CHAPTER XVIII.

Other People’s Affairs.

Thus, after the long lull that had happened in his life, Edgar found himself deep in occupation, intermingled in the concerns of many different people. Arthur Arden had come with him to town, and, by some strange operation of feeling, which it is difficult to follow, this man, in his wretchedness, clung to Edgar, who might almost be supposed the means of bringing it about. All his old jealousy, his old enmity, seemed to have disappeared. He who had harshly declined to admit that the relationship of habit and affection between his wife and her supposed brother must survive even when it was known that no tie of blood existed between them, acknowledged the fact now without question, almost with eagerness, speaking to the man he had hated, and disowned all connection with, of “your sister,” holding by him as a link between himself and the wife he had so nearly lost. This revolution was scarcely less wonderful than the position in which Edgar found himself in respect to Clare. Not a reference to their old affection had come from her lips, not a word of present regard. She had scarcely even given him her hand voluntarily; but she had accepted him at once and instinctively as her natural support, her “next friend,” whose help and protection she took as a matter of course. Clare treated him as if his brotherhood had never been questioned, as if he was her natural and legal defender and sustainer: up to this moment she had not even opened her mind to him, or told him what she meant to do, but she had so far accepted his guidance, and still more accepted his support, without thanking him or asking him for it, as a matter of course.

Edgar knew Clare too well to believe that when the marriage ceremony should be repeated between her husband and herself—which was the next step to be taken—their life would simply flow on again in the same channel, as if this tragical interruption to its course had never occurred. This was what Arthur Arden fondly pictured to himself, and a great many floating intentions of being a better husband, and a better man, after the salvation which had suddenly come to him, in the very moment of his need, were in his mind, softening the man imperceptibly by their influence. But Edgar did not hope for this; he made as little answer as he could to Arthur’s anticipations of the future, to his remorseful desire to be friendly.

“After it’s all over you must not drift out of sight again,—you must come to us when you can,” Arden said. “You’ve always behaved like a brick in all circumstances; I see it now. You’ve been my best friend in this terrible business. I wish I may never have a happy hour if I ever think otherwise of you than as Clare’s brother again.”

All this Edgar did his best to respond to, but he could not but feel that Arden’s hopes were fallacies. Clare had given him no insight into her plans, perhaps, even, had not formed any. She had gone back into the house at Edgar’s bidding; she had dully accepted the fact that the situation was altered, and consented to the private repetition of her marriage; but she had never looked at her husband, never addressed him; and Edgar felt, with a shudder, that, though she would accept such atonement as was possible, she was far, very far, from having arrived at the state of mind which could forgive the injury. That a woman so deeply outraged should continue tranquilly the life she had lived before she was aware of the outrage, was, he felt, impossible. He had done what he could to moderate Arden’s expectations on this point, but with no effect; and, as he did not really know, but merely feared, some proceeding on Clare’s part which should shatter the expected happiness of the future, he held his peace, transferring, almost involuntarily, a certain share of his sympathy to the guilty man, whose guilt was not to escape retribution.

Edgar’s next business was with Mr. Tottenham, who, all unaware of Harry’s folly, showed to him, with much pleasure, and some self-satisfaction, the moderate and sensible letter of Mr. Thornleigh above referred to, in which he expressed his natural regret, etc., but requested to know what the young man’s prospects were, and what he meant to do. Then Edgar produced once more Lord Newmarch’s letter, and, in the consultation which followed, almost forgot, for the moment, all that was against him. For Mr. Tottenham thought it a good opening enough, and began, with sanguine good-nature, to prophesy that Edgar would soon distinguish himself—that he would be speedily raised from post to post, and that, “with the excellent connections and interest you will have,” advancement of every kind would be possible.

“Why, in yesterday’s Gazette,” said Mr. Tottenham, “no farther gone, there is an appointment of Brown, Consul-General, to be Ambassador somewhere—Argentine States, or something of that sort. And why should not you do as well as Brown? A capital opening! I should accept it at once.”

And Edgar did so forthwith, oblivious of the circumstance that the Consulship, such as it was, the first step upon the ladder, had been, not offered, but simply suggested to him—nay, scarcely even that. This little mistake, however, was the best thing that could have happened; for Lord Newmarch, though at first deeply puzzled and embarrassed by the warm acceptance and thanks he received, nevertheless was ashamed to fall back again, and, bestirring himself, did secure the appointment for his friend. It was not very great in point of importance, but it was ideal in point of situation; and when, a few days after, Edgar saw his name gazzetted as Her Majesty’s Consul at Spezzia, the emotions which filled his mind were those of happiness as unmingled as often falls to the lot of man. He was full of cares and troubles at that particular moment, and did not see his way at all clear before him; but he suddenly felt as a boat might feel (if a boat could feel anything) which has been lying high and dry ashore, when at last the gentle persuasion of the sunshiny waves reaches it, lifts, floats it off into soft, delicious certainty of motion; or perhaps it would be more correct to say, as shipwrecked sailors might feel when they see their cobbled boat, their one ark of salvation, float strong and steady on the treacherous sea. This was the little ark of Edgar’s happier fortunes, and lo! at last it was afloat!

After he had written his letter to Lord Newmarch, he went down to Tottenham’s, from which he had been absent for a fortnight, to the total neglect of Phil’s lessons, and Lady Mary’s lectures, and everything else that had been important a fortnight ago. He went by railway, and they met him at the station, celebrating his return by a friendly demonstration. On the road by the green they met Harry, walking towards Mrs. Sims’ lodgings. He gave Edgar a very cold greeting.

“Oh! I did not know you were coming back,” he said, and pursued his way, affecting to take a different turn, as long as they were in sight.

Harry’s countenance was lowering and overcast, his address scarcely civil. He felt his interests entirely antagonistic to those of his sister and her betrothed. The children burst into remarks upon his bearishness as they went on.

“He was bearable at first,” said Phil, “but since you have been away, and while papa has been away, he has led us such a life, Mr. Earnshaw.”

“He is always in the village—always, always in the village; and Sibby says she hates him!” cried little Molly, who was enthusiastic for her last new friend.

“Hush, children—don’t gossip,” said their mother; but she too had a cloud upon her brow.

Then Edgar had a long conversation with Lady Mary in the conservatory, under the palm-tree, while the children had tea. He told her of all his plans and prospects, and of the Consulship, upon which he reckoned so confidently, and which did not, to Lady Mary’s eyes, look quite so fine an opening as it seemed to her husband.

“Of course, then, we must give you up,” she said, regretfully; “but I think Lord Newmarch might have done something better for an old friend.”

Something better! The words seemed idle words to Edgar, so well pleased was he with his prospective appointment. Then he told her of Mr. Thornleigh’s letter, which was so much more gracious than he could have hoped for; and then the cloud returned to Lady Mary’s brow.

