/ "7 C
 
 THE 
 
 GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 A STORY OF ENDEAVOUR. 
 
 BT 
 
 ANNIE S. SWAN, 
 
 4T7THOB OF ' ALDKBSTDX,' ' CAJILOWBIE,' SIC. KTO. 
 
 'I cannot hide that some have striven, 
 Achieving calm, to whom was given 
 The joy that mixes man with heaven : 
 
 Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
 Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
 And did not dream it was a dream.' 
 
 TENNYSON'S Two Va(tt*. 
 
 CINCINNATI: 
 CRANSTON AND STOWS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HUNT AND EATON.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 I. THE SHADOW OF DEATH, 
 
 II. BEREAVED, . . 
 
 III. ALONE, . . 
 
 IV. TWO SONS, . . 
 V. SYMPATHY, . . 
 
 vi. A WOMAN'S HEART, . 
 
 VI T. CHANGE, . . 
 
 VIII. SPELLBOUND, . 
 IX. AN UNGRATEFUL HEART, 
 
 X SANDY'S WORD, . 
 
 XI. TRIED, 
 
 XII. THE MANSB OF ST. GILES, 
 
 XIII. BEATRICE, . . 
 
 XIV. DESOLATE AGE, . 
 XV. RETRIBUTION, . 
 
 XVI. SHADOWED LIVES, . 
 
 XVII. SWEET MOMENTS, . 
 
 XVIII. THE WANDEIIER, . 
 
 XIX. SAVED, . 
 
 XX. RECOMPENSE, 
 
 xxi. ALL'S WELL, 
 
 FAOB 
 
 9 
 
 21 
 
 82 
 
 43 
 
 56 
 
 69 
 
 82 
 
 95 
 
 108 
 
 124 
 
 137 
 
 155 
 
 169 
 
 184 
 
 200 
 
 213 
 
 229 
 
 250 
 
 267 
 
 284 
 
 302
 
 THE GATES OF EDEN.
 
 AMERICAN EDITION. 
 
 THIS book is published in America under special con- 
 tract with its Edinburgh Publishers, MESSRS. OLIPHANT, 
 ANDERSON & FERRIER. 
 
 The American Publishers have not changed the orig- 
 inal orthography. Our neighbo(u)rs across the ocean 
 are fond of the diphthong "ou," and have no "z" in 
 their "civilisation;" but this story is none the less in- 
 teresting for that.
 
 THE GATES OF EDEK 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 'Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
 
 A shadow on these features, fair and thin ; 
 And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
 Two angels issued where but one went in.' 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 >'YE think she'll pu' through, Jenny ?' 
 
 ' Eh, I dinna ken ! Katie Law never 
 had muckle strength tae come an' gang on, 
 and she's been mair dowie this while nor I 
 likit tae see/ answered Jenny Scott ; and her 
 kind eyes turned with a mournful interest on 
 the neighbouring cottage, about which there 
 was a solemn hush of expectancy that summer afternoon, 
 for there were great issues at stake. 
 
 ' John Bethune '11 miss Katie, if she be ta'en awa',' 
 said the first speaker, settling herself against the lintel 
 for a comfortable gossip. ' I've often said tae oor Tarn 
 that he's faur ower muckle set on her.' 
 
 9
 
 10 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' I wadna say that, Kirsfcy ; she's a winsome, bonnie 
 cratur. I've bidden aside her noo for twa year an' mair, 
 an' I never saw but a smile on her face.' 
 
 ' Aweel, maybe no ; but I like folk that can girn 
 whiles, it shows they hae some gumption,' said Kirsty 
 Paterson. 'But I'se warrant ye John got the wrang 
 side o' her whiles as weel's ither folk's men.' 
 
 ' I dinna think that, Kirsty,' said Jenny, shaking her 
 head ; ' she's fell fond o' him tae. Eh, I houp she'll get 
 through, for his sake as weel's her ain. He's a by-ordinar' 
 fine man. As I say whiles to Sandy, he hasna a brither.' 
 
 'Aweel, gie me a man that disna set hissel' up for 
 better nor his neebors/ maintained Kirsty stoutly. 
 ' I'm sure it wasna at Auchtermairnie he got his graun' 
 ideas, for auld John Bethune's a canny man, an' jist like 
 his neebors. He kens the taste o' Jean Brunton's ale, 
 I'll warrant ye, though John in-by pertends that he 
 wadna fyle his lips wi't. But I say,' she added, lowering 
 her voice, ' wha's in-by forby the doctor ; onybody frae 
 Auchtermairnie ? ' 
 
 Jenny Scott shook her head. 
 
 ' Na, it's no Shoosan Bethune that'll come to Katie 
 Law in her trouble. She's never been i' the Star that I 
 ken o' sin Katie cam'.' 
 
 ' No, she has not,' said Kirsty, with quiet relish. ' An' 
 my guid-brither's sister's man i' Kennoway telt me that 
 Shoosan said she wad never darken their door while she 
 leeved. And when he telt me, I jist says, says I, whaur 
 did thae Bethunes get their pride ? Though Katie Law 
 was only a bit servant lassie, was she no' as guid as them ? 
 Nae doot they hae been in Auchtermairnie verra near as 
 lang as the Laird's folk hae been in Ba'foor. But what 
 aboot that ? They're nae better nor wark folk. I canna 
 bide sic pride.'
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 11 
 
 ' Wheest, Kirst ! is that no' a bairn greetin' ? ' inter- 
 rupted Jenny in a warning, excited whisper ; and imme- 
 diately they strained their ears, and stretched their necks 
 over the paling towards John Bethune's door. But the 
 dead stillness there remained unbroken by the slightest 
 sound. 
 
 ' D'ye no' ken wha's in ? Is Nanny Broon doon ? ' 
 asked Kirsty eagerly. 
 
 ' There's naebody that I ken o' but Jean Cam'll,' 
 answered Kirsty. 'Her an' Kate's aye been thrang, ye ken.' 
 
 ' Ou ay, faur ower thrang ; I've often said to Tam 
 there wad be a grand turn-up among them. Jean '11 be 
 up in the buckle the day then. She likes brawly to be 
 first an' foremost,' said Kirsty Paterson, for she had an 
 old grudge against the mistress of the Knowe. ' For me, 
 I wad think shame to stap my nose into ither folk's 
 business the way she does.' 
 
 ' John gaed for her, Kirsty, for I saw him mysel' just 
 efter denner-time. Nannie Broon's maybe in tae, for 
 ocht I ken.' 
 
 ' Wheesht, wummin, there's somebody at the sneck ! ' 
 
 At that moment the two worthies were rewarded by 
 the sight of John Bethune himself on the threshold of 
 his own door. His face was white and haggard, the 
 deep eyes under the rugged brows darkened by a strange 
 agony, his voice when he spoke scarcely rose above a 
 thick, unsteady whisper. 
 
 ' Get somebody to rin to Auchtermairnie, will ye ? ' he 
 asked, apparently unconscious of the devouring interest 
 with which they hung upon his looks and words. 
 
 'Ay; the skule's oot, I hear the bairns,' answered Jenny 
 at once. ' I'll rin for my Tammy, an' set him aff at aince. 
 Hoo's Katie ? ' 
 
 The man only shook his head, implored her to lose no
 
 12 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 time, and again vanished within. The neighbours looked 
 at each other a moment, then simultaneously and omi- 
 nously shook their heads. 
 
 ' I'll awa' for Tammy/ said Jenny at last, and, march- 
 ing up the road, she collared the urchin from a band 
 gathered round the window of the shop, greedily eyeing 
 the latest thing in ' sugar-bools,' and marched him down 
 to the house, instructing him concerning his errand all 
 the while. At the door she took in the greasy leather 
 bag which contained his school-books, and, bringing him 
 instead half a pease-bannock spread with treacle, bade 
 him be off, and not let the grass grow beneath his feet 
 till lie got to Auchtermairnie. Tammy retired at a brisk 
 trot along the dusty road, encumbered by neither shoes 
 nor stockings, the wide corduroy breeches of his mother's 
 make flapping like sails about his sunbrowned knees. 
 After having satisfied herself that Tammy was really off, 
 Jenny Scott returned to her gossip, and the pair plunged 
 once more into the luxury of speculation to which Katie 
 Law's serious illness gave rise. The whole past, present, 
 and future of the Bethunes was discussed, and they con- 
 cluded that if Katie died and left a living bairn, John's 
 sister Susan would just need to return to her old post of 
 housekeeper to him, and, as that would leave the old man 
 and Peter uncared for at Auchtermairnie, they set about 
 finding a wife for the latter, and so their talk became 
 a very involved and responsible affair, which it would 
 not be easy to follow out to any sort of ending what- 
 soever. 
 
 Meanwhile Tammy, having got beyond his mother's 
 observation, was taking his time over his mission. The 
 first interruption occurred at the smithy, which was a 
 favourite resort of his, and where he would sit for hours 
 watching John Henderson at his work, thinking him far
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 13 
 
 more to be envied than a king. To Tammy it seemed a 
 beautiful and splendid thing to have nothing to do but 
 nail shoes on to horses' feet, and blow up the fire till it 
 glowed again, the latter part of the smith's labours being 
 especially to be desired in the winter-time. He whisked 
 round the corner, and, planting himself on the seat of a 
 reaping-machine awaiting repair, contentedly munched 
 his treacle bannock, and watched the smith's operations 
 with devouring interest. They were especially engrossing 
 at that moment ; for one of Carriston men had brought 
 in an unbroken filly to be shod, before she was put out 
 to the grass. She was a dainty, high-bred thing, intended 
 for Mr. Lawson's own riding, and she seemed to have a 
 curious aversion to standing still. The sweat was pouring 
 over the smith's face, and the man at her head was red 
 with his exertion of trying to hold her in. After having 
 watched the shoeing process to a close, Tammy leisurely 
 descended from his perch, and crossed the road to the old 
 quarry to look whether the birds were hatched in a nest 
 under a whin bush known only to himself. Having 
 satisfied himself on that point, and carefully handled the 
 eggs, he bethought himself of his errand, and ran across 
 the fields like a hare, plunging through hay and corn, 
 knowing his supple limbs would soon carry him safely 
 beyond observation or chase. It was after five o'clock, 
 and Susan Bethune was sitting down to her afternoon 
 cup of tea, when he arrived breathless at the door of 
 Auchtermairnie, a cosy farm-steading standing a little 
 off the road, within half a mile of Kennoway. 
 
 ' I'm no' for naething the day ; awa' ye go,' she called 
 out in answer to the knock, but started to her feet when 
 the urchin answered back shrilly, 
 
 ' Ye're to come awa' to the Star as fast's ye like, my 
 mither says. Katie Law's maist awfu' ill.'
 
 14 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Oh, it's you, Tammy Scott ! ' said Susan Bethune un- 
 graciously, when she came out to the door. ' Wha set 
 ye wi' that message then ? ' 
 
 'My mither set me. I think John Bethune bade 
 her,' answered Tammy. ' The doctor's there, because 
 Jock Philp was haudin' his pownie, an' a' the wives is 
 oot, so she maun be gey ill.' 
 
 '"Weel a weel, tell them I'll come wast when I'm 
 ready,' said Susan Bethune with a peculiar compression 
 of her lips. ' Here, see, there's a piece tae ye, an' see ye 
 dinna stane the jeuks as ye gang by.' 
 
 Tammy accepted the burnt end of oatcake offered to 
 him in rather a gingerly fashion, and directly he got past 
 the house he laid it down on the garden dyke, and pro- 
 ceeded to look out for the ducks, which had never been 
 in his thoughts till Miss Bethune herself mentioned 
 them. In a few minutes there was an unusual splash- 
 ing in the mill-dam, and the air filled with a chorus of 
 quacking, while Tammy, having had his sport, and fear- 
 ing the consequences, ran off home as fast as his bare 
 and nimble feet could carry him. Susan Bethune, how- 
 ever, paid no attention to the noise proceeding from the 
 mill-pond, her mind being completely absorbed by the 
 news the boy had brought. It had spoiled her tea, and 
 after taking another mouthful she poured it out, and put 
 the things back in the dresser. Then she set on the pot 
 for the six o'clock porridge, and went out of doors in 
 search of her father. They were all hoeing in the potato 
 field, the old man keeping up his drill with the rest ; 
 but when he saw her waving at the gate he put down 
 his hoe and crossed over to speak to her; as he did so 
 he wiped the sweat from his brow, and stretched 
 himself with a sigh. He was very weary, for he was 
 a bent old man, whose days of toil ought to have
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 15 
 
 been past. But so long as Peter Bethune, who was 
 now absolutely master in Auchtermairnie, had his 
 way, there would not be much resting for any within 
 its walls. 
 
 ' That's a laddie frae the Star, faither,' said Susan, 
 directly he was within hearing. 'John's wife's doon, 
 an' they're seekin' me to come wast.' 
 
 Nothing could be more unreadable than her expression 
 of face as she uttered these words ; it would have been 
 impossible to tell whether she was well or ill pleased at 
 the summons. 
 
 ' Ye'll gang then, Shoosan ? ' said the old man eagerly. 
 ' The puir lassie has nane o' her ain, ye'll gang to the 
 Star surely noo ? ' 
 
 ' I dinna ken,' said Susan, and there was evidently a 
 hard struggle going on in her mind. ' They maun learn 
 that a'body's no' aye at their beck an' bow. John '11 
 find his error noo, I'm thinking, in mairryin' a cratur wi' 
 nae folk/ 
 
 ' Wha's laddie was't, an' what did he say ? ' 
 ' It was that wee deil, Tammy Scott. It's maybe a' a 
 lee, ye ken ; but he said the doctor was there, an' of 
 coorse a' the clashin' wives is oot.' 
 
 ' Then ye should gang awa' the noo, Shoosan,' said the 
 old man anxiously ; ' Pete '11 let me lowse, an' I'll yoke 
 Donal' in the milk-cairt for ye.' 
 
 ' 'Deed no ; I'm no' gaun ridin' through the Star for 
 them or ony ither body. I'll awa' in, an' mak' the par- 
 ritch. It's near six onyway, an' I'll hae my goon an' 
 bannet on gin ye come in,' said Susan. ' Tell Geordie, 
 wull ye, to bid Else come down to the byre at half aicht, 
 for I'll no' be hame.' 
 
 So saying, Susan Bethune nodded her head once or 
 twice, and stalked away back to the house.
 
 16 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' What was Shoosan seekin' ? ' asked Peter, stepping 
 from behind the workers to speak to his father. 
 
 ' Katie's doon, an' they're for her wast, but she'll no 
 gang or it comes up her am back/ said the old man, 
 and he looked across the flat fields to the clustering red 
 roofs of the little hamlet, where his favourite son had 
 his home, and there was a wistfulness in his eye which 
 told that all his sympathies were there. 
 
 ' She's quite richt. There's naething like bein' inde- 
 pendent wi' folk,' said Peter with a coarse laugh. ' John 
 should hae been mair canty wi' Shoosan when he had her. 
 Ye canna blame her noo.' 
 
 ' He never did ocht till her. It wasna a deidly sin to 
 tak' a wife,' said the old man mildly. 
 
 ' Shoosan thocht it, though,' laughed Pete again. 
 ' Come on, then ; we can gang up an' doon the dreel again 
 afore six.' 
 
 A rough, uncouth, ill-conditioned fellow was Peter 
 Bethune, and his blustering, domineering disposition was 
 quite in keeping with his outward appearance. He had 
 a tall, slack, ill-knit figure, and a big head adorned by a 
 shock of tawny hair, already thickly mixed with grey. 
 A heavy beard concealed the lower part of his face, but 
 there was nothing attractive in what was visible. The 
 eyes peering out from under the shaggy brows were of a 
 steely blue colour, and his glance, though as keen as that 
 of a fox, seemed restless and shifting, and was never a 
 moment still. Susan Bethune was not greatly beloved, 
 but everybody agreed that she was far preferable to her 
 eldest brother. She had borne a bitter disappointment 
 in her youth, which, coupled with her way of life, had 
 somewhat soured her disposition, which was naturally 
 kind, and even affectionate. She had been in a manner 
 twice disappointed, for, when her lover had proved false,
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. IT 
 
 she had turned with all her affection to her brother 
 John ; and he also had failed her, at least he had taken 
 a wife, for which Susan had said she would never forgive 
 him. Old John Bethune had but two sons, and John 
 was the younger. There was little between them in 
 years, but the disparity in other respects was complete 
 and striking. Peter had always been a lout, void of 
 feeling, and inclined to bully anything weaker than 
 himself. He was greedy, as well as masterful, and as 
 the brothers grew up together, John found it impossible 
 to support existence at Auchtermairnie, though there was 
 work to keep both employed. He was by nature quiet, 
 gentle, and reserved, fond of books, and even of the 
 refinements of life, for all of which Peter had the utmost 
 contempt. 'Wark an' siller' was Peter's motto; and 
 after a time things came to such a crisis that John left 
 the farm and went to the Star to live. His father 
 bought him a croft, and after a little time John quite 
 fell in with the ways of the village, and got a loom 
 fitted up in the ben-end, for hand-loom weaving was at 
 that time the staple industry of the place, and the 
 industrious made it pay well Susan went with John 
 as his housekeeper, and never had man a more faithful, 
 self-denying servant Nothing in the shape of work 
 came amiss to Susan Bethune. She could just as easily 
 hoe a breadth of potatoes, or gather rack behind the 
 plough, as she could sit by the fireside and wind the 
 pirns for her brother's loom. She was a capable, provi- 
 dent housekeeper indeed, but her effort ended there. 
 No neighbour was ever allowed to cross the threshold 
 of the cotttage ; work, work, work was Susan Bethune's 
 creed, and if John ventured to step into a neighbour's 
 house for an hour's friendly chat, she would not speak 
 to him for days. She was verily an Ishmaelite. whose 
 
 2
 
 18 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 hand was against every man except her brother John, 
 whom she strove to make as comfortable as she could. 
 
 In his leisure time John Bethune carefully and metho- 
 dically perused the productions of the master minds 
 among poets, theologians, and philosophers. Novels were 
 at that day unknown in Star, and if one did happen to 
 be handed from fireside to fireside, though it might be 
 enjoyed in secret, it was outwardly condemned as a 
 parcel ' o' unholy lees.' Then, when busy with his loom 
 in 'the shop,' as the ben-end was always termed, he 
 thought over his reading, carefully digesting and analyz- 
 ing it all, till his mind became a well-filled storehouse of 
 knowledge such as money could neither buy nor take 
 away. For ten years this monotonous, uneventful, but 
 not unprofitable way of life went on for the brother and 
 sister, until one summer-time a mighty and unlooked-for 
 change took place. John Bethune was an elder in the 
 parish kirk at Kennoway, and in his egular attendance 
 at that place of worship he fell in occasionally by the 
 way with a bright-eyed servant lassie from Newtonhall, 
 whose winning way and modest behaviour, as well as her 
 intelligent and observing mind, interested him not a little. 
 In outward appearance she was as unlike him as could 
 well be imagined, and the disparity in years was not 
 greater than the wide contrast between them. She was an 
 orphan whom the ladies had procured from some institu- 
 tion, and of her antecedents or parentage nothing was 
 known. That in itself was sufficient reason to Susan 
 Bethune why she should not be named in the same 
 breath with John, for if the Bethunes were poor they 
 had aye been respectable, and could count their forbears 
 back to covenanting times, when a Bethune of Auchter- 
 mairnie had followed brave Hackstoun of Eathillet through 
 every vicissitude of his stormy career. John Bethune's
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 19 
 
 wooing was of a very matter-of-fact, sensible sort. After 
 having well considered the thing in his own mind, he asked 
 Katie Law a plain, straightforward question, and, having 
 received an honest, maidenly answer, he quietly and without 
 ado informed Susan that, as he was going to be married, 
 it would be better for her to go home to Auchtermairnie, 
 especially as their mother was failing, and would be the 
 better of her help. The time had gone for Susan 
 Bethune to storm or flyte, though in youth her tongue 
 had been the talk of the country side. She made no 
 remark, nor asked any questions whatsoever, but there 
 and then packed up her gear, and went home to the 
 farm. And for many a long day she never suffered her 
 eyes to light on her brother John and his bonnie young 
 wife in Kennoway kirk, nor did she ever darken their 
 door. On the solitary occasion when John, on his father's 
 invitation, brought Katie into Auchtermairnie at tea-time 
 on a Sabbath afternoon, Susan retired out to the stack- 
 yard, and remained there till they went away. Her 
 proceedings did not in the least trouble John, who had 
 done his duty by her over and above, but it weighed on 
 Katie's gentle heart, who, poor lassie, was keenly sensitive 
 to the least slight cast upon her, or upon her husband 
 for her sake. She was very happy with him, for she 
 truly loved him, and for two bright years their cottage 
 was the abode of love and peace ; and those who were 
 privileged to sit down by their ingle-neuk went away 
 saying it was good to be there. Of these old sores Susan 
 Bethune was thinking as she stalked in her upright 
 fashion along the green highway to the Star. She was 
 not a comely person to look at, although in youth she 
 had been a handsome lass whom many admired. But 
 now her face was thin and worn, as if a secret sorrow 
 had eaten into her heart, her brow had many wrinkles
 
 20 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 on it, and her resolute mouth many a hard line and un- 
 promising curve. Then her scanty hair was quite grey, 
 and was dressed so plainly and severely that it did not 
 in any way soften her rather prominent features. Her 
 attire was a thrifty gingham of a very large pattern, an 
 ample plaid, and a plain, Quaker-like brown bonnet. It 
 was just about half-past six when she passed by the 
 smithy, and of course there had to be half-a-dozen 
 ploughmen to gape at her, and run in to tell the smith 
 that there was Susan Bethune actually on the way to her 
 brother's. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, 
 Susan Bethune walked through the village to her brother's 
 door. There was a group of women still in Jenny 
 Scott's garden, which considerably augmented as word 
 was passed from door to door that Susan Bethune was in 
 sight. She did not even look at them, nor pause to ask 
 a single question, but lifted the sneck of her old home 
 and walked in. At the kitchen door Mrs. Campbell, the 
 motherly mistress of the Knowe, met her with finger 
 uplifted in solemn warning. 
 
 Susan pushed her impatiently aside and stalked over 
 to the bed. 
 
 Oh, could that white wasted face, with the deep pain- 
 lines upon it, be the winsome face of Katie Law, which 
 had been wont to look so bright and bonnie, like a picture 
 framed by the white lappets of her bridal bonnet ? At 
 the foot of the bed sat John, with his head bowed down 
 upon his hands. 
 
 ' Katie Law's no' deid, is she, Jean Cam'll ? ' asked 
 Susan Bethune quickly. 
 
 'Ay, puir lassie,' said the kind soul with eyes full of 
 tears. ' She has gotten through wi't at last.'
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 BEREAVED. 
 
 Ah, the dead, the un forgot I 
 
 From their solemn homes of thought, 
 
 Or in love or sad rebuke, 
 
 Back upon the living look.' 
 
 WHITTIEK. 
 
 whaur's the bairn ? ' asked Susan in a loud 
 whisper, her expression one of blank con- 
 sternation. For answer the mistress of the 
 Knowe opened the door of the little back 
 room which had been Susan's own sleeping 
 chamber in days gone by, and motioned her 
 to enter. And there by the little low hearth 
 sat Nannie Brown, with two tiny morsels of humanity 
 lying on her knee, 
 
 ' Mercy me ! is there twa ? ' asked Susan so shrilly 
 that thoughtful Jean Campbell instantly shut the door 
 between, so that the desolate mourner in the kitchen 
 might not be disturbed. 
 
 ' Ay, wee twin laddies, puir things ! ' said the large- 
 hearted woman, her eyes bent in an infinite compassion 
 
 upon the motherless infants. 
 
 11
 
 22 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 Very curious was it to see the expression on Susan 
 Bethune's face as she bent over Nannie Brown, and 
 looked earnestly at the bairns. If there yet remained 
 any soft spot in her heart, surely the sight of the twins 
 in their helplessness might have touched it. 
 
 ' It's an unco handfu' for John, puir fellow,' she said 
 in a short, quick way. 'Ae wean wadna hae been sae 
 bad ; but twa ! ' 
 
 ' Ay, puir man ; but the bairns '11 be a comfort tae him, 
 I dinna doot. The verra care they'll be till him will gar 
 him bestir himsel'. But, as ye say, it's a gey handfu' for 
 a weedy man, but we'll just a' need to help to rear Katie's 
 bairns.' Saying which, honest Jean Campbell -looked 
 straight and keen into the hard, unsympathetic face of Susan 
 Bethune, and then turned away with a little sigh. There 
 was not much promise of sympathy or help written there. 
 
 'We'll need tae gang back to Katie noo, Shoosan,' she 
 eaid significantly. 
 
 ' Hae ye gotten a'thing ready ? Had I kent o' this I 
 could hae brocht things frae Auchtermairnie.' 
 
 ' A'thing's in the kist in the kitchen ; Katie showed 
 them to me yestreen, when I lookit in to see how the 
 lassie was keepin' up her heart. Puir wifie, I leuch at 
 her, but there was a solemn and earnest look in her e'e 
 I didna like,' said Jean Campbell sorrowfully. ' There's 
 a lang bedgoon an' a cap the Misses gied her, a' sewed 
 by their ain hands ; but maybe ye hae seen them ? ' 
 
 ' Hoo could I see them ? Brawly ye ken, Jean Cam'll, 
 that I hae never been in John's hoose sin' his waddin',' 
 answered Susan Bethune harshly, for her conscience was 
 at work remorselessly reproaching her for the part she 
 had acted towards her brother's unoffending wife. She 
 could have wished now that she had been less hard ; but 
 what avails such regret when it comes too late ? Well
 
 BEREAVED. 23 
 
 for us if we stifle not our finer impulses while opportunity 
 is given for their fulfilment. From the grave none come 
 back to receive atonement from the living. 
 
 Gently Jean Campbell opened the door once more, and 
 re-entered the kitchen. All was as they had left it, the 
 pale, sweet, still face on the pillow, and the bent figure 
 of the man at the foot of the bed, sitting so motionless 
 that it might have been thought he too had bidden 
 farewell to life. 
 
 'John, my man/ said the tremulous, kind voice of 
 Jean Campbell, while Susan stood awkwardly by, seeing 
 nothing but the dead face of Katie Law, which seemed 
 to wear for her a look of unutterable reproach. 'John, 
 my man,' repeated Jean Campbell, when her first words 
 made no impression, 'ye'll hae to gang into the ither 
 end till we get things dune. Shoosan's here, John, 
 anxious to dae her best to help ye in yer trouble.' 
 
 A deep and shuddering sigh shook the stalwart frame, 
 and he rose heavily to his feet. He looked at his sister, 
 who, poor awkward soul, so out of place in the house of 
 sorrow, would have uttered her sympathy had she known 
 how, then walked away to the door, took his hat from its 
 accustomed place, and went out into the still brightness 
 of the summer night. The little knot of gossiping wives, 
 oblivious of everything except this topic of absorbing 
 interest, hushed their whispering voices and fell apart a 
 little at sight of John Bethune. So far as he was con- 
 cerned, they might have continued their talk, for he saw 
 them not. For the time being John Bethune was 
 possessed by one thought, so deep and awful that it was 
 more than he could bear. The wife whom he had loved, 
 nay, whom he had worshipped with all the rugged 
 strength of his deep, intense nature, lay dead in the house. 
 That fact, like a great black despairing cloud, shut out
 
 24 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 all else from the man's mind. He walked slowly up the 
 middle of the road till he reached the schoolhouse, and 
 when the schoolmaster, busy among his flowers, saw 
 him, he leaned over the low wall and asked for Mrs. 
 Bethune. 
 
 ' Katie's deid, Maister,' John answered, and passed on 
 without paying any attention to what the schoolmaster 
 was saying. Mr. Farquhar watched him turn down the 
 footpath to the moss, and when a few minutes later he 
 had occasion to go to the back of the house for his spade 
 he saw a solitary figure sadly wending its way through 
 the green heather tops, in a slow, aimless fashion. Then 
 a look of deep compassion came upon the master's face ; 
 he knew by experience how awful is that first lone, 
 silent battle with the sorrow of a life. John Bethune 
 was alone indeed in the solitude of the moss, for the 
 peat-workers were all away home, and there stood the 
 carts, laden and covered, ready to go off in the early 
 morning to Cupar. For a time he wandered up and 
 down the brown, uneven ridges, even looked curiously at 
 the place where the folks had been casting peats that 
 very day, and then, coming all at once to a fresh, green 
 hillock covered with soft turf and budding heather, he 
 sat down and nerved himself to face manfully his 
 bereavement to look a little ahead into life without 
 Katie. Oh, but it was dreary work ! and as he thought 
 of the empty, empty house, great heavy tears gathered 
 in his eyes, and seemed to burn themselves into channels 
 on his cheeks. They were wrung from the very depths 
 of a heart not touched by every passing emotion ; they 
 were such tears as men shed only once or twice in a life- 
 time. It was curious, and yet perhaps not to be 
 wondered at, that John Bethune had forgotten all about 
 the bairns, the helpless little laddies who would never
 
 BEREAVED. 25 
 
 know a mother's care. His thoughts would not go 
 frrward at his bidding ; they only lingered regretfully 
 with the past, mocking him almost with its precious 
 memories, with the sweetness of its happy, tranquil days. 
 Oh, these two brief, bright years had been like a breath 
 of heaven to him ! no man had been more blessed, more 
 utterly content than he ! Then something of the stern 
 old creed his grandmother had taught him rose up before 
 him, reminding him how he had sinned and come short. 
 He had not crucified the flesh, nor kept himself from 
 idols ; for had not Katie been his idol, whom he had 
 loved and worshipped with a fervour which condemned 
 him now ? Ah, it is so much easier to take to our 
 hearts a living, breathing presence that can give love for 
 love, than to yearn for the infinite and unknown, that 
 can only be approached by faith. It seems to me that 
 faith is not a natural impulse to humanity, but rather a 
 plant cultivated in the soil of sorrow and disappointment. 
 By and by there stole into John Bethune's heart a sweeter 
 assurance than that old stern creed ; and these words 
 whispered themselves to him in accents of healing: 
 ' Love one another, as I have loved you.' With that 
 deep peace and comforting thought there came to him also, 
 with a sudden sweetness, a consciousness of the exceeding 
 beauty and fulness which encompassed him, that sunset 
 beauty which Katie had loved to look upon in the long 
 summer evenings from their cottage door. Their common 
 love for the sights and sounds of nature had been a very 
 sweet bond between them. The sun had set over the 
 Lomond Hill, and the sweet gloaming was creeping over 
 the earth, without quenching too suddenly the lingering 
 glory still streaming from the radiant west. The sky 
 was a wonder of loveliness, in its thousand varying hues, 
 soft, indescribable, inimitable tints mingling with clear 
 
 3
 
 26 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 azure and brilliant carmine shot with bars of gold. 
 Eight above the little cottage, where kind hands were 
 preparing Katie for her last sleep, the moon hung clear 
 and bright, only waiting for the. darkness to show her 
 wondrous power. The pleasant stillness was only broken 
 by the cheery chirp of the corn-craik, or by the lowing 
 of the cows in Broomfield Park growing impatient for 
 the sweet bunch of clover awaiting them in the byre at 
 milking-time. The fair world was full of promise ; haw- 
 thorn-tree and sweet-brier bush were bursting into bloom, 
 the graceful ferns were uncurling their delicate fronds in 
 every shady nook, and in another month the moss would 
 be a blaze of purple heather bells. John Bethune 
 wondered at the rapid progress everything had made 
 since he had been down the moss with Katie a month 
 ago on a Sabbath evening. 
 
 A quick sob broke from his lips as the thought came 
 home sharply that never again should he walk with 
 Katie here or anywhere, till perchance they might 
 together pace the golden streets of that happier home to 
 which God had already taken her. 
 
 He rose up to his feet, uplifted his eyes to the sky 
 with a passionate, yearning gaze, as if they would fain 
 penetrate its mysteries, and find Katie beyond. 
 
 As he turned to go, there came stealing across the 
 green fields the note of the cuckoo, calling sweetly and 
 clearly to his mate : another thing to bring back memo- 
 ries of Katie, for only yesterday she had said the cuckoo 
 was late this year, and wondered whether he had quitted 
 his haunt in the Falkland Wood. Ah, well ! he had 
 many sweet memories to live upon, and the hope that was 
 in him would give strength for each day, and what 
 need we more ? 
 
 When John Bethune once more entered his own
 
 BEREAVED. 27 
 
 dwelling, there was nobody in the kitchen, and he was 
 glad of it ; for he could look unobserved at the sweet 
 face of the silent sleeper on the bed ; and though the 
 murmuring sound of voices in the inner room told that 
 the house was not deserted, he entered so softly that 
 they did not hear him. Very softly, and with reverent 
 hand, did John Bethune lift the pure covering from his 
 wife's face, and let his eyes dwell upon it. Even a little 
 time had wrought a change there, for all the pain-lines 
 were gone, and there had even crept back to the girlish 
 cheek a sweet hint of the bloom of yore. So natural 
 and life-like did she look, indeed, that it was hard to 
 believe that death had claimed the mortal part of Katie 
 Law for ever. Everything about her was spotlessly 
 white and of the finest quality, gifts from the kind 
 ladies who bad been very loth indeed to part with her. 
 Little did they dream how soon, and in what way, their 
 handiwork was to be used. On the little deal table at 
 the side of t^e bed, Jean Campbell, with one of these 
 finer touches so characteristic of her, had spread a pure 
 linen cloth, and laid Katie's Bible on it, side by side 
 with a little bunch of lily-of-the- valley, which grew so 
 plentifully in a shady nook behind the rain-water barrel 
 at the back of the house. These little things touched 
 and soothed John Bethune, and the look of peace 
 deepened on his face. With a gentle sigh, he let the 
 covering fall lightly over the face again ; it did not occur 
 to him to kiss or touch the dead. The Katie he had loved 
 was not lying there, but was even now mingling with the 
 great company of the redeemed. So, lifting Katie's Bible, 
 he sat down by the hearth, and opened it at the Eevela- 
 tion. And there Susan found him, when she came out 
 presently to get something for the infants. She started, 
 not having heard him come in ; and then she looked
 
 28 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 rather helplessly round, as if she felt she ought to say 
 something, but could not find words. 
 
 ' Is that you, Susan ? ' said John, and he actually 
 smiled. ' I am glad to see ye. I wish ye had jist come 
 a wee quicker. Katie wearied on ye comin' ; but that's 
 past.' 
 
 ' Had I kent she was that ill, John, I wad hae come,' 
 Susan answered quickly. ' Bide a wee, till I fill the 
 kettle for Nannie, an' I'll sit down aside ye a wee. We 
 maun see what's to be dune wi' the handfu' ben the 
 hoose.' 
 
 In her own swift, decided, but rather noisy way, 
 Susan filled the kettle from the water pitcher in the 
 lobby, and took it back to the room fire. Then she 
 returned to the kitchen, shutting the door between, so 
 that Nannie might not hear what they said. 
 
 ' It is a handfu', John,' she said, sitting down by the 
 fireside, and crossing her hands on her lap. ' I dinna 
 ken in a' the world what ye are to dae wi' the craturs, 
 that's a fact.' 
 
 ' Is Mistress Cam'll awa', Susan ? ' asked John 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Ay, it was byre-time. She's a kind woman, Jean 
 Campbell, an' a prudent as weel. She disna carry clashes 
 ony way frae hoose to hoose.' 
 
 'No, she's abune that. Ay, I'll no' forget what 
 Jean Campbell has dune for me and mine, Shoosan. 
 She's been like a mither tae Katie sin' ever she 
 cam' to the Star ; and Dauvit's no' ahint her in 
 kindness.' 
 
 'Weel, weel, I dinna doot,' said Susan with a note of 
 impatience in her voice. ' But what's to be dune wi' 
 the bairns ? that's the question in the meantime.' 
 
 ' The bairns ? I'll get them brocht up some way.
 
 BEREAVED. 29 
 
 I'll get some decent middle-aged woman to come an' keep 
 the boose ; an' Jean Campbell promised Katie that she 
 wad see that the bairns were weel guided. Nae doot it'll 
 be a battle ; but life's a battle at the best.' 
 
 ' Imphim,' was Susan Bethune's sole comment. Truth 
 to tell, it piqued her to find that John did not count in 
 any way upon her assistance. And yet, what could she 
 expect ? What had lier treatment been of him and his 
 for many a day ? 
 
 "' Ye'll no' hae heard that Peter's gauna tak' a wife/ 
 she said presently. 
 
 ' Peter ! ' exclaimed John, looking up in utter surprise. 
 ' Ye dinna mean to say't ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, div I,' repeated Susan rather sourly. ' There's 
 nae fules like auld fules ; it's Sammy Tamson's weedy in 
 the Windy gates he's seekiu'.' 
 
 ' That auld wife ! ' 
 
 ' Ay, that auld wife. He's gane to the opposite 
 extreme,' said Susan grimly. ' Of coorse it's her siller 
 an' her gear. There's naething bonnie nor braw aboot 
 her ; an' sic a temper. He's bad they say, but she'll 
 kick up bonnie waps in Auchtermairnie, I can tell 
 ye.' 
 
 ' You an' her'll no' 'gree very sair, I doot, Shoosan,' 
 said John soberly. 
 
 ' Me an' her gree ! we'll no' try't. When she comes in 
 I gang oot. I'm no' that auld nor that failed but I can 
 earn saut to my kail yet.' 
 
 There was a short silence, for John Bethune was 
 revolving in his mind whether it would be just to Katie 
 and to Katie's bairns to ask Susan to come back to the 
 Star. He need hardly have hesitated on Katie's account 
 either. Well did he know that she, in her angel com- 
 passion and sweet charity would have been the very
 
 30 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 first to offer poor Susan a home. For she was to be 
 pitied indeed. It seemed as if nobody in the wide 
 earth had need of her; she was a woman who had 
 tnissed her mark in life. 
 
 ' Is't to be sune, Shoosan ? ' he asked at length. 
 
 'At' Mairtinmas,' was Susan's brief response. 'I 
 daursay it micht be suner were I oot the road ; but I 
 canna get a place till the term.' 
 
 ' What's faither sayin' til't ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, naething. He's gettin' into his dotage, puir man, 
 an' he thinks a'thiug Pete does is richt. The twa hae 
 gotten completely roond the auld man, an' when Lucky 
 Tamson gets her nose stappit into Auchtermairnie, 
 there'll no' muckle come oot o't for you or me, John.' 
 
 'Ye're welcome to come back to yer auld bit, 
 Shoosan, if ye can be fashed wi' the toil o' the bairns,' 
 said John slowly. ' Ye'll no' tak' kindly workin' to the 
 frem at your years. What d'ye say ? ' 
 
 Susan Bethune sat in absolute silence, with her eyes 
 fixed on the smouldering fire. There was a strange 
 softness in them when she raised them to her brother's 
 face. 
 
 ' If ye wad let me, John,' she said, her hard voice a 
 trifle unsteady, 'I wad toil nicht an' day for you an' 
 for the bairns. I'll seek naething but my bite an' sup, 
 an' I'll guide the bairns as weel as ever I can, for the 
 sake o' her that's awa.' 
 
 ' Then ye'll come, Shoosan ? thank ye,' said John 
 quietly, and for a time there was no more said. 
 
 ' John,' said Susan at last, her voice sunk almost to a 
 whisper, ' d'ye think Katie forgied me afore she gaed 
 awa'. Oh, if I had only the chaiice to tell her noo hoo I 
 rue my daein's in the past ! ' 
 
 'There was naething in Katie's heart, Shoosan, but
 
 BEREAVED. 31 
 
 love an' kindness to every human bein' ; she never 
 spak' o' you but wi' respect,' said John ; and then 
 he laid down his head on Katie's Bible, wholly over- 
 come. 
 
 Unwonted tears stood in Susan Bethune's eyes as 
 she witnessed the tempest of grief which shook the 
 stalwart frame of her brother John. There is some- 
 thing awe-inspiring in the upheaving of a still, self-con- 
 tained nature ; we stand silent before such dear-bought 
 tears. 
 
 ' Dinna, John, dinna gie way ! ' pleaded Susan, for she 
 could not bear the sight. Then she rose up and touched 
 him gently on the shoulder ; and after a moment their 
 hands met in a fervent clasp. They were very near 
 together in that moment. It was as if the long years 
 had rolled back, and they were boy and girl again, 
 gathering buttercup and gowan by the wayside, with 
 naught but love in their hearts. And so sorrow is 
 infinite in its power, infinite because divine.
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 ' Then turn, and the old duties take, 
 Alone now yet with earnest will, 
 Gathering sweet sacred traces still, 
 To help thee on.' 
 
 ADELAID, 
 
 >EXT morning word was sent to such as had 
 been more intimate neighbours, or had shown 
 any special kindness to the dead, to come 
 and see her as she lay so still and white in 
 the sleep which knows no earthly awakening. 
 It was an old custom peculiar to the place, and 
 though John Bethune did not himself care about 
 it, Susan was very particular that no mark of respect 
 should be wanting, and that the neighbours should not 
 have an opening to say that anything was neglected or 
 passed by. All who were asked came as a matter of 
 course ; to stay away would have been taken as a mark 
 of disrespect to the dead. When the wives" began to 
 arrive, John retired into the shop and sat down at his 
 loom, for he could not have borne to see so many curious 
 
 M
 
 ALONE. 33 
 
 eyes staring at his darling, nor could he have endured to 
 hear the stream of morbid talk at which her death and the 
 circumstances would give rise. He heard, however, the 
 low and continuous hum of conversation, which was only 
 interrupted once by the shrill wail of the infants, doubt- 
 less roused from their slumber to be inspected by the 
 throng. Susan Bethune comported herself with dignity 
 through the ceremonies, and in her effective way put her 
 foot on any questions which she deemed the outcome of 
 idle curiosity. Two qualities Susan Bethune possessed 
 beyond a doubt, prudence and reserve concerning herself 
 and the affairs of her own family ; and certainly none 
 could accuse her of meddling with other people's busi- 
 ness. The neighbours were obliged to retire at last with 
 their curiosity still unsatisfied, for Susan had skilfully 
 parried every question concerning her brother's inten- 
 tions, and when Kirsty Paterson, more bold in her 
 curiosity than the others, had inquired whether the 
 bairns were to be taken home to Auchtermairnie, she 
 only answered with a fine indifference, ' Maybe, Kirsty,' 
 but even that was sufficient for that worthy's fertile 
 imagination, for she immediately took it upon her to 
 publish abroad the fact that John Bethune's bairns were 
 going home to Auchtermairnie, with the further ground- 
 less addition that he was more than likely to leave the 
 loom, and give up the land, though it was paying well 
 enough, just because he could not bear to live in the 
 Star without Katie. So news was spread in the Star 
 by the indefatigable Kirsty, whose sole occupation and 
 interest in life was ' redding up ' her neighbours and 
 their affairs. t It was well enough known that the truth 
 was not in her, and yet it was wonderful how her stories 
 spread and were believed in the place ; and how those 
 who behind her back applied to her the choice appella-
 
 34 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ti.n of 'an auld leear,' were the very readiest to stand 
 open-mouthed while she emptied her repertoire for their 
 benefit. In the gloaming that same night one of the 
 ploughman lads from the Knowe went from door to 
 door, as was the fashion, bidding the folk turn out to 
 Katie Law's burying at two o'clock next afternoon. So 
 in the sweet, still, drowsy sunshine the mournful proces- 
 sion set out from John Bethune's door to lay Katie 
 Law in her last resting-place beside the Bethunes in 
 Kennoway kirkyard. At his father's earnest solici- 
 tation John Bethune went into Auchtermairnie to 
 his tea on the way home, and to have a talk over 
 family affairs. 
 
 ' Shoosan '11 hae tae telt ye, dootless, that Pete's 
 gaun to get Mag Tamson,' said the old man with a 
 queer, dry chuckle. 'What think ye o' his bargain, 
 John ? ' 
 
 ' If Pete is pleased, faither, it's nae business o' mine,' 
 answered John languidly, for it seemed strange to him 
 that other men should be thinking of marrying when 
 such desolation had overtaken him. 'There's naething 
 against the woman that I ken o'.' 
 
 ' Na, na, there's naething against her, an' she has a 
 wecht o' siller, forby sax or seeven hooses east at Enster. 
 Ay, ay, Pete's a sly dowg. Ye never was sae wise in 
 yer ain interest, or ye wad never hae taen her 
 that's awa, puir lassie,' said the old man. ' Wheesht, 
 here's Pete 1 Dinna let on I was sayin* onything 
 aboot Mag.' 
 
 Peter Bethune, jealous and suspicious lest they should 
 have been discussing him, had wrenched himself away 
 from the neighbours discussing ' craps ' on the road, and 
 came hurriedly up to them just as they reached the 
 door. It hurt John to see how the old man cowered in
 
 ALONE. 35 
 
 behind him, as if afraid to encounter Peter's evil eye. 
 He knew that his brother was not a pleasant person 
 to live with, but he had no idea of the manner in 
 which he persecuted the old man, until his life had 
 become a miserable burden, which he would gladly 
 lay down. 
 
 ' I'll jist awa' up an' see if Geordie minded to water 
 the staigs,' he said nervously, hurrying off in his funeral 
 clothes, as if glad to get out of the way. 
 
 ' What was the auld ane sayin' aboot me ? ' inquired 
 Peter suspiciously. ' Had he a fine story about the 
 Windy gates ? ' 
 
 'No, Shoosan telt me that, Peter,' answered John 
 quietly. ' Ye're no' ill to please wi" a wife.' 
 
 ' What faut has she ? She's maybe no sae young 
 an' weel-faured as yours was,' said Peter with unfeeling 
 candour. ' But she has years upon her heid, an' sense, 
 which few weemin hae.' 
 
 'An' siller in her pocket forby, Pete,' added John 
 with the glimmer of a dry smile. ' Weel, if ye be 
 half sae happy as I was, ye'll bless the day ye ever 
 saw her.' 
 
 And then his eyes wandered eastward in the direction 
 of the quiet kirkyard, where the sunshine of his life had 
 been buried not an hour ago. 
 
 * Shoosan's unco ill at it, John,' said Peter pre- 
 sently. ' But a man canna live single for ever, because 
 he happens to hae a sister at hame. What think 
 ye?' 
 
 ' I dinna think Shoosan's that ill at it, Pete,' said 
 John gently. ,' But ye needna bother yersel' about her. 
 She's comin' back to her auld bit in the Star.' 
 
 ' Eh, d'ye say sae ? ' queried Peter with a quick, eager, 
 satisfied grin. ' That's a guid thing for her ' (' an' for
 
 36 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 me,' was on his lips, but with unusual consideration he 
 held his peace). 
 
 Then they went into the house, and Peter, casting 
 his black coat, set on the kettle, and proceeded to put 
 the tea-things on the table, for Susan had well schooled 
 the men-folk of the household in the art of doing for 
 themselves. It could not, however, be called a tempting 
 meal, and John ate very sparingly, and spoke but little. 
 He did not know what it was, but in Pete's presence he 
 felt his lips sealed, and could only answer his remarks in 
 the briefest monosyllables. 
 
 ' I'll need to be stappin',' he said directly the meal 
 was over. ' Shoosan '11 be weary in' ; an' it's time I was 
 hame.' 
 
 ' Ye micht sit till I gang up to the field and 
 see what they're aboot. It's near lowsin' time,' said 
 Peter." 'An' syne I'll gang wast the road a bit 
 wi' ye.' 
 
 ' I'll no' wait, Peter. Faither '11 convoy me a bit. 
 I hae twa-three things to speak about onyway,' said 
 John, rising to his feet. 
 
 Peter looked rather annoyed. He was divided be- 
 tween jealousy of what John and his father might say, 
 and distrust of his ploughmen, who, as is often the case 
 with those bound to a hard master, were only eye and 
 lip servants, who only did their duty under that master's 
 supervision. 
 
 ' Ye're in a fell hurry,' he said sourly. ' Ye'll no' 
 gang faur, faither ; there's a heap adae, an' it'll be sax 
 o'clock in a crack.' 
 
 ' No, I'll no' bide,' said the old man meekly, and 
 walked away very gladly with John, half expecting Peter 
 to call him back every minute. ' Pete's an awfu' billy 
 to work, John,' he said when they were fairly out on
 
 ALONE. 37 
 
 the road ; and a little sigh followed the words, as if he 
 felt weary at times of his son's industry. 
 
 ' Let him work as hard as he likes, faither, but dinna 
 you fash,' said John in his kind way. ' Ye hae gane . 
 mony a lang, sair yoldn' in yer time. Ye should rest noo.' 
 
 ' Eh, man, Pete wadna let me. He hands at me 
 mornin', mine, an' nicht. I canna get my twa hoors 
 at denner-time like the men ; an' I'm fell wearit for't, 
 I can tell ye. I'm whiles ower tired at nicht to 
 sleep,' said the old man childishly. ' Ye wadna be 
 sae hard on the auld ane, John.' 
 
 ' Peter has nae richt to gar ye work, faither. Are ye 
 no' the maister ? Dinna dae it.' 
 
 ' It's easy sayin' that, but I'm fear't at Pete, John. 
 He's a wild loon, an' he's gotten the better o' me,' said 
 the old man hopelessly. ' It'll be waur, I doot, when 
 Mag Tamson conies hame. She's no' just wi' greed, they 
 say, an' a tearin' worker as weel. I whiles wish, John, 
 that I was lyin' quate i' the mools, as weel's yer mither 
 an' yer wifie, puir lammib. She had aye a bonnie bit 
 blink for the auld man.' 
 
 'Faither,' said John after a pause, 'ye hinna let 
 Pete get his haund on the siller or the deeds o' ony o' the 
 property, hae ye ? ' 
 
 ' 'Deed he's gotten mair nor he should hae gotten. I 
 hav'na the heid I used to hae, John, an' he said he wad 
 manage things for me an' save bother. But I'll hae to 
 gang ower to Cupar, I doot, an' see Wulson the writer. 
 If I could get slippit awa' some Seterday, maybe when 
 Pete's at Kirkcaldy market, ye micht meet me at 
 Markinch, an' we wad gang up thegither.' 
 
 ' I could dae that, but there's nae reason what way we 
 should dae onything on the sly, faither. I'll come along 
 some nicht sune, an' redd things up wi' Pete. The
 
 38 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 siller's naething to me, but there's Shoosan. She deserves 
 her share. She has wrocht for it.' 
 
 ' Verra weel ; only dinna roose Pete, or there'll be nae 
 leevin' wi' him/ said the old man rather anxiously. ' I 
 houp, my man, that nane o' your bits o' laddies '11 be as 
 ill to you as Pete's been to me.' 
 
 ' I houp no', faither,' was John's answer, given in a 
 low, almost stern voice, for his righteous ire was kindled 
 against his brother. 
 
 ' Weel, I'll awa' hame, John,' said his father when 
 they reached the gate of Newtonhall. 'I'll mebbe 
 come wast an' see the bairns gin Sawbath nicht if 
 you an' Shoosan's no' east. Dinna be lang o' comin', 
 wull ye no' ?' 
 
 ' No, I'll no' be lang, faither,' answered John with a 
 kind smile, and, shaking his father warmly by the hand, 
 he turned and went his way. The old man looked back 
 often ere the curve in the road hid his son from sight, 
 and there was a moisture in his poor dim eyes suspiciously 
 akin to tears. 
 
 It seemed to John Bethune, as he entered his own 
 door that night, that he had left the sweetest and best 
 part of his life behind for ever, and that what still 
 remained, whether long or short, would only be a life 
 of duty and conscientious care, unmixed with any bright- 
 ness whatsoever. That had all been buried that day in 
 Katie's grave. Susan was sitting at the fire with the two 
 infants on her lap, and it was quite wonderful how much 
 at home she looked in that position. They were not 
 asleep, only lying toasting their little pink feet, and 
 blinking at the fire. 
 
 'Weel, John, hae ye gotten 'd a' by?' said she very 
 softly for her. 'Ye've surely been in at Auchter- 
 mairnie ? '
 
 ALONE. 39 
 
 'Ay, faither wadna let me by. I've gotten my 
 tea, Susan,' answered John, and, laying off his black 
 coat, he came over and stood looking with a strange 
 curiosity at the little atoms of humanity on his sister's 
 knee. 
 
 ' They're sma' but they're fin^ bairns, John/ said 
 Susan, not without pride. ' A'body says sae.' 
 
 Ay, they're verra sma'. It's queer to think that 
 they'll be men some day. They'll tak' a heap o' growin' 
 afore then.' 
 
 ' They 11 come on. "What are ye gaun to ca' them, 
 John ? ' 
 
 ' The auldest ane '11 be Alexander, efter faither an' 
 efter godly Alexander Bethune that fell beside Eathillet 
 on Airsmoss,' said John. 'We'll mak' him a minister, 
 Shoosan. Katie aye said that if the bairn was a laddie, 
 she wad mak' him a minister.' 
 
 ' An' the ither ane ? ' 
 
 ' Jeems, I think. Katie had aince a brither, ye ken, 
 an' his name was Jeems. We'll ca' him Jeems Law. I 
 think Katie wad like that.' 
 
 ' An' what'll ye mak' o' him ? ' 
 
 'I dinna ken. We'll see hoo the laddie turns oot. 
 There's the laund here, ye ken, an' the loom efter I'm 
 dune.' 
 
 ' I doot if he'll uo content to sit at a loom a' his days, 
 puir man,' said Susan. ' Wha'll ye get to carry them to 
 the kirk, John.' 
 
 ' Naebody. Maister Bell '11 jht come oot an' christen 
 them in the hoose. He disna care aboot it, I ken ; but 
 m the circumstances he'll come.' 
 
 ' Surely,' answered Susan. ' I wish I had the next 
 three year by, John. Did ye say onything to Pete 
 aboot Mag Tamson ? '
 
 40 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' No' me ; he spak aboot her first. I think the auld 
 man has a puir time o't wi' Pete. He's a graspin', hard- 
 hearted lump.' 
 
 'Ay is he/ answered Susan with extreme emphasis. 
 ' Mag Tamson maybe thinks she's gotten a bargain, but 
 she'll find oot her mistak'. If she has a' they say, she's 
 a fule to tak' oor Pete. The twasome '11 fecht like cat 
 an' dowg.' 
 
 ' We hae naething adae wi' that, Shoosan ; but we'll 
 hae to see that faither gets justice atween them,' answered 
 John rather wearily, as if the discussion saddened and 
 annoyed him. ' But I'll hae to get awa' to the loom. This 
 kind o' wark '11 no' fill thae twa mooths,' he said with a 
 mournful smile, and touching with tender, almost reverent 
 finger the soft faces of the bairns. ' I'm like you, 
 Shoosan ; I could wish the next three year, ay, an' the 
 next twenty year by, or I see the craturs stannin' on 
 their ain legs.' 
 
 ' I dinna ken, maybe they'll be a greater care then 
 nor the noo,' answered Susan. 
 
 ' Ye're richt. We can but houp an' pray that they 
 may grow up wi' the grace o' God in their hearts, an' 
 then there'll be nae fear o' them,' said John as he turned 
 away to resume his work, which had been laid aside since 
 Katie's death. 
 
 It was dreary work for a few days, ay, for weeks at 
 first, and yet it was wonderful how the interest of 
 the bairns kept his thoughts from dwelling too much 
 and too painfully on his loss. It is a merciful pro- 
 vision God makes oftentimes for the bereaved. He 
 knows so well just what we need, and how much we 
 can endure. 
 
 The twins were just like other children, more fretful 
 than they might have been, perhaps, under their mother's
 
 ALONE. 41 
 
 care. For Susan, poor body, though so willing, was of 
 necessity awkward in handling them, and made many a 
 queer and laughable mistake. But she did her duty by 
 them faithfully, as any mother could have done, bearing 
 patiently their fretfulness, and never uttering a word of 
 grumbling or complaint. Even those who disliked her 
 most could not say otherwise than that she had done 
 well. The first year was one of toil more unremitting 
 and wearing than even John Bethune dreamed of. But 
 by and by, when they were past the most trying period 
 of child-life, and began to toddle on their own little legs, 
 and utter these uncertain sounds which fall so sweetly 
 from baby lips trying the mysteries of speech, they 
 became a constant source of interest and diversion to 
 their father and their aunt. They made for both the 
 very sunshine of life, and often John Bethune's eyes 
 would till with unbidden tears at the thought of the joy 
 it would have been to Katie to have watched with him 
 the gradual and exquisite unfolding of their infant 
 powers. 
 
 Before the twins were six months old, Peter Bethune's 
 wife entered upon her reign at Auchtermairnie. She was 
 a widow, with a married daughter, and three grown-up 
 sons, who, however, were all in the way of doing for 
 themselves. She was a managing, clever woman, and 
 for the first time in his life Peter Bethune tasted the 
 luxury of being thwarted and set aside. His wife had 
 been accustomed to rule all her days, and it was not 
 easy for her to obey now. Both being obstinate, they 
 speedily disagreed ; and it appeared as if Susan's pre- 
 diction was likely to be fulfilled. 
 
 She was avaricious as her husband, but she had finer 
 feelings, and a higher sense of right and wrong. There- 
 fore she upheld John in his desire to have the property 
 
 4
 
 42 THE. GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 equally divided, and she also shielded the old man from 
 Peter's petty tyranny ; and, indeed, tried to do her duty 
 at Auchtennairnie. But there could never be happiness 
 there, for there was neither grace nor love to sweeten 
 life's daily toil. But there was love and peace in the 
 little cottage at the Star, and Katie's bairns grew apace, 
 until they left their childhood behind.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TWO SONS. 
 * The deep, sad yearnings of an earnest soul.' 
 
 'T was the third week in September, and the 
 folk were all ' leading in ' round about the 
 Star an early and abundant harvest. The 
 days were shortening fast ; the mistress had 
 to take a lantern to the milking at nights, 
 and the early mornings were beginning to be 
 very cold and grey. But it was a busy, happy, 
 cheerful time, and when it was well over, folk were 
 ready to prepare themselves for the lighter labours and 
 more abundant leisure of the winter. 
 
 The harvest moon was at its full on the' night when 
 David Campbell was building the last stack in the corn 
 yard ; it was his custom, and had been his father's before 
 him, to build the first and the last stack every year. The 
 mistress paused for a moment when she left the byre to 
 watch the stir in the yard, and then hurried down to the 
 house with her pails, to find the usual little knot of 
 customers clustered at the door discussing the homely 
 gossip of the day. 
 
 43
 
 44 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'Ye're a' there that's ony thing worth, I see,' she 
 said in her cheery way. ' I'm late the nicht, for baith 
 Mary and me's been oot the best pairt o' the day. 
 The thrang '11 wear by, though, an' then we'll get a 
 breath.' 
 
 ' Your thrang's seldom by, Mistress Cam'll,' said Kirsty 
 Paterson with a kind of girn, just as if she grudged the 
 mistress her busy, happy life. 
 
 'Aweel, Kirsty, if it never wear by, we maun jist 
 fecht on till we maun lie doon,' she said, as she mea- 
 sured out the milk with swift, unerring hand. 
 
 Kirsty took her milk and retired, but hung on the 
 doorstep a minute to hear a neighbour make some 
 remark about some strangers who had come to Carriston 
 by the afternoon train. Mrs. Campbell was civil and 
 attentive to them, but she did not encourage them to 
 stand, for her hands were so full of work she hardly 
 knew where to turn. When she went ben to the kitchen, 
 she started to see a figure sitting on her husband's chair, 
 apparently deep in thought. 
 
 ' Oh, it's you, Jamie Bethune ? ' she said pleasantly. 
 ' A' weel the nicht ? Is yer auntie better ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, she's better,' answered the lad briefly. 
 
 ' Yer faither an' Sandy's back frae St. Andrews. Mary 
 saw them gang yont the road i' the darkenin',' she said, 
 as she proceeded to light the lamp. ' Is ony thing 
 settled ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, it's a' settled,' answered the lad in the same still, 
 quiet way. ' Sandy gangs awa' to the college Monday 
 eight day a' 
 
 ' Aweel, I wish him weel,' said the mistress ; ard for 
 a little there was no more said. Although she was 
 silent, she was keenly watching the lad as she went 
 busily about preparing supper for the men ; and she saw
 
 TWO SONS. 45 
 
 well enough that there was something amiss. Jamie 
 Bethune, the younger of poor Katie Law's twins, had 
 grown to be a tall, slender stripling, of build and appearance 
 more resembling a city boy than one reared in the Star. 
 He stood already five feet nine in his stockings, but his 
 figure was loose and unformed ; his pale face, with its 
 large, irregular features, very thin and haggard. It was 
 not a handsome, scarcely a good-looking face, but it was 
 redeemed from plainness by the earnest, speaking dark 
 eyes, which shone like stars under a broad, open brow, 
 indicative of ability and thought. Jamie Bethune was not 
 of much account in the Star, being spoken of mostly as 
 Sandy's brother. It was Sandy, bright, clever, rattling 
 Sandy, who won everybody's heart, and made his mark 
 wherever he went. Few loved the shy, awkward 
 younger brother, because he was really known to very 
 few. 
 
 ' What's your trouble, Jamie, my man ? ' said Jean 
 Campbell kindly; for, in spite of all, Jamie was her 
 favourite, because he reminded her of the poor young 
 mother she had loved so well. 
 
 ' Naething. I was only thinking; that's a',' answered 
 the lad with a heavy sigh, which escaped him against 
 his will or inclination. 
 
 'Ay,' was the mistress's reply, but that dry mono- 
 syllable implied a great deaL ' Tell yer faither, Jamie, 
 that we'll be at his barley the morn. The last sheaf '11 be 
 in aff Edom's land by this time, I expeck. Ye've a guid 
 crap the maister tells me ! ' 
 
 ' Ay, it's no' bad,' said Jamie, rousing himself with an 
 effort. 'They've graund stuff on Auchtermairnie this 
 year, Mrs. Campbell. Uncle Peter was tellin' 's on 
 Sawbath that he has some oats very near six feet high.' 
 
