CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE DAWN.

Strange to say, there was no return of his fever. He seemed,

through the utter carelessness of mental agony, so to have

abandoned his body, that he no longer affected it. A man must have

some hope, to be aware of his body at all. As the darkness began to

yield he fell asleep.

Then came a curious dream. For ages Joan had been persuading him to

go with her, and the old captain to go with him--the latter angry

and pulling him, the former weeping and imploring. He would go with

neither, and at last they vanished both. He sat solitary on the

side of a bare hill, and below him was all that remained of Castle

Warlock. He had been dead so many years, that it was now but a

half-shapeless ruin of roofless walls, haggard and hollow and gray

and desolate. It stood on its ridge like a solitary tooth in the

jaw of some skeleton beast. But where was his father? How was it he

had not yet found him, if he had been so long dead? He must rise

and seek him! He must be somewhere in the universe! Therewith came

softly stealing up, at first hardly audible, a strain of music from

the valley below. He listened. It grew as it rose, and held him

bound. Like an upward river, it rose, and grew with a strong

rushing, until it flooded all his heart and brain, working in him a

marvellous good, which yet he did not understand. And all the time,

his eyes were upon the dead home of his fathers. Wonder of wonders,

it began to change--to grow before his eyes! It was growing out of

the earth like a plant! It grew and grew until it was as high as in

the old days, and then it grew yet higher! A roof came upon it, and

turrets and battlements--all to the sound of that creative music;

and like fresh shoots from its stem, out from it went wings and

walls. Like a great flower it was rushing visibly on to some mighty

blossom of grandeur, when the dream suddenly left him, and he woke.

But instead of the enemy coming in upon him like a flood as his

consciousness returned, to his astonishment he found his soul as

calm as it was sad. God had given him while he slept, and he knew

him near as his own heart! The first _thought_ that came was, that

his God was Joan’s God too, and therefore all was well; so long as

God took care of her, and was with him, and his will was done in

them both, all was on the way to be well so as nothing could be

better. And with that he knew what he had to do--knew it without

thinking--and proceeded at once to do it. He rose, and dressed

himself.

It was still the gray sunless morning. The dream, with its

dream-ages of duration, had not crossed the shallows of the dawn.

Quickly he gathered his few things into his knapsack--fortunately

their number had nowise increased--took his great-uncle’s bamboo,

saw that his money was safe, stole quietly down the stair, and

softly and safely out of the house, and, ere any of its inhabitants

were astir, had left the village by the southward road.

When he had walked about a mile, he turned into a road leading

eastward, with the design of going a few miles in that direction,

and then turning to the north. When he had travelled what to his

weakness was a long distance, all at once, with the dismay of a

perverse dream, rose above the trees the towers of Cairncarque. Was

he never to escape them, in the body any more than in the spirit?

He turned back, and again southwards.

But now he had often to sit down; as often, however, he was able to

get up and walk. Coming to a village he learned that a coach for

the north would pass within an hour, and going to the inn had some

breakfast, and waited for it. Finding it would pass through the

village he had left, he took an inside place; and when it stopped

for a moment in the one street of it, saw Charles Jermyn cross it,

evidently without a suspicion that his guest was not where he had

left him.

When he had travelled some fifty miles, partly to save his money,

partly because he felt the need of exercise, not to stifle thought,

but to clear it, he left the coach, and betook himself to his feet.

Alternately walking and riding, he found his strength increase as

he went on; and his sorrow continued to be that of a cloudy summer

day, nor was ever, so long as the journey lasted, again that of the

fierce wintry tempest.

At length he drew nigh the city where he had spent his student

years. On foot, weary, and dusty, and worn, he entered it like a

returning prodigal. Few Scotchmen would think he had made good use

of his learning! But he had made the use of it God required, and

some Scotchmen, with and without other learning, have learned to

think that a good use, and in itself a sufficient success--for that

man came into the world not to make money, but to seek the kingdom

and righteousness of God.

He walked straight into Mr. Burns’s shop.

The jeweller did not know him at first; but the moment he spoke,

recognized him. Cosmo had been dubious what his reception might

be--after the way in which their intimacy had closed; but Mr. Burns

held out his hand as if they had parted only the day before, and

said,

“I thought of the two you would be here before Death! Man, you

ought to give a body time.”

“Mr. Burns,” replied Cosmo, “I am very sorry I behaved to you as I

did. I am not sorry I said what I did, for I am no less sure about

that than I was then; but I am sorry I never came again to see you.

Perhaps we did not quite understand on either side.”

“We shall understand each other better now, I fancy,” said Mr.

Burns. “I am glad you have not changed your opinion, for I have

changed mine. If it weren’t for you, I should be retired by this

time, and you would have found another name over the door. But

we’ll have a talk about all that. Allow me to ask you whither you

are bound.”

“I am on my way home,” answered Cosmo. “I have not seen my father

for several--for more than two years.”

“You’ll do me the honour to put up at my house to-night, will you

not? I am a bachelor, as you know, but will do my best to make you

comfortable.”

Cosmo gladly assented; and as it was now evening, Mr. Burns

hastened the shutting of his shop; and in a few minutes they were

seated at supper.

As soon as the servant left them, they turned to talk of divine

righteousness in business; and thence to speak of the jeweller’s;

after which Cosmo introduced that of the ring. Giving a short

narrative of the finding of it, and explaining the position of Lady

Joan with regard to it, so that his host might have no fear of

compromising himself, he ended with telling him he had brought it

to him, and with what object.

“I am extremely obliged to you, Mr. Warlock,” responded the

jeweller, “for placing such confidence in me, and that

notwithstanding the mistaken principles I used to advocate. I have

seen a little farther since then, I am happy to say; and this is

how it was: the words you then spoke, and I took so ill, would keep

coming into my mind, and that at the most inconvenient moments,

until at last I resolved to look the thing in the face, and think

it fairly out. The result is, that, although I daresay nobody has

recognized any difference in my way of doing business, there is one

who must know a great difference: I now think of my neighbour’s

side of the bargain as well as of my own, and abstain from doing

what it would vex me to find I had not been sharp enough to prevent

him from doing with me. In consequence, I am not so rich this day

as I might otherwise have been, but I enjoy life more, and hope the

days of my ignorance God has winked at.”

Cosmo could not reply for pleasure. Mr. Burns saw his emotion, and

understood it. From that hour they were friends who loved each

other.

“And now for the ring!” said the jeweller.

Cosmo produced it.

Mr. Burns looked at it as if his keen eyes would pierce to the very

heart of its mystery, turned it every way, examined it in every

position relative to the light, removed it from its setting, went

through the diamond catechism with it afresh, then weighed it,

thought over it, and said,

“What do you take the stone to be worth, Mr. Warlock?”

“I can only guess, of course,” replied Cosmo; “but the impression

on my mind is, that it is worth more nearly two hundred than a

hundred and fifty pounds.”

“You are right,” answered Mr. Burns, “and you ought to have

followed my trade; I could make a good jeweller of you. This ring

is worth two hundred guineas, fair market-value. But as I can ask

for no one more than it is absolutely worth, I must take my profit

off you: do you think that is fair?”

“Perfectly,” answered Cosmo.

“Then I must give you only two hundred pounds for it, and take the

shillings myself. You see it may be some time before I get my money

again, so I think five per cent on the amount is not more than the

fair thing.”

“It seems to me perfectly fair, and very moderate,” replied Cosmo.

As soon as dinner was over, he sat down to write to Joan. While

there was nothing that must be said, he had feared writing. This

was what he wrote:

“My dearest Joan,

“As you have trusted me hitherto, so trust me still, and wait for

an explanation of my peculiar behaviour in going away without

bidding you good-by, till the proper time comes--which must come

one day, for our master said, more than once, that there was

nothing covered which should not be revealed, neither hid that

should not be known. I feel sure therefore, of being allowed to

tell you everything sometime.

“I herewith send you a cheque as good as bank-notes, much safer to

send, and hardly more difficult for Dr. Jermyn to turn into

sovereigns.

“I borrowed of him fifteen pounds--a good deal more than I wanted.

I have therefore got Mr. Burns, my friend, the jeweller, in this

city, to add five pounds to the two hundred which he gives for the

ring, and beg you, Joan, for the sake of old times, and new also,

to pay for me the fifteen pounds to Dr. Jermyn, which I would much

rather owe to you than to him. The rest of it, the other ten

pounds, I will pay you when I can--it may not be in this world. And

in the next--what then, Joan? Why then--but for that we will

wait--who more earnestly than I?

“To all the coming eternity, dear Joan, I shall never cease to love

you--first for yourself, then for your great lovely goodness to me.

May the only perfection, whose only being is love, take you to his

heart--as he is always trying to do with all of us! I mean to let

him have me out and out.

“Dearest Joan, Your far-off cousin, but near friend,

“COSMO WARLOCK.”

CHAPTER XXXVII.

HOME AGAIN.

Early the next day, while the sun was yet casting huge diagonal

shadows across the wide street, Cosmo climbed to the roof of the

Defiance coach, his heart swelling at the thought of being so soon

in his father’s arms. It was a lovely summer morning, cool and

dewy, fit for any Sunday--whence the eyes and mind of Cosmo turned

to the remnants of night that banded the street, and from them he

sank into metaphysics, chequered with the champing clank of the

bits, the voices of the ostlers, passengers, and guard, and the

perpendicular silence of the coachman, who sat like a statue in

front of him.

How dark were the shadows the sun was casting!

Absurd! the sun casts no shadows--only light.

How so? Were the sun not shining, would there be one single shadow?

Yes; there would be just one single shadow; all would be shadow.

There would be none of those things we call shadows.

True; all would be shade; there would be no shadows.

By such a little stair was Cosmo landed at a door of deep question.

For now _evil_ took the place of _shadow_ in his _solo_ disputation, and

the law and the light and the shadow and the sin went thinking

about with each other in his mind; and he saw how the Jews came to

attribute evil to the hand of God as well as good, and how St. Paul

said that the law gave life to sin--as by the sun is the shadow. He

saw too that in the spiritual world we need a live sun strong

enough to burn up all the shadows by shining through the things

that cast them, and compelling their transparency--and that sun is

the God who is light, and in whom is no darkness at all--which

truth is the gospel according to St. John. And where there is no

longer anything covered or hid, could sin live at all? These and

such like thoughts held him long--till the noisy streets of the

granite city lay far behind.

Swiftly the road flew from under the sixteen flashing shoes of the

thorough-breds that bore him along. The light and hope and strength

of the new-born day were stirring, mounting, swelling--even in the

heart of the sad lover; in every _honest_ heart more or less, whether

young or old, feeble or strong, the new summer day stirs, and will

stir while the sun has heat enough for men to live on the earth.

Surely the live God is not absent from the symbol of his glory! The

light and the hope are not there without him! When strength wakes

in my heart, shall I be the slave to imagine it comes only as the

sap rises in the stem of the reviving plant, or the mercury in the

tube of the thermometer? that there is no essential life within my

conscious life, no spirit within my spirit? If my origin be not

life, I am the poorest of slaves!

Cosmo had changed since first he sat behind such horses, on his way

to the university; it was the change of growth, but he felt it like

that of decay--as if he had been young then and was old now. Little

could he yet imagine what age means! Devout youth as he was, he

little understood how much more than he his father felt his

dependence on, that is, his strength in God. Many years had yet to

pass ere he should feel the splendour of an existence rooted in

changeless Life ripening through the growing weakness of the body!

It is the strength of God that informs every muscle and arture of

the youth, but it is so much his own--looks so natural to him--as

it well may, being God’s idea for him--that, in the glory of its

possession, he does not feel it _as_ the presence of the making God.

But when weakness begins to show itself,--a shadow-back-ground,

against which the strength is known and outlined--when every

movement begins to demand a distinct effort of the will, and the

earthly house presses, a conscious weight, not upon its own parts

only, but upon the spirit within, then indeed must a man _have_ God,

believe in him with an entireness independent of feeling, and going

beyond all theory, or be devoured by despair. In the growing

feebleness of old age, a man may well come to accept life only

because it is the will of God; but the weakness of such a man is

the matrix of a divine strength, whence a gladness unspeakable

shall ere long be born--the life which it is God’s intent to share

with his children.

Cosmo was on the way to know all this, but now his trouble sat

sometimes heavy upon him. Indeed the young straight back, if it

feels the weight less, feels the irksomeness of the burden more

than the old bowed one. With strength goes the wild love of

movement, and the cross that prevents the free play of a single

muscle is felt grievous as the fetter that chains a man to the oar.

But this day--and what man has to do with yesterday or to-morrow?

--the sun shone as if he knew nothing, or as if he knew all, and

knew it to be well; and Cosmo was going home, and the love of his

father was a deep gladness, even in the presence of love’s lack.

Seldom is it so, but between the true father, and true son it

always will be so.