“I am not at all easy about Harry,” she said. “Mr. Earnshaw—no, I will call you Edgar, because I have always heard you called Edgar, and always wanted to call you so; Edgar, then—now don’t thank me, for it is quite natural—tell me one thing. Have you any influence with your cousin?”

“The doctor?”

“No, not the doctor; if I wanted anything of him, I should ask it myself. His sister; she is a very beautiful young woman, and, so far as I can see, very sensible and well-behaved, and discreet—no one can say a word against her; but if you had any influence with her, as being her cousin——”

“Is it about Harry?” asked Edgar, anxiously.

“About Harry!—how do you know?—have you heard anything?”

“Harry has told his mother,” said Edgar; “they are all in despair.”

“Oh! I knew it!” cried Lady Mary. “I told Tom so, and he would not believe me. What, has it come so far as that, that he has spoken to his mother? Then, innocent as she looks, she must be a designing creature, after all.”

“He may not have spoken to her, though he has spoken to his mother,” said Edgar. Was it the spell of kindred blood working in him? for he did not like this to be said of Margaret, and instinctively attempted to defend her.

Lady Mary shook her head.

“Do you think any man would be such a fool as to speak to his parents before he had spoken to the woman?” she said. “One never knows how such a boy as Harry may act, but I should not have thought that likely. However, you have not answered my question. Do you think you have any influence, being her cousin, over her?”

“I do not know her,” said Edgar. “I have only spoken to her once.”

Would this be sufficient defence for him? he wondered, or must he hear himself again appealed to, to interfere in another case so like his own?

“That is very unfortunate,” said Lady Mary, with a sigh; but, happily for him, she there left the subject. “I cannot say that she has ever given him any encouragement,” she said presently, in a subdued tone. Margaret had gained her point; she was acquitted of this sin, at least; but Lady Mary pronounced the acquittal somewhat grudgingly. Perhaps, when a young man is intent upon making a foolish marriage, it is the best comfort to his parents and friends to be able to feel that she is artful and designing, and has led the poor boy away.

Edgar went out next morning to see his cousins; he announced his intention at the breakfast-table, to make sure of no encounter with poor Harry, who was flighty and unpleasant in manner, and seemed to have some wish to fix a quarrel upon him. Harry looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed his mind, and said nothing. And Edgar went his way—hoping the doctor might not be gone upon his round of visits, yet hoping he might; not wishing to see Margaret, and yet wishing to see her—in a most uncomfortable and painful state of mind. To his partial surprise and partial relief, he met her walking along the green towards the avenue with her little girl. It was impossible not to admire her grace, her beautiful, half-pathetic countenance, and the gentle maternity of the beautiful young woman never separate from the beautiful child, who clung to her with a fondness and dependence which no indifferent mother ever earns. She greeted Edgar with the sudden smile which was like sunshine on her face, and held out her hand to him with frank sweetness.

“I am very glad you have come back,” she said. “It has been unfortunate for us your being away.”

“Only unfortunate for me, I think,” said Edgar, “for you seem to have made friends with my friends as much as if I had been here to help it on. Is this Sibby? I have heard of nothing but Sibby since I came back.”

“Lady Mary has been very kind,” said Margaret, with, he thought, a faint flush over her pale, pretty cheek.

“And you like the place? And Dr. Charles has got acquainted with his patients?”

“My brother would like to tell you all that himself,” said Margaret; “but I want to speak to you of Loch Arroch, and of the old house, and dear granny. Did you know that she was ill again?”

Margaret looked at him with her beautiful eyes full of tears. Edgar was not for a moment unfaithful to his Gussy, but after that look I believe he would have dared heaven and earth, and Mr. Thornleigh, rather than interfere with anything upon which this lovely creature had set her heart. Could it be that she had set her heart on Harry Thornleigh, he asked himself with a groan?

“No,” he said; “they write to me very seldom. When did you hear?”

“Mr. Earnshaw, I have had a letter this morning—it has shaken me very much,” said Margaret. “Will you come to the cottage with me till I tell you? Do you remember?—but you could not remember—it was before your time.”

“What?—I may have heard of it—something which agitates you?”

“Not painfully,” said Margaret, with a faltering voice and unsteady smile; “gladly, if I could put faith in it. Jeanie had a brother that was lost at sea, or we thought he was lost. It was his loss that made her so—ill; and she took you for him—you are like him, Mr. Earnshaw. Well,” said Margaret, two tears dropping out of her eyes, “they have had a letter—he is not dead, he is perhaps coming home.”

“What has become of him, then?—and why did he never send word?” cried Edgar. “How heartless, how cruel!”

Margaret laid her hand softly on his arm.

“Ah! you must not say that!” she cried. “Sailors do not think so much of staying away a year or two. He was shipwrecked, and lost everything, and he could not come home in his poverty upon granny. Oh! if we were all as thoughtful as that! Mr. Earnshaw, sailors are not just to be judged like other men.”

“He might have killed his poor little sister!” cried Edgar, indignantly; “that is a kind of conduct for which I have no sympathy. And granny, as you call her——”

“Ah! you never learnt to call her granny,” said Margaret, with animation. “Dear granny has never been strong since her last attack—the shock, though it was joy, was hard upon her. And she was afraid for Jeanie; but Jeanie has stood it better than anybody could hope; and perhaps he is there now,” said Margaret, with once more the tears falling suddenly from her eyes.

“You know him?” said Edgar.

“Oh! know him! I knew him like my own heart!” cried Margaret, a flush of sudden colour spreading over her pale face. She did not look up, but kept her eyes upon the ground, going softly along by Edgar’s side, her beautiful face full of emotion. “He would not write till he had gained back again what was lost. He is coming home captain of his ship,” she said, with an indescribable soft triumph.

At that moment a weight was lifted off Edgar’s mind—it was as when the clouds suddenly break, and the sun bursts forth. He too could have broken forth into songs or shoutings, to express his sense of release. “I am glad that everything is ending so happily,” he said, in a subdued tone. He did not trust himself to look at her, any more than Margaret could trust herself to look at him. When they reached the cottage, she went in, and got her letter, and put it into his hand to read; while she herself played with Sibby, throwing her ball for her, entering into the child’s glee with all the lightness of a joyful heart. Edgar could not but look at her, between the lines of Jeanie’s simple letter. He seemed to himself so well able to read the story, and to understand what Margaret’s soft blush and subdued excitement of happiness meant.

And yet Harry Thornleigh was still undismissed, and hoped to win her. He met him as he himself returned to the house. Harry was still uncivil, and had barely acknowledged Edgar’s presence at breakfast; but he stopped him now, almost with a threatening look.

“Look here, Earnshaw,” he said, “I daresay they told you what is in my mind. I daresay they tried to set you over me as a spy. Don’t you think I’ll bear it. I don’t mean to be tricked out of my choice by any set of women, and I have made my choice now.”

