^, f ' k.\5 \ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 1^ M^ 128 lis ^^^ ut Itt 12.2 u& 1 1^ m^ m < 6' ► <^ 7] 'V °^ /^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRIET WEBSTCR.N.Y. 14S80 (716) •73-4503 ^>" '^ CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canaidian Institute for Historical Microraproductions / Institut Canadian de microraproductions historiquas T«chnieal and Bibliographic Notas/Notaa tachniquat at bibliographiquaa The Inatituta haa attamptad to obuin tha baat original copy availabia for filming. Faaturaa of thia copy which may ba tfibllographically uniqua, which may altar any of tha imagaa in tha raproduction, or which may significantly changa tha usual mathod of filming, ara chaclcad balow. D D D n Colourad eovars/ Couvartura da coulaur rn Covjrs damagad/ Couvartura andommagte Covars rastorad and/or iaminatad/ Couvartura rastaur4a at/ou paliicuiAa r~] Covar titia missing/ La titra da couvartura manqua Coloured maps/ Cartes gAographiquas en couieur Coloured inic (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couieur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) I j Coloured plates and/or Illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations en couieur Bound with other material/ Reli* avec d'autres documents Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion along interior margin/ La reliure serrAe peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion la long de la marge intArieure Blanic leaves sdded during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitced from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans la texte, mais, lorsque cela Atait possible, ces pages n'ont pas 4tA filmAes. Additional comments:/ Commentaires supplAmentaires: The( tothi L'Institut a mierofilmi la mailleur exemplaira qu'il lui a 4tA poaaibia da se procurer. Lea d4tails da cat exemplaira qui aont paut-ttre uniquaa du point de vue bibliographiqua, qui pauvant modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exigar une modification dans la mAthoda normala de filmaga sont indiqute ci-dessous. n~1 Coloured pagaa/ D Pagaa da coulaur Pages damaged/ Pages endommagAes Pages restored amd/or laminated/ Pages restaurAas et/ou pelliculAes Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ Peges dAcoiories, tachettes ou piquAes Pages detached/ Pages d*tach4es Thei possi of th filmii Origi begir theli sion, othei first I sion, or ill! [TT] Showthrough/ IXJ Transparence j I Quality of print varies/ Qualit* InAgaia de I'impression Includes supplementary material/ Comprend du material supplAmantaira Only edition available/ Seule Mition disponible Thei shall TINU whici Mapi diffei entiri begir right requi meth Pages wholly or partialiv obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been ref limed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalament ou partiellement obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont M film^es A nouveau de fa9on Ji obtenir la meilleure image possible. This item Is filmed at the reduction ratio checlced below/ Ce document est filmA au taux de reduction IndiquA ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 26X aox V 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X 32X The copy filmad hare hat been reproduced thanka to the generosity of: National Library of Canada L'exemplaire film* f ut reproduit grAce A la gAnAroait* da: BibliothAque nationala du Canada The images appearing here are the beat quality possible considering the condition end legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the beck cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. Les images suivantes ont 4tA reproduites svec le plus grand soin, compta tenu de la sonoition at da la nettetA de rexemplaire film*, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Les exemplairos originaux dont la couverture on papier est imprimAe sont filmAs en commenpant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la darnlAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration. soit par le second plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exempiaires originaux sont filmte en commenpant par la premiAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'iilustration et en terminant par la darnlAre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol ^»- (meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Un des symboles suivants apparattra sur la darniAre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole -»► signifie "A SUIVRE". le symbols ▼ signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc.. teuvent Atre filmAs A des taux da rAduction diff Arbnts. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul clichA, il est filmA A partir da I'angia supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite. et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 SHADOWED LIVES. SHADOWED LIVES BY ^^ ANNIE S. SWAN AUTHOR OF 'aldkksvue," "jakluwkik," "gates of KDEN, " BTC ■: I '■J U ** Into each life tome rain must fall.' flew jeoitfoiu i : TORONTO, CANADA WILLIAM BRIGGS EDINliUKGH AND LONDON OLIPHAMT, ANDERSON & FERRIER 1889 •a f,u m 4i > HS 2027 SuufiN , (^ . S Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine, by William Brioos, Book Steward of the Methodist Boole and Publishing Uouae, Toronto, at the Department of Agriculture. t i I i ^m^ SHADOWED LIVES. ) ♦♦ < CHAPTER I. GOSSIP. LITTLE village which looked a very haven of peace and rest. A straggling street ol picturesque irregularly built houses, with a burn wimpling past the doors, on its way to the glen beyond. Sheltering hills, heather clad and crowned by sturdy firs on one side, and on the other miles and miles of fertile plain smiling with many a daisied meadow and yellow corn field. A place so far removed from the busy world that one would think its inhabitants secure from its care and strife. Not so. There were care and worldly-mind edness in their hearts, and an insatiable love of gossip. There was no railway station in Strathlinn, but the market town of D , eight miles distant, was accessible by coach thrice a week. Wednesdays and Saturdays were days of unusual stir in the sleepy little village. The coach arrived from D at mid-day, and woe betide the stranger whom business or pleasure constrained to visit The Linn. No stone was left unturned to dis- cover who he was and whence he came, and his antecedents and projects were dissected with scientific minuteness. The Linn Arms (high sounding title for so tmy an hostelry) was the rendezvous for the gossips, GOSSIP. for its buxom landlady had a weakness for tattling, and her siilmg room was the most comfortable in the village. She was a widow, with five rosy rollicking children, and a heart big enou;;h for as many more. A true friend in sickness and in health, in joy or in sorrow, was Mrs. Scott. Trouble seemed to melt away beneath the cheery smile on her kindly face. There was a lack of good society about The Linn ; it was not a place to which prosperous business men would retire to pass the evening of their days, nor was it sought after by maiden ladies of independent means, though the exquisite beauty of the surrounding scenery might have tempted many to make it their residence, in spite of the drawbacks. The minister and the doctor composed the aristoc- racy, and the latter could scarcely be included, for he dwelt fully two miles distant. He was a young man, lately come to The Linn, and had purchased from the Laird of Glentarne the small property of Clunj'. Rumours were afloat that a fair young wife was in the clever doctor's head when he made his purchase. It rnay have been so. Hamilton of Glentarne was lord of the manor. Far and near the smiling homesteads owned h's sway. And the old home of the Hamiltons was as fair an heritage as any man could desire. The grey old castle, with its weather-beaten towers and turrets stood upon a richly wooded slope overlooking The Linn, and commanding a magnificent view of the plain beyond. At the time of which I write the Laird of Glentarne was still a minor, and the only child of his widowed mother. They dwelt alone at the old castle, and it was whispered that it was not so happy a home for her since the old laird died, and that her son inherited all the vices of his race without the virtues. In time it may be ours to prove the truth of these whisperings. A still sultry summer day. GOSSIP. A cloudless sky above, and a brooding sunshine over all. TIk" f.iiiit rustle of leaves in the suninier woods, and the dreamy clur|)in.; of sleepy birds. No sound stirring the quiet in the village street save the luiin of the bees, and the occa-^ionul tlan^ of the hammer the bla< k^milh wielded in ills miylity hand. In the wide j)',)rch of the Linn Arms stood the buxom landlady, gazing up the street, with one plump hand shading her t\es fr(jm the sun. She wore a light calico dre^s, and a lace cap adorned with hu^^e red roses. She had discarded the badges of her widowhood shortly after her bireavcment, a procceiling much commented on by the neighbours, though not one of them venturel to hint tlu'U she did not mourn her husband sincerely in her heart. The forge w:^s directly opposite the inn, and the blacksmith's pretty cottage adjoined. It was there Mrs. Scott's interest ceiiired. She was privately wondering whether the smith's wife was too busy to feel incHned for a frieiitlly chat. As if divining her wish her neighbour at that moment threw open the cottage door, and sauntered down to the garden gate. She was an angular woman, and a bony, with an eagle eye and a thin hard face. She wore a brown wincey dress, and a blue neckerchief crossed upcn her bosom. Her rough hair was brushed tightly back from her brow, and fastened in a hard knot behind. An unpleasant woman to look at at any time, and especially unpleasant on a bright summer day, when everything else was beaut ilul. " Fine day, Nancy," sounded Mrs. Scott's cheery voice through the stillness. *' Craps should ripen the day." " Maybe," retorted Mrs. Irvine, abruptly and sna[>[)islily. '♦ It's a hantle warmer than need be, I'm thinkin'." 8 GOSSIP. " Hoo's a* wi' ye the day,** inquired her neighbour, rot noticing the cross-grained speech. ** Was that Jock I saw come hame tiie day." " Ay, 'twas Jock, ye may be sure ; bad ha'pennies aye turn up," returned Nancy, opening the gate and crossing the road. "Maister Bruce paid him aflf yestreen for idleset, an' he just cam hame as cool as ye Hke. He disna care a bawbee, he says ; he disna want tae be a grocer." " What does his faither say ? " enquired Mrs. Scott, sympathetically. ** His faither ! " echoes Nancy, scornfully. " Ye ken brawly what Sandy Irvine is, Jean, a saft, daidlin' crater, wi' no a thocht in his heid but eat, an' sleep, an' smoke that confoondit pipe. If it wasna for me haudin' at him there wadna be muckle wark dune ower by. Men folk's naething but heart breaks." Why Mrs. Irvine had ever entered the bands matrimonial, or how Sandy had ever screwed up courage to ask her, remain to this day inscrutable mysteries. " Jist some men,** corrected the widow, remember- ing her own husband. " They're no a' bad." Nancy Irvine shook her head. "An* as for bairns," she said, grimly, "they're beyond speakin' o'. I've jist ane, an' he's a hantle mair bother than he*s worth. I dinna ken hoo ye manage five.*' "They're guid bairns,** said the widow, with motherly pride. "Geordie's jist his faither ower again." At that moment a shadow fell across the sunlit path, and a slight graceful girl passed them, with a smile and a cordial good afternoon. Her face was one of the sweetest eyes could rest on, not because of its beauty, but because Heaven's own sunshine shone GOSSIP. bour, that with ower upon it Even Nancy Irvine's grim mouth relaxed with momentary softnesH, for the minister's only child was dear to every one of his people. " It's gaun tae be sune, I hear," whispered Mrs. Scott eagerly. " Doctor Forbes is geitin* a heap o' braw furniter hame tae Cluny, an' my guid-brither's gotten an order for some o' Miss Haldane's things. It'll be a sair day for the minister when she gets mairret, though she's no gaun faur awa." " Nae doot," admitted Mrs. Irvine. " Deed, if she only kent it, she's better the noo than ever she'll be. Lassies are no wise mairryin' an' fleein' intae a peck o* troubles." " I'm thinkin' the wundll no get leave tae blaw on the Doctor's wife," said Mrs. Scott. " An' they'll be a braw couple, a perfect sicht for sair een." " She'll be gaun up tae the schule tae tea wi* Miss Kenyon the noo," said Nancy Irvine. " The twa's never pairtet I dinna like that Miss Kenyon, she's ower quiet an* sleekit." " Nancy 1 " exclaimed Mrs. Scott, indignantly, ** ye're the first that ever said an ill word aboot her. My certy, if some folk heard ye ye wadna be richt. There's no her better in a* The Linn, nor oot o'd aither." " Humph," said Mrs. Irvine, ** Vm no sayin' Od there's that Jock awa intae the smiddy tae pit his faither aff his wark," and Nancy started off like an arrow. Mrs. Scott watched the lank awkward looking lad slouching into the forge, and when the next moment she saw his mother administer a smart slap on the side of his cheek, and heard her shrill tongue calling him for iaziiiess, she retired into the house, her sides shaking with silent laughter. CHAPTER II. FORESHADOWINGS. 'HE School Stood at the further end of the village. \\\ A long low white-washed building (it was before *15^ the advent of the School Board), its wide door- %^ way sheltered by two giant elms, towering above the low wall of the school-house garden. That wall could not have been intended for a barricade again;;t intruders, for the school children scaled it unmolested, and made satisfactory acquaintance with the master's fruit trees under his very eyes. It is recorded that he has been known to shake the trees himself and help them to fill pockets and aprons. Surely that is a pleasant record, and one which some of us would do well to imitate. On that July afternoon the door and windows of the school house were flung wide open, and though the hum of voices sonnded pleasantly enough outside., when combined with the close hot air within, it became infinitely trying. The master was giving them the Bible lesson which invariably closed the labours of the day, and once or twice his hand stole wearily across his brow as he gently tried to gain silence and an attentive hearing. He was not a young man, neither could he be called old, though his thin hair was plentifully streaked with grey. His forehead was high and broad, and deep thoughtful eyes looked out from beneath strongly marked brows. The mouth was as tender and mobile as a woman's. It was a tine FORESHADOWINGS. II village. ; before e door- ; above lat wall againijt olested, naster's that he id help lat is a ould do 's of the Ligh the outside, became em the s of the f across and a.i neither air was ad was ked out mouth s a hue face, one which men and women instinctively tnisted, and on which Httle children loved to look. Chrisiophi-r Kenyon was a man of much learning, of simple yet refined tastes, of childlike faith in the God above him, and a heart full of love and kindness to every living creature — ore of these rare unselfish natures, which we may encounter once in a life time, not oftener. He was the idol of his scholars, though with the thoughtlessness of youth tliey did not scruple sorely to try his patience. Punctually at four (the school master was methodical in his habits), he gave the signal to disperse. In a moment the orderly room was a scene of wild coiifusion. Overturning desks and forms, knocking down books and slates without pausing to pick them up again, the children rushed pell meli into the still sunshine. In two m'Viutes the master was alone, and he stood in one of the windows watching with a dreamy smile, the light-hearted band trooping out of the playground. One figure lingered in the doorway, evidently longing, yet fearing to go back and talk to the master. It was a girl's figure clad in a loose pinafore and a short dress, beneath which peeped cut a bare foot whose perfect symmetry a queen might have envied. She could not be more than fourteen, but already face and figure gave promise of a beauty which in woman- hood would be marvellous. The features were delicately cut, the eyes were violet and shaded by exquisite lashes; while the small shapely head wore a crown of golden hair, loosely co.ifined in a blue ribbon. When the master at length came to the door, she looked at him shyly as if her courage failed her. " Well, Lizzie," he said, bending his deep kindly eyes upon her face, *' Is there anything I can do for you ?" She raised her eyes to the grave thoughtful face, and said in a voice, which the broad guttural Scotch could (I 11 12 FORESHADOW INGS. id )! I I |i II llili i! ;i not make unmusical, "Please sir, I'm vext I didna dae what ye telt me the day. I'll hae my lessons perfect the morn," and before he could answer, she sped from him with step as light and fle>..'t as a gazelle's. He remembered then that she had disobeyed him early in the day, and well pleased with the oddly expressed repentance, he locked the door, and went home to relate the little episode to his sister. Outside the playground, a tall handsome lad patiently awaited the penitent's coming; and he turned to meet her with a question on his lips, " I'm gaun doon the glen tae fish. Lizzie, are ye comin'?" The girl shook her head. " Ye needna waited for me, Jamie Duncan,'* she said pettishly, *• I'm gaun straicht hame." A slight shade of disappointment crossed the lad's fine open face. " Come on, Liz," he said coaxingly. " Uncle Peter cam frae Embro' last nicht and brocht me a bonnie new rod, It'll catch a big troot every time ye drap in the line." Lizzie looked incredulous. "Whauris't?" " I left it i' the hoose till I saw whether ye wad come or no. We'll gang up past Lea Rig and get it." ** Weel, if ye'U carry my bag and let me fish maist o* the time," she stipulated, " I'll gang for a wee while." ** Come on then," said Jami readily, never pausing to consider the extreme selfishness of her arrangements, and the two strolled leisurely down the village, and into the uy-path leading to the glen. " Walk slow, Liz, and I'll gang up tae tlie hoose for the rod and mak' up on ye ''.fore ye get tae the brig." Lizzie nodded, and swingi:\g her hat ovei' her arm, went on. When he joined iier again she found her tongue in admiration of the rod, and soon the two stood together upon the old bridge, Lizzie receiving her first lesson in the art of angling. It was a pretty I on I th( pel art PORESHADOWINGS. «3 didna erfect , from He arly in tressed >me to e ihe ed the with a ae fish. "Ye e said ; shade n face. ; Peter bonnie e drap ye wad 1 get it." )h maist i while." pausing [ements, and into cose for e brig." ler arm, und her the two eceiving a pretty picture. The girl in her picturesque dress, her face flushed with momentary excitement, and her eyes dancing with pleasure, anxiously watching the line dipping into the sparkling water, and the boy leaning against the moss grown-parapet, delighted with his companion's manifest enjoyment of his favourite amusement In Jamie Duncan's nature also, there was something of the unselfishness which characterized the schoolmaster. In after years he had sore need of it all. The pair did not dream of curious eyes watching them scarcely a hundred yards away. Under a great beech tree almost hidden by its spreading boughs, two gentlemen were lounging, and for a time conversation had been at a discount. The younger of the two was only a youth, small of stature, and slightly built, and his sallow face was stamped with the weak indecision which had been the curse of the Hamiltons from the beginning. His eyes were languidly closed, and even in its repose, the face was not pleasant to look upon. The features were passable, but the expression was absolutely repellent Cold, sctering and selfish were the long thin lips, and they were a true index of the heart within. His companion looked at least ten years his senior, and in personal appearance at least was infinitely his superior. His figure was tall and well proportioned, and the face undeniably handsome, yet in it also there was a subtle something, which repelled a close observer. In Ralph Mortimer's face there was no trace of weak indecision, for there was none in the soul within. " I say, Jasper," he said, after watching the picture on the bridge for a minute or two in silence. " Look there I a regular landscape. Who is the girl ? A perfect beauty, by Jove I " Jasper Hamilton indolently raised himself on one arm, and glanced in the direction indicated. i m u rORESIIADOWINOS. " Ob, that's Falroner's girl, the tenant of the Home Fftrm. You know liim." " Yes, 1 believe I've seen the fellow," returned Ralph. "And who is her cavalier. Quite interesting they look, 'pon honour." "Duncan is iiis name," returned Jasper Hamilton, res.uming his old position ; '* farmer's son up at Lea Rig." " 1 think 1 hear Maud's rapture if she could see that. She would think her a regular shepherdess. By Jove, what a face ! and the figure will be as perfect in a year or two." " Jf you like, since you speak of your sister, Ralph," said his companion, " I'll get my mother to ask her down while you are here." Ralph Mortimer listened with a sneer on his lips. " Ask Maud here," he repeated, " your lady mother would not do that even for you, my dear fellow, she only tolerates me because I'm your shadow whom you can't get rid of, but Maud ." " I can ask who I will to Glentarne," interrupted Sir Jasper haughtily. "My mother would be courteous to any of my guests." *' Yes, Lady Hamilton never jails in courtesy," admitted Mortimer, the scorn deepening in his face, " but she can and does make your guests deuced uncomfortable sometimes when they don't happen to please her fastidious taste. You are not altogether your own master, Jasper, as long as the old lady is to the fore." The covert sneer brought the hot blood to Jasper's sallow cheek, but he did not resent the disrespectful allusion to his mother. ♦' The old lady knows whether or not I am my own master, I fancy," returned he with a half laugh. " She has discovered that I decline to remain tied to the maternal apron string, much as she would like it." Ah well, indeed, that the all-patient, loving mother I i rORESHADOWINGS. «S Home eturned cresting amilton, up at if she regular gure will Ralph," abk her is lips, y mother How, she hom you terrupted courteous :on never he scorn oes make nes when ste. You IS long as Jasper's respectful 1 my own h. "She ed to the ke it." g mother did not hear the cruel words, she had borne much already. " i>et us disturb the embryo lovers," suirgested Mortimer, chaii^ini^ the ihcine. " I want to hear the houn speak as well as get a beUer look at her. Come on." " No need to get up," returned the other lazily, *' I'll bring her. lazzie," he .shouted, ** come here. 1 want you." The girl started at the unexpected summons, and turned her surprised eyes to the spot where they lay; while the indignant blood surged to Jamie Duncan's face at the imperious voice. " Dinna look round, Lizzie," he whispered. " It's the laird and his friend ; but even the laird has nae business tae speak tae you like that. Dinna gang." Lizzie hesitated between awe of the laird and her reluctance to leave her companion. " Dinna gang, Lizzie," repeated he earnestly. " If t>iey want ye, let them rise." She turned her head and dropped the line into the water again, trembling at her own temerity in daring to disobey a personage so important as Sir Jasper. " You don't seem to have much influence there," laughed Mortimer, enjoying his friend's defeat, and noting the angry light flashing in his eyes. " Since the mountain wont come to Mahomet, he must go to the mountain I suppose. Come on." They botli rose, and leisurely crossed the velvety turf to the water's edge. Mortimer went close to Lizzie, and bending his bold eyes upon her fair downcast face, uttered a few words of praise, plain enough even to her unaccus- tomed ears. She was woman enough already to feel pleased by the notice of such a great gentleman as the laird's friend. But Jamie Duncan's soul chafed .ij Id PORFSHADOWINGS. alike at the words and the manner in which they were spoken. " Come awa hame, Lizzie," he said, touching his cap to Sir Jasper. "We've bidden ower lang aheady." He took the dripping rod from Lizzie's hand, and waited for her to accompany him. " You can go, Duncan," said the laird imperiously ; " Lizzie's way is ours. We can see her safely home." He did not dare to disobey ; yet he lingered a moment hoping the girl would prefer to go with him. But she turned away with the gentlemen without so much as answering his parting greeting. Hurt and angry he shouldered his rod and set off home, little dreaming that the first act of the tragedy of Lizzie Falconer's life and his had been played that summer aitemooD. they were ching his aheady." land, and periously ; y home." ingered a i^ith him. ivithout so Hurt and ome, little of Lizzie it summer CHAPTER IIL THE KENVONS. 