When he came within a mile of Muir of Warlock, he left the coach,

and would walk the rest of the way. He desired to enjoy, in gentle,

unruffled flow, the thoughts that like swallows kept coming and

going between him and his nest as he approached it. Everything, the

commonest, that met him as he went, had a strange beauty, as if,

although he had known it so long, now first was its innermost

revealed by some polarized light from source unseen. How small and

poor the cottages looked--but how home-like! and how sweet the

smoke of their chimneys! How cold they must be in winter--but how

warm were the hearts inside them! There was Jean Elder’s Sunday

linen spread like snow on her gooseberry bushes; there was the

shoemaker’s cow eating her hardest, as if she would devour the very

turf that made a border to the road--held from the corn on the

other side of the low fence by a strong chain in the hand of a

child of seven; and there was the first dahlia of the season in

Jonathan Japp’s garden! As he entered the village, the road, which

was at once its street and the queen’s highway, was empty of life

save for one half-grown pig--“prospecting,” a hen or two picking

about, and several cats that lay in the sun. “There must be some

redemption for the feline races,” thought Cosmo, “when the cats

have learned so much to love the sun!--But, alas! it is only his

heat, not his light they love!” He looked neither on this side nor

that as he walked, for he was in no mood for the delay of converse,

but he wondered nevertheless that he saw nobody. It was the general

dinner hour, true, but that would scarcely account for the deserted

look of the street! Any passing stranger was usually enough to

bring people to their doors--their windows not being of much use

for looking out of! Sheltered behind rose-trees or geraniums or

hydrangeas, however, not a few of whom he saw nothing were peering

at him out of those windows as he passed.

The villagers had learned from some one on the coach that the young

laird was coming. But, strange to say, a feeling had got abroad

amongst them to his prejudice. They had looked to hear great things

of their favourite, but he had not made the success they expected,

and from their disappointment they imagined his blame. It troubled

them to think of the old man, whom they all honoured, sending his

son to college on the golden horse, whose history had ever since

been the cherished romance of the place, and after all getting no

good of him! so when they saw him coming along, dusty and

shabby--not so well dressed indeed as would have contented one of

themselves on a Sunday, they drew back from their peep-holes with

a sigh, let him pass, and then looked again.

Nothing of all this however did Cosmo suspect, but held on his way

unconscious of the regards that pursued him as a prodigal returning

the less satisfactorily that he had not been guilty enough to

repent.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

Every step Cosmo took after leaving the village, was like a

revelation and a memory in one. When he turned out of the main

road, the hills came rushing to meet and welcome him, yet it was

only that they stood there changeless, eternally the same, just as

they had been: that was the welcome with which they met the heart

that had always loved them.

When first he opened his eyes, they were as the nursing arms the

world spread out to take him; and now, returning from the far

countries where they were unknown, they spread them out afresh to

receive him home. The next turn was home itself, for that turn was

at the base of the ridge on which the castle stood.

The moment he took it, a strange feeling of stillness came over

him, and as he drew nearer, it deepened. When he entered the gate

of the close, it was a sense, and had grown almost appalling. With

sudden inroad his dream returned! Was the place empty utterly? Was

there no life in it? Not yet had he heard a sound; there was no

sign from cow-house or stable. A cart with one wheel stood in the

cart-shed; a harrow lay, spikes upward, where he had hollowed the

mound of snow. The fields themselves had an unwonted, a haggard

sort of look. A crop of oats was ripening in that nearest the

close, but they covered only the half of it: the rest was in

potatoes, and amongst them, sole show of labour or life, he saw

Aggie: she was pulling the _plums_ off their stems. The doors were

shut all round the close--all but the kitchen-door; that stood as

usual wide open. A sickening fear came upon Cosmo: it was more than

a week since he had heard from home! In that time his father might

be dead, and therefore the place be so desolate! He dared not enter

the house. He would go first into the garden, and there pray, and

gather courage.

He went round the kitchen-tower, as the nearest block was called,

and made for his old seat, the big, smooth stone. Some one was

sitting there, with his head bent forward on his knees! By the red

night-cap it must be his father, but how changed the whole aspect

of the good man! His look was that of a worn-out labourer--one who

has borne the burden and heat of the day, and is already half

asleep, waiting for the night. Motionless as a statue of weariness

he sat; on the ground lay a spade which looked as if it had dropped

from his hand as he sat upon the stone; and beside him on that lay

his Marion’s Bible. Cosmo’s heart sank within him, and for a moment

he stood motionless.

But the first movement he made forward, the old man lifted his head

with an expectant look, then rose in haste, and, unable to

straighten himself, hurried, stooping, with short steps, to meet

him. Placing his hands on his son’s shoulders, he raised himself

up, and laid his face to his; then for a few moments they were

silent, each in the other’s arms.

The laird drew back his head and looked his son in the face. A

heavenly smile crossed the sadness of his countenance, and his

wrinkled old hand closed tremulous on Cosmo’s shoulder.

“They canna tak frae me my son!” he murmured--and from that time

rarely spoke to him save in the mother-tongue.

Then he led him to the stone, where there was just room enough for

two that loved each other, and they sat down together.

The laird put his hand on his son’s knee, as, when a boy, Cosmo

used to put his on his father’s.

“Are ye the same, Cosmo?” he asked. “Are ye my ain bairn?”

“Father,” returned Cosmo, “gien it be possible, I loe ye mair nor

ever. I’m come hame to ye, no to lea’ ye again sae lang as ye live.

Gien ye be in ony want, I s’ better ’t gien I can, an’ share ’t ony

gait. Ay, I may weel say I’m the same, only mair o’ ’t.”

“The Lord’s name be praist!” murmured the laird. “--But du ye loe

_him_ the same as ever, Cosmo?” again he asked.

“Father, I dinna loe him the same--I loe him a heap better. He kens

noo ’at he may tak his wull o’ me. Naething ’at I ken o’ comes

’atween him an’ me.”

The old man raised his arm, and put it round his boy’s shoulders:

he was not one of the many Scotch fathers who make their children

fear more than love them.

“Then, Lord, let me die in peace,” he said, “for mine eyes hae seen

thy salvation!--But ye dinna luik freely the same, Cosmo!--Hoo is

’t?”

“I hae come throu’ a heap, lately, father,” answered Cosmo. “I hae

been ailin’ in body, an’ sair harassed in hert. I’ll tell ye a’

aboot it, whan we hae time--and o’ that we’ll hae plenty, I s’

warran’, for I tell ye I winna lea’ ye again; an’ gien ye had only

latten me ken ye was failin’, I wad hae come hame lang syne. It was

sair agen the grain ’at I baid awa’.”

“The auld sudna lie upo’ the tap o’ the yoong, Cosmo, my son.”

“Father, I wad willin’ly be a bed to ye to lie upo’, gien that wad

ease ye; but I’m thinkin’ we baith may lie saft upo’ the wull o’

the great Father, e’en whan that’s hardest.”

“True as trowth!” returned the laird. “--But ye’re luikin’ some

tired-like, Cosmo!”

“I _am_ some tired, an’ unco dry. I wad fain hae a drink o’ milk.”

The old man’s head dropped again on his bosom, and so for the space

of about a minute he sat. Then he lifted it up, and said, looking

with calm clear eyes in those of his son,

“I winna greit, Cosmo; I’ll say _yet_, the will o’ the Lord be dune,

though it be sair upo’ me the noo, whan I haena a drap o’ milk

aboot the place to set afore my only-begotten son whan he comes

hame to me frae a far country!--Eh, Lord! whan yer ain son cam hame

frae his sair warstle an’ lang sojourn amo’ them ’at kenned na him

nor thee, it wasna til an auld shabby man he cam hame, but til the

Lord o’ glory an’ o’ micht! An’ whan we a’ win hame til the Father

o’ a’, it’ll be to the leevin’ stren’th o’ the universe.--Cosmo,

the han’ o’ man’s been that heavy upo’ me ’at coo efter coo’s gane

frae me, an’ the last o’ them, bonny Yally, left only thestreen.

Ye’ll hae to drink cauld watter, my bairn!”

Again the old man’s heart overcame him; his head sank, and he

murmured,--“Lord, I haena a drap o’ milk to gie my bairn--me ’at

wad gie ’im my hert’s bluid! But, Lord, wha am I to speyk like that

to thee, wha didst lat thine ain poor oot his verra sowl’s bluid

for him an’ me!”

“Father,” said Cosmo, “I can du wi’ watter as weel ’s onybody. Du ye

think I’m nae mair o’ a man nor to care what I pit intil me? Gien

ye be puirer nor ever, I’m prooder nor ever to share wi’ ye. Bide

ye here, an’ I’ll jist rin an’ get a drink, an’ come back to ye.”

“Na; I maun gang wi’ ye, man,” answered the laird, rising.

“Grizzie’s a heap taen up wi’ yer gran’mither. She’s been weirin’

awa’ this fortnicht back. She’s no in pain, the Lord be praised!

an’ she’ll never ken the straits her hoose is com till! Cosmo, I

hae been a terrible cooard--dreidin’ day an’ nicht yer hame-comin’,

no submittin’ ’at ye sud see sic a broken man to the father o’ ye!

But noo it’s ower, an’ here ye are, an’ my hert’s lichter nor it’s

been this mony a lang!”

Cosmo’s own sorrow drew back into the distance from before the face

of his father’s, and he felt that the business, not the accident of

his life, must henceforth be to support and comfort him. And with

that it was as if a new well of life sprung up suddenly in his

being.

“Father,” he said, “we’ll haud on thegither i’ the stret ro’d.

There’s room for twa abreist in ’t--ance ye’re in!”

“Ay! ay!” returned the laird with a smile; “that’s the bonniest

word ye cud hae come hame wi’ til me! We maun jist perk up a bit,

an’ be patient, that patience may hae her perfe’t wark. I s’ hae

anither try--an’ weel I may, for the licht o’ my auld e’en is this

day restored til me!”

“An’ sae gran’mother’s weirin awa’, father!”

“To the lan’ o’ the leal, laddie.”

“Wull she ken me?”

“Na, she winna ken ye; she’ll never ken onybody mair i’ this warl’;

but she’ll ken plenty whaur she’s gaein’!”

He rose, and they walked together towards the kitchen. There was

nobody there, but they heard steps going to and fro in the room

above. The laird made haste, but before he could lay his hand on a

vessel, to get for Cosmo the water he so much desired, Grizzie

appeared on the stair, descending. She hurried down, and across the

floor to Cosmo, and seizing him by the hand, looked him in the face

with the anxiety of an angel-hen. Her look said what his father’s

voice had said just before--“Are ye a’ there--a’ ’at there used to

be?”

“Hoo’s gran’mamma?” asked Cosmo.

“Ow, duin’ weel eneuch, sir--weirin awa’ bonny. She has naither

pang nor knowledge o’ sorrow to tribble her. The Lord grant the

sowls o’ ’s a’ sic anither lowsin’!”

“Hae ye naething better nor cauld watter to gie ’im a drink o’,

Grizzie, wuman?” asked the laird, but in mere despair.

“Nae ’cep he wad condescen’ til a grainie meal intil ’t,” returned

Grizzie mournfully, and she looked at him again, with an anxious

deprecating look now, as if before the heir she was ashamed of the

poverty of the house, and dreaded blame. “--But laird,” she resumed,

turning to her master, “ye hae surely a drap o’ something i’ yer

cellar! Weel I wat ye hae made awa’ wi’ nane o’ ’t yersel!”

“Weel, there ye wat wrang, Grizzie, my bonny wuman!” replied the

laird, with the flicker of a humourous smile on his wrinkled face,

“for I sellt the last bottle oot o’ ’t a month ago to Stronach o’

the distillery. I thoucht it cudna du muckle ill there, for it

wadna mak his nose sae reid as his ain whusky. Whaur, think ye,

wad the sma’ things ye wantit for my mother hae come frae, gien I

hadna happent to hae that property left? We’re weel taen care o’,

ye see, Grizzie! That _wad_ hae tried my faith, to hae my mother gang

wi’oot things! But he never suffers us to be tried ayont what we’re

able to beir; an’ sae lang as my faith hauds the grup, I carena for

back nor belly! Cosmo, I can bide better ’at ye sud want. Ye’re

mair like my ain nor even my mother, an’ sae we bide it thegither.

It maun be ’cause ye’re pairt o’ my Mar’on as weel ’s o’ mysel’.

Eh, man! but this o’ faimilies is a won’erfu’ Godlike contrivance!

Gien he had taen ony ither w’y o’ makin’ fowk, whaur wad I hae been

this day wantin’ you, Cosmo?”

While he spoke, Cosmo was drinking the water Grizzie had brought

him--with a little meal on the top of it--the same drink he used to

give his old mare, now long departed to the place prepared for her,

when they were out spending the day together.

“There’s this to be said for the watter, father,” he remarked, as

he set down the wooden bowl in which Grizzie had thought proper to

supply it, “that it comes mair direc’ frae the han’ o’ God

himsel’--maybe nor even the milk. But I dinna ken; for I doobt

organic chemistry maun efter a’ be nearer his han’ nor inorganic!

Ony gait, I never drank better drink; an’ gien ae day he but

saitisfee my sowl’s hunger efter his richteousness as he has this

minute saitisfeed my body’s drowth efter watter, I s’ be a happier

man nor ever sat still ohn danced an’ sung.”

“It’s an innocent cratur’ at gies thanks for cauld watter--I hae

aye remarkit that!” said Grizzie. “But I maun awa’ to my bairn up

the stair; an’ may it please the Lord to lift her or lang, for they

maun be luikin for her yont the burn by this time. Whan she wauks

i’ the mornin’, the’ ’ill be nae mair scornin’!”

This was Grizzie’s last against her mistress. The laird took no

notice of it: he knew Grizzie’s devotion, and, well as he loved his

mother, could not but know also that there was some ground for her

undevised couplet.

Scarcely a minute had passed when the voice of the old woman came

from the top of the stair, calling aloud and in perturbation,

“Laird! laird! come up direc’ly. Come up, lairds baith! She’s

comin’ til hersel’!”

They hastened up, Cosmo helping his father, and approached the bed

together.

