Between Sinverness and Creffel lies the valley of Glenmora.

Sca Fells and Soutra Fells guard it on each hand, and the long,

treacherous sweep of Solway Frith is its outlet. It is a region of

hills and moors, inhabited by a people of singular gravity and

simplicity of character, a pastoral people, who in its solemn high

places have learned how to interpret the voices of winds and

watersand to devoutly love their God.

Most of them are of the purest Saxon origin; but here and there one

meets the massive features and the blue bonnet of the Lowland Scots,

descendants of those stern Covenanters who from the coasts of Galloway

and Dumfries sought refuge in the strength of these lonely hills. They

are easily distinguished, and are very proud of their descent from

this race whom

"God anointed with his odorous oil

To wrestle, not to reign."

Thirty years ago their leader and elder was Andrew Cargill, a man of

the same lineage as that famous Donald Cargill who was the Boanerges

of the Covenant, and who suffered martyrdom for his faith at the town

of Queensferry. Andrew never forgot this fact, and the stern, just,

uncompromising spirit of the old Protester still lived in him. He was

a man well-to-do in the world, and his comfortable stone house was one

of the best known in the vale of Glenmora.

People who live amid grand scenery are not generally sensitive to it,

but Andrew was. The adoring spirit in which he stood one autumn

evening at his own door was a very common mood with him. He looked

over the moors carpeted with golden brown, and the hills covered with

sheep and cattle, at the towering crags, more like clouds at sunset

than things of solid land, at the children among the heather picking

bilberries, at the deep, clear, purple mist that filled the valley,

not hindering the view, but giving everything a strangely solemn

aspect, and his face relaxed into something very like a smile as he

said, "It is the wark o' my Father's hand, and praised be his name."

He stood at his own open door looking at these things, and inside his

wife Mysie was laying the supper-board with haver bread and cheese and

milk. A bright fire blazed on the wide hearth, and half a dozen

sheep-dogs spread out their white breasts to the heat. Great settles

of carved oak, bedded deep with fleeces of long wool, were on the

sides of the fireplace, and from every wall racks of spotless deal,

filled with crockery and pewter, reflected the shifting blaze.

Suddenly he stepped out and looked anxiously towards the horizon on

all sides. "Mysie, woman," said he, "there is a storm coming up from

old Solway; I maun e'en gae and fauld the ewes wi' their young

lammies. Come awa', Keeper and Sandy."

The dogs selected rose at once and followed Andrew with right

good-will. Mysie watched them a moment; but the great clouds of mist

rolling down from the mountains soon hid the stalwart figure in its

bonnet and plaid from view, and gave to the dogs' fitful barks a

distant, muffled sound. So she went in and sat down upon the settle,

folding her hands listlessly on her lap, and letting the smile fall

from her face as a mask might fall. Oh, what a sad face it was then!

She sat thus in a very trance of sorrow until the tears dropped

heavily and slowly down, and her lips began to move in broken

supplications. Evidently these brought her the comfort she sought, for

erelong she rose, saying softly to herself, "The lost bit o' siller

was found, and the strayed sheep was come up wi', and the prodigal won

hame again, and dootless, dootless, my ain dear lad will no be lost

sight o'."

By this time the storm had broken, but Mysie was not uneasy. Andrew

knew the hills like his own ingle, and she could tell to within five

minutes how long it would take him to go to the fauld and back. But

when it was ten minutes past his time Mysie stood anxiously in the

open door and listened. Her ears, trained to almost supernatural

quickness, soon detected above the winds and rain a sound of

footsteps. She called a wise old sheep-dog and bid him listen. The

creature held his head a moment to the ground, looked at her

affirmatively, and at her command went to seek his master.

In a few moments she heard Andrew's peculiar "hallo!" and the joyful

barking of the dog, and knew that all was right. Yet she could not go

in; she felt that something unusual had happened, and stood waiting

for whatever was coming. It was a poor, little, half-drowned baby.

Andrew took it from under his plaid, and laid it in her arms, saying,

"I maun go now and look after the mither. I'll need to yoke the cart

for her; she's past walking, and I'm sair feared she's past living;

but you'll save the bit bairn, Mysie, nae doot; for God disna smite

aften wi' baith hands."

"Where is she, Andrew?"

"'Mang the Druids' stanes, Mysie, and that's an ill place for a

Christian woman to die. God forbid it!" he muttered, as he lit a

lantern and went rapidly to the stable; "an evil place! under the vera

altar-stane o' Satan. God stay the parting soul till it can hear a

word o' his great mercy!"

With such a motive to prompt him, Andrew was not long in reaching the

ruins of the old Druidical temple. Under a raised flat stone, which

made a kind of shelter, a woman was lying. She was now insensible, and

Andrew lifted her carefully into the cart. Perhaps it was some

satisfaction to him that she did not actually die within such

unhallowed precincts; but the poor creature herself was beyond such

care. When she had seen her child in Mysie's arms, and comprehended

Mysie's assurance that she would care for it, all anxiety slipped away

from her. Andrew strove hard to make her understand the awful

situation in which she was; but the girl lay smiling, with upturned

eyes, as if she was glad to be relieved of the burden of living.

"You hae done your duty, gudeman," at length said Mysie, "and now you

may leave the puir bit lassie to me; I'll dootless find a word o'

comfort to say to her."

"But I'm feared, I am awfu' feared, woman, that she is but a prodigal

and an--"

"Hush, gudeman! There is mercy for the prodigal daughter as weel as

for the prodigal son;" and at these words Andrew went out with a dark,

stern face, while she turned with a new and stronger tenderness to the

dying woman.

"God is love," she whispered; "if you hae done aught wrang, there's

the open grave o' Jesus, dearie; just bury your wrang-doing there."

She was answered with a happy smile. "And your little lad is my lad

fra this hour, dearie!" The dying lips parted, and Mysie knew they had

spoken a blessing for her.

Nothing was found upon the woman that could identify her, nothing

except a cruel letter, which evidently came from the girl's father;

but even in this there was neither date nor locality named. It had no

term of endearment to commence with, and was signed simply, "John

Dunbar." Two things were, however, proven by it: that the woman's

given name was Bessie, and that by her marriage she had cut herself

off from her home and her father's affection.

So she was laid by stranger hands within that doorless house in the

which God sometimes mercifully puts his weary ones to sleep. Mysie

took the child to her heart at once, and Andrew was not long able to

resist the little lad's beauty and winning ways. The neighbors began

to call him "wee Andrew;" and the old man grew to love his namesake

with a strangely tender affection.

Sometimes there was indeed a bitter feeling in Mysie's heart, as she

saw how gentle he was with this child and remembered how stern and

strict he had been with their own lad. She did not understand that the

one was in reality the result of the other, the acknowledgement of his

fault, and the touching effort to atone, in some way, for it.

One night, when wee Andrew was about seven years old, this wrong

struck her in a manner peculiarly painful. Andrew had made a most

extraordinary journey, even as far as Penrith. A large manufactory had

been begun there, and a sudden demand for his long staple of white

wool had sprung up. Moreover, he had had a prosperous journey, and

brought back with him two books for the boy, Æsop's Fables and

Robinson Crusoe.

When Mysie saw them, her heart swelled beyond control. She remembered

a day when her own son Davie had begged for these very books and been

refused with hard rebukes. She remembered the old man's bitter words

and the child's bitter tears; but she did not reflect that the present

concession was the result of the former refusal, nor yet that the

books were much easier got and the money more plentiful than thirty

years previous. When wee Andrew ran away with his treasures to the

Druids' stones, Mysie went into the shippen, and did her milking to

some very sad thoughts.

She was poisoning her heart with her own tears. When she returned to

the "houseplace" and saw the child bending with rapt, earnest face

over the books, she could not avoid murmuring that the son of a

strange woman should be sitting happy in Cargill spence, and her own

dear lad a banished wanderer. She had come to a point when rebellion

would be easy for her. Andrew saw a look on her face that amazed and

troubled him: and yet when she sat so hopelessly down before the fire,

and without fear or apology

"Let the tears downfa',"

he had no heart to reprove her. Nay, he asked with a very unusual

concern, "What's the matter, Mysie, woman?"

"I want to see Davie, and die, gudeman!"

"You'll no dare to speak o' dying, wife, until the Lord gies you

occasion; and Davie maun drink as he's brewed."

"Nay, gudeman, but you brewed for him; the lad is drinking the cup you

mixed wi' your ain hands."

"I did my duty by him."

"He had ower muckle o' your duty, and ower little o' your indulgence.

If Davie was wrang, ither folk werena right. Every fault has its

forefault."

Andrew looked in amazement at this woman, who for thirty and more

years had never before dared to oppose his wishes, and to whom his

word had been law.

"Davie's wrang-doing was weel kent, gude-wife; he hasted to sin like a

moth to a candle."

"It's weel that our faults arena written i' our faces."

"I hae fallen on evil days, Mysie; saxty years syne wives and bairns

werena sae contrarie."

"There was gude and bad then, as now, gudeman."

Mysie's face had a dour, determined look that no one had ever seen on

it before. Andrew began to feel irritated at her. "What do you want,

woman?" he said sternly.

"I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill."

"Your bairn is i' some far-awa country, squandering his share o'

Paradise wi' publicans and sinners."