 'That'll please yer Uncle Peter, laddie/ said the
 
 46 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 mistress with a laugh ; ' he likes by-ordinar* things. 
 Oh, here's Mary. Mysie's surely ta'en an unco' strippin 
 the nicht, lassie ! ' 
 
 The young girl, who at that moment entered the 
 kitchen, turned her hack to hide the deep blush which 
 overspread her bonnie face, but she had never a word to 
 say. A sweet and winsome lassie was Mary Campbell, 
 the orphan daughter of David Campbell's brother, who had 
 come to them when she was a little toddling thing, 
 scarcely able to walk or talk. She had been in all 
 respects like a child of their own to the childless couple 
 at the Knowe, and the love between them was almost as 
 strong as that between parent and child. She was only 
 sixteen, a year younger than the Bethunes, whose com- 
 panion and playmate she had been since ever she had 
 come to the Star. 
 
 She was not only bonnie, but her bright and happy 
 disposition made her beloved by both young and old. No 
 harvest maiden or other merrymaking was complete with- 
 out her, and at the dancing when the market came round 
 she had more partners than any of her companions. But 
 though she was such a favourite she disarmed all envy 
 and jealousy by her own sweet gentleness, and there was 
 not a particle of coquetry in Mary Campbell's disposition. 
 Her aunt had brought her up to work early and late, 
 but she was wonderfully indulgent, and did not try her 
 strength too far. When she had somewhat recovered 
 herself she nodded to Jamie Bethune, and, taking off the 
 big apron tied above her dainty print dress, she smoothed 
 her shining fair hair before the little glass. It was a 
 bonnie, rosy, healthy-hued face reflected there, lit by a 
 pair of deep grey eyes, capable of many varying expres- 
 sions ; it was curious that when in repose these eyes gave 
 to Mary Campbell's face a somewhat sad cast, which would
 
 TWO SONS. 47 
 
 have surprised those who knew her only in her merrier 
 moods. 
 
 ' Can I gang oot a wee, Auntie Jean ? ' she asked. ' Or 
 will I bide to wash the dishes ? ' 
 
 ' Whaur d'ye want to be trailin' to the nicht, lassie ? ' 
 asked Auntie Jean rather slily. 'Ye should bide an' 
 wash the dishes, ye ken brawly, but awa' ye go. Dinna 
 bide late, an' dinna gang faur.' 
 
 Mary nodded, her face radiant, and, casting a shawl 
 about her head and shoulders, she said good-night to 
 Jamie, and disappeared. 
 
 ' Sandy '11 be waitin' to gie her the news, readilys,' 
 said the mistress with a comical smile. ' It's a kind o' 
 divert to see the craturs. They're faur ower young, I tell 
 them, to be thinkin' on sic a thing ; but I needna speak, 
 I was makin' my providin' when I was Mary's age. Ay, 
 that's a gey while syne.' 
 
 The mistress's keen eyes dwelt most searchingly on the 
 lad's face as she spoke, and he smiled as if he rather 
 enjoyed what she was saying. Evidently Mary was not 
 connected with his despondency. In a moment, however, 
 the pleasing brightness disappeared from his face, and it 
 resumed its downcast and even sad expression. 
 
 ' Ye'll miss Sandy when he gangs to the toon, Jamie, 1 
 said the mistress kindly. 
 
 ' Ay, I'll miss him/ Jamie assented. ' Mair, likely, nor 
 he'll miss me.' 
 
 ' But it's a guid thing, as I said to Dauvit, that ye 
 arena baith gaun thegither. Yer faither couldna weel 
 want ye baith, an' there's plenty for you to dae at hame.' 
 
 4 Ay, there's plenty, sure enough,' said Jamie, speaking 
 with a strange bitterness. ' There's no' muckle time for 
 naething but wark doon by.' 
 
 Mrs. Campbell lifted her head from her work, and
 
 48 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 looked with a strange swiftness into the lad's faca In a 
 moment the whole thing was made plain to her, and she 
 wondered at her own blindness. 
 
 ' Wark's guid for folk, laddie ; it has cured mony a 
 sorrow,' she said softly. ' We dinna aye like it, my man, 
 an' whiles we think we could carve oot a better way for 
 oorsel's, but when ye've lived as lang as me, ye'll hae 
 learned, I dinna doot, that the Lord's ways are the best, 
 ay, the best for a' in the end,' she added, more to herself 
 than to him. 
 
 ' D'ye think He tak's as muckle interest in's as that, 
 Mrs. Campbell ? ' inquired Jamie. ' There's that mony 
 things gae wrang, that a body can hardly think it.' 
 
 ' It's when oor veesion's dim wi' oor ain troubles, 
 maistly o' oor ain makin' tae, that we begin to herbour 
 sic thochts. It'll a' come richt by and by, if we wad 
 but hae patience to wait and see,' said the mistress 
 quietly. * ' Aweel, here they come to their supper ; I hear 
 the inaister speaking. Will ye no' bide an' tak' a bite 
 wi' them ? ' 
 
 'No thenk ye, I've bidden ower lang a'ready,' said the 
 lad, rising to his feet. Mrs. Campbell accompanied him 
 to the door, and as he turned to go she laid her hand on 
 his shoulder, and looked with kindly sympathy into his 
 face. 'Jamie, my man, wad ye like to fill a poopit 
 tae?' 
 
 ' No, I wadna ; but I wad gie my richt hand, Mrs. 
 Campbell, for Sandy's chance,' said the lad with a strange 
 passion. ' No' that I grudge him it, mind ye, but it's an 
 awfu' thing to be tied doon to wark ye dinna like.' 
 
 ' Ye mauna gie way to sic thochts, Jamie ; yer wark's 
 honest and honourable, an' if ye stick in, ye're bound to 
 dae weel,' said the good woman, wisely putting a curb on 
 her own sympathies, which were all with him. ' There's
 
 TWO SONS. 49 
 
 an auld proverb, laddie, that says, " Ilka dowg has its 
 day." Yer day 11 come in guid time. Till then con- 
 tent yersel', an' be as happy as ye can, like a rnan.' 
 
 There was no time to answer, for just then the maister 
 and the men came round the corner, and the guid wife 
 ran in to see that everything was ready for them. 
 
 James Bethune returned the farmer's cheery guid e'en.and 
 walked away down the road with his hands in his pockets 
 and his eyes fixed on the ground. There was the usual group 
 of loungers gathered about the door of Andrew Aitken's 
 shop, mostly lads of Jamie's own age, and they laughed to 
 each other as they saw him go by. He never forgathered 
 with them, and so they disliked and made fun of him 
 just because they knew so little of him. Sandy, on the 
 contrary, was a prime favourite with them all ; he had a 
 fine, open, happy-go-lucky way with him which took the 
 edge off the patronizing airs he had adopted towards the 
 village lads since he had gone to teach in the Markinch 
 school. The lamp was lighted in John Bethune's 
 kitchen, and the light shone steadily through the white 
 blind, and made a bright pathway across the garden. 
 lUit somehow Jamie felt no inclination to go in ; he 
 knew very well he should find his father and aunt 
 discussing Sandy's future; and he did not feel that 
 interest in it which he told himself he ought to feel. 
 So he stole quietly round the end of the cottage, and, 
 walking to the foot of the yard, leaned up against the 
 dyke, and looked away across the moss, which lay bathed 
 in the glory of the harvest moon. It was a night of 
 rare beauty, and the air, without being cold, was keen 
 and bracing and deliciously refreshing. James Bethune 
 had inherited from his mother a passionate love for 
 nature, and at times the moonlight loveliness of a harvest 
 night had power to move him to the inmost soul. Not 
 
 5
 
 50 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 so to-night. He was wretched, and his heart was filled 
 with thoughts for which he hated himself. It was no 
 new thing for him to long for the advantages so freely 
 bestowed on Sandy. It was very long since he had first 
 envied him his book-learning, but somehow these longings 
 had never reached such a climax before. These moments 
 of bitter discontent, of passionate kicking against our 
 destiny, are common to humanity ; but it is a surprising 
 thing how little sympathy one shows to another in such 
 circumstances. In finely-strung natures, these longings 
 become a living pain, none the less keen and unendurable 
 because it is dumb. They do not suffer least who never 
 give their woes a voice. From his very infancy James 
 Bethune had been set aside, and placed second to his 
 brother. Sandy had early exhibited that precocious 
 cleverness and smartness which in a young child is so 
 delightful and fascinating, especially in the eyes of an 
 indulgent and partial parent. John Bethune watched 
 the rapid development of his boy's powers, with a slow, 
 quiet joy he could not have expressed in words. The 
 child, destined from birth for the ministry, was likely to 
 have a bright career before him. He was first at school ; 
 learning was no trouble to him, and he was reading in 
 the ' threepenny ' before Jamie had mastered the alphabet. 
 The younger was slower in movement, in speech, in 
 comprehension ; in fact, he was a tortoise beside his clever 
 brother. Sandy was forward with his ability, and pushed 
 himself into notice everywhere. When the minister 
 made his periodical visitation, it was Sandy who went 
 glibly through the Catechism for his benefit, while Jamie 
 would hang shyly back, biting his finger, and refusing to 
 utter a word. And so he was set clown as stupid, 
 ' dull i' the uptakV as Star folk had it, and John Bethune 
 was persuaded that ability to read, write, and count
 
 TWO SONS. 51 
 
 ;vas education sufficient for him. He was removed from 
 ihe village school before he was twelve, just when his 
 mind was waking up into greater activity, while Sandy 
 remained to attain still greater proficiency in the common 
 subjects, and to receive the rudiments of Latin and 
 mathematics from Mr. Farquhar. When he was thirteen, 
 he went down to teach the younger classes in the Mark- 
 inch school, receiving, in return, instruction in all the 
 higher branches, and thus laying a good foundation for 
 his college life. And while Sandy, well dressed and 
 cared for, went like a gentleman to his light labour, and 
 had liberty to study all evening if he liked, Jamie was 
 kept hard at work on the land in the summer-time, and 
 at the loom every spare moment. His reading was 
 taken on the sly. Many a time had he carried a book 
 with him to the field when he was supposed to be hoeing, 
 and steal an hour for which he had to make up by 
 working after-hours. Against his way of life Jamie 
 Bethune never dreamed of complaining. He was one 
 of these still, reserved natures which live within them- 
 selves, and are only revealed to a very few, sometimes 
 to none. But his heart knew its own bitterness, and 
 there were wells of feeling and possibilities in the lad 
 undreamed of by those among whom he lived. In all 
 this John Bethune had no thought of wronging his 
 younger son. He simply saw in him a commonplace 
 lad, who could work with his hands, and who showed no 
 decided bent in any direction. And since Sandy was so 
 undoubtedly a scholar, he thought he was doing his 
 duty by both. Sandy should be fitted to make his 
 mark in a higher walk in life, while Jarnie should be 
 left with the land and the loom, at which he could make 
 a good livelihood ; probably the Star would hold him all 
 his days. Such was the good man's idea, and he placidly
 
 52 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 made his plans, and strove to execute them, only asking 
 that he might be spared to see his sons come to man's 
 estate, and occupying, each in his own sphere, honourable 
 positions in life. Such unconscious wrongs are often 
 done under a strong sense of duty. But their results 
 are not the less grievous, because the motive which 
 prompts them happens to be generous and pure. 
 
 With his elbows leaning on the mossy wall, James 
 Bethune wrestled with the first problem life had presented 
 to him. He felt within him the stirrings of manhood, 
 and there whispered to him visions of great achievements, 
 of noble aims, and vague but loveliest possibilities which 
 the lad himself could scarcely understand. Only he 
 knew that he was miserable in the Star, and that his 
 mind dwelt continually upon the wider sphere which he 
 knew was to be found in the world beyond the quiet 
 hamlet which was supposed to be large enough for him. 
 He had read again and again in his father's books of 
 men who had risen from the veriest obscurity, and had 
 been enabled, by their own sheer industry and force of 
 character, to shape the destinies of nations. 
 
 The majority of these great minds, both in his own 
 and other times, had struggled with early disadvantages, 
 and in that very struggle had won their mightiest power. 
 Why should not he put his hand to the plough, and 
 make a desperate effort after something beyond the 
 meagre trammels of his existence ? 
 
 'I'm a fule!' he muttered, in very scorn of himself. 
 ' I'll think nae mair aboot it. The mistress is maybe 
 richt. Maybe this is the place for me after a'.' 
 
 Looking across the moss again he saw two figures coming 
 leisurely up the path. In the glorious light it was easy 
 to distinguish them as his brother and Mary Campbell. 
 He could even see that Sandy had his arm round the
 
 TWO SONS. 53 
 
 girl's waist, and that their heads were very close together. 
 A slight bitterness dwelt for a moment in his eyes, as 
 the thought came that everything seemed to be given to 
 Sandy, without any trouble on his part to obtain it. 
 Not that he was in the remotest degree jealous, or 
 interested beyond ordinary in Mary Campbell, only it 
 seemed to fit in with the rest of his thoughts. 
 
 'Were I Sandy/ he said to himself as he went away 
 to the house, ' I wadna hae naething to dae wi' lassies 
 for ten year to come. Hoo can he ken his ain mind at 
 seeventeen ? He'll change fifty times afore he's thirty.' 
 
 Nine was striking as he went into the house, and he 
 found his father waiting with the Bible in his hand, his 
 aunt having evidently gone to bed. 
 
 ' Whaur's Sandy ? ' asked his father rather sternly. 
 ' It's efter nine time we were a' in oor beds.' 
 
 ' He'll be here the noo, likely,' answered Jamie, sitting 
 down at the fire. ' I've been at the Kiiowe. Dauvit's to 
 be at the barley the morn.' 
 
 ' Ay, that's weel. Is he a' in ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, a' in,' was Jamie's answer ; then the twain 
 relapsed into silence. Seventeen years had wrought a 
 great change in John Bethune ; his face was deeply 
 furrowed, his hair and beard almost white, his figure 
 much bent at the shoulders. But the keen eye had lost 
 none of its old steady light, nor were his forces abated. 
 He was still able for a good day's work, though it told 
 upon him more severely than when he was in his prime. 
 He turned over the leaves to the 119th Psalm, and sat 
 with the book open, waiting for Sandy. Strict discipline 
 was maintained in John Bethune's household, and though 
 Sandy was indulged in some things, there were others in 
 which he dared not disobey. It was a grave offence to 
 be out after nine. In about five minutes they heard the
 
 54 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 garden gate swing, and next moment Sandy dashed into 
 the house in his usual noisy fashion, banging the door 
 behind him. 
 
 ' Less din, Sandy ; yer auntie's in her bed. It's 
 twenty meenits past nine,' said John Bethune sternly ; 
 and then, without waiting for an explanation or excuse, 
 began to read from the ninth verse of the psalm. When 
 t 16 reading was finished he offered up his usual solemn 
 prayer, every word of which the boys knew by heart. 
 Many a time in their younger, days they had puzzled 
 themselves over his mysterious utterances, some of which 
 they scarcely understood yet. 
 
 Directly they rose from their knees the brothers took 
 their candle and went away up the trap-stair to the 
 garret which had been fitted up for them when they 
 grew too big to sleep beside their father. Aunt Susan, 
 as of yore, occupied the little chamber opening off the 
 kitchen. Directly they were in their own humble room, 
 Jamie began to undress ; he did not feel in a mood for 
 talking. But Sandy was in great spirits, and rattled on 
 about St. Andrews, and about the college, and his future, 
 till Jamie could have prayed him to hold his tongue. 
 
 ' My word, Jamie, it'll be a fine difference to me living 
 at St. Andrews. It's very slow for a fellow here when 
 he kens as much as me,' he said in his boastful way. 
 ' Some day when you're no' busy ye must get father to 
 let you come to St. Andrews, and I'll show ye the sights. 
 It's a bonnie toon. D'ye no wish ye were me ? ' 
 
 ' No. I'm sleepy. Be quiet,' said Jamie rather sourly. 
 ' You havena to rise at five. Blaw oot the caun'le.' 
 
 Not for worlds would Jamie have admitted to his brother 
 that he envied him his privileges, and that he found it so 
 hard to wish him well. The lad had two enemies to 
 contend with his own discontent and his bitterness
 
 TWO SONS. 55 
 
 against his brother, who he knew regarded him with a 
 species of good-natured contempt. Sandy blew out the 
 candle and discreetly crept into bed. When he saw 
 Jamie vexed he always held his peace, because he knew 
 that something serious was at the bottom of it. 
 
 ' I'm vext I was sae short, Sandy,' said Jamie by and 
 by, after a brief, sharp struggle with himself. ' I houp 
 ye'll get on, an' win a lot o' prizes at St. Andrews, an' 
 get a graund kirk efter ye're through.' 
 
 ' I'll try, man ; an' of course, whatever happens, you an' 
 me'll aye be the same. An' ye'll come an' bide wi' me 
 at my manse, maybe, when somebody ye ken's a minister's 
 wife,' said Sandy in an unusual burst of confidence. 
 
 ' Well see/ said Jamie with a laugh. So, friends 
 once more, they turned over and fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 'A hand was laid 
 In tfiiJerness on his sore heart; 
 A voice said, Courage take ! 
 The world is wide. There may be room for theft* 
 
 [HAT'S Sandy sayin' til't the day ?' inquired 
 Susan Bethune one fine summer morning, 
 when her brother entered the house with 
 his student son's weekly letter in his 
 hand. The old man's face was so radiant, 
 his manner so excited and eager, that involun- 
 tarily Susan put more interest than usual into 
 her question. 
 
 ' Graund news, Shoosan. He's gotten a bursary worth 
 thirty pound a year for twa year. I kent it was in 
 the laddie. I wadna wunner to seo him principal o' 
 St. Mary's himsel' yet ! ' exclaimed John Bethune, and, 
 reaching his spectacles, he proceeded to read out the 
 letter to his sister, pausing every moment or so to call 
 her attention to the beautiful flourishes in the hand- 
 
 66
 
 SYMPATHY. 57 
 
 writing and the fine construction of the letter. It was a 
 touching and beautiful thing to see the old man's pride 
 in his boy's accomplishments and success ; there were 
 actually tears in his eyes as he read and reread the 
 precious epistle ; and, seeing that, Susan Bethune was 
 struck to the heart by a strange sense of uneasiness which 
 was almost pain. 
 
 ' Eh, but ye are bound up in Sandy, John,' she said, 
 and almost unconsciously she shook her head as she 
 spoke. 
 
 'It's no' a sinfu' pride, Shoosan. I dinna pit him 
 afore his Maker,' said John Bethune, half arrested by 
 her words. ' An' I hae reason to be prood ; d'ye no' 
 think it ? ' 
 
 ' Ay. He's a wunnerfu' duel' for heid wark,' Susan 
 admitted, and her eyes wandered to the window, from 
 which she could see Jamie with his scythe in the grass 
 field. The thought in her mind at the moment was 
 whether Jamie might not have done as well had he had 
 his brother's chance. Susan Bethune was a woman who 
 kept her own counsel, and never spoke unless with good 
 reason, but for all that she had observed and resented 
 the distinction her brother had made between his boys 
 all their lives. She supposed Sandy lay nearest his 
 father's heart because of his close resemblance to Katie, 
 and she did not blame him for that. Susan Bethune 
 was very tender now in all her thoughts of her brother's 
 dead wife. But she did wonder that a Christian man, 
 and an elder in the kirk, should be so indulgent to the 
 one and so hard upon the other, who, like the elder 
 brother of Holy Writ, was always with him, labouring 
 for his good early and late. Not that Sandy could be 
 compared to the prodigal by any means, only he had 
 always been more of a care and trouble to his folk ;
 
 58 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 falling far short of Jamie in obedience and willingness to 
 do what was required of him. Jamie was Aunt Susan's 
 favourite, and out of her deep love she watched him 
 when he thought he was least observed, until she had 
 arrived at a pretty correct conclusion concerning him. 
 She saw him restless and discontented even when he 
 made least sign ; she watched the gradual decay of 
 interest in the croft, the loss of that cheerful readiness to 
 perform and even to anticipate all his father's desires, and 
 her heart grew very heavy about the lad. She never 
 dreamed of uttering her sympathy, or of seeking to win 
 his confidence ; she belonged to a stern, undemonstrative 
 race, who deemed any exhibition of the finer feelings a 
 sign of weakness ; nevertheless her dumb compassion and 
 silent sympathy found vent in ways of their own, such 
 as little attentions paid to his creature comforts, and 
 little gifts now and again, which rather surprised Jamie, 
 though he did not in the least understand the motive 
 which prompted his aunt to bestow them. 
 
 'He'll be hame next week, he says, for twa- three 
 days,' said John Bethune presently. ' There's mair 
 news even than the bursary in't. He's gotten what he 
 ca's a holiday engagement to gang to the Heelan's to tutor 
 a gentleman's twa sons. They're at tl*e schule in St 
 Andrews, an' their faither disna want them to forget a' 
 their lessons in the holidays, so he has hired Sandy to 
 keep them at them, an' gang aboot wi' them in the 
 holidays. It'll be a fine thing for him, but I was 
 coontin' on haein' him at hame for twa month at 
 least.' 
 
 ' Ay,' said Susan ; for somehow she felt relieved to 
 hear that Sandy was not to spend the long vacation at 
 home. For he would go about like a gentleman, giving 
 himself doubtless many airs on account of his success,
 
 SYMPATHY. 59 
 
 while Jamie would be in the throng of the harvest. In 
 her jealous love for her favourite, Susan Bethune was 
 perhaps a trifle hard upon Sandy. 
 
 ' I'll awa' an' tell Jamie. He'll be as prood as a 
 prince,' said John Bethune, rising ; and Susan watched 
 him go down the fields, and saw Jamie leaning on his 
 scythe, while his father imparted his grand news of 
 Sandy's success. Then, suddenly recollecting how she 
 was putting off her time, she began to prepare the 
 vegetables for the broth in rather an abstracted fashion, 
 for the interests clustering about her brother's sons were 
 very absorbing that morning. While she was thus 
 engaged, John returned, not looking quite so well pleased 
 as when he went out 
 
 ' Jamie's a queer stick, Shoosan,' he said rather drily. 
 ' Gie him wark, an' it's a' he cares about. He had hardly 
 a word to say ower Sandy's fortune. My ! but there's a 
 bonnie difference atween them.' 
 
 ' No' sae muckle as ye think, John,' Susan was tempted 
 to say. 'Dinna let yer pride in the ane blind ye to ony 
 guid in the ither.' 
 
 ' No, no ; Jamie's a guid, honest, hard-workin' chield. 
 Puir chap, it's no' his faut he hasna a heid like his 
 brither,' said John Bethune placidly. ' It's a wise ordi- 
 nation o' Providence that there should be folk for a' thing. 
 Jamie '11 mak' a gey canty bit leevin' here, as I've dune 
 afore him. But I'll awa up an' tell Dauvit Cam'll. 
 They'll be as pleased as oorsel's.' 
 
 So saying, the old man put his letter and his spectacles 
 in his breast pocket, and went away to get the kindly 
 neighbours at the Knowe to share in his joy. Very often 
 that forenoon did Susan Bethune look through the little 
 window and across the fields to the park where Jamie 
 was employed. She saw that he was making little
 
 60 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 speed, and that very often he stood quite still, as if 
 absorbed in thought. And her heart grew heavier still 
 about the lad. When he came in to his dinner, she 
 looked kindly at him, but did not mention the bursary 
 to him ; but it was the old man's whole talk during the 
 dinner hour, and again at tea-time, and Susan Bethune 
 saw that Jamie's interest in the matter was forced. 
 
 ' Whaur are ye gaun, Jamie ? ' she asked, when he was 
 leaving the house again after work hours. ' I was 
 wunnerin' if ye wadna gang east to Auchtermairnie wi' 
 me the nicht. Robert Tullis, the baker, brocht word 
 that yer uncle Peter's wife's geyan ill. I'd need to gang 
 an' speer for her.' 
 
 ' I'll no' gang the nicht, auntie, unless ye want me 
 very muckle,' said Jamie, who was always kind and 
 considerate to his aunt. 
 
 ' Are ye no' weel, my man ? ' she asked kindly. 
 
 ' I'm quite weel. I'm gaun ower the moss, maybe 
 as far as Kirkforthar,' answered Jamie. ' But if ye 
 want me to gang east, I'll gang.' 
 
 ' I'm no' parteeklar, but I dinna like ye to gang about 
 sae dowie-like yer lane. Ye're no' half sae cheery as 
 ye used to be.' 
 
 He smiled a dreary smile and vanished, knowing 
 that in another moment he would forget his eighteen 
 years, and give way to tears. We have all known such 
 weak moments, have felt at times that the four walls of 
 a house could not hold us. We have had experiences 
 in which uttered sympathy could not reach us, when 
 we have only found strength in the wideness of the 
 pitying skies, comfort in the dumb sympathy of the 
 stars. 
 
 James Bethune took his favourite way to the peat 
 moss, walking on quickly until he reached a little
 
 SYMPATHY. 61 
 
 wooded hillock, among whose hospitable trees the cuckoo 
 had sought her nest for the first time within his know- 
 ledge. He threw himself face downwards on the turf, and 
 there lay, battling dumbly with the passionate, miserable 
 yearnings of his soul. He felt amazed and terrified at the 
 wildness of his own imaginings, at the darkness of the 
 thoughts whirling in his brain. He was at war with all 
 the world, and felt himself an Ishmaelite, whom every 
 man's hand was against. Nobody cared for him, nobody 
 would mourn him though he were dead and buried ; they 
 might miss his labour, as they would miss that of any 
 of the animals on the farm, but that would be all. 
 That was one of the darkest hours in James Bethune's 
 life, upon which he never afterwards cared to reflect. 
 He hated himself for his hard, unholy thoughts, for his 
 bitterness against his father and his brother, but he felt 
 powerless to curb them. All kindlier feelings seemed 
 to have died within his breast. But it was not so. 
 A step sounded behind him, a kind hand fell on his 
 shoulder, a familiar voice called him by name. It was 
 the touch and the voice of Mr. Farquhar, the school- 
 master. 
 
 ' Look at this plant, Jamie. I have been in search of 
 it since ever I came to Star. Isn't it strange that I 
 should have found it to-night, when I was not particularly 
 anxious about it ?' 
 
 Jamie, who had not yet quite lost his old respect and 
 wholesome awe of the schoolmaster, picked himself up, 
 and touched his cap. Mr. Farquhar sat down on the 
 bank, and motioned the lad to a place beside him. He 
 was keenly observant of his pale face and clouded 
 eyes, but he made no sign that he saw anything 
 amiss. 
 
 'This is an insectivorous plant, James,' said Mr.
 
 62 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 Farquhar, touching the leaves with caressing finger. 
 ' It eats insects. Flies and such like alight on it, and 
 are instantly sucked into this hollow, see ! When the 
 leaves expand again the insect is dead, and the greedy 
 plant ready for another. Curious, isn't it ? I knew it 
 was to be found on the moss, and I came on it to-night 
 quite by accident.' 
 
 ' I've seen that growin' often. I could hae showed it 
 to you, but I didna ken it ate flees,' said Jamie with 
 interest. ' I can show you where the bonniest ferns 
 grow tae, if ye like.' 
 
 ' Thank you, I shall be glad to take advantage of your 
 offer. I have often wanted a crack with you since you 
 left school, but you are like another kind of plant, called 
 the sensitive plant, which curls up at a touch,' said the 
 master with a quiet laugh. ' What have you tc:en doing 
 all these years since you left school ? not keeping up your 
 lessons, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' I read as muckle as I can, but I havena muckle 
 time, ye ken,' answered Jamie, the master's interested 
 voice and kindly eye winning his confidence at 
 once. 
 
 ' No, I see you on the fields early and late,' said the 
 master. ' But in winter you will have some time to 
 yourself in the evenings, surely ? ' 
 
 'Ay, when I'm no' at the loom,' answered Jamie. 
 ' But it's slow wark gettin' on yersel'.' 
 
 ' Your brother is doing great things at college, I was 
 very pleased to hear to-day,' said the master. ' Has he 
 never helped you on ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ! I wadna ask him,' said Jamie hastily, and a 
 quick flush sprang to his cheek, as he remembered how 
 Sandy had laughed and scoffed once when he asked him 
 to teach him Latin. ' What does a plooman or a farmer
 
 SYMPATHY. 63 
 
 want wi' Latin ? ' he had said ; ' if ye maim read ye 
 should get agricultural books, Jamie, aii' no' fash yer 
 heid wi' Latin. Ye wadna be lang o' tirin' o'd 
 onyway.' 
 
 ' Would you like to learn Latin, Jamie ? ' 
 
 ' What wad I no' like to learn, sir ? ' fell involuntarily 
 from Jamie's lips, and a light sprang into his eyes, which 
 made the master look at him with a deeper interest. 
 When he had had him in the school, he had obtained 
 occasional glimpses of a brighter intelligence, which had 
 made him think the boy might turn out better than was 
 expected. But when he left school, and seemed content 
 to plod on at manual labour, the master concluded that 
 he had no higher aims. 
 
 ' Has your brother's success emulated you with a 
 desire after his scholarship ? ' he asked, more to draw 
 the lad out than from any idea that such a thing seemed 
 probable. 
 
 ' No. I wad hae bidden at the schule, Mr. Farquhar, 
 if I could. I canna bear workin' on the laund nor at 
 the loom. It mak's me feel that wild and wicked whiles, 
 I'm feart at myselV 
 
 ' That's bad. Are you sure it is not just that restless- 
 ness which comes to most of us at one period of our 
 lives, that desire for change, no matter what form it 
 takes ? ' asked the master kindly. 
 
 ' I dinna think it's that. I wadna leave the Star to 
 work at onything else if I couldna get to books,' answered 
 Jamie, eager to vindicate himself, and forgetting in this 
 new joy of confidence that he was making known his 
 most cherished and secret dreams. 
 
 ' Does your father know of this, Jamie ? ' 
 
 ' No ; an' he wadna believe it though he was telt. He 
 thinks Sandy's gotten a' the brains, an' that I'm only fit
 
 64 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 for the harrows or the loom,' said Jamie, not bitterly, 
 but with a kind of sad conviction which touched the 
 heart of the master not a little. ' I am stupider than 
 Sandy, sir ; but if aince I get a grip o' a thing I never 
 let it go. It micht tak' me langer to be a scholar, 
 but I believe I wad succeed in the end.' 
 
 ' And what bent does your inclination take ? "Would 
 you follow the vocation Sandy has chosen ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, I couldna be a minister ; I think a man 
 maun be by-ordinar' in a'thing afore he tak's that upon 
 him,' was the lad's answer. ' I dinna ken exactly what 
 I wad dae ; I whiles think I ' 
 
 But here he paused abruptly, and his face flushed 
 again. He had curbed himself just in time, for that 
 fond dream was too wild and presumptuous to be 
 breathed to mortal. The schoolmaster, with that rare 
 delicacy characteristic of his fine nature, did not 
 press the question, understanding perfectly the lad's 
 reticence. To say he was amazed at the revela- 
 tions of Jamie Bethune's nature scarcely describes his 
 feelings. 
 
 ' Suppose we make a bargain, Jamie,' he said ; ' you 
 will help me in my botanizing and fern-hunting, and 
 I'll help you with your lessons. Could you come an hour 
 two or three times a week, and we'll try our hand at 
 Latin and whatever else we may fancy, eh ?' 
 
 The lad's face flushed deep crimson, and the master 
 saw his sunbrowned hands tremble. 
 
 ' Nay, don't say a word. It will be a mutual benefit, 
 for I am getting rusty myself,' said the schoolmaster, 
 smiling. ' Is it a bargain, then ? ' 
 
 ' If ye like, sir,' said Jamie quietly. 
 
 It might be a poor way of expressing his grateful 
 appreciation of the master's offer, but these two, I think.
 
 SYMPATHY. G5 
 
 began to understand each other that summer night on 
 the Star moss. 
 
 ' Are you going home now ? I am, and we may as 
 well walk together/ said the master. ' This is a glorious 
 night, man. Just look at Orion and the Pleiades. Do 
 you know anything of astronomy, Jamie ? ' 
 
 ' Some. I ken the big planets. My father has a 
 book on't, I whiles read/ answered the lad. ' I aye think, 
 Mr. Farquhar, that there couldna be a bonnier picter 
 than the sun settin on' the Lomond Hill, in the simmer 
 when the heather's oot.' 
 
 ' I agree with you. When Mrs. Farquhar and I camo 
 first to Star, Jamie, we wondered how we could live in 
 such a bleak, unlovely country ; but it was in winter ; 
 you will not remember, it was two years before you were 
 born. Your father and I were married within a week 
 of each other ; but his wife was spared a little longer 
 than mine/ said the master, and he took off his hat and 
 pushed back his grey hair from his brow. ' It is wonder- 
 ful how we get used to things, my lad, and how un- 
 bearable agonies become gentlest memories upon which 
 we love to dwell. My wife learned to love the Star, 
 and because of that I have never cared to leave it. 
 People wonder that I have never sought a wider sphere, 
 but I have found it wide enough for me, and I sometimes 
 think that, though I have fallen so far short of what I 
 might have been, the place will not be any the worse 
 though I have lived in it so long.' 
 
 ' I'm sure no'/ said Jamie fervently, looking with a 
 strange new reverence at the fine face of the master, 
 which was now furrowed deep by the hand of time, while 
 his hair and beard were whitening fast. He wondered 
 that the master should talk so unreservedly to him about 
 that sorrow which had sapped the springs of hope in the
 
 66 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 very prime of his days, and made it a common saying 
 that the schoolmaster had never held up his head since 
 his wife's death. 
 
 ' Well, we have got quite friendly over the insectivora, 
 haven't we ? ' said the master pleasantly when they 
 reached the schoolhouse gate. 'When will you come 
 and get your first lesson ? Not till your brother is 
 away again, I suppose. Your father told me he would 
 only be at home for a few days. Come in whenever 
 you like. I am always at liberty, you know, between 
 six and ten.' 
 
 ' I'll be sure to come, sir, thank ye,' said Jamie grate- 
 fully ; then with a warm hand-clasp they parted, friends 
 for life. As the schoolmaster entered his lowly dwelling, 
 he felt that glow in his heart which is the reward of 
 doing good. Apart from the blessing a generous action 
 may confer on others, it gives to him who is its author a 
 sense of sweet satisfaction, which compensates for any 
 sacrifice he may have made, and the man whose life is 
 spent in the planning and execution of such deeds lives 
 perpetually among the fragrant odours of heaven. 
 
 It had not cost Gilbert Farquhar much to express a 
 kindly interest in his old pupil, and to offer to help him 
 in so far as lay in his power ; but it meant a great deal 
 to Jamie Bethune. He did not go into the house just 
 at once that night; but strolled through the village, 
 along the quiet path by the burnside, and up as far as 
 Carriston gate, just to be alone for a little with the 
 sweet hopes which had begun to blossom in his heart. 
 The future was no longer dark and gloomy, but a fair 
 horizon, bright with promise, illumined by the sunshine 
 a good man and a true friend had cast upon it 
 
 In a day or two Sandy came home from college, 
 flushed with his success, and full of airs and conceits
 
 SYMPATHY. 67 
 
 such as country lads are wont to affect after a brief term 
 of town life. In Susan's eyes this conscious and open 
 pride spoiled Sandy altogether, but his doting father saw 
 no flaw in the lad, and would listen by the hour to his 
 stories of St. Andrews life. Sometimes, in his desire to 
 create an impression, and to glorify himself, Sandy was 
 apt to colour his statements just a little, and, while those 
 at home implicitly believed that he was the chief centre 
 of interest at St. Mary's College, the fact was, he was of 
 very little account, and occupied a very obscure position 
 there. As to the bursary, it was too common an honour 
 to be thought much of, for the University was so richly 
 endowed that those who did not receive a bursary were 
 in the minority. But Sandy took care not to communi- 
 cate that item to the Star folk. 
 
 Susan Bethune was both surprised and relieved to see 
 how very little effect ' Sandy's blawin',' as she termed it. 
 had on Jamie. He listened to him with as much 
 patience and interest as his father did, and did not 
 appear in the least envious or jealous. It seemed to 
 Aunt Susan as if he had become the possessor of some 
 happy secret, which had imparted to him a lightness of 
 heart she had never seen in him before. His smile and 
 laugh were not now so rare, and he had never been more 
 cheerful in his life. Altogether that week of Sandy's 
 vacation was a pleasai t time for them all ; nothing what- 
 ever happened to mar its harmony, or to leave a sting 
 behind. 
 
 One thing shrewd Aunt Susan, as well as Jamie, 
 observed, that Sandy did not spend much of his time 
 at the Knowe. Aunt Susan had never at any time 
 entertained the idea that there could be anything serious 
 between Sandy and Mary Campbell, they being but 
 bairns in her eyes; but Jamie knew that his brother
 
 68 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 had talked a great deal of nonsense to the girl, and, as 
 it was evident Sandy was already evincing signs of 
 changeableness, it was to be hoped Mary would have 
 sufficient sense just to accept it, and laugh over that old- 
 time nonsense. 
 
 Ah, poor Mary ! it had not been nonsense to her ; and, 
 young though she was, her heart had already awakened 
 to a woman's love.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 
 
 ' Love, art them sweet ? Then bitter death must be.* 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 ET on yer hat, see, Mary, an' gang doon wi' 
 the maister to the schule,' said Jean 
 Campbell to her niece. 
 
 ' No, auntie, I'm no' gaun,' answered 
 Mary in a low voice, and she bent her head 
 over the flowers in the window to hide her 
 wet eyes and her quivering lips. 
 
 ' What for no' ? It's an unco' like thing if ye'll 
 no' gang to hear Sandy Bethune preach. My certy ! 
 I've seen the day ye wad hae walkit to Cupar 
 an' back for less,' said the mistress with good-natured 
 sarcasm. 
 
 ' I canna help it, auntie ; I'm no' gaun,' answered the 
 girl in a low voice, but firmly as before. 
 
 ' Aweel, ye're maybe richt. It's aicht days past 
 on Friday since he cam' hame, an' he's never lookit 
 yer airt. My lassie, ye're quite richt to bide at
 
 70 THE GATES OF EDEK 
 
 hame ; an' when he does condescend to speak to ye 
 jist you lat him see the wrang side o' yer face foi 
 a change.' 
 
 Mary made no response, but, with her eyes still down- 
 bent, she absently picked the dead leaves from the 
 geraniums and laid them in a little heap on the table. 
 Perhaps they were emblematical of her withered hopes. 
 It was now five years since Sandy Bethune had left the 
 Star, and, after an eminently successful college career, he 
 had entered on his final term of theological study at the 
 Divinity Hall in Edinburgh. During these years he had 
 been comparatively little at home. Visits to college 
 friends or holiday engagements filled up his summer 
 vacation, and in winter he pleaded press of study as an 
 excuse for his neglect of the Star. His father, who 
 implicitly believed in him still, submitted without a 
 murmur, though his heart often ached. Yet, since he had 
 consecrated his first-born son to the Church and her 
 ministry, he must bear the pain which at times the 
 surrender cost. He had not thought he would have been 
 called upon to give him up so entirely. He was getting 
 very old now, and in his age felt a greater need of 
 affection than in the days of his manhood's strength. 
 Yet, though Jamie was still at home, taking entire 
 management of all home affairs, and relieving his father 
 in every possible way, there was not that full confidence 
 between them which might have been a joy to them both. 
 John Bethune knew nothing of his second son's inner 
 self ; he was never admitted to the secret recesses of a 
 noble soul, preparing itself to do battle with the world 
 by and by. He had himself to blame. He had not 
 only preferred the elder in every way, but he had mis- 
 jnHged Jamie, and kept him, in a manner, shut out of 
 his heart. The lad's sensitive heart had been early
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 71 
 
 wounded, and had grown a little hard perhaps where his 
 father was concerned. It contained wells of affection 
 never yet opened, and which were undreamed of by 
 Jamie himself. But though his father was neither 
 his confidant nor his friend, he never failed in duty 
 towards him ; nay, it was that strong sense of duty, 
 which was the chief part of James Bethune's religion, 
 which still kept him in the Star. He saw his father 
 failing, and knew that if he were bereft of both his 
 sons, he would go down, like Israel of old, in sorrow 
 to the grave. For in all temporal affairs the old man 
 leaned upon him; he had given up the work of life 
 into his hands. 
 
 That true friend and good man, Gilbert Farquhar, the 
 schoolmaster, was now dead ; none but James Bethune 
 himself knew how great and irreparable was his loss. He 
 had done what he could to help the lad in his struggle, 
 and had put him on the path of knowledge, and only 
 left him when he was able to walk through its mazes 
 unaided. Not a living soul knew of James Bethune's 
 attainments and proficiency as a scholar. He was 
 respected in the Star as a steady, well-behaved young 
 man, who would rather sit at the fireside with a 
 book, or in the summer - time take lonely walks, 
 than join the jovial crew who were to be found any 
 and every night, Sunday excepted, in Jean Brunton's. 
 He was altogether lost sight of in the splendours of 
 Sandy's genius, but it was a common saying in the 
 place that ' John Bethune was by-ordinar' weel aff wi' 
 his laddies.' 
 
 There was great excitement in the Star when it was 
 announced that Sandy Bethune would conduct a ' preach- 
 ing' in the school the second Sunday after his return 
 home for the holidays. Mr. Bell announced it from his
 
 72 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 pulpit, and it was a moment or two before his hearers 
 could think who Mr. Alexander Bethune could be. In 
 the summer evenings the preachings held periodically in 
 the Star school were very meagrely attended, the young 
 folks preferring walking or lounging about the roads. But 
 both old and young turned out to hear Sandy Bethune 
 preach, for he was one of themselves. 
 
 ' "Weel, I maun gang, Mary,' said the mistress. ' I 
 wad gang faurer than the schule to hear John Bethune's 
 son preach. Had his mother lived, she wad hae been a 
 prood wummin the day. But I dinna ken either,' she 
 added with an involuntary sigh ; ' it has its draw- 
 backs to hae a by-ordinar' bairn. I wadna be sur- 
 prised, noo, to be telt that Sandy thinks shame o' his 
 ain folk.' 
 
 ' We'll hae to be stappin', then, guidwife,' said the 
 master, coming in from the door. ' The hale wast end's 
 awa' by. The lad's mettle '11 be tried the nicht. What ! 
 Is Mary no' gaun ? ' 
 
 ' No, she's no' gaun, Dauvit. Awa' an' get on your 
 black coat, see. Ye're no' gaun doon wi' that auld 
 jaicket/ said the mistress, diverting his attention at once 
 from Mary. ' For the auld man's sake, we maun pay 
 the chield every respeck.' 
 
 In a few minutes the worthy couple left Mary to her 
 own meditations, and the first thing she did was to put 
 the bar in the door, and then, sitting down in her uncle's 
 chair, she laid her bonnie head down on the table, and 
 began to cry quietly to herself, for her heart was very 
 sore. 
 
 Her aunt had unconsciously given her a cruel stab, 
 for until to-night she had tried to find every excuse for 
 Sandy, and had buoyed herself up with hopes which her 
 aunt's blunt words had rudely dispelled. If Sandy
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 73 
 
 were ashamed of his own people, then doubtless he must 
 be ashamed of her. With the pain such a conviction 
 could not fail to bring, there was no bitterness or resent- 
 ment commingled, for with that humility peculiar to 
 sweet, rare natures such as hers, she placed herself on a 
 very low level in comparison with him who had been her 
 lover so long. She knew she was no fit companion for 
 one so great and grand and clever, and she had never 
 dared to think of herself as a minister's wife ; there was 
 presumption in the very thought. But he had said so 
 often that she was dear to him, that no other should 
 ever share his future, that she could not just at once 
 relinquish all thought of him, all claim upon him. She 
 had not hid her heart from him ; he knew she loved him, 
 and she had never thought shame of it till now. Poor 
 Mary ! It was a hard cross laid upon her, and she was 
 glad of the deep stillness and solitude in the house 
 (there were so few quiet hours at the Knowe), so that 
 she might face this sorrow which had come into her 
 young life, and if possible nerve herself for the future, 
 robbed of all the sweetness of the past. For nearly 
 an hour she sat in the same position, and then she rose 
 quietly, and began to busy herself about the house. 
 Once, as she went to get something out of the dresser, 
 she took a glance into the little looking-glass against the 
 wall, and started a little at her own paleness. She 
 rubbed her cheeks to try and bring back their colour, 
 but in vain ; then she hoped nobody would notice any- 
 thing amiss in her appearance. The worst of all would 
 be if anybody suspected she was fretting because Sandy 
 Bethune had slighted her; her maidenly pride and 
 dignity rose at the very suggestion of such a thing. 
 It was a very sweet winning face reflected in the 
 little mirror, and the sunny hair arranged in smooth 
 
 7
 
 74. THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 womanly braids was most becoming to the neat little 
 head. Then her figure had lost all the angular curves 
 of earlier years ; and altogether Mary Campbell was a 
 sweet and attractive young woman, and many as good a 
 man would have given half his possessions for Sandy 
 Bethune's chance. But Mary- had neither looked nor 
 listened to any wooing save his alone ; she had been 
 absolutely and devotedly true. 
 
 At seven she took the milk-pails and went up to 
 the byre. It took her about an hour generally to milk 
 the five cows, and she was just finishing the last when 
 she heard voices and footsteps approaching, and then 
 half-a-dozen folk burst into the byre, eager to be the first 
 to give the news. 
 
 ' Eh, but we had a graund discoorse, Mary ! Ye missed 
 a heap,' cried one. 
 
 ' Eh, thon's a deep lad. It's just exterordinar' to see 
 him stannin' up an' settin't aff wi' his haunds better than 
 Maister Bell hissel',' said another. 
 
 ' 'Deed he mak's a show, an' sets aff a heap o' braw 
 words, but there's no muckle in't for common folk,' said 
 Kirsty the malcontent, edging in her adverse criticism 
 just for contrariness. ' For my pairt, I canna but think 
 that, had as muckle been spent on oor eddication, we 
 micht hae dune mair.' 
 
 ' It wad be a braw sicht to see you haudin' forth in 
 the schule, Kirst/ laughed the master, whose portly 
 presence at that moment filled up the doorway. 
 
 ' Was there mony there ? ' Mary forced herself to ask, 
 in case her silence should be remarked on by the argus- 
 eyed throng. 
 
 ' Ay, it was crammed to the door ; a heap o' 
 Kennoway an' Markinch folk there as weel's oor am/ 
 answered the maister. ' Are ye dune, Mary ? Awa'
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 75 
 
 doon then, bodies, an' get yer milk, till I get the kye 
 putten out.' 
 
 'Ye've been braw smairt, Mary,' said Mrs. Campbell, 
 meeting her at the door. ' But it's aicht o'clock. He 
 keepit us geyan lang, but we never wearit. Thon's a 
 star, lassie,' she added, lowering her voice, so that 
 only Mary heard. ' If only he has grace to guide his 
 gifts.' 
 
 Mary set down her pails, and, after washing her hands 
 and unpinning her skirt, she put her little shawl about 
 her head, and stole out by the front door, to be away 
 from all the talk about the preaching. She was in that 
 half trembling, excited state, in which a very little would 
 break her down. It was not dark yet ; the pleasant sun- 
 light seemed loth to give way to the darkness, and so 
 lingered, even when the stars were peeping in the sky. 
 It was a peaceful and beautiful night, and there was that 
 still ness in the air peculiar to the Sabbath day. It is a 
 blessed thing when the human heart beats in unison 
 with that holy calm. She wandered up to the cornyard, 
 and, leaning up against one of the sweet-smelling hay- 
 stacks, folded her arms, and stood still. She felt soothed 
 by the solitude and by the hush of the deepening night, 
 and a strength came to her which relieved her burdened 
 heart. Mary Campbell knew nothing of doctrinal points 
 such as Sandy Bethune had been wrestling with in his 
 discourse, but there was in her heart a confidence and 
 faith in God which would have put his Christianity 
 to shame. She firmly believed that this trial would 
 not be beyond her endurance ; and, without uttering 
 any formal petition, she mutely sought and received 
 strength from above. In this better frame of mind 
 she turned to go back to the house, but, ere she 
 had gone many steps, she saw a figure coming up
 
 76 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 the garden path, whose tall outline was too familiar 
 to be mistaken. 
 
 ' Why do you hurry past me, Mary ? ' said a deep, 
 manly voice, with an assumption of playfulness. ' Have 
 you not a word to say to an old friend ? ' 
 
 Mary stood still, but said nothing. If she had 
 spoken, a little natural indignation must have displayed 
 itself, and she was determined that Sandy Bethune 
 should not see that she was in the least affected by his 
 indifference. 
 
 ' Why didn't you come and hear me, Mary ? That 
 was shabby. You promised to come long ago.' 
 
 'We couldna a' get,' Mary answered quietly, and 
 beginning to move on to the house. 
 
 'Don't go in yet, Mary. I've been in, and your aunt 
 was very dry to me. Have I offended her, do you 
 know ? ' 
 
 ' I canna say,' was Mary's brief answer. 
 
 ' Won't you walk up the old road with me ? I have 
 ever so many things to tell you and to explain. Come 
 on,' he added coaxingly, touching her arm as he 
 spoke. 
 
 Mary hesitated ; she was strongly tempted. Ah, the 
 familiar voice and winning way had not yet lost their 
 charm ! Sandy noted the hesitation, and immediately 
 took her hand on his arm, with the air of proprietorship 
 she had -been wont to find so sweet. So Mary turned 
 with 1dm ; perhaps it might be as well to understand 
 each other once for all. 
 
 ' Of course you've wondered why I've never been up 
 since I came home,' he began. ' But the fact is, a fellow 
 has hardly a minute to himself. I've been twice to tea 
 at the Manse, and of course I've had to go down and see 
 old Robertson. But I haven't sinned beyond all pardon,
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 77 
 
 have I, Mary ? If I hadn't known you to be so good and 
 forgiving, you see, I wouldn't have dared to do it, so you 
 have yourself to blame.' 
 
 ' That's a queer way to put it, Sandy. If you had 
 wanted to come, you would have found the time, easy 
 enough,' said Mary quietly. 
 
 ' Now don't be hard upon me, Mary, when I'm so 
 penitent. I was disappointed when you didn't come to 
 the school to-night. Why, I looked all over the place 
 directly I came in.' 
 
 ' I dinna ken hoo ye had time to think aboot me ava',' 
 said Mary. c Was ye no' shakin' wi' nervousness ? ' 
 
 Sandy laughed. ' Not likely. When a fellow has to 
 hold forth before the professors and all the students, it 
 isn't a few Star folk that'll disconcert him. Did they 
 think I did well, Mary?' 
 
 ' Yes, they a' seemed weel pleased.' 
 
 ' Is that all you'll say to me, Mary ? Now you are 
 offended, though you say you're not. Why, what'll you 
 do when you're a minister's wife ? I can tell you a 
 public man's wife sees very little of him. He must be at 
 everybody's beck and bow.' 
 
 ' I'll never be a minister's wife, so I needna 
 fash,' said Mary in the same quiet, aggravating sort 
 of way. 
 
 ' Dear me ! are you going to throw me off after all this 
 time, and after the way I've cared about you, and trusted 
 you since ever we were anything ? ' exclaimed Sandy 
 incredulously. 
 
 Mary withdrew her hand from his arm and stood still 
 on the grassy path. They were quite alone, and would not 
 likely be disturbed, for the old road through the Knowe 
 fields was but little used, especially on the Sabbath day. 
 It was quite dark now, but as they stood in silence a
 
 73 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 moment, the moon suddenly rose from behind a cloud, 
 and shone full upon them both. It touched Mary's 
 sweet, serious face with a tender light, and revealed 
 plainly her companion's tall, well-built figure and hand- 
 some, clear-cut face. Sandy Bethune had improved 
 greatly in personal appearance, and had quite lost all 
 the awkwardness of his earlier years, and which still 
 characterized Jamie. Sandy, among other things, had 
 quickly picked up city polish and city ways. His minis- 
 terial garb became him well, too, and he was a lover of 
 whom any girl might be proud. 
 
 ' I want to speak to you, Sandy,' she said, looking away 
 beyond him, and speaking in low, clear, firm tones. 
 ' Things have been long in my mind, and it's time they 
 were said. I think you an' me's made a mistake. I've 
 seen this long time that you've no' been the same, an' I 
 want to tell you that I dinna and wadna' seek to keep 
 ye bound. Let me speak,' she said, raising a deprecat- 
 ing hand, when he would have interrupted her, 
 'an' syne I'll baud my tongue. I ken brawly that 
 I could never be a minister's wife, nor a fit companion 
 for you. I ken naething, nor I couldna conduct 
 mysel' to your likin' ; ye wad sune be ashamed o' me, 
 an' wish ye hadna ta'en me, an' I couldna bear that. 
 So I think we'll pairt. Mind, I dinna blame ye ; I ken 
 it's me that's daein't, an' should ye get anither mair 
 like ye, I'll wish her an' you weeL Ye maun ken in 
 yer ain mind that I'm richt,' she said more hurriedly, 
 for the strain upon her was very great. 'An' now 
 I'll awa' in. Guid-nicht.' 
 
 ' Not so fast, my lady ; there must be two to that 
 bargain,' said Sandy Bethune, for never had the girl 
 before him seemed so sweet and dear as now, when she 
 was seeking to break the bonds between them. For the
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 79 
 
 moment he forgot how often he had been ashamed 
 of her, how often he had wished himself free from 
 the tie which had become irksome to him, how often 
 he had blamed the folly which would give him a 
 wife who would not grace her position ; and all the 
 old love came uppermost, sweeping everything before 
 it. He folded his arms about the slight figure, 
 and drew her to his heart ; and she sobbed there, 
 not seeking to draw herself away. The effort she had 
 made had bereft her of her strength, and she could 
 not keep calm. 
 
 ' So you thought you had no more ado than speak the 
 word and I was off? ' he said tenderly. ' My dear, you do 
 not know Sandy Bethune yet. I won't give you up, 
 unless you say you don't like me, for you are the sweetest 
 lassie in the world.' 
 
 Poor Mary ! She loved him well, and these words fell 
 upon her ears like sweetest music, and for the moment 
 every fear, every misgiving, was set at rest. 
 
 ' So you thought that because I was getting on I wanted 
 to throw you over ? What an idea ! ' he said grandly, and 
 almost convincing himself that she had wronged him by 
 the thought. ' Why, Mary, half the pleasure of looking 
 forward is that you will share the future with me. Only 
 two years more, and then I'll show you whether I'm 
 ashamed of you or not. But I'll tell you. what. I'll lend 
 you books, and in two years you'll can crow over me. 
 And if you'd only not speak the horrid Star Scotch, not 
 one of the fine ladies I've seen could hold a candle to you. 
 Couldn't you try, Mary ? ' 
 
 ' W T hat would folk say ? ' asked Mary with a very 
 doubtful smile. 
 
 'You mustn't mind what folk say. I consider you, 
 and you must consider me,' said Sandy calmly. ' You
 
 80 THE GATES OF EDEN 
 
 have such a sweet voice, that if you just talked a little 
 more refined, you would be quite a lady.' 
 
 ' I'll try to improve myself for your sake, Sandy,' said 
 Mary with a slight sigh. ' But if I'm slow and stupid 
 ye mauna be vexed wi' me, and aye mind that if ye think 
 I wad be a hindrance or a drawback to you, I'll never 
 haud ye bound.' 
 
 ' Now don't begin that kind of nonsense again, 
 Mary,' said the young man, laying his hand on her 
 lips. ' You are my own dear lassie, and I won't 
 give you up, not likely ; that would be a pretty mean 
 thing to do.' 
 
 ' Well, if ye like me as weel's ye did, Sandy, 
 I'll say nae mair,' said Mary with a half sob in her 
 voice. ' It's whiles no' easy keunin' the richt thing 
 to dae.' 
 
 ' It's easy enough in this instance : you must just 
 wait till I get a kirk, and then everything '11 be right. 
 And when I'm in Edinburgh, Mary, if you don't hear 
 regularly from me, you needn't begin to think I'm 
 forgetting you, or any other absurd notions into your 
 foolish little head. Because I shall have to study hard, 
 you know, and I'll have less time than ever, if I'm to 
 do any good.' 
 
 ' A' richt,' answered Mary. ' I'll mind what ye say.' 
 
 ' And I'll send you some books directly I get to town, 
 and you must read every word, mind, and anything you 
 don't understand you must write to me about. If you 
 write often, you know, you'll improve both in composition 
 and handwriting, and we'll have you an accomplished 
 little lady in no time.' 
 
 Mary smiled. If she had been less meek and humble 
 by nature she would have resented the patronizing tone 
 of her lover's remarks. But what was in reality a
 
 A WOMAN'S HEART. 
 
 81 
 
 species of shame at her scanty accomplishments, she took 
 for loving interest in herself. For his sake she would 
 apply herself, and faithfully follow out his behests, in 
 order that she might not be a shame to him in that 
 strange, wonderful life which one day they were to share 
 together.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 CHANGE. 
 'A meek quiet soul that bore its burden silently.* 
 
 
 
 WO more years slipped quietly away, marked 
 by only one event of family interest to the 
 Bethunes, the death of Peter's wife at 
 Auchtermairnie. She had been in feeble 
 health for many months, and the end was not 
 unlocked for. Her last years had been embittered 
 by her husband's irritability of temper and 
 extreme niggardliness, which had increased with age. 
 They said she was not sorry to slip away from life and 
 its many cares. After his wife's death Peter Bethune 
 continued to live alone at the farm, doing his own turn, 
 and cooking his own bite, such as it was, a drink of 
 milk and a piece of the coarsest bread sufficed him at 
 any time. His out-door servants would not stay with 
 him, he was such a hard taskmaster, and would have 
 them up by daybreak, and working till dark. Then he 
 was always at their heels, watching them with his evil, 
 
 82
 
 CHANGE. S3 
 
 distrustful eye, and nagging at them till service became 
 irksome and unbearable. He had no intercourse with 
 his neighbours, and seldom went near his own kin at the 
 Star. Neither did he trouble the kirk much, and, as to 
 giving aught away, the very beggars avoided Auchter- 
 mairnie as if it had been plague-stricken. Yet still he 
 prospered in the acquisition of worldly wealth, and his 
 hoard of gold grew bigger every day. Few loved, yet 
 many pitied Peter Bethune, for he was that melancholy 
 spectacle of an old man tottering on the brink of the 
 grave, his whole heart and soul bound up in the affairs 
 of this world. He was fast journeying towards an 
 eternity of which he knew nothing, and for which he was 
 making no preparation. How different with his brother, 
 who was like a stook of corn fully ripe, ready to be taken 
 at the Master's will. As John Bethune grew older, his 
 fine character received many a mellowing touch which 
 added to its beauty. He grew less stern towards evil- 
 doers, and had a word of kindly charity and pity for the 
 most erring. His manner even acquired a more kindly 
 and gentle tone, and he made life sweet indeed for those 
 of his own household. Susan, growing frail too, could 
 not but think sometimes that John was getting very ripe 
 for heaven. One thing pleased and satisfied her, that a 
 more perfect confidence began to rise, slowly but surely, 
 between Jamie and his father. Gradually John Bethune 
 got a deeper insight into the mind and heart of his 
 second son, and found there much that surprised him. 
 He marvelled at the store of knowledge the lad had 
 made his own, and it was of a more solid and lasting nature 
 than that which Sandy had acquired at the college. For 
 Jamie had not only read intelligently, but he had 
 brooded and pondered over his reading until he had 
 sifted the wheat from the chaff, and filled the garner of
 
 84 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 his mind with choicest seed, which would one day bear 
 its rich harvest. 
 
 ' Man, Jamie,' his father would say to him at times, 
 when perhaps in the course of earnest talk he had let 
 out more than usual, ' whaur did ye learn a' that ? It's 
 a perfect mystification to me. Ye're like Burns, surely, 
 ye've pickit it up at the ploo an' the harries. Ye've no' 
 haen that muckle time o' yer ain.' 
 
 ' I've aye had as muckle as dae me, faither,' Jamie 
 would reply, and then skilfully change the subject. In 
 his utter unselfishness, he tried even to prevent his 
 father from imagining that he chafed sometimes over the 
 monotony of his daily toil, for James Bethune was more 
 than ever resolved nsver to leave the old man while he 
 lived. He had ceased to fret over the harshness of his 
 destiny, though at times a wave of the old longing would 
 sweep over him, and he would feel like a bird beating 
 his wings against prison bars, and panting to be free. 
 There was in his heart a deep conviction that his time 
 would come ; and more, that the future would demand all 
 the preparation and discipline of the present. So, while 
 he diligently prepared the soil for the fruits of the earth, 
 a somewhat similar process was going on in his own 
 mind. One winter evening the little household was 
 gathered about the hearth, making a truly pleasant 
 picture. In his own chair sat the old man, with his 
 elbows leaning on the arms and his fingers meeting 
 together at the tips. His eyes were fixed on Jamie, who 
 was reading aloud from Mill. On the other side of the 
 hearth sat Aunt Susan, busy with the ' rig and fur ' of a 
 pair of socks for Sandy (little did she dream, honest 
 woman, that, though Sandy might and would probably 
 accept them, he would never wear such homely hose). 
 