'T was five years since Christopher Kenyon and his sister came to The Linn. Beyond the fact that they were orphans and of English birth, the gossips knew nothing of their antecedents. The application for the vacant mastership had been sent in the usual form, accompanied by exceptionally high tes- timonials. It bore the London post mark, and in due time the master arrived, bringing with him the grave, quiet, sad-eyed girl whom he introduced as his sister Sara. At first they were looked upon with suspicious eyes as unknown intruders, who must be tried before being received into full intercourse with the dwellers in The Linn. Th 3y lived in strict seclusion, seeking kindness or favour from none ; until their unobtrusive gentleness and kindness of heart won them the few friends they cared to possess. To them it was evident that the past had some terrible sorrow which still shadowed their lives. Though Sara Kenyon was in- variably serene and cheerful, she seldom laughed, and there was a tinge of sadness in her rare smile, which made it infinitely sobering. The strong, tender, per- fect love between the brother and sister was something wonderful ; hers was the stronger nature, and the schoolmaster was nothing without her. On the evening of the fishing expedition they were together in the sitting-room. He was busy with the registers, but he paused every few minutes to listen B i8 THE KENYUNS. and respond to the cheerful voire which was the dearest on earth to him. No, I am wrong ; there was unotlier, but of her he dared not dream. The window was oj)cn, and the evening breeze swayed the wliite curtams to and fro and played with a stray ringlet on Sara Kcnyon's brow, as she sat within their shade sewing busily. I do not know that many people would have called Sara Kenyon beauti- ful, for her face lacked colouring and regularity of feature. Soft brown hair, whuh no brush would induce to lie smooth above the low while brow, sweet hazel eyes, fringed by long l.ishes, a straight nose, and a grave womanly mouth, with lips slighdy drooping were her only beauties ; but it was a face which once seen would linger in the mind like a i)leasant memory. She looked five or six-and-twenty, perhaps more. It was dilhcult to define her age, for her figure was wonderfully girlish in its outline. Her dress was almost severe in its simplicity, and she wore no orna- ment but a small gold brooch, with a flashing stone in its centre. It was a diamond of rare purity and lustre. "Kit," she said presently, peeping round the curtain, " when you are done we might go to the manse for a little while. Mary has not been here this week." " Yes, Sara." The schoolmaster was a man of few words, but the look whicli acconi))anied his answer told how gladly he would go anywhere with her. Miss Kenyon folded up her work, and laid it in the basket by her side, and, leaning her arm on the window sill, looked out into the flower-laden gat<len. "Kit, in the autumn I mean to uproot all these use- less stocks, and plant a bed of roses under the window. iJon't you think it would be an improvement." '* Just as you like, dear," replied the grave, gentle voice. " What you do is always right." Ker shoi the sch( Tl and I turnl grej THK KENYONS. 19 was the icrc was breeze ycd wilh she sat now til at n bcauti- jlarity of h would i\v, sweet lose, and drooping lich once memory, ^lore. It ;ure was Iress was I no orna- jj stone ill md lustre, le curtain, manse for week." Is, but the low gladly yon folded y her side, ooked out these use- he window, nt." ave, gentle 4 "Or you think so, Kit," she said with a slight snile. "1 see Mr. Haldane and M.iry, and I know llK-y are coming here. Let me put away those things. The table is littered with them. You can finish these books to-morrow, can't you, dear ? " " They are done now," returned the schoolmaster, helping in his slow awkward way to clear the con- fusion. " How quickly and yet how well you can do everything, Sara. It is a marvel to see you." Before she could reply their visitors came. VVith the freeilom born of close intimacy Mary Haldane entered without knocking, and peeped round the sitting room door. '•May 1 come in, Miss Kenyon? Papa is here also. Are you busy?" Miss Kenyon opened the door wide, and held out both her hands. " Come in, child. I thought I had lost you," she Slid. " Mr. Haldane, what has kept Mary from us for a week ? " The minister laughed. "Ask her. I don't know," he replied, taking a seat at the open window. " Mr. Kenyon, is not teaching absolute toil in weather like this?" " 1 have never thought about it in that light, sir," returned the schoolmaster. " It is always a pleasure to me." " I peei)ed in at you the other afternoon, Mr. Kenyon," said Mary, leaning her hand on his shoulder, " and when I saw your face I wished I was the child beside you. Won't you take me for a scholar ? " The schoolmaster looked up into the sweet face, and some of its sunshine stole to his own. Yet he turned from her very gently, lest she should see his great love shining in his eyes. For it was her he THE KENYONS. loved with all the strength of his intense nature, fnitlffiilly, teiulcrly, but as we know hopelessly. S/ie did nut know, or slie could not have treated him with such playful attcction. Miss Kenyon did not know, or she would not have spoken so often to her brother about Miss Haldane's approaching marriage. *' 1 have brought a book 1 thought you would like to see, Mr. Kenyon," said the minister, turning lo Christopher. " it bears upon the theory you and I discussed the other evening." "Thank you, Mr. Haldane." Mary touched Miss Kenyon's arm. " Come out- side, Sara. I know papa wants to talk to M^ Kenyon, and we will be in the way.** •' 1 am going to show Mary the improvements I am planning in the garden, Mr. Haldane,*' said Sanu •* You won't mind our leaving you for a little." " You know, I fancy, how well your brother and I can entertain each other," returned the minister, with a smile. " Stay as long as you please, and give my little girl some good advice. I think she wants it." Miss Kenyon nodded, and throwing a shawl about her shoulders, followed Mary to the garden. " Sara," said the girl, drawing her arm within her own, while the light voice took a deeper tone, *' I am going to be married in the beginning of September." "So soon, my dear?** asked Miss Kenyon, in surprise. " Why, that is six weeks hence." " Yes," retullied Mary, " I did not think it would be till Christmas, but John has a friend who offers to take his patients for a fortnight, and, besides, I don't want to leave papa in winter. He wearies so much in the long evenings." " But you will be away from him in winter, at any rate," said Miss Kenyon. " He has promised to come and stay with us till we lon^ the the u Ker *(| leai Mai \l in TIIR RF.NVUNS. tl ? nature, sly. She him Willi ot know, :r brother ould like urning lo rou and I I :ome out- c to M*-. lents I am said Sanu le." her and I lister, with d give my rants it." lawl about within her >ne, *' I am ptember." Cenyon, in ik it would »o offers to les, I don't es so much nter, at any th us till we are tired of him," she said, " and you can imnKJnc when that will be. John persuaded him. O barOf you don't know how good he is." *' How old arc you, Mary?" The abrupt question surprised her listener. "Twenty-one next month." " You are very young, child,** she said gravely, and suddenly drawing her into the arbour they were passing, she placed both her hands on the girl's shoulders, and looked into her fare, a stran^'e i)athos in her own. "My darling, I hope G'"-' will be good to you in your married life, and that your husband's love may never fail you. Though I shall never be blest as you are, my prayers for your happiness are none the less sincere." " Sara ! " She would have uttered the questions oti her lips, imt something in that patient, sorrowful face, kept them back, but her eyes filled with sudden tears. Miss Kenyon stooped and kissed her, the only time she had ever done it, and said in her quiet cheerful voice, " Come, dear, we must go in or I am afraid Mr. Haldane will be out to look for us," so they went back to the house. Before many minutes had gone another visitor came to the school-house. Returning from a long ride, Dr. Forbes caught sight of a sweet face at the window, and springing from his horse he lied it to the gate, and came up the garden path. "Won't you come in. Doctor Forbes," said Miss Kenyon, but the young man shook his head. " Not to-night, thank you. Miss Kenyon." he said, leaning against the side of the window, " Where has Mary gone. M iss Kenyon laughed. " Not very far. Do come in and look for her." It was easy to see that the ftt THE KFNVONS. Il'lll ' ilii II young doctor was a welcome visitor in the school- master's house. He was one of the friends Christopher Kenyon and his sister had made in The Linn. " Where have you been, John," asked the minister. Vulcan looks as if he had ridden a good many miles to-day." "Thirty or thereabouts I believe," returned he, with a glance at the noble animal at the gate. •' I was at D — — in the afternoon, and had to return by Glentarne ; Lady Hamilton is not well." Mary peeped round the curtain, and met a tender glance from her lover's grey eyes. "I saw Lady Hamilton out driving yesterday, John," she said, **and 1 thought she looked remarkably well." " She will never be well till her mind is at ease," returned the Doctor gravely, " Jasper Hamilton is at the bottom of his mother's illness." " Is his visitor gone," inquired the minister, " he is no favourite with Lady Hamilton.'* " How could he be ? Little as I have seen of Mr. Ralph Mortimer, I have formed my own opinion of him. He will be the ruin of that weak lad unless he breaks off his friendship with him." What was it that brought the grey pallor to Sara Kenyon's face, and almost forced a cry from her lips. She moved away from the window, before they had time to note the change in her face, and sat down in the shadow, pressing her hand to her heart as if to still its throbbing pain. She dared not meet her brother s eyes, but in his face also there was an undefinable change. " Lady Hamilton tells me Mr. Mortimer is to leave Glentarne to-morrow," continued the Doctor, not knowing how Sara Kenyon's ears were strained to hear his words. " She did not say much, but it was easy to see the relief she felt." su d( I i THE KKNYONS. •s school* isiopher minister, ny miles rned he, He. ♦' I return by a tender ly, John," bly well." at ease," ilton is at :r, " he is en of Mr. )pinion of unless he or to Sara her lips, they had It down in IS if to still r brother s ndefinable is to leave >octor, not strained to but it was I I ^ "Poor I.ndy Hamiiion!" breathed Mary, in tones of infiniti' piiy. •* Viil«:an is growitv^' inij)aticnt, so I must go," sai<l the (iDCior nOer a momeui's pause. ** Miss Kenyon, come and see iiow I have troddeu down your flowers." Miss Kenyoii came to the window and looked out mech.mically. " 1 here is no harm done," she said, and thout;h the others noted nothing i)eculiar in her voice, to lierself it sounded low and strange and far otf " I was tellinj^ Christo|)her 1 mean to plant some roses there in the autunm." •* I'll send An<lcrson down with some slips from Cluny then," returned the doctor, "as payment lor damage done to-night. Good night, Miss Kenyoi*. Good night, Mr. Kenyon." " Mary, we may as well go too," said the minister rising. "Get on your hat, the evening is coming on." Mary obeyed him, wondering a little at the silence which seemed to have fallen on the brother and sister. ^ " Come back soon, Mary," Miss Kenyon whispered as she bade her good-bye, and she stood a moment on the door steps and watched the trio out of sight. Then she shut the door and went back to her brother. The shadows were gathering in the room, and falling gendy on the schoolmaster as he sat with his head buried in his hand. Miss Kenyon closed the window, then went to his side, leaning her hands upon his shoulder. He looked up and took them both within his own, bending his eyes upon the pale still face. " Even here, Sara," he said in a low voice, " we are haunted with the past ; as if its memory were not sufficient for us to bear. My sister, what is to be done." " Nothing, Kit ; why should we do anything? You hear that he leaves Glen tame to-morrow. It is not I -1 24 THE KENYONS. Ill ir likely that he will ever know that we are here, and even if he did, do you think he would seek us? J ihink not." The master sighed, sorely troubled in spirit. "He may come back, Sara." " Yes," returned the brave cheerful voice. " But he may go as he has gone this time without even knowing of our presence here. We will trust in God, my brother ; He has never failed us yet." Christopher Kenyon looked again into the steadfast face, shining with the light of a faith the angels might have envied. And there was unutterable love in his own. *• Sara, God has been good to us. We have each other left." She looked beyond him, through the window, at the clear evening sky, where the summer stars were peep- ing out one by one, and the moon rising above the mists. She had freed her hands, and they were folded i^n his shoulder. Once or twice he felt them tremble. " Christopher," she said in a low voice, " let us be thankful for the quiet refuge we have had here, and lor the dear friends who have just left us. Remem- Dering the past, dear, my heart is full of love and gratitude to God. O Kit ! never let us forget His goodness to us," She passed one arm round his neck, and left a quiet kiss upon his brow. " I think I shall go to bed," she said. " I feel tired and a little upset. Don't sit up late. Kit, or your head will suffer to morrow." Then she crept away to her own room and knelt down at the little window looking out upon the hills. Her hands were folded on the sill, and her head bowed low upon them. Once or twice a sob broke from the patient lips, but her eyes were dry. And it was mid- night before she went to bed. ft re, and ] ihink ' But he :nowing rod, my ;teadfast Is mij^ht ve in his ive each w, at the ^re peep- bove the ire foUied tremble. "let us here, and Remem- love and orget His his neck, feel tired ^our head and knelt . the hills. :ad bowed e from the t was mid- 'A CHAPTER TV. MOTHER AND SON. CHHX March afternoon. ^])ring was tardy in itr coming, for tboiigh the month was nearing to its close there was scarcely a Nud on hedge or tree. The country- side about The Linn was woefully dreary, and up at Glentarne the nigged old castle stood out among the gaunt beech trees, bare and desolate against the sullen sky. Yet within there were warmth and comfort. In the drawing-room a log fire burned cheerily on the wide hearth. Its ruddy glow lay warm and bright upon the polished floor, and lit up the quaint fantastic figures on the antique cabinet in the opposite corner. The windows were small, and the heavy damasiv curtains almost excluded the light of day. In summer the drawing-room at Glentarne was unspeakably dreary. In a low chair drawn close to the hearth a lady sat^ with a white shawl thrown over her silk dress and her thin white hands folded listlessly on her lap. They were very white, and the blue veins were painfully visible. She was no longer young, but the patient suffering face still bore traces of the beauty which had won William Hamilton's heart. Her soft hair, thoughf thickly streaked with grey, was still abundant and luxuriant, but it was confined under a close widow's cap. She wai.< not the only occupant of the rouiiu ('>'^ 1 1 :llil j;,.;'I:;. 26 MOTHER AND SON. Within the curtains at the western window a gentleman stood idly drumming his fingers on the pane. Four years had not made Jasper Hamilton's slight figure more manly looking, but it had deepened the all- absorbing selfishness in his efferninare face. Once or twice the lady glanced round, but no word escaped her lips. " What a wretched dull hole this is," muttered Sir Jasper, turning from the window and flinging himsflf into a chair. " It's enough to put a fellow into the blues." His mother's sensitive ear shrunk from the coarse words. " Your father spent all his life here, Jasper," she said gently. " He did not think it dull." "My father was a — that is everybody isn't bom with such a contented mind. I've been thinking seriously of putting up Glentarne to the hammer. It's too out- landish for me." " There have been Hamiltons of Glentarne since it was built," returned Lady Hamilton, a slight flush rising to her pale cheek. " Have you no respect for the old name and race." " None. It's a beggarly inheritance," returned the young man, rising and pacing moodily up and down the floor. " If I had the cash the place would bring, the old name and race could go to the dogs." ** And spend the money at foreign gaming tables, Jasper," said his mother sadly. " Oh, my boy ! that was a bitter lesson Ralph Mortimer taught you. It is ruining you." The hopeful scion of the grand old race did not answer. He was evidently revoivmg something in his mind. •' Talking of the old name, mother," he said suddenly. " Unless I marry it must die out." -aim it \m MOTHER AND SON. 27 gentleman ne. Four ght figure 1 the all- It no word Jttered Sir ng himsflf ¥ into the the coarse sper," she. : bom with 5 seriously ;*s too out- ne since it light flush respect for :uined the and down uld bring, »» ng tables, boy! that ou. It is e did not ting in his he said ■i " Why should you not marry some day ? " said his mother listlessly. '* Time enough yet." '• I'm four-and-twenty now, so if I mean to bring a wife to Glentarne the sooner the belter; don't yuu think so?" " If you choose wisely, yes," returned Lady Hamilton, in the same hsiless tone ; but the next words roused her. " Mother, I have chosen ; wisely too, I think, and I hope to brmg my wife home belore the year is out." ii-he sat up suddenly, and looked at him with a very searching look. " You have kept it very close from me, your mother, Jasper," she said slowly. "Who is your promised wife?" Under that steady gaze his eyes fell, and he moved uneasily from its range. '' 1 don't expect you to be pleased with her; you never are with my friends," he saiil rudely. " The future Lady Hamilton is Ralph Mortimer's sister Maud." " O Jasper." That was all, but the poor lady fell back in her chair, and something like a wail escaped her lips. In her heart of hearts there had been a lingering hope that when Jasper married it would be a good woman, who would use her influence to turn him from his evil ways, and she had dreamed of better days in store for (Jlentarne. The hope was gone, and despair had filled its place. There was a long silence. Then Jasper Hamilton came to the fire, and stood looking into his mother's face, no shadow of softening in his own. *' You have never seen her, mother," he said coldly, ^1 !i| 28 MOTHER AND SOW. " It might be as well to reserve your opinion till then." "My opinion," repeated Lady Hamilton; "I passed none." " You looked a great deal," he said. " Why should you object to Maud Mortimer being my wife." " She is no tit mate for a son of our house, un- worthy though he be," returned she. " Although I do not know her, I speak from rcHable knowledge of her." "It will be as well to cwme to an understanding," he said then. •* Of course, when my wife comes to (ilontarne, she will be absolute mistress from the beginning, and I hope you will welcome her here and try to make her happy." The bowed figure rose suddenly and stood before him, and he almost quailed beneath the look of out- raged dignity in the pale worn face. *• I am your mother, and have done much for you, but this I will not do," she said haughtily. " That day Maud Mortimer enters this house, I leave it for ever. Till now, the women of your house have been of gontle birth and t- blemished famej yours will be the first mesalliance in the record of the tamily. Had Maud Mortimer been a peasant girl, lowly of heart and pure of life, I would have done what you ask, not only willingly but gladly ; but 1 have nothing but scorn for the woman, the mention of whose name was the signal for a sneering jest from »he frecjuenters of the gaming tables at Homburg." Jasper Hamilton's sillow face grew almost livid in its i)assion. He bit his thin lips till they bled, but he could not deny the truth of his mother's words. She went to him then, aU the old gentleness in her face, and laid her thin hand upon his arm. " Jasper, is it too late ?" she asked in low winning tones. " Can't you free yourself from these hateful MOTHER AND SON. «9 )pinion till lilton; "I Vhy should fe." house, un- hough I do Ige of her." irstanding," e comes to J from the er here and :ood before ook of out- ich for you, ly. " That eave it for have been )urs will be mily. Had ^ly of heart rou ask, not lothing but ; name was quenters of lost livid in ^led, but he vords. She in her face, people, and begin life anew away from their influence. Ralph Mortimer has done much harm already. He has shown yo\i how to waste the revenues of (ilen- tarne, and I tremble to think what will be the conse- quence of bringing his sister here. With that hold upon you he can do more than he has done yet, and I fear the end will be ruin for the house of Hamilton." " My wedding day is fixed for the fifteenth of July," he said, moving from her, and shaking off her pleading hand. '* You talk a lot of nonsense, mother. Ralph Mortimer is as good a fellow as I have met anywhere. If you really mean that the same roof cannot shelter you and Maud, you have ample time to make your own arrangements." He turned upon his heel, and quitted the room. Like one turned tO stone his mother stood where he had left her. Then she dropped upon the hearth, and pressed her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid vision. A long low moan escaped her parched lips. ** Woe, woe, woe. Utter ruin is at hand for the house of Hamilton V ow wmning lese hateful M w SB m CHAP r K R V. SAUCY lU'AlITY. inner anrupiiy, "jjiies a tlouce young woman, Miss Kcnyon." The fanner ot Cllenlarnc Mains was standing in the window ot the kitchen, with his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. lie liad just come in from tMe hay field, ami evidently somelhmg o( importaricc nas occui)ying his thougiit. Far beyond the grey towers of ( ilentarne the western sky was radiant with the setting sun, and a warm golden glow lay upon the still farmyanl, and crept into every corner of the large old-fashioned kitchen. At the fire- place, where, though it was midsuuuner, a fire burned cheerily, the farmer's wife sat in an arm chair with a stocking in her hand. A pleasant motherly woman was Mrs. Falconer, still youthful-looking, although she was in her tifty-sixth year. "Jamie Duncan cam tae me in the hayfield the nicht, Peggie, an' socht oor Lizzie." A pleased smile stole to the mother's lips. "Ay! I was thinkin' he wadna be lang. What did ye say ?" *' Say, wife," echoed John Falconer, wheeling round !i;' SAUCY HKAUTY. 5« ?o,c:s. John ; n tac scimI J v^^ an' a .1 hoo kind 's a tlouce (ling in the mouth and inc in from importaiice the western arm golden t into every At the lire- fire burned JKiir with a erly woman Ithough she layfield the )S. , What did jeling round and taking his pipe from his mouth; "I said he rnirht tak' her, and my blessin' wi' her. I kent that yr wad say the same thing. I'm mair satisfied than I can tell. It's time the l)airn had something lac settle her. She 's abonnie lass, Peggie ; but liiere's mair nonsense in lier heid than I hke tae sae." " lias he said onything tae Lizzie yet," in([uired the mother gravely. '♦ I'se warrant he spcired at her afore me ; but here she is. I maun hae her askit." Through the open door c.imc the sound of a sweet voice singing a snatch of song, and in a moment more Lizzie Falconer came in, all unconscjrnis of the subject her father and mother hid been discussing. The father's eyes followed her with a new interest as siie set down the basket and began to count the eggs. IJonnie ! The bairn was as lovely as a pott's dream. F,al|)h Mortimer had spoken truly. In womanhood, Lizzie Falconer's face and figure were simply perfect. " Lizzie, my lass," said the farmer, slyly, ** I've fund not what mak's Jamie l)uncan sae fond o'comin'ower here tae crack aboot the craps." *'Ay, faither." The words fell carelessly from the pretty lips, t a slight blush rose to the fair cheek. " It '11 be a fine doon-siliin for you U[) at Lea Rig, Lizzie," continued he, in a grave tone, "an' as guid a man as ever trod the earth." The dainty head turned suddenly, and the blue eyes filled with surprise. *'A doun-sittin' for me at Lea Rig, faither! Ye speak gey sure. What's putten that inlae your heid ?'* •'Jamie Duncan cam tae me the nicht, Lizzie," said the farmer, laying his broad, brown liand on his daughter's slender shoulder, " and a.sk'd if 1 wad gie him my lassie for his wife." fe h .;;! II!::!;! illli! 3* SAUCY BEAUTY. She slipped from her father's detaining hand, and turned again to her work without speaking. " Has Jamie said onything tae you yet, Lizzie?" " I dinna want to be marri.: yet, faith er," returned the girl, evasively. *' Jamie Duncan micht hae let me alane. D'ye want tae get rid o' me ?" "Ye ken brawiy, bairn," said the farmer, gravely, " that ye're the very licht o* my e'en ; an' it's because I lo'e ye sae weel that I want tae see ye wi' a guid man o' yer ain afore my wark's dune. An' baiih yer mither an* me are weel pleased wi' Jamie Duncan. Ye may think yersel' weel aff, Lizzie. There's mony a lass about The Linn wad gladly stand in yer shoon." "Mither, hoo mony eggs wuU 1 pit up for Miss Kenyon?" A slight shade of displeasure crossed John Falconer's face at the wilful ignoring of his speech. " Listen, Lizzie," he said again, laying his hand upon the girl's shoulder. "I doot ye've been playin' wi' Jamie Duncan this while; but, mind ye, though he lo'es ye, he's as prood as a prince. Dinna gang ower far, or ye'll rue't. He's no a man tae dangle for ever at a lassie's tail.** ** If Jamie Duncan disna like tae wait my time, he can gang aboot his business," said the young beamy, saucily, as she tied her hat over her golde*i hair, and swung her basket over her arm. "There's mair chiijjs than him wad be gled enough to wait on me, I'm thinkin'. Mither, I'll no bide late." And before her father could reply to her daring speech, she was half across the farmyard, and the echo of her careless song was borne back to them on the soft evening breeze. " I'm no weel pleased the nicht, Peggie," said the farmer. "I doot we'll hae some trouble wi' Lizzie afore she's settled." ut »a# SAUCY BEAUTY. 33 land, and izzie ?