"I hope not, I hope not; if it werena for this hope my heart would

break;" and then all the barriers that education and habit had built

were suddenly overthrown as by an earthquake, and Mysie cried out

passionately, "I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill! the bonnie bairn that

lay on my bosom, and was dandled on my knees, and sobbed out his

sorrows i' my arms. I want the bairn you were aye girding and

grumbling at! that got the rod for this, and the hard word and the

black look for that! My bonnie Davie, wha ne'er had a playtime nor a

story-book! O gudeman, I want my bairn! I want my bairn!"

The repressed passion and sorrow of ten long years had found an outlet

and would not be controlled. Andrew laid down his pipe in amazement

and terror, and for a moment he feared his wife had lost her senses.

He had a tender heart beneath his stern, grave manner, and his first

impulse was just to take the sobbing mother to his breast and promise

her all she asked. But he did not do it the first moment, and he could

not the second. Yet he did rise and go to her, and in his awkward way

try to comfort her. "Dinna greet that way, Mysie, woman," he said; "if

I hae done amiss, I'll mak amends."

That was a great thing for Andrew Cargill to say; Mysie hardly knew

how to believe it. Such a confession was a kind of miracle, for she

judged things by results and was not given to any consideration of the

events that led up to them. She could not know, and did not suspect,

that all the bitter truths she had spoken had been gradually forcing

themselves on her husband's mind. She did not know that wee Andrew's

happy face over his story-books, and his eager claim for sympathy, had

been an accusation and a reproach which the old man had already humbly

and sorrowfully accepted. Therefore his confession and his promise

were a wonder to the woman, who had never before dared to admit that

it was possible Andrew Cargill should do wrong in his own household.

CHAPTER II.

The confidence that came after this plain speaking was very sweet and

comforting to both, although in their isolation and ignorance they

knew not what steps to take in order to find Davie. Ten years had

elapsed since he had hung for one heart-breaking moment on his

mother's neck, and bid, as he told her, a farewell for ever to the

miserable scenes of his hard, bare childhood. Mysie had not been able

to make herself believe that he was very wrong; dancing at pretty Mary

Halliday's bridal and singing two or three love-songs did not seem to

the fond mother such awful transgressions as the stern, strict

Covenanter really believed them to be, though even Mysie was willing

to allow that Davie, in being beguiled into such sinful folly, "had

made a sair tumble."

However, Davie and his father had both said things that neither could

win over, and the lad had gone proudly down the hill with but a few

shillings in his pocket. Since then there had been ten years of

anxious, longing grief that had remained unconfessed until this night.

Now the hearts of both yearned for their lost son. But how should they

find him? Andrew read nothing but his Bible and almanac; he had no

conception of the world beyond Kendal and Keswick. He could scarcely

imagine David going beyond these places, or, at any rate, the coast of

Scotland. Should he make a pilgrimage round about all those parts?

Mysie shook her head. She thought Andrew had better go to Keswick and

see the Methodist preacher there. She had heard they travelled all

over the world, and if so, it was more than likely they had seen Davie

Cargill; "at ony rate, he would gie advice worth speiring after."

Andrew had but a light opinion of Methodists, and had never been

inside the little chapel at Sinverness; but Mysie's advice, he

allowed, "had a savor o' sense in it," and so the next day he rode

over to Keswick and opened his heart to John Sugden, the

superintendent of the Derwent Circuit. He had assured himself on the

road that he would only tell John just as much as was necessary for

his quest; but he was quite unable to resist the preacher's hearty

sympathy. There never were two men more unlike than Andrew Cargill and

John Sugden, and yet they loved each other at once.

"He is a son o' consolation, and dootless ane o' God's chosen," said

Andrew to Mysie on his return.

"He is a far nobler old fellow than he thinks he is," said John to his

wife when he told her of Andrew's visit.

John had advised advertising for Davie in "The Watchman;" for John

really thought this organ of the Methodist creed was the greatest

paper in existence, and honestly believed that if Davie was anywhere

in the civilized world "The Watchman" would find him out. He was so

sure of it that both Mysie and Andrew caught his hopeful tone, and

began to tell each other what should be done when Davie came home.

Poor Mysie was now doubly kind to wee Andrew. She accused herself

bitterly of "grudging the bit lammie his story-books," and persuaded

her husband to bring back from Keswick for the child the "Pilgrim's

Progress" and "The Young Christian." John Sugden, too, visited them

often, not only staying at Cargill during his regular appointments,

but often riding over to take a day's recreation with the old

Cameronian. True, they disputed the whole time. John said very

positive things and Andrew very contemptuous ones; but as they each

kept their own opinions intact, and were quite sure of their grounds

for doing so, no words that were uttered ever slackened the grip of

their hands at parting.

One day, as John was on the way to Cargill, he perceived a man sitting

among the Druids' stones. The stranger was a pleasant fellow, and

after a few words with the preacher he proposed that they should ride

to Sinverness together. John soon got to talking of Andrew and his

lost son, and the stranger became greatly interested. He said he

should like to go up to Andrew's and get a description of Davie,

adding that he travelled far and wide, and might happen to come across

him.

The old man met them at the door.

"My sight fails, John," he said, "but I'd hae kent your step i' a

thousand. You too are welcome, sir, though I ken you not, and doubly

welcome if you bring God's blessing wi' you."

The stranger lifted his hat, and Andrew led the way into the house.

John had been expected, for haver bread and potted shrimps were on the

table, and he helped himself without ceremony, taking up at the same

time their last argument just where he had dropped it at the gate of

the lower croft. But it had a singular interruption. The sheep-dogs

who had been quietly sleeping under the settle began to be strangely

uneasy. Keeper could scarcely be kept down, even by Andrew's command,

and Sandy bounded towards the stranger with low, rapid barks that made

John lose the sense of the argument in a new thought. But before he

could frame it into words Mysie came in.

"See here, John," she cried, and then she stopped and looked with

wide-open eyes at the man coming towards her. With one long, thrilling

cry she threw herself into his arms.

"Mother! mother! darling mother, forgive me!"

John had instantly gone to Andrew's side, but Andrew had risen at once

to the occasion. "I'm no a woman to skirl or swoon," he said, almost

petulantly, "and it's right and fit the lad should gie his mither the

first greeting."

But he stretched out both hands, and his cheeks were flushed and his

eyes full when Davie flung himself on his knees beside him.

"My lad! my ain dear lad!" he cried, "I'll see nae better day than

this until I see His face."

No one can tell the joy of that hour. The cheese curds were left in

the dairy and the wool was left at the wheel, and Mysie forget her

household, and Andrew forgot his argument, and the preacher at last

said,

"You shall tell us, Davie, what the Lord has done for you since you

left your father's house."

"He has been gude to me, vera gude. I had a broad Scot's tongue in my

head, and I determined to go northward. I had little siller and I had

to walk, and by the time I reached Ecclefechan I had reason enough to

be sorry for the step I had taken. As I was sitting by the fireside o'

the little inn there a man came in who said he was going to Carlisle

to hire a shepherd. I did not like the man, but I was tired and had

not plack nor bawbee, so I e'en asked him for the place. When he heard

I was Cumberland born, and had been among sheep all my life, he was

fain enough, and we soon 'greed about the fee.

"He was a harder master than Laban, but he had a daughter who was as

bonnie as Rachel, and I loved the lass wi' my whole soul, and she

loved me. I ne'er thought about being her father's hired man. I was

aye Davie Cargill to mysel', and I had soon enough told Bessie all

about my father and mither and hame. I spoke to her father at last,

but he wouldna listen to me. He just ordered me off his place, and

Bessie went wi' me.

"I know now that we did wrang, but we thought then that we were right.

We had a few pounds between us and we gaed to Carlisle. But naething

went as it should hae done. I could get nae wark, and Bessie fell into

vera bad health; but she had a brave spirit, and she begged me to

leave her in Carlisle and go my lane to Glasgow. 'For when wark an'

siller arena i' one place, Davie,' she said, 'then they're safe to be

in another.'

"I swithered lang about leaving her, but a good opportunity came, and

Bessie promised me to go back to her father until I could come after

her. It was July then, and when Christmas came round I had saved money

enough, and I started wi' a blithe heart to Ecclefechan. I hadna any

fear o' harm to my bonnie bit wifie, for she had promised to go to her

hame, and I was sure she would be mair than welcome when she went

without me. I didna expect any letters, because Bessie couldna write,

and, indeed, I was poor enough wi' my pen at that time, and only wrote

once to tell her I had good wark and would be for her a New Year.

"But when I went I found that Bessie had gane, and none knew where. I

traced her to Keswick poor-house, where she had a little lad; the

matron said she went away in a very weak condition when the child was

three weeks old, declaring that she was going to her friends. Puir,

bonnie, loving Bessie; that was the last I ever heard o' my wife and

bairn."

Mysie had left the room, and as she returnee with a little bundle

Andrew was anxiously asking, "What was the lassie's maiden name,

Davie?"

"Bessie Dunbar, father."

"Then this is a wun'erful day; we are blessed and twice blessed, for I

found your wife and bairn, Davie, just where John Sugden found you,

'mang the Druids' stanes; and the lad has my ain honest name and is

weel worthy o' it."

"See here, Davie," and Mysie tenderly touched the poor faded dress and

shawl, and laid the wedding-ring in his palm. As she spoke wee Andrew

came across the yard, walking slowly, reading as he walked. "Look at

him, Davie! He's a bonnie lad, and a gude are; and oh, my ain dear

lad, he has had a' things that thy youth wanted."

