THE LAIRD OF MUIRSTANE
THE long Scotch twilight was rapidly fading, and lights glimmered here
and there from the windows of the town, towards which four tired horses
were dragging the public conveyance after a hard day's journey. There
was but one inn of any size in the place, and this was homely both
in style and appearance, notwithstanding the fierce attitude of the
so-called "Golden Lion" swinging on the signboard above the entrance.
As the coach crossed the last bridge, and rattled over the ill-paved
streets, a crowd of barefooted urchins set up a series of yells, and
commenced running after it in a body, clamouring and squabbling for
the halfpence a traveller threw down for their benefit. At the sound
of these noisy heralds, two ostlers ran out from the inn-yard, who
were speedily joined by other hangers-on. The stout landlady appeared
resplendent in plaid ribbons, sinning benignly; and many heads bobbed
up and down behind her, all eager to see what the tired tourists were
like.
The poor artist whom St. Elvis had in turn looked down upon and
wondered at, was among them; though this fact might have been doubted,
as he had exchanged his shabby attire for a respectable suit, and
certainly looked much more like a gentleman as he descended the
step-ladder and accosted Mrs. Macgregor:
"Can I have a fresh pair of horses to take me to Muirstane to-night?"
"'Deed no, sir; ye can ha'e no horses the nicht, ye maun e'en wait till
the morn. We ha'e been ower busy here this week past, and the Duke had
the last pair this afternoon to gang to the castle. I'm sorry, sir, but
ye maun put up wi' us, and tak' the best oor hoose can gi'e ye."
Our traveller remonstrated, but finding it was useless, he gave orders
for his luggage to be carried in, and was glad to escape from the
noise and confusion outside to the parlour within. A smell of beer and
whisky, mingled with the fumes of stale tobacco, made him feel sick and
giddy, after all his fatigue. It was not much better upstairs, for the
inn being unusually crowded, he had to be content with a small attic,
whose window could only be opened a few inches by a desperate effort,
after which a wedge of wood had to be inserted to keep the sash from
falling again.
He inquired how soon his supper could be ready; and being told "in
about half an hour," he went out into the cool night air while it was
preparing. Fresh breezes came up from the river as he leant over the
stone bridge, and watched the reflection of stars in the clear water
beneath. The hills were faintly outlined in the distance, and there was
a soughing in the belt of Scotch pines that skirted the bend of the
stream.
But the soft whispers brought no rest nor peace to the weary one who
stood there, absently gazing at the dim landscape. He could only review
the sad past, to which was now added his strange visit to St. Elvis,
and what he had seen and heard there. Since then, rapid journeys by
day and night had finally brought him to this place, where he was now
forcibly detained by circumstances.
"I wish I had never seen that child," he muttered, as he retraced his
footsteps to the house.
And with a wilful inconsistency, climbed the stairs again to unlock
his portmanteau and take out Ermyn's picture. He looked at the face he
saw smiling there, comparing it with a miniature he always wore, and
carried it downstairs with him.
Two dismal tallow-candles were spluttering away on a table in the fusty
little room where he found his supper awaiting him. The meal consisted
of fried eggs and ham, some excellent coffee, with plenty of good bread
and butter. And in spite of his sorrow and disappointment, the tired
wayfarer enjoyed it.
After the remains of the feast had been duly cleared away by a
red-handed and red-haired serving-maid, he produced the pictures again,
and laying them carefully on the table before him, took another long
look, murmuring to himself, "They 'are' alike."
Waking from his reverie, he proceeded to investigate the room. The
bookcase contained a Scotch psalm-book, the "Shorter Catechism,"
Bunyan's "Holy War" and "Pilgrim's Progress," a stray novel or two
left by passing visitors, some "Chambers's Journals," well-thumbed and
dog-eared, and a collection of old "Illustrated London News," bound in
a cloth cover and considerably the worse for wear. The last-mentioned
volume had evidently been a favourite study of previous guests, as was
only too apparent from the tattered condition of its leaves, and the
dirty marks visible upon them.
