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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. [ :t : 2 3 32X I 1 :■ ; i 3 4 s 6 Ar)r)ie 3. 3War). j Have you all the Works of this Popular Authoress? If not, send to us, the \ Canadian Publishers, for them. The Gates of Eden : A Story of Endeavour. Kxtra crown 8vo, extra cloth, with a Imaiitiful Steel KiiKraviii!; of tho AuthorcHM, niid Driifiiinl IlliibtratioiiH 81 00 St. Veda's; or. The Pearl of Orr's Haven. Extra frown 8vo, cloth extra, with frontiHi)ii'fo hv Uohcrt M'GrcKor ". 100 Sheila. Kxtra crown bvo, cloth extra. J>ontlHpieco 1 00 Doris Cbesme : A Story of a Noble Life. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with beautiful Illuatrationa of the En^'liHh I^ike District 1 00 Briar and Palm: A Study of Circumstances and Influence. Kxtra crown bvo, cloth extra, with hix Ori^'inal IlltiHtrations 1 00 HazeU & Sons, Brewers. Crown 8vo, cloth extra o 7f> Aldersyde. a Border story of Seventy Years Ajfo. Cloth extra, with Orit'inal Illustrationa 75 Carlowrie ; or, Among Lothian Folk. Crown Svo, cloth extra, with Illustrations in Chalk by Tom Scott 75 Wrongs Righted. Crown 8vo, cloth 60 Mistaken, and Marion Forssrth. In one vol., eluth, 8vo, o 50 Robert Martin's Lesson, cloth, illustrated, crown 8vo, o ^o The Secret Panel. Crown Svo, cloth 50 Thomas Dryburgh's Dream, and Miss Baxter's Bequest, in one vol., crown 8vo, cloth o 50 A Divided House : A Study from Life. Crown 8vo, cloth, o 50 Twice Tried. Crown Svo, cloth 50 Shadowed Lives. Crown Svo, cloth o 50 Ursula Vivian, The Sister Mother. Crown Svo, cloth o 50 Dorothea Kirke; or, Free to Serve. Cloth, crown svo, gilt, Illustrated 50 Sundered Hearts. Crown 8vo, cloth 50 Across Her Path. Crown Svo, cloth o 50 iiWlU-LIKTV^ BRIGGS 29-33 Richmond Street West, 80-36 Temperance Street. TORONTO, ONT. t !• AILIE. Page 164. r Wrongs Righted ANNIE S. SWAN AUTHOR or •ALDEIU.VI.K. 'UATta 0» EDEN,' < HMUi A«u PAui, KTc. rra NEW EDITION TORONTO, CANADA WIIvLIAM BRIGOS KDINIJURGH a:,d LONDON OLIPHANT, ANDKKSON & FKKRIEK 1889 2«08^') Entered according to Act of the Parilamcnt of Canada, in th« year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by William Brioos, book Steward of the Methodiat Hook and Publishing House. Toronto, at the Department of Agriculture. I 1 CONTENTS. OHAP. I. RUINED n0PE8 1 « • VAOB 11 11. WKIUO WOKD8 • 20 111. TUB TRYST • 80 IV. AI,L FOIL LOVK • 41 V. A TllUK WOMAN 1 65 VI. MKMoKIKS 1 64 VII. FAITIILKSS AILIK ■ 77 VIII. KKIKNDS t 84 IX. UNLOOKRD-FOU EVENTS . . . . • 92 X. TUIUMl'H « 102 XI. lirMIlLKI) VANITY .... t 113 XII. TIIK END OF IT 121 XIII. TIIK nLACK SHADOW FALI^ ON RUBY BAY 129 XIV. IN TIIK I'UISON CELL .... 136 y'. IN COURT » 143 XVI. INTO THE HAVEN .... 152 XVII. FULFILLED TO THE LETTER • . 159 CVIII. FREE ! 166 XIX. AILIE • . 173 XX. John's revenge • . 182 XXI. CONCLUSION • . 189 ni in br fal se( bu dis Jo COl bui WRONGS RIGHTED. CHAPTER I. KUINI'I) HOl'ES. HE luill clock struck seven. Dinner was just over tit Castlcj Bervie, and on tlie terrace beneatli the dinini,' - room win- dows two young men paced leisiircly to and fro, enjoying the fragrance of their cigars and interchanging an occasional remark. They were the sons of the house, but only half- brothers. John, the elder, was the only child of his father's first marriage ; Eichard, the only one of his second. There were but a few years between them, but they were widely ditferent in appearance and disposition. A tall, handsome, manly fellow was John Maxwell, and upright and honourable to the core. His half-brother was tall also, but slightly built, and of dark complexion. His face could not II 12 WRONGS RIGHTED. 1 * ■' be called plain, but it lacked the oj^en, winniiifij expression which was John Maxwell's peculiar charm. To a close observer, Richard Maxwell's face was repellent. There existed a tolerable amount of friendliness between them, — nothing more. Apart from their peculiar relationship, their natures had nothing in common. They were opposite as the poles. It was an evening of August's sunniest mood. A great peace and beauty seemed brooding over all, and the waters of the Firth lay like a sea of glass beneath a cloudless sky. Many tiny boats, with idle rowers resting on their oars, drifted out m the bay ; and just beyond the harbour bar a solitary yacht rode at anchor. A dainty thing she was, painted white and gold, and she lay upon the smooth surface of the water like a butterfly. Once Kichard Maxwell paused at the further end of the terrace, and, turning his eyes in her direction, said, — * The yacht will need a coat of paint soon, Jack. She looks grimy enough from here.' John Maxwell answered without looking, — *Ay, I believe &.:e will.* His thoughts at tliat moment were occupied with something infinitely more important than the paint- ing of the yacht. ' Did lirs. Maxwell say how my father was this afternoon, Eichard ? ' he asked abruptly. *No. He'll be about the same, I suppose,* « RUINED HOPES. 13 Richard answered carelessly. •There's never any change.' John Maxv/eil flung away the burnt end of his cigar, and went through the open window and up- stairs to the drawing-room. He found his step- mother there alone, as he had expected. She was sitting at the window, a piece of lace-work in her delicate fingers, and looked up with a bright smile of recognition when her step-son appeared in the ioom. She was a tall, graceful, handsome woman, dark-complexioned and black-browed, and she had preserved her youthful looks marvellously well. ' Are you coming to entertain me, John ? * she said, with her amiable false smile. ' To what do I owe this unusual kindness ? * ' I have not come to entertain you, madam,* returned John bluntly. 'I only wished to ask if my father is well enough to bear a few minutes' conversation on important business.' Mrs. Maxwell's eyes expressed eager surprise. 'Ke has been pretty well to-day,' she said cautiously ; ' still, if it be unpleasant business, you know it is not safe to agitate him. A scrape you have been getting into ? Perhaps I might smooth it for you, if you use me as a medium.' 'Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,' replied John curtly. ' It is no scrape, and my business with my father is private.* A red flush sprang to Mrs. Maxwell's dark cheek, t4 ;fA'()/Vr/.s Nh;nr/'!y. nnti l\or «»v»»ii IIumIhmI, ImH rIic Itrpl lioi Inti^no fliin«iHi nnu MWtMM \ y\o\\\ wi^li to foK'o I'onlidcn x\\ CO. Hh)» HM i nl (in n)>ltMi4!nil iinlMn\ I lliinii yon mny r»m» liiin now. lio iw mUvuvm fr«»slioF4t of mi oxcnin^.' ' TliiinU yon. 1111111111/ nMinniMl .lolm cnilly. nnd loti llio 100111. lor yon will iMnccivo lliiit .lolm IVIlMWoll (lit! nol jrol oil VtMV \V( \v llll llJH HlOjl niotln'i. innl ln> fonn»l i( condiioivo lo doincMlir umiM' to I wooy «ni t of 1 KM \V!iy lis innoli us ]u»Mmhi« iM< H.'V woiK vlro|n>(»(l from lior linjMMH wlmn llio floor olosoil n)>on him. mul. loMiiiii}; Inn In !nl on Inn liiiivl. ;i tlioiis!iinl llion^lils olnisod ciioli ollnr llironi'K li 01 brniii I'lnallv sin- ros(^ nnd lofl llio room nl mi Sho ]>;\nst«l !i niomont on tlio liintlinjLr, l»iit ihoro \mim not n sonnd in nil tlio lionso. Tlion hIio Hlippcd nlonc th(^ oorrulor hvnliii}: to tlio snito of rooniM »> 1h nt liov bond nt tbo door of tlu» sittinj: room. nnd. iiiid b(M- onr rloso (o (bo KoyboU*. Sin* bonrd llu* voitu'M distinctly, bnt so bnv tbnt (bo words woro lost. A sligbt sbnvio of disn]>]nMntnuMit orossiul bcr inro. v^b \o pnnsoi \ onl V 'A soooin i. nin I tb di UM1 siiinuMl n(»m»- lossly l>ark to tho drnwiiii^vroom. Not lung was lo V< t^frtinod bv onvosdn>}>]MVig (bis (imo. Moanwbilo dobn Mnwvoll wjis sitting in a ohnir op|"H^sito bis fntlior's ot^nob. uttoring ooninio!i])lac6 romarks. not knowing lu)\v to V»roacb tbo subject of v\bicb bis miud was full. / >10 NNMM Hli|>|M'(i 1(> l>v Mt III. laid voiv'OH ohnir icct of I'll I'Mi lliiiM' vnii'! |Im> Liiir'l (tf I'.rrvii- !ijmI I« < n titiiii>il 1)1 llii"4i> rundiM, iMi'l iinrM' I. vi};oiinm iniin. wlio IdmI iiPViM Idiowii !i fjiiv'! illiM";! in lii'> lilV, IumI ln'oriM' II |in(ii, iiMi'li":'!, |iiiiiii!( iiivmImI. iiM'tIv ilf| m'H' I'll' '>ii III III IHMH. Ill I' WMM lliiii iinil vv'nn now In n di'ffic lull. Ilic {(K'V <'y<'M foiilil M|iiMkli' y«'l Willi lli«'ir 'iM AlM'imrMM, lltll I )l M' IUHll' III liiM nu'i' Imil liniiili l.v ll ili'il rvi'ii hy llM'Mi' vvfiiry yriiii not. Iicf'ii l''»»r lii^ lirfll Ikmii Mini ^Villmiii Mnxwi-ll liml ti pfriilifir nlVi'cliim; III' vviiM l,ln« rliild of Mm liril. I'»v»', fiml incin'iiviT liiM lirii. On liim nil Iiim Ii';|»»'m wire Mill r o infill,, iiM liiM I'yi'M ri'Mli'il on Mir *i;iJi'lMom» Ml I'lico lltlil I III' jMioilly lijMin^, III- (lioiij^lil, fxiillfiriljy lliiii li(» VVIIM M lii ii'|ir«'Mi'iilfrt.ivf III' llif Mii'ii'iil. Iioimo, It lil. InMV In llw licrihijjii lir miiMt, Mlmrtly jf-ivf, for rviT. I>iil lii'I'oro Mil lioiir wriil, l»y, IiIm lorn! lif»|)i:H lijul crMinltli'il |o (ihIm'm iil. lii.M Iri-I,. • Von loo|< wi'll lo nji^rlii,^ IntliiT,' M!ii«l .lolm Max- woll ; 'lii'llrr, I lliiiik, lliiui I Iki.vc, m<'cii you for weeks. VVIm kiiowH, we mny Mce you i|nit. tlifisf- rooiiiM ycU.' The old imui Hiniieri HJi^/liMy, Inil, HJiook lii.s liejiH. ' I do \v\A well, eoMiiuinit-ively well,' lie sJiid ; ' hut, John, 1 bIimII iu5V(;r leave tli(!H(} room.s rentored U> healtli. It was very hitter at lirst, hnt now f arri recoiiciUMl ; and you will inako a good Ma.stor of Uervie.' Pij i6 Wh'ONGS NIC 1 1 TED, ! . 1 I III ' I In)H(> (lie (liiy when I slmll be MiihIit jm lar dishmt,' siiidllic youii^ iiimii i»nriu'sl!y. 'I did not come ((»-iii,u;lit In .spcMk of lliMt, I'idlicr. Will y )U list (Ml to soinclIiinLr w •hicli ■i.y I very ncMiiy coiiccnis my liiH>])iii(*ss iind wcll'Mn* I '\\w old lUMM raised himself on Ins c how iin< 1 turned his t\vo8 on hus son, oji.i;t>r (pu'stunnni^ \\\ their dcnll IS. ^^ coursi', of conrsi*,' lu^ said hsistily Tell on. KviMvthin;^ jMMlaininuj (o you is of vitid inhMcst (o nu^' Only a si^-ond ditl .lohn MmxwcII hositate, Ihon lu» siiid hrii^llv, — 1 am .uoinjjj to marry Vos, y(\s ; I have hoped and cxpivtod to hear of this for lonu:,' returned the old ma n. It IS m^ K^\s\\ wish to soi» yon with a wif(^ hcforo I dii». Who is sluW Ooji't lu'silato, 1 can trust yon to marry as I wish, — as your mother would havo wished.' .lohn Maxwell winced. He luul nerved himself for this hour for hiUij;, hut his task was harder than he had deemed it. He rose and eann^ eh)se to his father's coueh, — stood U)oking down from his tall height, his face full of straui^e, jUeading' earnestness. ' b'ather, you do not know the woman I love, and until you see her perha]>s you may rebel a«jjainst my choice. She is not a hi^h-born lady, and the world, in all likelihood, will say I have made a poor marriage ; but slie is as pure and sweet a gentle- woman as my mother was, or any of the women of our house.' Kill NED HOI'ES. »7 is fiir ilid 1l(»i' 'ill you nis my T(»ll on. ;t to mc' lie, tlic3ii hojir of I is my Who () mjirry icd.' hiinscU' liT than to his his tall icstiioss. ove, and linst my le world, a poor 1 gcntlc- ronien of ' Ilcr niiinci?* .said William Maxwell, in .'i striui«;r crept \\y over Williiim MiixwifU'M face?, and he fixed his keen eyes full on his son's face ; they wen; hla/in^' with jmssion. ' I )o I understiind you arii^dit?' Ix; ask(Ml, in a thick whisp(T. 'Did you siiy you wish('ervie for ever. Your brother llichard would make a better Master than i8 /f'AV^V(/.s" RhnrvEn. ,,M you ; lu» liMH Ml loMsl IIh' HrnHp of hoTionr wliicli yon s(MMn lo luck.' 'I'lu'V \v»Mo l»itl(M' wokIn, mikI Inil into .lolm Max- wall's (>nr like iuoI1(m\ I(muI. ' If you incim wlinl yon suy. fnlhor,' ho snid siully iUid ciunoslly, ' I lijivc no ;ill('rn;il iv(» lint, to ol>(\v yon, nnd unit ncrvit* for ever. I will toll yon tlw Irnlli; il is llu» Itillonv^f. pnniHiunonI you could Ikivc iidlicliMl. f(U' my homo is ns diMr to nu' nlmoHt, MM life ilsi'lf ; hut my luomiscd wif(> is (h'Mror Hiill. My scnso of liouonr is nl loiist so lin(», (hut it wouM scorn t() throw a w«uuMn's lov(^ and trust asido to further sollisli onds. Katlior, 1 who never knelt to man or woman in my lif(» hefore, kneel to you now, askini; you, hy tin* miMuory of your own youthful love, to deal l(»ss hardly with nu>. Do not send me from you till you have seen her. Let me briu}^' her; then v«!end us from you, or hid us stay, a,a you will.* Kvery feature of the old man's worn and vvriidvled faec wjis »|uiv(n'in in his IiimmIm. il(> iiad no more to Hay. TluMi tlio yy and by, when he gnjw calmer, her Brnooth, false ton^'ue elicited what had passcid between father and son. Never in her wildest fli^'ht of nna^^dnation \vm\ F':anor Maxwell dared to hope for Huch a complete rupture as this. Knowing' her 8t,e[)-son'9 true, honest, steadfast heart, she had no fear of tlie course he would pursue. And in tin; near future she saw her own beloved son absolutitly Master of liorvie, and its doors closed for ever on its ri;,ditful heir. Till then, however, there was mucli to be done;, — infinite tact and cunning to be called into play ; but she was a perfect mistress of her art. Without her interference there might have been soniG hope for John Maxwell; with it there was none. ii ii I CTTAPTKK TT. WEIKl) WOKDS. P man in all Klic was more ])(»)nilar than David r)()n!i(>r, ski]»]n'r of tho slooj) .Xtfiniic. Ho was a trillo stern, })('rlia])s, and ri<'iil in liis notions of rii^lit and wrong, bnt his leal, tnie heart and kindly ways won tho hearts of yonng and old. Ife was a n:ilivc of Elie, hut had married an Knglish woman, helonging, they said, to gentle- folks, although the inns and outs of David 15onner's first marriage never becan)e known. She was a pale, fragile-looking creature, shy and reticent, and never made the homely fisher folks of Klie her friends. She died when her first child was horn, and took with her all the sunshine of her husband's life. How the great, strong, rough seaman had worshipped the fragile English blossom he had plucked, I do not think any but himself ever knew. He buried her memory deep, and never spoke of her, and repelled any mention of her from 90 ill; 1 WEIRD WORDS. 21 ular than ho sloop », i)('rlia])s, rii^'ht and ways won native of iL*l(>n;j;ui,u;, and outs hecamc creature, lely fisher lier first sunshine )ng, rough blossom self ever nd never her from I 11 I 3 ! ■ otlicrs. The cliild was a ;^'irl, named Aj^ncs, nft(T licr motlicr. In courso of time Pavid I'onner married a^'ain — an Klie ^'irl wlio had loved him for yrars, and llicy lived liapjiily enou^di toi^'ctiier ; hut in dean lionner's heart of hearts tliere limbered a dee]) jealousy of his dead wife and her innocent hvin^' child. She was kind to lier in her own way, luit hy and hy, vvh(.'n her own childr(Mi came, the lilll(! ALTiKis was made to feel the (Hlfcrence between her and tiicm very acutely. Her father was often away months at a timi; with the sloop, and, true to the con^ himself, the thoui^dit that his wife did not do her duty by the child never entercid liis head. And from lier earliest years A^^'nes lionner had buried her sorrows — childish at first, but ^rowin^ as the years went by — locked in her own heart. No word of com])laint ever crossed her lips. She was early removed from school, and her willinj^' hand became her step-mother's hel[) among her own children. The eldest was a \(\x\ also, with a disposition too sweet to be sj soiled by her mother's indulgence. Between the step - sisters there existed a strong ail'ection, which, as they grew to womanhood, deepened in strength. They were never seen apart, and Ailie Bonner was ever ready to resent a slight upon Agnes. David lionner was well-to-do, but could not ai'lbrd to keep his family in idleness ; so, when the younger members of the family no longer needed Agnes's attendance, she set up a dressmaker's it M A'(',V(,.S A7f,7//7'/». lMinin»»nn. \\\\*\ \\\\*\ nl\vn>'> ln'i linmh full \iln' win <)n)>)t<> I'll (i) l)i< liii jiMiliit'i. ImiI ||ii< I'liN I'll! Im\ii| ll)t< Mnu'dnuo iind ())•> mimi loo iIimhIv (•> m|ii\(M (llrrii'i \*\ ;«ilt>ni lilt' \iMin!' IihIh"! < luwn ^ll«> XMM o lltMOM Ihmi' ovt'i iIh' linn"'! willi Ih (> I'hilthcn. «M tliHhno in llu' ltoii( ou (ln' Imin. whili* Af^iiii"' 1»»>m1 Ihm Inoil l\t';nl i>\t'i l\i'i 'i)>\\in|» nti*! pin. I ll', Ii> «'«»nlt>nl lit'iicH' uilli lln' f'JllM)»'^«» «'l ll»(' MCH iho lullc. low window iillonlril Hi'v l«M"4ino l\o\n>i woio l(>\v niul mIioiI. innl lin lilt' !) u\»>\it>1«M\on'» TtMilnuv l^iil I>v inul l>v n new. \\ooy timtMil l>t'«'jm (o ;',Iow iiilo il.mid wnMi);lil ii On tlio «'\(M\n\>: loll.>\vinr, ll^nl wlufl wilnoMMnl tho sriMu^ lU HtM\ii\ l>M\iv«Mt' loiiinu}' ov«M- lln> low \\a\\ so\y.\yi\\\\\i\ \\\o Mtrocl lrt>m llio l>t'Mi'li. riit'> NViMO oUl ivu'ntls, ;n\tl PmnuI Ut>niHM liixl iiumo p!UuM\»'i^ with \\w shoiMMMUcvM f'jin iiloiiM. inctltllo soiui' urM. rii«» fMin \\ih\ ]\\M sot. V\\o {Vi\\\\\\\\\ wMovH \\\ I ho hnv Mlill ixMUvt(\i tlu> Miisli u\ tho wiv'^tiMii sky. h(»hm(l llu» Ur!\os {\\o y»>uuv: Mmv lut^ou wms » t>nnnu ^^h} ly \\\) (o t^^ko hex y\'.wo ;^nu^^1^: tht> luyriMti stnis. Th(» li«i(< Nv:vs :\t Its iwW. ;\iul tho inurimir ol' I ho wiivos iuii\s;loii }^lo;^s;\ntly with tli(' voit'i\^ of lh(» HsIkm' fi^lk gnnipOii abo\H tl\o doors. (Mijoyiiii:. Minid Itomoiy jost ;nui irossip. th(^ iiuiot idh^ hi>iir ''IwoiMi tho chvuniu' ;u\" I ho mirk.' Oiio or two boats lav I i \vi iKi^ no/^/fX *\ \iln' \\n't •nl litxt'il |M low h. 'I'li.\> )ii liMV Mlill irliiml \\\o V\\o lido ln> WilVOS lh(^ lishor id lu)nu>ly woon tlu' lioats Ijvv li|i)ii|ri{ rl«iMi< Im fill' \Mill. iMhI .liijili Mn » well'', yii' llf • ilill iMt|i> III nil' Iml III lliK liiiy Sill' wii'i lii'Mii' iiiliiiiM'il. I>iil III M liiiir « ')h'i'iii|ihi(iiiM iiiiiiiii*r, l.y llii' \vii< liir W<'(ll,li«'» <'ii|i<' Wiiilli. 'iiijil l>.iviil r<'iiiiiii, idiiiif iM|i; III lift 'iwri mIhiiI m|i)ii|i, wlmli IiikI liiiivi'ly liiiilcn IId viM iimiIIm'Mi wiih'iii MMiM"t >)\ liriM'M. 'Ac 'ii|iiiill wild KlIMI'lt III I >i||||| M|lMt'1 llM' mIiIvcIM I'll! mIu'm II liiiiini)' ImiiiI ii'i liiiiff iiiiil'(> ill I', III' I'iiy.' ' Ay.' 'iMid llir mIi(iiimiiI;i'I , Mliihiii" ii mnl'li >>t\ fii". InilliiMii ii|iii)ii, mid K' li|diliii(:,' wiorU'A (>iil(d> Hirmrtly. ' Slii; Hurnly nilM owmt olo.se at Uk; Howin', Davio? Shu's iis wliiUj'H a f.loot.' »4 U'/x'ONGS l< Kin TEH. 'She was a)(! tlial," uiiswcumI havid I'oiiiifr ; Mini, lnnii?i;,f liis ryrs seaward a^aiii. lie utldcd alisciillv, • llcr inillicr was jisl liko Iht livc-air-lwcnly yrar.s a^'o, yc'II niiiul' 'I'licrc was soniclliiiiL: in lli*' (»M man's rii^'^cil face wliich Vvyl Calclt's nannlntis inn^uc quicl lor a few nionicnls, and llic ncxi instant an(»llu'r voic*; spoke, — a woman's this time, sweet and l(»w, and sin^Mdarly pnre ol aeeenl, — ' Fatlier, will yon ^'et us tlu^ l)oat, please ? Ailie and I would like a sail.' She was a «;irl in the lirst hlnsh oi' womanhood, with a sweet, pale, seri(»ns face, lit up by deep, shininL,' ^'rey eyes. She was i)laitdy dressed, and had only a s' .iwl diajuMl ahout her head and shoulders, hut she looked like a lady. Much more so than the red-eheeked, hlue-eyed damsel hanj^inji; upon her arm, her hat daii,L!;lin;4 in lu>r hand, and her llaxen h)cks tossing in the wind. No j^^reater contrast than these two jacscnted could well be imagined. ' The boat, Agnes wumman ? * repeated l^avid Jknuior, wheeling round. ' It's gey an' late tae be on the water, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll no' be gaun f ar ? ' * Nannie's been sewin' sin' six this mornin', father,' broke in Ailie's gay, ringing voice, ' and her heid's sair, — I ken by her e'en, — an' naethin' but the sea mak's it better.' David Bonner answered nothina", but turned •o' % wiiiKi) wonns. 25 icr ; ami, uliscnily, Illy yciirs s ru^nctl licl lor a luT Voi('(y low, ami e? Aili'' mianhootl, by (U'cp, issi^l, and liiNul and uch more 1 hunj^nnjj; land, and () m'catcr well be ed David lute tae be gaun in', father,' her heid's ut the sea urned and I went down llic st»!|»s to iiniiioor llic liunl. A^mich tnilowcd, and slond ii|mi|i llic sfcoiid slr|> Wiilrliiii;^ liiin, while Aiiin remained eliMlliii'^ to ('aleb and sevei'id others wlio had .saillileied Up to I he dyke. As A^^nes slepjied inio tlie Itiiiil, her I'ulher lifted iier t'aee in one hand, and hjoked at it lon^' und searehinuly. ' A^lHiS, bairn, ihere's nae ea,' lor yon tae work yersel' ill,' he said sharjdy. ' l)'ye sit as close an' as laiii; when I'm avva' ''. ' She stooped down trying to evade his i^M/e. 'Soiiiclimes; hut I am well and stronj^',* hIk; said hurrieiily. 'Only my inNid sonietinies. It will be all rii^ht soon. (/onn\ Aili(\' Ailie s]>ran;^' down IIk; steps, disdaining' the aid of sundry willing' arms, and took h(;r plae(! at tlnj hcdm, while Alines took tlu; oars. In a minute the boat shot from tlu; sliori; likt; an arrow, for A<^ne.s was a skilful rower, and 'oved the work. David Iionner watched them a moment, and th(Mi, li^ditin^' his pipe, sauntered oil' in the; direction f)f the IJraes. His dau.L;hter's white face and heavy eyes troubled him. Possibly he miL,dit have; been more troubled had he known the state of allairs while he was absent, and how every penny of luir hard-won earnings were calmly appropriated ])y liis wife, and u.sed for the l)enetit of herself and her children * Ye hevna seen tluj Laird's yacht yet, Xannie,' said Ailie, after a few minutes' silence. * Let':: gang close an' see't, my pet. It's a bouuie boat.' ■Yt\m iCJ \1 !l ) 36 WRONGS RIGHTED, !i! i!!i ' Yes,' was the brief reply, and Agnes lifted the oar till Ailie turned the boat. They swept almost close past it, and Agnes caught sight of five letters on its side whicl) made her heart beat and her cheeks burn. Ay, and well they might, for the five golden letters spelt her own name. 'I'd like tae be a grand leddy and sail in that boat,' said Ailie, with almost childish eagerness. * Wadna you like it, Nannie ? ' ' I don't know, dear. Don't you feel cold ? * answered Agnes, shivering slightly. ' The wind seemis to be rising.' * Cauld ? — no. An' that's a bonnie mune,' re- turned Ailie. * It's as licht as day.' Agnes rested on her oars, and let her eyes wander from sea to sky, and again to the yacht riding like a butterfly on the surface of the shiny water. They were drifting in the track of the moon, and its soft light lay full on the face of Agnes Bonner, making it strangely beautiful. Iler eyes were brimming with tears. Ailie saw them and crept to her side, leaning her arms on her lap. * Dinna look like that, Nannie,' she said. ' What is't ? Ha'e ye ony trouble ? ' Agnes dashed aside her tears, and laid her hand a moment on her step-sister's sunny head. * None, Ailie ; at least none you can help me with. Are you tired or cold ? Shall we go back ? ' ' Row along tae the Ferry, Nannie, and let's gang WEIRD WORDS. 27 fied the s caught ler heart ell they tier own m that \'\2erness. il cold ? ' ^he wind aune,' re- es wander ding like r. They its soft r, making arimming her side, 'What her hand help me back ? ' llet's gang tae Boll Souter's and get oor fortune read. Naebody wad ken,' said Ailie eagerly. ' I've never had a better chance.' Ames shook her head. * I thought you had forgotten that, Ailie,' she said gravely. ' It would do you no good, and make father angry, as you know. How can poor old Bell Souter tell your fortune ? ' Ailie Bonner's red lips pouted in vexation. * I want tae gae for fun, XtJinie. Ye micht, tae please me this aince. Come on hame, then. There's nae use bidin' oot here.' * Come, then, let us go to the Ferry, Ailie,' said Agnes Bonner after a moment's hesitation. ' It won't take us half an hour.' Ailie's smiles returned, and, taking the oars from Agnes's hands, rowed down with might and main. Bell Souter was an a^ed crone livinoj alone in a trig hut almost close to the beach, and, from her eccentric ways, had earned the reputation of being able to pierce the veil of futurity. She turned many a penny by her fortune-telling among the lads and lasses of the town and surrounding district. i Aihe had long wished to consult Bell, but did not \ care to go alone, and till now Agnes had resolutely \ refused to accompany her. They succeeded in mooring the boat, and a few I steps took them to Bell's door. A low tap elicited fa request to ' Come in ; ' and, pushing open the door, jtliey crossed the threshold, closing it again behind \t ir-f 28 WRONGS RIGHTED. them. It was a small apartment, meagrely furnished with old-fashioned things, and liglited by a solitary dip candle on the table. The old woman was in her arm-chair by tlie smouldering fire, smoking, and looked round curiously when the girls entered. She knew them ])oth. Agnes took the seat the old woman pointed her to, and asked for her rheumatism. But no answer, good or bad, did Bell vouchsafe, only kept her face towards the fire, and her keen black eyes peering into its smouldering embers. * What are ye wantin' here at this time o' nicht, ye glaik =it lasses ? ' she said at last, in her shrill, cracked voice. ' I want you to read my fortune, Bell,' said Ailie eagerly. * Will you ? ' The old crone shook her head and took her pipe from her mouth. ' An' what for d'ye want tae ken what's gaun tae happen tae ye, Ailie Bonner ? ' she said snappishly. ' Ye've a weel-faured face 'at'll bring ye a man, I'm thinkin'.' * Come on, Bell ; dinna be sae crabbit,* said Ailie coaxingly. 