 Susan Bethune was now within one year of the allotted
 
 CHANGE. 85 
 
 span, but her figure still retained the straightness of 
 youth. Her face, however, was weather - beaten and 
 deeply wrinkled, and her hair was very grey. She was 
 knitting busily, but ever and anon she paused and looked 
 over her spectacles from father to son, and then, giving a 
 satisfied nod, would go at it again with redoubled energy. 
 She did not pretend to be edified by what Jamie was 
 reading, or even to understand it, but it was enough for 
 her to see that it interested them. There was a striking 
 resemblance between John Bethune and his son ; both 
 were fine-looking men. Jamie had not, indeed, that 
 refinement of appearance so characteristic of Sandy, but 
 he had a powerful, well-knit frame, a grand head, and an 
 open, honest face, lit by an earnest eye, which mirrored a 
 pure and noble soul. There was a gentleness in its 
 gleam when he glanced up from his book at times, to ask 
 his father's opinion on what he was reading, or perhaps 
 to make a comment of his own, which told of a warm 
 and sympathetic heart. About seven o'clock they heard 
 tfie garden-gate shut with a bang, and next moment 
 somebody opened the door and came in. Jamie sprang 
 up and threw open the kitchen-door, and there was 
 Sandy standing in the little lobby coolly shaking the snow 
 from his overcoat and hat. 
 
 ' Bless me, laddie, is't you ? ' cried the old man, jump- 
 ing up, while a rare light of joy illumined his face. 
 1 What way did ye no' send word, and Jamie wad hae 
 been doon meetin' ye ? ' 
 
 ' 'Deed ay. It seems stormy, tae,' said Jamie, shaking 
 his brother warmly by the hand. ' Have ye gotten yer 
 Christmas holidays ? ' 
 
 'Not yet. I've come to tell you some news ; guess 
 what ? ' asked Sandy with a smile. ' Well, Aunt Susan, 
 always at the old thing, eh ? '
 
 86 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 1 Aye at it, Sandy, my man. Eh, ye're a great muckle 
 chield ; isn't he, John ? ' 
 
 ' He is that,' said John Bethune delightedly, for his 
 heart had filled at the sight of his boy. ' Sit doon, man, 
 an' gie's yer news. Pit on the kettle, Shoosan.' 
 
 ' I don't need anything ; I dined just before I left 
 town,' said Sandy quickly. ' Well, my news is that Mr. 
 Alexander Bethune, probationer, has been elected minister 
 of Lochbroom.' 
 
 ' Eh, that's graund news ! But whaur's Loch- 
 broom ? Tell's a' aboot it, quick, man ! ' said his father 
 excitedly. 
 
 ' Lochbroom is in Dumfriesshire, five miles from 
 Lockerbie,' Sandy hastened to explain. ' I preached 
 there twice in the vacancy, though I wasn't a candidate ; 
 you see I thought I had no chalice.' 
 
 ' Is't a parish ? ' Jamie asked. 
 
 'Yes, a parish church. A fine living it is, and a 
 beautiful place, and not too far from Edinburgh.' 
 
 'What's the steepend?' inquired Aunt Susan anxiously, 
 and, smiling, she pointed to the old man, whose eyes 
 were closed and his lips moving. They knew he was 
 returning thanks to the Lord for His goodness to him 
 and his. 
 
 ' The stipend is not so big as it should be only two 
 hundred,' said Sandy discontentedly. ' But there's a fine 
 manse and a good glebe. It'll do till something better 
 turns up.' 
 
 ' Mercy me ! hear till him ! ' exclaimed Aunt Susan in 
 dismay. ' My certy, Sandy Bethune ! ye're no blate, 
 turnin' up yer nose at twa hunder.' 
 
 John Bethune opened his eyes, and looked at his son 
 wistfully and searchingly, as if he would read his inmost 
 poul. It was not the first time Jamie had seen such a
 
 CHANGE. 87 
 
 look on his father's face in relation to Sandy. Eight 
 well did he know the vague feeling of sadness and dis- 
 appointment which prompted it. ' Hae ye accepted the 
 ca', then, Sandy ? ' he asked after a little. 
 
 ' Not yet, but I mean to/ answered Sandy. ' Half the 
 fellows are wild with envy. It's not every one who 
 steps in so easily in these hard times. But I thought I 
 made a good impression when I was down last ; they 
 were all so civil to me. It seems a nice congregation 
 very select.' 
 
 ' What micht ye mean by select, my man ? ' asked the 
 old man mildly. 
 
 ' Oh, well, they're mostly superior folk gentleman 
 farmers and such like ; and then there are three heritors, 
 Sir John Bruce of Cairniehall and Colonel Lewis. They 
 and their families, of course, only attend for a month 
 or two in the summer, when they are not in London or 
 abroad. The other heritor, Mr. Lorraine of Nethercleugh, 
 attends regularly, I was told.' 
 
 ' Oo ay, they'll be the kind o' folk that'll need a corner 
 o' heevin to theirsel's,' said Aunt Susan brusquely, for she 
 was inwardly disgusted at the way in which Sandy spoke. 
 ' It's a guid thing for you if there's no mony puir folk 
 there.' 
 
 ' Why, Aunt Susan ? ' asked Sandy quickly, for he 
 detected well enough the sarcasm underneath her 
 words. 
 
 ' Oh, jist because puir folk an' you dinna 'gree noo, 
 Sandy, sin' ye've gotten to be sic a great big man in your 
 ain opeenion. There noo ! ye can chow that at yer 
 leisure ; an' ye needna girn at yer auld auntie, for she's 
 no' carin' a peen's heid for ye/ said Aunt Susan calmly. 
 ' I'm no verra religious, Sandy, but I ken that when the 
 Lord was upo' the earth, He didna fash whether folk was
 
 88 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 " seleck " or no. He likit the common folk, an' He's the 
 common folk's freen' to this day. Weel, I'll awa' to 
 the byre.' 
 
 So saying, and having relieved her mind, Aunt Susan 
 bounced out of the kitchen, and left the three to them- 
 selves. Jamie was unable to repress a smile at his 
 aunt's unwonted eloquence, but the sad look still lingered 
 on the old man's face, and Sandy's was flushed with 
 indignation. 
 
 ' She's a frightful old dragon that ! ' he exclaimed. 
 'How you ever put up with her tongue passes my 
 comprehension.' 
 
 ' She's maybe no' that faur frae the bit, my son,' said 
 John Bethune ; then, leaning forward, he looked with a 
 great and solemn earnestness into Sandy's handsome face. 
 ' Sandy, my man, if I thocht ye were to enter on the 
 preachin' o' the word, an' a' the solemn duties an' 
 responsibilities o' a minister in ony but the richt speerit, 
 I wad for ever rue the day I dedicated ye to the Kirk. 
 Mind ye, ye'll hae to gie an accoont o' yer talents to Him 
 that judges the heart an' no' the ootward action. Think 
 on * that, Sandy, and pray withoot ceasin' to be keepit 
 back frae presumptuous sins. Him wha's servant 
 ye are was meek and lowly, an' Paul, that graund 
 disciple, was never withoot the fear that while preachin' 
 to ithers he micht be a castaway. It's in that 
 speerit, Sandy, ye maun enter on yer wark, else ye 
 canna prosper.' 
 
 An awkward, almost painful silence followed upon the 
 old man's solemn warning. Jamie turned to his book 
 again, while Sandy sat twirling his thumbs, and looking 
 moodily into the fire. He felt himself aggrieved, after 
 having rushed* home to tell them the news, that they 
 should receive him with such cold congratulations. At
 
 CHANGE. 89 
 
 that moment Sandy Bethune felt further off than ever 
 from his own folk. They would never understand nor 
 appreciate him, and it was hardly possible to put up with 
 their ignorant, old-world notions. 
 
 'Don't be so hard on me, father/ he said, feeling 
 that some remark was expected of him. ' Of course I 
 mean to work hard, and do as much good as I can. It 
 wasn't fair of Aunt Susan to come down so hard upon 
 me. What does she know about it any way ? ' 
 
 ' She means weel,' said the old man, and then a silence 
 fell upon them again. 
 
 ' Well, I'll away up to the Knowe, and tell them the 
 news,' said Sandy, jumping up. ' What are you reading, 
 Jamie ? Mill's System of Logic ? Upon my word, you 
 are going in for philosophy with a vengeance. But do 
 you understand it ? ' he added curiously, and the tone of 
 the question brought the ready flush to his brother's 
 cheek. At four-and-twenty he was as sensitive on some 
 points as a child. 
 
 ' Understand it ! Ay, does he, an' a hantle mair than 
 me, or even you, Sandy, wi' a' yer college lare,' said the 
 old man, with a certain deep satisfaction and pride which 
 astonished Sandy as much as the fact of Jamie reading 
 Mill 
 
 He smiled, just a trifle incredulously, and went away 
 out of the house. Knowing that Mrs. Campbell's milk 
 customers would be about the kitchen entrance at the 
 Knowe, he took the trouble to go up the old road a bit, 
 and then through the stackyard to the front door. The 
 snow had ceased to fall, and the sky was breaking up, 
 and revealing, here and there, blue patches set with stars. 
 The frost was intense, and already the snow-covered 
 paths were growing crisp and slippery. David Campbell 
 himself answered the low knock, and peered out curiously
 
 90 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 when he opened the door, wondering what front-door 
 visitor could be so late on a stormy night. 
 
 ' Maister Bell ! ' he exclaimed when he saw the figure 
 in clerical garb. ' Na ; oh, is't you, Sandy Bethune ? 
 Come in. Naebody was expeckin' you.' 
 
 ' I won't come in, thanks. Is Mary in the house, Mr. 
 Campbell ? I want to see her for a little.' 
 
 ' She's no' in. She's at Markinch, speerin' for her 
 Auntie Katie that's doon wi' the cauld. Come in an' 
 gie's yer crack till she comes back.' 
 
 ' I think I'll go and meet her. She'll be sure to come 
 over the Cunan Hill, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, sure ! it's the nearest way frae Northhall, 
 ye ken, an' the best, especially on a snawy nicht 
 But what's brocht ye to the Star a' on a sudden 
 the nicht ? ' 
 
 ' I'll tell you when I come back. It's good news,' 
 said Sandy with a laugh. " Is there a stick in the 
 lobby ? Hand it out, please. The roads are very 
 slippery.' 
 
 ' There's my faither's tree till ye,' said David Campbell, 
 handing out the stout crook which had stood for fifty years 
 and more in the lobby at the Knowe. Thus equipped, 
 Sandy trudged off. Directly he was beyond the houses 
 he lit \ cigar and walked on quickly, pondering certain 
 things in his mind. He felt a vague dissatisfaction, an 
 uneasy consciousness that his relations with the Star 
 were not quite what they should be. Every step he took 
 was bringing him nearer Mary Campbell, but the thought 
 had not power to thrill his pulses, or make his heart 
 beat faster ; and yet he had not seen her for nearly four 
 months. 
 
 The sky gradually cleared as the wind rose, and when 
 he passed through the wickets into the path which led
 
 CHANGE. 91 
 
 over the hill, he could see Mary coming over the brow of 
 the slope ; at least, there was a woman's figure standing 
 out clearly against the deep blue of the sky, and which 
 would in all probability be Mary. He walked more 
 leisurely now, and just met her at the base of the 
 hill. 
 
 ' Oh, Sandy ! ' she exclaimed breathlessly, and yet 
 somehow she did not exhibit that surprise he expected. 
 The explanation was that he was so continually in her 
 thoughts that it could not have seemed very strange 
 though he should appear sometimes at her side. 
 
 ' How are you, Mary ? ' he asked ; and after holding 
 her hand a moment he stooped and kissed her. As he 
 did so he saw her eyes fill with tears. 
 
 ' They didna ken ye was comin', surely. At least I 
 saw Jamie yestreen, an' he said naething aboot it.' 
 
 ' No, they didn't know ; I didn't know myself,' said 
 Sandy rather shortly ; for the broad Scotch, even when 
 uttered in so sweet a tone, jarred upon him and vexed 
 him. 
 
 ' I hope there's naething wrang,' she said rather 
 timidly. 
 
 ' No. I've got a church, Mary ; that's what brought 
 me to Star to-night,' he said. ' We need not stand here. 
 Let us walk on.' 
 
 ' A church ! Oh, Sandy, where ? ' 
 
 ' At Lochbroorn, near Lockerbie. They have elected me 
 unanimously. I am told there was not one dissentient 
 voice,' said Sandy with his grandest air. 
 
 ' Near Lockerbie ; where's that, Sandy ? ' 
 
 ' In Dumfriesshire, you little goose. Have you for- 
 gotten all your geography already ? ' 
 
 ' I think I have. An' when do ye gang, Sandy ? ' 
 
 ' As soon as I can ; of course, now it will be after the
 
 92 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 New Year ; but you're never asking about the stipend or 
 the manse, Mary.' 
 
 ' But you'll tell me a' aboot it, Sandy,' said Mary with 
 a fleeting upward smile, which had a touch of wistfulness 
 in it. Mary Campbell's love was more a pain than a joy ; 
 there was a strange uncertainty and fear mingling with 
 it, and an utter absence of that perfect trust and freedom 
 which makes love's young dream so sweet. 
 
 ' The stipend is two hundred, besides the glebe, and 
 the manse has ten rooms in it, Mary ; different from 
 anything you've been accustomed to.' 
 
 ' Ten rooms, Sandy ! ' echoed Mary in a whisper. 
 ' That's mair nor they have at Carriston ; as mony nearly, 
 I Relieve, as what's at Brunton.' 
 
 ' It's bigger than the Knowe, any way,' said Sandy, 
 without drawing any comparison between it and his 
 own humble home. 'There'll be a dining-room and a 
 drawing-room and a study, then bedrooms of course. 
 It'll take a lot of money to furnish it, but my father 
 must just advance the cash. I must make a good 
 appearance at first, you know; so much depends on 
 that.' 
 
 ' But sic a hoose is by faur ower big for you, Sandy,' 
 Mary ventured to say, but did not say ' for us/ as most 
 girls would have done. 
 
 ' Not a bit of it. I've been a great deal in fine 
 houses, and you'll soon grow accustomed. You'll need 
 to pull up, though, Mary, and learn a great deal within 
 the next twelve months, before you come to the manse of 
 Lochbroom.' 
 
 Mary sighed. She felt very ignorant and weak and 
 unfitted for the position of which her lover spoke. The 
 burden of the future sometimes weighed very heavily 
 on her, and Sandy was not so helpful as he might
 
 CHANGE. 93 
 
 have been. He was always readier to find fault 
 than to notice improvements or commend her for 
 doing well. 
 
 ' Did you read the books I sent to you, Mary ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I read them ; but I didna ken the meanin' o' 
 the half in Bacon's Essays. I likit some o' the poetry 
 books best,' said Mary. ' I dinna think I'm clever enough 
 to read your fine books, Sandy ; it would be better to let 
 me be. I'd rather learn a' ye want me to learn just by 
 listenin' to you. An' I've sae muckle adae that when I 
 sit doon whiles at nicht to a book I fa' asleep.' 
 
 Sandy Bethune bit his lip, but when he felt the light 
 hand tremble on his arm, his heart smote him. After 
 all he was a little hard on the poor little girl, who - had 
 never had a chance. 
 
 ' Never mind, my pet. Don't bother your little head 
 any more over Bacon. I daresay he's rather a dry old 
 chap. I daresay you'll do splendidly when you're away 
 from the drudgery of the Knowe,' said Sandy ; and 
 as they were in the deep shadow of the malt barns, 
 and nobody was in sight, he stooped down, and 
 kissed her again. Her humility touched him, and he 
 was very fond of her in his own way. And if only 
 she would not speak so broad, she was very pretty, and 
 when properly dressed would look as like a lady as 
 many he knew. 
 
 ' So you'll need to be getting your things ready, Mary. 
 Women always get a lot of stuff, don't they, when they're 
 going to be married ? Of course it won't be for a while 
 yet, till I get settled a while, and am all ready for you. 
 Won't you be glad to come ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, if only I can please ye^ and mak' ye a guid wife,' 
 said Mary with a sob in her voice. ' But oh, Sandy, 
 mind that if ye think ye wad be better wi' somebody
 
 94 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 else, I'm quite willin' to gie ye up. I dinna ken what 
 I wad dae if ye thocht ye had made a mistake when it 
 was ower late to mend it' 
 
 ' If we weren't so near the Knowe, you little monkey, 
 I'd punish you for such a speech,' said Sandy playfully. 
 Then a smile stole through her tears again, and for the 
 moment the girl's anxious heart was set at rest.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SPELLBOUND. 
 
 'N the study at the manse of Lochbroom sat 
 the newly - elected minister on a Friday 
 morning, trying to collect his thoughts, 
 in order to prepare his discourse for the 
 Sabbath day. He found it a difficult task, 
 for the week had been one of excitement and 
 event, and it was not easy to compose the 
 mind and banish all disturbing elements from his 
 thoughts. Everything was so new and strange ; the 
 very furniture in the room was discomposing, it was 
 so unfamiliar. John Bethune had told his son to obtain 
 suitable furnishings for his manse, and send in the bills 
 to him, little dreaming, honest man, what he would be 
 called upon to pay. 
 
 The Reverend Alexander Bethune had a refined taste, 
 and liked everything of the best quality. Those who 
 had already seen the interior of the manse had come 
 away in ecstasies over the beauty and solid elegance 
 to be found there. The dining-room was substantially 
 and chastely furnished in oak and crocodile leather ; the
 
 96 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 study in mahogany and Utrecht velvet, the drawing-room 
 in ebony and silk tapestry. The young minister knew 
 his father was possessed of ample means, and so took 
 advantage to the uttermost of his permission to please 
 himself. What would the Star folk have said could 
 they have had but one peep into the manse of Loch- 
 broom ? and what would be gentle Mary Campbell's awe 
 and astonishment when she looked upon her future 
 home ? 
 
 Such thoughts as these, I fear, occupied the mind of 
 the young minister, and proved more alluring and en- 
 grossing than the words of the text he had chosen : 
 ' Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap/ 
 
 He had, however, at length managed in a manner to 
 concentrate his thoughts upon his subject, when his 
 housekeeper knocked at the door. 
 
 ' There is a gentleman in the dining-room, sir, Mr. 
 Lorraine of Nethercleugh,' she said. ' If you are not too 
 busy he would be glad to see you for a few minutes.' 
 
 The minister rose at once, well pleased to hear the 
 name of one of the heritors. It augured well that they 
 should begin so soon to show him neighbourly kindness. 
 He walked into the dining-room and greeted his visitor 
 without the slightest restraint or shyness ; the new 
 minister of Lochbroom had the utmost confidence in 
 himself. 
 
 ' Good morning, Mr. Bethune,' said the stranger with 
 a strong English accent. ' I must apologize for this 
 early call, and also for my unconventional attire. I ride 
 into the village for my letters every morning, and I 
 merely looked in to see whether it would suit you to 
 dine with us to night. My daughter and I will be quite 
 alone ; but it may help to pass an hour or two, and we 
 will be delighted to see you.'
 
 SPELLBOUND. 97 
 
 ' Thank you, I ?hall be most happy to accept of your 
 invitation, and to make the acquaintance of Miss 
 Lorraine,' said the minister a little less effusively, for 
 he felt as if that keen, deep-set eye were reading his 
 inmost soul. He had seen Mr. Lorraine at the ordina- 
 tion dinner the previous evening, but had not been 
 so struck by his appearance then as now. He was a 
 man considerably past his prime, with a tall, well-knit 
 figure, and a face which must once have been handsome, 
 though it looked now as if some terrible blast of sorrow 
 had swept over it, searing a line here and another there, 
 until its contour was marred. The mouth under the 
 heavy grey moustache was grave and stern, and, though 
 he spoke pleasantly and cordially enough, no smile ever 
 came upon his face. He wore riding garb, and looked 
 every inch a gentleman ; somehow Alexander Bethune 
 felt himself miserably conscious of his own insigni- 
 ficance. 
 
 ' Have you recovered from the ordeal you underwent 
 last night 1 ' asked Mr. Lorraine. ' I felt very much 
 for you. It seems to me always that the great mistake 
 made at this sort of gatherings is talking too much of 
 and at the guest of the evening. But I must say you 
 took it all very coolly.' 
 
 ' I tried to do so ; but, as you say, perhaps there was 
 just a little too much said.' 
 
 'Well, they have given us cause to expect a great 
 deal from you, Mr. Bethune ; I hope you will be very 
 happy and comfortable among us. I must say I have 
 found the people of Lochbroom and the neighbourhood 
 most kind and courteous, since I came to make my 
 dwelling among them.' 
 
 ' Have you not always resided at Nethercleugh then 1 ' 
 asked the minister involuntarily. 
 
 9
 
 98 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' No ; we only came a year ago, when I bought tho 
 place from the Earl/ said Mr. Lorraine. ' So we are not 
 county people. I was a merchant in London before I 
 retired from business. Well, may we expect you at 
 seven, Mr. Bethune ? ' he broke off with strange abrupt- 
 ness, and the minister wondered to see a deep shadow 
 steal darkly across his face. 
 
 ' Thanks, I shall not fail' 
 
 ' That's right. If you walk out (it is only three miles 
 following the burn which flows past your own garden 
 wall), my man shall drive you back in the evening. 
 Good morning.' 
 
 So, in the same gravely courteous manner, he shook 
 hands, and took his leave. The minister watched him 
 ride away up the street, admiring the beautiful chestnut 
 mare, and filled with the liveliest interest and curiosity 
 concerning him and his daughter. There was very little 
 progress made with the sermon that day, there were many 
 interruptions, and when evening came he felt a triile 
 alarmed lest he should not be able to do himself justice 
 on the Sabbath day. 
 
 Shortly after six he set out to walk by way of the 
 winding stream to Nethercleugh. It was only the third 
 week in January, but the air was mild and pleasant, and 
 a new year's spring had made the hedgerows bud and 
 some green blades peep above ground. The Cleugh road, 
 as it was called, was a favourite walk with Lochbroom 
 folk, and the new proprietor of Nethercleugh had won 
 golden opinions for himself by giving them the privilege 
 of extending their walk through his grounds, and out 
 by the north lodge into the Lockerbie road. He saw 
 that the path was kept in order also, and it was safe 
 footing even in the darkest night. It was not dark 
 to-iiight, however, for the moon was high in the heavens,
 
 SPELLBOUND. 99 
 
 and objects at a distance were clearly discernible. The 
 path took many a curious winding curve, crossing and 
 recrossing the stream several times, and sometimes losing 
 sight of it altogether. 
 
 It is a poor soul that is not impressed by its 
 surroundings, and that does not feel itself uplifted by 
 that solemnity with which nature often seeks to com- 
 mune with earth's children. 
 
 When the human heart is in unison with nature's 
 harmonies, then is it very near to nature's God. The 
 young minister stood still on one of the rustic bridges 
 which spanned the stream, and gave himself up for a 
 moment to the softening influences of the place. No 
 sound broke the stillness but the solemn rustling of the 
 fir tops, and the gentle murmur of the stream as it gurgled 
 and splashed in its pebbly bed. The moonlight was 
 gloriously bright, and through a gap in the trees he 
 could look up to the village clustering on its gentle 
 slope, guarded by the spire of the grey old church, 
 his own church, where, on the Sabbath day, he must 
 begin his life work, and sow the seed which should 
 bear an immortal harvest. It was a solemn, almost a 
 chastening thought, and at that moment all that was 
 noblest and best in the man was called into being. 
 He forgot all the outward dignity and honour of his 
 position, which, not an hour ago, had been uppermost 
 in his mind. The thoughts which came to him there 
 were almost a prayer, and, for the first time since he had 
 had the ministry in view, he obtained a glimpse of its 
 solemn responsibilities and high privileges. Oh that the 
 influences of that holy hour had but remained ! then 
 indeed life would not have been saddened by vain regrets 
 which would go with him to the grave. 
 
 Out of a deep, thickly -wooded glade, into which the
 
 100 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 moonbeams could not gain admittance, he came suddenly 
 into the park, with its noble trees and soft sward 
 gleaming white under the clear sky. He saw the house 
 in the near distance, a venerable pile, built of the red 
 sandstone common to the district, but which the storms 
 and suns of many, many years had softened and changed 
 so that it would scarcely have been recognised. Ivy 
 clung to its turrets, and the tender mosses crept about 
 its lower walls as if they loved it. 
 
 A wide sweep of gravel lay in front, bounded by the 
 soft, well-kept turf of a beautiful lawn, in the middle of 
 which stood one hoary chestnut tree. There were no 
 flowers to be seen ; the whole appearance of the place 
 was plain and severe, but beautiful and grand in its 
 simplicity. 
 
 As the minister gazed upon the imposing dwelling, 
 and recalled the humble cottage in which he had been 
 reared, his heart swelled with pride, that, through his 
 own industry and merit, he should have raised himself 
 to be received as an equal by its possessor. Perhaps in 
 youth such a thought was natural. The servant who 
 took his hat and coat immediately ushered him up the 
 wide staircase, and, opening the drawing-room door, 
 announced him by name. 
 
 ' Good evening, Mr. Bethune,' said the now familiar 
 voice of his host ; ' you are in good time. Had you a 
 pleasant walk ? ' 
 
 ' Very ; it is a lovely evening, and the path is quite 
 picturesque,' answered the minister; and, as his eyes 
 grew accustomed to the subdued light in the room, he 
 glanced curiously, almost eagerly round in search of Miss 
 Lorraine. 
 
 'My daughter will be down presently,' said Mr. 
 "Lorraine, understanding the glance. 'She was in
 
 SPELLBOUND. 101 
 
 Lockerbie spending the day, and only returned about 
 half an hour ago. She is usually first. This, of course, 
 is your first visit to Nethercleugh ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; it seems a fine residence.' 
 
 ' It suits us, and in summer it is very pleasant. 
 Beatrice and I are very quiet folk, and are generally 
 content with each other,' said Mr. Lorraine, and a deep, 
 exquisite tenderness relieved for a moment the sternness 
 of his face. 
 
 ' Surely she must be old and uninteresting,' thought 
 the minister. 'No young girl would be content to be 
 buried in such a quiet country place.' 
 
 And yet there was grace and beauty in her very name. 
 The twain relapsed into silence then, and the host stood 
 leaning his elbow on the broad marble mantel, looking 
 almost gloomily into the fire. The guest wondered what 
 kept that perpetual shadow on his face. The stillness 
 in the house oppressed him, and the room, though 
 magnificently beautiful, was sombre and gloomy, rendered 
 even more so by the subdued light from the solitary read- 
 ing-lamp burning on the table. At last, to the minister's 
 relief, the door opened, and involuntarily he rose to his 
 feet. He could not have described the strange feeling 
 which took possession of him ; he felt as if some crisis in 
 his life were at hand. 
 
 ' My daughter, Mr. Bethune. Beatrice, my dear, you 
 have not been in haste,' he said, looking at her with 
 critical approval. ' Mr. Bethune will soon learn to 
 depend on you for entertainment when he comes to 
 Nethercleugh. I am the most miserable of hosts.' 
 
 ' Mr. Bethune must not believe that, else he and I 
 shall never agree,' said Beatrice with a slight smile ; 
 then she turned to the minister with exquisite grace. 
 ' May I bid you welcome to Lochbroom and to Nether-
 
 102 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 cleugh, and express the wish that you will be very happy 
 with us ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you, Miss Lorraine,' said the minister with an 
 awkwardness altogether new to him ; and his face flushed, 
 he could not tell why. 
 
 ' It is scarcely half-past seven,' she said, moving over 
 to a beautiful azalea on a jardiniere near the centre table, 
 and touching it with caressing fingers. ' This plant is 
 beginning to droop, papa ; I must have Glover in to look 
 at it.' 
 
 ' They are best in the greenhouse, my dear ; I have 
 often said so,' he replied, and the minister saw with what 
 love and pride he watched her every movement. He 
 had reason to be proud of the queenly figure, whose grace 
 was enhanced by the rich simplicity of her attire. It 
 fell in sheeny folds about her, and the glowing scarlet 
 geranium against the black lace at her throat seemed to 
 impart a reflection of its colour to the pale face. It was 
 a striking face, not so much on account of its beauty, 
 but because it was indicative of character, and seemed to 
 have a story to tell. That it was a sad story the grave, 
 womanly mouth and wistful eyes proved beyond a doubt. 
 They were lovely eyes, deep and unfathomable, and 
 capable of a hundred varying expressions. The lashes 
 and eyebrows were dark, but the abundant hair coiled 
 about the stately head had a sheen upon it which neither 
 painter's brush nor poet's fancy could ever reproduce. 
 It rippled back from a broad, thoughtful brow, which had 
 some deep lines on it, which made it difficult to define 
 her age. In all his life the minister of Lochbroom had 
 seen no woman in the least like Beatrice Lorraine ; in 
 her presence he felt as if under the influence of some 
 spell. 
 
 ' You will be charmed with Lochbroom a month hence,
 
 SPELLBOUND. 103 
 
 Mr. Bethune,' she said, turning her deep eyes on the 
 minister's face again. ' It is loveliest in spring.' 
 
 ' I should think it would lend itself well also to the 
 beauty of the autumn. The surrounding country is so 
 richly wooded,' he answered. ' Do you not admire the 
 colouring of the autumn woods ? ' 
 
 ' No, if I had my way there should be no autumn 
 season. It is a sad and miserable time/ she said with a 
 strange passion. 'For me the summer is always sha- 
 dowed by the thought of the fall of the leaf. I know 
 not how any one can see aught of beauty in the precur- 
 sors of decay.' 
 
 At that moment the gong sounded, and they adjourned 
 to the dining-room. Dinner was a pleasant meal, for 
 Mr. Lorraine made an evident effort to entertain hia 
 guest, and there were few subjects on which he could 
 not talk with that fluency born of confidence in his 
 own knowledge. Beatrice also joined in the con- 
 versation with easy frankness. She looked well, too, 
 at the head of her father's well-appointed table, and 
 performed her duties with an exquisite grace. The 
 minister felt sorry when dessert was over, and she left 
 the room. 
 
 ' Do you smoke, Mr. Bethune ? ' asked his host when 
 they were alone. 
 
 ' A cigar occasionally." 
 
 ' I can suit you. There are some fine Manillas in my 
 sanctum. I shall just get them, if you will excuse me a 
 moment. It is mild enough for us to enjoy a puff out- 
 side. Then Beatrice will give us some tea and a song. 
 She sings welL' 
 
 ' I am sure of it. Miss Lorraine must excel in what- 
 ever she does,' said the minister. He was perfectly 
 sincere in his remark, yet it was received by Mr. Lorraine
 
 104 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 with a swift, curious glance, and a curve of the lips which 
 might have passed for a smile. 
 
 ' Let me give you a word, Mr. Bethune. If you wish 
 to keep on good terms with my daughter, don't attempt 
 to flatter her ; she will resent it at once/ he said. ' The 
 wind is westerly, I see ; we had better turn our faces to 
 it. It will refresh us after the closeness of the dining- 
 room.' 
 
 In courtesy to his guest, Mr. Lorraine lit a cigar also, 
 but made little progress with it. He talked kindly and 
 quietly to the young minister, chiefly about Lochbroom 
 and the state of the church, but he made no personal 
 remarks, and did not ask a single question concerning 
 the antecedents or past career of his guest. After a ten 
 minutes' stroll to and fro on the gravelled sweep in front 
 of the house, they went indoors, and up to the drawing- 
 room. Tea was in, and a few minutes were spent over 
 it, then at her father's request Beatrice opened the 
 piano. 
 
 ' Do you sing, Mr. Bethune ? ' she asked, as she turned 
 over the music sheets. ' Could I not find something here 
 for you ? ' 
 
 'I would rather have the pleasure of hearing you, 
 Miss Lorraine, if you please/ 
 
 ' Very well/ she said quietly, and, running, her fingers 
 over the keys, she began at once, without any of that 
 hesitancy and playful affectation which so many musi- 
 cians exhibit Her voice, low and tremulous at first, 
 gained strength as she sang, until a rich, sweet volume 
 of sound seemed to fill the whole room. The familiar 
 but ever beautiful ' Flowers o* the Forest ' was rendered 
 with an exquisite and thrilling pathos which almost 
 made the minister hold his breath. She had a magnifi- 
 cent and powerful voice, well under control ; and would
 
 SPELLBOUND. 105 
 
 soften it to the pathetic melody, till it seemed like the 
 voice of tears. Her face flushed as she sang, and he 
 saw the deep eyes glittering, telling how the power of 
 music stirred her to the very depths. When she ceased 
 there was a moment's deep silence. 
 
 ' Something more, if you please,' he pleaded earnsstly, 
 but she slightly shook her head, and at once rose from 
 the piano. 
 
 1 No more to-night. Please don't insist. I could not,' 
 she said, and, moving over to where her father sat with 
 his face buried in his hand, she touched his grey head as 
 if to comfort him. 
 
 ' Why will you sing these mournful ditties, Beatrice ? ' 
 he asked, looking up at length with the faintest smile. 
 ' You know how I dislike them.' 
 
 ' Shall I give you something merrier, papa ? ' 
 
 ' Never mind. Sit down and let us talk. Come, 
 Mr. Bethune. I fear you lind us but indifferent 
 company. I shall be sorry if you find your first 
 visit to Nethercleugh too depressing to care to repeat 
 it.' 
 
 ' That is not likely, Mr. Lorraine,' said the minister 
 sincerely. But after that the conversation seemed to 
 flag. It was as if some chill shadow rested on the family 
 hearth, intruding itself unasked and marring the harmony 
 and pleasure of the hour. The minister felt it, and after 
 a time he rose and said it was time for him to go. They 
 did not demur nor press him to stay, and the order was 
 given to bring the carriage to the door. 
 
 ' Come again soon. Although we cannot offer you 
 many inducements, we shall be glad to see you at any 
 time,' said the master of Nethercleugh as he bade him 
 good-night. ' Perhaps you will not always find us very 
 cheerful, but we will do the best we can.'
 
 iOC THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 The minister thanked him, and, as he was being 
 driven rapidly home, occupied his mind with speculations 
 regarding those he had left. That some great sorrow 
 had recently overshadowed Nethercleugh he could not but 
 conclude. What, then, could it be ? Evidences of wealth 
 were there in plenty, but that peace of mind which 
 money cannot buy seemed lacking. Henceforth Nether- 
 cleugh would not only be full of interest for him, but it 
 would be a magnet, because it held Beatrice Lorraine. 
 
 When the carriage drove away, Mr. Lorraine returned 
 to the drawing-room and threw himself with a deep, 
 heavy sigh into a chair. Then Beatrice rose from 
 hers, and, kneeling by his side, clasped her hands upon 
 his arm. 
 
 ' Papa, I know you could not bear it to-night. Was it 
 because he reminded you of what Willie might have 
 been ? ' said the sweet, pitiful voice. ' Dear papa, your 
 heart is full of anguish. Love is struggling hard to win. 
 Don't be angry. I must speak, or I shall die. I lie 
 awake at nights thinking of him, picturing him* a wretched 
 outcast in the streets of London. He did very wrong. 
 You know I do not seek to condone or excuse his offence; 
 only he was very young, and he had nowhere to go 
 when we cast him off. Oh, think of him as he was at 
 the best, papa ! Eemember how you loved him ! He 
 was very dear to you.' 
 
 ' Dear ! Ay, too dear ! I loved him, God help me ! 
 better than my own soul. I made an idol of the boy 
 from his birth, Beatrice, and left you, my poor daughter, 
 to the love and care of strangers. But I have been 
 punished for my sin ; my eyes have been opened, and 
 you, my darling, are my all to-night.' 
 
 ' Oh, do not say that, papa ! so long as Willie lives, 
 he is your son, you cannot sever the tie,' said Beatrice
 
 SPELLBOUND. 107 
 
 brokenly. '/ was always happy ; you were kind to me too. 
 Do not imagine I felt hurt or jealous ; how could I be 
 jealous of my own dear brother ? you had room in your 
 heart for us both. Papa, I feel it very deep in my heart ; 
 I brood over it night and day. Oh, is it not a wrong and 
 wicked thing to leave him to his own devices ? What if 
 it should accomplish his destruction ? Would we not be 
 answerable ? ' she asked with a shudder. 
 
 ' Beatrice ! ' His tone was cold and stern, and she 
 crept away from him, as if stung to the heart. ' I have 
 forbidden you to speak of this. I forbid you again. He 
 has chosen his own path, the path of dishonour and 
 disgrace, where we will not follow him. Henceforth I 
 have only you. May God forgive me if I am harsh to 
 you, my darling ! ' he said with a burst of passionate 
 fondness. ' I do not mean to be, but you must under- 
 stand I am to be obeyed in this.' He rose from his 
 chair, as if unable to bear his own thoughts, and went 
 out of the room. A few minutes later she heard the 
 library door close, and the key turned in the lock.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 
 
 *How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, 
 To have a thankless child.' 
 
 SHAKESPEARB. 
 
 'S there nae letter the day yet, John ?' 
 
 ' Nane yet, Shoosan. I wonder, can there 
 be onything wrang wi' Sandy ? ' said the 
 old man wearily, both his look and tone 
 telling of an anxious heart. 
 ' Hoots no ! ' answered Susan in her brisk, 
 cheerful fashion. ' Ye manna get ony sic 
 thocht intae yer heid. It's near the Assembly time, ye 
 ken, an' dootless he'll be busy ; but for a' that he inicht 
 hae written.' 
 
 ' He's never been sae reg'lar since he gaed tae Loch- 
 broom/ said John Bethune. 'An' we hinna seen him 
 sin' Februar'. It's a lang time.' 
 
 Susan Bethune looked at her brother with a deep 
 compassion, for he seemed to her that morning very old 
 and very frail. Of late his cheek had lost its ruddiness, 
 his eye its wonted clearness ; and he looked his seventy- 
 
 103
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 109 
 
 five years to the full. There was a childishness about 
 him at times, too, shown in little bursts of petulance and 
 waywardness which she could not but heed, it was so 
 different from the self-control and calmness of demeanour 
 to which she had been so long accustomed. There is a 
 deep pathos in such changes as these. We do not like 
 to see the fall of a goodly tree, nor the breaking up of a 
 fine constitution ; but least of all can we brook signs of 
 failing powers in those we love. To be compelled to 
 watch such sad decay, I think, is one of the chief 
 sorrows of life. And yet it has its bright side, too, if 
 we only care to look at it ; for there is another and a 
 brighter sphere where these faculties, worn out by the 
 toil of earth, will be restored to their pristine freshness 
 and vigour. 
 
 Til tell ye what, Shoosan,' he said, suddenly starting 
 to his feet ; ' I'll get ready an' gang awa' to Edinburgh 
 wi' the eleeven train, an' syne on tae Lochbroom in the 
 efternune.' 
 
 ' Ye'll dae a hantle less,' said Susan calmly. ' What 
 for wad ye flee awa' till Lochbroom the day ? ' 
 
 ' To see Sandy. I maun gang, Shoosan ; dinna 
 hinder me. Get oot my claes, like a wummin.' 
 
 'An' what'll Jamie say when he comes hame frae 
 Cupar ? ' asked Susan, without making any motion to 
 grant his request. 
 
 ' He has nae business wi' me. Can I no' gang whaur 
 I like for you or him either ? ' asked the old man testily ; 
 for the moment the idea to pay a visit to Lochbroom 
 entered his head, there and then did he resolve to put it 
 into immediate execution. 
 
 ' Man, John, be reasonable. Jamie '11 tak' my heid aff 
 if I let ye awa' on sic a jaunt. Ye ken he's that fear't 
 aboot ye,' pleaded Susan, really alarmed when she saw
 
 110 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 how determined he was. ' Bide or next week, when the 
 thrang o' the laud '11 be by, an' Jamie 11 gang wi' ye.' 
 
 ' I'm. gaun the day, an' the noo,' said the old man 
 doggedly, and, opening the kist lid, began to lay out his 
 black clothes, the broadcloth suit he had bought for his 
 wedding so long ago. 
 
 ' As sure's I live, I dinna ken what tae dae ! ' said 
 Susan, almost in tears. ' Hoo can ye gang to Lochbroom 
 withoot siller ? Ye ken brawly that's mainly what took 
 Jamie to Cupar the day,' she added triumphantly. ' Ye'll 
 hae to bide or the morn, onyway.' 
 
 ' Na, na ; I hae as muckle as tak' me there an' back,' 
 said the old man quietly. ' Whaur's my new neepkin ? 
 this ane's a' torn at the edge.' 
 
 ' If ye're gaun, ye're gaun wi' what ye can get for 
 yersel'. I'll no' tak' it on mysel' to help ye, John 
 Bethune,' said Susan shortly. ' Hoo d'ye think an auld 
 cratur like you will ever find yer way awa' sae faur ? 
 Ye're waur than a bairn, I declare.' 
 
 ' I'm no' that faur through but what I can gang there 
 and back, Shoosan,' answered the old man, proceeding 
 rapidly with his dressing, Susan watching him all the 
 wnile with anything but a kindly eye. She could hardly 
 believe he would really persist in his determination until 
 he bade her ' guid mornin',' and, taking his stout stick in 
 his hand, turned to go. 
 
 ' Ye're a bonnie-like sicht to gang awa' to the manse,' 
 she said, jumping up then. ' Let me brush yer coat ; an' 
 see, there's yer ither neepkin, ye can tie't about yer 
 neck on the road or i' the train, an' if ye're killed, dinna 
 blame me.' 
 
 'Nae fear; dinna pit yersel' aboot for me. I'll be 
 back safe and soond the morn,' he said cheerily, 
 pleased as a child to get his own way. 'Tell Jamie
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. Ill 
 
 he can baud in or I come hame, an' syne break oot 
 on me.' 
 
 Susan Bethune shook her head. She was very 
 uneasy and troubled in her mind ; but, as she said to 
 Jamie when he came home, ' Ye micht as weel 
 attempt to gar the sun stand still as pit yer faither 
 past a thing when he's set on't. He's a perfect terror 
 wi' thrawnness.' 
 
 Jamie said very little, but he was not the less anxious 
 about his father; indeed, he had it in his mind once or 
 twice to go after him and bring him safely home. How- 
 ever, he tried to reassure himself with the thought that 
 his father was not so very frail yet, and that he had all 
 his faculties about him. Surely if he arrived all right at 
 Lochbroorn, Sandy would see to it that he would get 
 safely back. 
 
 He could not but wonder how his brother would take 
 the visit, for he had never once invited any of them to 
 come and see him, and Jamie himself was too proud to 
 go unasked. It was long since he had become convinced 
 that Sandy was ashamed of his relations ; his habit of 
 deep study and pondering thought had given him a keen, 
 unerring insight into human nature, and he could read 
 his brother's character like an open book. He regarded 
 him with a strange commingling of feeling, half wonder- 
 ing, half sad, but he was too generous to judge him 
 harshly, and could find many excuses for the weakness 
 he only half understood. I fear Sandy was not always 
 so generous where Jamie was concerned, but that is a 
 common failing. It is so easy to pick faults, so hard for 
 the most of us to acknowledge good in others. And yet, 
 when we so strive at times, and succeed in conquering 
 our meaner impulses, is not the sweet satisfaction which 
 follows a reward sufficient for the struggle ?
 
 112 THE GATES OF EDEN 
 
 In due time the old man arrived in Edinburgh, and on 
 inquiry learned that he would get a train for the south 
 early in the afternoon. He was just like a child in his 
 delight at finding himself amid the stir and charm of 
 new scenes ; his spirit was still young, and in his exuber- 
 ance he forgot the frailty of his bodily frame. As the 
 train sped past the shores of Cobbinshaw Loch, through 
 among the bleak solitudes of the Lanarkshire hills, 
 and entered the greener and more abundant beauty of 
 the southern counties, he began to think, for the first 
 time since he started on his sudden journey, on the object 
 he had in view. What if he arrived in a strange place 
 so far from home to find Sandy away ? It was quite 
 possible that such might be the case ; however, he tried 
 to banish such a thought, and tried to interest himself 
 again in the scenery through which he was being so 
 rapidly whirled. They passed Lockerbie, and when the 
 train steamed into a little station about three miles 
 farther on, he jumped up and peered eagerly out, sure 
 they had arrived at Lochbroom. 
 
 ' Lochbroom ! ' re-echoed the guard, in his sharp, 
 brusque fashion. ' You should have changed at Lockerbie 
 for Lochbroom. You had better get out here and wait 
 for the next train coming from the south.' 
 
 ' When'll that be, though, my man ? ' 
 
 ' Six o'clock. Come, get out, or you'll be carried a few 
 miles farther out of your way.' 
 
 ' Hoo faur is't frae here to Lochbroom ? ' asked John 
 Bethune, stepping out to the platform. 
 
 ' About six miles. Rather far for an old fellow like 
 you. You'd better wait for the train,' said the guard, 
 and next minute he sounded his whistle, and the train 
 steamed away. 
 
 'Six o'clock I that's verra near twa hoors yet. I'll
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 113 
 
 walk/ said the old man. ' I'm fair sair sittin' onyway. 
 Eh me ! I dinna care about thae railway trains.' 
 
 He made some inquiry at the station-house, and set 
 out manfully on his walk. Oh, could Susan Bethune 
 but have seen the old man toiling along the dusty road, 
 with his black coat over his arm and his bare head 
 exposed to the sun ! words would not have been 
 adequate to express her righteous ire. Somehow the 
 surrounding country no longer had charm or interest 
 for John Bethune, and he began to wish he had not 
 been quite so headstrong in the morning. It was one 
 of the loveliest of May days. The sky was brilliantly 
 clear, the sunshine radiant, the west wind soft and caress- 
 ing in its touch. Then the whole earth was clothed in 
 green ; the corn was a foot above ground now, and on 
 the earlier lands potato and turnip tops were visible on 
 the furrows. The air was full of melody, and of that 
 happy promise which seems to come home to us more 
 in May than at any other time. There was not much 
 bloom yet, but buds were plentiful, both in hedge and 
 tree, and on the undulating banks which rose on either 
 side of the road. Time was when these things would 
 have touched and filled the heart of John Bethune, but 
 to-day he had no glad eye for them, but thought rather 
 of his cosy corner by the fireside at home, with a great 
 longing to stretch his limbs in his own arm-chair. The 
 old man was weary, and in need of rest. He sat down 
 once or twice on the way, hot and tired as he was, and 
 took no thought of putting on hat or coat ; then when he 
 was cool again he would trudge on again, straining his 
 eye over every little eminence to catch a glimpse of 
 the spire of Sandy's kirk. They were six long, long 
 miles to him, and when at last he saw clustering on 
 the brow of a little hill the houses of the village, he 
 
 10
 
 114 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 was too tired to strain his eyes any longer in search 
 of the manse or the kirk. Both were hidden from 
 his point of view, however, by the old elms in the 
 kirkyard. 
 
 ' Is thon Lochbroom, lassie ? ' he asked a field- worker, 
 who came out, hoe in hand, from a potato field. 
 
 ' Ay, that's Lochbroom,' she answered. ' It's a fine 
 nicht.' 
 
 'Ay, lassie. An' whaur micht the manse be, my 
 wummin ? if ye could direck me the nearest road, I wad 
 be muckle obleeged.' 
 
 ' D'ye see the brig ower the burn,' she said, pointing 
 along the road. ' Weel, gae doon by the side o't, an* 
 follow the fit-path richt alang tae yon clump o' trees. 
 Thon's the kirkyaird, an' the manse gairden's jist beside 
 it. Ye'll get in by the gairden gate, an' up to the back 
 door.' 
 
 ' Thenk ye, my lassie ; I'll be fain to see't, I can tell 
 ye, for I'm fell tired,' said the old man ; then, putting on 
 his coat and hat, for the cool evening shadows were 
 beginning to fall, he trudged on to his destination. 
 When he reached the trees, he saw the spire of the 
 church peeping through the green boughs, and involun- 
 tarily he stood still and took off his hat. It was a 
 sweet spot ; surely the heart of man could desire no 
 more, he thought, than to be permitted to break the bread 
 of life within these walls. A high wall enclosed the 
 manse garden, with the topmost branches of the fruit 
 trees only visible above it. The old man's heart began 
 to beat a little quicker, as he ascended from the burn 
 to the door, and turned its handle. Once within the 
 garden, he could see the picturesque church, and also 
 the substantial, handsome house which was now Sandy's 
 home. The garden was richly stocked and well kept;
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 115 
 
 apple, pear, and plum trees against the walls were a 
 mass of pink and white blossom, and all the spring 
 flowers were blooming in the trim parterres. What a 
 pride glowed in the old man's heart as he looked upon 
 the goodly heritage which was now Sandy's, and involun- 
 tarily he added that his lines had fallen in pleasant 
 places. 
 
 The garden rose in a gentle ascent, and then there 
 was a flight of stone steps which went down to the 
 clean, cool stone court at the kitchen door. It was wide 
 open, and he could hear the indistinct murmur of voices 
 within, also his nostrils were greeted by a very rich and 
 savoury odour, which made him remember how very 
 lightly he had fared since morning. He knocked on 
 the door with the head of his staff, and, after a con- 
 siderable time, he heard a hurried footstep, and then a 
 middle-aged woman, very smartly dressed, answered the 
 summons. 
 
 4 Is the minister at hame, ma'am ? ' he asked, respect- 
 fully, for he could not think that this fine lady could be 
 Sandy's servant. 
 
 'Yes, he's at home, but he is engaged. We have a 
 dinner-party to-night. It would be more convenient if 
 you could call to-morrow, unless it is anything very 
 particular.' 
 
 ' I'll see him the nicht raither, if ye please,' said the 
 old man. ' Tell him I've come a faur road to see him, 
 wull ye ? ' 
 
 'If that is the case you had better step this way/ 
 she said in no very well-pleased way. ' Please make 
 haste ; I am waiting the table, and can scarcely be 
 wanted.' 
 
 ' Very well, my wummin, lead on,' he said, and 
 followed her through the kitchen, and up-stairs to the
 
 \ 
 
 116 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 dining-room flat. Then she showed him into the study, 
 and shut the door. 
 
 With what deep interest did John Bethune look 
 round the luxurious, well-furnished room; he had 
 never been in so fine a room before ; it far excelled 
 Mr. Bell's study at Kennoway Manse. He was stand- 
 ing looking at the books in the well-lined shelves, 
 when the door was hastily opened ; and he turned 
 swiftly round. 
 
 ' Weel, Sandy/ he said joyfully. ' Here I am. Ye 
 wadna be expeckin' me, eh ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed I was not, father,' said Sandy, and his face 
 reddened, whether with surprise or annoyance it was 
 difficult to tell. But he shook hands cordially enough, 
 and bade him sit down. 
 
 ' What tempted you to come off in such a hurry ? 
 You should have written first.' 
 
 ' I couldna, man. I didua ken mysel', till ten o'clock 
 this mornin', that I was coinin'. What way hae ye 
 never written ? I was fear't something was wrang.' 
 
 ' Oh, I've been busy arranging for supply, and so on,' 
 said the minister briefly. ' I wish I had known you 
 were coming, father. It is most unfortunate, but I have 
 some of my leading members to dinner to-night. They 
 have been very kind to me, and I had to make them 
 some sort of return.' 
 
 ' Ye're gey sune begun wi' denner-parties, my man,' 
 said John Bethune with a curious smile. ' Weel, if 
 I had my face an' hands gien a bit wash, I'll just come 
 in an' get a bite'wi' ye to save bother. Yon's a gey 
 saucy-like quean ye hae doon the stair.' 
 
 The minister looked at his father almost in dismay. 
 Never had the old-fashioned, faded blacks looked so ill, 
 he thought ; they no longer fitted the figure which bad
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 117 
 
 shrunk so sadly since they were made. How could he 
 take the antiquated, awkward-looking figure into the 
 next room, and introduce him to his guests ? He fancied 
 he saw the start of surprise, the ill-concealed amuse- 
 ment, with which he would be received. No, he dared 
 not face such humiliation. 
 
 For once in his life Sandy Bethune was entirely 
 wrong. His poor, mean, paltry pride made him misjudge 
 others, for there was not one of his guests who would 
 not have honoured him and joined him in showing 
 respect to the good old man, who, whatever his ap- 
 pearance or attire, was more of a gentleman than his 
 handsome son would ever be. 
 
 ' I don't think you would enjoy yourself, father. 
 They are all strangers to you, as well as to me,' said 
 Sandy awkwardly. ' I think you would be much more 
 comfortable here ; and Christina will bring you up some 
 dinner. They won't stay late. By eight o'clock I'll 
 be ready to have a long chat with you.' 
 
 ' Verra weel, Sandy my man ; if ye think yer braw 
 freen's wad think shame o' yer auld faither, I'll bide 
 here,' said John Bethune with a twitch of his lips, 
 for Sandy's words went straight as an arrow to the 
 mark, and wounded him, how keenly Sandy would 
 never know. 
 
 'Now don't run away with that idea. Come away 
 to the dining-room if you wish,' said Sandy quickly. 
 ' I was only thinking of your comfort. Are you coming, 
 then, for I must go back to my guests ? ' 
 
 ' No, I'll bide here. Awa' ye go, and dinna fash 
 aboot me/ said the old man, striving to speak more 
 cheerfully. ' If yer servant wummin '11 bring me a 
 bite, I'll tak' a stretch on the sofa, for I'm sair tired. 
 I've seen the day when sax miles wadna hae garred
 
 118 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 me turn a hair. I gaed past Lockerbie, ye ken,' he 
 added, in answer to Sandy's astonished look, 'an' 
 as there wasna a train for twa hoors, I jist walkit 
 on.' 
 
 'That's worse and worse,' said Sandy. 'Well, 
 Christina shall bring you a cup of hot tea immediately ; 
 and after your dinner you can rest hera Nobody '11 
 disturb you.' 
 
 So saying, the minister left the room to rejoin his 
 guests, but for him the evening's pleasure was spoiled. 
 He courteously apologized to them for his absence, and 
 again took part in the conversation with his usual 
 brilliancy, but his heart was not at rest. Conscience 
 smote him, and he despised himself. Yet he had not 
 the courage to still that accusing voice by obeying its 
 warning dictates. He did not know that in steeling 
 himself at that moment he was making it easier to 
 repeat the experience ; he did not think that by this 
 weak surrender to as poor and despicable an idea as ever 
 took possession of a man, he had lowered himself, and 
 taken the edge off the finest fibres of his being. Those 
 seated at his board were all men of substance and 
 worldly estate, some had birth and family heritage to 
 boast of, and he could not bring before them the old 
 man whose life had been spent on the fields and at 
 the loom, and who had none of the polish of the 
 outside world. It was a great effort to him to sustain 
 the semblance of good spirits and cheerfulness. How- 
 ever, he succeeded well, and his guests assured him 
 they had spent a happy and profitable evening. 
 Directly they were gone, he hurried into the study. 
 His entrance did not disturb the old man, who was 
 lying on the sofa sound asleep; his grey hair lying 
 out on the pillow, his wrinkled and weather-beaten
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 119 
 
 face wearing the peaceful expression of deep repose. 
 As Sandy looked, his heart yearned over him, and he 
 wished he bad overcome that foolish pride, and intro- 
 duced him to his guests, when he was so willing to 
 come. Ah, vain regret ! that hour's weakness must 
 henceforth be a bitter memory through life to the 
 minister of Lochbroom. He drew a rug over the 
 recumbent figure, and then, seeing that the window 
 was open, he stepped lightly across the floor to shut 
 it. The creaking of the rope awoke the sleeper, and he 
 started up. 
 
 ' Is't sax o'clock, Shoosan ? ' he said drowsily, imagining 
 himself at home. ' Oh, it's you, Sandy ! I mind whaur I. 
 am noo. Is yer folk awa' ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, they're all away, and I'm at your service, 
 father,' said Sandy cheerfully. ' Have you had a good 
 rest ? ' 
 
 'No' bad; but, man, every bane in my body's sair. 
 I doot I've gotten the cauld wi' the heat I got on 
 the road. I couldna get haine the nicht noo, I 
 suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Not likely. Do you think I would allow you, even 
 though it were possible ? ' exclaimed the minister. ' No, 
 no ; here you are, and here you must stay for a day or 
 two at least.' 
 
 'Na, na, I maun gang the morn. I couldna be at 
 name here ; it's ower braw,' said the old man, shaking 
 his head. ' Ay, man, ye've a fell fine hoose ; I houp ye 
 may hae grace to guide it a'.' 
 
 x ' I hope so, father,' said Sandy quietly, for he 
 felt uncomfortable and miserable/ he could not tell 
 why. 
 
 ' I'm jist feart, laddie, that ye'll be carried awa : 
 wi' the snares o' the warld/ continued his father
 
 120 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 looking at him with a penetrating, wistful eye. 'I've 
 wairned ye afore, an' I wairn ye again, that ye'll be 
 ca'ed to accoont for a'thing the Lord's gien ye. It's 
 accordin' as we hae opportunity, ye ken, that we'll be 
 judged. Keep an e'e, Sandy my man, on the oppor- 
 tunities; they slip by unco fast, an' we canna get 
 grup o' them when they're aince by. Man, I'm jist 
 by-ordinar' tired. I'll gang tae my bed if ye like. 
 I'll look roond aboot the morn a wee afore I gang 
 awa'.' 
 
 The minister, anxious to make amends for past short- 
 comings, gave orders to his housekeeper to set the guest- 
 chamber in order for the stranger, and went up himself 
 afterwards to see that everything was right. Long after 
 his father went up-stairs, he heard him praying in the 
 deep, solemn tones he remembered so well, and well did 
 he know what was the burden of that prayer. 
 
 The old man's heart was heavy and anxious about 
 the son who had been the child of his many prayers, 
 and the dearest object of his love and hope for many a 
 year. He said he was well in the morning, though he 
 spoke with a slight hoarseness, the result, no doubt, of 
 the draught from the open window in the study while 
 he slept. After breakfast he took a hurried walk 
 through the churchyard, saw the interior of the church 
 and the manse, but seemed fearful lest he should lose 
 the morning train. Nothing would induce him to 
 remain at Lochbroom another hour. Seeing his persist- 
 ence, Sandy forbore to press him, and went as far as 
 Lockerbie with him to see him safely into the Edin- 
 burgh train. 
 
 'Weel, Sandy, I'm glad I've seen yer pairt,' he said 
 at parting. ' I'll maybe be mair content at hame noo. 
 Look weel after it, my man, an' dinna forget that
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 121 
 
 it's the Lord's vineyaird, an' that ye maun dress it 
 for Him. May He bless ye, my son, for ever and 
 ever.' 
 
 The solemn words were almost like a benediction, 
 and a vague, indefinable sadness took possession of the 
 young minister as the train slowly steamed out of the 
 station, and he looked his last on his father's face. 
 Most of us have experienced a similar premonition, 
 when the dark shadow of a final parting has first 
 whispered itself to our hearts. 
 
 At home, James Bethune had found it difficult to 
 concentrate his attention on his work. Soon after 
 dinner-time he dressed' himself and went away down 
 to Markinch to be in time for the afternoon train, 
 saying to his aunt that, if his father did not come with 
 it, he would wait in the town till six o'clock. It was 
 by the latter train that the old man arrived. Jamie 
 saw him the moment he alighted, and thought he 
 looked better than when he went away, he had such a 
 fine ruddy colour on his cheek. 
 
 ' Weel, ye loon, hae ye gotten back again ? ' he said with 
 a smile, when the old man came up the steps. ' Ye've 
 lost half a day's wark to me as weel's yer ain wi' yer 
 stravaginV 
 
 A bright light sprang into the old man's face, and he 
 laid his hand on his son's strong young arm, and looked 
 up into his face with an expression which Jamie never 
 forgot. It was absolute in its trust and confidence and 
 love. 
 
 x 'Eh, Jamie, I'm gled to see ye, an' I'm fain to be 
 at ha me again,' he said ; ' I'll no' seek to gang sae faur 
 frae hame my lane again.' 
 
 ' I think no' ; but Sandy wad be prood to see 
 you?' 
 
 11
 
 122 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'Oo ay, but there's nae place like hame. Man, thae 
 railway trains tires an auld body when they're no' 
 accustomed to them. I think I've gotten the cauld, tae ; 
 I dinna feel weel.' 
 
 ' I'm vext to hear that,' said Jamie in his quiet, kind 
 way. ' Here's Balfour, see ; we'll hae a hurl hame.' 
 
 And before the old man could demur, the order was 
 given, and in a few minutes one of the inn cabs was 
 carrying them easily and quickly up the brae to the 
 Star. The flush still remained on the old man's cheek, 
 and once when Jamie touched his hand, it was burning, 
 and there was a feverishness in the very brightness of his 
 eye which he did not like. 
 
 Jamie dismissed the cab at the wickets, in order that 
 Aunt Susan might not be alarmed to see them drive up 
 to the door. But directly she got them in she saw that 
 there was something amiss, and, without ado or remark, 
 she ordered the old man to his bed, first making him 
 bathe his feet and drink a bowl of gruel. 
 
 'Ye've surely gotten eneuch jauntin' to serve ye a 
 while,' was her sole comment on the affair. But after 
 he fell asleep, she confided her fears to Jamie. 
 
 ' He's gotten an awfu' cauld. If he's no' better in the 
 mornin', ye maun get Dr. Hay ower frae Leslie. It's 
 no' a canny thing to let a cauld get sutten doon on an 
 auld body.' 
 
 ' What can hae gien him the cauld ? I'm sure baith 
 yesterday and the day hae been warm.' 
 
 1 Oh, he'll hae been in a damp bed ! These jades o' 
 servants, ill tak' them, dinna care where they pit 
 folk.' 
 
 ' But surely Sandy would look after that, auntie ? ' 
 
 ' Sandy ! ' echoed Aunt Susan in grim scorn. ' He 
 hasna as inuckle gumption as a taed, or he wadna hae
 
 AN UNGRATEFUL HEART. 123 
 
 let him awa' wi' sic a cauld on him. But I'se warrant 
 ye, yer faither bides at harne efter this, or I'm 
 cheatit.' 
 
 Aunt Susan was right. The old man went no more 
 from home ; for next time he crossed the threshold of 
 his own door, he wa^ carried by loving, tender, reverent 
 hands to his last rest beside his wife in Kennoway 
 kirkyard. 
 
 His illness was brief, but fatal in its issue. He had 
 not strength to struggle with the weakness consequent 
 upon severe congestion of the lungs, and succumbed 
 exactly a \\ eek from the day when he had set out so full 
 of hope to visit Sandy at Lochbroom. All he loved were 
 by him when he died, but he was unconscious -of their 
 presence. His talk was all of Katie ; he seemed to 
 think she was at his side. 
 