It pleased the old man no little that, in spite of his father's loving

greeting, wee Andrew stole away to his side.

"You see, Davie," he urged in apology, "he's mair at hame like wi'

me."

And then he drew the child to him, and let his whole heart go out now,

without check or reproach, to "Davie's bairn."

"But you have not finished your story, Mr. Cargill," said John, and

David sighed as he answered,

"There is naething by the ordinar in it. I went back to the warks I

had got a footing in, the Glencart Iron Warks, and gradually won my

way to the topmost rungs o' the ladder. I am head buyer now, hae a

gude share i' the concern, and i' money matters there's plenty folk

waur off than David Cargill. When I put my father's forgiveness, my

mither's love, and my Bessie's bonnie lad to the lave, I may weel say

that 'they are weel guided that God guides.' A week ago I went into

the editor's room o' the Glasgow Herald,' and the man no being in I

lifted a paper and saw in it my father's message to me. It's sma'

credit that I left a' and answered it."

"What paper, Mr. Cargill, what paper?"

"They ca' it 'The Watchman.' I hae it in my pocket."

"I thought so," said John triumphantly. "It's a grand paper; every one

ought to have it."

"It is welcome evermore in my house," said Davie.

"It means weel, it means weel," said Andrew, with a great stretch of

charity, "but I dinna approve o' its doctrines at a', and--"

"It found David for you, Andrew."

"Ay, ay, God uses a' kinds o' instruments. 'The Watchman' isna as auld

as the Bible yet, John, and it's ill praising green barley."

"Now, Andrew, I think--"

"Tut, tut, John, I'se no sit i' Rome and strive wi' the pope; there's

naething ill said, you ken, if it's no ill taken."

John smiled tolerantly, and indeed there was no longer time for

further discussion, for the shepherds from the hills and the farmers

from the glen had heard of David's return, and were hurrying to

Cargill to see him. Mysie saw that there would be a goodly company,

and the long harvest-table was brought in and a feast of

thanksgiving spread. Conversation in that house could only set one

way, and after all had eaten and David had told his story again, one

old man after another spoke of the dangers they had encountered and

the spiritual foes they had conquered.

Whether it was the speaking, or the sympathy of numbers, or some

special influence of the Holy Ghost, I know not; but suddenly Andrew

lifted his noble old head and spoke thus:

"Frien's, ye hae some o' you said ill things o' yoursel's, but to the

sons o' God there is nae condemnation; not that I hae been althegither

faultless, but I meant weel, an' the lad was a wilfu' lad, and ye ken

what the wisest o' men said anent such. Just and right has been my

walk before you, but--still--" Then, with a sudden passion, and rising

to his feet, he cried out, "Frien's, I'm a poor sinfu' man, but I'll

play no mair pliskies wi' my conscience. I hae dootless been a hard

master, hard and stern, and loving Sinai far beyond Bethlehem. Hard

was I to my lad, and hard hae I been to the wife o' my bosom, and hard

hae I been to my ain heart. It has been my ain will and my ain way all

my life lang. God forgie me! God forgie me! for this night he has

brought my sins to my remembrance. I hae been your elder for mair than

forty years, but I hae ne'er been worthy to carry his holy vessels.

I'll e'en sit i' the lowest seat henceforward."

"Not so," said John. And there was such eager praise, and such warm

love rose from every mouth, that words began to fail, and as the old

man sat down smiling, happier than he had ever been before, song took

up the burden speech laid down; for John started one of those old

triumphant Methodist hymns, and the rafters shook to the melody, and

the stars heard it, and the angels in heaven knew a deeper joy.

Singing, the company departed, and Andrew, standing in the moonlight

between David and John, watched the groups scatter hither and thither,

and heard, far up the hills and down the glen, that sweet, sweet

refrain,

"Canaan, bright Canaan!

Will you go to the land of Canaan?"

After this David stayed a week at Glenmora, and then it became

necessary for him to return to Glasgow. But wee Andrew was to have a

tutor and remain with his grandparents for some years at least. Andrew

himself determined to "tak a trip" and see Scotland and the wonderful

iron works of which he was never weary of hearing David talk.

When he reached Kendal, however, and saw for the first time the

Caledonian Railway and its locomotives, nothing could induce him to go

farther.

"It's ower like the deil and the place he bides in, Davie," he said,

with a kind of horror. "Fire and smoke and iron bands! I'll no ride at

the deil's tail-end, not e'en to see the land o' the Covenant."

So he went back to Glenmora, and was well content when he stood again

at his own door and looked over the bonny braes of Sinverness, its

simmering becks and fruitful vales. "These are the warks o' His hands,

Mysie," he said, reverently lifting his bonnet and looking up to

Creffel and away to Solway, "and you'd ken that, woman, if you had

seen Satan as I saw him rampaging roun' far waur than any roaring

lion."

After this Andrew never left Sinverness; but, the past unsighed for

and the future sure, passed through

"----an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,"

until, one summer evening, he gently fell on that sleep which God

giveth his beloved.

"For such Death's portal opens not in gloom,

But its pure crystal, hinged on solid gold,

Shows avenues interminable--shows

Amaranth and palm quivering in sweet accord

Of human mingled with angelic song."

One Wrong Step.

ONE WRONG STEP.

CHAPTER I.

"There's few folk ken Ragon Torr as I do, mother. He is better at

heart than thou wad think; indeed he is!"

"If better were within, better wad come out, John. He's been drunk or

dovering i' the chimney-corner these past three weeks. Hech! but he'd

do weel i' Fool's Land, where they get half a crown a day for

sleeping."

"There's nane can hunt a seal or spear a whale like Ragon; thou saw

him theesel', mother, among the last school i' Stromness Bay."

"I saw a raving, ranting heathen, wi' the bonnie blue bay a sea o'

blood around him, an' he shouting an' slaying like an old pagan

sea-king. Decent, God-fearing fisher-folk do their needful wark ither

gate than yon. Now there is but one thing for thee to do: thou must

break wi' Ragon Torr, an' that quick an' soon."

"Know this, my mother, a friend is to be taken wi' his faults."

"Thou knows this, John: I hae forty years mair than thou hast, an'

years ken mair than books. An' wi' a' thy book skill hast thou ne'er

read that 'Evil communications corrupt gude manners'? Mak up thy mind

that I shall tak it vera ill if thou sail again this year wi' that

born heathen;" and with these words Dame Alison Sabay rose up from the

stone bench at her cottage door and went dourly into the houseplace.

John stood on the little jetty which ran from the very doorstep into

the bay, and looked thoughtfully over towards the sweet green isle of

Graemsay; but neither the beauty of land or sea, nor the splendor of

skies bright with the rosy banners of the Aurora gave him any answer

to the thoughts which troubled him. "I'll hae to talk it o'er wi'

Christine," he said decidedly, and he also turned into the house.

Christine was ten years older than her brother John. She had known

much sorrow, but she had lived through and lived down all her trials

and come out into the peace on the other side. She was sitting by the

peat fire knitting, and softly crooning an old Scotch psalm to the

click of her needles. She answered John's look with a sweet, grave

smile, and a slight nod towards the little round table, upon which

there was a plate of smoked goose and some oaten cake for his supper.

"I carena to eat a bite, Christine; this is what I want o' thee: the

skiff is under the window; step into it, an' do thou go on the bay wi'

me an hour."

"I havena any mind to go, John. It is nine by the clock, an' to-morrow

the peat is to coil an' the herring to kipper; yes, indeed."

"Well an' good. But here is matter o' mair account than peat an'

herring. Wilt thou come?"

"At the end I ken weel thou wilt hae thy way. Mother, here is John,

an' he is for my going on the bay wi' him."

"Then thou go. If John kept aye as gude company he wouldna be like to

bring my gray hairs wi' sorrow to the grave."

John did not answer this remark until they had pushed well off from

the sleeping town, then he replied fretfully, "Yes, what mother says

is true enough; but a man goes into the warld. A' the fingers are not

alike, much less one's friends. How can a' be gude?"

"To speak from the heart, John, wha is it?"

"Ragon Torr. Thou knows we hae sat i' the same boat an' drawn the same

nets for three years; he is gude an' bad, like ither folk."

"Keep gude company, my brother, an' thou wilt aye be counted ane o'

them. When Ragon is gude he is ower gude, and when he is bad he is

just beyont kenning."

"Can a man help the kin he comes o'? Have not his forbears done for

centuries the vera same way? Naething takes a Norseman frae his bed or

his cup but some great deed o' danger or profit; but then wha can

fight or wark like them?"

"Christ doesna ask a man whether he be Norse or Scot. If Ragon went

mair to the kirk an' less to the change-house, he wouldna need to

differ. Were not our ain folk cattle-lifting Hieland thieves lang

after the days o' the Covenant?"

"Christine, ye'll speak nae wrang o' the Sabays. It's an ill bird

'files its ain nest."

"Weel, weel, John! The gude name o' the Sabays is i' thy hands now.

But to speak from the heart, this thing touches thee nearer than Ragon

Torr. Thou did not bring me out to speak only o' him."

"Thou art a wise woman, Christine, an' thou art right. It touches

Margaret Fae, an' when it does that, it touches what is dearer to me

than life."

"I see it not."

"Do not Ragon an' I sail i' Peter Fae's boats? Do we not eat at his

table, an' bide round his house during the whole fishing season? If I

sail no more wi' Ragon, I must quit Peter's employ; for he loves Ragon

as he loves no ither lad i' Stromness or Kirkwall. The Norse blood we

think little o', Peter glories in; an' the twa men count thegither

o'er their glasses the races o' the Vikings, an' their ain generations

up to Snorro an' Thorso."