'I'll gi'eye a saxpence if ye read it week' * Weel, come here then ; lat's see that hand o' yours. Eh, it's a bonnie paw, — no gi'en tae muckle hard wark, I'm thinkin'. There's mony a line on't, though,' she said, smoothing the dainty p.nk palm with her withered fingers, — ' queer, nesty thrawn lines. Awa' hame, Ailie Bonner. Ye'll no thank me, mebbe, if I tell ye what I see.' m WEIRD WORDS, 29 J furnished a solitary lan was in iioking, and is entered, seat the old •heumatism. chsafe, only keen black me o' nicht, her shrill, ,,' said Ailie ok her pipe it's gaun tae snappishly, a man, I'm :,' said Ailie -ead it week' lat hand o' tae muckle a line on't, pjik palm ssty thrawn 11 no thank * Come, Ailie,' sai I Agnes, seeing her step-sister's cheeks paling slightly. ' Don't listen to such non- sense. It is worse than foolislu But Ailie Bonner was ol)stinate, and insisted on \ the old woman continuing lier reading. \ * Here's a line here shonldna bo,' she went on, again examining the liand. ' I never saw't fail but tliat line brocht wae wi't ; an' here's anither I dinna like. Lassie, lassie, yer weel-faured face '11 bring ye naething but dool, an' ye'll never be a wife, although tlnire's some seekin' ye already.' Ailie snatched her hand away, crying pettishly, — * Ye're try in' tae fricht me. Bell Souter, but I dinna believe ye ; an' thougli yer fortin-tellin's no worth a hapney, there's yer saxpence. Come on, Nannie.' Bell grasped the silver greedily, and looked to Agnes. * Come on, my wumman ; ye ha'e a better hand, I can see.' Agnes shook her head. * I am no believer in such nonsense. Bell ; and I'm sorry I let Ailie come. Good-night.' The twain passed out of the house and took their way to the boat again, silent, Ailie at least visibly distressed ; and Bell Souter rose to bolt and bar her door behind tlieni, muttering to herself, — 'Dool an' wae, dool an' wae. I ne'er saw't fail % yet ! ' m i\i I !'' CHAPTER III. THE TRYST. la I [Vlf»£lLJ ' OKNING was a stirring time in David ]?onner's household, and breakfast any- thing but a pleasant meal. Jean Bonner was a careless housewife, and took her own ease and comfort, permitting the wlieels of the domestic machinery to move as they pleased. She would set herself carelessly down to her own breakfast, and occasionally administer a slap or a sharp word to the half-dozen cliildreu clamour- ing and C3rambling for a bit and cup. Ailie followed her mother's example, and but for Agnes the youngest members would have fared badly. She moved quietly about the untidy kitchen, lacing a little boot in one corner, and fastening a collar in another, or coaxing a refractory urchin to take his porridge, and tlnally would see them, books and all, safely off to school. When David Bonner was at home he went for a smoke till the so THE TRYST, 31 in David [iktast any- lean Bonner took lier leels of the ased. She her own a slap or n clamo'ar- up. Ailie 1 but for have fared idy kitchen, fastening a ;ory urchin see tliem, hen David oke till the bustle was over ; no man loved peace and quietness more than he. ' When's the sloop tac sail, then, Dauvid?' in- quired his wife one niorninLj. ' I dinna mind her lyin' sac lanj^^ in the Klie hiirl><)ur afore.' ' The end o' the week, Saturday niayhe,' re]>lied the skipper, ' S(h; some tea, Ailie. Whaiir's A^nes?' ' At the sewin', faither ; I heard Ikm- rise at five this niornin' tac; tinish Miss Farcinliarson's ^own. She wants it tae wear at J)ervie/ answered Aihe, not choosing to heed hcT mother's warning glance, ' an she couldna tak' nae breakfast.' A chnid gathered on David Bonner's brow, and he finislied his meal in sih'nce, then rose and strode across the passage to Agnes's room. She was in the window seat, her head l)ent over the shimmering folds of silk on her lap. The window was open, and the fresh wind iwiw the sea tossed her liair to and fro on her brow, and 11 uttered the ends of the lace collar, whicli was her only adornment. Her father was struck with the perfect neatness of her attire, — it was a pleasant contrast to the pair in the kitchen, — and yet these busy hands had been at work since five o'clock. She looked up when the door opened, and nodded and smiled to her father ; but there was no answering smile on his face. It was grave almost to sternness. * Ailie tells me ye was up at five this mornin', Agnes,' he said. ' I tell ye, aince for a', I'll no ha'ed. Ye're killin' yersel', an' there's nae ca' for't.' vH .1« // AV>/Vr/.V RICH TEI), Ai^'MCM s(>\V((l on willi (Iowik'iimI lirnd Mini I rciiiltliiiL; lipM. She WiiM MM scnsilivc mm m cliiM, niul tluM unuHUMl MlcrnncMM nl' lone luni licr. ' I Nvon'l. t{il\«' in so miicli woiK, (Ikmi. I'mIIkt,' mIhi sMi«l m( ImhI. • I'lil I NVMiil I Ins (IrcMM liiiislK^d !<» dMy. Miss l''{n(pihMrson wmiiIs it (o wcmt In nij;Iil.' * Al I'MTvii* / ' M(1(I('(1 pMvid I'.nmicr. ' Ai^nrH, I lu'Mnl snnuMlnii!:; ImsI, iiiclil, I lull's pnllcn inn sMir Mbont. I.MV (Innn ycr WMiK mji' InnU M.t nic ; 1 WMnI, \\w spcMk 1m(» yc' UiM' liMinls I'cll on licr Im|>. mikI slio lil'Icd licr (run ovos (o liis liU'(\ her own llnsliinif crimson. ' Thcv SMV, Almu's. IIimI 1Ii(> l-Minl Iims m riincv lor • • • * %i yt\ an' yo'vt* Iummi seen tlu\L;iiiu>r. Is't Irni* ? ' ' V(>s; '\\w MnsNvcr was clear and nidicsiiMlini^ly H[)oknn, and her i^yt^s met Ins irazo nnllincliiniily. ' IVyc ken what (lu» notice* o' the. Laird o' IV-rvio moans i\>r (he like o' yon, A^ncs \ ' llcr face paled, hnl she drew her little hejid u]) prondly, and answered (piickly, — • ' 1 know what wii'ked ])(>oi>le can and do say, father,' she said. ' Ihit snrely yon can trnst me. Am 1 not niv motiier's dan<'hter and vonrs ? ' The look which acconii)ani(Hl it stirred David Ixniuer's heart lo its depths. He eame clos(^ to her and laid his hand on her head with strange tenderness. ' Ye ha"e yer mither's e'en, hairn,' lie said hnskily, an yer mil ther's very ways. I'll say nae mair aboot say I 7///' Th'VSr. 31 Ircmltlini^ imd lliiM I'iiIImt.' mIh^ kmI Io (liiy. .1; Ml mn Miiir uc ; I Wiinl (mI hci Iruc ii I'iiiicy for ij^ly H|)()kcn, \\\ ()' r.crvic lie, hejul u]) n,l do say, n trust nie. 'S?' rred David eamc closi^, itli strange ^aid huskily, mail aboot it, but mind I've wnrnrd yn. Oli, A;^ricM, bnirn, tak' ciinv Yr.'rn dcnirr hn- frir lliiiii a' I In- rcit.' Slin ciiii^^lit liis lifiiid and liiid iicr 'lurk a. rriomcnt n<'iii(iHt it in Hilrnc('. ' iMillmr, I vviili you wr-rc \ilwayH a,t Iiomm'.,' mIm* HJiid lallcrin^dy. 'I HorncliniiM fj-ci I have, nolxxly ill tlin world. I — -' Sim paiisr.d Hiiddcidy nnd liFled lic.r Hcwirif^', for \\\y\ door o|i(>iicd a;;aiii, aixl .Icfiri I>oiirM;r pc(!|>rrl siiHpirionsly in. I Iff sluirp cyj-M (Nitjtctcfl in a iiionicnt tliat Konictliin^' nnuMiid liml \)VM\ pa.'^MJn^', Init slic conid not Hurnii'^c. tiic Irutfi. ' Mi.sH l''ar(pilia,r.son waritH Ikt ^'oon at aix o'clock, mind, A^mich,' mIic Raid Hliarply. ' I.s't ncur done ? ' ' \'(',M ; it will })«', donci in tim(!,' answered A^^tich briclly, and David r.onncr I'd't tin; room and tfic, Iiomho. A^^iKiH Hcwcd l)nsily all day, and, with an occa- Hioiial Htitc.li from Ai!i(!, finislicd Minn FiiKpjlia.r.son'.s j^own early in tla; afternoon. 'Iowa r Is six f>'f',lof:k slio put on hat and shawl, and set off Lo take it to its owner. It was a fift(!en minut(;s' walk np the f;imi]iar road to Uervie, and just as she turned a bend in tin.' road which bid her from the, town, siie met face to face the Ixiing of wliom heart and thoughts were full. It was John Maxwell. Tfe raised his bat courte- ously, and, though be longed to do so, did not even touch her hand in greeting. }ff;r sweet face flushed .'aused, not knowini; whether ■•♦^i painfully, and s' to speak or not. P mm 34 WJiONGS RIGHTED. M Y'i ! V' ! :■ tv irl! * I was coining down to Elio in tho hope of scoins you, Ay I you/ istioning to beyond its )vv. Gooil- parted, Mia. r keen eyes } drew rein, rniit her to dness in the the opposite n, and drew on's cottage, her parcel, with Miss motive of Inaid-serviint here Agnes fore its fas- Ipast middle thrift and 3rably wel 1. [t, vivacious lade her a las well as a rs. Maxwell trrcctrd her effusively ; and, vviu^n the old lady in a f(!W l)ri('F words named Agntis, the haughty I.ady of i'ervie made her a distant how, wiiicli measnnMl the social gulf hetween them more eHeeLni'dly than the most cutting words. Agnes bowed also, ajid, though her face ilushed slightly, she drew herself u[) wil.i a certain proud dignity which became her infinitely well. * May I go now, Miss Farquharson ? ' asked she, and her ([uicit eyes raised tlieinselves pleadingly to the old lady's placid face. I think she understood the glance. * Certaiidy, my dear, and 1 am thoroughly satisfied with my gown. It will make quite a youthful figure of me. Good-bye. Come up some evening when you are not busy. I am always pleased to see you.' She ])urposely empliiisized her last words, and Mrs. Maxwell elevated her eyebrows in unmistakeable surprise. Iically Miss Farquharson was very odd, speaking to this young person as if she was in all respects her equal. Miss Farquharson was a thorough gentlewoman herself, and knew a lady when she encountered her, however poor her circumstances might be. Again Agnes was humiliated by that supercilious, distant inclination, and thankfully quitted the house. * Rather a superior-looking young woman that,' said Mrs. Maxwell carelessly. 'Astonishingly well- bred and self-possessed for her position.' ' She is a perfect lady in mind and manners,' said li'illfl 36 WRONGS RIGHTED. H ir \ 1; \ 11 ; \ ''\.:\ i' ■ \'iw an over- coat above his evening dress, and hurried from the house, knowing that even sharp walking would not bring him to the trysting place punctually at the half-ljour. And he was right. When he reached the little sheltered cove, he found Agnes already there, pacing slowly to and fro the narrow strip of beach. She looked infinitely relieved when she saw him, and in the full light of the harvest moon he could see how the sweet face flushed beneath his passionate gaze. 'There were friends at dinner to-night, Agnes,' he said in explanation, ' and I could not possibly come a moment sooner. I was so afraid you would be gone, my darling.* No strange eyes were upon them here, no ears to hear save the murmuring sea, whose mighty breast holds many secrets never breathed to mortal man. John Maxwell drew the slenclor, drooping figure THE TRYST, $7 ^xwell s Lher. Beived a le meet- mention pearance [ler- table rminabl)' d quitted lests, and an over- fr«>m the vould not |ly at the reached |s already strip of she saw moon he Ineath his ■j, Agnes,' possibly rou would 10 ears to ity breast 11 man. Ing figure within the shelter of his stroii^jj arms, and held her there as if lie could never leu her go. ' You have something to tell me,' she whispered at last. ' What is it ? ' ' Tell nu; lirst, my dearest,' he said, ' that you care for me slill, and will be my wife some day, come what may.' ' Care, for you ! — oh, dohn — ' That was all, but her voice was faltering with emotion, and her grave, beautiful eyes shining with her ixreat love. She was a woman of few words, and with these John Maxwell was more than content. He drew her arm within his own, and they paced to and fro for a few minutes in silence. * I have told my father I mean to make you my wife, Agnes,' he said at length, and he felt the light hand tremble on his arm. * He is angry, — forbids it, — as I anticipated, John,' she said, in a low voice. * I knew it when I saw your face to-day.' ' You are right,' returned John Maxwell. * I may as well tell you the whole truth, Agnes, because I know you will be satisfied with nothing less. He says that if I persist in my resolution, — and you know I will, — I must leave Bervie to my brother liichard, and henceforth be as the merest stranger to them all. All that I am willing — more than willing — to forego for you, my darling. I am young and strong, and able to work for my wife when I have got her. Look at me, my dearest, and tell me you 38 WRONGS LIGHTED. Hi 1, 1 ?. can trust me with yourself and your future, thou<,'h at this moment I have nothing earthly to offer you hut the love of an honest heart.* A^'ain the li;,'lit hand trembled on his arm, and then withdrew itself very slowly, and she moved a little way from him, and both stood still. She was very pale, but her eyes shone like stars, and in their deepest depths lay the tears which would be shed by and by. * I do trust you, John,' she said, her sweet voice faltering sorely, — 'just as I love you, and that is with my whole heart. It is because I love you so that I have strength to say this. We must part here and now, John, never to meet any more, — at least as we have done. I was wrong to let it go on ; but I am a woman, and my heart is very weak. Be reconciled to your father ; go to him, and tell him that I will not let you pay such a heavy cost. By and by you will forget me, and .u,ke for ycnir wife some high-born lady who will bring honour to your house.' * And you ? ' interrupted John Maxwell, in strange, slow tones. * Do not think of me/ she said hurriedly. ' By and by,' too, it will be easier for me. Far better to part now. In after years perhaps you might regret the step you would take, and that would break my heart more surely and more cruelly than anything else on earth. John, John, go away now ; do not make it any harder for me/ THE TRYST, 39 }, thoii}j;b offer you arm, and moved a like stars, irs which veet voice id that is )ve you so must purl more, — at t it go on ; weak. Be tell him cost. By your wife jur to your in strange, dly. ' By ir hotter to [light regret i break my n anything ow ; do not ' Agnes/ said the young man, in tlie same slow, strange voice, * do you rememher the night, not three months ago, when you promised on this very spot to be my wife some day, no matter who interfered ? * No need to ask her ; tlie memory was as fresh in her heart as if it had been but yesterday. ' It was a sacred promise, Agnes,' he went on quickly, ' and you dare not break it. You belong to me as truly at this moment as if we were already wedded. Gainsay that if you dare.' She had never seen him so deeply moved, and her heart beat with happiness in spite of the great shadow on it. He moved to her and took her again in Ids strong arms, whispering that nothing but death could part them. * Lift your eyes to my face, Agnes, and repeat your promise as you did that niglit.' ' God forgive me if I am doing wrong,' sobbed the girl, raising her brimming eyes to his face ; ' but I will be your wife, John, and will love you to the end of my life. Now let me go.' * Nay,' he whispered, a sunny smile breaking over his face. ' My promised wife must not go home alone. I will take you myself, Agnes, for all Elie must know now what you are to me. To-morrow I shall come and ask your fatlier for his daughter.' He drew her arm within his own again, and they turned their faces towards the town, the soft moon- hght following in their track, and shining upon them tenderly, as it has done on many a pair of lovers "W ■ liiNi' 40 WRONGS RIGHTED. \\ :ii!i since the world began. They did not speak much, for deep emotion seldom finds relief in a multitude of words. He left her at her father's door, in sight of many curious, staring eyes, and then set out on his lonely homeward way, happy as he ought to have been, but still somewhat perplexed as to his future. But youth is ever full of hope, and love can gild the heaviest thought. 'I I I' \ i much, lultitude of many is lonely )een, but ut youth heaviest ^ d^ SJ^ Ty^^xfU^^i^^ 1^ ^ "i^S 'm^^ I^^M ^^rrfffl^^i ^W^B '^^ --^^ xl^m- t^Ss BBS^T 'jtv^tEwL ^^lEi H^^O "yS^r — -^5 wik «? rxilMMtuii wKtyJi^A '^/^^ilirl w^^- J^^^^S Wj^ ^^^s HranSi KV^" >5.^^V^ •^'^ ^^ ^■i^?^^i)^'>'^ T^mR HV CHAPTEE IV. ALL FOR LOVE. I |N the pleasant morning room at Castle Bervie, just after breakfast, sat Mrs. Max- well and her son Eichard. The latter was smoking, as usual, and, though his mother hated the odour of cigars, she indulgently permitted him the enjoyment in her presence. It would not have mattered either way, Mr. Eichard Maxwell being a gentleman much given to following his own inclination, without any regard for that of others. They were talking of the subject nearest their hearts, the breach between John and his father. ' The week ends to-day,' said Mrs. Maxwell * Have you no idea, Eichard, what John means to do?' Eichard shook his head. * He wasn't likely to make me his confidant, was he ? ' he asked. * But he hasn't given up the girl yet, I know that* 41 f1 4« /rA'(',V(/.V AWi,'// //' /f. • 1 ii ' l,ol on foivonlly liopo h<> avmm'I fjivn Itor ii|»,' initl luM inolhor. ' l( wouM lu> loo ninrli lo poo 1Im» (VoMon nppio [lUiih'hiMl IVoiii yonr Ii|)m jiifil. w^ yuii \von» [\ho\\\ lo ImmIo, woiiMn'l. \{ V ' K'mIIum.' iphinuMi h'irli!«i(l Miiwvoll onorjrplinilly. ' \\\\\\\ MM i«lio| .lolni iw I Tlioro jmhI ii. woiniin lioni \\\ «lo (piavtor n» umwI) lor. iltii lin miioli ol))i^(Mi lo Inin. for nil IIidI;. Im ^Iio oM cluip imiI) up rtboul il r ' VoM , l>»il lluMV is no four ol liiiii volonlinfr. Do y«M\ Know ho hud wl Ium \\\\\u\ on .lolm iniinyinfr ChnllV l^lpluiuslDiio ? aSVjc wmm willin}/ on(»ii|j;h, I know.' ' Ay, r]io wna swoof on hun. I l»oH(ugli tlio window. ' W\A\, \oo\i hno, inolJior. I tnist lo von lo sin^ ovtMvlhinj!; Im nimlo .M(piMro and rijihl for n\o if ,h>hn (urns onl.. I diinMri, hinL rtt anvdnns: nnsi^lf. von know, lo I ho old ninn. f h;no (<> app{\U' V(My nns(Mnhh> juul syinpiilhizing, and wivslifnl for ,]o\\\\ to n^jXMil. ll; wouldn't do for him to v^ns]HH'l it's wh;U V\o hoiMi jtininjj; for for voars. 1 fool I v'^hall v»wo niv future HiHlor-in-law a handsonio prost>nt for this.' * l.oavo it to nio,' M\d Mrs, IMaxwoll assurinufly. • I'll raann^o it. novor fc^ar.' And trulv Kiohard Maxwoll oould not have loft his intoro.^ts in bottor hands. Tho boll ran*: at that nionuMit a snnnnons to tho iuvalid's room, Mrs. Alaxwidl was not slow to obey, f ■^ A 1 1, f'iuc nnr. 4.1 lior lip. na yuii rolirnllv. iiiM Itoni oiili up unnyiMjT ii(»U}/h, I rolurnnd is cigar umo ami \\{, liiiil iniiii. r zing, ami do lor lor for in-law » ^yuriiiL^ly. liavo loft IIS to the to obo)', j'pivi*', diiyfi ol' (Iddli!,, iiM'l liop<', iiri'l IVm, oiuijd*'! Willi piiMMJoii mimI in)li;MiiilJ'iii ||n IdmI not, ^tcn fiiq Hoii niiiff* llinl. imwrioinl.N' «*V(hiri!^, jiimI, fiow flint, llip iliiy of )l»'rifuor» liiiil rom'\ whm i/fipMl.i< uI/ Ui fiiiiiiiiioti liiiii to \\\n mmIm. • Im .lolin Ml l,li<« lioi(tl, liirri f.orri'i t,<; rnn imriM'diiitrly.' ' Am yon niir»i yon nro wiiil ♦nioii(/|i for Mi'i n|Ml.n.l,ion ol' (inot.licr intr-r vicwT mIc nf.kcd, v/itfi 7/''ll UHHiinu'd Holi'll/inlo. ' V<»ii Imvo not, f-N-pt, wll, you Hny, and look fnl,i;oM'd. I'lit, it, off another (\uy, Willinrn. ft. will \m fuif«',r.' ' ,S()nH nlin hrouf.dit,. ' I liopc, you will hf- ahJM t/i rf',«»tore you father's p(!acMiMVV ollhiM1U^> «M1<\Mnillv !«'t i'UmI mi HMImI lurhinxl lMM\\\i>il viMnnini'il \\\ lht< tiiMniiii" n»(»iii Thi' )M"'*t^( l\MMi!'J n( (l»i' l\i»ll rli»i'l( 1)Mi) nol t«»iMi]nil !VO!nn muiI .li'hn Al!»\uti\'oH v \\\\\\ In <1\«> hronch luny I»p ln>nloil if yon >>.MiH only — ' ' Vinnv >s no it^o (o «lison«m tho innKof. iiunlnm.' vrti.i .lolm o\nlly. nn»l ho l»>oKo«l n( Itor onrionwly, ns if soo)vn\»: to jViWioo l\ov in\vin«l IhouiilUfl ' Von »io \iot uooti to \>o son V , tlu» })r(n\o '\vill l>o Mi\Mtov now. I HuppoH^v Toll lr,n\ \ \\\A\ \\\\\\ hu'U. l^ootl unnninfj.' Koiovo sho oo\iM ;\ns\\ov. t1\o ilooi \\\\y\ oh«mumI ninl oloiJoa npou John MmwvoII lor nn\ny w lon,ij; Jiiy. Sho ha*l h\it tun<^ \y> oonunnniouto thi* joyful xnnxw U> liov v-ion. \\])on sho wj^s Munnnoinnl H}',!\m (o Ium' huv>iI\in»Vs vOiMU. ' Iv'i Kuh;n\i in tho houso. V.lonnor ?' Iu» mmiM. nnd sho >vas ftv'itiMushod M tho out wnnl oahn of his manner ' \jo{ him oomo hero ; ho is my only sou /// / fifft I in r 4<; util \\ \\ 'iliHIM U\\\ Mm. HM wliilp. • mI (<♦ mmI« Hold, W'lh ly. itntl. liiMiloil if . inmlnm,* 'niimiMly, X. ' V«ni \y\n^ inul m>iwmI iiiu) »liiy. >vl'iil '\nn\w in lo lu«r Mniil. inul ir. of lii.s I i idiiiM'liiil' I V f^'" I •• fMi'i"ifi I ''I li(ff» I'I ''iffir* Ofi In )M|'lil , I llM t» fl I'll. «lf liMMif|f"!i( l/» 'lo ' .liilfiii-'ifiii Wfi'i III'' li'-fi'l 'if lie- (if Mr '(P l'iW/''rft »«HI|'I"V'''I ^'V ''•'■ Intf'l, fifi'l I'.l'ri fi'pf iVtn f //''il (|('|t!(i It"! I't MM lii'i l(i'l'lifi(<; wiflf M \\i-\0. "//"Ilifi}^ with |iI|'!IMMI!iIi|m I|M|H> \\\{i\ > '■ \{\\u\ \IiU. M<'MHwliil»« .(mIim Mm-;/' II ftuA Wftll'Mt^/ mIm//!^, willl Im'I cyr'M li'-fll MM III" (MMUM'j, u]i,u',i fli'- ,'r/'uM" (,M IliM Im»I(»»> /miIcm 'I Im'M/« w''r>< ImM't ii\'>u\'f}\.^, h\\ (ill »IMW llM lifl'l MmI, f(!ili/"/| 7f\\u}, lifM hl\.)\t't'A ♦ IpciMiMM rfM'fiMl, pMf liirn /', iwuu). !'•» /inj^ Kh" Mfily liMKi" li»> Ihi'I "Vf l;riM//M, \)\i' i"f','\\y Itt-ri^w//'. 'if JMM i'Mfcfiil Imhi, wlii' Ii Mil HiJM 'hiy \i>' \,'u\ \,<'Oi\ |,(iii((lil. I.M l»<'li<>v<> liiq M7/fi. n, rrc'Jint, ft.l«?o, \,<'Th'f\^, Hiwof MM' M ff Mffi l^illiofi'l lin, ' MJ'Iri' •!■! ?irKl ayO(/jf»ri''/\ |i"rli(i|»«, fiMtfi l.liM';»« li'' lin'l ''fill"'! U\^'.nl\^,■ ». ^r»^l/'l^r» '•lidiijM' frM»n »llli(('ri';M t^; \i'i/I'T\.'/, U',u\ p](-'A'-VAr\'r, irnhd'M'r I,m fi»''''";-;(iry WMfk , it Uit'.'AU^. uW hhah for .ImIhi M(ixw>'II, }»i)I, <'Vf,ri in th'-/^') fir^h -ili^irp (dftrdfjitM iM» iriJMj'ivifi!' ffiint'l'-'l with \t'm rtriXur-'il rc-z/ff-.t lt<'r'niiMf' t.lic lo'-.q of t.fi'^", l\t'ui'/:j, ((t'fifit f-.h.'-, y,'^a.f'M- MiMii of I,Im> WMffiMfi Iw, Im/"/I. \\, in a vv/Ttdrmst lliiii!^ l.liiM Imv, wlii^li rn;il<<',«t '<.ut:\i «??) /'■.rift '"/•,« lif^/j'tt. I If. JiriiMTCfJ wnly a rnoffi'Tit fj.K hh'-, ;^')t"/'.'-;, ?iri''i t/'Z/K n. Imiii.' |(»mI< ill \,\i('. liMrri'; h**, v/^m If.avin;/. Th^.r* lio t,nrri»;(l liin bf)/',k n[*Mn ih, ari^J 9>\,Tf/\(-: mt^i firm, (juick Ht*;p down Uif, rojid f/; KJi^;. VV'h^iTi hf; r'Hii/;hft''* MJHH Farfjiiliartton'.H coLU;^^'., and saw i'uHr sifcting ia T I k . ;h. n it i,> u pli -I ' HIT 46 WBONGS RIGHTED. the parlour window, an uncontrollable impulse moved him to seek admittance there for a few moments. I do not suppose any thought of giving her his confidence entered his hef.d, though they were close friends. She gave him a warm greeting, and her shrewd eyes guessed something was troubling him, although he talked freely enough. * It is early yet, John/ she said, glancing to the clock, which was just pointing to ten. * What are you doing down here at this time in the morning ? ' * I had no alternative but come, Miss Farquharson,* he answered bluntly. 'In fact, I've been turned out.' The old lady's knitting fell from her hands, and she stared at him in mute and questioning surprise. ' Laddie, what for ? * He smiled at the abruptness and quaintness of the question. * I may as well tell you everything, I suppose,' he said, feeling it a relief after all to tell some one. * I mean to make Agnes Bonner my wife ; my father objects. And since I cannot give her up, he has given me up. Bervie, I suppose, will be Richard's.' * This is a very grievous thing, John Maxwell,' said the old lady, crossing her hands on her lap, and looking gravely at him. ' I have no word to say against Agnes Bonner, — she's an eident lassie ilse moved moments. y her his were close ;, and her bling him, lancing to ti. ' What e in the rquharson,' jen turned ler hands, uestioning ness of the [ suppose,' some one. wife ; my ve her up, e, will be Maxwell,' n her lap, no word dent lassie Al ^ J O rr. o o < rr. ■r. I I ALL FOR LOVE. 47 an' a bonnie ; but I'm vexed she should have come between you and your fatlier.' ' Slie dichi't conuj between us, Aunt Margaret,' said the youni» man, usin;^' again the familiar nam(; he had used in boyhood. ' It was entirely my fault. Agues wanted to release me, but I declined to accept my freedom at her hands. T would rather face poverty with her than be Maxwell of Bervie without her.' ' Ye talk after the way of foolish youth,' said Miss Farquharson, with a little odd smile. * When the wolf's at the door, ye'll maybe rue't, John Maxwell. But what's done can't be undone. Maybe ye'll tell me, now, what you think to live on, you an' Agnes Bonner ? ' * Indeed, Aunt Margaret, I don't know,' returned the young man, half jestingly, half earnestly. * I'll need to go off to the city, 1 suppose, and turn my education to account.