With smooth, colourless face, unearthly to look upon, the old lady

lay motionless, her eyes wide open, looking up as if they saw

something beyond the tester of the bed, her lips moving, but

uttering no sound. At last came a murmur, in which Cosmo’s ears

alone were keen enough to discern the articulation.

“Mar’on, Mar’on,” she said, “ye’re i’ the lan’ o’ forgiveness! I

hae dune the lad no ill. He’ll come hame to ye nane the waur for

ony words o’ mine. We’re no’ a’ made sae guid to begin wi’ as

yersel’, Mar’on!”

Here her voice became a mere murmur, so far as human ears could

distinguish, and presently ceased. A minute or so more and her

breathing grew intermittent. After a few long respirations, at long

intervals, it stopped.

“She’ll be haein’ ’t oot wi’ my ain mistress or lang!” remarked

Grizzie to herself as she closed her eyes.

“Mother! mother!” cried the laird, and kneeled by the bedside.

Cosmo kneeled also, but no word of the prayers that ascended was

audible. The laird was giving thanks that another was gone home,

and Cosmo was praying for help to be to his father a true son, such

as the Son of Man was to the Father of Man. They rose from their

knees, and went quietly down the stair; and as they went from the

room, they heard Grizzie say to herself,

“She’s gang whaur there’s mair--eneuch an’ to spare!”

The remains of Lady Joan’s ten pounds was enough to bury her.

They invited none, but all the village came to her funeral.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE LABOURER.

Such power had been accumulated and brought to bear against

Glenwarlock, that at length he was reduced almost to the last

extremity. He had had to part with his horses before even his crops

were all sown, and had therefore dismissed his men, and tried to

sell what there was as it stood, and get some neighbouring farmer

to undertake the rest of the land for the one harvest left him; but

those who might otherwise have bought and cultivated were afraid of

offending Lord Lick-my-loof, whose hand was pretty generally seen

in the turn of affairs, and also of involving themselves in an

unsecure agreement. So things had come to a bad pass with the laird

and his household. A small crop of oats and one of potatoes were

coming on, for which the laird did what little he could, assisted

by Grizzie and Aggie at such times when they could leave their

respective charges, but in the meantime the stock of meal was

getting low, and the laird did not see where more was to come from.

He and Grizzie had only porridge, with a little salt butter, for

two, and not unfrequently the third also of their daily meals.

Grizzie for awhile managed to keep alive a few fowls that picked

about everywhere, finally making of them broth for her invalid, and

persuading the laird to eat the little that was not boiled away,

till at length there was neither cackle nor crow about the place,

so that to Cosmo it seemed dying out into absolute silence--after

which would come the decay and the crumbling, until the castle

stood like the great hollow mammoth-tooth he had looked down upon

in his dream.

At once he proceeded to do what little could yet be done for the

on-coming crops, resolving to hire himself out for the harvest to

some place later than Glenwarlock, so that he might be able to mow

the oats before leaving, when his father and Grizzie with the help

of Aggie would secure them.

Nothing could now prevent the closing of the net of the last

mortgage about them; and the uttermost Cosmo could hope for

thereafter was simply to keep his father and Grizzie alive to the

end of their natural days. Shelter was secure, for the castle was

free. The winter was drawing on, but there would be the oats and

the potatoes, with what kail the garden would yield them, and they

had, he thought, plenty of peats. Yet not unfrequently, as he

wandered aimless through the dreary silence, he would be

speculating how long, by a judiciously ordered consumption of the

place, he could keep his father warm. The stables and cow-houses

would afford a large quantity of fuel; the barn too had a great

deal of heavy wood-work about it; and there was the third tower or

block of the castle, for many years used for nothing but stowage,

whose whole thick floors he would thankfully honour, burning them

to ashes in such a cause. In the spring there would be no land left

them, but so long as he could save the house and garden, and find

means of keeping his two alive in them, he would not grieve over

that.

Agnes was a little shy of Cosmo--he had been away so long! but at

intervals her shyness would yield and she would talk to him with

much the same freedom as of old when they went to school together.

In his rambles Cosmo would not pass her grandfather’s cottage

without going in to inquire after him and his wife, and having a

little chat with Aggie. Her true-hearted ways made her, next to his

father and Mr. Simon, the best comforter he had.

She was now a strong, well-grown, sunburnt woman, with rough hands

and tender eyes. Occasionally she would yet give a sharp merry

answer, but life and its needs and struggles had made her grave,

and in general she would, like a soft cloud, brood a little before

she gave a reply. She had by nature such a well balanced mind, and

had set herself so strenuously to do the right thing, that her

cross seemed already her natural choice, as indeed it always is--of

the deeper nature. In her Cosmo always found what strengthened him

for the life he had now to lead, though, so long as at any hour he

could have his father’s company, and saw the old man plainly

reviving in his presence, he could not for a moment call or think

it hard, save in so far as he could not make his father’s as easy

as he would.

When the laird heard that his son, the heir of Glenwarlock, had

hired himself for the harvest on a neighbouring farm, he was dumb

for a season. It was heavy both on the love and the pride of the

father, which in this case were one, to think of his son as a hired

servant--and that of a rough, swearing man, who had made money as a

butcher. The farm too was at such distance that he could not well

come home to sleep! But the season of this dumbness, measured by

the clock, at least, was but of a few minutes duration; for

presently the laird was on his knees thanking God that he had given

him a son who would be an honour to any family out of heaven: in

there, he knew, every one was an honour to every other!

Before the harvest on the farm of Stanewhuns arrived, Cosmo, to his

desire, had cut their own corn, with Grizzie to gather, Aggie to

bind, and his father to stook, and so got himself into some measure

of training. He found it harder, it is true, at Stanewhuns, where

he must keep up with more experienced scythe-men, but, just equal

to it at first, in two days he was a little more than equal, and able

to set his father’s heart at ease concerning his toil.

With all his troubles, it had been a blessed time so long as he

spent most of the day and every evening in his father’s company.

Not unfrequently would Mr. Simon make one, seated with them in the

old drawing-room or on some hillside, taking wisest share in every

subject of talk that came up. In the little council Cosmo

represented the rising generation with its new thought, its new

consciousness of need, and its new difficulties; and was delighted

to find how readily his notions were received, how far from strange

they were to his old-fashioned friends, especially his preceptor,

and how greatly true wisdom suffices for the hearing and

understanding of new cries after the truth. For what all men need

is the same--only the look of it changes as its nature expands

before the growing soul or the growing generation, whose hunger and

thirst at the same time grow with it. And, coming from the higher

to the lower, it must be ever in the shape of difficulty that the

most precious revelations first appear. Even Mary, to whom first

the highest revelation came, and came closer than to any other, had

to sit and ponder over the great matter, yea and have the sword

pass through her soul, ere the thoughts of her heart could be

revealed to her. But Cosmo of the new time, found himself at home

with the men of the next older time, because both he and they were

true; for in the truth there is neither old nor new; the well

instructed scribe of the kingdom is familiar with the new as well

as old shapes of it, and can bring either kind from his treasury.

There was not a question Cosmo could start, but Mr. Simon had

something at hand to the point, and plenty more within

digging-scope of his thought-spade.

But now that he had to work all day, and at night see no one with

whom to take sweet counsel, Cosmo did feel lonely--yet was it an

unfailing comfort to remember that his father was within his reach,

and he would see him the next Sunday. And the one thing he had

dreaded was spared him--namely, having to share a room with several

other men, who might prove worse than undesirable company. For the

ex-butcher, the man who was a byword in the country-side for his

rough speech, in this showed himself capable of becoming a

gentleman, that he had sympathy with a gentleman: he would neither

allow Cosmo to eat with the labourers--to which Cosmo himself had

no objection, nor would hear of his sleeping anywhere but in the

best bedroom they had in the house. Also, from respect to the heir

of a decayed family and valueless inheritance, he modified even his

own habits so far as almost to cease swearing in his presence.

Appreciating this genuine kindness, Cosmo in his turn tried to be

agreeable to those around him, and in their short evenings, for,

being weary, they retired early, would in his talk make such good

use of his superior knowledge as to interest the whole family, so

that afterwards most of them declared it the pleasantest

harvest-time they had ever had. Perhaps it was a consequence that

the youngest daughter, who had been to a boarding-school, and had

never before appeared in any harvest-field, betook herself to that

in which they were at work towards the end of the first week, and

_gathered_ behind Cosmo’s scythe. But Cosmo was far too much

occupied--thinking to the rhythmic swing of his scythe, to be aware

of the honour done him. Still farther was he from suspecting that

it had anything to do with the appearing of Agnes one afternoon,

bringing him a letter from his father, with which she had armed

herself by telling him she was going thitherward, and could take a

message to the young laird.

The harvest began upon a Monday, and the week passed without his

once seeing his father. On the Sunday he rose early, and set out

for Castle Warlock. He would have gone the night before, but at the

request of his master remained to witness the signing of his will.

As he walked he found the week had given him such a consciousness

of power as he had never had before: with the labour of his own

hands he knew himself capable of earning bread for more than

himself; while his limbs themselves seemed to know themselves

stronger than hitherto. On the other hand he was conscious in his

gait of the intrusion of the workman’s plodding swing upon the easy

walk of the student.

His way was mostly by footpaths, often up and down hill, now over a

moor, now through a valley by a small stream. The freshness of the

morning he found no less reviving than in the old boyish days, and

he sang as he walked, taking huge breaths of the life that lay on the

heathery hill-top. And as he sang the words came--nearly like the

following. He had never wondered at the powers of the

_improvvisatore_. It was easy to him to extemporize.

Win’ that blaws the simmer plaid,

Ower the hie hill’s shouthers laid,

Green wi’ gerse, an’ reid wi’ heather,

Welcome wi’ yer soul-like weather!

Mony a win’ there has been sent

Oot ’aneth the firmament;

Ilka ane its story has;

Ilka ane began an’ was;

Ilka ane fell quaiet an’ mute

Whan its angel wark was oot.

First gaed ane oot ower the mirk,

Whan the maker gan to work;

Ower it gaed and ower the sea,

An’ the warl’ begud to be.

Mony ane has come an’ gane

Sin’ the time there was but ane:

Ane was great an’ strong, an’ rent

Rocks an’ mountains as it went

Afore the Lord, his trumpeter,

Waukin’ up the prophet’s ear;

Ane was like a steppin’ soun’

I’ the mulberry taps abune;

Them the Lord’s ain steps did swing,

Walkin’ on afore his king;

Ane lay doon like scoldit pup

At his feet an’ gatna up,

Whan the word the maister spak

Drave the wull-cat billows back;

Ane gaed frae his lips, an’ dang

To the earth the sodger thrang;

Ane comes frae his hert to mine,

Ilka day, to mak it fine.

Breath o’ God, oh! come an’ blaw

Frae my hert ilk fog awa’;

Wauk me up, an’ mak me strang,

Fill my hert wi’ mony a sang,

Frae my lips again to stert,

Fillin’ sails o’ mony a hert,

Blawin’ them ower seas dividin’

To the only place to bide in.

“Eh, Mr. Warlock! is that you singin’ o’ the Sawbath day?” said the

voice of a young woman behind him, in a tone of gentle raillery

rather than expostulation.

Cosmo turned and saw Elspeth, his master’s daughter already

mentioned.

“Whaur’s the wrang o’ that, Miss Elsie?” he answered. “Arena we

tellt to sing an’ mak melody to the Lord?”

“Ay, but i’ yer hert, no lood oot--’cep’ it be i’ the kirk. That’s

the place to sing upo’ Sundays. Yon wasna a psalm-tune ye was at!”

“Maybe no. Maybe I was a bit ower happy for ony tune i’ the

tune-buiks, an’ bude to hae ane ’at cam o’ ’tsel’!”

“An’ what wad mak ye sae happy--gien a body micht speir?” asked

Elspeth, peeping from under long lashes, with a shy, half

frightened, sidelong glance at the youth.

She was a handsome girl of the milkmaid type, who wore a bonnet

with pretty ribbons, thought of herself as a young lady, and had

many admirers, whence she had grown a little bold, without knowing

it.

“Ye haena ower muckle at hame to make ye blithe, gien a’ be true,”

she added sympathetically.

“I hae a’ thing at hame to make me blithe--’cep’ it be a wheen mair

siller,” answered Cosmo; “but maybe that’ll come neist--wha kens?”

“Ay! wha kens?” returned the girl with a sigh. “There’s mony ane

doobtless wad be ready eneuch wi’ the siller anent what ye hae

wantin’ ’t!”

“I hae naething but an auld hoose--no sae auld as lat the win’ blaw

through ’t, though,” said Cosmo, amused. “But whaur are ye for sae

ear’, Miss Elsie?”

“I’m for the Muir o’ Warlock, to see my sister, the schuilmaister’s

wife. Puir man! he’s been ailin’ ever sin’ the spring. I little

thoucht I was to hae sic guid company upo’ the ro’d! Ye hae made an

unco differ upo’ my father, Mr. Warlock. I never saw man sae

altert. In ae single ook!”

She had heard Cosmo say he much preferred good Scotch to would-be

English, and therefore spoke with what breadth she could compass.

In her head, notwithstanding, she despised everything homely, for

she had been to school in the city, where, if she had learned

nothing else, she had learned the ambition to _appear_; of _being_

anything she had no notion. She had a loving heart, though--small

for her size, but lively. Of what really goes to make a _lady_--the

end of her aspiration--she had no more idea than the swearing

father of whom, while she loved him, as did all his family, she was

not a little ashamed. She was an honest girl too in a manner, and

had by nature a fair share of modesty; but now her heart was sadly

fluttered, for the week that had wrought such a change on her

father, had not been without its effect upon her--witness her

talking _vulgar, broad Scotch_!