•' " returned lae let me r, gravely, ;'s because wi' a guid ' baith yer e Duncan, sre's mony ^er shoon." p for Miss Falconer's hand upon playin' wi' though he gang ower gle for ever ny time, he jng beauty, 1 hair, ami mair cliiips on me, I'm her daring nd the echo hem on the le," said the e wi' Lizzie "Nonsense, John," replied the mother, with gay pood humour. " She's only a bairn yet ; sense'll come by-an'-bye. What dis men folk ken aboot lassies* ways? She's jist as fond o* the lad as she can be, but a wee saucy yet ; sheMl come roond by-an'-bye." " Weel, I hope sae," said the farmer. " 1*11 hae tae gang up tae tlie field again, tho'. 1 doot it's gaun tae be wund ; an' we'll hae the last o' the hay in the nicht. It's been a graund harvest, thank the Lord." " I'll send 'jp a bite an' sup tae the men in a while, John," cried bis wife after him, as he left the house. *' Aboot nine, maybe." In the meantime Lizzie Falconer was making her way slowly, by a round-about road tiirough the fields, to the village. When she come to tlie stile which separated her from the road, she saw a tall figure in the distance, which one glance told her was Jamie Duncan. Flscape was impossible, so, preferring to wait for him rather than to meet him on the road, she set down her basket, and leaning against the stile, played idly with her hat strings. He quickened his pace, and in a few minutes was at her side. " Faither's awa' back tae the fields again," she said, with a shy drooping of her eyelids, " I thocht I micht as weel wait an' tell ye." " Ye ken brawly it was you I wanted tae see, Lizzie." "Ye've been oot every nicht I've been at the Mains, for a week back. What does it mean? Are ye no gled tae see me ? " " Maybe," was the reply, and Lizzie kept her eyes upon her hat, as if her life depended on it. " Has yer faither no said onything tae ye aboot me, Lizzie," was the next question, and to that also she answered, coolly — " Maybe." " Lizzie," said the young man, very seriously, " ye've .jp' Ill :U 34 SAUCV HKAUTY. tried me. s.iir this while hark, an' if it had been ony l)()(ly l)iit ycrscT I \v;uhia h.u- |)iiiU'n up wi't a in'-cmt. ]>ut I'm m'ltii)' tired o' yniir (i)(|iictiin'. 1 maun hae ay or no the niclit. 1 hac tell yc, twenty limes ower, hoo 1 lo'e ye, an' prayed ye lac be my wife. Is it tae be ay or no?" She raised her head, with the mischievous smile vshich had turned lialf the iieads in ihe cijuntry biile, and said coolly— "I'm no in a serious mood the nicht, Jamie; I'll tell ye some other lime." lie cauL;ht one ot her hands in his own, and looked into her face with impassioned eat;erness. "Lizzie, dinna torment me like this. Ye dinna ken hoo muckle yer answer means tae me. God forgi'e me, I believe I wor'^hip the very ground ye walk on." It was impossible to listen to tiie earnest voice without being moved ; for one moment a softened, almost tender lii;ht filled the saucy eyes, but it passed almost as quickly as it came. " Jamie Duncan, I'm daft stan'in' here at this time o* nicht, an' me has tae gang lae the schule an' back afore darkenin'. Guid nicht. I'll list«;n tae ye some ither time," she said, carelessly, and with one dart from her mischievous eyes, and a parting smile on her sweet lips, she caught up her basket, and hurried down the road. With his whole heart in his eyes, the young man watched the dainty figure out of sight. As he turned to leave the stile a close carriage came swiftly along from the direction of Glentarne. He paused a moment, and as it swept rapidly past caught a glimpse of its solitary occupant. It was Lady Hamilton on her way to the railway station at D . To-morrow was Sir Jasper's wedding day, and she had bidden farewell to Glentarne. The bitterness of death was in her soul. lecn ony iKiun h.ie lies ower. Is ii tae )\is smile lUry sule, amie ; I'll nd looked (Unna ken iod forgi'e walk on." nest voice softened, It it passed It this time Ic an' back Lie ye some 1 one dart mile on her tnd hurried young man lS he turned iwiftly along d a moment, impse of its I on her way rrow was Sir n farewell to in her soul. CHAPTER VI. HUSBAND AND WIFE. GAIN", on a fair summer afternoon the landlady of the Linn Arm-> an<l the bl.icksmith's wife were enjoynig a gossip at the door of the inn. There vvas excitement in 'I'he Linn, whatever was its cause, for there were grouj)s of two and tliree at every door, and a perfect hum of voices filled the (luiet air. So much absorbed was Nancy Irvine that the sight of her husband leaning idly against one side of the smithy door, and her good-for-nothing son perched on the garden fence with his hands in his pockets, failed to rouse her righteous ire. Failing in all else, red-headed Jock had been set to work in earnest at his father's trade, and the ungainly lad had grown into a rough, uncouth looking young man, who^e extreme laziness, combined with his imperturbable good temper and unutterable stupidity, were daily thorns in his mother's side. It was impossible to rouse Jock, even with the fiercest onslaughts from her tongue. She might as well have preached to a stone wall. "They should na be lang noo, Nancy," said Mrs. Scott, shading her eyes and glancing down the road. " Its near live, and the train's due at D afore four. The carriage gaed by aboot three, wi' the twa greys in it." " Ay," said Nancy. " An* there was just ane tae drive her leddyship awa on Thursday uichu Puir cratur', days is sair changed for her." That reflection appeared to afford the blacksmith's i I ! 11 s« III »»\\p AN»« \un». 111 t lu 111 u iih 1 1 .<l MM ( 1 « \n U> \ mmhi 1 1\ In. " \\ 1 . I il u- 1 nunti ihi- tin Sn \\ illt nn l>»i»( lii let huni' \'»M\,iil h,»r iboi lit \\\f Inli o' I In- I itm )>. t-'l ool <h«' io.h! !,w' lut »'t Ou n>, jin' tli» \ lot^V tlu- hoi .. •< \>o\ n\u\ jMiM ilif I .»nii<M np iii- flu* Inn I^Ol>^♦» I'm OnnK^n' tl>i It s no <»,\(' nun Kli in* »I:U' :>« tins liilih '•« h;init' I onnn" WInMshi.l Inn (hnniiMnm'" (\\\\\ rt rlon«< o\ «hi"»l in tin* ili-^Lint »• i'.;m •• n:nnn)|i nl thf .i|>|>r:n,in» «» o( ri i-.un.im*. Il «l»o\i' np inpnllv. nnM tbongh U \\\\\ n<M «;l:it Urn m>«'»il wlun ^>;^';^in^ tlii>>ni:h 1 he Inin. i\ \\'c\Av » hcrt w:i<» iitim-d whiih ^Mr |,1^|VM «h«l niM »l< \}m ii> noHr»' Uy i^i** •<'<l»\ ^vjili :i fhiihl nnl on hrt pvi>\n< l(p«5, «<:it ln«» t)r«lv u»ilil»<| >v»U\ \hi^ ni\snr';«? o1 *il»'ni ntv Ihi' r.uMj onlt'nK. »* oulv r.xnj'hi :\ ^Innpso ol n «l;nk li.nnlmMnr i:\n\ wiih (l;i'ih\nii M.u k evr"*. nn(< tlu' noxl nnn\Uf llie t ;ntiagc l>,i«l xxhuloti o\»l o1 stoht "How nnu h finthn is il ti> ('Irntitvtir. |.'1'?|wm?** inq\nv. ,^ \ .■m\\ HrinnUon ni i.Mn><; •>! nn IliMf \vi;nnn"5««. " 1 Auy «U\A«i tno«\. .in<i \h:\\ -^nn^lnnr !<? iti'^iHlni^Mf." "Mv »1.nhn^. XV*' ;u<' nhnosl lionu\"s;n<l lui ln«sl>;niil, btMi«lu\>i oviM luM, his Ini o sofwnrM l>y rt gUain of ton*1oinoss. *Sfi\ tlioiv iwv the ji.-ites." " 1 nm fil.K. to ht .n ii," trtunuM! her lulyship unovn* ionslv. her exes \v;in»1ovin^ siijx nihon'slv ionn«l as ihev sxvopt lip the \\h\c rt\t nne innlev the "^hiit'i- of <he beeehes. ;^n*i hei hps emled penep1\Mv when ihey *hvw up ii\ front ol the liivv riiinbling oUi luuise wliieh XX .IS to be her future home " Weloome home \o Cilent.irne, M.nul." wliisper.il l;^vper H;>mih»>n. as they entered the ohMashioned 1 "n ^reh. It uexer hnd n t;\iier mistress. There xvere a f« w seiv.mts xviiuin^i m the h;ill. The housekeeper came forward, anti would have sinikcn, 4 M!»'^fHVt» AMII WirPL 1/ ( In li- r nn I' <• '1 nun;', •»! vhii \\ Sir »', will) !» >nl«<'>K' t < urt', Willi « riiniiim* ]rt'']><M ?" vr:uinrs^. lni<5h:niM, ^ll( !<m of mly ionn<l [» sb.n'f «>f kvlirn tlu y \va\\. Tlio re 8iH>k(M), « luit l»»'i Mumt'-qq m\i|ii |tMql lift, ^fiviiii; tn lifM liMqliiiHl, •" Sriul mun»' no*' iill'i ni*' In «»li»\v iM»' my Mtunm^ ),is|»»'f ; iHi'l liM •liniKi It.- MM tht' i!iM»' «<liitMlv " I lir «J»'»VlUllM ^^^ll:ml•»l^ t'JltK rq «t| qillpliMf, wlliill till! nol I'Mi iijn- Si» |im|trt'q iinliri'. •• Sli'W I ridy II iiMilinn ||. I mniM'!. I iiirt v«"». r»M»i;iMl." Ii»' q;n.| !iMiniU In llif Ihmis. I ti|,»», "iiimI «liuri qlMml IJMf*' nil 1*1 \n\\ q|;HIII^ lll<«' jillitlM I" I lif Imiimkt'inci lilt (III Mini (tijldurfl Imi in w nii'^Mrqq npslMiH, ;iinl (<timil Ini ^t Miilnii> wiilnii lli»' «li lUln^ ittoin (Innt, miivj'Vmy lln- ntnm wiili i nnt* inpl " I lUn t tilin- lo sjlrvv Vnll \nMI innMm, my Inly," «!ll»l Ml" jtini.ini. " lln'\ (im- inn mi lln^ (lout " ' jq tlim lln- ili;nvmif ttiMiiif'" iii<|iin'(| h^r l!nlyq|ii|t, ininnit', Ini H:n^lnn|i |i|;n k rytq on tin' Innisi k»'rji»»i's |,H •'. " I <;iin \ m» '* " V.s. iiiv l.nly " •'('in Snm. iliini» will rrf|nJro to lip i|nin> llirrr," sin- hikI Inill lo In m» II " \\ rjl, I miii •jniir Hiidy. | liopc ilnn' iiin iio» iiniiiv nnn*- q|;iiiq (o « limli." Mis. rnnnnit ;Mimv»'ir«l iiolliiii^ Sln« I«m| ||i»< wjiy, li, I wln'lc sniil q\vi' ||||^ with somiw ninl iiiili|iii;iiMni. " riicHn wnip I ,;nlv I IfiinillrMrq, Sii |!m|iri*H niMllirr'q, roonm. my l.nlv." sin- t^MnJ, ;is qln- tliitw n|i« n m doni on lilt in XI liinliii^. " lln ir ma miinif^ loonijir*! toom, iiml (Im'vsih); loom. 'I liry nrn jiisf jn sin- Irll llir|,i." I ;nlv ll;mnlion wnil (toiii loniii to room willi ||m> R.-imn IniH ;iimm«Ml, Inih « nmrm|itii(nin mmir on In r lioq " well, lliny am ol<l (jmhioinMJ rtion|',li to li;ivr In m inli;ilnlr.| |>v oin's i;r( ;ii ^i.in<liiiotln-r , ImiI hrjoo- loiij^, Ti ninint," she ;nl«l(Ml ;ill,il)|y, "I lio|».« to t;,.,< mimn m\pl«>vnnn^(^ m (he hoiisn. Now, will yoii 8«;ii(l ii|» inv tmnks niui some one in w;iit <ni nni'" " l.;nlv ll.uinlton took In? iikikI with Inr, my lady, Init I shall do my hcst lor you." •* Ah, thanks," said her ladyship languidly. " I dare- 3« HUSBAND AND WIFE. jiiiii ie id HI , Ill ^li' III! i!!i iH say you'll do in the meantime. I have a French maid at home, who will follow me sliorily. Now, see about my lugj;age quickly, i)lcase." Mrs. 'I'ennant bowed and withdrew. " And it was for that proud hussey, Sir Jasper turned his mother from (ilcntarne," was her inward thought as she passed to do her bidding. "He'll be punished for it yet, or I am much mistaken." In the drawing room, Jns|)er iiamilton paced rest- lessly up and down, awaiting his wife. Restlessly, and impatiently also, for his thoughts were not pleasant companions. That day he had brought home as his wife the woman he loved, or fancied he loved, and he ought to have been suj^remely happy. But there was a skeleton on the hearth. It was six o'clock when the drawing-room door opened to admit his wife. In her rich evening dres:;, with rare jewels sparkling on hair and bosom, she looked superbly beautiful ; but hers was not the face of a good woman. Her husband went to meet her, with a passionate light in his cold cruel eyes, and a slight flush in his sallow cheek. " Maud, my darling, how beairtiful you are. My wife, again welcome home." He passed his arm about the perfect figure, and would have drawn her to his breast, but she freed herself with a look of utter weariness, almost of disgust, on her haughty face. " Don't bore me, Jasper," she said, moving from him to the hearth. "Such nonsense is only excusable before marriage, not after. There is no need for it now." A red flush rose to his brow, and he bit his lip to keep back the angry words burning for utterance. His wife saw it, and smiled carelessly. She leaned her white arm on the marble mantel, and turned 1 1 i HUSBAND AND WIFE. 39 ;h maid e about Jasper inward iHe'il be ed rest- sly, and pleasant e as his ved, and 3ut there om door ng dres;;, )Som, she : the face Dassionate jsh in his iivtifjl you le passed Duld have ;elf with a 5t, on her ving from excusable leed for it t his lip to utterance. jhe leaned nd turned the badge of wife-hood round and round upon her fini^cr. " I say. Jnsper," she said su(i<lcnly, " where has your mollici j^oiie? — you did not tell ine." "To jeM'le on lier own property iii Sussex," replied he. "Are you ready to go to the dining room ?" " It seems a pity that the old lady had to turn out for me," .s;iid >hc, with the same careless smile. " Wiiy couldn't she stay; 1 should not have interfi-red with her." " Are you ready to go to the dining room, Maud," repeated Jasper Hamilton. ** Dinner is on the table." " She might, at least, have stayed to welcome me," she said, again utterly ignoring his request, "an<l to have made my aecjuaintance. It was not decent civility to leave before." "There is no need to discuss the matter, Maud," said Sir Jasjjer, his temper rising agaui. " My mother was at liberty to please herself. I tell you plainly she disaj)proved of our marriage, and it was better to leave Glentarne before you came here, and so avoid any unpleasantness." " 1 see." The careless smile still curved Lady Hamilton's lips, but the expression in the black eyes was not good to see. " Why did your mother disaj)prove of your marriage with me?" "Tliere is no need, as I said before, to discuss the matter, Maud," said her husband, irritably. " Why will you ])ersist ?" "Simi)ly because I am anxious to know," was the reply. "And 1 mean to know, Jasper, so you may as well tell me now." "This is scarcely *he way to begin your married life, Maud," said Sir Jasper with increased uriiabiliiy. 1^ 'W. ' ^a! ' - *l>' -j wi j - •'"-^ — —- 40 iiushanp anp wikf,. " Tt i« no pnrt of wilrly <lnty to insist a^^ninst her hiisb.uid's wish." A |M';\I «»l iiKH kini^ l.ini'Jitrr ImoKc Ikmii my l.wly's lips, "look ;U lur. )iis|t( r," she s.inl, diiiwiii}; lirr fimire to lis Inll lu ii'Jit, and roniini^ nrjTor to him. \\v tiuncil h)s <'vrs iipoii hri \,\rr, and ai;;ini. as it had clotio manv tnncs hcloic, her luanty ionqnercd hun. " Po I look hkc a woniiin \vh«) would make any mail's will hiv law. Do yon think thiit IxManso I have maniod you that 1 am to have no dioii^ht, no wish that «loos not niitie in iw/ f ' The slin}:;ing cmpli;isis on the last wonl roused every evil passion in her husband's heart, tor it expressed all the utter seorn and eontempt in whieh this woniiiii Iield him. His sallow l;ue grew livid iu its passion, as it hatl tlone in that veiy room onec belbie, and he moved from her alraid lest he should be tempted to raise his hand against the wile he had wedded but yesterday. " It will be as well to understand each other," she said in her cool, haughty voice. '* You can go your own way, while 1 " " Maud Mortimer!" interrupted her husband passion- ately, "Why dill you many me?" Again the nuxking laugli rang through the room. *' Shall I tell you?" she asktd, with her amused smile. **1 married you beeause I was tiretl of Ralph's snubbing, and beeause 1 wanted to be Lady Ibimillon, iMlh a home and a purse ot my own. (.jood reasons, •re they not?" " V^eiy good, my lady," said Sir Jasper with bitter cmj^hasis. "And. mark you, 1 swear to you that you shall pay dearly lor what vou have won. Again, are you ready to go to the dining room?" So with a bitter quarrel on its very threshold their married lite bcgai^. as saiil tea.l doc V I.mIv's in;; luT to liiin. s it had I liiiu. ikc any catisc I ii^lit, no 0(1 every x|)r('ss(Ml woman passu)!!, , and he nptcd to Idcd but her," she 1 go your 1 passion- j room. r annisod )f Ralph's lanullon, I reasons, vilh l)itler \ that you (\gani, are hold their CflAPIKK VII. A COOL RF. CKFTION. had gone sinrr fasprr Ifitnihon hrou'^ht idr home to (il« iiiarrie. Il was S;iti(r(lay morning, and Sara Kcnyon w.is mttiii^^ ;it the breakfast tal>l<' waitin/^ for her hroiher. The glorious snah^ht Hooded the whole room, arui lav hrif^ht and beantilnl orj Sarah Kenyor)'s face. It w IS ^rave and sad, and lu-r eyes were heavy. When nine pealed from the cluirc h t( wer, she oj>ened the sitting room thjor. "Are you nearly ready, Christo[))ier ?** "l-'oimn^, dear," and in a niinnte the sehoolmaster took his seat at the table. His sister poured out his tea, and handed it to h..n in silenre. " Will you come back with the midday coach, Kit?" she s;iid at length. " No ; I think I shall walk home," returned the sehoohnasler. "I have some books to f^et, and there would be seareely titne to catch the coach." ♦' Don't forget yourself in the bookslioj)s at I) as you used to do in London somefune.," his sister said with a sli[;ht smile. " lie sure and <:orne home to tea. Mary is eominj^ down this aflernootj, and the doctor, too, if possible." "Yes; I shall be hotne, dear. There is the horn I I did not think it was so late." " Kit," she said, layinj^ her hand upon his shoulder as he was opening the door, "Lady Hamilton will be here to day." 42 A COOL RF.CF.rriON. " I scarcely think she will come at all, Sara," he said. " \\ ha'i end would it serve?" "Heaven knows," replied Miss Kenyon. "Kit, I have been thniking lately it will be belter for ub to leave The Linn." " We have been very happy here, Sara," said the master gently, and as he opened the door a Hood of sunlight da/./.k'd their eyes. "But \vc can talk this over another time." He stooped and kissed her, as was his wont, and turned down the garden path. At the gale he paused, and, iv. it struck with a sudden thoui^ht, went back to the doorstep. "If you think she will come to-day, Sara," he said slowly, "and if it would help you, 1 shall slay at home. What I have to do can be done next Saturday." " No, no, Kit. I know it would only vex you to be obliged to meet her again. 1 am no coward, sir, and 1 think I shall manage best alone. Now, go. ■"I'here is the coach coming up, and — remember to be home to tea," and with a parting smile Miss Kenyon shut the door, and went back to the breakfast table. After luncheon that afternoon. Lady Hamilton ordered the pony carriage to be brought round to the door. " 1 am going alone,** she said, as she took the reina from the groom's hand. "If Sir Jasper returns before me, tell him I have gone to the village, and will be home before dinner." " Very well, my lady," replied the man, glad to be relieved from attendance ujion her. Further acquaint- ance with their new mistress had not impressed the servants with her amiability. She touched the ponies with her whip, and they started off at a pace which brought them to The Linn in fifteen mmutes. She drew up at the gate of the schoolhouse, and step[>cd I she slii gonl frie/ A COOL RF.CF.FIION. 43 Sara," he " Kit. I for uj> to ' snid tho I llood of talk this wont, and le ])aiiscd, nt back to a," he said Ly at home, lay." rex you to ONvard, sir, Now, j^o. mber to be ss Kenyon ast table. Hamilton 3und to the Dk the reina ;urns before ind will be , glad to be er acquaint- pressed the 1 the ponies pace which nutes. She ind stepjjcJ out. Gathering her rich skirts gracefully over her arm, she went leisurely up the garden path, and tapjjcd at the door with the end of the whip she still held in her daintily-gloved hand. It was opened innnediately, not by Miss Kenyon, as her ladyship had expected, but by Mrs. Forbes, who had come from Cluny only a few minutes before. Intense amazement was in Mary's face wiien she found herself face to face with Lady Hamilton. *' Is Miss Kenyon at home?" inquired her ladyship, in cool ' 'ear tones, which penetrated to the room where Sara Kenyon was busy. " Yes, she is at home," replied Mrs. Forbes. " Will you come in, please ? " lUit befoie she could accept the invitation, Sara Kcnyon's light step sounded in the lobby. She came forward, very pale, but calm and selt-|)Ossessed, and she did not at first look at I^ady Hamilton. "Will you go in, ])lease, Mary?" she said, laying her hand on Mrs. Forbes' arm. " 1 shall talk to Lady Hamilton here." In sore amazement, Mrs. Forbes obeyed. Then Miss Kenyon looked full at her visitor, with a slightly enquiring gaze, but with no shadow of recognition in her face. " Wf 11, Sara, how are you?" asked her ladyship, familiarly; "you don't look very glad to see me." She stretched out her hand, but Miss Kenyon moved away, as if afraid that it would touch her. " What is your business with me. Lady Hamilton ?" she said in a low quiet voice. " 1 have a visitor, as you see, and you must not detain me long." " Oh, come now, Sara," said Lady Hamilton, slightly disconcerted, "don't talk like that. Let by- gones be bygones, and say you are glad to see an old friend." m ■It ! -.T.',I ■■^mmt 44 A COOL RECEPTION. t» " It would not be tnie if I did say it," said Sara Kenyon, a red spot rising to either check. " If that is your errand, 1 am sorry it 's fruitless. Allow me to bid y ju good afternoon." Lady 1 1 am il ton bit her lip, and an angry gleam shot through her dark eyes. "When Rnlj)h told me you were here, I congratu- lated myself that 1 would not be without a friend when 1 came to Glentarne," she said. " Wont you make up, as the children say, and visit me sometimes at that wretched dull place up there," she pointed with her whip in the direction of Glentarne, and waited Miss Kenyon's answer. " It would ill befit the schoolmaster's sister to place herself on a footing with the lady of Glentarne," said tiie low quiet voice, with an unmistakeable scorn in its tones. "1 naust bid you good afternoon, Lady Hamilton." " The schoolmaster's sister is still Squire Kenyon's daughter," said her ladyship calmly. *' How is Chris- topher? He and I used to be great friends." There are limits to human endurance. Sara Ken- yon's lips were firmly set, and the red spot burning on either cheek told the indignation she would not utter. *' Lady Hamilton, I must bid you good afternoon," slie repeated. " And 1 must also ask you not to in- trude upon me again. Remembering the past, I am amazed that you are not ashamed to do it. I thank }ou lor your otifered friendship; but 1 must decline it, once for all." "Time was, when you would not have turned Maud Mortimer froia your door," said my lady bitterly. *' Well, good afternoon, Sara, since you wont ask me in," she added, suddenly recovering her equanimity. " And if you should think better of it, I shall be glad to see you at Glentarne whenever you like to come." m I -"' and A rnoi. rithtion. 45 said Sara " If that How me to gleam shot : congratu- riend when you make mes at tliat ;d with her aited Miss ter to place tarne," said le scorn in loon, Lady e Kenyon's jw is Chris- Is." Sara Ken- burning on d not utter, afternoon," u not to in- i past, I am it. I thank it decUne it, urned Maud dy bitterly, ont ask n-^e equanimity, shall be glad ; to come." Miss Kcnynn closed the door and left her visitor on the step, wiihoul ollciini^ a reply to llic friendly invitation. Ai;ain Lady Hamilton threw her skirts over her arm and swept down the path, a careless smile curving her scornful lips, but anger and bitter humiliation in her heart. In the sitting room, in much surprise, Mrs. Forbes awaited her friend. She looked at her anxiously when she joined hor, and saw that she was unusually agitated. She sat down at the table and leaned her head on her hands. •• You are surprised that Lady Hamilton should come here asking for me, Mary," she said at last. ' Yes," Mary admitted frankly. " Years ago — before we came to Strathlinn — I knew her and her brother well." Very bitterly were the words spoken, and there was unutterable pain on Sara Kenyon's face. " Some other time, Mary," she said, rising, " I shall tell you the story of Christopher's life and mine, but not now. Forgive me if my manner is strange to- night ; I have many painful memories to ui)Set me. Now I must go and see after tea. Kit will be home in a very short time." "There he is now," said Mary, "and John with him. I wonder where he picked him up." The tea table that night was not so happy as it generally was, for there was a shallow on the face of its presiding genius. Early in the evening the visitors took their leave, because' Mary felt that Miss Kenyon wished to be alone. And on the way home, as a matter of course, she confided the incident of the afternoon to her husband, and they marvelled over it together. >i • iimm '>f\'"^'v'^r' ^T^'-~^^''Cv *)^^'^kot^ CIIATIKR VIIL HAPPV I^OVK. "T^Y the middle of Scptctnhcr not a stook wns left I .1| stMiidiiii: )i) the coiulu ItU .ilxiiii Tin' l.mii. Am JL/ c.iily and bount ful harvest h.id hern the result ^0 of a fnie seed mnc and a warm (hy suunnei ; and the winter hade hiir to he a cheery one. The rro|)s on the Lea Kig were universally admitted to he the tinest in the chslriet. Old Simon Duncan had resigned the farm niana,i;enient entirely into jamii s hands, and it amply rei)ai<l the painstaking lahour tin- energetic young man hcslowed Ujjon it. Tiicy lived alone, father and son, in the old house on the hill-t()|), and it sorely needed a woman's supervision. It was many a year since Jamie Duncan's mother had been laid in the kirkyard, and the neighbours said Simon Duncan had never held up his head since. His only son was the very apple of his eye, the ])ride of his heart, the one object on which all his interest in lilo was centred. A life of hard toil and exposure, early and late, had prematurely broken down his constitu- tion, and at sixty Simon Duncan was a frail weak old man, and it was feared he would not weather the storms of another winter. The fears were too well grounded, for, killed by the snell November blast, the feeble spark of life went quietly out one grey rainy afternoon, and at three-and-twenty James Duncan was left fatherless and motherless to inhabit the Lea Rig alone; but everybody knew he was only waiting i ^^n r>k wns left LiMii. All 1 the result y suiniiK'i ; one. 'I'lu' iitted to l»o iiMCiin had ito Jamie s labour tlu- 'Tiu-y lived the hill-loi), 311. It was r had been said Simon His only )ride of his erest in lilo osure, early lis const itti- . frail weak weather the :re too well er blast, the J grey rainy Duncan was the Lea Rig tnly waiting MAPI'V l.nVK. 41 I,i/7ie I'nlror.rr's word to Ihid^ a mistress to the f.irtn. She siill kepi hini at aim's lc|v''i, thoujj;h he lolloacd her like a shadow. Yet sohi. •limes a sweet hope whispered in the tme manly heart, that the lime was at hand when she would not say him nay. I)miii:; the winter months strange stf)ries catne from (ilentariM-, fiunishiii}^' never-ending; ^'ossip for the villagers. 