“Do you know you are mighty uncivil?” said Edgar. “If you had once thought of what you were saying, you would not venture upon such a word as spy to me.”

“Venture!” cried the young man. Then, calming himself, “I didn’t mean it—of course I beg your pardon. But these women are enough to drive a man frantic; and I’ve made my choice, let them do what they will, and let my father rave as much as he pleases.”

“This is not a matter which I can enter into,” said Edgar; “but just one word. Does the lady know how far you have gone?—and has she made her choice as well as you?”

Harry’s face lighted up, then grew dark and pale.

“I thought so once,” he said, “but now I cannot tell. She is as changeable as—as all women are,” he broke off, with a forced laugh. “It’s their way.”

Edgar did not see Harry again till after dinner, and then he was stricken with sympathy to see how ill he looked. What had happened? But there was no time or opportunity to inquire what had happened to him. That evening the mail brought him a letter from Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, begging him, if he wanted to see his grandmother alive, to come at once. She was very ill, and it was not possible that she could live more than a day or two. He made his arrangements instantly to go to her, starting next morning, for he was already too late to catch the night mail. When he set out at break of day, in order to be in time for the early train from London, he found Margaret already at the station. She had been summoned also. He had written the night before a hurried note to Gussy, announcing his sudden call to Loch Arroch, but he was not aware then that he was to have companionship on his journey. He put his cousin into the carriage, not ill-pleased to have her company, and then, leaving many misconceptions behind him, hurried away, to wind up in Scotland one portion of his strangely-mingled life.

CHAPTER XIX.

Margaret.

During all the time of Edgar’s absence, it would be useless to deny that Harry’s devotion suggested very clearly to the penniless young widow, the poor doctor’s sister, such an advancement in life as might well have turned any woman’s head. She who had nothing, who had to make a hard light to get the ends to meet for the doctor and herself, who had for years exercised all the shifts of genteel poverty, and who, before that, had been trained to a homely life anything but genteel—had suddenly set open to her the gates of that paradise of wealth, and rank, and luxury, which is all the more ecstatic to the poor for being unknown. She, too, might “ride in her carriage,” might wear diamonds, might go to Court, might live familiarly with the great people of the land, like Lady Mary; she who had been bred at the Castle Farm on Loch Arroch, and had known what it was to “supper the beasts,” and milk the kye; she who had not disdained the household work of her own little house, in the days of the poor young Glasgow clerk whom she had married. There had been some natural taste for elegance in the brother and sister, both handsome young people, which had developed into gentility by reason of his profession, and their escape from all the associations of home, where no one could have been deceived as to their natural position. But Dr. Charles had made no money anywhere; he had nothing but debts; though from the moment when he had taken his beautiful sister to be his housekeeper and companion, he had gradually risen in pretension and aim. Their transfer to England, a step which always sounds very grand in homely Scotch ears, had somehow dazzled the whole kith and kin. Even Robert Campbell, at Loch Arroch Head, had been induced to draw his cautious purse, and contribute to this new establishment. And now the first fruits of the venture hung golden on the bough—Margaret had but to put forth her hand and pluck them; nay, she had but to be passive, and receive them in her lap. She had held Harry back from a premature declaration of his sentiments, but she had done this so sweetly that Harry had been but more and more closely enveloped in her toils; and she had made up her mind that his passion was to be allowed to ripen, and that finally she would accept him, and reign like a princess, and live like Lady Mary, surrounded by all the luxuries which were sweet to her soul.

It is not necessary, because one is born poor, that one should like the conditions of that lowly estate, or have no taste for better things. On the contrary, Margaret was born with a love of all that was soft, and warm, and easy, and luxurious. She loved these things and prized them; she felt it in her to be a great lady; her gentle mind was such that she would have made an excellent princess, all the more sweet, gracious, and good the less she was crossed, and the more she had her own way.

I am disposed to think, for my own part, that for every individual who is mellowed and softened by adversity, there are at least ten in the world whom prosperity would mollify and bring to perfection; but then that latter process of development is more difficult to attain to. Margaret felt that it was within her reach. She would have done nothing unwomanly to secure her lover; nay, has it not been already said that she had made up her mind to be doubly prudent, and to put it in no one’s power to say that she had “given him encouragement?” But with that modest reserve, she had made up her mind to Harry’s happiness and her own. In her heart she had already consented, and regarded the bargain as concluded. She would have made him a very sweet wife, and Harry would have been happy. No doubt he was sufficiently a man of the world to have felt a sharp twinge sometimes, when his wife’s family was brought in question; but he thought nothing of that in his hot love, and I believe she would have made him so good a wife, and been so sweet to Harry, that this drawback would have detracted very little from his happiness.

So things were going on, ripening pleasantly towards a dénouement which could not be very far off, when that unlucky letter arrived from Loch Arroch, touching the re-appearance of Jeanie’s brother, the lost sailor, who had been Margaret’s first love. This letter upset her, poor soul, amid all her plans and hopes. If it had not, however, unluckily happened that the arrival of Edgar coincided with her receipt of the letter, and that both together were followed by the expedition to Loch Arroch, to the grandmother’s deathbed, I believe the sailor’s return would only have caused a little tremulousness in Margaret’s resolution, a momentary shadow upon her sweet reception of Harry, but that nothing more would have followed, and all would have gone well. Dear reader, forgive me if I say all would have gone well; for, to tell the truth, though it was so much against Edgar’s interests, and though it partook of the character of a mercenary match, and of everything that is most repugnant to romance, I cannot help feeling a little pang of regret that any untoward accident should have come in Margaret’s way. Probably the infusion of her good, wholesome Scotch blood, her good sense, and her unusual beauty, would have done a great deal more good to the Thornleigh race than a Right Honourable grandfather; and she would have made such a lovely great lady, and would have enjoyed her greatness so much (far more than any Lady Mary ever could enjoy it), and been so good a wife, and so sweet a mother! That she should give up all this at the first returning thrill of an old love, is perhaps very much more poetical and elevating; but I who write am not so young or so romantic as I once was, and I confess that I look upon the interruption of the story, which was so clearly tending towards another end, with a great deal of regret. Even Edgar, when he found her ready to accompany him to Scotland, felt a certain excitement which was not unmingled with regret. He felt by instinct that Harry’s hopes were over, and this thought gave him a great sense of personal comfort and relief. It chased away the difficulties out of his own way; but at the same time he could not but ask himself what was the inducement for which she was throwing away all the advantages that Harry Thornleigh could give her?—the love of a rough sailor, captain at the best, of a merchant-ship, who had been so little thoughtful of his friends as to leave them three or four years without any news of him, and who probably loved her no longer, if he had ever loved her. It was all to Edgar’s advantage that she should come away at this crisis, and what was it to him if she threw her life away for a fancy? But Edgar had never been in the way of thinking of himself only, and the mingled feelings in his mind found utterance in a vague warning. He did not know either her or her circumstances well enough to venture upon more plain speech.