"Is there no ither master but Peter Fae? ask theesel' that question,

John."

"I hae done that, Christine. Plenty o' masters, but nane o' them hae

Margaret for a daughter. Christine, I love Margaret, an' she loves me

weel. Thou hast loved theesel', my sister."

"I ken that, John," she said tenderly; "I hae loved, therefore I hae

got beyont doots, an' learned something holier than my ain way. Thou

trust Margaret now. Thou say 'Yes' to thy mother, an' fear not."

"Christine thou speaks hard words."

"Was it to speak easy anes thou brought me here? An' if I said, 'I

counsel thee to tak thy ain will i' the matter,' wad my counsel mak

bad gude, or wrang right? Paul Calder's fleet sails i' twa days; seek

a place i' his boats."

"Then I shall see next to naught o' Margaret, an' Ragon will see her

every day."

"If Margaret loves thee, that can do thee nae harm."

"But her father favors Ragon, an' of me he thinks nae mair than o' the

nets, or aught else that finds his boats for sea."

"Well an' good; but no talking can alter facts. Thou must now choose

atween thy mother an' Margaret Fae, atween right an' wrang. God doesna

leave that choice i' the dark; thy way may be narrow an' unpleasant,

but it is clear enough. Dost thou fear to walk i' it?"

"There hae been words mair than plenty, Christine. Let us go hame."

Silently the little boat drifted across the smooth bay, and silently

the brother and sister stood a moment looking up the empty, flagged

street of the sleeping town. The strange light, which was neither

gloaming nor dawning, but a mixture of both, the waving boreal

banners, the queer houses, gray with the storms of centuries, the

brown undulating heaths, and the phosphorescent sea, made a strangely

solemn picture which sank deep into their hearts. After a pause,

Christine went into the house, but John sat down on the stone bench to

think over the alternatives before him.

Now the power of training up a child in the way it should go asserted

itself. It became at once a fortification against self-will. John

never had positively disobeyed his mother's explicit commands; he

found it impossible to do so. He must offer his services to Paul

Calder in the morning, and try to trust Margaret Fae's love for him.

He had determined now to do right, but he did not do it very

pleasantly--it is a rare soul that grows sweeter in disappointments.

Both mother and sister knew from John's stern, silent ways that he had

chosen the path of duty, and they expected that he would make it a

valley of Baca. This Dame Alison accepted as in some sort her desert.

"I ought to hae forbid the lad three years syne," she said

regretfully; "aft ill an' sorrow come o' sich sinfu' putting aff.

There's nae half-way house atween right an' wrang."

Certainly the determination involved some unpleasant explanations to

John. He must first see old Peter Fae and withdraw himself from his

service. He found him busy in loading a small vessel with smoked geese

and kippered fish, and he was apparently in a very great passion.

Before John could mention his own matters, Peter burst into a torrent

of invectives against another of his sailors, who, he said, had given

some information to the Excise which had cost him a whole cargo of

Dutch specialties. The culprit was leaning against a hogshead, and was

listening to Peter's intemperate words with a very evil smile.

"How much did ye sell yoursel' for, Sandy Beg? It took the son of a

Hieland robber like you to tell tales of a honest man's cargo. It was

an ill day when the Scots cam to Orkney, I trow."

"She'll hae petter right to say tat same 'fore lang time." And Sandy's

face was dark with a subdued passion that Peter might have known to be

dangerous, but which he continued to aggravate by contemptuous

expressions regarding Scotchmen in general.

This John Sabay was in no mood to bear; he very soon took offence at

Peter's sweeping abuse, and said he would relieve him at any rate of

one Scot. "He didna care to sail again wi' such a crowd as Peter

gathered round him."

It was a very unadvised speech. Ragon lifted it at once, and in the

words which followed John unavoidably found himself associated with

Sandy Beg, a man whose character was of the lowest order. And he had

meant to be so temperate, and to part with both Peter and Ragon on the

best terms possible. How weak are all our resolutions! John turned

away from Peter's store conscious that he had given full sway to all

the irritation and disappointment of his feelings, and that he had

spoken as violently as either Peter, Ragon, or even the half-brutal

Sandy Beg. Indeed, Sandy had said very little; but the malignant look

with which he regarded Peter, John could never forget.

This was not his only annoyance. Paul Calder's boats were fully

manned, and the others had already left for Brassey's Sound. The

Sabays were not rich; a few weeks of idleness would make the long

Orkney winter a dreary prospect. Christine and his mother sat from

morning to night braiding straw into the once famous Orkney Tuscans,

and he went to the peat-moss to cut a good stock of winter fuel; but

his earnings in money were small and precarious, and he was so anxious

that Christine's constant cheerfulness hurt him.

Sandy Beg had indeed said something of an offer he could make "if

shentlemans wanted goot wages wi' ta chance of a lucky bit for

themsel's; foive kuineas ta month an' ta affsets. Oigh! oigh!" But

John had met the offer with such scorn and anger that Sandy had

thought it worth while to bestow one of his most wicked looks upon

him. The fact was, Sandy felt half grateful to John for his apparent

partisanship, and John indignantly resented any disposition to put him

in the same boat with a man so generally suspected and disliked.

"It might be a come-down," he said, "for a gude sailor an' fisher to

coil peats and do days' darg, but it was honest labor; an', please

God, he'd never do that i' the week that wad hinder him fra going to

the kirk on Sabbath."

"Oigh! she'll jist please hersel'; she'll pe owing ta Beg naething by

ta next new moon." And with a mocking laugh Sandy loitered away

towards the seashore.

CHAPTER II.

Just after this interview a little lad put a note in John's hand from

Margaret Fae. It only asked him to be on Brogar Bridge at eight

o'clock that night. Now Brogar Bridge was not a spot that any Orcadian

cared to visit at such an hour. In the pagan temple whose remains

stood there it was said pale ghosts of white-robed priests still

offered up shadowy human sacrifices, and though John's faith was firm

and sure, superstitions are beyond reasoning with, and he recalled the

eerie, weird aspect of the grim stones with an unavoidable

apprehension. What could Margaret want with him in such a place and at

an hour so near that at which Peter usually went home from his shop?

He had never seen Margaret's writing, and he half suspected Sandy Beg

had more to do with the appointment than she had; but he was too

anxious to justify himself in Margaret's eyes to let any fears or

doubts prevent him from keeping the tryst.

He had scarcely reached the Stones of Stennis when he saw her leaning

against one of them. The strange western light was over her thoughtful

face. She seemed to have become a part of the still and solemn

landscape. John had always loved her with a species of reverence;

to-night he felt almost afraid of her beauty and the power she had

over him. She was a true Scandinavian, with the tall, slender, and

rather haughty form which marks Orcadian and Zetland women. Her hair

was perhaps a little too fair and cold, and yet it made a noble

setting to the large, finely-featured, tranquil face.

She put out her hand as John approached, and said, "Was it well that

thou shouldst quarrel with my father? I thought that thou didst love

me."

Then John poured out his whole heart--his love for her, his mother's

demand of him, his quarrel with Ragon and Peter and Sandy Beg. "It has

been an ill time, Margaret," he said, "and thou hast been long in

comforting me."

Well, Margaret had plenty of reasons for her delay and plenty of

comfort for her lover. Naturally slow of pulse and speech, she had

been long coming to a conclusion; but, having satisfied herself of its

justice, she was likely to be immovable in it. She gave John her hand

frankly and lovingly, and promised, in poverty or wealth, in weal or

woe, to stand truly by his side. It was not a very hopeful

troth-plighting, but they were both sure of the foundations of their

love, and both regarded the promise as solemnly binding.

Then Margaret told John that she had heard that evening that the

captain of the Wick steamer wanted a mate, and the rough Pentland

Frith being well known to John, she hoped, if he made immediate

application, he would be accepted. If he was, John declared his

intention of at once seeing Peter and asking his consent to their

engagement. In the meantime the Bridge of Brogar was to be their

tryst, when tryst was possible. Peter's summer dwelling lay not far

from it, and it was Margaret's habit to watch for his boat and walk up

from the beach to the house with him. She would always walk over first

to Brogar, and if John could meet her there that would be well; if

not, she would understand that it was out of the way of duty, and be

content.

John fortunately secured the mate's place. Before he could tell

Margaret this she heard her father speak well of him to the captain.

"There is nae better sailor, nor better lad, for that matter," said

Peter. "I like none that he wad hang roun' my bonnie Marg'et; but

then, a cat may look at a king without it being high treason, I wot."

A week afterwards Peter thought differently. When John told him

honestly how matters stood between him and Margaret he was more angry

than when Sandy Beg swore away his whole Dutch cargo. He would listen

to neither love nor reason, and positively forbid him to hold any

further intercourse with his daughter. John had expected this, and was

not greatly discouraged. He had Margaret's promise. Youth is hopeful,

and they could wait; for it never entered their minds absolutely to

disobey the old man.

In the meantime there was a kind of peacemaking between Ragon and

John. The good Dominie Sinclair had met them both one day on the

beach, and insisted on their forgiving and shaking hands. Neither of

them were sorry to do so. Men who have shared the dangers of the

deep-sea fishing and the stormy Northern Ocean together cannot look

upon each other as mere parts of a bargain. There was, too, a wild

valor and a wonderful power in emergencies belonging to Ragon that had

always dazzled John's more cautious nature. In some respects, he

thought Ragon Torr the greatest sailor that left Stromness harbor, and

Ragon was willing enough to admit that John "was a fine fellow," and

to give his hand at the dominie's direction.