'I'l-e servants told of avvhil strife between the ill niat< lied pair, of <|uarreis so violent that they sometimes feared there would be murder done ; for the Laird's unj^over- nahle temper was roused by his wife's increasing extravagance, and most of all by her contemptuous ignoring of his authority. Lady Hamilton was uol received into county society, but she tilled the house with her own friends — a gay set of fashionable men and women, whose character and antecedents she did not too strictly investigate. Ay, Iasj)er Il.imilton's mother was well away from Gleniarne ; the (;ld house iiad fallen very low. 'I'ite Kenyons were still at Tlie Linn; Lady Hamilton had not again troubled the snhoobhouse with her presence, and though being so nar Glentarne, the brother avfd sister had never happened to encounter lier. That year the winter was severe and protracted ; it was late in March belore the last snow-storm disappeared under the hrst breath of Spring. But April was a glorious month, and ere it closed, wood and meadow were clothed with the delicate freshness of the loveliest season of the year. Though busy with jhe seed-time, Jamie Duncan found time and opportunity of seeing Li.'zie Falconer ofiener ti:an he had ever done befor-i. Taking his wife's advice, John Falconer never again mentioned Jamie Duncan's name to his daughter, and he was beginning to see that, after all, young people and their love affairs are best left alone. Just before sundown on the first evening in May, the young man . ^..^ !!■( i 48 HAPfV I-OVR. I'M stepped into the kitchen at Glentnrne Mains. His nigliily visit had become an iiistiiuiion now, and the farmer often said, jokingly, to his wife, that he "wad miss Jamie's crack when Lizzie gaed up tae the Lea Kig." You will perceive that there did not exist a shadow of doubt in his mind regarding her future lot. Lizzie was sitting in the window when her lover came in, and she bent her head demurely over her sewing, and answered his greeting in a scarcely audible whisper. He took the seat the farmer offered him, but he seemed absent and pre-occupied, and did not join in the conversation with his usual readi- ness. ** It's a bonnie nicht, Lizzie," he said, suddenly, interrupting the farmer in his prophecy regarding the harvest, " wad ye mind gaun oot a bit wi* me ?" Lizzie lifted her head, and flashed a glance of her bonnie blue eyes upon his face, and a slight blush rose to her own. But she spoke no word, only sewed on with increased industry. " Ay, bairn, gang awa'," said the mother, with a sly glance at her husband. ** Ye hinna been outside the door the day ; but dinna bide ower lang." "Very well, niither," replied the young damsel, wonderfully submissive, and without waiting to heai more, she caught up her hac and slipped out, leaving Jamie to follow. " It'll be settled the nicht, guidwife," said the farmer, well pleased. " Weel, it's a lang lane that has nae turnin'." Whether or not the proverb was aptly applied, it seemed to afford them amusement, for both had a hearty laugh over it. Meanwhile the young pair had taken the winding path to the glen, and were walking in unusual and incomprehensible silence. i * ( HAPPY LOVE. 49 " Leddy Hamilton's brither cam' tae the castle the day," said Lizzie, at length feeling that something must be said to break the embarrassing silence. '* Did he?" inquired her comi)anion, without much show of interest. '* Lizzie," he broke otf suddenly, " d'ye mind the day you an' me cam doon tae fish at this very bit, an' you gaed aff hame wi' the Laird and his friend?" "Ay, I mind," said Lizzie, absenUy; "it's a long time ago." " Lizzie, I was sair angert that nicht, for I lo'ed ye then, 1 think, tho' 1 was only a laddie," said the young rian, half jestingly. *' Ye wadna leave me noo as ye did then, wad ye, Lizzie ? " For a moment the saucy eyes full of mischief met his, but they fell beneath his gaze, and she turned away her head to hide the crimson on her face. " Lizzie, stand here a meenit," he said to her in low earnest tones, " 1 hae something tae say tae ye the nicht." "Say awa* then, and be quick," she said, laugh- ingly. " Lizzie, are ye gaun tae be serious wi' me noo ?'* he asked, bending his grave winning eyes upon her face ; " I've waited lang and patiently on ye tae listen tae me as ye promised last sinmier." " Weel, is that a', Jamie?" she asked, with a, bewitching glance into his face. " I've heard a' that, an' mair, afore." He caught both ner hands and held them fast, and bent his head till she was oblit^ed to look at him. " Lizzie, gie me ?y or no the nicht ; if it's tae be * no ' tell me frankly, an I'll bear it like a man, but if ye thnik ye can even care for me, nae maiiter hoo little, tell me the noo, fur I can bear this suspense nae langer." D so HAPPY I.OVE. mm The girl was a born roqmtre. *• Hoo niiirkle o' that's true, Jamie?" she uskcd, (larin;^ly. '-My mither whiles tells me that I can safely believe aboot a third o* what you chaps say tae me." At that moment the sharp bark of a dog, followed by u long low whistle, starded them. "There's the laird," said Lizzie, " and my leddy's brither. Jamie, come on name." The young man turned his head, and saw Jasper and Ralph Mortimer leisurely approaching, with dinars in their mouths, and a i)ack of doi^s at their heels. "Stand here, Lizzie," he said, gently, "an' wait till they ])ass." " Very weel." She broke a twig from the tree, and bent her eyes upon it, while the gentlemen drew nearer to them. "The Hebe I admired so much last time I was here, Hamilton, upon my word!" said Ralph Mortimer to his companion, "and her cavalier too. Have the embryo lovers grown into lovers in earnest. Tlie deuce ! what a beauty she is, — worth coming to this vile place to catch a glimpse of a face like that." Jasper Hamilton sneered. " You always were a fool about women, Mortimer," he said. " The girl's nothing extra ; she's go.^g to be married I hear. Ah ! good evening, Duncan.'' " Guid e'enin*. Sir Jasper," returned the young man, touching his hat, and unconsciously moving in front of Lizzie, chafing at the look of insolent admiration Ralph Mortimer bent upon his darhng's face. " Have you forgotten me. Miss Falconer," said Ralph Mortimer, moving nearer to Lizzie ; " I can hardly hope that among so many admirers so un- deserving a one as I should be remembered." A coarse laugh broke from Jasper Hamilton's lips, and Jamie Duncan's face grew pale with anger. HAPPY LOVE. 5« He drew Lizzie's arm within his own, and, not d.irinjj; to trust his voice, he touched his cap a,L;ain to the laird, and led her in an opposite direction. " Ye needna hae been in sic a hurry, Jamie," said Lizzie pettishly ; *' ye wasna ceevil t le the laird." " Lizzie!" The word was uttered in a tone of such min,:^led sorrow and surprise that it touched her in spite of herself. " Will ye no come in, Jamie," she said in the win- ning way she knew so well how to assume. " It's no late yet." " Late enough by the time I get hame," he replied coldly. *' I'll see yr tae the door, but nae further." She made some gay careless reply, then the two crossed the farmyard in silence, and stopped outside the porch at the kitchen door. Duncan held out his hand, saying, in constrained tones, " Guid nicht, Lizzie; it's time ye were in." She laid ner hand upon his and looked into his face with a shy tender drooping of her eyelids. '• Lizzie ! ye'll drive me mad," he said hoarsely. *' For guid sake gie me some hope or send me awa a' thegither. I canna gang on like this. WuU ye be my wife or no." " if ye'll hae me, Jamie," she said. " Could ye no see that 1 lo'ed ye a' the time ?" A sudden light of a great joy broke upon the true earnest face as he took his hrst lover's kiss from Lizzie Falconer's lips. 'i tl ^W^f^ i r i| CHAPTER IX. A BliTKR AWAKKNINO. JUNE'S loveliest days were fleeting, and still Ralph Mortimer remained at (iieniarne. What kept hini there was known only to himself, and one «/;, other. For the tirst few weeks Jamie Duncan ^as as supremely blest as an accepted lover ought to be. Lizzie did not avoid him now, and slie had given him a shy promise to come to tlu I,ea Rig before the year was out. One evening Lady Hamilton and her brotlicr found themselves alone together in the drawing-room at Glentarne. There were no visitors in the house, and Sir Jasper had not yet left his dressing-room. " Ralph," said Lady Hamilton, " Jasper is getting very tired of you." '* And so are you, ma chbre," added her brothtfr carelessly. " Well, I am scrry to inconvenience you, but 1 am not tired of you yet. In fact, I've been seriously thinking of staying till the 12th. The moors on this charming domain are really worth going over, and it will save me coming down again." "The 1 2th," repealed her ladyship slowly. "That is six weeks hence. Ralph, you cannot mean it ; for you must see plainly that Jasper wants to be rid of you." " Bah I what is that to me ; you ought to know by this time, Maud, how little I study Jasper Hamilton's likes or dislikes." ■i A BITTI R AWAKKNINO. 53 "You were not wont to be so fond of (r'Tilarne,*' Rai<l my lady with a sm-cr. " Is that girl down at the farm the attraction ? What a fool you arc, Ralph ; she is to be married in the aiitnmn." "isshe?" Ralph Mortimer turned to the window, and there was a smile on his lips, a snnle a thonsiind tunes more repellent than his bitterest frown. 'I'herc was a moment's sileiu e. '* Have you seen any of the Kenyons?" was her ladyshi|)'s next (juestion. "No; but 1 should like to see the fair Sara onr:e auMin," rei)lied her brother hall mockingly, "only I fear she would not acroni me a very flattering reception. Do you remember the iscene in the library at 'I'he Holt, the night Kenyon died. By Jove, what a tragedy cjueen she looked, though she is an insignificant woman on ordmary occasions 1" Lady Hamilton shrugged her shoulders. "She can be haughty enough when she likes," 'he said re- niembering how die insigifificant woman had treated her. " Here comes Jasper." Sh(jrtly afterwards Ralph left the house. IJghting his cigar, he struck into the wood, and went along the water's edge for about a mile, until he reached a little unfrequented dell, almost hidden by the tall belt of fir and beech trees. Against the trunk of a fallen tree stood a girl's figure, with the face half hidden by a broad sun hat. Ralph Mortimer went close to her, and, pushing back the hat familiarly from the golden head, touched the fair brow with his lips. " I am late, lazzie ; but dinner was late, and I could not get out sooner. Have you waited long ?" " No." The word was scarcely audible, and the girl's face grew crimson. Ay, and well it miglit be. Returning by the fields from the market at D , 54 A BITTER AWAKENING. Jamie Duncan passed close to the dell, and his dog, sl keen hunter, scented a hare, and scampered through the trees after him, and his master followed him. And something met his eyes which almost made his heart stand still. Was that Lizzie alone there at dusk with Ralph Mortimer? Only a second did he hesitate, as if unable to credit his senses, then he strode through the dell and faced t'aem. " What are ye daein' here, Lizzie ?" he asked, never looking at Mortimer, but keeping his stern eyes fixed upon the girl's conscious face. "Tell me the truth." But she stood before him mute, and wild passion surged in his heart when he saw the appealing look she cast upon her companion. " I met Miss Falconer," said Ralph Mortimer, coolly, recovering himself, "and, of course, stopped to speak to her. I meant to take her safely home ; but I suppose my services will be dispensed with now." For the first time the young man turned his flasTiing grey eyes upon the coward face. " Ralph Mortimer!" he said steadily, "you lie." An oath broke from Mortimer's lips, and the terrified girl crept nearer to her lover. " This is my promised wife, Ralph Mortimer," he said quietly ; " an' I kenna what brings her here wi* you at this time. Maybe ye can tell. But, mind, if I ever ken o' ye attempin' tae see or speak to her again ye'U feel the weight o* a strong man's airm. Come, Lizzie." They left the dell together, she clinging to his arm, not daring to lift her shame-stricken eyes to his white and rigid face. In utter silence they walked home through the sweet summer dusk until they paused, as they had done many times before, outside the ivied porch. m A BITTER AWAKENING. 55 " Here, Lizzie," said Jamie Duncan, then, " whaur I've listened tae the sweetest words that ever fell on man's ears, ye'll tell me the mean in* o' what I saw the nicht." She leaned against the doorway, weeping helplessly, while he waited in stern, unyielding silence for her answer. " Lizzie," he said again. " This is no a thing that can be settled wi' bairn's tears. Tell me the truth, was this the first time ye've met Ralph Mortimer?" She shook her head, and hid her tear-stained face in her hands, but he removed them, and keeping them in his own, made her look at him. " Tell me the truth," was all he said. " I've seen him maybe half a dizzen times or sae at the dell," she said, between her sobs. " But I never will again, though there was no harm in't." He dropped her hands, and turned from her, she had hurt him cruelly. " Half a dizzen times ! Oh, Lizzie, I wad hae trusted ye wi' my very life.'' There was a moment's silence, then he held out his hand, and moved to go. " I'll see ye the morn, maybe," he said, in a low, tired voice. Lizzie went close to him, laying her head upon his breast. He could not repulse her. The golden hair he had so loved to see there, was dearer still than anything else on earth. " Guid nicht, Lizzie," he said again. " I wad fain hope yer heart's mine yet, as mine is yours tae the end o' my life." Then he gently unclasped her arms, and without another word, or even one backward glance, he went away home. Two days later Ralph Mortimer left Glentarne. ;\l 4 •i .{■' \i :imM4 m sumWi 1, CHAPTER X. THE NIGHT BEFORE. <( CANNA think what's come ower Lizzie thij while, Jamie," said Mrs. Falconer. " She's no like the same lassie. She's quiet an' douce enough noo tae please her faither, but 1 liket the bairn better as she was." Although Lizzie had been assured of her lover's free and full forgiveness, he could not forget how sorely his faith had been tried. A new element had crept into his passionate love, a jealous fear \v'hich gave him rest neither night nor day. It was his one hope to be able to call her wife before Ralph Mortimer came again to JStrathlinn, but it was not to be. The weeks sped, and she would give him no de- finite promise, and September's earliest days brought Ralph Mortimer back to Scotland. Ostensibly for the shooting, but in reality he was planning his revenge on the fearless young farmer who had called him a liar to his face. He had not forgotten, either, that summer evening in the dell. No, Ralph Mortimer was not the man to forget or forgive a real or fancied injury. It was the middle of October before the harvest was ingathered about The Linn. The last sheaf on The Mains was led into the stackyard on a Tuesday after- noon, and it was Joan Falconer's yearly custom to entertain his workpeople to su{)per at the conclusion of the harvest. So that day, as usual, the granary was ii THE NIGHT BEFORE. 57 cleared, and a long table, stretching from end to end, groaned beneath the weight of good clieer the farmer's wife provided for the guests. If her hands and her bead had not been so busily occupied she could not have failed to notice the strange unrest which seemed to possess Lizzie that day, but she did notice how eager the girl was to assist with the preparations ; she seemed to dread being left a moment idle. About seven Jamie Duncan came over to The Mains anxious for a talk with her. But she avoided him, pleading that she had to wait on the guests. So he stood within the barn door, watching the dainty fii^ure flitting to and fro, and the busy hands helping those seated at the table. Lover's eyes are sharp and critical, and he noticed in a moment the unusual simplicity of her attire. He knew she loved gay dresses, and bright ribbons, but to-night she wore a dark closely fitting robe, relieved only by a plain linen collar and cuffs. There was none of the fanciful adornments she usually wore, even her hair ribbon was discarded, and the rich golden waves were coiled simply behind the shapely head. Her face was pale, and her eyes avoided his; perhaps she feared he would see the mist of unshed tears marring their brightness. It was nearly ten when the party broke up, and when they were all gone, Lizzie threw a shawl over her head, and went to the door to bid her lover good-night. She took his arm, saying, in a low voice, that she would go with him to the farm yard. And when they paused there, and she turned her face to the light of the harvest moon, he saw that it was as white as the collar at her throat. Her eyes were gleaming with a strange brilliancy, and she clasped her hands together to still their trembling. " Lizzie," he said very tenderly, " Are ye well enouj^h ; 1 never saw ye look as ilL" 58 THE NIGHT DEFOKE. " Yes, yes, well enough," she said hurriedly, " only tired." " Weel, I'll no keep ye standin'," he said ; but she leaned against the gate as if slie did not care to go yet." ** Lizzie," he said then, "Will ye tell me the niclit when ye'll be my wife, I'm weary waitin", and as ye ken the Lea Rig's been ready for its mistress lor months." She shivered, and hid her face in her hands. " Dinna ask me the nicht, Jamie ; this nicht o' a' nichts, dinna speak o' that if ye lo'e me." He went very close to her, and took her hands from her face, sorely puzzled to understand her. " Ye're no weel, Lizzie, 1 can see ; lassie, ye're as white's a ghost. I'll no bother ye the niclit, but niiiid ye'll hae tae answer sune/' She laid her slim hand on his broad shoulder, and looked into his lace with a great wistfiilness m her own. "Jamie," she said, "d'ye ioe me as much as ever? " He passed his arm round the slender rigure, and drew the golden head to his breast. " As much as ever, Lizzie," he repeated, with passionate tenderness. " Sae much that I behev« it wad kill me tae lose ye noo. Mind, ye're a* I hae on earth." She dared not stay there ; she dared not listen to the words coming from the depths of the truest heart man ever gave to woman. She drew back from him sobbing, " Send me away, Jamie ! send me away ! I'm no worth sae much love ; I wish ye didna care for me. I was never tit to be a wife tae a man like you." " My darhng, ye're worn out," he said, gently. " Say guid nicht, an' no be gettin' sic fancies intae yer heid. Please God, when ye're my wife, ye'll be the happiest woman in the warld ; there'll no be a care come near ye, Lizzie, if I can help it ava'." 'Jl THE NIGHT BEFORE. 59 " D'ye think ye wad care for me through a', Jamie ; wad naething turn ye against me ? " " Listen, Lizzie," he said, almost solemnly, *' I've telt ye afore that ye're dearer tae me than ony thin^ else on earth. My love canna change. It's stronger than death. Noo gang in, an* let me see ye wi' the auld roses on yer cheeks the morn 3 I likena that whiie face." He stooped and kissed her, not seeing how white and still was the face so near his own. She turned away from him, and he watched her till she reached the ivied doorway. I i i «l ii lj'li$ , I ai; iffilH' iG CHAPTER XI. THE DAY AFTER. EXT morning a terrible rumour was abroad in The Linn. It was whispered with bated breath that during the night Lizzie Falconer, the Pride of The Linn, had left her home with Lady Hamilton's brother. One of the plouuhmen at The Mains brought the news as he passed through the village with his cart before seven o'clock. Between nine and ten Jamie Duncan rode into the village, as he did every morniLg for his letters. On his way down he drew rein a moment to talk to Miss Kenyon, who was busy among her flowers, and he thought her manner never had been so odd. When he left her she stood watching the handsome manly figure, which looked its best on horseback, and a broken prayer fell from her lips. " Lord, help him to bear it." He wondered why the people looked at him so curiously, and directly he went down the street he saw that something unusual seemed to occupy the attention of the villagers. The women had left their morning work to discuss the news, and down at the inn door there was quite a gathering. Jamie, having some business with the blacksmith, went leisurely down the street by his horse's side, reading as he went. Sandy was leaning against the door of the forge, his brawny arms folded, and the inevitable black pipe in his mouth, listening to the THE DAY AFTF.R. 01 talk of the women, and occasionally venturing to put in a word. But a husli fell upon thoni when the young firmer came up, and he looked from one to another, again amazed at the curious compassion in their faces. " There's surely a stir in The Linn this niornin;^, Sandy," he said carelessly. " What's the best o' the news." " Hae ye no heard," inquired the smith staring at him; "but I needna ask, if ye kent ye wadna be fipeirin'. Indeed if ye kent ye wadna be here ava." " What is't, Sandy ?" " The weemin'll tell ye," said Sandy, slipping into the forge to escape the task his easy mind had no wish to undertake, and, with a sudden indefinable fear at his heart, Jamie turned to the group at the inn door, and repeated his question. But they were also dumb. " Will ye come in a meenit, Jamie," said Mrs. Scott at length, her motherly face full of pity ; " I want tae speak tae ye." Jock Irvine took his horse's bridle, and the young man followed the landlady into her own little parlour at the back. She shut the door before she uttered a word. " I'll be better tae tell ye here, awa' frae a' the een," she said. " Jamie, my man, Lizzie Falconer's awa' wi' Ralph Mortimer." For one moment he looked at her incredulously, and then as the full realization of her words came home to him, the whiteness of death overspread his face, and he clutched at the back of a chair for sui)port. '* Is this kent for certain, Mrs. Scott?" he said, after a while, in a voice which the widow never forgot. " Is there nae doot ?" "Nane; her faither an' mither are maistly mad. I'm telt it wasna a thing onybody expeckit. We 63 THK DAY AFTER. il^ Hidna ken she had even spoken tae the man. Jamie, my lad, I kent yer nmlier wed; my heart's sair for ye." He heard the kindly words, and saw the pitiful tears in the widow's eyes, but at that moment he had no power to answer her. All feeling and sensation seemed dead ; he stood looking through the window into the stable yard like one in a dream. '• 1 think I'll gang up tae the Mains," he said, "and hear aboot it ; it's maybe no true." He spoke with some difficulty, and a slight shiver ran through the stalwart figure as if he felt a sudden chill. Mrs. Scott opened the door, with her apron to her eyes, and Jamie Duncan passed out into the clear Uctol)t;r sunlight with the very blackness of midnight in his heart He mounted his horse, and rode slowly ^^ith his head bent upon his breast. Sarah Kenyon saw him coming, and she opened the gate, and stood la the road waiting for him. But when he stopped, she uttered no word of sympathy ; only looking into his haggard face with her pitying eyes, she said — " When you have been up to the farm and learn the particulars, Mr. Duncan, come back to me; there is something I can tell you." " Very well, Miss Kenyon," he answered. He did not even feel surprised at her words, but they roused some sudden energy in his heart, for he dug his spurs into the mare's glossy sides, and flew off like an arrow. Five minutes brought him to The Mains. Springing to the ground, he pushed open the kitchen door, and stood a moment on the threshold unobserved. If there had been a lingering hope in his mind, it was dispelled now, for there was an awful look of desola- tion about the familiar place. The blackened fire, the half-closed shutters at the window, the unnatural stillness reigning in the house told of the blow which THE DAY AFTI R. 63 had fallen upon its inmates. And at the taMe, with his arms flung across it, and the poor old wtuit. head lying low upon them, sat John Falconer, and the iron had entered into his soul. He seemed to know intuitively who was at the door, for he pushed back his chair, and turned to the young man with a hard set expression on his rugged (ace. "Jamie, my man," he said, "1 caniia Icuk upon yer lace this mornin* for very shame ; ye've been waur treated than even me, by her that was my dochter. But, lad, it was nae blame o' mine nor her miiher's, we kent nought about ii till six o'clock this morning." He paused, but Jamie's eyes upon his face asked for more. " Her mither gaed tae wauken her, as she aye does, an' syne cam doon, but wonderin' what way she was sae lang o' comin' doon, she gaed up again, and fund that the bed hadna been sleepit in, and there was a letter tae you. She opened it and read it. I heaid her scream, an' when 1 gaed up tae see, she was lyin* on the flure insensible. She's *' "The letter," said Jamie Duncan. " Let's see it.