“Your father is very kind to me. So are you all,” said Cosmo. “My

father will be grateful to you for being so friendly to me.”

“Some wad be gien they daured!” faltered Elspeth. “Was ye content

wi’ my getherin’ to ye--to your scythe, I mean, laird?”

“Wha could hae been ither, Miss Elsie? Try ’at I wad, I couldna

lea’ ye ahin’ me.”

“Did ye want to lea’ me ahin’ ye?” rejoined Elsie, with a sidelong

look and a blush, which Cosmo never saw. “I wadna seek a better to

gether til.--But maybe ye dinna like my han’s!”

So far as I can see, the suggestion was entirely irrelevant to the

gathering, for what could it matter to the mower what sort of hands

the woman had who gathered his swath. But then Miss Elspeth had, if

not very pretty, at least very small hands, and smallness was the

only merit she knew of in a hand.

What Cosmo might have answered, or in what perplexity between truth

and unwillingness to hurt she might have landed him before long, I

need not speculate, seeing all danger was suddenly swept away by a

second voice, addressing Cosmo as unexpectedly as the first.

They had just passed a great stone on the roadside, at the foot of

which Aggie had been for some time seated, waiting for Cosmo, whom

she expected with the greater confidence that, having come to meet

him the night before, and sat where she now was till it was dark,

she had had to walk back without him. Recognizing the voices that

neared her, she waited until the pair had passed her shelter, and

then addressed Cosmo with a familiarity she had not used since his

return--for which Aggie had her reasons.

“Cosmo!” she called, rising as she spoke, “winna ye bide for me? Ye

hae a word for twa as weel ’s for ane. The same sairs, whaur baith

hae lugs.”

The moment Cosmo heard her voice, he turned to meet her, glad

enough.

“Eh, Aggie!” he said, “I’m pleased to see ye. It was richt guid o’

ye to come to meet me! Hoo’s your father, an’ hoo’s mine?”

“They’re baith brawly,” she answered, “an’ blithe eneuch, baith, at

the thoucht o’ seein’ ye. Gien ye couldna luik in upo’ mine the

day, he wad stap doon to the castle. Sin’ yesterday mornin’ the

laird, Grizzie tells me, hasna ristit a minute in ae place, ’cep’ in

his bed. What for camna ye thestreen?”

As he was answering her question, Aggie cast a keen searching look

at his companion: Elsie’s face was as red as fire could have

reddened it, and tears of vexation were gathering in her eyes. She

turned her head away and bit her lip.

The two girls were hardly acquainted, nor would Elsie have dreamed

of familiarity with the daughter of a poor cotter. Aggie seemed

much farther below her, than she below the young laird of

Glenwarlock. Yet here was the rude girl addressing him as

Cosmo--with the boldness of a sister, in fact! and he taking it as

matter of course, and answering in similar style! It was unnatural!

Indignation grew fierce within her. What might she not have waked

in him before they parted but for this shameless hussey!

“Ye’ll be gaein’ to see yer sister, Miss Elsie?” said Agnes, after

a moment’s pause.

Elspeth kept her head turned away, and made her no answer. Aggie

smiled to herself, and reverting to Cosmo, presently set before him

a difficulty she had met with in her algebra, a study which, at

such few times as she could spare, she still prosecuted with the

help of Mr. Simon. So Elsie, who understood nothing of the subject,

was thrown out. She dropped a little behind, and took the role of

the abandoned one. When Cosmo saw this, he stopped, and they waited

for her. When she came up,

“Are we gaein’ ower fest for ye, Miss Elsie?” he said.

“Not at all;” she answered, English again; “I can walk as fast as

any one.”

Cosmo turned to Aggie and said,

“Aggie, we’re i’ the wrang. We had no richt to speik aboot things

’at only twa kent, whan there was three walkin’ thegither.--Ye see,

Miss Elsie, her an’ me was at the schuil thegither, an’ we happent

to tak’ up wi’ the same kin’ o’ thing, partic’larly algebra an’

geometry, an’ can ill haud oor tongues frae them whan we forgather.

The day, it’s been to the prejudice o’ oor mainners, an’ I beg ye

to owerluik it.”

“I didn’t think it was profitable conversation for the Sabbath

day,” said Elsie, with a smile meant to be chastened, but which

Aggie took for bitter, and laughed in her sleeve. A few minutes

more and the two were again absorbed, this time with a point in

conic sections, on which Aggie professed to require enlightenment,

and again Elsie was left out. Nor did this occur either through

returning forgetfulness on the part of Aggie, or the naturally

strong undertow of the tide of science in her brain. Once more

Elsie adopted the _neglected_ rôle, but being allowed to play it in

reality, dropped farther and farther behind, until its earnest grew

heavy on her soul, and she sat down by the roadside and wept--then

rising in anger, turned back, and took another way to the village.

Poor girl-heart! How many tears do not fancies doomed to pass cost

those who give them but as it were a night’s lodging! And the tears

are bitter enough, although neither the love, nor therefore the

sorrow, may have had time to develop much individuality. One

fairest soap-bubble, one sweetly devised universe vanishes with

those tears; and it may be never another is blown with so many

colours, and such enchanting changes! What is the bubble but air

parted from the air, individualized by thinnest skin of slightly

glutinous water! Does not swift comfort and ready substitution show

first love rather, the passion between man and woman than between a

man and a woman? How speedily is even a Romeo consoled to oblivion

for the loss of a Rosaline by the gain of a Juliet! And yet I mourn

over even such evanishment; mourn although I know that the bubble

of paradise, swift revolving to annihilation, is never a wasted

thing: its influence, its educating power on the human soul, which

must at all risks be freed of its shell and taught to live, remains

in that soul, to be, I trust, in riper worlds, an eternal joy. At

the same time therefore I would not be too sad over such as Elsie,

now seated by a little stream, in a solitary hollow, alone with her

mortification--bathing her red eyes with her soaked handkerchief,

that she might appear without danger of inquisition before the

sister whom marriage had not made more tender, or happiness more

sympathetic.

But how is it that girls ready to cry more than their eyes out for

what they call love when the case is their own, are so often

hard-hearted when the case is that of another? There is something

here to be looked into--if not by an old surmiser, yet by the young

women themselves! Why are such relentless towards every slightest

relaxation of self restraint, who would themselves dare not a

little upon occasion? Here was Agnes, not otherwise an ill-natured

girl, positively exultant over Elsie’s discomfiture and

disappearance! The girl had done her no wrong, and she had had her

desire upon her: she had defeated her, and was triumphant; yet this

was how she talked of her to her own inner ear: “The impident

limmer!--makin’ up til a gentleman like oor laird ’at is to be!

Cudna he be doon a meenute but she maun be upon ’im to devoor ’im!

--an’ her father naething but the cursin’ flesher o’ Stanewhuns!

--forby ’at a’body kens she was promised to Jock Rantle, the mason

lad, an wad hae hed him, gien the father o’ her hadna sworn at them

that awfu’ ’at naither o’ them daured gang a fit further! Gien I

had loed a lad like Jock, wad I hae latten him gang for a screed o’

ill words! They micht hae sworn ’at likit for me! I wad hae latten

them sweir! Na, na! Cosmo’s for Elsie’s betters!”

Elsie appeared no more in any field that season--staid at Muir o’

Warlock, indeed, till the harvest was over.

But what a day was that Sunday to Cosmo! Labour is the pursuivant

of joy to prepare the way before him. His father received him like

a king come home with victory. And was he not a king? Did not the

Lord say he was a king, because he came into the world to bear

witness to the truth?

They walked together to church--and home again as happy as two boys

let out of school--home to their poor dinner of new potatoes and a

little milk, the latter brought by Aggie with her father’s

compliments “to his lairdship,” as Grizzie gave the message. What!

was I traitor bad enough to call it a poor dinner? Truth and

Scotland forgive me, for I know none so good! And after their

dinner immediately, for there was no toddy now for the laird, they

went to the drawing-room--an altogether pleasant place now in the

summer, and full of the scent of the homely flowers Grizzie

arranged in the old vases on the chimney-piece--and the laird laid

himself down on the brocade-covered sofa, and Cosmo sat close

beside him on a low chair, and talked, and told him this and that,

and read to him, till at last the old man fell asleep, and then

Cosmo, having softly spread a covering upon him, sat brooding over

things sad and pleasant, until he too fell asleep, to be with Joan

in his dreams.

At length the harvest was over, and Cosmo went home again, and in

poverty-stricken Castle Warlock dwelt the most peaceful, contented

household imaginable. But in it reigned a stillness almost awful.

So great indeed was the silence that Grizzie averred she had to

make much more noise than needful about her affairs that she might

not hear the ghosts. She did not mind them, she said, at night;

they were natural then; but it was _ugsome_ to hear them in the

daytime! The poorer their fare, the more pains Grizzie took to make

it palatable. The gruel the laird now had always for his supper,

was cooked with love rather than fuel. With what a tender hand she

washed his feet! What miracles of the laundress-art were the old

shirts he wore! Now that he had no other woman to look after him,

she was to him like a mother to a delicate child, in all but the

mother’s familiarity. But the cloud was cold to her also; she

seldom rimed now; and except when unusually excited, never returned

a sharp answer.

CHAPTER XL.

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

It is time I told my readers something about Joan. But it is not

much I have to tell. Cosmo received from her an answer to his

letter concerning the ring within a week; and this is what she

wrote:

“MY DEAR COSMO, of course I cannot understand why you went away as

you did. It makes me very unhappy, lest I should be somehow to

blame. But I trust you _entirely_. I too hope for the day when it

will be impossible to hide anything. I always find myself when I

wake in the morning, trying to understand why you went away so, and

one reason after another comes, but I have not got the real one

yet--at least I think not. I will pay Dr. Jermyn the money with all

my heart. I cannot pay him just yet, because the same day you left

he was called to London upon medical business, and has not yet

returned. Give my love to your father. I hope you are safe and

happy with him by this time. I wish I were with you! Will that day

ever come again? I cannot tell you how I miss you. It is not

wonderful, if you will only think of it. I hope, dear Cosmo, it was

not my fault that you went away. I know my behaviour was such as to

most people would have seemed very strange, but you are not most

people, and I did and do think you understood it, and made all the

allowance for me that could be made. I had almost forgot to thank

you for the money. I do thank you, Cosmo, but I should have been

much more grateful had you kept it. It is all so stupid--and next

to no use without you or your father! And to know I have such a

large sum in the house that my brother knows nothing about, quite

frightens me sometimes. I wish you had left me the horse to hide it

in. I feel very much like a thief, and I am sure my brother would

think of me as one if he knew. I feel sometimes as if there were an

evil imp in the drawer where it lies. Mind you do not make the

slightest allusion to it in any of your letters, and ask your

father not to do so either. It has just one comfort in it--that I

could now, if driven to it, run away. My love to your father. Your

loving cousin,

JOAN.”

Long before this letter arrived, Cosmo had told his father

everything; and he, although he could not believe there was

anything between Joan and the doctor, quite approved of his

conduct.

“Wait upon the Lord,” he said, after listening with the excitement

of a young heart, the ache of an old one, and the hope of a strong

one, to his son’s narrative; “wait patiently on him, and he will

give thee thy heart’s desire.”

They waited, and patiently.

What was there now that Cosmo could do to make a little money? With

Mr. Simon he held many an anxious conference on the matter, but

nothing could either think of except the heart-wearing endeavour

after favour with one or other of the magazines--involving an

outlay of much time, a sick deferment of hope, and great

discouragement; for how small were the chances of his work proving

acceptable to this or that man who, with the best intentions for

the _success_ of the magazine in his charge, and a keen enough

perception of the unworthy in literature, had most likely no

special love for the truth, or care to teach it, and was besides

under the incapacitating influence, the deadening, debilitating,

stupefying effect of having continually to judge--not to mention

the enervating hopelessness that at length falls, I presume, upon

every editor of a popular magazine, of finding one pearl among the

cartloads of oysters sent him by unknown divers in the gulf of

literature--filling him with amazement that there should be so many

to write so well, and so few to write better. Mr. Simon

nevertheless encouraged Cosmo to make the attempt, seeing that to

one who had nothing else to do, it involved no loss, and would be

certain gain to both head and heart, with just the possibility as

well of a little return in money. So he set to work, and wrote, and

wrote, and sent, and sent, but heard nothing and nothing.

The weeks came and went, and the frosts came and went, and then

came and staid: and the snow fell and melted, and then fell and

lay; and winter settled down with moveless rigour upon Castle

Warlock. Nor had it lasted long, before it became evident that the

natural powers of the laird had begun to fail more rapidly. But

sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and that in the matter

of death as well as of life; if we are not to forestall the

difficulties of living, surely we are not to forestall the sorrows

of dying. There was one thing, however, that did trouble him: the

good old man’s appetite had begun to fail, and how was he to get

for him what might tempt him to eat? He was always contented, nor

ever expressed a desire for anything not in the house; but this was

what sent Cosmo on his knees oftenest of all--oftener even than his

own spiritual necessities.

Never surely did household, even in Scotland, live upon less! Cosmo

had to watch Grizzie to know that she ate at all, and once came

nearly to the conclusion that she ate only dry meal.