 And so he died a good man, full of years, whose 
 place would never be filled to the many who had long 
 loved and honoured him in the Star. He had lived 
 knowing he must die, and so, when it came, death was to 
 him great gain.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SANDY S WORD. 
 
 'Earth can forge no keener weapon, 
 
 Dealing surer death and pain; 
 And the cruel echo answered 
 Through long years again.' 
 
 A. A. PUOCTKB. 
 
 a little hillock among the heather and 
 bracken on the moss sat the brothers, now 
 orphaned, on the evening of their father's 
 burying. They had much to say to each 
 other, and the neighbours, with their usual 
 officious kindness, had taken possession of the 
 house, and there was not a quiet corner in it. 
 Susan Bethune, grown garrulous in her age, was more 
 tolerant of their intrusion, and was even glad of their 
 company. John's death had given her a great shock, 
 from which it was predicted by the wives that she 
 would never recover. Perhaps Sandy's grief was the 
 most poignant, at least it was more demonstrative, 
 possibly because it was commingled with remorse, of 
 which the others knew nothing. John Bethune had 
 
 124
 
 SANDY'S WORD. -25 
 
 prudently kept his own counsel, and, though lie had told 
 them all about Lochbroom, he said nothing of the cool 
 reception he had met with. But Sandy could not forget. 
 He was too miserable to think of anything but the events 
 of the past week. The Assembly had now met, but he 
 felt no desire to go, though he had looked forward with 
 pleasurable anticipation to making his first appearance 
 there as a placed minister. Jamie had little to say ; he 
 could not vent his feelings in tears or in many words ; 
 only he knew that to him his father's death would be a 
 life-long sorrow. 
 
 ' The Star's fast changin', Sandy,' said Jamie. ' The 
 auld folk's slippin' awa' by degrees. This'll mak' a 
 difference to us baith.' 
 
 ' Not very much. You'll miss him most, of course, 
 you and Aunt Susan/ said Sandy with a gulp. 
 ' It'll be easier for me, I daresay ; my work is more 
 engrossing than yours. Head work always is.' 
 
 Jamie sat silent a moment, watching the red sunset 
 glowing behind the Lomond Hill, with a strange, far-off 
 look in his eyes. It was a bright, still, beautiful evening, 
 calculated to soothe and comfort the most troubled spirit. 
 The air was full of low twitterings, for the birds were all 
 busy and happy, knowing the glad, bright summer was 
 come at last. The soft evening breeze was laden with 
 those delicious scents to which we cannot give a name 
 the tribute of the wayside blossoms to the wealth of 
 summer sweets. The cows were already out on the 
 young grass, and were dotted here and there over the 
 fields, lending a pleasant variety to the scene. 
 
 ' When are ye gaun to be married, Sandy ? ' asked 
 Jamie quite suddenly, after following the flight of a 
 swallow till it was lost in the blue expanse above the 
 Knowe.
 
 126 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Married ! What a thing to speak about to-night,' 
 said Sandy quickly. ' I don't know when I shall be 
 married ; perhaps never ! ' 
 
 ' An' what about Mary Campbell ? ' asked Jamie 
 quietly, feeling impelled to continue the subject, though 
 he saw from Sandy's face that it was not altogether 
 pleasant to him. 
 
 Sandy sat silent for a moment ; his brother's words 
 had diverted his thoughts into an entirely new channel. 
 
 ' She must just wait my time ! ' he said rather crossly. 
 'Women are such a bother, Jamie. They're always, so 
 much in earnest, and so anxious to get through with 
 things.' 
 
 ' But you will marry her some day ? ' 
 
 'Oh, I suppose so. I don't know what you will 
 think of me, Jamie ; but, between ourselves, it was a 
 great mistake of me to engage with Mary Campbell.' 
 
 ' I aye thocht ye was ower sune begun, but efter ye 
 grew older, an' aye gaed aboot her, I thocht it was a' 
 richt. But, Sandy, ye maun gang through wi't noo. 
 It wad be a great sin to leave her, an' she's a bonnie, 
 sweet, winsome lassie, if ever there was ane.' 
 
 ' She wad be the very wife for you, Jamie,' said Sandy 
 quickly ; but Jamie just shook his head. 
 
 ' I'll never marry, Sandy. To me what folks ca' love's 
 a great mystery. A' weemin's alike to me.' 
 
 ' If you could just be in my shoes for a week down 
 yonder, Jamie, it would convince you more than my 
 speaking for a week that I have made a mistake, a great 
 mistake ! Why, Mary could no more hold her own in 
 the manse of Lochbroom or mix with the ladies yonder 
 than she could fly in the air. She would be like the 
 lady Tennyson writes of, Lord Burleigh's wife, who was 
 bowed down with a weight of honour unto which she
 
 SANDY'S WORD. 127 
 
 was not born. I wish I knew what to do,' said Sandy, 
 picking the green tops from the heather and tossing 
 them impatiently aside. ' I sometimes get sick tired of 
 life, Jamie. Things go so contrary always.' 
 
 ' It's jist as ye look at life, I think. I aince thocht 
 that tae, but when I got a clear glimpse o' my duty, I 
 did it, an' a' thing cam' richt.' 
 
 ' Well, what would you say was my duty in this case ? ' 
 asked Sandy eagerly. 
 
 ' To marry Mary Campbell as sune as ye can, and mak' 
 up yer mind to mak' her as happy as ye can. She's a 
 quick, clever lassie, an' she'll pick up fine ways in nae 
 time. She hasna a chance in the Star. She'll win them 
 a' wi' her blithe winsomeness. Nae fear o' them 
 wonderin' at her. I suppose they a' ken you belang to 
 workin' folk. If ye like her as weel as ye did, ye'll be 
 as happy as the day's lang.' 
 
 ' But that's exactly where it lies, Jamie. Supposing, 
 now, that there was another whom I liked ten thousand 
 times better than Mary Campbell, what would my duty 
 be ? ' asked Sandy eagerly. 
 
 Jamie turned his head, and looked his brother straight 
 in the face. 
 
 ' Is that hoo it is, Sandy ? ' he asked gravely. 
 
 ' Yes ; and, man, if you saw her, Beatrice Lorraine, 
 you would not be astonished at me even for a moment. 
 She is like some queen or princess, whom everybody 
 must fall down and worship. Beside her Mary Campbell 
 would look something like what yon evening star will 
 look by and by when the moon is up,' said Sandy in a 
 quick, impassioned voice. ' I tell you, you know nothing 
 about it. Yon's the kind of woman to take possession 
 of a man's whole soul, and make him feel that he could 
 do or dare anything to win her.'
 
 128 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 Jamie Bethune, looked at his brother with a kind of 
 strange, sad wonder. There was something almost fear- 
 some in such a passion ; surely it could not be a good 
 thing for any man to be so set upon a creature of clay 
 like himself. 
 
 ' I dinna ken what to say, Sandy. Ye are beyond me 
 a' thegither.' 
 
 ' Think what a help such a woman would be to a 
 man. Why, with Beatrice Lorraine at my side, I could 
 rise in the world as high as it is possible in my pro- 
 fession. She would open the door of any society, and I 
 can tell you there is more in a woman's tact and ability 
 than in a man's genius to raise him in the world. Why, 
 with a right wife, there is nothing a man may not aspire 
 to and attain. Mary Campbell is a sweet, nice country 
 girl, I grant you ; but she would s^'-nply be a drag on me 
 all my days, and I would need to be content in Loch- 
 broom to the end of the chapter.' 
 
 ' If that be the case, the suner ye tell her sae the 
 better, Sandy ; but I wadna like yer job,' said Jamie in a 
 quiet, cold, stern voice. ' Is she a foreigner, this 
 woman ? ' 
 
 ' No ; her father is English, a retired merchant who 
 bought the estate of Nethercleugh from the Earl of 
 Lockerbie.' 
 
 ' So they're gentry,' said Jamie, and he dropped his 
 head on his hand and sat silent again. Somehow he felt 
 himself estranged from his brother more than he had ever 
 been, for there was something within him which told 
 him Sandy was far, far wrong. Oh, was this to be the 
 end of the old man's prayers ? Better, then, that he was 
 away before he saw his son wholly given up to the 
 world. 
 
 'Of course you think I'm a perfect wretch,' said
 
 SANDY'S WORD. 129 
 
 Sandy at length ; ' but, as I said, you know nothing about 
 it. After all, I don't think it's advisable to bring up 
 children above their station as I have been ; it only 
 makes them discontented. I often envy you, Jamie, 
 quite content as you are with the land and the loom 
 and your book of an evening. You can't have any idea 
 of the struggle a fellow has in the outside world, fighting 
 against the disadvantages of birth and upbringing. They 
 clog his footsteps all his days.' 
 
 Jamie sat silent still. He felt no desire to confide 
 aught of his own battle to his brother ; it would lie for 
 ever between himself and God. 
 
 ' Then you mean to marry this lady ? ' he said at 
 length. 
 
 ' I wish I thought I had a chance,' said Sandy, hia 
 breath coming quick and fast again. ' She is such a calm, 
 still, unfathomable creature, that it is impossible to guess 
 at her feelings. That's what makes her so desirable. 
 Most women are ready to be made love to at any time, 
 but you never get any nearer to Beatrice Lorraine.' 
 
 ' But ye're gaun to try onyway ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I am trying now.' 
 
 ' Well, ye'll tell Mary Campbell afore ye gang awa', 
 an' ye'll be honest wi' her, or I'll tell her mysel'/ said 
 Jamie almost passionately, for he felt for Mary almost 
 as if she had been his own sister. 
 
 ' I'll not promise to see her ; I can't stand a woman's 
 tears and that kind of thing. But I'll explain it all in a 
 letter, and I'm sure she'll thank me for it some day. She 
 will be far happier with some one else.' 
 
 ' It's weel ye can comfort yersel' wi' that,' said Jamie. 
 M dinna ken muckle aboot sic things, Sandy, but it 
 seems to me that ye are actin' the part o' a mean 
 scoondrel, an' if I were Mary Campbell's brother,
 
 130 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 I'd break a stick ower yer back, minister though 
 ye be.' 
 
 ' Oh, come now ! there's no use speaking like that, you 
 know,' said Sandy, his face reddening. ' Not a minute 
 ago you said it was my duty to give up Mary if I 
 liked another better. It's the best kindness I can 
 do her.' 
 
 Jamie was miserably vexed and distressed. This 
 was a strange, sad ending to their father's funeral 
 day. 
 
 ' I think we'll better slip awa' hame, Sandy,' he said, 
 rising to his feet. ' This is neither a pleasant nor a 
 profitable conversation.' 
 
 ' You are not much help or comfort to a fellow, Jamie. 
 I'd do more for you,' said Sandy reproachfully. ' I'm sure 
 I mean to do right, and I try hard enough, I can tell 
 you. If you knew more about it, you wouldn't be so 
 hard on me.' 
 
 ' I diuna mean to be hard on ye, Sandy. We've need 
 to be freen's noo, for there's only us twa,' said Jamie, for 
 all at once a sense of his own utter desolation swept over 
 him, and nearly unmanned him. ' It's my turn to speak 
 1100. I'm no' gaun to bide in the Star, Sandy.' 
 
 ' Not bide in the Star ? Then where on earth 
 nre you going ? ' asked Sandy in the purest amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I dinna ken yet, but as sune as I get things settled 
 I'm gaun awa'. My wark here's through noo, an' there's 
 nae use for me to bide.' 
 
 ' But what do you mean ? What are you going 
 to do?' 
 
 ' I'm gaun into a newspaper office in the toon, an' 
 I'll work my way up,' said Jamie briefly, for it was a 
 trial of no ordinary kind for him to subject himself and
 
 SANDY'S WORD. 131 
 
 his life-dreams to Sandy's cold, critical, contemptuous 
 opinion. 
 
 ' A nevvspnper office ! Are you daft, Jamie Bethune ? 
 What would a felbw like you do there ? What has put 
 such a thing into your head ? ' 
 
 ' It's been in my heid for ten or eleeven years ; it's no" 
 a new freit,' said Jamie quietly. ' I've been workin' an' 
 gettin' mysel' ready when folk kent naething aboot it. 
 I'm no' askin' naething frae you, Sandy ; but 1 wadna 
 dae sic a thing withoot tellin' you, because there's only 
 you an' me left.' 
 
 ' It is well you don't expect anything from me,' said 
 Sandy loftily, ' because you won't get it. I'll never give 
 my countenance to such a thing, and if you persist in your 
 idiotic determination, you must just bear the brunt of it. 
 You can make a good thing of it here, and there's nothing 
 to hinder you from taking a farm, and making a good 
 position for yourself in that way. But a year or two in 
 the city will soon convince you of your folly, and you'll 
 remember my warning when your money's all spent, and 
 you find yourself only an atom in that miserable stream 
 of humanity which folk call the poor.' 
 
 Sandy was the fine, highly-educated gentleman now, 
 talking in his most offensive and grandiloquent strain ; 
 his brother felt it, but kept his natural resentment to 
 himself. 
 
 ' I've coontit the cost, an' I ken what I'm daein',' he 
 said firmly. ' If I fail, I'll no' trouble you, Sandy ; yell 
 never need to think shame o' me.' 
 
 ' Fact is, you've read those humbugging and senti- 
 mental biographies and autobiographies till you've got 
 the length of imagining yourself a genius,' said Sandy 
 scathingly. ' I tell you it won't do. Hundreds besides 
 you have allowed themselves to be led away by a similar
 
 132 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 idea, and lived to rue it bitterly. I assure you there's 
 no room for you, and if you go into a newspaper office, 
 it'll just be to set up types all your days.' 
 
 'Ye seem to hae judged my capabilities wi' wunnerfu' 
 exactness,' said Jamie with a touch of bitter humour. 
 ' Weel, we'll drap the subject. I'm no' a bairn noo, ye 
 maun mind, but a man, wha kens what's what as 
 weel's yersel'. I'll gang my way, an' you can gang 
 yours, an' we'll no fash ane anither mair nor we 
 can help.' 
 
 ' All right. This is your doing, not mine, remember,' 
 said Sandy shortly, and turning upon his heel he left 
 his brother to finish his walk alone. 
 
 Jamie returned slowly to the house, thinking over 
 many things. He was grieved and hurt at the way in 
 which Sandy had received his confidence, yet not sur- 
 prised. There was a soreness in his heart which was 
 almost anger, for when had he denied his help or 
 sympathy any time when Sandy had seemed to need it ? 
 Henceforth he must walk life's way alone ; there was 
 something in the very thought which made his heart 
 swell with a new resolution, and stirred his pulses. In 
 the house he found his aunt alone, sitting close to the 
 fire although the warm, genial sunshine was playing 
 about her feet. As he looked at the grey, weather- 
 beaten old woman, a deep, peculiar tenderness took 
 possession of him, for she loved him ; had she not given 
 proof of it through these many years of faithful, untiring 
 service ? 
 
 ' Are ye a' yer lane, auntie ? ' he said gently ; and she 
 looked up at him with an affectionate smile. 
 
 ' I was thinkin' aboot ye, laddie. Sandy '11 be awa' to 
 the Knowe, I suppose ? Sit doon an' let's hae a crack.' 
 
 Jamie drew in his chair, and Aunt Susan leaned her
 
 SANDY'S WORD. 133 
 
 elbows on her knees, and, with her chin in her hand, 
 looked at him with a mingling of keen interest and deep 
 affection. ' D'ye ken what I was thinkin', Jamie, as I 
 sat my lane ? ' she asked. ' I was thinking that yer 
 wark's by in the Star, an' that there'll be naething to 
 hinder ye frae gaun awa' noo, whaur yer heart's been 
 for mony a day.' 
 
 Jamie started in the greatness of his surprise. 
 
 ' Ay, ye thocht yer auld auntie saw naething, though 
 she keepit quiet. My man, I likit ye ower weel no tae 
 be concerned in what concerned you,' she said with a 
 shrewd smile. ' Brawly did I ken whaur a' yer book 
 lare an' readin' was takin' ye, an' noo I'm gaun to say 
 my say, an' syne you can say yours. Ye've bidden here, 
 I ken, for yer faither's sake, an' I ken it's in ye to bide 
 for mine ; a'body afore yersel' wi' you, Jamie, an' has aye 
 been ; but I wadna thole that. So I've gotten't a' redd 
 up in my ain mind. Ye'll gang awa' to the toon, an' 
 I'll bide an' keep the place for ye ; I'm no' that failed 
 yet but what I can dae my turn. An' there's Dauvit 
 Cam'll, ye ken, aye ready to help ; ay, an' there's twa 
 three mair that'll dae me a guid turn for your sake, 
 laddie, an' for the sake o' them that's awa'. Wheesht ! let 
 me say my say. I'll keep a hame for ye, my laddie, so 
 that ye'll no' feel yersel' an orphan a' thegither, an' the 
 gear '11 aye be getherin', ye ken, an' ye'll maybe need it a'. 
 Jist ae thing mair : ye need want for naething, Jamie, 
 for a' I hae is yours. Sandy's faur abune the likes o' 
 me noo, an' wad likely be abune my siller tae. No' a 
 word noo. I've settled it a' ; an', Jamie, ye hae yer 
 faither's blessin', for I telt him no' lang syne what I 
 thocht ye was efter, an' he said But there, I'll keep 
 that wee bit or some day when ye're dowie an' need 
 something to cheer ye on.'
 
 134 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 James Bethune sat silent a moment, for his thoughts 
 lay upon him like a great deep flood, which could find no 
 vent. Then Aunt Susan reached out one withered hand, 
 and Jamie took it in both his own, and after a moment 
 raised it to his lips. The impulse would not be set 
 aside, and the little graceful act was only the due 
 reverence to the woman who had been to him a mother 
 indeed. 
 
 * I'll never forget, auntie,' he said huskily ; ' an' if 
 I ever think lichtly o' a' ye hae been an" dune for me, 
 then may God punish me as I shall deserve.' 
 
 Susan Bethune wiped her eyes, but there was a smile 
 upon her lips. Oh, was not this one hour of deep satis- 
 faction compensation indeed for all her anxiety and 
 toil ? She had redeemed her vow to Katie Law, and, 
 even if she was summoned to meet her now, she need 
 not be ashamed. 
 
 It was late at night when Sandy came in, and he left 
 by the early train in the morning. The parting between 
 the brothers was brief and constrained, and Jamie did 
 not as usual convoy him part of the way to the station. 
 
 ' If you think better of your foolish project, I shall be 
 glad to hear from you/ was all Sandy said ; but Jamie 
 answered never a word. He was too deeply hurt to 
 forget all in a moment. Sensitive, long-suffering natures 
 take long to recover from a wound which a shallower 
 spirit could cast flippantly aside. His mind was made 
 up to remain in Star till the harvest was past, so that 
 there would be as little as possible requiring his aunt's 
 supervision at the farm. Through the summer he con- 
 fided his plans and hopes to David Campbell, from whom 
 he received such kindly encouragement and good-will as 
 did his heart good. 
 
 * I dinna pretend to understaun' what ye're efter, Jamie;
 
 SANDY'S WORD. 135 
 
 but this I ken, that whatever ye dae ye'll dae weel ; an' 
 yer faither often said lately that the Star wad never 
 haud ye. An' I dinna think ye'll ever think shame o' 
 the Star like some we could name,' said the honest 
 man ; and Jamie saw the dark shadow cross the open, 
 cheerful countenance, and felt a pang at his own heart. 
 ' It'll never be noo, Jamie,' said the maister, lower- 
 ing his voice. 'Mary hersel' kens that, an' Jean was 
 tellin' me she had lock it a' the bits o' things she had 
 been sewin' at awa' in her box. Forgie me sayin't, 
 Jamie, but he'll never prosper, minister though ha 
 be, an', God forgie me, I can hardly wush him weel. 
 He may get a brawer, but he'll ne'er get a better nor 
 oor Mary.' 
 
 'Dauvit, I wad gie my richt hand if Sandy hadna 
 dune't,' said Jamie, the veins in his forehead starting in 
 his deep feeling. ' Ye ken my opeenion o' his conduct, 
 I am sure.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, ye are a different make. Weel, my man, as 
 lang as yer auntie bides doon the road, I'll gie an e'e 
 till the place, ye ken that. Is't newspaper writin' ye're 
 gaun in for, or what ? ' 
 
 ' Whatever I can get to dae at first,' answered Jamie ; 
 ' whatever comes readiest to my hand. Maybe I'll be 
 able to write something some day. 1 
 
 ' Aweel, it's extraordinar' to think the twasome o' ye 
 should be seekin' the same gate. Sandy's a clever loon, 
 but he hasna balance* Keep yer balance, Jamie, what- 
 ever success ye hae, a man's naething withoot balance, 
 an' I wush ye weeL' 
 
 Peter Bethune was in a furious rage when he learned 
 of his nephew's intention. He would not even listen to 
 any explanation whatsoever, but swore that he could go 
 where he liked, but that he would never finger a copper
 
 136 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 of his money, or again darken his door. He also 
 flatly refused to give Susan a helping hand with the 
 land, at which neither Jamie nor his aunt was greatly 
 put about. They were better without his interference, 
 and there were many willing hearts and hands in the 
 Star.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 TRIED. 
 
 ' Young dreamer, God is great J 
 Tis glorious to suffer, 
 "Tis majesty to wait.' 
 
 we are meditating some great change 
 in our lives, or are about to take some 
 important step, upon which may hinge the 
 very issues of our destiny, we seem to live 
 in a strange, unreal world, which possesses 
 terrors as well as charms for us. We have 
 proved the past by experience ; the present is 
 still with us ; it is the future we yearn over and yet 
 dread. All change involves more possibilities than 
 certainties, and so naturally we hesitate a little, almost 
 fearing to go forward. But when we are convinced of 
 the wisdom of our choice, and the final resolve taken, 
 then half the vague terrors which oppressed us seem to 
 fade away. Resolution is the parent of oalmness and 
 strength, and with these two we are well equipped for 
 the battle of life. James Bethune was giateful for the 
 kind wishes and good will which he knew would follow
 
 138 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 him into his new life; their memory would somewhat 
 sweeten the anxious toil of the future. He would be 
 utterly alone and unaided, for none of those who wished 
 him well could help him, save by their prayers. As he 
 made his preparations a calmness of spirit, unlike any- 
 thing he had previously experienced, gave him new 
 strength and courage to go forward. The die was cast ; 
 he had revealed his aim and purpose, and now it 
 remained for him to prove upon what ground he had 
 dared so to aspire. Should he fail but what young, 
 strong, passionate heart ever admitted the possibility of 
 failure in its ardent undertakings ? It were a poor 
 world but for the perpetual dayspring of hope in the 
 human heart. He had only one acquaintance in Edin- 
 burgh, one Adam Farquhar, cousin to his friend the 
 schoolmaster ; who had been wont to spend every 
 holiday he could spare at the Star. James Bethune 
 had met and grown very friendly with him at the 
 schoolhouse, and had received many a hearty invitation 
 to pay a visit to him in Edinburgh. Adam Farquhar 
 had a bookseller's shop in Bank Street, and did a steady 
 if somewhat slow business among the lovers of old and 
 rare books. James Bethune had often thought of 
 writing to him and laying before him his desires and 
 aims, but, feeling that a meeting face to face would be 
 more effectual and satisfactory, he went away over to 
 Edinburgh one grey October day to ask his advice. 
 The nature of his business would probably bring him 
 into contact with literary and newspaper folk, and 
 perhaps he might be able to procure an opening for 
 the lad in whom his cousin had taken such a deep 
 interest. In thus seeking the advice of the bookseller, 
 James Bethune showed his wisdom. He was no idle 
 dreamer, who imagined the world an El Dorado, where
 
 TRIED. 139 
 
 fame and fortune awaited the adventurer at every turn, 
 but only an earnest soul, seeking his life work, pre- 
 pared to endure hardship and privation if only some 
 of life's grand possibilities might become realities to 
 him. 
 
 It had been a grey, misty morning when he left the 
 shores of Fife, but in Edinburgh the mist was charged 
 with a thick, drizzling rain, which greatly obscured the 
 beauty of the city. It was not James Bethune's first 
 visit, however, and he was, besides, too much occupied in 
 thinking of how Adam Farquhar would receive him to 
 pay much heed to his outer surroundings. When he 
 reached Bank Street a great shyness took possession of 
 him, and made him feel as if he could never venture 
 into the shop, a dingy, insignificant little place enough, 
 although a very considerable competence had been 
 amassed there. He stood at the window for a while 
 looking at the books, but seeing them not ; until, with 
 a broad smile at his own foolishness, he summoned up 
 his courage, and boldly walked in. The gas was lighted 
 within, and shone on the musty rows of books, and 
 illumined, too, the yellow, shrivelled face of the little 
 antiquated old man behind the counter. He was 
 writing with a very large quill pen in a very large 
 ledger, but looked up very briskly when the young man 
 entered, and came forward with a cheerful smile on his 
 face. 
 
 ' Kather a disagreeable morning, sir, but we must look 
 for this sort of thing in its season. What can I do for 
 you ? I've just picked up a very rare copy of Burns, 
 the original edition almost priceless. Will you look at 
 it, sir ? ' 
 
 'Don't you know me, Mr. Farquhar?' asked James 
 Bethune with a smile.
 
 140 THE GATES OF EDEN". 
 
 ' Know you ? can't say I do,' said the bookseller 
 tapping his bald head with his quill. ' But let me see. 
 Yes, I do know you. I remember your face quite well. 
 But what's your name ? ' 
 
 ' James Bethune, sir, from Star ; perhaps you'll mind 
 me now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I do. Glad to see you ; come in,' said the old 
 man, shaking his hand with extreme heartiness. ' So 
 you've really looked me up at last. And how are all the 
 Star folk the denizens of that celestial sphere ? ha, ha ! 
 I must have my little joke, you know. Ah, poor Gilbert ! 
 these were happy, days' I used to spend with him, and 
 yet they saddened me too. I never saw a man with so 
 light a hold on life, nor I never knew of a more touching 
 case. His life was a kind of dedication to his wife's 
 memory. I never saw such devotion between two ; but 
 she was a very exceptional woman. I've never been in 
 the bonds myself, so I don't understand it, you know. 
 But there ! I'm forgetting myself as usual. Come away 
 in. We can have a nice long chat to-day, for there won't 
 be much business doing.' 
 
 So saying, the garrulous and kindly old man led the 
 way past the well-lined book -shelves into a little inner 
 chamber where there was a bright fire burning, and a 
 comfortable arm-chair on each side of the hearth. 
 
 ' Take off your overcoat, and your boots, too, if you 
 like, and make yourself comfortable,' said the old man. 
 ' How's your folks ? father well, eh ? ' 
 
 ' My father has been dead since the mouth of May, 
 Mr. Farquhar,' said James Bethune quietly, but the 
 bookseller saw the firm under-lip quiver, and knew he 
 had touched a sore point. 
 
 ' Eh, you don't say so ? well, well, lie was a hale, 
 hearty old man when I saw him last ; but all flesh is
 
 TRIED. 141 
 
 grass,' he said, pressing his finger-tips together and 
 looking meditatively into the fire. ' So you'll be pretty 
 much alone at the Star now. Your brother has scored 
 a success in life, if I may so put it. He is very 
 acceptable to his people, I am told.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it,' said Jamie sincerely, and there 
 was a moment's silence. 
 
 'And are you taking a little holiday to yourself?' 
 asked the old man at length. ' Now that I get a better 
 look at you, I see how much you seem to need it. 
 Why, man, you look quite old. What is your age, if I 
 may be so bold as to ask ? ' 
 
 'I was five -and -twenty on the eighteenth of last 
 June, Mr. Farquhar, but I feel a bit older than 
 that.' 
 
 ' Ay, you were always of a serious, advanced turn ; 
 my cousin always said so. Well, are you going to 
 make a stay for a day or two ? I'll be glad to keep 
 you if you like. I live across the Meadows, and 
 my housekeeper, honest woman, will make you very 
 comfortable.' 
 
 'Thank you very kindly, Mr. Farquhar, but I'm 
 not for staying the day. I've made bold to come 
 and ask your advice about something I'm thinking of 
 doing.' 
 
 The bookseller pricked up his ears, and an interested, 
 pleased look came upon his face. 
 
 'Well, I'm sure I'll be glad to listen and to help 
 you too if I can ; my cousin did think a lot of you, 
 and so do I for that matter. But there, what were you 
 going to say ? ' 
 
 ' I'm thinking of leaving the Star, Mr. Farquhar, and 
 coming to push my way in the town. Had my father 
 lived,! should not have been here to-day, but now that
 
 142 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 he is away there's no duty to keep me from trying to 
 better myself.' 
 
 The bookseller nodded. 
 
 'It's all right. / understand all about it. Young 
 ardent spirit, adverse circumstances, hopes, aims, ambi- 
 tions, opportunity come at last. Glad of it. Well, 
 what are you going to do ? ' 
 
 During these disjointed remarks Adam Farquhar did 
 not look at his visitor's face, but kept his eyes steadily 
 on the fire, and rubbed his hands together, nodding all 
 the while. He was deeply interested, and much pleased 
 at the confidence reposed in him. He was one of these 
 rare souls, which would never grow too old to share 
 the joys and hopes and aspirations of youth. James 
 Bethune had wisely chosen his friend and counsellor at 
 this important crisis in his life. 
 
 'It's a newspaper office I would like to get into, 
 Mr. Farquhar,' said James Bethune, sitting forward and 
 fixing his deep, earnest eyes on the old man's face. 
 ' But I hardly know how to set about it. It's not easy, 
 I am told, to get into such places.' 
 
 ' No, my lad, it's not easy ; and, if you'll excuse me 
 saying it, it'll be doubly difficult for you. You see, 
 you are pretty old to begin with, and you've had no 
 experience of anything in that line. You see, one needs 
 to be apprenticed in these kinds of places from boyhood. 
 But now, tell me frankly what you expect to do after 
 you are in, suppose you should be so fortunate.' 
 
 ' Well, I thought I might get a place as a reporter at 
 first. I've learned shorthand, and I know it pretty 
 well, and I can put a thing together pretty fairly,' said 
 James Bethune with slightly flushing cheek, for it was 
 difficult for him to speak of his own capabilities. ' And 
 From that I might rise by degrees,' he added with
 
 TEIED. 143 
 
 kindling eye. 'If they saw I could do my work well, 
 they might advance me a little. I believe I could write, 
 Mr. Farquhar.' 
 
 ' Well, we'll see,' said Mr. Farquhar, rubbing his hands 
 more slowly and thoughtfully together. ' You see, the 
 thing is this. Everything is overrun now-a-days. Why, 
 the way the book business even is cut up is really heart- 
 rending ; indeed it is. If I hadn't turned my penny 
 years ago, when times were better, it's not now that I'd 
 make anything to keep me in my old age. But that 
 isn't much to the point. You're a thoughtful lad, aid 
 you should be able to see for yourself that it's only the 
 best that can come to the front. There's no room, as it 
 were, for mediocrity, especially in the literary business, 
 which is just a business like anything else, though 
 higher, of course. Do you think you have that in you 
 which will force you to the front, eh?' 
 
 ' I don't know, Mr. Farquhar,' said James Bethune, 
 rising, and beginning to pace up and down the narrow 
 room. ' I cannot understand myself. I seem to be 
 aye struggling, struggling after I hardly know what. 
 Thoughts come to me which I think sometimes are worth 
 writing down, and then I feel as if I had a lifework 
 somewhere to do, and must go in search of it. But I do 
 not know how or where to begin. It is very hard to 
 find the right way. I get desponding over it whiles, 
 too, and think that life must just be one long struggle 
 after what we can never attain/ 
 
 ' So it is, my boy, so it is, to such spirits as yours,' 
 said the old man ; and he shook his head as he looked 
 on the flushed face, the glowing eye, and ill-suppressed 
 excitement in the young man's every movement. 
 
 ' What does your brother advise ? ' he asked presently, 
 and in an instant James Bethune's whole manner changed.
 
 144 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 It was as if some chill shadow had suddenly fallen darkly 
 across his heart. 
 
 ' My brother and I are not at one about it, Mr. Far- 
 quhar. He thinks I am a mad dreamer, and he has 
 cast me off. I shall never speak to him about myself 
 any more.' 
 
 ' Well, well, often our own folk understand us least ; 
 familiarity, as it were, blinds them. Don't be downcast 
 about that,' said the old man cheerily. ' If you succeed, 
 he'll be the very first one to say you've done well. I've 
 seen the same thing hundreds of times in my life. Ay, 
 ay, there's nothing succeeds like success, but in the 
 meantime it's to get a beginning for you. Are you ready 
 to come to Edinburgh just now ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I'm all ready.' 
 
 ' Then suppose you come here to me for a little. I've 
 nobody in the shop, and you could help me with cata- 
 loguing and all sorts of things ; of course I'll pay you a 
 wage for your work, which won't oppress you. You'll 
 have plenty leisure for study and self - improvement. 
 Then we can keep our eyes open, and be ready to grasp 
 the very first chance. Would that do, eh ? ' 
 
 ' It would do very well, Mr. Farquhar ; but I didn't 
 mean anything like this when I came to see you. I 
 never thought of your helping me in that way,' said 
 Jamie, almost in distress. ' I could never think of being 
 a burden on you. I'll come and be in your shop, and 
 help you as much as I can, but I won't take a halfpenny 
 from you. I don't need it. I am well provided for, Mr. 
 Farquhar, and the land brings something every year, you 
 know. So if you'll let me come on these terms, I'll be 
 glad and grateful, sir.' 
 
 'Well, well, I admire an independent spirit when I 
 see it ; so we won't say anything about terms just now,'
 
 TRIED. 145 
 
 said the old man, laughing. ' You'll go into lodgings of 
 course. I know of a very decent widow woman across 
 the street there who could give you a very comfortable 
 room. I know she has been looking out for a lodger, 
 but that is overrun like all the rest. It will be fine and 
 near the shop, and central for everything else, and I 
 can thoroughly recommend her, as she has cleaned my 
 shop for the last five years.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir, that'll do fine, and I'll come as soon 
 as I can,' said James Bethune, with a joyousness of look 
 and manner which made him look years younger. The 
 old man could not but observe the change in him, but 
 he had no idea of the deep, hopeful satisfaction in his 
 heart. He felt indeed as if he had got his foot on the first 
 step of the ladder, and that his ascent, though it might 
 be slow, was assured. 
 
 ' Some of my best customers won't be back to town 
 till the end of the month ; and, who knows, one or other 
 of them may know of some opening. We'll keep our 
 eyes open ; and the most of them would put themselves 
 about to oblige me. You see, I do the right thing by 
 them, for I don't mind telling you that there's no class of 
 people more imposed on in this wicked world than the 
 book hunters,' said Adam Farquhar. ' Perhaps you may 
 have to take something very small menial even at 
 first, but I don't think you'll mind that.' 
 
 ' No, indeed. I don't mind how hard I have to work 
 at first, if only I could get a beginning,' said James 
 Bethune with great earnestness. ' I don't know what 
 to say to you, Mr. Farquhar, for your great kindness to 
 one you know so little about.' 
 
 ' Tut, tut, man,' said the bookseller hastily. ' Not a 
 word. Some day, maybe, I'll reckon it a great honour 
 and pleasure to be able to look back upon this day. 
 
 13
 
 146 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 I'm doing nothing to deserve thanks. I'm not a very 
 religious man, that, is I can't talk much about it, but 
 I count it a duty and privilege to help any struggling in 
 life. I was once a poor boy myself, and, bless you ! I've 
 nothing else to occupy me.' 
 
 So a kindly, helpful word once more smoothed the 
 way for James Bethune, and he returned to his home 
 in the afternoon with a hopeful and happy heart. He 
 found Aunt Susan ready as ever to rejoice with him, and 
 she urged him to lose no time, although she knew right 
 well what a blank there would be in the little house 
 after he was gone. 
 
 A week later James Bethune bade farewell to the 
 Star, not without deep regret, nay, keenest pain, for it 
 was his home, and many memories would hallow it to 
 him for ever. Aunt Susan bade him farewell bravely, 
 without a tear ; but after he was gone, and the door shut 
 upon her, she tottered to her chair, and shook like an 
 aspen leaf. She had given him up to that great un- 
 known world, and felt just as a mother might, who 
 has watched her boy go forth to battle, scarcely hoping 
 or expecting to see him in life again. 
 
 He found his lodging ready for him, a comfortable 
 place enough, in which he thought he could make him- 
 self at home. And then he unpacked his books, and 
 laid his clothes in the drawers, wondering at himself all 
 the while ; it seemed so like a dream. Then began a 
 strange new life, almost like a dream too in its complete 
 contrast to the old. 
 
 By eight o'clock every morning he was in the little 
 shop, busy among the dusty old books, which were a very 
 dear part of Adam Farquhar's life ; and the old man 
 found him a willing and capable assistant. Never had 
 the shop been so thoroughly overhauled and put in such
 
 TRIED. 147 
 
 perfect order. Dust became a thing unknown, and the 
 place assumed a trim and bright appearance it had not 
 worn for many years. But, though James Bethuue 
 thus conscientiously and willingly made himself useful 
 to his kind friend, his heart was not greatly in his 
 occupation. He could not understand the old man's 
 bibliomania, and the longing for a wider sphere still 
 pursued and tormented him as of yore. It was the 
 world of men and things he wanted to study now ; he 
 had dwelt long enough among written lives and dumb 
 companions. 
 
 His evenings were entirely his own, and he availed 
 himself to the full of the many intellectual advantages 
 the city offered ; and so his mind expanded, and the 
 confidence of knowledge grew upon him, until in a half- 
 trembling way he began to use his pen ; to give a voice 
 to the thoughts which thronged upon him like the waves 
 of a great sea. He was not unhappy ; but his life was 
 narrow and confined, utterly devoid of any sweetening 
 influence whatsoever, and possessing nothing to draw 
 him away from self. So a great shyness and constraint 
 hedged him in, and he became so silent and self-con- 
 tained, that Adam Farquhar wondered sometimes 
 whether he were unhappy, and rued the step he had 
 taken. From the first time of his coming to Edinburgh, 
 he became a regular attender of St. Giles, and never did 
 scholar sit more humbly at the feet of a master than did 
 he at the feet of the cultured and eloquent preacher who 
 so faithfully broke the bread of life within its ancient 
 walls. 
 
 The Sabbath mornings were gleams of brightest sun- 
 shine to James Bethune, and it was under the pillars of 
 St. Giles that he felt more happy and content than 
 anywhere else. It was a relief to him to get rid for a
 
 148 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 little of all the perplexing and engrossing interests of the 
 week, and give himself up to the sweet, holy influences 
 of the hour and the place. He loved and reverenced 
 Dr. Kinross long before the Doctor knew of his exist- 
 ence ; but at length he began to take note of the 
 pale, earnest-eyed, solitary being who was never absent 
 from his place, and who hung upon his words with 
 such breathless and deep attention. But it was some 
 time before he succeeded in discovering his name and 
 place of abode. 
 
 Immediately after his early dinner on the Sabbath 
 day, James Bethune took his solitary walk into the 
 country, returning sometimes long after the early 
 darkness had fallen upon the city. The Pentland 
 Hills was his favourite resort ; he found a deep delight 
 and companionship in the stillness and solitude which 
 seemed to refresh and invigorate him. There the air 
 was pure and sweet; he loved to inhale it, for he 
 often felt depressed and out of sorts with the close- 
 ness of the atmosphere in which the greater part of his 
 time was spent. Often as he walked his eyes would 
 turn with deep longing across the grey waters of the 
 Forth, to where the little hamlet on the edge of the moss 
 lay under the shadow of the Lomond Hills. Sometimes 
 he felt that he had made a mistake in leaving it, and 
 could almost have resolved to go back to the old ways 
 and the old folk who had long loved him. For he 
 was terribly alone in the wide and busy city ; the human 
 soul cannot brook such desolation, and will not be stilled 
 in its yearning for human sympathy and love. It was 
 nearing Christmas, and he had never heard a word from 
 or of Sandy, who had evidently cast him off for ever. 
 Aunt Susan remembered him every week in the letter 
 which Mary Campbell wrote for her every Thursday
 
 TRIED. 149 
 
 night. In other ways, too, she gave evidence of her love 
 and care, for many a basket of good things found their 
 way from the Star to the little dingy room in the Old 
 Town. But for these little things, James Bethune had 
 hardly been able to bear up against the monotony and 
 loveless solitude of these first months in Edinburgh. 
 He felt as if he were making no progress whatsoever, 
 and that any action would be preferable to the enforced 
 idleness of his days. Adam Farquhar's customers did 
 not seem to be able to help in any way, for, though the 
 few he appealed to on Jamie's behalf were willing 
 enough, they had not the power to get an opening for 
 him. And so the dreary, uneventful days went by. 
 New Year came and went, and still there was no change. 
 One mild, soft January evening, when he returned after 
 dark from his usual Sabbath walk, his landlady opened 
 the door to him with visible excitement in her manner 
 and appearance. 
 
 ' A gentleman called upon ye sin' ye gaed oot,' said 
 she, following him into his room. ' Wha d'ye think, but 
 Dr. Kinross of St. Giles himsel' ? An' he was rale 
 disappinted like that ye wasna in, and bade me tell ye, 
 gin ye wasna ower late o' bein' back, to gang ower to his 
 hoose in George Square an' see him.' 
 
 ' Dr. Kinross ! ' exclaimed Jamie. ' I wonder how he 
 found me out ? ' 
 
 ' Trust him ; he'll find a'body oot if he wants to. Yell 
 gang, wull ye no' ? He was fell anxious like that ye 
 should.' 
 
 James Bethune hesitated only a moment. The little 
 dingy room did not look particularly inviting at that 
 moment, he felt no desire to read, and he had been so 
 dull and miserable all day that anything in the way of 
 a change was welcome. He forgot his shyness, Ilia
 
 150 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 shrinking from strangers, and, turning about, he went 
 down the stair and out once more into the busy streets. 
 There was a gathering in front of St. Giles, listening to 
 the fervent exhortations of a street preacher. When 
 first he came to Edinburgh, Jamie had been both 
 astonished and interested in these street preachings, 
 but now he never paid any attention to them, but 
 walked on his way as absorbed and unheeding as 
 if he had been wandering across the ridges of the 
 Star Moss. 
 
 How soothing and grateful the quiet of the pleasant 
 place where the minister dwelt ! He could hear the echo 
 of his own footsteps on the pavement, and the tree-tops 
 in the gardens rustled with a solemn and familiar sound 
 which reminded him of home. His heart was sore and 
 empty somehow ; all day he had felt as if there was not 
 much good in anything, and had almost been convinced 
 that life was scarcely worth living at all. Before he had 
 time to think, he had rung the bell at the minister's 
 door, and it was answered immediately by a maid, who 
 ushered him straight into the study, as if she knew who 
 he was, and had been fully expecting him. There was 
 no one in the room, but the easy-chair drawn up to the 
 fire, and the open Bible on the table, indicated that it 
 had not been long unoccupied. He was standing rather 
 awkwardly by the table when the door opened and the 
 Doctor entered. How reverend and noble he looked ! 
 Never had his fine presence seemed so striking or his 
 face so winning and attractive. That rare, kindly smile 
 won every heart. 
 
 ' I am glad you have come. We have known each 
 other a long time, I think,' he said, as they shook hands. 
 ' Come, sit down. As we are friends, we must proceed 
 to learn a little more about one another.'
 
 TRIED. 151 
 
 In a moment James Bethune's awkwardness and shy- 
 ness was gone ; melted away for ever in the radiance of 
 that kindly smile. They sat down together near to the 
 fire, and ere many minutes the lonely heart was un- 
 burdened, all its secret care poured into a sympathizing 
 and understanding ear. Dr. Kinross possessed that rare 
 gift, so invaluable to a minister, of being at once able 
 to touch the heart and command the confidence of those 
 with whom he came in contact. 
 
 ' Now that we have had a talk, suppose we go and see 
 Mrs. Kinross and my girls,' said the minister, rising at 
 length. ' Nay, you must not refuse. You will like my 
 wife, and there is a small maiden of the name of Minnie 
 who will soon pull you out. Her sister Dora is quieter, 
 as is to be expected of a young lady. I have only the 
 two, and they are dear, good children, and a great blessing 
 to their father and mother.' 
 
 ' But I am not fit for ladies' society, sir/ said James 
 Bethune with en anxious smile. ' I have never met any 
 ladies. How can I talk to them ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't fear ! they'll talk to you,' said the Doctor 
 with a twinkle in his eye, and led the way up the wide 
 staircase to the drawing-room door. It was a little 
 ajar, and the Doctor, with a smile, motioned his com- 
 panion to look in before they entered. It was a pretty 
 picture, the long, low room, lit by the bright red glow of 
 the firelight, which lent a deeper tint to the warm 
 crimson of the carpet and the rich hangings at the 
 opposite window. In a low chair by the hearth sat 
 a lady of delicate and fragile appearance, with a face 
 so sweet and beautiful, that James Bethune thought it 
 like the face of a saint. It was the face of a woman 
 who had known sorrow, and whose heart was a well- 
 spring of love and sympathy for all humanity. Her
 
 152 THE GATES OF EDEX. 
 
 hands very white and fragile hands they were lay 
 lightly across each other on her lap, and she was 
 listening while her daughter read aloud from a ponderous 
 volume on her knee. Dora Kinross was a tall, pale, 
 self-possessed young lady, very gentle and ladylike in 
 all her movements, a very different being from the blue- 
 eyed, golden-haired little maiden sitting on the rug at 
 her mother's knee. 
 
 ' All in darkness yet, dears ? ' said the Doctor's sonorous 
 voice in the doorway. ' Jump, Minnie, and light the 
 candles. Mamma, here is our friend of whom we were 
 speaking to-day.' 
 
 In a moment Minnie was on her feet scrambling for 
 the match-case on the mantelshelf, while Mrs. Kinross, 
 rising, took a step across the room, and held out her 
 hand. 
 
 ' How do you do ? I am very glad to see you,' she 
 said, and she spoke as if she meant it, and her hand- 
 clasp was hearty and sincere. 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am,' said James Bethune shyly, and 
 yet his earnest eye met her kind glance without hesi- 
 tation, for its sweet motherliness filled his heart to the 
 brim. 
 
 Then Dora came forward and shook hands in her 
 demure, gentle fashion, and Minnie, having managed to 
 light the candles, turned about, and with her two 
 round blue eyes took a deliberate survey of the 
 stranger. 
 
 ' Oh, I know you ; you sit in the corner behind the 
 middle pillar in church,' she said candidly. ' I often 
 look at you to see if you look away from papa while he 
 is preaching, but you never do.' 
 
 ' Ha, ha ! that shows how closely you attend upon your 
 father's ministrations, pussy-cat,' said the Doctor with
 
 TRIED. 153 
 
 his hearty laugh. ' I believe you know every face in 
 church, child.' 
 
 To his surprise, Minnie had not her usual ready 
 answer at hand. She had resumed her seat at her 
 mother's feet, and sat there quietly listening, while the 
 others talked, but studying intently all the while the 
 stranger's face. 
 
 ' Come, Dora, let us have " Lux Benigna," ' said the 
 Doctor, at length pausing in his walk and opening the 
 organ. ' You will like the musical part of our service 
 at St. Giles, Mr. Bethune ; I consider it very fine.' 
 
 ' I like it very much now, sir. At first it seemed 
 strange, and I could not join in it, but I am getting 
 better acquainted with the tunes now.' 
 
 ' So you will. Come then, my dear,' said the Doctor, 
 and in a few seconds the sweet strain of ' Lux Benigna,' 
 in which the Doctor's voice and his daughter's blended 
 beautifully, rang through the room. When it was over 
 they began to sing another, and Mrs. Kinross turned 
 to the young man at her side, and began to talk in that 
 sweet, motherly way which went straight to the heart. 
 James Bethune could not but feel at his ease with her ; 
 nay, it was a joy and a pleasure, none the less keen 
 that it was so new, to feel himself of interest to some 
 one in the great city, which had been so long a barren 
 wilderness to him. When he took his leave at length, 
 it was upon the understanding that he must come again 
 soon, and often, a promice he Lad been very ready to 
 give. Very sweet to him was the Doctor's warm hand- 
 clasp and deep ' God bless you.' Very sweet, too, was his 
 wife's smile, and gently-expressed hope to see him soon 
 again. But perhaps sweeter than all was the clasp of 
 the child Minnie's two hands on his, when she uplifted 
 her wide blue eyes to his face.
 
 154 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'Do come again soon,' she said coaxingly, for her 
 heart had warmed to him. ' Come on a day not 
 Sunday, and I'll show you the doll Uncle Lorraine 
 brought me from Germany on my birthday. It has 
 a thing in its back you screw, and it walks across the 
 floor just like I do, only funnier ; there, ask papa if ifc 
 isn't true 1 '
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 THE MANSE OF ST. GILES. 
 
 'Nothing comes free cost here ; Jove will not let 
 His gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.* 
 
 HERRIOK. 
 
 S was to be expected, Doctor Kinross was 
 anxious to forward James Bethune in his 
 desires and aims, and to procure for him 
 some opening which would really be a be- 
 ginning to his lifework. But that was no 
 easy task. In a great city there are few 
 unfilled spaces ; it is the sad truth that in most 
 walks of life the supply of labourers far exceeds the 
 demand. He had considerable influence with those 
 connected with che press, and received promises from 
 several that his protege" would be kept in mind. So 
 through the spring months James Bethune plodded on, 
 helping Adam Farquhar in the day-time, and studying 
 or writing in the evenings. So deep a hold had Doctor 
 Kinross taken of his heart, that he even brought 
 himself to show him some of his pieces, both poetry 
 and prose, rightly believing that he would be both a 
 
 155
 
 156 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 competent judge and a kindly though keen critic of 
 their merits. They were not perfect, what early work 
 is ? but they were full of promise, and had the true ring 
 about them. The Doctor saw at once, nor, indeed, was 
 he surprised thereat, that the young man had an original 
 and cultured mind, and would never number among 
 those scribblers who mistake an imitative faculty for 
 literary genius. He strongly advised him to send some- 
 thing to Chambers s Journal, and even offered to take 
 it himself to the editor; but James Bethune said he 
 would prefer to send it from his own obscurity, and 
 allow what he wrote to stand or fall by its own merit. 
 In which decision he showed the wisdom and manliness 
 of his spirit. He was willing, nay, deeply grateful, to 
 accept help and advice in some things, but there were 
 others upon which he had his own deep convictions, 
 which nothing would set aside. It was more to please 
 his friend than of his own will that he complied with 
 his request, for he had none of a new writer's ardent 
 desire to rush into print, but was rather held back and 
 kept down by a miserable consciousness of his own 
 shortcomings. His power of expression was not yet 
 equal to his high ideal, and he sometimes despaired of 
 ever being able to clothe his thoughts in suitable words. 
 It was a healthy and wholesome doubt, of which he was 
 yet to receive the benefit. He had many long flights 
 of imagination in these early struggling days ; many 
 aspirations which it seemed impossible he should ever 
 reach ; many sweet, great thoughts which could scarcely 
 hope to find any vent. 
 
 His soul was stirred within him often by his great 
 longing and desire to do some worthy thing ; to be able 
 to write something of which not only himself, but others 
 in the world, would be the better. Such longings are
 
 THE MANSE OF ST. GILES. 157 
 
 not to be despised or scornfully cast aside as idle 
 dreamings ; it is always a worthy and an ennobling thing to 
 look up. We can never look too high in that good way ; 
 the fault most common to us being the ease with which 
 we stoop to what is lower than the noblest in our 
 nature. The little prose sketch which was in truth a 
 poem in its beautiful and simple wording was accepted 
 by the editor, and appeared in due course. With his first 
 modest literary gains James Bethune bought a gift for 
 his aunt, and sent with it the magazine, with a broad 
 red line drawn round his own article, which had no name 
 attached. He did not send a copy, however, to Sandy, 
 for even yet he could not forget the sting of his quick, con- 
 temptuous words. He had seen him in Edinburgh once, 
 walking in the street with another minister ; and, as he 
 had never come near the shop in Bank Street, though he 
 knew well enough from Aunt Susan where his brother 
 was, it was evident to Jamie that he meant to sever all 
 connection. In his intercourse with Doctor Kinross, 
 James Bethune never mentioned his brother's name, and 
 it never occurred to the Doctor to associate the popular 
 young minister, whom he had inducted to his charge at 
 Lochbroom, with the struggling aspirant for literary 
 fame. It was with deep, genuine interest the large- 
 hearted minister watched the growth and development of 
 James Bethune's powers; and he made him truly and 
 heartily welcome to the manse. James Bethune found it 
 so pleasant a place that he came sometimes unasked, 
 which always pleased the Doctor and his wife. Minnie 
 elected to make him her especial friend, and in her own 
 sweet, childish way did him boundless good. But, though 
 life was not utterly devoid of sweetening influences, he 
 had much to try and discourage him. His spirit con r 
 stantly chafed, because he was making so little apparent
 
 158 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 headway, and it became impossible to him to remain any 
 longer in Adam Farquhar's shop. 
 
 Out of his perplexity and anxiety a resolve began to 
 shape itself, and to demand fulfilment. He applied for 
 every likely post advertised ; how often he tasted the 
 heart-sickness of disappointment and hope deferred was 
 only once revealed to another, and that was years after. 
 Doctor Kinross was in his study one Friday evening 
 early in the month of May, when the servant brought 
 James Bethune's name, with the request for five minutes' 
 conversation. 
 
 ' Come away, James ; good evening,' he said, shaking 
 hands with him when he entered his presence. ' I don't 
 allow much disturbance on a Friday evening, but I was 
 thinking of you a little ago, and I supposed you would 
 be here. Has anything turned up?' 
 
 ' Something has turned up, sir ; but whether anything 
 will come of it is another thing,' answered James Bethune 
 with a slight smile. ' Perhaps you noticed an advertise- 
 ment in Wednesday's Scotsman for a reporter for the 
 Glasgow Journal. I applied for it at once, and they have 
 written back asking for some reliable reference. It is 
 against me, you see, not having had any previous experi- 
 ence, but they seemed pleased with my letter. Will you 
 read what they say, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly." The Doctor pushed back his chair, and 
 perused the open letter handed to him. 
 
 'Well, that is good so far. But do you think this 
 kind of work will suit you ? It is awful drudgery. 
 Have you any idea of what a reporter for such a paper 
 has to do ? " 
 
 ' Yes, I know all about it. I don't expect I shall like 
 it particularly ; but it isn't what we like, but what we can 
 get to do now, Doctor Kinross,' said James Bethune with
 
 THE MANSE OF ST. GILES. 159 
 
 a slight bitterness. ' I can't go on like this much longer. 
 Anything sweeping the streets, I think sometimes, would 
 be preferable to this stagnation.' 
 
 ' You are quite right. I only said it to try you,' said 
 the Doctor with his kindly smile. ' Well, do you wish 
 me to give you a reference ? ' 
 
 ' If you would be so kind, sir. I know of no one 
 else.' 
 
 ' I will do so gladly. I wish I could do more. If I 
 had my way, James, there would be few difficulties in 
 your way. I am afraid life is going to be a harder 
 struggle for you than for most men ; but you must not 
 lose heart. There is One who knows all, and who will 
 never fail.' 
 
 ' Ay, I know ; but I shall succeed, Doctor Kinross. If 
 I had not known that, do you think I could have 
 supported the misery of the last six months ?' said James 
 Bethune passionately. 'I know of nothing harder in this 
 world and there are many hard things in it, sir than 
 to be willing to work, and yet have no opportunity.' 
 
 ' Ay, there are many hard things in life, very many,' 
 said the Doctor musingly, as he walked slowly to and 
 fro the room. ' Great are its mysteries, and the older 
 we grow we feel less inclined, I think, to question or 
 seek to unravel them. Perhaps we grow tired, and are 
 too glad just to leave it all with Him. But well do I 
 understand your struggle. Take care, my friend, lest in 
 these tumults you miss the way. There is a verse of 
 one of Faber's hymns which is often with me, and which 
 seems to contain the sweet germ of the whole matter. 
 It is this 
 
 ' 111 that He blesses is our good, 
 
 And unblessed 'good is ill ; 
 And all is right that seems most wrong 
 If it be His sweet will."
 
 160 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 Whatever may be your lot in life, James, you know that 
 we wish you well.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; but for you, and for the privilege of coming 
 here, I could not have lived the past six months.' 
 
 ' Ah, well ! some day, looking back, you may be able 
 to say they were part of that needed discipline which we 
 must all undergo in some form,' said the Doctor. ' I am 
 just afraid that the poor drudgery of this reporting work, 
 should you succeed in being appointed to it, may blunt 
 your taste for higher things. And yet I need not fear. 
 If your ambition is indeed that divine spark of genius, it 
 will survive and grow stronger because of adverse sur- 
 roundings. If not, well, perhaps you will be as well to be rid 
 of it, and devote yourself to the more prosaic work of life. 
 And now I must send you away. I shall write that 
 letter at once, and you will let me hear the result as soon 
 as you know it yourself ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. Good-night ! ' 
 
 As the Doctor held the hand a moment at parting, 
 he looked into the pale, earnest face with something of 
 love and compassion in his own. That look went to 
 James Bethtme's heart, and his eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' God bless you, my friend,' said the doctor huskily. 
 ' Such sharp stings are the price which must be paid for 
 the higher gifts ; but your joys, when they come, will be 
 no mean recompense. Good-night ! ' 
 
 ' Won't you come into the drawing-room, Mr. Bethune?' 
 said a coaxing voice, and a bright face, framed in gold, 
 peeped over the balustrade as he went out into the hall. 
 'Mamma knows you are here, and would like you to stay 
 n little. Dora has a lovely new song. Wouldn't you 
 like to hear it now ? ' 
 
 ' Not to-night, Miss Minnie, if you please,' said James 
 "Bethune, looking up at the smiling face. ' Say to Mrs.
 
 THE MANSE OF ST. GILES. 161 
 
 Kinross that I am vexed and troubled about something, 
 and no fit company for any one to-night.' 
 
 ' Vexed and troubled ! Oh, I am so sorry ! Do tell 
 me about it ! ' and in a moment the slim figure was down- 
 stairs, and two white hands were clasped on his arm, 
 while the young face looked up into the grave, stern one 
 with real solicitude. 
 
 ' How could I tell you, Miss Minnie ? No trouble or 
 vexation should ever come near one so bright as you/ he 
 said with a strange, caressing fondness in his look and 
 tone. Between James Bethune and Doctor Kinross's 
 young daughter there existed a deep, warm affection, such 
 as is sometimes seen in a brother and sister between 
 whom there is considerable disparity in years. 
 
 ' Come now, don't say that. Papa calls me Pussy- 
 cat and Sunbeam, and says I will be an ornament to 
 society some day, when he wants to tease me very badly. 
 But I am not all nonsense, please. Do tell me. I 
 can be so sorry for any one I love. Do you know it 
 was me told mamma you had come, and I've watched 
 on the stairs for you all the time you were with papa. 
 Is it a very bad trouble ? ' 
 
 ' Not very, Miss Minnie. It will wear by.' 
 
 ' " Wear by"? What a nice expression ! Nobody can 
 say things just like you. So you won't tell me ? ' 
 
 ' You wouldn't understand. It would only puzzle 
 your little head trying to think it out.' 
 
 ' Well oh, there's papa ! I should be at my 
 lessons, you know. Yes, papa, I'm at them,' she cried ; 
 darting up -stairs two steps at a time, while a peal of 
 merry laughter sent its sweet echoes through the 
 house. 
 
 ' You elf, I'll punish you ! ' said the Doctor, shaking 
 his fist at her. 
 
 14
 
 162 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 She threw him a kiss over the stairs, and ran off 
 singing to the schoolroom. 
 
 ' I believe Minnie knows by instinct when you are in 
 the house/ said the Doctor, smiling. ' I forgot something 
 I intended to ask you, James. The Assembly opens 
 next Thursday, and we have a few friends to dinner 
 that evening. Will you come along later, say about 
 eight ? I should like you to meet one or two who will 
 be there. Nay, don't refuse. You know it is imperative 
 that you should see something of society. So we will 
 expect you about eight.' And, without waiting for an 
 answer, the Doctor nodded and hastily withdrew into the 
 study. 
 
 The next few days were full of deep anxiety, not only 
 for James Bethune, but for those who were interested 
 in ' him. Adam Farquhar especially could not rest or 
 attend to his work, he was so anxious that his prote'ge' 
 should obtain the situation. Not that he thought it 
 by any means worthy of him, but he saw very well 
 that the lad was growing hopeless, and feared lest he 
 should become so thoroughly disheartened as to throw 
 up his city life altogether. That, he was sure, would be a 
 mistaken step. 
 
 ' For who knows, my man ? ' he would say in his 
 facetious way. ' Perhaps about the end of the 
 twentieth century somebody will be selling rare copies 
 of Bethune's works in this very shop. Ha, ha ! 
 wouldn't that be a joke, if only we could live to 
 see it ? ' 
 
 On the opening night of the Assembly, James 
 Bethune dressed himself in his best, and went out to 
 George Square. Only that day he had heard definitely 
 regarding the situation in Glasgow, and after a week's 
 delay he was somewhat surprised to receive notice of
 
 THE MANSE OF ST. GILES. 163 
 
 his appointment, coupled with the request that he would 
 enter on his duties at once if possible. He was in good 
 spirits, for, though the work might not be such as he 
 would have chosen, still it was work, and might be the 
 stepping-stone to something higher. It is the spirit in 
 which we accept our lot in life which lowers or 
 ennobles it ; in very lowly places there are to be 
 found examples of heroism, of noble self-sacrifice, which 
 make the angels rejoice. 
 
