OPENINGS.

The autumn of this year is even now held in memory in the island as the

dearest ever known. The men were all gone to Inverness, to act under

the orders of President Forbes in defending the king's cause; and the

women they left behind pined for news which seldom or never came. As

the days grew short and dark, there was none of the activity and mirth

within doors which in northern climates usually meet the advances of

winter. In the cluster of houses about Macdonald's farm, there was

dulness and silence in the evenings, and anxious thoughts about fathers,

husbands, and brothers, with dread of the daylight which would bring

round the perpetual ineffectual watch for a boat on the waters, bearing

news of the brave companies of the Macdonalds and Macleods. Sir

Alexander remained in Skye, to watch against treason and danger there,

while Macleod had gone with the two companies. Such a thing as

murmuring against the chief was never heard of; but there were few of

the women who did not silently think, now and then, that Sir Alexander

might let them have a little more news--might consider their anxiety,

and send a messenger when he had tidings from Inverness. This was

unjust to Sir Alexander, who was no better off for news than themselves.

The rebels were so far successful that messengers could not carry

letters with any security by land or sea. It was only by folding his

notes so small as to admit of their being hidden in corners of the dress

that the President could get them conveyed to the authorities at

Edinburgh; and his correspondence with the Government was managed by

sending messengers in open boats to Berwick, whence the garrison officer

forwarded the despatches to London. In such a state of things, the

inhabitants of remote western islands must bear suspense as well as they

could.

No one bore it so well as the Widow Fleming. Her only son was in one of

the absent companies; she had no other near relation in the world; and

she had on her hands a sinking and heart-sick neighbour, whose pains of

suspense were added to her own. Yet Annie was the most cheerful person

now on the island. When Helsa was fatigued and dispirited by her

attendance on Lady Carse, and was sent home for a day's holiday, she

always came back with alacrity, saying that after all, the Macdonalds'

side of the island was the most dismal of the two. Nobody there cared

to sing, whereas Annie would always sing when asked, and often was heard

to do so when alone. And she had such a store of tales about the old

sea-kings, and the heroes of these islands, and of Scotch history, that

some of the younger women came night after night to listen. As they

knitted or spun, or let fall their work, while their eyes were fixed on

Annie, they forget the troubles of their own time, and the blasts and

rains through which they should have to find their way home.

At the end of these evenings, Lady Carse often declared herself growing

better; and she then went to sleep on the imagination that she would

soon be restored to Edinburgh life by Mr Hope's means, and be happy at

last. In the morning, she always declared herself sinking, and fretted

over the hardship of dying just when her release was drawing near.

Annie thought she was sinking, and never contradicted her when she said

so; but yet she tried to bring some of the cheerfulness of the evenings

into the morning. She sympathised in the pain of suspense, and of

increasing weakness when life was brightening; but she steadily spoke of

hope.

She was sincerely convinced that efforts which could not fail were

making for Lady Carse's release, and she thought it likely that the

mother and children would meet on earth, though it were only to exchange

a hope that they might meet in heaven. Sincerely expecting some great

and speedy change in the poor lady's fortunes, she could dwell upon the

prospect from day to day with a sympathy which did not disappoint even

Lady Carse. Every morning she rose with the feeling that great things

might happen before night; and every night she assured her eager

neighbour that no doubt somebody had been busy on her behalf during the

day. Whether Lady Carse owned it to herself or not, this was certainly

the least miserable winter she had passed since she had left Edinburgh.

"I am better, I am sure," she joyfully declared one night: "better in

every way. How do I look? Tell me how I look."

"Sadly thin; not so as to do justice to the good food the steward sent

you," said Annie, cheerfully. "I should like to see these little hands

not quite so thin."

"Ah! that is nothing. Everybody is thin and smoke-dried at the end of a

stormy winter," declared Lady Carse. "But I feel so much better! You

say it is hope; but you see how well I bear suspense."

"I always have thought," said Annie, "that nothing is so good for us all

as happiness and peace. Your happiness in hoping to see your children

soon, and in obtaining justice, has done you a great deal of good; and I

trust there is much more in store yet."

"O yes; and when I get back to my friends again, I shall be happier than

I was. We learn some things as we go on in life. I sometimes think

that I should in some respects act differently if I had to live my life

over again."