He would have had his father take his grandmother’s room now she

was gone, but he would not leave the one he had last occupied with

his wife. From that he would go, he said, as she had gone. So Cosmo

took his grandmother’s, and there wrote and read--and when his

father could not, in the very cold weather, leave his bed, was

within the call of the slightest knock upon his floor. But every

now and then, when the cold would abate a little, the laird would

revive, and hope grow strong in the mind of his son: his father was

by no means an old man yet, he would persuade himself, and might be

intended to live many years; and thereupon he would set to work

with fresh vigour. But it is hard to labour without encouragement,

or apparent prospect of result.

Many a time did the Gracies go without milk that they might send

for the laird the little their cow gave; but, though Cosmo never

refused their kindness, as indeed he had no right, it went to his

heart that the two old people should go without what was as needful

for them as for his father. Mr. Simon too would every now and then

send something from his house or from the village--oftener than

Cosmo knew, for he had taken Grizzie into his confidence, and she

was discreet. But now at length fell a heavenly crumb to keep the

human sparrows picking.

The schoolmaster at the Muir, he who had behaved so insolently to

the Warlocks, father and son, had returned to his duties at the end

of the _hairst-play_, but had been getting worse for some time, and

was at length unable to go on. He must therefore provide a

substitute, and Cosmo heard that he was on the outlook for one.

Now Cosmo knew that, if he had desired to be made

parish-schoolmaster, the influence of Lord Lick-my-loof would have

been too strong against him, but it seemed possible that his old

master might have so far forgotten by-gones as to be willing to

employ him. He went to him therefore the same hour, and being shown

into the room where he sat wrapt in blankets, laid before him his

petition.

Now the schoolmaster, although both worldly in his judgment, and

hasty in his temper, was not a heartless man. Keen feelings are not

always dissociated from brutality even. One thing will reach the

heart that another will not; and much that looks like

heartlessness, may be mainly stupidity. He had never ceased, after

the first rush of passion, to regret he had used the word that

incensed the boy; and although he had never to his own heart

confessed himself wrong in knocking down the violator of the

sacredness of the master’s person, yet, unconsciously to himself,

he had for that been sorry also. Had he been sorrier, his pride

would yet have come between him and confession. When the boy, then,

on whom for years he had not set his eyes, stood unexpectedly

before him, a fine youth, down in the world, and come, as he

anticipated the moment he saw him, to beg a favour--behold an

opportunity, not only of making reparation without confession, but

of induing the dignity of forgiveness! He received Cosmo,

therefore, with the stiffness of a condescending inferior, it is

true, but with kindness notwithstanding, and, having heard his

request, accorded immediately a gracious assent, which so filled

Cosmo with gratitude that he could not help showing some emotion,

whereupon the heart of the schoolmaster in its turn asserted

itself; and from that moment friendly relations were established

between them.

Things were soon arranged. Cosmo was to be paid by the week, and

should commence his work the next morning. He returned therefore in

great consolation, carrying with him for his father one or two

simple luxuries the village afforded. That night he hardly could

sleep for joy.

He set about his new duties with zeal. Teaching itself is far from

easy work to anyone anxious to make it genuine; and Cosmo had

besides to leave home early in all kinds of wintry weather, and

walk to it through the bitterness of _black frost_, the shifting toil

of deep snow, or the assault of fierce storm. But he thought

nothing of the labour or its accessories of discomfort; the only

thing he felt hard was having to leave his father all the

winter-day alone, for it was generally five o’clock before he got

back to him.

And now in the heart of the laird arose a fresh gratitude for the

son God had given him. His hours passed mainly in devotion and

anticipation. Every time he received his son from the arms of the

winter to his own, it was like the welcoming of one lost and found

again.

Into the stern weather of their need had stolen a summer-day to

keep hope alive. Cosmo gave up his writing, and spent all the time

he had at home in waiting with mind and body upon his father. He

read to him--sometimes his own poetry,--and that his father liked

best of all, because therein he came nearer to his boy; now and

then, when he was too weary for thought, he would play backgammon

with him; and sometimes, when he was himself more tired than usual,

would get Grizzie to come and tell yet again the stories she used

to tell him when he was a child--some of which his father enjoyed

the more that he remembered having heard them when he was himself a

child. Upon one of these occasions, Grizzie brought from her

treasury a tale which the laird remembered his grandmother’s saying

she too had heard when she was a child, and therewith it came into

Cosmo’s head to write it out, as nearly as he could, in Grizzie’s

words, and try a magazine with it. For the first time he received

an answer--the most agreeable part of which was a small cheque, and

the next most agreeable the request that he would send another

paper of like character. Grizzie’s face, when she learned in what

way, and how largely, as it seemed to her, she had commenced

contributing to the income of the family, was a sight worth a good

deal more than a good dinner to both father and son. At first she

imagined Cosmo was making game of her, and stood upon the dignity

of her legends; but convinced at length of the fact of the case,

she stared into nowhere for a minute, and then said,

“Eh, sirs! Oot o’ the moo’ o’ babes an’ sucklin’s! The Lord be

praist, whan herts is raist!”

“Amen, Grizzie!” responded the laird. “Eh, wuman! gien ever ane

wan a place in a faimily, her ain by foreordeenment o’ the fatherly

providence ’at luiks efter the faimilies o’ men, Grizzie, ye’re

that wuman!”

Word to please Grizzie better the laird could not have found. It

sunk in and in, for her pleasure could make no show, there being no

room for any growth in the devotion of her ministrations.

And now Cosmo would take no more of the Gracies’ milk, but got

Aggie to go every day to a farm near, and buy what was required for

his father, and Aggie was regular as the clock, sunshine or storm.

But there was another thing in which she was not quite so regular,

but which yet she never missed when she could help it; so that, as

often as three and occasionally four times in the week, Cosmo would

find her waiting for him somewhere on his way home, now just

outside the village, now nearer Glenwarlock, according to the hour

when she had got through her work. The village talked, and Aggie

knew it, but did not heed it; for she had now in her own feeling

recovered her former position towards him; and it was one of the

comforts of Cosmo’s labour, when the dulness or contrariety of the

human animal began to be too much for him, to think of the talk

with Agnes he might hope was waiting him. Under Mr. Simon she had

made much progress, and was now a companion fit for any thinking

man. The road home was not half the length to Cosmo when Agnes

walked it too. Thinking inside, and labouring outside, she was, in

virtue of the necessities of her life, such a woman as not the most

vaunted means of education, without the weight and seeming

hindrances of struggle, can produce. One of the immortal women she

was--for she had set out to grow forevermore--for whom none can

predict an adequate future, save him who knows what he is making of

her.

Her behaviour to Cosmo was that of a half sister, who, born in a

humbler position, from which she could not rise, was none the less

his sister, and none the less loved him. Whether she had anything

to struggle with in order to keep this position, I am not prepared

to say; but I have a suspicion that the behaviour of Elspeth, which

so roused her scorn, had something to do with the restoring of the

old relation between them. The most jealous of _reasonable_ mothers

could hardly have complained of her behaviour in Cosmo’s company,

however much she might have disapproved of her seeking it as she

did. But it is well that God, and not even reasonable mothers, has

the ordering of those things in which they consider themselves most

interested, and are not unfrequently intrusive. Next to his father

and Mr. Simon, Agnes Gracie was the most valued of Cosmo’s friends.

Mr. Burns came next. For Lady Joan, he never thought of her by the

side of anybody else. If he had not learned to love her, I think he

might now very well have loved Agnes. And if Cosmo had asked her

now, when marriage was impossible, to marry him when he could

marry, I do not know what Agnes might have answered. But he did

not, and they remained the best of trusting friends.

CHAPTER XLI

GRANNIE AND THE STICK.

This winter, the wind that drops the ripened fruit not plucked

before, blew hard upon old Grannie, who had now passed her

hundredth year. For some time Agnes had not been able to do much

for her, but another great-grandchild, herself a widow and a

mother, was spending the winter with her. On his way to or from

school, Cosmo every day looked in to see or enquire after her; and

when he heard she had had a bad night he would always think how

with her would fail the earthly knowledge of not a little of the

past of his family, and upon one of these occasions resolved that

he would at least find out whether she remembered the bamboo he had

brought from Cairncarque.

Calling when school was over, he heard she was a little better, and

the next morning brought with him the cane. In the afternoon he

learned that she had had a better night, and going in found her in

her chair by the fireside, and took his place by her so that the

light from the window at her back should fall upon the stick.

He had not sat more than a minute, when he saw her eyes fixed upon

the horse.

“What’s that ye hae there, Cosmo?” she said.

“This?” returned Cosmo. “It’s a cane I pickit up upo’ my traivels.

What think ye o’ ’t?”

He held it out to her, but she did not move her hand towards it.

“Whaur got ye ’t?” she asked, her eyes growing larger as she looked.

“What gars ye speir, grannie?” he returned, with assumed

indifference.

“I dinna believe there was anither like the ane that’s like,” she

replied.

“In which case,” rejoined Cosmo, “it maun be the same. Ken ye

onything aboot it?”

“Ay; an’ sae du ye, or ye hae less sense nor I wad hae mintit o’ a

Warlock. That stick’s no a stick like ither sticks, an’ I wuss I

was nearer hame.”

“Ye dinna mean, grannie, there’s onything no canny aboot the

stick?” said Cosmo.

“I wadna like to think him near me ’at aucht it,” she replied.

“Wha aucht it, grannie?”

“Rive ’t a’ to bits, laddie; there’s something by ordnar aboot it.

The auld captain made o’ ’t as gien it had been his graven image.

That was his stick ye hae i’ yer han’, whaurever ye got it; an’ it

was seldom oot o’ his frae mornin’ till nicht. Some wad hae ’t he tuik

it til ’s bed wi’ him. I kenna aboot that; but gien by ony

accident he set it oot frae ’atween his knees, it was never oot o’

the sicht o’ his e’en. I hae seen him mysel’, missin’ ’t like, luik

up o’ a suddent as gien his sowl hed been requiret o’ ’im, an’ grip

at it as gien it hed been his proadigal son come hame oonexpeckit.”

Cosmo told her where he had found it.

“I tellt ye sae!” she cried. “The murderin’ villian cairriet it wi’

him, weel kennin what was intil ’t!”

Cosmo showed her the joints and their boxes, telling her he had

searched them all, but had found nothing. She shook her head.

“Ower late! ower late!” she murmured. “The rievin’ English lord was

aforehan’ wi’ the heir!”

She seemed then to fall into a kind of lethargic musing, and as

Cosmo had not yet made up his mind to show her the paper he had

found in the top of the cane, and ask her opinion concerning it,

for the present he bade her good-night--little thinking he was not

to see her again in this world. For that same night she died.

And now when his opportunity was over, and he could learn no more

from her, the mind of Cosmo was exercised afresh concerning the

bamboo. According to Grannie, its owner habitually showed anxiety

for its safety, and had it continually under his eye. It did not

seem likely that the rings had been in it long when it was taken

from him, neither that at any time he would have chosen to carry

like valuables about with him in such a receptacle. It could hardly

therefore be because of those or of similar precious things

concealed in it, that he was always so watchful over it. It was

possible, indeed, that from often using it for temporary

concealment, he had come to regard it with constant anxiety; but

the conjecture did not satisfy Cosmo. And as often as he turned the

thing over in his mind, his speculation invariably settled on the

unintelligible paper. It was true the said paper had seemed not so

much there for its own safety, as by chance employment for the

protection of the jewels round which it was, after all, rather

squeezed than folded; but a man may crumple up his notes and thrust

them in his pocket, yet care more for them than for anything else

in the same place.

Thinking of the thing one night after he was in bed, it occurred to

him suddenly to ask himself what he had done with the paper, for he

could not remember when he had last seen it. He got up, took the

stick, which being Joan’s gift he always carried to his room, and

opening the horse, which he could now do without his eyes, found it

empty. This made him uneasy, and he lay down again to think what he

could have done with it. It was dark night, and his anxiety was not

so great but that sleep presented its claim upon him. He resisted

it however, unwilling to yield until he had at least thought of

some probability with regard to the paper. But, like a soundless

tide, sleep kept creeping upon him, and he kept starting from it

with successive spur-pricks of the will which had not yet consented

to the nightly annihilation. Bethinking himself in one of these

revivals that he might have put it in his pocket-book, he stretched

his hand to the chair beside the bed on which lay his clothes. Then

came a gap in his consciousness, and the next thing he knew was the

pocket-book in his hand, with the memory or the dream, he could not

afterwards tell which, of having searched it in vain.

He now felt so anxious that he could rest no longer, but must get

up and look for the paper until he found it. He rose and lighted

his candle, went down the stair to the kitchen, and out of the

house--then began to doubt whether he was awake, but, like one

compelled, went on to the great door, and up to the drawing-room,

when first he became aware that the moon was shining, and all at

once remembered a former dream, and knew it was coming to him

again: there it was!--the old captain, seated in his chair, with

the moon on his face, and a ghastly look! He felt his hair about to

stand on end with terror, but resisted with all his might. The

rugged, scarred countenance gazed fixedly at him, and he did his

best to return the gaze. The appearance rose, and walked from the

room, and Cosmo knew he had to follow it to the room above, which

he had not once entered since his return. There, as before, it went

to the other side of the bed, and disappeared. But this time the

dream went a little farther. Despite his fear, Cosmo followed, and

in the wall, by the head of the bed, saw an open door. He hurried

up to it, but seemed to strike against the wall, and woke. He was

in bed, but his heart was beating a terribly quick march. His

pocket-book was in his hand: he struck a light, and searching in

it, found the missing paper.