** The old man took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and Jamie went into the sunshine 10 read it. This was all : — " When you get this I shall be far away from you and from The Linn for ever, for Ralj)h Mortimer has promised to make me his wile. I loved you, Jamie, but never so madly as I do the man for whom I am leaving all ; and he will make a lady of me, as I have always wanted to be. I could not have been happy at Lea Rig, for 1 always wanted to be something grander than a farmer's wife. 1 should have been discontented, and made you unhappy. Forget me if you can, and, if not, try to thmk kindly of me for the 64 THE DAY AFTER. II : sake of what I used to be in the old days when we ])Iayed together. And, oh, Jamie, try and comfort my father and mother, and tell them that I hoi)e to come back to them a lady to be forgiven for what I have done. Good-bye, good bye, my last tears are for you, for I know your true heart; I never was wortiiy of its love. «« i^izzie." Jamie Duncan folded up the paper, and put it in his pocket, then he turned to the old man with an iron resolution in his haggard face. " Mr. Falconer," he said, " Lizzie was my promised wife, and though she's lost tae me for ever, I've the best richt yet tae see whether that black-hearted villain (I daurna let his name upon my lips) has keepit his promise. If she be a truly wedded wife, well and guid, I'll come hanie and say nae mair, but if he has failed, he'll answer for it tae me, and the Lord help me then tae keep my hands aff him." ** Jamie," said the old man with a great huskiness in his voice. " Let it a-be. She's no worth the trouble noo, an' she richly deserves tae be punished for her sin. Let it a-be." *' I couldna rest, no kennin' whaur she is, an* how it is wi' her," said the young man in a low, hoarse voice. " I'm gaun frae The Linn this very nicht. Ye'll gie a look tae the Lea Rig till I come back." " But, Jamie, ye dinna ken whaur they may be. Ye micht wander for ever an* no find them." *' '1 hey canna be far awa, yet," said the young man, moving to the mare's side. " As sure as I stand here, I'll meet Ralph Mortimer face tae face afore the week's gane, an' bring back news o' Lizzie, guid or bad." " An* whaur are ye gaun the noo," enquired the old man, laying a trembling hand on the bridle, as Jamie sprang to the saddle. TIIK DAY AKTKR. 65 :ht. "Tae Miss Kenyon's first, an' svne tae the laird's, an' then tae the station," and wiihout anoilier word he rode off. In the window of her sittin,L,'-room stood Sara Kcnyon waitui;^ for Jamie Duncan. Christopher had ^one to school more lluin an hour before, but the breakfast things still stood u|)on the table. Miss Kenyon's thoughts were far from household duties at that moment. When the young man again drew rein at the gate, she o|)ened the door and motioned him to come in. Fastening the bridle to the gate-post, he obeyed her, and she led him into the silting-n jm and shut the door. Then briefly in answer to her ques- tions, he repeated what he had learned at the fann. "Wrll you let me see the letter, Mr. Duncan?" she asked. ** It is no idle curiosity wliich makes me wish to learn everything here." Looking with that pale patient face, lit up by the clear steadfast eyes, he knew that he could trust this woman with life itself, and took from his pocket-book the poor crumpled piece of paper and handed it to her without a moment's hesitation. A great pity filled her eyes as she read the blotted, unsteady lines, and her voice shook a little when she spoke. " Do you intend to seek them,'* she asked. "Ay, I'm gaun frae The Linn this very nicht, Miss Kenyon," he said in his clear resolute voic*.. *• I've only tae gang tae the laird's an' spier for Ralph Mortimer's address." Miss Kenyon took two turns up and down the floor, and then faced him, leaning one hand upon the table. " Perhaps you have wondered why I asked you to come here, and why I wished to know every particular. Let me tell you. Years ago, before we came to Linn, Ralph Mortimer ruined my father, and even caused his death." LUi 66 THE DAY AFTER. The stendy voice faltered as if some awful memory swept across her heart. " I know him well, Mr. Duncan, none better, and you may tear the very worst. Poor Lizzie ; she says here that he has promised to make her his wile, but never was a promise so utterly false. He will bre.ik her he;ut and cast her from him like a broken toy. If you can see her, and persuade her to come home, she will live to thank you all her life. Tell her 1 said it, who know that Ralph Mortimer is wicked and heartless to the core." The young man sprang to his feet ^s if grudging every monjent which kept him from his purixise. '• There will be no need for you to go to Sir Jaspei Hamilton or his wife," said Miss Kenyon, " 1 can tell you where you will fmd them. Go fust to The Holt, Wesldeane, Kent; the place belongs to Ralph Mortimer, and if they are not there, you will learn his whereabouts at the Garden Club, Hortoii Street, in London." In silence Jamie Duncan noted the addresses. Then he held out his hand to her, his firm under lip quivering as he tried to thank her. She laid her gentle hand on his tall shoulder, and all her great womanly pity shone in her face when she spoke. " I am a woman who has suffered much, Mr. Duncan, and I know the agony you endure to-day. My heart and prayers go with you in your journey, and God give you strength to bear what has come already, and what may come in the future. You will come to me when you return to Strathlinn ? " " Yes, yes." The words fell brokenly from his lips, and with a grasp of her hand which spoke volumes, he hurried Irom her presence. CHAPTER XII. SARA KENYON's STORY. fHAT day there was no rest for Sara Kenyon. Feeling as if the little house could not hold ^^^ her, she put on her bonnet immediately afu r y^ dinner and went up the long hilly road to Cluny. And, to Mrs. Forbes' surprise and delight, she walked into the drawing-room shortly after three o'clock. The Doctor's young wife had grown older and more matronly looking, but the cares of wifeliood and motherhood had not dimmed the sunshine on the sweet face. Two children had been born to her — a boy and girl; the latter, the elder of the two, bore Sara Kenyon's name. The son and heir was just beginning to toddle on his own sturdy little legs, and when her visitor was announced, mother was coaxing him with sugar plums to come to her from the end of the long room. She sprang to her, and kissed her with her usual impulsive affection. " Sara! what an unexpected pleasure. You walked up, of course ? " "Yes, I walked," replied Miss Kenyon, abruptly. " I have come to tell you a long story, Mary ; have you time to listen ?" " Yes ; shall I send the children away ? " "No, let them stay," returned Miss Kenyon, in the same abrupt way. " You have heard about poor Lizzie Falconer, I suppose?" she said, suddenly. " Yes," replied Mrs. Forbes, very gravely. " John 68 SARA KENYON S STORY. was at the farm this forenoon ; her mother is very ill. It is a terrible affair." "This is my birthday, Mary," said Miss Kenyon, in the abrupt sudden manner so unusual to her ; " I am thirty-one to-day. My father was the second son of Squire Kenyon of The Holt, an old and impover- ished estate in one of the sunniest- spots in Kent. Bit by bit the spendthrift Kenyons had lessened their inheritance, until, when my father entered into possession on the sudden death of his elder brothe;, The Holt was little more than a name. I don't thin:^ there were more than fifty acres of land together with the house and policies. My mother died when 1 was very young, and though my heart was breaking for her loss, there came a time when I was unspeak- ably thankful that she was at rest before the worst came. You have known only good men in your happy life, Mary, so I hardly think I can make you well understand what my father was. From the beginning he was taught that because he was a Kenyon of The Holt, all honest work was beneath him. Idle- ness was his ruin. I never saw The Holt until we went to live there, after it passed into my father's hands, when I was ten years old. Christopher was thirteen then, a quiet, studious boy, perfectly content and happy if allowed to live among books. He had no interest or care beyond his studies. I sometimes think if it had been otherwise — but that is a needless thought. Kit and I were almost entirely left alone. I don't think my father ever spent more than three months in the year at The Holt. He lived abroad and in London. When I grew older I learned why it was so. Sometimes money was plentiful in the house, and at other times our solitary domestic could scarcely procure us the necessaries of life. She had grown grey in the service of the Kenyons, and would, I SARA KENYONS STORY. 69 believe, have laid down her life willingly any day for us. I used to look forward with childish pleasure to the time when my father came home, for he brought liis friends with him, and the house was gay and merrv. But Kit used to dread it. He had a little den up in the tower looking to the West. What a place it was I and I think he lived there almost while my father remained at home." Sara Kenyon paused a moment, and turned her eyes to the window. " When I was fifteen," she resumed, " our faithful servant died, and it seemed to me that that was the beginning of my trouble. The household care rested on my shoulders, and my only help was a hired girl from the neighbouring village. You can imagine how the old house was kept. Old Bright told me before she died, that my father lived on what he won at the gaming table. 1 could not fully realise what that meant then, but still it gave me a shock, and her last words filled me with a strange sense of uneasiness. " * Miss Sara,' she said. *Take care of yourself when I be gone, and keep close to your brother. And when the Squire comes down, keep yourself away from the folk he brings with him. Oh, Miss Sara, dear, they'll never do ye any good.' " I promised her through my tears to do her bid- ding, and during the years that followed, I tried my best, but it was impossible to keep my promise always. I cannot remember the time when 1 did not love my father with my whole heart. He was always kind to me, whatever may have been his treatment of others, and though, by-and-by, I saw and shrank from many traits in his character, my love did not diminish, only a great pity mingled with it. I was little more than seventeen, I think, when I first saw Ralph Mortimer and his sister, now Sir Jasper Hamilton's wife. They I I 'I 70 SARA KENYONS STORY. came with my father to The Holt one Cliristmas time, and stayed vviih us nearly a month. 1 was a yount; inexperienced girl, Mary, who had never had a girl hiend in her life, and un the first day Maud Mortimer came to The Holt I fell down and worshii)pe(l her. She was so gay, so gracious, and so beautiful, that in my simplicity I thought there was not her equal in the world. But from the first I shrank with unutterable dislike from her brother. I tried to overcome it, fur 1 saw that my father wished me to be amiable to him, but the attention he lavished on me only increased my aversion to him. Maud told me then with a little pitiful air, that she and dear Rali)h v-ere orphans, and that the dear squire had been almost a father to them both, and could not be hapj^y until he had introduced us to his littie girl. Christopher was of no account, Mary. I used to wonder if my father had forgotten his existence, so utterly did he ignore him. While the Mortimers were with us, he was offered a tutorship from a friend of our mother's in Cumberland, and I was left alone. It was then I felt how utterly alone I was and how dependent on myself. My father and Maud Mortimer often hinted at Ralph's growing attachment to rne, and I could see it plainly enough, but there was something about him which made me shiver. He had some influence over my father; he was growing old you see, and was weaker than he used to be ; and his way of living aged him before his time. Before Ralph Mortimer left The Holt he asked me to be his wife. 1 refused as kindly as I could, though I don't think I concealed all the dislike I felt. There was another reason, Mary, I — I — cared for some one else. We were parted scarcely hoping to meet again, but my heart had gone with him. If I might not be his wife, I could be none other's. My father came to me and spoke more angrily than |iii w SARA KENYON S STORY. 7' he had ever done before. He told me Ralph would make nu! a ;j;ood hiishniid, that lie was a geivUnian's soil, and would be able to give me a belter ])().siuon than 1 had occupied; but, Mary, not a wurd of this was true. The case was that he was deejily indebted to Mortimer, who had promised to absolve him on condition that I became his wife. lietween them they had sold me, but all my pride rose up in arms, and with a firmness 1 had never fell, much less shown before, I decH ned to become a ])arty to it, even though the selling of The Holt shc^uld be the result. 1 pass over the scenes which followed ; one was but a repetit-i-i of the other That spring I saw the worst side of my father's character, and vvlim they left early in the summer 1 experienced an uiis|jeakable sense of thankfulness. In the aulumn, Christopher came home for his month's holid.iv, belore goiiv^ abroad for the winter with his pupil. VV^e had a quiet time of peaceful happiness, die last we were ever to enjoy at The Holt. I told him all my troubles, and he talked in his gentle way of the time when he and 1 should be in a liitle home of our own, not dreaming what was to lead to the making of that home, nor where it was to be. It was the end of September when he went away, and I clung to him at the last with a forlorn sense of desolation in my heart and a strange sense of coming evil. A month later my father came home accompanied, as he had been before, by Ralph Mortimer and liis sister. My father looked worn and ill, and he seemed moody and irritable, and there M'as a certain crini^ing in his manner to the Mortimers which I did not like to see. They were changed also. Maud's manner to me was haughty and condescending, while her brother as- sumed an air of patronising familiarity which to me was infinitely humiliating. To be my father's guests, J ill .*< 7» SARA KENYON S STORY. their beh.iviour was very odd. A few tinromfortable day."5 (lra[jg(.'d themselves slowly away. I was wonder- ing with a kin'^ of desperation how I was to endure weeks of the same ; but a great rliange was at hand, l.ate one still November ahentoon the Mortimers were out somewhere, and vre were left alone in the house. I found my father in the library, silting with his face buried in his hands. I went to him, my heart full of yearning love, and k, leeling beside him asked him to tell me what his trouble was, anti above all why he was obhged to tolerate the Mortimers at The Holt. We might be so jiai)|)y together, I saiit, if he would come and live quietly at home with me. "'My child,* he said, taking both my hands in his trembling ones, * you don't understand. There can never be any more hripi)iness for me; my sins are visited on my head to-day.' " He told me then what made my heart grow sick within me in its despair. It seems that some yeiirs before he had been guilty of some crime punishable by law. He did not tell me what it was and 1 never learned afterwards; but Ralph Mortimer knew it, and this was the hold he had upon him. Do you see, Mary, my father had to buy his silence. ' It was he who first put the ihoughi into my head, Sara,' he said. ' For I was in difheulties at tlie time and could not see a way to extricate myself, and then when I had done it he turned upon me and asked a price for his silence. Until now I have been able to meet his demands witli money; but this time The Holt has passed into his hands. Sara, you and I arc only guests in our old home, liable to be sent away at any time by its new owner.' 1 hid my face, Mary, feeling as if no other sorrow could ecpial this one in depth, but I was mistaken. My poor lather lifted my head SARA KKNYONS STORY. 73 and looked into my eyes with a long, long look. If he h;ul sinned he liad also siitfered, lor his face was pinched and drawn, and there were deep ploughhncs on his brow. "*My poor little girl,' he murmured brokenly. 'Look at me. Sara, with your mudicr's eyes, and icll me that you forgive me for all i have been and tiune in the past.' " I crept closer to his side, and laid my head on his breast, and for a long time there was nodiing said. Then 1 heard the Mortmier-. returning, and springini^ up I left my father with a hasiy kiss, and iuirried to my own room. The one wild thought in my heart was to get away from The Holt, away from the pre- sence of the people I felt as if 1 could never face again. I had locked my door, and when in passing to her own room Maud Mortimer tried to enter mine, I told her to leave me in pence for a moment. [ threw open the window and knelt there, but the chill November air could not cool the fever on my brow, nor soothe the aching pain at my heart. It might be half an hour afterwards, an awful report rang thi jugh the house. I sprang up, and with lightning step. Hew to the library. Ralph Mortimer was there and Maud, and, and ." Miss Kenyon paused, shuddering, and pressed her hand to her eyes, as if some terrible picture rose up before them. " My lather had shot himself through the heart, and he lay with his face downwards, and when they raised him there was the snadow of a smile on his white lips, as if death had been very welcome. I turned upon the brother and sister, some awlul impulse [)rompling me to speak. 1 don't remember if I would what I said, but I know they quailed beneath my ^cadiing words. What followed, I remember only 74 SARA KENYON S STORY. dimly. A great commotion in the house, and Chris- topher coming home, and then the funeral. During these dreary days the Mortimers — especially Maud — • treated us with a heartlessness 1 have never forgotten. They s])ared no effort to make us feel our position more acutely; and we were both very thankful to turn our backs on The Holt for ever, and hide ourselves in London. But Ralph Mortimer sought us out, and made my Ufe a misery to me with his attentions and h: .^ft i-jated request that I would go back to The Hoh't -^nc only difference being that I should be his wife ' i 1. 3t. weary and sick, we bethought ourselves to leave Er; nd and seek shelter in some far off corner, free from all association with the past. So we came here, but even in this place, we have come in contact with those we avoided. You can understand now, why I refused Lady Hamilton admittance when she came. It was another proof of her heartlessness to intrude upon us, for she had treated me very cruelly." Miss Kenyon paused abruptly, and leaned her head on her hands. " During all the years, Mary," she said, after a while, " I've been happy in your never- failing kindness. You have been a true friend. You knew nothing of our past, yet you gave me your friendship without a question or a doubi." " Hush ! " said the young wife, tears of pity and sympathy in her bright eyes. '* To know you was to trust you. My poor Sara, how you have suffered !" " It is past now, but the memory remains," returned Miss Kenyon wearily. " At times its bitterness j^'^'ms almost too much for me t*:* bear, yet God has been very good ; I am ashamed sometimes of my want of thankfulness." The little blue-eyed fairy who bore Miss Kenyon's name left her play and came to her, looking up into SARA KENYON's STORY. 75 her face with wondering eyes, as if seeking to know why nuimma and aunt Sara looked so sad. "Sara Kenyon Forbes," repeated Miss Kenyon, laying a tond hand upon the sunny head. " You ou^ht not to have given her my name, Mary. Would you if you had known?" " It is my constant prayer, Sara," returned Mrs. Forbes, laying her hand on Miss Kenyon's shoulder, with a grave, sweet smile on her lips, "that my little girl may grow up as good a woman as the one whi)se name she bears. And when she is older she will learn, as 1 have done, to love and honour you widi all her heart." And the little one crept up into Mis. } nyon*s arms, and clasped her hands about her p :k, it she understood and approved of her mother w »rds. f'M tm CHAPTER XIII. FACE TO FACE. N the last evenirvj; in Octolier, tbe London train <liie at Westdearuf was twenty inidiitcs late, and only broii;,'ht a sihliIc |)as>i'nger to the i>Iace — a youn^ ni.in. i.iU and broad-shouldered, who •asked the porter whore he could find a night's lodging;. The man directed Inni to the little inn across the wny, and the stranger asked there if he could have some tea and a bed for the night. The landlady rec|uestt(i him to step into the cosy parlour, and proceeded to set the table with a cheerful alacrity very pleasant to see. " Will you please tell me, ma'am," he said at length, "whether or no there's anybody at The Holt the now ?" " Yes, sir ; Mr. Mortimer and his young wife are here. They came the other day, and took us all by surprise. Do you know them, sir ?" " They are living at The Holt, then," said the stranger. " Is it far from here ?" "Bless you, sir, no; only a mile — scarcely that," said the woman. " What a beautiful creature Mr. Mortimer's wife is ; but nobody knows where she comes from ; even the servants did not expect them. The marriage seems to be so sudden, though I don't know, either. Mr. Mortimer was always a strange gentleman ; it is not long since he got The Holt — ■ PACE TO FACK. 77 after poor Squire Kcnyon's time. You will know the sad siory of his ilcMlli." The stranger shook his head. "Will ye tell me the road to The Holt?" he asked, ri'^ing, and movinj; to the door. *' 1 think 1*11 walk as far; it's a fine night." "Certainly, certainly," said the brisk little woman. "It's dark, but the moon should be up by-and bye. You can't miss it, sir. Oo strai.;ht along the road past the station, and you'll come to the gates on the left hand side. There's a lodge, but it's been emi)ty since j)()or Squire Kenyon died ; you'll easily find it. Shall 1 have supper ready when you come home, sir?" " No, no, I shall not be long, thank you. Good night just now." *'Good night, sir — good night." It was very dark, but there was a glimmer of bright- ness on the edge of the cloud, behind which ll e new moon was hidden. The road the straiv rr took was bordered on one side by a low ragged Ik < gc, <^e'virating it from the fields; and, on the other, b) a high stone wall, above which the oak trees reared their sturdy heads. He kept close to the wall, and w...kcd si >\vly, with his head bent, until he reached the ga.es; as he passed through them he strode with quick tirm step up the wide avenue. After the first hundred yards, it took a winding turn, and there he saw a grey mass she.ving against the sky, brightened here and there bv a lighted window. It was The Holt, and it held Lizzie. That was the one thought in the stranger's mind, and a mad impulse prompted him to enter it, and take her thence away back to the home she had left. He stepped from the gravel, and crossed the lawn, until he was close to the house. Two windows on the ground flat were brillianily lighted, and the blinds only partially drawn. And this was what the »• FA( K H) KA( K, H I str.in<:rr s.'uv -A lur^c nv>m, <liii',v .iiid sombre ii) iti tiiii)islui)t;s, aixl a liic Itiiiiiiiii; ,il tlu* l.ir ( n*l, and a wtinin's limine on a low ( han at tlic luaiih. Ilcr l>a« k was to Www, Imt ihcsc slender shoulders were laz/ie's, that was the m»Mcn In ad ihu had lain so olicii on his breast, lie stood |>erlt« dy siill. restrain inj; with an iron hand the thonsand nM|iiilsi's boundinL; in his h Ml ms Heart. I Men anotner ti;;nre sainuen-ii n|) Hie room, a nian's this time, an«l bent l»)w ov«r the (han U|n>n the hearth. And ho saw with what a s»nile her laeo was raised to meet i)is kiss, aiul theie was a l.imi l)lusli upon the lonnded elu'ck. '['hen, shivering, the siran;;er turned and went his way. As he passed ihroiiuh the f;ali's onee inoii', the elouds broke overluNul, and a Hood of tremUhiii; uu)onhj;lit shone upon his face. St) white and ri^id was it, that when he returned to the inn, little Miss Tibbets wondered if 'he stranger had seen the ghost ot Squire Ki'n\on up at The Holt. The nu>nuni;, tlie lirst ot" No\ember, broke calm, still, and bnnlu. with almost siiinmer mildiu'ss in the air. Miss Tibbets' guest was uj) early. Helore the ]u)uselu)ld was stirring, she heard him walking overheail, and it inereased her conviction that he was troublei? in mind. He breakfasted at nine, ami a liiilc atler ten left the house, and she waiehed that he took the road to The Holt. As lie went again thrtnigh the iron gateway in the stone wall, the clear morning light revealed the desolation within the policies. The a\.iuie was strewn with the leaves ot many autumns, ami the turf, on eiliier side, was overgrown with rank grass and nettles. lOven the wide sweep of gravel in trout of the house was carpeted with weeds. It would be impossible to describe the architecture of the house. 'I'he original mansion had been a square, solid pile, destitute of any attempt at FACK JO KACK. 79 (Icrorntion, hut there IncI Meen a tower added here, niid a win^ there, wine li ^ave it an ixld pK iiire .i|iiir «I»|»e.«r;iinc, hiither «Mih.im ed hy the ivy ol a « eiitur)'H ^iiiwlh, which rre|>t .dMnii every window ,-iiid into t!very crevH c. S.ive lor the ihin line <<t hliie smoke < urhn;^ n|>w.iril to the sky, there was little si^n (1 lilo about '\'\\v. Holt on th;it Novenilxr morning. And when the slr.m;;er toM( hetl the knocker, the echo resounded through every < orner ol the (jiiiet lionse. 