"We all feel that," said Annie.

"You know that feeling? Well, there have been some things in myself

which I rather wonder at now; some things that I would not do now. I

once struck my husband."

"Once!" thought Annie in amazement.

"And I think I may have been too peremptory with the children. There

was nobody then to lead me to discover such things as I do when I am

with you; and I believe now that if I were at home again--I hope--I

think--"

"What will you do if it pleases God to restore you to your home?"

"Why, I _have_ been told that they were afraid of me at home. Heaven

knows why! for I should have thought that pompous, heartless, rigid,

tyrannical wretch, my husband, was the one to be afraid of; and not a

warm-hearted creature like me."

"Perhaps they were afraid of him too."

"O yes, to be sure; and that is why I am here. But they need not have

cared for anything I say under an impulse. They might have known that I

love people when they do me justice. That, I own, I cannot dispense

with. I must have justice. But if people give me my due, I am ready

enough to love them."

"And how will you do differently now, if you get home?"

"I think I would be more dignified than I sometimes have been. I would

rely more upon myself. I may have encouraged my enemies by letting them

see how they could wound my sensitive feelings. I should not have been

so ill-treated by the whole world if I had not made some mistake of that

kind. I would rely more on myself, and let them see that they could not

touch my peace. Would not that be right?"

"Certainly; by your having a peace which they could not touch."

There was a short pause; after which Lady Carse said, in no unamiable

tone, "I do not say these things by way of asking your advice. I know

my own feelings and circumstances, and the behaviour of my family to me,

better than you can do. I may be left to judge for myself; but it is

natural, when a summons may come any day, to tell you what I think of

the past; and of how I shall act in the time to come."

"I quite understand that," said Annie. "And I like to hear all you like

to tell me without judging or advising, unless you ask me."

"Well, I fairly own to you--and you may take the confession for what it

is worth--if I had to live the last twenty years over again, I should in

some respects act differently, I now believe that I have said and done

some things that I had better not. But I was driven to it. I have been

most cruelly treated."

"You have."

"And if they had only known how to treat me! Why, you are not afraid of

me, are you?"

"Not in the least."

"And you never were?"

"Never."

"Why, there now! But you are a woman of sense."

"I am not afraid of you, and never was," said Annie looking calmly in

her face; "but I can understand how some people might be."

"Not people of sense," exclaimed Lady Carse quickly.

"Perhaps not; but we do not expect all that we have dealings with to be

people of sense."

"No, indeed! Nobody need ever look for sense in Lord Carse, for one.

Well! I am so glad you never were afraid of me; and I am sure,

moreover, that you love me: you are so kind to me!"

"I do," said Annie, smiling in reply to the wistful gaze.

Lady Carse's eyes filled with tears.

"Good night! God bless you!" said she.

"She says," thought Annie, "that I may take her confession for what it

is worth. How little she knows the worth of that confession!--a

confession that any acquaintance she has would blush or mock at, and

that any pastor in Scotland would rebuke! but to one who knows her as I

do, how precious it is! I like to be called to rejoice with the

neighbours when a child is born into the world: but it is a greater

thing to sit here alone and rejoice over the birth of a new soul in this

poor lady. It is but a feeble thing, this new born soul--born so much

too late; it is little better than blind and helpless, and with hard

struggles coming on before it has strength to meet them. But still it

is breathing with God's breath; and it may come freely to Christ.

Christ always spoke to souls; and what were the years of man's life to

Him? So I take it as an invitation in such a case as this, when He

says, `Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' O may the way be

kept clear for this infant soul to come to Him!"

Annie had all the kindly and cheerful instincts which simple hearts have

everywhere; and among them the wish to welcome the newly born with

music. With the same feeling which make the people of many a heathen

island and Christian country pour out their music round the dwelling

which is gladdened by a new birth, Annie now sang a cheerful religious

welcome to the young conscience which she trusted must henceforth live

and grow for ever. Her voice was heard next door, just so as to be

favourable to rest. Without knowing the occasion of the song, the lady

reposed upon it; and without knowing it, Annie sang her charge to sleep,

as she had often done when Rollo was an infant on her knee.