The next night, he told his dream to his father and Mr Simon, and

they had a talk about dreams and apparitions; then all three pored

over the paper, but far from arriving at any conclusion, seemed

hardly to get a glimpse of anything that could be called light upon

its meaning.

CHAPTER XLII.

OBSTRUCTION.

All this time Cosmo had never written again to Joan; both his

father and he thought it better the former only should for the

present keep up the correspondence. But months had passed without

their hearing from her. The laird had written the third time, and

received no answer.

The day was now close upon them when the last of their land would

be taken, leaving them nothing but the kitchen-garden--a piece of

ground of about half an acre, the little terraced flower-garden to

the south of the castle, and the croft tenanted by James Gracie.

They applied to Lord Lick-my-loof to grant them a lease of the one

field next the castle, which the laird with the help of the two

women had cultivated the spring before, but he would not--his

resentment being as strong as ever, and his design deeper than they

saw.

The formal proceedings took their legal course; and upon and after

a certain day Lord Lick-my-loof might have been seen from not a few

of the windows of the castle, walking the fields to the north and

east, and giving orders to his bailiff concerning them. Within a

fortnight those to the north were no more to be entered from the

precincts of the castle except by climbing over a _dry-stane dyke_;

and before many additional days were gone by, they found him more

determined than they could have imagined, to give them annoyance.

He had procured a copy of an old plan of the property, and therein

discovered, as he had expected and hoped, that that part of the

road from the glen of the Warlock which passed the gate of the

castle, had been made by the present laird only about thirty years

before; whereupon--whether he was within his legal rights or not, I

do not know, but everybody knew the laird could not go to law--he

gave orders that it should be broken up from the old point of

departure, and a dry dyke built across the gate. But the persons to

whom the job was committed, either ashamed or afraid, took

advantage of an evening on which Cosmo had a class for

farm-labourers, to do the work after dark; whence it came that,

plodding homewards without a suspicion, he found himself as he

approached the gate all at once floundering among stones and broken

ground, and presently brought up standing, a man built out from his

own house by a mushroom wall--the entrance gone which seemed to him

as old as the hills around it, for it was older than his earthly

life. With a great shove he hurled half the height of it over, and

walking in, appeared before his father in such a rage as bewildered

and troubled him far more than any insolence of Lord Lick-my-loof

could have done.

“The scoundrel!” cried Cosmo; “I should like to give him a good

drubbing--only he’s an old man! But I’ll make him repent it--and

heartily, too!”

“Cosmo, my boy,” said the old man, “you are meddling with what does

not belong to you.”

“I know it’s your business, father, not mine; but--”

“It’s no more my business than yours, my son! ‘_Vengeance is mine,

saith the Lord._’--An’ the best o’ ’t is,” he went on, willing, by a

touch of humour in the truth he had to speak, to help turn the tide

of Cosmo’s wrath, “he’ll tak’ no more than’s guid for the sinner;

whereas yersel’, Cosmo, i’ the tune ye’re in noo, wad damn puir

auld Lick-my-loof for ever and ever! Man, he canna hurt me to the

worth o’ sic a heap o’ firin’!” Then changing his tone to absolute

seriousness, “Min’ ye tu, Cosmo,” he went on, “’at the maister never

threatent but aye left the thing, whatever it was, to him ’at

judges richteously. Ye want nothing but fair play, my son, an’

whether ye get it frae Lick-my-loof or no, there’s ane winna haud

it frae ye. Ye s’ get it, my son; ye s’ get it! The maister ’ll hae

a’ thing set richt at the lang last; an’ gien _he_ binna in a hurry,

we may weel bide. For mysel’, the man has smitten me upo’ the tae

cheek, an’ may hae the tither to lat drive at whan he likes. It’s

no worth liftin’ my auld airm to haud aff the smack.”

He laughed, and Cosmo laughed too--but grimly and out of tune. Then

the laird told him that just that piece of the road was an

improvement of his own, and had cost him a good bit of blasting: it

used to cross the stream twice before it got to the yard-gate. He

hardly thought, he said, that his lordship would like to have to

restore it; for, besides the expense, it would cost him so much out

of one of his best fields. In the meantime they must contrive how

to connect themselves with that part of the road which he dared not

touch. The worst of it was that there was no longer any direct

communication across the fields with James Gracie’s cottage. To

follow the road was to make a tremendous round.

Grizzie being already in bed when Cosmo came home, learned nothing

that night of the evil news.

At break of day Cosmo was up to see what could be done, and found

that a few steps cut in the rocky terraces of the garden would

bring one with ease to the road. He set about it immediately, and

before breakfast-time had finished the job.

The rage and indignation of Grizzie when she learned what had been

done, far surpassed Cosmo’s, and served to secure him from any

return of the attack. The flood of poetic abuse that she poured out

seemed inexhaustible, sweeping along with it tale after tale to the

prejudice of “that leein’ Lick-my-loof.” But, poetic as was her

speech, not a single rime did she utter for the space of an hour

during which she thus unloaded her heart.

“Ay!” she concluded, and thereafter sank into smouldering silence,

“there was a futpath there afore ye was born, laird, blast or no

blast; an’ to that I can fess them ’at can beir testimony, ane o’

them bein’ nane ither nor Jeames Gracie himsel’, wha’s ten lang

years aheid o’ yer lairdship! an’ lat me see man or dog ’at ’ll

haud me ohn taen my wull o’ my richts intil ’t! They canna hang me,

and for less I carena.”

The schoolmaster was at length fit to resume his labours, and about

a week after the event just recorded, Cosmo ceased to attend the

school in his stead.

CHAPTER XLIII.

GRIZZIE’S RIGHTS.

In those days Mistress Gracie fell sick, and though for a while

neither husband nor grand-daughter thought seriously of her

ailment, it proved more than her age, worn with labour, could

endure, and she began to sink. Then Grizzie must go and help nurse

her, for, Cosmo being at home all day long, the laird could well

enough spare her.

Father and son were now seldom out of each other’s sight. When

Cosmo was writing, the laird would be reading in the same room; and

when, after their dinner, the laird slept, Cosmo would generally

read his New-testament beside him, and as often as he woke fresh

from his nap, the two would talk about what the one had been

reading, and Cosmo would impart what fresh light the Greek had

given him. The capacity of the old man for taking in what was new,

was wonderful, and yet not to be wondered at, seeing it was the

natural result of the constant practice of what he learned--for all

truth understood becomes duty. To him that obeys well, the truth

comes easy; to him who does not obey, it comes not, or comes in

forms of fear and dismay. The true, that is, the obedient man,

cannot help seeing the truth, for it is the very business of his

being--the natural concern, the correlate of his soul. The religion

of these two was obedience and prayer; their theories only the

print of their spiritual feet as they walked homeward.

The road which Lord Lick-my-loof had broken up, went nearly

straight from Castle Warlock to the cottage of the Gracies, where

it joined the road that passed his lodge. And now came Grizzie’s

call to action! The moment she found her services required for

Mistress Gracie, she climbed the gate of the close, from the top of

it stepped upon the new wall, thence let herself down on the

disfeatured road, and set out to follow its track, turn for turn,

through the ploughed land. In the evening she came back the same

way, scrambled over the wall and the gate, and said never a word,

nor was asked a question. To visit his tenants the laird himself

went a mile about, but most likely he was not prepared to strain

his authority with Grizzie, and therefore was as one who knew

nothing.

Before the week was out, her steps, and hers alone, had worn a

visible and very practicable footpath across the enemy’s field; and

whether Lord Lick-my-loof was from home, or that he willed the

trespass to assume its most defined form and yield personal

detection ere he moved in the matter, the week went by without

notice taken.

On the Sunday morning however, as Grizzie was on her way to the

cottage, she suddenly spied, over the edge of a hollow through

which her path ran, the head of Lord Lick-my-loof: he was following

the track she had made, and would presently meet her. Wide spread

her nostrils, like those of the war-horse, for she too smelt the

battle from afar.

“Here’s auld Belzebub at last! ’gaein to an’ fro i’ the earth, an’

walkin’ up an’ doon intil ’t!” she said to herself. “Noo’s for me

to priv the trowth ’o Scriptur! Whether he’ll flee or no, we’ll

see: I s’ resist him. It’s no me ’at’ll rin, ony gait!”

His lordship had been standing by his lodge on the outlook, and

when he saw Grizzie approaching, had started to encounter her. As

she drew near he stopped, and stood in the path motionless. On she

came till within a single pace of him. He did not move. She

stopped.

“I doobt, my lord,” she said, “I’ll hae to mak the ro’d a bit

wider. There’s hardly room for yer lordship an’ anither. But I’m

gettin’ on fine!”

“Is the woman an idiot!” exclaimed his lordship.

“Muckle siclike ’s yersel’, my lord!” answered Grizzie;--“no that

muckle wit, but I micht hae mair, to guide my steps throu’ the

wilderness ye wad mak o’ no an ill warl’.”

“Are you aware, woman, that you have made yourself liable to a

heavy fine for trespass? This field is mine!”

“An’ this fitpath’s mine, my lord--made wi’ my ain feet, an’ I

coonsel ye to stan’ aside, an’ lat me by.”

“Woman, you are insolent.”

“Troth, I needna yer lordship to tell me that! Nane the less ae

auld wife may say ’at she likes til anither.”

“I tell you there is no thoroughfare here.”

“An’ I tell you there _is_ a thoroughfare, an’ ye hae but to wull the

trowth to ken ’at there is. There was a ro’d here lang or yer

lordship’s father was merried upo’ yer lordship’s mither, an’ the

law--what o’ ’t yer lordship hasna the makin’ o’--is deid agen ye:

that I can priv. Hae me up: I can tak my aith as weel ’s onybody

whan I’m sure.”

“I will do so; but in the meantime you must get off my property.”

“Weel, stan’ by, an’ I s’ be aff o’ ’t in less time nor yer

lordship.”

“You must go back.”

“Hooly an’ fairly! Bide till the gloamin’, an’ I s’ gang

back--never fear. I’ the mids o’ the meantime I’m gaein’ aff o’ yer

property the nearest gait--an’ that’s straucht efter my nose.”

She tried, for the tenth time or so, to pass, but turn as she

might, he confronted her. She persevered. He raised the stick he

carried, perhaps involuntarily, perhaps thinking to intimidate her.

Then was the air rent with such an outcry of assault as grievously

shook the nerves of his lordship.

“Hold your tongue, you howling jade!” he cried--and the epithet

sufficed to destroy every possible remnant of forbearance in the

mind of Grizzie.

“There’s them ’at tells me, my lord,” she said with sudden calm,

“’at that’s hoo ye misca’d Annie Fyfe, puir lass, whan she cam efter

ye, fifty year ago, to yer father’s hoose, an’ gat na a plack to

haud her an’ her bairn frae the roadside! Ye needna girn like that,

my lord! Spare yer auld teeth for the gnashin’ they’ll _hae_ to du.

--Though ye fear na God nor regaird man, yer hoor’ll come, an’ yer

no like to bid it walcome.”

Beside himself with rage, Lord Lick-my-loof would have laid hold of

her, but she uttered a louder cry than before--so loud that James

Gracie’s deaf colley heard her, and, having a great sense of

justice, more courage than teeth, and as little regard to the law

of trespass as Grizzie herself, came, not bounding, but tearing

over the land to her rescue, as if a fox were at one of his sheep.

He made straight for his lordship.

Now this dog was one of the chief offences of the cottage, for he

had the moral instinct to know and hate a bad man, and could not

abide Lord Lick-my-loof. He had never attacked him, for the colley

cultivated self-restraint, but he had made his lordship aware that

there was no friendship in his heart towards him.

Silent almost as swift, he was nearly on the enemy before either he

or Grizzie saw him. His lordship staggered from the path, and

raised his stick with trembling hand.

“Doon wi’ ye! doon, Covenant! doon, ye tyke!” cried Grizzie. “Haud

yer teeth gien ye wad keep the feow ye hae! Deil a bite but banes

is there i’ the breeks o’ ’im!”

The dog had obeyed, and now stood worshipping her with his tail,

while with his eyes he watched the enemy and his stick.

“Hark ye, Covenant,” she went on, “whan his sowl he selled him, the

deevil telled him, ’at never mair sud he turn a hair at cry or

moanin’ in highway or loanin’, for greitin’ or sweirin’ or grane o’

despair. Haud frae him, Covenant, my fine fallow, haud frae him.”

Grizzie talked to the dog nor lifted her eyes. When she looked up,

Lord Lick-my-loof was beyond the hollow, hurrying as if to fetch

help. In a few minutes she was safe in the cottage, out of breath,

but in high spirits; and even the dying woman laughed at her tale

of how she had served his lordship.

“But ye ken, Grizzie,” suggested Jeames, “we’re no to return evil

for evil, nor flytin’ for flytin’!”

“Ca’ ye that flytin’?” cried Grizzie. “Ye sud hear what I didna

say! That was flytin’! We’ll be tried by what we _can_ do, no by what

we canna! An’ for returnin’ evil, did I no haud the dog frae the

deithshanks o’ ’im?”

The laird and Cosmo had spent as usual a quiet and happy Sunday. It

was now halfway down the gloamin’ towards night, and they sat

together in the drawing-room, the laird on the sofa, and Cosmo at

one of the windows. The sky was a cold clear calm of thin blue and

translucent green, with a certain stillness which in my mind will

more or less for ever be associated with a Scotch Sunday. A long

low cloud of dark purple hung like a baldachin over the yet

glimmering coals on the altar of sunset, and the sky above it was

like a pale molten mass of jewels that had run together with heat,

and was still too bright for the stars to show. They were both

looking out at the sky, and a peace as of the unbeginnings of

eternity was sinking into their hearts. The laird’s thoughts were

with his Marion in the region beyond the dream; Cosmo’s with Joan

in the dream that had vanished into itself. If love be religion,

what matter whether its object be in heaven or on the earth! Love

itself is the only true nearness. He who thinks of his Saviour as

far away can have made little progress in the need of him; and he

who does not need much cannot know much, any more than he who is

not forgiven much can love much. They sat silent, their souls

belonging rather to the heaven over their heads than the earth

under their feet, when suddenly the world of stillness was invaded

with hideous discord, above which almost immediately rose the well

known voice of Grizzie in fierce opposition. They rushed out. Over the

gate and obstructing wall they descried, indistinct in the dull

light, several heads, and hurrying thither, found Grizzie in the

grasp of Lord Lick-my-loof’s bailiff, and his lordship looking on

with his hands in his pockets and the smile that was his own. But

it was not for her own sake Grizzie cried out: there were two more

in the group--two of the dog-kind, worrying each other with all the

fierceness of the devotion which renders a master’s quarrel more

than the dog’s own. They were, however, far from equally matched,

and that was the cause of Grizzie’s cry; for the one was the

somewhat ancient colley named Covenant, whose teeth were not what

they had been, and the other a mastiff belonging to Lord

Lick-my-loof, young and malevolent, loosed from the chain the first

time that night for a month. It looked ill for Covenant, but he was

a brave dog, incapable of turning his back on death itself when

duty called him, and what more is required of dog or man! Both the

dogs were well bred each in its kind; Covenant was the more human,

Dander the more devilish; and the battle was fierce.

The moment Cosmo descried who the combatants were, he knew that

Covenant had no fair chance, and was over the wall, and had thrown

himself upon them to part them; whereupon the bailiff, knowing his

master desired the death of Covenant, let Grizzie go, and would

have rushed upon Cosmo. But it was Grizzie’s turn now, and she

clung to the bailiff like an anaconda. He cursed and swore; nor

were there lacking on Grizzie’s body the next day certain bruises

of which she said nothing except to Aggie; but she had got hold of

his cravat, and did her best to throttle him. Cosmo did the same

for the mastiff with less effect, and had to stun him with a blow

on the head from a great stone, when he caught up Covenant in his

arms, and handed him over the wall and the gate to his father. The

same moment the bailiff got away from Grizzie, and made at him,

calling to the mastiff. But the dog, only half recovered from the

effects of Cosmo’s blow, either mistaking through bewilderment, or

moved by some influence ill explicable, instead of attacking Cosmo,

rushed at his master. Rage recalls dislike, and it may be he

remembered bygone irritations and teasings. His lordship, however,

suddenly became aware of his treacherous intent, and in a moment

his legs had _saved themselves_ over wall, and gate, and he stood

panting and shaking beside the laird, in his turn the trespasser.

The dog would have been over after him, had not Cosmo, turning his

back on the bailiff, who had not observed his master’s danger,

knocked the dog, in the act of leaping, once more to the earth,

when a rush of stones that came with him, and partly fell upon him,

had its share in cowing him.

“Haud him! haud him! haud the deevil, ye brute! Haud the brute, ye

deevil!” cried his lordship.

“It’s yer ain dog, my lord,” said the bailiff, whatever consolation

there might be in the assurance, as he took him by the collar.

“Am I to be worriet ’cause the dog’s my ain? Haud him the sickerer.

He s’ be ayont mischeef the morn!”

“He’s the true dog ’at sides wi’ the richt; he’ll be in bliss afore

his maister,” said Grizzie, as she descended from the gate, and

stood on her own side of the fence.

But the laird was welcoming his lordship with the heartiness of one

receiving an unexpected favour in the visit.

“Weel loupen, my lord!” he said. “Come in an’ rist yersel’ a bit,

an’ I s’ tak ye back on to yer ain property an easier gait nor ower

a dry-stane-dyke.”

“Gien it _be_ my property,” returned his lordship, “I wad be obleeged

to ye, laird, to haud yer fowk aff o’ ’t!”

“Grizzie, wuman,” said the laird, turning to her, “ye dinna surely

want to bring me to disgrace! The lan’ ’s his lordship’s--bought

and paid for, an’ I hae no more richt ower ’t nor Jeames Gracie’s

colley here, puir beast!”

“Ye may be richt aboot the lan’, laird, the mair’s the pity!”

answered Grizzie; “but the futpath, beggin’ the pardon o’ baith

lairdship and lordship, belangs to me as muckle as to aither o’ ye.

Here I stan’, alane for mysel’! That ro’d ’s my neebor, an’ I’m

bun’ to see til ’t, for it wad be a sair vex to mony a puir body

like mysel’ to louse the richt til ’t.”

“You’ll have to prove what you say, woman,” said his lordship.

“Surely, Grizzie,” expostulated the laird, “his lordship maun

un’erstan’ affairs o’ this natur’, as well ’s you or me!”

“As to the un’erstan’in’ o’ them, laird, I mak nae doobt,” returned

Grizzie; “an’ as little ’at he’s o’ the wrang side o’ the wa’ this

time.”

“Na, Grizzie--for he’s upo’ _my_ side o’ ’t, an’ walcome.”

“He’s jist as walcome, naither mair nor less, to the path I made

wi’ my ain feet throu’ the rouchest pleughed lan’ I ever crossed.”

Therewith Grizzie, who hated compromise, turned away, and went into

the kitchen.

“Come this way, my lord,” said the laird.

“Take the dog home,” said his lordship to the bailiff. “Have him

shot the first thing to-morrow morning. If it weren’t the Sabbath,

I’d have it done to-night.”

“He’s good watch, my lord,” interceded the man.

“He may be a good watch, but he’s a bad dog,” replied his lordship.

“I’ll have neither man nor dog about me that doesn’t know his

master. You may poison him if you prefer it.”

“Come awa’, come awa’, my lord!” said the laird. “This, as ye hae

said, ’s the Sabbath-nicht, an’ the thoucht o’ ’t sud mak us

mercifu’. I hae naething to offer ye but a cheir to rist ye in, an

syne we’ll tak the ro’d like neebors thegither an’ I’ll shaw ye the

w’y hame.”

His lordship yielded, for his poor thin legs were yet trembling

with the successful effort they had made under the inspiration of

fear, and now that spur was gone, the dyke seemed a rampart

insurmountable, and he dared not attempt it.

“What are you keeping that cursed dog there for?” he said, catching

sight, as he turned, of Cosmo, who held Covenant by the back of the

neck.

“I am only waiting till your lordship’s mastiff is out of the way,”

answered Cosmo.

“That you may set him at me again, as that old hag of yours did

this morning!” As he spoke they had neared the kitchen-door, open

as usual, and Grizzie heard what he said.

“That’s as big a lee as ever your lordship h’ard tell i’ the

coort,” she cried. “It’s the natur o’ dougs to tak scunners. They

see far ben. Fess the beast in here, Cosmo; I s’ be answerable for

’im. The puir animal canna bide my lord.”

“Hoot, hoot, Grizzie,” began the laird anew, with displeasure in

his tone, but already the dog was in, and the kitchen-door closed.

“Leave her alone, Mr. Warlock, if you don’t want to have the worst

of it,” said his lordship, trying to laugh. “But seriously, laird,”

he went on, “it is not neighbourly to treat me like this. Oblige me

by giving orders to your people not to trespass on my property. I

have paid my money for it, and must be allowed to do with it as I

please.”

“My lord,” returned the laird, “I have not given, and will not give

you the smallest annoyance in my own person.--I hope yet to possess

the earth,” he interjected, half unconsciously, to himself, but

aloud. “But--”

“Hey! hey!” said his lordship, thinking the man was sending his

reason after his property.

“But,” continued the laird, “I cannot interfere with the rights of

my neighbours. If Grizzie says she has a right of way--and I think

very probably she knows what she is about--I have no business to

interfere.”

“Confound your cant!” cried his lordship. “You care no more for

your neighbours than I do. You only want to make yourself

unpleasant to me. Show me the way out, and be damned.”

“My lord,” said Cosmo, “if you weren’t an old man, I would show you

the quickest way out! How dare you speak so to a man like my

father!”

“Hold your tongue, you young fool! _You_ stand up for your father!

--idling about at home and eating him up! Why don’t you list? With

your education you could work your way up. I warn you, if you fall

into my hands, I will not spare you. The country will be better to

live in when such as you are scarcer.”

“Cosmo,” said his father, “do not answer him. Show his lordship the

way out, and let him go.”

As they went through the garden, Lord Lick-my-loof sought to renew

the conversation, but Cosmo maintained a stern silence, and his

lordship went home incensed more than ever with the contumacious

paupers.

But the path in which Grizzie gloried as the work of her own feet,

hardened and broadened, and that although she herself had very

little _foot_ in it any more. For the following week Mistress Gracie

died; and the day after she was buried, the old cotter came to the

laird, and begged him to yield, if he pleased, the contested point,

and part with the bit of land he occupied. For all the neighbours

knew his lordship greatly coveted it, though none of them were

aware what a price he had offered for it.

“Ye see, sir,” he said, “noo ’at _she’s_ gane, it maitters naething

to Aggie or me whaur we are or what comes o’ ’s.”

“But wadna she hae said the same, gien it had been you ’at was

gane, Jeames?” asked the laird.

“’Deed wad she! She was aye a’ thing for ither fowk, an’ naething

for hersel’! The mair cause she sud be considered the noo!”

“An’ ca’ ye that considerin’ her--to du the minute she’s gane the

thing wad hae grieved her by ordinar’ whan she was wi’ ye?”

“Whan we war thegither,” returned Jeames with solemnity, “there was

a heap o’ things worth a hantle; noo ’at we’re pairted there’s jist

nearhan’ as mony ’at’s no worth a strae.”

“Weel du I un’erstan’ ye, Jeames!” returned the laird with a sigh.

“But what wad come o’ yersel’ an’ Aggie wi’oot a place to lay yer

heid? We’re no to mak oorsel’s a’ sae ill aff as was the Maister;

we maun lea’ that to his wull. Ye wadna hae _her_ luik doon an’ see

ye in less comfort nor whan she was wi’ ye!”

“Thereanent, sir, I had a word o’ proposal to mak,” rejoined

Jeames. “Ye hae nae men noo aboot the place: what for sudna Aggie

an’ me come and bide i’ the men’s quarters, and be at han’ to len’

a han’ whan it was wantit? Aggie an’ me wad help to get mair oot o’

the gairden; I wad hae mair time for weyvin’; an’ ye wad get a heap

for the bit grun’ frae Lick-my loof. It wadna be an ill muv, I do

believe, laird, for aither pairt. Consider o’ ’t, sir.”

The laird saw that they might at least be better accommodated at

the castle than the cottage. He would consult his son, he said.

Cosmo in his turn consulted Aggie, and was satisfied. In the winter

the wind blew through the cottage bitterly, she said.

As soon as it was settled, Cosmo went to call on his lordship, and

was shown into his library.

His lordship guessed his errand, for his keen eye had that same

morning perceived signs of change about the cottage. He received

him with politeness, and begged to know wherein he could serve him.

From his changed behaviour Cosmo thought he must be sorry for the

way he had spoken to the laird.

“My father sent me,” he said, “to inform your lordship that he is

now at length in a position to treat with your lordship concerning

the proposal to purchase James Gracie’s croft.”

“I am greatly obliged to your father,” replied Lord Lick-my-loof,

softly wiping one hand with the other, “for his attention, but I

have no longer any desire to secure the land. It has been so long

denied me, that at length I have grown indifferent to the

possession of it. That is a merciful provision of the Creator, that

the human mind should have the faculty of accommodating itself to

circumstances, even of positive nuisance.”

Cosmo rose.

“As soon as you have made up your mind,” added his lordship, rising

also, “to part with what remains of the property, _including the

castle_, I should be glad to have the refusal of that. It would make

a picturesque ruin from certain points of view on the estate.”

Cosmo bowed, and left his lordship grinning with pleasure.

CHAPTER XLIV.

ANOTHER HARVEST.

The harvest brought again the opportunity of earning a pound or

two, and Cosmo was not the man to let it slip. But he would not go

so far from home again, for, though his father never pined or

complained, Cosmo could see that his days shrunk more rapidly when

he was not with him: left alone, he began at once to go home the

faster--as if another dragging anchor were cast loose, and he was

drawn the more swiftly whither sets the tide of life. To the old

and weary man the life to come showed as rest; to the young and

active Cosmo it promised more work. It is all one; what we need for

rest as well as for labour is _life_; more life we want, and that is

everything. That which is would be more. The eternal root causes us

to long for more existence, more being, more of God’s making, less

of our own unmaking. Our very desire after rest comes of life, life

so strong that it recoils from weariness. The imperfect needs to be

more--must grow. The sense of growth, of ever enlarging existence,

is essential to the created children of an infinite Father; for in

the children the paternal infinite goes on working--by them

recognizable, not as infinitude, but as growth.

The best thing in sight for both father and son seemed to Cosmo a

place in Lord Lick-my-loof’s harvest--an engagement to reap,

amongst the rest, the fields that had so lately been his own. He

would then be almost within sight of his father when not with him.

He applied, therefore, to the _grieve_, the same man with whom he had

all but fought that memorable Sunday of Trespass. Though of a

coarse, the man was not of a spiteful nature, and that he had

quarrelled with another was not to him sufficient reason for

hating him ever after; yet, as he carried the application to his

lordship, for he dared not without his master’s leave engage to his

service the man he counted his enemy, it gave him pleasure to see

what he called poor pride brought to the shame of what he called

beggary--as if the labour of a gentleman’s hands were not a good

deal further from beggary than the living upon money gained anyhow

by his ancestors!

Lord Lick-my-loof smouldered awhile before giving an answer. The

question was, which would most gratify the feelings he cherished

towards the man of old blood, high station, and evil fortunes--to

accept or refuse the offered toil. His deliberation ended in his

giving orders to the bailiff to _fee_ the young laird, but to mind he

did not pay workmen’s wages for gentleman’s work--which injunction

the bailiff allowed to reach Cosmo’s ears.

The young laird, as they all called him, was a favourite with his

enemy’s men--partly, that they did not love their master, and were

the more ready to side with the man he oppressed; partly, because

they admired the gentleman who so cheerfully descended to their

level, and, showing neither condescension nor chagrin, was in all

simplicity friendly with them; and partly, because some of them had

been to his evening-school the last winter, and had become attached

to him. No honest heart indeed could be near Cosmo long and not

love him--for the one reason that humanity was in him so largely

developed. To him a man was a man whatever his position or calling;

he beheld neither in the great man a divinity, nor in the small man

a slave; but honoured in his heart every image of the living God it

had pleased that God to make--honoured every man as, if not already

such in the highest sense, yet destined to be one day a brother of

Jesus Christ.

In the arrangement of the mowers, the grieve placed Cosmo last, as

presumably the least capable, that he might not lower the rate of

the field. But presently Cosmo contrived to make his neighbour in

front a little uneasy about his legs, and when the man humourously

objected to having them cut off, asked him, for the joke of the

thing, to change places with him. The man at once consented; the

rest behaved with equal courtesy, showing no desire to contest with

him the precedence of labour; before the end of the long bout,

Cosmo swung the leading scythe; and many were the compliments he

received from his companions, as they stood sharpening for the

next, in which they were of one mind he must take the lead, some

begging him however to be considerate, as they were not all so

young as he, while others warned him that, if he went on as he had

begun, he could not keep it up, but the first would be the last

before the day was over. Cosmo listened, and thereafter restrained

himself, having no right to overwork his companions; yet

notwithstanding he had cause, many a time in after life, to

remember the too great exertion of that day. Even in the matter of

work a man has to learn that he is not his own, but has a master,

whom he must not serve as if he were a hard one. When our will goes

hand in hand with God’s, then are we fellow-workers with him in the

affairs of the universe--not mere discoverers of his ways, watching

at the outskirts of things, but labourers with him at the heart of

them.

The next day Lord Lick-my-loof’s shadow was upon the field, and

there he spent some time watching how things went.

Now Grizzie and Aggie, irrespective of Cosmo’s engagement, of which

at the time they were unaware, had laid their heads together, and

concluded that, although they could not both be at once away from

the castle, they might between them, with the connivance of the

bailiff, do a day’s work and earn a day’s wages; and although the

grieve would certainly have listened to no such request from

Grizzie in person, he was incapable of refusing it to Aggie. Hence

it followed that Grizzie, in her turn that morning, was gathering

to Cosmo’s scythe, hanging her labour on that of the young laird

with as devoted a heart as if he had been a priest at the high

altar, and she his loving acolyte. I doubt if his lordship would

have just then approached Cosmo, had he noted who the woman was

that went stooping along behind the late heir of the land, now a

labourer upon it for the bread of his household.

“Weel, Glenwarlock!” said the old man, giving a lick to the palm of

his right hand as he stopped in front of the nearing mower, “ye’re

a famous han’ at the scythe! The corn boos doon afore ye like the

stooks to Joseph.”

“I hae a guid arm an’ a sharp scythe, my lord,” answered Cosmo

cheerily.

“Whisht, whisht, my lord!” said Grizzie. “Gien the corn hear ye,

it’ll stan’ up again an’ cry out. Hearken til ’t.”

The morning had been very still, but that moment a gust of wind

came and set all the corn rustling.

“What! _you_ here!--Crawford, you rascal!” cried his lordship,

looking round, “turn this old cat out of the field.”

But he looked in vain; the grieve was nowhere in sight.

“The deil sew up yer lordship’s moo’ wi’ an awn o’ beer!” (_a beard

of barley_) cried Grizzie. “Haith, gien I be a cat, ye s’ hear me

curse!”

His lordship bethought himself that she would certainly disgrace

him in the hearing of his labourers if he provoked her further, for

a former encounter had revealed that she knew things not to his

credit. They were all working away as if they had not an ear

amongst them, but almost all of them heard every word.

“Hoots, wuman!” he said, in an altered tone, “canna ye tak a

jeist?”

“Na; there’s ower mony o’ yer lordship’s jeists hae turnt fearsome

earnest to them at tuik them!”

“What mean ye, wuman?”

“Wuman! quo’ he? My name’s Grisel Grant. Wha kens na auld Grizzie,

’at never turnt her back on freen’ or foe? But I’m no gaein til

affront yer lordship wi’ the sicht o’ yersel’ afore fowk--sae lang,

that is, as ye haud a quaiet souch. But gie the yoong laird there

ony o’ the dirt ye’re aye lickin’ oot o’ yer loof, an’ the auld cat

’ll be cryin’ upo’ the hoose-tap!”

“Grizzie! Grizzie!” cried Cosmo, ceasing his work and coming back

to where they stood, “ye’ll ruin a’!”

“What is there to ruin ’at he can ruin mair?” returned Grizzie.

“Whan yer back’s to the wa’, ye canna fa’. An angry chiel’ ’ill ca’

up the deil; but an angry wife ’ll gar him rin for ’s life. When I’m

angert, I fear no aiven his lordship there!”

Lord Lick-my-loof turned and went, and Grizzie set to work like a

fury, probably stung by the sense that she had gone too far. Old

woman as she was, she had soon overtaken Cosmo, but he was sorely

vexed, and did not speak to her. When after a while the heat of her

wrath was abated, Grizzie could not endure the silence, for in

every motion of Cosmo’s body before her she read that she had hurt

him grievously.

“Laird!” she cried at last, “my stren’th’s gane frae me. Gien ye

dinna speyk to me, I’ll drap.”

Cosmo stopped his scythe in mid swing, and turned to her. How could

he resist such an appeal!

“Grizzie,” he said, “I winna deny ’at ye hae vext me,--”

“Ye needna; I wadna believe ye. But ye dinna ken yon man as I du,

or ye wadna be sae sair angert at onything wuman cud say til ’im.

Gien I was to tell ye what I ken o’ ’im, ye wad be affrontit afore

me, auld wife as I am. Haith, ye wadna du anither stroke for ’im!”

“It’s for the siller, no for _him_, Grizzie. But gien he war as ill

as ye ca’ ’im, a’ the same, as ye weel ken, the Lord maks his sun

to rise on the evil an’ on the good, an’ sen’s rain on the just an’

on the unjust!”

“Ow ay! the Lord can afoord it!” remarked Grizzie.

“An’ them ’at wad be his, maun afoord it tu, Grizzie!” returned

Cosmo. “Whaur’s the guid o’ ca’in’ ill names, ’uman?”

“Ill’s the trowth o’ them ’at’s ill. What for no set ill names to

ill duers?”

“Cause a christian ’s b’un’ to destroy the warks o’ the evil ane;

an’ ca’in’ names raises mair o’ them. The only thing ’at maks awa’

wi’ ill, is the man himsel’ turnin’ again’ ’t, an’ that he’ll never

du for ill names. Ye wad never gar me repent that gait, Grizzie.

Hae mercy upo’ the auld sinner, ’uman.”

The pace at which they were making up for lost time was telling

upon Grizzie, and she was silent. When she spoke again it was upon

another subject.

“I cud jest throttle that grieve there!” she said. “To see ’im the

nicht afore last come hame to the verra yett wi’ Aggie, was enouch

to anger the sanct ’at I’m no.”

Jealousy sent a pang through the heart of Cosmo. Was not Aggie one

of the family--more like a sister to him than any other could ever

be? The thought of her and a man like Crawford was unendurable.

“She cudna weel help hersel’,” he rejoined; “an’ whaur’s the

maitter, sae lang as she has naething to say til ’im?”

“An’ wha kens hoo lang that may be?” returned Grizzie. “The hert o’

a wuman’s no deceitfu’ as the Buik says o’ a man’s, an’ sae ’s a

heap the easier deceivt. The chield’s no ill-luikin’! an’ I s’

warran’ he’s no sae rouch wi’ a yoong lass as wi’ an auld wife.”

“Grizzie, ye wadna mint ’at oor Aggie’s ane to be ta’en wi’ the

luiks o’ a man!”

“What for no--whan it’s a’ the man has! A wuman’s hert’s that saft,

whiles, ’at she’ll jist tak ’im, no to be sair upon ’im. I wadna

warran’ ony lass! Gien the fallow cairry a fair face, she’ll sweir

her conscience doon he maun hae a guid hert.”

Thus Grizzie turned the tables upon Cosmo, and sheltered herself

behind them. Scarcely a word did he speak the rest of the morning.

At noon, when toil gladly made way for dinner, they all sat down

among the stooks to eat and drink--all except Grizzie, who,

appropriating an oatcake the food she and Aggie had a right to

between them, carried it home, and laid the greater part aside.

Cosmo ate and drank with the rest of the labourers, and enjoyed the

homely repast as much as any of them. By the time the meal was

over, Aggie had arrived to take Grizzie’s place.

It was a sultry afternoon; and what with the heat and the annoyance

of the morning from Grizzie’s tongue and her talk concerning Agnes,

the scythe hung heavy in Cosmo’s hands, nor had Aggie to work her

hardest to keep up with him. But she was careful to maintain her

proper distance from him, for she knew that the least suspicion of

relaxing effort would set him off like a thrashing machine. He led

the field, nevertheless, at fair speed; his fellow labourers were

content; and the bailiff made no remark. But he was so silent, and

prolonged silence was so unusual between them, that Aggie was

disquieted.

“Are ye no weel, Cosmo?” she asked.

“Weel eneuch, Aggie,” he answered. “What gars ye speir?”

“Ye’re haudin’ yer tongue sae sair.--And,” she added, for she

caught sight of the bailiff approaching, “ye hae lost the last inch

or twa o’ yer stroke.”

“I’ll tell ye a’ aboot it as we gang hame,” he answered, swinging

his scythe in the arc of a larger circle.

The bailiff came up.

“Dinna warstle yersel’ to deith, Aggie,” he said.

“I maun haud up wi’ my man,” she replied.

“He’s a het man at the scythe--ower het! He’ll be fit for naething

or the week be oot. He canna haud on at this rate!”

“Ay can he--fine that! Ye dinna ken oor yoong laird. He’s worth twa

ordinar’ men. An’ gien ye dinna think me fit to gather til’ ’im, I

s’ lat ye see ye’re mistaen, Mr. Crawford.”

And Aggie went on gathering faster and faster.

“Hoots!” said the bailiff, going up to her, and laying his hand on

her shoulder, “I ken weel ye hae the spunk to work till ye drap.

But there’s na occasion the noo. Sit ye doon an’ tak yer breath

a meenute--here i’ the shaidow o’ this stook. Whan Glenwarlock’s at

the tither en’, we’ll set tu thegither an’ be up wi’ him afore he’s

had time to put a fresh edge on ’s scythe. Come, Aggie! I hae lang

been thinkin’ lang to hae a word wi’ ye. Ye left me or I kent whaur

I was the ither nicht.”

“My time’s no my ain,” answered Aggie.

“Whause is ’t than?”

“While’s it’s the laird’s, an’ while’s it’s my father’s, an’ noo

it’s his lordship’s.”

“It’s yer ain sae lang ’s I’m at the heid o’ ’s lordship’s affairs.”

“Na; that canna be. He’s boucht my time, an’ he’ll pey me for ’t,

an’ he s’ hae his ain.”

“Ye needna consider ’im mair nor rizzon: he’s been nae freen’ to

you or yours.”

“What’s that to the p’int?”

“A’ thing to the p’int--wi’ me here to haud it richt atween ye.”

“Ca’ ye that haudin’ o’ ’t richt, to temp’ me to wrang ’im?” said

Aggie, going steadily on at her gathering, while the grieve kept

following her step by step.

“Ye’re unco short wi’ a body, Aggie!”

“I weel may be, whan a body wad hae me neglec’ my paid wark.”

“Weel, I reckon ye’re i’ the richt o’ ’t efter a’, sae I’ll jist

fa’ tu, an’ len’ ye a han’.”

He had so far hindered her that Cosmo had gained a little; and now

in pretending to help, he contrived to hinder her yet more. Still

she kept near enough to Cosmo to prevent the grieve from saying

much, and by and by he left her.

When they dropped work for the night, he would have accompanied her

home, but she never left Cosmo’s side, and they went away together.

“Aggie,” said Cosmo, as soon as there was no one within hearing, “I

dinna like that chield hingin’ aboot ye--glowerin’ at ye as gien he

wad ate ye.”

“He winna du that, Cosmo; he’s ceevil eneuch.”

“Ye sud hae seen sae rouch as he was to Grizzie!”

“Grizzie’s some rouch hersel’ whiles,” remarked Aggie quietly.

“That’s ower true,” assented Cosmo; “but a man sud never behave

like that til a wuman.”

“Say that to the man,” rejoined Aggie. “The wuman can haud aff o’

hersel’.”