Edward Pryse (for our readers will have guessed ere this that it was
he) turned over the pages mechanically, thinking of far different
subjects, when suddenly his eye was attracted by the picture of a
ship. He started, and his heart thumped against his breast as he read
the words underneath it—"The Ocean Queen." With trembling fingers, he
turned to the paragraph to which it belonged, and pursued the following
communication:—
"'Loss of the ship 'Ocean Queen,' paddle-steamer, bound from Liverpool
to Cork. She broke her paddle-shaft in a gale of wind in St. George's
Channel, and drifted on to St. Dewis Head, on October 7, and became a
total wreck. Crew and passengers all lost.'"
"What a strange coincidence! How this shipwreck haunts me!" he cried,
as the letters swam before his eyes, and he gasped for breath.
It was all a dream! But no, there it was, staring him in the face.
True, quite true! He rose and paced the room until he grew calmer.
Then, sitting down again, he drew a penknife from his pocket and slowly
and deliberately cut out the page, folded it carefully, and laid it
with the picture. He then restored the book to its dusty quarters on
the shelf, rang for his bedroom candle, and went upstairs.
The landlady passed him on his way, and he felt quite guilty. But she
only smiled as she wished him "Gude-nicht," adding, "ye'll no' mind if
ye hear a hubbub aboot the hoose; it'll be just oorsels."
Edward paced long up and down the little room, too excited to seek
repose.
At last he said, half aloud, "I must write to Liverpool and inquire if
any lady of the name of Pryse sailed in that vessel."
After this was done, being completely worn-out by his previous
journeys, he flung himself on his bed and slept soundly.
While waiting to start on his journey the following morning, two lines
that he had read somewhere long ago came into his mind, and haunted it
all through that day:
"There's a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will."
His destination was many miles off, and the road lay through some of
the most beautiful scenery Scotland can produce. His artistic eye did
not fail to note the glories of the landscape on either hand. When
they stopped at a small village to rest and bait the horses, he made
his way down to a rocky dell, attracted thither by the brawling of a
brown sunlit river. The waters fell sheer down with a thundering sound,
and on the large mossy boulder above, whence they took the final leap,
they were gathered up in a shining mass, which, on reaching the lower
stones, sprang off in silver threads of spray, while fairy fountains
were made rainbow-coloured and brilliant by the sunlight that glinted
through the over-arching branches above.
But he could not stay long in this enchanted spot. He must hurry on
to his journey's end, and it was the thought of what he should meet
with there that weighted his heart with lead. His last pilgrimage
to Muirstane had been a fruitless one, and in all probability this
would be the same. He was fully prepared for it, as in the light of
a glorious setting sun, he saw the roofs of the Highland village
appearing in view.
"I 'will' gain admittance this time," he muttered, with a bitter smile,
as, having left the carriage at the inn, he walked slowly up a steep
hill towards a large house, visible for many miles round in its utter
loneliness and isolation.
The huge iron gates looked as if they had not swung on their hinges for
a century, for they were coated with thick rust, and clustering weeds
and ivy clung about them. Edward Pryse touched the chain that hung from
the padlock. It clanked drearily as he let it drop again, and went
round to the dingy back entrance, through a court where grass grew rank
among the paving-stones. Here he pulled a wooden handle, which set a
bell ringing somewhere far-away in a distant passage.
No answer.
After waiting some minutes in impatient suspense, he tried the door. It
yielded to his vigorous push, and Edward found himself at the end of
a long dark corridor. On this side of the house there was no sign of
life, and the unexpected visitor made his way in the direction of the
inhabited end.
He reached the foot of a stair leading, as he well remembered, to
a little sitting-room, which had been Ethel's favourite retreat.
Ascending the steps, he knocked loudly at the door of the room, but
again without reply. Led by irresistible impulse, he entered.
How familiar, yet strange, the place appeared, in the thronging
memories of happy hours spent in that room by her side! The room
seemed exactly as it used to be, only all things wore a deathly look,
because the spirit that had given them life had fled. A harp stood
in one corner, but the strings hung broken and useless, and all the
gilding was worn away. A picture of his own painting hung above it, and
underneath the frame these words were illuminated,—
"'God is our refuge and strength: a very present help in trouble.'"
A large old-fashioned rosewood workbox stood on a dusty round table in
the window. Edward opened it, and some dried rose-leaves gave forth
their peculiar odour as he lifted the lid and took out the tray. Oh,
what did he see beneath? A tiny half-finished infant's shirt of finest
cambric. The needle was still in it, but so rusty, it had imprinted an
orange stain on the fabric, now yellow with age. Tears filled his eyes;
he handled and kissed it reverently, then folding it together put it
into his breast-pocket, and closed the lid again.