“Do you think you are right to leave your brother just at this moment, when he is settling down?” Edgar said.

A little cloud rose upon Margaret’s face. Did not she know better than anyone how foolish it was?

“Ah!” she said, “but if granny is dying, as they say, I must see her,” and the ready tears sprung to her eyes.

Edgar was so touched by her looks, that, though it was dreadfully against his own interest, he tried again.

“Of all the women in the world,” he said, “she is the most considerate, the most understanding. It is a long and an expensive journey, and your life, she would say, is of more importance than her dying.”

He ventured to look her in the face as he spoke these words, and Margaret grew crimson under his gaze.

“I do not see how it can affect my life, if I am away for a week or two,” she said lightly, yet with a tone which showed him that her mind was made up. Perhaps he thought she was prudently retiring to be quit of Harry—perhaps withdrawing from a position which became untenable; or why might it not be pure gratitude and love to the only mother she had known in her life? Anyhow, whatever might be the reason, there was no more to be said.

I will not attempt to describe the feelings of Harry Thornleigh, when he found that Margaret had gone away, and gone with Edgar. He came back to Lady Mary raving and white with rage, to pour out upon her the first outburst of his passion.

“The villain!—the traitor!—the low, sneaking rascal!” Harry cried, foaming. “He has made a catspaw of Gussy and a fool of me. We might have known it was all a lie and pretence. He has carried her off under our very eyes.”

Even Lady Mary was staggered, strong as was her faith in Edgar; and Harry left her doubtful, and not knowing what to make of so strange a story, and rushed up to town, to carry war and devastation into his innocent family. He went to Berkeley Square, and flung open the door of the morning-room, where they were all seated, and threw himself among them like a thunderbolt. Gussy had received Edgar’s note a little while before, and she had been musing over it, pensive, not quite happy, not quite pleased, and saying to herself how very wrong and how very foolish she was. Of course, if his old mother were dying, he must go to her—he had no choice; but Gussy, after waiting so long for him, and proving herself so exceptionally faithful, felt that she had a certain right to Edgar’s company now, and to have him by her side, all the more that Lady Augusta had protested that she did not think it would be right to permit it in the unsettled state of his circumstances, and of the engagement generally. To have your mother hesitate, and declare that she does not think she ought to admit him, and then to have your lover abstain from asking admission, is hard upon a girl. Lord Granton (though, to be sure, he was a very young man, with nothing to do) was dangling constantly about little Mary; and Gussy felt that Edgar’s many businesses, which led him here, and led him there, altogether out of her way, were inopportune, to say the least.

Harry assailed his mother fiercely, without breath or pause. He accused her of sending “that fellow” down to Tottenham’s, on purpose to interfere with him, to be a spy upon him, to ruin all his hopes.

“I have seen a change since ever he came!” he cried wildly. “If it is your doing, mother, I will never forgive you! Don’t think I am the sort of man to take such a thing without resenting it! When you see me going to the devil, you will know whose fault it is. Her fault?—no, she has been deceived. You have sent that fellow down upon her with his devilish tongue, to persuade her and delude her. It is he that has taken her away. No, it is not her fault, it is your fault!” cried Harry. “I should have grown a good man. I should have given up everything she did not like; and now you have made up some devilish conspiracy, and you have taken her away.”

“Harry, do you remember that you are talking to your mother?” cried Lady Augusta, with trembling lips.

“My mother! A mother helps one, loves one, makes things easy for one!” he cried. “That’s the ordinary view. Excuses you, and does her best for you, not her worst; when you take up your rôle as you ought, I’ll take mine. But since you’ve set your mind on thwarting, deceiving, injuring me in my best hopes!” cried Harry, white with rage, “stealing from me the blessing I had almost got, that I would have got, had you stopped your d——d interference!”

His voice broke here; he had not meant to go so far. As a gentleman at least, he ought, he knew, to use no oath to ladies; but poor Harry was beside himself. He stopped short, half-appalled, half-satisfied that he had spoken his mind.

“Harry, how dare you?” cried Gussy, facing him. “Do you not see how you are wounding mamma? Has there ever been a time when she has not stood up for you? And now because she is grieved to think that you are going to ruin yourself, unwilling that you should throw yourself away——”

“All this comes beautifully from you!” cried Harry, with a sneer—“you who have never thought of throwing yourself away. But I am sorry for you, Gussy. I don’t triumph over you. You have been taken in, poor girl, the worst of the two!”

Gussy was shaken for the moment by his change of tone, by his sudden compassion. She felt as if the ground had suddenly been cut from under her feet, and a dizzy sense of insecurity came over her. She looked at her mother, half frightened, not knowing what to think or say.

“When you have come to your senses, Harry, you will perhaps tell us the meaning of this!” cried Lady Augusta. “Girls, it is time for you to keep your appointment with Elise. Ada will go with you to-day, for I don’t feel quite well. If you have anything to say to me another time,” she added with dignity, addressing her son, “especially if it is of a violent description, you will be good enough to wait until Mary has left the room. I do not choose that she should carry away into her new family the recollection of brutality at home.”

Lady Augusta’s grand manner was known in the household. Poor Gussy, though sad and sorry enough, found it difficult to keep from a laugh in which there would have been but little mirth. But Harry’s perceptions were not so lively, or his sense of the ridiculous so strong. He was somehow cowed by the idea of his little sister carrying a recollection of brutality into so new and splendid a connection as the Marquis of Hauteville’s magnificent family.

“Oh, bosh!” he said; but it was almost under his breath. And then he told them of Edgar’s departure from Tottenham’s, and of the discovery he had made that Margaret had gone too. “You set him on, I suppose, to cross me,” said Harry; “because I let you know there was one woman in the world I could fancy—therefore you set him on to take her from me.”

“Oh! Harry, how can you say so? I set him on!” cried Lady Augusta. “What you are telling me is all foolishness. You are both of you frightening yourselves about nothing. If there is anyone dying, and they were sent for, there is no harm in two cousins travelling together. Harry, did this lady—know what your feelings were?”

“I suppose,” said Harry, after a moment’s hesitation, “women are not such fools but that they must know.”

“Then you had said nothing to her?” said his mother, pursuing the subject. Perhaps she permitted a little gleam of triumph to appear in her eye, for he jumped up instantly, more excited than ever.

“I am going after them,” he said. “I don’t mean to be turned off without an answer. Whether she has me or not, she shall decide herself; it shall not be done by any plot against us. This is what you drive me to, with your underhand ways. I shall not wait a day longer. I’ll go down to Scotland to-night.”

