CHAPTER I.

Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was

produced from images available at The Internet Archive)

COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 2719.

KIRSTEEN BY MRS. OLIPHANT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

By the same Author,

_The Chronicles of Carlingford_:

THE RECTOR AND THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 1 vol.

SALEM CHAPEL 2 vols.

THE PERPETUAL CURATE 2 vols.

MISS MARJORIBANKS 2 vols.

PHŒBE, JUNIOR 2 vols.

* * * * *

THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS 2 v.

MARGARET MAITLAND 1 v.

AGNES 2 v.

MADONNA MARY 2 v.

THE MINISTER’S WIFE 2 v.

OMBRA 2 v.

MEMOIR OF COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT 2 v.

MAY 2 v.

INNOCENT 2 v.

FOR LOVE AND LIFE 2 v.

A ROSE IN JUNE 1 v.

THE STORY OF VALENTINE AND HIS BROTHER 2 v.

WHITELADIES 2 v.

THE CURATE IN CHARGE 1 v.

MRS. ARTHUR 2 v.

CARITÀ 2 v.

YOUNG MUSGRAVE 2 v.

THE PRIMROSE PATH 2 v.

WITHIN THE PRECINCTS 3 v.

THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND 2 v.

HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY 2 v.

HARRY JOSCELYN 2 v.

IN TRUST 2 v.

IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS 3 v.

THE LADIES LINDORES 3 v.

HESTER 3 v.

THE WIZARD’S SON 3 v.

A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN AND HIS FAMILY 2 v.

NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN 1 v.

THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER 1 v.

THE FUGITIVES 1 v.

KIRSTEEN

THE STORY

OF

A SCOTCH FAMILY SEVENTY YEARS AGO

BY

MRS. OLIPHANT,

AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”

ETC. ETC.

_COPYRIGHT EDITION._

IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. I.

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1891.

INSCRIBED

WITH LOVE AND RESPECT

TO

CHRISTINA ROGERSON.

KIRSTEEN.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

“Where is Kirsteen?”

“’Deed, mem, I canna tell you; and if you would be guided by me you

wouldna wail and cry for Kirsteen, night and day. You’re getting into

real ill habits with her to do everything for you. And the poor lassie

has not a meenit to hersel’. She’s on the run from morning to night.

Bring me this, and get me that. I ken you’re very weakly and life’s a

great trouble, but I would fain have ye take a little thought for her

too.”

Mrs. Douglas looked as if she might cry under Marg’ret’s reproof. She

was a pale pink woman seated in a large high easy-chair, so-called,

something like a porter’s chair. It was not particularly easy, but it

was filled with pillows, and was the best that the locality and the time

could supply. Her voice had a sound of tears in it as she replied:

“If you were as weak as I am, Marg’ret, and pains from head to foot, you

would know better--and not grudge me the only comfort I have.”

“Me grudge ye ainything! no for the world; except just that bairn’s time

and a’ her life that might be at its brightest; but poor thing, poor

thing!” said Marg’ret, shaking her head.

The scene was the parlour at Drumcarro, in the wilds of Argyllshire, the

speakers, the mistress of the house _de jure_, and she who was at the

head of affairs _de facto_, Marg’ret the housekeeper, cook, lady’s maid,

and general manager of everything. Mrs. Douglas had brought Marg’ret

with her as her maid when she came to Drumcarro as a bride some thirty

years before; but as she went on having child after child for nearly

twenty years, without much stamina of either mind or body to support

that continual strain, Marg’ret had gradually become more and more the

deputy and representative, the real substitute of the feminine head of

the house. Not much was demanded of that functionary so far as the

management of its wider affairs went. Her husband was an arbitrary and

high-tempered man, whose will was absolute in the family, who took

counsel with no one, and who after the few complaisances of a grim

honeymoon let his wife drop into the harmless position of a nonentity,

which indeed was that which was best fitted for her. All her active

duties one by one had fallen into the hands of Marg’ret, whose first

tender impulse to save the mistress whom she loved from toils unfitted

for her, had gradually developed into the self-confidence and universal

assumption of an able and energetic housekeeper born to organize and

administer. Marg’ret did not know what these fine words meant, but she

knew “her work,” as she would have said, and by degrees had taken

everything in the house and many things outside it into her hands. It

was to her that the family went for everything, who was the giver of all

indulgences, the only person who dared speak to “the maister,” when

clothes were wanted or any new thing. She was an excellent cook, a good

manager, combining all the qualities that make a house comfortable, and

she was the only one in the house who was not afraid of “the maister,”

of whom on the contrary he stood in a little awe. A wife cannot throw up

her situation with the certainty of finding another at a moment’s notice

as a good housekeeper can do--even if she has spirit enough to entertain

such an idea. And poor Mrs. Douglas had no spirit, no health, little

brains to begin with and none left now, after thirty years of domestic

tyranny and “a bairntime” of fourteen children. What could such a poor

soul do but fall into invalidism with so many excellent reasons

constantly recurring for adopting the habits of that state and its

pathos and helplessness? especially with Marg’ret to fall back upon,

who, though she would sometimes speak her mind to her mistress, nursed

and tended, watched over and guarded her with the most unfailing care.

Drumcarro himself (as he liked to be called) scarcely dared to be very

uncivil to his wife in Marg’ret’s presence. He knew better than to

quarrel with the woman who kept so much comfort with so little expense

in his spare yet crowded house.

“Who is your ‘poor thing, poor thing’?” said a cheerful voice, with a

mimicry of Marg’ret’s manner and her accent (for Marg’ret said poor as

if it were written with a French u, that sound so difficult to English

lips) “would it be the colley dogue or the canary bird or maybe the

mistress of the house?”

Marg’ret turned round upon the only antagonist in the house who could

hold head against her, or whom she could not crush at a blow--Kirsteen,

the second daughter, who came in at this moment, quite softly but with a

sudden burst open of the door, a sort of compromise between the noise it

would have been natural to her to make, and the quietness essential to

the invalid’s comfort. She was a girl of nearly twenty, a daughter of

the hills, strongly built, not slim but trim, with red hair and brown

eyes and a wonderful complexion, the pure whiteness like milk which so

often goes with those ruddy locks, and the colour of health and fine air

on her cheeks. I would have darkened and smoothed my Kirsteen’s abundant

hair if I could, for in those days nobody admired it. The type of beauty

to which the palm was given was the pale and elegant type, with hair

like night and starry eyes either blue or dark; and accordingly Kirsteen

was not considered a pretty girl, though there were many who liked her

looks in spite of her red hair, which was how people expressed their

opinion then. It was so abundant and so vigorous and full of curl that

it cost her all the trouble in the world to keep it moderately tidy,

whereas “smooth as satin” was the required perfection of ladies’ locks.

Her eyes were brown, not nearly dark enough for the requirements of the

time, a kind of hazel indeed, sometimes so full of light that they

dazzled the spectator and looked like gold--also quite out of accordance

with the canons of the day. She was slightly freckled: she was, as I

have said, strongly built; and in the dress of the time, a very short

bodice and a very straight and scanty skirt, her proportions were

scarcely elegant, but her waist was round if not very small, and her

arms, in their short sleeves, shapely and well formed, and whiter than

might have been expected from their constant exposure to air and sun,

for Kirsteen only put on her gloves on serious occasions. The air of

health and brightness and vigour about her altogether, made her

appearance like that of a burst of sunshine into this very shady place.

“’Deed,” said Marg’ret, putting her hands on each side of her own

substantial waist in a way which has always been supposed to imply a

certain defiance, “it was just you yoursel’.”

“Me!” the girl cried with a sort of suppressed shout. She cast a

laughing glance round with an apparent attempt to discover some cause

for the pity. “What have I done wrong now?” Then her eyes came back to

the troubled almost whimpering pathos of her mother’s looks, and a cloud

came over her bright countenance. “What has she been saying, mother,

about me?”

“She says I’m crying on you for something day and night, and that you

never have a minute to yourself; and oh, Kirsteen, my dear, I fear it’s

true.”

Kirsteen put her arms akimbo too, and confronted Marg’ret with laughing

defiance. They were not unlike each other, both of them types of

powerful and capable womanhood, the elder purely and strongly practical,

the other touched with fancy and poetry and perhaps some of the

instincts of gentle blood, though neither in father nor mother were

there many graces to inherit. “You are just a leein’ woman,” said the

girl with a flash of her bright eyes. “Why, it’s my life! What would I

do without my Minnie?--as the song says.” And she began to sing in a

fresh, sweet, but uncultivated voice:

“He turned him right and round about,

Said, Scorn not at my mither,

True loves I may get mony an ane

But Minnie ne’er anither.”

Before Kirsteen’s song came to an end, however, her eyes suddenly filled

with tears. “What were you wanting, mother,” she said hastily as she

dropped the tune which was a very simple one, “to make her speak?”

“Oh, I was wanting nothing, nothing in particular. I was wanting my

pillows shifted a little, and the big plaiden shawl for my knees, and

one of my wires that fell out of my reach, and my other clew for I’m

nearly at the end of this one. Ay! that’s better; there is nobody that

knows how to make me comfortable but you.”

For Kirsteen in the meantime had begun to do, with swift and noiseless

care, all that was wanted, finding the clew, or ball of worsted for the

stocking her mother was knitting, as she swept softly past to get the

big shawl, on her way to the side of the chair where she arranged the

pillows with deft accustomed skill. It did not take a minute to supply

all these simple requirements. Marg’ret looked on, without moving while

all was done, and caught the look half-soothed, half-peevish, which the

invalid cast round to see if there was not something else that she

wanted. “You may put down that book off the mantelpiece that Robbie left

there,” Mrs. Douglas said, finding nothing else to suggest; “it will

curl up at the corners, and your father will be ill-pleased--”

“Weel,” said Marg’ret, “now ye’ve got your slave, I’m thinking ye’ve nae

mair need of me, and there’s the grand supper to think of, that the

maister’s aye sae keen about. When will ye have markit a’ thae things,

Miss Kirsteen? For I maun see to the laddie’s packing before it’s ower

late.”

“There’s the last half dozen of handkerchiefs to do; but I’ll not take

long, and they’re small things that can go into any corner. I’ll do

them now,” said Kirsteen with a little sigh.

“There’s nae hurry;” Marg’ret paused a little, then caught the girl by

the sleeve, “just take another turn in the bonnie afternoon before the

sun’s down,” she said in a low tone, “there’s plenty of time. Run away,

my bonnie lamb. I’ll see the mistress wants naething.”

“And you that have the supper and the packing and all on your hands! No,

no. I’ll do them now. You may go to your work,” said Kirsteen with a

look half tender, half peremptory. She carried her work to the window

and sat down there with the white handkerchiefs in her hand.

“And what colour will you mark them in, Kirsteen? You have neither

cotton nor silk to do it.”

Kirsteen raised her head and pulled out a long thread of her red hair.

“I am going to do it in this colour,” she said with a slight blush and

smile. It was not an unusual little piece of sentiment in those days and

the mother accepted it calmly.

“My colour of hair,” she said, smoothing with a little complaisance her

scanty dark locks under her cap, “was more fit for that than yours,

Kirsteen, but Robbie will like to have it all the same.”

Kirsteen laughed a little consciously while she proceeded with her work.

She was quite willing to allow that a thread of her mother’s dark hair

would be better. “I will do one with yours for Robbie,” she said, “and

the rest with mine.”

“But they’re all for Robbie,” said the mother.

“Yes, yes,” Kirsteen replied with again that conscious look, the colour

mantling to her cheeks, a soft moisture filling her eyes. The

handkerchief was marked in fine delicate little cross stitches upon the

white cambric, and though Mrs. Douglas’s dark hair was like a spider’s

web, the red of Kirsteen’s shone upon the fine fabric like a thread of

gold.

The handkerchiefs were not yet finished when two young men came into the

room, one so like Kirsteen that there was no difficulty in identifying

him as her brother, the other a swarthy youth a little older, tall and

strong and well knit. Robbie was on the eve of his start in life,

leaving home, and Ronald Drummond, who was the son of a gentleman in the

neighbourhood, was going with him. They were both bound with commissions

in the Company’s service for India, where half of the long-legged

youths, sons of little Highland lairds and Lowland gentlemen, with good

blood and plenty of pride and no money, the Quentin Durwards of the

early nineteenth century, found an appropriate career. The period was

that of the brief peace which lasted only so long as Napoleon was at

Elba, long enough, however, to satisfy the young men that there was to

be no chance of renewed fighting nearer home and to make them content

with their destination. They had been bred for this destination from

their cradles, and Robbie Douglas at least was not sorry to escape from

the dullness of Drumcarro to a larger life. Several of his brothers

were already in India, and the younger ones looked to no other fate but

that of following. As for the girls they did not count for much. He was

sorry to say good-bye to Kirsteen, but that did not weigh down his

heart. He was in high excitement, eager about his new outfit, his

uniform, all the novel possessions which were doubly enchanting to a boy

who had never before possessed anything of his own. He was eighteen, and

to become all at once a man, an officer, an independent individuality,

was enough to turn the head of any youth.

Ronald Drummond was different. He was going from a much more genial

home: he had already tasted the sweets of independence, having served in

the last campaign in the Peninsula and been wounded, which was a thing

that raised him still higher in the scale of life than the three years’

advantage in respect of age which he had over his young comrade. He was

neither so cheerful nor so much excited as Robbie. He came and stood

over Kirsteen as she drew closer and closer to the window to end her

work before the light had gone.

“You are working it with your hair!” he said, suddenly, perceiving the

nature of the long curling thread with which she threaded her needle.

“Yes,” she said, demurely, holding up her work to the light. “What did

you think it was?”

“I thought it was gold thread,” he said. And then he took up one of the

handkerchiefs already completed from the table. “R. D.,” he said.

“That’s my name too.”

“So it is,” said Kirsteen, as if she had now discovered the fact for the

first time.

“Nobody will do anything like that for me,” he added, pathetically.

“Oh, Ronald! if not the hairs of their heads but the heads themselves

would do ye good ye should have them--and that ye know.”

“It is very true,” said Ronald, “and thank you, Kirsteen, for reminding

me how good they are; but,” he added, after a moment, in a low voice,

“they are not _you_.”

She gave vent to a very feeble laugh which was full of emotion. “No,

they could not be that,” she said.

“And R. D. is my name too,” said the young man. “Kirsteen!” She looked

up at him for a moment in the light that was fading slowly out of the

skies. He had taken one of the handkerchiefs from the pile, and touching

her sleeve with one hand to call her attention, put the little

glistening letters to his lips and then placed the handkerchief

carefully in the breast pocket of his coat. Standing as he did, shutting

out, as she complained, all the light from Mrs. Douglas, this little

action was quite unseen, except by the one person who was intended to

see it. Kirsteen could make no reply nor objection, for her heart was

too full for speech. Her trembling hand, arrested in its work, dropped

into his for a moment. He whispered something else, she scarcely knew

what--and then Marg’ret marched into the room with the two candles which

were all the lights ever used in Drumcarro parlour, and all was over and

done.

CHAPTER II.

There was “a grand supper,” as Marg’ret had announced, at Drumcarro this

evening, for which, though it was almost entirely a family party, solemn

preparations were being made. The house was full of an unusual odour of

good cheer, unusual goings and comings through the house betrayed the

excitement and sense of a great event approaching which was diffused

through the family. On ordinary occasions the family dinner took place

between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, followed by tea at seven

with much wealth of scones and jam, new-laid eggs and other home

produce--and the day ended for the elders by the production of “the

tray” with its case of spirit-bottles and accompanying hot water. Now

and then by times, however, this great ceremonial of a supper took

place, always on the eve of the departure of one of the boys to make

their fortune in the world. These occasions were consequently not

surrounded by the brightest recollections to the grown-up portion of the

family, or to their mother. The supper indeed to her was a feast of

tears, probably as great, though a more usual indulgence than the other

characteristics of the festival. It was rarely that Mrs. Douglas

ventured to weep in presence of her lord, but on that night he said

nothing, made no comment upon her red eyes, and suffered the whimper in

her voice without any harsh, “Hold your tongue, woman!” such as usually

subdued her. And it was recognized in the house that it was the mother’s

_rôle_ and privilege on these occasions to cry. The children were not

disturbed by it as they might have been by tears which they were less

accustomed to see shed.

The dining-room was the best room in Drumcarro, as in many Scotch houses

of the kind, being recognized as the real centre of life, the special

room of “the maister” and the scene of all the greater events in the

family. There were two windows in it which at a time when the existence

of the window-tax curtailed the light, was of itself a fine feature, and

it was well-sized and not badly furnished, with a multitude of

substantial mahogany chairs, sideboard, cellaret, and a long dining

table of very dark mahogany, shining like a black mirror, which was

capable of being drawn out to almost any length, and which had attained

the very highest polish of which wood was capable. Covered with a

dazzling white cloth, lighted with four candles, a most unusual

splendour--set in the silver candlesticks, which were the pride of the

family--and surrounded by all the Douglases who still remained at home,

it was an imposing sight. Flowers had not yet been thought of as

decorations of a table; such frivolities were far in the depths of time.

A large square dish set in a high stand of plated silver with straggling

branches extending from it on every side, each of which contained a

smaller dish full of confectionery, pieces of coloured “rock” from

Edinburgh, and sweeties procured from “the merchant’s” for the occasion,

occupied the centre of the table. It was called the _épergne_ and was

considered very splendid. The central dish was piled high with ruddy

apples, which gave an agreeable piece of colour, if any one had thought

of such fantastic folly. The four candlesticks, each with a pair of

snuffers in its tray placed between them, completed the decorative

portion of the table. The candles were not the delicate articles which

advancing civilization has learned how to produce, but smoky “moulds”

which tinged the atmosphere with a perceptible emanation, especially

when they stood in need of snuffing. They threw a ruddy light upon the

faces closely assembled round the board, bringing out most fully those

of the more youthful members of the family, and fading dismally towards

the ends of the long table at which the principal personages were

placed. There were but two visitors of the party, one the minister,

invited in right of having more or less superintended Robbie’s studies,

such as they were, and seated on Mrs. Douglas’s right hand; the other an

old Miss Douglas known as Aunt Eelen, from whom there were certain

expectations and who occupied a similar place of honour by the side of

Drumcarro. The hero of the evening was at his father’s left hand. The

rest of the party were Mary the eldest daughter, Jeanie the youngest,

Kirsteen, and two boys aged fourteen and twelve respectively, the

remaining sons of the house. The fare was excellent, and in another

region might have been thought luxurious; but it was impossible to

conceal that the large dish of delicious trout which stood smoking

before Mrs. Douglas, and the corresponding hecatomb of grouse to which

her husband helped the company after the trout had been disposed of,

came from the loch and the moor on Drumcarro estate, and therefore were

as much home produce as the eggs and the cream. This fact elicited a

somewhat sharp criticism from Miss Eelen at the foot of the table.

“The grouse is no doubt very good,” she said, “and being to the manner

born as ye may say, I never tire of it; but for a genteel supper like

what you have always given to the lads--”

“Faith,” said the laird, “they’ll find it most genteel where they’re

going. The Englishmen will think it the finest table in the world when

they hear we have grouse every day; and Robbie’s no bound to condescend

upon the number of other dishes. I know what I am doing.”

“No doubt, no doubt: I was only making a remark. Now I think a bit of

cod from the sea or a made dish of fine collops, or just a something

tossed up with a bit of veal, they’re more genteel--and I know that’s

what you’re always thinking of, Neil--of course, for the boys’

sakes----”

“There’s a made dish coming, mem,” said Merran, who was waiting.

“Oh, there’s a made dish coming! I thought Marg’ret would mind what was

for the credit of the house. Robbie, my man, ye ought to feel yourself a

great personage with all the phrase that’s made for you. When Sandy went

away, who was the first, there was nothing but a haggis--but we’ve

learned many things since then.”

“A haggis is a very good thing, it’s fit for a king’s table.”

“But not what you would call refined, nor genteel. Give me the leg and a

piece of the back--there’s more taste in it. I hope you will always be

grateful to your father for giving ye such a grand set out.”

“I think,” said the minister at the other end, “that you and Drumcarro,

mem, give yourselves more and more trouble every son that leaves ye.

This is the fifth I have seen.”

“Oh, don’t say me, Mr. Pyper,” said the mother. “I know just nothing

about it--when your son’s going away, and ye think ye may never set eyes

on him again, who’s to think of eating and drinking? He may do it, but

not me.”

“That’s very true,” said Mr. Pyper. “Still, to give the lad a something

pleasurable to look back upon, a last feast, so to speak, has many

points in its favour. A lad’s mind is full of materialism, as you may

call it, and he will mind all the faces round the friendly board.”

“It’s not very friendly to me,” said the mother, with a sob, “my four

bonny boys all away, and now Robbie. It just breaks my heart.”

“But what would you do with them, mem, if they were here?” said the

sensible minister; “four big men, for they’re all men by this time,

about the house? No, no, my dear leddy, you must not complain. Such fine

openings for them all! and every one getting on.”

“But what does that matter to me, Mr. Pyper, if I am never to see one of

them again?”

“Oh, yes, mem, it matters--oh, ay, it matters much. The young of no

species, much less the human, can bide at home. Fathers and mothers in

the lower creation just throw them off, and there’s an end. But you do

more than that. You put them in the best way of doing for themselves,

and the King himself cannot do better. Alas!” said the minister, “no

half so well, decent man--for look at all these young princes, one

wilder than the other. And every one of yours doing so well.”

“Oh, yes, they’re doing well enough--but such a long way away. And me so

delicate. And Robbie never quite strong since he had the measles. It’s

borne in upon me that I will never see him again.”

“You need not say it, mother,” said Kirsteen, “for that’s what nobody

can know; and it’s just as likely he may be sent home with despatches,

or some great grandee take a fancy to him and bring him back. And when

we’re sitting some day working our stockings he’ll come linking in by

the parlour door.”

“Oh, you’re just as light as air,” said the mother; “there’s nothing

serious in ye. You think going to India is just like going to the fair.”

Kirsteen darted a quick glance at her mother, but said no more. Her eyes

kept filling much against her will. She was in great terror lest a big

drop might brim over and run down her cheek, to be spied at once by

Jeanie or the boys. For nothing would be hid from these little things:

they could note at the same moment the last bit of a bird which they had

all counted on, being transferred to Aunt Eelen’s plate, and keep an eye

upon the favourite apple each had chosen, and spy that suspicious

brightness in Kirsteen’s eyes. Nothing could be hid from their sharp,

little, all-inspecting looks.

There was a breathless moment when the cloth was drawn, and the black

gleam of the mahogany underneath changed in a moment the lights of the

picture, and gave the children a delightful opportunity of surveying

themselves in that shining surface. It was a moment full of solemnity.

Everybody knew what was coming. The port and sherry, with their little

labels, in the silver holders intended to prevent the bottles from

scratching the table, were placed before Mr. Douglas. Then there was

also placed before him a trayful of tall glasses. He rose up: the eyes

of all followed his movements: Jock and Jamie projecting their red heads

forward in the smoky glow of the candles, then much in want of snuffing:

Jeanie’s paler locks turned the same way. Mary, who had her mother’s

brown smooth hair, rested her clasped hands upon the edge of the table

with calm expectation. Kirsteen leant her elbows on the same shining

edge, and put down her face in her hands. Miss Eelen shook her head, and

kept on shaking it like a china mandarin. The laird of Drumcarro went to

an old-fashioned wine-cooler, which stood under the sideboard. He took

from it one bottle of champagne, which occupied it in solitary dignity.

Marg’ret stood ready with a knife in her hand to cut the wire, and a

napkin over her arm to wipe up anything that might be spilt. Not a word

was said at table while these preliminaries were gone through. Aunt

Eelen, as the catastrophe lingered, went so far as to make a suppressed

_Tchish! Tchish!_ of her tongue against her palate. The rest were full

of serious excitement too important for speech. The bottle was opened

finally without spilling a drop: it was perhaps not so much “up” as it

might have been. Drumcarro filled all the glasses, one for each person

at table, and another for Marg’ret. There was perhaps more foam than

wine in a number of the glasses. He held up his own in his hand. “It’s

Robbie’s last night at Drumcarro,” he said, “for the present. Have you

all your glasses? Before the fizz is out of the wine drink to Robbie’s

good health, and good luck to him, and to all our lads that have gone

before.” He touched the foam in his glass, now fast dying away, with his

lips. “May they all come back with stars on their breasts,” he said,

“and do credit to their name--and not a laggard, nor a coward, nor one

unworthy to be a Douglas among them all!”

The other male members of the party were standing up also, “Here’s to

you, Robbie! Here’s to you, Robbie!” cried the two boys. The foam in

their glasses merely moistened their throats; the minister, however,

whose glass had been full, gravely swallowed its contents in little

sips, with pauses between. “A very good health to them all, and the Lord

bless them,” he said with imposing authority. Mrs. Douglas, taking

advantage of the privilege awarded to her, began to cry, and Marg’ret

lifted up a strong voice, from the foot of the table where she stood

with her hand upon the shoulder of the hero.

“Be a good lad, Robbie--and mind upon your Minnie and a’ the family--and

be a credit to us a’: here’s to you, and to the rest o’ the young

gentlemen, them that’s gone, and them that are to go!”

“Ye’ll have to get a new bottle for the little one,” said Aunt Eelen,

“Neil, my man, for your half-dozen will be out with Jock.” She gave a

harsh laugh at her own joke. “And then there’s the lasses’ marriages to

be thought upon,” she added, setting down her glass.

Drumcarro resumed his seat, the ceremonial being over. “Let the lasses’

marriages alone,” he said impatiently. “I’ve enough to think upon with

my lads. Now, Rob, are you sure you’re all ready? Your things packed and

all your odds and ends put up? The less of them you take the better.

Long before you’ve got the length of Calcutta ye’ll be wishing you had

left the half of your portmanteaux at home.”

“I’ve just two, father.”

“Well, ye’ll be wishing ye had but one. Bring ben the hot water,

Marg’ret; for wine’s but a feeble drink, and cold on the stomach. My

wife never moves at the right time--will I give her a hint that you’re

waiting, Eelen?”

“Not on my account, Drumcarro. Your champagne’s no doubt a grand drink;

but a glass out of your tumbler, if you’re going to make one, is more

wholesome and will set all right.”

“I thought ye would say that,” said the laird. She had said it already

on every such occasion--so that perhaps his divination was not

wonderful. He proceeded with care to the manufacture of “the tumbler,”

at which the minister looked from the other end of the table with

patient interest, abiding his time.

“Snuff the candles,” said the laird, “will nobody pay a little

attention? You three little ones, you can run away with your apples,

it’s near your bed-time; but don’t make more noise than you can help.

Marg’ret, take the hot water to the minister. Champagne, as ye were

saying, Eelen, is a grand drink; I think it right my sons should drink

it at their father’s table before they plunge into the extravagance of a

mess. It teaches a lad what he’s likely to meet with, and I would not

have one of mine surprised with any dainty, as if he had come out of a

poor house. But a wholesome glass like what I’m helping you to is worth

twenty of it.” He was filling a wine-glass with his small silver

toddy-ladle as he spoke, and the fumes of the pungent liquid rose in

curls of steam pleasant to the accustomed nostrils. Robbie kept an eye

upon the hot water which Mr. Pyper detained, knowing that one of the

privileges of his position to-night was “to make a tumbler” for himself,

with the privilege of offering it then to his sisters, as each of his

brothers had done.

“Can I assist you to a glass, mem? just a drop. It will do ye good,” the

minister said.

“Nothing will do me good,” said Mrs. Douglas. “I’m far past that; but

I’ll take a little for civility, not to refuse a friend; whether it’s

toddy or whether it’s wine it’s all sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal

to me. A woman when her bairns go from her is little comforted by the

like of that.”

“And yet the creature comforts have their place, a homely one but still

a true one,” said the minister. “There’s a time to feast as well as a

time to refrain from feasting. Miss Mary, may I have the pleasure of

assisting you?”

“I’ll take a little from Robbie,” said the elder daughter, wisely

instructed that it was well thus to diminish the unwonted tumbler

allowed to the novice. Kirsteen rose quickly to her feet as these

interchanges went round.

“Mother, I think if ye’ll let me, I’ll just give an eye to what the

little ones are doing,” she said, “and see that Robbie’s things are all

ready. One of the boxes is open still and there are these

handkerchiefs.”

Kirsteen’s eyes were brimming over, and as she spoke a large drop fell

upon her hand: she looked at it with alarm, saying, “I did not mean to

be so silly,” and hastened away.

“Where is Kirsteen away to? Can she not take her share of what is going

like the rest?” said her father. “You breed these lasses to your own

whimsies, Mistress Douglas. The bairns are well out of the road; but

them that are grown up should bide where they are, and not disturb the

family. I have no patience with them.”

“I’m here, father,” said Mary in her mild voice.

“Oh, ay, you’re there,” said the inconsistent head of the house, “for

you’re just nobody, and never had two ideas in your head,” he continued

in a lower tone. “Now, Robbie, my man, take your glass, there is no

saying when you will get another. It’s just second nature to a Scotsman,

but it’s as well for you to be out of the way of it; for though it’s the

most wholesome drink, it’s very seductive and you’re much better without

it at your age. It’s like the strange woman that you’re warned against

in Scripture.”

“Drumcarro!” said Aunt Eelen. “Oh fie! before ladies.”

“Ladies or no ladies I cannot let the occasion pass without a word of

warning,” said the father. “Ye will have every temptation put before ye,

my lad; not drink perhaps, for the climate will not stand it, but other

things, that are worse.”

“I’m thinking, Christina,” said the old lady, “that now your goodman has

begun his moralities it may be as well for us to go, for you know where

that begins and you never can tell where it may end; a man has

cognizance of many things that cannot enter into the experience of you

and me. Mind you what your father says, Robbie, but it’s not intended

for your mother and me.”

CHAPTER III.

Kirsteen hurried out of the room, out of the fumes of the toddy and the

atmosphere of the half-festive, half-doleful occasion which made a not

altogether unpleasant excitement in the monotony of the home life. She

gazed in at the open door of the parlour, and saw the three younger

children gathered in the firelight upon the hearthrug munching their

apples, and the sweets with which they had been allowed to fill their

pockets. The firelight made still more ruddy the red heads and freckled

faces of the boys, and lit up Jeanie, who sat on a footstool a little

higher than her brothers, in her more delicate tints. Kirsteen was much

attached to her younger sister, who promised to be the beauty of the

family, and thought her like an angel, especially as seen through the

dew of her wet eyes. “Dinna make a noise,” she said; “be awfu’ quiet or

you’ll be sent to your beds;” and then closed the door softly and stole

through the dark passage towards the principal entrance. There was no

light save a ruddy gleam from the kitchen in the depths of that dark

passage which traversed the whole breadth of the house, and that which

shone through the crevices of the dining-room door. She had to find her

way groping, but she was very well used to this exercise, and knew

exactly where the hall-table and the heavy wooden chairs on each side

stood. The outer door stood half open according to the habit of the

country where there were no burglars to fear, and little to tempt them,

and a perfect capacity of self-defence inside. There was a full moon

that night, but it had not yet risen, though the sky was full of a misty

light which preceded that event. A faint shadow of the group of trees

outside was thrown upon the doorway; they were birches slender and

graceful, with their leaves half blown away by the October gales; those

that remained were yellow with the first touches of the frost, and in

themselves gave forth a certain light. Kirsteen stole out to a bench

that stood against the wall, and sat down in a corner. She was not

afraid of cold with her uncovered head and bare arms. All the moods of

the elements were familiar to the Highland girl. She thought it mild,

almost warm: there was no wind, the yellow birches perceptible in their

faint colour stood up like a group of long-limbed youths dangling their

long locks in the dim light: the further landscape was but faintly

visible, the shoulder of the hill against the sky, and a single gleam of

the burn deep down among the trees.

She sat pressing herself into the corner of the seat, and the long

pent-up tears poured forth. They had been getting too much for her, like

a stream shut in by artificial barriers, and now came with a flood, like

the same stream in spate and carrying every obstruction away. It was

almost a pleasure to see (if there had been any one to do so) the good

heart with which Kirsteen wept: she made no noise, but the tears poured

forth in a great shower, relieving her head and her heart. They were

very heavy, but they were not bitter. They meant a great deal of emotion

and stirring up of her whole being, but though her feelings were very

poignant they were not without pleasure. She had never felt so elevated

above herself, above every dull circumstance that surrounded her. She

had been very sorry and had shed tears plentifully when the other boys

went away. But this was not the same. She perhaps did not confess to

herself, yet she knew very well that it was not altogether for Robbie.

Robbie had his share, but there was another now. For years Kirsteen and

Ronald Drummond had been good friends. When he went away before she had

felt a secret pang, and had been very eager to hear the news of the

battles and that he was safe: but something had changed this friendship

during the last summer while he had been at home. Not a word had been

said: there was no love-making; they were both too shy to enter upon any

revelation of feeling, nor was there any opportunity for explanations,

since they were always surrounded by companions, always in the midst of

a wandering, easy-minded party which had no respect for any one’s

privacy. But Kirsteen when she marked her brother’s handkerchiefs with

her hair had fully intended that Ronald should see it, and be struck

with the similarity of the initials and ask for or take one of them at

least. Her heart beat high when this happened according to her

prevision; and when he stooped and whispered, “Will ye wait for me,

Kirsteen, till I come back?” the answering whisper, “That I will!” had

come from the bottom of her heart. She had scarcely been aware of what

was said in the hurry of the moment. But it had come back to her, every

syllable and every tone as soon as it was all over. Their spirits had

floated together in that one moment, which was only a moment, yet enough

to decide the course of two lives. They were too much bound by the laws

of their youthful existence to think of breaking any observance in order

to expand these utterances, or make assurance sure. That Ronald should

spend his last evening at home with his mother and sister, that Kirsteen

should be present at Robbie’s parting supper, was as the laws of the

Medes and the Persians to these two. No emergency could be imagined of

sufficient weight to interfere with such necessities of life. And there

was something in their simple absolutism of youthful feeling which was

better expressed in the momentary conjunction, in the sudden words so

brief and pregnant, than in hours of lovers’ talk, of which both boy and

girl would have thought shame. “Will ye wait for me till I come back?”

What more could have been said in volumes? and “That I will!” out of the

fervour of a simple heart? Kirsteen thought it all over again and again.

He seemed to stand by her side bending a little over her with a look

half smile, half tears in his eyes; and she was aware again of the flash

of the sweet discovery, the gold thread of the little letters put to his

lips, and then the question, “Will ye wait?” Wait! for a hundred years,

for all the unfathomed depths of life, through long absence and silence,

each invisible to the other. “That I will!” She said it over and over

again to herself.

In those days there was no thought of the constant communications we

have now, no weekly mails, no rapid courses overland, no telegraph for

an emergency. When a young man went away he went for good--away; every

trace of him obliterated as if he had not been. It was a four months’

voyage to India round by the Cape. Within the course of the year his

mother might hope to hear that he had arrived. And if an Indian letter

had come even at that long interval for a girl in another family, what a

host of questions would she not have had to go through! “A letter for

Kirsteen! Who’s writing to Kirsteen? What is he writing to her about?

What is the meaning of it all? I must know what that means!” such would

have been the inquiries that would have surged up in a moment, making

poor Kirsteen the object of everybody’s curious gaze and of every kind

of investigation. She never dreamed of any such possibility. Robbie,

when he wrote home, which he would no doubt do in time, might mention

the companion of his voyage; Agnes Drummond might say “There’s a letter

from our Ronald.” These were the only communications that Kirsteen

could hope for. She was very well aware of the fact, and raised no

thought of rebellion against it. When she gave that promise she meant

waiting for interminable years--waiting without a glimpse or a word. Nor

did this depress her spirits: rather it gave a more elevating ideal form

to the visionary bond. All romance was in it, all the poetry of life. He

would be as if he were dead to her for years and years. Silence would

fall between them like the grave. And yet all the time she would be

waiting for him and he would be coming to her.

And though Kirsteen cried, it was not altogether for trouble. It was for

extreme and highly-wrought feeling, sorrow and happiness combined.

Through all her twenty years of life there had been nothing to equal

that moment, the intensity of it, the expectation, the swift and sudden

realisation of all vague anticipations and wishes. It was only a minute

of time, a mere speck upon the great monotonous level of existence, and

yet there would be food enough in it for the thoughts of all future

years. When the thunder-shower of tears was exhausted, she sat quite

still in a kind of exalted contentment, going over it and over it, never

tired. The hot room and the smoky glare of the candles, and the fumes of

the whisky and the sound of all the voices, had been intolerable to her;

but in the fresh coldness of the night air, in that great quiet of

Nature, with the rustle of the leaves going through it like breath, and

the soft distant tinkle of the burns, what room and scope there was for

remembering; which was what Kirsteen called thinking--remembering every

tone and look, the way in which he approached the table where her work

was lying, her wonder if he would notice, the flush of perception on his

face as he said, “It’s my name too,” and then that tender theft, the act

that left Robbie for ever without one of his pocket-handkerchiefs,--she

thought with a gleam of fun how he would count them and count them, and

wonder how he had lost it--the little visionary letters put to his lips.

Oh that her heart had been sewn in with the hair to give to him! But so

it was, so it was! He had that pledge of hers, but she had nothing of

his, nor did she want anything to remind her, to bind her faith to him,

though it should be years before she saw him again. The tears started

into her eyes again with that thought, which gave her a pang, yet one

which was full of sweetness: for what did it matter how long he was

away, or how dark and still the time and space that separated them now.

“Will ye wait for me till I come back?” that would be the gold thread

that should run through all the years.

The sound of a little movement in the dining-room from which all this

time she had heard the murmur of the voices, the tinkle of the glasses,

made her pause and start. It was the ladies withdrawing to the parlour.

She thought with a little gasp that they would find the children

scorching their cheeks on the hearthrug, instead of being sent off to

bed as should have been done, and held her breath expecting every

moment the call of “Kirsteen!” which was her mother’s appeal against

fate. But either the general license of the great family event, or the

sedative effect of her mouthful of champagne and glass of toddy, or the

effect of Aunt Eelen’s conversation which put her always on her defence

whatever was the subject, had subdued Mrs. Douglas: there came no call,

and Kirsteen, though with a slightly divided attention, and one ear

anxiously intent upon what was going on indoors, pursued her thoughts.

It gave them a more vivid sweetness that they were so entirely her own,

a secret which she might carry safely without any one suspecting its

existence under cover of everything that was habitual and visible. It

would be her life, whatever was going on outside. When she was dull--and

life was often dull at Drumcarro--when her mother was more exacting than

usual, her father more rough, Mary and the children more exasperating,

she would retire into herself and hear the whisper in her heart, “Will

ye wait till I come back?”--it would be like a spell she said to

herself--just like a spell; the clouds would disperse and the sun break

out, and her heart would float forth upon that golden stream.

The sound of a heavy yet soft step aroused Kirsteen at this moment from

her dreams; but she was set at ease by the sight of a great whiteness

which she at once identified as Marg’ret’s apron coming slowly round the

corner of the house. “I just thought I would find you here,” said

Marg’ret. “It’s natural in me after that warm kitchen and a’ the pots

and pans, to want a breath of air--but what are you doing here with your

bare neck, and nothing on your head? I’m just warning you for ever,

you’ll yet your death of cold.”

“I could not bear it any longer,” said Kirsteen, “the talking and all

the faces and the smell of the toddy.”

“Hoot,” said Marg’ret, “what ails ye at the smell of the toddy? In

moderation it’s no an ill thing--and as for the faces, you wouldna have

folk without faces, you daft bairn; that’s just a silly speech from the

like of you.”

“There’s no law against being silly,” Kirsteen said.

“Oh, but that’s true. If there was, the jails would be ower full: though

no from you, my bonnie dear. But I ken weel what it is,” said Marg’ret,

putting her arm round the girl’s shoulder. “Your bit heart’s a’ stirred

up, and ye dinna ken how ye feel. Tak’ comfort, my dear bairn, they’ll

come back.”

Kirsteen shed a few more ready tears upon Marg’ret’s shoulder, then she

gave that vigorous arm a push, and burst from its hold with a laugh,

“There’s one of Robbie’s handkerchiefs lost or stolen,” she said. “Where

do ye think he’ll ever find it? and R. D. worked upon it with a thread

of my hair.”

“Bless me!” said Marg’ret with alarm, “who would meddle with the

laddie’s linen? but you’re meaning something mair than meets the eye,”

she added, with a pat upon the girl’s shoulder; “I’ll maybe faddom it by

and by. Gang away ben, the ladies will be wondering where ye are, and

it’s eerie out here in the white moonlight.”

“Not eerie at all: ye mean soft and sweet,” said Kirsteen, “the kind of

light for thinking in; and the moon is this minute up. She’s come for

you and not for me.”

“I cannot faddom you the nicht any more than I can faddom what ye say,”

said Marg’ret. “There’s mair in it than Robbie and his handkerchief. But

I maun go in and fasten up the straps and put his keys in his pocket, or

he’ll forget them. Laddies are a great handful, they’re aye forgetting.

But they’re like the man’s wife, they’re ill to have, but worse to want.

Gang in, gang in out of the night air,” said Marg’ret with a faint sob,

softly pushing Kirsteen before her. The smell of the peat fires, which

was pleasant, and of the smoke of the candles, which was not, and of the

penetrating fumes of the toddy again filled Kirsteen’s nostrils as she

came in. She had no right to be fastidious, for she had been brought up

in the habit and knowledge of all these odours. When she entered,

another scent, that of the tea with which the ladies were concluding the

evening, added its more subtle perfume. In those days people were not

afraid of strong tea, mixed with a great deal of green to modify the

strong black Congou, and it had been “masking” for half an hour before

the fire: they were not afraid of being “put off their sleep.”

“And do ye mean to say, Christina, that there’s nobody coming about the

house that would do for your girls?”

“Oh, for mercy’s sake, Eelen, say not a word about that: we’ve had

trouble enough on that subject,” said Mrs. Douglas in her injured voice.

“Are you meaning Anne? Well, I mind Drumcarro’s vow, but there is no

doubt that was a missalliance. I’m meaning men in their own position of

life.”

“Where are they to see men in their own position, or any men?” said the

mother shaking her head. “Bless me, Kirsteen, is that you? I don’t like

people to go gliding about the house like that, so that ye never can

hear them. When your aunt and me were maybe talking--what was not meant

for the like of you.”

