BAFFLED HOPES
EDWARD PRYSE followed the remains of his wife's relative to the
grave as chief and only mourner. No one came forward then to claim
kinship with the lonely and unloved old man. But as nearly the whole
of Muirstane belonged to him, a goodly number of tenants joined the
funeral procession. Already they looked upon Edward as their new
master, and accordingly began to pay court to him, hoping they would
find in him a more indulgent landlord. Not a few were eager to inform
him of facts they would not have cared to make public during Mr.
Macdonald's lifetime, and willingly gave him all the assistance in
their power, while he made a careful and patient investigation of every
matter respecting his wife.
The letter he wrote to Liverpool had only brought a curt reply that
no lady of the name of Pryse, or of the description he had given, had
sailed in the "Ocean Queen." But the belief that Ermyn must be Ethel's
child had taken too strong a hold of him to be entirely set aside even
by this. He must seek for some other clue. But in the meantime, it was
his duty to turn from this engrossing matter to the immediate necessity
of settling his uncle's affairs.
Mr. Tod, the lawyer, who had drawn up the hidden document, was absent
from home at the time of Mr. Macdonald's decease, but returned with all
speed in answer to Edward's summons. Mr. Pryse informed him accurately
of all that had taken place since his arrival at Muirstane, to which
the lawyer listened in professional silence. When everything had been
stated, Mr. Tod asked the following question slowly and deliberately:
"Then if this document is found—and there can be no doubt of its
existence, from all you tell me and from what I know myself—can you
throw any light as to the whereabouts of the unfortunate lady, his
niece, who is entitled to this property under her uncle's gift? Or, if
she is dead, whether she left a child to take it?"
"I have reason to believe," replied Edward, "that my wife, the lady
you refer to, whom I married as Ethel Macdonald, was drowned in the
steamer 'Ocean Queen,' which was wrecked in the St. George's Channel in
the year 18—. But I have yet to prove that this was the case. If I am
right in my conjecture, I can produce her only child, a girl, whom I
accidentally discovered living under another name in South Wales. She
is supposed to be the daughter of a poor woman, who, however, confessed
to me that the girl was not her own child."
The lawyer expressed much surprise at this piece of information, and
promised all the help he could give towards unravelling the interesting
mystery, and ways and means were accordingly discussed most earnestly.
However, the disquisition ended by their coming back to the point they
started from: the document must be found first, before any other steps
could be taken.
Meantime, efforts were made to track the guilty fugitives, who had
departed immediately Edward had closed the doors upon them. Thanks
to the stupidity of the thieves, some valuable property was soon
recovered. But it needed a long and careful search before the man
and his wife were finally captured. Alas it was found that most of
the costly and massive family plate had been previously carried off;
and as it had been sold and melted down at once, none of it could
be recovered. Some of the jewels were discovered by their peculiar
setting, and were found in the possession of pawnbrokers and country
people, totally ignorant of their great value, but others could not be
traced.
The search for the will continued with the aid of careful workmen,
under the supervision of Edward himself. But again and again he
was disappointed and baffled. The oak panels of each room had been
carefully removed, but no secret drawer could be discovered.
Meanwhile, rumours began to reach Edward of certain Macdonalds who
were about to dispute his right to act, and he was daily harassed by
letters from distant relatives of the late laird, each claiming to be
heir-at-law. He therefore fully expected the case would ere long be
brought before some court.
One day, as he was seated buried in desponding cogitations, a
reminiscence of his childhood flashed into his mind. He recollected
his mother's curious ancient cabinet of inlaid wood and silver, and
how one day, as she was cleaning and putting it to rights, she by
accident saw what appeared to be merely a tiny worm-eaten hole. Into
this she inserted a fine knitting-needle, and started with surprise
when a small drawer shot out, containing some old family documents and
a few rare coins. This incident had faded from his mind until present
circumstances revived it.