'I he door w.is opened iiiiiiK di.itely liy a iiiiiid seivant, who stared at the ^c nilnnanly lookin:^ yoiiii;; man, as she waited to learn his business. Lvidcnlly visitors wi-re ran.' Uv The Moll. •Man I sec the lady of the house?" in(|uire(l he (juielly. ••* \'es ; that is, I'll see, sir. Will you step in, please ? " The stranger shook his head. "(live me your name then, and I'll take it to my missus," said the ^\r\, slij^luly perplexed. lie tore a leaf Iroin his pocket book and scribbled bis name* upon it, and handed it to her. She lelt him on the doorsteji, and he saw her ^'O upstairs. She was not two minutes ^one. '* My missus declines to see you, sir," she said, politely but decidedly. The stranger did not offer to move. There was somethinj^f very odd about him, the eirl thoii-^dit. lie tore another leaf from his jxx ket book and wrcjte upon it, " For your lather and mother's sake, let me see you for a moment." The girl looked dubious, as he asked her to take it to her mistress. lUit she was obliging and went, and did not read the message on her way upstairs. J was ten minutes before she returned, with a sealed envelope in her hand. She gave it him, and deliber.itely shut the door in his face, as if acting !f^ 80 FACE TO FACE. inidcr instruction. But he stood there and read the niess;i:j;e within, in the li;uni\viiting he knew so well, :\nd which had evidently been penned by trembling li niters. " I cantwt see you. You are m;id to ask me. Tell my father and mother 1 am married, and that I will write soon. £, ^ »' He crushed it in his strong right hand as he had done another cruel message, and strode oft' with his hat drawn over his brows, and renewed bitterness in his soul. He iiad learned the truth, the truth he had hOj)ed for, but why did his heart grow sick within him in its desjxair ? Before him tliere stretched a dreary waste of years, durmg which it would be his task to try to forget. Ah ! friends, when we need it most, the bliss of forgetfulness is far from our reach. Just as the stranger n eared the gates, a horseman drew rein there, ami sprang down to open it. The stranger raised his head and their eyes met. Face to face the scoundrel and the true honest heart he had broken. I'here was a moment of intense silence. Then Ralph Mortimer swore a fearful oath. " You cur, what are you domg here ? Get off the place or I'll set my dog to hunt you off; like the sneak you are !" With folded arm.s the stranger stood, looking upon the dark face, crimson with rage, his own pale with the intensity of suppressed passion. " Raljjh Mortimer, take care!" he said steadily; **I have sworn to keep my hands oft' you, but 1 may be tem[)ted ! O God !" he broke off with trembling lips, " is this the man who calls my darling wife?" "Your darling," sneered Ralph Mortimer, in his brutal triumph. *' Did you think she ever cared for you, She only amused herself with you, and laughed to me over your boorish fondness," FACE ^3 p^\(>g^ 8i "Ralph Mortimer," said the young man in a low steady voice; "I have said it before and I say it again, you he." ^ Mortimer turned contemptuously aside. "Av but I am richly repaid to-day, I would not have missed meeting you here for a hundred guineas. lU.t remember, the next time you impertinently intru.ie J<pon the mistress of The Holt, I shall not be so ement with you. I .ay, don't forget my hint about the dog. You might find him an unpleasant acciuaintance." ^ In one moment Jamie Duncan's self-control was flnng to the wm<ls. He caught the whip from Mortimer's hand, and with all the force of his sfron.; right arm, brought it across the dastard face. And Kalph Mortimer carried thu mark of that stroke with him to the grave. >^ it^ CHArrKR XIV. THE LAST OF THE HAMH/IONS. ir 'WO yonrs nftcr. Tiiiie is ;i wondorful physician, l)nt there nre sores wliich even he cannot heal. Ontu.inllv, i/o there was not much change in the iinnates of the farm-house at The Mains, The poor old fallier anil n\other ])uried their grief very dee]), hut the heart knoweth its own bitterness. Beyond what Jamie Duncan had to tell wlien he come home from lM\uland, nolhiuL; had been heard of Li/; ie. llcr name was seldom mentioned in the house, but there were a thousand things which daily reminded them of the child they had lost. Little things — the poultry in the farmyard, wailing for her to iced them — the t)ld pony who used to tollow her everywhere, standing at the fence whiimying for the sound of iier voice and the touch o\' her hand— the neglected garden — the emj^ty roi)m — the dreary stillness in the house ; — these things broke the mother's heart every d.iy. And at the end of the years the sorrow was as deep as al the beginning, and more hopeless. We think it is a bitter grief io lay a h)ViHl one m the grave, but there are things worse tlian death. At Lea Rig abode Jamie Ouncan in his loneliness. He was changed. His work was well and faithfully done as it IkuI been, and his oj)inion carried weight among liis neighbours, though ♦iiey shook their heads, saying it was not good to see so old a head on young TIIF, I-ASf OF TIIF. HAMnTONS. 83 in vr Ml ly. as is tre It s, shoulders. At six-nnd-lvventy ho was ,1 ^rnvo, scdatr, nii(l(lle-agc(l man, with a incniorv in Ins li'art which time would never dim. The years passed over The l,imi without l)rin,i;in^ any material ehanL^'e in tlunr tr.un. The gossips were busy, as of yore, but Lizzio Falconer's llii^ht had ^iven place loiit^ since to the ever fresh tales from (llentarne. Jasper Hamilton had added the sin of drunkenness to his other mis- deeds, and he turned the home of his ancestors into a very Hades. His fits of drunken fury were frequent and terrn)le. The servants told lunv my lady was olten obliged to lock herself in her own rooms for days at a time, in absolute fear of her life. Maud MortiuRT had paid dearly for the name <,nd pr)sition she had won. lUit was she huinbled ? Ten times iiaughtier and more scornful than of yore. No child- ren had been born to them, for whi( h, in her far off Sussex home, Jas|)er Hamilton's mother was humbly thankful. A child of such parents would not be likely to do much honour to the house of Hamilton — better, far better, the name should die with her own unworthy son. J between ten an(i eleven o'clock on a fair Se|)tember morning, Jasper Hamilton and his wife were idling over their breakfast table. Regally beaut ilul was my lady, and faultless her attire. Not so her husband; careless even to slovenliness in his dress, his figure looked its worst, while the antutnn sunshine lay mercilessly bright upon his effeminate face, with its coarse sensual mouth, and bleared unsteady eyes. *' Jasper," said her ladyship, coolly, " 1 don't mean to spend another winter in these backwoods. Next month 1 intend to go to the Continent, returning in the spring." " buited! You seem to have it all laid out. And what if 1 object?" incjuired bir Jasper. ■■ Hf f''i 84 THK LAST OF THE HAMIT.TONS. w i v. " S(inie ]icop1e never learn," returned lier Indyship cniL;inatic;illy. " Do I generally give U}) my i)leasurc when you express disapproval?" *' No," replied her husband with an oath, to which she was too well accustomed to heed; "but I'm going to be^in anew, and make you obey me, madam." 1-ady Hamilton laughed — the quiet, insulting laugh which nearly drove him mad. "'loo late in the day, ///on a//ii" she said carelessly. "You don't make Glentarne so agreeable that I should care to stay in it for ever. Ivook at yourself, Jasper, in the mirror there, and tell mc if you are fit to be seen; if you won't stoj) that horrible drinking, I warn you what the end will be. Doctor Forbes told me yesterday you would not last long at the rate you are going just now." " So you have been consulting Forbes as to t1ie probability of your speedy release," he said, snec U!;.;ly. " But rU outwit you and him too, yet. I'm not ready to depart, even to please such disinterested friends." " I wonder the letters are never coming," said her ladyship, with a careless yawn. " Eleven o'clock, is'nt it? There ought to be one from Rai|}h, this morning. By the by, I'll need a cheque one of dicj>e days. I've hardly a copj)er left." '* Why, I gave you f.wv pounds scarcely a week ago, Maud," £ id her husbr'.id rising from the; table. " And I don't mean to give you another j)cnny for a month at least. You waste more in a month than my mother needed for her own use in a year." " Possibly," said her ladyship, rising also. " But there is a slight difference. Another thing too," she added, pausing at the door, " I need a new horse. That iDrute Chevalier threw me yesterday, and then went over a bank and cut his knees, I think the groom said." THE LAST OF TUK HAMII.TONS. 8S •k a lut lie Ic Ml he " What right liad you to mount Chevalier?" askc(] Sir Jasper, angrily. '' 1 forbade you already. VViiat laiili have you to your own mare." " Too slow for me," reiurin-' her ladyshiji, coolly. *' I wrote to Benson yesterday, though, to send me on a good rider. 1 expect him to-uiorrow, that's what I wanted the checpie for, if you are anxious to learn." Another oath broke from Sir Jasjjer's lips. " I'll tell you what it is, Maud," he said passionately. *' I can't afford to keej) you in such extravagance. If the beast conies, I'll send him back to Jk-nson, and tell him not to fulfil any orders you may favour him with. Since you have rendered Chevalier useless, you can ride your own mare, or walk." Very jiale grew my lady in her angry passion. " licnson knows, I fancy," she said coolly, "which of us to obey. And you have small need to talk of extravagance. How many horses do you use up in a } ear. The new one you brought home the other day v/ould not cost less than a hundred." "I only got him on trial, but I haven't mounted him yet. And he is only to cost eighty i)ounds." "Humph ! plenty I think. 1 winildn't mount him, and fear isn't one of my characteristics. The groom says he is as full of vice as he can be." Jasper Hamilton laughed. " He's as quiet as a lamb. I'm goin;^ to drive him to D this morning; will you come?'* My lady looked surprised. It was self n, indeed, her husband expressed even so slight a (i>..5ire for her company. " No, thanks ;" she said, " I haven i a horse I would ride into town, and my habit i?^ ;n tatters with the fall I got ; so I will wish you good .nurning and a safe journey." From her dressing-room window, half an hour later, •^A 1 ttr t f^l t't 1 iir t» \'^ni inNq. lU n. 11 ini to Miicf iM lin ini :iil?.n." 'ihi- tti I ■««l •.1)<- llnno h( I'U'll on •» i I'li* h ■ml .>i<i ui il i I i. m h i^o\ I 1 \ \\ M \\ A- l\i'\v 1 -iilv I I tnnlliMl {"'li- i iM^ ;p. m( ]\. 1 nii>\nin'i<< Mi. honn ".y,,\ ' ''U ji'ini ,\\,\ \\,\\ np]M n lo Itim hron ti lu' Ivwl jMiMntril. !mi) lii'i \\\\<' \ li no ••-nipnoc 1'nl uhi-n ll\r lUnni t luxn ippton |»c(| rt\><l hr X\:t'> ••.nil :tl>''.iMn. A \ \{\\\r ni)\u' of uin l':inr';t< I 1 . iM o< 1 1 Mil >\\r \\ :\n \\\ hi 1 ihc'viinf tonni 'MC'itlv nl'li-i -^.iN : w niinii mImI. Iwi tntid imm ■» f.w hni'ihiMM ItMii hf"*-. to the lit < nil oil t . > Men h'H ■h ho;Hii .1 fpi It lo\nnlo1\,^M ni tlv hill Ohi \ imi h< t un<^1t ('^'■^ Inniiiil onhi. ihr nvttil ll'-w to ilit! ovft it*? r,1\\<ir Ihtt hili ih (■'-.■■.ril ■A'i ^\yr \\:\'X. M;inil IoiImmiiI hoV. f\\\A \rA\\\\\',\ iM(i the h limit :lilr, -i.tw ;1 |Moii|i ni ^tv,1r^ur t^irn i ntNtnji ^ontnhtt^!) l»-i\^.in tin m th" pt^^<;tt•.H<^ U'*^^\^ iM \\r\ hw^A^AwA '^hnilih nni'. "slii' < i. pt ivM k tx' hv\ «1n^-'';ttui t'Vnn. :ttt(' ln;t«Ml»M| wlnln the 1[n\i\v tt^^1M r.itiu" no-itrt .nvl i\(':n«M 1' vi»li'ntl\ tin v ^> rnr 1.l)vn\vi lnn> to hns o>- n o>m\ loom It nn^ hi ho tX>T*M\ tAnnni-^ hinno n n.innr • tntc to hnil; the l^(^M-«5 li- hi i. tin t> thr hon.i Kv rprt int. n-d mnl toM hot ^«"'^^ tt v\;i^ " 1( h.lppoi'.. ,^ ot^ (hr \\:\\ hottti . \u\ l:1ilv."' -^^ho *ifku\, "Tot hr \\ A'i <;tNn lornttt*) thr lowtt :\\\ tij'ht Sot\>r > on p:i*';tn<^ <oint\i hnn l\ni;i .tt i> hnli>«' ^nlo msonsthlo. n\\y\ tho ttjiht lo!^ t5 InoKott \\r h.tti lo;! »-otttnM o>ot ti>r .mti\);il. lho> ^WppO"?!*, :1t\«i h;1(l h. . n th\\^\^n. U«- 1^ rthxo >ot..nui tho (loi lot ]\:A9 hi rn yon for. Will v«M\ m> ro Stt j.i'^not. nt\ l.tih " "N«\" «t,lui )lOt tlMslti^-^s, »1r» t«i(^11v. "lit i>ol\ i^t'.ni i^r viv'>i"io th.U n^ \1(N-oss;u\ till thi Poi loi . .nnos. ''f* V' >>x «>t hi* ,in'\,ii, \ ^M^!\ to soo hnt\. Sond I o; V, i.r .-^ oo'> »v; tx\-^ lo \^\<^ 1 <o\l \ « \\ t.wtU 1\^ >5 rOtOt ho5 r^l^n^^^ aw ho\n l.ttot. awA went I III I AM Ml 1(11 II AMU innn. ^1 nh.'lif'ltl I" ill'' iiijiiK (I tiriii I.M'lv ( f 'ifriili'iri rri'l liini ♦ Ml \\\r hiiulllif l; If ' nil' <ii|l fi" tin, 'ind li' ifl ffiiri llit« lip" llrit llici'- ni'! iin Ihi(i<' nl li'r liii ;|i i ik I': f ♦ iurl\ lli'! \n'i\\ rv' ; t^iw lli" »;iir|f|fn liclil I' i|t iiil't li'-i':. •Mill IIk- ImmI- III ii |i.( wlin li I f'l-. ;"'! fli'> Iriii' M' 'III'' ft' I h \\\K V\< V f'» <;'•»• wli'it \v:\n II <|i ":n ' III llii'! v^ Mtii'Ui''; If ii I ' Vmi v\ill I >> II" Ml' , I liM|ii', \\ \ t!iiff(f».c,f firit f.riMy irMinllMll Mlll'lll 1(1 |m MIIMI' llirif I\' ':'-Mf f'if." ||f f,M I «|Mli'llv h (ill t'! |i' r:';l|i|c ^^\\ | I';) m I MI'I \ U •I I W'l-I f ( ill ';i i> iil'!l|i';'! I « '11111111 '■"i\'. lull III :iiiy ffiqf* q||f> niii-lif |m III' III ii' I nil Mil rin' vviy |(i llic town Ml |ir' :< ril, •jllrlll I f rli r I 1 1 ill i' " " N i». I Ii I lli \ i.ll. I Imi |m| I' ' .1 I m " f I |ili(-f IIi'T I I'I y filliji. i( il\ " I ':li;ill (l( [iilili ;i ('t'lMfii Mriiri((||;tl»|^. ( Jitiiij r\ iiiiiij' " ( iMiiil r\ rliiii!', Im'Iv I I'MiiiIImM," f'|ili''| lli" I'l'ilm, « Mill I 'iiir I V. 'MI'I MPMii lliM'iM Mf'M' liiii(i; fyf-q |i<m|'"I ril lirl ';i» l<(iiilv, lli'il <;li'' \v;i ; J'Ji'l wli' li li" \\;l'; (M»nr ll in'i\ Ji'Mc lircii (i II I" l(iiliif";((^ |iiit i|<t jifdofri wrm RiMil l<» M III ll iiij'Jil. Ih'r I;hIv''Iii|i flirrfj If? IcnI lii'luiiM 1(11 Mii'l «'lpvf'H. himI tiif liMim»'l<''''(> r K;|| iImwm Ml Sll I 'Mili'-l''! |i'«I;m|i" Im Wil'li Mi'l W'lif. SliiMllv mIIci iiiifliiiilil. iIm iiik 'III',' I'll!'; tn in lnrri'*'! niii'.'i'iilv, !'it(l 'ill" miw In; Iim'; iiiMvr. I!' ii'l Imt' over IlilM. llir (.'lilliliil '^cill III' 'I lo » 'il» ll flic will ;(!' f'l wmkIs. Ill' ImmIm'iI ;ii |i(-( ( ,i)4cfly, with th"(|f;af li^lit of l'(M'i»!MMl iM|i ill lim rycK. '' I I MM Mil, III i tllV lll'i'll'f IirfMI ';' III f'lf r*" " N<». Sll |:is|ir? I 'iiiiil;" I'l \\rr |,l(|yslil(t ,'ili'iilt i*, l»ul she s;nil llirrr w;is ii" iM'cssily y I ; .'iii'l I f'dil'j wnM iIm ii nl tuy Mwn ;h » mkI " pM 1 1 iiMw, llit'ii." 1 1' oil!, willi ffv'ci mil im[Mii''ri' '*, " ttiimriji.iicly, witlioiil rt iMoiiHMirs fjcliy. 'I (jli her I mil (lyiii^ " i 8 a THF. LAST OF IHF. M MM I ! IONS. "( Ml, Sir f.'isprt " 'rinMP u-rtr ir;ns ifi ll)r uo!ii;M)'ft eyes MS slio hiinud Ijoin tli*^ nxun 1<» do his l.tddiiii;. Thr (i(Mf«it IciumI the liiil ilncud of Hfr wonlil sii.'ip biltMt' th<' iiiolhrr t;Miu\ ImiI ihfihiii^ ticiii < liint; lo It with '.Ml h irn.'n ilv th.ti h>' w;is .\\\\v whm tin- r;ini,)!',o dtove np in thr dour <im the" rvcinii^ of the SiToni 1 .1 IV ;iii\ (' but iio lUOIC Iti her l.wotii itc Miiittidc. Icinni}^ (M;1( rhillv ;iu;iiiist the mnthlf in;\ttl('l. with hvv \v\\v\ vohc swiM-pini; th(» hr.Htlmi};, was M;iud I l.uniUon Jiwailiti); \\v\ hiislMiid's motl KT. "Tell l,;idv Unniihoti 1 .-nv.iit hvv hi the diiiiti<4 TO(>i\i." slio h,td said to the siiv.itits, and \vhi't» iht* ratiiai;r whnhMi ttp, she ttniicd h(-i r\(-s oxprc taiitly U> the d(M)i. ]\v\ iiK'ssage liad hrcn faiihtiiHv do- livorod. but the stately fij^inc m its soinbte uido\v*s weeds passeil the <iiiitiig tooin without even a f;laiuc through tlie opeti door, ami went straight upstairs to luT son. The housekeeper left tlie rootn when ^hc entcre«t. onlv, m passing, slie eanglit the sUnder jrloveii hand and pvesr-ed it ]Mssiotia!ely to lier hps. Then slie shut the door, and lady llannlton fell on her knees at the bedside, with a gnat ery — a rry whieh Mand Hamilton I'.eaid in the eoiridor. and ^ven .v/r dared not intnuh There were tears in jasper HaniiUon's poor dun eyes, and he t<nielied his mother's hands as it it eonilorteii hiin as it nsrd tt) do in his ehihlish davs. She liltevi his |>ale tare to licrs and kissed linn, witli a kiss wlii« h lilotted out all remenibiance of the jiast. No need for the weak penitent lips io ask foigiveness, for there was nothing but love in his mother's faee. CX this mighty mother's love ; there Cioi \ h \s e !!:■ none other like unto it on earth, for osen to compare it with His own. There were no words sjuiken — none were needecl — till the door opened, and Maud came in. There was an odd iMK i.A^r or I UP. FfAMirroNji. 80 rx^lI^t;^l()n of prido .'if)rl flrfiiinrr in flip bpniififiil fnrc, !uhI v I a slimier yfnrnin'^ look in lirr «l;itk ryes. SI \r uts Ji w n»n;ui ;iflrr nil, .'iMfl flwTP w.is a yji-vn spot Imldrn jnvnv somrwiirtp in lirr lirnrf. " 'litis la M.'Mid, tnollirt," said llir sick man in a flint voicp. and n red llnsli tnoMnlfd to liis < hcrk a'l Mf saw Ins innlln't risr fo f;M v lirt, Tl ]r'\i^ f\v(» M'ini'-n \v»i(* liMHud lo liun l»v till' ri'aKsf and dearest firt?, and V'' '"' trmilijiMJ lo src Hi' in nc ft \V latcvr Ins nHtlJK r niav li;i\c felt, 'ilir liid it ucll, and slic liMK IumI tl\r li;ind licr d;tii!',lit<i m law olJcrt'd Iht, dmnrli ihrrc; was no s?nili' npnn Im r (a<c. " \ (III \\c\o riidit altoni tin- I m I'.t. M.md," said |as[irr. " It li;is don«' for inc. I'ctliajis il iH the best tiling tliiil ninld liavo li;ipp('nc(l." Ilnsi I, niv ?ion. His niodirr's cool soft li.ind foiu lird iiis iifi?], and slio dirw a rhair « lost- to Ins bedside, turning her far o Ik nil his wile. What liiid come ovir /v/ now ? lit r fare w.is pale, and lur li|»s (jiiiverin^, and there was soniethmj; like tears in her eyes. Her jewelled hand fell on the elder woman'?! shoulder, and she said "Ladv Hamilton, wont yon say one kind vvt>rd to ffrr f [ am jasper's wile." i'nt before t'lC astonishetl lady could make reply, the qneenly h^nrc had Inirri'rl from the room, as it ashamed of \\vt impetuous words. And just then a sudden pain caused a low moan f(; escape the sullerer's hps, and his mother had to ring for assistance, and so she hjrL;ot Maud. At davliMik Jasper Hamilton turned upon his side, and died as peaccliilly as a child wiiild fall asleep. Only his niother was with him when the end came. He was the last of his race. ilcncclorfh the house of I lannhon would be an existein c of the past, and (ilcn- tariH^ the inhcritanee of stian^cr^. \n ill CHAPTER XV. THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYON. BURING the dreary days interveninf; between the death and the funeral these two lonely women might have comforted one another. >- 13ut Lady Hamilton was cold and distant in her demeanour to her daughter-in-law, and, as may bij imagined, Maud was ready to resent it bitterly. 'I'licre was an indefinable change in Maud Hamilton. It might be only the natural outcome of the shock caused by the suddenness of her bereavement, and the solemnity of death in the house, but certain it w^as that much of her haughty manner had disappeared. It was noticed quickly enough by the servants. The housekeeper commented on it to her old mistress, but she listened scarcely heeding. It was a mistake ; she might have shown a If' ,le more kind- ness and sympathy with her son's wiu -^w. She was not unfeeling, as we know, but there was a sore, bitter feeling in her heart against her which she might have tried to overcome. She did not guess how Maud's heart was yearning towards her; she did not know how often she was very near seeking her, and begging again for a kind word. And so the days dragged their weary lengths along until the day appointed for the funeral. It was a large one, for Sir Jasper was well known, and many who had known him in life were anxious to pay the last tribute to his memory. THE CARRIAGK FOR MISS KENYON. 9» It rained heavily all afternoon. Lady Hamilton kept her own room, and so dul Maud, yet eacli was in the other's thoughts when the procession moved away, bearing Jasper Hamilton to his last resting l)lace. Between tour and five, the Keiiyons were surprised to see the Glentarne carriage drive up to the gate of tlie schoolhouse. It was empty,, but *^e coachman brought a note for Miss Kenycn. Sue broke the seal, -and read it, then, without comment, handed it to her brother, and hastily drank the tea left in her cup. It was from Mauii, and ran as follows : — "I am in great trouble, Sara; and I think if I cannot speak to some one I shall die. My husband's mother will not see me. If you can forgive the [wst, come to me. I know I am asking a great deal, but I cannot help it — something makes me send for you; oh, do come." Christopher looked up, and met his sister's eyes. ** You will go, Sara, of course," he said, as if there could not be a shadow of doubt about it. " Yes," replied Miss Kenyon, gravely. " She is in trouble ; and we must not be unforgiving." The schoolmister came round to his sister, and kissed her. She understood him, and with a halt sad, half happy smile, looked up into his face. " It is what our mother would have me to do, Kit. I can remember her lessons yet." Then she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went out to the carriage. To say that there was amazement on the coachman's face weakly describes its expression. Sara leaned back among the cushions, marvelling much that Maud Hamilton should have written so humble a letter to her. But she marvelled more when she was shown ud into the luxurious dressing £1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) i.O bilM |25 ■^ l&i 12.2 11.25 Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WiST MAIN STRIIT WEBSTIR.N.Y. USM (716)872-4503 ^ il u t i I ■ 92 THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENVON. room and saw her. She was sitting, with her white hands clasped upon her heavy widow's dress, and her eyes bent upon the fire. And when Miss Kenyon came to her, and said gently — •' I am here, Lady Ilamilion ; I am sorry for your trouble," the very sound of her voice broke her down utterly, and she cried like a child. I believe it was the first lime since her childish days. Miss Kenyon stood beside her puzzled how to act. ** Will you sit down, please," said Maud at length, very hutnbly. *' I want to talk to you." Sara took a chair opposite her, and waited for her to begin. "In the first place, Sara, I want to ask you to forgive me for my part in the past. Can you ever do it?" " I have done it long ago," replied Miss K enyon, in a low voice. "Let your mind be at rest on that point." " I am ashamed to see you sitting there when I remember it," went on Maud, in the same humble voice. "I have been ashamed to think of it many limes. O Sara, I am very wretched !" The proud head bent low on her hands, and her voice was broken by sobs. •* I have been a wicked woman, but I have been punished for it, for in all my life I cannot remember one happy dav. My mother died when I was a child, Sara, and I was left in Ralph's care. If he had been a good man, I miuht have been different; but liis example and his lite, you know what they would be for a young girl who had not even the memory of a mother's teaching to guide her. Our father was an ("dicer ir; the army, but he died when I was only a few weeks old. Ralph inherited all his wild, sinful nature ; and his aim was to get through life as easily THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYOM. 91 and as pleasantly as possible. We were left with a small portion, sufficient for our boy and girl needs ; but when Ralph grew up he was wildly extravagant, and was never out of debt. He was proud of me, and i was useful to him, so he kept me with him, and took me abroad with him. You know he was a frequenter of the gaming table, and was generally \n huk, although he sometimes lost largely. It was the easiest way of earning a livelihood, and suited his taste. At Homburg we met Jasper one year, and, knowing his weak, yielding nature, Ralph easily got him into his power. O Sara, I am ashamed to remember how often Ralph induced him to play! He was no match for Raij^h, and he won thousands from him. He had a fancy for me from the first ; and, to please Ralph, for I was afraid of him then, I encouraged it, till he made me an offer. I accepted him — a man whom I despised, I almost hated — simply for his possessions and the home he could give me ; and I knew I should never get so brilliant a chance, for not one of those I flirted with would have married me, and I knew it. But I have been punished for it, for often since I came to Glen- tarne 1 have wished myself dead, so utter was my misery." She paused, and Miss Kenyon spoke, in a low pitying voice, "I am very sorry for you, Lady Hamilton." " I don't deserve it, Sara," she sobbed. " Tell me again you have forgiven me for the past ; I can never forgive myself." '* Yes, I forgive you freely, as I hope to be forgiven," repeated Miss Kenyon. " I only want to ask one question, and then the past must be buried for ever Will you answer it ?" " If I can — willingly." ■•■■V.l 94 THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYON. " What — what was the crime my father spoke of? Was he guilty, do you know ?'' Maud Hamilton's face grew crimson in its sh..me. " It was forgery ! and, but for my brother, it would never have been committed, l^ was he who urged him to it." For one brief moment Sara Kenyon hid her face, then she rose, and came near to Lady Hamilton, and laid iicr hand upon her shoulder. "Now we will talk of yourself You say your husband's mother will not see you. Do you know why?" " I deserve her scorn ; but it is none the less hard to bear. O Sara, I wish I was a good woman." "You may be," said Miss Kenyon, gently. "Live to prove it Lady Hamilton used to be a kind-hearted woman ; go to her, and try to make friends with her. She would not repulse you." Maud shook her head. " I fear she would, and I am so proud yet, Sara, I cannot force myself upon her ; but I could love her if ahe would let me, and she could teach me to be good." Sarah Kenyon thought a moment. " If you will take my advice, go to her and tell her what you have told me. I am very hopeful of the result." "It will need to be to-night, then, for she leaves Glentarne to-morrow." " Let it be now," urged Miss Kenyon. " I must go. I am thankful now that I came, Lady Hamilton, if I have done you the smallest good." "You are an angel, Sara," returned the humbled beauty. " I believe there is not another woman like you on earth." Then she touched the bell, and ordered the carriage for Miss Kenyon. THE CARRIAGE FOR MISS KENYON. 95 Sara tied on her bonnet, and held out her liand, with a sliL;lu smile. "Good-bye, Lady Hamilton. I am glad we part friends a.