BAD NEWS AT HOME.
Upon seeing Norman approaching, Mr. MacDonald hurried forward to meet
him, so excited and alarmed that he could not speak.
“What is it, grandfather?” asked Norman, anxiously, as he half
supported his aged relative, while they began to move slowly up the
path. “Something has happened since I went away. Have――have Rilma’s
injuries proved more serious than we thought?”
“It’s nae that, ma laddie. It’s th’ sorriest bit o’ news I hae heard
since comin’ tae this place. A man has been here this day an’ telt me
that this hame is nae oors――that we maun leave it!”
It was some time before Norman could fully understand the incoherent
account of his grandfather, but gradually he learned the truth. Two
men had been there and served a notice for them to move away from the
place, which they claimed was theirs.
“Tae think we are again fugitives!” moaned the broken-hearted man.
“What hae I dune tae merit this? An auld man i’ th’ wilda’, far frae
the terrible scenes whaur I’ve suffered an’ lost sae muckle, I hae
hoped for peace,――a few days o’ quiet to see the sun o’ my life set.
Weel, it is feint tae be. An’ this seems the mair cruel deed o’ them
a’, an’ God wists the last was terrible. A refugee amang strangers in
an alien wilda’!”
By the time they reached the house he was weeping like a child, and,
leading him to one of the seats, Norman placed his hand on his gray
head, saying, softly:
“Do not despair, grandfather; it may not be as bad as you think. Who
came to see you, and what did he say?”
“There were twa o’ them, laddie, an’ ilk said we’re on lan’ which is
theirs. I denied the lee, when they ca’d me a thief an’ a leear! Oh,
could I but laid my haun’ on my staff then I wadna hae spared the
skellum! I――”
“I hope you did not strike one of them, grandfather,” said Norman, who
could see that such a course would only add to the seriousness of their
situation.
“I dinna care! I dinna care!” moaned the old Highlander.
It seemed that neither of the visitors had given any name, but from
such fragments of description as Norman could gather, he concluded
that one of them had been Gunwad. Now that he came to think of it, he
remembered that he had not seen the deer reeve at the shooting-match or
the fire. No doubt, upon his failure to prove his charges of shooting
deer out of season, he had taken this move to renew his persecution.
How serious it might become he had yet no way of judging.
When Mr. MacDonald became calmer, he was able to converse with Norman
more intelligently.
“I hae kep’ this frae Rilma,” he said. “Puir bairn! I couldna bear to
hae her ken it. Hoo lang it seemed afore ye cam!”
“But I have come safely, grandfather, and I come free! They did not
prove me guilty, and let us hope this new trouble will be as easily
overcome. How is dear sister?”
Before a reply could be given her own sweet voice fell on their ears,
and, looking around, they were surprised to find her standing in the
opening leading to the inner apartment.
“I am better, dear brother,” she said. “Please do not blame me, but I
have heard every word that has been said, so I know your troubles, as
it is right I should. Why did you want to rob me of the privilege of
trying to comfort you in your grief, grandfather? Is it because you
prize home more than me?”
“The gude Lord forgie me, bonnie lassie! Ae kiss frae your sweet lips
is worth mair than a’ the hames in the wilda’.”
“Here is the kiss, dearest of grandfathers, with one for count! So
cheer up and let the sun shine. Tears ill become a MacDonald.”
“Till ye hae seen a MacDonald weep ye canna ken what weepin’ is. But
forgie me, bonnie lassie, sic a little angel as ye is enough to cheer
the heart o’ an auld man, though it be hardened as leather.”
She had twined her arms about his neck and was kissing away the
tear-drops, while he folded her to his bosom.
“Easy, grandfather,” said Norman; “remember the hurts on her tender
shoulders.”
“Never mind them, grandfather, but hug just as hard as you want to. You
don’t hurt a mite, and I was never so happy in my life!”