“Do not say anything to him, Gussy,” cried Lady Augusta. “Let him accuse his mother and sister of underhand ways, if he likes. And you can go, sir, if you please, on your mad errand. If the woman is a lady, she will know what to think of your suspicions. If she is not a lady——”

“What then?” he cried, in high wrath.

“Probably she will accept you,” said Lady Augusta, pale and grand. “I do not understand the modes of action of such people. You will have had your way, in any case—and then you will hear what your father has to say.”

Harry flung out of the house furious. He was very unhappy, poor fellow! He was chilled and cast down, in spite of himself, by his mother’s speech. Why should he follow Margaret as if he suspected her? What right had he to interfere with her actions? If he went he might be supposed to insult her—if he stayed he should lose her. What was he to do? Poor Harry!—if Dr. Murray had not been so obnoxious to him, I think he would have confided his troubles to, and asked advice from, Margaret’s brother; but Dr. Charles had replied to his inquiry with a confidential look, and a smile which made him furious.

“She will be back in a week or two. I am not afraid just now, in present circumstances, that she will forsake me for long,” he had said. “We shall soon have her back again.”

We!—whom did the fellow mean by we? Harry resolved on the spot that, if she ever became his wife, she should give up this cad of a brother. Which I am glad to say, for her credit, was a thing that Margaret would never have consented to do.

But the Thornleigh family was not happy that day. Gussy, though she had never doubted Edgar before, yet felt cold shivers of uncertainty shoot through her heart now. Margaret was beautiful, and almost all women exaggerate the power of beauty. They give up instinctively before it, with a conviction, which is so general as to be part of the feminine creed, that no man can resist that magic power. No doubt Edgar meant to do what was best; no doubt, she said to herself, that in his heart he was true—but with a lovely woman there, so lovely, and with claims upon his kindness, who could wonder if he went astray? And this poor little scanty note which advised Gussy of his necessary absence, said not a word about Margaret. She read it over and over again, finding it each time less satisfactory. At the first reading it had been disappointing, but nothing more; now it seemed cold, unnecessarily hurried, careless. She contrasted it with a former one he had written to her, and it seemed to her that no impartial eye could mistake the difference. She sympathized with her brother, and yet she envied him, for he was a man, and could go and discover what was false and what was true; but she had to wait and be patient, and betray to no one what was the matter, though her heart might be breaking—yes, though her heart might be breaking! For, after all, might it not be said that it was she who made the first overtures to Edgar, not he to her? It might be pity only for her long constancy that had drawn him to her, and the sight of this woman’s beautiful face might have melted away that false sentiment. When the thoughts once fall to such a catastrophe as this, the velocity with which they go (does not science say so?) doubles moment by moment. I cannot tell you to what a pitch of misery Gussy had worn herself before the end of that long—terribly long, silent, and hopeless Spring day.

CHAPTER XX.

Loch Arroch once more.

“You’re in time—oh ay, you’re in time; but little more,” he said, and went on at intervals in a somewhat solemn monologue, as they drove down the side of the grey and misty loch, under dripping cloaks and umbrellas. “She’s been failing ever since the new year,” he said. “It’s not to be wondered at, at her age; neither should we sorrow, as them that are without hope. She’s lived a good and useful life, and them that she brought into the world have been enabled to smooth her path out of it. We’ve nothing to murmur at; she’ll be real glad to see you both—you, Marg’ret, and you, Mr. Edgar. Often does she speak of you. It’s a blessing of Providence that her life has been spared since the time last Autumn when we all thought she was going. She’s had a real comfortable evening time, with the light in it, poor old granny, as she had a right to, if any erring mortal can be said to have a right. And now, there’s Willie restored, that was thought to be dead and gone.”

“Has Willie come back?” asked Margaret hastily.

“He’s expected,” said Robert Campbell, with a curious dryness, changing the lugubrious tone of his voice; “and I hope he’ll turn out an altered man; but it’s no everyone going down to the sea in ships that sees the wisdom o’ the Lord in the great waters, as might be hoped.”

The rain blew in their faces, the mists came down over the great mountain range which separates Loch Arroch from Loch Long, and the Castle Farm lay damp and lonely in its little patch of green, with the low ruins on the other side of the house shining brown against the cut fields and the slaty blueness of the loch. It was not a cheerful prospect, nor was it cheerful to enter the house itself, full of the mournful bustle and suppressed excitement of a dying—that high ceremonial, to which, in respect, or reverence, or dire curiosity, or acquisitiveness, more dreadful still, so many spectators throng in the condition of life to which all Mrs. Murray’s household belonged.

In the sitting-room there were several people seated. Mrs. MacColl, the youngest daughter, in her mother’s chair, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and Mrs. Campbell opposite, telling her sister, who had but lately arrived, the details of the illness; Jeanie MacColl, who had come with her mother, sat listlessly at the window, looking out, depressed by the day and the atmosphere, and the low hum of talk, and all the dismal accessories of the scene. James Murray’s wife, a hard-featured, homely person, plain in attire, and less refined in manner than any of the others, went and came between the parlour and the kitchen.

“They maun a’ have their dinner,” she said to Bell, “notwithstanding that there’s a dying person in the house;” and with the corners of her mouth drawn down, and an occasional sigh making itself audible, she laid the cloth, and prepared the table.

Now and then a sound in the room above would make them pause and listen—for, indeed, at any moment they might all be called to witness the exit of the departing soul. Bell’s steps in the kitchen, which were unsubduable in point of sound, ran through all the more gentle stir of this melancholy assembly. Bell was crying over her work, pausing now and then to go into a corner, and wipe the tears from her cheeks; but she could not make her footsteps light, or diminish the heaviness of her shoes.

There was a little additional bustle when the strangers arrived, and Margaret and her child, who were wrapped up in cloaks and shawls, were taken into the kitchen to have their wraps taken off, and to be warmed and comforted. Edgar gave his own dripping coat to Bell, and stole upstairs out of “the family,” in which he was not much at home. Little Jeanie had just left her grandmother’s room on some necessary errand, when he appeared at the top of the stair. She gave a low cry, and the little tray she was carrying trembled in her hands. Her eyes were large with watching, and her cheeks pale, and the sudden sight of him was almost more than the poor little heart could bear; but, after a moment’s silence, Jeanie, with an effort, recovered that command of herself which is indispensable to women.

“Oh! but she’ll be glad—glad to see you!” she cried—“it’s you she’s aye cried for night and day.”

Edgar stood still and held her hand, looking into the soft little face, in which he saw only a tender sorrow, not harsh or despairing, but deep and quiet.

“Before even I speak of her,” he said, “my dear little Jeanie, let me say how happy I am to hear about your brother—he is safe after all.”

Jeanie’s countenance was moved, like the loch under the wind. Her great eyes, diluted with sorrow, swelled full; a pathetic smile came upon her lips.