When at daylight she rose to put out her lamp, and observe the weather,

she saw what made her dress quickly, instead of going to bed for her

needful morning hour of sleep. A boat was making for the harbour

through the difficulties of the wintry sea. It rose and was borne on

the long swell so fast and so fearfully, that it appeared as if nothing

could save it from dashing on the ledges of projecting rock; and then,

before it reached them, it sank out of sight, to be lifted up and borne

along as before. There were four rowers, a steersman, and two others,

muffled in cloaks. Annie watched them till the boat disappeared in the

windings of the harbour; and she was out on the hill-side, in the cold

February wind, when she saw the whole party ascending from the shore,

and taking the road to Macdonald's.

Here was news! There must be news. Better not tell even Helsa till she

had heard the news. So the widow made what haste she could by the

nearer road; but her best haste could not compare with the ordinary pace

of the strangers. They had arrived long before she reached Macdonald's

gate.

She walked straight in: and as she did so, one of the gentlemen who was

standing before the fire glanced at another who was walking up and down.

"We need no sentinels here, my lord," said the latter in reply to the

glance. "There are none but women and children on the island, and they

are all loyally disposed."

"This is Sir Alexander Macdonald," said the hostess to Annie. And then

she told the chief that this was the Widow Fleming, who had no doubt

come to obtain tidings of her son, who had gone with the company under

Macleod.

"The Lord President will give you more exact news of the company than I

can," said Sir Alexander. "I only know that my people are marched to

Aberdeen to protect that city from the insolence of the rebels."

The President, who was sitting by the fire, looked up kindly, and

cheerfully told the widow that he had good news to give of the company

from these islands. They had not been in any engagement, and were all

in good health when they marched for Aberdeen, a fortnight before. "And

are they all in their duty, my lord?"

"You remind me, friend, that I ought to have put that before my account

of their health and safety. They are in their duty, being proof, so

far, against both threat and seduction from the rebels."

"Thus far?"

"Why, yes; I used those words because their loyalty to the king is

likely to be tried to the utmost at the present time. The king's cause

is in adversity, we will hope only for a short time. The rebels have

won a battle at Falkirk, and dispersed the king's troops; and this

gentleman, the Earl of Loudon," pointing to the one who was standing by

the fire, "and I have had to run away from my house at Culloden, and

throw ourselves on the hospitality of Sir Alexander Macdonald."

"And what will become of your house, my lord?"

"I have thrown my house and fortune into the cause, as you have thrown

something much more important--your son. If you can wait God's disposal

cheerfully, much more should I. I cannot bestow a thought on my house."

"Except," said Sir Alexander, "that you have nothing else to think about

here; and nothing to do but to think, for this day, at least. We must

remain here. So safe as it is, in comparison with any part of Skye, or

even Barra, I should recommend your staying here till we have some

assurance of safety elsewhere."

"I will venture to offer something for the Lord President to think of

and to do," said the widow, coming forward with an earnestness which

fixed everybody's attention at once, and made Sir Alexander stop in his

walk. He was about to command silence on Annie's part, but a glance at

her face showed him that this would be useless.

"Let me first be sure that I am right," said Annie. "Is the Lord

President whom I speak to named Duncan Forbes? And is he a friend of

Lord Carse?"

"I am Duncan Forbes, and Lord Carse is an acquaintance of mine."

"Has he ever told you that his unhappy wife is not dead, as he

pretended, but living in miserable banishment on this island?"

"On this island! Nonsense!" cried Sir Alexander.

When assured by the hostess and Annie that it was so, he swore at his

steward, his tenant, and himself. On first hearing of the alarm being

taken by the lady's friends at Edinburgh, he had ordered her removal to

Saint Kilda, and had supposed it effected long ago. The troubles of the

time, which left no boat or men disposable, had caused the delay; and

now, between his rage at any command of his having been disregarded, and

his sense of his absurdity in bringing a friend of his prisoner to her

very door, he was perfectly exasperated. He muttered curses as he

strode up and down.

Meantime the Lord President was quietly preparing himself for a walk.

Everybody but Annie entreated him to stay till he had breakfasted, and

warmed himself, Lord Loudon adding that the lady would not fly away in

the course of the next hour if she had been detained so many years. It

did not escape the President's observant eye that these words struck Sir

Alexander, and that he made a movement towards the door. There being a

boat and rowers at hand, she might be found to have flown within the

hour, if he stayed to breakfast.