Rilma’s tender entreaties were not without avail, for soon the other
lifted his gray head, and as she brushed back the thin locks from the
noble temple, he said, in a merry tone:
“I dinna ken how tae thank ye, ma bonnie lassie. Ye hae lifted the load
frae ma heart. See! I smile! I’m a MacDonald again.”
The childish joy of the old Highlander was something pathetic to
witness. Knowing how quickly it might be driven away, Norman turned
aside to conceal his emotion. Rilma, younger, more confiding and
confident, continued her caresses, until he laughed in genuine
happiness.
“What do we care for an old log cabin, grandfather? Norman can build
another, better than this; but he cannot bring us another grandfather
like you. I am going to enjoy your dear old self while I can.”
Her light-heartedness was contagious, and it wasn’t long before all
three were chatting as merrily as if no unscrupulous enemy were trying
to rob them of home and peace of mind.
“There is one thing certain, grandfather,” said Norman, “this Gunwad
cannot say we robbed knowingly. The good names of MacDonald and
McNiel――”
“Wheesht, ma laddie! wad ye mar the sunlicht by the darkness o’ that
name? Ye dinna ken what ye say,” and as his transition from childlike
grief to childlike joy had been swift, so did he instantly assume
something of the fire of his earlier years. The broad, high brow
contracted with a frown, and the deep, sunken eyes flashed with a
lustre which gave a wild appearance to his countenance, showing the
intensity of his pent-up feelings. The slim, bony fingers clutched his
staff closely, while he brought it smartly down upon the floor.
This sudden change in his demeanour frightened Rilma, but Norman showed
that he was prepared for it. Instead of trembling for what he had said,
he exclaimed, boldly:
“I am sorry to have pained you, grandfather, by my words. Why is it you
always fly into a rage when father’s name―― Please do not interrupt me,
or think me rude. I must speak and I will! I claim the right to speak
his name to you, who have been so kind to me. You know I have persisted
in bearing it, when you have wished me to take that of MacDonald. I do
not love it less for that, neither will I believe in the dishonour of
McNiel until I know some reason for doing so. You have never allowed
me to speak of father, but the time has come when you must speak. I am
old enough and brave enough to know the truth, be it ever so dreadful.
Nothing can be worse to me than this bitter silence.”
“Lad, hae I e’er been unkind to ye?”
“You have been as kind as any father to Rilma and me, dear grandfather,
in everything but this silence. I would not pain you for the world by
asking that which it seemed to me I had no right to hear. But I do
believe I ought to know this secret hanging over my father’s name and
mine, for what he bore must I bear.”
“Ye hae trouble enough o’ yer ain withoot that that anither was only
owergled tae lay doon. Lad, it is better I remain silent as I hae sae
lang.”
“You wrong us all when you say that, grandfather. It is your duty to
tell; it is my duty and Rilma’s to know. If you persist much longer
in keeping it from me, I will learn it from some other source, if
I have to cross the sea and get it from strangers. I have for some
time been thinking of asking it of you, and I feel that the occasion
has come. Now, under the cloud of this other oppression, let me know
all,――remember, be it ever so shameful or ever so sad, _all_.”
Robert MacDonald buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud,
saying, while his young companions waited anxiously:
“Alas! it never rains but it pours! Maun I tell it? A’, Jeannette, ma
ain wranged, kilt bairn, the dearest, sweetest that e’er blessed a fond
faither’s heart, shall I speak anither word?”
Then, as he lifted his head and met Norman’s clear, unflinching gaze,
and beheld Rilma’s innocent surprise, his heart seemed to tell him it
was right that he should tell all.
As he began, unheard and unobserved by the three, the figure of the
Woodranger appeared in the doorway, he having drawn near with his
natural silence, but with no thought of listening to that which might
not concern him. At the sound of the narrator’s voice he stopped, and
something in the old Highlander’s tones or words caused him to remain
motionless as a statue, his long rifle resting its butt on the ground,
while it supported on its muzzle the forester’s bearded chin.