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 FPvOM GENERATION TO GEXERATIOX.
 
 FROM /__ .^^ n ' 
 
 GENERATION TO GENERATION. 
 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY 
 
 AUGUSTA ^'OEL, 
 
 
 ALTHOR OF 
 
 VAXDEEINTf WILLIE,' 
 
 ' " OWEN GWYXXE's great WORK," ETC 
 
 " Dowglas ! Dowglas ! 
 Tendir and trew. " 
 
 TKt IlouUite. 
 
 IX 
 
 TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 mac:milla:n' axd co. 
 
 1879. 
 
 Tht Right of Translation is Etsin-id.
 
 ^ u n ci n 11 : 
 
 CLAV AND TAYLOR, TUK criAlUER PaK.-
 
 v.± 
 
 VAOE 
 1 
 
 COXTEXTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 ])OrGLAS OF DALBKAITH . . 
 
 ^ CHAPTER II. 
 
 ■ THE BONNIE HIELAND HEATHEK " . . 20 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 vj I HE FOOT OF TIME . . . . . . 52 
 
 1 
 
 « CHAPTER IV. 
 
 «AS MORNING SHOWS THE DAY . . . . 81 
 
 s CHAPTER V. 
 
 "snow falls in the river" . . . . US
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CriAPTEll VI. 
 DULE AND SORROW . . . . • . 152 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN . . . . . . 182 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THROWN AWAY . . . . . . . . 212 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LORD RONALD, MY SON . . .."•.. 241
 
 FEOM GENEEATION TO GENEEATIOX. 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 This story passes from generation to gener- 
 ation. Perhaps it is very constant to none. 
 It is begun by a fragment — only a fragment 
 — wHcli, however, may serve as a paper 
 folded round the . scattered sheets, to keep 
 them together. 
 
 I don't think I can ever forget what he used 
 to tell me about himself, as we sat on the hill- 
 side together. 
 
 I saw even then that his life had been a sad 
 one — not a good useful life, though he softened 
 it down to suit what he thought I, his hearer, 
 ought to listen to. It was not that he wanted 
 to make himself out better than he was — that 
 was never Douglas's way, never — but he had
 
 2 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION, [inteod. 
 
 a man's tender reverence for a girl's ignorance 
 of the world, and of evil. For his own sake — 
 he was so true by nature, so earnest and manly 
 in his humility and repentance for the past, — 
 that for his own sake I think it would have 
 been a relief to him to speak out strongly and 
 boldly — to paint his life as black as he believed 
 it to have been ; but he never let himself go ; 
 he never forgot me and my happy uncon- 
 sciousness of the sin and sorrow in the world. 
 Yet he never excused anything that had been 
 wrong — he was himself always, — himself, 
 " tender and true." 
 
 And as I loved him, and even then saw 
 how noble he was, — saw that where he had 
 fallen he had most bravely, most humbly, 
 raised himself again ; that the excuses he would 
 not make for himself were yet shadowed forth 
 unconsciously in his own words, I, Diane de 
 Beaurepaire, longed greatly that the world 
 should understand him some day, — at least 
 such a portion of the world, a very small one, 
 it is true, as loved, praised, or blamed him. 
 
 So I used to write down his words, and I 
 am sure I wrote them accurately, for I had 
 always a good memory, doubly good for any-
 
 iMTBOD.] IXTEODUCTIOX. 3 
 
 thing in wMcli he was concerned. And as I 
 wrote and wrote (having much leisure in those 
 days, while Douglas was out on the hills, or by 
 the river, and his mother sat alone in her own 
 room), the fancy came upon me of writing his 
 life, and of making it as complete as I could. 
 
 Of course his way of telling it left it very 
 imperfect. It was like a chain broken over and 
 over again, till you could only gather up a few 
 of the links that had fallen apart, and were 
 scattered here and there. For Douglas did 
 not speak as to a stranger. I was no stranger 
 to him ; he filled up outlines ^ith which I 
 was already in possession. The scenes of his 
 home-life were familiar to me ; he had not to 
 describe much, and that was well. Douoias 
 was not good at description, or at what is 
 called character-drawing. Instead of explain- 
 ing to you what he thought of people, he 
 just told simply what they said and did, and 
 by that means (for he was very just), I think 
 one grew to understand with great clearness 
 what they were bke. 
 
 So when, as I have, said Douglas was out, 
 looking after his sheep-farm or his fishing, 
 and the house was very stiU and quiet, even 
 
 b2
 
 4 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION, [inteod. 
 
 tliough it miglit be the busy hour of noon (but 
 we were not a busy or a bustling household ; 
 just the mother, and may be good Cousin 
 Grizel, and Douglas and I — who would there 
 have been to make a stir and movement about 
 the empty rooms ?), — I sat alone in my little 
 turret-room. There, in my own dear little 
 turret-room, I wrote carefully things that the 
 day before Douglas had said to me, and I 
 began to see that strangers would make but 
 poor work of the disjointed scraps, faithful 
 and truthful though they might be, that I 
 had gathered together. 
 
 I remember the very day that I laid down 
 my pen, and, folding my hands, looked out of 
 the window, picturing to myself a little scene 
 in Douglas's boyhood that I had just chronicled. 
 It was but a trifle — a very trifle, only a small 
 boating adventure of his and Kenneth's. I 
 scarcely know why I should have heeded, and 
 preserved it among Douglas's sayings and 
 doins^s. He had chanced to tell it me the 
 evening before as he rowed me across from 
 the opposite shore of the loch, where I my- 
 self had taken the boat to meet him. But, 
 as I saw it, it was a pretty picture of the two
 
 iMTEOD.] INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 boys with their boat ; and I fancied how the 
 little sail was reflected in the clear shining 
 loch, and how a pink and pearl cloud floated 
 towards the sun setting over their heads, as 
 they sailed home to their green and golden 
 autumn woods. 
 
 I had that same picture before my eyes — my 
 bodily eyes I would be understood to say — 
 as I listened to Douglas, for it was a most fair 
 eveninor brio^ht and soft with the mist and the 
 heather, the white veil and red robe of the 
 Highlands. And the pearl and pink cloud was 
 there, and the boat with its shadov/ floating 
 double, and before us were the fading woods — 
 nay, why do I say fading ? — rather brightening, 
 glorifying, in their passing splendour of gold leaf 
 
 So in the morning I read over my little 
 record, laid aside my pen, and looked out to 
 think. It was not wonderful that I always 
 chose to think at that high window of mine, 
 when my poor thoughts could go forth and be 
 framed in such a settinsj. 
 
 Douglas's home was wild and beautiful, and 
 he suited it, as a book I am fond of says a 
 knight is bound to suit his castle, or a hermit 
 his cell.
 
 6 FROM GENEEATION TO GENERATION, [inteod. 
 
 And just as the words of the old Scottish 
 songs draw much of their significance from 
 their wistful and pathetic airs, so Douglas's 
 early life was set to the music, bound up with 
 the loveliness of his home — Dalbraith. 
 
 Eock and mountain, loch and moorland, 
 they lay beneath, above, around the old grey 
 dwelling. 
 
 It became clear to me, looking and ponder- 
 ing, that as the waters of the loch down yonder 
 drew much of their blue tinting from the sky, 
 much of their purple, brown, or grey shadow 
 from the overhanging hills, so Douglas's 
 story had been coloured by its outward sur- 
 roundings ; and if it ever chanced that my 
 little written book fell into alien hands, the 
 crude colours and black shadows with which 
 he himself had represented his life, would 
 give no fair representation of the causes, the 
 scenes, the people whose reflections had fallen 
 over it. 
 
 It was because of this (though I can scarcely 
 put my feeling about it into intelligible words), 
 and partly because it would be to me such a 
 labour of love, that I made up my mind to 
 write Douglas's life ; — Douglas's life as he and
 
 iNTEOD.] IXTRODTJCTTON. 7 
 
 others had told me about it — as I knew it 
 — as it ought to have been seen. 
 
 I was pleased and proud of the task I had 
 set myself* — Douglas's biographer ! — and I was 
 resolutely minded to be fair, and honest, and 
 painstaking, though my one reader, my sole 
 public, would be — myself. 
 
 A man's life written by a woman, almost 
 by a child ! I knew that by all rules I was 
 incompetent for such a task. Well, be it so ; 
 I would only write what I knew ; I would not 
 go one step beyond. 
 
 Scarcely any one knew him as well as I did. 
 His words were few, and he spoke ever very 
 unwillingly of himself. Of why it was that 
 to me — me of all others — he told most of what 
 was in his lieart, I do not think that I am 
 called upon to speak now. 
 
 It was my pride and my joy that so it was ; 
 that he, so silent, so brief in his speech with 
 many, always trusted me. 
 
 And if half way in my work I have laid 
 down my pen, it is only because the task 
 has fallen into more able hands. Where 
 his life became involved in that of others, 
 I might have failed. And to my surprise,
 
 8 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION, [inteod. 
 
 that which I felt most deeply I failed to 
 repeat. 
 
 Have you ever picked a sheaf of brilliant 
 autumn leaves, glowing like transparent rubies 
 in the sunlight, and carried them home to 
 your dim room ? If you have, you know that 
 which I felt. Where was the glow, the glory, 
 the crimson flame ? All gone ! 
 
 And just so from my written words had 
 faded the rich glow that shone round them 
 in my fancy when they were still unwritten. 
 Alas ! the leaves — the words — were alike 
 worthless by themselves. 
 
 But, oh Douglas, my hero, whose story as a 
 boy, I, a girl myself, passed so many happy 
 hours in writing up in my turret-room, while 
 the mavis and merle sang merrily out of doors, 
 and the bees were gathering honey from the 
 heather-bells— it is not from want of love that 
 I leave it to another to tell the tale, of how 
 in all your life you have been to me and to 
 others—" tender and true ! "
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 DOUGLAS OF DALBEAITH. 
 
 *' It was an Englisli lady bright, 
 
 (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 
 And she would marrs' a Scottish knight, 
 For Love will still be lord of all," 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 Dalbeaith was only a fragment of the great 
 estates that had once belonored to Douorlas's 
 forefathers. It was their first possession and 
 their last. Bit by bit had their territories 
 fallen away from them in the troublous and 
 hard-fighting times of early Scottish history. 
 A younger branch of the great house of Doug- 
 las, they had always shown a genius for taking 
 up with the losing side. Of course also in 
 later times they were hot Jacobites, and after 
 they had been out in the '45 their estates were 
 confiscated, and only Dalbraith, won by a mar- 
 riage with a Highland heiress, remained to 
 them. It had been a fortress in their proud
 
 10 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 feudal days— in their later prosperity a hunt- 
 ing lodge — now it was the resting-place of the 
 old family, as it had been once their play- 
 ground. 
 
 To eyes which had patience and skill to 
 read the scattered signs, the house might per- 
 haps tell its story with sufficient faithfulness. 
 
 Its one square tower and the crumbling bit 
 of castellated wall stood up strong still in their 
 rude masonry. Close by, the narrow window^s 
 and pepper-pot turrets told of the old hunting- 
 lodge. Later, a hall and gallery, and a few 
 rooms, had been added to the dwelling-house 
 when the Douglas's " came home." 
 
 All now was weather-stained and storm- 
 beaten alike, and over the whole building had 
 settled that peculiar and tender charm that 
 gathers round a fallen house. 
 
 There was no garden ; there never had been 
 one near the house. Eough grass grew right 
 up to the walls, and rugged willow-trees bent 
 over some patches of water that remained from 
 the defaced moat. 
 
 Dalbraith House lay low, and the brae rose 
 sharply between it and the loch. Only from 
 one or two of its higher turrets could a glimpse
 
 I.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRAITH. 11 
 
 be caught of that winsome vision— the rippling 
 stretch of water and its steep winding shores, 
 the heather and broom-covered cliffs, and the 
 big hills beyond. 
 
 In the old days they seem to have made 
 little study of the site for their dwellings. 
 Often you come upon them hidden away heed- 
 lessly under the shadow of a hill, with little 
 but wild and desolate moor to be seen from 
 the windows. And yet that very carelessness 
 has a sort of charm, from its proud disregard of 
 all the wealth of beauty lying within reach. 
 The old lords of the soil were not careful, as 
 are people in these anxious modern times, to 
 make the very best possible display of the good 
 gifts showered down lavishly upon them. 
 
 With a haughty consciousness of the glories 
 of their land, they scorned to sue for an appre- 
 ciation of them as do the southerners who have 
 invaded their wild fastnesses now-a-days. 
 
 Though there were no trim pleasure-grounds 
 near the house, " my Lady's garden " lay 
 towards the west along the sunny side of the 
 hill. You reached it by a little rough glen 
 that cleft the moor to let a brown burn flow 
 into the loch. Crossing that you came at once
 
 12 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 into the briglit sunshine, for it had grown to 
 be almost a superstition in those parts, that 
 were there but one sun-gleam in the sky, it 
 would surely shine upon the rose trees and 
 yew hedges of my lady's garden. 
 
 The origin of the pretty fancy may well 
 have been that it was planned and made by 
 very happy people in a singularly lovely sum- 
 mer season, for it was laid out thirty years, or 
 thereabouts, ago, when Ronald Douglas, Baron 
 Douglas of Dalbraith, brought his English 
 bride, Margaret Scrope, home to the north. 
 
 They worked at it together, he and she, 
 early and late, and long afterwards it was 
 remembered by the workmen how merry a 
 business they made of it. Lord Douglas threw 
 his whole heart into it, for he said his wife 
 must miss the trim orderliness and faultless 
 keeping of her English home. But it was not 
 really as he thought ; she scarcely cared for 
 the new garden as much as he did. Stately 
 as she looked, there was something that suited 
 the young Lady Douglas, and specially charmed 
 her, in the mingled wildness and homeliness of 
 Dalbraith. She never had the least wish to 
 alter things, or to make them either grander or
 
 I.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRAITH. 13 
 
 more modem. She just took the place to 
 her heart at once, as she would have taken 
 anything and everything that had to do ^ith 
 Ronald. 
 
 At home she had been the beauty of her 
 family, and a certain composure and reserve in 
 her manner made her brothers call her " very 
 grand.'' They used to say that Meg would 
 never marry ; she was far too unimpressionable 
 to take a fancy to any one. 
 
 But all this was very quickly changed when 
 she met the young Scotchman, Lord Douglas. 
 It was wonderful to see how Margaret woke up 
 and brightened, and how light and life came 
 into her beautiful still face. 
 
 It was abroad that they first saw one another 
 — in the quiet old French town of Saint Ger- 
 main en Laye. 
 
 Margaret's grandmother, who lived chiefly 
 in Paris, used to spend her summers there, and 
 all the Scropes knew it well, and were fond of 
 the dreamy old place, with its air of departed 
 grandeur. They liked the grand terrace over- 
 hanging the vineyards and the vaUey of the 
 Seine, the sunward sloping cote, and the glades 
 and alleys of the forest.
 
 14 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 One summer, Margaret had gone there with 
 her mother and some of the children, at the 
 end of the London season. It was lovely, hot 
 weather, and they were all happy at escaping 
 from the bustle and noise of London. Margaret 
 was as much pleased as her little brothers and 
 sisters with the journey, for it was something 
 of a journey in those days. They travelled 
 slowly, crossing the sea to Havre, then posting 
 through the quaint towns and sunny orchards 
 of Normandy, and along the poplar-bordered 
 roads to Paris. 
 
 Lord Douglas was in France, too, at that 
 time. The Douglases, as long back as their 
 first exile with James IL, had formed French 
 connections and friendships, which were handed 
 down from father to son, and ke|)t up from 
 generation to generation. Time and distance, 
 it is true, somewhat slackened the old ties 
 when the family went back to Scotland, but 
 they existed still, and of late had been drawn 
 together again more closely. 
 
 Douglas had been visiting his French kins- 
 folk at their chateau in La Vendee, and one of 
 his cousins fell ill in Paris when they were on 
 their way together to Dalbraith.
 
 I.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRATTH. 15 
 
 As soon as lie was sufficiently recovered to be 
 moved, the doctors ordered him out of Paris for 
 change of air. He was not to go far at first : 
 and Douglas, in his capacity of nurse, fixed upon 
 Saint Germain, partly because the doctor praised 
 it for its fine air, and partly moved thereto by 
 a sentimental remembrance of the time when 
 his ancestors broke their hearts and wasted 
 their substance, at the forlorn court of James 11. 
 
 So on the afternoon of their arrival at Saint 
 Germain, Douglas estabhshed his friend on a 
 rush-bottomed chair on the parterre, with a 
 glorious panorama, certainly, stretched out at 
 his feet, and he went away himself on a Jacob- 
 ite pilgrimage. There was very little to be 
 seen. The Stuarts and their poor, proud, faith- 
 ful followers, had passed away like a dream. 
 They showed him the gloomy old Chateau, 
 now a prison, with high and dreary walls built 
 round it, and the church where King James 
 lies buried. And then he walked back down the 
 AUee des Soupirs, where they say the exiled 
 king used to pace wearily up and down. The 
 parterre, once part of the Royal Gardens, is now 
 the favourite walk of the Saint Germain fashion- 
 able world. A military band was playing, and
 
 16 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 people were sauntering up and down under the 
 old cut chestnut trees, when Lord Douglas 
 rejoined his cousin. It was the 12th of August, 
 a gloriously fine day, and he was rather melan- 
 choly, thinking of his deserted moors. 
 
 As he turned the corner he encountered a 
 merry troop of English children, with two or 
 three ladies following them, and Ren^ de 
 Beaurepaire knew the ladies. 
 
 So Margaret Scrope and Douglas were intro- 
 duced to each other : they stood on the great 
 terrace and looked down the valley towards 
 that view of Saint Denis that it irked Louis 
 Quatorze to have perpetually before his eyes, 
 and they made out Mont Yal^rien, and Paris 
 beyond like a dim cloud, with the dome of 
 the Invalides. Then Douglas walked beside 
 Margaret down the AUee des Soupirs, and she 
 showed him the old hunting-gate of the forest. 
 
 There was a primitive little French fete 
 going on. In the evening the parterre w^as 
 illuminated by strings of coloured lamps hung 
 from one tree to another, down the arcades of 
 the straight chestnut walks. The Scrope chil- 
 dren thought it a fairy scene of beauty and en- 
 chantment; but perhaps Margaret and Douglas
 
 1.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRAITH. 17 
 
 remembered it longer than any of them. The 
 band of the Cuirassiers du Roi crashed out 
 one stirring march after the other as the chil- 
 dren went eagerly up and down the lighted 
 alleys, with the elders following. Douglas won 
 for himself golden opinions that night. He was 
 willing to let them explore each booth and 
 *' guinguette " to their hearts' content. They 
 visited all the swings and merry-go-rounds, 
 where soldiers in full uniform and respectable 
 meres de families were revolving solemnly on 
 little wooden horses ; they laughed at the silent 
 active dancers in their tent, and bought gilt 
 ginger-bread and '' sucre de pommes " at the 
 bon-bon stalls. 
 
 The evening's entertainment came to an end 
 with fire-works. Catherine-wheels whizzed, 
 and rockets thundered up in the summer 
 twilight, but the crowning glory of all was a 
 " simulacre d'incendie " that sent the youno- 
 Scropes into the seventh heaven of admiration 
 and ecstasy. And while they looked at the 
 fireworks, Douo-las watched Maro-aret's beau- 
 tiful face by the light of the mimic flames. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards he was leaning out 
 of a window in the Hotel du Pavilion Henri IV., 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 18 FKOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 with his chin resting on his hands. The lights 
 were all out in the chestnut alleys ; the fete was 
 putting itself to bed yonder on the parterre ; a 
 little fountain tinkled in the court of the hotel, 
 and the moon was shining. 
 
 ^' Douglas," said his cousin, speaking from a 
 sofa inside the room, " Fm afraid you must be 
 frightfully bored here." 
 
 " I am not bored," answered Douglas, with- 
 out turning his head. " Don't talk to me. I 
 am so dreadfully in love."' 
 
 And a week afterwards he was still lingering 
 at St. Germain, though Een^ de Beaurepaire 
 had recovered, and was longing to be off. The 
 whole Scrope party had come up one glowing- 
 August afternoon, to breathe the fresher air 
 upon the terrace. The children were riding 
 donkeys in and out among the trees at the 
 entrance of the forest. Margaret and Lord 
 Douglas had got their favourite All^e des 
 Soupirs almost to themselves, except that by- 
 and-by there came hobbling after them an old 
 flower- woman, a pensioner of Margaret's grand- 
 mother, who carried a big basket on her arm 
 full of fresh roses and carnations. She was an 
 old, old woman, bent and lame and very ugly,
 
 1.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRAITH. 19 
 
 with blear eyes, and a yellow handkerchief 
 bound round her coffee-coloured visage, under 
 which it looked like the face of a withered 
 monkey. 
 
 " You look tired, Victoire," said Margaret, as 
 she took a great cluster of rose-buds from 
 Douglas's hand. 
 
 " Ah que ^a Mamzelle Marguerite. Je souffre 
 Men, ma pauv petite demoiselle!^ mumbled the 
 little old crone, peering up at the tall Margaret. 
 *' Je suis lasse, allez ; je voudrais que le Ion Bieu 
 me retire, — Ah merci, mon beau Monsieur!' 
 
 Perhaps Douglas's bright smile and still 
 brighter five-franc piece modified Victoire^s 
 weariness of life for the moment. She grinned 
 broadly, and then hobbled away in pursuit of 
 another customer. 
 
 " Poor old thing 1 " said Lord Douglas, look- 
 ing after her. 
 
 " Je voudrais que le hon Dieu me retire!' 
 repeated Margaret, with a half-smile. '^I won- 
 der if she really does wish it. How strange it 
 seems for us to be so strong and happy, and — '' 
 " Are you so happy ? " interrupted Douglas. 
 *' Are you, really ? Fm not. Margaret, I 
 never can be again — unless — " 
 
 c 2
 
 20 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Just then, up came a donkey behind them at 
 a surprised uncertain canter, and all the chil- 
 dren swept round them, panting, and shouting 
 to " Meg " to look at '' Mary galloping." 
 
 Nevertheless, an hour later, Lord Douglas 
 did confess that he was happy. Nay, if he and 
 Margaret had been able to spare a thought from 
 each other, to bestow on the old lame flower- 
 woman, they would have acknowledged that 
 the contrast between their lives and hers was 
 more wonderful than ever. 
 
 They were married in the month of Decem- 
 ber, and after their wedding went straight home 
 to the Highlands. The glens were white with 
 winter when Margaret first saw them, and most 
 people might well have hesitated to take a bride 
 into so dreary a waste of snow as then lay for 
 miles around Dalbraith. But she had set her 
 heart on going, and already Douglas knew her 
 well enough to have no fears. 
 
 No one came to break their solitude, and if 
 in after years the sight of a snow-covered 
 country ever made Margaret Douglas look sad, 
 it was only because it recalled to her too vividly 
 the beautiful days of her *'ice honeymoon." 
 She was far more like a child now in her youth-
 
 I.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRAITH. 21 
 
 ful gaiety and liigh spirits than she had ever 
 been in her life before. " It was a sight for 
 sair e'en," said the few onlookers, to see two 
 people so happy, and so goodly to behold, as 
 were the young husband and wife. 
 
 There were not many retainers now-a-days 
 at Dalbraith ; but the scattered group of gillies 
 and foresters, keepers and fishermen, who lived 
 in bothies up the hills or along the loch-side, 
 were one and all proud of the *' gran' leddy " 
 that *' My Lord " had won for himself in the 
 south. They thought it the finest thing on this 
 side the Grampians to see her, with her plaid 
 wound round her and her petticoat kilted up, 
 tramp through the snow beside her stalwart 
 husband. " And she sae like a Queen," they 
 would say to one another. 
 
 Poor Margaret was quite unconscious of the 
 awe she inspired by her height, and her lofty 
 manner, and her grave, clear intonation. At 
 home, the boys said, '* There goes Meg," and 
 laughed at her when she was more than usually 
 frigid, but it was difierent at Dalbraith. 
 
 In later times, when she had long won 
 her place in the warm hearts of her Highland 
 neighbours, ]\Irs. Maclean, the minister's good
 
 22 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 little wife, used to be fond of telling how 
 frightened she was of Lady Douglas the first 
 time she got sight of her after her marriage. 
 '* She just looked at me out of her great big 
 eyes till I was fain to run away and hide 
 myself, and there was the minister, worthy 
 man, with never a gracious word of exhorta- 
 tion or encouragement to help me out, but 
 sitting up there in his best coat, smoothing 
 his hat round and round and staring at her. 
 A bit young lassie, too, as she was then, and 
 he her own pastor and master 1 '' 
 
 In truth, that first visit, a bridal one of 
 solemn ceremony, had not been a success. All 
 the autumn they had been talking of her com- 
 ing, and many had been the consultations at 
 the Manse as to how soon the sight of a woman's 
 face would be a comfort, instead of an intrusion 
 on the bride. For they heard of a mother and 
 several sisters left behind in England, and it 
 was rough weather in the North, and often 
 when the wind was blowing its wild wintry 
 tunes, tossing about the waters of the loch, and 
 carrying hailstones on its wings, they wondered 
 whether she ever found it lonesome or unhome- 
 like at Dalbraith.
 
 I.] DOUGLAS OF DALBEAITH. 23 
 
 So, mixed up witli her natural curiosity, 
 little Mrs. Maclean's heart was full of womanly 
 sympathy, and of pleasure in the young wife's 
 happy love. Lord Douglas, in his bachelor 
 days, had been used to make himself very 
 much at home in the Manse parlour, where the 
 master and mistress of the house were young 
 folks like himself, and he and Mrs. ]\raclean 
 often used to talk of the wife he was to bring 
 home, " as soon," he said, " as he could find 
 any one who would be kind enough to come." 
 He came over the loch one snowy evening, a 
 day or two after the home-coming, and drank 
 tea in the cosy parlour, just as he used to do, in 
 the days that already they were beginning to 
 call '' old times." 
 
 It was too rough and blowy a day, he said, 
 even for " my wife " (how proudly the words 
 were uttered); but Mrs. Maclean must see 
 Margaret soon ; and he sat with the firelight 
 flickering on his happy face, and talked of her, 
 laughing at the idea of any one ever being shy 
 with Margaret. So on the earliest fine day the 
 all-important "first call" was to be made. 
 
 Unfortunately, Douglas was out of the way 
 when the minister and his wife arrived at
 
 24 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Dalbraith. Even the hall did not look familiar 
 to them — it used to be such a bare, cold place, 
 but now Douglas had been at work on it, 
 making it, like the loch -side garden, fit for 
 Margaret. It had been filled with colour and 
 warmth to welcome her, and most picturesquely 
 comfortable it looked that wintry afternoon, 
 when already the ruddy firelight was conquer- 
 ing the cold white dazzle of the snow outside. 
 Touches and gleams of red played among the 
 stag's horns on the walls, and the heads of 
 bearded mountain goats, and the stands of 
 Highland arms. Douglas had hunted up some 
 gorgeous curtains of old needle- work, wrought 
 by the hands of dead and gone daughters of 
 the house of Dalbraith, but voted too anti- 
 quated for use by his mother long ago ; great 
 bright rugs — trophies of his own Eastern 
 travels — covered the stone floor, and before 
 the fire-place was stretched a huge black bear- 
 skin, the wedding gift of an Indian cousin. 
 