Alas! the good man's peacemaking was of short duration. As soon as

Peter told the young Norse sailor of John's offer for Margaret's hand,

Ragon's passive good-will turned to active dislike and bitter

jealousy. For, though he had taken little trouble to please Margaret,

he had come to look upon her as his future wife. He knew that Peter

wished it so, and he now imagined that it was also the only thing on

earth he cared for.

Thus, though John was getting good wages, he was not happy. It was

rarely he got a word with Margaret, and Peter and Ragon were only too

ready to speak. It became daily more and more difficult to avoid an

open quarrel with them, and, indeed, on several occasions sharp, cruel

words, that hurt like wounds, had passed between them on the public

streets and quays.

Thus Stromness, that used to be so pleasant to him, was changing fast.

He knew not how it was that people so readily believed him in the

wrong. In Wick, too, he had been troubled with Sandy Beg, and a kind

of nameless dread possessed him about the man; he could not get rid of

it, even after he had heard that Sandy had sailed in a whaling ship

for the Arctic seas.

Thus things went on until the end of July. John was engaged now until

the steamer stopped running in September, and the little sum of ready

money necessary for the winter's comfort was assured. Christine sat

singing and knitting, or singing and braiding straw, and Dame Alison

went up and down her cottage with a glad heart. They knew little of

John's anxieties. Christine had listened sympathizingly to his trouble

about Margaret, and said, "Thou wait an' trust; John dear, an' at the

end a' things will be well." Even Ragon's ill-will and Peter's ill

words had not greatly frightened them--"The wrath o' man shall praise

Him," read old Alison, with just a touch of spiritual satisfaction,

"an' the rest o' the wrath he will restrain."

CHAPTER III.

It was a Saturday night in the beginning of August, and John was at

home until the following Monday. He dressed himself and went out

towards Brogar, and Christine watched him far over the western moor,

and blessed him as he went. He had not seen Margaret for many days,

but he had a feeling to-night that she would be able to keep her

tryst. And there, standing amid the rushes on the lakeside, he found

her. They had so much to say to each other that Margaret forgot her

father's return, and delayed so long that she thought it best to go

straight home, instead of walking down the beach to meet him.

He generally left Stromness about half-past eight, and his supper was

laid for nine o'clock. But this night nine passed, and he did not

come; and though the delay could be accounted for in various ways, she

had a dim but anxious forecasting of calamity in her heart. The

atmosphere of the little parlor grew sorrowful and heavy, the lamp did

not seem to light it, her father's chair had a deserted, lonely

aspect, the house was strangely silent; in fifteen minutes she had

forgotten how happy she had been, and wandered to and from the door

like some soul in an uneasy dream.

All at once she heard the far-away shouting of angry and alarmed

voices, and to her sensitive ears her lover's and her father's names

were mingled. It was her nature to act slowly; for a few moments she

could not decide what was to be done. The first thought was the

servants. There were only two, Hacon Flett and Gerda Vedder. Gerda had

gone to bed, Hacon was not on the place. As she gathered her energies

together she began to walk rapidly over the springy heath towards the

white sands of the beach. Her father, if he was coming, would come

that way. She was angry with herself for the _if_. Of course he was

coming. What was there to prevent it? She told herself, Nothing, and

the next moment looked up and saw two men coming towards her, and in

their arms a figure which she knew instinctively was her father's.

She slowly retraced her steps, set open the gate and the door, and

waited for the grief that was coming to her. But however slow her

reasoning faculties, her soul knew in a moment what it needed. It was

but a little prayer said with trembling lips and fainting heart; but

no prayer loses its way. Straight to the heart of Christ it went. And

the answer was there and the strength waiting when Ragon and Hacon

brought in the bleeding, dying old man, and laid him down upon his

parlor floor.

Ragon said but one word, "Stabbed!" and then, turning to Hacon, bid

him ride for life and death into Stromness for a doctor. Most sailors

of these islands know a little rude surgery, and Ragon stayed beside

his friend, doing what he could to relieve the worst symptoms.

Margaret, white and still, went hither and thither, bringing whatever

Ragon wanted, and fearing, she knew not why, to ask any questions.

With the doctor came the dominie and two of the town bailies. There

was little need of the doctor; Peter Fae's life was ebbing rapidly

away with every moment of time. There was but little time now for

whatever had yet to be done. The dominie stooped first to his ear, and

in a few solemn words bid him lay himself at the foot of the cross.

"Thou'lt never perish there, Peter," he said; and the dying man seemed

to catch something of the comfort of such an assurance.

Then Bailie Inkster said, "Peter Fae, before God an' his

minister--before twa o' the town bailies an' thy ain daughter

Margaret, an' thy friend Ragon Torr, an' thy servants Hacon Flett an'

Gerda Vedder, thou art now to say what man stabbed thee."

Peter made one desperate effort, a wild, passionate gleam shot from

the suddenly-opened eyes, and he cried out in a voice terrible in its

despairing anger, "_John Sabay! John Sabay--stabb-ed--me!

Indeed--he--did_!"

"Oh, forgive him, man! forgive him! Dinna think o' that now, Peter!

Cling to the cross--cling to the cross, man! Nane ever perished that

only won to the foot o' it." Then the pleading words were whispered

down into fast-sealing ears, and the doctor quietly led away a poor

heart-stricken girl, who was too shocked to weep and too humbled and

wretched to tell her sorrow to any one but God.

CHAPTER IV.

The bailies, after hearing the deposition, immediately repaired to

John Sabay's cottage. It was Saturday night, and no warrant could now

be got, but the murderer must be secured. No two men bent on such an

errand ever found it more difficult to execute. The little family had

sat later than usual. John had always news they were eager to hear--of

tourists and strangers he had seen in Wick, or of the people the

steamer had brought to Kirkwall.

He was particularly cheerful this evening; his interview with Margaret

had been hopeful and pleasant, and Christine had given the houseplace

and the humble supper-table quite a festival look. They had sat so

long over the meal that when the bailies entered John was only then

reading the regular portion for the evening exercise. All were a

little amazed at the visit, but no one thought for a moment of

interrupting the Scripture; and the two men sat down and listened

attentively while John finished the chapter.

Bailie Tulloch then rose and went towards the dame. He was a far-off

cousin of the Sabays, and, though not on the best of terms with them,

his relationship was considered to impose the duty particularly on

him.

"Gude-e'en, if thou comes on a gude errand," said old Dame Alison,

suspiciously; "but that's no thy custom, bailie."

"I came, dame, to ask John anent Peter Fae."

The dame laughed pleasantly. "If thou had asked him anent Margaret

Fae, he could tell thee more about it."

"This is nae laughing matter, dame. Peter Fae has been murdered--yes,

murdered! An' he said, ere he died, that John Sabay did the deed."

"Then Peter Fae died wi' a lie on his lips--tell them that, John," and

the old woman's face was almost majestic in its defiance and anger.

"I hae not seen Peter Fae for a week," said John. "God knows that,

bailie. I wad be the vera last man to hurt a hair o' his gray head;

why he is Margaret's father!"

"Still, John, though we hae nae warrant to hold thee, we are beholden

to do sae; an' thou maun come wi' us," said Bailie Inkster.

"Wrang has nae warrant at ony time, an' ye will no touch my lad," said

Alison, rising and standing before her son.

"Come, dame, keep a still tongue."

"My tongue's no under thy belt, Tulloch; but it's weel kenned that

since thou wranged us thou ne'er liked us."

"Mother, mother, dinna fash theesel'. It's naught at a' but a mistake;

an' I'll gae wi' Bailie Inkster, if he's feared to tak my word."

"I could tak thy word fain enough, John--"

"But the thing isna possible, Inkster. Besides, if he were missing

Monday morn, I, being i' some sort a relation, wad be under suspicion

o' helping him awa."

"Naebody wad e'er suspect thee o' a helping or mercifu' deed, Tulloch.

Indeed na!"

"Tak care, dame; thou art admitting it wad be a mercifu' deed. I heard

Peter Fae say that John Sabay stabbed him, an' Ragon Torr and Hacon

Flett saw John, as I understan' the matter."

"Mother," said John, "do thou talk to nane but God. Thou wilt hae to

lead the prayer theesel' to-night; dinna forget me. I'm as innocent o'

this matter as Christine is; mak up thy mind on that."

"God go wi' thee, John. A' the men i' Orkney can do nae mair than they

may against thee."

"It's an unco grief an' shame to me," said Tulloch, "but the Sabays

hae aye been a thorn i' the flesh to me, an' John's the last o' them,

the last o' them!"

"Thou art makin' thy count without Providence, Tulloch. There's mair

Sabays than Tullochs; for there's Ane for them that counts far beyont

an' above a' that can be against them. Now, thou step aff my honest

hearthstane--there is mair room for thee without than within."

Then John held his mother's and sister's hands a moment, and there was

such _virtue_ in the clasp, and such light and trust in their faces,

that it was impossible for him not to catch hope from them. Suddenly

Bailie Tulloch noticed that John was in his Sabbath-day clothes. In

itself this was not remarkable on a Saturday night. Most of the people

kept this evening as a kind of preparation for the Holy Day, and the

best clothing and the festival meal were very general. But just then

it struck the bailies as worth inquiring about.