^ain." But Maud did not touch the offered hand. " Won't you kiss me, Sara?" she said wistfully. "It is so lonu' since I heard a kind word from anybody." Miss Kenyon "Pushed to the roots of the hair, but she did not refuse the request. " God bless you. Lady Hamilton," she said earnestly. "And I hope you will find in the future the peace and happiness denied you in the past" Then she went away. • «•«•• Three days later, a carnage from Glentarne came again to the schoolhouse. Its occu|)ant was the younger Lady Hamilton, and she stayed with Miss Kenyon for half-an-hour. She had acted, upon her advice, and had come to tell her that henceforth her home was to be with her husband's motiier. "She Las been so good to me, Sara," she said brokenly. " I lold her everything, and she treated me like a daughter of her own. With her 1 think I shall learn to be a good woman, and I owe it all to you. As long as I live, I shall never forget thau" And she never did. i?' I w CHAPTER XVr. THE BEATING OF THE STOKM. fEANWHILE, how fared it with Lizzie Falconer Let us see. Four o'clock on a dull February afternoon, g, ^j; Lowering clouds overhangint; the city, and a chill wind moaning through the trees in Hyde Park. Walking restlessly up and down one of the broad walks, a woman with a baby in her arms. She was well diessed, and looked like a lady. Her figure was slight and delicate, and her face was pale, yet so lovely that passers-by looked at it in wonder. Up and down, up and down, with a red spot burning on either cheek, and a wild fever at her heart. Shall I tell you what it was? Jealousy! And it is cruel as the grave. Suddenly the woman pressed her baby closer to her breast, and with a strange tightening of her lips, looked in the distance. Leisurely approaching was a gentle- man, handsome, and nearly middle-aged, with a young timid girl upon his arm. She had a sweet fair face and innocent brown eyes, which were bent upon the ground. Her companion was talking rapidly, with a smile on his face, which was faintly reflected on the girl's lips. As they drew near, the woman with the baby slipped behind a tree, as if to escape observa- tion. But when they were close to her she stepped out, and cast one switt steady look into the gentleman's face. His grew livid; yet he turned to his companion, whose eyes had not been raised from the ground; and THE BEATING OF THE STORM. 97 the woman with the baby passed on. As she went through the park gales, the first drops of the coming storm began to fall, and a shiver ran through the dehcate frame. She was far from liome, and had money enough in her pocket to ])rocure conveyance, yet possessed with a wikl unrest, slie went her way on foot. The sloejjing child lay heavily in her arms, and when at length she reached her destination, she was scarcely able to sustain her own weight. It was a quiet street, and the houses were mostly the better class of boarding-houses. Everyone was full, for the locality was genteel, and was conveniently near the city's centre for business men. When the woman knocked at one of the doors, it was opened by a maid servant, neat and even stylishly dressed. •' La ! Mrs. Mortimer," she exclaimed, "where 'ave you been out in all the rain ; couldn't you get a 'bus or a 'ansom." *' Plenty of them, but I preferred walking," returned the woman wearily, as she crossed the threshold; "1 am very tired, will you please send up tea immediately." " Will Mr. Mortimer be home, ma'am ?*' enquired the girl. *' No ! Tea for one," returned Mrs. Mortimer so sharply that the girl looked in amazement at her as she turned and went up stairs ; and immediately de- parted below to inform her fellows that the first floor had been quarrelling again. There was a cheery fire burning in the sitting room on the first floor, and the dreary twilight was deepening into darkness. Mrs. Mortimer sat down at the fire, and took off her baby's outer dress, then, carrying him into the adjoining bedroom, laid him in his crib. He was still sleeping soundly. A beautiful child he was, and startlingly like his mother She kissed him once in an unusual sort of way, and then G 1 9« THK. lUMINC. OF nil- STORM, t;»kini; off Ium own \\c\ Imnnct ;\iul simwl, wnit h.ick |.> iho siuinu room, -^'h' loaiird oiu* ;nm on ilu* tniOitcl, and bent hrr «'vrs npon tlir (ire. I lor «lrrss It'll \\\ luMvy lt»Ms abtnit [Uc slon«l<'r li^nri-. and tlu* shonKlcrs tlroojXNl a Imlc, as if ilurc was a bunii n thorc. She did noi lonk like a hap])v woman. Tlu' lines aboni the month were loo satily njarked, and llu! Iu)nme eyes had lost much ot their brightness. Anil there \vas a strani; ■ gravity alH)nt her whieh laz/ie Vahoner had never possessed. As she looked into the glowing fire, great tears gathered in her eves, and fell one by one, but she brnshed them <jnn kly awav, lor the girl entered with the tea tray. And she sat down and tric«l to cat. She was tilling with her seeond enp when the door opened, atui a gentleman eamc in — the same she had met in the al'ternoon. He was angry, and she knew It, and at tirst did not lift her eyes to his (are. He ^tro^^e into the bedroom, looked at the slee|>ing child, then eame baek, closing the tloor behind him. *• Will you have some tea, Rali)h ?" Her voice was calm and steady, but it had a strange Lard ring in it. •• What were you doing in the Park this afternoon ?" he asked quietly, yet she knew the passion beneath that subdued voice. She rose and looked at him, the firelight shining full upon her face. It was strangely resolute. ♦* I went, Ralph," she said, " to watch you." " You did," he sneered. ** Well, 1 hope you were rewarded for your pains." She pressed her hand to her heart, and spoke again very rapidly. *' I will tell you all the truth, because I would scorn to hide it. It is long since I knew you had tired of me, your wife ; but it is only since we came to London i TIIK IIKATINU of IMF. SiOKM. 99 th;it I Imvr siis|)(Tto(l you g.'ivc yonr love and jUfcn- lioii t'lscwlRTC. I he R»is|)i( ion ;^rcvv till it I)1(miiu.* a rcit.iiiiiy ; I watrhcd for the proof 1 w.uitcd, ami s.iid iinil)iM|4 until I found it ycsttiday in ilie iioic yon ran lossly kit in yonr dressing room. That was what took tnc to the I'ark to-day, so that I might icll you that I knew." "And what thru?" There was a nio( king smile upon R;d[)h Morliiner'.s lips, and the words were jestingly spoken. •' You ask me, what then?" reiterated la/zic, [>as- sionately. " You took me from my hcjine, Kalph, where I was hap|)y till I met you. I ^-^ve up all .til, (Jod hel|) me I for you, and I have tried to he a ^ood wife to you. Have I ever complained of y«)ur nc^lec t, of your daily increasing unkindness? Have 1 ever answered your bitter words as I might have done? I have borne it all, as the just punishment for the suflering I knew I left behind me. But till to-day I have not known all the bitterness in store for me." *• Very pathetic," repeated Ralph Mortimer, with the same look and tone, "You say I took you from your home. Cast your memory back, and tell mc if I found you unwilling to go." She stood still, her hands clasped, no sound escap- ing her lii)S. Not yet had she grown so accustomed lo his insulting words as to hear them unmoved. •' Ralph," she said ; then, very wearily, "have you given the heart you used to say was mme, to the girl 1 met you with to-day. Ralph Mortimer laughed. " It is as much hers as it ever was yours," he said, carelessly ; "and she amuses me as you did." A crimson wave swept across Lizzie's face. " You are speaking to your wife, Ralph," she said with proud dignity. I! ! 1' III' ,1,1 lOO THE HEATING OF THE STORM. "Ay ! or you tlnnk so!" he replied ; and there was a significance in his tones she could not but observe. "I think so? What do you mean?" Tlie words fell low and trembling from her lips. " l-)on't ask (juestions, if you are wise," he said calmly. "The answers are frequently unpleasant." She moved nearer to him, a great horror seizing on her heart. " Ralph," she said, " tell me what your words ineant. If it was a cruel jest, say so. " Don't bother," he said rudely. " Give me some tea ; 1 am going out ai^ain." She took no heed of his words. "Tell me what you meant," she said steadily. " I was married to you; I remember it well. Why should you speak as if there was a possibility of doubt ?" For a moment he hesitated, but, pondering that the truth would need to be told some time, he answered her questions, with his eyes averted from her face. " You are not my wife, Lizzie," he said. " The marriage was not legal ; I can prove it to you if you will. See, I warned you not to ask unpleasant ques- tions. There is no need to make a fuss. I don't mean to desert you if you choose to stay." Fuss I never was word so needlessly applied. Save for the close pressure of the grave lips, and the con- traction of the white brows as if in pain, there was no sign that she heard or comprehended" his words. There are moments of agony so intense that the very life blood seems to be stilled in the veins. Siie uttered not one word. Moving to her old place at the fire, she turned her eyes to its glowing depths, an icy hand clutching at her heart Ralph Mortimer caught up his hat, and left the house. For a long time Lizzie remained as he had left her. The fire was dying in the grate, only a red glow played about THF. BEATING OF THE ST^RM. 101 her fc"t, and dimly on her face. Suddenly she fell ii|)(»n ihc hearth, with her white face hidden, and a l«>ii;^ stilled cry broke from her lips. And she did not rise until the servant's stej) soumled on the stair, t!ien she went into the bedroom, and shut the door. The noise aroused the sleeping child, and he sat up in his crib, stretching out his arms to be lifted. For the first time in his short life his mother did not come to him. She opened the wardrobe, and took from it an old shabby dress, plainly made, and a hat and shawl she hau not worn for many a day. These she put on. The baby watched her, wonderment on his face, till she took him up in a swift, sudden way, and without a word spoken, dressed him also. That done, she took a scrap of paper, and wrote upon it with a pencil: — " I am going from you, taking my child with me. I have no message to leave, except that God may forgive you for what you have done. In time, perhaps, He may lead me to forgive you, too. Only one thing I have to say, if there be one tender memory of your mother in your heart, for her sake, spare the poor young girl I met you with to-day. That we may never meet again on earth is the only prayer of this crushed and broken heart." She laid it on the dressing table, and taking the child in her arms passed out of the room. Down stairs witii swift noiseless step, and out into the street. Out into the storm and pitiless rain, with notliing in the witie world she could call her own but the baby at her , breast. And in a far-off Scottish home, a mother was pray- ing for the child she never hoped to see again on earth. And the storm grew fiercer and fiercer, and the moaning rain wept in the street 11^ 1^ I 1^ Mi ml M 9 : \' CIIAPTKR XVIL CUKISTMAS EVE. <K9 "Yes. Sara." A.\ •• 'l"hi)iii;h we have (^i\ I have never gr^wn lived here so long now, accustonuMi to the way Scotch pt'ople ignore Christmas. In Kiigland to-night lliere will be rejoicing everywhere. 1 wish I couKi hear one peal of bells above the storm ; it would make nie fancy myself a chikl again." They were in their sitting room, the brother and sister, with their chairs drawn close to the hearth. Miss Kenyon's head was leaning on her hand, and there was a dreamy look upon her face, as if memories thronged about her heart. " Suppose you go up and ring a peal from the church tower, dear," said the schoolmaster, touching her brown head in his gentle way. " The custom only needs a beginning." " The good people would think I had taken leave of my senses," returned Miss Kenyon with a low laugh. " Kit, what's that 1 Was it a knock at the door?" " Only the wind rattling the garden gate, I thii'k, Sara," was the reply. "It hangs loosely on its hingts. It is a fearful storm." Ay, so it was. The wind shrieked and howled in its mad fury, whirling the falling snowflakes into a blinding maze, CHRISTMAS EVE. «03 and piling up drifts level with the hedges at cvrrv ro.'ulsuic. Surh a storm had not hccn known in Tlio Linn, even in the njcin<»ry of the oldest uiliahifnnt. ** M.iry aiul her hushand c;dle<l for a lew nnniilrs this afternoon, Kit. I lor^ot to tell you," said Miss Kenvon, after a moment's silence. ** 'i hey were dnvini^ from 1> . I low careful he is of her. 'I'liey are very haj)|)y." " Let us he thankful for it, Sara," said the school- master, chcerluliy. " Vou are cryin,', dear; what is it?" She brushed the bright drops from her eyes, and looked up with her brave smile. *• Don't think I am selfish, or grud;;e them it. Kit," she said, laying her head down on his arm. "Some- times I am very foolish, 1 know; but 1 am only a woman. Kit, and a weak one." " A weak one !" interrupted her brother, touching her forehead with his lips. "If you are weak, who ;s strong, 1 wonder?" ** Only a woman, then. Kit," she said, smiling slightly, though her eyes were dim. "And 1 cann(*t quite forget — forget, you know wiiat." She spoke hurriedly now, and her voice was very low. "It is foolish, is it not, to think about what is so long gone, and can never be part of my life again ?" " Not foolish, dear — very natural," returned the schoolmaster. " You " " Kit, there is some one knocking at the door," interrupted Miss Kenyon, starting up. "I heard it quite distinctly." She kit the room, and opened the outside door, to find a woman standing on liie step, covered with snow from head to foot. "Can I speak to you for a few minutes, please?" she said in a low, mullled voice, whicii Sara did not recognise. I04 CHRISTMAS EVE. .;v «'t. "Come in," she said quickly. "You must have come far. Surely it is urgent need that brings you out of doors on such a night." The woman stepped within the door, and pushing back her bonnet, turned her face to the light. *' Miss Kenyon, don't you know me." Sara Kenyon looked a moment wonderingly at the pile haggard face, at the deep blue eyes with the dark shadows beneath them, and shook her head. But there was something strangely familiar about the hgure and the voice. " Not —not Lizzie Falconer!" she stammered at length, a great light breaking over her. "Ohl I hope not" The woman covered her face with her hands. "Yes — Lizzie Falconer," she said in a low, hard voice. "Will you let me stay in this house for a little while. I have walked from D to-night, and 1 am vevy weary, and I cannot go home yet." Miss Kenyon shut the door, and bidding her follow, led the way to the little kitchen at the back. There was a blazing fire there, and the kettle singing on the hob. " Let me help you to take off your wet things," she said in ner kind firm way. " You must be wet through, liush, don't speak yet; there is time enough. You will stay with me all night." Then she went to her room, and returned with some of her own things. "Put these on," she said. "1 shall be back directly." Then she shut the door, and went to her brother. He was walking up and down the floor, wondering who the visitor was, and why Sara was so long in comuig. " O Kit ! " she said in a low, pitiful voice. " It is poor Lizzie Falconer come back home ; and I can See, though she has said nothing yet, what the years CHRISTMAS EVE. 105 have held for her. She is so changed, Kit, you would not know her." " Poor girl — poor girl.** The w^ords fell tenderly, pitifully from the schoolmaster's lips. " You have brought her in, Sara." '* Yes, yes. O Kit ! think what it will be for the poor old pair at Glentarne. This will be a haj)pv Christmas for them, I know, though Lizzie has come back poor and ill and wretched. Now I will go back to her. It will be better, I think, if she sees only me to-night ; but I will come and tell you anything she may say to me." And so she went back to the kitchen, to find the wanderer on her knees on the hearth, with her face hidden. The golden hair had escaped from its fastening, and fell on her shoulders, shining in the firelight. Noiselessly Miss Kenyon proceeded to make some coffee, and to set the supper things upon the table. Then she went to the bowed figure, and her hand fell upon her shoulder, infinite gentleness in the light touch. " Lizzie," she said, "come, take something to e-it. You mtist be faint after such a walk on such a ^.Tight." A slight shiver ran through the slender frame, and a convulsive sob broke the stillness, but she did not raise her heao. *' Come," said Miss Kenyon more firmly, " you must do what I ask ; you will be ill after the drenching you got to-night." " III," repeated the girl, rising, and turning her white face to the light once more ; '* I am ill, body and soul. Oh, Miss Kenyon," she cried suddenly, "if you knew, if you knew, you would not touch me." A great pity shone in Sara Kenyon's eyes. i| f M: lM;i io6 CHRISTMAS EVE. " My child, I do know. I knew what would be before you went ; and, see, 1 don'i shrink from you." No she did not. She placeil one arm about the drooping shoulders, and led her to the table, and stood beside her till she saw her drink some cotk.e and svvdilow a morsel of bread. Then, while she carried the supper tray to Christopher, Lizzie sat down close to the fire, as if she was very cold, and hid her face again in her hands. Sara left her alone for a time, and when she came back she found her weeping as if her heart would break. Miss Kenyon stood by the hearth with her arm leaning on the mantel, waituig till the tears were all shed. " Miss Kenyon," said Lizzie, at length, with a gasp, '• Is my — my mother dead ?" "They are. both alive," returned Miss Kenyon quickly, "and waiting for you to come home every day." " But not as I am ; they will not forgive me when they know all," she moaned. " Oh, Miss Kenyon, I was never married. He told me a lie, and I believed it." Miss Kenyon kneeled down on the hearth, and took both the poor trembling hands in her fir.n grasp, and turned her clear hazel eyes upon Lizzie's face " Listen, Lizzie," she said, " you know that J. would not deceive you. When you go home to-m.orrow — • to-morrow, remember, for no time must be lost — you will find nothing but love and forgiveness awaiting you. At first your father felt a just indignatior, but it is all gone now. You will be taken as you are, just as Gu<l takes all who come to Hnu. O Lizzie I be very thankful for it, and thank God that you have not come home to find that your desertion killed them." The worn blue eye'j rested a moment on Miss Ken- yon's sweet face, and then fixed upon the glowing fire. CHRISTMAS EVE. 107 " You will let me tell you, Miss Kenyon,' she said in a very low voice, " how it was from ilie first," " Yes," replied Sara gently, •' if you are able." " There is no need to tell you how I was persuaded to leave home. You can understand how a man like him could influence an inexperienced girl, full as I was of vanity, and longing for a grandeur above my station. We left that night," she said, " and readied Edinburgh the next afternoon. He took me to a hotel, and we were married, as I thought. Then we went on to England, to The Holt." Miss Keiiyon turned her face away. It had grown very pale, and her )'ps were trembling. *' We stayed there for nearly fifteen months. I was happy, or fancied myself so, for about half of that time. He was often away for weeks at a time, and I was very lonely, for it was a great house, standing alone among woods. There was a village near it, but I never went out. He would not let me speak of my fjther and mother or my home, and he taught me to tail: as he did. He used to be angry if I forgot and said a Scotch word. I was very wretched for a time before my baby was born. Oh, Miss Kenyon, rr y poor litde baby.** She stopped, sobbing, and again hid her face. " Not very long after that," she continued, " we went to London to live. I don't know why. I didn't know anything about his affairs, and 1 dared not ask, for I was afraid of him. He was often unkind to me. I could tell you of days so miserable that I used to creep away up to my baby's crib, and pray that we might die, he and I together. And I was hungering to get home, starving to see my mother and my old home, and 1 dared not say it. He used to say things 1 could not understand, when he was angry, but their meaning became clear to me after. I had found out long ago that I had no real love for him in my heart, 1! w II' v R ■ If . ! i I 08 CHRISTMAS EVE. as he had none for me ; and I used to wonder ho\f my life was to he lived, and to prav, thou ;h it was sinful, that it miL;ht be very short. lUit though I did not love him, 1 was jealous — so jealous, that my life became a torment to me. I watched him like a serpent, until 1 found that he often went to see a young girl, the daughter of an old artist, in the city. She was a good girl, Miss Kertyon ; she was only being deceived, as I was. One day I had learned he was to meet her in the Park, and I went there, and saw them together ; and that night, when he came home, I spoke to him about it, and he told me then th.at I had no claim on him, that our marriage was a mockery, that I was no more his wife than the girl I had seen with him in 'lie afternoon. Miss Kenyon, I swear to you that if I hail not believed implicitly that he would make me his wife, I would never have left The Linn. You believe that ?" ** Yes, I believe it," returned Miss Kenyon, and Lizzie caught her hand and touched it with her lips. " I went away out of the house that night," she went on, " with only one thought in my heart — to get miles away from him if I could. It was a fearful night, I remember, but I did not seem to feel it. [ had a little money in my pocket — /lis money ; and but for my baby's sake, I would not have touched it, and with that I procured a poor lodging in the very heart of the city, where I knew I was securely hid. I had to earn my living, and my baby's, too, and the only thing I could do was to sew ; and it is not easy to get work even in London. Sometimes," she said, with a great sob, " I had neither food nor fire. I did not mind for myself, but I knew my baby was pining away ; I could see it every day. I have stood on one of the bridges many a time, Miss Kenyon, with him in my arms, almost on the brink of ending my misery in ■ ] \- ' CHRISTMAS EVE. 109 a a the river ; but God kept me from that sin, tlioiigh I was olicn sorely templed. My own slrent^lh was failini; me, want of nourisliment, hard work, and anxietv for my baby made me ill ; but 1 held iij) till he died. I cannot tell you how it was. 1 cannot speak about it yet, only 1 knew that if he had had proper nourisliment he would have lived, and I could not }^et it for him. I saw him die j and I remember iiMthing for a long time. When I awoke, I was in an hospital, and they told me I had been ill three weeks; my baby was buried. I wanted to die then. Miss Kenyon, I think my heart was broken. But 1 mended slowly, and in another three weeks I was out of the hospital. 'I'hen I determined to come home; but it was montlis before I had saved from my scanty earnings enough to pay my way. My last i)enny was gone when I arrived in 1) this alternoon, or I should have stayed all night there. I do not know what made me come to yoii, except the renienibrance of what you used to be before I went away. There was nobody else I could come to; and oh. Miss Kenyon, God bless you for your kindness, though I don't deserve it ; 1 don'r indeed." "You have been more sinned against than sinning, my poor ch'"' ^,," said Miss Kenyon gently, " and you have been sorely punished for it. Now, you must go to bed ; your face is quite white, and your hands are burning — come." Obediently as a child, the drooping figure rose and followed Miss Kenyon to a bed room. A fire had been lit there, and a cheery glow lay upon the pretty room. "Oh, Miss Kenyon," said Lizzie, "it is a long time since I was in a room like this. I believe I atn in a dream. Will you tell me, please," she said in a low, scarcely audible voice, "how — how Jamie Duncan is? Does he live in The Linn yet ? " ', fr no ClfRISlMAS KVR. '• lie lives ni I.cu Ri^ still/' rftiirnni Miss Kcnyon, not looking i\{ ihc fill's I. 111*. " ( )i», l.i/zic, l,i//u'. it \v;is i\ sole l)lo\v to hun. He loved you very dearly." " I know -I know." The low voice broke, am! aj^ain the tears filic<l her eyes. " Oh, Miss Kcnyon, if only I rniyht wake to-morrow morning, and Inid the hideous \),\A a dream. Are you ^////(' sure my lather and mother will take me back?'' " As sure as I arn standing by your bedside tO'nif;hl, l-izzie, when you go home to-niorrow ii will be indeed going home. Now, try and sleep; it is very late, and you look in sore need of rest." She tried to free her hand, but liizzie held it firmly in both her own ; so Miss Kenyon «lrew her chaii to the bedside, and sat by her till slie fell asleep. :-n W ', i'M CIIAITKR XVIII. MOM R. eAT,M arifl smilin<^ broke that Cl'ri-tmns morn over 'I'lic I -inn. I'ar and near the whitened fields sparklet! beneath the sunshine, anii the woods ('jM» were a perfect vision of fairyland. The snow was fourteen invlies deep, and the frost was as hard as iion. Farm work was at a standstill. Hut ere day- break the busy inmates of the farmhouse at The Mains were astir. Hefore the sun rose, Mrs. Falconer, careful for the comfort of her poultry, went out to feed them in the covered court adjoining their coop. Let us look at her as she steps from the ivied jKirch, and carefully crosses the slippery sarmyard. A little older looking, a few more grey hairs, and a line here and there upon her brow, and a sort of hungry look in her deep motherly eyes, tell of the sorrow the years have held, but she has never given way to useless repining. She accepted the cross — the first she had been called upon to bear — with a patient, humble resignation, which her neighbours see with wonder and respect. She stood a few mmutes, as she always did, watching the fowls at their breakfast; — these minutes were full of memories of Lizzie, for, as you know, the poultry had been Lizzie's special care. Coming out oi" the stable, the farmer saw her, and sauntered up to her side. "There are some prime beasties there, guid wife," he said. " I'm thinkin* ye'll make a bonniq penny aflf the chickens this year." 113 HOME. I' ' If !l'! Mrs. Falconer smiled. She could smile sometimes yet, tliouuh it had lost mucli of its gladiu'ss. "Ay; but, John," she said, her voice shaking; a little, "tlicre's nae miicklc ])lecsure in tiie money they bring noo. It's jist laid by (or nae end that I c.tn see. D'ye mind hoo ye used tae torment /ter abooi the pennies they brocht." The farmer turned his head swiftly away. There was a moisture in his eyes, and a strangely troubled look upon his rugged face, which told how full of pain the memory was. " Let's get oor breakfast, guid wife," he said abruptly. *' It's getlin' on for nine. This'll be an idle day, I'm thinkin*. Wark's dune till fresh comes. But we canna complain," The day wore on. In the afternoon, the farmer went off to D on business, and Mrs. Falconer took her knitting, and sat down by the kitchen fireside. The tins were still hung brightly on the wall, the sanded floor was as clean as it used to be, and the old eight-day clock ticked solemnly in the corner. But the strange stillness — it was strange yet, though of so long continuance — made the mother's heart ache, and her knitting fell, as it often did, from her hands, and her head leaned a little on her breast. But she did not cry; it might be that her tears had all been shed long ago. Slowly the Christmas sun sunk redly to rest, and the shadows began to gather in the corners of the kitchen. Mrs. Falconer was startled by a knock at the door. In answer to her " Come in," Miss Kertyon entered, and shut the door again behind. " Come awa* in, my wummin," said Mrs. Falconer, in her warm, mc^therly way, " I'm as gled to see ye as I can be, for John's awa' tae D , and it's lanely here, ye ken." .1 HOMF- «M Miss Kenyon took the seat offered to her, and the farmer's wife talked on, never noticing how quiet her listener was, nor what an unusual colour there was in her face. •* We'll just hae oor tea cosy, you an' me, the noo," she said, setting the kettle rii^ht on the fire. '* John'll no be hnnie till late." 15ut at that moment the door opened, and the farmer came in. " I forgot the paper I was gaun to D aboot, so I had tae come back afore 1 was half road," he said, in reply to his wife's amazement. ** I'm richt gled to see ye, Miss Kenyon," he said, with a firm hearty grasp of her hand. " We'll hae oor tea, guid wife, i( ye hae nae objections. It's a cauld nicht." " I'll hae tae get the lamp set, tho'," replied his wife. " It's no fower, but it's dark." " Wait a moment," said Miss Kenyon quickly. ** I have something to say to you before the lamp is lit.