you as my father sought you!” cried Cosmo; “as he charged us -all to seek you when he died. I sought you, because you have been -wronged. Come home with me, madame. I thank God for Huntley that he -never had it!--I knew I should find you! It is not for any trouble. It -is because Melmar--Melmar itself--your father’s house--is yours!” - -“Melmar--my father’s house--where my Desirée is now?--nay, my friend, -you dream,” said the old lady, trying to smile, yet growing pale; she -did not comprehend it--she returned upon what he said about his father; -she was touched to tears to think that Norlaw had sought for her--that -she had not been forgotten--that he himself, a young champion, had come -even here with the thought of finding her;--but Melmar, Melmar, her -father’s house! The old Mary of Melmar, who had fled from that house and -been disinherited, could not receive this strange idea--Melmar! the word -died on her lip as the voice of Marie called her from an inner chamber. -She rose with the promptness of habit, resuming her tender mother-smile, -and answering without a pause. She only waved her hand to Cosmo as the -boy left her to her immediate duties. It was not wonderful that she -found it difficult to take up the thread of connection between that life -in which she herself had been an only child, and this in which she was -Marie’s nursing Mother. They were strangely unlike indeed. - - - - -CHAPTER LVI. - - -Cosmo ran down the stairs, and out of the gate of Madame Roche’s house, -much too greatly excited to think of returning to his little room. The -discovery was so sudden and so extraordinary that the lad was quite -unable to compose his excitement or collect his thoughts. Strange -enough, though Mary of Melmar had been so much in his mind, he had never -once, until this day, associated her in the smallest degree with the -beautiful old lady of St. Ouen. When he began to think of all the -circumstances, he could not account to himself for his extraordinary -slowness of perception. At, least a score of other people, totally -unlikely and dissimilar, had roused Cosmo’s hopes upon his journey. -Scarcely a place they had been in which did not afford the imaginative -youth a glimpse somewhere of some one who might be the heroine; yet here -he had been living almost by her side without a suspicion, until a -sudden confidence, given in the simplest and most natural manner, -disclosed her in a moment--Mary of Melmar! He had known she must be -old--he had supposed she must have children--but it was strange, -overpowering, a wild and sudden bewilderment, to find in her the mother -of Desirée and Marie. - -Cosmo did not go home to his little room--he hurried along the narrow -streets of St. Ouen, carried on by the stress and urgency of his own -thoughts. Then he emerged upon the river side, where even the -picturesque and various scene before him failed to beguile his own -crowding fancies. He saw without seeing the river boats, moored by the -quay, the Norman fishermen and market-women, the high-gabled houses, -which corresponded so pleasantly with those high caps and characteristic -dresses, the whole bright animation and foreign coloring of the scene. -In the midst of it all he saw but one figure, a figure which somehow -belonged to it, and took individuality and tone from this -surrounding;--Mary of Melmar! but not the pensive, tender Mary of that -sweet Scottish country-side, with all its streams and woodlands--not a -Mary to be dreamt of any longer on the leafy banks of Tyne, or amid -those roofless savage walls of the old Strength of Norlaw. With an -unexpressed cry of triumph, yet an untellable thrill of disappointment, -the lad hurried along those sun-bright banks of Seine. It was this scene -she belonged to; the quaint, gray Norman town, with its irregular roofs -and gables, its cathedral piling upward to a fairy apex those marvelous -pinnacles and towers, its bright provincial costume and foreign tints of -color, its river, bright with heavy picturesque boats, and floating -baths, and all the lively life of a French urban stream. It was not that -meditative breadth of country, glorious with the purple Eildons and -brown waters, sweet with unseen birds and burns, where the summer -silences and sounds were alike sacred, and where the old strongholds lay -at rest like old warriors, watching the peace of the land. No--she was -not Mary of Melmar--she was Madame Roche de St. Martin, the beautiful -old lady of St. Ouen. - -When Cosmo’s thoughts had reached this point, they were suddenly -arrested by the sight of Cameron, standing close to the edge of the -quay, looking steadily down. His remarkable figure, black among the -other figures on that picturesque river-side--his fixed, dark face, -looking stern and authoritative as a face in profile is apt to look--his -intense, yet idle gaze down the weather-stained, timber-bound face of -the river-pier, startled his young companion at first into sudden -terror. Cosmo had, till this moment, forgotten Cameron. His friendship -and sympathy woke again, with a touch of alarm and dread, which made him -sick. Cameron!--religious, enthusiastic, a servant of God as he was, -what was the disappointed man, in the shock of his personal suffering, -about to do? Cosmo stood behind, unseen, watching him. The lad did not -know what he feared, and knew that his terror was irrational and -foolish, but still could not perceive without a pang that immovable -figure, gazing down into the running river, and could not imagine but -with trembling what might be in Cameron’s thoughts. He was of a race to -which great despairs and calamities were congenial. His blood was fiery -Celtic blood, the tumultuous pulses of the mountaineer. Cosmo felt his -heart beat loud in his ears as he stood watching. Just then one of the -women he had been in the habit of buying flowers from, perceived Cameron -and went up to him with her basket. He spoke to her, listened to her, -with a reckless air, which aggravated Cosmo’s unreasonable alarm; the -lad even heard him laugh as he received a pretty bouquet of spring -flowers, which he had doubtless ordered for Marie. The woman went away -after receiving payment, with a somewhat doubtful and surprised face. -Then Cameron began to pull the pretty, delicate blossoms asunder, and -let them fall one by one into the river--one by one--then as the number -lessened, leaf by leaf, scattering them out of his fingers with an -apparent determination of destroying the whole, quite unconscious of the -wistful eyes of two little children standing by. When the last petal had -fallen into the river, and was swept down under the dark keel of one of -the boats, the Highlander turned suddenly away--so suddenly, indeed, -that Cosmo did not discover his disappearance till he had passed into -the little crowd which hung about a newly-arrived vessel lower down the -quay;--his step was quick, resolute, and straightforward--he was going -home. - -And then Cosmo, brought by this means to real ground, once more began to -think, as it was impossible to forbear thinking, over all the strange -possibilities of the new events which had startled him so greatly. If -Marie had not been married--if Cameron had wooed her and won her--if, -strangest chance of all, it had thus happened that the poor Highland -student, all unwitting of his fortune had come to be master of Melmar! -As he speculated, Cosmo held his breath, with a sudden and natural -misgiving. He thought of Huntley in Australia--his own generous, -tender-hearted brother. Huntley, who meant to come home and win Melmar, -and who already looked upon himself as its real master--Huntley, whose -hopes must be put to an absolute and instant conclusion, and were -already vain as the fancies of a child. He thought of his mother at home -in Norlaw, thinking of the future which waited her son, and refusing to -think of the woman who had inflicted upon her the greatest sufferings of -her life--he thought of Patie, who, though much less concerned, had -still built something upon the heirship of Melmar. He thought of the -sudden change to the whole family, who, more or less unconsciously, had -reckoned upon this background of possible enrichment, and had borne -their real poverty all the more magnanimously, in consideration of the -wealth which was about to come--and a sudden chill came to the lad’s -heart. Strange perversity! Cosmo had scorned the most distant idea of -Huntley’s heirship, so long as it was possible; but now that it was no -longer possible, a compunction struck him. This prospect, which cheered -Huntley in his exile, and put spirit into his labor--this, which -encouraged the Mistress, for her son’s sake, to spare and to toil--this, -which even furthered the aims of Patie in his Glasgow foundery--this it -was _his_ ungracious task to turn into vanity and foolishness. His step -slackened unconsciously, his spirit fell, a natural revulsion seized -him. Madame Roche de St. Martin--the poor sick Marie, who loved only -herself and her worthless French husband, who doubtless now would find -his way back to her, and make himself the real Lord of Melmar! Alas, -what a change from Cosmo’s picturesque and generous dreams among the old -walls of Norlaw! When he thought of the vagabond Frenchman, whose -unknown existence had made Cameron miserable, Cosmo made an involuntary -exclamation of opposition and disgust. He forgot _that_ Mary of Melmar -who was now an imaginary and unsubstantial phantom; he even forgot the -beautiful old lady who had charmed him unawares--he thought only of the -French Marie and her French husband, the selfish invalid and the -worthless wanderer who had deserted her. Beautiful Melmar, among its -woods and waters, to think it should be bestowed thus! - -Then Cosmo went on, in the natural current of his changed thoughts, to -think of the present family, the frank and friendly Joanna, the unknown -brother whom bowed Jaacob respected as a virtuoso, and who, doubtless, -firmly believed himself the heir--the father who, though an enemy, was -still a homeborn and familiar countryman. Well, _that_ household must -fall suddenly out of prosperity and wealth into ruin--his own must -forego at once a well-warranted and honorable hope--all to enrich a -family of St. Ouen, who knew neither Melmar nor Scotland, and perhaps -scorned them both! And it was all Cosmo’s doing!--a matter deliberately -undertaken--a heroical pursuit for which he had quite stepped out of his -way! The lad was quite as high-minded, generous, even romantic, in the -streets of St. Ouen as he had been in his favorite seat of meditation -among the ruins of Norlaw; but somehow, at this moment, when he had just -succeeded in his enterprise, he could not manage to raise within his own -heart all the elevated sentiments which had inspired it. On the -contrary, he went slowly along to his lodgings, where he should have to -communicate the news to Cameron, feeling rather crest-fallen and -discomfited--not the St. George restoring a disinherited Una, but rather -the intermeddler in other men’s matters, who gets no thanks on any hand. -To tell Cameron, who had spent the whole fiery torrent of that love -which it was his nature to bestow, with a passionate individual fervor, -on one person and no more--upon the capricious little French Marie, who -could not even listen, to its tale! Cosmo grew bitter in his thoughts as -he took down the key of his chamber from the wall in Baptiste’s room and -received a little note which the cobbler handed him, and went very -softly up stairs. The note was from Madame Roche, but Cosmo was -misanthropical, and did not care about it. He thought no longer of -Madame Roche--he thought only of Marie, who was to be the real Mary of -Melmar, and of poor Cameron heart-broken, and Huntley disappointed, and -the French vagabond of a husband, who was sure to come home. - - - - -CHAPTER LVII. - - -Cameron was not visible until the evening, when he sent for Cosmo to his -own room. The lad obeyed the summons instantly; the room was rather a -large one, very barely furnished, without any carpet on the floor, and -with no fire in the stove. It was dimly lighted by one candle, which -threw the apartment into a general twilight, and made a speck of -particular illumination on the table where it stood, and by which sat -Cameron, with his pocket-book and Baptiste’s bill before him. He was -very pale, and somehow it seemed impossible to see his face otherwise -than in profile, where it looked stern, rigid, and immoveable as an old -Roman’s; but his manner, if perhaps a little graver, was otherwise -exactly as usual. Cosmo was at a loss how to speak to him; he did not -even like to look at his friend, who, however, showed no such -embarrassment in his own person. - -“We go to-morrow, Cosmo,” said Cameron, rather rapidly; “here is -Baptiste’s bill to be settled, and some other things. We’ll go over to -Dieppe the first thing in the morning--every thing had better be done to -night.” - -“The first thing in the morning! but I am afraid I--I can not go,” said -Cosmo, hesitating a little. - -“Why?” Cameron looked up at him imperiously--he was not in a humor to be -thwarted. - -“Because--not that I don’t wish to go, for I had rather be with you,” -said Cosmo--“but because I made a discovery, and a very important one, -to-day.” - -“Ah?” said Cameron, with a smile and a tone of dreary satire; “this must -have been a day for discoveries--what was yours?” - -“It was about Madame Roche,” said Cosmo, with hesitation--he was afraid -to broach the subject, in his anxiety for his friend, and yet it must be -told. - -“Just so,” said Cameron, with the same smile; “I knew it must be about -Madame Roche--what then? I suppose it is no secret? nothing more than -everybody knew?” - -“Don’t speak so coldly,” entreated Cosmo, with irrestrainable feeling; -“indeed it is something which no one could have dreamed of; Cameron, she -is Mary. I never guessed or supposed it until to-day.” - -Something like a groan burst from Cameron in spite of himself. “Ay, -she’s Mary!” cried the Highlander, with a cry of fierce despair and -anguish not to be described, “but laddie, what is that to you?” - -They were a world apart as they sat together on either side of that -little table, with the pale little light between them--the boy in the -awe of his concern and sympathy--the man in the fiery struggle and -humiliation of his manhood wrung to the heart. Cosmo did not venture to -look up, lest the very glance--the water in his eyes, might irritate the -excited mind of his friend. He answered softly, almost humbly, with the -deep imaginative respect of youth. - -“She is Mary of Melmar, Cameron--the old lady; my father’s kinswoman -whom he was--fond of--who ran away to marry a Frenchman--who is the heir -of Melmar--Melmar which was to be Huntley’s, if I had not found her. It -can not be Huntley’s now; and I must stay behind to complete the -discovery I have made.” - -Perhaps Cosmo’s tone was not remarkably cheerful; the Highlander looked -at him with an impatient and indignant glance. - -“Why should it be Huntley’s when it is hers?” he said, almost angrily. -“Would you grudge her rights to a helpless woman? you, boy! are even -_you_ beguiled when yourself is concerned?” - -“You are unjust,” said Cosmo. “I do not hesitate a moment--I have done -nothing to make any one doubt me--nor ever will.” - -The lad was indignant in proportion to his uneasiness and discomfort in -his discovery, but Cameron was not sufficiently at rest himself to see -through the natural contradictions of his young companion. He turned -away from him with the half-conscious gesture of a sick heart. - -“I am unjust--I believe it,” he said, with a strange humility; “lands -and silver are but names to me. I am like other folk--I can be liberal -with what I have not--ay, more! I can even throw away my own,” -continued Cameron, his strong voice trembling between real emotion and a -bitter self-sarcasm, “so that nobody should be the better for the waste; -that’s _my_ fortune. Your estate will be of use to somebody--take -comfort, callant; if you are disappointed, there’s still some benefit in -the gift. But ye might give all and no mortal be a gainer--waste, -lavish, pour forth every thing ye have, and them the gift was for, if -ever they knew, be the worse and not the better! Ay! that’s some men’s -portion in this life.” - -Cosmo did not venture to say a word--that bitter sense of waste and -prodigality, the whole treasure of a man’s heart poured forth in vain, -and worse than in vain, startled the lad with a momentary vision of -depths into which he could not penetrate. For Cameron was not a boy, -struggling with a boy’s passion of disappointment and mortification. He -was a strong, tenacious, self-concentrated man. He had made a useless, -vain, unprofitable holocaust, which could not give even a moment’s -pleasure to the beloved of his imagination, for whom he had designed to -do every thing, and the unacceptable gift returned in a bitterness -unspeakable upon the giver’s heart. Other emotions, even more heavy and -grievous, struggled also within him. His old scruples against leaving -his garret and studies, his old feelings of guilt in deferring -voluntarily, for his own pleasure and comfort, the beginning of his -chosen “work,” came back upon his silent Celtic soul in a torrent of -remorse and compunction, which he could not and would not confide to any -one. If he had not forsaken the labors to which God had called him, -could he have been left to cast his own heart away after this desperate -and useless fashion? With these thoughts his fiery spirit consumed -itself. Bitter at all times must be the revulsion of love which is in -vain, but this was bitterer than bitterness--a useless, unlovely, -unprofitable sacrifice, producing nothing save humiliation and shame. - -“I see, Cosmo,” he said, after a little pause, “I see that you can not -leave St. Ouen to-morrow. Do your duty. You were fain to find her, and -you have found her. It might be but a boy’s impulse of generosity, and -it may bring some disappointment with it; but it’s right, my lad! and -it’s something to succeed in what you attempt, even though you do get a -dinnle thereby in some corner of your own heart. Never fear for -Huntley--if he’s such as you say, the inheritance of the widow would be -sacred to your brother. Now, laddie, fare you well. I’m going back to -_my_ duty that I have forsaken. Henceforth you’re too tender a companion -for the like of me. I’ve lost--time, and such matters that you have and -to spare; you and I are on different levels, Cosmo; and now, my boy, -fare ye well.” - -“Farewell? you don’t blame _me_, Cameron?” cried Cosmo, scarcely knowing -what he said. - -“_Blame_ you--for what?” said the other, harshly, and with a momentary -haughtiness; then he rose and laid his hand with an extreme and touching -kindness, which was almost tender, upon Cosmo’s shoulder. “You’ve been -like my youth to me, laddie,” said the Highlandman; “like a morning’s -dew in the midst of drouth; when I say fare ye well I mean not to say -that we’re parted; but I must not mint any more at the pathways of your -life--mine is among the rocks, and in the teeth of the wind. I have no -footing by nature among your primroses. That is why I say--not to-morrow -in the daylight, and the eyes of strangers, but now when you and me and -this night are by ourselves--fare ye well, laddie! We’re ever friends, -but we’re no more comrades--that is what I mean.” - -“And that is hard, Cameron, to me,” said Cosmo, whose eyes were full. - -Cameron made no answer at all to the boy; he went to the door of the dim -room with him, wrung his hand, and said, “Good night!” Then, while the -lad went sadly up the noisy stair-case, the man turned back to his -twilight apartment, bare and solitary, where there was nothing familiar -and belonging to himself, save his pocket-book and passport upon the -table, and Baptiste’s bill. He smiled as he took that up, and began to -count out the money for its payment; vulgar, needful business, the very -elements of daily necessity--these are the best immediate styptics for -thrusts in the heart. - -Cosmo, to whom nothing had happened, went to his apartment perhaps more -restlessly miserable than Cameron, thinking over all his friend’s words, -and aggravating in imagination the sadness of their meaning. The lad did -not care to read, much less to obey the call of Madame Roche’s pretty -note, which bade him come and tell her further what his morning’s -communication meant. For this night, at least, he was sick of Madame -Roche, and every thing connected with her name. - - - - -CHAPTER LVIII. - - -The morning brought feelings a little more endurable, yet still, very -far from pleasant. Very early, while it was still dark, Cosmo saw his -companions set off on their journey home, and was left to the cold -dismal consciousness of a solitary day just beginning, as he watched the -lights put out, and the chill gray dawn stealing over the high houses. -The first ray of sunshine glimmered upon the attic windows and burned -red in the vane over the dwelling-place of Madame Roche. This gleam -recalled the lad’s imagination from a musing fit of vague depression and -uneasiness. He must now think no more of Cameron--no more of those -strange breakings off and partings which are in life. On the contrary, -his old caprice of boyish generosity laid upon him now the claim of an -urgent--almost an irksome--duty, and he, who went upon his travels to -seek Mary of Melmar with all the fervor of a knight-errant, turned upon -his heel this cold spring dawn with an inexpressible reluctance and -impatience, to go to her, in obedience to her own summons. He would -rather have been with Cameron in his silent and rapid journey--but his -duty was here. - -When Cosmo went to Madame Roche, which he did at as early an hour as he -thought decorous, he found her alone, waiting for him. She came forward -to receive him with rather an anxious welcome. “I almost feared you were -gone,” said the old lady, with a smile which was less tranquil than -usual. “When I saw your friends go, I said to myself, this boy is but a -fairy messenger, who tells of a strange hope, and then is gone and one -hears no more of it. I am glad you have not gone away; but your poor -friend, he has left us? I thought it best, my child, to say nothing to -Marie.” - -Cosmo’s heart swelled a little in spite of himself; he could not bear -the idea of the two women gossiping together over his friend’s -heart-break, which was the first thought that occurred to him as Madame -Roche spoke, and which, though it was certainly unjust, was still partly -justified by the mysterious and compassionate tone in which the old lady -mentioned Cameron’s name. - -“I am not aware that there is any occasion for saying any thing, -madame,” said Cosmo, with a little abruptness. Madame Roche was not -remarkably quick-sighted, yet she saw through the lad’s irritation--the -least smile in the world came to the corner of her lip. She did not -think of the great pang in the Highlander’s heart--she knew very little -indeed of Cameron--she only smiled with a momentary amusement at Cosmo’s -displeasure, and a momentary sense of womanish triumph over the -subjugated creature, man, represented in the person of this departed -traveler, who, had just gone sadly away. - -“Do not quarrel with me, my child,” she said, her smile subsiding into -its usual sweetness; “the fault was not with me; but tell me once more -this strange news you told me last night. Melmar, which was my father’s, -I was born heiress of it--did you say it was mine--_mine_? for I think I -must have mistaken what the words mean.” - -“It is quite true,” said Cosmo, who had not yet quite recovered his -temper, “your father left it to you if you were ever found, and if you -were not found, to _my_ father, and to Huntley Livingstone, his heir and -eldest son. My father sought you in vain all his life; he never would -put in his own claim lest it should injure you. When he died, Huntley -was not rich enough to go to law for his rights, but he and everybody -believed that you never would be found, and that he was the heir. He -thinks so now; he is in Australia working hard for the money to maintain -his plea, and believing that Melmar will be his; but I have found you, -and you are the lady of Melmar; it is true.” - -“You tell me a romance--a drama,” cried Madame Roche, with tears in her -eyes. “Your father sought me all his life--_me_? though I was cruel to -him. Ah, how touching! how beautiful!--and you, my young hero!--and this -Huntley, this one who thinks himself the heir--he, too, is generous, -noble, without selfishness--I know it! Oh, my child, what shall I do -for him? Alas, Marie! She is my eldest child, and she is married -already--I never grieved for it enough till now.” - -“There is no need, madame,” said Cosmo, to whom these little sentences -came like so many little shooting arrows, pricking him into a -disappointed and vexed resentment. “Huntley needs nothing to make him -amends for what is simply justice. Melmar is not his, but yours.” - -This speech, however, which was somewhat heroical in tone, expressed a -most uncomfortable state of mind in Cosmo. He was angry at the idea of -rewarding Huntley with the hand of Marie, if that had not been given -away already. It was a highly romantic suggestion, the very embodiment -of poetic justice, had it been practicable; but somehow it did not -please Cosmo. Then another suggestion, made by his own fancy, came -dancing unsolicited into the lad’s mind. Desirée, perhaps, who was not -married, might not _she_ be compensation sufficient for Huntley? But -Cosmo grew very red and felt exceedingly indignant as he thought of it; -this second reward was rather more distasteful than the first. He paid -very little attention, indeed, to Madame Roche, who, much excited, -smiled and shed tears, and exclaimed upon her good fortune, upon the -kindness of her friends, upon the goodness of God. Cosmo put his hands -in his pockets and did not listen to her. He was no longer a young poet, -full of youthful fervor and generosity. The temper of the British lion -began to develop itself in Cosmo. He turned away from Madame Roche’s -pretty effusion of sentiment and joy, in a _huff_ of disenchantment, -discontented with her, and himself, and all the world. - -Perhaps some delicate spirit whispered as much in the old lady’s ear. -She came to him when her first excitement was over, with tender tears in -her beautiful old eyes. - -“My child, you have found a fortune and a home for me,” said Madame -Roche, “but it is to take them away from your brother. What will your -mother say at home?” - -“She will say it is right and just, madame, and I have done my duty,” -said Cosmo, briefly enough. - -Then Madame Roche bent forward and kissed his young cheek, like a -mother, as she was. - -“We are widow and orphans,” she said, softly. “God will bless you--He is -the guardian of such; and He will not let Huntley suffer when He sees -how all of you do justice out of a free heart.” - -Cosmo was melted; he turned away his head to conceal the moisture in his -own eyes--was it out of a free heart? He felt rebuked and humbled when -he asked himself the question; but Madame Roche gave him no time to -think of his own feelings. She wanted to know every thing about all that -had occurred. She was full of curiosity and interest, natural and -womanly, about not only the leading points of the story, but all its -details, and as Marie did not appear, Cosmo by himself, with his -beautiful old lady, was soon reconciled to the new circumstances, and -restored to his first triumph. He had done what his father failed to -do--what his father’s agents had never been able to accomplish--what -newspaper advertisements had attempted in vain. He had justified his own -hope, and realized his own expectation. He had restored home and fortune -to the lost Mary of Melmar. A night and a morning were long enough for -the sway of uncomfortable and discontented feelings. He gave himself up, -once more, to his old enthusiasm, forgetting Huntley’s loss and -Cameron’s heart-break, and his mother’s disappointment, in the -inspiration of his old dreams, all of which were now coming true. The -end of this conversation was, that Cosmo--charged with Madame Roche’s -entire confidence, and acting as her representative--was to follow his -former companions and return to Edinburgh as speedily as possible, and -there to instruct his old acquaintance, Cassilis, to take steps -immediately for the recovery of Melmar. He parted with the old lady, who -was, and yet was not, the Mary of his fancy, that same evening--did not -see Marie, who was fortunately kept in her room by an access of illness -or peevishness, took leave of Baptiste and the old streets of St. Ouen -with great content and exhilaration, and on the very next morning, at an -hour as early, as chilly, and as dark as that of Cameron’s departure, -began his journey home. - - - - -CHAPTER LIX. - - -The streets of Edinburgh looked strange and unfamiliar to Cosmo -Livingstone when he stood in them once more--a very _boy_ still in heart -and experience, yet feeling himself a traveled and instructed man. He no -longer dreamed of turning his steps towards Mrs. Purdy’s in the High -Street; he took his carpet bag to a hotel instead, half wondering at -himself for his changed ideas. Cameron’s ideas too, probably, were -equally changed. Where was he, or how had he managed to reconcile the -present with the past? But Cosmo had no time to inquire. He could not -pause in Edinburgh for any thing but his needful business, which was to -see Mr. Cassilis, and to place in his hands the interests of Madame -Roche. - -The young lawyer received him with a careless kindness not very -flattering to Cosmo’s dignity, but was greatly startled by the news he -brought. Once only he paused in taking down all the facts of the case -which Cosmo could give him, to say:-- - -“This discovery will be a serious loss to your brother;” but Cosmo made -no reply, and with that the comment ceased. Huntley and his heirship -melted away out of sight in the strangest manner while this conversation -went on. Cosmo had never realized before how entirely it separated him -and his from all real connection with Melmar. The sensation was not -quite satisfactory, for Melmar, one way or another, had borne a most -strong and personal connection with all the thoughts and projects of the -family of Norlaw for a year or two past; but that was all over. Cosmo -alone now had any interest in the matter, and that solely as the -representative of Madame Roche. - -When he had fully informed the young lawyer of all the needful points in -the matter, and formally left the cause in his hands, Cosmo left him to -secure a place in the first coach, and to hasten home with all the speed -he could make. He could scarcely have felt more strange, or perceived a -greater change upon every thing, if he had dropped from the skies into -Kirkbride; yet every thing was precisely the same, so clearly and -broadly recognizable, that Cosmo could not understand what difference -had passed upon them, and still less could understand that the -difference was in himself. His mother stood waiting for him at the door -of the Norlaw Arms. It was cold March weather, and the Mistress had been -sitting by the fire, waiting the arrival of the coach. She was flushed a -little with the frosty air and the fire, and looked disturbed and -uneasy. Cosmo thought he could fancy she turned a jealous eye upon -himself as he sprang from the coach to meet her, which fancy was -perfectly true, for the Mistress was half afraid that her son who had -been abroad might be “led away” by his experiences of travel, and might -have become indifferent or contemptuous about his home. She was a little -displeased, too, that he had lingered behind Cameron. She was not like -Madame Roche--all-enduring sweetness was not in this old-fashioned -Scottish mother. She could not help making a strong personal claim of -that arbitrary love which stinted nothing in bestowing upon those who -were her own, and opened her heart only slowly and secondarily to the -rest of the world. - -“So you’re hame at last!” was the Mistress’s salutation; though her eye -was jealous, there was moisture in it, as she looked at her boy. Cosmo -had grown in stature for one thing; he was brown with exposure, and -looked manly and strong; and, not least, his smooth cheeks began to show -evidence of those symptoms of manhood which boys adore. There was even a -something not to be described or defined upon Cosmo’s upper lip, which -caught his mother’s eye in a moment, and gave a tangible ground for her -little outburst of half-angry fondness. - -“You’re no’ to bring any of your outlandish fashions here!” said the -Mistress, “though you have been in foreign parts. I’ll have no person in -my house bearded like a Frenchman. Can you no’ carry your bag in your -ain hand, laddie? Come away, then; you can shake hands with other folk -another time.” - -As the Mistress spoke, a figure strange to Kirkbride stalked through the -circle of lookers-on. Nothing like that bearded face and wide cloak had -been known to Cosmo’s memory in the village or the district. He turned -unconsciously to look after the stranger. Further down on the road -before were two girls whom Cosmo recognized with a start; one was -Joanna Huntley, the other there was no possibility of mistaking. Cosmo -gazed after her wistfully--a blush of recollection, of embarrassment, -almost of guilt, suddenly rising to his face. Bowed Jaacob stood at his -smithy door, with the fiery glow of the big fire behind him, a swart -little demon gazing after her too. Desirée! Was she the desired of this -unknown figure in the cloak, who went languidly along to join her? Cosmo -stood silent for a moment, altogether absorbed by the junction of old -and new thus strangely presented to him. Familiar Kirkbride, with Jaacob -at the smithy door, and that graceful little figure of romance, whose -story no one but Cosmo knew, followed by the other stranger figure which -he was entirely unacquainted with. He started when his mother repeated -her imperative summons--the color on his cheeks looked guilty and -troubled; he had his secret on his heart, and knew beforehand that it -would not be agreeable to the Mistress. So he did the very worst thing -he could have done--postponed the telling of it to a more convenient -season, and so went uncomfortably, and with a visible restraint, which -vexed his mother’s soul within her, home to Norlaw. - -Patie, as it happened, had come home a few days before on a brief visit; -and when they met round the fire that first evening, every one’s thought -instinctively was of Huntley. When Marget came in, disturbing the -gloamin quietness with lights, her long-drawn sigh and involuntary -exclamation:-- - -“Eh, sirs! if Master Huntley were but here!” startled the little family -group into open discussion of the subject which was in all their hearts. - -“Huntley’s been further than you, Cosmo,” said the Mistress, “and maybe -seen mair; but I wouldna wonder if Huntley thinks yet, as he thought -when he left Norlaw, that there’s no place equal to hame.” - -“Huntley’s in the bush; there’s not very much to make him change his -opinion there, mother,” said Patrick. - -“Ay, but Huntley’s heart is ever at hame,” said the Mistress, finding -the one who was absent always the dearest. - -“Mother,” said Cosmo, his courage failing him a little, “I have -something to tell you--and it concerns Huntley, too, mother. Mother, I -have found the lady, the heir--she whom we have all heard so much about; -Patie, _you_ know?” - -“What lady? what heir? and how does Patie know?” asked the Mistress; -then she paused, and her countenance changed. A guess at the truth -occurred to her, and its first effect was an angry flush, which -gradually stole over her face. “Patie is no a romancer, to have to do -with heirs and ladies,” she added, quickly; “nor to have strange folk in -his thoughts the first hour he’s at home. I canna tell wherefore any one -of you should have such wandering fancies; it’s no’ like a bairn of -mine.” - -“Mother, I’ve learnt something by it,” said Cosmo; “before I went away, -I thought it worth hunting over all the world to find her--for no reason -that I can tell, except that she was wronged, and that we might be the -better if she never came back; but now I have found her--I know where -Mary of Melmar is, and she knows she’s the heir; but ever since my -thought has been of Huntley. Huntley could have had no pleasure in -Melmar, mother, if it were not justly his own.” - -The Mistress raised her head high as Cosmo spoke. Anger, great -disappointment, of which she was half ashamed, and a pride which was -resolute to show no sign of disappointment, contended in her face with -that bitter dislike and repugnance to the lost Mary which she had never -been able--perhaps had seldom tried to conquer. “I have heard plenty of -Mary of Melmar,” said the Mistress, hastily; “ae time and another she’s -been the plague of my life. What, laddie! do you mean to say you left -me, and your hame, and your ain business, to seek this woman? What was -she to you? And you come back and tell me you’ve found her, as if I was -to rejoice at the news. You ken where she is, and she kens she’s the -heir; and I crave ye to tell me what is that to me? Be silent, Patie! Am -I her mother, or her sister, or her near friend, that this lad shall -come to bring the news to me?” - -“It’s poor news,” said Patie, who did not hesitate to look gravely -annoyed and disappointed, as he was; “very poor news for all of us, -mother; but at least it’s better that Cosmo found her than a -stranger--if found she was to be.” - -The Mistress paused a moment, subdued by this suggestion. “Poor news! I -kenna what you both mean,” she said, with pride; “what concern is it of -ours? Would my Huntley ever put hand or touch upon another person’s -gear? Let her come back the morn, and what the waur are we? Do you think -I envied her Melmar, or her land? Do you think I would have made my son -rich at _her_ cost, that never was a friend to me? You may ken many -things, laddies, but you dinna ken your mother. Me!--I wouldna take -blade o’ grass or drop of water belonging to her, if you asked me; and -I’m thankful to tell ye baith my Huntley is Huntley Livingstone of -Norlaw, and needs to be indebted to no person in this whole -country-side.” - -The Mistress rose up in the fervor of her indignant disappointment; -vexation and mortified feeling brought the water to her eyes. She felt -aggrieved and wronged, not only in this setting aside of Huntley, but in -the very fact that Mary of Melmar was about to return. This Mary, for -whose unthankful sake her husband had neglected _her_ honest love and -faithful heart, had at last lured even her son, her youngest and best -beloved, away from her, and was coming back triumphant to the -inheritance which might have been Huntley’s. The Mistress’s heart rose -in a tumult of pride, love, indignation, and bitterness. She said “_my_ -son,” and “_my_ Huntley,” with a proud and tender emphasis, an -involuntary, anxious impulse to make amends to him for the hope he had -lost--yet with an equally natural feeling rejected indignantly all -sympathy for him, and would not permit even his brothers to speak of -disappointment or loss to Huntley in this new event. She went away -across the room, breaking up the fireside circle by the hasty movement, -to seek out in her basket the stocking which she was knitting--for the -Mistress’s eyes began to fail her in candlelight with all her more -delicate industries--and coming back to the table, began to knit with -absorbed attention, counting the loops in the heel as if she had no care -for the further particulars which Cosmo, encouraged by Patie, proceeded -to tell. Yet she did hear them notwithstanding. But for the presence of -Patie’s practical good sense, Cosmo and his mother might have had -painful recollections of that night; but his brother’s steady look and -sober attention kept Cosmo from indulging the irritation and wounded -feeling which he might have felt otherwise. He went on with his story, -gradually growing interested in it, and watching--as a dramatist might -watch his first audience--the figure of the Mistress, who sat almost -with her back to him, knitting assiduously, the light of the candle -throwing a great shadow of her cap upon the wall, and her elbow moving -slightly with the movement of her wires. Cosmo watched how the elbow -moved irregularly at certain points of his tale, how it was still for an -instant now and then, as the interest grew, and the boy-poet was pleased -and forgave his mother. At last the stocking fell from the Mistress’s -hand--she pushed back her chair, and turned round upon him with a -half-scream. - -“Desirée!” cried the Mistress, as she might have exclaimed at the crisis -of a highly interesting novel, “it’s her that’s at -Melmar--whisht!--dinna speak to me--I’m just as sure as that we’re a’ -here--it’s her ain very bairn!” - -After this, Cosmo’s tale ended with a great success; he had excited his -mother--and the truth began to glide into her unwilling heart, that Mary -of Melmar was, like herself, the mother of fatherless children, a widow, -and poor. She heard all the rest without a word of displeasure; she -became grave, and said nothing, when her sons discussed the matter; she -nodded her head approvingly when Patie repeated rather more strongly -than before his satisfaction that Cosmo had found the lost Mary, since -she was to be found. The Mistress was thinking of something--but it was -only after she had said good night to them that the youths discovered -what it was. - -“Bairns,” said the Mistress then, abruptly pausing upon the stair, with -her candle in her hand, “that bit lassie at Melmar is in the dwelling of -the enemy--and if it were not so, the mother canna make war on the house -where her bairn has shelter. You’re her nearest kinsmen that I ken of, -to be friends as well--she’ll have to come here.” - -“Mother!” cried Cosmo, in delight and surprise, and compunction, “can -you ask her here?” - -“Ay, laddie--I can do mony things, mair than the like of you ken of,” -said the Mistress; and, saying so, she went slowly up stairs, with the -light in her hand, and her shadow climbing the wall after her, leaving -no unkindness in the echo of her motherly good night. - - - - -CHAPTER LX. - - -During all these months Desirée had led a strange life at Melmar. She -had never told any one of the revelation, painful and undesired, the -miserable enlightenment which Aunt Jean’s story had brought. What Cosmo -told Madame Roche months after, Madame Roche’s little daughter knew on -that winter night by the Kelpie, when the tale of Aunt Jean, and all its -confirming circumstances, stung her poor little heart with its first -consciousness of falsehood and social treachery. After that she was ill, -and they were kind to her at Melmar, and when she recovered Desirée -still did not tell her mother. People did not write so many letters then -as they do now, in these corresponding days--Madame Roche certainly did -not hear oftener than once a fortnight, sometimes not more than once a -month from her daughter, for Melmar was nearly as far from St. Ouen in -_those_ days as India is now. Many a painful thought it cost poor -Desirée as she stole out by herself, avoiding every one, to the side of -Tyne. Oswald Huntley, after her recovery, had resumed his manner of -devotion toward her--but Desirée’s eyes were no longer touched with the -fairy glamour of her first dream. She had not been “in love,” though the -poor child imagined she had--she had only been amused by that dream of -romantic fancy to which seventeen is subject, and touched into gratitude -and pleasure by the supposed love she had won--yet, even while she -scorned his false pretense of tenderness, that very disdain made Desirée -shrink from the thought of injuring Oswald. She was sadly troubled -between the two sentiments, this poor little girl, who was French, and -Madame Roche’s child, and who consequently was much tempted by the -dangerous intoxications of feeling. What was barely, simply, -straightforwardly _right_ might have satisfied Joanna; but Desirée could -not help thinking of self-sacrifice and suffering for others, and all -the girlish heroics common to her age. She could not live in their house -and betray the family who had sheltered and were kind to her. She seemed -to be tempted to avenge herself on Oswald by righting her mother at his -expense; so for feeling’s sake Desirée kept herself very unhappy, -saying nothing to her mother of the discovery she had made, unable to -resume her old cordiality with the Huntleys, ill at ease in her own -mind, and sadly solitary and alone. If it had been any mere piece of -information--or had the injury to be done been her own, Desirée would -have seen what was right, plainly enough--but as it was, she only -thought of the cruel difference to the family of Melmar, which a word of -hers might make, and of the selfish advantage to herself; and feeling -conscious of the sacrifice she made for them--a sacrifice which nobody -knew or appreciated, and which her conscience told her was even -wrong--Desirée’s mind grew embittered against them and all the world; -and her poor little heart, uneasy, cross, and restless, consumed itself. -As the struggle continued it made her ill and pale, as well as disturbed -in mind; nobody could tell what ailed her--and even Aunt Jean, with her -keen black eyes, could not read Desirée. She had “something on her -mind.” - -When one day she was startled by the arrival of a visitor, who asked to -see _her_, and was put into a little waiting-room--a cold little room, -without a fire, into which the March sunshine came chill, with no power -of warmth in it--to wait for the little governess. Desirée was much -amazed when she entered here to see the ruddy and comely face of the -Mistress looking down upon her, out of that black bonnet and widow’s -cap. It was a face full of faults, like its owner, but it was warm, -bright, kind, full of an unsubduable spirit and intelligence, which had -long ago attracted the eye of the vivacious little Frenchwoman, who, -however, did not know Mrs. Livingstone, except by sight. They looked at -each other in silence for the first moment--one amazed, and the other -thoughtful--at last the Mistress spoke. - -“Maybe I may not name you right,” she said; “I have nae knowledge of -your tongue, and no’ much of strangers, whatever place they come from; -but my son Cosmo has seen your mother, in foreign parts, and that is the -reason that brings me here.” - -Desirée started violently; for the moment it seemed to her that this was -her true and fit punishment. Her mother, whom she might have been -with--who might have been here had Desirée but spoken--was sick, was -dying, and a stranger brought her the news! She grew very pale and -clasped her little French hands in a passion of grief and -self-upbraiding. - -“She is ill!” cried Desirée, “ill, and I am here!” - -“Na--no’ that I ken of,” said the Mistress; “stranger news than that; do -you know of any bond between your mother and this house of Melmar? for -that is what I am come to tell you of now, as maybe she has done herself -before this time by hand of write.” - -From pale, Desirée’s cheeks became burning red--her eyes sank beneath -the look of the Mistress, her heart beat loud and wildly. Who had found -her out? but she only turned her head aside with an uneasy movement and -did not speak. - -“I may guess you’ve heard tell of it by your face,” said the Mistress; -“Melmar was left by will to my family--to my Huntley, the eldest and the -heir--failing your mother, that was thought to be lost. When he heard -tell of that, my Cosmo would not rest till he was away on his travels -seeking her. He’s been through France and Italy, and I ken not what -unlikely places a’ to look for your mother, and at last he’s found her; -and she’s coming home with little mair delay to be enfeoffed in her ain -lands and prove herself the heir.” - -Bitter tears, which still had a certain relief in them, fell heavy from -Desirée’s eyes--_she_ had known it all, but had not been the means of -bringing this fortune to her mother. Her first impulse was not the -delighted surprise which the Mistress expected, but she threw herself -forward, after a moment’s pause, at her visitor’s feet, and seized her -hand and cried--“Is it true?” with a vehemence which almost scandalized -the Mistress. Cosmo’s mother took her hand away involuntarily, but moved -by the girl’s tears laid it on her head, with a hasty but kindly motion. - -“It’s true,” said the Mistress; “but being true do you no’ see you canna -stay here? It is your mother’s house--but though I hold this Me’mar for -little better than a knave, yet I would not deceive him. You canna -remain here when your mother’s plea against him is begun. You should not -stay another day without letting him ken who you are--and that is why -I’m here to bid you come back with me to Norlaw.” - -“To Norlaw!” cried Desirée, faintly; she had no words to express her -amazement at the invitation--her shame for the deceit which she had -practiced, and which was worse than any thing the Mistress supposed -possible--her strange humiliation in comparing herself, Oswald Huntley, -every one here, with Cosmo; somehow when this sudden burst of honest -daylight fell upon her, Desirée felt herself as great a culprit as -Melmar. Her place seemed with him and with his son, who knew the truth -and concealed it--not with the generous and true hearts who relinquished -their own expectations to do justice to the wronged. In an agony of -shame and self-disgust, Desirée hid her face in her hands--she was like -Oswald Huntley whom she despised--she was not like Cosmo Livingstone nor -Cosmo’s mother. - -“Ay--to Norlaw,” said the Mistress, ignorant of all this complication of -feeling and with a softening in her voice; “Norlaw himself, that’s gane, -was near of kin to your mother; your grandfather, auld Melmar, was good -to us and ours; my sons are your nearest kinsmen in these parts, and I’m -their mother. It’s mair for your honor and credit, and for your -mother’s, now when you ken, to be there than here. Come hame with -me--you’ll be kindly welcome at Norlaw.” - -“And yet,” said Desirée, lifting her tearful eyes, and her face flushed -with painful emotion; “and yet but for us, all this fortune would have -gone to your son. Why are you kind to me? you ought to hate me.” - -“Na!” said the Mistress, with proud love and triumph; “my Huntley is -nane the waur--bairn, do you think the like of you could harm my son, -that I should hate you? Na! he would work his fingers to the bone, and -eat dry bread a’ his days before he would touch the inheritance of the -widow--loss of land or loss of gear is no such loss to my Huntley that I -should think ill of any person for its sake and you’re my son’s -kinswoman, and I’m his mother. Come hame with me till your ain mother is -here.” - -Without a word Desirée rose, dried her eyes, and held out her little -hand to the Mistress, who took it doubtfully. - -“I will be your daughter, your servant!” cried the little Frenchwoman, -with enthusiasm; “I will come to learn what truth means. Wait but till I -tell them. I will stay here no longer--I will do all that you say!” - -In another moment she darted out of the room to prepare, afraid to -linger. The Mistress looked after her, shaking her head. - -“My daughter!” said the Mistress to herself, with a “humph!” after the -words--and therewith she thought of Katie Logan; where was Katie now? - - - - -CHAPTER LXI. - - -The Melmar family had just concluded their luncheon, and were still -assembled in the dining-room--all but Mrs. Huntley, who had not yet come -down stairs--when Desirée, flushed and excited from her interview with -the Mistress, who waited for her in the little room, came hastily in -upon the party; without noticing any of the others Desirée went up at -once to the head of the house, who glared at her from behind his -newspaper with his stealthy look of suspicion and watchfulness, as she -advanced. Something in her look roused the suspicions of Mr. Huntley; he -gave a quick, angry glance aside at Oswald, as if inquiring the cause of -the girl’s excitement, which his son replied to with a side-look of -sullen resentment and mortification--an unspoken angry dialogue which -often passed between the father and son, for Melmar had imposed upon the -young man the task of keeping Desirée in ignorance and happiness, a -charge which Oswald, who had lost even the first novelty of amusing -himself with her found unspeakably galling, a constant humiliation. The -little Frenchwoman came up rapidly to her host and employer--her cheek -glowing, her eye shining, her small foot in her stout little winter-shoe -sounding lightly yet distinctly on the carpet. They all looked at her -with involuntary expectation. Something newly-discovered and strange -shone in Desirée’s face. - -“Sir,” she said, quickly, “I come to thank you for being kind to me. I -come because it is honest to tell you--I am going away.” - -“Going away? What’s wrong?” said Melmar, with a little alarm; “come into -my study, mademoiselle, and we will put all right, never fear; that -little deevil Patricia has been at her again!” - -Desirée did not wait for the burst of shrewish tears and exclamations -which even Patricia’s extreme curiosity could not restrain. She answered -quickly and with eagerness, - -“No, no, it is not Patricia--it is no one--it is news from home; _you_ -know it already--you know it!” cried the girl. “My mother! She is poor; -I have had to come away from her to be a governess; and you, alas, knew -who she was, but said nothing of it to me!” - -And involuntarily Desirée’s eyes sought, with a momentary indignant -glance, the face of Oswald. He sat perfectly upright in his chair -staring at her, growing red and white by turns; red with a fierce, -selfish anger, white with a baffled, ungenerous shame, the ignominy, not -of doing wrong, but of being found out. But even in that moment, in the -mortifying consciousness that this little girl had discovered and -despised him--the revenge, or rather, for it was smaller--the spite of a -mean mind, relieved itself at least in the false wooer’s face. He turned -to her with the bitterest sneer poor Desirée had ever seen. It seemed to -say, “what cause but this could have induced me to notice _you_?” She -did not care for him, but she thought she once had cared, and the sneer -galled the poor little Frenchwoman to the heart. - -“You are ungenerous--you!” she exclaimed, with a fiery vehemence and -passion, “you delude me, and then you sneer. Shall I sneer at you, you -sordid, you who wrong the widow? But no! If you had not known me I -should have thanked you, and my mother would never, never have injured -one who was good to Desirée; but now it is war, and I go. Farewell, -Monsieur! you did not mean to be kind, but only to blind me--ah, I was -wrong to speak of thanks--farewell!” - -“What do you mean? who has deceived you?” cried Joanna, stepping forward -and shaking Desirée somewhat roughly by the arm; “tell us all plain out -what it is. I’m as sure as I can be that it’s him that’s wrong--and I -think shame of Oswald to see him sit there, holding his tongue when he -should speak; but you shanna look so at papa!” - -And Joanna stood between Melmar and her excited little friend, thrusting -the latter away, and yet holding her fast at arm’s length. Melmar put -his arm on his daughter’s shoulder and set her quietly aside. - -“Let us hear what this discovery is,” said Mr. Huntley; “who is your -mother, mademoiselle?” - -At which cool question Desirée blazed for an instant into a flush of -fury, but immediately shrunk with a cool dread of having been wrong and -foolish. Perhaps, after all, they did not know--perhaps it was she who -was about to heighten the misfortune of their loss and ruin by -ungenerous insinuations. Desirée paused and looked doubtfully in -Melmar’s face. He was watching her with his usual stealthy vigilance, -looking, as usual, heated and fiery, curving his bushy, grizzled -eyebrows over those keen cat-like eyes. She gazed at him with a -doubtful, almost imploring, look--was she injuring him?--had he not -known? - -“Come, mademoiselle,” said Melmar, gaining confidence as he saw the girl -was a little daunted, “I have but a small acquaintance in your country. -Who was your mother? It does not concern us much, so far as I can see, -but still, let’s hear. Oswald, my lad, can’t you use your influence?--we -are all waiting to hear.” - -Oswald, however, had given up the whole business. He was pleased to be -able to annoy his father and affront Desirée at last. Perhaps the rage -and disappointment in his heart were in some sort a relief to him. He -was at least free now to express his real sentiments. He got up hastily -from his chair, thrust it aside so roughly that it fell, and with a -suppressed but audible oath, left the room. Then Desirée stood alone, -with Melmar watching her, with Patricia crying spitefully close at hand, -and even Joanna, her own friend, menacing and unfriendly. The poor girl -did not know where to turn or what to do. - -“Perhaps I am wrong,” she said, with a momentary falter. “There was no -reason, it is true, why you should know mamma. And perhaps it is unkind -and ungenerous of me. But--ah, Joanna, you guessed it when I did not -know!--you said she must have been here--you are honest and knew no -harm! My mother was born at Melmar; it is hers, though she is poor--and -she is coming home.” - -“Coming home! this is but a poor story, mademoiselle,” said Melmar. -“_That_ person died abroad long ago, and was mother to nobody; but it’s -clever, by George! uncommonly clever. Her mother’s coming home, and my -land belongs to her! cool, that, I must say. Will you take Patricia for -your lady’s maid, mademoiselle?” - -“Ah, you sneer, you all sneer!” cried Desirée. “I could sneer too, if I -were as guilty; but it is true, and you know it is true; you, who are -our kinsman and should have cared for us--you, who have planned to -deceive a poor stranger girl--you know it is true!” - -“If he does,” cried Joanna, “_you’re_ no’ to stand there and tell him. -He has been as kind to you as if you belonged to us--you don’t belong to -us--go--go away this moment. I will not let you stay here!” - -And Joanna stamped her foot in the excess of her indignation and -sympathy with her father, who looked on, through all this side-play of -feelings, entirely unmoved. Poor little Desirée, on the contrary, was -stung and wounded beyond measure by Joanna’s violence. She gave her one -terrified, passionate look, half reproachful, half defiant, had hard ado -to restrain a burst of girlish, half-weeping recrimination, and then -turned round with one sob out of her poor little heart, which felt as -though it would burst, and went away with a forlorn, heroical dignity -out of the room. Poor Desirée would not have looked back for a kingdom, -but she hoped to have been called back, for all that, and could almost -have fallen down on the threshold with mortification and disappointment, -when she found that no one interfered to prevent her withdrawal. The -poor child was full of sentiment, but had a tender heart withal. She -could not bear to leave a house where she had lived so long after this -fashion, and but for her pride, Desirée would have rushed back to fall -into Joanna’s arms, and beg everybody’s pardon; but her pride sustained -her in the struggle, and at length vanquished her “feelings". Instead of -rushing into Joanna’s arms, she went to the Mistress, who still waited -for her in the little room, and who had already been edified by hearing -the fall of Oswald’s chair, and seeing that gentleman, as he went -furiously forth, kicking Patricia’s lap-dog out of his way in the hall. -The Mistress was human. She listened to those sounds and witnessed that -sight with a natural, but not very amiable sentiment. She was rather -pleased than otherwise to be so informed that she had brought a -thunderbolt to Melmar. - -“Let them bear it as they dow,” said the Mistress, with an angry -triumph; “neither comfort nor help to any mortal has come out of Me’mar -for mony a day;” and she received the unfortunate little cause of all -this commotion with more favor than before. Poor little Desirée came in -with a quivering lip and a full eye, scarcely able to speak, but -determined not to cry, which was no small trial of resolution. The -family of Melmar were her mother’s enemies--some of them had tried to -delude, and some had been unkind to herself--yet she knew them; and the -Mistress, who came to take her away, was a stranger. It was like going -out once more into the unknown world. - -So Desirée left Melmar, with a heart which fluttered with pain, anger, -indignation, and a strange fear of the future, and the Mistress guided -to Norlaw almost with tenderness the child of that Mary who had been a -lifelong vexation to herself. They left behind them no small amount of -dismay and anxiety, all the house vaguely finding out that something was -wrong, while Joanna alone stood by her father’s side, angry, rude, and -careless of every one, bestowing her whole impatient regards upon him. - - - - -CHAPTER LXII. - - -“Happened!” said bowed Jaacob, with a little scorn; “what should have -happened?--you dinna ca’ this place in the world--naething, so far as I -can tell, ever happens here except births and deaths and marriages; no -muckle food for the intelleck in the like of them, though I wouldna say -but they are necessary evils--na, laddie, there’s little to tell you -here.” - -“Not even about the Bill?” said Cosmo; “don’t forget I’ve been abroad -and know nothing of what you’ve all been doing at home.” - -“The Bill--humph! it’s a’ very weel for the present,” said Jaacob, with -a twinkle of excitement in his one eye, “but as for thae politicians -that ca’ it a final measure, I wouldna gie that for them,” and Jaacob -snapped his fingers energetically. “It hasna made just a’ that -difference in the world ane would have expected, either,” he added, -after a moment, a certain grim humor stealing into his grotesque face; -“we’re a’ as nigh as possible just where we were. I’m no’ what you would -ca’ a sanguine philosopher mysel’. I ken human nature gey weel; and I -canna say I ever limited my ain faith to men that pay rent and taxes at -so muckle a year; but it doesna make that difference ane might have -looked for. A man’s just the same man, callant--especially if he’s a -poor creature with nae nobility in him--though you do gie him a vote.” - -“Yet it’s all the difference,” cried Cosmo, with a little burst of -boyish enthusiasm, “between the freeman and the slave!” - -Jaacob eyed him grimly with his one eye. “It’s a’ the like of you ken,” -said the cynic, with a little contempt, and a great deal of superiority; -“but you’ll learn better if ye have the gift. There’s a certain -slave-class in ilka community--that’s my conviction--and I wouldna say -but we’ve just had the good fortune to licht upon them in thae ten-pound -householders; oh, ay, laddie! let the aristocrats alane--they’re as -cunning as auld Nick where their ain interest’s concerned, though nae -better than as mony school-boys in a’ greater concerns. Catch them -extending the suffrage to the real _men_, the backbane of the country! -Would you say a coof in the town here, that marries some fool of a wife -and gets a house of his ain, was a mair responsible person than _me_! -Take it in ony class you please--yoursel’ when you’re aulder--na, -Me’mar’s son even, that’s nearer my age than yours--ony Willie A’ thing -of a shopkeeper gets his vote--set him up! and his voice in the -country--but there’s nae voice for you, my lad, if ye were -ane-and-twenty the morn--nor for the young laird.” - -The mention of this name instantly arrested Cosmo’s indignation at his -own political disabilities. “You say nothing has happened, Jacob,” said -Cosmo, “and yet here is this same young laird--what of him?--is he -nothing?--he ought to rank high in Kirkbride.” - -“Kirkbride and me are seldom of the same opinion,” said the little -Cyclops, pushing his red cowl off his brow, and proceeding carelessly to -his work, which had been suspended during the more exciting -conversation. “I canna be fashed with weakly folk, women or men, though -it’s more natural in a woman. There’s that bit thing of a sister of his -with the pink e’en--he’s ower like her to please me--but he’s a -virtuoso. I’ve been ca’ed one mysel. I’ve mair sympathy with a traveled -man than thae savages here. You see I wouldna say but I might think -better of baith him and his father if I’m right in a guess o’ mine; and -I maun admit I’m seldom wrang when I take a thing into my mind.” - -“What is it?” said Cosmo, eagerly. - -“There’s a young lass there, a governess,” said Jaacob; “I couldna tell, -if I was on my aith, what’s out of the way about her. She’s no’ to ca’ -very bonnie, and as for wut, that’s no’ to be looked for in woman--and -she’s French, though I’m above prejudice on that score; but there’s just -something about her reminds me whiles of another person--though no mair -to be compared in ae way than a gowan to a rose. I’m no’ very easy -attractit, which is plain to view, seeing, for a’ I’ve met with, I’m no’ -a married man, and like enough never will be--but I maun admit I was -taken with her mysel’.” - -Cosmo’s face was crimson with suppressed anger and laughter both -combined. - -“How dare you?” he cried at last, with a violent and sudden burst of the -latter impulse. Bowed Jaacob turned round upon him, swelling to his -fullest stature, and settling his red cowl on his head with an air of -defiance, yet with a remote and grim consciousness of fun in the corner -of his eye. - -“Daur!” exclaimed the gallant hunchback. “Mind what you say, my lad! -Women hae ae gift--they aye ken merit when they see it. I’ve kent a -hantle in my day; but the bonniest of them a’ never said ‘How daur ye’ -to me.” - -“Very well, Jacob,” said Cosmo, laughing; “I had forgotten your -successes. But what of this young lady at Melmar, and your guess about -Oswald Huntley? I know her, and I am curious to hear.” - -“Just the lad yonder, if you will ken, is taken with her like me--that’s -a’. I advise you to say ‘you daur’ to him,” said Jaacob, shortly, ending -his words with a prolonged chorus of hammering. - -An involuntary and unconscious exclamation burst from Cosmo’s lips. He -felt a burning color rise over his face. Why, he could not tell; but his -sudden shock of consternation and indignant resentment quite overpowered -his composure for the moment--a thrill of passionate displeasure tingled -through his heart. He was violently impatient of the thought, yet could -not tell why. - -“Whatfor no?” said Jaacob. “I’m nane of your romantic men mysel’--but -I’ve just this ae thing to say, I despise a lad that thinks on the penny -siller when a woman’s in the question. I wouldna tak a wife into the -bargain with a wheen lands or a pickle gear, no’ if she was a king’s -daughter--though she might be that, and yet be nae great things. Na, -laddie, a man that has the heart to be real downricht in love has aye -something in him, take my word for’t; and even auld Me’mar himsel’--” - -“The old villain!” cried Cosmo, violently; “the mean old rascal! That is -what he meant by bringing her here. It was not enough to wrong the -mother, but he must delude the child! Be quiet, Jaacob! you don’t know -the old gray-haired villain! They ought to be tried for conspiracy, -every one of them. Love!--it is profanation to name the name!” - -“Eh, what’s a’ this?” cried Jaacob. “What does the callant mean by -conspiracy?--what’s about this lassie? She’s gey bonnie--no’ to say -very, but gey--and she’s just a governess. I respect the auld rascal, as -you ca’ him--and I wouldna say you’re far wrang--for respecting his -son’s fancy. The maist o’ thae moneyed men, I can tell ye, are as mean -as an auld miser; therefore ye may say what ye like, my lad. I’m friends -with Me’mar and his son the noo.” - -Jaacob went on accordingly with his hammering, professing no notice of -Cosmo, who, busy with his own indignant thoughts, did not even observe -the vigilant, sidelong regards of the blacksmith’s one eye. He scarcely -even heard what Jaacob said, as the village philosopher resumed his -monologue, keeping always that solitary orb of vision intent upon his -visitor. Jaacob, with all his enlightenment, was not above curiosity, -and took a very lively interest in the human character and the concerns -of his fellow-men. - -“And the minister’s dead,” said Jaacob. “For a man that had nae -experience of life, he wasna such a fuil as he might have been. I’ve -seen waur priests. The vulgar gave him honor, and it’s aye desirable to -have a man in that capacity that can impose upon the vulgar;--and the -bairns are away. I miss Katie Logan’s face about the town mysel’. She -wasna in my style; but I canna deny her merits. Mair folks’ taste than -mine has to be consulted. As for me, I have rather a notion of that -French governess at Melmar. If there’s onything wrang there, gie a man a -hint, Cosmo, lad. I’ve nae objection to cut Oswald Huntley out mysel’.” - -“Find some other subject for your jests,” cried Cosmo, haughtily; -“Mademoiselle Desirée’s name is not to be used in village gossip. I will -not permit it while I am here.” - -Jaacob turned round upon him with his eye on fire. - -“Wha the deevil made you a judge?” said Jaacob; “what’s your -madame-oiselle, or you either, that you’re ower guid for an honest man’s -mouth? Confound your impidence! a slip of a callant that makes verses, -do ye set up your face to me?” - -At this point of the conversation Cosmo began to have a glimmering -perception that Desirée’s name was quite as unsuitable in a quarrel with -Jaacob as in any supposed village gossip; and that the dispute between -himself and the blacksmith was on the whole somewhat ridiculous. He -evaded Jaacob’s angry interrogatory with a half laugh of annoyance and -embarrassment. - -“You know as well as I do, Jacob, that one should not speak so of young -ladies,” said Cosmo, who did not know what to say. - -“Do I?” said Jaacob; “what would ye hae a man to talk about? they’re no -muckle to crack o’ in the way o’ wisdom, but they’re bonnie objecks in -creation, as a’body maun allow. I would just like to ken, though, my -lad, what’s a’ your particular interest in this madame-oiselle?” - -“Hush,” said Cosmo, whose cheeks began to burn; “she is my kinswoman; by -this time perhaps she is with my mother in Norlaw; she is the child -of--” - -Cosmo paused, thinking to stop at that half-confidence. Jaacob stood -staring at him, with his red cowl on one side, and his eye gleaming -through the haze. As he gazed, a certain strange consciousness came to -the hunchback’s face. His dwarf figure, which you could plainly see had -the strength of a giant’s, his face swart and grotesque, his one -gleaming eye and puckered forehead, became suddenly softened by a kind -of homely pathos which stole over them like a breath of summer wind. -When he had gazed his full gaze of inquiry into Cosmo’s face, Jaacob -turned his head aside hurriedly. - -“So you’ve found her!” said the blacksmith, with a low intensity of -voice which made Cosmo respectful by its force and emotion; and when he -had spoken he fell to upon his anvil with a rough and loud succession of -blows which left no time for an answer. Cosmo stood beside him, during -this assault, with a grave face, looking on at the exploits of the -hammer as if they were something serious and important. The introduction -of this new subject changed their tone in a moment. - -When Jaacob paused to take breath he resumed the conversation, still in -a somewhat subdued tone, though briskly enough. - -“So she’s aye living,” said Jaacob; “and this is her daughter? A very -little mair insight and I would have found it out mysel’. I aye thought -she was like. And what have you done with her now you’ve found her? Is -she to come hame?” - -“Immediately,” said Cosmo. - -“She’s auld by this time, nae doubt,” said Jaacob, carelessly; “women -are such tender gear, a’thing tells upon them. It’s _their_ beauty -that’s like a moth--the like of me wears langer; and so she’s aye to the -fore?--ay! I doubt she’ll mind little about Me’mar, or the folk here -about. I’m above prejudices mysel’, and maybe the French are mair -enlightened in twa three points than we are--I’ll no’ say--but I wouldna -bring up youngsters to be natives of a strange country. So you found her -out with your ain hand, callant, did you? You’re a clever chield! and -what’s to be done when she comes hame?” - -“She is the Lady of Melmar, as she always was,” said Cosmo, with a -little pride. - -“And what’s to become of the auld family--father and son--no’ to say of -the twa sisters and the auld auntie,” said Jaacob, with a grim smile. -“So that’s the story! Confound them a’! I’m no’ a man to be cheated out -of my sympathies. And I’m seldom wrang--so if you’ve ony thoughts that -way, callant, I advise ye to relinquish them. Ye may be half-a-hunder’ -poets if ye like, and as mony mair to the back o’ that, but if the -Huntley lad liket her she’ll stick to him.” - -“That is neither your concern nor mine!” cried Cosmo, loftily. But, as -Jaacob laughed and went on, the lad began to feel unaccountably -aggravated, to lose his temper, and make angry answers, which made his -discomfiture capital fun to the little giant. At length, Cosmo hurried -away. It was the same day on which the Mistress paid her visit to -Desirée, and Cosmo could not help feeling excited and curious about the -issue of his mother’s invitation. Thoughts which made the lad blush came -into his mind as he went slowly over Tyne, looking up at that high bank, -from which the evening sunshine, chill, yet bright, was slowly -disappearing--where the trees began to bud round the cottages, and where -the white gable of the manse still crowned the peaceful summit--that -manse where Katie Logan, with her elder-sister smile, was no longer -mistress. Somehow, there occurred to him a wandering thought about -Katie, who was away--he did not know where--and Huntley, who was at the -ends of the earth. Huntley had not actually lost any thing, Cosmo said -to himself, yet Huntley seemed disinherited and impoverished to the -obstinate eyes of fancy. Cosmo could not have told, either, why he -associated his brother with Katie Logan, now an orphan and absent, yet -he did so involuntarily. He thought of Huntley and Katie, both poor, far -separated, and perhaps never to meet again; he thought of Cameron in his -sudden trouble; and then his thoughts glided off with a little -bitterness, to that perverse woman’s love, which always seemed to cling -to the wrong object. Madame Roche herself, perhaps, first of all, though -the very fancy seemed somehow a wrong to his mother, Marie fretting -peevishly for her French husband, Desirée giving her heart to Oswald -Huntley. The lad turned upon his heel with a bitter impatience, and set -off for a long walk in the opposite direction as these things glided -into his mind. To be sure, he had nothing to do with it; but still it -was all wrong--a distortion of nature--and it galled him in his -thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIII. - - -The presence of Desirée made no small sensation in the house of Norlaw, -which did not quite know what to make of her. The Mistress herself, -after that first strange impulse of kin and kindness which prompted her -to bring the young stranger home, relapsed into her usual ways, and did -not conceal from either son or servant that she expected to be “fashed” -by the little Frenchwoman; while Marget, rather displeased that so -important a step should be taken without her sanction, and mightily -curious to know the reason, was highly impatient at first of Desirée’s -name and nation, and discontented with her presence here. - -“I canna faddom the Mistress,” said Marget, angrily; “what she’s -thinking upon, to bring a young flirt of a Frenchwoman into this decent -house, and ane of our lads at home is just beyond me. Do I think her -bonnie? No’ me! She’s French, and I daur to say, a papisher to the boot; -but the lads will, take my word for it--callants are aye keen about a -thing that’s outray. I’m just as thankfu’ as I can be that Huntley’s at -the other end of the world--there’s nae fears of our Patie--and Cosmo, -you see, he’s ower young.” - -This latter proposition Marget repeated to herself as she went about her -dairy. It did not seem an entirely satisfactory statement of the case, -for if Cosmo was too young to be injured, Desirée was also a couple of -years his junior, and could scarcely be supposed old enough to do any -great harm. - -“Ay, but it’s in them frae their cradle,” said the uncharitable Marget, -as she rinsed her great wooden bowls and set them ready for the milk. -The honest retainer of the family was quite disturbed by this new -arrival. She could not “get her mouth about the like of thae outlandish -names,” so she never called Desirée any thing but Miss, which title in -Marget’s lips, unassociated with a Christian name, was by no means a -title of high respect, and she grumbled as she was quite unwont to -grumble, over the additional trouble of another inmate. Altogether -Marget was totally dissatisfied. - -While Desirée, suddenly dropped into this strange house, every custom of -which was strange to her, and where girlhood and its occupations were -unknown, felt somewhat forlorn and desolate, it must be confessed, and -sometimes even longed to be back again in Melmar, where there were many -women, and where her pretty needle-works and graceful accomplishments -were not reckoned frivolous, the Mistress was busy all day long, and -when she had ended her household employments, sat down with her -work-basket to mend shirts or stockings with a steadiness which did not -care to accept any assistance. - -“Thank you, they’re for my son, Huntley; I like to do them a’ mysel’,” -she would answer to Desirée’s offer of aid. “Much obliged to you, but -Cosmo’s stockings, poor callant, are no work for the like of you.” In -like manner, Desirée was debarred from the most trifling assistance in -the house. Marget was furious when she ventured to wash the Mistress’s -best tea-service, or to sweep the hearth on occasion. - -“Na, miss, we’re no’ come to that pass in Norlaw that a stranger visitor -needs to file her fingers,” said Marget, taking the brush from Desirée’s -hand; so that, condemned to an uncomfortable idleness in the midst of -busy people, and aware that the Mistress’s “Humph!” on one occasion, at -least, referred to her pretty embroideries, poor little Desirée found -little better for it than to wander round and round the old castle of -Norlaw, and up the banks of Tyne, where, to say truth, Cosmo liked -nothing better than to wander along with her, talking about her mother, -about St. Ouen, about his travels, about every thing in earth and -heaven. - -And whether Cosmo was “ower young” remains to be seen. - -But Desirée had not been long in Norlaw when letters came from Madame -Roche, one to the Mistress, brief yet effusive, thanking that reserved -Scottish woman for her kindness to “my little one;” another to Cosmo, in -which he was called my child and my friend so often, that though he was -pleased, he was yet half ashamed to show the epistle to his mother; and -a third to Desirée herself. This was the most important of the three, -and contained Madame Roche’s scheme of poetic justice. This is what the -Scotch-French mother said to little Desirée:-- - -“My child, we, who have been so poor, are coming to a great fortune. It -is as strange as a romance, and we can never forget how it has come to -us. Ay, my Desirée, what noble hearts! what princely young men! Despite -of our good fortune, my heart bleeds for the generous Huntley, for it is -he who is disinherited. Must this be, my child? He is far away, he knows -not we are found; he will return to find his inheritance gone. But I -have trained my Desirée to love honor and virtue, and to be generous as -the Livingstones. Shall I say to you, my child, what would glad my heart -most to see? Our poor Marie has thrown away her happiness and her -liberty; she can not reward any man, however noble; she can not make any -compensation to those whom we must supplant, and her heart wanders after -that vagabond, that abandoned one! But my Desirée is young, only a -child, and has not begun to think of lovers. My love, keep your little -heart safe till Huntley returns--your mother bids you, Desirée. Look not -at any one, think not of any one, till you have seen this noble Huntley; -it is the only return you can give--nay, my little one! it is all _I_ -can do to prove that I am not ungrateful. This Melmar, which I had lost -and won without knowing it, will be between Marie and you when I die. -You can not give it all back to your kinsman, but he will think that -half which your sister has doubly made up, my child, when I put into his -hand the hand of my Desirée; and we shall all love each other, and be -good and happy, like a fairy tale. - -“This is your mamma’s fondest wish, my pretty one: you must keep your -heart safe, you must love Huntley, you must give him back half of the -inheritance. My poor Marie and I shall live together, and you shall be -near us; and then no one will be injured, but all shall have justice. I -would I had another little daughter for the good Cosmo, who found me out -in St. Ouen. I love the boy, and he shall be with us when he pleases, -and we will do for him all we can. But keep your heart safe, my Desirée, -for Huntley, and thus let us reward him when he comes home.” - -Poor Madame Roche! she little knew what a fever of displeasure and -indignation this pretty sentimental letter of hers would rouse in her -little daughter’s heart. Desirée tore the envelope in pieces in her -first burst of vexation, which was meant to express by similitude that -she would have torn the letter, and blotted out its injunctions, if she -dared. She threw the epistle itself out of her hands as if it had stung -her. Not that Desirée’s mind was above those sublime arrangements of -poetic justice, which in this inconsequent world are always so futile; -but, somehow, a plan which might have looked pretty enough had it -concerned another, filled Madame Roche’s independent little daughter -with the utmost shame and mortification when she herself was the -heroine. - -“Let him take it all!” she cried out half aloud to herself, in her -little chamber. “Do I care for it? I will work--I will be a governess; -but I will not sell myself to this Huntley--no, not if I should die!” - -And having so recorded her determination, poor little Desirée sat down -on the floor and had a hearty cry, and after that thought, with a -girlish effusion of sympathy, of poor Cosmo, who, after all, had done it -all, yet whom no one thought of compensating. When straightway there -came into Desirée’s heart some such bitter thoughts of justice and -injustice as once had filled the mind of Cosmo Livingstone. -Huntley!--what had Huntley done that Madame Roche should dedicate -her--_her_, an unwilling Andromeda, to compensate this unknown monster; -and Desirée sprang up and stamped her little foot, and clapped her -hands, and vowed that no force in the world, not even her mother’s -commands, should compel her to show her mother’s gratitude by becoming -Huntley’s wife. - -A most unnecessary passion; for there was Katie Logan all the time, -unpledged and unbetrothed, it is true, but thinking her own thoughts of -some one far away, who might possibly break in some day upon those cares -of elder-sisterhood, which made her as important as a many-childed -mother, even in those grave days of her orphan youth; and there was -Huntley in his hut in the bush, not thriving over well, poor fellow, -thinking very little of Melmar, but thinking a great deal of that manse -parlor, where the sun shone, and Katie darned her children’s -stockings--a scene which always would shine, and never could dim out of -the young man’s recollection. Poor Madame Roche, with her pretty plan of -compensation, and poor Desirée, rebelliously resistant to it, how much -trouble they might both have saved themselves, could some kind fairy -have shown to them a single peep of Huntley Livingstone’s solitary -thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIV. - - -Five years had made countless revolutions in human affairs, and changed -the order of things in more houses than Melmar, but had not altered the -fair face of the country, when, late upon a lovely June evening, two -travelers alighted from the coach at the door of the Norlaw Arms. They -were not anglers, nor tourists, though they were both bronzed and -bearded. The younger of the two looked round him with eager looks of -recognition, directing his glances to particular points--a look very -different from the stranger’s vague gaze at every thing, which latter -was in the eyes of his companion. At the manse, where the white gable -was scarcely visible through the thick foliage of the great -pear-tree--at the glimmering twilight path through the fields to -Norlaw--even deep into the corner of the village street, where bowed -Jaacob, with his red cowl pushed up from his bullet head behind, stood, -strongly relieved against the glow within, at the smithy door. To all -these familiar features of the scene, the new-comer turned repeated and -eager glances. There was an individual recognition in every look he gave -as he sprang down from the top of the coach, and stood by with a certain -friendly, happy impatience and restlessness, not easy to describe, while -the luggage was being unpacked from the heavy-laden public conveyance; -that was a work of time. Even now, in railway days, it is not so easy a -matter to get one’s portmanteau embarked or disembarked at Kirkbride -station as one might suppose; and the helpers at the Norlaw Arms were -innocent of the stimulus and external pressure of an express train. They -made a quantity of bustle, but did their business at their leisure, -while this new arrival, whom none of them knew, kept looking at them all -with their names upon his lips, and laughter and kindness in his eyes. -He had “seen the world,” since he last saw these leisurely proceedings -at the Norlaw Arms--he had been on the other side of this big globe -since he last stood in the street of Kirkbride; and the young man could -not help feeling himself a more important person now than when he set -out by this same conveyance some seven years ago, to make his fortune -and his way in the world. - -Huntley Livingstone, however, had not made his fortune; but he had made -what he thought as much of--a thousand pounds; and having long ago, with -a tingle of disappointment and a flush of pride, renounced all hopes of -the Melmar which belonged to Madame Roche, had decided, when this modest -amount of prosperity came to him, that he could not do better than -return to his homely little patrimony, and lay out his Australian gains -upon the land at home. It is true we might have told all this much more -dramatically by bringing home the adventurer unexpectedly to his mother, -and leaving him to announce his riches by word of mouth. But Huntley was -too good a son to make dramatic surprises. When he made his thousand -pounds, he wrote the Mistress word of it instantly--and he was not -unexpected. The best room in Norlaw was prepared a week ago. It was only -the day and hour of his return which the Mistress did not know. - -So Huntley stood before the Norlaw Arms, while the gray twilight, which -threw no shadows, fell over that leaf-covered gable of the manse; and -gradually the young man’s thoughts fell into reverie even in the moment -and excitement of arrival. Katie Logan! she was not bound to him by the -faintest far-away implication of a promise. It was seven years now since -Huntley bade her farewell. Where was the orphan elder-sister, with her -little group of orphan children now? - -Huntley’s companion was as much unlike himself as one human creature -could be unlike another. He was a Frenchman, with shaved cheeks and a -black moustache, lank, long locks of black hair falling into one of his -eyes, and a thin, long, oval face. He was in short--except that he had -no _habit de bal_, no white waistcoat, no bouquet in his buttonhole--a -perfect type of the ordinary Frenchman whom one sees in every British -concert-room as the conductor of an orchestra or the player of a fiddle. -This kind of man does not look a very fine specimen of humanity in -traveler’s dress, and with the dust of a journey upon him. Huntley was -covered with dust, but Huntley did not look dirty; Huntley was roughly -attired, had a beard, and was somewhat savage in his appearance, but, -notwithstanding, was a well-complexioned, pure-skinned Briton, who bore -the soil of travel upon his surface only, which was not at all the case -with his neighbor. This stranger, however, was sufficiently familiar -with his traveling-companion to strike him on the shoulder and dispel -his thoughts about Katie. - -“Where am I to go? to this meeserable little place?” asked the -Frenchman, speaking perfectly good English, but dwelling upon the -adjective by way of giving it emphasis, and pointing at the moment with -his dirty forefinger, on which he wore a ring, to the Norlaw Arms. - -Huntley was a Scotsman, strong in the instinct of hospitality, but he -was at the same time the son of a reserved mother, and hated the -intrusion of strangers at the moment of his return. - -“It’s a very good inn of its kind,” said Huntley, uneasily, turning -round to look at it. The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and eyed the -respectable little house with contempt. - -“Ah! bah! of its kind--I believe it,” said the stranger, kicking away a -poor little dog which stood looking on with serious interest, and -waiting for the fresh start of the coach; “I perceive your house is a -chateau, an estate, my friend,” he continued; “is there no little room -you can spare a comrade? I come on a good errand, the most virtuous, the -most honest! Madame, your mother, will give me her blessing--I go to -seek my wife.” - -Huntley turned away to look after his trunks, but the stranger followed -with a pertinacity which prevailed over Huntley. He gave a reluctant -invitation at last, was restored to better humor by a sudden recognition -from the landlord of the Norlaw Arms, and after pausing to receive the -greetings and congratulations of everybody within hearing, set off, -hastily accompanied by the Frenchman. Huntley endured his companion with -great impatience, especially as they came within sight of home, and all -the emotions connected with that familiar place rushed to the young -man’s heart and to his eyes. The Frenchman’s voice ran on, an -impertinent babble, while the gray old castle, the quiet house, with its -pale vane pointing to the north, and the low hill-side, rustling to its -summit with green corn, lay once more before the eyes which loved them -better than any other landscape in the world. Then a figure became -visible going in and out at the kitchen-door, a tall, angular form, with -the “kilted” gown, the cap with its string pinned back, the little -shawl over the shoulders, all of which homely details Huntley remembered -so well. The young man quickened his pace, and held out his hands -unconsciously. And then Marget saw him; she threw down her milk-pail, -arched her hand over her eyes for a moment to gaze at him and assure -herself and then with a loud, wild exclamation, rushed into the house. -Huntley remembered no more, either guest or hospitality; he rushed down -the little bank which intervened, splashed through the shallow Tyne, too -much excited to take the bridge, and reached the door of Norlaw, as the -Mistress, with her trembling hands, flung it unsteadily open to look for -herself, and see that Marget was wrong. Too much joy almost fainted the -heart of the Mistress within her; she could not speak to him--she could -only sob out big, slow sobs, which fell echoing through the still air -with the strangest pathos of thanksgiving. Huntley had come home. - -“So you werna wrang, as it happened,” said the Mistress, with dignity, -when she had at last become familiar with the idea of Huntley’s return, -and had contented her eye with gazing on him; “you werna wrang after a’; -but I certainly thought that myself, and me only, would be the person to -get the first sight of my bairn. He minded you too, very well, Marget, -which was less wonder than you minding him, and him such a grown man -with such a black beard. I didna believe ye, it’s true, but it was a’ -because I thought no person could mind upon him to ken him at a -distance, but only me.” - -“Mind!” cried Marget, moved beyond ordinary patience; “did I no’ carry -the bairn in my arms when he was just in coats and put his first breeks -upon him! Mind!--me that have been about Norlaw House seven-and-twenty -years come Martinmas--wha should mind if it wasna me?” - -But though this speech was almost concluded before the Mistress left the -kitchen, it was not resented. The mother’s mind was too full of Huntley -to think of any thing else. She returned to the dining-parlor, where, in -the first effusion of her joy, she had placed her first-born in his -father’s chair, and began to spread the table with her own hands for his -refreshment. As yet she had scarcely taken any notice of the Frenchman. -Now his voice startled her; she looked at him angrily, and then at her -son. He was not quite such a person as fathers and mothers love to see -in the company of their children. - -“No doubt, Huntley,” said the Mistress, at last, with a little impatient -movement of her head--“no doubt this gentleman is some great friend of -yours, to come hame with you the very first day, and you been seven -years from home.” - -“Ah! my good friend Huntley is troubled, madame,” interposed the subject -of her speech; “I have come to seek my wife. I have heard she is in -Scotland--she is near; and I did ask for one little room in his castle -rather than go to the inn in the village. For I must ask you for my -wife.” - -“Your wife? what should I know about strange men’s wives?” said the -Mistress; “Huntley’s friends have a good right to be welcome at Norlaw; -but to tell the truth he’s new come home and I’m little accustomed to -strangers. You used to ken that, Huntley, laddie, though you’ve maybe -forgotten now; seven years is a long time.” - -“My wife,” resumed the Frenchman, “came to possess a great fortune in -this country. I have been a traveler, madame. I have come with your son -from the other side of the world. I have been _bon camarade_. But see! I -have lost my wife. Since I am gone she has found a fortune, she has left -her country, she is here, if I knew where to find her. Madame Pierrot, -my wife.” - -“I’m little acquaint with French ladies,” said the Mistress, briefly; -but as she spoke she turned from her occupation to look full at her -strange visitor with eyes a little curious and even disquieted. The end -of her investigation was a “humph,” which was sufficiently significant. -After that she turned her back upon him and went on with her -preparations, looking somewhat stormy at Huntley. Then her impatience -displayed itself under other disguises. In the first place she set -another chair for him at the table. - -“Take you this seat, Huntley, my man,” said the Mistress; “and the foot -of the table, like the master of the house; for doubtless Norlaw is -yours for any person it’s your pleasure to bring into it. Sit in to the -table, and eat your supper like a man; and I’ll put _this_ back out of -the way.” - -Accordingly, when Huntley rose, his mother wheeled back the sacred chair -which she had given him in her joy. Knowing how innocent he was of all -friendship with his companion, Huntley almost smiled at this sign of -her displeasure, but, when she left the room, followed her to explain -how it was. - -“I asked him most ungraciously and unwillingly,” said poor Huntley; -“don’t be displeased on account of that fellow; he came home with me -from Australia, and I lost sight of him in London, only to find him -again coming here by the same coach. I actually know nothing about him -except his name.” - -“But I do,” said the Mistress. - -“You, mother?” - -“Ay, just me, mother; and a vagabond he is, as ony person may well see,” -said the Mistress; “I ken mair than folk think; and now go back for a -foolish bairn as you are, in spite of your black beard. Though I never -saw the blackguard before, a’ my days, I’ll tell you his haill story -this very night.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXV. - - -It was Saturday night, and in little more than an hour after Huntley’s -return, Cosmo had joined the little family circle. Cosmo was five years -older by this time, three-and-twenty years old, a man and not a boy; -such at least was his own opinion--but his mother and he were not quite -so cordial and united as they had been. Perhaps, indeed, it was only -while her sons were young, that a spirit so hasty and arbitrary as that -of the Mistress could keep in harmony with so many independent minds; -but her youngest son had disappointed and grieved her. Cosmo had -relinquished those studies which for a year or two flattered his mother -with the hope of seeing her son a minister and pillar of the Church. The -Mistress thought, with some bitterness, that his travels had permanently -unsettled her boy; even his verses began to flag by this time, and it -was only once in three or four months that Mrs. Livingstone received, -with any thing like satisfaction, her copy of the _Auld Reekie -Magazine_. She did not know what he was to be, or how he was to live; -at present he held “a situation"--of which his mother was bitterly -contemptuous--in the office of Mr. Todhunter, and exercised the caprices -of his more fastidious taste in a partial editorship of the little -magazine, which had already lost its first breath of popularity. And -though he came out from Edinburgh dutifully every Saturday to spend the -day of rest with his mother, that exacting and impatient household ruler -was very far from being satisfied. She received him with a certain -angry, displeased affectionateness, and even in the presence of her -newly-arrived son, kept a jealous watch upon the looks and words of -Cosmo. Huntley could not help watching the scene with some wonder and -curiosity. Sitting in that well-remembered room, which the two candles -on the table lighted imperfectly, with the soft night air blowing in -through the open window in the corner, from which the Mistress had been -used to watch the kitchen door, and at which now her son sat looking out -upon the old castle and the calm sky above it, where the stars blossomed -out one by one--Huntley watched his mother, placing, from mere use and -wont, her work-basket on the table, and seating herself to the work -which she was much too impatient to make any progress with--launching -now and then a satirical and utterly incomprehensible remark at the -Frenchman, who yawned openly, and repented his contempt for the Norlaw -Arms--sometimes asking hasty questions of Cosmo, which he answered not -without a little kindred impatience--often rising to seek something or -lay something by, and pausing as she passed by Huntley’s chair to linger -over him with a half expressed, yet inexpressible tenderness. There was -change, yet there was no change in the Mistress. She had a tangible -reason for some of the old impatience which was natural to her -character, but that was all. - -At length the evening came to an end. Huntley’s uncomfortable companion -sauntered out to smoke his cigar, and coming back again was conducted up -stairs to his room, with a rather imperative politeness. Then the -Mistress, coming back, stood at the door of the dining-parlor, looking -in upon her sons. The shadows melted from her face, and her heart -swelled, as she looked at them. Pride, joy, tenderness contended with -her, and got the better for a moment. - -“God send you be as well in your hearts as you are to look upon, -laddies!” she said, hurriedly; and then came in to sit down at the -table and call them nearer for their first precious family hour of -mutual confidence and reunion. - -“Seven years, Huntley? I canna think it’s seven years--though they’ve -been long enough and slow enough, every one; but we’ve thriven at -Norlaw,” said the Mistress, proudly. “There’s guid honest siller at the -bank, and better than siller in the byre, and no’ a mortal man to call -this house his debtor, Huntley Livingstone! which is a change from the -time you gaed away.” - -“Thanks to your cares and labors, mother,” said Huntley. - -“Thanks to no such thing. Am I a hired servant that ye say such words to -me? but thanks to Him that gives the increase,” said the Mistress; -“though we’re no’ like to show our gratitude as I once thought,” and she -threw a quick side-glance at Cosmo; “but Huntley, my man, have ye -naething to tell of yourself?” - -“Much more to ask than to tell,” said Huntley, growing red and anxious, -but making an effort to control himself, “for you know all of the little -that has happened to me already, mother. Thankless years enough they -have been. To think of working hard so long and gaining nothing, and to -make all that I have at last by what looks like a mere chance!” - -“So long! What does the laddie call long?--many a man works a lifetime,” -said the Mistress, “and even then never gets the chance; and it’s only -the like of you at your time of life that’s aye looking for something to -happen. For them that’s out of their youth, life’s far canniest when -naething happens--though it is hard to tell how that can be either where -there’s bairns. There’s been little out of the way here since this -callant, Cosmo, gaed out on his travels, and brought his French lady and -a’ her family hame. Me’mar’s in new hands now, Huntley; and you’ll have -to gang to see them, no doubt, and they’ll make plenty wark about you. -It’s their fashion. I’m no much heeding about their ways mysel’, but -Cosmo has little else in his head, night or day.” - -Cosmo blushed in answer to this sudden assault; but the blush was angry -and painful, and his brother eagerly interposed to cover it. - -“The ladies that took Melmar from us!--let us hear about them, mother,” -said Huntley. - -The Mistress turned round suddenly to the door to make sure it was -closed. - -“Take my word for it,” she said, solemnly, and with emphasis, “yon’s the -man, that’s married upon Marie.” - -“Who?” cried Cosmo, starting to his feet, with eager interest. - -The Mistress eyed him severely for a moment. - -“When you’re done making antics, Cosmo Livingstone, I’ll say my say,” -said his offended mother--“you may be fond enough of French folk, -without copying their very fashion. I would have mair pride if it was -me.” - -With an exclamation of impatience, which was not merely impatience, but -covered deeply wounded feelings, Cosmo once more resumed the seat which -he thrust hastily from the table. His mother glanced at him once more. -If she had a favorite among her children, it was this her youngest son, -yet she had a perverse momentary satisfaction in perceiving how much -annoyed he was. - -“You’s the man!” said the Mistress, with a certain triumphant contempt -in her voice; “just the very same dirty Frenchman that Huntley brought -to the house this day. I’m no mista’en. He’s wanting his wife, and he’ll -find her, and I wish her muckle joy of her bonnie bargain. That’s just -the ill-doing vagabond of a husband that’s run away from Marie!” - -“Mother,” said Cosmo, eagerly, “you know quite well how little -friendship I have for Marie--” - -When he had got so far he stopped suddenly. His suggestion to the -contrary was almost enough to make his mother inform the stranger at -once of the near neighborhood of his wife, and Cosmo paused only in -time. - -“The mair shame to you,” said the Mistress, indignantly, “she’s a -suffering woman, ill and neglected; and I warn you baith I’m no’ gaun to -send this blackguard to Melmar to fright the little life there is out of -a puir dying creature. He shall find out his wife for his ain hand; he -shanna be indebted to me.” - -“It is like yourself, mother, to determine so,” said Cosmo, gratefully. -“Though, if she had the choice, I daresay she would decide otherwise, -and perhaps Madame Roche too. You say I am always thinking of them, but -certainly I would not trust to their wisdom--neither Madame Roche nor -Marie.” - -“But really--have some pity upon my curiosity--who is Marie, mother?” -cried Huntley, “and who is her husband, and what is it about altogether? -I know nothing of Pierrot, and I don’t believe much good of him; but how -do _you_ know?” - -“Marie is the French lady’s eldest daughter--madame would have married -her upon you, Huntley, my man, if she had been free,” said the Mistress, -“and I woudna say but she’s keeping the little one in her hand for you -to make up for your loss, as she says. But Marie, she settled for -hersel’ lang before our Cosmo took news of their land to them; and it -just shows what kind of folk they were when she took up with the like of -this lad. I’ve little skill in Frenchmen, that’s true; if he’s not a -common person, and a blackguard to the boot, I’m very sair deceived in -my e’en; but whatever else he is, he’s her man, and that I’m just as -sure of as mortal person can be. But she’s a poor suffering thing that -will never be well in this world, and I’ll no’ send a wandering vagabond -to startle her out of her life.” - -“What do you say, madame,” screamed a voice at the door; “you know my -wife--you know her--Madame Pierrot?--and you will keep her husband from -her? What! you would take my Marie?--you would marry her to your son -because she is rich? but I heard you--oh, I heard you! I go to fly to my -dear wife.” - -The Mistress rose, holding back Huntley, who was advancing -indignantly:-- - -“Fly away, Mounseer,” said Mrs. Livingstone, “you’ll find little but -closed doors this night; and dinna stand there swearing and screaming at -me; you may gang just when you please, and welcome; but we’ll have none -of your passions here; be quiet, Huntley--he’s no’ a person to touch -with clean fingers--are you hearing me man? Gang up to your bed, if you -please this moment. I give you a night’s shelter because you came with -my son; or if you’ll no’ go up the stairs go forth out of my doors, and -dinna say another word to me--do you hear?” - -Pierrot stood at the door, muttering French curses as fast as he could -utter them; but he did hear notwithstanding. After a little parley with -Huntley, he went up stairs, three steps at a time, and locked himself -into his chamber. - -“He’s just as wise,” said the Mistress, “but it’s no’ very safe sleeping -with such a villain in the house;” which was so far true that, excited -and restless, she herself did not sleep, but lay broad awake all night -thinking of Huntley and Cosmo--- thinking of all the old grief and all -the new vexations which Mary of Melmar had brought to her own life. - - - - -CHAPTER LXVI. - - -For these five years had not been so peaceful as their predecessors--the -face of this home country was much changed to some of the old dwellers -here. Dr. Logan, old and well-beloved, was in his quiet grave, and Katie -and her orphans, far out of the knowledge of the parish which once had -taken so entire an interest in them, were succeeded by a new minister’s -new wife, who had no children yet to gladden the manse so long -accustomed to young voices; and the great excitement of the revolution -at Melmar had scarcely yet subsided in this quiet place;--least of all, -had it subsided with the Mistress, who, spite of a lurking fondness for -little Desirée, could not help finding in the presence of Mary of Melmar -a perpetual vexation. Their French habits, their language, their -sentiments and effusiveness--the peevish invalid condition of Marie, and -even the sweet temper of Madame Roche, aggravated with a perennial -agitation, the hasty spirit of Mrs. Livingstone. She could not help -hearing every thing that everybody said of them, could not help watching -with a rather unamiable interest the failings and shortcomings of the -family of women who had dispossessed her son. And then her other -son--her Cosmo, of whom she had been so proud--could see nothing that -did not fascinate and attract him in this little French household. So, -at least, his mother thought. She could have borne an honest falling in -love, and “put up with” the object of it, but she could not tolerate the -idea of her son paying tender court to another mother, or of sharing -with any one the divided honors of her maternal place. This fancy was -gall and bitterness to the Mistress, and had an unconscious influence -upon almost every thing she did or said, especially on those two days in -every week which Cosmo spent at Norlaw. - -“It’s but little share his mother has in his coming,” she said to -herself, bitterly; and even Marget found the temper of the Mistress -rather trying upon the Sundays and Mondays; while between Cosmo and -herself there rose a cloud of mutual offense and exasperation, which had -no cause in reality, but seemed almost beyond the reach of either -explanation or peace-making now. - -The Sabbath morning rose bright and calm over Norlaw. When Huntley woke, -the birds were singing in that special, sacred, sweetest festival of -theirs, which is held when most of us are sleeping, and seems somehow -all the tenderer for being to themselves and God; and when Huntley rose -to look out, his heart sang like the birds. There stood the Strength of -Norlaw, all aglist with early morning dews and sunshine, wall-flowers -tufting its old walls, sweet wild-roses looking out, like adventurous -children, from the vacant windows, and the green turf mantling up upon -its feet. There ran Tyne, a glimmer of silver among the grass and the -trees. Yonder stretched forth the lovely country-side, with all its -wealthy undulations, concealing the hidden house of Melmar among its -woods. And to the south, the mystic Eildons, pale with the ecstacy of -the night, stood silent under the morning light, which hung no purple -shadows on their shoulders. Huntley gazed out of his window till his -eyes filled. He was too young to know, like his mother, that it was best -when nothing happened; and this event of his return recalled to him all -the events of his life. He thought of his father, and that solemn -midnight burial of his among the ruins; he thought of his own -wanderings, his hope and loss of wealth, his present modest -expectations; and then a brighter light and a more wistful gaze came to -Huntley’s face. He, too, was no longer to be content with home and -mother; but a sober tenderness subdued the young man’s ardor when he -thought of Katie Logan among her children. - -Seven years! It was a long trial for an unpledged love. Had no other -thoughts come into her good heart in the meantime? or, indeed, did she -ever think of Huntley save in her elder-sisterly kindness as she -thought of everybody? When this oft-discussed question returned to him, -Huntley could no longer remain quiet at his window. He hastily finished -his toilette and went down stairs, smiling to himself as he unbolted and -unlocked the familiar door--those very same bolts and locks which had so -often yielded to his restless fingers in those days when Huntley was -never still. Now, by this time, he had learned to keep himself quiet -occasionally; but the old times flashed back upon him strangely, full of -smiles and tears, in the unfastening of that door. - -Thinking certainly that at so early an hour he himself was the first -person astir in Norlaw, Huntley was greatly amazed to find Cosmo--no -longer choosing his boyish seat of meditation in the window of the old -castle--wandering restlessly about the ruins. And Cosmo did not seem -quite pleased to see _him_; that was still more remarkable. The elder -brother could not help seeing again, as in a picture, the delicate fair -boy, with his long arms thrust out of the jacket which was too small for -him, with his bursts of boyish vehemence and enthusiasm, his old -chivalrous championship of the unknown Mary, his tenacious love for the -hereditary Norlaw. Huntley had not seen the boy grow up into the man--he -had not learned to moderate his protecting love for the youngest child -into the steady brotherly affection which should now acknowledge the man -as an equal. Cosmo was still “my father’s son,” the youngest, the -dearest, the one to be shielded from trouble, in the fancy of the elder -brother. Yet, there he stood, as tall as Huntley, his childish delicacy -of complexion gone, his fair hair crisp and curled, his dark eyes stormy -and full of personal emotions, his foot impatient and restless, the step -of a man already burdened with cares of his own. And, reluctant to meet -his brother, his closest friend, and once his natural guardian! Huntley -thrust his arm into Cosmo’s, and drew him round the other side of the -ruins. - -“Do you really wish to avoid me?” said the elder brother, with a pang. -“What is wrong, Cosmo?--can you not tell _me_?” - -“Nothing is wrong, so far as I am aware,” said Cosmo, with some -haughtiness. His first impulse seemed to be to draw away his arm from -his brother’s, but, if it was so, he restrained himself, and, instead, -walked on with a cold, averted face, which was almost more painful than -any act to the frank spirit of Huntley. - -“I will ask no more questions then,” said Huntley, with some impatience; -“I ought to remember how long I have been gone, and how little you know -of me. What is to be done about this Pierrot? So far as I can glean from -what my mother says, he will be an unwelcome guest at Melmar. What -ground has my mother for supposing him connected with Madame Roche? What -sort of a person is Madame Roche? What have you all been doing with -yourselves? I have a hundred questions to ask about everybody. Even -Patie no one speaks of; if nothing is wrong you are all strangely -changed since I went away.” - -“I suppose the _all_ means myself; I am changed since you went away,” -said Cosmo, moodily. - -“Yes, you are changed, Cosmo; I don’t understand it; however, never -mind, you can tell the reason why when you know me better,” said -Huntley, “but, in the meantime, how is Patie, and where? And what about -this Madame Roche?” - -“Madame Roche is very well,” said Cosmo, with assumed indifference, “her -eldest daughter is married, and has long been deserted by her husband; -but I don’t know his name--they never mention it. Madame Roche is -ashamed of him; they were people of very good family, in spite of what -my mother says--Roche de St. Martin--but I sent you word of all this -long ago. It is little use repeating it now.” - -“Why should Pierrot be _her_ husband, of all men in the world?” said -Huntley; “but if he’s not wanted at Melmar, you had better send the -ladies word of your suspicions, and put them on their guard.” - -“I have been there this morning,” said Cosmo, slightly confused by his -own admission. - -“This morning? you certainly have not lost any time,” said Huntley, -laughing. “Never mind, Cosmo, I said I should ask nothing you did not -want to tell me; though why you should be so anxious to keep her husband -away from the poor woman--How have they got on at Melmar? Have they many -friends? Are they people to make friends? They seem at least to be -people of astonishing importance in Norlaw.” - -“My mother,” said Cosmo, angrily, “dislikes Madame Roche, and -consequently every thing said and done at Melmar takes an evil aspect in -her eyes.” - -“My boy, that is not a tone in which to speak of my mother,” said -Huntley, with gravity. - -“I know it!” cried the younger brother, “but how can I help it? it is -true they are my friends. I confess to that; why should they not be my -friends? why should I reject kindness when I find it? As for Marie, she -is a selfish, peevish invalid, I have no patience with her--but--Madame -Roche--” - -Cosmo made a full stop before he said Madame Roche, and pronounced that -name at last so evidently as a substitute for some other name, that -Huntley’s curiosity was roused; which curiosity, however, he thought it -best to satisfy diplomatically, and by a round-about course. - -“I must see her to-morrow,” he said; “but what of our old friend, -Melmar, who loved us all so well? I should not like to rejoice in any -man’s downfall, but _he_ deserved it, surely. What has become of them -all?” - -“He is a poor writer again,” said Cosmo, shortly, “and Joanna--it was -Joanna who brought Desirée here.” - -“Who is Desirée?” asked Huntley. - -“I ought to say Miss Roche,” said Cosmo, blushing to his hair. “Joanna -Huntley and she were great friends at school, and after the change she -was very anxious that Joanna should stay. _She_ is the youngest, and an -awkward, strange girl--but, why I can not tell, she clings to her -father, and is a governess or school-mistress now, I believe. Yes, -things change strangely. They were together when I saw them first.” - -“They--them! you are rather mysterious, Cosmo. What is the story?” asked -his brother. - -“Oh, nothing very remarkable; only Des--Miss Roche, you know, came to -Melmar first of all as governess to Joanna, and it was while she was -there that I found Madame Roche at St. Ouen. When I returned, my -mother,” said Cosmo, with a softening in his voice, “brought Desirée to -Norlaw, as you must have heard; and it was from our house that she went -home.” - -“And, except this unfortunate sick one, she is the only child?” said -Huntley. “I understand it now.” - -Cosmo gave him a hurried jealous glance, as if to ask what it was he -understood, but after that relapsed into uncomfortable silence. They -went on for some time so, Cosmo with anger and impatience supposing his -elder brother’s mind to be occupied with what he had just told him; and -it was with amazement, relief, but almost contempt for Huntley’s -extraordinary want of interest in matters so deeply interesting to -himself, that Cosmo heard and answered the next question addressed to -him. - -“And Dr. Logan is dead,” said Huntley, with a quiet sorrow in his voice, -which trembled too with another emotion. “I wonder where Katie and her -bairns are now?” - -“Not very far off; somewhere near Edinburgh. I think Lasswade. Mr. -Cassilis’ mother lives there,” said Cosmo. - -“Mr. Cassilis! I had forgotten him,” said Huntley, “but he does not live -at Lasswade?” - -“They say he would be glad enough to have Katie Logan in Edinburgh,” -said Cosmo, indifferently; “they are cousins--I suppose they are likely -to be married;--how do I know? Well, only by some one telling me, -Huntley! I did not know you cared.” - -“Who said I cared?” cried Huntley, with sudden passion. “How should any -one know any thing about the matter--eh? I only asked, of course, from -curiosity, because we know her so well--used to know her so well. Not -you, who were a child, but we two elder ones. My brother Patie--I hear -nothing of Patie. Where is _he_ then? You must surely know.” - -“He is to come to meet you to-morrow,” said Cosmo, who was really -grieved for his own carelessness. “Don’t let me vex you, Huntley. I am -vexed myself, and troubled; but I never thought of that, and may be -quite wrong, as I am often,” he added, with momentary humility, for -Cosmo was deeply mortified by the sudden idea that he had been selfishly -mindful of his own concerns, and indifferent to those of his brother. -For the time, it filled him with self-reproach and penitence. - -“Never mind; every thing comes right in time,” said Huntley; but this -piece of philosophy was said mechanically--the first common-place which -occurred to Huntley to vail the perturbation of his thoughts. - -Just then some sounds from the house called their attention there. The -Mistress herself stood at the open door of Norlaw, contemplating the -exit of the Frenchman, who stood before her, hat in hand, making -satirical bows and thanking her for his night’s lodging. In the morning -sunshine this personage looked dirtier and more disreputable than on the -previous night. He had not been at all particular about his toilette, -and curled up his moustache over his white teeth, the only thing white -about him, with a most sinister sneer, while he addressed his hostess; -while she, in the meantime, in her morning cap and heavy black gown, and -clear, ruddy face, stood watching him, as perfect a contrast as could be -conceived. - -“I have the satisfaction of making my adieux, madame,” cried Pierrot; -“receive the assurance of my distinguished regard. I shall bring my wife -to thank you. I shall tell my wife what compliments you paid her, to -free her from her unworthy spouse and bestow your son. She will thank -you--I will thank you. Madame, from my heart I make you my adieux!” - -“It’s Sabbath morning,” said the Mistress, quietly; “and if you find -your wife--I dinna envy her, poor woman! you can tell her just whatever -you please, and I’ll no’ cross you; though it’s weel to see you dinna -ken, you puir, misguided heathen, that you’re in another kind of country -frae your ain. You puir Pagan creature! do you think I would ware my -Huntley on a woman that had been another man’s wife? or do you think -that marriage can be broken _here_? but it’s no’ worth my while -parleying with the like of you. Gang your ways and find your wife, and -be good to her, if it’s in you. She’s maybe a silly woman that likes ye -still, vagabone though ye be--she’s maybe near the end of her days, for -onything you ken. Go away and get some kindness in your heart if ye -can--and every single word I’ve said to you you can tell ower again to -your wife.” - -Which would have been rather hard, however, though the Mistress did not -know it. The wanderer knew English better than a Frenchman often does, -but his education had been neglected--he did not know Scotch--a fact -which did not enter into the calculations of Mrs. Livingstone. - -“Adieu, comrade!” cried Pierrot, waving his hand to Huntley; “when I see -you again you shall behold a milor, a nobleman; be happy with your -amiable parent. I go to my wife, who adores me. Adieu.” - -“And it’s true,” said the Mistress, drawing a long breath as the strange -guest disappeared on the road to Kirkbride. “Eh, sire, but this world’s -a mystery! it’s just true, so far as I hear; she does adore him, and him -baith a mountebank and a vagabone! it passes the like of me!” - -And Cosmo, looking after him too, thought of Cameron. Could that be the -husband for whom Marie had pined away her life? - - - - -CHAPTER LXVII. - - -It was Sabbath morning, but it was not a morning of rest; though it was -Huntley’s first day at home, and though it did his heart good to see his -mother, the young man’s heart was already astray and pre-occupied with -his own thoughts; and Cosmo, full of subdued but unrecoverable -excitement, which his mother’s jealous eye only too plainly perceived, -covered the face of the Mistress with clouds. Yet a spectator might have -supposed that breakfast-table a very centre of family love and harmony. -The snow-white cloth, the basket of brown oat-cakes and white flour -scones, of Marget’s most delicate manufacture, the great jug full of -rich red June roses, which made a glory in the midst, and the mother at -the head of her table, with those two sons in the bloom of their young -manhood, on either side of her, and the dress of her widowhood throwing -a certain, tender, pathetic suggestion into her joy and their love. It -was a picture had it been a picture, which no one could have seen -without a touching consciousness of one of the most touching sides of -human life. A family which at its happiest must always recall and -commemorate a perpetual lack and vacancy, and where all the affections -were the deeper and tenderer for that sorrow which overshadowed them; -the sons of their mother, and she was a widow! But, alas, for human -pictures and ideals! The mother was restless and dissatisfied, feeling -strange interests crowding in to the very hour which should be -peculiarly her own; the young men were stirred with the personal and -undisclosed troubles of their early life. They sat together at their -early meal, speaking of common matters, eating daily bread, united yet -separate, the peace of the morning only vailing over a surface of -commotion, and Sabbath in every thing around save in their hearts. - -“It’s a strange minister--you’ll miss the old man, Huntley,” said the -Mistress; “but you’ll write down your thanksgiving like a good bairn, -and put an offering in the plate; put your name, say, ‘Huntley -Livingstone returns thanks to God for his safe home-coming.’ There would -have been nae need for that if Dr. Logan had been to the fore; he aye -minded baith thanks and supplications; and I’ll never forget what -petitions he made in his prayer the last Sabbath you were at hame. -You’re early stirring, Cosmo--it’s no’ time yet for the kirk.” - -“I am going to Melmar, mother,” said Cosmo, in a low voice. - -The Mistress made no answer; a flush came over her face, and her brow -contracted, but she only said, as if to herself:-- - -“It’s the Sabbath day.” - -“I went there this morning, to warn them of this man’s arrival,” said -Cosmo, with excitement, “saying what _you_ thought. I did not see any of -them; but Marie has one of her illnesses. They have no one to support -them in any emergency. I must see that he does not break in upon them -to-day.” - -The Mistress still made no answer. After a little struggle with herself, -she nodded hastily. - -“If ye’re a’ done, I’ll rise from the table. I have things to do before -kirk-time,” she said at length, pushing back her chair and turning away. -She had nothing to say against Cosmo’s resolution, but she was deeply -offended by it--deeply, unreasonably, and she knew it--but could not -restrain the bitter emotion. To be absent from the kirk at all, save by -some overpowering necessity, was an offense to all her strong Scottish -prejudices--but it was an especial breach of family decorum, and all the -acknowledged sentiment and punctilio of love, to be absent to-day. - -“Keep us a’ patient!” cried Marget, in an indignant undertone, when Mrs. -Livingstone was out of hearing; for Marget, on one pretense or other, -kept going and coming into the dining-parlor the whole morning, to -rejoice her eyes with the sight of Huntley. “Some women come into this -world for nae good reason but to make trouble. To speak to the Mistress -about an emergency! Whaever supported her in _her_ troubles but the -Almighty himsel’ and her ain stout heart? I dinna wonder it’s hard to -bear! Some gang through the fire for their ain hand, and no’ a mortal -nigh them--some maun have a haill houseful to bear them up. Weel, weel, -I’m no’ saying any thing against it--it’s kind o’ you, Mr. Cosmo--but -you should think, laddie, before you speak.” - -“_She_ is not like my mother,” said Cosmo, somewhat sullenly. - -“Like your mother!” cried Marget, with the utmost contempt. “She would -smile a hantle mair, and ca’ ye mair dears in a day than _my_ Mistress -in a twelvemonth; but would _she_ have fought and struggled through her -life for a thankless man and thankless bairns--I trow no! Like your -mother! She was bonnie when she was young, and she’s maybe, bonnie now, -for onything I ken; but she never was wordy to tie the shoe upon the -foot of the Mistress of Norlaw!” - -“Be silent!” cried Cosmo, angrily; and before Marget’s indignation at -this reproof could find itself words, the young man had hurried out from -the room and from the house, boiling with resentment and a sense of -injury. He saw exactly the other side of the question--his mother’s -jealous temper, and hard-heartedness and dislike to the gentle and -tender Madame Roche--but he could not see how hard it was, after all, -for the honest, faithful heart, which grudged no pain nor hardship for -its own, to find their love beguiled away again and again--or even to -suppose it was beguiled--by one who had never done any thing to deserve -such affection. - -And Cosmo hurried on through the narrow paths to Melmar, his heart -a-flame with a young man’s resentment, and impatience, and love. He -scarcely could tell what it was which excited him so entirely. Not, -certainly, the vagabond Pierrot, or any fears for Marie; not even the -displeasure of his mother. He would not acknowledge to himself the -eager, jealous fears which hurried him through those flowery bye-ways -where the blossoms of the hawthorn had fallen in showers like summer -snow, and the wild roses were rich in the hedgerows. Huntley!--why did -he fear Huntley? What was the impulse of unfraternal impatience which -made him turn with indignant offense from every thought of his brother? -Had he put it into words, he would have despised himself; but he only -rushed on in silence through the silent Sabbath fields and bye-ways to -the house of Madame Roche. - -It is early, early yet, and there is still no church bell ringing -through the silence of the skies to rouse the farms and cottages. The -whole bright summer world was as silent as a dream--the corn growing, -the flowers opening, the sun shining, without a whisper to tell that -dutiful Nature carried on her pious work through all the day of rest. -The Tyne ran softly beneath his banks, the Kelpie rushed foaming white -down its little ravine, and all the cool burns from among the trees -dropped down into Tyne with a sound like silver bells. Something white -shone upon the path on the very spot where Desirée once lay, proud and -desolate, in the chill of the winter night, brooding over false -friendship and pretended love. Desirée now is sitting on the same stone, -musing once more in her maiden meditation. The universal human trouble -broods even on these thoughts--not heavily--only like the shadow that -flits along the trees of Tyne--a something ruffling the white woman’s -forehead, which is more serious than the girl’s was, and disquieting the -depths of those eyes which Cosmo Livingstone had called stars. Stars do -not mist themselves with tender dew about the perversities of human kind -as these eyes do; yet let nobody suppose that these sweet drops, -lingering bright within the young eyelids, should be called tears. - -Tears! words have so many meanings in this world! it is all the same -syllable that describes the child’s passion, the honey-dew of youth, and -that heavy rain of grief which is able sometimes to blot out both the -earth and the skies. - -So, after a fashion, there are tears in Desirée’s eyes, and a great many -intermingled thoughts floating in her mind--thoughts troubled by a -little indignation, some fear, and a good deal of that fanciful -exaggeration which is in all youthful trials. She thinks she is very sad -just now as she sits half in the shade and half in the sunshine, leaning -her head upon her hand, while the playful wind occasionally sprinkles -over her those snowy drops of spray from the Kelpie which shine on her -hair; but the truth is that nothing just now could make Desirée sad, -save sudden trouble, change, or danger falling upon one person--that one -person is he who devours the way with eager, flying steps, and who, -still more disturbed than she is, still knows no trouble in the presence -of Desirée; and that is Cosmo Livingstone. - -No; there is no love-tale to tell but that which has been told already; -all those preliminaries are over; the Kelpie saw them pledge their faith -to each other, while there still were but a sprinkling of spring leaves -on those trees of June. Desirée; the name that caught the boy’s fancy -when he _was_ a boy, and she unknown to him--the heroine of his dreams -ever since then, the distressed princess to whom his chivalry had -brought fortune--how could the young romance end otherwise? but why, -while all was so natural and suitable, did the young betrothed meet -here? - -“I must tell your mother! I must speak to her to-day! I owe it both to -myself and Huntley,” cried Cosmo. “I can not go away again with this -jealous terror of my brother in my heart; I dare not, Desirée! I must -speak to her to-day.” - -“Terror? and jealous? Ah, then, you do not trust me,” said Desirée, with -a smile. Her heart beat quicker, but she was not anxious; she held up -her hand to the wind till it was all gemmed with the spray of the -waterfall, and then shook it over the head of Cosmo, as he half sat, -half knelt by her side. He, however, was too much excited to be amused; -he seized upon the wet hand and held it fast in his own. - -“I did not think it possible,” said Cosmo. “Huntley, whom I supposed I -could have died for, my kind brother! but it makes me frantic when I -think what your mother has said--what she _intends_. Heaven! if he -himself should think of _you_!” - -“Go, you are rude,” said Desirée; “if I am so good as you say, he must -think of me; but am _I_ nothing then,” she cried, suddenly springing up, -and stamping her little firm foot, half in sport, half in anger; “how do -you dare speak of me so? Do you think mamma can give me away like a -ring, or a jewel? Do you think it will be different to me whether he -thinks or does not think of Desirée? You make me angry, Monsieur Cosmo; -if that is all you come to tell me, go away!” - -“What can I tell you else?” cried Cosmo. “I must and will be satisfied. -I can not go on with this hanging over me. Do you remember what you told -me, Desirée, that Madame Roche meant to offer you--_you_! to my brother? -and you expect me to have patience! No, I am going to her now.” - -“Then it is all over,” cried Desirée, “all these sunny days--all these -dreams! She will say no, no. She will say it must not be--she will -forbid me meeting you; but if you do not care, why should I?” exclaimed -the little Frenchwoman, rapidly. “Nay, you must do what you will--you -must be satisfied. Why should you care for what _I_ say? and as for me I -shall be alone.” - -So Desirée dropped again upon her stone seat, and put her face down into -her hands, and shed a few tears; and Cosmo, half beside himself, drew -away the hands from her face, and remonstrated, pleaded, urged his -claim. - -“Why should not you acknowledge me?” said the young lover. “Desirée, -long before I ventured to speak it you knew where my heart was--and now -I have your own word and promise. Your mother will not deny you. Come -with me, and say to Madame Roche--” - -“What?” said Madame Roche’s daughter, glancing up at him as he paused. - -But Cosmo was in earnest now:-- - -“What is in your heart!” he said breathlessly. “You turn away from me, -and I can not look into it. What is in your heart, whether it is joy, or -destruction, I care not,” cried the young man suddenly, “I must know my -fate.” - -Desirée raised her head and looked at him with some surprise and a quick -flush of anger:-- - -“What have I done that you dare doubt me?” she cried, clapping her hands -together with natural petulance. “You are impatient--you are angry--you -are jealous--but does all that change me?” - -“Then come with me to Madame Roche,” said the pertinacious lover. - -Desirée had the greatest mind in the world to make a quarrel and leave -him. She was not much averse now and then to a quarrel with Cosmo, for -she was a most faulty and imperfect little heroine, as has been already -confessed in these pages; but in good time another caprice seized her, -and she changed her mind. - -“Marie is ill,” she said softly, in a tone which melted Cosmo; “let us -not go now to trouble poor mamma.” - -“Marie! I came this morning to warn her, or rather to warn Madame -Roche,” said Cosmo, recalled to the ostensible cause of his visit. “A -Frenchman, called Pierrot, came home with Huntley--” - -But before he could finish his sentence, Desirée started up with a -scream at the name, and seizing his arm, in her French impatience -overwhelmed him with terrified questions:-- - -“Pierrot? quick! speak! where is he? does he seek Marie? is he here? -quick, quick, quick, tell me where he is! he must never come to poor -Marie! he must not find us--tell me, Cosmo! do you hear?” - -“He spent last night at Norlaw--he seeks his wife,” said Cosmo, when she -was out of breath; at which word Desirée sprang up the path with excited -haste:-- - -“I go to tell mamma,” she said, beckoning Cosmo to follow, and in a few -minutes more disappeared breathless within the open door of Melmar, -leaving him still behind. - - - - -CHAPTER LXVIII. - - -Madame Roche sat by herself in the drawing-room of Melmar--the same -beautiful old lady who used to sit working behind the flowers and white -curtains of the little second floor window in St. Ouen. The room itself -was changed from the fine disorderly room in which Mrs. Huntley had -indulged her invalid tastes, and Patricia read her poetry-books. There -was no longer a loose crumb-cloth to trip unwary feet, nor rumpled -chintz covers to conceal the glory of the damask; and there was a -wilderness of gilding, mirrors, cornices, chairs, and picture-frames, -which changed the sober aspect of Melmar, and threw a somewhat fanciful -and foreign character upon the grave Scotch apartment, looking out -through its three windows upon the solemn evergreens and homely -grass-plot, which had undergone no change. One of the windows was open, -and _that_ was garlanded round, like a cottage window, with a -luxuriance of honey suckle and roses, which the “former family” would -have supposed totally unsuited to the “best room in the house.” It was -before this open window, with the sweet morning breeze waving the white -curtains over her, and the roses leaning in in little crowds, that -Madame Roche sat. She was reading--at least she had a book in her hand, -among the leaves of which the sweet air rustled playfully; it was a -pious, pretty book of meditations, which suited both the time and the -reader, and she sat sometimes looking into it, sometime suffering her -eyes and mind to stray, with a sweet pensive gravity on her fair old -face, and tender, subdued thoughts in her heart. Madame Roche was not -profound in any thing; perhaps there was not very much depth in those -pious thoughts, or even in the sadness which just overshadowed them. -Perhaps she had even a far-off consciousness that Cosmo Livingstone saw -a very touching little picture, when he saw the mother by the window -reading the Sabbath book in that Sabbath calm, and saying prayers in her -heart for poor Marie. But do not blame Madame Roche--she still did say -the prayers, and out of an honest heart. - -When Desirée flew into the room, flushed and out of breath, and threw -herself upon her mother so suddenly, that Madame Roche’s composure was -quite overthrown:-- - -“Mamma, mamma!” cried Desirée, in what was almost a scream, though it -was under her breath, “listen--Pierrot is here; he has found us out.” - -“What, child? Pierrot? It is impossible!” cried Madame Roche. - -“Things that are impossible are always true!” exclaimed the breathless -Desirée; “he is here--Cosmo has seen him; he has come to seek Marie.” - -“Cosmo? is _he_ here?” said Madame Roche, rising. The old lady had -become quite agitated, and her voice trembled. The book had fallen out -of the hands which she clasped tightly together, in her fright and -astonishment. “But he is mistaken, Desirée; he does not know Pierrot.” - -When Cosmo, however, came forward to tell his own story, Madame Roche -became still more disturbed and troubled:-- - -“To come now!” she exclaimed to herself with another expressive French -pressure of her hands--“to come now! Had he come in St. Ouen, when we -were poor, I could have borne it; but now, perceive you what will -happen, Desirée? He will place himself here, and squander our goods and -make us despised. He will call my poor Marie by his mean name--she, a -Roche de St. Martin! and she will be glad to have it so. Alas, my poor -deluded child!” - -“Still though he is so near, he has not found you yet; and if he does -find you, the house is yours, you can refuse him admission; let me -remain, in case you should want me,” said Cosmo eagerly; “I have been -your representative ere now.” - -Madame Roche was walking softly about the room, preserving through all -her trouble, even now when she had been five years in this great house, -the old habit of restraining her voice and step, which had been -necessary when Marie lay in the little back chamber at St. Ouen, within -constant hearing of her mother. She stopped for an instant to smile upon -her young advocate and supporter, as a queen might smile upon a partisan -whose zeal was more than his wisdom; and then went on hurriedly -addressing her daughter. - -“For Marie, poor soul, would be crazed with joy. Ah, my Desirée! who can -tell me what to do? For my own pleasure, my own comfort, a selfish -mother, must I sacrifice my child?” - -“Mamma,” cried Desirée, with breathless vehemence, “I love Marie--I -would give my life for her; but if Pierrot comes to Melmar, I will go. -It is true--I remember him--I will not live with Pierrot in one house.” - -Madame Roche clasped her hands once more, and cast up her eyes with a -gesture of despair. “What can I do--what am I to do? I am a woman -alone--I have no one to advise me,” she cried, pacing softly about the -room, with her clasped hands and eyes full of trouble. Cosmo’s heart was -quite moved with her distress. - -“Let me remain with you to-day,” said Cosmo, “and if he comes, permit me -to see him. You can trust _me_. If you authorize me to deny him -admission, he certainly shall not enter here.” - -“Ah, my friend!” cried Madame Roche. “Ah, my child! what can I say to -you? Marie loves him.” - -“And he has made her miserable,” cried Desirée, with passion. “But, -because she loves him, you will let him come here to make us all -wretched. I knew it would be so. She loves him--it is enough! He will -make her frantic--he will break her heart--he will insult you, me, every -one! But Marie loves him! and so, though he is misery, he must come. I -knew it would be so; but I will not stay to see it all--I can not! I -will never stand by and watch while he kills Marie. Mamma! mamma! will -you be so cruel? But I can not speak--I am angry--wretched! I will go to -Marie and nurse her, and be calm; but if Pierrot comes, Desirée will -stay no longer. For you know it is true!” - -And so speaking Desirée went, lingering and turning back to deliver -herself always of a new exclamation, to the door, out of which she -disappeared at last, still protesting her determination with violence -and passion. Madame Roche stood still, looking after her. There was -great distress in the mother’s face, but it did not take that lofty form -of pain which her child’s half-defiance might have produced. She was not -wounded by what Desirée said. She turned round sighing to where Cosmo -stood, not perfectly satisfied, it must be confessed, with the bearing -of his betrothed. - -“Poor child! she feels it!” said Madame Roche, “and, indeed, it is true, -and she is right; but what must I do, my friend? Marie loves him. To see -him once more might restore Marie.” - -“Mademoiselle Desirée says he will break her heart,” said Cosmo, feeling -himself bound to defend the lady of his love, even though he did not -quite approve of her. - -“Do not say mademoiselle. She is of this country; she is not a -stranger,” said Madame Roche with her bright, usual smile; “and he -_will_ break her heart if he is not changed; do I not know it? But -then--ah, my friend, you are young and impatient, and so is Desirée. -Would you not rather have your wish and your love, though it killed you -to have it, than to live year after year in a blank peacefulness? It is -thus with Marie; she lives, but her life does not make her glad. She -loves him--she longs for him; and shall I know how her heart pines, and -be able to give her joy, yet keep silence, as though I knew nothing? It -might be most wise; but I am not wise--I am but her mother--what must I -do?” - -“You will not give her a momentary pleasure, at the risk of more serious -suffering,” said Cosmo, with great gravity. - -But the tears came to Madame Roche’s eyes. She sank into a chair, and -covered her face with her hand. “It would be joy!--can I deny her joy? -for she loves him,” faltered Marie’s mother. As he looked at her with -impatient, yet tender eyes, the young man forgave Desirée for her -impatience. How was it possible to deal calmly with the impracticable -sentiment and “feelings” of Madame Roche? - -“I came to speak to you of myself,” said Cosmo. “I can not speak of -myself in the midst of this trouble; but I beg you to think better of -it. If he is all that you say, do not admit him here.” - -“Of yourself?” said Madame Roche, removing her hand from her face, and -stretching out to him that tender white hand which was still as soft and -fair as if it had been young instead of old. “My child, I am not so -selfish as to forget you who have been so good to us. Tell me what it is -about yourself?” - -And as she smiled and bent towards him, Cosmo’s heart beat high, half -with hope half with shame, for he felt guilty when he remembered that -neither himself nor Desirée had confessed their secret betrothal to -Desirée’s mother. In spite of himself, he could not help feeling a -shadow of blame thrown upon Desirée, and the thought wounded him. He was -full of the unreasonable, romantic love of youth. He could not bear, by -the merest instinctive secret action of his mind, to acknowledge a -defect in her. - -“You say, ‘Marie loves him’--that is reason enough for a great sacrifice -from you,” cried Cosmo, growing out of breath with anxiety and -agitation; “and Desirée--and I,--what will you say to us? Oh, madame, -you are kind, you are very kind. Be more than my friend, and give -Desirée to me!” - -“Desirée!"--Madame Roche rose up, supporting herself by her -chair--“Desirée! but she knows she is destined otherwise--_you_ -know--Desirée!” cried Madame Roche, clasping her pretty hands in -despair. “She is dedicated--she is under a vow--she has to do justice! -My friend Cosmo--my son--my young deliverer!--do not--do not ask this! -It breaks my heart to say no to you; but I can never, never give you -Desirée!” - -“Why?” said Cosmo, almost sternly. “You talk of love--will you deny its -claim? Desirée does not say no. I ask you again, give her to me! My love -will never wound her nor break her heart. I do not want the half of your -estate, and neither does my brother! Give me Desirée--I can work for -her, and she would be content to share my fortune. She _is_ content--I -have her own word for it. I demand it of you for true love’s sake, -madame--you, who speak of love! Give her to me!” - -“Alas!” cried Madame Roche, wringing her hands--“alas! my child! I speak -of love because Marie is his wife; but a young girl is different! She -must obey her destiny! You are young--you will forget it. A year hence, -you will smile when you think of your passion. No--my friend Cosmo, hear -me! No, no, you must not have Desirée--I will give you any thing else in -this world that you wish, if I can procure it, but Desirée is destined -otherwise. No, no, I can not change--you can not have Desirée!” - -And on this point the tender and soft Madame Roche was inexorable--no -intreaty, no remonstrance, no argument could move her! She stood her -ground with a gentle iteration which drove Cosmo wild. No, no, no; any -thing but Desirée. She was grieved for him--ready to take him into her -arms and weep over him--but perfectly impenetrable in her tender and -tearful obstinacy. And when, at last, Cosmo rushed from the house, half -mad with love, disappointment, and mortification, forgetting all about -Pierrot and everybody else save the Desirée who was never to be his, -Madame Roche sat down, wiping her eyes and full of grief, but without -the faintest idea of relinquishing the plans by which her daughter was -to compensate Huntley Livingstone for the loss of Melmar. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIX. - - -When Cosmo rushed forth from Melmar with his heart a-flame, and made his -way out through the trees to the unsheltered and dusty highway, the -sound of the Sabbath bells was just beginning to fall through the soft -summer air, so bright with the sunshine of the morning. Somehow, the -sound seemed to recall him, in a moment, to the sober home life out of -which he had rushed into this feverish episode and crisis of his own -existence. His heart was angry, and sore, and wounded. To think of the -usual familiar routine of life disgusted him--his impulse was to fly out -of everybody’s reach, and separate himself from a world where everybody -was ready to sacrifice the happiness of others to the merest freak or -crochet of his own. But the far off tinkle of the Kirkbride bell, though -it was no wonder of harmony, dropped into Cosmo’s ear and heart like the -voice of an angel. Just then, his mother, proudly leaning upon Huntley’s -arm, was going up the bank of Tyne to thank God for her son’s return. -Just then, Desirée, who had left Melmar before him, was walking softly, -in her white summer robes, to the Sabbath service, little doubting to -see Cosmo there; and out of all the country round, the rural families, -in little groups, were coming up every path, all tending toward the same -place. Cosmo sprang impatiently over a stile, and made his way through a -corn field, where the rustling green corn on either side of the path, -just bursting from the blade, was almost as tall as himself. He did not -care to meet the church goers, who would not have been slow to remark -upon his heated and uneasy looks, or even upon the novel circumstance of -his being here instead of at “the kirk.” This same fact of itself -communicated an additional discomfort to Cosmo. He felt in his -conscience, which was young and tender, the unsabbatical and agitating -manner in which he had spent the Sabbath morning, and the bell seemed -ringing reproaches into his ear as he hastened through the rustling -corn. Perhaps not half a dozen times before in his life, save during the -time of his travels, had Cosmo voluntarily occupied the Sabbath morning -with uses of his own. He had dreamed through its sacred hours many a -time, for he was “in love”, and a poet; but his dreams had gone on to -the cadence of the new minister’s sermon, and taken a sweeter echo out -of the rural psalms and thanksgivings; and he felt as a Scottish youth -of religious training was like to feel under such circumstances--his -want of success and present unhappiness increased by the consciousness -that he was using the weekly rest for his own purposes, thinking his own -thoughts, doing his own business, and filling, with all the human -agitation of fears and hopes, selfish and individual, the holy quiet of -the Sabbath day. - -And when Cosmo reached Norlaw, which was solitary and quiet like a house -deserted, and when the little girl who helped Marget in the dairy rose -from her seat at the clean table in the kitchen, where, with her Bible -open before her, she was seeking out “proofs” for her “questions,” to -let him in, not without a wondering air of disapproval, the feeling grew -even stronger. He threw himself into his mother’s easy-chair, in the -dining-parlor, feeling the silence grow upon him like a fascination. -Even the Mistress’s work-basket was put out of the way, and there was no -open book here to be ruffled by the soft air from the open window. Upon -the table was the big Bible, the great jug full of red roses, and that -volume of _Hervey’s Meditations_, which the Mistress had certainly not -been reading--and the deep, unbroken Sabbath stillness brooded over him -as if it were something positive and actual, and not a mere absence of -sound. And as he thought of it, the French household at Melmar, with its -fancies, its agitations, its romantic plans and troubles of feeling, -looked more and more to Cosmo discordant and inharmonious with the time; -and he himself jarred like a chord out of tune upon this calm of the -house and the Sabbath; jarred strangely, possessed as he was by an -irritated and injured self-consciousness--that bitter sensation of wrong -and disappointment, which somehow seemed to separate Cosmo from every -thing innocent and peaceful in the world. - -For why was it always so--always a perennial conspiracy, some hard, -arbitrary will laying its bar upon the course of nature? Cosmo’s heart -was sore within him with something more than a vexed contemplation of -the anomaly, with an immediate, pursuing, hard mortification of his own. -He was bitterly impatient of Madame Roche in this new and strange phase -of her character, and strangely perplexed how to meet it. For Cosmo had -a poetic jealousy of the honor and spirit of his best beloved. He felt -that he could not bear it, if Desirée for his sake defied her mother--he -could not tolerate the idea that she was like to do so, yet longed, and -feared, and doubted, full of the most contradictory and unreasonable -feelings, and sure only of being grieved and displeased whatever might -happen. So he felt as he sat by himself, with his eyes vacantly fixed -upon the red roses and the big Bible, wondering, impatient, anxious -beyond measure, to know what Desirée would do. - -But that whole silent day passed over him unenlightened; he got through -the inevitable meals he could scarcely tell how--replied or did not -reply to his mother’s remarks, which he scarcely noticed were spoken -_at_, and not to him, wandered out in the afternoon to Tyneside and the -Kelpie, without finding any one there--and finally, with a pang of -almost unbearable rebellion, submitted to the night and sleep which he -could not avoid. To-morrow he had to return to Edinburgh, to go away, -leaving his brother in possession of the field--his brother, to whom -Madame Roche meant to _give_ Desirée, in compensation for his lost -fortune. Cosmo had forgotten all about Katie Logan by this time; it was -not difficult, for he knew scarcely any thing; and with a young lover’s -natural pride and vanity, could not doubt that any man in the world -would be but too eager to contend with him for such a prize as Desirée -Roche. - -And to-morrow he had to go away!--to return to Mr. Todhunter’s office, -to read all the trashy stories, all the lamentable criticisms, all the -correspondence, making small things great, which belonged to the _Auld -Reekie Magazine_. Cosmo had not hitherto during his life been under much -compulsion of the _must_, and accordingly found it all the harder to -consent to it now. And he was growing very weary of his occupation -besides. He had got a stage beyond his youthful facility of rhyme, and -was, to say the truth, a little ashamed now of his verses, and of those -flowery prose papers, which the Mistress still read with delight. He -began to suspect that literature, after all, was not his vocation, and -at this moment would rather have carried a laborer’s hod; or followed -the plow, than gone to that merchandise of words which awaited him in -Edinburgh. So he rose, sullen and discontented, ready to quarrel with -any or every one who thwarted him, and feeling toward Huntley rather -more like an enemy than like a brother. - -And Cosmo had but just risen from the early breakfast table when a note -was put into his hand. Marget brought it to him, with rather an -ostentation of showing what she brought, and Cosmo had to read it under -the eyes of his mother and Huntley, neither of whom could help casting -many glances at the young man’s disturbed face. It was the first letter -he had ever received from Desirée--no wonder that he hurried out when he -had glanced at it, and did not hear that the Mistress called him back; -for it was a very tantalizing, unsatisfactory communication. This is -what Desirée said:-- - - “I knew it would be so. Why are you so restless, so impatient--why - do you not be calm and wait like me? Mamma has set her heart upon - what she says. She will not yield if you pray to her forever. She - loves me, she loves you; it would make her happy; but, alas, poor - mamma! She has set her thoughts upon the other, and will not - change. Why do you vex her, you, me, every one? Be silent, and all - will be well. - - “For I am not in haste, Monsieur Cosmo, if you are. I am able to - wait--me! I know you went away in great anger, and did not come to - church, and were cross all day, and your mother will think I am to - blame. But if you _will_ be impatient, am I to blame? I tell you to - wait, as I shall, to be good and silent, and see what will happen; - but you do not regard me. - - “Farewell, then, for a week. I write to you because I can not help - it this time, but I will not write again. Be content, then, - restless boy; _au revoir_! - -“DESIRÉE.” - - - - -Cosmo turned it round and round, and over and over, but nothing more was -to be made of it. Desirée had not contemplated the serious discontent of -her lover. She thought he would understand and be satisfied with her -playful letter, and required nothing more serious. Perhaps, had she -thought he required something more serious, the capricious little -Frenchwoman would have closed her heart and refused it. But, however -that may be, it is certain that Cosmo was by no means so much pleased as -he expected to be when he saw the note first, and prepared himself to -leave home with feelings scarcely at all ameliorated, shaking hands -abruptly with Huntley, and having a very cold parting with his mother. -He carried a discontented heart away with him, and left discontent and -vexation behind, and so trudged into Kirkbride, and drove away to -Edinburgh on the top of the coach, troubled with the people behind and -the things before him, and in the most unamiable humor in the world. - - - - -CHAPTER LXX. - - -“Well, Huntley, and what’s your opinion of our grand new neighbors?” -said the Mistress. They were returning together on that same Monday from -a formal call at Melmar; perhaps the first time on which the Mistress’s -visit to Madame Roche had been made with any pleasure. Mrs. Livingstone -came proudly through the Melmar grounds, leaning upon Huntley’s arm. She -had gone to exhibit her son; half consciously to exult over her richer -neighbor, who had no sons, and to see with her own eyes how Huntley was -pleased with his new friends. - -“I think,” said Huntley, warmly, “that it is no wonder people raved -about Mary of Melmar. She is beautiful now.” - -“So she is,” said the Mistress, rather shortly. “I canna say I am ony -great judge mysel’. She’s taen good care of her looks--oh ay, I dinna -doubt she is.” - -“But her daughters don’t seem to inherit it,” added Huntley. - -“Ay, lad--would ye say no’?--no’ the little one?” said the Mistress, -looking up jealously in his face. She was the very reverse of a -matchmaker, but perhaps it is true that women instinctively occupy -themselves with this interesting subject. The Mistress had not forgotten -Katie Logan, but in the depths of her heart she thought it just possible -that Huntley might cast a favorable eye upon Desirée. - -“No, not the little one,” said Huntley, laughing; “though I like her -best of the two; and was it that invalid whom you supposed the wife of -Pierrot? Impossible!--any thing so fragile and delicate would never have -married such a fellow.” - -“She’s delicate, no doubt,” said the Mistress, “but to be weakly in body -is no’ to be tender in the mind. Eh, what’s that among the trees?--black -and ill favored, and a muckle cloak about him--it’s just the villain’s -sel’!” - -“Hush, he sees us,” said Huntley; “let us meet him and hear if he is -going to Melmar. It seems unbelievable that so gentle an invalid should -be his wife.” - -The Mistress only said “Humph!” She was sorry for Marie, but not very -favorable to her--though at sight of the Frenchman all her sympathies -were immediately enlisted on behalf of his devoted wife. Pierrot would -have avoided them if he could, but as that was impossible, he came -forward with a swaggering air, throwing his cloak loose, and exhibiting -a morning toilette worthy of an ambitious tailor or a gentleman’s -gentleman. He took off his hat with elaborate politeness, and made the -Mistress a very fine bow, finer than any thing which she had seen in -these parts for many a day. - -“Let me trust you found Madame Pierrot, my charming wife, well and -visible,” said the adventurer, with a second ironical obeisance, “and my -gracious lady, her mamma, and pretty Desirée? I go to make myself known -to them, and receive their embraces. I am excited, overjoyed--can you -wonder? I have not seen my wife for ten years.” - -“And might have suffered that trial still, if it had not been for the -siller,” said the Mistress; “eh, man, to think of a woman in her senses -taking up with the like of you!” - -Fortunately the Mistress’s idiomatic expressions, which might not have -been over agreeable had they been understood, were not quite -comprehensible to Monsieur Pierrot. He only knew that they meant -offense, and smiled and showed his white teeth in admiration of the -malice which he only guessed at. - -“I go to my castle, my chateau, my fortune,” he said; “where I shall -have pleasure in repaying your hospitality. I shall be a good host. I -shall make myself popular. Pierrot of Melmar will be known -everywhere--it is not often that your dull coteries are refreshed by the -coming of a gentleman from my country. But I am too impatient to linger -longer than politeness demands. I have the honor to bid you very good -morning. I go to my Marie.” - -Saying which, he swaggered past with his cloak hanging over his -shoulders--a romantic piece of drapery which was more picturesque than -comfortable on this summer day. The Mistress paused to look after him, -clasping with rather an urgent pressure her son’s arm, and with an -impulse of impatient pity moving her heart. - -“I could never bear a stranger nigh in _my_ troubles,” she cried, at -last, “but yon woman’s no’ like me. She’s used to lean upon other folk. -What can she do, with that poor failing creature at one side of her and -this villain at the other? Huntley, my man! she’s nae friend of mine, -but she’s a lone woman, and you’re her kinsman. Go back and give her -your countenance to send the vagabone away!” - -“Mother, I am a stranger,” cried Huntley, with surprise and -embarrassment; “what could I do for her? how could I venture indeed to -intrude myself into their private affairs? Cosmo might have done it who -knows them well, but I--I can not see a chance of serving them, perhaps -quite the reverse. If you are right, this man belongs to the family, and -blood is thicker than water. No, no; of course I will do what you wish, -if you wish it; but I do not think it is an office for me.” - -And the Mistress, whose heart had been moved with compassion for the -other widow who had no son, and who had suggested voluntarily that -Huntley should help her, could not help feeling pleased nor being -ashamed of her pleasure, when he declined the office. He, at least, was -not “carried away” by the fascinations of Mary of Melmar. She took a -secret pleasure in his disobedience. It soothed the feelings which -Cosmo’s divided love had aggrieved. - -“Weel, maybe it’s wisest; they ken best themselves how their ain hearts -are moved--and a strange person’s a great hindrance in trouble. _I_ -couldna thole it mysel’,” said the Mistress; “I canna help them, it’s -plain enough--so we’ll do little good thinking upon it. But, Huntley, my -man, what’s your first beginning to be, now that you are hame?” - -At this question, Huntley looked his mother full in the face, with a -startled, anxious glance, and grew crimson, but said not a word; to -which the Mistress replied by a look, also somewhat startled, and almost -for the moment resentful. She did not save him from his embarrassment by -introducing then the subject nearest to his heart. She knew, and could -not doubt what it was, but she kept silent, watching him keenly, and -waiting for his first words. Madame Roche would have thrown herself into -his arms and wept with an effusion of tenderness and sympathy, but this -was the Mistress, who was long out of practice of love-matters, and who -felt her sons more deeply dear to her own heart than ever lover was in -the world. So it was with a little faltering that Huntley spoke. - -“It is seven years since I went away, and she was only a girl then--only -a girl, though like a mother. I wonder what change they have made upon -Katie Logan, these seven years?” - -“She’s a good lassie,” said the Mistress; “eh, Huntley, I’m ower -proud!--I think naebody like my sons; but she’s a very good lassie. I -havena a word to say against her, no’ me! I canna take strangers easy -into my heart, but Katie Logan’s above blame. You ken best yoursel’ what -you’ve said to one another, her and you--but I canna blame ye thinking -upon her--na,” said the Mistress, clearing her throat, “I am thankful to -the Almighty for putting such a good bairn into your thoughts. I’m a -hard woman in my ain heart, Huntley. I’ll just say it out once for a’. -You’ve a’ been so precious to me, that at the first dinnle I canna bide -to think that nane of you soon will belong to your mother. That’s -a’--for you see I never had a daughter of my ain.” - -The Mistress ended this speech, which was a long speech for her, with -great abruptness, and put up her hand hurriedly to wipe something from -her eye. She could be angry with Cosmo, who confided nothing to her, but -her loving, impatient heart could not stand against the frankness of his -brother. She made her confession hurriedly, and with a certain obstinate -determination--hastily wiped the unwilling tear out of the corner of her -eye, and the next moment lifted her head with all her inalienable -spirit, ready, if the smallest advantage was taken of her confession, to -gird on her armor on the moment, and resist all concessions to the -death. - -But Huntley was wise. “We have said nothing to each other,” he answered -quickly, “but I would fain see Katie first of all.” - -This was about the sum of the whole matter--neither mother nor son cared -to add much to this simple understanding. Katie had been absent from -Kirkbride between four and five years, and during all that time the -Mistress had only seen her once, and not a syllable of correspondence -had passed between her and Huntley. It might be that she had long ago -forgotten Huntley; it might be that Katie never cared for him, save with -that calm regard of friendship which Huntley did not desire from her. It -was true that the Mistress remembered Katie’s eyes and Katie’s face on -that night, long ago, when a certain subtle consciousness of the one -love which was in the hearts of both, gave the minister’s daughter a -sudden entrance into the regard of Huntley’s mother. But the Mistress -did not tell Huntley of that night. “It’s no for me to do,” said the -Mistress to herself, when she had reached home, with a momentary quiver -of her proud lip. “Na, if she minds upon my Huntley still--and wha could -forget him?--I’ve nae right to take the words out of Katie’s mouth; and -he’ll be all the happier, my puir laddie, to hear it from hersel’.” - -It was a magnanimous thought; and somehow this self-denial and -abnegation--this reluctant willingness to relinquish now at last that -first place in her son’s heart, which had been so precious to the -Mistress, shed an insensible brightness that day over Norlaw. One could -not have told whence it came; yet it brightened over the house, a secret -sunshine, and Huntley and his mother were closer friends than, perhaps, -they had ever been before. If Cosmo could but have found this secret -out! - - - - -CHAPTER LXXI. - - -In the meantime, Cosmo, angry with himself and everybody else, went into -Edinburgh to his weekly labor. It was such lovely summer weather, that -even Edinburgh, being a town, was less agreeable than it is easy to -suppose that fairest of cities; for though the green hill heights were -always there to refresh everybody’s eyes, clouds of dust blew up and -down the hilly streets of the new town, which had even still less -acquaintance then than now with the benevolent sprinkling of the -water-carts. If one could choose the easiest season for one’s troubles, -one would not choose June, when all the world is gay, and when Nature -looks most pitiless to sad hearts. Sad hearts! Let every one who reads -forgive a natural selfishness--it is the writer of this story, who has -nothing to do with its events, who yet can not choose but make her -sorrowful outcry against the sunshine, sweet sunshine, smiling out of -the heart of heaven! which makes the soul of the sorrowful sick within -them. It is not the young hero in the agitation of his young -troubles--warm discontents and contests of life--the struggles of the -morning. Yet Cosmo was vexed and aggravated by the light, and heat, and -brightness of the fair listless day, which did not seem made for working -in. He could not take his seat at Mr. Todhunter’s writing-table, laden -with scraps of cut-up newspapers, with bundles of “copy,” black from the -fingers of the printers, and heaps of proof sheets. He could not sit -down to read through silly romances, or prune the injudicious exuberance -of young contributors. Unfortunately, the contributors to the _Auld -Reekie Magazine_ were almost all young; it had not turned out such an -astounding “start” as the _Edinburgh Review_; it had fallen into the -hands of young men at college, who, indisputably, in that period of -their development, however great they may become eventually, are not apt -to distinguish themselves in literature; and Cosmo, who had just -outgrown the happy complacence of that period, was proportionately -intolerant of its mistakes and arrogances, and complained (within -himself) of his uncongenial vocation and unfortunate fate. He was not -fit to be editor of the _Auld Reekie_. He was not able for the labor -dire and weary woe of revising the papers which were printed, and -glancing over those which were not--in short, he was totally -dissatisfied with himself, his position and his prospects, very -probably, but for his love-dream, Cosmo would have launched himself upon -the bigger sea in London, another forlorn journeyman of literature, half -conscious that literature was not the profession to which he was born; -but the thought of Desirée held him back like a chain of gold. He could -see her every week while he remained here, and beyond that office of Mr. -Todhunter’s in which perseverance and assiduity, and those other sober -virtues which are not too interesting generally to young men, might some -time make him a partner, Cosmo could not for his life have told any one -what he would do. - -After he had endured his work as long as he could in this quiet little -den, which Mr. Todhunter shared with him, and where that gentleman was -busy, as usual, with paste and scissors, Cosmo at last tossed an -unreadable story into the waste-paper basket, and starting up, got his -hat. His companion only glanced up at him with an indignant reproof. - -“What! tired? Are they so _awful_ bad?” said Mr. Todhunter; but this -model of a bookseller said no more when his young deputy sallied out -with a nod and a shrug of his shoulders. The proprietor of the _Auld -Reekie Magazine_ was one of those rare and delightful persons--Heaven -bless their simple souls!--who have an inalienable reverence for -“genius,” and believe in its moods and vagaries with the devoutness of a -saint. - -“Of course I would exact common hours from a common young man,” said Mr. -Todhunter, “but a lad of genius is another matter. When he’s in the -vein, he’ll get through with his work like a giant. I’ve seen him write -four papers with his own hand after the twenty-third of the month, and -the magazine as sharp to its time, notwithstanding, as if he had been a -year preparing. He’s not a common lad, my sub-editor;"--and Cosmo quite -took credit with his employer on the score of his fits of varying energy -and his irregular hours. - -Cosmo, however, sauntered away through the bright and busy streets -without giving himself so much credit. The young man was thoroughly -uncomfortable, self-displeased, and aggravated. He knew well enough that -it was not the impatience of genius, but only a restless and disturbed -mind, which made his work intolerable on that long summer afternoon. He -was thinking of Desirée, who would not bear thinking of, and whom he -supposed himself to have bitterly and proudly relinquished--of Madame -Roche, with her ridiculous fancy in respect to Huntley--and of Huntley -himself, who it was just possible might accept it, and take Desirée’s -reluctant hand. It seemed to Cosmo the strangest, miserable perversion -of everybody’s happiness; and he could not help concluding upon all this -wrong and foolishness coming to pass, with all the misanthropical -certainty of disappointed youth. Cosmo even remembered to think of Katie -Logan, by way of exaggerating his own discontent--Katie, who quite -possibly had been faithful to Huntley’s memory all these seven long -years. - -He was thus pondering on, with quick impatient step, when he caught a -glimpse of some one at a distance whose appearance roused him. The -figure disappeared down the Canongate, which Cosmo was crossing, and the -young man hastened to follow, though this famous old street is by no -means a savory promenade on a hot summer afternoon. He pushed down, -notwithstanding, along the dusty burning pavement, amid evil smells and -evil sounds, and passengers not the most agreeable. Women on the outside -stairs, with dirty babies in their arms, loud in gossip, and unlovely in -apparel--ragged groups at the high windows, where noble ladies once -looked out upon the noble highway, but where now some poor housemother’s -washing, thrust out upon a stick, dallied with the smoky air, and was -dried and soiled at the same moment--hopeless, ill-favored lads and -girls, the saddest feature of all, throwing coarse jokes at each other, -and, indeed, all the usual symptoms of the most degraded class of town -population, which is much alike everywhere. Cosmo threaded his way among -them with disgust, remembering how he had once done so before with -Cameron, whom he was now pursuing, and at a time when his own -anticipations, as well as his friend’s, pointed to the sacred profession -in which the Highlandman now toiled. That day, and that conversation, -rose vividly before Cosmo. It sickened his sensitive heart to realize -the work in which Cameron was employed; but when his mind returned to -himself, who had no profession, and to whose eyes no steady aim or -purpose presented itself anywhere, Cosmo felt no pleasure in the -contrast. This was not the sphere in which a romantic imagination could -follow the footsteps of the evangelist. Yet, what an overpowering -difference between those steps and the wanderings of this disturbed -trifler with his own fortune and youth. - -But Cameron still did not reappear. Somewhat reluctantly Cosmo entered -after him at the narrow door, with some forgotten noble’s sculptured -shield upon its keystone, and went up the stair where his friend had -gone. It was a winding stair, dark, close, and dirty, but lighted in the -middle of each flight by a rounded window, through which--an -extraordinary contrast--the blue sky, the June sunshine, and a far-off -glimpse of hills and sea, glanced in upon the passenger with a splendor -only heightened by the dark and narrow frame through which the picture -shone. Cosmo paused by one of these windows with an involuntary -fascination. Just above him, on the dusky landing, were two doors of -rooms, tenanted each by poverty and labor, and many children, miserable -versions of home, in which the imagination could take no pleasure. In -his fastidious distaste for the painful and unlovely realities, the -young man paused by the window;--all the wealth of nature glowing in -that golden sunshine--how strange that _it_ should make its willing -entrance here! - -He was arrested by a voice he knew--subdued, but not soft by nature, and -sounding audibly enough down the stairs. - -“_I_ don’t know if he can do them harm--very likely no’--I only tell you -I heard somebody speak of him, and that he was going to Melmar. Perhaps -you don’t care about the family at Melmar? I am sure, neither do I; but, -if you like, you can tell Cosmo Livingstone. It’s nothing to me!” - -“I’ll tell him,” said Cameron. “Who was the man? Do you know?” - -“He was French; and I’m sure a vagabond--I am sure a vagabond!” cried -the other. “I don’t know if _you_ can mind me, but Cosmo will--I’m -Joanna Huntley. I care for none of them but Desirée. Her mother and her -sister may take care of themselves. But we were great friends, and I -like her; though I need not like her unless I please,” added Joanna, -angrily; “it’s no’ for her sake, but because I canna help it. -There--just tell Cosmo Livingstone! Perhaps it’s nothing, but he might -as well know.” - -“I’ll tell him,” said Cameron, once more. - -Then there came a sound of a step upon the stair--not a light step, but -a prompt and active one--and Joanna herself, grown very tall, tolerably -trim, rather shabby, and with hair of undiminished redness, came rapidly -down the narrow side of the spiral stair, with her hand upon its rib of -stone. She started and stopped when she had reached almost as far as -Cosmo’s window--made as though she would pass him for the first moment, -but finally drew up with considerable hauteur, a step or two above him. -Joanna could not help a little offense at her father’s conqueror, though -she applauded him in her heart. - -“I’ve been in London,” said Joanna, abruptly, entering upon her -statement without any preface. “I saw a man there who was inquiring -about Melmar--at least about the eldest daughter, for he did not know -the house--and Oswald directed him every step of the way. I’ll no’ say -he was right and I’ll no’ say he was wrong, but I tell _you_; the man -was a rascal, that’s all I know about him--and you can do what you like -now.” - -“But stop, Miss Huntley; did you seek Cameron out to tell him?” said -Cosmo, with gratitude and kindness. - -“I _am_ Miss Huntley now,” said Joanna, with an odd smile. “Patricia’s -married to an officer, and away, and Oswald’s in London. My brother has -great friends there. Did I seek Mr. Cameron out? No. I was here on my -own business, and met him. I might have sought you out, but not him, -that scarcely knows them. But it was not worth while seeking you out -either,” added Joanna, with a slight toss of her head. “Very likely the -man is a friend of theirs--they were but small people, I suppose, before -they came to Melmar. Very likely they’ll be glad to see him. But Oswald -was so particular telling him where they were, and the man had such an -ill look,” added Joanna, slowly, after a pause, “that I can not think -but that he wanted to do them an ill turn.” - -“Thank you for warning them. He had come yesterday, and I fear he will -do Marie a very ill turn,” said Cosmo; “but nobody has any right to -interfere--he is a--a relation. But may I tell Desirée--I mean Miss -Roche--any thing of yourself? I know she often speaks, and still oftener -thinks, of you.” - -“She has nothing to do with us that I know of,” said Joanna, sharply; -“good day to you; that was all I had to say,” and she rushed past him, -passing perilously down the narrow edge of the stair. But when she had -descended a few steps, Joanna’s honest heart smote her. She turned back, -looking up to him with eyes which looked so straightforward and sincere, -in spite of their irascible sparkle, that Joanna’s plain face became -almost pretty under their light. “I am sure I need not quarrel with -you,” she said with a little burst of her natural frankness, “nor with -Desirée either. It was not her fault--but I was very fond of Desirée. -Tell her I teach in a school now, and am very happy--they even say I’m -clever,” continued the girl, with a laugh, “which I never was at Melmar; -and mamma is stronger, and we’re all as well as we can be. You need not -laugh, Cosmo Livingstone, it’s true!” cried Joanna, with sudden -vehemence, growing offended once more; “papa may have done wrong whiles, -but he’s very good to us; and no one shall dare throw a stone at him -while I’m living. You can tell Desirée.” - -“I will tell Desirée you were very fond of her--she will like that -best,” said Cosmo. - -Whereupon the vail, which had been hanging about her bonnet, suddenly -dropped over Joanna’s face; it is to be supposed from the suppressed and -momentary sound that followed, that, partly in anger, partly in sorrow, -partly in old friendship and tenderness, she broke down for the instant, -and cried--but all that could clearly be known was, that she put out her -hand most unexpectedly, shook Cosmo’s hand, and immediately started down -the stair with great haste and agitation. Cosmo could not try to detain -or follow her; he knew very well that no such proceeding would have -found favor in the eyes of Joanna; and Cameron at that moment came in -sight from the upper floor. - -Cosmo never could tell by what sudden impulse it was that he begged his -old friend to return with him to his lodgings and dine; he had no -previous intention of doing so--but the idea seized him so strongly, -that he urged, and almost forced the half reluctant Highlandman into -compliance. Perhaps the listless loveliness of the day affected Cameron, -in a less degree, somewhat as it affected his more imaginative -companion--for, at length, after consulting his note-book, he put his -strong arm within Cosmo’s, and went with him. Cameron, like everybody -else, had changed in these five years. He was now what is called a -licentiate in the Church of Scotland--authorized to preach, but not to -administer the sacraments, an office corresponding somewhat with the -deacon’s orders of the English Church. And like other people, too, -Cameron had not got his ideal fortune. The poor student had no -patronage, and the Gaelic-speaking parish among his own hills, to which -his fancy had once aspired, was still as distant as ever from the humble -evangelist. Perhaps Cameron did not even wish it now--perhaps he had -never forgotten that hard lesson which he learned in St. Ouen--perhaps -had never so entirely recovered that throwing away of his heart, as to -be able to content himself among the solitudes of the hills. But, at -least, he had not reached to this desired end--and was now working hard -among the wynds and closes of old Edinburgh, preaching in a public room -in that sad quarter, and doing all that Christian man could do to awaken -its inhabitants to a better life. - -“It is good, right, best! I confess it!” cried Cosmo, in a sudden -_accés_ of natural feeling, “but how can you do it, Cameron?--how is it -possible to visit, to interest, to woo, such miserable groups as these? -Look at them!” exclaimed the young man. “Mean, coarse, brutal, degraded, -luxuriating in their own wretchedness, knowing nothing better--unable to -comprehend a single refined idea, a single great thought. Love your -neighbor--love _them_?--is it in the power of man?” - -Cameron looked round upon them, too; though with a different glance. - -“Cosmo,” said the Highlandman, with that deep voice of his, to which -additional years and personal experience had given a sweeter tone than -of old, “do you forget that you once before asked me that same question? -Love is ill to bind, and hard to draw. I love few in this world, and -will to the end; but first among them is One whose love kens no caprice -like to ours. I tell you again, laddie, what I tell them forever. Can -_I_ comprehend it?--it’s just the mystery of mysteries--_He_ loves them -all. I have room in my goodwill, if not in my heart, for them that _you_ -love, Cosmo; and what should I have for them that He loved, and loved to -the death? That is the secret. My boy, I would rather than gear and -lands that you found it out for yourself.” - -“I can understand it, at least,” said Cosmo, grasping his friend’s hand; -“but I blush for myself when I look at your work and at mine. They are -different, Cameron.” - -“A lad may leave the plow in mid-furrow for a flower on the brae or a -fish in the water,” said Cameron, with a smile; “but a man returns to -the work he’s put his hand to. Come back, my boy, to your first -beginning--there’s time.” - -And Cosmo was almost persuaded, as they went on discussing and -remonstrating to the young man’s lodging, where other thoughts and other -purposes were waiting for them both. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXII. - - -For on Cosmo’s table lay a letter, newly arrived, and marked -_immediate_. Cosmo felt himself forewarned by the sudden tremor which -moved him, as he sprang forward to take it up, that it was from Madame -Roche. Perhaps some strange instinct suggested the same to Cameron, for -he withdrew immediately from his friend’s side, and went away to Cosmo’s -book-shelf in the corner without a word. Then, perhaps, for the first -time, any unconcerned spectator looking on might have perceived that -Cameron looked weary, and that, besides the dust upon his boots and -black coat, the lines in his face were deeper drawn than his years and -strength warranted, and told of a forlorn fatigue somewhere which no one -tried to comfort. But he did not say any thing--he only stood quietly -before the book-shelf, looking over Cosmo’s books. - -Cosmo, on the contrary, his face flushed with excitement and -expectation, and his heart beating high, opened the letter. As he ran -over it, in his haste and anxiety, the flush faded from his face. Then -he read it seriously a second time--then he looked at his friend. - -“Cameron!” said Cosmo. - -But it seemed that Cameron did not hear him till he was called a second -time, when he looked round slowly; and, seeing Cosmo holding towards him -the letter which he had just read so eagerly, looked at it with a -strange confusion, anxiety, and embarrassment, half-lifting his hand to -take it, and saying “Eh?” with a surprised and reluctant inquiry. - -“It concerns you as well as me. Look at it, Cameron,” said the young -man. - -It was from Madame Roche; and this is what Cameron read:-- - - “Cosmo--my son, my friend! come back and help us! Pierrot--he of - whom you warned us--has come; and I, in my folly--in my madness, - could not deny to Marie to see him. You will ask me why? Alas! he - is her husband, and she loves him! I thought, in my blindness, it - might make her well; but we have known her illness so long, we have - forgotten how great it is; and the shock has killed her--ah, me! - unhappy mother!--has stricken my child! She was very joyful, the - poor soul!--she was too happy!--and he who is so little deserving - of it! But it has been more than she could bear, and she is dying! - Come!--sustain us, comfort us, Cosmo, my friend! We are but women - alone, and we have no one who will be so tender to us as you! It - was but Monday when he came, and already she is dying! - - “I have another thing to say. My poor Marie spoke to me this - morning. I could not tell my child how ill, how very ill she - was--I, her mother! but she has learned from our sad looks, or, - perhaps, alas, from the wretch, Pierrot, that she is in danger. She - spoke to me this morning. She said, ‘Mamma, will no one speak to me - of heaven? Alas, I know not heaven. How shall I know the way? Send - for the Englishman--the Scottishman--the traveler who came with - Cosmo to our old house. I remember how he spoke--he spoke of God as - one might who loved Him. None but he ever spoke so to me. Send - mother--if he loves God he will come.’ Alas, my friend! could I say - to her on her sick bed, ‘My child, this good Monsieur Cameron loved - _you_. I can not break his heart over again, and ask him to come.’ - No! I could not say it. I can but write to you, Cosmo. Speak to - this good Cameron--this man who loves God. Ah, my friend, can you - not think how I feel now that I am ignorant, that I am a - sinner--that I, who am her mother, have never taught my Marie? Tell - it to your friend--tell him what she has said--she knows not, my - poor child, what thoughts might once have been in his heart. Let - him come, for the love of God.” - -Cosmo scarcely ventured to look at his friend while he read this letter; -and as for Cameron himself, he raised it in his hands so as to shade his -face, and held it so with strong yet trembling fingers, that nobody -might see the storm of passionate emotions there. Never before in his -life, save once, had the vehement and fiery nature of the Highlandman -been subject to so violent a trial, and even that once was not like -this. A great sob rose in his throat--his whole passionate heart, which -had been strained then in desperate self-preservation, melted now in a -flood of sudden grief and tenderness, ineffable and beyond description. -Marie, upon whom he had wasted his heart and love--Marie, whose weakness -had filled him with a man’s impulse of protection, sustenance, and -comfort--Marie! Now at last should it be his, in solemnwise, to carry -out that love-dream--to bring her in his arms to the feet of the Lord -whom he loved--to show the fainting spirit where to find those wings of -a dove, by which she might fly away and be at rest. Great over-brimming -tears, big as an ocean of lighter drops, made his eyes blind, but did -not fall. He sat gazing at the conclusion of the letter long after he -had read it, not reading it over again like Cosmo--once had been enough -to fix the words beyond possibility of forgetting upon Cameron’s -heart--but only looking at it with his full eyes, seeing the name, “Mary -Roche de St. Martin,” glimmering and trembling on the page, now -partially visible, now altogether lost. When Cosmo ventured at last to -glance at his friend, he was still sitting in the same position, leaning -both his elbows upon the table, and holding up the letter in his hands -to screen his face. Cosmo was aware of something strangely touching in -the forced, strained, spasmodic attitude, but he could not see the big -silent sob that heaved in his friend’s strong heart, nor the tears that -almost brimmed over but did not fall out of Cameron’s eyes. - -Presently the Highlandman folded up the letter with care and -elaboration, seemed to hesitate a moment whether he would keep it, and -finally gave it over with some abruptness to Cosmo. “Relics are not for -me,” he said, hastily. “Now, when you are ready, let us go.” - -“Go?--to Melmar!” said Cosmo, faltering a little. - -“Where else?” asked Cameron, sternly--“is that a summons to say no to? -_I_ am going without delay. We can get there to-night.” - -“The coach will not leave for an hour--take some refreshment first,” -said Cosmo; “you have been at work all day--you will be faint before we -get there.” - -Cameron turned towards him with a strange smile:-- - -“I will not faint before we get there,” he said slowly, and then rose up -and lifted his hat. “You can meet me at the coach, Cosmo, in an hour--I -shall be quite ready; but in the first place I must go home; make haste, -my boy; _I_ will go, whether you are there or not.” - -Cosmo gazed after him with something like awe; it was rather beyond -romance, this strange errand--and Cameron, in spite of the fervid -Highland heart within him did not look a very fit subject for romance; -but somehow Cosmo could not think what personal hopes of his own might -be involved in this relenting of Madame Roche--could not think even of -Desirée, whose name was not once mentioned in the letter, could think of -nothing but Cameron, called of all men in the world to _that_ bedside to -tell the dying Marie where to find her Lord. - -They left Edinburgh accordingly within the hour. Cameron had entirely -recovered his usual composure, but scarcely spoke during the whole -journey, in which time Cosmo had leisure to return to his own fortune, -with all its perplexities. Even Marie’s illness was not likely to form -reason enough in the eyes of the Mistress for his abrupt and unexpected -return, and he could hardly himself see what good his presence could do -Madame Roche, with dangerous illness, perhaps death, and a disagreeable -son-in-law in her house. Take him at his worst, Pierrot, who was Marie’s -husband, had a more natural place there than Cosmo, who was only -Desirée’s lover--a lover rejected by Madame Roche; and Desirée herself -had not intimated by word or sign any desire for his presence. The whole -aspect of things did not conduce to make Cosmo comfortable. It seemed -almost a necessity to go to Melmar, instantly, instead of going to -Norlaw; but what would the Mistress think of so strange a proceeding? -And Huntley and Patie now, it was to be presumed, were both at home. -What a strange, disturbing influence had come among the brothers! Cosmo -began to contemplate his own position with a certain despair; he knew -well enough by this time the unreasoning sentiment of Madame Roche; he -knew very well that though she relieved herself in her trouble by -writing to him, and made a solemn appeal for his services, that it by no -means followed when this emergency was past, that she would confirm his -sonship by giving him her daughter, or relinquish her past idea for the -sake of the hopes she might have excited; and in the second place Cosmo -could not tell for his life what use he was likely to be to Madame -Roche, or how he could sustain her in her trouble--while the idea of -being so near home without going there, and without the knowledge of his -mother, aggravated all his other difficulties. He went on, however, -with resignation, got down with the calmness of despair and bewilderment -at Kirkbride, walked silently towards Melmar, guiding Cameron along the -silent leafy ways, and yielding himself, whatever that might be, to his -fate. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXIII. - - -And there stood the house of Melmar, resting among its trees, in the -soft sweet darkness of the June night. - -Perhaps Cameron’s heart failed him as he came so near--at least Cosmo -reached the house first. The foliage was so thick around that the -darkness seemed double in this circle round the house. You could only -see the colorless, dark woods, stretching back into the night, and the -gleam of blue sky over head, and the lighted windows in the house -itself--lights which suggested no happy household meeting, but were -astray among different windows in the upper story, telling their own -silent tale of illness and anxiety. Cosmo, standing before the door -which he knew so well, could only tell that Tyne was near by the low, -sweet tinkle of the water among the sighing leaves, and was aware of all -the summer flush of roses covering that side of the house by nothing -save the fragrance. He stood there gazing up for a moment at one light -which moved about from window to window with a strange restlessness, and -at another which burned steadily in Marie’s bed-chamber. He knew it to -be Marie’s chamber by instinct. A watch-light, a death-light, a low, -motionless flame, so sadly different from the wavering and brightening -of that other, which some anxious watcher carried about. Cosmo’s heart -grew sad within him as he thought of this great solemn death which was -coming on Marie. Poor Marie, with her invalid irritability, her little -feverish weakness, her ill-bestowed love! To think that one so tender -and wayward, from whom even reason and sober thought were not to be -expected, should, notwithstanding, go forth alone like every other soul -to stand by herself before her God, and that love and pity could no -longer help her, let them strain and struggle as they would! The -thought made Cosmo’s heart ache, he could not tell why. - -Madame Roche met them at the door. She was not violently affected as -Cosmo feared--she only kept wiping from her eyes the tears which -perpetually returned to fill them, as he had seen his own mother do in -her trouble--and perhaps it is the common weeping of age which has no -longer hasty floods of youthful tears to spend upon any thing. She gave -a cry of joy when she saw Cameron. - -“Ah, my friend, it is kind--God will reward you!” said Madame Roche, -“and you must come to her--there is little time--my child is dying.” - -Cameron did not answer a word--he only threw down his hat and followed -her, restraining his step with a painful start when he heard it ring -against the pavement. Cosmo followed, not knowing what else to do, to -the door of the sick room. He did not enter, but as the door opened he -saw who and what was there. And strange to her son sounded the voice -which came out of that sad apartment--the voice of the Mistress reading -with her strong Scottish accent and old fashioned intonation, so -different from the silvery lady’s voice of Madame Roche, and the sweet -tones of Desirée. Spread out before her was the big Bible, the family -book of old Huntley of Melmar, and she was seated close by the bedside -of the sufferer, who lay pallid and wasted, with her thin hands crossed -upon the coverlet, and her whole soul in an agony of _listening_ not to -be described. Close by the Mistress, Desirée was kneeling watching her -sister. This scene, which he saw only in a momentary glance before the -door was closed, overpowered Cosmo. He threw himself down upon a -window-seat in the long corridor which led to this room, and covered his -face with his hands. The sudden and unexpected appearance of his mother -brought the young man’s excitement to a climax. How unjust, unkind, -ungenerous now seemed his own fears! - -Madame Roche was one of those women who fear to meet any great emergency -alone. In the first shock of dismay with which she heard that Marie’s -life was fast hastening to its end, she wrote to Cosmo; and before it -was time for Cosmo to arrive--while indeed it was impossible that he -could even have received her letter--the poor mother, with an instinct -of her dependent nature, which she was not aware of and could not -subdue, hastened to send for the Mistress to help her to bear that -intolerable agony in which flesh and heart faint and fail--the anguish -of beholding the dying of her child. The Mistress, who under similar -circumstances would have closed her doors against all the world, came, -gravely and soberly to the call of this undeniable sorrow. In face of -that all the bitterness died out of her honest heart. Madame Roche had -already lost many children. “And I have all mine--God forgive me--I ken -nothing of _that_ grief,” cried Mrs. Livingstone, with a sob of mingled -thankfulness and terror. It was not her vocation to minister at -sick-beds, or support the weak; yet she went without hesitation, though -leaving Huntley to do both. And even before Madame Roche sent for her, -Desirée, who understood her character, had run over by herself early in -the morning, when, after watching all night, she was supposed asleep, to -tell the Mistress that her mother had written to Cosmo. So there was -neither cause nor intention of offense between the sad family at Melmar -and that of Norlaw. When she came to Marie’s sick-bed, the Mistress -found that poor sufferer pathetically imploring some one to tell her of -the unknown world to which she was fast approaching--while Madame Roche, -passionately reproaching herself for leaving her daughter uninstructed, -mingled with her self-accusations, vague words about heaven and -descriptions of its blessedness which fell dull upon the longing ears of -the anxious invalid. The harps and the white robes, the gates of pearl -and the streets of gold were nothing to Marie--what are they to any one -who does not see there the only presence which makes heaven a reality? -The Mistress had no words to add to the poor mother’s anxious eager -repetition of all the disjointed words, describing heaven, which abode -in her memory--but instead, went softly down stairs and returned with -the big Bible, the old, well remembered book, which never failed to -produce a certain awe in Madame Roche--and this was how it happened that -Cosmo found his mother reading to Marie. - -When Cameron entered the room, the Mistress, who had not paused, -continued steadily with the reading of her gospel. He, for his part, did -not interrupt her--he went to the other side of the bed and sat down -there, looking at the white face which he had never seen since he saw it -in St. Ouen, scarcely less pale, yet bright enough to appear to his -deluded fancy a star which might light his life. That was not an hour or -place to think of those vain human dreams. Sure as the evening was -sinking into midnight, this troubled shadow of existence was gliding on -toward the unspeakable perfection of the other life. A little while, and -words would no more vail the face of things to this uninstructed soul--a -little while--but as he sat by Marie’s death-bed the whole scene swam -and glimmered before Cameron’s eyes--“A little while and ye shall not -see me--and again a little while and ye shall see me.” Oh these -ineffable, pathetic, heart breaking words! They wandered out and in -through Cameron’s mind in an agony of consolation and of tears. He heard -the impatient anxious mother stop the reading--he felt her finger tap -upon his arm urging him to speak--he saw Marie turn her tender, dying -eyes toward him--he tried to say something but his voice failed him--and -when at last he found utterance, with a tearless sob, which it was -impossible to restrain, the words which burst from his lips with a -vehement outcry, which sounded loud though it was nearer a whisper, were -only these:--“Jesus! Jesus! our Lord!” - -Only these!--only that everlasting open secret of God’s grace by which -He brings heaven and earth together! The gentle, blue eyes, which were -no longer peevish, brightened with a wistful hope. There was comfort in -the very name; and then this man--who labored for the wretched--whom -himself could not force his human heart to love, because his Master -loved them--this man, whom poor Marie never suspected to have loved her -in _her_ selfish weakness with the lavish love of a prodigal, who throws -away all--this man stood up by the bedside with his gospel. He himself -did not know what he said--perhaps neither did she, who was too far upon -her way to think of words--but the others stood round with awe to hear. -Heaven? No, it was not heaven he was speaking of--there was no time for -those celestial glories, which are but a secondary blessing; and Cameron -had not a thought in his heart save for this dying creature and his -Lord. - -Was it darker out of doors under the skies? No; there was a soft young -moon silvering over the dark outline of the trees, and throwing down a -pale glory over this house of Melmar, on the roof, which glimmered like -a silver shield; and, in the hush, the tinkling voice of Tyne and the -breath of the roses, and a sweet white arrow of moonlight, came in, all -mingled and together, into the chamber of death. Yet, somehow, it is -darker--darker. This pale figure, which is still Marie, feels it so, but -does not wonder--does not ask--is, indeed, sinking into so deep a quiet, -that it does not trouble her with any fears. - -“I go to sleep,” she says faintly, with the sweetest smile that ever -shone upon Marie’s lips, “I am so well. Do not cry, mamma; when I wake, -I shall be better. I go to sleep.” - -And so she would, and thus have reached heaven unawares, but for the -careless foot which pushed the door open, and the excited figure which -came recklessly in. At sight of him, Cameron instantly left the -bedside--instantly without a word, quitted the room--and began to walk -up and down the corridor, where Cosmo stood waiting. Pierrot began -immediately to address his wife:--His wife!--his life!--his angel! was -it by her orders that strangers came to the house, that his commands -were disobeyed, that he himself was kept from her side? He begged his -adored one to shake off her illness, to have a brave spirit, to get up -and rouse herself for his sake. - -“What, my Marie! it is but courage!” cried her husband. “A man does not -die who will not die! Up, my child! Courage! I will forsake you no -more--you have your adored husband--you will live for him. We shall be -happy as the day. Your hand, my angel! Have courage, and rise up, and -live for your Emile’s sake!” - -And all the peace that had been upon it fled from Marie’s face. The -troubled eagerness of her life came back to her. “Yes Emile!” she -whispered, with breathless lips, and made the last dying effort to rise -up at his bidding and follow him. Madame Roche threw herself between, -with cries of real and terrified agony; and the Mistress, almost glad to -exchange her choking sympathy for the violent, sudden passion which now -came upon her, went round the bed with the silence and speed of a ghost, -seized his arm with a grip of imperative fury not to be resisted, and, -before he was aware, had thrust him before her to the door. When she had -drawn it close behind her, she shook him like a child with both her -hands. “You devil!” cried the Mistress, transported out of all decorum -of speech by a passion of indignation which the scene almost warranted. -“You dirty, miserable hound! how daur you come there? If you do not -begone to your own place this instant--Cosmo, here! She’s gone, the poor -bairn. He has nae mair right in this house, if he ever had ony--take him -away.” - -But while this violent scene disturbed the death calm of the house, it -did not disturb Marie. She had seen for herself by that time, better -than any one could have told her, what robes they wore and what harps -they played in the other world. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXIV. - - -That same night, while they watched their dead at Melmar, the young moon -shone kindly into the open parlor window of a pretty cottage, where some -anxiety, but no sorrow was. This little house stood upon a high bank of -the river Esk, just after that pretty stream had passed through the -pretty village of Lasswade. The front of the house was on the summit of -the height, and only one story high, while the rapid slope behind -procured for it the advantage of two stories at the back. It was a -perfectly simple little cottage, rich in flowers, but nothing else, -furnished with old, well-preserved furniture, as dainty, as bright, and -as comfortable as you could imagine, and looking all the better for -having already answered the wants of two or three generations. The -window was open, and here, too, came in the tinkle of running water, and -the odor of roses, along with the moonlight. Candles stood on the table, -but they had not been lighted; and two ladies sat by the window, -enjoying the cool breeze, the sweet light, the “holy time” of -evening--or, perhaps, not aware of enjoying anything, busy with their -own troubles and their own thoughts. - -“I doubt if I should advise,” said the elder of the two, “but though I’m -an old maid myself, I am not prejudiced either one way or another, my -dear. I’ve lived too long, Katie, to say this or that manner of life’s -the happiest; it does not matter much whether you are married or not -married, happiness lies aye in yourself. It’s common to think a single -woman very lone and dreary when she comes to be old; but I’m not afraid -for you. Somebody else will have bairns for you, Katie, if you do not -have them for yourself. Solitude is not in your cup, my dear--I’m -prophet enough to read that.” - -Her companion made no answer; and in the little pause which ensued, the -Esk, and the roses, and the moonlight came in as a sweet unconscious -chorus, but a chorus full of whispers which struck deeper than those -quiet words of quiet age. - -“But on the other side,” continued the old lady, “Charlie is as good a -fellow as ever lived--the best son, the kindest heart! I would not trust -myself praising him any more than praising you, my dear. You are both a -comfort and a credit to us all, and maybe that is why we should like to -make the two of you one. We’re no’ so very romantic, Katie, in our -family--that is to say,” continued the speaker, with sudden animation, -“the women of us--for if Charlie, or any lad belonging to the house, was -to offer himself without his whole heart and love, he had better never -show his face to me.” - -“But, auntie,” said the younger lady, with a smile, “would it be right -to take a whole heart and love, and only have kindness to give in -exchange?” - -“Women are different, my dear,” said Katie Logan’s maiden aunt; “I will -confess I do not like myself to hear young girls speaking about love--I -would never advise a _man_ to marry without it--nay, the very thought -makes me angry; but--perhaps you’ll think it no compliment to us, -Katie--women are different; I have no fears of a good woman liking her -husband, no’ even if she was married against her will, as sometimes -happens. I would advise you not to be timid, so far as that is -concerned. Charlie’s very fond of you, and he’s a good lad. To be -married is natural at your age, to have a house of your own, and your -own place in this world; and then there are the bairns. Colin will soon -be off your hands, but the other three are young. Do you think it would -not be best for them if you married a _friend_?” - -Katie did not reply; but perhaps it was this last argument which moved -her to a long low sigh of unwelcome conviction. The old lady’s emphatic -_friend_ was Scotch for a relative. Would it indeed be better for them -that Katie’s husband should be her cousin? - -“Unless,” said her aunt, rising up to light the candles, yet pausing to -give effect to this last precaution; “unless, my dear, there should be a -single thought of any other man resting in your mind. If there is, -Katie, think no more of Charlie Cassilis. I’m willing you should marry -him first and grow fond of him after; but, my dear, stop and think--do -you like any other person better than him?” - -“Maybe I do, auntie,” said the low voice, softly; and Katie shook her -head thoughtfully in the darkness, with a half melancholy, half pleased -motion; “maybe I do.” - -“Then, for pity’s sake, not another word!” cried the old lady; and that -kindest of aunts rustled out of the pretty parlor, taking one of the -candlesticks in her hand, with a commotion and haste which showed that -Katie’s quiet half confession had by no means pleased her, in spite of -her avowed impartiality. Lucifer, son of the morning, had not fallen at -that time into such degrading familiarity with housekeepers and -housemaids as has chanced now to that unhappy spirit. Matches were none -in all the village of Lasswade, nor throughout the kingdom, save slender -slips of wood anointed with brimstone, and bearing the emphatic name of -_spunk_ in all the regions north of the Tweed. So Katie’s respectable -aunt, who was kind to her servants, rustled along the passage to the -kitchen to light the candle, and on the way there and the way back -recovered her temper--which was all the better for Katie; and by-and-bye -the quiet maiden household shut itself up and went to sleep. - -And perhaps when Katie knelt by her bedside that night to say her -prayers--by the white bed where little Isabel slept the deep sleep which -all the children sleep, thank Heaven, when we are awake with our -troubles--a little weariness of heart made a sigh among her prayers. She -was not romantic--the women of her family were otherwise disposed, as -good Auntie Isabel said, who had not a single selfish impulse in her -composition; and Katie was grieved to disappoint Cousin Charlie, and -perhaps feared, as women always do, with an unconscious vanity, for the -consequences of his disappointment; was she right to damage his -happiness, to refuse a supporter for herself, a protector for her -children, all for the sake of Huntley, who might perhaps have forgotten -her years ago? Katie could not answer her own question, but she did what -was the wisest course under the circumstances--laid her head resolutely -down, on her pillow and fell asleep, leaving time and the hour to solve -the question for her, and only sure of one thing--that her impulse was -right. - -But the question returned to her when she opened her eyes, in the -morning, in those first waking moments, when, as Béranger says, all our -cares awake before us, assault afresh, and, as if the first time, the -soul which has escaped them in the night. Was she right? All through her -early morning duties this oft-repeated question beset the mind of Katie; -and it needs only to see what these duties were, to acknowledge how -pertinacious it was. The cottage belonged to Aunt Isabel, who had -received gladly her orphan nieces and nephews after the death of Dr. -Logan. Aunt Isabel’s spare income was just enough for herself and her -maid, who, heretofore, had been sole occupants of the pretty little -house, and Katie and her orphans managed to live upon theirs, which was -also a very small income, but marvelously taken care of--and pleasantly -backed by the gooseberry-bushes and vegetable beds of the cottage -garden, which riches their mistress made common property. On Katie’s -advent, Aunt Isabel retired from the severe duties of housekeeping in -her own person. It was Katie who made the tea and cut the bread and -butter, and washed with her own hands the delicate cups and saucers -which Aunt Isabel would not trust to a servant. Then the elder sister -had to see that the boys were ready, with all their books strapped on -their shoulder, and their midday “piece” in their pocket, for school. -Then Isabel’s daintier toilet had to be superintended; and if Katie had -a weakness, it was to see her sister prettily dressed, and “in the -fashion"--and that little maiden sent forth fair and neat to the ladies’ -seminary which illustrated the healthful village of Lasswade; and then -Katie went to the kitchen, to determine what should be had for dinner, -and sometimes to lend her own delicate skill to the making of a pudding -or the crimping of a frill. When all was done, there was an unfailing -supply of needlework to keep her hands employed. On this particular -morning, Aunt Isabel meditated a call upon Miss Hogg, in Lasswade, and -Katie had been so much persecuted by that question which some malicious -imp kept always addressing to her, that she felt heated and out of -breath in the pretty parlor. So she took up her work, put her thread and -scissors in her pocket, and went out to the garden to sit on a low -garden seat, with the grass under her feet, and the trees over her, and -sweet Esk singing close at hand, thinking it might be easier to pursue -her occupation there. - -Perhaps that was a mistake. It is not easy to sew, nor to read, nor even -to think, out of doors on a June morning, with a sweet river drowsing -by, and the leaves, and the roses, and the birds, and the breeze making -among them that delightful babble of sound and motion which people call -the quiet of the country. Still Katie _did_ work; she was making shirts -for Colin, who had just gone into Edinburgh to Cousin Charlie’s -office;--stitching wristbands! and in spite of the sunshine and her -perplexed thoughts, Katie’s button-holes were worth going ten miles to -see. - -But was she right? Search through all the three kingdoms and you could -not have found a better fellow than Cousin Charlie, who was very fond of -Katie Logan, and had been for years. The elder sister liked him -heartily, knew that he would be kind to her orphans, believed him every -thing that was good in man; but while she reasoned with herself, the -color wavered upon her cheek, and somewhere in heart a voice, which -might have been the Esk river, so closely its whisper ran with her -thoughts, kept saying, “Dinna forget me, Katie!” till, by dint of -persistence, all the other meditations yielded, and this, with a -triumphant shout, kept the field. Oh, Huntley Livingstone! who had, just -as like as no’, forgotten Katie--was she right? - -He could not have come at a better time--he came quite unannounced, -unintroduced, so suddenly that Katie made an outcry almost of -terror--one moment, nobody with her but the Esk, and the roses, and her -own thoughts--not a shadow on the grass, not a step on the road. The -next moment, Huntley, standing there between her and the sky, between -her and home, shutting out every thing but himself, who had to be first -attended to. If she had only seen him a moment sooner, she might have -received him quite calmly, with the old smile of the elder-sister; but -because of the start, Katie getting up, dropping her work, and holding -out her hands, looked about as agitated, as glad, as tearful, as out of -herself, as even Huntley was. - -“I have come home--to Norlaw--to remain,” said Huntley, when he began to -know what he was saying, which was not just the first moment; “and you -are not an old Katie in a cap, as you threatened to be; but first I’ve -come to say out what I dared not say in the manse parlor--and you know -what that is. Katie, if you have forgotten me--Heaven knows I never will -blame you!--it’s seven weary years since then--if you have forgotten me, -Katie, tell me I am not to speak!” - -Katie had two or three impulses for the moment--to tell the truth, she -was quite happy, rejoiced to be justified in the unsolicited affection -she had given, and entirely contented in standing by this sudden -Œdipus, who was to resolve all her doubts. Being so, she could almost -have run away from the embarrassment and gravity of the moment, and made -a little natural sport of the solemnity of the lover, who stood before -her as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it was the only coquettish -thought which Katie Logan ever was guilty of. But she conquered it--she -looked up at him with her old smile. - -“Speak, Huntley!” she said; and having said so much, there was not, to -tell the truth, a great deal more necessary. Huntley spoke, you may be -sure, and Katie listened; and the very roses on the cottage wall were -not less troubled about Cousin Charlie for the next hour than she was. -And when Aunt Isabel returned, and Katie went in with a blush, holding -Huntley’s arm, to introduce him simply as “Huntley Livingstone,” with a -tone and a look which needed no interpretation, there was no longer a -doubt in Katie’s mind as to whether she was right. - -But she did not think it needful to tell Huntley what question she was -considering when his sudden appearance startled her out of all her -perplexities; and it is very likely that in that, at least, Katie was -perfectly right. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXV. - - -A very sadly different scene; no young hopes blossoming towards -perfection--no young lives beginning--no joy--has called together this -company, or makes this room bright; a dark house, shrouded still in its -closed curtains and shutters, a wan light in the apartment, a breathless -air of death throughout the place. Outside, the tawdry Frenchman, with a -long crape hatband, knotted up in funeral bows, as is the custom in -Scotland, walking up and down smoking his cigar, angry at finding -himself excluded, yet tired of the brief decorum into which even he has -been awed, and much disposed to amuse himself with any kitchenmaid whom -he may chance to see as he peers about their quarters, keeping at the -back of the house. But the maids are horrified and defiant, and the -affair is rather dull, after all, for Monsieur Pierrot. - -The company are all assembled in the drawing-room, as they have returned -from the funeral. The minister, the doctor, a lawyer from Melrose, -Cameron, and the three brothers Livingstone. Madame Roche, her black -gown covered with crape, and every thing about her of the deepest sable, -save her cap; the white ribbons of which are crape ribbons too, sits, -with her handkerchief in her hand, in an easy chair. The Mistress is -there, too, rather wondering and disapproving, giving her chief -attention to Desirée, who sits behind her mother quietly crying, and -supposing this solemn assembly is some necessary formality which must be -gone through. - -“Is it to read the will?” asks the minister, who suggests that her -husband had better be present; but no, there is no will--for poor Marie -had nothing and could leave nothing. When they have been all seated for -a few minutes, Madame Roche herself rises from her chair. Though the -tears are in her eyes, and grief in her face, she is still the beautiful -old lady whom Cosmo Livingstone loved to watch from his window in St. -Ouen. Time himself, the universal conqueror, can never take from Mary of -Melmar that gift which surrounded her with love in her youth, and which -has lighted all her troubled life like a fairy lamp. The sweet soft -cheek where even wrinkles are lovely, the beautiful old eyes which even -in their tears can not choose but smile, the footstep so light, yet so -firm, which still might ring “like siller bells,” though its way is -heavy. Every one was looking at her, and as they looked, every one -acknowledged the unchanging fascination of this beautiful face. - -“Gentlemen,” said Madame Roche with a little tremor in her voice, “I -would speak to you all--I would do my justice before the world; you have -heard what I was in my youth. Mary Huntley of Melmar, my father’s -heiress. I was disobedient--I went away from him--I knew he disowned me, -and knew no more than an infant that he relented in his heart when he -died. I was poor all my life--my Marie, my dear child!” and here Madame -Roche paused to sob aloud, and Desirée laid her head upon the knee of -the Mistress and clutched at her dress in silent self-control; “it was -then she married this man--married him to break her heart--yet still -loved him to the last. Ah, my friends, I was thus a widow with my sick -child in my husband’s town. My Jean was dead, and she was forsaken--and -my Desirée was gone from me to serve strangers--it was then that one -came to my house like an angel from heaven. Cosmo, my friend, do you -blush that I should name your name? - -“And what a tale he told me!” cried poor Madame Roche, whose tears now -filled her eyes, and whose lips quivered so that she had to pause from -moment to moment; “I, who thought me a lonely woman, whom no one cared -for;--my father had thought upon me--my kinsman, Patrick Livingstone, -had sought me to give me back my lands--my young hero was seeking me -then; and his brother, yes, Huntley, his noble brother, was ready to -renounce his right--and all for the widow and her children. I weep, ah, -my friends, you weep!--was it not noble? was it not above praise? When I -heard it I made a vow--I said in my heart I should repay this excellent -Huntley. I had planned it in my mind--I said in my thoughts, my Marie, -my blessed child, must have half of this great fortune. She is married, -she can not make compensation--but the rest is for Desirée, and Desirée -shall give it back to Huntley Livingstone.” - -Every one of her auditors by this time gazed upon Madame Roche. Desirée, -sitting behind her, lifted her face from the lap of the Mistress; she -was perfectly pale, and her eyes were heavy with crying. She sat -leaning forward, holding the Mistress’s gown with one hand, with sudden -dismay and terror in her white face. Just opposite her Cameron sat, -clenching his hand. What _he_ was thinking no one could say--but as -Madame Roche spoke of Marie he still clenched his hand. Then came the -strangers, surprised and sympathetic, Patrick Livingstone among them. -Then Huntley, much startled and wondering, and Cosmo, with a face which -reflected Desirée’s, dismayed and full of anxiety, and the attitude of a -man about to spring up to defy, or denounce, or contradict the speaker. -The Mistress behind sat upright in her chair, with a face like a psalm -of battle and triumph, her nostril dilating, her eyes shining. For the -first time in her life, the Mistress’s heart warmed to Mary of Melmar. -She alone wanted no explanation of this speech--she alone showed no -surprise or alarm--it was but a just and fit acknowledgment--a glory due -to the sons of Norlaw. - -“But, alas,” cried Madame Roche; “God has looked upon it, and it has not -been enough. He has broken my heart and made my way clear; pity me, my -friends, my Marie is in heaven and her mother here! And now there is but -one heir. My Desirée is my only child--there is none to share her -inheritance. Huntley Livingstone, come to me! I have thought and I have -dreamed of the time when I should give you my child--but, alas! did I -think it should be only when Marie was in her grave? Huntley -Livingstone! you gave up your right to me, and I restore it to you. I -give you my child, and Melmar is for Desirée. There is no one to share -it with you, my daughter and my son!” - -Huntley had risen and approached to Madame Roche, though with -reluctance, when she called him. Now she held his hand in one of hers, -and stretched out the other for that of Desirée--while Huntley, -confounded, confused, and amazed beyond expression, had not yet -recovered himself sufficiently to speak. Before he could speak Cosmo had -sprung to the side of Desirée, who stood holding back and meeting her -mother’s appeal with a look of dumb defiance and exasperation, which -might be very wrong, but was certainly very natural. Every one rose. But -for the grief of the principal actors, and the painful embarrassment of -all, the scene might almost have been ludicrous. Cosmo, who had grasped -at Desirée’s hand, did not obtain it any more than her mother. The girl -stood up, but kept her hold of the Mistress’s gown, as if for -protection. - -“No, no, no, no!” said Desirée, in a low, hurried, ashamed voice; -“mother, no--no--no! I will not do it! Mamma, will you shame me? Oh, -pity us! Is it thus we are to weep for Marie?” - -“My child, it is justice,” cried Madame Roche, through her tears; “give -him your hand--it is that Huntley may have his own.” - -“But there is some strange mistake here,” said Huntley, whose brow -burned with a painful flush; “Melmar was never mine, nor had I any real -right to it. Years ago I have even forgotten that it once was possible. -Be silent for a moment, Cosmo, I beg of you, and you, Mademoiselle -Desirée, do not fear. Madame Roche, I thank you for your generous -meaning, but it is an entire mistake in every way--let me explain it -privately. Let us be alone first;--nay, nay, let me speak, then! I am my -father’s heir, and our house is older than Melmar; and nothing in the -world, were it the hand of a queen, could tempt me to call myself any -thing but Livingstone of Norlaw!” - -The Mistress had been standing up, like everybody else, an excited -spectator. When Huntley said these words she sat down suddenly, with a -glow and flush of triumph not to be described--the name of her husband -and her son ringing in her ears like a burst of music; and then, for the -first time, Desirée relinquished her hold, and held out her hand to -Huntley, while Cosmo grasped his other hand and wrung it in both his -with a violent pressure. The three did not think for that moment of -Madame Roche, who had been looking in Huntley’s face all the time he -spoke to her, and who, when he ended, dropped his hand silently and sank -into her chair. She was leaning back now, with her white handkerchief -over her face--and the hand that held it trembled. Poor Madame Roche! -this was all her long thought of scheme had come to--she could only -cover her face and forget the pang of failure in the bigger pang of -grief--she did not say another word; she comprehended--for she was not -slow of understanding--that Huntley’s little effusion of family pride -was but a rapid and generous expedient to save him from a direct -rejection of Desirée. And poor Madame Roche’s heart grew sick with the -quick discouragement of grief. She closed her eyes, and heavier tears -came from them than even those she had shed for Marie. She had tried her -best to make them happy, she had failed; and now they for whose sake -alone she had made all this exertion neglected and forgot her. It was -too much for Madame Roche. - -“Mamma, listen,” whispered Desirée, soothingly. “Ah, mamma, you might -force mine--I should always obey you--but you can not force Huntley’s -heart--he does not care for _me_; bah, that is nothing!--but there _is_ -one whom he cares for--one whom he has come home for--Katie, whom they -all love! Mamma, you were right! he is noble, he is generous; but what -is Melmar to Huntley? He has come back for Katie and his own home.” - -“Katie?--some one else? My darling, does he love her?” said Madame -Roche. “Then it is God who has undone all, Desirée, and I am content. -Let him come to me, and I will bless him. I will bless you all, my -children,” she said, raising herself up, and stretching her hands toward -them. “Ah, friends, do you see them--so young and so like each other! -and it was _he_ who sought us, and not Huntley; and it is I who am -wrong--and God is right!” - -Saying which, Madame Roche kissed Huntley’s cheek, dismissing him so, -and took Cosmo into her arms instead. Her sweet temper and facile mind -forgot even her own failure. She put back Cosmo’s hair tenderly from his -forehead and called him her hero. He was her son at least; and Desirée -and Melmar, the two dreams of his fancy, between which, when he saw the -girl first, he suspected no possible connection, came at once, a double -gift, the one eagerly sought, the other totally unthought of, into the -Benjamin’s portion of Cosmo Livingstone. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXVI. - - -“There’s aye plenty fools in this world,” said bowed Jaaoob; “a’thing -else that’s human fails; but that commodity’s aye ready. I had my hopes -of that laddie Livingstone. He has nae discrimination, and hasna seen -the world, like some other folk, but for a’ that I thought I could -perceive a ring of the right metal in him, and I’m no’ often wrang. And -so Cosmo’s to be marriet! I dinna disapprove of his taste--that’s a -different matter. I even had a great notion of _her_ mysel’; but when -the lad’s married there’s an end of him. Wha ever heard tell of a man -coming to distinction with a wife at his tail?--na! I wash my hands of -Cosmo--he shall never mair be officer of mine.” - -Jaacob did not address himself to any one in particular. The news with -which Kirkbride was ringing was great news in its way, and a little -crowd had collected in the corner, close by the smithy, to discuss it, a -crowd composed chiefly of women, chief among whom, in a flush of triumph -and importance, stood Marget of Norlaw. Jaacob did not often concern his -lofty intelligence with the babble of women, but the little giant was -interested in spite of himself, and had a warm corner in his heart for -both the heroes who were under present discussion. A lusty blacksmith -apprentice puffed at the great bellows within that ruddy cavern, and -Jaacob stood at the door, with one or two male gossips lingering near -him, which was a salve to his dignity; but Jaacob’s words were not -addressed even to his own cronies; they were a spontaneous effusion of -observant wisdom, mingled with benevolent regret. - -“The man’s in a creel!” cried the indignant Marget--“an officer of -yours, Jaacob Bell?--_yours_, ye objeck! and I would just like to ken -wha gave the like of you ony right to ca’ _our_ son by his christened -name? Na, sirs, ye’re a’ wrang--it just shows how little folk ken about -onything out of their ain road; and canna haud their peace either, or -let them speak that have the knowledge. The auld lady--her that was Mary -of Melmar--would have given our Huntley baith the land and the bonnie -lass, if it had been _her_ will, for she’s a real sensible woman, as -it’s turned out, and kens the value of lads like ours. But Huntley -Livingstone, he said no. He’s no’ the lad, our Huntley, to be ony wife’s -man--and he has his awn yestate, and an aulder name and fame than -Melmar. There’s no’ an auld relick in the whole country-side like our -auld castle. I’ve heard it from them that ken; and our Huntley would no -mair part with the name than wi’ his right hand. Eh! if auld Norlaw, -puir man, had but lived to see this day! Our Cosmo is very like his -father. He’s just as like to be kent far and near for his poems and his -stories as Walter Scott ower yonder at Abbotsford. It’s just like a -story in a book itsel’. When he was but a laddie--no’ muckle bigger than -bowed Jaacob--he fell in with a bonnie bit wee French lady, in -Edinburgh. I mind him telling me--there’s never ony pride about our -sons--just as well as if it was yesterday. The callant’s head ran upon -naething else--and wha was this but just Miss Deseera! and he’s courted -her this mony a year, whaever might oppose; and now he’s won and -conquered, and there’s twa weddings to be in Kirkbride, baith in the -very same day!” - -“In Kirkbride? but, dear woman, Miss Logan’s no’ here,” suggested one of -the bystanders. - -“Wha’s heeding!” cried Marget, in her triumph, “if ane’s in Kirkbride, -and ane in anither kirk, is that onything against the truth I am -telling? Sirs, haud a’ your tongues--I’ve carried them a’ in my arms, -and told them stories. I’ve stood by them and their mother, just me and -no other person, when they were in their sorest trouble; and I would -like to hear wha daur say a word, if Norlaw Marget is just wild and out -of her wits for aince in her life to see their joy!” - -“I never look for discretion at a woman’s hand mysel’,” said bowed -Jaacob, though even Jaacob paused a little before he brought the shadow -of his cynicism over Marget’s enthusiasm; “they’re easy pleased, puir -things, and easy cast down--a man of sense has aye a compassion for the -sex--it’s waste o’ time arguing with them. Maybe that’s a reason for -lamenting this lad Livingstone. A man, if he’s no’ a’ the stronger, is -awfu’ apt to fall to the level of his company--and to think of a -promising lad, no’ five-and-twenty, lost amang a haill tribe--wife, -mother, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and gude kens how mony friends -forbye--it’s grievous--that’s just what it is; a man goes down, a man -comes to the calibre of the woman. For which cause,” said bowed Jaacob, -thrusting his cowl on one side of his head, twisting still higher his -high shoulder, and fixing a defiant gaze upon the admiring crowd with -his one eye; “in spite of mony temptations--for I’ll say that for the -women, that they ken a man of sense when they see him--I’m no’, and -never will be, a marrying man mysel’!” - -“Eh, but Jaacob,” cried a saucy voice, “if you could have gotten her, -you might have put up with Miss Roche.” - -“Humph--I had a great notion of the lassie,” said Jaacob, loftily; “men -at my years get above the delusion of looking for a woman as a -companion. It makes nae muckle matter whether she’s ca’ed a foolish -woman or a sensible ane; its naething but a question of degree; and when -a man finds that out, he has a right to please his e’e. When you hear of -me married, it’s a wife of sixteen, that’s what I’ll have gotten; but -you see, as for Miss Deeseera, puir thing, she may be breaking her -heart, for onything I ken. I’m a man of honor, and Cosmo’s a great -friend of mine--I wouldna, for twenty Melmars, come between my friend -and his love.” - -And amid the laughter which echoed this magnanimous speech, bowed Jaacob -retired into the ruddy gloom of the smithy and resumed his hammer, which -he played with such manful might and intention upon the glowing iron, -that the red light illuminated his whole swarthy face and person, and -the red sparks flashed round him like the rays round a saint in an old -picture. He was not in the least a saintly individual, but Rembrandt -himself could not have found a better study for light and shade. - -A little time sufficed to accomplish these momentous changes. The -Mistress gave up her trust of Norlaw, the cows and dairies which were -the pride of her heart, the bank-book, with its respectable balance, and -all the rural wealth of the farmsteading, to her son. And Huntley warned -the tenants to whom his mother had let the land that he should resume -the farming of it himself at the end of the year, when their terms were -out. Every thing about Norlaw began to wear signs of preparation. The -Mistress spoke vaguely of going with Patie, the only one of her sons who -still “belonged to his mother"--and making a home for him in Glasgow. -But Patie was an engineer, involved over head and ears in the Herculean -work of the new railways; he was scarcely three months in the year, take -them altogether, at the lodging which he called his head quarters--and -perhaps, on the whole, he rather discouraged the idea. - -“At least, mother, you must wait to welcome Katie,” said this astute and -long-headed adviser of the family--and the Mistress, with her strong -sense of country breeding and decorum, would not have done less, had it -broken her heart. But she rather longed for the interval to be over, and -the matter concluded. The Mistress, somehow, could not understand or -recognize herself adrift from Norlaw. - -“But I dinna doubt it would be best--it’s natural,” said the -Mistress--“they should have their good beginning to themselves,” and -with that she sighed, and grew red with shame to think it was a sigh, -and spoke sharply to Marget, and put the old easy chair which had been -“their father’s!” away into a corner, with a little momentary ebullition -of half resentful tears. But she never lost her temper to Huntley--it -was only Nature, and not her son who was to blame. - -It was early in August when Katie came home. The Mistress stood at the -door waiting to receive her, on a night which was worthy such a -homecoming. Just sunset, the field-laborers going home, the purple flush -folded over the Eildons like a regal mantle, the last tender ray -catching the roofless wall of the Strength of Norlaw, and the soft hill -rising behind, with yellow corn waving rich to its summit, soon to be -ripe for the harvest. Tears were in the Mistress’s heart, but smiles in -her face; she led her new daughter in before even Huntley, brought her -to the dining-parlor, and set her in her own chair. - -“This is where I sat first myself the day I came home,” said the -Mistress, with a sob, “and sit you there; and God bless my bairns, and -build up Norlaw--amen!” - -But Katie said the amen too, and rose again, holding the Mistress fast -and looking up in her face. - -“I have not said mother for ten years,” said Katie. “Mother! do you -think dispeace can ever rise between you and me, that you should think -once of going away?” - -The Mistress paused. - -“No dispeace, Katie--no, God forbid!” said Huntley’s mother, “but I’m a -hasty woman in my speech, and ever was.” - -“But not to me,” said the Katie who was no more Katie Logan--“never to -me! and Huntley will be a lonely man if his mother goes from Norlaw, for -where thou goest I will go, and where thou dwellest I will dwell. -Mother, tell me! is it Patie or poor Huntley who is to have you and -me?” - -The Mistress did not say a word. She suffered herself to be placed in -the chair where she had placed Katie, and then put her apron over her -face and wept, thinking strangely, all at once, not of a new -daughter-in-law and a changed place, but of him who lay sleeping among -the solemn ruins at Dryburgh, and all the sacred chain of years that -made dear this house of Norlaw. - -The other marriage took place after that, with much greater glory and -distinction, to the pride of the Mistress’s heart. It was a great -festival when it came--which was not till the season of mourning was -over--to all of whom Madame Roche could reach. Even Joanna Huntley and -Aunt Jean were persuaded to come to gladden the wedding of Desirée and -Cosmo; and it is even said that Joanna, who is of a very scientific turn -of mind, and has a little private laboratory of her own, where she burns -her pupils’ fingers, was the finder of that strange little heap of dust -and cinders which revealed to Huntley the mineral wealth in the corner -of the Norlaw lands, which now has made him rich enough to buy three -Norlaws. At any rate, Joanna was put into perfect good humor by her -visit, and thenceforward, with the chivalry of a knight-errant, -worshiped above all loveliness the beautiful old face of Madame Roche. - -This is about all there is to tell of the Livingstone family. They had -their troubles, and are having them, like all of us; but, like all of -us, have great joy-cordials now and then to make them strong; and always -Providence to work a clear web out of the tangled exertions which we -make without witting, and which God sorts into His appointed lot. - -THE END. - - * * * * * - - ☛ Every Number of Harper’s Magazine contains from 20 to 50 - pages--and from one third to one half more reading--than any other - in the country. - - - * * * * * - -HARPER’S MAGAZINE. - - -The Publishers believe that the Seventeen Volumes of HARPER’S MAGAZINE -now issued contain a larger amount of valuable and attractive reading -than will be found in any other periodical of the day. The best Serial -Tales of the foremost Novelists of the time: LEVERS’ “Maurice Tiernay,” -BULWER LYTTON’S “My Novel,” DICKENS’S “Bleak House” and “Little Dorrit,” -THACKERAY’S “Newcomes” and “Virginians,” have successively appeared in -the Magazine simultaneously with their publication in England. The best -Tales and Sketches from the Foreign Magazines have been carefully -selected, and original contributions have been furnished by CHARLES -READE, WILKIE COLLINS, Mrs. GASKELL, Miss MULOCH, and other prominent -English writers. - -The larger portion of the Magazine has, however, been devoted to -articles upon American topics, furnished by American writers. -Contributions have been welcomed from every section of the country; and -in deciding upon their acceptance the Editors have aimed to be governed -solely by the intrinsic merits of the articles, irrespective of their -authorship. Care has been taken that the Magazine should never become -the organ of any local clique in literature, or of any sectional party -in politics. - -At no period since the commencement of the Magazine have its literary -and artistic resources been more ample and varied; and the Publishers -refer to the contents of the Periodical for the past as the best -guarantee for its future claims upon the patronage of the American -public. - - TERMS.--One Copy for One Year, $3 00; Two Copies for One Year, $5 - 00; Three or more Copies for One Year (each), $2 00; “Harper’s - Magazine” and “Harper’s Weekly,” One Year, $4 00. _And an Extra - Copy, gratis, for every Club of_ TEN SUBSCRIBERS. - - Clergymen and Teachers supplied at TWO DOLLARS a year. The - Semi-Annual Volumes bound in Cloth, $2 50 each. Muslin Covers, 25 - cents each. The Postage upon HARPER’S MAGAZINE must be paid at the - Office _where it is received_. The Postage is _Thirty-six Cents a - year_. - -HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, Franklin Square, New York. - - * * * * * - -HARPER’S WEEKLY. - -A JOURNAL OF CIVILIZATION. - -A First-class Illustrated Family Newspaper. - -PRICE FIVE CENTS. - - -HARPER’S WEEKLY has now been in existence two years. During that period -no effort has been spared to make it the best possible Family Paper for -the American People, and it is the belief of the Proprietors that, in -the peculiar field which it occupies, no existing Periodical can compare -with it. - -Every Number of HARPER’S WEEKLY contains all the News of the week, -Domestic and Foreign. The completeness of this department is, it is -believed, unrivaled in any other weekly publication. Every noteworthy -event is profusely and accurately illustrated at the time of its -occurrence. And while no expense is spared to procure Original -Illustrations, care is taken to lay before the reader every foreign -picture which appears to possess general interest. In a word, the -Subscriber to HARPER’S WEEKLY may rely upon obtaining a Pictorial -History of the times in which we live, compiled and illustrated in the -most perfect and complete manner possible. It is believed that the -Illustrated Biographies alone--of which about one hundred and fifty have -already been published--are worth far more to the reader than the whole -cost of his subscription. - -The literary matter of HARPER’S WEEKLY is supplied by some of the ablest -writers in the English language. Every Number contains an installment of -a serial story by a first-class author--BULWER’S “_What will he do with -It?_” has appeared entire in its columns; one or more short Stories, the -best that can be purchased at home or abroad; the best Poetry of the -day; instructive Essays on topics of general interest; Comments on the -Events of the time, in the shape of Editorials and the Lounger’s -philosophic and amusing Gossip; searching but generous Literary -Criticisms; a Chess Chronicle; and full and careful reports of the -Money, Merchandise, and Produce Markets. - -In fixing at so low a price as Five Cents the price of their paper, the -Publishers were aware that nothing but an enormous sale could remunerate -them. They are happy to say that the receipts have already realized -their anticipations, and justify still further efforts to make HARPER’S -WEEKLY an indispensable guest in every home throughout the country. - - TERMS.--One Copy for Twenty Weeks, $1 00; One Copy for One Year, $2 - 50; One Copy for Two Years, $4 00; Five Copies for One Year, $9 00; - Twelve Copies for One Year, $20 00; Twenty-five Copies for One - Year, $40 00. _An Extra Copy will be allowed for every Club of_ - TWELVE _or_ TWENTY-FIVE SUBSCRIBERS. - - * * * * * - -LA PLATA: THE ARGENTINE CONFEDERATION, AND PARAGUAY. - - Being a Narrative of the Exploration of the Tributaries of the - River La Plata and Adjacent Countries, during the Years 1853, ’54, - ’55, and ’56, under the orders, of the United States Government. - -BY THOMAS J. PAGE, U.S.N., Commander of the Expedition. - -One Volume Large Octavo, with Map and numerous Illustrations. Muslin, -Three Dollars. - - -This Volume contains the Official Narrative of one of the most important -expeditions ever sent out by our Government. Early in 1853 the steamer -_Water Witch_ was placed under the command of Lieutenant PAGE, with -instructions to explore the Rivers of La Plata, and report upon their -navigability and adaptation to commerce. Lieutenant PAGE executed his -commission with rare fidelity and intelligence, and has embodied the -results in this volume. The explorations described in the Narrative -embrace an extent of 3600 miles of river navigation, and 4400 miles of -journey by land in Paraguay and the Argentine Confederation. The River -Paraguay alone was found to be navigable, at low water, by a steamer -drawing nine feet, for more than two thousand miles from the ocean. The -basin of La Plata is almost equal in extent to that of the Mississippi, -and not inferior in salubrity of climate and fertility of soil, while -the head waters of its rivers penetrate the richest mineral provinces of -Brazil and Bolivia. The products of this region must find their outlet -through the River La Plata. The population numbers scarcely one person -to a square mile, but great inducements to emigration are now offered by -the Argentine Confederation. The commerce of the country, already -considerable, is capable of immediate and almost indefinite increase. - -Lieutenant PAGE’S Narrative contains ample information respecting the -soil, climate, and productions of the country, and the manners, habits, -and customs of the people. A full account is given of the unfortunate -rupture with Paraguay, showing conclusively that the attack upon the -_Water Witch_ was altogether unwarranted, and the allegations by which -President Lopez attempted to justify it entirely destitute of truth. An -interesting and valuable account of the Jesuit Missions in La Plata is -appended to the Narrative. - -The Illustrations comprise the accurate Map of the Country prepared by -the orders of our Government, Portraits of Urquiza, Lopez, Francis, and -Loyola, and numerous Engravings of Scenery, Character, and Incident. - - _Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York._ - -HARPER & BROTHERS will send the above Work by Mail, postage paid, to any -part of the United States, on receipt of $3 00. - - * * * * * - -“The most magnificent contribution of the present century to the cause -of geographical knowledge.” - -DR. BARTH’S NORTH AND CENTRAL AFRICA. - - Travels and Discoveries in North and Central Africa. Being a - Journal of an Expedition undertaken under the Auspices of H.B.M’s - Government in the Years 1849-1855. By HENRY BARTH, Ph.D., D.C.L., - Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Asiatic Societies, &c., &c. - Profusely and elegantly illustrated. Complete in 3 vols. 8vo, - Muslin, $2 50 a Volume; Half Calf, $10 50 a set. - -Dr. Barth’s wonderful travels approach the Equator from the North as -nearly as Dr. Livingstone’s from the South, and thus show to future -travelers the field which still remains open for exploration and -research.--Vol. III., completing the work, is in the press, and will be -published shortly. - -The researches of Dr. Barth are of the highest interest. Few men have -existed so qualified, both by intellectual ability and a vigorous bodily -constitution, for the perilous part of an African discoverer as Dr. -Barth.--_London Times, Sept. 8, 1857._ - -It richly merits all the commendation bestowed upon it by “the leading -journals of Europe."--_Corr. National Intelligencer._ - -Every chapter presents matter of more original interest than an ordinary -volume of travels.--_London Leader._ - -For extent and variety of subjects, the volumes before us greatly -surpass every other work on African travel with which it has been our -fortune to meet.--_London Athenæum._ - -Dr. Barth is the model of an explorer--patient, persevering, and -resolute.--_London Spectator._ - -No one who wishes to know Africa can afford to dispense with this -work.--_Boston Traveler._ - -A most wonderful record.--_Poughkeepsie Democrat._ - -It is the most magnificent contribution of the present century to the -cause of geographical knowledge.--_N. Y. Evangelist._ - -The most important contribution to Geographical Science that has been -made in our time. Thousands of readers in our country will be anxious to -get possession of this treasure of knowledge.--_N. Y. Observer._ - -One of the most important works of the kind which has appeared for an -age.--_Lutheran Observer._ - -It can not fail to find its way into the libraries of most -scholars.--_Lynchburg Virginian._ - -The personal details give the work great interest.--_Philadelphia -Press._ - -Dr. Barth’s work is a magnificent contribution to geographical and -ethnographical science.--_N. Y. Independent._ - -Your curiosity is awakened, step by step, as with diminished resources -he works his way through fanatical and rapacious tribes, ready in -resources and never desponding, and buoyed up by the unconquerable -desire to surpass his predecessors in the thoroughness and in the range -of his discoveries.--_Albion._ - -Among the most wonderful achievements of modern times.--_Western -Christian Advocate._ - -A most valuable contribution to the standard literature of the -world.--_Troy Times._ - -Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, -Franklin Square, New York. - -*** HARPER & BROTHERS will send the above Work by Mail, postage paid -(for any distance in the United States under 3000 miles), on receipt of -the Money. - - * * * * * - -THE - -LAND AND THE BOOK; - -OR, - -BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATIONS DRAWN FROM THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS, THE SCENES -AND SCENERY OF THE HOLY LAND. - -BY W. M. THOMSON, D.D., Twenty-five Years a Missionary of the A.B.C.F.M. -in Syria and Palestine. - - With two elaborate Maps of Palestine, an accurate Plan of - Jerusalem, and _several hundred Engravings_ representing the - Scenery, Topography, and Productions of the Holy Land, and the - Costumes, Manners, and Habits of the People. Two elegant Large 12mo - Volumes, Muslin, $3 50; Half Calf, $5 20. - - -The Land of the Bible is part of the Divine Revelation. It bears -_testimony_ essential to faith, and gives _lessons_ invaluable in -exposition. Both have been written all over the fair face of Palestine, -and deeply graven there by the finger of God in characters of living -light. To collect this testimony and popularize these lessons for the -biblical student of every age and class is the prominent design of this -work. For _twenty-five years_ the Author has been permitted to read the -Book by the light which the Land sheds upon it; and he now hands over -this friendly torch to those who have not been thus favored. In this -attempt the pencil has been employed to aid the pen. A large number of -pictorial illustrations are introduced, many of them original, and all -giving a genuine and true representation of things in the actual Holy -Land of the present day. They are not fancy sketches of imaginary scenes -thrown in to embellish the page, but pictures of living manners, studies -of sacred topography, or exponents of interesting biblical allusions, -which will add greatly to the value of the work. - - _Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York._ - -HARPER & BROTHERS will send the above Work by Mail, postage paid, to any -part of the United States, on receipt of the Money. - - * * * * * - -Harper’s New Catalogue. - - -A NEW DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE OF HARPER & BROTHERS’ PUBLICATIONS is now -ready for distribution, and may be obtained gratuitously on application -to the Publishers personally, or by letter enclosing SIX CENTS in -postage stamps. - -The attention of gentlemen, in town or country, designing to form -Libraries or enrich their literary collections, is respectfully -invited to this Catalogue, which will be found to comprise a large -proportion of the standard and most esteemed works in English -Literature--COMPREHENDING MORE THAN TWO THOUSAND VOLUMES--which are -offered in most instances at less than one half the cost of similar -productions in England. - -To Librarians and others connected with Colleges, Schools, etc., who may -not have access to a reliable guide in forming the true estimate of -literary productions, it is believed the present Catalogue will prove -especially valuable as a manual of reference. - -To prevent disappointment, it is suggested that, whenever books can not -be obtained through any bookseller or local agent, applications with -remittance should be addressed direct to the Publishers, which will be -promptly attended to. - -_Franklin Square, New York._ - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story, by -Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAIRD OF NORLAW *** - -***** This file should be named 54053-0.txt or 54053-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/0/5/54053/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/54053-0.zip b/old/54053-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 2bf0b55..0000000 --- a/old/54053-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/54053-h.zip b/old/54053-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index c4e6d28..0000000 --- a/old/54053-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/54053-h/54053-h.htm b/old/54053-h/54053-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 55168b9..0000000 --- a/old/54053-h/54053-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15915 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Laird of Norlaw, by Mrs. Oliphant. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.cb {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -.eng {font-family: "Old English Text MT",fantasy,sans-serif; -text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - -.indd {text-indent:8%;} - -.lftspc {margin-left:.25em;} - -.r {text-align:right;margin-right: 5%;} - -.hang {text-indent:-2%;margin-left:2%;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - -big {font-size: 130%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-family:courier, serif;} - -.cour {font-family:courier, serif;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;font-weight:bold;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:120%;letter-spacing:.15em; -font-family:courier, serif;} - - hr {width:100%;margin:2em auto 2em auto;clear:both;color:black;} - - hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; -padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} - - body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} - - img {border:none;} - -.blockquot {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;} - -.bbox {border:solid 2px black;} - -.figcenter {margin-top:3%;margin-bottom:3%;clear:both; -margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - @media print, handheld - {.figcenter - {page-break-before: avoid;} - } - -div.poetry {text-align:center;} -div.poem {font-size:90%;margin:auto auto;text-indent:0%; -display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poem .stanza {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: .45em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -@media print, handheld -{.pagenum - {display: none;} - } - -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story, by -Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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/license - - -Title: The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: January 25, 2017 [EBook #54053] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAIRD OF NORLAW *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="330" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1><small><small>THE<br /> -</small></small> - -LAIRD OF NORLAW.<br /> -<small>A SCOTTISH STORY.</small></h1> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<p class="cour"><b><small>BY THE AUTHOR OF<br /> - -“MARGARET MAITLAND,” “LILLIESLEAF,” “ORPHANS,”<br /> -“THE DAYS OF MY LIFE,” ETC., ETC.</small></b></p> - -<p class="cour">NEW YORK:<br /> - -HARPER & BROTHERS,<br /> - -FRANKLIN SQUARE.<br /> -1859. -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> </p> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XL">XL., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">XLI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">XLII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">XLIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">XLIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">XLV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">XLVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">XLVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">XLVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX">XLIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_L">L., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LI">LI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LII">LII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIII">LIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIV">LIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LV">LV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVI">LVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVII">LVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVIII">LVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIX">LIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LX">LX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXI">LXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXII">LXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXIII">LXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXIV">LXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXV">LXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXVI">LXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXVII">LXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXVIII">LXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXIX">LXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXX">LXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXXI">LXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXXII">LXXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXXIII">LXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXXIV">LXXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXXV">LXXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXXVI">LXXVI. </a> -</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> </p> - -<h1>THE LAIRD OF NORLAW.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> house of Norlaw stands upon the slope of a low hill, under shelter -of the three mystic Eildons, and not very far from that little ancient -town which, in the language of the author of “Waverley,” is called -Kennaquhair.</p> - -<p>A low, peaceable, fertile slope, bearing trees to its top-most height, -and corn on its shoulders, with a little river running by its base, -which manages, after many circuits, to wind its way into Tweed. The -house, which is built low upon the hill, is two stories in front, but, -owing to the unequal level, only one behind. The garden is all at the -back, where the ground is sheltered, but in front, the green, natural -surface of the hill descends softly to the water without any thing to -break its verdure. There are clumps of trees on each side, straying as -nature planted them, but nothing adorns the sloping lawn, which is not -called a lawn, nor used for any purposes of ornament by the household of -Norlaw.</p> - -<p>Close by, at the right hand of this homely house, stands an -extraordinary foil to its serenity and peacefulness. The old castle of -Norlaw, gaunt and bare, and windowless, not a towered and battlemented -pile, but a straight, square, savage mass of masonry, with windows -pierced high up in its walls in even rows, like a prison, and the gray -stone-work below, as high under the first range of windows as the roof -of the modern house, rising up blank, like a rock, without the slightest -break or opening. To see this strange old ruin, in the very heart of the -peaceful country, without a feature of nature to correspond with its -sullen strength, nor a circumstance to suggest the times and the danger -which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> made that necessary, is the strangest thing in the world; all the -more that the ground has no special capacities for defense, and that the -castle is not a picturesque baronial accumulation of turrets and -battlements, but a big, austere, fortified dwelling-house, which modern -engineering could make an end of in half a day.</p> - -<p>It showed, however, if it did nothing better, that the Livingstones were -knights and gentlemen, in the day when the Border was an unquiet -habitation—and for this, if for nothing else, was held in no little -honor by the yeoman Livingstone, direct descendant of the Sir Rodericks -and Sir Anthonys, who farmed the remains of his paternal property, and -dwelt in the modern house of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>This house was little more than a farm-house in appearance, and nothing -more in reality. The door opened into a square hall, on either side of -which was a large room, with three deep-set windows in each; four of -these windows looked out upon the lawn and the water, while one broke -each corner of the outer wall. On the side nearest the castle, a little -behind the front level of the house, was an “outshot,” a little wing -built to the side, which formed the kitchen, upon the ever-open door of -which the corner window of the common family sitting room kept up a -vigilant inspection. A plentiful number of bed-chambers up-stairs were -reached by a good stair-case, and a gallery which encircled the hall; -the architecture was of the most monotonous and simple regularity; so -many windows on one side soberly poising so many windows on the other. -The stair-case made a rounded projection at the back of the house, which -was surmounted by a steep little turret roof, blue-slated, and bearing a -tiny vane for its crown, after the fashion of the countryside; and this, -which glimmered pleasantly among the garden fruit trees when you looked -down from the top of the hill—and the one-storied projection, which was -the kitchen, were the only two features which broke the perfect -plainness and uniformity of the house.</p> - -<p>But though it was July when this history begins, the flush of -summer—and though the sunshine was sweet upon the trees and the water, -and the bare old walls of the castle, there was little animation in -Norlaw. The blinds were drawn up in the east room, the best -apartment—though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> the sun streamed in at the end window, and “the -Mistress” was not wont to leave her favorite carpet to the tender -mercies of that bright intruder; and the blinds were down in the -dining-room, which nobody had entered this morning, and where even the -Mistress’s chair and little table in the corner window could not keep a -vicarious watch upon the kitchen door. It was not needful; the two maids -were very quiet, and not disposed to amuse themselves. Marget, the elder -one, who was the byrewoman, and had responsibilities, went about the -kitchen very solemnly, speaking with a gravity which became the -occasion; and Janet, who was the house-servant, and soft-hearted, stood -at the table, washing cups and saucers, very slowly, and with the most -elaborate care, lest one of them should tingle upon the other, and -putting up her apron very often to wipe the tears from her eyes. -Outside, on the broad stone before the kitchen door, a little ragged boy -sat, crying bitterly—and no one else was to be seen about the house.</p> - -<p>“Jenny,” said the elder maid, at last, “give that bairn a piece, and -send him away. There’s enow of us to greet—for what we’re a’ to do for -a puir distressed family, when aince the will o’ God’s accomplished this -day, I canna tell.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, woman, dinna speak! he’ll maybe win through,” cried Jenny, with -renewed tears.</p> - -<p>Marget was calm in her superior knowledge.</p> - -<p>“I ken a death-bed from a sick-bed,” she said, with solemnity; “I’ve -seen them baith—and weel I kent, a week come the morn, that it was -little good looking for the doctor, or wearying aye for his physic time, -or thinking the next draught or the next pill would do. Eh sirs! ane -canna see when it’s ane’s ain trouble; if it had been ony ither man, the -Mistress would have kent as weel as me.”</p> - -<p>“It’s an awfu’ guid judge that’s never wrang,” said Jenny, with a little -impatience. “He’s a guid faither, and a guid maister; it’s my hope he’ll -cheat you a’ yet, baith the doctor and you.”</p> - -<p>Marget shook her head, and went solemnly to a great wooden press, which -almost filled one side of the kitchen, to get the “piece” which Jenny -showed no intention of bestowing upon the child at the door. Pondering -for a moment over the basket of oat cakes, Marget changed her mind, and -selected a fine, thin, flour one, from a little pile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span></p> - -<p>“It’s next to funeral bread,” she said to herself, in vindication of her -choice; “Tammie, my man, the maister would be nae better if ye could -mak’ the water grit with tears—run away hame, like a good bairn; tell -your mother neither the Mistress nor me will forget her, and ye can say, -I’ll let her ken; and there’s a piece to help ye hame.”</p> - -<p>“I dinna want ony pieces—I want to ken if he’s better,” said the boy; -“my mother said I wasna to come back till there was good news.”</p> - -<p>“Whisht, sirrah, he’ll hear you on his death-bed,” said Marget, “but -it’ll no do <i>you</i> ony harm, bairn; the Mistress will aye mind your -mother; take your piece and run away.”</p> - -<p>The child’s only answer was to bury his face in his hands, and break -into a new fit of crying. Marget came in again, discomfited; after a -while she took out a little wooden cup of milk to him, and set it down -upon the stone without a word. She was not sufficiently hard-hearted to -frown upon the child’s grief.</p> - -<p>“Eh, woman Jenny!” she cried, after an interval, “to think a man could -have so little pith, and yet get in like this to folk’s hearts!”</p> - -<p>“As if ye didna ken the haill tale,” cried Jenny, with indignant tears, -“how the maister found the wean afield with his broken leg, and carried -him hame—and how there’s ever been plenty, baith milk and meal, for -thae puir orphants, and Tammie’s schooling, and aye a kind word to mend -a’—and yet, forsooth, the bairn maunna greet when the maister’s at his -latter end!”</p> - -<p>“We’ll a’ have cause,” said Marget, abruptly; “three bonnie lads that -might be knights and earls, every one, and no’ a thing but debt and -dool, nor a trade to set their hand to. Haud yer peace!—do ye think -there’s no trade but bakers and tailors, and the like o’ that? and -there’s Huntley, and Patie, and Cosmo, my bonnie bairns!—there never -was three Livingstones like them, nor three of ony other name as far as -Tyne runs—and the very bairn at the door has muckle to look to as -they!”</p> - -<p>“But it’s nae concern o’ yours, or o’ mine. I’m sure the maister was aye -very good to me,” said Jenny, retiring into tears, and a <i>non sequitur</i>.</p> - -<p>“No, that’s true—it’s nae concern o’ yours—<i>you’re</i> no’ an auld -servant like me,” said her companion, promptly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> “but for mysel’ I’ve -sung to them a’ in their cradles; I would work for them with my hands, -and thankful; but I wouldna desire that of them to let the like o’ me -work, or the Mistress toil, to keep them in idleset. Na, woman—I’m -jealous for my bairns—I would break my heart if Huntley was content to -be just like his father; if either the Mistress or the lads will listen -to me, I’ll gie my word to send them a’ away.”</p> - -<p>“Send them away—and their mother in mourning? Oh, my patience! what -for?”</p> - -<p>“To make their fortune,” said Marget, and she hung the great pot on the -great iron hook above the fire, with a sort of heroic gesture, which -might have been amusing under other circumstances—for Marget believed -in making fortunes, and had the impulse of magnificent hope at her -heart.</p> - -<p>“Eh, woman! you’re hard-hearted,” said her softer companion, “to blame -the Maister at his last, and plan to leave the Mistress her lane in the -world! I would make them abide with her to comfort her, if it was me.”</p> - -<p>Marget made no answer—she had comforted herself with the flush of fancy -which pictured these three sons of the house, each completing his -triumph—and she was the byrewoman and had to consider the cattle, and -cherish as much as remained of pastoral wealth in this impoverished -house. She went out with her dark printed gown carefully “kilted” over -her red and blue striped petticoat, and a pail in her hand. She was a -woman of forty, a farm servant used to out-of-door work and homely ways, -and had neither youth nor sentiment to soften her manners or enlarge her -mind. Yet her heart smote her when she thought of the father of the -house, who lay dying while she made her criticism upon him, true though -it was.</p> - -<p>“Has he no’ been a good master to me? and would I spare tears if they -could ease him?” she said to herself, as she rubbed them away from her -eyes. “But folk can greet in the dark when there’s no work to do,” she -added, peremptorily, and so went to her dairy and her thoughts. -Tender-hearted Jenny cried in the kitchen, doing no good to any one; but -up-stairs in the room of death, where the family waited, there were -still no tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Half</span> a mile below Norlaw, “as Tyne runs,” stood the village of -Kirkbride. Tyne was but one of the many undistinguished Tynes which -water the south of Scotland and the north of England, a clear trout -stream, rapid and brown, and lively, with linns and pools, and bits of -woodland belonging to it, which the biggest brother of its name could -not excel; and Kirkbride also was but one of a host of Kirkbrides, which -preserved through the country, long after every stone of it had -mouldered, the name of some little chapel raised to St. Bridget. This -was an irregular hamlet, straggling over two mounds of rising ground, -between which Tyne had been pleased to make a way for himself. The -morsel of village street was on one bank of the water, a row of -irregular houses, in the midst of which flourished two shops; while at -the south end, as it was called, a little inn projected across the road, -giving, with this corner, and the open space which it sheltered, an air -of village coziness to the place which its size scarcely warranted. The -other bank of the water was well covered with trees—drooping birches -and alders, not too heavy in their foliage to hide the half dozen -cottages which stood at different elevations on the ascending road, nor -to vail at the summit the great jargonel pear-tree on the gable wall of -the manse, which dwelt upon that height, looking down paternally and -with authority upon the houses of the village. The church was further -back, and partially hidden by trees, which, seeing this edifice was in -the prevailing fashion of rural Scottish churches—a square barn with a -little steeple stuck upon it—was all the better for the landscape. A -spire never comes amiss at a little distance, when Nature has fair play -and trees enough—and the hillock, with its foliage and its cottages, -its cozy manse and spire among the trees, filled with thoughts of rural -felicity the stray anglers who came now and then to fish in Tyne and -consume the produce of their labor in the gable parlor of the Norlaw -Arms.</p> - -<p>The doctor had just passed through the village. On his way he had been -assailed by more than one inquiry. The sympathy of the hamlet was -strong, and its curiosity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> neighborly,—and more than one woman retired -into her cottage, shaking her head over the news she received.</p> - -<p>“Keep us a’! Norlaw! I mind him afore he could either walk or speak—and -<i>then</i> I was in service, in the auld mistress’s time, at Me’mar,” said -one of the village grandmothers, who stood upon the threshold of a very -little house, where the village mangle was in operation. The old woman -stood at the door, looking after the doctor, as he trotted off on his -stout pony; she was speaking to herself, and not to the little audience -behind, upon whom, however, she turned, as the wayfarer disappeared from -her eyes, and laying down her bundle on the table, with a sigh, “Eh, -Merran Hastie!” she exclaimed, “he’s been guid to you.”</p> - -<p>The person thus addressed needed no further inducement to put her apron -to her eyes. The room was very small, half occupied by the mangle, which -a strong country girl was turning; and even in this summer day the -apartment was not over bright, seeing that the last arrival stood in the -doorway, and that the little window was half covered by a curtain of -coarse green gauze. Two other village matrons had come with their -“claes,” to talk over the danger of their neighbor and landlord, and to -comfort the poor widow who had found an active benefactor in “Norlaw.” -She was comforted, grateful and grieved though she was; and the gossips, -though they looked grave, entered <i>con amore</i> into the subject; what the -Mistress was likely to do, and how the family would be “left.”</p> - -<p>“My man says they’ll a’ be roupit, baith stock and plenishing,” said the -mason’s wife. “Me’mar himsel’ gave our John an insight into how it was. -I judge he maun have lent Norlaw siller; for when he saw the dry-stane -dike, where his ground marches with Norlaw, he gave ane of his humphs, -and says he to John, ‘A guid kick would drive it down;’ says he, ‘it’ll -last out <i>his</i> time, and for my part, I’m no a man for small fields;’ so -grannie, there’s a family less, you may say already, in the -country-side.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tarry till I see it,” said the old woman; “the ane of his family -that’s likest Norlaw, is his youngest son; and if Me’mar himsel’, or the -evil ane, his marrow, get clean the better of Huntley and Patrick, not -to say the Mistress, it’ll be a marvel to me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<p>“Norlaw was aye an unthrift,” said Mrs. Mickle, who kept the grocer’s -shop in Kirkbride; “nobody could tell, when he was a young man, how he -got through his siller. It aye burnt his pockets till he got it spent, -and ye never could say what it was on.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, whisht!” exclaimed the widow; “me, and the like of me, can tell -well what it was on.”</p> - -<p>“Haud a’ your tongues,” said the old woman; “if any body kens about -Norlaw, it’s me; I was bairn’s-maid at Me’mar, in the time of the auld -mistress, as a’ the town kens, and I’m well acquaint with a’ his -pedigree, and mind him a’ his life, and the truth’s just this, whatever -any body may say. He didna get his ain fancy when he was a young lad, -and he’s never been the same man ever sinsyne.”</p> - -<p>“Eh! was Norlaw crossed in love?” said the girl at the mangle, staying -her grinding to listen; “but I’m no sorry for him; a man that wasna -content with the Mistress doesna deserve a good wife.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, lass; you’re coming to have your ain thoughts on such like matters, -are ye?” said the old woman; “but take you my word, Susie, that a woman -may be the fairest and the faithfu’est that ever stood on a hearthstane, -but if she’s no her man’s fancy, she’s nae guid there.”</p> - -<p>“Susie’s very right,” said the mason’s wife; “he wasna blate! for a -better wife than the Mistress never put her hand into ony housewifeskep, -and it’s her that’s to be pitied with a man like you; and our John -says—”</p> - -<p>“I kent about Norlaw before ever you were born, or John either,” said -the old woman; “and what I say’s <i>fac</i>, and what you say’s fancy. Norlaw -had never a thought in his head, from ten to five-and-twenty, but half -of it was for auld Me’mar’s ae daughter. I’m no saying he’s a strong man -of his nature, like them that clear their ain road, or make their ain -fortune; but he might have held his ain better than he’s ever done, if -he had been matched to his fancy when he was a young lad, and had a’ his -life before him; that’s just what I’ve to say.”</p> - -<p>“Weel, grannie, its awfu’ hard,” said the mason’s wife; “the Mistress -was a bonnie woman in her day, and a spirit that would face onything; -and to wear out her life for a man that wasna heeding about her, and be -left in her prime a dowerless widow!—Ye may say what ye like—but I -wouldna<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> thole the like for the best man in the country-side, let alone -Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“Naebody would, if they kent,” said the oracle, “but what’s a woman to -do, if she’s married and bound, and bairns at her foot, before she ever -finds out what’s been lying a’ the time in her man’s heart?”</p> - -<p>“Then it was just a shame!” cried Susie, at the mangle, with tears in -her eyes; “a burning shame! Eh Grannie, to find it out <i>then</i>! I would -rather dee!”</p> - -<p>“Ay, ay,” said the old woman, shaking her head; “young folk think -so—but that’s life.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll never think weel of Norlaw again—I’ll never believe a lad mair! -they might be thinking ony mischief in their heart,” cried Susie, -hastily putting up her particular bundle, and dashing a tear off her hot -cheek. “They can greet for him that likes; I’ll think of naebody but the -Mistress—no me!”</p> - -<p>Whereupon this keen sympathizer, who had some thoughts of her own on the -matter, rushed forth, disturbing the elder group, whose interest was -calmer and more speculative.</p> - -<p>“Aweel, aweel! we’re a’ frail and full of shortcomings,” said the widow; -“but naebody kens how kind Norlaw has been to me. My little Tammie’s -away somegate about the house now. I thought the bairn’s heart would -break when he heard the news first. I’m sure there’s no one hour, night -or day, that he wouldna lay down his life for Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“He was aye a kind man and weel likit—most folk are that spend their -siller free, and take a’ thing easy,” said Mrs. Mickle, with a sigh -which was partly for that weakness of human nature, and partly for the -departing spirit.</p> - -<p>Then new customers began to come in, and the group dispersed. By this -time it was getting late in the afternoon, and John Mellerstone’s wife -had to bethink herself of her husband’s supper, and Mrs. Mickle of her -evening cup of tea. The sun had begun to slant over the face of the brae -opposite to them, brightening the drooping bushes with touches of gold, -and glowing upon the white gable wall of the manse, obscured with the -wealthy branches of its jargonel tree. The minister was making his way -thoughtfully up the path, with his hat over his face a little, and his -hands under the square skirts of his coat, never pausing to look down, -as was his custom when his mind was at ease. He, too, had been at -Norlaw, and his thoughts were still there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> sun was shining into the west chamber at Norlaw. It was the room -immediately over the dining-room, a large apartment, paneled and painted -in a faint green color, with one window to the front and one to the side -of the house. The side window looked immediately upon the old castle, -and on the heavy masses of blunt-leaved ivy which hung in wild festoons -everywhere from this front of the ruin; and the sun shone in gloriously -to the sick chamber, with a strange mockery of the weakness and the -sorrow there. This bed was what used to be called a “tent-bed,” with -heavy curtains of dark brown moreen, closely drawn at the foot, but -looped up about the pillows. At the side nearest the sunshine, the -Mistress, whose place had been there for weeks, stood by the bed -measuring out some medicine for the sufferer. A fortnight’s almost -ceaseless watching had not sufficed to pale the cheek of health, or -waste the vigor of this wife, who was so soon to be a widow. Her fresh, -middle-aged, matronly bloom, her dress careful and seemly, her anxious -and troubled brow, where deep solicitude and hope had scarcely given way -to the dread certainty which everybody else acknowledged, made a very -strange contrast, indeed, to the wasted, dying, eager face which lay -among those pillows, with already that immovable yellow pallor on its -features which never passes away; a long, thin hand, wasted to the bone, -was on the coverlid, but the sufferer looked up, with his eager, large -black eyes toward the medicine glass in his wife’s hand with a singular -eagerness. He knew, at last, that he was dying, and even in the -solemnity of those last moments, this weak, graceful mind, true to the -instincts of its nature, thought with desire and anxiety of dying well.</p> - -<p>The three sons of the house were in the room watching with their mother. -Huntley, who could scarcely keep still, even in the awe of this shadow -of death, stood by the front window, often drawing close to the bed, but -unable to continue there. The second, who was his mother’s son, a -healthful, ruddy, practical lad, kept on the opposite side of the bed, -ready to help his mother in moving the patient.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> And at the foot, -concealed by the curtains, a delicate boy of fifteen, with his face -buried in his hands, sat upon an old square ottoman, observing nothing. -This was Cosmo, the youngest and favorite, the only one of his children -who really resembled Norlaw.</p> - -<p>The caprice of change was strong upon the dying man; he wanted his -position altered twenty times in half an hour. He had not any thing much -to say, yet he was hard to please for the manner of saying it; and -longed, half in a human and tender yearning for remembrance, and half -with the weakness of his character, that his children should never -forget these last words of his, nor the circumstances of his dying. He -was a good man, but he carried the defects of his personality with him -to the very door of heaven. When, at last, the pillows were arranged -round him, so as to raise him on his bed in the attitude he wished, he -called his children, in his trembling voice. Huntley came forward from -the window, with a swelling heart, scarcely able to keep down the tears -of his first grief. Patrick stood by the bed-side, holding down his -head, with a stubborn composure—and Cosmo, stealing forward, threw -himself on his knees and hid his sobbing in the coverlid. They were all -on one side, and on the other stood the mother, the care on her brow -blanching into conviction, and all her tremulous anxiety calmed with a -determination not to disturb this last scene. It <i>was</i> the last. Hope -could not stand before the look of death upon that face.</p> - -<p>“My sons,” said Norlaw, “I am just dying; but I know where I am in this -strait, trusting in my Saviour. You’ll remember I said this, when I’m -gone.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Cosmo sobbed aloud in the silence, clinging to the -coverlid, and Huntley’s breast heaved high with a tumultuous motion—but -there was not a word said to break the monologue of the father, who was -going away.</p> - -<p>“And now you’ll have no father to guide you further,” he continued, with -a strange pity for them in his voice. “There’s your mother, at my -side—as true a wife and as faithful, as ever a man had for a blessing. -Boys, I leave your mother, for her jointure, the love you’ve had for me. -Let her have it all—all—make amends to her. Martha, I’ve not been the -man I might have been to you.”</p> - -<p>These last words were spoken in a tone of sudden compunction,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> strangely -unlike the almost formal dignity of the first part of his address, and -he turned his eager, dying eyes to her, with a startled apprehension of -this truth, foreign to all his previous thoughts. She could not have -spoken, to save his life. She took his hand between hers, with a low -groan, and held it, looking at him with a pitiful, appealing face. The -self-accusation was like an injury to her, and he was persuaded to feel -it so, and to return to the current of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Let your mother be your counselor; she has ever been mine,” he said -once more, with his sad, dying dignity. “I say nothing about your plans, -because plans are ill adjuncts to a death-bed; but you’ll do your best, -every one, and keep your name without blemish, and fear God and honor -your mother. If I were to speak for a twelvemonth I could not find more -to say.”</p> - -<p>Again a pause; but this time, besides the sobs of Cosmo, Patrick’s tears -were dropping, like heavy drops of rain, upon the side of the bed, and -Huntley crushed the curtain in his hand to support himself, and only -staid here quite against his nature by strong compulsion of his will. -Whether he deserved it or not, this man’s fortune, all his life, had -been to be loved.</p> - -<p>“This night, Huntley will be Livingstone of Norlaw,” continued the -father; “but the world is fading out of my sight, boys—only I mind, and -you know, that things have gone ill with us for many a year—make just -the best that can be made, and never give up this house and the old name -of your fathers. Me’mar will try his worst against you; ay, I ought to -say more; but I’m wearing faint—I’m not able; you’ll have to ask your -mother. Martha, give me something to keep me up a moment more.”</p> - -<p>She did so hurriedly, with a look of pain; but when he had taken a -little wine, the sick man’s eye wandered.</p> - -<p>“I had something more to say,” he repeated, faintly; “never mind—your -mother will tell you every thing;—serve God, and be good to your -mother, and mind that I die in faith. Bairns, when ye come to your -latter end, take heed to set your foot fast upon the rock, that I may -find you all again.”</p> - -<p>They thought he had ended now his farewell to them. They laid him down -tenderly, and, with awe and hidden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> tears, watched how the glow of -sunset faded and the evening gray stole in over that pallid face which, -for the moment, was all the world to their eyes. Sometimes, he said a -faint word to his wife, who sat holding his hand. He was conscious, and -calm, and departing. His sins had been like a child’s sins—capricious, -wayward, fanciful transgressions. He had never harmed any one but -himself and his own household—remorseful recollections did not trouble -him—and, weak as he was, all his life long he had kept tender in his -heart a child’s faith. He was dying like a Christian, though not even -his faith and comfort, nor the great shadow of death which he was -meeting, could sublime his last hours out of nature. God does not always -make a Christian’s death-bed sublime. But he was fast going where there -is no longer any weakness, and the calm of the evening rest was on the -ending of his life.</p> - -<p>Candles had been brought softly into the room; the moon rose, the night -wore on, but they still waited. No one could withdraw from that watch, -which it is agony to keep, and yet worse agony to be debarred from -keeping, and when it was midnight, the pale face began to flush by -intervals, and the fainting frame to grow restless and uneasy. Cosmo, -poor boy, struck with the change, rose up to look at him, with a wild, -sudden hope that he was getting better; but Cosmo shrunk appalled at the -sudden cry which burst as strong as if perfect health had uttered it -from the heaving, panting heart of his father.</p> - -<p>“Huntley, Huntley, Huntley!” cried the dying man, but it was not his son -he called. “Do I know her name? She’s but Mary of Melmar—evermore Mary -to me—and the will is there—in the mid chamber. Aye!—where is -she?—your mother will tell you all—it’s too late for me.”</p> - -<p>The last words were irresolute and confused, dropping back into the -faint whispers of death. When he began to speak, his wife had risen from -her seat by the bed-side—her cheeks flushed, she held his hand tight, -and over the face of her tenderness came an indescribable cloud of -mortification, of love aggrieved and impatient, which could not be -concealed. She did not speak, but stood watching him, holding his hand -close in her own, even after he was silent—and not even when the head -sank lower down among the pillows, and the eyes grew dim, and the last -hour came, did the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> watcher resume the patient seat which she had kept -so long. She stood by him with a mind disquieted, doing every thing that -she could do—quick to see, and tender to minister; but the sacramental -calm of the vigil was broken—and the widow still stood by the bed when -the early summer light came in over her shoulder, to show how, with the -night, this life was over, and every thing was changed. Then she fell -down by the bed-side, scarcely able to move her strained limbs, and -struck to the heart with the chill of her widowhood.</p> - -<p>It was all over—all over—and the new day, in a blaze of terrible -sunshine, and the new solitude of life, were to begin together. But her -sons, as they were forced to withdraw from the room where one was dead, -and one lost in the first blind agony of a survivor, did not know what -last pang of a long bitterness that was, which struck its final sting, -to aggravate all her grievous trouble, into their mother’s heart.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Those</span> slow days of household gloom and darkness, when death lies in the -house, and every thought and every sound still bears an involuntary -reference to the solemn inmate, resting unconscious of them all, went -slowly over the roof of Norlaw. Sunday came, doubly mournful; a day in -which Scottish decorum demanded that no one should stir abroad, even to -church, and which hung indescribably heavy in those curtained rooms, and -through the unbroken stillness of its leisure, upon the three youths who -had not even their mother’s melancholy society to help them through the -day. The Mistress was in her own room, closely shut up with her Bible -and her sorrow, taking that first Sabbath of her widowhood, a solitary -day of privilege and indulgence, for her own grief. Not a sound was -audible in the house; Jenny, who could be best spared, and who was -somewhat afraid of the solemn quietness of Norlaw, had been sent away -early this morning, to spend the Sabbath with her mother, in Kirkbride, -and Marget sat alone in the kitchen, with a closed door and partially<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> -shuttered window, reading to herself half aloud from the big Bible in -her lap. In the perfect stillness it was possible to hear the monotonous -hum of her half-whispering voice, and sometimes the dull fall of the -ashes on the kitchen hearth, but not a sound besides.</p> - -<p>The blinds were all down in the dining-room, and the lower half of the -shutters closed. Though the July sun made triumphant daylight even in -spite of this, it was such a stifling, closed-in, melancholy light, -bright upon the upper walls and the roof, but darkened and close around -the lads, that the memory of it never quite passed out of their hearts. -This room, too, was paneled and painted of that dull drab color, which -middle-class dining-rooms even now delight in; there were no pictures on -the walls, for the family of Norlaw were careless of ornaments, like -most families of their country and rank. A dull small clock upon the -black marble mantel-piece, and a great china jar on the well-polished, -old-fashioned sideboard, were the only articles in which any thing -beyond use was even aimed at. The chairs were of heavy mahogany and -hair-cloth—a portion of the long dining-table, with a large leaf folded -down, very near as black as ebony, and polished like a mirror, stood -between the front windows—and the two round ends of this same -dining-table stood in the centre of the room, large enough for family -purposes, and covered with a red and blue table-cover. There was a heavy -large chintz easy-chair at the fire-place, and a little table supporting -a covered work-basket in the corner window—yet the room had not been -used to look a dull room, heavy and dismal though it was to-day.</p> - -<p>The youngest boy sat by the table, leaning over a large family Bible, -full of quaint old pictures. Cosmo saw the pictures without seeing -them—he was leaning both his elbows on the table, supporting his head -with a pair of long, fair hands, which his boy’s jacket, which he had -outgrown, left bare to the wrists. His first agony of grief had fallen -into a dull aching; his eyes were observant of the faintest lines of -those familiar wood-cuts, yet he could not have told what was the -subject of one of them, though he knew them all by heart. He was -fair-haired, pale, and delicate, with sensitive features, and dark eyes, -like his father’s, which had a strange effect in contrast with the -extreme lightness of his hair and complexion. He was the tender boy—the -mother’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> child of the household, and it was Cosmo of whom the village -gossips spoke, when they took comfort in the thought that only his -youngest son was like Norlaw.</p> - -<p>Next to Cosmo, sitting idly on a chair, watching how a stream of -confined sunshine came in overhead, at the side of the blind, was -Huntley, the eldest son. He was very dark, very ruddy, with close curls -of black hair, and eyes of happy hazel-brown. Heretofore, Huntley -Livingstone’s principal characteristic had been a total incapacity to -keep still. For many a year Marget had lamented over him, that he would -not “behave himself,” and even the Mistress had spoken her mind only too -often on the same subject. Huntley would not join, with gravity and -decorum, even the circle of evening visitors who gathered on unfrequent -occasions round the fireside of Norlaw. He had perpetually something on -hand to keep him in motion, and if nothing better was to be had, would -rummage through lumber-room and family treasury, hunting up dusty old -sets of newspapers and magazines, risking the safety of precious old -hereditary parchments, finding a hundred forgotten trifles, which he had -nothing to do with. So that it was rare, even on winter evenings, to -find Huntley at rest in the family circle; it was his wont to appear in -it at intervals bringing something with him which had no right to be -there—to be ordered off peremptorily by his mother with the intruding -article; to be heard, all the evening through, knocking in nails, and -putting up shelves for Marget, or making some one of the countless -alterations, which had always to be made in his own bed-chamber and -private sanctuary; and finally, to reappear for the family worship, -during which he kept as still as his nature would permit, and the family -supper, at which Huntley’s feats, in cutting down great loaves of bread, -and demolishing oat-cakes, were a standing joke in the household. This -was the old Huntley, when all was well in Norlaw. Now he sat still, -watching that narrow blade of sunshine, burning in compressed and close -by the side of the blind; it was like his own nature, in those early -days of household grief.</p> - -<p>Patrick was a less remarkable boy than either of his brothers; he was -most like Huntley, and had the same eyes, and the same crisp, short -curls of black hair. But Patrick had a medium in him; he did what was -needful, with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> quickest practical sense; he was strong in his -perception of right and justice; so strong, that the Quixotry of boyish -enthusiasm had never moved him; he was not, in short, a describable -person; at this present moment, he was steadily occupied with a volume -of sermons; they were extremely heavy metal, but Patrick went on with -them, holding fast his mind by that anchor of heaviness. It was not that -his gravity was remarkable, or his spiritual appreciation great; but -something was needful to keep the spirit afloat in that atmosphere of -death; the boys had been “too well brought up” to think of profaning the -Sabbath with light literature; and amusing themselves while their father -lay dead was a sin quite as heinous. So Patrick Livingstone read, with a -knitted brow, sermons of the old Johnsonian period, and Cosmo pondered -the quaint Bible woodcuts, and Huntley watched the sunshine; and they -had not spoken a word to each other for at least an hour.</p> - -<p>Huntley was the first to break the silence.</p> - -<p>“I wish to-morrow were come and gone,” he exclaimed, suddenly, rising up -and taking a rapid turn through the room; “a week of this would kill -me.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo looked up, with an almost feminine reproof in his tearful black -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Well, laddie,” said the elder brother; “dinna look at me with these -e’en! If it would have lengthened out his days an hour, or saved him a -pang, would I have spared years to do it? but what is <i>he</i> heeding for -all this gloom and silence now?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said the second brother, “but the neighbors care, and so does -my mother; it’s nothing, but it’s all we can give—and he <i>would</i> have -heeded and been pleased, had he thought beforehand on what we should be -doing now.”