"Where are thy warking-claes, John--the uniform, I mean, o' that

steamship company thou sails for--and why hast na them on thee?"

"I had a visit to mak, an' I put on my best to mak it in. The ithers

are i' my room."

"Get them, Christine."

Christine returned in a few minutes pale-faced and empty-handed. "They

are not there, John, nor yet i' thy kist."

"I thought sae."

"Then God help me, sister! I know not where they are."

Even Bailie Inkster looked doubtful and troubled at this circumstance.

Silence, cold and suspicious, fell upon them, and poor John went away

half-bereft of all the comfort his mother's trust and Christine's look

had given him.

The next day being Sabbath, no one felt at liberty to discuss the

subject; but as the little groups passed one another on their way to

church their solemn looks and their doleful shakes of the head

testified to its presence in their thoughts. The dominie indeed,

knowing how nearly impossible it would be for them not to think their

own thoughts this Lord's day, deemed it best to guide those thoughts

to charity. He begged every one to be kind to all in deep affliction,

and to think no evil until it was positively known who the guilty

person was.

Indeed, in spite of the almost overwhelming evidence against John

Sabay, there was a strong disposition to believe him innocent. "If ye

believe a' ye hear, ye may eat a' ye see," said Geordie Sweyn. "Maybe

John Sabay killed old Peter Fae, but every maybe has a may-not-be."

And to this remark there were more nods of approval than shakes of

dissent.

But affairs, even with this gleam of light, were dark enough to the

sorrowful family. John's wages had stopped, and the winter fuel was

not yet all cut. A lawyer had to be procured, and they must mortgage

their little cottage to do it; and although ten days had passed,

Margaret Fae had not shown, either by word or deed, what was her

opinion regarding John's guilt or innocence.

But Margaret, as before said, was naturally slow in all her movements,

so slow that even Scotch caution had begun to call her cruel or

careless. But this was a great injustice. She had weighed carefully in

her own mind everything against John, and put beside it his own letter

to her and her intimate knowledge of his character, and then solemnly

sat down in God's presence to take such counsel as he should put into

her heart. After many prayerful, waiting days she reached a conclusion

which was satisfactory to herself; and she then put away from her

every doubt of John's innocence, and resolved on the course to be

pursued.

In the first place she would need money to clear the guiltless and to

seek the guilty, and she resolved to continue her father's business.

She had assisted him so long with his accounts that his methods were

quite familiar to her; all she needed was some one to handle the rough

goods, and stand between her and the rude sailors with whom the

business was mainly conducted.

Who was this to be? Ragon Torr? She was sure Ragon would have been her

father's choice. He had taken all charge of the funeral, and had since

hung round the house, ready at any moment to do her service. But Ragon

would testify against John Sabay, and she had besides an unaccountable

antipathy to his having any nearer relation with her. "I'll ask

Geordie Sweyn," she said, after a long consultation with her own slow

but sure reasoning powers; "he'll keep the skippers an' farmers i' awe

o' him; an' he's just as honest as any ither man."

So Geordie was sent for and the proposal made and accepted. "Thou wilt

surely be true to me, Geordie?"

"As sure as death, Miss Margaret;" and when he gave her his great

brawny hand on it, she knew her affairs in that direction were safe.

Next morning the shop was opened as usual, and Geordie Sweyn stood in

Peter Fae's place. The arrangement had been finally made so rapidly

that it had taken all Stromness by surprise. But no one said anything

against it; many believed it to be wisely done, and those who did not,

hardly cared to express dissatisfaction with a man whose personal

prowess and ready hand were so well known.

The same day Christine received a very sisterly letter from Margaret,

begging her to come and talk matters over with her. There were such

obvious reasons why Margaret could not go to Christine, that the

latter readily complied with the request; and such was the influence

that this calm, cool, earnest girl had over the elder woman, that she

not only prevailed upon her to accept money to fee the lawyer in

John's defence, but also whatever was necessary for their comfort

during the approaching winter. Thus Christine and Margaret mutually

strengthened each other, and both cottage and prison were always the

better for every meeting.

CHAPTER V.

But soon the summer passed away, and the storms and snows of winter

swept over the lonely island. There would be no court until December

to try John, and his imprisonment in Kirkwall jail grew every day more

dreary. But no storms kept Christine long away from him. Over almost

impassable roads and mosses she made her way on the little ponies of

the country, which had to perform a constant steeple-chase over the

bogs and chasms.

All things may be borne when they are sure; and every one who loved

John was glad when at last he could have a fair hearing. Nothing

however was in his favor. The bailies and the murdered man's servants,

even the dominie and his daughter could tell but one tale. "Peter Fae

had declared with his last breath that John Sabay had stabbed him."

The prosecution also brought forward strong evidence to show that very

bitter words had passed, a few days before the murder, between the

prisoner and the murdered man.

In the sifting of this evidence other points were brought out, still

more convincing. Hacon Flett said that he was walking to Stromness by

the beach to meet his sweetheart, when he heard the cry of murder, and

in the gloaming light saw John Sabay distinctly running across the

moor. When asked how he knew certainly that it was John, he said that

he knew him by his peculiar dress, its bright buttons, and the glimmer

of gold braid on his cap. He said also, in a very decided manner, that

John Sabay passed Ragon Torr so closely that he supposed they had

spoken.

Then Ragon being put upon his oath, and asked solemnly to declare who

was the man that had thus passed him, tremblingly answered,

"_John Sabay!_"

John gave him such a look as might well haunt a guilty soul through

all eternity; and old Dame Alison, roused by a sense of intolerable

wrong, cried out,

"Know this, there's a day coming that will show the black heart; but

traitors' words ne'er yet hurt the honest cause."

"Peace, woman!" said an officer of the court, not unkindly.

"Weel, then, God speak for me! an' my thoughts are free; if I daurna

say, I may think."

In defence Margaret Fae swore that she had been with John on Brogar

Bridge until nearly time to meet her father, and that John then wore a

black broadcloth suit and a high hat; furthermore, that she believed

it utterly impossible for him to have gone home, changed his clothes,

and then reached the scene of the murder at the time Hacon Flett and

Ragon Torr swore to his appearance there.

But watches were very uncommon then; no one of the witnesses had any

very distinct idea of the time; some of them varied as much as an hour

in their estimate. It was also suggested by the prosecution that John

probably had the other suit secreted near the scene of the murder.

Certain it was that he had not been able either to produce it or to

account for its mysterious disappearance.

The probability of Sandy Beg being the murderer was then advanced; but

Sandy was known to have sailed in a whaling vessel before the murder,

and no one had seen him in Stromness since his departure for Wick

after his dismissal from Peter Fae's service.

No one? Yes, some one had seen him. That fatal night, as Ragon Torr

was crossing the moor to Peter's house--he having some news of a very

particular vessel to give--he heard the cry of "Murder," and he heard

Hacon Flett call out, "I know thee, John Sabay. Thou hast stabbed my

master!" and he instantly put himself in the way of the flying man.

Then he knew at once that it was Sandy Beg in John Sabay's clothes.

The two men looked a moment in each other's face, and Sandy saw in

Ragon's something that made him say,

"She'll pat Sandy safe ta night, an' that will mak her shure o' ta

lass she's seeking far."

There was no time for parley; Ragon's evil nature was strongest, and

he answered, "There is a cellar below my house, thou knows it weel."

Indeed, most of the houses in Stromness had underground passages, and

places of concealment used for smuggling purposes, and Ragon's lonely

house was a favorite rendezvous. The vessel whose arrival he had been

going to inform Peter of was a craft not likely to come into Stromness

with all her cargo.

Towards morning Ragon had managed to see Sandy and send him out to her

with such a message as insured her rapid disappearance. Sandy had also

with him a sum of money which he promised to use in transporting

himself at once to India, where he had a cousin in the forty-second

Highland regiment.

Ragon had not at first intended to positively swear away his friend's

life; he had been driven to it, not only by Margaret's growing

antipathy to him and her decided interest in John's case and family,

but also by that mysterious power of events which enable the devil to

forge the whole chain that binds a man when the first link is given

him. But the word once said, he adhered positively to it, and even

asserted it with quite unnecessary vehemence and persistence.

After such testimony there was but one verdict possible. John Sabay

was declared guilty of murder, and sentenced to death. But there was

still the same strange and unreasonable belief in his innocence, and

the judge, with a peculiar stretch of clemency, ordered the sentence

to be suspended until he could recommend the prisoner to his majesty's

mercy.

A remarkable change now came over Dame Alison. Her anger, her sense of

wrong, her impatience, were over. She had come now to where she could

do nothing else but trust implicitly in God; and her mind, being thus

stayed, was kept in a strange exultant kind of perfect peace. Lost

confidence? Not a bit of it! Both Christine and her mother had reached

a point where they knew

"That right is right, since God is God,

And right the day must win;

To doubt would be disloyalty,

To falter would be sin."

CHAPTER VI.

Slowly the weary winter passed away. And just as spring was opening

there began to be talk of Ragon Torr's going away. Margaret continued

to refuse his addresses with a scorn he found it ill to bear; and he

noticed that many of his old acquaintances dropped away from him.

There is a distinct atmosphere about every man, and the atmosphere

about Ragon people began to avoid. No one could have given a very

clear reason for doing so; one man did not ask another why; but the

fact needed no reasoning about, it was there.