** The farmer sat down in his arm chair, while his wife leaned against the white table, looking at her visitor in some surprise. For the first time in her life, Sara Kenyon's womanly tact failed her. She looked from one to the other, not knowing how to tell them. " Is't ony thing aboot oor bairn," said Mrs. Falconer, then, in a strange voice, "Miss Kenyon, is she deid?** "O Mrs. Falconer I Mr. Falconer!" cried Miss Kenyon then, great tears running down I.<:r cheeks ; " she has come home — she is here — I brought her with me — I left her standing at the door — I " — There was a sudden noise behind ; then from the shadow came forth a bent and drooping figure, and the firelight shone upon a face so changed that the father and mother scarcely knew it. Then a great cry rang tiirough the quiet house. H i 114 HOME. " Father ! — mother ! — I am come home. Don't look upon me like that. I am Lizzie. Oh ! take me back or I shall die." She was kneeling at her mother's feet, not darinj? to look higher, till she felt a tear upon her face. Then she crept into her arms, and laid her tired head upon her mother's breast, and there was the li;,'ht of a great joy in that mother's face. John Falconer did not move. His face was hidden, and his strcng frame shaking from head to foot. " John," said his A^ife, in a voice broken with joy, " hae ye nae word for the bairn ye lo'ed sae weel ?" He rose then, his rugged face quivering with emotion, and his strong arms closed about his wife and child as if they would never loose again. And his grey locks mingled with his daughter's golden ones, and she put up her lips and kissed him, and laid her arm about his neck. But before this, Miss Kenyon had closed the door very softly, and gone away home. « « « • « Lizzie Falconer lay down in her own little room that night with a great sense of rest and peace and unuttciable gladness in her heart. And the memory of her father's "good night" words, and of the last kiss her mother had pressed upon her lips, mingled with her dreams. But they could not sleep for joy. Sl«e had told them all, and it was agreed that the past snould be buried for ever. Early next morning, she slipped quickly downstairs, and performed the household duties that had been hers before. She lit the fire, swept up the hearth, and set the table for breakfast Then, throwing a shawl over her shoulders, she crept out of doors. The sky was clear and starlit, and in the distant east the ciay was dawning. The dog set up a sharp bark from ' t HOME. '»5 in his kennel, but when she went to him, whispering his nnme, he was hke to break his chain in his mau joy. With swift step she crossed the famihar farmyard, and pushed o|>en the door of the httle stable, where the old pony used to stand, wonderini; if she would see him there still. Yes, there he was, his bonnie dappled head growing white with age, and his limbs stitfer tlian they used to be. She went up to the stall and caressed him, but no word could her quivf»'-ing lips utter. He pricked up his ears, as if unable to believe the evidence of his senses, and then, with a low whinny of delight, rubbed hia nose against her shoulder. Her arms crept about his neck, and she hid her face and wept. To see how she was remem- bered and loved, nearly broke her heart. " O Lord," she said to herself, pausing within the ivied porch on her way back to the house, " let me never forget, as long as I live. Thy goodness to me, a poor sinful girl who has gone so far astray. And God, help me, as long as my life and theirs shall last, to devote myself to my father and mother, to try, as far as lies in my poor power, to atone for the suffering 1 have caused them, and to shew my love and gratilu<le for their great love to me, who am deserving of nothing but their reproach. Keep me lowly in heart, and ever mnidful of '1 hee. For Jesus' sake. Amen." 1 cannot tell you, friends, how that father and mother watched iheir child that day, bec.iuse my words are so weak. There was not one shadow of reproach in their thoughts of her, not a shadow of anger or resentment, only an infinite protecting love. She must be doubly cherished by them, because she had trodden a thorny path, and had come back with weak and weary feet to her childish home. It is such love as this which sometimes gives our human hsajts a faint conception of the mighty heart of God. Mi!' ,»i ') ^ CHAPTER yix EXI LED. .J'EXT day John Falconer went up to Lea Rig to break the news of Lizzie's return to Jamie Duncan. " It wadna dae," he said to his wife, "if the lad was tae come in sudden like an' see Lizzie here; and he may come ony meenit, an* as little maun he hear the news frae ither folk. He deserves this frae me, Pegj^ie, for he's been a guid freend tae us baith." After he was p'one, Mrs. Falconer told Lizzie, and the girl crept away up to her own room, and shut the door ; and at that moment even her mother did not dare to follow her. John Falconer had never been up at the farmhouse on the hill since Lizzie went away. The young man had come often to The Mains, but the sight of the home he had hoped to see Lizzie occupy reopened afresh the terrible sorrow in the old man's heart. It was a bonnie place even in winter, only strangely still and desolate. Excepting two apartments on the ground floor, it was entirely locked up, and the rooms which had been furnished with such care and pride for the mistress who never came to inhabit them, were the prey of moth and dust Jamie Duncan never entered them himself, and no other woman's eyes would ever rest upon them. So he had said in his anguish. The rough servant girl who answered John I 1 H rXILKD. 117 Falconer's knock bade him come in. and she would go for the master; he was onl in the barn. He returned with her, and there was some surprise on his face when he saw who the visitor was. "Shut the door, Jamie, lad," said the old man hurriedly. " I have something to tell." News of Lizzie was the one thought in the young man's mind as he closed the door. 1 do not think .she had been out of his heart for a day at a time since she went away. His was indeed the love which many waters cannot quench. "Jamie, Lizzie cam' hame last nicht," said John Falconer in the same hurried manner; "an' I thocht it richt tae come up an' tell ye." Jamie Duncan walked to the window, and looked out upon the snow-clad fields, his face working with emotion. It was a long time before his lips could frame an answer to the farmer's words. " Hoo is't wi' her ?" he asked, at last, in a husky voice. " Is she weel and hai)py ?" "She's come hame, my lad, like a lost sheep that's wandered faur frae the fauld, an' been oot in mony a blast The villain wha stole her frae you an* me didna mak' her his wife, my lad ; the mairrage was a mrckery tae deceive her; an* when he tired o' her, he telt her the truth, kennin* it was the easiest way to get rid o' her. An' she left him, wi* her bairn, tae fecht the battle her lane in that great wilderness o* Lunnon, an' the bairn de'ed, and syne she cam' hame, O Jamie, my man, sae sairly changed ye wadna ken her ; but I thank the Lord she's come hame. Jamie, hae ye never forgotten her yet?'* " Forgotten her?" returned the young man, more to himself than to him. " I've prayed that I micht forget her ; but the prayer *s no been answered." I do not know what it was in the young man's s tiS rxiLKD. voire that made the old man fee! that it would be hotter tor him to go at once ; he n^se liom his chair, put on his i),it, aiul took his stick from the corner. "(iml day wi' ye, Jamie," he said, his deep tones faltering a little. "I canna speak w'lat's in my lie.irt this day, maybe ye can guess. Clod bless ye, l.id." He hurried from the room, and Jamie Duncan moved to the door, and turned the key. He was hours in that room, alone with his agony, alone with the (TOSS that had been pressing on his young shoulders for years. The conllict /i<itf told upon liiin, (or Ins lirow was deeply lined, and there were while threads nmong the glossy brown hair. And when he went forth, there was a half formed resolution i\\ his mind — a resolution to leave I'lic Linn, and seek in aiu)lher land the rest denied hitn here. Sore enough had the struggle been to live and work where every tree an(' Ikfrt'er, every bend and turn of the roads, reminded him of w iiat he had lost ; but now, when s/ze was so near, the struggle would be too hard, even for his iron will, to bear. Lizzie had come home; it would be better for both that he should go. For it would be impossible to avoid meeting each other, and that was an ordeal he did not care to face, 'i'he news of the return sjjread like wildfire in the village, and it furnished a to|)ic for conversation for davs. Now that Glentarne was shut up, there was a dearth of gossip in The Linn. The art'air was discussed in all its bearings, and the general feeling was one of satisfaction, for the sake of John Falconer and his wife. 13ut, as usual, Nancy Irvine and her kindred spirit, the i'ostmaster, passed their righteous condemnation on her. It afforded them a grim pleasure that she had come home broken-hearted and humbler, for she *' aye was a saucy crater," said Nancy, " an' pride aye gangs afore a fa', .' » KXII.Iil). 119 " Whcesht, N.iMcy!" said a ^tnller ni'i^hhoiir ; "sbc's siilUrcd pUiity. I'll w.irr;mt. I,ft her a-bo." Ill the course of the next low weeks another niniotir got ahioad, causing llie wildt-st cousicriialioii in The J.iMM. It was, that Jamie I)un(an had ^^iven up the 1 ,ea ki^, and was tneditaliiiL; leavinj^ The Linn and Scotland for ever, 'ilx- matter was kept very (lose, and the eve of his depariure was at lurid belorc credence was given to the rumour. On a lovely April ev( inn:;, Sara Kcnyon was busy in her garden uhi-n J.inne hinican ca ne to the school- house. She ^u« ssed his err.ind, and led him into the sitting-room, wiihouf jven a word of greeting. " You have come to say good-bye, Mr. Uuncan," she said. " Is it r.ot so?" lie nodded, unable to trust his voice. Although he knew he was taking the best course, this leaving the only home and friends he had ever known was a very severing of the heart-strings. *' It IS not easy to say much when the heart is full," said Miss Kenyon, with a slight smile. "You know how much Kit and I shall miss you ; but I think you are doing right, Mr. Duncan ; indeed, I am sure of it." *' I'm daein wliat seems tae mo the only thing I can dae," relumed the young man simply. " 1*11 no say but what it's been a sad tii.il tae me tae leave The Linnj but ye see it wadna be guid for either //rr or me to meet, an' it wad hae tae come some time." *' Have you never seen iier yet?" Tlie young man shook his head. *' Never, face tae face ; I got a glimpse o' her frae ane o' the fields ae day, an' 1 kent llieii that the suiier 1 was awa' frae The Linn tlie beiier f(jr me." "You are going to Australia," said Miss Kenyon j " have vou friends diere ?" ill 1 20 EXILED. ii! -*■ \i I I i 1) 8 "I m i '' -I ,1 -f , f iil' "Yes; my mitlier's only brither lives in Adelaide; it's there I'm gaun." He had moved to the window, and above the budding beech trees he saw the blue smoke from The Mains curling upward to the sky. " I'm gaun doon tae The Mains noo, Miss Kenyon," he said, "an* if she's there I'll see her. It canna maitter much noo, when I'm gaun awa' the morn. I think I wad like tae see her aince afore I gang" — "I Understand," said Miss Kenyon gently; "I shall tell Christopher to come and see you. He is in the study." The young man wheeled round suddenly, and caught her hand in a grip of iron, *' Miss Kenyon, afore I gang, let me try tae thank ye for what ye've been, no only tae me, but tae hei' I daurna name," he said huskily. " I'll never forget it as ijng as I live; and tho' I'm gaun sae faur awa*, I'll pray every day that the Lord may bless ye a' yer life." Tears sprang to Sara Kenyon*s eyes. No need for me to record her answer. Years after, in the lonelv Australian wilds, where his exiled life was spent, Jamie Duncan remembered the precious words of womanly help and comfort, and then, as he did now, blessed their utterer. ♦ «««•• He saw Lizzie alone that night ; but what passed between them was never told. Even if it had been, I do not think I could write it. For, oh ! are there not moments in the life of every one of us, over which it is best to draw the veil ? The farmer met Jamie as he passed through the kitchen, and dared not speak to him, for he "vas weeping like a child. CHAPTER XX. SURPRISE. Jl [HE Castle had been shut up since Sir Jasper's nlf T death, but at midsummer it transpired that the %*? estate had been disj)osed of by private bargain. %^ It was rumoured that the purchaser was an old man, unmarried, and possessed of enormous wealth ; that he had amassed his fortune abroad, and, being of Scotch parentage, had come to enjoy it in his native land. But when August brought him to The Linn, they found him to be a man in the prime of life, and handsome enough to do credit to the grand old home he had made his own. The gentleman's name was Liddel. It happened one Saturday afternoon that Christopher Kenyon had strolled up as far as The Castle, not knowing that the new owner had arrived the previous day. He was leisurely making his way up the avenue, when in the distance he saw a tall figure approaching, dressed in a light tweed suit, a deer-stalker cap, and a gun over his shoulder. Wondering who he could be, the schoolmaster bethought himself of turning inta the wood (he was shy of meeting strangers), but the gentlen>an, whoever he was, made his escape im- possible by perceptibly quickening his pace until he was within a hundred yards of him. Then he stood stock still in the road, and absolutely stared at the ?:choolmaster. I am bound to say that, unlike hiru- m 133 SUR PRISE. I srir. Kit returned the st.-ire with interest. 'Die stranj^er spoke Inst. '' Km ! In the n;ime ofnll that's womlerfnl. is it v«>n i^'* Tlie srhoohnastcr si.wed nito (lie liandsunio liank face, too bewildered at first to speak. " Kohett l.iddel !" lie said at last. " I cannot believe it ! How strange tliat we should meet here." The stranger's rij^ht hand went forth and grasped Christopher's with a grip of'non. "A lnttle older looking, but the same Kit I used to know, as I stand here," said he a little (juic kly. *• \\ hat brinjj;s yon here ? and where is .Sara ?" "What brings yon here, Robert ?" said the school masiei, answering his (jnestion with another. " \Vc tluniuht yon had died, «>r forgotten ns a!)road.''' " Haven't you heard." said laddel, •' I came into a torume, and bought (ilentarnc? My mother was a native of I> — ." " Indeed I" No other word could (Christopher Kcnyon utter, so intense was his am.azement. ••Come into the house, Kit," said laddel ; "and we can talk over oUl tinu s. \ want to know how you hapiHMi to be here, and all about you and Sara. She will be married now, I supjiose?" All these i]uestions C'luistopher answered silting with his friend in the library of The Casil'% and it was long past the tea hour wnen he went bav k to the schoolhouse. He returned alone, but Liddel was to follow later in the evening. Sara was leaning over the gate looking up and down the road, \.ondenng what was keeping her brother; and when he came up she saw that he looked utuisually cxoiied. ** Where have you been. Kit," she said, holding open the gate. "1 was thinking of going up to Cluny lo seek you. Have you been there?" BURrRt5;p,. 123 " No ; 1 have bprn at The Castle." "raking tea with the im'w owner?" she asked mrrrily ; arul he answered, " Yes." When they enlerid the house, he sndMcnly laid his hand on her head, and h)oked into her lace with an odd expression iti his ^Mave eyes. '•Sara, <an you bear a ^reat .surprise?" " Ye.s what?" "The luw owner of (llentarne is Rf)l)ert I.idrlel. I met hini there, and have been with him thrse two hours, lie has never for^^fften us, Sara. VV^e mis- judged him. And he is coming here to night to see you. Then he went away, ajid left her to herself It was nine o'rlork bffore Robert Taddei came. Christopher admitted him, and opened the siiting- rootn door, but he di«l not enter with him. Sara was standing on the hearth. She moved at the closing of the door, but did not turn her head. Robert laddel went to her, and touched her arm, then she looked at him with a long searching look. At first these two, parted for so long, had no wonl to say. "Sara," he said, at length, in the tones she remem- bered well, •' have you no word of welcome for me — • not one ?" Her li|)s quivered, and her eyes fell. *' I am glad to see you back," she said, with a slight constraint in her voice, and unconsciously she niuved a little further from him. For a moment, Robert Liddcl looked at the only Woman he had ever loved, wondering to see how little she was moved by his presence. She had loved him once, and he had thought it would be for ever; but it had been a mistake, alter all. She was as fickle as 124 SURPRISE. 11 the rest of them. There was not much change in her outwardly, in his eyes. She was more beautiful than she had ever been ; but what did it matter if she was not " fair for him " ? "I have been vainly seeking for you, Sara, since I returned to PIngland," he said, with quiet constrai it. "And of all places in the world, I least expected to find you here." "It is strange how people meet," she said con- fusedly. " I did not expect to meet you here, or — or anywhere." " Why? Have you forgotten what passed between us the night before I left for Jamaica ?" Had she forgotten? No need to ask Sara Kenyon that question. She had not so many happy memories in her heart that the sweetest of all should be forgotten 80 soon. Robert Liddel wem close to her again, and bent his blue eyes on her downc?f:t face, thinking how sweet it was, and yet so sorely chanf^jed ! " Sara, the hope of this meeting has been with me, I believe, night and day since A left you at The Holt that night," he said in his frank, true voice. " It is twelve years ago now, I think. \ knew many changes might take place in that time ; but that you would be so sadly changed to me I did not dream. What is its cause ?" The sweet hazel eyes were raised at length to his face, and the quiet voice trembled in its utterance ? "I am not changed — at least, not as you think, though I am growing to be an old woman now," she said hurriedly. "It is the suddenness. I so little expected it ; and happiness has so long been strange to me, that I can scarcely realise it O Robert, I— I " Her voice broke, but the tears which followed were SURPRISE. '25 slied upon the breast which was henceforth to be hei shelter for evermore. It might be an hour after before Christopher ventured to peep in. Then Sara slipped away and busied herself with preparations for supper, while the two friends, who had been boys together at West- deane, sat down, with a new bond between them, tc live over again these long-gone days. What a pleasant meal that was ! I cannot describe to you the unselfish happiness on Christopher's face ; to see him there beaming on his sister and his friend was a sight so pleasant, and yet so touching, that Sara dared not look at him, and even Robert Liddel a gay eyes were dim. Uh, it was a happy evening, made all the happier that it was only the precursor of many more to come. " I can't realise it, old fellow," said Robert, as Christopher and he lingered at the gate. " I am afraid I shall wake up to-morrow, and find myself back, among the sugar canes of Jamaica," he said, half jest- ingly ; but his tone changed, and he added seriously, " Providence has been very good to me, Kit." The schoolmaster glanced upward to the sky, and answered reverently, ** He is good to every one of us, Robert, if we could but see it. His hand is with us alike in sunshine and shadow." " My heart is full, old friend ; good night, good night." 4i-^ W^/ EPILOGUE. V' I' m fc. ) OHN Falconer and his wife are growing old and ^1 frail, but the down-hill path is made smooth and ^1 easy for them by the love and care of the grave, gentle, helpful woman, whom they still tenderly speak of as the bairn, Lizzie. That love and care have never faltered, never known change or wavering, since she came back. Well and faithfully has Lizzie Falconer kept her vow. She is a friend to all in trouble, and far and wide many lips mention her name in love and blessing. She is a beautiful woman still, but her face is shadowed, and will be to the end. Two memories live with her. One a little mound in a far-away hospital graveyard, and the other, the faithful heart who is an exile for her sake. Old friends hear sometimes of Jamie Duncan. He has done well on the other side of the Pacific, and is a wealthy and prosperous man. He hai never married, and never will. Sara writes to him constantly from her happy home at Glentarne, and his rare letters are ever wel- come. She takes them to the farm, and reads th':m to John Falconer and his wife , then leaves them to Lizzie. S/ie treasures them, how dearly tne writer will never know. In Robert Liddel's hands the inheritance of the Hamiltons flourishes as it never did before. He is a good landlord, and one of the most popular men in the county. He says he owes it to his wife. Those p EPILOGUE. 127 who know her think he is ri^'ht. In her bcnntiful home, haj)py in the devotion of her hiisl innd and the love of her children, Sara Kenyon's hie i>< all sunshine now. Christoplier Uves with them. lie has his own rooms in The Castle, and pursues his studies undis- turbed, except by the children, who are seldom from his side. And in the summer time, it is a sight to see him the centre of a merry throng (for the you g folks from Cluny are often at The Castle) allowing himself to be crowned and decked with daisy chains, made by loving fingers. He has a favourite among them — a little fairy with her mother's face and eyes, and her name is Mary Haldane Forbes. Tiiey wonder at it, for they have never guessed his secret. It will go with him to the grave. Mrs. Liddel hears sometimes, also, from Maud Himikon. She is the slay and comfort of Lady Hamilton's declining years. The change in the proud heart has been firm and lasting. Of Ralph Mortimer there is nothing to tell. He seldom sees his sister, for now their ways lie apart. AVhether or not he is t'/cr visited by the remorse Y.'hich comes soo'ier or later to the wicked is known only to himself and his Maker. And in the dear old village among the hills Father Time is leaving his footpn-its. Tlie blacksmith has gone, and the business dwindling away to nothing in Jock's hands. Nancy is a fretful invalid, bemoaning her troubles, and grumbling at tlie want of sympathy shown by the neighbours. Mrs. Scott is failing, too, but is cheery as of yore. Her bonnie daughter, Madge, is her right hand ; and Geordie tenants the Lea Rig, with a wife and bairns of his own. There is a new schoolmaster, a dapper individual, with bran new notions about educational systems, and a partiality for corporeal punishment Whether or not 138 EPILOGUE. the children are better taught, I don't know ; but I do know that Christopher Kenyon's gentle rule is regret- fully remembered by old and young. The family at Glentarne have a firm hold upon the hearts of the people. Robert Liddel and his wife are ever ready to help a struggling brother or sister to fight life's battle ; and never even in good Sir William's time were the poor so generously remem- bered. They are faiihiul stewards, and tiicir reward will not be denied theuL FaiewelL t 1^0 egret- n the wife sister J Sir nern- ward