 From time immemorial, a baronial-looking 
 arm-chair, highly carved, rigidly upright, now 
 mercifully cushioned, had stood in the corner 
 of the wide, stone chimney-piece, and in that 
 sat Lady Douglas, with her lap full of letters,
 
 I.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRAITH. 25 
 
 and in front of lier crouched Douglas's deer- 
 hound, one big protecting paw and his watch- 
 ful face laid upon her knee. 
 
 That first half- hour was simply terrible. 
 Margaret was so tall, and sat so still, and her 
 gown, though perfectly plain, had a way of 
 sweeping back into such severe and statuesque 
 folds. She never seemed to smile, at least with 
 the ready, encouraging, mechanical smile that 
 Mrs. Maclean was used to. The little woman's 
 kind words of comfortable chat were frozen on 
 her lips ; Margaret sat looking at her with her 
 grave, dark eyes, the idea of being at all for- 
 midable never even crossing her brain. The 
 minister, good man, was simply struck dumb, 
 as good men sometimes are, by a beautiful 
 face, and he neither saw nor heeded his wife's 
 reproachful glances. 
 
 It seemed quite odd to Mrs. Maclean that 
 Douorlas himself could venture to be familiar 
 
 o 
 
 and at home with his wife. What a comfort it 
 was when he came in, stamping the snow ofiP his 
 feet, and bringing with him a rush of misty, 
 frozen air. When Margaret gave him a letter 
 to read, and he went away into the deeply- 
 recessed window to catch the waning light.
 
 26 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Mrs. Maclean felt the despair of a ship-wrecked 
 sailor, who watches the slow vanishing of a 
 rescuing sail. In the middle of his reading 
 Lord Douglas laughed out loud, and Margaret 
 forgot what she was saying, and laughed too, 
 suddenly and joyously. Then she got up and 
 came close to Mrs. Maclean's chair, saying, 
 " Do forgive us ; you must think us too rude, 
 really." After that the worst was over ; 
 Lord Douglas came back and stood by the 
 fire, stirring the peats into a blaze with 
 his foot, and telling them some story, at 
 which he laughed, until the echoes woke in 
 the old rafters, and sent him back his laugh 
 cheerily. 
 
 Nevertheless no entreaties could prevail on 
 Mrs. Maclean to stay and dine with them that 
 day, though Margaret seconded her husband's 
 invitation heartily and kindly. Still, as she 
 stood by the door with her husband, watching 
 her departing guests, her brother Harold would 
 have said that she looked as if she had swal- 
 lowed the poker. 
 
 " And were ye just moon-struck, Minister ? " 
 asked Mrs. Maclean, severely, as they walked 
 down to the boat.
 
 I.] DOUGLAS OF DALBRAITH. 27 
 
 He shook his head with solemnity. " Eh, 
 it's a grand face, Jeanie, a grand face she has, 
 our young Leddy Douglas." 
 
 Therefore it was a great surprise to them to 
 hear that this queen -like being delighted in 
 snow-balling her husband ; that she liked to 
 run his messaofes, and would sit for hours on 
 the hearthrug at his feet, looking up at him 
 admiringly, and that on wet days the youDg 
 couple used to play hide-and-seek in the queer 
 nest of uninhabited rooms up at the top of the 
 house, makinor the old walls rino^ with their 
 steps and laughter. 
 
 They grew to understand her better by 
 degrees. There came a day when to no one 
 could Mrs. ^laclean talk more comfortably 
 about the parish and the bairns than to Mar- 
 garet Douglas. And once when the Angel of 
 Death crossed the threshold of the Manse, and 
 " wee Isabel," the baby, the darling, the tod- 
 dling, busy, bustling little creature, was sum- 
 moned from her merry play, and shrill sweet 
 laughter, and eao;er learnino^ of her broken 
 Scottish speech, — when she was gently called 
 and silenced, lulled into dreamless sleep, and 
 gathered tenderly into the quiet grasp of her
 
 28 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. 
 
 Father's messenger ; then Lady Douglas came 
 to the Manse. She was not absent or cold 
 then. Her tears and kisses rained down on 
 to the little flower-face that was still warm and 
 fresh. She kissed the pretty feet, the baby 
 curls, the tiny brown hands, and the dead 
 daisies that they clasped ; and then she took 
 the sorrow -stricken mother in her arms, and 
 held her there. After that they loved her at 
 the Manse. But perhaps she had listened to 
 her own heart then, and there learnt sympathy, 
 for the nursery was no longer a dead letter at 
 Dalbraith.
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 " THE BOXXIE HIELAXD HEATHER." 
 
 "Down yon glen ye never will weary, 
 
 The flow'rs are fair, and the leaves are green ; 
 Bonnie lassie, ye maim be my dearie, 
 And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en." 
 
 There was sunshine at Dalbraitli. High summer 
 had come down upon the hills that knew so 
 much of winter, and the rough peaks and out- 
 lines grew soft and brightened in her gracious 
 presence. A while ago she plucked the snow- 
 caps from the hoary mountain -heads, and flung 
 them down in play to the leaping watercourses, 
 to be melted and stained with moss, dved with 
 red earth, and sent do^n ruddy and racing into 
 the burn below. 
 
 Now as midsummer drew on, the fuU loud 
 music of the flowing water had fallen into a 
 minor key. The stream went softly through 
 the dry moorland, and at the Falls there were a 
 thousand delicate rills that trickled and slided
 
 30 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 down channels in the rocks, in place of the 
 one broad, white sweep with which at other 
 times the rain-fed river flung itself down 
 towards the loch. 
 
 The streams were too low for good fishing, 
 said Lord Douglas, hospitably anxious, for the 
 London season was on the wane, and there 
 were rumours of many southern kinsmen who 
 were coming to inspect " Meg's highland 
 dungeon," all with grand vague visions of 
 Douglas's salmon river, of his deer forest, and 
 his moors. 
 
 Margaret Douglas stood one morning at the 
 foot of the steps before the house, shading her 
 eyes with one hand from the broad sunshine, 
 and with the other stroking the nose of an old 
 white shooting-pony. Laden with baskets and 
 fishing-rods, old "Tam Glen" stood blinking 
 drowsily in the sun, too well fed, or too sleepy, 
 to trouble himself much about the carrot that 
 Lady Douglas was dangling before his nose. 
 
 All round the sunlit heather was coming 
 into bloom, though the full mass of colour had 
 hardly yet flushed across the moor. Moss and 
 bracken and birch-tree shone out like emeralds ; 
 the grey rocks threw sharp shadows down into
 
 n.] "the BOXS'IE HIELAND HEATHER." 31 
 
 the hollows ; and the distant corries, lilac- 
 tinged, faded away into light. Far off a covey 
 of grouse rose whirring on the wing, and a 
 heron sailed over head. In the foreground the 
 pony's old white coat made the central spot of 
 the picture, it was such a trap to catch the 
 sunbeams. 
 
 " The beastie makes one's eyes water only to 
 look at him," said Grizel Douglas, a maiden 
 cousin who was staying at Dalbraith ; "for all 
 the world he's like nothing but a heap of nice 
 clean clothes just home from the wash." 
 
 She came down briskly from the open turret- 
 door, and patted Tam's shaggy shoulder so 
 heartily that a small cloud of silver hairs flew 
 up into the sunshine, and their owner turned 
 back his pink eyes reproachfully towards the 
 disturber of his slumbers. 
 
 Tarn and Grizel Douglas were friends of 
 many years standing. He w^as not half so 
 white as now, when first she remembered him. 
 Nor were her own stiff curls then tinored with 
 grey. But time hath dealt gently with them 
 both, as he generally does with those who go 
 to meet him in a kindly and ungrudging 
 spirit.
 
 32 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 There must have been something intrinsically 
 good and loveable in Grizel Douglas, to make 
 all her people as fond of her as undoubtedly 
 they were, though she had a way of riding 
 rough-shod, with cheerful unconsciousness, over 
 all their pet prejudices, and, as Lord Douglas 
 said of her, she had never done a wrong thing 
 in her life, nor said a right one. 
 
 Every family would be the better of a 
 Cousin Grizel of its own. The Douglas kins- 
 folk almost quarrelled at times for the possession 
 of their's. With a heart at leisure from itself, 
 and a tough tireless body, Grizel revolved 
 round the cousinhood, shedding the beams of 
 her deft helpfulness wherever either joy, or 
 sickness, or sorrow were to be shared or lio:ht- 
 ened. There were few to whom Lord Doug- 
 las had been more anxious to show his bride 
 than to this homely cousin, with her long 
 stories and her quaint knack of making unto- 
 ward speeches. 
 
 *' I thought you were never coming to see 
 her," he said, as he held Grizel by both hands, 
 when she arrived at Dalbi'aith in the spring 
 following his marriage. 
 
 " And I would have been here sooner.
 
 n.] "the BOXXIE HIELAXD HEATHER." 33 
 
 Douglas, with all my heart," she answered, 
 taking his words literally, as was her wont; 
 " much sooner, if I had known you wanted me, 
 but they told me new-married folk were best 
 left to themselves at first." 
 
 Dalbraith had for years been her holiday 
 home. Her lono- comfortable visits were so 
 managed as to disturb nobody ; but she was 
 always to the fore if she was wanted. Her 
 hosts went their way, and she hers. The 
 clachan and the manse were full of dear 
 friends; the outlpng huts across the moor and 
 the wild sheep farms up the glen, all expected 
 a speedy visit from mistress Grizzy. The 
 farminor the shootino- the fishino; of Dalbraith, 
 had from her youth up been among the first 
 interests of her life ; and now she was begin- 
 ning to be as proud of Margaret's beauty, as if 
 she had chosen her out of all the world herself, 
 to be married, as she would have phrased it, 
 " upon " the young head of her family. 
 
 '•' Isn't the day too lovely ? " said Margaret, 
 after Grizel had made her peace with Tam by 
 means of a bit of bannock 
 
 **We are going to have soft weather," 
 answered Grizel, looking with experienced eyes 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 at a thill creeping mist that was touching the 
 hill-tops daintily. 
 
 '' And Harold will get his fishing," added 
 Douglas, coming down the steps. 
 
 " Harold, my eldest brother," explained 
 Margaret ; ''I wish he was here now, and 
 Winifred too." 
 
 " My dear 1 " exclaimed Grizel, in a tone of 
 wonder and expostulation. " They that are 
 in London, with the park to drive in, and 
 attending grand festivals like the one you read 
 of in your letter to-day, with the thousands of 
 coloured lamps, and the exotic palm-trees on 
 the stairs, and the band of His Majesty's 
 Grenadier Guards playing dance music all 
 through the night, and you are wishing to 
 have them hereT 
 
 '' In this land of moorland and savages," 
 added Douglas. 
 
 " I am not a woman of the world, my dear, 
 and I am very thankful myself to be spared 
 the glitter and distraction of a London life ; 
 it must surely turn your heads in time, what 
 with the balls, and the conversation, and the 
 admirers — " 
 
 Douglas and Margaret laughed.
 
 II.] "the BO^'XIE HIELA^^) HEATHER." 35 
 
 " Not that tliey would trouble me, at my 
 time of life especially," went on Grizel ; " and 
 I never had any admirers, Margaret, not even 
 when I was a young lass at home. Now 
 I dare say that seems very strange to you, 
 Douglas, my dear 1 " 
 
 " Very strange indeed, Grizzy," said Douglas, 
 patting her shoulder. 
 
 " I used to think it rather strange myself, 
 and to wonder a little how it was, — and I never 
 was a favourite with my mother. There were 
 my three sisters, Barbara, and Nicola, and 
 little Phemy, all first favourites ; but they were 
 each one taken from her early, either by death 
 or marriage, and only I left with her, poor 
 body, in her old age. That was strange too." 
 
 " I would not be understood," she beo^an 
 again, after a moment's thought, '" to blame 
 my poor mother for making' favourites, though 
 I do reckon it a very sinful thing for a mother 
 to do. I've been told that your mother loves 
 you, Margaret, far beyond your sisters." 
 
 " How do you expect Margaret to answer 
 that ? " said Douglas with a laugh. " You don't 
 mind dear old Grizzy's speeches, Meg," he 
 added to his wife, as Grizel, still busily talking.
 
 36 FROM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 walked away with a nod and a smile, and lie 
 and Tam and Margaret took their slow way to 
 the river- side. 
 
 A few weeks more, and guests from England 
 began, by twos and threes, to gather at Dal- 
 braith. Harold Scrope and his sister Winifred 
 happened, by reason of good post-horses, and 
 no small amount of impatience, to reach Dal- 
 braith a day before they were expected. They 
 arrived on a still August evening, "betwixt 
 the gloaming and the mirk." It was getting 
 late^ and indeed the mirk had begun slowly 
 to get the better of the gloaming. Moor and 
 hil] were growing softly indistinct, and only a 
 faint glint of silver showed where the burn 
 went tumbling along the glen, as the weary 
 horses breasted the last steep bit of the brae, 
 and then trotted stiffly down towards the 
 house. 
 
 The bell by the turret-door was rung ; they 
 heard it clanging in the distance ; a dog barked ; 
 then another echo faintly repeated the sound 
 both of bell and bark ; and then everything 
 was silent again. No one came to answer the 
 bell. Only the night air whispered in the 
 willow trees, and some frogs croaked dismally.
 
 II.] ''the box^'ie hielaxd heather." 37 
 
 " I say, Winifred, this is serious," said Harold, 
 after lie and liis servant and tlie driver had 
 set the bell pealing again and again, with no 
 other result than to send the dogs into ecstasies 
 of almost frantic barking. " There is evidently 
 not a soul in the house. Have Mes; and 
 Douglas been carried off bodily by a rival clan, 
 or are they taking a moonlight stroll, sur- 
 rounded by their vassals ? Yes, ring away, 
 Maurice, by all means, though there's no one 
 to let us in, that's clear." 
 
 " And I am so dreadfully hungry," said 
 Winifred, jumping out of the carriage, and 
 running a few steps backwards, to look up at 
 the dim outline of the house. " No ; there's 
 not the o^limmer of a lio;ht even in the attics." 
 
 " Neither in turret nor dungeon," said 
 Harold. 
 
 " Nor in kitchen or scullery, which is more 
 to the purpose," added Winifred. 
 
 " Nor in the buttery-hutch. I suppose there 
 is a buttery-hutch ; there always is in a Scotch 
 house, isn't there ? " 
 
 "A 'but and a ben' you mean," said 
 Winifred, just as ignorant, and they laughed 
 and walked round to the other side of the house.
 
 38 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Then suddenly there broke upon their ears 
 the sound of bagpipes braying with fury some 
 way off, a noise of voices shouting, and torches 
 were waving and lights shining in the darkness. 
 
 '' Bedlam broke loose," said Harold, com- 
 posedly, making towards the lights. 
 
 " I hope if Meg is there, she will give us 
 something to eat," responded Winifred. 
 
 The mystery was soon cleared up. It was 
 Margaret's birthday, and a gillies' ball was 
 going on. 
 
 Margaret, apprised somehow of their arrival, 
 came running to meet them, and Douglas 
 behind her waved a torch over her, showing 
 her to her brother, rosier than he had ever 
 beheld her, and panting slightly. 
 
 " You seem blown, Meg," he said, after she 
 had welcomed them both. Winifred was 
 confiding her great hunger to Douglas, and 
 Harold, after a year's absence, had got his 
 arm most comfortably round the waist of this 
 well-beloved sister. 
 
 " Yes, that reel was fast and furious. You 
 musfc come and look at them presently, it is so 
 picturesque." 
 
 And so it was. The pipes, that, abuse
 
 II.] "the boxxie hieland heather." 39 
 
 them as you will, set your heart beating and 
 your feet moving, quicker than any other 
 mortal music, were sending far abroad their 
 wild, piercing, maddening notes ; at once a 
 squeal, a wail, a shriek of triumph, a moan, 
 a monotonous hum, and a cataract of dancing, 
 hurrying notes ; and blending in or jarring 
 against this music, came the strange guttural 
 shouts and wild cries of the Highland dancers. 
 *' Heugh," called the deep voices of the men, 
 and the women answered in shrill chorus, and 
 the stamping feet kept the measure almost 
 as strictly as the bagpipes, while the kilted 
 figures whirled round and round, and the 
 torches went tossing up and down. 
 
 " That I should live to see Me or dancing^ 
 the houlachan in a barn," said Harold Scrope, 
 panting between each word after his own 
 exertions. " Just look at her face now ! " 
 
 She was not dancing, but standing in the 
 front of an eager circle of spectators, her hand 
 on an old woman's shoulder, and her eyes fixed 
 on Douo;las, who was dancing^ a sword dance 
 with the village '^ sutor." 
 
 An odd, swift, savage-looking dance it is, 
 as the crossed swords lie gleaming on the floor.
 
 40 FROM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 and the quick steps, swift as lightning, light 
 as hail-stones, fall around them. Strong, and 
 sure, and rapid were the present dancers, and 
 sudden grunts of approbation or shouts of 
 encourao;ement reached them on all sides. 
 
 " Wonders will never cease," again observed 
 Harold Scrope. 
 
 " What an atmosphere that was," he said an 
 hour or so later, drawing a deep breath of pure 
 night air, as he and Margaret stood on the 
 steps of the house. They had just been 
 escorted home, with shouts, and pipes, and 
 waving torches, and Douglas had thanked the 
 people in Gaelic for their hearty good wishes 
 to his wife. 
 
 He and Winifred were laughing and searching 
 for lucifer matches in the hall, for no one would 
 dreUm of returning from the ball for the next 
 three hours, and they had the house to them- 
 selves. 
 
 " What an atmosphere," repeated Harold. 
 
 "I suppose it was rather warm," said 
 Margaret, looking back regretfully. 
 
 " Warm, my dear Margaret, with the crowd, 
 and the smoke of the torches, and the steaming 
 whiskey ; you do put it very mildly."
 
 ii.j "the boxxie hielaxd heather." 41 
 
 "Isn't it lovely now?" she asked, and they 
 both stood and looked up at the sky, deep blue 
 still, and but very faintly spangled with stars, 
 for the lingering daylight of a northern night 
 just tinged the air. The silvery birch-stems 
 glimmered white, like trees in fairy land ; the 
 moor stretched away, solemn and broken ; and 
 beyond range after range of the great hills rose 
 up black against the purple of the sky. 
 
 Margaret clasped her hands together in 
 almost passionate gratitude. "The lines are 
 fallen unto me in pleasant places," she thought, 
 but she only said aloud — " See, Harold, yonder 
 is the deer forest." 
 
 Harold took off his hat and waved it in the 
 direction to which she pointed. " A welcome 
 sight ; good luck to you, and won't I be with 
 you soon," he said cheerily, and then growing 
 serious, as Margaret had done, under the still 
 and holy influence of the night, he took her 
 hand in his. " But somehow, Margaret, old 
 woman, I don't seem to mind even about 
 the deer forest, now I have got you back 
 again." 
 
 " Douglas and I have lighted the hall," said 
 Winifred, appearing on the threshold, "and
 
 42 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [en. 
 
 I think it's beautiful. Margaret, do come 
 
 in." 
 
 "I must say Meg and her Highlander are 
 not bad to look at," said Harold, the next 
 morning, as he and Winifred stood at the 
 window watching Douglas and Margaret, who 
 were strolling up and down on the grass below. 
 " It reconciles me more to having my nose put 
 out of joint." 
 
 He had been his sister's darling when she 
 was at home, and since her marriage she 
 believed herself to have become more devoted 
 to him than ever ; but " truth is truth," said 
 the discerning brother, "and the fact is, that 
 Meg can see no one in the world but Douglas." 
 
 '' I always thought," he continued medita- 
 tively, " that when Margaret married — if she 
 ever did find a husband — he would grovel at 
 her feet, but as far as I can see it's rather the 
 other way." 
 
 Notwithstanding his deposition from the first 
 place in her affection, Harold was disposed to 
 be enchanted with everything, from the fresh- 
 ness of the keen mountain air, to the "rude 
 plenty," as he called it, of the proverbial High- 
 land breakfast.
 
 II.] "the bonKie hielaxd heather." 43 
 
 " And for once it's a fine day/' he observed, 
 as he closed a substantial meal with oat-cake 
 and heather honey. 
 
 "But we have so much sunshine," inter- 
 rupted Margaret jealously. 
 
 " And so much sweet, refreshing rain," added 
 cousin Grizzy. 
 
 Harold and Winifred looked at her to see if 
 there was any sarcasm hidden beneath her 
 words ; but no, she was evidently in earnest, 
 and was eating her porridge with a kind, 
 happy face. They soon found her out, and 
 learnt to like her, and laugh at her, and be 
 bored by her long stories, as was everybody else. 
 
 "It must be pleasant indeed for you to 
 come up here, and find your sister so comfort- 
 able and happy," she said to Harold. 
 
 They were standing on the steps ready to go 
 out shooting, and Lady Douglas had just been 
 called away. It was not in Harold to make a 
 pretty speech, but he laughed and nodded. 
 
 "And I make no doubt," pursued Grizel, 
 " that you fancied she was coming to some sort 
 of a rough place up in the wilds." 
 
 " We said so, whether we thought it or not," 
 answered Harold.
 
 44 FE-OM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 '^ And then, what a surprise for you to find 
 all so perfect at Dalbraith, and your dear sister 
 looking as happy as any Queen ; quite different, 
 they tell me, to what she used to look at 
 home." 
 
 ''Meg wasn't so very miserable after all, 
 at home," said Harold, almost nettled for a 
 minute. 
 
 '' My dear Malaprop," remonstrated Douglas. 
 
 ''Eh, Douglas," and she looked at him with 
 round, innocent eyes, " and isn't it always 
 what I'm telling you, my dear, that you should 
 remember what dear Margaret gave up for 
 you; for Dalbraith is lonesome, Mr. Scrope, 
 very lonesome, especially when the Colonel, 
 Norman Douglas, is away ; and just think of 
 all Margaret left behind, — London, Douglas 
 my dear, and balls — " 
 
 " Terrible, isn't it ? " said Douglas. 
 
 "And she the beauty of the family," per- 
 sisted Grizel, turning to Winifred — "the pret- 
 tiest of you all beyond compare, they tell me." 
 
 " Yes ; much the prettiest," answered Wini- 
 fred, and everybody laughed. 
 
 " So tall and grand-looking," said Grizel, 
 folding her hands, and nodding her head com-
 
 45 
 
 placently. " They were all afraid of her at 
 first — were the silly folk here about. Mistress 
 Maclean, the ministers wife, she came to me, 
 and she says, ' Miss Grizzy, I'm that frightened 
 of her I can't get out my words.' ' My dear, it 
 is but natural in you,' I said ; * it's not what we 
 have been used to in these parts, so different as 
 she is from yourself, and from all of us homely 
 bodies, but you'll get used to her in time, never 
 fear,' I said ; and so she has." 
 
 " Poor Mistress Maclean," said Harold. 
 
 " You were not frightened of Meg, Grizzy," 
 said Douglas. 
 
 '^Ah, my dear," answered the old cousin, 
 with a smile that lighted up her face; "you 
 see I was like you ; I just loved her from the 
 very first." 
 
 And then, Colonel Douglas having joined 
 them, the shooting party set off for the moors. 
 
 Norman Douglas had been away with his 
 reoriment all the winter : he was Lord Doug-las's 
 uncle, and had been his guardian, and his leave 
 of absence was always spent at Dalbraith. Of 
 late years, since his ward came of age, he had 
 fashioned a queer dwelling for himself, in a 
 solitary tower, perched, nobody knew how or
 
 46 FROM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 why, on the crags overlooking the loch. Whether 
 watch-tower, prison, or fortress, in mediaeval 
 times, none of the antiquaries could quite 
 make up their minds. Some people thought 
 it had just been built up there, because the 
 view was so beautiful, looking down on the 
 windings of the glen. However that might 
 be, it had been suffered to fall almost com- 
 pletely into ruins, until Colonel Douglas took 
 it into his head to restore it and to make it 
 his home. Certainly it was an original kind 
 of home ; one single room above another for 
 several stories, and a cork-screw staircase — 
 that v/as the whole. A room or two at the 
 foot of the tower gave Colonel Douglas his 
 smoking-room and study, and he and his 
 soldier servant wanted little more. For there 
 was no lady at the tower — there never would be. 
 Norman Douglas had waited to marry until 
 he was more than middle-aged, and his wife 
 died early, leaving him a little son, called 
 Kenneth, who was the only outward and visible 
 token that he had ever been auo;ht than an 
 old bachelor. He had the gentle, courteous, 
 slightly formal ways of one, and his unbounded 
 reverence for women was one of his great
 
 ii.j ''the BONNIE HIELAXD HEATHER." 47 
 
 cliaracteristics. " The essence of chivalry/' he 
 used to say, ''is respect for women ; " and every 
 woman in his eyes was a "princess." In 
 return for his homage all the women with 
 whom he had to do loved him most dearly. 
 There may have been a touch of quaintness 
 given to his character by his hearty regret for 
 the days of romance, and by his lofty senti- 
 ments, but there are few people who have 
 inspired more genuine reverence and respect. 
 
 His life, though solitary, was not an unhappy 
 one. He had his books, chiefly old chronicles 
 and works on soldiering, his queer tower, his 
 beloved regiment, one or two great friendships ; 
 and, above all, his firm trust and love for the 
 God of his life-long worship, and the faith of his 
 fathers. His creed, it may be, was too simple 
 an one to suit the restlessness of modern thought. 
 An unclouded belief in all the articles of " our 
 glorious religion," to question one of which 
 would have been an act alike of disloyalty and 
 presumption in his eyes — a conviction of the 
 honour and purity of the age of chivalry — a 
 deep satisfaction and pride in the brave old 
 race from which he sprung — these are possibly 
 not the tenets that men commonly hold dearest
 
 48 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 iiow-a-days, but they had served him well 
 during a life of many vicissitudes, and they 
 found him in its early autumn a vigorous, 
 high-minded, much-loved man. 
 
 He had been so much like a father to Lord 
 Doup^las that his influence could be traced in 
 many of his nephew's modes of thought, though 
 the young man belonged of course to a later 
 generation ; one more reticent in expressions of 
 feeling, less full of veneration for the past, and 
 of faith in the virtues of ancient blood. " He 
 is a gentleman," quietly spoken by Uncle 
 Norman, with his head in the air, meant that 
 any amount of fortitude, self-sacrifice, and 
 generosity, not to mention courage, was well 
 accounted for by that statement of a simple 
 fact. 
 
 Margaret, delighting in him from the first 
 day she knew him, could not resist startling 
 him now and then, shocking his prejudices, and 
 pretending to run down the good old times on 
 which he pinned his faith. 
 
 Uncle Norman was half, and only half, 
 alarmed. That Margaret was a bit of a radical 
 Douglas had with great glee announced to him, 
 but she came of a safe old Tory stock, and she
 
 II.] "the boxxie hielaxd heather." 49 
 
 might say what she liked, provided she kept 
 clear of the Stuarts, and was guiltless of any 
 shadow of treason towards Mary, Queen of 
 Scots. 
 