* Miss Farquharson shook her head. * There's hundreds cleverer than you, John Max- well, that can't make a meal of their education. Ye'll mean to lay aside your pride now, I'm thinking, for, if you marry the lassie, ye'll need to work for her.' 'Of pride, Aunt Margaret, you know I have none,' said John Maxwell ; then, ' at least of the kind which disdains work. I'll break stones on the road-side if need be.' 'As long as your Auntie Marget has a penny wKT^^^^" ■^ I / 4S WRONGS RIGHTED. she'll no see lier laddie come to that/ said the old lady, with a sudden dimness in her eyes. ' I'll tell ye what, though, an' ye'll maybe find this harder than breaking stones : Sir Kobert Klphir.stone wants a factor at present, an' if ye ask him I have no doubt he'H give you the place for the sake of what ye are. John Maxwell's face flushed slightly, and the old lady seeing it, nodded shrewdly. * Your pride's no quite buried yet, John, I see ; but if ye'll take my advice, ye'll look after the place. It's worth five hundred a year. Ye'll better go to Elphinstone to-morrow. Sir liobert's at Edin- burgh the day, I think, for I saw him drive to the station this morning.' ' Thank you, Aunt Margaret,' snid John Maxwell, rising. * I shall take your advice, and you are right about it being harder to do than - break stones.' The old lady laughed. ' Folk have to do mony a queer thing to get on in the world, laddie ; an' it's best to bear the burden in your youth. Ye'll be away tae David Bonner's, I'm thinkin'. Tell Agnes tae come up to me ; I have som.ething to say to her. I'm no say- ing but she'll make a good wife, John, but I wish this hadna happened. Your father's a stern man, John Maxwell, and a proud, and I sair mis- doot he'll uo repent o' his harshness this side the grave/ ALL FOR LOVE, 49 d the old ' I'll tell lis harder one wants have no ie of what id the old Im, I see; after the L'e'll better 's at Edin- irive to the 1 Maxwell, J you are lan - break to get on bear the tae David ;ome up to m no say- )ut I wish stern man, sair mis- is side the 'Not when he is in constant intercourse with my step-niollier and her son,' returned John Maxwell, with the first tinge of bitterness in his face and voice. ' Good-bye, Aunt Margaret, and thank you. You are as good to the man as you were to the wild boy who used to waste your tlowers and climb your apple trees.' She stood witliin the porch watching him till he was out of sight, and then went back to her work with a smile and a te?r. ' He's a guid, guid laddie,* she said to herself ; ' but, like all the rest, headstrong in love ; but I wish him well.* In the ' sewing-room * at David Bonner*s house sat Agnes and Ailie, busy with some white dresses for a wedding. Jean Bonner was ' redding up,* as she called it, in the kitchen, and occasionally sauntered across the passage, broom in hand, to see the pro- gress the work was making, or repeat some idle bit of gossip to Ailie. The sloop was to sail next day with a cargo for Sunderland. David Bonner and his mate Stephen Ramsay had been busy with her all the morning, and now were sauntering to a id fro beside the dyke, conjecturing how long it would take the Nannie to make the trip. Let me pause one moment to describe Stephen Ramsay to you, for he plays an important part in this history. Per- haps the best word I can use is manly ; it was characteristic of him in every respect. He towered «'fi ! \'\ I I I 50 WRONGS RIGHTED. a hear! above David Boimor, and was a TTcToules in stren«^'th. If is face was a fine one, — open, winning, and sincere, — and the heart witliin was as tender and true as David Bonner's own. He was as dear to him as his own son, and it was understood between them that one day Ailie wouhl be his wife. There had been no definite words of love spoken between the young pair, but each knew the other's lieart perfectly. And the girl was young enough yet, David Bonner said ; better for her to remain at home a little longer. ' We'll ha'e a longer trip next time, Stevie lad,' said David Bonner, still eyeing the sloop affectionately. ' Macdougall o' Exeter wants me tae tak' a cargo o' tatties tae liotterdam i' Sep- tember.' The Nannie '11 be brawly able for that, skipper,' said Stevie IJamsay cheerily. 'There's the young Laird comin' doon the Taft.' David Bonner wheeled round suddenly. 'Twas John Maxwell's handsome figure striding down the middle of the street. Unconsciously he put his pipe into his vest pocket, and took two or three strides across the road to his own door. He reached it simultaneously v/ith the young man, who stopped, and said pleasantly, — * I am happy to have found you at home, Mr. Bonner. Can I see you privately anywhere for a few minutes ? ' ' We'd best walk along the shore, sir,' said David ALL FOR LOVE. 8> rcules in winnin<4, a tender ^ as dear [iderstood liis wife, e spoken le other's g enough remain at .6, Stevie bhe sloo]) grants me n i' Sep- , skipper,' he young 'Twas I down the it his pipe :ee strides reached it stopped, lome, ^Ir. for a few laid David ■« Bonner briefly. * It's mair private there than ony gate.' * Ver) well,' returned John Maxwell ; and the pair turned round the end of the house, and down to the beach leading in the direction of Ruby Bay. There was nothing said till they were beyond tho range of curious eyes or ears, then David Bonner stood still and fixed his eyes leenly on his com- panion's face. * I'm ready tae hear onything ye may ha'e tae say tae me, sir.' John Maxwell an s were ' promptly and impulsively, as was his wont, — * I want you to give me your daughter Agnes for my wife.' A great surprise gathered on David Bonner's face. It was several moments before he answered. ' My bairn Agnes for yer wife, Mr. Maxwell ? * he said at last. ' I'm a plain man, an' a puir man, an' I canna think ye mean what ye say.' * I have learned to love your daughter,' repeated John Maxwell simply and earnestly, 'and have come here to-day to ask you to give her to me.' David Bonner drew his hand across his brow in a dazed kind of way, as if yet unable to comprehend his companion's meaning. * It is due to you, sir, that I should tell you the whole truth ere you hear it from a dozen gossiping tongues,' said John Maxwell, walking slowly to and ■I i 5» WRONGS RIGHTED, fro. * My father is not pleased with my intended marriage, and, because I persist in my resolution, has sent me from Bervie for ever, I believe. I have no hope that one penny of my fatlier's wealth will ever come to me, and I stand before you a poorer man than you are, with nothing to oiler your daughter but an honest heart and a pair of willing hands. I do not ask you to give her to me till I have a home to offer her, which I believe will be soon. Only give me a promise that, when the time comes, you will not say me nay.' As the young man spoke, David Bonner grew to understand the state of affairs, and he held out his hand to him, saying huskily, — * I ha'e wranged ye, sir, in tliocht, mony a time. I was feared ye were but playin' wi' my bairn. I'll no' hide it frae ye. This isna a marriage I wad ha'e socht or liket for her, but if she's willin' I ha'e nae mair tae say. Ye ha'e gi'en up a hantle for her, — richtly or wrangly I dinna ken, — but it's no' for me noo tae stand between ye. Wull ye come tae the hoose, sir, an' I'll tell ye sae again afore Agnes ? ' It was evidence of the delicacy of John Maxwell's nature, that he had spoken to this plain, rugged old seaman as if he had been the highest in the land ; the answering delicacy, as strong and as rare in David Bonner's breast, appreciated it to the full. What was the amazement of Stevie Eamsay to see the twain come back to tiic Taft together, then enter David Bonner's house ! 3! ALL FOR LOVE, 53 T intended resolution, 3. I have wealth will I a poorer oiler your of willing ) me till I ^e will be n the time er grew to jld out his ny a time, aairn. I'll I wad lia'e I ha'e nae for her, — no' for me ae tae the gnes ? ' Maxwell's in, rugged lest in the ,nd as rare the full. Qsay to see then enter From the kitchen Jean Kuiiiier saw them pass the window, and heard them enter the house. Not being in her Sunday gown, she did not care to appear before the Laird, and was devoured with curiosity as to the motive of his visit. They went into the sewing-room, and at a word from her father Ailie quitted it, and joined her wondering mother in the kitchen. The rush of colour died from Agnes Bonner's face almost as quickly as it came, and she rose to her feet, the white garments she was sewing falling round her like a cloud. She glanced from her father to her lover with much questioning eyes. It was several minutes before the silence was broken. ' Agnes,' said the old man then, his voice strangely grave and earnest, ' I ha'e been askit this day tae gi'e ye awa' oot o' my keeping into his.' He pointed to John as he spoke. ' Are ye willin' tae gang ? ' * Yes, father.* The words were clearly .-ind unhesitatingly spoken. This was no time for reserve. ' Then I ha'e nae mair tae say, sir,' said he, and, moving to his daughter's side, he laid his broad hand on her slender shoulder. * I warned ve. A^nes. ye'll mind, tae tak' care o' the Laird o' Bervie : in that I wranged baith him an' you. He's gi'en up a'thing for you, bairn ; see an' mak' it up to him, for it's a deep, honest love he oilers ye. An* may yer m \\ 54 WRONGS LIGHTED. mither's God be wi' ye, my bairn, an' bless baith you an' yours for ever. Oh, sir, be guid till her, for she canna stand tae be harshly dealt wi'.' And all the answer John Maxwell made was to grasp the old man's hand in a grip which spoke volumes. Then David Bonner joined their hands, and with one more murmured blessing hurried from the room. ,;-*, baith you 3r, for she ie was to ich spoke and with from the CHAPTER V. A TRUE WOMAN. ISS ELPHINSTONE of Elphinstone was pacing to and fro in her spacious dining- room, her hands clasped before her, and her beautiful face graver than its wont. A visitor had come and gone within the last two hours, and a piece of gossip she had told was the cause of ^Miss Elphinstone's gravity. It was only the rumour of John Maxwell's rup- ture with his father, and his probable marriage with the daughter of David Bonner. You will remember Mrs. Maxwell's verdict on Miss Elphinstone, and I fear it was not altogether a mistaken one. But it is not for me to pry into the secrets of the girl's heart. She was the only child of the house of Elphinstone, the idol of her widowed father, and the pet of the whole country-side. She was so bright, so winsome, and so beautiful, that to know her and not love her was a thing impossible. S5 r 56 WRONGS RIGHTED, • \ The shadows were creeping into the corners of the great room, and the last glow of the sunset fading in the sky. It was nearly seven o'clock, and Miss Elphinstone was impatiently waiting her father's return from a neighbouring town, whither he had gone on business in the morning. It was past his time, and, wondering much what detained him, she was about to ring for light, when she heard his step in the hall, and flew to met him. ' Papa, I thought you would never come,' she exclaimed. ' What has kept you ? Was the train behind ? ' * No, my love. Miss Farquharson waylaid me, and kept me nearly half an hour. Is there a fire in the library ? You will come in here till I surprise you with a piece of news.' ' Is it the same as mine, I wonder ? ' said she, following him into the room. He flung himself in the easy-chair, and Flora knelt down beside him. * A very bad piece of news indeed,* said Sir Eobert gravely. * I don't know when I felt so amazed. * What is it, papa ? You naven't told me yet,' cried Flora impatiently. * Well, it seems that foolish boy Jack Maxwell has got entangled with some fisher girl about Elie, and insists upon marrying her. Naturally and properly, his father opposes the thing, and the result is, John has been expelled from Bervie, and will be A TRUE WOMAN. 57 rs of the it fading nd Miss father's he had ach what ht, when r to met )me,' she the train daid me, \ a fire in surprise said she, imself in him. said Sir ■ felt so me yet,' Maxwell Dut Elie, lly and le result i will be disinherited, I suppose, in favour of that smooth- tongued brother of his. I expected better things of Maxwell's son.' He did not say what he had expected, but I be- lieve his daughter guessed. Her fair cheek flushed a little, and she kept her head turned away. ' I heartl it too, papa, to-day from Lady Murray. But you are a little mistaken. She is not a fisher girl, but a dressmaker, and a very superior girl too, I suppose.' * Well, her father's a fisherman, and that's the same thing, Flora,' said her father irritably. ' I declare I don't know what the young generation is coming to.' There was a short silence. 'Miss Farquharson waylaid me, as I said, and it was to tell me this, and to ask — guess what ? ' ' I don't know, papa,' said Flora quickly. ' She wants me to give Brown's place to John Maxwell. I said no pretty sharply, I fancy, and said what I think, that he and his wife deserve to starve.' Miss Elphinstone made no answer whatever, but her father had an idea that his words had vexed her. ' I've no doubt you think me a cross, hard-hearted old dragon,' he said. 'Indeed, Miss Farquharson told me so to my face. Do you think I can con- scientiously give that rebellious young man the place ? ' ' I don't see what your conscience has got to do i 58 WRONGS RIGHTED, with it at all, papa,* replied his daughter frankly. ' Lut since you ask me, I do think you should give it him. Come now, please me this once, papa,' she added coaxingly. * Give John the place, and earn his gratitude and mine.* * Yours, you saucy monkey ; it doesn't last twenty-four hours,' said he grimly, though a relent- ing smile crept to his mouth. ' You women are all alike ; give you a love affair, and you'll make a resolution to get it settled to your content. Well, if the young fellow comes here to-morrow, as I believe he will, I won't spare him, Flora, tkough I may give in at last.* * I daresay he feels bad enough,' said Miss Elphin- stone, springing to her feet. ' Well, papa, we have been sitting forgetting there is suck a thing as dinner in the world.' She departed to her dressing-room, heart and thoughts full of John Maxwell and his affairs, and her busy brain full of a hundred kind plans for the welfare and happiness of the young wife, who would doubtless feel lonely and strange and shy in her new position, and be pleased to make one friend. There was not a more unselfish being on earth than Flora Elphinstone. To John Maxwell's infinite relief, he was spared the necessity of explaining his errand when he ap- pealed at Elphinstone next morning. Sir Robert received him with a strange mixture of cordiality and grim sternness. A TRUE JVOMAN, 59 frankly. )uld give )apa,' she and earn 3n't last a relent- n are all make a Well, if I believe may give s Elphin- . we have as dinner eart and airs, and plans for wife, who and shy luike one bemg on LS spared n he ap- Eobert cordiality ' Mind you, I don't approve of your doings, young man,' he said, ' and I never saw any good come of unequal marriages in my life.' 'Perhaps mine will convince you that they may be good sometimes,' said John Maxwell. * And I am not afraid of it.' * No, I don't suppose you are,' said the old man, with a twinkle in his eye. * Well, away to Flora, and introduce yourself as the new factor. If it is any satisfaction, she is with you heart and soul in this business, like the silly girl she is.' ' God bless her,' said John Maxwell, under his breath ; aloud he said, with the simple earnestness peculiar to him, — * I cannot thank you as I would, Sir Robert. My faithful services will show my gratitude better than mere words.' 'We will hope so,' returned the Baronet good- humouredly ; and so, with a few brief words, the matter, one of such importance to John Maxwell, was settled. It was evening before he came again to Elie, and, pausing at Miss Farquharson's for an hour, the gloaming was coming on when he knocked at David Bonner's door and asked for Agnes. Jean opened it, all smiles and curtseys, but he declined to come in. If Agnes was ready, he said, he would see her outside. For David Bonner he had a sincere respect and liking, but this vulgar, gossiping wife was not much to his taste. I ■ 1 %"!>, 60 WRONGS RIGHTED. Agnes joined him in a few minutes, dressed for walking, and the pair turned, as usual, to the beach. * The sloop is gone, I see,' said John, glancing towards the harbour. ' Yes ; she went with tlie tide in the afternoon,' returned Agnes, ' Father thought to see you again, perhaps, before he sailed.' ' I wish I could have seen him, to tell him I can offer you a home already. Say you are glad, Agnes. Sir llobert Klphinstone has given me his steward's place, with an income of five hundred a year.' No need to ask if she was glad. Her sweet face was sufficient answer. ' So, my darling, we can be married very soon, and I can procure you a true friend in Miss Elphin- stone. She is your friend already.* ' I had rather she did not wish to befriend me, John,' returned Agnes quietly. * I am not used to the ways of great ladies. I should feel shy and strange. And another thing, I do not want to be patronized, because, when I am your wife, shall I not be the equal of any of them ? ' He liked the pride with which she spoke, and fancied he saw the surprise on Miss Elphinstone's face when she saw this proud, self-possessed, lady- like woman, instead of the awkward country girl she expected. * We will say no more about this at present, Agnes,' he said, half laughing. ' I think there would be some difficulty in patronizing you. Why, my A TRUE WOMAN, 6i ressed foi [le beach. , glancing ifternoon,* you again, lim I can ad, Agues. steward's ir.' sweet face very soon, iS Elphin- 'riend me, at used to shy and ^ant to be e, shall I poke, and )hinstone's sed, lady- •y girl she t present, I ere would Why, my drirlitic;, you looked like a princess when you drew up your little head as you did just now.' ' Nonsense, John,' she said, laugliing a little also ; ' let us go by the Braes instead of the beach to-night. Tlic lights on the opposite coast are so clear, and I like to watch them/ So they took the sloping path to the Braes, talk- ing as they went of the briglit future before them, and feeling that no shadows lay around their path. 'There is some one going to the Lady's Tower, John,* said Agnes suddenly. * Do you see — ' ' Yes,' returned John briefly. ' It is my brother Ptichard.* Their unspoken thought was to wonder what brouglit him alone to that quiet spot. They did not know how often Eichard Maxwell had come alone to the Lady's Tower before to-night. He turned when he reached tlie ruin, and came leisurely along the turf, apparently unaware of their appearance. He started when he saw them at last, and seemed irresolute whether to turn or face them. Then he came forward, carelessly lighting a cigar as he did so. * Oh, is it you. Jack ? ' he said, with apparent sur- prise, when they were close upon him. * I've been wondering what's come over you. Never dreamed you were in Elie still.' Now the truth was, Richard Maxwell was perfectly aware of all his brother's movements, even up to the hour he had left Elphinstone, >►. li Id u I 1 62 WRONGS RIGHTED, John Maxwell hesitatiid whether to introduce Agnes or not, hut liichard tocik the initiative. 'This will he Miss Bonner, I suppose?' he said, and his tone was a trifle sneering. ' Won't you introduce nie, fJohu ? * John Maxwell's eyes flashed, and he hit his lip, and strove to utter the few brief words calndy. Agnes made a slight, distant how, which Kiehard Maxwell returned, but did not raise his hat. 'Fine night for a stroll. Ah, I quite envy you two, 'pon my word,' he drawled. ' Well, I'll he off. Good-night, Jack ; happy to hear of tlie event when it comes off.' But for the pleading touch of Agnes's fingers on his arm, John Maxwell would have knocked the insolent fellow to the ground without a moment's hesitation. By a mighty effort he kept his passion in curb, and with a curt good-night drew Agnes in the opposite direction. * Thank you, my darling,' he whispered, after a while ; ' you kept me from myself. But for you, there would have been blows to-night. Curse him, he has got my all. Can't he leave me in peace ? ' ' Your all ? ' said Agnes timidly. The words told ; the gloom left his face, and he clasped her to his heart, whispering how dear she was, and how every trouble flew when she was by his side. But the meeting had cast a brief shadow on their happiness, and soon they turned their faces home- 3 f % ■>f A TRUE WOMAN. «3 introduce vu. ?' he said, ^Von't you )it his lip, ly. Agnes I Maxwell envy you I'll be off. A'cnt when fingers on pocked the moment's IS passion ew Agnes d, after a b for you, urse him, )eace ? ' ward. The tide was receding, and they descended to the shore, and walked slowly almost at the edge of the sea. As they passed the little cove known as Kuhy I'ay, Agnes caught sight of two figures stand- ing there, and drevy John's attention to them. In the dim light she did not distinguish or recognise them, but his clearer vision succeeded. ' Agnes, as I live, it is my brother llichard and your sister Ailie/ M (J e, and he dear she le was by V on their es home- CIIArTEK VI. MKMOKIKS. ! t I AVTNG m;ulc up his mind to Ix'friciul John IVImxwoII, Sir Ivobcrt Klj)hiii«U)iio con- sidcrod it liis duty (o inform his fiitlier of Ills intt'iilioii. They liud been close friends in tlio days wlion they rudo to the huntin;,' fiehl to^ijjethor, and it had IxH'n the liopo of holh tlieir lioiirts to see tlieir eliihh'eu united. It was a disMi)[)ointment to the ]^>aronet, but only short-lived. There were plenty of suitors for Flora, he knew, us desirable in all re.^pects as John Maxwell. He rode over to Bervie one evening, and found his old friend very weak and irritable. * I've had my death-blow, Elphinstone/ he said feebly. * He was the very apple of my eye, and he has broken my heart. It was wicked of him, after all I've been to him.' Mrs. ^Maxwell was in the room, and Sir Robert saw her colour change, and guessed she was din- Mh-.MORir.S, ^'5 rfricnd John msloiio coii- m his father I been chtsc the huiiliii;' ope of both It \va3 a y short-livt'd. he knew, as 1 J, and found )ne,' he said eye, and he of him, after i Sir Eobert he was diii- I plcnscd at th(> ifivabM's pliiiiily exi»r('MS(!d preformed I'or Ills tirHt-boni son. 'Leave us II litllc wliihi, I'llciuior,' siiid Ibc old uiiiu (|ii('ruh)iisly. ' \'oii an; not always so attentive.' ' lie has ^Mowii I'litieirMl and initalde .since this new troubh; cam*;,' said Mis. Mii\vv<'Il to Sir IJobert. • lb' is (»t't(Mi impatient even with nie.' ' Th(!re is no mied to ^^ive l'dphinston(! a bst of my peiudiaritie.s, Mleanor,' said the sie.k man, more irritably still. '(}o o your son, and leave nu; a little.' Mrs. Maxwcfll shook her head ineanin;^dy at Sir bobert, and (piilted the room. * 1 don't trust her, Klphinstom^ tliou^^di she is my wife,' said tla; sick luiin, movin<,f iiis bead wearily on his ])illow. ' And IJiehard is too smootb-ton^oied. 1 never see his nial self. Ih was pU optsn and above board, — no deceit about bim. Tfe never .said no if he meant yes in his life. My deatb-ldow from him, Klphinstone, — it was cruel, cruel ! ' 'You might have forgiven him once, Maxwell,' said the Baronet bluntly. ' It was the first time he had gone against you, and it isn't the first time a gentleman has married a daughter of the people.' ' No Maxwell ever did,' said the old man im- patiently. ' I could not brook that he should be the first. Where has lie gone, do you know ? TVtcy profess to know nothing, but I don't trust them • they are too smooth.' ' He isn't out of Elie,' returned the Baronet, '• and E u WRONGS RIGHTED. ■■|'i.i !i I don't know what you will say to me, Maxwell, but I've taken him in hand and given him Brown's place. Flora persuaded me, and that's the truth.' * Ay, ay, your little maid/ said the invalid musingly. * How is slie, Elphinstone ? She never comes to see her old friend now.' * She is well, and as saucy as ever, and much in- terested, I can tell you, in the new factor and his affairs.' The invalid waved his hand impatiently. ' Enough of that, we will talk of something else. It is over and done with. He has chosen his own way, let him travel on it. Would you have any objection to give your little maid to Eichard if they were so minded ? ' Sir Eobert had several objections, the greatest of which was a strong personal dislike to Eichard Maxwell, but he merely said if the young pair settled anything of the kind he would not stand in their way. * It was an old plan, Elphinstone, but it wa . nipped in the bud. If you will give Eichard freedom to visit you, knowing his intentions, who knows we might see Elphinstone and Bervie one yet.' * He is welcome to come as often as he pleases, but I can't answer for Flora's behaviour. She is not very particular in her manners sometimes,' said the Baronet. ' But it might be — it might be. Well, I will be off. Maxwell. Good-bye, and try to pull up a bit.' ■te MEMORIES. 