He rose, determined not to summon the workmen again; he would go alone
and recommence the search. Of course, as is generally the case, they
had hunted through all the likely places first, and Ethel's little
sanctum was the last to be invaded. This also was panelled in oak.
In several of the other rooms, two or three sliding panels had been
detected by the accidental touching of springs. But the secret drawer
which Mr. Macdonald had mentioned could not be found. Ethel's room, it
was argued, being in such a remote situation, would certainly contain
nothing valuable. The search there had consequently been less careful.
"Here is a sliding panel!" cried Edward, with delight, as he stood in
a dark corner on one side of the bookcase, in the room which he had
entered on the night when he appeared as an unbidden guest.
On examining it by the aid of a taper, he observed a little hole in the
back. But he had nothing at hand small enough to insert in it. Suddenly
he recollected Ethel's workbox, turned to it, and lifted the lid. There
lay a slender stiletto, covered with rust, in its silken band. Would it
serve his purpose? He drew it out, and inserted the point in the hole,
when out sprang a secret drawer, which contained the "Will of Alexander
Macdonald, of Muirstane, Esquire," giving the estate to his niece for
life, and after her death to her eldest surviving child.
Who can describe Edward's feelings, as he fell on his knees to utter a
fervent "Thank God!"
With this in his possession, he could hold the estate while he searched
for the wife and child to whom it belonged. But before he went out
into the world to find them, one task yet remained to him. He unlocked
the old man's desk, and took out the bundle of letters that had never
reached their destination. His passionate rage boiled up again as he
read his own letters from America, full of loving, tender words, which
had not even been seen by the dear eyes that had looked up so wistfully
into his, the day he had said "Farewell." Those words would have poured
balm into the wounded lonely heart, and filled it with patient waiting
for his return.
"He murdered her!" said he bitterly.
Then recollecting his words of forgiveness uttered beside the dying
bed, he checked the further outburst of wrath. There were only two
or three of Ethel's letters, and these were directed to the shipping
office in Liverpool whither he had told her to write first. They
wrung his heart as he read them, being full of tender longings for
his return, even ere he had left England. There were hopes and fears
concerning the future, and entreaties that he would, if possible, come
back before their child should be born. Then followed a heart-rending
account of her lonely life. But all this was before she had returned to
Muirstane House, so they told nothing of her miseries there.
"I must go and look for Nannie, soon," she had written in a postscript
attached to the last letter.
At first Edward could not think to whom she referred. But it gradually
dawned upon his recollection that this must be the faithful old nurse,
Nannie McEwen, who had come with her to Muirstane, and stayed until she
was grown-up. He had never seen her, because, owing to circumstances
in her own family, she had been obliged to leave her situation before
he came to Scotland. This woman was now the missing link in his chain
of evidence; he must set out to find her. But to obtain any news of
her was a difficult matter, as in the lapse of years there had been
considerable alterations at Muirstane. The post-office had changed
hands, and though several of the inhabitants could tell him about
Nannie's departure, no one could recollect whither she had gone.
At last one old man said, "She used to tell o' her brither at Portree,
in Skye; didna she gang to him?"
This dubious information, scanty as it was, was all Edward had to act
upon. But he lost no time in setting out on his journey to this distant
place. All necessary directions, together with the management of the
estate, were left in the hands of his factor, and a respectable man and
his wife were placed in charge of the house.
The railway only took him a comparatively small part of the way, but he
was not sorry to exchange it for a seat on the top of a coach, which
started early one September morning. The country through which it took
him was wild and beautiful, and the autumnal tints on the foliage were
red and rare. On, on he went all day, over brown moorlands, past lonely
tarns, up and down steep braes, until the sun sank to rest behind
the purple mountains, and still a fresh set of horses was needed for
yet another stage. It was midnight when the coach finally stopped at
a ferry, where most of the travellers turned in thankfully to sleep
at the little wayside inn close at hand. Not so Edward Pryse; he had
neither time nor inclination to loiter on his way with such an end in
view.