One day, when Paul Calder was making up his spring cargoes, Ragon

asked for a boat, and being a skilful sailor, he was accepted. But no

sooner was the thing known, than Paul had to seek another crew.

"What was the matter?"

"Nothing; they did not care to sail with Ragon Torr, that was all."

This circumstance annoyed Ragon very much. He went home quite

determined to leave Stromness at once and for ever. Indeed he had been

longing to do so for many weeks, but had stayed partly out of bravado,

and partly because there were few opportunities of getting away during

the winter.

He went home and shut himself in his own room, and began to count his

hoarded gold. While thus employed, there was a stir or movement under

his feet which he quite understood. Some one was in the secret cellar,

and was coming up. He turned hastily round, and there was Sandy Beg.

"Thou scoundrel!" and he fairly gnashed his teeth at the intruder,

"what dost thou want here?"

"She'll be wanting money an' help."

Badly enough Sandy wanted both; and a dreadful story he told. He had

indeed engaged himself at Wick for a whaling voyage, but at the last

moment had changed his mind and deserted. For somewhere among the

wilds of Rhiconich in Sutherland he had a mother, a wild,

superstitious, half-heathen Highland woman, and he wanted to see her.

Coming back to the coast, after his visit, he had stopped a night at a

little wayside inn, and hearing some drovers talking of their gold in

Gallic, a language which he well understood, he had followed them into

the wild pass of Gualon, and there shot them from behind a rock. For

this murder he had been tracked, and was now so closely pursued that

he had bribed with all the gold he had a passing fishing-smack to drop

him at Stromness during the night.

"She'll gae awa now ta some ither place; 'teet will she! An' she's

hungry--an' unco dry;" all of which Sandy emphasized by a desperate

and very evil look.

The man was not to be trifled with, and Ragon knew that he was in his

power. If Sandy was taken, he would confess all, and Ragon knew well

that in such case transportation for life and hard labor would be his

lot. Other considerations pressed him heavily--the shame, the loss,

the scorn of Margaret, the triumph of all his ill-wishers. No, he had

gone too far to retreat.

He fed the villain, gave him a suit of his own clothes, and £50, and

saw him put off to sea. Sandy promised to keep well out in the bay,

until some vessel going North to Zetland or Iceland, or some Dutch

skipper bound for Amsterdam, took him up. All the next day Ragon was

in misery, but nightfall came and he had heard nothing of Sandy,

though several craft had come into port. If another day got over he

would feel safe; but he told himself that he was in a gradually

narrowing circle, and that the sooner he leaped outside of it the

better.

When he reached home the old couple who hung about the place, and who

had learned to see nothing and to hear nothing, came to him and

voluntarily offered a remark.

"Queer folk an' strange folk have been here, an' ta'en awa some claes

out o' the cellar."

Ragon asked no questions. He knew what clothes they were--that suit of

John Sabay's in which Sandy Beg had killed Peter Fae, and the rags

which Sandy had a few hours before exchanged for one of his own

sailing-suits. He needed no one to tell him what had happened. Sandy

had undoubtedly bespoke the very vessel containing the officers in

search of him, and had confessed all, as he said he would. The men

were probably at this moment looking for him.

He lifted the gold prepared for any such emergency, and, loosening his

boat, pulled for life and death towards Mayness Isle. Once in the

rapid "race" that divides it and Olla from the ocean, he knew no boat

would dare to follow him. While yet a mile from it he saw that he was

rapidly pursued by a four-oared boat. Now all his wild Norse nature

asserted itself. He forgot everything but that he was eluding his

pursuers, and as the chase grew hotter, closer, more exciting, his

enthusiasm carried him far beyond all prudence.

He began to shout or chant to his wild efforts some old Norse

death-song, and just as they gained on him he shot into the "race" and

defied them. Oars were useless there, and they watched him fling them

far away and stand up with outstretched arms in the little skiff. The

waves tossed it hither and thither, the boiling, racing flood hurried

it with terrific force towards the ocean. The tall, massive figure

swayed like a reed in a tempest, and suddenly the half despairing,

half defying song was lost in the roar of the bleak, green surges. All

knew then what had happened.

"Let me die the death o' the righteous," murmured one old man, piously

veiling his eyes with his bonnet; and then the boat turned and went

silently back to Stromness.

Sandy Beg was in Kirkwall jail. He had made a clean breast of all his

crimes, and measures were rapidly taken for John Sabay's enlargement

and justification. When he came out of prison Christine and Margaret

were waiting for him, and it was to Margaret's comfortable home he was

taken to see his mother. "For we are ane household now, John," she

said tenderly, "an' Christine an' mother will ne'er leave me any

mair."

Sandy's trial came on at the summer term. He was convicted on his own

confession, and sentenced to suffer the penalty of his crime upon the

spot where he stabbed Peter Fae. For some time he sulkily rejected all

John's efforts to mitigate his present condition, or to prepare him

for his future. But at last the tender spot in his heart was found.

John discovered his affection for his half-savage mother, and promised

to provide for all her necessities.

"It's only ta poun' o' taa, an' ta bit cabin ta shelter her she'll

want at a'," but the tears fell heavily on the red, hairy hands; "an'

she'll na tell her fat ill outsent cam to puir Sandy."

"Thou kens I will gie her a' she needs, an' if she chooses to come to

Orkney--"

"Na, na, she wullna leave ta Hieland hills for naught at a'."

"Then she shall hae a siller crown for every month o' the year,

Sandy."

The poor, rude creature hardly knew how to say a "thanks;" but John

saw it in his glistening eyes and heard it in the softly-muttered

words, "She was ta only are tat e'er caret for Santy Beg."

It was a solemn day in Stromness when he went to the gallows. The

bells tolled backward, the stores were all closed, and there were

prayers both in public and private for the dying criminal. But few

dared to look upon the awful expiation, and John spent the hour in

such deep communion with God and his own soul that its influence

walked with him to the end of life.

And when his own sons were grown up to youths, one bound for the sea

and the other for Marischal College, Aberdeen, he took them aside and

told them this story, adding,

"An' know this, my lads: the shame an' the sorrow cam a' o' ane

thing--I made light o' my mother's counsel, an' thought I could do

what nane hae ever done, gather mysel' with the deil's journeymen, an'

yet escape the wages o' sin. Lads! lads! there's nae half-way house

atween right and wrang; know that."

"But, my father," said Hamish, the younger of the two, "thou did at

the last obey thy mother."

"Ay, ay, Hamish; but mak up thy mind to this: it isna enough that a

man rins a gude race; he maun also _start at the right time_. This is

what I say to thee, Hamish, an' to thee, Donald: fear God, an' ne'er

lightly heed a gude mother's advice. It's weel wi' the lads that carry

a mother's blessing through the warld wi' them."

Lile Davie.

LILE DAVIE.

In Yorkshire and Lancashire the word "lile" means "little," but in the

Cumberland dales it has a far wider and nobler definition. There it is

a term of honor, of endearment, of trust, and of approbation. David

Denton won the pleasant little prefix before he was ten years old.

When he saved little Willy Sabay out of the cold waters of Thirlmere,

the villagers dubbed him "Lile Davie." When he took a flogging to

spare the crippled lad of Farmer Grimsby, men and women said proudly,

"He were a lile lad;" and when he gave up his rare half-holiday to

help the widow Gates glean, they had still no higher word of praise

than "kind lile Davie."

However, it often happens that a prophet has no honor among his own

people, and David was the black sheep of the miserly household of

Denton Farm. It consisted of old Christopher Denton, his three sons,

Matthew, Sam, and David, and his daughter Jennie. They had the

reputation of being "people well-to-do," but they were not liked among

the Cumberland "states-men," who had small sympathy for their

niggardly hospitality and petty deeds of injustice.

One night in early autumn Christopher was sitting at the great black

oak table counting over the proceeds of the Kendal market, and Matt

and Sam looked greedily on. There was some dispute about the wool and

the number of sheep, and Matt said angrily, "There's summat got to be

done about Davie. He's just a clish-ma-saunter, lying among the ling

wi' a book in his hand the lee-long day. It is just miff-maff and

nonsense letting him go any longer to the schoolmaster. I am fair

jagged out wi' his ways."

"That's so," said Sam.

"Then why don't you gie the lad a licking, and make him mind the sheep

better? I saw him last Saturday playing sogers down at Thirlston with

a score or more of idle lads like himsel'." The old man spoke

irritably, and looked round for the culprit. "I'll lay thee a penny

he's at the same game now. Gie him a licking when he comes in, son

Matt."

"Nay, but Matt wont," said Jennie Denton, with a quiet decision. She

stood at her big wheel, spinning busily, though it was nine o'clock;

and though her words were few and quiet, the men knew from her face

and manner that Davie's licking would not be easily accomplished. In

fact, Jennie habitually stood between Davie and his father and

brothers. She had nursed him through a motherless babyhood, and had

always sympathized in his eager efforts to rise above the sordid life

that encompassed him. It was Jennie who had got him the grudging

permission to go in the evening to the village schoolmaster for some

book-learning. But peculiar circumstances had favored her in this

matter, for neither the old man nor his sons could read or write, and

they had begun to find this, in their changed position, and in the

rapid growth of general information, a serious drawback in business

matters.