“Hoot, there was no hairm in it,” said Aunt Eelen, “if all the lasses in

the town had been here.”

“But it’s an ill custom,” said Mrs. Douglas. “However, as you’re here ye

may just get me my stocking, Kirsteen, and take up a stitch or two that

I let fall. Na, na, no strangers ever come here. And now that my

Robbie’s going, there will be fewer than ever. I wish that your father

would not keep that laddie out of his bed, and him starting so early.

And, eh, me, to think that I’m his mother, and most likely will never

see him in this world again!”

CHAPTER IV.

Robbie went away next morning very early, before the October day was

fairly afloat in the skies. They had no carriage at Drumcarro except

“the gig,” and it was perched up in this high conveyance, looking very

red with tears and blue with cold, that the household, all standing

round the door, saw the last of the boy mounted beside his father, with

a large portmanteau standing uncomfortably between them. His other

baggage had been sent off in the cart in the middle of the night, Jock

as a great favour accompanying the carter, to the great envy and wrath

of Jamie, who thought it hard that he should miss such a “ploy,” and

could see no reason why his brother should be preferred because he was

two years older. Jamie stood at the horse’s head looking as like a groom

as he could make himself, while his father made believe to hold in the

steady honest mare who knew the way as well as he did, and was as little

troubled by any superfluous fun or friskiness. Mrs. Douglas had remained

in bed dissolved in tears, and her boy had taken his leave of her in

those congenial circumstances. “Be a good lad, Robbie, and sometimes

think upon your poor mother, that will never live to see you again.”

“Oh, mother, but I’ll be back long before that,” he cried vaguely, doing

his best to behave like a man, but breaking out in a great burst of a

sob, as she fell back weeping upon her pillows. The girls at the door

were in different developments of sorrow, Mary using her handkerchief

with demonstration, Kirsteen with her eyes lucid and large with unshed

tears, through which everything took an enlarged, uncertain outline, and

little Jeanie by turns crying and laughing as her attention was

distracted from Robbie going away to Jamie standing with his little legs

wide apart at the mare’s respectable head. Robbie was not at all sorry

to go away, his heart was throbbing with excitement and anticipation of

all the novelties before him; but he was only eighteen, and it was also

full for the moment of softer emotions. Marg’ret stood behind the girls,

taller than any of them, with her apron to her eyes. She was the last

person upon whom his look rested as his father called out, “Stand away

from her head,” as if honest Mally had been a hunter, and with a

friendly touch of the whip stirred the mare into motion. Robbie looked

back at the gray house, the yellow birches waving in the winds, the

hillside beyond, and the group round the door, and waved his hand and

could not speak. But he was not sorry to go away. It was the aim of all

his breeding, the end looked forward to for many years. “It’s me the

next,” said Jock, who was waiting at Inveralton, from which place by

fishing-smack and coach Robbie was to pursue his way to Glasgow and the

world. Travellers had but few facilities in those days: the rough

fishing boat across the often angry loch; the coach that in October did

not run “every lawful day,” but only at intervals; the absence of all

comfortable accommodation would grievously affect the young men nowadays

who set out in a sleeping carriage from the depths of the Highlands to

take their berths in a P. and O. Robbie thought of none of these

luxuries, which were not yet invented. His parting from his father and

brother was not emotional: all that had been got over when the group

about the doors had waved their last good-bye. He was more anxious about

the portmanteaux, upon which he looked with honest pride, and which

contained among many other things the defective half-dozen of

handkerchiefs. Ronald Drummond met him at the side of the loch with his

boxes, which contained a more ample outfit than Robbie’s, and the

sword-case which had been in the Peninsula, a distinction which drew all

eyes. “It’s me the next,” Jock shouted as a parting salutation, as the

brown sail was hoisted, and the boat, redolent of herrings, carried the

two adventurers away.

“Weel,” said Marg’ret, “the laddie’s gane, and good go with him. It’s

ane less to think of and fend for. And we must just all go back to our

work. Whoever comes or whoever goes, I have aye my dinner to think of,

and the clean clothes to be put into the drawers, and the stockings to

darn a’ the same.”

“If you’ll put an iron to the fire, Marg’ret, I’ll come and do the

collars,” said Mary, “he was always so particular, poor Robbie. There

will be no fyke now with trying to please him.”

“I cannot settle to work,” said Kirsteen, “and I will not. I’m not just

a machine for darning stockings. I wish I was Robbie going out into the

world.”

“Oh, Kirsteen, come and see the rabbits he gave me,” said Jeanie. “He

would not trust one of them to the boys, but gave them to me. Come and

take them some lettuce leaves. It will keep us in mind of Robbie.” There

was perhaps some danger that the recollection of the brother departed

would not last very long. So many had gone before him and there were

still others to go.

But Kirsteen avoided Jeanie and the rabbits and suddenly remembered

something she had to get at the “merchant’s,” which was a full mile

off--worsted for her mother’s knitting and needles for herself, who was

always, to the reprobation of the elder members of the family, losing

her needles. She was glad to represent to herself that this errand was a

necessity, for a house without needles how can that be? and poor mother

would be more dependent than ever on everything being right for her

work, on this melancholy day. It was still quite early, about nine

o’clock, and it was with a compunction that Kirsteen gave herself the

indulgence of this walk. A morning away from work seemed to her almost

an outrage upon life, only to be excused by the circumstances and the

necessity of the errand. She walked along the familiar road not noting

where she went, her thoughts far away, following the travellers, her

mind full of an agitation which was scarcely sorrowful, a sort of

exaltation over all that was common and ordinary. The air and the motion

were good for her, they were in harmony with that condition of

suppressed excitement in which from the depths of her being everything

seemed bubbling up. Kirsteen’s soul was like one of the clear pools of

the river by which she walked, into which some clear, silvery, living

thing had leaped and lived. Henceforward it was no more silent, no

longer without motion. The air displaced came up in shining globules to

the surface, dimpling over the water, a stir was in it from time to

time, a flash, a shimmering of all the ripples. Her mind, her heart were

like the pool--no longer mirroring the sky above and the pathway ferns

and grasses on the edge, but something that had an independent life. She

roamed along without being able to tell, had any one asked her, where

she was. The road was a beautiful road by the side of a mountain stream,

which was only called the burn, but which was big enough for trout or

even now and then salmon--which ran now along the side of the bill, now

diving deep down into a ravine, now half hid with big overreaching

banks, now flinging forth upon a bit of open country, flowing deep among

the rocks, chattering over the shallows, sometimes bass sometimes

treble, an unaccountable, unreasonable, changeable stream. Red

rowan-tree berries hung over it reflecting their colour in the water.

The heather on the hill came in deep russet tones of glory defeated, and

the withered bracken with tints of gold, all gaining a double brilliancy

from the liquid medium that returned their image. To all these things

Kirsteen was so well accustomed that perhaps she did not at any time

stop to note them as a stranger might have done. But to-day she did not

know what was about her; she was walking in more beautiful landscapes,

in the land of imagination, by the river of love, in the country of the

heart. The _pays du tendre_ which was ridiculous when all the fine

ladies and gentlemen postured about in their high-heeled shoes is not

absurd when a fresh and simple maiden crosses its boundary. She went

down the glen to the merchant’s and chose her wool, and bought her

needles, and said a few words to the women at their doors, and shed a

few more tears when they were sorry for her about her brother’s going

away, without ever leaving that visionary country, and came back from

the village more deeply lost in it than ever, and hearing the whisper of

last night in every motion of the branches and every song of the burns.

“Will ye wait for me, Kirsteen?” though it was only this morning that he

went away, and years and years must pass before he came back--“Ay, that

I will! That I will.”

She had nearly reached home again, coming back from the merchant’s--for

even her reverie and the charm of it could not keep Kirsteen’s step

slow, or subdue its airy, skimming tread--when she came up to the carter

with his cart who had carried Robbie’s luggage to Inveralton. She

stopped to speak to him, and walked along by his side timing her steps

to those of his heavy, slow tread and the movement of the laborious,

patient horse. “Did you see him, Duncan?” she said.

“Oh, ay, I saw him--and they got away fine in James Macgregor’s boat;

and a quick wind that would carry them over the loch in two or three

minutes.”

“And how was he looking, Duncan?”

“’Deed, Miss Kirsteen, very weel: he’s gaun to see the world--ye canna

expect a young boy like that to maen and graen. I have something here

for you.”

“Something for me!” She thought perhaps it was something that had been

put into the gig by mistake, and was not excited, for what should there

be for her? She watched with a little amusement Duncan’s conflict with

the different coats which had preserved his person from the night cold.

He went on talking while he struggled.

“The other laddie, Jock, I left to come home with the maister in the

gig. He thought it was fine--but I wouldna wonder if he was regretting

Duncan and the cart--afore now. Here it is at last, and a fecht to get

it. It is a book from Maister Ronald that you gave him a loan of--or

something o’ that kind--if I could but mind what gentles say--”

“Gave him--a loan of--?” cried Kirsteen, breathless. She had to turn

away her head not to exhibit to Duncan the overwhelming blush which she

felt to cover her from head to foot. “Oh, yes,” she added after a

moment, taking the little parcel from his hand, “I--mind.”

Let us hope that to both of them the little fiction was forgiven. A loan

of--she had nothing to lend, nor had he ever borrowed from her. It was a

small paper parcel, as if it contained a little book. Kirsteen never

could tell how she succeeded in walking beside the carter for a few

steps further, and asking him sedately about his wife and the bairns.

Her heart was beating in her ears as if it would burst through. It was

like a bird straining at its bonds, eager to fly away.

Then she found herself at home where she had flown like the wind, having

informed Duncan that she was “in a great hurry”--but in the passage, on

the way to her own room, she met Mary, who was coming from the kitchen

with a number of shining white collars in her arms which she had been

ironing.

“Where have you been?” said Mary. “My mother has been yammering for you.

Is this an hour of the day to go stravaighing for pleasure about the

roads?”

Mary pronounced the last word “rods,” though she prided herself on being

very correct in her speech.

“Me--I have been to the merchant’s for my mother’s fingering for her

stockings,” Kirsteen said breathlessly.

“It was wheeling she wanted,” said Mary with exasperating calm; “that’s

just like you, running for one thing when it’s another that’s wanted. Is

that it in that small parcel like a book?”

“No, that’s not it,” said Kirsteen, clasping the little parcel closer

and closer.

“It’s some poetry-book you’ve had out with you to read,” said her

sister, as if the acme of wrong-doing had been reached. “I would not

have thought it of you, Kirsteen, to be reading poetry about the rods,

the very morning that Robbie’s gone away. And when my mother is so ill

she cannot lift her head.”

“I’ve been reading no poetry,” cried Kirsteen, with the most poignant

sense of injury. “Let me pass, Mary, I’m going up the stair.”

But it was Marg’ret now who interposed, coming out at the sound of the

altercation. She said, “Miss Kirsteen, I’m making some beef-tea for the

mistress. Come in like a dear and warm your hands, and ye can carry it

up. It will save me another trail up and down these stairs.”

Kirsteen stood for a moment obstructed on both sides with a sense of

contrariety which was almost intolerable. Tears of vexation rose to her

eyes. “Can I not have a moment to myself?” she cried.

“To read your poetry!” Mary called after her in her mild little

exasperating voice.

“Whist, whist, my lamb, say nothing,” said Marg’ret. “Your mother canna

bide to have a talking. Never you mind what she says, think upon the

mistress that’s lying up there, wanting to hear everything and

canna--wanting to be in the middle of everything and no equal to it. It

was no that I grudge going up the stairs, but just to keep a’ things

quiet. And what’s that you’ve gotten in your hand?”

“It’s just a small parcel,” said Kirsteen, covering it with her fingers.

“It’s just a--something I was buying--”

“Not sweeties,” said Marg’ret solemnly; “the bairns had more than plenty

last night--”

“Never you mind what it is,” said Kirsteen with a burst of impatience,

thrusting it into her pocket. “Give me the beef-tea and I’ll take it up

stairs.”

Mrs. Douglas lay concealed behind her curtains, her face almost in a

fluid state with constant weeping. “Oh, set it down upon the table,” she

said. “Do they think there’s comfort in tea when a woman has parted with

her bairn? And where have ye been, Kirsteen? just when I was in want of

ye most; just when my head was sorest, and my heart like to

break--Robbie gone, and Mary so taken up with herself, and you--out of

the way--”

“I’m very sorry, mother,” said poor Kirsteen. “I ran down to the

merchant’s to get you your yarn for your knitting. I thought you would

like to have it ready.”

Mrs. Douglas rocked her head back and forward on her pillow. “Do I look

like a person that’s thinking of yarn or of stockings, with my head

aching and my heart breaking? And none of you can match a colour. Are

you sure it’s the same? Most likely I will just have to send Marg’ret to

change it. What’s that bulging out your pocket? You will tear every

pocket you have with parcels in it as if ye were a lad and not a lass.”

“It’s only a very small thing,” said Kirsteen.

“If that’s the yarn ye should never let them twist it up so tight. It

takes the softness all out of it. Where are ye going the moment you’ve

come back? Am I to have nobody near me, and me both ill in body, and

sore, sore distrest in mind? Oh, Kirsteen, I thought ye had a truer

heart.”

“Mother, my heart’s true,” cried the girl, “and there’s nothing in the

world I would not do to please you. But let me go and put away my

things, let me go for a moment, just for a moment. I’ll be back again

before you’ve missed me.”

“You’re not always so tidy to put away your things,” said the invalid;

“sit down there by my bedside, and tell me how my bonnie lad looked at

the last. Did he keep up his heart? And was your father kind to him? And

did you see that he had his keys right, and the list of all his

packages? Eh, me, to think I have to lie here and could not see my

laddie away.”

“But, mother, you have never done it,” said Kirsteen, “to any of the

boys--and Robbie never expected--”

“You need not mind me,” said Mrs. Douglas, “of the waik creature I’ve

always been. Aye in my bed or laid up, never good for anything. If

you’ll lift me up a little, Kirsteen, I might maybe try to swallow the

beef tea; for eh! I have much, much need of support on such a doleful

day. Now another pillow behind my back, and put the tray here; I cannot

bear the sight of food, but I must not let my strength run down. Where

are you going now, you restless thing? Just stay still where you are;

for I cannot do without you, Kirsteen. Kirsteen, do you hear me? The

doctor says I’m never to be left by myself.”

It was not till a long time after that Kirsteen was free. Her eager

expectation had fallen into an aching sense of suspense, a dull pang

that affected both mind and body. Instead of the rapid flight to her

room full of anticipation in which she had been arrested in entering the

house, she went soberly, prepared for any disenchantment. The room was

shared with her younger sister Jeanie, and it seemed quite probable that

even a moment’s solitude might be denied her. When she found it empty,

however, and had closed the door upon herself and her secret, it was

with trembling hands that she opened the little parcel. It might be the

handkerchief sent back to her, it might be some other plain intimation

that he had changed his mind. But when the covering was undone,

Kirsteen’s heart leaped up again to that sudden passion of joy and

content which she had first known yesterday. The parcel contained the

little Testament which Ronald had carried to church many a Sunday, a

small book bound in blue morocco, a little bent and worn with use. On

the flyleaf were his initials R. D., the letters of the handkerchief,

and underneath C. D. freshly written. He had made rather clumsily, poor

fellow, with a pencil, a sort of Runic knot of twisted lines to link the

two names together. That was all. Nowadays the young lover would at

least have added a letter; seventy years ago he had not thought of it.

Kirsteen’s heart gave a bound in her breast, and out of weariness and

contradiction and all the depressing influences of the morning, swam

suddenly into another world: a delicious atmosphere of perfect visionary

bliss. Never were public betrothals more certain, seldom so sweet. With

a timid movement, blushing at herself, she touched with her lips the

letters on the title-page.

PART II.

CHAPTER V.

Mr. Douglas of Drumcarro was the son of one of the Scotch lairds who had

followed Prince Charlie, and had been attainted after the disastrous

conclusion of the Forty-Five. Born in those distracted times, and

learning as their very first lessons in life the expedients of a hunted

man to escape his pursuers, and the anguish of the mother as to the

success of these expedients, the two half-comprehending children, twin

boys, had grown up in great poverty and seclusion in the corner of a

half-ruined house which belonged to their mother’s father, and within

cognizance of their own real home, one of the great houses of the

district which had passed into alien hands. When they set out to make

their fortune, at a very early age, their mother also having in the

meantime died, two half-educated but high-spirited and strongly-feeling

boys, they had parted with a kind of vow that all their exertions should

be addressed to the task of regaining their old possessions and home,

and that neither should set foot again upon that beloved alienated land

until able in some measure to redeem this pledge. They went away in

different directions, not unconfident of triumphantly fulfilling the

mutual promise; for fame and fortune do not seem very difficult at

sixteen, though so hard to acquire at a less hopeful age. Willie, the

younger, went to England, where some relations helped him on and started

him in a mildly successful career. He was the gentlest, the least

determined of the two, and fortune overtook him in a manner very

soothing after his troubled boyhood in the shape of a mild competency

and comfort, wife and children, and a life altogether alien to the

romance of the disinherited with which he had begun.

But Neil Douglas, the elder, went further afield. He went to the West

Indies, where at that period there were fortunes for the making,

attended however by many accessories of which people in the next

generation spoke darkly, and which still, perhaps, among unsophisticated

people survive in tradition, throwing a certain stain upon the planter’s

fortunes. Whether these supposed cruelties and horrors were all or

almost all the exaggerations of a following agitation, belonging like

many similar atrocities in America to the Abolitionist imagination, is a

question unnecessary to discuss. Up to the time at which this story

begins, whenever Mr. Douglas of Drumcarro quarrelled with a neighbour

over a boundary line or a shot upon the hill-side, he was called “an

auld slave-driver” by his opponent, with that sense of having power to

exasperate and injure which gives double piquancy to a quarrel. And of

him as of many another such it was told that he could not sleep of

nights; that he would wake even out of an after-dinner doze with cries

of remorse, and that dreams of flogged women and runaways in the marshes

pursued him whenever he closed his eyes. The one thing that discredited

these popular rumours among all who knew Drumcarro was that he was

neither tender-hearted nor imaginative, and highly unlikely to be

troubled by the recollection of severities which he would have had no

objection to repeat had he had the power. The truth was that he had by

no means found fortune so easily as he had hoped, and had worked in

every way with a dogged and fierce determination in spite of many

failures, never giving up his aim, until at last he had found himself

with a little money, not by any means what he had looked for and wanted,

but enough to buy a corner of his old inheritance, the little Highland

estate and bare little house of Drumcarro. Hither he came on his return

from Jamaica, a fierce, high-tempered, arbitrary man, by no means

unworthy of the title of “auld slave-driver,” so unanimously bestowed

upon him by his neighbours, who, however, could not ignore the claims of

his old Douglas blood however much they might dislike the man.

He had married a pretty little insipid girl, the daughter of one of his

brother’s friends in “the south country,” who brought with her a piano

and a few quickly-fading airs and graces to the Highland wilds, to sink

as soon as possible into the feeble and fanciful invalid, entirely

subject to her husband’s firmer will and looking upon him with terror,

whom the reader has already seen. Poor Mrs. Douglas had not vigour

enough to make the least stand against her fate. But for Marg’ret she

would have fallen at once into the domestic drudge which was all

Drumcarro understood or wanted in a wife. With Marg’ret to preserve her

from that lower depth, she sank only into invalidism--into a timid

complaining, a good deal of real suffering, and a conviction that she

was the most sorely tried of women. But she bore her despotic husband

seven boys without a blemish, robust and long-limbed lads equal to every

encounter with fate. And this made him a proud man among his kind,

strongly confident of vanquishing every adverse circumstance, in their

persons at least, if not, as Providence seemed to have forbidden, in his

own. He set his whole heart upon these boys--struggling and sparing to

get a certain amount of needful education for them, not very much, it

must be allowed; and by every means in his power, by old relationships

half-forgotten, by connections of his West Indian period, even by such

share as he could take in politics, contrived to get appointments for

them, one after another, either in the King’s or the Company’s service

for India. The last was much the best of any; it was a fine service,

with perpetual opportunities of fighting and of distinction, not so

showy as the distinctions to be gained in the Peninsula, but with far

better opportunities of getting on. The four eldest were there already,

and Robbie had started to follow them. For Jock, who took to his books

more kindly than the others, there was a prospect of a writership. It

was more easy in those days to set young men out in the world than it is

now. Your friends thought of them, your political leaders were

accessible; even a passing visitor would remark the boys in your nursery

and lend a friendly hand. Nobody lends a friendly hand nowadays, and

seven sons is not a quiverful in which a poor man has much reason to

rejoice.

On the other hand the girls at Drumcarro were left without any care at

all. They were unlucky accidents, tares among the wheat, handmaids who

might be useful about the house, but who had no future, no capabilities

of advancing the family, creatures altogether of no account. Men in a

higher position than the laird of Drumcarro might have seen a means of

strengthening their house by alliances, through the means of four comely

daughters, but the poor little Highland lairdlings, who were their only

possible suitors, were not worth his trouble, and even of them the

supply was few. They too went out into the world, they did not remain to

marry and vegetate at home. Mr. Douglas felt that every farthing spent

upon the useless female portion of his household was so much taken from

the boys, and the consequence was that the girls grew up without even

the meagre education then considered necessary for women, and shut out

by poverty, by pride, by the impossibility of making the appearance

required to do credit to the family, even the homely gaieties of the

country-side. They grew up in the wilds like the heather and the

bracken, by the grace of nature, and acquired somehow the arts of

reading and writing, and many housewifely accomplishments, but without

books, without society, without any break in the monotony of life or

prospect in their future. Their brothers had gone off one by one,

depriving them in succession of the natural friends and companions of

their youth. And in this way there had happened a domestic incident

never now named in Drumcarro; the most awful of catastrophes in the

experience of the younger members of the family. The eldest of the

girls, named Anne, was the handsomest of the three elder sisters. She

was of the same type of beauty which promised a still more perfect

development in the little Jeanie, the youngest of the daughters; with

fair hair just touched with a golden light, blue eyes soft and tender,

and a complexion somewhat pale but apt to blush at any touch of

sentiment or feeling into the warmest variable radiance. She sang like a

bird without any training, she knew all the songs and stories of the

district, and read every poetry-book she could find (they were not

many--_The Gentle Shepherd_, an old copy of Barbour’s _Bruce_, some

vagrant volumes of indifferent verse); she was full of sentiment and

dreamy youthful romance without anything to feed upon. But just at the

time when her favourite brother Nigel went away, and Anne was downcast

and melancholy, a young doctor came temporarily to the district, and

came in the usual course to see Mrs. Douglas, for whose case he

recommended certain remedies impossible to be carried out, as doctors

sometimes do. He advised change of air, cheerful company, and that she

should be kept from everything likely to agitate or disturb her. “That’s

sae easy--that’s sae likely,” said Marg’ret under her breath. But Anne

listened anxiously while the young doctor insisted upon his remedies. He

came again and again, with an interest in the patient which no one had

ever shown before. “If you could take her away into the sunshine--to a

brighter place, where she would see new faces and new scenes.” “Oh, but

how could I do that,” cried Anne, “when I have no place to take her to,

and my father would not let me if I had?” “Oh, Miss Anne, let me speak

to your father,” the young man pleaded. “You shall have a pleasant house

to bring your mother to, and love and service at her command, if you

will but listen to me.” Anne listened, nothing loth, and the young

doctor, with a confidence born of ignorance, afterwards asked for an

interview with Drumcarro. What happened was never known; the doctor

departed in great haste, pale with wrath, Mr. Douglas’s voice sounding

loud as the burn when in spate after him as he strode from the door; and

Anne’s cheeks were white and her eyes red for a week after. But at the

end of that week Anne disappeared and was no more seen. Marg’ret, who

had risen very early in the middle of the wintry dark, to see to some

great washing or other household work, found, as was whispered through

the house, a candle nickering down in the socket upon the hall-table,

and the house-door open. To blow out the last flickering flame, lest it

should die in the socket and so foreshadow the extinction of the race,

was Marg’ret’s first alarmed precaution; and then she shut the open

door, but whether she saw or heard anything more nobody ever knew. A

faint picture of this scene, the rising and falling of the dying light,

the cold wind blowing in from the door, the wild darkness of the winter

morning, with its belated stars in a frosty sky looking in, remained in

the imagination of the family surrounding the name of Anne, which from

that day was never pronounced in the house. Where she went or what

became of her was supposed by the young ones to be absolutely unknown.

But it is to be hoped that even Drumcarro, savage as he was, ascertained

the fate of his daughter even while he cursed her. It came to be

understood afterwards that she had married her doctor and was happy; but

that not for a long time, nor to the sisters thus taught by the

tremendous force of example what a dreadful thing it was to look at any

upstart doctor or minister or insignificant person without a pedigree or

pretensions like their own.

This was the only shape in which love had come near the door of

Drumcarro, and if there was a certain attraction even in the tragic

mystery of the tale, there was not much encouragement for the others to

follow Anne’s example, thus banished summarily and for ever from all

relations with her family. Also from that time no doctor except the old

man who had brought the children into the world was ever allowed to

enter those sacred doors, nor any minister younger or more seductive

than Mr. Pyper. As for other ineligible persons there were none in the

country-side, so that Mary and Kirsteen were safe from temptation. And

thus they went on from day to day and from year to year, in a complete

isolation which poverty made imperative more even than circumstances,

the only event that ever happened being the departure of a brother, or

an unusually severe “attack” of their mother’s continued ever-enduring

illness. They were not sufficiently educated nor sufficiently endowed to

put them on a par with the few high-born ladies of the district, with

whom alone they would have been allowed to associate; and there was

native pride enough in themselves to prevent them from forming

friendships with the farmers’ daughters, also very widely scattered and

few in number, who, though the young ladies of Drumcarro were so little

superior to themselves in any outward attribute, would have thought

their acquaintance an honour. Nothing accordingly could exceed the

dulness, the monotony of their lives, with no future, no occupation

except their work as almost servants in their father’s house, no hope

even of those vicissitudes of youth which sometimes in a moment change a

young maiden’s life. All was bald and gray about them, everything but

the scenery, in which, if there is nothing else, young minds find but an

imperfect compensation. Mary indeed had a compensation of another kind

in the comfortable apathy of a perfectly dull and stolid character,

which had little need of the higher acquirements of life. But Kirsteen

with her quick temper and high spirit and lively imagination was little

adapted for a part so blank. She was one of those who make a story for

themselves.

CHAPTER VI.

Marg’ret was perhaps the only individual in the world who dared to

remonstrate with Mr. Douglas as to the neglect in which his daughters

were losing their youth and all its pleasures and hopes. Aunt Eelen it

is true made comments from time to time. She said: “Puir things, what

will become of them when Neil’s deed? They’ve neither siller nor

learning; and no chance of a man for one of them that I can see.”

“And yet they’re bonnie lasses,” said the sympathetic neighbour to whom

on her return home after Robbie’s departure she made this confidence.

“Oh, they’re well enough, but with a silly mother and a father that’s

just a madman, what can any person do for them?” Miss Eelen Douglas was

not quite assured in her own mind that it was not her duty to do

something for her young relations, and she took a great deal of pains to

prove to herself that it was impossible.

“What if you had them over at the New Year? There’s aye something going

on, and the ball at the Castle.”

“The ball at the Castle!” cried Miss Eelen with a scream. “And what

would they put on to go to the ball at the Castle? Potato-bags and

dishclouts? Na, na, I’m of his mind so far as that goes. If they cannot

appear like Drumcarro’s daughters they are best at home.”

“Bless me,” said the kind neighbour, “a bit white frock is no ruinous.

If it was only for a summer Sabbath to go to the kirk in, they must have

white frocks.”

“Ruinous or no ruinous it’s more than he’ll give them,” said Miss Eelen,

shutting up her thin lips as if they had been a purse. She was very

decided that the white frocks could not come from her. And indeed her

means were very small, not much more than was absolutely necessary to

maintain her little house and the one maid who kept her old mahogany and

her old silver up to the polish which was necessary. Naturally all her

neighbours and her cousin Neil, who hoped to inherit from her,

exaggerated Miss Eelen’s income. But though she was poor, she had a

compunction. She felt that the white frocks ought to be obtained

somehow, if even by the further pinching of her own already pinched

living, and that the great chance of the ball at the Castle ought to be

afforded to Drumcarro’s neglected girls. And she had to reason with

herself periodically as to the impossibility of this, demonstrating how

it was that she could not do it, that it was not her part to do it, that

if the father and the mother saw no necessity, how was she, a cousin

once removed, to take it upon her? For though they called her aunt she

was in reality Neil Douglas of Drumcarro’s cousin and no more.

Notwithstanding all these arguments a compunction was always present in

Miss Eelen’s worn out yet not extinguished heart.

“Besides,” she began again more briskly, “what would be the use? Ye’ll

no suppose that Lord John or Lord Thomas would offer for Drumcarro’s

lasses. They’re as good blood, maybe better; for it’s cauld watery stuff

that rins in those young lads’ veins. But Neil Douglas is a poor man; if

he had all or the half that rightly belongs to him, it would be anither

matter. We’ll say nothing about that I’m a Douglas myself, and it just

fires me up when I think of it. But right or wrong, as I’m saying,

Drumcarro’s a poor man and it’s no in the Castle his lasses will find

mates. And he’s a proud man. I think upon Anne, puir thing, and I cannot

say another word. Na, na, it’s just a case where nobody can interfere.”

“But Miss Anne’s very happy, and plenty of everything, as I hear.”

“Happy, and her father’s doors closed upon her, and her name wiped out

as if she were dead, far more than if she were dead! And bearing a name

that no man ever heard of, her, a Douglas!” Miss Eelen’s gray cheek took

on a flush of colour at the thought. She shook her head, agitating the

little gray ringlets on her forehead. “Na, na,” she said, “I’m vexed to

think upon the poor things--but I cannot interfere.”

“Maybe their father, if you were to speak to him--”

“Me speak to him! I would as soon speak to Duncan Nicol’s bull. My dear,

ye ken a great deal,” said Miss Eelen with irony, “but ye do not ken the

Douglases. And that’s all that can be said.”

This, however, was not all that a more devoted friend, the only one they

had who feared neither Drumcarro nor anything else in the world, in

their interests, found to say. Marg’ret was not afraid of Drumcarro.

Even she avoided any unnecessary encounter with “the auld slave-driver,”

but when it was needful to resist or even to assail him she did not

hesitate. And this time it was not resistance but attack. She marched

into the laird’s room with her head held high, trumpets playing and

banners flying, her broad white capstrings finely starched and streaming

behind her with the impulse of her going, an unusual colour in her

cheeks, her apron folded over one hand, the other free to aid the

eloquence of her speech. Several months had passed in great quiet, the

little stir of Robbie’s departure having died away along with the faint

excitement of the preparations for his departure, the making of his

linen, the packing of his portmanteaux. All had relapsed again into

perfect dulness and the routine of every day. Jamie, the next boy, was

only fourteen; a long time must elapse before he was able to follow his

brother into the world, and until his time should come there was no

likelihood of any other event stirring the echoes at Drumcarro. As for

Marg’ret, the routine was quite enough for her. To think what new

variety of scone she could make for their tea, how she could adapt the

remains of the grouse to make a little change, or improve the flavour of

the trout, or com-pound a beef-tea or a pudding which would tempt her

mistress to a spoonful more, was diversion enough for Marg’ret among the

heavier burdens of her work. But the bairns--and above all Kirsteen, who

was her special darling. Kirsteen had carried her head very high after

Robbie went away. She had been full of musings and of dreams, she had

smiled to herself and sung to herself fragments of a hundred little

ditties, even amid the harassments of her sick mother’s incessant

demands, and all the dulness of her life. But after a month or two that

visionary delight had a little failed, the chill of abandonment, of

loneliness, of a life shut out from every relaxation, had ceased to be

neutralized by the secret inspiration which kept the smile on her lips

and the song in her heart. Kirsteen had not forgotten the secret which

was between her and Ronald, or ceased to be sustained by it; but she was

young, and the parting, the absence, the silence had begun to tell upon

her. He was gone; they were all gone, she said to herself. With

everything in the world to sustain the young sufferer, that chill of

absence is always a sad one. And her cheerfulness, if not her courage,

had flagged. Her heart and her head had drooped in spite of herself. She

had been found moping in corners, “thinking,” as she had said, and she

had been seen with her eyes wet, hastily drying the irrepressible

tears. “Kirsteen greetin’!” One of the boys had seen it, and mocked her

with a jibe, of which afterwards he was much ashamed; and little Jeanie

had seen it, and had hurried off awestricken to tell Marg’ret, “Kirsteen

was in the parlour, just with nobody, and greetin’ like to break her

heart.”

“Hoot awa’ with ye, it’ll be that auld pain in her head,” said Marg’ret

sending the little girl away. But this report brought affairs to a

crisis. “The bairn shall not just be left to think and think,” she said

to herself, adding however prudently, “no if I can help it.” Marg’ret

had managed one way or other to do most things she had set her heart

upon, but upon this she could not calculate. Drumcarro was not a man to

be turned easily from his evil ways. He was a “dour man.” The qualities

which had enabled him in the face of all discouragement to persevere

through failure and disappointment until he had at last gained so much

if no more and become Drumcarro, were all strong agents against the

probability of getting him to yield now. He had his own theories of his

duty, and it was not likely that the representations of his housekeeper

would change them. Still Marg’ret felt that she must say her say.

He was seated by himself in the little room which was specially his own,

in the heaviness of the afternoon. Dinner was over, and the air was

still conscious of the whisky and water which had accompanied it. A peat

fire burned with an intense red glow, and his chair and shabby

writing-table were drawn close to it. No wonder then that Drumcarro

dozed when he retired to that warm and still seclusion. Marg’ret took

care not to go too soon, to wait until the afternoon nap was over; but

the laird’s eyes were still heavy when she came in. He roused himself

quickly with sharp impatience; though the doze was habitual he was full

of resentment at any suspicion of it. He was reading in his room; this

was the version of the matter which he expected to be recognized in the

family: a man nowadays would say he had letters to write, but letters

were not so universal an occupation then. A frank or an opportunity, a

private hand, or sure messenger with whom to trust the missive were

things of an occasional occurrence which justified correspondence; but

it was not a necessity of every day. Mr. Douglas made no pretence of

letters. He was reading; a much crumpled newspaper which had already

passed through several hands was spread out on the table before him. It

was a Glasgow paper, posted by the first reader the day after

publication to a gentleman on Loch Long, then forwarded by him to

Inveralton, thence to Drumcarro. Mr. Pyper at the Manse got it at fourth

hand. It would be difficult to trace its wanderings after that. The

laird had it spread upon his table, and was bending over it, winking one

eye to get it open when Marg’ret pushed open the door. She did not

knock, but she made a great deal of noise with the handle as she opened

it, which came to much the same thing.

“Well,” he said, turning upon her snappishly, “what may ye be wanting

now?”

“I was wanting--just to say something to ye, Drumcarro, if it’s

convenient to ye,” Marg’ret said.

“What do ye want? That’s your way of asking, as I know well. What ails

ye now, and what long story have ye to tell? The sooner it’s begun the

sooner it will be ended,” he said.

“There is truth in that,” replied Marg’ret sedately; “and I canna say I

am confident ye will be pleased with what I am going to say. For to

meddle between a father and his bairns is no a pleasant office, and to

one that is but a servant in the house.”

“And who may this be,” said Mr. Douglas grimly, “that is coming to

interfere between a father and his bairns,--meaning me and my family, as

I’m at liberty to judge?”

Marg’ret looked her master in the face, and made him a slight but

serious curtsey. “’Deed, sir, it’s just me,” she said.

“You!” said the laird with all the force of angry indignation which he

could throw into his voice. He roused himself to the fray, pushing up

his spectacles upon his forehead. “You’re a bonny one,” he said, “to

burst into a gentleman’s private room on whatever errand--let alone

meddling in what’s none of your concerns.”

“If ye think sae, sir,” said Marg’ret, “that’s just anither point we

dinna agree about; for if there’s a mair proper person to speak to ye

about your bairns than the person that has brought them up, and carried

them in her arms, and made their parritch and mended their clo’es all

their life, I’m no acquaint with her. Eh, me, what am I saying? There is

anither that has a better right--and that’s their mother. But she’s your

wife, puir lamb, and ye ken weel that ye’ve sae dauntened her, and sae

bowed her down, that if ye were to take a’ their lives she would never

get out a word.”

“Did she send ye here to tell me so?” cried Drumcarro.

“But me,” said Marg’ret, unheeding the question, “I’m no to be dauntened

neither by words nor looks. I’m nae man’s wife, the Lord be thankit.”

“Ye may well say that,” said the laird, seizing an ever-ready weapon,

“for it’s well known ye never could get a man to look the way ye were

on.”

Marg’ret paused for a moment and contemplated him, half moved by the

jibe, but with a slight wave of her hand put the temptation away. “I’m

no to be put off by ony remarks ye can make, sir,” she said; “maybe ye

think ye ken my affairs better than I do, for well I wot I ken yours

better than you. You’re no an ill father to your lads. I would never say

sae, for it wouldna be true; ye do your best for them and grudge

naething. But the lassies are just as precious a gift from their Maker

as their brothers, and what’s ever done for them? They’re just as

neglecktit as the colley dogues: na, far mair, for the colleys have a

fine training to make them fit for their work--whereas our young ladies,

the Lord bless them--”

“Well,” said the father sharply, “and what have you to do with the young

ladies? Go away with you to your kitchen, and heat your girdle and make

your scones. That’s your vocation. The young ladies I tell ye are no

concern of yours.”

“Whose concern should they be when neither father nor mother take ony

heed?” said Marg’ret “Maister Douglas, how do you think your bonnie lads

would have come through if they had been left like that and nobody

caring? There’s Miss Kirsteen is just as clever and just as good as any

one o’ them; but what is the poor thing’s life worth if she’s never to

see a thing, nor meet a person out of Drumcarro House? Ye ken yoursel’

there’s little company in Drumcarro House--you sitting here and the

mistress maybe in her bed, and neither kin nor friend to say a pleasant

word. Lord bless us a’! I’m twice her age and mair: but I would loup

ower the linn the first dark day, if I was like that lassie without the

sight of a face or the sound of a voice of my ain kind.”

“You’re just an auld fool,” said Drumcarro, “the lassie is as well off

as any lassie needs to be. Kirsteen--oh ay, I mind now, ye have always

made a pet of Kirsteen. It’s maybe that that has given her her bold

tongue and set that spark in her eye.”

“Na,” said Marg’ret, “it was just her Maker did that, to make her ane of

the first in the land if them she belongs to dinna shut her up in a

lonesome glen in a dull hoose. But naebody shall say I’m speaking for

Kirsteen alone; there’s your bonny little Jeanie that will just be a

beauty. Where she got it I canna tell, ony mair than I can tell where

Kirsteen got her grand spirit and yon light in her ee. No from her poor

mother, that was a bonny bit thing in her day, but never like that.

Jeanie will be just the flower o’ the haill country-side, if ye can ca’

it a country-side that’s a’ howkit out into glens and tangled with thae

lochs and hills. If she were in a mair open country there’s no a place

from Ayr to Dumfries but would hear of her for her beauty in twa or

three years’ time. Ye may say beauty’s but skin deep, and I’m saying

nothing to the contrary; but it’s awfu’ pleasant to the sight of men;

and I’ll just tell you this, Drumcarro--though it’s maybe no a thing

that’s fit for me to say--there’s no a great man in a’ the land that

bairn mightna marry if she had justice done her. And maybe that will

move ye, if naething else will.”

A gleam had come into Drumcarro’s eyes as she spoke, but he answered

only by a loud and harsh laugh, leaning back in his chair and opening

wide a great cavern of a mouth. “The deil’s in the woman for marrying

and giving in marriage!” he said. “A bit lassie in a peenny? It’s a pity

the Duke marriet, Marg’ret, but it cannot be mended. If she’s to get a

prince he’ll come this way when she’s old enough. We’ll just wait till

that time comes.”

“The time has come for the rest, if no for her,” said Marg’ret,

unexpectedly encouraged by this tone. “And eh? if ye would but think,

they’re young things, and youth comes but ance in a lifetime, and ye can

never win it back when it’s past. The laddies, bless them, are all away

to get their share; the lassies will never get as much, but just a bit

triflin’ matter--a white gown to go to a pairty, or a sight of Glasgow,

or--”

“The woman’s daft!” said the laird. “Glasgow! what will they do there? a

white gown! a fiddlestick--what do they want that they haven’t

got--plenty of good meat, and a good roof over their heads, and nothing

to do for’t but sew their seams and knit their stockings and keep a

pleasant tongue in their heads. If ye stir up nonsense among them, I’ll

just turn ye bag and baggage out of my house.”

“I would advise ye to do that, sir,” said Marg’ret calmly. “I’ll no need

a second telling. And ye’ll be sorry but ance for what ye have done, and

that’ll be a’ your life.”

“Ye saucy jade!” said the laird: but though he glared at her with fiery

eyes, he added no more on this subject. “The lassies!” he said, “a

pingling set aye wanting something! To spend your money on feeding them

and clothing them, that’s not enough it would appear! Ye must think of

their finery, their parties and their pleasures. Tell Kirsteen she must

get a man to do that for her. She’ll have no nonsense from me.”

“And where is she to get a man? And when she has gotten a man--the only

kind that will come her gait--”

Mr. Douglas rose up from his chair, and shook his clenched first. Rage

made him dumb. He stammered out an oath or two, incapable of giving vent

to the torrent of wrath that came to his lips. But Marg’ret did not wait

till his utterances became clear.

CHAPTER VII.

This was one of the days when Mrs. Douglas thought she felt a little

better, and certainly knew it was very dull in her bed-room, where it

was not possible to keep even Kirsteen stationary all day, so she had

ventured to come down stairs after the heavy midday dinner which filled

the house with odours. A little broth, served with what was considered

great delicacy in Drumcarro in a china dish on a white napkin, had

sufficed for her small appetite; and when everything was still in the

house, in partial somnolence after the meal, she had been brought to the

parlour with all her shawls and cushions, and established by the fire.

The news of the great ball at the Castle which had moved Marg’ret to the

desperate step she had just taken had its effect in the parlour too.

Kirsteen who had said at first proudly, “What am I heeding?” had,

notwithstanding everything, begun to wake up a little to the more usual

sensations of a girl of twenty when any great event of this description

is about to take place. It would be bonny to see--it would be fine just

for once to be in grand company like the old Douglases her forbears, and

to see how the lords and ladies behaved themselves, if they were really

so different from common folk. And then Kirsteen began to think of the

music and the sound of the dancers’ feet upon the floor, in spite of

herself--and the imaginary strains went to her head. She was caught in

the measure of her dreams, swaying a little involuntarily to keep time,

and interjecting a real step, a dozen nimble twinklings of her feet in

their strong country shoes as she went across the room to fetch a new

clew for her mother’s knitting.

“What’s that you’re doing, Kirsteen, to shake the whole place?” said

Mrs. Douglas.

“Oh, it’s just nothing, mother.”

“She’s practising her steps,” said Mary, “for the grand ball.”

“Dear me, dear me,” Mrs. Douglas said. “How well I know by myself!

Many’s the time I’ve danced about the house so that nothing would keep

me still--but ye see what it all comes to. It’s just vanity and maybe

worse than vanity--and fades away like the morning dew.”

“But, mother,” said Kirsteen, “it was not your dancing nor the pleasure

you’ve had that made you ill; so we cannot say that’s what it comes to.”

“Pleasure!” said her mother. “It’s very little pleasure I have had in my

life since I marriet your father and came to this quiet place. Na, na,

it’s no pleasure--I was very light-hearted in my nature though you would

not think it. But that’s a thing that cannot last.”

“But you had it, mother,” said Mary, “even if it was short. There was

that ball you went to when you were sixteen, and the spangled muslin you

had on, and the officer that tore it with his spurs.”

Mrs. Douglas’s eyes lit up with a faint reflection of bygone fire. “Eh,

that spangled muslin,” she said, “I’ll never forget it, and what they

all said to me when I came home. It was not like the grand gowns that

are the fashion now. It was one of the last of the old mode before those

awfu’ doings at the French Revolution that changed everything. My mother

wore a hoop under her gown standing out round her like a cart-wheel. I

was not old enough for that; but there was enough muslin in my petticoat

to have made three of these bit skimpit things.”

“I just wish,” said Mary with a sigh, “that we had it now.”

“It would be clean out of the fashion if ye had it; and what would ye do

with a spangled muslin here? Ye must have parties to go to, before ye

have any need for fine cla’es.”

Mary breathed again that profound sigh. “There’s the ball at the

Castle,” she said.

“Lord keep us!” cried her mother. “Your faither would take our heads off

our shoulders if ye breathed a word of that.”

“But they say the whole country’s going,” said Kirsteen; “it’s like as

if we were just nobody to be always held back.”

“Your father thinks of nothing but the boys,” said Mrs. Douglas, with a

feeble wail; “it’s aye for them he’s planning. Ye’ll bring nothing in,

he says, and he’ll have you take little out.”

There was a pause after this--indignation was strong in Kirsteen’s

heart, but there was also a natural piety which arrested her speech. The

injustice, the humiliation and hard bondage of the iron rule under which

she had been brought up, but which she had only now begun to look upon

as anything more than the rule of nature, was what was uppermost in her

thoughts. Mary’s mind was not speculative. She did not consider

humiliation or injustice. The practical affected her more, which no

doubt was in every way a more potent argument. “I just wonder,” she

said, “that he has not more sense--for if we were away altogether we

would take nothing out--and that cannot be if nobody knows that we are

here.”

“Your father’s a strange man,” said Mrs. Douglas. “You are old enough to

see that for yourselves. When there are men coming about a house,

there’s more expense. Many’s the dinner he got off my father’s table

before he married me--and to have your lads about the house would never

please him. Many is the thought I take about it when ye think I have

nothing in my head but my own trouble. He would never put up with your

lads about the house.”

“Mother!” cried Kirsteen, with indignation, “we are not servant lasses

with men coming courting. Who would dare to speak like that of us?”

Mary laughed a little over her work. She was darning the stockings of

the household, with a large basket before her, and her hand and arm

buried in a large leg of grey-blue worsted. She did not blush as

Kirsteen did, but with a little simper accepted her mother’s suggestion.

“If we are ever to get away from here, there will have to be lads about

the house,” she said, with practical wisdom; “if we’re not to do it

Anne’s way.”

“Lord bless us, what are you saying? If your father heard you, he would

turn us all to the door,” said Mrs. Douglas, in dismay. “I’ve promised

him on my bended knees I will never name the name of that--poor thing,

poor thing,” the mother cried suddenly, with a change of voice, falling

into trembling and tears.

“I’ve heard she was real well off,” said Mary, “and a good man, and two

servant maids keepit for her. And it’s just an old fashion thinking so

much of your family. The old Douglases might be fine folk, but what did

they ever do for us?”

“Mary! hold your peace,” cried Kirsteen, flaming with scorn and wrath.

“Would ye deny your good blood, and a grand race that were as good as

kings in their day? And what have we to stand upon if it’s not them? We

would be no more than common folk.”

The conviction of Kirsteen’s indignant tones, the disdainful certainty

of being, on the natural elevation of that grand race, something very

different from common folk, over-awed the less convinced and less

visionary pair. Mrs. Douglas continued to weep, silently rocking herself

to and fro, while Mary made what explanations she could to her fiery

assailant.

“I was meaning nothing,” she said, “but just that they’re all dead and

gone, and their grandeur with them. And the fashion’s aye changing, and

folk that have plenty are more thought upon than them that have nothing,

whatever may be their name.”

“Do you think,” said Kirsteen, “if we had my mother’s old gown to cut

down for you and me, or even new gowns fresh from the shop--do you think

we would be asked to the Castle or any other place if it were not for

the old Douglases that ye jeer at? It’s not a spangled muslin but an old

name that will carry us there.”

“There’s something in that,” said Mary, cowed a little. “But,” she added

with a sigh, “as we’re not going it’s no thanks to them nor any person.

When the ladies and gentlemen are going to the ball we’ll be sitting

with our seams with one candle between us. And we may just spend our

lives so, for anything I can see--and the old Douglases will never fash

their heads.”

“Lord bless us! there’s your father!” cried Mrs. Douglas with a start,

hastily drying her eyes. Her ear was keener for that alarming sound than

the girls’, who were caught almost in the midst of their talk. The laird

came in, pushing open the door with a violent swing which was like a

gale of wind, and the suspicious silence that succeeded his entrance,

his wife having recourse to her knitting in sudden desperation, and the

daughters bending over their various tasks with devotion, betrayed in a

moment what they desired to hide from his jealous eye.

“What were ye colleaguing and planning, laying your heads together--that

you’re all so still when I come in?”

“We were planning nothing, Neil, just nothing,” said Mrs. Douglas

eagerly. “I was telling the bairns a bit of an auld story--just to pass

the time.”

“They’ll pass the time better doing their work,” said their father. He

came first to the fireside round which they were sitting, and stared

into the glowing peat with eyes almost as red: then he strode towards

the only window, and stood there shutting out the light with his back

towards them. There was not too much light at any time from that narrow

and primitive opening, and his solid person filled it up almost

entirely. Kirsteen laid down her work upon her lap. It was of a finer

kind than Mary’s, being no less than the hemming of the frills of

Drumcarro’s shirts, about which he was very particular. He had certain

aristocratic habits, if not much luxury, and the fineness of his linen

was one of these. Kirsteen’s hemming was almost invisible, so small were

the stitches and the thread so delicate. She was accomplished with her

needle according to the formula of that day.

“Drumcarro,” said his wife timidly after a few minutes of this eclipse,

“I am not wanting to disturb ye--but Kirsteen cannot see to do her

work--it’s little matter for Mary and me.”

“What ails Kirsteen that she cannot do her work?” he said roughly,

turning round but keeping his position. “Kirsteen here and Kirsteen

there, I’m sick of the name of her. She’s making some cursed nonsense

I’ll be bound for her ain back.”

“It’s for your breast, father,” said Kirsteen; “but I’ll stop if you

like, and put it by.”

He eyed her for a moment with sullen opposition, then stepped away from

the window without a word. He had an uneasy sensation that when Kirsteen

was his opponent the case did not always go his way. “A great deal ye

care, any of ye, for me and my wishes,” he said. “Who was it sent that

deevil of a woman to my own business-room, where, if any place, a man

may expect to be left in peace? No to disturb me! Ye would disturb me if

I was on my deathbed for any confounded nonsense of your ain.”

“I am sure, Drumcarro,” his wife replied, beginning to cry.

“Sure--you’re sure of nothing but what she tells ye. If it were not for

one thing more than another I would turn her out of my house.”

“Dinna do that--oh, dinna do that, if it’s Marg’ret you’re meaning,”

cried Mrs. Douglas, clasping her hands. “She’s just a stand-by for

everything about the place, and the best cook that ever was--and thinks

of your interest, Drumcarro, though maybe ye will not believe it, far

above her own. And if you take away Marg’ret I’ll just lie down and

die--for there will be no comfort more.”

“You’re very keen to die--in words; but I never see any signs in you of

keeping to it,” he said; then drawing forward a chair to the fire,

pushing against Kirsteen, who drew back hurriedly, he threw himself down

in it, in the midst of the women who moved their seats hastily on either

side to give him room. “What’s this,” he said, “about some nonsense down

at the Castle that is turning all your silly heads? and what does it

mean?”

Mrs. Douglas was too frightened to speak, and as for Kirsteen she was

very little disposed to take advantage of the milder frame of mind in

which her father seemed to be to wheedle or persuade him into a consent.

It was Mary who profited by the unusual opportunity. “It’s just the

ball, father,--that the Duke gives when he comes home.”

“The Duke,” said he. “The Duke is as auld a man as I am, and balls or

any other foolishness, honest man, I reckon they’re but little in his

way.”

“He does not do it for himself, father--there’s the young lords and

ladies that like a little diversion. And all the folk besides from far

and near--that are good enough,” Mary said adroitly. “There are some

that say he’s too particular and keeps many out.”

“Nobody can be too particular, if he’s a duke or if he’s a commoner,”

said Mr. Douglas. “A good pedigree is just your only safeguard--and not

always that,” he added after a moment, looking at her steadily. “You’ll

be one that likes a little diversion too?”

“And that I am, father,” said Mary, suddenly grown into the boldest of

the party, exhilarated and stimulated, she could scarcely tell how, by a

sentiment of success that seemed to have got into the air. Mrs. Douglas

here interposed, anxious apparently lest her daughter should go too far.

“No beyond measure, Drumcarro--just in reason, as once I liked it well

myself.”

“You,” said Drumcarro hastily, “ye were never an example. Let them speak

for themselves. I’ve heard all the story from beginning to end. They’re

weary of their life here, and they think if they went to this folly,

they might maybe each get a man to deliver them.”

“Father!” cried Kirsteen springing to her feet, with blazing eyes. To

her who knew better, who had not only the pride of her young womanhood

to make that suggestion terrible, but the secret in her heart which made

it blasphemy--there was something intolerable in the words and laugh and

jibe, which roused her mother to a wondering and tremulous confidence,

and made Mary’s heart bound with anticipated delight. But no notice was

taken of Kirsteen’s outcry. The laird’s harsh laugh drew forth a

tremulous accompaniment, which was half nervous astonishment and half a

desire to please him, from his more subservient womankind.

“Well, Drumcarro,” said his wife timidly, “it would just be the course

of nature; and I’m sure if it was men that would make them happy, it’s

no me that would ever say them nay.”

“You!” said her husband again. “Ye would not say nay to a goose if ye

saw him waddlin’ ben. It’s not to your judgment I’m meaning to trust.

What’s Kirsteen after there, with her red head and her e’en on fire? Sit

down on your chair and keep silent if ye have nothing pleasant to say.

I’m not a man for weirdless nonsense and promiscuous dancing and good

money thrown away on idle feasts and useless claes. But if there’s a

serious meaning at the bottom of it, that’s just another matter. Eelen,

I suppose, that’s in all the folly of the place, and well known to the

Duke and his family, as she has a good right to be from her name, will

understand all about it, and how to put them forth and set them out to

the best advantage. It must be well done, if it’s done at all.”

“There’s a great many things that they will want, Drumcarro; none of

mine are fit to wear, and the fashion’s all changed since my time. They

will want----”

“Oh, mother, not half what you think; I’ve my cairngorms that Aunt Mary

left me. And Kirsteen, she has a very white skin that needs nothing.

It’s just a piece of muslin for our gowns----”

“Eh, me,” said Mrs. Douglas, “when I mind all my bonny dyes, and my

pearlins and ribbons, and high-heeled shoes, and my fan as long as your

arm; and washes for my skin and cushions for my hair!” She sat up in her

chair forgetting her weakness, a colour rising in her pale cheeks, her

spirit rising to the unaccustomed delightful anticipation which was half

regret and recollection, so that for once in her life she forgot her

husband and escaped from his power. “Ah!” she exclaimed again with a

little outcry of pain, “if I had but thought upon the time I might have

lasses of my ain and keepit them for my bairns----”

“Ye may make yourself easy on that point,” said Drumcarro, pushing back

the chair he had taken, “for ye never had a thing but was rubbish,

nothing fit for a daughter of mine.”

“It’s not the case, it’s not the case,” said the poor lady, touched in

the tenderest point. “I had my mother’s garnets, as bonny a set as ever

was seen, and I had a brooch with a real diamant inside it, and a pearl

pin--and--oh, I’m no meaning to say a word to blame your father, but

what do men ken of such things? And it’s not the case! It’s not the

case! Ye’re not to believe him,” she said, with a feverish flush upon

her cheeks.

“Bits of red glass and bits of white, and a small paste head on the end

of a brass preen,” said Drumcarro, with a mocking laugh.

“Father, let her be,” cried Kirsteen. “I’ll not have her crossed, my

bonny minnie, not for all the balls that ever were.”

“You’ll not have her crossed! You’re a bonny one to lift your face to

your father. If you say another word ye shall not go.”

“I care not if I should never go--I will not have my mother vexed, not

for the Duke nor the Castle nor a’ Scotland,” cried Kirsteen, with fire

gleaming in her hazel eyes.

“Oh, ye fool, ye fool! and him for once in a good key,” cried Mary, in

her sister’s ear.

CHAPTER VIII.

Mrs. Douglas was the first to echo this prudent advice when after she

had wept away the sting of that atrocious accusation and minutely

described her “bonny dyes” (her pretty things) to her children who,

indeed, had heard all about them often, and knew the pearl pin and the

garnets by heart, and had been comforted with a cup of tea, she came to

herself. And by that time Kirsteen’s indignation too had cooled, and

thoughts of the heaven of the Castle, with fine ladies and grand

gentlemen pacing forth as in the ballads, and music playing and the

sound of the dancers’ feet, began to buzz in her young head and fill it

with longings. If he had been at home he would have been there. It would

never now be what it might have been had it happened before. But even

with that great blank of absence Kirsteen was but twenty, and her heart

did not refuse to throb a little at this unthought of, unhoped for

prospect. Just to see it, and how great persons behaved, and what like

the world was, when you were in it, that world which represents itself

in so many different ways to the youthful imagination. Kirsteen felt

that at the Castle she would see it in all its glory, nothing better in

the King’s own court--for was it not under the shadow of the Duke, and

what could fancy desire more? She would need no further enlightenment or

experience of the aspect of society, and what it was and how it looked,

than she could get there. This was the Highland girl’s devout belief;

_Vedi Napoli e poi morire_; earth could not have anything to show more

fair.

Marg’ret would have been more than a woman had she not been all-glorious

over this event “I just daured him to do it,” she said, “to let the

occasion pass by and nane of his daughters seen, and a’ their chances

lost.”

“Did ye speak of chances for me?” cried Kirsteen in youthful fury. “Me

that would not look at one of them, if it was the prince out of the

story book. Me that--!” She turned away to dash a hot tear from her

dazzling wet eyes--“me that am waiting for him!” Kirsteen said in her

heart.

Her faithful champion looked at her with anxious eyes. “If she would but

say that’s what she’s meaning,” was Marg’ret’s commentary. “Eh, I wonder

if that’s what she’s meaning? but when neither the ane nor the ither

says a word, how is a person to ken?” It slightly overclouded her

triumph to think that perhaps for her favourite the chances were all

forestalled, and even that trouble might come out of it if somebody

should throw the handkerchief at Kirsteen whom her father approved. The

cold chill of such an alarm not seldom comes across the designer of

future events when all has been carefully arranged to quicken the action

of Providence. But Marg’ret put that discouraging alarm hastily out of

her mind. Right or wrong it was always a good thing that her nurslings

should see the world.

When the roll of white muslin arrived that was to make the famous gowns,

and when Miss Macnab (who was not without claims in some far-away manner

to be connected with a family in as near as the tenth remove from the

Laird of Macnab’s own sovereign race) came over with her little valise,

and her _nécessaire_ full of pins and needles, and was put into the best

room, and became for the time the centre of interest in the

household--Marg’ret could scarcely contain herself for pleasure. “A’ the

hoose” with the exception of the boys, who at this stage of their

development counted for little, snatched every available moment to look

in upon Miss Macnab--who sat in state, with a large table covered with

cuttings, and two handmaids at least always docile beside her, running

up gores or laying hems. It might be thought, indeed, that the fashion

of that time required no great amount of labour in the construction of

two white dresses for a pair of girls. But Miss Macnab was of a

different opinion. She did not know, indeed, the amount of draping and

arranging, the skill of the artist in the fine hanging of folded stuffs,

or even the multitudinous flouncings of an intermediate age into which

the art of dress was to progress.

The fashions of 1814 look like simplicity itself; the long, straight,

narrow skirt, the short waist, the infantile sleeves, would seem to

demand little material and less trouble for their simple arrangement.

But no doubt this was more in appearance than in reality, and the mind

of the artist is always the same whatever his materials may be.

Miss Macnab kept the young ladies under hand for hours fitting every

line--not folds, for folds there were none--so that the skirt might

cling sufficiently without affording too distinct a revelation of the

limbs beneath, an art perhaps as difficult as any of the more modern

contrivances.

Mary stood like a statue under the dressmaker’s hands. She was never

weary; so long as there was a pleat or seam that needed correction, a

pinch too little here, a fulness too much there, she was always ready.

The white gown was moulded upon her with something like a sculptor’s

art. Miss Macnab, with her mouth full of pins, and her fingers seamed

with work, pinned and pulled, and stretched out and drew in, with

endless perseverance. She was an artist in her way. It was terrible to

her, as a mistake on the field of battle to a general, to send forth

into the world a gown that did not fit, a pucker or a twist in any

garment she made. There are no Miss Macnabs nowadays, domestic

professors of the most primitive yet everlasting of arts. The trouble

she took over her composition would tire out a whole generation of

needlewomen, and few girls even for a first ball would stand like Mary

to be manipulated. And there is no such muslin now as the fine and

fairy web, like the most delicate lawn, which was the material of those

wonderful gowns, and little workmanship so delicate as that which put

together the long seams, and made invisible hems round the scanty but

elaborate robe.

Kirsteen, who was not so patient as her sister, looked on with a mixture

of contempt and admiration. It did not, to her young mind and thoughts

occupied with a hundred varying interests, seem possible at first to

give up all that time to the perfection even of a ball-dress. But

presently the old seamstress with her devotion to her art began to

impress the open-minded girl. It was not a very rich living which Miss

Macnab derived from all this labour and care. To see her kneeling upon

her rheumatic knees, directing the easy fall of the soft muslin line to

the foot which ought to peep from underneath without deranging the

exactness of the delicate hem, was a wonder to behold. A rivulet of pins

ran down the seam, and Miss Macnab’s face was grave and careful as if

the destinies of a kingdom were upon that muslin line.

“What trouble you are taking!” cried Kirsteen. “And it’s not as if it

were silk or velvet but just a muslin gown.”

Miss Macnab looked up from where she knelt by Mary’s knee. She had to

take the pins out of her mouth before she could speak, which was

inconvenient, for no pincushion is ever so handy. “Missie,” she said,

“my dear, ye just show your ignorance: for there’s nothing so hard to

take a good set as a fine muslin; and the maist difficult is aye the

maist particular, as ye would soon learn if ye gave yoursel’ to any

airt.”

Kirsteen, who knew very little of any art, but thought it meant painting

pictures, here gave vent, to her own shame afterwards, to a little

laugh, and said hastily, “I would just set it straight and sew it up

again if it was me.”

“I have no objection that ye should try,” said Miss Macnab, rising from

her knees, “it’s aye the best lesson. When I was in a lairger way of

business, with young ones working under me, I aye let them try their ain

way; and maistly I found they were well content after to turn to

mine--that is if they were worth the learning,” she added composedly;

“there are many that are just a waste of time and pains.”

“And these are the ones that take their own way? But if I were to take

mine I would never yield, I would make it answer,” said Kirsteen. She

added with a blush, “I just cannot think enough of all your trouble and

the pains ye take.”

Miss Macnab gave the blushing girl a friendly look. She had again her

mouth full, so that speech was impossible, but she nodded kindly and

with dignity in return for this little burst of approval which she knew

to be her due; and it was with all the confidence of conscious merit and

a benign condescension that she expounded her methods afterwards. “If ye

dinna get the skirt to fall straight from the waist, ye will never mend

it at the foot,” she said. “I can see you’re ane that can comprehend a

principle, my bonnie missie. Take a’ the trouble ye can at the

beginning, and the end will come right of itsel’. A careless start means

a double vexation in the finish. And that ye’ll find to apply,” said

this mild philosopher, “to life itsel’ as well as to the dressmaking,

which is just like a’ the airts I ever heard tell of, a kind of epitome

of life.”

Kirsteen could not but break out into a laugh again, notwithstanding her

compunction, at the dressmaker’s high yet mild pretension; but she

listened with great interest while Mary stood and gave all her thoughts

to the serious subject of the skirt and how it would hang. “I just pay

no attention to what she’s saying, but I would like my gown to hang as

well as any there, and you must take trouble for that,” was Mary’s

report afterwards when the gown was found to be perfect. And what with

these differing motives and experiences the workroom was the opening of

new interests in Drumcarro, as important as even the ball at the Castle.

The excitement and continued interest made the greatest improvement in

Mrs. Douglas’s health, who came and sat in Miss Macnab’s room and gave a

hundred directions which the dressmaker received blandly but paid no

attention to. Marg’ret herself was stirred by the presence of the

artist. She not only excelled herself in the scones she made for Miss

Macnab’s tea, but she would come in the afternoon when she was not

“throng” and stand with her hands upon each side of her ample waist and

admire the work and add no insignificant part to the conversation,

discoursing of her own sister, Miss Jean Brown, that was in a very large

way of business in London, having gone there as a lady’s maid twenty

years before. The well-born Miss Macnab allowed with a condescending

wave of her hand that many began in that way. “But my opinion is that it

wants good blood in your veins and a leddy’s breeding before you’ll ever

make a gown that will set off a leddy,” she said to the little circle,

but only, not to hurt her feelings, after Marg’ret was gone.

While these proceedings were occupying all his family, Drumcarro himself

proceeded with the practical energy which hitherto had only been

exercised on behalf of his sons to arrange for his daughters’

presentation to the world. More exciting to the county than a first

drawing-room of the most splendid season was the ball at the Castle

which was by far the finest thing that many of the Argyllshire ladies of

those days ever saw. Even among those who like the family of Drumcarro

owned no clan allegiance to the Duke, the only way of approaching the

_beau monde_, the great world which included London and the court as

well as the Highlands was by his means. The Duke in his own country was

scarcely second to the far off and unknown King whose throne was

shrouded in such clouds of dismay and trouble, and the Duchess was in

all but name a far more splendid reality than the old and peevish

majesty, without beauty or prestige, who sat in sullen misery at

Windsor. To go to London, or even to Edinburgh, to the Lord High

Commissioner’s receptions at Holyrood, was a daring enterprise that

nobody dreamed of; but to go to the Castle was the seal of good blood

and breeding. When he had got this notion into his head Drumcarro was as

determined upon it as the fondest father could have been. The girls were

of no consequence, but his daughters had their rights with the best, and

he would not have the family let down even in their insignificant

persons; not to speak of the powerful suggestion of relieving himself

from further responsibility by putting them each in the way of finding

“a man.”

He made his appearance accordingly one afternoon in the little house

inhabited by Miss Eelen, to the great surprise of that lady. It was a

very small, gray house, standing at a corner of the village street, with

a small garden round it, presenting a curious blank and one-eyed aspect,

from the fact that every window that could be spared, and they were not

abundant to start with, had been blocked up on account of the

window-tax. Miss Eelen’s parlour was dark in consequence, though it had

originally been very bright, with a corner window towards the loch and

the quay with all its fishing-boats. This, however, was completely built

up, and the prospect thus confined to the street and the merchant’s

opposite--a little huckster’s shop in which everything was sold from

needles to ploughshares. Miss Eelen was fond of this window, it was so

cheerful; and it was true that nobody could escape her who went to

Robert Duncan’s--the children who had more pennies to spend than was

good for them, or the servant girls who went surreptitiously with

bottles underneath their aprons. Miss Eelen kept a very sharp eye upon

all the movements of the town, but even she acknowledged the drowsiness

that comes after dinner, and sat in her big chair near the fire with her

back turned to the window, “her stocking” in her lap, and her eyes, as

she would have described it, “gathering straes,” when Mr. Douglas paid

her that visit. Her cat sat on a footstool on the other side,

majestically curling her tail around her person, and winking at the fire

like her mistress. The peats were burning with their fervent flameless

glow, and comfort was diffused over the scene. When Drumcarro came in

Miss Eelen started and instinctively put up her hands to her cap, which

in these circumstances had a way of getting awry.

“Bless me, Drumcarro! is this you?”

“It’s just me,” he said.

“I hope they’re all well?”

“Very well, I am obliged to you. I just came in to say a word about--the

Castle--”

“What about the Castle?” with astonished eyes.

“I was meaning this nonsense that’s coming on--the ball,” said Mr.

Douglas, with an effort. A certain shamefacedness appeared on his hard

countenance--something like a blush, if that were a thing possible to

conceive.

“The ball? Bless us all! have ye taken leave of your senses, Neil?”

“Why should I take leave of my senses? I’m informed that the haill

country--everybody that’s worth calling gentry will be going. You’re

hand and glove with all the clanjamfry. Is that true?”

“Who you may mean by ‘clanjamfry’ I cannot say. If you mean that his

Grace and her Grace are just bye ordinary pleasant, and the young lords

and ladies aye running out and in--no for what I have to give them, as

is easy to be seen--”

“I’m not surprised,” said Drumcarro; “one of the old Douglas family

before the attainder was as good as any one of their new-fangled dukes.”

“He’s no’ a new-fangled duke, as you know well; and as for the Douglas

family, it is neither here nor there. Ye were saying ye had received

information?” Miss Eelen divined her kinsman’s errand, though it

surprised her, but she would not help him out.

“Just that,” said Drumcarro; “I hear there’s none left out that are of a

good stock. Now I’m not a man for entertainment, or any of your nonsense

of music and dancing, nor ever was. I have had too much to do in my

life. But I’m told it will be a slight to the name if there’s none goes

from Drumcarro. Ye know what my wife is--a complaining creature with no

spirit to say what’s to be done, or what’s not--”

“Spirit!” cried Miss Eelen. “Na, she never had the spirit to stand up

to the like of you: but, my word, you would soon have broken it if she

had.”

“I’m not here,” said Mr. Douglas, “to get any enlightenment on her

character or mine. I’ve always thought ye a sensible woman, Eelen, even

though we do not always agree. They tell me it’ll be like a scorn put

upon Drumcarro if the lasses are not at this ploy. Confound them a’ and

their meddling, and the fools that make feasts, and the idiots that

yammer and talk! I’ve come to you to see what you think. There shall

come no scorn on Drumcarro while I’m to the fore.”

“Well, Neil, if you ask me,” said Miss Eelen, “I would have taken the

first word, and given ye my opinion if I had thought it would be of any

use; but it’s just heaven’s truth; and farewell to the credit of

Drumcarro when it’s kent there are two young women, marriageable and at

an age to come forward, and not there. It is just the truth. It will be

said--for that matter it is said already--that ye’re so poor or so mean

that ye grudge the poor things a decent gown, and keep them out of every

chance. I would not have said a word if you had not asked me, but that’s

just what folk say.”

Drumcarro got up hastily from his chair and paced about the room, and he

swore an oath or two below his breath that relieved his feelings. There

was a great deal more in Miss Eelen’s eyes. The “auld slave-driver” knew

that his name did not stand high among his peers, and his imagination

was keen enough to supply the details of the gossip of which his cousin

gave so pleasant a summary. “Ye may tell them then,” he said, “with many

thanks to you for your candid opinion, that Drumcarro’s lassies, when he

pleases, can just show with the best, and that I’ll thole no slight to

my name, any more than I would were I chief of this whole country as my

forbears were. And that’s what ye can tell your gossips, Eelen, the next

time ye ask them to a dish of tea--no’ to say you’re a Douglas yourself

and should have more regard for your own flesh and blood.”

“Bless me!” cried Miss Eelen, “the man’s just like a tempest, up in a

moment. Na, Drumcarro, I always gave ye credit if but your pride was

touched. And it’s just what I would have wished, for I was keen for a

sight of the ploy mysel’ but too old to go for my own pleasure. You will

just send them and their finery over to me in the gig, and I’ll see to

all the rest. Bless me, to think of the feeling that comes out when ye

least expect it. I was aye convinced that if once your pride was

touched. And who knows what may come of it? There’s plenty of grand

visitors at the Castle--a sight of them’s as good as a king’s court”

“I hope a man will come of it, to one or the other of them,” Drumcarro

said.

CHAPTER IX.

Mr. Douglas himself went to the ball at the Castle. He was of opinion

that when a thing is to be done, it is never so well done as when you do

it in your own person, and like most other people of similar sentiments,

he trusted nobody. Miss Eelen, as one of the race, was no doubt on the

whole in the interests of the family, but Drumcarro felt that even she

was not to be trusted with so delicate a matter as the securing of “a

man” for Mary or Kirsteen. It was better that he should be on the spot

himself to strike when the iron was hot, and let no opportunity slip. It

is true that his costume was far from being in the latest fashion; but

to this he was supremely indifferent, scarcely taking it into the most

cursory consideration. If he went in sackcloth he would no less be a

Douglas, the representative of the old line upon whose pedigree there

was neither shadow nor break. He was very confident that he could not

appear anywhere without an instant recognition of his claims. Those of

the Duke himself were in no way superior: that potentate was richer, he

had the luck to have always been on the winning side, and had secured

titles and honours when the Douglases had attainder and

confiscation--but Douglas was Douglas when the Duke’s first forbear was

but a paidling lairdie with not a dozen men to his name. Such at least

was the conviction of Drumcarro; and he marched to the Castle in his one

pair of black silk stockings--with his narrow country notions strangely

crossed by the traditions of the slave-driving period, with all his

intense narrow personal ambitions and grudges, and not an idea beyond

the aggrandisement of his family--in the full consciousness of equality

(if not superiority) to the best there, the statesman Duke, the great

landowners and personages who had come from far and near. Such a

conviction sometimes gives great nobleness and dignity to the simple

mind, but Drumcarro’s pride was not of this elevating kind. It made him

shoulder his way to the front with rising rage against all the

insignificant crowd that got before him, jostle as he might; it did not

give him the consolatory assurance that where he was, there must be the

most dignified place. It must be allowed, however, in defence of his

attitude, that to feel yourself thrust aside into a crowd of nobodies

when you know your place to be with the best, is trying. Some people

succeed in bearing it with a smile, but the smile is seldom warm or of a

genial character. And Drumcarro, at the bottom of the room, struggling

to get forward, seeing the fine company at the other end, and

invariably, persistently, he scarcely knew how, put back among the

crowd, was not capable of that superlative amiability. The surprise of

it partially subdued him for a time, and Miss Eelen’s exertions, who got

him by the arm, and endeavoured to make him hear reason.

“Drumcarro! bless the man--can ye not be content where ye are? Yon’s

just the visitors, chiefly from England and foreign parts--earls and

dukes, and such like.”

“Confound the earls and the dukes! what’s their titles and their

visitors to me? The Douglases have held their own and more for as many

hundred years----”

“Whisht, whisht, for mercy’s sake! Lord, ye’ll have all the folk staring

as if we were some ferly. Everybody knows who the Douglases were; but

man, mind the way of the world that ye are just as much affected by as

any person. Riches and titles take the crown of the causeway. We have to

put up with it whether we like it or no. You’re fond of money and

moneyed folk yourself----”

“Haud your fuilish tongue, ye know nothing about it,” said Drumcarro.

But then he felt that he had gone too far. “I’m so used to my wife I

forget who I’m speaking to. You’ll excuse me, Eelen?”

“The Lord be praised I’m not your wife,” said Miss Eelen devoutly. She

added, perceiving a vacant chair a little higher up near the edge of the

privileged line, “I see my harbour, Drumcarro, and there I’ll go, but no

further;” and with an able dive through the throng and long experience

of the best methods, managed adroitly to settle herself there. She

caught by the elbow as she made her dart a gentleman who stood by, a man

with grey hair still dressed in a black silk bag in the old-fashioned

way which was no longer the mode. “Glendochart,” she said, “one word.

I’m wanting your help; you were always on the Douglas’ side.”

“Miss Eelen?” he cried with a little surprise, turning round. He was a

man between fifty and sixty, with a fresh colour and gentle, friendly

air, much better dressed and set up than Drumcarro, but yet with

something of the look of a man more accustomed to the hill-side and the

moor than to the world.

“For gudesake look to my cousin Neil, of Drumcarro; he’s just like a mad

bull raging to be in the front of everything. Auld Earl Douglas, our

great forbear, was naething to him for pride. He will just shame us all

before the Duke and Duchess and their grand visitors, if some one will

not interfere.”

The gentleman thus appealed to turned round quickly with a glance at the

two girls, who with difficulty, and a little breathless and blushing

with excitement, had emerged out of the crowd behind Miss Eelen, less

skilled in making their way than she. “These young ladies,” he said,

“are with you? they’ll be----”

“Just Drumcarro’s daughters, and the first time they’ve ever been seen

out of their own house. But yonder’s their father making everybody

stand about. For ainy sake, Glendochart.”

“I’ll do your bidding, Miss Eelen.”

The girls both thought, as his look dwelt upon them, that he was a most

kind and pleasant old gentleman, and sighed with a thought that life

would be far easier and everything more practicable if their father was

but such another. But alas, that was past praying for. They had a little

more space now that they had gained this comparative haven at the side

of Miss Eelen’s chair to take breath and look about them, and shake

themselves free of the crowd.

The muslin gowns had been very successful; the skirts fell in a straight

line from the waistband high under their arms to their feet, one with a

little edge of fine white embroidery, the other with a frill scarcely to

be called a flounce round the foot. The bodices were no longer than a

baby’s cut in a modest round with a little tucker of lace against the

warm whiteness of the bosom: the sleeves were formed of little puffs of

muslin also like a baby’s. Mary wore her necklace of cairngorms with

much pride. Kirsteen had nothing upon her milkwhite throat to ornament

or conceal it. Nothing could have been whiter than her throat, with the

soft warmth of life just tinging its purity; her red hair, which goes so

well with that warm whiteness, was done up in what was called a classic

knot at the back of her head, but there were some little curls which

would not be gainsaid about her forehead and behind her ear. Her arms

were covered with long silk gloves drawn up to meet the short sleeves.

She was in a great tremor of excited imagination and expected pleasure.

She was not thinking of partners indeed, nor of performing at all in her

own person. She had come to see the world--to see the fine ladies and

gentlemen, to hear some of their beautiful talk perhaps, and watch the

exquisite way in which they would behave themselves. This was the chief

preoccupation of her mind. She looked round her as if it had been “the

play.” Kirsteen knew nothing at all of the play, and had been brought up

to believe that it was a most depraved and depraving entertainment, but

still there had never been any doubt expressed of its enthralling

character. The ball she had decided from the first day it had been

mentioned, would be as good as going to the play.

Miss Eelen very soon found an old lady sitting near with whom she could

talk, but Mary and Kirsteen stood together looking out upon the faces

and the moving figures and speaking to no one. They scarcely cared to

talk to each other, which they could do, they both reflected, very well

at home. They stood pressing close to each other, and watched all the

coming and going. In the position which they had gained they could see

all the sets, the great people at the head of the room, the humbler ones

below. Kirsteen had an advantage over her sister. She had met Lady

Chatty several times at Miss Eelen’s and had admired her, half for

herself, half for her position, which had a romantic side very

delightful to her simple imagination. “That’s Lady Chatty,” she

whispered to Mary, proud of her superior knowledge. “I don’t think much

of her,” said Mary, whispering back again. This gave Kirsteen a shock in

the perfect pleasure with which she watched the graceful movements and

animated looks of the future beauty. She had felt a disinterested

delight in following the other girl through her dance, admiring how

happy she looked and how bright; but Mary’s criticism had a chilling

effect.

A long time passed thus, and Kirsteen began to feel tired in spite of

herself; the pleasure of watching a room full of animated dancers very

soon palls at twenty. Her expectation of pleasure gradually died away.

It was very bonny, but not the delight she had thought. Mary stood with

a smile which had never varied since they entered the room, determined

to look pleased whatever happened--but Kirsteen was not able to keep up

to that level. If _he_ had but been here! then indeed all things would

have been different. It gave her a singular consolation to think of

this, to feel that it was in some sort a pledge of her belonging to him

that she was only a spectator in the place where he was not; but she was

too sensible not to be aware that her consolation was a fantastic one,

and that she would in fact have been pleased to dance and enjoy herself.

She and her sister were pushed a little higher up by the pressure of the

crowd which formed a fringe round the room, and which consisted of a

great many young men too timid to break into the central space where the

fine people were performing, and of tired and impatient girls who could

not dance till they were asked. Somehow it began to look all very

foolish to Kirsteen, not beautiful as she had hoped.

And then by ill luck she overheard the chatter of a little party

belonging to the house. It was the kind of chatter which no doubt

existed and was freely used at the balls given by the Pharaohs (if they

gave balls), or by Pericles, or at least by Charlemagne. “Where do all

these funny people come from?” “Out of the ark, I should think,” the

young lords and ladies said. “Antediluvian certainly--look, here is a

pair of very strange beasts.” The pair in question seemed to Kirsteen a

very pretty couple. The young man a little flushed and blushing at his

own daring, the girl, yes! there could be no doubt, Agnes Drummond,

Ronald’s sister, of as good family as any in the room. But the young

ladies and gentlemen from London laughed “consumedly.” “Her gown must

have been made in the year one.” “And no doubt that’s the coat his

grandfather was married in.” But all their impertinences were brought to

a climax by Lord John, one of the family, who ought to have known

better. “Don’t you know,” he said, “it’s my mother’s menagerie? We have

the natives once a year and make ’em dance. Wait a little till they warm

to it, and then you shall see what you shall see.” Kirsteen turned and

flashed a passionate glance at the young speaker, which made him step

backwards and blush all over his foolish young face; for to be sure he

had only been beguiled into saying what the poor young man thought was

clever, and did not mean it. Kirsteen’s bosom swelled with pride and

scorn and injured feeling. And she had thought everybody would be kind!

and she had thought it would all be so bonny! And to think of a

menagerie and the natives making a show for these strangers to see!

“Miss Kirsteen, there is a new set making up, and your sister would be

glad of you for a _vees-ā-vis_ if ye will not refuse an old man for a

partner.” Kirsteen looked round and met the pleasant eyes, still bright

enough, of Glendochart, whom Miss Eelen had bidden to look after the

indignant Drumcarro. Kirsteen looked every inch Drumcarro’s daughter as

she turned round, an angry flush on her face, and her eyes shining with

angry tears.

“I will not dance. I am obliged to you, sir,” she said.

“Not dance,” said Mary, in an indignant whisper, “when we’re both asked!

And what would ye have? We cannot all have young men.”

“I will not dance--to make sport for the fine folk,” said Kirsteen in

the same tone.

“You are just like my father,” said Mary, “spoiling other folks’

pleasure. Will ye come or will ye not, and the gentleman waiting--and me

that cannot if you will not.”

“Come, my dear,” said old Glendochart. He patted her hand as he drew it

through his arm. “I have known your father and all your friends this

fifty years, and ye must not refuse an old man.”

Neither of the girls were very much at their ease in the quadrille, but

they watched the first dancers with anxious attention, and followed

their example with the correctness of a lesson just received. Kirsteen,

though she began very reluctantly, was soothed in spite of herself by

the music and the measure, and the satisfaction of having a share in

what was going on. She forgot for a moment the gibes she had listened to

with such indignation. A quadrille is a very humdrum performance

nowadays to those who know nothing so delightful as the wild monotony of

the round dance. But in Kirsteen’s time the quadrille was still

comparatively new, and very “genteel.” It was an almost solemn

satisfaction to have got successfully through it, and her old partner

was very kind and took her out to the tea-room afterwards with the

greatest attention, pointing out to her the long vista of the corridor

and some of the pictures on the walls, and everything that was worth

seeing. They were met as they came back by a very fine gentleman with a

riband and a star, who stopped to speak to her companion, and at whom

Kirsteen looked with awe. “And who may this bonny lass be?” the great

man said. “A daughter of yours, Glendochart?”

“No daughter of mine,” said the old gentleman in a testy tone. “I

thought your Grace was aware I was the one of your clan that had not

married. The young lady is Miss Kirsteen Douglas, a daughter of

Drumcarro.”

“I beg your--her pardon and yours; I ought to have known better,” said

the Duke. “But you must remember, Glendochart, when you are in such fair

company, that it is never too late to mend.”

“He should indeed have known better,” said Glendochart, when they had

passed on. “These great folk, Miss Kirsteen, they cannot even take the

trouble to mind--which kings do, they say, who have more to think of.

And yet one would think my story is not a thing to forget. Did you ever

hear how it was that John Campbell of Glendochart was a lone auld

bachelor? It’s not a tale for a ball-room, but there’s something in your

pretty eyes that makes me fain to tell.”

“Oh, it is little I care for the ball-room,” cried Kirsteen, remembering

her grievance, which she told with something of the fire and indignation

of her original feeling. He laughed softly, and shook his head.

“Never you fash your head about such folly. When my Lord John goes to

St. James’s the men of fashion and their ladies will say much the same

of him, and you will be well avenged.”

“It’s very childish to think of it at all,” said Kirsteen, with a blush.

“And now will you tell me?” She looked up into his face with a sweet and

serious attention which bewitched the old gentleman, who was not old at

all.

“I was away with my regiment on the continent of Europe and in the

Colonies and other places for many years, when I was a young man,”

Glendochart said.

“Yes?” said Kirsteen, with profoundest interest--for was not that the

only prospect before _him_ too?

“But all the time I was confident there was one waiting for me at home.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Kirsteen, as if it had been her own tale.

“The news from the army was slow in those days, and there was many a

mistake. Word was sent home that I was killed when I was but badly

wounded. I had neither father nor mother to inquire closely, and

everybody believed it, and she too. I believe her friends were glad on

the whole, for I was a poor match for her. Her heart was nearly broke,

but she was very young and she got over it, and, whether with her own

will or without it I cannot tell, but when I came home at last it was

her wedding-day.”

“Oh!” Kirsteen cried almost with a shriek, “was that the end of her

waiting? Me, I would have waited and waited on----”

“Wait now and ye will hear. The marriage was just over when I came to

her father’s house thinking no evil. And we met; and when she saw me,

and that I was a living man, and remembered the ring that was on her

finger and that she was another man’s wife--she went into her own

maiden chamber that she had never left and shut to the door. And there

she just died, and never spoke another word.”

“Oh, Glendochart!” cried Kirsteen with an anguish of sympathy, thinking

of Ronald, and of the poor dead bride, and of the sorrow which seemed to

her throbbing heart impossible, as if anything so cruel could not have

been. She clasped his arm with both her hands, looking up at him with

all her heart in her face.

“My bonny dear!” he said with surprised emotion, touching her clasped

hands with his. And then he began to talk of other things: for they were

in the ball-room, where, though every one was absorbed in his or her own

pleasure, or else bitterly resenting the absence of the pleasure they

expected, yet there were a hundred eyes on the watch for any incident.

Kirsteen, in the warmth of her roused feelings, thought nothing of that.

She was thinking of the other who was away with his regiment, for who

could tell how many years--and for whom one was waiting at home--one

that would never put another in his place, no, not for a moment, not

whatever news might come!

CHAPTER X.

“It was just a very bonny ball,” said Mary. “No, I was not disappointed

at all. I danced with young Mr. Campbell of the Haigh, and once with old

Glendochart, who is a very well-mannered man, though he is not so young

as once he was.”

“He was by far, and by far, the nicest there,” cried Kirsteen with

enthusiasm.

“For them that like an auld joe,” said Mary demurely. Kirsteen had no

thought of “joes” old or young, but she thought with pleasure that she

had gained a friend.

“The Duke took me for his daughter--and oh! if there was such a person

she would be a happy lass. Aunt Eelen, did you ever hear----”

Kirsteen cast a glance round and checked further question, for her

father consuming a delicate Loch Fyne herring, with his attention

concentrated on his plate, and Mary seated primly smiling over her

scone, were not at all in sympathy with the tale she had been told last

night. Miss Eelen, with the tray before her on which stood the teapot

and teacups, peering into each to count the lumps of sugar she had

placed there, did not appear much more congenial, though there were

moments when the old lady showed a romantic side. No trace of the turban

and feathers of last night was on her venerable head. She wore a muslin

mutch, fine but not much different from those of the old wives in the

cottages, with a broad black ribbon round it tied in a large bow on the

top of her head; and her shoulders were enveloped in a warm tartan shawl

pinned at the neck with a silver brooch. The fringes of the shawl had a

way of getting entangled in the tray, and swept the teaspoons to the

ground when she made an incautious movement; but nothing would induce

Miss Eelen to resign the tea-making into younger hands.

“Did I ever hear?” she said. “I would like to know, Kirsteen Douglas,

what it is I havena heard in my long pilgrimage of nigh upon seventy

years. But there’s a time for everything. If ye ask me at another moment

I’ll tell ye the whole story. Is it you, Drumcarro, that takes no sugar

in your tea? No doubt you’ve had plenty in your time in yon dreadful

West Indies where you were so long.”

“What’s dreadful about them?” said Drumcarro. “It’s ignorance that makes

ye say so. Ye would think ye were in paradise if ye were there.”

“Oh, never with all those meeserable slaves!”

“You’re just a set of idiots with your prejudices,” said the laird, who

had finished his herrings and pushed away his plate. “Slaves, quo’ she!

There’s few of them would change places, I can tell ye, with your

crofters and such like that ye call free men.”

“Ye were looking for something, father,” said Mary.

“I’m looking for that mutton bone,” said her father. “Fish is a fine

thing; but there’s nothing like a bit of butcher’s meat to begin the day

upon.”

“It’s my ain curing,” said Miss Eelen. “Ye can scarcely call it

butcher’s meat, and it’s just a leg of one of your own sheep, Drumcarro.

Cry upon the lassie, Kirsteen, and she’ll bring it ben in a moment.

We’re so used to womenfolk in this house, we just forget a man’s

appetite. I can recommend the eggs, for they’re all our own laying.

Two-three hens just makes all the difference in a house; ye never

perceive their feeding, and there’s aye a fresh egg for an occasion. And

so you were pleased with your ball? I’m glad of it, for it’s often not

the case when lassies are young and have no acquaintance with the world.

They expect ower much. They think they’re to get all the attention like

the heroines in thae foolish story-books. But that’s a delusion that

soon passes away. And then you’re thankful for what you get, which is a

far more wholesome frame of mind.”

Kirsteen assented to this with a grave face, and a little sigh for the

beautiful visions of ideal pleasure which she had lost.

But Mary bridled, and declared that all her expectations had been

fulfilled. “I got a great deal of attention,” she said, “and perhaps I

had not such grand fancies as other folk.”

“I have bidden Glendochart to come and see us at Drumcarro. Ye’ll have

to see to the spare cha’amer, and that he gets a good dinner,” said Mr.

Douglas. “Him and me we have many things in common. He’s one of the best

of his name, with a good record behind him--not to match with our auld

Douglas line, but nothing to snuff at, and not far off the head of the

house himsel’.”

“You would be at the school together, Drumcarro,” Miss Eelen said.

“No such a thing--he’s twenty years younger than me,” said Mr. Douglas

angrily. “And I was at no schule, here or there, as ye might well mind.”

“Twenty years! If there’s ten between ye that’s the most of it. There’s

no ten between ye. When I was a young lass in my teens John Campbell was

a bit toddling bairn, and ye were little mair, Drumcarro. Na, na, ye

need not tell me. If there’s five, that’s the most. Ye might have been

at the schule together and nothing out of the common. But he’s had none

of the cares of a family, though maybe he has had as bad to bear; and a

man that is not marriet has aye a younger look. I ken not why, for with

women it’s just the contrair.”

“Mr. Campbell is a very personable man,” said Mary. “I’m no judge of

ages, but I would say he was just in middle life.”

“It’s but little consequence what you say,” said her father roughly.

“If Kirsteen was to express an opinion----”

Kirsteen’s mind had a little wandered during this discussion.

Glendochart’s age appeared to this young woman a subject quite

unimportant. He was of the age of all the fathers and old friends. Had

she been a modern girl she would have said he was a darling, but no such

liberties were taken in her day.

“And that I will,” she said, “for we made friends though I’ve only seen

him one night. He is just a man after my own heart,” said Kirsteen with

warmth, with a sigh at the thought of his sad story, and a rising colour

which was due to the fact that her imagination had linked the idea of

young Ronald with that of this old and delightful gentleman who had been

what her young lover was--but born to a less happy fate.

“Well,” said Drumcarro, “now ye’ve spoken, Kirsteen, ye’ve made no

secret of your feelings; and, so far as I can judge, he has just as fine

an opinion of you. And if you give your attention to making him

comfortable and let him see the mettle you’re of, there is no saying

what may happen. And it’s not me that will put obstacles in the way.”

“Drumcarro,” cried Miss Eelen, “ye get credit for sense among your own

kind, but if ever there was a donnered auld fool in affairs of a certain

description! Cannot ye hold your tongue, man, and let things take their

course? They will do that without either you or me.”

Mr. Douglas had disposed of a great deal of the mutton ham. He had made

a very good breakfast, and he felt himself free to retire from the table

with a final volley. “If you think,” he said, “that I am going to give

up my mind to manage, as you womenfolks call it, and bring a thing

about, and draw on the man and fleech the lassie, ye are just sair

mistaken, Eelen. When I say a word in my house I’m accustomed to see it

done, and no nonsense about it. If a man comes seeking that I approve

of, it’s my pleasure that he shall find what he’s askin’ for. I’ll have

no picking and choosing. Men are no so plenty, and lassies are just a

drug in the market. You have never got a man yourself.”

“The Lord be praised!” said Miss Eelen. “I would have broken his heart,

or he would have broken mine. But I’ve kent them that would have married

me, Neil Douglas, if it was for me or for my tocher I leave you to

judge. I’m thankful to think I was never deceived for a moment,” said

the old lady with a nod which sent the black bow upon her head into a

little convulsion of tremulous movement. “I name nae names,” she said.

Drumcarro walked to the window discomfited, and turned his back upon the

party, looking out upon the village street. To tell the truth he had

forgotten that trifling incident in his life. To taunt a woman who has

refused you with never having got a man is a little embarrassing, and

his daughters exchanged astonished looks which he divined, though it

took place behind his back. Their opinion did not interest him much, it

is true, but the thought that they had discovered a humiliation in his

past life filled him with rage, insignificant as they were. He stood

there for a moment swallowing his fury; then, “There’s the gig,” he

said, thankful for the diversion. “Ye’ll better get on your things and

get back to your work, and mind your mother and the concerns of the

house instead of senseless pleasure. But it’s just what I said, when ye

begin that kind of thing there’s no end to it. When the head’s once

filled with nonsense it’s a business to get it out.”

“Well, father,” said Mary, “the ball’s done, and there is no other

coming if we were ever so anxious. So you need not be feared. It’s a

little uncivil to Auntie Eelen to rise up the moment we’ve swallowed our

breakfast.”

“Oh, dinna take me into consideration,” said Miss Eelen. “Ye must do

your father’s bidding, and I’ll never lay it to your charge. But you’ll

take a piece of yon fine seed cake to your mother, poor thing, and some

of the bonny little biscuits that were round the trifle at the supper. I

just put them in my pocket for her. It lets an invalid person see the

way that things are done--and a wheen oranges in a basket. She has very

little to divert her--though, poor thing, she has got a man.”

Drumcarro did not appear to take any notice of this Parthian arrow,

though he fumed inwardly. And presently the girls’ preparations were

made. The muslin dresses did not take up so much room as balldresses do

nowadays, and had been carefully packed early in the morning in a box

which was to go home by the cart in the afternoon. And they tied on

their brown bonnets and fastened their cloth pelisses with an activity

becoming young persons who were of so little account. To mount beside

their father in the gig, squeezed together in a seat only made for two

persons, and in which he himself took an undiminished share, with a

basket upon their knees, and several parcels at their feet, was not an

unalloyed pleasure, especially as he gave vent to various threats of a

vague description, and instantly stopped either daughter who ventured to

say a word. But they had few pleasures in their life, and the drive

home, even in these circumstances, was not without its compensations.

The girls knew that every cottar woman who came out to the door to see

them pass was aware that they had been at the ball at the Castle, and

looked after them with additional respect. And even the shouting

children who ran after the gig and dared a cut of Drumcarro’s whip in

their effort to hang on behind amused them, and gave them a feeling of

pleased superiority. Coming home from the ball--it was perhaps the best

part of it, after all.

When they were drawing near the house their father made a speech to them

which Kirsteen at least listened to without alarm but with much wonder.

“Now,” he said, suddenly, as if adding a last word to something said

before, “I will have no nonsense whatever you may think. If a man comes

to my door that I approve, I’ll have no denial thrown into his teeth.

You’re all ready enough when it’s to your own fancy, but by----, this

time, I’ll make ye respect mine.”

“What is it, father?” said Kirsteen with astonished eyes.

Mary gave her sister a smart poke with her elbow. “We’ll wait till we’re

asked before we give any denial,” she said.

“Ye shall give none whether or no,” said Drumcarro, unreasonably it must

be allowed; “but it’s no you I’m thinking of,” he added with contempt.

Kirsteen felt herself deficient in Mary’s power of apprehension. It was

not often that this was the case, but her sister had certainly the

better of her now. There were however many things said by Drumcarro to

which his family did not attach a great interest, and she took it for

granted that this was one of the dark sayings and vague declarations in

which, when he was out of humour, he was wont to indulge. Her heart was

not overwhelmed with any apprehension when she jumped lightly down from

the gig glad to escape from these objurgations and feeling the

satisfaction of having news to tell, and a revelation to make to the

eager household which turned out to the door to meet her: Marg’ret in

the front with cap-ribbons streaming behind her and her white apron

folded over her arm, and little Jeanie with her hair tumbled and in

disorder, her mouth and her ears open for every detail, with one or two

other heads in the background--they had never seen the Castle, these

ignorant people, never been to a ball. The mortifications of the evening

all melted away in the delight of having so much to tell. Certainly the

coming home was the best; it brought back something of the roseate

colour of the setting out. And what a world of new experiences and

sensations had opened up before Kirsteen since yesterday.

“Was it bonny?” said little Jeanie. “Did you see all the grand folk? Was

it as fine as ye thought?”

And then Mrs. Douglas’s voice was heard from the parlour, “Come ben,

come ben, this moment, bairns. I will not have ye say a word till ye’re

here.” She was sitting up with a delicate colour in her cheeks, her eyes

bright with anticipation. “Now just begin at the beginning and tell me

everything,” she said. Certainly the best of it was the coming home.

Mary gave her little narrative with great composure and precision,

though it surprised her sister. “Everybody was just very attentive,” she

said. “It was clear to be seen that the word had been passed who we are.

It was young Mr. Campbell of the Haigh that took me out at the first,

but I just could not count them. They were most ceevil. And once I saw

young Lord John looking very hard at me, as if he would like to ask me,

but there was no person to introduce him. And so that passed by.”

“Oh, Mary, I wish ye had danced with a lord and a duke’s son,” cried

little Jeanie, clapping her hands.

“Well, he was no great dancer,” said Mary. “I liked the young laird of

the Haigh far better, and even old Glendochart--but he was Kirsteen’s

one.”

“He was the nicest of all,” cried Kirsteen. “But, Jeanie, ye should have

seen all the bonnie ladies with their diamonds like sparks of light. You

would have thought the Duchess had stars on her head--all glinting as

they do in a frosty sky--and a circle about her neck that looked just

like the King’s Ellwand,[A] but far more of them. It’s not like stones

or things out of the earth, as folks say. It’s like wearing little

pieces of light.”

[A] The belt of Orion.

“Oh, I wish I had seen them,” said Jeanie.

“Whisht, whisht. I’ve seen diamonds many a time, but I never thought

them like pieces of light. They’re more like bits of glass, which I have

seen just as bonny. And who was it you danced with most, Kirsteen? You

have not given us a list like Mary.”

“I danced with Glendochart,” said Kirsteen, looking down a little. “I

stood a long time just looking about me. When you are dancing you cannot

see the rest of the ball, and it was very bonny. Glendochart took me

into the tea-room and showed me all the pictures and things.”

“But Lord John never looked in that fixed way at you?”

“No,” said Kirsteen very shortly, perceiving that it was inexpedient to

repeat the little episode of Lord John.

“Then ye were not so much taken notice of as Mary?” cried Jeanie with

disappointment.

“But she spoke to the Duke--or at least he spoke to Glendochart when

Kirsteen was on his arm--and there was Lady Chatty that made great

friends with her,” said Mary with benevolence, not to leave her sister

quite in the background. But there was a momentary pause of

disappointment, for they all felt that Lady Chatty was not so

suggestive--had not in her name so many possibilities as Lord John.

“I hear of nothing but Glendochart,” said Mrs. Douglas; “if he is the

man I mind upon, he will be the same age as your father; and what was he

doing dancing and hanging about the like of you, a man at his time of

life?”

Mary gave a little laugh, and repeated, “He was Kirsteen’s one.”

“What is the meaning of that, Kirsteen?”

“The meaning of it is that Glendochart, tho’ he is old, is a real

gentleman,” said Kirsteen; “and he saw that we were strangers and

neglected, and nobody looking the way we were on--”

At this there was an outcry that drowned the rest of the sentence.

Strangers, the daughters of Drumcarro!--neglected when Mary had just

said how attentive everybody had been! “You are just in one of your ill

keys, Kirsteen,” said her mother.

“No,” said Mary, “but she’s looking for him to-morrow: for my father has

asked him, and she is feared you will not like him when ye see him. But

my opinion is, though he is old, that he is still a very personable

man.”

CHAPTER XI.

A few days afterwards Glendochart appeared at Drumcarro riding a fine

horse, and dressed with great care, in a costume very different from the

rough and ill-made country clothes to which the family were accustomed.

Jock and Jeanie who had come home from school rushed emulously to take

the horse to the stable, and the household was stirred to its depths

with the unaccustomed sensation of a visitor, a personage of importance

bringing something of the air of the great world with him. He was

conducted to the laird’s room by Marg’ret herself, much interested in

the stranger--and there remained for a short time to the great curiosity

of the family, all of whom were engaged in conjectures as to what was

being said within those walls, all but Kirsteen, who, being as it

appeared most closely concerned, had as yet awakened to no alarm on the

subject, and assured her mother quietly that there was nothing to be

fluttered about. “For he is just very pleasant, and makes you feel at

home, and like a friend,” she said. Mrs. Douglas had come down to the

parlour earlier than usual in expectation of this visit. She had put on

her best cap; and there was a little fresh colour of excitement in her

cheeks. “But what will he be saying to your father?” she said. “Sitting

so long together, and them so little acquainted with each other.”

“Oh, but they were at the school together, and at the ball they were

great friends,” replied Kirsteen. She was the only one about whom there

was no excitement. She sat quite cheerfully over her work “paying no

attention,” as Mary said.

“Why should I pay attention? I will just be very glad to see him,”

replied Kirsteen. “He is just the kind of person I like best.”

“Whisht, Kirsteen, whatever you may feel ye must not go just so far as

that.”

“But it’s true, mother, and why should I not go so far? He’s a very nice

man. If he had daughters they would be well off. He is so kind, and he

sees through you, and sees what you are thinking of.”

“You must not let him see what you are thinking of, Kirsteen!”

“Why not?” she said, glancing up with candid looks. But after a moment a

vivid colour came over Kirsteen’s milk-white forehead. Then a smile went

over it like a sudden ray of sunshine. “I would not be feared,” she

cried, “for he would understand.” She was thinking of his own story

which he had told her, and of the one who was like him, away in a far

distant country. How well he would understand it! and herself who was

waiting, more faithful than the poor lady who had not waited long

enough. Oh, but that should never be said of Kirsteen!

Presently the two gentlemen were seen to be walking round the place,

Drumcarro showing to his visitor all that there was to show in the way

of garden and stables and farm offices, which was not much. But still

this was the right thing for one country gentleman to do to another. The

ladies watched them from the window not without an acute sense of the

shortcomings of the place, and that there was no horse in the stable

that could stand a moment’s comparison with Mr. Campbell of

Glendochart’s beautiful beast. Drumcarro was a house in the wilds,

standing on a grassy bank without so much as a flower plot near, or any

“grounds” or “policy,” or even garden to separate and enclose it, and a

sense of its shabbiness and poverty came into the minds of all,

instinctively, involuntarily. “If that’s what he’s thinking of he will

never mind,” Mrs. Douglas said under her breath. “Whisht, mother,” said

Mary. Kirsteen did not even ask Mary what her mother meant. Mrs. Douglas

indeed said a great many things that meant little or nothing, but this

did not quite explain the fatal unconsciousness of the girl upon whose

preoccupied ear all these warnings seemed to fall in vain.

The dinner had been prepared with more than usual care, and Marg’ret

herself carried in several of the dishes in order to make a further

inspection of the visitor. She had not been precisely taken into

anybody’s confidence, and yet she knew very well that he had come more

or less in the capacity of a suitor, and that Drumcarro’s extreme

politeness and the anxiety he displayed to please and propitiate the

stranger were not for nothing. Marg’ret said to herself that if it had

been anybody but the laird, she would have thought it was a question of

borrowing money, but she knew that Drumcarro would rather die than

borrow, with a horror and hatred not only of debt but of the interest he

must have had to pay. So it could not be that; nor was the other

gentleman who was so well preserved, so trim, “so weel put on,” at all

like a money-lender. It became clear to her, as she appeared in the

dining-room at intervals, what the real meaning was. Glendochart had

been placed next to Kirsteen at table, and when he was not disturbed by

the constant appeals of Drumcarro, he talked to her with an evident

satisfaction which half flattered, half disgusted the anxious spectator.

He was a real gentleman, and it was a compliment to Miss Kirsteen that a

man who had no doubt seen the world and kings’ courts and many fine

places should distinguish her so--while on the other hand the thought

was dreadful that, in all her bloom of youth, Kirsteen should be

destined to a man old enough to be her father. As old as her father! and

she so blooming and so young. But Marg’ret was perhaps the only one in

the party who thought so. The others were all excited by various

interests of their own, which might be affected by this union between

January and May. Mrs. Douglas, with that fresh tint of excitement on her

cheeks, was wholly occupied by the thought of having a married daughter

near her, within her reach, with all the eventualities of a new

household to occupy and give new interest to life; and Mary with a sense

that her sister’s house to visit, in which there would be plenty of

company and plenty of money, and opportunity of setting herself forth to

the best advantage, would be like a new existence. The young ones did

not know what it was that was expected to happen, but they too were

stirred by the novelty and the grand horse in the stable, and

Glendochart’s fine riding-coat and silver-mounted whip. Kirsteen herself

was the only one unexcited and natural. There was little wonder that

Glendochart liked her to talk to him. She was eager to run out with him

after dinner, calling to little Jeanie to come too to show him the den,

as it was called, where the burn tumbled over successive steps of rock

into a deep ravine, throwing up clouds of spray. She took care of the

old gentleman with a frank and simple sense that it was not he but she

who was the best able to guide and guard the other, and used precautions

to secure him a firm footing among the slippery rocks without a single

embarrassing thought of that change of the relationship between old and

young which is made by the fictitious equality of a possible marriage.

Far, very far were Kirsteen’s thoughts from anything of the kind. She

felt very tenderly towards him because of the tragedy he had told her

of, and because he had gone away like Ronald, and had trusted in some

one less sure to wait than herself. The very sight of Glendochart was an

argument to Kirsteen, making her more sure that she never could waver,

nor ever would forget.

When they came back from this expedition to the dish of tea which was

served before the visitor set out again, Mrs. Douglas exerted herself to

fill out the cups, a thing she had not been known to do for years.

“Indeed,” she said, “I have heard of nothing but Mr. Campbell since they

came back from the ball: it has been Glendochart this and Glendochart

that all the time, and it would ill become me not to show my gratitude.

For I’m but a weak woman, not able myself to go out with my daughters;

and they are never so well seen to, Mr. Campbell, when they are without

a mother’s eye.”

Drumcarro uttered a loud “Humph!” of protest when this bold principle

was enunciated; but he dared not contradict his wife, or laugh her to

scorn in the presence of a visitor so particular and precise.

“You might trust these young ladies, madam,” said Glendochart gallantly,

“in any company without fear; for their modest looks would check any

boldness, whatever their beauty might call forth.”

This was still the day of compliments, and Glendochart was an old beau

and had the habits of his race.

“Oh, you are very kind,” said Mrs. Douglas, her faint colour rising, her

whole being inspired. “If gentlemen were all like you, there would be

little reason for any uneasiness; but that is more than we can expect,

and to trust your bairns to another’s guidance is always a very heavy

thought.”

“Madam, you will soon have to trust them to the guidance of husbands,

there can be little doubt.”

“But that’s very different: for then a parent is free of

responsibility,” said the mother, rising to the occasion; “that is just

the course of nature. And if they are so happy as to chance upon good,

serious, God-fearing men.”

“Let us hope,” said Glendochart, not without a glance at Kirsteen, “that

your bonny young misses will be content with that sober denomination;

but they will no doubt add for themselves, young and handsome and gay.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Douglas said, led away by enthusiasm, “you will hear no

such wishes out of the mouths of lassies of mine.”

“Let them answer for themselves,” said Drumcarro, “they’re old enough:

or maybe they will wait till they’re asked, which would be the wisest

way. Glendochart, I am very sorry to name it, and if ye would take a bed

with us, I would be most pleased. But if you’re determined to go to-day,

I must warn ye the days are short and it’s late enough to get daylight

on the ford.”

“If ye would take a bed--“ Mrs. Douglas repeated.

The visitor protested that he was much obliged but that he must go. “But

I will take your permission to come again,” he said, “and my only fear

is that you will see too much of me, for there are strong temptations

here.”

“Ye cannot come too often nor stay too long; and the more we see of you,

the more we will be pleased,” said the mistress of the house. And the

girls went out to see him mount his horse, which the boys had gone to

fetch from the stable. Never was a visitor more honoured. A third person

no doubt might have thought the welcome excessive and the sudden

interest in so recent an acquaintance remarkable. But no one, or at

least very few are likely to consider themselves and the civilities

shown to them in the same light as an impartial spectator would do. It

seems always natural that friends new or old should lavish civilities

upon ourselves. Glendochart rode away with a glow of pleasure. He was

not at all afraid of the ford, dark or light. He was as safe in his

saddle as he ever had been, and had no fear of taking cold or getting

damp. He feared neither rheumatism nor bronchitis. He said to himself,

as he trotted steadily on, that fifty-five was the prime of life. He was

a little over that golden age, but not much, nothing to count; and if

really that bonny Kirsteen with her Highland bloom, and her fine

spirits, and her sense--It was a long time since that tragedy of which

he had told her. Perhaps, as his Grace had said, it was never too late.

“Ye havering woman,” said Drumcarro to his wife, “you are just like your

silly kind. I would not wonder if going so fast ye had not just

frightened the man away.”

“I said nothing but what ye said I was to say,” said Mrs. Douglas, still

strong in her excitement; “and it was never me that began it, and if him

and you are so keen, it’s not for me to put obstacles in the way.”

Drumcarro stood for a moment astonished that his feeble wife should

venture to indulge in a personal effort even when it was in his own aid:

then he gave a shrug of his shoulders. “A man knows when to speak and

when to refrain from speaking,” he said; “but you womenfolk, like

gabbling geese ye can never keep still if once you have anything to

cackle about.”

CHAPTER XII.

All this time, strange to say, Kirsteen took no fright about old

Glendochart whom she had calmly set down, as is not unusual at her age,

upon the footing of a man of eighty or so, an old, old gentleman to whom

she could be as kind as her friendly young soul dictated, giving him her

hand to lead him down the rough road to the linn, and feeling with her

foot if the stones were steady before she let him trust his weight to

them. It had been quite natural to come out to the door to see him mount

and ride away, to stroke and pat the shining well-groomed horse, who

looked as great an aristocrat as his master beside the sober and

respectable matron Mally, who drew the gig and sometimes the cart, and

had carried barebacked all the children at once as carefully as if she

had been their mother. Kirsteen was even pleased with the sense that she

herself was Glendochart’s favourite, that he had talked more to her than

to any one, perhaps even had come to see her rather than the rest, with

the pleasant partiality of an old friend. To be preferred is delightful

to everybody, and especially to a girl who has had little petting in her

life. It was an exhilarating consciousness, and she took the little

jibes that flew about in the family and the laugh of Mary and the shout

of the boys with perfect good humour. Yes, very likely Glendochart liked

her best. He was a true gentleman, and he had seen her standing

neglected and had come to her help. But for him the ball, if indeed

always an experience and a fine sight, would have left only a sting in

Kirsteen’s mind instead of the impression bitter-sweet which it had

produced. If she were glad now that she had gone, and pleased with the

sight and the fact of having been there, it was to Glendochart chiefly

that the credit was due. She had taken him into her heart warmly in the

position of an old friend, an old, kind, and true gentleman whom she

would always run to meet and brighten to see. In this easy state of

mind, pleased with him and even better pleased with herself because of

his liking for her, she received calmly all the family jests, quite

satisfied that they were true.

Glendochart became a frequent visitor. He would ride over, or sometimes

drive over, in a high gig much better appointed than the old gig at

Drumcarro, saying that he had come “to his dinner” or to eat one of

Marg’ret’s scones, or to see how they all were this cold weather. And he

would permit Jock to drive the gig for a mile or two to the boy’s

delight, though it took all the strength of his young wrists to hold in

the horse. Once even upon a great occasion Glendochart managed to

persuade Drumcarro, who was ready to attend to all his suggestions, to

bring the girls to a great hurling-match, at which--for he was a master

of the game--he himself appeared to great advantage and not at all like

the old, old gentleman of Kirsteen’s thoughts. And when the New Year

came he brought them all “fairings,” beautiful boxes of sweets such as

had never been seen in the Highlands, and gloves wonderful to behold,

which he begged Mrs. Douglas’s permission to offer to her daughters.

These visits and his pleasant ways, and the little excitement of his

arrival from time to time, and the hurling-match which afforded a

subject of conversation for a long time, and the little presents, all

quickened existence at Drumcarro, and made life more pleasant for all

concerned. Kirsteen had taken him by this time for many a walk to the

edge of the linn, springing down before him, by the side of the

waterfall, to point out which of the stepping-stones were safe to trust

to.

“Put your foot here, and it is quite steady, but take care of that moss,

Glendochart, for it’s very soft, and I’ve nearly sunk into it,” she

would call to him stopping in mid-descent, her young voice raised clear

above the roar of the water, and her hand held out to help. If there was

one thing that fretted the elderly suitor it was this, and sometimes he

would make a spring to show his agility, not always with successful

results. “You see you should do as I bid you,” said Kirsteen gravely,

helping him to get up on one such occasion, “and let me try first

whether it will bear you or not.”

“I will always do as you bid me,” said the old gentleman, trying to look

younger and younger and as if he did not mind the fall at all; “but it

is my part to take care of you, and not you of me.”

“Oh, no, not when the moss is so wet and the stones so shoogly,”

Kirsteen said.

All this was very pretty fooling; but Drumcarro was not the man to be

kept hanging upon the chances of a propitious moment when it might

please the wooer to make the leap. The additional cheerfulness of the

household did not extend to him. He became very tired of Glendochart’s

“daidling,” and of the over-delicacy of his attentions. His eyes grew

fiery and his grizzled eyebrows menacing. He would come into the

parlour where the visitor was making himself very agreeable, keeping up

the pleasantest conversation, paying compliments to Mrs. Douglas (whose

health had greatly improved at this period), and with a devotion which

was half fatherly, though he had no such intention, distinguishing

Kirsteen who was always pleased to think that he liked her best.

Drumcarro would come in with his hands thrust into the depths of his

pockets, and his shoulders up to his ears. “Are ye not tired of the

weemen, Glendochart? Weel, I would not sit there phrasin’ and smilin’,

not for a king’s ransom.” “Perhaps, my friend, I’m getting more than any

king’s ransom, for what could buy such kind looks?” the old beau would

reply. And then Drumcarro, with an oath muttered under his breath, would

fling out again, not concealing his impatience, “I cannot put up with

such daidling!” Whether Glendochart understood, or whether his host took

the matter into his own hands, never was known by the female portion of

the household. But one morning shortly after the New Year, Glendochart

having paid a long visit on the day before, Kirsteen received a most

unexpected summons to attend her father in his own room.

“My father wants to speak to me! You are just sending me a gowk’s

errand,” she said to Jock who brought the message.

“It’s no a gowk’s errand. It’s just as true as death,” said Jock. “He’s

sent me hissel’.”

“And what can he want to say to me in his own room?” cried Kirsteen.

“He did not tell me what he wanted to say; but I can guess what it is,”

said Jock.

“And so can I,” said Jeanie.

“What is it, ye little mischief?” cried Kirsteen. “I have done nothing.

I have a conscience void of offence, which is more than you can say.”

Upon this they both gave vent to a burst of laughter loud and long.

“It’s about your auld joe, Kirsteen. It’s about Glendochart,” they cried

in concert.

“About Glendochart?--he is just my great friend, but there is no harm in

that,” she cried.

“Oh, Kirsteen, just take him, and I’ll come and live with ye,” said

Jeanie.

“And I’ll come,” added Jock encouragingly, “whenever we have the play.”

“Take him!” said Kirsteen. She bade them with great dignity to hold

their tongues and went to her father’s room with consternation in her

breast.

Mr. Douglas was sitting over his newspaper with the air of being very

much absorbed in it. It was no less than a London paper, a copy of the

_Times_ which Glendochart had brought, which had been sent to him from

London with the news of the escape of Boney, news that made Drumcarro

wild to think that Jock was but fourteen and could not be sent off at

once with such chances of promotion as a new war would bring. He had

given the lad a kick with a “Useless monkey! Can ye not grow a little

faster;” as Jock had clattered up to bed in his country shoes the

previous night. But he was not reading, though he pretended still to be

buried in the paper when Kirsteen came in. He took no notice of her till

she had been standing for a minute before him repeating, “Did you want

me, father?” when he looked up, as if surprised.

“Oh, you’re there. I calculated ye would take an hour to come.”

“Jock said you wanted to speak to me, father.”

“And so I did--but you might have had to put your gown on, or to brush

your hair or something--for anything I knew.”

“I never do that at this time of the day.”

“Am I to mind your times of day? Kirsteen, I have something to say to

you.”

“So Jock told me, father.”

“Never mind what Jock told ye. It is perhaps the most serious moment of

all your life; or I might say it’s the beginning of your life, for with

the care that has been taken of ye, keepit from the cold and shadit from

the heat, and your meat provided and everything you could require--the

like of you doesn’t know what life is as long as ye bide in your

father’s house.”

Kirsteen’s heart gave a throb of opposition, but she did not say or

scarcely think that this position of blessedness had never been hers.

She was not prepared to blaspheme her father’s house.

“Well! now that’s all changed, and ye’ll have to think of acting for

yourself. And ye are a very lucky lass, chosen before your sister, who

is the eldest, and according to the law of Laban---- But I think he was

too particular. What the devil maittered which of them was to go first

so long as he got them both safe off his hands?”

“I have no light,” said Kirsteen with suppressed impatience, “as to what

you’re meaning, father!”

“Oh, ye have no light! Then I’ll give ye one, and a fine one, and one

that should make ye thankful to me all your days. I’ve settled it all

with Glendochart. I thought he was but a daidlin’ body, but that was in

appearance, not in reality. He’s just very willing to come to the

point.”

Kirsteen said nothing, but she clasped her hands before her with a

gesture which was Marg’ret’s, and which had long been known to the young

people as a sign of immovable determination. She did not adopt it

consciously, but with the true instinct of hereditary action, an impulse

so much misrepresented in later days.

“Very willing,” said Drumcarro, “to come to the point; and all the

settlements just very satisfactory. Ye will be a lucky woman. Ye’re to

have Glendochart estates for your life, with remainder, as is natural,

to any family there may be; and it’s a very fine downsitting, a great

deal better house than this, and a heap of arable land. And ye’re to

have----”

“For what am I to have all this, father?” said Kirsteen in a low voice

with a tremble in it, but not of weakness.

“For what are ye to have it?” He gave a rude laugh. “For yourself I

suppose I must say, though I would think any woman dear at the price

he’s willing to pay for ye.”

“And what does Glendochart want with me?” said Kirsteen with an effort

to steady her voice.

“Ye fool! But you’re not the fool ye pretend to be. I cannot wonder that

you’re surprised. He wants to mairry ye,” her father said.

Kirsteen stood with her hands clasped, her fine figure swayed in spite

of her with a wave of agitation, her features moving. “Glendochart!” she

said. “Father, if he has friends ye should warn them to keep him better

and take care of him, and not let him be a trouble to young women about

the country that never did any harm to him.”

“Young women,” said Drumcarro, “there is not one I ever heard of except

yourself, ye thankless jaud!”

“One is plenty to try to make a fool of,” said Kirsteen.

“I would like to see him make a fool of one belonging to me. Na, it’s

the other way. But that’s enough of this nonsense,” he added abruptly;

“it’s all settled. Ye can go and tell your mother. He’s away for a week

on business, and when he comes back ye’ll settle the day. And let it be

as soon as possible, that we may be done wi’t. It’s been as much as I

could do to put up with it all this time. Now let any man say I’ve done

much for my sons and little for my daughters!” said Drumcarro,

stretching his arms above his head with a gesture of fatigue. “I’ve got

them their commissions and outfit and all for less trouble than it has

cost me to get one of you a man!” He yawned ostentatiously and rubbed

his eyes, then opening them again to see Kirsteen still standing in the

same attitude before him he gave vent to a roar of dismissal. “G’away

with ye. Go and tell your mother. I’ve said all I have to say.”

“But I have something more to say,” said Kirsteen. “I’ll not marry

Glendochart. It’s just been a mistake, and I’m sorry, but----”

“You’ll not mairry Glendochart! Ye shall marry whatever man I choose for

ye.”

“No, father!” said Kirsteen clasping her hands more closely.

“No!” he said, pushing back his chair. He was honestly astonished, taken

completely by surprise. “No! Lord, but ye shall though when I say it.

And what ails ye at Glendochart? And him running after ye like a fool

the whole winter, and nothing but pleasant looks for him till now.”

“I’m very sorry,” repeated Kirsteen. “I’m very sorry--I never, never

thought of that. He’s an old man, and it seemed all kindness to one as

much as another. Oh, I’m sorry, father. Tell him, I would not have vexed

him for the world.”

“I’ll tell him no such thing. I’ll tell him ye’re very proud and

pleased, as sets ye better; and I’ll take you to Glasgow to buy your

wedding-gown.” He said this with an attempt at seduction, perhaps a

little startled by the first idea that to subdue Kirsteen by violence

would not be so easy as he thought.

“Father, you’re meaning it for great kindness; but oh, if ye would just

understand! I cannot marry Glendochart. I could not if there was no

other man.”

“It is just Glendochart ye shall marry and no other. It’s all settled.

You have nothing more to do with it but what I’ve promised and fixed for

ye.”

“No, father----”

“But I say yes,” he said, bringing down his clenched fist on the table

with a noise that made the windows ring.

“It cannot be settled without me,” said Kirsteen, growing first red and

then pale, but standing firm.

“You’re not of the least importance,” he said, foam flying from his

lips. “What are ye? A creature of no account. A lass that has to obey

her father till she gets a man, and then to obey him. Say what ye like,

or do what ye like, it will never alter a thing I’ve fixed upon; and of

that ye may be as sure as that you stand there. G’away to your mother,

and tell her it’s to be soon, in a month or so, to get done with it--for

I’ve made up my mind.”

Kirsteen stood silent for a moment, not daunted but bewildered, feeling

with a force which no girl in her situation would now recognize the

helplessness of her position, not a creature to take her part, seeing

no outlet. She burst forth suddenly when a new idea occurred to her. “I

will speak to him myself! He is a good man, he will never hold me to it.

I will tell him----”

“If ye say a word to him,” cried Drumcarro rising from his chair and

shaking his clenched hand in her face, “one word! I’ll just kill ye

where ye stand! I’ll drive ye from my doors. Neither bit nor sup more

shall ye have in this house. Ye may go and tramp from door to door with

a meal-pack on your shoulder.”

“I would rather do that,” cried Kirsteen, “far rather than make a false

promise and deceive a good man. Oh, father, I’ll do anything ye bid me.

I’ll be your servant, I’ll ask for nothing; but dinna, dinna do this!

for I will not marry Glendochart, not if you were to kill me, not if you

were to turn me from the door.”

“Hold your peace, ye lang-tongued--ye shall do what I bid you, that and

nothing else.”

“No, father, no, father!” cried Kirsteen trembling; “I will not--for

nothing in the world.”

“Go out of my sight,” he cried, “and hold your tongue. Away this moment!

Ye shall do just what I say.”

“Father----”

“None of your fathers to me. Get out of my sight, and make yourself

ready to do what I tell ye. It shall be in a fortnight. That’s all you

shall make by your rebellion. Not another word, or I’ll turn you out of

my house.”

Kirsteen retired as he made a step towards her with his hands raised to

her shoulders, to put her out. His fiery eyes, the foam that flew from

his lips, the fury of his aspect frightened her. She turned and fled

from the room without any further attempt to speak.

CHAPTER XIII.

Kirsteen rushed out of the house with the instinct of passion, to shake

off all restraint, to get into the free air, where an oppressed bosom

might get breath. She flew like a hunted deer, flashing past the window

where Mary, sitting at her seam, saw her hurried escape and divined more

or less what was the meaning of it.

“Who’s that?” said Mrs. Douglas, conscious of the flying shadow.

“It’s Kirsteen, and my father will have told her, and she’s just beside

herself.”

“Beside herself!” said the mother tranquilly over her knitting. “She may

well be that; for who would have thought of such a prospect for the like

of her, at her age.” Mary was not so sure that the agitation was that of

joy, but she said nothing. And Kirsteen was out of sight in a moment,

darting by.

She went towards the linn, without knowing why. The stream was strong

with the winter floods, and the roar of it as it poured down the rocky

cleft was enough to make all voices inaudible, and to deaden more or

less even the sound of one’s thoughts buzzing in one’s head with the

passion and the sweep of them, themselves like a hurrying stream.

Kirsteen fled as to a covert to the “den,” down which this passionate

rivulet, swollen into a torrent, stormed and poured, flinging its spray

over the wet and spongy turf into which her feet sank. She cared nothing

for this in the absorption of her excitement, and flung herself down

upon that damp slope, feeling the spray on her forehead and the roar of

the water in her ears as a sort of relief from herself. Her feelings had

been like to burst her heart and her brain together as she flew along,

like some struggling things shut up in a space too narrow for them. She

could not get her breath nor contain the hurry and confusion of her own

being. But in that damp retreat where nobody would be likely to pursue

her, where she could scarcely even hear the thumping of her own heart

nor any voice calling her, nor be subject to interruption of any kind,

Kirsteen after a moment began to come to herself. The shock, the fright,

the horror quieted a little; her mind became accustomed, as it does so

rapidly, to the new alarm, to the frightful danger which had suddenly

revealed itself. It was danger which Kirsteen had not expected or

foreseen. She had very well understood when she pledged herself to wait

for Ronald what that meant. It was in all the traditions of romance with

which she was acquainted--not waiting relieved by constant

communication, and with a certain distinct boundary, but silent,

unbroken, perhaps for life, certainly for years. In the beginning at

least such a visionary burden may be taken up with enthusiasm, and

Kirsteen had been proud of it and of the deep secret of which there was

nothing to tell, which was in spirit alone, with no bond to be displayed

in the sight of men. But it had never occurred to her that she might be

bidden to forswear herself as she said, that she might have to struggle

against all about her for the right to keep her vow. This danger had

never appeared before her as a possibility. She had not thought of any

wooer, nor had any such presented himself to her consciousness. Without

warning, without thought of precaution or self-defence, the danger had

come.

To marry Glendochart: Glendochart--there burst through Kirsteen’s

distressful thoughts a sudden picture of the old gentleman descending

the side of the linn guided by her hand, the safe places selected for

him; and then his little plunge, his slip, her cry, “Oh, Glendochart,

you have hurt yourself!” and there burst from her in the midst of her

trouble an irrepressible laugh, which rang into the roar of the linn and

went down with it into the depths echoing among all the rocks. Kirsteen

had been ashamed to laugh when that accident happened for fear of

hurting his feelings, but all the ludicrousness of the incident burst

upon her now. He had got so red, poor old gentleman! he had seized upon

a thorn bush to pull him up, rather than take her hand. He had said that

it was nothing, nothing, though her keen young senses, compunctious of

their own perceptions, had seen how he limped up the bank again. She had

not dared to offer her support any more than to laugh, seeing it hurt

his feelings. And it was because he wanted to marry her, her--Kirsteen,

troth-plighted to her own lad--and him as old as her father. Oh, for

shame, for shame!

That laugh did Kirsteen good. It liberated her soul; she escaped as from

the hand of fate and became able to think. And then a wild anger swept

over her mind against her father, who wanted nothing but to get her, as

he said, off his hands, and against Glendochart for daring to think that

she would take him, an old, old man. All the sense of his kindness

disappeared in this illumination as to his motives: indeed the more

Kirsteen esteemed him before, the more she despised and hated him now.

She thought of auld Robin Gray, but that was too good for him. The old,

ill man, to tell her a story of faithfulness and make her cry and mix

him up in her mind with Ronald and her own love, and then to betray her,

and want to marry her,--doubly faithless, to her that died for him, and

to Kirsteen that had wept for him! It was for constancy and pity and

true love that the girl had been so sorry, so touched in her heart, so

wishful to please him and make him smile. And now to turn upon her, to

try to tear her from her own lad, to make her mansworn! There was

nothing that was too bad for him, the old, ill man! Kirsteen saw herself

stand before him indignant, her eyes flashing with injured honour and a

sense of wrong.

But then suddenly all this sustaining force of anger went from her as

Glendochart’s kind and gentle face so full of feeling came before her

imagination. Oh, he knew better than that! If she could but speak to

him, and tell him! perhaps show him that little blue Testament, whisper

to him that there was One--away with his regiment, fighting for the

King, like Glendochart himself, like the story he had told her! Tears

filled Kirsteen’s eyes. Her father might be dour and hard, but

Glendochart would understand. It was just his own story; he would never

let her break her heart and die on her wedding-day like his own lass.

Oh, no! oh, no! he would never do that. He would never let it happen

twice, and all for him. With a quick gleam of her imagination, Kirsteen

saw herself in her white wedding-gown, lying at his feet, the second

bride that had burst her heart! Oh, no! oh, no! Glendochart would never

do that: the tears streamed from Kirsteen’s eyes at the thought, but her

quivering mouth smiled with generous confidence. No, no! She had only to

speak to Glendochart and all would be well.

But then came her father’s threat, his blazing fiery eyes, his hand

clenched and shaken in her face, the fury of his outcry: “I’ll just kill

ye where ye stand--I’ll put you to the door.” Kirsteen remembered Anne,

and her soul sank. Anne had a husband to take care of her, she had a

house, wherever it was; but Kirsteen would have nothing. And what would

become of her if she were put to the door? Where would she go to find a

shelter? Another grotesque vision--but not so grotesque to her

imagination--of the poor beggar-woman with a meal-pack on her shoulder

which her father had evoked, flitted before her mind. No, she would not

be like that. She would take care of bairns, or keep a house, or even

make muslin gowns like Miss Macnab. There were plenty of things she

could do!--it would be long, long before she need come to the meal-pack.

But then there burst over Kirsteen’s mind another revelation: the shame

of it! She, a Douglas--one of the old Douglases, that had been the lords

of the whole land, not only of poor Drumcarro--a gentlewoman of as good

blood as the Duchess or any grand lady, and one that could not be hidden

or made to appear as if she were a common person! And the scandal of it,

to open up the house and all its concerns to ill talk--to make it open

to all the world to say that Drumcarro was an ill father, and the house

a cruel house, or that the Douglas lassies were not what ladies should

be, but lightheaded and ill-conducted, rebels against their own kith and

kin. This was the most terrible thought of all. The others seemed to

open up a way of escape, but this closed the door; it is an ill bird

that files its own nest. How could Kirsteen do that? shame her family so

that even Sandy and Nigil and Charlie and Donald in India, even little

Robbie, should hear of it and think shame--so that _he_ should hear

that Kirsteen had let herself be talked about? so that Drumcarro should

be lightly spoken of and all its secrets laid bare? This new suggestion

brought back all the passion and the confusion that the influence of the

air and the freedom out of doors, and the quiet time to think had calmed

down. To endure is always possible if you set your heart to do it,

whatever happens; but to shame and to expose your own house!

“Where have ye been, Kirsteen?” said Mrs. Douglas. “I never saw a person

like you for running out when you’re most wanted. You should not take

your walks in the forenoon when we’re all at work.”

“Did you want me, mother? I was not fit to sit down to my work. I had

a--buzzing in my head.”

“’Deed I think ye have always a buzzing in your head. Sometimes I speak

to ye three times before ye answer me.”

“She’s uplifted with her prospects,” said Mary, “and no wonder. I think

ye should excuse her this day.”

Mary intended to be very kind to Kirsteen. She had made up her mind to

be a very frequent visitor at her sister’s house.

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Douglas, “that may be true enough; but I think

she might have come and told me the news herself, instead of letting me

find it out through your father--not that I had not judgment enough to

see what was coming this many a day.”

Kirsteen was still trembling with the results of her self-argument at

the linn--which indeed had come to no result at all save the tremor in

her frame and the agitation in her heart. She had knelt down by her

mother’s side to wind the wool for which it appeared Mrs. Douglas had

been waiting, and she was not prepared with any reply.

“She doesn’t seem to have much to say to us now, mother,” said Mary.

“Kirsteen, you should not be so proud. You will be a finer lady than

ever your mother was, with a carriage and horses of your own, and no

doubt everything that heart can desire; for an auld man is far more

silly than a young one.”

Kirsteen gave the wool a jerk which tangled it wildly. “Mother, I just

wonder what you are all havering about,” she said.

“Kirsteen, I’m well used to rude speaking,” cried the mother, ready to

cry at a moment’s notice; “but not from my own bairns.”

“Oh, mother, I beg your pardon. It was not you that was havering. Dinna

speak to me, for I cannot bear it. My heart is just like to break.”

“With pleasure?” said Mary in her soft tones.

Kirsteen darted a glance of fire at her calm sister, but turned

nervously to her occupation again and answered nothing. She had enough

to do with her yarn which, in sympathy with her confused thoughts, had

twisted itself in every possible way and refused to be disentangled. Her

mother remarked the tremor of her hands.

“Ye have got the hank into a terrible tangle, and what are ye trembling

at, Kirsteen--is it the cold?”

“I’m not trembling, mother,” said Kirsteen.

“Do ye think I am blind or doited and cannot see? Na, I’m a weak woman,

sore held down with many infirmities; but I’m thankful to say my eyes

are as good as ever they were. Ye’re all trembling, Kirsteen; is it the

cold?”

“She has gotten her gown all wet, mother. She has been down by the linn,

it’s no wonder she’s trembling. She ought to go and change her things.”

“Are your feet wet, Kirsteen?”

“Oh,” said Kirsteen springing to her feet, “if ye would just let me

alone; I’m neither wet nor cold, but my heart’s like to break. I don’t

know what I am doing for misery and trouble. If ye would only have peety

upon me and let me alone!”

“Dear Kirsteen, how can ye speak like that? Where will ye get any person

you can open your heart to like your mother? Just tell me what’s wrong

and that will ease your mind. What can Mary and me mean but what is for

your good? Eh, I never thought but what you would be pleased, and a

blithe woman this bonny day.”

“She’ll maybe open her mind best between you two, if I were away,” said

Mary rising. She was really full of good feeling towards her sister,

with no doubt an anticipation of good to come to herself, but yet a

certain amount of solid sympathy genuine enough of its kind.

“Now, Kirsteen, my bonny woman, just tell me what’s the maitter,” said

Mrs. Douglas when Mary was gone.

“It seems you know what has happened, mother, and how can you ask me? Am

I likely to be a blithe woman as ye say when it’s just been told me?”

“That a good man and a good house are waiting for ye, Kirsteen? And one

that’s very fond of ye, and asks no better than to give ye all ye can

desire?”

“That I’m to be turned out of the house,” cried Kirsteen; “that I’m no

more to see your face; that I’m to go from door to door with a meal-pack

like a beggar woman!”

“Whisht, whisht, and don’t speak nonsense: that will be some of your

father’s joking. Whiles he says things that are hard to bear. What

should bring all this upon ye, Kirsteen? You will be the Leddy of

Glendochart and an honoured woman, holding your head as high as ainy in

the whole county, and silk gowns as many as ye desire, and coaches and

horses; and what ye’ll like best of all, my bonny bairn, the power to be

of real service and just a good angel to them that ye like best.”

“O mother, mother,” cried Kirsteen, burying her face in her mother’s

lap, “that is the worst of it all! Oh, if ye have any peety don’t say

that to me!”

“But I must, for it’s all true. Oh, Kirsteen, I hope I’m not a

complaining woman; but just you think what it would be to me to have my

daughter’s house from time to time to take shelter in. Many and many a

time have I been advised change of air, but never got it, for who dared

name it to your father? I have been thinking this whole morning it would

make me just a new woman. To get away for a while from this hole--for

it’s just a hole in the winter though it may be bonny at other times,

and to see my bairn sitting like a queen, happy and respectit.”

“Not happy, mother!”

“That’s just your fancy, my dear. You think he’s old, but he’s not

really old, and as kind a face as ever I saw, and full of consideration,

and not one that ever would say ye had too many of your own folk about

ye, or that ye ought to forget your father’s house. Oh, Kirsteen, it’s

very little a lassie knows: ye think of a bonny lad, a bright eye or a

taking look, or a fine figure at the dancing, or the like of that. But

who will tell ye if he may not be just a deevil in the house? Who will

tell ye that he may not just ding ye into a corner and shame ye before

your bairns, or drive ye doited with his temper, or make your bed and

your board a hell on earth? Oh,” cried poor Mrs. Douglas in accents of

deep conviction, “it’s little, little a lassie kens! She thinks she will

please her fancy, or she listens to a flattering tongue, or looks to a

bonny outside. And all the time it’s just meesery she’s wedding, and not

a bonny lad. But, Kirsteen,” she said, giving a furtive little kiss to

the rings of hair on Kirsteen’s milk-white forehead, “Kirsteen, my bonny

woman, when ye take a man that everybody knows, that is just kent for a

good man and a kind man, and one that loves the very ground you tread

on, oh, my dear! what does it maitter that he’s not just that young? Is

it anything against him that he knows the world and has had trouble of

his own, and understands what it is to get a bonny lass and a good bairn

like you? And oh, Kirsteen, think what ye can do for us all if you take

him, for your sisters and for the callants, he’s just made the house a

different thing already; and though that’s scarcely worth the thinking

of, for I’m very near my grave and will want nothing long,--Kirsteen,

for me, too!--”

“Oh, mother, mother!” cried the girl with her face still hidden in her

mother’s lap, “ye just break my heart.”

“Na, na,” said Mrs. Douglas in soft quick tones like one who consoles a

child, “we’ll have no breaking of hearts. Ye will not be a month marriet

before ye’ll think there’s no such a man in the world. And there’s

nothing he will deny ye, and from being of little account ye’ll be one

of the first ladies in the country side. Whisht, whisht, my darling!

Ye’ll make him a happy man, and is not he worthy of it? Kirsteen! Rise

up and dry your eyes. I hear your father coming. And dinna anger him,

oh! dinna anger him, for he never minds what ill words he says!”

CHAPTER XIV.

Mrs. Douglas retired to her room after dinner in a very tearful mood.

She had made a great effort and she had not been successful, and all her

hopes which had been gradually built up into a palace of delight came

tumbling down about her ears. The only comfort she could feel now was in

the source of her chief troubles. “Ye may say what you like to me,” she

cried as Kirsteen helped her to take off her cap and arrange herself

comfortably upon her bed, “but your father will never put up with it. It

would have been more natural in ye, Kirsteen, if ye had yielded to your

mother, for well I wot ye’ll have to yield to him, whether ye like it or

no.”

“Oh, mother, I think ye might understand,” Kirsteen said.

“Understand! it’s easy enough to understand. Ye’ve got a silly notion in

your head that ye cannot mairry an old man. Better than you have done it

before ye, and it would be a blessing to all your family, and maybe help

me to live to see some of my boys come back. But na, ye will never think

of that, of nothing but your own pleasure. And you’ll see what your

father will say to you,” said Mrs. Douglas, with a vindictive

satisfaction, while Kirsteen drew the coverlet over her and arranged the

pillow for her head.

“Are ye comfortable, mother?”

“Oh, ay, as much as I can be, so little considered as I am. Ye need not

wait. Put my stick within my reach, I’ll chap upon the floor if I want

ye, or ye can send Mary if it’s too much trouble,” the angry mother

said. She had been very tender up to this point, very anxious to show

how entirely it was for everybody’s advantage that this step should be

taken. But to spend your strength thus upon an unconvinced and

unyielding child is hard to bear, and Mrs. Douglas’s disappointment had

turned to wrath.

“Oh, mother,” Kirsteen said with anguish, but the remonstrance met with

no reply except a fretful “Go away!” She went down stairs very slowly

and reluctantly to the parlour where Mary sat at the household mending,

in all the placid superiority of one who is at peace with the world. She

had rejected no one’s advice. She had not crossed her father or her

mother, or disappointed her family. When Kirsteen sat down and took her

work, Mary looked at her and gave utterance to a faint “tshish, tshish”

of mild animadversion, but for some time nothing was said. When the

silence was broken it was by a question from Mary, “Ye’ll not be

expecting Glendochart to-day?”

“Me expecting him? I never expected him! He just came of his own will,”

Kirsteen cried, moved in her anger and wretchedness to a few hasty

tears.

“Well, well, I’m saying nothing; but I suppose he’s not expected, if

that’s the right way.”

“I know nothing about it,” said Kirsteen: which indeed was not quite

true.

“It was just to tell Marg’ret she need take no extra trouble about the

scones. It’s been a great expense a visitor like that, especially when

it comes to nothing: often to his dinner, and still oftener to his tea.

And always new scones to be made, and jam on the table, and the boys

partaking freely: for how could I tell Jock and Jamie before a stranger,

‘It’s no for you.’ And all to come to nothing!” said Mary, holding up

her hands.

“What could it have come to?” cried Kirsteen. “I think I will be just

driven out of my senses between my mother and you.”

“Poor mother,” said Mary. “She had just set her heart upon it. It would

have been a grand change to her to go and visit ye. It would have done

her health good, but there are some that never think on such things. I

just wish it had been me that had got the chance.”

“And so do I, with all my heart,” cried Kirsteen, with a hot and angry

blush. She felt however that there was something like a dishonesty, an

irritating attempt to despoil her of something belonging to her in

Mary’s wish.

“I would have put myself in the background,” said Mary. “I would not

have thought whether I like it or not. I would just have taken the man

however old he had been. I would have said, it will be fine for my

mother and a good thing for Kirsteen and all the bairns; and I would

just have taken him and never said a word.”

“That would have been pleasant for him--that you should take him for the

sake of the family.”

“He would have been none the wiser,” said Mary composedly. “There would

have been no necessity to tell him. And he would never have found it

out. They say men are very vain; they just think ye are in love with

them whether ye are or not. And I would have managed Glendochart fine.

But it was not me that had the chance.”

Kirsteen cast a gleam of mingled indignation and contempt at her sister,

who went on diligently with her mending while she gave vent to these

sentiments. Mary was fitting on a patch upon one of the boys’

undergarments, carefully laying it by the thread. Her mending was famed

in the family; nobody made repairs so neatly. She spoke very softly,

never lifting her eyes from the work, which indeed required all her

attention. And there is a special power, especially for irritation, in

the words of wisdom that are thus addressed to one without any lifting

of the eyes.

“But that’s just the way of the world,” Mary said with a sigh. “The one

that would do it, that would not think of herself, but just do it, is

never the one that has it in her power. I’ve seen the same thing many a

time. The wilful one that will please herself, it is her that folk

seek--”

Kirsteen’s heart swelled high with mortification and pain. If there was

anything that she had desired in her visionary moods it had been to

sacrifice herself, to do some great thing for her mother, to be the

saving of little Jeanie. She had made many a plan how to do this, how to

perform prodigies for them, to deliver them from dangers. In her dreams

she had saved both from fire and flood, from the burning house which

fancy sacrificed lightly to give her the chance of a piece of heroism,

or from the roaring stream when it ran to its highest, cutting off

Drumcarro, which was a thing that had happened once. And now the smooth

and smiling Mary, who would have thought of nobody in such a strait but

herself, could reproach Kirsteen! And it was a true reproach. Here was

the way, with no need to set the house on fire, or flood the country:

here was a deliverance to be accomplished, that was within her power,

that she could do so easily with no trouble to any one save to him who

was far away, who perhaps would never hear of it, who might have changed

his mind and forgotten Kirsteen long before he heard of it. All the best

part of her seemed to rise against Kirsteen, demanding of her this

sacrifice. Oh, it was so easy to do it in your head, to make a sacrifice

of everything when nothing was wanted!--but when the time came--

And as if this was not enough, little Jeanie came running after Kirsteen

when the poor girl escaped and wandered out again towards the linn in

hope of a little soothing from Nature--Jeanie stole her hand into

Kirsteen’s and rubbed her golden locks against her sister’s sleeve.

“When ye go to Glendochart take me with you,” said Jeanie. “Oh, I would

like to live in a grand house. I would like a powney to ride, and to

play upon the harpsichord as my mother did when she was young. They say

ye’ll be very rich, Kirsteen, when you go with Glendochart.”

“But I will never go with Glendochart!” Kirsteen cried.

“Oh, will ye no? And why will ye no, Kirsteen? Will ye send him away?

Oh, you could never be so cruel as to do that! Will he come here no

more?--and everything be just as it used to be? Oh, Kirsteen!” cried

Jeanie, “I wish you would marry Glendochart!--I would if it was me. He

is the kindest man in the whole world. He speaks to me as if he was--No,

fathers are not kind like that. I like him, Kirsteen, I am awfu’ fond of

him; and so is Jock and Jamie--Oh, I wish ye would change your mind!”

“But, Jeanie, ye would not wish me to be meeserable,” cried poor

Kirsteen.

“No,” said Jeanie--but she added with youthful philosophy, “you wouldna

be meeserable when me and the rest were so happy. And it is us that will

be meeserable if you send him away that has been so good to us all. And

how would ye like that?”

Jeanie’s small voice became almost stern as she asked the question, “How

would ye like that?--to make all the rest meeserable--when the

alternative was nothing more than being meeserable yourself?” Kirsteen

had nothing to say against that logic. She told Jeanie to run to a

certain drawer where she would find some oranges and share them with the

boys. They were Glendochart’s oranges like everything pleasant in the

house. And he was the kindest man in the world. And he would be

miserable too as well as her mother and Jeanie and the laddies. Oh, poor

Kirsteen, with all her best feelings turning traitors to her! would it

not be far easier to consent and make them all happy, and just be

miserable herself?

But she was not to be left free even now. Before she had got to the side

of the linn, to be deafened with the roar and drenched with the spray,

which were the only things she could think of in which any solace was,

Marg’ret coming round the back of the house interrupted her on her way.

“Where are ye going, down by the linn to get your death of cold and

maybe an accident into the bargain? You have nothing upon your head, and

no gloves on your arms, and the grass is drookit. No, my bonny lamb, ye

must not go there.”

“Let me be, Marg’ret. What do I care! If I get my death it will be all

the better; but I’ll no get my death.”

“Lord, save us, to hear her speak! Ye’ll no get your death,--it’s just a

figure of speech; but ye may get the cauld or a sair throat, or

something that will settle on your chest, and that’s as bad. What for

would ye go and tempt Providence? Come into my bonny kitchen that is

all redd up and like a new pin, and get a good warm.”

“Neither warm nor cold is of any consequence to me,” said Kirsteen, “if

folk would just leave me alone.”

“What’s the maitter with my bonny doo? Many a time you’ve come to

Marg’ret with your trouble and we’ve found a way out of it.”

“I see no way out of it,” said Kirsteen. She had reached that point of

young despair when comfort or consolation is an additional aggravation

of the evil. She preferred to be told that everything was over, and that

there was no hope.

“Ye may tell me a’ the same,” said Marg’ret, putting her arm round her

nursling and drawing her close. “It’s about auld Glendochart, that’s

plain for all the world to see.”

“You call him auld Glendochart,” cried Kirsteen.

“Weel, and what would I call him? He’s auld compared to the like of you.

He’s no blate to come here with his grey pow and choose the best of the

flock. But dinna break your heart for that, Kirsteen. Ye must say to him

that ye canna have him. He will take a telling. A man of that age he

kens most things in this world. He will just mount his horse again, and

ride away.”

“It’s easy speaking,” cried Kirsteen, “but it’s me that dare not say a

word. For my father is just red-weed, and will have it, Marg’ret. And my

mother, she wants it too. And all of them they are upon me because I

cannot consent: for oh, I cannot consent!--whatever folk may think or

say, it’s just this, that I cannot do it. I would sooner die.”

“There is nobody that will force you,” said Marg’ret. “Dinna lose heart,

my bonny bairn. The laird himself is very fierce sometimes, but his bark

is worse than his bite. Na, na, ye must just keep up your heart.

Glendochart will soon see, he will let nobody force ye. Things like that

never come to pass noo. They’re just a relic of the auld times. Maybe

the auld Douglases that we hear so much about, that had the rights of

fire and sword, and dark towers and dungeons to shut ye up in, might

have done it. But where would he shut ye up here? There’s no a lock to

any room door in this house!” Marg’ret’s laugh had a cheerful sound in

the air, it broke the spell. “Your father may want to frighten you, and

bring ye to his will--but he will do nae maír; and as for the mistress,

she will reproach ye for a day and then it’ll be a’ done.”

Kirsteen was obliged to confess that there was something in this. Her

mother had been in despair for twenty-four hours, and “just her

ordinary” the day after on many previous occasions. It might all “blow

over” as Marg’ret said, especially if Glendochart should see with his

own eyes how little disposed was the bride whom the family were so

anxious to put into his arms. No doubt his feelings would be hurt, which

was a thing Kirsteen did not like to think of. But somebody must suffer

it was clear, and if so, perhaps it was better that it should be

Glendochart who was an old man, and no doubt used to it, and who was

also a rich man, and could go away and divert himself as Marg’ret

suggested.

Marg’ret was of opinion that though it might hurt his feelings it was

not likely at his age that it would break his heart. For hearts are more

fragile at twenty than at sixty--at least in that way.

CHAPTER XV.

Marg’ret had said with truth that the troubles of her young favourite

had often been smoothed away after a consultation with herself. The best

of us have our weak points, and the excellent Marg’ret was perhaps a

little vain of the faculty of “seeing a way out of it,” which she

believed herself to possess. She had seen a way out of it in many family

tribulations which had a way of appearing less desperate when she took

them in hand. And her last grand success in respect to the ball at the

Castle had no doubt added to her confidence in herself. But after having

turned it over in her mind for the best part of the night Marg’ret found

that even her courage did not sustain her when she thought of

confronting Drumcarro and requiring of him that he should give up the

marriage on which he had evidently set his heart. Marg’ret was

conscious that she was herself partly to blame: had she not set before

him in the famous argument about the ball the fact that in no other way

was there any likelihood of finding “a man” for either of his daughters?

Alas, the man had been too easy to find, and how was she to confront him

now and bid him let go his prize? Marg’ret’s heart sank, though it was

not given to sinking. She lay awake half the night turning it over and

over in her mind, first representing to herself under every light the

possible argument with Drumcarro and what he would say, and what she

would say. She heard herself remonstrating, “Sir, ye canna force your

ain bairn, to make her meeserable,” and the response, “What the deevil

have you to do with it, if I make her meeserable or no?” She had been

_dans son droit_ when she had interfered about the muslin gowns and the

ball, and the necessity of letting the young ladies be seen in the

world--but who was she to meddle with a marriage when everybody was

pleased but just the poor lassie herself? A poor lassie will change her

mind as Marg’ret knew, and will sometimes be very thankful to those who

opposed her foolish youth, and made her do what turned out to be so good

for her. There was nothing so little to be calculated upon, as the

sentiments of a girl whose position would be unspeakably improved by

marriage, and whose silly bits of feeling might change at any moment. It

is true that Kirsteen was not silly but full of sense far beyond her

years. But even she might change her mind, and who could doubt that

Drumcarro’s daughter would be far better off as Glendochart’s wife?

All this “dautoned” Marg’ret as she would herself have said. She began

even to glide away from her conviction that the master must be wrong.

This is a fine working sentiment, and helps to surmount many

difficulties, but when a reasonable soul is smitten by hesitation and

feels that it is possible for even a habitual wrongdoer to be for once

in the right, it takes the strength out of all effort. Finding herself

less and less likely to be able with any comfort to object, Marg’ret

began instinctively to turn to the other side of the question; and she

found there was a great deal to be said on that other side. Glendochart

was old--but after all he was not so dreadfully old, not in the stage of

extreme age, as Kirsteen supposed. He was a “personable man.” He would

give his young wife everything that heart of woman (in Argyllshire)

could desire. She would have a carriage to drive about in and a

saddle-horse to ride. She would get a spinet, or a harpsichord, or the

new-fangled thing that was called a piany to play upon if she pleased;

and as many books as she could set her face to; and maybe a sight of

London and the King’s court, “decent man! if he were but weel again,”

said Marg’ret to herself, for the name of the Prince Regent was not in

good odour. All this would be Kirsteen’s if she could but just get over

that feeling about the old man. And after all Marg’ret went on,

reasoning herself into a more and more perfect adoption of the only

practicable side, he was not such an old man. Two or three years younger

than Drumcarro--and Drumcarro had life enough in him, just a very born

devil as fierce as ever he was. They would be bold that would call the

laird an old man, and Glendochart was three at least, maybe five years

younger. Not an old man at all--just a little over his prime; and a

well-made personable man, doing everything that the youngest did, riding

every day and out stalking on the hills in the season, and hurling, as

Kirsteen herself had allowed, with the best. When everything was done

and said what should hinder her to take Glendochart? He was a far finer

gentleman than anybody that Kirsteen was likely to meet with. He was a

good man, everybody said. He was what you might call a near kinsman of

the Duke’s, not more than four or five times removed. She would be in

the best of company at Glendochart, invited out to dinner, and to all

the diversions that were going. What could a lassie want more? Marg’ret

woke in the morning in a great hurry, having overslept herself after a

wakeful night, with the same conviction in her mind which was so

strongly impressed upon all the others. It was just for everybody’s

advantage that Kirsteen should marry Glendochart, and for her own most

of all.

Kirsteen herself had been much calmed and invigorated by her

consultation with Marg’ret. That authority had made so little of the

obstacles and the dangers, as if it would be the easiest thing in the

world to shake off Glendochart, and convince Drumcarro that nothing

could be done. For the moment Kirsteen’s heart rose. She was accustomed

to put great trust in Marg’ret, to see her cheerful assurances more or

less justified. Many a storm had blown over which had filled the girl

with terror, but which Marg’ret had undertaken should come to nothing.

And if that was what Marg’ret thought now, all might be well. That day

Kirsteen bore herself with great courage, getting back her colour, and

singing about the house as was her wont, though it was only by a great

effort that she dismissed the foreboding from her heart. And this brave

front she kept up heroically during the greater part of the week of

Glendochart’s absence, finding her best help in silence and a determined

avoidance of the subject--but the courage oozed out at her finger tips

as the days stole away. They seemed to go like conspirators one by one

bringing her near the dreadful moment which she could not avoid. It had

been on Thursday that her father had spoken to her, and now the week had

gone all but a day. Kirsteen had just realized this with a sick

fluttering at her heart, as she stood at the door watching the ruddy

colours of the sunset die out of the heavens. Something of the feeling

of the condemned who watches his last sun setting had come into her mind

in spite of herself: what might have happened to her before to-morrow?

Would her father’s curse be on her, or the still heavier malison of a

creature mansworn, false to her dearest vow?

While she was thus musing, all her fictitious courage forsaking her, she

felt herself suddenly and roughly caught by the arm from behind. “Well,”

said her father, “are ye thinking what ye’ll say to your joe? He’s to be

here to-morrow to his dinner, and he’ll expect to find all settled. Have

ye fixed with your mother about the day?”

“Father,” cried Kirsteen in a wild sudden panic, “you know what I said

to ye. There’s no day to be settled. I will tell him I cannot do it. I

cannot do it. There’s no question about a day.”

He swung her round with that iron grasp upon her arm so that she faced

him. His fierce eyes blazed upon her with a red light from under his

heavy eyelids. “Dare to say a word but what I tell ye, and I’ll dash

ye--in pieces like a potter’s vessel!” cried Drumcarro, taking the first

similitude that occurred to him. He shook her as he spoke, her frame,

though it was well-knit and vigorous, quivering in his grasp. “Just say

a word more of your damned nonsense and I’ll lay ye at my feet!”

Kirsteen’s heart fluttered to her throat with a sickening terror; but

she looked him in the face with what steadiness she could command, and a

dumb resolution. The threat gave her back a sense of something

unconquerable in her, although every limb shook.

“Ye’ll see Glendochart when he comes--in my presence--ye’ll have the day

fixed and all put in order. Or if ye want to appear like a woman and not

a petted bairn before your man that is to be, you’ll settle it

yourself. I give you full liberty if you’ll behave yourself. But

hearken,” he said, giving her another shake, “I’ll have no confounded

nonsense. If ye go against me in a strange man’s presence and expose the

family, I will just strike ye down at my feet, let what will come of it.

Do you hear what I say?”

“He will not let you strike me,” she cried in terror, yet defiance.

“Ye’ll be at my feet before he has the chance,” cried Drumcarro. “And

who’s will be the wyte if your father, the last of the Douglases, should

be dragged to a jail for you? If ye expose my family to scorn and shame,

I’ll do it more. Do you hear me? Now go and settle it with your mother,”

he said, suddenly letting her go. Kirsteen, thrown backward by the

unexpected liberation, fell back with a dizzying shock against the

lintel of the door. She lay against it for a moment sick and giddy, the

light fading from her eyes; and for a minute or two Kirsteen thought she

was going to die. It is a conviction that comes easily at such a crisis.

It seemed to the girl so much the best way out of it, just to be done

with it all.

“The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To bring repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom--”

Poor Kirsteen had no guilt, nor had she any clear apprehension what this

meant, or what guilt it was--it might have been only the guilt of

disobedience, the shame of exposing the family for anything she knew;

but the words flashed through her mind in her half-faint, lying

speechless against the door. It would bring repentance to them all and

wring their bosoms--it would save the shame of a disturbance and the

dreadful sight of a struggle between father and daughter. The only

art--just to die.

He had said, “Go to your mother.” This came vaguely back to her mind as

she came to herself. Her mother--no, her mother would say just the same,

they would all say the same. She had no one to go to. Then Kirsteen’s

gradually quickening senses heard something which sounded like an

approaching footstep. She roused herself in a moment, and still sick and

faint, with a singing in her ears, turned and fled--not to her mother,

to Marg’ret in the kitchen, who was her only hope.

The kitchen was, as Marg’ret had said “like a new pin” at that hour, all

clean and bright, the fire made up, the hearth swept, the traces of

dinner all cleared away. It was the moment when Marg’ret could sit down

to needlework or spell out some old, old newspaper which even the

minister had done with; her assistant Merran was out in the byre looking

after the kye, and Marg’ret was alone. When Kirsteen rushed in

unsteadily and threw herself down in the big wooden chair by the

fireside, Marg’ret was threading a needle which was a work of patience.

But this sudden invasion distracted her completely and made her lay

down both thread and needle with a sigh.

“My bonny woman! What is the matter now?”

“Marg’ret, I nearly fainted standing against the door.”

“Fainted! bless the bairn! na, na, no so bad as that. Your head’s cool

and so is your hand. What was it, Kirsteen?”

“Or nearly died would be more like it, and that would maybe have been

the best.” And then with moist eyes fixed upon her anxious companion and

a tremulous smile about her mouth Kirsteen repeated her verse--

“The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,

To bring repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom--is to die.”

“Kirsteen! what is that you are saying?” cried Marg’ret, a sudden flush

showing even upon her ruddy colour. “Guilt and shame! What have those

dreadfu’ things to do with you?”

“I am disobeying both father and mother,” said the girl solemnly, “isna

that guilt? And oh, it’s shaming all belonging to me to stand against

them; but I canna help it, I canna help it. Oh, Marg’ret, hide me from

him, find me a place to go to! What will I do! what will I do!”

“My dear, my dear!” said Marg’ret, “you make my heart sair. What can I

say to you? I have ever taken your pairt as you ken weel--but oh, my

bonny woman, I canna but think you’re a little unreasonable. What ails

you at Glendochart? He’s a good man and an honourable man, and it would

please everybody. To think so much of his age when there’s no other

objection is not like you that had always such sense. And ye would be

far happier, Kirsteen, in a house of your own. Because there’s white on

his head is that a cause to turn your heart from a good man?”

Kirsteen said nothing for a moment: she looked with wistful eyes and a

faint smile in Marg’ret’s face, shaking her head; then suddenly rising

up went away out of the kitchen, hurrying as much as her limbs, still

feeble with the late shock and struggle, would let her. Marg’ret stood

aghast while her hurried irregular step was audible going up stairs.

“Now I have just angered her,” said Marg’ret to herself, “and cast back

her bit heart upon herself, and made her feel she has no true friend.

Will I go after her,--or will I wait till she comes back?”

This question was settled for her as she stood listening and uncertain,

by the sound of Kirsteen’s return. Marg’ret listened eagerly while she

came down stairs again step by step. She came into the kitchen with the

same vague deprecating smile upon her face. She had a little Testament

in its blue boards in her hand. She said nothing, but opening it held

out to her faithful adviser the fly-leaf upon which there stood the

initials together of R. D. and C. D., connected with the feeble

pencilling of the runic knot. Kirsteen said not a word, but held it out

open, pointing to this simple symbol with her other hand. “R. D.,” said

Marg’ret, “wha’ is that? C. D., that will just stand for yourself. It’s

not one of Robbie’s books--it’s--it’s--Oh!” she cried with sudden

enlightenment, “now I understand!”

Kirsteen put the little page solemnly to her trembling lips, a tear

almost dropped upon it, but she shut the book quickly that no stain

should come upon it, even of a tear. She did not say a word during this

little tender revelation of her heart, but turned her eyes and her faint

propitiatory smile to Marg’ret as if there was no more to be said.

“And this has been in your heart all the time!” cried Marg’ret, drying

her eyes with her apron. “I thought of that, twa-three times. There was

something in his look yon day he gaed away, but I never said a word, for

who can tell? And this was in your heart a’ the time?”

“He said, ‘Will ye wait till I come back?’ and I said, ‘That I will!’”

said Kirsteen, but very softly, the sweetness of the recollection coming

back to soothe her in the midst of all the pain.

“And that’s how they’ve tied their lives, thae young things!” said

Marg’ret also with a kind of solemnity. “A word spoken that is done in a

moment, and after that--a’ thae long and weary years--and maybe for all

they ken never to see ilk ither again.”

“And if it should be so,” said Kirsteen, “it would just be for death

instead of life, and all the same.”

“Oh, weel I ken that,” said Marg’ret shaking her head. She made a pause,

and then she added hurriedly, “What’s to be done with you, lassie? If

Glendochart’s coming the morn to mairry ye there’s no time to be lost.”

“Marg’ret, I will just go away.”

“Where will ye go to? It’s easy speaking: a creature like you cannot

travel the country-side like a servant lass going to a new place. And

ye’ve nae friends that will take such a charge. Miss Eelen would be

frightened out of her wits. I know nobody that will help you but

Glendochart himself--and you couldna go to him.”

“What is that letter on the table, Marg’ret, and who is it from?”

“The letter? What’s in the letter? Can ye think of that at sic a moment?

It’s a letter from my sister Jean.”

“Marg’ret, that’s just where I am going! I see it all in a flash like

lightning. I am going to London to your sister Jean.”

“The bairn is clean out of her senses!” cried Marg’ret almost with a

scream.

And then they stood and looked at each other for a long rapid minute,

interchanging volumes in the silent meeting of their eyes. Kirsteen had

sprung in a moment from the agitated creature who had come to Marg’ret

to be hidden, to be sheltered, not knowing what could be done with her,

to the quick-witted, high-spirited girl she was by nature, alive with

purpose and strong intuition, fearing nothing. And Marg’ret read all

this new world of meaning in the girl’s eyes more surely than words

could have told her. She saw the sudden flash of the resolution, the

clearing away of all clouds, the rise of the natural courage, the

Kirsteen of old whom nothing could “dauton” coming back. “Oh, my lamb!”

she breathed under her breath.

“There’s not a moment to be lost,” said Kirsteen, “for I must go in the

morning before anybody is up. And ye must not tell a living creature but

keep my secret, Marg’ret. For go I must, there is no other thing to do.

And maybe I will never come back. My father will never forgive me. I

will be like Anne cut off from the family. But go I must, for no more

can I bide here. Give me the letter from your sister to let her see it’s

me when I get there. And give me your blessing, Marg’ret--it’s all the

blessing I will get. And let me go!”

“Not to-night, Kirsteen!”

“No, not to-night; but early--early in the morning before daylight.

Dinna say a word--not a word. It’s all clear before me. I’ll be at

nobody’s charges, I’ll fend for myself; and your sister Jean will show

me the way.”

There was another silence during which Kirsteen, quite regardless of the

rights of propriety which existed no more between Marg’ret and herself

than between mother and daughter, took possession of Miss Jean Brown’s

letter, while Marg’ret stood reflecting, entirely alarmed by the

revelation made to her, and by the sudden re-birth of the vehement young

creature who had been for a time so subdued and broken down by her first

contest with the world. To keep Kirsteen back was, in the circumstances

and with the strong convictions of the Scotch serving woman as to the

force of a trothplight and the binding character of a vow, impossible.

But to let her go thus unfriended, unaided, alone into an unknown world,

far more unknown to Marg’ret than the ends of the earth would be to her

representative now, was something more than could be borne. She suddenly

exclaimed in a sharp tone with a cruel hope: “And where are ye to get

the siller? It’s mad and mad enough any way, but madder still without a

penny in your pocket. How are ye to get to London without money? It’s

just impossible.”

“I can walk, others have done it before me. I’m well and strong and a

grand walker,” said Kirsteen, but not till after a pause of

consternation, this consideration not having crossed her mind before.

“Walk! it’s just hundreds of miles, and takes a week in the coach,”

cried Marg’ret. “Ye cannot walk, no to say ye would want money even

then, for I’m no supposing that you mean to beg your bread from door to

door. Without money ye canna go a step. I’ll not permit it. Have ye

anything of your ain?”

“I have the gold guinea my grandmother left me in her will; but I have

no more. How should I have any more?”

Marg’ret stood for a moment undecided, while Kirsteen waited a little

eager, a little expectant like a child. It did not occur to her to

deprecate help from Marg’ret as a more high-minded heroine might have

done. Marg’ret was a little Providence at Drumcarro. She had store of

everything that the children wanted, and had been their resource all

their lives. And Kirsteen had not realized the difference between money

and other indispensable things. She waited like a child, following

Marg’ret with her eyes until some expedient should be thought of. She

breathed a sigh of suspense yet expectation when Marg’ret hurried away

to her bedroom at the back of the house, seating herself again in the

big chair to wait, not impatiently, for the solution of the problem.

Marg’ret came back after a few minutes with a work-box in her hand. All

kinds of things had come out of that box in the experience of the

children at Drumcarro, things good and evil, little packets of powders

for childish maladies, sweeties to be taken after the nauseous mouthful,

needles and thimbles and scissors when these needful implements had all

been lost, as happened periodically, even a ribbon or a pair of gloves

in times of direst need. She began to turn over the well-remembered

contents--old buttons, hooks and eyes from old gowns long departed,

Marg’ret’s two brooches that formed all her jewellery wrapped up in

separate pieces of paper. “My sister Jean,” said Marg’ret with her head

bent over the box, “has often bidden me to come and see her in London

town. You ken why I couldna go. I couldna thole to leave you that are

leavin’ me without a tear. And she sent me what would do for my

chairges. It was never touched by me. It took me a great deal of trouble

to get Scotch notes for it, and here it is at the bottom of my box with

many an auld relic on the top of it--just a’ I’ll have of ye when ye’ve

got your will,” said Marg’ret, a tear dropping among the miscellaneous

articles in the box. She took from the bottom a little parcel in an old

letter, folded square and written closely to the very edge of the seal.

“Hae! take it! and ye maun just do with it what pleasures yoursel’,”

Marg’ret cried.

CHAPTER XVI.

The 12th of January was a still, gray winter day, not very cold and

exceedingly calm, the winds all hushed, the clouds hanging low, with a

possibility of rain--a possibility which is never remote in a Highland

landscape. As the slow daylight began to bring the hills into sight, not

with any joyous sunrising but with a faint diffusion of gray upon the

dark, a gradual growing visible of the greater points, then very slowly

of the details of the landscape, there came also into sight, first

ghost-like, a moving, noiseless shadow, then something which

consolidated into the slim figure of a woman, a solitary traveller

moving steadily along the dewy mountain road. It came in sight like the

hills, not like an interruption to the landscape but a portion of it,

becoming visible along with it, having been in the dark as well as in

the light. Before the day was fully awake it was there, a gliding shadow

going straight up the hills and over the moors, at the same measured

pace, not so much quick as steady, with a wonderful still intensity of

progress. The road was more than dewy, it was glistening wet with the

heavy damps of the night, every crevice among the rocks green and

sodden, every stone glistening. The traveller did not keep exactly to

the road, was not afraid of the wet hillside turf, nor even of a gray

dyke to climb if it shortened the way. She passed lightly over bits of

moss among the rustling, faded heather, and spots of suspicious

greenness which meant bog, choosing her footing on the black roots of

the wild myrtle, and the knolls of blackberries, like one to the manner

born. She gave a soul to the wild and green landscape, so lonely, so

washed with morning dews. She was going--where? From the impossible to

the possible--from the solitudes of the hills into the world.

Kirsteen had been walking for hours before she thus came into sight, and

the dark and the silence had filled her with many a flutter of terror.

It took something from what might have been in other circumstances the

overwhelming excitement of thus leaving home to encounter that other

bewildering and awful sensation of going out into the night, with every

one asleep and all wrapped in the profound blackness of winter, through

which it was hard enough even for the most familiar to find a way. This

horror and alarm had so occupied her mind, and the sensation of being

the one creature moving and conscious in that world of darkness that she

had scarcely realized the severance she was making, the tearing asunder

of her life. Even Marg’ret, repressing her emotion lest a sob should

catch some wakeful ear in the sleeping house, had faded from Kirsteen’s

mind when she took the first step into the dark. She knew there were no

wild beasts who could devour her, no robbers who would seize her, as she

had fancied when a child: she had a trembling sense that God would

protect her from ghosts and spiritual evils; but her young soul trembled

with fears both physical and spiritual, just as much as when she had

wandered out in the dark at six years old. Reason convinces but does not

always support the inexperienced spirit. When the ever wakeful dogs at

the little clachan heard the faint footfall upon the edge of the path

and barked, Kirsteen was half-consoled and half-maddened with terror. If

some one should wake and wonder, and suspect a midnight thief, and burst

open a door and find her; but on the other hand it was a little comfort

to feel that even a dog was waking in that black expanse of night.

She had already come a long way, before the daylight, when she and the

landscape that inclosed her came dimly, faintly into sight in the first

gray of the morning. Her eyes had got accustomed to the darkness, her

heart a little calmed and sustained by the fact that nothing had

happened to her yet, no hidden malefactor in the dark, nor sheeted

whiteness from the churchyard interrupting her on her way. Her heart had

beat while she passed, loud enough to have wakened the whole clachan,

but nothing had stirred, save the dogs--and safe as in the warmest

daylight she had got by the graves. Nothing could be so bad as that

again. Partly by familiar knowledge and partly by the consciousness of

certain gradations in the darkness as she became used to it, she had got

forward on her way until she had reached the head of the loch where the

water was a guide to her. Kirsteen had resolved that she would not

venture to approach the town or cross the loch in the boat, the usual

way, but taking a large sweep round the end of the loch, strike at once

into the wilds which lay between her and the comparatively higher

civilization of the regions within reach of Glasgow. If she could but

reach that great city, which was only second in her dim conceptions to

London itself, she would feel that she was safe, but not before. She

came round the head of the loch in the beginnings of the dawn and had

pushed her way far into the gloomy mystery of Hell’s Glen, with its bare

hills rising to the dim sky on either side, before the height of noon.

It is gloomy there even when the height of noon means the dazzling of a

Highland summer day. But when the best of the daylight is a dull gray,

the long lines of the glen, unbroken by anything but a shepherd’s hut

here and there at long intervals, and the road that could be seen

winding through like a strip of ribbon all the way gave the fugitive a

mingled sense of serenity and of that tingling, audible solitude and

remoteness from all living aid or society which thrills every nerve.

When she was half way through the glen, however, the thrill was subdued

by that experience of no harm as yet which is the most perfect of

support, and Kirsteen began to be conscious that she had eaten nothing

and scarcely rested since she set out. She had swallowed a mouthful as

she walked--she had thrown herself down for a moment on the

hillside--but now it seemed possible to venture upon a little real rest.

Kirsteen was dressed in a dark woollen gown of homespun stuff, made like

all the dresses of the time, with a straight, long, narrow skirt, and a

short bodice cut low round her shoulders. Over this she had a warm

spencer, another bodice with long sleeves, rising to her throat, where

it was finished with a frill. She had strong country shoes and woollen

stockings just visible under her skirt. Her bonnet was a little of the

coal-scuttle shape but not very large; and flung back over it, but so

that she could put it down over her face at a moment’s notice, was a

large black veil, such an imitation of Spanish lace as was practicable

at the time, better in workmanship, worse in material than anything we

have now. The large pattern with its gigantic flowers in thick work hid

the face better than any lighter fabric, and it hung over the bonnet

when thrown back like a cloud. She had a bundle on one arm, done up

carefully in a handkerchief containing two changes of linen, and another

gown, carefully folded by Marg’ret into the smallest possible space; and

on the other a camlet cloak, dark blue, with a fur collar and metal

clasps, which was Marg’ret’s own. This was sore lading for a long walk,

but it was indispensable in face of the January winds, and the cold on

the coach, of which Marg’ret knew dreadful things. To Kirsteen it

seemed that if she could but reach that coach, and pursue her journey by

the aid of other legs than her own, and with company, all her troubles

would be over. She sat upon the hillside anxiously watching the path

lest any suspicious figure should appear upon it, and took out from her

wallet the last scones of Marg’ret’s she was likely to eat for a long

time. Should she ever eat Marg’ret’s scones again? Salt tears came to

Kirsteen’s eyes and moistened her comely face. It was done now--the

dreadful step taken, never to be altered, the parting made. Her life and

her home lay far behind her, away beyond the hills that shut her in on

every side. She said to herself with trembling lips that the worst was

over; by this time every one in Drumcarro would know that she was gone.

They would have looked for her in every corner, up on the hill and down

by the linn where the water poured into the vexed and foaming gulf.

Would it come into anybody’s head that she had thrown herself in and

made an end of everything?

“The only art her guilt to cover.”

Would they send and tell Glendochart, poor old gentleman--would they

warn him not to come to a distressed house? Or would he be allowed to

come and her father say to him: “She is not worthy of a thought. She is

no bairn of mine from this day”? “And my mother will go to her bed,”

said Kirsteen to herself with a tear or two, yet with the faint gleam

of a smile. She could see them all in their different ways--her father

raging, her mother weeping, and Mary telling everybody that she was not

surprised. And Marg’ret--Marg’ret would put on a steady countenance so

that nobody could tell what she knew and what she didn’t know. It almost

amused Kirsteen though it made her breath come quick, and brought the

tears to her eyes, to sit thus in the deep solitude with the silence of

the hills all thrilling round, and look down as it were upon that other

scene, a strangely interested spectator, seeing everything, and her own

absence which was the strangest of all.

But perhaps she sat too long and thought too much, or the damp of the

sod had cramped her young limbs, or the tremendous walk of the morning

told more after an interval of rest, for when she roused herself at last

and got up again, Kirsteen felt a universal ache through her frame, and

stumbled as she came down from her perch to the road below. How was she

to get through Glencroe to Arrochar--another long and weary course? The

solitude of the glen came upon her again with a thrill of horror. If she

could not walk any better than this it would be dark, dark night again

before she came to the end of her journey--would she ever come to the

end of her journey? Would she drop down upon the hill and lie there till

some one found her? A wave of discouragement and misery came over her.

There was a house within sight, one of those hovels in which still the

Highland shepherd or crofter is content to live. Kirsteen knew such

interiors well--the clay floor, the black, smoke-darkened walls, the

throng of children round the fire: there was no room to take in a

stranger, no way of getting help for her to push on with her journey.

All the pictures of imagination fled from her, scant and troubled though

they had been. Everything in the world seemed wept out except the

sensation of this wild solitude, the aching of her tired limbs, the

impossibility of getting on, her own dreadful loneliness and

helplessness in this wild, silent, unresponsive world.

Kirsteen could scarcely tell how she dragged herself to the entrance of

the glen. A little solitary mountain farm or gillie’s house stood at

some distance from the road, approached by a muddy cart-track. The road

was bad enough, not much more than a track, for there were as yet no

tourists (nay, no magician to send them thither) in those days. A rough

cart came lumbering down this path as she crept her way along, and soon

made up to her. Kirsteen had made up her mind to ask for a “cast” or

“lift” to help her along, but her courage failed her when the moment

came, and she allowed the rude vehicle to lumber past with a heart that

ached as much as her limbs to see this chance of ease slip by. She

endeavoured as much as she could to keep within a certain distance of

the cart “for company,” to cheat the overwhelming loneliness which had

come over her. And perhaps the carter, who was an elderly rustic with

grizzled hair, perceived her meaning, perhaps he saw the longing look in

her eyes. After he had gone on a little way he turned and came slowly

back. “Maybe you’re ower genteel for the like of that,” he said, “but I

would sooner ye thought me impident than leave you your lane on this

rough long road. Would you like a lift in the cart? There’s clean straw

in it, and you’re looking weariet.”

Poor Kirsteen had nearly wept for pleasure. She seated herself upon the

clean straw with a sense of comfort which no carriage could have

surpassed. It was a mode of conveyance not unknown to her. The gig had

seldom been vouchsafed to the use of the girls in Drumcarro. They had

much more often been packed into the cart. She thanked the friendly

carter with all her heart. “For I am weariet,” she said, “and the road’s

wet and heavy both for man and beast.”

“Ye’ll have come a far way,” he said, evidently feeling that desire for

information or amusement which unexpected company is wont to raise in

the rustic heart.

Kirsteen answered that she had come from a little place not far from

Loch Fyne, then trembled lest she had betrayed herself.

“It’s very Hieland up there,” said the carter; “that’s the country of

the Lord their God the Duke, as Robbie Burns calls him. We have him here

too, but no so overpowering. Ye’ll be a Campbell when you’re at hame?”

“No, I am not a Campbell,” said Kirsteen. It occurred to her for the

first time that she must give some account of herself. “I’m going,” she

said, “to take up--a situation.”

“I just thought that. ’Twill be some pingling trade like showing or

hearing weans their letters, keeping ye in the house and on a seat the

haill day long?”

“Something of that kind,” Kirsteen said.

“And you’re a country lass, and used to the air of the hills. Take you

care--oh, take care! I had one mysel’--as fine a lass as ye would see,

with roses on her cheeks, and eyes just glancing bright like your ain;

and as weel and as hearty as could be. But before a twelvemonth was

o’er, her mother and me we had to bring her hame.”

“Oh,” cried Kirsteen, “I am very sorry--but she’s maybe better.”

“Ay, she’s better,” said the carter. “Weel--wi’ her Faither which is in

heaven.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sorry!” cried Kirsteen, with tears in her eyes.

“Thank ye for that: ye have a look of her: I couldna pass ye by: but eh,

for Gudesake if ye have faither and mother to break their hearts for

you, take care.”

“You must have liked her well, well!” said the girl. Fatigue and languor

in herself added to the keen sense of sympathy and pity. “I wish it had

been me instead of her,” she said hastily.

“Eh,” said the man, “that’s a sair thing to say! Ye must be an orphan

with none to set their hearts on you--but you’re young, poor thing, and

there’s nae telling what good may come to ye. Ye must not let down your

heart.”

The cart rumbled on with many a jolt, the carter jogged by the side and

talked, the sound and motion were both drowsy, and Kirsteen was

extremely tired. By and by these sounds and sensations melted into a

haze of almost beatitude, the drowsiness that comes over tired limbs and

spirit when comparative ease succeeds to toil. After a while she lost

consciousness altogether and slept nestled in the straw, like a tired

child. She was awakened by the stoppage of the cart, and opening her

eyes to the gray yet soft heavens above and the wonder of waking in the

open air, found herself at the end of a road which led up to a farmstead

at the mouth of Glencroe where the valley opens out upon the shore of

that long inlet of the sea which is called Loch Long.

“I’m wae to disturb ye, but I must take the cairt back to the town, and

my ain house is two miles down the loch. But there’s a real dacent woman

at the inn at Arrochar.”

“It’s there I was going,” said Kirsteen hurriedly sliding from her

place. She had been covered with her camlet cloak as she lay, and the

straw had kept her warm. “I’m much obliged to you,” she said--“will ye

take a--will ye let me give you--”

“No a farden, no a farden,” cried the man. “I would convoy ye to Mrs.

Macfarlane’s door, but I have to supper my horse. Will ye gie me a shake

of your hand? You’re a bonny lass and I hope ye’ll be a guid ane--but

mind there’s awfu’ temptations in thae towns.”

Kirsteen walked away very stiff but refreshed, half angry, half amused

by this last caution. She said to herself with a blush that he could not

have known who she was--a lady! or he would not have given her that

warning, which was not applicable to the like of her. They said poor

lassies in service, out among strangers, stood in need of it, poor

things. It was not a warning that had any meaning to a gentlewoman; but

how was the man to know?

She went on still in a strange confusion of weariness and the haze of

awakening to where the little town of Arrochar lay low by the banks of

the loch. It was dark there sooner than in other places, and already a

light or two began to twinkle in the windows. Two or three men were

lingering outside the inn when Kirsteen reached the place, and daunted

her--she who was never daunted. She went quickly past, as quickly as her

fatigue would admit, as if she knew where she was going. She thought to

herself that if any one remarked it would be thought she was going home

to her friends, going to some warm and cheerful kent place--and she a

waif and outcast on the world! When she had passed, she loitered and

looked back, finding a dim corner where nobody could see her, behind

the little hedge of a cottage garden. Presently a woman in a widow’s

cap came briskly out to the door of the little inn, addressing a lively

word or two to the loitering men, which made them move and disperse; and

now was Kirsteen’s time. She hurried back and timidly approached the

woman at the inn door as if she had been a princess. “Ye’ll maybe be

Mistress Macfarlane?” said Kirsteen.

“I’m just that; and what may ye be wanting? Oh, I see you’re a

traveller,” said the brisk landlady; “you’ll be wanting lodging for the

night.”

“If you have a room ye can give me--with a bed--I’ve had a long

walk--from near Loch Fyne,” said Kirsteen, feeling that explanation was

necessary, and looking wistfully in the face of the woman on whom her

very life seemed to depend. For what if she should refuse her, a young

girl all alone, and turn her away from the door?

Mrs. Macfarlane was too good a physiognomist for that--but she looked at

Kirsteen curiously in the waning light. “That’s a far way to come on

your feet,” she said, “and you’re a young lass to be wandering the

country by yourself.”

“I’m going--to take up a situation,” said Kirsteen. “If ye should have a

room----”

“Oh, it’s no for want of a room. Come in, there’s plenty of room. So

ye’re going to take up a situation? Your minnie must have been sair at

heart to let you gang afoot such a weary way.”

“There was no other--convenience,” said Kirsteen, sick and faint. She

had to make an effort not to cry. She had not thought of this ordeal,

and her limbs would scarcely sustain her.

“Come in,” said the woman. “Would you rather go to your bed, or sit down

by the fire with me? Lord bless us, the poor thing’s just fainting,

Eelen. Take her into the parlour, and put her in the big chair by the

fire.”

“I’m not fainting--I’m only so tired I cannot speak,” said Kirsteen,

with a faint smile.

“Go ben, go ben,” said Mrs. Macfarlane, “and I’ll make the tea, and ye

shall have a cup warm and strong. There’s naething will do you so much

good.”

And to lie back in the big chair by the warm fire seemed like paradise

to Kirsteen. This was her fortunate lot on her first night from home.

CHAPTER XVII.

She had, however, much questioning to go through. There was but little

custom to occupy the woman of the inn, and the mingled instincts of

kindness and gossip, and that curiosity which is so strong among those

who have little to learn save what they can persuade their neighbours to

tell them, had much dominion over Mrs. Macfarlane. Kindness perhaps was

the strongest quality of all. Her tea was hot and strong and what she

considered well “masket” before the fire; and when the Highland maid,

who could speak little English, but hung about in silent admiration of

the unexpected visitor, who was a new incident in the glen, had “boilt”

some eggs, and placed a plate of crisp cakes--the oatcakes which were

the habitual bread of Scotland at that period--and another of brown

barley scones, upon the table, the mistress herself sat down to

encourage her guest to eat.

“There’s some fine salt herrings if ye would like that better, or I

could soon fry ye a bit of ham. We’ve baith pork hams and mutton hams in

the house. But a fresh boilt egg is just as good as anything, and mair

nat’ral to a woman. Ye’ll be gaun to Glasco where everybody goes?”

“Yes,” said Kirsteen, with a doubt in her heart whether it was honest

not to add that she was going further on.

“I wonder what they can see in’t--a muckle dirty place, with long lums

pouring out smoke. I wouldna gie Arrochar for twenty o’t.”

“I suppose,” said Kirsteen, “it’s because there is aye plenty doing

there.”

“I suppose sae. And ye’re going to take up a situation? It’s no a place

I would choose for a young lass, but nae doubt your mother kens what

she’s doing. Is it a lady’s maid place, or to be with bairns, or--I’m

sure I beg your pardon! You’ll be a governess, I might have seen.”

Kirsteen had grown very red at the thought of being taken for a lady’s

maid, but she said to herself quickly that her pride was misplaced, and

that it was the best service any one could do her to think her so. “Oh,

no,” she said, “I’m not clever enough to be a governess. I’m going--to a

mantua-maker’s.”

“Weel, weel--that’s a very genteel trade, and many a puir leddy thankful

to get into it,” said Mrs. Macfarlane. “I’m doubting you’re one

yoursel’, or else ye have lived with better kind of folk, for ye’ve real

genty ways, and a bonny manner. Take heed to yourself in Glasco, and

take up with none of thae young sprigs in offices that think themselves

gentlemen. Will ye no take another cup? Weel, and I wouldna wonder ye

would be better in your bed than any other place. And how are ye going

on in the morning? There’s a coach from Eelensburgh, but it’s a long

walk to get there. If ye like Duncan will get out the gig and drive you.

It would be a matter of twelve or maybe fifteen shillings if he couldna

get a job back--which is maist unlikely at this time of the year.”

With many thanks for the offer Kirsteen tremblingly explained that she

could not afford it. “For I will want all my money when I get to

Glasgow,” she said.

“Weel,” said Mrs. Macfarlane, “ye ken your ain affairs best. But there’s

sturdy beggars on the road, and maybe ye’ll wish ye had ta’en my offer

before you win there.”

Kirsteen thought she never would sleep for the aching of her limbs when

she first laid herself down in the hard bed which was all the little

Highland inn, or even the best houses in Scotland, afforded in that

period. Her mind was silenced by this strange physical inconvenience, so

that she was quiescent in spirit and conscious of little except her

pangs of fatigue. Youth, however, was stronger than all her pangs, and

the influence of the fresh mountain air, though charged with damp, in

which she had pursued her journey--and she slept with the perfect

abandon and absolute repose of her twenty years, never waking from the

time she laid her head upon the pillow until she was awakened by Eelen,

the Highland maid, whom she opened her eyes to find standing over her

with the same admiring looks as on the previous evening.

“Your hair will be like the red gold and your skin like the white milk,”

said Eelen; “and its chappit acht, and it’s time to be wakening.”

Kirsteen did not spring from her bed with her usual alertness, for she

was stiff with her first day’s travels. But she rose as quickly as was

possible, and got down stairs to share the porridge of a weakly member

of the family who was indulged in late hours, and had a little cream to

tempt her to consume the robust food.

“I would have given ye some tea but for Jamie,” said Mrs. Macfarlane,

“maybe he’ll take his parritch when he sees you supping yours with sic a

good heart.”

Though she was thus used as an example Kirsteen took leave of the kind

innkeeper with a sense of desolation as if she were once more leaving

home.

“’Deed, I just wish ye could bide, and gie the bairns their lessons and

please a’ body with your pleasant face,” the landlady said.

Kirsteen went on her way with a “piece” in her pocket and many good

wishes.

It was a bright morning, and the sun, as soon as he had succeeded in

rising over the shoulders of the great hills, shone upon Loch Long as

upon a burnished mirror, and lit up the path which Kirsteen had to

travel with a chequered radiance through the bare branches of the trees,

which formed the most intricate network of shadow upon the brown path.

The deep herbage and multitudinous roadside plants all wet and

glistening, the twinkle of a hundred burns that crossed the road at

every step, the sound of the oars upon the rowlocks of a fisherboat upon

the loch, the shadows that flew over the hills in swift, instantaneous

succession added their charms to the spell of the morning, the freshest

and most rapturous of all the aspects of nature. Before long Kirsteen

forgot everything, both trouble of body and trouble of mind. The

fascination of the morning brightness entered into her heart. In a sunny

corner she found a bit of yellow blossom of the wild St. John’s wort,

that “herb of grace” which secures to the traveller who is so happy as

to find it unawares a prosperous day’s journey, and in another the rare,

delicate star of the Grass of Parnassus. These with a sprig of the

“gale,” the sweet wild myrtle which covers those hills, made a little

bouquet which she fastened in the belt of her spencer with simple

pleasure. She hesitated a moment to wear the badge of the Campbells, and

then with a fantastic half-amused sentiment reminded herself that if she

had become the Lady of Glendochart, as she might have done (though

ignorant folk took her for a governess or even a lady’s waiting woman)

she would have had a right to wear it. Poor Glendochart! It would hurt

his feelings to find that she had flown away from her home to escape

him. Kirsteen was grieved beyond measure to hurt Glendochart’s feelings.

She put the gale in her belt with a compunctious thought of her old,

kind wooer. But at that moment her young spirit, notwithstanding all

its burdens, was transported by the morning and the true delight of the

traveller, leaving all that he has known behind him for love of the

beautiful and the new. It seemed to Kirsteen that she had never seen the

world so lovely nor the sun so warm and sweet before.

She had walked several miles in the delight of these novel sensations

and was far down Loch Long side, without a house or sign of habitation

nigh, when there suddenly rose from among the bushes of brown withered

heather on the slope that skirted the road a man whose appearance did

not please Kirsteen. He had his coat-sleeve pinned to his breast as if

he had lost an arm, and a forest of wild beard and hair inclosing his

face. In these days when the wars of the Peninsula were barely over, and

Waterloo approaching, nothing was so likely to excite charitable

feelings as the aspect of an old soldier--and the villainous classes of

the community who existed then, as now, were not slow to take advantage

of it. This man came up to Kirsteen with a professional whine. He gave

her a list of battles at which he had been wounded which her knowledge

was not enough to see were impossible, though her mind rejected them as

too much. But he was an old soldier (she believed) and that was enough

to move the easily flowing fountains of charity. No principle on the

subject had indeed been invented in those days, and few people refused a

handful of meal at the house door, or a penny on the road to the beggar

of any degree, far less the soldier who had left the wars with an empty

sleeve or a shattered leg. Kirsteen stopped and took her little purse

from her pocket and gave him sixpence with a look of sympathy. She

thought of the boys all away to the endless Indian wars, and of another

besides who might be fighting or losing his arm like this poor man. “And

I’m very sorry for ye, and I hope you will win safe home,” said Kirsteen

passing on. But different feelings came into her mind when she found

that she was being followed, and that the man’s prayer for “anither

saxpence” was being repeated in a rougher and more imperative tone.

Kirsteen had a great deal of courage as a girl so often has, whose

natural swift impulses have had no check of practical danger. She was

not at first afraid. She faced round upon him with a rising colour and

bade him be content. “I have given ye all I can give ye,” she said, “for

I’ve a long, long journey before me and little siller.”

“Ye have money in your purse, my bonny lady, and no half so much to do

with it as me.”

“If I’ve money in my purse it’s my own money, for my own lawful uses,”

said Kirsteen.

“Come, come,” cried the man. “I’ll use nae violence unless ye force me.

Gie me the siller.”

“I will not give ye a penny,” cried Kirsteen. And then there ensued a

breathless moment. All the possibilities swept through her mind. If she

took to flight he would probably overtake her, and in the meantime might

seize her from behind when she could not see what he was doing. She had

no staff or stick in her hand but was weighted with her bundle and her

cloak. She thought of flinging the latter over his head and thus

blinding and embarrassing him to gain a little time, but he was wary and

on his guard. She gave a glance towards the boat on the loch, but it was

in mid-water, and the bank was high and precipitous. Nowhere else was

there a living creature in sight.

“Man,” said Kirsteen, “I cannot fight with ye, but I’m not just a weak

creature either, and what I have is all I have, and I’ve a long journey

before me--I’ll give ye your sixpence if you’ll go.”

“I’ll warrant ye will,” said the sturdy beggar, “but I’m a no so great a

fuil as I look. Gie me the purse, and I’ll let ye go.”

“I’ll not give ye the purse. If ye’ll say a sum and it’s within my power

I’ll give ye that.”

“Bring out the bit pursie,” said the man, “and we’ll see, maybe with a

kiss into the bargain,” and he drew nearer, with a leer in the eyes that

gleamed from among his tangled hair.

“I will fling it into the loch sooner than ye should get it,” cried

Kirsteen, whose blood was up--“and hold off from me or I’ll push you

down the brae,” she cried, putting down her bundle, and with a long

breath of nervous agitation preparing for the assault.

“You’re a bold quean though ye look so mim--gie me a pound then and I’ll

let ye go.”

Kirsteen felt that to produce the purse at all was to lose it, and once

more calculated all the issues. The man limped a little. She thought

that if she plunged down the bank to the loch, steep as it was, her

light weight and the habit she had of scrambling down to the linn might

help her--and the sound of the falling stones and rustling branches

might catch the ear of the fisher on the water, or she might make a

spring up upon the hill behind and trust to the tangling roots of the

heather to impede her pursuer. In either case she must give up the

bundle and her cloak. Oh, if she had but taken Donald and the gig as

Mrs. Macfarlane had advised!

“I canna wait a’ day till ye’ve made up your mind. If I have to use

violence it’s your ain wyte. I’m maist willing to be friendly,” he said

with another leer pressing upon her. She could feel his breath upon her

face. A wild panic seized Kirsteen. She made one spring up the hill

before he could seize her. And in a moment her bounding heart all at

once became tranquil and she stood still, her terror gone.

For within a few paces of her was a sportsman with his gun, a young man

in dark undress tartan scarcely distinguishable from the green and brown

of the hillside, walking slowly downwards among the heather bushes.

Kirsteen raised her voice a little. She called to her assailant, “Ye can

go your way, for here’s a gentleman!” with a ring of delight in her

voice.

The man clambering after her (he did “hirple” with the right foot,

Kirsteen observed with pleasure) suddenly slipped down with an oath,

for he too had seen the newcomer, and presently she heard his footsteps

on the road hurrying away.

“What is the matter, my bonny lass?” said the sportsman; “are ye having

a quarrel with your joe? Where’s the impudent fellow? I’ll soon bring

him to reason if you’ll trust yourself to me.”

Kirsteen dropped over the bank without reply with a still more hot flush

upon her cheeks. She had escaped one danger only to fall into another

more alarming. What the country folk had said to her had piqued her

pride; but to be treated by a gentleman as if she were a country lass

with her joe was more than Kirsteen could bear.

He had sprung down by her side however before she could do more than

pick up the bundle and cloak which the tramp had not touched.

“He’s a scamp to try to take advantage of you when you’re in a lone

place like this. Tell me, my bonny lass, where ye are going? I’ll see

you safe over the hill if you’re going my way.”

“It is not needful, sir, I thank ye,” said Kirsteen. “I’m much obliged

to you for appearing as you did. It was a sturdy beggar would have had

my purse; he ran at the sight of a gentleman; but I hope there are none

but ill-doers need to do that,” she added with heightened colour drawing

back from his extended hand.

The young man laughed and made a step forward, then stopped and stared,

“You are not a country lass,” he said. “I’ve seen you before--where have

I seen you before?”

Kirsteen felt herself glow from head to foot with overpowering shame.

She remembered if he did not. She had not remarked his looks in the

relief which the first sight of him had brought, but now she perceived

who it was. It was the very Lord John whose remarks upon the

antediluvians had roused her proud resentment at the ball. He did not

mistake the flash of recognition, and a recognition which was angry, in

her eyes.

“Where have we met?” he said. “You know me, and not I fear very

favourably. Whatever I’ve done I hope you’ll let me make peace now.”

“There is no peace to make,” said Kirsteen. “I’m greatly obliged to you,

sir; I can say no more, but I’ll be more obliged to you still if you

will go your own gait and let me go mine, for I am much pressed for

time.”

“What! and leave you at the mercy of the sturdy beggar?” he cried

lightly. “This is my gait as well as yours, I’m on my way across

Whistlefield down to Roseneath--a long walk. I never thought to have

such pleasant company. Come, give me your bundle to carry, and tell me,

for I see you know, where we met.”

“I can carry my own bundle, sir, and I’ll give it to nobody,” said

Kirsteen.

“What a churl you make me look--a bonny lass by my side over-weighted,

and I with nothing but my gun. Give me the cloak then,” he said,

catching it lightly from her arm. “If you will not tell me where we met

tell me where you’re going, and I’ll see you home.”

“My home is not where I am going,” said Kirsteen. “Give me back my

cloak, my Lord John. It’s not for you to carry for me.”

“I thought you knew me,” he cried. “Now that’s an unfair advantage, let

me think, was it in the schoolroom at Dalmally? To be sure! You are the

governess. Or was it?--”

He saw that he had made an unlucky hit. Kirsteen’s countenance glowed

with proud wrath. The governess, and she a Douglas! She snatched the

cloak from him and stood at bay. “My father,” she cried, “is of as good

blood as yours, and though you can scorn at the Scots gentry in your own

house you shall not do it on the hill-side. I have yon hill to cross,”

said the girl with a proud gesture, holding herself as erect as a tower,

“going on my own business, and meddling with nobody. So go before, sir,

or go after, but if you’re a gentleman, as ye have the name, let me pass

by myself.”

The young man coloured high. He took off his hat and stood aside to let

her pass. After all there are arguments which are applicable to a

gentleman that cannot be applied to sturdy beggars. But Kirsteen went on

her way still more disturbed than by the first meeting. He had not

recognized her, but if they should ever meet again he would recognize

her. And what would he think when he knew it was Drumcarro’s daughter

that had met him on the hill-side with her bundle on her arm, and been

lightly addressed as a bonny lass. The governess at Dalmally! Hot tears

came into Kirsteen’s eyes as she made her way across the stretch of

moorland which lies between Loch Long and the little Gairloch, that soft

and verdant paradise. She walked very quickly neither turning to the

right hand nor the left, conscious of the figure following her at a

distance. Oh, the governess! She will be a far better person than me,

and know a great deal more, thought Kirsteen with keen compunction, me

to think so much of myself that am nobody! I wish I was a governess or

half so good. I’m a poor vagrant lass, insulted on the road-side,

frighted with beggars, scared by gentlemen. Oh, if I had but taken that

honest woman’s offer of Donald and the gig!

CHAPTER XVIII.

Kirsteen passed that night at Helensburgh, or Eelensburgh as everybody

called it, and next day arrived at Glasgow a little after noon. She had

the address there of a friend of Marg’ret’s where she would once again

find herself in the serenity of a private house. She seemed to herself

to have been living for a long time in public places--in houses where

men could come in to drink or any stranger find a shelter, and almost to

have known no other life but that of wandering solitude, continual

movement, and the consciousness of having no home or refuge to which she

belonged. Kirsteen had never made a day’s journey in her life before

that dreadful morning when she set out in the dark, leaving all that was

known and comprehensible behind her. She had never been in an inn, which

was to her something of a bad place given over to revellings and

dissipation, and profane noise and laughter, the “crackling of thorns

under the pot.” These ideas modify greatly even with a single night’s

experience of a quiet shelter and a kind hostess--but she looked forward

to the decent woman’s house to which Marg’ret’s recommendation would

admit her, with the longing of a wanderer long launched upon the dreary

publicity of a traveller’s life, and feeling all the instincts of keen

exclusivism, which belonged in those days to poorer Scotch gentry,

jarred and offended at every turn. To find the house of Marg’ret’s

friend was not easy in the great grimy city which was Kirsteen’s first

experience of a town. The crowded streets and noises confused her

altogether at first. Such visions of ugliness and dirt, the squalid look

of the high houses, the strange groups, some so rich and well-to-do,

some so miserable and wretched, that crowded the pavements, had never

entered into her imagination before. They made her sick at heart; and

London, people said, was bigger (if that were possible) and no doubt

more dreadful still! Oh that it could all turn out a dream from which

she might wake to find herself once more by the side of the linn, with

the roar of the water, and no sickening clamour of ill tongues in her

ear! But already the linn, and the far-off life by its side were away

from her as if they had passed centuries ago.

She found the house at last with the help of a ragged laddie upon whose

tangled mass of nondescript garments Kirsteen looked with amazement, but

who was willing apparently to go to the end of the world for the

sixpence which had been saved from the tramp. It was in a large and

grimy “land” not far from Glasgow Green, a great block of buildings

inhabited by countless families, each of which had some different trace

of possession at its special window--clothes hanging to dry, or beds to

air, or untidy women and girls lolling out. The common stair, which

admitted to all these different apartments, was in a condition which

horrified and disgusted the country girl. Her courage almost failed her

when she stepped within the black portals, and contemplated the filthy

steps upon which children were playing, notwithstanding all its horrors,

and down the well of which came sounds of loud talking, calls of women

from floor to floor and scraps of conversation maintained at the highest

pitch of vigorous lungs. “It’s up at the very top,” said the urchin who

was her guide. Kirsteen’s expectations sank lower and lower as she

ascended. There were two doors upon each stairhead, and often more than

one family inclosed within these subdivisions, all full of curiosity as

to the stranger who invaded their grimy world with a clean face and tidy

dress. “She’ll be some charity leddy seeking pennies for the puir folk.”

“We hae mair need to get pennies than to give them.” “She’ll be gaun to

see Allison Wabster, the lass that’s in a decline.” “She’ll be a visitor

for Justin Macgregor, the proud Hieland besom, that’s ower grand for the

like of us.” These were the pleasant words that accompanied her steps

from floor to floor. Kirsteen set it all down to the score of the

dreadful town in which every evil thing flourished, and with a sad heart

and great discouragement pushed her way to the highest story, which was

cleaner than below though all the evil smells rose and poisoned the air

which had no outlet. The right-hand door was opened to her hurriedly

before she could knock, and an old woman with a large mutch upon her

head and a tartan shawl on her shoulders came out to meet her. “Ye’ll be

the leddy from Loch Fyne,” she said with a homely curtsey. “Come ben, my

bonny leddy, come ben.”

After the purgatory of the stair Kirsteen found herself in a paradise of

cleanliness and order, in a little lantern of light and brightness.

There were three small rooms--a kitchen, a parlour so called, with a

concealed bed which made it fit for the combined purposes of a sleeping

and living room, and the bedroom proper into which she was immediately

conducted, and which was furnished with a tent-bed, hung with

large-patterned chintz, each flower about the size of a warming-pan, and

with a clean knitted white quilt which was the pride of Jean Macgregor’s

heart. There was a concealed bed in this room too, every contrivance

being adopted for the increase of accommodation. Perhaps concealed beds

are still to be found in the much-divided “lands” in which poor tenants

congregate in the poorer parts of Glasgow. They were formed by a sort of

closet completely filled by the spars and fittings of a bed, and closed

in by a dismal door, thus securing the exclusion of all air from the

hidden sleeping-place.

The decent woman, who was Marg’ret’s old friend, took Kirsteen’s bundle

from her hands, and opening it, spread out the contents on the bed.

“I’ll just hang them out before the fire to give them air, and take out

the creases. And, mem, I hope you’ll make yoursel’ at home and consider

a’ here as your ain.”

“Did ye know I was coming?” said Kirsteen, surprised.

“Only this morning. I got a scart of the pen from Marg’ret Brown, that

is my cousin and a great friend, though I have not seen her this twenty

years. She said it was one o’ the family, a young leddy that had to

travel to London, and no man nor a maid could be spared to gang with

her; and I was to see ye into the coach, and take good care of ye; and

that I will, my bonny leddy, baith for her sake, and because ye’ve a

kind face of your ain that makes a body fain.”

In the relief of this unexpected reception, and after the misery of the

approach to it which had sunk Kirsteen’s courage, she sat down and cried

a little for pleasure. “I am glad ye think I’ve a kind face, for oh, I

have felt just like a reprobate, hating everything I saw,” she cried.

“It’s all so different--so different--from home.”

Home had been impossible a few days ago; it looked like heaven--though a

heaven parted from her by an entire lifetime--now.

“Weel,” said the old woman, “we canna expect that Glasco, a miserable,

black, dirty town as ever was, can be like the Hielands with its bonny

hills and its bright sun. But, my honey, if ye let me say sae, there’s

good and bad in baith places, and Glasco’s no so ill as it looks. Will

ye lie down and take a bit rest, now you’re here--or will I make ye a

cup of tea? The broth will not be ready for an hour. If I had kent

sooner I would have got ye a chuckie or something mair delicate; but

there wasna time.”

Kirsteen protested that she neither wanted rest nor tea, and would like

the broth which was the natural everyday food, better than anything. She

came into the parlour and sat down looking out from the height of her

present elevation upon the green below, covered with white patches in

the form of various washings which the people near had the privilege of

bleaching on the grass. The abundant sweet air so near the crowded and

noisy streets, the freedom of that sudden escape from the dark lands and

houses, the unlooked-for quiet and cheerful prospect stirred up her

spirit. The lassies going about with bare feet, threading their way

among the lines of clothes, sprinkling them with sparkling showers of

water which dazzled in the sun, awakened the girl’s envy as she sat with

her hands crossed in her lap. A flock of mill-girls were crossing the

green to their work at one of the cotton-factories. They were clothed in

petticoats and short gowns, or bedgowns as they are called in England,

bound round their waists with a trim white apron. Some of them had

tartan shawls upon their shoulders. A number of them were barefooted,

but one and all had shining and carefully dressed hair done up in

elaborate plaits and braids. Kirsteen’s eyes followed them with a sort

of envy. They were going to their work, they were carrying on the common

tenor of their life, while she sat there arrested in everything. “I

wish,” she said, with a sigh, “I had something to do.”

“The best thing you can do is just to rest. Ye often do not find the

fatigue of a journey,” said Mrs. Macgregor, “till it’s over. Ye’ll be

more and more tired as the day goes on, and ye’ll sleep fine at night.”

With these and similar platitudes the old woman soothed her guest; and

Kirsteen soothed her soul as well as she could to quiet, though now when

the first pause occurred she felt more and more the eagerness to

proceed, the impossibility of stopping short. To cut herself adrift from

all the traditions of her life in order to rest in this little parlour,

even for a day, and look out upon the bleaching of the clothes, and the

mill-girls going to work, had the wildest inappropriateness in it. She

seized upon the half-knitted stocking, without which in those days no

good housewife was complete, and occupied her hands with that. But

towards evening another subject was introduced, which delivered Kirsteen

at once from the mild _ennui_ of this compulsory pause.

“Ye’ll maybe no ken,” said the old woman, “that there is one in Glasco

that you would like weel to see?”

“One in Glasgow?” Kirsteen looked up with a question in her eyes. “No

doubt there is many a one in Glasgow that I would be proud to see; but

I cannot think of company nor of what I like when I’m only in this big

place for a day.”

“It’s no that, my bonny leddy. It’s one that if you’re near sib to the

Douglases, and Meg does not say how near ye are, would be real thankfu’

just of one glint of your e’e.”

“I am near, very near,” said Kirsteen, with a hot colour rising over

her. She dropped the knitting in her lap, and fixed her eyes upon her

companion’s face. She had already a premonition who it was of whom she

was to hear.

“Puir thing,” said Mrs. Macgregor, “she hasna seen one of her own kith

and kin this mony a day. She comes to me whiles for news. And she’ll sit

and smile and say, ‘Have ye any news from Marg’ret, Mrs. Macgregor?’

never letting on that her heart’s just sick for word of her ain kin.”

“You are perhaps meaning--Anne,” said Kirsteen, scarcely above her

breath.

“I’m meaning Mrs. Dr. Dewar,” said the old woman. “I think that’s her

name--the one that marriet and was cast off by her family because he was

just a doctor and no a grand gentleman. Oh, missie, that’s a hard, hard

thing to do! I can understand a great displeasure, and that a difference

might be made for a time. But to cut off a daughter--as if she were a

fremd person, never to see her or name her name--oh, that’s hard, hard!

It may be right for the Lord to do it, that kens the heart (though I

have nae faith in that), but no for sinful, erring man.”

“Mrs. Macgregor,” said Kirsteen, “you will remember that it’s my--my

near relations you are making remarks upon.”

“And that’s true,” said the old lady. “I would say nothing to make ye

think less of your nearest and dearest--and that maybe have an authority

over ye that Scripture bids ye aye respect. I shouldna have said it; but

the other--the poor young leddy--is she no your near relation too?”

Kirsteen had known vaguely that her sister was supposed to be in

Glasgow, which was something like an aggravation of her offence: for to

live among what Miss Eelen called the fremd in a large town was the sort

of unprincipled preference of evil to good which was to be expected from

a girl who had married beneath her; but to find herself confronted with

Anne was a contingency which had never occurred to her. At home she had

thought of her sister with a certain awe mingled with pity. There was

something in the banishment, the severance, the complete effacing of her

name and image from all the family records, which was very impressive to

the imagination, and brought an ache of compassion into the thought of

her, which nobody ventured to express. Kirsteen had been very young, too

young to offer any judgment independent of her elders upon Anne’s case,

when she had gone away. But she had cried over her sister’s fate often,

and wondered in her heart whether they would ever meet, or any amnesty

ever be pronounced that would restore poor Anne, at least nominally, to

her place in the family. But it had not entered into her mind to suppose

that she herself should ever be called upon to decide that question, to

say practically, so far as her authority went, whether Anne was to be

received or not. She kept gazing at her hostess with a kind of dismay,

unable to make any reply. Anne--who had married a man who was not a

gentleman, who had run away, leaving the candle dying in the socket. A

strong feeling against that family traitor rose up in Kirsteen’s breast.

She had compromised them all. She had connected the name of the old

Douglases, the name of the boys in India, with a name that was no name,

that of a common person--a doctor, one that traded upon his education

and his skill. There was a short but sharp struggle in her heart. She

had run away herself, but it was for a very different reason. All her

prejudices, which were strong, and the traditions of her life were

against Anne. It was with an effort that she recovered the feeling of

sympathy which had been her natural sentiment. “She is my near relation

too. But she disobeyed them that she ought to have obeyed.”

“Oh, missie, there are ower many of us who do that.”

Kirsteen raised her head more proudly than ever. She gave the old woman

a keen look of scrutiny. Did she know what she was saying? Anyhow, what

did it matter? “But if we do it, we do it for different reasons--not to

be happy, as they call it, in a shameful way.”

“Oh, shameful--na, na! It’s a lawful and honest marriage, and he’s a

leal and a true man.”

“It was shameful to her family,” cried Kirsteen doubly determined. “It

was forgetting all that was most cherished. I may be sorry for her--”

she scarcely was so in the vigour of her opposition--“but I cannot

approve her.” Kirsteen held her head very high and her mouth closed as

if it had been made of iron. She looked no gentle sister but an

unyielding judge.

“Weel, weel,” said the old woman with a sigh, “its nae business of mine.

I would fain have let her have a glimpse, puir thing, of some one

belonging to her; but if it’s no to be done it’s nane of my affairs, and

I needna fash my thoom. We’ll say no more about it. There’s going to be

a bonny sunset if we could but see it. Maybe you would like to take a

walk and see a little of the town.”

Kirsteen consented, and then drew back, for who could tell that she

might not meet some one who would recognize her. Few as were the people

she knew, she had met one on the wild hill-sides above Loch Long, and

there was no telling who might be in Glasgow, a town which was a kind of

centre to the world. She sat at the window, and looked out upon the

women getting in their clothes from the grass where they had been

bleaching, and on all the groups about the green--children playing,

bigger lads contending with their footballs. The sky became all aglow

with the glory of the winter sunset, then faded into grey, and light

began to gleam in the high windows. Day passed, and night, the

early-falling, long-continuing night, descended from the skies. Kirsteen

sat in the languor of fatigue and in a curious strangeness remote and

apart from everything about as in a dream. It was like a dream

altogether--the strange little house so near to the skies, the opening

of the broad green space underneath and the groups upon it--place and

people alike unknown to her, never seen before, altogether unrelated to

her former life--yet she herself introduced here as an honoured guest,

safe and sheltered, and surrounded by watchful care. But for Marg’ret

she must have fought her way as she could, or sunk into a dreadful

obedience. Obedience! that was what she had been blaming her sister for

failing in, she who had so failed herself. She sat and turned it over

and over in her mind while the light faded out from the sky. The

twilight brought softening with it. She began to believe that perhaps

there were circumstances extenuating. Anne had been very young, younger

than Kirsteen was now, and lonely, for her sisters were still younger

than she, without society. And no doubt the man would be kind to her.

She said nothing while the afternoon passed, and the tea was put on the

table. But afterwards when Mrs. Macgregor was washing the china cups,

she asked suddenly, “Would it be possible if a person desired it, to go

to that place where the lady you were speaking of, Mrs. Dr.--? If you

think she would like to see me I might go.”

CHAPTER XIX.

If it was strange to sit at that window looking out over the world

unknown, and feel herself an inmate of the little house so different

from everything she had ever seen, the guest and companion of the old

woman whose very name she had never heard till a few days before, it was

still more strange to be in the thronged and noisy streets full of

people, more people than Kirsteen had supposed to be in the world, under

the glaring of the lights that seemed to her to mock the very day

itself, though they were few enough in comparison with the blaze of

illumination to which we are now accustomed--going through the strange

town in the strange night to see Anne. That was the climax of all the

strangeness. Anne, whose name was never named at home, whom everybody

remembered all the more intensely because it was forbidden to refer to

her. Anne, who had gone away from her father’s house in the night

leaving the candle flaring out in the socket and the chill wind blowing

in through the open door. That scene had always been associated in

Kirsteen’s mind with her sister’s name, and something of the flicker of

the dying candle was in the blowing about of the lights along the long

range of the Trongate, above that babel of noises and ever shifting

phantasmagoria of a great city. She could not make any reply to the old

woman who walked beside her, full of stories and talk, pointing out to

her a church or a building here and there. Kirsteen went through a

little pantomime of attention, looking where she was told to look, but

seeing nothing, only a confused panorama of crowded dark outlines and

wind-blown lights, and nothing that she could understand.

At length they struck into a long line of monotonous street where there

were no shops and no wayfarers, but some lamps which flickered wildly,

more and more like the dying candle. Mrs. Macgregor told her the name of

the street, and explained its length and beauty, and how it had been

built, and that it was a very genteel street, where some of the bailies

and a number of the ministers lived. “The houses are dear,” she said,

“and no doubt it was a fight for Dr. Dewar to keep up a house in such a

genteel place. But they external things are of great consequence to a

doctor,” she added. Kirsteen was dazed and overawed by the line of the

grim houses looming between her and the dark sky, and by the flaring of

the wild lights, and the long stretch of darkness which the scanty

unavailing lamps did not suffice to make visible. And her heart began to

beat violently when her guide stopped at a door which opened invisibly

from above at their summons and clanged behind them, and revealed a dark

stair with another windy lamp faintly lighting it, a stair in much

better order than the dreadful one where Mrs. Macgregor was herself

living, but looking like a gloomy cleft in the dark walls. Now that she

had come so far, Kirsteen would fain have turned back or delayed the

visit to which she seemed to be driven reluctantly by some impulse that

was not her own. Was it not an aggravation of her own rebellion that she

should thus come secretly to the former rebel, she who had been

discarded by the family and shut out from its records? She shrank from

the sight of the house in which poor Anne had found refuge, and of the

husband who was a common person, not one of their own kind. Drumcarro at

his fiercest could not have recoiled more from a common person than his

runaway daughter, whose object it was to establish herself with a

mantua-maker in London. But Kirsteen felt her own position unspeakably

higher than that of her sister.

She followed her companion tremulously into the little dark vestibule.

“Oh, ay, the mistress is in: where would she be but in, and hearing the

bairns say their bits of lessons?” said an active little maid who

admitted them, pointing to the glow of ruddy firelight which proceeded

from an inner door. And before she was aware Kirsteen found herself in

the midst of a curious and touching scene. She had not heard anything

about children, so that the sight so unexpected of two little things

seated on the hearth-rug, as she remembered herself to have sat in her

early days under Anne’s instructions, gave her a little shock of

surprise and quick-springing kindness. They were two little roundabout

creatures of three and four, with little round rosy faces faintly

reddened by the flickering light, which shone in the soft glow, their

hair half-flaxen, half-golden. Their chubby hands were crossed in their

laps. Their mother knelt in front of them, herself so girlish still, her

soft yellow hair matured into brown, her face and figure fuller than of

old, teaching them with one hand raised. “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild”

she was saying: “Dentle Desus, meet and mild,” said the little pupils:

“listen to a little child.” There was no lamp or candle in the room:

nothing but the firelight. The two dark figures in their outdoor dresses

stood behind in the shadow, while all the light concentrated in this

family group. The mother was so absorbed in her teaching that she

continued without noticing their entrance.

“You are not saying it right, Dunny; and Kirsty, my pet, you must try

and say it like me--Gentle Jesus.”

“Dentle Desus,” said the little ones with assured and smiling

incorrectness incapable of amendment. Kirsteen saw them through a mist

of tears. The name of the baby on the hearth had completed the moving

effect of old recollections and of the familiarity of the voice and

action of the young mother. The voice had a plaintive tone in it, as so

many voices of Scotchwomen have. She stood behind in the background, the

rays of the fire taking a hundred prismatic tints as she looked at them

through the tears upon her eyelashes. Her heart was entirely melted,

forgetful of everything but that this was Anne, the gentle elder sister

who had taught her childhood too.

“I have brought a young leddy to see you, Mrs. Dewar,” said the old

woman. Anne sprang up to her feet at the sound of the voice.

“I did not hear anybody come in,” she said. “I was hearing them their

hymn to say to their papa to-morrow. Is it you, Mrs. Macgregor? You’re

kind to come out this cold night. Dunny, tell Janet she must put ye to

your bed, for I’m busy with friends.”

“Na,” said the old lady, “we’ll not interrupt. I’m going ben to say a

word to Janet mysel’. And she’ll no interrupt you putting your bairns to

their bed.”

She drew Kirsteen forward into the influence of the firelight, and

herself left the room, leaving the sisters together. Anne stood for a

little gazing curiously at the silent figure. She was puzzled and at a

loss; the black silk spencer, the beaver bonnet, were common enough

articles of dress, and the big veil that hung like a cloud over

Kirsteen’s bonnet kept the face in the shade. “Do I know ye?” she said

going timidly forward. Then with a cry, “Is it Kirsteen?”

The little children sat still on the hearth-rug with their little fat

hands crossed in their laps; they were not concerned by the convulsions

that might go on over their heads. They laughed at the glancing

firelight and at each other in one of those still moments of babyhood

which come now and then in the midst of the most riotous periods; they

had wandered off to the edge of the country from whence they came. When

the two sisters fell down on their knees by the side of the little

ones, the mother showing her treasures, the young aunt making

acquaintance with them, the rosy little faces continued to smile

serenely upon the tears and suppressed passion. “This is Kirsty that I

called after you, Kirsteen.” “But oh, ye mean for my mother, Anne?”

“Kirsty, me!” said little three-year-old, beating her breast to identify

the small person named. “She’s Kistina; I’m Duncan,” said the little boy

who was a whole year older, but did not generally take the lead in

society. “They are like two little birdies in a nest,” said Kirsteen;

“oh! the bonny little heads like gold--and us never to know.”

“Will I send them to Janet, or will ye help me to put them to their

bed?” said the proud mother. For a moment she remembered nothing but the

delight of exhibiting their little round limbs, their delightful

gambols, for so soon as the children rose from that momentary

abstraction they became riotous again and filled the room with their

“flichterin’ noise and glee.” “I never light the candles till David

comes in,” Anne said apologetically. “What do I want with more light?

For the bairns are just all I can think of; they will not let me sew my

seam, they are just a woman’s work at that restless age.” She went on

with little complaints which were boasts as Kirsteen looked on and

wondered at the skilled and careful manipulation of her sister’s

well-accustomed hands. The bedroom to which the group was transferred

was like the parlour lighted only by the fire, and the washing and

undressing proceeded while Anne went on with the conversation, telling

how Dunny was “a rude boy,” and Kirsty a “very stirring little thing,”

and “just a handful.” “I have enough to do with them, and with making

and mending for them, if I had not another thing on my hands,” said

Anne; “they are just a woman’s work.” Kirsteen sat and looked on in the

ruddy flickering light with strange thoughts. Generally the coming on of

motherhood is gradual, and sisters and friends grow into a sort of

amateur share in it. But to come suddenly from the image of Anne who had

left the house-door open and the candle dying in the socket, to Anne the

cheerful mother kissing the rosy limbs and round faces, her pretty hair

pulled by the baby hands, her proud little plaints of the boy that was

“rude” and the girl that was “very stirring,” was the most curious

revelation to Kirsteen. It brought a little blush and uneasiness along

with affection and pleasure, her shy maidenhood shrinking even while

warm sympathy filled her heart.

When the children were in bed, the sisters returned to the parlour,

where Kirsteen was installed in the warmest corner by the fire. “Would

you like the candles lighted? I aye leave it till David comes home: he

says I sit like a hoodie crow in the dark,” said Anne. There was a soft

tone in her voice which told that David was a theme as sweet to her as

the children; but Kirsteen could not bring herself to ask any questions

about the doctor who was a common person, and one who had no right ever

to have intruded himself into the Douglases’ august race. Anne

continued for a time to give further details of the children, how they

were “a little disposed to take the cold,” and about the troubles there

had been with their teeth, all happily surmounted, thanks to David’s

constant care. “If ye ever have little bairns, Kirsteen, ye will know

what a comfort it is to have a doctor in the house.”

“I don’t know about the bairns, but I am sure I never will have the

doctor,” said Kirsteen in haste and unwarily, not thinking what she

said.

“And what for no?” said Anne, holding herself very erect “Ye speak like

an ignorant person, like one of them that has a prejudice against

doctors. There’s no greater mistake.”

“I was meaning no such thing,” cried Kirsteen eagerly.

“Well, ye spoke like it,” said Anne. “And where would we all be without

doctors? It’s them that watches over failing folk, and gives back

fathers and mothers to their families, and snatches our bonny darlings

out of the jaws of death. Eh! if ye knew as much about doctors as I know

about them,” she cried with a panting breath.

“I am sorry if I said anything that was not ceevil,” said Kirsteen; “it

was without meaning. Doctors have never done anything for my mother,”

she added with an impulse of self-justification.

“And whose blame is that? I know what David ordered her--and who ever

tried to get it for her? He would have taken her to his own house, and

nursed her as if she had been his own mother,” cried Anne with heat.

Kirsteen with difficulty suppressed the indignation that rose to her

lips. “Him presume to consider my mother as if she were his own!”

Kirsteen cried within herself. “He was a bonny one!” And there fell a

little silence between the two sisters seated on opposite sides of the

fire.

After a while Anne spoke again, hesitating, bending across the lively

blaze. “Were ye, maybe, coming,” she said with an effort, “to tell

me--to bring me a--message?”

Kirsteen saw by the dancing light her sister’s eyes full of tears. She

had thought she was occupied only by the babies and the changed life,

but when she saw the beseeching look in Anne’s eyes, the quivering of

her mouth, the eager hope that this visit meant an overture of reunion,

Kirsteen’s heart was sore.

“Alack,” she said, “I have no message. I am just like you, Annie. I have

left my home and all in it. I’m a wanderer on the face of the earth.”

“Kirsteen!” Anne sprang to her sister and clasped her in her arms. “Oh,

my bonny woman! Oh, my Kirsty!” She pressed Kirsteen’s head to her

breast in a rapture of sympathetic feeling. “Oh, I’m sorry and I’m glad.

I canna tell ye all my feelings. Have ye brought him with you? Where is

he, and who is he, Kirsteen?”

Kirsteen disengaged herself almost roughly and with great though

suppressed offence from her sister’s arms. “If ye think there is any he

in the maitter, ye are greatly mistaken,” she said. “If ye think I would

take such a step for such a motive.”

Anne drew back wounded too. “Ye need not speak so stern--I did it

myself, and I would not be the one to blame you. And if there’s a better

reason I don’t know what it is. What reason can a young lass have to

leave her hame, except that there’s one she likes better, and that she’s

bid to follow, forsaking her father and mother, in the very Scripture

itself?”

Mrs. Dr. Dewar returned to her seat--throwing back her head with an

indignant sense of the highest warrant for her own conduct. But when she

resumed her seat, Anne began to say softly: “I thought you had come to

me with maybe a word of kindness. I thought that maybe my mother--was

yearning for a sight of me as me for her--and to see my bairns. Oh, it

would do her heart good to see the bairns! It would add on years to her

life. What are ye all thinking of that ye cannot see that she’s dwining

and pining for a pleasant house and a cheerful life? David said it

before--and he was most willing to be at all the charges--but they would

not listen to him, and no doubt it’s a great deal worse now.”

“If you are meaning my mother, she is no worse,” said Kirsteen. “She is

just about the same. Robbie has gone away to India like the rest; and

she just bore it as well as could be expected. I have not heard,” said

the girl, feeling the corners of her mouth quiver and a choking in her

throat, “how she’s borne this.”

Both of them had the feeling that their own departure must have affected

the invalid more strongly than any other.

“But she has not heard about your children, Anne. She would have said

something.”

Anne’s lips were quivering too. She was much wounded by this assertion.

She shook her head. “My mother’s no one,” she said, “that tells

everything--especially what’s nearest to her heart. Ye may be sure she

knows--but she wouldna maybe be ready to speak of it to young lassies

like you.”

Kirsteen thought this argument feeble, but she said nothing in reply.

“And so Robbie’s away,” said Anne. “He was just a bit laddie that I put

to his bed like my own. Eh, but time goes fast, when ye hear of them

growing up that ye can mind when they were born. I tell David our own

will just be men and women before we think.” This thought brought a

smile to her face, and much softening of the disappointment. “Oh, but I

would like my mother to see them!” she said.

Kirsteen reflected a little bitterly that this was all Anne thought of,

that her curiosity about her sister had dropped at once, and that the

children and the wish that her mother should see them--which was nothing

but pride--was all that occupied Anne’s thoughts. And there ensued

another pause; they sat on either side of the fire with divided hearts,

Anne altogether absorbed in her own thoughts of the past and present, of

her old girlish life which had been full of small oppressions, and of

her present happiness, and the prosperous and elevated position of a

woman with a good man and bairns of her own, which was her proud and

delightful consciousness, and which only wanted to be seen and

recognized by her mother to make it perfect. Kirsteen on her side felt

this superiority as an offence. She knew that her mother had “got over”

Anne’s departure, and was not at all taken up by imaginations concerning

her and her possible children--though she could not but recognize the

possibility that her own flight might have a much more serious effect,

and she sat by her sister’s hearth with a jealous, proud sensation of

being very lonely, and cut away from everything. She said to herself

that it was foolish, nay, wrong to have come, and that it was not for

her to have thus encouraged the bringing down of her father’s house.

There was no such thing she proudly felt in her own case.

Suddenly Anne rose up, and lifting two candlesticks from the mantelpiece

placed them on the table. “I hear David’s step,” she said with a beaming

face.

“Then I will just be going,” said Kirsteen.

“Why should ye go? Will ye no wait and see my husband? Maybe you think

Dr. Dewar is not good enough to have the honour of meeting with the like

of you. I can tell you my husband is as well respected as any in

Glasgow, and his name is a kent name where the Douglases’ was never

heard.”

“That can scarcely be in Scotland,” cried Kirsteen proudly, “not even in

Glasgow. Fare ye well, Anne. I’m glad to have seen ye.” She paused for a

moment with a shake in her voice and added hurriedly, “and the bairns.”

“Oh, Kirsteen!” cried Anne rushing to her side. “Oh, Kirsteen, bide! Oh,

bide and see him! Ye will never be sorry to have made friends with my

man.”

“Who is that, Anne,” said a voice behind them, “that ye are imploring in

such a pitiful tone to bide? Is it some unfriend of mine?”

“No unfriend, Dr. Dewar,” said Kirsteen, turning round upon him, “but a

stranger that has little to do here.”

“It is one of your sisters, Anne!”

“It’s Kirsteen,” cried Anne with wet eyes. “Oh, David, make her stay.”

CHAPTER XX.

Dr. Dewar was a man of whose appearance his wife had reason to be proud.

None of the long-descended Douglases were equal to him either in

physical power or in good looks. He was tall and strong, he had fine

hands--a physician’s hands full of delicacy yet force, good feet, all

the signs that are supposed to represent race--though he was of no

family whatever, the son of a shopkeeper, not fit to appear in the same

room in which ladies and gentlemen were. Kirsteen had stopped short at

sight of him, and there can be no doubt that she had been much

surprised. In former times she had indeed seen him as her mother’s

doctor, but she had scarcely noticed the visitor, who was of no interest

to a girl of her age. And his rough country dress had not been imposing

like the black suit which now gave dignity and the air of a gentleman

which Kirsteen had expected to find entirely wanting in her sister’s

husband. His somewhat pale face, large featured, rose with a sort of

distinction from the ample many-folded white neck-cloth--appropriate

title!--which enveloped his throat. He looked at the visitor with

good-humoured scrutiny, shading his eyes from the scanty light of the

candles. “My wife is so economical about her lights,” he said, “that I

can never see who is here, though I would fain make myself agreeable to

Anne’s friends. Certainly, my dear, I will do what is in me to make your

sister bide. I would fain hope it is a sign of amity to see ye here

to-night, Miss Kirsteen?”

“No,” said Kirsteen, “it is not a sign of amity. It was only that I was

in Glasgow, and thought I would like to see her--at least,” she added,

“I will not take to myself a credit I don’t deserve. It was Mrs.

Macgregor put it into my head.”

“Well, well,” said Dr. Dewar, “so long as you are here we will not

quarrel about how it was. It will have been a great pleasure to Anne to

see you. Are the bairns gone to their beds, my dear?”

“They’re scarcely sleeping yet,” said Anne smiling at her husband with

tender triumph. “Go ben,” she said putting one of the candlesticks into

his hand, “and see them; for I know that’s what has brought ye in so

soon--not for me but the weans.”

“For both,” he said pressing her hand like a lover as he took the candle

from it. Anne was full of silent exultation, for she had remarked

Kirsteen’s little start of surprise and noticed that she said nothing

more of going away. “Well?” she said eagerly, when he had disappeared.

“Well,”--said Kirsteen, “I never heard that Dr. Dewar was not a very

personable man, and well-spoken. It will maybe be best for me to be

getting home, before it’s very late.”

“Will ye no stay, Kirsteen, and break bread in my house? You might do

that and say nothing about it. It would be no harm to hide an innocent

thing that was just an act of kindness, when you get home. If I am never

to get more from my own family,” cried Anne, “but to be banished and

disowned as if I were an ill woman, surely a sister that is young and

should have some kind thought in her heart, might do that. Ye need say

nothing of it when you get home.”

“I will maybe never get home more,” said Kirsteen overcome at last by

the feeling of kindred and the need of sympathy.

“Oh, lassie,” cried Anne, “what have ye done? What have ye done?--And

where are ye going?--If ye have left your home ye shall bide here. It’s

my right to take care of you, if ye have nobody else to take care of ye,

no Jean Macgregor, though she’s very respectable, but me your elder

sister. And that will be the first thing David will say.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Kirsteen, “but you must not trouble

your head about me. I’m going to London--to friends I have there.”

“To London!” cried Anne. There was more wonder in her tone than would be

expressed now if America had been the girl’s destination. “And you have

friends there!”

Kirsteen made a lofty sign of assent. She would not risk herself by

entering into any explanations. “It’s a long journey,” she said, “and a

person never can tell if they will ever win back. If you are really

meaning what you say, and that I will not be in your way nor the

doctor’s I will thankfully bide and take a cup of tea with ye--for it’s

not like being among strangers when I can take your hand--and give a

kiss to your little bairns before I go.”

Anne came quickly across the room and took her sister in her arms, and

cried a little upon her shoulder. “I’m real happy,” she said sobbing;

“ye see the bairns, what darlin’s they are--and there never was a better

man than my man; but eh! I just yearn sometimes for a sight of home, and

my poor mother. If she is weakly, poor body, and cannot stand against

the troubles of this world, still she’s just my mother, and I would

rather have a touch of her hand than all the siller in Glasgow--and eh,

what she would give to see the bairns!”

Kirsteen, who was herself very tremulous, here sang in a broken voice,

for she too had begun to realize that she might never again see her

mother, a snatch of her favourite song:

“True loves ye may get many an ane

But minnie ne’er anither.”

“No, I’ll not say that,” said Anne. “I’ll not be so untrue to my true

love--but oh, my poor minnie! how is she, Kirsteen? Tell me everything,

and about Marg’ret and the laddies and all.”

When Dr. Dewar entered he found the two sisters seated close together,

clinging to each other, laughing and crying in a breath, over the

domestic story which Kirsteen was telling. The sole candle twinkled on

the table kindly like a friendly spectator, the fire blazed and crackled

cheerfully, the room in the doctor’s eyes looked like the home of

comfort and happy life. He was pleased that one of Anne’s family should

see how well off she was. It was the best way he felt sure to bring them

to acknowledge her, which was a thing he professed to be wholly

indifferent to. But in his heart he was very proud of having married a

Douglas, and he would have received any notice from Drumcarro with a joy

perhaps more natural to the breeding of his original station than

dignified. He felt the superiority of his wife’s race in a manner which

never occurred to Anne herself, and was more proud of his children on

account of the “good Douglas blood” in their veins. “Not that I hold

with such nonsense,” he would say with a laugh of pretended disdain.

“But there are many that do.” It was not a very serious weakness, but it

was a weakness. His face beamed as he came in: though Kirsteen had said

that her presence was not a sign of amity he could not but feel that it

was, and a great one. For certainly the laird’s opposition must be

greatly modified before he would permit his daughter to come here.

“Well,” he said, making them both start, “I see I was not wanted to

persuade her to bide. I am very glad to see you in my house, Miss

Kirsteen. Ye will be able to tell them at home that Anne is not the

victim of an ogre in human form, as they must think, but well enough

content with her bargain, eh, wife?” He had come up to them, and touched

his wife’s cheek caressingly with his hand. “Come, come,” he said,

“Anne, ye must not greet, but smile at news from home.”

“If I am greetin’ it’s for pleasure,” said Anne, “to hear about my

mother and all of them and to see my bonny Kirsteen.”

“She has grown up a fine girl,” said the doctor looking at her with a

professional glance and approving the youthful vigour and spirit which

were perhaps more conspicuous in Kirsteen than delicacy of form and

grace. Her indignation under this inspection may be supposed. She got up

hastily freeing herself from Anne’s hold.

“I must not be late,” she said, “there’s Mrs. Macgregor waiting.”

“Tell the lass to bring the tea, Anne--if your sister is with friends--”

“I’m telling her that her place is here,” cried Anne; “it is no friends,

it is just old Jean Macgregor who is very respectable, but not the

person for Kirsteen. And we have a spare room,” she added with pride.

“The doctor will hear of none of your concealed beds or dark closets to

sleep in. He insists on having a spare room for a friend. And where is

there such a friend as your own sister? We will send Jean to bring your

things, Kirsteen.”

Kirsteen put a stern negation upon this proposal. “Besides,” she said,

“it would be no advantage, for I am going on to London without delay.”

“To London?” cried the doctor. “That’s a long journey for ye by

yourself. Are you really going alone?”

“I’m told,” said Kirsteen composedly, “that the guards are very

attentive, and that nobody meddles with one that respects herself. I

have no fear.”

“Well, perhaps there is no fear--not what ye can call fear; for, as you

say, a woman is her own best protector, and few men are such fools as to

go too far when there’s no response. But, my dear young lady, it’s a

long journey and a weary journey; I wonder that Drumcarro trusted you to

go alone; he might have spared a maid, if not a man to go with ye.” The

doctor’s weakness led him to enhance the importance of Drumcarro as if

it were a simple matter to send a maid or a man.

“Oh, but Kirsteen says,” Anne began, remembering the strange avowal,

which she did not at all understand, that her sister had made. Kirsteen

took the words out of her mouth.

“It’s not as if I were coming back to-day or to-morrow,” she said

quickly, “and to send any person with me would have been--not

possible--I will just keep myself to myself and nobody will harm me.”

“I am sure of that,” said the doctor cheerfully. “I would not like to be

the man that spoke a word displeasing to ye with those eyes of yours.

Oh, I’m not complaining; for no doubt ye have heard much harm of me and

little good--but ye have given me a look or two, Miss Kirsteen. Does not

this speak for me?” he added, raising Anne’s face which glowed with

pleasure and affection under his touch--“and yon?” pointing to the open

door of the room in which the babies slept.

Kirsteen was much confused by this appeal. “It was far from my mind to

say anything unceevil,” she said, “and in your own house.”

“Oh, never mind my own house, it’s your house when you’re in it. And I

would like ye to say whatever comes into your head, for at the end, do

what you will, my bonny lass, you and me are bound to be friends. Now

come, wifie, and give us our tea.”

The dining-room in Dr. Dewar’s house was more dignified than the

parlour. It was used as his consulting room in the morning, and Kirsteen

was impressed by the large mahogany furniture, the huge sideboard, heavy

table, and other substantial articles, things which told of comfort and

continuance, not to be lightly lifted about or transferred from one

place to another. And nothing could be more kind than the doctor who

disarmed her at every turn, and took away every excuse for

unfriendliness. After the dreadful experiences of her journey, and the

forlorn sense she had of being cut off from everything she cared for,

this cordial reception ended by altogether overcoming Kirsteen’s

prejudices, and the talk became as cheerful over the tea as if the young

adventurer had indeed been a visitor, received with delight in her

sister’s house. She went away at last with the old woman greatly against

Anne’s will who tried every entreaty and remonstrance in vain. “Surely

ye like me better than Jean Macgregor!” she said. “Oh, Kirsteen, it’s

far from kind--and the spare room at your disposition, and the kindest

welcome--I will let you give the bairns their bath in the morning. Ye

shall have them as long as you please,” she said with the wildest

generosity. It was Dr. Dewar himself who interrupted these entreaties.

“My dear,” he said, “Kirsteen has a great deal of sense, she knows very

well what she’s doing. If there is a difficulty arisen at home as I’m

led to conclude, it will just make matters worse if she’s known to be

living here.”

“I was not thinking of that,” cried Kirsteen, feeling the ungenerosity

of her motives.

“It may be well that ye should. I would not have you anger your father,

neither would Anne for any pleasure of hers. She is in a different

position,” said the doctor. “She’s a married woman, and her father

cannot in the nature of things be her chief object. But Kirsteen, my

dear, is but a girl in her father’s house, and whatever her heart may

say she must not defy him by letting it be known that she’s living

here. But to-morrow is the Sabbath-day. The coach does not go, even if

she were so far left to herself as to wish it; and it could not be ill

taken that you should go to the kirk together and spend the day

together. And then if ye must go, I will engage a place in the coach for

ye and see ye off on Monday morning.”

“Oh, I must go, and I almost grudge the Sabbath-day,” said Kirsteen. “I

am so restless till I’m there. But I must not give you all that

trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll go with ye as far as the coach-office. I wish I

was not so busy,” said Dr. Dewar with a delightful sense of his own

consequence and popularity, and of the good impression it would make. “I

would convoy ye to London myself. But a doctor is never at his own

disposition,” he added, with a shake of his head.

The Sunday which followed was strange yet delightful to Kirsteen. It was

like the last day of a sailor on shore before setting forth upon the

unknown, but rather of a sailor like Columbus trusting himself

absolutely to the sea and the winds, not knowing what awaited him, than

the well-guided mariners of modern days with charts for every coast and

lighthouses at every turn. Kirsteen looked

“On land and sea and shore,

As she might never see them more.”

All was strange to her even here, but how much stranger, dark,

undeciphered, unknown was that world upon the edge of which she stood,

and where there was absolutely nothing to guide her as to what she

should encounter! Kirsteen was not quite sure whether she could

understand the language which was spoken in London; the ways of the

people she was sure she would not understand. Somewhere in the darkness

that great city lay as the western world lay before its discoverer.

Kirsteen formed an image to herself of something blazing into the night

full of incomprehensible voices and things; and she had all the

shrinking yet eagerness of a first explorer not knowing what horrors

there might be to encounter, but not his faith in everything good. The

Sunday came like a strange dream into the midst of this eagerness yet

alarm. She was almost impatient of the interruption, yet was happy in it

with the strangest troubled happiness; though it was so real it was

bewildering too, it was a glimpse of paradise on the edge of the dark,

yet unreal in its pleasure as that vast unknown was unreal. She played

with the children, and she heard them say their prayers, the two little

voices chiming together, the two cherub faces lifted up, while father

and mother sat adoring. It was like something she had seen in a

dream--where she was herself present, and yet not present, noting what

every one did. For up to this time everything had been familiar in her

life--there had been no strangeness, no new views of the relationship of

events with which she was too well acquainted to have any room for

flights of fancy.

And then this moment of pause, this curious, amusing, beautiful day

passed over, and she found herself in the dark of the wintry morning in

the street all full of commotion where the coach was preparing to start.

She found her brother-in-law (things had changed so that she had

actually begun to think of him as her brother-in-law) in waiting for her

to put her in her place. Kirsteen’s chief sensation in all that crowded,

flaring, incomprehensible scene, with the smoky lamps blazing, and the

horses pawing and champing, and every one shouting to every one else

about, was shame of her bundle and fear lest the well-dressed,

carefully-brushed doctor should perceive with what a small provision it

was that she was going forth into the unknown. No hope of blinding his

eyes with the statement that she was going to friends in London if he

saw what her baggage consisted of. He put her, to her surprise, into a

comfortable corner in the interior of the coach, covering her up with a

shawl which he said Anne had sent. “But I was going on the outside,”

said Kirsteen. “Ye canna do that,” he said hastily. “You would get your

death of cold, besides there was no place.” “Then there is more money to

pay,” she said, feeling for her purse, but with a secret pang, for she

was aware how very little money was there. “Nothing at all,” he said

waving it away, “they are just the same price, or very little

difference. Good-bye, Kirsteen, and a good journey to you. A doctor’s

never at his own disposition.” “But the money, I know it’s more money.”

“I have not another moment,” cried the doctor darting away. Was it

possible that she was in debt to Dr. Dewar? She had almost sprung after

him when Mrs. Macgregor appeared carrying the bundle and put it on

Kirsteen’s knee. “Here is your bundle, Miss Kirsteen; and here’s a

little snack for you in a basket.” Thank heaven he had not seen the

bundle, but had he paid money for her? Was she in debt to Anne’s

husband, that common person? There was no time, however, to protest or

send after him. With a clatter upon the stones, as if a house were

falling, and a sound on the trumpet like the day of judgment, the coach

quivered, moved, and finally got under way.

CHAPTER XXI.

It was dark again on the second afternoon when Kirsteen, all dizzy,

feverish, and bewildered, attained once more, so to speak, to solid

ground, after so much that had flown past her, endless, monotonous

whirling in inconceivable flats and levels through night and through

day. She put her foot upon the pavement timidly, and gave a frightened

glance about her, knowing herself to be in London--that fabulous place

of which she had never been sure whether it were not altogether a fairy

tale. The journey had been like a dream, but of a different kind. She

had seemed to herself to be sitting still as in an island in the seas

and seeing the wastes of earth sweep past her, field pursuing field.

There were hills too, but little ones, not much worthy the attention,

and they too went coursing after each other, with all the sheep upon

them and the trees and villages at their feet. There were pauses in the

dream in which a great deal of commotion went on, and horses champed,

and men shouted, and the coach swayed to and fro; but she formed to

herself no definite idea of anything that was going on. People came to

the coach door and spoke of dinner and supper, but Kirsteen was too shy

to eat, though now and then she stepped down, feeling that she was

stiffening into stone. And then the long night came, through which went

the same roll and jar and jolt of the coach, and now and then a feverish

interval of noise and distraction breaking the doze into which she had

fallen. She was too much agitated, too unassured, too conscious of the

break with all her former life and habits which she was making to enjoy

the journey or the sight of so many new places or the novelty in

everything. And yet there was a certain wild pleasure in the rush

through the night, even in the languor of weariness that crept over her

and betrayed her into sleep, and the strange awakening to feel that it

was no dream but that still, even while she slept, the fields and hedges

were flying past and the journey going on. The second day, however, was

one long bewilderment and confusion to Kirsteen, who was altogether

unaccustomed to the kind of fatigue involved in travelling; and when she

was set down finally in the midst of all the lights and commotion, the

passengers tumbling down from above and from behind, the little crowd of

people awaiting their friends, the ostlers, the coachmen, the porters

with the luggage, her bewilderment reached its climax. She was pushed

about by men running to and fro, getting out boxes and bags and every

kind of package, and by the loiterers who had gathered to see the coach

come in, and by the people who had not found their friends, some of

whom came and peered into her face, as if she might perhaps be the

person for whom they looked. Kirsteen at length managed to get out of

the crowd, and stood in a corner waiting till the din should be over,

observing with all the keenness that was left in her till she found some

one whose face she could trust. She found at last a man who was “a

decent-like man,” whom she thought she could venture to address, and,

going up to him, asked if he could direct her to Miss Jean Brown’s, the

mantua-maker? “I have got the address in my pocket,” she said, “but

perhaps ye will know.” “No, miss,” said the decent-like man, “there’s a

many Browns. I think I knows half a hundred.” “She is a person from

Ayrshire,” said Kirsteen. “They don’t put up where they comes from, not

commonly,” said her friend, with a grin, “but if you ’as a letter, miss,

I advise you to look at it.” Kirsteen had doubts about betraying the

whereabouts of her pocket in this strange place, but another glance

assured her that he was an unusually decent-like man; and, besides, what

could she do? She took out cautiously the letter with Miss Jean Brown’s

address. “Chapel Street, Mayfair, will that be near hand?” she said.

“Bless you, that’s the West End, that is--it’s miles and miles away.”

Kirsteen’s heart sank so that she could have cried--miles and

miles!--after her long jolting in the coach. The tears came to her eyes.

But after a moment she recovered herself, feeling the utter futility of

yielding to any weakness now. “Could you direct me the way to go?” she

said, “for I’m a stranger in London.” To see her standing there, with

her bundle in her hand and her cloak on her arm, making this very

unnecessary explanation was a pathetic sight. The decent-like man was

touched--perhaps he had daughters of his own.

“I might find the way,” he said, “for I’m a Londoner born, but a

stranger like you, fresh from the country, as anybody can see, and ready

to believe whatever is told you--no, no! The thing you’ve got to do,

miss, is to take a coach--”

“A coach!” said Kirsteen in horror. “Is London such a big place, then,

that it wants a coach to go from one part to another?”

“It’s a hackney coach, if you have ever heard of such a thing,” said the

man. “I’ll call one for you if you please. It is the best thing to do.

You could never find your way by night even though you might in the

day.”

Kirsteen hesitated for a moment. “It will cost a great deal,” she said,

looking wistfully from the yard into the crowded street, with its

flaring lamps, and the hoarse cries that came from it. She shrank back

to the side of her new friend as she gazed, feeling more than ever like

a shipwrecked mariner, not knowing among what kind of savages she might

fall. “Oh, will ye tell me what to do?” she said, with a quite

unjustifiable faith in the decent-like man.

However, it is sometimes good to trust, and the result of Kirsteen’s

confidence was that she soon found herself in a hackney coach, driving,

a very forlorn wayfarer indeed, through what seemed to be an endless

succession of streets. She had asked her friend humbly whether he would

take it amiss if she offered him a shilling for his kindness, and he had

taken a load off her mind by accepting the coin with much readiness, but

in return had filled her with confusion by asking where was her luggage?

“Oh, it will be quite right when I get there,” Kirsteen had said, deeply

blushing, and feeling that both the coachman and her acquaintance of the

yard must think very poorly of her. And then that long drive began.

Every corner that was turned, and there were she thought a hundred,

Kirsteen felt that now at last she must have reached her journey’s end;

and on each such occasion her heart gave a wild throb, for how could she

tell how Miss Jean would receive her, or if there would be rest for her

at last? And then there would come a respite, another long ramble

between lines of dark houses with muffled lights in the windows, and

then another corner and another leap of her pulses. She thought hours

must have elapsed before at last, with a jar that shook her from head to

foot, the lumbering vehicle came to a stop. Kirsteen stepped out almost

speechless with excitement and gave something, she could scarcely tell

what, to the coachman; and then even this conductor of a moment, whose

face she could scarcely see in the dark, clambered up on his box and

trotted away, leaving her alone. She thought, with a pang, that he might

have waited just a moment to see whether they would let her in. It would

only have been kind--and what could she do in that dreadful case if they

did not? And what was she to Miss Jean Brown that they should let her

in? Her loneliness and helplessness, and the very little thread of

possibility that there was between her and despair, came over Kirsteen

like a sudden blight as she stood outside the unknown door in the dark

street. She began to tremble and shiver, though she tried with all her

might to subdue herself. But she was very tired--she had eaten scarcely

anything for two days. And this great gloomy town which had swallowed

her little existence seemed so dark and terrible. There was no light to

show either knocker or bell, and she stood groping, almost ready to give

up the attempt and sit down upon the steps and be found dead there, as

she had heard poor girls often were in London. She had come to this

pitch of desperation when her hand suddenly touched something that

proved to be a bell. Immediately her heart stood still, with a new and

keener excitement. She waited clinging to the railing, holding her

breath.

It seemed a long time before there was any response. Finally a door

opened, not the door at which Kirsteen stood, but one below, and a faint

light shone out upon a little area into which stepped a figure half

visible. “Who is there? And what may you be wanting?” said a voice.

“I was wanting to speak to Miss Jean Brown,” Kirsteen said.

“Miss Brown never sees anybody at this hour. Ye can come to-morrow if ye

want to see her.”

“Oh,” cried Kirsteen, her voice shrill with trouble, “but I cannot wait

till to-morrow! It’s very urgent. It’s one from her sister in Scotland.

Oh, if ye have any peety ask her--just ask her!--for I cannot wait.”

Another figure now came out below, and there was a short consultation.

“Are ye the new lass from the Hielands?” said another voice.

Even at this forlorn moment the heart of Kirsteen Douglas rose up

against this indignity. “I am from the Hielands,” she said: then anxiety

and wretchedness got the better of her pride. “Yes, yes,” she cried, “I

am anything ye please; but let me in, oh, let me in, if ye would not

have me die!”

“Who is that at the front door? Can ye not open the front door? Is there

not a woman in the house that has her hearing but me that am the

mistress of it?” cried a new voice within; a vigorous footstep came

thumping along the passage, the door was suddenly thrown open, and

Kirsteen found herself in front of a flaring candle which dazzled her

eyes, held up by a woman in a rustling silk dress half covered by a

large white muslin apron. Perhaps the white apron made the most of the

resemblance, but the worn-out girl was not in a condition to

discriminate. She stumbled into the house without asking another

question, and crying “Oh, Miss Jean!” half fell at the feet of

Marg’ret’s sister, feeling as if all her cares were over and her haven

reached.

“Yes, I am just Miss Jean,” said the mistress of the house, holding her

candle so as to throw its full light on Kirsteen’s face. “But who are

you? I dinna ken ye. You’re from the auld country, that’s easy to be

seen; but I canna take in every Scots lass that comes with Miss Jean in

her mouth. Who are ye, lassie? But ye’re no a common lass. The Lord keep

us, ye’ll never be my sister Marg’ret’s young leddy from Drumcarro?”

Miss Jean put down her candle hastily on a table, and took Kirsteen’s

hands. “You’re cauld and you’re in a tremble, and ye dinna say a word.

Come in, come in to the fire, and tell me, bairn, if it’s you.”

Then there followed a few moments or minutes in which Kirsteen did not

know what happened. But the clouds cleared away and she found herself in

a room full of warm firelight, seated in a great chair, and herself

saying (as if it was another person), “I thought I had got home and that

it was Marg’ret.”

“But you called me Miss Jean.”

“Ah,” said Kirsteen, now fully aware what she was saying and no longer

feeling like another person. “I knew it was Miss Jean, but it was my

Marg’ret too. It was maybe this,” she said, touching the white apron,

“but it was mostly your kind, kind eyne.”

“I’m feared you’re a flatterer,” said Miss Jean; “my eyne might be once

worth taking notice of, but not now. But you’re just worn out, and

famishing, and cauld and tired. Eh, to think a Miss Douglas of Drumcarro

should come to my house like this, and nobody to meet you, or receive

you, or pay you any attention! It was just an inspiration that I went to

the door myself. But your room will be ready in a moment, and ye shall

have some supper and a cup of tea.” She paused a moment and cast a

glance round. “Did you bring your--luggage with ye?” she said.

Kirsteen laughed, but blushed a little. “I have nothing but my bundle; I

came away in such a hurry--and on my feet.”

Miss Jean blushed far more than Kirsteen did. She “thought shame for the

servants.” “We must say ye left it at the office and it’s coming

to-morrow,” she said anxiously. And then care and warmth and a sense of

well-being and comfort and rest so enveloped Kirsteen that she

remembered little more. There was a coming and going of various faces

into the light, a bustle of preparation, Miss Jean’s keys taken out and

brought back, consultations about the spare room, and the well-aired

sheets, through all of which she sat happy and passive, seeing and

hearing everything once more as if she were another person. The dark

seas seemed to have been traversed, the unknown depths fathomed, and

paradise attained. Perhaps the blazing fire, the fragrant tea, the

little hasty meal, were not very paradisaical elements; but even these

creature comforts acquire a sentiment after a long tedious journey,

especially when the tired traveller retains all the quick sensations of

youth, and is delivered from the horrible exaggerated terrors of

inexperience as well as the mere fatigue of body and soul.

CHAPTER XXII.

The journey over and the end attained! This was the thought that came to

Kirsteen’s mind as she opened her eyes upon the morning--not so tired,

she reflected, as she had been at the inn at Arrochar, at Mrs.

Macfarlane’s, after her first day’s walk. Was that a year ago? she asked

herself. The adventures by the way, the long lines of loch and hill, the

villages and the silent kirks which had seemed to make her safer

whenever she saw them, the great flaring dark image of Glasgow, relieved

by the sight of Anne and her babies, and the green with the bleaching,

the whirl of the long unbroken journey, rattling, jolting, rolling, hour

after hour through day and night--the strange passage in the dark

through unknown London, and finally this little room in which she opened

her eyes, lying still and closing them again to enjoy the sensation of

rest, then opening them to see the yellow fog of the morning like a veil

against the two small windows already shrouded by curtains, to which

Kirsteen was unaccustomed and which seemed to shut out all air and

light--if that could be called light that pressed upon the panes with a

yellow solidity just touched by a wintry sun. Were all her journeyings

over, and had she reached the new world in which she was to live?

Her bundle had been carefully opened, her linen laid out in a drawer

half open to show her where to find it, her second gown hung carefully

up, shaken out of its creases by a skilful hand. Miss Jean herself had

done this, still “thinking shame for the servants” of the new-comer’s

scant possessions. It was already known all through the house that a

distinguished visitor, Miss Douglas of Drumcarro, had arrived, a visitor

of whose name Miss Jean was very proud, though a little mystified by her

arrival, and wondering much to know what such a phenomenon as the

arrival of a girl of good family unattended in London and at her house

might mean. She was proud to give the needed hospitality, but why it

should be to her, and not to any of her “grand connections,” that

Kirsteen had come, mystified the dressmaker. And Marg’ret in her letter

had given no explanation; “Miss Kirsteen will tell you everything

herself,” was all she had said. The seamstresses down below, and the

servants still lower down who had mistaken the young lady for a new

lass, were all in much excitement discussing the strange event. It was

probably some story with love in it, the young women thought, and were

all eager for a glimpse of the new-comer or for any contribution to her

history.

She was nearly dressed when Miss Jean came with a gentle tap at the

door. “I was thinking you would perhaps like your breakfast in bed, my

dear young lady. You have had a dreadful journey. From Glasgow in two

days and cramped up in the coach the whole time. But bless me, you are

already dressed,” she added, scanning the gown in which Kirsteen had

just clothed herself, from head to foot, or rather from hem to throat.

Miss Jean looked it all over, and gave it a twitch here and there, and

smoothed the shoulders with her hand. “It’s not ill made for the

country,” she said, “and fits you well enough, but these little puffed

sleeves are out of fashion for morning dress. You must let me put you in

the mode, Miss Douglas, before ye are seen in the world.”

Miss Jean herself wore a stuff gown, crossed over upon the bosom, and

open at the neck which was covered with a neckerchief of voluminous

white net, underneath the gown. She wore a brown front with little

curls, and a close cap tied under her chin for morning wear, with a

large and long muslin apron trimmed round with muslin work and lace. She

had a large and ruddy countenance with eyes like Marg’ret’s, kind and

soft. Kirsteen was surprised to find, however, how little in the morning

was the resemblance which she had thought so great in the night.

Marg’ret, though the virtual mistress of the house at home, never

changed the dress and aspect of a servant woman for anything more

becoming the housekeeper. But Miss Jean was more imposing than many of

the country ladies, with a large gold watch like a small warming-pan

hooked to her side, and her handkerchief fastened by a brooch of real

pearls. To have this personage addressing her so respectfully, looking

forward to her entry into the grand world, overwhelmed the girl who

already she felt owed her so much.

“Oh,” she said, “Miss Jean--I have not come to London to be seen in the

world. I’m just a poor runaway from home. I promised Marg’ret I would

tell you everything. Nothing can change the Douglas blood. We have that,

but we have little more; and all my father thinks of is to push on the

boys and restore the old family. The lassies are just left to shift for

themselves.”

“That is often the case, my dear young lady. Ye must just marry, and do

as well for yourselves in that way.”

“We are three of us at home, and we can do nothing, and what does it

matter being a Douglas if ye have no siller? I’ve come away, not to see

the world, but to make my fortune, Miss Jean.”

Miss Jean threw up her hands in dismay. “Bless the bairn, to make her

fortune!” she cried.

“That’s just what I intend,” cried Kirsteen. “I’ll not marry a man to

deceive him when I care for nothing but his money. I’ll marry no man,

except--and I’ve just come to London to work for my living--and make my

fortune, if I can.”

“Whisht, whisht, whisht!” cried Miss Jean, “that’s all very well in a

lad,--and there’s just quantities of them goes into the city without a

penny and comes out like nabobs in their carriages--but not women, my

dear, let alone young lassies like you.”

“I will not be a young lass for ever, Miss Jean.”

“No,” said the dressmaker shaking her head, “ye may be sure of that, my

dear lamb. That’s just the one thing that never happens. But ye’ll be

married, and happy, and bairns at your knee, before your youth’s past,

for that,” she said, with a sigh, “I’m thinking, my dear, is the best

way. I was never one that had much to do with the men. There’s some does

it and some not. Look at Marg’ret and me, ne’er had such a thought; but

now we’re getting old both the one and the other, and who will we have

to lay our heads in the grave?--not one belonging to us. We’re just as

the auld Queen said, dry trees.”

“Not Marg’ret,” cried Kirsteen, “not while one of us is to the fore! I

am not wishing to lay her head in the grave, but for love and

faithfulness she will never lack as long as there is a Douglas to the

fore.”

“It’s a real pleasure to me,” said Miss Jean, putting her handkerchief

to her eyes, “to hear ye speak. And well I know Marg’ret would want

before you wanted, any one of the family. So it’s on both sides, and a

grand thing to see a faithful servant so respected. Now, Miss Douglas--”

“My name is Kirsteen.”

“Well, Miss Kirsteen. You’ll just take a good rest, and look about you,

and see the follies of London before ye think anything more about making

your fortune. Eh, to hear those bairns speak! Ye would think it was the

easiest thing in the world to make a fortune. Ye would think ye had but

to put forth your hand and take it. That’s just my nephew John’s

opinion, that has got a small place in an office in Fleet Street, and is

thinking what grand things he’ll have in the show the year he’s Lord

Mayor. He was not satisfied at all with the last one,” said Miss Jean

with a hearty laugh. “‘Auntie,’ says he, ‘it shall be very different

when it comes to my turn.’ And the laddie has fifteen shillings a week,

and to fend for himself! But, my dear,” she said, smoothing Kirsteen’s

shoulder once more, and giving a twitch to the one line in her gown

which did not hang as Miss Jean approved, “by the time we have put ye

into the last fashion, and ye’ve been at a grand party or two, ye’ll

have changed your tune.”

“Who will bid me to grand parties?” said Kirsteen; but Miss Jean had

disappeared and did not hear. It gave Kirsteen a little pang to think

there was nobody who could interfere, no “grand connections” such as the

mantua-maker supposed, to call her to the world, a pang not so much for

herself as for the mortification involved in Miss Jean’s discovery of

the fact. As for grand parties Kirsteen had found out that they were a

delusion. The ball at the Castle had filled her with dreams of pleasure,

but yet nothing but harm had come of it. She had been neglected while

there, and received none of the homage which every girl is taught to

expect, and she had found only Glendochart, whose suit had cost her her

home and everything that had been dear. A tear stole to Kirsteen’s eye

as she made this reflection, but it never fell, so quickly did her heart

rise to the excitement of the novelty around her. She said to herself

that even if there was no Glendochart she would not now go back. She

would stay and work and make her fortune, and make Jeanie an heiress,

and get every dainty that London could provide to send to her mother.

She would buy a carriage for her mother, and easy couches and down

pillows and everything that heart could desire; and then when _he_ came

back--the tear rose again, but only to make brighter the triumphant

smile in Kirsteen’s eyes. Let the others go to grand parties if they

could (Mary would like it) but as for her, she would make her fortune,

and be a help to every one that bore her name. She knelt down by her

bedside to say her prayers, her heart so throbbing with purpose and

anticipation that she could scarcely go through these devout little

forms which had been the liturgy of her childhood. “Oh, that I may make

my fortune and help them all,” was the real petition of her heart. To

suggest anything so worldly to her Maker would have been blasphemy

according to the creed which Kirsteen had been taught, but this was the

breath of intense aspiration that carried up the little innocent

petitions. She rose from her knees in a thrill of purpose and feeling.

“They shall not be shamed as they think, they shall be thankful there

was Kirsteen among the lassies, as well as seven sons to make Drumcarro

great again. Oh, maybe not Drumcarro but the old Douglas country!”

Kirsteen said to herself. And so went down stairs glowing to see what

the new sphere was in which she was to conquer the world. And then when

_he_ came back!

Kirsteen was quite unacquainted with the kind of house, tall and

straight and thin, in which, as in the fashionable quarter, Miss Jean

had established herself. The thread of narrow street filled with a foggy

smoky air through which the red morning sun struggled--the blank line of

houses opposite, and the dreary wall of the church or chapel which gave

it its name seemed to her petty and dingy and small beyond description,

all the more that Miss Jean evidently expected her visitor to be

impressed with the fashionable character of the locality. “The rooms

were a great deal bigger where we were, near Russell Square,” she said,

“and more convenient for the work; but fashion is just everything, and

this is where all my leddies live. You could not be expected to go back

to Bloomsbury having once got foot in Mayfair.” Naturally Kirsteen was

quite incapable of contradicting this axiom, which everybody in the

work-room considered incontrovertible. The work-room was a long room

built out at the back of the house, with many windows, and walls which

had no decoration except a few plates of the fashions pinned to them, as

being particularly lovely. A long table ran down the middle at which

were seated a number of young women, every one of whom to Kirsteen’s

inexperienced perceptions was infinitely more fashionable, more imposing

than her highest conception of herself had ever come to; and they spoke

fine English, with an accent which was to be sure not so easily

understood as her own, but had an air of refinement which impressed

Kirsteen much. Were they all gentlewomen, come like herself to make

their fortunes? She made a timid question on this subject to Miss Jean

which was answered almost indignantly, “Gentlewomen! Not one of

them--havering, glaikit lassies!” was the reply.

“They speak such fine English,” said Kirsteen.

Miss Jean kept her word and took her to see all the “ferlies”--London

Bridge, and the Exchange, and the Guildhall, with Gog and Magog guarding

the liberties of the city, and to take a walk in the park which was just

like the country, and where a glass of new milk warm from the cow was

given her as a treat. And she was taken to see the coaches come in with

the news from the Continent about Boney’s escape and the progress that

adventurer was making, and the orders to the troops that were to crush

him. Kirsteen thanked God that neither her brother nor _him_ were in the

King’s army, but away in India where, indeed, there was fighting going

on continually though nobody knew much about it. And she likewise saw

Westminster and St. Paul’s, both of which overawed her but did not

connect themselves with any idea of worship; her little kirk at home,

and the respectable meeting-house at Glasgow to which she had gone with

Anne, being all she knew of in that way. She maintained her composure

wonderfully through all these sight-seeings, showing no transport either

of admiration or wonder, something to the disappointment of Miss Jean.

This was not owing to want of interest, however, but partly to a Scotch

shyness of expressing herself, and the strong national objection to

demonstration or rhapsodies of any kind--and partly to the high tension

in which her mind was--a sort of exaltation which went beyond any

tangible object, and even made most things a little disappointing, not

so splendid as imagination had suggested. The one thing that did

overcome Kirsteen’s composure was the extent of the streets, tedious,

insignificant, and unlovely but endless, going on and on to the end of

all things, and of the crowd, which she did not admire in itself, which

was often dirty, noisy, and made her shrink, but which also was endless,

abounding everywhere. You left it in Fleet Street only to find it again

in Piccadilly, Kirsteen thought, gaping at the coaches before the White

Horse Cellar just as it had gaped at her own coach where she arrived,

which was, she was told, far away in the city. Where did the people come

from? Where did they disappear to? Did they live anywhere or sleep in

bed, were they always about the streets day and night? This was one of

the things that made her more indifferent to the sights; for her eyes

were always wandering away after the people about whom she did not like

to ask questions. She saw the Prince Regent riding out accompanied by

his gentlemen, “the grandest gentlemen in the land,” Miss Jean

explained, telling Kirsteen a name here and there which were completely

unknown to the Highland girl--who did not admire her future sovereign.

In this way a week passed, Kirsteen vainly attempting to be suffered to

do something more than sit in the parlour and read a book (it was the

_Ladies’ Museum_, a magazine of the time in many volumes, and containing

beautiful prints of the fashions, which was the chief literature at Miss

Brown’s), or walk out whenever business permitted Miss Jean an hour of

freedom--which was generally in the morning--to see the sights. One day

her patience could bear it no longer: she burst forth--

“Miss Jean, Miss Jean, I would rather see no more ferlies. I take you

out and spend your time and give a great deal of trouble when all I want

is to learn my work, and put to my hand.”

“To make your fortune?” said Miss Jean.

“Perhaps at the end--but to learn first,” said Kirsteen pausing with a

deep passing colour, the colour of pride--“my trade.”

“Your trade! What would your father say, good gentleman, if he heard you

say such words?--Or your mother, poor lady, that has so little health?”

“I’ve left both father and mother,” cried Kirsteen, “but not to come

upon others--and ye cannot tear me from my purpose whatever may be

said. There’s reasons why I will never go back to Drumcarro, till--I

will tell you some day, I cannot now. But I’m here to work and not to be

a cumberer of the ground. I want to learn to be a mantua-maker to

support myself and help--other folk. Miss Jean, if you will not have me

I’ll have to ask some other person. I cannot be idle any more.”

“Miss Kirsteen, there will be grand connections seeking you out and

angry at me that let you have your will--and I will lose customers and

make unfriends.”

“I have no grand connections,” said Kirsteen. “You see for yourself

nobody has troubled their heads about me. I’m just as lone as the

sparrow on the housetop. I’ve left my own folk and Marg’ret, and I have

nobody but you in the world. Why should ye stop me? When my heart’s set

upon it nobody can stop me,” Kirsteen cried, with a flash of her eyes

like the flash in her father’s when his blood was up.

“Lord keep us! I can weel believe that to look at you,” said Miss Jean.

CHAPTER XXIII.

It followed as a matter of course that Kirsteen very soon accomplished

her purpose. She took her place in the workroom to the great surprise

and partial confusion of the workwomen who did not at first know how to

teach the lady who had come among them, her qualities and position much

magnified by Miss Jean. Some of them were disposed to be impertinent,

some scornful, some to toady the young new comer, who, whatever she

might be in herself, was undoubtedly Miss Brown’s favourite, and able to

procure favours and exemptions for those who were her friends. The

standing feud between Scotch and English, and the anger and jealousy

with which the richer nation regarded the invasions of the poorer, had

not yet fallen into the mild dislike which is all that can be said to

subsist nowadays in the way of hostile feeling between the two

countries. Fierce jests about the Scotch who came to make their fortune

off their richer neighbours, about their clannishness and their

canniness, and their poverty and their pride, and still lower and

coarser jibes about other supposed peculiarities were then still as

current as the popular crows of triumph over the French and other

similar antipathies; and Kirsteen’s advent was attended by many comments

of the kind from the sharp young Londoners to whom her accent and her

slower speech, and her red hair and her ladyhood were all objects of

derision.

But it was soon found that it was not easy to overcome Miss Kirsteen,

which was the name she chose to be called by. “I think no shame of my

work, but I will not put my father’s name in it, for he is old-fashioned

and he would think shame,” Kirsteen had said--and Miss Jean approved

greatly. “It would never do to let these lassies say that there was a

Miss Douglas in the workroom with them.” Kirsteen had a shrewd suspicion

that the Miss Robinsons and Miss Smiths of the workroom would derive

little idea of dignity or superiority from the name of Douglas; but even

she was not quite so emancipated as to believe them quite ignorant of

its importance. When she discovered from the revelations of a toady that

they called her Miss Carrots, or Miss Scotchy behind her back, Kirsteen

was angry, but dignified, and took no notice, to the great

disappointment of her informant. “I did not choose the colour of my

hair,” she said with much stateliness, little foreseeing a time to come

when red hair should be the admiration of the world. But the young women

soon heard that their shafts passed over Kirsteen’s head and fell

innocuous, which is the most safe and speedy extinguisher of malice. To

make covert allusions which the object of them never finds out, and

utter jibes that are not even heard by the intended butt of the company

is poor sport.

Kirsteen had the safeguard of having a great many things to think of.

Her thoughts strayed to her mother who would miss her, for whom perhaps

she ought to have suffered everything rather than abandon. But what good

would I have been to her if they had married me to Glendochart? she said

to herself. And then she would ask herself what Glendochart would do,

kind man whom she was wae to disappoint or harm, and how Marg’ret would

meet the inquiries addressed to her, how much she would be forced to

reveal, how much she could hide. And then her thoughts would fly to

Anne, and the two babies on the hearthrug, and the doctor, who, no

doubt, was well-looking and well-spoken and kind, and who had taken

thought for Kirsteen’s comfort in a way she had little title to,

considering how many prejudices, not yet by any means dispersed, she

entertained against him. After these subjects were exhausted, and

sometimes before they were begun, her mind, or rather her heart, would

fly to wild, unknown landscapes; dimly-imagined wastes of arid heat, in

the midst of which a white encampment, and one there of whom she could

follow only the personal image, not knowing what he might be doing nor

what was the course of that far-off Indian life. He might be in the

midst of a battle while Kirsteen, with her head bent over her work and

her needle flying, was thinking of him; or travelling in strange ways,

on camels over the desert, or mysterious big elephants. The letters of

her brothers had been brief records of their own health and appointments

and removals and little more. She knew no details of the life of the

East. Her imagination could only trace him vaguely through sunshine and

splendours unknown. But with all these varied thoughts to fill her mind

it may be imagined that Kirsteen was very little affected by the

references to Carrots or to the Scotchies who took the bread out of the

mouths of English folks. When she did hear them she took them at first

with great good humour. “There are plenty of English folk in Scotland,”

she said. “I’ve heard that the ladies’-maids and the bairns’-maids are

all from here--to teach the children to knap English, which is a little

different, as perhaps ye know, from the way we speak.” And as for the

Carrots she disposed of that very simply. “At home it is Ginger the

bairns cry after me,” she said. After a while, when she caught the sound

of those recurring words among her many thoughts, she would raise her

eyes and send a flash among them which daunted the whisperers. But

generally Kirsteen neither noticed nor heard the impertinences of her

fellow-workwomen, which was the most effectual check of all.

It may not be thought a very high quality in a heroine, but Kirsteen

soon developed a true genius for her craft. She had never forgotten Miss

Macnab’s little lecture upon the accuracy of outline necessary for the

proper composition of a gown--and thus had acquired the first

principles almost without knowing it. She followed up this, which is the

heart of the matter, by many studies and compositions in which her

lively mind found a great deal of pleasure. She was not, perhaps, very

intellectual, but she was independent and original, little trained in

other people’s ideas and full of fancies of her own, which, to my

thinking, is the most delightful of characteristics. I remember that Mr.

Charles Reade has endowed one of the most charming women whom he has

introduced to the knowledge of the world with the same gift. Mrs. Lucy

Dodd only, I think, made and invented mantles; but Kirsteen tried her

active young powers upon everything, being impatient of sameness and

monotony, and bent upon securing a difference, an individual touch in

every different variety of costume. She was delighted with the beautiful

materials, which were thrown about in the work-room, the ordinary

mantua-maker having little feeling for them except in view of their cost

at so much a yard. But Kirsteen, quite unused to beautiful manufactured

things, admired them all, and found a pleasure in heaping together and

contrasting with each other the soft silken stuffs, many of them with a

sheen of two blended colours called “shot” in those days. Manufactures

had not come to such perfection then as now, but there were no

adulterated silks or cheap imitations; the very muslins, sprigged and

spotted with many fanciful variations, were as costly as brocade

nowadays--the kind of brocade which the later nineteenth century

indulges in. To be sure, on the other hand, the plain straight gown

required very much less material than is necessary now.

I do not myself think that dress was pretty in those days--but every

fashion is beautiful to its time. And how the ladies of the early

century managed to make themselves comfortable in white muslin gowns in

December, even with a cloth pelisse over them, is more than I can

divine, though I find in Miss Jean Brown’s copy of the _Ladies’ Museum_

that this was the case. However that may be--and I do not suppose that

Kirsteen was before her time, or more enlightened than the rest of the

world--it is certain that she applied herself to the invention of pretty

confections and modifications of the fashion with much of the genuine

enjoyment which attends an artist in all crafts, and liked to handle and

drape the pretty materials and to adapt them to this and that pretty

wearer, as a painter likes to arrange and study the more subtle

harmonies of light and shade. Miss Jean, who had herself been very

successful in her day, but was no longer quite so quick to catch the

value of a tint, or so much disposed to stand over a subject and attain

perfection in the outline of a skirt, was wise enough to perceive the

gifts of her young assistant, and soon began to require her presence in

the show-room, to consult with her over special toilettes and how to

secure special effects. She did this at first, however, with some

reluctance, always haunted by the fear that Kirsteen might thus be

exposed to remark, and even that she herself might suffer for her

audacity in employing a gentlewoman in so exalted a rank of life. “What

if some of your grand connections or acquaintances should see ye?” she

said. “I have no grand connections,” said Kirsteen, vexed to have this

want brought back and back upon her consciousness. “For ye see I have

all the nobility coming about the place,” said Miss Jean proudly; “and

now that the season has begun it is different from the winter.” “I know

nothing about the nobility,” cried Kirsteen again. She was angered at

last by the assumption, all the more that her want of acquaintance with

what was so clearly understood to be her own class, now became so

evident to her as to be a grievance--a grievance that she had never been

conscious of before.

It happened one day, however, that there came into the show-room, while

Kirsteen was there, a very distinguished party indeed, which Miss Jean

advanced to the door to meet curtseying to the ground, and which

consisted of a large and imposing mother, a beautiful, tall girl, at

sight of whom Kirsteen precipitately retired into a corner, and a young

gentleman whom in her surprise she did not notice. It appeared, however,

that this was not at all the case with him. He glanced round with a yawn

as a young man in compulsory attendance on his mother and sister may be

excused for doing, then, observing a young figure in the corner, began

to take instant measures to discover whether there might not be

something here to amuse himself with while the ladies were occupied

with their dressmaker. Now it is not easy for a young person in a

mantua-maker’s show-room persistently to keep her back turned upon a

party of customers, and Kirsteen, to give herself a countenance, began

to arrange carefully the draping of a piece of silk over a stand, so as

to appear to be very much occupied and absorbed in her occupation. That

it should really happen to her after all to find a grand acquaintance

among Miss Jean’s nobility! The discovery was painful yet gave her a

certain gratification, for at least to be able to say to Miss Jean that

she must run away when the Duchess came in was something, and vindicated

her gentility. On the other hand she said to herself with a little

bitterness that most likely they would look her in the face, even Lady

Chatty, and never know that they had seen her before.

The young man all this time kept roaming about, looking, as it appeared,

at the mantles and the bonnets, but aiming at the stand where Kirsteen,

bending over her silk, was pinching and twisting it so as to show its

full perfection. He said “Oh!” with a start, when he got into a position

in which he could obtain a glimpse of the half-hidden face. She looked

up in the surprise of the moment; and there stood the critic of the

ball, the sportsman of Loch Long side, he who had been of so much

service to her yet had affronted her more than the tramp, Lord John

himself--with a delighted smile and mischievous air of satisfaction.

“Ho, ho! my pretty maiden--so this was where you were going?” he said

to her in a low tone--“I am delighted to see you again.”

The colour rushed to Kirsteen’s face. She looked up at him defiantly for

a moment; then feeling that discretion was the better part of valour,

edged away from where he was standing, bending over her draperies again

and drawing the stand softly after her. But Lord John was not to be so

easily daunted.

“You can’t dismiss me again in that grand style,” he said. “Loch Long is

one thing and a milliner’s in London quite another. Do you think I will

believe that you have come here for nothing but to fit gowns on women

not half so pretty as yourself?”

Angry words rushed to Kirsteen’s lips in a flood--angry, scornful,

defiant words, full of contempt and indignation. She was deeply

indignant at this attempt to take advantage of what he thought her

weakness; but she knew that she was not weak, which is a consciousness

that gives courage. Had she been one of the other girls in the workroom

to be flattered or frightened or compromised no doubt she would have

done some imprudence, implored his silence, or committed herself in some

other way. But Kirsteen was out of the range of such dangers. She turned

from the stand she had been draping to another piece of work without any

visible sign of the disturbance in her mind, and made no reply.

Lord John was not to be shaken off so easily. The time had no very high

standard either of morals or manners, and to seize the opportunity of

speaking to a pretty girl wherever he found her, was rather expected

from, than disapproved in a young man. These were the days in which it

was still a civility on the part of a gallant to kiss a pretty

maid-servant as he gave her half-a-crown. And milliners were supposed

very fair game. He followed her as she opened with much show of zeal a

box of French flowers. “Come,” he said, “I must choose some of these; I

must buy something of you. You’ll find me an excellent customer. Choose

the prettiest for me, and I’ll give you whatever you ask for them. If I

had but known when we met last that you were coming here!”

“Miss Kirsteen,” said Miss Jean, who had somehow an eye about her to

observe what was going on behind. “Will ye please to bring me that new

box of French flowers?”

It was a relief yet a new alarm. Kirsteen lifted the light box, and came

slowly towards the group. Now it would be seen that they had no more

recollection of her than if she had been a stock or a stone. The Duchess

did not turn round, but Lady Chatty, conscious of the presence of

another girl, and also perhaps vaguely aware that her brother had

already found an interest in the opposite corner, looked straight at

Miss Jean’s new assistant. She gave a start, and clasped her hands; then

crying out, “It is Kirsteen!” darted upon her, throwing the box with all

the beautiful new French flowers to the ground.

“Oh, dear me, how clumsy I am! Oh, I hope the flowers will take no

harm! But it is Kirsteen. Mamma, do you see? Kirsteen Douglas from our

own country. Oh, I’m so glad to see you,” cried Lady Chatty, seizing her

by both the hands out of which her lively onslaught had thrown the box.

“You’re like a breath of Highland air, you’re like the heather on the

hills.”

And indeed it was a good metaphor as Kirsteen stood confused, with her

russet locks a little ruffled as their manner was, and her hazel eyes

glowing and her bright face confused between pleasure and vexation and

shame.

“It is true that it is me, Lady Chatty,” she said, “but you should not

have made me let fall the flowers.”

“I will help you to pick them up,” said the young lady; and Lord John,

taking a long step forward as if his attention had been suddenly roused,

said, “Can I be of use? I’ll help too.”

Meantime her Grace, who had turned round at Lady Chatty’s cry, stood for

a moment surprised, regarding the group all kneeling on the floor,

picking up the flowers, and then turned back to have a colloquy with

Miss Jean, in which the words “Drumcarro’s daughter,” and “Glendochart,”

and “a wilful girl,” and “a good marriage,” and Miss Jean’s deprecating

explanation, “I told her so. I told her so, your Grace, but she would

not listen to me,” came to Kirsteen’s ears in her anxiety, while she

eluded the touch of Lord John’s hand, and tried to respond to all Lady

Chatty’s eager questions. “Oh, Kirsteen, you should hear what Miss Eelen

says of you,” said Lady Chatty, “and poor old Glendochart, who is such

a nice old man. Why were you so unkind? But I would not marry an old

gentleman myself, not if he were a royal duke,” cried the girl, raising

her voice a little not without intention. “And how clever it was of you

to think of coming here! Nobody would ever have found you here if mamma

had not taken it into her head to come to Miss Jean’s to-day. But oh,

Kirsteen, it is a pity, for they will send you home again. I am glad to

have seen you, but I am sorry, for mamma is coming to talk seriously to

you. I can see it in her face. And papa will hear of it, and he will

think it his duty to take an interest. And between them they will make

you go home again. And when once they get you back, they will marry you

to old Glendochart, whether you like or not!”

END OF VOL. I.

PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.

COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 2720.

KIRSTEEN BY MRS. OLIPHANT.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

KIRSTEEN

THE STORY

OF

A SCOTCH FAMILY SEVENTY YEARS AGO

BY

MRS. OLIPHANT,

AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”

ETC. ETC.

_COPYRIGHT EDITION._

IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1891.

KIRSTEEN.

CHAPTER I.

And indeed the Duchess did come forward with the gravest looks, after

the flowers had all been gathered up and restored to the box and her

talk was over with Miss Jean.

“Miss Douglas,” she said, “I am much surprised to find you here.”

“Your Grace,” said Kirsteen, “I am very well here.”

“That is just your silly notion. A young person of your age is not

fitted to dispose of her own life. Your worthy parents had looked out a

most suitable match for you, and I cannot but say it was very wrong and

a shame to all belonging to you that you should run away.”

“I would rather say nothing about it, madam,” said Kirsteen. “Whether

that was the cause or not, the heart knoweth its own bitterness; and

every one of us, however small we may be, understands their own affairs

best.”

“No, young lady,” said the Duchess, “that’s not so. You are not at an

age when you are fit to judge. It is just nothing but childish folly,”

she added, raising her voice also intentionally, and casting a glance

towards her daughter, “to object to a good man and a gentleman of a good

family, and who is hale and hearty and full of sense--because he is not

just as young as some long-legged fool that you may think better worth

your pains.”

“Like me, for instance,” said Lord John in an audible aside.

Her Grace’s eyes softened as her look rested for a moment upon her

scapegrace. Then she turned back to Kirsteen with her severest look. “It

is a very bad example to other foolish young creatures that you have set

in running away. But I hope you will think better of it, and be

persuaded, and go back to your family,” she said.

“I do not think I can do that,” said Kirsteen, “for there’s nothing

changed that I know, and the reason that brought me away is still

there.”

“Miss Douglas,” said the Duchess, “his Grace himself has heard all about

this from one and another, and I make little doubt that when he hears

where you are and that we have seen you, and what an unsuitable place

you are in for a gentleman’s daughter, he will take it into his own

hands, and just insist that you must go back.”

Kirsteen had been standing in a respectful attitude listening to the

great lady, answering for herself, it is true, with much steadiness,

but also with deference and humility. She raised her head now, however,

and looked the Duchess in the face. “I am meaning no disrespect,” she

said, “but, madam, I am not his Grace’s clanswoman, that he should

insist. The Douglases I have always heard tell were sovran in their own

place, and gave no reverence to one of another name.”

“Young lady,” cried the Duchess astonished, “you are a very bold person

to speak of his Grace in that tone.”

“I am meaning no disrespect,” Kirsteen said. But she stood so firm, and

met her Grace’s eye with so little shrinking, that even the Duchess

herself was embarrassed. It is unwise to profess an intention of

interfering and setting everything straight before you have ascertained

that your impulse will be obeyed. The great lady coloured a little and

felt herself worsted. It was only natural that she should lose her

temper; she turned upon Miss Jean, who stood by very tremulous, half

sympathizing with Kirsteen, half overawed by her visitor.

“Then, Miss Brown,” she said, “it should be your duty to interfere. It

ill becomes you, a person so well supported by the Scots gentry, to back

up a young girl of family in rebellion against her own kith and kin.”

Miss Jean was much taken by surprise, yet she was not unequal to the

occasion. “I have told Miss Kirsteen,” she said, “on several occasions

that this was what would happen; that her grand friends would step in,

and that we would all be called to account. I hope your Grace will

excuse me, but I cannot say more. I have no authority. If your Grace

cannot move her, how will she heed the like of me?”

“She is a very self-willed young person,” said the Duchess; “but I will

see that her friends are communicated with, and no doubt her father will

send some one to fetch her away. We will just leave the other question

till another time. Charlotte, come away.”

“But I must have my gown, mamma,” cried Lady Chatty; “indeed I’m not

going without my gown. What should I do with all the balls coming on,

and nothing to wear? You can go away if you please and send the carriage

back for me, or John will take me home. But if all the world were

falling to pieces, I must have my gown. You must know, Miss Jean, it is

for the birthday, and I must have something of your very best. Kirsteen,

what is the prettiest thing she has? for you must know. I want some of

that silver gauze that is like a mist, and I have it in my head exactly

how I want it made. Oh, mamma, don’t stand and look so glum, but just go

away, please, and send the carriage back for me.”

The Duchess hesitated for a moment, but in the end took her daughter’s

advice, as was her custom. “You will not forget, Miss Jean, what I have

said. And as for you, young lady, I hope you will reflect upon your

position and take the proper steps to put things right,” she said

severely. “John, you will give me your arm down stairs. And see that

you are ready, Charlotte, in a quarter of an hour, when the carriage

comes back.”

With these words the Duchess went away. She could not stand against her

beautiful daughter and the necessity of the new gown, but she would not

sanction in her own person the example of rebellion and self-assertion.

“You will come back for Chatty,” she said to her son, relaxing a little

when she got outside that home of insubordination. “She is far too free

with common people; and that young woman is a very bold-looking person

and not society for your sister.”

“She is a very pretty person,” said Lord John; “I could not think where

I had seen her before.”

“Pretty! with that red hair!” cried his mother, shaking her head as she

got into her carriage and drove away.

“Now, Kirsteen,” cried Lady Chatty, “quick, quick, now that mamma’s

gone--her bark is a great deal worse than her bite--tell me all about

it. They wanted to make you marry old Glendochart? Oh, parents are like

that everywhere--they want me, too. And couldn’t you just face them and

get over them as I do? Couldn’t you just? Miss Jean, she is crying--but

I meant no harm.”

“Lady Chatty,” said Kirsteen, “will you try and get her Grace not to

write? If I were ever so willing my father would never more let me come

back. Oh, if I might just be left alone!--for I cannot tell you

everything. My family is not like other families. If I was dying for it

they would never more take me home again. Oh, if I might just be let

alone!”

“I told you, Miss Kirsteen, what would be the end of it,” said Miss

Jean, “and that you would bring me into trouble too.”

“Oh, never mind these old people, they are all the same,” cried Lady

Chatty. “But,” she added, “I almost wonder after all, Kirsteen, you did

not marry old Glendochart; he would have freed you from all the rest,

and he would have done whatever you pleased. And nobody could have put a

question or said a word. So long,” said this experienced young lady,

looking in Kirsteen’s face, “as there was not some one else. Oh, but I

see!” she cried, clapping her hands, “there is some one else.”

“Will your leddyship look at this?--it is the gauze ye were inquiring

after,” said Miss Jean. “I will just put it about you over your

shoulder, and you will see the effect. And Miss Kirsteen, who has

wonderful taste, will give us her advice. Look now in the cheval glass.

What does your ladyship think of that?”

“It’s divine,” cried Lady Chatty, clapping her hands; and interesting

though the other subject was, the new gown and its possibilities, and a

delightful discussion as to certain novel effects, carried the day. Miss

Jean threw herself ecstatically into Lady Chatty’s devices by way of

changing the subject, and finally in a whirlwind of questions and

suggestions, petitions for Kirsteen’s confidence and recommendations of

silver trimmings, the visitor was got away at last. Miss Jean, when she

was gone, threw the silvery stuff with some impatience upon the floor.

“I have humoured all her whims just to get you clear of her,” she said.

“Oh, Miss Kirsteen, did I not tell ye what would happen when you were

discovered by your grand friends?”

Curiously enough, however, even to Kirsteen’s own mind there was a

certain solace in the thought that these very great people, who knew so

little about her, thought her of sufficient importance to interfere

personally in her affairs. Her trouble and confusion before the

Duchess’s reproof was wonderfully modified by the soothing sense of this

distinction. It had been humbling to feel that she had no grand

connections, nobody that could interfere. There was consolation in the

fulfilment of Miss Jean’s prophecy.

And it may be imagined what excitement ran through the house from the

garret to the basement some days after when the Scotch maid came into

the workroom breathless, with the thrilling news that my lord Duke was

in the parlour waiting to see Miss Douglas. His Grace himself! “Lord

bless us!” cried Miss Jean, “ye must go down quick, for a great person’s

time is precious, and I will come myself just when I think the

interview’s over, for no doubt he will want to give his directions to

me.” All the needles in the workroom stopped with the excitement of this

visit, and the boldest held her breath. A Duke, no less, to see Miss

Carrots, the Scotchy with the red hair! “But that’s how they do, they

all hangs together,” was the comment afterwards, couched in less perfect

language perhaps than the supposed pure English which Kirsteen admired.

Kirsteen herself rose, very pale yet very determined, from her seat at

the long table, and brushed from her dress the fragments of thread and

scraps of silk. She said nothing, but walked away to this alarming

interview with her heart thumping in her breast, though externally all

seemed calm. Kirsteen had a strong inclination to run away once again

and be no more seen, when she reached the parlour door; and it was

chiefly pride that supported her through the ordeal. She went in with

much internal trembling but a pale resolution which no duke nor other

potentate could break down.

He was standing playing with his eyeglass against the window, blocking

out most of the light--a large man enveloped in the huge folds of his

neckcloth, and in layer upon layer of waistcoats, enormous at the

shoulders but dwindling towards the legs in tight pantaloons. Truth to

tell, his Grace was more nervous, so far as appearances went, than the

little girl whom he had been sent to bring to a sense of her duty. He

said, “How d’ye do?” very ceremoniously, and offered her a chair.

“You’re one of our county neighbours, Miss Douglas, I hear. My land

marches with Drumcarro, perhaps you will know. It is on the edge of the

old Douglas country, which, as luck will have it, now chiefly belongs to

me, though it is no doing of mine.”

“But my father represents the old Douglases, your Grace, though we have

so little of the land.”

“It is a long time since,” said the Duke, “but it is perhaps true; and

you have a right to stand up for your own side. The more reason for the

Duchess’s great concern at finding you here.”

“I am very well here, my lord Duke,” said Kirsteen rigidly; she had to

keep so much control upon herself not to tremble that she had become as

stiff as a wooden image, and was well aware of the fact, which did not

add to her comfort.

“You are not my clanswoman, Miss Douglas,” said his Grace, using her own

expression, “and you know as well as I do I have no power over you. But

I think I am perhaps implicated in what has happened from the foolish

mistake I made in taking you for the daughter of Glendochart on the

occasion when we had the pleasure of seeing you at the Castle. You may

have thought from that that he was considered an old man, but he is

nothing of the sort. He is younger than I am,” said the Duke, waving his

hand with an air of conscious youth; “he is a man in the prime of life.

As for assuming you to be his daughter, it was only a foolish jest, my

dear young lady. For I knew he had no daughter nor child of any kind,

being an unmarried man. I hope this explanation will smooth matters,”

the Duke said, with a demonstrative wave of his hand.

“Oh, it never was that,” cried Kirsteen, “it never was that! And I have

never said a word about Glendochart, nor given that as my reason. I had

other reasons,” she said.

“My dear young lady, however you explain it, it was very foolish,” said

his Grace, “for all you needed to have done was to have said a word to

Glendochart himself. He would never have had pressure put upon you. He

is as true a gentleman as you will find between this and him. He would

never have taken a bride by force. A word to him would have been

enough.”

“I know that well,” said Kirsteen, “oh, I know that well.” She added,

“But if it please your Grace, I never said it was because of

Glendochart. I had--other reasons.”

“Oh, you had other reasons?” said the Duke, perplexed. “But I hope now

that we have talked it over you will see what is suitable, and just go

quietly home.”

Kirsteen made no reply.

“I feel convinced,” said the Duke, “that though you may be a little

headstrong, you are not just a rebel, liking your freedom, as the

Duchess was disposed to think; and now that I have set it all before

you, you will just take your foot in hand, as we say in Scotland, and go

cannily home.”

“I cannot do that, your Grace,” said Kirsteen.

“And why cannot you do that? You may depend upon it, it is the only

right way. ‘Children, obey your parents,’ is the word of Scripture. You

must really go home. Your forbears and mine have known each other when

the Douglases were more on a level perhaps with my family than they are

now, so you see I have a certain right to speak. My dear young lady, you

will just come home.”

“I cannot do that, my lord Duke.”

“Hush, hush, ye will allow I must know better from my position and all

that. Pack up your things, and I will see that you have a postchaise

ready and a servant to take care of you. You see we take a great

interest in you, both the Duchess and myself.”

“I am much obliged to your Grace--and to the Duchess--”

“Yes, yes; but that’s nothing. I will tell somebody to order the

postchaise for you, and you’ll find, with a little judgment, that all

will go well.”

He patted her arm softly, stroking her down as if she had been a cat or

a child. “Just go cannily home,” he said, “that’s always the best place

for a girl--just go cannily home.”

At this moment Miss Jean, unable to contain herself longer, tapped at

the door, and Kirsteen made her escape, leaving these high powers to

concert the method of her going--a futile proceeding so long as the will

of the proposed traveller remained unchanged.