“He was dead, and is alive again,” she said softly; “he was lost and is found.”

“And now you will not be alone, whatever happens,” said Edgar.

I don’t know what mixture of poignant pain came over the grateful gleam in little Jeanie’s face. She drew her hand from him, and hastened downstairs. “What does it matter to him, what does it matter to anyone, how lonely I am?” was the thought that went through her simple heart. Only one creature in the world had ever cared, chiefly, above everything else, for Jeanie’s happiness, and that one was dying, not to be detained by any anxious hold. Jeanie, simple as she was, knew better than to believe that anything her brother could give her would make up for what she was about to lose.

Edgar went into the sick-room reverently, as if he had been going into a holy place. Mrs. Murray lay propped up with pillows on the bed. For the first moment it seemed to him that the summons which brought him there must have been altogether uncalled for and foolish. The old woman’s eyes were as bright and soft as Jeanie’s; the pale faint pink of a Winter rose lingered in her old cheeks; her face seemed smoothed out of many of the wrinkles which he used to know; and expanded into a calm and largeness of peace which filled him with awe. Was it that all mortal anxieties, all fears and questions of the lingering day were over? By the bedside, in her own chair, sat the minister of the parish, an old man, older than herself, who had known her all her life. He had been reading to her, with a voice more tremulous than her own; and the two old people had been talking quietly and slowly of the place to which they were so near. I have no doubt that in the pulpit old Mr. Campbell, like other divines, talked of golden streets, and harps and crowns, in the New Jerusalem above. But here there was little room for such anticipations. A certain wistfulness was in their old eyes, for the veil before them was still impenetrable, though they were so near it; but they were not excited.

“You’re sure of finding Him,” the old man was saying; “and where He is, there shall His people be.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Murray. “And, oh! it’s strange lying here, no sure sometimes if it’s me or no; no sure which me it is—an auld woman or a young woman; and then to think that a moment will make a’ clear.”

This was the conversation that Edgar interrupted. She held out her withered hand to him with a glow of joy that lighted up her face.

“My son,” she said. There was something in the words that seemed to fill the room, Edgar thought, with an indescribable warmth and fulness of meaning, yet with that strange uncertainty which belongs to the last stage of life. He felt that she might be identifying him, unawares, with some lost son of thirty years ago, not forgetting his own individuality, yet mingling the two in one image. “This is the one I told you of,” she said, turning to her old friend.

“He is like his mother,” said the old man dreamily, putting out a hand of silent welcome.

They might have been two spirits talking over him, Edgar felt, as he stood, young, anxious, careful, and troubled, between the two who were lingering so near the calm echoes of the eternal sea.

“You’ve come soon, soon, my bonnie man,” said Mrs. Murray, holding his hand between hers; “and, oh, but I’m glad to see you! Maybe it’s but a fancy, and maybe it’s sinful vanity, but, minister, when I look at him, he minds me o’ mysel’. Ye’ll say it’s vain—the like of him, a comely young man, and me; but it’s no in the outward appearance. I’ve had much, much to do in my generation,” she said, slowly looking at him, with a smile in her eyes. “And, Edgar, my bonnie lad, I’m thinking, so will you——”

“Don’t think of me,” he said; “but tell me how you are. You are not looking ill, my dear old mother. You will be well again before I go.”

“Oh! ay, I’ll be well again,” she said. “I’m no ill—I’m only slipping away; but I would like to say out my say. The minister has his ain way in the pulpit,” she went on, with a smile of soft humour, and with a slowness and softness of utterance which looked like the very perfection of art to cover her weakness; “and so may I on my deathbed, my bonnie man. As I was saying, I’ve had much, much to do in my generation, Edgar—and so will you.”

She smoothed his hand between her own, caressing it, and looking at him always with a smile.

“And you may say it’s been for little, little enough,” she went on. “Ah! when my bairns were bairns, how muckle I thought of them! I toiled, and I toiled, and rose up early and lay down late, aye thinking they must come to mair than common folk. It was vanity, minister, vanity; I ken that weel. You need not shake your head. God be praised, it’s no a’ in a moment you find out the like o’ that. But I’m telling you, Edgar, to strengthen your heart. They’re just decent men and decent women, nae mair—and I’ve great, great reason to be thankful; and it’s you, my bonnie man, the seed that fell by the wayside—none o’ my training, none o’ my nourishing—— Eh! how the Lord maun smile at us whiles,” she added, slowly, one lingering tear running over her eyelid, “and a’ our vain hopes!—no laugh. He’s ower tender for that.”

“Or weep, rather,” said Edgar, penetrated by sympathetic understanding of the long-concealed, half-fantastic pang of wounded love and pride, which all these years had wrung silently the high heart now so near being quieted for ever. She could smile now at her own expectations and vanities—but what pathos was in the smile!

“We must not put emotions like our own into His mind that’s over all,” said the old minister. “Smiling or weeping’s no for Him.”

“Eh, but I canna see that,” said the old woman. “Would He be kinder down yonder by the Sea of Tiberias than He is up there in His ain house? It’s at hame that the gentle heart’s aye kindest, minister. Mony a day I’ve wondered if it mightna be just like our own loch, that Sea of Galilee—the hills about, and the white towns, as it might be Loch Arroch Head (though it’s more grey than white), and the fishing-cobbles. But I’m wandering—I’m wandering. Edgar, my bonnie man, you’re tired and hungry; go down the stair and get a rest, and something to eat.”

Little though Edgar was disposed to resume the strange relationship which linked him to the little party of homely people in the farm parlour, with whom he felt so little sympathy, he had no alternative but to obey. The early dinner was spread when he got downstairs, and a large gathering of the family assembled round the table. All difference of breeding and position disappear, we are fond of saying, in a common feeling—a touch of nature makes the whole world kin; but Edgar felt, I am afraid, more like the unhappy parson at tithing time, in Cowper’s verses, than any less prosaic hero. With whimsical misery he felt the trouble of being too fine for his company—he, the least fine of mortal men.

Margaret, upon whom his eye lingered almost lovingly, as she appeared among the rest, a lily among briers, was not ill at ease as he was; perhaps, to tell the truth, she was more entirely at her ease than when she had sat, on her guard, and very anxious not to “commit any solecism,” at Lady Mary’s table. To commit a solecism was the bugbear which had always been held before her by her brother, whose fears on this account made his existence miserable. But here Margaret felt the sweetness of her own superiority, without being shocked by the homeliness of the others. She had made a hurried visit to her grandmother, and had cried, and had been comforted, and was now smiling softly at them all, full of content and pleasant anticipations. Jeanie, who never left her grandmother, was not present; the Campbells, the MacColls and the Murrays formed the company, speaking low, yet eating heartily, who thus waited for the death which was about to take place above.