</p> - -<p>It was so true, that Huntley sat down again overpowered. Yes, <i>he</i> would -have been pleased to think of every particular of the “respect” which -belonged to the dead. The closed houses, the darkened rooms, the funeral -train; that tender human spirit would have clung to every one of them in -his thoughts, keeping the warmth of human sympathy close to him to the -latest possibility, little, little though he knew about them now.</p> - -<p>“What troubles me is standing still,” said Huntley, with a sigh. “I can -not tell what’s before us; I don’t think even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> my mother knows; I -believe it’s worse than we can think of; and we’ve neither friends, nor -money, nor influence. Here are we three Livingstones, and I’m not -twenty, and we’ve debts in money to meet, and mortgages on the land, and -nothing in the world but our hands and our heads, and what strength and -wit God has given us. I’m not grumbling—but to think upon it all, and -to think now that—that he’s gone, and we’re alone and for -ourselves—and to sit still neither doing nor planning, it’s that that -troubles me!”</p> - -<p>“Huntley, it’s Sabbath day!” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“Ay, I ken! it’s Sabbath and rest, but not to us,” cried the young man; -“here’s me, that should have seen my way—I’m old enough—me that should -have known where I was going, and how I was going, and been able to -spare a hand for you; and I’m the biggest burden of all; a man without a -trade to turn his hand to, a man without knowledge in his head or skill -in his fingers—and to sit still and never say a word, and see them -creeping down, day by day, and every thing put back as if life could be -put back and wait. True, Patie! what would you have me do?”</p> - -<p>“Make up your mind, and wait till it’s time to tell it,” said Patie, -without either reproof or sympathy; but Cosmo was more moved—he came to -his eldest brother with a soft step.</p> - -<p>“Huntley,” said Cosmo, in the soft speech of their childhood, “what -makes ye speak about a trade, you that are Livingstone of Norlaw? It’s -for us to gang and seek our fortunes; you’re the chief of your name, and -the lands are yours—they canna ruin <i>you</i>, Huntley. I see the -difference mysel’, the folks see it in the country-side; and as for -Patie and me, we’ll seek our fortunes—we’re only the youngest sons, -it’s our inheritance; but Norlaw, and home, and the name, are with you.”</p> - -<p>This appeal had the strangest effect upon Huntley; it seemed to -dissipate in an instant all the impatience and excitement of the youth’s -grief; he put his arm round Cosmo, with a sudden melting of heart and -countenance.</p> - -<p>“Do ye hear him, Patie?” cried Huntley, with tears; “he thinks home’s -home forever, because the race has been here a thousand years; he thinks -I’m a prince delivering my kingdom! Cosmo, the land’s gone; I know -there’s not an acre ours after to-morrow. I’ve found it out, bit by -bit,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> though nobody said a word; but we’ll save the house, and the old -castle, if we should never have a penny over, for mother and you.”</p> - -<p>The boy stared aghast into his brother’s face. The land! it had been -Cosmo’s dream by night, and thought by day. The poetic child had made, -indeed, a heroic kingdom and inheritance out of that little patrimonial -farm. Notwithstanding, he turned to Patie for confirmation, but found no -comfort there.</p> - -<p>“As you think best, Huntley,” said the second son, “but what is a name? -My mother will care little for Norlaw when we are gone, and the name of -a landed family has kept us poor. <i>I’ve</i> found things out as well as -you. I thought it would be best to part with all.”</p> - -<p>“It was almost his last word,” said Huntley, sadly.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but he could not tell,” said the stout-hearted boy; “he was of -another mind from you or me; he did not think that our strength and our -lives were for better use than to be wasted on a word. What’s Norlaw -Castle to us, more than a castle in a book? Ay, Cosmo, it’s true. Would -you drag a burden of debt at Huntley’s feet for the sake of an acre of -corn-land, or four old walls? We’ve been kept down and kept in prison, -us and our forbears, because of Norlaw. I say we should go free.”</p> - -<p>“And I,” cried Cosmo, lifting his long, white hand in sudden passion, -“I, if Huntley does not care for the name, nor for my father’s last -wish, nor for the house of our ancestors; I will never rest night nor -day, though I break my heart or lose my life, till I redeem Norlaw!”</p> - -<p>Huntley, whose arm still rested on the boy’s shoulder, drew him closer, -with a look which had caught a tender, sympathetic, half-compassionate -enthusiasm from his.</p> - -<p>“We’ll save Norlaw for my father’s son,” said the elder brother; and, -young as Huntley was, he looked with eyes full of love and pity upon -this boy, who inherited more from his father than his name. Huntley had -been brought up in all the natural love and reverence of a well-ordered -family; he knew there was weakness in his father’s character, beautiful, -lovable, tender weakness, for which, somehow, people only seem to like -him better. He had not permitted himself to see yet what harm and -selfish unconsciousness of others that graceful temperament had hidden. -He looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> at Cosmo, thinking as a strong mind thinks of that -constitution which is called poetic—of the sensitive nature which would -shrink from unkindness, and the tender spirit which could not bear the -trials of the world; and the lad’s heart expanded over his father’s son.</p> - -<p>Patie got up from his chair, and went to the little bookcase in the -corner to look for another book of sermons. This boy could not blind his -eyes, even with family affection. He loved his father, but he knew -plainly, and in so many words, that his father had ruined their -inheritance. He could not help seeing that this amiable tenderness bore -no better fruit than selfishness or cruelty. He thought it would be -right and just to all their hopes to part with even the name of Norlaw. -But it was not his concern; he was ready to give his opinion at the -proper time, but not to stand out unreasonably against the decision of -his elder brother; and when he, too, looked at Cosmo, it was with -soberer eyes than those of Huntley—not that he cared less for his -father’s son—but Patrick could not help seeing with those clear eyes of -his; and what he feared to see was not the sensitive nature and the -tender spirit, but the self-regard which lay beneath.</p> - -<p>Which of them was right, or whether either of them were right, this -history will best show.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Sabbath</span> night; a July night, sweet with summer stars and moonlight, and -with no darkness in it: the water running soft with its quietest murmur, -the thrush and blackbird beguiled to sing almost as late as the -southland nightingale; the scent of the late roses coming round the -corner of the house on the faint breeze; the stars clustered in a little -crowd over the gaunt castle walls, and in the distance the three weird -Eildons, standing out dark against the pale azure blue and flood of -moonlight; a Sabbath evening with not a sound in it, save the sweetest -sounds of nature, a visible holy blessing of quiet and repose.</p> - -<p>But the table was spread in the dining-parlor at Norlaw;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> there was a -basket of oat-cakes and flour “bannocks” upon the table, in a snowy -napkin, and butter, and milk, and cheese, all of the freshest and most -fragrant, the produce of their own lands. Two candles made a little spot -of light upon the white table-cloth, but left all the rest of the room -in dreary shadow. To see it was enough to tell that some calamity -oppressed the house—and when the widow came in, with her face of -exhaustion, and eyes which could weep no more for very weariness, when -the boys followed slowly one by one, and Marget coming in with the -solemn, noiseless step, so unusual to her, hovered about them with all -her portentous gravity, and unwonted attendance, it was not hard to -conclude that they ate and drank under the shadow of death. The Mistress -had not appeared that day, from the early breakfast until now; it was -the only time before or after when she faltered from the ways of common -life.</p> - -<p>When they had ended the meal, which no one cared to taste, and when the -lads began to think with some comfort, in the weariness of their youth, -that the day at last was over, Mrs. Livingstone drew her chair away from -the table, and looked at them all with the sorrowful tenderness of a -mother and a widow. Then, after a long interval, she spoke.</p> - -<p>“Bairns!” she said, with a voice which was hoarse with solicitude and -weeping, “you’re a’ thinking what you’re to do, and though it’s the -Sabbath day, I canna blame ye, but me, I’m but a weak woman—I could not -say a word to counsel ye, if it was to save the breaking of my heart -this day.”</p> - -<p>“We never looked for it, mother. There’s time enough! do you think we -would press our plans on you?” cried the eager Huntley, who had been -groaning but a few hours ago, at this compulsory delay.</p> - -<p>“Na, I could not do it,” said the mother, turning her head aside, and -drawing the hem of her apron through her fingers, while the tears -dropped slowly out of her tired eyes; “this is the last Sabbath day that -him and me will be under the same roof. I canna speak to you, bairns; -I’m but a weak woman, and I’ve been his wife this five-and-twenty -years.”</p> - -<p>After a pause, the Mistress dried her eyes, and went on hurriedly:—</p> - -<p>“But I ken ye must have your ain thoughts; the like of you canna keep -still a long summer day, though it is a Sabbath;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> and, bairns, I’ve just -this to say to you; ye canna fear mair than we’ll have to meet. I’m -thankful even that he’s gane hame before the storm falls; for you’re a’ -young, and can stand a blast. There’s plenty to do, and plenty to bear. -I dinna forbid ye thinking, though it’s Sabbath night, and death is -among us; but oh! laddies, think in a godly manner, and ask a -blessing—dinna darken the Sabbath with worldly thoughts, and him lying -on his last bed up the stair!”</p> - -<p>The boys drew near to her simultaneously, with a common impulse. She -heard the rustle and motion of their youthful grief, but she still kept -her head aside, and drew tightly through her fingers the hem of her -apron.</p> - -<p>“The day after the morn,” continued the widow, “I’ll be ready with all -that I ken, and ready to hear whatever you think for yourselves; think -discreetly, and I’ll no’ oppose, and think soberly, without pride, for -we’re at the foot of the brae. And we’ve nae friends to advise us, -bairns,” continued the Mistress, raising her head a little with the very -pride which she deprecated; “we’ve neither kith nor kin to take us by -the hand, nor give us counsel. Maybe it’s a’ the better—for we’ve only -Providence to trust to now, and ourselves.”</p> - -<p>By this time she had risen up, and taking the candle which Patrick had -lighted for her, she stood with the little flat brass sconce in her -hand, and the light flickering over her face, still looking down. Yet -she lingered, as if she had something more to say. It burst from her -lips, at last, suddenly, almost with passion.</p> - -<p>“Bairns! take heed, in your very innermost hearts, that ye think no -blame!” cried the widow; and when she had said these words, hastened -away, as if afraid to follow up or to weaken them by another syllable. -When she was gone, the lads stood silently about the table, each of them -with an additional ache in his heart. There <i>was</i> blame which might be -thought, which might be spoken; even she was aware of it, in the jealous -regard of her early grief.</p> - -<p>“The Mistress has bidden you a’ good night,” said Marget, entering -softly; “ye’ve taen nae supper, and ye took nae dinner; how are ye to -live and work, growing laddies like you, if you gang on at this rate? Ye -mean to break my heart amang you. If ye never break bread, Huntley -Livingstone, how will you get through the morn?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span></p> - -<p>“I wish it was over,” cried Huntley, once more.</p> - -<p>“And so do I. Eh! bairns, when I see those blinds a’ drawn down, it -makes my heart sick,” cried Marget, “and grief itsel’s easier to thole -when ane has ane’s wark in hand. But I didna come to haver nonsense -here. I came to bid ye a’ gang to your beds, like good laddies. Ye’ll a’ -sleep; that’s the good of being young. The Mistress, I daur to say, and -even mysel’, will not close an eye this night.”</p> - -<p>“Would my mother let you remain with her, Marget?” said Huntley; “I -can’t bear to think she’s alone in her trouble. Somebody should have -come to stay with her; Katie Logan from the manse, perhaps. Why did not -some one think of it before?”</p> - -<p>“Whisht! and gang to your beds,” said Marget; “no fremd person, however -kindly, ever wins so far into the Mistress’s heart. If she had been -blessed with a daughter of her ain, it might have been different. Na, -Huntley, your mother wouldna put up with me. She’s no ane to have either -friend or servant tending on her sorrows. Some women would, but no’ the -Mistress; and I’m o’ the same mind mysel’. Gang to your beds, and get -your rest, like good bairns; the morn will be a new day.”</p> - -<p>“Shut up the house and sleep; that’s all we can do,” said Cosmo; “but I -canna rest—and he’ll never be another night in this house. Oh, father, -father! I’ll keep the watch for your sake!”</p> - -<p>“If he’s in this house, he’s here,” said Patrick, suddenly, to the great -amazement of his hearers, moved for once into a higher imagination than -any of them; “do you hear me Cosmo? if he’s out of heaven, he’s here; -he’s no’ on yon bed dead. It’s no’ <i>him</i> that’s to be carried to -Dryburgh. Watching’s past and done, unless he watches us; he’s either in -heaven, or he’s here.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, laddie! God bless you, that’s true!” cried Marget, moved into -sudden tears. There was not composure enough among them to add another -word; they went to their rooms silently, not to disturb their mother’s -solitude. But Huntley could not rest; he came softly down stairs again, -through the darkened house, to find Marget sitting by the fire which she -had just “gathered” to last all night, reading her last chapter in the -big Bible, and startled her by drawing the bolts softly aside and -stepping out into the open air.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span></p> - -<p>“I must breathe,” the lad said with a voice full of broken sobs.</p> - -<p>The night was like a night of heaven, if such a glory is, where all -glories are. The moon was more lavish in her full, mellow splendor, than -she had ever been before, to Huntley’s eyes; the sky seemed as light as -day, almost too luminous to show the stars, which were there shining -softly in myriads, though you could scarcely see them; and the water -flowed, and the trees rustled, with a perfection of still music, -exquisite, and silent, and beyond description, which Nature only knows -when she is alone. The youth turned back again with a sob which eased -his heart. Out of doors nothing but splendor, glory, a beatitude calm -and full as heaven; within, nothing but death and the presence of death, -heavy, like a pall, upon the house and all its inmates. He went back to -his rest, with the wonder of humanity in his heart; when, God help us, -should this terrible difference be over? when should the dutiful -creation, expanding thus, while the rebel sleeps, receive once more its -fullest note of harmony, its better Eden, the race for whom sin and -sorrow has ended for evermore?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> day of the funeral rose with a merciful cloud over its brightness—a -sorrowful bustle was in the house of Norlaw; some of the attendants of -the burial train were to return to dine, as the custom was, and Marget -and Jenny were fully employed in the kitchen, with the assistance of the -mother of the latter, who was a widow herself, full of sorrowful -experience, and liked, as is not unusual in her class, to assist in the -melancholy labors of such an “occasion.” The east room was open for the -reception of the funeral guests, and on the table were set out decanters -of wine, and liberal plates of a delicate cake which used to bear the -dismal title of funeral biscuit in Scotland. The widow, who put on for -the first time to-day, the dress which henceforward she should wear all -her life, kept her own apartment, where the wife of the principal farmer -near, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> Catharine Logan, the minister’s daughter, had joined her; for -though she would much rather have been left alone, use and precedent -were strong upon the Mistress, and she would not willingly have broken -through any of the formal and unalterable customs of the country-side. -The guests gathered gradually about the melancholy house; it was to be -“a great funeral.” As horseman after horseman arrived, the women in the -kitchen looked out from the corner of their closed shutters, with -mournful pride and satisfaction; every household of any standing in the -district came out to show “respect” to Norlaw—and even the widow in her -darkened room felt a certain pleasure in the sounds which came softened -to her ear, the horses’ hoofs, the clash of stirrup and bridle, and the -murmur of open-air voices, which even the “occasion” could not subdue -beyond a certain measure.</p> - -<p>The lads were all assembled in the east room to receive their guests, -and with them, the earliest arrival of all, was the minister, lending -his kindly support and aid to Huntley, in this earliest and saddest -exercise of his new duties as head of the house. One good thing was, -that the visitors did not feel themselves called upon to overwhelm the -fatherless youth with condolences. A hearty grasp of rough hands; a -subdued word of friendship and encouragement, as one by one, or in -little clusters, those great rustic figures, all in solemn mourning, -collected in the room, were all that “the family” were called upon to -undergo.</p> - -<p>The hum of conversation which immediately began, subdued in tone and -grave in expression, but still conversation such as rural neighbors use, -interspersed with inquiries and shakes of the head, as to how this -household was “left,” was a relief to the immediate mourners, though -perhaps it was not much in accordance with the sentiment of the time. It -was etiquette that the wine and cake should be served to all present, -and when all the guests were assembled, the minister rose, and called -them to prayer. They stood in strange groups, those stalwart, ruddy -southland men, about the table—one covering his eyes with his hand, one -standing erect, with his head bowed, some leaning against the wall, or -over the chairs. Perhaps eyes unaccustomed to such a scene might have -thought there was little reverence in the fashion of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> funeral -service; but there was at least perfect silence, through which the grave -voice of the minister rose steadily, yet not without a falter of -personal emotion. It was not the solemn impersonal words which other -churches say over every man whom death makes sacred. It was an -individual voice, asking comfort for the living, thanking God for the -dead—and when that was done the ceremonial was so far over, and Norlaw -had only now to be carried to his grave.</p> - -<p>All the preparations were thus far accomplished. The three brothers and -Dr. Logan had taken their place in the mourning coach; some distant -relatives had taken possession of another; and the bulk of the guests -had mounted and were forming into a procession behind. Every thing had -progressed thus far, when some sudden obstruction became visible to the -horsemen without. The funeral attendants closed round the hearse, the -horses were seized by strangers, and their forward motion checked; -already the farmers behind, leaping from their horses, crowded on to -ascertain the cause of the detention; but the very fact of it was not -immediately visible to the youths who were most interested. When the -sudden contention of voices startled Huntley, the lad gazed out of the -window for a moment in the wild resentment of grief, and then dashing -open the door, sprang into the midst of the crowd; a man who was not in -mourning, and held a baton in his hand, stood firm and resolute, with -his hand upon the door of the hearse; other men conspicuous among the -funeral guests, in their every-day dress, kept close by him, supporting -their superior. The guides of the funeral equipage were already in high -altercation with the intruders, yet, even at their loudest, were visibly -afraid of them.</p> - -<p>“Take out the horses, Grierson—do your duty!” shouted the leader at the -hearse door; “stand back, ye blockheads, in the name of the law! I’m -here to do my orders; stand back, or it’ll be waur for ye a’—ha! wha’s -here?”</p> - -<p>It was Huntley, whose firm young grasp was on the sturdy shoulder of the -speaker.</p> - -<p>“Leave the door, or I’ll fell you!” cried the lad, in breathless -passion, shaking with his clutch of fury the strong thick-set frame -which had double his strength; “what do you want here?—how do you dare -to stop the funeral?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> take off your hand off the door, or I’ll fell you -to the ground!”</p> - -<p>“Whisht, lad, whisht—it’s a sheriff’s officer; speak him canny and -he’ll hear reason,” cried one of the farmers, hastily laying a detaining -grasp on Huntley’s arm. The intruder stood his ground firmly. He took -his hand from the door, not in obedience to the threat, but to the grief -which burned in the youth’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“My lad, it’s little pleasure to me,” he said, in a voice which was not -without respect, “but I must do my duty. Felling me’s no’ easy, but -felling the law is harder still. Make him stand aside, any of you that’s -his friend, and has sense to ken; there’s no mortal good in resisting; -this funeral can not gang on this day.”</p> - -<p>“Let go—stand back; speak to <i>me</i>,” said Huntley, throwing off the -grasp of his friend, and turning to his opponent a face in which bitter -shame and distress began to take the place of passion; “stand aside, -every man—what right have <i>you</i> to stop us burying our dead? I’m his -son; come here and tell me.”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry for you, my lad, but I can not help it,” said the -officer; “I’m bound to arrest the body of Patrick Livingstone, of -Norlaw. It may be a cruel thing, but I must do my duty. I’m Alexander -Elliot, sheriff’s officer at Melrose; I want to make no disturbance more -than can be helped. Take my advice. Take in the coffin to the house and -bid the neighbors back for another day. And, in the meantime, look up -your friends and settle your scores with Melmar. It’s the best you can -do.”</p> - -<p>“Elliot,” said Dr. Logan, over his shoulder, “do you call this law, to -arrest the dead? He’s far beyond debt and trouble now. For shame!—leave -the living to meet their troubles, but let them bury their dead.”</p> - -<p>“And so I would, minister, if it was me,” said Elliot, twirling his -baton in his hand, and looking down with momentary shame and confusion; -“but I’ve as little to do with the business as you have,” he added, -hurriedly. “I give you my advice for the best, but I must do my duty. -Grierson, look to thae youngsters—dang them a’—do ye ca’ that mair -seemly? it’s waur than me!”</p> - -<p>Cosmo Livingstone, wild with a boy’s passion, and stupefied with grief, -had sprung up to the driving-seat of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> hearse while this discussion -proceeded; and lashing the half-loosed horses, had urged them forward -with a violent and unseemly speed, which threw down on either side the -men who were at their heads, and dispersed the crowd in momentary alarm. -The frightened animals dashed forward wildly for a few steps, but -speedily brought up in their unaccustomed career by the shouts and -pursuit of the attendants, carried the melancholy vehicle down the slope -and paused, snorting, at the edge of the stream, through which, the boy, -half mad with excitement, would have driven them. Perhaps the wild -gallop of the hearse, though only for so short a distance, horrified the -bystanders more than the real interruption. One of the funeral guests -seized Cosmo in his strong arms, and lifted him down like a child; the -others led the panting horses back at the reverential pace which became -the solemn burden they were bearing; and after that outbreak of passion, -the question was settled without further discussion. Patrick -Livingstone, his eyes swollen and heavy with burning tears, which he -could not shed, led the way, while the bearers once more carried to his -vacant room all that remained of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>The mass of the funeral guests paused only long enough to maintain some -degree of quietness and decency; they dispersed with natural good -feeling, without aggravating the unfortunate family with condolence or -observation. Huntley, with the minister and the principal farmer of the -district, Mr. Blackadder, of Tyneside, who happened to be also an old -and steady friend of their father, stood at a little distance with the -officer, investigating the detainer which kept the dead out of his -grave; the melancholy empty hearse and dismal coaches crept off slowly -along the high road; and Cosmo, trembling in every limb with the -violence of his excitement, stood speechless at the door, gazing after -them, falling, in the quick revulsion of his temperament, from unnatural -passion into utter and prostrate despondency. The poor boy scarcely knew -who it was that drew him into the house, and spoke those words of -comfort which relieved his overcharged heart by tears. It was pretty -Katie Logan, crying herself, and scarcely able to speak, who had been -sent down from the widow’s room, by Mrs. Blackadder, to find out what -the commotion was; and who, struck with horror and amazement, as at a -sacrilege, was terrified to go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> up again, to break the tender, proud -heart of Norlaw’s mourning wife, with such terrible news.</p> - -<p>Presently the mournful little party came in to the east room, which -still stood as they had left it, with the funeral bread and wine upon -the table. Patrick came to join them immediately, and the two lads bent -their heads together over the paper: a thousand pounds, borrowed by a -hundred at a time from Mr. Huntley, of Melmar, over and above the -mortgages which that gentleman held on the better part of the lands of -Norlaw. The boys read it with a passion of indignation and shame in -their hearts; their father’s affairs, on his funeral day, publicly -“exposed” to all the countryside; their private distress and painful -prospects, and his unthrift and weakness made the talk of every gossip -in the country. Huntley and Patrick drew a hard breath, and clasped each -other’s hands with the grip of desperation. But Norlaw lay unburied on -his death-bed; they could not bury him till this money was paid; it was -an appalling sum to people in their class, already deeply impoverished, -and in the first tingle of this distressing blow, they saw no light -either on one side or the other, and could not tell what to do.</p> - -<p>“But I can not understand,” said Dr. Logan, who was a man limited and -literal, although a most pious minister and the father of his people; “I -can not understand how law can sanction what even nature holds up her -hand against. The dead—man! how dare ye step in with your worldly -arrests and warrants, when the Lord has been before you? how dare ye put -your bit baton across the grave, where a righteous man should have been -laid this day?”</p> - -<p>“I have to do my duty,” said the immovable Elliot, “how daur ye, is -naething to me. I must do according to my instructions—and ye ken, -doctor, it’s but a man’s body can be apprehended ony time. Neither you -nor me can lay grips on his soul.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, mocker!” cried the distressed clergyman; “but what is to be done? -Mr. Blackadder, these bairns can not get this money but with time and -toil. If that will do any good, I’ll go immediately to Me’mar myself.”</p> - -<p>“Never,” cried Huntley; “never—any thing but that. I’ll sell myself for -a slave before I’ll take a favor from my father’s enemy.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span></p> - -<p>“It’s in Whitelaw’s hands, the writer in Melrose. I’ll ride down there -and ask about it,” said Blackadder; “whisht, Huntley! the minister’s -presence should learn you better—and every honest man can but pity and -scorn ane that makes war with the dead; I’ll ride round to Whitelaw. My -wife’s a sensible woman—she’ll break it softly to your mother—and see -you do nothing to make it worse. I suppose, Elliot, when I come back -I’ll find you here.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, sir, I’m safe enough,” said the officer significantly, as -“Tyneside” rose to leave the room. Huntley went with him silently to the -stable, where his horse stood still saddled.</p> - -<p>“I see what’s in your eye,” said Blackadder, in a whisper; “take heart -and do it; trust not a man more than is needful, and dinna be violent. -I’ll be back before dark, but I may not chance to speak to you again. Do -what’s in your heart.”</p> - -<p>Huntley wrung the friendly hand held out to him, and went in without a -word. His old restless activity seemed to have returned to him, and -there was a kindling fire in his hazel eyes which meant some purpose.</p> - -<p>Good Dr. Logan took the lad’s hands, and poured comfort and kindness -into his ears; but Huntley could scarcely pause to listen. It was not -strange—and it seemed almost hard to bid the youth have patience when -the vulgar law—stubborn and immovable—the law of money and -merchandise, kept joint possession with death of this melancholy house.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Huntley</span> could not see his mother after this outrage became known to her. -The widow resented it with all a woman’s horror and passion, and with -all the shame of a Scottish matron, jealous, above all things, of -privacy and “respect.” Pretty Katie Logan sat at her feet crying in -inarticulate and unreasoning sympathy, which was better for the Mistress -than all the wisdom and consolation with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> good Mrs. Blackadder -endeavored to support her. In the kitchen, Jenny and her mother cried -too, the latter telling doleful stories of similar circumstances which -she had known; but Marget went about with a burning cheek, watching “the -laddies” with a jealous tenderness, which no one but their mother could -have surpassed, eager to read their looks and anticipate their meaning. -It was a sultry, oppressive day, hot and cloudy, threatening a thunder -storm; and it is impossible to describe the still heavier oppression of -distress and excitement in this closed-up and gloomy house. When Marget -went out to the byre, late in the afternoon, several hours after these -occurrences, Huntley came to her secretly by a back way. What he said -roused the spirit of a hero in Marget’s frame. She put aside her pail on -the instant, smoothed down her new black gown over her petticoat, and -threw a shawl across her head.</p> - -<p>“This moment, laddie—this instant—ye may trust me!” cried Marget, with -a sob; and before Huntley, passing round behind the offices, came in -sight of the high road, his messenger had already disappeared on the way -to Kirkbride.</p> - -<p>Then Huntley drew his cap over his eyes, threw round him a gray -shepherd’s plaid, as a partial disguise, and set out in the opposite -direction. Before he reached his journey’s end, the sweeping deluge of a -thunder storm came down upon those uplands, in white sheets of falling -water. The lad did not pause to take shelter, scarcely to take breath, -but pushed on till he reached some scattered cottages, where the men -were just returning from their day’s work. At that time the rain and the -western sun, through the thickness of the thunder cloud, made a -gorgeous, lurid, unearthly glow, like what it might make through the -smoke of a great battle. Huntley called one of the men to him into a -little hollow below the hamlet. He was one of the servants of Norlaw, as -were most of these cottagers. The young master told his tale with little -loss of words, and met with the hearty and ready assent of his horrified -listener.</p> - -<p>“I’ll no’ fail ye, Maister Huntley; neither will the Laidlaws. I’ll -bring them up by the darkening; ye may reckon upon them and me,” said -the laborer; “and what use burdening yoursel’ with mair, unless it were -to show respect. There’s enow, with ane of you lads to take turns, and -us three.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span></p> - -<p>“Not at the darkening—at midnight, Willie; or at earliest at eleven, -when it’s quite dark,” said Huntley.</p> - -<p>“At eleven! mid nicht! I’m no heeding; but what will we say to the -wives?” said Willie, scratching his head in momentary dismay.</p> - -<p>“Say—but not till you leave them—that you’re coming to serve Norlaw in -extremity,” said Huntley; “and to make my brothers and me debtors to -your kindness forever.”</p> - -<p>“Whisht about that,” said Willie Noble; “mony a guid turn’s come to us -out of Norlaw;—and Peggie’s nae like the maist of women—she’ll hear -reason. If we can aince win owre Tweed, we’re safe, Maister Huntley; but -it’s a weary long way to there. What would you say to a guid horse and a -light cart? there’s few folk about the roads at night.”</p> - -<p>Huntley shrunk with involuntary horror from the details even of his own -arrangement.</p> - -<p>“I’ll take care for that,” he said, hurriedly; “but we could not take a -carriage over Tweed, and that is why I ask this help from you.”</p> - -<p>“And kindly welcome; I wish to heaven it had been a blyther errand for -your sake,” said the man, heartily; “but we maun take what God sends; -and wha’s to keep the officer quiet, for that’s the chief of the haill -plan?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve to think of that yet,” said Huntley, turning his face towards home -with a heavy sigh.</p> - -<p>“I’d bind him neck and heels, and put him in Tyne to cool himsel’!” said -Willie, with a fervent effusion of indignation. Huntley only bade him -remember the hour, shook his hard hand, and hurried away.</p> - -<p>It was a painful, troubled, unhappy evening, full of the excitement of a -conspiracy. When Huntley and Patrick communicated with each other it was -impossible to say, for they never seemed to meet alone, and Patrick had -taken upon himself the hard duty of keeping Elliot company.</p> - -<p>The minister and his daughter departed sadly in the twilight, knowing no -comfort for the family they left. And Mr. Blackadder returned gloomily -from his visit to the attorney, bringing the news that he had no -authority to stop proceedings till he consulted with his principal, -after which, in good time, and with a look and grasp of Huntley’s hand, -which were full of meaning, the good farmer, too, took his wife away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span></p> - -<p>Then came the real struggle. The officer kept his watch in the -dining-room, to which he had shifted from some precautionary notion, and -sat there in the great chintz easy-chair, which the hearts of the lads -burned to see him occupy, perfectly content to talk to Patie, and to -consume soberly a very large measure of toddy, the materials for which -stood on the table the whole evening. Patie discharged his painful -office like a hero. He sat by the other side of the table, listening to -the man’s stories, refusing to meet Huntley’s eye when by chance he -entered the room, and taking no note of the reproachful, indignant -glances of Cosmo, who still knew nothing of their plans, and could not -keep his patience when he saw his brother entertaining this coarse -intruder in their sorrowful affairs.</p> - -<p>Huntley, meanwhile, moved about stealthily, making all the arrangements. -It was a considerable discouragement to find that the officer had made -up his mind to spend the night in the dining-room, where Marget, with a -swell and excitement in her homely form, which, fortunately, Elliot’s -eyes were not sufficiently enlightened to see, prepared the hair-cloth -sofa for his night’s repose. He was sober, in spite of the toddy, but it -seemed more than mortal powers could bear, keeping awake.</p> - -<p>It was midnight; and Huntley knew by Marget’s face that his assistants -were in attendance, but still they scarcely ventured to say to each -other that every thing was ready for their melancholy office.</p> - -<p>Midnight, and the house was still. Yet such a perturbed and miserable -stillness, tingling with apprehension and watchfulness! The widow had -left her sorrowful retirement up-stairs; she stood outside on the -gallery in the darkness, with her hands clasped close together, keeping -down all natural pangs in this unnatural hardship. Marget, who was -strong and resolute, stood watching breathless at the closed door of the -dining-room, with a great plaid in her hands, which nobody understood -the occasion for. No one else was to be seen, save a train of four black -figures moving noiselessly up the stairs. At every step these midnight -emissaries took, Marget held her breath harder, and the Mistress clasped -her hand upon her heart with an agonizing idea that its throbs must be -heard throughout the house. A single faint ray of light directed their -way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> to the room where the dead lay; all beside was in the deepest -darkness of a stormy night—and once more with a merciful noise -pattering loud upon the trees without, came down the deluge of the -thunder storm.</p> - -<p>It was at this moment that Cosmo, sitting in his own room, trying to -compose his heart with a chapter in his Bible, saw, for he could not -hear, his door open, and Huntley’s face, pale with agitation, look in.</p> - -<p>“Come!” said the elder brother, who was almost speechless with strong -excitement.</p> - -<p>“Where?” cried the amazed boy.</p> - -<p>Huntley held up his hand to bar speaking.</p> - -<p>“To bury my father,” he answered, with a voice which, deep in solemn -meaning, seemed, somehow, to be without common sound, and rather to -convey itself to the mind, than to speak to the ear.</p> - -<p>Without a word, Cosmo rose and followed. His brother held him fast upon -the dark gallery, in a speechless grip of intense emotion. Cosmo could -scarcely restrain the natural cry of terror, the natural sob out of his -boy’s heart.</p> - -<p>It went down solemnly and noiselessly, down the muffled stair, that -something, dark and heavy, which the noiseless figures carried. At the -foot of the stairs, Patie, his own pale face the only thing there on -which the light fell fully, held with a steady, patient determination, -and without a tremble, the little rush light, hid in a lantern, which -guided their descent, and in the darkness above stood the Mistress, like -a figure in a dream, with her hands pressed on her heart.</p> - -<p>Then a blast of colder air, a louder sound of the thunder-rain. The two -brothers stole down stairs, Huntley still holding fast by Cosmo’s -arm—and in another moment the whole procession stood safe and free, in -the garden, under the blast of big rain and the mighty masses of cloud. -So far, all was safe; and thus, under shelter of the midnight, set forth -from his sad house, the funeral of Norlaw.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> night was a night of storms. When the heavy rain ceased, peals of -thunder shook the house, and vivid lightning flashed through the -darkness. When the funeral procession was safe, Marget fastened her -plaid across the door of the dining-room as a precaution, and went up -stairs to attend to the Mistress. She found the widow kneeling down, -where she had stood, leaning her hands and her face against the railings -of the gallery, not fainting, perfectly conscious, yet in a condition in -comparison with which a swoon would have been happiness. Her hands clung -tight and rigid about the rails. She had sunk upon her knees from pure -exhaustion, and kept that position for the same reason. Yet she was -terribly conscious of the approach of Marget, afraid of her in the -darkness, as if she were an enemy. The faithful servant managed to rouse -her after great pains, and at last was able to lead her down stairs, to -the gathered fire in the kitchen, where the two sat in the darkness, -with one red spark of fire preserving some appearance of life in the -apartment, listening to the blast of rain against the window, watching -the flashes of wild light which blazed through the three round holes in -the kitchen shutter, and the thunder which echoed far among the distant -hills. Sitting together without a word, listening with feverish anxiety -to every sound, and fearing every moment that the storm must wake their -undesired inmate, who could not stir in the dining-room without their -hearing. It was thus the solemn night passed, lingering and terrible, -over the heads of the women who remained at home.</p> - -<p>And through that wild summer midnight—through the heavy roads, where -their feet sank at every step, and the fluttering ghostly branches on -the hedgerows, which caught the rude pall, a large black shawl, which -had been thrown over the coffin—the melancholy clandestine procession -made its way. When they had gone about half a mile, they were met by the -old post-chaise from the Norlaw Arms, at Kirkbride, which had been -waiting there for them. In it, relieving each other, the little party -proceeded onward. At length they came to Tweed, to the pebbly beach, -where the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> ferryman’s boat lay fastened by its iron ring and hempen -cable. But for the fortunate chance of finding it here, Huntley, who was -unrivaled in all athletic exercises, had looked for nothing better than -swimming across the river, to fetch the boat from the other side. -Rapidly, yet reverently, their solemn burden was laid in the boat; two -of the men, by this time, had ventured to light torches, which they had -brought with them, wrapt in a plaid. The rain had ceased. The broad -breast of Tweed “grit” with those floods, and overflowing the pebbles -for a few yards before they reached the real margin of the stream, -flowed rapidly and strongly, with a dark, swift current, marked with -foam, which it required no small effort to strike steadily across. The -dark trees, glistening with big drops of rain—the unseen depths on -either side, only perceptible to their senses by the cold full breath of -wind which blew over them—the sound of water running fierce in an -expanded tide; and as they set out upon the river, the surrounding gleam -of water shining under their torches, and the strong swell of downward -motion, against which they had to struggle, composed altogether a scene -which no one there soon forgot. The boat had to return a second time, to -convey all its passengers; and then once more, with the solemn tramp of -a procession, the little party went on in the darkness to the grave.</p> - -<p>And then the night calmed, and a wild, frightened moon looked out of the -clouds into solemn Dryburgh, in the midst of her old monkish orchards. -Through the great grass-grown roofless nave, the white light fell in a -sudden calm, pallid and silent as death itself, yet looking on like an -amazed spectator of the scene.</p> - -<p>The open grave stood ready as it had been prepared this morning—a dark, -yawning breach in the wet grass, its edge all defined and glistening in -the moonlight. It was in one of the small side chapels, overgrown with -grass and ivy, which are just distinguishable from the main mass of the -ruin; here the torches blazed and the dark figures grouped together, and -in a solemn and mysterious silence these solitary remains of the old -house of God looked on at the funeral. The storm was over; the thunder -clouds rolled away to the north; the face of the heavens cleared; the -moon grew brighter. High against the sky stood out the Catherine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> window -in its frame of ivy, the solitary shafts and walls from which the trees -waved—and in a solemn gloom, broken by flashes of light which magnified -the shadow, lay those morsels of the ancient building which still -retained a cover. The wind rustled through the trees, shaking down great -drops of moisture, which fell with a startling coldness upon the faces -of the mourners, some of whom began to feel the thrill of superstitious -awe. It was the only sound, save that of the subdued footsteps round the -grave, and the last heavy, dreadful bustle of human exertion, letting -down the silent inhabitant into his last resting-place, which sounded -over the burial of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>And now, at last, it was all over; the terrible excitement, the dismal, -long, self-restraint, the unnatural force of human resentment and -defiance which had mingled with the grief of these three lads. At last -he was in his grave, solemnly and safely; at last he was secure where no -man could insult what remained of him, or profane his dwelling-place. As -the moon shone on the leveled soil, Cosmo cried aloud in a boyish agony -of nature, and fell upon the wet grass beside the grave. The cry rang -through all the solemn echoes of the place. Some startled birds flew out -of the ivied crevices, and made wild, bewildered circles of fright among -the walls. A pang of sudden terror fell upon the rustic attendants; the -torch bearers let their lights fall, and the chief among them hurriedly -entreated Huntley to linger no longer.</p> - -<p>“A’s done!” said Willie Noble, lifting his bonnet reverently from his -head. “Farewell to a good master that I humbly hope’s in heaven lang -afore now. We can do him nae further good, and the lads are timid of the -place. Maister Huntley, may I give them the word to turn hame?”</p> - -<p>So they turned home; the three brothers, last and lingering, turned back -to life and their troubles—all the weary weight of toil which <i>he</i> had -left on their shoulders, for whom this solemn midnight expedition was -their last personal service. The three came together, hand in hand, -saying never a word—their hearts “grit” like Tweed, and flowing full -with unspeakable emotions—and passed softly under the old fruit trees, -which shed heavy dew upon their heads, and through the wet paths which -shone in lines of silver under the moon; Tweed, lying full in a sudden -revelation of moonlight,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> one bank falling off into soft shadows of -trees, the other guarding with a ledge of rock some fair boundary of -possession, and the bubbles of foam gleaming bright upon the rapid -current, was not more unlike the invisible gloomy river over which they -passed an hour ago, than was their own coming and going. The strain was -out of their young spirits, the fire of excitement had consumed itself, -and Norlaw’s sons, like lads as they were, were melting, each one -silently and secretly, into the mood of tears and loving recollections, -the very tenderness of grief.</p> - -<p>And when Marget took down the shutter from the window, to see by the -early morning light how this night of watching had at last taken the -bloom from the Mistress’ face, three other faces, white with the wear of -extreme emotion, but tender as the morning faces of children, appeared -to her coming slowly and calmly, and with weariness, along the green -bank before the house. They had not spoken all the way. They were worn -out with passion and sorrow, and want of rest—even with want of -food—for these days had been terrible days for boys of their age to -struggle through. Marget could not restrain a cry of mingled alarm and -triumph. That, and the sound of the bolts withdrawn from the door, did -what the thunder storm could not do. It broke the slumbers of the -sheriff’s officer, who had slept till now. He ran to the window hastily, -and drew aside the curtain—he saw the face of the widow at the -kitchen-door; the lads, travel-soiled and weary, with their wet clothes -and exhausted faces, coming up to meet her; and the slumbrous sentinel -rushed out of the room to entangle himself in the folds of Marget’s -plaid, and overwhelm her with angry questions; for she came to his call -instantly, with a pretense of care and solicitude exasperating enough -under any circumstances.</p> - -<p>“Where have the lads been?” cried Elliot, throwing down at her, torn -through the middle, the plaid which she had hung across his door.</p> - -<p>“They’ve been at their father’s funeral,” said Marget, solemnly, “puir -bairns!—through the storm and the midnicht, to Dryburgh, to the family -grave.”</p> - -<p>The man turned into the room again in a pretended passion—but, -sheriff’s officer though he was, perhaps he was not sorry for once in -his life to find himself foiled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Put</span> on your bonnet, Katie, and come with me—the like of you should be -able to be some comfort to that poor widow at Norlaw,” said Dr. Logan to -his daughter, as they stood together in the manse garden, after their -early breakfast.</p> - -<p>After the storm, it was a lovely summer morning, tender, dewy, -refreshed, full of the songs of birds and odors of flowers.</p> - -<p>Katie Logan was only eighteen, but felt herself a great deal older. She -was the eldest child of a late marriage, and had been mother and -mistress in the manse for four long years. The minister, as is the fate -of ministers, had waited long for this modest preferment, and many a -heavy thought it gave him to see his children young and motherless, and -to remember that he himself was reaching near the limit of human life; -but Katie was her father’s comfort in this trouble, as in most others; -and it seemed so natural to see her in full care and management of her -four little brothers and sisters, that the chances of Katie having a -life of her own before her, independent of the manse, seldom troubled -the thoughts of her father.</p> - -<p>Katie did not look a day older than she was; but she had that -indescribable elder-sister bearing, that pretty shade of thoughtfulness -upon her frank face, which an early responsibility throws into the looks -of very children. Even a young wife, in all the importance of -independent sway, must have looked but a novice in presence of the -minister’s daughter, who had to be mistress and mother at fourteen, and -had kept the manse cosy and in order, regulated the economies, darned -the stockings, and even cut out the little frocks and pinafores from -that time until now. Katie knew more about measles and hooping-cough -than many a mother, and was skilled how to take a cold “in time,” and -check an incipient fever. The minister thought no one else, save his -dead wife, could have managed the three hundred pounds of the manse -income, so as to leave a comfortable sum over every year, to be laid by -for “the bairns,” and comforted himself with the thought that when he -himself was “called away,” little Johnnie and Charlie, Colin and Isabel, -would still have Katie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> the mother-sister, who already had been their -guardian so long.</p> - -<p>“I’m ready, papa!” said Katie; “but Mrs. Livingstone does not care about -a stranger’s sympathy. It’s no’ like one belonging to herself. She may -think it very kind and be pleased with it, in a way; but it still feels -like an interference at the bottom of her heart.”</p> - -<p>“She’s a peculiar woman,” said Dr. Logan, “but you are not to be called -a stranger, my dear: and it’s no small pleasure to me, Katie, to think -that there are few houses in the parish where you are not just as -welcome as myself.”</p> - -<p>Katie made no reply to this. She did not think it would much mend the -matter with the Mistress to be reckoned as one of the houses in the -parish. So she tied on her bonnet quietly, and took her father’s arm, -and turned down the brae toward Norlaw; for this little woman had the -admirable quality of knowing, not only how to speak with great good -sense, but how to refrain.</p> - -<p>“I’m truly concerned about this family,” said Dr. Logan; “indeed, I may -say, I’m very much perplexed in my mind how to do. A state of things -like this can not be tolerated in a Christian country, Katie. The dead -denied decent burial! It’s horrible to think of; so I see no better for -it, my dear, than to take a quiet ride to Melmar, without letting on to -any body, and seeing for myself what’s to be done with <i>him</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like Mr. Huntley, papa,” said Katie, decidedly.</p> - -<p>“That may be, my dear; but still, I suppose he’s just like other folk, -looking after his own interest, without meaning any particular harm to -any body, unless they come in his way. Oh, human nature!” said the -minister; “the most of us are just like that, Katie, though we seldom -can see it; but there can be little doubt that Melmar was greatly -incensed against poor Norlaw, who was nobody’s enemy but his own.”</p> - -<p>“And his sons!” said Katie, hastily. “Poor boys! I wonder what they’ll -do?” This was one peculiarity of her elder-sisterly position which Katie -had not escaped. She thought it quite natural and proper to speak of -Patie and Huntley Livingstone, one of whom was about her own age, and -one considerably her senior, as the “boys,” and to take a maternal -interest in them; even Dr. Logan, excellent man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> did not see any thing -to smile at in this. He answered with the most perfect seriousness, -echoing her words:—</p> - -<p>“Poor boys! We’re short-sighted mortals, Katie; but there’s no -telling—it might be all the better for them that they’re left to -themselves, and are no more subject to poor Norlaw. But about Melmar? I -think, my dear, I might as well ride over there to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Wait till we’ve seen Mrs. Livingstone, papa,” said the prudent Katie. -“Do you see that man on the road—who is it? He’s in an awful hurry. I -think I’ve seen him before.”</p> - -<p>“Robert Mushet, from the hill; he’s always in a hurry, like most idle -people,” said the minister.</p> - -<p>“No; it’s not Robbie, papa; he’s as like the officer as he can look,” -said Katie, straining her eyes over the high bank which lay between his -path and the high-road.</p> - -<p>“Whisht, my dear—the officer? Do you mean the exciseman, Katie? It -might very well be him, without making any difference to us.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure it’s him—the man that came to Norlaw yesterday!” cried Katie, -triumphantly, hastening the good doctor along the by-road at a pace to -which he was not accustomed. “Something’s happened! Oh papa, be quick -and let us on.”</p> - -<p>“Canny, my dear, canny!” said Dr. Logan. “I fear you must be mistaken, -Katie; but if you’re right, I’m very glad to think that Melmar must have -seen the error of his way.”</p> - -<p>Katie was very indifferent about Melmar; but she pressed on eagerly, -full of interest to know what had happened at Norlaw. When they came in -sight of the house, it was evident by its changed aspect that things -were altered there. The windows were open, the blinds drawn up, the -sunshine once more entering freely as of old. The minister went forward -with a mind perturbed; he did not at all comprehend what this could -mean.</p> - -<p>The door was opened to them by Marget, who took them into the east room -with a certain solemn importance, and who wore her new mourning and her -afternoon cap with black ribbons, in preparation for visitors.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got them a’ persuaded to take a rest—a’ but Huntley,” said -Marget; “for yesterday and last night were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> enough to kill baith the -laddies and their mother—no’ a morsel o’ meat within their lips, nor a -wink of sleep to their e’en.”</p> - -<p>“You alarm me, Marget; what does all this mean?” cried Dr. Logan, waving -his hand towards the open windows.</p> - -<p>Katie, more eager and more quick-witted, watched the motion of Marget’s -lips, yet found out the truth before she spoke.</p> - -<p>“The maister’s funeral,” said Marget, with a solemn triumph, though her -voice broke, in spite of herself, in natural sorrow, “took place -yestreen, at midnicht, sir, as there was nae other way for it, in the -orderings of Providence. Maister Huntley arranged it so.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, poor boys!” cried Katie Logan, and she threw herself down on a -chair, and cried heartily in sympathy, and grief, and joy. Nothing else -was possible; the scene, the circumstances, the cause, were not to be -spoken of. There was no way but that way, of showing how this young -heart at least felt with the strained hearts of the family of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>“Ye may say sae, Miss Katie,” said Marget, crying too in little -outbursts, from which she recovered to wipe her eyes and curtsey -apologetically to the minister. “After a’ they gaed through yesterday, -to start in the storm and the dark, and lay him in his grave by -torchlight in the dead of the night—three laddies, that I mind, just -like yesterday, bits of bairns about the house—it’s enough to break -ane’s heart!”</p> - -<p>“I am very much startled,” said Dr. Logan, pacing slowly up and down the -room; “it was a very out-of-the-way proceeding. Dear me!—at -midnight—by torchlight!—Poor Norlaw! But still I can not say I blame -them—I can not but acknowledge I’m very well pleased it’s over. Dear -me! who could have thought it, without asking my advice or any -body’s,—these boys! but I suppose, Katie, my dear, if they are all -resting, we may as well think of turning back, unless Marget thinks Mrs. -Livingstone would like to have you beside her for the rest of the day.”</p> - -<p>“No, papa; she would like best to be by herself—and so would I, if it -was me,” said Katie, promptly.</p> - -<p>“Eh, Miss Katie! the like of you for understanding—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span>and you so young!” -cried Marget, with real admiration; “but the minister canna gang away -till he’s seen young Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“Who?” cried Dr. Logan, in amazement.</p> - -<p>“My young master, sir, the present Norlaw,” said Marget, with a curtsey -which was not without defiance.</p> - -<p>The good minister shook his head.</p> - -<p>“Poor laddie!” said Doctor Logan, “I wish him many better things than -his inheritance; but I would gladly see Huntley. If you are sure he’s up -and able to see us, tell him I’m here.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell him <i>wha’s</i> here,” said Marget, under her breath, as she went -softly away; “eh, my puir bairn! I’d gie my little finger cheerful for -the twa of them, to see them draw together; and mair unlikely things -have come to pass. Guid forgive me for thinking of the like in a house -of death!”</p> - -<p>Yet, unfortunately, it was hard to avoid thinking of such profane -possibilities in the presence of two young people like Huntley and -Katie—especially for a woman; not a few people in the parish, of -speculative minds, who could see a long way before them, had already -lightly linked their names together as country gossips use, and perhaps -Huntley half understood what was the meaning of the slight but -significant emphasis, with which Marget intimated that “the minister and -<i>Miss Katie</i>” were waiting to see him.</p> - -<p>The youth went with great readiness. They were, at least, of all others, -the friends whom Huntley was the least reluctant to confide in, and -whose kindness he appreciated best.</p> - -<p>And when pretty Katie Logan sprang forward, still half crying, and with -bright tears hanging upon her eye-lashes, to take her old playmate’s -hand, almost tenderly, in her great concern and sympathy for him, the -lad’s heart warmed, he could scarcely tell how. He felt involuntarily, -almost unwillingly, as if this salutation and regard all to himself was -a sudden little refuge of brighter life opened for him out of the -universal sorrow which was about his own house and way. The tears came -to Huntley’s eyes—but they were tears of relief, of ease and comfort to -his heart. He almost thought he could have liked, if Katie had been -alone, to sit down by her side, and tell her all that he had suffered, -all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> that he looked forward to. But the sight of the minister, -fortunately, composed Huntley. Dr. Logan, excellent man as he was, did -not seem so desirable a confidant.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean to blame you, my dear boy,” said the minister, earnestly; -“it was a shock to my feelings, I allow, but do not think of getting -blame from me, Huntley. I was shut up entirely in the matter, myself; I -did not see what to do; and I could not venture to say that it was not -the wisest thing, and the only plan to clear your way.”</p> - -<p>There was a little pause, for Huntley either would not, or could not, -speak—and then Dr. Logan resumed:</p> - -<p>“We came this morning, Katie and me, to see what use we could be; but -now the worst’s over, Huntley, I’m thinking we’ll just go our way back -again, and leave you to rest—for Katie thinks your mother will be best -pleased to be alone.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” said Huntley, looking eagerly into Katie’s face.</p> - -<p>“Yes, unless I could be your real sister for a while, as long as Mrs. -Livingstone needed me,” said Katie, with a smile, “and I almost wish I -could—I am so good at it—to take care of you boys.”</p> - -<p>“There is no fear of us now,” said Huntley. “The worst’s over, as the -minister says. We’ve had no time to think what we’re to do, Dr. Logan; -but I’ll come and tell you whenever we can see what’s before us.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be very glad, Huntley; but I’ll tell you what’s better than -telling me,” said Dr. Logan. “Katie has a cousin, a very clever writer -in Edinburgh—I knew there was something I wanted to tell you, and I had -very near forgotten—if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go in, it’s not -very far, and get him to manage the whole thing for you. Here’s the -address that Katie wrote down last night. Tell your mother about it, -Huntley, and that it’s my advice you should have a sound man in the law -to look after your concerns; and come down to the manse as soon as you -can, if it were only for a change; and you’ll give your mother our -regards, and we’ll bid you good-day.”</p> - -<p>“And dinna think more than you should, or grieve more, Huntley—and come -and see us,” said Katie, offering him her hand again.</p> - -<p>Huntley took it, half joyfully, half inclined to burst out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> into boyish -tears once more. He thought it would have been a comfort and refreshment -to have had her here, this wearied, melancholy day. But somehow, he did -not think with equal satisfaction of Katie’s cousin. It seemed to -Huntley he would almost rather employ any “writer” than this one, to -smooth out the raveled concerns of Norlaw.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Common</span> daylight, common life, the dead buried out of their sight, the -windows open, the servants coming to ask common questions about the -cattle and the land. Nothing changed, except that the father was no -longer visible among them—that Huntley sat at the foot of the table, -and the Mistress grew familiar with her widow’s cap. Oh, cruel life! -This was how it swallowed up all the solemnities of their grief.</p> - -<p>And now it was the evening, and the eager youths could be restrained no -longer. Common custom had aroused even the Mistress out of her inaction, -sitting by the corner window, she had once more begun mechanically to -notice what went and came at the kitchen door—had been very angry with -the packman, who had seduced Jenny to admit him—and with Jenny for so -far forgetting the decorum due to “an afflicted house;” had even once -noticed, and been partially displeased by the black ribbons in Marget’s -cap, which it was extravagant to wear in the morning; and with -melancholy self-reproof had opened the work basket, which had been left -to gather dust for weeks past.</p> - -<p>“I needna be idle <i>now</i>"—the Mistress said to herself, with a heavy -sigh; and Huntley and Patie perceived that it was no longer too early to -enter upon their own plans and views.</p> - -<p>With this purpose, they came to her about sunset, when she had settled -herself after her old fashion to her evening’s work. She saw -instinctively what was coming, and, with natural feeling, shrunk for the -moment. She was a little impatient, too, her grief taking that form.</p> - -<p>“Keep a distance, keep a distance, bairns!” cried the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> Mistress; “let me -have room to breathe in! and I’m sure if ye were but lassies, and could -have something in your hands to do, it would be a comfort to me. There’s -Jenny, the light-headed thing, taken her stocking to the door, as if -nothing was amiss in the house. Pity me!—but I’ll not be fashed with -<i>her</i> long, that’s a comfort to think of. Laddies, laddies, can ye no -keep still? What are ye a’wanting with me?”</p> - -<p>“Mother, it’s time to think what we’re to do; neither Patie nor me can -keep quiet, when we think of what’s before us,” said Huntley—“and -there’s little comfort in settling on any thing till we can speak of it -to you.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress gave way at these words to a sudden little outbreak of -tears, which you might almost have supposed were tears of anger, and -which she wiped off hurriedly with an agitated hand. Then she proceeded -very rapidly with the work she had taken up, which was a dark gray -woolen stocking—a familiar work, which she could get on with almost -without looking at it. She did look at her knitting, however, intently, -bending her head over it, not venturing to look up at her children; and -thus it was that they found themselves permitted to proceed.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Huntley, with a deep blush—“I’m a man, but I’ve learned -nothing to make my bread by. Because I’m the eldest, and should be of -most use, I’m the greatest burden. I understand about the land and the -cattle, and after a while I might manage a farm, but that’s slow work -and weary—and the first that should be done is to get rid of me.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace!” cried the Mistress, with a break in her voice; “how -dare ye say the like of that to your mother? Are you not my eldest son, -the stay of the house? Wherefore do ye say this to me?”</p> - -<p>“Because it’s true, mother,” said Huntley, firmly; “and though it’s true -I’m not discouraged. The worst is, I see nothing I can do near you, as I -might have done if I had been younger, and had time to spare to learn a -trade. Such as it is, I’m very well content with my trade, too; but what -could I do with it here? Get a place as a grieve, maybe, through -Tyneside’s help, and the minister’s, and be able to stock a small farm -by the time I was forty years old. But that would please neither you nor -me. Mother, you must send me away!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span></p> - -<p>The Mistress did not look up, did not move—went on steadily with her -rapid knitting—but she said:—</p> - -<p>“Where?” with a sharp accent, like a cry.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been thinking of that,” said Huntley, slowly; “If I went to -America, or Canada, or any such place, I would be like to stay. My -mind’s against staying; I want to come back—to keep home in my eye. So -I say Australia, mother.”</p> - -<p>“America, Canada, Australia!—the laddie’s wild!” cried the Mistress. -“Do you mean to say ye’ll be an emigrant? a bairn of mine?”</p> - -<p>Emigration was not then what it is now; it was the last resort—sadly -resisted, sadly yielded to—of the “broken man;” and Huntley’s mother -saw her son, in imagination, in a dreary den of a cabin, in a poor -little trading ship, with a bundle on the end of a stick, and despair in -his heart, when he spoke of going away.</p> - -<p>“There’s more kinds of emigrants than one kind, mother,” said Patie.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” said the Mistress, her imagination shifting, in spite of her, to a -dismal family scene, in which the poor wife had the baby tied on her -back in a shawl, and the children at her feet were crying with cold and -hunger, and the husband at her side looking desperate. “I’ve seen folk -on the road to America—ay, laddies, mony a time. I’m older than you -are. I ken what like they look; but pity me, did I ever think the like -of that would be evened to a bairn of mine!”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Huntley, with a cheerfulness which he did not quite feel, -“an emigrant goes away to stay—I should not do that—I am going, if I -can, to make a fortune, and come home—and it’s not America; there are -towns <i>there</i> already like our own, and a man, I suppose, has only a -greater chance of getting bread enough to eat. I could get bread enough -in our own country-side; but I mean to get more if I can—I mean to get -a sheep farm and grow rich, as everybody does out there.”</p> - -<p>“Poor laddie! Do they sell sheep and lands out there to them that have -no siller?” said the Mistress. “If you canna stock a farm at hame, where -you’re kent and your name respected, Huntley Livingstone, how will you -do it there?”</p> - -<p>“That’s just what I have to find out,” said Huntley, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> spirit; “a -man may be clear he’s to do a thing, without seeing how at the moment. -With your consent, I’m going to Australia, mother; if there’s any thing -over, when all our affairs are settled, I’ll get my share—and as for -the sheep and the land, they’re in Providence; but I doubt them as -little as if they were on the lea before my eyes. I’m no’ a man out of a -town that knows nothing about it. I’m country bred and have been among -beasts all my days. Do you think I’m feared! Though I’ve little to start -with, mother, you’ll see me back rich enough to do credit to the name of -Norlaw!”</p> - -<p>His mother shook her head.</p> - -<p>“It’s easy to make a fortune on a summer night at hame, before a lad’s -twenty, or kens the world,” she said. “I’ve seen mony a stronger man -than you, Huntley, come hame baith penniless and hopeless—and the like -of such grand plans, they’re but trouble and sadness to me.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps Huntley was discouraged by the words; at all events he made no -reply—and the mind of his mother gradually expanded. She looked up from -her knitting suddenly, with a rapid tender glance.</p> - -<p>“Maybe I’m wrong,” said the Mistress; “there’s some will win and some -will fail in spite of the haill world. The Lord take the care of my -bairns! Who am I, that I should be able to guide you, three lads, coming -to be men? Huntley, you’re the auldest, and you’re strong. I canna say -stay at hame—I dinna see what to bid you do. You must take your ain -will, and I’ll no’ oppose.”</p> - -<p>If Huntley thanked his mother at all it was in very few words, for the -politenesses were not cultivated among them, the feelings of this -Scottish family lying somewhat deep, and expressing themselves otherwise -than in common words; but the Mistress brushed her hand over her eyes -hurriedly, with something like a restrained sob, intermitting for a -single instant, and no longer, the rapid glitter of her “wires"—but you -would scarcely have supposed that the heart of the mother was moved thus -far, to hear the tone of her next words. She turned to her second son -without looking at him.</p> - -<p>“And where are <i>you</i> for, Patie Livingstone?” said the Mistress, with -almost a sarcastic sharpness. “It should be India, or the North Pole to -pleasure you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p>Patie was not emboldened by this address; it seemed, indeed, rather to -discomfit the lad; not as a reproach, but as showing a greater -expectation of his purposes than they warranted.</p> - -<p>“You know what I aimed at long ago, mother,” he said, with hesitation. -“It may be that we can ill afford a ’prentice time now—but I’m no’ -above working while I learn. I can scramble up as well as Huntley. I’ll -go either to Glasgow or to Liverpool, to one of the founderies there.”</p> - -<p>“Folk dinna learn to be <i>civil</i> engineers in founderies,” said the -Mistress; “they’re nothing better than smiths at the anvil. You wanted -to build a light-house, Patie, when ye were a little bairn—but you’ll -no’ learn there.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll maybe learn better. There’s to be railroads soon, everywhere,” -said Patie, with a little glow upon his face. “I’ll do what I can—if -I’m only to be a smith, I’ll be a smith like a man, and learn my -business. The light-house was a fancy; but I may learn what’s as good, -and more profitable. There’s some railroads already, mother, and there’s -more beginning every day.”</p> - -<p>“My poor bairn!” said the Mistress, for the first time bestowing a -glance of pity upon Patie—“if your fortune has to wait for its making -till folk gang riding over a’ the roads on steam horses, like what’s -written in the papers, I’ll never live to see it. There’s that man they -ca’ Stephenson, he’s made something or other that’s a great wonder; but, -laddie, you dinna think that roads like that can go far? They may have -them up about London—and truly you might live to make another, I’ll no’ -say—but I would rather build a tower to keep ships from being wrecked -than make a road for folk to break their necks on, if it was me.”</p> - -<p>“Folk that are born to break their necks will break them on any kind of -road,” said Patie, with great gravity; “but I’ve read about it all, and -I think a man only needs to know what he has to do, to thrive; and -besides, mother, there’s more need for engines than upon railroads. It’s -a business worth a man’s while.”</p> - -<p>“Patie,” said the Mistress, solemnly, “I’ve given my consent to Huntley -to gang thousands of miles away over the sea; but if <i>you</i> gang among -thae engines, that are merciless and senseless, and can tear a living -creature like a rag of claith—I’ve seen them, laddie, with my own e’en, -clanging<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> and clinking like the evil place itself—I’ll think it’s Patie -that’s in the lion’s mouth, and no’ my eldest son.”</p> - -<p>“Well, mother!” said Patie, sturdily—“if I were in the lion’s mouth, -and yet had room to keep clear, would you be feared for me?”</p> - -<p>This appeal took the Mistress entirely without preparation. She brushed -her hands hastily over her eyes once more, and went on with her -knitting. Then a long, hard-drawn breath, which was not a sigh, came -from the mother’s breast; in the midst of her objections, her -determination not to be satisfied, a certain unaccountable pride in the -vigor, and strength, and resolution of her sons rose in the kindred -spirit of their mother. She was not “feared"—neither for one nor the -other of the bold youths by her side. Her own strong vitality went forth -with them, with an indescribable swell of exhilaration—yet she was -their mother, and a widow, and it wrung her heart to arrange quietly how -they were to leave her and their home.</p> - -<p>“And me?” said Cosmo, coming to his mother’s side.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> had no determination to announce—he came out of his thoughts, and -his musings, and his earnest listening, to lay that white, long hand of -his upon his mother’s arm. It was the touch which made the full cup run -over. The widow leaned her head suddenly upon her boy’s shoulder, -surprised into an outburst of tears and weakness, unusual and -overpowering—and the other lads came close to this group, touched to -the heart like their mother. They cried out among their tears that Cosmo -must not go away—that he was too young—too tender! What they had not -felt for themselves, they felt for him—there seemed something forlorn, -pathetic, miserable, in the very thought of this boy going forth to meet -the world and its troubles. This boy, the child of the house, the son -who was like his father, the tenderest spirit of them all!</p> - -<p>Yet Cosmo, who had no plans, and who was only sixteen, was rather -indignant at this universal conclusion. He yielded at last, only because -the tears were still in his mother’s eyes, and because they were all -more persistent than he was—and sat down at a little distance, not -sullen, but as near so as was possible to him, his cheek glowing with a -suspicion that they thought him a child. But soon the conversation -passed to other matters, which Cosmo could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> resist. They began to -speak of Melmar, their unprovoked enemy, and then the three lads looked -at each other, taking resolution from that telegraphic conference; and -Huntley, with the blood rising in his cheeks, for the first time asked -his mother, in the name of them all, for that tale which her husband, on -his death-bed, had deputed her to tell them, the story of the will which -was in the mid-chamber, and that Mary who was Mary of Melmar evermore in -the memory of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>At the question the tears dried out of the Mistress’s eyes, an impatient -color came to her face—and it was so hard to elicit this story from her -aggrieved and unsympathetic mind, that it may be better for Mrs. -Livingstone, in the estimation of other people, if we tell what she told -in other words than hers.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Yet</span> we do not see why we are called upon to defend Mrs. Livingstone, who -was very well able, under most circumstances, to take care of herself. -She did not by any means receive her sons’ inquiries with a good grace. -On the contrary, she evaded them hotly, with unmistakable dislike and -impatience.</p> - -<p>“Mary of Me’mar! what is she to you?” said the Mistress. “Let bygones be -bygones, bairns—she’s been the fash of my life, one way and another. -Hold your peace, Cosmo Livingstone! Do you think I can tell this like a -story out of a book. There’s plenty gossips in the countryside could -tell you the ins and the outs of it better than me—”</p> - -<p>“About the mid-chamber and the will, mother?” asked Patrick.</p> - -<p>“Weel, maybe, no about that,” said the Mistress, slightly mollified; “if -that’s what ye want. This Mary Huntley, laddies, I ken very little about -her. She was away out of these parts before my time. I never doubted she -was light-headed, and liked to be admired and petted. She was Me’mar’s -only bairn; maybe that might be some excuse for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> her—for he was an auld -man and fond. But, kind as he was, she ran away from him to marry some -lad that naebody kent—and went off out of the country with her -ne’er-do-weel man, and has never been heard tell of from that time to -this—that’s a’ I ken about her.”</p> - -<p>This was said so peremptorily and conclusively, setting aside at once -any further question, that even these lads, who were not particularly -skilled in the heart or its emotions, perceived by instinct, that their -mother knew a great deal more about her—more than any inducement in the -world could persuade her to tell.</p> - -<p>“I’ve heard that Me’mar was hurt to the heart,” said the Mistress, “and -no much wonder. His bairn that he had thought nothing too good for! and -to think of her running off from <i>him</i>, a lone auld man, to be married -upon a stranger-lad without friends, that naebody kent any good o’, and -that turned out just as was to be expected. Oh, aye! it does grand to -make into a story—and the like of you, you think it all for love, and a -warm heart, and a’ the rest of it; but I think it’s but an ill heart -that would desert hame and friends, and an auld man above three-score, -for its ain will and pleasure. So Me’mar took it very sore to heart; he -would not have her name named to him for years. And the next living -creature in this world that he liked best, after his ungrateful -daughter, was—laddies, you’ll no’ be surprised—just him that’s gone -from us—that everybody likit weel—just Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause after this, the Mistress’s displeasure melting into a -sob of her permanent grief; and then the tale was resumed more gently, -more slowly, as if she had sinned against the dead by the warmth and -almost resentment of her first words.</p> - -<p>“Me’mar lived to be an auld man,” said the Mistress. “He aye lived on -till Patie was about five years auld, and a’ our bairns born. He was -very good aye to me; mony’s the present he sent me, when I was a young -thing, and was more heeding for bonnie-dies, and took great notice of -Huntley, and was kind to the whole house. It was said through a’ the -country-side that ye were to be his heirs, and truly so you might have -been, but for one thing and anither; no’ that I’m heeding—you’ll be a’ -the better for making your way in the world yourselves.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<p>“And the will, mother?” said Huntley, with a little eagerness.</p> - -<p>“I’m coming to the will; have patience;” said the Mistress, who had not -a great deal herself, to tell the truth. “Bairns, it’s no’ time yet for -me to speak to you of your father; but he was aye a just man, with a -tender heart for the unfortunate—you ken that as well as me. He wouldna -take advantage of another man’s weakness, or another man’s ill-doing, -far less of a poor silly lassie, that, maybe, didna ken what she was -about. And when the old man made his will, Norlaw would not let him -leave his lands beyond his ain flesh and blood. So the will was made, -that Mary Huntley, if she ever came back, was to be heir of Melmar, and -if she never came back, nor could be heard tell of, every thing was left -to Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>It was impossible to restrain the start of amazement with which Huntley, -growing red and agitated, sprang to his feet, and the others stirred out -of their quietness of listening. Their mother took no time to answer the -eager questions in their eyes, nor to hear even the exclamations which -burst from them unawares. She bent her head again, and drew through her -fingers, rapidly, the hem of her apron. She did not see, nor seem to -think of, her children. Her mind was busy about the heaviest epoch of -her own life.</p> - -<p>“When Melmar died, search was caused to be made every place for his -daughter,” said the Mistress, passing back and forwards through her -hands this tight strip of her apron. “Your father thought of nothing -else, night nor day; a’ for justice, bairns, doubtless for justice—that -nobody might think he would take an advantage of his kinswoman, though -he could not approve of her ways! He went to Edinburgh himself, and from -there to London. I was young then, and Cosmo little mair than an infant, -and a’ thing left in my hands. Aye this one and the other one coming to -tell about Mary Huntley—and Norlaw away looking for her—and the very -papers full of the heiress—and me my lane in the house, and little used -to be left to mysel’. I mind every thing as if it had happened this very -day.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress paused once more—it was only to draw a long breath of -pain, ere she hurried on with the unwelcome tale, which now had a -strange interest, even for herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> The boys could not tell what was -the bitterness of the time which their mother indicated by these -compressed and significant words; but it was impossible to hear even her -voice without perceiving something of the long-past troubles, intense -and vivid as her nature, which nothing in the world could have induced -her to disclose.</p> - -<p>“The upshot was, she could not be found,” said the Mistress, abruptly; -“either she never heard tell that she was sought for, or she took guilt -to herself, and would not appear. They kept up the search as long as a -year, but they never heard a word, or got a clue to where she was.”</p> - -<p>“And then?” cried Huntley, with extreme excitement.</p> - -<p>“And then,” said the Mistress—“was he a man to take another person’s -lands, when but a year had gane?” She spoke with a visible -self-restraint, strong and bitter—the coercion which a mind of energy -and power puts upon itself, determining not to think otherwise than with -approbation of the acts of a weaker nature—and with something deeper -underlying even this. “He said she would still come hame some day, as -was most likely. He would not take up her rights, and her living, as he -was persuaded in his mind. The will was proved in law, for her sake, but -he would not take possession of the land, nor put forward his claims to -it, because he said she lived, and would come hame. So, laddies, there’s -the tale. A Mr. Huntley, a writer, from the northcountry, a far-away -friend, came in and claimed as next of kin. Mary of Melmar was lost and -gane, and could not be found, and Norlaw would not put in his ain claim, -though it was clear. He said it would be taking her rights, and that -then she would never come back to claim her land. So the strange man got -possession and kept it, and hated Norlaw. And from that day to this, -what with having an enemy, and the thought of that unfortunate woman -coming back, and the knowledge in his heart that he had let a wrongful -heir step in—what with all that bairns, and more than that, another day -of prosperity never came to this house of Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“Then we are the heirs of Me’mar!” said Huntley; “we, and not my -father’s enemy! Mother, why did we never hear this before?”</p> - -<p>“Na, lads,” said the Mistress, with an indescribable bitterness in her -tone; “it’s her and her bairns that are the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> heirs—and they’re to be -found, and claim their inheritance, soon or syne.”</p> - -<p>“Then this is what I’ll do,” cried Cosmo, springing to his feet; “I’ll -go over all the world, but I’ll find Mary of Melmar! I’m not so strong -as Huntley, or as Patie, but I’m strong enough for this. I’ll do what my -father wished—if she should be in the furtherest corner of the earth, -I’ll bring her hame!”</p> - -<p>To the extreme amazement of the boys, the Mistress laid a violent hand -on Cosmo’s shoulder, and, either with intention or unconsciously, shook -the whole frame of the slender lad with her impetuous grasp.</p> - -<p>“Will ye?” cried his mother, with a sharpness of suffering in her voice -that confounded them. “Is it no’ enough, all that’s past? Am I to begin -again? Am I to bring up <i>sons</i> for her service? Oh, patience, patience! -it’s more than a woman like me can bear!”</p> - -<p>Amazed, grieved, disturbed by her words and her aspect, her sons -gathered around her. She pushed them away impatiently, and rose up.</p> - -<p>“Bairns, dinna anger me!—I’m no’ meek enough,” said the Mistress, her -face flushing with a mixture of mortification and displeasure. “You’ve -had your will, and heard the story—but I tell you this woman’s been a -vexation to me all my life—and it’s no’ your part, any one of you, to -begin it a’ over again.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> story, which Mrs. Livingstone told with reluctance, and, in fact, -did not tell half of, was, though the youths did not know it, the story -of the very bitterest portion of their mother’s life. The Mistress never -told, either to them or to any one else, how, roused in her honest love -and wifely sincerity into sympathy with her husband’s generous efforts -to preserve her own inheritance to his runaway cousin, she had very soon -good reason to be sick of the very name of Mary of Me’mar; how she found -out that, after years long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> of her faithful, warm-hearted, affectionate -society, after the birth of children and consecration of time, after all -the unfailing courage and exertions, by which her stout spirit had done -much to set him right in the world, and, above all, in spite of the -unfeigned and undivided love of a full heart like her own, the visionary -heart of her husband had all this time been hankering after his first -love.</p> - -<p>Without preparation, and without softening, the Mistress found this out. -He would not advantage his own family at the cost of Mary; he would seek -for Mary through the whole world. These had been the words of Norlaw, -ten years after Mary of Melmar’s disappearance, and even years after he -had become the father of Huntley. The unsuspecting wife thought no harm; -then he went and came for a whole year seeking for his cousin; and -during that time, left alone day after day, and month after month, the -mistress of Norlaw found out the secret. It was a hard thing for her, -with her strong personality and burning individual heart, to bear; but -she did bear it with an indignant heroism, never saying a word to mortal -ear. He himself never knew that she had discovered his prior love, or -resented it. She would have scorned herself could she have reproached -him or even made him conscious of her own feelings. Good fortune and -strong affection at the bottom happily kept contempt out of the -Mistress’s indignation; but her heart continued sore for years with the -discovery—sore, mortified, humiliated. To think that all her wifely, -faithful regard had clung unwittingly to a man who, professing to -cherish her, followed, with a wandering heart, a girl who had run away -from him years before to be another man’s wife! The Mistress had borne -it steadily and soberly, so that no one knew of her discovery, but she -had never got beyond this abiding mortification and injury; and it was -not much wonder that she started with a sudden burst of exasperated -feeling, when Cosmo, her own son, echoed his father’s foolish words. Her -youngest boy, her favorite and last nursling, the one bird that was to -be left in the nest, could stir to this same mad search, when he had not -yet ambition enough to stir for his own fortune. It was the last drop -which made all this bitterness run over. No wonder that the Mistress -lost command of herself for once, and going up to her own room in a gust -of aggravated and angry emotions, thrust Cosmo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> away from her, and -cried, “Am I to bring up sons for <i>her</i> service?” in the indignation of -her heart.</p> - -<p>Yes, it was a very pretty story for romance. The young girl running -away, “all for love"—the faithful forsaken lover thinking of her in -secret—rising up to defend her rights after ten long years—eagerly -searching for her—and, with a jealous tenderness, refusing to do any -thing which might compromise her title, while he alone still fondly -believed in her return. A very pretty story, with love, and nothing -else, for its theme. Yet, unfortunately, these pretty stories have a -dark enough aspect often on the other side; and the Mistress, mortified, -silent, indignant, cheated in her own perfect confidence and honest -tenderness, when you saw her behind the scenes of the other pretty -picture, took a great deal of the beauty out of that first-love and -romantic constancy of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>When Mrs. Livingstone went to her room, the sons, vexed and troubled, -were a long time silent. Cosmo withdrew into a corner, and leaned his -head on his mother’s little table. He, too, was deeply mortified, and -could not keep back the hot boyish tears from his eyes—he felt himself -set aside like a child—he felt the shame of a sensitive temperament at -perceiving how greatly his mother was disturbed. Somehow she seemed to -have betrayed herself, and Cosmo, jealous for her perfect honor, was -uneasy and abashed at this disturbance of it; while still his heart, -young, eager, inexperienced, loving romance, secretly longed to hear -more of this mystery, and secretly repeated his determination. Huntley, -who was pacing up and down the room, lifting and replacing every thing -in his way which could be lifted, was simply confounded and -thunderstruck, which emotions Patie shared with his elder brother. -Patie, however, was the most practical of the three, and it was he who -first broke the silence.</p> - -<p>“Somehow or other this vexes my mother,” said Patie; “let us ask her no -more questions about it; but, Huntley, you ought to know all the -hiding-holes about the house. You should look up this will and put it in -safe hands.”</p> - -<p>“In safe hands?—I’ll act upon it forthwith! Are we to keep terms with -Melmar after all that’s past, and with power to turn him out of his -seat?” cried Huntley; “no,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> surely; I’ll put it into hands that will -carry it into effect, and that without delay.”</p> - -<p>“They would want either this Mary, or proof that she was dead, before -they would do any thing in it,” said Patie, doubtfully; “and yet it’s a -shame!”</p> - -<p>“She is not dead!” interrupted Cosmo; “why my mother should be angry, I -can’t tell; but I’ll find out Mary of Melmar, I know I shall, though it -should be twenty years!”</p> - -<p>“Be quiet, Cosmo,” said his elder brother, “and see that no one troubles -my mother with another question; she does not like it, and I will not -have her disturbed; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We know little about -business, and we’re not of a patient race. Me’mar had better not come -near any of us just now, unless it were you, Patie, that can master -yourself. I should like to knock him down, and my mother would do worse. -I’ll write to this friend of the minister’s, this writer, and put it all -in his hands—it’s the best thing I can see. What do you say?”</p> - -<p>Patie gave his assent readily; Cosmo did not say any thing. The boy -began to feel his youth somewhat bitterly, and to think that they did -not care for his opinion; so he went out, and swung himself up by an old -elm tree into one of the vacant windows of the castle, a favorite seat -of Cosmo, where, among the cool ivy, and hidden by the deep recess of -the thick old wall, he could see the sunset, and watch how the shadows -stole over the earth. The Eildons were at his right hand, paling -gradually out of their royal purple against the pale sky in the east, -and the last long rays of the sunset, too low to reach them, fell -golden-yellow upon Tyne, and shed a pathetic light on the soft green -bank before the door of Norlaw. The common sounds of life were not so -subdued now about this lonely house; even the cackle of poultry and bark -of dogs seemed louder since the shutters were opened and the curtains -drawn back—and Marget went firmly forth upon her errands to the byre, -and the hush and stealth of mourning had left the place already. Who -would not escape somewhere into some personal refuge out of the -oppressive shadow of grief, while youth remains to make that possible? -Huntley had been startled to feel that there was such an escape for -himself when Katie Logan took his hand in the fullness of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> -sympathy—and Huntley and Patie together were seeking a similar ease now -in discussing the plans of their future life together. Cosmo was only a -boy; he had no plans yet which could be called plans—and he was too -young to be moved by the hand or the voice of any woman. So he sat among -the ivy in the ledge of the deep old window, with his head uncovered, -his fair hair falling over his long white hands, and those dark liquid -eyes of his gazing forth upon as fair a landscape as ever entered into -the dream of a poet.</p> - -<p>If Cosmo was a poet he was not aware of it; yet his heart was easing -itself after his fashion. He was too young to apprehend the position of -his mother, and how it broke into the superficial romance of his -father’s life. He thought only of Mary of Melmar, of the girl, -beautiful, young, and unfortunate, who ran away “for love,” and had -literally left all for her husband’s sake; he thought of displacing his -father’s enemy and restoring his father’s first love to her rights. In -imagination he pursued her through all the storied countries to which a -young fancy naturally turns. He saw himself delivering her out of -dangers, suddenly appearing when she was in peril or poverty, dispersing -her enemies like a champion of chivalry, and bringing her home in -triumph. This was how, while his brothers comforted themselves with an -earnest discussion of possibilities, and while his mother, differing -from them as age differs from youth—and as personal bereavement, which -nothing can ever make up, and which changes the whole current of a life, -differs from a natural removal and separation—returned into the depths -of the past and lived them over again—this is how Cosmo made his first -personal escape out of his first grief.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Oh</span>! Patricia! Sinclair has been telling me such a story,” cried a young -girl, suddenly rushing upon another, in a narrow winding road through -the woods which clothed a steep bank of Tyne; at this spot, for one -exclusive<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> mile, the rapid little river was “private property,” the -embellishment of a gentleman’s grounds—shut out from vulgar admiration. -Tyne, indifferent alike to admiration and exclusivism, was not less -happy on that account; but foamed over his stony channel as brisk, as -brown, and as clear, as when he ran in unrestricted freedom by the old -castle walls of Norlaw. The path was slippery and irregular with great -roots of trees, and one or two brooks, unseen, trickled down the brae -below the underwood, only detected by the slender, half visible rivulet -on the path which you had to step across, or the homely plank half -penetrated by water, which bridged over Tyne’s invisible tributary. They -did not appear, these fairy springs, but they added each a tingle, like -so many harp strings, to the many sounds of Nature. Through this winding -road, or rather upon it, for she was not going anywhere, the elder of -these two interlocutors had been for some time wandering. She was a -delicate looking girl of seventeen, with blue eyes and pale golden hair, -rather pretty, but very slight, and evidently not in strong health. The -sudden plunge down upon her, which her younger sister made from the top -of the brae, took away Patricia’s breath, and made her drop the book -which she had been reading. This was no very great matter, for the book -was rather an indifferent production, being one of those books of poetry -which one reads at seventeen, and never after—but it was rather more -important that the color came violently into her pale cheek, and she -clasped her hands upon her side, with a gasp which terrified the young -hoiden.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I forgot!” she cried, in sympathy, as eager as her onslaught had -been. “Oh! have I hurt you? I did not mean it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“No, Joanna,” said Patricia, faintly, “but you forget my nerves -always—you never had any yourself.”</p> - -<p>Which was perfectly true, and not to be denied. These two, Patricia and -Joanna Huntley, were the only daughters of their father’s house—the -only children, indeed, save one son, who was abroad. There were not many -feminine family names in this branch of the house of Huntley, and -invention in this matter being very sparely exercised in these parts, it -came about that the girls were called after their uncles, and that the -third girl, had there been such an unlucky little individual, following -in the track of her sisters, would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> turned out Jemima or Robina, -according as the balance rose in favor of her father’s brother or her -mother’s. Fortunately, Joanna was the last fruit of the household tree, -which had blossomed sparely. She was only fifteen, tall, strong, red -haired, and full of vigor—the greatest contrast imaginable to her -pretty pale sister, whom Joanna devoutly believed in as a beauty, but -secretly did somewhat grieve over as a fool. The younger sister was not -in the least pretty, and knew it, but she was clever, and Joanna knew -that also, which made an agreeable counterpoise. She was extremely -honest, downright and straightforward, speaking the truth with less -elegance than force, but speaking it always; and on the whole was a good -girl, though not always a very pleasant one. At this present moment she -was flushed, breathless, and eager, having run all the way from the -house with something to tell. But Patricia’s “nerves” could not bear the -sudden announcement, though that delicate young lady loved a piece of -news fully as well as her sister. Joanna, therefore, stood still, making -hasty and awkward apologies, and eager to do something to amend her -mistake, while her delicate companion recovered breath. There was -something more than nerves in the young lady’s discomposure. She was -feeble by nature, the invalid of the family, which Joanna, knowing no -sympathetic ailment in her own vigorous person, sometimes had the ill -luck to forget.</p> - -<p>“And my poor book!” said poor Patricia, picking up the unfortunate -volume, which lay fluttering with open leaves on the very edge of that -tiny current trickling over the brown path, which, save that it moved -and caught an occasional sparkle of light, you could not have -distinguished to be a burn. “Oh, Joanna, you are so thoughtless! what -was all this haste about?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, such a story!” cried Joanna, eagerly. “It’s easy to speak about -nerves—but when I heard it I could have run to papa and given him a -good shake—I could! and he deserved it! for they say it was all his -blame.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to hear what it was,” said Patricia, with an exasperating -and intolerable meekness, which usually quite overpowered the patience -of her sister.</p> - -<p>But Joanna was too much interested in the present instance.</p> - -<p>“It was Mr. Livingstone of Norlaw,” she said, sinking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> her voice; “he’s -dead, and his funeral was stopped because he was in debt, and it was -papa that did it—and the three boys got up at midnight and carried him -on their shoulders, with torches in their hands, to Dryburgh, and buried -him there. Sinclair says it’s true, every word; and I don’t know whether -Huntley did not swim over Tweed to get the boat. Oh, Patricia! I feel as -if I could both greet and cry hurra, if I were to see them; and as for -papa, he deserves—I don’t know what he does not deserve!”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would talk like a lady, Joanna,” said her sister, without -taking any notice of this unfilial sentiment; “greet! you could just as -well say cry, or weep, for that matter—and it’s only common people that -say Tweed, as if they meant a person instead of a river; why don’t you -say <i>the</i> Tweed, as people of education say?”</p> - -<p>“He’s the truest person I know,” cried Joanna. “Tweed and Tyne! you may -say that they’re just streams of water, if you like, but they’re more to -me; but the question is papa—I knew he was ill enough and hard-hearted, -but I never, never thought he could have been so bad as that—and I mean -to go this very moment and ask him how it was.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose papa knows better than we do,” said Patricia, with a slight -sigh; “but I wish he would not do things that make people talk. It is -very annoying. I dare say everybody will know about this soon, if it’s -true. If it was all himself it would not so much matter, and you never -go out anywhere, Joanna, so you don’t feel it—but is very unpleasant to -mamma and me.”</p> - -<p>“I was not thinking of either mamma or you; I was thinking of the -Livingstones,” cried Joanna, with a flush of shame on her cheeks; “and I -mean to go in this very instant, and ask him what it means.”</p> - -<p>So saying, the impetuous girl rushed up the path, slowly followed by -Patricia. It was one of the loveliest bits of woodland on the whole -course of Tyne. Mosses and wild flowers, and the daintiest ferns known -to Scotland, peeped out of every hollow—and overhead and around, -stretching down half way across the river, and thrusting out, with -Nature’s rare faculty of composition, their most graceful curves of -foliage against the sky, were trees, not too great or ancient to -overshadow the younger growth; trees of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> descriptions, birches and -beeches and willows, the white-limbed ash, with its green bunches of -fruit, and the tender lime, with its honey blossoms. You could have -almost counted every separate flash of sunshine which burned through the -leaves, misty with motes and dazzling bright with that limitation; and -yet the shadow overhead trembled and fluctuated with such a constant -interchange, that the spot which was in shade one moment was in the -brightest light the very next. The light gleamed in Joanna’s red hair, -as she plunged along in her impetuous way towards the house, and fell in -touches here and there upon the graceful little figure of her sister, in -her close cottage bonnet and muslin gown, as Patricia came softly over -the same road, book in hand. But we are bound to confess that neither of -the two, perfectly accustomed and familiar as they were, found a -moment’s leisure among their other thoughts to pause upon this scene; -they went towards the house, the one after the other—Patricia with a -due regard to decorum as well as to her nerves and feebleness of -frame—Joanna totally without regard for either the one or the other; -and both occupied, to the entire neglect of every thing else, with -thoughts of their own.</p> - -<p>The house of Melmar was placed upon a level platform of land, of a -considerably lower altitude than this brae. Pausing to look at it, as -neither Joanna nor Patricia did, on the rustic bridge which crossed the -Tyne, and led from this woodland path into the smooth lawn and properly -arranged trees of “the private grounds,” Melmar appeared only a large -square house, pretentious, yet homely, built entirely for living in, and -not for looking at. If Nature, with her trees, and grass, and bits of -garden land, softening the angles and filling in the gaps, had done her -best to make it seemly, the house was completely innocent of aiding in -any such attempt. Yet, by sheer dint of persistence, having stood there -for at least a hundred years, long enough to have patches of lichen here -and there upon its walls, Melmar had gained that look of steadiness and -security, and of belonging to the soil, which harmonizes even an ugly -feature in a landscape. The door, which was sheltered by a little -portico, with four tall pillars, in reality stone, but looking -considerably like plaster, opened from without after the innocent -fashion of the country. Running across the lawn, Joanna opened the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> door -and plunged in, without further ado, into her father’s study, which was -at the end of a long passage looking out upon the other side of the -house. He was not there—so the girl came rushing back again to the -drawing-room, the door of which stood open, and once more encountering -her sister there, did her best to disturb the delicate nerves a second -time, and throw Patricia out of breath.</p> - -<p>This papa, whom Joanna had no hesitation about bearding in his own den, -could not surely be such an ogre after all. He was not an ogre. You -could not have supposed, to look at him, that any exaltation of enmity, -any heroic sentiment of revenge, could lodge within the breast of Mr. -Huntley, of Melmar. He was a tall man, with a high, narrow head, and -reddish grizzled hair. A man with plenty of forehead, making up in -height for its want of breadth. He was rather jovial than otherwise in -his manner, and carried about with him a little atmosphere of his own, a -whiff of two distinct odors, not unusual attendants of elderly Scotsmen, -twenty years ago, reminiscences of toddy and rappee. He looked around -with a smile at the vehement entrance of Joanna. He permitted all kinds -of rudenesses on the part of this girl, and took a certain pleasure in -them. He was not in the slightest degree an exacting or punctilious -father; but not all his indulgence, nor the practical jokes, banter, and -teasing, which he administered to all children, his own, among the rest, -when they were young enough—had secured him either fondness or respect -at their hands. They got on very well on the whole. Patricia pouted at -him, and Joanna took him to task roundly when they differed in -opinion—but the affection they gave him was an affection of habit, and -nothing more.</p> - -<p>“I’ve come to speak to you, papa,” cried Joanna. “I’ve just been hearing -the whole story, every word—and oh, I think shame of you!—it’s a -disgrace, it’s a sin—I wonder you dare look any of us in the face -again!”</p> - -<p>“Eh? what’s all this?” said Melmar; “Joan in one of her tantrums -already? Three times in a day! that’s scarcely canny—I’ll have to speak -to your aunt Jean.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa!” cried Joanna, indignantly, “it’s no fun—who do you think -would carry <i>you</i> to Dryburgh if somebody stopped your funeral? not one! -You would have to stay here in your coffin and never be buried—and I -wouldna<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> be sorry! You would deserve it, and nothing better—oh, I think -shame on you!”</p> - -<p>“What? in my coffin? that’s a long look beforehand,” said Melmar. “You -may have time to think shame of me often enough before that time, Joan; -but let’s hear what’s all this about Dryburgh and a funeral—who’s been -here?”</p> - -<p>“Sinclair was here,” cried Joanna, “and he heard it all at -Kirkbride—every word—and he says you had better not be seen there, -after all you’ve done at Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure, papa, it’s very hard,” said Patricia. “You set everybody -talking, and then people look strange at us. Mamma knows they do; and I -could cry when I think that we’re going out to-morrow, and it would have -been such a nice party. But now everybody knows about this, and nobody -will speak to us—it’s too bad of you, papa.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, my darling?” cried Mrs. Huntley, from her easy chair.</p> - -<p>“Eh, fat’s this?” said Aunt Jean, wheeling round upon hers.</p> - -<p>A popular commotion was rising; Melmar saw the premonitory tokens, and -made his escape accordingly.</p> - -<p>“Joan,” he said, pulling her ear as he passed her, “you’re an impudent -monkey; but you may spare your wrath about Norlaw—I knew as little as -you did that the man was dead—however, he is dead, and I don’t break my -heart; but you can tell Sinclair I’ll tell him a word of my mind the -next time I’m near Kirkbride.”</p> - -<p>“Sinclair doesna care!” said Joanna; but Melmar pulled a thick curl of -her red hair, and betook himself to his study, leaving the rising gust -of questions to wear itself out as it might.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> drawing-room of Melmar was a large room tolerably well furnished. -Three long windows on one side of the apartment looked out upon the lawn -before the house, carefully avoiding the view “up Tyne,” which a little -management<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> might have made visible. The fire-place was at the upper end -of the room, sparkling coldly with polished steel and brass, and -decorated with a very elaborate construction of cut paper. The chairs -were all covered with chintz in a large-flowered pattern, red and -green—chintz which did not fit on well, and looked creasy and -disorderly. A large crumb-cloth, spread over the bright-colored carpet, -had the same disadvantage; one corner of it was constantly loose, -folding up under the chairs and tripping unwary passengers. There was a -round rose-wood table, sparely covered with books and ornaments, and -another oblong one with a cover on it, which was meant for use.</p> - -<p>By this last sat Mrs. Huntley, with some knitting in her lap, reclining -in a cushioned chair, with her feet upon a high footstool. She was pale, -with faint pink cheeks, and small, delicate features, a woman who had, -to use her own expression, “enjoyed very bad health” all her life. She -had very little character, not much animation, nothing very good nor -very bad about her. It would scarcely have been true even to say that -she loved her children; she was fond of them—particularly of -Patricia—gave them a great many caresses and sweetmeats while they were -young enough, and afterwards let them have their own will without -restraint; but there did not seem enough of active life in her to -deserve the title of any active sentiment. She was deeply learned in -physic and invalid dietry, and liked to be petted and attended, to come -down stairs at twelve o’clock, to lie on the sofa, to be led out for a -little walk, carefully adapted to her weakness, and to receive all the -little attentions proper to an invalid. Her exclusive pretensions in -this respect had, it is true, been rather infringed upon of late years -by Patricia, who sometimes threatened to be a more serious invalid than -her mother, and who certainly assumed the character with almost equal -satisfaction. However, Patricia was pretty well at the present moment, -and Mrs. Huntley, supported by her maid, had only about half an hour ago -come down stairs. She had a glass of toast-and-water on the table beside -her, a smelling-bottle, an orange cut into quarters upon a china plate, -a newspaper within reach of her hand, and her knitting in her lap. We -beg Mrs. Huntley’s pardon, it was not knitting, but netting—her -industry consisted in making strange,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> shapeless caps, bags, and -window-curtains, which became excessively yellow after they were washed, -and were of no use to any creature; for the refined art of crotchet was -not then invented, nor had fancy-work reached that perfection which -belongs to it now.</p> - -<p>In an arm-chair by one of the windows sat a very different person—an -old woman, black-eyed, white-haired, wearing an old-fashioned black -dress, with a snowy white muslin handkerchief pinned down to her waist -in front and behind—a large muslin apron of the same spotless -complexion, a cap of clear cambric trimmed with rich old-fashioned lace, -and bound round with a broad black ribbon, which was tied in a bow on -the top of her head. This was a relative of Mrs. Huntley, known as Aunt -Jean in the house of Melmar. She was the last survivor of her family, -and had a little annuity, just enough to keep her muslin kerchiefs and -aprons and old-fashioned caps from wearing out. She was quite kindly -used in this house where nobody paid any particular regard to her, but -where long ago it had seemed very good fun to Melmar himself to get up a -little delusion on the score of Aunt Jean’s wealth, which, according to -the inventor of it, was to be bequeathed to his daughter Joanna. This -was a favorite joke of the head of the house; he was never tired of -referring to Aunt Jean’s fortune, or threatening Joanna with the chance -of forfeiting it, which delicate and exquisite piece of fun was always -followed by a loud laugh, equally delicate and characteristic. Aunt -Jean, however, fortunately, was deaf, and never quite understood the wit -of her nephew-in-law; she stuck quietly to her corner, made rather a pet -of Joanna, persisted in horrifying Patricia by her dress and her -dialect, which breathed somewhat strongly of Aberdeenshire, and by dint -of keeping “thretty pennies,” as she said, in the corner of her -old-fashioned leather purse—pennies which were like the oil in the -widow’s cruse, often spent, yet always existing—and in her drawers in -her own room an unfailing store of lace, and muslins, and ribbons, old -dresses, quaint examples of forgotten fashion, and pieces of rich stuff, -such as girls love to turn over and speculate on possible uses for—kept -up an extensive popularity. Aunt Jean was not in the very slightest -degree an invalid—the tap of her little foot, which wore high-heeled -shoes, was almost the smartest in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> house. She sat in winter by the -fire, in summer by one of the windows, knitting endless pairs of -stockings, mits, and those shapeless little gloves, with a separate -stall for the thumb, and one little bag for all the fingers, in which -the hapless hands of babies are wont to be imprisoned. It was from an -occupation of this kind that Aunt Jean turned, when the din of Joanna’s -accusation penetrated faintly into her ears.</p> - -<p>“Eh, fat’s that?” said Aunt Jean; it was something about a debt and a -funeral, two things which were not particularly likely to interest -Joanna. Something remarkably out of the usual course must have happened, -and the old lady had all the likings of an old woman in the country. -Gossip was sweet to her soul.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, so vexatious!” cried Patricia, in a voice which could not by -any possibility reach the ears of Aunt Jean; “papa has been doing -something to Mr. Livingstone, of Norlaw—he’s dead, and there’s been -something done that looks cruel—oh! I’m sure I don’t know exactly what -it is—Joanna knows;—but only think how the people will look at us -to-morrow night.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I may not be able to go, my dear,” said Mrs. Huntley, with a -sigh.</p> - -<p>“Not able to go? after promising so long! mamma, that is cruel!” cried -Patricia; “but nobody cares for me. I never have what other people have. -I am to be shut up in this miserable prison of a place all my life—not -able to go! Oh, mamma! but you’ll all be sorry when there’s no poor -Patricia to be shut up and made a victim of any more!”</p> - -<p>“I do think you’re very unreasonable, Patricia,” said Mrs. Huntley; -“I’ve gone out three times this last month to please you—a great -sacrifice for a person in my weak health—and Dr. Tait does not think -late hours proper for you; besides, if there is any thing disagreeable -about your papa, as you say, I really don’t think my nerves could stand -it.”</p> - -<p>“Fat’s all this about?” said Aunt Jean; “you ken just as well as me that -I canna hear a word of fat you’re saying. Joan, my bairn, come you -here—fa’s dun wrang? Fat’s happened? Eh! there’s Patricia ta’en to the -tears—fat’s wrang?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<p>Nothing loth, Joanna rushed forward, and shouted her story into the old -woman’s ears. It was received with great curiosity and interest by the -new hearers. Aunt Jean lifted up her hands in dismay, shook her head, -made all the telegraphic signs with eye and mouth which are common to -people restrained from full communication with their companions. Mrs. -Huntley, too, was roused.</p> - -<p>“It’s like a scene in a novel,” she said, with some animation; “but -after all, Mr. Livingstone should not have been in debt to papa, you -know. What with Oswald abroad, and you two at home, you can tell Aunt -Jean we need all our money, Joanna; and if people die when they’re in -debt, what can they expect? I don’t see, really, in my poor health, that -I’m called upon to interfere.”</p> - -<p>“Fat’s this I hear?” said Aunt Jean; “Livingstone o’ Norlaw? Na, Jeanie, -if that’s true, your good man’s been sair left to himself. Eh, woman! -Livingstone! fat’s a’body’s thinking of? I would sooner have cut off my -little finger if I had been Me’mar; that man!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what about him, Aunt Jean?” cried Joanna.</p> - -<p>“Ay, bairn, but I maun think,” said the old woman. “I’m no’ so clear -it’s my duty to tell you. Your father kens his ain concerns, and so does -your mother, in a measure, and so do I myself. I canna tell onybody mair -than my ain secret, Joan. Hout ay! I’ll tell you, fun I was a young -lass, fat happened to me.”</p> - -<p>“I want to hear about Norlaw,” cried Joanna, screaming into the old -woman’s ear.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Jean!” cried Mrs. Huntley, making a sudden step out of her chair. -“If you do, Me’mar will kill me—oh! hold your tongues, children! Do you -think I can bear one of papa’s passions—a person in my poor health? -Aunt Jean, if you do, I’ll never speak to you again!”</p> - -<p>Aunt Jean contemplated her niece, with her twinkling black eyes, making -a <i>moue</i> of vivid contempt as she nodded her head impatiently.</p> - -<p>“Fat for can ye no hold your peace for a fool-wife?” said Aunt Jean; -“did ye think I had as little wit as you? What about Norlaw? You see the -laird here and him were aye ill friends. Hout ay! mony a ane’s ill -friends with Me’mar. I mind the bairns just fun you were born, Joan. Twa -toddling wee anes, and ane in the cradle. Pity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> me! I mind it because I -was losing my hearing, and turning a cankered auld wife; and it was them -that took and buried their father? Honest lads! I would like to do them -a good turn.”</p> - -<p>“But I know there’s something more about Norlaw,” cried Joanna, “and -I’ll say you’re a cankered auld wife till you tell me—I will! and you -would have told me before now but for mamma. Do you hear, Aunt Jean?”</p> - -<p>“Hout ay, I hear,” said the old woman, who could manage her deafness -like most people who possess that defect—(where it is not extreme, a -little deafness is in its way quite a possession) “but I maun take time -to think fat it was I promised to tell you. Something that happened when -I was a young lass. Just that, Joan—I was staying at my married -sister’s, that was your grandmother, and Jeanie, there, your mamaw, was -a bit little bairn—she was aye a sma’ thing of her years, taking physic -for a constancy. There was a poor gentleman there, ane of the Gordons, -as good blood in his veins as ony man in the kingdom, and better than -the king’s ain, that was only a German lairdie—but ye see this lad was -poor, and fat should save him but he got into debt, and fat should help -him but he died. So the sheriff’s officers came and stopped the funeral; -and the lads rose, a’ the friends that were at it, and all the men on -the ground, and fat should ail them to crack the officers’ crowns, and -lay them up in a chamber; but I’ve heard say it was a sair sicht to see -the hearse rattling away at a trot, and a’ the black coaches afterhand, -as if it was a bridal—oh fie!—nothing else was in everybody’s mouth on -our side of the water, a’ the mair because the Gordon lad that died was -of the English chapel, and behoved to have a service o’er his grave, and -the English minister was faint-hearted and feared. It wasna done at -nicht, but in broad daylicht, and by the strong hand—and that -happened—I wouldna say but it was forty year ago; for I was a young -lass and your mamaw there a little bairn.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay, mamma,” said Patricia, who had dried her tears, “that people -don’t know of it yet; and at the worst it was all papa’s fault—I don’t -think we should be afraid to go—it wasn’t our blame, I’m sure.”</p> - -<p>“If I should be able, my dear,” said Mrs. Huntley, with her languid -sigh—whereupon Patricia exerted herself to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> arrange her mother’s -pillow, and render her sundry little attentions which pleased her.</p> - -<p>Poor little Patricia loved “society;” she wanted to shine and to be -admired “like other girls"—even the dull dinner-parties of the -surrounding lairds excited the fragile little soul, who knew no better, -and she spent the rest of the day, oblivious of her former terrors -concerning public opinion, in coaxing Mrs. Huntley into betterness; -while Joanna, for her part, persecuted Aunt Jean with an unavailing but -violent pertinacity, vainly hoping to gain some insight into a family -secret. Patricia was successful in her endeavors; but there never was a -more signal failure than that attack upon Aunt Jean.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Bless</span> me callants! what are ye doing here?” said Marget, looking in at -the door of the mid-chamber, where Huntley and Patrick Livingstone were -together.</p> - -<p>It was a small apartment, originally intended for a dressing-room, and -communicating by a door locked and barricaded on both sides with the -east room, which was the guest-chamber of the house. Almost its sole -piece of furniture was a large old-fashioned mahogany desk, standing -upon a heavy frame of four tall legs, and filling half the space; it was -not like the bureau of romance, with that secret drawer where some -important document is always being discovered. The heavy lid was held -open by Huntley’s head, as he carried on his investigations. There were -drawers enough, but they were all made by the hand of the joiner of -Kirkbride, who knew nothing of secret contrivances—and these, as well -as all the remaining space of the desk, were filled with the gatherings -of Norlaw’s life, trifles which some circumstance or other made -important to him at the moment they were placed there, but which were -now pathetic in their perfect insignificance and uselessness, closely -connected as they were with the dead man’s memory. Old letters, old -receipts, old curiosities, a few coins and seals, and trifling -memorials, and a heap of papers quite unintelligible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> and worthless, -made up the store. In one drawer, however, Huntley had found what he -wanted—the will—and along with it, carefully wrapped in at least a -dozen different folds of paper, a little round curl of golden hair.</p> - -<p>They were looking at this when Marget, whose question had not been -answered, entered and closed the door. The lads were not aware of her -presence till this sound startled them; when they heard it, Huntley -hurriedly refolded the covers of this relic, which they had been looking -at with a certain awe. Eye of stranger, even though it was this faithful -old friend and servant, ought not to pry into their father’s secret -treasure. The Mistress’s hair was of the darkest brown. It was not for -love of their mother that Norlaw had kept so carefully this childish -curl of gold.</p> - -<p>“Laddies,” said Marget, holding the door close behind her, and speaking -low as she watched with a jealous eye the covering up of this secret, -“some of ye’s been minding the Mistress of auld troubles. I said to -myself I would come and give you a good hearing—the haill three—what’s -Mary o’ Melmar to you?”</p> - -<p>“Did my mother tell you?” asked Huntley, with amazement.</p> - -<p>“Her, laddies! na, it’s little ye ken! <i>her</i> name the like o’ that to -the like o’ me! But Cosmo behoved to ask about the story—he would part -with his little finger to hear a story, that bairn—and ’deed I ken fine -about it. What for could ye no’ speak to me?”</p> - -<p>“There was more than a story in Huntley’s thoughts and in mine,” said -Patrick, shutting up the desk with some decision and authoritativeness.</p> - -<p>“Hear him! my certy! that’s setting up!” cried Marget; “I ken every -thing about it for a’ you’re so grand. And I ken the paper in Huntley’s -hand is the will, and I ken I would run the risk o’ firing the haill -house, but I would have burnt it, afore he got sight o’t, if it had been -me.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” said Huntley, with a little impatience. It was not possible that -the youth could read this bequest conferring Melmar, failing the natural -heiress, on his father and himself, without a thrill of many emotions. -He was ambitious, like every young man; he could not think of this -fortune, which seemed almost to lie within his reach, without a stirring -of the heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<p>“It did nothing but harm to your father, and it can do nothing but -mischief to you,” said Marget, solemnly; “you’re young and strong, and -fit to make a fortune. But I tell you, Huntley Livingstone, if you -attempt to seek this lass over the world, as your father did, you’re a -ruined man.”</p> - -<p>“Neither Huntley nor me believe in ruined men,” said Patie; “we’ll take -care for that—go to your kye, and never mind.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be angry, Marget,” said Huntley, who was more tender of the -faithful retainer of the house; “trust us, as Patie says—besides, if -she should never be found, Melmar’s mine.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, whisht, lad! she’ll come hame with half a dozen bairns before e’er -your feet’s across the door,” cried Marget; “tell me to trust you, that -are only callants, and dinna ken! Trust me, the twa of you! Gang and -spend a’ the best years of your life, if you like, seeking her, or -witness that she’s dead. If ye find her, ye’re nane the better, if ye -dinna find her, ye’re aye deluded with the thought of a fortune ye canna -claim—and if ye get word she’s dead, there’s still Melmar himself, that -was bred a writer and kens a’ the cheats of them, to fight the battle! -They might say it was a false will—they might say, Guid forgive them! -that Norlaw had beguiled the auld man. There’s evil in’t but nae guid; -Huntley, you’re your father’s son, you’re to make his amends to her. -Dinna vex the Mistress’s life with Mary of Melmar ony mair!”</p> - -<p>“The short and the long of it all, Marget,” said Patrick, who was at -once more talkative and more peremptory than usual—“is, that you must -mind your own business and we’ll mind ours. Huntley’s not a knight in a -story-book, seeking a distressed lady. Huntley’s not in love with Mary -of Melmar; but if she’s to be found she shall be found; and if she’s -dead my brother’s the heir.”</p> - -<p>“No’ till you’re done wi’ a’ her bairns,” cried Marget; “say there’s nae -mair than three of them, like yoursels—and the present Me’mar’s been -firm in his seat this thirteen years. Weel, weel, I daur to say Patie’s -right—it’s nae business o’ mine; but I’d sooner see you a’ working for -your bread, if it was just like laboring men, and I warn ye baith, the -day’s coming when ye’ll think upon what I say!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span></p> - -<p>Marget disappeared, solemnly shaking her head as she said these last -words. For the moment, the two youths said nothing to each other. The -desk was locked softly, the will placed in an old pocket-book, to be -deposited elsewhere, and then, for the first time, the young men’s eyes -met.</p> - -<p>“She’s right,” said Patie, with sudden emphasis; “if you seek her -yourself, Huntley, you’ll neither get Me’mar nor fortune—it’s true.”</p> - -<p>Huntley paid little attention to his brother. He stood looking out from -the window, where, in the distance, to the north, the banks of Tyne rose -high among the woods of Melmar—opposite to him, fertile fields, rich in -the glow of coming harvest, lay the wealthy lands of his father’s -enemy—those lands which perhaps now, if he but knew it, were -indisputably his own. He stood fascinated, looking out, tracing with an -unconscious eagerness the line of the horizon, the low hills, and trees, -and ripening corn, which, as far as he could see before him, were still -part of the same inheritance. He was not a dreamy boy like Cosmo—he -thought little of his father’s old love, or of the triumph of restoring -her to her inheritance. The Mary of Norlaw’s fancy was but a shadow upon -the future of his own. He thought, with a glow of personal ambition, of -the fair stretch of country lying before him. Generous, high-spirited, -and incapable of meanness, Huntley still had the impulse of conquest -strong within him. He could not but think, with a rising heart, of this -visible fortune which lay at his feet and seemed to be almost within his -grasp. He could not but think, with indignant satisfaction, of unseating -the false heir whose enmity had pursued Norlaw to the very grave. All -the excitement which had gathered into these few past weeks still -throbbed in Huntley’s heart and stirred his brain. He could not moderate -the pace of his thoughts or subdue his mind at anybody’s bidding. If it -should be hard to get justice and a hearing for his claims, this very -difficulty increased the attraction—for it was his claims he thought of -while the others were thinking of Mary of Melmar. He was not selfish, -but he was young, and had an ardent mind and a strong individual -character. Mary of Melmar—a white ghost, unreal and invisible—faded -from his mind entirely. He thought, instead, of the man who had -arrested<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> Norlaw’s funeral, and of the inheritance of which he was the -rightful heir.</p> - -<p>With all these fumes in his brain it was quite impossible that Huntley -could listen soberly to the sober counsels of Patie, or to the warnings -of the old servant. <i>They</i> begged him not to think of a search for Mary. -<i>He</i> thought of nothing of the kind. Mary had taken no position of -romance in the young man’s fancy. The romance which blossomed in his -eyes was a much less disinterested one than that which Cosmo mused upon -in the old window of the castle. He thought of himself, of his own -family, of all the possibilities and powers of an extensive land-owner, -and with the flush of youthful self-belief, of a great life. He had -stood thus at the window a long time gazing out, and paying no attention -to the occasional words of his sensible brother, when the sound of some -one coming roused them both. It was the Mistress’s firm footsteps -ascending the stair—they both left the room immediately, agreed, at -least, in one thing, to trouble their mother no more with recollections -disagreeable to her. Then Patie went about his business, somewhat -disturbed by the thought that Huntley meant to throw away a portion of -his life in the same fruitless folly which had injured their father; -while Huntley himself, remembering something that had to be done at -Kirkbride, set off along the banks of Tyne at a great pace, which did -not, however, overtake the swing of his thoughts. Marget, coming out to -her kitchen door to look after him, held up her hands and exclaimed to -herself, “The laddie’s carried!” as she watched his rapid -progress—which meaning, as it did, that Huntley was fairly lifted off -his feet and possessed by a rapid and impetuous fancy, was perfectly -correct—though the fancy itself was not such as Marget thought.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> village lay bright under the afternoon sun when Huntley Livingstone -came in sight of it that day. It was perfectly quiet, as was its -wont—some small children playing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> at the open doors, the elder ones, -save here and there an elder daughter charged with the heavy -responsibility of a baby, being for the most part safe at school. At the -door of the Norlaw Arms an angler-visitor, with his rod over his -shoulder, a single figure becalmed in the sunshine, stood lazily gazing -about him—and in the shadow of the projecting gable of the inn, another -stranger stood holding his horse before the door of the smithy, from -whence big John Black, the smith, was about to issue to replace a lost -shoe. John was the master of this important rural establishment, and was -a big, soft-hearted giant, full of the good-humored obtuseness which so -often accompanies great personal size and strength. Inside, in the fiery -obscurity of the village Pandemonium, toiled a giant of quite a -different order—a swarthy, thick-set little Cyclops, with a hump on his -shoulder, and one eye. This was John’s brother, the ruling spirit of -mischief in Kirkbride, whom all the mothers of sons held in disgust and -terror, and whom Dr. Logan himself could make no improvement in. Jacob, -or Jaacob, as he was popularly called, was as strong as he was ugly, -and, it was generally understood, as wicked as both. By natural -consequence, his rustic neighbors found a considerable attraction in his -society, and liked to repeat his sayings, which were not always funny, -with explosions of laughter. Huntley’s errand, as it happened, was with -this individual, who was somewhat of a genius in his way, which was the -way of agricultural implements. Jaacob had even taken out what he called -a “paatent” for a new harrow of his own invention, and was, in right of -this, the authority, on all such matters, of the country-side.</p> - -<p>“Ye’ll be carrying on the farm then?” said Jaacob. “A plow needs mair -than a new coulter to drive it through a furrow—it’ll be new work to -you, Mr. Huntley, to gang atween the stilts yoursel’.”</p> - -<p>Huntley had descended suddenly out of the hurry of his fancies about -Melmar, of which he already saw himself master. He came to the ground -with rather a rude shock when he heard these words, and found himself on -the hard earthen floor of the smithy, with the red sparks flying into -the darkness over his head, and Jaacob’s one eye twinkling at him in the -fiery light. He was not the laird of Melmar to Jaacob, but only the son -of the ruined Norlaw.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span></p> - -<p>“What we want in the meantime is the plow,” said Huntley, somewhat -sharply, his face flushing in spite of himself; then he added, after a -pause, all the humiliation of debt and poverty recurring to his mind, -which had been defended for some time against that lesser pain by the -excitement of grief, and to-day by the violent flush of ambitious hope. -“I believe there is a bill—but if you’ll send it up to the house I’ll -see to it without delay.”</p> - -<p>Bowed Jaacob was not ungenerous in his way, but he scorned to defend -himself from any imputation of ungenerosity. He did not hasten, -therefore, as might have been supposed, to say that the aforesaid bill -was of no importance, and could wait. On the contrary, he proceeded, -with sarcastic dryness in his tone:</p> - -<p>“You’ll find it hard work to get in your craps. How many acres have ye -in wheat the year, Mr. Huntley? You’ll no’ ken? Houts, man! that’s an -ill beginning for a lad that farms his ain land.”</p> - -<p>In spite of himself, tears of mortification stole into Huntley’s eyes. -He turned his head away with a muttered exclamation.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that we’ve half an acre safe!” cried Huntley, in the -bitterness of his heart. His dream was broken. Me’mar, who was their -chief creditor—Me’mar, whom he had not yet displaced—might be able to -get into his hard worldly hands, for aught Huntley knew, every slope of -Norlaw.</p> - -<p>“Aweel, aweel, lad,” said Jaacob, striking his hammer fiercely upon the -glowing iron, “a’ the better for you—you’ll be your ain man—but I -wouldna cheat myself with fancies if I was you. Make up your mind ae way -or another, but dinna come here and speak to me about plows, as if that -was what your mind was set on. I’m no’ a Solomon, but if you mean to -thrive, never delude yoursalf with a sham.”</p> - -<p>“What’s a’ that?” said big John, as his customer mounted the reshod -horse, and trotted off in leisurely fashion as became the day; “has -Jaacob won to his books, Mr. Huntley? but I reckon he has his match when -he has you.”</p> - -<p>John, however, who was rather proud of his brother’s intellectual -powers, thought no such thing—neither did the little Cyclops himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span></p> - -<p>“Mind your ain business,” said Jaacob, briefly; “what do you think a man -learns out of books, you haverel? Na, if I’m onything, I’m a man of -observation; and take my word, lad, there never was a man trove yet till -he saw distinck where he was, and ordered his ways according. There’s -mysel’—do you think I could ever make ony progress, ae way or another, -if I minded what a’ these stupid ideots say?”</p> - -<p>“What do they say?” said Huntley, who was too much occupied with his own -thoughts to perceive the drift of Jaacob’s personal observations.</p> - -<p>“Na, d’ye think I’m heeding?” said Jaacob; “a man can rarely be more -enlightened than his neighbors without suffering for’t. A’ this auld -machinery of the world creaks like an auld bellows. There’s naething but -delusions on every side of ye. Ye canna be clear of a single thing that -ye havena conquished for yoursel’.”</p> - -<p>Huntley, who had come out of the languid August afternoon, red in a glow -of sunshine and heat, to which the very idea of long labor was alien, -which accorded well enough with his own ambitious dreams and thoughts of -sudden fortune—could not help feeling somehow as if Jaacob’s hammer, -beneath the strokes of which the sparks flew, struck himself as well as -the iron. Melmar dissipated into thin air, in the ruddy atmosphere of -the smithy. The two darkling giants, large and small, moving about in -the fierce glow of the firelight, the puff of the bellows, plied by an -attendant demon, and the ceaseless clank of the hammer, all combined to -recall to reality and the present, the thoughts of the dreaming lad. In -this atmosphere the long labors of the Australian emigrant looked much -more reasonable and likely than any sudden enrichment; and with the -unconscious self-reference of his age, Huntley took no pains to find out -what Jaacob meant, but immediately applied the counsel to his own case.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you’re very right, Jacob,” said Huntley; “but it’s hard work -making a fortune; maybe it’s safer in the end than what comes to you -from another man’s labors; but still, to spend a life in gathering -money, is no very great thing to look forward to.”</p> - -<p>“Money!” said Jaacob, contemptuously. “Na, lad; if that’s your thought, -you’re no’ in my way. Did you ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> hear of a rich philosopher? ne’er a -are have I heard tell o’, though I ken the maist of that fraternity. -Money! na! it’s ideas, and no that sordid trash, that tempts me.”</p> - -<p>“And the mair fuil you!” said big John, half in chagrin, half in -admiration. “You might have made your fortune twenty times over, if it -hadna been for your philosophy.”</p> - -<p>“Whew!” whistled bowed Jaacob, with magnificent disdain; “what’s a’ the -siller in the world and a’ its delichts—grand houses, grand leddies, -and a’ the rest of thae vanities—to the purshuit of truth? That’s what -I’m saying, callant—take every thing on trust because you’ve heard sae -a’ your days, and your faither believed it before ye, gin ye please; but -as for me, I’m no’ the man for sham—I set my fit, if a’ the world -should come against me, on ideas I’ve won and battled for mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“When they’re as reasonable as the harrow, I’ve nae objection,” said big -John; “but ilka man canna write his idies in wud and iron, Mr. Huntley. -The like o’ that may be a’ very well for <i>him</i>, but it doesna answer you -and me. Eh, man, but it’s warm! If it wasna that philosophy’s an awfu’ -drouthy thing—and the wife comes down on me like murder when I get a -gill—I wouldna say but it’s the best kind of wark for this weather. -Ye’ll be goin’ up bye to the manse, Mr. Huntley. I hear they’re aye very -well pleased to see onybody out of Norlaw; but ye maunna say ye’ve been -here, for Jaacob and the minister, they’re at daggers drawn.”</p> - -<p>“Pish! nae such thing,” cried Jaacob, with complacency; “the like of a -man like yon shouldna mell with a man like me. It’s no’ a fair battle—I -aye say sae—I can tak his measure fast enough, but he can nae mair tak -mine than he can flee. Eh, lad! have you ta’en the gate? and no’ a word -mair about the plow?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll take your advice, Jacob,” said Huntley; “the plow can stand till -we see what use we’ll have for it; but as for going between the stilts -myself, if I do you’ll see me draw as fair a furrow as any plowman about -Kirkbride.”</p> - -<p>“Hurray!” said Jaacob; “the lad has some speerit after a’; never you -mind—we’ll send down somebody to see to the plow.”</p> - -<p>With this assurance, Huntley left the smithy; but not till Jaacob had -begun to sing in the most singular of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> cracked and elvish voices, -beating time with emphatic strokes of his hammer, “The Flaxen-headed -Cowboy,” a rustic and ancient ditty, much in favor in the country-side. -Whether it was the gestures of the gnome which called them forth, or a -ludicrous application of the song to himself, Huntley could not tell; -but big John and the boy accompanied the chant with audible, yet -restrained explosions of laughter. Huntley grew very red in spite of -himself, as he hurried along to the little bridge. What a change from -the fancy which possessed him as he came up the village street half an -hour ago! He could not have believed that his hypothetical inheritance -could have vanished so utterly; somehow he could not even recall that -evanescent splendor. It was no longer the heir of Melmar who ascended -the brae of Tyne, through the trees and scattered cottages towards the -white-gabled manse. It was the same Huntley Livingstone who had buried -his father at midnight, who had set his face against the evil fortune -which seemed ready to overwhelm his house, and who had pledged himself -to win in a new country a new and stable fortune for the race of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>But the young man was by no means contented to part so lightly with his -magnificent vision. He did all he could by dint of thinking to bring it -back to his mind; but even when he paused at the top of the little hill -and surveyed once more the fair fields of Melmar, he could not recover -the enthusiasm and fervor of his former thoughts. Bowed Jaacob, with the -odd philosophy which perceived other people’s mistakes, but could not -see its own ludicrous pretensions—big John, who believed in his -brother—and the ruddy darkness of the smithy, where reality made a rude -assault upon his vision—had disenchanted Huntley. He stood on the brae -of Tyne, seeing every thing with practical and undazzled eyes, feeling -himself to have a certain claim, difficult and doubtful, yet real, upon -the lands before him; but seeing all the obstacles which lay in its way. -And, distinct from this, far apart and separate, with a world between, -lay the fortune far more secure and certain which Huntley had to make -with his own hands.</p> - -<p>It was with these thoughts that he entered the manse of Kirkbride.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dr. Logan</span> was in his study writing his sermon—Katie was alone in the -manse parlor. It was a cheerful room, looking over the little front -garden and down the brae to the roofs of the village from its front -window, and peeping out through a flush of foliage upon Tyne and the -Melmar woods from the other. The furniture was very simple, the carpet -old, the walls painted of an ash-green, which was just one degree better -than the drab-colored complexion of the Norlaw dining-room; but -notwithstanding, the room was perfect and could not have been improved -upon. There was only one easy-chair, and that was sacred to the -minister; the others were of the ancient fashion of drawing-room chairs, -once elaborately painted and gilded, but now much dimmed of their -pristine splendor. Katie’s own hands had made all the pretty chintz -covers, which fitted without a wrinkle, and the result was extremely -satisfactory—very much more agreeable to look upon than the crumpled -covers of the Melmar drawing-room. There was a wonderful screen of -needle work, in a very slim ebony frame in one corner, an old-fashioned -work table, with a crimson bag and inlaid top, which could answer as a -chess-board, in another—and a low bookcase, full of books, between the -door and the end window. On the table, at this present moment, stood a -basket, of goodly dimensions, full of stockings—and by the side of that -a little pile of freshly-mangled linen, pinafores and other small -garments in want of strings and buttons. It was Friday, very near the -end of the week—so the minister, too wise to leave his preparations to -the latest day, made ready for his weekly duty in the study, while Katie -did her weekly mendings on the same principle in her own domain.