 James Bethune's friendly intercourse with Doctor 
 Kinross and his family had done him boundless good 
 in many ways. Perhaps not the least of these was that 
 the occasional companionship of refined gentlewomen 
 had taught him many of these little courtesies of life 
 which are not to be despised. James Bethune had 
 never lacked the instincts of a gentleman, and now 
 he had acquired that ease of manner and complete 
 self-possession which had been wanting when he first 
 came to the town. When he mounted the steps to 
 the minister's door that night, he heard the sound of 
 singing come floating down through the open windows 
 of the drawing - room, which held him for a moment 
 spellbound. It was a wondrous voice, deep, rich, and 
 exquisitely sweet. He leaned up against the pillared 
 doorway and listened breathlessly, but there came to 
 him no whisper of warning ; he did not dream that he 
 was approaching another and a greater crisis in his life. 
 When the singing ceased he rung the bell, and was 
 at once admitted. Just as he hung up his hat, Minnie 
 Kinross, in a white dress, with her fair curls lying round 
 her like a halo, came dancing down the wide staircase, 
 her face radiant with welcome. 
 
 ' Why are you so late ? Do you know it is nearly 
 nine ? ' she said, folding her two hands over his.
 
 164 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 * There are so many nice, nice people here ! I am sure 
 you will like them. Come, and I will take you to the 
 drawing-room under my wing.' 
 
 So saying, she slipped her hand through his arm, 
 and led him away up-stairs. The drawing-room door 
 was a little ajar, but just as they reached the landing 
 Doctor Kinross opened it and looked out. 
 
 ' How are you, James ? You know we are glad to 
 see you. I guessed what Minnie was after when I heard 
 the bell ring, and saw her disappear.' 
 
 ' I received a letter from Glasgow by the evening post, 
 sir, and I had to answer it at once. I am sorry if I am 
 late/ answered James Bethune, and as he spoke they 
 entered the room. 
 
 It was full of people, and, without looking round, 
 James Bethune went straight to Mrs. Kinross's chair, and 
 sat down by her side. She greeted him with a warm, 
 bright smile, and told him in a word how glad she 
 was to see him. Minnie, who had followed him closely 
 across the room, sat down on a little stool at his side, 
 and almost unconsciously he laid his broad hand on 
 the sunny head with a lingering and caressing touch. 
 The child's^love for him was a very bright thing in James 
 Bethune's life. 
 
 ' Have you heard anything from Glasgow yet ? ' asked 
 Mrs. Kinross kindly. ' The Doctor and I were talking 
 of it this morning.' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am ; the letter came this evening, and ' 
 He came to an abrupt stop, and his listener looked at 
 him in questioning surprise. His eyes were fixed on a 
 group at the other side of the room ; his face wore an 
 expression of absolute surprise. 
 
 'That is Mr. Bethune, the minister of Lochbroom, 
 standing by my niece,' said Mrs. Kinross. ' You seem
 
 THE MANSE OF ST. GILES. 165 
 
 to recognise each other. Of course, it is the same name ! 
 Can it be possible that you are related ? ' 
 
 ' He is my twin brother, Mrs. Kinross,' said James 
 Bethune slowly and heavily, for the look in Sandy's eyes 
 was not one of welcome, and smote him chilly to the heart. 
 
 ' Impossible ! How is it we have never heard you 
 speak of him ? Doctor Kinross inducted him. You know 
 he is a native of the district, and his brother-in-law, 
 Mr. Lorraine, is one of the heritors of Lochbroom.' 
 
 James Bethune bent down his head a moment, and 
 shaded his troubled eyes with his hand. Mrs. Kinross 
 saw there was something far amiss, and the child 
 Minnie looked at her friend with all her childish heart 
 in her eyes. And just then the minister of Loch- 
 broom crossed the room and stood before them. 
 
 ' I was so astonished when I saw you come into the 
 room, Jamie, that I could hardly believe the evidence of 
 my own eyes,' he said, speaking as if with an effort. 
 ' How are you ? ' 
 
 ' I am very well,' answered Jamie, and they shook 
 hands, but not with the warm grip of mutual satisfac- 
 tion and love. 
 
 ' You must have a great deal to say to each other,' said 
 Mrs. Kinross, rising. ' Come, Minnie, you must give Mr. 
 Bethune some peace, you know.' 
 
 Minnie rose obediently, only to retire to another 
 corner and watch her friend, who she saw was vexed 
 and troubled, for love had taught her to read every 
 expression of his face. The minister of Lochbroom 
 took the chair Mrs. Kinross had vacated, and for a 
 moment the twain sat in absolute silence. 
 
 ' How did you ever manage to get in here ? ' said 
 Sandy at length, with significant emphasis on the last 
 word.
 
 166 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'It is easily enough explained. I go to St Giles, 
 and Doctor Kinross has been very kind to me, that 
 is all,' answered James almost coldly, for his brother's 
 look and tone were not less bitter to him than of yore. 
 ' But if I had known I was to meet you here, I would 
 not have come. It is rather awkward for us both.' 
 
 ' You are right. But what have you been doing to 
 yourself ? You look quite different. I declare I 
 would hardly have known you. But there, I must go,' 
 Sandy broke off suddenly. ' We can have a talk again.' 
 
 So saying, he rapidly crossed the room, and James 
 Bethune saw the explanation at once. Some one was 
 going to sing, and it seemed to be Sandy's place to 
 set the piano-stool, and arrange the music on the stand. 
 He could not see the face of the singer, but he 
 noted the graceful curves of the slight figure, and the 
 wondrous sheen of the bright hair worn like a coronet 
 above her brow. 
 
 ' Here I am again, Mr. Bethune,' whispered Minnie 
 Kinross at his side. ' I may sit by you, mayn't I ? 
 You see there's nobody to speak to me to-night except 
 you.' 
 
 He nodded, and laid his hand lightly on hers, as if to 
 enforce silence, for the singer had begun. As that grand 
 voice rose and swelled in richest melody through the 
 room, James Bethune felt his heart first stirred and 
 touched, and then it was as if a strange, abiding peace 
 stole upon him, making him feel as if no trouble or care 
 could come very near him any more. 
 
 'Are you going to cry, Mr. Bethune, you look so 
 solemn ? ' whispered Minnie. ' Doesn't Beatrice sing 
 splendidly ? She is my cousin, you know, Beatrice 
 Lorraine, and that is Uncle Lorraine sitting beside the 
 ministers quite at the other side of the room.'
 
 THE MANSE OF ST. GILES. 167 
 
 James Bethune started at the name, and looked with 
 deeper interest towards the piano. The singer had 
 risen, and he could see her well. Even as he looked at 
 the sad, pale face, lit by the soul -speaking eyes, there 
 came to him no prevision of the future. His chief 
 interest at that moment was to see the woman who had 
 eclipsed Mary Campbell, and whom his brother would 
 give so much to win. She was beautiful, but her face 
 was unutterably sad. It looked as if some sorrowful 
 life -history had been long written upon it; and these 
 deep eyes had wells of suffering and pathos in their 
 depths. He saw Sandy bend low over her and whisper 
 something in an impassioned voice, but she only smiled 
 very faintly and slightly shook her head. 
 
 ' I do love my Cousin Beatrice ! ' continued Minnie 
 confidentially ; ' only she is so quiet and sad. Of course 
 she is very sorry about Willie. I never saw "Willie, 
 but he did something very bad, and nearly broke 
 poor Uncle Lorraine's heart. Oh, here is papa bringing 
 Uncle Lorraine to speak to you, so I'll run away.' 
 
 So saying, the light-hearted child skipped away once 
 more ; and James Bethune rose as the two gentlemen 
 approached him. Doctor Kinross briefly introduced 
 them, and with a nod and a smile returned to the 
 discussion of church matters which the song had 
 momentarily interrupted. 
 
 ' I was getting beyond my depth over yonder,' said 
 Mr. Lorraine as he sat down ; ' I am quite a novice in 
 the history of the Established Church. And how are 
 you liking your city life ? ' 
 
 His tone and manner were so kind that James 
 Bethune for the moment was taken by surprise, and did 
 not at once reply. 
 
 ' I see you wonder at my question. Doctor Kinross
 
 168 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 has spoken to me about you, and I was anxious to have 
 a little talk with you. You came to town in exceptional 
 circumstances, I understand,' continued Mr. Lorraine in 
 the same interested, kindly manner. ' You must have 
 found it a great change.' 
 
 ' I did. It has taught me a good few things, sir.' 
 
 'Ay, necessarily. Take care lest it teach you what 
 you may have cause to regret. Keep your principles 
 untarnished, I entreat you. City life has had too many 
 victims already ; do not add to the number.' 
 
 James Bethune could not but look at the man in 
 astonishment, he spoke with such impassioned earnestness; 
 but suddenly he remembered Minnie Kinross's confidence 
 concerning her relatives, which gave him all the explana- 
 tion he required. 
 
 ' I will try, sir/ he answered quite simply and earnestly ; 
 and he looked with something of compassion at the sad, 
 proud face, which bore so evident an impress of no 
 ordinary sorrow. 
 
 ' You are just beginning life, and if you only remain 
 true to yourself, there is no fear of you,' said Mr. 
 Lorraine. ' You will find it a hard battle, but life at 
 the best is that ; and you have the look of one who will 
 struggle manfully, and do your best to make it noble and 
 true. I wish you well.' 
 
 ' I thank you, sir.' 
 
 ' And if you ever come to visit your brother at 
 Lochbroom (I was astonished to find our minister was 
 your brother), we will be glad to see you at Nethercleugh. 
 I should like to introduce my daughter to you, but I see 
 they are asking her to sing again. Perhaps I shall have 
 an opportunity before the evening is over/
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 BEATRICE. 
 
 'Hers is a spirit deep and crystal clear, 
 Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, 
 Free without boldness, meek without a fear, 
 Quicker to look than speak its sympathies.' 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 ^f N a corner of Mrs. Kinross' s drawing-room 
 sat the minister of Lochbroom, somewhat 
 gloomily regarding his surroundings. No 
 one was paying any heed to him at that 
 moment. In the oriel window a clerical 
 clique was discussing the Disestablishment 
 Question, and the ladies had gathered about 
 Dora's tea-table to talk over a forthcoming fancy 
 fair. 
 
 Beatrice Lorraine was not among them, nor the child 
 Minnie. 
 
 In a far corner of the room, half hidden by the 
 
 folding leaf of a draught -screen, James Bethune and 
 
 Beatrice Lorraine were in deep conversation. That the 
 
 theme was interesting and engrossing to both was 
 
 15 m
 
 170 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 beyond a doubt. Her beautiful eyes were fixed on the 
 grave, earnest face before her, and her lips parted as if 
 she hung in breathless attention upon his words. Close 
 beside his chair stood Minnie Kinross, with her bare 
 round arm on his shoulder, her eyes fixed in childish 
 love and wonder on his face. These things surprised 
 and annoyed the minister of Lochbroom ; and, unable to 
 bear his own thoughts, he rose at length and joined the 
 group in the window. 
 
 ' Why didn't you tell us you had a brother in town ? 
 asked Doctor Kinross, turning to him. ' By the bye, have 
 you seen this month's Chambers's? But of course you 
 are in the secret.' 
 
 ' What secret ? I do not understand you, Doctor 
 Kinross,' said the minister shortly and coldly. 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! Don't you know who is the writer of 
 that article on " Social Eelationships " in the Journal for 
 this month ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, I do not.' 
 
 ' Then I have the privilege of being able to give you 
 a very gratifying surprise. It is from your brother's 
 pen ; and with such rare promise we shall all have 
 occasion to be very proud of him, perhaps at no distant 
 date.' 
 
 Alexander Bethune preserved a cold silence. The 
 Doctor eyed him a moment with his keen, deep, searching 
 gaze, and then glanced involuntarily across the room. 
 There was little resemblance between the brothers, and 
 the casual observer would not have hesitated a moment 
 as to which was the more striking and attractive. The 
 minister of Lochbroom was undoubtedly a handsome 
 man. His features were regular and refined ; his whole 
 physique and appearance that of a polished gentleman. 
 His clerical attire became him well, and seemed to show
 
 BEATRICE. 171 
 
 his fine figure to the utmost advantage. The other had 
 a powerful, well-knit frame, but it was certainly not 
 enhanced by his attire, which had not been cut by a city 
 tailor. His face had lost the ruddy country hue, and 
 his features seemed large and prominent, while his thick 
 dark hair lay in careless masses on his brow, which was 
 beginning to wear the lines of deep care and thought. 
 
 His hands were large, and still marked with the hue 
 and the coarseness of his early toil. But as the Doctor 
 looked, his heart warmed to the one as it had never 
 warmed to the other, because he knew that that plain 
 casket held a noble and beautiful soul The elder 
 brother was one of those who would dwell at ease, and 
 make life's pathway as gentle and sweet as possible, who 
 would step aside from toil and unpleasantness, preferring 
 ever the path of flowers and sunshine to the steep ascent 
 among the stones and briers. About the younger there 
 was a suggestion of strength and manliness which would 
 have its fulfilment in a life of self-sacrifice and noble 
 deeds. He was one who would seek for life's grandest 
 meanings, and, having found them, would seek to make 
 others partakers in his rich heritage. Such was the 
 resolve written on his brow, and flashing in every glance 
 of his deep and earnest eyes. Dr. Kinross could not but 
 wonder what was the theme which so engrossed James 
 Bethune and his niece, and a rare tenderness came into 
 his face as he watched the unutterable sympathy plainly 
 written upon Beatrice's beautiful face. What were they 
 talking of ? Not very much after all. Their conversa- 
 tion had been a little constrained and disjointed at first, 
 because, when Mr. Lorraine brought his daughter to James 
 Bethune's side, and left her there, a great shyness and 
 reserve came upon him. He could talk without restraint 
 to volatile Minnie, or to the sweet, womanly elder sister,
 
 172 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 or the gentle mother, but this beautiful creature filled 
 him with awe and reverence, and he felt himself robbed 
 of his usual self-possession. She had had a great sorrow, 
 which still overshadowed her, and he looked at her with 
 an infinitude of compassion, not the less deep and sincere 
 because it was and must be dumb. She was so utterly 
 unlike any woman he had ever met before, and when 
 her eyes, like stars, looked into his, it was as if all 
 power of thought and speech fled for ever. This strange 
 silence and reserve, however, was speedily broken, 
 when she spoke, in that sweet, mellow undertone we 
 look for sometimes in vain in those who possess the 
 gift of song. 
 
 ' You have not been very long in Edinburgh. It is a 
 beautiful city, is it not ? I have seen none like it 
 anywhere.' 
 
 ' Have you visited many cities, Miss Lorraine ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my father took me abroad two years ago, and 
 we visited every capital in Europe.' 
 
 ' That would be a rare enjoyment indeed ! ' exclaimed 
 James Bethune involuntarily, 'almost an education in 
 itself.' 
 
 ' It would be to you, or to any other whose mind and 
 heart were free and open to receive every impression,' 
 she answered with a somewhat sad smile. ' We travelled 
 under peculiar circumstances, and a great sorrow made 
 all the world look dark to us. Though it had been the 
 dream of my life to travel, when the time came it 
 surprised and grieved me to find how little I enjoyed it. 
 Pleasure and happiness depend so much more upon our 
 inner selves than on any outward surroundings or influ- 
 ences ; do you not think so ? ' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly, and life is very much as we make it 
 for ourselves. Yet I often wonder if it is possible to
 
 BEATRICE. 173 
 
 reach that state of which Paul speaks when he writes that 
 he had learned to be content in whatsoever estate he 
 found himself.' 
 
 ' There are different kinds of contentment, I think,' 
 said Beatrice Lorraine. ' There is the slothful content 
 of indolence and stagnation ; then there is that false 
 contentment which those affect who profess to have gone 
 to the very foundation of things, and to find no good in 
 anything ; then that noble and true contentment to which 
 a human soul can resign itself, even when it sees that 
 duty forbids the exercise or fulfilment of its highest 
 desires.' 
 
 'That is the true contentment indeed, Miss Lorraine, 
 but it is purchased sometimes at a fearful cost. Duty 
 is often a relentless and cruel taskmistress.' 
 
 ' Only until the task is learned,' said Beatrice softly, 
 and a sweet smile parted her lips as sjie spoke. ' But 
 pardon me, I have no right to speak so to you who 
 have suffered just there. It is so easy for those who 
 have not borne the burden to wonder that others 
 should complain. I spoke without thinking, as I 
 too often do.' 
 
 ' But you are right. Let me tell you a little about 
 myself, Miss Lorraine,' said James Bethune, for the soul 
 looking out from these starry eyes was full of that 
 sympathy which breaks down the barriers of reserve and 
 forges the first links of all friendship. ' When I was a 
 boy at home, I had many a conflict between duty and 
 inclination, which grew stronger and more difficult to 
 overcome as I grew older, and the desire for some wider 
 sphere and greater knowledge increased. I did not 
 grudge my brother his advantages, but only rebelled 
 because I could not share them. My father had no 
 knowledge of these rebellings, and kept me closely at
 
 174 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 work, thinking he was doing best for me. Then he 
 was growing old, and without one son at home would 
 have been lonely, so for his sake I stayed.' 
 
 ' But not without reward ; that would come, did it not ? ' 
 asked Beatrice, leaning forward a little in her earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 ' It did in many ways, for I became necessary to him 
 in his old age ; and I thank God now that strength was 
 given me to fulfil my duty to him. He knew nothing of 
 my struggles. If he had, he would have been the first 
 to bid me go.' 
 
 ' Then he is gone now ? ' 
 
 ' He died last spring, just after he visited Lochbroom. 
 I am surprised that you did not know.' 
 
 ' So recently as that ! ' she exclaimed in surprise. 
 ' No, we did not know ; your brother is reserved 
 concerning himself. I did not know you and he were 
 related till an hour ago, when Minnie whispered it to 
 me. Is your mother alive ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ; she died when we were born. Sandy and I 
 are twins. We have never known a mother's love, 
 but since Dr. Kinross has admitted me to his home, 
 I have known what it is to long for it. Mrs. 
 Kinross comes very near my ideal of a saint, Miss 
 Lorraine.' 
 
 ' Yes, Aunt Dora is very good,' said Beatrice, and her 
 eyes filled with tears. ' I too am motherless ; her 
 memory is very shadowy now, but Aunt Dora has filled 
 the blank in my heart. Human relationships are very 
 sweet, are they not ? They give us sometimes foretastes 
 of heaven.' 
 
 ' I have only known enough to long for more,' said 
 James Bethune involuntarily. 
 
 ' But you must be a great deal to your brother, and ha
 
 BEATRICE. 175 
 
 to you,' she said, glancing across the room to where he 
 stood moodily watching them both. 
 
 James Bethune observed her glance, and saw how her 
 eyes were quickly down-dropped, and how the colour 
 heightened in her delicate cheek, and thought he could 
 read these signs aright. Sandy was to be successful in 
 his wooing, then, and poor Mary Campbell must just 
 try to drink the waters of forgetfulness. Although he 
 could not approve of his brother's doings, he no longer 
 marvelled that he should have swerved from his allegiance 
 to his first love for the sake of Beatrice Lorraine. 
 
 'We were as boys all in all to each other,' he said 
 evasively, for he could not tell an untruth even to spare 
 Sandy in the eyes of the woman he loved. ' He did not 
 approve of my giving up the work of the farm, and per- 
 haps I was a little headstrong, and we were both hasty. 
 But it will all come right by and by.' 
 
 ' But you do not regret leaving now ? ' 
 
 'No, although I have had a trial of enforced idleness 
 which was very hard to bear. I have no time to lose, 
 for I am no longer a boy. I have been successful in 
 obtaining an opening in Glasgow, and if unremitting toil 
 and fervent resolve can win for a man any of life's 
 prizes, they shall be mine.' 
 
 ' What is your ambition ? ' she asked eagerly. ' Do 
 not think me curious ; I am deeply interested, and I 
 have always thought with reverence of those who aspire, 
 and set themselves to win what is noble and worthy of 
 possessing.' 
 
 ' I do not know that I could put it in words. It 
 is many-sided : only if God has given me the gift of 
 a writer, and I sometimes think He has, I should like 
 to use it for good ; to write what would help others as 
 well as myself in the higher life.'
 
 176 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' With such an ambition you must nnd will succeed/ 
 said Beatrice, and the petals of the yellow rose at her 
 throat stirred with the heaving of her breast. She was 
 deeply moved, indeed, her nature was quick, ardent, deeply 
 sympathetic, full of great possibilities if only it had 
 wider scope. Life for her had long been narrowed and 
 confined ; first by a father's carelessness and indifference, 
 then by his great and absorbing need of all her love and 
 care. 
 
 James Bethune slightly shook his head, and the light 
 in his eyes somewhat paled. 
 
 'It is only sometimes that hope whispers of such 
 a joy. Oftener I am depressed by my own weakness, 
 and overwhelmed by perplexities smd thoughts which I 
 can neither understand nor fathom.' 
 
 ' But these will be swallowed up in the wisdom of ex- 
 perience,' she said earnestly. ' There is confidence in 
 knowledge, and when you get to the foundation of things 
 all perplexities will disappear.' 
 
 ' As the waves and their restless tossings are 
 lost in the calmness of the ocean depths,' he added 
 with a rare smile. ' That is a great thought, Miss 
 Lorraine, and full of comfort. I shall remember it 
 all my life/ 
 
 'But there will always be something we must leave 
 something which even knowledge cannot explain away. 
 Were all life's mysteries revealed here, what would 
 remain for us to learn yonder ?' she said softly. ' I have 
 a vast pity for those who have made scientific knowledge 
 clear up all heavenly mysteries ; for the joy of trust 
 is denied them. In their innermost hearts I am sure 
 they must often be very miserable/ 
 
 ' Beatrice, my dear, I am sorry to disturb you/ said 
 the deep, rich voice of Doctor Kinross behind them.
 
 BEATRICE. 177 
 
 ' But they are growing impatient to hear you sing again. 
 Will you give us " The Lost Chord " now ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, uncle.' 
 
 She rose at once, smiled, arid crossed the room. 
 James Bethune, forgetful for a moment where he was, 
 leaned his elbows on his knees and followed her every 
 movement with his eyes. His heart was stirred within 
 him ; he could have gone away out into the stillness of 
 the night to ponder over the revelation she had been to 
 him. For it is a great revelation to an earnest soul to 
 find another as earnest, and to know himself not alone 
 in his strivings after what is great. But suddenly the 
 room filled with song once more such song as James 
 Bethune had never before heard, and did not dream had 
 any existence in the world. It was the deepest yearn- 
 ing that can enter a human soul finding vent in fittest 
 melody, and its tribute was a deep and sacred silence 
 which seemed to fall on the assembled company like a 
 benediction. When she ceased there was no applause, 
 for pleasure, like all other emotions, is deepest and 
 keenest when it finds no voice. 
 
 Then some one said it would be well to leave with 
 such a softening memory of a happy evening, and so the 
 guests began slowly to disperse. 
 
 ' Where do you lodge ? ' asked the minister of Loch- 
 broom briefly, stepping across to his brother's side. 
 
 'In Bank Street; will you come and share it with 
 me ?' asked Jamie eagerly, for somehow his heart yearned 
 over his brother ; he felt himself so destitute of these 
 sweet human ties of which Beatrice Lorraine had 
 spoken. 
 
 ' Oh no ; I have rooms at the Windsor Hotel. You 
 might walk down with ine. We may as well have a 
 chat when we can.'
 
 178 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Jamie quietly ; but he could scarcely 
 help turning a little away from his brother, he spoke in 
 such a cold, commonplace, distant way. 
 
 Just then Minnie Kinross slipped up to his side, and 
 looked up at him with her innocent, childish eyes. 
 
 ' Well, Miss Minnie ? ' 
 
 'You have never told me that story you promised, 
 and you talked all the time to Beatrice and never to me,' 
 she said reproachfully. ' Will you take me up Arthur's 
 Seat on Saturday, Mr. Bethune ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and I'll tell you two stories to make up,' he 
 said, smiling now, for the child's sunshine was irresistible. 
 
 ' You should beware of what promises you make to 
 Minnie, Mr. Bethune,' said Miss Kinross, laughing. ' She 
 will plague your life out now.' 
 
 ' It will not be for long, Miss Kinross ; I leave Edin- 
 burgh next week.' 
 
 ' Indeed ? I am very sorry ; we shall all miss you/ said 
 Dora Kinross with genuine regret in her tone. ' But 
 Glasgow is not a thousand miles away; we shall see you 
 often, I hope, else Minnie will be inconsolable. We 
 shall miss you on Sabbath evenings most of all.' 
 
 Dora Kinross was quite sincere in all she said, but 
 she purposely spoke with greater warmth because the 
 minister of Lochbroom was within hearing. She had 
 been puzzled as well as surprised that they should never 
 have been made aware of the relationship between the 
 brothers, but after a little thought her shrewd per- 
 ceptions had assisted her to a correct conclusion, and the 
 Rev. Alexander Bethune fell accordingly in her estima- 
 tion. It was a harmless delight to her to show him how 
 very highly the brother whose existence he had thought 
 it better to ignore was esteemed and honoured among 
 them.
 
 BEATRICE. 179 
 
 Although Doctor Kinross's drawing-room held Beatrice 
 Lorraine, Sandy Bethune was glad to leave it that 
 night. He was neither happy nor comfortable in 
 his mind. 
 
 At the corner of Lauriston those who were walking 
 home separated, and the two brothers pursued their 
 way together along George IV. Bridge towards the 
 New Town. Jamie was determined not to be the first 
 to speak ; unless in answer to questions, he would 
 give no information regarding his way of life or future 
 prospects. 
 
 ' Well, how are you getting on ? Well, I suppose, or 
 you wouldn't be as you are. I must say you are 
 wonderfully improved/ said Sandy when they had gone 
 some distance in silence. 
 
 ' In what way ? ' 
 
 ' In every way ; you don't look so countrified, and 
 you speak much more correctly. But how have you 
 managed to lay aside the old Star dialect so quickly ? 
 You spoke broadly enough the last time I saw you ; 
 and now there is only a slight accent which betrays 
 your Fife origin.' 
 
 ' I could have spoken English correctly enough long 
 ago, if I had seen- the need,' said Jamie quietly. ' I 
 like the broad Scotch best yet ; but it doesn't do for all 
 company.' 
 
 ' I see. I heard you say to Miss Kinross you 
 were going to leave Edinburgh, Where are you 
 going ? ' 
 
 ' To Glasgow.' 
 
 'What to do?' 
 
 ' Work as a reporter.' 
 
 ' Is that all ? Why, from your airs one would think 
 you were going as editor of the Herald, or to fill some
 
 180 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 other equally responsible position. How on earth have 
 you ever managed to get so intimate at St. Giles ? ' 
 
 ' I told you already,' answered James Bethune briefly, 
 for Sandy's sneering tone wounded him as of yore. 
 
 ' So you wrote that article in Chambers s ? They were 
 praising it inordinately. Mr. Brown of Greyfriars pre- 
 dicts for you a grand career. Well, I never thought it 
 was in you.' 
 
 ' Are you sure of it now ? ' 
 
 Sandy laughed, and swung his cane backwards and 
 forwards by his side. 'Well, I suppose I must admit it 
 now. I'm sure I wish you well. When did you see 
 Aunt Susan ? ' 
 
 ' A fortnight ago, I was over.' 
 
 'Whom else did you see in Star?' 
 
 ' All the folk. They are quite well at the Knowe. 
 
 ' Is Mary quite well ? ' 
 
 * She seems to be.' 
 
 ' They wouldn't ask for me, I suppose.' 
 
 ' No, they never mention your name.' 
 
 ' I suppose they regard me in a very black light. What 
 do you think of Miss Lorraine ? ' 
 
 ' She is very beautiful. I had no idea she would be 
 such a beautiful woman.' 
 
 ' Don't you remember me telling you that before ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, but I allowed something for your imagination. 
 Are you engaged tc her ? ' 
 
 ' I wish I was. I am just where I was when I saw 
 you last. Do you know, I can hardly preach or attend 
 to my work for thinking about her.' 
 
 ' Then the sooner you get the question settled the 
 better for yourself and your people.' 
 
 ' But, man, I'm afraid to venture. If I lose her I 
 don't know what I shall do.'
 
 BEATRICE. 181 
 
 James Bethune could have smiled, even in the middle 
 of his brother's impassioned speaking. To hear the cool, 
 calculating, confident Sandy speak so humbly was wonder- 
 ful indeed, and an abiding proof of the levelling power 
 of love. 
 
 ' What were you speaking about over in yon corner ? 
 You seemed to be deeply engrossed.' 
 
 ' I could not tell you all we said. She is a noble, 
 good woman, Sandy. If you win her, I hope you will 
 make her happy.' 
 
 ' Do you think I have any chance ? Did you speak 
 about me at all ? Of course she knows you are my 
 brother now. I hope you didn't give her all the 
 particulars of our- early life. You'll soon learn now, 
 Jamie, that it will be to your advantage to bury it in 
 oblivion.' 
 
 Why?' 
 
 * Oh, because people in good society lay great stress on 
 a man's antecedents. He is seldom judged on his own 
 merits.' 
 
 * Would you call the Kinrosses good society ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. Doctor Kinross's forebears have been 
 ministers in Lockerbie for generations, and his brother, 
 who is minister there now, is on intimate terms with all 
 the county people.' 
 
 ' They don't seem to me to take up their heads much 
 with folk's antecedents, and I have seen a good deal of 
 them.' 
 
 ' Oh, well, perhaps they are exceptions, but they don't 
 prove the rule. You'll soon see I am right. Well, here's 
 my hotel. Are you coining in ? ' 
 
 ' No, it is after eleven ; it is time I was away home. 
 I am always in after six in the evening, if you care to 
 look me up.'
 
 182 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 * Well, if there's nothing of particular interest at the 
 Assembly, I'll look in to-morrow evening. Good-night/ 
 
 ' Good-night.' 
 
 ' I hope you don't bear me any grudge for what I said 
 last time we met,' said Sandy, the clasp of his brother's 
 hand touching a tender chord in his heart. ' I did not 
 mean to hurt you.' 
 
 ' It did hurt me, but I'll forget it now. I'm glad I've 
 seen you again, Sandy. I have been lonely enough all 
 winter/ 
 
 So they parted with something of the old glow of 
 brotherly affection in their hearts. Jamie wended his 
 way slowly along Princes Street, which was almost 
 deserted now, save by the waifs and wanderers who 
 frequent the streets of a city by night. The soft, star- 
 gemmed sky beamed down in benignant pity on these 
 poor wanderers ; and the pure radiance of the young 
 May moon lay like a veil of mystery over all. The 
 breath of summer was in the mild and balmy air, and the 
 first blossoms of the mignonette sent up its sweet tribute 
 to the midnight air. James Bethune crossed to the 
 garden side, and walked slowly with his head bent, 
 taking no heed of anything around him, for many 
 thoughts oppressed him. He felt as if every step in life 
 brought him face to face with new mysteries, with things 
 hard to understand and harder to bear. That night he 
 had obtained a glimpse of something which had hitherto 
 had no place in his thoughts. It had dawned upon him 
 that there were other things more desirable than fame or 
 fortune, things which neither of these could buy. He 
 had read much about the influence of women upon the 
 conduct and affairs of men's lives ; how the weak and 
 erring had been raised, and the noble made nobler and 
 better by a woman's love. The deepest feelings of his
 
 BEATRICE. 183 
 
 heart were stirred, and there came to him in the midnight 
 stillness unutterable yearnings for some sweet influence 
 which would satisfy the impulses of affection, now for 
 the first time called into being. It would be too much 
 to say he had learned to love Beatrice Lorraine in the 
 brief hour of their acquaintance, only in her he had met 
 the first woman \\'u had the power to interest him. 
 \\ hat influence was she to have upon his future life ?
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 
 Are mine alone. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 ILL ye come east, Miss Bethune? The 
 maister's awfu' no' weel, an' there's no' a 
 cratur to dae a hand's turn for him.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's you, Wull/ said Susan 
 Bethune, peering out into the darkness, 
 and discerning the figure of the foreman at 
 Auchtermairnie standing by a horse and trap 
 outside the garden gate. ' What way hae ye brocht 
 the beast ? Is he that ill that I maun gang east the 
 nicht ? ' 
 
 "Deed is he. He's been cornpleenin', ye ken, sin' 
 afore hervest ; but it was stauniu' in the tattie dreels 
 yesterday in the weet that did for him. It rained a' 
 efternune, an' he was that anxious to get them a' up that 
 he wadna let's ]owse.' 
 
 184
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 135 
 
 ' Harm tak' the body ! he's wark daft,' said Susan 
 Bethune a trifle testily, for she was by no means inclined 
 to leave her own cosy fireside so late on a raw November 
 night to share the cold comfort of Auchtermairnie. ' Is 
 he in his bed ? ' 
 
 'Ay, noo. He had bit to lie doon, for he couldna 
 staund. He's a' pains, an' he has an' unco like hoast. I 
 doot he's by wi't this time.' 
 
 'Aweel, he's an auld carle noo, an* he hasna been 
 guidit since Marget dee'd,' said Susan in a matter-of-fact 
 way. ' Bide a wee or I rake oot my fire an' pit twa- 
 three things thegither, for I'll likely hae to bide or the 
 morn, onyway. Wull the beast no' let ye in to the 
 fire a wee? it's a cauld nicht.' 
 
 ' Na, she'll no' staund. I'll jist wait,' said the man ; 
 and Susan Bethune with a nod disappeared indoors. Still 
 active despite her seventy-three years, she made herself 
 ready in an incredibly short time, and, well wrapped up, 
 took her place in the dilapidated milk-cart, which still 
 did duty as a gig at Auchtermairnie. The animal, a 
 fresh young filly of Peter Bethune's own rearing, rattled 
 them rapidly over the ground, and in less than half an hour 
 they were at Auchtermairnie. A feeble light nickered 
 through the dirty panes of the kitchen window, the only 
 sign of life about the dreary house. Susan Bethune got 
 out cautiously, and, grasping her carpet-bag, marched 
 into the house, sniffing as she went, for the close, 
 musty smell seemed to catch her breath on the very 
 threshold. 
 
 ' Weel, I'm here, Peter,' she said as she entered the 
 kitchen. Receiving no answer, she set down her bag 
 and approached the bed. 
 
 ' Are ye sleepin', Peter ? ' 
 
 ' Na ; I wish I was,' came in a feeble voice from under 
 
 16
 
 186 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 the clothes, then a violent fit of coughing shook his 
 exhausted frame, and made him almost gasp for breath. 
 
 ' Mercy me, that's a dreidfu' hoast ! What d'ye mean, 
 ye auld gomeril, staunin' in weet tattie dreels till ye get 
 yer death ? I'm sure ye hae plenty o' this warld's gear 
 to serve ye a' your time, noo. Ye micht let the thing 
 abee. Is there ony caun'les in the hoose ? ' 
 
 ' Na ; but there's the stable lamp ahint the door ; but 
 if ye pit on a bit stick it'll mak' licht enough.' 
 
 Susan Bethune paid no attention to his suggestion, 
 but took down the stable lamp, lit it, and brought it to 
 bear on the sick man's face. She was touched by his 
 haggard and miserable appearance, but her pity turned 
 to indignation as her eyes lighted on the grimy sheets 
 and blankets which covered him. She was a sworn foe 
 to dirt in every shape or form. 
 
 'Weel, jist lie still or I get the kettle biled, an' I'll 
 gie ye a warm drink, an' pit a poultice on for that hoast, 
 an' the time the kettle's bilin' I'll get clean things for 
 the bed, if there's sic a thing i' the hoose. The doctor 11 
 be here the morn, an' it wad be a disgrace if he saw ye 
 as ye are.' 
 
 * I'm no' needin' a doctor, Shoosan. It's only a cauld.' 
 
 'Wull '11 ride that young beast ower to Leslie first 
 thing i' the mornin',' continued Susan, just as if she had 
 not heard his feeble remonstrance. ' Noo ye may as 
 weel keep quate, because if I'm to be here ava', I'll dae 
 as I like. Eh, certy, sic a hoose ! ' 
 
 It was no wonder that Susan Bethune heaved a pro- 
 digious sigh as she gazed round the kitchen, which was 
 wont to be so clean and snug and cosy, both in her own 
 and Marget's time. It was a dirty, dingy, smoke- 
 discoloured place now, with cobwebs hanging here and 
 there and everywhere, and the dust lying thick on every-
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 187 
 
 thing which was not in daily use. Taking the lamp in 
 her hand, she went away to the room end to seek some 
 clean bed-linen, and she shivered as she entered the close, 
 damp-smelling place, which was in worse condition than 
 the other end. She had difficulty in opening the 
 drawers, as they were swollen with the damp ; but at 
 length she succeeded, and, finding what she sought, 
 returned to the kitchen, and piled up peats and coals on 
 the fire till her brother turned uneasily in his bed and 
 asked why she was so lavish with the fuel. But she 
 paid no heed to him, only hung up the sheets close to 
 the cheerful, strong heat, and proceeded to prepare some 
 peculiar kind of gruel, for which she was famous in the 
 Star. It had never been known to fail to relieve cold. 
 When the wretched old man was made warm and com- 
 fortable, and had drank a bowl of the gruel, he felt 
 much relieved, and fell into a sleep, which was only 
 disturbed at times by his cough. Susan Bethune, after 
 considerable trouble, managed to push the old sofa from 
 the room to the kitchen, and, throwing off her dress, 
 wrapped herself in a warm shawl and lay down in front 
 of the fire. But she could not sleep, it was so strange 
 to be once more at the old fireside, and the place seemed 
 to be peopled with memories and phantoms of the past. 
 They were not all sad memories, and yet the old stock 
 was getting far reduced, and the chances were that very 
 soon there would be another family in Auchtermairnie, 
 and the name of Bethune would soon be forgotten in the 
 place. It was a matter of regret at times to Susan 
 Bethune that neither of her brother's sons had elected to 
 follow in the way of their forebears, and yet she knew 
 that they were better to follow after their own inclina- 
 tions than to take up an occupation for which they had 
 no love. Then her thoughts centred upon her own boy,
 
 188 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 as she always thought of Jamie in her heart, and she 
 gave herself up to visions of his future, which was to be 
 great and grand far beyond her comprehension ; for 
 there was nothing to which Jamie might not aspire to 
 and attain. Her love and pride and faith in him were 
 what made life sweet to her now ; indeed, she had nothing 
 else to live for. His constant thought of and considera- 
 tion for her were also things passing sweet, for, though 
 he was busy in his new way of life, he was never too 
 busy to write his weekly letter on the appointed day, 
 and he never forgot to send her the earliest copy of any- 
 thing of his own which had found its way into print. 
 It would be impossible for me to attempt to analyze or 
 describe the strange commingling of reverence, love, and 
 wonder with which the old woman regarded these 
 printed pieces. They were carefully read and re-read 
 by herself, lent for one night to the kind, interested 
 friends at the Knowe, then wrapped in a silk handker- 
 chief and laid beside the lavender-scented linen in her 
 own kist. A wonderful place was Susan Bethune's kist ; 
 its whole contents, of no mean value, were intended for 
 Jamie's wife, should he ever take one. She was thinking 
 of old times, reviewing her own life and its changes since 
 she had gone for the second time to make her home in 
 the Star, when her brother woke up and asked what 
 o'clock it was. 
 
 'Near twal'/ she answered without rising. 'D'ye 
 want onything ? ' 
 
 ' A drink o' water. Eh, wummin, it's like there was a 
 burnin' fire in me ! There's something awf u' wrang ! ' 
 he said uneasily. ' Tak' aff some o' they sticks an' cool 
 the place.' 
 
 ' It's no' het ava, man ; it's you that's fevered,' said 
 Susan, bringing him the water, which he drank feverishly,
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 189 
 
 and asked for more ; but she refused to give it until the 
 doctor should come. ' 1 doot it's gatm to gang hard wi' 
 ye this time, Pete ! ' 
 
 ' My time's maybe come ; an' yet I'm no' that auld, 
 only seeventy-seeven. Marget's first man was ninety 
 when he dee'd, an' auld Saunders Law in the Star eichty- 
 six.' 
 
 ' Ay, but, lad, they took care o' theirsel's,' said Susan 
 briefly. ' Hoo aften hae I wairned ye no' to tear yersel' 
 dune as ye've been daein' a' yer days.' 
 
 ' Weel, weel, I had to work or the place wadna pay,' 
 said the old man, playing restlessly with the fringes of 
 the counterpane. ' What aboot John's sons ? When 
 did ye see that silly cratur, Jamie ? Is he in the puirs- 
 hoose yet ? ' 
 
 ' No, he's in Glesca, gettin' twa pound a- week as a 
 reporter, an' money for ither things forby,' answered Aunt 
 Susan with quiet pride. 
 
 ' Weel, I'm sure he's no' worth it. It wad set him 
 better to drive a pair on Auchtermairnie yet. It'll be 
 an unco -like thing when there's no' a Bethune in 
 Auchtermairnie.' 
 
 ' Ay, but we canna help it. The laddies hae ither 
 wark to dae,' said Susan with a little sigh. 
 
 ' Weel, ye'll write, or get somebody to write to Sandy 
 the morn. He'll better come through an' see efter 
 things. The feck o't '11 gang to him.' 
 
 ' Is yer wull made, Peter ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ay, it's made.' 
 
 ' An' does the minister get a' ? ' 
 
 ' Ay. I telt Jamie that unless he bade at hame 
 he wadna see a hapney o' my siller, an' I'll keep 
 my word.' 
 
 'But what aboot Marget's laddies?'
 
 190 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' They've gotten a' they're gaun to get/ replied the old 
 man with a girn. 'They got the Enster property 
 divided when Marget dee'd, an' there's nae mair for 
 them.' 
 
 ' But her dochter, puir lassie, her that's a weedy at 
 Leven ye micht dae waur than leave her a hundred or 
 twa. Marget didna come to ye empty-handit onyway. 
 Ye got a hantle mair than the Enster hooses.' 
 
 .' Maybe ; but I deserved something for takin' her. 
 She wasna weel - faured,' said the old man with a 
 wretched attempt at a smile. ' I'm wearit noo, 
 Shoosan. Eh, I wish it was the mornin' ! If ye 
 wad gae 'wa' an' no' speak sae muckle till a body, he 
 micht get a sleep.' 
 
 ' Ye're aye the auld carle yet, Pete ; as thrawn 
 as a ravelled wab,' she answered. * Noo, see, keep 
 the claes aboot ye. If ye dinna dae as I bid ye, 
 I'll gang back tae the Star wi' the daylicht, as sure's 
 I'm here.' 
 
 So saying, Susan Bethune turned down the lamp, and 
 laid herself down again gladly, for she was missing her 
 accustomed night's rest. For some hours there was 
 silence in the kitchen, broken only by the sick man's 
 cough and hurried breathing, and the occasional falling 
 of the ashes from the grate as the fire settled itself to 
 burn more slowly and steadily till the morning. Before 
 five Susan was astir again, and by the half-hour the 
 foreman was speeding over the road to Leslie to summon 
 the doctor. The forenoon was well through, however, 
 before he put in an appearance, and after his brief ex- 
 amination of the old man, he had little to say. Susan 
 Bethune, who had met him often by sick and dying beds, 
 knew his opinion by the expression in his face just as 
 well as if he had put it in words. Peter was dying.
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 191 
 
 She followed him out to the door, and stood in silence 
 while he mounted his horse. 
 
 ' He is an old man, Miss Bethune ; over seventy, is he 
 not?' 
 
 ' Ay, he's seeventy-seeven.' 
 
 ' Ah, well ! he has passed the span, and he's had a long 
 and healthy life.' 
 
 ' Then he hasna lang ? ' 
 
 ' A few days ; a week at the most. You may 
 apply the remedies I have recommended, but I fear 
 they will not avail much. Both lungs are seriously 
 congested.' 
 
 ' That's jist as John was, yell mind, Doctor Hay ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, I remember quite well. It is a curious coinci- 
 dence. You are standing out well. How are these clever 
 nephews of yours getting on ? ' 
 
 ' Brawly. Did ye see Jamie's last papor intae 
 Chaumers's ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I saw it. He will make his mark yet. "Well, 
 I must go. If I am passing, I'll look in to-morrow 
 morning.' 
 
 ' A' richt ! Guid mornin', sir,' said Susan Bethune, 
 and re-entered the house. 
 
 ' What are ye claverin' an' whisperin' there sae 
 lang at ? ' asked Peter querulously. ' What did he 
 say ? Am I gaun to dee or no', that what's I want 
 to ken ? ' 
 
 ' Ye are verra seriously ill, Pete,' she answered, look- 
 ing with deep compassion at the withered face and the 
 restless eye, gleaming under the shaggy brows with an 
 unnatural brilliance. His unkempt grey hair hung over 
 his brow, and gave to him a wild appearance how 
 different, she could not help thinking, from John in his 
 last illness 1 She wondered at her own callousness con-
 
 192 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 cerning Peter, remembering how her heart ha3 been 
 wrung when she was told that there was no hope for 
 John. Ties of blood are strong, no doubt ; but they can 
 be robbed of strength and sweetness alike by indifference 
 and neglect. Peter Bethune had lived for himself and 
 selfish ends all his days, and not many regrets would 
 follow him to the grave. 
 
 ' "Weel, if I maun dee, I maun, I suppose ; but I'm no' 
 that auld,' he said in the same fretful, queialous tone. 
 ' Marget's first man was faur frailer nor me, an' he 
 leeved till he was ninety.' 
 
 ' Dinna fash yer heid aboot Sammy Tamson, Pete. If 
 yer time's come, ye needna mind ; an' if no', ye maun 
 seek for grace noo.' 
 
 ' Grace ! I've never dune onybody ony herra, I'm 
 sure. I've neither been a drucken nor a dishonest 
 man ; I've aye paid my way. What mair can a cratui 
 dae?' 
 
 ' That'll no* open the door to the kingdom o' heevin, 
 Pete. Ye maun ask the Lord to forgie ye yer sip for 
 the Saviour's sake, or ye canna win there.' 
 
 ' Aweel, I'm sure He micht forgie me, for I've aye 
 paid my way. Maybe I've never gien that muckle to 
 the kirk, but a body canna gie to a'thing ; an' as for 
 gaun every Sawbath, I was gled to get a rest, especially 
 as ye didna get muckle whiles when ye gaed.' 
 
 ' Aweel, Pete, I canna arguefy wi' ye, my man ; only 
 I houp and pray that the Lord '11 hae mercy on yer soul,' 
 said Susan Bethune sorrowfully. ' Sandy '11 maybe be 
 able to mak' the thing plain till ye. I askit Doctor 
 Hay to telegram to him, an' he'll maybe be here the 
 nicht' 
 
 'Aweel, I'll be gled to see him/ said the sick man 
 drowsily, and turning over he fell asleep again ; but it
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 193 
 
 a troubled, uneasy slumber, broken by many a start 
 and moan of pain. Susan Bethune's heart yearned over 
 him unspeakably, but she did not know how to speak or 
 prepare him for the last great change, and could only 
 pray for him in her heart. 
 
 The day wore on slowly, but the old man seemed to 
 grow more uneasy and restless, and was never a moment 
 in the same position. It was a wild, wintry day ; rain 
 fell in gusty torrents, and the wind howled and whistled 
 through the dreary house with many an uncanny sound, 
 which made Susan Bethune feel eerie and melancholy, 
 and wish for something to divert her thoughts. About 
 the darkening there came a timid knock to the door, and 
 when Susan Bethune opened it she saw a woman 
 stj^ding there, with a little boy clinging' to her 
 skirts. 
 
 ' Weel, my wummin, what d'ye want ? ' she asked, 
 holding .the candle higher, so that she might see the 
 
 stran^erY *ft?Q. 
 
 ic 
 ' I'm /^stress Galbraith Jeanie Tarnson that was,' 
 
 she said meekly and humbly. ' I was up at the Windy- 
 gates the day, an' they telt me the maister was awfu' ill. 
 I cam' to speer for him.' 
 
 ' Come in. Ye was surely fell anxious when ye 
 stravaged the road wi' that bairn on sic a nicht. Come 
 in/ said Susan Bethune drily, and yet her glance was 
 kind and compassionate, and she took the little boy by 
 the hand, and led him into the warm, well-lighted kitchen, 
 the mother following behind. 
 
 ' Sit ye doon ; ye are a puir, jimpy thing, Hae ye 
 no' been weel ? ' asked Susan abruptly. ' Dinna speak 
 abune yer breath ; he's sleepin', ye see, an' he's sair 
 needin't.' 
 
 'I've been gey silly sin' my man dee'd; I've haen 
 
 17
 
 19 i THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ower muckle adae,' said the widow. ' It's a sair fecht 
 for a weedy wummin, Miss Bethune.' 
 
 'Ay, is it. I was speakin' till him aboot ye the 
 day. He canna mend, the doctor says, an' I wad fain 
 see justice dune afore he dees,' said Susan Bethune in her 
 stern, matter-of-fact way. ' Ye'll no' hae gotten muckle 
 frae him readilys ?' 
 
 ' No' a bawbee, an' when I made bold to come and 
 speer for my mither's claes an' things efter she dee'd, he 
 cursed and swore at me like a' that,' said the widow. 
 ' D'ye no' think it but richt that I should get something 
 for my bairns ? He got a guid pickle gear and siller wi' 
 my mither.' 
 
 ' I ken that, lassie, an' I certainly think ye should 
 get whatever was yer mither's, baith claes and silltfi,' 
 said Susan Bethune decidedly. ' It was a stupid mar- 
 riage for them baith, I think.' 
 
 ' "Wha's that clashing wi' ye there ? ' cried the old man 
 shrilly, waking up out of his sleep, and raisi^ 1 himself 
 on his elbow. ' It's you, Jean Tamson, sht$F at my 
 fireside ! Ye may clear oot, you an' yer bairu', for ye'll 
 no' get naething here. Are ye jist waitin' or I'm a corp 
 tae tak' a big haul ? but ye'll find ye're mista'en, my leddy. 
 Ye marriet a ne'er-do-weel, wha spent a' ye got, and ye 
 maun jist lie on the bed ye hae made. Pit her oot, 
 Shoosan, or I'll rise an' dae't myselY 
 
 The little boy, who had been warming himself at the 
 fire, looked in silent terror at the wild old man, glaring 
 at them from between the curta'is of the bed, and then 
 set up a shrill scream. 
 
 ' Gae 'wa' into the ither end, my wummin,' whispered 
 Susa i Bethune hastily. ' I'll kindle a fire for ye, an' 
 ye can sleep there a' nicht. Awa', see, or he'll be in a 
 perfect fury.' So saying, she lifted the candle, and
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 195 
 
 hurried them away to the other end, and bade them 
 keep quiet there till she had quietened the furious old 
 man. 
 
 ' Nae suner is a body laid doon wi' a gliff o' cauld 
 even, than there's twa or three, or half a dizzen, sittin' 
 roond like corbies, waitin' or he dee,' he said fumingly. 
 ' Yell better get awa' back to the Star, Shoosan ; ye're 
 in league wi' thae Tamsons, an' they're a greedy, ill 
 set, that leeve for ever aff ither folk.' 
 
 ' Wheesht, see, this meenit, or I'll gie ye a fricht, my 
 man,' said Susan Bethune quietly. 'Lie doon, see, an' 
 keep the claes on yersel'. Eh, but ye're a thrawn man.' 
 
 The old man tossed and struggled with the bed- 
 clothes, throwing them off as fast as his sister put 
 t\~m on, until, thoroughly exhausted, he sank back 
 almost gasping for breath. 
 
 Then' Susan Bethune carefully covered him with the 
 clothes, and turned away with a sore heart. It was 
 a pitifu 1 ^ ; -rht to see the old man struggling on the 
 very brir[ of the grave, so loth to leave the world, 
 because 1 ^ gear and concerns were still his only gods. 
 Oh, how different from the calm, beautiful peace with 
 which John had waited his summons home to dwell 
 for ever with the God he had so faithfully served 
 through all his blameless life ! She wiped her eyes 
 as she looked into the dancing fire, and prayed that 
 her last end might be like John's. She carried a 
 shovelful of blazing coal into the other end, and built 
 up a roaring fire for the widow and her boy. But she 
 dared not talk to her, lest Peter, hearing their voices, 
 should get into a passion again. About seven o'clock, 
 as she was making a spoonful of porridge for the 
 bairn, the door opened, and the minister of Lochbroom 
 stalked in.
 
 196 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Eh, man, I'm fell gled to see ye ! An' hoo are ye ? ' 
 she said, shaking him heartily by the hand, and looking 
 with interest into his handsome face, which had a fine 
 ruddy colour just then, owing to the exertion of walking 
 through wind and rain. 
 
 ' I am very well, thank you, Aunt Susan ; and how 
 are you ? ' he asked. ' I got Hay's telegram about half- 
 past one, just in time to catch the two express, or I 
 wouldn't have been here to-night. How is he ? ' 
 
 ' Faur through. He's sleepin' again, an' nae wunner, 
 efter the ferment he's been in. Eh, he's an awfu' auld 
 cratur ! I houp, Sandy, ye'll be able to pit him in a 
 better frame o' mind. He's faur frae bein' ready to 
 dee. But ye'll be a' weet ? ' 
 
 V ! 
 
 ' Oh no, it is more wind than rain. When did you 
 come from Star ? ' 
 
 * Only yestreen. He's no' been lang iK, but he 
 canna lest. Eh, man, ye're growin' an avfu' wise- 
 like chield!' 
 
 ' Wasn't I always that, Aunt Susan ? ' he a& e "i with a 
 smile. ' When did you hear from Jamie ? ' 
 
 ' Yesterday. He never misses his day,' said the old 
 woman with happy pride. 'Isn't he a wunnerfu' 
 chap ? ' 
 
 ' He's going to succeed after all. There's a terrible 
 resolution in him,' said the minister, drawing in his 
 chair to the fire. ' Why, what's that ? ' he added with 
 a start, for the sound of a child's prattle fell upon his 
 ears. 
 
 ' That's puir Jean Tamson, yer Auntie Marget's 
 lassie, that was left a weedy intae Leven, ye ken,' 
 whispered Aunt Susan. ' She's come ower, nae doot, to 
 see what she can get for hersel' an' her bairns, an' I 
 canna blame her. If ye get oriy crack wi' yer uncle
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 197 
 
 ava', ye maun try an' show him his duty. That puir 
 cratur has mair need o' a pickle siller than either you 01 
 Jamie.' 
 
 ' Has he made a will ? ' asked the minister musingly. 
 
 ' Ay, so he says, but what'll be in't dear only kens. 
 We can hardly expeck it to be just. He disna ken the 
 meanin' o' the word. Eh, man, I canna but think on 
 the difference between his last days an' yer faither's. 
 Thon was an end we a' may envy.' 
 
 ' They were always very different,' said the minister 
 rather abruptly, for memory had a sting ; then he 
 changed the subject, and led her on to talk of other 
 things. 
 
 ' You look as if you needed a rest, Aunt Susan. I'll 
 sit up with Uncle Peter to-night,' he said at length. 
 ' And I'll promise to wake you when he needs any- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Very weel ; I'm no' sweer, for I'm fell tired. He's 
 soon' yei?, \n' it's a peety to wauken him. I'll lie doon 
 in the f Uo' the bed beside Jeanie, an' ye can gie's a 
 cry when ^e waukens. Here's the sofa for ye.' 
 
 The minister threw off his boots, and, covering himself 
 with the old plaid, lay down, but not to sleep. Thought 
 was busy within, and memory was at work. The 
 present, with all its absorbing, passionate interests, its 
 hopes, fears, and indescribable yearnings, was absorbed 
 in contemplation of the past. A voice seemed to arise 
 out of that dead past, asking him warningly whether 
 he was redeeming the speeding time ; whether he had 
 aught to show for all that had been given to him ; 
 whether, in the sphere of life whither he had been 
 called, he had conscientiously and unselfishly done what 
 he could. We do not often welcome such thoughts. 
 He is a happy man who can look within without fear,
 
 198 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 who can think with calm satisfaction of duty well done ; 
 who has no accusing voice to whisper, ' Thou art the 
 man.' Self in a selfish man is its own avenger. 
 
 ' Shoosan, gie me a drink ! ' The feeble, faltering 
 request broke Sandy Bethune's reverie, and he leaped 
 to his feet. 
 
 ' Wha are you ? ' asked the sick man wonderingly. 
 ' Oh, it's you, Sandy ! When did ye come ? ' 
 
 ' An hour or two ago. I am sorry to see you so 
 poorly, Uncle Peter,' he said, laying his firm, strong 
 hand on the poor nerveless fingers. 'Are you feeling 
 very weak ? ' 
 
 ' Oo ay, I'm clean dune. Are you come to look efter 
 the bawbees tae ? ' 
 
 Sandy Bethune's face flushed, for no such thought had 
 as yet presented itself to his mind. 
 
 'Ye dinna like that,' ch-".^led the old man. 'Aweel, 
 I canna blame ye. Set up Shoosan, wull ye ?*- I canna 
 get breath.' ^>v 
 
 The minister went out into the lobfcy>: ffi-'ly called 
 to his aunt, and then returned to the bedside. Seeing 
 the difficulty tH old man felt in breathing, he put his 
 arm round his shoulder, and raised him up among the 
 pillows. The fast glazing f eyes looked up into his with 
 a look of strange questioning, which was painful in its 
 intensity. 
 
 ' Ye're a minister, Sandy. Whaur d'ye think I'll 
 gang in the ither warld ? ' 
 
 'If you trust in God's promises, Uncle Peter, you will 
 go to heaven.' 
 
 ' Ay, but what's the promises ? I canna mind them. 
 I wish I had leeved a different life. The wull's i' the 
 drawer up the stair ; ye'll get the key in my breek pooch. 
 I'm no' able to alter 't noo, but ye'll see Jean Tamson
 
 DESOLATE AGE. 199 
 
 disna want, an' share the rest wi' Jamie ; I was maybe 
 ower hard on him. Is that you, Shoosan ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, it's me, Peter, my man ; ye're slippin' awa'/ said 
 Susan Bethune with her apron to her eyes. ' Pray for 
 yer uncle, Sandy.' 
 
 ' Never heed noo,' said the old man in a drowsy 
 whisper. ' He'll maybe lat me in, for I've aye paid 
 ray way '
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 RETKIBUTION. 
 
 Tor her sweet sake he sinned, and she would 
 Have none of him. He paid the price, and went 
 Forth to the night alone.' 
 
 T the old-fashioned bureau in the best room at 
 Auchtermaimie sat the minister of Loch- 
 broom, the flickering candlelight gleaming 
 fitfully on his face, v.hich wore an expression 
 of perplexity almost amounting to bewilder- 
 ment. It was ".bout five o'clock in the 
 morning. Susan Bethune aid Jeanie Thomson, 
 after having performed the last offices for the dead, had 
 laid themselves down again to snatch an hour or two's 
 repose. There was no need to watch any more by Peter 
 Bethune now. Sandy had lain down, too, on the sofa in 
 the kitchen, but, though he was no coward, he could not 
 close his eyes and the dead so near. It is a strange 
 mystery the awe and dread with which mortal clay can 
 fill the living ; the bravest of us quail at the touch of 
 
 the unseen. So the minister had been glad to escape 
 
 200
 
 RETRIBUTION. 201 
 
 from the kitchen, and now, in his absorbing interest 
 in the papers before him, he had forgotten his natural 
 shrinking. 
 
 It was the last will and testament of Peter Bethune, 
 farmer in Auchtermairnie, and its contents were brief 
 enough, yet wholly satisfactory to Sandy Bethune. For 
 it made him sole and absolute heir to everything that had 
 pertained to his dead uncle ; and when he opened the 
 bank-book lying in one of the pigeon-holes, he started in 
 surprise at the substantial balance lying to his account 
 in the Commercial Bank at Leven. 
 
 It came within a few shillings of three thousand 
 pounds ; and, when the stock and crop and implements 
 were sold, would make a very snug little fortune. And 
 it was all his, left to him absolutely and entirely in the 
 document before him, which none dared dispute. The 
 minister of Lochbroom was not a mercenary man, that 
 is, he had not Peter Bethune's love of gold for its own 
 sake, but he was keenly alive to the influence and import- 
 ance it could confer upon its possessor. As he sat 
 there in the dim stillness of the early morning, new 
 hopes and loveliest dreams sprang in his heart, dreams 
 and hopes which had but one centre Beatrice Lorraine. 
 With what confidence could he ask her from her father 
 now when he had something more than his meagre 
 stipend to offer! His heait bounded, his pulses leaped 
 at the thought. But there was Jamie, and his uncle's 
 step-daughter down-stairs, the old man's dying charge. 
 Was it not as sacred and binding as any written words ? 
 He rose, pushed back his hair from his brow, and, walking 
 over to the unshuttered window, looked out upon the 
 dawning day. Strange thoughts chased each other 
 through his brain, his heart beat almost to suffocation, 
 his brow reddened, his hand upon the window-sill
 
 202 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 trembled as if with ague. Temptation had him in its 
 fiercest thrall. With a deep, heavy sigh, which was 
 almost a groan, he turned about at length, and, stealing 
 softly downstairs, went out of doors. It was a calm, 
 quiet morning, with a strange, grey stillness lying over 
 all, as if the earth were weary after the' beating of the 
 storm. One long yellow line away to eastward gave 
 promise of the wintry sunrise, the only break in the grey 
 expanse of sky. He stood only a moment on the 
 threshold, and then turned away through the corn-yard, 
 where the busy poultry were already enjoying their 
 morning meal. The ground was wet and sodden, and 
 covered with the last autumn leaves which the night 
 wind had whirled from the chestnut trees. They rustled 
 under his feet as he walked, but he paid no heed ; his 
 own thoughts were all-absorbing. He clasped his hands 
 behind his back, and walked slowly, with his eyes bent 
 on the ground, following unconsciously the pathway 
 which led up to the higher fields. The light broadened 
 as he went, and the misty shadows began to rise from 
 the uplands as the new day stole upon the earth. He 
 stood still at length at a little stile, and, folding his arms 
 on its mossy rail, looked about him curiously, almost as 
 a stranger might have looked at what was unfamiliar. 
 Yet he knew every rood and pole, every stone and land- 
 mark for miles around ; no scenery in the world would 
 ever be more familiar than what was spread before him 
 at that moment. It had a dreary and desolate look in 
 the chill morning light, the barren stubble fields ; the 
 potato fields, with only heaps of sodden shaws and the 
 long, newly-filled pits to tell of what had been ; the bare 
 pasture-lands, bleached and sodden with the rains ; the 
 swollen burns and leafless trees, all seemed to say sadly 
 and pitifully that the reign of winter had begun. Yet
 
 RETRIBUTION. 203 
 
 there were some comforting things too in that wide 
 prospect ; each homestead had its well-filled stackyard, 
 and on the earlier lands the lea had its long regular 
 furrows already upturned for winter wheat. He turned 
 his face towards the Star, with its background of purple- 
 brown moss, framed by the graceful peaks of the Lomonds. 
 He could see the thatched roof of his father's house ; 
 how long it "seemed since he had been wont to call it 
 home ! He could see the Knowe too, and could even 
 discern some figures moving about the out-buildings, the 
 ploughmen, probably, beginning the labour of another day. 
 As is often the case in moments of strong feeling, he was 
 keenly observant of every minute detail, even when his 
 mind was fully occupied by something else. Alexander 
 Bethune had a battle to fight that winter's day ; a grand 
 opportunity offered itself for him to obtain a signal 
 victory over himself. But he did not face it yet. He 
 preferred rather to hover about the temptation, to try 
 and parry a little with an evil thought, picturing to 
 himself all it would involve and all it would give, 
 although assuring himself all the while that he would 
 never do the wrong with which he was tempted. Still 
 thinking, still picturing all the advantages which might 
 be his if he allowed his uncle's will to stand, he began 
 slowly to retrace his steps to the house. The inmates 
 were now astir, Aunt Susan busying herself with the 
 breakfast, and inclined to grumble because she had 
 allowed the day to get so far ahead of her. 
 