 There was one j)erson at Dalbraith, who 
 "princess," in right of her sex, though she 
 must needs be, put his chivaky sorely to the 
 proof, and that was Grizel. 
 
 " An inestimable woman is my dear kins- 
 woman Grizzy," he used to say, with a sly 
 gleam of fun in his eyes ; " it is impossible to 
 praise her too highly, but just a little — eh, my 
 dear Douglas ? you know ; just a Jeetle too — 
 yes, you understand." 
 
 The truth is that the two were rival story- 
 tellers, and were equally tenacious of their 
 rights as such. Some stories there were which 
 belonged clearly and indisputably to either one 
 or the other. About these both were scrupul- 
 ously honourable ; others — family legends, old 
 chronicles, ghost stories, or the like — belonged 
 to the common stock, and with regard to any 
 such diflSculties were pretty certain to occur. 
 
 They were never approached without some 
 civil, deprecatory, but very insincere remark. 
 
 " Grizel, I make Jio doubt, would relate the 
 
 TOL. I.
 
 50 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 anecdote far better than I can," Colonel Douglas 
 used to begin ; or Grizel would break in, 
 " Cousin Norman must know best, and I would 
 not presume to interfere, only it was my own 
 cousin-german's grandfather, on my mother's 
 side, that just chanced to be present when the 
 circumstance took place." 
 
 After being thus disturbed, the Colonel 
 would bow with stern courtesy, motioning to 
 his rival to proceed, and Grizel, having effect- 
 ually spoilt the point of his story, insisted on 
 withdrawing from the contest, neither vouch- 
 safing any attention to the request, that the 
 other would "take up the thread of the nar- 
 rative." Only one thing was tolerably sure — 
 that whichever was prevailed upon to begin 
 ao-ain, would find his or her discourse broken in 
 upon at the third word. 
 
 At Grizel's Plighland superstitions Colonel 
 Douglas affected to laugh with gentle supe- 
 riority; but it is doubtful whether they were 
 not as dear to him as to her in his secret heart. 
 Both believed firmly in second-sight and in 
 witchcraft, and Grizel, at least, was convinced 
 that the '' good people " still haunted the 
 Fairy glen.
 
 II.] "the boxxie hielaxd heathee." 51 
 
 It was a lovely little gorge, that Fairy glen, 
 Tvinding just under the craig of Norman's 
 Tower, dainty with golden, green, or rose-tinted 
 mosses, and sweet with gale and honeysuckle. 
 
 There the o-ien tree bloomed silvery white 
 in spring, and birken bushes feathered the 
 grey rock ; and a hidden spring, the fairy 
 well, laughed up with a bubbling sound of 
 never-ending mirth, where *^ green grow the 
 rashes." 
 
 And where a giddy bridge crossed the deep 
 little glen, there was a dark Prince Charlie's 
 cave. What matter that only Grizel believed 
 the wandering Prince to have once sheltered 
 there? Woe betide the wight that dared to 
 question it before her ! 
 
 The fairies were much more real personages, 
 for sure it is that even on a summer eveuinc^ 
 no herd-boy dared to linger in the haunted 
 glen, as he crossed it to " meet his bonnie 
 lassie, when the kye comes hame." 
 
 e2 
 
 i^N/VERs/ry OF
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE FOOT OF TIME. 
 
 " I've seen tlie smiling of Fortune beguiling, 
 I've felt all its favours, and found its decay j 
 Sweet was its blessing, kind its caressing, 
 
 But now 'tis fled— fled far away. 
 I've seen the forest adorned the foremost, 
 
 Wi' flowers o' the fairest, maist pleasant and gay j 
 Sae bonny was their blooming, their scent the air 
 perfuming, 
 But now they are withered and a' wede away." 
 
 On the south side of Loch Dalbraith there 
 stood a long, low, straggHng old building, with 
 a garden and an orchard, called the '' Lady's 
 Lodo^e." Thither, for generations past, when 
 the head of the house died, the widowed 
 dames and spinster daughters of Dalbraith had 
 withdrawn into dignified seclusion. In its 
 queer little low rooms many "grannies," and 
 " Auntie Kates," and " Cousin Jeans," had left 
 their faded portraits, and the memory, just as* 
 faint, of their harmless and uneventful lives.
 
 THE FOOT OF TIME. 53 
 
 The old Lodge liad never looked so quaint 
 and pretty as it did now, when its new dain- 
 tiness of foreign adornment w^as mixed with 
 the prim furniture of former days. Its present 
 mistress, Lady Beatrix Stuart, had lived for 
 a great part of her life abroad, and was one 
 of those persons who surround themselves 
 naturally with relics. She was born a Douglas, 
 and was the auut of the late Lord Doug:las, 
 and of his brother Norman. When her hus- 
 band, Sir James Stuart, left her a widow two 
 or three years before Margaret's marriage, she 
 came back gladly to the shadow of her old 
 home ; and her nephew and grand-nephew, 
 Norman Douglas and the young Lord, were 
 alike proud to welcome her. 
 
 One has sometimes seen pictures that have 
 misty golden distances, against which figures 
 in the foreground stand out cloudily, with a 
 certain look of shadowy unreality. 
 
 Margaret Douglas, in some way, associated 
 Lady Beatrix Stuart with that sort of visionary 
 efi'ect, perhaps because the first time she saw 
 her she was standing in an orchard, the trees of 
 which were in full bloom, and the pink and white 
 blossoms were backed by a pure gold sunset.
 
 54 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Afterwards ' Aunt Beatrix ' grew to be a most 
 real and living presence in her daily life ; but 
 Margaret always remembered her with her 
 face in shadow, as she saw her that first day, 
 a slight figure, very erect and graceful, clad in 
 a long black gown, the glimmer of a white 
 muslin kerchief crossed over her breast, and 
 the background of apple-blossom and gold. 
 
 There was a little golden-haired child cling- 
 ing to her hand, and trampling on her black 
 dress. 
 
 /'There," said Norman Douglas, pointing 
 towards her, as he and Margaret and Cousin 
 Grizzy walked up to the Lady's Lodge one 
 spring evening from the boat ; "there is Aunt 
 Beatrix, Margaret." 
 
 " Out of doors at her age, with nothing but 
 her cap upon her head," said unromantic 
 Grizel. 
 
 The boy was Kenneth Douglas, Norman's 
 little son, who had been taken home by his 
 father's aunt in the days following his young 
 mother's death, and had lived with her ever 
 since. He was just beginning to run alone 
 now. As he stood there, staring gravely at 
 the strange lady who was coming towards him
 
 III.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 55 
 
 with his father, his sunny hair and fair face 
 matching the sky and the apple-blossoms, he 
 and the old lady made the prettiest contrasted 
 picture of youth and age. 
 
 Lady Beatrix was not very old in reality ; 
 j)erhaps only about fifteen years older than her 
 nephew Norman, but in speech and in dress, 
 nay, in everything except in heart, she had lono- 
 ago turned her back on youth. If there could 
 be affectation in anything belonging to her, it 
 was in the adjustment of the delicate lace 
 ''coifs" that she tied under her chin, and 
 which were so arranged as to give her tlie 
 appearance of a very old woman. Certainly 
 they rather failed in their object ; her dark 
 eves and her smile kept her for ever young, 
 notwithstandinor that the hair she w^ore raised 
 on a cushion under her antique caps, was so 
 white that it looked as if it had been pow- 
 dered. 
 
 It was funny to see the pride that Colonel 
 Douorlas took in her. All his life she had been 
 
 o 
 
 his ideal of perfection, his ' inspiration,' as he 
 expressed it in his little high-flown way. 
 
 Lady Beatrix had been well accustomed to 
 be petted and adored by the people who sur-
 
 56 FKOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 rounded lier ; old men and young men had 
 alike fallen under tlie charm ; her old father, 
 her old husband — later on, the one son who 
 used to carry his " little mother " about on his 
 shoulder, and be vainer of her beauty than any 
 of the lovers of her youth. 
 
 All these were gone from her now. Charley 
 Stuart was in India, and his " little mother's " 
 heart often trembled for him, because of the 
 fighting going on. Life had heaped trouble 
 on her, but the eyes that had wept so much 
 were bright still, and the heart fresh and 
 lovins", Norman Doudas had in some measure 
 taken the place of the absent son, and Lord 
 Douglas worshipped her. Nothing could be 
 prettier than the way she took their homage, 
 — the bright, soft, tender manner, touched with 
 old-world courtliness, and full of the gaiety and 
 grace that belonged only to herself. 
 
 " I want you two to love each other, Mar- 
 garet," said Colonel Douglas, on the evening 
 of that first visit, while their boat was slowly 
 crossing the loch on its way home. " Some day 
 you must let me tell you all about her." 
 
 " I think she looks as if she must have had 
 a story," said Lady Douglas.
 
 III.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 57 
 
 " Yes, and so she has ; rather a sad one. 
 Did Eon aid never tell you of it ? I have 
 heard her tell some parts of it myself." 
 
 " And so have I, often," said Grizel, prick- 
 ing up her ears. 
 
 " Aye, doubtless, though she seldom speaks 
 of herself. She was but a lassie, Margaret, 
 when her troubles began; only about fifteen." 
 
 *' Just upon sixteen," put in Grizel. 
 
 " Ah, well, yes ; just upon sixteen, so I 
 said," continued Norman. " You know she 
 was born and brought up in France, and never 
 left it until the Ee volution had begun." 
 
 Grizel here struck in again. 
 
 " But maybe Margaret has not heard how 
 Aunt Beatrix's father and mother never could 
 bring themselves to leave Paris; indeed, her 
 mother, the French Lady Douglas, never set 
 foot in Scotland, not to mention Dalbraith, 
 until she was driven to it by the troubles in 
 her own country." 
 
 ''That was just what I was telling Mar- 
 craret," said Colonel Douolas. 
 
 '* Ah, but. Cousin Xorman, you ought to go 
 back farther than that," pleaded Grizel, almost 
 with tears in her eyes. This was one of her
 
 58 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [en. 
 
 own best stories, and it was hard indeed to 
 hear all the first part of it disposed of in this 
 cursory fashion. Properly speaking, the whole 
 genealogy of the Douglases ought to be gone 
 into, to the third and fourth generation. 
 *^ Indeed you must go back a little further, 
 just to make things clear to poor Margaret. 
 Won't you just mention, that Lady Beatrix's 
 father was born at Saint Germain ? It seems 
 to carry one fiir back, doesn't it, Margaret, to 
 the days of the Stuarts ? And she got her 
 name from King James's Italian queen. Yes ; 
 her father was born at Saint Germain, and was 
 always more of a Frenchman than a Scotchman, 
 for he was twice married in France. His father 
 had followed King James into exile in the year 
 1668—" 
 
 " Are we to have all the ancestors ? " 
 asked Colonel Douglas, with patient sarcasm. 
 
 "' No, my dear Cousin Norman, no. Indeed, 
 I was only wanting to point out the reason of 
 Aunt Beatrix being rather foreign in her ways, 
 just in her excuse — " 
 
 *' Excuse ! " echoed Colonel Douglas, firing 
 up indignantly. 
 
 ^*For you see," Grizel pursued unheeding,
 
 111.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 59 
 
 *' her father, as I was saying, entered the 
 French service, and when he was quite an 
 elderly man, he married a young French lady 
 for his second wife." 
 
 " True. Well, Margaret, her father married 
 a young French wife — " 
 
 " Fresh from her convent, poor young 
 thin^:," ag^ain struck in the inextins^uishable 
 Grizel. " She was called Mademoiselle ]\Iarie 
 Hortense Alexandrine Diane de Beaurepaire," 
 (pronouncing the long list of French names 
 rather funnily,) " and she was in the flower of 
 her youth, poor little lady, when they took 
 her from her convent, and wedded her to our 
 old grandfather." 
 
 " And Beatrix was her daughter," resumed 
 Korman. 
 
 '' Her second daugrhter — the eldest, Marie 
 Therese Felicite, died young — " 
 
 " Ah, I believe there was a baby or two who 
 did not live," said Norman, " but that's neither 
 here nor thero. Our aunt. Lady Beatrix — " 
 
 " You should say, Cousin Norman, that she 
 was always called Lady Beatrix from her 
 childhood, because poor King James had 
 granted her grandfather the old Earldom of
 
 60 FEOM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Dalbraith, but Kenneth, her brother, never 
 would take the title." 
 
 " Would not, or could not," said Norman, 
 smiling; "but somehow Aunt Beatrix has 
 always kept the ' lady ' out of a spirit of 
 loyalty to her facher, and to the exiled family." 
 
 '^ But her story ? " asked Margaret, striving 
 to avert a discussion on the vexed question of 
 King James's patents of nobility. 
 
 "Ah," said Grizel, "you should hear her 
 talk about her young days herself. She tells 
 it so prettily — about the old Hotel de Beaure- 
 paire in the Faubourg St. Germain, where 
 they used to live with her mother's father, the 
 Marquis de Beaurepaire, up on the fourth 
 story ; and then the Chateau in the forests 
 of La Vendee, which they sometimes went 
 to, and where they were so frightened of the 
 wolves in winter. Her father was getting to 
 be an old man then, (Beatrix was the child of 
 his old age,) and her mother was fond of the 
 world, and spent most of her time at Court. 
 The old hotel in Paris had a courtyard, and 
 a garden with fountains, and a * boulingrin,' 
 where little Beatrix used to play — " 
 
 " Never mind about all that now, Grizel,"
 
 m.] THE FOOT OF TIME. Gl 
 
 interposed Colonel Douglas. " I want to tell 
 Margaret about Eene de Beaurepaire " 
 
 '' He was with the army until Beatrix was 
 fifteen. She never saw him," said Grizel, 
 unable to refrain herself. 
 
 Who does not know the natural impulse to 
 catch the reins out of a driver's hands when a 
 horse is running away ? It was almost as 
 difficult to Grizel to resist trying to keep back 
 the telling of this story, which was getting on 
 so much too fast. There was such a " pretty " 
 bit which ought to come in here, about the 
 little girl's life in the garden of the old Hotel, 
 playing bowls with the old father who doted 
 upon her, and learning her lessons from her 
 noble devote grandmother, Madame de Beaure- 
 paire, for whom there remained so sad a fate 
 in store. 
 
 But Xorman had got his turn now. 
 
 "Rene was her cousin, and soon after he 
 came back to Paris from the army, as Grizel 
 says, he asked his uncle to let him be betrothed 
 to his little Scottish kinswoman. It was all 
 arranged in the formal French fashion; but 
 Ren^ had fallen desperately in love, and she — 
 well, I suppose she was very fond of him, but.
 
 62 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 as she says herself, she was only a child, ready 
 to be charmed with the first handsome young 
 face that looked kindly at her. Well, to make 
 a long story short — " 
 
 " Oh, Cousin Norman," broke reproachfully 
 from Grizel. 
 
 " To make a long story short," repeated 
 Colonel Douglas, firmly, " the storm was 
 gathering darkly over France, and already the 
 emigration had begun. Nothing would induce 
 the old Marquis de Beaurepaire to leave Paris, 
 and the Douglases stayed until nearly the last, 
 but in the end it was thought right that they 
 should go to Scotland, and they came home to 
 Dalbraith ; Rene coming with them to take care 
 of them on the journey, for the old Lord was 
 getting very infirm. 
 
 " Many years before that time he had sent 
 home his only son Kenneth to look after j^oor 
 deserted Dalbraith, and to send him what 
 scanty rents he could collect, to Paris. And 
 Kenneth took kindly to the old country, and 
 was married — " 
 
 "Upon Alison, one of the Colquhouns of 
 Erlistoun," said Grizel. '* He was a tliorough 
 Scot, Norman, was your worthy father, Ken- 
 neth Douglas."
 
 III.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 63 
 
 " And so was his wife," continued Norman, 
 witli a smile ; " very Scotch indeed. Therefore 
 it was a new experience to the French lady, 
 who came straight from Versailles. But she 
 was courageous and gay, like most of the 
 emigres, and ready to make the best of things, 
 except when she thought of the old father and 
 mother she had left to meet the storm alone. 
 I was little more than a baby then, but Sholto, 
 my eldest brother, well remembers their all 
 arriving at Dalbraith, and the winsome little 
 foreign lassie who turned the heads of all the 
 sober Scotchmen hereabouts, and whom he 
 used to call his ^ wee auntie.^ 
 
 " Eene de Beaurepaire, as I have said, escorted 
 them to Scotland, but he did not stay long, 
 for things looked blacker aud blacker in 
 Prance, and the Eeign of Terror was begin- 
 ning. He went back to try and save his uncle. 
 There must have been a great deal that was 
 good in him, but Beatrix, I imagine, was 
 too youDg to care for him as he did for her. 
 She liked to laugh and talk with him, but she 
 hardly knew what it all meant, only she had 
 the same kindly, loving nature then as now, 
 and she wanted to see every one that came
 
 64 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 near lier looking happy. Ifc went much deeper 
 with him, poor fellow." 
 
 " Ah," said Grizel, " I have heard that he 
 used to say she was a cruel person to love, and 
 he was always wanting more from her than the 
 child knew how to give." 
 
 " His was not the right kind of love," pur- 
 sued Colonel Douglas. " It made him selfish 
 and jealous. Am I tiring you with this long 
 story, Margaret ? I would not tell it you but 
 that I think you ought to know the annals of 
 our house." 
 
 '' I would willingly relieve you of the trouble," 
 said Grizel, her eyes glistening with hope. 
 
 But Colonel Douglas resumed his history 
 hurriedly, and made no more apologies. 
 ^' When it came to Eent^'s leaving Dalbraith to 
 go back to France, he must have completely 
 lost his head, I take it. He would have mar- 
 ried Beatrix before he started if he could, 
 without her father and mother's consent, or 
 her own either ; but as that was impossible, 
 he made a very cruel bargain with her. Seeing 
 him so miserable, and being very unhappy her- 
 self at his going back into great danger, she 
 was ready to promise whatever he pleased; and
 
 in.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 65 
 
 this was the compact to whicli he bound the 
 poor ignorant child — that come what might, 
 she was to wait ten years for him. Even if he 
 was killed (as was most probable), she was not 
 to marry any one for ten years. It was a 
 wicked thing to ask of her, for he knew he was 
 going back to almost certain death — and she 
 knew it too, so that there was nothing she 
 would not have been ready to do for him just 
 then. I believe she offered to bind herself 
 never to marry at all ; but he had just grace 
 enough left not to accept that ; only, living or 
 dead, those ten years of her life must, he said, 
 belong to him. So she gave her word, and 
 he went back to Paris in the height of the 
 * Terror.' There was not a very long time to 
 wait for tidings of him. He was too late to 
 save his people. The Marquis de Beaurepaire 
 was dead already, and he saw the noble old 
 Marquise guillotined before his eyes, on the 
 day that he met his own fate. Beatrix heard 
 of it all on her seventeenth birthday, so you 
 see her troubles began early." 
 
 " It was fine of Uen^ to go back to Paris," 
 said Margaret. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 66 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 "He was a gentleman," answered Colonel 
 Douglas, quietly. 
 
 " But it was hard on poor Beatrix," observed 
 Grizel, taking advantage of her cousin's emphatic 
 pause. " She was so unhappy that it was very 
 easy for her at first to keep her promise — 
 indeed, no one knew at that time that she had 
 made it ; but later on, her father and mother 
 found it out, and she had a great deal to put 
 up with. Naturally, they were indignant at her 
 having been made to give such a promise, and 
 everybody set to work to persuade her that it 
 was not a binding one on her — but it was very 
 little use their talking. They might have saved 
 their breath to cool their porridge." 
 
 " It would have been hard," said Colonel 
 Douglas, loftily, " to make a loyal nature such 
 as hers break faith with the dead man who had 
 loved her. But let me go on. Well, a year or 
 two afterwards they took her to Edinburgh, 
 when the French Princes were living at Holy- 
 rood ; and there she had plenty of admirers, 
 but she never gave one of them a hope or a 
 smile." 
 
 ^' Until " — interposed Grizel. 
 
 Colonel Douglas held up his hand. '' Aye,
 
 in.] THE FOOT OF TIME. Q>7 
 
 indeed, until," he continued, "a year later 
 the poor child met her fate. UMstoire se 
 repete, Margaret — it was a Frenchman again — 
 another cousin, another Beaurepaire. But this 
 was a very different man from poor Rene — the 
 passionate, wayward, unformed youth, whose 
 love had ever been a sort of burden to her. 
 Raoul was a more distant cousin ; he was a 
 tried soldier, and one of the most accomplished 
 gentlemen of his time. Moreover, he possessed 
 the sort of prestige, in the eyes of Beatrix's 
 mother, of having become the head of her 
 family since the tragedies in Paris. He had 
 been away from France, fighting with the 
 allied armies for several years, and now he 
 came to Edinburgh to pay his devoirs at Holy- 
 rood, and to lose his heart, hopelessly and 
 utterly, to Beatrix Douglas. Poor Beatrix ! — 
 struggle as she would, and as she did, she was 
 powerless to help herself. The new love was 
 too much for her. The young Marquis de Beaure- 
 paire would take no denial ; he came back to 
 her again and again. She implored her parents 
 to take her away from Edinburgh, but he fol- 
 lowed her to the Highlands ; I suppose she saw 
 that hide it as she would, it nearly broke her 
 
 F 2
 
 68 FEOM GENERATION TO GENEEATION. [ch. 
 
 heart to say him nay ; and every one of her 
 people was on his side. Well, well, it was all 
 past and done with years and years ago, long 
 before you were born or thought of, Margaret ; 
 but it is one of those circumstances that one 
 cannot help looking back to with a great deal 
 of regret — that marriage would have made so 
 many happy, and I believe Raoul might have 
 been a good man, and a great man, if he had 
 married her then. As it was, it only looks to 
 us as if it had spoilt his life and hers : but 
 how do we know ? — blind mortals as we are." 
 
 " You are getting on over fast again. Colonel 
 Norman," said Grizel, warningly ; and as she 
 spoke the boat grated on the gravel of the 
 beach. 
 
 And while Norman and Grizel were strug- 
 gling who should tell most of her story. Lady 
 Beatrix herself sat by the window where they 
 had left her, and watched their boat on its 
 way across the loch. Before her eyes — for she 
 lived now greatly in the past — there rose 
 pictures of many days that were long gone by. 
 It would have been very strange to her, if she 
 could have overheard the talk in the boat, 
 and listened to those faint descriptions of
 
 III.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 69 
 
 scenes that were to her as vivid — nay, it 
 miofht well be more vivid — than the events of 
 yesterday. Tt would have been strange to hear 
 them touch so lightly the past troubles — guess 
 at the struggle and perplexity that had once 
 rent her life. They guessed, and she remem- 
 bered, and the past lay dead and buried. They, 
 smiling, told her story. She lived it over again, 
 with its lost faces and silent voices, its laughter 
 and sunshine, its smiles and bitter tears. It 
 is not given to all to bind the past to the 
 present by a strong and enduring cord. Many, 
 as the years slip on, drop the thread of memory 
 from careless or from busy fingers ; but Lady 
 Beatrix always held it fast. To-day it seemed 
 as if she was spinning it afresh, because a 
 new touch had been laid upon the web ; and 
 seeing: Maro^aret Dougrlas for the first time at 
 Dalbraith, reminded her of her own young 
 days, and of her coming as a stranger and a 
 foreigner to the home of her forefathers. 
 
 Even now she smiled as she recalled the 
 meeting between her mother, with her air 
 of the vieille cour, and the homely Scottish 
 gentlewoman whom her step-son, Kenneth 
 Douglas, had married— the Versailles curtseys,
 
 70 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 the formal grace, and the well-turned speeches, 
 on the one hand, and the quaint, stiff, but 
 genuine kindliness of welcome on the other. 
 
 Lord Douglas, for all his life-long exile, had 
 a warm corner for the Highlands in his heart. 
 He had not been at Dalbraith since the year 
 '45, when as a boy he paid it a brief and secret 
 visit, on his way back to Paris, after the ' cause ' 
 had been lost at CuUoden. Beatrix could see 
 him now, with his hand on his heart, shivering 
 a little in the mist-laden air, and apostrophising 
 'nia patrie. 
 
 Just as plainly she remembered her mother's 
 gesture, the shrug and shudder with which she 
 gathered her draperies round her, and the 
 almost tragic sweep of the arm as she pointed 
 out of the window towards the wilderness. 
 
 To Beatrix herself it was all as the realiza- 
 tion of a dream ; it was a wilderness, true, but 
 a wilderness that blossomed for her as a rose. 
 Long since, in the now-deserted gardens of the 
 Hotel de Beaurepaire, her father used to tell 
 her wondrous tales of the land of rushing 
 streams and blue mountains that her grand- 
 father had renounced to follow his king. 
 
 It was a strange fate, mused Lady Beatrix,
 
 Ill] THE FOOT OF TIME. 7 1 
 
 that had linked her, both on her father's side 
 and on her mother's, to the faithful followers of 
 a fallen dynasty. 
 
 As a child, she had caught from her father 
 a spark of his romantic and chivalrous devotion 
 to the House of Stuart. And now her mother's 
 love for her own sovereigns was deepening into 
 a mournful passion of loyalty that was almost a 
 religion. 
 
 Yes ; those were days that printed their 
 traces deeply on the girl's whole life, and made 
 of Dalbraith a haunted place, peopled with the 
 memories of her youth. 
 
 It was at Dalbraith, on a never-to-be-for- 
 gotten winter's day, that the tidings reached 
 them of Louis the Sixteenth's death. It was 
 by the loch-side that Rene de Beaurepaire, on 
 the eve of his desperate journey to Paris, wrung 
 from her, in his stormy love and jealousy, the 
 promise that wrought her much evil, and altered 
 the whole current of her life. A wild March 
 evening ; a red sunset ; pines tossing in the wind ; 
 a grey sheet of ruffled water, touched here and 
 there by crimson gleams — these would for ever 
 after bring back to her the passionate pleading 
 of his voice, the heart-ache of that parting.
 
 72 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 And yet she loved Dalbraith — loved it more 
 and more when the coy northern spring peeped 
 shyly over the hill -tops, even though with the 
 summer came the ending of suspense, and the 
 seal of* a terrible certainty was set upon their 
 fears. 
 
 There followed in her memory a long peace- 
 ful time — a time that grew, almost against her 
 will, to be a very happy time. She used to 
 reproach herself then, that her young heart 
 would grow light again. Later, she thanked 
 God for it, as one is thankful, after a stormy 
 night, for the cool, fresh morning hours before 
 the heat and burden of the day. 
 
 " That was my play -time, the only one I ever 
 had," she said, long afterwards. And so with 
 the two ' laddies,' her nephews, as companions, 
 among the dogs, and the ponies, and the boats, 
 upon the heather hills, and by the moorland 
 tarns, Beatrix bade a merry, unconscious fare- 
 well to the days of her childhood. 
 
 Only too soon came Edinburgh — the sad little 
 mockery of a court at Holyrood, which, how^- 
 ever, she loved from the first, because the sound 
 of the French voices brought back a smile to 
 her mother's face — Edinburgh, with its balls
 
 III.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 73 
 
 and assemblies; and by-and-by tlie strange 
 light that dawned upon her frightened her, it 
 was so strono; and brig^ht, and made her heart 
 beat so heavily. 
 