</p> - -<p>“You may go to the study if you please Huntley—my father will be glad -to see you,” said the young mistress of the manse, once more drawing -Johnnie’s sock over her hand after she had welcomed her visitor. Huntley -did not avail himself of the privilege so soon as he might have done, -considering that he had come with the intention of asking advice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> from -the minister. It was pleasant to sit down in that quiet, bright, -home-like room, which looked as though nothing could disturb its -cheerful composure, and see that careful little woman among her family -labors, so fresh, and bright, and young, yet so perfectly in her place -among these pleasant cares. Huntley, whose mind was in a tumult of -unaccustomed anxieties, and who felt himself oppressed with a burden of -responsibility, and the new necessity of deciding for himself, sank into -a chair opposite Katie, with a sensation of rest and relief which he had -not felt for weeks before. She looked up to him brightly with those -smiling brown eyes which were so young and yet so full of elder-sisterly -thoughtfulness. She saw in a moment the shadow on Huntley’s face, and -proceeded to minister to it as if it had been a cloud upon the boyish -horizon of one of her own young brothers. Katie could not help being -half maternal even to Huntley.</p> - -<p>“Something ails you,” said the little woman—“are you tired, Huntley? -Oh, I mind when grief was here, what hard, hard work it was keeping up a -smile. Never mind me; look sorrowful, if you like, and take a rest. It -makes me think how I felt myself when dear mamma died, to see you -keeping up a face like that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Katie, I wish we had you at Norlaw!” cried the lad, with sudden -earnestness.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Katie, simply, “if you had only had a sister, Huntley!—but -Mrs. Livingstone does not care for strangers. And mothers are sometimes -fondest of their sons—everybody says so; but I know you’re the eldest, -and every thing comes on you.”</p> - -<p>“Patie is the wisest,” said Huntley, with a momentary smile; “I think he -could manage better without me—and, Katie, I’ll have to go away.”</p> - -<p>She looked up at him with a question in her eyes. She asked nothing -audibly, but merely suspended her work, and turned, with a friendly -anxiety, her steady, kind gaze upon Huntley’s face. The young man was -not “in love"—he was still too familiar with this sisterly face, and -too much occupied with all the sudden troubles in which he had himself -been plunged, to think of any such thing; but, unconsciously, Huntley -paused before answering—paused to take the peaceful scene, the home -apartment, the bright serious eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> into his memory, a picture of -strange influence and tenderness never to fade.</p> - -<p>“I thought of going to Australia,” he said; “they say a man with a will -to work and some knowledge, especially of cattle, is sure to thrive -there. It matters but little, I think, Katie, whether I’m a hundred or a -thousand miles away, so long as I <i>am</i> away; and I think the best place -for me is there.”</p> - -<p>“But Australia is many a thousand miles away,” said Katie, “at the other -end of the world; and you can not come home to see your friends as you -might do from a nearer place. If you go there, Huntley, we’ll never see -you again.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll go there, that I may come back,” said Huntley, eagerly; then he -began to play with the ball of cotton which Katie was mending her -children’s stockings with; then he looked round the room wistfully once -more. “And when I do come home,” said the lad, “Katie, I wonder, I -wonder, what changes I’ll see here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, whisht!” cried Katie, with a little overflow of tears; “papa’s not -young, but he’s no’ very old; and if it’s God’s will, we’ll aye be the -same.”</p> - -<p>“It might be ten—fifteen years,” said Huntley; “and I was not thinking -of the minister; I was thinking of—other things.”</p> - -<p>Katie did not ask what these other things might be. The color rose in -her cheek a little, but not enough to confuse her.</p> - -<p>“The little ones will be all grown up,” she said, with a quiet laugh; -“perhaps some of them away too, Huntley, into the battle; and me an old -Katie with a cap, keeping house for papa.”</p> - -<p>She glanced across the table for her cotton as she spoke, and, meeting -Huntley’s eye, blushed a little more, yet was not discomposed. The young -man’s heart beat louder, he could not very well tell why. Some confused -words came rushing into his mind, but none of them were fit to say. His -own face flushed with a hasty flood of unaccustomed and unascertained -emotions; he rose up hastily, scarcely knowing how it was that the -repose of the manse parlor was broken, yet feeling it. Dr. Logan called -Katie from his study, and Huntley answered the call. He gave back the -ball of cotton, and said hurriedly:—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<p>“Dinna forget me, Katie, when <i>that</i> time comes;” and so went away.</p> - -<p>That time! what time? Huntley could have given no explanation of what he -meant; neither could Katie, who put up her hand softly to her eyes, and -smiled a very faint smile, and said, “Poor boy!” with a little sigh as -the door closed upon him. But perhaps explanations would have done but -little good, and every thing answered perfectly well as it was.</p> - -<p>Huntley came with a blush into the presence of the innocent and -unconscious minister, who had forgotten his own youth many a long day -ago, and had never yet been roused into consciousness that his little -Katie might be something else than a good child and elder sister, in the -perverse imaginations of other people. He looked up from his desk and -his manuscript, and pushed up his spectacles on his forehead when the -young man entered.</p> - -<p>“Huntley! is that you? What’s wrong, my man?” said Dr. Logan. He thought -the lad could not have seen Katie, or he must have become more composed -by this time; and the excellent pastor thought of nothing else than some -new accident or coil at Norlaw.</p> - -<p>“Nothing’s wrong,” said Huntley, who only blushed the more in shamefaced -self-consciousness, “but I wanted to ask your advice.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Logan laid down his pen with resignation; it was a new pen, sharply -nibbed, such as the minister loved, and he had just got a capital idea -for the third head of his sermon, an idea which might be nowhere before -Huntley had half stated his case. The minister paused a moment, trying -very hard to connect his idea with something in the room which might -recall it to him when his visitor was gone. He tried the inkstand, the -pretty paper-weight on the table, and even his large red and green -pocket-handkerchief, in vain. At last he thought he had secured it on -the knob of the glass door of his bookcase; he nodded ruefully to -Huntley and made a knot on his handkerchief.</p> - -<p>“Now, Huntley, proceed, my boy,” said the minister with a sigh; he held -the knot on the handkerchief in his hand, and fixed his eyes on the -bookcase. Certainly he had it safe now.</p> - -<p>Huntley, glad to get out of his embarrassment so, plunged at once into -his tale. He could not quite make out how it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> was that the excellent -doctor looked so steadily at the bookcase, and gave himself such divided -and wandering answers. However, at last the minister forgot his idea, -and threw away the handkerchief in despair.</p> - -<p>“Eh? what was that you were saying, Huntley?” said Dr. Logan. The story -had to be gone over again. But, to Huntley’s surprise, his friend knew -all about it, more about it indeed than he did himself, and shook his -head when Huntley vehemently declared his conviction that he was the -true heir of Melmar.</p> - -<p>“I make no doubt,” said the minister, “that if <i>she</i> could be found, the -will would stand—but I mind the writer laying it down very clear to me -and Norlaw at the time that ye behoved to produce her alive or -dead—that is, by evidence in the last case, no doubt—before your case -could stand. It might be well worth a man’s while that had enough to -keep him, and nothing else to do—but I would not advise <i>you</i> to put -off your time seeking Mary Huntley. You’re the eldest son and the prop -of your family. I would not advise it, Huntley, my man.”</p> - -<p>“Nor do I mean it,” said Huntley, with a blush at his own wild fancies; -“and if I had known that you knew it so well, I should not even have -troubled you. No, doctor, I’ve written to your friend in Edinburgh—I -want him to take all our affairs in hand, and save, if it is possible, -Norlaw itself for my mother. What we’ll have to begin upon after, I -can’t very well tell—but Cosmo is the only one of us too young to set -out for himself. I will leave the other matter with Mr. Cassilis, and he -can do what he thinks best.”</p> - -<p>“Very wise, Huntley, very wise,” said the minister, whose mind was still -fumbling after his idea; “and you’re thinking of going abroad yourself, -they tell me?—I don’t doubt it’s a shock to your mother, but I would -say it was the best thing you could do. Charlie Cassilis, no doubt, will -be coming here. He’s aye very willing to come to the manse. I’ll make -Katie write him a line to-day, to say we’ll expect him—and any thing I -can do to further the business, you know you can rely upon—eh? what was -that you said?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Huntley, “except that there’s little time to lose, and I -am interrupting you. Good-bye, Dr. Logan—I’ll see you again before I go -away.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span></p> - -<p>“Before he goes away,” said the minister, with perplexity, half rising -to follow Huntley, as he hurried from the room; “what does the callant -mean?” But just then Dr. Logan’s eye returned to the knob of the -bookcase, which no longer recalled that precious lost idea. “Poor human -nature!” said the good man, with a sigh. He thought it rather selfish of -Huntley to have disturbed his studies just at that particular -moment—and it was the young man’s human nature over which he sighed.</p> - -<p>Huntley, meanwhile, went back again to Norlaw in a greater tumult of -mind than that which had brought him forth. But he no longer thought of -Melmar as he had done in that sudden golden vision of fortune and -conquest. His heart leaped within him like one on the verge of a new -world. These three scenes through which he had passed:—bowed Jaacob’s -odd philosophy and startling groundwork—“Trust in nothing that you have -not conquered for yourself;” Katie’s quiet home-parlor, her blush and -glance of kindness, which perhaps understood his unspoken and sudden -fervor as well as he did himself; and, beyond these, the sober, calm -every-day minister, giving only an outside and momentary attention to -those matters in which this young life had all its hopes at stake, -minding his sermon, and only kindly indifferent to Huntley, had brought -the youth on a long way in the education of his life. He could not have -put it all into words, or explained it to the satisfaction of the -philosopher; yet the shock of reality and actual life which brought him -back to himself in the little smithy of Kirkbride—the warm light of -Katie’s eyes which had stirred, with something of personal and distinct -identity, separate from family interests, and individual in the world, -the young man’s heart and spirit—and not least, though very different, -the composed friendliness of the minister, pre-occupied with his sermon, -who had only a very spare amount of attention to bestow upon Huntley, -and showed him that the world in general was not likely to be much -absorbed by his interests, or startled by his hopes—were all very real, -practical and permanent lessons. They sent him back to Norlaw an older -man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Cassilis</span> came to the manse in answer to Katie’s invitation and the -business of Huntley. He was young and did not particularly commend -himself to the liking of the young master of Norlaw; but as he pleased -all the other people very tolerably well, there were, perhaps, various -reasons for the less friendly sentiment of Huntley. He was, however, a -brisk man of business, and not sufficiently over-burdened with -occupation to prevent him entering heartily into the concerns of the -half-ruined family.</p> - -<p>All this time Patrick Livingstone had been quietly busy, collecting and -arranging all his father’s memoranda which seemed to throw any light -upon their circumstances; among these were many hurried, and only half -intelligible notes of transactions with the former Huntley of Melmar, -from which it very shortly appeared that Norlaw’s debts had all been -contracted to his old kinsman, and had only come into possession of “the -present Melmar,” when he took possession of the house and property, as -heir-at-law, on the old man’s death. They had suspected this before, for -it seemed very unlikely that one man should borrow of another, whose -claims were so entirely antagonistic to his own—but these were their -only real evidence—for Norlaw had been so irregular and unsystematic -that it was impossible to tell what money might or might not have passed -through his hands.</p> - -<p>The lawyer took all these scratchy memorandums out of Patrick’s hands, -and examined them carefully in presence of the lads. They were in the -east room, in the midst of a pile of old papers from which these had -been selected. Patie had not completed his task—he was going over his -father’s letters, to see whether they threw any light on these forgotten -transactions. It was no small task; for Norlaw, like most other men of -trifling habits and unimportant correspondence, kept every thing that -everybody wrote to him, and even scrawls of his own letters. Some of -these scrawls were curious enough—among them were one or two anxious -and elaborate epistles to people abroad, whom his search for his lost -love had brought him into contact with; some, dating still further back, -were intimations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> of the birth of his children, and other family events -of importance to his wife’s relations. They were all composed with -considerable care, and in somewhat pompous diction; they threw wonderful -light upon the weaknesses and vanities of this departed life, and -indifferent people might have laughed at them—but Huntley and Patie -blushed instead of laughing, or folded the scrawls away hurriedly with -tears in their eyes. To them these memorials were still pathetic, -tender, full of a touching appeal to their affection, too sacred to meet -the common eye.</p> - -<p>Presently, however, Patie caught a glimpse of a handwriting still more -scratchy than his father’s—the trembling characters of old age. It was -a letter from old Melmar, the most important they had yet lighted -upon—and ran thus:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="indd"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Patrick</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“Touching the matter that was under discussion betwixt us the last -time I saw you, I have just this to say, namely, that I hold your -receipts and acknowledgments for money in the interests of your -wife and family, and not in my own. I know well what would happen -if you knew yourself free to incur more responsibility; so, mind -you, though you’ll get them all at my death, and most likely Melmar -to the boot, I’ll take care, as long as I’m to the fore, to keep my -hand over you for your good. You can let the Mistress see this if -you please, and I’ll wager a bodle she agrees with me. I can not -give you them back—but unless you behave all the worse, they’ll -never leave my hands until they return to your own.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">H. Huntley.</span>”<br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>“Eh! what’s that?” said Mr. Cassilis, looking up from his little lot of -papers, as he saw the two brothers pass this letter between them.</p> - -<p>They were half reluctant to show it; and when Huntley at last handed it -across the table it was with a proud apology.</p> - -<p>“My father was generous and liberal to the extreme. I suppose he was not -what people call prudent; few understood him,” said Huntley.</p> - -<p>The lawyer took the paper with a half perceptible smile. He knew already -what other people said of Norlaw.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<p>However, he added old Melmar’s letter with care to his own heap of -scribbled memoranda.</p> - -<p>“It’s not very much good,” he said, “but it shows intention. -Unquestionably, neither the giver nor the receiver had any thought of -payment for these loans. I had better see the present man to-morrow. -What with the will and these he ought to come to reason.”</p> - -<p>“Me’mar?” cried Huntley—“no, I can have no appeal made to him on our -behalf. Do you know how he persecuted my father?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not much of an appealing man,” said Cassilis, “but I had better see -him. Don’t be afraid—I’ll not compromise you. You did not know much of -the matter yourself, I understand, till recently. Be charitable—suppose -he were as ignorant as you?”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” cried Patie, “never mind personal feelings—is that all the -value of the will?—to bring him to reason?”</p> - -<p>“Not if I find Mary Huntley,” said the young lawyer.</p> - -<p>If <i>I</i> find. The young men exchanged glances—not quite sure that they -were pleased with this transference of their interests.</p> - -<p>“If she’s to be found alive—or if she’s dead, and we can prove it, -every thing, of course, becomes as clear as daylight,” said the -minister’s nephew, “and many a man would tell you that in these days -either the one thing or the other is certain; but I’ve had some -experience. I know there have been cases in which every effort was -baffled; and failing either, I don’t see at this moment what’s to be -done. You expect me to say, go to law, of course, but who’s to pay the -piper? Law’s a very expensive luxury. Wait till you’re rich, and then -come down upon him—that is to say, if this search fails.”</p> - -<p>“But it is at least worth while to make the search,” said Huntley, -hastily, “and if it is so, it is too soon to treat with Melmar. -Friendship is out of the question. Let us deal with him honestly. I can -not accept a favor from a man one day and commence a lawsuit against him -the next; it is not possible.”</p> - -<p>“In the meantime,” said Cassilis, coolly sweeping all his papers up into -a pocket-book, “you’ve committed your affairs into my hands, and I mean -to do my best for my client, begging your pardon, whether my client -perceives<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> my tactics or no. Don’t be offended. I’ll claim these said -acknowledgments as your right, and not as a favor. I want to see what -kind of an animal this is that we’re to fight; and to let you see what I -mean, I may as well say that I’ve heard all the history of the last few -weeks, and that I understand your feelings; but feelings, Livingstone, -recollect, as your brother says, have little to do with the law.”</p> - -<p>Huntley could make very little further opposition; but he did not -respond by any means to his new agent’s friendliness; he received it -even with a little <i>hauteur</i> and surliness, like a ridiculous young -hero, finding out condescension and superiority, and sundry other of -those agreeable figments of the jealous imagination, in the natural -frankness of the young lawyer. If he had been fifty, or had known -nothing of the manse, possibly Mr. Charles Cassilis, W. S., would have -made a more favorable impression upon Huntley Livingstone.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Do</span> I look like a fool?”</p> - -<p>The speaker was Huntley of Melmar, seated at that moment in his large -leathern easy-chair at his own study-table; this was a long dim room, -lined with dusty-looking bookcases, and lighted faintly by one window, -from which nothing could be seen but a funereal yew-tree, which kept the -room in perpetual shade. The whole apartment had a stifled, unventilated -look, as if fresh air never entered it, as sunshine certainly never did; -even in winter no fire could be coaxed into a blaze in Melmar’s -study—every thing was dusty, choked, and breathless, partaking in the -general want of order visible through the house, with private additions -of cheerlessness peculiarly its own.</p> - -<p>And there could not well be a greater contrast than the two people in -this room; Cassilis was young, good-looking, rather careless in manner, -shrewd and quick, as became his profession, but by no means formal, as -might have become it. He was not the solemn bearer of a legal -challenge—a messenger of heroical enmity or hereditary dislike; he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> -only a morning visitor in a morning coat, quite as ready to talk of the -last change of ministry or the ensuing election as of the immediate -business which brought him here. Melmar sat watching him like an old -cat, stealthy and absorbed. In <i>his</i> day business was managed in a -different manner; and the old Aberdeen attorney watched with a chuckle -of professional contempt and private satisfaction the informal -proceedings of his younger brother and adversary. Mr. Huntley thought -himself much too “deep” for the fathoming of this careless neophyte, -while his visitor, on the other hand, found equal satisfaction in -setting down the Laird of Melmar as one of the old school.</p> - -<p>“Not exactly,” said Cassilis, “but it’s odd how often a fool and a man -of sense are convertible terms. A man does a thing from a generous -motive, and that’s ridiculous, eh, Mr. Huntley? absurd to men of the -world like you and me, who don’t recognize the principle; but mind you, -there <i>might</i> be circumstances which <i>might</i> induce the most sagacious -of us, out of pure self-regard and prudence, to do the very same thing -as the blockhead did out of generosity; the result would be the same, -you know, in both cases—and who is to judge whether it is done by a -wise man or a fool?”</p> - -<p>“Aye, man, you’re ironical, are you?” said Melmar, “very good practice, -but it does not do with me—I’m too old for inuendoes; come, to the -point. You’ve got a foolish case by the hand, though, of course, as an -older man and member of the profession, I think it perfectly right of -you not to seem conscious of that—<i>perfectly</i> proper. I highly approve -of your demeanor in a professional point of view, my young friend.”</p> - -<p>“Which is very kind of you,” said Cassilis, laughing; “I think it all -the more so because I can’t agree with you. Do you know, I hear -everywhere about the country that there could not be a greater -difference than between young Livingstone and his father?—quite a -different man, I understand.”</p> - -<p>“Eh? and what’s that to me?” asked Melmar, sharply.</p> - -<p>“Well, you know, between ourselves as professional men,” said Cassilis, -laughing and speaking with the most delightful frankness, “if this -Norlaw had been a man of spirit and energy, like his son, or indeed -worth his salt, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> people say, you know just as well as I do—possibly -far better, for I bow to your experience—that you could not have had a -chance of reigning here as you have done for so many years.”</p> - -<p>“What the deevil do you mean, sir?” cried Melmar, growing red and half -rising from his chair; “is this language to hold to me, in my own -house?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, I was only appealing to your professional knowledge,” said the -young man, carelessly. “When you speak to me of the profession, of -course I necessarily conclude that you are, at least, as well-informed -as I am—and this is clear to anybody with half an eye. Mind you, I -don’t mean to say that young Livingstone’s claim is weaker than his -father’s—you know it is not. I feel indeed that the whole matter is -immensely simplified by having a professional man like yourself to deal -with—for I don’t presume to suppose that I am telling you any thing -that you don’t know already; but possibly—I can’t tell—the young man -may not feel it for his interest to push his claims at this moment. It’s -for <i>my</i> interest that he should, of course, for it will be a capital -case—but we can both wait; however, under the circumstances, I am -perfectly justified in asking you to consider whether the little -restitution I suggested to you would be the act of a fool or of a wise -man.”</p> - -<p>Melmar had been gazing with a kind of hazy, speechless wrath at the -speaker, who passed so jauntily and lightly over this subject, and took -his own perfect acquaintance with its right and wrong, for granted, with -so much coolness. When Cassilis came to this pause, however, no -explosion followed. The florid face grew redder with a bursting fiery -fullness, in which even the grizzled red fringes of hair -sympathized—but, in spite of himself, Melmar was afraid. His “young -friend,” whom he had patronized and despised, seemed somehow to have got -him completely in his power—seemed to see into the very thoughts of the -old worldling, who thought himself so much wiser than his adversary. He -made a pause of consideration, and felt much the reverse of comfortable. -The unconcerned air of his visitor, which had relieved him at first, -seemed somehow to give greater weight to his words now. If these -downright blows were given in play, what should the serious strokes of -the same hand be? and Melmar knew very well that the strength of his -opponent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span>’s case lay in plain right and justice, while his was only to -be held by art and stratagem. While he pondered, a sudden thought struck -him—he rose, went to the window, glanced out there for a moment—then -to the door, opened it and glanced along the long passage to make sure -there were no listeners—then he returned to his chair, and bent towards -the young lawyer, who had been watching all his proceedings with a half -amused curiosity.</p> - -<p>“To make an end of all this,” said Melmar, with a very good imitation of -impatience, “and because they are relatives of the old family, and -friends, and all the rest of it—and to prove that I’m sorry for what -took place at Norlaw’s funeral—I’ll tell you what I’ll consent to do—”</p> - -<p>“Well?” said Cassilis, quietly.</p> - -<p>“I’ll consent,” continued Melmar, “because I’m not a man to have a will, -or a bill, or any thing of the sort stuck into my face every moment of -my life—I’ll consent to give up all Norlaw’s papers, every one of them, -as a matter of favor, on condition that this document, that you’ve all -made so much work about, shall be placed in my hands. After which I’ll -be able to look after my kinswoman’s interests in the proper way—for, -as for the fiction about those Livingstones, who have no more claim to -Melmar than you have, <i>that’s</i> quite beneath any notice from me. But on -that condition, and to be done with the business, I’ll consent to give -up all my claims against Norlaw; and a more liberal offer never was -made.”</p> - -<p>The young man looked steadily, and with a smile, into the old man’s -face—indeed, Mr. Cassilis went a step further, and did what is -sometimes extremely impertinent, and always embarrassing. He looked into -Melmar’s eyes with a keen, yet laughing gaze, which his companion could -by no means bear, and which made the florid face once more fiery red -with a troubled and apprehensive rage.</p> - -<p>“Would you advise me to accept this offer as one professional man might -advise another?” said Cassilis, quietly, with his smile. That smile, and -that look, and that question, silenced Melmar a thousand times more -effectually than a vehement refusal of his proposition. This man was -sometimes bold, but he was never brave. He saw himself found out in the -laughing eyes of his young antagonist. He thought he had committed -himself and exposed his weak<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> point—somehow he seemed to stand -self-betrayed and unvailed before this stranger, whose gaze was -intolerable, and whose question he should have liked to answer with a -curse, proper man as he was, if he had dared. But he did not dare, -though the self-restraining effort brought the perspiration to his -forehead. He scattered some papers on the table with an irrestrainable -movement, a little safety-valve for his secret fury.</p> - -<p>“Do as you please, you’ll get no better,” he said, hoarsely, gathering -them up again, and turning his face from his young adversary, who did -not now seem quite an opponent to be despised.</p> - -<p>“I tell you frankly,” said Mr. Cassilis, with that engaging candor of -his, “that it’s very much for my interest that young Livingstone should -carry on his suit at once. It’s for my interest, in short, to protract -the whole business to my utmost ability; and a highly attractive case I -have no doubt we should make of it—especially, Mr. Huntley, -<i>especially</i> permit me to say, after the proposal you have just made. -However, we understand all that, both you and I, and I must ask you -again to consider what I said at first; here is this old man’s letter, -proving his intentions pretty distinctly; on our part we will not pay a -penny under less than compulsion. I leave it entirely in your own -hands—what will you do?”</p> - -<p>Patricia Huntley was all alone in the drawing-room. She knew when Mr. -Cassilis entered; she knew he had been shut up with papa for a very -considerable time. She did not know any thing of the questions which -were being put in the study, or how hard they were to answer. Though she -read poetry-books, this poor little creature had very little to occupy -her, save her bad health and her limited imagination—a visitor was an -event to Patricia—especially when the visitor was young, rather -handsome, and newly come from Edinburgh. She thought she might as well -take an accidental stroll into the garden, and see what the gentlemen -were about in the study. Accordingly, with her poetry-book in her hand, -Patricia stole behind the yew-tree just at this particular moment and -crisis of the conversation. She could see them both through the dim -window, papa tumbling about his papers, and looking very stormy, Mr. -Cassilis, smiling and genial as he always was. Perhaps the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> younger face -of the two, being much the pleasanter, was, spite of filial veneration, -the most attractive to Patricia. She thought Mr. Cassilis, who had been -so long a time in the study, must surely have some very pleasant news to -tell—but at the same time, with sincere and disinterested concern, felt -that he must be dreadfully bored by so long an interview with papa. With -a generous impulse she approached the window, and knocked on the glass -playfully with her fingers.</p> - -<p>“Papa, when do you mean to come to luncheon?” cried Patricia.</p> - -<p>Melmar started up, opened the window, cried “Get away, you little -fool!—who wanted you?” and shook his fist at her menacingly. Poor -Patricia sprang back in terror, and lost her breath immediately. She did -not know, and perhaps if she had known, would not have appreciated, the -great relief which this little ebullition was to Melmar. He went back -quite refreshed to finish his fight; but his poor little daughter, who -did not understand it, first fell a-crying, and then, drying her eyes, -proceeded to revenge herself. She sought out Joanna immediately, and -informed that heroine of something extraordinary and mysterious going on -in the study—and of the unaccountable and inexcusable affront to -herself, “before Mr. Cassilis!” which Patricia could not forgive. -Luncheon was ordered immediately, half an hour before its time, and -Joanna herself went off to the study like a gale of wind, to order papa -into the dining-room. But the scene had changed by this time in Melmar’s -private apartment. Mr. Cassilis was writing when Joanna entered, while -her father stood by him holding some papers, and looking, stealthily -watchful, over the young man’s shoulder, so like an old brindled big cat -in the most feline concentration of vigilance, that Joanna’s irreverent -imagination was tickled with the resemblance.</p> - -<p>“Eh, papa,” cried the girl, with a sudden laugh, “I would not like to be -a mouse in your way!—but Mr. Cassilis is too big for a mouse,” added -Joanna; “come to luncheon, it’s ready—but I don’t believe Patricia will -ever speak to you again—what are these?”</p> - -<p>“No business of yours, you gipsy!” said Melmar, as she pulled at his -papers.</p> - -<p>“Eh, but it is—I can see Norlaw’s name!” cried Joanna;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> “Mr. Cassilis, -tell Mrs. Livingstone that we know—and that I think shame of papa!—and -if it was not that I could not help it, I never, never, would have -spoken to him again! What are <i>you</i> getting all these papers for? If -it’s to hurt the boys you shanna take them out of Melmar! You sha’n’t, -whatever he may say!”</p> - -<p>“Softly—Mr. Huntley of Melmar will hurt the Livingstones no more,” said -Cassilis.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Melmar read the young lawyer’s receipt for these precious bits -of paper with no very pleasant face. It was a great deal too carefully -worded to be of any ulterior service. Even the pettifogging ingenuity of -the “old school” did not see at present any capabilities in it.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">On</span> the afternoon of the same day the young lawyer dropped in quietly, -with a smile on his lace, to Norlaw.</p> - -<p>Huntley was busy in the out-buildings of the farm. He was taking an -inventory of all their stock and belongings, and making such an estimate -as he could, which was a very correct one on the whole, of the value of -this primitive property. Every thing about the house was going on very -much as usual. The Mistress was seated at the end window of the -dining-room, in a position which not only commanded the kitchen door and -all its comings and goings, but was likewise a good post of observation -for the farm-yard in which Huntley was. The stillness and heat of summer -brooded over the old castle walls, and even over the farm-yard, where -the very poultry drowsed in their afternoon siesta. The apples were -growing ruddy on the Norlaw trees, and the slope of the hill brightened -in russet gold towards the harvest. An Irish “shearer,” with his sickle -over his shoulder, waited at a humble distance, till the young master -was ready to hear his application for work; the weather was unusually -favorable and the season early. In another week or ten days everybody -prophesied the harvest would begin.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span></p> - -<p>Huntley Livingstone, however, was not thinking of the harvest. His mind -was busy with thoughts of the wild bush far away, the savage young -colonies then but little advanced in their progress, and the long years -of solitary labor which lay before him. He was not by any means in high -spirits. Melmar had faded out of his fancy like a dream. He thought he -perceived just what degree of probability there was in that vision of -fortune, and turning his back upon it, he set his face towards the -sober, homely, real future which must begin by the serious and solitary -toil of so many years.</p> - -<p>So that Huntley was by no means delighted to be interrupted in the midst -of his task by the salutation of the young lawyer. He turned round -immediately and put down his memorandum-book, but not with much -cordiality. Cassilis was smiling—he always smiled; on the whole, this -rather aggravated Huntley.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got something for you,” said the lawyer, holding up the same -pocket-book into which he had put Norlaw’s memoranda. He spoke with real -glee and triumph. Independent altogether of the interests of the family, -he felt he had made quite a professional success, and enjoyed it -accordingly.</p> - -<p>“What?” said Huntley—he was half unwilling to perceive that this was -some advantage gained over the enemy. He had made up his mind in a -different direction, and did not want to be moved back again by any new -shift of fortune. But when the pocket-book was opened and its contents -disclosed—when Huntley saw before him, safe and certain, those old -yellow bonds and obligations signed with his father’s name, the young -man was startled—and the first idea of his unfriendliness was, that -they had been purchased by some concession.</p> - -<p>“You have given up our interests in the more important matter!” cried -Huntley; “I warn you I will not adopt any such bargain; better ruin now -than any sacrifice either of right or of honor.”</p> - -<p>“For what do you take me, Mr. Livingstone?” said the other, coldly; but -as he was too good-natured and much too triumphant to keep malice, he -continued, after a moment, in his usual tone:—“Don’t be foolish; take -these affairs and burn them—they’re better out of harm’s way; and go -in, gather the family together, and hold a council of war. Now I’ve seen -the man and understand the question, <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span>I’m ready to fight it out. We can -but take our chance. <i>You</i> have every thing in your favor—he nothing -but blood and possession. You are not ruined, Livingstone, you have -enough to begin with—I am inclined to change my advice; if I were you, -I should wait no longer, but put it to the touch. The chances are ten to -one in your favor.”</p> - -<p>“This is quite different from your former opinion,” said Huntley, in -amazement.</p> - -<p>“Not opinion, say advice,” said Cassilis, who was now somewhat excited; -“I believed, begging your pardon, Livingstone, that you were likely to -need for your own immediate uses every penny you could scrape together; -I thought your father had seriously injured your cause by taking no -steps in the matter, and that the other side might think themselves -justified in saying that he knew this will either to be unfairly got or -invalid. But my visit to Melmar has dispelled these doubts. I think the -course is quite clear if you choose to try.”</p> - -<p>This sudden suggestion took away Huntley’s breath; the color mounted in -his cheek in spite of himself—it was impossible to think of such a -prospect unmoved—for Melmar, with its moderate rank and easy fortune, -was very much more agreeable to think of than the bush and all its -peradventures of hardship and solitude. He listened with only a -half-attention while Cassilis explained to him how Mr. Huntley had been -induced to relinquish these valuable scraps of paper. The whole sum -represented by them was not very considerable, but it made all the -difference between bare, absolute stripped poverty, and the enough which -would satisfy everybody’s demands, and leave a little over for -themselves. There were still heavy mortgages upon the little property of -Norlaw, but when Huntley took his father’s canceled bonds in his hand, -he knew there was no longer cause to apprehend a forced and ruinous sale -of all their stock and crop and little possessions. He heard the lawyer -speak of Melmar’s fears, his proposal about the will—his gradual and -growing apprehensions; but all that appeared visible to Huntley was the -fact of their changed circumstances, and the new position in which the -family stood. His companion perceived after a while that the young man -was absorbed in his own thoughts, and paid no attention to what he said, -and Cassilis wisely left him, once more bidding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> him hold a council of -war. When he was alone, Huntley put aside his memorandum-book, drew his -cap over his eyes, and set off on a rapid walk to the top of the hill. -He scarcely drew breath till he had reached the summit of that fertile -slope from whence he could just see in the distance the gray towers of -Melrose and the silvery gleam of Tweed shining in the hazy golden -sunshine beyond the purple Eildons. The broad country shone before him -in all its tints of color and glow of summer light, wide, great, and -silent as the life upon whose brink he stood—and at his feet lay -Norlaw, with its humble homestead and its ruined castle, where sat this -lad’s mother, who was a widow. He stood there perfectly silent, full of -thought, turning over half unconsciously in his mind the words of his -adviser.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“He either fears his fate too much,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Or his deserts are small,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Who dares not put it to the touch,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To gain or lose it all.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Somehow these lines floated in upon Huntley’s mind as he stood gazing -upon the summer landscape. To win Melmar with all its wealth and -influence, or to lose what remained of Norlaw, with all the associations -and hereditary bonds that belonged to that home of his race—should he -put it to the touch? A conflict, not less stormy that it was entirely -unexpressed, rose within the young, ambitious, eager mind, gazing over -those fields and hills. A certain personification and individuality came -to the struggling powers within him. On either side stood a woman, one a -pale, unknown shadow, hovering upon the chances of his triumph, ready to -take the prize, when it was won, out of his hands—the other his own -well-beloved, home-dwelling mother, whose comfort and certain habitation -it was in Huntley’s power at once to secure. Should he put it to the -touch? should he risk all that he might win all?—and the tempters that -assailed Huntley suddenly vailed over to his eyes all that sunny home -landscape, and spread before him the savage solitudes of the far -country, the flocks and the herds which should be his sole -companions—the hut in the strange woods; oh beautiful home valleys, -glorious hills, dear gleams of water-springs! oh, love hiding sweet -among the trees, whispering ere it comes!—oh tender friends and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> bonds -of youth!—shall he put it to the touch? The council of war held its -debate among the dust and din of battle, though the summer sunshine -shone all the time in an undisturbed and peaceful glory upon the slope -of Norlaw.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Do</span> you think <i>I</i> could bear the thought—me!” cried the Mistress -energetically; “have ye kent me all your days, Huntley Livingstone, and -do ye dare to think your mother would baulk your fortune for ease to -hersel’? is it like me? would any mortal even me with the like, but your -ainsel’?”</p> - -<p>The Mistress stood by herself in the middle of the room, with her hand -on the table—her eyes shone with a mortified and grieved fire through -unshed tears—her heightened color—her frame, which seemed to vibrate -with a visible pang—the pain of unappreciated love, which looked like -anger in her face—showed how little congenial to her mind was Huntley’s -self-abnegation. There was no sacrifice in the world which she herself -could not and would not have made for her children; but to feel herself -the person for whom a sacrifice was needed, a hindrance to her son’s -prospects, a person to be provided for, struck with intense and bitter -mortification the high spirit of the Mistress. She could not be content -with this subordinate and passive position. Poverty, labor, want itself, -would have come easier to her proud, tender motherhood, than thus to -feel herself a bar upon the prospects of her boy.</p> - -<p>When Huntley looked into his mother’s face, he thanked God silently -within himself, that he had held his council of war upon the hill-side, -and not in the Norlaw dining-parlor. It was the first time in his life -that the young man had made an arbitrary personal decision, taking -counsel with none; he had been naturally somewhat doubtful in his -statement of it, being unused to such independent action—but now he -rejoiced that he had made his conclusion alone. He came to his mother -with tenderness, which perhaps if it touched her secretly, made her -displeasure only the greater so far as appearance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> went—for the mother -of this house, who was not born of a dependent nature, was still too -young and vigorous in her own person, and too little accustomed to think -of her sons as men, to be able to receive with patience the new idea -that their relative positions were so far changed, and that it was now -her children’s part to provide for her, instead of hers to provide for -them.</p> - -<p>“Mother, suppose we were to fail—which is as likely as success,” said -Huntley, “and I had to go away—after all, should you like me to leave -no home to think of—no home to return to?—is that not reason enough to -make you content with Norlaw?”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace!” cried the Mistress—“hame! do you mean to tell me -that I couldna make a cothouse in Kirkbride, or a lodging in a town look -like hame to my own bairns, if Providence ordained it sae, and their -hearts were the same? What’s four walls here or there?—till you’ve -firesides of your ain, your mother’s your hame wherever she may be. Am I -a weak auld wife to be maintained at the ingleside with my son’s -toil—or to have comfort, or fortune, or hope sacrificed to me? Eh, -laddie, Guid forgive ye!—me that would shear in the harvest field, or -guide the kye, or do any day’s work in this mortal world, with a -cheerful heart, if it was needful, for the sake of you!”</p> - -<p>“Ay, mother,” cried Cosmo, suddenly springing up from the table where he -had been sitting stooping over a book in his usual attitude, without any -apparent notice of the conversation. “Ay, mother,” cried the boy, “you -could break your heart, and wear out your life for us, because it’s in -your nature—but you’re too proud to think that it’s our nature as well, -and that all you would do for your sons, your sons have a right to do -for you!”</p> - -<p>The boy’s pale face shone, and his eyes sparkled; his slender, tall, -overgrown boyish figure, his long arms stretching out of the narrow -sleeves of his jacket, his long slender hands, and long hair, the entire -and extreme youthfulness of his whole appearance, so distinct from the -fuller strength and manhood of his brothers, and animated by the touch -of a delicate spirit, less sober and more fervid than theirs, struck -strangely and suddenly upon the two who had hitherto held this -discussion alone. An instantaneous change came over the Mistress’s face; -the fire in her eyes melted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> into a tender effusion of love and sorrow, -the yearning of the mother who was a widow. Those tears, which her proud -temper and independent spirit had drawn into her eyes, fell with a -softness which their original cause was quite incapable of. She could -not keep to her first emotions; she could not restrain the expansion of -her heart toward the boy who was still only a boy, and his father’s son.</p> - -<p>“My bairn!” cried the Mistress, with a short sob. He was the youngest, -the tenderest, the most like him who was gone—and Cosmo’s words had an -unspeakable pathos in their enthusiasm—the heroism of a child!</p> - -<p>After this the mother dropped into her chair, altogether softened, while -Huntley spoke to her low and earnestly.</p> - -<p>“Melmar is nothing to me,” said her eldest son, in the half-whispered -forcible words which Cosmo did not hear, but in which his mother -recognized the distinct resolution of a nature as firm as her own; -“nothing at least except a chance of wealth and fortune—only a chance -which can wait; but Norlaw is every thing—house, family, ancestors, -every thing that makes me proud of my name. Norlaw and the Livingstones -must never be disconnected while we can prevent it—and, mother, for -Cosmo’s sake!”</p> - -<p>“Eh, Huntley, God forgive me if I set more weight upon him than I should -set!” said the Mistress, with tears; “no’ to your detriment, my own son; -but look at the bairn! is he not <i>his</i> very image that’s gane?”</p> - -<p>Not a single shadow of envy or displeasure crossed Huntley’s face; he -stood looking at his young brother with a love almost as tender as their -mother’s, with besides an unconscious swell of manhood and power in his -own frame. He was the eldest brother, the head of the house, and the -purest saint on earth could not have condemned the generous pride which -rose in Huntley’s breast. It was not a weak effusion of sentimental -self-sacrifice—his own hopes, his own heart, his own life, were strong -with an individual identity in the young man’s nature. But the tender -son of this house for the first time had made his own authoritative and -masterly decision. To set aside his ambition and let it wait—to -postpone fortune to labor—to do the first duty of a man on his own sole -and unadvised responsibility—to provide for those of his own house, and -set them above the anxieties of poverty. He was proud, when he thought -of it, to feel the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> strength in his own arm, the vigor of his own -step—but the pride was such as almost an angel might have shared.</p> - -<p>When Huntley left the room, the Mistress called Cosmo to her side. She -had resumed her seat by the corner window, and they could see him going -out, disappearing behind the old castle walls, in the glory of the -autumn sunset.</p> - -<p>“Do you see him, Cosmo?” said the Mistress, with renewed tears, which -this time were of mingled pride and tenderness; “I resisted, but I never -wronged his thoughts. Do ye see your brother? Yonder he is, a young lad, -proud, and bold, and masterful—he’s no’ like you—he has it in his -heart to seek power, and riches, and honors, and to take pleasure in -them—and he’s that daring that the chance of a battle would be more -pleasant to Huntley than any thing in this world that was secure. -Yet—do you hear me, laddie? he’s put them all aside, every ane, for the -sake of this hame and name, and for you and me!”</p> - -<p>And the color rose high upon the Mistress’s cheek in a flush of triumph; -the necessity and blessing of women came upon her in a sudden flood—she -could not be heroic herself, though she might covet the glory—but with -a higher, tenderer, more delicious pride, she could rejoice and triumph -in the courage of her boy. Her voice rose even in those restrained and -moderate words of common speech as if in a song; there was an -indescribable something in her tone which reminded one involuntarily of -the old songs of Scripture, the old triumphant Hebrew parallelisms of -Miriam and Deborah. She grasped Cosmo’s shoulder with an emphatic -pressure, and pointed with the other hand to the retiring figure of -Huntley, passing slowly and with a thoughtful step by the wall of the -old castle. Cosmo leaned out beside her, catching a flush upon his -delicate cheek from hers, but gazing upon the scene with a different -eye. Insensibly the poetic glance of the boy left his brother, to dwell -upon the other features of this picture before him. Those stern old -walls with their windowless sockets, through which once the sunshine -shone and the summer breezes entered to former generations of their -name—that sweet evening glory of sunshine, pouring aslant in a -lingering tender flood upon the world and the day, which it seemed sad -to leave—that sunshine which never grew old—insensibly his own romance -stole back into Cosmo’s mind. He forgot, with the inadvertence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> of his -years, that it was not a romance agreeable to his mother, or that, even -if it had been, she was not of a temper to bear the intrusion of other -subjects when her mind was so fully occupied with concerns of her own.</p> - -<p>“Mother, Huntley is right,” cried Cosmo; “Melmar can not be his if <i>she</i> -is alive—it would not become him to seek <i>it</i> till he has sought -her—and as Huntley can not seek her, for her sake and for my father’s, -<i>I</i> will, though it should take the half of my life!”</p> - -<p>Once more the Mistress’s face changed; a glance of fiery impatience -flashed from her eyes, her cheek grew violently red, the tears dried as -if by a spell, and she put Cosmo away hastily with the same arm which -had held him.</p> - -<p>“Get away to your plays, bairn—dinna trouble me!” cried the Mistress, -with a harsh contempt, which was as strong as it was unjust; “to think I -should open my heart to you that thinks of nothing but your romances and -story books! Go! I’ve different things to think of—dinna trouble me!”</p> - -<p>And she rose with a murmur of indignation and anger, and went hurriedly, -with a flushed cheek, to seek her usual work, and take refuge in -occupation. If the lost heiress had been her dearest friend, she would -still have resented urgently the introduction of an intruder into her -sudden burst of mother-pride. As it was, it overturned temper and -patience entirely. She brushed past Cosmo with a hasty contempt, which -humiliated and mortified the boy beyond expression. He did not attempt -to justify himself—perhaps a kindred spark of resentment, and the -bitterness with which youth appreciates injustice, helped to silence -him—but when his mother resumed her seat and worked on hurriedly in a -disdainful and angry silence, Cosmo withdrew out of the room and out of -the house with a swelling heart. Too proud to betray how much he was -wounded, he stole round behind the farm offices to his favorite perch -among the ruins, where the lad brooded in mournful mood, sinking into -the despairing despondency of his years and temperament, feeling himself -misunderstood and unappreciated, and meditating a hundred melancholy -heroisms. Mary of Melmar, so far, seemed as little propitious to -Norlaw’s son as she had once been to Norlaw.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Go</span> wherever you like, bairns, or travel straight on, if you please—I -canna see a step before me, for my part—it’s you and no’ me that must -take the lead,” said the Mistress, with a heavy sigh. These words were -said as the little party, Huntley, Patrick and herself, were left -standing by a little pile of luggage, in the dusk of a harvest evening, -in front of the coach office on the Edinburgh pavement. They were on -their way to Liverpool, from which place Huntley was to sail in an -emigrant ship for Port Philip. Princes Street was full of the open-air -and street-loving crowd which gives to that splendid promenade, on -summer nights, so much of a continental aspect. The dusk of the twilight -fell softly in the valley which lay behind, the lights in the high -houses on the other side hung softly midway in the air, the voices of -the passengers, and sounds of the city, though doubtless many of these -were sad enough, mingled in the soft-shadowed air to a harmonious hum of -pleasant sound, which echoed with a mocking gayety into the heavy heart -of the mother who was about to part with her boys. She was bewildered -for the moment with her journey, with the unknown place and unusual -animation around her, and it was only very slowly and by degrees that -her mind regained its usual self-possession. She stood gazing blankly -round her, while the boys made arrangements about their superfluous -packages, which were to be left at the coach office, and finally came up -to her, carrying between them the little trunk which contained the -necessaries for their journey. Cabs were not in those days, and the -Mistress would have been horrified into perfect self-possession by the -preposterous idea of “a noddy.” When they were thus far ready, she -turned with them briskly enough, leading the way without any -uncertainty, for, in spite of her exclamation, it had been already -arranged where they were to go, and the Mistress had been at school in -Edinburgh in her young days, and was by no means unacquainted with the -town. They went along in this order—Mrs. Livingstone carrying a -considerable bag on her own arm, and the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> men with a trunk between -them—across the North Bridge towards the old town, that scene of magic -to every stranger; the valley, the hill, the dim gray turrets of -Holyrood, the soft darkness of the night full of sounds, lying beneath -them—the rugged outline, picturesque and noble, of the lofty old street -before—the lights shining here and there like fairy stars in irregular -specks among the high windows, and everywhere the half-seen, -unrecognizable throng of wayfarers, and the world of subdued sound on -every side made but small impression upon the absorbed minds of the -little party. They knew it all before, and their thoughts were otherwise -occupied; yet involuntarily that noble landscape, which no one could -look upon with absolute indifference, soothed them all, in spite of -themselves. Their destination was the High Street, where, in one of the -more respectable closes, and at the top of an interminable ascent of -stairs, there lived a native of Kirkbride, who was in the habit of -letting lodgings to students, and with whom they were to find -accommodation for the night. Mrs. Purdie gave to the Mistress a little -room boasting a “concealed bed,” that is to say, a recess shut in by -folding-doors, and just large enough to contain a bedstead, and to the -lads a bed-closet, with a borrowed light, both of which inventions -specially belong to the economy of flats and great subdivided houses, -and are the most unfavorable features in the same. But the window of -Mrs. Livingstone’s room, where they had tea, looked abroad over that -great panorama, bounded by the gleam of the Firth, and the low green -line of the Fife hills, which makes it worth while to ascend stairs and -watch at lofty windows in Edinburgh. The yellow harvest moon had risen -ere they had finished the simple meal, which none of them had any heart -for, and Huntley drew his mother to the window to bid her look at the -wonderful broad moonlight lying white upon the long line of street -below, and thrusting out all the monuments of the little hill into bold -and striking relief against the luminous sky. The Mistress turned away -from the window, with big tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Eh, Huntley, laddie, what do I care? if it was the grandest view that -ever was, do you think I could see it?” cried his mother, “when I ken -that I’ll never see the light of the moon mair without weary thoughts -and yearning to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> where my bairns are, hundreds and thousands of miles -away from me!”</p> - -<p>“But, mother, only till we come home,” said Huntley, with his arm round -his mother, speaking low in her ear.</p> - -<p>The Mistress only turned towards the dim little table, with its dim -candles, hurriedly wiping the tears from her eyes. This was -endurable—but the night and the calm, and the glory of the heavens and -the earth, were too much for the mother. If she had remained there -looking out, it almost seemed to her as if she must have wept her very -heart dry.</p> - -<p>The next morning they set out once more upon their journey—another -day’s travel by the canal to Glasgow. The canal was not to be despised -in those days; it was cheaper, and it was not a great deal slower than -the coach; and if the errand had been happier, the mode of traveling, in -that lovely harvest weather, with its gradual glide and noiseless -progress, was by no means an unpleasant one. Glasgow itself, a strange, -unknown, smoky Babel, where, after Huntley was gone, the Mistress was to -part with her second son, bewildered her mind completely with its first -aspect; she could make nothing of it as they pursued their way from the -canal to the river, through a maze of perplexing and noisy streets, -where she felt assured hundreds of people might lose themselves, never -to be found again. And, with a feeling half of awe and half of disgust, -Mrs. Livingstone contemplated the place, so unlike the only other large -town she knew, where Patie was to pass the next half dozen years of his -life. Instinctively she caught closer hold of him, forgetting Huntley -for the moment—Huntley’s dangers would be those of nature, the sea and -the wilderness—but temptation! ill-doing! The Mistress grasped her -son’s sleeve with tenacious fingers, and looked into his face with half -an entreaty, half a defiance.</p> - -<p>“If I should ever see the like of that in a bairn of mine!” she cried -aloud, as they passed a corner where stood some of those precocious men, -haggard and aged beyond double their years, whom it is the misfortune of -a great town sometimes to produce. The idea struck her with an impatient -dread which overcame even her half-apprehensive curiosity about the -voyage they were going to undertake; and she had scarcely overcome this -sudden alarm, when they embarked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> in the snorting steamer which was to -convey them to Liverpool. Standing on the deck, surrounded by the pile -of boxes which formed Huntley’s equipment, and looking with startled and -disapproving eyes upon the arriving passengers, and the crowded sheds of -the Broomielaw, the Mistress saw the same moon rising above the masts, -and housetops, and smoke of Glasgow, without any thing like the same -feelings which had moved her on the previous night. Her mind was -excited, her active spirit stirred, her very nerves, steady as they -were, influenced a little by the entirely new anticipation of the -voyage; a night at sea!—it seemed almost as great looking forward to it -as Huntley’s journey, though that was to the other end of the world.</p> - -<p>And so they glided down the beautiful Clyde, the breeze freshening about -them, as hills began to rise black in the moonlight, and little towns to -glimmer on the water’s edge. The mother and the sons walked about the -deck together, talking earnestly, and when the vessel rose upon the -bigger waves, as they stole out to sea, and every thing but the water -and the sky, and the moonlight, gradually sank out of sight, the -Mistress, with a little thrill of danger and adventure at her heart, -forgot for the moment how, presently, she should return alone by the -same road, and almost could suppose that she was setting out with -Huntley. The fancy restored her to herself: she was not much of an -advice giver. Her very cautions and counsels, perhaps, were arbitrary -and slightly impatient, like her nature; but she was their true mother, -heart and soul; and the lads did not forget for long years after what -the Mistress said as she paced about the deck between them, with a firm, -yet sometimes uncertain foot, as the midnight glided into morning, and -the river disappeared in the bigger waters of the sea.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> voyage, as it happened, was a very favorable one—even the -Mistress’s inland terrors were scarcely aroused by the swell of that -summer sea; and Huntley himself, though his ideas expanded to a much -longer journey, unconsciously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> took it as a good omen that his first -night at sea should be so calm and fair. They came into the great -seaport late on another summer evening. It was not nearly so extensive -then as it is now, but still the masts were in forests, the ships in -navies; and their inexperienced eyes, unenlightened by the hasty and -darkling glimpse of the Clyde, and knowing nothing greater or busier -than the Forth, with its great bosom diversified by an island and a -sail, the one scarcely more plentiful than the other, opened wide with -amazement at the fleet of vessels in the Mersey. Insensibly to herself, -the Mistress drew a certain comfort from the fact, as the Glasgow -steamer went gliding up the river, in the late summer sunset. Ships were -moored in the deep calm and shadow of the banks; ships were coming and -going in the midwaters of the river, and lines of spars and masts, -indistinguishable and without number, fringed the whole water edge, from -which the smoke of the town, reddened by a last ray of sunshine, rose -inland, out of sight, in a great overhanging cloud. The sight of such a -throng brought a momentary comfort to the heart of Huntley’s mother. The -very sea, it almost seemed, could not be so lonely, when all these big -wayfarers, and thousands more, were tracking its waters day by day.</p> - -<p>“Mony a mother’s son is there,” she said to herself softly, as she stood -gazing about her—and even the community of hardship had a solace in it. -As the steamboat puffed and snorted to its destination, a big ship, -crowded with pensive faces, bare of sails, and tugged along by a little -steamer, came lumbering silently along through the peaceful evening -light, going out to sea. Two or three voices round announced it “an -emigrant ship,” and the Mistress gazed into it and after it, clasping -her son’s arm with a thrill at her heart. Evening; the sweet daylight -fading into a charmed and tender twilight—the sky growing pale with -very calm; the houses and churches and piles of buildings beginning to -stand out black against the colorless, mysterious light which casts no -shadows; the water gleaming in long, still ripples, as pale as the -sky—every thing softening and darkening into natural rest—yet, through -all, the great ship departing silently, with her throng of travelers, -beginning to unfold the sails of her wayfaring, beginning to vibrate to -the quickening wave, as she neared the sea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span></p> - -<p>“God go with them!” said the Mistress, with a sob out of her full heart. -“Oh, Huntley, laddie! mony a mother’s son is there!”</p> - -<p>The landing, when they came to it; the rush of porters and vagabonds -from the pier; the half light, in which it seemed doubly necessary to -the Mistress, roused into prompt and vigorous self-defense, to keep the -most vigilant watch on the luggage—and the confusion with which both -mother and sons contemplated the screaming, shouting crowd who -surrounded them with offers of service, and bawled to them from the -shore, made altogether a very serious business of the arrival. The -Mistress never knew how she came through that ordeal; the “English -tongue,” which had a decidedly Irish brogue in that scene, and under -these circumstances, deafened the rural Scottish woman. The crowd of -spectators, and the foray upon everybody’s luggage made by some scores -of ragged fellows, whom her uncharitable imagination set down as robbers -or madmen, filled her with indignation and a strong propensity to -resistance; and it was not till she found herself safely deposited in an -odd little sitting-room of a little inn, close to the docks, with all -her packages safe and undiminished, that a measure of calmness returned -to the ruffled bosom of Mrs. Livingstone. Then, after they had rested -and refreshed themselves, Huntley and Patrick went out with natural -curiosity to see the new scene and the new country—for the whole party -fully considered that it was “England,” not Liverpool, in which they now -found themselves—and the Mistress was left alone. She sat in the little -parlor under the unfamiliar gas-light, looking round with forlorn eyes -upon the room. There was a little model of a ship upon the mantel-piece -in front of the little mirror, and another upon a small side-table under -the barometer; other odd little ornaments, such as sailors bring home, -shells and curious boxes, and little painted glass cups of Dutch art, -gave a very nautical aspect to the shabby apartment, which, further, -bore traces of having recently been smoked in, which disgusted the -Mistress. Then all the noises of a noisy and not very well-behaved -quarter seemed to rise up to her window, mingled with a jar of music -from a big blazing drinking-place, almost next door—and the private -tumult of the inn itself, voices and footsteps, shutting of doors and -ringing of bells, still further oppressed the solitary stranger.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span></p> - -<p>“Mercy on me! is that what they ca’ speaking English?” cried the -Mistress to herself, disturbed, lonely, sick at heart, and almost -offended with her sons for leaving her. She put her hands to her ears -with a gesture of disdain; the unfamiliar accent was quite an -aggravation and insult to her solitude—and then her thoughts settled -down upon the circumstances which brought her here. But a day or two -more, and she might never see Huntley again.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the boys were straying through the mean, noisy streets, -blazing with light, which only showed their squalor the more, where a -whole disreputable population seemed to be exerting all its arts for the -fascination of the sailors, who were the patrons and support of all this -quarter. It was quite a new phase of life to the lads, fresh from their -rural solitudes, and all the proprieties of a respectable Scottish -family—but the novelty beguiled them on, though it disgusted them. They -went wandering about, curious, astonished, revolted, till they found -themselves among dark mazes of warehouses from which it was not easy to -find their way back. When they did get back it was late, though the -noise remained undiminished, and the Mistress’s temper was not improved, -if truth must be told, by her solitude. She had been trying to look out -from the window, where opposite there was nothing but the high brick -walls of the docks, and beneath, upon the lighted pavement, only such -scenes as horrified the soul of the Mistress within her.</p> - -<p>“It’s a marvel to me what pleasure even thoughtless laddies could find -wandering about a place like that,” said the Mistress; “England, quotha! -I thought mysel’ there must be something worth seeing in a place that -folk make such a wark about; but instead of that, it’s waur than the -Cowgate; pity me! and sharp tongues that gang through my head like a -bell!”</p> - -<p>“But Liverpool is not England,” said Huntley, coming to a slow -perception of that fact, and laughing at himself as he said it.</p> - -<p>“And maybe this is not Liverpool,” said Patie, with still greater -enlightenment.</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace, bairns,” cried the Mistress, peremptorily; “what can -you ken, twa laddies that have no more insight into life than babes -unborn—how can the like of you tell? Do I no’ see sin outbye there with -a painted face, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> sounds of fiddling and laughing, and light enough -to burn up the haill town? Eh, bairns, if ever ye touch such dirt with -but the ends of your fingers, the mother that bore ye will think shame -of ye—burning shame! It sounds like pleasure—do ye hear?—but it’s no -pleasure, it’s destruction!—and I canna tell, for my ain part, how a -decent woman can daur to close her e’en, kenning what evil’s nigh. But -I’m no’ meaning that for you,” added the Mistress, changing her tone; -“the like of you young things need sleep and rest, and though I canna -tell where we’re to get the things we want in a miserable place like -this, we’ll have to be stirring early the morn.”</p> - -<p>“And we’ll find a better place,” said Huntley; “don’t be afraid, -mother—but for that and all the rest that we have to do and to bear, -you must try to rest yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, laddie,” said the Mistress, hurriedly wiping her eyes, “but I -canna get my thoughts out of that ship that’s on the sea this nicht! and -maybe mony a lone woman sitting still with nae sons to come in to -her—and whiles I canna but mind what’s coming to mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“I am only twenty, mother, and Patie but eighteen,” said Huntley; “would -you like us to remain as we are, knowing nothing of life, as you say? or -are you afraid to trust your sons in the battle, like other men?”</p> - -<p>“Na! no’ me!” cried the Mistress; “you’re baith right, and I approve in -my mind—but only just this, bairns;—I’m your mother—and yon ship is -sailing in the dark before my very e’en, as plain as if I saw her now!”</p> - -<p>And whether it was thinking of that ship, or of the sons of other -mothers who were errant in her, or of her own boy, so soon to join their -journey, the Mistress heard the last sound that disturbed the house that -night, and the earliest in the morning. Her eyes were dry and sore when -she got up to see the daylight aspect of the unknown and unlovely world -around her; and the lads were still fast asleep in their privilege of -youth, while their mother stood once more wistfully looking out upon the -high black wall of the dock, and the masts appearing over it. She could -not see the river, or any thing more gracious than this seaman-tempting -street. There was nothing either within or without to divert her from -her own thoughts; and as she watched the early sunshine brighten upon a -scene so different from that of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> her own hills and streams, these -thoughts were forlorn enough.</p> - -<p>During the day, the little party went out to make some last purchases -for Huntley. The young man was to carry with him, in the securest form -which they could think of, a little fortune of a hundred pounds, on -which he was to make his start in the world, nothing doubting to find in -it a nucleus of wealth; and the Mistress, spite of the natural economy -of her ideas, and her long habit of frugality, was extravagant and -lavish in her anxiety to get every thing for Huntley that he could or -might require. When they came into the region of shops, she began to -drop behind, anxiously studying the windows, tempted by many a possible -convenience, which, if she had acted on her first impulse and purchased -each incontinently, would have made Huntley’s outfit an unbelievable -accumulation of peddlery.</p> - -<p>As it was, his mother’s care and inexperience freighted the young man -with a considerable burden of elaborate conveniences—cumbrous machines -of various forms, warranted invaluable for the voyage or for the bush, -which Huntley lugged about with many a year after, and tried to use for -his mother’s sake. When they got back to their inn, the Mistress had -suffered herself to be convinced that the noisy street outside the docks -was not Liverpool, much less England. But the “English tongue,” which -“rang through her head like a knife,” to vary the image—the mean brick -houses at which the triumphant Scotchwoman pointed her finger with -unspeakable contempt, the narrow streets, and noise and dust of the -great commercial town, filled her patriotic spirit with a disdainful -complacency.</p> - -<p>“Weel, laddies,” said Mrs. Livingstone, when they reached the inn, very -tired, that night; and the Mistress spoke with the natural satisfaction -of a traveled person; “I have aye heard a great wark made about -England—but I’m very sure, now that we’ve been in it, and seen for -ourselves, none of us desires to gang any further. Bits of brick houses -that you can mostly see through!—streets that neighbors could shake -hands across!—and for my part, ilka time I hear them speak, I think -they’re flyting. Eh, bairns, such sharp tongues! I wouldna gie Melrose -though it’s wee-er and hasna sae mony shops, for twenty of this -place—and as for Edinburgh—!”</p> - -<p>But the contrast was unspeakable, and took away the Mistress’s breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">They</span> were detained for some days waiting the sailing of the ship, which -already the little party had gone over, the Mistress with awe and -solemnity, the brothers with eager interest and excitement, more than -once. The bark Flora, Captain Gardner master, bound for Port -Philip—through those days and nights of suspense, when they hoped and -feared every morning to hear that this was the last day, this name might -have been heard even among the dreams of Huntley’s mother. Yet this -procrastination of the parting was not good even for her. She said her -farewell a hundred times in the bitterness of imagination before the -real moment came, and as they all went down every morning early to one -of the piers, opposite to which in the river the Flora lay, and made a -mournful, anxious promenade up and down, gazing at the anchored ship, -with her bare cordage, the emigrant encampments on her big deck, and the -fresh vegetables strung in her bows, noting with sharp and solicitous -eyes any signs of preparation there, the pain of parting was -indefinitely repeated, though always with a pang of joy at the -end—another day. However, even emigrant ships have to make up their -minds some time. At last came the last night, when they all sat -together, looking into each other’s faces, knowing that, after -to-morrow, they might never meet again. The Mistress had not a great -deal to say on that last night; what she did say was of no one -continuous tone. She could not make sermons to her boys—it might be -that there was abruptness and impatience even in her motherly warnings. -The grief of this farewell did not change her character, though it -pierced to her heart.</p> - -<p>“Try and get a decent house to live in—dinna be about inns or such like -places,” said the Mistress; “I ken by mysel’, just the time we’ve been -here, Huntley—and if it’s unsettling to the like of me, what should it -be to a young lad?—but dinna be owre great friends either with them -that put you up—I’m no fond of friendship out of folks’ ain degree, -though I ken weel that nobody that’s kind to my bairn will find an -ungrateful thought in me; but mind aye what ye are, and wha ye are, and -a’ that’s looked for at your hands.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<p>“A poor emigrant, mother,” said Huntley, with rather a tremulous smile.</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace, laddie, dinna be unthankful,” said the Mistress; “a -lad with a good house and lands at hame, and a hundred pound clear in -his pocket, no’ to say how mony conveniences and handy things in his -boxes, and a’ the comforts that ye can carry. Dinna sin your mercies, -Huntley, before me.”</p> - -<p>“It would not become me,” said Huntley, “for I might have had few -comforts but for you, mother, that thought of every thing; as every -thing I have, if I needed reminding, would make me think of home and -you.”</p> - -<p>“Whisht, whisht, bairn!” said the Mistress, with a broken voice and a -sob, two big tears falling out of her eyes upon her trembling hands, -which she wiped off hurriedly, almost with a gesture of shame; “and -ye’ll no’ forget your duty, Huntley,” she added with agitated haste; -“mind what the minister said; if there be nae kirk, as there might not -be, seeing it’s a savage place, never let the Sabbath day slip out of -your hand, as if there was na difference. Kirks and ministers are a -comfort, whiles—but, Huntley, mind God’s aye nigh at hand. I bid ye -baith mind that—I’m no’ what I should be—I canna say a’ that’s in my -heart—but, oh, laddies, mind if you should never hear another word out -of your mother’s lips! They speak about ships and letters that make -far-away friends nigh each other, but, bairns, the Lord Himsel’ is the -nighest link between you and me—as He’s the only link between us a’ and -him that’s gane.”</p> - -<p>There was a long pause after this burst out of the desolate heart of -Norlaw’s widow and Huntley’s mother; a pause in which words would have -been vain, even if any one of them could have found any words to say, -and in which the fatherless sons, and the mother who was a widow, turned -their faces from each other, shedding those hurried, irrestrainable -tears, which they dared not indulge. It was the Mistress who found -composure first, but she did not prolong the emotion of the little party -by continuing the same strain. Like herself, she had no sooner found her -voice, than, shy of revealing the depths of her heart, even to her -children, she resumed on a totally different theme.</p> - -<p>“If ye gang up into the country, Huntley, dinna bide aye among the -beasts,” said the Mistress, abruptly; “mind,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> it’s no’ that I put very -much faith in this lad Cassilis, but still, whatever’s possible shouldna -be forgotten. You might be Melmar, with a great estate, before mony -years were past, and, at any rate, you’re master of your ain land, and -have as good a name to bear as ever came of <i>that</i> house. It’s my hope -to see you back at the head of your household, a man respected—so dinna -you sink into a solitary, Huntley, or dwell your lane ower lang. I’ve -nothing to say against the making of siller—folk canna live without it -in this world—but a fortune’s no equal to a man—and if ye canna make -the ane without partly sacrificing the other, come hame.”</p> - -<p>“I will, mother,” said Huntley, seriously.</p> - -<p>“And there’s just one thing mair,” added the Mistress, not without a -look of uneasiness, “be aye particular about the kind of folk you make -friends o’—and specially—weel, weel, you’re both young lads. I canna -keep ye bairns—you’ll soon be thinking of the like of that yoursel’. -I’m no fond of strangers, Huntley Livingstone, I dinna understand their -ways; dinna bring me a daughter of that land to vex me as the fremd -women vexed Rebecca. No’ that I’m meaning to put bondage on you—na—I -wouldna have it said I was jealous of my sons—but you’re young, and -young lads are easily beguiled; wait till you come hame.”</p> - -<p>“I give you my word for that, mother!” cried Huntley, eagerly, the blood -rushing over his face, as he grasped the Mistress’s hand with a quite -unnecessary degree of fervor.</p> - -<p>Perhaps his mother found him rather more in earnest than the vague -nature of her advice seemed to justify. She looked at him with a -startled glance of suspicion and dawning displeasure.</p> - -<p>“Ay, laddie!” cried the Mistress; “ane would think you had made up your -mind!” and she turned her eyes upon the glow and brightening of -Huntley’s face, with a little spark of impatience. But at that moment -the clock below stairs began to strike twelve; it startled them all as -they sat listening—and gradually, as stroke followed stroke with that -inevitable regularity, the heart of Huntley’s mother sank within her. -She took the hand, which she had been half angry to find grasping hers -in confirmation of his earnestness, tenderly between her own—she -stroked the strong young fingers with that hand of hers, somewhat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> -large, somewhat wrinkled, without an ornament upon it save its worn -wedding-ring, the slow, fond, loving touch of which brought hot tears to -Huntley’s eyes. The Mistress did not look up, because her own face was -moved with a grief and tenderness unspeakable and beyond the reach of -words—she could not say any thing—she could only sit silent, keeping -down the sob in her throat, the water that gathered in her eyes, fondly -holding her son’s hand, caressing it with an indescribable pathetic -gesture, more touching than the wildest passionate embrace.</p> - -<p>Then they all stood up together to say good-night.</p> - -<p>“Laddies, it’s no more night!—it’s morning, and Huntley sails this -day,” said the Mistress; “oh, my bairns!—and I canna speak; dinna say a -word to me!—but gang and lie down and take your rest, and the Lord send -sleep to us a’ and make us ready for what’s to come.”</p> - -<p>It was with this good-night, and no more, that they parted, but the -sleep and rest for which she had prayed did not come to the mother. She -was up by daybreak, once more looking over the last box which Huntley -was to take with him on board, to see if any thing could be added to its -stores.</p> - -<p>She stole into her sons’ room to look at them in their sleep, but would -not suffer any one to wake them, though the lads slept long, worn out by -excitement and emotion. Then the Mistress put on her bonnet, and went -out by herself to try if she could not get something for their -breakfast, more delicate and dainty than usual, and, when she returned, -arranged the table with her own hands, pausing often to wipe away, not -tears, but a sad moisture with which her eyes were always full. But she -was perfectly composed, and went about all these homely offices of love -with a smile more touching than grief. The emergency had come at last, -and the Mistress was not a woman to break down or lose the comfort of -this last day. Time enough to break her heart when Huntley was gone.</p> - -<p>And the inevitable hours went on, as hours do before one of those -life-partings—slow, yet with a flow and current in their gradual -progress, which seemed to carry them forward more forcibly than the -quickest tide of pleasure. And at last it was time to embark. They went -down to the river together, saying very little; then on the river, in a -boat, to reach the ship.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<p>It was a glorious harvest-day, warm, sunny, overflowing with happiness -and light. The opposite bank of the river had never looked so green, the -villages by its side had never detached themselves so brightly from the -fields behind and the sands before. The very water swelling under their -boat rippled past with a heave and swell of enjoyment, palpitating under -the sunshine; and the commonest boatman and hardest-laboring sailor on -these rejoicing waters looked like a man whose life was holiday. People -on the pier, ignorant bystanders, smiled even upon this little party as -their boat floated off into the midway of the sun-bright stream, as if -it was a party of pleasure. Instinctively the Mistress put down her -thick, black vail, worked with big, unearthly flowers, which made so -many blots upon the sunshine, and said to Huntley, from behind its -shelter:—</p> - -<p>“What a pleasure it was to see such a day for the beginning of his -voyage!”</p> - -<p>They all repeated the same thing over mechanically at different times, -and that was almost the whole substance of what they said until they -reached the ship.</p> - -<p>And presently, the same little boat glided back again over the same -gleaming, golden waters, with Patie, very pale and very red by turns, in -one end of it, and the Mistress, with her black vail over her face, -sitting all alone on one side, with her hands rigidly clasped in her -lap, and her head turned towards the ship. When the Flora began to move -from her place, this silent figure gave a convulsive start and a cry, -and so Huntley was gone.</p> - -<p>He was leaning over the bulwark of the ship, looking out at this speck -in the water—seeing before him, clearer than eyes ever saw, the faces -of his mother, his brothers, his dead father—perhaps even of others -still—with a pang at his heart, which was less for himself than for the -widow who could no longer look upon her son; his heart rising, his heart -sinking, as his own voyage hence, and her voyage home, rose upon his -imagination—living through the past, the present, and the future—the -leave-taking to which his mind vibrated—the home-coming which now -seemed almost as near and certain—the unknown years of absence, which -fled before him like a dream.</p> - -<p>He, too, started when the vessel moved upon the sunny river—started -with a swell of rising enterprise and courage.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> The daring of his -nature, and the gay wind blowing down the river; fresh and favorable, -dried the tears in Huntley’s eyes; but did not dry that perpetual -moisture from the pained eyelids of the Mistress, as she turned to Patie -at last, with faltering lips, to repeat that dreary congratulation:—</p> - -<p>“Eh, Patie! what a blessing, if we could but think upon it, to see such -a day as this for a guid beginning on the sea!”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was very well for the Mistress’s spirit, though scarcely for her -purse, that she was roused the next day to horror and indignation, -scarcely restrainable, by the supposed exorbitant bill of the inn. She -thought it the most monstrous imposition which ever had been practiced, -and could scarcely be persuaded to depart from her first resolution of -seeking out a “decent writer,” “if there is such a person in this wicked -town,” as she added, scornfully—to arbitrate between her and the -iniquitous publican. At last, however, Patie succeeded in getting his -mother safely once more within the Glasgow steamer.</p> - -<p>It was a melancholy voyage, for every breath of wind that blew, agitated -Huntley’s mother with questions of his safety; and she had no better -prospect than to part with Patie at this journey’s end. They reached -their destination in the afternoon, when the great, smoky, dingy -Glasgow, looked almost hotter and more stifled than the other great -seaport they had left. From the Broomielaw, they went upon their weary -way, through the town, to a humble lodging recommended by Dr. Logan, -whose letter to the manager of one of the founderies Patie carried in -his pocket. The house which the travelers sought was up three long -flights of stairs, in a dark-complexioned close, where each flat was -divided into two houses. The “land,” or block of buildings in which it -was placed, formed one side of a little street, just behind the place -where Patie was to work; and the windows of their lodging looked across -the black yard and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> big buildings of this great, noisy foundery, to a -troubled, smoky glimpse of the Clyde, and Glasgow Green upon the other -side.</p> - -<p>After he had seen his mother safely arrived in this shelter, Patie had -to set out immediately to deliver his letter. The Mistress was left once -more by herself to examine her new resting-place. It was a little room, -with a little bed in the corner, hung with dark, unlined chintz. It was -also what is called in these regions “coomcieled,” which is to say, the -roof sloped on one side, being close under the leads. A piece of carpet -in the centre, a little table in the centre of that, three chairs, a -chest of drawers, and a washing stand, completed the equipment of the -room. Was this to be Patie’s room—the boy’s only substitute for home?</p> - -<p>The Mistress went to the window, to see if any comfort was to be found -there; but there was only the foundery—the immense, black, coaly, smoky -yard into which these windows looked; and, a little to the right, a -great cotton factory, whence, at the sound of a big bell, troops of -girls came crowding out, with their uncovered heads shining in the -evening sun. The Mistress turned abruptly in again, much discomposed by -the prospect. With their colored petticoats and short gowns, and -shining, uncovered hair, the Glasgow mill girls were—at this distance -at least—rather a pretty sight; and a perfectly uninterested person -might have thought it quite seemly and natural that the black moleskin -giants of the foundery, issuing from their own cavernous portals at the -same time, should have exchanged sundry jokes and rough encounters of -badinage with their female neighbors.</p> - -<p>But the Mistress, whose son was to be left at this same foundery, awoke -in a horror of injured pride and aristocracy to contemplate an -unimagined danger.</p> - -<p>“A barefooted lassie from a mill!—a bairn of mine!” cried the Mistress, -with looks aghast; and she drew a chair carefully out of reach of the -window, and sat down at the table to consider the matter.</p> - -<p>But when she looked round upon the bare, mean room, and thought of the -solitary lad, who knew nobody in Glasgow, who had been used to the -kindly cares of home all his life, and who was only a boy, although a -“bairn of mine!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> it is not very wonderful, perhaps, that the Mistress -should have done even the staid and sensible Patie the injustice of -supposing him captivated by some one of that crowd of dumpy daughters of -St. Mungo, who were so far beneath the dignity of a son of Norlaw. Even -Huntley, far away at sea, disappeared, for the moment, from her anxious -sight. Worse dangers than those of sea or storm might be here.</p> - -<p>Patie, meanwhile, thinking of no womankind in the world, not even of his -mother, was explaining very forcibly and plainly to Dr. Logan’s friend, -the manager, his own wishes and intentions; railways were a very recent -invention in those days, and steamboats not an old one—it was the -bright day of engineering, while there still lingered a certain romance -about those wondrous creations of steel and steam, with which the world -had not yet grown too familiar—gentlemen apprentices were not uncommon -in those great Cyclopean workshops—but Patrick Livingstone did not mean -to be a gentleman apprentice. He wanted to put himself to school for a -couple of years, to learn his craft like a man, without privilege of -gentility, he was too old for the regular trade apprenticeship, but he -desired nothing more than a lessening of the time of that probation—and -whatever circumstances might lead him to do at the end of it, Patie was -not afraid of being found wanting in needful skill or knowledge. Dr. -Logan had given a most flattering description of his family and -“station,” partly stimulated thereto by the zeal with which his nephew -Cassilis took up the cause of the Livingstones—and Mr. Crawford, the -Glasgow manager, was very civil to the lad, who was the son of a landed -proprietor, and whose brother might, in a few years, be one of the first -gentlemen in the county of Melrose; the interview on the whole was a -very satisfactory one, and Patie plodded his way back to the little room -where he had left his mother, engaged to return next day with her, to -conclude the arrangement by which he should enter the foundery; the lad -was satisfied, even exhilarated, in his sober fashion, to find himself -thus upon the threshold of a more serious life. Though he observed -perfectly the locality and appearances around him, they had not so much -effect upon Patie as they might have had on a more imaginative temper. -His calmer and more practical mind, paradox though it seems to say so, -was less affected by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> external circumstances than either his mother or -Huntley, and a thousand times less than Cosmo would have been. He did -not concern himself about his surroundings—<i>they</i> had little debasing -or depressing influence upon his thoughts—he scarcely noticed them -indeed, if they were sufficient for his necessities. Patie could very -well contrive to live without beauty, and could manage to get on with a -very moderate degree of comfort, so long as his own vigorous mind -approved his life, and he had plenty to do.</p> - -<p>In consequence of which it happened that Patie scarcely comprehended his -mother’s dissatisfaction with the room; if he remained here, it was the -only room the mistress of the house could give her lodger. He thought it -very well, and quite as much as he required, and apprehended no -particular cheerlessness in consequence of its poverty.</p> - -<p>“It is not home, of course,” he said, with great nonchalance, “but, -granting that, mother, I don’t see what difference it makes to me. It’s -all well enough. I don’t want any thing more—it’s near the work, and -it’s in a decent house—that should be enough to please you.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace, Patie—do you think I’m careless of my bairn’s -comfort?” cried the Mistress, with a half tone of anger; “and wha’ was -ever used to a place like this, coming out of Norlaw?”</p> - -<p>“But there can not be two Norlaws,” said Patie, “nor two homes. I want -but one, for my part. I have no desire at present to like a second place -as well.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, laddie, if you can but keep that thought, and be true!” cried the -Mistress, “I wouldna heed, save for your ain comfort, where you were -then.”</p> - -<p>“Do you doubt me, mother? what are you feared for? tell me, and I’ll -know what to do,” said Patie, coming close to her, with his look of -plain, unmistakable sincerity.</p> - -<p>“I’m no’ feared,” said the Mistress, those ever-rising, never-falling -tears dimming her eyes again, while yet a little secondary emotion, half -shame of her own suspicions, half petulance, rose to her voice; “but -it’s a poor place for a laddie like you, bred up at hame—and it’s a -great town, full of temptations—and night and day in a place like this, -ilka street is full of evil—and naething but bare bed and board instead -of hame. Oh! Patie if I was feared, it was because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> I knew mony a dreary -story of lads that meant as well as yoursel’!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I was presumptuous, mother,” said Patie; “I will not say -there’s no fear;—but there’s a difference between one man and another, -and time and your own judgment will prove what’s temptation to me. Now, -come, if you have rested enough—the air will do you more good than -sitting here.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress was persuaded, and went out accordingly with her son, -feeling strangely forlorn and solitary in the crowded thoroughfares, -where she was struck with the common surprise of country people, to meet -so many and to know no one. Still there was a certain solace in the calm -summer evening, through which the moon was rising in that pale sky so -far away and clear, above the hanging smoke of the town—and in Patie’s -arm, which seemed to support her with more pride and tenderness now that -Huntley was gone. The soft moon shining down upon the river, which here -was not the commercial Clyde, of ships and steamers, the many -half-distinguishable figures upon the Green opposite, from which color -and light were fading, and the tranquillity of the night even here, bore -back the thoughts of the mother into a tenderer channel. She put up her -hand to her eyes to clear them.</p> - -<p>“Eh Patie! I think I see my son on the sea, looking up at that very -sky,” said the Mistress, with a low sob; “how will I look at it from -Norlaw, where Cosmo and me will be our lane?—and now but another day -more, and I’ll lose you!”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Mistress traveled home once more by the slow canal to Edinburgh, and -from thence by the stage-coach to Kirkbride. She had left Patie, at -last, with some degree of confidence, having seen Mr. Crawford, the -manager of the foundery, and commended her son specially to his care; -and having, besides, done what she could to improve the comfort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> of -Patie’s little apartment, and to warn him against the temptations of -Glasgow. It was rather heavy work afterward, gliding silently home alone -by the monotonous motion of that canal, seeing the red-tiled cottages, -the green slopes, the stubble-fields move past like a dream, and -remembering how she had left her boys behind, one on the sea, and one -among strangers, both embarked upon the current of their life. She sat -still in the little cabin of the boat by one of the windows, moving -nothing but her fingers, which clasped and unclasped mechanically. Her -big black vail hung over her bonnet, but did not shroud her face; there -was always moisture in her eyes, but very seldom tears that came the -length of falling; and her mind was very busy, and with life in its -musings—for it was not alone of the past she was thinking, but also of -the future—of her own life at home, where Huntley’s self-denial had -purchased comfort for his mother, and where his mother, not to be -outdone, silently determined upon the course of those days, which she -did not mean to be days of leisure. This Melmar, which had been a -bugbear to the Mistress all her days, gradually changed its aspect now. -It no longer reminded her of the great bitterness of her life—it was -her son’s possible inheritance, and might be the triumphant occasion of -Huntley’s return.</p> - -<p>It was late on a September afternoon, when she descended from the coach -at the door of the Norlaw Arms, and found Cosmo and Marget waiting there -to welcome her. The evening sunshine streamed full in their faces, -falling in a tender glory from the opposite brae of Tyne, where the -white manse at the summit, and the cottages among the trees, shone in -the tranquil light, with their kindliest look of home. The Mistress -turned hurriedly from the familiar prospect, to repose her tired and wet -eyes on the shadowed corner of the village street, where the gable of -the little inn kept out the sunshine, and where the ostler had lifted -down her trunk. She grasped Cosmo’s hand hastily, and scarcely ventured -to look the boy in the face; it was dreary coming home alone; as she -descended, bowed Jaacob at the smithy door took off his cowl in token of -respect, and eyed her grimly with his twinkling eye. Jaacob, who was a -moral philosopher, was rather satisfied, on the whole, with the demeanor -of the family of Norlaw under their troubles, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> testified his -approbation by a slightly authoritative approval. The Mistress gave him -a very hasty nod, but could not look even at Jaacob; a break-down, or -public exhibition of emotion, being the thing of all others most -nervously avoided by respectable matrons of her country and temper, a -characteristic very usual among Scotchwomen, of middle age and sober -mind. She would have “thought shame” to have been seen crying or “giving -way,” “in the middle of the town,” as, even now, enlightened by the -sight of Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Liverpool, the Mistress still called -the village street of Kirkbride; another hasty nod acknowledged the -sympathetic courtesy of the widow who kept the village mangle, and whose -little boy had wept at the door of Norlaw when its master was dying; and -then Cosmo and Marget took the trunk between them, and the Mistress drew -down her vail, and the little party set out, across the foot-bridge, -through the tender slanting sunshine going home.</p> - -<p>Then, at last, between the intervals of question and answer as to the -common matters of country life, which had occurred during her absence, -the Mistress’s lips were opened. Marget and Cosmo went on before, along -the narrow pathway by the river, and she followed. Cosmo had spent half -of his time at the manse, it appeared, and all the neighbors had sent to -make kindly inquiry when his mother was expected home.</p> - -<p>“It’s my hope you didna gang oftener than you were welcome, laddie,” -said the Mistress, with a characteristic doubt; “but I’ll no deny the -minister’s aye very kind, and Katie too. You should not call her Katie -now, Cosmo, she’s woman grown. I said the very same to Huntley no’ a -week ago, but <i>he’s</i> no like to offend onybody, poor lad, for many a day -to come. And I left him very weel on the whole—oh, yes, very weel, in a -grand ship for size, and mony mair in her—and they say they’ll soon be -out of our northerly seas, and win to grand weather, and whiles I think, -if there was <i>great</i> danger, fewer folk would gang—no’ to say that the -Almighty’s no’ a bit nigher by land than he is by sea.”</p> - -<p>“Eh! and that’s true!” cried Marget, in an involuntary amen.</p> - -<p>The Mistress was not perfectly pleased by the interruption. This tender -mother could not help being imperative<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> even in her tenderest -affections; and even the faithful servant could not share her -mother-anxieties without risk of an occasional outbreak.</p> - -<p>“How’s a’ the kye?” said the Mistress with a momentary sharpness. “I’ve -never been an unthrifty woman, I’m bauld to say; but every mutchkin of -milk maun double itself now, for my bairns’ sakes.”</p> - -<p>“Na, mem,” said Marget, touched on her honor, “it canna weel do that; -but you ken yoursel’, if you had ta’en my advice, the byre might have -been mair profit years ago. Better milkers are no’ in a’ the Lowdens; -and if you sell Crummie’s cauf, as I aye advised—”</p> - -<p>“You’re aye very ready with your advice, my woman. I never meant any -other thing,” said the Mistress, with some impatience; “but after this, -the house of Norlaw maun even get a puir name, if it must be so; for I -warn ye baith, my thoughts are upon making siller; and when I put my -mind to a thing, I canna do it by halves.”</p> - -<p>“Then, mother, you must, in the first place, do something with me,” said -Cosmo. “I’m the only useless person in the house.”</p> - -<p>“Useless, laddie!—hold you peace!” said the Mistress. “You’re but a -bairn, and you’re tender, and you maunna make a profitless beginning -till you win to your strength. Huntley and Patie—blessings on -them!—were both strong callants in their nature, and got good time to -grow; and I’ll no’ let my youngest laddie lose his youth. Eh, Cosmo, my -man! if you were a lassie, instead of their brother, thae twa laddies -that are away could not be mair tender of you in their hearts!”</p> - -<p>A flush came over Cosmo’s face, partly gratified affection, partly a -certain shame.</p> - -<p>“But I’ll soon be a man,” he said, in a low and half excited tone; “and -I can not be content to wait quietly at home when my brothers are -working. I have a right to work as well.”</p> - -<p>“Bless the bairn!” cried Marget, once more involuntarily.</p> - -<p>“Dinna speak nonsense,” said the Mistress. “There’s a time for every -thing; and because I’m bereaved of twa, is that a reason my last bairn -should leave me? Fie, laddie! Patie’s eighteen—he’s come the length of -a man—there’s a year and mair between him and you. But what I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> -speaking of was the kye. There’s nae such stock in the country as the -beasts that are reared at Tyneside; and I mean to take a leaf out of Mr. -Blackadder’s book, if I’m spared, and see what we can do at Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, Mistress, Mr. Blackadder’s a man in his prime!” cried Marget.</p> - -<p>“Weel, you silly haverel, what am I? Do you think a man that’s laboring -just for good name and fame, and because he likes it, and that has nae -kin in the world but a far-away cousin, should be stronger for his wark -than a widow woman striving for her bairns?” cried the Mistress, with a -hasty tear in her eye, and a quick flush on her cheek; “but I’ll let you -a’ see different things, if I’m spared, in Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>While she spoke with this flush of resolution, they came in sight of -their home; but it was not possible to see the westerly sunshine -breaking through those blank eyes of the old castle, and the low, modern -house standing peacefully below, those unchanged witnesses of all the -great scenes of all their lives, without a strain of heart and courage, -which was too much for all of them. To enter in, remembering where the -father took his rest, and how the sons began their battle—to have it -once more pierced into the depths of her heart, that, of all the family -once circling her, there remained only Cosmo, overpowered the Mistress, -even in the midst of her new purpose, with a returning agony. She went -in silent, pressing her hand upon her heart. It was a sad coming home.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">And</span> so you’re the only ane of them left at hame?” said bowed Jaacob, -looking up at Cosmo from under his bushy brows, and pushing up his red -cowl off his forehead.</p> - -<p>And there could not have been a more remarkable contrast of appearance -than between this slight, tall, fair boy, and the swart little demon, -who considered him with a scientific<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> curiosity, keen, yet not unkindly, -from the red twilight of the blacksmith’s shop.</p> - -<p>“I should be very glad not to be left at home,” said Cosmo, with a -boyish flush of shame; “and it will not be for long, if I can help it.”</p> - -<p>“Weel, I’ll no’ say but ye a’ show a good spirit—a very good spirit, -considering your up-bringing,” said Jaacob, “which was owre tender for -laddies. I’ve little broo, for my ain part, of women’s sons. We’re a’ -that, more or less, doubtless, but the less the better, lad. I kent -little about mothers and such like when I was young mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“They say,” said Cosmo, who, in spite of his sentiment, had a quick -perception of humor, and was high in favor with the little Cyclops, -“they say you were a fairy, and frightened everybody from your cradle, -Jacob, and that your mother fainted with fear when she saw you first—is -it true?”</p> - -<p>“True!—aye, just as true as a’ the rest,” said Jaacob. “They’ll say -whatever ye like that’s marvellous, if ye’ll but listen to them. A man -o’ sense is an awfu’ phenomenon in a place like this. He’s no’ to be -accounted for by the common laws o’ nature; that’s the philosophy of the -matter. <i>You’re</i> owre young yet to rouse them; but they’ll make their -story, or a’s one—take my word for it—of a lad of genius like -yoursel’.”</p> - -<p>“Genius, Jacob!”</p> - -<p>The boy’s face grew red with a sudden, violent flush; and an intense, -sudden light shone in his dark eyes. He did not laugh at the -compliment—it awoke some powerful sentiment of vanity or -self-consciousness in his own mind. The lighting-up of his eyes was like -a sudden gleam upon a dark water—a revelation of a hundred unknown -shadows and reflections which had been there unrevealed for many a day -before.</p> - -<p>“Aye, genius. I ken the true metal when I hear it ring,” said Jaacob. -“Like draws to like, as ony fool can tell.”</p> - -<p>And then the boy turned away with a sudden laugh—a perfectly mirthful, -pure utterance of the half-fun, half-shame, and wholly ludicrous -impression which this climax made upon him.</p> - -<p>Strangely enough, Jaacob was not offended. He went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> on, moving about the -red gloom of his workshop, without the slightest appearance of -displeasure. He had no idea that the lad whom he patronized could laugh -at him.</p> - -<p>“I can not say but I’m surprised at your brother for a’ that,” said -Jaacob. “Huntley’s a lad of spirit; but he should have stood up to -Me’mar like a man.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know about Me’mar, too?” cried Cosmo, in some surprise.</p> - -<p>“I reckon I do; and maist things else,” said Jaacob, dryly. “I’m no’ -vindictive mysel’, but when a man does me an ill turn, I’ve a real good -disposition to pay him back. He aye had a grudge against the late -Norlaw, this Aberdeenawa’ man; and if <i>I</i> had been your faither, Cosmo, -lad, I’d have fought the haill affair to the last, though it cost me -every bodle I had; for wha does a’ the land and the rights belong to, -after all?—to <i>her</i>, and no’ to him!”</p> - -<p>“Did you know her?” asked Cosmo, breathlessly, not perceiving, in his -eager curiosity, how limited Jaacob’s real knowledge of the case was.</p> - -<p>“Aye,” said Jaacob; and the ugly little demon paused, and breathed from -his capacious lungs a sigh, which disturbed the atmosphere of the smithy -with a sudden convulsion. Then he added, quietly, and in an undertone, -“I had a great notion of her mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“You!” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>The boy did not know whether to fall upon his companion with sudden -indignation, and give him a hearty shake by his deformed shoulders, or -to retire with an angry laugh of ridicule and resentment. Both the more -violent feelings, however, merged into the unmitigated amazement with -which Cosmo at last gazed at the swarthy hunchback, who had ventured to -lift his eyes to Norlaw’s love.</p> - -<p>“And what for no’ me?” said Jaacob, sturdily; “do ye think it’s good -looks and naught else that takes a woman’s e’e? do you think I havena -had them in my offer as weel favored as Mary Huntley? Na, I’ll do them -this justice; a woman, if she’s no’ a downright haverel, kens a man of -sense when she sees him. Mony a wiselike woman has cast her e’e in at -this very smiddy; but I’m no’ a marrying man.”</p> - -<p>“You would have made many discontented, and one ungrateful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span>” said the -boy, laughing. “Is that what kept you back, Jacob?”</p> - -<p>“Just that,” said the philosopher, with a grim smile; “but I had a great -notion of Miss Mary Huntley; she was aulder than me; that’s aye the way -with callants; ye’ll be setting your heart on a woman o’ twenty -yoursel’. I’d have gane twenty miles a-foot, wet or dry, just to shoe -her powny; and I wouldna have let her cause gang to the wa’, as your -father did, if it had been me.”</p> - -<p>“Was she beautiful? what like was she, Jacob?” cried Cosmo, eagerly.</p> - -<p>“I can not undertake to tell you just what she was like, a callant like -you,” said Jaacob; then the dark hobgoblin made a pause, drawing himself -half into his furnace, as the boy could suppose. “She was like a man’s -first fancy,” continued the little giant, abruptly, drawing forth a -red-hot bar of iron, which made a fiery flash in the air, and lighted up -his own swart face for the moment; “she was like the woman a lad sets -his heart on, afore he kens the cheats of this world,” he added, at -another interval, with a great blow of his hammer, which made the sparks -fly; and through the din and the flicker no further words came. Cosmo’s -imagination filled up the ideal. The image of Mary of Melmar rose -angel-like out of the boy’s stimulated fancy, and there was not even a -single glimmer of the grotesque light of this scene to diminish the -romantic halo which rose around his father’s first love.</p> - -<p>“As for me, if you think the like of me presumed in lifting his e’en,” -said Jaacob, “I’ll warn you to change your ideas, my man, without delay; -a’ that auld trash canna stand the dint of good discussion and opinion -in days like these. Speak about your glorious revolutions! I tell you, -callant, we’re on the eve of the real glorious revolution, the time when -every man shall have respect for his neighbors—save when his neighbor’s -a fool; nane o’ your oligarchies for a free country; we’re men, and -we’ll have our birthright; and do you think I’m heeding what a coof’s -ancestors were, when I ken I’m worth twa o’ him—ay, or ten o’ him!—as -a’ your bits o’ lords and gentlemen will find as soon as we’ve The -Bill.”</p> - -<p>“An honorable ancestor is an honor to any man,” said Cosmo, firing with -the pride of birth. “I would not take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> the half of the county, if it was -offered me, in place of the old castle at Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Jaacob, with a softening glance, “it’s no’ an ill sentiment -that, I’ll allow, so far as the auld castle gangs; but ony man that -thinks he’s of better flesh and bluid than me, no’ to say intellect and -spirit, on the strength of four old wa’s, or the old rascals that -thieved in them—I’ll tell ye, Cosmo, my lad, I think he’s a fool, and -that’s just the short and the long o’ the affair.”</p> - -<p>“Better flesh and blood, or better intellect and spirit!” said the boy, -with a half-meditative, half-mirthful smile. “Homer was a beggar, and so -was Belisarius, and so was Blind Harry, of Wallace’s time.”</p> - -<p>This highly characteristic, school-boyish, and national confusion of -heroes, moved the blacksmith-philosopher with no sensation of the -absurd. Homer and Blind Harry were by no means unfit companions in the -patriotic conception of bowed Jaacob, who, nevertheless, knew Pope’s -Homer very tolerably, and was by no means ignorant of the pretensions of -the “blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle.”</p> - -<p>“A feesical disqualification, Cosmo, is quite a different matter,” said -Jaacob; “nae man could make greater allowance for the like of that than -me, that might have been supposed at one time to be on the verge of it -mysel’.”</p> - -<p>And as he spoke, his one bright eye twinkled in Jaacob’s head with -positive scintillations, as if Nature had endowed it with double power -to make up for its solitude.</p> - -<p>“The like of Homer and Blind Harry, however, belong to a primitive age,” -said Jaacob; “the minstrel crew were aye vagrants—no’ to say it was -little better than a kind of a servile occupation at the best, praises -of the great. But the world’s wiser by this time. I would not say I -would make the Bill final, mysel’, but let’s aince get it, laddie, and -ye’ll see a change. We’ll hae nae mair o’ your lordlings in the high -places—we’ll hae naething but <i>men</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever hear any thing, Jacob,” said Cosmo, somewhat abruptly—for -the romantic story of his kinswoman was more attractive to the boy’s -mind than politics—“of where the young lady of Me’mar went to, or who -it was she married? I suppose not, since she was searched for so long.”</p> - -<p>“No man ever speered at me before, so far as I can mind,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> said Jaacob, -with a little bitterness; “your father behoved to manage the haill -business himsel’, and he was na great hand. I’m no’ fond of writers when -folk can do without them, but they’re of a certain use, nae doubt, like -a’ other vermin; a sharp ane o’ them would have found Mary Huntley, ye -may take my word for that. I was aince in France mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“In France?” cried Cosmo, with, undeniable respect and excitement.</p> - -<p>“Ay, just that,” said Jaacob, dryly; “it’s nae such great thing, though -folk make a speech about it. I wasna far inower. I was at a bit seaport -place on the coast; Dieppe they ca’ it, and deep it was to an innocent -lad like what I was at the time—though I could haud my ain with maist -men, both then and at this day.”</p> - -<p>“And you saw there?"—cried Cosmo, who became very much interested.</p> - -<p>“Plenty of fools,” said Jaacob, “and every wean in the streets jabbering -French, which took me mair aback than onything else I heard or saw; but -there was ae day a lady passed me by. I didna see her face at first, but -I saw the bairn she had in her hand, and I thought to mysel’ I could not -but ken the foot, that had a ring upon the path like siller bells. I -gaed round about, and round about, till I met her in the face, but -whether it was her or no I canna tell; I stood straight afore her in the -midroad, and she passed me by with a glance, as if she kent nae me.”</p> - -<p>The tone in which the little hunchback uttered these words was one of -indescribable yet suppressed bitterness. He was too proud to acknowledge -his mortification; yet it was clear enough, even to Cosmo, that this -pride had not only prevented him from mentioning his chance meeting at -the proper time, but that even now he would willingly persuade himself -that the ungrateful beauty, who did not recognize him, could not be the -lady of his visionary admiration.</p> - -<p>“Do you think it was the Lady of Melmar?” asked the boy, anxiously, for -Jaacob’s “feelings,” though they had no small force of human emotion in -them, were, for the moment, rather a secondary matter to Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“If it had been her, she would have kent <i>me</i>,” said Vulcan, with -emphasis, and he turned to his hammering with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> vehemence doubly -emphatic. Jaacob had no inclination to be convinced that Mary of Melmar -might forget him, who remembered her so well. He returned to the Bill, -which was more or less in most people’s thoughts in those days, and -which was by no means generally uninteresting to Cosmo—but the boy’s -thoughts were too much excited to be amused by Jaacob’s politics; and -Cosmo went home with visions in his mind of the quaint little Norman -town, where Mary of Melmar had been seen by actual vision, and which -henceforth became a region of dreams and fancy to her young knight and -champion, who meant to seek her over all the world.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Ere</span> the winter had fully arrived, visible changes had taken place in the -house and steading of Norlaw. As soon as all the operations of the -harvest were over, the Mistress dismissed all the men-servants of the -farm, save two, and let, at Martinmas, all the richer portion of the -land, which was in good condition, and brought a good rent. Closely -following upon the plowmen went Janet, the younger maidservant, who -obtained, to her great pride, but doubtful advantage, a place in a great -house in the neighborhood.</p> - -<p>The Norlaw byres were enlarged and improved—the Norlaw cattle increased -in number by certain choice and valuable specimens of “stock,” -milch-kine, sleek and fair, and balmy-breathed. Some few fields of -turnips and mangelwurzel, and the rich pasture lands on the side of Tyne -behind the castle, were all that the Mistress retained in her own hands, -and with Marget for her factotum, and Willie Noble, the same man who had -assisted in Norlaw’s midnight funeral, for her chief manager and -representative out of doors, Mrs. Livingstone began her new undertaking.</p> - -<p>She was neither dainty of her own hands, nor tolerant of any languid -labor on the part of others. Not even in her youth, when the hopes and -prospects of Norlaw were better than the reality ever became, had the -Mistress shown the smallest propensity to adopt the small pomp of a -landed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> lady. She was always herself, proud, high-spirited, somewhat -arbitrary, by no means deficient in a sense of personal importance, yet -angrily fastidious as to any false pretensions in her house, and -perceiving truly her real position, which, with all the added dignity of -proprietorship, was still in fact that of a farmer’s wife. All the -activity and energy with which she had toiled all her life against her -thriftless husband’s unsteady grasp of his own affairs, and against the -discouraging and perpetual unprosperity of many a year, were intensified -now by the consciousness of having all her purposes within her own hand -and dependent on herself. Naked and empty as the house looked to the -eyes which had been accustomed to so many faces, now vanished from it, -there began to grow an intention and will about all its daily work, -which even strangers observed. Though the Mistress sat, as usual, by the -corner window with her work in the afternoon, and the dining-parlor was -as homelike as ever, and the neighbors saw no change, except the change -of dress which marked her widowhood, Marget, half ashamed of the -derogation, half proud of the ability, and between shame and pride -keeping the secret of these labors, knew of the Mistress’s early toils, -which even Cosmo knew very imperfectly; her brisk morning hours of -superintendence and help in the kitchen and in the dairy, which, with -all its new appliances and vigorous working, became “just a picture,” as -Marget thought, and the pride of her own heart. Out of the produce of -those carefully tended precious “kye,” out of the sweet butter, smelling -of Tyne gowans, and the rich, yellow curds of cheese, and the young, -staggering, long-limbed calves which Willie Noble had in training, the -Mistress, fired with a mother’s ambition, meant to return tenfold to -Huntley his youthful self-denial, and even to lay up something for her -younger sons.</p> - -<p>It was still only fourteen years since the death of the old Laird of -Melmar, the father of the lost Mary; and there was yet abundant time for -the necessary proceedings to claim her inheritance, without fear of the -limiting law, which ultimately might confirm the present possessor -beyond reach of attack. The last arrangement made by Huntley had -accordingly been, that all these proceedings should be postponed for -three or four years, during which time the lost heiress might reappear, -or, more probable still, the sanguine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> lad thought, his own fortunes -prosper so well, that he could bear the expense of the litigation -without touching upon the little patrimony sacred to his mother. After -so long an interval, a few years more or less would not harm the cause, -and in the meantime every exertion was to be made by Cassilis, as -Huntley’s agent, for the discovery of Mary of Melmar. This was the only -remaining circumstance of pain in the whole case to the Mistress. She -could not help resenting everybody’s interest about this heiress, who -had only made herself interesting by her desertion of that “home and -friends,” which, to the Mistress herself, were next to God in their -all-commanding, all-engrossing claim. She was angry even with the young -lawyer, but above all, angry that her own boys should be concerned for -the rights of the woman who had forsaken all her duties so violently, -and with so little appearance of penitence; and if sometimes a thought -of despondency and bitterness crossed the mind of the Mistress at night, -as she sat sewing by the solitary candle, which made one bright speck of -light, and no more, in the dim dining-room of Norlaw, the aggrieved -feeling found but one expression. “I would not say now, but what after -we’ve a’ done our best—me among the beasts, and my laddie ower the -seas, and the writers afore the Fifteen,” were the words, never spoken, -but often conceived, which rose in the Mistress’s heart; “I would not -wonder but then, when the land’s gained and a’s done, she’ll come hame. -It would be just like a’ the rest!” And let nobody condemn the Mistress. -Many a hardly-laboring soul, full of generous plans and motives, has -seen a stranger enter into its labors, or feared to see it, and felt the -same.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Cosmo, who had got all that the parish schoolmaster of -Kirkbride—no contemptible teacher—could give him, had been drawing -upon Dr. Logan’s rusty Latin and Greek, rather to the satisfaction of -the good minister than to his own particular improvement, and tired of -reading every thing that could be picked up in the shape of reading from -the old parchment volumes of second-rate Latin divinity, which the -excellent minister never opened, but had a certain respect for, down to -the <i>Gentle Shepherd</i> and the floating ballad literature of the -country-side, began to grow more and more anxious to emulate his -brothers, and set out upon the world. The winter nights came on, -growing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> longer and longer, and Cosmo scorched his fair hair and stooped -his slight shoulders, reading by the fire-light, while his mother worked -by the table, and while the November winds began to sound in the echoing -depths of the old castle. The house was very still of nights, and missed -the absent sorely, and both the Mistress and her faithful servant were -fain to shut up the house and go to rest as soon as it was seemly, a -practice to which their early habits in the morning gave abundant -excuse, though its real reason lay deeper.</p> - -<p>“Ane can bear mony a thing in good daylight, when a’ the work’s in -hand,” Marget said; “but womenfolk think lang at night, when there’s nae -blythe step sounding ower the door, nor tired man coming hame.” And -though she never said the same words, the same thought was in the -Mistress’s heart.</p> - -<p>One of these slow nights was coming tardily to a close, when Cosmo, who -had been gathering up his courage, having finished his book on the -hearth-rug, where the boy half sat and half reclined, rose suddenly and -came to his mother at the table. Perhaps some similar thoughts of her -own had prepared the Mistress to anticipate what he was about to say. -She did not love to be forestalled, and, before Cosmo spoke, answered -with some impatience to the purpose in his eye.</p> - -<p>“I ken very well what you’re going to say. Weel, I wot the night’s lang, -and the house is quiet—mair folk than you can see that,” said the -Mistress, “and you’re a restless spirit, though I did not think it of -you. Cosmo, do you ken what <i>I</i> would like you to do?”</p> - -<p>“I could guess, mother,” said the boy.</p> - -<p>“Ay, ’deed, and ye could object. I might have learned that,” said his -mother.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got little of my ain will a’ my life, though a fremd person would -tell you I was a positive woman. Most things I’ve set my heart on have -come to naught. Norlaw’s near out of our hands, and Huntley and Patie -are in the ends of the earth, and I’m a widow woman, desolate of my -bairns; weel, weel, I’m no complaining—but when I saw you first in your -cradle, Cosmo—you were the bonniest of a’ my bairns—I put my hands on -your head, and I said to myself—‘I’ll make him my offering to the Lord, -because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> he’s the fairest lamb of a’.’ Na, laddie—never mind, I’m no -heeding. You needna put your arms round me. It’s near seventeen year -ago, and mony a weary day since then, but I’ve aye thought upon my vow.”</p> - -<p>“Mother, if I can, I’ll fulfill it!” cried Cosmo; “but how could I know -your heart was in it, when you never spoke of it before?”</p> - -<p>“Na,” said the Mistress, restraining herself with an effort. “I’ve done -my best to bring you up in the fear of the Lord, and it’s no written -that you maun be a minister, before you can serve Him. I’ll no’ put a -burden on your conscience; but just I was a witless woman, and didna -mind when I saw the bairn in the cradle that before it came that length, -it would have a will of its own.”</p> - -<p>“Send me to college, mother!” said Cosmo, with tears in his eyes. “I -have made no plans, and if I had I could change them—and at the worst, -if we find I can not be a minister, I will never forget your vow—put -your hands on my head and say it over again.”</p> - -<p>But when the boy knelt down at her side with the enthusiasm of his -temper, and lifted his glowing, youthful face, full of a generous young -emotion, which was only too generous and ready to be swayed by the -influences of love, the Mistress could only bend over him with a silent -burst of tenderness.</p> - -<p>“God bless my dearest bairn!” she said at last, with her broken voice. -“But no, no!—I’ve learned wisdom. The Lord make ye a’ His ain -servants—every ane—I can say nae mair.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was accordingly but a very short time after these occurrences when -Cosmo, with his wardrobe carefully over-looked, his “new blacks” -supplemented by a coarser every-day suit, which took the place of the -jacket which the lad had outgrown, and a splendid stock of linen, -home-made, snow-white and bleached on the gowans—took his way to -Edinburgh in all the budding glory of a student. In those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> days few -people had begun to speculate whether the Scotch Universities were or -were not as good as the English ones, or what might be the -characteristic differences of the two. The academic glories of Edinburgh -still existed in the fresh glories of tradition, if they had begun to -decline in reality—and chairs were still held in the northern college -by men at whose feet statesmen had learned philosophy.</p> - -<p>The manner in which Cosmo Livingstone went to college was not one, -however, in which anybody goes to Maudlin or Trinity. The lad went to -take up his humble lodging at Mrs. Purdie’s in the High Street, and from -thence dropped shyly to the college, paid his fees and matriculated, and -there was an end of it. There were no rooms to look after, no tutors to -see, no “men” to be made acquainted with. He had a letter in his pocket -to one of the professors, and one to the minister of one of the lesser -city churches. His abode was to be the same little room with the -“concealed bed” and window overlooking the town, in which his mother had -rested as she passed through Edinburgh, and the honest Kirkbride woman, -who was his landlady, had been already engaged at a moderate weekly rate -to procure all that he wanted for him.</p> - -<p>After which fashion—feeling very shy and lonely, somewhat embarrassed -by the new coat which his mother called a surtoo and regarded with -respect, dismayed by the necessity of entering shops and making -purchases for himself, and standing a little in awe of the other -students and of the breakfast to which the professor had invited -him—Cosmo began the battle of his life.</p> - -<p>He was now nearly seventeen, young enough to be left by himself in that -little lantern and watch-house hanging high over the picturesque heights -and hollows of the beautiful old town, where the lad sat at his window -in the winter evenings, watching the gorgeous frosty sunset, how it -purpled with royal gleams and shadows all the low hills of Fife, and -shed a distant golden glow—sometimes a glow redder and fiercer than -gold—upon the chilly glories of the Firth. Then, as the light faded -from the western horizon, and Inchkeith and Inchcolm no longer stood out -in vivid relief against the illuminated waters, how the lights of the -town, scarcely less fairy-like, began to steal along the streets and to -sparkle out in the windows, hanging in irregular lines from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> -many-storied houses at the other side of the North Bridge, and gleaming -like glow-worms in the dark little valley between.</p> - -<p>Cosmo sat at his window with a book in his hand, but did not read -much—perhaps the lad was not thinking much either, as he sat in the -silent little room, listening to all the voices of all the population -beneath him, which rose in a softened swell of sound to his high window; -sometimes mournful, sometimes joyful, sometimes with a sharp cry in it -like an appeal to God, sometimes full of distinct tones, inarticulate -yet individual, sometimes sweet with the hum of children—a great, full, -murmuring chorus never entirely silenced, in which the heart of humanity -seemed, somehow, to betray itself, and reveal unawares the unspeakable -blending of emotions which no one man can ever confess for himself.</p> - -<p>Cosmo, who had spent a due portion of his time in his class-room, had -taken notes of the lectures, and been, if not a remarkably devoted, at -least a moderately conscientious student, often found himself very -unwilling to light the candle, and sometimes even let his fire go out, -in the charmed idleness of his window-seat, which was so strangely -different from his old meditative haunt in the old castle, yet which -absorbed him even more—and then Mrs. Purdie would come in with brisk -good-humor, and rate him soundly for sitting in the dark, and make up -the much-enduring northern coals into a blaze for him, and sweep the -hearth, and light the candle, and bring in the little tray with its -little tea-pot and blue and white cup and saucer, and the bread and -butter—which Cosmo did full justice to, in spite of his dreams. When -she came to remove the things again, Mrs. Purdie would stand with one -arm a-kimbo to have a little talk with her young lodger; perhaps to tell -him that she had seen the Melrose courier, or met somebody newly arrived -by the coach from Kirkbride, or encountered an old neighbor, who -“speered very kindly” for his mother; or, on the other hand, to confide -to him her fear that the lad from the Highlants in her little garret -overhead, who provided himsel’, would perish with cauld in this frosty -weather, and was just as like as no’ to starve himsel’, and didna keep -up a decent outside, puir callant, without mony a sair pinch that -naebody kent onything about; or that her other lodger, who was also a -student, was in a very ill way, coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> in at a’ the hours of the night, -and spending hard-won siller, and that she would be very glad to let his -father and mother ken, but it didna become her to tell tales.</p> - -<p>These, and a great many other communications of the same kind, Mrs. -Purdie relieved her mind by making to Cosmo, whose youth and good-looks -and local claims upon her regard, made him a great favorite with the -kind-hearted, childless woman, who compounded “scones” for his tea, and -even occasionally undertook the trouble of a pudding, “a great fash and -fyke,” as she said to herself, puddings being little in favor with -humble Scotchwomen of her class.</p> - -<p>Under the care of this motherly attendant, Cosmo got on very well in his -little Edinburgh lodging, and even in some degree enjoyed the solitude -which was so new and so strange to the home-bred boy. He used to sally -out early in the morning, perhaps to climb as far as St. Anthony’s -Chapel, or mount the iron ribs of the Crags, to watch the early mists -breaking over the lovely country, and old Edinburgh rising out of the -cloud like a queen—or perhaps only to hasten along the cheerful length -of Princes Street, when the same mists parted from the crags of the -Castle, or lay white in the valley. The boy knew nothing about his own -sentiments, what manner of fancies they were, and did not pause to -inquire whether any one else thought like him. He hurried in thereafter -to breakfast, fresh and blooming, and then with his books to college, -encountering often enough that grave, gaunt Highlander in the garret, -who had no time for poetic wanderings, and perhaps not much capacity, -but who struggled on towards his own aim, with a desperate fortitude and -courage, which no man of his name ever surpassed in a forlorn hope, or -on a battle-field. The Highland student was nearly thirty, a man full -grown and labor-hardened, working his way through his “humanity” and -Divinity classes, looking forward, as the goal of his ambition, to some -little Gaelic-speaking parish in the far north, where some day, perhaps, -the burning Celtic fervor, imprisoned under his slow English speech and -impenetrable demeanor, might make him the prophet of his district; and -as he entered day by day at the same academic gates, side-by-side with -the seventeen-year-old boy, a strange tenderness for the lad came into -the man’s heart. They grew friends shyly yet warmly, unlike as they -were, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> Cosmo never was admitted to any of those secrets of his -friend’s <i>menage</i>, which Mrs. Purdie guessed at, but which Cameron would -never have forgiven any one for finding out; and next to the household -of Norlaw, and the strange, half-perceived knowledge that came stealing -to his mind, like a fairy, in his vigils by his window, Cameron was -Cosmo’s first experience of what he was to meet in life.</p> - -<p>The Highlander lived in his garret, you could not believe or understand -how, gentleman-commoner—and would have tossed, not only your shoes, but -you out of his high window, had you tried to be benevolent to him, as -you tried it once to that clumsy sizar of Pembroke; notwithstanding, he -was no ignoble beginning for a boy’s friendship, a fact which Cosmo -Livingstone had it in him to perceive.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">I mean</span> to call on Miss Logan at the manse to-day,” said Patricia -Huntley, as she took her place with great dignity in “the carriage,” -which she had previously employed Joanna to bully Melmar into ordering -for her conveyance. Mrs. Huntley was too great an invalid to make calls, -and Aunt Jean was perfectly impracticable as a companion, so Patricia -armed herself with her mother’s card-case, and set out alone.</p> - -<p>Alone, save for the society of Joanna, who was glad enough of a little -locomotion, but did not much enjoy the call-making portion of the -enterprise. Joanna, whom no pains, it was agreed, could persuade into -looking genteel, had her red hair put up in bows under her big bonnet, -and a large fur tippet on her shoulders. Her brown merino frock was -short, as Joanna’s frocks invariably became after a few weeks’ wearing; -and the abundant display of ankle appearing under it said more for the -strength than the elegance of its proprietor. Patricia, for her part, -wore a colored silk cloak, perfectly shapeless, and as long as her -dress, with holes for her arms, and a tippet of ermine to complete it. -It was a dress which was very much admired, and “quite the fashion” in -those days; when the benighted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> individuals who wore such vestments -actually supposed themselves as well-dressed as <i>we</i> have the comfort of -knowing ourselves now.</p> - -<p>“For I am sure,” said Patricia, as they drove along towards Kirkbride, -“that there is some mystery going on. I am quite sure of it. I never -will forget how shamefully papa treated me that day Mr. Cassilis was at -Melmar—before a stranger and a gentleman too! and you know as well as I -do, Joanna, how often that poor creature, Whitelaw, from Melrose, has -been at our house since then.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know,” said Joanna, carelessly. “I wonder what Katie Logan will -say when she knows I’m going to school?”</p> - -<p>“What a selfish thing you are, always thinking about your own concerns,” -said Patricia; “do you hear what I say? I think there’s a mystery—I’m -sure there’s a secret—either papa is not the right proprietor, or -somebody else has a claim, or there’s something wrong. He is always -making us uncomfortable some way or other; wouldn’t it be dreadful if we -were all ruined and brought to poverty at the end?”</p> - -<p>“Ruined and brought to poverty? it would be very good fun to see what -mamma and you would do,” cried the irreverent Joanna. “<i>I</i> could do -plenty things; but I’m no’ feared—it’s you, that’s always reading -story-books.”</p> - -<p>“It’s not a story-book; I almost heard papa say it,” said Patricia, -reddening slightly.</p> - -<p>“Then you’ve been listening!” cried her bolder sister. “I would scorn to -do that. I would ask him like a man what it was, if it was me, but I -wouldna go stealing about the passages like a thief. I wouldna do it for -twice Melmar—nor for all the secrets in the world!”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would not be so violent, Joanna! my poor nerves can not -stand it,” said Patricia; “a thoughtless creature like you never looks -for any information, but I’m older, and I know we’ve no fortunes but -what papa can give us, and we need to think of ourselves. Think, Joanna, -if you can think. If anybody were to take Melmar from papa, what would -become of you and me?”</p> - -<p>“You and me!” the girl cried, in great excitement. “I would think of -Oswald and papa himsel’, if it was true. Me! I could nurse bairns, or -keep a school, or go to Australia, like Huntley Livingstone. I’m no’ -feared! and it would be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> fun to watch <i>you</i>, what you would do. But if -papa had cheated anybody and was found out—oh, Patricia! could you -think of yourself instead of thinking on that?”</p> - -<p>“When a man does wrong, and ruins his family, he has no right to look -for any thing else,” said Patricia.</p> - -<p>“I would hate him,” cried Joanna, vehemently, “but I wouldna forsake -him—but it’s all havers; we’ve been at Melmar almost as long as I can -mind, and never any one heard tell of it before.”</p> - -<p>“I mean to hear what Katie Logan says—for Mr. Cassilis is her cousin,” -said Patricia, “and just look, there she is, on the road, tying little -Isabel’s bonnet. She’s just as sure to be an old maid as can be—look -how prim she is! and never once looking to see what carriage it is, as -if carriages were common at the manse. Don’t call her Katie, Joanna; -call her Miss Logan; I mean to show her that there is a difference -between us and the minister’s daughter at Kirkbride.”</p> - -<p>“And I mean no such thing,” cried Joanna, with her head half out at the -window; “she’s worth the whole of us put together, except Oswald and -Auntie Jean. Katie! Katie Logan! we’re going to the manse to see you—oh -don’t run away!”</p> - -<p>The day was February, cold but sunny, and the manse parlor was almost as -bright in this wintry weather as it had been in summer. The fire -sparkled and crackled with an exhilaration in the sound as well as the -warmth and glow it made, and the sunshine shone in at the end window, -through the leafless branches, with a ruddy wintry cheerfulness, which -brightened one’s thoughts like good news or a positive pleasure. There -were no stockings or pinafores to be mended, but instead, a pretty -covered basket, holding all Katie’s needles and thread, and scraps of -work in safe and orderly retirement, and at the bright window, in an -old-fashioned china flower-pot, a little group of snow-drops, the -earliest possibility of blossom, hung their pale heads in the light. -Joanna Huntley threw herself into the minister’s own easy-chair with a -riotous expression of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Fires never burn as if they liked to burn in Melmar,” cried Joanna; -“oh, Katie Logan, what do you do to yours? for every thing looks as if -something pleasant happened here every day.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span></p> - -<p>“Something pleasant is always happening,” said Katie, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“It depends upon what people think pleasure,” said Patricia. “I am sure -you that have so much to do, and all your little brothers and sisters to -look after, and no society, should be worse off than me and Joanna; but -it’s very seldom that any thing pleasant happens to us.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind her, Katie. Listen to me. I’m going to Edinburgh to school,” -cried Joanna. “I don’t know whether to like it or to be angry. What -would you do, if you were me?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I could fancy myself you, Joanna,” said Katie, laughing; -“but I should have liked it when I was younger, and had less to do. I’m -to go in with papa if he goes to the Assembly this May. We have friends -in Edinburgh, and I like it for that—besides the Assembly and all the -things country folk see there.”</p> - -<p>“But Edinburgh is a very poor place after being in London,” said -Patricia; “if you could only see Clapham, where <i>I</i> was at school! But -Mr. Cassilis is a cousin of yours—is he not? I suppose he told you how -papa behaved to me when he was last at Melmar.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed—he did not,” said Katie, with some curiosity.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I thought perhaps he noticed it, being a stranger,” said Patricia; -“do you know what was his business with papa?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“You might tell <i>us</i>—for we ought to hear, if it is any thing -important,” said Patricia; “and as for papa, he never lets us know any -thing till everybody else has heard it first. I am sure it was some -business, and business which made papa as cross as possible; do tell us -what it was.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know any thing about it,” said Katie. “My cousin staid here -only two or three days, and he never spoke of business to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! but you know what he came here about,” insisted Patricia.</p> - -<p>“He came to see us, and also—oh, yes—to manage something for the -Livingstones, of Norlaw,” said Katie, with a slight increase of color.</p> - -<p>For the moment she had actually forgotten this last and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> more important -reason for the visit of the young lawyer, having a rather uncomfortable -impression that “to see us” was a more urgent inducement to Cousin -Charlie than it had better be. She paused accordingly with a slight -embarrassment, and began to busy herself opening her work basket. -Patricia Huntley was not a person of the liveliest intelligence in -general, but she was quick-sighted enough to see that Katie stumbled in -her statement, and drew up her small shoulders instantly with two -distinct sentiments of jealous offense and disapproval, the first -relating to the presumption of the minister’s daughter in appropriating -the visit of Cassilis to herself, and the second to a suggestion of the -possible rivalry, which could affect the house of Melmar in the family -of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>“I think we are never to be done with these Livingstones,” cried -Patricia, “and all because the old man owed papa a quantity of money. -<i>We</i> can’t help it when people owe us money, and I am sure I am very -much surprised at Mr. Cassilis, if he came to annoy papa about a thing -like that. I thought he was a gentleman! I thought it must be something -important he came to say.