A boat was rocking on the water, and he, with some others, stepped into
it. It was scarcely discernible by the pale light of stars. The persons
who seated themselves formed a picturesque group. Two Highland lassies
were together, and Edward had helped a lame beggar in, he was followed
by the bearer of the mail-bags. One of the boatmen held a bull's-eye
lantern, whose red light flashed brightly on the figures as they rowed
through the mysterious and shadowy darkness. The girls began singing
Jacobite songs, much to the delight of the men, who cheered heartily,
and Edward enjoyed the plaintive sound of the voices, combined with
the gentle movement of the gliding boat. They were soon across, and
after the party had scrambled up the slimy, slippery landing-place, the
boatman came to demand his fares.
"I canna pay ye," said the mendicant. "Ye'll surely tak' me for
naethin'; I'm ganging to the sacrament at Murthlie."
Edward heard the whining tones of remonstrance, and thrust some coppers
into the outstretched hand, which were received with a burst of
grateful thanks.
"How soon can I go on?" he asked at the inn, to which a few footsteps
brought him.
"Ye maun either gang the nicht in her Majesty's mail-cart, or bide till
to-morrow nicht the same hour," replied the woman, who had come out to
greet him.
Edward looked up at the twinkling stars. "It is a fine night," he
thought; "by this time to-morrow there may be pouring rain."
"I will continue my journey now," he said aloud, as he followed the
woman.
After hastily swallowing some slight refreshment which she quickly set
before him, he took his seat behind the driver of the primitive and
clumsy looking mail-cart, with one other passenger, a girl, and the
rough vehicle presently jolted off. The driver had a boon companion by
his side, and the two kept up a ceaseless guttural chatter in Gaelic,
not one word of which Edward could understand. The girl was inclined to
be friendly and communicative, but, finding her companion taciturn and
absent, she soon relapsed into silence.
They travelled on in this way for about two hours, when they reached a
lonely bit of moorland with the lights of a village glimmering faintly
in the distance, and will-o'-the-wisps flitting over the fens, as if to
beguile the unwary traveller. The girl jumped down.
"There is my home," she said to Edward, pointing in the direction of
the lights.
The driver remarked something to her in Gaelic as she handed him his
fare, and laughing her reply, she ran fearlessly off into what seemed
to Edward a lonely, hopeless path.
"She is certain to find what she seeks," thought he; "as for me, I may
be chasing a will-o'-the-wisp."
Edward Pryse never forgot that journey; its silence and isolation
pressed upon his spirit, and everything that came into his mind took a
sombre tinge of melancholy. The long white roads seemed endless, and he
grew numb and chilled, waiting at the doors of wayside public-houses,
into which the driver and his friend disappeared to indulge in
potations which would have rendered driving a perilous risk if the
horses had not known their way.
Edward was thankful to warm himself by trudging up the long hills,
pausing every now and then to listen to the impetuous rushing of
mountain streams he could not see. He watched through that mysterious
hour when night and dawn meet, when the transition from darkness to
light is so gradual that it is scarcely perceptible. By degrees the
faint green tinge in the sky melted into lemon, then red and purple
streaks were painted in bold dashes of colour, and all the glorious
pomp that ushers in the king of day came up in bright triumph, and
spread across the heavens. The great Cuchullin Mountains that in the
dim early twilight had loomed out in giant obscurity, were now bathed
in morning blue, and stood out grand and glowing in a shimmering haze.
An awe crept over Edward's spirit as he gazed.
"How little," thought he, "appear the joys and sorrows of human life,
when looking at those eternal hills that stand enfolded with the
majesty of God."
And then, almost unconsciously, his heart rose higher than the highest
of those mighty peaks, to God Himself. The grand old words of the
prayer of Moses came back to his remembrance:
"'Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before
the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth
and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.'"