 Raoul de Beaurepaire ! — the one love, the joy, 
 the sorrow of her life. Ah ! they might say he 
 was her fate — they might look on at her sore 
 struggle, confusing her with conflicting advice, 
 or with loving entreaties, but to no one could she 
 ever tell what the battle had cost her. For he, 
 Eaoul, treated the old engagement very lightly, 
 and would have had her break faith with her 
 dead cousin — would have had her lay aside the 
 ill-starred promise, which already she owned, 
 with a pang of bitter self-reproach, she had 
 broken in her heart. And when he foiind he 
 could not prevail with her — when again and 
 again she bade him leave her, and at last she 
 had forced him to believe that she was in earnest 
 — he declared that he was ready to wait for 
 her all the seven years that remained of her 
 promise, as Jacob waited for his Rachel, count- 
 ing them but as one day, for the love he bore 
 her. They had gone back to Dalbraith ere this, 
 and he followed her there, and would not be 
 denied.
 
 74 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Her father was growing very old and feeble, 
 and he longed greatly to see the child of his old 
 age happy and provided for before he died. 
 Her mother — ah ! was it not enough for her 
 that Eaoul was a Frenchman ? — and had he not 
 bribed her with stories of the old ancestral 
 chateau, standing deep in the woods of loyal 
 La Vendue, which the tide of the Eevolution 
 had never reached, and where * Mademoiselle 
 Marie ' was still affectionately remembered. 
 
 Beatrix could not meet her mother's wistful 
 eyes ; Lord Douglas's wishes sank deep into her 
 heart, and Eaoul held her hand, and looked into 
 her eyes, as if she held his very life to give or 
 to withhold. By this time, also, it seemed as 
 if her whole being was merged into one wish, 
 one thought, one prayer, that she might do him 
 good and not evil all the days of her life. God's 
 answer to that prayer remains a mystery — it 
 was a very bitter one to her for many years, 
 but at last she grew content — willing to leave 
 the riddle to be read aright at the lifting of the 
 veil. 
 
 " Not for seven years," said Beatrix, at last. 
 " Eemember, not for seven years ; " but before 
 she ended, Eaoul was kneeling at her feet, as
 
 III.] THE FOOT OF TIME. - 75 
 
 if she liad granted him all, in granting him 
 this hope. 
 
 So, on a summer's day, they betrothed her 
 for the second time in the hall at Dalbraith. 
 How clearly she remembered it. Raoul's exult- 
 ing smile, her father's joy, and the weight on 
 her own heart. And then followingr, alas ! how 
 closely, came the gentle and peaceful closing of 
 the old man's eyes. 
 
 Well, those seven years were lived through 
 — endless as they seemed to look forward to — 
 lived through hour by hour, month by month, 
 year by year, at last. Raoul and Beatrix met 
 sometimes, but not very often. Monsieur de 
 Beaurepaire had rejoined the army soon after 
 the death of Lord Douglas, and Beatrix went 
 abroad with her mother, who was pining away 
 in Scotland from home-sickness, the pathetic 
 complaint of the exile. They went to Aix-la 
 Chapelle, and afterwards to Switzerland, lead- 
 ing a wandering and somewhat melancholy life 
 among people who were exiles like themselves. 
 Whenever it was possible, Eaoul joined them, 
 but those meetings brought only a pleasure to 
 Beatrix which was largely mingled with pain. 
 She saw that the waiting, weary enough for a
 
 76 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 brave and patient naturelike lier own, was still 
 worse for him than it was for her, and that it was 
 doing him real harm. Sometimes he beset her 
 with passionate prayers that she would release 
 herself and him from their long bondage to her 
 promise, and save him from the intolerable 
 weariness of his life. A man, he told her, was 
 not like a woman, to whom endurance and 
 submission were natural. 
 
 Sometimes he was very gentle — satisfied, 
 and made happy only by her presence ; and 
 when he left her, looking at her with a sad 
 wistfulness that went nearer to shaking poor 
 Beatrix's resolution than anything else in the 
 world. 
 
 But through everything she never lost her 
 hopefulness, orthe bright sweetness that brought 
 her love wherever she went. 
 
 And, after all, she was not called upon to wait 
 those seven years. The end came when nearly 
 six of them were gone. She and her mother 
 had returned for a while to Dalbraith, where 
 indeed all the great events of her life, whether 
 for joy or for sorrow, seem to have come to her. 
 She was beginning to think that the summer of 
 her life was drawing near, that the long anguish
 
 III.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 77 
 
 of patience was nearly over, and that it might 
 be given to her to make Raoul forget the past 
 in the happiness of the present. She had not 
 seen him for some months, but her brother had 
 written to him now and had asked him to join 
 them at Dalbraith. 
 
 Directly they met, she saw that he was 
 changed. Perhaps he had not fully realised 
 it himself; perhaps he had intended to hide 
 it from her, but she knew him too well for that 
 
 to be possible. 
 
 It was all told the first time they were alone 
 together, in the abrupt, reproachful words : 
 
 '* Beatrix, it was too much to ask of any man. 
 
 I could not do it." 
 
 Then she knew — it seemed to her as if she 
 
 had always known that so it must be. She 
 
 spoke very gently, putting her hand on his arm 
 
 as he paced restlessly up and down. She only 
 
 said, "Yes, dear Raoul ; I think it was too much." 
 '' Oh, Beatrix, we might have been so happy. 
 
 Beatrix, indeed it is your fault." 
 
 She sighed a little, but her eyes had not lost 
 
 their trustful look as she raised them to his. 
 
 " Was it my fault, Raoul ? I don't know ; but 
 
 I am quite sure it was not yours."
 
 78 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " You don't know what you are talking 
 about," he answered restlessly. "You don't 
 understand." 
 
 " I think I do. I think we can put it right." 
 
 He shook his head, but he put his hand down 
 on hers, which still lay upon his arm, and as 
 he did so his eyes fell on the ring which he 
 had put on her finger in her father's presence 
 nearly seven years ago. " Right ! oh, Beatrix," 
 he said, with a low groan, '* how can anything 
 ever be right again ? " 
 
 Beatrix stood thinking for a moment, and 
 then she drew off the ring, and held it towards 
 him. "If I send this ring to some one, with 
 my love — then, Raoul ? " and she looked up at 
 him with a smile. 
 
 He bent down his head, and made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Who is it, Baoul ? " she asked presently, 
 in a low, soft voice. 
 
 He looked up and caught her hands in his, 
 drawing her to him roughly, with a strange 
 passion of tenderness, and anger, and regret in 
 his face. 
 
 " She is not like you, Beatrix, I know that; 
 and yet I cannot help myself."
 
 ui.] THE FOOT OF TIME. 79 
 
 And in that sentence lay the key to the 
 remainder of his life. It was not a good or a 
 very happy one. He knew always that he had 
 fallen short of his high hope, that he had placed 
 his love a second time less nobly and purely 
 than the first. Perhaps he was not a strong 
 man, and that, as he said, he could not help 
 himself. His fancy had only wavered for the 
 moment. The glamour that had blinded his 
 eyes soon faded, and it left him a gloomy and 
 embittered man. To the last he remembered 
 Beatrix ; and those who were by him on his 
 deathbed (for he died early), said that they 
 could hear him whispering her name. 
 
 " Those Beaurepaires are always being thrown 
 against us, for good or for evil," said Lord 
 Douglas to his wife, when she told him that she 
 had been hearing about Lady Beatrix's early 
 life. " I really have a sort of superstition about 
 it. It was a Beaurepaire, Margaret, who intro- 
 duced us to each other — Rene de Beaurepaire 
 — don't you remember ? " 
 
 " The son of this man ? " asked Maroraret. 
 
 " Yes ; Raoul's son. He is sure to turn up 
 here sooner or later, for he is devoted to Aunt
 
 80 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. 
 
 Beatrix, who was good to him after his father 
 died, and to Uncle Norman too." 
 
 *' And to you, Eonald," added Margaret, 
 jealously. '' You, who nursed him so devotedly 
 when he was ill." 
 
 " Ah well, Meg, I was not without my reward 
 for that piece of business, so we won't say any- 
 thing more about it. And now, which do you 
 think tells a story best — Grizzy or Uncle 
 Norman ? ''
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 
 
 " Though Fortune be saucy, and dourty, and dour, 
 And gloom thro' her fingers like hills thro' a showier, 
 ^Yhen bodies hae got ae bit bairn o' tlieir ain. 
 How he cheers up their hearts — he's tlie wonderfu' wean." 
 
 It was in the second rear of tlieir marriagre 
 that Ronald, their only son, was born to 
 Douorlas and Marojaret. Life dawned on him 
 when the bloom was on the heather, and the 
 moors were in their glory. 
 
 With the Highland superstition that sees 
 an omen in evervthino^, the old wives about 
 the place used to tell long afterwards, what a 
 bonny morning of sunshine and glittering dew- 
 drops was the forenoon of his birthday. But 
 before twelv^e o'clock — quite early — the sky 
 clouded over, and a heavy storm broke over 
 the bright young day. The nurse shook her 
 head at Grizel across the cradle, but young 
 Ronald lay peacefully absorbed in trying to 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 82 mOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 swallow his fist, and was alike indifferent to the 
 evil presage, and to the grave, deep thunders- 
 claps that rolled above bis head. 
 
 They never called him Baby after he was 
 christened. To his father and mother he was 
 Eonald, or more generally Rollo ; to every one 
 else about him, the ' wee bit Master.' 
 
 In truth his babyhood was somewhat slurred 
 and hurried over, so anxious were all his 
 belongings that he should early prove himself 
 to be ' a man.' The dignity of his position as 
 a ' lad bairn ' was impressed very soon upon 
 his mind, and little Ronald's baby efforts to 
 act up to what he felt was expected from him 
 were sometimes pretty, sometimes almost piti- 
 ful to see. And yet it was rather a pity to 
 hasten, with impatient feet, over that little 
 opening bit of the path of life, upon which, 
 after all, there is. no return. It has its own 
 simple, foolish charm, and the tottering foot- 
 steps beat out a tender, irregular music, that is 
 wanting later on, in the steady tramp of the 
 trained soldier marching to his battle. 
 
 Margaret Douglas rejoiced over her little 
 son, wondered at him, watched him for hours, 
 dreamt about his future, but she did not very
 
 IV.] AS MORNING SHOWS THE DAY. 83 
 
 often toss him in her arms, or sing him nursery 
 rhymes, and the coaxing nonsense that comes 
 naturally to most young mothers would have 
 sounded strange on her lips. RoUo himself 
 taught her some ' little ways ' in time ; she 
 learnt from him to play at ' peep-bo/ and to 
 pretend RoUo was lost, searching for him in 
 all impossible places, while he sat in full view, 
 shoutinof with laug^hter on the sofa. Where 
 once she had an idea she carried it out ener- 
 getically, but the baby mostly took the initia- 
 tive himself, blew the kisses, and bestowed, 
 unasked, the romping hugs that are usually 
 received as such unexampled favours at the 
 hands of a young crown prince. 
 
 "I think he really must be an unusually 
 beautiful child," wrote Lady Douglas to her 
 mother. " Every one thinks so ; even I never 
 saw a child the least like him, and you know I 
 am not a baby-lover ; so it must be true ." 
 
 As for Lord Douglas, he treated the new-comer 
 after the fashion of most young fathers. For 
 the first few weeks he was very much occupied 
 with "it" — (that he should have called the wee 
 bundle of cambric and flannel " it " was a sore 
 trial to cousin Grizzy and the nurse). He held
 
 84 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 it in his arms, whistled to it, warmed its pink 
 curling toes at the fire, and declared that it 
 knew him quite well, and liked him. The 
 nurses looked on in admiration, and Margaret 
 quite believed that " the boy " must like his 
 father better than any one else. 
 
 Then began the shooting season. One even- 
 ing Douglas put the little one down into his 
 cot, with many professions of devoted love. He 
 was out by starlight the next morning, had a 
 grand day's deer-stalking, and, coming home 
 happy and sleepy, forgot the baby for that 
 night, and for many a one besides. " I like to 
 know that he is all right, poor little chap, but 
 I haven't time to go upstairs just now, you 
 know, Margaret," he said, apologetically ; but 
 Margaret did not need excuses ; her king could 
 do no wrong, and she had only wondered a 
 little bit hitherto at his devotion to the little 
 boy. 
 
 A terrible rivalry existed between Konald's 
 nurse and the French ' bonne ' of little Ken- 
 neth, Norman Douglas's small son. Kenneth 
 had a year the start of his little cousin, but, 
 according to his proud Marie, he had cut his 
 first tooth, * felt his legs/ and begun to talk
 
 IT.] AS MORNIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 8 J 
 
 quite plain, at least a month younger than 
 Ronald could be said to have accomplished any 
 of these feats. Konald was big and deliberate, 
 and took his time about everything. However, 
 at last the day came when he said '' Daddy " 
 so distinctly that uobody could mistake the 
 word. He was then only a quarter of an inch 
 shorter than Kenneth, and Lord Douorlas had 
 taken him for a walk. Marie hid her diminished 
 head. 
 
 After that first walk Lord Douglas used 
 often to take his son about with him. Ronald 
 did his very best to keep up, grasping his 
 father's finger tightly, but one of Douglas's 
 long strides generally ended in the little fellow's 
 measuring his length on the ground. To do 
 Ronald justice, he did not cry, however hard 
 the bump may have been. To be a man at 
 each crisis of his small life was his earnest 
 endeavour, and his father was his model. Not 
 to cry when he hurt himself, to be afraid of 
 nothing, to speak the truth, and love his 
 mother, were the boy's notions of manliness, 
 gathered partly from the exhortations addressed 
 to him, and partly from a careful study of his 
 father's bearing. In fact, as time went on, the
 
 86 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 little Master of Dalbraitli stood a good chance 
 of being hardened off the face of the earth 
 altogether, by the stern theories of his young 
 father and mother. If he showed the least 
 symptom of fear — and people are not heroes 
 at three years old — Lord Douglas looked infi- 
 nitely puzzled, and Lady Douglas sorrowfully 
 indignant. 
 
 The helplessness of childhood was really as 
 sacred to Lord Douglas as it is to most stronor 
 
 o o 
 
 men, but he was slow to recognize its extent. 
 Nothing could be more tender than his way of 
 carrying and comforting the little fellow, if he 
 was really in difficulties ; and yet Rollo, being 
 a sturdy child, of independent nature, often 
 struggled through a considerable amount of 
 cold and weariness, rather than complain to his 
 father. 
 
 He grew up a thorough little mountaineer, 
 fearless and hardy. Happy are they who can 
 look back upon a boyhood such as his, as simple, 
 pure, and brave. 
 
 Those were years of scarcity and great 
 want in the Highlands, and the sufierings of 
 his people sank deep into the heart of Lord 
 Douglas. There were no luxuries in those days
 
 IV.] AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 87 
 
 at Dalbraith. The inmates lived fruo^all}', even 
 poorly, both Lord Douglas and his wife giving 
 up their whole lives to lighten, as far as in 
 them lay, the terrible want and misery that 
 was around them. It was a grim battle that 
 they had to wage with famine and despair ; 
 but it was fought on their side with unfaltering 
 courage, strong will, and cheerful self-denial. 
 There was nothino^ in the world that Douorlas 
 would not have given up to help his people, 
 and Maro^aret seconded him with might and 
 main. They never lost heart, even at the 
 worst of times — that little, band of workers, 
 Douglas, and his wife, and Xorman — only once 
 or twice Douglas's courage well nigh gave way, 
 and that was when it was first found necessary 
 that some of the Highlanders should emigrrate 
 to Canada. 
 
 That nearly broke him down. The brave, 
 patient people, who had met starvation with a 
 dignified submission, whose hearts clung with 
 so passionate a love to their glens and shiel- 
 ings, whose fathers, from time immemorial, 
 had lived and died among the hills and moors 
 of their own romantic land; — that they should 
 have to leave it all, and go forth into exile !
 
 88 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 To them it was as the bitterness of death ; to 
 Douglas, for them, a grief that he could hardly 
 master or overcome. 
 
 Margaret never forgot the sorrow of the time 
 when the emigrants were getting ready to leave 
 Scotland. Douglas had done his duty ; lie had 
 urged their going, bat now he had to stand by 
 and see the sacrifice carried out. His brief 
 words, bis troubled sleep and contracted brow, 
 showed what he was feeling. Several bands had 
 left the surrounding country before any of his 
 own people could make up their minds to go 
 out into the new world beyond the sea. But 
 they knew that it must come to that. 
 
 One day Margaret had ridden with her 
 husband many miles up into the hills, that he 
 might bid farewell to a departing family — not 
 from his own property. Those leave-takings 
 were cruel work, but Douglas would not shrink 
 from one of them ; not to save himself a little 
 pain would he let the people go away un- 
 noticed ; they should carry with them, at 
 least, the memory of a few words of hope and 
 of goodwill. But that day they were too late ; 
 the shepherd and his family whom they had 
 come to seek, were already gone.
 
 IV.] AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 89 
 
 The hut was silent and deserted ; no children 
 were playing round the door, no sheep-dog's 
 bark was heard in welcome or in warning^. On 
 the hearth in the middle of the floor were the 
 dying peats of a fast fading fire — a heap of 
 ashes — a faint canopy of smoke. 
 
 The door stood wide open, and the wind 
 swept into the empty dwelling with a sigh, 
 fluttering the bit of checked blue and white 
 curtain that hung above the window, and shak- 
 ing the rude latch of the closed door that led 
 ^' ben." A broken birdcao^e hung; in the un- 
 glazed window, but its door was o]3en too, 
 and the bird was gone. It was a dark and 
 dreary-looking hut enough, but once it was a 
 home. 
 
 Doufi^las stood lookino: round him for a few 
 minutes, the silence and the desolation creep- 
 ing coldly over his heart. He sat down on a 
 broken wooden stool, beside the smoulderinor 
 peats on the hearth-stone that was growing 
 cold, and, covering his face with his hands, 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 And then his own people began to go. It 
 was better for them, there was no gainsaying 
 that ; hope and plenty awaited them out there ;
 
 90 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 but in the mean time a few hearts got broken 
 on the way. 
 
 They came in a sort of roagh procession to 
 Dalbraith, that Lord Douglas might " set " 
 them on their journey — a troop of gaunt, famine- 
 stricken men and women, with despair and 
 hope striving for mastery in their hearts. It 
 was sad to watch them come winding down 
 the mountain side, with their pipers playing a 
 pibroch that echoed for the last time through 
 the glen they were leaving. 
 
 There were old men and babies among them, 
 women and little children. And such partings ! 
 Here and there a few words muttered in 
 Gaelic, as the strong hands wrenched them- 
 selves asunder; wild sobs from the departing 
 women ; a scream sometimes from an old grand- 
 mother left behind. And beside such an one 
 Lady Beatrix was generally to be found, 
 holding the poor convulsed hands in hers, 
 weeping bitterly with her, but withal speaking 
 brave words of tender cheer, about the meeting 
 again that was to be soon in " the Land o' the 
 Leal." 
 
 Douglas went over to Canada with the first 
 band of his people. He could not bear to let
 
 IT.] AS MORNIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 91 
 
 them go out alone. When he had seen them 
 settled, and in a fair way to do well, he came 
 home somewhat comforted. There was hard 
 work to be done still, but there was also now 
 more hope. Years, however, like those he 
 had gone through leave their mark for ever 
 on a man's life. He had grrowu stronorer and 
 at the same time gentler and more humble, 
 as in that sharp ordeal he had learnt that 
 none can lead a true life without the help of 
 God. 
 
 While he was away Margaret remained at 
 Dalbraith, trying, with Grizel's help, to carry 
 on her husband's work, and waiting with what 
 patience she might for his return. The time 
 seemed to her to drag terribly. She envied 
 Grizel's busy contentment, and wondered at 
 the unfailing brightness of Lady Beatrix, some- 
 times speculating, half idly, on how she herself 
 could have borne such sorrows as all through 
 her life had followed in the footsteps of her 
 husband's aunt. How impossible, she thought, 
 ever to smile again. " But I could not live 
 without Konald," she said to herself ; '' I should 
 die." 
 
 Even now a shadow, that was only half
 
 92 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 confessed, had fallen over the Lady's Lodge. 
 A little grandchild, Marion Stuart by name, 
 had come there, sent home from India to the 
 care of Lady Beatrix, and the small maiden 
 brought with her a heavy disappointment. 
 For there had been great hopes that her f^ither 
 — the only child of his mother — was himself 
 coming home on leave to gladden her eyes 
 once more. No one knew how Lady Beatrix 
 had built on this meeting — how she had pined 
 to see Charley's honest blue eyes, and to hear 
 his voice again — how often lately she had lain 
 awake with a beating heart, too happy and 
 too full of hope to sleep. 
 
 And the blissful vision was so nearly coming 
 true. Then alas ! there had been some dis- 
 turbances on an Indian frontier, Charley's 
 regiment was ordered there, his leave post- 
 poned, and the little daughter was sent home 
 to Scotland in the care of a brother officer's wife. 
 It was a bitter disappointment, and perhaps 
 the worst part of it was that Charley believed 
 so fully that he was sending his mother by 
 far the dearest, and the most welcome, part of 
 himself How dense people are sometimes, 
 even the best and kindest ! " When you have
 
 IV.] AS MORNIKG SHOWS THE DAY. 93 
 
 our little rosebud on your lap, mother, you 
 will not have time/' he wrote, '"' to miss your 
 own old boy." 
 
 His mother shook her head, cried over the 
 letter, smiled, brushed away the tears, and 
 kissed Charley's dear blundering handwriting. 
 " How little the boy knows, God bless him," 
 she said to herself, while she tried to smother 
 the heartache, and to forget the sharp sting of 
 an unshared disappointment. Truly Charley's 
 " rosebud " seemed beset with thorns. 
 
 " How pleasurable," said Grizel, '"' for the 
 dear Auntie to have Charley's child to take his 
 place in her heart," and Lady Beatrix smiled 
 and brightened, stri^-ing to put away the 
 haunting: sense of contrast ; but she could not 
 help thinking of Charley's manly face, his kind 
 voice, of the strong protecting clasp in which 
 she always felt so safe and so happy, and her 
 eyes brimmed over until a tear fell on the fair 
 head of Charley's little child. How glad he 
 would have been — how much they would have 
 had to say to one another; she remembered 
 long firelight talks, and little old jokes shared 
 between mother and son that no one else could 
 ever have entered into, and she almost fancied
 
 94 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 she could liear his quick step coming in, and 
 his cheery laugh of pleasure. 
 
 Instead, on that first day she was holding 
 close to her side a little silent bashful maiden 
 of two summers, whose heart she could feel 
 fluttering under her hand like an imprisoned 
 bird. Little Marion did not cry, but her dumb 
 agony of shyness was almost more painful to 
 see than tears. She met all her grandmother's 
 tender advances by burying her face in her 
 hands, and sometimes stamping her tiny foot on 
 the floor with an air of heartrending despair. 
 
 Lady Beatrix was at her wits' end. The 
 little one's genuine suffering cut her to the 
 heart ; and then the blue eyes that she had just 
 caught a glimpse of were so like Charley's, it 
 had given her a strange thrill to meet them, and 
 she could almost have cried because Charley's 
 child would have nothing to say to her. 
 
 At last the small thing, after endless coax- 
 ing:, had allowed herself to be lifted on to 
 her grandmother's knee. Lady Beatrix's heart 
 quite throbbed. The little hands were still 
 tightly clasped over the eyes, and the head 
 bent down ; but it was something that she 
 sat still, and allowed the soft hand to hold
 
 lY.] AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 95 
 
 her small bare les^ without kickinnr it awav 
 as she had done hitherto. 
 
 Just then the door was suddenly burst open, 
 and Lady Beatrix give up all for lost, as her 
 other Weird, little Kenneth Douglas, rushed 
 noisily into the room. 
 
 " What's that ? " he asked, in a shout of 
 surprise, as he caught sight of the little droop- 
 ing figure on Lady Beatrix's lap. 
 
 "Hush, Kenneth," she answered softly; 
 " don't frighten her, take no notice, it is little 
 Marion." 
 
 Kenneth came quite close, putting his hands 
 behind his back, and staring at his small 
 cousin at his ease. 
 
 " What has she got her fists in her eyes 
 for ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Don't talk so loud, Kenneth ; she is shy." 
 
 " She is peeping at me all the time. I say, 
 little baby," and he seized hold roughly of the 
 wee leg that Lady Beatrix was touching as if 
 it was made of eorop-shell china. 
 
 " Kenneth, Kenneth, you will make her cry." 
 
 Not at all. To her grandmother's surprise, 
 the little maiden slowly raised her head, and a 
 shy sunny smile stole over her face.
 
 96 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " A boy," she said, slowly and distinctly. 
 
 '* Yes," answered Lady Beatrix, hardly 
 daring yet to speak above her breath ; "a boy. 
 Do you like him, Marion ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " She's dreadfully small, littler than Ronald ; " 
 and with an air of lordly indifference Kenneth 
 strolled off to the window. 
 
 Marion looked after him, twisted herself 
 suddenly off Lady Beatrix's lap, and trotted 
 across the room. 
 
 " Boy," she said, insinuatingly planting her- 
 self in front of him. 
 
 Kenneth did not mean to be unkind, but 
 he had got his most precious possession, a toy 
 frigate in full sail, in his arms, and the little 
 hands were stretched out alarmingly near to 
 the fragile masts. He gave a friendly push 
 intended to keep her off, but the little one was 
 not very steady on her legs ; she made one or 
 two steps backwards and subsided on to the 
 floor. 
 
 There was a moment's pause, while Lady 
 Beatrix waited for the scream that must now 
 surely come. Instead, however, there rung 
 suddenly through the room the pretty silver
 
 IV.] AS MORNING SHOWS THE DAY. 97 
 
 peal of a baby's laugh. Littk Marion had 
 taken it all in good part. 
 
 '' Aden," she said, struggling to her feet, 
 and approaching Kenneth. 
 
 "Aunt Beatrix," said the boy, solemnly, 
 " she loves me very much indeed." 
 
 AYhen Marion went up to her strange 
 nursery that night, she would not look at Lady 
 Beatrix, but she was grasping " Boy's " arm 
 tightly, and a light had arisen on her desolation. 
 
 *'Aunt Beatrix," said Kenneth, that same 
 evening, after he had said his prayers, and he 
 fixed his eyes steadily on his aunt's face, 
 reading its wistfulness with the quick intuition 
 of childhood, " Are you sorry because that 
 baby likes me better than you ? " 
 
 "Oh, no Kenneth, not if it makes her 
 happy." 
 
 " I don't think she likes you very much," 
 continued Master Kenneth. 
 
 " Perhaps she will by-and-by." 
 
 ''As much as me ? " he asked. 
 
 ''We shall see." 
 
 " Aunt Beatrix," resumed the boy, going on 
 with his own train of thought ; " Father says 
 that God loves you very much." 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Strange power wielded by baby hands. A 
 child's frown may have the power to wound ; 
 a child's unconscious words can heal and bless. 
 
 Lady Beatrix took the curly golden head 
 between her hands and kissed it ; "I know it, 
 Kenneth," she said, softly and gladly. 
 
 Only Margaret Douglas seemed at all to 
 understand the silent trial and disappointment. 
 *•' That little mite," she said, the first time she 
 saw Marion, and heard Grizel discoursing on 
 the delight and satisfaction she must have 
 brought to her grandmother. And with a 
 caressing gesture, that was very rare in her, 
 she took Lady Beatrix's hand and held it 
 closely in her own. The other glanced up with 
 a quick smile of understanding and thanks for 
 the unspoken sympathy ; but presently, as if 
 her heart smote her even for accepting it, 
 her left hand went out, and gently sought little 
 Marion's fair head. 
 
 Time passed on ; the three children left 
 infancy behind them, and began to play their 
 small parts in the family history. The girl 
 was a sturdy, earnest, meditative little thing, 
 possessed of a wonderful imagination, and of 
 a tremendous power of hero worship. At
 
 IV.] AS MOENING SHOWS THE DAY. 99 
 
 present all this was lavished on her cousin 
 Kenneth, whose hazel eyes and coaxing ways 
 carried all before him. 
 
 How Marion loved him, with his winning 
 tongue and merry laugh, and all that she felt 
 for him in the silence of that deep little heart 
 of hers, she herself would certainly not have 
 been able to describe ; but she had unutter- 
 able day-dreams about herself and him, in 
 most of which she was to have the joy of 
 saving him from misfortune, and sometimes 
 of having her head cut off for his sake. 
 Quiet and self-contained when left to herself, 
 she kindled into life, and glee, and bustle, 
 when her hero was with her. She was the 
 leader in their adventures ; sometimes, truth to 
 tell, his defender in danger. 
 
 There was a certain formidable-lookino* 
 mountain goat, which had long been kept in 
 captivity at Dalbraith. Notwithstanding his 
 long beard and twisted horns, he was generally 
 a peaceable animal enough, but one day, when 
 the children had been teazing him rather too 
 much for his good humour, he suddenly 
 broke the cord that tethered him, lowered his 
 head, and charged the whole party gallantly. 
 
 h2
 
 100 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Kenneth and Eonalcl souglit an inglorions safety 
 in flight; but Marion spread out the skirt of her 
 little frock, and bravely put herself in the fore- 
 front of the danger, retiring slowly with her 
 face to the foe, and covering the retreat of the 
 two boys. Lord Douglas came upon the scene 
 just in time to pick up the little maiden as she 
 was being rolled over and over on the grass, 
 and to carry her home on his shoulder, where 
 she sat perched up, shy and serious, and chiefly 
 concerned that he should in no way suppose 
 Kenneth to have been at all wanting in valour. 
 " He had not got a petticoat to catch the goat, 
 you see," said Marion. 
 
 Presently they met the two boys coming 
 back, and followed by Lady Beatrix. Kenneth 
 came running to meet them, laughing, and 
 calling out that he hoped good little Moll had 
 not been liurt. Ronald, for his part, kept 
 rather in the back-ground, hanging down his 
 head when he saw his father, while his little 
 brown face was dyed with the deepest crimson. 
 
 *' Here, Granny," said Lord Douglas, as he 
 lifted Marion from his shoulder ; "your lassie 
 is braver than both our laddies put together." 
 
 " Bide a wee," answered Lady Beatrix, point-
 
 IV.] AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 101 
 
 ing back, with a smile, to poor Ronald's shame- 
 stricken little figure, " there's no lack of mettle 
 there." 
 
 In truth, Ronald had not dreamt of running 
 away from the goat until he was infected by 
 Kenneth's panic. 
 
 Such things are catching, as we all know, by 
 many a sad war history. Instead of showing 
 fight, as he had been preparing to do, he was 
 demoralised by his cousin's disappearance ; and 
 the danger appearing imminent, scoured away 
 after him as fast as his short legs could carry him. 
 
 Lord Douglas looked at his little son's scarlet 
 face ; and presently, sitting down on a rock 
 hard by, lifted him on to his knee. 
 
 " Why did you run away ? " he whispered, 
 holdinor him ao^ainst his breast. 
 
 '' I was frightened," answered the boy, chok- 
 ing with shame, but perfectly truthful. 
 
 Lord Douglas put his cheel.: down on to the 
 curly head, and said no more; but something — 
 some understanding — some tie — what was it? 
 tio-htened between father and son, and never 
 got loose again. 
 
 The two children at the Lady's Lodge were 
 as happy as are flowers in the sunshine.
 
 102 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 ** Granny," as they both called her, was the 
 centre of their lives ; her gift of sympathy with 
 childhood enabling her to enter into and enjoy, 
 for her own sake, many of the things which 
 they liked best. 
 
 Often quaint and dainty scenes were enacted in 
 her picturesque little drawing-room, on wintry 
 afternoons, after the daylight was gone, and 
 when the red glow of the fire shone against the 
 walls, and out beyond the unshuttered windows. 
 The dusk peering quietly in might see chairs 
 and tables all pushed on one side, and Lady 
 Beatrix, her little delicate erect figure thrown 
 out by the ruddy light behind her, teaching 
 Kenneth and Marion to dance the stately 
 *' minuet de la Cour," for which she had been 
 famous in her youth. 
 
 It was pretty to see Marion's sturdy earnest- 
 ness as she danced ; and the native easy grace 
 of Kenneth's steps and bows ; but prettier far 
 to watch the little grandmother, now pausing 
 with slow dignity and regal air, her head raised, 
 and her tiny foot pointed, now sinking down in 
 one of those deep sweeping curtseys, that had 
 lost none of their steady balance in the course 
 of years. And as she moved, the atmosphere
 
 IV. AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 103 
 
 of former days seemed to gather round her, 
 brocaded robes to rustle, ghostly cavaliers to 
 bend and sway before her, inaudible voices 
 to speak gallantly or tenderly as she swept 
 along. 
 
 Thus, at least, it appeared to one person, 
 who sat in a dark corner, playing the minuet 
 music on a strangely-shaped piano, with mother- 
 of-pearl keys, and a tendency to asthma. That 
 person was the old demoiselle de compagnie, 
 who had been nursery governess to Charley 
 Stuart, and who had known his mother even 
 before those distant days. Brown-faced, 
 stoutly built, Mademoiselle Aglae, (or " Mam- 
 zelle Ugly," as she had long since grown 
 content to hear herself called by Scottish 
 tonojues), was amono; the lovino: and faithful 
 of the earth, and very familiar to her ears 
 was the measured music of the gavottes and 
 minuets which she played. 
 
 One of the hoarded treasures in Lady 
 Beatrix's room was a tiny fiddle, laid away care- 
 fully in its case, which had once belonged to 
 her uncle, the Baron de Saint Aulaire, and had 
 been his inseparable companion in the days of 
 the emigration, when he gave dancing lessons
 
 104 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 in London. Aglae Tailleur, daughter to the 
 Intendant of his estates on the Loire, followed 
 her master and mistress when they left France. 
 They had endured many hardships — the Baron 
 and Baronne, and the Angevin waiting-woman 
 — ^for the dancing lessons at the best were very 
 poorly paid ; but after Lady Beatrix Stuart 
 married she was able to cheer her old uncle's 
 closing days, and when he died he left to her 
 care his two most constant friends, the little 
 fiddle, and Mamselle Aglae. 
 
 ' Miledi ' was now the only remaining link 
 that connected Ugly with the young dream-life 
 that she very imperfectly remembered — with 
 the banks of the Loire, and the kinsfolk and 
 acquaintance of her youth. The two women 
 had clung to each other through many vicissi- 
 tudes of fortune. They had brought up Charley 
 Stuart, and seen him go out into the world ; 
 and now another generation had begun, and it 
 was Charley's little child who was dancing in 
 the firelight. 
 
 On some evenings there was no dancing 
 lesson, but the shaded candles were lighted on 
 Granny's table near the fire ; and sitting very 
 upright in her high-backed chair, she read
 
 IV.] AS MORXING SHOWS THE DAY. 105 
 
 aloud " Les Yeillees du Chateau " to the two 
 children, as they sat cross-legged on the hearth- 
 rug at her feet. 
 
 Cesar and Pulcherie, Delphine, Alphonse and 
 Telismar, M. I'Abbe and Madame la Marquise, 
 sententious shadows from the world of ancient 
 France, came out bowino: and moralising^ as 
 in days of yore, while Kenneth and Marion 
 listened entranced, or shouted with laughter 
 over the prim virtues of the young de Clemires. 
 
 But " Bonne Maman," in the book itself, 
 could hardly have enjoyed the " Yeillees " more 
 heartily than did their present reader, to whom 
 old associations lent them reality. Chateau 
 Champcery became her mother's ancestral home 
 in La Vendue ; she could see her own Bonne 
 Maman sitting serenely in the huge, dark, 
 dilapidated rooms ; she heard Lady Douglas 
 lamenting gaUy over the lost delights of Paris, 
 and " les gens " grumbling over the dreariness 
 of a country life. 
 
 Frequently the book was dropped on to her 
 lap, and, still speaking French, she rapidly told 
 the children story after story out of her own 
 experience, each one with twenty times more 
 life, and fun, and spirit in it, than any that
 
 106 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 had ever dawned on the sage imagination of 
 Madame de Genlis. 
 
 The boy and girl loved the book for Granny's 
 sake. Once in after years, when Kenneth was 
 a man, he stumbled on one of the little worn 
 volumes, stowed away in the corner of a book- 
 case. He took it down and opened it, turning 
 slowly over its brown, faded pages — a rush of 
 recollections crowding over him, until he was 
 surprised to find that the crabbed old printing 
 was growing blurred and dim from the tears 
 that filled his eyes. 
 
 Poor Kenneth, want of affection was never 
 one of his faults. He only cared too much 
 for love and praise, and dreaded the loss of 
 them too keenly. All through his life he 
 could not turn back unmoved to the bright, 
 sweet memories of his childhood. 
 
 He was but fulfilling the law of his destiny 
 when, a year or two afterwards, he grew to be 
 entirely beyond petticoat government, and gave 
 everybody belonging to him a great deal of 
 trouble. His intentions were excellent ; he 
 meant no harm whatsoever when he all but 
 blew up the house with gunpowder. On the 
 contrary, his repentance and pious thankfulness
 
 IT.] AS MORNIKG SHOWS THE DAY. 107 
 
 that Granny and Marion had not fallen victims 
 to his experiments, were truly affecting. 
 
 But he did not turn over the new leaf that 
 was expected of him ; and a day came when 
 justice, prompt and high-handed, descended on 
 his head. 
 
 It came about in this way. The portrait 
 (in pastels) of " Euphemia Douglas, Spinster, 
 (Btat 45," had long possessed an unholy fascina- 
 tion for him ; and a certain large pink rose? 
 stuck primly in her blue stomacher, appeared 
 in his eyes the most desirable target which any 
 marksman could aspire to. 
 
 One day when, most unluckily for him, his 
 father was sitting in the drawing-room, talking 
 to Lady Beatrix, the deed was done, and an 
 arrow, discharged with somewhat nervous haste 
 from outside the window, found its mark (but 
 fortunately half spent) in Granny's prettiest 
 lace cap. 
 
 It took only two of Colonel Douglas's long 
 strides to carry him to the spot, and the hapless 
 archer was captured red-handed, the bow still 
 grasped quivering in his arms. 
 
 Kenneth had never encountered anything 
 so formidable as his father's bent brows, low
 
 108 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 voice, and the fierce grasp that fastened on 
 his shoulder like a vice. Lady Beatrix had 
 been in real peril for an instant, and her 
 nephew was sufficiently frightened to be very 
 angry. 
 
 "That was your doing I suppose, sir," he 
 said in a deep and shaky voice. 
 
 The boy faltered for a moment and looked 
 round for Marion, who, as usual in the hour of 
 danger, was quickly at his side. That instant's 
 hesitation sealed his fate. 
 
 The sentence, quickly pronounced and irre- 
 vocable, was imprisonment at Norman's Tower 
 until such time as his father s leave was over, 
 and then a school in England. 
 
 Granny, as soon as she was certified that 
 her ear had not been transfixed, was rather 
 inclined to laugh, and to plead for the culprit, 
 but neither her intercession nor the agonized 
 supplications of Marion were of any avail. 
 
 An hour after, like Jock o' Hazeldean's lady, 
 Marion was left " weeping by the tide," while 
 the boat which carried off the still bewildered 
 Kenneth was receding in the distance. Now 
 it had reached the island, and the shadows 
 from the rocks had fallen athwart it — now it
 
 IV.] AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. 109 
 
 was rounding the point— now it was quite 
 gone. 
 
 To have behaved thus to a lady, — for though 
 poor Kenneth had aimed at a pictured " prin- 
 cess " he had actually hit a living one, and 
 then to have hesitated to confess — could he 
 have sinned more deeply against his father's 
 twofold creed of chivalry and honour ? 
 
 Never had the little fellow experienced such 
 handlingr as he met with from Colonel Douglas 
 that afternoon at Norman's Tower. If poor 
 Marion could have seen him lying on the 
 ground, with his face hidden on the floor, after 
 his father had left him, she could hardly have 
 mourned for him more bitterly than she did, as 
 she sat in the deserted school-room and poured 
 out her woes into Ugly's sympathising bosom. 
 
 And perhaps had Colonel Douglas known 
 the abiding impression of terror that his son 
 received from his severe looks and words, he 
 would not so openly have manifested his dis- 
 pleasure. The child was a child still, and a 
 shock was given to his nerves. 
 
 Little Ronald Douglas, over at Dalbraith, was 
 of a sterner fibre than his cousin, and could 
 have borne rough treatment better.
 
 110 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [cii. 
 
 But the impression unwittingly given was, for 
 good or for evil, irrevocably received. Later on 
 in the evening Colonel Douglas returned home, 
 his anger all gone, and nothing but a tender 
 yearning remaining towards his little son. That 
 was Granny's work. He talked to him in so 
 gentle and fatherly a way that Kenneth's 
 elastic spirits rose every minute, and when he 
 sat at dinner with his father, in the queer 
 barrack-looking dining-room, he felt every 
 inch a man, and the troubles of the dav were 
 already not forgotten, but left behind. 
 
 At that same moment Marion, woman-like, 
 was lovingly and sorrowfully laying aside the 
 possessions he had most valued ; his boats, his 
 carpenter's tools, the big knife, whereof all the 
 blades but one were broken, and the ill-fated 
 bow and arrows. Slow tears were dropping on 
 them as she put them one by one into the 
 drawer — and just then his father was smiling 
 kindly on him, and Kenneth was proudly hold- 
 ing up his glass that Adam Haldane, the 
 Colonel's soldier- servant, might fill it half-full 
 of wine. 
 
 A tall, gaunt, grim-looking personage was 
 that same Adam, with a long nut- cracker nose
 
 IV.] AS MORXIXG SHOWS THE DAY. Ill 
 
 and chin, and a pair of rather cunning little red 
 eyes to match his rusty hair. He had been all 
 through the Peninsula with Norman Douglas, 
 and he simply worshipped the ground his 
 Colonel stood upon. His store of campaignino^ 
 stories was inexhaustible. Whether most of 
 them were true is quite another question. At 
 all events Kenneth firmly believed them all. 
 There was nothing in the world Adam would 
 not have done for his master's son, to whom 
 he had been a devoted nurse in the days of his 
 motherless infancy. Indeed he loved the little 
 fellow not wisely, but too well ; for being 
 thoroughly unscrupulous as well as very faith- 
 ful, he never stopped at an untruth, if he couJd 
 thereby get the young master out of any scrape. 
 Kenneth, though rather shocked, was always 
 grateful for his help. He stood in great awe 
 now of his father ; the mere drawing together 
 of the grey eyebrows made his heart beat ; 
 and, on the other hand, a single word or look 
 of approval filled him with elation. 
 
 He learnt two things from Adam while he 
 was at Norman's Tower — one was, to adore 
 his father with something; of the old soldier's 
 enthusiasm ; the other, to hide away carefully,
 
 112 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 half in love and half in fear, anything that 
 might vex "his Honour," or bring displeasure 
 on himself. 
 
 It really was an affecting scene, when Ken- 
 neth, now only held in a sort of honourable 
 captivity, went to the Lady's Lodge, to say 
 good-bye, on the eve of his departure for school. 
 He sat on Granny's knee, his manhood all 
 forgotten, his arms clasped round her neck, 
 sobbing out that he was very sorry ; he would 
 not have hurt his dear, dearest, best Granny 
 for the whole, whole world. Granny was 
 crying heartily as she hugged him to her heart. 
 Ugly, in her corner, shook with explosive grief. 
 Even Colonel Douglas sniffed. Poor Marion 
 only was quite past tears. 
 
 Thenceforward, her hero only reappeared at 
 intervals, with a sort of fireworks of praise and 
 triumph whizzing round his head. He was a 
 very clever fellow, and his successes at school 
 were really dazzling to himself, and everybody 
 belonging to him. 
 
 Dalbraith was very proud of him. Ronald, 
 who, a bigger fellow in body and mind, was 
 also much slower in developing, thought his 
 cousin one of the wonders of the world ; but
 
 IV.] AS MORNING SHOWS THE DAY. 113 
 
 he did not entirely understand him. His 
 own progress through Eton was a much more 
 deliberate affair. Alas ! he was a greater hero to 
 the fishermen and keepers at home than to his 
 Eton masters. Already he was a good shot, 
 and they boasted that he had a quicker eye to 
 mark ptarmigan on the rocky hill than old 
 Fergus himself, and a lighter hand for the 
 *'sawmon." 
 
 He was a thorough Highlander. His mother 
 could sometimes have found it in her heart to 
 be jealous of Kenneth's prizes; but, on the 
 other hand, Colonel Douglas looked rather 
 wistfully at the young master of Dalbraith. 
 
 " Both fine lads, very fine lads," he used to 
 say to Lady Beatrix ; " but I sometimes think 
 young Eollo has more of the real old Douglas 
 m him. 
 
 " AVait till you hear Kenneth repeating Mr. 
 Macaulay's ' Lays of Ancient Eome,' to Marion, 
 or the Battle-scene out of the ' Lord of the 
 Isles,' " she answered smiling, " and then watch 
 his eyes light up." 
 
 " Ah, well," he rejoined, '' the boy is 
 such a man of the world. You should have 
 heard him laugh at poor old Grizel's stories 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 — now the other fellow was hanging on her 
 words." 
 
 It was quite true that Kenneth scouted all 
 the Highland leo^ends that were so sacred to 
 Grizel, and perhaps, in his heart of hearts, to 
 Colonel Douglas also, but they fascinated 
 Ronald, and especially the many traditions 
 that had gathered like moss on a ruin over 
 the House of Dalbraith. 
 
 "Yes, we are very complete," said Lord 
 Douglas, laughing one evening, as they all 
 sat round the fire in the hall. Harold Scrope 
 had been drawing Grizel out, and weird and 
 marvellous were the tales she told. " We 
 have a ghost that nobody ever sees, and a 
 prophecy that nobody believes." 
 
 " I assure you, Ronald, they do believe in 
 it," said Lady Douglas. " Old Niel Mackenzie 
 has many a time made me quite uncomfortable 
 by repeating it. I don't like that prophecy. 
 It gives me a cold shiver down my back." 
 
 '' What is it about ? " asked Harold. " May 
 one hear it ? " 
 
 " Oh, it's very oracular," said Douglas ; " in 
 Gaelic especially, it does not sound nearly so 
 well in English. I have forgotten half of it, 
 
 o
 
 IV.] AS MORNING SHOWS THE DAY. 115 
 
 but the end is sometlimg like this — ' When 
 kinsman's hand is dyed with kinsman's blood, 
 — when true is false, and the loving heart 
 grows cold — then the one son of the good father 
 shall cross his threshold for the last time, unless 
 there comes a lassie from the East, who can 
 wash the red hand white.'" 
 . ''A hard task for the lassie," said Harold 
 Scrope, with a laugh. " Is it supposed to be 
 Meg, who has come from the East — from East 
 Anglia, at all events ? " 
 
 ''Don't laugh," said Margaret. "I have 
 never liked somehow to hear that prophecy." 
 
 " Meg, I always thought you were a strong- 
 minded woman," observed her husband. 
 
 "Come, we'll change the subject," said 
 Harold. '' EoUo there looks as if some one was 
 walking over his grave. Are you quite sure, 
 Meg, you have never seen the ghost ? " 
 
 " Indeed," said Grizel, " and I don't wonder 
 at dear Margaret's feeling timid, when we 
 know how often our Highland prophecies come 
 true." 
 
 " Really, Cousin Grizzy ? " asked Ronald 
 eagerly ; '' really true ? " 
 
 " What for not, laddie ? Why, ye will 
 
 i2
 
 116 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 have heard about the Mackenzies of Seaforth, 
 and I could tell no end of others/' 
 
 "Oh, do tell me, Cousin Grizzy." 
 
 And therewith began a long half- whispered 
 dialogue, Grizel recounting story after story in 
 a low monotonous " awsome '' voice, with her 
 finger lifted impressively on high, Ronald 
 sitting in front of her, with his elbows on his 
 knees, and his chin propped on his hands, 
 while his big grey eyes were fixed intently on 
 her face. 
 
 The others looked round occasionally when 
 his clear young voice broke in upon the solemn 
 narrative : "I say, Cousin Grizzy ! He didn't 
 see it really ? And what did the warlock do 
 next ? " 
 
 '' Grizzy,'' said Lord Douglas, coming behind 
 her chair at last ; " I believed you to be a decent 
 God-fearing body, instead of a doited heathen, 
 with your auld wives' fables." 
 
 " Yes, but, father — wait one moment — and 
 did he really hear the horses shaking their 
 silver bridles under the moss, Cousin Grizzy ? " 
 
 *' Oh Rollo ! oh Grizzy ! Well, come, let us 
 hear the end." 
 
 But Grizel was shocked, and would not tell
 
 IV.] AS MORNING SHOWS THE DAY. ].17 
 
 another word. " Only perhaps the day will 
 come to some of you when you won't laugh at 
 the ' doom of Dalbraith,' " she said, looking 
 round warningly upon them all. 
 
 " I don't laugh now/' said Margaret ; and 
 she got up from her chair, for it was time to 
 go to bed, and the lights were burning dim, 
 and the fire had sunk so low that there was a 
 chill feeling in the hall. 
 
 Notwithstanding his father's laughter, Ronald 
 fell asleep that night with the words of the 
 prophecy running in his head — "When kins- 
 man's blood is shed by kinsman's hand " — '' the 
 red hand white " — how did it go ? — " a lassie 
 from the East " — and then Ronald was asleep.
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 "snow falls in the river/' 
 
 *' How are ye a' at hame, 
 
 1' my ain countree ? 
 Are your kind hearts a' the same, 
 
 I' my ain countree ? 
 Are ye a' as fu' of glee, 
 As witty, frank, and free, 
 As blithe as ye used to be, 
 
 I' my ain countree ? " 
 
 Sandysmere, in Norfolk, the former home of 
 Margaret Douglas, was undoubtedly a fine place. 
 " A great big white and green place," as Eonald, 
 accustomed to the wild brilliancy of the High- 
 land colouring, once disrespectfully described 
 it. There were broad white roads across the 
 park ; long lines of white stone balustrades, and 
 terrace-steps round the house ; a broad sheet of 
 water that lay almost white in winter under the 
 pale sky. 
 
 It all sounds rather cold — perhaps the place 
 had rather a cold efiect — but it was very fine.
 
 119 
 
 The trees were large, and stately oak or elm 
 avenues stretched straight away for miles, 
 crossed here and there by fresh processions of 
 younger trees. You could see for a long way 
 down the chief avenue, for it took no turns, 
 and the road beneath its shade had never a 
 twist, nor an up nor a down, until it vanished 
 far away through some lodge-gates into the 
 deer-park. 
 
 The ground sloped from the terrace almost 
 imperceptibly towards the mere, and hardly 
 seemed to take the trouble to rise attain on the 
 opposite shore ; but the sheet of water, on which 
 floated several snowy swans, was very broad 
 and handsome, and lay well in front of the 
 chief faQade of the house. 
 
 Just now it was winter, and the great stone- 
 bordered flower-beds on the terrace, that s^lowed 
 like tessalated pavement in the month of 
 August, were skilfully planted with dwarf ever- 
 greens and golden yew. The scarlet geraniums 
 had disappeared from the vases, and the orange - 
 trees had moved into winter quarters. 
 
 Sandysmere was a place to command a certain 
 admiration for its faultless keeping — a little 
 weariness — perhaps a slight degree of awe.
 
 120 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Strangers might fall into the grievous mistake 
 of fancying it was all too stiff and too grand 
 for people to be at home in it — to laugh, or 
 romp, or be untidy. That would have been a 
 mistake indeed. There are certain windows up 
 in that great pile belonging to play-rooms and 
 nurseries, and school -rooms, that could tell 
 rather a different story. But the perfect order 
 of the whole was a little chilling, and as Ronald 
 Douglas, one December evening, drove down 
 the long avenue of bare trees, with his father 
 and mother, he thought it tiresome to see no 
 fallen leaves on the smooth-shaven turf; and 
 truly pitiable, that the deer, languidly curious, 
 should gaze tamely at the carriage as it went by. 
 It was a long time since Lady Douglas had 
 spent Christmas at her old home. Her father 
 had been in office for several years, and had 
 been little at Sandysmere himself, and after- 
 wards the whole family passed a couple of 
 winters in Italy. Ronald had never seen the 
 place, and had begun by being rather aggrieved 
 at the prospect of going there for his Christmas 
 holidays instead of home to Dalbraith. A few 
 stray words, however, that Harold Scrope let 
 fall about hunting produced a magical eflfect, and
 
 v.] "SNOW FALLS IX THE EIVER. 121 
 
 he was arriving at Sandysmere with almost as 
 much eagerness as his mother. 
 
 " It isn't freezing at all, is it, father ? it 
 feels quite stufiy and warm." 
 
 No, it was not freezing; the darkening, 
 misty December afternoon was all that could 
 be wished from a hunting point of view ; and 
 as the carriage drove under the stone portico, 
 one or two men in red coats vanished through a 
 side entrance, leaving Lord Sandysmere stand- 
 ing alone to bid his daughter welcome. He 
 held her hand and led her into the great marble 
 hall, its roof reaching up to the top of the 
 house, where the sonorous echoes instantly 
 carried Margaret back to her childish days ; 
 recalling wonderful games of hide-and-seek, 
 and firelight romps upon the straight flight of 
 stone stairs. 
 
 Lady Sandysmere was standing now upon the 
 first step, and before Margaret had reached the 
 top, a number of people were running down to 
 meet her. There was a confusion of greetings, 
 and Eonald was shaken hands with by so many 
 uncles and cousins, and kissed by so many 
 aunts, that his notions of relationship were 
 considerably enlarged.
 
 122 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 There was a large party at Sandysmere, 
 composed chiefly of the family, and it was 
 Eonald's first introduction into society. 
 
 An hour or two later he was standing in a 
 dark corner of the drawino^-room watchinor the 
 guests as they came down before dinner. 
 
 On the hearth, in front of a huge fire that 
 almost lighted the room, stood a man with a 
 bald head, very restless dark eyes, a black 
 moustache, and a riband at his botton-hole. 
 Eonald was perfectly confounded at seeing this 
 individual rush forward as Lord Douglas came 
 into the room, and throwing his arms round 
 him, bestow a sounding kiss on each of his 
 cheeks. Eonald's English, still more his Scot- 
 tish, prejudices were deeply hurt. His father 
 was surely disgraced by being subjected to 
 such an unheard-of indignity — kissed in the 
 drawing - room before everybody ! Eonald 
 blushed crimson, and glanced furtively round 
 the room to see if everybody was shocked, or 
 still worse, if everybody was laughing. But 
 no ; people seemed to be taking it very quietly* 
 and Lord Douglas himself looked pleased and 
 rather excited. He was standing beside his 
 unknown friend, who, after a profound and
 
 V.J "SNOW FALLS IN THE lllVER." 123 
 
 elaborate bow, was in the act of raising Lady 
 Douglas's hand to his lips. 
 
 "Making a fool of mother too," thought 
 Konald, indignantly. "Who can the fellow 
 be ? I wonder my grandfather likes to have 
 him here." 
 
 But, behold. Lord Douglas was looking round 
 as if in search of somebody. Margaret pointed 
 to his corner, and here were both his father 
 and the stranger coming across the room. 
 "Yes, Eene," he heard Lord Douglas say, 
 "he is my only son ; " and then two hands 
 were warmly held out to him, and for one 
 fearful moment Ronald thought that he was 
 going to be kissed too. He backed into a 
 stand of hot-house flowers ; tried to release at 
 least one hand ; glauced appealingly at his 
 father ; and, finally, hopelessly submitted to be 
 drawn out into the light, scrutinised from head 
 to foot by the quick black eyes, pronounced the 
 image of " Papa," and patted on the cheek as 
 if he had been a baby of six years old. 
 
 "Ah, coquin," said Ren^ de Beaurepaire, 
 turninor back to Lord Douo^las with a laug^h, 
 " do you remember Saint Germain ? " 
 
 And then other people entered by twos and
 
 124 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 threes, and the room began to fill. Mary 
 Scrope, the only remaining unmarried daughter 
 of the house, appeared, surrounded as usual by 
 an adoriDg body-guard of younger brothers and 
 nephews. Konald was enrolled into the corps 
 next day, but just now he stood alone and 
 watched. There was a tall man, and a short 
 man, a man with a grey beard, a man with a 
 red beard, and a man with no beard at all ; 
 there was a lady in black, a lady in pink, a 
 lady in white, and a lady in pink, black, and 
 white, all three. There were two girls dressed 
 alike who stood side by side, and were talked 
 to by the man with the red beard ; and there 
 was a couple who came in very late, and did 
 not appear the least disconcerted, though the 
 gong had sounded, and the folding-doors been 
 thrown open with great pomp, at least five 
 minutes before. 
 
 At dinner Ronald could not resist watching 
 Monsieur de Beaurepaire with a sort of unwill- 
 ing fascination. He despised the foreign way 
 in which he handled his knife and fork and 
 napkin ; his courteous smile, and the low 
 tone in which he was evidently making some 
 pretty speech (awful humbug, Ronald felt
 
 v.] "snow falls in the river/' 125 
 
 convinced), to the hostess, by whose side he 
 was sitting. 
 
 But still there was something attractive in 
 the clear, sharp speech ; the slight gestures, 
 the changeful expression ; and once, when he 
 had finished his soup, Ronald saw him lean 
 forward and glance down the table towards 
 Lord Douglas with a genuine smile and look 
 of affection, that went far towards overcoming 
 the boy's natural prejudice against a Frenchman. 
 
 Yet it was a melancholy face when in repose ; 
 and an older observer than Ronald would have 
 discovered the cynical expression which had 
 grown habitual to him, when he sat, as he was 
 fond of doing, silent and observant. 
 
 Monsieur de Beaurepaire was a diplomate, 
 and had been Minister both at a German and 
 an Italian court. He married an Eno;lish- 
 woman, but his wife was dead. A keen 
 sportsman, there was a charm to him in every- 
 thing English ; most of his spare time was 
 spent in this country, and none of the later 
 friendships of his life were half so dear to him 
 as his early intercourse with Lord Douglas, and 
 the bright young days he used to spend at 
 Dalbraith.
 
 126 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 It was his father, Raoul, Marquis de Beaure- 
 paire, who loved and deserted Lady Beatrix 
 Douglas. She had avenged herself in later 
 times by a kindness and affection for the son, 
 which he repaid with a sort of enthusiasm. It 
 was Ren^ himself who had introduced Lord 
 Douglas and Margaret Scrope to one another. 
 The two families were always being oddly 
 thrown together, and on both sides there was 
 a sort of superstition on the subject. 
 
 " I wish that the hereditary friendship 
 could be carried on through our children,'^ 
 said Monsieur de Beaurepaire that evening ; 
 and he laid his head on Eonald's shoulder as 
 he spoke. *' Dites done, shall it be so, my 
 friend?" 
 
 Ronald was not of an age to care much about 
 hereditary friendships ; the speech sounded 
 sentimental, and he could think of nothing to 
 say in reply. 
 
 ''You must send us over Gaston and 
 Ag^nor to the Highlands some of these days," 
 said Lord Douglas, coming to his help. 
 
 (" French fellows — Heaven forbid I " ejacu- 
 lated Ronald, in the silence of his own 
 heart.)
 
 v.] '-'SXOW FALLS IX THE RrV'ER." 127 
 
 " You have but those two, Rene, Lave you ? " 
 
 " And my little Diane," answered M. de 
 Beaurepaire, " my only daughter. Tell me, 
 does my Lord shoot to-morrow ? " 
 
 * * * « 
 
 " Well, Margaret, how do you feel in civilised 
 life again ? " asked Harold Scrope, sitting down 
 beside his sister. "It is odd to see you de- 
 scended from your eyrie." 
 
 " All the people I remember look to me so 
 old," said Margaret, contemplatiug the groups 
 around her. 
 
 Harold laughed. '' Do they ? — they haven't 
 lived on Highland air and hodge-podge. I 
 think they look much tamer and more com- 
 fortable than you do. You really have the look 
 of an eagle among a lot of carefully-reared 
 pheasants. Meg, I say, where is your worsted 
 work ? " 
 
 "I don't possess any," answered Lady 
 Douglas in her solemn way. 
 
 " Everybody is knitting, or playing on the 
 piano, or doing something useful, except you. 
 I am really afraid you are not like other people, 
 Meg ! " 
 
 It was true enough that Lady Douglas w\as
 
 128 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 not too mucli like other people. She had lost 
 that habit of little easy talk, that people get 
 by living in the world. Perhaps she had never 
 possessed it in any great degree ; but there 
 was a solitary look about her as she sat in the 
 morning among the other ladies in the drawing- 
 room, with no work to occupy her — her hands 
 crossed on her knee, and her eyes following 
 one speaker after another, as they talked idly 
 on. 
 
 '' Where do you get your little boy's shoes'?" 
 asked one young matron of another, with an 
 air of intense interest ; and then pocket-books 
 were brouo-ht out and some invaluable addresses 
 
 o 
 
 were exchanged. Margaret listened dreamily. 
 Even the unwonted magnificence of her own 
 velvet gown was oppressive to her. 
 
 The winter sun flooded the big room, the fire 
 blazed, the brake went driving away down the 
 straight white road across the park, carrying a 
 party of shooters to a distant covert ; from a far- 
 off school-room came the faint sound of scales, 
 played evenly, unevenly, — stopping, going on 
 again, — faster, slower, — a grand confusion, and 
 then a laborious return to the first note. . The 
 party round the fire talked about London ;
 
 v.] "snow falls in the eiver." 129 
 
 about some Gerald and Adelaide whom Lady- 
 Douglas did not know ; about little boys' shoes 
 and new books — and she sat o^azino^ out of the 
 window, a vision of her youth coming back to 
 her with the atmosphere of the room, scented 
 by stephanotis and Russian violets, with the 
 silvery chimes of a clock playing a well-remem- 
 bered air, with the miniature of herself dressed 
 in a white frock and blue ribbons, which lay on 
 the table before her. 
 
 Coming home was hardly, to her, what it 
 would have been to many people after so long an 
 absence. She was very fond of her own family, 
 and the scenes of her young days were dear 
 and pleasant to her, but — every day she realized 
 it more— Sandysmere was nothing to her in 
 comparison T\dth Dalbraith. That which her 
 brother Harold had said of her in the early 
 days of her marriage was even more true now. 
 She could see no one in the world but Douglas. 
 Her people recognized it with a smile and a 
 sigh. It was pleasant to see her so happy, so 
 absorbed. Lady Sandysmere took the second 
 place in Margaret's heart, the more willingly 
 that she was herself very fond of her son-in- 
 law. No one could live with Douglas without 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 130 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 loving him, and there was a sort of lofty force 
 of character about him that made itself more 
 felt every year. They were all proud of 
 belonginoj to him. 
 
 Margaret's son grew very popular at Sandys- 
 mere. No one liked him the less for what they 
 called his staring likeness to his father. It 
 was impossible to resist listening to the sound 
 of his voice chattering away, and his merry 
 infectious laugh, or to fail being cheered by 
 the fearless sunshine on his face. 
 
 " It's a real blessing, Meg, that your boy 
 does not talk loud, for it's my belief he never 
 stops," said Harold Scrope, and in the family 
 this was considered a great compliment, Uncle 
 Harold so seldom praised any one. " Harold 
 third^s Ronald has a remarkably sweet voice," 
 said Ronald's grandmother, complacently. 
 
 The boy, perfectly unconscious of the good 
 impression he w^as making, was enjoying him- 
 self supremely. He was in love, boy fashion, 
 with all his cousins ; and the aunts, captivated 
 by his gentle and caressing manner, were in 
 love wdth him. The uncles were propitiated 
 by his thorough boyishness, his ready blush, 
 and modest way of talking. Lord Sandysmere
 
 T.] "snow falls m the eiver." 131 
 
 took him out hunting, and Eonald acquitted 
 himself well enough to make his grandfather 
 proud of him. 
 
 " Nicest boy I ever saw," was the universal 
 verdict of the elders. " Oh, we could not pos- 
 sibly spare Ronald before quite the end of the 
 hohdays," exclaimed all the young ones in 
 chorus. " It would be too dull without him." 
 
 Margaret was pleased that every one liked 
 her son, but to her it seemed a simple matter 
 of course that Douglas's boy should be a 
 favourite, because she really did think him 
 very like his father. Ronald himself Hushed 
 crimson with pleasure when he was told that 
 she had said so. He had not been brought up 
 on compliments, but perhaps that was not a 
 bad thino^ for him. 
 
 People often noticed how happy and com- 
 fortable the three — father, mother, and son — 
 seemed together, though Margaret was not out- 
 wardly a caressing mother, and Lord Douglas 
 was sometimes said to make Ronald treat her 
 with an almost obsolete amount of courtesy and 
 respect. 
 
 The last weeks of the year rolled quickly 
 and cheerily away at Sandys mere, and the big 
 
 k2
 
 132 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 rooms that had looked strange and solemn at 
 first, with their fine ceilings and dark pictures 
 and tapestry, grew quite familiar, and were 
 associated with all sorts of gaiety and fun. 
 
 There was one room which was always looked 
 upon by the younger members of the family as 
 the centre and kernel of their home. It was 
 called the ' Den,' and a very charming old den 
 it was. Tradition said that the black panelling 
 round its walls, and the high wooden chimney- 
 piece with its carved picture-frame, were the 
 only relics that had been saved from the 
 ancient Sandysmere Hall, burnt down more 
 than a hundred years ago. That fire was still 
 a standing grievance among all the Scropes. 
 They never ceased mourning over the old hall ; 
 its picture hung in the Den, a beautiful old 
 Tudor house, like " Hardwicke Hall, more glass 
 than wall," most picturesque and inconvenient. 
 But it was gone, and all that remained of it 
 was to be found now in the Den. 
 
 Dear old room ! — what histories it might have 
 told. How many family councils had been held 
 within its walls !— how many secrets whispered 
 across its hearth ! There, for good or for evil, 
 the choice that was to decide a life-time had
 
 v.] "snow falls IX THE RIVER." 133 
 
 frequently been come to ; there quarrels had 
 been made up with tears and kisses ; it had 
 witnessed the joy of meetings, and the silent 
 sorrow of bereavement. 
 
 Mary Scrope reigned there now, and thither 
 gathered all the younger people on the winter 
 afternoons. 
 
 The kettle saner its invitino; sono- for two 
 whole hours each evening, on the old-fashioned 
 hob (no urn was ever allowed to desecrate the 
 Den), and Mary, generally in her riding-habit, 
 sat pouring out an endless succession of cups 
 of tea. In the bio; arm-chairs on each side of 
 the fire, tired sportsmen, still in their scarlet 
 coats and muddy boots, would be lounging half 
 asleep. In front of the fire some devoted 
 beingr knelt with a scorched face and a huge 
 toasting-fork, supplying a hungry circle with 
 hot toast. Choruses were practised round the 
 school-room piano ; old boxes of costumes were 
 ransacked. Sometimes Lord Sandysmere looked 
 in, and with a guilty " Don't tell mother," in- 
 dulged in a stolen cup of tea. Monsieur de 
 Beaurepaire regularly appeared, and, cup in 
 hand, joined in the choruses while he sipped 
 his " coptee," as he called it.
 
 134 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 To decorate the Den was the crowning work 
 of Christmas. How they piled it up with 
 holly and ivy and mistletoe! — the picture 
 above the mantel-piece— a portrait of that Lord 
 Sandysmere who was supposed to have let the 
 old hall burn, — being decorated with a long 
 spray of sharp-pointed holly-leaves that pricked 
 his nose, and hid his eye under a scarlet lump 
 of berries. 
 
 With all his stout championship of Scotland 
 Eonald was forced to confess the superior 
 cheeriness of an English Christmas. 
 
 This was an exceptional one in beauty. 
 " All sparkling snow and blue sky," said Harold 
 Scrope, *'like one of Dickens's stories." 
 
 Mother Earth and Father Christmas were 
 holding their silver wedding, and the old lady 
 had arrayed herself in all her bravery to do her 
 venerable bridegroom honour. Snowy raiment 
 covered her, and she was adorned with glancing 
 brilliants— his gifts— and delicate hoar-frost lace. 
 
 The hunting, with a sigh, gave place to 
 skating on the mere. 
 
 Mary Scrope thought of nothing from 
 morning till night but blankets, red cloaks, 
 and flannel petticoats. " She ran about in the
 
 v.] **SNOW FALLS IN THE RIVER." 135 
 
 village all day," said her aggrieved kinsmen, 
 ** instead of staying with them on the ice like 
 a reasonable beino:." 
 
 To the village indeed she and Lady Douglas 
 betook themselves nearly every day. It was a 
 part of her youth to which Margaret returned 
 gladly, though even there the changes made 
 her feel old, and she could hardly recognize, in 
 the hard-featured faces, and figures prematurely 
 bowed, the rosy maidens, her seniors by a year 
 or two, whom she had been so proud of teach- 
 ing in the Sunday school. And the dear old 
 bodies, her especial cronies, most of them were 
 gone! — their chimney-corners and wooden 
 elbow-chairs knew them no more. 
 
 The quaint East Anglian tongue is fast losing 
 its individuality. Its oddity consists chiefly 
 now in the curious sing-song in w^hich it is 
 delivered, and in the reckless brinojinor too^ether 
 of all the words the speaker least understands. 
 It still sounded pleasantly in Margaret's ears. 
 Greetings thickened on her as she walked up 
 the village street. " Ah ! old Bryant's cottage 
 — is he still alive ? Why, Mary, there is Ehoda 
 Brighton, not looking a day older. She was 
 ninety, I know, when you were born. Oh!
 
 136 FEOM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Widow Clark, do you remember me ? " Ecstatic 
 curtseys in the road. 
 
 " What sure, 'tis Lady Douglas, so tis ! I 
 han't clapped eyes on you since you was wed, 
 and that's the tre-uth. But I saw you tied, 
 that I did ; I had a mind to go to Sans'mere 
 Church that day, and so I took 'Liza Jane 
 along. 'Twas a buty of a sight. I was fo'ced to 
 flow to tears in the church-yard when you was 
 a steering out, and so was 'Liza Jane. Won't 
 you come right in, my dear, and drop ? " 
 
 Lady Douglas walked in and sat down as 
 she was desired. 
 
 " See, Mrs. Clark, this is my son whom I 
 have brought to see you ! " 
 
 '' What, sure ? Well, bless him, bless him> 
 and you han't but that one. There's my Nelly, 
 she that used to stir round the housekeeper up 
 at yours, she ha' got seven, and two of them 
 twinsies, but she ha' buried five, and t'other is 
 a going— (she's a poor creature, is my Nelly, 
 but very moderate, she is) — but 'tis a misgrace 
 that you have but the one." 
 
 " The young gentleman don't favour yu. 
 Miss Margaret," said Eliza Jane, " but I alius' 
 said you were very like my old mother, for
 
 v.] "snow falls IX THE RIVER." 137 
 
 you never carried no plush ; " wliich being 
 interpreted meant that Lady Douglas had 
 never had a colour. 
 
 " I'm but sadly, Miss Margaret, my Lady, if 
 you'll accuse me," sighed the more melancholy 
 inhabitant of the next cottage, " but I mind 
 you well. No, 'tis the rheumatiz that catch 
 me here, and catch me there, so I am hampered 
 to get hold of my breath. I often expect I 
 shall be took off sudden." 
 
 " And so I respect she will," echoed her 
 brisk dausfhter. " She ain't lons^ for here, the 
 old lady ain't, and 'twould be a mercy to her- 
 self, I often tell her, if 'twould please the Lord 
 to take her. Last night now she shrook out, 
 and I thought she was a going — " 
 
 '' There's no one knows what I suffer," 
 resumed Mrs. Collins, waving aside the inter- 
 ruption with dignity, '' but God and my dear 
 limbs ; but I won't contain you at the present, 
 and I hop' I see you well, my Lady, and your 
 good gentleman tu." 
 
 " And I hop'," put in the old husband, who, 
 sitting in the chimney-corner, had been shaking 
 hands vehemently with Margaret duriog the 
 whole conversation, " I hop' he uses of you well,
 
 138 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 for marriage 'tis a lottery. There was my son 
 John, married a worldly woman, and he hadn't 
 been wedded but a week when she took the 
 stick to him, that she did." 
 
 *' That was very sad," said Margaret ; " poor 
 John ! I remember him when he was no older 
 than my boy here." 
 
 " Well, bless the lad," said the old man, 
 proceeding to shake hands in a prolonged way 
 with Ronald, "and may he be a better man 
 nor his father." 
 
 " I say," ejaculated Ronald indignantly, but 
 his mother laughed at the familiar formula. 
 
 Mary was flitting busily from one house to 
 another. They found her standing by the bed 
 of a sick young man. 
 
 "Yes, my Lady, he fare to lay so long," 
 said the mother, outspoken and solemn, but 
 not unkindly. " 'Tis a dispense, but we must 
 put up wdth him." 
 
 Margaret asked if he had seen the doctor. 
 Yes ; William had got his two bottles of physic 
 as 't were 'propriate. 
 
 " The tu medicines don't fare to corroborate 
 together," observed his mother, " but my son 
 he ha' condescended to both. He don't get
 
 v.] "SXOW FALLS IX THE RIVER." 139 
 
 no strength, Miss Mary, for he have no 
 perceivins for eating, and that's where 'tis." 
 
 " I fare," interrupted the invalid, languidly, 
 " as though I could pick a mite o' rabbit." 
 
 '* Lawk, a rabbit ! " continued his mother ; 
 " his mind du seem wonderful set on a rabbit. 
 * Mother,' he says to me last night, at half- 
 past ten o'clock, or t'might be on the stroke of 
 'leven, 'Mother,' he sa', quite as I might be 
 speaking now, ' if so be as I could happen of 
 a rabbit, I du think,' says he, ' he would put a 
 tiddy bit of life into my dear inside,' and " — 
 very slowly — **' I du believe, ^liss Mary, as 
 t'would." 
 
 Mary promised that the rabbit should be 
 forthcoming, on which William's dull eyes 
 brightened up wonderfully, and he managed 
 to sit up and give a pull to his lank forelock 
 of gTateful expectation and farewell. 
 
 " Shall we go and see old Kitty ? " asked 
 Mary doubtfully, and hesitating on the thres- 
 hold. But at this point Ronald's patience, 
 long sorely tried, gave way. Laying hold on 
 Mary's arm he protested that he had seen 
 dozens of old women, and that his aunt had 
 promised to come and play hockey on the
 
 140 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 ice. Besides he knew Kitty was the horrid 
 old thing in bed, whom Aunt Mary herself 
 was afraid of, believing her to be Little Red- 
 Riding-Hood's Wolf dressed up in her Grand- 
 mother's night-cap. 
 
 Guests came and went at Sandysmere ; new 
 friendships were made, and old ones knitted 
 up afresh. Among these last was Monsieur de 
 Beaurepaire's devotion to Lord Douglas. They 
 were fond of each other without agreeing. 
 Indeed two people could not easily have been 
 found who looked at life from more directly 
 opposite ends. The Frenchman was tired of 
 the world, and yet lived for nothing else. He 
 was cynical and prejudiced, holding rather a low 
 opinion of his fellow-men. But Lord Douglas 
 always managed to call out his best side, and 
 he had become an enthusiastic admirer of 
 Margaret's. She was so beautiful, looked so 
 young, and was such a devoted wife. If his 
 only daughter, his little Diane, could have 
 been brought up under the care of such a 
 woman, such a mother ! Poor little one left 
 to bonnes and governesses ! 
 
 " Ah, Madame I " he said pathetically to 
 Margaret, " if only you were of my nation."
 
 v.] **SNOW FALLS IN THE RIVER." 141 
 
 Margaret had become so far like other people 
 that she had learnt to knit since she came to 
 Sandysmere, and she was now struggling with 
 an untidy grey fabric, supposed by very 
 sanguine people to be a stocking, which might 
 possibly be ready for Lord Douglas to wear 
 when he went out deer-stalking next season. 
 
 She sat with her hands held out far before 
 her, the grey yarn twisted hopelessly round 
 her fingers, three of the needles crushed 
 together in one hand, while with the other 
 she was trpng by main force to push the 
 fourth needle into a very tight stitch. Her 
 brow was contracted, and the worsted ball had 
 rolled on to the floor, and wound itself hope- 
 lessly round the leg of M. de Beaurepaire's 
 chair. 
 
 A little way off sat Margaret's sister Winifred, 
 leaning luxuriously back in an arm-chair, an 
 open book on the low table beside her, and 
 a smart little child's sock growing visibly 
 under her careless and rapid fingers. She 
 knitted and read, glancing up occasionally with 
 amused eyes at her unskilful pupil. Her 
 comfort and prosperity were almost insulting ; 
 Margaret had made her stitch, but she forgot
 
 142 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 to " purl," and was engaged in desperate dif- 
 ficulties. What at such a moment was to her 
 the future of little Diane de Beaurepaire ? 
 
 '' Favour me," observed Diane's father im- 
 patiently, '' by putting down that work ; it 
 does not suit your style." 
 
 " My style ? " repeated Margaret, looking up. 
 
 ^'Yes! that tripotaf/e does not suit you. It 
 breaks the grand tranquillity which distin- 
 guishes you." 
 
 Lady Douglas laughed. '* You can't think 
 how difficult it is," she said, holding out her 
 arm and straightening her stiffened fingers. 
 
 '' Then let us leave it to those who can do 
 no better. I recommence — Would, as I said 
 before, that you and Douglas were my com- 
 patriots." 
 
 *' And why ? " inquired Lady Douglas, open- 
 in «• her eyes, and thinking how little she could 
 join in the aspiration. 
 
 " In a few years we should enter into a 
 family arrangement. I should then have some 
 hope for my poor little daughter. She would 
 be affianced to your son, and you would feel 
 a mother's interest in the child." 
 
 *'Ah, but you know I do not understand
 
 v.] "SXOW FALLS IN THE RnTER." 143 
 
 girls," said Lady Douglas, smiling. " I am 
 glad I have only got a boy." 
 
 " You would have made your daughter like 
 yourself — true, good, simple, a real woman/' 
 
 " And I who cannot even learn to knit," 
 said Margaret. 
 
 He would not smile. 
 
 *' Tell me, is there really no hope for my 
 little girl?" 
 
 " But you are not talking seriously ; " and 
 Margaret laid down her work, and looked at 
 him in dismay. 
 
 M. de Beaurepaire had fixed his piercing 
 black eyes on her, and was evidently very 
 serious indeed. 
 
 Just then Douglas came up to them w^ith a 
 messagje from Lord Sandvsmere who wanted 
 M. de Beaurepaire for a rubber of whist. 
 
 "We are discussing a projet de mariar/e^^ 
 said the latter, without rising. " Some of 
 these days I want your Ronald to be my son- 
 in-law." 
 
 " You do us much honour," said Ronald's 
 father, laughing. *' Come, Ren^, they are 
 waiting f j>r you." 
 
 M. de Beaurepaire looked almost oflfended.
 
 144 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " My dear Ken^, you know our English 
 ways as well as I do," said Lord Douglas. 
 
 *' But there are exceptional cases," resumed 
 Een^, eagerly ; " and my little Diane has no 
 mother. She is being' brought up a V AngJaise, 
 I wish her to make an English marriage — she 
 is of your faith — and that your wife should 
 form her mind and character would fulfil my 
 most ardent dreams for her." 
 
 "We are very much honoured," repeated 
 Douglas, " but you really must not talk of such 
 a scheme in England. Every one would laugh 
 at us. No, no ; Ronald must be free to choose 
 for himself as his father did before him." 
 
 " May he only be half as fortunate in 
 his choice," was the Frenchman's inevitable 
 rejoinder ; but it was scarcely uttered with so 
 good a grace as usual. 
 
 *' Some years hence," he presently began 
 again ; but a new and urgent summons from 
 his host cut him short. 
 
 He got up, made a formal bow to Lady 
 Douglas, and with the words, " a iine autre foiSy 
 Madame',' he walked rather haughtily away. 
 
 Margaret and her husband looked at each 
 
 o 
 
 other and laughed.
 
 T.] "SNOW FALLS IX THE RIVER." 145 
 
 "I am afraid he is half offecded ? " said 
 Margaret. 
 
 " More than half, I fancy. I should like to 
 have seen poor Ronald's face if he had heard 
 the proposal," said Lord Douglas. 
 
 "It really was very awkward ; he actually 
 seemed to mean it." 
 
 " Of course he did. Poor old Een^, I like 
 him for being anxious about his child. I 
 wish with all my heart we could help him 
 Tvdthout this preposterous plan." 
 
 " Oh, I hope he will not say any more." 
 
 " Why, I don't believe he will forget it ; he 
 is curiously persistent, and, as I told you 
 before, we and the Beaurepaires are always being 
 thrown against each other. There is a fate in 
 it, Grizel would say. How should you like a 
 French daughter-in-law, Meg ? " 
 
 '' Don't talk of it." 
 
 ''It was a great compliment to you, you 
 know," observed her husband. " I wish poor 
 Ren^ had asked us anything in reason. Now, 
 I must go and talk to your mother. Don't 
 tell a soul, Meg, for Ronald's sake. I would 
 not trust even Harold's discretion with such a 
 good story. By the way, why should not Harold
 
 146 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 marry Diane, and make your mother a liappy 
 woman ? '^ 
 
 For Harold Scrope's determined bachelorhood 
 was the one crumple in his mother's rose-leaf 
 life. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ronald, shouting choruses in 
 the next room at the top of his voice, was 
 very far from guessing how his future life had 
 been under discussion. Equally unconscious 
 was a little maiden, far away in a big room 
 of a big house, in a big German city, on that 
 winter's night. 
 
 Two children were standing on chairs, in a 
 window that looked out on a snow-covered 
 Platz, with rows of lamps, and frosted trees, 
 and a church over which the stars were 
 shining, and were flattening their little noses 
 against the panes. 
 
 One child wore a little tight cap on her 
 round head, hiding her lint- white locks ; and a 
 black boddice fitted her small plump person. 
 She was the house-porter's daughter, a thorough 
 little German "Madel," somewhat stolid and 
 slow of speech. 
 
 The other child chattered away fast enough 
 for both, and now and then a trill of the
 
 v.] ''snow falls in the river." 147 
 
 merriest laughter rung gaily through the room. 
 Between them they held a venerable, battered 
 doll, with a cracked nose, and eyes that, owing 
 to a broken spring mysteriously disposed in 
 her body, refused either to open or sliut pro- 
 perly. The little German grasped her by the 
 legs, while the other energetically drove pins 
 into her head to keep on a torn black wig. 
 
 " Everybody has to do it," she was saying 
 gravely ; *' but I think it must hurt, Gretchen." 
 
 Gretchen looked at her with round, alarmed 
 eyes. 
 
 " I know, because I see Pauline doino; her 
 hair every day, and sometimes Mrs. Doran. 
 They stick the pins straight into their heads 
 through the long plaits — so. I think the pins 
 must run into their brain, but I suppose grown- 
 up people do not mind the pain. Thou wilt 
 have to do it too, Gretchen, when thou art big." 
 
 " I won't," answered Gretchen, stolidly. 
 
 " Thou must ; see, I will show thee how. I 
 will only send in the pin a little way, not so 
 far as thy brains." 
 
 Armed with a big pin, she fell on to her 
 small companion, and pierced through the little 
 cap and the flaxen hair in a moment. 
 
 l2
 
 148 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Gretchen gave a shriek of terror, and tumbled 
 off her chair on to the floor. 
 
 " She has hurt me ; she has hurt me ! — she 
 pricked me with a pin." 
 
 " Mademoiselle Diane," said a grave voice. 
 
 But Diane was on the ground already, with 
 her arms round Gretchen's neck ; " I am sorry, 
 I am sorry ; I did not mean to hurt thee ; I 
 thought everybody had to stick the pins in." 
 
 " Why did you not try on your own head, 
 Mademoiselle Diane ? " 
 
 *' I did," said Diane, naYvely ; " but my head 
 is so hard, Gretchen's looked much softer. 
 Dear little Gretchen, did I hurt thee, really-? 
 Oh, Gretchen," for Gretchen rolled on the floor, 
 refusing to be comforted. 
 
 Two big tears made their appearance on 
 Diane's cheeks. "See, Gretchen;" and she 
 knelt on the floor and clasped her hands ; " I 
 will give thee any thing I liave — thou shalt 
 choose — only get well." 
 
 Gretchen ceased rolling, and peeped at Diane 
 from under her arm. *' See, Gretchen, all these 
 pretty things. Do get up ; oh, I am glad." 
 
 The two little maids presently went hand in 
 hand to a table, on which Diane's Christmas
 
 v.] "snow falls in the eiver." 149 
 
 presents were still laid out. There were plenty 
 of toys and bonbons, a little tea-set, a Swiss 
 village in a wooden box, a boy with a hoop 
 made of sparkling coloured sugar (most beau- 
 tiful), a toy watch. 
 
 Some way off stood a cradle, in which lay 
 one of those marvellous waxen babies that are 
 only to be found in London ; no composition, 
 like poor old Rosalind ; plump wax hands and 
 feet, rose-coloured cheeks, staring china blue 
 eyes, and, in place of a wig, soft curls that 
 really seemed to be growing on the head itself. 
 
 Gretchen soon caught sight of this youthful 
 beauty. " I want her/' she said laconically. 
 
 " Oh, not her ; I did not mean her ; thou 
 shalt have anything else. Oh, Gretchen, please. 
 My father sent her all the way from England. 
 I love her so." 
 
 Up went Gretchen's lip, and her round 
 cheeks were puflfed out ready for a cry. 
 
 " She said I miorht have what I liked." 
 
 o 
 
 " Not my father's doll, Gretchen, please not. 
 Take all the rest — my watch, the sugar boy — 
 but not her." 
 
 *' I want her," sobbed Gretchen ; " and thou 
 hast pricked me with a pin."
 
 150 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " What shall I do ? — oh, ma bonne, tell her to 
 take the sugar boy." 
 
 " You said she might choose what she liked, 
 Mademoiselle Diane/' 
 
 The child grew very pale, and put her fingers 
 into her eyes to force back the tears she was 
 determined not to shed. In a few minutes she 
 looked up, and stamped her foot. 
 
 " Take her, Gretchen, then, and go away, 
 quick. You are wicked ; I won t play with 
 you." 
 
 Selfish little Gretchen, nothing loth, seized 
 upon her prize, and was trotting ofi", bewil- 
 dered, dazzled, hugging it very tightly to her 
 breast. 
 
 " Wait," called Diane, suddenly ; '* she will 
 be cold without her cradle ; take that too, and 
 her bonnet ; and, oh, Gretchen, be good to 
 her." 
 
 Gretchen grasped it all, half sobbing still ; 
 and clattered away as fast as her legs could 
 carry her. 
 
 Diane looked after her, and then rushed back 
 into the window, to fight out her battle as best 
 she might, in the starlight and snow-whiteness. 
 
 An hour or two afterwards her ' bonne ' went
 
 v.] "snow falls IX THE RIVER." 151 
 
 to lier bedside to see if she was asleep. Her 
 eyes were still wide open, and her cheeks 
 flushed ; but cuddled close to her side she held 
 the old doll with the broken nose, and wior 
 awry, and the eyes that would neither shut nor 
 open. 
 
 " It's all for the best after all, ma bonne," 
 said the child ; " for see, this poor old thing 
 thought I did not love her any more, and now 
 she is so happy, and I love her, and I will 
 never have another doll ; and " — a pause — " I 
 think I forgive Gretchen." 
 
 " Go to sleep, Mademoiselle Diane." 
 
 ** Yes, ma bonne." She nestled her cheek on 
 to the black wig, drew old Eosalind closer to 
 her side with a loving smile, and was asleep in 
 a moment. 
 
 This w^as Eonald's little rejected bride.
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 DULE AND SORROW. 
 
 " Sweet the lavrock's note and lang, \ 
 
 Lilting wildly up the glen, ' 
 
 But aye to me he sings a'e sang — ' 
 
 Will ye no' come back again ? j 
 
 Will ye no' come hack again, ; 
 Will ye no' come back again, 
 
 Better lo'ed ye canna be, \ 
 
 WiU ye no' come back again ? " . 
 
 The montli of August had come round again, j 
 
 and shooting had begun in the Highlands. \ 
 
 Both Ronald and Kenneth were at home, — 
 
 a pair of boys, as Grizel proudly said, to make ■ 
 
 the hearts of any fathers glad. | 
 
 It may be that Lord Douglas and his uncle \ 
 
 thought so too, as they watched their sons , 
 
 walking on in front of them, with their guns \ 
 
 over their shoulders one day, when they were I 
 
 shooting black game in the woods on the south ! 
 
 side of Loch Dalbraith. '
 
 DULE AND SORROW. 153 
 
 Eonald and Kenneth made ratlier a good 
 contrast, for one was tall, straight, and dark- 
 eyed like his mother, and his face was tanned 
 brown by the summer sun and wind. The 
 other still kept the brilliant fairness of his 
 childhood, and was secretly rather ashamed of 
 the red and white complexion and auburn locks, 
 which old Adam Haldane told him made him 
 look like a lassie. 
 
 There had been a merry luncheon among 
 the rocks, at the foot of rather a steep hill, 
 with the coppice of birch-wood, fir-trees, and 
 beeches, through which they were next to 
 shoot, straggling up its side. 
 
 Colonel Douglas had to leave them after 
 luncheon, and the two boys went on alone with 
 Lord Douglas. The three stood on the rocks 
 above the loch for a few minutes, watching 
 Norman's boat glide out from the bank, and 
 then they turned to climb the rocky path up 
 into the ^vood. Kenneth, who was usually not 
 so good a shot as Eonald, was shooting uncom- 
 monly well that day, and Douglas had been 
 praising him at luncheon. His cheeks had 
 flushed under his cousin's commendation. 
 Praise — always welcome to him— was doubly
 
 154 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 sweet when spoken in his father's hearing, and 
 he was eager to prove himself worthy this 
 afternoon of the laurels he had earned in the 
 morning. He had gone on rather in front, and 
 the father and son followed, — Lord Douglas 
 with his arm thrown caressingly over Eonald's 
 shoulder. 
 
 It was a warm sunny day, in the month 
 w^hich, of all in the year, is the loveliest at 
 Dalbraith. 
 
 Both the boys were too much taken up with 
 their shooting to think much about the beauty 
 of the familiar scene, but every year brought his 
 beloved home nearer to Lord Douglas's heart. 
 He stopped now for a minute to glance back 
 over his shoulder at the shining loch lying 
 down below, and at the birch-trees, where a 
 golden glimmer was beginning here and there 
 to gleam among the leaves. Under his feet 
 was spread the thick carpet of gale and heather, 
 and through breaks in the wood he could see 
 it stretchiug far away into the open, only deep- 
 ened to a more glowing red by the mellow sun- 
 shine of the afternoon. Some of the fronds of 
 bracken were chano^ingr to a bris^ht straw-colour, 
 making dashes of yellow among the grey rocks
 
 Ti.] DULE AND SORROW. 155 
 
 and purple lieather. And above the delicate 
 birches ^rew a few ru2fsed Scotch firs, thrustinoj 
 out their Ions: red arms and sombre masses of 
 foliage, against the deep blue of the sky. 
 
 A feeling of almost melancholy affection 
 came over Lord Dougflas as he linorered on the 
 edge of the hill, and then the boys' eager voices 
 roused him, calling him to go on into the 
 wood. 
 
 He went forward slowly, with Eory his piper, 
 who had also been his foster brother, close 
 behind him, and the others followed in line. 
 
 There had been several shots fired. Kenneth 
 had missed once or twice, and was growing 
 vexed and impatient. He fired recklessly at a 
 rabbit that was fairly out of shot, and had 
 scarcely reloaded his gun when he heard 
 * mark ' called from two different spots at 
 once. It was a long shot, but he took a rapid 
 aim and fixed ; and at the same moment he 
 heard the report of another gun. 
 
 It came from the direction which Ronald 
 had taken through the wood. More shots had 
 come to Eonald than to the others, and at the 
 moment the bird rose at which he and Kenneth 
 fired together, he was thinking that all the
 
 156 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 luck seemed to come his way, and that he 
 wished he could change places with his father. 
 
 He could not see whether he had hit his bird 
 or not, but the instant after the shot was fired 
 he became aware, how he scarcely knew, that 
 somethinof was wrono^. There were confused 
 sounds, and then a scream from Rory, shrill 
 and sharp like a woman's, rang out on the air. 
 
 Eonald stood still, — transfixed, — listening, 
 thrilled through with a vao;ue horror — one or 
 two men ran past him through the wood, and 
 then as he gathered himself together to follow, 
 Kenneth met him coming back, pale as death, 
 and scarcely able to articulate — ^Ronald, 
 quick, your father is hurt ; you hit him just 
 now.'' 
 
 A mist gathered over his eyes, the heather 
 seemed to rise up and smite him, and then the 
 ground to be sinking away from beneath his 
 feet, but he steadied himself and rushed on, 
 stumbling blindly across the rocks and trees. 
 
 A knot of men that parted as he came up — 
 a tangle of brushwood— a mass of trodden-down 
 fern — a rowan tree bending under bunches of 
 scarlet berries that dazzled him and seemed
 
 Yi.] DULE AND SOEROW. 157 
 
 to burn his eyes ; and, on the ground, Rorv 
 holdinor Lord Douolas in his arms. 
 
 Ronald fluno^ himself down beside his father. 
 The face that rested against Rory's shoulder 
 bore no look of pain, but it was of dull deadly 
 whiteness, and the eyes were closed. Fergus 
 and one or two of the others were trying with 
 shakinor and unskilled hands to staunch the 
 
 o 
 
 blood that flowed from a wound in the side of 
 his neck. 
 
 " Canna ye gar the bluid to stop ? " Ronald 
 heard Rory whisper with fierce suppressed 
 impatience. " It's just drainin' his life awa'." 
 
 *' He's not bleedin' much," said Ronald, look- 
 ing up imploringly into the faces round him. 
 
 " But I'm feared the bleedin is inward," 
 answered old Fergus. 
 
 Some one brought water and sprinkled it on 
 to Lord Douglas's forehead. His eyes slowly 
 opened. Perhaps he could see his foster- 
 brother's look of stony despair as he bent 
 over him, and the ashy face of his son. 
 " Rory," he said, in a weak voice, and then a 
 moment afterwards he smiled — " Ronald, my 
 boy ; poor fellows" 
 
 " You are better, father ! " But the eyes
 
 158 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 closed again, and the grey shadow deepened on 
 his face. 
 
 The men had made a rough litter of some 
 hurdles near at hand, and now they were 
 tearing up ling and bracken in frantic haste 
 that he might lie as softly as might be, while 
 they carried him home to Dalbraith. Roiy 
 walking behind still supported his masters 
 head on his breast, and they moved away 
 slowly down towards the loch. 
 
 Eonald followed among the others, the men 
 brushing their sleeves often across their eyes, 
 the dogs walkino: behind with wistful looks and. 
 drooping tails, well aware that something had 
 gone wrong. Suddenly Ronald stood still as 
 they drew near the boat. 
 
 " Did some one say that I did this ? " he 
 asked, snatching old Fergus's arm, while a 
 quick scarlet flush mounted to his forehead. 
 
 All w^ere silent for a minute or two ; the 
 men looked on the ground ; one of them shook 
 his head ; nobody cared to answer. 
 
 " Will you tell me '? " again asked Ronald in 
 a low clear voice. 
 
 Still silence. At last Adam Haldane, Col- 
 onel Douglas's soldier servant, cleared his
 
 VI.] DULE AND SORROW. 159 
 
 throat, and said as if speaking to some one 
 not present — " Puir laddie ! — indeed, and if he 
 did it his ain sel', wha is there that will blame 
 him for siccan a sair mischance ? " 
 
 Eonald put his hand up to his throat, and 
 Pergus held out his arms ready to catch him, 
 but the boy did not fall. He staggered back- 
 wards for a step or two, then recovering him- 
 self went on quickly to the boat. Only once 
 he spoke as they rowed carefully but quickly 
 across, and that was to say with a great start — 
 '' Mother ! " 
 
 '* My puir bairn ! " said Fergus, " she kens, 
 she kens ; they sent for Colonel Norman." 
 
 Yes ; Margaret knew. Colonel Douglas had 
 just told her of the accident, and as they 
 reached the house they met her coming from 
 the garden with a basket of roses still held 
 unconsciously in her hand. Eonald sprang 
 forward with an instinctive wish to shield her 
 for yet a moment longer from the sight that 
 awaited her, but she had no room or power 
 for a single thought of him, far less for any 
 sympathy with his especial share of suj6fering. 
 
 She just waved him away, — mechanically, it 
 may be, but with a look on her face that made
 
 160 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 the boy rush from her presence with despair 
 in his heart. He dashed upstairs to his own 
 room, and flinging himself face downwards on 
 the bed, hid his eyes from the light. There he 
 remained a long, long time ; then suddenly he 
 jumped up as if he could bear it no longer, and 
 hurried down to his father's room. The door 
 was locked, and he could hear low voices 
 speaking within. Eonald tried the handle softly 
 once or twice, and then growing desperate 
 he knocked. Some one moved inside, and 
 the door was opened by Lady Douglas. " Not 
 now,'' she said, motioning him back. " The 
 doctors have just come." 
 
 The boy tried to speak, tried to ask a ques- 
 tion, but his tongue clave to the roof of his 
 mouth, and as he struggled for utterance the 
 door was softly closed again, and he heard the 
 key turned in the lock. Something seemed to 
 drive him back to his own room. 
 
 The evening shadows had gathered, g-nd the 
 hours dragged on. Once or twice he crept to 
 the door, and opening it looked out into the 
 darkness and listened. Everything was per- 
 fectly quiet now ; the hurried steps had ceased 
 passing up and down below. There seemed
 
 Ti.] DULE AXD SORROW. 161 
 
 no one movino^ ; nothing: beino^ carried towards 
 his mother's room. Those who were watchinor 
 
 o 
 
 had gathered there ; and nothing broke the 
 stillness 
 
 Once Ronald ventured out into the passage, 
 and groped his way towards the stairs. He 
 must hear, he must know ; but a sudden chill 
 of horror drove him back, A deadly terror 
 took possession of him ; and again, clear before 
 his eyes, his mother's face, his mother's gesture, 
 shaped themselves out of the darkness, and 
 barred his way. He rushed back like one 
 pursued. 
 
 In a fresh agony of shivering fear he flung 
 himself down where he had lain before. Per- 
 haps a merciful doze deadened for a while his 
 overtaxed frame. An hour passed, of which 
 he could render no account, and in which he 
 did not suffer. 
 
 A step, and the opening of his door roused 
 him. Ronald raised himself on to his elbow 
 with a convulsive start, and saw Norman 
 Douglas standmg by his bed. He carried a 
 candle in his hand, and he looked down on 
 Ronald with grave, compassionate eyes. 
 
 "My boy," he said, "I think you ought to 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 162 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 be with your father now ; I have come to fetch 
 you." 
 
 " How is he ? " whispered Konald, in the 
 hoarse, choked tone which was all he could 
 command. 
 
 " He is sinkiag fast." 
 
 Eonald stood up, grasping at the table to 
 steady himself, and shaken from head to foot 
 with a convulsive shiver. 
 
 " Did mother send for me ? " he whispered 
 again. 
 
 '' She has but one thought now," answered 
 his uncle ; ^' she is watching him." 
 
 " I can't bear it ; oh, Uncle Norman, indeed 
 I can't. Oh, Uncle Norman, you don't know 
 what it is 1 " 
 
 " My boy," said Colonel Douglas, " this is 
 not the moment to be thinking of yourself ; 
 think only of your mother. Put away your 
 own share of the trouble, and be a man." 
 
 Something in the words reached Ronald's 
 clouded faculties ; he straightened himself, 
 stretched his arms above his head for a mo- 
 ment, and went slowly before his uncle out 
 of the door. 
 
 Down with hushed footsteps through the
 
 VI.] DULE AKD SORROW. 163 
 
 silent house, into a room where Lord Douglas's 
 things still lay carelessly about as he had left 
 them that morniuo: when he went out shooting: 
 with the boys, and where two doctors stood 
 now by the fireplace waiting and unoccupied. 
 Then on, guided by Norman, into a dim inner 
 room, shaded and silent, except for a woman's 
 low voice speaking. 
 
 By the bed knelt Lacly Douglas, with one 
 hand on her husband's shoulder, and the other 
 holding his hand, while she talked to him. 
 Lady Beatrix bending over her mean time, 
 and trying very gently to draw her away. 
 The latter glanced up as they came behind 
 her. 
 
 "He is gone, Norman," she whispered through 
 her tears. 
 
 The words fell on Ronald's ears just as for 
 the first time he looked on death ; and then, 
 hearing his mother speak, he flung himself 
 back aorainst the wall. 
 
 " Darling," she was saying, " do speak to me. 
 Don't, Ronald — don't go away just yet — -not 
 like that, without one dear word for me. I 
 know you are soon going; you need not be 
 afraid to tell me. I am very quiet ; I know 
 
 M 2
 
 164 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 that you are going very, very soon ; but say 
 good-bye to Margaret, love, first." 
 
 " Dear child, dearest Margaret ! " Lady 
 Beatrix said ; *' come away now ; indeed you 
 ought." 
 
 Margaret looked swiftly up at her, and then 
 at her husband's face. " I see," she said, in a 
 changed voice, not louder, but with all the fond 
 softness gone from it. And she rose up and 
 stood beside the bed. 
 
 Ronald came round from the other side, his 
 arms held out eagerly to her, longing to throw 
 them round her, half with an impulse of pro- 
 tection, half hoping that she would gather him 
 in her arms like a child, and let him sob his 
 heart out on her shoulder. 
 
 But as she turned, with an abrupt, dazed 
 movement, she seemed to liim, for the second 
 time, to be pushing him away from her. Most 
 probably she neither saw him nor heard his 
 cry of " Mother," but he fell back instantly, 
 and she stood motionless for a time, with her 
 head raised and eyes widely opened, gazing 
 into vacancy. No one moved or spoke. There 
 were only the wild, passionate, heart-broken 
 sobs of the son to break the death-silence,
 
 VI.] DULE AND SORROW. 165 
 
 and the stony stillness of tlie mother, in her 
 majesty of despair. 
 
 Lady Beatrix hid her face in an anguish of 
 unavailing pity ; and even Norman Douglas 
 bowed his head, and stood for a few moments 
 helpless, in the presence of such sorrow. 
 
 Then he went to Lady Douglas, and, putting 
 his arm round her, said quietly, "You must 
 come with me, Margaret ; " and she yielded 
 passively, letting him guide her like a blind 
 person into the adjoining room. When she 
 was gone, Ronald fell on the floor on the spot 
 where his mother had been standing. 
 
 It was nearly noon on the next day before 
 Lady Douglas left her room. She had not 
 attempted before to go back into the room 
 where she had watched the last night through ; 
 but now she rose up silently, as if with a tacit 
 understanding that all was ready for her there. 
 
 The windows had been thrown vdde open ; 
 and so, though the blinds were drawn down, the 
 air raised them a little now and then, and let 
 some rays of the midday sunshine stream into 
 the room where Lord Douglas lay sleeping his 
 sleep of death. He had always loved the sun,
 
 166 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 and it did not seem unfit that a bright golden 
 shaft of sunbeams now rested on his hand. 
 
 Before daybreak that morning some of those 
 who had waited all the night for the heavy 
 tidings that came with the dawn, had been 
 away up the hills for miles, seeking the one 
 solitary spot where white heather was now in 
 blossom. It was known that every season since 
 their marriage Lord Douglas had brought the 
 first white heath-bells home to his wife. With 
 a rough feeling of poetry they deemed it fit, 
 therefore, that the rare and pure blossom should 
 be gathered foi; his pillow. It was strewn so 
 thickly round him that he seemed to be resting 
 on the heather bed he had often slept on in the 
 bothy up the hill ; only instead of the purple 
 bloom, was the waxy whiteness of this snow- 
 flake among flowers. And over his face also 
 a like change had come — it had grown so pure 
 and stainless under the grand, soft touch of 
 death. 
 
 They had left one arm lying across his 
 breast, but the other was straightened and 
 placed carefully by his side, that the people 
 who had loved him might come and kiss his 
 hand.
 
 vi.J DULE AND SORROW. 167 
 
 Already that morning many kisses and 
 many tears had fallen upon it. Silently — for 
 the sake of her whom they knew to be near 
 at hand, and also for his look of stately peace 
 — men and women in sorrowful succession had 
 knelt down by his side — bearded men bowed 
 with suppressed sobs, and women young and 
 old, who blessed him through their speechless 
 weeping. 
 
 It was a rough and simple lying in state, 
 but ennobled by the people's love. His piper, 
 Kory, who had almost worshipped him, stood 
 at his head, and the old forester was at his 
 feet. 
 
 All that happened very early in the morn- 
 ing, almost before the sun had risen above 
 the hills : now the last creaking, laboriously- 
 hushed step had passed away through the still 
 house, and the widow's place was left for her 
 alone. 
 
 Kory and Fergus themselves moved from 
 their statue-like attitude, and went softly out 
 of the room as that inner door was opened, 
 and then Margaret Douorlas came in and knelt 
 by him again. 
 
 But not as before. No words of entreaty
 
 168 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 that he would speak to her rose to her lips 
 after she looked at him. Ronald was gone ! 
 This was not Eonald — this carved and majestic 
 image of a beautiful young man ; young as 
 her bridegroom had been ; gentle, yet stern ; 
 with a grave smile on his lip, and a lofty 
 expression of severe serenity that in his life 
 her husband had never worn. 
 
 There was another person who with a fleeter 
 and more noiseless step than either of his 
 companions had hurried away from the bed- 
 side when Lady Douglas opened the door. 
 Perhaps Norman Douglas had made a mistake 
 when an hour or two ago he brought the poor 
 boy Ronald, half crazed as he was with sorrow 
 and crushed down with remorse, face to face 
 with his dead father. To Colonel Douglas it 
 had seemed that the sight was most comforting, 
 — most elevating. The "sure and certain hope 
 of a joyful resurrection" spoke to him so 
 clearly from that restful face, but on poor 
 Ronald the effect was very diff"erent. 
 
 He could hardly be persuaded to leave his 
 room for fear of meeting his mother, who, he 
 had a sad conviction, could not bear to have 
 him in her sight. They told him she was
 
 Ti.] DULE AXD SORROW. 1G9 
 
 quiet, and that half an hour ago they hoped 
 she had fallen asleep; and then his uncle 
 desired him to go down. 
 
 There were whispering voices in the passage 
 as he j)assed, and a woman's voice broken by 
 weeping, said, " Eh, but it's a sair pity to put 
 him underground, and he sae beautiful." 
 
 Ronald scarcely heard or heeded, for his 
 heart was beating loudly with a great boyish 
 fear and awe of death, that for the moment 
 had well nigh blotted out every other feelmg. 
 But as he stood beside Fergus at the foot of 
 the bed (they could not get him to go nearer- 
 he, the slayer of his father, must not touch his 
 hand, or kiss his brow); as he stood gazing, 
 with stopped breath, an agony of yearning, 
 and of compassion for the grand manhood 
 wasted, shook him from head to foot. 
 
 It was long before he had looked at all ; 
 long before he raised his head from the hands 
 in which he buried it as he crossed the thres- 
 hold. It was only when he felt old Fergus's 
 hand fall on his shoulder pityingly that he 
 looked up. He had thought all would shrink 
 away from him in horror, and he glanced up 
 now surprised at the old man's face, and then
 
 170 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. ' [ch! 
 
 his eyes fell on the long straight figure, taller 
 even than in life, lying before him. 
 
 From his eyes the look of satisfied peace, 
 that spoke eloquently to Norman Douglas, was 
 quite hidden ; he only saw the goodly length 
 of limb ; the shapely hand, now rigid ; the 
 short, crisp, manly curls ; the white heather- 
 bells. 
 