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it might be,” said Katie, quietly, coloring rather more, but -losing her embarrassment; “and the more important it was, the less -likely is it that my cousin would tell it to any one whom it did not -concern. Mr. Huntley could answer your questions better than I.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see you’re quite offended. I see you’re quite offended. I am sure -I did not know Mr. Cassilis was any particular kind of cousin,” said -Patricia, spitefully. “If I had known I should have taken care how I -spoke; but if my papa was like yours, and was not very able to afford a -housekeeper, it would need to be another sort of a man from Mr. Cassilis -who could make <i>me</i> go away and leave my home.”</p> - -<p>“Katie, you should flyte upon her,” said Joanna. “She does not -understand any thing else—never mind her—talk to me—are all the -Livingstones away but Cosmo? Patricia thinks there’s a mystery and -papa’s wronged somebody. If he has, it’s Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think any thing of the sort—hold your tongue, Joanna,” said -her sister.</p> - -<p>“Eh, what else?” cried the young lady, roused to recrimination.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> “Katie, -do you think Mrs. Livingstone knows? for I would go and ask her in a -minute. I would not forsake papa if he was poor, but if he’s wronged -anybody, I’ll no’ stand it—for it would be my blame as well as his the -moment I knew!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think you have any thing to do with it,” said Katie, with -spirit, “nor Patricia either. Girls were not set up to keep watch over -their fathers and mothers; are you the constable at Melmar, Joanna, to -keep everybody in order? I wish you were at the manse sometimes when the -boys have a holiday. Our Johnnie would be a match for you. The -Livingstones are all away,—Cosmo, too; he’s gone to college in -Edinburgh, and some day, perhaps, you’ll hear him preach in Kirkbride.”</p> - -<p>“I am quite sure papa would not give him the presentation; he’s promised -it to a cousin of our own,” said Patricia, eagerly.</p> - -<p>Katie grew very red, and then very pale.</p> - -<p>“My father is minister of Kirkbride,” she said, with a great deal of -simple dignity; “there is no presentation in anybody’s power just now.”</p> - -<p>“Katie, I wish you would not speak to her, she’s a cat!” cried Joanna, -with intense disgust, turning her back upon her sister; “oh I wish you -would write Cosmo to come and see me! I’ll be just the same as at -college, too; and I’m sure I’ll like him a great deal better than any of -the girls. Or, never mind; if that’s not right, I’ll be sure to meet him -in the street. I’m to go next week, Katie, and there’s a French -governess and a German master, and an Italian master, and nothing but -vexation and trouble. It’s quite true, and we’re not even to speak our -own tongue, but jabber away at French from morning to night. English is -far better—I know I’ll quarrel with them a’.”</p> - -<p>“Do you call your language English, Joanna?” said her sister, with -contempt.</p> - -<p>“If it’s no’ English it’s Scotch, and that’s far better,” cried Joanna, -with an angry blush; “wha cares for English? They never say their r’s -and their h’s, except when they shouldna say them, and they never win -the day except by guile, and they canna do a thing out of their own head -till Scotsmen show them how! and it’s a’ true, and I’d rather be a -servant-maid in Melmar, than one of your Clapham<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> fine ladies, so you -needna speak your English either to Katie or me.”</p> - -<p>And it must be confessed that Katie, sensible as she was, laughed and -applauded, and that poor little Patricia, who could find nothing -heroical to say on behalf of Clapham, was very much disposed to cry with -vexation, and only covered her defeat by a retreat to the carriage, -where Joanna followed, only after a few minutes’ additional conversation -with Katie, who was by no means disposed to aid the elder sister. When -they were gone, however, Katie Logan shook her wise little -elder-sisterly head over the pair of them. She thought if Charlie (which -diminutive in the manse meant Charlotte) and Isabel grew up like -Patricia and Joanna, she would “break her heart;” and the little -mistress of the manse went into the kitchen to oversee the progress of a -birthday cake and give her homely orders, without once thinking of the -superior grandeur of the carriage, as it rolled down the slope of the -brae and through the village, the scene of a continued and not very -temperate quarrel between the two daughters of Melmar, which was only -finished at last by the sudden giving way of Patricia’s nerves and -breath, to the most uncomfortable triumph of Joanna. Joanna kept sulkily -in her corner, and refused to alight while the other calls were made. On -the whole, it was not a very delightful drive.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Three</span> months later, in the early sweetness of May, Cosmo Livingstone -stood upon an “outside stair,” one of those little flights of stone -steps, clearing the half-cellar shops of the lowest story, which are not -unfrequent in the High Street of Edinburgh, and which make a handy -platform when any thing is to be seen, or place of refuge when any thing -is to be escaped from. A little further down, opposite to him, was the -Tron Church, with its tall steeple striking up into the sunny mid-day -heavens; and above, at a little distance, the fleecy white clouds hung -over the open crown of St. Giles’s, with the freshness of recent rain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> -Many bystanders stood on the other “stair-heads,” and groups of heads -looked out from almost every window of the high houses on every side. -The High Street of Edinburgh, lined with expectant lookers-on, darkening -downwards towards the picturesque slope of the Canongate, with its two -varied and noble lines of lofty old houses, black with time, between -which the sunshine breaks down in a moted and streamy glory, as into a -well, is no contemptible object among street sights; and the population -of Edinburgh loves its streets as perhaps only the populations of places -rich in natural beauty can love them. A man who has seen a crowd in the -High Street might almost be tempted to doubt, indeed, whether the -Scottish people were really so reserved and grave and self-restraining -as common report pronounces them. The women on the landings of the -stairs shrilly claiming here and there a Tam or a Sandy, or else -discussing in chorus the event of the moment; the groups of men -promenading up and down upon the pavement with firm-set mouth and -gleaming eyes—the mutter of forcible popular sentiment saying rather -more than it means, and saying that in the plainest and most emphatic -words; and the stir of general excitement in a scene which has already -various recollections of tumults which are historical, make altogether a -picturesque and striking combination, which is neither like a Parisian -mob nor a London one, yet is quite as characteristic as either. It was -not, however, a mob on this day, when Cosmo Livingstone stood on the -stair-head in front of a little bookseller’s shop, the owner of which, -in high excitement, came every minute or two to the door, uttering -vehement little sentences to the little crowd on his steps:—</p> - -<p>“We’ll have it oot o’ them if we have to gang to St. Stephen’s very -doors for’t!” cried the shopkeeper. “King William had better mind his -crown than mind his wife. We’re no’ to lose the Bill for a German -whimsey. Hey, laddies! dinna make so muckle clatter—they’re coming! do -ye hear them?”</p> - -<p>They were coming, as the increased hum and cluster of the bystanders -told clearly enough—an extraordinary procession of its kind. Without a -note of music, without a tint of color, with a tramp which was not the -steady tramp of trained footsteps, but only the sound of a slowly -advancing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> crowd, to which immense excitement gave a kind of -solemnity—a long line of men in their common dress, unornamented, -unattended, keeping a mysterious silence, and carrying a few flags, -black, and with ominous devices, which only the strain of a great climax -of national feeling could have suffered to pass without that ridicule -which is more fatal than state prosecutions. Nobody laughed, so far as -we are aware, at the skulls and cross-bones of this voiceless -procession; and the tramp of that multitude of men, timed and cheered by -no music, broken by no shouts, lightened by no gleam of weapons, or -glitter of emblems, or variety of color, and only accompanied by the -agitated hum of the bystanders, had a very remarkable and somewhat -“gruesome” impressiveness. The people who were looking on grew silent -gradually, and held their breath as the long train went slowly past. It -might not be a formidable band. <i>Punch</i>—if <i>Punch</i> had been in those -days—might very likely have found a comfortable amount of laughter in -the grim looks of the processionists, who were not likely to do much in -justification of their deadly-looking flags. But the occasion was a -remarkable occasion in the national history; the excitement was such—so -general and overpowering—as no subsequent agitation has been able to -equal. The real force of popular emotion in it covered even its own -mock-heroics, which is no small thing to say; and there was something -solemn in the unanimity of so many sober persons, who were not under the -immediate sway and leadership of any demagogue, nor could be supposed to -look for personal advantages, and whose extreme fervor and excitement at -the same time were not revolutionary, but simply political. The “Bill,” -on which the popular hope had fixed itself, had just met with one of its -failures, and this was the exaggerated, yet expressive way in which the -Edinburgh crowd demonstrated the popular sentiment of the day.</p> - -<p>These things can not be judged in cold blood; at that time everybody was -excited. Cosmo Livingstone, white with boyish fervor, watched and -counted them as they passed, with irresistible exclamations—“twenty, -forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred!” the boy cried aloud with triumph, as -score after score went past; and the women on the lower steps of the -stair began to share his calculations and exult in them. The very -children beneath, who were looking on with restless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> and excited -curiosity, knew something about the “Bill,” which day by day, as the -coach from the south, with the London mails, came in, they had been sent -to learn tidings of; and the bookseller in the little shop could not -restrain himself.</p> - -<p>“There will be news of this!” he cried, as the last detachment passed; -“when the men of Edinburgh take up a matter, nothing can stand before -them. There ne’er was a march like it that I ever heard o’ in a’ my -reading. Kings, Lords, and Commons—I defy them to stand against it—how -many?—hurra for Auld Reekie! Our lads, when they do a thing, never make -a fool o’t. Hark to the tramp of them! man, it’s grand!”</p> - -<p>“I’ve seen the sodgers out for far less in my day,” said an old woman.</p> - -<p>“A snuff for the sodgers!” cried the excited shopkeeper, snapping his -fingers; “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>a wheen mercenaries, selling their bluid for a trade. They -daur nae mair face a band like that than I dare face Munch Meg.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Cosmo—Cosmo Livingstone!” cried a voice from below; “it’s me—look -this way!—do you no’ mind me?—I’m Joanna; come down this moment and -tell us how we’re to get home.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo looked down through the railings, close to the bottom of which the -owner of the voice had been pressed by the crowd. She had a little silk -umbrella in her hand, with the end of which, thrust between the rails, -she was impatiently, and by no means lightly, beating upon his foot.</p> - -<p>An elderly person, looking very much frightened, clung close to her arm, -and a girl somewhat younger stood a little apart, looking with bright, -vivacious eyes and parted lips after the disappearing procession.</p> - -<p>The swarm of lads, of idle women and children, who followed in the wake -of the Reformers, as of every other march, had overwhelmed for a moment -this little group, which was not like them; and the tumult of voices, -which rose when the sight was over, made it difficult to hear even -Joanna, clear, loud, and unhesitating as her claim was.</p> - -<p>“Miss Huntley!” cried Cosmo, with a momentary start—but it was not so -much to witness his recognition as to save his foot from further -chastisement.</p> - -<p>“It’s no’ Miss Huntley—it’s me!” cried Joanna; “we’ve<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> lost our -road—come and tell us how we’re to go. Oh, madame, don’t hold so fast -to my arm!”</p> - -<p>Cosmo made haste to swing himself down over the railings, when Joanna’s -elderly companion immediately addressed herself to him in a long and -most animated speech, which, unfortunately, however, was in French, and -entirely unintelligible to the poor boy. He blushed violently, and stood -listening with a natural deference, but without the slightest hope of -comprehending her—making now and then a faint attempt to interrupt the -stream. Joanna in the meantime, who was not a great deal more -enlightened than he was, vainly endeavored to stay the course of -madame’s eloquence by pulling her shawl and elbow.</p> - -<p>“He does not understand you! he canna understand you!” cried Joanna, in -words which, the Frenchwoman comprehended as little as Cosmo did <i>her</i> -address.</p> - -<p>During this little episode, the other girl stood by with an evident -impulse to laughter, and a sparkle of amusement in her black eyes. At -last she started forward with a rapid motion, said something to madame -which succeeded better than the remonstrances of Joanna, and addressed -Cosmo in her turn.</p> - -<p>“Madame says,” said the lively little stranger, “that she can not -understand your countrymen—they are so grave, so impassionate, so -sorrowful, she knows not if they march in <i>le corétge funêbre</i> or go to -make the barricades. Madame says there is no music, no shouts, no voice. -She demands what the <i>jeune Monsieur</i> thinks of a so grave procession.”</p> - -<p>“The men are displeased,” said Cosmo, hastily; “they think that the -government trifles with them, and they warn it how they feel. They don’t -mean to make a riot, or break the peace—we call it a demonstration -here.”</p> - -<p>“A de-mon-stracion!” said the little Frenchwoman; “I shall look for it -in my dictionary. They are angry with the king—<i>eh bien!</i>—why do not -they fight?”</p> - -<p>“Fight! they could fight the whole world if they liked!” cried Joanna; -“but they would scorn to fight for every thing like people that have -nothing else to do. Desirée and I wanted to see it, Cosmo, and madame -did not know in the least where we were bringing her to—and so we got -into the crowd, and I don’t know how to get back to Moray Place, unless -you’ll show us the way.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span></p> - -<p>“Madame says,” said the other girl laughing, after receiving another -vehement communication from the governess, “that <i>ce jeune Monsieur</i> is -to go with us only to Princes Street—then we shall find our own way. He -is not to go with you, <i>belle</i> Joanna; and madame demands to know what -all the people say.”</p> - -<p>“What all the people say!—they’re gossiping, and scolding, and speaking -about the procession, and about us, and about their own concerns, and -about every thing,” said Joanna; “and how can I tell her? Oh, Cosmo, -I’ve looked everywhere for you! but you never walk where we walk; and I -saw your mother at the church, and I saw Katie Logan, and I told Katie -to write you word to come and see me—but everybody teazes us to death -about being proper; however, come along, and I’ll tell you all about -everybody—wasn’t it grand to see the procession? Papa’s a terrible -Tory, and says it’ll destroy the country—so I hope they’ll get it. Are -you for the Reform?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Cosmo, but the truth was, the boy felt considerably -embarrassed walking onward by the side of Joanna, with the governess and -the little Frenchwoman behind, talking in their own language with a -rapidity which made Cosmo dizzy, interrupted by occasional bursts of -laughter from the girl, which he, being still very young and -inexperienced, and highly self-conscious, could not help suspecting to -be excited by himself—an idea which made him excessively awkward. -However, Joanna trudged along, with her umbrella in one hand, and with -the other holding up the skirt of her dress, which, however, was neither -very long nor very wide. Joanna’s tall figure might possibly be handsome -some day—but it certainly wanted filling up and rounding in the -meantime—and was not remarkably elegant at present, either in garb or -gait.</p> - -<p>But her young companion was of a very different aspect. She was little, -graceful, light, with a step which, even in the High Street, reminded -Cosmo of Jaacob’s bit of sentiment—“a foot that rang on the path like -siller bells"—with sparkling black eyes, a piquant rosy mouth, and so -bright and arch a look, that the boy forgave her for laughing at -himself, as he supposed she was doing. Desirée!—there was a charm too -in the strange foreign name which he could not help saying over to -himself—and if Joanna had been less<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> entirely occupied with talking to -him, she could not have failed to notice how little he answered, and how -gravely he conducted the party to Princes Street, from whence the -governess knew her way. Joanna shook hands with Cosmo heartily at -parting, and told him she should write to Katie Logan to say she had -seen him—while Desirée made him a pretty parting salutation, half a -curtsey, with a mischievous glance out of her bright eyes, and madame -made him thanks in excellent French, which the lad did not appreciate.</p> - -<p>By that time, as he turned homeward, Cosmo had forgotten all about the -procession, we are grieved to say, and was utterly indifferent to the -fate of the “Bill.”</p> - -<p>He was quite confused in his thoughts, poor boy, as he betook himself to -his little room and his high window. This half frolic, half adventure, -which gave the two girls a little private incident to talk of, such as -girls delight in, buzzed about Cosmo’s brain with embarrassing pleasure. -He felt half disposed to begin learning French on the instant—not that -he might have a better chance of improving his acquaintance with -Desirée—by no means—but only that he might never feel so awkward and -so mortified again as he did to-day, when he found himself addressed in -a language which he did not know.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Cosmo</span> saw nothing more of Joanna Huntley, nor of her bright-eyed -companion for a long time. He fell back into his old loneliness, with -his high window, and his landlady, and the Highland student for society. -Cameron, whom the boy made theories about, and wistfully contemplated on -the uncomprehended heights of his maturer age, knew a good deal by this -time of the history of the Livingstones, a great deal more than Cosmo -was aware of having told him, and had heard all about the adventure in -the High Street, about Desirée’s laugh and the old French grammar which -Cosmo had secretly bought at a book-stall.</p> - -<p>“If she had only taken to Latin, as the philosophers used to do at the -Reformation time,” cried Cosmo, with a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> fun and a great deal of -seriousness, “but women never learn Latin now-a-days. Why shouldn’t -they?”</p> - -<p>“Does it do <i>us</i> so much good?” said Cameron, brushing a little dust -carefully from the sleeve of that black coat of his, which it went to -his heart to see growing rustier every day, and casting a momentary -glance of almost envy at the workmen in their comfortable fustian -jackets. Cameron was on his way to knock the “Rudiments” into the heads -of three little boys, in whose service the gaunt Highlander tasted the -sweets of “private tuition,” so that at the moment he had less -appreciation than usual of the learning after which he had toiled all -his life.</p> - -<p>“If any one loves scholarship, you should!” cried Cosmo, with a little -enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Why?” said the elder man, turning round upon him with a momentary gleam -of proud offense in his eye. The Highlander wanted no applause for the -martyrdoms of his life. On the contrary, it galled him to think that his -privations should be taken into account by any one as proofs of his love -of learning. His strong, absolute, self-denying temper wanted that last -touch of frankness and candor which raises the character above -detraction and above narrowness. He could not acknowledge his poverty, -and take his stand upon it boldly. It was a necessity of his nature to -conceal what he could manfully endure. But the glance which rested on -Cosmo softened.</p> - -<p>“Letters may be humane and humanizing, Cosmo,” said the Highland -student, with a little humor; “but I doubt if men feel this particular -influence of them in teaching little callants. I don’t think, in a -general way, that either my genteel boys in Fette’s Row, or my little -territorial villains in St. Mary’s Wynd, improve <i>my</i> humanity.”</p> - -<p>“Yet the last, at least, is purely a voluntary office and labor of -love,” said Cosmo, earnestly.</p> - -<p>Cameron smiled.</p> - -<p>“I’m but a limited man,” he said; “love takes but narrow bounds with the -like of me. Two or three at the most are as many as my heart can hold. -Are you horrified to hear it, Cosmo? I’ll do my neighbor a good turn if -I can, and I’ll not think ill of him if I can help it; but love, laddie, -love!—that’s for one friend—for a mother or—a wife—not for every -common man or every bairn I see in the street<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> and have compassion on. -No! Love is a different concern.”</p> - -<p>“Is it duty, then?” said Cosmo, with a small shrug of his boyish -shoulders.</p> - -<p>“Hush! If I can not love every man I see, I can love Him who loves all!” -said the Highlander, raising his high head with an unconscious loftiness -and elevation of gesture. Cosmo made no answer and no comment—he was -awed for the moment with the personal reality of that heavenly affection -which made this limited earthly man, strong in his own characteristic -individualities, and finding it impossible to abound in universal -tenderness, still to do with fervor those works of the Evangelist which -were for love of One who loved the all, whom he himself had not a heart -expansive enough to love.</p> - -<p>When Cameron arrived at the house of his pupils, Cosmo wandered back -again toward the region of his friend’s unrewarded labors;—ah! those -young champions of Maudlin and Trinity!—what a difference between this -picture and that. Let us confess that the chances are that Cameron, at -the height of his hardly-earned scholarship, would still be a world -behind a double-first; and it is likely, unless sheer strength had done -it, that nothing earthly could have made a stroke-oar of the -Highlandman. If any one could have watched him through the course of one -of his laborious days, getting up to eat his rude and scanty breakfast, -going out to his lecture and classes, from thence to one quarter and -another to his pupils—little boys in the “Rudiments;” from thence to -St. Mary’s Wynd to do the rough pioneer evangelist work of a degraded -district—work which perhaps his Divinity professor, perhaps the -minister of his church urged upon him as the best preparation for his -future office—then home to his garret to a meal which he would not have -liked any one to see or share, to labor over his notes, to read, to get -up his college work for the next day, to push forward, steadily, -stoutly, silently, through almost every kind of self-denial possible to -man.</p> - -<p>Then, when the toilsome session was over, perhaps the weary man went -home—not to Switzerland or Wales with a reading party—not to shoot, -nor to fish, nor to travel, nor to give himself up to the pure delights -of uninterrupted study—perhaps, instead, to return to weary days of -manual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> labor, to the toils of the field, or the trials of the -schoolmaster; or perhaps finding the expense of the journey too much for -him, or thinking it inexpedient to risk his present pupils, lingered -through the summer in Edinburgh, teaching, reading, pinching, refreshing -himself by his work in St. Mary’s Wynd. The result of all this was not -an elegant divine, nor an accomplished man of the world—very possibly -it might be an arbitrary optimist, a one-sided Christian—but it was -neither an idle nor a useless man.</p> - -<p>Some thoughts of this kind passed through the mind of Cosmo Livingstone -as he went through the same St. Mary’s Wynd, pondering the occupations -and motives of his friend—the only comparison which he made, thinking -of Cameron, was with himself; forgetting the difference of their age -entirely, as such a boy was likely to do, Cosmo could not be -sufficiently disgusted and discontented with his own dependence and -worthlessness. Then he had, at the present moment, no particular -vocation for the church. St. Mary’s Wynd, so far from attracting him, -even failed at this moment to convey to the visionary lad the sentiment -which it wrote with words of fire upon the less sensitive mind of -Cameron. Love for the inhabitants of those wretched closes—for the -miserable squalid forms coming and going through those high, dark, -narrow, winding stairs, down which sometimes a stray sunbeam, piercing -through a dusty window, threw a violent glory into the darkness, like a -Rembrandt or an indignant angel, seemed something impossible. He -believed in the universal love of the Lord, but it only filled him with -awe and wonder—he did not understand it as Cameron did—and Cosmo could -not see how reaching ultimately into the position of teaching, -preaching, laboring, wearing out, for the benefit of such a population, -was worth the terrible struggle of preparation which at present taxed -all the energies of his friend. He repeated to himself dutifully what he -had heard—that to save a soul was better than to win a kingdom—but -such words were still only of the letter, and not of the spirit, for -Cosmo. And he was glad at last to escape from the subject, and hasten to -the fresh and breezy solitude of the hill, which was not a mile from -this den of misery, yet seemed as far away as another world.</p> - -<p>It was spring, and the air was full of that invigorating hopefulness, -which was none the worse to Cosmo for coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> on a somewhat chilly -breeze. The glory of the broad, blue Firth, with its islands and its -bays, and the world of bright, keen, sunny air in which its few sails -shone with a dazzling indescribable whiteness, like nothing but -themselves—the round white clouds ranging themselves in lines and -fantastic groups over the whole low varied line of the opposite -coast—and the intoxication of that free, unbroken breeze, coming fresh -over miles of country and leagues of sea, lifted Cosmo out of his former -thoughts, only to rouse in him a vague heroical excitement—a longing -after something, he knew not what, which any tangible shaping would but -have vulgarized. The boy spread out his arms with an involuntary -enthusiasm, drinking in that wine of youth. What would he do?—he stood -upon the height of the hill like a young Mercury, ready to fly over all -the world on the errands of the gods—but even the voice of Jupiter, -speaking out of the clouds, would only have been prose and bathos to the -unconscious, unexplainable poetic elevation of the lad, who neither knew -himself nor the world.</p> - -<p>A word of any kind, even the sublimest, would have brought him to his -feet and to a vague sense of shame and self-ridicule in a moment—which -consummation happened to him before he was aware.</p> - -<p>The word was a name—a name which he had only heard once before—and the -voice that spoke it was at some distance, for the sound came ringing to -him, faint yet clear, brightened into a cry of pleasure by the breath of -the hills on which it came. “Desirée!” The boy started, blushed at -himself in the awaking of his dream, and pausing only a moment, rushed -down the slope of Arthur’s Seat toward Duddingstone, where, on the first -practicable road which he approached, he perceived a solemn procession -of young ladies, two-and-two, duly officered and governed, and behaving -themselves irreproachably. Cosmo did not make a rush down through their -seemly and proper ranks, to find out Desirée or Joanna; instead, the lad -watched them for a moment, and then turned round laughing, and went back -to his lodging—laughing the shamefaced rosy laugh of his years, when -one can feel one has been a little ridiculous without feeling one’s self -much the worse for it, and when it strikes rather comically than -painfully to find how different one’s high-flown fancies are, to all the -sober arrangements of the every-day world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> end of the season arrived, Cosmo came home, leaving his -fellow-student, who would not even accept an invitation to Norlaw, -behind him in Edinburgh. Cameron thought it half a weakness on his part, -the sudden affection to which the boy had moved him, but he would not -yield so much to it as to lay himself under “an obligation,” nor suffer -any one to suppose that any motive whatever, save pure liking, mingled -in the unlikely friendship he had permitted himself to form. Inveterate -poverty teaches its victims a strange suspiciousness; he was half afraid -that some one might think he wanted to share the comforts of Cosmo’s -home; so, as he was not going home himself, he remained in Edinburgh, -working and sparing as usual, and once more expanding a little with the -idea, so often proved vain hitherto, of getting so much additional work -as to provide for his next session, leaving it free to its own proper -studies; and Cosmo returned to rejoice the hearts of the women in -Norlaw.</p> - -<p>Who found him grown and altered, and “mair manlike,” and stronger, and -every way improved, to their hearts’ content. The Mistress was not given -to caresses or demonstrations of affection—but when the lad got home, -and saw his mother’s eye brighten, and her brow clear every time she -looked at him, he felt, with a compunction for his own discontented -thoughts, of how much importance he was to the widow, and tried hard to -restrain the instinct of wandering, which many circumstances had -combined to strengthen in his mind, although he had never spoken of it. -Discontent with his present destination for one thing; the example of -Huntley and Patrick; the perpetual spur to his energy which had been -before him during all his stay in Edinburgh, in the person of Cameron; -his eager visionary desire to seek Mary of Melmar, whom the boy had a -strong fancy that <i>he</i> was destined to find; and, above and beyond all, -a certain vague ambition, which he could not have described to any one, -but which lured him with a hundred fanciful charms—moved him to the new -world and the unknown<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> places, which charmed chiefly because they were -new and unknown. Cosmo had written verses secretly for a year or two, -and lately had sent some to an Edinburgh paper, which, miracle of -fortune! published them. He was not quite assured that he was a poet, -but he thought he could be something if he might but reach that big, -glorious world which all young fancies long for, and the locality of -which dazzling impossible vision, is so oddly and so often placed in -London. Cosmo was not sure that it was in London—but he rather thought -it was not in Edinburgh, and he was very confident it could not be in -Norlaw.</p> - -<p>About the same time, Joanna Huntley came home for the long summer -holidays. Joanna had persuaded her father into giving her a pony, on -which she trotted about everywhere unattended, to the terror of her -mother and the disgust of Patricia, who was too timid for any such -impropriety. Pony and girl together, on their rambles, were perpetually -falling in with Cosmo Livingstone, whom Joanna rather meant to make a -friend of, and to whom she could speak on one subject which occupied, at -the present time, two thirds of her disorderly thoughts, and deafened, -with perpetual repetition, the indifferent household of Melmar.</p> - -<p>This was Desirée. The first of first loves for a girl is generally -another girl, or young woman, a little older than herself; and nothing -can surpass the devotion of the worshiper.</p> - -<p>Desirée was only a year older than Joanna, but she was almost every -thing which Joanna was not; and she was French, and had been in Paris -and London, and was of a womanly and orderly temper, which increased the -difference in years. She was, for the time being, Joanna’s supreme -mistress, queen, and lady-love.</p> - -<p>“I’m very glad you saw her, Cosmo,” cried the girl, in one of their -encounters, “because now you’ll know that what I say is true. They laugh -at me at Melmar; and Patricia (she’s a cat!) goes on about her Clapham -school, and says Desirée is only a little French governess—as if I did -not know better than that!”</p> - -<p>“Is she a governess?” asked Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“She’s a lady!” said Joanna, reddening suddenly; “but she does not pay -as much as we do; and she talks French<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> with the girls, and sometimes -she helps the little ones on with their music, and—but as for a -governess like madame, or like Miss Trimmer, or even Mrs. Payne -herself—she is no more like one of them than you are. Cosmo. I think -Desirée would like you!”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?” said Cosmo, with a boyish blush and laugh.</p> - -<p>Joanna, however, was far too much occupied to notice his shamefacedness.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you just what I would like,” she said, as they went on -together, the pony rambling along at its own will, with the reins lying -on its neck, while Cosmo, half-attracted, half-reluctant, walked by its -side. “I don’t think I should tell you either,” said Joanna, “for I -don’t suppose you care about us. Cosmo Livingstone, I am sure, if I were -you, I would hate papa; but you’ll no’ tell—I would like Desirée to -come here and marry my brother Oswald, and be lady of Melmar. I would -not care a bit what became of <i>me</i>. Though she’s French, there’s nobody -like her; and that’s just what I would choose, if I could choose for -myself. Would it not be grand? But you don’t know Oswald—he’s been away -nearly as long as I can mind; but he writes me letters sometimes, and I -like him better than anybody else in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Where is he?” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“He’s in Italy. Whiles he writes about the places, whiles about Melmar; -but he never seems to care for coming home,” said Joanna. “However, I -mean to write him to tell him he <i>must</i> come this summer. Your Huntley -is away too. Isn’t it strange to live at home always the same, and have -so near a friend as a brother far, far away, and never, be able to know -what he is doing? Oswald might be ill just now for any thing we know; -but I mean to write and tell him he must come to see Desirée, for that -is what I have set my heart upon since I knew her first.”</p> - -<p>Joanna, for sheer want of breath, came to a pause; and Cosmo made no -reply. He walked on, rather puzzled by the confidence she gave him, -rather troubled by this other side of the picture—the young man in -Italy, who very likely thought himself the unquestionable heir, -perfectly entitled to marry and bring home a lady of Melmar. The whole -matter embarrassed Cosmo. Even his acquaintance with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> Joanna, which was -not of his seeking, seemed quite out of place and inappropriate. But the -girl was as totally unconscious as the pony of the things called -improprieties, and had taken a friendship for Cosmo as she had taken a -love for Desirée—partly because the house of Norlaw bore a certain -romance to her fancy—partly because “papa would be mad"—and partly -because, in all honesty, she liked the boy, who was not much older, and -was certainly more refined and gentle than herself. Joanna was not -remarkably amiable in her present development, but she could appreciate -excellence in others.</p> - -<p>“And she’s beautiful, too—don’t you think so?” said Joanna; “not -pretty, like Patricia, nor bonnie, like Katie Logan—but beautiful. I -wish I could bring her to Melmar—I wish Oswald could see her—and I’ll -do any thing in the world rather than let Desirée go to anybody’s house -like any other governess. Isn’t it a shame? A delicate little lady like -her has to go and teach little brats of children, and me that am strong -and big, and could do lots of things—I never have any thing to do! I -don’t understand it—they say it’s providence. I would not make things -be like that if it was me. What do you think? You never say a word. I -suppose you just listen, and laugh at me because I speak every thing -out. What for do you not speak like a man?”</p> - -<p>“A man sometimes has nothing to say, Miss Huntley,” said Cosmo, with a -rather whimsical shyness, which he was half-inclined himself to laugh -at.</p> - -<p>“Miss Huntley!—I’m Joanna!” cried the girl, with contempt. “I would -like to be friends with you, Cosmo, because papa behaved like a wretch -to your father; and many a time I think I would like to come and help -Mrs. Livingstone, or do any thing for any of you. I canna keep in Melmar -in a corner, and never say a word to vex folk, like Patricia, and I -canna be good, like Katie Logan. Do you want to go away and no’ to speak -to me? You can if you like—I don’t care! I know I’m no’ like a lady in -a ballad; but neither are you like one of the old knights of Norlaw!”</p> - -<p>“Not if you think me rude, or dull, or ungrateful for your frankness!” -cried Cosmo, touched by Joanna’s appeal, and eager to make amends; but -the girl pulled up the pony’s reins, and darted away from him in mighty -dudgeon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> with the slightest touch of womanish mortification and shame -heightening her childish wrath. Perhaps this was the first time it had -really occurred to Joanna that, after all, there was a certain soul of -truth in the proprieties which she hated, and that it might not be -perfectly seemly to bestow her confidence, unasked, upon Cosmo—a -confidence which was received so coldly.</p> - -<p>She comforted herself by starting off at a pace as near a gallop as she -and her steed were equal to, leaving Cosmo rather disconcerted in his -turn, and not feeling particularly pleased with himself, but with many -thoughts in his mind, which were not there when he left Norlaw.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Day</span> by day, the summer went over Cosmo’s head, leaving his thoughts in -the same glow and tumult of uncertainty, for which, now and then, the -lad blamed himself bitterly, but which, on the whole, he found very -bearable. Every thing went on briskly at Norlaw. The Mistress, -thoroughly occupied, and feeling herself, at last, after so many -unprosperous years, really making some forward progress, daily recovered -heart and spirit, and her constant supervision kept every thing alive -and moving in the house. Here Cosmo filled the place of natural -privilege accorded to him alike as the youngest child and the -scholar-son. Though the Mistress’s heart yearned over the boys who were -away, she expected to be most tenderly proud of Cosmo, whose kirk and -manse she could already see in prospect.</p> - -<p>It is not a very great thing to be a minister of the Church of Scotland, -but, in former days, at least, when the Church was less divided than it -is now, the people of Scotland regarded with a particular tenderness of -imagination the parish pastor. He was less elevated above his flock than -the English rector, and sprang very seldom from the higher classes; but -even among wealthy yeomen families in the country, the manse was still a -kind of <i>beau ideal</i> of modest dignity and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> comfort, the pride and -favorite fancy of the people. It was essentially so to the Mistress, -whose very highest desire it had been to move her boy in this direction, -and whose project of romance now, in which her imagination amused -itself, was, above all other things, the future home and establishment -of Cosmo. She had no idea to what extent her favorite idea was -threatened in secret.</p> - -<p>For the moment, however, Melmar and their connection with that house -seemed to have died out of everybody’s mind save Cosmo’s. It never could -quite pass from his so long as he took his place at sunset in that -vacant window of the old castle, where the ivy tendrils waved about him, -and where the romance of Norlaw’s life seemed to have taken up its -dwelling. The boy could not help wandering over the new ground which -Joanna had opened to him—could not help associating that Mary of -Melmar, long lost in some unknown country, with Oswald Huntley, a -stranger from home for years; and the boy started with a jealous pang of -pain to think how likely it was that these two might meet, and that -another than his father’s son should restore the inheritance to its true -heir. This idea was galling in the extreme to Cosmo. He had never -sympathized much in the thought that Melmar was Huntley’s, nor been -interested in any proceedings by which his brother’s rights were to be -established; but he had always reserved for himself or for Huntley the -prerogative of finding and reinstating the true lady of the land, and -Cosmo was human enough to regard “the present Melmar” with any thing but -amiable feelings. He could not bear the idea of being left out entirely -in the management of the concern, or of one of the Huntleys exercising -this champion’s office, and covering the old usurpation with a vail of -new generosity. It was a most uncomfortable view of the subject to -Cosmo, and when his cogitations came to that point, the lad generally -swung himself down from his window-seat and went off somewhere in high -excitement, scarcely able to repress the instant impulse to sling a -bundle over his shoulder and set off upon his journey. But he never -could rouse his courage to the point of reopening this subject with his -mother, little witting, foolish boy, that this admirable idea of his -about Oswald Huntley was the very inducement necessary to make the -Mistress as anxious about the recovery of Mary of Melmar as he himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> -was—and the only thing in the world which could have done so.</p> - -<p>It happened on one of these summer evenings, about this time, when his -own mind was exceedingly restless and unsettled, that Cosmo, passing -through Kirkbride as the evening fell, encountered bowed Jaacob just out -of the village, on the Melrose road. The village street was full of -little groups in earnest and eager discussion. It was still daylight, -but the sun was down, and lights began to sparkle in some of the -projecting gable windows of the Norlaw Arms, beneath which, in the -corner where the glow of the smithy generally warmed the air, a little -knot of men stood together, fringed round with smaller clusters of -women. A little bit of a moon, scarcely so big as the evening star which -led her, was already high in the scarcely shadowed skies. Every thing -was still—save the roll of the widow’s mangle and the restless feet of -the children, so many of them as at this hour were out of bed—and most -of the cottage doors stood open, revealing each its red gleam of fire, -and many their jugs of milk, and bowls set ready on the table for the -porridge or potatoes which made the evening meal. On the opposite brae -of Tyne was visible the minister, walking home with an indescribable -consciousness and disapproval, not in his face, for it was impossible to -see that in the darkness, but in his figure and bearing, as he turned -his back upon his excited parishioners, which was irresistibly ludicrous -when one knew what it meant. Beyond the village, at the opposite -extremity, was Jaacob, in his evening trim, with a black coat and hat, -which considerably changed the little dwarf’s appearance, without -greatly improving it. He had his face to the south, and was pushing on -steadily, clenching and opening, as he walked, the great brown fist -which came so oddly out of the narrow cuff of his black coat. Cosmo, who -was quite ready to give up his own vague fancies for the general -excitement, came up to Jaacob quite eagerly, and fell into his pace -without being aware of it.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to Melrose for news? I’ll go with you,” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>The road was by no means lonely; there were already both men and boys -before them on the way.</p> - -<p>“We should hear to-night, as you ken without me telling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> you,” said -Jaacob. “I’m gaun to meet the coach; you may come if you like—but what -matter is’t to the like o’ you?”</p> - -<p>“To me! as much as to any man in Scotland,” cried Cosmo, growing red; he -thought the dignity of his years was impugned.</p> - -<p>“Pish! you’re a blackcoat, going to be,” said Jaacob; “there’s your -friend the minister there, gaun up the brae. I sent <i>him</i> hame wi’ a -flea in his lug. What the deevil business has the like of him to meddle -in our concerns? The country’s coming to ruin, forsooth! because the -franchise is coming to a man like me! Get away with you, callant! as -soon as you come to man’s estate you’ll be like a’ the rest! But ye may -just as weel take an honest man’s, advice, Cosmo. If we dinna get it -we’ll tak it, and that’ll be seen before the world afore mony days are -past.”</p> - -<p>“What do you think the news will be?” asked Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“Think! I’m past thinking,” cried Jaacob, thrusting some imaginary -person away; “haud your tongue—can a man think when he’s wound up the -length of taking swurd in hand, if need should be? If we dinna get it, -we’ll tak it—do ye hear?—that’s a’ I’m thinking in these days.”</p> - -<p>And Jaacob swung along the road, working his long arms rather more than -he did his feet, so that their action seemed part of his locomotive -power. It was astonishing, too, to see how swiftly, how steadily, and -with what a “way” upon him, the little giant strode onward, swinging the -immense brown hands, knotted and sinewy, which it was hard to suppose -could ever have been thrust through the narrow cuffs of his coat, like -balancing weights on either side of him. Before them was the long line -of dusty summer road disappearing down a slope, and cut off, not by the -sky, but by the Eildons, which began to blacken in the fading -light—behind them the lights of the village—above, in a pale, warm -sky, the one big dilating star and the morsel of moon; but the thoughts -of Jaacob, and even of Cosmo, were on a lesser luminary—the red lantern -of the coach, which was not yet to be seen by the keenest eyes advancing -through the summer dimness from the south.</p> - -<p>“Hang the lairds and the ministers!” cried Jaacob, after a pause, “it’s -easy to see what a puir grip they have, and how well they ken it. Free -institutions dinna agree with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> the like of primogeniture and thae -inventions of the deevil. Let’s but hae a reformed Parliament, and we’ll -learn them better manners. There’s your grand Me’mar setting up for a -leader amang the crew, presenting an address, confound his impudence! as -if he wasna next hand to a swindler himself.”</p> - -<p>“Jacob, do you know any thing about his son?” asked Cosmo, eagerly.</p> - -<p>“He’s a virtuoso—he’s a dilettawnti; I ken nae ill of him,” said -Jaacob, who pronounced these titles with a little contempt, yet secretly -had a respect for them; “he hasna been seen in this country, so far as -I’ve heard tell of, for mony a day. A lad’s no aye to blame for his -father and his mother; it’s a thing folk in general have nae choice -in—but he’s useless to his ain race, either as friend or foe.”</p> - -<p>“Is he a good fellow, then? or is he like Me’mar?” cried Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“Tush! dinna afflict me about thae creatures in bad health,” said -Jaacob; “what’s the use o’ them, lads or lasses, is mair than I can -tell—can they no’ dee and be done wi’t? I tell you, a docken on the -roadside is mair guid to a country than the like of Me’mar’s son!”</p> - -<p>“Is he in bad health?” asked the persistent Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“They’re a’ in bad health,” said Jaacob, contemptuously, “as any auld -wife could tell you; a’ but that red-haired lassie, that Joan. Speak o’ -your changelings! how do ye account to me, you that’s a philosopher, for -the like of an honest spirit such as that, cast into the form of a -lassie, and the midst of a hatching o’ sparrows like Me’mar? If she had -but been a lad, she would have turned them a’ out like a cuckoo in the -nest.”</p> - -<p>“And Oswald Huntley is ill—an invalid?” said Cosmo, softly returning to -the thread of his own thoughts.</p> - -<p>Jaacob once more thrust with contempt some imaginary opponent out of the -way.</p> - -<p>“Get away with you down Tyne or into the woods wi’ your Oswald -Huntleys!” cried Jaacob, indignantly—“do you think I’m heeding about -ane of the name? Whisht! what’s that? Did you hear onything?—haud your -tongue for your life!”</p> - -<p>Cosmo grew almost as excited as Jaacob—he seized upon the lowest bough -of a big ash tree, and swung himself up,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> with the facility of a country -boy, among the fragrant dark foliage which rustled about him as he stood -high among the branches as on a tower.</p> - -<p>“D’ye see onything?” cried Jaacob, who could have cuffed the boy for the -noise he made, even while he pushed him up from beneath.</p> - -<p>“Hurra! here she comes—I can see the light!” shouted Cosmo.</p> - -<p>The lad stood breathless among the rustling leaves, which hummed about -him like a tremulous chorus. Far down at the foot of the slope, nothing -else perceptible to mask its progress, came rushing on the fiery eye of -light, red, fierce, and silent, like some mysterious giant of the night. -It was impossible to hear either hoofs or wheels in the distance, still -more to see the vehicle itself, for the evening by this time was -considerably advanced, and the shadow of the three mystic hills lay -heavy upon the road.</p> - -<p>“She’s late,” said Jaacob, between his set teeth. The little Cyclops -held tight by the great waving bough of the ash, and set his foot in a -hollow of its trunk, crushing beneath him the crackling underwood. Here -the boy and he kept together breathless, Cosmo standing high above, and -his companion thrusting his weird, unshaven face over the great branch -on which he leaned. “She’s up to Plover ha’—she’s at the toll—she’s -stopped. What’s that! listen!” cried Cosmo, as some faint, far-off -sound, which might have been the cry of a child, came on the soft -evening air towards them.</p> - -<p>Jaacob made an imperative gesture of silence with one hand, and grasped -at the branch with the other till it shook under the pressure.</p> - -<p>“She’s coming on again—she’s up to the Black ford—she’s over the -bridge—another halt—hark again!—that’s not for passengers—they’re -hurraing—hark, Jaacob! hurra! she’s coming—they’ve won the day!”</p> - -<p>Jaacob, with the great branch swinging under his hands like a willow -bough, bade the boy hold his peace, with a muttered oath through his set -teeth. Now sounds became audible, the rattle of the hoofs upon the road, -the ring of the wheels, the hum of exclamations and excited voices, -under the influence of which the horses “took the brae” gallantly, with -a half-human intoxication. As they drew gradually<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> nearer, and the noise -increased, and the faint moonlight fell upon the flags and ribbons and -dusty branches, with which the coach was ornamented, Cosmo, unable to -contain himself, came rolling down on his hands and feet over the top of -Jaacob, and descended with a bold leap in the middle of the road. -Jaacob, muttering fiercely, stumbled after him, just in time to drag the -excited boy out of the way of the coach, which was making up for lost -time by furious speed, and on which coachman, guard, and outside -passengers, too much excited to be perfectly sober, kept up their -unanimous murmurs of jubilee, with only a very secondary regard to the -road or any obstructions which might be upon it.</p> - -<p>“Wha’s there? get out o’ my road, every soul o’ ye! I’ll drive the gait -blindfold, night or day, but I’ll no’ undertake the consequence if ye -rin among my wheels,” cried the driver.</p> - -<p>“Hurra! lads! the Bill’s passed—we’ve won! Hurra!” shouted another -voice from the roof of the vehicle, accompanying the shout with a -slightly unsteady wave of a flag, while, with a little swell of -sympathetic cheers, and a triumphant flourish of trumpet from the guard, -the jubilant vehicle dashed on, rejoicing as never mail-coach rejoiced -before.</p> - -<p>Jaacob took off his hat, tossed it into the air, crushed it between his -hands as it came down, and broke into an extraordinary shout, bellow, or -groan, which it was impossible to interpret; then, turning sharp round, -pursued the coach with a fierce speed, like the run of a little tiger, -setting all his energies to it, swinging his long arms on either side of -him, and raising about as much dust as the mail which he followed. -Cosmo, left behind, followed more gently, laughing in spite of himself, -and in spite of the heroics of the day, which included every national -benefit and necessity within the compass of “the Bill,” at the grotesque -little figure disappearing before him, twisting its great feet, and -swinging its arms in that extraordinary race. When the boy reached -Kirkbride, the coach was just leaving the village amid a chorus of -cheers and shouts of triumph. No one could think of any thing else, or -speak of any thing else; everybody was shaking hands with everybody, and -in the hum of amateur speechifying, half a dozen together, Cosmo had -hard work to recall even that sober personage, the postmaster, who felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> -himself to some extent a representative of government and natural -moderator of the general excitement, to some sense of his duties. -Cosmo’s exertions, however, were rewarded by the sight of three letters, -with which he hastened home.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">The</span> Reform Bill’s passed, mother! we’ve won the day!” cried Cosmo, -rushing into the Norlaw dining-parlor with an additional hurra! of -exultation. After all the din and excitement out of doors, the summer -twilight of the room, with one candle lighted and one unlit upon the -table, and the widow seated by herself at work, the only one living -object in the apartment, looked somewhat dreary—but she looked up with -a brightening face, and lighted the second candle immediately on her -son’s return.</p> - -<p>“Eh, laddie, that’s news!” cried the Mistress; “are you sure it’s true? -I didna think, for my part, the Lords had as much sense. Passed! come to -be law!—eh, my Huntley! to think he’s at the other end of the world and -canna hear.”</p> - -<p>“He’ll hear in time,” said Cosmo, with a little agitation, producing his -budget of letters. “Mother, I’ve more news than about the Bill. I’ve a -letter here.”</p> - -<p>His mother rose and advanced upon him with characteristic vehemence:—</p> - -<p>“Do you dare to play with your mother, you silly bairn? Give it to me,” -said the Mistress, whom Cosmo’s hurried, breathless, joyful face had -already enlightened; “do you think I canna bear gladness, me that never -fainted with sorrow? Eh Huntley, my bairn!”</p> - -<p>And in spite of her indignation, Huntley’s mother sank into the nearest -chair, and let her tears fall on his letter as she opened it. It did -not, however, prove to be the intimation of his arrival, which they -hoped for. It was written at sea, three months after his departure, when -he was still not above half way on his journey; for it was a more -serious business getting to Australia in those days than it is now. -Huntley wrote out of his little berth in the middle of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> big ocean, -with all the strange creaks of the ship and voices of his -fellow-passengers to bear him company, with a heart which was still at -Norlaw. The Mistress tried very hard to read his letter aloud; she drew -first one and then the other candle close to her, exclaiming against the -dimness of the light; she stopped in the middle of a sentence, with -something very like a sob, to bid Cosmo sharply be quiet and no’ -interrupt her, like a restless bairn, while she read his brother’s -letter; but at last the Mistress broke down and tried no further. It was -about ten months since she bade him farewell, and this was the first -token of Huntley’s real person and existence which for all that -lingering and weary time had come to his mother, who had never missed -him out of her sight for a week at a time, all his life before.</p> - -<p>There was not a very great deal in it even now, for letter-writing had -been a science little practiced at Norlaw, and Huntley had still nothing -to tell but the spare details of a long sea voyage; there was, however, -in it, what there is not in all letters, nor in many—even much more -affectionate and effusive epistles than this—Huntley himself. When the -Mistress had come to the end, which was but slowly, in consideration of -the dimness of the candles or her eyes, she gave it to Cosmo, and waited -rather impatiently for his perusal of the precious letter. Then she went -over it again, making hasty excuse, as she did so; for “one part I didna -make out,” and finally, unable to refrain, got up and went to the -kitchen, where Marget was still busy, to communicate the good news.</p> - -<p>The kitchen door was open; there was neither blind nor shutter upon the -kitchen-window, and the soft summer stars, now peeping out in half -visible hosts like cherubs, might look in upon Marget, passing back and -forward through the fire light, as much and as often as they pleased. -From the open door a soft evening breath of wind, with the fragrance of -new growth and vegetation upon it, which is almost as sweet as positive -odors, came pleasantly into the ruddy apartment, where the light found a -hundred bright points to sparkle in, from the “brass pan” and copper -kettle on the shelf to the thick yolks of glass in one or two of the -window-panes. It was not quite easy to tell what Marget was doing; she -was generally busy, moving about with a little hum of song, setting -every thing in order for the night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span></p> - -<p>“Marget, my woman, you’ll be pleased to hear—I’ve heard from my son,” -said the Mistress, with unusual graciousness. She came and stood in -front of the fire, waiting to be questioned, and the fire light still -shone with a very prismatic radiance through the Mistress’s eyelashes, -careful though she had been, before she entered, to remove the dew from -her eyes.</p> - -<p>“You’re no’ meaning Mr. Huntley? Eh! bless him! has he won there?” cried -Marget, letting down her kilted gown, and hastening forward.</p> - -<p>And then the Mistress was tempted to draw forth her letter, and read “a -bit here and a bit there,” which the faithful servant received with sobs -and exclamations.</p> - -<p>“Bless the laddie, he minds every single thing at Norlaw—even the like -of me!” cried Marget; upon which the Mistress rose again from the seat -she had taken, with a little start of impatience:—</p> - -<p>“Wherefore should he no’ mind you?—you’ve been about the house a’ his -life; and I hope I’ll never live to see the day when a bairn of mine -forgets his hame and auld friends! It’s time to bar the door, and put up -the shutter. You should have had a’ done, and your fire gathered by this -time; but it’s a bonnie night!”</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Deed, ay!” said Marget to herself, when Huntley’s mother had once more -joined Cosmo in the dining-room; “the bonniest night that’s been to her -this mony a month, though she’ll no’ let on—as if I didna ken how her -heart yearns to that laddie on the sea, blessings on him! Eh, sirs! to -think o’ thae very stars shining on the auld castle and the young laird, -though the world itsel’s between the twa—and the guid hand of -Providence ower a’—God be thanked!—to bring the bairn hame!”</p> - -<p>When the Mistress returned to the dining-parlor, she found Cosmo quite -absorbed with another letter. The lad’s face was flushed with -half-abashed pleasure, and a smile, shy, but triumphant, was on his lip. -It was not Patie’s periodical letter, which still lay unopened before -her own chair, where it had been left in the overpowering interest of -Huntley’s. The Mistress was not perfectly pleased. To care for what -anybody else might write—“one of his student lads, nae doubt, or some -other fremd person,” in presence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> of the first letter from Huntley, was -almost a slight to her first-born.</p> - -<p>“You’re strange creatures, you laddies,” said the Mistress. “I dinna -understand you, for my part. There are you, Cosmo Livingstone, as -pleased about your nonsense letter, whatever it may be, as if there was -no such person as my Huntley in the world—him that aye made such a wark -about you!”</p> - -<p>“This is not a nonsense letter—will you read it, mother?” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“Me!—I havena lookit at Patie’s letter yet!” cried the Mistress, -indignantly. “Do you think I’m a person to be diverted with what one -callant writes to another? Hold your peace, bairn, and let me see what -my son says.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress accordingly betook herself to Patrick’s letter with great -seriousness and diligence, keeping her eyes steadily upon it, and away -from Cosmo, whom, nevertheless, she could still perceive holding <i>his</i> -letter, his own especial correspondence, with the same look of shy -pleasure, in his hand. Patie’s epistle had nothing of remarkable -interest in it, as it happened, and the Mistress could not quite resist -a momentary and troubled speculation, Who was Cosmo’s correspondent, who -pleased him so much, yet made him blush? Could it be a woman? The idea -made her quite angry in spite of herself—at his age!</p> - -<p>“Now, mother, read this,” said Cosmo, with the same smile.</p> - -<p>“If it’s any kind of bairn’s nonsense, dinna offer it to me,” said the -Mistress, impatiently. “Am I prying into wha writes you letters? I tell -you I’ve had letters enough for ae night. Peter Todhunter!—wha in the -world is he?”</p> - -<p>“Read it, mother,” repeated Cosmo.</p> - -<p>The Mistress read in much amazement; and the epistle was as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">North British Courant Office</span>,<br /> -“<span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="indd"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p>“Hearing that you are the C. L. N. who have favored the <i>North -British Courant</i> from time to time with poetical effusions which -seem to show a good deal of talent, I write to ask whether you have -ever done any thing in the way of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> prose romance, or essays of a -humorous character in the style of Sterne, or narrative poetry. I -am just about to start (with a good staff of well-known -contributors) a new monthly, to be called the <i>Auld Reekie -Magazine</i>, a miscellany of general literature; and should be glad -to receive and give my best consideration to any articles from your -pen. The rates of remuneration I can scarcely speak decisively -about until the success of this new undertaking is in some degree -established; but this I may say—that they shall be <i>liberal</i> and -<i>satisfactory</i>, and I trust may be the means of inaugurating a new -and better system of mutual support between publishers and -authors—the accomplishment of which has long been a great object -of my life.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Your obedient servant,<br /> -“<span class="smcap">Peter Todhunter</span>.”<br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>“The <i>North British Courant!</i> poetry! writing for a magazine!—what does -it a’ mean?” cried the Mistress. “Do you mean to tell me you’re an -author, Cosmo Livingstone?—and me never kent—a bairn like you!”</p> - -<p>“Nothing but some—verses, mother,” said the boy, with a blush and a -laugh, though he was not insensible to the importance of Mr. Todhunter’s -communication. Cosmo’s vanity was not sufficiently rampant to say poems. -“I did not send them with my name. I wanted to do something better -before I showed them to you.”</p> - -<p>“And here they’re wanting the callant for a magazine!” cried the -Mistress. “Naething but a bairn—the youngest! a laddie that was never -out of Norlaw till within six months time! And I warrant they ken what’s -for their ain profit, and what kind of a lad they’re seeking after—and -me this very night thinking him nae better than a bairn!”</p> - -<p>And the Mistress laughed in the mood of exquisite pride at its highest -point of gratification, and followed up her laugh by tears of the same. -The boy was pleased, but his mother was intoxicated. The <i>North British -Courant</i> and the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i> were glorious in her eyes as -celestial messengers of fame, and she could not but follow the movements -of her boy with the amazed observation of a sudden discovery. He who was -“naething but a bairn” had already proved himself a genius, and -Literature urgent called him to her aid. He might be a Scott—he might -turn out a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> Shakespeare. The Mistress looked at him with no limit to her -wonder, and for the moment none in her faith.</p> - -<p>“And just as good a laddie as he aye was,” she murmured to herself, -stroking his hair fondly—“though mony a ane’s head would have been -clean turned to see themsels in a printed paper—no’ to say in a book. -Eh, bairn! and to think how little I kent, that am your mother, what God -had put among my very bairns!”</p> - -<p>“Mother, it may turn out poor enough, after all,” cried Cosmo, half -ashamed—“I don’t know yet myself what I can do.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay no’,” said the Mistress, proudly, “but you may take my word -this decent man does, Cosmo, seeing his ain interest is concerned. Na, -laddie, <i>I</i> ken, if you dinna, the ways of this world, and I wouldna say -but they think they’ve got just a prize in my bairn. Eh! if the laddies -were but here and kent!—and oh, Cosmo! what <i>he</i> would have thought of -it that’s gone!”</p> - -<p>When the Mistress had dried her eyes, she managed to draw from the boy a -gradual confession that the <i>North British Courant</i>, sundry numbers of -it, were snugly hid in his own trunk up stairs, from which concealment -they were brought forth with much shamefacedness by Cosmo, and read with -the greatest triumph by his mother. The Mistress had no mind to go to -rest that night—she staid up looking at him—wondering over him; and -Cosmo confessed to some of his hitherto secret fancies—how he would -like to go abroad to see new countries, and to hear strange tongues, and -how he had longed to labor for himself.</p> - -<p>“Whisht! laddie—I would have been angry but for this,” said the -Mistress. “The like of you has nae call to work; but I canna say -onything mair, Cosmo, now that Providence has taken it out of my hand. -And I dinna wonder you would like to travel—the like of you canna be -fed on common bread like common folk—and you’ll hae to see every thing -if you’re to be an author. Na, laddie, no’ for the comfort of seeing you -and hearing you would I put bars on your road. I aye thought I would -live to be proud of my sons, but I didna ken I was to be overwhelmed in -a moment, and you naething but a bairn!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> result of this conversation was that Cosmo made a little private -visit to Edinburgh to determine his own entrance into the republic of -letters, and to see the enterprising projector of the <i>Auld Reekie -Magazine</i> through whom this was to take place. The boy went modestly, -half abashed by his good fortune and dawning dream of fame, yet full of -a flush of youthful hope, sadly out of proportion to any possible -pretensions of the new periodical. He saw it advertised in the newspaper -which one of his fellow-passengers on the coach read on the way. He saw -a little printed hand-bill with its illustrious name in the window of -the first bookseller’s shop he looked into on his arrival in Edinburgh, -and Cosmo marched over the North Bridge with his carpet-bag in his hand, -with a swell of visionary glory. He could not help half wondering what -the indifferent people round him would think, if they knew—and then -could not but blush at himself for the fancy. Altogether the lad was in -a tumult of delightful excitement, hope, and pleasure, such as perhaps -only falls to the lot of boys who hope themselves poets, and think at -eighteen that they are already appreciated and on the highway to fame.</p> - -<p>As he ascended the stairs to Mrs. Purdie’s, he met Cameron coming down. -There was a very warm greeting between them—a greeting which surprise -startled into unusual affectionateness on the part of the Highlander. -Cameron forgot his own business altogether to return with Cosmo, and -needed very little persuasion to enter the little parlor, which no other -lodger had turned up to occupy, and share the refreshment which the -overjoyed landlady made haste to prepare for her young guest. This was -so very unusual a yielding on Cameron’s part, that Cosmo almost forgot -his own preoccupation in observing his friend, who altogether looked -brightened and smoothed out, and younger than when they parted. The -elder and soberer man, who knew a little more of life and the world than -Cosmo, though very little more of literature, could not help a -half-perceptible smile at the exuberance of Cosmo’s hopes. Not that -Cameron despised the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i>; far from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> that, the -Divinity student had all the reverence for literature common to those -who know little about it, which reverence, alas! grows smaller and -smaller in this too-knowing age. But at thirty years old people know -better than at eighteen how the sublimest undertakings break down, and -how sometimes even “the highest talent” can not float its venture. So -the man found it hard not to smile at the boy’s shy triumph and -undoubting hope, yet could not help but be proud, notwithstanding, with -a tenderness almost feminine, of the unknown gifts of the lad, whose -youth, he could not quite tell how, had found out the womanish corner of -his own reserved heart, in which, as he said himself, only two or three -could find room at any time.</p> - -<p>“But you never told me of these poetical effusions, Cosmo,” said his -friend, as he put up the bookseller’s note.</p> - -<p>“Don’t laugh at Mr. Todhunter. <i>I</i> only call them verses,” said Cosmo, -with that indescribable blending of vanity and humility which belongs to -his age; “and I knew you would not care for them; they were not worth -showing to you.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not a poetical man,” said Cameron, “but I might care for <i>your</i> -verses in spite of that; and now Cosmo, laddie, while you have been -thinking of fame, what novel visitor should you suppose had come to me?”</p> - -<p>“Who?—what?” cried Cosmo, with eager interest.</p> - -<p>“What?” echoed Cameron, “either temptation or good fortune—it’s hard to -say which—only I incline to the first. Satan’s an active chield, and -thinks little of trouble; but I doubt if the other one would have taken -the pains to climb my stair. I’ve had an offer of a tutorship, Cosmo—to -go abroad for six months or so with a callant like yourself.”</p> - -<p>“To go abroad!” Cosmo’s eyes lighted up with instant excitement, and he -stretched his hand across the table to his friend, with a vehemence -which Cameron did not understand, though he returned the grasp.</p> - -<p>“An odd enough thing for me,” said the Highlandman, “but the man’s an -eccentric man, and something has possessed him that his son would be in -safe hands; as in safe hands he might be,” added the student in an -undertone, “seeing I would be sorry to lead any lad into evil—but as -for <i>fit</i> hands, that’s to be seen, and I’m far from confident it would -be right for me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<p>“Go, and I’ll go with you,” said Cosmo, eagerly. “I’ve set my heart upon -it for years.”</p> - -<p>“More temptation!” said the Highlandman. “Carnal inclinations and -pleasures of this world—and I’ve little time to lose. I can not afford -a session—whisht! Comfort and ease to the flesh, and pleasure to the -mind, are hard enough to fight with by themselves without help from -you.”</p> - -<p>It was almost the first time he had made the slightest allusion to his -own hard life and prolonged struggle, and Cosmo was silent out of -respect and partially in the belief that if Cameron’s mind had not been -very near made up in favor of this new proposal, he would not have -suffered himself to refer to it. The two friends sat up late together -that night. Cosmo pouring out all his maze of half-formed plans and -indistinct intentions into Cameron’s ears—his projects of authorship, -his plan for a tragedy of which Wallace wight should be the hero; of a -pastoral poem and narrative, something between Colin Clout and the -Gentle Shepherd—and of essays and philosophies without end; while -Cameron on his part smiled, as he could not but smile by right of his -thirty years, yet somehow began to believe, like the Mistress, in the -enthusiastic boy, with all that youthful flush and fervor in the face -which his triumph and inspiration of hope made beautiful. The elder man -could not give his own confidence so freely as Cosmo did, but he opened -himself as far as it was his nature to do, in droppings of shy -frankness—a little now and a little then—which were in reality the -very highest compliment which such a man could pay to his companion. -When they separated, Cameron, it is true, knew all about Cosmo, while -Cosmo did not know all about Cameron; but the difference was not even so -much a matter of temperament as of years, and the lad, without hearing -many particulars, or having a great deal of actual confidence given to -him, knew the man better at the end of this long evening than ever he -had done before.</p> - -<p>In the morning Cosmo got up full of pleasurable excitement, and set out -early to call on Mr. Todhunter. The <i>North British Courant</i> office was -in one of the short streets which run between Princes Street and George -Street, and in the back premises, a long way back, through a succession -of rooms, Cosmo was ushered into the especial little den of the -publisher. Mr. Todhunter was of a yellow complexion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> with loose, thick -lips, and wiry black hair. The lips were the most noticeable feature in -his face, from the circumstance that when he spoke his mouth seemed -uncomfortably full of moisture, which gave also a peculiar character to -his voice. He was surrounded by a mass of papers, and had paste and -scissors—those palladiums of the weekly press—by his side. If there -was one thing more than another on which the <i>North British Courant</i> -prided itself, it was on the admirable collection of other people’s -opinions which everybody might find in its columns. Mr. Todhunter made -no very great stand upon politics. What he prized was a reputation which -he thought “literary,” and a skill almost amounting to genius for making -what he called “excerpts.”</p> - -<p>“Very glad to make your personal acquaintance, Mr. Livingstone,” said -the projector of the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i>, “and still more to receive -your assurances of support. I’ve set my heart on making this a real, -impartial, literary enterprise, sir—no’ one of your close boroughs, as -they say now-a-days, for a dozen or a score of favored contributors, but -open to genius, sir—genius wherever it may be—rich or poor.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo did not know precisely what to answer, so he filled in the pause -with a little murmur of assent.</p> - -<p>“Ye see the relations of every thing’s changing,” said Mr. Todhunter; -“old arrangements will not do—wull not answer, sir, in an advancing -age. I have always held high opinions as to the claims of literary men, -myself—it’s against my nature to treat a man of genius like a -shopkeeper; and my principle, in the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i>, is just -this—first-rate talent to make the thing pay, and first-rate pay to -secure the talent. That’s my rule, and I think it’s a very safe guide -for a plain man like me.”</p> - -<p>“And it’s sure to succeed,” said Cosmo, with enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“I think it wull, sir—upon my conscience, if you ask me, I think it -wull,” said Mr. Todhunter; “and I have little doubt young talent will -rally round the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i>. I’m aware it’s an experiment, -but nothing shall ever make me give in to an ungenerous principle. Men -of genius must be protected, sir; and how are they protected in your -old-established periodicals? There’s one old fogy for this department, -and another old fogy for that department; and as for a genial -recognition of young talent, take my word for’t, there’s no such -thing.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<p>“I know,” said Cosmo, “it is the hardest thing in the world to get in. -Poor Chatterton, and Keats, and—”</p> - -<p>“Just that,” said Mr. Todhunter. “It’s for the Keatses and the -Chattertons of this day, sir, that I mean to interpose; and no lad of -genius shall go to the grave with a pistol in his hand henceforward if I -can help it. I admire your effusions very much, Mr. Livingstone—there’s -real heart and talent in them, sir—in especial the one to Mary, which, -I must say, gave me the impression of an older man.”</p> - -<p>“I am pretty old in practice—I have been writing a great many years,” -said Cosmo, with that delightful, ingenuous, single-minded, youthful -vanity, which it did one’s heart good to see. Even Mr. Todhunter, over -his paste and scissors, was somehow illumined by it, and looked up at -the lad with the ghost of a smile upon his watery lips.</p> - -<p>“And what do you mean to provide us for the opening of the feast?” said -the bookseller, “which must be ready by the 15th, at the very latest, -and be the very cream of your inspiration. It’s no small occasion, sir. -Have you made up your mind what is to be your <i>deboo</i>?”</p> - -<p>“It depends greatly upon what you think best,” said Cosmo, candid and -impartial; “and as you know what articles you have secured already, I -should be very glad of any hint from you.”</p> - -<p>“A very sensible remark,” said Mr. Todhunter. “Well, I would say, a good -narrative now, in fine, stirring, ballad verse—a narrative always -pleases the public fancy—or a spirited dramatic sketch, or a historical -tale, to be completed, say, in the next number. I should say, sir, any -one of these would answer the <i>Auld Reekie</i>;—only be on your mettle. I -consider there’s good stuff in you—real good stuff—but, at the same -time, many prudent persons would tell me I was putting too much reliance -on so young a man.”</p> - -<p>“I will not disappoint you,” said Cosmo, with a little pride; “but, -supposing this first beginning over, could it do any good to the -magazine, do you think, to have a contributor—letters from abroad—I -had some thoughts—I—I wished very much to know—”</p> - -<p>“Were you thinking of going abroad?” said the bookseller, benignantly.</p> - -<p>“I can scarcely say <i>think</i>—but, there was an opportunity,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> said -Cosmo, with a blush; “that is, if it did not stand in the way of—”</p> - -<p>“<i>Auld Reekie?</i> Certainly not—on the contrary, I know nothing I would -like better,” said Mr. Todhunter. “Some fine Italian legends, now, or a -few stories from the Rhine, with a pleasant introduction, and a little -romantic incident, to show how you heard them—capital! but I must see -you at my house before you go. And as for the remuneration, we can -scarcely fix on that, perhaps, till the periodical’s launched—but ye -know my principle, and I may say, sir, with confidence, no man was left -in the lurch that put reliance upon me. I’m a plain man, as you see me, -but I appreciate the claims of genius, and young talent shall not want -its platform in this city of Edinburgh; or, if it does, it shall be no -fault of mine.”</p> - -<p>With a murmured applause of this sentiment, and in a renewed tumult of -pleasure, Cosmo left his new friend, and went home lingering over the -delightful thought of Italian legends and stories of the Rhine, told in -the very scenes of the same. The idea intoxicated him almost out of -remembrance of Mary of Melmar, and if the boy’s head was not turned, it -seemed in a very fair way of being so, for the sentiments of Mr. -Todhunter—a publisher!—a practical man!—one who knew the real value -of authorship! filled the lad with a vague glory in his new craft. A -London newspaper proprietor, who spoke like the possessor of the <i>North -British Courant</i>, would have been, the chances are, a conscious humbug, -and perhaps so might an Edinburgh bookseller of the present time, who -expressed the same sentiments. Mr. Todhunter, however, was not a humbug. -He was like one of those dabblers in science who come at some simple -mechanical principle by chance, and in all the flush of their discovery, -claim as original and their own what was well known a hundred years -since. He was perfectly honest in the rude yet simple vanity with which -he patronized “young talent,” and in his vulgar, homely fashion, felt -that he had quite seized upon a new idea in his <i>Auld Reekie -Magazine</i>—an idea too original and notable to yield precedence even to -the <i>Edinburgh Review</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> pace of events began to quicken with Cosmo. When he encountered his -fellow-lodger in the evening, he found that Cameron had been permitting -his temptation to gain more and more ground upon him. The Highlander, -humbly born and cottage bred as he was, and till very recently bounded -by the straitest prospects as to the future, had still a deep reserve of -imaginative feeling, far away down where no one could get at it—under -the deposit left by the slow toil and vulgar privations of many years. -Unconsciously to himself, the presence and society of Cosmo Livingstone -had recalled his own boyhood to the laboring man, in the midst of that -sweat of his brow in which he ate his scanty bread in the Edinburgh -garret. Where was there ever boyhood which had not visions of adventure -and dreams of strange countries? All that last winter, through which his -boy companion stole into his heart, recollections used to come suddenly -upon the uncommunicating Highlander of hours and fancies in his own -life, which he supposed he had long ago forgotten—hours among his own -hills, herding sheep, when he lay looking up at the skies, and entranced -by the heroic lore with which he was most familiar, thinking of David’s -well at Bethlehem, and the wine-press where Gideon thrashed his wheat, -and the desert waters where Moses led his people, and of all the -glorious unknown world beside, through which his path must lie to the -Holy Land. Want, and labor, and the steady, desperate aim, with which he -pushed through every obstacle towards the one goal of his ambition, had -obscured these visions in his mind, but Cosmo’s fresh boyhood woke them -by degrees, and the unusual and unexpected proposal lately made to him, -had thrilled the cooled blood in Cameron’s veins as he did not suppose -it could be thrilled. Ease, luxury (to him), and gratification in the -meantime, with a reserve fund great enough to carry him through a -session without any extra labor. Why did he hesitate? He hesitated -simply because it might put off for six months—possibly for a year—the -accomplishment of his own studies and the gaining of that end, which was -not a certain living, however humble, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> merely a license to preach, -and his chance with a hundred others of a presentation to some poor -rural parish, or a call from some chapel of ease. But he did hesitate -long and painfully. He feared, in his austere self-judgment, to prefer -his own pleasure to the work of God, and it was only when his -boy-favorite came back again and threw all his fervid youthful influence -into the scale, that Nature triumphed with Cameron, and that he began to -permit himself to remember that, toilworn as he was, he was still young, -and that the six months’ holiday might, after all, be well expended. The -very morning after Cosmo’s arrival, after lying awake thinking of it -half the night, he had gone to the father of his would-be-pupil to -explain the condition on which he would accept the charge, which was, -that Cosmo might be permitted to join the little party. Cameron’s patron -was a Highlander, like himself—obstinate, one-sided, and imperious. He -did not refuse the application. He only issued instant orders that Cosmo -should be presented to him without delay, that he might judge of his -fitness as a traveling companion—and Cameron left him, pledged, if his -decision should be favorable, to accept the office.</p> - -<p>The next day was a great day in Edinburgh—an almost universal holiday, -full of flags, processions, and all manner of political rejoicings—the -Reform Jubilee. Cosmo plunged into the midst of it with all the zeal of -a young politician and all the zest of a school-boy, and was whirled -about by the crowd through all its moods and phases, through the heat, -and the dust, and the sunshine, through the shouts and groans, the -applauses and the denunciations, to his heart’s content. He came in -breathless somewhere about midday, as he supposed, though in reality it -was late in the afternoon, to snatch a hurried morsel of the dinner -which Mrs. Purdie had vainly endeavored to keep warm for him, and to -leave a message for Cameron to be ready for him in the evening, to go -out and see the illumination. When Cosmo reappeared again, flushed, -tired, excited, yet perfectly ready to begin once more, it was already -darkening towards night. Cameron was ready, and the boy was not to be -persuaded to lose the night and “the fun,” which already began to look -rather like mischief. The two companions, so unlike each other, made -haste to the Calton Hill, where a great many people had already preceded -them. Oh, dwellers on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> the plains! oh, cockney citizens!—spite of your -gas stars and your transparencies—your royal initials and festoons of -lamps, don’t suppose that you know any thing about an illumination; you -should have seen the lines of light stealing from slope to slope along -the rugged glory of that antique Edinburgh—the irregular gleams -descending into the valley, the golden threads, here and there broken, -that intersected the regular lines of the new town. Yonder tall houses, -seven stories high, where every man is a Reformer, and where the lights -come out in every window, star by star, in a flicker and glow, as if the -very weakness of those humble candles gave them the animation and -humanness of a breathing triumph—swelling higher towards the dark -Castle, over whose unlighted head the little moon looks down, a serene -spectator of all this human flutter and commotion—undulating down in -rugged breaks towards lowly Holyrood, sometimes only a thin line visible -beneath the roof—sometimes a whole house aglow. The people went and -came, in excited groups, upon the fragrant grass of the Calton Hill; -sometimes turning to the other side of the landscape, to see the more -sparely lighted streets of gentility, or the independent little sparkle -which stout little Leith in the distance threw out upon the Firth—but -always returning with unfailing fascination to this scene of magic—the -old town shining with its lamps and jewels, like a city in a dream.</p> - -<p>But it was not destined to be a perfectly calm summer evening’s -spectacle. The hum of the full streets grew riotous even to the -spectators on the hill. Voices rose above the hum, louder than peaceful -voices ever rise. The triumph was a popular triumph, and like every -other such, had its attendant mob of mischief. Shouts of rising clamor -and a noise of rushing footsteps ran through the busy streets—then came -a sharp rattle and peal like a discharge of musketry. What was it? The -crowd on the hill poured down the descent, in fright, in excitement, in -precaution—some into the mischief, some eager to escape out of it. -“It’s the sodgers,” “it’s the police,” “it’s the Tories,” shouted the -chorus of the crowd—one suggestion after another raising the fury of -some and the terror of others; again a rattling, dropping, continued -report—one after another, with rushes of the crowd between, and -perpetual changes of locality in the sound, which at last indicated its -nature beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> mistake. It was no interference of authority—no firing -of “the sodgers.” It was a sound less tragic, yet full of mischief—the -crash of unilluminated windows, the bloodless yet violent revenge of the -excited mob.</p> - -<p>The sound—the swell—the clamor—the tramp of feet—the shouts—the -reiterated volleys, now here, now there, in constant change and -progress, the silent flicker and glow of the now neglected lights, the -hasty new ones thrust into exposed windows, telling their story of -sudden alarm and reluctance, and above all the pale, serene sky, against -which the bold outline of Arthur’s Seat stood out as clear as in the -daylight, and the calm, unimpassioned shining of the little moon, -catching the windows of the Castle and church beneath with a glimmer of -silver, made altogether a scene of the most singular excitement and -impressiveness. But Cosmo Livingstone had forgotten that he was a -poet—he was only a boy—a desperate, red-hot Radical—a friend of the -people. Despite all Cameron’s efforts, the boy dragged him into the -crowd, and hurried him along to the scene of action. The rioters by this -time were spreading everywhere, out of the greater streets into the calm -of the highest respectability, where not one window in a dozen was -lighted, and where many had closed their shutters in defiance—far to -the west in the moonlight, where the illuminations of the old town were -invisible, and where wealth and conservatism dwelt together. Breathless, -yet dragging his grave companion after him, Cosmo rushed along one of -the dimmest and stateliest of these streets. The lad leaped back again -into the heart of a momentary fancy, which was already old and -forgotten, though it had been extremely interesting a month ago. He -cried “Desirée!” to himself, as he rushed in the wake of the rioters -through Moray Place. He did not know which was the house, yet followed -vaguely with an instinct of defense and protection. In one of the houses -some women appeared, timidly putting forward candles in the highest line -of windows; perhaps out of exasperation at this cowardice, perhaps from -mere accident, some one among the crowd discharged a volley of stones -against one of the lower range. There was a moment’s pause, and it -remained doubtful whether this lead was to be followed, when suddenly -the door of the house was thrown open, and a girl appeared upon the -threshold, distinctly visible against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> the strong light from the hall. -Though Cosmo sprang forward with a bound, he could not hear what she -said, but she rushed down on the broad step, and made a vehement address -to the rioters, with lively motions of her hands, and a voice that -pierced through their rough voices like a note of music. This lasted -only a moment; in another the door had closed behind her with a loud -echo, and all was dark again. Where was she? Cosmo pushed through the -crowd in violent excitement, thrusting them away on every side with -double strength. Yes, there she stood upon the step, indignant, -vehement, with her little white hands clasped together, and her eyes -flashing, from the rioters before her to the closed door behind.</p> - -<p>“You English!—you are cowards!” cried the violent little heroine; “you -do not fight like men, with balls and swords—you throw pebbles, like -children—you wound women—and when one dares to go to speak to the -madmen, she is shut out into the crowd!”</p> - -<p>“We’re no’ English, missie, and naebody meant to hurt you; chap at the -door for her, yin o’ you lads—and let the poor thing alone—she’s a -very good spirit of her ain. I’m saying, open the door,” cried one of -the rioters, changing his soothing tone to a loud demand, as he shook -the closed door violently. By this time Cosmo was by the little -Frenchwoman’s side.</p> - -<p>“I know her,” cried Cosmo, “they’ll open when you’re past—pass on—it’s -a school—a housefull of women—do you mean to say you would break a -lady’s windows that has nothing to do with it?—pass on!—is that sense, -or honor, or courage? is that a credit to the Bill, or to the country? -I’ll take care of the young lady. Do you not see they think you robbers, -or worse? They’ll not open till you pass on.”</p> - -<p>“He’s in the right of it there—what are ye a’ waiting for?” cried some -one in advance. The throng moved on, leaving a single group about the -door, but this little incident was enough to damp them. Moray Place -escaped with much less sacrifice of glass and temper than might have -been looked for—while poor little Desirée, subsiding out of her -passion, leaned against the pillar of the inhospitable door, crying -bitterly, and sobbing little exclamations of despair in her own tongue, -which sounded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> sweet to Cosmo’s ear, though he did not know what they -were.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle Desirée, don’t be afraid,” cried the boy, blushing in the -dark. “I saw you once with Joanna Huntley—I’m a friend. Nobody will -meddle with you. When they see these fellows gone, they’ll open the -door.”</p> - -<p>“And I despise them!” cried Desirée, suddenly suspending her crying; -“they will shut me out in the crowd for fear of themselves. I despise -them! and see here!”</p> - -<p>A stone had struck her on the temple; it was no great wound, but Desirée -was shocked and excited, and in a heroic mood.</p> - -<p>“And they will leave me here,” cried the little Frenchwoman, -pathetically, with renewed tears; “though it is my mother’s country, and -I meant to love it, they shut me out among strangers, and no one cares. -Ah, they would not do so in France! there they do not throw stones at -women—they kill men!”</p> - -<p>Cosmo was horrified by the blow, and deeply impressed by the heroics. -The boy blushed with the utmost shame for his townsmen and -co-politicians. He thought the girl a little Joan of Arc affronted by a -mob.</p> - -<p>“But it was accident; and every man would be overpowered with shame,” -cried Cosmo, while meanwhile Cameron, who had followed him, knocked -soberly and without speaking, at the door.</p> - -<p>After a little interval, the door was opened by the mistress of the -school, a lady of grave age and still graver looks; a couple of -women-servants in the hall were defending themselves eagerly.</p> - -<p>“I was up stairs, and never heard a word of it, mum,” said one. “Eh, it -wasna me!” cried another; “the French Miss flew out upon the steps, and -the door just clashed behind her; it was naebody’s blame but her ain.”</p> - -<p>In the midst of these self-exculpatory addresses, the mistress of the -house held the door open.</p> - -<p>“Come in, Mademoiselle Desirée,” she said gravely.</p> - -<p>The excited little Frenchwoman was not disposed to yield so quietly.</p> - -<p>“Madame, I have been wounded, I have been shut out, I have been left -alone in the crowd!” cried Desirée; “I demand of you to do me -justice—see, I bleed! One of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> <i>vauriens</i> struck me through the -window with a stone, and the door has been closed upon me. I have stood -before all the crowd alone!”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry for it, my dear,” said the lady, coldly; “come in—you ought -never to have gone to the door, or exposed yourself; young ladies do not -do so in this country. Pray come in, Mademoiselle Desirée. I am sorry -you are hurt—and, gentlemen, we are much obliged to you—good night.”</p> - -<p>For the girl, half-reluctantly, half-indignantly, had obeyed her -superior, and the door was calmly closed in the faces of Cosmo and -Cameron, who stood together on the steps. Cosmo was highly incensed and -wrathful. He could have had the heart to plunge into that cold, proper, -lighted hall, to snatch the little heroine forth, and carry her off like -a knight of romance.</p> - -<p>“Do you hear how that woman speaks to her?” he cried, indignantly.</p> - -<p>Cameron grasped his arm and drew him away.</p> - -<p>“She’s French!” said the elder man, laconically, and without any -enthusiasm; “and not to anger you, Cosmo, the lady is perfectly right.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Cosmo</span> went home that evening much excited by his night’s adventures. -Mrs. Payne, of Moray Place, was an ogre in the boy’s eyes, the Giantess -Despair, holding bewitched princesses in vile durance and -subjection—and Desirée, with the red mark upon her pretty forehead, -with her little white hands clasped together, and her black eyes -sparkling, was nothing less than a heroine. Cosmo could not forget the -pretty attitude, the face glowing with resentment and girlish boldness; -nor the cold gravity of the voice which bade her enter, and the -unsympathetic disapproval in the lady’s face. He could not rest for -thinking of it when he got home. In his new feeling of importance and -influence as a person privileged to address the public, his first idea -was to call upon Mrs. Payne in the morning, by way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> of protector to -Desirée, to explain how the whole matter occurred; but on further -thoughts Cosmo resolved to write a very grave and serious letter on the -subject, vindicating the girl, and pointing out, in a benevolent way, -the danger of repressing her high spirit harshly.</p> - -<p>As soon as he was alone, he set about carrying out this idea in an -epistle worthy the pages of the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i>, and written with -a solemn authority which would have become an adviser of eighty instead -of eighteen. He wrote it out in his best hand, put it up carefully, and -resolved to leave it himself in the morning, lest the post (letters were -dear in those days) might miscarry with so important a document. But -Cosmo, who was much worn out, slept late in the morning, so late that -Cameron came into his room, and saw the letter before he was up. It -excited the curiosity of the Highlander, and Cosmo, somewhat shyly, -admitted him to the privilege of reading it. It proved too much, -however, for the gravity of his friend; and, vexed and ashamed at last, -though by no means convinced the lad tore it in bits, and threw it into -the fire-place. Cameron kept him occupied all day, breaking out, -nevertheless, into secret chuckles of amusement now and then, which it -was very difficult to find a due occasion for; and Cosmo was not even -left to himself long enough to pass the door of the house in Moray -Place, or to ask after the “wound” of his little heroine. He did the -only thing which remained possible to him, he made the incident into a -copy of verses, which he sent to the <i>North British Courant</i>, and which -duly appeared in that enlightened newspaper—though whether it ever -reached the eyes of Desirée, or touched the conscience of the -schoolmistress by those allusions which, though delicately vailed, were -still, Cosmo flattered himself, perfectly unmistakable by the chief -actors in the scene, the boy could not tell.</p> - -<p>These days of holiday flew, however, as holidays will fly. Cameron’s -Highland patron had Cosmo introduced to him, and consented that his son -should travel in the company of the son of “Mrs. Livingstone, of -Norlaw,” and the lad went home, full of plans for his journey, to which -the Mistress as yet had given only a very vague and general consent, and -of which she scarcely still understood the necessity. When Cosmo came -home, he had the mid-chamber allotted to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> as a study, and went to -work with devotion. The difficulty was rather how to choose between the -narrative in ballad verse, the spirited dramatic sketch, and the -historical tale, than how to execute them, for Cosmo had that facility -of language, and even of idea, which many very youthful people, with a -“literary turn,” (they were very much less common in those days) often -possess, to the half-amusement, half-admiration of their seniors and -their own intense confusion in maturer days. Literature was not then -what it is now, the common resource of most well-educated young men, who -do not know what else to do with themselves. It was still a rare glory -in that rural district where the mantle of Sir Walter lay only over the -great novelist’s grave, and had descended upon nobody’s shoulders; and -as Cosmo went on with his venture, the Mistress, glowing with -mother-pride and ambition, hearing the little bits of the -“sketch"—eighteen is always dramatical—which seemed, to her loving -ears, melodious, and noble, and life-like, almost above comparison, -became perfectly willing to consent to any thing which was likely to -perfect this gift of magic. “Though I canna weel see what better they -could have,” she said to herself, as she went down from Cosmo’s study, -wiping her eyes. Cosmo’s muse had sprung, fully equipped, like Minerva, -into a glorious existence—at least, so his mother, and so, too, if he -had permitted himself to know his own sentiments—perhaps also Cosmo -thought.</p> - -<p>The arrangement was concluded, at last, on the completion of Cosmo’s -article. Cameron and his young pupil were to start in August; and the -Mistress herself went into Edinburgh to buy her boy-author the handiest -of portmanteaus, and every thing else which her limited experience -thought needful for him; the whole country-side heard of his intended -travels, and was stirred with wonder and no small amount of derision. -The farmers’ wives wondered what the world was coming to, and their -husbands shook their heads over the folly of the widow, who would ruin -her son for work all his days. The news was soon carried to Melmar, -where Mr. Huntley by no means liked to hear it, where Patricia turned up -her little nose with disgust, and where Joanna wished loudly that she -was going too, and announced her determination to intrust Cosmo with a -letter to Oswald. Even in the manse, the intelligence created a little -ferment. Dr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> Logan connected it vaguely—he could not quite tell -how—with the “Bill,” which the excellent minister feared would -revolutionize every thing throughout the country, and confound all the -ranks and degrees of social life; and shook his head over the idea of -Cosmo Livingstone, who had only been one session at college, and was but -eighteen, writing in a magazine.</p> - -<p>“Depend upon it, Katie, my dear, it’s an unnatural state of things,” -said the Doctor, whose literature was the literature of the previous -century, and who thought Cosmo’s pretensions unsafe for the stability of -the country.</p> - -<p>And sensible Katie, though she smiled, felt still a little doubtful -herself, and, in her secret heart, thought of Huntley gone away to labor -at the other end of the world, while his boy-brother tasted the sweets -of luxury and idleness in an indulgence so unusual to his station.</p> - -<p>“Poor Huntley!” said Katie to herself, with a gentle recollection of -that last scene in the manse parlor, when she mended her children’s -stockings and smiled at the young emigrant, as he wondered what changes -there might be there when he came back. Katie put up her hand very -softly to her eyes, and stood a long time in the garden looking down the -brae into the village—perhaps only looking at little Colin, who was -visible amid some cottage boys on the green bank of Tyne—perhaps -thinking of Cosmo, who was going “to the Continent,"—perhaps traveling -still further in her thoughts, over a big solitary sea; but Katie said -“nothing to nobody,” and was as blythe and busy in the manse parlor when -the minister rejoined her, as though she had not entered with a little -sigh.</p> - -<p>All this time Cosmo never said a word to his mother of Mary of Melmar; -but he leaped up into the old window of the castle every evening to -dream his dream, and a hundred times, in fancy, saw a visionary figure, -pale, and lovely, and tender, coming home with him to claim her own. He, -too, looked over the woods of Melmar as his brother had done, but with -feelings very different—for no impulse of acquisition quickened in the -breast of Cosmo. He thought of them as the burden of a romance, the -chorus of a ballad—the inheritance to which the long lost Mary must -return; and while the Mistress stocked his new portmanteau, and made -ready his traveling wardrobe, the lad was hunting everywhere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> with -ungrateful pertinacity for scraps of information to guide him in this -search which his mother had not the most distant idea was the real -motive of his journey. If she had known it, scarcely even the discovery -of her husband’s longing after his lost love could have affected the -Mistress with more overpowering bitterness and disgust. Marget shut the -door when Cosmo came to question her on the subject, and made a vehement -address to him under her breath.</p> - -<p>“Seek her, if you please,” said Marget, in a violent whisper; “but if -your mother ever kens this—sending out her son into the world with a’ -this pride and pains for <i>her</i> sake—I’d rather the auld castle fell on -our heads, Cosmo Livingstone, and crushed every ane of us under a -different stane!”</p> - -<p>“Hush, Marget! my mother is not unjust,” said Cosmo, with some -displeasure.</p> - -<p>“She’s no’ unjust; but she’ll no’ be second to a stranger woman that has -been the vexation of her life,” said Marget, “spier where you like, -laddie. Ye dinna ken, the like of you, how things sink into folks’ -hearts, and bide for years. I ken naething about Mary of Melmar—neither -her married name nor naught else—spier where ye like, but dinna spier -at me.”</p> - -<p>But it did not make very much matter where Cosmo made inquiry. Never was -disappearance more entire and complete than that of Mary of Melmar. He -gathered various vague descriptions of her, not quite so poetical in -sentiment as Jaacob’s, but quite as confusing. She was “a great toast -among a’ the lads, and the bonniest woman in the country-side"—she was -“as sweet as a May morning"—she was “neither big nor little, but just -the best woman’s size"—she was, in short, every thing that was pretty, -indefinite, and perplexing. And with no clue but this, Cosmo set out, on -a windy August morning, on his travels, to improve his mind, and write -for the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i>, as his mother thought—and to seek for -the lost heir of the Huntleys, as he himself and the Laird of Melmar -knew.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Oh</span>, papa,” cried Joanna Huntley, bursting into Melmar’s study like a -whirlwind, “they’re ill-using Desirée! they shut her out at the door -among a crowd, and they threw stones at her, and she might have been -killed but for Cosmo Livingstone. I’ll no’ stand it! I’ll rather go and -take up a school and work for her mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“What’s all this?” said Melmar, looking up in amazement from his -newspaper; “another freak about this Frenchwoman—what is she to you?”</p> - -<p>“She’s my friend,” said Joanna, “I never had a friend before, and I -never want to have another. You never saw anybody like her in all your -life; Melmar’s no’ good enough for her, if she could get it for her very -own—but I think she would come here for me.”</p> - -<p>“That would be kind,” said Mr. Huntley, taking a somewhat noisy pinch of -snuff; “but if that’s all you have to tell me, it’ll keep. Go away and -bother your mother; I’m busy to-day.”</p> - -<p>“You know perfectly well that mamma’s no’ up,” said Joanna, “and if she -was up, what’s the use of bothering <i>her</i>? Now, papa, I’ll tell you—I -often think you’re a very, very ill man—and Patricia says you have a -secret, and I know what keeps Oswald year after year away—but I’ll -forgive you every thing if you’ll send for Desirée here.”</p> - -<p>“You little monkey!” cried Melmar, swinging his arm through the air with -a menaced blow. It did not fall on Joanna’s cheek, however, and perhaps -was not meant to fall—which was all the better for the peace of the -household—though feelings of honor or delicacy were not so -transcendentally high in Melmar as to have made a parental chastisement -a deadly affront to the young lady, even had it been inflicted. “You -little brat!” repeated the incensed papa, growing red in the face, “how -dare you come to me with such a speech—how dare you bother me with a -couple of fools like Oswald and Patricia?—begone this moment, or -I’ll—” -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> -“No, you will not, papa,” interrupted Joanna. “Oswald’s no’ a fool—and -I’m no’ a monkey nor a brat, nor little either—and if any thing was to -happen I would never forsake you, whatever you had done—but I like -Desirée better than ever I liked any one—and she knows every thing—and -she could teach me better than all the masters and mistresses in -Edinburgh—and if you don’t send for her here to be my governess, I may -go to school, but I’ll never learn a single thing again!”</p> - -<p>Melmar was perfectly accustomed to be bullied by his youngest child; he -had no ideal of feminine excellence to be shocked by Joanna’s rudeness, -and in general rather enjoyed it, and took a certain pleasure in the -disrespectful straightforwardness of the girl, who in reality was the -only member of his family who had any love for him. His momentary -passion soon evaporated—he laughed and shook his closed hand at her, no -longer threateningly.</p> - -<p>“If you like to grow up a dunce, Joan,” he said, with a chuckle, “what -the deevil matter is’t to me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, but it is, though,” said Joanna. “I know better—you like -people to come to Melmar as well as Patricia does—and Patricia never -can be very good for any thing. She canna draw, though she pretends—and -she canna play, and she canna sing, and I could even dance better -myself. It’s aye like lessons to see her and hear her—and nobody cares -to come to see mamma—it’s no’ her fault, for she’s always in bed or on -the sofa; but if <i>I</i> like to learn—do you hear, papa?—and I would like -if Desirée was here—<i>I</i> know what Melmar might be!”</p> - -<p>It was rather odd to look at Joanna, with her long, angular, girl’s -figure, her red hair, and her bearing which promised nothing so little -as the furthest off approach to elegance, and to listen to the -confidence and boldness of this self-assertion—even her father -laughed—but, perhaps because he was her father, did not fully perceive -the grotesque contrast between her appearance and her words; on the -contrary, Melmar was considerably impressed with these last, and put -faith in them, a great deal more faith than he had ever put in -Patricia’s prettiness and gentility, cultivated as these had been in the -refined atmosphere of the Clapham school.</p> - -<p>“You are a vain little blockhead, Joan,” said Mr. Huntley, “which I -scarcely looked for—but it’s in the nature of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> woman. When Aunt Jean -leaves you her fortune, we’ll see what a grand figure you’ll make in the -country. A French governess, forsooth! the bairn’s crazy. I’ll get her -to teach <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>“She could teach you a great many things, papa,” said Joanna, with -gravity, “so you need not laugh. I’m going to write to her this moment, -and say she’s to come here—and you’re to write to Mrs. Payne and tell -her what you’ll give, and how she’s to come, and every thing. Desirée is -not pleased with Mrs. Payne.”</p> - -<p>“What a pity!” said Melmar, laughing; “and possibly, Joan—you ought to -consider—Desirée might not be pleased with me.”</p> - -<p>“You are kind whiles—when you like, papa,” said Joanna, taking this -possibility into serious consideration, and fixing her sharp black eyes -upon her father, with half an entreaty, half a defiance.</p> - -<p>Somehow this appeal, which he did not expect, was quite a stroke of -victory, and silenced Melmar. He laughed once more in his loud and not -very mirthful fashion, and the end of the odd colloquy was, that Joanna -conquered, and that, to the utter amazement of mother, sister, and Aunt -Jean, the approaching advent of a French governess for Joanna became a -recognized event in the house. Patricia spent one good long summer -afternoon crying over it.</p> - -<p>“No one ever thought of getting a governess for me!” sobbed Patricia, -through a deluge of spiteful tears.</p> - -<p>And Aunt Jean put up her spectacles from her eyes, and listened to the -news which Joanna shouted into her ear, and shook her head.</p> - -<p>“If she’s a Papist it’s a tempting of Providence,” said Aunt Jean, “and -they’re a’ Papists, if they’re no’ infidels. She may be nice enough and -bonnie enough, but I canna approve of it, Joan. I never had any broo of -foreigners a’ my days. Deseery? fhat ca’ you her name? I like names to -be Christian-like, for my part. Did ever ye hear that, or the like o’ -that, in the Scriptures? Na, Joan, it’s very far from likely she should -please me.”</p> - -<p>“Her name is <i>Desirée</i>, and it means desired; it’s like a Bible name for -that,” cried Joanna. “My name means nothing at all that ever I heard -of—it’s just a copy of a boy’s—and I would not have copied a man if -anybody had asked me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<p>“What’s that the bairn says?” said Aunt Jean. “I like old-fashioned -plain names, for my part, but that’s to be looked for in an old woman; -but I can tell you, Joan, I’m never easy in my mind about French -folk—and never can tell fha they may turn out to be; and ’deed in this -house, it’s no canny; and I never have ony comfort in my mind about your -brother Oswald, kenning faur he was.”</p> - -<p>“Why is it not canny in this house, Aunt Jean?” asked Joanna.</p> - -<p>“Eh, fhat’s that?” said the old woman, who heard perfectly, “fhat’s no -canny? just the Pope o’ Rome, Joan, and a’ his devilries; and they’re as -fu’ o’ wiles, every ane, as if ilka bairn was bred up a priest. Oh, fie, -na! you ma ca’ her desired, if you like, but she’s no’ desired by me.”</p> - -<p>“Desired!” cried Patricia; “a little creature of a governess, that is -sure always to be scheming and trying to be taken notice of, and making -herself as good as we are. It’s just a great shame! it’s nothing else! -no one ever <i>thought</i> of a governess for me. But it’s strange how I -always get slighted, whatever happens. I don’t think any one in the -world cares for me!”</p> - -<p>“Fhat’s Patricia greeting about?” said Aunt Jean, “eh, bairns! if I were -as young as you I would save up a’ my tears for real troubles. You’ve -never kent but good fortune a’ your days, but that’s no’ to say ill -fortune can never come. Whisht then, ye silly thing! I can see you, -though I canna hear you. Fhat’s she greeting for, Joan? eh! speak -louder, I canna hear.”</p> - -<p>“Because Desirée is coming,” shouted Joan.</p> - -<p>“Aweel, aweel, maybe I’m little better mysel’,” said the old woman. “I’m -just a prejudiced auld wife, I like my ain country best—but’s no malice -and envie with me; fhat ails Patricia at her for a stranger she doesna -ken? She’s keen enough about strangers when they come in her ain way. -You’re a wild lassie, Joan, you’re no’ just fhat I would like to see -you—but there’s nae malice in <i>you</i>, so far as I ken.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Auntie Jean,” cried Joanna, with enthusiasm, “wait till you see -what I shall be when Desirée comes!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> a little time Desirée came to Melmar. She had been placed in -charge of Mrs. Payne by an English lady, who had brought her from her -home in France with the intention of making a nursery governess of the -little girl, but who, finding her either insufficiently trained or not -tractable enough, had transferred her, with the consent of her mother, -to the Edinburgh boarding-school as half pupil, half teacher. When -Melmar’s proposal came, Desirée, still indignant at her present ruler, -accepted it eagerly, declared herself quite competent to act -independently, and would not hear of anybody being consulted upon the -matter. She herself, the little heroine said, with some state, would -inform her mother, and she made her journey accordingly half in spite of -Mrs. Payne, who, however, was by no means ill pleased to transfer so -difficult a charge into other hands. Desirée arrived alone on an August -afternoon, by the coach, in Kirkbride. The homely little Scotch village, -so unlike any thing she had seen before, yet so pretty, dwelling on the -banks of its little brown stream, pleased the girl’s fanciful -imagination mightily. Two or three people—among them the servant from -Melmar who had come to meet her—stood indolently in the sultry sunshine -about the Norlaw Arms. In the shadow of the corner, bowed Jaacob’s weird -figure toiled in the glow of the smithy. One or two women were at the -door of the cottage which contained the widow’s mangle, and the opposite -bank lay fair beneath the light, with that white gable of the manse -beaming down among its trees like a smile. The wayward, excitable little -Frenchwoman had a tender little heart beneath all her vivacity and -caprices. Somehow her eyes sought instinctively that white house on the -brae, and instinctively the little girl thought of her mother and -sister. Ah, yes, this surely, and not Edinburgh, was her mother’s -country! She had never seen it before, yet it seemed familiar to her; -they could be at home here. And thoughts of acquiring that same white -house, and bringing her mother to it in triumph, entered the wild little -imagination. Women make fortunes in France now and then; she did not -know any better, and she was a child. She vowed to herself to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> buy the -white house on the brae and bring mamma there.</p> - -<p>Melmar pleased Desirée, but not so much; she thought it a great deal too -square and like a prison; and Patricia did not please her at all, as she -was not very slow to intimate.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle does not love me, Joanna,” she said to her pupil as they -wandered about the banks of Tyne together, “to see every thing,” as -Joanna said before they began their lessons; “and I never can love any -one who does not love me.”</p> - -<p>“Patricia does not love anybody,” cried Joanna, “unless maybe herself, -and not herself either—right; but never mind, Desirée, <i>I</i> love you, -and by-and-by so will Aunt Jean; and oh! if Oswald would only come -home!”</p> - -<p>“I hope he will not while I am here,” said Desirée, with a little frown; -“see! how pretty the sun streams among the trees; but I do not like -Melmar so well as that white house at the village; I should like to live -there.”</p> - -<p>“At the manse?” cried Joanna.</p> - -<p>“What is the manse? it is not a great house; would they sell it?” said -Desirée.</p> - -<p>“Sell it!” Joanna laughed aloud in the contempt of superior knowledge; -“but it’s only because you don’t know; they could as well sell the -church as the manse.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want the church, however—it’s ugly,” said Desirée; “but if I -had money I should buy that white house, and bring mamma and Maria -there.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, Desirée! your mamma is English—I heard you say so,” cried Joanna.</p> - -<p>“<i>Eh bien!</i> did I ever tell you otherwise?” said the little Frenchwoman, -impatiently; “she would love that white house on the hill.”</p> - -<p>“Did <i>she</i> teach you to speak English?” asked Joanna, “because everybody -says you speak so well for a Frenchwoman—and I think so myself; and -papa said you looked quite English to him, and he thought he knew some -one like you, and you were not like a foreigner at all.”</p> - -<p>The pretty little shoulders gave an immediate shrug, which demonstrated -their nationality with emphasis.</p> - -<p>“Every one must think what every one pleases,” said Desirée. “Who, then, -lives in that white house? I remember<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> mamma once spoke of such a house, -with a white gable and a great tree. Mamma loves rivers and trees. I -think, when she was a child, she must have been here.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” asked Joanna, opening her eyes wide.</p> - -<p>“I know not why,” said Desirée, still with a little impatience, as she -glanced hurriedly round with a sudden look of half-confused -consideration; “but either some one has told me of this place, or I have -been here in a dream.”</p> - -<p>It was the loveliest dell of Tyne. The banks rose so high on either -side, and were so richly dotted with trees, that it was only here and -there, through breaks in the foliage, that you could catch a momentary -glimpse of the brown river, foaming over a chance rock, or sparkling -under some dropping line of sunshine which reached it, by sweet caprice -and artifice of nature, through an avenue of divided branches. The path -where the two girls stood together was at a considerable height above -the stream; and close by them, in a miniature ravine, thickly fringed -with shrubs, poured down a tiny, dazzling waterfall, white as foam -against the background of dark soil and rocks, the special feature of -the scene. Desirée stood looking at it with her little French hands -clasped together, and the chiming of the water woke strange fancies in -her mind. Had she seen it somewhere, in fairy-land or in dreams?—or had -she heard of it in that time which was as good as either—when she was a -child? She stood quite silent, saying nothing to Joanna, who soon grew -weary of this pause, complimentary as it might be. Desirée was confused -and did not know what to make of it. She said no more of the white -house, and not much more of her own friends, and kept wondering to -herself as she went back, answering Joanna’s questions and talking of -their future lessons, what strange sentiment of recollection could have -moved her in sight of that waterfall. It was very hard to make it out.</p> - -<p>And no doubt it was because Desirée’s mother was English that Aunt Jane -could not keep up her prejudice against the foreigner, but gradually -lapsed to Joanna’s opinion, and day by day fell in love with the little -stranger. She was not a very, very good girl—she was rather the -reverse, if truth must be told. She had no small amount of pretty little -French affectations, and when she was naughty fell back upon her own -language, especially with Patricia, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> Clapham French was not much -different from the French of Stratford-atte-Bowe, and who began with -vigor and reality to entertain, not a feeble prejudice but a hearty -dislike, to the invader. Neither did she do what good governesses are so -like to do, at least in novels—she did not take the place of her -negligent daughters with the invalid Mrs. Huntley, nor remodel the -disorderly household. Sometimes, indeed, out of pure hatred to things -ugly, Desirée put a sofa-cover straight, or spread down a corner of the -crumb-cloth; but she did not captivate the servants, and charm the young -ladies into good order and good behavior; she exercised no very -astonishing influence in that way over even Joanna. She was by no means -a model young lady in herself, and had no special authority, so far as -she was aware of. She taught her pupil, who was one half bigger than -herself, to speak French very tolerably, and to practice a certain time -every day. She took charge of Joanna’s big hands, and twisted, and -coaxed, and pinched them into a less clumsy thump, upon the trembling -keys of the piano. She mollified her companion’s manners even -unconsciously, and suggested improvements in the red hair and brown -merino frock; but having done this, Desirée was not aware of having any -special charge of the general morals and well-being of the family; she -was rather a critic of the same, indeed, but she was not a Mentor nor a -reformer. She obeyed what rules there were in the sloven house—she -shrugged her little French shoulders at the discomforts and quarrels. -She sometimes pouted, or curled her little disdainful upper lip; but she -took nobody’s part save Joanna’s, whom she always defended manfully. It -was not a particularly brilliant or entertaining life for Desirée. -Melmar himself, with his grizzled red hair, and heated face; Mrs. -Huntley, who sometimes never left her room all day, and who, when she -did, lay on a sofa; Patricia, who was spiteful, and did her utmost to -shut out both Joanna and Desirée when any visitors came to break the -tedium—were not remarkably delightful companions; and as the winter -closed in, and there were long evenings, and less pleasure out of -doors—winter, when all the fires looked half choked, and would not -burn, and when a perennial fog seemed to lie over Melmar, did not -increase the comforts of the house. Yet it happened that Desirée was by -no means unhappy; perhaps at sixteen it is hard to be really unhappy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> -even when one feels one ought, unless one has some very positive reason -for it. Joanna and she sat together at the scrambling breakfast, which -Patricia was always too late for; then they went to the music lesson, -which tried Joanna’s patience grievously, but which Desirée managed to -get some fun out of, and endured with great philosophy. Then they read -together, and the unfortunate Joanna inked her fingers over her French -exercise. In the afternoon they walked—save when Joanna was compelled -to accompany her sister “in the carriage,” a state ceremonial in which -the little governess was never privileged to share; and after their -return from their walk, Desirée taught her pupil all manner of fine -needleworks, in which she was herself more than usually learned, and -which branch of knowledge was highly prized by Aunt Jean, and even by -Mrs. Huntley. Such was the course of study pursued by Joanna under the -charge of her little governess of sixteen.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">A French</span> governess!—she is not French, though she might be born in -France. Anybody might be born in France,” said Patricia, with some -scorn; “but her mother was Scotch—no, not English, Joanna, I know -better—just some Scotchwoman from the country; I should not wonder if -she was a little impostor, after all.”</p> - -<p>“You had better take care,” cried Joanna, “I’m easier affronted than -Desirée; you had better not say much more to me.”</p> - -<p>“It is true though,” said Patricia, with triumph; “she took quite a -fancy to Kirkbride, when she came first, and was sure she had heard of -the Kelpie waterfall. <i>I</i> expect it will turn out some poor family from -this quarter that have gone to France and changed their name. Joanna may -be as foolish about her as she likes, but <i>I</i> know she never was a true -Frenchwoman by her look. I have seen French people many a time in -England.”</p> - -<p>“Yet you always look as if you would like to eat Desirée when she speaks -to you in French,” said Joanna, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> spice of malice; “if you knew -French people, you should like the language.”</p> - -<p>“Low people don’t pronounce as ladies do,” said Patricia. “Perhaps she -was not even born in France, for all she says—and I am <i>quite</i> sure her -mother was some country girl from near Kirkbride.”</p> - -<p>“What is that you say?” said Melmar, who was present, and whose -attention had at last been caught by the discussion.</p> - -<p>“I say Joanna’s French governess is not French, papa. Her mother was a -Scotchwoman and came from this country,” cried Patricia, eagerly. “I -think she belongs to some poor family who have gone abroad and changed -their name—perhaps her father was a poacher, or something, and had to -run away.”</p> - -<p>“And that is all because Desirée thinks she must have heard her mamma -speak of the Kelpie waterfall,” said Joanna; “because she thought she -knew it as soon as she saw it—that is all!—did you ever hear the like, -papa?”</p> - -<p>Melmar’s face grew redder, as was its wont when he was at all disturbed. -He laid down his paper.</p> - -<p>“She thought she knew the Kelpie, did she?—hum! and her mother is a -Scotchwoman—for that matter, so is yours. What is to be made of that, -eh, Patricia?”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> never denied where I belonged to,” said Patricia, reddening with -querulous anger; “and I did not speak to you, papa, so you need not take -the trouble to answer. But her mother <i>was</i> Scotch—and I do not believe -she is a proper Frenchwoman at all. I never did think so; and as for a -governess, Joanna could learn as much from mamma’s maid.”</p> - -<p>Joanna burst out immediately into a loud defense, and denunciation of -her sister. Melmar took no notice what, ever of their quarrel, but he -still grew redder in the face, twisted about his newspaper, got up and -walked to the window, and displayed a general uneasiness. He was -perfectly indifferent as to the tone and bearing of his daughters, but -he was not indifferent to what they said in this quarrel, which was all -about Desirée. Presently, however, both the voices ceased with some -abruptness. Melmar looked round with curiosity. Desirée herself had -entered the room, and what his presence had not even checked, her -presence put an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> end to. Desirée wore a brown merino frock, like Joanna, -with a little band and buckle round the waist, and sleeves which were -puffed out at the shoulders, and plain at the wrists, according to the -fashion of the time. It had no ornament whatever except a narrow binding -of velvet at the neck and sleeves, and was not so long as to hide the -handsome little feet, which were not in velvet slippers, but in stout -little shoes of patent leather, more suitable a great deal for Melmar, -and the place she held there. The said little feet came in lightly, yet -not noiselessly, and both the sisters turned with an immediate -acknowledgment of the stranger’s entrance. Patricia’s delicate pink -cheeks were flushed with anger, and Joanna looked eager and defiant, but -quarrels were so very common between them that Desirée took no notice of -this one. She came to a table near which Melmar was standing, and opened -a drawer in it to get Joanna’s needlework.</p> - -<p>“You promised to have—oh, such an impossible piece, done to-day!” said -Desirée, “and look, you naughty Joanna!—look here.”</p> - -<p>She shook out a delicate piece of embroidery as she spoke, with a merry -laugh. It was a highly-instructive bit of work, done in a regular -succession of the most delicate perfection and the utmost bungling, to -wit, Desirée’s own performance and the performance of her pupil. As the -little governess clapped her hands over it, Joanna drew near and put her -arms round the waist of her young teacher, overtopping her by all her -own red head and half her big shoulders.</p> - -<p>“I’ll never do it like you, Desirée,” said the girl, half in real -affection, half with the benevolent purpose of aggravating her sister. -“I’ll never do any thing so well as you, if I live to be as old as Aunt -Jean.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, then, you will need no governess,” said Desirée, “and if you did it -as well as I, now, you should not want me, Joanna. I shall leave it for -you there—and now it is time to come for one little half hour to the -music. Will mademoiselle do us the honor to come and listen? It shall be -only one little half hour.”</p> - -<p>“No, thank you! I don’t care to hear girls at their lessons—and -Joanna’s time is always so bad,” said the fretful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> Patricia. “Oh, I -can’t help having an ear! I can hear only too well, thank you, where I -am.”</p> - -<p>Desirée made a very slight smiling curtsey to her opponent, and pressed -Joanna’s arm lightly with her fingers to keep down the retort which -trembled on that young lady’s lips. Then they went away together to the -little supplementary musical lesson. Melmar had never turned round, nor -taken the slightest notice, but he observed, notwithstanding, not only -all that was done, but all that was looked and said, and it struck him, -perhaps for the first time, that the English of Desirée was perfectly -familiar and harmonious English, and that she never either paused for a -word nor translated the idiom of one tongue into the speech of another. -Uneasy suspicions began to play about his mind: he could scarcely say -what he feared, yet he feared something. The little governess was French -undeniably and emphatically—and yet she was not French, either, yet -bore an unexplainable something of familiarity and home-likeness which -had won for her the heart of Aunt Jean, and had startled himself -unawares from her first introduction to Melmar. He stood at the window, -looking out upon the blank, winterly landscape, the leafless trees in -the distance, the damp grass and evergreens near the door, as the -cheerful notes of Joanna’s music came stealing through the cold -passages. The music was not in bad time, and it was in good taste, for -Joanna was ambitious, and Desirée, though not an extraordinary musician -herself, kept her pupil to this study with the most tenacious -perseverance. As Melmar listened, vague thoughts, almost of fear, stole -over him. He had been a lawyer, and a lawyer of a low class, smart in -schemes and trickeries. He was ready to suspect everybody of cunning and -the mean cleverness of deceit. Perhaps this was a little spy whom he -fostered in his house. Perhaps her presence in the Edinburgh school was -a trick to attract Joanna, and her presence here a successful plot to -undermine and find out himself. His face grew redder still as he “put -things together;” and by the time the music ceased, Melmar had concocted -and found out (it is so easy to find out what one has concocted one’s -own self,) a very pretty little conspiracy. He <i>had</i> found it out, he -was persuaded, and it should go no further—trust him for that!</p> - -<p>Accordingly, when his daughter and her governess returned,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> Melmar paid -them a compliment upon their music, and was disposed to be friendly, as -it appeared. Finally, after he had exhausted such subjects of chat as -occurred to him, he got up, looking at Desirée, who was now busy with -her embroidery.</p> - -<p>“I rather think, mademoiselle, you have been more than three months -here,” said Melmar, “and I have been inconsiderate and ungallant enough -to forget the time. I’ll speak with you about that in my study, if -you’ll favor me by coming there. I never speak of business but in my own -room—eh, Joan? You got your thrashings there when you were young -enough. Where does mademoiselle give you them now?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be foolish, papa,” said Joanna, jerking her head aside as he -pinched her ear. “What do you want of Desirée? if it’s for Patricia, and -you’re going to teaze her, I’ll not let her go, whatever you say.”</p> - -<p>“And it is not quite three months, yet,” said Desirée, looking up with a -smile. “Monsieur is too kind, but it still wants a week of the time.”</p> - -<p>“Then, lest I should forget again when the week was over, we’ll settle -it now, mademoiselle,” said Melmar. Desirée rose immediately to follow -him. They went away through the long passage, he leading, suspicious and -stealthy, she going after him, with the little feet which rang frankly -upon the stones. Desirée thought the study miserable when she went into -it. She longed to throw open the window, to clear out the choked -fire—she did not wonder that her pupil’s papa had a heated face, even -before dinner; the wonder seemed how any one could breathe here.</p> - -<p>They had a conference of some duration, which gradually diverged from -Desirée’s little salary, which was a matter easily settled. Mr. Huntley -took an interest in her family. He asked a great many questions, which -the girl answered with a certain frankness and a certain reserve, the -frankness being her own, and the reserve attributable to a letter which -Desirée kept in her pocket, and beyond the instructions of which nothing -could have tempted her to pass. Mr. Huntley learned a great deal during -that interview, though not exactly what he expected and intended to -learn. The afternoon was darkening, and as he sat in the dubious light, -with the window and the yew-tree on the other side of him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> he became -more and more like the big, brindled, watchful cat, which he had so -great a tendency to resemble. Then he dismissed “mademoiselle” with a -kindly caution. He thought she had better not mention—not even to any -one in the house, that her mother was a Scotchwoman—as she was French -herself, he thought the less said about that the better—he would not -even speak of it much to Joanna, he thought, if she would take his -advice—it might injure her prospects in life—and with this fatherly -advice he sent Desirée away.</p> - -<p>When she was gone, he looked out stealthily for some one else, though he -had taken previous precautions to make sure that no one could listen. It -was Patricia for whom her father looked, poor little delicate Patricia, -who <i>would</i> steal about those stone-cold passages, and linger in all -manner of draughts at half-closed doors, to gain a little clandestine -information. When Melmar had watched a few minutes, he discovered her -stealing out of a little store-room close by, and pounced upon the poor -little stealthy, chilly figure. He did not care that the grasp of his -fingers hurt her delicate shoulders, and that her teeth chattered with -cold; he drew her roughly into the dusk of the study, where the pale -window and the black yew were by no means counterbalanced by any light -from the fire. Once here, Patricia began to vindicate herself, and -upbraid papa’s cruelty. Her father silenced her with a threatening -gesture.</p> - -<p>“At it again!” said Melmar; “what the deevil business have you with my -affairs? let me but catch you prying when there is any thing to learn, -and for all your airs, I’ll punish you! you little cankered elf! hold -your tongue, and hear what I have to say to you. If I hear another word -against that governess, French or no French—or if you try your hand at -aggravating her, as I know you have done, I’ll turn you out of this -house!”</p> - -<p>For once in her life Patricia was speechless; she made no answer, but -stood shivering in his grasp, with a hundred terrified malicious fancies -in her mind, not one of which would come to utterance. Melmar -proceeded:—</p> - -<p>“If anybody asks you who she is, or what she is, you can tell them <i>I</i> -know—which is more than you know, or she either—and if you let any -mortal suppose she’s slighted at Melmar, or give her ground to take -offense, or are the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> means of making her wish to leave this place—if it -should be midnight, or the depths of winter, I’ll turn you out of doors -that moment! Do you hear?”</p> - -<p>Patricia did hear, with sullen terror and wicked passion, but she did -not answer; and when she was released, fled to her own room, ready, out -of the mere impotence of her revengeful ill-humor to harm herself, since -she could not harm Desirée, and with all kinds of vile suspicions in her -mind—suspicions further from the reality than Melmar’s had been, and -still more miserable. When she came to herself a little, she cried and -made her eyes red, and got a headache, and the supernumerary maid was -dispatched up stairs to nurse her, and be tormented for the evening. -Suffering is very often vicarious in this world, and poor Jenny Shaw -bore the brunt which Desirée was not permitted to bear.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">I should</span> like to live here,” said Desirée, looking out of the window of -the manse parlor, with a little sigh.</p> - -<p>Katie Logan looked up at her with some little doubt. She had come by -herself to the manse, in advance of Joanna, who had been detained to -accompany her sister. The two girls had been invited some time before to -“take tea” at the manse—and Desirée had been very curious and -interested about her first visit to her white house on the hill. Now -that she had accomplished it, however, it subdued her spirit a little, -and gave the little Frenchwoman for once a considerable inclination to -get “low,” and cry. The house and the room were very unlike any house -she had ever known—yet they were so homelike that Desirée’s thoughts -grew tender. And Katie Logan looked at her doubtfully. Desirée’s -impulsive little heart had clung to Katie every time she saw her. She -was so sweet and neat—so modest and natural—so unlike Patricia and -Joanna, and all the womankind of that sloven house of Melmar. The girl, -who had a mother and an elder sister, and was far from home, yearned to -Katie—but the little mistress of the manse looked with doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> upon the -French governess—principally, to tell the truth, because she was -French, and Katie Logan, with all her good sense, was only a country -girl, and had but a very, very small experience of any world beyond -Kirkbride.</p> - -<p>“Mamma came from this country,” said Desirée, again, softly. She had a -letter in her pocket—rather a sentimental letter—from mamma, which -perhaps a wiser person might have smiled at a little—but it made -Desirée’s heart expand toward the places which mamma too had seen in her -youth, and remembered still.</p> - -<p>“Indeed! then you are a little bit Scotch, you are not all French,” said -Katie, brightening a little; “is it very long since your mamma went -away?—is she in France now? Is she likely to come back again?”</p> - -<p>Desirée shook her head.</p> - -<p>“I should like to be rich, and buy this house, and bring her here—I -love this house,” cried the girl.</p> - -<p>A little cloud came upon Katie’s face. She was jealous of any inference -that some time or other the manse might change hands. She could not bear -to think of that—principally because Katie had begun to find out with -painful anxiety and fear, that her father was growing old, that he felt -the opening chill of winter a great deal more than he used to do—and -that the old people in the village shook their heads, and said to -themselves that the minister was “failing” every time he passed their -doors.</p> - -<p>“This house can never be sold,” said Katie, briefly—even so briefly as -though the words were rather hard to say.</p> - -<p>“It is not like Melmar,” said Desirée. “I want the air and the sun to -come into that great house—it can not breathe—and how the people -breathe in it I do not know.”</p> - -<p>“But they are very kind people,” said Katie, quickly.</p> - -<p>Desirée lifted her black eyes and looked full at her—but Katie was -working and did not meet the look.</p> - -<p>“Joanna is fond of you,” said Desirée, “and I like her—and I am fond of -the old lady whom they call Aunt Jean.”</p> - -<p>This distinct summary of the amount of her affection for the household -amused Katie, who was half afraid of a governess-complaint against her -employers.</p> - -<p>“Do you like to be so far from home?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Like!” Desirée became suddenly vehement. “I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> like to live with -mamma—but,” cried the girl, “how could you ask me?—do not <i>you</i> know?”</p> - -<p>“I have no mother,” said Katie, very quietly; “boys are always eager to -leave home—girls might sometimes wish it too. Do you know Cosmo -Livingstone, whom you saw in Edinburgh, has gone abroad for no reason at -all that I know—and his brothers have both gone to work, and make their -fortunes if they can—and my little brothers speak already of what they -are going to do when they grow men—they will all go away.”</p> - -<p>“In this country, people always talk of making fortunes. I should like -to make a fortune too,” said Desirée, “but I do not know what to do.”</p> - -<p>“Girls never make fortunes,” said Katie, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Why?” cried the little governess, “but I wish it—yes, very -much—though I do not know how to do it; here I have just twenty pounds -a year. What should you do if you had no papa, and had to work for -yourself.”</p> - -<p>Katie rose from her chair in trouble and excitement.</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak so—you frighten me!” she cried, with an involuntary pang. -“I have all the children. You do not understand it—you must not speak -of <i>that</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Of what?” asked Desirée, with a little astonishment. But she changed -the subject with ready tact when she saw the painful color on Katie’s -face. “I should like mamma to see you,” she said in a vein of perfectly -natural and sincere flattery. “When I tell her what kind of people I -live among, I do not speak of mademoiselle at Melmar, or even of -Joanna—I tell her of you, and then she is happy—she thinks poor little -Desirée is very well where she is with such as these.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you are too good to me,” said Katie, with a half conscious -laugh—“you don’t know me well enough yet—is it Patricia whom you call -mademoiselle?”</p> - -<p>Desirée shrugged her little shoulders slightly; she gave no other -answer, but once more looked out from the window down the pretty brae of -Tyne, where all the cottages were so much the clearer from the winterly -brown aspect of the trees, stripped of their foliage. It was not like -any other scene familiar to Desirée, still it did seem familiar to -her—she could not tell how—as if she had known it all her life.</p> - -<p>“Does Cosmo Livingstone, whom you spoke of, live near?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> asked Desirée, -“and will you tell me of <i>his</i> mother? Is she by herself, now that all -her boys are gone?—is she a lady? Are they great people or are they -poor? Joanna speaks of a great old castle, and I think I saw it from the -road. They must be great people if they lived there.”</p> - -<p>“They are not great people now,” said Katie, the color warming in her -cheek—“yet the castle belonged to them once, and they were different. -But they are good people still.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to hear about them,” said Desirée, suddenly coming up to -Katie, and sitting down on a stool by her feet. Katie Logan was slightly -flattered, in spite of herself. She thought it very foolish, but she -could not help it. Once more a lively crimson kindled in her cheek. She -bent over her work with great earnestness, and never turned her eyes -toward the questioning face of the girl.</p> - -<p>“I could not describe the Mistress if I were to try all day,” said Katie -at last, in a little burst, after having deliberated. Desirée looked up -at her very steadily, with grave curiosity.</p> - -<p>“And that is what I want most,” said the little Frenchwoman. “What! can -you not tell if she has black eyes or blue ones, light hair or dark -hair?—was she pretty before she grew old—and does she love her -boys—and did her husband love her? I want to know all that.”</p> - -<p>Desirée spoke in the tone of one who had received all these questions -from another person, and who asked them with a point-blank quietness and -gravity, for the satisfaction of some other curiosity than her own; but -the investigation was half amusing, half irritating to Katie. She shook -her head slightly, with a gesture expressing much the same sentiment as -the movement of her hand, which drew away the skirts on which Desirée -almost leaned. Her doubt changed into a more positive feeling. Katie -rather feared Desirée was about to fulfill all her unfavorable -anticipations as to the quality of French governesses.</p> - -<p>“Don’t go away,” said Desirée, laying her little white hand upon the -dress which Katie withdrew from her touch. “I like to sit by you—I like -to be near you—and I want to hear; not for me. Tell me only what you -please, but let me sit here till Joanna comes.”</p> - -<p>There was a little pause. Katie was moved slightly, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> did not know -what to say, and Desirée, too, sat silent, whether waiting for her -answer or thinking, Katie could not tell. At last she spoke again with -emotion, grasping Katie’s dress.</p> - -<p>“I like Joanna,” said Desirée, with tears upon her eyelashes—“but I am -older than she is—a great deal older—and no one else cares for me. You -do not care for me—it is not likely; but let me sit here and forget all -that house and every thing till Joanna comes. Ah, let me! I am far away -from home—I am a little beggar girl, begging at your window—not for -crumbs, or for sous, but for love. I am so lonely. I do not think of it -always—but I have thought so long and so often of coming here.”</p> - -<p>“You must come oftener then,” said Katie, who, unused to any -demonstration, did not quite know what to say.</p> - -<p>“I can not come often,” said Desirée, softly, “but let me sit by you and -forget all the others—only for a very, very little time—only till -Joanna comes. Ah, she is here!”</p> - -<p>And the little Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders, and ran to the window -to look out, and came back with a swift gliding motion to take Katie’s -hand out of her work and kiss it. Katie was surprised, startled, moved. -She did not half understand it, and she blushed, though the lips which -touched her hand were only those of a girl; but almost before she could -speak, Desirée had sprung up again, and stood before her with a smile, -winking her pretty long eyelashes to clear them of those wayward April -tears. She was very pretty, very young, with her little foreign graces. -Katie did not understand the rapid little girl, who darted from one -thought to another, so quickly, yet with such evident truthfulness—but -her heart was touched and surprised. Joanna came in immediately, to put -an end to any further confidences. Joanna, loudly indignant at -Patricia’s selfishness, and making most audible and uncompromising -comparisons between Melmar and the manse, which Desirée skillfully -diverted, soothed, and gradually reduced to silence, to Katie’s much -amazement. On the whole, it was a very pleasant little tea-party to -everybody concerned; but Katie Logan, when she stood at the door in the -clear frosty moonlight, looking after her young guests, driving away in -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> double gig which had been sent for them, still doubted and wondered -about Desirée, though with a kindly instead of an unfavorable sentiment. -What could the capricious little foreigner mean, for instance, by such -close questions about Norlaw?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">At</span> Norlaw every thing was very quiet, very still, in this early winter. -The “beasts” were thriving, the dairy was prosperous, the Mistress’s -surplus fund—spite of the fifty pounds which had been given out of it -to Cosmo—grew at the bank. Willie Noble, the factotum, lived in his -cosy cottage at a little distance, and throve—but no one knew very well -how the Mistress and Marget lived by themselves in that deserted house. -No one could have told any external difference in the house, save for -its quietness. It was cheerful to look upon in the ruddy winter -sunshine, when the glimmer of the fire shone in the windows of the -dining-parlor, and through the open door of Marget’s kitchen; and not -even the close pressure of the widow’s cap could bring decay or -melancholy to the living looks of the Mistress, who still was not old, -and had much to do yet in the world where her three boys were wandering. -But it was impossible to deny that both Mistress and servant had a -little dread of the long evenings. They preferred getting up hours -before daylight, when, though it was dark, it was morning, and the -labors of the day could be begun—they took no pleasure in the night.</p> - -<p>It was a habitual custom with the minister, and had been for years, to -“take tea” occasionally, now and then, without previous invitation, at -Norlaw. When Dr. Logan was new in his pastorate, he thought this device -of dropping in to take tea the most admirable plan ever invented for -“becoming acquainted with his people,” and winning their affections; and -what was commenced as a famous piece of wisdom, had fallen years ago -into natural use and wont, a great improvement upon policy. From the -same astute reasoning, it had been the fancy of the excellent minister, -whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> schemes were all very transparent, and, indeed, unconcealable, to -take Katie with him in these domestic visitations. “It pleased the -people,” Dr. Logan thought, and increased the influence of the -ecclesiastical establishment. The good man was rather complacent about -the manner in which he had conquered the affections of his parish. It -was done by the most elaborate statesmanship, if you believed Dr. Logan, -and he told the young pastors, with great satisfaction, the history of -his simple devices, little witting that his devices were as harmless as -they were transparent, and that it was himself, and not his wisdom, -which took the hearts of his people. But in the meantime, those plans of -his had come to be the course of nature, and so it was that Katie Logan -found herself seated with her work in the Norlaw dining-parlor at sunset -of a wintry afternoon, which was not exactly the day that either she or -the Mistress would have chosen for her visit there.</p> - -<p>For that day the Mistress had heard from her eldest son. Huntley had -reached Australia—had made his beginning of life—had written a long, -full-detailed letter to his mother, rich in such particulars as mothers -love to know; and on that very afternoon Katie Logan came with her -father to Norlaw. Now in her heart the Mistress liked Katie as well, -perhaps better, than she liked any other stranger out of the narrow -magic circle of her own blood and family—but the Mistress was warm of -temper and a little unreasonable. She could not admit the slightest -right on Katie’s part, or on the part of any “fremd person,” to share in -the communication of her son. She resented the visit which interrupted -her in the midst of her happiness and excitement with a suggestion of -some one else who might claim a share in Huntley. She knew they were not -lovers, she knew that not the shadow of an engagement bound these two, -she believed that they had never spoken a word to each other which all -the world might not have heard—yet, notwithstanding all these -certainties, the Mistress was clear-sighted, and had the prevision of -love in her eyes, and with the wildest unreasonableness she resented the -coming of Katie, of all other days in the year, upon that day.</p> - -<p>“She needna have been in such an awfu’ hurry; she might have waited a -while, if it had only been for the thought of what folk might say,” -muttered the Mistress to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> herself, very well knowing all the time, -though she would not acknowledge it to herself, that Katie Logan had no -means whatever of knowing what precious missive had come in the -Kirkbride letter-bag that day.</p> - -<p>And when the Mistress intimated the fact with a little heat and -excitement, Katie blushed and felt uncomfortable. She was conscious, -too; she did not like to ask a natural question about Huntley. She sat -embarrassed at the homely tea-table, looking at the cream scones which -Marget had made in honor of the minister, while Dr. Logan and the -Mistress kept up the conversation between them—and when her father rose -after tea to go out, as was his custom, to call at the nearest cottages, -Katie would fain have gone too, had that not been too great an invasion -of established rule and custom, to pass without immediate notice. She -sat still accordingly by the table with her work, the Mistress sitting -opposite with <i>her</i> work also, and her mind intent upon Huntley’s -letter. The room was very still and dim, with its long background of -shade, sometimes invaded by a red glimmer of fire, but scarcely -influenced by the steady light of the two candles, illuminating those -two faces by the table; and the Mistress and her visitor sat in silence -without any sound but the motion of their hands, and the little rustle -of their elbows as they worked. This silence became very embarrassing -after a few minutes, and Katie broke it at last by an inquiry after -Cosmo—where was he when his mother heard last?</p> - -<p>“The laddie is a complete wanderer,” said the Mistress, not without a -little complacence. “I could not undertake to mind, for my part, all the -places he’s been in—though they’re a’ names you see in books—he’s been -in Eetaly, and he’s been in Germany, and now he’s back again in France; -but I canna say he forgets hame either,” she added, with a tender pride, -“only the like of him must improve his mind; and foreign travel, folk -say, is good for that—though I canna say I ever had much to do with -foreigners, or likit them mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever hear of any one from this country marrying a Frenchman, -Mrs. Livingstone?” asked Katie.</p> - -<p>“Marrying a Frenchman? I’ll warrant have I—it’s no’ such a great -wonder, but the like of me might hear tell of it in a lifetime,” said -the Mistress, with a little offense,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> “but marriage is no’ aye running -in everybody’s head, Miss Katie, and there’s little fear of my Cosmo -bringing me hame a French wife.”</p> - -<p>“No, I did not think of that,” said Katie, with a smile, “I was thinking -of the little French governess at Melmar, whose mother, they say, came -from this quarter, or near it. She is an odd little girl and yet I like -her—Cosmo saw her in Edinburgh, and she was very anxious, when she came -to the manse, to hear about Norlaw. I thought perhaps you might have -known who her mother was.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress was slightly startled—she looked up at Katie quickly, with -a sparkle of impatience in her eye, and a rising color.</p> - -<p>“Me!” said the Mistress. “How should I ken? There might have been a -hundred young women in the countryside married upon Frenchmen for any -thing I could tell. ‘This quarter’ is a wide word. I ken nae mair about -Melrose and what happens there, wha’s married or wha dies, than if it -was a thousand miles away. And many a person has heard tell of Norlaw -that I ken naething about, and that never heard tell of me.”</p> - -<p>Katie paused to consider after this. She knew and understood so much of -the Mistress’s character that she neither took offense nor wished to -excite it. This had not been a quite successful essay at conversation, -and Katie took a little time to think before she began again.</p> - -<p>But while Katie’s thoughts left this subject, those of the Mistress held -to it. Silence fell upon them again, disturbed only by the rustle of -their sleeves as they worked, and the crackle of the fire, which burned -brightly, when suddenly the Mistress asked:—</p> - -<p>“What like is she?” with an abruptness which took away Katie’s breath.</p> - -<p>“She?"—it required an effort to remember that this was Desirée of whom -they had been speaking—“the little girl at Melmar?” asked Katie. “She -is little and bright, and pretty, with very dark eyes and dark hair, a -quick little creature, like a bird or a fairy. I confess I was half -afraid of her, because she was French,” admitted the little mistress of -the manse with a blush and a laugh, “but she is a very sweet, winning -little girl, with pretty red lips, and white teeth, and black eyes—very -little—less than me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span></p> - -<p>The Mistress drew a long breath and looked relieved.</p> - -<p>“I do not know any thing about her,” she said slowly; and it seemed -quite a comfort to the Mistress to be able to say so, distinctly and -impartially. “And so she’s at Melmar—a governess—what is that for, -Katie? The oldest is woman grown, and the youngest is more like a laddie -than a lassie. What are they wanting with a governess? I canna say I ken -much of the present family mysel’, though my Huntley, if he had but -sought his ain, as he might have done—but you’ll hear a’ that through -your cousin, without me.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Katie.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Katie Logan! you speak softly and fairly, and you’re a good lassie, -and a comfort to the house you belong to,” cried the Mistress. “I ken a’ -that, and I never denied it a’ your days! But my Huntley, do you ken -what that laddie did before he went away? He had a grand laird-ship -within his hand if he would gang to the law and fight it out, as the -very writer, your ain cousin, advised him to do. But my son said, ‘No; -I’ll leave my mother her house and her comfort, though they’re a’ mine,’ -said my Huntley. ‘I’ll gang and make the siller first to fight the -battle with.’ And yonder he is, away at the end of the world, amang his -beasts and his toils. He wouldna listen to me. I would have lived in a -cothouse or one room, or worked for my bread rather than stand in the -way of my son’s fortune; but Huntley’s a man grown, and maun have his -way; and the proud callant had that in his heart that he would make his -mother as safe as a queen in her ain house before he would think of -either fortune or comfort for himsel’.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress’s voice was broken with her mother-grief, and pride, and -triumph. It was, perhaps, the first time she had opened her heart so -far—and it was to Katie, whose visit she had resented, and whose secret -hold on Huntley’s heart was no particular delight to his mother. But -even in the midst of the angry impatience with which the Mistress -refused to admit a share in her son’s affections, she could not resist -the charm of sympathy, the grateful fascination of having some one -beside her to whom every thing concerning Huntley was almost as -interesting as to herself. Huntley’s uncommunicated letter was very near -running over out of her full heart, and that half-apologetic, -half-defiant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> burst of feeling was the first opening of the tide. -Katie’s eyes were wet—she could not help it—and they were shining and -glowing behind their tears, abashed, proud, joyous, tender, saying what -lips can not say—she glanced up, with all her heart in them, at the -Mistress, and said something which broke down in a half sob, half laugh, -half sigh, and was wholly and entirely inarticulate, though not so -unintelligible as one might have supposed. It was a great deal better -than words, so far as the Mistress was concerned—it expressed what was -inexpressible—the sweet, generous tumult in the girl’s heart—too shy -even to name Huntley’s name, too delicate to approve, yet proud and -touched to its depths with an emotion beyond telling. The two women did -not rush into each other’s arms after this spontaneous burst of mutual -confidence. On the contrary, they sat each at her work—the Mistress -hurriedly wiping off her tears, and Katie trying to keep her’s from -falling, if that were possible, and keeping her eyes upon the little -glancing needle, which flashed in all manner of colors through the sweet -moisture which filled them. Ah! that dim, silent dining-parlor, which -now there was neither father nor children to fill and bless!—perhaps by -the solitary fireside, where she had sat for so many hours of silent -night, alone commanding her heart, a new, tender, soothing, unlooked for -relationship suddenly surprised the thoughts of the Mistress. She had -not desired it, she had not sought it, yet all at once, almost against -her will, a freshness came to her heart like the freshness after -showers. Something had happened to Huntley’s mother—she had an -additional comfort in the world after to-night.</p> - -<p>But when Dr. Logan returned, after seeing Willie Noble, the good -minister, with pleasant consciousness of having done his duty, was not -disturbed by any revelation on the part of the Mistress, or confession -from his daughter. He heard a great many extracts read from Huntley’s -letter, feeling it perfectly natural and proper that he should hear -them, and expressing his interest with great friendliness and good -pleasure; and then Marget was called in, and the minister conducted -family worship, and prayed with fervor for the widow’s absent sons, like -a patriarch. “The Angel which redeemed me from all evil bless the lads,” -said the minister in his prayer; and then he craved a special blessing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> -on the first-born, that he might return with joy, and see the face of -his mother, and comfort her declining years. Then the excellent pastor -rose from his knees placidly, and shook the Mistress’s hand, and wended -his quiet way down Tyne through the frosty moonlight, with his daughter -on his arm. He thought the Mistress was pleased to see them, and that -Katie had been a comfort to her to-night. He thought it was a very fine -night, and a beautiful moon, and there were Orion, Katie, and the Plow; -and so Dr. Logan went peacefully home, and thought he had spent a very -profitable night.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was frost, and Tyne was “bearing” at Kirkbride, where the village -held a carnival of sliding and skating, and where even the national -winter sport, the yearly curling matches, began to be talked of. There -was, however, no one at Melmar to tempt Tyne to “bear,” even had it been -easy to reach his glassy surface through the slippery whitened trees, -every twig of which was white and stiff with congealed dew. The Kelpie -fell scantily, with a drowsy tinkle, over its little ravine, reduced to -the slenderest thread, while all the branches near it were hung with -mocking icicles. The sun was high in the blue, frosty midday skies, but -had only power enough to clear here and there an exposed branch, and to -moisten the path where some little burn crept half frozen under a crust -of ice. It was a clear, bracing, invigorating day, and Joanna and -Desirée, spite of the frost, were on Tyne-side among the frozen woods.</p> - -<p>When standing close together, investigating a bit of moss, both -simultaneously heard a crackling footstep among the underwood, and -turning round at the same moment, saw some one approaching from the -house. He was one of her own countrymen, Desirée thought, with a little -flutter at her heart. He wore a large blue cloak, with an immense fur -collar, a very French hat, a moustache, and long black hair; Desirée -gazed at him with her heart in her eyes, and her white little French -hands clasped together. No doubt he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> brought some message from mamma. -But Desirée’s hopes were brought to an abrupt conclusion when Joanna -sprang forward, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“Oh, Oswald, Oswald! have you really come home? I am so glad you have -come home!” with a plunge of welcome which the stranger looked half -annoyed, half pleased to encounter. He made a brotherly response to it -by stooping to kiss Joanna, a salutation which the girl underwent with a -heightened color, and a half-ashamed look; she had meant to shake both -his hands violently; any thing in the shape of an embrace being much out -of Joanna’s way—but Oswald’s hands were occupied with his cloak, which -he could not permit to fall from his shoulders in the fervor of his -brotherly pleasure. Holding it fast, he had only half a hand to give, -which Joanna straightway possessed herself of, repeating as she did so -her cry of pleasure: “Oh, Oswald, how glad I am! I have wished for such -a long time that you would come home!”</p> - -<p>“It was very kind of my little sister—or should I say my big sister,” -said the stranger, looking gallant and courtier-like, “but why, may I -ask, were you so anxious for me now? that was a sudden thought, Joanna.”</p> - -<p>Joanna grew very red as she looked up in his face—then unconsciously -she looked at Desirée. Mr. Oswald Huntley was a man of the world, and -understood the ways and fancies of young ladies—at least he thought so. -He followed Joanna’s glance, and a comical smile came to his lips. He -took off his hat with an air half mocking, half reverential.</p> - -<p>“May I hope to be introduced to your friend, Joanna?” said the new-found -brother. With great haste, heat, and perturbation, blushing fiery red, -and feeling very uncomfortable, Joanna stumbled through this ceremony, -longing for some private means of informing the new-comer who “her -friend” was, ere accident or Patricia made him unfavorably aware of it. -He was a little amazed evidently by the half-pronounced, -half-intelligible name.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle Desirée?” he repeated after Joanna, with an evident -uncertainty, and an air of great surprise.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Oswald, you have never got my last letter,” cried Joanna; “did you -really not know that Desirée was here?”</p> - -<p>“I am the governess,” cried Desirée, with immense pride<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> and dignity, -elevating her little head and drawing up her small figure. Patricia had -done her best during these three months to annoy and humiliate the -little Frenchwoman—but her pride had never been really touched until -to-day.</p> - -<p>Oswald’s countenance cleared immediately into suavity and good-humor—he -smiled, but he bowed, and looked with great graciousness upon the two -girls. He could see at a glance how pretty and graceful was this -addition to the household of Melmar—and Oswald Huntley was a -dilettanti. He liked a pretty person as well as a pretty picture. He -begged to know how they could find any pleasure out of doors in this -ferocious climate on such a day—and with a glance, and a shrug and a -shiver at the frosty languor of the diminished Kelpie, drew his cloak -close round him, and turned towards the house, whither, Joanna eagerly, -and Desirée with great reluctance and annoyance, the girls were -constrained to follow. He walked between them, inclining his ear to his -sister, who overwhelmed him with questions, yet addressing now and then -a courteous observation to Desirée which gradually mollified that little -lady. He was a great deal more agreeable than Melmar or than -Patricia—he was something new in the house at least—he knew her own -country, perhaps her own very town and house. Desirée became much -softened as they drew near the house, and she found herself able to -withdraw and leave the brother and sister together. To know the real -value of a new face and a new voice, one needs to live for a long winter -in a country house like Melmar, whose hospitality was not very greatly -prized in the country-side. Desirée had quite got over her anger by the -time she reached her own apartment. She made rather a pretty toilet for -the evening, and was pleased, in spite of herself, that there would be -some one else to talk to besides Melmar, and Aunt Jean and Joanna. The -whole house, indeed, was moved with excitement. A dark Italian servant, -whom he had brought with him, was regulating with a thermometer, to the -dismay and wonder of all the maids, the temperature of Mr. Oswald’s -room, where these unscientific functionaries had put on a great, -uncomfortable fire, piled half-way up the chimney. Patricia had entered -among them to peer over her brother’s locked trunks, and see if there -was any thing discoverable by curiosity. Mrs. Huntley was getting up in -haste to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> her son, and even Aunt Jean trotted up and down stairs on -her nimble little feet, on errands of investigation and assistance. It -made no small commotion in the house when the only son of Melmar came -home.</p> - -<p>Oswald Huntley, but for his dark hair, was like his sister Patricia. He -was tall, but of a delicate form, and had small features, and a faint -color which said little for his strength. When they all met together in -the evening, the traveled son was by much the most elegant member of the -household circle. His dainty, varnished boots, his delicate white hands, -his fine embroidered linen, filled Joanna with a sentiment which was -half impatience and half admiration. Joanna would rather have had Oswald -despise these delicacies of apparel, which did not suit with her ideal -of manhood. At the same time she had never seen any thing like them, and -they dazzled her. As for Patricia, she looked from her brother to -herself, and colored red with envious displeasure. One of Oswald’s rings -would have purchased every thing in the shape of jewelry which Patricia -ever had or hoped for—his valet, his dress, his “style,” at once awed -and irritated his unfortunate sister. If papa could afford to keep -Oswald thus, was it not a disgrace to confine “me!” within the tedious -bounds of this country house? Poor little Patricia could have cried with -envy and self pity.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Oswald made himself very agreeable, and drew the little -party together as they seldom were drawn. His mother sat up in her easy -chair, looking almost pretty with her pink cheeks, and for once without -any invalid accompaniments of barley-water or cut oranges. Melmar -himself staid in the drawing-room all the evening, displaying his -satisfaction by some occasional rude fun with Joanna and jokes at -“Mademoiselle,” and listening to his son very complacently though he -seldom addressed him. Aunt Jean had drawn her chair close to Mrs. -Huntley, and seriously inclined, not her ear only, which was but a dull -medium, but the lively black eyes with which she seemed almost able to -hear as well as see. Joanna hung upon her mother’s footstool, eagerly -and perpetually asking questions. The only one out of the family group -was Desirée, who kept apart, working at her embroidery, but whom Mr. -Oswald by no means neglected. The new comer had good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> taste. He thought -the little table which held the governess’s thread and scissors, and -little crimson work-bag, and the little chair close by, where the little -governess herself sat working with her pretty white hands, her graceful -girlish dress, her dark hair in which the light shone, and her -well-formed, well-poised head bending over her embroidery, was the -prettiest bit in the room, and well worth looking at. He looked at it -accordingly as he talked, distributing his favors impartially among the -family, and wondered a little who this little girl might be, and what -brought her here. When Oswald stooped forward to say something politely -to the little Frenchwoman—when he brought a flush to her cheek by -addressing her in her own language, though Desirée’s own good sense -taught her that it was best to reply in English—when he pronounced -himself a connoisseur in embroidery, and inspected the pretty work in -her hands—his ailing mother and his deaf aunt, as well as the spiteful -Patricia, simultaneously perceived something alarming in the courtesy. -Desirée was very young and very pretty, and Oswald was capricious, -fanciful, and the heir of Melmar. What if the little governess, sixteen -years old, should captivate the son, who was only five-and-twenty? The -fear sprang from one feminine mind to another, of all save Joanna, who -had already given her thoughts to this catastrophe as the most desirable -thing in the world. Oswald’s experience and knowledge of the world, on -which he prided himself, went for nothing in the estimation of his -female relatives. They thought Desirée, at sixteen, more than a match -for him, as they would have thought any other girl in the same -circumstances. People say women have no <i>esprit du corps</i>, but they -certainly have the most perfect contempt for any man’s powers of -resistance before the imagined wiles and fascinations of “a designing -girl.” These ladies almost gave Oswald over, as he stood, graceful and -self-satisfied, in the midst of them—a monarch of all he -surveyed—extending his lordly courtesies to the poor little governess. -Had he but known! but he did not know any thing about it, and said to -himself compassionately, “Poor little thing—how pretty she is!—what -could bring her here?” as he threw himself back upon the pillow in that -room of which Antonio had regulated the temperature, and thought no more -about Desirée; whereas poor little Desirée,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> charmed with the new voice, -and the new grace, and the unusual kindness, dreamed of him all night.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Am</span> I to understand that our title is somehow endangered? I do not quite -comprehend your last letter,” said Oswald, addressing his father -somewhat haughtily. They were in Melmar’s study, where everybody went to -discuss this business, and where the son sat daintily upon a chair which -he had selected from the others for his own use, leaning the points of -his elbows upon the table, and looking elaborately uncomfortable—so -much so, that some faint idea that this study, after all, could not be a -very pleasant apartment, entered, for the first time, the mind of -Melmar.</p> - -<p>“Come nearer to the fire, Oswald,” said Mr. Huntley, suddenly. He was -really solicitous about the health and comfort of his son.</p> - -<p>“Thank you; I can scarcely breathe <i>here</i>,” said the young man, -ungratefully. “Was I right, sir, in supposing <i>that</i> to be your reason -for writing me such a letter as your last?”</p> - -<p>“You were right in supposing that I wanted to see you,” said the father, -with some natural displeasure. “You live a fine life in foreign parts, -my lad; you’ve little to put you about; but what could you do for -yourself if the funds at Melmar were to fail?”</p> - -<p>“Really the idea is disagreeable,” said Oswald, laughing. “I had rather -not take it into consideration, unless it is absolutely necessary.”</p> - -<p>“If it were so,” said Melmar, with a little bitterness, “which of you -could I depend upon—which of you would stretch out a helping hand to -help me?”</p> - -<p>“To help <i>you</i>? Upon my word, sir, I begin to think you must be in -earnest,” said his son. “What does this mean? Is there really any other -claimant for the estate? Have we any real grounds for fear? Were not you -the heir-at-law?”</p> - -<p>“I was the heir-at-law; and there is no other claimant,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> said Melmar, -dryly; “but there is a certain person in existence, Oswald Huntley, who, -if she but turns up soon enough—and there’s two or three years yet to -come and go upon—can turn both you and me to the door, and ruin us with -arrears of income to the boot.”</p> - -<p>Oswald grew rather pale. “Is this a new discovery?” he said, “or why did -I, who am, next to yourself, the person most concerned, never hear of it -before?”</p> - -<p>“You were a boy, in the first place; and in the second place, a -head-strong, self-willed lad; nextly, delicate,” said Melmar, still with -a little sarcasm; “and it remains to be seen yet whether you’re a -reasonable man.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hang reason!” cried the young man with excitement. “I understand -all that. What’s to be done? that seems the main thing. Who is this -certain person that has a better right to Melmar than we?”</p> - -<p>“Tell me first what you would do if you knew,” said Mr. Huntley, bending -his red gray eyes intently upon his son. Melmar knew that there were -generous young fools in the world, who would not hesitate to throw -fortune and living to the winds for the sake of something called honor -and justice. He had but little acquaintance with his son; he did not -know what stuff Oswald was made of. He thought it just possible that the -spirit of such Quixotes might animate this elegant mass of good breeding -and dillettanteism; for which reason he sat watching under his grizzled, -bushy eyebrows, with the intensest looks of those fiery eyes.</p> - -<p>“Pshaw! do? You don’t suppose <i>I</i> would be likely to yield to any one -without a struggle. Who is it?” said Oswald; “let me know plainly what -you mean.”</p> - -<p>“It is the late Me’mar’s daughter and only child; a woman with children; -a woman in poor circumstances,” replied Mr. Huntley, still with a -certain dry sarcasm in his voice.</p> - -<p>“But she was disinherited?” said Oswald, eagerly.</p> - -<p>“Her father left a will in her favor,” said Melmar, “reinstating her -fully in her natural rights; that will is in the hands of our enemies, -whom the old fool left his heirs, failing his daughter: she and her -children, and these young men, are ready to pounce upon the estate.”</p> - -<p>“But she was lost—did I not hear so?” cried Oswald, rising from his -chair in overpowering excitement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span></p> - -<p>“Ay!” said his father, “but I know where she is.”</p> - -<p>“In Heaven’s name, what do you mean?” cried the unfortunate young man; -“is it to bewilder and overwhelm me that you tell me all this? Have we -no chance? Are we mere impostors? Is all this certain and beyond -dispute? What do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“It is all certain,” said Melmar, steadily; “her right is -unquestionable; she has heirs of her own blood, and I know where she -is—she can turn us out of house and home to-morrow—she can make me a -poor writer, ruined past redemption, and you a useless fine gentleman, -fit for nothing in this world that I know of, and your sisters -servant-maids, for I don’t know what else they’re good for. All this she -can do, Oswald Huntley, and more than this, the moment she makes her -appearance—but she is as ignorant as you were half an hour ago. <i>I</i> -know—but <i>she</i> does not know.”</p> - -<p>What will Oswald do?—he is pacing up and down the little study, no -longer elegant, and calm, and self-possessed; the faint color on his -cheeks grows crimson—the veins swell upon his forehead—a profuse cold -moisture comes upon his face. Pacing about the narrow space of the -study, thrusting the line of chairs out of his way, clenching his -delicate hand involuntarily in the tumult of his thoughts, there could -not have been a greater contrast than between Oswald at his entrance and -Oswald now. His father sat and watched him under his bushy -eyebrows—watched him with a steady, fixed, fascinating gaze, which the -young man’s firmness was not able to withstand. He burst out into -uneasy, troubled exclamations.</p> - -<p>“What are we to do, then?—must we go and seek her out, and humble -ourselves before her?—must we bring her back in triumph to her -inheritance? It is the only thing we can do with honor. What <i>are</i> we to -do?”</p> - -<p>“Remember, Oswald,” said Melmar, significantly, “<i>she</i> does not know.”</p> - -<p>The young man threw himself into a chair, hid his face in his hands, and -broke into low, muttered groans of vexation and despair, which sounded -like curses, and perhaps were so. Then he turned towards his father -violently and suddenly, with again that angry question, “What are we to -do?”</p> - -<p>He was not without honor, he was not without conscience; if he had there -could have been little occasion for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> burning color, or for the cold -beads of moisture on his forehead. The sudden and startling intelligence -had bewildered him for a moment—then he had undergone a fierce but -brief struggle, and then Oswald Huntley sank into his chair, and into -the hands of his father, with that melancholy confession of his -weakness—a question when the matter was unquestionable—“what are we to -do?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Melmar, grimly, regarding his son with a triumph which, -perhaps, after all, had a little contempt in it. This, then, was all the -advantage which his refinement and fine-gentlemanliness gave him—a -moment’s miserable, weakly hesitation, nothing more nor better. The -father, with his coarse methods of thought, and unscrupulous motives, -would not have hesitated: yet not a whit stronger, as it appeared, was -the honor or courage of the son.</p> - -<p>“Nothing!” said Melmar; “simply to keep quiet, and be prepared against -emergencies, and if possible to stave off every proceeding for a few -years more. They have a clever lad of a lawyer in their interests, which -is against us, but you may trust me to keep him back if it is possible; -a few years and we are safe—I ask nothing but time.”</p> - -<p>“And nothing from me?” said Oswald, rising with a sullen shame upon his -face, which his father did not quite comprehend. The young man felt that -he had no longer any standing ground of superiority; he was humiliated, -abased, cast down. Such advantage as there was in moral obtuseness and -strength of purpose lay altogether with Melmar. His son only knew -better, without any will to do better. He was degraded in his own eyes, -and angrily conscious of it, and a sullen resentment rose within him. If -he could do nothing, why tell him of this to give him a guilty -consciousness of the false position which he had not courage enough to -abandon? Why drag him down from his airy height of mannerly and educated -elevation to prove him clay as mean as the parent whom he despised? It -gave an additional pang to the overthrow. There was nothing to be -done—the misery was inflicted for nothing—only as a warning to guard -against an emergency which, perhaps, had it come unguarded, might not -have stripped Oswald so bare of self-esteem as this.</p> - -<p>“We’ll see that,” said Melmar, slowly; then he rose and went to the door -and investigated the passages. No one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> was there. When he returned, he -said something in his son’s ear, which once more brought a flush of -uneasy shame to his cheek. The father made his suggestion lightly, with -a chuckle. The young man heard it in silence, with an indescribable look -of self-humiliation. Then they separated—Oswald to hurry out, with his -cloak round him, to the grounds where he could be alone—Melmar to bite -his pen in the study, and muse over his victory. What would come of -it?—his own ingenuity and that last suggestion which he had breathed in -Oswald’s ear. Surely these were more than enough to baffle the foolish -young Livingstones of Norlaw, and even their youthful agent? He thought -so. The old Aberdonian felt secure in his own skill and cunning—he had -no longer the opposition of his son to dread. What should he fear?</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Patricia, who had seen her brother leave the house in -great haste, like a man too late for an appointment, and who had spied a -light little figure crossing the bridge over Tyne before, wrapped -herself up, though it was a very cold day, and set out also to see what -she could discover. Malice and curiosity together did more to keep her -warm than the cloak and fur tippet, yet she almost repented when she -found herself among the frozen, snow-sprinkled trees, with the faint -tinkle of the Kelpie striking sharp, yet drowsy, like a little stream of -metal through the frost-bound stillness, and no one visible on the path, -where now and then her foot slid upon a treacherous bit of ice, inlaid -in the hard brown soil. Could they have left the grounds of Melmar? -Where could they have gone? If they had not met, one of them must -certainly have appeared by this time; and Patricia still pushed on, -though her cheeks were blue and her fingers red with cold, and though -the intensity of the chill made her faint, and pierced to her poor -little heart. At last she was rewarded by hearing voices before her. -Yes, there they were. Desirée standing in the path, looking up at the -trunk of a tree, from which Oswald was stripping a bit of velvet moss, -with bells of a little white fungus, delicate and pure as flowers, -growing upon it. As Patricia came up, her brother presented the prize to -the little Frenchwoman, almost with the air of a lover. The breast of -his poor little sister swelled with bitterness, dislike, and malicious -triumph. She had found them out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span></p> - -<p>“Oswald! I thought you were quite afraid of taking cold,” cried -Patricia—“dear me, who could have supposed that you would have been in -the woods on such a day! I am sure Mademoiselle ought to be very -proud—you would not have come for any one else in the house.”</p> - -<p>“I am extremely indebted to you, Patricia, for letting Mademoiselle know -so much,” said Oswald. “One does not like to proclaim one’s own merits. -Was it on Mademoiselle’s account that you, too, undertook the walk, poor -child? Come, I will help you home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m sure she does not want <i>me</i>!” exclaimed Patricia, ready to cry -in the height of her triumph. “Papa and you are much more in her way -than I am—as long as she can make you gentlemen do what she pleases, -she does not care any thing about your sisters. Oh, I know all about -it!—I know papa is infatuated about her, and so are you, and she is a -designing little creature, and does not care a bit for Joanna. You may -say what you please, but I know I am right, and I will not stand it -longer—I shall go this very moment and tell mamma!”</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle Huntley shall not have that trouble,” cried Desirée, who -had been standing by utterly amazed for the first few moments, with -cheeks alternately burning red and snow pale. “<i>I</i> shall tell Mrs. -Huntley; it concerns me most of any one. Mademoiselle may be unkind if -she pleases—I am used to that—but no one shall dare,” cried the little -heroine, stamping her little foot, and clapping her hands in sudden -passion, “to say insulting words to me! I thank you, Monsieur -Oswald—but it is for me, it is not for you—let me pass—I shall tell -Mrs. Huntley this moment, and I shall go!”</p> - -<p>“Patricia is a little fool, Mademoiselle,” said Oswald, vainly -endeavoring to divert the seriousness of the incident. “Nay—come, we -shall all go together—but every person of sense in the house will be -deeply grieved if you take this absurdity to heart. Forget it; she shall -beg your pardon. Patricia!” exclaimed the young man, in a deep undertone -of passion, “you ridiculous little idiot! do you know what you have -done?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know! I’ve told the truth—I am too clear-sighted!” sobbed -Patricia, “<i>I</i> can not help seeing that both papa and you are crazy -about the governess—it will break poor mamma’s heart!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span></p> - -<p>Though Desirée was much wounded, ashamed, and angry, furious rather, to -tell the truth, she could not resist the ludicrous whimper of this mock -sorrow. She laughed scornfully.</p> - -<p>“I shall go by myself, please,” she said, springing through a by-way, -where Oswald was not agile enough or sufficiently acquainted with to -follow. “I shall tell Mrs. Huntley, instantly, and she will not break -her heart—but no one in the world shall dare to speak thus again to -me.”</p> - -<p>So Desirée disappeared like a bird among the close network of frozen -branches, and Patricia and her brother, admirable good friends, as one -might suppose, together pursued their way home.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">A series</span> of violent scenes in Melmar made a fitting climax to this -little episode in the wood. Desirée demanded an interview with Mrs. -Huntley, and obtained it in that lady’s chamber, which interview was not -over when Patricia appeared, and shortly after Melmar himself, and -Oswald, who sent both the governess and her enemy away, and had a -private conference with the unfortunate invalid, who was not unwilling -to take up her daughter’s suspicions, and condemn the little Frenchwoman -as a designing girl, with schemes against the peace of the heir of -Melmar. Somehow or other, the father and son together managed to still -these suspicions, or to give them another direction; for, on the -conclusion of this conference Desirée was sent for again to Mrs. -Huntley’s room; the little governess in the meanwhile had been busy in -her own, putting her little possessions together with angry and -mortified haste, her heart swelling high with a tumult of wounded pride -and indignant feeling. Desirée obeyed with great stateliness. She found -the mother of the house lying back upon her pillow, with a flush upon -her pink cheeks, and angry tears gleaming in her weak blue eyes. Mrs. -Huntley tried to be dignified, too, and to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> tell Desirée that she was -perfectly satisfied, and there was not the slightest imputation upon -her, the governess; but finding this not answer at all, and that the -governess still stood in offended state, like a little queen before her, -Mrs. Huntley took to her natural weapons—broke down, cried, and -bemoaned herself over the trouble she had with her family, and the -vexation which Patricia gave her. “And now, when I had just hoped to see -Joanna improving, then comes this disturbance in the house, and my poor -nerves are shattered to pieces, and my head like to burst, and you are -going away!” sobbed Mrs. Huntley. Desirée was moved to compassion; she -went up to the invalid, and arranged her cushions for her, and trusted -all this annoyance would not make her ill. Mrs. Huntley seized the -opportunity; she went on bewailing herself, which was a natural and -congenial amusement, and she made Desirée various half-sincere -compliments, with a skill which no one could have suspected her of -possessing. The conclusion was, that the little Frenchwoman yielded, and -gave up her determination to leave Melmar; instead of that she came and -sat by Mrs. Huntley all day, reading to her, while Patricia was shut -out; and a storm raged below over that exasperated and unhappy little -girl. The next day there was calm weather. Patricia was confined to her -room with a headache. Joanna was energetically affectionate to her -governess, and Mrs. Huntley came down stairs on purpose to make Desirée -feel comfortable. Poor little Desirée, who was so young, and in reality -so simple-hearted, forgot all her resentment. Her heart was touched by -the kindness which they all seemed so anxious to show her—impulses of -affectionate response rose within herself—she read to Mrs. Huntley, she -put her netting in order for her, she arranged her footstool as the -invalid declared no one had ever been able to do it before; and Desirée -blushed and went shyly away to her embroidery, when Oswald came to sit -by his mother’s little table. Oswald was very animated, and anxious to -please everybody; he found a new story which nobody had seen, and read -it aloud to them while the ladies worked. The day was quite an Elysian -day after the troubles of the previous one; and Desirée, with a little -tumult in her heart, found herself more warmly established in Melmar -that evening than she had ever been hitherto;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> she did not quite -comprehend it, to tell the truth. All this generous desire to make her -comfortable, though the girl accepted it without question as real, and -never suspected deceit in it, was, notwithstanding, alien to the -character of the household, and puzzled her unconsciously. But Desirée -did not inquire with herself what was the cause of it. If some fairy -voice whispered a reason in her ear, she blushed and tried to forget it -again. No, his father and mother were proud of Oswald; they were -ambitious for him; they would think such a fancy the height of folly, -could it even be possible that he entertained it. No, no, no! it could -not be that.</p> - -<p>Yet, next day, when Joanna and Desirée went out to walk, Oswald -encountered them before they had gone far, and seemed greatly pleased to -constitute himself the escort of his sister and her governess. If he -talked to Joanna sometimes, it was to Desirée that his looks, his cares, -his undertones of half-confidential conversation were addressed. He -persuaded them out of “the grounds” to the sunny country road leading to -Kirkbride, where the sun shone warmer; but where all the country might -have seen him stooping to the low stature of his sister’s governess. -Desirée was only sixteen; she was not wise and fortified against the -blandishments of man;—she yielded with a natural pleasure to the -natural pride and shy delight of her position. She had never seen any -one so agreeable; she had never received before that unspoken but -intoxicating homage of the young man to the young woman, which puts an -end to all secondary differences and degrees. She went forward with a -natural expansion at her heart—a natural brightening in her eyes—a -natural radiance of young life and beauty in her face. She could not -help it. It was the first tender touch of a new sunshine upon her heart.</p> - -<p>A woman stood by herself upon the road before them, looking out, as it -seemed, for the entrance of a little by-way, which ran through the -Melmar woods, and near the house, an immemorial road which no proprietor -could shut up. Desirée observed Joanna run up to this bystander; -observed the quick, lively, middle-aged features, the pleasant -complexion and bright eyes, which turned for a moment to observe the -party; yet would have passed on without further notice but for hearing -the name of Cosmo. Cosmo!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> could this be his mother? Desirée had her own -reasons for desiring to see the Mistress; she went forward with her -lively French self-possession to ask if it was Mrs. Livingstone, and if -she might thank her for her son’s kindness in Edinburgh. The Mistress -looked at her keenly, and she looked at the Mistress; both the glances -were significant, and meant more than a common meeting; half a dozen -words, graceful and proper on Desirée’s part, and rather abrupt and -embarrassed on that of the Mistress, passed between them, and then they -went upon their several ways. The result of the interview, for the -little Frenchwoman, was a bright and vivid little mental photograph of -the Mistress, very clear in external features, and as entirely wrong in -its guess at character as was to be expected from the long and far -difference between the little portrait-painter and her subject. Desirée -broke through her own pleasant maze of fancy for the moment to make her -rapid notes upon the Mistress. She was more interested in her than there -seemed any reason for; certainly much more than simply as the mother of -Cosmo, whom she had seen but twice in her life, and was by no means -concerned about.</p> - -<p>“Who is that?” asked Oswald, when the Mistress had passed.</p> - -<p>“It is Mrs. Livingstone, of Norlaw,” said Joanna, “Cosmo’s mother; -Desirée knows; but I wonder if she’s going up to Melmar? I think I’ll -run and ask her. I don’t know why she should go to Melmar, for I’m sure -she ought to hate papa.”</p> - -<p>“That will do; I am not particularly curious—you need not trouble -yourself to ask on my account,” said Oswald, putting out his hand to -stop Joanna, “and, pray, how does Mademoiselle Desirée know? I should -not suppose that ruddy countrywoman was much like a friend of <i>yours</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I have never seen her before,” said Desirée.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I might have trusted that to your own good taste,” said Oswald, -with a bow and a smile; “but you must pardon me for feeling that such a -person was not an acquaintance meet for you.”</p> - -<p>Desirée made no answer. The look and the smile made her poor little -heart beat—she did not ask herself why he was so interested in her -friendships and acquaintances. She accepted it with downcast eyes and a -sweet, rising color;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> he <i>did</i> concern himself about all the matters -belonging to her—that was enough.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Livingstone of Norlaw is not a common person—she is as good as we -are, if she is not as rich,” cried Joanna. “<i>I</i> like her! I would rather -see her than a dozen fine ladies, and, Desirée, you ought to stand up -for her, too. If you think Norlaw is no’ as good as Melmar, it’s because -you’re not of this country and don’t know—that is all.”</p> - -<p>Desirée, looking up, saw to her surprise an angry and menacing look upon -the face, which a minute ago had been bent with such gallant courtesy -towards her own, and which was now directed to Joanna.</p> - -<p>“Norlaw may be as good as Melmar,” said the gentle Oswald, with an -emphasis which for the moment made him like Patricia; “but that is no -reason why one of that family should be a worthy acquaintance for -Mademoiselle Desirée, who is not much like you, Joanna, nor your -friends.”</p> - -<p>Joanna loved Desirée with all her heart—but this was going too far even -for her patience; she ended the conversation abruptly by a bewildered -stare in her brother’s face, and a burst of tears.</p> - -<p>“Desirée used to be fond of me, till you came—<i>she</i> was my only -friend!” cried poor Joanna, whom Desirée’s kiss scarcely succeeded in -comforting. She did not know what to do, this poor little governess—it -seemed fated that Oswald’s attentions were to embroil her with all his -family—yet somehow one can not resent with very stern virtue the -injustice which shows particular favor to one’s self. Desirée still -thought it was very kind of Oswald Huntley to concern himself that she -should have proper friends.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katie Logan</span> was by herself in the manse parlor. Though the room was as -bright as ever, the little housekeeper did not look so bright. She was -darning the little stockings which filled the basket, but she was not -singing her quiet song, nor thinking pleasant thoughts. Katie’s eyes -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> red, and her cheeks pale. She was beginning to go, dark and -blindfold, into a future which it broke her heart to think of. Those -children of the manse, what would become of them when they had neither -guide nor guardian but Katie? This was question enough to oppress the -elder sister, if every thing else had not been swallowed in the thought -of her father’s growing weakness, of the pallor and the trembling which -every one observed, and of the exhaustion of old age into which the -active minister visibly began to fall. Katie was full of these thoughts -when she heard some one come to the door; she went immediately to look -at herself in the mirror over the mantel-piece, and to do her best to -look like her wont; but it was alike a wonder and a relief to Katie, -looking round, to find the Mistress, a most unusual visitor, entering -the room.</p> - -<p>The Mistress was not much in the custom of paying visits—it embarrassed -her a little when she did so, unless she had some distinct errand. She -dropped into a chair near the door, and put back her vail upon her -bonnet, and looked at Katie with a little air of fatigue and past -excitement.</p> - -<p>“No, no, thank ye,” said the Mistress, “I’ve been walking, I’ll no’ come -to the fire; it’s cold, but it’s a fine day outbye—I just thought I -would take a walk up by Whittock’s Gate.”</p> - -<p>“Were you at Mrs. Blackadder’s?” asked Katie.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the Mistress, with a slightly confused expression. “I was no -place, but just taking a walk. What for should I no’ walk for pleasure -as well as my neighbors? but indeed, to tell the truth, I had a very -foolish reason, Katie,” she added, after a little interval. “I’ve never -had rest in my mind after what you said of the French lassie at Melmar. -I did ken of a person that was lost and married long ago, and might just -as well be in France as in ony other place. She was no friend of mine, -but I kent of her, and I’ve seen her picture and heard what like she -was, so, as I could not help but turn it over in my mind, I just took -the gate up there, a wise errand, to see if I could get a look of this -bairn. I meant to go through the Melmar footpath, though that house and -them that belong to it are little pleasure to me; but as guid fortune -was, I met them in the road.”</p> - -<p>“Joanna and the governess?” said Katie.</p> - -<p>“And mair than them,” answered the Mistress. “A lad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> that I would take -to be the son that’s been so long away. An antic with a muckle cloak, -and a black beard, and a’ the looks of a French fiddler; but Joanna -called him by his name, so he bid to be her brother; and either he’s -deluding the other bit lassie, or she’s ensnaring him.”</p> - -<p>Katie smiled, so faintly and unlike herself, that it was not difficult -to perceive how little her heart was open to amusement. The Mistress, -however, who apprehended every thing after her own fashion, took even -this faint expression of mirth a little amiss.</p> - -<p>“You needna laugh—there’s little laughing matter in it,” said the -Mistress. “If a bairn of mine were to be led away after ony such -fashion, do ye think <i>I</i> could find in my heart to smile? Na, they’re -nae friends of mine, the present family of Melmar; but I canna see a son -of a decent house maybe beguiled by an artfu’ foreign woman, however -great an antic he may be himself, and take ony pleasure in it. It’s aye -sure to be a grief to them he belongs to, and maybe a destruction to the -lad a’ his life.”</p> - -<p>“But Desirée is only sixteen, and Oswald Huntley, if it was Oswald—is a -very great deal older—he should be able to take care of himself,” said -Katie, repeating the offense. “You saw her, then? Do you think she was -like the lady you knew?”</p> - -<p>“I never said I knew any lady,” said the Mistress, testily. “I kent of -one that was lost mony a year ago. Na, na, this is naebody belonging to -<i>her</i>. She was a fair, soft woman that, with blue e’en, and taller than -me; but this is a bit elf of a thing, dark and little. I canna tell what -put it into my head for a moment, for Melmar was the last house in the -world to look for a bairn’s of <i>hers</i> in; but folk canna help nonsense -thoughts. Cosmo, you see, he’s a very fanciful laddie, as indeed is no’ -to be wondered at, and he wrote me hame word about somebody he had -seen—and then hearing of this bairn asking questions about me; but it -was just havers, as I kent from the first—she is no more like her than -she’s like you or me. But I’m sorry about the lad. Naething but ill and -mischief can come of the like, so far as I’ve seen. If he’s deluding the -bairn, he’s a villain, Katie, and if she’s leading him on—and ane can -never tell what snares are in these Frenchwomen from their very -cradle—I’m sorry for Melmar and his wife, though they’re no friends to -me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<p>“I think Oswald Huntley ought to be very well able to take care of -himself,” repeated Katie—“and to know French ways, too. I like Desirée, -and I don’t like him. I hope she will not have any thing to say to him. -When is Cosmo coming home?”</p> - -<p>The Mistress, however, looked a little troubled about Cosmo. She did not -answer readily.</p> - -<p>“He’s a fanciful bairn,” she said, half fondly, half angrily—“as indeed -what else can you expect? He’s ane of the real auld Livingstones of -Norlaw—aye some grand wild plan in his head for other folks, and no’ -that care for himself that might be meet. He would have been a knight -like what used to be in the ballads in my young days, if he hadna lived -ower late for that.”</p> - -<p>Pausing here, the Mistress closed her lips with a certain emphatic -movement, as though she had nothing more to say upon this subject, and -was about proceeding to some other, when they were both startled by the -noisy opening of a door, which Katie knew to be the study. The sound was -that of some feeble hand, vainly attempting to turn the handle, and -shaking the whole door with the effort which was at last successful; -then came a strange, incoherent, half-pronounced “Katie!” Katie flew to -the door, with a face like death itself. The Mistress rose and waited, -breathless, yet too conscious of her own impatience of intrusion to -follow. Then a heavy, slow fall, as of some one whose limbs failed under -him, a cry from Katie, and the sudden terrified scream of one of the -maids from the kitchen moved the Mistress beyond all thoughts but those -of help. She ran into the little hall of the manse, throwing her cloak -off her shoulders with an involuntary promise that she could not leave -this house to-day. There she saw a melancholy sight, the minister, with -a gray ashen paleness upon his face, lying on the threshold of his -study, not insensible, but powerless, moving with a dreadful impotence -those poor, pale, trembling lips, from which no sound would come. Katie -knelt beside him, supporting his head, almost as pallid as he, -aggravating, unawares, the conscious agony of his helplessness by -anxious, tender questions, imploring him to speak to her—while the maid -stood behind, wringing her hands, crying, and asking whether she should -bring water? whether she should get some wine? what she should do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span></p> - -<p>“Flee this moment,” cried the Mistress, pushing this latter to the door, -“and bring in the first man you can meet to carry him to his bed—that’s -what <i>you’re</i> to do—and, Katie, Katie, whisht, dinna vex him—he canna -speak to you. Keep up your heart—we’ll get him to his bed, and we’ll -get the doctor, and he’ll come round.”</p> - -<p>Katie lifted up her woeful white face to the Mistress—the poor girl did -not say a word—did not even utter a sob or shed a tear. Her eyes said -only, “it has come! it has come!” The blow which she had been trembling -for had fallen at last. And the Mistress, who was not given to tokens of -affection, stooped down in the deep pity of her heart and kissed Katie’s -forehead. There was nothing to be said. This sudden calamity was beyond -the reach of speech.</p> - -<p>They got the sufferer conveyed to his room and laid on his bed a few -minutes after, and within a very short time the only medical aid which -the neighborhood afforded was by the bed-side. But medical aid could do -little for the minister—he was old, and had long been growing feeble, -and nobody wondered to hear that he had suffered “a stroke,” and that -there was very, very little hope of his recovery. The old people in -Kirkbride clustered together, speaking of it with that strange, calm -curiosity of age, which always seems rather to congratulate itself that -some one else is the present sufferer, yet is never without the -consciousness that itself may be the next. A profound sympathy, -reverence, and compassion was among all the villagers—passive towards -Dr. Logan, active to Katie, the guardian and mother of the little -household of orphans who soon were to have no other guardian. They said -to each other, “God help her!” in her youth and loneliness—what was she -to do?</p> - -<p>As for the Mistress, she was not one of those benevolent neighbors who -share in the vigils of every sick room, and have a natural faculty for -nursing. To her own concentrated individual temper, the presence of -strangers in any household calamity was so distasteful, that she could -scarcely imagine it acceptable to others; and she never offered services -which she would not have accepted. But there was neither offer nor -acceptance now. The Mistress sent word at once to Marget, took off her -bonnet, and without a word to any one, took her place in the afflicted -house. Even now she was but little in the sick chamber.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span></p> - -<p>“If he kens her, he’ll like best to see Katie—and if he doesna ken her, -it’ll aye be a comfort to herself,” said the Mistress. “I’ll take the -charge of every thing else—- but his ain bairn’s place is there.”</p> - -<p>“I only fear,” said the doctor, “that the poor thing will wear herself -out.”</p> - -<p>“She’s young, and she’s a good bairn,” said the Mistress, “and she’ll -have but one father, if she lives ever so long a life. I’m no feared. -No, doctor, dinna hinder Katie; if she wears herself out, poor bairn, -she’ll have plenty of sad time to rest in. Na, I dinna grudge her -watching; she doesna feel it now, and it’ll be a comfort to her a’ her -life.”</p> - -<p>It was, perhaps, a new doctrine to the country doctor; but he -acknowledged the truth of it, and the Mistress, wise in this, left Katie -to that mournful, silent, sick room, where the patient lay motionless -and passive in the torpor of paralysis, perhaps conscious, it was hard -to know—but unable to communicate a word of all that might be in his -heart. The children below, hushed and terror-stricken, had never been -under such strict rule, yet never had known so many indulgences all -their lives before; and the Mistress took <i>her</i> night’s rest upon the -sofa, wrapped in a shawl and morning gown, ready to start in an instant, -should she be called; but she did not disturb the vigil of the daughter -by her father’s bed-side.</p> - -<p>And Katie, absorbed by her own sorrows, hardly noticed—hardly -knew—this characteristic delicacy. She sat watching him with an -observation so intent, that she almost fancied she could see his breath, -watching the dull, gray eyes, half closed and lustreless, to note if, -perhaps, a wandering light of expression might kindle in them; watching -the nerveless, impotent hands, if perhaps, motion might be restored to -them; watching the lips, lest they should move, and she might lose the -chance of guessing at some word. There was something terrible, -fascinating, unearthly in the task; he was there upon the bed, and yet -he was not there, confined in a dismal speechless prison, to which -perhaps—they could not tell—their own words and movements might -penetrate, but out of which nothing could come. His daughter sat beside -him, looking forward with awe into the blank solemnity of the future. No -mother, no father; only the little dependent children, who had but -herself to look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> to. She went over and over again the very same ground. -Orphans, and desolate; her thoughts stopped there, and went no further. -She could not help contemplating the terrible necessity before her; but -she could not make plans while her father lay there, speechless yet -breathing, in her sight.</p> - -<p>She was sitting thus, the fourth day after his seizure, gazing at him; -the room was very still—the blinds were down—a little fire burned -cheerfully in the grate—her eyes were fixed upon his eyes, watching -them, and as she watched it seemed to Katie that her father’s look -turned towards a narrow, ruddy, golden arrow of sunshine, which streamed -in at the side of the window. She rose hastily and went up to the bed. -Then his lips began to move—she bent down breathlessly; God help -her!—he spoke, and she was close to his faltering lips; but all Katie’s -strained and agonizing senses could not tell a word of what he meant to -say. What matter? His eyes were not on her, but on the sunshine—the -gleam of God’s boundless light coming in to the chamber of -mortality—his thoughts were not with her in her sore youthful trouble. -He was as calm as an angel, lying there in the death of his old age and -the chill of his faculties. But she—she was young, she was desolate, -she was his child—her heart cried out in intolerable anguish, and would -not be satisfied. Could it be possible? Would he pass away with those -moving lips, with that faint movement of a smile, and she never know -what he meant to say?</p> - -<p>With the restlessness of extreme and almost unbearable suffering, Katie -rang her bell—the doctor had desired to know whenever his patient -showed any signs of returning consciousness. Perhaps the sound came to -the ear of the dying man, perhaps only his thoughts changed. But when -she turned again, Katie found the reverent infantine calm gone from his -face, and his eyes bent upon her with a terrible struggle after speech, -which wrung her very heart. She cried aloud involuntarily with an echo -of the agony upon that ashen face. The sound of her voice, of her hasty -step and of the bell, brought the Mistress to the room, and the -terrified servants to the door. Katie did not see the Mistress; she saw -nothing in the world but the pitiful struggle of those palsied lips to -speak to her, the anguish of uncommunicable love in those opened eyes. -She bent over him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> putting her very ear to his month; when that failed, -she tried, Heaven help her, to look as if she had heard him, to comfort -his heart in his dying. The old man’s eyes opened wider, dilating with -the last effort—at last came a burst of incoherent sound—he had -spoken—what was it? The Mistress turned her head away and bowed down -upon her knees at the door, with an involuntary awe and pity, too deep -for any expression, but Katie cried, “Yes, father, yes, I hear you!” -with a cry that might have rent the skies. If she did, Heaven knows; she -thought so—and so did he; the effort relaxed—the eyes closed—and word -of human language the good minister uttered never more.</p> - -<p>It was all over. Four little orphans sat below crying under their -breath, unaware of what was their calamity—and Katie Logan above, at -nineteen, desolate and unsupported, and with more cares than a mother, -stood alone upon the threshold of the world.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">While</span> the peaceful Manse of Kirkbride was turned into a house of -mourning, a strange little drama was being played at Melmar. The -household there seemed gradually clustering, a strange chorus of -observation, round Oswald and Desirée, the two principal figures in the -scene. Melmar himself watched the little Frenchwoman with cat-like -stealthiness, concentrating his regard upon her. Aunt Jean sat in her -chair apart, troubled and unenlightened, perpetually calling Desirée to -her, and inventing excuses to draw her out of the presence and society -of Oswald. Patricia, when she was present in the family circle, directed -a spiteful watch upon the two, with the vigilance of an ill-fairy; while -even Joanna, a little shocked and startled by the diversion of Desirée’s -regard from herself, a result which she had not quite looked for, -behaved very much like a jealous lover to the poor little governess, -tormenting her by alternate sulks and violent outbursts of fondness. -Oswald himself, though he was always at her side, though he gave her a -quite undue share of his time and attention,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> and made quite fantastical -exhibitions of devotion, was a lover, if lover he was, ill at ease, -capricious and overstrained. He knew her pretty, he felt that she was -full of mind, and spirit, and intelligence—but still she was a little -girl to Oswald Huntley, who was not old enough to find in her fresh -youth the charm which has subdued so many a man of the world—nor young -enough to meet her on equal ground. Why he sought her at all, unless he -had really “fallen in love” with her, it seemed very hard to find out. -Aunt Jean, looking on with her sharp black eyes, could only shake her -head in silent wonder, and doubt, and discomfort. He could have “nae -motive"—but Aunt Jean thought that lovers looked differently in her -days, and a vague suspicion disturbed the mind of the old woman. She -used to call Desirée to her own side, to keep her there talking of her -embroidery, or telling her old stories of which the girl began to tire, -being occupied by other thoughts. The hero himself was unaware of, and -totally indifferent to, Aunt Jean’s scrutiny, but Melmar himself -sometimes turned his fiery eyes to her corner, with a glance of doubt -and apprehension. She was the only spectator in the house of whose -inspection Mr. Huntley was at all afraid.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Desirée herself lived in a dream—the first dream of extreme -youth, of a tender heart and gentle imagination, brought for the first -time into personal contact with the grand enchantress and Armida of -life. Desirée was not learned in the looks of lover’s eyes—she had no -“experience,” poor child! to guide her in this early experiment and -trembling delight of unfamiliar emotion. She knew she was poor, young, -solitary, Joanna’s little French governess, yet that it was she, the -little dependent, whom Joanna’s graceful brother, everybody else’s -superior, singled out for his regard. Her humble little heart responded -with all a young girl’s natural flutter of pride, of gratitude, of -exquisite and tremulous pleasure. There could be but one reason in the -world to induce this unaccustomed homage and devotion. She could not -believe that Oswald admired or found any thing remarkable in herself, -only—strange mystery, not to be thought of save with the blush of that -profoundest humility which is born of affection!—only, by some -unexplainable, unbelievable wonder, it must be love. Desirée did not -enter into any questions on the subject;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> she yielded to the -fascination; it made her proud, it made her humble, it filled her with -the tenderest gratitude, it subdued her little fiery spirit like a -spell. She was very, very young, she knew nothing of life or of the -world, she lived in a little world of her own, where this grand figure -was the centre of every thing; and it was a grand figure in the dewy, -tender light of Desirée’s young eyes—in the perfect globe of Desirée’s -maiden fancy—but it was not Oswald Huntley, deeply though the poor -child believed it was.</p> - -<p>So they all grouped around her, watching her, some of them perplexed, -some of them scheming; and Oswald played his part, sometimes loathing -it, but, for the most part, finding it quite agreeable to his vanity, -while poor little Desirée went on in her dream, thinking she had fallen -upon a charmed life, seeing every thing through the glamour in her own -eyes, believing every thing was true.</p> - -<p>“Dr. Logan is ill,” said Melmar, on one of those fairy days, when they -all met round the table at lunch; all but Mrs. Huntley, who had relapsed -into her quiescent invalidism, and was made comfortable in her own -room—“very ill—so ill that I may as well mind my promise to old Gordon -of Ruchlaw for his minister-son.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, don’t be so hard-hearted!” cried Joanna—“he’ll maybe get -better yet. He’s no’ such a very old man, and he preached last -Sabbath-day. Oh, poor Katie! but he has not been a week ill yet, and -he’ll get better again.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Gordon of Ruchlaw? and who is his minister-son?” asked Oswald.</p> - -<p>Joanna made a volunteer answer.</p> - -<p>“A nasty, snuffy, disagreeable man!” cried Joanna, with enthusiasm. “I -am sure I would never enter the church again if he was there; but it’s -very cruel and hard-hearted, and just like papa, to speak of him. Dr. -Logan is only ill. I would break my heart if I thought he was going to -die.”</p> - -<p>“Gordon would be a very useful man to us,” said Melmar—“a great deal -more so than Logan ever was. I mean to write and ask him here, now that -his time’s coming. Be quiet, Joan, and let’s have no more nonsense. I’ll -tell Auntie Jean. If you play your cards well, you might have a good -chance of him yourself, you monkey, and with Aunt Jean’s fortune to -furnish the manse, you might do worse. Ha! ha! I wonder what Patricia -would say?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span></p> - -<p>“Patricia would say it was quite good enough for Joanna,” said that -amiable young lady. “A poor Scotch minister! I am thankful <i>I</i> never had -such low tastes. Nobody would speak of such a thing to me.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t quarrel about the new man till the old man is dead, at least,” -said Oswald, laughing. “Mademoiselle Desirée quite agrees with me, I -know. She is shocked to hear all this. Is it not so?”</p> - -<p>“I thought of his daughter,” said Desirée, who was very much shocked, -and had tears in her eyes. “She will be an orphan now.”</p> - -<p>“And Desirée was very fond of Katie,” said Joanna, looking half -jealously, half fondly at the little governess, “and so am I too; and -she has all the little ones to take care of. Oh, papa, I’ll never -believe that Dr. Logan is going to die.”</p> - -<p>“Fhat is all this, Joan? tell me,” cried Aunt Jean, who had already -shown signs of curiosity and impatience. This was the signal for -breaking up the party. When Joanna put her lips close to the old woman’s -ear, and began to shout the required information, the others dispersed -rapidly. Desirée went to her room to get her cloak and bonnet. It was -her hour for walking with her pupil, and that walk was now an enchanted -progress, a fairy road, leading ever further and further into her fairy -land. As for Oswald, he stood in the window, looking out and shrugging -his shoulders at the cold. His blood was not warm enough to bear the -chill of the northern wind; the sight of the frost-bound paths and -whitened branches made him shiver before he went out. He meant to attend -the girls in their walk, in spite of his shiver; but the frosty path by -the side of Tyne was not a fairy road to him.</p> - -<p>Joanna had left them on some erratic expedition among the trees; they -were alone together, Desirée walking by Oswald’s side, very quiet and -silent, with her eyes cast down, and a tremor at her heart. The poor -little girl did not expect any thing particular, for they were often -enough together thus—still she became silent in spite of herself, as -she wandered on in her dream by Oswald’s side, and, in spite of herself, -cast down her eyes, and felt the color wavering on her cheek. Perhaps he -saw it and was pleased—he liked such moments well enough. They had all -the amusing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> tantalizing, dramatic pleasure of moments which might be -turned to admirable account, but never were so—moments full of -expectation and possibility, of which nothing ever came.</p> - -<p>At this particular moment Oswald was, as it happened, very tenderly -gracious to Desirée. He was asking about her family, or rather her -mother, whom, it appeared, he had heard of without hearing of any other -relative, and Desirée, in answering, spoke of Marie—who was Marie? “Did -I never, then, tell you of my sister?” said Desirée with a blush and -smile.</p> - -<p>“Your sister?—I was not aware—” stammered Oswald—and he looked at her -so closely and coldly, and with such a scrutinizing air of suspicion, -that Desirée stared at him, in return, with amazement and -half-terror—“Perhaps Mademoiselle Desirée has brothers also,” he said, -in the same tone, still looking at her keenly. What if she had brothers? -Would it have been wrong?</p> - -<p>“No,” said Desirée, quietly. The poor child was subdued by the dread of -having wounded him. She thought it grieved him to have so little of her -confidence; it could be nothing but that which made him look so cold and -speak so harsh.</p> - -<p>“Then Mademoiselle Marie is a little sister—a child?” said Oswald, -softening slightly.</p> - -<p>Desirée clapped her hands and laughed with sudden glee. “Oh, no, no,” -she cried merrily, “she is my elder sister; she is not even -Mademoiselle; she is married! Poor Marie!” added the little girl, -softly. “I wish she were here.”</p> - -<p>And for the moment Desirée did not see the look that regarded her. When -she lifted her eyes again, she started and could not comprehend the -change. Oswald’s lip was blue with cold, with dismay, with contempt, -with a mixture of feelings which his companion had no clue to, and could -not understand. “Mademoiselle has, no doubt, a number of little nephews -and nieces,” he said, with a sinister curl of that blue lip over his -white teeth. The look struck to Desirée’s heart with a pang of amazement -and terror—what did it mean?</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no, not any,” she said, with a deep blush. She was startled and -disturbed out of all her maiden fancies—was it a nervous, jealous -irritation, to find that she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> friends more than he knew. It was very -strange—and when Joanna rejoined them shortly, Oswald made an excuse -for himself, and left them. The girls followed him slowly, after a time, -to the house; Desirée could scarcely answer Joanna’s questions, or -appear interested in her pupil’s interests. What was the reason? She -bewildered her poor little head asking this question; but no answer -came.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIX" id="CHAPTER_XLIX"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was a kind of twilight in Aunt Jean’s room, though it was still -daylight out of doors; the sun, as it drew to the west, threw a ruddy -glory upon this side of the house of Melmar, and coming in at Aunt -Jean’s window, had thrown its full force upon the fire-place half an -hour ago. It was the old lady’s belief that the sun put out the fire, so -she had drawn down her blind, and the warm, domestic glimmer of the -firelight played upon the high bed, with those heavy, dull, moreen -curtains, which defied all brightness—upon the brighter toilet-glass on -the table, and upon the old lofty chest of drawers, polished and black -like ebony, which stood at the further side of the room. Aunt Jean -herself sat in a high-backed arm-chair by the fire, where she loved to -sit—and Desirée and Joanna, kneeling on the rug before her, were -turning out the contents of a great basket, full of such scraps as Aunt -Jean loved to accumulate, and girls have pleasure in turning over; there -were bits of silk, bits of splendid old ribbon, long enough for “bows,” -in some cases, but in some only fit for pin-cushions and needle-books of -unbelievable splendor, bits of lace, bits of old-fashioned embroidery, -bits of almost every costly material belonging to a lady’s wardrobe. It -was a pretty scene; the basket on the rug, with its many-colored stores, -the pretty little figure of Desirée, with the fire-light shining in her -hair, the less graceful form of Joanna, which still was youthful, and -honest, and eager, as she knelt opposite the fire, which flushed her -face and reddened her hair at its will; and calmly seated in her -elbow-chair, overseeing all, Aunt Jean, with her white neckerchief -pinned over her gown, and her white apron<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> warm in the fire-light, and -the broad black ribbon bound round her old-fashioned cap, and the -vivacious sparkle of those black eyes, which were not “hard of hearing,” -though their owner was. The pale daylight came in behind the old lady, -faintly through the misty atmosphere and the closed blind—but the -ruddier domestic light within went flickering and sparkling over the -high-canopied bed, the old-fashioned furniture, and the group by the -hearth. When Joanna went away, the picture was even improved perhaps, -for Desirée still knelt half meditatively by the fire, turning over with -one hand the things in the basket, listening to what the old lady said, -and wistfully pondering upon her own thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Some o’ the things were here when I came,” said Aunt Jean. “I was not -so auld then as I am now—I laid them a’ away, Deseery, for fear the -real daughter of the house should ever come hame; for this present -Melmar wasna heir by nature. If right had been right, there’s ane before -him in the succession to this house; but, poor misguided thing, fha was -gaun to seek her; but I laid by the bits o’ things; I thought they might -’mind her some time of the days o’ her youth.”</p> - -<p>“Who was she?” said Desirée, softly: she did not ask so as to be heard -by her companion—she did not ask as if she cared for an answer—she -said it quietly, in a half whisper to herself; yet Aunt Jean heard -Desirée’s question with her lively eyes, which were fixed upon the -girl’s pretty figure, half kneeling, half reclining at her feet.</p> - -<p>“Fha was she? She was the daughter of this house,” said Aunt Jean, “and -fhat’s mair, the mistress of this house, Deseery, if she should ever -come hame.”</p> - -<p>The little Frenchwoman looked up sharply, keenly, with an alarmed -expression on her face. She did not ask any further question, but she -met Aunt Jean’s black eyes with eyes still brighter in their youthful -lustre, yet dimmed with an indefinable cloud of suspicion and fear.</p> - -<p>What was in the old woman’s mind it was hard to tell. Whether she had -any definite ground to go upon, or merely proceeded on an impulse of the -vague anxiety in her mind.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Deed, ay,” said Aunt Jean, nodding her lively little head, “I’ll tell -you a’ her story, my dear, and you can tell me fhat you think when I’m -done. She was the only bairn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> and heir of that silly auld man that was -Laird of Melmar before this present lad, my niece’s good-man—she was -very bonnie, and muckle thought of, and she married and ran away, and -that’s all the folk ken of her, Deseery; but whisht, bairn, and I’ll -tell you mair.”</p> - -<p>Desirée had sunk lower on her knees, leaning back, with her head turned -anxiously towards the story-teller. She was an interested listener at -least.</p> - -<p>“It’s aye thought she was disinherited,” said Aunt Jean, “and at the -first, when she ran away, maybe so she was—but nature will speak. When -this silly auld man, as I’m saying, died, he left a will setting up her -rights, and left it in the hand of another silly haverel of a man, that -was a bit sma’ laird at Norlaw. This man was to be heir himsel’ if she -never was found—but he had a sma’ spirit, Deseery, and he never could -find her. She’s never been found from that day to this—but it’ll be a -sore day for Melmar when she comes hame.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” said Desirée, somewhat sharply and shrilly, with a voice which -reached the old woman’s ears, distant though they were.</p> - -<p>“Fhat for?—because they’ll have to give up all the lands, and all the -siller, and all their living into her hand—that’s fhat for,” said Aunt -Jean; “nae person in this country-side can tell if she’s living, or -fhaur she is; she’s been away langer than you’ve been in this life, -Deseery; and Melmar, the present laird—I canna blame him, he was the -next of the blood after hersel’, nae doubt he thought she was dead and -gane, as a’body else did when he took possession—and his heart rose -doubtless against the other person that was left heir, failing her, -being neither a Huntley nor nigh in blood; but if aught should befall to -bring her hame—ay, Deseery, it would be a sore day for this family, and -every person in this house.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” asked Desirée again with a tremble—this time her voice did not -reach the ear of Aunt Jean, but her troubled, downcast eyes, her -disturbed look, touched the old woman’s heart.</p> - -<p>“If it was a story I was telling out of a book,” said the old woman, “I -would say they were a’ in misery at keeping her out of her rights—or -that the man was a villain that held her place—but you’re no’ to think -that. I dinna<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> doubt he heeds his ain business mair than he heeds -her—it’s but natural, fha would do otherwise? and then he takes comfort -to his mind that she must be dead, or she would have turned up before -now, and then he thinks upon his ain family, and considers his first -duty is for them; and then—’deed ay, my dear, memory fails—I wouldna -say but he often forgets that there was another person in the world but -himsel’ that had a right—that’s nature, Deseery, just nature—folk -learn to think the way it’s their profit to think, and believe what -suits them best, and they’re sincere, too, except maybe just at the -first; you may not think it, being a bairn, yet it’s true.”</p> - -<p>“If it were me,” cried Desirée, with a vehemence which penetrated Aunt -Jean’s infirmity, “the money would burn me, would scorch me, till I -could give it back to the true heir!”</p> - -<p>“Ay,” said Aunt Jean, shaking her head, “I wouldna say I could be easy -in my mind mysel’—but it’s wonderful how weel the like of you and me, -my dear, can settle ither folks’ concerns. Melmar, you see, he’s no’ an -ill man, he thinks otherwise, and I daur to say he’s begun to forget a’ -about her, or just thinks she’s dead and gane, as most folk think. I -canna help aye an expectation to see her back before I die mysel’—but -that’s no’ to say Me’mar has ony thought of the kind. Folk that are away -for twenty years, and never seen, nor heard tell o’, canna expect to be -minded upon and waited upon. It’s very like, upon the whole, that she -<i>is</i> dead many a year syne—and fhat for should Melmar, that kens -nothing about her—aye except that she could take his living away frae -him—fhat for, I’m asking, should Melmar gang away upon his travels -looking for her, like yon other haverel of a man?”</p> - -<p>“What other man?” cried Desirée, eagerly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, just Norlaw; he was aince a wooer himsel’, poor haverel,” said Aunt -Jean; “he gaed roaming about a’ the world, seeking after her, leaving -his wife and his bonny bairns at hame; but fhat good did he?—just -nought ava, Deseery, except waste his ain time, and lose his siller, and -gie his wife a sair heart. She’s made muckle mischief in her day, this -Mary of Melmar. They say she was very bonnie, though I never saw her -mysel’; and fhat for, think you, should the present lad, that kens -nought about her, take up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> his staff and gang traveling the world to -seek for her? Oh, fie, nae!—he has mair duty to his ain house and -bairns, than to a strange woman that he kens not where to seek, and that -would make him a beggar if he found her; I canna see she deserves ony -such thing at his hand.”</p> - -<p>At first Desirée did not answer a word; her cheek was burning hot with -excitement, her face shadowed with an angry cloud, her little hand -clenched involuntarily, her brow knitted. She was thinking of something -private to herself, which roused a passion of resentment within the -breast of the girl. At last she started up and came close to Aunt Jean.</p> - -<p>“But if you knew that she was living, and where she was?” cried Desirée, -“what would you do?”</p> - -<p>“Me! Oh, my bairn!” cried Aunt Jean, in sudden dismay. “Me! what have I -to do with their concerns?—me! it’s nane of my business. The Lord keep -that and a’ evil out of a poor auld woman’s knowledge. I havena eaten -his bread—I never would be beholden that far to any mortal—but I’ve -sitten under his roof tree for mony a year. Me!—if I heard a word of -such awfu’ news, I would gang furth of this door this moment, that I -mightna be a traitor in the man’s very dwelling;—eh, the Lord help me, -the thought’s dreadful! for I behoved to let her ken!”</p> - -<p>“And what if he knew?” asked Desirée, in a sharp whisper, gazing into -Aunt Jean’s eyes with a look that pierced like an arrow. The old woman’s -look fell, but it was not to escape this gaze of inquiry.</p> - -<p>“The Lord help him!” said Aunt Jean, pitifully. “I can but hope he would -do right, Deseery; but human nature’s frail; I canna tell.”</p> - -<p>This reply softened for the moment the vehement, angry look of the -little Frenchwoman. She came again to kneel before the fire, and was -silent, thinking her own thoughts; then another and a new fancy seemed -to rise like a mist over her face. She looked up dismayed to Aunt Jean, -with an unexplained and terrified question, which the old woman could -not interpret. Then she tried to command herself with an evident -effort—but it was useless. She sprang up, and came close, with a -shivering chill upon her, to put her lips to Aunt Jean’s ear.</p> - -<p>“Do they all know of this story?” she asked, in the low,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> sharp voice, -strangely intent and passionate, which even deafness itself could not -refuse to hear; and Desirée fixed her gaze upon the old woman’s eyes, -holding her fast with an eager scrutiny, as though she trembled to be -put off with any thing less than the truth.</p> - -<p>“Hout, no!” said Aunt Jean, disturbed a little, yet confident; “fha -would tell the like of Patricia or Joan—fuils and bairns! and as for -the like of my niece herself, she’s muckle taken up with her ain bits of -troubles; she might hear of it at the time, but she would forget the day -after; naebody minds but me.”</p> - -<p>“And—Oswald?” cried Desirée, sharply, once again.</p> - -<p>“Eh! ay—I wasna thinking upon him; he’s the heir,” said Aunt Jean, -turning her eyes sharp and keen upon her young questioner. “I canna tell -fhat for you ask me so earnest, bairn; you maunna think mair of Oswald -Huntley than becomes baith him and you; ay, doubtless, you’re right, -whatever learned ye—<i>he</i> kens.”</p> - -<p>Desirée did not say another word, but she clasped her hands tightly -together, sprang out of the room with the pace of a deer, and before -Aunt Jean had roused herself from her amazement, had thrown her cloak -over her shoulders, and rushed out into the gathering night.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_L" id="CHAPTER_L"></a>CHAPTER L.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> sunset glory of this January evening still shone over the tops of -the trees upon the high bank of Tyne, leaving a red illumination among -the winter clouds; but low upon the path the evening was gathering -darkly and chilly, settling down upon the ice-cold branches, which -pricked the hasty passenger like thorns, in the black dryness of the -frost. The Kelpie itself was scarcely recognizable in the torpid and -tiny stream which trickled down its little ravine; only the sharp sound -of its monotone in the tingling air made you aware of its vicinity; and -frozen Tyne no longer added his voice to make the silence musical. The -silence was dry, hard, and harsh, the sounds were shrill, the air cut -like a knife. No creature that could find shelter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> was out of doors; yet -poor little Desirée, vehement, willful, and passionate, with her cloak -over her shoulders, and her pretty uncovered head, exposed to all the -chill of the unkindly air, went rushing out, with her light foot and -little fairy figure, straight as an arrow over Tyne, and came up the -frozen path, into the wood and the night.</p> - -<p>One side of her face was still scorched and crimsoned with the fervor of -Aunt Jean’s fire, before which she had been bending; the other, in -comparison, was already chilled and white. She ran along up the icy, -chilly road, with the night-wind cutting her delicate little ears, and -her rapid footsteps sliding upon the knots of roots in the path, -straight up to that height where the Kelpie trickled, and the last red -cloud melted into gray behind the trees. The dubious, failing twilight -was wan among those branches, where never a bird stirred. There was not -a sound of life anywhere, save in the metallic tinkle of that drowsing -waterfall. Desirée rushed through the silence and the darkness, and -threw herself down upon the hard path, on one of the hard knots, beneath -a tree. She was not sorry, in her passionate <i>abandon</i>, to feel the air -prick her cheek, to see the darkness closing over her, to know that the -cold pierced to the bone, and that she was almost unprotected from its -rigor. All this desolation was in keeping with the tumult which moved -the willful heart of the little stranger. The prick of the wind -neutralized somewhat the fiery prick in her heart.</p> - -<p>Poor little Desirée! She had, indeed, enough to think of—from her -morning’s flush of happiness and dawning love to plunge into a cold -profound of treachery, deceit, and falsehood like that which gaped at -her feet, ready to swallow her up. For the moment it was anger alone, -passionate and vivid as her nature, which burned within her. She, frank, -child-like, and unsuspicious, had been degraded by a pretended love, a -false friendship; had been warned, “for her own sake,” by the -treacherous host whom Desirée hated, in her passion, to say nothing of -her descent or of her mother. For her own sake! and not a syllable of -acknowledgment to confess how well the wily schemer knew who that mother -was. Yet, alas, if that had but been all!—if there had been nothing to -do but to confound Melmar, to renounce Joanna, to shake off the dust of -her indignant feet against the house where they would have kept her in -bondage!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span>—if that had but been all! But Desirée clenched her little -hands with a pang of angry and bitter resentment far more overpowering. -To think that she should have been insulted with a false love! Bitter -shame, quick, passionate anger, even the impulse of revenge, came like a -flood over the breast of the girl, as she sat shivering with cold and -passion at the foot of that tree, with the dark winter night closing -over her. She could almost fancy she saw the curl of Oswald Huntley’s -lip as he heard to-day, on this very spot, that she had a sister; she -could almost suppose, if he stood there now, that she had both strength -and will to thrust him through the rustling bushes down to the -crackling, frozen Tyne, to sink like a stone beneath the ice, which was -less treacherous than himself. Poor little desolate, solitary stranger! -She sat in the darkness and the cold, with the tears freezing in her -eyes, but passion burning in her heart; she cried aloud in the silence -with an irrepressible cry of fury and anguish—the voice of a young -savage, the uncontrolled, unrestrained, absolute violence of a child. -She was half crazed with the sudden downfall, the sudden injury; she -could think of nothing but the sin that had been done against her, the -vengeance, sharp and sudden as her passion, which she would inflict if -she could.</p> - -<p>But as poor little Desirée crouched beneath the tree, not even the -vehemence of her resentment could preserve her from the influences of -Nature. Her little feet seemed frozen to the path; her hands were numb -and powerless, and ice-cold as the frozen water beneath. The chill stole -to her heart with a sickening faintness, then a gradual languor crept -over her passion; by degrees she felt nothing but the cold, the sharp -rustle of the branches, the chill gloom of the night, the harsh wind -that blew in at her uncovered ears. Her hair fell down on her neck, and -her fingers were too powerless to put it up. She had no heart to return -to the house from which she fled in so violent an excess of insulted -feeling—it almost seemed that she had no place in the world to go to, -poor child, but this desolate winter woodland, which in its summer -beauty she had associated with her mother. The night blinded her, and so -did the growing sickness of extreme cold. Another moment, and poor -little Desirée sank against the tree, passionless and fainting—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> -last thought in her heart a low outcry for her mother, who was hundreds -of miles away and could not hear.</p> - -<p>The cold was still growing sharper and keener as the last glimmer of -daylight faded out of the skies. She might have slid down into the -frozen Tyne, as she had imagined her enemy, or she might have perished -in her favorite path, in the cold which was as sharp as an Arctic frost. -But Providence does not desert those poor, suffering, wicked children -who fly to death’s door at the impulse of passion as Desirée did. A -laborer, hastening home by the footpath through the Melmar woods, -wandered out of his way, by chance, and stumbled over the poor little -figure lying in the path. When the man had got over his first alarm, he -lifted her up and carried her like a child—she was not much more—to -Melmar, where he went to the side door and brought her in among the -servants to that great kitchen, which was the most cheerful apartment in -the house. The maids were kind-hearted, and liked the poor little -governess—they chafed her hands and bathed her feet, and wrapped her in -blankets, and, at last, brought Desirée to her senses. When she came -alive again, the poor, naughty child looked round her bewildered, and -did not know where she was—the place was strange to her—and it looked -so bright and homely that Desirée’s poor little heart was touched by a -vague contrasting sense of misery.</p> - -<p>“I should like to go to bed,” she said, sadly, turning her face away -from the light to a kind housemaid, who stood by her, and who could not -tell what ailed “the French miss,” whom all the servants had thought -rather too well-used of late days, and whose look of misery seemed -unaccountable.</p> - -<p>“Eh, Missie, but ye maun wait until the fire’s kindled,” said the maid.</p> - -<p>Desirée did not want a fire—she had no desire to be comforted and -warmed, and made comfortable—she would almost rather have crept out -again into the cold and the night. Notwithstanding, they carried her up -stairs carefully, liking the stranger all the better for being sad and -in trouble and dependent on them—and undressed her like a child, and -laid her in bed in her little room, warm with firelight, and looking -bright with comfort and kindness. Then the pretty housemaid, whom -Patricia exercised her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> tempers on, brought Desirée a warm drink and -exhorted her to go to sleep.</p> - -<p>“What made ye rin out into the cauld night, Missie, without a thing on -your head,” said Jenny Shaw, compassionately; “but lie still and keep -yoursel’ warm—naebody kens yet but us in the kitchen, or Miss Joan -would be here; but I thought you would like best to be quiet, and it -would do you mair good.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear Jenny, don’t let any one know—don’t tell them—promise!” -cried Desirée, half starting from her bed.</p> - -<p>The maid did not know what to make of it, but she promised, to compose -the poor little sufferer; and so Desirée was left by herself in the -little room, with the warm fire light flickering about the walls, and -her little hands and feet, which had been so cold, burning and prickling -with a feverish heat, her limbs aching, her thoughts wandering, her -heart lost in an ineffable, unspeakable melancholy. She could not return -to her passion, to the bitter hurry and tumult of resentful fancies -which had occupied her out of doors. She lay thinking, trying to think, -vainly endeavoring to confine the wandering crowd of thoughts, which -made her head ache, and which seemed to float over every subject under -heaven. She tried to say her prayers, poor child, but lost them in an -incoherent mist of fancy. She fell asleep, and awoke in a few minutes, -thinking she had slept for hours—worse than that, she fell half asleep -into a painful drowse, where waking thoughts and dreams mingled with and -confused each other. Years of silence and unendurable solitude seemed to -pass over her before Jenny Shaw came up stairs again to ask her how she -was, and the last thing clear in Desirée’s remembrance was that Jenny -promised once more not to tell any one. Desirée did not know that the -good-hearted Jenny half slept, half watched in her room all that night. -The poor child knew nothing next day but that her limbs ached, and her -head burned, and that a dull sense of pain was at her heart. She was -very ill with all her exposure and suffering—she was ill for some time, -making a strange commotion in the house. But no one had any idea of the -cause of her illness, save perhaps Aunt Jean, who did not say a word to -any one, but trotted about the sick-room, “cheering up” the little sick -stranger and finding out her wants with strange skill in spite of her -deafness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> All the time of Desirée’s illness Aunt Jean took not the -slightest notice of Oswald Huntley—she was doubly deaf when he -addressed her—she lost even her sharp and lively eyesight when he -encountered her on the stair. Aunt Jean did not know what ailed Desirée -besides the severe cold and fever which the doctor decided on, but the -old woman remembered perfectly at what point of their conversation it -was that the little girl rushed from her side and fled out of the -house—and she guessed at many things with a keen and lively penetration -which came very near the truth. And so Desirée was very ill, and got -slowly well again, bringing with her out of her sickness a thing more -hard to cure than fever—a sick heart.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LI" id="CHAPTER_LI"></a>CHAPTER LI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">While</span> all these new events and changes were disturbing the quiet life of -the home district at Melmar, and Norlaw, and Kirkbride, Cosmo -Livingstone wandered over classic ground with Cameron and his young -pupil, and sent now and then, with modest pride, his contribution to the -<i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i> which had now been afloat for four months, and on -account of which Mr. Todhunter, in his turn, sent remittances—not -remarkably liberal, yet meant to be so, in letters full of a rude, yet -honest, vanity, which impressed the lad with great ideas of what the new -periodical was to do for the literary world. So far, all was -satisfactory with Cosmo. He was very well off also in his companions. -Cameron, who had been shy of undertaking a manner of life which was so -new to him, and whom all the innkeepers had fleeced unmercifully on the -first commencement of their travels—for the very pride which made him -starve in his garret at home, out of everybody’s ken, made him, unused -and inexperienced as he was, a lavish man abroad, where everybody was -looking on, and where the thought of “meanness” troubled his spirit. But -by this time, even Cameron had become used to the life of inns and -journeys, and was no longer awed by the idea that landlords and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> waiters -would suspect his former poverty, or that his pupil himself might -complain of undue restraint. The said pupil, whose name was Macgregor, -was good-natured and companionable, without being any thing more. They -had been in Italy, in Switzerland, and in Germany. They had all acquired -a traveler’s smattering of all the three tongues familiar on their -road—they had looked at churches, and pictures, and palaces, till those -eyes which were unguided by <i>Murray</i>, and knew just as much, or rather -as little, of art, as the bulk of their countrymen at the time, became -fairly bewildered, and no longer recollected which was which. They were -now in France, in chilly February weather, on their way home. Why they -pitched upon this town of St. Ouen for their halt it would have been -hard to explain. It was in Normandy, for one reason, and Cosmo felt -rather romantically interested in that old cradle of the conquering -race. It was within reach of various places, of historic interest. -Finally, young Macgregor had picked up somewhere a little archaic lore, -which was not a common accomplishment in those days, and St. Ouen was -rich in old architecture. Thus they lingered, slow to leave the shores -of France, which was not sunny France in that February, but had been the -beginning and was about to be the end of their pleasant wandering, and -where accordingly they were glad to rest for a little before returning -home.</p> - -<p>Though, to tell the truth, Cosmo would a great deal rather have tarried -on the very edge of the country, at the little sea-port which bowed -Jaacob called “Deep,” and where that sentimental giant had seen, or -fancied he had seen, the lady of his imagination. Cosmo had enjoyed his -holiday heartily, as became his temperament and years, yet he was -returning disappointed, and even a little chagrined and ashamed of -himself. He had started with the full and strong idea that what his -father could not succeed in doing, and what advertisements and legal -search had failed in, he himself, by himself, could do—and he was now -going home somewhat enlightened as to this first fallacy of youth. He -had not succeeded, he had not had the merest gleam or prospect of -success; Mary of Melmar was as far off, as totally lost, as though Cosmo -Livingstone, who was to be her knight and champion, had never known the -story of her wrongs, and Time was gliding away with silent, inevitable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> -rapidity. A year and a half of the precious remaining interval was over. -Huntley had been at his solitary work in Australia for nearly a whole -year, and Huntley’s heart was bent on returning to claim Melmar, if he -could but make money enough to assert his right to it. This Cosmo knew -from his brother’s letters, those to himself, and those which his mother -forwarded to him (in copy). He loved Huntley, but Cosmo thought he loved -honor more—certainly he had more regard for the favorite dream of his -own imagination, which was to restore the lost lady to her inheritance. -But he had not found her, and now he was going home!</p> - -<p>However, they were still in St. Ouen. Since Cameron recovered himself -out of his first flutter of shy extravagance and fear lest he should be -thought “mean,” they had adopted an economical method of living when -they staid long in any one place. Instead of living at the inn, they had -taken rooms for themselves, a proceeding which Cameron flattered himself -made them acquainted with the natives. On this principle they acted at -St. Ouen. Their rooms were, two on the <i>premier étage</i> for Cameron and -his pupil, and one <i>au troisième</i> for Cosmo. Cosmo’s was a little room -in a corner, opening by a slim, ill-hung door upon the common -stair-case—where rapid French voices, and French feet, not very light, -went up the echoing flight above to the <i>mansarde</i>, and made jokes, -which Cosmo did not understand, upon the young Englishman’s boots, -standing in forlorn trustfulness outside his door, to be cleaned. Though -Cosmo had lived in a close in the High Street, he was quite unused to -the public traffic of this stair-case, and sometimes suddenly -extinguished his candle with a boy’s painful modesty, at the sudden -fancy of some one looking through his keyhole, or got up in terror with -the idea that a band of late revelers might pour in and find him in bed, -in spite of the slender defense of lock and key. The room itself was -very small, and had scarcely a feature in it, save the little clock on -the mantel-piece, which always struck in direct and independent -opposition to the great bell of St. Ouen. The window was in a corner, -overshadowed by the deep projection of the next house, which struck off -from Cosmo’s wall in a right angle, and kept him obstinately out of the -sunshine. Up in the corner, <i>au troisième</i>, with the next door -neighbor’s blank gable edging all his light away from him, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> would -not have thought there was any thing very attractive in Cosmo’s -window—yet it so happened that there was.</p> - -<p>Not in the window itself, though that was near enough the clouds—but -Cosmo, looking down, looked, as his good fortune was, into another -window over the way, a pretty second floor, with white curtains and -flowers to garnish it, and sunshine that loved to steal in for half the -day. It was a pretty point of itself, with its little stand of -early-blooming plants, and its white curtains looped up with ribbon. The -plants were but early spring flowers, and did not at all screen the -bright little window which Cosmo looked at, as though it had been a -picture—and even when the evening lamp was lighted, no jealous blinds -were drawn across the cheerful light. The lad was not impertinent nor -curious, yet he sat in the dusk sometimes, looking down as into the -heart of a little sacred picture. There were only two people ever in the -room, and these were ladies, evidently a mother and daughter—one of -them an invalid. That there was a sofa near the fire, on which some one -nearly always lay—that once or twice in the day this recumbent figure -was raised from the couch, and the two together paced slowly through the -room—and that, perhaps once a week, a little carriage came to the door -to take the sick lady out for a drive, was all that Cosmo knew of the -second person in this interesting apartment; and the lad may have been -supposed to be sufficiently disinterested in his curiosity, when we say -that the only face which he ever fully saw at that bright window was the -face of an <i>old</i> lady—a face as old as his mother’s. It was she who -watered the flowers and looped the curtains—it was she who worked -within their slight shadow, always visible—and it was she who, -sometimes looking up and catching his eye, smiled either at or to Cosmo, -causing him to retreat precipitately for the moment, yet leaving no -glance of reproach on his memory to forbid his return.</p> - -<p>Beauty is not a common gift; it is especially rare to the fanciful, -young imagination, which is very hard to please, save where it loves. -This old lady, however, old though she was, caught Cosmo’s poetic eye -with all the glamour, somehow tenderer than if she had been young, of -real loveliness. She must have been beautiful in her youth. She had -soft, liquid, dark-blue eyes, full of a motherly and tender light -now-a-days, and beautiful light-brown hair, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> which, at this distance, -it was not possible to see the silvery threads. She was tall, with a -natural bend in her still pliant form, which Cosmo could not help -comparing to the bend of a lily. He said to himself, as he sat at his -window, that he had seen many pretty girls, but never any one so -beautiful as this old lady. Her sweet eyes of age captivated Cosmo; he -was never weary of watching her. He could have looked down upon her for -an hour at a time, as she sat working with her white hands, while the -sun shone upon her white lace cap, and on the sweet old cheek, with its -lovely complexion, which was turned to the window; or when she half -disappeared within to minister to the other half visible figure upon the -sofa. Cosmo did not like to tell Cameron of his old lady, but he sat -many an hour by himself in this little room, to the extreme wonderment -of his friend, who supposed it was all for the benefit of the <i>Auld -Reekie Magazine</i>, and smiled a little within himself at the lad’s -literary enthusiasm. For his part, Cosmo dreamed about his opposite -neighbors, and made stories for them in his own secret imagination, -wondering if he ever could come to know them, or if he left St. Ouen, -whether they were ever likely to meet again. It certainly did not seem -probable, and there was no photography in those days to enable Cosmo to -take pictures of his beautiful old lady as she sat in the sunshine. He -took them on his own mind instead, and he made them into copies of -verses, which the beautiful old lady never would see, nor if she saw -could read—verses for the <i>Auld Reekie Magazine</i> and the <i>North British -Courant</i>.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LII" id="CHAPTER_LII"></a>CHAPTER LII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> house of Cosmo’s residence was not a great enough house to boast a -regular <i>portière</i> or <i>concierge</i>. A little cobbler, who lived in an odd -little ever-open room, on the ground floor, was the real renter and -landlord of the much-divided dwelling place. He and his old wife lived -and labored without change or extension in this one apartment, which -answered for all purposes, and in which Baptiste’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> scraps of leather -contended for preëminence of odor over Margot’s <i>pot au feu</i>; and it was -here that the lodgers hung up the keys of their respective chambers, and -where the letters and messages of the little community were left. -Cameron and Cosmo were both very friendly with Baptiste. They understood -him but imperfectly, and he, for his part, kept up a continual chuckle -behind his sleeve over the blunders of <i>les Anglais</i>. But as they -laughed at each other mutually, both were contented, and kept their -complacence. Cosmo had found out by guess or inference, he could not -quite tell how, that madame in the second floor opposite, with the -invalid daughter, was the owner of Baptiste’s house—a fact which made -the cobbler’s little room very attractive to the lad, as it was easy to -invent questions, direct or indirect, about the beautiful old lady. One -morning, Baptiste looked up, with a smirk, from his board, as he bid -good-day to his young lodger. He had news to tell.</p> - -<p>“You shall now have your wish,” said Baptiste; “Madame has been asking -Margot about the young Englishman. Madame takes interest in <i>les -Anglais</i>. You shall go to present yourself, and make your homage when -her poor daughter is better. She loves your country. Madame is <i>Anglais</i> -herself.”</p> - -<p>“Is she?” cried Cosmo, eagerly; “but I am not English, unfortunately,” -added the lad, with a jealous nationality. “I am a Scotsman, Baptiste; -madame will no longer wish to see me.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, bien!” said Baptiste, “I know not much of your differences, you -islanders—but madame is <i>Ecossais</i>. Yes, I know it. It was so said when -Monsieur Jean brought home his bride. Ah, was she not beautiful? too -pretty for the peace of the young man and the ladies; they made poor -Monsieur Jean jealous, and he took her away.”</p> - -<p>“Is that long ago?” asked Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“It was the year that Margot’s cousin, Camille, was drawn in the -conscription,” said Baptiste, smiling to himself at his own private -recollections. “It is twenty years since. But madame was lovely! So poor -Monsieur Jean became jealous and carried her away. They went, I know not -where, to the end of the world. In the meantime the old gentleman died. -He was of the old <i>régime</i>—he was of good blood—but he was poor—he -had but this house here<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> and that other to leave to his son—fragments, -monsieur, fragments, crumbs out of the hands of the Revolution; and -Monsieur Jean was gay and of a great spirit. He was not a <i>bourgeois</i> to -go to become rich. The money dropped through his fine fingers. He came -back, let me see, but three years ago. He was a gentleman, he was a -noble, with but a thousand francs of rent. He did not do any thing. -Madame sat at the window and worked, with her pretty white hands. Eh, -bien! what shall you say then? she loved him—nothing was hard to her. -He was made to be loved, this poor Monsieur Jean.”</p> - -<p>“It is easy to say so—but he could not have deserved such a wife,” -cried Cosmo, with a boy’s indignation; “he ought to have toiled for her -rather, night and day.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, monsieur is young,” said Baptiste, with a half satirical smile and -shrug of his stooping French shoulders. “We know better when we have -been married twenty years. Monsieur Jean was not made to toil, neither -night nor day; but he loved madame still, and was jealous of her—he was -a <i>beau garçon</i> himself to his last days.”</p> - -<p>“Jealous!” Cosmo was horrified; “you speak very lightly, Baptiste,” said -the boy, angrily, “but that is worst of all—a lady so beautiful, so -good—it is enough to see her to know how good she is—the man deserved -to be shot!”</p> - -<p>“Nay, nay,” cried Baptiste, laughing, “monsieur does not understand the -ways of women—it pleased madame—they love to know their power, and to -hear other people know it; all the women are so. Madame loved him all -the better for being a little—just a little afraid of her beauty. But -he did not live long—poor Monsieur Jean!”</p> - -<p>“I hope she was very glad to be rid of such a fellow,” cried Cosmo, who -was highly indignant at the deficient husband of his beautiful old lady. -Baptiste rubbed the corner of his own eye rather hard with his knuckle. -The cobbler had a little sentiment lingering in his ancient bosom for -the admired of his youth.</p> - -<p>“But he had an air noble—a great spirit,” cried Baptiste. “But madame -loved him! She wept—all St. Ouen wept, monsieur—and he was the last of -an old race. Now there are only the women, and madame herself is a -foreigner and a stranger, and knows not our traditions. Ah, it is a -great change for the house of Roche de St. Martin! If you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> will believe -it, monsieur, madame herself is called by the common people nothing but -Madame Roche!”</p> - -<p>“And that is very sad, Baptiste,” said Cosmo, with a smile. Baptiste -smiled too; the cobbler was not particularly sincere in his -aristocratical regrets, but, with the mingled wit and sentiment of his -country, was sufficiently ready to perceive either the ludicrous or the -pathetic aspect of the decayed family.</p> - -<p>Cosmo, however, changed his tone with the most capricious haste. Whether -she was a plain Madame Roche, or a noble lady, it did not matter much to -the stranger. She was at the present moment, in her lovely age and -motherhood, the lady of Cosmo’s dreams, and ridicule could not come near -her. She was sacred to every idea that was most reverential and full of -honor.</p> - -<p>“And she is a widow, now, and has a sick daughter to take care of,” said -Cosmo, meditatively; “strange how some people in the world have always -some burden upon them. Had she no one to take care of <i>her</i>?”</p> - -<p>“If monsieur means <i>that</i>,” said Baptiste, with a comical smile, “I do -not doubt madame might have married again.”</p> - -<p>“Married—she! how dare you say so, Baptiste,” cried the lad, coloring -high in indignation; “it is profane!—it is sacrilege!—but she has only -this invalid daughter to watch and labor for—nothing more?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—it is but a sad life,” said Baptiste; “many a laboring woman, as I -tell Margot, has less to do with her hard fingers than has madame with -those pretty white hands—one and another all her life to lean upon her, -and now, alas! poor Mademoiselle Marie!”</p> - -<p>The cobbler looked as if something more than mere compassion for her -illness moved this last exclamation, but Cosmo was not very much -interested about Mademoiselle Marie, who lay always on the sofa, and, -hidden in the dimness of the chamber, looked older than her mother, as -the lad fancied. He went away from Baptiste, however, with his mind very -full of Madame Roche. For a homeborn youth like himself, so long -accustomed to the family roof and his mother’s rule and company, he had -been a long time now totally out of domestic usages and female -society—longer than he had ever been in his life before—he was -flattered to think that his beautiful old lady had noticed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> him, and an -affectionate chivalrous sentiment touched Cosmo’s mind with unusual -pleasure. He loved to imagine to himself the delicate womanly fireside, -lighted up by a smile which might remind him of his mother’s, yet would -be more refined and captivating than the familiar looks of the Mistress. -He thought of himself as something between a son and a champion, -tenderly reverent and full of affectionate admiration. No idea of -Mademoiselle Marie, nor of any other younger person with whom it might -be possible to fall in love, brought Cosmo’s imagination down to the -vulgar level. He felt as a lad feels who has been brought up under the -shadow of a mother heartily loved and honored. It was still a mother he -was dreaming about; but the delicate old beauty of his old lady added an -indefinable charm to the impulse of affectionate respect which animated -Cosmo. It made him a great deal more pleased and proud to think she had -noticed him, and to anticipate perhaps an invitation to her very -presence. It made him think as much about her to-day as though she had -been a girl, and he her lover. The sentiment warmed the lad’s heart.</p> - -<p>He was wandering around the noble old cathedral later in the day, when -the February sun slanted upon all the fretted work of its pinnacles and -niches, and playing in, with an ineffectual effort, was lost in the -glorious gloom of the sculptured porch. Cosmo pleased himself straying -about this place, not that he knew any thing about it, or was at all -enlightened as to its peculiar beauties—but simply because it moved him -with a sense of perfectness and glory, such as, perhaps, few other human -works ever impress so deeply. As he went along, he came suddenly upon -the object of his thoughts. Madame Roche—as Baptiste lamented to think -the common people called her—was in an animated little discussion with -a market-woman, then returning home, about a certain little bundle of -sweet herbs which remained in her almost empty basket. Cosmo hurried -past, shyly afraid to be supposed listening; but he could hear that -there was something said about an omelette for Mademoiselle Marie, which -decided the inclinations of his old lady. He could not help standing at -the corner of the lane to watch her when she had passed. She put the -herbs into her own little light basket, and was moving away towards her -house, when something called her attention<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> behind, and she looked back. -She could not but perceive Cosmo, lingering shy and conscious at the -corner, nor could she but guess that it was herself whom the lad had -been looking at. She smiled to him, and made him a little courtesy, and -waved her hand with a kindly, half-amused gesture of recognition, which -completed the confusion of Cosmo, who had scarcely self-possession -enough left to take off his hat. Then the old lady went on, and he -remained watching her. What a step she had!—so simple, so -straightforward, so unconscious, full of a natural grace which no -training could have given. It occurred to Cosmo for a moment, that he -had seen but one person walk like Madame Roche. Was it a gift universal -to French women?—but then she was not a Frenchwoman—she was -English—nay—hurrah! better still—she was his own countrywoman. Cosmo -had not taken time to think of this last particular before—his eye -brightened with a still more affectionate sentiment, his imagination -quickened with new ground to go upon. He could not help plunging into -the unknown story with quite a zest and fascination. Perhaps the little -romance which the lad wove incontinently, was not far from the truth. -The young heir of the house of Roche de St. Martin, whom the Revolution -left barely “lord of his presence and no land beside"—the stately old -French father, perhaps an <i>emigré</i>—the young man wandering about the -free British soil, captivated by the lovely Scottish face, bringing his -bride here, only to carry her away again, a gay, volatile, mercurial, -unreliable Frenchman. Then those wanderings over half the world, those -distresses, and labors, and cares which had not been able to take the -sweet bloom from her cheek, nor that elastic grace from her step—and -now here she was, a poor widow with a sick daughter, bargaining under -the shadow of St. Ouen for the sweet herbs for Marie’s omelette. Cosmo’s -young heart rose against the incongruities of fortune. She who should -have been a fairy princess, with all the world at her feet, how had she -carried that beautiful face unwithered and unfaded, that smile undimmed, -that step unburthened, through all the years and the sorrows of her -heavy life?</p> - -<p>It seemed very hard to tell—a wonderful special provision of Providence -to keep fresh the bloom which it had made; and Cosmo went home, thinking -with enthusiasm that perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> it was wrong to grudge all the poverty and -trials which doubtless she had made beautiful and lighted up by her -presence among them. Cosmo was very near writing some verses on the -subject. It was a very captivating subject to a poet of his years—but -blushed and restrained himself with a truer feeling, and only went to -rest that night wondering how poor Mademoiselle Marie liked her -omelette, and whether Madame Roche, the next time they met, would -recognize him again.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIII" id="CHAPTER_LIII"></a>CHAPTER LIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next day Cameron came up stairs to Cosmo’s room, where the lad was -writing by the window, with an open letter in his hand and rather a -comical expression on his face.</p> - -<p>“Here is for you, Cosmo,” said Cameron. “The like of me does not -captivate ladies. Macgregor and I must make you our reverence. We never -would have got this invitation but for your sake.”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” cried Cosmo, rising eagerly, with a sudden blush, and -already more than guessing, as he leaned forward to see it, what the -communication was. It was a note from Madame Roche, oddly, yet prettily, -worded, with a fragrance of French idiom in its English, which made it -quite captivating to Cosmo, who was highly fantastical, and would not -have been quite contented to find his beautiful old lady writing a -matter-of-fact epistle like other people. It was an invitation to “her -countrymen” to take a cup of tea with her on the following evening. She -had heard from Baptiste and his wife that they were English travelers, -and loved to hear the speech of her own country, though she had grown -unfamiliar with it, and therewith she signed her name, “Mary Roche de -St. Martin,” in a hand which was somewhat stiff and old-fashioned, yet -refined. Cosmo was greatly pleased. His face glowed with surprised -gratification; he was glad to have his old heroine come up so entirely -to his fancy, and delighted to think of seeing and knowing her, close at -hand in her own home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span></p> - -<p>“You will go?” he said, eagerly.</p> - -<p>Cameron laughed—even, if truth must be told, the grave Highlander -blushed a little. He was totally unused to the society of women; he was -a little excited by the idea of making friends in this little foreign -town, and already looked forward with no small amount of expectation to -Madame Roche’s modest tea-drinking. But he did not like to betray his -pleasure; he turned half away, as he answered:—</p> - -<p>“For your sake, you know, laddie—Macgregor and I would have had little -chance by ourselves—yes, we’ll go,” and went off to write a very stiff -and elaborate reply, in the concoction of which Cameron found it more -difficult to satisfy himself than he had ever been before all his life. -It was finished, how ever, and dispatched at last. That day ended, the -fated evening came. The Highland student never made nor attempted so -careful a toilette—he, too, had found time to catch a glimpse of -Cosmo’s beautiful old lady, and of the pale, fragile daughter, who went -out once a week to drive in the little carriage. Mademoiselle Marie, -whom Cosmo had scarcely noticed, looked to Cameron like one of the -tender virgin martyrs of those old pictures which had impressed his -uncommunicative imagination without much increasing his knowledge. He -had watched her, half lifted, half helped into the little carriage, with -pity and interest greater than any one knew of. He was a strong man, -unconscious in his own person of what illness was—a reserved, solitary, -self-contained hermit, totally ignorant of womankind, save such as his -old mother in her Highland cottage, or the kind, homely landlady in the -High Street whose anxiety for his comfort sometimes offended him as -curiosity. A lady, young, tender, and gentle—a woman of romance, -appealing unconsciously to all the protecting and supporting impulses of -his manhood, had never once been placed before in Cameron’s way.</p> - -<p>So Cosmo and his friend, with an interest and excitement almost equal, -crossed the little street of St. Ouen, towards Madame Roche’s second -floor, in the early darkness of the February night, feeling more -reverence, respect, and enthusiasm than young courtiers going to be -presented to a queen. As for their companion, Cameron’s pupil, he was -the only unconcerned individual of the little party. <i>He</i> was not -unaccustomed to the society of ladies—Madame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> Roche and her daughter -had no influence on his imagination; he went over the way with the most -entire complacency, and not a romantical sentiment within a hundred -miles of him; he was pleased enough to see new faces, and share his own -agreeable society with some one else for the evening, and he meant to -talk of Italy and pictures and astonish these humble people, by way of -practice when he should reach home—Macgregor was not going to any -enchanted palace—he only picked his steps over the causeway of the -little street of St. Ouen, directing his way towards Madame Roche’s -second floor.</p> - -<p>This chamber of audience was a small room, partly French and party -English in its aspect; the gilded clock and mirror over the -mantel-piece—the marble table at the side of the room—the cold -polished edge of floor on which Cameron’s unwary footsteps almost -slid—the pretty lamp on the table, and the white maze of curtains -artistically disposed at the window, and looped with pink ribbons, were -all indigenous to the soil; but the square of thick Turkey carpet—the -little open fire-place, where a wood fire burned and crackled merrily, -the warm-colored cover on the table, where stood Madame Roche’s pretty -tea equipage, were home-like and “comfortable” as insular heart could -wish to see. On a sofa, drawn close to the fire-place, half sat, half -reclined, the invalid daughter. She was very pale, with eyes so blue, -and mild, and tender, that it was impossible to meet their gentle glance -without a rising sympathy, even though it might be impossible to tell -what that sympathy was for. She was dressed—the young men, of course, -could not tell how—in some invalid dress, so soft, so flowing, so -seemly, that Cameron, who was as ignorant as a savage of all the graces -of the toilette, could not sufficiently admire the perfect gracefulness -of those most delicate womanly robes, which seemed somehow to belong to, -and form part of, this fair, pale, fragile creature, whose whole -existence seemed to be one of patience and suffering. Madame Roche -herself sat on the other side of the table. She was not in widow’s -dress, though she had not been many years a widow. She wore a white lace -cap, with spotless, filmy white ribbons, under which her fair hair, -largely mixed with silver, was braided in soft bands, which had lost -nothing of their gloss or luxuriance. Her dress was black satin, soft -and glistening<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span>—there was no color at all about her habiliments, -nothing but soft white and black. She did not look younger than she was, -nor like any thing but herself. She was not a well-preserved, carefully -got-up beauty. There were wrinkles in her sweet old face, as well as -silver in her hair. Notwithstanding, she sat there triumphant, in the -real loveliness which she could not help and for which she made no -effort, with her beautiful blue eyes, her soft lips, her rose cheek, -which through its wrinkles was as sweet and velvety as an infant’s, her -pretty white hands and rosy finger tips. She was not unconscious either -of her rare gift—but bore it with a familiar grace as she had borne it -for fifty years. Madame Roche had been beautiful all her life—she did -not wonder nor feel confused to know that she was beautiful now.</p> - -<p>And she received them, singular to say, in a manner which did not in the -slightest degree detract from Cosmo’s poetic admiration, asking familiar -questions about their names, and where, and how, and why they traveled, -with the kindly interest of an old lady, and with the same delightful -junction of English speech with an occasional French idiom, which had -charmed the lad in her note. Cameron dropped shyly into a chair by the -side of the couch, and inclined his ear, with a conscious color on his -face, to the low voice of the invalid, who, though a little surprised, -took polite pains to talk to him, while Cosmo as shyly, but not with -quite so much awkwardness, took up his position by the side of Madame -Roche. She made no remark, except a kindly smile and bow, when she heard -the names of Cameron and Macgregor, but when Cosmo’s was named to her -she turned round to him with a special and particular kindness of -regard.</p> - -<p>“Ah! Livingstone!” she said; “I had a friend once called by that name,” -and Madame Roche made a little pause of remembrance, with a smile and a -half sigh, and that look of mingled amusement, complacence, gratitude, -and regret, with which an old lady like herself remembers the name of an -old lover. Then she returned quietly to her tea-making. She did not -notice Macgregor much, save as needful politeness demanded, and she -looked with a little smiling surprise into the shadow where Cameron had -placed himself by the side of her daughter, but her own attention<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> was -principally given to Cosmo, who brightened under it, and grew shyly -confidential, as was to be looked for at his age.</p> - -<p>“I have seen you at your window,” said Madame Roche. “I said to Marie, -this young man, so modest, so ingenuous, who steals back when we come to -the window, I think he must be my countryman. I knew it by your -looks—all of you, and this gentleman, your tutor—ah, he is not at all -like a Frenchman. He has a little forest on his cheeks and none on his -chin, my child—that is not like what we see at St. Ouen.”</p> - -<p>The old lady’s laugh was so merry that Cosmo could not help joining in -it—“He is my dear friend,” said Cosmo, blushing to find himself use the -adjective, yet using it with shy enthusiasm; “but he is only Macgregor’s -tutor not mine.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed! and who then takes care of you?” said the old lady. “Ah, you -are old enough—you can guard yourself—is it so? Yet I know you have a -good mother at home.”</p> - -<p>“I have indeed; but, madame, how do you know?” cried Cosmo, in -amazement.</p> - -<p>“Because her son’s face tells me so,” cried Madame Roche, with her -beautiful smile. “I know a mother’s son, my child. I know you would not -have looked down upon an old woman and her poor daughter so kindly but -for your mother at home; and your good friend, who goes to talk to my -poor Marie—has he then a sick sister, whom he thinks upon when he sees -my poor wounded dove?”</p> - -<p>Cosmo was a little puzzled; he did not know what answer to make—he -could not quite understand, himself, this entirely new aspect of his -friend’s character. “Cameron is a very good fellow,” he said, with -perplexity; but Cosmo did not himself perceive how, to prove himself a -good fellow, it was needful for Cameron to pay such close reverential -regard to the invalid on her sofa, whom he seemed now endeavoring to -amuse by an account of their travels. The reserved and grave Highlander -warmed as he spoke. He was talking of Venice on her seas, and Rome on -her hills, while Marie leaned back on her pillows, with a faint flush -upon her delicate cheek, following his narrative with little assenting -gestures of her thin white hand, and motions of her head. She was not -beautiful like her mother, but she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> so fragile, so tender, so -delicate, with a shadowy white vail on her head like a cap, fastened -with a soft pink ribbon, which somehow made her invalid delicacy of -complexion all the more noticeable, that Cosmo could not help smiling -and wondering at the contrast between her and the black, dark, -strong-featured face which bent towards her. No—Cameron had no sick -sister—perhaps the grave undemonstrative student might even have smiled -at Madame Roche’s pretty French sentiment about her wounded dove; yet -Cameron, who knew nothing about women, and had confessed to Cosmo long -ago how little of the universal benevolence of love he found himself -capable of, was exerting himself entirely out of his usual fashion, with -an awkward earnestness of sympathy which touched Cosmo’s heart, for the -amusement of the poor sick Marie.</p> - -<p>“We, too, have wandered far, but not where you have been,” said Madame -Roche. “We do not know your beautiful Rome and Venice—we know only the -wilderness, I and my Marie. Ah, you would not suppose it, to find us -safe in St. Ouen; but we have been at—what do you call it?—the other -side of the world—down, down below here, where summer comes at -Christmas—ah! in the Antipodes.”</p> - -<p>“And I would we were there now, mamma,” said Marie, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Ah, my poor child!—yes, we were there, gentlemen,” said Madame Roche. -“We have been great travelers—we have been in America—we were savages -for a long time—we were lost to all the world; no one knew of us—they -forgot me in my country altogether; and even my poor Jean—they scarce -remembered <i>him</i> in St. Ouen. When we came back, we were like people who -drop from the skies. Ah, it was strange! His father and his friends were -dead, and me—it was never but a place of strangers to me—this town. I -have not been in my country—not for twenty years; yet I sometimes think -I should wish to look at it ere I die, but for Marie.”</p> - -<p>“But the change might be of use to her health,” said Cameron, eagerly. -“It often is so. Motion, and air, and novelty, of themselves do a great -deal. Should you not try?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I should travel with joy,” said Marie, clasping her white, thin -hand, “but not to Scotland, monsieur. Your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> fogs and your rains would -steal my little life that I have. I should go to the woods—to the great -plains—to the country that you call savage and a wilderness; and there, -mamma, if you would but go you should no longer have to say—‘Poor -Marie!’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“And that is—where?” said Cameron, bending forward to the bright sick -eyes, with an extraordinary emotion and earnestness. His look startled -Cosmo. It was as if he had said, “Tell me but where, and I will carry -you away whosoever opposes!” The Highlandman almost turned his back upon -Madame Roche. This sick and weak Marie was oppressed and thwarted in her -fancy. Cameron looked at her in his strong, independent manhood, with an -unspeakable compassion and tenderness. It was in his heart to have -lifted her up with his strong arms and carried her to the place she -longed for, wherever it was—that was the immediate impulse upon him, -and it was so new and so strange that it seemed to refresh and expand -his whole heart. But Marie sank back upon her pillows with a little -movement of fatigue, perhaps of momentary pettishness, and only her -mother spoke in quite another strain.</p> - -<p>“You do not know my country, my child,” said Madame Roche. “I have -another little daughter who loves it. Ah, I think some day we shall go -to see the old hills and the old trees; but every one forgets me there, -and to say truth, I also forget,” said the old lady, smiling. “I think I -shall scarcely know my own tongue presently. Will you come and teach me -English over again?”</p> - -<p>“You should say Scotch, madam—it is all he knows,” said Cameron, -smiling at Cosmo, to whom she had turned. It was an affectionate look on -both sides, and the boy blushed as he met first the beautiful eyes of -his lovely old lady, and then the kind glance of his friend. He -stammered something about the pleasure of seeing them in Scotland, and -then blushed for the common-place. He was too young to remain unmoved -between two pair of eyes, both turned so kindly upon him.</p> - -<p>“He is his mother’s son, is he not?” said Madame Roche, patting Cosmo’s -arm lightly with her pretty fingers. “I knew his name when I was young. -I had a friend called by it. You shall come and talk to me of all you -love—and you and I together, we will persuade Marie.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span></p> - -<p>Cameron glanced as she spoke, with a keen momentary jealous pang, from -the handsome lad opposite to him, to the invalid on the sofa. But Marie -was older than Cosmo—a whole world apart, out of his way, uninteresting -to the boy as she lay back on her cushions, with her half-shut eyes and -her delicate face. It was strange to think how strong and personal was -this compassion, the growth of a day, in the Highlander’s stern nature -and uncommunicating heart.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIV" id="CHAPTER_LIV"></a>CHAPTER LIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> days glided on imperceptibly over the travelers as they rested in -St. Ouen—rested longer than there seemed any occasion for resting, and -with so little inducement that Macgregor began to grow restive, and even -Cosmo wondered; Cameron was no longer the same. The fiery heart of the -Highlander was moved within him beyond all power of self-restraint. He -was calm enough externally by the necessity of his nature, which forbade -demonstration—but within, the fountains were breaking, the ice melting, -a fiery and fervid activity taking the place of the long quiescence of -his mind. He neither understood it himself nor reasoned upon it. He -yielded because he could not help yielding. An arbitrary, imperious -impulse, had taken possession of him, strengthening itself in his own -strength and force, and taking into consideration no possibility of -obstacles. His big, strong heart yearned over the tender weakness which -could not help itself—he could think of nothing but of taking it up in -his powerful arms and carrying it into safety. It was the first -awakening of his native passionate fervor—he could acknowledge nothing, -perceive nothing to stand in the way. He was as unreasonable and -arbitrary as the merest boy—more so, indeed, for boys do not know -emotions so stormy and violent. It had an extraordinary effect -altogether upon this grave, reserved, toil-worn man; sometimes he was -capricious, impatient, and fitful in his temper—at other times more -tender than a woman—often half ashamed of himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span>—and only clear -about one thing as it seemed, which was, that he would not go away.</p> - -<p>Another point he was angrily jealous upon; he neither lingered in -Baptiste’s room himself, nor, if he could possibly prevent it, permitted -Cosmo to do so. He would have no questions asked, no gossiping entered -into about Madame Roche. “These ladies should be sacred to us—what they -wish us to know they will tell us,” said Cameron almost haughtily, on -one occasion, when he interrupted a conversation between the cobbler and -his young companion. Cosmo was half disposed to resent at once the -interference, and the supposition that he himself would gossip about any -one, or acquire information by such undignified means—but the serious -feeling in his friend’s face, almost stern in its earnestness, impressed -the lad. It was evidently of tenfold importance to Cameron more than to -himself, much as he was interested in his beautiful old lady. Cosmo -yielded with but little demonstration of impatience and wonder, -half-guessing, yet wholly unable to comprehend what this could mean.</p> - -<p>Another day, when Cosmo sat by his little window in the corner, to which -he had been shy of going since he knew Madame Roche, but which had still -a great attraction for him, Cameron entered his room hurriedly and found -him at his post. The Highlandman laid his powerful hand roughly on the -lad’s shoulder, and drew him away, almost in violence. “How dare ye pry -upon them?” he cried, with excitement; “should not their <i>home</i> be -sacred, at least?” Almost a quarrel ensued, for Cosmo struggled in this -strong grasp, and asserted his independence indignantly. He pry upon any -one! The lad was furious at the accusation, and ready to abjure forever -and in a moment the friend who judged him so unjustly; and had it not -been that Cameron himself melted into an incomprehensible caprice of -softness, there must have been an open breach and separation. Even then, -Cosmo could scarcely get over it; he kept away from his window proudly, -was haughty to his companions, passed Baptiste without the civility of a -recognition, and even, in the strength of his ill-used and injured -condition, would not go to see Madame Roche. Out of this sullen fit the -lad was awakened by seeing Cameron secretly selecting with his uncouth -hands such early flowers as were to be found in the market of St. Ouen, -and giving shy, private orders about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> others, more rare and delicate, -which were to be sent to Madame Roche, in her second floor. Cosmo was -very much perplexed, and did not comprehend it, any more than he -comprehended why it was that the Highlandman, without motive or object, -and in face of the protestations of his pupil, persisted in lingering -here in St. Ouen.</p> - -<p>Thus a week passed—a fortnight, and no period was yet assigned for -their stay. They became familiar with that pretty, little, half French, -half English apartment, where poor Marie lay on the sofa, and her mother -sat working by the window. Madame Roche was always kind, and had a smile -for them all. Marie was sometimes vivacious, sometimes fatigued, -sometimes broke forth in little outbursts of opposition to mamma, who -was always tender and forbearing to her! sometimes Cosmo thought the -gentle invalid was even peevish, lying back among her cushions, with her -half closed eyes, taking no notice of any one. This poor Marie was not -only weak in frame—she was unsatisfied, discontented, and had -“something on her mind.” She started into sudden effusions of longing -and weariness, with eager wishes to go away somewhere, and anticipations -of being well, if mamma would but consent, which Madame Roche quietly -evaded, and, during which, Cameron sat gazing at her with all his heart -inquiring in his eyes, where? But Marie showed no inclination to make a -confidant of her mother’s countryman. She listened to him with a languid -interest, gave him a partial attention, smiled faintly when her mother -thanked him for the flowers he sent, but treated all these marks of -Cameron’s “interest” in herself with a fatal and total indifference, -which the Highlandman alone either did not or would not perceive. It did -not even appear that Marie contemplated the possibility of any special -reference to herself in the stranger’s courtesies. She treated them all -alike; paying no great regard to any of the three. She was amiable, -gentle, mild in her manners, and pleasant in her speech; but throughout -all, it was herself and her own burdens, whatever these might be, that -Marie was thinking of. Perhaps they were enough to occupy the poor -tender spirit so closely confined within those four walls. Cosmo did not -know—but <i>his</i> sympathies were with the bright old mother, whose -beautiful eyes always smiled, who seemed to have no time to spend in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> -impatience or discontent, and whose perpetual care was lavished on her -daughter, whether Marie was pleased or no.</p> - -<p>Madame Roche, it would appear, was not too sensitive—her husband, who -loved and was jealous of her, and who died and left her a widow, had not -broken her heart; neither could her child, though she was ill and -peevish, and not very grateful. Perhaps Cosmo would rather, in his -secret spirit, have preferred to see his beautiful old lady, after all -her hard life and troubles, and with still so many cares surrounding -her, show greater symptoms of heart-break, but Madame Roche only went on -working and smiling, and saying kind words, with an invincible patience, -which was the patience of a natural temper, and not of exalted -principle. She could not help her sweetness and affectionate disposition -any more than she could help the beauty which was as faithful to her in -age as in youth. She was kind even to Macgregor, who was totally -indifferent to her kindness; perhaps she might be as kind to the next -wandering party of travelers who were thrown in her way. Cosmo would not -allow himself to believe so, yet, perhaps, it was true.</p> - -<p>And in the meantime Macgregor grumbled, and wrote discontented letters -home; and even Cosmo could give no reason to himself for their stay in -St. Ouen, save Madame Roche and her daughter—a reason which he -certainly would not state to the Mistress, who began to be impatient for -her boy’s return. Cameron had no letters to write—no thoughts to -distract him from the one overpowering thought which had taken -possession of his mind. The arbitrary fancy, absolute and not to be -questioned, that his own errand in the little Norman town was to restore -liberty, health, content, and comfort to Marie Roche de St. Martin. He -felt he could do it, as his big heart expanded over Madame Roche’s -“wounded dove"—and Cameron, on the verge of middle age, experienced by -privations and hardships, fell into the very absoluteness of a boy’s -delusion. He did not even take into account that, upon another -capricious, willful, human heart depended all his power over the future -he dreamed of—he only knew that he could do it, and therefore would, -though all the world stood in his way. Alas, poor dreamer! the world -gave itself no trouble whatever on the subject, and had no malice -against him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span> nor doom of evil for Marie. So he went on with his -imperious determination, little witting of any obstacle before him which -could be still more imperious and absolute than he.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LV" id="CHAPTER_LV"></a>CHAPTER LV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">On</span> one of these days Cameron came again to Cosmo with a letter in his -hand. His look was very different now—it was grave, resolute, -determined, as of a man on the verge of a new life. He showed the letter -to his young companion. It was from Macgregor’s father, intimating his -wish that they should return immediately, and expressing a little -surprise to hear that they should have remained so long in St. Ouen. -Cameron crushed it up in his hand when it was returned to him; a gesture -not so much of anger as of high excitement powerfully restrained.</p> - -<p>“We must go, then, I suppose?” said Cosmo; but the lad looked up rather -doubtfully and anxiously in his friend’s face—for Cameron did not look -like a man obedient, who was ready to submit to a recall.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you to-morrow,” said the Highlander; “yes—it is time—I -don’t resent what this man says—he is perfectly right. I will go or I -will not go to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>What did this mean? for the “will not go” was a great deal more than a -passive negative. It meant—not a continued dallying in St. Ouen—it -meant all that Cameron imagined in that great new torrent of hopes, and -loves, and purposes, which he now called life. Then he went to Cosmo’s -window and glanced out for a moment; then he returned with a deep, -almost angry flush on his face, muttering something about “never -alone,"—then he thrust his arm into Cosmo’s, and bade him come along.</p> - -<p>“I am going to see Madame Roche,” cried Cameron, with a certain -recklessness of tone. “Come—you’re always welcome there—and four is -better company than three.”</p> - -<p>It was no little risk to put Cosmo’s temper to—but he yielded, though -he was somewhat piqued by the address, feeling an interest and anxiety -for something about to happen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> which he could not perfectly define. -They found Madame Roche alone, seated by the window working, as -usual—but Marie was not there. The old lady received them graciously -and kindly, as was her wont. She answered to Cameron’s inquiries that -Marie’s headache was more violent than usual, and that she was lying -down. Poor Marie! she was very delicate; she suffered a great deal, the -dear child!</p> - -<p>“Invalids have sometimes a kind of inspiration as to what will cure -them,” said Cameron, steadily fixing his eyes upon Madame Roche, “why -will you not let her go where she wishes to go? Where is it? I should -think the trial worth more than fatigue, more than labor, ay—if man had -more to give—more even than life!”</p> - -<p>Madame Roche looked up at him suddenly, with a strange surprise in her -eyes—a painful, anxious, terrified wonder, which was quite inexplicable -to Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“Alas, poor child!” she said hurriedly, and in a low voice. “I would -grudge neither fatigue nor labor for my Marie; but it is vain. So you -are going away from St. Ouen? ah, yes, I know—I hear every thing. I saw -your young Monsieur Macgregor half an hour ago; he said letters had -come, and you were going. We shall grieve when you are gone, and we -shall not forget you, neither I nor my Marie.”</p> - -<p>Cameron’s face changed; a sweetness, an elevation, a tender emotion, -quite unusual to those strong features, came over them.</p> - -<p>“It is by no means certain that I shall go,” he said, in a low and -strangely softened voice.</p> - -<p>“Does Mademoiselle Marie know?”</p> - -<p>And once more he glanced round the room, and at her vacant sofa, with a -tender reverence and respect which touched Cosmo to the heart, and -filled the lad with understanding at once and pity. Could he suppose -that it was hearing of this that aggravated Marie’s headache? could he -delude himself with the thought that she was moved by the prospect of -his departure? Poor Cameron! Madame Roche was looking at him too with a -strange anxiety, trying to read his softened and eloquent face. The old -lady paused with an embarrassed and hesitating perplexity, looking from -Cosmo to Cameron, from Cameron back again to Cosmo. The lad thought she -asked an explanation from him with her eyes, but Cosmo had no -explanation to give.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span></p> - -<p>“My friend,” said Madame Roche, at last, trying to recover her smile, -but speaking with an evident distress which she endeavored in vain to -conceal—“you must not say <i>Mademoiselle</i> Marie. The people do so, for -they have known her as a girl; but they all know her story, poor child! -I fancied you must have heard it from Baptiste or Margot, who love to -talk. Ah! have they been so prudent?—it is strange.”</p> - -<p>Madame Roche paused again, as if to take breath. Cosmo instinctively and -silently moved his chair further away, and only looked on, a -deeply-moved spectator, not an actor in the scene. Cameron did not say a -word, but he grasped the little marble table with a hand as cold as -itself, and looked at Madame Roche with the face of a man whose tongue -clove to his mouth, and who could not have spoken for his life. She, -trembling a little, afraid to show her emotion, half frightened at the -look of the person she addressed, proceeded, after her pause, with a -rapid, interrupted voice.</p> - -<p>“My poor, tender Marie—poor child!” said the mother. “Alas! she is no -more mademoiselle—she is married; she was married years ago, when she -was too young. Ah, it has wrung my heart!” cried the old lady, speaking -more freely when her great announcement was made; “for her husband loves -her no longer; yet my poor child would seek him over the world if she -might. Strange—strange, is it not? that there should be one most dear -to her who does not love Marie?”</p> - -<p>But Cameron took no notice of this appeal. He still sat gazing at her, -with his blank, dark face, and lips that were parched and motionless. -She was full of pity, of distress, of anxiety for him; she went on -speaking words which only echoed idly on his ear, and which even Cosmo -could not attend to, expatiating in a breathless, agitated way, to cover -his emotion and to gain a little time, upon the troubles of Marie’s lot, -upon the desertion of her husband, her broken health and broken heart. -In the midst of it, Cameron rose and held out his hand to her. The -trembling mother of Marie took it, rising up to receive his farewell. -She would have made a hundred anxious apologies for the involuntary and -unconscious deceit from which he had suffered, but dared not. He shook -hands with her hastily, with an air which could not endure speaking to.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span></p> - -<p>“I shall leave St. Ouen so soon, that I may not be able to see you -again,” said Cameron, with a forcible and forced steadiness which put -all her trembling compassion to flight; and he looked full in her eyes, -as if to dare her suspicions. “If I can not, farewell, and thank you for -your kindness. I can but leave my best wishes for—Mademoiselle Marie.”</p> - -<p>Before Cosmo could follow him—before another word could be said, -Cameron was gone. They could hear him descending the stair, with an -echoing footstep, as they stood together, the old lady and the lad, in -mutual distress and embarrassment. Then Madame Roche turned to Cosmo, -took his hand, and burst into tears.</p> - -<p>“Could I tell?” cried Marie’s mother—“alas, my child! could I think -that your tutor, so grave, so wise, would be thus moved? I am beside -myself! I am grieved beyond measure! Alas, what shall I do?—a good man -is in distress, and I am the cause!”</p> - -<p>“Nay, it is not your fault, madame,” said Cosmo; “it’s no one’s fault—a -mistake, a blunder, an accident; poor Cameron!” and the lad had enough -ado to preserve his manhood and keep in his own tears.</p> - -<p>Then Madame Roche made him sit down by her and tell her all about his -friend. Cosmo would rather have gone away to follow Cameron, and know -his wishes immediately about leaving St. Ouen, but was persuaded, -without much difficulty, that it was kinder to leave the Highlander -alone in the first shock of the discovery he had made. And Madame Roche -was much interested in the story of the student, whose holiday had ended -so sadly. She wished, with tears in her eyes, that she could do any -thing to comfort, any thing to help him on. And in turn she told the -story of her own family to Cosmo; how Marie’s husband had turned out a -vagabond, and worthless; how he had deserted his girlish wife in the -beginning of her illness, leaving her alone and unattended, at a -distance even from her mother; how they had heard nothing of him for -three years—yet how, notwithstanding all, the poor Marie wept for him -constantly, and tried to persuade her mother to set out on the hopeless -enterprise of finding him again.</p> - -<p>“My poor child!” said Madame Roche; “she forgets every thing, my friend, -but that she loves him. Ah, it is natural to us women; we remember that, -and we remember nothing more.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span></p> - -<p>Cosmo could not help a momentary spark of indignation. He thought Marie -very selfish and cold-hearted, and could not forgive her his friend’s -heart-break:—</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle Marie should not forget <i>you</i>,” he said.</p> - -<p>Though he dealt with such phenomena occasionally in his verses, and made -good sport with them, like other young poets, Cosmo was, -notwithstanding, too natural and sensible, not to pause with a momentary -wonder over this strange paradox and contradiction of events. To think -of such a man as Cameron losing his wits and his heart for love of this -weak and perverse woman, who vexed her mother’s heart with perpetual -pining for the husband who had ill-used and deserted her! How strange it -was!</p> - -<p>“Marie does not forget me, my child; she is not to blame,” said Madame -Roche; “it is nature; do not I also know it? Ah, I was undutiful myself! -I loved my poor Jean better than my father; but I have a little one who -is very fond of me; she is too young for lovers; she thinks of nothing -but to make a home in my own country for Marie and me. My poor Marie! -she can not bear to go away from St. Ouen, lest he should come back to -seek her; she will either go to seek <i>him</i>, or stay; and so I can not go -to Desirée nor to my own country. Yet, perhaps, if Marie would but be -persuaded! My little Desirée is in Scotland. They think much of her -where she is. It is all very strange; she is in a house which once was -home to me when I was young. I think it strange my child should be -there.”</p> - -<p>“Desirée?” repeated Cosmo, gazing at his beautiful old lady with -awakened curiosity. He remembered so well the pretty little figure whose -bearing, different as they were otherwise, was like that of Madame -Roche. He looked in her face, anxious, but unable, to trace any -resemblance. Desirée! Could it be Joanna’s Desirée—the heroine of the -broken windows—she who was at Melmar? The lad grew excited as he -repeated the name—he felt as though he held in his hand the clue to -some secret—what could it be?</p> - -<p>“Do you know the name? Ah, my little one was a true Desirée,” said -Madame Roche; “she came when the others were taken away—she was my -comforter. Nay, my friend—she wrote to me of one of your name! One—ah, -look at me!—one who was son of my old friend. My child, let me see your -face—can it be you who are son of Patrick, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> good cousin? What!—is -it then possible? Are you the young Livingstone of Norlaw?”</p> - -<p>Cosmo rose up in great excitement, withdrawing from the half embrace -into which Madame Roche seemed disposed to take him; the lad’s heart -bounded with an audible throb, rising to his throat:—</p> - -<p>“Do you know me? Did you know my father? Was he your cousin?” he cried, -with an increasing emotion. “He was Patrick Livingstone, of Norlaw, a -kinsman of the old Huntleys; and you—you—tell me! You are Mary of -Melmar! I know it! I have found you! Oh, father! I have done my work at -last.”</p> - -<p>The lad’s voice broke into a hoarse cry—he had no words to express -himself further, as he stood before her with burning cheeks and a -beating heart, holding out his hands in appeal and in triumph. He had -found her! he could not doubt, he could not hesitate—gazing into that -beautiful old face, the whole country-side seemed to throng about him -with a clamorous testimony. All those unanimous witnesses who had told -him of her beauty, the little giant at the smithy to whom her foot rung -“like siller bells,” the old woman who remembered her face “like a May -morning,” rushed into Cosmo’s memory as though they had been present by -his side. He cried out again with a vehement self-assurance and -certainty, “You are Mary of Melmar!” He kissed her hand as if it had -been the hand of a queen—he forgot all his previous trouble and -sympathy—he had found her! <i>his</i> search had not been made in vain.</p> - -<p>“I am Mary Huntley, the daughter of Melmar,” said the old lady, with her -beautiful smile. “Yes, my child, it is true—I left my father and my -home for the sake of my poor Jean. Ah, he was very fond of me! I am not -sorry; but you sought me?—did you seek me?—that is strange, that is -kind; I know not why you should seek me. My child, do not bring me into -any more trouble—tell me why you sought for <i>me</i>?”</p> - -<p>“I sought you as my father sought you!” cried Cosmo; “as he charged us -all to seek you when he died. I sought you, because you have been -wronged. Come home with me, madame. I thank God for Huntley that he -never had it!—I knew I should find you! It is not for any trouble. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> -is because Melmar—Melmar itself—your father’s house—is yours!”</p> - -<p>“Melmar—my father’s house—where my Desirée is now?—nay, my friend, -you dream,” said the old lady, trying to smile, yet growing pale; she -did not comprehend it—she returned upon what he said about his father; -she was touched to tears to think that Norlaw had sought for her—that -she had not been forgotten—that he himself, a young champion, had come -even here with the thought of finding her;—but Melmar, Melmar, her -father’s house! The old Mary of Melmar, who had fled from that house and -been disinherited, could not receive this strange idea—Melmar! the word -died on her lip as the voice of Marie called her from an inner chamber. -She rose with the promptness of habit, resuming her tender mother-smile, -and answering without a pause. She only waved her hand to Cosmo as the -boy left her to her immediate duties. It was not wonderful that she -found it difficult to take up the thread of connection between that life -in which she herself had been an only child, and this in which she was -Marie’s nursing Mother. They were strangely unlike indeed.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVI" id="CHAPTER_LVI"></a>CHAPTER LVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Cosmo</span> ran down the stairs, and out of the gate of Madame Roche’s house, -much too greatly excited to think of returning to his little room. The -discovery was so sudden and so extraordinary that the lad was quite -unable to compose his excitement or collect his thoughts. Strange -enough, though Mary of Melmar had been so much in his mind, he had never -once, until this day, associated her in the smallest degree with the -beautiful old lady of St. Ouen. When he began to think of all the -circumstances, he could not account to himself for his extraordinary -slowness of perception. At, least a score of other people, totally -unlikely and dissimilar, had roused Cosmo’s hopes upon his journey. -Scarcely a place they had been in which did not afford the imaginative -youth a glimpse somewhere of some one who might be the heroine; yet here -he had been living almost by her side<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> without a suspicion, until a -sudden confidence, given in the simplest and most natural manner, -disclosed her in a moment—Mary of Melmar! He had known she must be -old—he had supposed she must have children—but it was strange, -overpowering, a wild and sudden bewilderment, to find in her the mother -of Desirée and Marie.</p> - -<p>Cosmo did not go home to his little room—he hurried along the narrow -streets of St. Ouen, carried on by the stress and urgency of his own -thoughts. Then he emerged upon the river side, where even the -picturesque and various scene before him failed to beguile his own -crowding fancies. He saw without seeing the river boats, moored by the -quay, the Norman fishermen and market-women, the high-gabled houses, -which corresponded so pleasantly with those high caps and characteristic -dresses, the whole bright animation and foreign coloring of the scene. -In the midst of it all he saw but one figure, a figure which somehow -belonged to it, and took individuality and tone from this -surrounding;—Mary of Melmar! but not the pensive, tender Mary of that -sweet Scottish country-side, with all its streams and woodlands—not a -Mary to be dreamt of any longer on the leafy banks of Tyne, or amid -those roofless savage walls of the old Strength of Norlaw. With an -unexpressed cry of triumph, yet an untellable thrill of disappointment, -the lad hurried along those sun-bright banks of Seine. It was this scene -she belonged to; the quaint, gray Norman town, with its irregular roofs -and gables, its cathedral piling upward to a fairy apex those marvelous -pinnacles and towers, its bright provincial costume and foreign tints of -color, its river, bright with heavy picturesque boats, and floating -baths, and all the lively life of a French urban stream. It was not that -meditative breadth of country, glorious with the purple Eildons and -brown waters, sweet with unseen birds and burns, where the summer -silences and sounds were alike sacred, and where the old strongholds lay -at rest like old warriors, watching the peace of the land. No—she was -not Mary of Melmar—she was Madame Roche de St. Martin, the beautiful -old lady of St. Ouen.</p> - -<p>When Cosmo’s thoughts had reached this point, they were suddenly -arrested by the sight of Cameron, standing close to the edge of the -quay, looking steadily down. His remarkable figure, black among the -other figures on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> picturesque river-side—his fixed, dark face, -looking stern and authoritative as a face in profile is apt to look—his -intense, yet idle gaze down the weather-stained, timber-bound face of -the river-pier, startled his young companion at first into sudden -terror. Cosmo had, till this moment, forgotten Cameron. His friendship -and sympathy woke again, with a touch of alarm and dread, which made him -sick. Cameron!—religious, enthusiastic, a servant of God as he was, -what was the disappointed man, in the shock of his personal suffering, -about to do? Cosmo stood behind, unseen, watching him. The lad did not -know what he feared, and knew that his terror was irrational and -foolish, but still could not perceive without a pang that immovable -figure, gazing down into the running river, and could not imagine but -with trembling what might be in Cameron’s thoughts. He was of a race to -which great despairs and calamities were congenial. His blood was fiery -Celtic blood, the tumultuous pulses of the mountaineer. Cosmo felt his -heart beat loud in his ears as he stood watching. Just then one of the -women he had been in the habit of buying flowers from, perceived Cameron -and went up to him with her basket. He spoke to her, listened to her, -with a reckless air, which aggravated Cosmo’s unreasonable alarm; the -lad even heard him laugh as he received a pretty bouquet of spring -flowers, which he had doubtless ordered for Marie. The woman went away -after receiving payment, with a somewhat doubtful and surprised face. -Then Cameron began to pull the pretty, delicate blossoms asunder, and -let them fall one by one into the river—one by one—then as the number -lessened, leaf by leaf, scattering them out of his fingers with an -apparent determination of destroying the whole, quite unconscious of the -wistful eyes of two little children standing by. When the last petal had -fallen into the river, and was swept down under the dark keel of one of -the boats, the Highlander turned suddenly away—so suddenly, indeed, -that Cosmo did not discover his disappearance till he had passed into -the little crowd which hung about a newly-arrived vessel lower down the -quay;—his step was quick, resolute, and straightforward—he was going -home.</p> - -<p>And then Cosmo, brought by this means to real ground, once more began to -think, as it was impossible to forbear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> thinking, over all the strange -possibilities of the new events which had startled him so greatly. If -Marie had not been married—if Cameron had wooed her and won her—if, -strangest chance of all, it had thus happened that the poor Highland -student, all unwitting of his fortune had come to be master of Melmar! -As he speculated, Cosmo held his breath, with a sudden and natural -misgiving. He thought of Huntley in Australia—his own generous, -tender-hearted brother. Huntley, who meant to come home and win Melmar, -and who already looked upon himself as its real master—Huntley, whose -hopes must be put to an absolute and instant conclusion, and were -already vain as the fancies of a child. He thought of his mother at home -in Norlaw, thinking of the future which waited her son, and refusing to -think of the woman who had inflicted upon her the greatest sufferings of -her life—he thought of Patie, who, though much less concerned, had -still built something upon the heirship of Melmar. He thought of the -sudden change to the whole family, who, more or less unconsciously, had -reckoned upon this background of possible enrichment, and had borne -their real poverty all the more magnanimously, in consideration of the -wealth which was about to come—and a sudden chill came to the lad’s -heart. Strange perversity! Cosmo had scorned the most distant idea of -Huntley’s heirship, so long as it was possible; but now that it was no -longer possible, a compunction struck him. This prospect, which cheered -Huntley in his exile, and put spirit into his labor—this, which -encouraged the Mistress, for her son’s sake, to spare and to toil—this, -which even furthered the aims of Patie in his Glasgow foundery—this it -was <i>his</i> ungracious task to turn into vanity and foolishness. His step -slackened unconsciously, his spirit fell, a natural revulsion seized -him. Madame Roche de St. Martin—the poor sick Marie, who loved only -herself and her worthless French husband, who doubtless now would find -his way back to her, and make himself the real Lord of Melmar! Alas, -what a change from Cosmo’s picturesque and generous dreams among the old -walls of Norlaw! When he thought of the vagabond Frenchman, whose -unknown existence had made Cameron miserable, Cosmo made an involuntary -exclamation of opposition and disgust. He forgot <i>that</i> Mary of Melmar -who was now an imaginary and unsubstantial<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> phantom; he even forgot the -beautiful old lady who had charmed him unawares—he thought only of the -French Marie and her French husband, the selfish invalid and the -worthless wanderer who had deserted her. Beautiful Melmar, among its -woods and waters, to think it should be bestowed thus!</p> - -<p>Then Cosmo went on, in the natural current of his changed thoughts, to -think of the present family, the frank and friendly Joanna, the unknown -brother whom bowed Jaacob respected as a virtuoso, and who, doubtless, -firmly believed himself the heir—the father who, though an enemy, was -still a homeborn and familiar countryman. Well, <i>that</i> household must -fall suddenly out of prosperity and wealth into ruin—his own must -forego at once a well-warranted and honorable hope—all to enrich a -family of St. Ouen, who knew neither Melmar nor Scotland, and perhaps -scorned them both! And it was all Cosmo’s doing!—a matter deliberately -undertaken—a heroical pursuit for which he had quite stepped out of his -way! The lad was quite as high-minded, generous, even romantic, in the -streets of St. Ouen as he had been in his favorite seat of meditation -among the ruins of Norlaw; but somehow, at this moment, when he had just -succeeded in his enterprise, he could not manage to raise within his own -heart all the elevated sentiments which had inspired it. On the -contrary, he went slowly along to his lodgings, where he should have to -communicate the news to Cameron, feeling rather crest-fallen and -discomfited—not the St. George restoring a disinherited Una, but rather -the intermeddler in other men’s matters, who gets no thanks on any hand. -To tell Cameron, who had spent the whole fiery torrent of that love -which it was his nature to bestow, with a passionate individual fervor, -on one person and no more—upon the capricious little French Marie, who -could not even listen, to its tale! Cosmo grew bitter in his thoughts as -he took down the key of his chamber from the wall in Baptiste’s room and -received a little note which the cobbler handed him, and went very -softly up stairs. The note was from Madame Roche, but Cosmo was -misanthropical, and did not care about it. He thought no longer of -Madame Roche—he thought only of Marie, who was to be the real Mary of -Melmar, and of poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> Cameron heart-broken, and Huntley disappointed, and -the French vagabond of a husband, who was sure to come home.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVII" id="CHAPTER_LVII"></a>CHAPTER LVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Cameron</span> was not visible until the evening, when he sent for Cosmo to his -own room. The lad obeyed the summons instantly; the room was rather a -large one, very barely furnished, without any carpet on the floor, and -with no fire in the stove. It was dimly lighted by one candle, which -threw the apartment into a general twilight, and made a speck of -particular illumination on the table where it stood, and by which sat -Cameron, with his pocket-book and Baptiste’s bill before him. He was -very pale, and somehow it seemed impossible to see his face otherwise -than in profile, where it looked stern, rigid, and immoveable as an old -Roman’s; but his manner, if perhaps a little graver, was otherwise -exactly as usual. Cosmo was at a loss how to speak to him; he did not -even like to look at his friend, who, however, showed no such -embarrassment in his own person.</p> - -<p>“We go to-morrow, Cosmo,” said Cameron, rather rapidly; “here is -Baptiste’s bill to be settled, and some other things. We’ll go over to -Dieppe the first thing in the morning—every thing had better be done to -night.”</p> - -<p>“The first thing in the morning! but I am afraid I—I can not go,” said -Cosmo, hesitating a little.</p> - -<p>“Why?” Cameron looked up at him imperiously—he was not in a humor to be -thwarted.</p> - -<p>“Because—not that I don’t wish to go, for I had rather be with you,” -said Cosmo—“but because I made a discovery, and a very important one, -to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Ah?” said Cameron, with a smile and a tone of dreary satire; “this must -have been a day for discoveries—what was yours?”</p> - -<p>“It was about Madame Roche,” said Cosmo, with hesitation—he was afraid -to broach the subject, in his anxiety for his friend, and yet it must be -told.</p> - -<p>“Just so,” said Cameron, with the same smile; “I knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> it must be about -Madame Roche—what then? I suppose it is no secret? nothing more than -everybody knew?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak so coldly,” entreated Cosmo, with irrestrainable feeling; -“indeed it is something which no one could have dreamed of; Cameron, she -is Mary. I never guessed or supposed it until to-day.”</p> - -<p>Something like a groan burst from Cameron in spite of himself. “Ay, -she’s Mary!” cried the Highlander, with a cry of fierce despair and -anguish not to be described, “but laddie, what is that to you?”</p> - -<p>They were a world apart as they sat together on either side of that -little table, with the pale little light between them—the boy in the -awe of his concern and sympathy—the man in the fiery struggle and -humiliation of his manhood wrung to the heart. Cosmo did not venture to -look up, lest the very glance—the water in his eyes, might irritate the -excited mind of his friend. He answered softly, almost humbly, with the -deep imaginative respect of youth.</p> - -<p>“She is Mary of Melmar, Cameron—the old lady; my father’s kinswoman -whom he was—fond of—who ran away to marry a Frenchman—who is the heir -of Melmar—Melmar which was to be Huntley’s, if I had not found her. It -can not be Huntley’s now; and I must stay behind to complete the -discovery I have made.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps Cosmo’s tone was not remarkably cheerful; the Highlander looked -at him with an impatient and indignant glance.</p> - -<p>“Why should it be Huntley’s when it is hers?” he said, almost angrily. -“Would you grudge her rights to a helpless woman? you, boy! are even -<i>you</i> beguiled when yourself is concerned?”</p> - -<p>“You are unjust,” said Cosmo. “I do not hesitate a moment—I have done -nothing to make any one doubt me—nor ever will.”</p> - -<p>The lad was indignant in proportion to his uneasiness and discomfort in -his discovery, but Cameron was not sufficiently at rest himself to see -through the natural contradictions of his young companion. He turned -away from him with the half-conscious gesture of a sick heart.</p> - -<p>“I am unjust—I believe it,” he said, with a strange humility; “lands -and silver are but names to me. I am like other folk—I can be liberal -with what I have not—ay, more!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> I can even throw away my own,” -continued Cameron, his strong voice trembling between real emotion and a -bitter self-sarcasm, “so that nobody should be the better for the waste; -that’s <i>my</i> fortune. Your estate will be of use to somebody—take -comfort, callant; if you are disappointed, there’s still some benefit in -the gift. But ye might give all and no mortal be a gainer—waste, -lavish, pour forth every thing ye have, and them the gift was for, if -ever they knew, be the worse and not the better! Ay! that’s some men’s -portion in this life.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo did not venture to say a word—that bitter sense of waste and -prodigality, the whole treasure of a man’s heart poured forth in vain, -and worse than in vain, startled the lad with a momentary vision of -depths into which he could not penetrate. For Cameron was not a boy, -struggling with a boy’s passion of disappointment and mortification. He -was a strong, tenacious, self-concentrated man. He had made a useless, -vain, unprofitable holocaust, which could not give even a moment’s -pleasure to the beloved of his imagination, for whom he had designed to -do every thing, and the unacceptable gift returned in a bitterness -unspeakable upon the giver’s heart. Other emotions, even more heavy and -grievous, struggled also within him. His old scruples against leaving -his garret and studies, his old feelings of guilt in deferring -voluntarily, for his own pleasure and comfort, the beginning of his -chosen “work,” came back upon his silent Celtic soul in a torrent of -remorse and compunction, which he could not and would not confide to any -one. If he had not forsaken the labors to which God had called him, -could he have been left to cast his own heart away after this desperate -and useless fashion? With these thoughts his fiery spirit consumed -itself. Bitter at all times must be the revulsion of love which is in -vain, but this was bitterer than bitterness—a useless, unlovely, -unprofitable sacrifice, producing nothing save humiliation and shame.</p> - -<p>“I see, Cosmo,” he said, after a little pause, “I see that you can not -leave St. Ouen to-morrow. Do your duty. You were fain to find her, and -you have found her. It might be but a boy’s impulse of generosity, and -it may bring some disappointment with it; but it’s right, my lad! and -it’s something to succeed in what you attempt, even though you do get a -dinnle thereby in some corner of your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> own heart. Never fear for -Huntley—if he’s such as you say, the inheritance of the widow would be -sacred to your brother. Now, laddie, fare you well. I’m going back to -<i>my</i> duty that I have forsaken. Henceforth you’re too tender a companion -for the like of me. I’ve lost—time, and such matters that you have and -to spare; you and I are on different levels, Cosmo; and now, my boy, -fare ye well.”</p> - -<p>“Farewell? you don’t blame <i>me</i>, Cameron?” cried Cosmo, scarcely knowing -what he said.</p> - -<p>“<i>Blame</i> you—for what?” said the other, harshly, and with a momentary -haughtiness; then he rose and laid his hand with an extreme and touching -kindness, which was almost tender, upon Cosmo’s shoulder. “You’ve been -like my youth to me, laddie,” said the Highlandman; “like a morning’s -dew in the midst of drouth; when I say fare ye well I mean not to say -that we’re parted; but I must not mint any more at the pathways of your -life—mine is among the rocks, and in the teeth of the wind. I have no -footing by nature among your primroses. That is why I say—not to-morrow -in the daylight, and the eyes of strangers, but now when you and me and -this night are by ourselves—fare ye well, laddie! We’re ever friends, -but we’re no more comrades—that is what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“And that is hard, Cameron, to me,” said Cosmo, whose eyes were full.</p> - -<p>Cameron made no answer at all to the boy; he went to the door of the dim -room with him, wrung his hand, and said, “Good night!” Then, while the -lad went sadly up the noisy stair-case, the man turned back to his -twilight apartment, bare and solitary, where there was nothing familiar -and belonging to himself, save his pocket-book and passport upon the -table, and Baptiste’s bill. He smiled as he took that up, and began to -count out the money for its payment; vulgar, needful business, the very -elements of daily necessity—these are the best immediate styptics for -thrusts in the heart.</p> - -<p>Cosmo, to whom nothing had happened, went to his apartment perhaps more -restlessly miserable than Cameron, thinking over all his friend’s words, -and aggravating in imagination the sadness of their meaning. The lad did -not care to read, much less to obey the call of Madame Roche’s pretty -note, which bade him come and tell her further what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> his morning’s -communication meant. For this night, at least, he was sick of Madame -Roche, and every thing connected with her name.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVIII" id="CHAPTER_LVIII"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> morning brought feelings a little more endurable, yet still, very -far from pleasant. Very early, while it was still dark, Cosmo saw his -companions set off on their journey home, and was left to the cold -dismal consciousness of a solitary day just beginning, as he watched the -lights put out, and the chill gray dawn stealing over the high houses. -The first ray of sunshine glimmered upon the attic windows and burned -red in the vane over the dwelling-place of Madame Roche. This gleam -recalled the lad’s imagination from a musing fit of vague depression and -uneasiness. He must now think no more of Cameron—no more of those -strange breakings off and partings which are in life. On the contrary, -his old caprice of boyish generosity laid upon him now the claim of an -urgent—almost an irksome—duty, and he, who went upon his travels to -seek Mary of Melmar with all the fervor of a knight-errant, turned upon -his heel this cold spring dawn with an inexpressible reluctance and -impatience, to go to her, in obedience to her own summons. He would -rather have been with Cameron in his silent and rapid journey—but his -duty was here.</p> - -<p>When Cosmo went to Madame Roche, which he did at as early an hour as he -thought decorous, he found her alone, waiting for him. She came forward -to receive him with rather an anxious welcome. “I almost feared you were -gone,” said the old lady, with a smile which was less tranquil than -usual. “When I saw your friends go, I said to myself, this boy is but a -fairy messenger, who tells of a strange hope, and then is gone and one -hears no more of it. I am glad you have not gone away; but your poor -friend, he has left us? I thought it best, my child, to say nothing to -Marie.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span></p> - -<p>Cosmo’s heart swelled a little in spite of himself; he could not bear -the idea of the two women gossiping together over his friend’s -heart-break, which was the first thought that occurred to him as Madame -Roche spoke, and which, though it was certainly unjust, was still partly -justified by the mysterious and compassionate tone in which the old lady -mentioned Cameron’s name.</p> - -<p>“I am not aware that there is any occasion for saying any thing, -madame,” said Cosmo, with a little abruptness. Madame Roche was not -remarkably quick-sighted, yet she saw through the lad’s irritation—the -least smile in the world came to the corner of her lip. She did not -think of the great pang in the Highlander’s heart—she knew very little -indeed of Cameron—she only smiled with a momentary amusement at Cosmo’s -displeasure, and a momentary sense of womanish triumph over the -subjugated creature, man, represented in the person of this departed -traveler, who, had just gone sadly away.</p> - -<p>“Do not quarrel with me, my child,” she said, her smile subsiding into -its usual sweetness; “the fault was not with me; but tell me once more -this strange news you told me last night. Melmar, which was my father’s, -I was born heiress of it—did you say it was mine—<i>mine</i>? for I think I -must have mistaken what the words mean.”</p> - -<p>“It is quite true,” said Cosmo, who had not yet quite recovered his -temper, “your father left it to you if you were ever found, and if you -were not found, to <i>my</i> father, and to Huntley Livingstone, his heir and -eldest son. My father sought you in vain all his life; he never would -put in his own claim lest it should injure you. When he died, Huntley -was not rich enough to go to law for his rights, but he and everybody -believed that you never would be found, and that he was the heir. He -thinks so now; he is in Australia working hard for the money to maintain -his plea, and believing that Melmar will be his; but I have found you, -and you are the lady of Melmar; it is true.”</p> - -<p>“You tell me a romance—a drama,” cried Madame Roche, with tears in her -eyes. “Your father sought me all his life—<i>me</i>? though I was cruel to -him. Ah, how touching! how beautiful!—and you, my young hero!—and this -Huntley, this one who thinks himself the heir—he, too, is generous, -noble, without selfishness—I know it! Oh, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> child, what shall I do -for him? Alas, Marie! She is my eldest child, and she is married -already—I never grieved for it enough till now.”</p> - -<p>“There is no need, madame,” said Cosmo, to whom these little sentences -came like so many little shooting arrows, pricking him into a -disappointed and vexed resentment. “Huntley needs nothing to make him -amends for what is simply justice. Melmar is not his, but yours.”</p> - -<p>This speech, however, which was somewhat heroical in tone, expressed a -most uncomfortable state of mind in Cosmo. He was angry at the idea of -rewarding Huntley with the hand of Marie, if that had not been given -away already. It was a highly romantic suggestion, the very embodiment -of poetic justice, had it been practicable; but somehow it did not -please Cosmo. Then another suggestion, made by his own fancy, came -dancing unsolicited into the lad’s mind. Desirée, perhaps, who was not -married, might not <i>she</i> be compensation sufficient for Huntley? But -Cosmo grew very red and felt exceedingly indignant as he thought of it; -this second reward was rather more distasteful than the first. He paid -very little attention, indeed, to Madame Roche, who, much excited, -smiled and shed tears, and exclaimed upon her good fortune, upon the -kindness of her friends, upon the goodness of God. Cosmo put his hands -in his pockets and did not listen to her. He was no longer a young poet, -full of youthful fervor and generosity. The temper of the British lion -began to develop itself in Cosmo. He turned away from Madame Roche’s -pretty effusion of sentiment and joy, in a <i>huff</i> of disenchantment, -discontented with her, and himself, and all the world.</p> - -<p>Perhaps some delicate spirit whispered as much in the old lady’s ear. -She came to him when her first excitement was over, with tender tears in -her beautiful old eyes.</p> - -<p>“My child, you have found a fortune and a home for me,” said Madame -Roche, “but it is to take them away from your brother. What will your -mother say at home?”</p> - -<p>“She will say it is right and just, madame, and I have done my duty,” -said Cosmo, briefly enough.</p> - -<p>Then Madame Roche bent forward and kissed his young cheek, like a -mother, as she was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span></p> - -<p>“We are widow and orphans,” she said, softly. “God will bless you—He is -the guardian of such; and He will not let Huntley suffer when He sees -how all of you do justice out of a free heart.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo was melted; he turned away his head to conceal the moisture in his -own eyes—was it out of a free heart? He felt rebuked and humbled when -he asked himself the question; but Madame Roche gave him no time to -think of his own feelings. She wanted to know every thing about all that -had occurred. She was full of curiosity and interest, natural and -womanly, about not only the leading points of the story, but all its -details, and as Marie did not appear, Cosmo by himself, with his -beautiful old lady, was soon reconciled to the new circumstances, and -restored to his first triumph. He had done what his father failed to -do—what his father’s agents had never been able to accomplish—what -newspaper advertisements had attempted in vain. He had justified his own -hope, and realized his own expectation. He had restored home and fortune -to the lost Mary of Melmar. A night and a morning were long enough for -the sway of uncomfortable and discontented feelings. He gave himself up, -once more, to his old enthusiasm, forgetting Huntley’s loss and -Cameron’s heart-break, and his mother’s disappointment, in the -inspiration of his old dreams, all of which were now coming true. The -end of this conversation was, that Cosmo—charged with Madame Roche’s -entire confidence, and acting as her representative—was to follow his -former companions and return to Edinburgh as speedily as possible, and -there to instruct his old acquaintance, Cassilis, to take steps -immediately for the recovery of Melmar. He parted with the old lady, who -was, and yet was not, the Mary of his fancy, that same evening—did not -see Marie, who was fortunately kept in her room by an access of illness -or peevishness, took leave of Baptiste and the old streets of St. Ouen -with great content and exhilaration, and on the very next morning, at an -hour as early, as chilly, and as dark as that of Cameron’s departure, -began his journey home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIX" id="CHAPTER_LIX"></a>CHAPTER LIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> streets of Edinburgh looked strange and unfamiliar to Cosmo -Livingstone when he stood in them once more—a very <i>boy</i> still in heart -and experience, yet feeling himself a traveled and instructed man. He no -longer dreamed of turning his steps towards Mrs. Purdy’s in the High -Street; he took his carpet bag to a hotel instead, half wondering at -himself for his changed ideas. Cameron’s ideas too, probably, were -equally changed. Where was he, or how had he managed to reconcile the -present with the past? But Cosmo had no time to inquire. He could not -pause in Edinburgh for any thing but his needful business, which was to -see Mr. Cassilis, and to place in his hands the interests of Madame -Roche.</p> - -<p>The young lawyer received him with a careless kindness not very -flattering to Cosmo’s dignity, but was greatly startled by the news he -brought. Once only he paused in taking down all the facts of the case -which Cosmo could give him, to say:—</p> - -<p>“This discovery will be a serious loss to your brother;” but Cosmo made -no reply, and with that the comment ceased. Huntley and his heirship -melted away out of sight in the strangest manner while this conversation -went on. Cosmo had never realized before how entirely it separated him -and his from all real connection with Melmar. The sensation was not -quite satisfactory, for Melmar, one way or another, had borne a most -strong and personal connection with all the thoughts and projects of the -family of Norlaw for a year or two past; but that was all over. Cosmo -alone now had any interest in the matter, and that solely as the -representative of Madame Roche.</p> - -<p>When he had fully informed the young lawyer of all the needful points in -the matter, and formally left the cause in his hands, Cosmo left him to -secure a place in the first coach, and to hasten home with all the speed -he could make. He could scarcely have felt more strange, or perceived a -greater change upon every thing, if he had dropped from the skies into -Kirkbride; yet every thing was precisely the same, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> clearly and -broadly recognizable, that Cosmo could not understand what difference -had passed upon them, and still less could understand that the -difference was in himself. His mother stood waiting for him at the door -of the Norlaw Arms. It was cold March weather, and the Mistress had been -sitting by the fire, waiting the arrival of the coach. She was flushed a -little with the frosty air and the fire, and looked disturbed and -uneasy. Cosmo thought he could fancy she turned a jealous eye upon -himself as he sprang from the coach to meet her, which fancy was -perfectly true, for the Mistress was half afraid that her son who had -been abroad might be “led away” by his experiences of travel, and might -have become indifferent or contemptuous about his home. She was a little -displeased, too, that he had lingered behind Cameron. She was not like -Madame Roche—all-enduring sweetness was not in this old-fashioned -Scottish mother. She could not help making a strong personal claim of -that arbitrary love which stinted nothing in bestowing upon those who -were her own, and opened her heart only slowly and secondarily to the -rest of the world.</p> - -<p>“So you’re hame at last!” was the Mistress’s salutation; though her eye -was jealous, there was moisture in it, as she looked at her boy. Cosmo -had grown in stature for one thing; he was brown with exposure, and -looked manly and strong; and, not least, his smooth cheeks began to show -evidence of those symptoms of manhood which boys adore. There was even a -something not to be described or defined upon Cosmo’s upper lip, which -caught his mother’s eye in a moment, and gave a tangible ground for her -little outburst of half-angry fondness.</p> - -<p>“You’re no’ to bring any of your outlandish fashions here!” said the -Mistress, “though you have been in foreign parts. I’ll have no person in -my house bearded like a Frenchman. Can you no’ carry your bag in your -ain hand, laddie? Come away, then; you can shake hands with other folk -another time.”</p> - -<p>As the Mistress spoke, a figure strange to Kirkbride stalked through the -circle of lookers-on. Nothing like that bearded face and wide cloak had -been known to Cosmo’s memory in the village or the district. He turned -unconsciously to look after the stranger. Further down on the road -before were two girls whom Cosmo recognized with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> start; one was -Joanna Huntley, the other there was no possibility of mistaking. Cosmo -gazed after her wistfully—a blush of recollection, of embarrassment, -almost of guilt, suddenly rising to his face. Bowed Jaacob stood at his -smithy door, with the fiery glow of the big fire behind him, a swart -little demon gazing after her too. Desirée! Was she the desired of this -unknown figure in the cloak, who went languidly along to join her? Cosmo -stood silent for a moment, altogether absorbed by the junction of old -and new thus strangely presented to him. Familiar Kirkbride, with Jaacob -at the smithy door, and that graceful little figure of romance, whose -story no one but Cosmo knew, followed by the other stranger figure which -he was entirely unacquainted with. He started when his mother repeated -her imperative summons—the color on his cheeks looked guilty and -troubled; he had his secret on his heart, and knew beforehand that it -would not be agreeable to the Mistress. So he did the very worst thing -he could have done—postponed the telling of it to a more convenient -season, and so went uncomfortably, and with a visible restraint, which -vexed his mother’s soul within her, home to Norlaw.</p> - -<p>Patie, as it happened, had come home a few days before on a brief visit; -and when they met round the fire that first evening, every one’s thought -instinctively was of Huntley. When Marget came in, disturbing the -gloamin quietness with lights, her long-drawn sigh and involuntary -exclamation:—</p> - -<p>“Eh, sirs! if Master Huntley were but here!” startled the little family -group into open discussion of the subject which was in all their hearts.</p> - -<p>“Huntley’s been further than you, Cosmo,” said the Mistress, “and maybe -seen mair; but I wouldna wonder if Huntley thinks yet, as he thought -when he left Norlaw, that there’s no place equal to hame.”</p> - -<p>“Huntley’s in the bush; there’s not very much to make him change his -opinion there, mother,” said Patrick.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but Huntley’s heart is ever at hame,” said the Mistress, finding -the one who was absent always the dearest.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Cosmo, his courage failing him a little, “I have -something to tell you—and it concerns Huntley, too, mother. Mother, I -have found the lady, the heir—she whom we have all heard so much about; -Patie, <i>you</i> know?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span></p> - -<p>“What lady? what heir? and how does Patie know?” asked the Mistress; -then she paused, and her countenance changed. A guess at the truth -occurred to her, and its first effect was an angry flush, which -gradually stole over her face. “Patie is no a romancer, to have to do -with heirs and ladies,” she added, quickly; “nor to have strange folk in -his thoughts the first hour he’s at home. I canna tell wherefore any one -of you should have such wandering fancies; it’s no’ like a bairn of -mine.”</p> - -<p>“Mother, I’ve learnt something by it,” said Cosmo; “before I went away, -I thought it worth hunting over all the world to find her—for no reason -that I can tell, except that she was wronged, and that we might be the -better if she never came back; but now I have found her—I know where -Mary of Melmar is, and she knows she’s the heir; but ever since my -thought has been of Huntley. Huntley could have had no pleasure in -Melmar, mother, if it were not justly his own.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress raised her head high as Cosmo spoke. Anger, great -disappointment, of which she was half ashamed, and a pride which was -resolute to show no sign of disappointment, contended in her face with -that bitter dislike and repugnance to the lost Mary which she had never -been able—perhaps had seldom tried to conquer. “I have heard plenty of -Mary of Melmar,” said the Mistress, hastily; “ae time and another she’s -been the plague of my life. What, laddie! do you mean to say you left -me, and your hame, and your ain business, to seek this woman? What was -she to you? And you come back and tell me you’ve found her, as if I was -to rejoice at the news. You ken where she is, and she kens she’s the -heir; and I crave ye to tell me what is that to me? Be silent, Patie! Am -I her mother, or her sister, or her near friend, that this lad shall -come to bring the news to me?”</p> - -<p>“It’s poor news,” said Patie, who did not hesitate to look gravely -annoyed and disappointed, as he was; “very poor news for all of us, -mother; but at least it’s better that Cosmo found her than a -stranger—if found she was to be.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress paused a moment, subdued by this suggestion. “Poor news! I -kenna what you both mean,” she said, with pride; “what concern is it of -ours? Would my Huntley ever put hand or touch upon another person’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> -gear? Let her come back the morn, and what the waur are we? Do you think -I envied her Melmar, or her land? Do you think I would have made my son -rich at <i>her</i> cost, that never was a friend to me? You may ken many -things, laddies, but you dinna ken your mother. Me!—I wouldna take -blade o’ grass or drop of water belonging to her, if you asked me; and -I’m thankful to tell ye baith my Huntley is Huntley Livingstone of -Norlaw, and needs to be indebted to no person in this whole -country-side.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress rose up in the fervor of her indignant disappointment; -vexation and mortified feeling brought the water to her eyes. She felt -aggrieved and wronged, not only in this setting aside of Huntley, but in -the very fact that Mary of Melmar was about to return. This Mary, for -whose unthankful sake her husband had neglected <i>her</i> honest love and -faithful heart, had at last lured even her son, her youngest and best -beloved, away from her, and was coming back triumphant to the -inheritance which might have been Huntley’s. The Mistress’s heart rose -in a tumult of pride, love, indignation, and bitterness. She said “<i>my</i> -son,” and “<i>my</i> Huntley,” with a proud and tender emphasis, an -involuntary, anxious impulse to make amends to him for the hope he had -lost—yet with an equally natural feeling rejected indignantly all -sympathy for him, and would not permit even his brothers to speak of -disappointment or loss to Huntley in this new event. She went away -across the room, breaking up the fireside circle by the hasty movement, -to seek out in her basket the stocking which she was knitting—for the -Mistress’s eyes began to fail her in candlelight with all her more -delicate industries—and coming back to the table, began to knit with -absorbed attention, counting the loops in the heel as if she had no care -for the further particulars which Cosmo, encouraged by Patie, proceeded -to tell. Yet she did hear them notwithstanding. But for the presence of -Patie’s practical good sense, Cosmo and his mother might have had -painful recollections of that night; but his brother’s steady look and -sober attention kept Cosmo from indulging the irritation and wounded -feeling which he might have felt otherwise. He went on with his story, -gradually growing interested in it, and watching—as a dramatist might -watch his first audience—the figure of the Mistress, who sat almost -with her back to him, knitting assiduously,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> the light of the candle -throwing a great shadow of her cap upon the wall, and her elbow moving -slightly with the movement of her wires. Cosmo watched how the elbow -moved irregularly at certain points of his tale, how it was still for an -instant now and then, as the interest grew, and the boy-poet was pleased -and forgave his mother. At last the stocking fell from the Mistress’s -hand—she pushed back her chair, and turned round upon him with a -half-scream.</p> - -<p>“Desirée!” cried the Mistress, as she might have exclaimed at the crisis -of a highly interesting novel, “it’s her that’s at -Melmar—whisht!—dinna speak to me—I’m just as sure as that we’re a’ -here—it’s her ain very bairn!”</p> - -<p>After this, Cosmo’s tale ended with a great success; he had excited his -mother—and the truth began to glide into her unwilling heart, that Mary -of Melmar was, like herself, the mother of fatherless children, a widow, -and poor. She heard all the rest without a word of displeasure; she -became grave, and said nothing, when her sons discussed the matter; she -nodded her head approvingly when Patie repeated rather more strongly -than before his satisfaction that Cosmo had found the lost Mary, since -she was to be found. The Mistress was thinking of something—but it was -only after she had said good night to them that the youths discovered -what it was.</p> - -<p>“Bairns,” said the Mistress then, abruptly pausing upon the stair, with -her candle in her hand, “that bit lassie at Melmar is in the dwelling of -the enemy—and if it were not so, the mother canna make war on the house -where her bairn has shelter. You’re her nearest kinsmen that I ken of, -to be friends as well—she’ll have to come here.”</p> - -<p>“Mother!” cried Cosmo, in delight and surprise, and compunction, “can -you ask her here?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, laddie—I can do mony things, mair than the like of you ken of,” -said the Mistress; and, saying so, she went slowly up stairs, with the -light in her hand, and her shadow climbing the wall after her, leaving -no unkindness in the echo of her motherly good night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LX" id="CHAPTER_LX"></a>CHAPTER LX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">During</span> all these months Desirée had led a strange life at Melmar. She -had never told any one of the revelation, painful and undesired, the -miserable enlightenment which Aunt Jean’s story had brought. What Cosmo -told Madame Roche months after, Madame Roche’s little daughter knew on -that winter night by the Kelpie, when the tale of Aunt Jean, and all its -confirming circumstances, stung her poor little heart with its first -consciousness of falsehood and social treachery. After that she was ill, -and they were kind to her at Melmar, and when she recovered Desirée -still did not tell her mother. People did not write so many letters then -as they do now, in these corresponding days—Madame Roche certainly did -not hear oftener than once a fortnight, sometimes not more than once a -month from her daughter, for Melmar was nearly as far from St. Ouen in -<i>those</i> days as India is now. Many a painful thought it cost poor -Desirée as she stole out by herself, avoiding every one, to the side of -Tyne. Oswald Huntley, after her recovery, had resumed his manner of -devotion toward her—but Desirée’s eyes were no longer touched with the -fairy glamour of her first dream. She had not been “in love,” though the -poor child imagined she had—she had only been amused by that dream of -romantic fancy to which seventeen is subject, and touched into gratitude -and pleasure by the supposed love she had won—yet, even while she -scorned his false pretense of tenderness, that very disdain made Desirée -shrink from the thought of injuring Oswald. She was sadly troubled -between the two sentiments, this poor little girl, who was French, and -Madame Roche’s child, and who consequently was much tempted by the -dangerous intoxications of feeling. What was barely, simply, -straightforwardly <i>right</i> might have satisfied Joanna; but Desirée could -not help thinking of self-sacrifice and suffering for others, and all -the girlish heroics common to her age. She could not live in their house -and betray the family who had sheltered and were kind to her. She seemed -to be tempted to avenge herself on Oswald by righting her mother at his -expense; so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> for feeling’s sake Desirée kept herself very unhappy, -saying nothing to her mother of the discovery she had made, unable to -resume her old cordiality with the Huntleys, ill at ease in her own -mind, and sadly solitary and alone. If it had been any mere piece of -information—or had the injury to be done been her own, Desirée would -have seen what was right, plainly enough—but as it was, she only -thought of the cruel difference to the family of Melmar, which a word of -hers might make, and of the selfish advantage to herself; and feeling -conscious of the sacrifice she made for them—a sacrifice which nobody -knew or appreciated, and which her conscience told her was even -wrong—Desirée’s mind grew embittered against them and all the world; -and her poor little heart, uneasy, cross, and restless, consumed itself. -As the struggle continued it made her ill and pale, as well as disturbed -in mind; nobody could tell what ailed her—and even Aunt Jean, with her -keen black eyes, could not read Desirée. She had “something on her -mind.”</p> - -<p>When one day she was startled by the arrival of a visitor, who asked to -see <i>her</i>, and was put into a little waiting-room—a cold little room, -without a fire, into which the March sunshine came chill, with no power -of warmth in it—to wait for the little governess. Desirée was much -amazed when she entered here to see the ruddy and comely face of the -Mistress looking down upon her, out of that black bonnet and widow’s -cap. It was a face full of faults, like its owner, but it was warm, -bright, kind, full of an unsubduable spirit and intelligence, which had -long ago attracted the eye of the vivacious little Frenchwoman, who, -however, did not know Mrs. Livingstone, except by sight. They looked at -each other in silence for the first moment—one amazed, and the other -thoughtful—at last the Mistress spoke.</p> - -<p>“Maybe I may not name you right,” she said; “I have nae knowledge of -your tongue, and no’ much of strangers, whatever place they come from; -but my son Cosmo has seen your mother, in foreign parts, and that is the -reason that brings me here.”</p> - -<p>Desirée started violently; for the moment it seemed to her that this was -her true and fit punishment. Her mother, whom she might have been -with—who might have been here had Desirée but spoken—was sick, was -dying, and a stranger brought her the news! She grew very pale and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> -clasped her little French hands in a passion of grief and -self-upbraiding.</p> - -<p>“She is ill!” cried Desirée, “ill, and I am here!”</p> - -<p>“Na—no’ that I ken of,” said the Mistress; “stranger news than that; do -you know of any bond between your mother and this house of Melmar? for -that is what I am come to tell you of now, as maybe she has done herself -before this time by hand of write.”</p> - -<p>From pale, Desirée’s cheeks became burning red—her eyes sank beneath -the look of the Mistress, her heart beat loud and wildly. Who had found -her out? but she only turned her head aside with an uneasy movement and -did not speak.</p> - -<p>“I may guess you’ve heard tell of it by your face,” said the Mistress; -“Melmar was left by will to my family—to my Huntley, the eldest and the -heir—failing your mother, that was thought to be lost. When he heard -tell of that, my Cosmo would not rest till he was away on his travels -seeking her. He’s been through France and Italy, and I ken not what -unlikely places a’ to look for your mother, and at last he’s found her; -and she’s coming home with little mair delay to be enfeoffed in her ain -lands and prove herself the heir.”</p> - -<p>Bitter tears, which still had a certain relief in them, fell heavy from -Desirée’s eyes—<i>she</i> had known it all, but had not been the means of -bringing this fortune to her mother. Her first impulse was not the -delighted surprise which the Mistress expected, but she threw herself -forward, after a moment’s pause, at her visitor’s feet, and seized her -hand and cried—“Is it true?” with a vehemence which almost scandalized -the Mistress. Cosmo’s mother took her hand away involuntarily, but moved -by the girl’s tears laid it on her head, with a hasty but kindly motion.</p> - -<p>“It’s true,” said the Mistress; “but being true do you no’ see you canna -stay here? It is your mother’s house—but though I hold this Me’mar for -little better than a knave, yet I would not deceive him. You canna -remain here when your mother’s plea against him is begun. You should not -stay another day without letting him ken who you are—and that is why -I’m here to bid you come back with me to Norlaw.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span></p> - -<p>“To Norlaw!” cried Desirée, faintly; she had no words to express her -amazement at the invitation—her shame for the deceit which she had -practiced, and which was worse than any thing the Mistress supposed -possible—her strange humiliation in comparing herself, Oswald Huntley, -every one here, with Cosmo; somehow when this sudden burst of honest -daylight fell upon her, Desirée felt herself as great a culprit as -Melmar. Her place seemed with him and with his son, who knew the truth -and concealed it—not with the generous and true hearts who relinquished -their own expectations to do justice to the wronged. In an agony of -shame and self-disgust, Desirée hid her face in her hands—she was like -Oswald Huntley whom she despised—she was not like Cosmo Livingstone nor -Cosmo’s mother.</p> - -<p>“Ay—to Norlaw,” said the Mistress, ignorant of all this complication of -feeling and with a softening in her voice; “Norlaw himself, that’s gane, -was near of kin to your mother; your grandfather, auld Melmar, was good -to us and ours; my sons are your nearest kinsmen in these parts, and I’m -their mother. It’s mair for your honor and credit, and for your -mother’s, now when you ken, to be there than here. Come hame with -me—you’ll be kindly welcome at Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“And yet,” said Desirée, lifting her tearful eyes, and her face flushed -with painful emotion; “and yet but for us, all this fortune would have -gone to your son. Why are you kind to me? you ought to hate me.”</p> - -<p>“Na!” said the Mistress, with proud love and triumph; “my Huntley is -nane the waur—bairn, do you think the like of you could harm my son, -that I should hate you? Na! he would work his fingers to the bone, and -eat dry bread a’ his days before he would touch the inheritance of the -widow—loss of land or loss of gear is no such loss to my Huntley that I -should think ill of any person for its sake and you’re my son’s -kinswoman, and I’m his mother. Come hame with me till your ain mother is -here.”</p> - -<p>Without a word Desirée rose, dried her eyes, and held out her little -hand to the Mistress, who took it doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“I will be your daughter, your servant!” cried the little Frenchwoman, -with enthusiasm; “I will come to learn what truth means. Wait but till I -tell them. I will stay here no longer—I will do all that you say!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span></p> - -<p>In another moment she darted out of the room to prepare, afraid to -linger. The Mistress looked after her, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“My daughter!” said the Mistress to herself, with a “humph!” after the -words—and therewith she thought of Katie Logan; where was Katie now?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXI" id="CHAPTER_LXI"></a>CHAPTER LXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Melmar family had just concluded their luncheon, and were still -assembled in the dining-room—all but Mrs. Huntley, who had not yet come -down stairs—when Desirée, flushed and excited from her interview with -the Mistress, who waited for her in the little room, came hastily in -upon the party; without noticing any of the others Desirée went up at -once to the head of the house, who glared at her from behind his -newspaper with his stealthy look of suspicion and watchfulness, as she -advanced. Something in her look roused the suspicions of Mr. Huntley; he -gave a quick, angry glance aside at Oswald, as if inquiring the cause of -the girl’s excitement, which his son replied to with a side-look of -sullen resentment and mortification—an unspoken angry dialogue which -often passed between the father and son, for Melmar had imposed upon the -young man the task of keeping Desirée in ignorance and happiness, a -charge which Oswald, who had lost even the first novelty of amusing -himself with her found unspeakably galling, a constant humiliation. The -little Frenchwoman came up rapidly to her host and employer—her cheek -glowing, her eye shining, her small foot in her stout little winter-shoe -sounding lightly yet distinctly on the carpet. They all looked at her -with involuntary expectation. Something newly-discovered and strange -shone in Desirée’s face.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” she said, quickly, “I come to thank you for being kind to me. I -come because it is honest to tell you—I am going away.”</p> - -<p>“Going away? What’s wrong?” said Melmar, with a little alarm; “come into -my study, mademoiselle, and we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> will put all right, never fear; that -little deevil Patricia has been at her again!”</p> - -<p>Desirée did not wait for the burst of shrewish tears and exclamations -which even Patricia’s extreme curiosity could not restrain. She answered -quickly and with eagerness,</p> - -<p>“No, no, it is not Patricia—it is no one—it is news from home; <i>you</i> -know it already—you know it!” cried the girl. “My mother! She is poor; -I have had to come away from her to be a governess; and you, alas, knew -who she was, but said nothing of it to me!”</p> - -<p>And involuntarily Desirée’s eyes sought, with a momentary indignant -glance, the face of Oswald. He sat perfectly upright in his chair -staring at her, growing red and white by turns; red with a fierce, -selfish anger, white with a baffled, ungenerous shame, the ignominy, not -of doing wrong, but of being found out. But even in that moment, in the -mortifying consciousness that this little girl had discovered and -despised him—the revenge, or rather, for it was smaller—the spite of a -mean mind, relieved itself at least in the false wooer’s face. He turned -to her with the bitterest sneer poor Desirée had ever seen. It seemed to -say, “what cause but this could have induced me to notice <i>you</i>?” She -did not care for him, but she thought she once had cared, and the sneer -galled the poor little Frenchwoman to the heart.</p> - -<p>“You are ungenerous—you!” she exclaimed, with a fiery vehemence and -passion, “you delude me, and then you sneer. Shall I sneer at you, you -sordid, you who wrong the widow? But no! If you had not known me I -should have thanked you, and my mother would never, never have injured -one who was good to Desirée; but now it is war, and I go. Farewell, -Monsieur! you did not mean to be kind, but only to blind me—ah, I was -wrong to speak of thanks—farewell!”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean? who has deceived you?” cried Joanna, stepping forward -and shaking Desirée somewhat roughly by the arm; “tell us all plain out -what it is. I’m as sure as I can be that it’s him that’s wrong—and I -think shame of Oswald to see him sit there, holding his tongue when he -should speak; but you shanna look so at papa!”</p> - -<p>And Joanna stood between Melmar and her excited little friend, thrusting -the latter away, and yet holding her fast<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> at arm’s length. Melmar put -his arm on his daughter’s shoulder and set her quietly aside.</p> - -<p>“Let us hear what this discovery is,” said Mr. Huntley; “who is your -mother, mademoiselle?”</p> - -<p>At which cool question Desirée blazed for an instant into a flush of -fury, but immediately shrunk with a cool dread of having been wrong and -foolish. Perhaps, after all, they did not know—perhaps it was she who -was about to heighten the misfortune of their loss and ruin by -ungenerous insinuations. Desirée paused and looked doubtfully in -Melmar’s face. He was watching her with his usual stealthy vigilance, -looking, as usual, heated and fiery, curving his bushy, grizzled -eyebrows over those keen cat-like eyes. She gazed at him with a -doubtful, almost imploring, look—was she injuring him?—had he not -known?</p> - -<p>“Come, mademoiselle,” said Melmar, gaining confidence as he saw the girl -was a little daunted, “I have but a small acquaintance in your country. -Who was your mother? It does not concern us much, so far as I can see, -but still, let’s hear. Oswald, my lad, can’t you use your influence?—we -are all waiting to hear.”</p> - -<p>Oswald, however, had given up the whole business. He was pleased to be -able to annoy his father and affront Desirée at last. Perhaps the rage -and disappointment in his heart were in some sort a relief to him. He -was at least free now to express his real sentiments. He got up hastily -from his chair, thrust it aside so roughly that it fell, and with a -suppressed but audible oath, left the room. Then Desirée stood alone, -with Melmar watching her, with Patricia crying spitefully close at hand, -and even Joanna, her own friend, menacing and unfriendly. The poor girl -did not know where to turn or what to do.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I am wrong,” she said, with a momentary falter. “There was no -reason, it is true, why you should know mamma. And perhaps it is unkind -and ungenerous of me. But—ah, Joanna, you guessed it when I did not -know!—you said she must have been here—you are honest and knew no -harm! My mother was born at Melmar; it is hers, though she is poor—and -she is coming home.”</p> - -<p>“Coming home! this is but a poor story, mademoiselle,” said Melmar. -“<i>That</i> person died abroad long ago, and was mother to nobody; but it’s -clever, by George! uncommonly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> clever. Her mother’s coming home, and my -land belongs to her! cool, that, I must say. Will you take Patricia for -your lady’s maid, mademoiselle?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you sneer, you all sneer!” cried Desirée. “I could sneer too, if I -were as guilty; but it is true, and you know it is true; you, who are -our kinsman and should have cared for us—you, who have planned to -deceive a poor stranger girl—you know it is true!”</p> - -<p>“If he does,” cried Joanna, “<i>you’re</i> no’ to stand there and tell him. -He has been as kind to you as if you belonged to us—you don’t belong to -us—go—go away this moment. I will not let you stay here!”</p> - -<p>And Joanna stamped her foot in the excess of her indignation and -sympathy with her father, who looked on, through all this side-play of -feelings, entirely unmoved. Poor little Desirée, on the contrary, was -stung and wounded beyond measure by Joanna’s violence. She gave her one -terrified, passionate look, half reproachful, half defiant, had hard ado -to restrain a burst of girlish, half-weeping recrimination, and then -turned round with one sob out of her poor little heart, which felt as -though it would burst, and went away with a forlorn, heroical dignity -out of the room. Poor Desirée would not have looked back for a kingdom, -but she hoped to have been called back, for all that, and could almost -have fallen down on the threshold with mortification and disappointment, -when she found that no one interfered to prevent her withdrawal. The -poor child was full of sentiment, but had a tender heart withal. She -could not bear to leave a house where she had lived so long after this -fashion, and but for her pride, Desirée would have rushed back to fall -into Joanna’s arms, and beg everybody’s pardon; but her pride sustained -her in the struggle, and at length vanquished her “feelings". Instead of -rushing into Joanna’s arms, she went to the Mistress, who still waited -for her in the little room, and who had already been edified by hearing -the fall of Oswald’s chair, and seeing that gentleman, as he went -furiously forth, kicking Patricia’s lap-dog out of his way in the hall. -The Mistress was human. She listened to those sounds and witnessed that -sight with a natural, but not very amiable sentiment. She was rather -pleased than otherwise to be so informed that she had brought a -thunderbolt to Melmar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span></p> - -<p>“Let them bear it as they dow,” said the Mistress, with an angry -triumph; “neither comfort nor help to any mortal has come out of Me’mar -for mony a day;” and she received the unfortunate little cause of all -this commotion with more favor than before. Poor little Desirée came in -with a quivering lip and a full eye, scarcely able to speak, but -determined not to cry, which was no small trial of resolution. The -family of Melmar were her mother’s enemies—some of them had tried to -delude, and some had been unkind to herself—yet she knew them; and the -Mistress, who came to take her away, was a stranger. It was like going -out once more into the unknown world.</p> - -<p>So Desirée left Melmar, with a heart which fluttered with pain, anger, -indignation, and a strange fear of the future, and the Mistress guided -to Norlaw almost with tenderness the child of that Mary who had been a -lifelong vexation to herself. They left behind them no small amount of -dismay and anxiety, all the house vaguely finding out that something was -wrong, while Joanna alone stood by her father’s side, angry, rude, and -careless of every one, bestowing her whole impatient regards upon him.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXII" id="CHAPTER_LXII"></a>CHAPTER LXII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Happened</span>!” said bowed Jaacob, with a little scorn; “what should have -happened?—you dinna ca’ this place in the world—naething, so far as I -can tell, ever happens here except births and deaths and marriages; no -muckle food for the intelleck in the like of them, though I wouldna say -but they are necessary evils—na, laddie, there’s little to tell you -here.”</p> - -<p>“Not even about the Bill?” said Cosmo; “don’t forget I’ve been abroad -and know nothing of what you’ve all been doing at home.”</p> - -<p>“The Bill—humph! it’s a’ very weel for the present,” said Jaacob, with -a twinkle of excitement in his one eye, “but as for thae politicians -that ca’ it a final measure, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> wouldna gie that for them,” and Jaacob -snapped his fingers energetically. “It hasna made just a’ that -difference in the world ane would have expected, either,” he added, -after a moment, a certain grim humor stealing into his grotesque face; -“we’re a’ as nigh as possible just where we were. I’m no’ what you would -ca’ a sanguine philosopher mysel’. I ken human nature gey weel; and I -canna say I ever limited my ain faith to men that pay rent and taxes at -so muckle a year; but it doesna make that difference ane might have -looked for. A man’s just the same man, callant—especially if he’s a -poor creature with nae nobility in him—though you do gie him a vote.”</p> - -<p>“Yet it’s all the difference,” cried Cosmo, with a little burst of -boyish enthusiasm, “between the freeman and the slave!”</p> - -<p>Jaacob eyed him grimly with his one eye. “It’s a’ the like of you ken,” -said the cynic, with a little contempt, and a great deal of superiority; -“but you’ll learn better if ye have the gift. There’s a certain -slave-class in ilka community—that’s my conviction—and I wouldna say -but we’ve just had the good fortune to licht upon them in thae ten-pound -householders; oh, ay, laddie! let the aristocrats alane—they’re as -cunning as auld Nick where their ain interest’s concerned, though nae -better than as mony school-boys in a’ greater concerns. Catch them -extending the suffrage to the real <i>men</i>, the backbane of the country! -Would you say a coof in the town here, that marries some fool of a wife -and gets a house of his ain, was a mair responsible person than <i>me</i>! -Take it in ony class you please—yoursel’ when you’re aulder—na, -Me’mar’s son even, that’s nearer my age than yours—ony Willie A’ thing -of a shopkeeper gets his vote—set him up! and his voice in the -country—but there’s nae voice for you, my lad, if ye were -ane-and-twenty the morn—nor for the young laird.”</p> - -<p>The mention of this name instantly arrested Cosmo’s indignation at his -own political disabilities. “You say nothing has happened, Jacob,” said -Cosmo, “and yet here is this same young laird—what of him?—is he -nothing?—he ought to rank high in Kirkbride.”</p> - -<p>“Kirkbride and me are seldom of the same opinion,” said the little -Cyclops, pushing his red cowl off his brow, and proceeding carelessly to -his work, which had been suspended<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> during the more exciting -conversation. “I canna be fashed with weakly folk, women or men, though -it’s more natural in a woman. There’s that bit thing of a sister of his -with the pink e’en—he’s ower like her to please me—but he’s a -virtuoso. I’ve been ca’ed one mysel. I’ve mair sympathy with a traveled -man than thae savages here. You see I wouldna say but I might think -better of baith him and his father if I’m right in a guess o’ mine; and -I maun admit I’m seldom wrang when I take a thing into my mind.”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said Cosmo, eagerly.</p> - -<p>“There’s a young lass there, a governess,” said Jaacob; “I couldna tell, -if I was on my aith, what’s out of the way about her. She’s no’ to ca’ -very bonnie, and as for wut, that’s no’ to be looked for in woman—and -she’s French, though I’m above prejudice on that score; but there’s just -something about her reminds me whiles of another person—though no mair -to be compared in ae way than a gowan to a rose. I’m no’ very easy -attractit, which is plain to view, seeing, for a’ I’ve met with, I’m no’ -a married man, and like enough never will be—but I maun admit I was -taken with her mysel’.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo’s face was crimson with suppressed anger and laughter both -combined.</p> - -<p>“How dare you?” he cried at last, with a violent and sudden burst of the -latter impulse. Bowed Jaacob turned round upon him, swelling to his -fullest stature, and settling his red cowl on his head with an air of -defiance, yet with a remote and grim consciousness of fun in the corner -of his eye.</p> - -<p>“Daur!” exclaimed the gallant hunchback. “Mind what you say, my lad! -Women hae ae gift—they aye ken merit when they see it. I’ve kent a -hantle in my day; but the bonniest of them a’ never said ‘How daur ye’ -to me.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, Jacob,” said Cosmo, laughing; “I had forgotten your -successes. But what of this young lady at Melmar, and your guess about -Oswald Huntley? I know her, and I am curious to hear.”</p> - -<p>“Just the lad yonder, if you will ken, is taken with her like me—that’s -a’. I advise you to say ‘you daur’ to him,” said Jaacob, shortly, ending -his words with a prolonged chorus of hammering.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span></p> - -<p>An involuntary and unconscious exclamation burst from Cosmo’s lips. He -felt a burning color rise over his face. Why, he could not tell; but his -sudden shock of consternation and indignant resentment quite overpowered -his composure for the moment—a thrill of passionate displeasure tingled -through his heart. He was violently impatient of the thought, yet could -not tell why.</p> - -<p>“Whatfor no?” said Jaacob. “I’m nane of your romantic men mysel’—but -I’ve just this ae thing to say, I despise a lad that thinks on the penny -siller when a woman’s in the question. I wouldna tak a wife into the -bargain with a wheen lands or a pickle gear, no’ if she was a king’s -daughter—though she might be that, and yet be nae great things. Na, -laddie, a man that has the heart to be real downricht in love has aye -something in him, take my word for’t; and even auld Me’mar himsel’—”</p> - -<p>“The old villain!” cried Cosmo, violently; “the mean old rascal! That is -what he meant by bringing her here. It was not enough to wrong the -mother, but he must delude the child! Be quiet, Jaacob! you don’t know -the old gray-haired villain! They ought to be tried for conspiracy, -every one of them. Love!—it is profanation to name the name!”</p> - -<p>“Eh, what’s a’ this?” cried Jaacob. “What does the callant mean by -conspiracy?—what’s about this lassie? She’s gey bonnie—no’ to say -very, but gey—and she’s just a governess. I respect the auld rascal, as -you ca’ him—and I wouldna say you’re far wrang—for respecting his -son’s fancy. The maist o’ thae moneyed men, I can tell ye, are as mean -as an auld miser; therefore ye may say what ye like, my lad. I’m friends -with Me’mar and his son the noo.”</p> - -<p>Jaacob went on accordingly with his hammering, professing no notice of -Cosmo, who, busy with his own indignant thoughts, did not even observe -the vigilant, sidelong regards of the blacksmith’s one eye. He scarcely -even heard what Jaacob said, as the village philosopher resumed his -monologue, keeping always that solitary orb of vision intent upon his -visitor. Jaacob, with all his enlightenment, was not above curiosity, -and took a very lively interest in the human character and the concerns -of his fellow-men.</p> - -<p>“And the minister’s dead,” said Jaacob. “For a man that had nae -experience of life, he wasna such a fuil as he might have been. I’ve -seen waur priests. The vulgar gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> him honor, and it’s aye desirable to -have a man in that capacity that can impose upon the vulgar;—and the -bairns are away. I miss Katie Logan’s face about the town mysel’. She -wasna in my style; but I canna deny her merits. Mair folks’ taste than -mine has to be consulted. As for me, I have rather a notion of that -French governess at Melmar. If there’s onything wrang there, gie a man a -hint, Cosmo, lad. I’ve nae objection to cut Oswald Huntley out mysel’.”</p> - -<p>“Find some other subject for your jests,” cried Cosmo, haughtily; -“Mademoiselle Desirée’s name is not to be used in village gossip. I will -not permit it while I am here.”</p> - -<p>Jaacob turned round upon him with his eye on fire.</p> - -<p>“Wha the deevil made you a judge?” said Jaacob; “what’s your -madame-oiselle, or you either, that you’re ower guid for an honest man’s -mouth? Confound your impidence! a slip of a callant that makes verses, -do ye set up your face to me?”</p> - -<p>At this point of the conversation Cosmo began to have a glimmering -perception that Desirée’s name was quite as unsuitable in a quarrel with -Jaacob as in any supposed village gossip; and that the dispute between -himself and the blacksmith was on the whole somewhat ridiculous. He -evaded Jaacob’s angry interrogatory with a half laugh of annoyance and -embarrassment.</p> - -<p>“You know as well as I do, Jacob, that one should not speak so of young -ladies,” said Cosmo, who did not know what to say.</p> - -<p>“Do I?” said Jaacob; “what would ye hae a man to talk about? they’re no -muckle to crack o’ in the way o’ wisdom, but they’re bonnie objecks in -creation, as a’body maun allow. I would just like to ken, though, my -lad, what’s a’ your particular interest in this madame-oiselle?”</p> - -<p>“Hush,” said Cosmo, whose cheeks began to burn; “she is my kinswoman; by -this time perhaps she is with my mother in Norlaw; she is the child -of—”</p> - -<p>Cosmo paused, thinking to stop at that half-confidence. Jaacob stood -staring at him, with his red cowl on one side, and his eye gleaming -through the haze. As he gazed, a certain strange consciousness came to -the hunchback’s face. His dwarf figure, which you could plainly see had -the strength of a giant’s, his face swart and grotesque, his one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> -gleaming eye and puckered forehead, became suddenly softened by a kind -of homely pathos which stole over them like a breath of summer wind. -When he had gazed his full gaze of inquiry into Cosmo’s face, Jaacob -turned his head aside hurriedly.</p> - -<p>“So you’ve found her!” said the blacksmith, with a low intensity of -voice which made Cosmo respectful by its force and emotion; and when he -had spoken he fell to upon his anvil with a rough and loud succession of -blows which left no time for an answer. Cosmo stood beside him, during -this assault, with a grave face, looking on at the exploits of the -hammer as if they were something serious and important. The introduction -of this new subject changed their tone in a moment.</p> - -<p>When Jaacob paused to take breath he resumed the conversation, still in -a somewhat subdued tone, though briskly enough.</p> - -<p>“So she’s aye living,” said Jaacob; “and this is her daughter? A very -little mair insight and I would have found it out mysel’. I aye thought -she was like. And what have you done with her now you’ve found her? Is -she to come hame?”</p> - -<p>“Immediately,” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“She’s auld by this time, nae doubt,” said Jaacob, carelessly; “women -are such tender gear, a’thing tells upon them. It’s <i>their</i> beauty -that’s like a moth—the like of me wears langer; and so she’s aye to the -fore?—ay! I doubt she’ll mind little about Me’mar, or the folk here -about. I’m above prejudices mysel’, and maybe the French are mair -enlightened in twa three points than we are—I’ll no’ say—but I wouldna -bring up youngsters to be natives of a strange country. So you found her -out with your ain hand, callant, did you? You’re a clever chield! and -what’s to be done when she comes hame?”</p> - -<p>“She is the Lady of Melmar, as she always was,” said Cosmo, with a -little pride.</p> - -<p>“And what’s to become of the auld family—father and son—no’ to say of -the twa sisters and the auld auntie,” said Jaacob, with a grim smile. -“So that’s the story! Confound them a’! I’m no’ a man to be cheated out -of my sympathies. And I’m seldom wrang—so if you’ve ony thoughts that -way, callant, I advise ye to relinquish them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> Ye may be half-a-hunder’ -poets if ye like, and as mony mair to the back o’ that, but if the -Huntley lad liket her she’ll stick to him.”</p> - -<p>“That is neither your concern nor mine!” cried Cosmo, loftily. But, as -Jaacob laughed and went on, the lad began to feel unaccountably -aggravated, to lose his temper, and make angry answers, which made his -discomfiture capital fun to the little giant. At length, Cosmo hurried -away. It was the same day on which the Mistress paid her visit to -Desirée, and Cosmo could not help feeling excited and curious about the -issue of his mother’s invitation. Thoughts which made the lad blush came -into his mind as he went slowly over Tyne, looking up at that high bank, -from which the evening sunshine, chill, yet bright, was slowly -disappearing—where the trees began to bud round the cottages, and where -the white gable of the manse still crowned the peaceful summit—that -manse where Katie Logan, with her elder-sister smile, was no longer -mistress. Somehow, there occurred to him a wandering thought about -Katie, who was away—he did not know where—and Huntley, who was at the -ends of the earth. Huntley had not actually lost any thing, Cosmo said -to himself, yet Huntley seemed disinherited and impoverished to the -obstinate eyes of fancy. Cosmo could not have told, either, why he -associated his brother with Katie Logan, now an orphan and absent, yet -he did so involuntarily. He thought of Huntley and Katie, both poor, far -separated, and perhaps never to meet again; he thought of Cameron in his -sudden trouble; and then his thoughts glided off with a little -bitterness, to that perverse woman’s love, which always seemed to cling -to the wrong object. Madame Roche herself, perhaps, first of all, though -the very fancy seemed somehow a wrong to his mother, Marie fretting -peevishly for her French husband, Desirée giving her heart to Oswald -Huntley. The lad turned upon his heel with a bitter impatience, and set -off for a long walk in the opposite direction as these things glided -into his mind. To be sure, he had nothing to do with it; but still it -was all wrong—a distortion of nature—and it galled him in his -thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXIII" id="CHAPTER_LXIII"></a>CHAPTER LXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> presence of Desirée made no small sensation in the house of Norlaw, -which did not quite know what to make of her. The Mistress herself, -after that first strange impulse of kin and kindness which prompted her -to bring the young stranger home, relapsed into her usual ways, and did -not conceal from either son or servant that she expected to be “fashed” -by the little Frenchwoman; while Marget, rather displeased that so -important a step should be taken without her sanction, and mightily -curious to know the reason, was highly impatient at first of Desirée’s -name and nation, and discontented with her presence here.</p> - -<p>“I canna faddom the Mistress,” said Marget, angrily; “what she’s -thinking upon, to bring a young flirt of a Frenchwoman into this decent -house, and ane of our lads at home is just beyond me. Do I think her -bonnie? No’ me! She’s French, and I daur to say, a papisher to the boot; -but the lads will, take my word for it—callants are aye keen about a -thing that’s outray. I’m just as thankfu’ as I can be that Huntley’s at -the other end of the world—there’s nae fears of our Patie—and Cosmo, -you see, he’s ower young.”</p> - -<p>This latter proposition Marget repeated to herself as she went about her -dairy. It did not seem an entirely satisfactory statement of the case, -for if Cosmo was too young to be injured, Desirée was also a couple of -years his junior, and could scarcely be supposed old enough to do any -great harm.</p> - -<p>“Ay, but it’s in them frae their cradle,” said the uncharitable Marget, -as she rinsed her great wooden bowls and set them ready for the milk. -The honest retainer of the family was quite disturbed by this new -arrival. She could not “get her mouth about the like of thae outlandish -names,” so she never called Desirée any thing but Miss, which title in -Marget’s lips, unassociated with a Christian name, was by no means a -title of high respect, and she grumbled as she was quite unwont to -grumble, over the additional trouble of another inmate. Altogether -Marget was totally dissatisfied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span></p> - -<p>While Desirée, suddenly dropped into this strange house, every custom of -which was strange to her, and where girlhood and its occupations were -unknown, felt somewhat forlorn and desolate, it must be confessed, and -sometimes even longed to be back again in Melmar, where there were many -women, and where her pretty needle-works and graceful accomplishments -were not reckoned frivolous, the Mistress was busy all day long, and -when she had ended her household employments, sat down with her -work-basket to mend shirts or stockings with a steadiness which did not -care to accept any assistance.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, they’re for my son, Huntley; I like to do them a’ mysel’,” -she would answer to Desirée’s offer of aid. “Much obliged to you, but -Cosmo’s stockings, poor callant, are no work for the like of you.” In -like manner, Desirée was debarred from the most trifling assistance in -the house. Marget was furious when she ventured to wash the Mistress’s -best tea-service, or to sweep the hearth on occasion.</p> - -<p>“Na, miss, we’re no’ come to that pass in Norlaw that a stranger visitor -needs to file her fingers,” said Marget, taking the brush from Desirée’s -hand; so that, condemned to an uncomfortable idleness in the midst of -busy people, and aware that the Mistress’s “Humph!” on one occasion, at -least, referred to her pretty embroideries, poor little Desirée found -little better for it than to wander round and round the old castle of -Norlaw, and up the banks of Tyne, where, to say truth, Cosmo liked -nothing better than to wander along with her, talking about her mother, -about St. Ouen, about his travels, about every thing in earth and -heaven.</p> - -<p>And whether Cosmo was “ower young” remains to be seen.</p> - -<p>But Desirée had not been long in Norlaw when letters came from Madame -Roche, one to the Mistress, brief yet effusive, thanking that reserved -Scottish woman for her kindness to “my little one;” another to Cosmo, in -which he was called my child and my friend so often, that though he was -pleased, he was yet half ashamed to show the epistle to his mother; and -a third to Desirée herself. This was the most important of the three, -and contained Madame Roche’s scheme of poetic justice. This is what the -Scotch-French mother said to little Desirée:—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span></p> - -<p>“My child, we, who have been so poor, are coming to a great fortune. It -is as strange as a romance, and we can never forget how it has come to -us. Ay, my Desirée, what noble hearts! what princely young men! Despite -of our good fortune, my heart bleeds for the generous Huntley, for it is -he who is disinherited. Must this be, my child? He is far away, he knows -not we are found; he will return to find his inheritance gone. But I -have trained my Desirée to love honor and virtue, and to be generous as -the Livingstones. Shall I say to you, my child, what would glad my heart -most to see? Our poor Marie has thrown away her happiness and her -liberty; she can not reward any man, however noble; she can not make any -compensation to those whom we must supplant, and her heart wanders after -that vagabond, that abandoned one! But my Desirée is young, only a -child, and has not begun to think of lovers. My love, keep your little -heart safe till Huntley returns—your mother bids you, Desirée. Look not -at any one, think not of any one, till you have seen this noble Huntley; -it is the only return you can give—nay, my little one! it is all <i>I</i> -can do to prove that I am not ungrateful. This Melmar, which I had lost -and won without knowing it, will be between Marie and you when I die. -You can not give it all back to your kinsman, but he will think that -half which your sister has doubly made up, my child, when I put into his -hand the hand of my Desirée; and we shall all love each other, and be -good and happy, like a fairy tale.</p> - -<p>“This is your mamma’s fondest wish, my pretty one: you must keep your -heart safe, you must love Huntley, you must give him back half of the -inheritance. My poor Marie and I shall live together, and you shall be -near us; and then no one will be injured, but all shall have justice. I -would I had another little daughter for the good Cosmo, who found me out -in St. Ouen. I love the boy, and he shall be with us when he pleases, -and we will do for him all we can. But keep your heart safe, my Desirée, -for Huntley, and thus let us reward him when he comes home.”</p> - -<p>Poor Madame Roche! she little knew what a fever of displeasure and -indignation this pretty sentimental letter of hers would rouse in her -little daughter’s heart. Desirée tore the envelope in pieces in her -first burst of vexation, which was meant to express by similitude that -she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> have torn the letter, and blotted out its injunctions, if she -dared. She threw the epistle itself out of her hands as if it had stung -her. Not that Desirée’s mind was above those sublime arrangements of -poetic justice, which in this inconsequent world are always so futile; -but, somehow, a plan which might have looked pretty enough had it -concerned another, filled Madame Roche’s independent little daughter -with the utmost shame and mortification when she herself was the -heroine.</p> - -<p>“Let him take it all!” she cried out half aloud to herself, in her -little chamber. “Do I care for it? I will work—I will be a governess; -but I will not sell myself to this Huntley—no, not if I should die!”</p> - -<p>And having so recorded her determination, poor little Desirée sat down -on the floor and had a hearty cry, and after that thought, with a -girlish effusion of sympathy, of poor Cosmo, who, after all, had done it -all, yet whom no one thought of compensating. When straightway there -came into Desirée’s heart some such bitter thoughts of justice and -injustice as once had filled the mind of Cosmo Livingstone. -Huntley!—what had Huntley done that Madame Roche should dedicate -her—<i>her</i>, an unwilling Andromeda, to compensate this unknown monster; -and Desirée sprang up and stamped her little foot, and clapped her -hands, and vowed that no force in the world, not even her mother’s -commands, should compel her to show her mother’s gratitude by becoming -Huntley’s wife.</p> - -<p>A most unnecessary passion; for there was Katie Logan all the time, -unpledged and unbetrothed, it is true, but thinking her own thoughts of -some one far away, who might possibly break in some day upon those cares -of elder-sisterhood, which made her as important as a many-childed -mother, even in those grave days of her orphan youth; and there was -Huntley in his hut in the bush, not thriving over well, poor fellow, -thinking very little of Melmar, but thinking a great deal of that manse -parlor, where the sun shone, and Katie darned her children’s -stockings—a scene which always would shine, and never could dim out of -the young man’s recollection. Poor Madame Roche, with her pretty plan of -compensation, and poor Desirée, rebelliously resistant to it, how much -trouble they might both have saved themselves, could some kind fairy -have shown to them a single peep of Huntley Livingstone’s solitary -thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXIV" id="CHAPTER_LXIV"></a>CHAPTER LXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Five</span> years had made countless revolutions in human affairs, and changed -the order of things in more houses than Melmar, but had not altered the -fair face of the country, when, late upon a lovely June evening, two -travelers alighted from the coach at the door of the Norlaw Arms. They -were not anglers, nor tourists, though they were both bronzed and -bearded. The younger of the two looked round him with eager looks of -recognition, directing his glances to particular points—a look very -different from the stranger’s vague gaze at every thing, which latter -was in the eyes of his companion. At the manse, where the white gable -was scarcely visible through the thick foliage of the great -pear-tree—at the glimmering twilight path through the fields to -Norlaw—even deep into the corner of the village street, where bowed -Jaacob, with his red cowl pushed up from his bullet head behind, stood, -strongly relieved against the glow within, at the smithy door. To all -these familiar features of the scene, the new-comer turned repeated and -eager glances. There was an individual recognition in every look he gave -as he sprang down from the top of the coach, and stood by with a certain -friendly, happy impatience and restlessness, not easy to describe, while -the luggage was being unpacked from the heavy-laden public conveyance; -that was a work of time. Even now, in railway days, it is not so easy a -matter to get one’s portmanteau embarked or disembarked at Kirkbride -station as one might suppose; and the helpers at the Norlaw Arms were -innocent of the stimulus and external pressure of an express train. They -made a quantity of bustle, but did their business at their leisure, -while this new arrival, whom none of them knew, kept looking at them all -with their names upon his lips, and laughter and kindness in his eyes. -He had “seen the world,” since he last saw these leisurely proceedings -at the Norlaw Arms—he had been on the other side of this big globe -since he last stood in the street of Kirkbride; and the young man could -not help feeling himself a more important person now than when he set -out by this same conveyance some seven years ago, to make his fortune -and his way in the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span></p> - -<p>Huntley Livingstone, however, had not made his fortune; but he had made -what he thought as much of—a thousand pounds; and having long ago, with -a tingle of disappointment and a flush of pride, renounced all hopes of -the Melmar which belonged to Madame Roche, had decided, when this modest -amount of prosperity came to him, that he could not do better than -return to his homely little patrimony, and lay out his Australian gains -upon the land at home. It is true we might have told all this much more -dramatically by bringing home the adventurer unexpectedly to his mother, -and leaving him to announce his riches by word of mouth. But Huntley was -too good a son to make dramatic surprises. When he made his thousand -pounds, he wrote the Mistress word of it instantly—and he was not -unexpected. The best room in Norlaw was prepared a week ago. It was only -the day and hour of his return which the Mistress did not know.</p> - -<p>So Huntley stood before the Norlaw Arms, while the gray twilight, which -threw no shadows, fell over that leaf-covered gable of the manse; and -gradually the young man’s thoughts fell into reverie even in the moment -and excitement of arrival. Katie Logan! she was not bound to him by the -faintest far-away implication of a promise. It was seven years now since -Huntley bade her farewell. Where was the orphan elder-sister, with her -little group of orphan children now?</p> - -<p>Huntley’s companion was as much unlike himself as one human creature -could be unlike another. He was a Frenchman, with shaved cheeks and a -black moustache, lank, long locks of black hair falling into one of his -eyes, and a thin, long, oval face. He was in short—except that he had -no <i>habit de bal</i>, no white waistcoat, no bouquet in his buttonhole—a -perfect type of the ordinary Frenchman whom one sees in every British -concert-room as the conductor of an orchestra or the player of a fiddle. -This kind of man does not look a very fine specimen of humanity in -traveler’s dress, and with the dust of a journey upon him. Huntley was -covered with dust, but Huntley did not look dirty; Huntley was roughly -attired, had a beard, and was somewhat savage in his appearance, but, -notwithstanding, was a well-complexioned, pure-skinned Briton, who bore -the soil of travel upon his surface only, which was not at all the case<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> -with his neighbor. This stranger, however, was sufficiently familiar -with his traveling-companion to strike him on the shoulder and dispel -his thoughts about Katie.</p> - -<p>“Where am I to go? to this meeserable little place?” asked the -Frenchman, speaking perfectly good English, but dwelling upon the -adjective by way of giving it emphasis, and pointing at the moment with -his dirty forefinger, on which he wore a ring, to the Norlaw Arms.</p> - -<p>Huntley was a Scotsman, strong in the instinct of hospitality, but he -was at the same time the son of a reserved mother, and hated the -intrusion of strangers at the moment of his return.</p> - -<p>“It’s a very good inn of its kind,” said Huntley, uneasily, turning -round to look at it. The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and eyed the -respectable little house with contempt.</p> - -<p>“Ah! bah! of its kind—I believe it,” said the stranger, kicking away a -poor little dog which stood looking on with serious interest, and -waiting for the fresh start of the coach; “I perceive your house is a -chateau, an estate, my friend,” he continued; “is there no little room -you can spare a comrade? I come on a good errand, the most virtuous, the -most honest! Madame, your mother, will give me her blessing—I go to -seek my wife.”</p> - -<p>Huntley turned away to look after his trunks, but the stranger followed -with a pertinacity which prevailed over Huntley. He gave a reluctant -invitation at last, was restored to better humor by a sudden recognition -from the landlord of the Norlaw Arms, and after pausing to receive the -greetings and congratulations of everybody within hearing, set off, -hastily accompanied by the Frenchman. Huntley endured his companion with -great impatience, especially as they came within sight of home, and all -the emotions connected with that familiar place rushed to the young -man’s heart and to his eyes. The Frenchman’s voice ran on, an -impertinent babble, while the gray old castle, the quiet house, with its -pale vane pointing to the north, and the low hill-side, rustling to its -summit with green corn, lay once more before the eyes which loved them -better than any other landscape in the world. Then a figure became -visible going in and out at the kitchen-door, a tall, angular form, with -the “kilted” gown, the cap with its string<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> pinned back, the little -shawl over the shoulders, all of which homely details Huntley remembered -so well. The young man quickened his pace, and held out his hands -unconsciously. And then Marget saw him; she threw down her milk-pail, -arched her hand over her eyes for a moment to gaze at him and assure -herself and then with a loud, wild exclamation, rushed into the house. -Huntley remembered no more, either guest or hospitality; he rushed down -the little bank which intervened, splashed through the shallow Tyne, too -much excited to take the bridge, and reached the door of Norlaw, as the -Mistress, with her trembling hands, flung it unsteadily open to look for -herself, and see that Marget was wrong. Too much joy almost fainted the -heart of the Mistress within her; she could not speak to him—she could -only sob out big, slow sobs, which fell echoing through the still air -with the strangest pathos of thanksgiving. Huntley had come home.</p> - -<p>“So you werna wrang, as it happened,” said the Mistress, with dignity, -when she had at last become familiar with the idea of Huntley’s return, -and had contented her eye with gazing on him; “you werna wrang after a’; -but I certainly thought that myself, and me only, would be the person to -get the first sight of my bairn. He minded you too, very well, Marget, -which was less wonder than you minding him, and him such a grown man -with such a black beard. I didna believe ye, it’s true, but it was a’ -because I thought no person could mind upon him to ken him at a -distance, but only me.”</p> - -<p>“Mind!” cried Marget, moved beyond ordinary patience; “did I no’ carry -the bairn in my arms when he was just in coats and put his first breeks -upon him! Mind!—me that have been about Norlaw House seven-and-twenty -years come Martinmas—wha should mind if it wasna me?”</p> - -<p>But though this speech was almost concluded before the Mistress left the -kitchen, it was not resented. The mother’s mind was too full of Huntley -to think of any thing else. She returned to the dining-parlor, where, in -the first effusion of her joy, she had placed her first-born in his -father’s chair, and began to spread the table with her own hands for his -refreshment. As yet she had scarcely taken any notice of the Frenchman. -Now his voice startled her; she looked at him angrily, and then at her -son. He was not quite such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> person as fathers and mothers love to see -in the company of their children.</p> - -<p>“No doubt, Huntley,” said the Mistress, at last, with a little impatient -movement of her head—“no doubt this gentleman is some great friend of -yours, to come hame with you the very first day, and you been seven -years from home.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! my good friend Huntley is troubled, madame,” interposed the subject -of her speech; “I have come to seek my wife. I have heard she is in -Scotland—she is near; and I did ask for one little room in his castle -rather than go to the inn in the village. For I must ask you for my -wife.”</p> - -<p>“Your wife? what should I know about strange men’s wives?” said the -Mistress; “Huntley’s friends have a good right to be welcome at Norlaw; -but to tell the truth he’s new come home and I’m little accustomed to -strangers. You used to ken that, Huntley, laddie, though you’ve maybe -forgotten now; seven years is a long time.”</p> - -<p>“My wife,” resumed the Frenchman, “came to possess a great fortune in -this country. I have been a traveler, madame. I have come with your son -from the other side of the world. I have been <i>bon camarade</i>. But see! I -have lost my wife. Since I am gone she has found a fortune, she has left -her country, she is here, if I knew where to find her. Madame Pierrot, -my wife.”</p> - -<p>“I’m little acquaint with French ladies,” said the Mistress, briefly; -but as she spoke she turned from her occupation to look full at her -strange visitor with eyes a little curious and even disquieted. The end -of her investigation was a “humph,” which was sufficiently significant. -After that she turned her back upon him and went on with her -preparations, looking somewhat stormy at Huntley. Then her impatience -displayed itself under other disguises. In the first place she set -another chair for him at the table.</p> - -<p>“Take you this seat, Huntley, my man,” said the Mistress; “and the foot -of the table, like the master of the house; for doubtless Norlaw is -yours for any person it’s your pleasure to bring into it. Sit in to the -table, and eat your supper like a man; and I’ll put <i>this</i> back out of -the way.”</p> - -<p>Accordingly, when Huntley rose, his mother wheeled back the sacred chair -which she had given him in her joy. Knowing how innocent he was of all -friendship with his companion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> Huntley almost smiled at this sign of -her displeasure, but, when she left the room, followed her to explain -how it was.</p> - -<p>“I asked him most ungraciously and unwillingly,” said poor Huntley; -“don’t be displeased on account of that fellow; he came home with me -from Australia, and I lost sight of him in London, only to find him -again coming here by the same coach. I actually know nothing about him -except his name.”</p> - -<p>“But I do,” said the Mistress.</p> - -<p>“You, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, just me, mother; and a vagabond he is, as ony person may well see,” -said the Mistress; “I ken mair than folk think; and now go back for a -foolish bairn as you are, in spite of your black beard. Though I never -saw the blackguard before, a’ my days, I’ll tell you his haill story -this very night.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXV" id="CHAPTER_LXV"></a>CHAPTER LXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was Saturday night, and in little more than an hour after Huntley’s -return, Cosmo had joined the little family circle. Cosmo was five years -older by this time, three-and-twenty years old, a man and not a boy; -such at least was his own opinion—but his mother and he were not quite -so cordial and united as they had been. Perhaps, indeed, it was only -while her sons were young, that a spirit so hasty and arbitrary as that -of the Mistress could keep in harmony with so many independent minds; -but her youngest son had disappointed and grieved her. Cosmo had -relinquished those studies which for a year or two flattered his mother -with the hope of seeing her son a minister and pillar of the Church. The -Mistress thought, with some bitterness, that his travels had permanently -unsettled her boy; even his verses began to flag by this time, and it -was only once in three or four months that Mrs. Livingstone received, -with any thing like satisfaction, her copy of the <i>Auld Reekie -Magazine</i>. She did not know what he was to be, or how he was to live; -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> present he held “a situation"—of which his mother was bitterly -contemptuous—in the office of Mr. Todhunter, and exercised the caprices -of his more fastidious taste in a partial editorship of the little -magazine, which had already lost its first breath of popularity. And -though he came out from Edinburgh dutifully every Saturday to spend the -day of rest with his mother, that exacting and impatient household ruler -was very far from being satisfied. She received him with a certain -angry, displeased affectionateness, and even in the presence of her -newly-arrived son, kept a jealous watch upon the looks and words of -Cosmo. Huntley could not help watching the scene with some wonder and -curiosity. Sitting in that well-remembered room, which the two candles -on the table lighted imperfectly, with the soft night air blowing in -through the open window in the corner, from which the Mistress had been -used to watch the kitchen door, and at which now her son sat looking out -upon the old castle and the calm sky above it, where the stars blossomed -out one by one—Huntley watched his mother, placing, from mere use and -wont, her work-basket on the table, and seating herself to the work -which she was much too impatient to make any progress with—launching -now and then a satirical and utterly incomprehensible remark at the -Frenchman, who yawned openly, and repented his contempt for the Norlaw -Arms—sometimes asking hasty questions of Cosmo, which he answered not -without a little kindred impatience—often rising to seek something or -lay something by, and pausing as she passed by Huntley’s chair to linger -over him with a half expressed, yet inexpressible tenderness. There was -change, yet there was no change in the Mistress. She had a tangible -reason for some of the old impatience which was natural to her -character, but that was all.</p> - -<p>At length the evening came to an end. Huntley’s uncomfortable companion -sauntered out to smoke his cigar, and coming back again was conducted up -stairs to his room, with a rather imperative politeness. Then the -Mistress, coming back, stood at the door of the dining-parlor, looking -in upon her sons. The shadows melted from her face, and her heart -swelled, as she looked at them. Pride, joy, tenderness contended with -her, and got the better for a moment.</p> - -<p>“God send you be as well in your hearts as you are to look upon, -laddies!” she said, hurriedly; and then came in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> to sit down at the -table and call them nearer for their first precious family hour of -mutual confidence and reunion.</p> - -<p>“Seven years, Huntley? I canna think it’s seven years—though they’ve -been long enough and slow enough, every one; but we’ve thriven at -Norlaw,” said the Mistress, proudly. “There’s guid honest siller at the -bank, and better than siller in the byre, and no’ a mortal man to call -this house his debtor, Huntley Livingstone! which is a change from the -time you gaed away.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks to your cares and labors, mother,” said Huntley.</p> - -<p>“Thanks to no such thing. Am I a hired servant that ye say such words to -me? but thanks to Him that gives the increase,” said the Mistress; -“though we’re no’ like to show our gratitude as I once thought,” and she -threw a quick side-glance at Cosmo; “but Huntley, my man, have ye -naething to tell of yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Much more to ask than to tell,” said Huntley, growing red and anxious, -but making an effort to control himself, “for you know all of the little -that has happened to me already, mother. Thankless years enough they -have been. To think of working hard so long and gaining nothing, and to -make all that I have at last by what looks like a mere chance!”</p> - -<p>“So long! What does the laddie call long?—many a man works a lifetime,” -said the Mistress, “and even then never gets the chance; and it’s only -the like of you at your time of life that’s aye looking for something to -happen. For them that’s out of their youth, life’s far canniest when -naething happens—though it is hard to tell how that can be either where -there’s bairns. There’s been little out of the way here since this -callant, Cosmo, gaed out on his travels, and brought his French lady and -a’ her family hame. Me’mar’s in new hands now, Huntley; and you’ll have -to gang to see them, no doubt, and they’ll make plenty wark about you. -It’s their fashion. I’m no much heeding about their ways mysel’, but -Cosmo has little else in his head, night or day.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo blushed in answer to this sudden assault; but the blush was angry -and painful, and his brother eagerly interposed to cover it.</p> - -<p>“The ladies that took Melmar from us!—let us hear about them, mother,” -said Huntley.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span></p> - -<p>The Mistress turned round suddenly to the door to make sure it was -closed.</p> - -<p>“Take my word for it,” she said, solemnly, and with emphasis, “yon’s the -man, that’s married upon Marie.”</p> - -<p>“Who?” cried Cosmo, starting to his feet, with eager interest.</p> - -<p>The Mistress eyed him severely for a moment.</p> - -<p>“When you’re done making antics, Cosmo Livingstone, I’ll say my say,” -said his offended mother—“you may be fond enough of French folk, -without copying their very fashion. I would have mair pride if it was -me.”</p> - -<p>With an exclamation of impatience, which was not merely impatience, but -covered deeply wounded feelings, Cosmo once more resumed the seat which -he thrust hastily from the table. His mother glanced at him once more. -If she had a favorite among her children, it was this her youngest son, -yet she had a perverse momentary satisfaction in perceiving how much -annoyed he was.</p> - -<p>“You’s the man!” said the Mistress, with a certain triumphant contempt -in her voice; “just the very same dirty Frenchman that Huntley brought -to the house this day. I’m no mista’en. He’s wanting his wife, and he’ll -find her, and I wish her muckle joy of her bonnie bargain. That’s just -the ill-doing vagabond of a husband that’s run away from Marie!”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Cosmo, eagerly, “you know quite well how little -friendship I have for Marie—”</p> - -<p>When he had got so far he stopped suddenly. His suggestion to the -contrary was almost enough to make his mother inform the stranger at -once of the near neighborhood of his wife, and Cosmo paused only in -time.</p> - -<p>“The mair shame to you,” said the Mistress, indignantly, “she’s a -suffering woman, ill and neglected; and I warn you baith I’m no’ gaun to -send this blackguard to Melmar to fright the little life there is out of -a puir dying creature. He shall find out his wife for his ain hand; he -shanna be indebted to me.”</p> - -<p>“It is like yourself, mother, to determine so,” said Cosmo, gratefully. -“Though, if she had the choice, I daresay she would decide otherwise, -and perhaps Madame Roche too. You say I am always thinking of them, but -certainly I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> would not trust to their wisdom—neither Madame Roche nor -Marie.”</p> - -<p>“But really—have some pity upon my curiosity—who is Marie, mother?” -cried Huntley, “and who is her husband, and what is it about altogether? -I know nothing of Pierrot, and I don’t believe much good of him; but how -do <i>you</i> know?”</p> - -<p>“Marie is the French lady’s eldest daughter—madame would have married -her upon you, Huntley, my man, if she had been free,” said the Mistress, -“and I woudna say but she’s keeping the little one in her hand for you -to make up for your loss, as she says. But Marie, she settled for -hersel’ lang before our Cosmo took news of their land to them; and it -just shows what kind of folk they were when she took up with the like of -this lad. I’ve little skill in Frenchmen, that’s true; if he’s not a -common person, and a blackguard to the boot, I’m very sair deceived in -my e’en; but whatever else he is, he’s her man, and that I’m just as -sure of as mortal person can be. But she’s a poor suffering thing that -will never be well in this world, and I’ll no’ send a wandering vagabond -to startle her out of her life.”</p> - -<p>“What do you say, madame,” screamed a voice at the door; “you know my -wife—you know her—Madame Pierrot?—and you will keep her husband from -her? What! you would take my Marie?—you would marry her to your son -because she is rich? but I heard you—oh, I heard you! I go to fly to my -dear wife.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress rose, holding back Huntley, who was advancing -indignantly:—</p> - -<p>“Fly away, Mounseer,” said Mrs. Livingstone, “you’ll find little but -closed doors this night; and dinna stand there swearing and screaming at -me; you may gang just when you please, and welcome; but we’ll have none -of your passions here; be quiet, Huntley—he’s no’ a person to touch -with clean fingers—are you hearing me man? Gang up to your bed, if you -please this moment. I give you a night’s shelter because you came with -my son; or if you’ll no’ go up the stairs go forth out of my doors, and -dinna say another word to me—do you hear?”</p> - -<p>Pierrot stood at the door, muttering French curses as fast as he could -utter them; but he did hear notwithstanding. After a little parley with -Huntley, he went up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> stairs, three steps at a time, and locked himself -into his chamber.</p> - -<p>“He’s just as wise,” said the Mistress, “but it’s no’ very safe sleeping -with such a villain in the house;” which was so far true that, excited -and restless, she herself did not sleep, but lay broad awake all night -thinking of Huntley and Cosmo—- thinking of all the old grief and all -the new vexations which Mary of Melmar had brought to her own life.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXVI" id="CHAPTER_LXVI"></a>CHAPTER LXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">For</span> these five years had not been so peaceful as their predecessors—the -face of this home country was much changed to some of the old dwellers -here. Dr. Logan, old and well-beloved, was in his quiet grave, and Katie -and her orphans, far out of the knowledge of the parish which once had -taken so entire an interest in them, were succeeded by a new minister’s -new wife, who had no children yet to gladden the manse so long -accustomed to young voices; and the great excitement of the revolution -at Melmar had scarcely yet subsided in this quiet place;—least of all, -had it subsided with the Mistress, who, spite of a lurking fondness for -little Desirée, could not help finding in the presence of Mary of Melmar -a perpetual vexation. Their French habits, their language, their -sentiments and effusiveness—the peevish invalid condition of Marie, and -even the sweet temper of Madame Roche, aggravated with a perennial -agitation, the hasty spirit of Mrs. Livingstone. She could not help -hearing every thing that everybody said of them, could not help watching -with a rather unamiable interest the failings and shortcomings of the -family of women who had dispossessed her son. And then her other -son—her Cosmo, of whom she had been so proud—could see nothing that -did not fascinate and attract him in this little French household. So, -at least, his mother thought. She could have borne an honest falling in -love, and “put up with” the object of it, but she could not tolerate the -idea of her son paying tender<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span> court to another mother, or of sharing -with any one the divided honors of her maternal place. This fancy was -gall and bitterness to the Mistress, and had an unconscious influence -upon almost every thing she did or said, especially on those two days in -every week which Cosmo spent at Norlaw.</p> - -<p>“It’s but little share his mother has in his coming,” she said to -herself, bitterly; and even Marget found the temper of the Mistress -rather trying upon the Sundays and Mondays; while between Cosmo and -herself there rose a cloud of mutual offense and exasperation, which had -no cause in reality, but seemed almost beyond the reach of either -explanation or peace-making now.</p> - -<p>The Sabbath morning rose bright and calm over Norlaw. When Huntley woke, -the birds were singing in that special, sacred, sweetest festival of -theirs, which is held when most of us are sleeping, and seems somehow -all the tenderer for being to themselves and God; and when Huntley rose -to look out, his heart sang like the birds. There stood the Strength of -Norlaw, all aglist with early morning dews and sunshine, wall-flowers -tufting its old walls, sweet wild-roses looking out, like adventurous -children, from the vacant windows, and the green turf mantling up upon -its feet. There ran Tyne, a glimmer of silver among the grass and the -trees. Yonder stretched forth the lovely country-side, with all its -wealthy undulations, concealing the hidden house of Melmar among its -woods. And to the south, the mystic Eildons, pale with the ecstacy of -the night, stood silent under the morning light, which hung no purple -shadows on their shoulders. Huntley gazed out of his window till his -eyes filled. He was too young to know, like his mother, that it was best -when nothing happened; and this event of his return recalled to him all -the events of his life. He thought of his father, and that solemn -midnight burial of his among the ruins; he thought of his own -wanderings, his hope and loss of wealth, his present modest -expectations; and then a brighter light and a more wistful gaze came to -Huntley’s face. He, too, was no longer to be content with home and -mother; but a sober tenderness subdued the young man’s ardor when he -thought of Katie Logan among her children.</p> - -<p>Seven years! It was a long trial for an unpledged love. Had no other -thoughts come into her good heart in the meantime? or, indeed, did she -ever think of Huntley save<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> in her elder-sisterly kindness as she -thought of everybody? When this oft-discussed question returned to him, -Huntley could no longer remain quiet at his window. He hastily finished -his toilette and went down stairs, smiling to himself as he unbolted and -unlocked the familiar door—those very same bolts and locks which had so -often yielded to his restless fingers in those days when Huntley was -never still. Now, by this time, he had learned to keep himself quiet -occasionally; but the old times flashed back upon him strangely, full of -smiles and tears, in the unfastening of that door.</p> - -<p>Thinking certainly that at so early an hour he himself was the first -person astir in Norlaw, Huntley was greatly amazed to find Cosmo—no -longer choosing his boyish seat of meditation in the window of the old -castle—wandering restlessly about the ruins. And Cosmo did not seem -quite pleased to see <i>him</i>; that was still more remarkable. The elder -brother could not help seeing again, as in a picture, the delicate fair -boy, with his long arms thrust out of the jacket which was too small for -him, with his bursts of boyish vehemence and enthusiasm, his old -chivalrous championship of the unknown Mary, his tenacious love for the -hereditary Norlaw. Huntley had not seen the boy grow up into the man—he -had not learned to moderate his protecting love for the youngest child -into the steady brotherly affection which should now acknowledge the man -as an equal. Cosmo was still “my father’s son,” the youngest, the -dearest, the one to be shielded from trouble, in the fancy of the elder -brother. Yet, there he stood, as tall as Huntley, his childish delicacy -of complexion gone, his fair hair crisp and curled, his dark eyes stormy -and full of personal emotions, his foot impatient and restless, the step -of a man already burdened with cares of his own. And, reluctant to meet -his brother, his closest friend, and once his natural guardian! Huntley -thrust his arm into Cosmo’s, and drew him round the other side of the -ruins.</p> - -<p>“Do you really wish to avoid me?” said the elder brother, with a pang. -“What is wrong, Cosmo?—can you not tell <i>me</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing is wrong, so far as I am aware,” said Cosmo, with some -haughtiness. His first impulse seemed to be to draw away his arm from -his brother’s, but, if it was so, he restrained himself, and, instead, -walked on with a cold,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> averted face, which was almost more painful than -any act to the frank spirit of Huntley.</p> - -<p>“I will ask no more questions then,” said Huntley, with some impatience; -“I ought to remember how long I have been gone, and how little you know -of me. What is to be done about this Pierrot? So far as I can glean from -what my mother says, he will be an unwelcome guest at Melmar. What -ground has my mother for supposing him connected with Madame Roche? What -sort of a person is Madame Roche? What have you all been doing with -yourselves? I have a hundred questions to ask about everybody. Even -Patie no one speaks of; if nothing is wrong you are all strangely -changed since I went away.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose the <i>all</i> means myself; I am changed since you went away,” -said Cosmo, moodily.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you are changed, Cosmo; I don’t understand it; however, never -mind, you can tell the reason why when you know me better,” said -Huntley, “but, in the meantime, how is Patie, and where? And what about -this Madame Roche?”</p> - -<p>“Madame Roche is very well,” said Cosmo, with assumed indifference, “her -eldest daughter is married, and has long been deserted by her husband; -but I don’t know his name—they never mention it. Madame Roche is -ashamed of him; they were people of very good family, in spite of what -my mother says—Roche de St. Martin—but I sent you word of all this -long ago. It is little use repeating it now.”</p> - -<p>“Why should Pierrot be <i>her</i> husband, of all men in the world?” said -Huntley; “but if he’s not wanted at Melmar, you had better send the -ladies word of your suspicions, and put them on their guard.”</p> - -<p>“I have been there this morning,” said Cosmo, slightly confused by his -own admission.</p> - -<p>“This morning? you certainly have not lost any time,” said Huntley, -laughing. “Never mind, Cosmo, I said I should ask nothing you did not -want to tell me; though why you should be so anxious to keep her husband -away from the poor woman—How have they got on at Melmar? Have they many -friends? Are they people to make friends? They seem at least to be -people of astonishing importance in Norlaw.”</p> - -<p>“My mother,” said Cosmo, angrily, “dislikes Madame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span> Roche, and -consequently every thing said and done at Melmar takes an evil aspect in -her eyes.”</p> - -<p>“My boy, that is not a tone in which to speak of my mother,” said -Huntley, with gravity.</p> - -<p>“I know it!” cried the younger brother, “but how can I help it? it is -true they are my friends. I confess to that; why should they not be my -friends? why should I reject kindness when I find it? As for Marie, she -is a selfish, peevish invalid, I have no patience with her—but—Madame -Roche—”</p> - -<p>Cosmo made a full stop before he said Madame Roche, and pronounced that -name at last so evidently as a substitute for some other name, that -Huntley’s curiosity was roused; which curiosity, however, he thought it -best to satisfy diplomatically, and by a round-about course.</p> - -<p>“I must see her to-morrow,” he said; “but what of our old friend, -Melmar, who loved us all so well? I should not like to rejoice in any -man’s downfall, but <i>he</i> deserved it, surely. What has become of them -all?”</p> - -<p>“He is a poor writer again,” said Cosmo, shortly, “and Joanna—it was -Joanna who brought Desirée here.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Desirée?” asked Huntley.</p> - -<p>“I ought to say Miss Roche,” said Cosmo, blushing to his hair. “Joanna -Huntley and she were great friends at school, and after the change she -was very anxious that Joanna should stay. <i>She</i> is the youngest, and an -awkward, strange girl—but, why I can not tell, she clings to her -father, and is a governess or school-mistress now, I believe. Yes, -things change strangely. They were together when I saw them first.”</p> - -<p>“They—them! you are rather mysterious, Cosmo. What is the story?” asked -his brother.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing very remarkable; only Des—Miss Roche, you know, came to -Melmar first of all as governess to Joanna, and it was while she was -there that I found Madame Roche at St. Ouen. When I returned, my -mother,” said Cosmo, with a softening in his voice, “brought Desirée to -Norlaw, as you must have heard; and it was from our house that she went -home.”</p> - -<p>“And, except this unfortunate sick one, she is the only child?” said -Huntley. “I understand it now.”</p> - -<p>Cosmo gave him a hurried jealous glance, as if to ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> what it was he -understood, but after that relapsed into uncomfortable silence. They -went on for some time so, Cosmo with anger and impatience supposing his -elder brother’s mind to be occupied with what he had just told him; and -it was with amazement, relief, but almost contempt for Huntley’s -extraordinary want of interest in matters so deeply interesting to -himself, that Cosmo heard and answered the next question addressed to -him.</p> - -<p>“And Dr. Logan is dead,” said Huntley, with a quiet sorrow in his voice, -which trembled too with another emotion. “I wonder where Katie and her -bairns are now?”</p> - -<p>“Not very far off; somewhere near Edinburgh. I think Lasswade. Mr. -Cassilis’ mother lives there,” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Cassilis! I had forgotten him,” said Huntley, “but he does not live -at Lasswade?”</p> - -<p>“They say he would be glad enough to have Katie Logan in Edinburgh,” -said Cosmo, indifferently; “they are cousins—I suppose they are likely -to be married;—how do I know? Well, only by some one telling me, -Huntley! I did not know you cared.”</p> - -<p>“Who said I cared?” cried Huntley, with sudden passion. “How should any -one know any thing about the matter—eh? I only asked, of course, from -curiosity, because we know her so well—used to know her so well. Not -you, who were a child, but we two elder ones. My brother Patie—I hear -nothing of Patie. Where is <i>he</i> then? You must surely know.”</p> - -<p>“He is to come to meet you to-morrow,” said Cosmo, who was really -grieved for his own carelessness. “Don’t let me vex you, Huntley. I am -vexed myself, and troubled; but I never thought of that, and may be -quite wrong, as I am often,” he added, with momentary humility, for -Cosmo was deeply mortified by the sudden idea that he had been selfishly -mindful of his own concerns, and indifferent to those of his brother. -For the time, it filled him with self-reproach and penitence.</p> - -<p>“Never mind; every thing comes right in time,” said Huntley; but this -piece of philosophy was said mechanically—the first common-place which -occurred to Huntley to vail the perturbation of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>Just then some sounds from the house called their attention there. The -Mistress herself stood at the open door of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> Norlaw, contemplating the -exit of the Frenchman, who stood before her, hat in hand, making -satirical bows and thanking her for his night’s lodging. In the morning -sunshine this personage looked dirtier and more disreputable than on the -previous night. He had not been at all particular about his toilette, -and curled up his moustache over his white teeth, the only thing white -about him, with a most sinister sneer, while he addressed his hostess; -while she, in the meantime, in her morning cap and heavy black gown, and -clear, ruddy face, stood watching him, as perfect a contrast as could be -conceived.</p> - -<p>“I have the satisfaction of making my adieux, madame,” cried Pierrot; -“receive the assurance of my distinguished regard. I shall bring my wife -to thank you. I shall tell my wife what compliments you paid her, to -free her from her unworthy spouse and bestow your son. She will thank -you—I will thank you. Madame, from my heart I make you my adieux!”</p> - -<p>“It’s Sabbath morning,” said the Mistress, quietly; “and if you find -your wife—I dinna envy her, poor woman! you can tell her just whatever -you please, and I’ll no’ cross you; though it’s weel to see you dinna -ken, you puir, misguided heathen, that you’re in another kind of country -frae your ain. You puir Pagan creature! do you think I would ware my -Huntley on a woman that had been another man’s wife? or do you think -that marriage can be broken <i>here</i>? but it’s no’ worth my while -parleying with the like of you. Gang your ways and find your wife, and -be good to her, if it’s in you. She’s maybe a silly woman that likes ye -still, vagabone though ye be—she’s maybe near the end of her days, for -onything you ken. Go away and get some kindness in your heart if ye -can—and every single word I’ve said to you you can tell ower again to -your wife.”</p> - -<p>Which would have been rather hard, however, though the Mistress did not -know it. The wanderer knew English better than a Frenchman often does, -but his education had been neglected—he did not know Scotch—a fact -which did not enter into the calculations of Mrs. Livingstone.</p> - -<p>“Adieu, comrade!” cried Pierrot, waving his hand to Huntley; “when I see -you again you shall behold a milor, a nobleman; be happy with your -amiable parent. I go to my wife, who adores me. Adieu.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span></p> - -<p>“And it’s true,” said the Mistress, drawing a long breath as the strange -guest disappeared on the road to Kirkbride. “Eh, sire, but this world’s -a mystery! it’s just true, so far as I hear; she does adore him, and him -baith a mountebank and a vagabone! it passes the like of me!”</p> - -<p>And Cosmo, looking after him too, thought of Cameron. Could that be the -husband for whom Marie had pined away her life?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXVII" id="CHAPTER_LXVII"></a>CHAPTER LXVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was Sabbath morning, but it was not a morning of rest; though it was -Huntley’s first day at home, and though it did his heart good to see his -mother, the young man’s heart was already astray and pre-occupied with -his own thoughts; and Cosmo, full of subdued but unrecoverable -excitement, which his mother’s jealous eye only too plainly perceived, -covered the face of the Mistress with clouds. Yet a spectator might have -supposed that breakfast-table a very centre of family love and harmony. -The snow-white cloth, the basket of brown oat-cakes and white flour -scones, of Marget’s most delicate manufacture, the great jug full of -rich red June roses, which made a glory in the midst, and the mother at -the head of her table, with those two sons in the bloom of their young -manhood, on either side of her, and the dress of her widowhood throwing -a certain, tender, pathetic suggestion into her joy and their love. It -was a picture had it been a picture, which no one could have seen -without a touching consciousness of one of the most touching sides of -human life. A family which at its happiest must always recall and -commemorate a perpetual lack and vacancy, and where all the affections -were the deeper and tenderer for that sorrow which overshadowed them; -the sons of their mother, and she was a widow! But, alas, for human -pictures and ideals! The mother was restless and dissatisfied, feeling -strange interests crowding in to the very hour which should be -peculiarly her own; the young men were stirred with the personal and -undisclosed troubles of their early life. They sat together at their -early meal, speaking of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> common matters, eating daily bread, united yet -separate, the peace of the morning only vailing over a surface of -commotion, and Sabbath in every thing around save in their hearts.</p> - -<p>“It’s a strange minister—you’ll miss the old man, Huntley,” said the -Mistress; “but you’ll write down your thanksgiving like a good bairn, -and put an offering in the plate; put your name, say, ‘Huntley -Livingstone returns thanks to God for his safe home-coming.’ There would -have been nae need for that if Dr. Logan had been to the fore; he aye -minded baith thanks and supplications; and I’ll never forget what -petitions he made in his prayer the last Sabbath you were at hame. -You’re early stirring, Cosmo—it’s no’ time yet for the kirk.”</p> - -<p>“I am going to Melmar, mother,” said Cosmo, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>The Mistress made no answer; a flush came over her face, and her brow -contracted, but she only said, as if to herself:—</p> - -<p>“It’s the Sabbath day.”</p> - -<p>“I went there this morning, to warn them of this man’s arrival,” said -Cosmo, with excitement, “saying what <i>you</i> thought. I did not see any of -them; but Marie has one of her illnesses. They have no one to support -them in any emergency. I must see that he does not break in upon them -to-day.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress still made no answer. After a little struggle with herself, -she nodded hastily.</p> - -<p>“If ye’re a’ done, I’ll rise from the table. I have things to do before -kirk-time,” she said at length, pushing back her chair and turning away. -She had nothing to say against Cosmo’s resolution, but she was deeply -offended by it—deeply, unreasonably, and she knew it—but could not -restrain the bitter emotion. To be absent from the kirk at all, save by -some overpowering necessity, was an offense to all her strong Scottish -prejudices—but it was an especial breach of family decorum, and all the -acknowledged sentiment and punctilio of love, to be absent to-day.</p> - -<p>“Keep us a’ patient!” cried Marget, in an indignant undertone, when Mrs. -Livingstone was out of hearing; for Marget, on one pretense or other, -kept going and coming into the dining-parlor the whole morning, to -rejoice her eyes with the sight of Huntley. “Some women come into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> this -world for nae good reason but to make trouble. To speak to the Mistress -about an emergency! Whaever supported her in <i>her</i> troubles but the -Almighty himsel’ and her ain stout heart? I dinna wonder it’s hard to -bear! Some gang through the fire for their ain hand, and no’ a mortal -nigh them—some maun have a haill houseful to bear them up. Weel, weel, -I’m no’ saying any thing against it—it’s kind o’ you, Mr. Cosmo—but -you should think, laddie, before you speak.”</p> - -<p>“<i>She</i> is not like my mother,” said Cosmo, somewhat sullenly.</p> - -<p>“Like your mother!” cried Marget, with the utmost contempt. “She would -smile a hantle mair, and ca’ ye mair dears in a day than <i>my</i> Mistress -in a twelvemonth; but would <i>she</i> have fought and struggled through her -life for a thankless man and thankless bairns—I trow no! Like your -mother! She was bonnie when she was young, and she’s maybe, bonnie now, -for onything I ken; but she never was wordy to tie the shoe upon the -foot of the Mistress of Norlaw!”</p> - -<p>“Be silent!” cried Cosmo, angrily; and before Marget’s indignation at -this reproof could find itself words, the young man had hurried out from -the room and from the house, boiling with resentment and a sense of -injury. He saw exactly the other side of the question—his mother’s -jealous temper, and hard-heartedness and dislike to the gentle and -tender Madame Roche—but he could not see how hard it was, after all, -for the honest, faithful heart, which grudged no pain nor hardship for -its own, to find their love beguiled away again and again—or even to -suppose it was beguiled—by one who had never done any thing to deserve -such affection.</p> - -<p>And Cosmo hurried on through the narrow paths to Melmar, his heart -a-flame with a young man’s resentment, and impatience, and love. He -scarcely could tell what it was which excited him so entirely. Not, -certainly, the vagabond Pierrot, or any fears for Marie; not even the -displeasure of his mother. He would not acknowledge to himself the -eager, jealous fears which hurried him through those flowery bye-ways -where the blossoms of the hawthorn had fallen in showers like summer -snow, and the wild roses were rich in the hedgerows. Huntley!—why did -he fear Huntley?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> What was the impulse of unfraternal impatience which -made him turn with indignant offense from every thought of his brother? -Had he put it into words, he would have despised himself; but he only -rushed on in silence through the silent Sabbath fields and bye-ways to -the house of Madame Roche.</p> - -<p>It is early, early yet, and there is still no church bell ringing -through the silence of the skies to rouse the farms and cottages. The -whole bright summer world was as silent as a dream—the corn growing, -the flowers opening, the sun shining, without a whisper to tell that -dutiful Nature carried on her pious work through all the day of rest. -The Tyne ran softly beneath his banks, the Kelpie rushed foaming white -down its little ravine, and all the cool burns from among the trees -dropped down into Tyne with a sound like silver bells. Something white -shone upon the path on the very spot where Desirée once lay, proud and -desolate, in the chill of the winter night, brooding over false -friendship and pretended love. Desirée now is sitting on the same stone, -musing once more in her maiden meditation. The universal human trouble -broods even on these thoughts—not heavily—only like the shadow that -flits along the trees of Tyne—a something ruffling the white woman’s -forehead, which is more serious than the girl’s was, and disquieting the -depths of those eyes which Cosmo Livingstone had called stars. Stars do -not mist themselves with tender dew about the perversities of human kind -as these eyes do; yet let nobody suppose that these sweet drops, -lingering bright within the young eyelids, should be called tears.</p> - -<p>Tears! words have so many meanings in this world! it is all the same -syllable that describes the child’s passion, the honey-dew of youth, and -that heavy rain of grief which is able sometimes to blot out both the -earth and the skies.</p> - -<p>So, after a fashion, there are tears in Desirée’s eyes, and a great many -intermingled thoughts floating in her mind—thoughts troubled by a -little indignation, some fear, and a good deal of that fanciful -exaggeration which is in all youthful trials. She thinks she is very sad -just now as she sits half in the shade and half in the sunshine, leaning -her head upon her hand, while the playful wind occasionally sprinkles -over her those snowy drops of spray from the Kelpie which shine on her -hair; but the truth is that nothing just now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span> could make Desirée sad, -save sudden trouble, change, or danger falling upon one person—that one -person is he who devours the way with eager, flying steps, and who, -still more disturbed than she is, still knows no trouble in the presence -of Desirée; and that is Cosmo Livingstone.</p> - -<p>No; there is no love-tale to tell but that which has been told already; -all those preliminaries are over; the Kelpie saw them pledge their faith -to each other, while there still were but a sprinkling of spring leaves -on those trees of June. Desirée; the name that caught the boy’s fancy -when he <i>was</i> a boy, and she unknown to him—the heroine of his dreams -ever since then, the distressed princess to whom his chivalry had -brought fortune—how could the young romance end otherwise? but why, -while all was so natural and suitable, did the young betrothed meet -here?</p> - -<p>“I must tell your mother! I must speak to her to-day! I owe it both to -myself and Huntley,” cried Cosmo. “I can not go away again with this -jealous terror of my brother in my heart; I dare not, Desirée! I must -speak to her to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Terror? and jealous? Ah, then, you do not trust me,” said Desirée, with -a smile. Her heart beat quicker, but she was not anxious; she held up -her hand to the wind till it was all gemmed with the spray of the -waterfall, and then shook it over the head of Cosmo, as he half sat, -half knelt by her side. He, however, was too much excited to be amused; -he seized upon the wet hand and held it fast in his own.</p> - -<p>“I did not think it possible,” said Cosmo. “Huntley, whom I supposed I -could have died for, my kind brother! but it makes me frantic when I -think what your mother has said—what she <i>intends</i>. Heaven! if he -himself should think of <i>you</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Go, you are rude,” said Desirée; “if I am so good as you say, he must -think of me; but am <i>I</i> nothing then,” she cried, suddenly springing up, -and stamping her little firm foot, half in sport, half in anger; “how do -you dare speak of me so? Do you think mamma can give me away like a -ring, or a jewel? Do you think it will be different to me whether he -thinks or does not think of Desirée? You make me angry, Monsieur Cosmo; -if that is all you come to tell me, go away!”</p> - -<p>“What can I tell you else?” cried Cosmo. “I must and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> will be satisfied. -I can not go on with this hanging over me. Do you remember what you told -me, Desirée, that Madame Roche meant to offer you—<i>you</i>! to my brother? -and you expect me to have patience! No, I am going to her now.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is all over,” cried Desirée, “all these sunny days—all these -dreams! She will say no, no. She will say it must not be—she will -forbid me meeting you; but if you do not care, why should I?” exclaimed -the little Frenchwoman, rapidly. “Nay, you must do what you will—you -must be satisfied. Why should you care for what <i>I</i> say? and as for me I -shall be alone.”</p> - -<p>So Desirée dropped again upon her stone seat, and put her face down into -her hands, and shed a few tears; and Cosmo, half beside himself, drew -away the hands from her face, and remonstrated, pleaded, urged his -claim.</p> - -<p>“Why should not you acknowledge me?” said the young lover. “Desirée, -long before I ventured to speak it you knew where my heart was—and now -I have your own word and promise. Your mother will not deny you. Come -with me, and say to Madame Roche—”</p> - -<p>“What?” said Madame Roche’s daughter, glancing up at him as he paused.</p> - -<p>But Cosmo was in earnest now:—</p> - -<p>“What is in your heart!” he said breathlessly. “You turn away from me, -and I can not look into it. What is in your heart, whether it is joy, or -destruction, I care not,” cried the young man suddenly, “I must know my -fate.”</p> - -<p>Desirée raised her head and looked at him with some surprise and a quick -flush of anger:—</p> - -<p>“What have I done that you dare doubt me?” she cried, clapping her hands -together with natural petulance. “You are impatient—you are angry—you -are jealous—but does all that change me?”</p> - -<p>“Then come with me to Madame Roche,” said the pertinacious lover.</p> - -<p>Desirée had the greatest mind in the world to make a quarrel and leave -him. She was not much averse now and then to a quarrel with Cosmo, for -she was a most faulty and imperfect little heroine, as has been already -confessed in these pages; but in good time another caprice seized her, -and she changed her mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span></p> - -<p>“Marie is ill,” she said softly, in a tone which melted Cosmo; “let us -not go now to trouble poor mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Marie! I came this morning to warn her, or rather to warn Madame -Roche,” said Cosmo, recalled to the ostensible cause of his visit. “A -Frenchman, called Pierrot, came home with Huntley—”</p> - -<p>But before he could finish his sentence, Desirée started up with a -scream at the name, and seizing his arm, in her French impatience -overwhelmed him with terrified questions:—</p> - -<p>“Pierrot? quick! speak! where is he? does he seek Marie? is he here? -quick, quick, quick, tell me where he is! he must never come to poor -Marie! he must not find us—tell me, Cosmo! do you hear?”</p> - -<p>“He spent last night at Norlaw—he seeks his wife,” said Cosmo, when she -was out of breath; at which word Desirée sprang up the path with excited -haste:—</p> - -<p>“I go to tell mamma,” she said, beckoning Cosmo to follow, and in a few -minutes more disappeared breathless within the open door of Melmar, -leaving him still behind.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXVIII" id="CHAPTER_LXVIII"></a>CHAPTER LXVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Madame Roche</span> sat by herself in the drawing-room of Melmar—the same -beautiful old lady who used to sit working behind the flowers and white -curtains of the little second floor window in St. Ouen. The room itself -was changed from the fine disorderly room in which Mrs. Huntley had -indulged her invalid tastes, and Patricia read her poetry-books. There -was no longer a loose crumb-cloth to trip unwary feet, nor rumpled -chintz covers to conceal the glory of the damask; and there was a -wilderness of gilding, mirrors, cornices, chairs, and picture-frames, -which changed the sober aspect of Melmar, and threw a somewhat fanciful -and foreign character upon the grave Scotch apartment, looking out -through its three windows upon the solemn evergreens and homely -grass-plot, which had undergone no change. One of the windows was open, -and <i>that</i> was garlanded round, like a cottage window, with a -luxuriance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span> of honey suckle and roses, which the “former family” would -have supposed totally unsuited to the “best room in the house.” It was -before this open window, with the sweet morning breeze waving the white -curtains over her, and the roses leaning in in little crowds, that -Madame Roche sat. She was reading—at least she had a book in her hand, -among the leaves of which the sweet air rustled playfully; it was a -pious, pretty book of meditations, which suited both the time and the -reader, and she sat sometimes looking into it, sometime suffering her -eyes and mind to stray, with a sweet pensive gravity on her fair old -face, and tender, subdued thoughts in her heart. Madame Roche was not -profound in any thing; perhaps there was not very much depth in those -pious thoughts, or even in the sadness which just overshadowed them. -Perhaps she had even a far-off consciousness that Cosmo Livingstone saw -a very touching little picture, when he saw the mother by the window -reading the Sabbath book in that Sabbath calm, and saying prayers in her -heart for poor Marie. But do not blame Madame Roche—she still did say -the prayers, and out of an honest heart.</p> - -<p>When Desirée flew into the room, flushed and out of breath, and threw -herself upon her mother so suddenly, that Madame Roche’s composure was -quite overthrown:—</p> - -<p>“Mamma, mamma!” cried Desirée, in what was almost a scream, though it -was under her breath, “listen—Pierrot is here; he has found us out.”</p> - -<p>“What, child? Pierrot? It is impossible!” cried Madame Roche.</p> - -<p>“Things that are impossible are always true!” exclaimed the breathless -Desirée; “he is here—Cosmo has seen him; he has come to seek Marie.”</p> - -<p>“Cosmo? is <i>he</i> here?” said Madame Roche, rising. The old lady had -become quite agitated, and her voice trembled. The book had fallen out -of the hands which she clasped tightly together, in her fright and -astonishment. “But he is mistaken, Desirée; he does not know Pierrot.”</p> - -<p>When Cosmo, however, came forward to tell his own story, Madame Roche -became still more disturbed and troubled:—</p> - -<p>“To come now!” she exclaimed to herself with another expressive French -pressure of her hands—“to come now! Had he come in St. Ouen, when we -were poor, I could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span> borne it; but now, perceive you what will -happen, Desirée? He will place himself here, and squander our goods and -make us despised. He will call my poor Marie by his mean name—she, a -Roche de St. Martin! and she will be glad to have it so. Alas, my poor -deluded child!”</p> - -<p>“Still though he is so near, he has not found you yet; and if he does -find you, the house is yours, you can refuse him admission; let me -remain, in case you should want me,” said Cosmo eagerly; “I have been -your representative ere now.”</p> - -<p>Madame Roche was walking softly about the room, preserving through all -her trouble, even now when she had been five years in this great house, -the old habit of restraining her voice and step, which had been -necessary when Marie lay in the little back chamber at St. Ouen, within -constant hearing of her mother. She stopped for an instant to smile upon -her young advocate and supporter, as a queen might smile upon a partisan -whose zeal was more than his wisdom; and then went on hurriedly -addressing her daughter.</p> - -<p>“For Marie, poor soul, would be crazed with joy. Ah, my Desirée! who can -tell me what to do? For my own pleasure, my own comfort, a selfish -mother, must I sacrifice my child?”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” cried Desirée, with breathless vehemence, “I love Marie—I -would give my life for her; but if Pierrot comes to Melmar, I will go. -It is true—I remember him—I will not live with Pierrot in one house.”</p> - -<p>Madame Roche clasped her hands once more, and cast up her eyes with a -gesture of despair. “What can I do—what am I to do? I am a woman -alone—I have no one to advise me,” she cried, pacing softly about the -room, with her clasped hands and eyes full of trouble. Cosmo’s heart was -quite moved with her distress.</p> - -<p>“Let me remain with you to-day,” said Cosmo, “and if he comes, permit me -to see him. You can trust <i>me</i>. If you authorize me to deny him -admission, he certainly shall not enter here.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my friend!” cried Madame Roche. “Ah, my child! what can I say to -you? Marie loves him.”</p> - -<p>“And he has made her miserable,” cried Desirée, with passion. “But, -because she loves him, you will let him come here to make us all -wretched. I knew it would be so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> She loves him—it is enough! He will -make her frantic—he will break her heart—he will insult you, me, every -one! But Marie loves him! and so, though he is misery, he must come. I -knew it would be so; but I will not stay to see it all—I can not! I -will never stand by and watch while he kills Marie. Mamma! mamma! will -you be so cruel? But I can not speak—I am angry—wretched! I will go to -Marie and nurse her, and be calm; but if Pierrot comes, Desirée will -stay no longer. For you know it is true!”</p> - -<p>And so speaking Desirée went, lingering and turning back to deliver -herself always of a new exclamation, to the door, out of which she -disappeared at last, still protesting her determination with violence -and passion. Madame Roche stood still, looking after her. There was -great distress in the mother’s face, but it did not take that lofty form -of pain which her child’s half-defiance might have produced. She was not -wounded by what Desirée said. She turned round sighing to where Cosmo -stood, not perfectly satisfied, it must be confessed, with the bearing -of his betrothed.</p> - -<p>“Poor child! she feels it!” said Madame Roche, “and, indeed, it is true, -and she is right; but what must I do, my friend? Marie loves him. To see -him once more might restore Marie.”</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle Desirée says he will break her heart,” said Cosmo, feeling -himself bound to defend the lady of his love, even though he did not -quite approve of her.</p> - -<p>“Do not say mademoiselle. She is of this country; she is not a -stranger,” said Madame Roche with her bright, usual smile; “and he -<i>will</i> break her heart if he is not changed; do I not know it? But -then—ah, my friend, you are young and impatient, and so is Desirée. -Would you not rather have your wish and your love, though it killed you -to have it, than to live year after year in a blank peacefulness? It is -thus with Marie; she lives, but her life does not make her glad. She -loves him—she longs for him; and shall I know how her heart pines, and -be able to give her joy, yet keep silence, as though I knew nothing? It -might be most wise; but I am not wise—I am but her mother—what must I -do?”</p> - -<p>“You will not give her a momentary pleasure, at the risk of more serious -suffering,” said Cosmo, with great gravity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span></p> - -<p>But the tears came to Madame Roche’s eyes. She sank into a chair, and -covered her face with her hand. “It would be joy!—can I deny her joy? -for she loves him,” faltered Marie’s mother. As he looked at her with -impatient, yet tender eyes, the young man forgave Desirée for her -impatience. How was it possible to deal calmly with the impracticable -sentiment and “feelings” of Madame Roche?</p> - -<p>“I came to speak to you of myself,” said Cosmo. “I can not speak of -myself in the midst of this trouble; but I beg you to think better of -it. If he is all that you say, do not admit him here.”</p> - -<p>“Of yourself?” said Madame Roche, removing her hand from her face, and -stretching out to him that tender white hand which was still as soft and -fair as if it had been young instead of old. “My child, I am not so -selfish as to forget you who have been so good to us. Tell me what it is -about yourself?”</p> - -<p>And as she smiled and bent towards him, Cosmo’s heart beat high, half -with hope half with shame, for he felt guilty when he remembered that -neither himself nor Desirée had confessed their secret betrothal to -Desirée’s mother. In spite of himself, he could not help feeling a -shadow of blame thrown upon Desirée, and the thought wounded him. He was -full of the unreasonable, romantic love of youth. He could not bear, by -the merest instinctive secret action of his mind, to acknowledge a -defect in her.</p> - -<p>“You say, ‘Marie loves him’—that is reason enough for a great sacrifice -from you,” cried Cosmo, growing out of breath with anxiety and -agitation; “and Desirée—and I,—what will you say to us? Oh, madame, -you are kind, you are very kind. Be more than my friend, and give -Desirée to me!”</p> - -<p>“Desirée!"—Madame Roche rose up, supporting herself by her -chair—“Desirée! but she knows she is destined otherwise—<i>you</i> -know—Desirée!” cried Madame Roche, clasping her pretty hands in -despair. “She is dedicated—she is under a vow—she has to do justice! -My friend Cosmo—my son—my young deliverer!—do not—do not ask this! -It breaks my heart to say no to you; but I can never, never give you -Desirée!”</p> - -<p>“Why?” said Cosmo, almost sternly. “You talk of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span> love—will you deny its -claim? Desirée does not say no. I ask you again, give her to me! My love -will never wound her nor break her heart. I do not want the half of your -estate, and neither does my brother! Give me Desirée—I can work for -her, and she would be content to share my fortune. She <i>is</i> content—I -have her own word for it. I demand it of you for true love’s sake, -madame—you, who speak of love! Give her to me!”</p> - -<p>“Alas!” cried Madame Roche, wringing her hands—“alas! my child! I speak -of love because Marie is his wife; but a young girl is different! She -must obey her destiny! You are young—you will forget it. A year hence, -you will smile when you think of your passion. No—my friend Cosmo, hear -me! No, no, you must not have Desirée—I will give you any thing else in -this world that you wish, if I can procure it, but Desirée is destined -otherwise. No, no, I can not change—you can not have Desirée!”</p> - -<p>And on this point the tender and soft Madame Roche was inexorable—no -intreaty, no remonstrance, no argument could move her! She stood her -ground with a gentle iteration which drove Cosmo wild. No, no, no; any -thing but Desirée. She was grieved for him—ready to take him into her -arms and weep over him—but perfectly impenetrable in her tender and -tearful obstinacy. And when, at last, Cosmo rushed from the house, half -mad with love, disappointment, and mortification, forgetting all about -Pierrot and everybody else save the Desirée who was never to be his, -Madame Roche sat down, wiping her eyes and full of grief, but without -the faintest idea of relinquishing the plans by which her daughter was -to compensate Huntley Livingstone for the loss of Melmar.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXIX" id="CHAPTER_LXIX"></a>CHAPTER LXIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Cosmo rushed forth from Melmar with his heart a-flame, and made his -way out through the trees to the unsheltered and dusty highway, the -sound of the Sabbath bells was just beginning to fall through the soft -summer air, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> bright with the sunshine of the morning. Somehow, the -sound seemed to recall him, in a moment, to the sober home life out of -which he had rushed into this feverish episode and crisis of his own -existence. His heart was angry, and sore, and wounded. To think of the -usual familiar routine of life disgusted him—his impulse was to fly out -of everybody’s reach, and separate himself from a world where everybody -was ready to sacrifice the happiness of others to the merest freak or -crochet of his own. But the far off tinkle of the Kirkbride bell, though -it was no wonder of harmony, dropped into Cosmo’s ear and heart like the -voice of an angel. Just then, his mother, proudly leaning upon Huntley’s -arm, was going up the bank of Tyne to thank God for her son’s return. -Just then, Desirée, who had left Melmar before him, was walking softly, -in her white summer robes, to the Sabbath service, little doubting to -see Cosmo there; and out of all the country round, the rural families, -in little groups, were coming up every path, all tending toward the same -place. Cosmo sprang impatiently over a stile, and made his way through a -corn field, where the rustling green corn on either side of the path, -just bursting from the blade, was almost as tall as himself. He did not -care to meet the church goers, who would not have been slow to remark -upon his heated and uneasy looks, or even upon the novel circumstance of -his being here instead of at “the kirk.” This same fact of itself -communicated an additional discomfort to Cosmo. He felt in his -conscience, which was young and tender, the unsabbatical and agitating -manner in which he had spent the Sabbath morning, and the bell seemed -ringing reproaches into his ear as he hastened through the rustling -corn. Perhaps not half a dozen times before in his life, save during the -time of his travels, had Cosmo voluntarily occupied the Sabbath morning -with uses of his own. He had dreamed through its sacred hours many a -time, for he was “in love”, and a poet; but his dreams had gone on to -the cadence of the new minister’s sermon, and taken a sweeter echo out -of the rural psalms and thanksgivings; and he felt as a Scottish youth -of religious training was like to feel under such circumstances—his -want of success and present unhappiness increased by the consciousness -that he was using the weekly rest for his own purposes, thinking his own -thoughts, doing his own business, and filling, with all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span> human -agitation of fears and hopes, selfish and individual, the holy quiet of -the Sabbath day.</p> - -<p>And when Cosmo reached Norlaw, which was solitary and quiet like a house -deserted, and when the little girl who helped Marget in the dairy rose -from her seat at the clean table in the kitchen, where, with her Bible -open before her, she was seeking out “proofs” for her “questions,” to -let him in, not without a wondering air of disapproval, the feeling grew -even stronger. He threw himself into his mother’s easy-chair, in the -dining-parlor, feeling the silence grow upon him like a fascination. -Even the Mistress’s work-basket was put out of the way, and there was no -open book here to be ruffled by the soft air from the open window. Upon -the table was the big Bible, the great jug full of red roses, and that -volume of <i>Hervey’s Meditations</i>, which the Mistress had certainly not -been reading—and the deep, unbroken Sabbath stillness brooded over him -as if it were something positive and actual, and not a mere absence of -sound. And as he thought of it, the French household at Melmar, with its -fancies, its agitations, its romantic plans and troubles of feeling, -looked more and more to Cosmo discordant and inharmonious with the time; -and he himself jarred like a chord out of tune upon this calm of the -house and the Sabbath; jarred strangely, possessed as he was by an -irritated and injured self-consciousness—that bitter sensation of wrong -and disappointment, which somehow seemed to separate Cosmo from every -thing innocent and peaceful in the world.</p> - -<p>For why was it always so—always a perennial conspiracy, some hard, -arbitrary will laying its bar upon the course of nature? Cosmo’s heart -was sore within him with something more than a vexed contemplation of -the anomaly, with an immediate, pursuing, hard mortification of his own. -He was bitterly impatient of Madame Roche in this new and strange phase -of her character, and strangely perplexed how to meet it. For Cosmo had -a poetic jealousy of the honor and spirit of his best beloved. He felt -that he could not bear it, if Desirée for his sake defied her mother—he -could not tolerate the idea that she was like to do so, yet longed, and -feared, and doubted, full of the most contradictory and unreasonable -feelings, and sure only of being grieved and displeased whatever might -happen. So he felt as he sat by himself, with his eyes vacantly fixed -upon the red roses and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> the big Bible, wondering, impatient, anxious -beyond measure, to know what Desirée would do.</p> - -<p>But that whole silent day passed over him unenlightened; he got through -the inevitable meals he could scarcely tell how—replied or did not -reply to his mother’s remarks, which he scarcely noticed were spoken -<i>at</i>, and not to him, wandered out in the afternoon to Tyneside and the -Kelpie, without finding any one there—and finally, with a pang of -almost unbearable rebellion, submitted to the night and sleep which he -could not avoid. To-morrow he had to return to Edinburgh, to go away, -leaving his brother in possession of the field—his brother, to whom -Madame Roche meant to <i>give</i> Desirée, in compensation for his lost -fortune. Cosmo had forgotten all about Katie Logan by this time; it was -not difficult, for he knew scarcely any thing; and with a young lover’s -natural pride and vanity, could not doubt that any man in the world -would be but too eager to contend with him for such a prize as Desirée -Roche.</p> - -<p>And to-morrow he had to go away!—to return to Mr. Todhunter’s office, -to read all the trashy stories, all the lamentable criticisms, all the -correspondence, making small things great, which belonged to the <i>Auld -Reekie Magazine</i>. Cosmo had not hitherto during his life been under much -compulsion of the <i>must</i>, and accordingly found it all the harder to -consent to it now. And he was growing very weary of his occupation -besides. He had got a stage beyond his youthful facility of rhyme, and -was, to say the truth, a little ashamed now of his verses, and of those -flowery prose papers, which the Mistress still read with delight. He -began to suspect that literature, after all, was not his vocation, and -at this moment would rather have carried a laborer’s hod; or followed -the plow, than gone to that merchandise of words which awaited him in -Edinburgh. So he rose, sullen and discontented, ready to quarrel with -any or every one who thwarted him, and feeling toward Huntley rather -more like an enemy than like a brother.</p> - -<p>And Cosmo had but just risen from the early breakfast table when a note -was put into his hand. Marget brought it to him, with rather an -ostentation of showing what she brought, and Cosmo had to read it under -the eyes of his mother and Huntley, neither of whom could help casting -many glances at the young man’s disturbed face. It was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> first letter -he had ever received from Desirée—no wonder that he hurried out when he -had glanced at it, and did not hear that the Mistress called him back; -for it was a very tantalizing, unsatisfactory communication. This is -what Desirée said:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“I knew it would be so. Why are you so restless, so impatient—why -do you not be calm and wait like me? Mamma has set her heart upon -what she says. She will not yield if you pray to her forever. She -loves me, she loves you; it would make her happy; but, alas, poor -mamma! She has set her thoughts upon the other, and will not -change. Why do you vex her, you, me, every one? Be silent, and all -will be well.</p> - -<p>“For I am not in haste, Monsieur Cosmo, if you are. I am able to -wait—me! I know you went away in great anger, and did not come to -church, and were cross all day, and your mother will think I am to -blame. But if you <i>will</i> be impatient, am I to blame? I tell you to -wait, as I shall, to be good and silent, and see what will happen; -but you do not regard me.</p> - -<p>“Farewell, then, for a week. I write to you because I can not help -it this time, but I will not write again. Be content, then, -restless boy; <i>au revoir</i>!</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Desirée.</span>”<br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>Cosmo turned it round and round, and over and over, but nothing more was -to be made of it. Desirée had not contemplated the serious discontent of -her lover. She thought he would understand and be satisfied with her -playful letter, and required nothing more serious. Perhaps, had she -thought he required something more serious, the capricious little -Frenchwoman would have closed her heart and refused it. But, however -that may be, it is certain that Cosmo was by no means so much pleased as -he expected to be when he saw the note first, and prepared himself to -leave home with feelings scarcely at all ameliorated, shaking hands -abruptly with Huntley, and having a very cold parting with his mother. -He carried a discontented heart away with him, and left discontent and -vexation behind, and so trudged into Kirkbride, and drove away to -Edinburgh on the top of the coach, troubled with the people behind and -the things before him, and in the most unamiable humor in the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXX" id="CHAPTER_LXX"></a>CHAPTER LXX.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Well</span>, Huntley, and what’s your opinion of our grand new neighbors?” -said the Mistress. They were returning together on that same Monday from -a formal call at Melmar; perhaps the first time on which the Mistress’s -visit to Madame Roche had been made with any pleasure. Mrs. Livingstone -came proudly through the Melmar grounds, leaning upon Huntley’s arm. She -had gone to exhibit her son; half consciously to exult over her richer -neighbor, who had no sons, and to see with her own eyes how Huntley was -pleased with his new friends.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Huntley, warmly, “that it is no wonder people raved -about Mary of Melmar. She is beautiful now.”</p> - -<p>“So she is,” said the Mistress, rather shortly. “I canna say I am ony -great judge mysel’. She’s taen good care of her looks—oh ay, I dinna -doubt she is.”</p> - -<p>“But her daughters don’t seem to inherit it,” added Huntley.</p> - -<p>“Ay, lad—would ye say no’?—no’ the little one?” said the Mistress, -looking up jealously in his face. She was the very reverse of a -matchmaker, but perhaps it is true that women instinctively occupy -themselves with this interesting subject. The Mistress had not forgotten -Katie Logan, but in the depths of her heart she thought it just possible -that Huntley might cast a favorable eye upon Desirée.</p> - -<p>“No, not the little one,” said Huntley, laughing; “though I like her -best of the two; and was it that invalid whom you supposed the wife of -Pierrot? Impossible!—any thing so fragile and delicate would never have -married such a fellow.”</p> - -<p>“She’s delicate, no doubt,” said the Mistress, “but to be weakly in body -is no’ to be tender in the mind. Eh, what’s that among the trees?—black -and ill favored, and a muckle cloak about him—it’s just the villain’s -sel’!”</p> - -<p>“Hush, he sees us,” said Huntley; “let us meet him and hear if he is -going to Melmar. It seems unbelievable that so gentle an invalid should -be his wife.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress only said “Humph!” She was sorry for Marie, but not very -favorable to her—though at sight of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> Frenchman all her sympathies -were immediately enlisted on behalf of his devoted wife. Pierrot would -have avoided them if he could, but as that was impossible, he came -forward with a swaggering air, throwing his cloak loose, and exhibiting -a morning toilette worthy of an ambitious tailor or a gentleman’s -gentleman. He took off his hat with elaborate politeness, and made the -Mistress a very fine bow, finer than any thing which she had seen in -these parts for many a day.</p> - -<p>“Let me trust you found Madame Pierrot, my charming wife, well and -visible,” said the adventurer, with a second ironical obeisance, “and my -gracious lady, her mamma, and pretty Desirée? I go to make myself known -to them, and receive their embraces. I am excited, overjoyed—can you -wonder? I have not seen my wife for ten years.”</p> - -<p>“And might have suffered that trial still, if it had not been for the -siller,” said the Mistress; “eh, man, to think of a woman in her senses -taking up with the like of you!”</p> - -<p>Fortunately the Mistress’s idiomatic expressions, which might not have -been over agreeable had they been understood, were not quite -comprehensible to Monsieur Pierrot. He only knew that they meant -offense, and smiled and showed his white teeth in admiration of the -malice which he only guessed at.</p> - -<p>“I go to my castle, my chateau, my fortune,” he said; “where I shall -have pleasure in repaying your hospitality. I shall be a good host. I -shall make myself popular. Pierrot of Melmar will be known -everywhere—it is not often that your dull coteries are refreshed by the -coming of a gentleman from my country. But I am too impatient to linger -longer than politeness demands. I have the honor to bid you very good -morning. I go to my Marie.”</p> - -<p>Saying which, he swaggered past with his cloak hanging over his -shoulders—a romantic piece of drapery which was more picturesque than -comfortable on this summer day. The Mistress paused to look after him, -clasping with rather an urgent pressure her son’s arm, and with an -impulse of impatient pity moving her heart.</p> - -<p>“I could never bear a stranger nigh in <i>my</i> troubles,” she cried, at -last, “but yon woman’s no’ like me. She’s used to lean upon other folk. -What can she do, with that poor failing creature at one side of her and -this villain at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span> other? Huntley, my man! she’s nae friend of mine, -but she’s a lone woman, and you’re her kinsman. Go back and give her -your countenance to send the vagabone away!”</p> - -<p>“Mother, I am a stranger,” cried Huntley, with surprise and -embarrassment; “what could I do for her? how could I venture indeed to -intrude myself into their private affairs? Cosmo might have done it who -knows them well, but I—I can not see a chance of serving them, perhaps -quite the reverse. If you are right, this man belongs to the family, and -blood is thicker than water. No, no; of course I will do what you wish, -if you wish it; but I do not think it is an office for me.”</p> - -<p>And the Mistress, whose heart had been moved with compassion for the -other widow who had no son, and who had suggested voluntarily that -Huntley should help her, could not help feeling pleased nor being -ashamed of her pleasure, when he declined the office. He, at least, was -not “carried away” by the fascinations of Mary of Melmar. She took a -secret pleasure in his disobedience. It soothed the feelings which -Cosmo’s divided love had aggrieved.</p> - -<p>“Weel, maybe it’s wisest; they ken best themselves how their ain hearts -are moved—and a strange person’s a great hindrance in trouble. <i>I</i> -couldna thole it mysel’,” said the Mistress; “I canna help them, it’s -plain enough—so we’ll do little good thinking upon it. But, Huntley, my -man, what’s your first beginning to be, now that you are hame?”</p> - -<p>At this question, Huntley looked his mother full in the face, with a -startled, anxious glance, and grew crimson, but said not a word; to -which the Mistress replied by a look, also somewhat startled, and almost -for the moment resentful. She did not save him from his embarrassment by -introducing then the subject nearest to his heart. She knew, and could -not doubt what it was, but she kept silent, watching him keenly, and -waiting for his first words. Madame Roche would have thrown herself into -his arms and wept with an effusion of tenderness and sympathy, but this -was the Mistress, who was long out of practice of love-matters, and who -felt her sons more deeply dear to her own heart than ever lover was in -the world. So it was with a little faltering that Huntley spoke.</p> - -<p>“It is seven years since I went away, and she was only a girl then—only -a girl, though like a mother. I wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> what change they have made upon -Katie Logan, these seven years?”</p> - -<p>“She’s a good lassie,” said the Mistress; “eh, Huntley, I’m ower -proud!—I think naebody like my sons; but she’s a very good lassie. I -havena a word to say against her, no’ me! I canna take strangers easy -into my heart, but Katie Logan’s above blame. You ken best yoursel’ what -you’ve said to one another, her and you—but I canna blame ye thinking -upon her—na,” said the Mistress, clearing her throat, “I am thankful to -the Almighty for putting such a good bairn into your thoughts. I’m a -hard woman in my ain heart, Huntley. I’ll just say it out once for a’. -You’ve a’ been so precious to me, that at the first dinnle I canna bide -to think that nane of you soon will belong to your mother. That’s -a’—for you see I never had a daughter of my ain.”</p> - -<p>The Mistress ended this speech, which was a long speech for her, with -great abruptness, and put up her hand hurriedly to wipe something from -her eye. She could be angry with Cosmo, who confided nothing to her, but -her loving, impatient heart could not stand against the frankness of his -brother. She made her confession hurriedly, and with a certain obstinate -determination—hastily wiped the unwilling tear out of the corner of her -eye, and the next moment lifted her head with all her inalienable -spirit, ready, if the smallest advantage was taken of her confession, to -gird on her armor on the moment, and resist all concessions to the -death.</p> - -<p>But Huntley was wise. “We have said nothing to each other,” he answered -quickly, “but I would fain see Katie first of all.”</p> - -<p>This was about the sum of the whole matter—neither mother nor son cared -to add much to this simple understanding. Katie had been absent from -Kirkbride between four and five years, and during all that time the -Mistress had only seen her once, and not a syllable of correspondence -had passed between her and Huntley. It might be that she had long ago -forgotten Huntley; it might be that Katie never cared for him, save with -that calm regard of friendship which Huntley did not desire from her. It -was true that the Mistress remembered Katie’s eyes and Katie’s face on -that night, long ago, when a certain subtle consciousness of the one -love which was in the hearts of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> both, gave the minister’s daughter a -sudden entrance into the regard of Huntley’s mother. But the Mistress -did not tell Huntley of that night. “It’s no for me to do,” said the -Mistress to herself, when she had reached home, with a momentary quiver -of her proud lip. “Na, if she minds upon my Huntley still—and wha could -forget him?—I’ve nae right to take the words out of Katie’s mouth; and -he’ll be all the happier, my puir laddie, to hear it from hersel’.”</p> - -<p>It was a magnanimous thought; and somehow this self-denial and -abnegation—this reluctant willingness to relinquish now at last that -first place in her son’s heart, which had been so precious to the -Mistress, shed an insensible brightness that day over Norlaw. One could -not have told whence it came; yet it brightened over the house, a secret -sunshine, and Huntley and his mother were closer friends than, perhaps, -they had ever been before. If Cosmo could but have found this secret -out!</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXXI" id="CHAPTER_LXXI"></a>CHAPTER LXXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the meantime, Cosmo, angry with himself and everybody else, went into -Edinburgh to his weekly labor. It was such lovely summer weather, that -even Edinburgh, being a town, was less agreeable than it is easy to -suppose that fairest of cities; for though the green hill heights were -always there to refresh everybody’s eyes, clouds of dust blew up and -down the hilly streets of the new town, which had even still less -acquaintance then than now with the benevolent sprinkling of the -water-carts. If one could choose the easiest season for one’s troubles, -one would not choose June, when all the world is gay, and when Nature -looks most pitiless to sad hearts. Sad hearts! Let every one who reads -forgive a natural selfishness—it is the writer of this story, who has -nothing to do with its events, who yet can not choose but make her -sorrowful outcry against the sunshine, sweet sunshine, smiling out of -the heart of heaven! which makes the soul of the sorrowful sick within -them. It is not the young hero in the agitation of his young -troubles—warm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span> discontents and contests of life—the struggles of the -morning. Yet Cosmo was vexed and aggravated by the light, and heat, and -brightness of the fair listless day, which did not seem made for working -in. He could not take his seat at Mr. Todhunter’s writing-table, laden -with scraps of cut-up newspapers, with bundles of “copy,” black from the -fingers of the printers, and heaps of proof sheets. He could not sit -down to read through silly romances, or prune the injudicious exuberance -of young contributors. Unfortunately, the contributors to the <i>Auld -Reekie Magazine</i> were almost all young; it had not turned out such an -astounding “start” as the <i>Edinburgh Review</i>; it had fallen into the -hands of young men at college, who, indisputably, in that period of -their development, however great they may become eventually, are not apt -to distinguish themselves in literature; and Cosmo, who had just -outgrown the happy complacence of that period, was proportionately -intolerant of its mistakes and arrogances, and complained (within -himself) of his uncongenial vocation and unfortunate fate. He was not -fit to be editor of the <i>Auld Reekie</i>. He was not able for the labor -dire and weary woe of revising the papers which were printed, and -glancing over those which were not—in short, he was totally -dissatisfied with himself, his position and his prospects, very -probably, but for his love-dream, Cosmo would have launched himself upon -the bigger sea in London, another forlorn journeyman of literature, half -conscious that literature was not the profession to which he was born; -but the thought of Desirée held him back like a chain of gold. He could -see her every week while he remained here, and beyond that office of Mr. -Todhunter’s in which perseverance and assiduity, and those other sober -virtues which are not too interesting generally to young men, might some -time make him a partner, Cosmo could not for his life have told any one -what he would do.</p> - -<p>After he had endured his work as long as he could in this quiet little -den, which Mr. Todhunter shared with him, and where that gentleman was -busy, as usual, with paste and scissors, Cosmo at last tossed an -unreadable story into the waste-paper basket, and starting up, got his -hat. His companion only glanced up at him with an indignant reproof.</p> - -<p>“What! tired? Are they so <i>awful</i> bad?” said Mr. Todhunter; but this -model of a bookseller said no more when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span> his young deputy sallied out -with a nod and a shrug of his shoulders. The proprietor of the <i>Auld -Reekie Magazine</i> was one of those rare and delightful persons—Heaven -bless their simple souls!—who have an inalienable reverence for -“genius,” and believe in its moods and vagaries with the devoutness of a -saint.</p> - -<p>“Of course I would exact common hours from a common young man,” said Mr. -Todhunter, “but a lad of genius is another matter. When he’s in the -vein, he’ll get through with his work like a giant. I’ve seen him write -four papers with his own hand after the twenty-third of the month, and -the magazine as sharp to its time, notwithstanding, as if he had been a -year preparing. He’s not a common lad, my sub-editor;"—and Cosmo quite -took credit with his employer on the score of his fits of varying energy -and his irregular hours.</p> - -<p>Cosmo, however, sauntered away through the bright and busy streets -without giving himself so much credit. The young man was thoroughly -uncomfortable, self-displeased, and aggravated. He knew well enough that -it was not the impatience of genius, but only a restless and disturbed -mind, which made his work intolerable on that long summer afternoon. He -was thinking of Desirée, who would not bear thinking of, and whom he -supposed himself to have bitterly and proudly relinquished—of Madame -Roche, with her ridiculous fancy in respect to Huntley—and of Huntley -himself, who it was just possible might accept it, and take Desirée’s -reluctant hand. It seemed to Cosmo the strangest, miserable perversion -of everybody’s happiness; and he could not help concluding upon all this -wrong and foolishness coming to pass, with all the misanthropical -certainty of disappointed youth. Cosmo even remembered to think of Katie -Logan, by way of exaggerating his own discontent—Katie, who quite -possibly had been faithful to Huntley’s memory all these seven long -years.</p> - -<p>He was thus pondering on, with quick impatient step, when he caught a -glimpse of some one at a distance whose appearance roused him. The -figure disappeared down the Canongate, which Cosmo was crossing, and the -young man hastened to follow, though this famous old street is by no -means a savory promenade on a hot summer afternoon. He pushed down, -notwithstanding, along the dusty burning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span> pavement, amid evil smells and -evil sounds, and passengers not the most agreeable. Women on the outside -stairs, with dirty babies in their arms, loud in gossip, and unlovely in -apparel—ragged groups at the high windows, where noble ladies once -looked out upon the noble highway, but where now some poor housemother’s -washing, thrust out upon a stick, dallied with the smoky air, and was -dried and soiled at the same moment—hopeless, ill-favored lads and -girls, the saddest feature of all, throwing coarse jokes at each other, -and, indeed, all the usual symptoms of the most degraded class of town -population, which is much alike everywhere. Cosmo threaded his way among -them with disgust, remembering how he had once done so before with -Cameron, whom he was now pursuing, and at a time when his own -anticipations, as well as his friend’s, pointed to the sacred profession -in which the Highlandman now toiled. That day, and that conversation, -rose vividly before Cosmo. It sickened his sensitive heart to realize -the work in which Cameron was employed; but when his mind returned to -himself, who had no profession, and to whose eyes no steady aim or -purpose presented itself anywhere, Cosmo felt no pleasure in the -contrast. This was not the sphere in which a romantic imagination could -follow the footsteps of the evangelist. Yet, what an overpowering -difference between those steps and the wanderings of this disturbed -trifler with his own fortune and youth.</p> - -<p>But Cameron still did not reappear. Somewhat reluctantly Cosmo entered -after him at the narrow door, with some forgotten noble’s sculptured -shield upon its keystone, and went up the stair where his friend had -gone. It was a winding stair, dark, close, and dirty, but lighted in the -middle of each flight by a rounded window, through which—an -extraordinary contrast—the blue sky, the June sunshine, and a far-off -glimpse of hills and sea, glanced in upon the passenger with a splendor -only heightened by the dark and narrow frame through which the picture -shone. Cosmo paused by one of these windows with an involuntary -fascination. Just above him, on the dusky landing, were two doors of -rooms, tenanted each by poverty and labor, and many children, miserable -versions of home, in which the imagination could take no pleasure. In -his fastidious distaste for the painful and unlovely realities, the -young man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span> paused by the window;—all the wealth of nature glowing in -that golden sunshine—how strange that <i>it</i> should make its willing -entrance here!</p> - -<p>He was arrested by a voice he knew—subdued, but not soft by nature, and -sounding audibly enough down the stairs.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> don’t know if he can do them harm—very likely no’—I only tell you -I heard somebody speak of him, and that he was going to Melmar. Perhaps -you don’t care about the family at Melmar? I am sure, neither do I; but, -if you like, you can tell Cosmo Livingstone. It’s nothing to me!”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell him,” said Cameron. “Who was the man? Do you know?”</p> - -<p>“He was French; and I’m sure a vagabond—I am sure a vagabond!” cried -the other. “I don’t know if <i>you</i> can mind me, but Cosmo will—I’m -Joanna Huntley. I care for none of them but Desirée. Her mother and her -sister may take care of themselves. But we were great friends, and I -like her; though I need not like her unless I please,” added Joanna, -angrily; “it’s no’ for her sake, but because I canna help it. -There—just tell Cosmo Livingstone! Perhaps it’s nothing, but he might -as well know.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell him,” said Cameron, once more.</p> - -<p>Then there came a sound of a step upon the stair—not a light step, but -a prompt and active one—and Joanna herself, grown very tall, tolerably -trim, rather shabby, and with hair of undiminished redness, came rapidly -down the narrow side of the spiral stair, with her hand upon its rib of -stone. She started and stopped when she had reached almost as far as -Cosmo’s window—made as though she would pass him for the first moment, -but finally drew up with considerable hauteur, a step or two above him. -Joanna could not help a little offense at her father’s conqueror, though -she applauded him in her heart.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been in London,” said Joanna, abruptly, entering upon her -statement without any preface. “I saw a man there who was inquiring -about Melmar—at least about the eldest daughter, for he did not know -the house—and Oswald directed him every step of the way. I’ll no’ say -he was right and I’ll no’ say he was wrong, but I tell <i>you</i>; the man -was a rascal, that’s all I know about him—and you can do what you like -now.”</p> - -<p>“But stop, Miss Huntley; did you seek Cameron out to tell him?” said -Cosmo, with gratitude and kindness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span></p> - -<p>“I <i>am</i> Miss Huntley now,” said Joanna, with an odd smile. “Patricia’s -married to an officer, and away, and Oswald’s in London. My brother has -great friends there. Did I seek Mr. Cameron out? No. I was here on my -own business, and met him. I might have sought you out, but not him, -that scarcely knows them. But it was not worth while seeking you out -either,” added Joanna, with a slight toss of her head. “Very likely the -man is a friend of theirs—they were but small people, I suppose, before -they came to Melmar. Very likely they’ll be glad to see him. But Oswald -was so particular telling him where they were, and the man had such an -ill look,” added Joanna, slowly, after a pause, “that I can not think -but that he wanted to do them an ill turn.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you for warning them. He had come yesterday, and I fear he will -do Marie a very ill turn,” said Cosmo; “but nobody has any right to -interfere—he is a—a relation. But may I tell Desirée—I mean Miss -Roche—any thing of yourself? I know she often speaks, and still oftener -thinks, of you.”</p> - -<p>“She has nothing to do with us that I know of,” said Joanna, sharply; -“good day to you; that was all I had to say,” and she rushed past him, -passing perilously down the narrow edge of the stair. But when she had -descended a few steps, Joanna’s honest heart smote her. She turned back, -looking up to him with eyes which looked so straightforward and sincere, -in spite of their irascible sparkle, that Joanna’s plain face became -almost pretty under their light. “I am sure I need not quarrel with -you,” she said with a little burst of her natural frankness, “nor with -Desirée either. It was not her fault—but I was very fond of Desirée. -Tell her I teach in a school now, and am very happy—they even say I’m -clever,” continued the girl, with a laugh, “which I never was at Melmar; -and mamma is stronger, and we’re all as well as we can be. You need not -laugh, Cosmo Livingstone, it’s true!” cried Joanna, with sudden -vehemence, growing offended once more; “papa may have done wrong whiles, -but he’s very good to us; and no one shall dare throw a stone at him -while I’m living. You can tell Desirée.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell Desirée you were very fond of her—she will like that -best,” said Cosmo.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span></p> - -<p>Whereupon the vail, which had been hanging about her bonnet, suddenly -dropped over Joanna’s face; it is to be supposed from the suppressed and -momentary sound that followed, that, partly in anger, partly in sorrow, -partly in old friendship and tenderness, she broke down for the instant, -and cried—but all that could clearly be known was, that she put out her -hand most unexpectedly, shook Cosmo’s hand, and immediately started down -the stair with great haste and agitation. Cosmo could not try to detain -or follow her; he knew very well that no such proceeding would have -found favor in the eyes of Joanna; and Cameron at that moment came in -sight from the upper floor.</p> - -<p>Cosmo never could tell by what sudden impulse it was that he begged his -old friend to return with him to his lodgings and dine; he had no -previous intention of doing so—but the idea seized him so strongly, -that he urged, and almost forced the half reluctant Highlandman into -compliance. Perhaps the listless loveliness of the day affected Cameron, -in a less degree, somewhat as it affected his more imaginative -companion—for, at length, after consulting his note-book, he put his -strong arm within Cosmo’s, and went with him. Cameron, like everybody -else, had changed in these five years. He was now what is called a -licentiate in the Church of Scotland—authorized to preach, but not to -administer the sacraments, an office corresponding somewhat with the -deacon’s orders of the English Church. And like other people, too, -Cameron had not got his ideal fortune. The poor student had no -patronage, and the Gaelic-speaking parish among his own hills, to which -his fancy had once aspired, was still as distant as ever from the humble -evangelist. Perhaps Cameron did not even wish it now—perhaps he had -never forgotten that hard lesson which he learned in St. Ouen—perhaps -had never so entirely recovered that throwing away of his heart, as to -be able to content himself among the solitudes of the hills. But, at -least, he had not reached to this desired end—and was now working hard -among the wynds and closes of old Edinburgh, preaching in a public room -in that sad quarter, and doing all that Christian man could do to awaken -its inhabitants to a better life.</p> - -<p>“It is good, right, best! I confess it!” cried Cosmo, in a sudden -<i>accés</i> of natural feeling, “but how can you do it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> Cameron?—how is it -possible to visit, to interest, to woo, such miserable groups as these? -Look at them!” exclaimed the young man. “Mean, coarse, brutal, degraded, -luxuriating in their own wretchedness, knowing nothing better—unable to -comprehend a single refined idea, a single great thought. Love your -neighbor—love <i>them</i>?—is it in the power of man?”</p> - -<p>Cameron looked round upon them, too; though with a different glance.</p> - -<p>“Cosmo,” said the Highlandman, with that deep voice of his, to which -additional years and personal experience had given a sweeter tone than -of old, “do you forget that you once before asked me that same question? -Love is ill to bind, and hard to draw. I love few in this world, and -will to the end; but first among them is One whose love kens no caprice -like to ours. I tell you again, laddie, what I tell them forever. Can -<i>I</i> comprehend it?—it’s just the mystery of mysteries—<i>He</i> loves them -all. I have room in my goodwill, if not in my heart, for them that <i>you</i> -love, Cosmo; and what should I have for them that He loved, and loved to -the death? That is the secret. My boy, I would rather than gear and -lands that you found it out for yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I can understand it, at least,” said Cosmo, grasping his friend’s hand; -“but I blush for myself when I look at your work and at mine. They are -different, Cameron.”</p> - -<p>“A lad may leave the plow in mid-furrow for a flower on the brae or a -fish in the water,” said Cameron, with a smile; “but a man returns to -the work he’s put his hand to. Come back, my boy, to your first -beginning—there’s time.”</p> - -<p>And Cosmo was almost persuaded, as they went on discussing and -remonstrating to the young man’s lodging, where other thoughts and other -purposes were waiting for them both.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXXII" id="CHAPTER_LXXII"></a>CHAPTER LXXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">For</span> on Cosmo’s table lay a letter, newly arrived, and marked -<i>immediate</i>. Cosmo felt himself forewarned by the sudden tremor which -moved him, as he sprang forward to take it up, that it was from Madame -Roche. Perhaps some strange instinct suggested the same to Cameron, for -he withdrew immediately from his friend’s side, and went away to Cosmo’s -book-shelf in the corner without a word. Then, perhaps, for the first -time, any unconcerned spectator looking on might have perceived that -Cameron looked weary, and that, besides the dust upon his boots and -black coat, the lines in his face were deeper drawn than his years and -strength warranted, and told of a forlorn fatigue somewhere which no one -tried to comfort. But he did not say any thing—he only stood quietly -before the book-shelf, looking over Cosmo’s books.</p> - -<p>Cosmo, on the contrary, his face flushed with excitement and -expectation, and his heart beating high, opened the letter. As he ran -over it, in his haste and anxiety, the flush faded from his face. Then -he read it seriously a second time—then he looked at his friend.</p> - -<p>“Cameron!” said Cosmo.</p> - -<p>But it seemed that Cameron did not hear him till he was called a second -time, when he looked round slowly; and, seeing Cosmo holding towards him -the letter which he had just read so eagerly, looked at it with a -strange confusion, anxiety, and embarrassment, half-lifting his hand to -take it, and saying “Eh?” with a surprised and reluctant inquiry.</p> - -<p>“It concerns you as well as me. Look at it, Cameron,” said the young -man.</p> - -<p>It was from Madame Roche; and this is what Cameron read:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Cosmo—my son, my friend! come back and help us! Pierrot—he of -whom you warned us—has come; and I, in my folly—in my madness, -could not deny to Marie to see him. You will ask me why? Alas! he -is her husband, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span> she loves him! I thought, in my blindness, it -might make her well; but we have known her illness so long, we have -forgotten how great it is; and the shock has killed her—ah, me! -unhappy mother!—has stricken my child! She was very joyful, the -poor soul!—she was too happy!—and he who is so little deserving -of it! But it has been more than she could bear, and she is dying! -Come!—sustain us, comfort us, Cosmo, my friend! We are but women -alone, and we have no one who will be so tender to us as you! It -was but Monday when he came, and already she is dying!</p> - -<p>“I have another thing to say. My poor Marie spoke to me this -morning. I could not tell my child how ill, how very ill she -was—I, her mother! but she has learned from our sad looks, or, -perhaps, alas, from the wretch, Pierrot, that she is in danger. She -spoke to me this morning. She said, ‘Mamma, will no one speak to me -of heaven? Alas, I know not heaven. How shall I know the way? Send -for the Englishman—the Scottishman—the traveler who came with -Cosmo to our old house. I remember how he spoke—he spoke of God as -one might who loved Him. None but he ever spoke so to me. Send -mother—if he loves God he will come.’ Alas, my friend! could I say -to her on her sick bed, ‘My child, this good Monsieur Cameron loved -<i>you</i>. I can not break his heart over again, and ask him to come.’ -No! I could not say it. I can but write to you, Cosmo. Speak to -this good Cameron—this man who loves God. Ah, my friend, can you -not think how I feel now that I am ignorant, that I am a -sinner—that I, who am her mother, have never taught my Marie? Tell -it to your friend—tell him what she has said—she knows not, my -poor child, what thoughts might once have been in his heart. Let -him come, for the love of God.”</p></div> - -<p>Cosmo scarcely ventured to look at his friend while he read this letter; -and as for Cameron himself, he raised it in his hands so as to shade his -face, and held it so with strong yet trembling fingers, that nobody -might see the storm of passionate emotions there. Never before in his -life, save once, had the vehement and fiery nature of the Highlandman -been subject to so violent a trial, and even that once was not like -this. A great sob rose in his throat—his whole passionate heart, which -had been strained then in desperate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span> self-preservation, melted now in a -flood of sudden grief and tenderness, ineffable and beyond description. -Marie, upon whom he had wasted his heart and love—Marie, whose weakness -had filled him with a man’s impulse of protection, sustenance, and -comfort—Marie! Now at last should it be his, in solemnwise, to carry -out that love-dream—to bring her in his arms to the feet of the Lord -whom he loved—to show the fainting spirit where to find those wings of -a dove, by which she might fly away and be at rest. Great over-brimming -tears, big as an ocean of lighter drops, made his eyes blind, but did -not fall. He sat gazing at the conclusion of the letter long after he -had read it, not reading it over again like Cosmo—once had been enough -to fix the words beyond possibility of forgetting upon Cameron’s -heart—but only looking at it with his full eyes, seeing the name, “Mary -Roche de St. Martin,” glimmering and trembling on the page, now -partially visible, now altogether lost. When Cosmo ventured at last to -glance at his friend, he was still sitting in the same position, leaning -both his elbows upon the table, and holding up the letter in his hands -to screen his face. Cosmo was aware of something strangely touching in -the forced, strained, spasmodic attitude, but he could not see the big -silent sob that heaved in his friend’s strong heart, nor the tears that -almost brimmed over but did not fall out of Cameron’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Presently the Highlandman folded up the letter with care and -elaboration, seemed to hesitate a moment whether he would keep it, and -finally gave it over with some abruptness to Cosmo. “Relics are not for -me,” he said, hastily. “Now, when you are ready, let us go.”</p> - -<p>“Go?—to Melmar!” said Cosmo, faltering a little.</p> - -<p>“Where else?” asked Cameron, sternly—“is that a summons to say no to? -<i>I</i> am going without delay. We can get there to-night.”</p> - -<p>“The coach will not leave for an hour—take some refreshment first,” -said Cosmo; “you have been at work all day—you will be faint before we -get there.”</p> - -<p>Cameron turned towards him with a strange smile:—</p> - -<p>“I will not faint before we get there,” he said slowly, and then rose up -and lifted his hat. “You can meet me at the coach, Cosmo, in an hour—I -shall be quite ready; but in the first place I must go home; make haste, -my boy; <i>I</i> will go, whether you are there or not.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span></p> - -<p>Cosmo gazed after him with something like awe; it was rather beyond -romance, this strange errand—and Cameron, in spite of the fervid -Highland heart within him did not look a very fit subject for romance; -but somehow Cosmo could not think what personal hopes of his own might -be involved in this relenting of Madame Roche—could not think even of -Desirée, whose name was not once mentioned in the letter, could think of -nothing but Cameron, called of all men in the world to <i>that</i> bedside to -tell the dying Marie where to find her Lord.</p> - -<p>They left Edinburgh accordingly within the hour. Cameron had entirely -recovered his usual composure, but scarcely spoke during the whole -journey, in which time Cosmo had leisure to return to his own fortune, -with all its perplexities. Even Marie’s illness was not likely to form -reason enough in the eyes of the Mistress for his abrupt and unexpected -return, and he could hardly himself see what good his presence could do -Madame Roche, with dangerous illness, perhaps death, and a disagreeable -son-in-law in her house. Take him at his worst, Pierrot, who was Marie’s -husband, had a more natural place there than Cosmo, who was only -Desirée’s lover—a lover rejected by Madame Roche; and Desirée herself -had not intimated by word or sign any desire for his presence. The whole -aspect of things did not conduce to make Cosmo comfortable. It seemed -almost a necessity to go to Melmar, instantly, instead of going to -Norlaw; but what would the Mistress think of so strange a proceeding? -And Huntley and Patie now, it was to be presumed, were both at home. -What a strange, disturbing influence had come among the brothers! Cosmo -began to contemplate his own position with a certain despair; he knew -well enough by this time the unreasoning sentiment of Madame Roche; he -knew very well that though she relieved herself in her trouble by -writing to him, and made a solemn appeal for his services, that it by no -means followed when this emergency was past, that she would confirm his -sonship by giving him her daughter, or relinquish her past idea for the -sake of the hopes she might have excited; and in the second place Cosmo -could not tell for his life what use he was likely to be to Madame -Roche, or how he could sustain her in her trouble—while the idea of -being so near home without going there, and without the knowledge of his -mother, aggravated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span> all his other difficulties. He went on, however, -with resignation, got down with the calmness of despair and bewilderment -at Kirkbride, walked silently towards Melmar, guiding Cameron along the -silent leafy ways, and yielding himself, whatever that might be, to his -fate.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXXIII" id="CHAPTER_LXXIII"></a>CHAPTER LXXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> there stood the house of Melmar, resting among its trees, in the -soft sweet darkness of the June night.</p> - -<p>Perhaps Cameron’s heart failed him as he came so near—at least Cosmo -reached the house first. The foliage was so thick around that the -darkness seemed double in this circle round the house. You could only -see the colorless, dark woods, stretching back into the night, and the -gleam of blue sky over head, and the lighted windows in the house -itself—lights which suggested no happy household meeting, but were -astray among different windows in the upper story, telling their own -silent tale of illness and anxiety. Cosmo, standing before the door -which he knew so well, could only tell that Tyne was near by the low, -sweet tinkle of the water among the sighing leaves, and was aware of all -the summer flush of roses covering that side of the house by nothing -save the fragrance. He stood there gazing up for a moment at one light -which moved about from window to window with a strange restlessness, and -at another which burned steadily in Marie’s bed-chamber. He knew it to -be Marie’s chamber by instinct. A watch-light, a death-light, a low, -motionless flame, so sadly different from the wavering and brightening -of that other, which some anxious watcher carried about. Cosmo’s heart -grew sad within him as he thought of this great solemn death which was -coming on Marie. Poor Marie, with her invalid irritability, her little -feverish weakness, her ill-bestowed love! To think that one so tender -and wayward, from whom even reason and sober thought were not to be -expected, should, notwithstanding, go forth alone like every other soul -to stand by herself before her God, and that love and pity could no -longer help her, let them strain and struggle as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span> would! The -thought made Cosmo’s heart ache, he could not tell why.</p> - -<p>Madame Roche met them at the door. She was not violently affected as -Cosmo feared—she only kept wiping from her eyes the tears which -perpetually returned to fill them, as he had seen his own mother do in -her trouble—and perhaps it is the common weeping of age which has no -longer hasty floods of youthful tears to spend upon any thing. She gave -a cry of joy when she saw Cameron.</p> - -<p>“Ah, my friend, it is kind—God will reward you!” said Madame Roche, -“and you must come to her—there is little time—my child is dying.”</p> - -<p>Cameron did not answer a word—he only threw down his hat and followed -her, restraining his step with a painful start when he heard it ring -against the pavement. Cosmo followed, not knowing what else to do, to -the door of the sick room. He did not enter, but as the door opened he -saw who and what was there. And strange to her son sounded the voice -which came out of that sad apartment—the voice of the Mistress reading -with her strong Scottish accent and old fashioned intonation, so -different from the silvery lady’s voice of Madame Roche, and the sweet -tones of Desirée. Spread out before her was the big Bible, the family -book of old Huntley of Melmar, and she was seated close by the bedside -of the sufferer, who lay pallid and wasted, with her thin hands crossed -upon the coverlet, and her whole soul in an agony of <i>listening</i> not to -be described. Close by the Mistress, Desirée was kneeling watching her -sister. This scene, which he saw only in a momentary glance before the -door was closed, overpowered Cosmo. He threw himself down upon a -window-seat in the long corridor which led to this room, and covered his -face with his hands. The sudden and unexpected appearance of his mother -brought the young man’s excitement to a climax. How unjust, unkind, -ungenerous now seemed his own fears!</p> - -<p>Madame Roche was one of those women who fear to meet any great emergency -alone. In the first shock of dismay with which she heard that Marie’s -life was fast hastening to its end, she wrote to Cosmo; and before it -was time for Cosmo to arrive—while indeed it was impossible that he -could even have received her letter—the poor mother, with an instinct -of her dependent nature, which she was not aware<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span> of and could not -subdue, hastened to send for the Mistress to help her to bear that -intolerable agony in which flesh and heart faint and fail—the anguish -of beholding the dying of her child. The Mistress, who under similar -circumstances would have closed her doors against all the world, came, -gravely and soberly to the call of this undeniable sorrow. In face of -that all the bitterness died out of her honest heart. Madame Roche had -already lost many children. “And I have all mine—God forgive me—I ken -nothing of <i>that</i> grief,” cried Mrs. Livingstone, with a sob of mingled -thankfulness and terror. It was not her vocation to minister at -sick-beds, or support the weak; yet she went without hesitation, though -leaving Huntley to do both. And even before Madame Roche sent for her, -Desirée, who understood her character, had run over by herself early in -the morning, when, after watching all night, she was supposed asleep, to -tell the Mistress that her mother had written to Cosmo. So there was -neither cause nor intention of offense between the sad family at Melmar -and that of Norlaw. When she came to Marie’s sick-bed, the Mistress -found that poor sufferer pathetically imploring some one to tell her of -the unknown world to which she was fast approaching—while Madame Roche, -passionately reproaching herself for leaving her daughter uninstructed, -mingled with her self-accusations, vague words about heaven and -descriptions of its blessedness which fell dull upon the longing ears of -the anxious invalid. The harps and the white robes, the gates of pearl -and the streets of gold were nothing to Marie—what are they to any one -who does not see there the only presence which makes heaven a reality? -The Mistress had no words to add to the poor mother’s anxious eager -repetition of all the disjointed words, describing heaven, which abode -in her memory—but instead, went softly down stairs and returned with -the big Bible, the old, well remembered book, which never failed to -produce a certain awe in Madame Roche—and this was how it happened that -Cosmo found his mother reading to Marie.</p> - -<p>When Cameron entered the room, the Mistress, who had not paused, -continued steadily with the reading of her gospel. He, for his part, did -not interrupt her—he went to the other side of the bed and sat down -there, looking at the white face which he had never seen since he saw it -in St.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span> Ouen, scarcely less pale, yet bright enough to appear to his -deluded fancy a star which might light his life. That was not an hour or -place to think of those vain human dreams. Sure as the evening was -sinking into midnight, this troubled shadow of existence was gliding on -toward the unspeakable perfection of the other life. A little while, and -words would no more vail the face of things to this uninstructed soul—a -little while—but as he sat by Marie’s death-bed the whole scene swam -and glimmered before Cameron’s eyes—“A little while and ye shall not -see me—and again a little while and ye shall see me.” Oh these -ineffable, pathetic, heart breaking words! They wandered out and in -through Cameron’s mind in an agony of consolation and of tears. He heard -the impatient anxious mother stop the reading—he felt her finger tap -upon his arm urging him to speak—he saw Marie turn her tender, dying -eyes toward him—he tried to say something but his voice failed him—and -when at last he found utterance, with a tearless sob, which it was -impossible to restrain, the words which burst from his lips with a -vehement outcry, which sounded loud though it was nearer a whisper, were -only these:—“Jesus! Jesus! our Lord!”</p> - -<p>Only these!—only that everlasting open secret of God’s grace by which -He brings heaven and earth together! The gentle, blue eyes, which were -no longer peevish, brightened with a wistful hope. There was comfort in -the very name; and then this man—who labored for the wretched—whom -himself could not force his human heart to love, because his Master -loved them—this man, whom poor Marie never suspected to have loved her -in <i>her</i> selfish weakness with the lavish love of a prodigal, who throws -away all—this man stood up by the bedside with his gospel. He himself -did not know what he said—perhaps neither did she, who was too far upon -her way to think of words—but the others stood round with awe to hear. -Heaven? No, it was not heaven he was speaking of—there was no time for -those celestial glories, which are but a secondary blessing; and Cameron -had not a thought in his heart save for this dying creature and his -Lord.</p> - -<p>Was it darker out of doors under the skies? No; there was a soft young -moon silvering over the dark outline of the trees, and throwing down a -pale glory over this house of Melmar, on the roof, which glimmered like -a silver shield;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span> and, in the hush, the tinkling voice of Tyne and the -breath of the roses, and a sweet white arrow of moonlight, came in, all -mingled and together, into the chamber of death. Yet, somehow, it is -darker—darker. This pale figure, which is still Marie, feels it so, but -does not wonder—does not ask—is, indeed, sinking into so deep a quiet, -that it does not trouble her with any fears.</p> - -<p>“I go to sleep,” she says faintly, with the sweetest smile that ever -shone upon Marie’s lips, “I am so well. Do not cry, mamma; when I wake, -I shall be better. I go to sleep.”</p> - -<p>And so she would, and thus have reached heaven unawares, but for the -careless foot which pushed the door open, and the excited figure which -came recklessly in. At sight of him, Cameron instantly left the -bedside—instantly without a word, quitted the room—and began to walk -up and down the corridor, where Cosmo stood waiting. Pierrot began -immediately to address his wife:—His wife!—his life!—his angel! was -it by her orders that strangers came to the house, that his commands -were disobeyed, that he himself was kept from her side? He begged his -adored one to shake off her illness, to have a brave spirit, to get up -and rouse herself for his sake.</p> - -<p>“What, my Marie! it is but courage!” cried her husband. “A man does not -die who will not die! Up, my child! Courage! I will forsake you no -more—you have your adored husband—you will live for him. We shall be -happy as the day. Your hand, my angel! Have courage, and rise up, and -live for your Emile’s sake!”</p> - -<p>And all the peace that had been upon it fled from Marie’s face. The -troubled eagerness of her life came back to her. “Yes Emile!” she -whispered, with breathless lips, and made the last dying effort to rise -up at his bidding and follow him. Madame Roche threw herself between, -with cries of real and terrified agony; and the Mistress, almost glad to -exchange her choking sympathy for the violent, sudden passion which now -came upon her, went round the bed with the silence and speed of a ghost, -seized his arm with a grip of imperative fury not to be resisted, and, -before he was aware, had thrust him before her to the door. When she had -drawn it close behind her, she shook him like a child with both her -hands. “You devil!” cried the Mistress,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span> transported out of all decorum -of speech by a passion of indignation which the scene almost warranted. -“You dirty, miserable hound! how daur you come there? If you do not -begone to your own place this instant—Cosmo, here! She’s gone, the poor -bairn. He has nae mair right in this house, if he ever had ony—take him -away.”</p> - -<p>But while this violent scene disturbed the death calm of the house, it -did not disturb Marie. She had seen for herself by that time, better -than any one could have told her, what robes they wore and what harps -they played in the other world.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXXIV" id="CHAPTER_LXXIV"></a>CHAPTER LXXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> same night, while they watched their dead at Melmar, the young moon -shone kindly into the open parlor window of a pretty cottage, where some -anxiety, but no sorrow was. This little house stood upon a high bank of -the river Esk, just after that pretty stream had passed through the -pretty village of Lasswade. The front of the house was on the summit of -the height, and only one story high, while the rapid slope behind -procured for it the advantage of two stories at the back. It was a -perfectly simple little cottage, rich in flowers, but nothing else, -furnished with old, well-preserved furniture, as dainty, as bright, and -as comfortable as you could imagine, and looking all the better for -having already answered the wants of two or three generations. The -window was open, and here, too, came in the tinkle of running water, and -the odor of roses, along with the moonlight. Candles stood on the table, -but they had not been lighted; and two ladies sat by the window, -enjoying the cool breeze, the sweet light, the “holy time” of -evening—or, perhaps, not aware of enjoying anything, busy with their -own troubles and their own thoughts.</p> - -<p>“I doubt if I should advise,” said the elder of the two, “but though I’m -an old maid myself, I am not prejudiced either one way or another, my -dear. I’ve lived too long, Katie, to say this or that manner of life’s -the happiest; it does not matter much whether you are married or not -married,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span> happiness lies aye in yourself. It’s common to think a single -woman very lone and dreary when she comes to be old; but I’m not afraid -for you. Somebody else will have bairns for you, Katie, if you do not -have them for yourself. Solitude is not in your cup, my dear—I’m -prophet enough to read that.”</p> - -<p>Her companion made no answer; and in the little pause which ensued, the -Esk, and the roses, and the moonlight came in as a sweet unconscious -chorus, but a chorus full of whispers which struck deeper than those -quiet words of quiet age.</p> - -<p>“But on the other side,” continued the old lady, “Charlie is as good a -fellow as ever lived—the best son, the kindest heart! I would not trust -myself praising him any more than praising you, my dear. You are both a -comfort and a credit to us all, and maybe that is why we should like to -make the two of you one. We’re no’ so very romantic, Katie, in our -family—that is to say,” continued the speaker, with sudden animation, -“the women of us—for if Charlie, or any lad belonging to the house, was -to offer himself without his whole heart and love, he had better never -show his face to me.”</p> - -<p>“But, auntie,” said the younger lady, with a smile, “would it be right -to take a whole heart and love, and only have kindness to give in -exchange?”</p> - -<p>“Women are different, my dear,” said Katie Logan’s maiden aunt; “I will -confess I do not like myself to hear young girls speaking about love—I -would never advise a <i>man</i> to marry without it—nay, the very thought -makes me angry; but—perhaps you’ll think it no compliment to us, -Katie—women are different; I have no fears of a good woman liking her -husband, no’ even if she was married against her will, as sometimes -happens. I would advise you not to be timid, so far as that is -concerned. Charlie’s very fond of you, and he’s a good lad. To be -married is natural at your age, to have a house of your own, and your -own place in this world; and then there are the bairns. Colin will soon -be off your hands, but the other three are young. Do you think it would -not be best for them if you married a <i>friend</i>?”</p> - -<p>Katie did not reply; but perhaps it was this last argument which moved -her to a long low sigh of unwelcome<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span> conviction. The old lady’s emphatic -<i>friend</i> was Scotch for a relative. Would it indeed be better for them -that Katie’s husband should be her cousin?</p> - -<p>“Unless,” said her aunt, rising up to light the candles, yet pausing to -give effect to this last precaution; “unless, my dear, there should be a -single thought of any other man resting in your mind. If there is, -Katie, think no more of Charlie Cassilis. I’m willing you should marry -him first and grow fond of him after; but, my dear, stop and think—do -you like any other person better than him?”</p> - -<p>“Maybe I do, auntie,” said the low voice, softly; and Katie shook her -head thoughtfully in the darkness, with a half melancholy, half pleased -motion; “maybe I do.”</p> - -<p>“Then, for pity’s sake, not another word!” cried the old lady; and that -kindest of aunts rustled out of the pretty parlor, taking one of the -candlesticks in her hand, with a commotion and haste which showed that -Katie’s quiet half confession had by no means pleased her, in spite of -her avowed impartiality. Lucifer, son of the morning, had not fallen at -that time into such degrading familiarity with housekeepers and -housemaids as has chanced now to that unhappy spirit. Matches were none -in all the village of Lasswade, nor throughout the kingdom, save slender -slips of wood anointed with brimstone, and bearing the emphatic name of -<i>spunk</i> in all the regions north of the Tweed. So Katie’s respectable -aunt, who was kind to her servants, rustled along the passage to the -kitchen to light the candle, and on the way there and the way back -recovered her temper—which was all the better for Katie; and by-and-bye -the quiet maiden household shut itself up and went to sleep.</p> - -<p>And perhaps when Katie knelt by her bedside that night to say her -prayers—by the white bed where little Isabel slept the deep sleep which -all the children sleep, thank Heaven, when we are awake with our -troubles—a little weariness of heart made a sigh among her prayers. She -was not romantic—the women of her family were otherwise disposed, as -good Auntie Isabel said, who had not a single selfish impulse in her -composition; and Katie was grieved to disappoint Cousin Charlie, and -perhaps feared, as women always do, with an unconscious vanity, for the -consequences of his disappointment; was she right to damage his -happiness, to refuse a supporter for herself, a protector for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span> -children, all for the sake of Huntley, who might perhaps have forgotten -her years ago? Katie could not answer her own question, but she did what -was the wisest course under the circumstances—laid her head resolutely -down, on her pillow and fell asleep, leaving time and the hour to solve -the question for her, and only sure of one thing—that her impulse was -right.</p> - -<p>But the question returned to her when she opened her eyes, in the -morning, in those first waking moments, when, as Béranger says, all our -cares awake before us, assault afresh, and, as if the first time, the -soul which has escaped them in the night. Was she right? All through her -early morning duties this oft-repeated question beset the mind of Katie; -and it needs only to see what these duties were, to acknowledge how -pertinacious it was. The cottage belonged to Aunt Isabel, who had -received gladly her orphan nieces and nephews after the death of Dr. -Logan. Aunt Isabel’s spare income was just enough for herself and her -maid, who, heretofore, had been sole occupants of the pretty little -house, and Katie and her orphans managed to live upon theirs, which was -also a very small income, but marvelously taken care of—and pleasantly -backed by the gooseberry-bushes and vegetable beds of the cottage -garden, which riches their mistress made common property. On Katie’s -advent, Aunt Isabel retired from the severe duties of housekeeping in -her own person. It was Katie who made the tea and cut the bread and -butter, and washed with her own hands the delicate cups and saucers -which Aunt Isabel would not trust to a servant. Then the elder sister -had to see that the boys were ready, with all their books strapped on -their shoulder, and their midday “piece” in their pocket, for school. -Then Isabel’s daintier toilet had to be superintended; and if Katie had -a weakness, it was to see her sister prettily dressed, and “in the -fashion"—and that little maiden sent forth fair and neat to the ladies’ -seminary which illustrated the healthful village of Lasswade; and then -Katie went to the kitchen, to determine what should be had for dinner, -and sometimes to lend her own delicate skill to the making of a pudding -or the crimping of a frill. When all was done, there was an unfailing -supply of needlework to keep her hands employed. On this particular -morning, Aunt Isabel meditated a call upon Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379"></a>{379}</span> Hogg, in Lasswade, and -Katie had been so much persecuted by that question which some malicious -imp kept always addressing to her, that she felt heated and out of -breath in the pretty parlor. So she took up her work, put her thread and -scissors in her pocket, and went out to the garden to sit on a low -garden seat, with the grass under her feet, and the trees over her, and -sweet Esk singing close at hand, thinking it might be easier to pursue -her occupation there.</p> - -<p>Perhaps that was a mistake. It is not easy to sew, nor to read, nor even -to think, out of doors on a June morning, with a sweet river drowsing -by, and the leaves, and the roses, and the birds, and the breeze making -among them that delightful babble of sound and motion which people call -the quiet of the country. Still Katie <i>did</i> work; she was making shirts -for Colin, who had just gone into Edinburgh to Cousin Charlie’s -office;—stitching wristbands! and in spite of the sunshine and her -perplexed thoughts, Katie’s button-holes were worth going ten miles to -see.</p> - -<p>But was she right? Search through all the three kingdoms and you could -not have found a better fellow than Cousin Charlie, who was very fond of -Katie Logan, and had been for years. The elder sister liked him -heartily, knew that he would be kind to her orphans, believed him every -thing that was good in man; but while she reasoned with herself, the -color wavered upon her cheek, and somewhere in heart a voice, which -might have been the Esk river, so closely its whisper ran with her -thoughts, kept saying, “Dinna forget me, Katie!” till, by dint of -persistence, all the other meditations yielded, and this, with a -triumphant shout, kept the field. Oh, Huntley Livingstone! who had, just -as like as no’, forgotten Katie—was she right?</p> - -<p>He could not have come at a better time—he came quite unannounced, -unintroduced, so suddenly that Katie made an outcry almost of -terror—one moment, nobody with her but the Esk, and the roses, and her -own thoughts—not a shadow on the grass, not a step on the road. The -next moment, Huntley, standing there between her and the sky, between -her and home, shutting out every thing but himself, who had to be first -attended to. If she had only seen him a moment sooner, she might have -received him quite calmly, with the old smile of the elder-sister; but -because of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380"></a>{380}</span> start, Katie getting up, dropping her work, and holding -out her hands, looked about as agitated, as glad, as tearful, as out of -herself, as even Huntley was.</p> - -<p>“I have come home—to Norlaw—to remain,” said Huntley, when he began to -know what he was saying, which was not just the first moment; “and you -are not an old Katie in a cap, as you threatened to be; but first I’ve -come to say out what I dared not say in the manse parlor—and you know -what that is. Katie, if you have forgotten me—Heaven knows I never will -blame you!—it’s seven weary years since then—if you have forgotten me, -Katie, tell me I am not to speak!”</p> - -<p>Katie had two or three impulses for the moment—to tell the truth, she -was quite happy, rejoiced to be justified in the unsolicited affection -she had given, and entirely contented in standing by this sudden -Œdipus, who was to resolve all her doubts. Being so, she could almost -have run away from the embarrassment and gravity of the moment, and made -a little natural sport of the solemnity of the lover, who stood before -her as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it was the only coquettish -thought which Katie Logan ever was guilty of. But she conquered it—she -looked up at him with her old smile.</p> - -<p>“Speak, Huntley!” she said; and having said so much, there was not, to -tell the truth, a great deal more necessary. Huntley spoke, you may be -sure, and Katie listened; and the very roses on the cottage wall were -not less troubled about Cousin Charlie for the next hour than she was. -And when Aunt Isabel returned, and Katie went in with a blush, holding -Huntley’s arm, to introduce him simply as “Huntley Livingstone,” with a -tone and a look which needed no interpretation, there was no longer a -doubt in Katie’s mind as to whether she was right.</p> - -<p>But she did not think it needful to tell Huntley what question she was -considering when his sudden appearance startled her out of all her -perplexities; and it is very likely that in that, at least, Katie was -perfectly right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381"></a>{381}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXXV" id="CHAPTER_LXXV"></a>CHAPTER LXXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">A very</span> sadly different scene; no young hopes blossoming towards -perfection—no young lives beginning—no joy—has called together this -company, or makes this room bright; a dark house, shrouded still in its -closed curtains and shutters, a wan light in the apartment, a breathless -air of death throughout the place. Outside, the tawdry Frenchman, with a -long crape hatband, knotted up in funeral bows, as is the custom in -Scotland, walking up and down smoking his cigar, angry at finding -himself excluded, yet tired of the brief decorum into which even he has -been awed, and much disposed to amuse himself with any kitchenmaid whom -he may chance to see as he peers about their quarters, keeping at the -back of the house. But the maids are horrified and defiant, and the -affair is rather dull, after all, for Monsieur Pierrot.</p> - -<p>The company are all assembled in the drawing-room, as they have returned -from the funeral. The minister, the doctor, a lawyer from Melrose, -Cameron, and the three brothers Livingstone. Madame Roche, her black -gown covered with crape, and every thing about her of the deepest sable, -save her cap; the white ribbons of which are crape ribbons too, sits, -with her handkerchief in her hand, in an easy chair. The Mistress is -there, too, rather wondering and disapproving, giving her chief -attention to Desirée, who sits behind her mother quietly crying, and -supposing this solemn assembly is some necessary formality which must be -gone through.</p> - -<p>“Is it to read the will?” asks the minister, who suggests that her -husband had better be present; but no, there is no will—for poor Marie -had nothing and could leave nothing. When they have been all seated for -a few minutes, Madame Roche herself rises from her chair. Though the -tears are in her eyes, and grief in her face, she is still the beautiful -old lady whom Cosmo Livingstone loved to watch from his window in St. -Ouen. Time himself, the universal conqueror, can never take from Mary of -Melmar that gift which surrounded her with love in her youth, and which -has lighted all her troubled life like a fairy lamp. The sweet soft -cheek<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382"></a>{382}</span> where even wrinkles are lovely, the beautiful old eyes which even -in their tears can not choose but smile, the footstep so light, yet so -firm, which still might ring “like siller bells,” though its way is -heavy. Every one was looking at her, and as they looked, every one -acknowledged the unchanging fascination of this beautiful face.</p> - -<p>“Gentlemen,” said Madame Roche with a little tremor in her voice, “I -would speak to you all—I would do my justice before the world; you have -heard what I was in my youth. Mary Huntley of Melmar, my father’s -heiress. I was disobedient—I went away from him—I knew he disowned me, -and knew no more than an infant that he relented in his heart when he -died. I was poor all my life—my Marie, my dear child!” and here Madame -Roche paused to sob aloud, and Desirée laid her head upon the knee of -the Mistress and clutched at her dress in silent self-control; “it was -then she married this man—married him to break her heart—yet still -loved him to the last. Ah, my friends, I was thus a widow with my sick -child in my husband’s town. My Jean was dead, and she was forsaken—and -my Desirée was gone from me to serve strangers—it was then that one -came to my house like an angel from heaven. Cosmo, my friend, do you -blush that I should name your name?</p> - -<p>“And what a tale he told me!” cried poor Madame Roche, whose tears now -filled her eyes, and whose lips quivered so that she had to pause from -moment to moment; “I, who thought me a lonely woman, whom no one cared -for;—my father had thought upon me—my kinsman, Patrick Livingstone, -had sought me to give me back my lands—my young hero was seeking me -then; and his brother, yes, Huntley, his noble brother, was ready to -renounce his right—and all for the widow and her children. I weep, ah, -my friends, you weep!—was it not noble? was it not above praise? When I -heard it I made a vow—I said in my heart I should repay this excellent -Huntley. I had planned it in my mind—I said in my thoughts, my Marie, -my blessed child, must have half of this great fortune. She is married, -she can not make compensation—but the rest is for Desirée, and Desirée -shall give it back to Huntley Livingstone.”</p> - -<p>Every one of her auditors by this time gazed upon Madame Roche. Desirée, -sitting behind her, lifted her face from the lap of the Mistress; she -was perfectly pale,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383"></a>{383}</span> and her eyes were heavy with crying. She sat -leaning forward, holding the Mistress’s gown with one hand, with sudden -dismay and terror in her white face. Just opposite her Cameron sat, -clenching his hand. What <i>he</i> was thinking no one could say—but as -Madame Roche spoke of Marie he still clenched his hand. Then came the -strangers, surprised and sympathetic, Patrick Livingstone among them. -Then Huntley, much startled and wondering, and Cosmo, with a face which -reflected Desirée’s, dismayed and full of anxiety, and the attitude of a -man about to spring up to defy, or denounce, or contradict the speaker. -The Mistress behind sat upright in her chair, with a face like a psalm -of battle and triumph, her nostril dilating, her eyes shining. For the -first time in her life, the Mistress’s heart warmed to Mary of Melmar. -She alone wanted no explanation of this speech—she alone showed no -surprise or alarm—it was but a just and fit acknowledgment—a glory due -to the sons of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>“But, alas,” cried Madame Roche; “God has looked upon it, and it has not -been enough. He has broken my heart and made my way clear; pity me, my -friends, my Marie is in heaven and her mother here! And now there is but -one heir. My Desirée is my only child—there is none to share her -inheritance. Huntley Livingstone, come to me! I have thought and I have -dreamed of the time when I should give you my child—but, alas! did I -think it should be only when Marie was in her grave? Huntley -Livingstone! you gave up your right to me, and I restore it to you. I -give you my child, and Melmar is for Desirée. There is no one to share -it with you, my daughter and my son!”</p> - -<p>Huntley had risen and approached to Madame Roche, though with -reluctance, when she called him. Now she held his hand in one of hers, -and stretched out the other for that of Desirée—while Huntley, -confounded, confused, and amazed beyond expression, had not yet -recovered himself sufficiently to speak. Before he could speak Cosmo had -sprung to the side of Desirée, who stood holding back and meeting her -mother’s appeal with a look of dumb defiance and exasperation, which -might be very wrong, but was certainly very natural. Every one rose. But -for the grief of the principal actors, and the painful embarrassment of -all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384"></a>{384}</span> the scene might almost have been ludicrous. Cosmo, who had grasped -at Desirée’s hand, did not obtain it any more than her mother. The girl -stood up, but kept her hold of the Mistress’s gown, as if for -protection.</p> - -<p>“No, no, no, no!” said Desirée, in a low, hurried, ashamed voice; -“mother, no—no—no! I will not do it! Mamma, will you shame me? Oh, -pity us! Is it thus we are to weep for Marie?”</p> - -<p>“My child, it is justice,” cried Madame Roche, through her tears; “give -him your hand—it is that Huntley may have his own.”</p> - -<p>“But there is some strange mistake here,” said Huntley, whose brow -burned with a painful flush; “Melmar was never mine, nor had I any real -right to it. Years ago I have even forgotten that it once was possible. -Be silent for a moment, Cosmo, I beg of you, and you, Mademoiselle -Desirée, do not fear. Madame Roche, I thank you for your generous -meaning, but it is an entire mistake in every way—let me explain it -privately. Let us be alone first;—nay, nay, let me speak, then! I am my -father’s heir, and our house is older than Melmar; and nothing in the -world, were it the hand of a queen, could tempt me to call myself any -thing but Livingstone of Norlaw!”</p> - -<p>The Mistress had been standing up, like everybody else, an excited -spectator. When Huntley said these words she sat down suddenly, with a -glow and flush of triumph not to be described—the name of her husband -and her son ringing in her ears like a burst of music; and then, for the -first time, Desirée relinquished her hold, and held out her hand to -Huntley, while Cosmo grasped his other hand and wrung it in both his -with a violent pressure. The three did not think for that moment of -Madame Roche, who had been looking in Huntley’s face all the time he -spoke to her, and who, when he ended, dropped his hand silently and sank -into her chair. She was leaning back now, with her white handkerchief -over her face—and the hand that held it trembled. Poor Madame Roche! -this was all her long thought of scheme had come to—she could only -cover her face and forget the pang of failure in the bigger pang of -grief—she did not say another word; she comprehended—for she was not -slow of understanding—that Huntley’s little effusion of family pride -was but a rapid and generous expedient to save<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385"></a>{385}</span> him from a direct -rejection of Desirée. And poor Madame Roche’s heart grew sick with the -quick discouragement of grief. She closed her eyes, and heavier tears -came from them than even those she had shed for Marie. She had tried her -best to make them happy, she had failed; and now they for whose sake -alone she had made all this exertion neglected and forgot her. It was -too much for Madame Roche.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, listen,” whispered Desirée, soothingly. “Ah, mamma, you might -force mine—I should always obey you—but you can not force Huntley’s -heart—he does not care for <i>me</i>; bah, that is nothing!—but there <i>is</i> -one whom he cares for—one whom he has come home for—Katie, whom they -all love! Mamma, you were right! he is noble, he is generous; but what -is Melmar to Huntley? He has come back for Katie and his own home.”</p> - -<p>“Katie?—some one else? My darling, does he love her?” said Madame -Roche. “Then it is God who has undone all, Desirée, and I am content. -Let him come to me, and I will bless him. I will bless you all, my -children,” she said, raising herself up, and stretching her hands toward -them. “Ah, friends, do you see them—so young and so like each other! -and it was <i>he</i> who sought us, and not Huntley; and it is I who am -wrong—and God is right!”</p> - -<p>Saying which, Madame Roche kissed Huntley’s cheek, dismissing him so, -and took Cosmo into her arms instead. Her sweet temper and facile mind -forgot even her own failure. She put back Cosmo’s hair tenderly from his -forehead and called him her hero. He was her son at least; and Desirée -and Melmar, the two dreams of his fancy, between which, when he saw the -girl first, he suspected no possible connection, came at once, a double -gift, the one eagerly sought, the other totally unthought of, into the -Benjamin’s portion of Cosmo Livingstone.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXXVI" id="CHAPTER_LXXVI"></a>CHAPTER LXXVI.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">There’s</span> aye plenty fools in this world,” said bowed Jaaoob; “a’thing -else that’s human fails; but that commodity’s aye ready. I had my hopes -of that laddie Livingstone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386"></a>{386}</span> He has nae discrimination, and hasna seen -the world, like some other folk, but for a’ that I thought I could -perceive a ring of the right metal in him, and I’m no’ often wrang. And -so Cosmo’s to be marriet! I dinna disapprove of his taste—that’s a -different matter. I even had a great notion of <i>her</i> mysel’; but when -the lad’s married there’s an end of him. Wha ever heard tell of a man -coming to distinction with a wife at his tail?—na! I wash my hands of -Cosmo—he shall never mair be officer of mine.”</p> - -<p>Jaacob did not address himself to any one in particular. The news with -which Kirkbride was ringing was great news in its way, and a little -crowd had collected in the corner, close by the smithy, to discuss it, a -crowd composed chiefly of women, chief among whom, in a flush of triumph -and importance, stood Marget of Norlaw. Jaacob did not often concern his -lofty intelligence with the babble of women, but the little giant was -interested in spite of himself, and had a warm corner in his heart for -both the heroes who were under present discussion. A lusty blacksmith -apprentice puffed at the great bellows within that ruddy cavern, and -Jaacob stood at the door, with one or two male gossips lingering near -him, which was a salve to his dignity; but Jaacob’s words were not -addressed even to his own cronies; they were a spontaneous effusion of -observant wisdom, mingled with benevolent regret.</p> - -<p>“The man’s in a creel!” cried the indignant Marget—“an officer of -yours, Jaacob Bell?—<i>yours</i>, ye objeck! and I would just like to ken -wha gave the like of you ony right to ca’ <i>our</i> son by his christened -name? Na, sirs, ye’re a’ wrang—it just shows how little folk ken about -onything out of their ain road; and canna haud their peace either, or -let them speak that have the knowledge. The auld lady—her that was Mary -of Melmar—would have given our Huntley baith the land and the bonnie -lass, if it had been <i>her</i> will, for she’s a real sensible woman, as -it’s turned out, and kens the value of lads like ours. But Huntley -Livingstone, he said no. He’s no’ the lad, our Huntley, to be ony wife’s -man—and he has his awn yestate, and an aulder name and fame than -Melmar. There’s no’ an auld relick in the whole country-side like our -auld castle. I’ve heard it from them that ken; and our Huntley would no -mair part with the name than wi’ his right hand. Eh! if auld Norlaw, -puir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387"></a>{387}</span> man, had but lived to see this day! Our Cosmo is very like his -father. He’s just as like to be kent far and near for his poems and his -stories as Walter Scott ower yonder at Abbotsford. It’s just like a -story in a book itsel’. When he was but a laddie—no’ muckle bigger than -bowed Jaacob—he fell in with a bonnie bit wee French lady, in -Edinburgh. I mind him telling me—there’s never ony pride about our -sons—just as well as if it was yesterday. The callant’s head ran upon -naething else—and wha was this but just Miss Deseera! and he’s courted -her this mony a year, whaever might oppose; and now he’s won and -conquered, and there’s twa weddings to be in Kirkbride, baith in the -very same day!”</p> - -<p>“In Kirkbride? but, dear woman, Miss Logan’s no’ here,” suggested one of -the bystanders.</p> - -<p>“Wha’s heeding!” cried Marget, in her triumph, “if ane’s in Kirkbride, -and ane in anither kirk, is that onything against the truth I am -telling? Sirs, haud a’ your tongues—I’ve carried them a’ in my arms, -and told them stories. I’ve stood by them and their mother, just me and -no other person, when they were in their sorest trouble; and I would -like to hear wha daur say a word, if Norlaw Marget is just wild and out -of her wits for aince in her life to see their joy!”</p> - -<p>“I never look for discretion at a woman’s hand mysel’,” said bowed -Jaacob, though even Jaacob paused a little before he brought the shadow -of his cynicism over Marget’s enthusiasm; “they’re easy pleased, puir -things, and easy cast down—a man of sense has aye a compassion for the -sex—it’s waste o’ time arguing with them. Maybe that’s a reason for -lamenting this lad Livingstone. A man, if he’s no’ a’ the stronger, is -awfu’ apt to fall to the level of his company—and to think of a -promising lad, no’ five-and-twenty, lost amang a haill tribe—wife, -mother, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and gude kens how mony friends -forbye—it’s grievous—that’s just what it is; a man goes down, a man -comes to the calibre of the woman. For which cause,” said bowed Jaacob, -thrusting his cowl on one side of his head, twisting still higher his -high shoulder, and fixing a defiant gaze upon the admiring crowd with -his one eye; “in spite of mony temptations—for I’ll say that for the -women, that they ken a man of sense when they see him—I’m no’, and -never will be, a marrying man mysel’!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388"></a>{388}</span></p> - -<p>“Eh, but Jaacob,” cried a saucy voice, “if you could have gotten her, -you might have put up with Miss Roche.”</p> - -<p>“Humph—I had a great notion of the lassie,” said Jaacob, loftily; “men -at my years get above the delusion of looking for a woman as a -companion. It makes nae muckle matter whether she’s ca’ed a foolish -woman or a sensible ane; its naething but a question of degree; and when -a man finds that out, he has a right to please his e’e. When you hear of -me married, it’s a wife of sixteen, that’s what I’ll have gotten; but -you see, as for Miss Deeseera, puir thing, she may be breaking her -heart, for onything I ken. I’m a man of honor, and Cosmo’s a great -friend of mine—I wouldna, for twenty Melmars, come between my friend -and his love.”</p> - -<p>And amid the laughter which echoed this magnanimous speech, bowed Jaacob -retired into the ruddy gloom of the smithy and resumed his hammer, which -he played with such manful might and intention upon the glowing iron, -that the red light illuminated his whole swarthy face and person, and -the red sparks flashed round him like the rays round a saint in an old -picture. He was not in the least a saintly individual, but Rembrandt -himself could not have found a better study for light and shade.</p> - -<p>A little time sufficed to accomplish these momentous changes. The -Mistress gave up her trust of Norlaw, the cows and dairies which were -the pride of her heart, the bank-book, with its respectable balance, and -all the rural wealth of the farmsteading, to her son. And Huntley warned -the tenants to whom his mother had let the land that he should resume -the farming of it himself at the end of the year, when their terms were -out. Every thing about Norlaw began to wear signs of preparation. The -Mistress spoke vaguely of going with Patie, the only one of her sons who -still “belonged to his mother"—and making a home for him in Glasgow. -But Patie was an engineer, involved over head and ears in the Herculean -work of the new railways; he was scarcely three months in the year, take -them altogether, at the lodging which he called his head quarters—and -perhaps, on the whole, he rather discouraged the idea.</p> - -<p>“At least, mother, you must wait to welcome Katie,” said this astute and -long-headed adviser of the family—and the Mistress, with her strong -sense of country breeding and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389"></a>{389}</span> decorum, would not have done less, had it -broken her heart. But she rather longed for the interval to be over, and -the matter concluded. The Mistress, somehow, could not understand or -recognize herself adrift from Norlaw.</p> - -<p>“But I dinna doubt it would be best—it’s natural,” said the -Mistress—“they should have their good beginning to themselves,” and -with that she sighed, and grew red with shame to think it was a sigh, -and spoke sharply to Marget, and put the old easy chair which had been -“their father’s!” away into a corner, with a little momentary ebullition -of half resentful tears. But she never lost her temper to Huntley—it -was only Nature, and not her son who was to blame.</p> - -<p>It was early in August when Katie came home. The Mistress stood at the -door waiting to receive her, on a night which was worthy such a -homecoming. Just sunset, the field-laborers going home, the purple flush -folded over the Eildons like a regal mantle, the last tender ray -catching the roofless wall of the Strength of Norlaw, and the soft hill -rising behind, with yellow corn waving rich to its summit, soon to be -ripe for the harvest. Tears were in the Mistress’s heart, but smiles in -her face; she led her new daughter in before even Huntley, brought her -to the dining-parlor, and set her in her own chair.</p> - -<p>“This is where I sat first myself the day I came home,” said the -Mistress, with a sob, “and sit you there; and God bless my bairns, and -build up Norlaw—amen!”</p> - -<p>But Katie said the amen too, and rose again, holding the Mistress fast -and looking up in her face.</p> - -<p>“I have not said mother for ten years,” said Katie. “Mother! do you -think dispeace can ever rise between you and me, that you should think -once of going away?”</p> - -<p>The Mistress paused.</p> - -<p>“No dispeace, Katie—no, God forbid!” said Huntley’s mother, “but I’m a -hasty woman in my speech, and ever was.”</p> - -<p>“But not to me,” said the Katie who was no more Katie Logan—“never to -me! and Huntley will be a lonely man if his mother goes from Norlaw, for -where thou goest I will go, and where thou dwellest I will dwell. -Mother, tell me! is it Patie or poor Huntley who is to have you and -me?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390"></a>{390}</span></p> - -<p>The Mistress did not say a word. She suffered herself to be placed in -the chair where she had placed Katie, and then put her apron over her -face and wept, thinking strangely, all at once, not of a new -daughter-in-law and a changed place, but of him who lay sleeping among -the solemn ruins at Dryburgh, and all the sacred chain of years that -made dear this house of Norlaw.</p> - -<p>The other marriage took place after that, with much greater glory and -distinction, to the pride of the Mistress’s heart. It was a great -festival when it came—which was not till the season of mourning was -over—to all of whom Madame Roche could reach. Even Joanna Huntley and -Aunt Jean were persuaded to come to gladden the wedding of Desirée and -Cosmo; and it is even said that Joanna, who is of a very scientific turn -of mind, and has a little private laboratory of her own, where she burns -her pupils’ fingers, was the finder of that strange little heap of dust -and cinders which revealed to Huntley the mineral wealth in the corner -of the Norlaw lands, which now has made him rich enough to buy three -Norlaws. At any rate, Joanna was put into perfect good humor by her -visit, and thenceforward, with the chivalry of a knight-errant, -worshiped above all loveliness the beautiful old face of Madame Roche.</p> - -<p>This is about all there is to tell of the Livingstone family. They had -their troubles, and are having them, like all of us; but, like all of -us, have great joy-cordials now and then to make them strong; and always -Providence to work a clear web out of the tangled exertions which we -make without witting, and which God sorts into His appointed lot.</p> - -<p class="c"> -THE END.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391"></a>{391}</span><br /> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang">☛ Every Number of Harper’s Magazine contains from 20 to 50 -pages—and from one third to one half more reading—than any other -in the country.</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>HARPER’S MAGAZINE.</big></big></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Publishers believe that the Seventeen Volumes of <span class="smcap">Harper’s Magazine</span> -now issued contain a larger amount of valuable and attractive reading -than will be found in any other periodical of the day. The best Serial -Tales of the foremost Novelists of the time: <span class="smcap">Levers’</span> “Maurice Tiernay,” -<span class="smcap">Bulwer Lytton’s</span> “My Novel,” <span class="smcap">Dickens’s</span> “Bleak House” and “Little Dorrit,” -<span class="smcap">Thackeray’s</span> “Newcomes” and “Virginians,” have successively appeared in -the Magazine simultaneously with their publication in England. The best -Tales and Sketches from the Foreign Magazines have been carefully -selected, and original contributions have been furnished by <span class="smcap">Charles -Reade</span>, <span class="smcap">Wilkie Collins</span>, Mrs. <span class="smcap">Gaskell</span>, Miss <span class="smcap">Muloch</span>, and other prominent -English writers.</p> - -<p>The larger portion of the Magazine has, however, been devoted to -articles upon American topics, furnished by American writers. -Contributions have been welcomed from every section of the country; and -in deciding upon their acceptance the Editors have aimed to be governed -solely by the intrinsic merits of the articles, irrespective of their -authorship. Care has been taken that the Magazine should never become -the organ of any local clique in literature, or of any sectional party -in politics.</p> - -<p>At no period since the commencement of the Magazine have its literary -and artistic resources been more ample and varied; and the Publishers -refer to the contents of the Periodical for the past as the best -guarantee for its future claims upon the patronage of the American -public.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>TERMS.—One Copy for One Year, $3 00; Two Copies for One Year, $5 -00; Three or more Copies for One Year (each), $2 00; “Harper’s -Magazine” and “Harper’s Weekly,” One Year, $4 00. <i>And an Extra -Copy, gratis, for every Club of</i> <span class="smcap">Ten Subscribers</span>.</p> - -<p>Clergymen and Teachers supplied at <span class="smcap">Two Dollars</span> a year. The -Semi-Annual Volumes bound in Cloth, $2 50 each. Muslin Covers, 25 -cents each. The Postage upon <span class="smcap">Harper’s Magazine</span> must be paid at the -Office <i>where it is received</i>. The Postage is <i>Thirty-six Cents a -year</i>.</p></div> - -<p class="c"> -HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, Franklin Square, New York.<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392"></a>{392}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>HARPER’S WEEKLY.</big></big></p> - -<p class="cb">A JOURNAL OF CIVILIZATION.</p> - -<p class="eng">A First-class Illustrated Family Newspaper.</p> - -<p class="cb">PRICE FIVE CENTS.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Harper’s Weekly</span> has now been in existence two years. During that period -no effort has been spared to make it the best possible Family Paper for -the American People, and it is the belief of the Proprietors that, in -the peculiar field which it occupies, no existing Periodical can compare -with it.</p> - -<p>Every Number of <span class="smcap">Harper’s Weekly</span> contains all the News of the week, -Domestic and Foreign. The completeness of this department is, it is -believed, unrivaled in any other weekly publication. Every noteworthy -event is profusely and accurately illustrated at the time of its -occurrence. And while no expense is spared to procure Original -Illustrations, care is taken to lay before the reader every foreign -picture which appears to possess general interest. In a word, the -Subscriber to <span class="smcap">Harper’s Weekly</span> may rely upon obtaining a Pictorial -History of the times in which we live, compiled and illustrated in the -most perfect and complete manner possible. It is believed that the -Illustrated Biographies alone—of which about one hundred and fifty have -already been published—are worth far more to the reader than the whole -cost of his subscription.</p> - -<p>The literary matter of <span class="smcap">Harper’s Weekly</span> is supplied by some of the ablest -writers in the English language. Every Number contains an installment of -a serial story by a first-class author—<span class="smcap">Bulwer’s</span> “<i>What will he do with -It?</i>” has appeared entire in its columns; one or more short Stories, the -best that can be purchased at home or abroad; the best Poetry of the -day; instructive Essays on topics of general interest; Comments on the -Events of the time, in the shape of Editorials and the Lounger’s -philosophic and amusing Gossip; searching but generous Literary -Criticisms; a Chess Chronicle; and full and careful reports of the -Money, Merchandise, and Produce Markets.</p> - -<p>In fixing at so low a price as Five Cents the price of their paper, the -Publishers were aware that nothing but an enormous sale could remunerate -them. They are happy to say that the receipts have already realized -their anticipations, and justify still further efforts to make <span class="smcap">Harper’s -Weekly</span> an indispensable guest in every home throughout the country.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>TERMS.—One Copy for Twenty Weeks, $1 00; One Copy for One Year, $2 -50; One Copy for Two Years, $4 00; Five Copies for One Year, $9 00; -Twelve Copies for One Year, $20 00; Twenty-five Copies for One -Year, $40 00. <i>An Extra Copy will be allowed for every Club of</i> -<span class="smcap">Twelve</span> <i>or</i> <span class="smcap">Twenty-five Subscribers</span>.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393"></a>{393}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>LA PLATA:</big></big><br /> -THE ARGENTINE CONFEDERATION,<br /> <small>AND</small><br /> <big>PARAGUAY</big>.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang">Being a Narrative of the Exploration of the Tributaries of the -River La Plata and Adjacent Countries, during the Years 1853, ’54, -’55, and ’56, under the orders, of the United States Government.</p></div> - -<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> <big>THOMAS J. PAGE, U.S.N.,</big><br /> Commander of the Expedition.</p> - -<p class="c">One Volume Large Octavo, with Map and numerous Illustrations. Muslin, -Three Dollars.</p> - -<p>This Volume contains the Official Narrative of one of the most important -expeditions ever sent out by our Government. Early in 1853 the steamer -<i>Water Witch</i> was placed under the command of Lieutenant <span class="smcap">Page</span>, with -instructions to explore the Rivers of La Plata, and report upon their -navigability and adaptation to commerce. Lieutenant <span class="smcap">Page</span> executed his -commission with rare fidelity and intelligence, and has embodied the -results in this volume. The explorations described in the Narrative -embrace an extent of 3600 miles of river navigation, and 4400 miles of -journey by land in Paraguay and the Argentine Confederation. The River -Paraguay alone was found to be navigable, at low water, by a steamer -drawing nine feet, for more than two thousand miles from the ocean. The -basin of La Plata is almost equal in extent to that of the Mississippi, -and not inferior in salubrity of climate and fertility of soil, while -the head waters of its rivers penetrate the richest mineral provinces of -Brazil and Bolivia. The products of this region must find their outlet -through the River La Plata. The population numbers scarcely one person -to a square mile, but great inducements to emigration are now offered by -the Argentine Confederation. The commerce of the country, already -considerable, is capable of immediate and almost indefinite increase.</p> - -<p>Lieutenant <span class="smcap">Page’s</span> Narrative contains ample information respecting the -soil, climate, and productions of the country, and the manners, habits, -and customs of the people. A full account is given of the unfortunate -rupture with Paraguay, showing conclusively that the attack upon the -<i>Water Witch</i> was altogether unwarranted, and the allegations by which -President Lopez attempted to justify it entirely destitute of truth. An -interesting and valuable account of the Jesuit Missions in La Plata is -appended to the Narrative.</p> - -<p>The Illustrations comprise the accurate Map of the Country prepared by -the orders of our Government, Portraits of Urquiza, Lopez, Francis, and -Loyola, and numerous Engravings of Scenery, Character, and Incident.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang"><i>Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York.</i></p></div> - -<p class="c"><span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span> will send the above Work by Mail, postage paid, to any -part of the United States, on receipt of $3 00.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394"></a>{394}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c">“The most magnificent contribution of the present century to the cause -of geographical knowledge.”</p> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>DR. BARTH’S<br /> NORTH AND CENTRAL AFRICA.</big></big></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang">Travels and Discoveries in North and Central Africa. Being a -Journal of an Expedition undertaken under the Auspices of H.B.M’s -Government in the Years 1849-1855. By <span class="smcap">Henry Barth</span>, Ph.D., D.C.L., -Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Asiatic Societies, &c., &c. -Profusely and elegantly illustrated. Complete in 3 vols. 8vo, -Muslin, $2 50 a Volume; Half Calf, $10 50 a set.</p></div> - -<p>Dr. Barth’s wonderful travels approach the Equator from the North as -nearly as Dr. Livingstone’s from the South, and thus show to future -travelers the field which still remains open for exploration and -research.—Vol. III., completing the work, is in the press, and will be -published shortly.</p> - -<p>The researches of Dr. Barth are of the highest interest. Few men have -existed so qualified, both by intellectual ability and a vigorous bodily -constitution, for the perilous part of an African discoverer as Dr. -Barth.—<i>London Times, Sept. 8, 1857.</i></p> - -<p>It richly merits all the commendation bestowed upon it by “the leading -journals of Europe."—<i>Corr. National Intelligencer.</i></p> - -<p>Every chapter presents matter of more original interest than an ordinary -volume of travels.—<i>London Leader.</i></p> - -<p>For extent and variety of subjects, the volumes before us greatly -surpass every other work on African travel with which it has been our -fortune to meet.—<i>London Athenæum.</i></p> - -<p>Dr. Barth is the model of an explorer—patient, persevering, and -resolute.—<i>London Spectator.</i></p> - -<p>No one who wishes to know Africa can afford to dispense with this -work.—<i>Boston Traveler.</i></p> - -<p>A most wonderful record.—<i>Poughkeepsie Democrat.</i></p> - -<p>It is the most magnificent contribution of the present century to the -cause of geographical knowledge.—<i>N. Y. Evangelist.</i></p> - -<p>The most important contribution to Geographical Science that has been -made in our time. Thousands of readers in our country will be anxious to -get possession of this treasure of knowledge.—<i>N. Y. Observer.</i></p> - -<p>One of the most important works of the kind which has appeared for an -age.—<i>Lutheran Observer.</i></p> - -<p>It can not fail to find its way into the libraries of most -scholars.—<i>Lynchburg Virginian.</i></p> - -<p>The personal details give the work great interest.—<i>Philadelphia -Press.</i></p> - -<p>Dr. Barth’s work is a magnificent contribution to geographical and -ethnographical science.—<i>N. Y. Independent.</i></p> - -<p>Your curiosity is awakened, step by step, as with diminished resources -he works his way through fanatical and rapacious tribes, ready in -resources and never desponding, and buoyed up by the unconquerable -desire to surpass his predecessors in the thoroughness and in the range -of his discoveries.—<i>Albion.</i></p> - -<p>Among the most wonderful achievements of modern times.—<i>Western -Christian Advocate.</i></p> - -<p>A most valuable contribution to the standard literature of the -world.—<i>Troy Times.</i></p> - -<p class="c"> -Published by HARPER & BROTHERS,<br /> -Franklin Square, New York.<br /> -</p> - -<p>*** <span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span> will send the above Work by Mail, postage paid -(for any distance in the United States under 3000 miles), on receipt of -the Money.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395"></a>{395}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cb">THE</p> - -<p class="cb"><big><big>LAND AND THE BOOK;</big></big></p> - -<p class="c">OR,</p> - -<p class="c">BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATIONS DRAWN FROM THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS, THE SCENES -AND SCENERY OF THE HOLY LAND.</p> - -<p class="c"><span class="smcap">By</span> <big>W. M. THOMSON, D.D.,</big><br /> -Twenty-five Years a Missionary of the A.B.C.F.M. -in Syria and Palestine.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="hang">With two elaborate Maps of Palestine, an accurate Plan of -Jerusalem, and <i>several hundred Engravings</i> representing the -Scenery, Topography, and Productions of the Holy Land, and the -Costumes, Manners, and Habits of the People. Two elegant Large 12mo -Volumes, Muslin, $3 50; Half Calf, $5 20.</p></div> - -<p>The Land of the Bible is part of the Divine Revelation. It bears -<i>testimony</i> essential to faith, and gives <i>lessons</i> invaluable in -exposition. Both have been written all over the fair face of Palestine, -and deeply graven there by the finger of God in characters of living -light. To collect this testimony and popularize these lessons for the -biblical student of every age and class is the prominent design of this -work. For <i>twenty-five years</i> the Author has been permitted to read the -Book by the light which the Land sheds upon it; and he now hands over -this friendly torch to those who have not been thus favored. In this -attempt the pencil has been employed to aid the pen. A large number of -pictorial illustrations are introduced, many of them original, and all -giving a genuine and true representation of things in the actual Holy -Land of the present day. They are not fancy sketches of imaginary scenes -thrown in to embellish the page, but pictures of living manners, studies -of sacred topography, or exponents of interesting biblical allusions, -which will add greatly to the value of the work.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="c"><i>Published by HARPER & BROTHERS,<br /> Franklin Square, New York.</i></p></div> - -<p class="c"><span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span> will send the above Work by Mail, postage paid, to any -part of the United States, on receipt of the Money.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396"></a>{396}</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="eng"><big><big>Harper’s New Catalogue.</big></big></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">A new Descriptive Catalogue of Harper & Brothers’ Publications</span> is now -ready for distribution, and may be obtained gratuitously on application -to the Publishers personally, or by letter enclosing <span class="smcap">Six Cents</span> in -postage stamps.</p> - -<p>The attention of gentlemen, in town or country, designing to form -Libraries or enrich their literary collections, is respectfully invited -to this Catalogue, which will be found to comprise a large proportion of -the standard and most esteemed works in English -Literature—<span class="smcap">COMPREHENDING MORE THAN TWO THOUSAND VOLUMES</span>—which are -offered in most instances at less than one half the cost of similar -productions in England.</p> - -<p>To Librarians and others connected with Colleges, Schools, etc., who may -not have access to a reliable guide in forming the true estimate of -literary productions, it is believed the present Catalogue will prove -especially valuable as a manual of reference.</p> - -<p>To prevent disappointment, it is suggested that, whenever books can not -be obtained through any bookseller or local agent, applications with -remittance should be addressed direct to the Publishers, which will be -promptly attended to.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<i>Franklin Square, New York.</i><br /> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Laird of Norlaw; A Scottish Story, by -Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAIRD OF NORLAW *** - -***** This file should be named 54053-h.htm or 54053-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/0/5/54053/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions 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. Special rules, -set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to -copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to -protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project -Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you -charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you -do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the -rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose -such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and -research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do -practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is -subject to the trademark license, especially commercial -redistribution. - - - -*** START: FULL LICENSE *** - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project -Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at -http://gutenberg.org/license). - - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy -all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. -If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the -terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or -entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement -and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" -or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the -collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an -individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are -located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from -copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative -works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg -are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project -Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by -freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of -this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with -the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by -keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project -Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in -a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check -the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement -before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or -creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project -Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning -the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United -States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate -access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently -whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, -copied or distributed: - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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/license - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived -from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is -posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied -and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees -or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work -with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the -work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 -through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the -Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or -1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional -terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked -to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the -permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any -word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or -distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than -"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version -posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), -you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a -copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon -request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other -form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided -that - -- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is - owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he - has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the - Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments - must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you - prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax - returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and - sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the - address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to - the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." - -- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or - destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium - and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of - Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any - money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days - of receipt of the work. - -- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set -forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from -both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael -Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the -Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm -collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain -"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or -corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual -property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a -computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by -your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with -your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with -the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a -refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity -providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to -receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy -is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further -opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER -WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO -WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. -If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the -law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be -interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by -the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any -provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance -with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, -promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, -harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, -that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do -or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm -work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any -Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. - - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers -including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists -because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from -people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. -To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 -and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive -Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at -http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent -permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. -Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered -throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at -809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email -business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact -information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official -page at http://pglaf.org - -For additional contact information: - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To -SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any -particular state visit http://pglaf.org - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. -To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate - - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic -works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm -concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared -with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project -Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. - - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. -unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - -</pre> - -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/54053-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/54053-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9f7b47b..0000000 --- a/old/54053-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null |