The earthly radiance represented, though but faintly, the spiritual
day-dawn, which with its everlasting light doth touch the awakened
soul, bidding it reflect the heavenly glory, and stand in God's eternal
sunshine for evermore.
Edward's meditations were suddenly interrupted by the driver informing
him that Portree was in sight. And after a few more miles of level
road, the mail-cart rattled into the sleeping town, for it was still
early, and few of the inhabitants were astir.
A good breakfast and comfortable bed were not unwelcome to our
exhausted traveller, who, after recruiting worn-out nature for a few
hours, rose in eager haste to seek Nannie McEwen.
The place was certainly not an inviting one, for the huts of the very
poor people were little better than pigsties, full of peat-reek and
unpleasant odours. The women looked prematurely old, and sunken low in
the scale of civilisation, as they trudged past him, carrying on their
backs the stacks of peat they had been cutting from the bogs.
Edward spoke to several of them, but a shake of the head, or an answer
in Gaelic, was all he received in return. There were many in the town
itself that spoke English, but they stared with surprise on hearing
Nannie McEwen inquired for. At last, after a fruitless wandering of
more than an hour, he returned to the hotel, and consulted with the
landlord.
"Maybe Janet kens wha he means," quoth he.
And a pleasant elderly woman was summoned.
"Nannie McEwen!" she said thoughtfully, as if hunting through the
storehouse of her memory. "Ay, I ken fine wha ye're seeking. She cam'
frae Muirstane auchteen years syne, to nurse her sick brither. I mind
it weel, for it was sune after my Jeannie was born, and she cam' to
help me through my trouble when I had nane but hersel' to be wi' me."
"And where is she now?" asked Edward, breathing shortly.
"'Deed, that I dinna ken. Her brither dee'd a year after she cam' to
Portree, an' after the burial, she gaed South, but whaur tae, nane kens
but Him that's above. She lived in yon wee hoose," she added, pointing
with her hand; "but they're a' fremd fowk that bides there noo."
Edward's heart sank to the depths; no more questions would come to his
lips, and he turned away a hopeless, desolate man. The feeble clue had
snapped, and he was as much in the dark as ever.
He strode on fiercely, past the outskirts of the town, not caring
whither his footsteps led him, and wandered lonely for miles along
bare, brown tracts of moorland, feeling the sterile scenery was in
keeping with his dashed hopes. The light that had glimmered like a
guiding-star upon his dark, uncertain way had proved a false meteor,
luring him on but to mock him at last.
Nothing remained for him to do now, but to retrace his way to the drear
and desolate abode at Muirstane. Time was now no object to him, for
there was nought to be gained by extra speed; the wheels were off his
chariot, and he drave it heavily. His bitter disappointment destroyed
all the self-confidence and certainty of success with which he had
started. He could only go on living over and over again the sad, sad
past, from the very beginning to the bitter end.
How bright and careless were the happy days of childhood! Those
butterfly chases across the dappled meadows, with his merry little
sister, the child Minnie of long ago; their schemes and plans laid
together; their mischievous pranks and the punishments that followed,
and Minnie's anguish when the sentence of chastisement fell on him.
He could see her now, standing in one corner of the study, with her
fingers in her ears and her pinafore over her fair curls, screaming
with all her might, so as not to hear the sounds attendant on the
whipping he was led off to receive. And since then, she had gone to
sleep, so early, oh, so early, under the hushing sycamore trees.
The love of his sister Silexa too, how deep and true it was, shown so
often in pleadings and entreaties for the youthful culprits! Edward
recalled the countless times she had screened them at her own expense
from their father's anger. Indeed, he could never remember anything
but the most passionate devotedness to himself on the part of both his
sisters. He saw now how it had ministered to his selfishness. Silexa
would have sacrificed anything she possessed to this daring, handsome
brother, and thought nothing too good or costly, if only it would
gratify him. This was the one weak point in that strong woman's nature.
She would have given her life for Edward.