Therefore, as Davie could not be spared in the day, the schoolmaster

agreed for a few shillings a quarter to teach him in the evening. This

arrangement altered the lad's whole life. He soon mastered the simple

branches he had been sent to acquire, and then master and pupil far

outstepped old Christopher's programme, and in the long snowy nights,

and in the balmy summer ones, pored with glowing cheeks over old

histories and wonderful lives of great soldiers and sailors.

In fact, David Denton, like most good sons, had a great deal of his

mother in him, and she had been the daughter of a long line of brave

Westmoreland troopers. The inherited tendencies which had passed over

the elder boys asserted themselves with threefold force in this last

child of a dying woman. And among the sheepcotes in the hills he felt

that he was the son of the men who had defied Cromwell on the banks of

the Kent and followed Prince Charlie to Preston.

But the stern discipline of a Cumberland states-man's family is not

easily broken. Long after David had made up his mind to be a soldier

he continued to bear the cuffs and sneers and drudgery that fell to

him, watching eagerly for some opportunity of securing his father's

permission. But of this there was little hope. His knowledge of

writing and accounts had become of service, and his wish to go into

the world and desert the great cause of the Denton economies was an

unheard-of piece of treason and ingratitude.

David ventured to say that he "had taught Jennie to write and count,

and she was willing to do his work."

The ignorant, loutish brothers scorned the idea of "women-folk

meddling wi' their 'counts and wool," and, "besides," as Matt argued,

"Davie's going would necessitate the hiring of two shepherds; no hired

man would do more than half of what folk did for their ain."

These disputes grew more frequent and more angry, and when Davie had

added to all his other faults the unpardonable one of falling in love

with the schoolmaster's niece, there was felt to be no hope for the

lad. The Dentons had no poor relations; they regarded them as the one

thing _not_ needful, and they concluded it was better to give Davie a

commission and send him away.

Poor Jennie did all the mourning for the lad; his father and brothers

were in the midst of a new experiment for making wool water-proof, and

pretty Mary Butterworth did not love David as David wished her to love

him. It was Jennie only who hung weeping on his neck and watched him

walk proudly and sorrowfully away over the hills into the wide, wide

world beyond.

Then for many, many long years no more was heard of "Lile Davie

Denton." The old schoolmaster died and Christopher followed him. But

the Denton brothers remained together. However, when men make saving

money the sole end of their existence, their life soon becomes as

uninteresting as the multiplication table, and people ceased to care

about the Denton farm, especially as Jennie married a wealthy squire

over the mountains, and left her brothers to work out alone their new

devices and economies.

Jennie's marriage was a happy one, but she did not forget her brother.

There was in Esthwaite Grange a young man who bore his name and who

was preparing for a like career. And often Jennie Esthwaite told to

the lads and lasses around her knees the story of their "lile uncle,"

whom every one but his own kin had loved, and who had gone away to the

Indies and never come back again. "Lile Davie" was the one bit of

romance in Esthwaite Grange.

Jennie's brothers had never been across the "fells" that divided

Denton from Esthwaite; therefore, one morning, twenty-seven years

after Davie's departure, she was astonished to see Matt coming slowly

down the Esthwaite side. But she met him with hearty kindness, and

after he had been rested and refreshed he took a letter from his

pocket and said, "Jennie, this came from Davie six months syne, but I

thought then it would be seeking trouble to answer it."

"Why, Matt, this letter is directed to me! How dared you open and keep

it?"

"Dared, indeed! That's a nice way for a woman to speak to her eldest

brother!' Read it, and then you'll see why I kept it from you."

Poor Jennie's eyes filled fuller at every line. He was sick and

wounded and coming home to die, and wanted to see his old home and

friends once more.

"O Matt! Matt!" she cried; "how cruel, how shameful, not to answer

this appeal."

"Well, I did it for the best; but it seems I have made a mistake. Sam

and I both thought an ailing body dovering round the hearthstone and

doorstone was not to be thought of--and nobody to do a hand's turn but

old Elsie, who is nearly blind--and Davie never was one to do a decent

hand job, let by it was herding sheep, and that it was not like he'd

be fit for; so we just agreed to let the matter lie where it was."

"Oh, it was a cruel shame, Matt."

"Well, it was a mistake; for yesterday Sam went to Kendall, and there,

in the Stramon-gate, he met Tom Philipson, who is just home from

India. And what does Tom say but, 'Have you seen the general yet?'

and, 'Great man is Gen. Denton,' and, 'Is it true that he is going to

buy the Derwent estate?' and, 'Wont the Indian Government miss Gen.

Denton!' Sam wasn't going to let Tom see how the land lay, and Tom

went off saying that Sam had no call to be so pesky proud; that it

wasn't him who had conquered the Mahrattas and taken the Ghiznee

Pass."

Jennie was crying bitterly, and saying softly to herself, "O my brave

laddie! O my bonnie lile Davie!"

"Hush, woman! No good comes of crying. Write now as soon as you like,

and the sooner the better."

In a very few hours Jennie had acted on this advice, and, though the

writing and spelling were wonderful, the poor sick general, nursing

himself at the Bath waters, felt the love that spoke in every word. He

had not expected much from his brothers; it was Jennie and Jennie's

bairns he wanted to see. He was soon afterwards an honored guest in

Esthwaite Grange, and the handsome old soldier, riding slowly among

the lovely dales, surrounded by his nephews and nieces, became a

well-known sight to the villages around.

Many in Thirlston remembered him, and none of his old companions found

themselves forgotten. Nor did he neglect his brothers. These cautious

men had become of late years manufacturers, and it was said were

growing fabulously rich. They had learned the value of the low coppice

woods on their fell-side, and had started a bobbin-mill which Sam

superintended, while Matt was on constant duty at the great steam-mill

on Milloch-Force, where he spun his own wools into blankets and

serges.

The men were not insensible to the honor of their brother's career;

they made great capital of it privately. But they were also intensely

dissatisfied at the reckless way in which he spent his wealth. Young

David Esthwaite had joined a crack regiment with his uncle's

introduction and at his uncle's charges, and Jennie and Mary Esthwaite

had been what the brothers considered extravagantly dowered in order

that they might marry two poor clergymen whom they had set their

hearts on.

"It is just sinful, giving women that much good gold," said Matt

angrily: "and here we are needing it to keep a great business afloat."

It was the first time Matt had dared to hint that the mill under his

care was not making money, and he was terribly shocked when Sam made a

similar confession. In fact, the brothers, with all their cleverness

and industry, were so ignorant that they were necessarily at the mercy

of those they employed, and they had fallen into roguish hands. Sam

proposed that David should be asked to look over their affairs and

tell them where the leakage was: "He was always a lile-hearted chap,

and I'd trust him, Matt, up hill and down dale, I would."

But Matt objected to this plan. He said David must be taken through

the mills and the most made of everything, and then in a week or two

afterwards be offered a partnership; and Matt, being the eldest,

carried the day. A great festival was arranged, everything was seen to

the best advantage, and David was exceedingly interested. He lingered

with a strange fascination among the steam-looms, and Matt saw the

bait had taken, for as they walked back together to the old homestead

David said, "You were ever a careful man, Matt, but it must take a

deal of money--you understand, brother--if you need at any time--I

hope I don't presume."

"Certainly not. Yes, we are doing a big business--a very good business

indeed; perhaps when you are stronger you may like to join us."

"I sha'n't get stronger, Matt--so I spoke now."

Sam, in his anxiety, thought Matt had been too prudent; he would have

accepted Davie's offer at once; but Matt was sure that by his plan

they would finally get all the general's money into their hands.

However, the very clever always find some quantity that they have

failed to take into account. After this long day at the mills General

Denton had a severe relapse, and it was soon evident that his work was

nearly finished.

"But you must not fret, Jennie dear," he said cheerfully; "I am indeed

younger in years than you, but then I have lived a hundred times as

long. What a stirring, eventful life I have had! I must have lived a

cycle among these hills to have evened it; and most of my comrades are

already gone."

One day, at the very last, he said, "Jennie, there is one bequest in

my will may astonish you, but it is all right. I went to see her a

month ago. She is a widow now with a lot of little lads around her.

And I loved her, Jennie--never loved any woman but her. Poor Mary! She

has had a hard time; I have tried to make things easier."

"You had always a lile heart, Davie; you could do no wrong to any

one."

"I hope not. I--hope--not." And with these words and a pleasant smile

the general answered some call that he alone heard, and trusting in

his Saviour, passed confidently

"The quicks and drift that fill the rift

Between this world and heaven."

His will, written in the kindest spirit, caused a deal of angry

feeling; for it was shown by it that after his visit to the Denton

Mills he had revoked a bequest to the brothers of £20,000, because, as

he explicitly said, "My dear brothers do not need it;" and this

£20,000 he left to Mary Butterworth Pierson, "who is poor and

delicate, and does sorely need it." And the rest of his property he

divided between Jennie and Jennie's bairns.

In the first excitement of their disappointment and ruin, Sam, who

dreaded his brother's anger, and who yet longed for some sympathetic

word, revealed to Jennie and her husband the plan Matt had laid, and

how signally it had failed.

"I told him, squire, I did for sure, to be plain and honest with

Davie. Davie was always a lile fellow, and he would have helped us out

of trouble. Oh, dear! oh, dear! that £20,000 would just have put a'

things right."

"A straight line, lad, is always the shortest line in business and

morals, as well as in geometry; and I have aye found that to be true

in my dealings is to be wise. Lying serves no one but the devil, as

ever I made out."

End of Project Gutenberg's Scottish sketches, by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr