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H invcr fail<, and in even the mostaygravaLid cases a cure is cei tain if NAISAIi BALM is persistently usL-d. It is a wtll-kuowu fact that Cituiih in iiinety uine ca-^ea out of every hundied origiuatid froui a c<>!d in the lieud, viiich the puffcrer ne^^lecteil. NAbAL BALM atfoids ininitdiiite reli' f when used for cold in the head. It is easy to use, reqiuring no douche or instrument, and is sootiang, chansiu^ and heaini^'. As positive evidence that catarrh can be cured by tiic use of NASAL BALM, we sul)niit the fol- lowing testimonials from aaiouj^ hundreds similar in our posseasiou : — P H. Munro, Parry Sound, says: — N isal Bahii hdi no equal as a remedy IVjt cold ill the head. Jt is both speedy and effective m its resuUs. Mr. John Foster, Raymond, Ont., writes: Nasal Balm acts like a charm lor my catarrh. I have only used it a short lime a'ld now led belier dian at any pei'od diirin!^ the last seven years. I/i lact I am sure ot a cure and at very small expense. D. Derby- hire, president of the Onta. rio Creamery Association, says; Nasal Balm beats the world for catarrh and cj d in the head. In my own case it effected rei.ef from the first app4icalion. Mr, JoV- - ht, represenfins; Messrs. L and Mason, whole- sale druKjjists, .treal, says :— Nasal B .un cured me of a lonfj standin\; case It is tho host remedy I ever of catarrh after many other remedies failiUo'. Mr. Horatio Collier, Worllcn Manu- facturer, Caineiontown, (Jut., states : Nasai 1^ .lirn is the only positive remedy lor catdtrii that I ever used. Miss AddieHowison, Brockville, Ont. says: I had cu.irrii lor years, my head was sostoDpeU up I could not b.eathe through my nosiiiU. My breath, was very impure and continually so. Noth- in^; I could pet ^avc me any relief unt.l using Nasal Balm. From the very iirst it pave me relief and in a very short time had removed the accumulation so that I could breathe freely throu> h the nostrils. Its effect on my breath was truly wonderful, puriiyinu' and lemovin::^ eveiy vesti;e ot the unpleasant odor, whicli never returned. D. S. McDomld, Mabou, C.B. writes : Na^al Balm has he ped my catarrh very nuich used. B E WA R E of I M I TAT J O N ^J^S^T, NASAL BALM from its wonderliil curative pi operties has induced certain un- scrupulous parties to place imitations on Fale, closely resemblin;^ the style of our packa^'e, and with iiames similar in sound. Beware of all preparation ■; styled Nasal Cream, Na^al Balsam, etc., they are fraudulent imitations. Ask for Nasal Balm and see that you get it. If you cannot obtait NASAL BALM from your dealer it will be sent post-paid on receipt of price, 50 cents and $i, by addressing, FULFORD & CO., BROCKVILLE, ONT. Our pamphlet " Gems of Wisdom " sent free on applicatioo. it n AND -.unziGECiiar w ST 1 In Tone ' In Touch In Sweetness In Durability In Workmanship Holds more Gold Medals and Awards than any other Piano in Canada. WARRANTED IN EVERY RESPECT. Five Years' Guarantee with Each Instru- ment. LO WEST PRICE3. EASY T ERMS. Sole A-genoy ToROHTO Temple of Music J. S, POWLEY & CO. (33 King St. W» - Toronto, Ont. I: f; Etit( Charlie Ogilbie ■'*■** «&JKii*)R|N' A ROMANCE OF Scotland and New Brunswick 1^ 1^ BY ■■>fmj'^ a. LESLIE VAUGHAN, If ll " Those that can p;ty here may, If they think it well, let fall a tear- The subject will deserv.3 it." ' ^ —I'rom Prologue — Kino Henbt Vnx. Department of Agriculture «^8hty-mne by William BaTCJi. at the TORONTO : WILLIAM BRYCE, PUBLISHER. \ IVORY BAR so ap: EFFECTIVE, DURABLE & CHEAP Ivory Bar Soap is superior to imported castile. Use Ivory Bar Soap for fine laundry work. Wash infants' cloths with Ivory Bar Soaj^. Use Ivory Bar Soap for bathing. Ivoiy Bar Soap is delightfully perfumed. Use Ivory Bar fcoap for shaving. Ivory Bar Soap is a luxury, though very cheap. Clean painted walls with Ivory Bar Soap. Ivory Bar Soap lathers freely. * Take home some Ivory Ear Soap. Clean your teeth with Ivory Bar Soap. Ivory Bar Soap pleases eveiybody. Ivory Bar b'oap does not chap the hands. Ivory Bar Soap answers every purpose. Ivory Bar Soap the best of all for Mechanics' use. Wash your baby with Ivory Bar Soap. Wash yourself with Ivory Bar Soap. :*' Shampoo with Ivcry Bar Soap. Ivory Bar Soap will Clean anything. Ivory Bar Soap will not injure anything. « Wash linen lawns with Ivory Bar Soap. Wash your hair with Ivory Bar Soap. Clean painted wood with Ivory Bar Soap, Wash furniture with Ivory Ear Soap. Wash your hands with Ivory Bar fc oap. Clean silverware with Ivory Ear Soap. Ivory Bar Soap is healing in its etiect. Remove grease spots with Ivory Ear ►roajD. Ivory Bar Soap improves the complexion. Experts pronounce Ivory Bar Soap unequalled. Bathe with Ivory Bar Soap, it is luxurious and refreshing. You get Ivory Bar Soap in pound, two pound six ounce, and three pound bars, cut it up any sise to suit yourselves. ASK YOUR GROCER FOR IT, Manufactuked at the BRANTFORD *^ SOAP a WORKS A. WATTS & CO., Brantfordf • • - Ontario, Canadar and six size • Ciig Iwing I lii .<>--- U' LONDON, - ONTARIO TRY OUR CELEBRAT&D y •li^EXPOET ■> A.LE-s^- •^miii! oTJi^ Ji;!iii>^ II GLASGOW MALT" PORTER • — .*f.'- i»f*»- yt-t*- These Brands are guaranteed by the Medical Faculty as being chemically pure, and highly recom- mended for the use of invalids. KEPT SY ALL XEADING GROCERS IN CANADA* CONTENTS. I! Paqk. INTRODUCTION 9 "^'^ ' , PART !.■ -C' n, ; ;,,.jc> ^> CHAPTER I.. 13 ^ CHAPTER II.— Thb Folk at Cambusleioh— Sthuck by tub Fatal Daut 20 CHAPTER III.— The Vagaries of Cupid 23 CHAPTER IV.— The Vow of Cambdsleigh 80 PART II. CHAPTER V. — Life with the Axe in the Forest 35 CHAPTER VI. — Camping in the Forest 39 CHAPTER VII. — A Strange Scene at Midnight 49 CHAPTER VIII. — A Mystkrious Stkanoer comer upon the Scene 54 CHAPTER IX. — Gilbert and the Laird — Bad Times fob Jeanie 61 CHAPTER X. — The Driver Discloses his Affection for Chablib Ogilbie— The Man of Mysibby 65 K 13 > 20 23 30 35 39 49 IK, CONTENTS. Vll Pao«. CHAPTER XI 72 CHAPTER XII 79 CHAPTER XIII 83 CHAPTER XIV 86 CHAPTER XV.— Dark Days at CAMnrsLEion 94 CHAPTER XVI. — CiunLiE Oqiidie Witnesses a Stranoe Scene IN TUE FoIIEST, and WONDEnS MORE AND more, Who his New Friend can be 9G CHAPTER XVII — Charmk Meets an Oi^d Acquaintance .... 101 CHAPTER XVIII.— The Indian Camp 110 CHAPTER XIX.— The Borders of the Tearless Land 117 CHAPTER XX. — Stranoe Ai/rERATioNS in Hazelrio Lilbttrn — Two Old Friends meet upon the River. . 123 CHAPTER XXI.— The Old Light Back Again 128 CHAPTER XXII. — What Charlie Learned at Midnight 133 CHAPTER XXIII. — Strange Revelations — Good Fortune for Charlie Ooilbie . . 137 CHAPTER XXIV. — Startling Intelligence from Cambusleiqh 148 CONCLUSION— On the Slopes of Arthur's Seat 152 54 61 65 M M M m\ in Goll %^ Dr. Morse's Indian Root i^ills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morses Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian •*^-^^^ Root Pills. Dr. Mors^.'s Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills Cured of Indigestiou ard Headache. St. Andrew's, Quc.| — March 31, 18S7. \V. n. C'oMsrofK. Pi.AK SiK, —Mouse's Indian Root I'll Ls liave bciiftittil mc woiii't-rfiilly. I'or months I suffcruil from Imliucstion and headache, was rcstlcs-. at night and had a bad taste in my mouth every morniiii', after takiiij^ one h x of the Pills, all these troubk-s (ii.sa|)j)earcd, my looil dijfcsteil well and my sleep was refreshinj;. My health is now good. Daniel IIokan. What Morse's Pills are thought of at Riverbank, Out. lliverbank.Jan. 31, 18S7. Mk. Comstock. Dkak Sir,— I write to tell you in this section of the country Di<. Moksk's Indian Hoot Pills have a good name. I will give you the names of one or two persons wlio have used them and are loud iii their praises. Mr. U(jbt. Smith who has been an invalid for i:iany years lias tried many medicines for regulatings the bowels, but none suited him till he tried Moksk's Indian Root Pills. He says that there was no unpleasant effects after t iking them, the aciiun beir>j mild and free from pain. Mrs. Jas. Gilmour, the mother of a large family, speaks in high terms of the benefit she and her family derived from their use. Mrs. Jas. Hamilton said to me, "I thank you very much for the box of Mokse's Pills yon recom- mended me to try when I was so sick. They have made a new woman of me." Yours Respectful, Mks. jvIakv Hollis, Agent lar To save Doctor's Bills use Dr. Morse's Indian Root Pills. The Best Family Pill in use. PRICE 25c. PER BOX For Sale by all Dealers. W. H. COMSTOCK, Sole Proprietor, BROCKVILLE, - • • ONTARIO. INTRODUCTION. ;T-i V>'^.' ■ ■\ ■(.' ) >,.' Threescore and ten I can remember well ; Witliin the volume of which time, I have seen hours dreadful, and things strange. > «. Shahpeare. The busy little city of St. John, in the Proviniie of New Brunswick, presents an interesting and animated scene to the eye of the stranger, who finds himself therein, in pursuit of pleasure, or with a view to gain. Its situation is picturesque. It has risen from tlie ashes of the recent fire with fair and even stately Iook, credit- able to the taste and spirit of its people. Its wharfs »re lined with many a craft, about to bear away to many a distant land the forest product of New Brunswick; while the broad bosom of the inlet of the Bay of Fundy, on which the city stands, seems destined to become, let us hope, at no distant day, one of the most frequented harbours of the continent of America. It is not, however, till we stand beside its broad and brimming river that we fully realize how charming is the situation of St. John. A fairer scene is rarely found than that which meets the eye when the waters of the St. John open to the view, stretching far away like some 1 1 z INTR0DT7CTI0N. charming lake, p;irdled by the foreRt ; :;vhile trije-Qrowned rocks shoot boldly into the flood ; and there the water rests in some rock-girt bay, mirroring the forest and the heavens. ouio It was in full appreciation of the various charms of this noble river, but many miles above the city, that a youthful stranger sauntered, one day in summer, along its banks. The day was sultry, the sun poured down his rays relentlessly, and, as several miles had. still to be traversed before he could reach his destination, the youth sought a resting-place at a house of attractive, almost elegant appearance, which stood on an elevation over- looking a quiet and picturesque inlet of the river, v ^,^ j At the door sat a venerable matron, whose fingers plied her knitting-needles as deftly as if she were still in her early prime. Her hair was white as snow, and peeped from under her snow-white cap in silvery curls, becoming to a face which still retained no inconsiderable share of its early comeliness. She had a look, too, of quiet dignity, which became her well. As the youth approached her, the old lady rose to her feet, dropped a graceful courtesy, and, with a pleasant smile, gave him welcome ; for she had gathered at a glance that he was a stranger and a gentleman. The young man raised his hat respectfully, and accosted her in a manner that won for him the sympathy of one quick to discover gentle breeding and an ami- able disposition ^"n look and voice " And ye'll be frne the auld land far awa?" she said, after some observations bad been interchanged about the weather and scenery. INTRODUCTION. XI n ,5 n From Scotland, madam," he answered readily, not ashamed of the land of the heather and the flood ! ** Aweel, aweel ! And weel I kend the auld familiar tongue ! " she said, with a tone of sadness, while a kindly light shone in her mild blue eyes, and a higher colour mantled on her cheek. ** Ya'Il hae been to Edin- bro ? Dear auld Keekie, wi* its auld world memories, an' it's bonnie Arthur's seat ! " " I think I have ! It's my native place." Her eyes shone with pleasure, and a tear or two ran slowly down her cheeks. It was clear ihat the love of home was still alive within her breast, and that not all the beauty of the fair St. John could chill her heart to her fatherland ! For more than an hour they sat end talked of old Edina, — the youth telling her of changes in oW familiar bcf nes, of people who had passed away, and of events of which she had become aware only through such scanty rill* of news »s had but quickened a desire for a further knowledge of occurrences so interesting to the exile's heart : — while she, irom the resources of a n-'emory which time seemed only to have rendered more accurate, poured into his willing ear many a thrilling narrative of other days. Then they parted, with the understanding that he would visit her once more ere he had departed for his native land. About a week after the occurrences just related our friend presented himself again to his new-found friend. The good old lady was seated, as on the former occa- sion, plying her busy needles. Again she rose to welcome I 'i xu INTRODUCTION. him, with the formal but becoming courtesy which clung to her as an inheritance from other days, and with a beaming look that spoke of personal regard, and of the memories of Auld Lang Syne. And then the conversa- tion drifted to the old familiar themes, and she related to him the incidents which we have woven into the follow- ing narrative. •^(- U.«: liiL h Charlie Ogilbie. CHAPTER I. " I'll shape myself a way to higher things, And who will say 'tis wrong ?" One summer evening, in the early part of this cen- tury, a certain Charlie Ogilbie stood on the shore of Ulster, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the grey hills of Scotland. There was speculation in his clear hazel eye — an earnest far-off look — and there was a flush on his cheek which showed that his heart was stirred hy the contemplation of some subject of no common interest. His tall athletic form was drawn to its full height, and his arms, bare to the elbows, lor he had been hard at work, were folded across his ample chest, displaying his fine proportions to the full. Indeed, nature had endowed him with her noblest gifts of physical development. He was just the man a sculptor would have chosen for a model, or a painter have depicted in the foreground of his canvas, with his brave young face hronzed by the breezes of the sea ; his daring look ; a man to hold his head erect, conscious, while yielding deference whore deference was due, that * a man's a man for a that !' Besides, Charlie had an air and look of refinement which would hp.ve become a sta- tion far above his own. The Ogill)ies had seen better days, but riches had taken wings, and the father of our new acquaintance U^cJ i 14 OHABLIE OOILBIE. i i! crossed the narrow sea that separates Antrim from Argyle, and had leased a farm in Ulster. M^hen his circumstances began to mend, it occurred to Archie Ogilbie that he might, without fear oi" pecu- niary embarrassment, maintain a family; so he married a young Irish lady, whose relations, however, regarded the alliance as a step in the wrong direction for tlie fair Edith McDonald, with the blood of the 0' Neils and the McDonalds of the Isles running in her veins, regard- less of the fact that Archie Ogilbie, as well as she, was come of gentle race. Of this alliance, Charlie, and his brother Edward, were the only offspring. Charlie was the elder ; and on him devolved, after the death of his father, while the youth was scarcely out of boyhood, the care of the farm at "Willowbrook. •t "With spirit that did him credit, Charlie set to work ; but it was no easy task which fortune had laid upon him at his early age. The land was cold and stubborn ; the rent, although not high, was demanded to the day ; the seasons had become unfavourable ; and the mother whom he loved so well must never know an hour's anxiety on account of the loss of the strong hand and steady head that had kept the larder full and the bailiffs from the door. ,.u'-; ' si But do what he might, affairs at Willowbrook were disheartening. Then, the failure of a Bank swept away all the savings which the thrifty Archie had amassed, and left them subject to repeated calls on the part of the creditors. In these circumstances, Charlie's thoughts began to turn to other lands ; but so reduced had his means be- come that ii was no easy thing to procure the money to carry him across the wide Atlantic. But his heart was young and hopeful, and a scheme arose in his fertile brain by which to accomplish his desire. Whilst he stood, as we have found him, with his^yes fixed 30 wistfully on the Scottish shores, it was this pre- set that occupied his mind. CHARLIE OGILBIE. IB "I say, mother/' he said brisHy, "you'll not be lonely if I'm off to the harvest ?" " The harvest, Charlie ! That's a strange idea ! Have you not the land at home to mind, my dear?" " Never mind the land at home, mother. It won't run away, and little matter if it did. Besides, the crop here won't be in a hurry. Look at the seasons we have — a water-spout every day of the six, and a Noah's flood on Sunday ! Cast your eye across the braes above, with the grain as green as the meadows in May ! While all this is so, what's to be got by hanging about at home ? " I'll go and win my passage to America !" ** 0, Charlie, darling ! Is it my heart you mean to break?" Mrs. Ogilbie said anxiously, for she deemed that what he said he meant. " Ah, then, that's the last thing in life you'll ever have to blame me for," he said, with a look that was an un- mistakable assurance of sincerity. ** A bad sort of blessing that would bring to start in life with, mother ! But, now look here — what's the use hanging about the hillb^of Willowbrook ? My father did well enough, but that time's past ! What have we got for all my work, late and early '? What but disappointment ? and still more to follow ! In the new land across the sea I'll hew out a home for us, where there's no rent and little taxes to take the heart out of a fellow's prospects ! And you'll come out in due time, and end your days in plenty, mother," said Charlie with enthusiasm. " And the time you'll be away, dear !" she said very sadly. " You'll take heart in the reflection that it's all for the best, mother." " Wlio can be sure of that ? Who can be sure of that?" " Who can be certaiu about anything that's down be- hind the future, like a ship below the horizon ? But surely we can hope ? And Ned can mind the farm till you both come out — without taking a passage for your troubles to come along with you !" he said with a beam- li' i lii I:! 16 CHARLIE OGILBIE. ^11 in^ expression on his face in which might have been dis- cerned the determination of the Scot raingUng with the light-hearted dash of the Irish character. " 0, Charlie, darHng, trouble has sent your wits run- ning after shadows !" " Never fear, mother ; never fear ; they'll not run so fast but I'll come up with tbem ! And they'll not lead me far astray, when ah's done. What's the use staying here ?— where nothing comes round at the time you're looking for it but the payment o' the rent an' taxes ? Three weeks after this conversation took place, Mr. Charhe Ogilhie had obtained employment from a farmer in the vicinity of Edinburgh. The scene of Charlie's new employment was in the neighbourhood of Duddingston. His ready ways and quaint cheerful humour soon made him a favourite in the old farmhouse of Cambusleigh ; while his strong arm and Irish dash among the reapers in the harvest-field placed him high in the estimation of the gudeman himself. The homest(^ad and farm of CambusleiL;h had been in the possession of the family of which old Gilbert Car- michael W'as, at this time, the representative, since the days when the baron's bugle called their father's from the plough to don helm and draw brand for a brush in the Canongate of Edinburgh ; or to mount and away for a raid across the English border. There they had spoken with bated breath, around the same old hearth, of the dark deed of the Kirk o' Field ; of the cnptive of Lochleven ; and of the fair head, tluit once adorned a crown, laid low for the headsman's axe ! They had donned their suit of hodden grey, and repaired to old St. Giles to hear the fiery eloquence of Knox : and had heard the bagpipes of Prince Charlie sounding victory at Prestonpans. What wonder, then, that the Carmi- chaels loved their own old Cambusleigh ? What won- der if there glowed in the breast of Gilbert Carmichael a sort of veneration for the * yudc aiild stuck,' as he was pleased to call his race ? CHARLIE OGILBIE. 17 There was, however, one element in Gilbert's nature stronger even than his pride of race — and that was his thirst for riches. This had become, by long indulgence, almost a mania. For him there was little pleasure in the affairs of life apart from such transactions as tended to increase his 'gear,' of which, indeed, he had not suc- ceeded in accumulating a very ample store. The other members of the family at Cambusleigh were Jeanie, — the only one remaining of a once numer- ous group of sons and daugliters around the family board — and Miss ^largery Carmichael, sister to the guderaan of Cambusleigh. Jeanie was the youngest and the last, and the hearts of her lather and her aunt clave to her with especial tenderness. Indee from CHAPTER III. THE VAGARIES OF CUPID. It was evidcntenonj^li that tin pawky L'j,ird of Max- wellhangb was drawn by sonit; Htronf^ atti-action to the old farm-liouso of Canibuslc!i or fear according to it^ inclination. it could scarcely be supposed that a girl of Jeanie's time of life would be deeply enamoured with a gentle- man of forty iive. Of course be could introduce her into a class in the social scale far above the circle into which she bad been born ; and although he was far from being affluent, there was enough to maintain a moderate establishment, and turn her out in silk or satin on gala-days and Sundays. His looks, besides, were beyond the average of masculine endowments ; and he could be fairly agreeable wlien it pleased him ; but never a thought had Jeanie of the Laird of Maxwell- liaugb. Not so Miss Margery. The modest little penchant kept lurking in the corners ot her heart, coiled among the cares of her "busy life at Cambusleigb, ready to awake into very swift development of sincere affection. It was singular that so shrewd a mind as Margy's had not ere now discerned the true nature of the man ; the callous heart that beat behind his mask of smiles ; the cool determined will ; and cynical indifference to what- Hillll!^ iiilllli lill ■i I ifil! I! It MH' n 24 CHARLIE OGILBIE. ever had no connexion with himself. A hundred Httle incidents might have made it clear enough, as they had to Jeanie, hut Miss Margy seemed to seo him only as he appeared among his friends at Cambusleigh, — cour- teous, smiling, bland. It was a delightful evening in September, and the harvest moon was at the full. Gilbert Carmichael and his men were busy in the field ; and Miss Margery, who always took a lively interest in the operations on the farm, hp.d sauntered forth to enjoy the sight of the in- gatliering of the grain She had not gone far when she was joined by the Laird of Maxwellhaugh. '^ I wot ye'U mind the time when we used to toddle doon to Wattie's school together ?" be said as they saun- tered slowly side by side. " It's no sae lang gane by. Laird." " No sae lang but that there's a while o' life before ua yet, Margy ! and ye'U mind wee undignified Willie Wylie ? and how 1 laid my satchel to his lugs because he splashed the water o' the burn upon ye ?" " I mind it weel, Johnny, ' said Miss Carmichael with a kindly look at her companion. " That's right, Margy ! call me Johnny ! aye, call me Johnny. It's just like auld times cam back again." ** No, because I dinna mind on the distance between Cambusleigh and Maxwellhaugh,'* said Miss Carmichael, in modest deprecation of any appearance of undue fam- iliarity. ** Tut, awa ! I dinna ken o' muckle o' an impediment when there's a kindly disposition to a growing friend- ship !" *' I'm sure the sentiment's reciprocal," said Miss Mar- gery, looking down, and toying demurely with her apron strings. •' It's an auld story, now, since Cambusleigh and Max- wellhaugh were first acquaintit, Margy ! and should a\ k( u^ lllii i 111 CHARLIE OGILBIE. 26 dred little i they had tn only as Xh, — cour- , and the chael and 'gery, who ns on the 3f the in- Bd by the to toddle hey sauu- before ua ie Wylie ? ! sphished hael with 3, call me dn." between •michael, iue fam- )ediment J friend- 'iss Mar- pv apron nd Max- should auld acquaintance be forgot ? as Rabbie Burns wants to ken ?" ** Na, na, Johnny, Na^ na'' said Miss Carmichael, gently shaking her head, in tender appreciation of the sentiment. " What's life wi'out a frien', Margy ? and what's the use o' a snug fireside wi' naething but the cat for com- f pany ? ane's v'hyles inclined to settle up affairs, bestow I ane's gudes upon the parish, and b(3come a monk, Margy." " Eh ! guide us ! Sic a sentiment !" •* It's just the philosophy o' fash and worry ! Its dreigh leading a lonely life, Margy ! and that puts it in my head — Ye'll need to keep your eye on Jeanie." " On Jeanie, Laird ! " "Ay, just on Jeanie. Think ye she'll no hae sweet- hearts, Mar(?y?" •* Likely enough, and wherefore no ?" "Ye dinna ken o' ony?" *• I only ken there's naebody to the fore. And I ko i, forby, that he'll need a stout heart and a fu' purse ihat asks Gilbert Carmichael for Jeanie o' Cambusleigh." The Laird broke out into a hearty laugh, and rubbed his hands together gleefully, much to the ainazoment of his companion, who saw nothing in her remark to occa- sion that demonstration of merriment. *' X\\ ay, Mar- |gy," he said again, " ye'll need to ivccp an eye on Jeanie." On the following morning. Miss Margery Carniichael awoke from her peaceful slumbeis with a very agreeable recollection of her tete-d teie with Maxwellliaugh. Wliiie arranging the table for breakfast, it was evident that er mind was occupied with otlier thoughts than of oat- meal porridge and finnan haddie. Her eye was soft and beaming, her air was sprightly, ami a pleasant smile ilurked about her rosy lips. Her attire had a look of even more than its or'tinary neatness ; and to her ring- lets had been given an extra twist. There was a light quick step on the gravel-plot before the liouse, and a ^Bweet voice was heard singing an old Scotch air; and 26 CHARLIE OGILBIE. ! i ■! i > i i ill i !|li i l! 1 n ' { ;i ^ the next moment Jennie entered the breakfast room, as fresh and blooming as the roses, looking in so sweetly at her through the open window. " Ye'U no take it ill if I gie ye a word o' counsel Jeanie ?" said Miss Margy, gently. " I'm no just sae silly» Auntie." " Then, my bonnie dearie ! ye'l) just observe a lady- like reserve wi' the Laird when he comes to Cambus- leigh." " Auntie, are you dreaming ?'* " ^a, Jenny ; wide awake. And you'll see, upon re- ' flectlpn, that a lassie S(!arcely out o' her teens suld be reserved and modest ; and lea' the company-keeping to folk o' mair maturity, Jeanie." " Then you're free to the Laird, Auntie," said Jeanie, ^ "with a merry laugh, "and wi' a' my heart I wish the puir auld man wad keep awa frae Cambu sleigh.'' ** He's a gentleman by birth and breeding, lass." "And may ca* the king his cousin, if you will, Auntie." "He's mild, and meek, and modest, Jeanie." " Sae is the auld grey cat, but it has sixteen claws fori a' that." " Do ye no reflect that you're speaking o' the Laird o' Maxwellhaugh ?" said Miss Margery, bridling up, and tossing her head indignantly, " but gude preserve us ! there he is himsel ! What has brought him to Carnbus- leigh at this time o' day ?" There was something quite peculiar in Johnny's look and bearing as he bowed himself into the room. There was laughter in his eye ; there was mirth in his smile ;' there was an expression of suppressed enjoyment of some bright idea. He smirk(/l and smiled at Jeanie. Ho forgot the manners of a gentleman, and bestowed a wink, and a nudge with his elbow, on the demure and blushing Maigery. To Gilbert Carmicliael, coming home to breakfast, the sight of Johnny Maxwell, at tluit early hour, was rather OHABLIE OaiLBIE. 