He now recalled with sorrow that morning in his sunny youth when he
had bidden a joyful farewell to school life and his old home at the
Rectory, to begin what he believed would be a bright independent career
in the great city of London. Minnie's tears and caresses had made his
heart ache a little on saying good-bye, and so had Silexa's dry earnest
eyes, so full of yearning love and anxiety as she thrust a purse of
her own making into his hands, filled with some months' savings of her
scanty allowance. He never knew of what self-denial that little sum was
proof.
He had chafed impatiently at the words of counsel and advice, given
somewhat sternly by his father at the gate, not being able to discern
the high sense of honour and the parental love from which they
sprung. He was free now to be his own master; and with that feeling
predominant, the bold, blithe boy had gone out into life, determined to
enjoy himself at any cost.
For a year all went prosperously. Mr. Lyndwood, his father's oldest
friend, was prepared to love him as a son, and consequently allowed him
many indulgences which as a stranger he would not have had. Alas, for
Edward! He lacked the foundation of all prosperity—
"'The fear of the Lord, which is the beginning of wisdom...'"
And therefore, when temptation presented itself, he turned aside and
fell in to the snares of the Evil One, who took him captive at his will.
Bad companions first led him astray, and though Edward shrunk from
some of their ways, remembering his upright father and his pure-minded
sisters at home, he by degrees was drawn into a vortex, the slope
towards which begins with a little downhill which is very gradual.
Unknown to his friend and protector, he frequented gambling-houses,
and there betted heavily, his first winnings encouraging him to go on
recklessly.
At last, the crash came; he owed two hundred pounds, which was to be
paid at once. He dared not write to his father, and he knew Silexa had
no money at her command. Mr. Lyndwood would probably turn him from
his office, and expose his disgrace to the whole world. There was
but one course open to him, so thought he in his blinded folly. This
was, to take the money from the office, where he had the handling of
considerable sums; he thought he could pay it back by instalments.
It was a secret impossible to keep long; he got an inkling that the
accounts were about to be looked into, so, having just received his
salary, he absconded suddenly.
Mr. Lyndwood, irrespective of the loss of the money, felt so keenly for
Dr. Pryse, that he positively refused to make the matter public either
by instituting a search for Edward or letting any one beyond his own
office know of it. He believed the wild youth knew him well enough to
be assured of his forgiveness for his father's sake, should he confess
his guilt bravely and honestly. Therefore, after writing to his old
friend at St. Elvis, he declined to move further in the matter.
We are already cognizant of the effect this dire news had at the
Rectory, but only Edward knew of a visit to his home in disguise. After
having waited in vain for an answer to his advertisement, he came down
to St. Elvis, and under cover of darkness crept round to the study
window and peeped in. The window was open, and while standing under
shelter of the thick ivy, he heard Silexa pleading for the outcast, and
then what seemed to the youth his father's cruel, bitter words. He was
to be disowned as a son until he had shown his repentance by repaying
the money, and his sisters were forbidden to hold any communication
with the offender. Edward crept away again; rage, hatred, and pride
struggling in his heart.
"Yet why should I care," he argued, "when he has treated me so
shamefully? I hope I may never see his face again."
Ah, if Silexa had but known who was outside under the stars that night,
things might perhaps have turned out differently.
As it was, Edward quitted the home of his childhood that same hour,
and after travelling day and night finally set foot on board a vessel
bound for America. On landing there, his way was prosperous, for he
had invented a most plausible story to satisfy the friends he had made
during the voyage, several of whom were most anxious to do their utmost
for the handsome young man. He had a marvellously winning address and
manner, which went far to gain him supporters, so that when he had
succeeded in quieting his conscience, he congratulated himself on his
so-called lucky hits.
He obtained without much difficulty a lucrative post in a good office,
and ended by being employed by a large and well-known American firm.
After working steadily and honourably for some years, he was by degrees
advanced to a position of great trust, and received a high salary.