 ' Come awa' an' get yer bite, Sandy,' she said when 
 she heard him come in. ' I saw ye awa' up the 
 Whummle Brae. It's near eicht a'ready ; I declare 
 there's nae day the noo. Wull ye can bide or the 
 funeral's ower ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I'll go to Edinburgh to-morrow, and see 
 
 -V' 
 
 V
 
 204 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 about supply. I think I'll walk down to Leven this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Are ye gaun to get a'thing frae Leven ? Yer uncle 
 said the nicer wad jist tak' him in, an' a'thing could be 
 dune as cheap's possible. Puir cratur, he bothered hissel' 
 aboot siller to the hinder-end.' 
 
 ' That's nonsense, Aunt Susan. He must have a 
 proper funeral,' said the minister testily. "' I'll need to 
 telegraph to Jamie too.' 
 
 ' Eh, I houp he'll can get, for I'm fain to see him,' 
 said Aunt Susan with a tremor in her voice. ' It'll 
 need ye baith onyway, for there'll be a heap adae. 
 There'll hae to be a roup in Auchtermairnie at last.' 
 
 ' I suppose so. It is a pity Jamie had not been at 
 home to step into Uncle Peter's shoes. It would have 
 suited him very well, if only he could have brought him- 
 self to think it.' 
 
 Aunt Susan shook her head. 
 
 ' The laddie kent his ain ken best. The way fermin' 
 is noo, he's better whaur he is. But this'll be a windfa' 
 for you, Sandy. Yer uncle telt me yestreen that ye get 
 a'. But ye'll mind Jamie, an' that puir cratur ben the 
 hoose onyway.' 
 
 ' Of course, of course ! ' said the minister hastily, and 
 bent his head low over his cup, for the hot blood rushed 
 to his face and dyed it red. 
 
 ' I threepit wi' him to be just wi' his gear, but ye 
 micht as weel threep wi' a stane dyke,' said Aunt Susan, 
 not noticing her nephew's slight confusion. ' Aweel, 
 a'thing comes tae an end. An' hoo are ye comin' on at 
 Loch broom ? When are ye gaun to bring yer braw wife 
 to the manse ? Jamie telt me aboot her last time he 
 was ower.' 
 
 ' Jamie is too ready with his tongue, Aunt Susan,' said
 
 RETRIBUTION. 205 
 
 the minister shortly. ' It was time enough for him to 
 speak so sure when I am sure myself. I have never 
 asked any woman to come to the manse yet.' 
 
 ' Aweel, ye needna be sae short. I wasna speerin' an 
 impident question, Sandy,' said the old woman candidly. 
 ' Are ye for awa' to Leven a'ready ? Laddie, ye're jist like 
 that kittle mare o' yer uncle's ye canna rest a meenit. 
 A body disna get muckle crack o' you.' 
 
 ' I had better go and get everything ready, for if I don't 
 get supply, I'll be obliged to go home and come back in 
 time for the funeral on Monday. I'll telegraph to 
 Jamie at once, and see if he can come.' So saying, 
 Sandy put on his coat, took his hat and umbrella, and 
 set out for Leveu. 
 
 The message was duly sent, but the answer came back 
 that it would be impossible for Jamie to come, as he was 
 just starting for Inverness to report the proceedings of 
 a Highland Convention which was to last for two or 
 three days. The minister failed in securing supply, and 
 was obliged to go home next day, so that Susan Bethune 
 was left alone at Auchtennairnie over the Sabbath. But 
 she kept Jeanie and the boy with her, and they were 
 nothing loth to stay. On Monday forenoon Sandy 
 returned, and followed his Uncle Peter's remains to the 
 grave. He was the only near relative, for none of the 
 old man's step-sons attended, though they were all within 
 easy distance. They had always been at war, and would 
 not put themselves about to pay any respect to him now. 
 These things of course occasioned plenty of talk both in 
 Windygates and the Star, and the Bethunes and their 
 affairs at that time got an extra redd -up. The roup 
 would be the next excitement, followed by the entrance 
 of a new tenant to Auchtermairnie. During the next 
 tew weeks the minister of Lochbroom had a busy time of
 
 206 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 it, running between Auchtermairnie and his own parish. 
 Everybody agreed that he had been very generous to 
 Jeanie Thomson ; for he had not only given her every- 
 thing that had been her mother's, but made her a present 
 of ten pounds and all the gear left in the house after 
 Aunt Susan had taken away such things as were valuable 
 in her eyes because of their old associations. 
 
 While all this was going on, Jamie was working hard at 
 Glasgow, and never giving a thought to his Uncle Peter's 
 money or gear. He was kept busy late and early, for 
 the season had begun in Glasgow, and he had so many 
 meetings to attend that he sometimes hardly knew how 
 to manage them all. There would be no holiday for 
 him, he wrote his aunt, until winter was past. He had 
 very little leisure for his own special work, yet time was 
 far from being lost to him. His employers, speedily 
 recognising in him a mind above the average, and being 
 willing to help him as far as lay in their power, in 
 return for his conscientious and unremitting attention to 
 their business, made a point of sending him to all the 
 best meetings, where he could hear men of culture and 
 experience lecture or speak ; and so a new and valuable 
 field was opened up to him. Apart from his duties as a 
 reporter, he was asked sometimes to contribute articles on 
 social or literary topics for the weekly issue of the 
 Journal, for which he was handsomely paid. Altogether 
 it looked as if he had reached that tide in his affairs 
 which, if taken at the flood, would lead him on to 
 fortune. Martinmas saw great changes at Auchter- 
 mairnie. The roup was a great success, and brought in 
 a clear thousand to the lucky minister of Lochbroom. 
 There had been keen competition among the bidders, and 
 the new tenant, a Kirkcaldy grocer, with plenty of 
 means but little skill in farming, was made to pay very
 
 RETRIBUTION. 207 
 
 sweetly for what stock and implements he purchased. 
 When it was all over, and everything turned into hard 
 cash, Sandy wrote to his brother, telling him about his 
 uncle's will, and offering to help him with some money, 
 which he might regard as a loan if he liked. But Jamie 
 wrote back at once, congratulating him upon his good 
 fortune, and thanking him for his offer, which, however, 
 he declined. His salary was sufficient for his needs, and 
 he was saving money fast. In the last sentence he 
 threw out a hint about Beatrice Lorraine, and expressed 
 the hope that he would hear something definite con- 
 cerning her at no distant date. It did not cost James 
 Bethune any sting t^> write in such a strain, for, though 
 he had been deeply interested in the woman Sandy had 
 so long loved, it had been a strange, distant kind of 
 interest, which one might feel in some object dazzling 
 and desirable, perhaps, but far out of reach. He looked 
 back upon that evening spent at the manse of St. Giles 
 as a bright spot in his existence which he would never 
 forget. The face of Beatrice Lorraine was engraven on 
 his heart; he could recall every changing expression, every 
 flash of light in the magnificent eyes, every sweet 
 intonation of her voice ; but he believed that when she 
 became his brother's wife he should be able to regard 
 her as a sister, whom it was a privilege and an honour 
 to love with a brother's love. And so his memory of 
 her was no disturbing element, but rather a sweet, 
 ennobling thought, urging him on towards everything 
 good. 
 
 Jamie's letter set the minister of Lochbroom a-think- 
 ing that December evening when it came. He had 
 been so much from home of late that he had seen 
 very little of the Lorraines. Why should he wait any 
 longer ? He had no hope of ever being sure of her answer
 
 208 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 to the question which would make him a happy or a 
 miserable man. No woman had ever so puzzled him 
 before ; her very indifference to him rendered her doubly 
 desirable in his eyes. He was not altogether without 
 hope; the flattery and attention to which he had long 
 been accustomed from other women made him inclined 
 to believe that this one would not refuse. 
 
 As he sat there in the stillness, heart and mind filled 
 with thoughts of her, there came to him a great yearning 
 to look upon her face, to hear from her lips the words 
 which would make for him weal or woe. There was no 
 reason why he should not see her within that very hour, 
 so he rose, and, following his own impulse, left the house, 
 and turned along the now familiar Cleugh road. 
 
 It was a bright, clear, frosty night, with a brilliant 
 moon at its full. There were white caps on the Lanark 
 hills, and the north wind was biting enough to hint at a 
 promise of more snow. There were no leaves in the 
 Nethercleugh woods now, and on the burn path it was 
 almost as clear as day. But the minister of Lochbroom 
 could have walked that way blindfolded, he knew every 
 step by heart. He walked quickly, for the air was 
 bitterly cold, and his whole appearance was that of a 
 man who had an end in view. In little more than half 
 an hour he stood on the stone steps of the house, ringing 
 for admittance. 
 
 'Mr. Lorraine is not at home, sir, but Miss Lorraine 
 is,' said the servant who answered his summons. 
 
 ' I will see Miss Lorraine, if you please,' he replied 
 abruptly, and the girl looked at him in slight surprise, 
 missing the accustomed pleasant word which made him 
 so popular with his parishioners. 
 
 'Very well, sir,' she said, and shut the door, while he 
 took off his hat and coat. Then she opened the library
 
 RETRIBUTION. 209 
 
 door and announced him by name. As he entered he 
 heard the rustle of a silken robe, and in the dim fire- 
 light saw Beatrice Lorraine rise from her low chair on 
 the hearth. 
 
 ' How do you do, Mr. Bethune ? I am all alone and in 
 darkness, you see,' she said, and he fancied her voice a 
 little unsteady. ' Please let us have candles at once, 
 Kitty,' she added to the servant. ' Papa is not at home, 
 Mr. Bethune/ 
 
 ' But he will return to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes. Uncle John and Aunt Dora are at Locker- 
 bie Manse, and papa has gone to dine with them. I 
 was disappointed that I could not accompany him, but 
 I have had a cold for some days, and papa would not 
 allow me to go out,' she answered, and as the maid 
 lighted the candles in the silver sconces on the mantel, 
 she averted her face a little, half shading it with her 
 hand. The gesture caused the lace at her sleeves to fall 
 back to the elbow, revealing the exquisite contour of the 
 round white arm, the most beautiful arm the minister 
 of Lochbroom had ever seen. The maid stirred up the 
 fire and left the room, then a constrained silence fell 
 upon its occupants. 
 
 ' When did you hear from your brother ? He is well, 
 I hope ? ' said Beatrice at length, but still her eyes were 
 averted, as if she could not meet his gaze. 
 
 ' I do not hear from him very often, but I believe he 
 is well ; and I know he is very busy. He was always 
 a plodder.' 
 
 ' He will succeed, I am sure. When will he pay a 
 visit to Lochbroom ? ' 
 
 ' I can't tell. He seems to have no time for anything 
 but work. Life is hardly worth living at the price he 
 pays for it.' 
 
 IS
 
 210 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' I would not say that. Work is a noble and ennobling 
 thing. I sometimes wish I had not such an idle life. 
 It is not easy to know just what is one's duty,' she said 
 musingly, and her hand fell from her cheek, and then he 
 saw traces of tears in the magnificent eyes ; they moved 
 him to the very depths. 
 
 ' It is a quiet life you lead here, Miss Lorraine. Not 
 many like you would be so content.' 
 
 ' It is easy to be content beside those we love, is it 
 not ? ' she asked with a swift, bright smile. ' It is only 
 at times I fret when I see what good others do while I 
 live at ease here. Perhaps my opportunity will come 
 some day ; at present my duty is to my father, and 
 nothing must interfere with it.' 
 
 ' Would you never leave him ? ' 
 
 ' Not while he needs me,' she answered, and her colour 
 rose, for there was deep significance in his tone. 
 
 There was a moment's intense silence, then the 
 minister rose to his feet. His face paled, his eyes shone, 
 his lips trembled a little when he spoke. 
 
 ' Then there would be no hope for any who might seek 
 your love ? ' he said almost hoarsely. ' Beatrice, I stand 
 before you to-night an unworthy suppliant, with nothing 
 but my love to recommend me. That is earnest and true, 
 it will make or mar my life. What have you to say ? ' 
 
 She raised her hand almost in pleading, the red dyed 
 her cheek, and then left it very pale, her voice fell almost 
 to a whisper. 
 
 ' Oh, hush ! Do not say that ; I cannot listen. I 
 believe what you say, but it can never be.' 
 
 'Because of your duty to your father?' he asked, 
 taking a step nearer to where she stood, in her great 
 beauty, the woman for whose sake he had laid a sin upon 
 his conscience, perhaps in vain.
 
 RETRIBUTION. 211 
 
 ' I could not leave him, but it is not that. I ' 
 
 ' In other circumstances,' he interrupted, with the pain- 
 ful, eager intensity of a man speaking of a vital matter. 
 ' If I wait if I prove to you by years of devotion the 
 sincerity and depth of my love would there still be no 
 hope ? ' 
 
 He was making her suffer keenly; to a sensitive, deep- 
 feeling nature it is always a terrible thing to inflict pain 
 upon another. 
 
 ' It would be wrong unkind to mislead you,' she said 
 hurriedly. ' It could never be. I could never be worthy 
 of the love you offer. I am deeply grateful, but I can 
 never be your wife.' 
 
 ' N ever '{' he repeated, and there was a ring of despair 
 in his voice. ' Miss Lorraine, I have been and am a weak, 
 faulty, erring man. You would help me to a better life. 
 Without you I dare not think of what the future will be. 
 You have become a part of myself ; I cannot give you 
 up.' 
 
 ' Oh, hush ! To-morrow you will regret these wild 
 words. I cannot think that life does not hold many 
 dearer interests,' she said, and laid her white hand on 
 the mantel as if seeking some support. ' May I ask you 
 to go now ? I cannot bear any more.' 
 
 ' Is your decision final and unalterable, Miss Lorraine?' 
 he asked in a low voice, though his eyes still gleamed 
 with passionate feeling. 
 
 'Yes, yes; final and unalterable,' she answered 
 brokenly. ' I am very sorry. Life is full of hard things, 
 and we have all sorrow to endure. Forgive me if I have 
 caused you pain; I would not do so willingly.' 
 
 He spoke no word in reply, but, turning upon his heel, 
 quitted the room and the house. That was a dark hour 
 indeed for the minister of Lochbroom ; the light of hope
 
 212 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 was quenched for ever in his aching heart. He had loved 
 and lost ; was there not a grim justice in his pain ? At 
 the Knowe, Mary Campbell endured her own heart-sick- 
 ness, hiding it from the prying world, and feeling that 
 for her all interest in life had fled. What saith the 
 Scripture ? ' With what measure ye mete, it shall be 
 measured to you again.'
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 
 
 ' Oh, memories ! oh, past that is ! * 
 
 GKO. ELIOT. 
 
 Do 
 
 Y daughter, are you not in bed yet? 
 you know it is nearly midnight ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa ; but I wanted to wait for 
 you. Had you a pleasant evening ? ' 
 
 'Very, but we missed you.' 
 Mr. Lorraine wheeled in his favourite chair 
 to the fire, and stretched out his hands to the 
 cheerful blaze with a sigh of content. 
 
 ' There is no place like home, Beatrice, and home is 
 the best place for me now. I sometimes feel that I am 
 a shadow on the cheerfulness of others. Not that I 
 grudge them their enjoyment, only I cannot share it.' 
 
 'You only imagine it, dear papa. You are not so 
 gloomy as you think,' said Beatrice affectionately. ' I am 
 so glad you had a pleasant evening. How are Uncle 
 John and Aunt Dora ? ' 
 
 ' Very well indeed. They intended going home to- 
 
 213
 
 214 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 morrow, but will come up here and spend the day instead. 
 They were so disappointed at not seeing you. You 
 are very dear to them, Beatrice, and I do not wonder 
 at it. My darling, every day I live I wonder more 
 and more at my own blindness and at your beautiful 
 unselfishness.' 
 
 ' Hush, papa ! I have only done my duty, nothing 
 more, and love has always made it sweet,' said Beatrice, 
 rising from her chair and sitting on a low stool at her 
 father's knee. 
 
 He laid his thin white hand on her head with & 
 touch full of love, a touch which thrilled her through 
 and through. There was an element of remorse in his 
 love which gave it a strange intensity ; every caressing 
 touch and tender glance seemed laden -with a prayer for 
 forgiveness. The foundation upon which he had first 
 built all his paternal hopes and love had failed him, and 
 in his desolation he had turned to the daughter whose 
 existence had till then scarcely cost him a moment's 
 thought. In a careless fashion he had seen that she was 
 provided with all she required ; he had sent her to the 
 best schools at home and abroad, but he had made no 
 effort to win her confidence, or to still the hunger of her 
 motherless heart. And so she had grown up still, 
 reserved, self-contained, an enigma to those who knew 
 her best. 
 
 But when the blow fell on her father's heart, when 
 the son he had idolized and indulged paid him back in 
 the bitter coin of ingratitude and shame, she revealed 
 herself, and, stepping into the gap, laid a tender hand on 
 the gaping wound, softening and healing it with a match- 
 less tenderness and unselfishness, and making her love 
 a shelter and solace upon which he learned to lean with 
 an intensity which surprised himself.
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 215 
 
 ' But what kind of an evening had you, my dear ? 
 Did you not find it very dull ? You are paler than 
 when I went away. If you have not improved to-morrow 
 we must have the doctor up.' 
 
 ' Oh no, I am all right,' she said quickly, and averted 
 her face a moment from the keen, tender eyes bent so 
 searchingly upon it ' Mr. Bethune was here to-night, 
 papa.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it ; he would help to pass an 
 hour pleasantly. And what has become of him lately ? 
 we seem to have seen so little of him/ 
 
 'Papa, may I tell you something?' Beatrice asked, 
 with an exquisite gesture of trust and hesitation. 
 
 Her father gave a great start : there was something in 
 the rising colour, in the lowered voice and hesitating 
 manner, which sent a sudden fear to his heart. Was his 
 ' one ewe lamb ' about to be taken, when he had but 
 newly learned its priceless value ? 
 
 ' What is it, my dear ? Do not keep me in 
 suspense.' 
 
 ' I do not know whether I ought to tell you, papa, but 
 it weighs so heavily on my heart that I must,' she said in 
 a low voice. ' He asked me to be his wife, and I was 
 afraid lest I had unconsciously encouraged him to expect 
 a different answer.' 
 
 ' Then you have refused him, my darling ? ' and suddenly 
 she felt her father's arms round her, and he drew her 
 very close to his heart. 
 
 For a moment there was nothing said, but that 
 embrace was full of sweetness to the heart of Beatrice 
 Lorraine, for it said more strongly than words how 
 dear and necessary she had become to her father's 
 happiness. 
 
 ' But, Beatrice, it was not on my account ? ' he added
 
 216 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 suddenly. ' You are not sacrificing your own happiness 
 out of your love for me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, papa ! I could never marry him. I like him 
 very well as an acquaintance, but I could never marry 
 him/ 
 
 ' I am glad of it.' 
 
 ' Why, papa ? ' 
 
 * Because he is not worthy of you. He is an eloquent 
 preacher and a clever young man, but there is a some- 
 thing about him which makes me doubt him. May I 
 be forgiven my harsh judgment, but I do not think him 
 either manly or sincere.' 
 
 ' I have had something of the same doubt, papa, 
 though I have always tried to banish it. It seems to 
 me almost as if he had two personalities, only one of 
 which is revealed to the world. And he is too conscious 
 of himself, as if self were the. centre of his ideas and the 
 mainspring of his actions.' 
 
 ' You have a keen and observant eye, my darling. Our 
 minister is a thoroughly selfish man. I have watched 
 him keenly, especially since I feared lest he should rob 
 me of yourself. His brother, now, whom we met in 
 Edinburgh, is a very different sort. Do you remember 
 him?' 
 
 Beatrice smiled, and made no answer. 
 
 Did she remember him ? How often had the earnest 
 face of James Bethune risen up before her ! How often 
 had she recalled his grave, heartfelt words, the words of 
 a man to whom life was serious and true, and whose 
 idea of its mystery and meaning was wholly noble ! Ay, 
 she remembered him, perhaps too well. 
 
 ' There is another thing, Beatrice, which makes me 
 glad that you have not accepted him/ said her father 
 presently. ' I am told he was engaged for a number of
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 217 
 
 years almost since boyhood, I believe to a young girl 
 in his native place. They say that since he succeeded 
 in life he has become ashamed of her. Is that manly, 
 Beatrice ? ' 
 
 ' No ; if it is true, it is cowardly and shameful,' said 
 Beatrice with flashing eye. ' Oh, papa, I sometimes 
 think that the less we know about our neighbours the 
 better. There is so much which hurts and jars upon us, 
 and of course it must be the same with those who know 
 us. We do not always do our duty, even though we 
 know it. If I had cared for Mr. Bethune, that would 
 have been a very bitter thing to know.' 
 
 There was a moment's silence, broken at length by a 
 sudden gust of wind and the rattle of hailstones on the 
 panes. 
 
 ' The storm is rising, surely, papa. It was a lovely 
 evening when I looked out just before you came in ! ' 
 exclaimed Beatrice. 
 
 ' I saw the north clouds spreading over the sky as we 
 drove over the hill,' answered Mr. Lorraine. ' We must 
 look for storms now, I suppose ; winter is fairly upon 
 us.' 
 
 ' Papa ! ' The girl's voice fell almost to a whisper, 
 and her fingers closed over his with a pleading touch. 
 : When I hear the wind and the rain raging outside, I 
 cannot sleep. I seem to see Willie always a miserable 
 outcast, with no shelter to go to. I see him so often in 
 my thoughts and dreams,' she added with a bursting sob, 
 4 that I think it must be true. Has he not been 
 punished enough, papa ? Let us go away back to 
 London and seek him out. I am sure he would be good 
 now, and he may have suffered, we do not know how 
 keenly. I feel as if I should die sometimes living here 
 in idle affluence, when he may be perishing for lack of 
 
 19
 
 218 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 the necessaries of life. Listen, papa,' she continued 
 when he would have interrupted her : ' you know how 
 difficult it is even for the deserving to get work in 
 London ; what chance is there for those who have no 
 character or recommendation ? Papa, we may be doing a 
 great sin in thus leaving him, perhaps to sink into deeper 
 crime.' 
 
 The beautiful face, pale in its passionate pleading, 
 the yearning eyes fixed on his face, the pleading touch, 
 might have moved him to compassion ; but his 
 heart was steeled against the boy who had disgraced 
 him, and he would not listen. The tenderness died 
 out of his face, and it became set in the old stern 
 mould, which, as a child, Beatrice Lorraine had been 
 wont to dread. 
 
 ' No, no ; he deserves it all. Whatever he may suffer, 
 he deserves it all He will never suffer as I have done ; 
 it is not in him ; he is a heartless, selfish boy,' he said, 
 rising to his feet, as if to escape from these speaking eyes 
 and that pleading tongue. ' Beatrice, how often have 1 
 forbidden this subject ? Why will you intrude it in the 
 few moments of peace and happiness I enjoy ? ' 
 
 ' It was because I thought your heart was softened 
 that I spoke, papa,' said Beatrice with a sob. ' I cannot 
 promise to be silent. Something makes me speak. I 
 believe some day I shall go away myself and seek him 
 out. I do not think it right to let him sink. Christ 
 came to seek and to save the lost.' 
 
 Darker still grew the dark brow of William Lorraine, 
 his lips twitched, his hands nervously .clenched ; his 
 whole appearance was that of a man labouring under the 
 strongest emotion. He seemed about to speak, but 
 restrained himself, and without a word walked slowly out 
 of the room.
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 210 
 
 ' Christ came to seek and to save the lost.' These 
 words rang their haunting changes in his ears through 
 the long hours of a sleepless night. Beatrice heard him 
 walking to and fro his room, and, guessing something oi 
 the conflict raging in his heart, prayed that he might be 
 softened. 
 
 She was early down-stairs next morning, anxious to 
 know whether these prayers were to have the answer for 
 which she longed. But the moment she saw her father's 
 face her hope fell ; it was calm, stern, immovable, and, 
 though he spoke to her kindly and affectionately as usual, 
 she felt distant from him, as if some barrier had sprung 
 up between them. A little longer yet she must taste tli3 
 heart-sickness of hope deferred. 
 
 As the winter wore on, a feeling of dissatisfaction with 
 the minister began to get abroad in the church of Loch- 
 broom. His sermons were neither so well prepared nor 
 so eloquently delivered, and he ' fell away' in his visita- 
 tion and other outdoor work. A lukewarrnness crept into 
 the pews, and the pulpit was blamed for it. The people 
 began to restrain themselves in giving, and Lochbroom no 
 longer enjoyed the reputation it had gained during the 
 earlier days of Mr. Bethune's ministry, of being one of 
 the most liberal and prosperous parishes in the south of 
 Scotland. The older men in the church shook their 
 heads, and said that they had feared the result of 
 being carried away by flowery eloquence and outward 
 show, and that they were not surprised. The minister 
 not only grew careless in the performance of his duties, 
 but he made no secret of his desire for a change ; and 
 was a great deal away from home, preaching on trial in 
 vacant kirks. The good people of Lochbroom were 
 puzzled to account for all this, but it never occurred even 
 to the busybodies to connect the change in their minister
 
 220 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 with a woman, least of all with .Miss Lorraine. The 
 household at Nethercleugh lived in such seclusion and 
 retirement, and mingled themselves so little with county 
 folk or county affairs, that there was very little to be said 
 about them. Then the minister wisely made no change 
 in his demeanour towards them, neither did he cease 
 visiting at Nethercleugh, as many in the circumstances 
 would have done. 
 
 James Bethune was still working hard in Glasgow, 
 and had never been able to spare a holiday to visit 
 Lochbroom. Letters passed occasionally between the 
 brothers, and, as Sandy never said anything about 
 Beatrice Lorraine, Jamie concluded that things were just 
 as they had been a year ago, and he had an occasional 
 smile over his brother's dilatoriness in this particular 
 matter. It was so unlike his usual rapid, impulsive way 
 of rushing at things, and getting them settled one way 
 or other without delay. Very steadily, and with rapid 
 strides considering all things, James Bethune cleared his 
 way before him, and gradually approached the realiza- 
 tion of his life-dream. From writing occasional bits for 
 the weekly issue of the Glasgow Journal, he was promoted 
 to the writing of leading articles for the daily issue, for 
 which his clear, concise literary style was peculiarly 
 suited ; and it did the Journal good, for his views of the 
 burning questions of the day were wise, moderate, and 
 liberal, and insensibly his articles improved the tone of 
 the paper. Consequently he had very little reporting 
 work to do ; for his employers said that he would prove 
 a distinct acquisition to them, and that if they could 
 retain him it would pay them to give him every en- 
 couragement. He still devoted part of his scanty leisure 
 to self improvement and purely literary work, but what 
 he wrote did not find its way into print, but was locked
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 221 
 
 in his desk for future reference or use. There was no 
 need for him to write just because his wares could find 
 a market ; he hoped the time would come when he would 
 be able to give to the world a piece of literary work 
 which would be worthy to be read, and to which all 
 these little bits would contribute. He studied life under 
 the many aspects the great city offered, he invaded its 
 lowest parts, and took mental portraits of its denizens 
 and surioundings, which were a great revelation and a 
 vast sorrow to him too. How little he had dreamed of 
 such depths of destitution and crime and misery in the 
 old quiet days at the Star, where there might be decent 
 poverty, but nothing so debasing and terrible as he found 
 in the east end of Glasgow ! The state of the masses 
 became a problem to him which occupied every free 
 moment of his waking hours, and became the haunting 
 spectre of his dreams. 
 
 It weighed upon his heart, he took things still so 
 terribly in earnest, but it seemed to be a hopeless, in- 
 solvable problem, for when could one man hope to make 
 any difference or improvement among so many thousands? 
 His effort, however strenuous and well-directed, would be 
 in very truth only a drop in the ocean. He lived a very 
 isolated -life in Glasgow, for, though he visited occasion- 
 ally at his employer's abode, and also at the residence of 
 his minister, he had found no second manse of St. Giles. 
 The memories circling round that dear home were fresh 
 and beautiful and sweet, shut in that corner of his heart 
 to which he came when weary or oppressed with heart- 
 ache and loneliness. For such moments came, ay, very 
 often, to the strong man wrestling in the forefront ol 
 life's battle; he had still many a bitter yearning after the 
 hidden sweetness involved in the words love and home. 
 The old Star home yet remained unchanged for him so
 
 222 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 far as Aunt Susan was concerned, but she was growing very 
 old and very frail, though she would not admit it. But 
 he had seen the change when he went over at the New 
 Year holidays, and that, too. vexed and troubled him, for 
 it was a sad sight to see an aged person alone, with none 
 to bestow that care and kindly attention which age so 
 peculiarly requires. 
 
 It was the early summer before he could pay a second 
 visit to the Star, and then it was only to convey the 
 news of a great change about to take place in his life. 
 Aunt Susan was slowly and laboriously hoeing her potato 
 patch one June evening, thinking of him as usual, and 
 troubling herself because his weekly letter had not come 
 that morning, when Jamie himself came down the Lang 
 Raw, and swung open the garden gate. She could not see 
 him, of course, being in the park at the back of the house, 
 but he had caught sight of her the moment he readied 
 the top of the Cunan Hill on his way from Markinch. 
 His keen, far-reaching eye would have recognised her 
 tall figure and her red and yellow sun - bonnet at a 
 greater distance. He stood a moment just inside the 
 garden gate, looking at the little flower-plots, which were 
 quite overgrown with yellow hollyhocks and pink and white 
 phloxes and garden poppies. It was a curious medley of 
 form and colour, but as the beds of thyme and clumps of 
 peppermint and balsam sent up their strong perfume, his 
 heart rilled somehow ; these very odours were redolent 
 of memories bitter and sweet. He turned about, and, 
 lifting the sneck, went into the kitchen. It was a low- 
 roofed, close 1 place that summer evening, filled with the 
 smell and the vapour of the peat-reek. How quaint and 
 strange it all looked, the primitive, whitewashed fireside 
 with the bars to keep in the peats ; the heavy, old- 
 fashioned chairs ; the high, narrow box beds ; the little
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 223 
 
 deal table ; the ' wag-at-the wa',' whose face was yellow 
 with age, its brilliant-hued roses dimmed with the peat- 
 reek of years. It was strange, and yet how familiar ! As 
 James Bethune sat down in his father's arm-chair, it 
 almost seemed as if the last two years of his life were a 
 dream, and he was only resting after a day at the 
 harrows or the reaper, he felt so much at home. He 
 was sitting thus, with his arms folded across his breast, his 
 face wearing a far-off, dreamy look, when Aunt Susan 
 suddenly appeared on the scene. 
 
 'Mercy upon us!' she exclaimed, half in terror, half in 
 surprise at sight of the stranger at her fireside. 
 
 ' How are you, Aunt Susan ? Not know me, eh ? It 
 was a shame to come upon you unawares,' said Jamie, 
 jumping up and gripping both her hands. Then, to his 
 great amazement, she burst into tears. He could not 
 but feel moved at that sight, for when had he seen Aunt 
 Susan weep ? Surely she must be frailer and weaker even 
 than he had dreamed. 
 
 ' Wheesht, auntie,' he said tenderly, and guided the 
 faltering steps to a chair, placing her in it very gently, 
 and then patting her shoulder as he might have done to 
 a child. 
 
 ' Eh, but I'm a silly cratur,' she said presently, looking 
 up at him with a smile. ' But my heart's been a kind o' 
 grit a' day, because yer letter didna come. Little did I 
 ken what e'enin' was to bring. An' hoo are ye, my 
 ain bairn ? Hae ye gotten yer tea ? ' 
 
 It was comical and yet pathetic to hear her call the 
 great broad-shouldered man her 'ain bairn,' but he would 
 always be that to her. 
 
 ' Yes, but I'll take another cup wi' you. auntie,' he 
 said cheerily. ' I can tell ye I was mad when I saw ye 
 frae the tap o' the Cunan Hill wi' a hoe in yer hand.
 
 224 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 What did ye promise me when I was here at New Year ? 
 I aye thocht ye a woman o' yer word.' 
 
 It came very naturally to him to speak in the old 
 Scotch way, and Aunt Susan listened as if it was the 
 sweetest music she had ever heard in her life. 
 
 ' Hoots, I wasna daein' muckle, only playin' mysel', an' 
 the tatties are gaun ower's a' thegither. Dauvit Cam'll 
 canna win at them or Monday. This heat's brocht 
 a'thing on at <aince. Ye needna fash yer heid, Jamie, 
 my man. I'll no' hurt mysel' wi' wark. When I sit 
 doon wi' niy haunds fauldit, laddie, I'll just fa' in like a 
 gysened tub. But what's brocht ye here sae sudden ? 
 Is't yer holidays, or what ? ' 
 
 ' No, auntie, there are not going to be many holidays 
 for me this year,' answered Jamie. ' I've come to tell 
 you about another shift I am going to make.' 
 
 ' Anither shift ! Tak' care, laddie ; ye ken the rowin' 
 stane gethers nae moss. Are ye for awa' frae Glesca 
 a'ready ? ' 
 
 ' It is to be a change for the better, auntie, and it has 
 come to me without my seeking. I have got the offer of 
 a situation in London, and I thought it my duty to accept 
 it; indeed, it was a very gratifying surprise. Many men 
 have worked harder and longer than I without ever 
 getting such a chance.' 
 
 .' Tae Lunnon ! ' repeated Aunt Susan slowly, and her 
 poor old eyes uplifted themselves to the face of her 
 laddie with a pathetic wistfulness which nearly broke 
 him down. ' Aweel, laddie, ye ken best. When I gied 
 ye up, I gied ye up, an' if it's for yer betterment, I 
 mauna complain. But Lunnon's a faur road, an' an ill 
 place for a young chield. Ye'll need a' yer grace to guide 
 ye there, Jamie.' 
 
 'Aunt Susan, do you know what I was wondering, as
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 225 
 
 I came up the road from Markinch ? I was wondering 
 whether you wouldn't come with ma I could get a 
 little house with a garden a little way out of London, 
 and we might be very comfortable together. Would you 
 not think it over ? ' 
 
 Aunt Susan lifted her hands in sheer horror at the 
 thought. 
 
 1 Me gang to Lunnon ! Laddie, ye are haverin' noo. 
 I've never sleepit a nicht ooten Fife i' my life ! Hoo 
 cud ye think I wad live in Lunnon ? Na, na ; ye maun 
 gang yer way yersel' or ye get a wife, an' canty wad I 
 be to see the day, if she was worthy o' ye. No' but 
 what I'm prood o' yer offer, my man; an' I'll never forget 
 that ye was wullint tae tak' yer auld Star auntie wi' ye ; 
 but I'll dee at hame. An' if ye mind me as weel in 
 Lunnon as ye've mindit me in Glesca, I'll hae nae reason 
 to complain.' 
 
 ' I am loth to leave you, auntie. It is hard that you 
 should . have nobody to take care of you now when you 
 need it most.' 
 
 ' Dinna you fash yer thoomb aboot me, Jamie. I'm 
 no' ill aff as lang's Dauvit an' Jean Cain'H's at the 
 Knowe,' said Aunt Susan cheerfully. ' An' Mary's a 
 perfeck godsend to me. She comes doon every ither 
 nicht or twa wi' her stockiu' or her seam. Thon's a 
 jewel, Jamie. Sandy stood in his ain licht when he 
 slichted her.' 
 
 ' How is Mary Campbell, Aunt Susan ? It seems a 
 long time since I saw her.' 
 
 ' She's weel eneuch in body, but the heart's geyan wac. 
 The cratur kens, I think, that I ken what she's come 
 through. 'Deed I telt her my ain auld story, laddie, an', 
 wad ye believe it ? my auld heart grows grit ower't yet. 
 Ay, Sandy Bethune may hae. a graund kirk an' a braw
 
 226 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 manse, an' a leddy wife, but the Lord '11 mind him aboot 
 Mary Cam'll maybe when he least expecks it. When 
 did ye see or hear frae Sandy, though ? ' 
 
 ' I hear from him whiles. He seems to be gettin' on 
 fine ; but there is no word of the wife. Does he ever 
 write to you ? ' 
 
 ' No' him. He sends me a Dumfries paper whiles, 
 if there's ony blawin' aboot himsel' or his kirk in't. But 
 come an' tell me mair aboot yer new seetuation. What 
 is't to dae ? ' 
 
 'A variety of things, Aunt Susan,' answered Jamie 
 with a smile. ' It's to the office of the St. Paul's Gazette 
 I'm going. One of the pioprietors is a brother-in-law of 
 Mr. Maclean, my present master. I think he must have 
 spoken to him about me. I am to report, if necessary, 
 and to write articles for the paper. In fact, I think 
 I'm to be a kind of sub-editur.' 
 
 ' An' what kind o' wage do they gie ye for a' that ? ' 
 
 ' Two hundred pounds, and extra pay for extra work. 
 It isn't a great salary, but the opening itself is worth a 
 small fortune to mo. London is the place for a literary 
 man.' 
 
 ' Ay, maybe. I dinna understand thae things. It's 
 just extraordinar' to hear ye, laddie, when no' twa year 
 syne ye were workin' at the land an' the loom. Ye hae 
 stuck in weel.' 
 
 ' No man can say I have not wrought hard, at any 
 rate. I've taken it out of myself this winter. Don't 
 you see how thin I am ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, ye are no' fat ; but ye're a gentlemanlike chap, 
 my man,' said Aunt Susan with great pride. ' Sandy '11 
 no' can haud a caun'le till ye noo. An' when are ye 
 gaun awa' to Lunnon ? ' 
 
 ' On Friday night. They are in desperation for a man
 
 SHADOWED LIVES. 227 
 
 to come at once. The one whose place I am to fill died 
 suddenly, and they had no one ready. So I'm going 
 south to Lochbroom to-morrow, and I'll get the London 
 train at Lockerbie on Saturday morning.' 
 
 ' Od, ye speak aboot fleein' to Limnon as if it was 
 naething ava'. I wush Star folk heard ye. Yell be 
 gaun to bide the morn's nicht wi' Sandy,' said Aunt 
 Susan, and just then the door was softly opened, and 
 who should come in but Mary Campbell, with her 
 stocking in her hand. She started at sight of the 
 stranger, but a bright smile overspread her sweet face 
 when she recognised him as Jamie Bethune. He sprang 
 up, and took her hand in his warm, kindly clasp ; but 
 somehow he could think of nothing to say, for there was 
 a change in her which made a strange, bitter feeling 
 against his brother rise in his breast. 
 
 ' Ye wasna expectin' Jamie, surely, auntie,' she said, 
 and the colour receded from her face and left it as pale 
 as the collar at her throat. ' No, I'll no' sit ; ye maun 
 hae a lot to say. "VVull ye can gie a look up-by this 
 time, Jamie ? ' 
 
 ' I'll try, Mary,' answered Jamie, and for the life of 
 him he could say no more. 
 
 His aunt had said Mary was well in body, but her 
 looks belied the words. She seemed smaller and more 
 fragile, as if she had crept down, and her face was thin 
 and worn ; its ruddy bloom and sweet round fulness had 
 both disappeared. The bright, bonnie eyes were deep 
 and sad-looking, the sorrow of a life was plainly written 
 in their depths. And this was Sandy's doing! How 
 could he prosper, how could any blessing ever rest on 
 himself or his work ? 
 
 ' He's only come to bid us a' guid-bye, Mary. He's 
 for Lunnon noo,' said Aunt Susan. ' Weel, if ye're for
 
 228 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 awa', I'll set him up by an' by to gie ye the news. 
 We're jist in the middle o' oor crack.' 
 
 Mary nodded and slipped away. She was glad to go, 
 for when she got to the door her eyes were wet with 
 tears, brought there by the look of deep sympathy in 
 James Bethune's eyes. She could hide her pain from 
 the world, but scarcely from those who loved her, and 
 there was more than one heart in the Star who hoped a 
 day of reckoning would come for the minister of Ix>ch- 
 broom.
 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 bWEET MOMENTS. 
 
 '0 Love, so hallowing every soil 
 
 Which gives thy sweet llower room, 
 "Wherever nursed by ease or toil 
 The human heart takes bloona.' 
 
 W HITHER. 
 
 GENTLEMAN to see you, sir. I have just 
 brought him in.' 
 
 So said the housekeeper at the manse of 
 Lochbroom, opening the study door on a 
 Friday afternoon, just as the minister had got 
 to the third head of his discourse. He rose 
 with a quick gesture of annoyance, and turned 
 inquiringly to the door. 
 
 ' Bless me, Jamie, is it you ? ' 
 
 'Yes, it's me. Have I interrupted your meditations? 
 because I can go out for a walk till you are ready to 
 speak to me,' said James Bethune with a smile. 
 
 ' Not likely. Come in. Man, I'm glad to see you ! ' 
 Not for many years had James Bethune heard Sandy 
 speak in such a tone. The look and the warm, fervent 
 
 223
 
 230 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 grip said more forcibly than his words that he was glad 
 to see him. Was Sandy being taught by slow degrees 
 that the ties of kinship are sweeter than any on earth, 
 and that no other love can so well stand the test of time 
 and of adversity ? 
 
 'Why didn't you send word, and I'd have had my 
 sermon written and been at the station meeting you ? ' 
 
 ' I couldn't, because I didn't know myself. I've 
 come from Fife to-day.' 
 
 ' From Star ? Then you are having your holi- 
 days ? ' 
 
 ' No, I'm on my way to London ; but if you'll give 
 me something to eat I'll speak better. I have had 
 nothing since Aunt Susan gave me a seven o'clock 
 breakfast.' 
 
 ' You're just in time ; my dinner will be served in 
 about ten minutes. Can you wait ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, of course; I'm not just famishing,' answered Jamie, 
 walking over to the window, and looking down the 
 village street, and then across the fertile landscape to 
 the blue ridges of the Lanark hills. ' You have a lovely 
 spot here.' 
 
 'Do you think so? I'm sick of the place myself. 
 But come, tell me about yourself. I'm consumed with 
 curiosity.' 
 
 ' Which, I suppose, I must satisfy,' said Jamie with a 
 smile, and, sitting down in the window, he briefly 
 recounted to his brother the circumstances of the change 
 he was about to make. 
 
 ' Man, you're a lucky fellow. You are going to beat 
 me altogether, a clear case of the hare and the 
 tortoise,' said the minister with a half sigh. ' I suppose 
 you won't be content till you get to the top of the 
 tree now.'
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 231 
 
 ' I'll certainly climb as high as I can. I'm going to 
 write a book after I get to London, Sandy. It will 
 either be the making or the marring of me.' 
 
 ' It'll be the making, no doubt. I know now it is in 
 you. I say, Jamie, I sometimes wonder why you didn't 
 kick me in the old days. What a conceited ass I 
 was !' 
 
 ' I knew you would gather sense,' laughed Jamie, out 
 of the gladness of his heart. ' But how are you getting 
 on yourself ? I fancy you look rather out of sorts.' 
 
 ' So I am. I'm about tired of the thing, Jamie/ 
 
 'What thing?' 
 
 ' This,' he said with a comprehensive wave of his 
 hand. ' I'm losing influence in the place ; the church is 
 falling off; and, in short, it's time I had a change. I 
 wish I was anything but a minister.' 
 
 James Beth line sat silent a moment, and a grave, 
 troubled look came into his face. 
 
 ' I don't like to hear you say that, Sandy. It is a 
 noble profession, the noblest, I think, if it is undertaken 
 with a right heart. You ' 
 
 ' That's where it is ! I haven't the right heart, you see,' 
 interrupted Sandy almost passionately. ' Men, if you 
 knew how I hate and despise myself, standing up there 
 Sunday after Sunday making a hypocrite of myself, for 
 it is nothing else ! telling people what their duty is, 
 trying to fit them for the kingdom of heaven, when 
 I'm further off from it than the worst sinner among 
 them.' 
 
 James Bethune sat round in his chair and lookrd 
 with deep anxiety into his brother's face. It wore an 
 expression of settled gloom, his eye gleamed with a 
 strange bitterness, his whole appearance was that of a 
 man at war with himself and the world.
 
 232 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 1 Let me say my say. It'll do me good. I've to keep 
 so quiet here, and go about so smoothly and circum- 
 spectly to keep up my dignity, you know, and otherwise 
 deceive the world,' he said, as if in very scorn of 
 himself. 'Don't look at me with such pitying eyes. 
 I don't deserve your pity, for I have wronged even you, 
 who have always been ten thousand times better to rne 
 than I deserve. Haven't I laughed at and despised you 
 and tried to keep you down all my life ? But I've done 
 more than that. Uncle Peter charged me on his death- 
 bed to share his money with you ; and did I do it ? 
 No ; I let them prove the written will and took it all, 
 and yet you never grumbled, but only rejoiced in my 
 good luck. Did you know that that was the surest and 
 the keenest way to punish me ? Man, the memory of 
 all your goodness has been like a fierce scorpion stinging 
 me night and day. You ' 
 
 James Bethune rose from his chair ; he laid his firm, 
 gentle hand on his brother's shoulder, and looked him 
 full in the face. 
 
 ' Sandy, if you don't hold your tongue I'll go away out 
 of the house this very minute, and you'll never see me 
 again. You have worked yourself into such a state of 
 excitement that I'm afraid to see you. What are you 
 talking about ? Aren't you making mountains out 
 of molehills ? What do I care for Uncle Peter's money ? 
 Don't let's have another word. Isn't that the dinner- 
 bell ? Am I to get anything to eat, or am I not ? ' 
 
 His bantering words provoked a trembling smile on 
 Sandy's lips, but it passed, and unwonted tears stood 
 in his eyes. Then their hands met in a grip which 
 hurt, and they looked into each other's eyes with 
 a long look which revealed to each the other's 
 heart.
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 233 
 
 * We're chums again, aren't we ? ' said Jamie cheerily 
 and his broad hand fell with a hearty clap on his 
 brother's back. ' We'll have a quiet crack ower auld 
 lang syne over our pipes to-night ; did you know I had 
 learned to smoke ? There's that woman ringing the bell 
 again ! ' 
 
 ' Well, I suppose we had better go, as you are so 
 hungry, but I'd rather finish the crack just now,' said 
 the minister, as he opened the study door and led the 
 way to the dining-room. 
 
 ' I think you are a little dyspeptic, Sandy,' said James 
 Bethune jokingly, as he noticed how very little his 
 brother ate. ' I believe you need a change of some sort. 
 Couldn't you get some one to fill your place for a 
 Sunday or two, and come away up to London with me ? 
 I'll be lonely enough anyway till I get shaken down into 
 my new place.' 
 
 ' I couldn't get away just now. You see I've been 
 absent from my own pulpit a good few Sabbaths lately, 
 preaching on trial in vacant churches. They'll begin to 
 grumble, indeed, they are grumbling already. Adam 
 Gray, my beadle, gives me many a hint, honest man, 
 thinking that a quiet word from him may induce me to 
 mend my ways, and look better after the parish.' 
 
 ' Well, the first holiday I get we must have a run 
 on the Continent together,' said Jamie cheerily. * You 
 mustn't get down-hearted. Don't I know all about what 
 it is to feel one's self falling behind ? Man, when I look 
 back on yon dreary six months in Edinburgh, I wonder 
 now I ever held out. We have all these bits of worry 
 to try us, just to show what grit is in us, I think. By 
 the bye, is there no word of a wife to the manse yet ? ' 
 asked Jamie carelessly, but he kept his eyes fixed on his 
 plate, and did not look at his brother's face. I think he 
 20
 
 234 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 knew very well what the answer would be, for it had 
 just Hashed upon him all at once, that Beatrice Lorraine 
 might have something to do with Sanely's distaste of 
 Lochbroom and weariness of life in general. 
 
 ' There will never be a wife in the manse of Loch- 
 broom so long as I am in it,' said Sandy quietly. After 
 a moment Jamie raised his head and looked at his 
 brother. 
 
 ' Then she said no ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, she said no.' 
 
 Sandy pushed aside his unfinished dessert, and, rising 
 from the table, began to walk up and down the room. 
 
 ' What fools women can make of us, can't they ? ' 
 he asked with extreme bitterness. ' I despise myself 
 for being so affected by a woman's word, but I can't 
 help it. I don't expect you to understand or sympathize 
 with me. You are lucky in this, as in other things. 
 I tell you, whenever a woman comes in between you and 
 your work, you'll stand still for a while/ 
 
 ' But you are not going to stand still altogether 
 because one woman in the world won't have you,' said 
 Jamie. ' You'll soon get over it. You never used to 
 let anything bother you for a long time.' 
 
 'It is easy for you to speak,' said Sandy quietly. 
 ' You needn't wonder now that I would like a change. 
 You can understand what it must be for me to see her 
 so often as I do. Fortunately not a soul in the parish 
 has a suspicion that such a thing has ever happened. 
 Of course she is not a woman to boast of her conquests, 
 as I am told some do.' 
 
 ' No, I should say not,' answered Jamie, for somehow 
 his thoughts had flown back to that evening at the 
 manse of St. Giles, and its undying memories rose up 
 ividly before him.
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 235 
 
 ' Do you know, I often wish I had never been educated 
 for the Church,' said Sandy presently. ' I would have 
 been a better and a happier man living in the Star all 
 my days with Mary Campbell as my wife. Mind, I don't 
 grumble at what has happened to me through Beatrice 
 Lorraine. It is a just punishment for my treatment of 
 Mary. Poor girl ! I often think of her. What a sweet, 
 humble, forgiving nature she had! I don't believe she 
 could entertain a hard thought, even of me.' 
 
 ' You are right. We have not known many women 
 in our lives, Sandy, but they have been all good. We 
 ought to reverence womanhood for their sakes,' said 
 Jamie musingly. 'Do you know I am full of hope 
 for you. I think you are just beginning to get a 
 glimpse of life's meanings. You will do a good work 
 yet in the world.' 
 
 Sandy shook his head. 
 
 ' I don't see how you can make that out. You know 
 what my life has been. I have built from the beginning 
 on a false foundation. How can I ever undo all I have 
 done ? ' 
 
 ' Don't you remember Tennyson's lines : 
 
 " That men may rise on stepping-stones 
 Of their dead selves to higher things"? 
 
 They are true, I think, of us all. Life is just a series 
 of fallings and risings, but if we do the best we can, we 
 will be very mercifully judged.' 
 
 ' I believe God sent you to me to-day, Jamie,' said 
 the minister, pausing by his brother's chair and touching 
 his shoulder with a grateful, lingering hand. ' You have 
 done me great good already. I don't deserve that you 
 should even take the trouble to be interested in my 
 welfare.'
 
 236 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Wheesht, man ! Aren't you my brother ? It's just 
 like the old Star days come back. Do you remember 
 how we used to fight each other's battles when we were 
 at the school ? ' 
 
 James Bethune spoke cheerily, with a smile on his 
 lips, but he was very deeply moved. His heart yearned 
 over his brother, and he forgot everything but that he 
 was his brother, his only near kin upon the face of the 
 earth. It is a beautiful and a touching thing in our 
 natures, that love can thus smooth away all barriers, 
 and lay a healing finger even on the sorest places, and 
 take the sting even out of very bitter memory. An 
 unselfish heart so soon forgets what has selfishly wounded 
 it, and is ever ready to give love for love. But in 
 this it has its own deep fulness of joy which none else 
 can share. 
 
 ' Suppose we go out and have a look about us now,' 
 .ae said presently. ' We have had enough dolorous talk. 
 We'll look ahead now and picture for ourselves a bright 
 future. There's no harm in castle-building, and it helps 
 us over the stony places in our daily toil. Pulling a 
 long face over a trouble never mended it in this world, 
 and never will.' 
 
 His sunshine was irresistible, and a glimmer of the 
 old smile dawned on the minister's face. So they went 
 away out arm-in-arm together, just like playmates, 
 talking over their early days, Jamie making a point of 
 calling to his brother's recollection every wild escapade 
 and comical episode of the old Star life. 
 
 ' Where does Nethercleugh lie ? ' he asked when they 
 had climbed the inner stair of the church steeple to get 
 a view of the surrounding country. 
 
 ' That's it down among the trees. You can just see 
 the gables above chestnut tops. It is a beautiful place.'
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. . 237 
 
 ' It seems to be. I'd like to go up there to-night, 
 Sandy. If you don't like to come, I wouldn't be very 
 long away.' 
 
 ' Oh, but I will come. I'm not such a coward as all 
 that. I have never made any difference, and have visited 
 them just as regularly. It's the only way to keep the 
 village tongue from wagging. Shall we go now then ? 
 They dine at five when they are alone, and we'll be in 
 time to get a cup of tea from Miss Lorraine.' 
 
 ' Yes, I'm quite ready. I suppose they live very 
 quietly.' 
 
 ' Very. They mix with none of the society of the 
 countryside. That son who went wrong has cast a 
 shadow over their whole lives.' 
 
 ' Minnie Kinross told me something about her cousin 
 Willie, as she called him, and Miss Lorraine herself 
 spoke of their sorrow,' said James Bethune as they 
 turned to go. ' How did he go wrong ? Was it drink ?' 
 
 ' I don't think so. I rather think he appropriated 
 some money which wasn't his own. But I really cannot 
 speak with any certainty, for nobody seems to know 
 the right way of it. The father is a terribly proud man, 
 and he has never got over it. That's what made him 
 retire from business at the prime of life. It happened 
 in London.' 
 
 ' They have everything that the world can give, I 
 suppose, but the skeleton is in the cupboard. Every one 
 has something of the sort. I have never met with any 
 exception to the rule.' 
 
 ' " Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward," ' 
 quoted the minister. ' That is my text for the Sabbath 
 day.' 
 
 ' A dolorous one ; but you can make it carry a 
 glorious message of hope if you like,' answered Jamie.
 
 238 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' How do we go now ? Through the woods ? I am glad 
 of that ; the roads are very dusty to-day.' 
 
 ' Yes, we need a shower ; see, the very leaves are 
 drooping. What a stillness is in the air ! I believe we 
 shall have thunder before morning.' 
 
 They talked much as they walked, chiefly of old days 
 and early associations, which were now very precious 
 to them both. Strange how what we thought homely 
 and uninteresting when it was beside us becomes so 
 dear and beautiful when seen through the veil of distance ! 
 Memory carries sometimes a magic wand. 
 
 Sandy could scarcely understand his brother's deep 
 love and appreciation of Aunt Susan ; he had never been 
 able to penetrate beneath the surface, and reach the 
 wealth of love and unselfish care in her heart. He had 
 only known the rugged exterior, which had not greatly 
 recommended itself to him ; he had, indeed, thought her 
 coarse and rude, and altogether presumptuous in her 
 dealing with him. Aunt Susan had indeed two person- 
 alities, one of which had never been revealed to Sandy. 
 She had closed her heart against him soon after he left 
 his father's house, and had never seen fit to open it 
 again. There was nobody in the world had taken a 
 more shrewd and correct estimate of him than his aunt, 
 and her opinion of him was not very high. Perhaps 
 she was a trifle harsh in her judgment, the fault of her 
 strong, decided nature, which did not admit of a medium 
 in many things. Well or ill was her course ; there was 
 no middle state. But their pleasant talk, which, how- 
 ever, was not without its sting for the minister, brought 
 them at last to Nethercleugh, and then James Bethune 
 relapsed into silence. This was her home ! How often 
 he had tried to picture it, yet how different the reality ! 
 It was in the prime of its beauty now, with the summer
 
 MOMENTS. 239 
 
 leaves upon the fine old trees and the summer freshness 
 over the smooth green turf. 
 
 ' It is a grand house, Sandy. I had no idea it would 
 be so grand.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is a fine place. There is Mr. Lorraine- at the 
 drawing-room window. I think he sees us.' 
 
 James Bethune was conscious that his heart beat a 
 little faster as they mounted the steps to the door, and 
 he forgot to look at Sandy, who doubtless must feel 
 keei^y when he entered here. 
 
 The maid who admitted them smiled in response to 
 the minister's kindly greeting, and at once ushered them 
 to the drawing-room. The scent of mignonette and roses 
 greeted them on the threshold ; the room was a cool, 
 shady, fragrant place a pleasant retreat from the sultri- 
 ness without. 
 
 ' So you have really come at last ! ' said the deep, rich 
 voice of the master of Nethercleugh, and he greeted 
 James Bethune with a heartiness there was no mistaking. 
 He was really glad to see him. 
 
 ' I have not lost time. Mr. Lorraine ; I only arrived 
 an hour or two ago/ said James Bethune with his rare 
 smile ; then he turned to Beatrice, who had risen from 
 her chair. She was speaking to his brother, and, during 
 the brief second ere she turned to him, his eyes took in 
 her whole appearance with a yearning, almost hungering 
 look, such as we bestow on what is unspeakably dear. 
 She was not in any way changed, save that her white 
 dress seemed to make her look younger and more girlish. 
 How beautiful she was ! the thoughtful face, wiih its 
 sweet, womanly mouth, and deep, lustrous eyes, matching 
 the sweet violets at her throat and in the belt about her 
 waist. She stood in the slanting sunlight, which had 
 crept round to the front windows ; a broad line of light
 
 240 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 lay upon her golden head, making yet more wondrous 
 the sheen of the coronet of hair above her brow. 
 
 ' How are you, Mr. Bethune ? I bid you welcome to 
 Nethercleugh,' she said at length, turning to him. Her 
 eyes met his, and a faint colour stole unawares to her 
 cheek. Surely his earnest look had stirred her heart. 
 He took the slim white hand one moment in his own, 
 and felt it thrill him through and through. He thanked 
 her for the word of welcome, and then sat down beside 
 Mr. Lorraine, full of wonder at himself. What did this 
 mean ? Why should his pulses beat, the blood rush 
 more quickly in his veins ? Why should he feel so 
 yearningly happy in the presence of this woman? Could 
 it be that the love of which he had heard and read had 
 come to him at last, bringing to him only its heritage of 
 pain, for in such love there could be no hope for him ? 
 He felt like a man in a dream. To outward seeming he 
 was calm and self-possessed, looking at his ease as a 
 gentleman should ; he even spoke and answered intel- 
 ligently, but he felt like a man in a dream. He saw 
 the graceful figure at the tea-table, the white, beautiful 
 hands touching the delicate china ; he caught every 
 varying expression in that exquisite face, every sweet 
 intonation of her voice. He took his cup of tea from 
 her hands, and thanked her with earnest eyes dwelling 
 on her face as if craving a look in return, but she did 
 not give it. One watching closely would have observed 
 a fluttering nervousness in her movements, as if some 
 r.gitating element had crept into her thoughts. Could 
 it be that in her heart there was any answering 
 chord ? 
 
 She did not speak at all, only listened with deepest 
 interest, while James Bethune acquainted her father with 
 the change in his prospects. Mr. Lorraine seemed much
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 241 
 
 pleased to hear of it; his eyes dwelt with keen and 
 cordial interest on the young man's fine face, and he 
 nodded occasionally while he was speaking, as if to 
 indicate his satisfaction. 
 
 ' You'll succeed, I know. We will be expecting to 
 hear great things of you by and by,' he said heartily. 
 ' London is, beyond a doubt, the place for you. You 
 will find there all you need. It will be a great revelation 
 to you. Well, Beatrice, my dear, if the gentlemen have 
 had sufficient tea, we might go out of doors a little. 
 The air of this room, in spite of the open windows, is 
 very stifling.' 
 
 ' I am ready, papa,' said Beatrice at once. ' If you 
 will just go down-stairs, I will join you in a minute.' 
 
 The minister opened the door for her, and as she 
 passed out Jamie looked at him curiously, recollecting 
 for the first time what had passed between him and 
 Beatrice Lorraine. He could not but admire his perfect 
 self-control, his gentlemanly ease and calmness of deport- 
 ment. Whatever he may have felt, he hid it well None 
 could have detected that he regarded the daughter of the 
 house in anything but an indifferent light. The way in 
 which he had accepted his refusal had gained for him 
 the respect of both father and daughter, and he was 
 made more wel.ooe than before at Nethercleugh. 
 