“I never thought you would have got away so easy,” said Mrs. Campbell. “I would scarcely let your uncle write. ‘How can she leave Charles, and come such a far gait, maybe just for an hour or two?’ I said. But here you are, Margaret, notwithstanding a’ my doubts. Ye’ll have plenty of servant-maids, and much confidence in them, that ye can leave so easy from a new place?”

“We are not in our house yet, and we have no servant,” said Margaret. “Charles is in lodgings, with a very decent person. It was easy enough to get away.”

“Lodgings are awful expensive,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I’m sure when we were in lodgings, Mr. MacColl and me, the Exhibition year, I dare not tell what it cost. You should get into a house of your ain—a doctor is never anything thought of without a house of his ain.”

“I hope you found the information correct?” said Robert Campbell, addressing Edgar. “The woman at Dalmally minded the couple fine. It was the same name as your auld friend yonder,” and he pointed with his thumb over his left shoulder, to denote England, or Arden, or the world in general. “One of the family, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! I want to spy into no secrets. Things of this kind are often turning up. They may say what they like against our Scotch law, but it prevents villainy now and then, that’s certain. Were you interested for the man or the leddy, if it’s a fair question? For it all depends upon that.”

“In neither of them,” said Edgar. “It was a third party, whom they had injured, that I cared for. When is—Jeanie’s brother—expected back?”

“He may come either the day or the morn,” said Mrs. MacColl. “I wish he was here, for mother’s very weak. Do you not think she’s weaker since the morning? I thought her looking just wonderful when I saw her first, but at twelve o’clock—What did the doctor think?”

“He canna tell more than the rest of us,” said James Murray’s wife. “She’s going fast—that’s all that can be said.”

And then there was a little pause, and everybody looked sad for the moment. They almost brightened up, however, when some hasty steps were heard overhead, and suspended their knives and forks and listened. Excitement of this kind is hard to support for a stretch. Nature longs for a crisis, even when the crisis is more terrible than their mild sorrow could be supposed to be. When it appeared, however, that nothing was about to happen, and the steps overhead grew still again, they all calmed down and resumed their dinner, which was an alleviation of the tedium.

“She’s made a’ the necessary dispositions?” said James Murray’s wife, interrogatively. “My man is coming by the next steamer. No that there can be very muckle to divide.”

“Nothing but auld napery, and the auld sticks of furniture. It will bring very little—and the cow,” said Robert Campbell. “Jean likes the beast, so we were thinking of making an offer for the cow.”

“You’ll no think I’m wanting to get anything by my mother’s death,” said Mrs. MacColl; “for I’m real well off, the Lord be thanked! with a good man, and the bairns doing well; I would rather give than take, if there was any occasion; but Robert has aye had a great notion of the old clock on the stairs. There’s a song about it that one of the lassies sings. I would like that, to keep the bairns in mind o’ their granny. She’s been a kind granny to them all.”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Margaret and Jeanie MacColl cried a little. The rest of the company shook their heads, and assented in different tones.

“Real good and kind, good and kind to everybody! Ower guid to some that little deserved it!” was the general burden, for family could not but have its subdued fling at family, even in this moment of melancholy accord.

“You are forgetting,” said Edgar, “the only one of the family who is not provided for. What my grandmother leaves should be for little Jeanie. She is the only helpless one of all.”

At this there was a little murmur round the table, of general objection.

“Jeanie has had far more than her share already,” said one.

“She’s no more to granny than all the rest of the bairns,” cried another.

Robert Campbell, the only other man present, raised his voice, and made himself heard.

“Jeanie will never want,” he said; “here’s her brother come back, no very much of a man, but still with heart enough in him to keep her from wanting. Willie’s but a roving lad, but the very rovingness of him is good for this, that he’ll not marry; and Jeanie will have a support, till she gets a man, which is aye on the cards for such a bonnie lass.”

This was said with more than one meaning. Edgar saw Margaret’s eyelashes flutter on her cheek, and she moved a little uneasily, as though unable to restrain all evidence of a painful emotion. Just at this moment, however, a shadow darkened the window. Margaret, more keenly on the watch than anyone, lifted her eyes suddenly, and, rising to her feet, uttered a low cry. A young man in sailor’s dress came into the room, with a somewhat noisy greeting.

“What, all of you here! What luck!” he cried. “But where’s granny?”

He had to be hushed into silence, and to have all the circumstances explained to him; while Jeanie MacColl, half-reluctant to go, was sent upstairs to call her cousin and namesake, and to take her place as nurse for the moment. Edgar called her back softly, and offered himself for this duty. He cast a glance at the returned prodigal as he left the room, the brother for whom Jeanie had taken him, and whom everybody had acknowledged his great likeness to. Edgar looked at him with mingled amusement and curiosity, to see what he himself must look like. Perhaps Willie had not improved during his adventurous cruise. Edgar did not think much of himself as reflected in his image; and how glad he was to escape from his uncle and his aunt, and their family talk, to the stillness and loftier atmosphere of the death-chamber upstairs!

CHAPTER XXI.

The End of a Drama.

I cannot explain more than the words themselves do how this high soul in homely guise felt the pang of her oft-repeated disappointment. Children and grandchildren, she had fed them not with common food, the bread earned with ordinary labours, but with her blood, like the pelican; with the toil of man and woman, of ploughman and hero, all mingled into one. High heart, heroic in her weakness as in her strength! They had turned out but “common folk,” and, at each successive failure, that pang had gone through and through her which common folk could not comprehend. She looked at Willie the last, with a mingled pleasure and anguish in her dying mind—I say pleasure, and not joy, for the signs of his face were not such as to give that last benediction of happiness. Nature was glad in her to see the boy back whom she had long believed at the bottom of the sea; but her dying eyes looked at him wistfully, trying to penetrate his heart, and reach its excuses.

“You should have written, to ease our minds,” she said gently.

“How was I to know you would take it to heart so? Many a man has stayed away longer, and no harm come of it,” cried Willie, self-defending.

The old woman put her hand upon his bended head, as he sat by her bedside, half sullen, half sorry. She stroked his thick curling locks softly, saying nothing for a few long silent moments. She did not blame him further, nor justify him, but simply was silent. Then she said,

“You will take care of your sister, Willie, as I have taken care of her? She has suffered a great deal for you.”

“But oh!” cried Jeanie, when they were alone together—kneeling by the bedside, with her face upon her grandmother’s hand, “you never called him but Willie—you never spoke to him soft and kind, as you used to do.”

“Was I no kind?” said the dying woman, with a mingled smile and sigh; but she kept “My bonnie man!” her one expression of homely fondness, for Edgar’s ear alone.

They had more than one long conversation before her end came. Edgar was always glad to volunteer to relieve the watchers in her room, feeling infinitely more at home there than with the others below. On the night before her death, she told him of the arrangements she had made.

“You gave me your fortune, Edgar, ower rashly, my bonnie man. Your deed was so worded, they tell me, that I might have willed your siller away from you, had I no been an honest woman.”

“And so I meant,” said Edgar, though he was not very clear that at the time he had any meaning at all. “And there is Jeanie——”

“You will not take Jeanie upon you,” said the old woman—“I charge ye not to do it. The best thing her brother can have to steady him and keep him right, is the thought of Jeanie on his hands—Jeanie to look for him when he comes home. You’ll mind what I say. Meddling with nature is aye wrong; I’ve done it in my day, and I’ve repented. To make a’ sure, I’ve left a will, Edgar, giving everything to you—everything. What is it? My auld napery, and the auld, auld remains of my mother’s—most of it her spinning and mine. Give it to your aunts, Edgar, for they’ll think it their due; but keep a something—what are the auld rags worth to you?—keep a little piece to mind me by—a bit of the fine auld damask—so proud as I was of it once! I’ve nae rings nor bonny-dies, like a grand leddy, to keep you in mind of me.”

She spoke so slowly that these words took her a long time to say, and they were interrupted by frequent pauses; but her voice had not the painful labouring which is so common at such a moment; it was very low, but still sweet and clear. Then she put out her hand, still so fine, and soft, and shapely, though the nervous force had gone out of it, upon Edgar’s arm.

“I’m going where I’ll hear nothing of you, maybe, for long,” she said. “I would like to take all the news with me—for there’s them to meet yonder that will want to hear. There’s something in your eye, my bonnie man, that makes me glad. You’re no just as you were—there’s more light and more life. Edgar, you’re seeing your way?”

Then, in the silence of the night, he told her all his tale. The curtains had been drawn aside, that she might see the moon shining over the hills. The clearest still night had succeeded many days of rain; the soft “hus-sh” of the loch lapping upon the beach was the only sound that broke the great calm. He sat between her and that vision of blue sky and silvered hill which was framed in by the window; by his side a little table, with a candle on it, which lighted one side of his face; behind him the shadowy dimness of the death-chamber; above him that gleam of midnight sky. He saw nothing but her face; she looked wistfully, fondly, as on a picture she might never see more, upon all the circumstances of this scene. He told her everything—more than he ever told to mortal after her—how he had been able to serve Clare, and how she had been saved from humiliation and shame; how he had met Gussy, and found her faithful; and how he was happy at the present moment, already loved and trusted, but happier still in the life that lay before him, and the woman who was to share it. She listened to every word with minute attention, following him with little exclamations, and all the interest of youth.

“And oh! now I’m glad!” cried the old woman, making feeble efforts, which wasted almost all the little breath left to her, to draw something from under her pillow—“I’m glad I have something that I never would part with. You’ll take her this, Edgar—you’ll give her my blessing. Tell her my man brought me this when I was a bride. It’s marked out mony a weary hour and mony a light one; it’s marked the time of births and of deaths. When my John died, my man, it stoppit at the moment, and it was long, long or I had the heart to wind it again and set it going. It’s worn now, like me; but you’ll bid her keep it, Edgar, my bonnie man! You’ll give her my blessing, and you’ll bid her to keep it, for your old mother’s sake.”

Trembling, she put into his hand an old watch, which he had often seen, but never before so near. It was large and heavy, in an old case of coppery gold, half hid under partially-effaced enamel, wanting everything that a modern watch should have, but precious as an antiquity and work of art.

“A trumpery thing that cost five pounds would please them better,” she said. “It’s nae value, but it’s old, old, and came to John from a far-off forbear. You’ll give it to her with my blessing. Ay, blessings on her!—blessings on her sweet face!—for sweet it’s bound to be; and blessings on her wise heart, that’s judged weel! eh, but I’m glad to have one thing to send her. And, Edgar, now I’ve said all my say, turn me a little, that I may see the moon. Heaven’s but a step on such a bonnie night. If I’m away before the morning, you’ll shed nae tear, but praise the Lord the going’s done. No, dinna leave it; take it away. Put it into your breast-pocket, where you canna lose it. And now say fare-ye-weel to your old mother, my bonnie man.”

These were the last words she said to him alone. When some one came to relieve him, Edgar went out with a full heart into the silvery night. Not a sound of humanity broke the still air, which yet had in it a sharpness of the spring frosts. The loch rose and fell upon its pebbles, as if it hushed its own very waves in sorrow. The moon shone as if with a purpose—as if holding her lovely lamp to light some beloved wayfarer up the shining slope.

“Heaven’s but a step on such a night,” he said to himself, with tears of which his manhood was not ashamed. And so the moon lighted the traveller home.

With the very next morning the distractions of common earth returned. Behind the closed shutters, the women began to examine the old napery, and the men to calculate what the furniture, the cow, the cocks and hens would bring. James Murray valued it all, pencil and notebook in hand. Nothing would have induced the family to show so little respect as to shorten the six or seven days’ interval before the funeral, but it was a very tedious interval for them all. Mrs. Campbell drove off with her husband to her own house on the second day, and James Murray returned to Greenock; but the MacColls stayed, and Margaret, and made their “blacks” in the darkened room below, and spoke under their breath, and wearied for the funeral day which should release them.

Margaret, perhaps, was the one on whom this interval fell most lightly; but yet Margaret had her private sorrows, less easy to bear than the natural grief which justified her tears. The sailor Willie paid but little attention to her beauty and her pathetic looks. He was full of plans about his little sister, about taking her with him on his next voyage, to strengthen her and “divert” her; and poor Margaret, whose heart had gone out of her breast at first sight of him, as it had done in her early girlhood, felt her heart sicken with the neglect, yet could not believe in it. She could not believe in his indifference, in his want of sympathy with those feelings which had outlived so many other things in her mind. She went to Edgar a few days after their grandmother’s death with a letter in her hand. She went to him for advice, and I cannot tell what it was she wished him to advise her. She did not know herself; she wanted to do two things, and she could but with difficulty and at a risk to herself do one.

“This is a letter I have got from Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, with downcast looks. “Oh! Cousin Edgar, my heart is breaking! Will you tell me what to do?”

Harry’s letter was hot and desperate, as was his mind. He implored her, with abject entreaties, to marry him, not to cast him off; to remember that for a time she had smiled upon him, or seemed to smile upon him, and not to listen now to what anyone might say who should seek to prejudice her against him. “What does my family matter when I adore you?” cried poor Harry, unwittingly betraying himself. And he begged her to send him one word, only one word—permission to come down and speak for himself. Edgar felt, as he read this piteous epistle, like the wolf into whose fangs a lamb had thrust its unsuspecting head.

“How can I advise you how to answer?” he said, giving her back the letter, glad to get it out of his hands. “You must answer according to what is in your heart.”

Upon this Margaret wept, wringing her lily hands.