27 ist room, as 50 sweetly at I o' counsel lerve a lady- to Cambus- lee, upon re- Bena suld be y-keeping to said Je^inie, ^ t I wish the y, lass." if you will, le." len claws fori the Laird o' ling up, and ^reserve us ! to Carnbua- :)hnny'8 look )om. Tlieie n his smile ;" nent ofsoDie Jeanie. Ho bestowed a demure and realvfast, the was raiher ■ a cause of perplexity, and immediately brought to his I remembrance those two thousand pounds, with a dismal > vision of forclosure. He* had never felt quite certain i that he might not, one day or other, be called on by the Laird to discharge his obligation ; or to pay a higher rate of interest, under penalty of foreclosure. Gilbert measured friendship by a standard of his own ; and never placed complete reliance on that emotion when money was in question. §. There was an anxious look in Gilbert's eyes as he i saluted his visitor. I ** Superb weather for the harvest !" said the Laird, ; rubbirg his hands, and indulging in another nod to Jeanie. I "Eh! mon, it's fine ! It's just fine; and if it lasts \ a week or twa half the stocks in Cambusleigh will be I siller in the Bank, before the harvest mune has blinkit '^ hersel awa," returned Carmichael, with a shrewd look at his friend and his thoughts running on the half-year's interest on that two thousand pounds shortly accruing \ due. ^ ** Will ye no sit doon and break your fast, Laird?" ^he continued, setting a chair for his guest. [ " I wad wi' pleasure, mon, only I hae breakfasted lialready. Will ye do me the favour o' a word wi' ye, |when ye hae breakfasted yoursel ? and may I hope that |the ladies will excuse this intrusion at an hour sae lunseemly ? ^ ** Hout tout ! ye needna mention that, mon,*^ said ^Gilbert. "And no to keep you waiting. Laird, I'm ^entirely at your service." ^^ So saying, the good man of Cambusleigh led the way I into another apartment. I "'Ye'U no think me joking, if I tell ye a bit o' my -|mind ?" said Maxwell, with a siy look. ^ " If ye tell me you're in earnest it wadna be manners f to misbelieve ye," Carmichael answered, dryly. \m 28 CHARLIE OGILBIE. il: !!!l '\\^ ** And if I said what looks like joking, ye Tvadna tak' me for a fool, auld man ?" " I dinna ken that the conclusion wad necessarily follow frae the premises, as the minister wad say." ** If I tak' heart and speak to Jeanie, ye'U no tak' it ill, mon?" " Hout tout, awa. Laird ! She's only but a lassie yet." " She's iust the belle o' the Lothians !" said Johnnv, with a degree of enthusiasm in voice and manner that fairly astonished the good-man of Cambusleigh. '* You're very complimentary, Maxwellhaugh !" he answered, 'with a slight inclination of acknowledgment; " and J winna gainsay but she's weel enough. But, Eh, mon, she's fine at keeping house !" ** And kens to measure outlay wi' the income !'* said the Laird with a wary look. ** She ne'er saw waste or wanton outlay in the auld farm-house o' Cambusleigh!" '•I'm a prudent mon, ye ken, Carmichael." *' I dinna ken that ony body tak's ye for a fule, Laird." Johnny's eyes twinkled with a gleam of the pawky humour, which was a distinguishing element in his character. " I dinna think ye do, lad !" he said, with evident self- appreciation, "and if ye meet that mon just send him to the fair the day I hae a horse to sell !" *' And ye'll no say I'm unmannerly if I speak to Jeanie. mon ? " the Laird went on. " It's over muckle o' an honour, Laird." "And ye'll put in a word yoursel, just to help to clinch the bargain ? When five-and-forty sets his cap at sweet nineteen he's naething the waur o' a frien' at his elbow; and, between you and me, what if I wad settle that twa thousand pun on Jeanie and her bairns, mon ? " " 1 hae a parent's heart, Laird, a parent's heart ; and wad like weel to see my Jeanie weel set doon at her ain fireside. Ye'll settle the twa thousand pun, ye say ? " : \ CHARLIE OGILBIE. 29 ^adna tak' necessarily i say." .1 no tak' it lassie yet." lid Johnnv, anner that gh. augh !" he wledgment ; But, Eh, ome !" said n the auld » ule, Laird." the pawky lent in his 3videot self- it send him tk to Jeaniej to help to ets his cap ' a frien' at at if I wad her bairns, heart ; and Q at her aiii ^6 Bay ? " ** By bond, signed and sealed on tlie day the minister says the v/ord." ** Weel, weel, Maxwellhangh, tell your story as best ye can, and I'll come in wi' the parental authority, and advise her for her gude." When Gilbert Carmichael sat down to breakfast it was with a lighter heart than he had known for many a day. The weight of his indebtedness to the Laird pressed no longer so heavily on his avaricious soul. He saw, in anticipation, the landsof Cambusleigh and Maxwellhaugh no longer divided by the old march dyke, but stretching far away in one fair expanse ; and ho saw his blooming Jeanie jaunting into Edinburgh with gown of silk and feathers in her bonnet, a laird's wife and a' that ! Margery watched her brother's face, and saw that something of more than ordinary interest had been the subject of his interview with Maxwellhaugh. It might have been a question of finance — but Gilbert never had a pleasant look when money was in view. It might have been scmetliing connected with the parish, but neither Gilbert nor his friend were likely to look lively while teinds or tombstones were the subjects of their talk. It might have been herself that the Laird had come to speak about. Miss Margery felt a blush mantling on her cheek. The sweet maiden modesty began to tingle in her veins. And then, requesting Jeanie to preside at the breakfast table, she hastened from the room. " Hey, day ! " said Gilbert, ** what's wrang wi' your auntie ? Maybe she hears the hen keeping the cat frae the chickens." "Ha! ha! ha! I see you're smirkin', Jeanie. Ha! ha ! ha ! Aweel, aweel, I just hope ye'U be as thrifty at the housewifry as your auntie, lass ! Wi' no a thought behint her bits o' ringlets but the upkeepin' o* Cambus- leigh." "•■-T" I : i! i I I i 1 i Mjii! ' 1 1 Si \ Mi 1,1 CHAPTEE IV. THE VOW OP CAMBUSLEIGH. The time was approaching when Charlie Ogilbie must return to his native land. With sorrowful heart he con- templated the hour when he must bid adieu to Cambus- leigh. The time he had spent with the Carmichaels was more like one long thrill of unalloyed enjoymeji: than a period of ordinary servitude. Indeed, he had been treated more like one of the family than as a stranger working for his daily wages, for his genial nature had made him friends, and it had been soon dis- covered that he was, in every way, far above the class who usually seek for employment on a Scottish harvest field. In the intercourse which he was, hence, permitted with the household, Charlie soon discovered that Jeanie was not indifferent to his presence at Gambusleigh ; and many a little incident revealed to the quick appreciation of awakened love that he had found a welcome place in her heart of hearts. The tell-tale flush that stole so sweetly to her cheek, the softenmg eye, and other little symptoms of the ailment, announced to whom it might concern that Cupid had been busy with his darts ! But this bewitched enamoured Charlie ! what was he that he might aspire to the heiress of Cambusleigh? and so he thought with deepening sadness of the time when he would dee her face no more, and far away in a foreign land dwell on the times at Cambusleigh as on the memory of a dream ! Charlie was in sore distress. His heart was lost ! and ever more he must pursue his weary way under the dreary shadow of this early sorrow I He was unable to CHARLIE OaiLBIE. 81 gilbie must art he con- to Cambus- )armichaels enjoyme*; ed, he had than as a his genial sn soon dis- ^e the class iish harvest mitted with Jeanie was leigh; and ppreciation lie place in a.t stole so other little m it might arts! ^hat was he nbusleigh ? )f the time ' away in a leigh as on s lost ! and under the } miable to 4 I ■1 bring himself to tell his troubles in the only quarter where consolation might be found, for a sense of his own unworthiness kept him mute. He dare not have recourse to Gilbert Carmichael, as had his rival, Max- wellhaugh. A penniless Irish lad, with little besides his brogue and his black-thorn, v/hat right had he to raise his eyes to the belle of Cambusleigh, who was the sought of half the eligible youths in the County of Midlothian ? It was sad to be so poor and lowly ! and Charlie's spirit rose in proud revolt against the bare idea of having his low estate flung contemptuously in his face by the fiery and indignant sire ! It was sad to think, however, of leaving Cambusleigh for ever and not so much as tell her of the conflict raging in his breast : without one word of sympathy to soothe him in the dreary years when an ocean would roll between them, and his heart be lonely on its waters, and troubled as its waves ! It was the last evening in September — the evening preceding the day on which he intended to set out for Willowbrook, with the purpose to spend a week or so at home, and then to take ship for the forests of New Brunswick. Slowly and sadly Charlie wandered around the now familiar Cambusleigh, where every object was endeared to him by some association which would keep fresh in memory for ever. Here he plucked a flower, and placed it carefully in his purse, to .carry it far away, as something her sweet eyes had seen ! And there he paused beside the brook, at a spot where he oft had seen her linger ! His heart was full, and tears were in his eyes ; for the dark foreboding of his lonely life fell heav- ily upon him. He was aroused from his reverie by the snapping of a twig ; and looking quickly up, his eyes rested on the object of his thoughts. It was evident that the meeting was as unexpected by Jeanie as it was by himself. Her face flushed crimson ; for a moment she hesitated ; and then, regaining her \ \ \h tlni lii iHiii HIi 32 CHARLIE OGILBIE. composure, she advancofl, with the sweet smile that had so often cast its wit(;hery on his heart. It was now Charhe's turn to be disconcerted, while his heart beat tumultuously, and his strong frame wa s shaken with emotion. A jj;r(at joy possessed him ; and yet he would have liked to turn away and flee ! The girl's quick eye detected at a glance, divined with unerring instinct, the emotions that hold him spell-bound in her presence ; and, urged by an impulse akin to that which had arisen in the breiist of her lover, she was about to retrace her steps, when Charlie, impelled by a sudden inspiration of the watchful Cupid, flung himself on his knees before her, and folded her little trembling hand in both his own. " Stay but a minute, Jeanie ; stay but a minute," he said with a husky voice. "Dinna be sae foolish, Charlie." ** Foolish, Jeanie ? No, I'm mad ! 0, Jeanie darling ! the anguish of a hopeless life drives me beyond the bounds of reason, and gives wings to words I never meant to speak !" Her eyes, with the long lovely lashes veiling their tender light, were turned away from his burning gaze; but he saw the tears upon her cheeks ; and he felt the subtle sympathy of love thrill in her trembling touch ! It needed no confession to tell him she was won. And rising to his feet, and covering his face with his shaking hand, he burst into tears ! "And so you'll not forget me, Jeanie ?" he said, after some minutes had elapsed, and they both were calmer. She looked him in the face, with her still tearful eyes. "Can I forget mysel, Charlie?" "But mind, I ask no promise. I crave no engage- ment. I dare not ask your father for your hand, and ril never ask his daughter to i)light her troth while she cannot ask his blessing on the bands !" " When the heart is thine, there's httle need o' words, Charlie." CHARLIE OGILBTE. 88 that had d, while ,me wa s m ; and ned with ill-bound I to that she was led by a 5 hiinsolf embling ute," he darling ! ond the I never ng their iggaze; felt the ouch ! as won. vith his id, after ;almer. ful eyes. engage- nd, and hile she ' words, He drew himself proudly to the full measure of his splendid stature, while his eye kindled with an expres- sion such as we may suppose shone in the eyes of Scot- land's peasant bard when he bo sweetly and proudly Bang : — " The King may malce a belted Knight, A Lord, a Peer, and a' that ; An honest man's aboon them a' ; A man's a man for a' that I" " The time may come, Jeanie ; the time mny come," [he said, " wben I can claim thy hand, as thy heart is mine ! and as to blood and lineage, if these be in the count, well, I'll not lower my bonnet far before the Laird of Maxwellhaugh !" Jeanie looked upon her lover with eyes twinkling roguisbly. " Ye dinna lo'e the Laird, Charlie ?" He answered only with a contraction of his brows, and a gentle shaking of the head. " What ! No, the Laird o* Maxwellhaugh ! sae mild [and gentle, wi' his kindly smile ! 0, fie, Charlie !" "Not the Laird with his hollow smile, when I know he has set his heart, or what passes for the same, on Jeanie Carmicbael of Cambusleigh." '* 0, fie, Charlie ! Is that the way ye wish me weel? Sure I'd be leddy o' Maxwellhaugh !" He wound his arm around her, and drew her to his ide. " And if they try to force ye, Jeanie ?" ** Force me to listen to Johnny ? Force me ? Wha ?" ** The good-man of Cambusleigh." Her bows became contracted, and a very resolute expression gathered on her lips. ** Force me, Charlie ? Ha ! they canna bend the heart ; and wi'out my heart I'll never gie my hand. ffever, while the heavens canopy the earth! ^ever HI i \ i I. 84 OHARLIB OOILBIB. while blasphemy's a crime, and the Heaven o' heavena froons upon a lee ! Think ye I'll stand before the Minister o' God and mock the Almighty to His face ?" The colour rushed to her cheek and brow ; her frame quivered, as he held her in his arms, and gazed upon her radiant beauty ; and a look of lofty heroism shone in her flashing eyes. She raised her hands, and spread them out before the stars of night, that now were shin- ing through the paling glory of the setting sun ; while a deep stillness seemed to fall upon her, the stillness ol an inward awe, as if some strong presentiment possessed her. " No, while reason keeps its balance, and the life- blood throbs within my heart ; no, till the * golden bowl' is broken, and the 'silver cord* is loosed, will Jean Carmichael lea* the house o' God the wife o' the Laird o' Maxwellhaugh." She ceased ; pressed her hands upon her chest, and then, while something like a sob broke from her quiver- ing lips, she gently disengaged herself from his embrace, and fled towards the house. i o' heavens before the His face ?" ; her frame gazed upon :oism shone , and spread V were shin- ,un ; while a . stillness ol int possessed md the life- the ' golden ed, will Jean o* the Laird r chest, and Q her quiver- his embrace, PART II. CHAPTER V. LIFE WITH THE AXE IN THE FOREST. The situation in which Charlie Ogilbie found him- elf, about two months after the incidents related in the receding chapter, was not such as to suggest very arm and brilliant anticipations of a prosperous career, r the building of very sumptuous castles in the air. It was the ancient story — *' far off fields look green !" but in Charlie's surroundings the green had turned to now, and verdure there was none on the gaunt branches f the forest. His habitation was a shanty of logs, hich he shared with the gang of lumberers with whom e was engaged in felling timber on the banks of the t. John, in the Province of New Brunswick. They ere rough companions with whom he had to do ; men f rude exterior, and manners just as rude, and the eader of the gang was, if not the roughest, asDuredly ho most notable of the lot. He had begim his career in life as a sailor in an East- ndiaman ; had served as second mate on board a slaver ; ad been pressed into the iavy of Great Britain, which nd had the honour of hia birth , but, finding the rules f the service out of harmony with his views, had given hem the slip, and had taken up his quarters under the "tars and Stripes. He had been on a plantation in the outhern States, where he gained the affection of the egroes by an adroit a^jplication of the whip, the good- m m il! CHARLIE OOILBIE. will of liifl mafitor by hia love of discipline and lofty dis- repird of the ordinary wt'aknt'8308 of hiunanity, and hia own approval by a steady eye to the interests of No. 1. IJg had been on a cattle ranpje in Texas, where his promptitude and dexterity witli the [)i8tol had made him the admired of all his friends; while he was regarded by society in general witli the respectful consideration due to his undoubted merits. In appearance, too, he wns notable. A six foot mea- sure would have been short of the crown of his coal- black head by at least a couple of inches. His brawny shoulders were like the shoulders of a giant; while his arms, lashed with thews like the sinews of a Hercules, •^ere of such remarkable length, and so much out of the ordinary proportion, as to have the look of not havin;:; been intended for lum, but buckled on by way of a mnke shift — first-rate arms for swinging the woodman's axe, but not at all agreeable to contemplate when used as arguments to maintain his opinion. As to his face, he was not ill-favoured in the form of his features, and lit might, hnve been looked upon as a very handsome man but for the sinister expression that lurked in his cold black eyes, and the stern remorseless look graven in lines like iron bands in the lower regions of his face. Such was Hill the Driver, boss, but not the employer, of the gang with whom Charlie Ogilhie found himself asso- ciated for a winter campaign in the lumbering field; with every prospect, surely, of agreeable companionship 0* winter nijjhts at the shanty fire. It was with a view to devote himself to the trade of a master lumberer that Charlie had shouldered the axe; judging, wisely, that an apprenticeship to experience i- an essential of success to him who is ambitious to rise above the condition of mire possible existence. The two members of the party whom Charlie regard ed most favourably were a negro and an Irishman. Black Sambo, as he was called, was a genial, light hearted fellow, whose natural exuberance of spirits wai t OBARLIG OOILDIB. 87 id lofty clis- ity, and his 8 of No. 1. where his \ made him regarded by eration due c foot mea- of hia coal- His brawny t; while his a Hercnles, ;h out of the not havinj:; Ly of a make idman's axe, hen used as . his faccj. be ,ures, and he idsome mjin d in his cold L-aven in lines face. i employer, ol limself ass(^ ibering iit^kl; inpanionshiii he trade of a red the axe; experience i- bitiou? to risf nee. larlie regard- iishman. genial, hght- of spirits was heightened by the consciousness that he had exohancjed a condition which had left its memorials on his broad shoulders, and in an ugly scar across his brow, for the rights of a freeman on British soil ! Ho was the first Bon of Africa with whom Charlie had come into contact; and, regarding him at liist with curiosity, ho soon dis- covered that tho untutored S imb > had beon gifted with a shrewd intelligence and a generous disposition. To Murty O'Gornian Charlie was drawn, at first, by their mutual relationship to the one little island, t* |which his heart turned so often with ever dco[)en g 'earning ; and he soon found a very sincere regard jiiwakening within him for his countryman, wliom he Jhad discovered to possess tho best qualities of tho Celtic Ifiace, with tlie least |)ossible balance of its defect-*. Muriy was one of those irrepres-iblo H[)irits who, like |tlie ever memorable Mr. Tapley, socm to he in thoir elo- |ment in ndversiry. In all circumstances lie was thor- loughly at home, and as happy^ when coiled u[) to sleep (in a snow wreath on iho ban^rs of the St. Jo m, with his [little black lihmlci'n in his mo'.ith, as lie once had hoen lin the old house at homo on the hank of the Shannon. flo Min-tv, too, nothing came amiss. Ho could shoot is gune and cook it with equal de\terity. He couid 'ork the hardest of tho [)art.y, sviagiiig his axe with a force and accuracy of stroke that ouUlid o\cn Hill the river ; and he was always re.idy for a frolic, when the iay's work was done, with heart as light and lim!)s as ippleas a youngster out of ft«;h()ol. It was Marty's ioiig that waked them in the morning : and tho last ihmg they heard at night was somo droll remark, or omo funny story, enriched by the Irish hroguo. Nor as Murty destitute of physical endowments, for he h id lithe well-proportioned f ame, a handsome face, with the drollest onb that ever twinkled at a joke, in point if age he was not yet thirty ; bat h id h id enougli e.^- lerience of a woodland life t > m ike him one of the most ►rolicieut lumberer^ iu New Brunswick. 88 CHAI^LIE OGILBIE. ■1 1 i|i|' J : By Bill the Driver Murty was regarded with especial favour ; while for Charlie Ogilbie he had conceived a dislike at a very early period of their association, which grew more and more into an absolute aversion. Self- interest alone prevented him from telling Charlie, in a manner not to be misimrlerstood, that he was at liberty to transfer himself and his services to another quarter ; but the sharp eye of the wary boss liad seen that Ogil- bie was just the sort of man to help along the work, with his strong young arm and enthusiastic nature, so he shut down his hostility, and put on the best face he could in his intercourse with the object of his '^'^ep and evergrowing resentment — but try to hide it as he might, that dark malignity was not unseen by the quick-eyed Ulsterman. There was something in the woodman's life peculiarly agreeable to Charlie Ogilbie. There was a romantic strain in his nature, hence to him a wondrous interest in the lonely woods, where every rock and tree could have told its story of the wild scenes of Indian life. In the solitude of the interminable forest mystery seemed la to brood ; and the silence, even in the noonday, filled him with a strange sensation of awe. Often the sun sent ill down his grateful beams from a sky without a cloud — a tb sky of lovely blue — his rays rejected from the pure untrod- dii| de« snow, as if by a field of diamonds. Everywhere there was the charm of novelty to a mind capable of appre- ciating the loveliness of nature. There wif intere-it manifold. There was even hope for future days in this rude, woodland life — but Charlie's heart was far awaj d. hi w hi th hs «I hij in the old farm-house of Cambusleigh 1 Tc ex] hi tb| foil anf - 1 If h especial >riceived a ,on, which lOn. Self- arlie, in a ; at hberty r quarter ; that Ogil- the work, nature, so est lace he s '^rep and ,s he might, quick-eyed fe peculiarly a romantic •ous interest 1 tree could ian life. In ;tery seemed onday, fiH^'^ I the sun sent t a tdoud — a jpureuntrod- •y where theie )le of appre- wiF interest davs in this ras"far awa} CHAPTER VI. CAMPING IN THE FOREST. Charlie's first experience of a New Brunswick winter Was not so painful as to make him shudder at the thought 0f old King Frost. That lively old potentate had, in- deed, played off upon him some enlivening little pranks; ^ad twitched him sharply by the nose, till it might as Ipell have been an icicle as his own natmal feature : fcad bitten botli his ears, and gnawed his fingers till piey were as unserviceable as so many bits of lead ; but j|ad made amends by supplying him with an antidote to §11 those experiences in the virgin snow ; so that good- mour was unbroken, and v.liat might have been a sting injury was l.sughed at as a frolic. ' But his warm young blood, fresh from the more gen- ii climatt, of the British Isles, had much to do with pe manner in which Charlie Ogilbie was able to en- |ire the cold of a winter of more than ordinary severity, whatever cause it is to be ascribed, it is a well-known perience that, in general, the new-comer to Canada is 8 susceptible to the rigour of its climsite in winter an are the natives, or those who have been resident years in that land of wide extremes of temperature ; d our young adventurer was able to display a degree of durance which astonished even his more seasoned ethreii of the axe. It was not, therefore, remarkable that Ogilbie was Steady volunteer for service on an expedition in which rigour of the season would be experienced in its full Bevcrity. .^A report had reached the camp that some very heav- " timbered land lay, up stream, along the banks of the m Ill I! lis I I ! K I i ■ i i jj li 1 1 •■ n 1 1 id ■1 I I i!li •jj \\\]l i ! 40 CHA7JiIE OGILBIE. St. John, at the distance of rather more than a two day's tramp ; and Bill the Driver had conceived the idea o; having the land 'prospected', so that he might report t( his employer in case the intelligence shouhl turn out t( be well-founded. It was necessary, therefore, to seiul out a party of prospectors ; and Murty O'Gorman wu; chosen as deputy Boss. With an impartiality as to the colour of his associate |^ that did him credit, Murty picked upon the black, to tl one; and Charlie, coming boldly forward as avoluntec; was readily accepted to make up the complement, of ti party of exploration. It was en a brif]jlit exhilarating morning that they ?> out on their expedition. The sun shone with dazzlii: splendour, and with warmth that would have done lii credit on a mid-summer da' in the British Isles. Ti sky was azure as the ki^uv _ that charm the eye Italy. The snow, unsullied as the light, was dry drifting sand. The stately trees, still and silent : sentinels on guard, proudly towered aloft in all t glory of the nncient woods ; while the deep stillness the forest seemed like a veritable presence brooding o the scene. All this was noticed by Charlie Ogilbie, and gave li intense enjoyment ; hut his companions trudged aloi not less haj p'ly, indeed, but with complacent regardle bfi ness of all but what related immediately to the tra %" before them. It was evident thr ■ imping out in a yH m '11 'M w til tl] )';l ml 1 1 faij ?ni( CHARLIE OGILBIE. 48 fom the I Were ie r u, shure sich an- ' Irelan*. at lasted wid thfe le grave- to thra- or two, ny wakes luck to you ever the Lep- you have us to the 3 fun an' rising to izingly, as I the verge yourself," deavouring ble in the tion of the :ty, pulling tens !" said bt, wid your test-hearted boys in the Barony o* Blaney; an' cared no more for the troubles o' life than if they were so many frolics sint for his diversion. He was never widout a joke on liis tongue; an' his laup:b was as good as a f'ddle at a (lance or a widdin'. Widout a fortin at his hack, Phaedrick had to earn his livin', hut he laid it on his conscience that his work shud be aisy, an' the wages not too light ! So he was still on his thravels from one place to another, lookin' for work, till at last he found himself a sort o' a hotly f-arvint to the Priest o' the parish, ould Father O'Flnnnngan. Now, Father O'Flannagan had ([iiiire notions in his head ; an' whether it was becase he had less wit — hein' ould, an' may be dotin' — or more knowledge o' things in gin'ral ; or may he he thought the whiskey tuck the money from the Church, but, any- way, he had set his face hard agin wakes an* dances. "Well, be it as it may, one winter day, whin he was startin' out on his rounds, he left ordhers wid Phaedrick to carry over his vistments, an' lave them at the Chapel. "It was night before O'Mullagan set out — for he was niver in a hurry, an' still liked to accommodate the ordliers he got to his own ways o' goin' — an' a good two mile lay before him, across as rough a l)it o' counthry as was widin the Barony o' Blaney, — rou*2;li, I mane, wid tlie lawless sort o' people that was in it, for 'tis little they cared for law or gospel ! an' had nearly hroke the heart o' Father O'FJannagan wid hapin pinance on them ! Well, what does O'Mullagan hear, whin he had got about lialf way to his journey's ind, but the sound o' a fiddle. ' More power to your ell)Ow, Lanty O'lieilly !' says Phae- jdrick to himself; * Fd know the sthroke o' your bow a mile away ! Is it in the face, if not o' the clargy. at [laste o' the clargy's man, wid the vistments undher his irm, you're alther houldin' a dance in the parish o' Bally- |inawhapple ? May I never do harm, but I'll play you thrick, Lanty me jewel !' Bo what does he do but h'ess himself up in the vistmenttj, wid the three-cornered Jap on 1^13 hes,d— sUoviu' his own ould caulcen inside an ij ijilHiii! •:l!i!i H < i 1 I 1 I f l! ii II 3 44 CHARLIE OOILBIE. ould flannel shirt he had under his arm, tnkin* it to his iDother to get a patch on it — an' off he sets for Lanty O'Reilly's ; for many a good hit o' frolic the priest had spoiled wid the argument o' his horse-whip ! a way o' rasonin' they had a mighty bad way o' repljiu' to \vhii> it was the elargy laid it on ! * " Well, Lanty's house was on the other side o' thf* Ballymawha])ple river ; an' the river lay in the hottom (>' a gle J, full o' rocks, an' ould thorn bushes ; an' the only way to cross the btbrame was be a couple o' stems o' trees laid side be side. But the moon was near the f'lll ; an* down goes Phaedriek into the glen, wid a sharp eye over his showlder on account o' the 'gintbry', that they said haunted the glen. Down he goes, an' comes to tbe ind o' the bridge, whin what does lie see but a little ould gintleman, not the height o' a new clay pipe, standin' on one o' tbe logs, wid a cocked hat on liis head, an' wid a Bwallow-tailed coat down to bis heels, au' a beau- t ful waist-coat wid fla])s to his tbi,L!;h8. *' In a minute, Phaedriek saw that he had come across a Lepracbaiin. *' ' Your hcnour, sir', says Phaedriek, ' may be you'd let me |)ass, on account o' the hurry I'm in ?' ** * Who are you, anyway ? ' says the Leju-achaun. *' * Sluire, thin, long life to your honour, but you might know me be me dress, if you never saw me face afore ?' says Phaedriek. *An' may be it's Pope o' Piome I'll be, afore tbey're done wid me.' •* ' you rogue o' the world ? ' says the little gintle- man, wid a comical look. * It's tbe vistments o' the clargy, shure enough, but what's inside them, I'm axin.' *' * Shure it's meself, no less ; plain to be seen, ' says Phaedriek. An', more be token, I'm going to put you tin ougli your confession, in vartue o' the ' ^ce I hould.' ** * None o' your nonsinse, Misther O'MuUagau,' says the Leprachaun. ** *Ab, thin, 'tis another story you'll tell afove I'm done wid you,' said Phaedriek. 'But first au **s CHARLIE OOILBIE. 45 it to bifi For Laiity )riest liad a wny o' i' to \vlii>' ifle o' tlu' be bottom } ; an' tlu^ o' stems o' Lv tbe f'lU ; L sharp eye , tbut tbey )mes to tbe a little ould pe, stnndiii' 8 bead, ail' au' a bean- come across I ay be you'd HY'haiiti. it you mif^bt face afore ?' ?tome I'll be, little gintle- meuts o' tbe i,rm axin.' e seen,' says a to put you ice I bould.' LiUagau/ says ;il tell afove But first au' foremost, who tould you me name's O'Mullagan ? An' wboever it was, never listen to tliini agin, lor they're aftber kissin' tbe Blarney Stone ! An' next, an' more to me mind, I want tu know tbe place you have your treasure bil .;|{ |! i !i 1^1 !i m ■Mh lagan. For the sacrilege o* puttin' on the vistments, you're to go from this till this day week on one male a day, an' not to taste tobaccy till the pinance is out. On account o* the lies you tould, you're to walk on your knees five times round the Chapel, three times a week, from this till the Sunday after next, an' not to open your mouth to Molly O'Rafferty, not so much as cast an eye on her if you meet her on the road, till this pinance is out. An', for tryin' to chate the little crayture o' a Lepra- chaun out o' his money, be the help o' Satan an' his hounds, you're to sit all alone, widout so much as a dog wid you, on a tombstone, in the cinthre o' the ould burial ground o' Maloney from sunset till the clock strikes one, two nights a week, till the aforesaid pinances run out, — an* that's to trc'ie you not to meddle wid the powers of darkness, Phatd ick O'Mullagan ? ' "In a minute the glen was ringin'wid gibes, an' jeers, an' peals o' laughter ; an' the Leprachpun was danciu' like mad on the ind c tl\e bridge, heel an* toe, cnt an' fling; breakin' his heart wid laughin', an' flourishin' his hat about his head in a way that looked as if he had a mind never to put it on agin. " ' 0, murther, anyway,' says Phaedrick, * what's this that's hap'nin' ? ' takin* off the vistments, as modest as milk widout the crame. ** * murther alive, your Rivrence,' says he ; * shure 'tis pinance enough I'm suffer in' wid the Purgathry I'm in already ; don't you hear the way they're laughin' at me? Arra, don't be so hard on a poor boy, for the good o' me health if not for the love you have for me.' ** * 'Deed an' I will, just as I tould you, Phaedrick,' says Father O'Flannagan. * What would the Bishop say, an' the Pope o' Eome, if they shud hear I lucked over the sins o' the parish ? ' *' * An' you'll not shorten the journeys roand the Chapel ?' says Phaedrick agin. " ' Not be the length o' me thumb, you rogue/ sa^'S Father O'Flannagan, :% CHARLIE OaiLBIE. 47 istments, le male a out. On on your 8 a "week, open your 8t an eye finance is )' a Lepra- \n an' his L as a dog )uld burial trikes one, run out,— 3 powers of J, an' jeers, vas danciu' ^e, cnt an' flourisbin' IS if he had what's this modest as he ; * shure rgathry I'm laugh in' at for the good me.' ,edrick,' says ihop say, an ted over the s roiind the rogue/ sayB " 'Nor aise the sentence concornin' Molly O'Rafferty ! Arra ! sure 'tis not two hearts instid o' one you'll be aft her breakin', says Phaedrick. " * If ye spake another word I'll increase the pinance all round,' says Father O'Flannagan. " • 0, Father, darlin,' says Phaedrick, beginnin' to move away, * what would become o' the sowls in Pur- gathry if they let you get your shovvldher to the gate ?' "An' away he wint on his way to the Chapel, not as contint wid himself as when he put the vistments on, to help the priest wid the cares o' the parish. " May I never do harm, boys, but 'tis mighty cowld it's gettin' ! " said Murty, rising to his feet. '* Come on, me jewels; it's time to moke the beds ami get between the blankets. Pmsayin', darkie', hape the lire wid logs, but don't burn the chimbly. If it doesn't tache good manners to the ghosts, it will help to free us from the [company o' the varmint." In a few minutes iSambo lifad heaped a goodly pile of I logs upon the hre, which now began to shed a deep red 1 glow throuj^hout the dell, making the rock look like a •wall of burnished copper. The arrangements which they now began to make for passing the night were such as to produce on the mind iof Charlie Ogilbie a very vivid conception of the simple &nd peculiar ways of the woodman's life. Between the |base of the rock and the fire, a space of a few yards in Iwidth had been kit, designedly, in which the snow, feeveral feet in depth, afforded them material for their jlDperations ; while the fire would serve as a defence against my of the lupine wanderers of the forest that might pay visit to their encampment. "Arra, shure it's meself that s the beautiful sort o' housemaid," said Murty O'Gorman, as he scooped a lole in the snow of about the requisite space to afiford iccommodation for his person lying at length. " Fould Ihe sheets nately, boys; an' shalie the feathers down loft, the way you see me doin', meself." I" iniHif 1! . ,;l 11 1(11 ill I ill! '>%■ W 11 48 CHARLIE C(iILBIE. *' Success to the O'Gormans," said Charlie, following his example with alacrity. ••Yah, yah, yah," laughed Sambo, "Sleep like ole hosse ! One eye open for de wolf, an' one eye shut for dreamin' ob him Dinah. No snore loud, Murtah, fear him waJie de baby !" Rolled in his blanket, with a lair of pine boughs for a bed, his coverlet the snow, Charlie Ogilbie lay, thinking of other scenes far away. He was back in thought at Cambusleigh. The evening shades were falling, the stars were peeping out, and Jeanie stood with trembling hands stretched upwards to the heavens, while she vowed that the silver cord should break ere she matched with the laird of Maxvvellhaugli ! A deop yearning for his native isles crept over him. The novelty and excite- ment of the day had given place to a painful sense of loneliness, the desolation of the heart that creeps upon the exile when he realizes, among strangers in the stranger's land, that home, and friends, and all to which association clings, are far away ! Uncertainty as to the future mingled its suggestions with tender memor- ies of the past, and sent him ofT redecting about the singular vicissitudes experienced in life ! At length his reflections became disconnected and confused, out-of- place ideas mingled in his intermittent endeavours to follow the chain of his cogitations; and then he fell over into dreamless sleep. '•^I following like ole shut for rtah, fear irflia for a , thinking hought at Hing, the trembling while she le matched arning for and excite- ul sense of :reep8 upon 'era in the all to which linty as to der memor- r about the t length his sed, out-of- deavours to , he fell over CHAPTER VII. A STRANGE SCENE AT MIDNIOIIT. Suddenly the deep silonfo of the forest was broken by a clangour that called tlio sleepers back to consciousness in the twinklini^ of an eye. In aii instant Charlie and his companions were look- ing on a scene as s ngular mh it was unexpected. In the faint light of tlie lire, now far spent, was seen a girl stf.nding beside the tlickerin<4 embfrn, and waving in her hand a burning bran-', with which she sought to hold at bay a pack of ravening wolves, which filled the night with their ui)r()ar. Her hair, unbound, ilowed about her shoulders, adding to the singularity ot her aspect, as she stood there at dead of night, with blood- less face and flashing eye, confronting her ferocious n-isailants. B?side her stood a dog of splendid make, bis hair erect, his fangs dis[)layed, and presenting a heroic front to the clamouring crew, that showed them- selves but dastards alter all. The deep under-tone in which he gave vent to his displeasure showed thut his spirit was as resolute as his look was deliaiit. It seem- ed as if a word from his mistress would have sent him upon her foes, while his own intelli,'j;ence, rattier than any shrinking from the contest, told the sagacious ani- mal that his })lace was at her side. In an inst int, Charlie and his companions were on their feet, and handling their fire-arms. Bang went three guns at once ; two wolves fell, and one went yelping into the dark recesses of the forest ; but so intent were their com[)anions on the object they held in view that they seemed utterly regardless, indeed, ap- !iiij ' r iH! h:'i so CHARLIE OUILDIE. parontly unconscious of the attack that was holng maJe upon themselves. Af^.iin the sliarp report of the rifles rang above the wild uproar of the infuriiited beasts, as they ran to and fro alon«^ tlie eilge of the wood, and made fierce ewur- eions out upon the open ground — with fiery eyes and ravening moutlis — hungering for their prey; buMhis time witliout effect. CharUe's eyes slione with the enthusiasm of a spirit warming to its work; and the fhish from a chivfUroua lieart, quickened by a generous determination to fling himself into the post of danger, flashed across hischeek. Shoving home another bullet, he sprang forward, and placed liimself between the assailants and assailed. •* Hurroo for the boys o' Connaught ! " cried Murty. " Come along, darkie, or never show your ugly face in the presence o' an O'Gorman." And in an instant he was at Charlie's side. ** Who fool now, Murtah ? Who fool now ? ** cried Sambo, following him. '*"'\h, yah, slap away? Teach the varmint no come to ler when de cook in bed. Yah, yah, yah." Bang went the rifles once again, and three wolves went down; while th<^rest fell back into the wood. For a moment there was silence, and then the clamour began once more, like pandemonium let loose. Charlie cast a glance at the central figure, around whom raged this fierce encounter with the wild rovers of the forest. As if stricken by some mysterious hand, she lay, motionless, on the snow, her upturned face colourless and ri^id as the face of a corpse, and her arms flung out, as in the pitiful abandonment of death. The dog stood over her with contracted brows and anxious eye ; and low moans escaped from him, as be sniffed about her face, and caressed her cheeks and bands. He took no heed now of the wolves; his fero- m CHARLIE OOILOIC. 61 (T mace 1 Dvc the to and extjar- y(>9 anfl but this a spirit iviilroua to fling 8 cheek. ard, and led. :1 Murty. y face in ]8tant he ?" cried ? Teach k in bed. >lves went 3 clamour e, around I rovers of , she lay, urless and ng out, as )rows and lim, as be leeks and ; his fero- city had subsided, and he seamed lost to every other care than anxiety for his mihtress. Tliey gathered around licr, wondering more and more at the occurrences of that niglit of singular events. It was evident that one of no comtnon rider was before ihera. There was a look of rciincnuMit in the form of lier features, the cast of her head, and the di-licate tex- ture of her face and hands that spoke of gentle blood, iind suggested that her rightful ])lace in life was far re- 'novod from the ru kindly eyes there was a look as if he would fain explain the mystery of that strange, scene at the midnight fire — which information for them and for oar readers we shall withhold till a subsequent chapter. stood a er hands, do when ■n!" she a ate form rithstand- eart — she Dsited his over the : tinge of w iiiliHM ■i ^! .:!"i. in ! illiil I CHAPTEE VIII. A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER COMES UPON THE SCENE. When the sun rose on the following morning, our prospectors had left behind them the place of their ad- ventures on the preceding night. Their course now lay along the frozen surface of tlie St. John, which, having been swept of the snow in some degree, by the wind, presented less obstruction to their pro^^ress than they had encountered in their passage through the woods. There was little to vary the monotony of the way. Around them lay the one unvarying scene of dark silent torest, contrasting sharply with the whiteness of the snow, where it lay in its unsullied purity on the broad bosom of the river. The stillness was intense. Not a breath of wind was stirring; while a sullen deep repose brooded on the woods. But there was a bracing light- ness in the air, which quickened physical energy to the utmost, and raised their spirits, as they swung along. Once more the sun siione down in a sky of azure, so soft, 80 delicate, so fair, that neither the pen of the ready writer, nor the most perfect touch of the painter's brush, could delineate adequately its charm — a scene into which, as fancy might assume, the glory of celestial realms had been permitted to come down and mingle with the grosser atmosphere of the earth. The destination which they hoped to reach by that day's tramp, was an old unoccupied shanty, on the verge of the tract of forest which it was their mission to inspect ; and just as the sun was nearly touching the western horizon, tliey saw, as they rounded an arm of the woodland that jutted into the river, the object of their search, a short wajr before them. I 1 iiii CHARLIE OGILBIB. 55 NE. ng, our leir ad- iiow lay having wind, an tliey jods. he way. k silent of the e hroad Not a p repose ig light- yr to the ig along. }, so sott, le ready 'shrush, o which, dins had A'ith the on which ,8 an old of forest ist as the •hey saw, at jutted hort wa^ There was little in the appearance of the shanty to cheer tliem with anticipations of a very warm welcome. Perched on the summit of a high hank, overlooking the river, without a sign of life around it, its dreary inhospitable look was enough to chill the spirits of any but the most enthusiastic devotee to woodland campaigning; but the experiences of the preceding night rendered even this cheerless-looking tenement a welcome sight to way- farers jaded by a long day's tramp, and admonished by the near approach of night. As the evening shades deepened into night, +he grim interior of the shanty began to glow with the blaze of the logs which Sambo's axe had provided with a cele- rity which did ample credit to his dexterity in wood- craft. The savoury aroma of roasting venison — to which were added a rabbit and a squirrel, which had fallen victims to their guns — diffused itself about the room ; and the wayfarers began to think that there might be a worse life, after all, than prospecting in the forest, even amid the snow of winter. The night wore away with nothing to disturb their rest ; and morning came again, with its summons to the duties of a day to be devoted to a careful examination of the opportunities of profitable lumbering afforded by the region which they had been commissioned to inspect. They were nov on the verge of the * promised land,' where it had been reported that timber of far more than ordinary dimensions awaited the operations of the lum- berer ; while opportunities for removing the logs to the river with more than usual facility were afforded by the numerous streams produced by the melting of the snow in the surrounding forest, together with the physical formation of the district. It was their intention, too, to do the best they could in the interest of their em- ployer, for they were honest fellows all, and scorned to receive a dollar without rendering its full equivalent in service. Hence, while the grey twilight of the dawn was stealing along the woods, the occupants of the iltf ■HHBMHBillil jiiniirrriTiMw !ii! ii! lit; ^illfilih l|!|!l!: II! Ml CHARLIE OaiLBlB. shanty were stirring, and soon ready for the operations of the day. The region in which they found themselves was one in which nature seemed to have put forth her utmost powers, in the production of the giants of the wood. The mighty stems, hke the pillars of some' old Gothic fane, rose straight, without an arm, to the canopy of branches far alol't, presenting a scene that might well awn ken other thoughts than those which usually draw the lumberer to the forest. The majesty of nature at lier best was there. Around were seen the glories of a thousand years of slow but sure development, till the seedling had become the mighty monarch of the wild, while the lapse of ages had been powerless! extinguish its wondrous tenacity of life. There was something, too, of mystery and awe in the very silence of the forest — akin to the awe that one may deem would settle on the face of nature, if, robed in clouds and darkness, Jehovah moved among His works. The day, was neariug its close, and once more the woodmen had assembled at the shanty. The sun had just gone down, leaving in his wake such a glorious dis[)lay of many-tinted clouds as held them actually spell- bound by the surpassing beauty of the scene. Suddenly their attention was withdrawn from the con- templation of the heavens by the appearance of an Indian, at the edge of a thicket, just behind the shanty. His dress was that of a hunter rather than the garb which we usually associate with the Indian brave ; and he carried a gun, the butt of which he brought sharply to the ground, as he stopped abruptly, as if astonished to meet with them. There was no appearance of hostility, however, ob- servable in tile demeanour of the red son of the forest. His eye was calm, and mild ; and, although the meeting was evidt ntly unexpected at the moment, he seemed to take it as a tiling ot course that red and white men should occasionally come into contact in the wilds. /I ■n I ohahlie ogillie. 67 tiona nein ;raost wood, rothic py of ; well draw lire at s of a lU the 3 wild, iguish thing, forest on the hov8.h )re the ie such d them of the m It was evident, however, that he was ignorant of the language of the whites, for when they addres.sed him he shook his head. *' Injini in Ireland, ^lurtah ?" said Sambo, as he sat on a stump of a tree, with a broad gvin on his good- humoured face. '• No varmint whativer, only landlords an' bailies ; except whin we come across a sthray nigger, to scare the childre." •* Yah, yah, yah, snake in Ireland, Murtah ?" " Niver a one. Saint Patrick sint them all across the say to Americay, an' turned them into blackamoors." '• Yah, yah, yah. Nebber see sich {iggiauatin ole racoon ! only disDarkie good cliile, knock him down, an' teach respec' when speak to gemman, Murtah O'iaorman." " Knock him down for love, the way they do in Ire- land," said Charlie. " })iit de way ober thar, Murtah ?" "Well, thin, an' it is. An' they don't trouble them- selves the laste thing in life if they don't get up agin. Arrah, what's the red-skin afther, anyway ? Tliere he'a at his antics over agin !" riie Indian held up his left hand ; with his ri<;ht swept the concave of the sky ; touched, one by one, the tips of his left hand fingers, and then poured forth a stream of unintelligible intonations. The black showed his ivories from ear to ear. Charlie contemplated this new feature of forest life with a searching eye, and with a strange mixture of drollery and shrewd observation in his look. The intelligence and fun in Murty's eye proclaimed the genuine son of the island of the shamrock. *' Arra, what's he afther, wid his gibberish ?" said Murty. " It would be a grand tongue for coortiii' wid — you might say what you like an' not commit yourself !'* " Gib it up, Murtah ? Dis chile tink him ctnmt him goose to make yer hungry for yer supper ! Bad heart ia red hide !" ■•^^•^T-'Wiiir. ■JTffT- '«r'sm'V5Ei*.*.'^.v— ■gg-r-'T ww ' ww ww nlil I 58 CHARLIIii OaiLBIE. " Arra, none o* your nonsince," said Mnrty. ** Och Athlone for ever ! Shure I liave it mesell" ! He wants to know what sort o' company wc keep on the banks o* the Shannon !" At that instant the sharp report of a rifle rang through the forest. The Indian threw his arms into the air, sprang upwards, and fell prostrate on the snow. In a moment they were at his side, but only to find that hfe was already extinct. While they stood looking at one another in astonish- ment, and indij^'nation at this atrocious and mysterious butchery, noiseless steps were drawing near ; and, before they were aware of his approach, a man, with a rifle on his shoulder, was beside them. Without noticing them, he stooped over the lifeless Indian, and calmly searched, as if to assure himself that life was extinct. He then turned quietly round, and faced them ; with a countenance in which there was nothing which enabled them to determine the real work- ings of his heart. There was no exultation, nor ferocity, in his eye, nor si^n of emotion in the expression of the cold stern face ; but when he saw that their eves were bent on him, with the honest indignation of men whose souls revolted at a deed so foul, an expression of scorn curled his lips, and a gleam of resentment shone on his stern grey eye. He was evidently a man of daring, and of iron nerve. His tall athletic form seemed steeled against the in- fluence of years, for he was past the prime of life. His long locks were grey, as was the full crop ot hair upon his face. His cheek, naturally dark, was bronzed by exposure to sun and storm. His forehead was deeply lined, as by the hand of long-continu'^d care ; and in his eyes there was a look which spoke of a spirit long in revolt against the circumstances of bis life. He had evidently been handsome in the days of his youth and prime ; and there were still lines of more than ordinary comeliness in a face which could scarcely have been OnAllLIE oaiLBIB, 59 looked upon without awakening more tban ordinary interest in its owner. There was something, too, in his countenance which brought back to Charlie's mind the face he had seen by the light of the fire in the camp, while the girl stood, with heroic front, the fire-brand in her grasp, confronting her savage assailants. The stranger's dress was a cap of fur, with flaps to defend the ears from the biting frost ; a loose flannel shirt, and trousers, supported by a leathern belt around the waist, and confined below by leggings of the same material, while a pair of moccasins completed his attire. At his side was hung a pouch ; at his belt he carried a hunter's knife, in a leathern sheath ; and these, with his rifle, made up his equipment for the wild life he evi- dently led, roving in the forest. As his glance passed searchingly from one to an- other of those with whom he thus stood confronted, it finally became fixed on Ogilbie. Gradually a softer light was noticeable in his eye ; and the expression of his countenance became less stern ; then, with an air that spoke of breeding acquired in other sphere than the rude life of a hunter, he advanced with outstretched tjand, and with a smile of friendly recognition, like a gleam of sunlight strugf^ling throujj;h the clouds of a wintry sky. Charlie, drawing back, met his proffer of amity with a bearing of scornful indignation. " You refuse my hand ? " said the stranger, pausing, while his brow became contracted and drawn down. " I refuse the hand of a murderer," said Ogilbie, in a low, deep voice. *' A murderer ! " was the answer ; while the man thus charged, drawing himself up to his utmost height, and folding his arms proudly across his chest, regarded his accuser with a look of immeasurable scorn. Then, without a word, he turned haughtily away, and in an- cxther moment was lost to view. 60 CHARLIE OGILBIE. m While tlipy Rat around the fire that rjight, long and earnest wns their talk about the singular occurrences of the preceding evening — about the sad fate of the poor slaughtered son of the forest ; about the man of blood and mystery, so callous in the contemplation of the life he had extinguished, so proudly scornful in his bearing, and, yet, who wore the look of one ""hose later years, at least, hnd been one long struggle with adversity. There was a strong suggestion, too, connecting him with those whose acquaintance they had made so remarkably on the preceding ni^ht, which deepened their interest in the mystery wbicli surrounded him. It was late before they could compose themselves for rest ; at length there was nothing heard within the shanty but the deep breathing of the sleepers — while the remains of the butchered Indian lay in the bed of snow they had made for him on the spot where he had fallen. When they emerged from the shanty in the morning, a strange sight met their eyes. The snow had been swept aside, and the body of the Indian exposed to view. Beside it lay an Indian boy, of very tender a^e, his head resting on the dead man's breast, while his arms encircled him as with the embrace of love clinging, in its agony, to its dead. By a common impulse, they gathered softly, with heads uncovered, around the scene, and, then, with awe and pity, saw that the son lay lifeless on the bosom of his lifeless father. The bullet and the frost had done their work. On the second night after the occurrtnces we have related, the prosp-^ctors sat among their foUow-lumber- ers, relating, at the big camp-fire, the stirring incidents of their adventures — Charlie Ogilbie little dreaming how important was to be their influence on his subsequent career. iii g and ices of 3 poor blood ihe life Baring, lars, at There 1 those 7 on the in the Ives for hin the J — while le bv^d of I he had Qorning, ly of the n boy, of d man's embrace tly, with with awe bosom of had done } we have (;v-lumber- incidenta iraing how absequent CHAPTER IX. GILBERT AND THE LAIRD — BAD TIMES FOB .TrVMIE. Meanwhile, our frionds at iJuddinp^eton had not been in the enjoyment of undisturbed felicity. The old house at Caml)UHlei<];h was divided against itself ; Jeanie and Miss Margery allied against Gilbert, with wl.oai ^^a8 joined the Laird of Maxwellhauj^h. " Set him up, indeed ! " Miss ^fargery had said, in close consultation with her ally, acconii)anying the ob- servation with an indignant toss of hor head, and a corresponding demonstration with her ringlets. '* Set him up, the graceless loon ! To even himsel to a girl that might better regard him as his bairn. I just wish he wad come to me the way he does to 3'our father, wi' his cleeshmaclavers, Jeanie ; it wadna be gude for his lugs, although he he the LcJrd 0' Maxwellhaugh." From which line of observation it was plain that Miss Margery had changed her opinion of the Laird. Nor was it passing strange that a lady so painfully disappointed as Miss Carmichael had been should feel towards the supposed cause of all her mortification the contempt which she deemed his due. None of us ft el grateful for blighted expectations, and philosophy itself has been known to slu'ug its shoulders and look glum at its failure to secure the highest happi- ness to the individual. It is true that the Laird was not to be held accountable for Miss Carmicliael's self-decep- tion ; but, while she had the common sense to recognise that she had befooled herself, she had enough caprice to feel a pretty sharp spice of resentment against the pawky Laird of Maxwellhaugh. One evening, in the end of April, aunt and niece sat in the arbour in the garden of Cambusleigh ; aunt knit- 62 CHARLIE oaiLBlE. I'i -! I Hi 111 Hiit Miiiii! Hiilli:;;; ting busily, niece drying her eyes, for she had been busy weeping. It was the weeping time of year, and the clouds had been shedding tears of joy, because summer was at hand ; but the tears that bedewed the sweet pen- sive face of Jeanie Carmichael were not the gentle rain of gladness in the springtime of her hopes. "An' sae, my puir foolish birdie, your heart's awa to New Brunswick, wi' that waesome Irish callant, an' what will your father say ? He'll just be clean daft ! an' wha can blame him, apart completely frae the Laird ?" " But need I tell him, auntie? " *' Need ye tell him ? Need ye keep the ten command- ments ? An' what saith the fourth ? * Honour thy father an' thy mither,' as plain as the tap o' Arthur's seat, an' as stubborn a fact p.s Salisbury Craigs. Thy mither's awa whar ^hey hae nae fash about marriage, e,n* nae Laird's o' Maxwellhaugh ; but thy father's still to the fore ; and that's past yea or nay, Jeanie ! " ** But I'm bound by nae promise to Charlie, aunt ; nae promise to be his wife. Nor did I tell him that I cared for him. He found it out himsel, an' how could I deny it, auntie ? " ** How indeed ! I wad disown ye if ye had. But what made ye fall in love ? What made ye forget that your father's hired servant is nae match for the heiress o' Cambusleigh ? " Jeanie covered her face with her hands and began to Bob. ** A nice fank ye hae woven for yoursel, Jeanie Car- michael ! " continued Miss Margery. " You're just like a fly in the wab o* the spider — the mair ye strive an' buzz, sae much the mair ye get entangled. Fitter ye wad confide In age an' experience. "What made ye let your heart awa ? " "Ask me why the flowers bloom in simmer, auntie ! Ask me why the blue-bells bloom whan the warm sun o' Bimmer shines alang the braes. Can they help it, auntie ? " CHARLIE OOILBIB. busy I the miner t pen- 3 rain bwa to it, an' t ! an' aird ?" imand- j father Bat, an' dither's ?,n* nae I to the mt ; nae I cared could I Jut what at your eiress o' Degan to mie Oar- just Uke 3trive an' Fitter ye de ye let r, auntie I irm sun o' help it) "T wmna just say they can. But T wad, for a' that, that your heart was back frae New Brunswick ; an' that we were rid o' Johnny o' Maxwellliaujj;h, as weel ! " At the same hour when this conversation took place, the gude-raan of Caml)U3loigh was occupied in an ani- mated tHe ci t^tf with his ally, the Lain'. It was evident that their conf<^rence was not conducive of agreeable redections, for Gilbert's brow was clouded, while Maxwell's features wore their moat sarcaatio and unpleasant look. " I see weel enough,*' said Maxwellhaugh, ** that Jeanie sets her shoulder up whan Johnny Maxwell's at her side." " Hout tout, Laird ! It*s just your ain commendable humility." ** It's naething o' the sort." " She's a modest lassie, Maxwellhaugh ; an* whiles, ye ken, it's them that show least that feel the deepest !" •' Tut, awa, mon ! There's nae need for ardent de- monstration ; but just a little becoming appreciation, raair than ordinary civility. I'm no sentimental, mon. That's for lads an* lassies in their teens ; but forty-five has ither fish to fry ! Nor am I an arbitrary mon, ye ken ; an' they may smile or froon, just as they're in the humour ; but what I want's a douce, dainty, thrifty bociy, just like Jeanie, wi* a sharp eye to gudes and siller ; for I'm a practical mon, ye ken." " Very commendable ! Very commendable !" ** An' I hae cam to the conclusion," the Laird went on, "that at my time o' life it's weel to settle doon to domestic affairs in earnest, wi' a wife an* bairns; to mind the dairy, an' hand doon the stock." ** A wise c'ecision, Laird ! an' creditable to baifch heart and head !" " Tut, awa 1 an' just to come to the practical applica- tion o' the whole affair — If Jeanie's laith to change her name to Maxwell, 1 maun just look roon among the 64 OHAIILIE OaiLBIE. iiil iiiil li Ltiiiii neighbours, for somebody to Bottle that twa tbousan' pun u})on ! In wljilk caao, I maun forecloHo, ^e ken !" GaruiicbaerH coiintcnanco fell. The thouf^ht of liis indebfLMhiesR was very bitter to his avariciouB heiut, and the idea of MaxwolUiaii^h turning' his back, matrimonially, on Cambuslei.c:;!! b('<^an to arous* within liiH breawt a very exasperated feeling toward hi^ dau«^diter, the cause of the llneatened frustration of his scluuK 8 ! We have said that Carmicliael was a man of violent temjjer at bottom ; a man whose love of riches was th(! ruling passion of his life. Threatened with the disap- pointment of his h()}jes ; and, furl her, with the very occurrence which he had long dre;ided as a })OMsibilit}' of the future, the very thought of whicli had f-o often thrown him into a fever of terror and exasperation, he now resolved that Jeanie must corai)ly, and that, come what might, bhe must wed the Laird of Maxwell- iiaugh 1 icti im] ion h; ttl ttif iai nusan ken l" : to bis tird bi^ of biB violent WllH tl»t^ ! clisnv- lie very )ssibiUl.y yo oittni [>c',ration. nd tbul, Maxwell- CHAPTER X, THE DU'VER discloses his affection for CHARLIE OGIL- BI£ — THE MAN OF MYSTERY. While Spring, in softer climes, was gently unfolding leif and tlower ; and vernal showers were spreading verdure on the iields ; in the forests of New Brunswick, winter, with reluctant steps, was only slowly withdraw- ing helore the tierald rays of the season that would no longer tolerate his iron reign. In the recesses of the woods there was still abundant evidence of the severity of the season that was now passing away, but the sun had done his work so well that these tokens of the recent winter were only like the lingering out-posts of a van- quished army, covering the retreat, when the mai^ body had been swept away by the resistless prowess of the foo. It was now the time for transporting the logs from |the place where each had fallen, to the waters of the St. ohn, that they might be lashed together in rafts, and oated to the mills ; and already vast quantities ot these ay along the banks of tlio river, secured against the ction of the current by logs fastened together, end to jnd, along their exterior limit. Gangs of lumberers ere in the woods, taking advantage of the streams, rmed by the melting of the snow, by transmitting on eir flooding waters the trophies of their labours with e axe to the several places for rafting. "With the jhange of season, and of work, had come a more cheer- l spirit among the workmen. The monotony of their e during their long spell of uniform employment, with tie to vary the sameness from day to day, and with tie communication with the world, had given place to e exhilaration of new occupation ; and this at a time of ar when the promise of the summer shed its cheering 66 CHAELIE OaHiBIE. iillii influence around. Some of them looked forward to the amenities of home ; to which they hoped to return with the treasured earnings of their winter's toil ; to seed- time on the furrows they had turned in the preceding fall ; and to the hopes of the year crowned with a rich return of golden grain ! Some had other prospects, varying as vary the whims, and freaks, and fortunes of human life ! Murty O'Gorman had no definite plans for the coming summer, but held himself in readiness for any bit of fortune that might come his way. Sambo was in an equally accommodating mood. And both were in the best of spirits. Charlie Ogilbie had thoughts of taking service in a saw-mill, for, with the shrewdness which is so characteristic of his country, he deemed that if he meant to be a successful master lumberer it would be well to make himself familiar with the craft in all its parts. While such was the state of things among his gang, Bill the Driver had speculations of his own, which car- , ried his thoughts far away from the farms and forests of New Brunswick. The old restless spirit had taken pos- session of him once more, and he longed to be away on distant seas, in the scenes of his former adventures. He was, therefore, impatient of delay in the cornpleti of his work as a lumberer. His fierce nature chafed a! every bitch that impeded his operations ; and if biif men had been a gang of slaves instead of a band o'l high-spirited freeman, the crack of his whip would havf^ rung a music which would have produced a pretty livelj dance. As it was, there was no lagging ; and ih men, as anxious t® be clear of the Driver as that adveo ; turous spirit was to turn his back upon the woods, weir daily to their work with a will that would have ampi' satisfied a less exacting employer. One Sunday morning Charlie Ogiblie sat at the fo of a wi-ie-spreading oak, that grew on a rocky point ju: ting out into the r'ver. Around him there was a unusual bustle, for the Driver had insisted that a big ra; CHARLIE OOILBIE. 67 i,ratothe burn with ; to seed- preceditif; iih a ricli prospects, ortunes of ,e plans for idiness for yr. Sambo i both were ibousbts of Bhrewdness be deemed lumberer it the craft in Qg bis gang, | . wbicb car- 1 nd forests of| d taken po3| > be away oi!| adventure3.| e completioii| jre cbafed atf ; and if bi| )f a band oi| ) would bavi pretty bvep r-ig ; and tilt s Uiat adveii woods, wer. bave ampi!! y |at at the fof )i'Uy point ]«> there was ft| that a big la. he had on hand must be completed without delay ; and the men in general, not unwilling to see the job accom- plished, had gone to work as on other days. Unused to such proceedings in the orderly and becoming course ol life in Ulster, Chariie had made up his mind that he would L'ncoimter the wrath of Bill the Driver rather than undergo the upbraiding of an outraged conscience, and had retired, as we have Geen, to that quiet spot, under the fipreading oak, expecting every moment a lively inter- view with his employer. He knew full well tha', !p» Driver's feelings toward him were far from ami .ble. There is a subtle insight by which spirit meets wiJu spirit, binding heart to heart with the bonds of mutual sympathy, or repelling with ever deepening antagonism. The presence of some distempered heart will make itself felt when silence seals the lips, and no gleam of malice is visible in the eye. It is questionable, even, whether distance itself, can place arrest on the influence ol the emotions of love or hatred, for if the ripple of an oar on the broad bosom of the ocean exerts an influence on every sea ; if an uttered word sounds on for ever ; if all we do is photographed in the galleries of the Universe, who can measure the possibilities of our being ; who can fence with limits the operations of the soul ? It needed neither speech nor action to reveal to Charlie Ogilbie tlie Driver's feelings tow^ard him, and he felt per- suaded that they would not part until that pent up savagery had disclosed itself in some act of hostility. While he sat under the tree, on the morning in question, I this conviction suggested that the hour was at hand. A deep sense of loneliness, too, began to steal upon him — the loneliness of one far away from old familiar Bcenes, while an ocean intercepts the grasp of each friendly hand ; the loneliness that yearns for the sym- pathy no stranger's face can give. He had, indeed, one old familiar friend, that had been with him in all hia Wanderings ; che gift of his mother — no costly gift, but ore precious in her eyes than gema and gold, for it m CHARLIE OGILBIE. iifiiill li! told of love, and liglit, and life, and balm for all the Borrows of tbe world. So be took out the little book, and be^ran to read, reverently, and with open mind, looking for guidance from above, and with bis keen intelligence alive, as wbeu one bas to do with a subject of supreme claims on o;ir attention — deep calling unto deep, and eternity to etei- nity, across the meeting-point of time. He was aroused from his pursuit by a sound as ol water rippling on the prow of a boat, and, looking in the direction indicated, he saw tbat a canoe was approach- ing tbe pbice where be sat. The light skiff was impelled by a single paddle, in the hands of one in whom he recognized tbe slayer of the luckless Indian. The stranger's look was no less stern than when he turned toward them after tbat silent scrutiny of his , murderous work. His rifle was slung at his back. In his belt was tbe hunter's knife, and be looked like a ra.in equipped and resolute to follow tbe deer in the forest, or the Indian on the war-path. lie stepped lightly j ashore, (h*ew bis canoe half out of tbe water, and then j advanced toward Charlie Ogilbie. j " So we have met again, Mr. Ogilbie," he said, while i a slight smile stole across his saturnine visage. '* Tliej mui'ilerer and his accuser are face to face once more, voii I see!" ^ I " A meeting as little agreeable as it was expected,"! returned Ogilbie, bluntly. I " Honestly said, at any rate ! '* ** I always speak out my mind. If a man's worth hi- salt he'll not be ashamed of an honest opinion." " Then you have not been careful to shape your bahit^ by tbe wisdom of the world," said the stranger, smiliii, sarcastically. " Well, I like you not the worse fori that, Mr. Ogilbie. But look you, one should be slow tol rush to conclusions from first appearances. Now, siipj posing tbe red man fell by an unlucky shot tbat migbtj as readily have made yourself its goal? " OHAHLIE OOILBIE. 69 all the to read, guidance , as when s oil o ir r to etei- ind as ol ing in the xpproacli- die, in the y-er of the L when he ,inv of his back. In like a man the forest, ped lightly and then Slid, while ge. ''The ,e more, yoa exp ccted," H'6 wortlihis] your bahit^l (Ter, smihnq G worse fori a bo Blow to Now, Bupi )t that migWi **Then it would have left me nothing to say one way or other. If your conscience was clear you took a bad ^Yay to clear your character." '* I took the way that suited me," replied the stranger, hanp[htily. ** I'm not used to explain ray affairs, nor answer for my proceedings to every fellow I meet in the forest. Nor w-ould I now were it not that I owe you acknowledgment of a very important service, and I'm one of those who don't allow their pride to stand in the way of the discharge of their liabilities, and who feel not quite at ease till their debts are paid." '• Yah, yah, yah," laughed Sambo, who had consti- tuted himself one of the party. " Dat de man for dis chile's money. Eare ole coon ; kind oh walkin' curisoity!" The stranger took no notice of the interruption and continued, " You saved my daughter's life, Mr. Ogilbie — you and your compjinions — and may claim from me such consid- eration ^,s I neldom bestow." ** What! the girl we rescued from the wolves?" said Charlie, looking on the man of mystery with a new and softening interest. "Even so, my friend, and preserved to me the cnly one that binds mv heart to earth, where life has been to me but one long misery, and the fact of my birth a curse." As he spoke, he turned half away, as if to hide the agitation which even his iron will was unable to repress. Chark turned to Sambo : "Not at work, Darkie?" "No work, nebber fear. No work, an* go to debble for I dolliir, to please dat ole Bill. Aggravating ole coon ! Ole / unt Sail says, says she, * Mind yerself, Sambo, or tass'd ole debble snap yer up and nebber wink him eye.' " At that moment footsteps were heard approaching, and immediately Bill the Driver camo. upon the scene. There was a savage look in the Driver's eye that was decidedly a caution. 70 CHARLIE OGILBIE. ill Turning fiercely to O^ijilbie he demanded why he was not at work. " Because it's not a day for work," said Charley quietly. " No ! Why not ? " ** Because it belongs neither to you nor me." *' None of your cursed cant, Ogilbie, Come, turn out. That raft must be finished before the sun goes down ; and I'll have no darned infernal humbug while Fm at the helm. They call me Bill the Driver — I'll drive ye all to the devil and back again, but I'll make my work be done." ** If that's the way you're going, Bill, you had better look sharp yourself, for you may have trouble with your friends," said Charlie, with a sly twinkle in his eye. The Driver gave bim a look that a fiend might have envied; and turned ferociously to Sambo. "How now, Darkie ? Is it with a heart as black as the divil's crook, you think that tjou have a soul worth savin' ? Off with you, this minute, or I'll show you I've not forgotten the way to put wrinkles in a nigger's hide !" Sambo looked him steadily in the face, but neither answered him, nor moved a foot in the direction re- quired by the Driver, now almost past himself with fury. " Won't you go ?" he thundered, tightening his grasp on a short bar of wood he had in his hand. Sambo continued as before, motionless and eilent. As a Hash of lightning, the bar cut the air, and fell, with a thud, on the woolly skull of the devoted black, who staggered backward, but kept his feet. " Eternal fury ! Won't you go ?" the ruffian growled, grinding his teeth, and advancing on the retreating Sambo. " Won't you go ? I'll ." But a strong grasp was on his collar, and a pair of flashing eyes met his, with a look which showed that he had now to do with a s[)irit as resolute as his own, for Charlie's blood was boiling ; and there was a lion in his nature that rendered hira no ordinary antagonist ! The expression that now came out on the Driver's face baffles description. It was the outcome of many a day, H n| tl ri tl 111 \\j sJ hi CHARLIE OaiLBIB. 71 lietly. rn oat. down ; Fm at rive ye lV work a better th your iye. ht have cjW now, '8 crook, Off with Dtten the neitlier tion re- th fury. liis grasp •ilent. , and fell, ,ed black, [1 growled, •etreating a pair of owed that \s own, for lion in bis r\ist ! L-iver's face any a day 1 of pent-up hostility! There was hatred, to insanity, exultatioii, defiance, murder, in a countenance which seemed like that of an infuriated demon rather than of one of mortal race. Grasping his antagonist by the throat, he drew a pistol from his pocket. Charlie saw the barrel of the weapon gleaming in the sunbeams. The next instant there was a flash, a sharp report, and Ogilbie reeled backward; his heel struck against a stone ; and, then, both combatants fell together into the fast-flowing river. It was only a moment till the Driver's head was seen again above the water; and, then, with a look around him of savage exaltation, he struck out for the land. When Charlie reappeared ho was some way down the stream, and evidently unconscious. Quick as thought, the stranger ran his canoe out upon the flood, and struck out bravely to the rescue ; while Sambo, with agility of which one would scarcely have deemed him capable, had also taken his place in the canoe. " Here him is, Massa; here him is," cried the negro, clutching Charlie's hair, just as he was disappearing below the flood. " Hold hard, then, darkie ; hold, for your life," return- ed the stranger ; at the same time turning the head of the fragile craft toward the shore. A few minutes afterwards the canoe went swiftly up the stream, bearing the victim of the assassin's aim, now regaining consciousness, the faithful Sambo, and the man whose presence on the scene of these occur- rences had saved a life from otherwise inevitable doom. It was not yet noon when Ogilbie and Sambo found themselves within the very threshold to which they had conveyed the maiden they had rescued from the wolves ! There was the light of gladness in her eye, as she saw that the life of her preserver was in little danger from the bullet of the assassin ! 'ill ?M -' f i!!ili IsHM! CHAPTER XI. " His curses, then, from bitterness of soul denounced against thee : • ••••• Oan curses pierce the clouds and enter Heaven." Affairs at Duddingston were not progressing more har- moniously than heretofore. There was now almost complete estrangement between the opposing factions ; and they resembled two hostile armies, or, rather, a be- leaguered city and its foes, while guns were silent in the lines and on the ramparts, and only the miners were at work with their stealthy operations. In his disappointment, Gilbert had become almost infuriated ; especially because the Laird appeared to have become indifferent to what might be the issue of their schemes. He was in hourly dread that he might learn, from the kind gossip of his friends and neighbour- ly well-wishers, who were, as he knew full well, not a little mortified by the preference shown by the Laird for the Carmichaels, that hts late accomplice in these pro- ceedings had transferred his attentions to some other quarter ; as he had already threatened he would if Jeanie should continue obdurate. He knew that Max- wellhaugh was just the man to carry into practice any resolution he had formed ; that he was implacable in re- sentment, regardless of the consequences to friend or foe ; and that if he should turn from Jeanie, with the feel- ing that he, Maxwell of Maxwellhaugh, had been rejected by one so lowly as the daughter of the ' gudeman' of Cambusleigh, nothing would deter him from calling in those two thousand pounds ! This was Gilbert's great- est earthly terror. It had become a sort of mania ; and on this subject he was scarcely capable of reasoning with 11 i k b df Jl s] CHARLIE OGILBIE. 78 I against lore har- almost actions ; sr, a be- nt in the were at e almost (eared to issue ot be migbt eigbboiir- 11, not a Laird for ,hese pro- )me otber would if that Max- ictice any able in re- friend or tb the feel- en rejected deman' of I caUing in rt's great- lania ; and 3oning with that shrewd intelligence which was one of his most not- able characteristics. He bad one overma:^terin<]:idea in connection with tbis plague of his existence, — a dread, indeed a persuasion, that utter ruin would follow an en- forcement of the discharge of that liability. He was, therefore, in a state of mind in which be was little dis- posed to make allowance for his v.aughtor'3 feelii^gs, or to reflect very calmly on the obligations of a parent, as well as on the duty of the child. A blind demand for blind obedience was the one relentless passion that sway- ed him now, for the demon of avarice had sealed up the fountains of bis heart, and blighted, with his hellish breath, all the gentler emotions of his nature. The man had become fiendish in his impulses, when money was in question ; the affection of a parent, galLintry as a man toward the gentler sex, all that, apart from the hin;her endowments of the spiritual life, distinguishes tb3 nobler side of our nature, had been consumed as straw is withered in the fire ! And Gilbert Carmichael presented a living evidence, to those who bad insight to discern him, of the consecpiences of an evil passion unchecked in its beginning, and allowed to bear its bitter fruit 1 One evening when affairs were in the condiiion which has just been indicated, Gilbert was returning from Edinburgh, after serving on a jury empannelled to hear a case involving a large sum of money, and which resem- bled, in several of its features, in some degree bis own pecuniary transactions with the Laird of Maxwellhaugh. The impression which had been left on his mind was not productive of very agreeable reflections; clouds and dark- ness seemed to gather thickly over him, gloom that had its birth within his own distempered brain. The very face of nature, too, seemed strangely' in keeping with his mood. It was nearing mid-summer, but a darker and more dreary day could scarcely have dawned in the depth of winter than was that day in June. There was a leadv^n sky, without a gleam of sun- shine. A cutting wind came in from the sea, and swept 74 CHABLIE OaiLBIE. along the slopes of Arthur's seat with the dreary moan- ing of a mid-winter blast. And all this deepened the depression that pressed so heavily on Gilbert's heart, and aggravated all bis dreary forebodings. Tbe family at Cambubleigh were seated together in the parlour of the old farm-house, while the long June twi- light was giving place to the gathering night. There is always something of sadness in a contempla- tive mind, in tbe passing away of day ; but on this occasion, the gloom of the dreary gloaming lay like a load on tbe heart of each as they sat silently watching tbe coming on of night — while not a star was in tbe sky — and listening to the wind sougbing mornfuUy among tbe trees and sighing tbrough crevices and key- holes. Gilbert, sitting in tbe big arm-chair devoted to his own especial use, was absorbed in tbe contemplation of a problem that clouded bis face witb gloom. His brows were drawn down, his lips compressed, and there was an expression in bis eyes of mingled trouble and determina- tion. Miss Margery, occupied busily witb her knitting- needles, also looked care-fraugbt. Jeanie was mute and sad enougb, for, wbile her heart was far away from Caui- biisleigb, she was oppressed witb a foreboding tbat a dark cloud was gathering in the direction of Maxwell- haugb. At length Gilbert moved uneasily in his chair. " Time's tlyin' fast awa, Jeanie ! " he said in an admoni- tory tone. Tbe young lady looked at him as if she was not quite aware in what way sJu: was responsible for that fact in the arrangement of alfairs. •* Flyin' fast awa, Jeanie, an' I hae just been consider- ing that it's fu' time we had made up our minds about tbat affair o' Maxwellbaugb's." Miss Carmichael gave her nose the peculiar little toss that was always significant of rising indignation. ** It's no just plain, brither, in what way Jeanie's to be held responsible either for tbe flight o' time, or the af- CHARLIE OGILBIE. 75 moan- led the I heart, r in the ne twi- templa- on this ,y like a atching in the or n fully nd key- ed to his lation of is hrows e was an tennina- knittuig- mite and om Cam- g that a Maxwell- is chair. 1 admoni- not quite at fact in consider- nda about little toss on. ,nie's to be or the af- fairs 0* Johnny Maxwell ! '* she said, in a sarcastic tone. " The responsibility o' self-interest; an' that's no des- pisable ! " " You're lino at propoundin* riddles, brither ; an' Jeanie's obligations to the Laird are still a mystery to me ! " Do ye no see he's keepin' awa irae Cambusleigh ? " said Gilbert, sharply. "An' that's the only praiseworthy performance that can be put to his credit this mony a day syne ! " " Hout, tout ! Dinna ye ken that Jeanie's weel-bein* biings in the balance ? " " 1 ken nae sic nonsense." " Dinna ye ken it only needs a word frae Jeanie to mak' her leddy o' Maxwcllhaugh ? " " An it made her Duchess o' Ducclench, that word sball ne'er be spoken. Ijeddy o' Maxwellhaugh indeed ! 1 just opine she's weel rid o' the honour!" " Ding me doon !" cried Gilbert, bringing down his elenclied list violently on the arm of his chair, "but ye'll drive me daft ! What do ye tak' me for ? I will be master at my ain fireside ; an' parent o' my ain lairn ; an' will use the rights o' parental authority for tilt' weelfare o' my house ! An' if I say to Jeanie my \YiIl maun be done, wha's to say, ' 111 ye did it, Gilbert?'" " Your ain conscience, brither !" " An' I hae just cam to the conclusion," continued Carmichael, without heeding Miss Margery's remark ; "just made up my mind, that Jeanie maun be leddy o' Maxwellhaugh." " An' I hae made up my mind to tak' up my testi- mony against tyranny an' iniquity, an' a' the wiles o' the world, the flesh, an' the devil," said Miss Margery, resolutely. " An' I tell 3'e to your face, Gilbert Car- michael, that she will never gie her hand to the Laird 0' Maxwellhaugh." " Js tha' thy determination, Jeanie ?" said Gilbert, 79 CHARLIE OOILBH:. rising slowly from hia seat, and beginning to pace the room. " Is that thy resolution, lass?" Jeanie lixed her soft blue eves on her father's face, now pale with passion ; her own cheek colourless as his, but with a different emotion ; while her breast heaveil painfully. " Is that thy resolve, Jeanie ?" he said once more. " It is, father." " The respect ye think is due me, Jeanie?" " When did I come short in tlutt, father?" **\Vhen, indeed?" chimed in Miss Margery. '* It's a' very weel ! a' very weel ! bat ye come short in it the now," saiclGilbort, sternly. ** Ye diu.ia ken how much depends on the choice ye mak' about the Laird. It's little less than life an' death ! It's house an' hame ! May be it's a prison — wi' the scorn an' laughter o' the neighbours, when at last they'll hae the crow on tlje Carmichaels ! Think o' a' tlidt, Jeanie ! an' think o' thiowin' va the ieddyship o' Maxwellhaugh !" The pour pirl was silent, while tears ran in streams down her bh)odles3 cheeks. She saw that her father's heart was tixed on her union with the Laird. Slje knew that he not only (hsired her own aggrandisement, what he deemed to be for her well-being, but that he trembled for the consequences of offending one so implacable as Maxwellhaugh ; and, in the yearning of her heart- to- wards the i)arent whom she loved so dearly, she bitterly bewailed tlie vow she had made never to join her hand in wedlock with the Laird's ! Generous, almost to a fault, but for this she would at once have yielded ; lay- ing down her happiness, perhaps her life, at the shrine of her devotion ! As it was, the struggle was excrucia- ting. Her love for Charlie had l)een quickened by the thought that the hour had come when she must make a decision which, if she followed the suggestions of her iilial affection, would cut her off from him forever. The love she bore her father overwhelmed her with tender sympathy, not less powerful in its influence on her heari than her compassion for her lover ! CHARLIE OOTLBIE. 77 It wafl a momont of iinutti rablc ant^uisli. All thnt WAS most tender in a verytenchr nature was in conflict; while even conscience wiih divided a^^ainst itHcll' — her olili^ation under her vow in liostility to her duty to her father. No Hclfish tliou,t;ht inin^ded in her a^'ony ; at Iciist in the forefront of tlie contlict were rnuf^ed, in '^|))>i^sing ranks, all tlie nobler impuisoH of her heart. (jrilhcrt paused in hifl walk, and ct)nfr()nted the weep- inj]; ^irl — hut lie was blind, in his rising passion, to her iifiony. There wns a tierce lif^bt in his eyes, a fiery j^lare that was terrible to behold ; and his voice, when he 8])oke, was hoarse and low. ** We maun come to a decision, Jeanic," he said, very mensuredly. She gnzed at him with bloodshot eyes, and look so piteous that it nii^ht have melted a heart of stone. She tried to speak, but no words escaped her bloodless lips : and then, coverin-'>-,t3>t, :• 78 OHARLIB OOILBIB. Grinding his teeth, he shut the door, with a force that seemed to shake the old farmhouse to its foundations ; and which made its timbers creak, as if the old home of many ^generations raised its sorrowful remonstrance against that atrocious act of unnatural barbarity. But Gilbert was past himself with rage — he was as one possessed, perhaps he was possessed by an evil spirit, as actually as the demoniacs of old. It was now Miss Margery's part to intervene. She sprang toward the door — but Gilbert caught her arm ere it reached the latch — "Brither, brither, are ye daft?" she cried, struggling to free herself. "0, your ain puir bairn, the dearest, an' the last. 0, Gilbert ! the voices o' a' your drad cry to ye frae the grave! If ye hae nae mercy on your bairn, 0, hae mercy on yoursel', as ye maun gie account at the judgment bar o' God ! " But his heart was all on fire with inextinguishable rage, his ear was dull of hearing ; he held her with a hand of iron :— and Jeanie Carmichael was an outcast in the lonely night. iiil CHAPTER XII. " This is the man should do the bloody deed." Stunned by a catastrophe so sudden and bo over- whelming, Jeanie Carmichael turned away from her father's door ! It was not until she had gonesome way from the house that had been her home that she began to ask her- self — whither, in her desolation, she should direct her steps ? Her thoughts turned, at first, to the manse, the residence of the minister of the parish ; hut she reflected that recourse to one so intimate with her father would lead to overtures for her restoration to her home, on the part of the worthy divine ; an alternative against which her heart revolted with indignation and scorn. Nor would she apply to any other of the neighbours, in that hour of humiliation ; and so she turned her steps to the way to Edinburgh ; where resided a family, relat- ed to her on her mother's side, from whom she felt as- sured she should receive sympathy and shelter in her hour of need ! It was a dreary walk, at a lonely hour ; but of this she took no heed, for she was overwhelmed with a torrent of passionate emotions — the indignation which needs must follow an outrage so violent ; exasperation against all concerned in a persecution so cruel ; and a lofty contempt for the mercenary baseness that had im- pelled her father to forget the claims of natural affec- tion, and to drive her from his door ! It was a lonely walk at a lonely hour — and in the city the foot falls of the few who were abroad echoed drearily in deserted streets. Darkly frowned the grim old tene- ments as she passed along the Canon Gate, and the High street, each with its tale of centuries, of incidents, 80 CHARLIE OGILBIE. iiiil perhap??, in lives as tragic as her own ! The plac to which she bent her steps lay down beside the Links— a lonely house, in groundsenelosed with hi;^h stone walls. and a[)proaehed by an avenue, along which she musl needs grope her way, so dark it was under the thick fo- liage by which it was overgrown. "\Vith faltering hand she knocked ; and then trera- blingly awaited an answer to her sumnuns. Her heart was beating painfully ; and a feeling of intense loneliness oppressed her. Around her lay the black p;ill of night, a dreary sullen night, the stillness of which was broken only by the fitful moaning of the wind among the trees. Once more she applied the knocker ; but without re- sponse — neither foot-fall in the hall, nor any other tolcen that any one was there, to bid her welcome in her sore distress ! Crushed bv disa.opointment to the vorv dust, and be- coming more and more oppressed by her desolate situa- tion, she turned away from that inhospitable door ; bending her steps, but without any set purpose, along the street which leads past the old church and burial-ground of Grey Friars. Sitting down under a lamp, beside the gate of the old . kirk-yard, she burst i:ito tears, whiia sobs and moan.s broke from her desolate heart. There were foot-falls close at hand, but she heard them not — and then a man and woman passed by w.tli hasty steps, going in the direction of the city. Attracted by the piteous plaint of the lonely Quteast, the woman paused, while the man went onward regard- lessly. •' What's amiss, my lass ?" she said. " What's amiss '?" ' Jeanie looked quickly up, the light of the lamp falling upon her face. The woman looked at nei soarchingly. :""• ' "Eh! Wuat? Miss Oarm.chael, is it thou?" sho cried, with unbounded astonishnent. CHARLIE OGILBIE. 81 Jeanie rej^arded her enquiringly, for, although the voice was familiar to her, she had not recognized the person who had addressed her. ** Do ye no ken me, Miss Jeanie ? your auld servant at Oamhusleigli, Maggie McTavish ! " In an instant Jeanie was on her feet, with ^laggie's hind in hers, while gladness shone in her tear-filled e}es. ' Eh ! What ! Thrust frae your father's house ! " said Maggie, in answer to the hasty explanation she had received of this so singular meeting. ''Jeanie Caraiichaei a wanderer, outcast an' hameless ! Eh ! Gilbert Carmichael ! Gilbert Carmichael! ye'll sairly rue tlie day ye closed the door against thine ain tlesh an' h^ood ! An' wae's me ! what's to be done in this sair distress ? Hae ye nae friens in Edinhro ?" Jean.e answered according to her circumstances. " Alack ! x\lack ! Wae's mo ! Wae's me ' " sighed ]\rnggie, while tears ran down her cheeks. "Ileaveu look (loon on ye, puir desolate wanderer ! " Her remarks were cut short by the surly voice of her companion. " Come awa, Maggie. Tlout, come awa. Do ye think I'se wait till morn' while y(^ put ilk idle strap ye meet through her catechism. Come awt,, I toll ye." *' Ye ken the lass?'' he said, in a low tone, when Maggie had rejoined him. " The daughter o' Gilbert Carmichael o'Cambusleigh !" " Then she'll Jippen to v, Mag.rie ? she'll no mistrust ye. if ye off.-r to find her shelter ? Eh ? " ** An' that's just the last thing I'se do ; and sae I tell ye, to your fane," she said sternly. A very peculiar expression came out, slowly, on the fellow's faee — a wonderous blending of ferocity, sarcasm, and quizzical humour. ** An' / tell //r)/i just as plainly," ho said ver3MlelibBr- ately, "that it's just tha xci-y first thingye'U do, my lass. 82 OHABLIE OGILBIE. Go back, an' fetch her wi' ye, mind; an* none o' your nonsense, I tell ys ? *' j ••TheDeil'sinmeif Ido.'* ^ / " Likely enough, ha, ha ; but in or out, I just tell y^ plainly it's a chance I'se no let slip ; an' I'se stand nae palavers, whisper — " As he spoke he caught her b}^ the wrist, drew her clcae to him, and said something in her ear. She looked at him with an expression in which fear seemed struggling with a desire to resist his imperious behest ; but she read in his look that the demon had been aroused within him, and that he would stop at no enor- mity in the enforcement of compliance with his will. Still she dared to hesitate. " Will ye hae nac compassion ?" she cried piteously. " 0, has Heaven nae tenors, an' Hell nae pains ?" He laughed mockingly, and flung her hand away from him. ** What I say I'se c/o," he said, in a manner that left no doubt at all of the fi^"^aness of his resolution. ** Sae tak' your choice, Maggie , tak* your choice." " 0, wae's me ! Wae's me ! " ahe cried. ** Ye'il may be hae wae an' wailin' plenty," he said, with a mocking k ugh. ** But tak' your choice ! " Slowly, a^' d v^ry sadly, Maggie retraced her steps, and once more accosted the poor weary girl, leaning against the lamp stand, with her burning forehead pressed against the iron post. Half an hour afterwards, Jeanie Carmichael was lodged within the fatal walls made famous by the infamies of Burke and Ha-re. ■^^-^ -*-- CHAPTER XIII. "But this sore night hath trifled former Knowins^s." - Shaliapeuf^. The grey glimmer of the dawn was steah'ng across thb quiet city — althoiip;li the darkness was still unbroken in the gloomy chamber to which Jeanie Carmichael had been conducted in the hospitable abode of Messrs. Burke and Hare — but sleep had not yet come to her relipf. Her pillow was wet with w^epin^, and her heart was sore with the fervency of lonp;-continued supplication, for she had been taught that there is a Providence who rules in the affairs of humanity ; taught to tell her wants and woes to Him who shapes the destinies of worlds and clothes with its loveliness the lil}'' of the field ! At length she fell into a condition of lethargic forget- fulness of her sul'i'ering, induced by complete physi'^al prostration, the result of anxiety and fatigue. While she lay in this abnormal state, some remark- able phenomena were presented to that inner conscious- ness which has cognizance of the strange phenomena of dreams. We shall, however, leave the elucidation of the invRtery to those philosophical persons whose special calling it is to investigate the constitution of the human mind. An apprehension of impending ]ieril came upon her. Although in deep darkness, by some strange power of vision she seemed to see as clearly as at noon-day. Along a corridor which seemed to strntch far away into the lonely night, came a figiu'e, with slow and noise- less steps, toward the place where she lay, bound by growing terror, as by a spell. He had the appearance ul the man who accompanied Maggie McTavish on the 84 CHARLIE OGILBIE. preceding night. Behind him came a form, shade-like, but with ali his lineaments soclea»'ly defined that he had all the distinctness of flesh and blood while he had the shadowy con^iistency of a spectre. Id an agony, she lay with her eyes fixed on them, powerless, in her terror, to articulate or to move. They paused, and the fiend raised his shadowy hand and pointed towards her, with a look so terrible that her blood ran cold. The man crept noiselessly to her side, stooped down, and peered into lier face, with eyes that looked like balls of fire. Then, drawing slowly back, he stood with contracted brows, and in his eyes the look of an assassin. Suddenly a strange expression crept across the visage of the fiend ; a look in which were blended hatred, terror, fierce resistance, gradually subsiding into abject sub- mission, as to a will against which there could be no long debate. Meanwhile, the human agent in this strange drama was apparently unconscious of what was takmg place around him — unconscious even of the presence of the fiend, but completely under his influence. Shrinking slowly away from her, he turned about, went off along the corridor, followed closely by his grim associate ; and at length both were lost to view in the darkness. The vision had passed away, and Jeanie Carmichael fell off into a dreamless sleep. 'W CHAPTER XIV. " Bad is the world seen in thought. when such bad deaHng must be It was late on the day after the occurrences related in the precodinf]r cbajjter when Jeanie awoke, to find Map^gie M'Tavish sitting on the side of her bed, with a very anxious and care-worn look. It was evident that she had been weeping for her eyes were red and very sor- rowful. She tried, however, to assume a more cheerful air when she saw that the girl regarded her with anxious scrutiny. To a remark on Jeanie's part that she should try once more for admittance to the house of her rela- tives, at which she had applied so unavaihngly on the preceding; night, she turned, apparently, a regardless ear, pointed to some bread and tea on a table beside the bed, and then abruptly left the room. Pondering on these strange occurrences, Jeanie, hav- ing partaken lightly of the refresliment sup])lied to her, still kept her bed, for she felt, notwithstanding the long sleep she had enjoyed, that she still needed rest, so severe had been the strain of what she had undei-gone on her ner- vous system. As she lay tli inking of all these strange oc- cunences, her past life seemed like a happy dream, from ^^hich she had been awakened as by theshockof a tempest, sudden and overwhelming in its violence ; but it was the outrage done to her filial love that had wounded her most sorely. At length drowsiness crept over her, ideas became confused, and then she fell over into the blissful unconsciousness of sleep. AVhen she awoke it was night once more, and she found herself in utter darkness. * A horror of great darkness ! ' What is there in the mM^: .^^^dlSi^lMM^?^'^ 86 OHABLIE OGILBIE. night that quickens our apprehension of the superna- tural, and makes so large a all on our philosophy? why do we never look for ghost , nt noonday, nur receive, while shines the sun, communications from the shades ? if all we hear of shady visitors be true ! And this strange influence of night was felt very painfully by Jeanie Carmichael, as she lay with the vision of the pre- ceding night haunting iier with all the vividness of a veritable visit, ition, and deepening the apprehension she had begun to feel that some evil awaited her in a place which she now regarded as Uttle else than a prison. The painful impression made upon her mind by all that had taken phico, deepened as the elow winged hours went by, and an intense desire to escape from that dismal den grew in proportion to her 'ncreasing despondency. What and whence, the evil that she dreaded she was un- able to conjecture, but the terror that oppressed her was non. the !ess paiiiful because it was associated witli the mysterious and unknown. Unable longer to remain in passive contemplation of a situation so painful, she rose, noiselessly drew on her ciotiies, and crej)t on tiptoe to the door, which opened freely, giving egress into a nar- row lobby, through a window at the further end of which streamed in the beams of the waning muon. There was no indication that any one save herself was stirring. The silence of the de;id of night hiy all around, hung as if it were a veritable entity brooding in the grim old house; and she trembled lest liur very ureathing, in in the deep deathiiku stillness, should call up some ter- rible apparition in her way. Ciiutiously, and often pausing to listen, she crept along the lobby, in the hope that she might find a way of exit by the window. For that outer world, where she might breathe the free winds of Heaven in exchange for the fetid air of that [)lace of bondage, alw, sighed with all the intensity of a passion ; and the poor gin's heart, yearning for freedom, ached all the while for home, with the poignancy of agony ! CHARLIE OaiLBIE. 87 i, 111 ter ■ She had just reached the window when a sound, as of a latch lifted caiitionsly, fell upon her ear : and she saw, to her dismay, two men, one of them carrying a lantern, enter the lohbv at its farther end. Her heart fell, for it seemed like the realization of her vision of the pre- ceding night. Her strength began to fail. Then, by a great effort, turning away from the objects of her terror, she rushed througli a doorway close at hand, into a room faintly lighted by the moonbeams, and apparently unoccupied. Furniture there was none save a table, a bed in a corner, and a large press or wardrobe, the door of which Rtood open, as if to invite her to enter, and hide herself therein. In an instant she was within it, with the door drawn to ; and not too soon, for the next moment the men were in the room. She could see them throuch a crevice in the door — the man who accompanied Maggie McTavish, and another, who was Burke, his partner in iniquity. Hanging the lantern on a peg in tie wall, Burke sat down on the side of the bed, lighted his pipe, and began to smoke comi.lacently ; while Hare perched himself on the table, with a scowl on his brow, and a very sinister expression in his eye. Jeanie saw them distinctly, for the light fell full upon them. It fell also on the bed, and showed her that it was not untei anted ; but there was something so peculiar in the look of that silent occupant, so still, so deathlike, as to suggest that that tenant was a corpse ! " It's just the way wid them," said Burke, in continu- ation of their conversation, *' things niver go strfiight whin ye want them ! Here we are at the wrong ind o* the sayson, an' trade goin' slack ! Did he tell ye he wanted one, or two, or none at all ? or what did he say to ye, at all, at all ?" "Ane for a special dissection; an' ane for a private class, that hae wit eneugh to keep by their trade, instead o' scamperin' awa on their holidays." " It's the deU's invention, them holidays ! " said d8 CHARLIE oaiLBIE. Burke fiercely. " It's that that's drivin' trade so dull ! whin did he say he wanted them ?" ** As soon as we hae them ready for the knife." " Well thin, he'll not wait long {or one, for she's behint me, as nute a stitfey as they need ax to see on a dissec- tin' table ! an' if the girl in the other room — the one you fetched in hist night — is not in the same condition, who's to blame for that, I'm axin' ?" *' Who?" '* ooorse. Didn't yna undertake to do the job ? an' what came over ye, bat ye did it, inatid o' comin' back like a whippit hound wid your tail between your legs? Tell us that, now, Misthcr Hare ! " ** I diniia just ken weel, mysel," Hare answered testily. " But 1 just think it was a dream I had." Burke looked at him scornfully. " Hout, mon, tak' up nae opeenion till ye hear ! " said Hare, sulkily. " Wuel, while I waited till I could slip frae Maggie the key o' the lassie's room — for Maggie keeps as close a watch on that Carinichael wench as if she was her am bairn — 1 just pappit asleep myBol', an* saw in my dream sic a pi»,ck o' horrors as only the auld deil himsel could shape for mortal's ken ! I thought that somebody had taen his last dance, wi' the hempen cravat about his neck. I thought that the body was huug up in a room, at dead o' night, where you an' I were lyin', wi' the light o' a lamp shovvin' him there sae still an' ghastly ! An' the silence was as deep as death. The very light looked pule, as if it had taen its colour fray the corpse ! An' there i lay, my eyes fixed on the horrible thing ; an' a cauld sweat upon my brow, an' a' my strength clean gane. Then the corpse began to move, to turn auout, slowly, an' sae still-like, for its back had been next me, till the full light of the lamp fell on its face, sae black, an' wi' a horrible grin, that showed its teeth ; an', eh mon, it was yoursel ! an' your eyes were fixed on ine, wi' a 1 )ok that sent the bluid cauld to ray heart, i thought that ye blamed me for the haugin' o' CHARLIE OOTLRIE. 89 ' I ye! Again the corpse went round, an' it had another face; an' there liiuuj /, an' men. I felt niysel in the body o' the corpse, dead an' aUve, baith at ance, \vi' the bhick- ness o' damnation yawning under my feet, an' the flames o" hell about me ; an' out o' the blackness, an' out o' the lianies earn the fa'-es o* them ye ken. wi' gibes, an' jeers, an' cries, as though a' the fiends in blazes were mockin' at our fate !" "An' that's j'our dhrarae ? " said Burke, ironically; but notwithstanding his air of indiirei'enco he had not been quite regardless of a narrative that was only too ilirectlv consonant v.'ith manv a suggestion that had arisen in hii* imagination of possible events. " is that your dhrame, I'm ;i\in '?" he continued, with increased contempt. " Eh, mon, if ye had lind it yoursel ! if ye liad had it yoursel ! " said Hare, not disposed lo he laughed out of liis belief in the signiiicance of his dream. " I tell ye, Burke, that between a body's conscience — " Burke laughed tauntingly. "Ye may laugh, or ye may greet, but I hae a spark o' conscience, whiles, for a' that," Hare went on. " An' what wi' that, an' the hangnuDi an' the deil, it's no just as easy to whistle awa a dream like ihut as yo'll lilt a strathspey ! Weel, whan I awoke, an' minded on the job I had on hands, I wad hae gien mair than a fair day's wage to hae been weel red o't. But, ye ken, I'm no just the man to shun the fire for fear o' burnin' my taes ; sae I pluckit up heart, n,n' in five minules time was beside tlie bed, wi' my whole mind on my work, as if the deil himself was ai my elbow ! Just wi' that I minded on my dream ! an' I could nae mair lift a hand than I could rin awa wi' the Lord Provost o' Edinburgh frae the midst o' his Bailies ! It just couldwi he done/ An' I'se lea the job to i/ou, the deil, an' the doctors." Burke growled savagely. He had no objection to the work imposed upon him, but he felt indignant with his associate, whose qualms he regarded as evidences of a r -^'rair - r, -*" liirrTii 90 OHAliLIE OaiLBIB. i weakeninpf of that reckless spirit which had made them such suitable coadjutors. " Humph !" said the Irishman, meditatively. " But what's the use talkin' ; wid your dhrames and nonsinse ! I tell ye, if we're to run in the same yoke there's to be nornnniu'in an easy collar, lavin' all the pull to me, Misther Hare ! Mind that, anyway ! Mean- while, we'll slip the one that's ready to the quarters she's intended for, afore the day begins to break. I'm not aniind to help ye out wid the fuUilment o' your dhrame, ha, ha, ha." So saying, Burke began to prepare his ghastly burden for transportation to the dissecting-ron. When all was ready, the two miscreants went off to- gether, taking with them the corpse of the latest victim of their hellish trade, while the first streak of dawn was breaking on the sleeping city, all unconscious that two such monsters in iniquity were operating in their midst ! As they emerged from the narrow lane, where they carried on their viUainies, into the West-port, and turn- ed to the left, in the direction of the Saltmarket, a face was withdrawn from a window, where a sharp pair of eyes had watched their movements closely ; and, then, quick steps traversed the passage leading to the room that had been assigned to Jeanie Carmichael. It was Maggie M'Tavish, pale, and anxious-looking, but with resolution in every line of her expressive face. She was attired as for a journey ; and it was evident that if she meant to effect Jeanie's release she had no in- tention to remain behind, to brave the wrath of the fiends, whose absence had given her an opportunity for which she had watched, with many a bitter tear ; for she repented sorely that she had induced the girl to accom- pany her to the den of Burke and Hare ! Maggie was not depraved. Circumstances, as strange as they were beyond her power to avert, had bro.^ht her into association with the miscreants in whose com- panionship we have found her ; had made her an un- CHAELIE OOILBIC. 91 willing accompHco in the concealment of their crimes ; iind, us \Vv; have seen, in the inveiglement of Jeanie Carmichael into a position in which her life was placed in imminent peril. Stricken with consternation and remorse, when she saw the girl, who in the happy hours of childhood had l)hjyed a!)out her knee, an inmate of a place where murder was a trade, she had determined to accomplish, if possible, her release ; had watched with anxiety which wan an agony for an opportunity of effecting that design; and now the opportunity had come ! To her surprise, when she entered the room where she expected to Ihid the object of her solicitude, the place was tenantless ! A great horror seized her — fear that the usual fate oi those who had been induced to cross that fatal threshold had befallen Jeanie. With hurried steps she went from room to room, searching with anxiety quickened by the reflection that at any moment the murderers might re- turn ; and at length she drew aside the door of the press in which Jeanie had taken shelter. With a heaming eye, and a merry laugh, Jeanie Gar- ni' !)ael met the astonished gaze of her friend. '• Ifow cam ye here, Jeanie?" said Maggie, — wonder- ing at the girl's levity as much as at the unexpected position in which she had found her. " Jeanie?" was the answer, accompanied with a strange expression of mingled drollery and astonishment in her eyes. "Jeanie! Wha's that, glide wife?" Maggie looked at her with deepening wonder, and began to suspect, what was really the case, that the poor girl's reason had given w[iy ! There v,as, however, no time for parleying. On their use of the swift- winged moments depended the safety of a life ; and Maggie, grasping Jeanie by the hand, led her along the lobby and down a flight of stairs, near the bottom of which opened the door leading into the close, IffiHi IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET {MT-3) /. .// ^^y €^

^) % /A -iFvV //% J om ///. Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.y. MS80 (716)873-4503 w ^W iV ^ iV \\ 4 ' 92 CHARLIE OGILBIE. or alley, in which the house was situated. Thence thej' leached the Wcs^-port, and took the direction contrary t^ that which had heeu followed by Hare and his asso- ciate. As they sped alonf^, Jeanie's merrry laup;h more than once rang out in the silent street, painfully discordant wiLh the circumstances of her lot. It was manifest, be- s des, that she liad lost all consciousness of her own i lenticnl self. She called herself by another name — Alolly M'Alpin. She had come from the banks of the Doon, and once she sang a stanza of the ' Banks and Hraes,' one of her favorite songs, of which, strange to say, she had not lost recollection, as she had of her pre- vious life. Maggie's heart was very sore as she contemplated this pitible wreck of a fair young life, brought about by cir- (^umstances all round so lamentable ; and, while she loatbed the rufiinnism tiiat had been its immediate cause, she mourned in bitter sorrow her own share in producing this disastrous result. Turning down an alley, and thence along a narrow passage between two lofty walls, they paused before a door about half ^Aay through, on which Maggie knocked, and knocked several times before there was an answer to her summons. At length the -loor was opened very cau- tiously, and the wrinkled face of an ancient crone, with fiery eyes, and features that would have served a witch, peered out. "Eh! Maggie M'Tavish ; what deil's errand has fetched ye here at this time o' nicht ? " •' Hout, tout, Mattie woman." " Hoiit, tout, yoursel' ! Dingin' folk out o' the blankets whan every honest body should be keepin' by their ain four wa's, ]\Iaggie McTavish ! " '* Ye didna bang the door in my face when I brought vour Archie hame, a live laddie whan ye might hae had him back a corpse, Mattie." " Aweel ! aweel ! Ye ueedna heed an auld wife's iitii CHARLIE OGILBIE. 98 whimsies ; Fae, just step ben tl]e house. But it's no for cracks ye liae cam abroal at this time o' nicht ! " Maggie tir-ned to introduce her charge to this amiable old Jady, but, to her astonishment, no Jeanie was there ** Eh, whar's the lass ? Whar's the lass ? " she cried boatmg her hands together in dismay. ' " Mercy on us, Maggie ! Are ye daft? " said ]\rattie wondermg at this sudden change in her friend's de- meanour. ** Ye didna see her, then ? Ye didna see her ? " cri»d Maggie, hastening off along the passage. ^ '* She's just daft, clean daft," said Mattie. '* See her indeed ! Mattie McClucas is no just that far gane that she sees the deil, or the deil's imps— for mortal saul I saw nane— unless they come wi' flesh an' banes, an' thev re no sae scarce in Edinbro V In vain Maggie searched for the missing Jeanie; and at length returned, disconsolate, to the shelter of Mat- tie's roof— with the dark secrets of that night's proceed- ings locked securely in her heart. leir am j>rufts»a'^''-"'-'--~'—-^ CHAPTER XV. m: [■ DARK DAYS AT CAMBU8LEIGH. i While all this was taking place, there was a very dreary time at Cambusleigh. Gilbert's unbridled wrath had soon burned out, and in proportion to the violence of his passion was now the poignancy of his remorse ! His only child, the last of all his offspring, for whom, notwithstanding the corrosive influence of his guilty avarice, there was still a place in his affections, driven from his door, followed by the bitter curse that had leaped, but unpremediated, from his quivering lips ! The strong man bowed himself in agony, and turned fiercely on himself; refusing consolation till the evil had been, in some degree, repaired by the restoration of his daughter to his home. With this object in view, he had taken horse, and set out in search of her, while with the yearning affection of the parent's heart there mingled the shame and the compassion of a manly nature, in contemplation of one so tender crushed by a deed so foul ! Wherever he imagined she might have gone there did Gilbert present himself, with a look in his face that startled all who saw him, and made them wonder what strange tiling had happened that had brought so dark a cloud to the brow of the good-man of Cambusleigh ! It was a weary quest, his heart sinking lower as dis- appointment followed on disappointment. There was condolence in abundance, about something that had happened, the true nature of which was a subject only of speculation, as Gilbert had volunteered very little enlightenment, but information about Jeanie there was none ! and thaty and not gossip, was what Gilbert had in quest. OHABLIE OaiLBIE. 95 Confidence was invited on the part of sympathetic matrons, with tearful eyes and gentle shaking of the head ; to which he always answered that it was a family misunderstanding, in which the blame was all his own, " for, ye ken, a' folk's no just sae meek as Moses, nor gifted wi' the patience o' a Job ; an' the puir bairn may weel cry shame on Gilbert Carmichael !" Undisturbed by any such self-upbraiding as hnd driven Gilbert almost crazy, Miss Margery had put on her bonnet and gone over to the Manse. She knew that if Jeanie had taken refuge within the parish the Minis- ter was the person most likely to discover it, with the least likelihood of occasioning an unnecessary flutter in the amiable heart of Duddingston. 8he knew how in- terested Duddingston would at once become in the affairs of Cambiisleigh ! "Gilbert may gallop like a fule;" she thought "an' claver to a' the itchin' lugs in Midlothian, but there's nae need to gie Mrittie Watters an' the rest the crow at last on the Carmichaela !" Poor Miss Margy ! thy honest hea. u must feel many a grievous pang ere thine eyes shall rest on thy well-loved Jeanie I I .■■:,/:■.;::;.'.■/•.;,: chapter xvi. ":;:■. ""::-:'"": CHARLIE OOTT.BTE WITNESSES A STRANGE SCENE IN THK FOUEST, AND WONDERS MOUE AND MORE WUO HIS NEW FRIEND CAN BE. Meanwhile, Cliarlie Ogilbie was winning}; polden opiii- ions of his character by liis ingenuous disposition, and the frank manliness of his bearing. A long an(J dangc^r- O'ls illness, occasioned by his encounter with Bill the Ih'iver, had detained liim at Glenriddle, the name by which the home of his new friends was known ; and he had been tended during the weary days and restless nights with such watchfulness and regird as liad awak- ened the warmest gratitude in a hearts never slow to beat with generous emotion. It was evident that on the ])art of Ilazelrig Lilburn, for that was the name of liis host, gratitude for the life he owed to Charlie, and his associates, was mingled witl) a growing fi'iendsliip, which mulual obligations, as v;ell as the esstimable qualities so prominent in Ogilbie's character, were certain to ])roduce. Nor v.'as it on Uazeli'ig alone that those attractive c'haracteristics had made an impression favourable to their possessor. The bhish that occasionally appeared on the cheeks of the gentle Editli told its tale of a senti- ment that calls for a softer term than is a])!)licable to the feeling that warmed tne heart of her father toward his guert. A fairer tlovver than Edith Lilb'irn never bloomed on the banks of tlie Sfc. Jolin. With a face of raresu loveliness, and a form of perfect symmeiry, she |»ossessed a disposi- tion in which were blended tin; most winning qualities of her sex ; and the wonder was that one possessed of grace CHARLIE OaiLBIE. 97 anfl culture which would have become a far higher sphere had founil a liome in a place so unsiiited to such as she. Often hud Charlie asked himself, how this could be. And as the weeks went past, and new and higher quali- ties revealed themselves in Edith, the mystery grew more mysterious still ; and he wondered more and more who these could be, who, qualified to mingle in circles of highest culture, seemed to shun association with their fellows. It was evident that Lilburn was a gentleman by birth and breeding. Every attitude and action, and a certain inl)red bent of thought, spoke of gentle birth. And, whatever it was that had reduced him to his present line of life, it was evident that his early years had been spent in a station far removed from that of a common settler in the New Brunswick wilds. It was clear, besides, that some severe misfortune had embittered Lilbuvn's mind, arousing in his haughty heart the feelings of a misanthrope. The deep lines in his forehead spoke of long continued care. There was a look in his eye that told of anxiety and sorrow, while chagrin and scorn found expression on his lips. One night in early summer, Charlie, restless with many a memory of the past mingling with perplexities as to the future, sauntered out into the lonely forest. ■ He loved the sylvan beauty of the woods, and ever found in their solitude a resting-place where he could be alone with his reflections. As he wandered along the glades, the fragrance of un- folding leaves came as nature's incense on the fooii-stool of its Creator. The soft warbling of rivulets fell pleas- antly on his ear. No other sound disturbed the silence of the night ; while the silvery radiance of the moon fell through the lofty arches of the forest. Suddenly he was warned that some one besides him- self was there, for a sound like a heavy sigh reached his ear. Cautiously approaching a fringe of brushwood, from r , W WII—ill ' J l . I ■■™''' 98 CHARLIE OaiLBIE. which he deemed that the sound had come, he saw in an open dell, on the farther side of the coppice, Hazelng Lilburn, pacing]; to and fro. Charlie had no desire to play the spy, but there was something so singular in Lilburn's look that he felt con- strained to observe him for a little while. Lilburn was evidently deeply agitated. His head was bowed ; his face, clearly seen in the light of the moon, was ghastly, and drawn as with iron bands. Pausing abruptly, he raised his eyes towards the heavens with a look of unspeakable misery. He looked as one who lis- tened for a voice out of the deep stillness of the night, or who waited for a thunderbolt to crush him from the skies. There was terror in his eye, and a gleam as of frenzy induced by his consuming agony. His bloodless lips now seemed sealed, denied the poor alleviation of a sigh. Charlie gazed on him with wonder, and with deep com- passion. Stern and ungenial though Lilburn usually was, to him he had been kind, almost with the tender- ness of a woman. His hand had smoothed his pillow ; his voice had whispered hope when life's lamp seemed burning low ; and Charlie had learned to love the stern recluse — but never knew how tenderly till now, as he looked on him rent with this strange agony. Generous and impulsive, the youth would fain have clasped the hand that had rescued him from inevitable death, — which was not, as now he knew, the hand of an assassin — but inexorable necessity forbade ; and he turned away, remembering that not to him belonged the right even to look on this great sorrow. There could uv little doubt that there was a mystery in this man's life, which, if it were unfolded, would amply account for his banishment to a sphere which was not the proper condition of one so cultivated. It was impossible, however, as Charlie regarded his friend, to associate him with the commission of crime, for the lofty integrity which was so marked a trait in bis character, '■■mT CHARLIE OQILPIR. iWP forbade the assumption ; iinloss, indeed, his nature, no\9 so honourable, hud been purilied in the furnace of long- continued remorse. It was, however, when he thoup;ht of Edith, doomed, with all her endo\anent3, to a life in the wilderness ; cut off from association with her equals ; doomed to se- clusion such as that in which she lived, far away from the advantages of society — and all this under the eyes of a father who watched over lier welfare with all the un- wearied care of unfailing affection, and seemed to find his only happiness in the happiness of his child — tiiat the lot of the Lili)urns seemed most mysterious, and awakened the deepest and most tender interest. Nor may we assume that Jeanie Carmichael had now an inferior place in Charlie's thoughts. The memory of other days was fresh as heretofore, but it came as tlie sweet but painful recollection of some delightful dream, from which he ha I awakened to find that the vision could never, probably, be realized. In the stern struggle of a Htttlei's life, his bright visions of prosperity to come had assumed a more sombre hue. Fortune was not to be acquired with the rapidity of achievement presented in the dreams of hopeful inexperience. Long years must pass before the penniless exile had become — if he sliould ever be — the favoured child of fortune. And without fortune's favours what hope had he. that ever Jeanie could be his ? Other circumstances, too, tended to (lamp his hopes. Not one of several letters he had written, and dispatched to Cambushtigh, had been an- swered. It was scarcely possible all these had gone astray; and wherefore, then, her silence? Had they fallen into other hands than hers ? Had her father interposed 7 All this v;as perplexing, and had cost him many an anx- ious thought, many an hour of worrying reflection, which ' left him never a whit the wiser, but harassed by ever deepening perplexity. He had no apprehension, how- ever, that Maxwell was more in favour than of yore, for he remembered well her vow, in the stilly night, with 100 CHARLIE OGILBIB. Ky the stars for witnesses ; and he knew that, however she might continue to rejjjard himself, Jeanie Carmichacl would never ho the wife of Maxwellhaugh. But reasoned he never so wisely, he was unahle to bid away a feeUng of chagrin, which deepened as the weeks went past and the mortifying silence was unbroken. Love is prone to be capricious, and the tenderest emotion of our nature will often prove a traitor to itself! It was so with Charlie Ogilbie, and thus a feeling of estrange- ment took possession of him, from the very object of his affections, the thought of whom had nerved his arm, and brightened his anticipations of the future. Meanwhile he had begun to take a very tender interest in Edith Lilburn. We shall not call it love — in its fullest sense ; rather a sympathetic tenderness for one circum- stanced as she, with an appreciation of her charms, which would have carried away at once any lighter head than Charlie Ogilbie's. There was something very interesting in the character of Edith Lilburn. She seemed to live for otliers, without a thought of self. Her sunny nature never seemed so joyous us when contributing to the happiness of those around her. There were evidences, too, that she drew her inspiration from a higher source than the low level of ordinary life ; wu'le all who came into contact with her, felt that they were in the presence of one of no common order. She alone, among them all, appeared uncon- scious that she was not as others — shedding around her the pure light of an exalted nature, which made the work! seem brighter for her presence. I 'i CHAPTER XVII. . . CHARLIE MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. From whatever source Hazelrif]^ Lill)iirn derived the means with which he nunntained his household in com- parative comfort, Httle was produced by cultivation of the cleariiif^ around his dwellinpj at Glenriddle. His own time was spent mainly on the river in his canoe, with his fishinpj-rod; or in the forest, with his pjim, and he fre- ([uen^ly remained away for days toij;e!her, sometimes jiloiie, sometimes accompanied by Charlie Of:jilhie. It was during one of these excursions that Edith, uneasy on account of his absence, and. thinking she Inid heard his voice, had gone out into the forest to lind herself surrounded by tlie wolves. Notwithstanding a predilection for the chase, natural to his time of life, it was with not a little unwillingness that Charlie saw his days glid ng past in a manner far from conducive to the advancement of the object with which he had come to New Brunswick. But some strange desire on Lilburn's part that he should prolong his stay at Glenriddle had overcome, for the time, his wish to betake himself to some sphere more suited to his designs ; and he had given himself up, with a good grace, to this constraint : which, indeed, was rendered more en- durable by the presence of the gentle Edith. There were other circumstances, too, that rendered him less unwilling to prolong his stay at Glenriddle. Indications were not wanting that the death of the ill- fated Indian — who had fallen by an unlucky ball aimed liy Lilburn at a deer — had aroused hostility on the part of the scattered remnants of the ancient tribes, who still lingered in the woods. Between these children of the wilds and the settlers at Glenriddle there had hitherto 102 CHARLIE OQILfilE. been unbroken nmity ; and Ilazelrig bad often, wben away on bis expeditions, partaken of tlie red man's venison, and smoked IIk; pii)o of Triendsbip in tbe ebelter of liis \vip;wam. Now, liowever, be was met with ficowlinR )o()k, and silent bps, wben be approached tbo Infban's camp ; and they turned sulkily aside wben tbey came upon liiin in tlie forest. All this bad been noticed by Op;ilbie. He bad re- marked, besides, that recently strange Indians had be- gun to hover in the vicinity of Glenriddle, whose looks were 8Ujj:gestive tbat tbey were in no friendly mood. Their proceedings, too, were sucb as to give rise to sus- picion tbat tbey bad come to watch tlie movements of the man who bad shed the blood of their kinsman, with the instinct aroused within them tbat used to set their father's on the war-path. In these circumstances, Charlie was less averse from remjiining at (llenriddle, for be held tbat it would be base ingratitude and poltroonery to forsake bis friends in the hour of ne(;d. As to Hazelrig himself, be seemed to have no suspi- cion tbat anything indicative of hostility was passino around him. He took no precautions to guard against sur})rise. He went about as usual ; and frequently went off to spend the day alone, with his rifle, in the woods. On one occasion, when this bad occurred, there were tokens that the Indians had some game on band which aroused very serious suspicions on the part of Charlie Ogilbie. He had noticed that the savages bad dis- appeared, and taking this circumstance in connection with Lilburn's absence be was unable to free himself from a strong impression that evil was designed against him. It was uncertain whether Hazelrig intended to come home on tlie approach of night, or to catnp in the forest, sleeping under a rock, or perched in the branches of some spreading tre«, or taking shelter in some aban- doned ahanty ; Id was, therefore, desirable, in Ogilbie's CHARLIE OaiLBIB. 103 opinion, to warn him of possible danpier, which his own fearless nature would be hIow to anticipate. With tliib object in view Cliarlie H<'t out in a canoe, for a place some wny up the river, where he deemed it likelv, from an observation \shicli had fallen from llnzel- rig as he strode away from home, that ;that incautious rambler might be found. < -' It was a glorious afternoon, during the Indian Sum- mer. The hazy siieen peculiiir to the time, ljan of vore, but it was a look he had sometimes seen her wear when she was troubled or perplexed. It was Jeanie in very deei ! but where was the radiant look ? the soften- ing eye ? the cry of joyful recognition ? " And-i/ou,-d<)nt-know-jne' Jennie?'' he said in a low husky voice, and very slowly ; while tears ran down his cheeks. '* how could I ken ye, sir ? I ne'er saw vour face before." " 0, Jeanie, Jeanie !" he said, as if his heart were breaking. " I am no Jeanie, that's no my name. My name is Mary M'Alpin." Charlie's eyes opened wide with astonishment, and again he scarcely knew whether to regard himself as tlie victim of some strange delusion, or to conclude that it was in truth Jeanie Carmichael, in all but the well- balanced intellect that had distinguished her at Cambus- leigh. From these reflections he was recalled by a somewliat imperative voice, demanding in the Doric of the Scottish Lowlands — '* What's keepin' ye lassie ? I just hae nae patience 106 CHABLIE OGILBIE * wi* ye, Mally M'Alpin ! Standin' there claverin* wi' the first callaot comes across ye ! " \\ itliout a word in reply, Jeanie resumed her work, while a sweet smile stole across her tranquil face. More astonished still, Charlie looked in the direction whence these rather offensive expressions had come, and saw that the person who spoke was a woman, standing before the shanty ; and he could see, as well, that her appearance was not out of keeping with the severity of her remarks. With an amplitude of form that would have become an Amazon, she displayed a countenance in which there was little of the softer characteristics of her sex, — a countenance not naturally unpleasant, but changed from its original expression by the hard conflict of life. Beside her stood a man, quietly smoking a long clay pipe, and holding a child by the hand, while three or four other very juvenile hopefuls clung to his skirts and knees. Turning away from Jeanie, and very sad at heart, Charlie went up the bank; and sainted the pair, who were now, evidently, occupants of the shanty. Geordie M'Feeters answered him with civility ; but the lady looked at him in silence, and with an eye that seemed to ask — by what right he had intruded on their privacy. ** An' sae, young mon," she said, after a very sharp scrutiny, "ye hae naething better to mind than dabbiin' about in a canoe, an' discoursin' wi' the Lissies '? Just like ane o' the feather-headed callants in Edinburgh, wi' mair brass in their face than siller in their pockets ! " ** Hout, tout, woman ! " remonstrated Mr. M'Feeters. *' Hont, tout ! " *' Hand your tongue, Geordie. Yell hae made your fortune, young mon ? " CharUe smiled, and shook his head. ** What ! No made your fortune ? Wi' sic a cliance amang tree-stumps and snaw ! No made your fortune ! CHARLIE OaiLBIE. 107 Eh, mon, ye suld hae feathered your nest as easy as ane wad luak'a blanket out o' an auld Scotch mist, or a kale garden on a pile o' whin-stanes ?" " You think Httle of New Brunswick, then ? " said Charlie. "Said I that? is it no the land o' Goshen? " Wi nnaw instead o' hinny ! " said Geordie slyly. " Hand your tongue, Geordie. Ye ken as muckle about that as ye ken o' Paiadise. '* Ye'll no be a native o' the place, young mon ? " " I'll never deny my country," returned Charlie ; ** for there are worse places than old Ireland ! " t " Ye'll hae discovered tliat since ye cam' to New Brunswick '? " said Geordie. *• Geordie, are ye daft?" said Mrs. M'Feeters. " Do ye no ken that whan ye made yourHol' laird o' the shanty, wi' a' the bonnie stumps an' wood.s, ye got a corner o' the garden o' Eden ? But what's keepin' that hizzie, Mally ? I just wish v.'e had left her on the brumilaw o' Glasca." Charlie's face darkened, for he disliked intensely this woman's bearing towards poor Jeanie Carmichael, and his eyes ghiamed angrily. *' The girl is your servant, I suppose ? " he said very quietly. " Ou, ay. She's a' I hae for ane, an' a nice bargain to bring sae far ! I just wish we had the gude siller we Wiisted on her passage paid up in wark, an' she may tramp awa, an' welcome, for a' Jannet M'Feeters cares." " An' just as gude a lass as ever left the Clyde ! " said Mr. M'Feeters. *' Hand your tongue Geordie; I wadna gie a baubee for your opeenion, gude or bad," returned his amiable consort. " I hae my ain notion still, for a' that," said Mr. M'Fciiters, calmly emitting a long whiif of smoke, as a sort of mild deliance. '* I tell ye, as I hae tauld ye mony a time before, th*at there's a bee in the lassie's bannet. She's no just a' there, piur body 1 " ! , M 108 OHIBLIB OaiLBIB. m i^B' i i i^H' 1 fe 1 Ml- " An* I tell ye, Geordie hinny, that let her be here, or let her be there, she maun just ken that somebody's no far awa an she tries her antics on Jannet M'Feeters," said that worthy matron, with a gleam in her eyes that left no doubt that she was sincere. " There's mair craft than madness in Mally M'Alpin," she continued, smiling grimly. ** The girl is, unquestionably, not quite sane," said Charley sadly. " How did you come to engage her '? It's no harm to ask, is it ? " ** Ye may speer as ye will, an* mak' what ye can o' the answer. Ae night, just a gloamin', she cam', sair o' foot an' weary, to our door, no far frae auld Linlithgow, She said she was frae the banks o' Doon, an' was on her way to Glasca. Sae we keppit her for the night, an' we saw that she had kindly ways wi' the bairns, an' a ready hand at house wark, was wiilin' an' o' gentle temper wi' auld an' young; an' sae, as we had New Brunswick before us, an' the deil behint us, drivin' us on to the backside o' creation, an' as we had heard tell that ye wadna just pick up a likely lass ony day in the week, we just took chance o' Mally. ' Whaur's her corrector ? ' quoth Geordie, wi' a sparkle o' sense for ance in his life. Correctors is lies, quoth I ; I wadna gie a bauble for them I Janet M'Feeters has a way o' her ain for find- in' out the warth o' beast or body, an' let me see wha will hae the best o' Jannet. ! " "But, eh, guid us! Whaur*s the lassie?" she ex- claimed, with sudden excitement. " The boaties awa ! an' the lassie's awa ! But, gude be thankit, she's left the shifts an' sarks ! " It was all true — canoe and damsel were no where to be seen. They raised their voices, and called out her name, but received no reply. They hastened to such vantage- points as afforded the most extensive view of the river, but their scrutiny was in vain, for so serrated was the CHAMJE OQILBIE. 109 Shore, both above and below the Bbanty. tbat ajnple onportunity was presented ot concealmeiit. .there was Sre any sign of the truant Jeanie ; and it was deem- ed tnost likely that she bay impeding their progress, and placing tliem at a terrible disadvantage before the crafty and astute children of the wilds. Not a sound broke the stillness. Pursuer and pursued moved with noiseless foot, and the forest might have been a solitude, so little token was there that anv living thing was there. Hitherto Lilburn had led the way with unhesitating ? ' lU CHARLIE OOILBIE. r 1 i stops, for, beyond the thicket, the trees were compara- tively sparse ; but now a denser j^rowth, and f];roinvJf more uneven, rendered projjjreHs almost impossible, it was dark as pitch, and tlie wood tangled as a jungle, and after some desi)erate elTorta to penetrate the bush the fugitives abandoned tluiuiselves to their fate. While they stood as in a trap, from which it vas im- possible to extricate themselves, Charlie felt Jilburn's hand upon his arm, with a grasi) significant a danger ; and he, too, bet^ame possessed by an apprelj-'usion that some one was near. The stillness was uu^rokeu — the deep brooding silence of the lonely night — but it soomed as if some subtle intimation of approacliing danger hovered in the air. The very silence seemed to warn of danger ; the night, itself, to listen for the stroke of doom. " It appeared to be the very crisis of their fate. Charlie's flesh began to creep, for he expected thatut any moment a knife might be sheathed in hia breast ; and he felt, besides, a strange intimation that his deadly foe was close at hand. Again he felt the warning pressure on his arm — as if this singular being had been gifted with some remark- able faculty of perception not possessed by himself, and the next moment some one crept noiselessly past, and so close that he actually brushed against them. The fugitives, altiiough no cowards, now almost held their breath, for they knew that the slightest intimation of their presence would seal their fate. There were voices close to where they stood, as of persons in earnest consultation ; and it became apparent that they were surrounded closely by the pursuers. It appeared as if fate had. led their foes directly on their trail. Charlie's blood began to boil with impatience of this dull waiting for attack, instead of boldly facing his foes. If he had been alone, his impulsive nature would have precipitated an issue ; but, fortunately, his power of OHARLIF. OOILBIE. 115 self-restraint was called into resolute action by the recollection, that another life besides his own was in jeorpardy, which forbade an act which would doubtless hav(-. been fatal to them both. Chiifinr?, but determined to face the worst, he awaited the issu; of an adventure which j^ave but little promise of relief. The very silence, which reifrned once more, was ominous to a mind peculiarly susce[)tible of impres- sions fr,)m without, — bri<:liteninYere eonccntratin^c^ on the spot from which the alarm f 116 CHARLIE OOILDIE. r J I I had come, 8Uj»}](08ting that the time had come for thp pursued to eiidtuivour to complete tlieir CHcape. Ontc more they essayed to pierce the coppice ; and this t'nae succeeded in forcing]; a way, in a direction directly rppo- fiite to the one vvhicli had heen taken hy their pursuers. After a short 8trup;f?le in the thicket, they came out on ground free from underwood, where; the forest was less dense, and the darkness less deep. Fortunately, too, they struck a path which Lilhurn recoj^niised. and alonp; which he led the way with unfalterinpj steps. After a few minutes of rapid walkinpj th(3y came to the side of a rivulet; and, strikin*^ iilon<,' its course, they soon reached the hank of the St. John. Lilhurn smiled grimly as he drew a canoe from under a fringe of hushes, which grew along the creek. In a moment they were afloat, with wind and paddle, aided hy the hrimming river, carrying them away from the hostile shore, in the direction of Glenriddle. thf [lie )0- '8. Oil per of )n CHAPTEPw XIX. ON THE nOUDEIt OF TUE TEARLESS LAND. Edith Lilburn liad no idea that tluire was any hostih'ty M\ the part of the Indians to her father. It was not 'inusual Tor him to ])e away in the woods, and she had no .ippreliension that danger was iin])('nding. She had t^ono out to a favourite resort, on the border of the river. It was the hour of sunset, a time which always had for her a peeuhar attrac^tion. Tliero was some- thini^ in her naturo which responded very readily to the ajipeals of nature to the higher suHcoptibilities of our beinf;. To her, things tliat were without a voice to duller apprehensions spoke with meaning capable of recognition only by a soul susceptible of the inspirations of the higher life. To her, the flower unfolding in the sunbeams was no mere development of form, however perfect, and of colour, however fair, but had a meaning and a mission ; and in the beauiy of the evening sky she saw a revelation far above the mere tinting of the clouds. In her present mood she was especially sus- ceptible of such impressions, and she was so deeply absorbed hy her reflections that slie was not immediately awaro that a canoe had glided to the shore, below where she sat. The occupant of the canoe was a girl, whoso look was as interesting to Edith as her appearance was unex- pected. Her face was pale and sweetly pensive, and spoke at once to the gentle heart of Edith Lilburn. In her eyes there was a dreamy oepth, according with the expression of her face. A slight contraction of the brows suggested that her mind was not quite at ease ; and the smile which broke upon her fair young face — as a gleam of sunshine on an autumn landscape — way like a eweet appeal for sympathy to a kindred heart. 118 CHARLIE OGILBIE, l\ : I < I To such a disposition as Edith's there was something strongly attractive in the look and demeanour of this singular apparition, and she readily went down to the side of the canoe. Jeanie — for it was she — smiled again and touched the bottom of the canoe with the end of the paddle, as an invitation to Edith, while in the look and gesture there was so much gentleness and naivete that the latter readily complied. No sooner had she taken her place in tlie canoe than Jennie shoved off fi'om the land, with a vigour that sent the ligh:-, skiii skimming out into the current. Then, laughing joy- ously, she waved the paddle over her head, and flung it into the air with a force and a direction that sent it far away upon the flood. Edith started violently, not only at this strange fi-fjak, bnt on account of the look which she noticed in her com- panions face. "Oh, what have you done?" she cried, almost piti- ouslv. " Flung awa the oar," said Jennie simply. " And left us here upon the river to float, who knows where?" Jeanie laughed gleefully, and her eyes sparkled ro- guishly< Buddenly her rnood changed, a very sad expression cnme upon her face, and she sat in moody silence, looking wial fully on the darkening river. Edith looked at her anxiously, becoming more and more convinced that she was r.tloat with one whose reason was unhinged. Meanwhile the canoe, drifting down the river, was being carried by the wind away from tli - land. Daik- ness was settling on the waters, and hojie of rescue fading with the sullen gathering of the shades. Edith shivered as she looked around on the black lonely river. Then slie covered her face with hci hands, and called in her heart to God. But ever as the night {. ev. darker, beanie's spirits rose, higher, and ever liigher. Now she laughed j anon CHARLIE OGILBIE. 119 she sang, sang very sweetly, snatches of old Scotch songs ; with here and there a stanza of a psalm, from the quaint old version of the Scottish Kirk ; and sang them with real pathos, as if tbe light of an inner life, fair as the radiance behind a dreary cloud, eclipsed hut not extinguished, ahiding as its birth-place in the skies, had broken through her darkness. Notwithstanding the lateness of the season the nigbt was warm and sultry, and Edith, being very weary, fell asleep — a restless sleep, in which poor Jeanie's singing mingled with her dreams in grotesque association. She was suddenly awakened, — to find that the canoe had come to land ; and that her compiinion in this strange adventure was already standing on the bank of the river. The dark frowning forest, which grew down to the water's edge, had no hospitable look, but Edith readily stepped ashore, glad to escape from the dangers of the river. They were now on the opposite side of the St. John to that from which they had set out, and as it was uncertain how far they had been carried down the river, Edith was unable to determine, by her local knowledge, whether there was any human habitation in the immed- iate neighbourhood of their landing-place. It was, besides, impossible, although the moon had ris^cn, to thread the mazes of the forest, and they must needs lind such shelter as was possible at the place where they had come to land. Sitting down among the withered leaves, whore an ancient oak spread his sturdy arms, they waited for the morning. It was one of those oppressive nights, still, sultry, brooding, when nature seems to await the bursting forth of a thunderstorm. The heavens were becomingovercast ; and soon the moon was hidden by the clouds. There were low rumbli.igs down toward the west, announcing that already the fierce aerial conflict had begun ; streams of living fire shot from the pitchy clouds, like the battle- 120 CHARLIE OOILBIB. m u fires of hostfl mustering for the strife ; and then the full fury of the tempest came — lightning, thunder, rain in foods, as if a sea had poured its torrents on the earth. The place they occupied under the tree was not, per- haps, the safest, still they held their ground ; Edith awed hut fearless ; and Jeanie in delight with the wild tur- moil of the tempest. The flooding rain was pitiless. At first, indeed, the stem of the brave old oak did, in some measure, shelter them, but as the storm passed onward, and the wind began to rise, they became exposed to the full fury of the deluge. As morning dawned the temptest began to abate; but, while the grey light of returning day crept across the foresl, the hope which Edith had cherished that they might find themselves in the vicinity of some human dwelling died away. Far as eye could reach, nothing was discernible but interminable forest ; a wast? of woods, dreary and inhospitable as desolation itself. Not a trace oi smoke announced a place of refuge. Along the bosom of the river the slow-winged mist went creeping, as if reluctant to depart, as often slowly go the ills which so frequently over-cloud the destiny of man. On the river, too, there was a tenantleas canoe — their own canoe adrift — and they were now precluded from departure by the water even if thev would. The day wore on — a cold frosty day, with a leaden sky ; cold that sent its darts with a sharpness that to them, shivering in their saturated garments, was agony. Hunger, too, was present with its pangs. Exposure and fatigue rendered them incapable of the exertion which might have restored some degree of vitality to there numbed and almost lifeless frames. And so the slow-winged hoafs wore on; hours of misery to both, although poor Jeanie tried to sing her scraps of songs, smiling through the darkness of her woe. A day to Edith cf many a sad reflection, for her m CHARLIE OaiLBIE. 121 ■.-^^■ -oft '•*;> heart was at Glenriddle, with the grey-hau'ed raanjwhose life would be rendered desolate by a bereavement which she deemed so surely about to come. It was for him she sorrowed now ; for she was strangely raised above anxiety for herself. Death had lost its sting,. She felt within her that which told her that the grave should have no victory. Darkened though her faculties were, Jeanie seemed to have some faint conception of what they owed to one another as companions in misery. Nestling to Edith's side, she wound her arms around her, drew her head down upon her own bosom, and tenderly pressed her cheek upon her cold forehead. Suddenly Edith raised her head, for she thought she heard the strokes of a woodman's axe, far away in the forest. Then she raised her voice ; and Jeanie, though she knew not why, joined in this cry for help ; but their poor feeble wail died away unheeded in tbe lonely reces- ses of the forest. Again and again they cried, but fate seemed to catch their accents from their lips, and waft them away unavailing on +he wind. They could hear the axes plainly now, every stroke a signal that succour was at hand ; but, alas ! the sullen depths of the dreary forest lay between while their limbs were powerless, and their voices failed. As the sun declined, and the gathering shades gave warning of the coming of the night, hope gave way to the blackness of despair. Night was coming — night and death ! So thought Edith Lilburn, as she hid her face in the bosom of tins last friend, and resigned lierself to her fate. The sun was going down. Edith lay with her eyes bent on that silent closing of the day. There wa? a seren- ity in her look contrasting strongly with her situation, the serenity of one who had laid earthly care aside. Slowly rousing, as if awaking from some deep reverie, in which her thoughts had been far away, she took out a 1 122 CHARLIE OaiLBIB. ,!■! \ > piece of paper and a pencil, scrawled with diffif^uUy a few almost illegible words, and placed the paper in her bosom. Then she laid her head once more on Jeanie's breast. Suddenly she started up, her face glowing with a won- drous light, her eyes beaming with a lustre that seemed to have caught its glory from a source not of earth. She had a look of rapture, which even poor wandering Jeanie gazed on with astonishment. Then, as suddenly, the glory passed away as the beauty of the sunset' heavens she loved so well ; her head sank on Jeanie's breast, and Jeanie's forehead rested tenderlv once more on the brow whereon had shone so lately a light like the herald beams of unending day. ■M-: 'V i!'i t \ i**.* CHAPTER XX. A STRANGE ALTERATION IN HAZELRIO LILBURN — TWO OLD FRIENDS MEET UPON THE RIVER. The passage down the river to Glenriddle was accom- plished by Lilburn and Charlie Ogilbie without further molestation by the Indians ; but not without being sub- jected to a very rough half-hour when the thunderstorm was at its worst. Day was breaking when they leaped ashore ; to find their satisfaction on reaching home in safety dashed by the account of Edith's unaccountable disappearance. As was to be expected, suspicion fell on the Indians ; some of whom, it was thought probable, had been hover- ing about Glenriddle, and had taken advantage of the absence of Hazelri;^ and Ogilbie to carry Edith off. If this were so, there was little prospect of rescuing her without a long and arduous search, in wilds where tuere would be little to guide them on the trail of the Melicetes. In so wide a region as New Brunswick, a land of dense woods and pathless wilds, the search must be vague, and their prospect of effecting a rescue uncer- tain at the best. In the first excitement, they did, indeed, scour the woods around Glenriddle, but only with the hope to fall in with some stray wanderer, some hunter, or woodsman, who might be able to throw light on the affair, but all in vain ! They took to their canoes, and swept the borders of the river, hoping, besides, to find a clue to the enigma of the truant, Jeanie, — but all in vain. To set out on a wider search seeni'd as little likely to avail, while there was no clue as to the direction which they should pur- sue. They doemed it, therefore, advisable to continue their search for information before setting out on an ex- pedition so uacertain at the best. ii p «, 1 •;■. t ff i i »; n V:\3 tt:l^:^^ 124 CHARLIE OaiLBIE. Nor had they any proof that her absence was positive- ly to be charged upon the Melicetes. There was no evi- dence that any of the tribe, save those with whom Hazel- rig himself, and Charlie, had come into contact, had been in the neighbourhood of Glenriddle. Suspicion alone attributed to them this occurrence, with which they might have had no connection. The affair was a puzzle which only became more inexplicable the more it was discussed. As the days went by and no tidings came, deep dejection fell on Hazelrig Lilburn. A gloomy silence took possession of him ; aud when spoken to he answer- ed as one awaking out of a dream. It was noticeable, too, that his vigour had departed ; that his gait was feeble ; he seemed as one whom this last stroke had left the mere wreck of his former self. Charlie saw with daily increasing pain and apprehen- sion, the change that was taking place in him. All the inmates of Glenriddle saw the havoc woe was making ; and dark anticipations of what appeared inevitable, if no relief should com) to the almost broken-hearted father, settled on every heart. Day by day Charlie, with Sambo, who had taken service there, ranged the woods ; occasionally remaining away for days together; or went canoing on the river — Jt'anie never out of Charlie's mind — but as ofcen they returned no wiser than they went. And disappointment, continually repeated, became at length the parent of despair ! On Lilbiirn, too, the torpor of despair had settled, chilling as the ice that had now begun to lock the waters in its relentless grasp. The mere shadow of his former manhood, he wandered to and fro, unable to rest, but with a step as purposeless as the wanderings of a child. His face was pinched, and furrowed with traces of the agony which was now his constant companion. His eye had lost its brightness, as if the light of life had almost gone out. But with theoe marks of suffering CHARLIE OGILBIB. 125 and premature decrepitude, there were tokens of a psychologic alteration quite as unexpected. It was noticeable that his temper had been softened by that immeasurable calamity. He was no longer stern, but demeaned himself with gentleness that re- minded them strangely of the daughter he had lost. The haughty look was seen no more. The stroke which had laid his idol in the dust had set free all the better impulses of his nature, — for lo, it is the furnace that refines the gold ; and, so, let none rebel against the pleading of the Lord ! One day Charlie Ogilbie had paddled down the river, bent on shooting ducks, and with a vague idea that soma stray scrap of intellifijence about the missing girls might come his way. He was drifting quietly with the stream, gun in hand, and with his eye on a flock of birds hover- ing over a spot where one or two of their kind had already settled, when his attention was attracted by a canoe coming obliquely over the waters, but in a course that would carry it in the contrary direction to that in which his own craft was drifting. In an instant the gun had been laid aside, the ducks forgotten, and the canoe, turned up stream, was skimming forward in a direction that would carry him across the course of the craft it was now his object to intercept. If it had been a stern-chase it would have been diffi- cult to forecast the issue, for the two occupants of the respective canoes were strong and skilful oarsmen. As it was Charley's craft was soon in a line with the course of the other, and in a few minutes they were within easy speaking-distance. With not a little astonishment the two oarsmen re- cognized each other as old companions in the forest. *' Arra, is it 3'ourself, Charlie Ogilbie ! " cried Murty O'Gorraan, striking his paddle into the water with a flourish and in a manner that soon brought his canoe along side his friend's. ** An' how is every inch av you, Charles, me son ? " PH 126 CHARLIE OGILBIS. I ^ ■ " Never better, and nothing the worse for a sight of yourself, Murty, old man ! And right glad to see you hale anci hearty." •' Sbure I am, thin, glory be to Heaven ! Where's the use av breakin' you timper wid your throubles ? — as I tould you once before. You'll not be afther aisin' the burden on your showldhers be frettin', anyway, an' that's a bit av a saycrit not known to everybody ! An' so it's yourself that's there, an' no mistake,!" he went on, with a beaming look. " It's all that's of me, Murty." " Well, thin, hould here your fist.'* And the two shook hands, with a grasp that would have been a caution to less hardened fingers. *' An' shure enough, it's a sthrange world we live in, wid one thing an' another," said Murty meditatively. " Here we are, wid fate, or something, tossin* us about like so many pays rowlin' on a trincher ! But shure it's good luck, anyway, that sinds us tumblin' up again whin we're wanted — an' that's the case wid yourself, Charlie, a stoir /" " Ay ! Ay ! " " Shure enough, it is ! An' I say agin, it's a quare world all through ; an' things will happen whether we will or no' ! You mind the girl we lost our night's rest about, wid the wolves an' their capers ? " " Go on, Murty. For Heaven's sake, go on." ** Arra, thin, you're the first man av my acquaintance was in a hurry to meet wid throuble ! What dhrew her away from her home along wid a craythre not in her sinses ? " "0, Murty, man, don't beat about the bush — '* " Never fear ! I'll be afther flushin' the covey fast enough, whin all's done ! Well thin, if you still mind the tachin' you got at school — an' I'm no great scholar meself, the more I carried a peat undher me arm for a twelvemonth, an' wore out a pair av black- thorns, all to meself — make what you can out av t/iat ? ** m CHARLIE OaiLBIE. 127 ^n u ® "^^^ Charlie a piece of crumpled paper. • Och, shure, 'tis a sore sight it was whin we found them undher the ould oak tree!" he went on, with tears m his eyes. " A sore sight, shure enough ! Enough to break your heart if it was as hard as one av the Iwelve Puis av Connemara ! " Meanwhile, Charlies strong hand shook, as he read the missive, not, however, Edith's, and on his face there was a singular expression, from which it would have been difficult to determine what was his predominant emotion. • 'I How far is it from here?" he asked eagerly. " Just far enough not to be next door neighbour to where we are, anyway. It's all accordin' to the hurry you rem. Two hours, or so, won't lave much av the ground afore us." " Long or short, show the way." " Well, I will, if it was for nothin' only to plase vou ?" said Murty, turning the head of his canoe in the direction whence he had come ; and skimming the waters at a rate that gave Charlie all he could do to keep up with . -1 'r CEAPTEB XXI. THE OLD LIGHT BACK AGAIN. The place to which Murty led his friend was the spot where the unhappy castaways had landed. Then ho led hiui to the old oak tree, its withered leaves rustling softly, as if whispcrijig to one another of what had happened beneath their shade. While they stood bi^side the spot where Edith and Jeanfe were found, Murty told him that he and his fellow- lumberers were at work in the forest ; that a sud- den flooding of a stream had sent them round by an unusual way, returning to the shanty when their day's work was done ; that a strange thing attracted them — a low soft voice, scarcely stronger than an infant's, sing- ing some Scotch song, — a voice which, if Murty had been in Ireland, he would have taken for a fairy's, sure there were none of the giuthry in New Brunswick — and that they had, thus, discovered Edith and her compan- ion ; one with her cheek laid on the other's brow ; and the othery— Murty's voice faDed him for an instant, and he passed his sleeve across his eyes — and the other — the other one was dead ! Charlie Ogilbie stood with his arms folded on his chest, his head drooping forward, his lips compressed, as if he held in check the sorrow that struggled to be free. For the moment Jeanie was forgotten ; all else was out of mind but the poor dead Edith, and her broken-hearted father. Murty saw how terrible was the woe that rent him, and stood aside in silent svmpatliy. He had not expected this depth of sorrow, for he was not aware of how long Charlie had been an inmate of her father's house, nor how much he had been in association with CHAULIE OGILBIE. 120 Dne whose untimely death had aroused so much emotion Dven in himself. So Charlie stood and pondered ; then took off his cap, lor a moment bowed his head, and then slowly turned iNvay ; and silently followed Murty through the wood. A walk of half an hour carried them to a clearing, at tlie farther side of which stood tlio shanty ; with the bright noonday sun shining full upon it, as pleasantly as if it were June and not November. There was some one sitting on a bench, under a tree before tlie house. At the sound of their foot-falls, she slowly turned toward them a pale thoughtful face, on which there was a look of sadness, but a look so sweetly sad that if her face had been a portrait, and not a living countenance, one would not have wished it other than it was. It was Jeanie ! and the soft blue eyes were full of a loving light, as she advanced, with heightening colour on her wan thin cheek. *' And sae ye hae cam, Charlie !" and the two little trembling hands were held freely out, while tears came trickling dowm her cheeks. * Charlie ! Was music e'er so sweet as that word, 'Charlie V Had her reason come again ? * Charlie !* liis eyes quickly scanned her look, and saw that it wore the calm expression of a settled understanding; while the tone of her voice was the old familiar one ho used to love so well at Cambusleigh ! " And the puir dead girl, Ciiarlie ! The puir dead girl !" she said, as they sat together, alone, on the seat under the tree. ** They tell me she was lovely, even they vvha only saw her sweet dead face ! As for me, it has "' passed awa like the things we see in dreams ! Was she sae lovely, Charlie ?" '* Beautiful exceedingly ; but far above her loveliness was the spirit that was in her, Jeanie. If ever angel walked the earth in human form, that one was Edith I^ilburn !" 180 OHARTiTTB OOILBIB. I f ! t ; , i '1 > t ' ' HI rm " Dear, dear lassie I But then she'p awa to the tear- less land I Awa ! awa ! " ** An', sae, ya'll wonder how I cam to be in New Brunswick, Charlie ?" *' Well, sure enough I do, Jeanie." " An', weel ye may I V/eel ye may ! I canna just tell weel mysel ; for it's a sae like a dream ! But it a' cam about through Burke an* Hare !" " And who are they ? Burke and Hare !" She covered her face with her hands, as if she would repress some terrible picture of the mind, and shuddered. Ogilbie looked at her anxiously, thinking that all this was some freak of a disordered brain. After a little while, however, she turned her calm clear eye to his, with an expression so collected that no doubt of her perfect sanity remained upon his mind. *' Burke an* Hare ?" she^^aid. *' Ah me ! ye little ken the things that are done in this stran«j;e warld, Charlie ! the bla'-k deeds ! the awfu' crimes ! It's bad eneugh to steal folks* bodies frae the grave, that doctors may be taught to cure, but Burke an' Hare hae murder for their trade, an' the souls an' bodies o' their victims for their merchandise !" "Jeanie, dear ! can this be true ?" *' True ? As sure as that Heaven's aboon the earth. My aiu eyes hae seen, an' my ain ears hae heard, what wad send the bluid like streams o' ice-eauld water to your heart ! an' its a' through Burke, an' Hare, an' the Laird o' Maxwellhaugh, that Jeanie Carmichael's in New Brunswick !" Charlie looked at her with astonishment, which grew as she went on — ** Ay, a' just through Maxwe'lhaugh. " Ye'U mind the vow I made ? Aweel ! my lather thought we suldna keep the Laird waiting longer for his answer. Ye ken my father, Charlie ? Ye ken his temp r ? An' whan I wadna consent to wed the Laird, awa went his wits wi' passion, like a handfu' o* strao in a conflagration 1 An', CUAHLIB OOILBIB. 181 sae, I just cam awa frao Caml)U8lcigh, an* took the way to Edinbro, an' mot wi' ane Maggie M'Tavish, ance in service at Canib islcij^li, an', sae, I got inveigled to the den o' Burke an' Haro ! I just think I lost my senses ; an' a', f'ne that till the fever cam frae the gude hand o' God, an' restored to mo my reason, ie as dark as the shades o' midnight !" "And 80 you have been ill ? Ill here in the shanty ?" " Very, very bud, sae they tell me. An', 0, my ain kith an' kin couldna hae watched by my bed wi' gentler hands or kinder hearts 1 Gude Mistress Macdonald was just like a mither to me ! an' ilki man an' laddie o' them a* was like my ain father's bairn !" Charlie waa silent for a few moments ; and then he suggested change of air ; change of scene ; and an im- mediate removal to Glenriddle. "Glenriddle? The hame o' puir Edith Lilburn !" Jeanie said, reflectively. *' Na, Char'lie, na. I just think that whan the dark cloud o' sorrow 's there, it's nae place for the face o' a stranger. But my heart's sair, sae sair ! for my ain auld Cambusleigh ! An', 0, to me there's mair o' health an' sweetness in ae whiff o' the breezes frae the Forth than in a' the winds that blaw o'er braid New Brunswick." " It's an ugly time of the year to cross the ocean, Jeanie." " Is the Lord no in the storms of winter as weel as in the simmer zephyr, sae mild an' modest that it's laith to kiss your cheek? I just lang, lang for Cambusleigh ! They'll no bid me frae the door. They'll no drive me frae my ain auld hame, for weel I ken that sair, sair has my father mourned the hasty word that sent me frae his threshold !" '* I think you're right, Jeanie." " I ken I am. But then — but then — an empty pocket winna buy a passage. My heart's awa already, but I fear it will be lang before I see ance mair the hills o* Duddingston 1" 182 CHARLIE OGHiBIE. li\l Rf .■ I. It; Hi ■Jl to ** There's no need of that, Jeanie. Whenever you wish set out, I'll take you down, and ship you at St. John." Jeanie's face shone with I'ov. Then her eves filled • 1 Urn' V With tears, her lip quivered, and her face wore a look that told her lover that there were other interests in her kindly heart besides the braes of Diiddingston ! When Charlie Ogilbie at length made up his rnind to tear himself away from her, so strangely found in the land of the stranger, and so soon to vanish from his sight — as some vision of the night, leaving only a tender memory behind — the sun was near the western horizon ; and as the way was long, the nio^ht dark, the wood and river not altogether free from danger, he lost no time in setting out for Glenriddle, It . : u ••• ^H CHAPTER XXII. WHAT CHARLIE LEARNED AT MIDNIGHT. Night had folded its sable robes on flood and forest are Charlie Ogilbie reached the shore at Glenriddle. With a sorely burdened heart he had he)d his way along the cheerless watf-rs, absorbed by the one subject now present to his mind, — thinking of [toor old Lill)urn ; of the intelligence of which he was, himself, reluctantly the bearer, and of that last message from the dying girl to her father, written with a hand already almost power- less in the cold shadow of the tomb ! When he reached the house, he went directly to the little parlour — so full of sad and tender memories — where he (le< med it mos*"< likely that Hazcdrig would be found. Nor was he disappointed. Lilburn was seated in his usual place, where the light from the window could fall directly on his book, by day ; and where, on cold winter nights, he could enjoy the warmest glow from the hearth — Edith's arrangement for the old man's comfort. His elbow rested on a table— on which tl '>''e was a sheet of paper, whereon he had evidently been writing, with a pen and ink, and his head rested wearily on his hand. As Charlie entered the room, Lilbnrn raised his head, and turned slowly towards him, exhibiting a face so wan that it was more like the face of the dead than of a living man ; and then, as slowly, turned away again. Charlie started at the sight, and hesitated for a moment ; then advanced, laid his hand kindly on the old man's arm, and addressed him with a tone that would have become a son rather than one so recently astranger. There was no reply. His head had drooped » till his l::: H 184 OHAELIE OGILBIE. ^lt■ It m chin rested on his chest, and the words seemed to have iallen on a regardless ear. It was terrible to look on grief so deep, grief that had apparently shut out from recognition all besides the one object of his regard ! Once more the low soft voice broke the stillness of the chamber — " I have news of Edith, sir." Lilburn turned quickly round, and, with trembling baud, grasped Ogilbie's arm, while he looked into his face with an expression of intense and pitiable inquiry. Then his hand relaxed its hold, his eyes grew dim. and he sank back into his chair, with a low, heari-broken wail, — " dead, dead !" " Gone a little while before us, sir," said Charlie, ten- derly. *' She sent you this message, Mr. Lilburn." And he placed in Hazelrig's hand the scrap of paper on which Edith hnd '"itten with her death-cold fingers. Hazelrig lookeo up ucO his face as if he failed to com- prehend what had been snid to him, for he had been stun- ned by this realizaticn of his fears. ** It is a mesHfige from Edith, sir," Charlie said again. As if suddenly awaking, the old man eagerly held up the paper before his eyes, with hands that shook so much that he found it necessary to rest his elbows on the table; and then he read, but with difficulty, so illegible was the writing — ** 0, my father, sorrow not for me. The grave has now no terror ; death has lost its sting, i go to lie where my Lord hath lain ; and Jesus liv&th who was dead !" The wan face flushed ; a'< \ -Iropping forward till his grey hair rested on the table, B^ .^Irig lalburn burst into tears. Quietly withdrawing from the room, Charlie left the sufferer alone with tnat message from his dead. About an hour afterwards, he was summoned to the parlour, lalbui'n was walking to and fro, as he often did when all CHARLIE OGILBIE. 185 reflecting on any subject which interested him deeply. His look had altered greatly since Charlie saw him last. The woe-begooe expression had departed, and in its place there was a serenity that approached to rapture. His eyes shoi s with a radiance that spoke of some w^ondroiis change in his discernment of the situation. And he walked with the firm step and erect carriage habituible, and had, evidently, been intended for himself. It was as follows: — ** Deeming that my hours are numbered, I wish to leave behind me what I am about to write, for my dear friend, Charles Ogilbie. I may live a little longer than I anticipate, but I desire to make timely provision for the proper transaction of affairs of no common moment. ** "When I have been taken to my fathers, it is my wish that you, Charles Ogilbxe, search among my papers for my will ; and also for another document, in which you will find a full account of my singular life. To you I commit cha discharge of a trust, which I leave with you in the hope that you will do me this great kindness. I I !■ 186 CHARLIE OOILBIE. Il* But I know you will. The hope I have reposed in you will not be disappointed. *' Lay my ashes under the tree, at the spot where we used to sit, my Edith and I, on the green knoll beside the river. '* May blessings rest on you, for your kindness to me and mine. ** Signed, as you have always known me, ** Hazelrig Lilburn." And so they laid him down by the bank of the St. John, with no sculptured slab to mark his resting-place ; but where, as spring comes round, green with the promise of the year, it brings perennial suggestions of the resurrection of the dead 1 r ":. CHAPTER XXIII. STRANGE REVELATIONS — GOOD FORTUNE FOR CHARLIE OGILBIE. One night, a fortnight after the events related in the preceding chapter, the good old housekeeper sat, with Sambo, before the fire in the kitchen at Glenriddle. The pine-logs on the hearth shed a cheerful glow around the room, and rai'^ed the temperature to a degree which was not in the least objectionable, while the mercury at the door announced that old king frost was in the forest with the sharp spears of a New Brunswick winter bristling in his train. Sambo sat with his hands spread ouf. before the fire, toasting bis palms, and showing in his dusky face all the tokens of unbounded satisfaction. '* No believe in ghosts?" he said, continuing the con- versation, and throv.'ing a look over his shoulder, as if he expected to see a veritable goblin at his elbow. " You're just a worrit," said the old lady, smiling good-humouredly, while she adjusted her s[)ectacles to lift a dropped stitch in her knitting. '* Yah, yah, yah," laughed Sambo. " Nebber see such a spruce ole gal ! Dis uarkie nebber pop him nose above de blankets but him see sometink. Hey, ho ! what dat ?" And as he spoke he started to his feet, and stood staring in the direction of the door. " Don't be foolish, Sambo." " No fool, nebber fear. Ho, ho ! lock thar — r !" And he began to shake, while his eyes opened wider, and his chin fell with dismay. *' Look tha-ar !" As he spoke, a tall figure, white as the driven snow, noiselessly entered the room; and, to the poor fellow's dismay, strode towards the hearth. Then, with cruel hand, the apparition put back the white garment tbat J R :i iTr I' J- 138 OHABLIE OGILBIE, 14 .'^ ! ■ concealed his face, and revealed to view the features of — Charlie Ogilbie. *' Yah, yah, yah," roared the now delighted Sambo. ** Nebber see sich rum ole boss ! Snap him finger at de ghost ! Dis chile — " " Had better use his fingers on the horses in the sleigh," said Charlie, laughing heartily at the strange freaks of the negro, as he danced about the floor, grin- ning from ear to ear. " Yah, yah, Massah Charlie. Mind ole boss, nebber fear. Dis chile jump for joy, 'cause Massah Charlie no stay down de river at St. John !" And, so aaying, he capered off to unyoke the horses from the sleigh. Meanwhile, the good old lady was silently giving ex- pression to her feelings by lighting lamps, and heaping fuel on the fires, till Glenriddle glowed with such a wel- come as might well have warmed a colder heart than Charlie Ogilbie's. For the moment, while he sat before the roaring fire, and looked around on the beaming faces that bade him welcome back to Glenriddle, he half forgot the painful thoughts which had occupied him as he approached the place around which clung so many mournful memories. It was the witching hour of night, and Charlie sat alone in the parlour, reading again, with deepening interest, the narrative that Lilburn had left of his strange career. And thus it ran : " To write the following account of my sad and remarkable life, I am impelled by a sense of the duty I owe to others, with whose life mine has been involved, and also to myself. Otherwise, I should prefer to carry all I have to say, with the memory of my sorrows, down to the dark oblivion of the gra 3. " I have passed in New Brunswick as Hazelrig Lil- burn ; but my real name ib Charteris Dundas. " I am a scion of one of the oldest and most honour- able houses in my native shire, in Scotland. Being a iia OEABLIE OGILBIE. 189 younger son of a family whose estates were strictly entailed, my patrimony was small ; but enough to induce a foolish lad to forep;o the opportunities I had, in abundance, to follow a professional career, or win my way in comraevce. I had been educated at the University of Edinburgh, but I thoughtlessly preferred the fowling- piece and the tishing-rod to the brief of the barrister, or the ledger of the merchant. That I committed a serious crime in choosing a life so frivolous, instead of one of usefulness and advan^'^.ge, I have learned by long and bitter experience ; but, alas ! how often the stern lesson of experience has been learned too late to rectify the evil done ! '* In point of character little could be alleged against me, except this disposition to a too easy life. No one could charge me with anything dishonourable or mean. My nature was open ; my disposition generous ; and, with two exceptions, I had not an enemy in shire. '* It happened that the factor of my brother's estate — one Dinmont Hepburn — was one of the two to whom I have jusi referred. He was a man of subtle and sinister nature, ungenial, morose, prone to intense antipathies. He had been in my father's employment, and so he had known me from my childhood. As I grew in years I grew in knowledge of the evil traits in this man's character, — to which, singular as it may appear, my father and my brother were blind. I suppose I must have shown my feelings, which were far from friendly to him, in my look and demeanour, for he regarded me, as I could discern, with ever deepening hostility, and at length he ceased to disguise his enmity toward me ; em- boldened, I presume, by a dispute that had arisen be- tween me and my elder brother, about a cottage which I held upon the estaiv^. ** I had reason to believe that the dispute in question was aggravated by that man's suggestions. My brother's nature was suspicious. He was easily irritated ; prone to follow, with little reflection, the suggestions of any pue who posdessed his ear at the moment. M 140 CHARLIE OGILBIE. 'I, n 'i'i i'fi If *' At all this I felt indignant ; indignant rather than resentful, for a disposition to revenge was not, assuredly, one of my besetting sins. In this frame of mind, I took no pains to hide my feelings regarding Dinmont Hep- burn ; and every one was well aware of the variance between us. "There was one to whom this state of matters was a source of ceaseless unhappiness ; and this was my fair young wife, a gentle soul, who, in an evil hour for her- self, had joined her destiny with mine. She never ceas- ed to fear that a dis^tstrous result would come, for she knew that my fiery temper could ill brook the provoca- tion I was constantly receiving from Hepburn. This man was factor for the estate of two old maiden ladies, distant relations of my wife. Here, again, I was brought into contact with my foe, for, as I was a favour- ite with the Misses Carstairs, and as they had much de- pendence on my judgment, and on my * honesty, and lang Scottish head,' as they often remarked, they used frequently to consult me about their affairs ; and some- times took my advice in preference to Hepburn's. " The other person with whom I was at variance was Gilbert Hepburn, nephew to Dinmont. As to Gilbert's character it is enough to say that he was just ditto of his uncle. ** One night in the middle of September, I was coming home from the market town of . The harvest moon was near the full, and the road, which I traversed on foot, was almost as clearly visible as in the light of day. I had reached a place where the road went down into a deep and wooded glen, and crossed by a narrow bridge a brawling mountain torrent. Just as I came within sight of the bridge, I noticed some one resting against the parapet ; and on drawing nearer I saw that it was Dinmoni Hepburn. " It was unusual to see him abroad on foot, but I assumed that he had been to one or other of the several estates of which he had the management, and that CHARLIE OGILBIE. 141 he was waiting there for Gilbert, whom I had seen in town. ** The moon was shining full upon his face, and I could see his features clearly ; his look so full of malice that it seemed absolutely diabolical. Witii one hand he leant upon a walking-stick ; and in the other he held a strap, from which depended a leathern bag, scarcely so large as a game-ba{2f. " There was something in the expression of his face peculiarly offensive; and 1 suppose he saw that I replied to it with a look equally expressive of the disdain with which I regarded him, for, without a word on my part, he stepped deliberately forward, and coolly spat in uiy face; following up the action with observations more expressive than agreeable. " My temper was, as 1 have already said, always ready, alas! too ready, to kindle with provocation; sometimes becoming, for want of having acquired a habit of self- restraint, quick as a flash of lightning. "In an instant I had him by the throat. " He struck me on the fnce with the bag, heavy enough to inflict a very stunning blow. " Immediately recovering, I snatched it from his grasp, as he swung it for another blow ; and, ti^iihtening my lingers on his throat, I shook him as a dog shakes a rat, grinding my teeth with fury, while fiery gleams shot around me ; and then I tiung him away from me, with all my might. " Keeling backward, his foot struck against a pile of stones, he fell against the pa'apet, and then upon the ground, his head bending under him. *' With a sudden change from overmastering passion to dismay, I stood looking on the man whom I had so lately assailed so furiously, but whom I would then have given worlds to see upon his feet again, for a terrible apprehension had taken possession of me that I luid killed him. Trembling, I raised him in my arms, and saw, with horror, that his head fei. aa that of one from 142 OHARLnB OOILBIB. whom life had fled ! I called him hy his name. I un- fastened his cravat. I felt at his wrist for the beating of the pulse. I listened, with my ear pressed upon his chest, for the beating of his heart ; but, alas ! alas ! neither pulse beat nor heart throbbed, for Dinmont Hep- burn was a corpse ! *' And, then, I felt myself a murderer ! A murderer ! The blood seemed to freeze within my veins. I shook and shivered. Loathed myself; and, in the frenzy of despair, I made up my mind that I would surrender my- self to justice. ** For some time I stood beside the corpse, almost mad with agony. From this terrible abandonment to despair I was recalled by the sound of a vehicle approaching rapidly; and it flashed on my mind that it was Gilbert Hepburn. I remembered, too, this man's intense hos- tility to myself. I thought of how he would exult if he should detect me in circumstances from which he could accuse me as a murderer. Instantly the instinct of self- preservation revived. I thought no longer of surren- dering, but of effecting my escape. " There was no time to lose, so I vaulted over the parapet of the bridge ; and, finding a resting-place on the top of an abutment, I lay listening, while the vehicle came on apace. ** I was not mistaken, it was Gilbert Hepburn ; for I recognized his voice in the cry of horror that escaped from him when he found his lifeless uncle. *'But what was my dismay when I heard him coupling my own name with the atrocious deed ! *' In an instant, however, cast down though I was, my blood boiled wich ii^dignation, for I deemed that it was merely on suspicion *hat he had the audacity to charge me with the villainy of murder. In an instant my hand was on the parapet, for I was about to spring out upon the road, and dare him to do ])is worst ; but something held me back. The next moment I saw the utter follv of an act which would only have precipitated my destrug- if ■>, OHARLIB OaiLBIB. 143 tion ; and I have lived to learn that it was from a pocket- book, which had fallen out of my pocket during the en- counter, that he discovered my connection with his uncle's death. " My whole mind was now turned to devising a way to escape the vengeance which I knew well Gilbert would lose no time in wreaking on my head ; and as soon as I heard him drive away, taking the body with him, I hastened away across the mountains, by a path by which I could reach my home before Gilbert Hepburn could take the steps necersary to have me arrested. " With misery in my look, I entered the room where sat my gentle wife ; in whose face I read, all too clearly, the horror and astonishment with which she regarded me. There was, however, no time to waste in softening my terrible revelation of that fearful blight upon our home, so I tcld her plainly, but briefly, what had hap- pened, relying on her discernment, and clear, strong understanding, to catch at once all the salient points of the situation. Nor was I disappointed. She saw at once — what I had at length myself discovered — that my offence was homicide, not a murder ; but she saw, as well, that, without proof of this, there was only too much reason to apprehend that the darker crime would be laid to my charge. " Our plans were soon arranged. And before an hour had passed I was off on my tray to Glasgow. " At that port I found a vessel about to sail to New York. In that ship I took a passage ; and was soon sailing down the Clyde, bound for new lands beyond the sea, with many an old-world memory gnawing at my heart. " As near as possible to the time we had arranged, my wife took ship ; and after a tedious passage joined me at New York. *' Thence we came to New Brunswick ; and settled in ihis place ; to which we gave the name of Glenriddle — changing our own name to Lilburn. "ill 144 CnARLIB BIB. m "Fortunately, Edith, my wife, had :iot left Scotland with ail empty piirso. She had a Hinall fortune in her ')wii ri;,'ht, complotcly under her own control ; and this 8he had called in, and carried witli her into her exile. It was only a few hundred pounds, hut, at the hii];h rate of interest ohtainahle ir New Brunswick, it was Huildcienfc, with the advantaf^es derivahle from the land we had acquired, to provide for all our wants. As fo: rny own small patrimony, of course I must needs ahandon it ; for I dared not claim it, from my living grave in the lone New Brunswick forest. '• Now, a circumstance had taken place which has ever since heen to me the cause of more acute regret, a hun- dred times, than the loss of iny patrimony, — I had carried away with me the hag I had wrested from Din- mont Hephurn ; having slung it over my shoulder, inad- vertently, in my excitement ; and in my headlong iiight, I had not discovered it till I was afloat on my way to America. In that hag I found more than twelve hundred pounds, sterling ; collected by Hepburn from the tenants on one or other of tlK states of which he was the factor. ** Terrible was tht niish I underwent when all the consequences of this unfortunate occuraiiee forced them- selves on my apprehension. It was impossible that I should be regarded as other than a thief. Men would brand me as a bandit ; as a miscreant who to vengance on my adversary had added the crime of the highway- man. Darker and darker grew my fate ; and language fails me to convey an adequate idea of the mental tor- ture I endured. My heart grew hard ; my temper fierce. I felt a savage hatred against the humnn race ; and I drove away from about Glenriddle almost every human being who approached it. ** To Edith — my poor suffering Edith — all this was anguish. Daily I saw the ravages sorrow made in her constitution. Her cheek grew pale ; her eyes sunken ; and I knew that she was destined soon to sin^t in sorrow to the grave 1 CHARLIE OOILBIE. 145 " Often I nnde up my mind to return to Scotland, and brave the worst, but as often Edith's importunate per- suasion beld me back. '• When we luid been in New Brunswick about a year, our dnuj^'btcr, l' CHARLIE OGILBIE. 151 just yet contemplate wi' unmingled sati' '\ction. It's just a consummation that I didna think I could ever hae regarded wi' the least approach to complacency. *' About ane thing I am rejoiced, and that's because my dear auld father is, at last, sae weel contentit. Ye see, he had se^ his heart on an union wi' Maxwellhau^h. That twa thousand pounds hae lain sae sair upon his mind ! It's waeliu', waefiu'. whan the heart has set itsel sae keen on siller ; and a' ane's happiness is placed on dross ! although money, in its place, is no just despis- able ! and ye'll no' gae far till ye find the want o't ! And, sae, the puir auld man looks wi' special favour on the contemplatit union wi' the Laird. ** But ye'll just be weary wi' a' these family affairs ; only I thought I wad let ye ken what's to the fore at Duddin<];ston. And wha has a better r: ,,ht than vou to be ane o' the first to be informit '? " And, sae, 1 shall conclude wi' sending ye the bept wishes o' a' atCambusleigh. Come what may, I winna forget a' the kindness I receivit in far-awa New Bruns- wick ! I'll lea ye to guess the ins and outs o' that affair about Maxwellhaugh. And subscribe mysel, as ever, your auld frien' and weel-wisher. Jeanie Carmichaeli." Charlie's sun had gone down at noon ; and he crept about Glenriddle as one whose life had been blighted at a stroke. With this darkening of his prospects, this crushing blow upon the one sweet promise of his life, the repul- sion he had always ^elt from the life of an exile, the dis- like to the land of his adoption, which the expatriate! so often feel til) time has brought its cure, grew upon him daily, for he cared little now for all the lands of Glen- riddle. In these circumstances, his thoughts turned' strongly to his old Antrim home. He longed to see its sea-swept shores once more. And, so, arranging affairs at Glen- riddle, under the supervision of Marty O'Gorman and Sambo, he set out to St. John on his way to Ireland. « mamtmmmliim m. CONCLUSION. ON THE 8L0PE3 OF ARTHUR'S SEAT. With all her fore-and-aft-sails set, the good ship, Mayflower, beat up the Scottiah coast on her way to Leith. The run across the Atlantic had been prosper- ous, winds fair, Neptune in the best of humours, and if the ship had been bound for Belfast instead of the Firth of Forth all would have been serene with Charlie Ogilbie, except, alas ! that affair about Jeanie ! Still he was bound for home, and that was worth the risk of a tussle with the sea ! With not a little satisfaction, our voyager exchanged the cabin of the Mayflower for the comfortable accom- modation afforded l)y the Inverary Castle, Nicholson street, l^dinburj^h. There was something in the old- world aspect of ^he place that made you feel at home ; while its worthy landlord, Mr. Allan McAndless, was the very beau-ideal of mine host. As an advertisement of the Inverary Castle, the most adroit combination of the English tong!ie would have been as nothing in compar- ison with the genial face of Mr. McAndless. Bland, polite and beaming, with a laufrh that rang as merrily as a strathspey among his native glens, Allan was just the man to render the Inverary Castle a formidable rival to the more flashy establishments in the more modern part of the city. In the coffee-room of this delectable retreat, Mr. Charlie Ogilbie stood at the window, looking out at the traffic that rolled along the street, pre-senting a strange new aspect after the solitude he had left. "Grand place, Auld lleekie!" said some one at his elbow. Turning about, Charlie saw that the speaker was mine host. CHARLIE OGILBIE. 153 I '* A stirring place, and improving fast, as one may judge from the way the New Town spreads" said Charlie. " Ou, ay. But it's a' accord in' to the way ye look at it. For mysel* I wadna ^ne a wliintle for their newfang- led notions. They're no contentit wi' the gude auld closes o' the Canongate, where better folk than they lived in comfort, an* gied awa to someplace, whan their time cam' ; an' they think o' niiethiug now hut fashion an' frivolity ! Ye'll be new to Edinburgh, I'se warrant ?" ** Not just new, but newly arrived from New Bruns- wick." ** Gude save us ! They say it's snaw, in them parts, ten months out o' the year ; an' as for the ither twa, ye might as weel be in a fryin' pan !" " The attractions of New Brunswick lose nothing in the painting of them !" Charlie answered, laughing. " I wadna doubt it," returned Mr. McAndless. ** An the deil be, as they say, the muekle parent o' lees and fabrications, he'll no come short for progeny! Ye'll no ken muekle about Edinburgh, I'se warrant?" ''Enough to know that it's a place as remarkable for the beauty of its situation as for its old associations." "Ye may weel say that. Tak' your stand up beside auld Mons Meg, wi' naething aboon ye but the heavens, an' the warld at your feet, an' ye may snap your fingers in the face o' humanity. Show me the toon wi* a back bane like Arthur's Seat ! Lunnon has the auld reekin puddle they ca' the Thames ; but ive liae the Firth o Forth ! An' cast your eye awa at the hills o' Fyfe ; an at Corstorphine, at your elbow ; an' the braid face o fair Midlothian ; no to speak o' the Pentlands, and roun by the way of Duddingston ! They'll rin awa to Kamt- chatka, or some ither far awa place, to fin' something to glower at, an' winnacome whaiir they'll hue as gude, wi* gude house-room an' halesome diet." Charlie's heart beat faster when Duddingston was ili 154 CHARLIE OaiLBIE. ii -4 ' mentionefl, and the colour deepened on his cheek; but Mr. McAndless went on, unconscious that his words had any special interest to his ^uest — *' Ay, ay, it's a* very wuel ! it's a' very weel! but I'm a practical, mon, Mr. Ogilhio, a practical mon ! and ye'll no bring in the siller by glowerin' at the view! What wi* mindin' the Inverary Castle, an' kecpin' ray eye on a wee bit farm I hae, doon the way o' Duddingston, I hae little time to spend on the beauties o' auld Reekie ! Ye'll no fill the pot by starin' ower the fence into your neigh- bour's kale garden, nor boil it wi' the memories o' auld lang syne ! And, sae, I'm a practical mon ; wi' bairns to start on their way through the warld — Jock for the Inverary Castle; Airchy for the Kirk ; Donald for the curin' trade, if he wants the craft that wad fit him for the law; and Allan for the wee bit land, at Duddingston. It's no just co-extensive wi' the Barony, but it's no to be despisit. Far frae that ! And, between oursels, whan Cambusleigh's in the market, he'll need to hae a lang purse that snaps it awa frae Allan McAndless ! I'm no afraid that Maxwellhaugh will fash his head wi't." " And this Maxwellhaugh — !" " Ou, ay, the Laird o' Maxwellhaugh. An unsignified body, wi' a heart as narrow as the edge o' farthin' ! an' a face as frosty as the thick o' winter ! It wad cool the broth in midsimmer ! He, he, he, she'll no be bur- dened wi' the height o' the fashion on her back that has linked hersel' wi' Johnny ! If she had plain fare at Cambusleigh she'll hae waur on the ither side o' the auld inarch dyke, or my name's no Allan M'Andless." " But I maun awa. There's the Laird o' Dingledene — just the antipodes o' Maxwellhaugh ! A man wi' a fu* purse, an' the grace to spend his siller, is no the sort to lea' standin* at the threshold, wi' nae m lir respect than if he was some unsignified body frae the Cowgate, or the Sautmarket ! " Charlie had heard enough to throw a very clear light on Jeanie's somewhat obscure epistle. There could be CHARLIE OOILBIE. 156 no doubt, whiitever, that the interests of Cambusleigh and Maxwellhangh were one ! Mr. Ogilbic felt stimnod — for, althouf]fh he had antici- pated no more agreeable intelligence of alfairs at Cam- busleigh, this sudden confirmation of the accuracy of his interpretation of Jeanie's letter threw him painfully oil his balance. Wishing to be alone with his reflections, he left the Inn, and took his way with an abstracted air, along the crowded street, for where is one so completely alone as in the midst of teeming humanity, where every face is strange, and none regards you with more lively sym- pathy than if you where a shadow flitting on the pave- ment? Taking the way of the Canongate, he soon found him- self on the eastern base of Arthur's Seat ; on a road which would carry him in the direction of Duddingston. It was not, however, by design that he was there, but merely by the force of old association, acting on a mind too much absorbed by painful cogitations to take heed of whither his wandering steps might lead him. Sitting down on a stone, a little off the public thorough- fare, he continued his reflections, indifferent to the beauty of the scenery around him. What to him was Edinburgh now, with all its romantic beauty, and its teeming mem- ories of the past ? The present and the future absorbed him. Like Mr. McAndless, he looked at the practical side of things, while that gentleman's remark, — "It's a grand place, Auld Reekie ! " suggested a comparison of the advantages of a life spent in such a sphere, with the drarvbacks of existence in the wilderness ! What wonder, therefore, that Jeanie had preferred the snug old house at Maxwellhaugh to the clearings at Glenriddle ? Of course there was her vow, never to match with the Laird ; but, while he admitted no 3uch obligation, from his own point of view, he assumed that her sense of filial duty had overborne her sense of obligation, under a vow which was only the expression of a rash resolution. 156 OHARLIE OaiLBIE. Then, who was he, with his rude pioneer life, and his home in the forest, that he should expect her to ahandon all the amenities of old-world life, the happiness of living in a land rich with the accumulated advantapjes of ages, for a home on the very outskirts of civilized humanity ? He shoved his hat back on his forehead, raised his head, and looked around him, with the irritation conse- quent on a very unpleasant recognition of the disad- vantages of his position. ' Some one was coming along the road, to whom Charlie's attention was drawn, notwithstanding his indifTerence to all else around him. There was some- thing in the walk, and in the figure, that kept his eyes on her movements, as she came slowly up the road. She was attired in deep mourning; mourning so deep as to indicate a recent and severe bereavement. Who had been called away '? — for in that crape-clad lady he had recognized Jeanie Carmichael ! Slowly and thoughtfully she held on her way to Cam- busleigh, evidently unconscious of his presence. Just as she came opposite to where he stood, eager, yet reluctant, to approach her, she started, as if some sudden influence had seized her, paused, looked around her inquiringly ; and then their eyes met ! The colour fled from Teanie's cheek ; and it was evi- dent that she trembled. But rallying, while the blood rushed back to cheek and forehead, and the soft light came into her eves again, she advanced toward him. "0, Charlie, Charlie!" "Ay, Jeanie, here I am !" And with hands all tightly clasped, they gazed into each other's eyes, with a strange, anxious, inquiring c?crutiny. "And .^0 you are in mourning, Jeanie ?" he said, at length, in a low, broken voice. " Alas ! ay, Charlie. My puir auld father's gane awa ! Twa months syne we laid him in the auld kirk-yard at CHATILIE OOILniB. 157 Dudilin^ston ! Anri, 0, it'f^ liiiicly now at Cambusleigli !** *' For my old friend, Miss Murj^ery !" " Na, na, my aunt's wi' tho Laird at Maxwellhaugh." •* At Maxwullhiiiij^h ! And tlio Laird " " Ih just his ain auld sol, wi' a' his ancient qualities, gud(! and bad, naothinf:f the bettor for keepin' ! Didna I tell ye wluit was coniin<]( ? It was just sae droll to see him turning to my aunt ; an' ray puir foolish auntie trying; to i)ersuado the parish tluit they didna ken their blessing to liae Maxwellliaui^h amang them !" And the sweet eyes shone with the merry light of other dayfl. In an instant Charlie's arms were around her — his own old Jeanic ! And the blushing face lay nestling on his bosom ! It was the lifting of the clouds, the rolling away of the starless night ! In the light of the morning sun all was growing clear ! Birds were singing merrily. The drooping flowers held up their heads, and poured their fragrance all around. As dreams that vanish with the light, misapprehensions cleared away ! There are times in these strange lives of ours when circumstances hedge us so about that we seem no longer masters of our going. Hard linos environ us, impos- sible to break. What we would we cannot do ; and what we would not, that we must ! There are times when perplexity overwhelms us, and we walk in darkness, as they who wander in the lonely night. And times there are when the path before our willing feet is marked and smooth. x\nd so it was, in those happy days, with Charlie Ogilhie. There was nothing now to hinder the consummation of his hopes. One bright autumn morning, such as one of those when Charlie led the harvest- men at Cambusleigh, a happy group assembled in the drawing-room at Maxwell- haugh. The Laird had on his best, — pawky, thrifty 158 CHARLIE OOILBIE. uncle Johnny — and Margery appeared in finery that might well have occasioned Mr. Allan McAndless to mod- erate his opinions about affairs at Maxweilhaugh. All the guests had come in festive garb and the minister of the parish appeared in his gown and bands, as if he meant to do especial honour to the occasion. There were smiles, and nods, and pleasant little flights of fancy, and a tone of general rejoicing. Then all was hushed, and only one voice was heard — and when that voice was still, Jeanie Carmichael was Jeanie Ogilbie. When the good old lady, whom we have introduced as relating the incidents of which we have woven our story, had concluded her narrative, a peculiar expression shone in her clear blue eyes, and a sweet but almost melan- choly smile played on her still handsome face. She pointed to a tree, down beside the river. •* There" she said, ** is the old oak tree, where sleeps all that is earthlv o' Charteris Dundas. In the Kirk yard, on the hill above, lie the ashes o' my ain dear Charlie. And I, once, was Jeanie Carmichael. Sons we had, and daughters. Some hae heard the summons to the land sae far awa ! and some abide, to lay, I trust, my ashes wi' the dust I loe sae weel !" THE END. Extract from Mr. Sidney Dickinson's letter totho Boiton Journal, descriptive of a trip over the Canadian Pacific Railway from Van* couver, 13 C, to Montr^^al. The Impression th.it is mnde upon the traveller by a journey over this road is, at first, one of stupefaction, of confusion, out of which emerge slowly tho most evident details. If one can find any f.iult with the trip, it must be upon the score of its excess of w jnders. There is enough of scenery and gr.uuleur aK)n;? the lino of tho Canadian Pacific to make a dozen roads remark. ible; aft"r it is seen, the experiences of other journeys are quite forgotten. The road is attracting large numbers of tourists, tnd will attract more as its fame beccmes more widely known ; it is, und.nibtcdly, the most remarkable of all the products of this prj.sent age of iron. I have crossed the continent tliree times and s'lould hi v-e some criterion for the judgment, and may say that wlir't'icr we look toOat.arioand Manitoba for richness of soil and peiccfal and prosperous h-^mes of men; to Lake Superior for rug^edness of sh v)re, beauty of ecpinse of water, or wealth of mine and quarry ; to Aasiniboia and Alberta for impressive stretch of prairie and wild life of man, bird and beast, or to the Rocky, Selkirk and Cascade Mountains for sublimity and awfulness of precipice, peak and crag — we shall fii^d tham all as they nowhere else exist, even in .Vmorici, thi3 1 nd of all lands for natural resources and wonders. No more delightful trip can be imagined than that by the Canadian Pacific Railway during the months of summer. For ourselves, until near Montreal, we found neither heat nor dust, and arrived at our journey's end with little feeling of fatigue. One point is especially worthy of remark— in- deed, two, but one above all the rest. That is, the superior meth- ods of provisioning the line, a thing in marked contrast to some roads which I could mention, where travellers are sure to be fed irregularly and wretchedly at thf, eating houses by the way, and, in consequence of delays, often are unab'e to secure any provision at all for eight or ten hours. The Canadian Pacific runs dining cars over all its line, except through the mountains, and there well man- aged hotels furnish a most excellent meal and at a moderate cost. In the diningcars (which are put on in relays at certain fixed points) meals are served exactly on time from day to day, a id even in the vildest regions the passenger may be sure of dining, supping or breakfasting as well and cheaply as at any first-class hotel. The second point vpon which comment is permissible is the invariable courtesy of all the railway's servants; I myself am much indebted to engineers, conductors and division officials for facilities in seeing and learning about the country over which we travelled. Wonder- ful in its construction, the road is equally admirable for the spirit aad carefulness with which it is run. *" ■av-- Tiii::--^ .,. „,, -.,i,lll;l,llil!ilii;lltllllii|llllit!i f liiliilllhllli'tl M.llllll;:;^': ff;33E^;^:^ ,^ll^M iiili!!l'l,ii;" i' n \: ]! !:ll.i.||l,':-ii!'ii!;. ^i,,, I I AMI- ^i -i'Hi'ii!i!!|i!';!ii!;''':::'^ii!.: rs AND POF^TABLE SOOKEf^. ^^I cpel 3f catuvcs In a Xatiip By placing it under the Cooker it may instruatly be used as a iDlo^'c. Cooking may be done for an entire family with one Lamp and one Cooker. The Wanzer Cooker \vill Roast or Steam Food. As soon as the L unp is lighted, the hot air ascends and permeiites tiie foua to be cooked, passing turouj^h Liie top hd of cooker, wiiieh is purposely made to tit lou^eiy, aiid thence down the oiuer cover or condenser, I'otaloes alone are well baked in 45 minutes. Six pounds t. T meat well roasted in 'z'l hours. Two to four pounds of meat roasted with potatoes or Qther vegetables and a pudding or tart in two hours. Tlie ordinary heat of a Wanzer Lamp will generate team in 15 u.iiiuies. The meal may be kept hours without spoiling, No odor escapes into the room while cooking. Everything Cuoked is more wboksome and mon; easily digested than when cooked by any oiher method. It saves nearly ^- of the food which is lost by the or- dinary methods. All the nutriment, richness, and flavor of the food is retained. Send for Catalogue and Description. R. M. WANZER & CO. 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