 * You can wait for my daughter, Mr. James,' said Mr. 
 Lorraine when the trio stepped out into the sultry air. 
 ' Come, Mr. Bethune, you are the very man I wanted to 
 see. What do you think of the new water scheme for 
 Lochbroom ? ' 
 
 So saying, he took the minister by the arm and led 
 him away in the direction of the shrubbery. They were 
 quite out of sight before Beatrice appeared. She had 
 thrown a lace wrap about her head and shoulders, which 
 
 21
 
 242 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 made a delicate and becoming frame for her fair face. 
 ' Are you all alone ? ' she asked with a swift, bright 
 smile. ' I am sorry if I have kept you waiting. "Where 
 have the others gone ? ' 
 
 ' Along that path. Shall we follow ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose so. It is a lovely walk, a continuation of 
 the path from Lochbroom. Of course you do not 
 know it ? ' 
 
 'No, I do not know it,' answered James Bethune, 
 turning to walk by her side. 
 
 'So you are going to make your home in London 
 now,' she said, for the silence was strangely embar- 
 rassing to her. ' Are you looking forward to it with 
 great hope ? * 
 
 ' Yes ; I ought to be pleased, for it is what I have 
 wished for long. Few are so fortunate as I have 
 been.' 
 
 ' One so much in earnest deserves such reward, I 
 think/ she said with an upward glance, half smiling, half 
 serious. " 
 
 ' You speak kindly. I do not know that I can lay 
 claim to being so much in earnest. I know many who 
 work as hard, and who need it more perhaps, yet who do 
 not seem to make any headway in life.' 
 
 ' That is sad. There are so many such things in the 
 world. I am weighed down sometimes thinking what 
 struggles some have, what battles to fight, what burdens 
 to carry. I fear many must succumb.' 
 
 ' They do. When I was in Glasgow, Miss Lorraine, I 
 was often oppressed by such thoughts. It is not known 
 how many noble hearts have to do grim battle with 
 poverty, with adverse surroundings, nay, sometimes with 
 absolute want It must sadden the very angels in 
 heaven to see the sights in a great city.'
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 243 
 
 ' In London you will see more, I believe, if you care 
 to seek it,' she said, looking up at him with something 
 of wistful ness in her eyes. He caught that look ; it 
 touched his heart, but he did not quite understand 
 it yet 
 
 'Papa and your brother are not in sight,' she said 
 suddenly. ' Possibly they m.iy have crossed the park 
 into the other woods. How shall we go ? ' 
 
 ' Are you anxious to join them ? If not, let us go on. 
 I have not many such opportunities.' 
 
 The words slipped out unawares, and he saw her 
 colour heighten, and the fear oppressed him that he had 
 given offence. 
 
 ' Pardon me, I ought not to have said that,' he said at 
 once. 
 
 ' What ? There is no offence to pardon,' she answered 
 with a smile. ' This is the gate. This path terminates 
 in a wishing- well. Shall we go and see it ? ' 
 
 ' If you please.' 
 
 He opened the gate for her to pass through; and in a 
 moment was at her side again. 
 
 ' You spoke of me making my home in London,' 
 he said presently. ' Do you think it will be a 
 home ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot tell ; I hope so. Surely some kind influ- 
 ences will gather round you even there,' she said a trifle 
 hurriedly. ' Wherever our work and interests are, is it 
 not home to us ? ' 
 
 ' Not always. There are other things necessary ; you 
 know that as well as I.' 
 
 ' Mr. Bethune, may I speak to you about something 
 which lies very near my heart ? ' she said quite suddenly, 
 and in a low, clear, earnest voice. 
 
 He turned his head and looked into her face. It was
 
 244 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 now quite pale, and her lips were trembling, her breast 
 heaving with emotion. 
 
 ' If you will do so I shall feel unspeakably honoured,' 
 he said with difficulty, for these were dangerous moments 
 for him. He felt as if he were playing with edged 
 tools. ' Needless for me to say that any confidence 
 with which you may honour me will be sacred in my 
 eyes.' 
 
 ' Oh, I know ! Do you think if I did not know I 
 could speak so to you ? ' she asked hurriedly. ' It is 
 about my brother I wish to speak. Possibly you may 
 have heard that I have a brother in London, who has 
 been in trouble, who has been, and is, a sorrow to 
 us?' 
 
 ' Your cousin told me ; and you spoke of this sorrow 
 before. Perhaps you will remember,' he said in tones 
 full of deep sympathy. 
 
 'Yes, I remember. Possibly you do not know the 
 circumstances. Let me tell you them briefly. My 
 father was a merchant in London before we came here, 
 and Willie and I were all he had. He was always 
 a strange, wayward boy, full of whims and fancies 
 and day-dreams; and though papa intended him for a 
 merchant, I, looking on, feared he would never fall 
 in with these plans. He never cared to work ; the 
 drudgery of school was irksome to him. Give him 
 a book, or a piece of paper and a pencil in a corner, 
 and he was happy ; only do not ask him to work. 
 Papa idolized him, indulged him in everything, and yet 
 if he crossed him in any of his wishes he would hardly 
 forgive him. As he grew older there were often differ- 
 ences between them. One was that Willie wished to be 
 sent to college instead of to the commercial school where 
 he would receive training for business. Papa gained the
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 245 
 
 day, of course, because he left Willie no clioice but to 
 obey. He had set his heart upon seeing him a member 
 of the firm. Lorraine and Co. was a well-known house 
 in London, well known and highly honoured. It belonged 
 first to my grandfather, whose idol it was. Then papa 
 got the business, and it was his delight to extend it and 
 make it greater ; naturally it was a disappointment to 
 him when his only son did not share his pride and 
 interest in it. Things went on in an unsatisfactory kind 
 of way until the time came for Willie to leave school, 
 then it was open rebellion. He refused to enter the 
 office to sit on a stool and add up figures ; he wanted to 
 be an artist or a literary man, or something of that sort. 
 Poor boy ! he hardly knew his own mind except in one 
 particular subject that he would not become a business 
 man. Papa passed over his entreaties and rebellings with 
 contempt, and to punish him apprenticed him to another 
 firm in Fenchurch Street. I tell you all this, Mr. Bethune, 
 so that you may the better understand what followed,' 
 said Beatrice, and paused for a moment as if to collect 
 her self-possession to go on. ' Willie had none of papa's 
 decision of character. He was weak, easily led, and 
 could not say no. He was handsome, lovable, winning 
 in his way. I have never seen any who won such 
 universal love. Poor Willie ! ' 
 
 A bursting sob choked her utterance a moment, and 
 James Bethune bit his lip and half turned away. The 
 sight of her grief unmanned him, and he feared lest he 
 should say what would be better left unsaid. 
 
 ' Bound to an occupation he hated, he sought solace 
 in the company of those who could not do him good bub 
 only harm. He was so entertaining, he had always a 
 jest and a song ready, and he was much sought after by 
 those who led him astray. I do not want to blame my
 
 246 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 father, for my heart is often wrung for him, but I some- 
 times think that he erred just at that time. Instead of 
 trying to wean him away by love from the evil ways into 
 which he was gradually falling, he sternly reproached 
 him, and threatened to shut him out of the house. 
 Perhaps you will not understand papa's harshness so 
 well as I, who knew what a downfall Willie had given 
 his hopes, and what a disappointment to his love. For 
 indeed Willie was always the idol of his heart. He 
 rever had money of his own, papa gave him none, and 
 the trifle he received from his employers was as nothing 
 to him, and so he was tempted, I suppose, very fiercely 
 before he fell. He had learned to gamble, and it 
 became such a passion with him that he threw off all 
 restraint and plunged into it headlong. Of course his 
 employers suffered, but for papa's sake they made no 
 complaint, passing over unpunctuaiity, carelessness, and 
 idleness, until something happened which it was impossible 
 that they could pass over. It was in the last year of his 
 apprenticeship, and he was not quite twenty when this 
 dreadful thing happened. I cannot quite explain to you 
 what he did, but it was something about a cheque 
 belonging to his employers, and I know that he could 
 have been punished heavily for it, even sentenced to 
 penal servitude, so papa said. But for his sake, because 
 he was so honoured in the business world, the firm 
 hushed it up, and Willie was allowed to go unpunished. 
 But it broke papa's heart, and made him an old man 
 before his time. Willie was forbidden the house. Papa 
 disinherited and disowned him, and we have never seen 
 him since. That is nearly five years ago now, but the 
 agony is as fresh in my heart as it was then. Papa has 
 never relented. I have pled with him very often ; it is 
 so awful a thing to allow one's own to drift perhaps to
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 247 
 
 destruction without stretching out a hand to save. There 
 was good in Willie, Mr. Bethune. He had a warm, 
 loving heart, a sweet, kind disposition, and he was clever, 
 too, in his own way, very clever, if only he had had a 
 chance. How I loved him I cannot tell you. Only I 
 know that I would lay down my life now to save him, 
 and to bring about a reconciliation, for I know that this 
 sorrow will bring papa to the grave. I see it eating into 
 his heart every day, only he will not give in.' 
 
 They had reached the wishing-well now a clear, cool 
 spring flowing into a uiossy stone basin in a dim recess, 
 where the sunbeams never shone. The dusky shadows 
 of the deepening night were falling about them, the light 
 was dim and uncertain, and the air was strangely still. 
 She paused there, and, leaning against the trunk of a tall 
 fir tree, lifted her shadowed eyes to the earnest, true face 
 looking down with such deep compassion and sympathy 
 upon her. 
 
 ' Now I have something to ask ; I do not know why 
 I should so presume, unless because you feel some things 
 as I feel them,' she said with a tremulous, uncertain 
 smile. 'If in London you should ever see or hear of 
 Willie, Mr. Bethune, will you do what you can for him ? 
 will you speak a kind word, and thus earn the gratitude 
 and prayers of a sister's heart ? ' 
 
 For a moment James Bethune had no answer ready, 
 he was silent in the intensity of the thoughts which lay 
 upon him like a deep flood. 
 
 ' If I ask too much from one who is almost a stranger, 
 forgive me, and forget what I have told you,' she said at 
 length, with something of sad, proud dignity in her voice. 
 'Let us go back now. We have been nearly an hour 
 upon the way. They will wonder what has become 
 of us.'
 
 248 TEE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'I did not speak, because I could not find words 
 wherein to express my unutterable sympathy, to thank 
 you for the great honour you have done me/ he said at 
 length. ' I will look upon your request as a sacred 
 charge. If your brother is in London still, Miss Lorraine, 
 I will find him, and, please God, all will come right 
 yet.' 
 
 ' I would thank you, only I cannot,' she said simply, 
 and held out her hand. It did not seem presumptuous 
 that he should touch it with his lips ; it was the seal of a 
 bond between them, a bond so sweet to the heart of 
 James Bethune that he could scarcely realize its exist- 
 ence. She had trusted him implicitly, that was sufficient 
 for him yet. 
 
 ' "We must go now, but not until we have drunk of the 
 wishing- well. You are allowed two wishes, one before 
 you drink and one after,' she said, smiling again, and 
 lifting the chain with the cup attached. ' Let me give 
 you the draught.' 
 
 ' After you, Miss Lorraine, if you please.' 
 
 ' Oh no 1 I have wished times without number 
 always the same thing. Come,' she said, offering the 
 cup. 
 
 ' Then I wish from the bottom of the heart that your 
 brother may be speedily restored, and that brightest days 
 may dawn for Nethercleugh,' he said, putting the cup to 
 his lips. 
 
 ' And your second wish, if I may share it too ? ' she 
 said merrily, for something in the strong, manly presence, 
 and in the resolute yet gentle face, gave her strength and 
 assurance, and it was as if some burden had rolled away 
 from her heart. 
 
 ' Let me fasten your wrap see, it has fallen, and the 
 night air is heavy and chill,' he said, and with kind
 
 SWEET MOMENTS. 249 
 
 hand drew the lace over her head. As he did so his 
 hand touched hers again, and it thrilled his inmost 
 beJng. 
 
 Thank you. But your wish ? ' she said with a gleam 
 of amusement in her speaking eye. 
 
 ' That I may not tell you/ he answered then, and the 
 quick colour leaped to his cheek, for his tone betrayed 
 more than the words were intended to convey. She 
 gathered the white folds of her gown in her hand, and 
 turned away so quickly that he might have feared he 
 had the second time given offence.- Only he saw the 
 answering flush wliich rose to her brow and dyed 
 it red.
 
 CHAPTER XVITL 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 'Heir of the self-same heritage, 
 Child of the self-same God, 
 He has but stumbled in the path 
 Thou hast in weakness trod.' 
 
 k AMES BETHUNE found plenty of work await- 
 ing him in London. The post of sub-editor to 
 the St. Paul's Gazette was no sinecure. But 
 it was congenial wor* and he did not find 
 it oppressive. The St. Pauls Gazette was a 
 different class of newspaper from the- Glasgow 
 Journal. It was published in the afternoon, 
 and, while purveying politics] and general news for its 
 readers, aimed at something higher. It was the pro- 
 prietor's ideal to combine the attributes of an evening 
 paper and a literary and social review, and to produce 
 a first-class family journal, full of interesting and whole- 
 some matter. It was an old-established publication 
 which had seen many vicissitudes, but which had 
 received a new impetus from its present proprietor, who 
 was also its editor. He was an able journalist, and the 
 
 250
 
 THE WANDERER. 251 
 
 Gazette was rapidly pushing its way into notice. It was 
 a splendid opening for James Bethune, just the field for 
 the exercise of his gifts, where they could be prepared and 
 perfected for even a higher sphere. Mr. Maynard was 
 a reserved and taciturn man, very different from the frank, 
 open-hearted, genial proprietor of the Glasgow Journal, 
 and at first James Bethune felt the change keenly. He 
 was received courteously but without warmth ; his work 
 was apportioned to him, and he was left to perform it. 
 But there was no interchange of thought, no confidences, 
 no kind links of sympathy between the two. Mr. May- 
 nard did not even inquire whether he had found suitable 
 lodging, or had any place wherein to spend a leisure hour. 
 The relations between them were business-like and purely 
 formal. When Stephen Maynard found a capable servant 
 he was a just master, but no more. James Bethune had 
 been full of hope that perhaps in Mr. Maynard he might 
 find one who would give him substantial aid in his search 
 for Willie Lorraine. He was a London man, and his 
 experience must have familiarized him with almost every 
 form of London life ; in all probability he could have 
 named the very spot where such wanderers were to be 
 found, but it was impossible to reach him. As the days 
 went by, James Bethnne saw clearly what manner of 
 relations were to exist between them, and relinquished 
 the idea of bestowing his confidence and asking his 
 advice. If Willie Lorraine was to be found, it must be 
 through his own exertions, and it would be no easy task. 
 Tor the first month or two he attended only to his 
 allotted duties, his own work was neglected. It was not 
 only that his leisure hours were chiefly spent in wander- 
 ing through the labyrinths of London, vainly seeking for 
 the lost son of the house of Lorraine ; there was something 
 else occupying his thoughts. Often Sandy's words re-
 
 252 THE GATES OF EDEK 
 
 curred to his memory : ' When a woman comes between 
 you and your work, you'll stand still for a while.' So it 
 was with him. And yet I do not know that it was 
 standing still ; certainly thought was not stagnant. Nay, 
 he was advancing step by step in the higher life, and love, 
 with matchless though invisible finger, was adding the 
 finest touches to his nature. A pure love is a great 
 educator and an ennobling influence. We cannot love 
 even a worthy pursuit without being the better for it. 
 By and by, out of the sweet new influences at work 
 within, thoughts grew wide and deep and absorbing, 
 demanding at length a voice. 
 
 What he wrote in these days had a grace and beauty 
 far exceeding what he had done in the past. The touch 
 of pain, which is the crown of the poet's soul, was not 
 now lacking, for the yearnings in his heart for life's best 
 gifts were full of keenest pain. He knew now beyond a 
 doubt that he loved Beatrice Lorraine with that deep, 
 reverential, yet hopeless love of which Dante sang. He 
 never thought of her as his wife, nor as any neare.7 than 
 she was now. Between them there was a gulf fixed, 
 that gulf of social position which the longer he lived he 
 saw more clearly defined between class and class. He 
 was one of earth's toilers, dependent upon daily labour 
 for daily bread ; while she was a child of ease and afflu- 
 ence, who had never known a moment's anxiety concern- 
 ing such things. 
 
 He was too proud even to think that love could bridge 
 that gulf, no thought of asking her to share his life of 
 labour and humble endeavour ever presented itself to his 
 mind. He might love her at a distance, he could carry 
 her image with him in his heart, he could ponder her 
 gracious words, and feel them incentives to go forward 
 and upward in life's race, but she must never know.
 
 THE WANDERER. .- 253 
 
 Sometimes his cheek burned at the memory of that hour 
 by the wishing-well, and he told himself it must not and 
 could not be repeated. Better that they should never 
 meet ; he knew he could not always remain master of 
 himself. It must be enough for him to know that she 
 trusted him, and regarded him as worthy a friendly 
 regard. From her own lips he had heard the story of 
 her heart-sorrow ; she had given him a sacred charge, 
 which he would strive sacredly to fulfil. That was much 
 and with that he must be content. Should he succeed 
 in restoring the prodigal to his father's house, he would 
 earn, he knew, a gratitude which would be a sweet solace 
 to him in his loneliness. Their kindly thoughts of him 
 would brighten existence for him, and he looked cheer- 
 fully forward to the life of work and struggle and self- 
 denial which he knew lies before all who set themselves 
 to do their God-appointed work. In the scheme of 
 creation there is no place for the idle dreamer or the 
 slothful dweller at ease ; work is the law of the universe, 
 whether we recognise it or not. According as we have 
 fulfilled God's purpose in us here, so will be our rest. 
 Sometimes our eyes are holden, so that we cannot see 
 God's best gifts lying close about our feet, even while we 
 are seeking for some great thing far beyond our reach ; 
 but a truly earnest soul, asking and waiting to be guided, 
 will not long be at a loss. 
 
 It was a somewhat hopeless task for James Bethune 
 to attempt discovering Willie Lorraine in the mazes of 
 London. Soon after his settlement there came to him, 
 in a letter from Sandy, the photograph of a young, fair- 
 haired, laughing-faced boy, which the minister wrote had 
 been given to him by Miss Lorraine to forward to his 
 brother. Sandy was evidently deeply mystified by this 
 proceeding, but he did not ask any direct question. Jamie
 
 254 -.. THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 merely acknowledged it, not feeling at liberty to reveal 
 the secret, even to his brother. There was a hopeful 
 and manly tone in Sandy's letters now, which was like 
 a refreshing cordial to Jamie, for he could read between 
 the lines, and saw well enough that he was coming out 
 of the waters of Marah not only unscathed, but made 
 nobler and manlier and better in every way. The little 
 items of parish news were cheering, and there were no 
 further hints of a desire for change. It was a healthy 
 sign that Sandy was anxious to redeem himself in his 
 own parish, which had suffered through his backsliding. 
 The photograph, though evidently taken in schoolboy days, 
 would be of use to James Bethune, for though there 
 might be a great change upon the wanderer, the features 
 must be the same. 
 
 So he carried it in his pocket-book, and when he was 
 in the streets was constantly on the alert, scanning every 
 passing face in the hope that some day he might have his 
 reward. It was a harassing quest, causing him deep 
 anxiety of mind, and it gradually took possession of him, 
 and became something like a haunting spectre with him 
 both day and night. But it seemed likely to prove hope- 
 less, for winter advanced, and he had not obtained the 
 remotest clue. 
 
 Part of the sub-editor's work was to open and look 
 over all the manuscripts sent in, from which he had to 
 select the likeliest, which were then submitted for Mr. 
 Maynard's final decision. At first James Bethune found 
 it an interesting occupation, but it speedily became 
 irksome and even painful. Two-thirds of them were 
 quite unfit for publication, scarcely worth the paper on 
 which they were written. But these meagre productions 
 were often accompanied by pitiful appeals, which con- 
 tained many a revelation, many a hint of poverty which
 
 THE WANDERER. 255 
 
 was almost tragic, against which James Bethune found 
 it hard to steel himself. His great heart had room for 
 all the woes of these unknown scribblers, whom he pitied 
 with a vast compassion. Stephen Maynard was of a 
 different stamp. He looked at everything from a purely 
 business point of- view. Would it pay ? was the standard 
 by which he judged. He laughed at his subordinate's 
 feeling in such matters, and told him never to read the 
 accompanying letters, but toss them into the waste 
 basket, which was the best place for such rubbish. He 
 was sitting in his dingy little sanctum, from which he 
 could see the dome of St. Paul's, busy with his daily 
 sifting of the manuscripts the morning mail had brought. 
 The gas was lighted, and the fire burning also, for the 
 day was bitterly cold, and a raw heavy fog had the city 
 in its chilling folds. lie sighed once or twice as he 
 marked each with the inexorable D. W. T. ; it was a 
 dreary task to which he would never grow accustomed. 
 He felt somewhat out of sorts that morning, also the 
 depressing influences of the day and the hour were 
 weighing upon him. He had got about half through 
 with his task when the door opened and Mr. Maynard 
 entered. He was a tall, spare man, with a pale, stern 
 cast of face and a penetrating eye ; a man who had 
 been long accustomed to present a hard front t> the 
 world. 
 
 ' Good morning, Mr. Bethune,' he said in his studiously 
 courteous but distant way. ' Disagreeable day, isn't it ? 
 Did you read this thing through yesterday ? ' 
 
 He referred to a few sheets of closely-written manu- 
 script he carried in his hand. 
 
 ' What is it, sir ? ; 
 
 ' An article on the housing of the poor/ 
 
 ' I merely looked at it. I thought it opened well, and
 
 256 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 as the subject has been engrossing public attention lately 
 I sent it in to your table/ answered James Bethune. 
 
 ' It is good. A little wordy perhaps, but it is original 
 in conception. The writer seems to feel keenly on the 
 subject. Where did it come from do you know ? There 
 is no name attached.' 
 
 ' It was left at the office yesterday afternoon, the boy 
 told me. The person who left it was to call again.' 
 
 ' Was it a man or woman ? ' 
 
 ' I couldn't say, sir ; but we can speedily ascertain,' 
 answered James Bethune, and rising he called down the 
 speaking-trumpet to the office-boy in the counting-house 
 below. 
 
 'It was a young man, Hunter says,' said James 
 Bethune after a brief conversation with the boy. ' He 
 seemed to be very eager about it, and said he would call 
 to-day.' 
 
 ' Well, if he comes you can see him, and return the 
 manuscript. Tell him there is too much theory and too 
 little practical suggestion in it ; and ask him to try 
 again. I like the style of the thing. It is taking, if it 
 was toned down a little. You understand me ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly, sir.' 
 
 ' Are you nearly through ? ' he asked then with a 
 careless glance at the litter of papers on the table. ' Toss 
 the rest into the basket and get away to Exeter HalL 
 The meeting opens at twelve, and it is half-past eleven 
 now.' 
 
 So saying, Mr. Maynard laid down the manuscript 
 and retired. James Bethune took it up curiously and 
 looked at it again. The handwriting struck him as it 
 had not done previously, it was so beautifully legible, 
 like the fair round caligraphy of a boy fresh from school. 
 He took a piece of paper and wrote a note to be given
 
 THE WANDERER. 257 
 
 to the writer should he call in his absence, and, wrapping 
 up the manuscript, put on hat and coat and went down- 
 stairs. 
 
 After giving the boy his instructions, he proceeded 
 to Exeter Hall to report the speech of a great philan- 
 thropist on one of the burning questions of the day. It 
 was after two o'clock when he returned to the office. 
 Mr. Maynard had gone out to lunch, and there were 
 some letters lying on the sub-editor's table demanding 
 immediate attention. He was engrossed with these, and 
 had forgotten all about the incident of the morning, 
 when Hunter spoke from down-stairs. 
 
 ' It's the young man for the manuscript, sir. Shall I 
 give it him, or will you see him ? ' 
 
 ' Bring him up, Hunter,' he called back, and went on 
 with his writing, anxious to have the letters ready for 
 the three o'clock mail 
 
 ' Take a seat please, and I will attend to you presently,' 
 he said, glancing hastily at the stranger as he entered the 
 room. 
 
 ' Hunter, is the bag ready ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, just getting closed.' 
 
 ' Ask them to wait a moment, I'll be ready presently,' 
 said Mr. Bethune, and with a few rapid strokes he 
 finished the last letter, closed and addressed it, aiid 
 passed it with the others to the boy. 
 
 Then he rose and looked for the first time fully at the 
 stranger who had been ushered into his presence. That 
 glance filled him with pity, but did not strike him in any 
 other way yet. He was a young man, four or five and 
 twenty at most ; his appearance and attire betokened 
 extreme poverty. His shabby black coat, long since 
 glazed at the seams and frayed at the sleeves, hung 
 loosely about a thin, slight figure, and his face was 
 
 22
 
 258 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 sharpened and attenuated, as if he had known what it 
 was to lack many a meal. It was a winning and in 
 some respects a striking face ; but it wore an expression 
 of settled melancholy painful to see ; and the blue eyes, 
 far sunken under the broad, square forehead, gleamed 
 with a strange bitterness, as if they had been long 
 accustomed to sad scenes. A slight moustache curled 
 on the lip, half hiding the weak, womanish mouth, the 
 most undecided feature in the face. His hair was sunny 
 in hue, and set in close, curling masses about the head, 
 which was well-shaped, but too small to be manly. As 
 James Bethune looked, a strange, wild hope, too impro- 
 bable to have any foundation in fact, sprang into his 
 heart, agitating him so much that it was with difficulty 
 he controlled himself so as to speak calmly and 
 courteously to the stranger. 
 
 'You are the writer of the article on the housing of 
 the poor, I believe?' he said, glancing significantly at the 
 packet in the young man's white, thin fingers. 
 
 'Yes, sir.' A light so eager as to be almost wild 
 sprang into the deep blue eyes. ' Will it do ? Oh, sir, 
 if you would only take it, and give me a trifle for it ! 
 It was written almost with my life's blood.' 
 
 ' My poor fellow, it is not in my power to accept or 
 reject articles. I am not the principal in this office,' said 
 James Bethune with deep compassion. ' But I am happy 
 to tell you that the editor is much pleased with it, only 
 it is not quite suitable for our columns.' 
 
 ' Then he will give me nothing,' said the young man 
 with something like a groan. ' My last chance gone ! 
 My God ! there is nothing left for me now but death.' 
 
 ' Hush, hush ! These are wild, wicked words. My 
 poor fellow ! I can see you are in sore straits. Sit down 
 and let us talk over the matter. I have known what it
 
 TEE WANDERER. 259 
 
 is to struggle for a place in the overcrowded ranks,' said 
 James Bethune with infinite gentleness. ' It isn't quite 
 hopeless. The editor wishes you to rewrite this, and 
 if you can make it suitable he will pay you well 
 for it.' 
 
 Again that quick, eager light sprang into the deeply- 
 shadowed eyes. 
 
 ' What is the matter with it ? It is all true, hideously 
 true. Perhaps I have not minced the matter, nor made 
 it fine enough and sweet enough for the rich people who 
 might deign to read it. But I have done my duty. I 
 have written down what I have seen and known, aye, 
 and what I have suffered. I have been one of the 
 houseless poor.' 
 
 ' How have you fallen so low ? You were reared in a 
 different atmosphere,' said James Bethune unsteadily, for 
 he had caught a reflection of Beatrice Lorraine in that 
 impassioned face, and hope was changing to conviction in 
 his breast. 
 
 ' How do you know where I was reared ? ' asked the 
 stranger almost fiercely. ' Tell me what I am to do with 
 this paper, and let me go. I am not begging. I don't 
 want your pity. I am willing to work for anything I 
 can get.' 
 
 James Bethune restrained himself with an effort, and, 
 taking the sheets from the stranger's hand, briefly pointed 
 out to him wherein it lacked, and suggested what might 
 be done to improve it. 
 
 ' If I bring it back to-morrow, will he give me some- 
 thing for it ? I have tasted nothing since yesterday; and 
 I do not know when I shall taste, unless I get something 
 for this.' 
 
 He had risen to his feet, and his hand shook as it 
 closed over the sheets that had been written at such
 
 260 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 terrible cost. Tears stood in James Bethune's eyes, and 
 for a moment he could not command himself sufficiently 
 to speak. That such things should be in great and 
 Christian London might well make the angels weep. He 
 took down his hat and opened the door. 
 
 ' Come with me. You must have something to eat 
 now. Hush ! not a word ! "What I do is only a duty 
 from man to man. You dare not refuse. Come.' 
 
 Meek, pliable as a child, the stranger followed James 
 Bethune out of the room and out into the busy street. 
 The clerks in the lower office looked curiously over the 
 gauze blinds after them, but James Bethune was equal 
 to the occasion. He took the stranger by the arm, 
 fearful lest he should lose him, and led him to a restaurant 
 in Fleet Street, where he asked to be shown to a private 
 room, and ordered a substantial repast. 
 
 ' Why should you show me such kindness ? ' said the 
 young man impetuously. ' You know nothing about me ; 
 I have no claim upon you.' 
 
 ' Save what one fellow-creature has upon another. 
 Hush ! not another word ! Eat now, and we can talk 
 afterwards. You will excuse me ; it is only an hour 
 since I dined. 
 
 So saying, he retired to the window, and picked up a 
 paper lying on the chair. It was a week-old copy of 
 the Times, but he occupied himself with it, so that the 
 stranger might not feel himself being watched. It was 
 a touch of delicacy to be expected in such a nature. 
 The sight of the tempting food made the poor young 
 fellow forget all but his hunger, and he ate as those eat 
 who have kept a long fast. It was well, perhaps, that 
 James Bethune did not observe him ; he could not have 
 enjoyed the sight of his ravenous appreciation of the food 
 he had provided. It told a too pitiful tale.
 
 THE WANDERER. 261 
 
 ' I have to thank you for the only decent meal I have 
 eaten for many weeks ; how many 1 have lost count of 
 now ! ' he said at length. ' I feel like a new man. There 
 is hope and strength in me once more.' 
 
 ' I am glad of it. Come and sit down here and let 
 us talk. But suppose you tell me your name first ? 
 Bethune is mine James Bethune.' 
 
 ' My name ! ' The stranger gave a violent start, 
 which was keenly observed by his kind friend. ' Oh, 
 well, if you must have it, it is Lovel Walter Lovel ! ' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Lovel/ said James Bethune cheerfully, for 
 link by link the chain was growing complete, ' suppose 
 you tell me where you live now. I am a stranger 
 in London, and I live alone. I daresay we can be 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Friends ! Did you say friends with such as I ? ' 
 repeated Walter Lovel. ' What manner of man are you ? 
 There is not another in your position in London who 
 would walk the streets beside an outcast like me.' 
 
 ' That is a sweeping assertion, which I would not like 
 to believe,' said James Bethune with his rare, kind 
 smile. ' But you have not answered my question. Where 
 do you live ? ' 
 
 ' Anywhere,' answered Walter Lovel bitterly. ' I have 
 no home. I sleep where I can sometimes in a wretched 
 lodging, oftenest in the open air. I have not three feet 
 of space under any roof I can claim as my own. Do you 
 know where I wrote that article ? sitting on one of the 
 seats in St. James's Park.' 
 
 ' Have you no friends or relatives ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I have none.' 
 
 He rose then, and began to walk up and down the 
 narrow room, as if some haunting memory filled him 
 with restlessness. 'I have a story. I suppose most
 
 262 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 people have, of one kind or another. You deserve to 
 hear it, but I cannot tell it yet. But you were right in 
 saying that I had been reared in a different atmo- 
 sphere.' 
 
 ' It did not require much penetration to discern that. 
 You have the manner and the look of a gentleman. But 
 what are you going to do now ? ' 
 
 ' Do ? What I have done for many days past pace 
 the streets till darkness falls, and then creep into some 
 corner and seek the blessed oblivion of sleep. How 
 often have I wished that I should never awake ! The 
 wonder to myself is that I have not put an end to it 
 long ago. My life is hardly worth throwing away.' 
 
 James Bethune shuddered. Verily, if Willie Lorraine 
 had sinned, he had suffered ; he had borne an awful 
 punishment for the waywardness of his youth. 
 
 ' Will you make me a promise ? ' he asked presently, 
 fixing his keen, quiet eyes full on the wasted face. 
 
 ' That depends but yes, I will. You have a right to 
 such poor promises as I can make.' 
 
 'Then you will promise unconditionally to do what 
 I ask ? ' 
 
 ' If you wish it yes. It matters little to me what I 
 do now.' 
 
 ' Then you will meet me outside the Law Courts to- 
 night at half-past six ? I shall be free then that is 
 three hours hence.' 
 
 'Yes; I will.' 
 
 ' Upon your honour ? ' 
 
 ' Upon my honour, if I have any,' said Walter Level, 
 and a smile for the first time played about his mouth. 
 James Bethune turned his head quickly aside, lest his 
 face should betray something which might arouse sus- 
 picion. For that fleeting smile was the faint but unmis-
 
 THE WANDERER. 263 
 
 takable reflex of the sunny radiance he had seen upon 
 the face of Beatrice Lorraine. His quest was ended, but 
 there was much to be accomplished before it could be 
 crowned with success. This poor wanderer, embittered 
 and soured with his sufferings, would require very 
 gentle dealing before he could be won back to the 
 better way. 
 
 ' If I dared take such a name upon my lips, I should 
 say, God bless you,' said Walter Lovel, as they turned to 
 leave the place. A soft and beautiful expression stole 
 into his face as he uttered these words ; his eyes swam 
 with tears, all the bitterness was gone. James Bethune 
 felt his heart go out to him, and involuntarily he extended 
 his hand. 
 
 1 I thank God for the privilege I have had to-day,' 
 was all he said, then they went forth into the street. 
 They parted there, with the renewed promise to meet at 
 the hour and the place James Bethune had appointed, 
 and the latter returned to the office of the Gazette. If 
 he was abstracted and uninterested in his work that 
 afternoon, it cannot be wondered at ; he had much to 
 occupy his thoughts. Directly Walter Lovel was out of 
 his sight, the fear took possession of him that he had 
 lost him again, and he was feverishly impatient for the 
 appointed hour. Ten minutes before the half-hour he 
 was restlessly pacing the pavements before the La^v 
 Courts, and, calm, self-reliant man though he was, he 
 telt himself sick with apprehension lest Walter Lovel 
 should fail him. But no ; punctually at the half-hour 
 he saw the poor, shabby figure elbowing his way 
 through the crowd, and he drew a long breath of 
 relief. 
 
 ' I am thankful to see you ! ' he exclaimed when they 
 met ' I was terribly afraid lest I had lost you again.'
 
 2C4 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Would it have mattered so much to you ?' inquired 
 Walter Lovel with a curious look. ' Why should you 
 take such a deep interest in me ? ' 
 
 'I am interested. I want to help you,' answered 
 James Bethune hastily. 'Now, do you put yourself in 
 my hands ? You believe I truly want to befriend you ?' 
 
 'Yes, I do.' 
 
 ' Then come, promise not to utter a word till I give 
 you permission,' eaid James Bethune with a smile. 
 
 ' Well, I will ; but I am completely mystified/ 
 
 ' Never mind,' laughed his- friend, and, beckoning to a 
 cabman, motioned Walter to enter, and followed him, after 
 giving the order to drive to Finsbury Square. 
 
 ' I am lodging there just now. My landlady is a 
 Scotchwoman, and is devoted to me. You will feel quite 
 at home with her.' 
 
 ' I doubt she will look rather askance at me,' said 
 Walter ruefully, glancing at his miserable attire. 
 
 'We'll soon remedy that. We'll hunt up something 
 for you to wear till you can get a suit to fit to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Am I going home with you, then ? How can you 
 trust me so? I might be deceiving you all the time,' 
 said Walter with a strange, boyish wistfulness, which 
 made his face look young and pure and good, like the 
 face in the portrait lying in James Bethune's pocket- 
 book. 
 
 ' I know you are not deceiving me,' he answered 
 quietly, and there was little more said until they reached 
 the house in Finsbury Square. James Bethune paid and 
 dismissed the cabman, ushered his protege up to his own 
 sitting-room, and went in search of his landlady. He 
 told her just so much as seemed good to him, and with 
 such effect as to rouse the good woman's sympathies, and 
 overcome her prejudice and caution where strangers were
 
 THE WANDERER. 265 
 
 concerned. She would have put herself to the most 
 extraordinary trouble to serve her lodger, and if it was 
 to save a youth from utter ruin she was willing to let 
 Mr. Bethune keep him in the house, if he could give his 
 word that he would not create any disturbance or make 
 her nervous. 
 
 James Bethune set her mind quite at ease on that 
 point, and then returned to his strange guest. In about 
 half an hour afterwards, when Mrs. Mackay brought in 
 the tea-tray, the twain were sitting at the fire like old 
 friends. 
 
 ' This is my friend, Mr. Lovel, Mrs. Mackay. I am 
 sure you will be as good to him as you are to me, won't 
 you ?' said James Bethune at once, knowing just how to 
 keep the good woman in the best of humours. 
 
 R he sot down her tray and took a deliberate survey 
 of the stranger. In the interval he had washed and 
 attired l.imself in a suit belonging to his benefactor, and 
 looked like a different being. As Mrs. Mackay looked 
 at the worn face, the blue-veined brow with the rings 
 of gold lying upon it, at the sad blue eyes and the 
 sweet mouth, her motherly heart filled ; and he returned 
 her glance with a hesitating, wistful one, as if fearing her 
 verdict. That look won her completely. 
 
 ' I'll do that, Mr. Bethune, sir. Come and have your 
 teas now, for your friend, poor young gentleman, looks as 
 if he sair needit it.' So saying, Mrs. Mackay hastily 
 retired, quite overcome. 
 
 ' But what does this all mean?' asked "Walter Lovel 
 in a strange, hurried way. ' May I speak now ? Am I 
 to stay here with you u ill to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' This will be your home in the meantime if you will 
 stay. And we'll get something for you to do very soon ; 
 perhaps in the Gazette office. I'll see about it to-morrow/ 
 
 23
 
 266 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 said James Bethune hurriedly. ' Come away ; no non- 
 sense now ! the tea is getting cold.' 
 
 ' I cannot understand it. I have no claim upon you. 
 Am I to sleep here all night ? Is this to be my home ? ' 
 
 It was indescribably touching to listen to his faltering 
 words, and to see the deep, yearning questioning in his 
 sunken eyes. 
 
 ' I said so, if you will stay.' 
 
 Then Walter Lovel laid his arms on the table, and, 
 bowing his head upon them, burst into tears.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 SAVED. 
 
 1 How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to 
 spare, and I perish with hunger ! ' LUKE xv. 17. 
 
 was the evening of a fine mild February 
 day. There was promise in the soft clear 
 sky, even as seen above the city ; and one 
 could imagine that in country places there 
 would be a sweet unfolding of blade and leaf, 
 and that the air would be full of brooding 
 twitterings, whispering of the spring. I like 
 these mild bright days of the early year, they are so full 
 of hope. It is the season when we can enter with better 
 heart upon any new undertaking, for we feel as if nature, 
 which is a great deal to us, though we may not be con- 
 scious of it, is with us in our plannings. It takes a great 
 deal to depress one, I think, in the first joy of the 
 dawning spring. 
 
 The West End had filled for the season ; Parlia- 
 ment had opened with stirring interest ; and great 
 London was busier than ever. The newspapers were 
 
 267
 
 268 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 hard put to it to find space for all they were expected 
 to record ; and journalists and their assistants did 
 not eat the bread of idleness. Towards eight o'clock 
 that evening two gentlemen were sitting by the open 
 window of a house in Finsbury Square. That broad- 
 shouldered, fine-looking man, with the noble head and 
 the true manly face, inspiring immediate trust and love, 
 we know of yore : he had changed a trifle perhaps, grown 
 graver, manlier, as life unfolded before him, and he met 
 one by one its duties and responsibilities. But he had 
 preserved in the great and evil city a pure heart and a 
 noble soul, and had verily kept himself unspotted from 
 the world. His companion was younger, of slimmer, 
 more effeminate build. His face was as sweet and 
 delicately -featured as a woman's, and his hair, worn 
 somewhat longer than usual, gave him something of a 
 girlish look. He was well dressed, and had the outward 
 appearance of a refined gentleman. There was no light 
 in the room, save that thrown out by the fire, already, 
 however, burning low in the grate. But the moon was 
 up, and there was light sufficient for these two, for they 
 were only talking in a somewhat desultory fashion, both 
 enjoying the hour of well-earned leisure after a laborious 
 day. 
 
 ' Are you going to stay in all evening, Mr. Bethune ? ' 
 asked the younger of the two after an unusually long 
 silence. 
 
 ' Don't stay in for me, "Walter. I do not care to go 
 out/ answered the other, stretching himself in his chair. 
 ' I shall read or write for an hour or two if you go.' 
 
 ' I won't go if you won't. What would I do wander- 
 ing about alone ? I am too thankful I have a place to 
 stay in,' said the other; and, suddenly leaning forward, he 
 looked into the dark, kind face of his friend with eyes
 
 SAVED. 269 
 
 brimming with love. 'Do you know there are times 
 when I can hardly bear my own thankfulness, when I 
 could go down on my knees to you for saving me and 
 making me what I am.' 
 
 ' Hush, Walter ! ' The firm, strong hand touched his 
 slender fingers with a caressing touch, almost as one 
 might touch the hand of a child. ' You promised, didn't 
 you, to say no more about it ? Do you suppose it is no 
 satisfaction or reward to me to see you as you are, eh ? ' 
 
 ' That may be, but it makes my deep debt none the 
 less, Mr. Bethune,' said the other in his boybh, impulsive 
 way. ' And the most extraordinary thing of all is, that 
 you should never have asked me for any account of my- 
 self ; you took me entirely on trust, but I've tried very 
 hard to prove myself worthy of it.' 
 
 ' You have proved yourself worthy, my boy. Haven't 
 I seen it all ? Haven't I watched your earnest striving, 
 your constant watching over self ? ay, and loved you 
 for it.' 
 
 ' I thought you did. I knew from your eyes when I 
 pleased you. I have had struggles with myself often, 
 for the degradation through which I have passed must 
 leave its traces behind ; it makes it harder for a man 
 to be good.' 
 
 ' It must be so, but you have nobly conquered. I 
 held aloof many a time when I could have spoken, just 
 that you might learn to be strong and self-reliant, and 
 independent of any help from without. But your reward 
 is not lacking either. You are making a place for 
 yourself. Mr. Maynard thanked me only yesterday for 
 bringing you to the office. I don't mind telling you now 
 that I had a hard job of it to persuade him to give you 
 a chance ; but he is thoroughly satisfied now, and, as you 
 know, a few words from him mean a great deal.'
 
 270 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' I know. But it is your opinion I value, your 
 approval I covet and labour for. But, Mr. Bethuue, 
 why did you never ask me about my past history ? ' 
 
 ' Because I believed you would tell me some day. 
 But perhaps if you had waited very much longer I might 
 have asked you.' 
 
 ' I hardly think it. Do you know that I deceived you 
 at the very outset of our acquaintance by giving you a 
 false name ? ' 
 
 ' I suspected it.' 
 
 ' And yet you never hinted at such a thing ! Will 
 you let me tell you it all now ? ' 
 
 ' If it will not hurt you, I shall be glad to listen, 
 Walter.' 
 
 ' It will not hurt me to tell you. It will do me 
 good. I ought to have told you long ago, but I wanted 
 to win your confidence first, to show you that even a 
 poor lost wanderer, such as I was when you found me 
 out, could know the meaning of gratitude,' said Walter 
 Lovel with deep fervour. ' But you must not call me 
 Walter any more. My name is Willie William Lorraine.' 
 
 James Bethune put up his hand to his face, and 
 turned his thankful eyes to the quiet sky. What deep 
 fulness of gratitude and joy swelled in his heart at that 
 moment, I cannot tell you. He had had his moments 
 of torturing doubt during the last three months doubts 
 which had kept him from sending a word of hope or 
 comfort to the heart of Beatrice Lorraine. I believe 
 it was the fear lest certainty should prove his doubts 
 correct, which had kept him from putting a direct 
 question to the fellow-being he had saved. 
 
 ' I was born in London, Mr. Bethune,' began Willie 
 Lorraine. ' My father was a merchant in Bishopsgate 
 Street. Our house was in Portman Square. I had one
 
 SAVED. 271 
 
 sister; her name was Beatrice; she was fifteen months 
 younger than I. Our mother died when she was four 
 years old. My father was a strange man, Mr. Bethune, 
 either passionately fond or passionately stern. We 
 alternately feared and loved him. He was a proud 
 man too, and would not have done a mean or dis- 
 honourable thing, I believe, to save his life. The 
 business firm, Lorraine and Co., was solely his own, left 
 him by my grandfather, who built it up, and it was a 
 mine of wealth. But I hated it from the very first. 
 It made me sick to go into the warehouses, and have 
 bales of goods and stuffs pointed out to me as if they 
 were the objects of importance and interest in the 
 world. I don't know how I imbibed such a dislike 
 to the place, and to the calling for which my father, 
 I knew, destined me from my birth. He was always 
 speaking to me about the time when I should enter 
 the business ; but, though I dared not say anything, ] 
 told myself I should never enter it. I had other aims, 
 other ambitions, if you could call a boy's wayward 
 imaginings by such a lofty name. I was of a dreamy, 
 queer nature always, fond of books and pictures, and 
 that kind of things, and I read until I believed 
 myself a genius about to be blighted by the stern 
 decrees of a harsh parent. I used to tell Beatrice 
 about it when we were at home together from school, 
 but she used to shake her gentle head, and tell me 
 to be a good boy and do as papa desired. Poor Beatrice ! 
 she was an angel when she was a child, only wise and 
 womanly, and deep-thinking far beyond her years. I 
 often wonder what she is like, and what she is doing 
 now. Well, things went on until I left school, and 
 then I openly rebelled. I said if I could not go to 
 college, and follow after books and such pursuits, I would
 
 272 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 do nothing else. I remember yet that scene. I, a 
 puny thing, setting up to my resolute father, and poor 
 Beatrico, pale and trembling, looking on, too terrified 
 to speak. She was even more afraid of him than I ; he 
 kept her at a greater distance. I don't want to blame 
 him, for I have no right to judge a man so infinitely 
 better than I can ever hope to be ; only he did treat 
 his motherless girl very strangely, and she was one who 
 needed love. She had a strange, clinging nature, which 
 could love and suffer deeply. I know that now, looking 
 back. Do I weary you, Mr. Bethune ? Do you care 
 that I should go on ? ' 
 
 ' Go on,' said James Bethune with the brevity of 
 intense interest. 
 
 ' He paid no more heed to my remonstrating, to my 
 weak striving, than if I had been an infant crying for 
 it knew not what. He bore me down with the weight 
 of his contempt, he set me aside as if I had been nothing 
 at all, and made arrangements for my being apprenticed 
 in another business house, in order, he said, that I might 
 be taught what it was to serve strangers. I had no 
 alternative but to go. Of course I had the usual fever 
 of grand resolves, such as enter most boys' heads at 
 some period or other. Again and again I made up 
 my mind to run away, but either Beatrice won me to 
 better thoughts, or the terrors and hardships of an 
 unknown future overwhelmed me ; for I was by nature 
 rather cowardly and timid, and I liked the good and 
 pleasant things of life. So after all I went quietly to 
 my irksome labours. I used to think my father must 
 have told my employers to be hard on me, for they 
 treated me with greater severity and harshness than any 
 of the others. Every offence was punished, every care- 
 less act reported to my father, so my life was very hard.
 
 SAVED. 273 
 
 I was miserable at home, and miserable at business, and 
 so I fell into bad company for solace. I need not 
 enlarge on it ; you know how easy it is for a lad to go 
 astray in London, if he has the Icist inclination. So 
 I learned to idle my time, and drink, and, worst of all, 
 to gamble and bet, and spend the little I had in 
 questionable ways. I was always short of money, and 
 it was to get the wherewithal to pay for forbidden 
 pleasures that I went to the gambling-table first. After 
 that I went rapidly down, and at last committed the 
 crim-3 which ruined my life. I owed a considerable 
 sum of money, which I had borrowed to pay losses at 
 the gambling-table, and they were pressing me for 
 payment. There is not much pity or sympathy among 
 those who lead a man astray. He is far reduced when 
 he has only his evil associates to depend on for aid. 
 So I was tempted. I got hold of a cheque-book 
 belonging to my employers, filled it up for the amount, 
 thirty pounds, not a deadly sum, but the crime was 
 the same, and as I forged the name I got payment 
 without difficulty, the more really as I had been of tea 
 trusted with messages for and with money to the bank 
 before ; as I was a Lorraine, they believed me honest. 
 In a day or two the exposure came. I was a novice 
 in these matters, and I had made no provision for the 
 consequences. For my father's sake I was not brought 
 to justice, I was not punished for my ^rime in a public 
 court. But I was sent forth into the world an outcast 
 and a felon, without character or any means of earning 
 a meal. I cannot look back on that time when the 
 full consequences of my wicked act rushed upon me. 
 It unmans me even yet.' 
 
 He paused, for his voice broke, his hands shook, the 
 veins on his forehead stood out like knotted cords.
 
 274 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 Again James Bethune's firm hand closed over his, with 
 that infinite touch of pity which could calm him in his 
 wildest moods. 
 
 ' So I found myself in the streets of London, homeless, 
 friendless, penniless such was the awful punishment' 
 for my sin. I do not blame my father. I had been an 
 annoyance and troflble to him all my life, and I could 
 not expect him to forgive or condone open disgrace. He 
 disowned me, and from that hour to this I have never 
 seen his face. Naturally I went to those who had 
 helped to bring me to such ruin ; but they shrugged 
 their shoulders, and would do nothing for me. Now 
 that I was penniless I was of no use or account to them, 
 they could not concern themselves with my fate. One 
 advised me to go and beg my father's pardon, and ask 
 him to take me back. I could have killed him for the 
 suggestion, it so nearly maddened me. Then I would 
 cheerfully have died rather than look upon my father's 
 face. Will you believe that their callousness was my 
 cure ? It gave me such a keen, unquenchable disgust at 
 them and their ways, that I never looked at them again ; 
 and then and there I made up my mind to redeem myself, 
 to begin a new and a better .life, and from the depths 
 arise a new man, who might perhaps one day hold up his 
 head in the world with conscious honour. Oh, there were 
 no noble and high resolutions which did not visit me at 
 that time, but they dwindled away one by one. You 
 know a little of life in cities, of its fearful competition, 
 its overcrowding, its relentless pushing aside of the weak 
 and the incompetent, its cruel crushing of many an 
 earnest effort. Could there be any place in London for 
 such as I ? Could any man be found generous or God-like 
 enough to take me as I was, to give me a chance to 
 redeem myself ? In all London I found only one, and
 
 SAVED. 275 
 
 he is here. Until I met him what was my life ? 1 
 dare not begin to recount its vicissitudes. I could 
 make you laugh and weep by turns, and I should 
 unman myself. It will rest just now ; some day, when 
 the hopeful present has taken the sting from that dark 
 past, I may tell it, but not yet. Only one thing I 
 entreat you to believe, my friend, God-sent in my last 
 extremity : I have toiled, and waited, and prayed, and 
 starved, but in these past five years I have done no action 
 which can rise up and condemn me in my dying hour.' 
 
 'Thank God for that, my friend, thank God!' fell 
 with deep emotion from James Bethune's lips. Such an 
 assurance was far beyond anything he had dared to hope 
 for. What a glad message to carry across the Border to 
 the faithful woman's heart, hungering even for the bare 
 tidings of life ! 
 
 ' Months after I left my father's house, I ventured back 
 to Portman Square, because my heart was breaking for a 
 sight of Beatrice. It was to find it empty, and on 
 inquiry I learned that my father had relinquished his 
 business, and had bought a place in the south of Scotland, 
 near where my mother was born. For aught I know 
 they may be there yet. Some day, perhaps, when I have 
 established myself more firmly in this blessed way of life, 
 I may journey there, and ask to be forgiven. I feel as 
 if I could kneel down now and kiss my father's feet, 
 remembering only his love and goodness to me. Of 
 Beatrice, my darling, I scarcely dare to think.' 
 
 It was a mighty effort for James Bethune to restrain 
 himself, but he did it. Not yet ; a little longer before 
 he could reveal himself. But the consummation for 
 which he had longed, and so ardently prayed for, was 
 coming very near. 
 
 ' Walter, I like the old name ; I think we will keep
 
 276 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 it a little longer, there is no happier man in London 
 than you have made me to-night/ he said when he was 
 able to speak. ' Please God, there is a length of useful 
 and honourable days in store yet, and your deepest heart 
 desires will be fulfilled. Come what may, we are friends 
 for life.' 
 
 'For life!' repeated Willie Lorraine, as their hands 
 met in the grasp of love and fealty ; then there was a 
 long, deep silence. Many thoughts thronged upon the 
 hearts of both thoughts which could find no utterance. 
 Those of James Bethune were strangely commingled, 
 and for a space he had forgotten his companion. He 
 saw himself leading back the wanderer to his father's 
 house ; he pictured that blessed reunion ; he saw the 
 glory on the sweet face of Beatrice Lorraine. 
 
 ' What are you thinking of, Mr. Bethune ? ' said Willie's 
 voice, breaking in upon his reverie. 
 
 ' Thinking ? I was thinking of Scotland, Walter.' 
 
 ' Are you home-sick for it ? I have h^ard that the 
 Scotch never forget or grow cold to their own country. 
 Are you longing to be back ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I should like to go. I have not seen my brother 
 for nine months. Possibly I may take a run down some 
 night soon, returning next day. Well, shall we have our 
 stroll now ? ' he added, hastening to change the subject, 
 lest Willie might ask questions difficult to parry. ' It is 
 a glorious night. Come, we can talk outside as well as 
 here. I want to speak of your future. I wish and 
 expect great things of you, my boy. You must not 
 disappoint me.' 
 
 ' Whatever you wish me to do, I shall endeavour with 
 my whole heart,' answered the young man, looking up 
 into the face of his friend as a scholar might have looked 
 into the face of a revered and beloved master. The dis-
 
 SAVED. 277 
 
 parity in rears between them was very slight, yet in 
 James Bethune's manner towards his friend there was a 
 kind, careful, elder brother touch which made that 
 disparity seem more marked. The influence he had 
 secured over the wayward heart enabled him to mould 
 Willie Lorraine almost as he willed ; one day he would 
 reap the reward for his deep anxiety and unselfish, 
 brotherly care. 
 
 On the Friday of that week James Bethune went to 
 Scotland. He had prepared Willie for his going, so that 
 he looked upon it as the most natural thing in the world, 
 and did not associate his journey with the story he had 
 unfolded to him. It was with a strange commingling of 
 emotions that James Bethune undertook his mission, for 
 his journey partook of the nature of a mission. His 
 thoughts were almost wholly concentrated on the master 
 of Nethercleugh ; for, unless his heart could be touched, 
 the beautiful dream in which he had indulged would 
 prove only a bitter disappointment. But at least he 
 could give relief and joy to her, of whom he dared not 
 now permit himself to think, so intolerable had his 
 unutterable longings become. 
 
 It was a fine, clear, bracing afternoon when he arrived 
 at Lockerbie, and though the train for Lochbroom was in 
 waiting, he set out to walk through the fields. He 
 wanted the freshness of the spring air about him ; he 
 needed some such draught to cool the fever in his veins. 
 He wondered at his own excitement at the wild rest- 
 lessness which possessed him. Thoughts whirled madly 
 through his brain, disdaining to be curbed, or to own 
 any sway but their own fantasies. At the entrance 
 to Lochbroom he hesitated a moment, wavering whether 
 to proceed directly to Nethercleugh, or wait first at the 
 manse. It was only a brief hesitation ; in another
 
 278 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 moment he was striding along the path by the burn into 
 the Nethercleugh woods. He had no eyes for the sweet 
 budding beauty all about him snowdrop, primrose, and 
 anemone nestling among the cool green were passed un- 
 heeded ; the young green leaves, the fresh sturdy bladesburst- 
 ing every where, were of no account to him. Yet, at another 
 time, all these would have rejoiced his heart, and filled 
 him with deep, quiet satisfaction ; he had always loved 
 the spring. The way seemed longer than when he had 
 walked it with Sandy that memorable summer evening 
 nearly a year ago, and he was glad when the grey old 
 house came in sight. Yet he approached it with almost 
 hesitating feet, not knowing with what words to tell his 
 errand, now he had arrived at his journej's end. The 
 servant who answered his summons recognised him, and 
 made haste to usher him in. He was shown to the 
 library, and there left for some time alone. 
 
 At length the door was quietly opened, and he knew 
 Beatrice Lorraine was in the room. When he turned 
 his eyes towards her, he saw the sudden start, the 
 wavering light in the lustrous eyes, the quick rush of 
 colour to the fair cheek. 
 
 ' It is you ! ' she said, recovering her composure in 
 a moment, and advancing with outstretched hand. 
 ' Forgive my surprise. Kitty said Mr. Bethune was 
 in the library, and I naturally expected to see your 
 brother.' 
 
 He took the slim white hand in his earnest clasp, his 
 eyes down-bent themselves on her face; and that was 
 all. He had no word wherein to greet her, only his 
 heart beat with a hungry, passionate pain. It was as if 
 part of himself and of his life were at his side, and he 
 dared not claim it. 
 
 ' When did you come ? ' she asked, moving a little
 
 SAVED. 279 
 
 away from him, and touching with tender finger the 
 white bloom of a hyacinth in a glass on the table. 
 
 ' I came to-day. I have walked from Lockerbie,' he 
 answered quickly. ' How are you ? I think you are 
 changed.' 
 
 ' I have had some anxiety of late. Papa has not been 
 well I am afraid he will not be able to see you to- 
 day/ 
 
 His eyes never for a moment left her face ; he seemed 
 powerless to help himself. Till this moment I think he 
 had not quite realized what it is to love one woman with 
 a life's love. He was only awakening to its watchful- 
 ness, its deep interest, its yearning care, which is half 
 pain, half joy. He knew her changed. Her face was 
 worn a little and sad ; there was a listless air about her, 
 as if she had grown weary of hope deferred. She was 
 thinner too ; the figure in the plain sweeping blue gown 
 was very slender, and looked different from that day 
 when she had worn the white robe with the violets iu 
 her belt. 
 
 ' I trust there is nothing seriously the matter with 
 Mr. Lorraine ? ' 
 
 'We cannot say. Doctor Clarke gives it no name. 
 It is as if he had lost his hold on life. I think what I 
 told you of has borne him down at last. How have you 
 been in London ? ' 
 
 He felt the wistfulness of her look, he knew what 
 question her deep eyes asked, and he thanked God in his 
 heart for the message he had brought. ' Has he changed, 
 do you think ? ' he asked abruptly. ' Do you think his 
 heart has grown more tender over the old sorrow ? Does 
 he ever speak of your brother ? ' 
 
 ' Not to me, but I have heard him call him by his 
 name, and always in accents of tenderness and love. I
 
 280 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 sometimes think that if it were possible that Willie could 
 ever be restored all would be well, everything would 
 come right. I think papa has grown hopeless too, now 
 that he is sure it is too late. I suppose you have never 
 had any clue ? Soon after you went to London I used 
 to live in half expectation of hearing something, but not 
 lately.' 
 
 ' But you did not think the blame mine that I was 
 making no effort ? ' 
 
 ' No, only London is such a great place ; and you have 
 much to do, your brother tells me. Oh no, I never 
 blamed you.' 
 
 ' I was not idle, I did my best ; and when I was 
 getting very hopeless, God helped me. He sent him to 
 me, Miss Lorraine.' 
 
 No word fell from the white lips of Beatrice Lorraine, 
 but her great, solemn eyes uplifted to his face were wide 
 and almost anguished in their pleading. 
 
 ' Oh, tell me ! Is he found ? I cannot bear sus- 
 pense ! How and where is he ? Is he not irredeemably 
 lost ? ' she whispered at last, and her trembling hand 
 sought the table for support. 
 
 ' No, he is well, and happy, I was about to add, but 
 he has much to regret, much to long for and desire. But 
 if ever a man strove to redeem the past, to atone for the 
 error of his youth, he is doing it now. He is on the 
 way to make for himself an honourable position in the 
 world.' 
 
 Joy, wonder, incredulous surprise were expressed on 
 the face of Beatrice Lorraine, as these words fell upon 
 her ears. ' It is too blessed to be true. I feel as if I 
 dared not believe it.' 
 
 ' It is true. It is what I came here to-day to say. 
 Will you sit down now and let me tell y^u as briefly as
 
 SAVED. 281 
 
 possible how it happened ? ' he said very gently, for he 
 saw that her nerves were highly strung, and that her 
 strength seemed spent. She took the chair he placed 
 for her, and listened with strained ears, while he briefly 
 recounted the events of the last five months. His telling 
 of the story was characteristic of himself. He spared 
 her to the utmost, touching very lightly on the most 
 painful parts, and lightest of all on his own share in 
 his deliverance. But she understood. Her face grew 
 more earnest, her eyes shone as she listened, there was 
 something more in their depths than interest or even 
 gratitude, only he did not see it. 
 
 ' And you took him home ? He is with you now ? ' 
 she repeated slowly. ' You did all this for an utter 
 stranger ? God must reward you we never can ! ' Her 
 voice broke, and she covured her face with her hands. 
 He could not bear the sight, though he knew they were 
 not tears of sorrow. He took a step nearer, and then 
 drew back, knowing he would forget himself. Oh, this 
 was a hard thing, to be in the presence of the woman he 
 loved, whose soul answered to his, yet to feel that he 
 dared not speak ! Would it always be thus ? Must he 
 carry with him to life's end this deep heritage of pain ? 
 "Would this hunger of the heart embitter existence always, 
 taking the sunshine from every good gift ? 
 
 ' If you would compose yourself,' he said in a low 
 voice, ' I should like to talk this over a little. Willie 
 does not know I am here, he does not even know I am 
 aware of your place of abode. I have as long a tale to 
 tell him as he had to tell me.' 
 