67 axwell, but n Brown's 3 truth.' .1 musingly. )mes to see 1 much in- ,or and his T. 3thing else, in his own L have any ird if they greatest of ;o Piichard oung pair It stand in it it wa.. :d freedom I knows we le pleases, I She is not I,' said the Well, I |o pull up The invalid shook his head. 'I'll never get over this, Elphinstone. It's my deatli-blow. Tell your little maid I should like to see her sometimes. She used to come often.' The Baronet looked pitifully at the poor helpless wreck of the man he had known in the prime of si)l(;udid manhood, and, saying hastily he would bid Flora come, left the room. He did not encounter Mrs. Maxwell or her son on liis way out. ]^)etore another week was gone John Maxwell entered on his new duties, and applied himself to them with heart and soul. He would have made a very hcau vUdl country gentleman, for he knew the value of every acre of ground on Bervie, and had been the personal friend of every one of his tenants. There was a steward at Bervie, but John Maxwell had supervised all his own concerns, and was there- fore eminently fitted for the post the good-natured Baronet had given him. The dwelling-house he was to occupy was within tlie policies, and not ten minutes' walk from the mansion. There John dwelt in solitary bachelorhood, awaiting the time wlien Agnes should be ready to become its mistress. In the furnishing of it Miss Klphinstone had come to bis aid, and had been much interested in all its arrangements. She was almost as impatient for Agnes's coming as John himself. David Bonner had C(jnsented to permit the wedding in tlie beginning of the new year. So through the weary days of the ; 68 WRONGS RIGHTED, \\ I \ ^ \ , i ' \ 1 1 closing year Aqiies Bonner made her few simple preparations for the change in her life, vvitli a heart in which there was not a shadow of doubt or mis- giving. She had suddenly become a person of mi.cli importance in Jean Bonner's eyes, and was treated with much deference and respect, which Agnes received as quietly as she had done the neglect of former days. But of all t'le household, Agnes felt the greatest change was in Ailie. She had not spoken to her of having witnessed her meeting with Kichard Maxwell, for Agnes was shy and reticent, and seldom cared to meddle with the affairs of otliers. That she met him frequently yet, she knew, for she would be often gone for hours of an evening, and give no explanation of where she hnd been. Seeing how restless the child had grown, and how changed from her old bright, careless self, Agnes trembled for her. She knew enough of Eichard Maxwell to distrust and fear him. The Nannie made the voyage to Eotterdam and back in safety, and arrived at Anstruther harbour two days before the wedding. David Bonner was perfectly satisfied now with his daughter's prospects, and was, indeed, happy to think she would soon occupy a position for which she was better fitted than her present one. His admiration and liking for John Maxwell liad steadily increased, and the two were firm friends. On the night before the wedding, John Maxwell MEMORIES. 69 few simple ith a heart Libt or mis- ion of much was treated lich Agnes \ neglect of ihe greatest ken to her :h Eichard and seldom liers. That r she would nd give no Seeing how anged from ed for her. to distrust erdam and er harbour Bonner was prospects, ^ould soon etter fitted and liking d, and tlie n Maxwell sT came down to Elie for a last word with Agnes, but she had gone to ]\Iiss Farqaharson's in the afternoon. He was about to go in search of her, when David Bonner appeared, and asked him to take a stroll with him, as he had something particular to say. ' I'll no keep ye lang, sir, for I ken ye wad fain be awa' up by,' he said, as they went leisurely along the pier. ' I only want tae tell ye something aljoot Agnes's mither. It's never passed my lips afore, an' it wadna noo, but that ye're gaun tae mairry my bairn the morn an' lo'e her sae dearly. Ye'll hae patience wi' an auld man's story, John ? ' ' No need to ask, sir,' said John Maxwell sincerely. 'And, believe me, I feel deeply that you should trust me with anything so dear to you.' ' Trust ye, lad ; there's no muckle I wadna trust ye wi', I'm thinkin',' said the old man huskily. * But I maunna be sae lang aboot it.' He paused a moment, and in the dim, uncertain light of the flickering winter moon John Maxwell saw the old man's face softened into a strange emotion and tenderness. ' It's just five-an'-twenty years ago this month,' he went on again, ' that I took a cargo of wheat up tae Newcastle. The Nannie was new then, and trade was brisker i' the Eb'e than it is now. We had an awfu' passage, — 'deed, I never thocht tae see the Elie again, — an' we were keepit a week an' mair i' the port waitin' for fair weather tae come hame. Ae nicht I had l)een up the toon seein' an auld acquaintance, an' was comin' doon by the quay, 70 WRONGS RIGHTED. !i! W ' IJ 1 k 1 ! I gey late, aboot eleven maybe, an' as I was passin' by ane of the warehouses I heard a sound like a woman greetin' i' the door. It's a waefu' soond tae hear at ony time, an' I couldna gang by withoot seein' what it was. It was pitch dark, but I struck a match an' lookit in. There was a young thing, a lassie, leanin' up i' the corner, sabbin' as if her heart wad break. She was dressed in black as far as I could see, gey worn an' puir-lookin', but she had a look o' some- thing better aboot her; an' when she turned her face tae me, it was a bonnie ane, though waefu' white an' sad.' ' "Can I help ye, ma'am? " I said, for somethin' made me speak respectfu' till her. " It's ower late for ye tae be oot yersel'." She drew her bit shawl aboot her, and lookit at me haughty like afore she spoke. An' then she only askic me tae pass on an' leave her tae hersel' ; but that I couldna dae. '"I'm a plain, honest Scotchman, ma'am," I said firmly, " an' I hae a bit sister at hame I wadna like tae see i' this place at this time o' nicht. I'm no' askin' tae ken yer trouble, only let me see ye safely oot o' this tae yer hame, whaurever it may be." Wi' that she steppit oot o' the door, and stood just at the lamp an' lookit at me wi' her twa earnest e'en as if she wad read my vera soul. I didna wince, though the Ic^k made my heart jump. Syne she held oot her hand, and said simply, — * " I'll trust you ; and if you will show me my way I shall be very grateful. I have lost myself, I believe, among the streets." & MEMORIES, It I ^as passin' by iike a woman 1 tae hear at t seein' what a match an' lassie, leanin' b wad break. Duld see, gey ook o' some- d her face tae hite an' sad.' aiethin' made r late for ye shawl about e she spoke, m' leave her am," I said wadna like It. I'm no' ee ye safely t may be." 1 stood just earnest e'en lidna wince, Syne she me my way ' myself, I * She telt me whaur she bade ; it was a piiir, puir street a mile an' mair frae the quay, but I kent the road well, and we went aff thegither. I never spak' ; her grief, whatever it was, was tae be respeckit, though I'll no say but I wondered sair what she micht be. We had gane, I believe, aboot half the way afore she said a word. ' " I haven't heard a kind word for weeks," she said at last, an' her voice was waefu' weary. " I ran out of the house to-night to fnd my road to the river and drown myself. But it was so cold and black, my heart failed me." * Still I spak' never a word, — I couldna, — an' efter a bit she said again, — * " Thia is a great city, sir, but there are no kind hearts in it, surely, Scotland must be a better land than this, if all are like you." ' " There'll be kind hearts here tae, ma'am," said I, wi' a kin' o' tremble i' my voice, " though ye've maybe no come ower them. But thae's waefu* words tae hear frae the like o' you." ' " I ran out of the house to-night," she went on, an' I felt her hand shakin' on my airm, " to escape from my father. He was going to murder me." ' " Guidness, lassie, what for ? " cried I, forgettin' mysel' in astonishment. ' It was just a wee while afore she answered again. * " I forgot I am talking to a stranger," she said quickly. " I think I can find my way alone now, thank you." >'i 72 WRONGS RIGHTED. il A i * T wns liurt, an' I sup|>()Ro my face sliowcd it, an' she said, — '"You think imc ungrateful," .slit>. said, \vi' a littlc bit smile that liriditeiuMl her lace wondrrfu'. " For- give me, 1 don't know wliat I am saying ; 1 don't, indeed, my mind is so upset." ' I diibia say what 1 thocht, nor how I felt for lu r, but jist answered short lik(\ — '"Dinna speak o't, ma'am, but h',t me tak' ye a' the way. It's hite, an' yer nt) safe yer hme." 'So there was nae mair said till we reaehed her hanie, twa bits o' rooms in a ])uir-luokin' lioose in that dirty by-street. She got a wee hurried an' frichtened like as we got near till't, an' she stoppit at the entry and said in a treml)lin' way, — * " Good night, and may God bless you, sir, for your kindness to a helpless woman." * A woman ! thocht I. She lookit little mair than a bairn. I dinna mind richtly what I said, but 1 mind o' askin' if I micht ca' the morn' an' s})eir for her, an' she didna say no. Syne she went slowly intae the boose, an' I stood a meenit i' the street waitin', T dinna ken what for. I dinna think it could 'a' been mair than a meenit, when I heard a man's voice speakin' like somebody in a passion, an' syne a scream, an' without anither thocht I rushed intae the boose, an' saw her tremblin' and crouchin' in a corner, an' a man staimin' ower her — a tall, thin-lookin' man — his face workin' wi' passion, an' his bleered e'en roUin' like a madman's. MEMORIES. 73 lowed it, an' , wi' a, liUlc d\\\ " F(.r- ig; 1 (loii'i,, felt for llLT, ! tak' ye a' lie." 'cached Jier \\ hoose ill hurried an' she stoppit ou, sir, for mair than said, but I ^ an' s])eir she went icnit i' the iniia think I heard a )assion, an' i I ruslied croucliin' er — a tall, assign, an' '"Wliiit! you good-ror-uothiiiL,' hil,l,'^^ago. I'.'ick n.^ain without a l)ciiiiy, and me dyiii,!^' ))y inches for lack of a UKtutliful of drink ! Vxvi out of my si«rht, or I'll nmriler you 1 " ' He lifted his h(nid t(» her, Imt the next meenit I had him hy the throat an' l)r(>cht liim tae the thire. Tiicn, whis]»erin' tae h(!r tae \i:a\\\i^ ootside, I slijijxMl oot tae, an' lockit the door i' tlie ootside an' left tiie kev i' tlie lock. I Jieard liini scrcamin' an swearin', and kent Ik^ Wiis mad wi' the drink. 1 fund the lassie — his dochter, I su])i)oscd sin; was — standing,' in the entry sliakin' frae lieid tae lit. She cam' awii' quite readily wi' me, an' I gaed tae the lirst h(jtel we cam' tae an' ordered a room for her. I bade her guid nicht then, an' the tears were stream in' doon her cheeks as she tried tae thank me. My ain e'en, John, werena dry. Syne gaed awa tae the quay again, an' walked the deck o' the sloop till mornin'. * Afore ten o'clock I went tae the hotel again, and fund her there, as I expectit. She was that white, an' her e'en sae weary an' heavy, I kent she hadna sleepit. She askit me tae sit doon till she telt me wha slie was, an' a' her little history. I'll gie ye't, John, as nearly as I can in her ain words, but ye'll never ken the pathos in wliich she telt it. ' " My name is Agnes Trent," she said. " He is my father, Arthur Trent. He was an eminent physician in a country district not many miles from here, and was, besides, the younger son of a Cumber- land landowner. My mother died when I was a \9A ' !l % 74 WRONGS RIGHTED. \\{ i u h % child, and \ was ju'riiiiltod to grow up muoli ni^ I ])lcaR(Ml My father soldoni noticed or spoke to ini' I was afraid of liini from my earliest years. I doii'i know liow or when he first learned to drink, sir hut it grciw upon him till he was scarcely a day sober, iind then ])eoj)le he^^an to he afraid to emplny him. His prsi tii'3 dwindled away till by and by In was ohli ' icMive Wy!j;al(^ and come to the town, He iievei M.n.i. 'ul aj^ain after that, but earned some- thing by copying a ul writ ing for newspapers ; i)iit he soon left that olf too, and we have sunk h)\VL'i and lower, till W(> are as you found us. I have tried to earn a little by sewing sometimes, but work is scarce, and the people in cities very hard." Her head bent doon on her hands at this, an' for a meenit she didna speak. '* Last night he ordered me to go and get money somewhere by any means, and used words to me I cannot repeat. They seemed to break my heart altogether. He would have murdered me, I believe, sir, but for you. It is not the first time neighbours have had to save me from him." * I dinua mind what I said then, and it disna much maitter. I tried tae tell her, I ken, what I felt, an' syne she askit me if I were going haiue wi' her aince again, and see what he was aboot. He was her faither, ye ken, and she cared for him yet, I believe, in spite of his cruelty. So we gaed, and found him lyin' dead on the Hure. She was maist beside hersel', puir thing, an' I didna ken hoo tae ,1 C( C( h nil ^ ^•' MEMORIES, 75 p inuf'li n-^ I • spoke 1.0 riio ears. I don't to drink, sir ^iircely a dav lid to einpldv by and by In to the town. earned some- i'.spapers ; l)iit [3 snnk lower I have triud but work is hard." Her is, an' for a he ordered y any means, peat. They He would 'or you. Ii had to save md it disiia ken, what 1 going hanie aboot. He or him yet, ^e gaed, and e was maist :en hoo tae comfort hor. The doctor said the cause was "ex- cessive drinkin', an' that naethin' could ha'(! saved his life." Weel, he was buried, an' the weathiir was mcndin', and it was time I was hani(^ wi' the sloop. Hoo was I tae leave her — a lieli>K'ss lassie in a great toon withoot a I'rien' or a way Uu; earn a penny? My niitlicr was livin' then, an' I kent wad hae l)een liLTs, that I'll p them i' tl.i second wive- I oiiythiiig thiit very dear tai; veil, an' theiu^ iow the brave cs of ' his first lent loved and ly man he had n' maybe ye'll I've keepit vu Eh, man, thu ^ while. All' r wull again. i' theiTfither bv for emotion, hands met in ith no otluT to the house, le door. i i CIIArTEK VII. FAITHLESS AILIE. HE weddiiiL,' was to tak^ place in an Kdiulmrgli hotel. They wished to avoid the comment and interest it would excite in the town, so the Elie gossips were deprived of the chance to peer, and pry, and talk over tlie consummation of what had been their choicest bit for weeks. By the morning train David Bonner left YAie with his two daughters, Agnes and Ailie, tlie latter to officiate as bridesmaid. j\Iiss Farcjuharson was in Edinburgh, and had specially asked if she might be present ; and came, dear old soul, in as great state as if it had been a fashionable wedding in an aristocratic mansion. She was the only stranger present. So at three o'clock in the afternoon Agnes was married, in the presence of only five people, including the clergyman. Mucli to Jean Bonner's indignation, Agnes had declined to robe herself in the orthodox white attire, 77 % 78 WRONGS RIGHTED, m % \ I 1 and chosG to be married in the dress slie travelled in, a soft brown cashmere ; and her only adornnicnt was a lace collar, fastened by a rin<^' brocteh of exquisite design and workmanship, — one of tlit treasured trinkets her father had given her early in the morning. She looked what she was, a ])uro sweet, ladylike girl, and to her husband's fond eyes the dearest and bonniest wife in all the world. Sin made her marriage vows without any show ot emotion, and looked, as she felt, perfectly happy and at rest. David Bonner was very deeply moved, bin kept it hid till the last moment, when Ailie and he must go, leaving Agnes behind. ' Oh, sir, be guid till her,' he said again to John Maxwell, and his eyes dwelt almost pleadingly on the young man's happy face. ' There shall no care or trouble come near her if I can shelter her from it, sir,' he said, and bent his head over the hand he held. * So help me, God.' Then the old man drew his best - loved cliild within his arms, but what he said was inaudible to all but her. ' We will be at home in a day or two,' cried John Maxwell cheerily, * and you will need to pay us a long visit. Agnes will belong to you as nuich as ever.' * Me, na ! ' said David 1 )onner. * She's yours now : but the bairn '11 not a'thegither forget her auLl hame, I trew that' ' Come, come, I must really put a stop to these A 1 ,, I FAITHLESS AILIE. 79 1 she travelled lily adornmoni in<^' broctch of — one of tlif ti her early in was, a pure, nd's fond eyes e world. She any show ot !tly happy and )ly moved, biu 1 Ailie and he igain to John pleadingly on IB near her if and bent his me, God.' - loved cliild inaudible to »r two,' cried need to |)ay you as mucdi s yours now: ;et her auld top to these lon.t; ,crof.(M)ycs,' said Miss Farquharson. 'Mrs. John Maxwell, I con-iratulate you with all my heart ; and you too, my laddie. Xow, Mr. IJonner, ye'U miss the train,' and she led the way, insistinj; on iMr. Bonner and Ailie following.,' her. Ailie had made a pretty bridesmaid, but seemed woiulerfully (|uiet and iul»due(l. So they departed to the station, and took train ai^^ain for Klie, David iJonner thinking with a gr<'at heartache how desolate the house would be with(»i.* Agnes. From Ailie, Jean lionner received a minute account of the j)roeeedings ; but her husband scarcely spoke of them, a!id for once she did not bother him with a string of ([uestions. About eight, Stephen IJamsay came along, ostensibly to make some intjuiry about the loading of the sloop, but in reality to see Ailie. He .sat down by her at the fireside, and took advantage of the noise the children were making, to ask if she would tjdvlu she was sun* he woiihl not be at home. So one morniuLj at. eleven o'clock she put on In hat, wrapjicd a shawl aViou' her dainty shoiddci and ran acrt)ss the i)ark to the pretty house aiiioi the trees, and tapped lit^htly at the door. It w; opened inunediatidy by A^^nes, who looked ju momentarily suri>rised, and then said, with a smilc,- ' Miss Elphinstonc, is it ? ' ' Yes ; and I hope you will excuse me cominj:,' i this time ; but I wanted to see you by yoursol said Flora frankly and smilingly. 'May I con inV * Yc: .,' said Agnes, and held open the door wid 84 ■# Fh'rr.Nns. 85 VTTI. 1, s Klpliiiislono Yci'iuicil .lolui wislu'd \\vv tn as at lionie, Iml iIh' r visit at a tiiuc \\\\v\\ at home. :j'clock she put on lirr lier dainty slxnildors pretty lionse anidii.: at the door. It wa^ les, who looked ju\ n said, with a smik',— excuse lue cominj::; at see you by yourself.' ingly. ' May I cuim open the door wide Ml von will cxcnse my atlire; I have, hcc.n hnsy; till' \i\v\ (Iocs not come home; fill Mondiiy.' Amaz«!d at tin; jx^rfcct (iase and s('lf-])OHseHsion with wliicli she 8pt)k(!, iMiss MlphinstoiK! followed her into the sitting-room. ' I don't know what yon will thiid< of me, Miss El].hiiiston«;,' said Annies, with a, ;^'ay liiu^h. ' l'»nt Woidd yon mind (■omin;^ to the kitchen for a little while ? I am makin;^ dinner, anil I am afraid it will Spoil.' ' Mind 1 T shonhl like it ahove all thin'^^s ! ' ex- claimed Flora, in ^reat delii^ht. ' i am very much obliged to you for asking me so frankly.' So till! two, feeling fric^ndly idready, de])arted down to the mysterious regions of the kitchen, — a place Miss Flj)hinstone did not investigate once in a month at home. l>nt this was more novel and much more interesting in her eyes than the domains of the Argus-eyed cook at Klphinstone. Agnes was making a })udding, and turned up her sleeves as they had been before she wimt to answei the visitor's knock ; and Miss Klphinstone wateheo her ])retty hiinds deftly mixing up the mysterious ingredients, and thought wliat a very interesting and charming picture she made. Her morning d.t.-ss was the perfection of neatness ; and Tlora thought it wonderfully enhanced by the great housewife's apron, which enveloped the entire front. * John was hoping he should be in when y( v? came,' said Agnes. 'Do you know 1 was afraid of you V ■'■ i t\ li I Mil ,!,( t ' i^i 86 WRONGS RIGHTED. A rinf,nn.i^ laugh broke from Flora's sweet lips. * Afraid of me ! Why ? I am a very insigniticuir young person,' returned she, in an amused voice * Well, since you have told me your candid opinion let me give mine of you. Mrs. Maxwell, you are iiu more like what I anticipated than the moon is liki the sun.' ' Tell me what you thought I would be like,' queried Agnes, growing more and more at her cas, with her visitor. * Shall I ? Well, pretty ; I knew you would Xw that, but not as you are. I fancied a blue-eyed rosv-cheeked damsel.' 'Awkward, and staring, and generally countrilicd, supplemented Agnes, with her rare smile. Miss Elphinstone nodded. And instead, I find a graceful, somewhat hauglity- looking lady, with the sweetest face I ever set eyes on. Oh, Mrs. Maxwell, how much your husband cares for you ! ' Agues turned her head swiftly away. Not jus: yet could she listen to a careless mention of hiii; unmoved. There was a moment's silence. Agnes went ti the fire, am' busied herself at it longer than need k *1 am afraid I have said too much,' said Miss Elphin one abruptly. Then Agnes came over and stood b '^ide her, looking down into the Hower-likf face, her own very grave and earnest. ' My husband told mc long ago, Miss Elphinstone,' arm and "^. m FR/ENDS. 87 let lij/s. nsigniticiui' used voice lid opinion you are iin oon is liki i be like; at her eas, would \w blue-eyed countriiit'd, it haughty- er set eyes r husband Not jiisr oil of him s went ti xii need lie, said Miss 3 over aiu! Hower-likr Iphiiistont, she said, with a slight falter in her voice, 'that T should lind a true friend in you, and indeed I am sure lu' was right. You have come to me here, and you treat me as if I were your equal, and not some- thing to l)e despised and humiliated. For that I thank you with my whole heart ; and thank yon and your generous father for what you have done and bee,n to -loliii. I liave made a long speech. Miss Elphinstone. Iii general I am a woman of few words, and I may never speak of this again. If ! do not, you will understand that it is not because I do not feel, but Itecause what 1 feel most deeply is seldom spoken of.' And Flora El[)hinstone's answer was to place her arm about Ai^nes jVIaxwell's neck and kiss her once, and that kiss was the seal of the friendship whieh, begun then, never knew chanusiinl liom willi -Inlii) Mawvcll's vouMLT wit'r. Tlio iutiiMMcy b('t\v(HMi (lu'iii very soon luM-iuiic a to])ic ol' rcniark- and wondcrnicnt anions' Miss Klplnns((tiu''s Iriciids, hut s(>V('ral who vcntnicd id rcnu)nstrat(3 with hor found thonistdvos trcalcd witli .sncli scani courtesy tliat they did not Nciilniv to ivjunit the I'xpeiinu'nl. She was a youiiL;' lady ol vi'iy indopondcnt opinions, and cared no niorc tor what the woild said ol" her tlum the man in llu' moon. H(n' father was amused at her (Mithnsiastic eliaui- jiionsliip of rfohn Maxwell's despised wife, but nexcr (h'eamtHl of erossini;' his little maid in this if it pliMsinl her ; she was at liberty to go to the houst> among the trees every day if she liked, Her father had been (bily intnxbieed to Agnes, and had fully endorsed liis daughter's o])inioji, and had further informed John that she was worth the sacritice he had made, and that it was a pity his father could not see her. All this was very ])leasant to ,Iohn Maxwell, you will readily guess, and life was full of ease and hap]>iness for him in those days. The r.aronet declared he had never had less to do, or less anxiety ill his life, for he could leave his interests iu his factor's hands, knowing them to be safe there. With the more genial days of spring the Master of Bervie seemed to take a sudden change for the better, and his dutiful son Ixicliard saw with dis- /''A'//':a7)X 89 , |>lea«aiil lioui soon bcH'ainc i aiiJoiiL;" Miss ventured lo ^e.lves lreat('(l id not Nciiliiic yoUMLj liuly (if 1 no ni(»re tor 3 man in llic nisiastie cliaiii- ^il'e, but never in this if it to tlie lioiise Tier father md had fully had further U' sacritico he fatlier could Max well, you of ease and The r)aronct >r leiis anxiety erests in his there. v^ tlie Master lange for tlie aw with dis- tp])oiutrd eyes ihiit llic d;iy win'U he wmdd hi! absolulc master seeiue * ^S Lsr wrf> J Z- 1.0 I.I 11.25 lAilll 12.5 Ijg ■■■ ■■■ ■^ K^ 12.2 ^ us |2.0 \A. 1 1.6 11^ I Hiotographic Sciences Corporation a •>^ i\ <^ S> V V"^ ^ S' ^.u ^ 23 WeST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4503 V"^' 4^n :^ I I n: •i \ 1 m: 1! CHArTEK IX. lY III 5! ! II 11 b UNLOOKED-FOR EVENTS. ITAT night the Laird of Bervie had a sudden rehapse, and L'ly down upon the hed from which he should never rise jv-ain. At dayhreak a messenger was sent in hot haste to the town for the doctor, who needed hut one glance to tell him the end was not far off. The old man was perfectly ccjuscious, hut too weak to speak ahove a whisper, lie motioned to the doctor to come close to him, and whispered so low that those in the room could not hear. ' Send them all out. Say you need to see me alone ; anything, only get rid of them for an hour.' The doctor was much surprised, hut oheyed him, and so skilfully, tliat even Mrs. Maxwell failed to suspect anything beyond the fact that he wished to make an examination of his patient. Jacob remained in the adjoining room within call when he was wanted. ti UNLOOKED-FOR EVENTS. 93 The inomont the door closed, the sick man wliis- jiered eagerly, — ' Get a ))en and ink and ])aper out of that desk there, Welsh ; quick, in case they come.' The doctor first turned the key in the lock, and then procured the required articles. * I want to rij^ht my son John, Welsii. 1 dis- inherited him, you know,' he said feebly. ' Write down, will you, what I tell you ? I can sij;n it, 1 think. Quick, quick ! in case they come, or my stren.L^th fail me.' The doctor drew a small table close to the led- oide, and, leaning his head as close as possil)le to tlie sick man, wrote at almost lightning speed. Tlie thing was done in twenty minutes, then William Maxwell asked him to call Jacob to witness tlie signature. The doctor opened the door, and the man appeared immediately. • This is my last will and testament, Jacob,' said his master feebly. 'See, I sign it witli my own hand ; you can l)ear witness.' It was a pitiful, trembling scrawl, but he suc- ceeded in writing his full name ; then the doctor and the servant added theirs. 'Fold it up, Welsh, and just tap with your finger on that panel above the washstand. There's a secret slide there and a recess, where it v/ill be safe till the funeral day. You'll give it to Jamieson privately tlien, and see to John being righted at last.' i i n* fc 94 If A'('\(, V Kliiliri' IK : ' Yopi. sir. ! |tvnnnso yon I'mllilnlly.' Mniil lln' iIih'Ioi. Mud. olu'vinj: (In* «»|i| mimM iIium'I inim, )i|iiri'i| llio will l>»>l\in»l Iho |»iHH'l .lncol* ( Jn'iu looK purhcnlm mtlr nl llic )»in(M'nlini»M 'll(> w.iM !i jTooil Imiimily , ' ImiI Iu'II ror<;ivi' nu<. iiuil f'o will luH wile I lliinK nIi(> IooUh hwitI oihI jXontliv .I<»|in. my IiIIIp lnd. tiiy Hon. liijlil, iil 1m.m1 ! ' llo loll into ft iloxinu; Mlocp then, iuisl llir «lorlor rnllod Mrs Mn\>voll ' H(^ tnny ImsI ovor lo morrow. ' he snnl i^rnvoly, 'but it is «loul>tl'nl. 1 ujjjy hh wrll ^^o. Von K\\\\ K\\\\ WW if llu'n^ IS iiny chiinjM' lor tlir worso," Punn^x tho <\»rly honr^ of the dny IImmo wan no )HM*«vp1iM(' «'l>:n);M\ luit towiirds ijl'lrrnoon lie soohhmI t»> grow WM'Mkcr ;»nd riiniMo in Ins llionj^lilM. His wifo wns siHinjj; in I ho r(ion> iilono with him. whon \w snddonly tnrnt^l t»> her. ans. hnt ko|>l hor voioo >moi>th as usual. This was what sho Inid hooii divading, but slio was ])ro]iarod for it. * It will ai^italo you Nory nnuli, William. in the nhn'uing you may porhaps bo stronj^or.' ' 1 said 1 had not niaiiv lionrs to live, Klcanor,' I 'Ni {){^is I n fofy /: 1 1 N I X 1 (lorlttl , I ho will hnul «»n ;ivr in(>, (M\ i'mtii l'',l|iliiti lone , lull. Ilic o|i| niiiii Itiy ■Mill. |'iili»'nlly lliiiiKiii;^ |MiliiipM In,' mit^iil nol l»c ill lioiiH', iiimI il would liil II lillli' lime lo Incl liini ' TIhY iiM> vi'iy loM|', l'',I('!iiior,' ill' f'.iii'l wi'jiiily ' Aro yoii siiio yoii nimlr lli<' iih'^sii;^!' iirjMiil, < noiijdi, iiml «liil yon 'mv lii'i wiff ' ' ' N CM.' slio iiiiMwiMfMJ . lull. Iii'IhimI IIio fiirldiii, Iht l';n'«» llllMlird il tniijly ir iind Hec if l.li»y wtre not, ( t/ eoimnLr. She wns loiiLT L'oiie. Twili Klonnor, cruel dislinctiuiss. ' They would not coum. 96 WRONGS RIGHTED, W 111 Then tlio ^Master of I»civi(j turiiLMl his face to the wall. Shu waitud by his bedside through the first hours of the ni^ht, I)r Welsh being ])reseiit also. At mid- night, William Maxwell suddenly turned his face to the watchers, and, fixing Ids eyes on the doctor's face, said with dilliculty, — ' You tell dohn and his wife my last thoughts were of them, and that 1 should have liked to kiss his wife before I died. Eleanor — Kichard — good-bye — be, be — ' His voice broke, and, turning his face to the wall again, William Maxwell closed his eyes on earth for ever. • ••••••• Wonderfully calm, even in the first shock of her widowhood, was Eleanor Maxwell. After a few hours' rest she was up busying herself with arrange- ments for the funeral, and other matters connected with her husband's death. In the course of the forenoon she and liichard were together in the library, discussing the future, when a servant burst into the room, with sudden tidings on her lips. ' Oh, ma'am,' she said, ' we've ha'en word that Dr. Welsh fell doon deid this mornin' as he was comin' oot o' the hoose. Jacob brocht the word frae the Elic i* the noo.' Mother and son looked surprised — nothing more. They were too nuich occupied with their own affairs to take much interest in those of others. But by UNLOOKED-FOR EVENTS. 97 and by they were to learn the importance of this sudden death to them. The servant left the room, and, a fe.v minutes afterwards, Jacob Greij; sou«,dit admittance. Mrs. Maxwell was annoyed at such frequent disturbances, and asked him rather sharply what he wjinted. Tlie usually stolid-looking man seemed ill at case, and spoke hesitatingly. * I've had a letter this morning', ma'am,' lie said, * from my mother. My sister lies very ill in Glasgow, and I am to come home immediately to see her before she dies. There will be no objection to me going to-day, will there, ma'am ? * ' Certainly not, Jacob,' returned his mistress. ' Had it been yesterday, I am afraid 1 could not have said the same, llow much did Mr. Maxv/ell owe you ? * ' Nothing, ma'am. He paid me a quarter's wages a day or two ago.* * Ah, that is all right ; you may go, then.' Still the man lingered, with his eyes on the floor, and twisting his thumbs, the very picture of humility. ' If you don't mind, ma'am,' he said, ' I should like to see the Master just once before I go. I am not to come back to Bervie, I suppose ? ' * You can leave your address, and if you like there may be a post found for you, Jacob,' said his mistress graciously. ' You attended your master very faithfully. Certainly you may go and see \ ^ i 1 if 111 oS n Ai' >., \ Kii; N n n \\\\\ II I. t i< n tl... I. iM I ijiini lit) nol Im I'll I II N loi K 11 :ni n'lutnt'i I t.> ll nit nilt'i I npli i| . mn • I'nil ion. luili' ihi'itnnn" \\li:il lli»« unii'l InmiMi' imim v niiiiini .l;t<«'l' \\ :\ ■ nl'iMII M|i;|:m: Mini wlinl ii niMli< III Iv.MiMi' 111" \\\\x |>n'|>{Mni". liM llii'in Ho ';|i>lo \\\\ iollU il)> li> llli' 111. oil \\lii'|i< lil'i UlirhM li)\. :111i It'll lliP linot hi'lnnil l\nn WiIIumiI om' I'lunrp jil llm ImiI «>\ llli' i|UliM ilt'i'litM hill.' llli'lt'. Ill' Wi'lll III |||i< o|>]>iv.it.' \\m11. ;n\il li.'lillv l!ij»|«i'il I'll llii' I'Miii'lIni" nil \\ ll.^^^>^^ mmiiiiI niilii :iI»'iI wlii'ii' llii> tluli' o|m'|ii>i| Hi' ]M1'.1i«m1 ll l»;li K Willi. 'Ill illMlilllU. jOliK Hill llll' (loiMiiuoui . llll' tlii'lulin mill \\nli«i ul wliit li wnc l>oll\ u»M\ il.'.iil. :niil. ;li|>)Mn«; i( inln lin iiiiu'I ]>«sK«M, iv]^l:\»'«>il llli» l^MIU'l. Mini Imiiril In i',ii lln Iv^silnloil wIumIiiM Io !H*]>ro;i. h I lio «lr:ul. nml \\\ \\\'A \^\A\ M snuU' nrros>^ mul iHinl \\w i'ii\t«ini'; Imiii llir 1;\»MV SonuMlnH'i in llio w\ \\\\\\\ n| the lure, Monic f;nuM<\l looU of )'opro!\i ll abmil (lu» slorii muiilli. siui* In ;\ suililon olnll to .l.ioob (Jroi'fM hoiiil. mih! Iio IuviunI ;\n.l lnini«sl lioiu iho looiu. \\ oil lio niii'lil N' oousi louo*' stnoKiMi. lo\- ho wmm roM'm>< llio iloud \\v vc\\\\\w\\ \\w Kov to Ins unstross with n low nnmviuroil words o{ thnnks. ;m»l with w lunnlilo bow qiuttod tlu^ voo\\\ ■Mu\ \\\o li(>nso. Not nnotlior lliouiilit of 1 .in v'\tM- »rossi^l oitluM- iho iniml of Mrs. M;i\\>oll or Ixioliard. hnt tlu\v Inul \\o\ hoard or soon tlu' l;^v'|i |Mi liiiiil I III y will iM MM' I'li'lllltl I ("iiiii ilnlit liiMilli. I ilhlWHl'l I'olll Wi M' I lllllll I M I III I <:i'l \ Mill III' I 1 1' I II III I I ||: ll'illill II IM W ir: I li« |i I Ii I « # i( f Moino •Ml M.i^u.ll 'Mm. riii'i ( MiiK 1 In miImmii \iiii Mill if v'.ii wi-;li III liiTMiiir lllllll 111 I'.i'i \ |i', \'iii liii'j I.I III » iiiin iiiniii) !ili' Willi nil III ) \"iii lllllll I iiiinlc n Ik-.I will nil lin ;i|i\ lii'lil |iii\llr' I'.' IP In \I | ImIiH I ll W'i'l ll Wmli- iMI'l I'MH'il ll I VVII '. Ili< oIImi willlliMM. ll Wll : ll|i|i|)'ll III II 'll'lllll' jMll' I Ml III'' innm wIh'M' llir Mll'sli'l i||ril. I I'nl |l llii; iiinMiMi;' Vvlli'll I I'ni IIh' In- Jitidy. ' 'I'Ik lliiii'' ciin'l Ik; JiimLlMir will, and iWjrvio iiiiiK' a 1 ready. I M 'l|5' .)"•; II I ii It' I TOO WRONGS RIG If TED. ' The first thinj,' will be to see if the panel he speaks of exists,' said his mother in a low voice. ' Let us go upstairs.* So the twain (quitted the tahle, and went up to the chamber of death. After vaiidy attempting to move some of tlie pjinels, the slide was reached at last, Jind sprang back at the toucli of her lingers. There, sun; enough, was the little recess, in which lay some old, faded letters, tied with a blue ribbon, useless ami uninteresting to all save liim who luid laid them tliere, for they had been penned by the hand of the only woman William Maxwell had ever loved, — the dead mother of his first-born son. ' The thing had been done that niglit when Welsh turned us all out on pretence of making an examina- tion,' said Kichard bitterly. ' Fools — blind dolts — not to suspect ; after all our watching and care, to be sold at the end ! * Forgetful of the presence of the dead, a passionate oath came from his lips as the clear truth came home to him. * And I an) forced to cringe to that insolent blackguard. Hang him ! I should like to throttle him for that insolent letter. Wlio would have thought it of Greig ? He was never heard or seen in the house.' ' These are the best spies and plotters, Richard." answered his mother. * Well, there is no time to be lost. You must see him, and come to terms at any price. If he will not be induced to hold his tongue — ' UNLOOKED FOR EVENTS. loi 'TTo will; sftid IJiciuird l.riully, and then added significantly, 'or I'll find a way of sluittin«; his mouth. Well, I'll go with the mid-day train, and can he hack at night ; and do not he afraid, — I shall bring the will with me, if it is in existence.' .f P it CITAPTER X. ! 'i h V TKIUMril. ETSUIJKLY pacin;^^ up and down the pint- form at Thornton Juncti(jn, awaiting the arrival of the mid-day train fnjm tlio east coast, was Jacob Clrcig. lie looked like a man conscious tliat lit; had a winnin^^ card to play. His stolid face wore an expression of satis- faction, amounting almost to triumpli. Tlie train pufied into the station hehind time at twenty mhiutes to three o'clock. lUit a handful of passengers alighted, and among them IJichard Maxwell. Jacob Greig sidled up to him with a friendly grin, offensive because of its familiarity, liichard Maxwell took no notice of it whatever. * Well, I am here, Oreig,' he said haughtily, when they had met, * in consequence of that impertinent letter of yours I received this moniing. "What have you to say to me ? ' rKiuMPir. 103 'Not so fiist, Mr. lJi( liani, sir,* said he fusily. ' I'm not (lyin' In |»ait wiili my infnrmalinii, and you lU't'dn'l liavo come unless you pailieulurly wauled to.' In ])y^mne days Jacol) (Jrcii,' liad nncived many a snul> and imperious itrdtT from IJiclianl Maxwell, who had not much cdusideration for dependants, but time had turned the tables, and it was the servant's turn nctw. Iiemendu'rin^' how nnicli mii^ht deju'ud on kee|)inf» the man in humour, liichard Maxwell curbed his indis yiui'd like to know what's inside, sir?' said .laeob pleasantly. 'Move a little away, if you please, and I'll road it to you.' Richard was obliijed to obey, and, standiiiLj in the wimlow, with his back to Jacob, he listened to his roadini: : — ' r.AST Wir.L AND TkSTAMENT. * I, William dohn Stewart Ma .well of Bervio Fifc- shire, and Glen«j;owan, Islantl of Arran, being in my sound judgment, make, this tifteenth day of A})ril 18 — , my last will and testament, as follows: — To my widow Kleanor MoiicriefV Maxwell, I give the sum of tive hundred pounds per annum to the end of her life, together with the lands and estate of Glengowan, in the Island of Arran, and all revenues pertaining thereto, solely on condition that she makes her abode there ; otherwise the lands and estate will pass from her, and she will be entitled onlv to the live hundred pounds per annum aforesaid: To my son Kichard Mon- criett' Stewart Max well, the sum of one thousand pounds per annum, to be paid out of the revenues of my lands •ly. • I in ilK •('('ions icliiinl I show iici^ of il was 5, sir ? ' if you in {\u' to bis c Fifc- m Hiy Ai)ril : — lo le Sinn of her ^owan, Laining abode IS from luidred Mon- jounds lands I NlVMI'lf, »o5 niid estate of licrvii', to \\w. wwA of Ins iif(!: 'I'o my wu1I-1m'Iov(',(1 son .loli'i (Iniliam otcvviirl, Maxwell I b(M|ii('atli \\\K\ lands and (tsliilc of I'.rrvir, with all niviMMKis pcriaininL,' Ihnnilo, iixc.(?)»tin^ the thousand Itounds U) Itichard Maxwell aforesaid: Also to the s;dd dohn Stewart Maxwell, all tlie furnisliiii;4.s, pictiiies, and plate, in my house; of l>(!rvie : Also to his wife, with my hl(^sHin^^ all jewellery jxirtainin^ to my liist wife, Isabella (Iraham or Maxwell; and I hereby declare this my last wiU and t*!stament, signed in tin; j)r(!senc(! of witnesses here in my bed- ehandter at Ik'ivie : And \ char^fe. my fiieiid and physician, Alcjxjinder Welsh, to see it carried out, foi which tronbh; [ desire my son John Stewart Maxwell to make littin<^' recompense. (Si«rn(Ml) ' Wfi.mam John Sttavaut Maxwkll. Ai,KXANi)EK Wki-sii, iM.D., witn(;s3. dAGOB GUEIG, witnciss.' It was several nunnt o| llii' Mill I HMM. ht'c oj Inil, llinl ihc (h.Mi ;mtl to Mil'. K w. Miitl I jMoini'M' >t«ii i-i Imiim 1 !«t' w 1 11 VUm M « t'lM . n I (lu> l>t'.t \;\\\\\ iM\ I'xMVIt' Will IH»llllM<'. It">'4 '4(>|\(< 'Ivo \i;\m.'.l u>\ t.'rn»«. Mi l{i( hnnl. mu. hihI I t\\u\ >^Mn'; l>nt K n jol • All ii.;]u." '^m.! lu. li:n.l AI;i\,\.>ll 1mi.'11\ ' iMi ;\U»I mlv, Mud I II ;M\ <» \ "H .Inroli (J»»M>; \\ :\ - iunn/t'tl. ho liml no( ('\|M»(i('t| s\i( '\ vtMil\ nt'«(\n»' I «'Ut •' I'll'' rt'tpiiicil nrliclc) wph' ]Mo. nvtsl. in\»l lu« loifoin\ lir^ ]>;\it of tin* iij.;itMMUou t. .ImooI. ( »IOl!' :Aook\ Oil \ho luwithni': lor^uiol\ vo romiini; IIh' pf«\ iou> (l»>o\tinont . Ivhhm.l M:i\\\oll wjiltlictl liini f\lVtlN«^l\. Miui HK»»lo ;'. tlos|MMi)tO ivsohlt IO!». 1 pluro l»o;r^t of Mot tilt;: p;l]MM'. oMtol- ^" llO '^MUl. IIMU M sorni* nl .1. Ill 1 IM\0 to »OS0 (]n this s-,.l(^ ;\t tlu^ liro. 1 su]i] wnit on it ilvNiii' of it's »>\vn Mt'«'oi 1! iMNiMi 1 I nno lo >1. 1 Wiml lo ('ii(( h llio f i>UV O 1 u\ You'll ilo \ot.' sjiiti .liio»>h rnroli^ssly, jiUil oonliniiod Ins iwidiUi:. siis]H\ till'; ii«>ilun':. 'Will tho tirsl it(Mn do (• ■ s;tul hMclmril MmwvoII, holding \n> wlial \w h;\d writ ton holoro tho nnin's ovos. ,l;u t">b wns i>tV his uiiavil, ;uuh luM'oro In* ooiiM nrovoiit It. h'iihnni M.iwvoll hml snMtoluni tlu> will from his hnnd niul tlr lisi it into llio hoarl of iho liri\ »(Mil . mill Im Itnt II II. :ili .1 I N '(irl }M\ »» > ttll \\\ri WOK' (lit> Inlil*' tln\;', IIk' lit'tl him sriiij* itl 1 li:\%«' lt> '1 \\\\U' l»> { lo ( Mtt l> i'ontiiuu'tl Miiwvi'll, llu' IHMU s lu' could Iho wi llu' \\\v 11 //,7r,t//7/ to; ^Vi''» " ''Im'III liK. Iliiil of >| li. MMiM. .flirr.l. CrMJ^/ • HImIi' m IiiIiIp I'IImiI It. M>':i MP il, ImiI I |m. firr wim III wliilp Im'iiI. mimI f fiii.mniii'il |Im> IliiiiMy (Iiin}( in In.qq lIlllM II IMuliiPtit. Kirhiihl Mnxwrll look up Imm IiiiI. roni-. Mini ('|o\)>'!. ' ^ "'I « "iiM imiikIxi MM', .fiu'dl.. Willi |»l«'(H;iir»<, I 'l<'t>; \\r MJlliJ. Wilh M MlllillV ' I'.lil ||,,< IMIIIM' WOllMll't, |t!iy. VVi'Il. }mmm| mI'Ii'IIMimm, mii'I wIm n ynw'yr MDKJP iMIullirJl lo filn.K IJlc ||||| I'mMii (||o|. irii< ji line. Mlirj I'll hiKc yniii rMMi* into «M.iiMi(|(rjil.|(.ii. 'I'Im"!.'',". n nvon iun lo |iny yoiir rx|M'iiM('M lo (iJiiHaovv, (iii»l Itl iilniio lor yniii iliMM|i|)oiiiliiiinioiin.' • Ifii'linnl Miiwvrll rnirjiid lioinc in fuiipli' limr. rn>«' iiml jinviciy. Von niiiy In' miiip mIso iJiiil lliry rxcliiinj'id wjnn. "'nn!;rnlnliilionM ovit IIh' .■uicccmhI'iiI rcmiji, (,[ tlic ililcrv irw willi .liiroli ( liri;',. ' r.nl I siiy, niollii-r, if Welsh lifidii'l. luippened to tell tlu' servant slit; was not, l»ut could iKit iiiakii use (tf a falsi'lidotl even to liic'ianl to frui; htirsidf from thcsu irksoiue visits. III! was sliowii to tlie drawiiii,' - room, and lu;r Ljreotiii*^' was distant and constraiued, but liad no effect on Iiicliard Maxwell. He took his seat opposite her in the vwndow, asked her what she was reading, and paid her a few lliinsy eoiuplinients, which, instead of jilesising as they were intended, made her angry and indigiuuit. ' I am sorry pai)a is not at liome,' slic said, ' because I was just thinking of going out when you came in.' Nothing could have been plainer than that, but still liiehard Maxwell was not disconcerted. ' I came to see you, not papa,' he said, with a smile ; ' surely you know that, Flora.' *I don't know it at all, Mr. Maxwell,' said Flora smilingly ; * and I do not know that 1 have given you liberty to call me by my name.' * No, but you will,' said Kichard Maxwell, rising and moving a step towards her. * You will give me the right now, won't you. Flora ? You nnist know how dearly I love you. I have done my best to show it.' Flora rose to her feet also, her face Hushing painfully, and drew herself back from him. * I beg you will not repeat such words, Mr. Maxwell ; I have not given you the right to use HUMBLED VANITY, H7 tliPiM to ino. You must Imvc scimi, liiul you dioscii, liow (listastet'ul your visits and uttcntioiis Imve buen to I1H\' ' Have Ikumi, pcrluips, Flora,' he s.iid reassuriii^^'ly, ' but not now, su'uly. ! admim you for your distant donu'anour, niy lovi; ; it is a ndicf from tliat of most wonn'ii. Come, confuss you care ft)r mu, and tell me you will he my wife* s(»(»n.' Th(3 colour flew from Miss Kl})hinstone*s face, and her lips quivered with passion. ' Since you do not seem to have comprehended my meanin*^', sir,' she said hauj,'htily, ' let nu; nu.ke it plainer still. T have tried everything a woman could to show you how unwelcome you were here. Any man hut you, liichard Maxwell, would have understood, and spared me the necessity of sayint,' this to-day. T do not care for you, and will not be your wife. I hope you will comprehend my meaning now, and let me bid you good afternoon.' liichard Maxwell's sallow face grew livid in its passion. To be thus humiliated, insulted almost, by this insignificant girl, whom he had chosen to honour with his preference, was a bitter pill to his vanity, all the more so that it was so utterly unexpected. ' If it had been John instead of Richard Maxwell, possibly he might have met a ditl'erent reception,' he said sneeringly, forgetting in his rage that he was insulting one who would not be slow to resent it. Miss Elphinstone smiled, his revenge was so piti- fully mean, and fell so harmlessly to the ground. ). 'W. r I ^ m ■ 111''* : lit' : if M ^il %X '■I ii8 WRONGS RIGHTED. 'I, 'John Maxwell is a man and a gentleman, sir, and I am proud to call him my friend,' she said, her clear eyes looking on her baffled suitor with measu^-e- less scorn. ' Another time, when you wish to insult me, it will be wise to choose a different theme. I am a lady, Kichard Maxwell, and much as I despise you, I shall spare you one humiliation, and ask my servant to show you down-stairs. I fancy it will be for the last time.' She moved across the room and touched the bell-rope. A servant appeared ; she made Richard Maxwell a distant bow, and he had to quit the room and the house. Sitting with her father in the firelight that night, Flora told him that Richard Maxwell would come no more to Elphinstone, but the details of the interview she kept to herself. At first the father did not answer, nor pass a solitary remark, and she flung up her head suddenly, a great fear seizing on her heart. * Papa, you did not wish me to marry Richard Maxwell?* ' God forbid ! * said the Baronet involuntarily, and he passed his arm about his daughter and bent his head to hers. * I don't want my little maid to marry any one, and least of all him. I think it would have broken my heart. Flora.' ' Thank you, papa,' said the girl, with a sob. * Let me stay with you ; I don't want to marry anybody, if you will only let me.' HUMBLED VANITY 119 I believe the old man understood in that moment that the only man who could have made his little maid happy had found his happiness elsewhere, and he bent his white head down to the golden one, and whispered tenderly, — * My darling, your old father will never fail you ; * and Flora sprang up, not wishing him to see the mist of tears in her eyes, and fearing he might ask the cause. That night Richard Maxwell found solace in an hour's talk with Ailie Bonner. The sloop was at Inverness, so she was free to enjoy these stolen meetings without fear of Stephen's jealous eyes. Never had Richard Maxwell been so devoted, so tender, as he was to-night ; and into the girl's poor foolish ear there came a grand castle in the air, where she saw herself the Lady of Bervie, surrounded with the grandeur for which she pined, and she had not one thought then that night for Stephen tossing on the wild Moray Firth, thinking longingly of her and of the last stroll they had had together on the bonnie Braes of Elie. On her way home from her secret tryst she met Bell Souter, and paused to ask wonderingly what brought the old woman there so late. ' Ay, weel a wat ye may wunuer, Ailie Bonner,' she said, peering into the girl's face ; ' but no' as sair as folk may wunner what ye dae at the Leddy's Tower yer lane i' thae soor nichts. Ech me ! it's the auld story. Stephen Ramsay on the sea dieam- \. •#■ ^1 !'l^ » It 120 jj'A'o.vcs RianrF.D. m iug, I'sd Wiirrjuil, o' liis fnusc Invo. Ailic, wuininiin, liik' nirc ; ye, liu'o lliniwii lines on iliii(> I'tiniic. IuuhIh.' Ailio slnvcnnl. ' Yo jiat liiivor, i)(»ll 8oulcr, an' ye lui'o nac business wi' Stovio Kanisny or mo.' M)o, ay, sp(>ak sliarj) an' ;niij;ort tao anld Hell Soiitor, daft Hell,' said the old crone, shakini,^ a skinny forelinwr in the girl's fare. ' \Vh(Mi the dool an' wae eonie upo' yo, Aih'e Bonner, ye'll niehlx's mind wliat 1 said. Tlie snn was sliinin' honnie on I\uby liay tliis mornin', hut tliere'll bo a. blaek, hlaek shadow ou't yet. («.'^o liame an' say yer prayers, an' dinna ijjang tac meet the l)hiek ]\raxwell i' the Leddy's Tower again. Ye'll ha'e tae dree a weary weird yet, Ailie Bonner ; ay, ay, ay, ay.' A chill fear laid hold on the heart of Ailie I^onner as she listened to the dreary words. ' Bell Sonter, ye're no fit tae be let wanner aboot yer lane,' she cried. ' I ha'e dune nacthing tae ye that ye should say sic things lao me.' She drew her shawl round her, and, turning from the old woman, iled home as fast as her feet would carry her. The old woman stood a moment looking after her, and then turned her eyes to the sea, heaving and sobbinc: in the chill winter w\ud. * Ay, ay, dool an' wae an' a weary weird's comin', Ailie Bonner. Ye'll mind anld daft liell's words afore anither year's gane by ! ' tTI i CITAPTEK XTT. THE END OF IT. OOD-BYK, Uion, father; safe home again, Kiss grandpa, Baby. If ho couM speak, he would say, " Safe trip to the Nanniey ' It was Agnus Miixwell who spoke, and she was standing on the threshold of her own home, with her baby in her arms, bidding her father good-bye. In the early morning the Nannie was to sail from Anstruther harbour for Kotterdam. Finding her to his mind in all things, Macdougall had chartered her again. David Bonner had come to Elphinstone early in the afternoon, and had lingered as long as he could. How he loved the house among the trees, and those who dwelt in it, was known only to himself. * Guid-bye, then, Agnes, my bairn. Eh, wumman, you an' your bairn dae my heart guid.* And so they might. Her sweet face seemed to shine with the sunny happiness and content of 131 T 22 IVKONGS NI(UITEI\ »i! il her life, and lier l)cauliful eyes were withnut !i shadow. Jolin took Ilia crow iiiL,' son from his inoMier's unns, anil David I'oiinor took his daiiglitor to liis breast. 'God in heiiven be wi' ye, Agnes, biiirn,' he said brokenly, 'and Idcss yon iind yours for ever imd ever. I ha'e daily thanks^ivin' tae llini, Agnes, tor lettin' nie see ye in sic hapjiincss and peace.' Agnes hid her face a moment on his breast, to hide the tears the solenni, tendi^r words had l)r()u> 128 WRONGS RIGHTED, I* %. • Stephen Ifiiinsay's jKission Wiis like a iiiadiiiiurs in its fury, and in a inonient he had cluseil with liis oplujnent, and l)()tli fell. They were dan;4(!r()us]y near the edge of the elill". The slim, elleniinalc gentleman was no match for the strong, sinewy seaman. Kichard Maxwell staggered and fell, rolling to the edge of the clid'. lie had to save hinisiilf, and k5tei)hen JJamsay looked on, and stretched out no hel])ing hand. The sea beneath was as smooth a^r a mill pond, but a fall on the treacherous rocks wa.s certain death. A hoarse cry broke from llicliard Maxwell's lips as he went down, then all was still. * My God ! what ha'e I dune ? ' said Stephen Ramsay, great beads of perspiration trembling on his brow. He stood only a moment, and then tied the plaet', and, turning from the sea, went on to Anstruther by the road. At half-past two in the morning the Nannie sailed, and Stephen Ilamsay was on board. '1 1^ I iiip ' luian's in wilii liis jir.s oil* (111! window. (Jl.'UH'injj; wiistwiird, sIk.' saw \\v\\ coniint,' towinds her, iind llioM;^dit carelessly tlial the old woman was ri'tiirninn eailier llian her wont. She lifted the shutter to tlie j^round, iiml was al)out to ^40 into the houfte n^^un, when she saw liell waving' her hand as if wishin,^^ her to conu! to where she stood. She waited a nionunit, and then, curious to know what the old woman wanted, ran down to the hejich iind along to meet her. ' Ila'e ye gotten a lot o' rul)ies the day, lUdl, or what is't?' was her greet iu'j ; and the old woman laugluMl a low, chuckling laugh. ' My certy, ay, there's a hraw ruby lyin' on the sands at IJuhy jiay the day, Ailie, hut I canna lift it mysel'. Will ye come an' help me tae fetch it alang tae Klie?' * AVhat is't, l>ell ? ' repeated Ailie, unable to under- stand. ' Come an' sec,' said the old woman ; and, pulling her little tartan shawl over her heiul, hurried off again in the direction she had come. After a moment's hesitation the girl followed her. ]>ell was so fleet of step that even Ailie could scarcely kee]) pace with her ; but at last all the jutting points and little inlets were passed, and she turned round the sharp corner into Kuby J)ay. Oh, what was that ! The figure of a man lying full length on the firm wet sand, dressed in a garb Ailie knew well. Her strength seemed to slip from her, but she sliuttcrs lilW WrW sly lliiii liaii luT ind, iiiiil she siiw col lie to 111(1 tlii'ii, iilcd, ran , r.cll, or (I woiiiaii u' on tliu iiiia lift it h it iiliiiij^ to luider- u 1, imlliiig iirried oil* After Ji I'ell was rcely kec]) points and round the ■as that ! h on the :new well, but she Ir I \.'^ f THE BLACK SHADOW ON RUBY BAY. 131 managed to totter up to the old woman, who was looking down on the prostrate form, grinning horribly. ' Weel a wat but it's a bonnie corp, Ailie Bonner ; an' this'U be tlie beginning 0' the dool an' wae. Look at this, lassie.' She knelt down and lifted the heavy dark hair from the temples, disclosing a long purple bruise, the only mark of any kind on the body of Kichard Maxwell. * Dool an' wae, dool an' wae,' muttered the old crone dismally. * The black shadows fa' on Ruby Bay. What think ye 0' yer braw lover noo, Ailie Bonner, an' wlia think ye's had a finger in this pie ? ' No answer fell from the white lips of Ailie Bonner, but she tottered and fell upon the sand in a swoon. Then the old woman fled to Elie to tell the news, and bring assistance to the girl. That was a day of strange and terrible commotion in the quiet little town, and ere noon a horrible whisper got abroad which pointed to John Maxwell as his brother's murderer. For Robert Wilson, a weaver in the Ferry, had passed them standing together on the cliffs, and had heard high words, which were probably the beginning of this awful tragedy. Strong men carried Richard Maxwell home to Bervie, and laid him dead in its hall. No warning had been sent before, for none had been found to undertake the task. His mother had passed the night in an agony of fear, dreading some unknown evil, but she was not prepared for this. f i' m ' 'I < 'I I m i' 132 WRONGS RIGHTED. Those who saw and heard her in tliat hour never forgot it. An awful cry broke from her lips, and she fell upon her knees beside her poor drowned boy, calling to him frantically to open his eyes and speak to her only once. Ah, never, never more ! There was no heart in all Elie that did not bleed for the desolate widowed mother, and longed for the unravelling of the mystery, so that just retribution might overtake the murderer. Having some business at Burntisland, John Maxwell left Elie by the first train that morning, and was away till late in the afternoon. At one of the stations on the line, the stationmaster told him of the tragedy, only one piece of the tale he kept to himself, but he looked keenly into his listener's face, expecting to see some sign of guilt or fear. But there was nothing depicted there but absolute amazement and horror. The train moved off bt^iore he could hear any particulars, and he was impatient to reach home. He wondered why the officials and the few loungers about Elie station looked at him in surprise ; he could not be expected to know that he was supposed to have murdered his brotlier, and had fed to escape the consequences. He asked the stationmaster a few eager questions, which were briefly enough answered ; and this man, too, kept one bit of the tale to himself. It was on the point of his tongue, but, looking into that honest face and clear, true eyes, he could not utter the words. ' If Maister John Maxwell killed his brither, my THE BLACK SHADO W ON RUB V BA Y. 133 name's no' Geordie Geddes/ he said to the porter when John had left. * I wad as sune believe I'd dun't mysel'.' John Maxwell longed to go down the town, or straight to Bervie ; but he knew Agnes would be expecting him, and as he did not know how tlie shock of this thing might have all'ected her, he felt his first place was at home. So oil' he set. During the day the authorities had not been idle. Itobert Wilson had been closely examined, and on the strength of his evidence a warrant was granted by the Sheriff for John Maxwell's apprehension. So, while he and his wife were lingering over their supper table, talking over the affair, there came a violent peal at the bell. Agnes started up in affright. Her neives were unstrung, and she feared she knew not what. They heard men's voices in the hall, and then there appeared on the threshold of the room two men, — the superintendent of police and a constable. Had a thunderbolt fallen upon them, husband and wife could not have felt or looked more utterly surprised. ' John Maxwell, in the Queen's name, I arrest you on a charge of murder.' Neither spoke, but John Maxwell's face grew as pale as death ; as for Agnes, she felt the very life- blood stilled in her veins. ' On what evidence, may I ask ? ' inquired John, amazed at his own calmness. ' We have not time to explain, sir,' returned the y> ^M in I ..(.■! '1 ] [■ ) u 134 WRONGS RIGHTED, official civilly but decidedly. 'It has been sufficient to procure a warrant for your apprehension. You must go with me, if you please.* ' It is a foul and monstrous calumny,' said John. *I— ' The official here begged to remind him that any word he uttered might be used against him in court, and that he would have ample time to make de- fensive statements by and by. ' I am ready to go with you,' said John Maxwell, very quietly still. * But the originators of this outrage on an innocent man shall pay dearly for it, I swear. Will you step outside a moment till I take leave of my wife ? ' The official looked dubious, but obeyed him. During all the time Agnes had spoken no word, but her face was pitiful to see. The moment the door closed she tottered to her husband, and fell on his breast. * Oh, John, John ! * That was all she said, but she clung to him as if she felt him slipping from her for ever. ' Agnes, my darling, I don't need to ask if my wife has faith in me.' ' John ! ' He laughed a strange, tremulous laugh. * Forgive me, my wife ; but when a man is dumbfounded like this he does not know who may be against him. Now, listen ; you must go up immediately to Elphinstone and ask Flora to let THE BLACK SHADO W ON RUBY DA Y. 135 ufficient 1. You id John. that any in court, lake de- Maxwell, of this :ly for it, nt till I red him. 10 word, nent the and fell , but she from her sk if my man is ^ho may go up fa to let you stay till I come back. You know how glad she will be. And keep up a brave heart, my darling.' A brave heart ! how could she ? She smiled wanly, and said she would try. ' And you, John, where will you be the while ? * John shuddered. He was no coward, but know- ing what humiliation awaited him, he was unable for the moment to speak. An impatient tap at the door reminded them time was passing, and they muoc part. A close embrace, a few broken words, and the next moment John was gone. Agnes stood where he had left her, feeling all strength and power failing her, but knowing she dare not yet give way. After one brief agonizing prayer for help and comfort, she stole upstairs to rouse her sleeping child, so that she might obey her husband's wish. That evening Miss Elphinstone and she sat far into the night discuss- ing the affair in all its bearings. Flora's indignant horror knew no bounds. Oh, if Agnes could have seen her idolized husband sitting on the solitary seat ill a cell in Cupar jail, like the vilest criminal in all Scotland ! and if she could have known what ^vas passing in his mind, I fear she would not have talked so surely and hopefully of his speedy release and return. Ay, John was turning over every minute detail in his mind, and was forced to confess to himself that the case was dead against him, and that his chance of escape was very slender indeed. >' , M •11 CHAPTEE XIV. IN THE PRISON CELL. I EXT day John Maxwell was brought up for examination before the Sheriff. I need not detail the proceedings ; they were very brief, and resulted in his com- mittai for trial at the Edinburgh Justiciary Court. He was accordingly removed to the Calton Jail in that city, to await his trinl in a few weeks. For this his wife had not been prepared, but, necessarily great as the shock was, she bore up with wonderful firnmess. Miss Elpiiinstone was in a sad way, and for tliat matter so was her father. The Baronet declared his intention of going to Edinburgh himself, and engaging the best counsel for the umch-injured prisoner. Agnes was longing to be with her husband, and her friends knew it. Yielding to Flora's entreaty, Sir llobert took a suite of apartments in an Edinburgh hotel, and conveyetl thither his daughter and Mrs. Maxwell. Agnes did 180 IN THE PRISON CEIL. 137 not say mucli ; what she did say sank deeply into the old man's heart, though he bluntly told her he was only pleasing himself, for he was strongly interested in the case. 80, while .lohn spent the slow hours of the days in his cell, brightened and cheered by the daily visits of his wife and his faithful friends, desolation and woe abode in the halls of l)ervie. In due time Richard Maxwell was laid to rest lieside his father, and his mother was left with all her loneliness and woe. She was a proud woman, and bore herself cahnly before the eyes of strangers, liut in the seclusion of her own room her agony found vent. "\Vlifit she suffered was awful. Only one sii'u was visible to outsiders. When she came down-stairs on the morning after the funeral, her hair was as white as the driven snow. These silent watches of the night must have witnessed an awful mental tempest. And surely Eleanor Maxwell's sin was visited on her head a thousandfold. Ay, the agony with which remorse connningles is the worst on earth. In the first sliock she did not seem to be able to comprehend how her son had come to mischief, or that any man was ciuirged with his murder. And when they told her that John Maxwell was suspected, and lay awaiting his trial in jail, she seemed roused to extraordinary interest and energy. And, to the amazement of her servants, and of the distant kinswoman who had been with her since her bereavement, she announced i> I t.i h;'. 'i < I; H 138 WRONGS RIGHTED. lier intention of undertaking a journey to Edinburgli. She would go alone, she said, and begged her cousin to remain at Bervie tiH she returned. What lier motive was tliey could not guess, and dared not ask. She was driven in a close carriage to Klic one morning to catch the early train, but she did not leave unobserved. Elie was on the qid vkc regarding everything connected in any way witli the house of Maxwell, and exhausted its ingenuity to discover what took Mrs. Maxwell to Edinburgli. The wildest rumours were afloat, and the trial was waited for with anxiety and impatience. Arrived in town, Mrs. Maxwell drove at once to her hotel, and after dining went out alone on foot. Her destination was the Jail. Her request to see the prisoner John Maxwell was, however, refused ; slie could not be admitted, they said, without a special order. The man told her where to procure it, and she left, only to appear early next forenoon with the required order. She was admitted at once. The warder took her unannounced to the prisoner's cell, and, having admitted her, and thinking it probable the visitor might be the prisoner's mother, consider- ately withdrew. John was sitting on the solitary bench, his head bent on his hands, the picture of humiliation and dejection. Not expecting any visitor at that hour, and thinking it might be the warder with water, he did not move until he heard the rustle of a dress. He flung up his head and sprang to his feet at sight IN THE PRISON CELL, 139 ^2dinburgh. her cousin What her dared not fre to EHo. )ut she did ,c qiii vlvc way with 3 ingenuity Edinburgh. ss you, .lohn. You arc one u|' His lolJowciH ; piMV Tor nin.' Thcti she Ininictl froiu (lie pliici^ ieiiviiij,' him m slic lia«l found hiui (hnulifoundcd. As she i»mss(mI out of I lie prison \i,\\U\ \\ ciirria^'e drew up lIuTc, and I wo ladies ali^,'liti'd. It, whm Ajjfucs Mud Flora. Both look(Ml at tlui black-vcilcMJ li-'uri* and then at each other in mute (luostioniiig surpr ise ki:n(»s. aid Flora at last, 'it is Mrs. Maxwell. The li^i;ure passed Iheni without reeot^niition, and hurried on al(ui<^ WalcTloo Place iu the direction of her hotel in Trinces Street. \ m V' CTTATTETl XV. IN COURT. HE trial of Jolin Maxwell rroatcd an iii((MiH(', and iiiiivcrHal iiitun^Ht in Kdiii- biir^Mi and (ilscwhorc. Many Fif(!.shiro j)Coj)l(; came across to licar it, and tho court was dcnsisly packed, while hundreds woro unable to obtain admission. The evidence beinj,' so sli<^dit, it was estimated tliat if the jury could a^'ree, it wouUl bo settled in one day. John Maxwell entered the court-room between bwo constables, with the upright, dignified air of an innocent man falsely accused. He was ale and anxious - looking, but his eyes wandered calmly round tho vast assemblage without wavering or falterings. Agnes was not there, therefore he could be brave. He was accommodated with a seat close to his counsel, and as he sat down a light hand touched his shoulder, and a voice whispered, — K n 144 WRONGS RIGHTED. ' Keep a brave heart, my laddie. The Lord 11 deliver ye frae this tribulation.' It was Aunt Margaret, who for love of her laddie had come to Edinburgh to see and hear the case. Flora was there also, beside her father, who was looking daggers at everybody. The proceedings began immediately, and in answer to his name John rose to his feet and looked about him with fearless eyes. In reply to the usual question, he answered, clearly and distinctly, — ' Not guilty, my lord.' Then, after a few minutes' delay, Alison Bonner was summoned to give evidence. A poor, pale shadow of herself she was, and she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, and took her oath with trem- bling lips. ' You knew Eichard Maxwell, the deceased ? * was the first question. ' Yes, my lord.' ' You saw him, I believe, on the night of the murder ? ' ' Yes, my lord.* * Did he say anything about his meeting v/ith the prisoner, or make any remark about him to you ? ' ' None, my lord. He seldom spoke 0' him, an' there was no cause for him to speak 0' him that niclit." * What time was it when you met the deceased ? ' * I dinna ken, my lord ; it micht be nine o'clock, or mair ; but I dinna ken.' ll IN COURT, M5 Lord 11 ler laddie the case, who was in answer ked ahout answered, )n Bonner poor, pale b her eyes vith trem- .sed?' was rht of the 12 with the ;o you V y him, ail' that nicht/ leceased ? ' ine o'clock, 'Was it at the ruin in question — the Lady's Tower — your meeting took place ? ' ' Yes, my loid ; but it wasna a meetin ; by that I mean there was nae tryst,' said Ailie hurriedly. ' I was comin' hame frae seeiii' a frien' along tlie srnds, an' met Maister Maxwell accidentally. Only twa or three words passed between us, an' syne I gaed on hame.' * Did you not meet the prisoner on your way ? ' ' No, my lord ; I met naebody a' the way.' The investigator here paused to ask if tliere were no other way by which the Lady's Tower could be reached, and being answered in the a^irmative, said witness might go down. Ailie was assisted from the box, and led out of the Court. Bell Souter was called next, but on it being ex- plained she was of weak or unsound mind, her evidence was dispensed with. * Call Mrs. Eleanor Maxwell' All eyes turned to the door when she appeared, and perfect silence reigned when the black-robed figure mounted the witness-box. She took the oath and answered the questions put to her unhesitatingly. ' The deceased Richard Maxwell was your son. Can you tell precisely what time he left the liouse on the night of the murder ? ' ' I cannot tell exactly, but it was after dinner. We dine at seven. I quarter or twenty minutes past eight.' ' Did he say where he was going ? ' should think it might be a 146 WRONGS RIGHTED, ^ 'No.' 'Can you say — and remember you are on your oath — whether any animosity existed between de- ceased and the prisoner ? ' Every ear was strained to hear the answer. * I have some difficulty in answering the question.' * I will put it in another form. Had the prisoner any quarrel or disagreement with deceased ? ' Eleanor Maxwell's lips quivered. ' The prisoner had great and ample cause for animosity against my son ; but as I am upon my oath, I believe he felt none, and would not have injured a hair of his head.' A murmur ran through the Court. This from the mother of the murdered man was strongly in the prisoner's favour. 'May I ask what cause prisoner had for feeling animosity against deceased ? ' ' I must decline to answer that question.' There was a whispered conference on the bench, then the question was allowed to pass unanswered. ' Do you think deceased was a man likely to take his own life ? ' Eleanor Maxwell started visibly, and drew down her veil. * By whatever means my son met his death, it was not by his own hand,' she answered slowly and distinctly. ' Of that I am as certain as I stand here.' * He was likely to be careful of himself and keep IN COURT. M7 5 on your tween de- arer. 3 question.' he prisoner L?' cause for a upon my d not have [lis from the ngly in the for feeling >n/ the bench, lanswered. (kely to take drew down leath, it was slowly and as I stand ilf and keep out of the way of danger of any kind ? Am I correct ? ' Witness bowed, and was then permitted to with- draw. She lifted her veil, and recognised John with a bow and a faint smile. His answering look was eloquent. He was grateful for her champion- ship. These things were noticed by the whole Court. Katie Finlay, servant to young Mrs. Maxwell, was the next witness called. She was an Anstruther girl, a frank, honest, faithful creature, devoted to her master and mistress. Her indignation at the charge brought against him was unbounded, and she was hard put to it to keep quiet and civil in Court. Her mistress had impressed upon her the necessity of answering truthfully and without hesitation, and, having been thus warned and pre- pared, Katie showed to advantage in the witness- box. ' Catherine Finlay, you are in the employment of the prisoner as a domestic servant, — are you not?* * Yes, my lord,* answered Katie composedly. ' You were in his house on the night of the murder, I presume ? * ' I was, my lord.' * Please to state what you know of your master's movements that evening.* * I will that, my lord ; onybody micht ken them an' no' be nane the waur,' said Katie triumphantly. ■ - ' Wr 1 ■ ( 1 1 1 1 •t. i I m II ! 1 i ■r -i ! i 148 WRONGS RIGHTED. ' lie cam' in till his tea at six, an' gaed oot on the back o' seeven. When I was helpin' tae bath the bairn, the mistress said she hoped he wad be in time tae see Captain Bonner afore he gaed awa' wi' the train. That was what he gaed oot for, but he didna ken the train time, — it had been changed.' ' What time did he return ? ' * Aboot half-past nine ; I took in the coffee at twenty minutes tae ten, jist efter he cam' in.' 'While you were in the room, did the prisoner make any allusion to what had transpired out- side?' * I dinna ken what ye mean, sir.' ' Did he say he had seen any one ? ' ' He said he was ower late tae see the Captain at the station.' * Did he mention any other name ? ' * I hadna my lug tae the key-hole, my lord,' said Xatie snappishly, whereat a titter ran through the Court. Katie was admonished to be more respect- ful, and as it was evident she could throw no further light on the subject, was allowed to go down. The next witness called was Robert Wilson. A few minutes passed before this witness ap- peared, during which a busy hum of talk pervaded the Court, but silence reigned again when he entered and took his place in the witness-box. He was a middle-aged man, of douce and sober appearance, IN COURT, 140 and much respected in Elie. He gave his evi- dence with reluctance, but answered every question truthfully. ' I understand you came along the Braes past the Lady's Tower on the night of the murder ? * ' I did/ ' Can you tell what o'clock it was ? ' ' No, I never cairry a watch, but it was some time between eicht an' ten. It was aboot ten when I got hame, an' I was twa-three meenits i' the public-hoose at the Taft.' 'You saw prisoner and deceased standing to- gether ? * ' I did.' * Please relate what you saw and heard, remember- ing you are on your oath.' * There's no' muckle tae tell. It was gey an' dark, but when I was comin' near the Leddy's Tower I heard voices speakin' angry like, an' when I came close past I saw the prisoner an' Mr. Richard Maxwell staunin' jist on the turf ootside the ruin.' * How were they standing ? Was deceased nearest the edge of the cliff ? ' ' Yes, my lord. He wasna mair than twenty yairds frae the edge. He had his back tae't ; the prisoner was staunin' in front 0' him. I thocht they had been quarrellin' frae the look o' them.' * Did you hear anything ? ' * Yes ; jist afore I was close tae them I heard deceased say, " Cowardly ! By heaven, you shall not 'W 150 WRONGS RIGHTED, ,'';tM I ml insult nil? ! If you don't pass on and mind your own airairs, leaving me to mind mine, I'll teach you a lesson you won't like." He spoke like a man in a ]iassion.' [Sensation in Court.] ' "VVas that all you heard ? * ' Yes. I walked on quickly, an' thocnt tae myscF there wad ht; l)lows at'oie ihey pairted. When T heard o' Mr. liichard Maxwell bein' fund in lluby liay in the mornin', it was the first thing 1 thocht o'.' * You are sure you heard nothing more ? ' ' I heard nae niair, my lord, for I walked on smairt.' ' Is that all your evidence ? ' ' I ha'e nae mair tae say.* * Remove the witness.' That was all the evidence. Then the counsel for the Crown made a long and eloquent speech, which was dead against the prisoner. Before he concluded the Court rose, to meet again in the morning ; so another night and day of sus- pense were in store for those whose life's happiness hung upon the issue. Next morning John's counsel spoke long and ably, and his speech had a visible eflect on the bench as well as on the audience. Then the judge briefly addressed the jury, and they retired. Patiently the dense crowd sat on in the stifling court-room ; and the prisoner waited patiently — but oh, how lind your teach you man in a liocnt tae r pairted. jein' fund st thing i i^alked on IN COURT. ,^, anxiously !-in his sert, cheered hy his couns.l and tlie friends wlio were about him on every siue. Just before the Court rose, the foreman of the jury appeared, saying they could not agree. So they were ordered to be locked up together the prisoner was removed, and the Court cleared Yet another night of suspense for many achin<^ hearts, scarcely able to sustain the weight of dread and anxiety already laid upon them, l^ut it wuuld be over soon— for weal or woe, who could teU ? long and 3 prisoner, leet attain ly of sus- happiness and ably, bench as ge briefly iently the urt-room ; oh, how riTArTKK XVT. INTO TlIK IIAVKN. } ' 1 HAT niijjht an awful storm awopt nlon^ tho Kif(>siiiv(» ooast. K;iiii foil ill torrents from inky .ski(»R, and l]\c mad wind tosHtnl tl\o foaming billows n\onn(ains lii^h. The Nixnnie, was oominsjj up t1u», l^'irth in tlio toolli of the blast, after a sunny and prosperous voyaj^e. She was like to be storm-toss(ul in the fannliar waters at home. The eold was intiuisi^, (houjjjh it was only Oolober yet. The sturdy little sloop wrestled bravelv with the sc^^thinuj tide, but she was already disabled, and made but poor ])rogress. The harbour lights were llickering through the gloom, but the beacon on the rocks at l^'arlsferry seemed to be extinguished; for, strain their eyes as they might, none of them could catch a glimpse of it. The irale was increasing every minute, and for the first time iu his life David Bonner feared the 159 INK) Till' ll/il'/ry. »53 /Vffnnif would ii«»t rido Hiil'cly into Kli»> linrliofir. Tlipy worked with iniL^dil mid main, hut, a .middcii hliiHl, rniiicd ,»n llic iniiiFiHiiil, niMl HWiirij^ Mm sloop round liko n loy in ils mighty ^jniHp. Then a heavy Hcii l)rok«^ ovi>r Imt, and HWt'pl, a Meanuui and tlic (Mibin l»oy ovorhoaid, and h\u) drifti'd now at. tJin nicvcy ol" wind and 'vjivmih. ' W^M'e duiH? lor, Sl(!vi() lad,' Huid hfivid I'ofukt. ' W(^ maun juhI- try Jin' wave. oorMcI'M Inn; the, licavy Men, an' pray wv. may \h\ k('rj)it all' Mmi rocks till mornin'.' ' Ay, ay,' said Stoplicn Kanisay. ' It's a Hlirn clianco o' lilV wo lia'o, skipper.' ' I never tlioclit it wad bo i' the; Firtli tlic- Naiirm wad come tae ^'licf,' said David Bonner, 'within half a mile o' hame.' TluMi a Hil(Mic(; fell u|)on thorn, and David i'.onnor'a (hoii^dits How to hi.s homo, whero his wilo and c'hildron won; safely housed, litth; drcaminj^ of tlu; peril he was in not a mih; from them. Ife wa.s no coward, but it was hard to die here, within sif^ht of home and those dear to him, so near the help they could not rcNieh. Stephen J'amsay's thou^dits were stran^^e indeed. During the voyage David Bonner had been struck by something odd about his mate, — a strange feverish unrest, which seemed to j)()ssess him night and day. lie asked him if Ailie and he had })een (quarrelling, and was put off with a laugh, which convinced the old man his surmise was right. But being of opinion rT 1 ia ■!• I la 11 ■■ ai nil- M ] ■ i'. I '< H '54 WRONGS RIGHTED that love affairs ri^'ht theiiiHclves iii course of time, he made no further allusion to it. lioth were in ignorance of what had been passing in Elie, and latterly in Edinburgh, while they were absent. Stephen could only guess ; — but oh, how far short of the truth, remained for him to learn by and by ! The minutes passed, each one laden with desperate peril, and the sea was such that the skipper feared even the stout spars of the Nannie would not long withstand it. They were being driven before the wind, in what direction they could not be sure, but, they feared, towards the dreaded rocks skirting the shore at Earlsferry. Before another hour went by their fears proved too well grounded. They were clinging to the masts, drenched with spray, and benumbed with cold, feebly wondering if morning's light would find them alive, when a heavy swell carried the sloop forward till she came dash against a rock. She broke up clean amidships, and one half sank in the yawning wave. It was over in a moment, and with it went down the truest, noblest heart that ever beat in man's bosom. The other half stuck fast on the rocks, but Stephen was washed from the mast to which he had been clinging, and, after being tossed a moment by an angry billow, was swept up on the highest part of the rock. He was stunned by a blow on the head, and lay there still and motionless ; if he survived till morning, INTO TFIE HA VEN. »55 of time, were in Elie, and ! absent, far short earn by desperate per feared not lon^,' )efore the sure, but, irting the r went by 'hey were pray, and morning's avy swell sh against and one over in a ,t, noblest The other as washed clinging, an angry irt of the I, and lay morning, and was observed before the tide came in again, his life might be saved. Slowly the hours of that night passed; in many liomes along the coast anxious eyes peered forth into the storm, and anxious liearts sent up an agonizing prayer for those in peril on the sea. lief ore going to bed, Jean Bonner came to the door and looked out ; the wind sweeping round the corner nearly carried her oil" her feet. ' I wunner whaur the maister '11 be the nicht ? Surely he wad pit intae port afore it grew as bad as this.' Then she went to bed and slept soundly, but not so soundly as her husband did beneath the waves in the wild embrace of the angry waters of the Forth. At midnight the wind fell, — not gradually, but suddenly and sharply, as if some unseen hand held back its skirts, — and by and by the sky broke over- head, and a peaceful moon shone out tranquilly on the heaving sea, — ay, as peacefully and calmly as if no desolation or woe had been wrought by that night's tempest, and as if the dawn would bring no certain agony to hundreds of breaking hearts. The morning was calm and still and smiling, and a silver sea crept up to the beach, lapping the sand as softly and musically as if ther^i was no such thing as grief or desolation or death in the world. With the earliest light the wreck upon the Ferry rocks was discovered, and a boat launched without i> ^ 1 i56 WRONGS RIGHTED. delay. There was nothin*,' whereby the poor dis- abled spars could bo recoj^Miised ; but one man, with a cry of horror, suinnioniul his fellows to a crevice in the rocks, where lay the still and prostrate form of one all knew well. ' Guid Lord, it's Stevie Ilamsay, and this maun be the Nannie' sjud another. * Whaur'll Dauviil Bonner be ? * No need to ask ; the treacherous waters had the secret in their keeping. ' He's leevin' yet,' cried the first man, kneel- ing down and laying a hand on Stephen's broad breast. ' Ha'e ye a drap o' whisky on ye, ony- body ? ' A flask was produced, and they forced a few drops between the lips of tlie unconscious man. He stirred uneasily, and his lids fluttered. Then he relapsed as before. 'Get him tae the boat, an' hame as fast's we can. I doot the skipper an' Alick Broon an' wee Dod Simpson had gane doon last nicht. Eh, lads, it was a sair thing tae dee at ane's very door.' With all speed the body was carried to the boat, and they rowed quickly to the shore. By this time, attracted by their movements, a small crowd had gathered on the beach. The news that the wreck was the Nannie, and all were drowned sav3 Stephen Eamsay, created a feeling of horror and dismay. The women cried without restraint, and even strong, rough men felt their eyes dim. As they moored INTO THE HAVEN. 157 ">oor dis- iian, with a crevice rate form lis maun 1 Dauviil s had the in, kneel- Dii's broad ye, ony- ed a few dous man. d. Then 's we can. wee Dod [ads, it was the boat, this time, prowd had [the wreck Stephen [d dismay, ^en strong, 3y moored the boat, a hoy came running along the sand, with white face and dilated eyes. ' Captain I'xtnner's lyin* on the sands alang a wee this side the Stanc; r)rae,* he cried. ' Tie's drooned.' In a moment the crowd was hurrying along the beach, led by their informant. He was right. Ay, there he lay, with his face turned upward to tlui tranquil sky, and there was tlie sliadow of a smile on his li])S, as if he had not found it hard to die. A strange silence h(dd the crowd as they looked upon David lionner, whom all Elie had loved and honoured above any man in the town. Then the sobs of the women broke out afresh, and in all the company no man's eyes were dry. But it was well with David l^ionner. The grand old man had died as he had lived, — at peace with God and man. Yes, it was well with him. • >••••• I pass over the scene which followed. I cannot linger over the breaking of the news to Jean Bonner and her family. It was a sore blow to her, for, with all her faults, she had loved her husband well. Sich cases of swift and sudden bereavement are of daily occurrence among those whose loved ones ' go down to the sea in ships,' and because they are daily occurrences, perhaps, are only glanced at with care- less eyes, and spoken of lightly by those who see or hear of them. But God treasures up the tears and remembereth the mourning of the widowed and 158 WRONGS RIGHTED. the fatherless, and will give them recompense by and by in that sure haven where cometh no storm or tempest, and whose sea is a sea of glass, encompassed by a great ineffable calm for evermore. I 'i.\ , ■! 1 ! r ■' jO' CHAPTER XVII. FULFILLED TO THE LETTER. N the course of the day a telegram, was sent to Ailie, and she returned to Elie accom- panied by liobert Wilson in the evening. The girl was like one in a dream. The dool and wae ' predicted by Bell Souter had indeed fallen upon her now, and her mother was amazed at the strange, tearless calm with which she heard the particulars of the wreck of the Nannie. Jean told them, with many tears and sobs. Hers was the garrulous grief which finds relief in such demonstrations ) but Ailie sat with her hands folded on her lap, and, looking straight into her mother's face with dry eyes, said, — * Mither, hoo can ye greet ? ' * Labsie, sic a question to ask a puir 'reft widow/ she said, with a spark of her old temper. * I aye kent ye for a thochtless lassie, Ailie, but I thocht ye lo'ed yer faither.' wmnmS9SSS9559BS99Hnl , 4 lif: 'im\ WRONGS RIGHTED. Ailie made no answer, only turned her eyes to the tranquil sea, and by and by rose and crept away to the chamber where her father lay. It was almost dark there, but she drew up the blind, and the glimmer of the dying day crept into the room, and was light sufficient for what Ailie came to see. She went over to the bed, drew the covering ^rom the face, and looked upon it with a passionate, yearning gaze. It was so calm, so peaceful, so beautifully still, that though the girl was in the presence of the dead for the first time in her life, she felt no fear. Why should she ? He was her fatlier, and oh ! how she loved him — she knew only now, when his ears could not listen to her voice, when his eyes could not look upon her and see it in her face. Since her childhood she had tried him often and sorely, and failed in her duty to him, and given him many a pain and headache. She fell on her knees by the bedside, and hiding her face, prayed as she had never done in her life before. The past days seemed to have changed her from a gay, careless, thoughtless girl, to a woman with a burden of care and sorrow on her shoulders, and to whom the sunshine of life would come again no more. She knelt long there, so long that her mother came to seek her by and by, wondering why she stayed. Repenting of her impatience with the girl, Jean's voice was wonderfully soft and gentle. ' I wadna disturb ye, Ailie bairn, but there's a message come frae Stevie. He's better a wee, an' FULFILLED TO THE LETTER. 161 !S to the away to 5 almost and the )om, and ee. She ^rom the yearnmg jautifully ce of the no fear, oh ! how his ears ^yes could Since her orely, and many a es by the had never eemed to loughtless nd sorrow ne of life ong there, by and ng of her DnderfuUy there's a wee, an' wants tae see ye. But if ye think ye wad raither bide till the morn, I'll tell the laddie.' *If Stevie wants me, mither, I maun gang,' said Ailic, rising, * He has a richt tae sen' for me when he likes.' Jean was afraid of that strange, calm, constrained look on the girl's white face, it v^as so unlike Ailie. She followed her with anxious eyes as she tied on her hat and wrapped a shawl round her. * I'll no' be lang awa', mither/ she said, and the next moment was gone. Stephen had recovered consciousness late in the afternoon, and his first question had been for Ailie. The doctor tried to dissuade him from seeing her, — at least for another day ; but he would not be quieted. * Ailie, Ailie! ' was all his cry; and his eager, restless eye wandered ever to the door as if in search of her, till at last the doctor yielded and despatched a messenger. The only light in the little chamber was a small lamp burning dimly on the stand, and Ailie crept in so softly that Stephen was not aware of her presence till her hand touched his, and her voice said tremulously, * Stevie ! ' His white face flushed, and he tried to raise him- self and welcome her ; but the Hercules was con- quered now, and liad not strength to raise himself in his bed. * Oh, Ailie, I thocht you wad never come,' he said feebly. * I cam' whenever I could. Ye ken, Stevie, I only 20t hame frae Embro' at five o'clock.' -«M M I «.' \ ' '■, . Jj i ,! '^^ V I ¥. ; f I i ^ ;* »• 1 :"! * i i^ 162 WRONGS RIGHTED. * At Embro' ? ' repeated Stephen wonderingly. * What were ye daein' there, Ailie ? ' * \ e ken/ she said hurriedly. * The trial, Stevie. It was yesterday.' * What trial ? ' he said, so sharply that the girl started. Had he not known, then, and would it not harm him to be told in his present weak state ? It could not be helped now, he would not be put off. * The trial, Stevie — Mr. John Maxwell's trial for the suspected murder of his brither. Stevie, what is't?' * My God ! Ailie Bonner, an' me the murderer lyin' here, an' an innocent man in jail. Get my claes, Ailie, I maun awa' tae Embro* the nicht.' Ailie sat still as a statue, her great eyes fixed on her lover's face. ' Stevie,' she said, in a gasping whisper, — ' Stevie, what are ye sayin' ? What did ye say ? ' *I said I was the murderer, Ailie,' he repeated feverishly. * Tell the doctor I maun up the nicht an' aff tae Embro'. I never thocht o' this, Mr. John Maxwell. Tell the doctor quick, Ailie.' Still the girl did not move. ' Stevie,' she said, in a kind of wail, * are ye no' wanderin' i' yer mind ? is yer heid no licht wi' the fa' ye got ? Hoo could it be ? Ye was awa' tae Enster afore Mr. Richard cam' up.' * Ay, but I cam' back, Ailie. I followed ye back every stap. I was jealous 0' Richard Maxwell ; I saw ye meet ; I heard him speak tae ye, an' kiss ye, Ailie. It was that that drave me mad.' FULFILLED TO THE LETTER. 163 * What mair, Stevie ? ' asked Ailie, with parched and trembling lips. ' I waited till ye was on yer way, an* syne I faced him. We had some words, and he hit me wi' his cane, an* syne I fell on him, no meanin' tae dae him rale herm, but just to show him a puir man wasna dirt beneath his feet. He rowed tae the edge of the cliff an* fell owre, an' I lookit on an' didna put oot my little finger to save him. Was that no* murderin' a man. Ailie Bonner?' ' Oh, Stevie, I wish I had never been born ! ' fell low and bitterly from Ailie's set lips. * I'm at the bottom o't a'.' He did not contradict her, because he could not. It was not the first time a woman had driven a man to despair, but surely never was woman's coquetry visited with such awful punishment as this. * The jury are sittin' the nicht tae try an' agree on a verdict, Stevie,' she said after a while, in that voice of unnatural calm. * If ye hadna come back, — if ye had gaen doon in the sloop, — he micht ha'e been hanged for't, and Agnes wad hae dee'd as sure as I'm sittin' here. I'm no fit tae tak* God's name on my lips, Stevie, but I thank Him for His mercy, although what's tae come may be the breakin' 0' my heart. Oh, Stevie, Stevie ! ' Her head fell forward on her hands, and a low moan of anguish escaped her lips. This man whom she loved was saved from death only to be parted from her for ever, and receive the punish- i, I .^: '.tl 1,1 164 IVJUONGS RIGHTED, iiu'iit of the sill tor vvliich she was directly to bi{ime. * Ailie, my wumman,' wliiapcred Stophen, * I'm no' fit, but will ye kiss me aince ? It'll be the last time, my darlini^, for ye'U no' be my wile at New Year noo.' She bent over him and laid her li[>s to his, as he had said, for the last time. * Fetch the doctor noo, Ailie, and though we maun meet on earth nae mair, maybe through the long road o' repentance we may meet abune. Good- bye, my darling.' Then Ailie turned from the bed and left the room. She called to the doctor as she passed out, but dared not stay to meet the eyes of any. She hurried along the street, and down one of the openings to the shore. But her feet did not move towards home. No, not yet. There was a tierce baltle to be fought, a tide of agony and anguish to be breasted, a future to be faced, — away from mortal eye, on the bleak seashore, alone with herself and the night. As the evening sped, and eleven o'clock passed without bringing Ailie, the mother began to be anxious. Surely four hours were enough to spend with Stephen, — unless, indeed, he had grown suddenly weaker. About half -past eleven she came to the doorstep for the fifth or sixth time, and peered anxiously up the street. It was deserted ; but even then there FULFILLED TO T/fE LETTER. 165 cnnie out of i\\i\ darkness of the oppositn way a tion. If you will keep quiet, I'll send for a jv^itic if the peace, and he can take your depositioi 'u writing. It will do as well' 'Wull't? are you sure?' ^^.od Stephen sus- piciously. * I wouldn't be likely to tell you a lie about it, would I ? Just lie down and compose yourself till he comes.' ' If it'll dae as weel, I'll dae't,' said Stephen, fall- ing feebly back upon his pillow. * I'm weaker than I thocht. Let him be sent for quick. Man, it wad be an awfu' thing an' I were tae dee afore he cam'.' * No fear of that just yet,' said the doctor ; and then he administered the sleeping draught and went to try and procure a justice. He was at a loss for the moment what to do. Sir Eobert Elphinstone was in Edinburgh. There was nothing for it but yoke his gig and drive seven miles to Logic for Cap- tain Skinner, the only other one he knew of. He had but lately come to Elie, and was imperfectly i i68 WRONGS RIGHTED. ■!;i ''4 r ' 'i ! i i^ I ' acquainted witli the geiitleineii in the neighbour- hood. He did not care to ask informati(jn, for such a question would rouse curiosity and remark, which it was as well to avoid yet. To his man's amaze- ment, he said he would (h'ive himself, and would not be a couple of hours absent. He found the gentleman at home, and very lotli he was to turn out of doors to drive so far on a cold night, but there was no help for it. Stephen was asleep when they arrived, but he seemed to know instinctively when they entered the room, for he opened his eyes and looked relieved to see the justice. Pen, ink, and paper were produced, and Stephen's deposition taken. It was simply a solemn declaration of his part in the death of Eichard Maxwell, and the circumstances attending it. He was able only to sign his name, his fingers being guided by the doctor, when he fell back fainting on the bed. ' He won't live, I fear, till the morning,' whispered the doctor. * The excitement has done for him ; but he had a slender enough chance of life before it.' * Poor fellow,' said the Captain, in sincere pity. ' But I'm thankful for this, it will save an innocent man ; but, for that matter, only an idiot would believe John Maxwell guilty of such an atrocious crime. If you can house me all night, doctor, I'll be up and off to town by the first train to-morrow. There is no time to be lost.' FREE/ 169 neighbouv- m, for sucV. mrk, which in's amaze- 1 wuuld uot A very loth ar on a cold ^ed, but he entered the d relieved to 3re produced, 'as simply a ,th of Richard ing it. He ngers being Ik fainting on lie morning,' jnt has done jhance of lif^ shicere pity. an innocent idiot would an atrocious it, doctor, I'll In to-morrow. The doctor was more than willing, and, after atten(Hng to the patient, and leaving directions for •the a(hninistering of his medicines, the twain de- parted to the doctor's house, to sit far into the night discussing the now phase of the Maxwell mystery. • • • • t • Meanwhile an unlooked - for impediment liud occurred in the way of settling John Maxwell's case. At the end of twelve hours, there being no likeli- hood of the jury being able to return a unanimous verdict, they were discharged, and a new trial granted. This occasioned much inconvenience and delay, for, as you are aware, some of the witnesses had left the town. And of the additional suspense it was to those vitally interested in it, you can form a faint idea. Agnes broke down under it. She was not very strong, and the shock of her father's death, combined with the long tension on her nerves, brought on a low fever, which kept her a prisoner in her room at the hotel. Her heart was sick with a double longing, to be with her husband, and to be able to look once on the face of her much-loved father before he was buried ; and both privileges were denied her. She lay fretting her heart out, and but for Flora the consequences might have been serious. Surely never had mortals in distress a more faithful friend than this brave, brown-eyed maiden, who, utterly forgetful of self, devoted herself to 170 WRONGS RIGHTED. i I i i trying to li<,'liten this burden for tliOFie sbo loved. She attended to the baby, talked cheerily and hopefully to Agnes, and to John, on whom this long, bitter trial was beginning to tell ; in short, slu! went from prison to hotel like a ministering angel. Her father fumed and fretted, and anathematized all courts, and juries, and false accusers, but all this would not bring the desired consummation any quicktr. In the course of the third day, John was sitting in his cell in the same listless way : he was beginning to lose hope now, for prison walls have a wonderfully disheartening ellect upon the most buoyant nature. The day was closing in, and through the narrow window a faint, dim light fell aslant upon his stooping figure, and upon his bent head and listless, hopeless face. Presently he heard footsteps coming along the corridor, — not Flora's light tread, he knew, but the heavier tramp of men. The next instant the door flew open, and Sir Robert Elphinstone burst in and grasped him by both hands. * Hurrah ! my lad ; you're free, John ! The murderer's turned up at last, — confessed on his deathbed, — and the new trial can't go on. Free ! Get up, man ; come out, and away home to Agnes ! ' John rose up slowly, looking about him in a dazed way. There were several people at the door, — the familiar form of the judge and other Court officials, — evidence surely that what his friend said was true. He heard somebody reading something in a FREE! 171 she loved eerily and whom this I short, she urin,!,' un<^el. ithematized hut all this nation any y, John was ray : he was walls have m the most ng in, and m light fell »on his bent tly he heard Flora's light men. The Sir Eobert both hands, rohn ! The 3sed on his on. Free 1 to Agnes ! ' It him in a I at the door, other Court friend said [thing in a formal voice, but the only words he caught were ' wrongous imprisonment and acquittal.' 