Were there any other precious mementoes of his lost one? Yes, some of
her books were there, with a thick coating of dust resting on them. One
lay apart from the others; he opened it first, and some verbena and ivy
leaves fluttered down to his feet. It was Baxter's "Saints' Everlasting
Rest." The words his eye fell on were these, and they were underlined
with pencil:
"When should we take our cordials, but in times of fainting? When is it
more seasonable to walk to heaven, than when we know not in what corner
of the earth to live with comfort? or when should our thoughts converse
more above, than when they have nothing but grief below? Where should
Noah's dove be but in the ark, when the waters cover all the earth, and
she cannot find rest for the sole of her foot? What should we think on,
but our Father's house, when we have not even the husks of the world to
feed upon? Surely God sends thy affliction for this very purpose."
He turned the pages and read again:
"Hast thou seen the utter insufficiency of every creature, either to
be itself thy happiness or the means of removing this thy misery?
Hast thou been convinced, that thy happiness is only in God as the
end, and in Christ as the way to Him? and that thou must be brought
to God through Christ or perish eternally? Hast thou seen an absolute
necessity of thy enjoying Christ and a full sufficiency in Him to
do for thee whatever thy case requires? Hast thou discovered the
excellence of this pearl to be worth thy selling all to buy it?"
Edward Pryse could read no further for the dimming tears.
"No, my God," he groaned, "I have not! I found an earthly pearl,
beautiful and rare, and she was my idol; and Thou hast taken her from
me. Is it that I may find Thee, the Pearl of greatest price? Oh, my
sweet dove, that flitted 'twixt earth and sky o'er stormy seas! God put
forth His hand and drew thee in to rest with Him for evermore. Thou art
safe sheltered on His breast; and the world outside is cold without
thee. I shall go to thee, but thou canst not return to me."
A sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made him start.
And in another moment, an old woman, of forbidding appearance,
presented herself, and demanded his business.
"My name is Mr. Edward Pryse, and I am here to see your master."
"You know he will not see you; besides, he is very ill, and must not be
disturbed. How dared you enter? Here, John! John!"
At the call, a man came swiftly along the passage, leaving at the other
end a door ajar.
"Come, be off!" he said menacingly, but shrunk back in fear as Edward
advanced towards him.
"Will you show me your master's room?" sternly demanded the unwelcome
guest.
Before the housekeeper and her husband could frame a stubborn negative,
Edward thought he heard a faint sound, as of an old man in pain,
proceed from the room they had quitted. Did his ears deceive him? Or
was there a faint cry of "Edward! Edward!"
He rushed past the ill-favoured pair, and passed through the anteroom,
whence they had issued, into the bedchamber beyond. What a sight met
his view! In a tattered shirt, and lying on the bare mattress, with a
ragged blanket to cover him, lay the pitiable old man, his limbs and
features shrunk and attenuated to the last degree, and shaking from
head to foot.
"You have only come just in time to see me die! Why didn't you come
sooner?"
"I have been here at two different times, but could not gain
admittance. And judging from your last letter to me, I thought you
never wished to see my face again. It was a cruel letter."
"God forgive me!" murmured the old man. "I have deeply sinned. He 'may'
forgive me, but you never, when you know all!"
"I 'will' forgive, if you will only speak, and tell me 'all.'"
"I lied to you," said the helpless victim of cunning and avarice; "I
hated you for gaining Ethel's affections, when I had destined her to be
the wife of a rich neighbour. And when you went away, I swore I would
be revenged."
Edward grew pale as death, but was silent.
"She ran away," continued the narrator, "and I don't know where she
went. I suppose she was driven to it, and hoped to find you somewhere
in the wide world. I forced her, by keeping her short of money, to
leave the cottage you took for her in the village, and to return here.
I made her life in this house a hard and bitter bondage."
"But why did she not write to me? I sent her letters and remittances
regularly, but they were never acknowledged."
"Oh, Edward, forgive me, the hand of death is on me! I intercepted both
her letters and yours. I bribed the postmistress to let me have all
communications addressed to Ethel from America, and all hers to you.