 He smiled, and she looked up with an answering 
 smile, so radiant and beautiful and glad that her face 
 seemed to shine. 
 
 ' 1 am listening. What would you suggest ? 
 24
 
 282 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'If you think Mr. Lorraine would see him, would 
 receive him with joy, I should say, bring him at once. 
 But if you have any doubt, I would rather wait. I 
 would not for worlds that Walter's heart should receive 
 such a blow just now.' 
 
 ' Oh, I am sure he will take him. I could not tell 
 you why I think so, only I feel sure he will,' she said, 
 clasping her hands together, and beginning to walk up 
 and down the room. 'I cannot be still, Mr. Bethune, 
 my heart is so overcharged. Willie alive and well, and 
 living an upright life ! Oh, I did not dream that God 
 would be so good ! It is so much more than I ever dared 
 to hope for, even in dreams. Do you think him un- 
 changed to me still ? ' 
 
 ' May I tell you what he said ? I can remember his 
 exact words, because they sank into my heart. He said, 
 " Some day, perhaps, when I have established myself 
 more firmly in this blessed way of life, I may journey 
 there " (to your home he meant), " and ask to be forgiven. 
 I feel as. if I could kneel down now and kiss my father's 
 feet, remembering only his love and goodness to me. Of 
 Beatrice, my darling, I scarcely dare to think." May we 
 not hope for great things, when we think of the spirit 
 which prompted such words as these ? ' 
 
 Beatrice Lorraine was silent a moment, her eyes fixed 
 on the western window, where the sunset glow was red- 
 dening with a wondrous light. 
 
 If James Bethune had needed or wished for any 
 reward for what he had done, he found it in the expres- 
 sion on her face. 
 
 She turned her head, and their eyes met. 
 
 ' I would thank you if I could,' she said, simply as a 
 child, with a look such as he had seen many times of 
 late on her brother's face,
 
 SAVED. 283 
 
 ' I need no thanks,' he said somewhat hurriedly. 
 ' Now, what is to be done ? I cannot stay, for I have to 
 see my brother, and catch the London train to-night. 
 Are we to risk it or not ? Shall I bring him down ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Then you will prepare the way, and if you have any 
 fear of his reception you will let me know. A harsh 
 word might undo the good we have seen. We dare not 
 expose him to it yet. He must be aided in his struggles 
 after a better life. Poor lad ! my heart is wrung for him 
 often. Those who have lived happy, untempted lives 
 know nothing of such agonies as he has endured.' 
 
 ' I will let you know/ she answered quietly. 
 
 ' And I will let you know when he will come.' said 
 James Bethune, turning to go. 
 
 ' But you will come with him ? ' Her upward glance 
 was timid and wistful ; he could not bear those speaking 
 eyes, they robbed him of his self-control and stern 
 resolve. 
 
 ' If you wish it,' he said almost coldly. 
 
 ' I do wish it.' 
 
 ' Then I will come. Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Good-bye till then. God bless you ! ' 
 
 He had often heard the phrase, but falling from these 
 lips it had a double meaning, a double sweetness. 
 
 ' God bless you, Beatrice Lorraine, for ever and ever ! ' 
 he said, and wrung her hand like a vise. 
 
 The next moment he was gone.
 
 CHAPTEE XXL 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 A man in all the hidden sense 
 
 That gives the grand old word its might; 
 
 A man who finds his recompense, 
 In knowing he has done the right.' 
 
 'S anything troubling you, Mr. Bethune?' 
 ' Why do you ask, Walter ? ' 
 'Because you have not heen like your- 
 self since you went to Scotland.' 
 'Have I not? I believe you are right. Yes, 
 something is troubling me very much. How 
 long is it since I was down. Only a week, 
 isn't it ? ' 
 
 ' Ten days. Couldn't you tell me what it is ? I don't 
 suppose I could help you, only I know by experience 
 that things never seem so bad when another shares them,' 
 said Willie Lorraine. ' Don't you know how often you 
 have relieved my mind of burdening thought ? Of 
 course I could never be to you what you have been 
 to me; but perhaps the very telling of it would give 
 relief/ 
 
 284
 
 RECOMPENSE. 285 
 
 ' I know it would, but I cannot tell you yet. You 
 will trust me a little longer, altogether if need be, 
 Walter ? ' 
 
 ' Why should I not ? I would go to the utmost ends 
 of the earth if you bade me, without asking a question,' 
 said Willie Lorraine with the eagerness of his great love. 
 
 ' It is a boundless trust you have given me, Walter,' 
 said James Bethune. ' My boy, I will not betray it. 
 I will never be less to you than I have been, but more 
 as the years go on, knitting us the more closely to each 
 other.' 
 
 Willie Lorraine looked earnestly into the dark, true 
 face of his friend, wondering to see him thus moved. 
 He did not know that hope was being slowly quenched 
 in that anxious heart, and that it had made its vow 
 concerning him, to stand in the place of father and 
 brother in one, because the ties of kinship had failed. 
 
 At that moment the maid entered the room with a 
 letter, which she handed to James Bethune. 
 
 ' For you, sir. It came at four o'clock. Sorry it was 
 forgotten,' she said, and made haste to leave the room, as 
 if dreading a reproof. He took it eagerly, glanced at the 
 handwriting and the postmark ; then his face flushed, and 
 Willie Lorraine saw the firm hand tremble as he broke 
 the seal. He took a newspaper from the table, and held 
 it before his eyes, so that his friend might read undis- 
 turbed. After what seemed a very long time to Willie 
 Lorraine, James Bethune spoke, in a low, tremulous, eager 
 voice, quite unlike his own. 
 
 ' Walter ' (he always called him yet by the old name, 
 the name by which he was known to the world), ' put 
 down your paper now. I have a great deal to tell you. 
 This letter has removed the seal from my lips. Do you 
 know that handwriting ? '
 
 286 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 Willie Lorraine took the proffered envelope, and looked 
 at it for a moment with startled eyes. Ay, he knew it 
 Even once seen, that firm, clear, characteristic handwrit- 
 ing would be easily remembered. 
 
 ' What strange mystery is all this ? ' he asked with 
 paling lips. * This is the handwriting of my sister 
 Beatrice. How did it come here ? Do you know her ? 
 Why have you hidden so many things from me ? ' 
 
 'You will know soon, Walter,' answered James 
 Bethune with a rarely beautiful smile. ' Eead the letter 
 now/ 
 
 Thus Beatrice Lorraine's letter ran : 
 
 ' NETHERCLETTGH, LOCHBROOM, 
 16th February 1881. 
 
 ' DEAR MR. BETHUNE, I could not write before to-day, 
 because I have had no opportunity of broaching the 
 subject to papa. We spoke of Willie to-day ; but I did 
 not tell him what you told me. But I see his heart is 
 yearning over him, and that he has given up all hope of 
 seeing him again. I said to him that if he heard of him 
 being yet alive, and doing well, would he not ask him to 
 come back. " Why torture me with such fancies ? " he 
 answered. " There is no possibility of such a thing." I 
 think you should come down with Willie at once. If 
 possible, I will prepare papa ; but he is very weak, and 
 his moods are so uncertain, I may have no opportunity. 
 I believe it might be well and safe to trust all to a 
 meeting. You can talk it over. Please give Willie the 
 enclosed, and believe me, yours gratefully and sincerely, 
 
 ' BEATRICE LORRAINE.' 
 
 ' I do not understand it yet,' repeated Willie Lorraine 
 trembling with excitement. 'Please explain it to me,
 
 RECOMPENSE. 287 
 
 Mr. Bethune. How do you know my sister Beatrice ? 
 How does she know I am here ? ' 
 
 In a few words, but concisely and clearly, James 
 Bethune explained the whole matter, his friend listening 
 with that absorbing interest with which we await some 
 vital issue. 
 
 ' But how have you kept it so long ? Why didn't you 
 tell me ? You knew my consuming anxiety about her ! ' 
 he exclaimed impetuously. 
 
 ' Don't you understand I wanted to know your father's 
 state of mind ? I would not have you go home, Walter, 
 unless a welcome awaited you.' 
 
 ' Kind, thoughtful, considerate in this as in every- 
 thing ! ' exclaimed Walter ; and then, opening his sister's 
 letter to him, he quite broke down. 
 
 Wisely James Bethune let his emotion have its vent, 
 knowing calmer moments would soon come. 
 
 ' What is to be done, then ? ' asked Walter, flinging up 
 his head at length. ' Beatrice prays me to come down, 
 but I will be guided by you.' 
 
 ' Nay, not now. Let your heart guide you, Walter,' 
 said James Bethune with a sunny smile. ' What does it 
 say?' 
 
 ' You do not need to ask. I am longing, yet reluctant 
 to go. There is so much to be forgiven. I shall be 
 humbled to the very dust before them. Since I have 
 been with you I have seen my past in a different light. 
 It seems more heinous to me now than it did even when 
 I was struggling in the depths.' 
 
 ' Ah, but there is a fine hope with it all now, Walter. 
 After this ordeal is over, you will bury the past, and I 
 know they will gladly allow you to do it. There is no 
 good in morbid dwelling on evil days. What you have 
 to do now is to go forward with a strong heart and
 
 288 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 a noble purpose in the good way. You are done 
 with the old, and you must le done with it wholly 
 and for ever.' 
 
 ' What strength you give me ! ' exclaimed "Willie 
 Lorraine gratefully. 'With your guidance and love I 
 feel as if I could truly be and do good. Whatever the 
 future may hold of what is worthy for me, I shall owe it 
 to you,' 
 
 'Nay, Walter, let us not forget that divine, unseen 
 Friend who is ever with us, even when we know it not,' 
 said James Bethune reverently. 'Human ties, human 
 props, are very sweet, but not all-sufficient, my boy, as 
 you will learn more and more as the years t roll on 
 Well, what plan have we ? Does not your heart bid 
 you go at once, to-night, if that were possible ? I 
 thought so. Well, I shall walk over to Mr. Maynard'a 
 residence and tell him. Nay, don't start; I shall bo 
 wary and prudent, being as jealous over your interests as 
 you could be. If he spares us, we shall go to Scotland 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 ' You will let me walk with you to the door ? I could 
 not rest in the house. Oh, Mr. Bethune, this is a 
 strange unrest which possesses me ! I cannot realize 
 what has happened. I have so long been alone in the 
 world, I cannot believe that there is a home waiting for 
 me, where I shall see those I have lost so long.' 
 
 ' It will be a blessed reality, please God, to-morrow, 
 Walter. When shall I learn to utter the new name ? 
 I am afraid you will always be Walter Lovel to me. 
 There is one thing I would ask, that you will not reveal 
 to them the whole bitterness of these dark years; it 
 would wring your sister's heart. She broods upon 
 things, Walter ; it would sadden and pain her for very 
 long.'
 
 RECOMPENSE. 289 
 
 ' Is there any one for whom you have not ca're and 
 thought, Mr. Bethune?' asked Willie Lorraine impulsively. 
 ' Do not fear ; there is one theme which I shall find so 
 absorbing and exhaustless that I shall scarcely have 
 room to enlarge upon any other.' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 ' Your love and goodness ! ' 
 
 ' Hush, boy ! You make too much of it. I have had 
 my deep reward. If you had seen the look on your 
 sister's face when I told her the good news, you would 
 know I had had my reward.' 
 
 ' It seems so strange to hear you speak of my sister, 
 to think you have so lately looked upon her face. Is 
 she not beautiful, Mr. Bethune ? ' 
 
 James Bethune did not at once reply. His eyes were 
 fixed on the dancing flames, and it semed as if he had 
 forgotten his companion. Then slowly a great light 
 dawned upon the mind of Willie Lorraine. But he was 
 silent, not daring to intrude uninvited upon that sacred 
 silence. 
 
 Next day these two travelled to Scotland by the 
 morning train. Willie Lorraine was intensely excited, 
 as was natural ; alternately full of hope and joy, and 
 then downcast and sorely weighed down by the thought 
 of his unworthy past, and the haunting fear lest he should 
 find them changed. He spoke most of Beatrice, but it 
 was of his father his heart was full. It was against him 
 he had most grievously sinned, and sometimes, when a 
 memory of his old, stern, unrelenting judging swept darkly 
 across his heart, he could almost have wished himself 
 back in London. James Bethune read these thoughts 
 like an open page, but said little, only prayed that all 
 might be well. As they neared their journey's end, it 
 was as if some unseen hand had laid a tender touch on 
 
 25
 
 290 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 his heart, calming its restlessness, and making him 
 strong, self-reliant, quiet for the coming ordeal. 
 
 ' We can get a train at Lockerbie in a few minutes, I 
 believe,' said James Bethune, as the train, nearing the 
 junction, slackened pace. ' But I think the walk would 
 do us good ; it is scarcely six miles. "What do you say?' 
 
 ' Yes ; let us walk. There is no hurry, is there ? ' 
 
 ' Are you feeling a trifle reluctant now, Walter ? ' 
 asked his friend with a smile. ' Never mind, all will be 
 well. I feel strangely at rest now that it is coming so 
 near.' 
 
 ' Without you I should never have come. My heart 
 would have failed me long ago,' said Walter grate- 
 fully, and just then the train steamed into the station. 
 A number of passengers alighted and they made their 
 way through the throng outside the gates; and there 
 a footman in livery stepped up to James Bethune. 
 
 ' Mr. Bethune, sir, and friend for Nethercleugh ? ' he 
 said courteously. 
 
 Involuntarily the two looked at each other, then 
 James Bethune nodded and took his companion by the 
 arm. ' They have sent to meet us ; a good omen, Walter. 
 Keep up your heart.' 
 
 It was a close carriage drawn by a pair of fine high- 
 stepping roans ; it was as if the master of Nethercleugh 
 desired to do all honour to the expected guests. Not a 
 word was spoken during the half-hour of their drive; 
 but when they swept through the lodge gates James 
 Bethune turned to his companion with a smile. ' Look 
 up and about- you, Walter ; this is home.' 
 
 ' I cannot, Mr. Bethune. See, I am trembling in 
 every limb ! I could not bear this much longer. Oh, 
 I wish it was all over ! Am I not a terrible coward ? ' 
 
 ' I understand and sympathize with you. It will be
 
 RECOMPENSE. 291 
 
 all over soon,' said James Bethune cheerfully. ' I want 
 to tell you, Walter, how proud I am of you to-day. You 
 look so well. You are a son of whom all Nethercleugh 
 will be proud as well as I.' 
 
 So he tried to reassure the faltering heart, to give him 
 confidence in himself ; but he too became silent as they 
 neared the house. The hall door was open, and when 
 they ascended the steps a maid was in waiting to usher 
 them in. She led the way to the library, and said Miss 
 Lorraine would be with them directly, just as if they 
 were ordinary callers. 
 
 ' I think I had better leave the room, Walter, before 
 your sister comes,' said James Bethune the moment they 
 were left alone. 
 
 ' Oh no, I cannot be left ! ' said Willie Lorraine 
 nervously. 'Do stay.' 
 
 ' If you wish it, but I would rather go,' said James 
 Bethune, and, walking over to the farthest window, he 
 stood within the rich hangings, and watched the yellow 
 sunlight falling aslant the daisied turf. These brief 
 moments were like hours to both. At last the handle 
 of the door was turned, and there was the soft rustle of 
 a woman's dress in the room. 
 
 ' Willie oh, Willie, Willie ! ' 
 
 ' Beatrice, my darling ! ' 
 
 Then there was the sound of sobbing in the quiet 
 room, and James Bethune drew the hangings close about 
 him, and stood looking out upon the sunshine, trying to 
 think of other things. They had forgotten him, and he 
 was glad of it ; he had hoped they would. 
 
 ' Come ! ' he heard Beatrice say at length, in a 
 trembling, eager whisper. ' Papa is waiting. He is not 
 able to be out of his room. Come away.' 
 
 ' I am afraid, Beatrice. I dare not meet him.'
 
 292 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Oh yes. There is nothing to fear, dear. We had a 
 long, long talk to-day. I do not know which I love 
 best, papa or you. Oh, he will be kind and loving, I 
 know ! He too regrets the past. And when he sees 
 you as you are now ! When I look upon your face, my 
 brother, and see all that is written there, my heart is 
 like to break for joy. You look better than even in the 
 best of the old days. But come ; these moments are hours 
 for poor papa ! ' 
 
 James Bethune felt that she had laid her gentle hand 
 on her brother's, and was leading him from the room. 
 He waited until they had gone away, until he heard 
 footsteps die away on the stairs, then the shutting of a 
 door. Then in the deep hush which followed, he too 
 left the room, and took his hat from the table. As he 
 entered the hall, a maid came out of the dining-room, 
 where she had been preparing the table for dinner. 
 
 ' If Mr. or Miss Lorraine inquires for me, say I have 
 gone to the manse, please,' he said, 'and that I shall 
 return later in the evening.' 
 
 ' But, sir, I think you are expected to dine. Miss 
 Lorraine bade me lay covers for three, and the master is 
 not able to be down-stairs.' 
 
 ' Never mind, Miss Lorraine will understand,' returned 
 James Bethune with a nod and a smile ; ' and I shall 
 be sure to return in the evening/ 
 
 So saying, he walked out into the clear, pleasant air, 
 and struck across the park to the burn road to Loch- 
 broom. His mission was accomplished, his work done, 
 and they had no need of him. Now that the tension 
 of the past days was removed, he felt strangely depressed, 
 almost sad. Was it that the voice of Beatrice Lorraine 
 had awakened once more that pain which he knew was 
 the hunger of love ? He walked quickly, trying to rid
 
 RECOMPENSE. 293 
 
 himself of these burdening thoughts, trying to dwell 
 rather on the joy he had helped to bring to the home 
 which sheltered her, but he was glad when he reached 
 the manse. The hands of the church clock were pointing 
 to six when he opened the garden gate and strode up 
 the gravelled pathway to the house. The minister was 
 at home, and at tea, the housekeeper said with a smile, 
 and he walked straight into the dining-room. 
 
 ' Well, sir, here I am again ! ' he said cheerily. ' Is 
 there any of that cheering brew left for me, eh ? ' 
 
 The minister sprang up, and gripped him by both 
 hands. 
 
 ' Jamie, you just come down on a fellow like a clap 
 of thunder. What are you doing here again ? ' 
 
 ' I'll tell you presently. I'm glad of anything that 
 gives me a chance to see you,' said Jamie heartily. 
 ' You are looking well. I had hardly time to get a good 
 look at you last time I was here.' 
 
 ' I am well, thanks. You have been working too 
 hard, that's evident. Are your traps down-stairs ? You 
 will be going to stay over the Sabbath at any rate.' 
 ' No ; I'm going off to-morrow morning.' 
 ' What does all this mean ? If you would give me 
 some sort of explanation of these frequent and extra- 
 ordinary journeys, I should feel greatly obliged.' 
 
 Jamie laughed, and threw himself into a chair. For 
 the time the feeling of loneliness and depression was 
 gone melted away in the sunshine of Sandy's presence. 
 ' Well, I'll tell you briefly, just to satisfy your 
 insatiable curiosity I've been at Nethercleugh to-day.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! I'm certainly grateful that you should 
 deign to honour me with a call at all ! ' exclaimed the 
 minister in feigned disdain. ' What does this all mean, 
 Jamie ? You did the very same thing last time.'
 
 294 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'Well, the explanation is simple enough. I came 
 across the lost son of the house of Lorraine in London, 
 and he has been with me all winter. Anxiety to bring 
 about a reconciliation brought me down. It is effected 
 now, I am happy to say. Willie Lorraine travelled with 
 me from London to-day ; his father's carriage met us at 
 Lockerbie, and I left him at Nethercleugh and came up 
 to you. Will that satisfy you ? ' 
 
 For a moment the minister stared in speechless 
 amazement. 
 
 ' Do you say so ? How calmly you speak, as if it 
 were a very small matter. How did it all come 
 about ? ' 
 
 1 It is a long story. I'll tell it another time, Sandy. 
 I want to hear something about yourself. I have to go 
 back to Nethercleugh to-night, for I took a species of 
 French leave after I had delivered my charge. We'll 
 have a long talk to-night yet. We can sit up till 
 morning. It is only once in a while we have the 
 chance.' 
 
 ' It is. I was over at Star last week, Jamie.' 
 
 ' Were you ? Aunt Susan is in her usual, I know, 
 for I had Mary's letter before I left this morning. Did 
 you see Mary, Sandy ? ' 
 
 ' No, I did not dare to go up. I mil go some day, 
 Jamie.' 
 
 The words were significant enough, and James Bethune 
 looked straight into his brother's eyes. 
 
 ' You have got over it all, Sandy. This has been an 
 eventful year for you.' 
 
 ' 1 know what you mean. Do you know, Jamie, 
 Beatrice Lorraine's refusal was the best thing which 
 could have happened to me. It showed me a great 
 many things. It opened my eyes. Some day I shall
 
 RECOMPENSE. 295 
 
 thank her for it. She is my friend now ; she knows a 
 little of my strivings ; she sympathizes and helps me in 
 my work. What a friend she is for any man to have ! 
 The one who may call her wife will be to be envied, but 
 / shall not envy him that is past.' 
 
 James Bethune sat silent, his heart overcharged with 
 deep thankful '-ess, weighed down by a reverent sense of 
 the unspeakable goodness of God. Only His hand could 
 unravel the knotted skein of life, and bring sweetest 
 harmonies out of direst discord. There stole into his 
 mind the verse of Faber's hymn which Doctor Kinross 
 had repeated to him one evening at the manse of 
 St. Giles,- 
 
 'All is right that seems most wrong 
 If it be His sweet will.' 
 
 How true they were he had proved out of the 
 abundance of his own experience of life. 
 
 ' That is the carriage from Nethercleugh, Mr. Bethune/ 
 said the housekeeper, opening the dining-room door. 
 ' Gray says he has to take the gentlemen back with 
 him.' 
 
 The brothers looked at each other, and Sandy shook 
 his head. 
 
 ' There is no need for me to go. You will not be late, 
 Jamie ; I can easily occupy myself till you come back.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, man ! You must come and help me 
 through with the thanks I know Mr. Lorraine will 
 insist on pouring on me. They will make so much of 
 what I did. Why shouldn't you share the general joy ? 
 Come away.' 
 
 Pei haps the minister was not very difficult to persuade, 
 for he smiled, and, following his brother down -stairs, 
 donned his hat and coat, and entered the carriage with 
 him.
 
 296 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 'Fancy us two riding in a real carriage and pair, 
 Sandy !' laughed James Bethune as they bowled smoothly 
 along the dry roads. 'Do you mind the time when wo 
 ran barefoot together to gump in the Star burn ? We've 
 seen a lot since then.' 
 
 ' Ay, we have. Do you know, I have thought more of 
 these old days of late than I ever did. I wish the old 
 .nan were yet alive, Jamie. I shall never have the 
 chance to atone to him for the past. What an un- 
 grateful, unfilial son I was to him ! ' 
 
 ' Don't dwell on these old sores, Sandy. Don't you 
 suppose he knows all up there ? Why, he knows more 
 about us than we know ourselves ; and I believe it is a 
 real joy to him to see his laddies getting on. When I 
 think of it, do you know, heaven seems almost as near 
 as earth. He was a splendid man our father, Sandy; 
 / have never met his marrow.' 
 
 ' You could appreciate him more than I, because you 
 came nearer his true nature. There were many things 
 about him I never understood, just because I stood on a 
 lower level.' 
 
 ' Oh, come now, don't say that. You were so much 
 away from home ; you did not know him so well as I, 
 if I may so put it. I think we have reason to thank 
 God for our home and our early training. It taught us 
 self-reliance and independence. Why, here we are 
 already ! Do you know, I would rather not go in. I 
 could go away back to London content, now that I know 
 it is all right. The windows seem to be all lighted,' he 
 added, looking out as they swept round the curve in the 
 avenue. ' That looks like rejoicing in earnest.' 
 
 As they ascended the steps to the open door, Beatrice 
 came running down the staircase as if in haste to meet 
 them. Both looked at ber in silent admiration, struck
 
 RECOMPENSE. 297 
 
 by the radiant change in her appearance. Her face was 
 aglow ; her eyes sparkling with happiness ; her every 
 movement seemed to be fraught with the restlessness 
 of joy. 
 
 ' Why did you run away, Mr. Bethune ? I cannot 
 tell you how I felt when I came down to find you 
 gone.' 
 
 ' It was better. Miss Lorraine.' he answered gcntlv. 
 
 o / 
 
 ' With such joy, you know, no stranger may inter- 
 meddle.' 
 
 ' He will call himself a stranger after all he has done !' 
 she said, turning to the minister. ' Oh, is not this a 
 blessed thing which has happened ? Willie is with papa 
 now, and it is all right. Will you come up, please, and 
 see him now ? ' 
 
 'I will remain down -stairs, Miss Lorraine,' said the 
 minister, feeling that he had hardly a place in that upper 
 room. ' Don't mind me ; I know my way to the library, 
 and perhaps you will bring your brother by and by to 
 shake hands with me. I hardly need express my glad- 
 ness ; I think you know it is sincere.' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' she answered with a bright, happy smile. 
 ' Come then,' she added to James Bethune. ' Papa has 
 asked so often if you have come. He thinks with me 
 that we can never hope to acknowledge or repay what 
 you have done.' 
 
 So saying, she led the way up-stairs, James Bethune 
 following, feeling almost as if it were all a dream. 
 Xike a dream, too, was what followed. She opened tlu 
 door of her father's dressing-room, and they entered it 
 together. The master of Nethercleugh was lying on the 
 sofa in his dressing-gown, Willie sitting by him with his 
 hand fast clasped in his. James Bethune was surprised 
 to see the careworn and haggard look, as if he had
 
 298 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 passed through some trying illness. But there dwelt 
 upon his pale face a look of deep and quiet joy ; his eyes, 
 so keen and restless of yore, were filled with peace and 
 satisfaction and an indescribable depth of tenderness and 
 love. The face of his son wore that strange tremulous 
 expression born of strong emotion, and his sunny eyes 
 were still wet with tears. 
 
 At the entrance of James Bethune, Mr. Lorraine 
 dropped Willie's hand, and made an effort to rise. 
 
 'Nay, sir,' said James Bethune, advancing, a sunny 
 smile irradiating his true face. ' Do not rise, and do not 
 speak, I beg of you. I know all you would say. Allow 
 me only to express my deep satisfaction at this happy 
 ending, and then let there be no more about it.' 
 
 ' No more about it ! ' repeated the master of Nether- 
 cleugh with a somewhat sad smile, and he closed his two 
 pale hands over the one offered to him in such sympathy 
 and friendship. ' Sir, I would thank you as a father for 
 what you have done. My son has tried to tell me of all 
 your goodness, but words have failed him, even as they 
 fail me now.' 
 
 ' If I needed any thanks, any reward, Mr. Lorraine, it 
 is here,' said James Bethune, laying a kind hand on 
 Willie's bowed head. ' I have hoped and prayed for this. 
 I cannot express what it is to me to see him here beside 
 his nearest and dearest.' 
 
 He turned slightly towards Beatrice, who stood with 
 that lovely smile on her lips, a smile of joy and hope 
 and tenderness combined in one. 
 
 If I could hope to do something, just to show my 
 gratitude,' repeated Mr. Lorraine with a mingling of 
 dignity and pleading in his tone; but James Bethune 
 "rice more uplifted a deprecating hand. 
 
 ' Whatever you do for Walter, for Walter he will be
 
 RECOMPENSE. 299 
 
 to me, I fear, to the end of the chapter, Mr. Lorraine, 
 will be done for me. We shall hear great things of him 
 yet, I prophesy.' 
 
 Mr. Lorraine turned his eyes, full of ineffable tender- 
 ness, on his boy's bent head. That look told James 
 Bethune that the reconciliation had been complete, and 
 that love had conquered all. He turned aside a little, 
 for his eyes were strangely dim. He need not have 
 been ashamed of these tears, they were no dishonour to 
 his manhood. 
 
 ' Willie, will you come down-stairs and see Mr. 
 Bethune's brother?' said Beatrice presently. 'Perhaps 
 papa would like a little talk with your friend. Do 
 come.' 
 
 Willie rose then, and, as he wound his arm about his 
 sister, there was an air of proud proprietorship, as well as 
 of fond love, which became him well. So they quitted 
 the room together, the father's eyes following them until 
 the door was closed. 
 
 ' It is like the past come back,' he said with a tender 
 smile. ' Mr. Bethune, will you tell me what induced you 
 to do so much for those who were almost strangers to 
 you ? Nay, I must talk of it. I do not want to lay it 
 aside or think lightly of it, if that were possible. To 
 my dying day I shall be grateful ; how grateful even you 
 cannot know. You have not only restored my son to me, 
 but you have made a man of him.' 
 
 ' Nay, I only helped him to make a man of himself/ 
 corrected James Bethune. ' I fear you will not find it 
 easy to spare him to his London life again/ 
 
 ' We have talked even of that in the short time we 
 have been together. He has made his choice ; he will 
 return with you. He wants to push his way just as if 
 we had not any part in his life. I honour him f;r it.
 
 300 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 I am content that it should be so, at least for a time. 
 God forbid that I should stand in the way of honest 
 endeavour. I have learned my sharp lesson well. You 
 will not withdraw your love and care for him yet 
 awhile?' 
 
 ' Never so long as he needs it. I have not so many 
 friends in London that I can afford to lose the one 
 dearest to me,' was the answer, given with a smile which 
 was more than the words. 
 
 ' And you will come sometimes often here ? You 
 will learn to look upon this as your home ? ' said the 
 master of Nethercleugh eagerly. ' I would entreat you 
 to believe that you are as welcome in it as if you were 
 my own.' 
 
 ' I thank you, Mr. Lorraine ; but it will be better for 
 me not to come not to think too much of Nethercleugh,' 
 answered James Bethune unsteadily, moved by a strange 
 impulse to utter the words. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Do you not understand ? ' 
 
 ' I think I do. My daughter ? ' 
 
 James Bethune nodded, and for a moment there was 
 a strange silence, and these two men looked into each 
 other's eyes with a long, intense look. 
 
 ' You love her, as a man loves the woman he would 
 make his wife ? ' said the master of Nethercleugh at 
 length; and a smile began to creep about the corners of 
 his grave, stern mouth. 
 
 ' I do ; so much that I cannot promise myself that I 
 can see her often and hide it. This has come to me 
 without my seeking, Mr. Lorraine,' said James Bethune 
 in his manly, straightforward fashion. ' I have loved her 
 since that night I saw her first at the manse of St. Giles. 
 But I shall not forget the gulf between us.'
 
 RECOMPENSE. 301 
 
 ' What gulf ? There is none which you cannot bridge. 
 There is no man to whom I would more willingly give 
 my daughter.' 
 
 ' Sir ? ' 
 
 ' I am in earnest. You may be poor as the world 
 estimates poverty, but you have what any king might 
 envy/ said Mr. Lorraine with kindling eye, for his heart 
 went out to this true and noble man with a great yearn- 
 ing. ' If you can win her love, I shall not stand in the 
 way ; nay, I will give her to you with a thankful, happy 
 heart. Your wife, when you take one, will be a blessed 
 woman.' 
 
 He stretched out his hand, and the warm, fervent clasp 
 sealed his words. Jpmes Bethune had not yet formed 
 his answer, when there was the sound of sweet laughter 
 and the tread of light footsteps on the stairs, and the 
 next moment Beatrice and Willie entered the room, 
 followed by the minister of Lochbroom.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 * love ! that makes breath poor 
 And speech unable ! ' 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 an August evening the two brothers were 
 walking leisurely over the hill from Markinch 
 to the Star. James Bethune had just 
 entered upon a well-earned holiday, which 
 he was to spend chiefly at Lochbroom. He 
 had only arrived from London that morning, 
 and Sandy had met him in Edinburgh in order 
 that they might first pay a visit to Aunt Susan and 
 their early home. They were a goodly pair as they 
 strode together up the familiar way, a stranger would 
 have found it difficult to say which was the more strik- 
 ing of the two. Jamie towered above his brother, find 
 carried himself perhaps with a manlier grace. His face, 
 if less smooth and refined, had its own deep charm of 
 quiet earnestness and power. There were lines on the 
 
 broad brow, and grave, thoughtful curves about the firm 
 
 am
 
 ALL'S WELL. 303 
 
 yet sweet mouth, which told of wrestling with the 
 problems of life. But he had found sweetness and 
 strength in the struggle, for is there not a glorious joy 
 in surmounting the hills of difficulty, in wrestling with 
 the lions in the path until they be overcome ? The idler 
 and the day- dreamer know nothing of the deep saf ; s- 
 faction which crowns the earnest life of the toiler, and 
 which I can ot but think is a foretaste of that heavenlier 
 c~lm with which each true servant of the King will be 
 rewarded hereafter. 
 
 They walked slowly, as was natural, pausing often to 
 look at some familiar landmark, perhaps a bramble bush 
 or a rowan tree, or some hidden nook in the hawthorn 
 hedge, where the mavises were wont to build. When 
 they reached the brow of the hill they stood still, and, 
 leaning on the stile, looked at the landscape stretching 
 about their feet. The bonnie waters of the Firth seemed 
 very near ; they could see each foamy crest on the blue 
 waves, and the white wings of the pleasure-boats out 
 from the sheltered havens along the coast. The May 
 Island and the Bass stood out clear and well-defined 
 against the sky, with the peak of North Berwick Law 
 and the sunny slopes of the Lammermuirs in the distance. 
 Looking landward, the peak of Largo Law seemed almost 
 within a stone's throw ; and they had to recall a Saturday 
 afternoon when they had set out on a secret pilgrimage 
 from the Star, fired with ambition to climb its summit, 
 but had failed in their purpose before they were half-way 
 to Leven. Then their eyes rested on the little hamlet 
 at their feet, which had still a home-feeling for them 
 both. There were changes there too which saddened 
 them. Looking down, they could see the ruins of many 
 a little cottage, which had each its own history they 
 knew by heart. The weaving trade was done in Star,
 
 304 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 killed by the great factories, where machinery had com- 
 pletely superseded hand-labour ; and so, there being no 
 occupation for the young folk, they had to seek their way 
 to the centres where they could find something to do. 
 
 ' It's not like the same place,' said Jamie with a half 
 sigh. ' How strange it is to see the loch yonder in 
 Carriston fields ! Buckhaven folk might have gone else- 
 where for their water supply.' 
 
 ' It's rather an improvement to the landscape, I think ; 
 but, as you say, it is all changed. Tender's a new house 
 building on the Star burn ; whose can it be ? ' 
 
 ' Aunt Susan will be able to give us the most minute 
 particulars-, I don't doubt,' said Jamie, laughing. ' Come, 
 we must be wearing down ; it's after four o'clock, and 
 she'll be wearying on her tea, I know. How would you 
 like to come back here and live, eh ? ' 
 
 ' I can't imagine myself doing it. Neither of us would 
 relish it much, I'm afraid ; but it's pleasant to see the old 
 place again,' answered the minister, and as his eyes 
 rested on the clustering roofs of the Knowe, a softened 
 and beautiful expression filled them. And then there 
 was a long silence, for each was busy with his own 
 thoughts. As they strode rapidly down the road, past 
 the malt barns, many a head was popped out of the 
 doors, and, when they were out of sight, one ran to 
 another, asking if 'she had seen John Bethune's sons 
 gang by.' For though Aunt Susan knew of their coming, 
 she had discreetly kept her own counsel ; even in her 
 age she retained her rooted dislike to ' clashes.' But 
 she had grown impatient for their arrival, and directly 
 they turned the school corner they saw her at the 
 garden gate, shading her eyes under her white mutch, 
 and peering anxiously up the road. And in a minute 
 they had received her warm, hearty welcome, and were
 
 ALL'S WELL. 305 
 
 in the old, old home once more. It was not changed. 
 There were the queer, high hox-beds, the wag-at-the-wa', 
 the plate-rack and the dresser with their shining array ; 
 the quaint old fireplace, whitened with pipeclay, and 
 the ' swee,' with the big kettle singing merrily above the 
 ' lowin' peats.' 
 
 ' Eh, laddies, an' ye're here again, thank the Lord ! ' 
 said Aunt Susan, getting on her spectacles to have a 
 better look at them. ' My certy ! I believe ye're baith 
 growin' yet. Jamie, bairn, ye're jist by-ordinar' like yer 
 faither. Is he no' noo, Sandy ? ' 
 
 ' He is indeed, Aunt Susan.' 
 
 ' But ye are like yer mither, my man, an' site was a 
 bonnie body,' Aunt Susan made haste to say, lest he 
 should feel himself left out in the cold. 
 
 I may mention that Aunt Susan had of late con- 
 siderably thawed towards the minister, since he had 
 shown more signs of grace. 
 
 ' But come awa' an' tak' yer teas. I'se warrand ye're 
 ready for't. The cakes an' the scones's mine, an' the 
 butter an' the cream's the Knowes, an' I wager ye 
 hinna tastit the like sin' ye were last i' the Star. Fa* 
 tae, lads, an' dinna mind me. It's meat to me the nicht 
 jist to look at ye,' said Aunt Susan, her voice a little 
 unsteady in her great joy, and she hovered abo. .t them, 
 attending to their wants, and heaping up their plates 
 with far more than they could eat. 
 
 ' Ye're renewin' your youth, auntie,' said Jamie 
 merrily, for his heart was as light as a feather to-nighfc. 
 ' I believe I'll get ye up to London yet.' 
 
 'There's nae sayin',' answered Aunt Susan with a 
 twinkle in her eye. 'Maybe, if ye get a by-ordinar 
 braw English wife, I'll come an' gie her a fricht wi' my 
 Scotch ways ; eh, Sandy ? ' 
 
 26
 
 306 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 1 1 don't think that'll be for a long time, Aunt Susan,' 
 answered the minister, for he had no idea of the hope 
 of his brother's heart 
 
 That one thing Jamie had not revealed, because it 
 was too sacred to himself to be spoken about to another. 
 "When tea was over they sat chatting for a while, and 
 then Sandy rose and said he would go out for a stroll. 
 Aunt Susan nodded, and continued nodding, apparently 
 with satisfaction, after he had gone. 
 
 ' He's awa' tae the Knowe, ye ken. Ay, maybe that'll 
 come richt efter a'. Did I no' aye say he wad rue the 
 day he slichted Mary ? ' she asked with a species of quiet 
 triumph. ' Did ye ken he wrote a letter tae Dauvit an 
 Jean no' lang syne ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he told me ; but they never answered it.' 
 
 ' Aweel, maybe he deserved it ; an' yet, though I 
 never saw the letter, they tell me it was straichtforit 
 an' weel dune. He owned himsel' in the wrang, an' 
 speered if they wad let him mak' up wi' Mary again.' 
 
 ' And why didn't they write ? ' 
 
 * It was Jean. Dauvit's heart's saft eneuch, but she's 
 been fell bitter ower't. She says he's ta'en the licht o' 
 day awa' frae Mary for mony a year, an' that he maun 
 bear the brunt o't rfoo a wee.' 
 
 ' And what about Mary ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, they didna tell her aboot it. It's no' wi' her 
 he'll hae the tussle. She's a lamb, laddie, an' her 
 heart's never swithered an inch frae him. But I'm 
 no' for him takin' her even yet, unless he'll mak' up 
 till her for a' she's borne. The cratur's cairried a 
 sair, sair heart, Jamie, an' grat mony a saut tear 
 when naebody kent.' 
 
 ' Aunt Susan, I believe he loves her very dearly. His 
 infatuation for another has been completely cured, and
 
 ALL'S WELL. S07 
 
 his heart has returned to its old allegiance with a deeper 
 hold. I hope they won't stand in the way.' 
 
 ' Oh, I dinna think they'll haud oot lang. But Jean 
 '11 gie him a word, I dinna doot,' said Aunt Susan. ' But 
 come, tell me anent yersel'. Hoo's things in Lunnon ? 
 Are ye workin' as sair's ever ? ' As she spoke she sat 
 down fair in front of him, and, folding her arms, waited 
 to hear all the news. 
 
 Meanwhile the minister had reached the Knowe. 
 The kitchen door was wide open as usual, but he did 
 not enter as he used to do long ago, without notice or 
 ceremony. 
 
 ' Come in,' answered the mistress's voice in reply to 
 his knock, and there was nothing for it but to accept 
 the invitation. She was sitting darning at the fire, and, 
 looking up when he entered, said, with the scantiest 
 courtesy, 
 
 'Oh, it's you!' 
 
 Then she dropped her eyes on the heel of her stocking 
 again, and paid him no further heed. 
 
 'May I not sit down, Mrs. Campbell?' asked the 
 minister rather lamely, for his reception was certainly 
 calculated to disconcert him. 
 
 ' There's chairs in the hoose. Ye didna used to need 
 a biddin',' she answered quite as ungraciously, and 
 another awkward silence ensued. 
 
 ' Wha is't ye've come to see, Sandy Bethune ? I'm 
 no' maisterin' ye, ye see, though ye be a minister. Is't 
 me, or Dauvit, or wha is't ? If it's me, I'm here. If it's 
 Dauvit, he's operiin' the roads on Edom's Laund ; ye wad 
 see the barley's ready. He'll be in in the inside o' an 
 hoor.' 
 
 ' Where is Mary, Mrs. Campbell ? ' 
 
 'Mary's whaur she is/ answered the mistress stiffly;
 
 308 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 then she cut her thread, folded up her stocking, and 
 turned her large keen eyes full upon his face. 
 
 ' "We got yec letter, Sandy Bethune, an' it was me 
 that wadna let the maister answer't. I've aye said that 
 I'd gie ye a word when I got haud o' ye, an' I've gotten 
 the chance noo. But ye look as if ye kent what I think 
 o' ye, so I'll no' say muckle on that heid. I said to 
 Dauvit that if ye. were as muckle in earnest as ye said 
 in your letter, ye wad come yersel' to the Knowe. 
 Weel, ye have come, an' afore we gang ony further 
 there are some things I want to ken. Should Mary be 
 willint to forgie ye, are ye prepared to mak' up for't a' ? 
 Supposin', noo, that ye mak' her yer wife, wull ye dae 
 weel by her, wull ye try an' mak' her happy ? Unless 
 that, ye maun gang yer gate again. Mary disna ken 
 ye are here the day, she disna ken aboot that letter, an' 
 she'll never ken frae me.' 
 
 Sandy Bethune sat still, with his face hidden on his 
 hand. These were sharp moments, for Jean Campbell's 
 honest tongue did not spare him. Ay, it was a humbling 
 experience for the popular minister of Lochbroom. But 
 he raised his head presently, and met it with a manly 
 courage. 
 
 ' Mrs. Campbell, if Mary will forgive me, my life will 
 be devoted to her happiness. If she will trust herself 
 with me yet, God will help me to make her a happy 
 woman.' 
 
 'Then ye can gang ben to the room, an' I'll set Mary 
 till ye. She's no' faur awa',' said Jean Campbell, and her 
 eyes softened a little, and the sternness about her mouth 
 relaxed. ' Eh, laddie, what way did ye bring sae muckle 
 needless vexation on yersel' an' ither folk ? ' she added, 
 and the tears started to her eyes. She had had her 
 say, and her heart was touched by the minister's down-
 
 ALL'S WELL 309 
 
 cast look, and by the earnestness of his whole manner. 
 She pointed him silently to the room, and, shutting the 
 door between, sat down by the fire to relieve her 
 feelings with a good cry. 
 
 When the minister crossed the little lobby, and opened 
 the room door, there was Mary at the sewing-machine in 
 the window, her fair head bent low over her seam. 
 When he entered she gave a great start, and the white 
 garment fell from her trembling hands, and she shook 
 from head to foot. Sandy Bethune closed the door and 
 leaned up against it, and these two looked at each other 
 in deep silence. 
 
 ' Is Aunt Jean not in ? ' she asked at last in a voiceless 
 whisper. ' Let me go and see ; I would rather not stay 
 here.' 
 
 ' She knows I am here, Mary. She sent me to you,' 
 said the minister hoarsely, and then began to plead his 
 cause with an impassioned earnestness such as she had 
 never seen before. Her colour slowly receded, and sho 
 leaned up against the table, and listened in a strange, 
 dazed way, as if she could hardly comprehend it. Even 
 while he was speaking, he took keen note of her fragile 
 appearance ; he saw how white and blue- veined the little 
 hands were ; the wan, worn cheek, the transparent 
 brow, the shadowed eyes, were not lost upon him ; 
 oh no, he saw all these, and they went like arrows 
 to his heart 
 
 ' What is it you are saying ? Are you asking me to 
 be your wife again ? ' she whispered faintly. ' I hear your 
 words, but I do not understand. I thought it was past 
 for ever.' 
 
 He could have knelt at her feet to pray for her for- 
 giveness, his heart went out in such a rush of yearning 
 love.
 
 310 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' If you will only give me the chance, Mary, to try and 
 atone for the past,' he pleaded. ' Be my wife ; I will 
 ask no love until I have won it again. My darling, do 
 not send me away ! Unworthy though I am, you loved 
 me once. Let the memory of that old love soften your 
 heart. / love you now, with the love of a life. Oh, I 
 pray it has not come too late ! ' 
 
 She stood still, looking with far-away eyes through 
 the little window to the waving corn-fields ; it was im- 
 possible to tell what were her thoughts. 
 
 ' If, when it was too late, you should regret, you should 
 find that I am not the wife for you, what then ? 
 
 ' Be merciful, Mary ! Don't stab me with the past. I 
 know now that you are far above me. Let me prove 
 to you my sincerity. Don't you see I am terribly in 
 earnest ? ' 
 
 He sat clown then and dropped his head on both his 
 hands. For a moment Mary contemplated him as if in 
 wonder, and then slowly the light of a sweet compassion 
 began to dawn upon her face. In another moment she 
 was kneeling by his side, and her arm was about his 
 neck. And the past with its haunting, bitter memories 
 melted away in the deep joy of these moments, and there 
 sprang from its ashes a new and boundless trust, which 
 brought to the hearts of both a soothing and abiding 
 peace. 
 
 
 
 One evening, a week later, James Bethune walked 
 leisurely along the burn path to Nethercleugh. He had 
 left Sandy at Star, and travelled south alone. If he 
 were to come at all, it was time now, for his brief holiday 
 would end in two days. Had he not been under promise, 
 I believe he would have returned to London without 
 visiting Nethercleugh, for the time had not yet come
 
 ALL'S WELL. 311 
 
 for him to whisper his passionate hopes to the woman he 
 loved, and he knew that at any moment in her presence 
 he might be tempted to forget the vow he had made, to 
 have some worthy thing to lay at her feet before he 
 asked her to share his life. 
 
 But Sandy's happiness had awakened in him all the 
 old, intolerable yearnings, and his heart that autumn 
 evening was out of time with the beauty and fulness of 
 his surroundings. It had been an exceptionally fine 
 season throughout, and in the early parts of Annandale 
 the harvest was gathered in before a leaf had changed its 
 hue. But now there was a yellowing tin^e on the 
 beeches, the brambles were purpling in the hedgerows, 
 and the rowan had taken on its deepest crimson, telling 
 that fruitage-time was wearing past. In the Nethercleugh 
 woods some leaves had softly fluttered to the ground ; 
 they rustled under the feet of the solitary stroller, as he 
 walked slowly with his hands clasped behind him and 
 his eyes down-bent upon the ground. So he walked in 
 deep abstraction till he came to the little pathway which 
 would lead him across the park to the house. As he 
 emerged from the darkling shadows of the trees, his eyes 
 were dazzled by the blaze of splendour with which the 
 setting sun had gilded the many windows of the old 
 house until " it looked like a dream of fairyland. He 
 stood until the glory gradually dimmed and faded away, 
 until the grey turrets were left to the gentle shadows 
 of the gathering night. The hall door was wide 
 open as usual, and the casements of the drawing-room 
 were ajar, the lace curtains swaying gently in the 
 up-springing breeze. His ring at the bell sent the 
 clear, rich echo rebounding through the quiet house, 
 and startled a bird in the ivy into a sleepy chirp of 
 expostulation.
 
 312 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Bethune, sir ! ' exclaimed Kitty when she 
 came across the hall. ' Mr. Lorraine has been in Edin- 
 burgh to-day, and will not return till the late train. 
 Please come in, and I'll look for Miss Lorraine.' 
 
 ' Has Miss Lorraine gone out, Kitty ? ' 
 
 'Yes, sir. I saw her away across the park, not 
 half an hour ago. If you'll just come in, I'll soon 
 find her.' 
 
 ' Across the park, did you say ? I'll take a walk through 
 the wood, Kitty. Never mind, thank you,' said James 
 Bethune with a nod and a smile. ' If I miss her, she 
 will probably return before me.' 
 
 So he crossed the park again, and, re-entering the 
 woods, turned along the path to the wishing-well. How 
 long ago it seemed since he had walked that way with 
 Beatrice Lorraine ! Looking back, he could almost have 
 fancied the experience of that night a dream. He was 
 thinking of it, recalling how she had looked and spoken, 
 for he had never been so near her as then, when sud- 
 denly he caught the gleam of something white through 
 the trees. Two more steps, and he saw the slight figure 
 of Beatrice Lorraine standing by the wishing-well, with 
 her arm leaning on the mossy ledge of rock which over- 
 hung it, her head down-bent, as if her eyes sought to 
 fathom the dusky depths of the water bubbling and 
 sparkling over its basin into the burn below. The 
 crackling of the underbrush beneath his tread startled 
 her, and she took a hurried step forward, and peered 
 through the shadows, until she discerned the tall figure 
 approaching with no reluctant step. 
 
 ' I hope I have not startled you, Miss Lorraine,' he 
 said, raising his hat. ' I have been to the house, and 
 Kitty thought you had come this way. If I do not 
 intrude, will you allow me to accompany you back ? '
 
 ALL'S WELL. 313 
 
 'It is no intrusion,' she said, and her white lids 
 drooped over the eyes under his earnest gaze. ' Why 
 have you been so long ? We have looked for you every 
 day. Willie wrote that you had left London more than 
 a week ago.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have been in Fife with my brother/ he said 
 briefly, for his heart was beating, his pulses thrilling, 
 so that he could scarcely control himself. ' And how are 
 you ? Well, I hope.' 
 
 'Yes, thank you. I am afraid I greeted you 
 rather unceremoniously,' she said, smiling now, and 
 giving him her hand. ' You see you startled me. 
 It is not often I am disturbed at the wishing- 
 well.' 
 
 ' Then you come often here ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. It is a quiet spot. I like it,' she said quickly. 
 ' Have you enjoyed your holiday ? You were in need of 
 it, Willie said.' 
 
 ' Yes. It has been a hot, trying summer, and I have 
 been working hard.' 
 
 * In what way ? For the Gazette, or have you been 
 writing on your own account ? ' 
 
 1 Very little of that ; I have had other work. Willie 
 will tell you of it. We have been trying what we can 
 for toilers less blessed than ourselves : God has given us 
 some fruit already. But I made up my mind to leave 
 the story for Willie to tell. He will be down whenever 
 I go back.' 
 
 ' Willie has told us something of it in his letters, and 
 it made my heart burn. Oh, I could share such work, 
 I am sure. My sympathies and prayers have always 
 been with those who have tried to reclaim the lost.' 
 She spoke simply, but with a deep earnestness, and her 
 eyes grew dim with tears, 
 
 * 27
 
 314 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 ' I should not like to see you exposed to a tithe of the 
 risks we have run,' he said quickly. 
 
 ' Why not ? Do you think I should not meet them 
 fearlessly ? Do you know I grow very weary at times of 
 this sweet, quiet, monotonous life. I wonder if it is 
 wrong to long for the strife of battle rather than the ease 
 of peace ? I cannot but think that such a life as mine 
 is must foster selfishness and narrow prejudices. Indeed, 
 I sometimes feel myself shirking unpleasant duties, and 
 then I grow afraid. Papa needs me yet. He is not 
 getting strong very fast ; but I sometimes think if he 
 were strong he would leave Nethercleugh. London has 
 a deep attraction for him now.' 
 
 James Bethune stood in silence, watching the ripple of 
 the burn, listening to its musical murmur as it danced 
 and leaped joyously in its rocky bed. His whole heart 
 was stirred. Dared he ask this woman, whom he loved 
 and reverenced with all the strength of his true manhood, 
 to share the struggle with him ? Dared he offer her such 
 things as he had, asking her for love's sake to come and 
 make a home for herself and for him ? dared he do 
 it? 
 
 ' How dark it grows here ; let us go,' she said presently 
 with a slight shiver, and drew her white shawl more 
 closely about her shoulders. He looked at her then ; his 
 eyes, deep-searching and keen, dwelt yearningly upon 
 her sweet face until once more its colour rose. He took 
 a step towards her ; he touched her arm, his face dark 
 with passionate pain. 
 
 * Beatrice ! I have little to offer but my love. Of that 
 you must know something ; I cannot hide it ! Will you 
 come?' 
 
 She looked at him, her breath came quick and fast, 
 but her eyes did not falter in their gaze. It was a
 
 ALL'S WELL. 315 
 
 moment of painful tension, almost of agony, when the 
 weal of two lives was trembling in the balance. 
 
 ' Above and beyond any other, for all time,' she said 
 brokenly at last. ' I will try to be worthy. I ' 
 
 She said no more, but the folds of her dress touched 
 him ; she laid her hand on his. And so he took her, 
 the woman whom God had given him for his wife, whose 
 heart had awakened to his, who loved him even as he 
 loved her. I think there are moments still when men 
 and women touch the gates of Eden ; when life seems to 
 be a grander, nobler, heavenlier thing than they have yet 
 imagined it to be. So was it with these two. 
 
 ' It is dark now, my darling, and I must take you 
 home,' said James Bethune at length. ' I cannot realize 
 that I dare call you my darling without reproof.' 
 
 'And I cannot realize that I am so blessed,' she said, with 
 her head upon his breast ; for she had given herself to him 
 wholly, not seeking to hide or to make little of the love 
 which had grown in her heart. Her self-surrender was 
 characteristic of the woman who had been earnest and 
 true in all things since life's deeper meanings had dawned 
 upon her soul. It is not love, but only one of its many 
 counterfeits, which has its questions to ask, its conditions 
 to make, its reservations depending upon the treatment it 
 receives. No ; love, thank God ! is something infinitely 
 higher than that. 
 
 James Bethune's book is not yet finished ; I know not, 
 indeed, whether a line of it is written ; but I do know 
 that the largeness of life is preparing him to give to the 
 world something which will live in the hearts and bear 
 fruit in the lives of his fellow-men. He has probed to 
 the heart of things ; he has been content with no surface 
 knowledge ; he has examined for himself almost every
 
 316 THE GATES OF EDEN. 
 
 phase of human life. He is known for his keen insight 
 and unerring perceptions, as he is noted for his wideness 
 of sympathy and greatness of heart. It is not for me 
 to say here aught of his work. Who can estimate the 
 good even one earnest soul, following God's leading, can 
 do ? Its influence cannot be recorded in figures or words. 
 His wife is with him in his work. The one is indis- 
 pensable to the other ; in such marriage there can be no 
 separate life, scarcely a separate thought. It being so, I 
 need not enlarge upon the happiness of their home. The 
 pity is that such types of what the Creator wishes and 
 intends human homes to be, should be so few. 
 
 We will leave them here, saying, ' God bless them 
 both!' 
 
 Willie Lorraine, the one son, dwells with his father at 
 Nethercleugh, but does not live an idle life. He is 
 pushing his way forward as a popular writer, and you 
 will find him always on the side of truth and honour 
 and right, condemning with relentless force all opposed 
 to these three. So, beyond a doubt, these dark years, 
 which cast a shadow sometimes yet, had their pur- 
 pose to fulfil in him. The master of Nethercleugh, 
 though in declining health, finds life sweetened by 
 his family ties, which ought never to have had their 
 broken links. 
 
 Sandy Bethune is not now the minister of Lochbroom, 
 but has found a heavy city charga But Mary had her 
 first experience of the duties of a minister's wife in her 
 husband's first parish, where she won the love of all. 
 His only wonder now is, how he could ever have dared 
 to be ashamed of her; and that humbling memory 
 makes his care for her very tender and very encompass- 
 ing in every way. And they are very happy, and doing 
 a good work where they now dwell.
 
 ALL'S WELL. 317 
 
 As for Aunt Susan, she is still hale and hearty in the 
 cottage in the Lang Eaw, and seems likely to live as 
 long as these worthies whose longevity so provoked Peter 
 Bethune on his death-bed. It is a pardonable boast 
 with her that at seventy-seven she went to London, and 
 lived to set foot in the Star again ; for Jamie himself, 
 soon after his marriage, came to fetch her ; and she came 
 back just overflowing with her sight-seeing, and full of 
 the praises of her nephew's wife, whom she speaks of 
 with reverential love as ' Mistress Jeems.'
 
 GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS. 
 
 A', all. 
 
 Div, do. 
 
 HAE, have. 
 
 Abee, be. 
 
 Dochter, daughter. 
 
 Haen, had. 
 
 Abune, above. 
 
 Dowie, sad. 
 
 Haein, having. 
 
 Aclae, to do. 
 
 Dowg, dog. 
 
 Hale, whole. 
 
 Ae, onlv, one. 
 
 Dreel, drill. 
 
 Hantle, deal. 
 
 Aff, off." 
 
 Drueken, drunken. 
 
 Harries, harrows. 
 
 Ahiut, behind. 
 
 Dune, done. 
 
 Hand, hold. 
 
 Aicht, eight. 
 
 
 Haudin, holding. 
 
 Ain, own. 
 Aince, once. 
 
 EERIE, timorous, afraid. 
 Efter after. 
 
 Hands, scolds. 
 Haverin, joking. 
 
 Airt, direction, course, 
 way. 
 
 Eneuch, enough. 
 
 Heelans, highlands. 
 Heevin, heaven. 
 
 Ane, one. 
 
 
 Held, head. 
 
 Auld, old. 
 
 FASUKD, troubled. 
 
 Hinna, have not. 
 
 Ava, at all. 
 
 Fauldit, folded. 
 
 Hoo, how. 
 
 Awa, away. 
 Ay, yes. " 
 Aye, alwavs. 
 
 Faur, far. 
 Faut, fault. 
 Peart, frightened. 
 
 Houp, hope. 
 Hurl, ride. 
 
 
 Fecht, fight. 
 
 ILKA, every. 
 
 BAIRN, child. 
 Bane, bone. 
 Bannet, bonnet. 
 Bannock, cake, biscuit. 
 Ben, frout, into the room. 
 
 Keck, most, greater part. 
 Flyte, scold. 
 Fo'rby, besides. 
 Forebears, ancestors. 
 Forgather, associate. 
 
 Imphim, humph. 
 Ingle-neuk, fireside, chim- 
 ney-corner, 
 lutae, into. 
 Ither, other. 
 
 Ben-end, front-room. 
 
 Forgie, forgive. 
 
 
 Billy, lad. 
 
 Frae, from. 
 
 KEN, know. 
 
 Bit, home. 
 
 Frem, strange. 
 
 Kent, known. 
 
 Blate, bashful. 
 
 Freen, friend. 
 
 Kist, chest. 
 
 Blawin, blowing. 
 
 Freit, freak. 
 
 Kittle, wild, skittish. 
 
 Blink, smile. 
 
 Fricht, fright. 
 
 Kye, cows. 
 
 
 Fule, fool. 
 
 
 Brawly, well. 
 
 Fyle, defile. 
 
 LAMMIE, lamb. 
 
 Breek, breeches. 
 
 
 Lane, alone. 
 
 Brocht, brought. 
 
 GAED, went. 
 
 Lave, love. 
 
 Burn, stream, creek. 
 
 Gar, make. 
 
 Lee, lie. 
 
 By-ordinar,extraordinary. 
 
 Gaun, gone. 
 
 Leear, liar. 
 
 Byre, stable. 
 
 Gear, goods. 
 
 Leeved, lived. 
 
 
 Gey, good, long, consider- 
 
 Leevin, living. 
 
 CANNY, good, well, gentle. 
 
 able. 
 
 Leuch, look. 
 
 Canty, smart, sharp,merry. 
 
 Geyan,same as Gey. 
 
 Likit, liked. 
 
 Carle, fellow. 
 
 Gie, give. 
 
 Lookit, looked. 
 
 Cauld, cold. 
 
 Gied, gave. 
 
 Loon, rogue, rascal. 
 
 Certy, surely, indeed. 
 
 Gien, given. 
 
 Lowse, loose. 
 
 Chiel, fellow. 
 
 Gin, again. 
 
 
 Claes, clothes. 
 
 Girn, grin. 
 
 MARROW, match. 
 
 Clashes, gossips. 
 
 Gled, glad. 
 
 Maun, must. 
 
 Clashin, gossiping. 
 
 Gliff, glance. 
 
 Mavises, thrushes. 
 
 Claverin, slandering. 
 
 Gloaming, twilight. 
 
 Meer, mare. 
 
 Corbies, crows. 
 
 Gomeril, fool, dolt. 
 
 
 Crack, talk, news. 
 
 Goon, gown. 
 
 NAE, OR XA, No. 
 
 
 Gowan, daisy. 
 
 Neebors, neighbors 
 
 DAE, do 
 
 Grat, wept. 
 
 Neepkin, napkin. 
 
 Daein, doing. 
 
 Graun, grand. 
 
 Noo, now. 
 
 Daft, mad, crazy. 
 
 Greeting, crying, weeping. 
 
 
 Dee, die. 
 
 Grit, sore. 
 
 ()CHT, ought. 
 
 Deed, died. 
 
 Grup, grip. 
 
 Oo, yes. 
 
 Deid, dead.^ 
 
 Gump, swim, bathe. 
 
 Oor, our. 
 
 Deidly, deadly. 
 
 Guid, good. 
 
 Oot, out. 
 
 Dinna, do not. 
 
 Gysened, hoopless. 
 
 Ower, over. 
 
 319
 
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