'John, man,' cried the Baronet, 'you don't look like a man just hearing good news. Get on your liat, and come out. or — bless me ! — the girls will be after us to seek us. It's true you're a free man, and that fisherman Stephen Kamsay helped to murder IJichard.' Then Jo}ui Maxwell put his hands before his faco and burst into tears. • • t • t • A cfirriage awaited them outside, but John said he would walk the short distance to the hotel. Oh, it was sweet to breathe the blessed air of freedom again, and to feel that the cloud had lifted, and that very night all men would know him innocent of the crime laid to his charge. Understanding his silence, the Baronet bottled up his exuberance of spirits, and did not seek to break it. From the window Flora was watching eagerly, but dusk had fallen, and in the crowded street it was useless to try and single out those she looked for. But she heard them come in, and ran to the stair, holding out her hand, witl\ her eyes full of tears. ' Oh, John, my heart is like to break for joy ! * she said tremulously. He took the slim hands in a gras}^ painful in its iron closeness, and, bending down, touched her brvow with his lips. 1 *• » ■ 1 172 WRONGS RIGHTED. * Afterwards, Flora, perhaps thanks will come, — not now,' he said. ' Where is Agnes ? ' She pointed to the door and silently withdrew. John turned the handle and went in, closing the door behind him. I think neither you nor I would care to enter with him. Let these sacred moments pass without intrusion. 1*1 j m IN I. M t I r in ii- 'i 1! 11 come, — withdrew, closing the 1 1 ^^J?M'i* re to enter iss without CHAPTEE XTX. AILIE. Y-AND-BY these re-united friends met at the dinner table in their private sitting- room, but very poor justice was done to the fare before them. Joy is such a wonderful healer, sometimes, that Agnes had risen, and insisted on taking her place at the table. She was very pale and thin, but her face was beautiful with its unutterable content. She ate nothing, and during the meal kept her eyes on her husband's dear face. A telegram was despatched to Jean Bonner, saying they would be at Elie early in the day, and John would be able to attend David Bonner's funeral. Agnes, too, might yet obtain the last look she craved for. On her husband's breast she wept out all her grief for the grand old father who had loved her so well, and who could not participate in the deep joy that was hers to-day. He had died not knowing or dreaming of the trials encompassing ^is 178 w^ W I hi ' H Mi I till Nil ■if < I ! 174 WRONGS RIGHTED. beloved Agnes, Tht-y would have been a sore, sore grief to him, but he had been spared it. Towards nine o'clock Mrs. Maxwell arrived at the hotel. They had forgotten her, and she had only heard of John's release from the evening paper. She awaited him in the ante-room below, and he went down at once. ' Congratulations are needless from me to you, she said. ' I knew you would be cleared. When do you return to Bervie ? ' ' To Bervie ? ' repeated John, in tones of anger ; and then it flashed across him for the first time that his brother's death had left him possessor of his own again. * You amaze me, John,' said his step-mother, with the ghost of a smile. * Is there any worldly- mindedness in your nature ? ' * When a man has been in such sore straits as I have been,' said he, with emotion, 'these things become very trifling in his eyes ; and, believe me, I would willingly relinquish all thought of Bervie even now, when it is within my reach, to see Eichard restored to life again.' She drew her veil down suddenly over her white face, and for several minutes there was nothing said. ' When do you go home to Bervie ? ' she asked again ; and her voice had a strange, sharp ring in it, as if she was in pain. * My wife and I return to Elie to - morrow AILIE, 175 a sore, sore to - morrow morning, in time for mc to attend Mr. Bonner's funeral.' ' Bonner ! — oh yes, that is your wife's fatlier. I remember. He was drowned in the storm. I yet confused with so many things on my mind. "Well, I'm going to Bervie to-morrow by the first train. Will you and your wife come straight to Bervie ? ' ' No,' said John, after a moment's thought. ' We will come u]) in the evening after the funeral, — that is, if my wife is able ; if not, it will be next day. But will you not wait and travel with us ? we go at nine to-morrow morning.' ' No, no,' she said, with feverish liaste. ' I had best go alone, and don't keep me waiting longer at Bervie than you can help. I cannot bear this burden much longer.' John looked at lier curiously, marvelling at her words. How he pitied her, none but himself knew. Her life seemed a barren desert, unrelieved ])y any ray of light or love of any kind. She had dealt liardly with him in the past, but all thought of it had long since passed from his mind. In John Maxwell's sunny nature there was no room for Hatred's black sister ]Malice. So out of the fulness of his heart he spoke. 'Mrs. Maxwell, do come up and see my wife. Believe me, she feels for you as deeply as I do at this moment.' She hesitated. ' Well, I will/ she said at last. * She may say I i III i i T .i;H 176 WRONGS RIGHTED. a kind word to me now, but not after, — not after ! ' What on earth did she mean ? John wondered sorely, but held his peace, and led the way upstairs. He opened the door very softly, and both stood a moment on the threshold unobserved. The room was lighted only by the flickering firelight, and on a low chair on the hearth sat Agnes with her l)aby in her fair young arms, humming a low melody to soothe him to sleep. She looked round, and, seeing them, rose to her feet. ' I have brought you a visitor, Agnes,' said John, who had no fear of how his wife would receive her. Mrs. Maxwell came forward into tlie room, looking at her closely and searchingly. She laid the baby in its crib, and held out her hand to this sorrowful- looking woman, forgetting everything but that she was a wiuow and a desolate mother, left alone in the world. Mrs. MaxweU ^^ok the hand offered her, and bent her face over io. She could not meet the tearful sympathy of those pitiful eyes. ' My dear, I thank you,' she said. Tlien Agnes lit the gas and offered her a seat, but she shook her head. * I must not stay,' she said. * Is — is the baby asleep ? may I see him ? ' ' He is asleep, but I can lift him nicely,' said Agnes ; and, moving to the crib, brought the sleeping child and laid it in the elder woman's arms. AILIE. 177 3r, — not wondered upstairs. 1 stood a Lhe room t, and on her baby nelody to nd, seeing 3aid John, jceive her. m, looking the baby sorrowful- that she alone in and bent lie tearful \x a seat, [the baby [ely,' said sleeping The haughty head bent low over the boy's lovely face, and her eyes were full of a strange, passionate yearning. Tlien, pressing her set lips to his brow, gave him back to his mother, and, without another word or look, drew down her veil and hurried from the room. * John,' cried Agnes, * what does it mean ? Have I offended or hurt her in any way ? ' John shook his head. ' I am afraid the shock has unhinged her reason, Agnes, — she looks and acts so strangely. I am very sorry for her. My darling, how proud I was of you to-night ! ' He moved close to the side of the baby's crib, where slie stood, and threw his arm round her, while she hid her face, her eyes full of happy tears. ' Oh, John, God has been very good to us ! if — if father might have been spared to me.' ' He has gone to a better world than this, lv darling, and it will be my aim to try and make * on this sorrow light. It was his last charge to t se, Agnes, that night, — the last he sp .t with us. He said he could leave you safe with iiie. I was thankful for the words, — they showed iie he could trust me, for you were his dearest treasure, as you are mine to-night.' And though Agnes Maxwell's tears fell fast, her heart was uplifted in thankfulness to God, who had given her the blessing of such love and care as this. • • • t t • At noon next day John and his wife stepped out M 1 ii m f'.:-,- i 178 WRONGS RIGHTED. on the platform at Elie station. F'^.w people were about, for the arrival had not been expected or dreamed of. If it had, he mi.uht have met a more demonstrative reception than the welcoming smiles on the faces of the officials. Xeitlier of them was in the mood, however, for receiving congratulations yet, and they hurried off as quickly as possible to David Bonner's house. The funeral was at two o'clock : it was one now, so time was short. Jean Bonner had given up hope of them till evening, and was startled to see them pass the window. She ran to the door and welcomed them warmly,, though in a quieter way than her wont, and, taking the babe from Agnes, led them into the sitting-room. A fire was burning cheerily there, but it was unoccupied. ' Where's Ailie ? ' was Agnes's first question, as she glanced round expectantly. * She's i' the but-end beside her faither,' said the widow, wiping her eyes. ' Oh, Agnes, ye'll be wae tae see her. I dinna ken what tae dae wi' her. I think she's lost her senses i' the middle o' thae awfu' griefs.' * Just keep baby, will you, till I come back,' said .i-\/Tnes, laying her bonnet and shawl on the table. ' John will tell you all you wish to hear.' The widow, nothing loth, dried her tears, and, sitting dov/n close to the fire with the child on her knee, prepared to listen to the history of the trial, which, for his wife's sake, John told minutely and patiently. H AILIE. 179 pie were )ected or it a more \Si smiles hem was atulations ossible to 5 at two them till pass the nied them her wont, them into irily there, .estion, as ,' said the I'll be wae wi' her. lie o' thae )ack,' said Ithe table. iars, and, lild on her ^ial, which, patiently. Agnes crossed the famihar lobby, pei ped into the kitchen, wliere the children in their black clothes were anuising themselves in unusual quiet- ness ; then she turned the handle of the room where lier father lay, and stole in very softly. Tlie colli n lay on the bed ; the lid was as yet unscrewed ; Jean liad insisted on putting it off till Agnes came. But the kneehng figure by the bed chained lier attention first. She went over to lier, laid her white hand on the slender shoulder, and said softly, — ' Ailie, dear Ailie ! ' The girl sprang up, and held out her hand calmly to her sister. ' You have come, Agnes,' she said, quite calmly, * jist in time.' For the first few minutes Agnes was unable to speak. That three days could have brought such a change on a human face she could not have believed. 'Ailie,' she said at last, in a strange, shocked voice, ' what has happened to you ? ' * Ye ken, Agnes,' she said, with a faint smile, — ' ye ken what I've ha'en tae bear. Ye'll be gled ye're in time to see faither yet.' She turned to the bed, lifted the lid from the coffin, and then Agnes saw her father's face. The perfect rest and peace on the dear face calmed her agitated feelings, and she could not weep. ' He looks happy, Agnes,' said Ailie, * Oh, wumman, if I were but there instead 0' him ! ' In 1 80 WRONGS RIGHTED, hi ' ! f m, .'I I i ' i};t l! [(,1- it I Agnes put both her arms round her step-sister's drooping figure, and pillowed her aching, golden head on her breast. Her father was beyond all ijeed of love or care ; this weary, stricken heart claimed all the comfort she could give. * Ailie,' she whispiired, ' my dear, my heart has gone out to you pitifully since we heard the truth. It brought unutterable gladness to us in one sense, and in another much grief. My sister, what can I say to comfort you ? ' 'Everybody's been that guid tae me, Agnes,' she said, in the same listless voice ; ' I lia'ena heard a word 0' reproach frae a body ! There's nae need, for guid kens my ain reproach is enough tae bear. Ye'U no' ha'e heard Stevie dee'd this mornin' ? ' Agnes was astonished, but she could not be sorry. * Another sore blow for you, Ailie ; but it is better so, is it not ? It has spared him and you the misery of a public examination, and him perhaps something worse.' ' Yes,' said Ailie, ' it is far better ; but what I'm tae dae, Agnes, wi' what remains o' my life I dinna ken. I'm jist twenty. Oh, Nannie, Nannie ! ' The unnatural calm was broken down at last, and tears fell from Ailie's worn eyes like rain. Agnes held her close, not trying to stem the torrent of her grief, knowing it was best to let it have its way. i ■■ ',!. By and by the undertaker came to fasten down AILIE. ,3, the licl, and sl,ortIy after the minister and those mvited to the service in the house. And so, through the elear, pure light of the October afternoon, they carried ])avid Ii„„ner to I'ls last resting-place, and left him in his ouiet grave. ^ ^ He needed no n.arble tomb to n.ark where he ay or to record what he had been in life. They a.d hnn beside his first wife, in a sunny corner of the Auld Kirkyaird, whe,. i„ the sun.mer ti," the gowans would blossom bonnily, and bend their heads to meet the caresses of the sea-breezes he had loved Henceforth :t would be a dear and sacred spot to many a heart in Elie. '^ I i lu '.:\ M 4 I M I • ' - I 1 j i i 'i m r CHAPTEK XX. JOHN S REVENGE. T half-past six that night a carriage swept through the High Street and down the 'Taft' to David Bonner's house. The coachman tapped at the door, saying briefly he had come for Mr. and Mrs. Max- well. The widow had persuaded them to remain with her over night, but < hey could not well refuse this urgent message. So there was nothing for it but to lift tlie sleeping baby and robe him in his outer garments, — a task which the widow performed while Agnes went to dress in an adjoining room. Ailie accompanied her. * I'll never see ye noo, Agnes,' she said, with faltering lips. ' Yell be the Leddy o' Bervie.' * Hush, Ailie,' said Agnes a little sharply ; ' don't you know me by this time ? Have I ever changed to you yet ? And I am sure my husband would 18a JOim'S HEVENGE. •83 ige swept down the ase. The ir, saying rs. Max- fiain with efuse this or it but his outer ned while m. Ailie aid, with ie.' y; 'don't r changed nd would I not wish me to shun my oldest Irieiuls. Can't you behove it of him jind me ? ' 'Yes; said Ailie, and was umil)le to add another word. The good-byes liad to be hurriedly made for the coachman was growing impatient, and in a lew minutes they were olK 'Agnes,' said John, witli a slight, smile, 'what scenes this little atom of humanity has witnessed ni his brief life, especially during the last month or two ! ' An answering smile stole to Agnes's lips. ' I have been so liurried and tossed about some- how of late, I can't realize who or what I am sometimes. Surely we shall have quiet by and by.' • I hope so, in our own home at Bervie,' answered John. Then a silence fell upon them both, and their thoughts flew to the desolate woman, whose all had been snatched from her, and in the mind of Agnes there came a vision of all she would try to be to her if she would but let her. Eemembering their last meeting, she had not much fear. They were not long upon the road, and, as they swept up the avenue between the beeches, John's eyes grew dim, for he loved the house of his fathers with a most passionate devotion. The faithful servitor who had admitted him last time was in his place in a state of joyful expectation. ' Well, James, here I am again,' said John, with a smile in which there was a shade of sadness. ' Ay, thank the Lord, back tae yer ain again, sir/ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I ^ L° 12.0 11-25 i 1.4 |M|< 1.6 .V .i^ e ^^i^ /. r^ V2 0% 71 ^> w >> 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STRfET WiBSTER.N.Y. M5S0 (716) a7}-4S03 ^ V ;V ■$^ O lV >'^- Ci^ '^ 'V- « z '^ ^ 1 84 WRONGS RIGHTED. ^ f 1 1 '[ \ ■ \ li iL. said the old iiuiii huskily. ' An' there'll be the Leddy an' the Heir o' Jiervie.' A«^iies held out her hand instinctively, smiling too, though she did not speak, and then, uncovering the face of her sleeping child, held him out to the old man. ' God bless ye, ma'am, an' the little Heir, an' gi'e him joy o' 15ervie,' he said solemnly, and then, fairly sobbing, ran from them, leaving them to find their way upstairs alone. Agnes followed her husband up the wide staircase, looking wonderingly at the magnificence, and understanding more fully every step how much he had given up for her. Mrs. Maxwell heard them come, and met them at the dining-room door. John held out his hand, but she shook her head and motioned them in. * Is the child asleep, Mrs. Maxwell ? * she said to Agnes. ' I have had a room prepared for him, and the housekeeper will look after him in the meantime. You may trust him with her for an hour. I want your presence here.' She spoke decidedly, imperiously even, and Agnes bowed in acquiescence. Then the bell was rung, and the little Heir delivered into the housekeeper's care. Mrs. Maxwell shut the door, and motioned Agnes to a seat, and began walking restlessly up and down the room. Then she paused by a side- table, leaned her hand upon it as if for support, and faced husband and wife. 'John Maxwell,' she said steadily, 'do you JOHN'S REVENGE. '85 be th( smiling coveriiii; it to the , an' gi'e jn, fairly ,nd thiiir husband ^ at the ly every Qet them lis hand, in. e said to him, and ^leantinie. 1 want id Agnes [as rung, |ekeeper's lotioned |essly up a side- jort, and do you rememb(3r two questions you asked me in the library that day your father was buried ? * ' I have not forgotten them,' answered John gently. His heart ached for his step-mother, and he could forgive the past. ' JJo you remember what I answered ? ' ' Yes.' ' I t(jld you a lie,' she said. * Curse me if you will, I deserve it, for I told you a lie. I said your father never mentioned your name or expressed a wish to see you. He spoke of little else, indeed, and desired me to send for you an urgent message ; his lieart was breaking to see you. liut I kept the message back, and said you would not come.' ' (lod forgive you, woman,' said John Maxwell, and covered his face with his hands. * He only spoke once after that, just before he died. He turned to the doctor, and desired him particularly to tell you his last thought was of you, and that he should have liked to kiss your wife before he died. \i Welsh had lived, the message would have been delivered ; but, as you know, he died that very day.' She paused a moment, and from the depths of John Maxwell's anguished heart there rose a bitter cry. All the pain and sorrow of the past was nothing to this. That his father should have died longing to see him, and believing that he would not come, was more than he could bear. Agnes sat still, awed by the depths of heartlessness she could not have believed a human being (*aj)able of. i86 WRONGS RIGHTED. < * That is not all,* continued Eleanor Maxwell drearily. ' The day before he died he made u will. Welsh drew it up, and he and Greig sij^nied it. It left Bervie to you, and Glengowan conditionally to nie. An annuity was left to Richard. It was hidden in a secret panel in his room, and after Welsh died Greig was the only on(» aware of its existence. He stole it, and left P>ervie without suspicion that morning. Next day liichard had a letter from him, asking hira to come to Thornton Junction and buy his silence. He went, and by some stratagem succeeded in destroying the will, and the man was powerless. He told me the con- tents. Your wife was specially mentioned. Your mother's jewels were bequeathed to her, with his blessing. The only consolation I can give, John, is that he forgave you before he died, and, if he had lived, he would have received your wife as a daughter. That is all I have to tell. That you will or can forgive me I have no hope ; only re- member my sin has been visited on my head. I am left widowed, childless, with no hope for this world or the next. Your agony, keen though it is, cannot equal mine, for it has no sting of remorse in it. In a few hours I shall be gone from Bervie for ever. Perhaps, long years after, one pitiful thought may rise in your hearts for me. Farewell.' She gathered her skirts in her hand and swept from the room, closing the door behind her. Then Agnes rose and knelt by her husband's side, and for JOHN'S REVENGE. 187 a lonfT time there was nothing,' said. The an^niish the disclosure of tliis perfidy had hiouj^lit was ter- rible, and could not be overcome in the space of a moment. Tliat he had been fraudulently de])rived of his inheritance, sank into insii^nilicance before the ]>icture of his poor dyinj,' father asking' continually for him, and dying at last without the last word, the last look he craved for. ' I could have forgiven everything but that, Agnes,' he groaned. ' Oh, it was cruel, cruel ! ' And Agnes could only weep with him, lier heart so sorely re-echoed his words. * It will be all right with him now, John,* she whispered. ' There is clearer vision yonder.' And again there was a long silence. * She has sull'ered tor it, John. Her burden is very heavy.' ' Yes,' said John. * By and by, perhaps, Agnes, you may lead me to forgive her, but not yet.' He rose and paced restlessly to and fro the long room, his face dark with the grief within. They heard some one moving about upstairs, and John said suddenly, — 'Did she say she would leave Bervie to-night, Agnes ? * ' She said within the hour.* ' There is no need for such haste,' he said then. ' We need not meet though we are under the same roof. Do you go to her, Agnes, and say I ask her to stay at least till to-morrow.' 1 88 WRONGS RIGHTED, ! • Tt Wfis wlmt A^iies's own kind heart .sii<;f^cstcd, hut till h(!r hushand proposed it she could not. She slipj)ed out, and, guided hy the footstcips ahove, easily found the room. She tapped at the door, and it was opened immediately. Mrs. Maxwell was already dressed, as if for a journey. ' Oh, don't leave to-night ! ' cried Agnes, moved hy the stony look in the h.aggard face. * John sent me to say it, — inaeed he did.' ' Tell him I thank him more than I can say,' she said slowly, ' but I will not try him further. I have been a curse to this house. The sooner I leave it the better. Ask him, as a last favour to me, if he will permit his carriage to drive me to my kins- woman's at Heron Hall?' Agnes sped back to the drawing-room and delivered the message word for word. * Come with me, Agnes,' he said, and the two went upstairs again together. She was standing on the threshold, and covered her face with her liands when she saw them. ' I forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven,' said John gently. * The first bitterness is past ; and who am I that I should add my weak vengeance to the punishment of Heaven ? In my own and my wife's name I ask you to stay. You are my father's widow, and justly entitled to a share of his wealth, and to some consideration from his son.* And that was John's revenge. t. Slie e, easily 1 it was already oved by sent me say/ she I have leave it lie, if he ny kiiis- lelivered [wo went covered ;n,' said |st ; and jngeance land my father's wealth, CTTAPTER XXI. CONCLUSION. EAN BONNER lives still in the house her husband left her ; her children lighten the gloom of her widowhood. And what of Ailie ? Let me write of her tenderly, for her life is beautiful in its utter unselfishness, in its tender devotion to others, in its loving effort to lessen human pain and grief. If there is a bereaved mother to be comforted, an ailing baby to be nursed, a sick-bed to be cheered and comforted^ a pain or ache to be relieved, or a breaking heart to be taught to find solace above, there Ailie Bonner is to be found. She has come unscathed out of the deeps, and though for her there will come no sunny earthly happi- ness, she has learned to be content, and wait for that which is to come. Agnes and she are close together in heart, and meet often. I have no more to tell. The gowans and heather 189 IQO WRONGS RIGHTED. still bloom on Elie IJraes, and boiinie waters in the bay f,'lint and i^liston iHUieath the summer sun, and moan drearily, too, in the winter wind ; and bits of life tragedy or comedy are enacted in the quiet little town, as they are all the world over. But in the meantime I must bid it and you farewelL \ !? i ters in the 3r sun, antl md bits of quiet little t and you