They are all tied together in my desk, and you shall have them now. Ah!
Curse me not, I entreat you," added the unhappy man, as Edward uttered
a hasty exclamation. "God's curse has rested upon me so heavily that it
cannot be worse. Hear me to the end, and then help me to make my peace
with the Almighty, against whom I have sinned so deeply. The letter
I sent to you announcing her death and that of the child was false.
I never heard of her from the day she disappeared. I did it that you
should not expect my money."
"She 'did' not die, then!" said Edward, starting to his feet, not
heeding the last sentence. "Where is she, and what of her child?"
"It was not born here," replied the wretched miser; "but she was
preparing for it when she fled from the house. Go and look for her,
Edward; she must be somewhere in the world. I must see her again, and
ask her forgiveness before I die, or how can I meet her father and
mother, who left the friendless orphan to me, her only relative?"
"But had you no idea where she went?"
"In my anger I did not care. I thought surely her want of money must
soon drive her back. And when later I sought to find her, all trace was
gone. When people inquired for her, I said she had gone to you. Since
she left me, these thieves have gradually robbed me of everything they
could lay their hands upon, and now that I am ill and helpless, you see
how they have treated me."
"Why did you not send the wretches out of your house? How came you to
put your neck under their feet?"
"They had my secret, Edward, and they used their power cruelly. I was
afraid to let you enter the house for fear they would betray me. They
extorted larger and larger bribes, and when I remonstrated, threatened
to tell you all. At last, in my misery, I decided to throw myself on
your mercy, but did not know where to send for you. The woman said she
knew, and promised to send, but I didn't believe she would."
Edward was about to reply, when the old man laid his hand on his arm,
and said in a hollow whisper: "You must find Ethel; I have willed the
whole of my large property to her, and her child after her. See," he
added, gasping, "you will find the will in a secret drawer, just inside
the panel of—"
Edward never heard the remainder of the sentence, for a paralytic
stroke had fallen on the aged sinner, and he lay helpless and
unconscious.
To ring the bell and call loudly for assistance was Edward's first act,
but no one responded to his appeal.
He ran through room after room, and found all empty and deserted.
The man and his wife had made off in the interval, terrified at the
consequences of their iniquitous behaviour. Edward opened doors, and
flew along corridors, and finally found himself in the paved court
below. Here he saw a man passing the gate, and recognising him as an
inhabitant of Muirstane, thrust some money into his hand, and bade
him fetch a doctor as quickly as possible, and send help up from the
village.
The man was as good as his word, and soon summoned the needful
assistance. Everything that human skill or kindness could devise was
done to relieve the sufferer. Edward Pryse sat with him day and night.
And when a glimmering consciousness returned without the power of
speech, Ethel's uncle would lie looking wistfully at him, holding his
hand in his, and vainly moving his lips, as if trying to articulate
something that he had on his mind, but no sound ever came.
Edward fancied the old man understood what he said to him. And one day
as he sat beside him, the thought would itself upon his mind, "Is his
guilty soul sheltered from the wrath of the avenging Judge?"
Mr. Pryse was not a religious man himself, and he felt it, as death
knocked grimly at this chamber door. He had allowed the circumstances
of his life to harden him against God. But the words to which his dead
Ethel had so unconsciously pointed him, in her little red book, clung
to him, as if the good seed must find a resting-place even in "his"
stony heart.
He went softly down to her bookcase again, and found a Bible. He did
not know where to read, but again the marked passages came to his aid,
as he sat down to find something to comfort her uncle with. Slowly
turning the pages to and fro, he read aloud wherever he saw the traces
of her pencil—
"'When Jesus heard it, He saith unto them, They that are whole have no
need of the physician, but they that are sick: I came not to call the
righteous, but sinners to repentance.'
"'Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your
sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red
like crimson, they shall be as wool.'
"'God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by His
blood, we shall be saved from wrath through Him.'
"'Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.'"
Edward fancied he saw a movement of the pale, shrivelled lips, as the
eyes looked up towards heaven with a supplicating glance, but that was
all. After a few more weary struggles, the soul that had sinned so
deeply went forth to appear before a higher tribunal than man's.
"God help me," ejaculated Edward, "to forgive him from my heart! 'I'
forgive him for Ethel's sake."
And he turned sadly away to give directions to the attendants who stood
by.