To do Edward Pryse justice, he did not forget that some day he ought to
restore the two hundred pounds he had stolen. Indeed, his pride could
not brook the idea of being branded as a thief for life. But his dull
and blunted conscience could not show him his sin in its true light, as
a guilty offence towards God.
"If once," he argued, "the amount were actually paid, no blame ought to
attach to me."
But he did not think it necessary meantime to deny himself anything
that contributed towards his enjoyment of life. He must have everything
he wanted just the same, and some day, when he was a rich man, and
could do it without discomfort to himself, he would discharge the debt.
One day, he was sent for by his employers, who informed him they
wished him to undertake a journey to Scotland on behalf of the firm.
He assented willingly, and was then told that his errand was to a
certain Alexander Macdonald, Esquire, of Muirstane, who had a large
sum of money invested in the business. There were some affairs to be
transacted with him which could only be entrusted to a confidential
person, able to undertake the commission.
In fulfilment of this errand, a handsome stranger suddenly appeared
at Muirstane, to the no small astonishment and curiosity of its
inhabitants, who watched him making his way up to the big house, where
he was at once received as a guest.
The remainder of Edward's story may be easily conjectured. He was
detained on this business several months, and during that period he
made the most of his time. He had not been many days a guest in the
spacious mansion before he discovered he had fallen hopelessly in love
with the old man's niece, Ethel Macdonald, the most beautiful girl he
had ever seen. The attachment was mutual, for Ethel, nothing loth, gave
her heart quickly away to this noble-looking and fascinating man.
Mr. Macdonald never dreamt of such a possibility, though the young
people were necessarily much thrown together, for Ethel was in his mind
as much disposed of as if the marriage he wished for her had already
taken place. A wealthy suitor had come forward to win the hand of the
beautiful girl, and it mattered little to the hard old man that she had
openly expressed her great dislike to this proposal.
Alexander Macdonald had an iron will, which few dared to dispute. He
was consequently both a tyrant and a coward. His anger was great,
therefore, when one morning, about a month after Edward's arrival, the
young man formally asked his consent to make Ethel his bride. A direct
refusal was of course the answer. And it was politely hinted to the
guest that it would be desirable for him to take up his quarters in the
village during the remainder of his stay—a request acceded to at once.
But Edward's will was strong also. Like a spoiled child, he felt
that what he wanted he must have at any cost. And without pausing
to consider the consequences of his hasty and selfish purpose, he
persuaded Ethel, during her uncle's absence of a week from home, to
consent to their marriage before his return. They were accordingly
united in the presence of witnesses, who heard them solemnly pronounced
to be man and wife.
Excuse must be made for the lonely orphan, who had been brought up
without a mother's care, and whose life had hitherto been so loveless
and forlorn. Whatever her uncle's feelings were towards her, he never
outwardly had manifested any fondness for her, and she naturally turned
from him to rest in one whom she deemed in every way worthy of her
heart's best affections. She had yet to learn by fierce and adverse
winds that her trust must be placed far higher than in mortal man. The
sharp storm drove her to seek refuge in the cleft of the Rock, and
"through much tribulation" to "enter into the kingdom of God."
Edward's conduct was, on the contrary, most culpable and selfish, for
he knew that in four months he must depart again for America alone. It
did not suit his plans to take Ethel with him: she must therefore be
left behind to carry on the battle of life single-handed. His purpose
was to leave her at Muirstane, and return to America to wind up his
connection with the firm; this he thought would not take him long
to accomplish. He hoped then to return, and find some employment in
England which would enable him to settle down with his wife there.
The terrible fear of losing Ethel before he could come back would not
allow him to defer the marriage, for she had told him of her uncle's
designs with regard to the rich and detested man he was bent on her
accepting. The thought of another winning his darling was too abhorrent
to be tolerated for an instant. It was this that silenced the voice of
his conscience. As soon as she was lawfully his own, he brought his
wife to the small cottage he had taken in Muirstane, where he intended
to leave her during his absence.