 And the woman's words rang in his ears — " A 
 sair pity, a sair pity." Almost maddened by 
 the sharp sting of a trial that it was beyond 
 the power of his age and strength to bear, half 
 delirious fancies were crowding over his brain, 
 and again and again that homely putting into 
 words of his own feeling echoed in his hearing. 
 He even heard his voice saying the words 
 aloud — " a sair pity "—and then he started at 
 having spoken where everything else was 
 intensely silent. The loneliness of feeling was 
 appalling to him too, for though his uncle had 
 been very tender to him all the night, and 
 patient over his wild bursts of grief, yet he 
 was almost a stranger by comparison, and till 
 now Ronald had been able to carry the burden 
 of any trouble to either father or mother. 
 
 Both were gone now — the dead father hardly
 
 VI.] DULE AND SORROW. l7l 
 
 seemed so far away and lost as the mother 
 whose heart he had broken, and who had twice 
 pushed him from her — so he thought — with 
 horror and loathing in her face. 
 
 Dazed and absorbed as he was now, her first 
 touch on the door roused him, and he was gone 
 before she knew that he had been there. He 
 went out of the house, driven by the longing 
 to escape from her eyes, out and away into 
 the hills, clinibing higher and higher with a 
 forlorn hope of getting away from his own pain. 
 
 They missed him presently from the house, 
 and grew anxious at his absence. Colonel 
 Douglas was very uneasy, and sent to search 
 for him in several directions, but in the evening 
 he came home of his own accord, poor boy, 
 stealing into the kitchen like a thief; weary, 
 exhausted, and thoroughly ashamed of being 
 hungry, even though he was faint and giddy for 
 want of food. 
 
 That night his uncle had the comfort of 
 seeing him lying fast asleep, utterly worn 
 out and spent. Norman Douglas stood and 
 watched him, his young features relaxed from 
 the hard rule of pain, and his fair boyish 
 forehead smooth ao^ain.
 
 172 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 The colour had come back to his cheeks as 
 he slept, and he drew his breath softly and 
 evenly. When — when awake, would his face 
 wear that untroubled look ? 
 
 With almost a more profound pity and 
 yearning than that with which Ronald himself 
 had looked a few hours ago on his dead father, 
 Norman Douglas stood by the boy's bed, and 
 thought of the blight that had fallen on his life. 
 
 He looked very young to bear the weight 
 of this strange sorrow, as many-sided as it 
 was great and sudden. He was not old 
 even for his age, and had gone deeply into 
 nothing as yet. His very room, slightly 
 furnished, with the cool night wind blowing 
 in through the open and unshuttered windows, 
 was completely a boy's room, with all a boy's 
 treasures scattered about in it. A grandly 
 bound book or two was set up on the drawers ; 
 Eton prizes, into which manifestly he had 
 never looked. Hitherto he had been too 
 happy in his out-of-door life at home even to 
 open a book. In fact his whole library con- 
 sisted of tiie pocket Testament his mother had 
 told him never to part with when he first went 
 to school ; his Prayer-Book, Sir Walter Scott's
 
 VI.] DULE AND SORROW. 173 
 
 poetry, Macaulay's Lays, and a stray volume 
 of one of James's novels. 
 
 Over his bed an engraving from a picture of 
 his mother, torn out of an old Book of Beauty, 
 was pinned against the wall, and at his feet 
 now lay curled up his dog Sandy, sleepy, 
 winking, yet bound in conscience to keep one 
 lazy eye half open while Norman Douglas stood 
 by his master's bed. 
 
 Yes ; to Ronald's uncle it was a yet sadder 
 scene than that silent room downstairs. 
 
 True, Lord Douo-las's sun had s^one down 
 while it was yet noon, and in the prime of a 
 noble, happy life, God had called him from his 
 work — well-nio:h before the heat and burden 
 of the day had begun for him. 
 
 But one hour in the Vineyard— and that a 
 cloudless one — then, unwearied and undaunted," 
 he had gone home to take his wages. No such 
 grief as had already fallen on his young son 
 had ever crossed Lord Douglas's path. How 
 was Ronald to meet it ? Would he crush it, 
 or be crushed by it ? Would it work good or 
 evil to the nature that, as far as his uncle had 
 been able to read it, as yet seemed pure and 
 generous, but pliant and unformed ? Who
 
 174 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 would help him ? The father, who best would 
 have felt with him and for him— who, strong 
 of will and tender of heart, would have set 
 himself with all his might to aid him — his 
 father was gone ! Nay, there was the sting 
 — the very core of bitterness, the " sorrow's 
 crown of sorrow" — the fathers death most 
 miserably lay at the sons door. His father's 
 death — his mother's widowhood — his ruined 
 home — his youth left unguarded at the moment 
 when his need was the sorest, — his own 
 unconscious hand had wrought that world of 
 woe I 
 
 Poor boy, poor boy ! — a harsh black shadow 
 verily, to have clouded his morning. A stern 
 battle and a long battle was before him, to be 
 waged with the world that lay outside him, as 
 well as with his own undisciplined heart. From 
 mistaken judgments, from words carelessly 
 cruel, from the miserable notoriety that his 
 story would invest him with, — who would 
 shield him ? From the recklessness of despair, 
 or the gloom of despondency, what, and who, 
 would be his aid ? His mother ? — and there 
 Norman Douglas paused with a sigh. 
 
 The next time he went into his nephew's
 
 VI.] DULE AND SORROW. 175 
 
 room, which was early the following mornirig, 
 Ronald was fully awake. If sleep had in one 
 way been merciful to him, in another its effect 
 appeared almost cruel, for he woke up strong 
 and clear, all the confusion gone from his 
 thoughts, and every power and faculty sharp- 
 ened into the most intense capacity for suffering. 
 
 He lay quite quiet when Colonel Douglas 
 entered, his arms behind his head supporting 
 it, his eyes half open, and his brows slightly 
 drawn together. He did not seem to notice 
 his uncle, who thought it better not to speak to 
 him, but thoroughly alarmed at his fixed look 
 went straight to Lady Douglas's room. Never 
 before had he thought Eonald the least like 
 his mother ; but now, when he went up to her, 
 and she turned her white face and steady, 
 glittering eyes towards him, he was struck with 
 her likeness to the poor boy up-stairs, and he 
 began to think that they might at all events 
 meet o^rief after something- of the same fashion. 
 
 "Margaret," he said, speaking softly and 
 clearly as though she was a child, *' have you 
 rested a little ? Are you better to-day ? " 
 
 " Yes," was the mechanical answer. 
 
 " Can you listen to me for a few minutes 1 "
 
 176 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I want to speak to you about your boy." 
 
 She put out her hand quickly as if to check 
 him, but he took it in his own, and went on 
 speaking in a voice that might have been stern, 
 if it had not been for its deep, underlying com- 
 passion. " No, Margaret, you must not try to 
 stop me. I have come on purpose to tell you 
 about him." 
 
 " Poor unfortunate boy ! " she said, in a sup- 
 pressed voice. 
 
 "Yes, indeed; yes, indeed — unfortunate 
 boy. I want you to think what this is to 
 him. Margaret, my poor broken-hearted child, 
 I tell you that, deeply as I feel for you, and 
 God only knows how deeply that is, — truly as 
 I mourn with you, I am still more sorry for 
 Ronald than for you." 
 
 She paused for some time before answering, 
 and then she said, " He is young ; his life is all 
 before him." 
 
 *'His life before him — yes, his life — but 
 what a life ! Is life in itself, and by itself, a 
 gift so precious ? Is there nothing sad in the 
 thought of a life crushed at the very begin- 
 ning? If you could see him, Margaret — if
 
 VI.] DULE AXD SORROW. 177 
 
 you could only look at your boy's poor young 
 face." 
 
 She shook her head and shrank back. 
 
 "You have a duty left, my child, a great 
 and solemn duty. Our dear fellow there," 
 signing to the next room, " would have been 
 the very first to urge you to fulfil it. Margaret, 
 he left his son to you. You must not let his 
 life be spoilt." 
 
 " What can I do for him ? what could I do ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 "I don't know, but I think," said the old 
 soldier, simply, "that a kiss from his mother 
 would do him the most good. May I bring 
 him to you, Margaret ? " and he took her 
 hand. 
 
 "No," she answered ; " I will go to him." 
 
 She got up and stood in the middle of the 
 room ; then she said, without looking at him, 
 " Will you leave me alone a few minutes first. 
 Uncle Norman ? " 
 
 And so, presently, poor Ronald, still staring 
 at the opposite wall, saw his mother come 
 quietly into his room. 
 
 She did not speak, but she walked slowly 
 up to his bedside, and Ronald, with a great 
 
 VOL. I. IC
 
 178 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 gasping, wondering cry of "Mother," flung 
 himself upon her neck, crushing himself con- 
 vulsively against her, and sobbing out broken 
 words of thanks and sorrow. 
 
 "Mother, you here — good, good mother! 
 you oughtn't — oh, mother, mother ! " — it always 
 came back to that—" mother, it's so dreadful ! " 
 
 She let him pull her down upon his bed ; 
 and now she folded her arms round him as he 
 lay quivering on her shoulder, and kissed his 
 hair, for his face was hidden ; but, alas ! there 
 had been a second's quick involuntary shrinking 
 from him, and he felt it. 
 
 Very soon he drew himself away from her, 
 and turning his face to the wall, covered it 
 with his arm. His mother understood the 
 action, and her heart ached for him. She 
 hated herself for the icy, iron misery and con- 
 straint that held her, but she felt powerless to 
 break through it. She knew it sounded in her 
 voice, and made rigid the very fingers with 
 which she tried to draw away his arm. 
 
 " Ronald, poor boy ! — I know you are very 
 miserable ; I should like to comfort you if I 
 could." 
 
 " It's awfully good of you, mother," he
 
 VI.] DULE AXD SORROW. l79 
 
 whispered, and she saw the big tears drop 
 on to his pillow. 
 
 She tried — tried hard to feel softened by 
 them. She dried his wet cheeks softly with 
 her handkerchief, touching him with gentle, 
 motherly hands, but all the time she felt hard, 
 envying him his tears, which were to her as 
 the expression of a grief not too bitter for the 
 relief of weeping. 
 
 Eonald lay passive and unresisting, but he 
 no longer, as at first, tried to kiss her hand. 
 
 Again Lady Douglas tried ''to do her duty " 
 by him, and to utter as well as she could the 
 words she had come here to speak. 
 
 "Eonald, in this great trouble that has 
 come upon us there is no blame — no shadow 
 of blame — on anybody. For some reason God 
 has let us be crushed to the earth, but it was 
 the fault of no one— not your fault, Ronald — 
 never think it for a moment. No one can say a 
 word of blame — they will only pity you. God 
 knows I am selfish and bitter in my grief, but 
 I pity you. I give you aU the pity, poor 
 unhappy boy, that I can spare from myself." 
 
 '' Oh mother, mother," he sighed out ; "don't, 
 mother ! " 
 
 52
 
 180 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 "Yes; it is better I should speak — do you 
 think I mind a little pain more or less ? — and 
 we will not speak of this again. But you are 
 very young, and your life must not be spoilt 
 by giving way to a morbid fancy. For it 
 would be morbid; your father would have 
 called it so. He would have told you to be 
 brave, and to overcome it. He was brave, and 
 you are his son. You must try to be like 
 him." 
 
 Her voice was growing husky and faint from 
 pain. She ended in a choked whisper : " Live 
 your life and conquer, and I pray God to help 
 you. Only for a little while, Ronald, it is 
 better for both of us not to see each other. I 
 cannot bear it." 
 
 She bent down again and kissed him, her 
 cheek becoming, if possible, more ashy, more 
 grey, as it touched his ; and, with an imperious 
 sign to him not to get up or to speak to her 
 again, she went slowly away. 
 
 This time it was Ronald who shrank back 
 from the chill touch of her lips ; Ronald's eyes 
 followed her to the door — with a hard look in 
 them for the first time. 
 
 Poor woman ! — she had done her best, and
 
 VI.] DULE AND SORROW. 181 
 
 failed. She had made a great effort in her 
 agony ; she had forced herself to speak to him 
 and kiss him, but he only remembered of the 
 interview her shudder as he held her in his 
 arms, and the faint, hoarse words, '' We must 
 not meet, I cannot bear it.'' 
 
 They must not meet; she could not bear 
 the sight of him. Yet he was the only son of 
 his mother, and she was a widow !
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 
 
 " How long and dreary is the night, 
 When I am frae my dearie ; 
 I restless lie fra e'en to morn, 
 
 The' I were ne'er so weary. 
 For oh ! her lonely nights are lang ; 
 
 And oh ! her dreams are eerie ; 
 And oh ! her widow'd heart is sair 
 
 That's parted frae her dearie." 
 
 There was a tract of moorland lying north 
 of Dalbraith, that was wilder, more savage and 
 desolate by far, than any other part of the 
 surrounding country. 
 
 You ascended to it by a rugged and stony 
 pass that was all tumbled rock and granite, 
 with a hoarse, though not full torrent flowing 
 painfully along it, with many a fret and check 
 and vexing eddy, over the jagged boulders that 
 made its bed. 
 
 It was not a beautiful place, scarcely 
 picturesque, but there was something singu-
 
 A WORLD WITHOUT A SUX. 183 
 
 larly weird and wild about it, and its savage 
 loneliness was wonderful. Not a tree or shrub 
 was to be seen from one end to another, 
 and generally not a moving thing, with the 
 exception of the grumbling water. 
 
 Making your way up to the further end of 
 the strath, which rose gradually into rough 
 natural steps and stairs of granite slabs, you 
 came out at last upon a sweep of country that 
 was hardly less stony and desolate than the 
 glen itself, and which lay in the heart of the 
 Dalbraith deer-forest. No human habitation 
 lay within keen, except a rude bothy or shooting- 
 lodge, built of the unhewn rocks which lay 
 about, and thatched with heather. 
 
 This had been a favourite deer- stalking 
 resort of Lord Douglas's, and in the autumn 
 days that followed his death his son spent 
 many hours there by himself. Foresters and 
 gillies had deserted the spot now. He had no 
 fear of any one's finding him ; no stalker came 
 to tell of a grand stag seen on the adjoining 
 hills for the sport of the morrow ; no pony 
 with a slain deer roped on his back, followed by 
 men and dogs and cheery voices, would coma 
 up the winding path to the door of the bothy.
 
 184 FROM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Ronald could lie undisturbed for hours, on 
 the rocks hard by, where his father had been 
 wont to sit on many an autumn night, 
 watching the stars come out, and the wild 
 solitude fade away into the dusk. Ronald 
 never waited for the darkness now. The place 
 became indescribably eerie to him as soon as 
 the light began to fail. Directly the sun 
 dipped towards the western hills, and tints of 
 pink and lilac crept along the heights, he got 
 up, closed the door of the bothy on to the cold 
 emptiness within, and went away down that 
 darkening pass that looked so strangely 
 melancholy in the dying light. 
 
 Sometimes from the summit of the craigs 
 above his head, a stag would stand looking 
 down on him, itself grandly distinct against 
 the sunset sky ; sometimes an eagle went 
 soaring majestically over head, and swooped 
 down with his prey into the eyrie that was 
 perched on one of the narrow ledges in the 
 cliff; sometimes, with its mournful cry, a 
 curlew dipped to the water's edge. But 
 Ronald, who a few weeks ago would have been 
 deeply interested in the appearance of each 
 one, never heeded stag or eagle or curlew now-
 
 vn.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 185 
 
 a-days. He walked on abstractedly, hurrying 
 when the twilight seemed to be creeping on 
 more quickly, then slackening his speed again, 
 as the thougjht came back of the home that 
 was more dreary still than the twilight world 
 outside. What could he do better than keep 
 away from the silent house, where his mother 
 sat shut up in her own rooms, and where he 
 hated the sight of the one plate that was daily 
 laid for him in the dining-room ? 
 
 Life, that had seemed to stand still for a 
 while after the great crash, had begun to go 
 on again somehow. People no longer whispered, 
 or walked softly — windows were thrown open 
 to the sunshine ; Norman Douglas had gone 
 back to his tower. 
 
 Empty and silent as was the house, it seemed 
 to Ronald to be everywhere pervaded by his 
 mother s presence. He fancied she must hear 
 his footstep in the hall — that she saw him when 
 he crept like a thief, as he sometimes ventured 
 to do, into his father's study — that she thought 
 him heartless for eating and sleeping now, as 
 he used to do when Lord Douglas was alive. 
 Poor fellow, he need not have troubled himself 
 about that. Never before in all his life had
 
 186 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 he been visited by those confused heavy 
 dreams, steeped in misery and terror — never 
 before had he known startled wakings that 
 were full of a vague dread and horror, even 
 before the reality came down upon him in its 
 crushing weight. 
 
 The weather changed, and the atmosphere 
 was dissolved in soft mist and rain. Ronald 
 was too much of a Highlander to mind a wet 
 jacket, but the rain prevented him from lying 
 for hours together on the heather, and made 
 his aimless rambles more cheerless than before. 
 
 It was only a shade less dreary out of doors 
 than in the house. There the blank and the 
 want of occupation was complete. He went 
 w^andering from room to room, standing still 
 often to gaze with an aching heart at Lord 
 Douglas's guns and fishing-rods, the sight of 
 which was even more sad to the boy's fancy 
 than the great heap of closed books and folded 
 papers on the writing-table. Old Fergus had 
 cleaned all the guns carefully, though now and 
 then a tear had stained the polished steel as he 
 worked, but he put them scrupulously back into 
 their old order, ready for the hand that would 
 never use them again. There they stood,
 
 vii] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 187 
 
 bright and cold, — lifeless, useless, idle, like all 
 else, thought Ronald, from henceforth for ever. 
 
 On a table in the hall window lay a big old 
 blotting-book, which used to be always full of 
 Lord Douglas's letters. Ronald opened it one 
 day with a listless hand, and with a mingled 
 wish and fear of finding something left there 
 in his father's handwriting. 
 
 But some one had been before him, — every 
 scrap of paper had been taken away, — the only 
 thing left between the leaves was a torn sheet 
 covered with his own half-formed characters. 
 Ronald took it up carelessly, but the colour 
 flushed into his face as he recognized it. It 
 was a copy of Grizel's old family prophecy. 
 He remembered writing it down a year ago, 
 because it haunted him uncomfortably. " When 
 kinsman's blood," he read now, "is shed by 
 kinsman's hand" — why, that had come true ! 
 Shuddering, he discovered that he himself had 
 brought about the first part of the doom of 
 Dalbraith. "When kinsman's blood is shed 
 by kinsman's hand " — yes ; that had been 
 miserably fulfilled. " When false is true " (he 
 could make nothing of that), " and the loving 
 heart grows cold " — There Ronald dropped the
 
 188 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 paper, and sat down feeling cold and stunned. 
 Was not the most loving, the noblest heart in 
 all the world lying now cold in death ? — and 
 more, had not his mother's heart turned from 
 him and grown cold ? 
 
 In his overstrained condition, the foolish 
 old prophecy, which might mean anything or 
 nothing, took an undue hold of his imagina- 
 tion. He felt that he had been overtaken 
 by an inevitable fate ; he had only fulfilled 
 that which was his doom, and he must *' dree 
 his weird," as Grizel used to say. He did 
 not care to read the rest of the oracular words ; 
 there was something he recollected about the 
 " last son of a good father," and " a lassie from 
 the East!" — but all that did not matter to 
 him. The thing was that the prophecy had 
 begun to come true, and that it had been by 
 his means. Ronald brooded over the thought, 
 but to no one in the world would he have 
 been tempted to confess the impression it had 
 made on him. 
 
 Meanwhile the weeks slipped away, the Eton 
 holidays had long been at an end, and a good 
 part of the winter half itself was over. 
 
 Lady Douglas roused herself at last to the
 
 vn.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 189 
 
 consciousness of this. She did not see her son 
 often, and generally when she did so, it was 
 Colonel Douglas who took hioi up to her room. 
 Eonald kept out of his uncle's way as much as 
 he could, but Colonel Douglas watched him 
 anxiously, and was disturbed by his increasing 
 listlessness, and by his solitary ways. He 
 spoke about him to Lady Douglas, but he 
 was himself scarcely prepared for her quickly- 
 formed decision, that Ronald must go back at 
 once to Eton. 
 
 Colonel Douglas saw that the boy had not 
 at all recovered from the shock of his father's 
 death, and he thought it would be almost 
 cruel to send him, in his half-stunned state, to 
 fight his way in the world of the great school. 
 But, once aroused to the thought of her son's 
 future. Lady Douglas was inexorable. The idea 
 that his grief must not be sujBfered to become 
 morbid had taken full possession of her mind. 
 She had a strange shrinking from the thought 
 that any one could share her sorrow. The 
 grief was hers — hers only — an exclusive 
 possession that she guarded jealously. 
 
 Ronald must not waste his youth in vain 
 regrets. Why should he ? Life was before
 
 190 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 liim still, and hope, and possibly happiness. 
 He had not lost his past, his future, his present, 
 all at one stroke. Yes, she knew, poor fellow, he 
 mourned his great misfortune bitterly, but he 
 would get better among other boys. Work 
 and cricket and all the rest of it would be 
 the best things for him. He must not be 
 encouraged to dwell upon the past; and 
 besides, his education ought not to be neglected 
 any longer. Other sons were not kept at 
 home because their mothers were widowed ! 
 
 " But," pleaded Colonel Douglas, ''surely poor 
 Eonald's is an exceptional case." Lady Douglas 
 turned very pale, and shook her head. She 
 could never bear to hear that Ronald had any 
 especial cause for sorrow ; and at last his uncle 
 was compelled to yield the point. 
 
 It was a hard task to tell the boy of his 
 mother's decision, and his heart nearly failed 
 him. Eonald was utterly unprepared to return 
 to his former life, every link with which seemed 
 to have been summarily broken. He could not 
 bear to face even the few people at Dalbraith, 
 how was he to go back to Eton in the middle 
 of the half-year with his story fresh upon him. 
 The thought of all the eyes fixed on him in 
 pity or curiosity was unendurable.
 
 VII.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 191 
 
 He implored his uncle in an agony to get a 
 reversal of the cruel sentence, and Colonel 
 Douglas, feeliug for him more deeply than 
 he cared to tell him, did ask, but asked in 
 vain. 
 
 Lady Douglas sent herself for Ronald. She 
 held his hand in her chill fingers, and gave 
 him one of the strange kisses which he knew 
 instiactively it cost her an effort to bestow, 
 and she said, " You will do as I wish, Kollo, 
 because I ask you, and because I know that it 
 is right." 
 
 He only said " Yes, Mother," with quivering 
 lips, and after that he uttered no word of 
 pleading or complaint. 
 
 Colonel Douglas went with him to London. 
 Ronald left home very quietly, and whatever 
 was his dread of the ordeal before him, he kept 
 it locked in his own heart. 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear," the old soldier said 
 when they parted ; " be strong, and brave, and 
 manly. I don't think that in all my life I ever 
 needed courage as much as you do now. Ask 
 God to give it you, Ronald, and He will. Say 
 your prayers, my boy, and do your best." 
 
 And then he kissed Ronald, and the boy saw 
 that there were tears on the grey eyelashes.
 
 192 mOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 The might of winter's dreariness presently 
 settled over Dalbraith. 
 
 It came down upon the Highlands that year 
 in storm and tempest, with loud gales and 
 pelting hail-storms, and frozen mists that 
 blotted out the hills. 
 
 At night the winds lifted up their voices, 
 and came sobbing, moaning, shrieking round 
 the lonely house, until sleep was well nigh 
 impossible, and the inmates lying wakeful and 
 listening to the strong blasts that shook the 
 windows and howled down the wide chimneys, 
 almost believed that spirits in pain must be 
 abroad upon the wind. 
 
 And then the snow fell, and lay, not smooth 
 and brightly glistening, but tossed about and 
 heaped up, so that there was danger in the 
 deep, treacherous drifts, and in other places 
 patches of black earth, swept bare by the wind, 
 lay naked and unsheltered from the frost. 
 
 And while the storms raved outside, the 
 stillness that seemed born of death reigned 
 within the house. It was well for Margaret 
 Douglas that there were none but old servants 
 at Dalbraith — tried and faithful men and 
 women, who loved her for herself, or for the
 
 vii.] A WOELD WITHOUT A SUN. 193 
 
 name she bore ; for that winter, in the storm- 
 besieged house, with the armies of snow and 
 frost that beleaguered it on every side, and the 
 garrison of deadly grief within, was enough to 
 break down the most buoyant spirits. 
 
 As Dalbraith House lay low the snow-drifts 
 round it were very deep ; the burn was buried 
 in snow, and the roads impassable. It was not 
 even always possible to keep open the com- 
 munication with the clachan. No winter had 
 been like this one since Lady Douglas came to 
 the Highlands as a bride. How the intense 
 loneliness and the bitter cold affected her 
 during those early months of her widowhood 
 it was difficult for any one to guess — they had 
 given up entreating her to go away. As far as 
 they could see, she did not take much heed 
 of the weather, and they could not tell if it was 
 the wind she was listeninsj to as she sat hour 
 after hour silent and unemployed. 
 
 They supposed she must be thinking, from 
 the abstracted look in her eyes, and from the 
 way she sometimes lifted her hand up to her 
 forehead, holding it there for a few minutes, 
 and then letting it fall again heavily on to her 
 knee. Sometimes they fancied she was living 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 her life over again in memory, and that the 
 past was actually more real to her than the 
 present. 
 
 Once a week Konald wrote to her, short, 
 unmeaning letters, that it cost him hours of 
 misery to compose — and she always answered 
 them immediately; though when Dalbraith 
 was fairly snowed up, and the letters ceased 
 to come, she showed no sign of missing 
 them. 
 
 In her letters she never made any allusion 
 to the changed aspect of everything at home. 
 She told him how deep the snow was, and that 
 she and the people he inquired after were 
 well. Then she commented on his school news, 
 and said that it gave her pleasure to hear he 
 was working hard. 
 
 For Eonald had gone back to Eton with his 
 uncle's words about manliness and true courage 
 ringing in his ears. Everybody was very kind 
 and considerate, and in some ways things were 
 easier than he expected. He threw himself into 
 his work as he had never done before, in the 
 vague hope that it might please or comfort his 
 mother, and perhaps help him to forget himself. 
 It was weary drudgery ; but he had no heart for
 
 vn.] A WOELD WITHOUT A SUN. 195 
 
 the old games or the boating, and one must do 
 something, he supposed. 
 
 Once, when the half was drawing near its 
 close, he mentioned the Christmas liolidays in 
 one of his letters, and ventured, after many 
 doubts, to say something about hoping he 
 should see her soon. The answer came quickly, 
 and was very decided. He was not to go 
 home for Christmas ; she was writing to Sandys- 
 mere to arrange that he should spend the 
 holidays there. It would not be worth while 
 for him to take the long journey to the High- 
 lands in the depth of so rough a winter ; 
 besides, in every way it was better he should 
 not come. She begged that he would obey 
 her wishes without question. 
 
 Colonel Douglas looked very grave when he 
 was told of this. He was anxious about Eonald 
 as well as about Margaret, and he thought it 
 was not right or wise thus to banish the boy 
 from his own home. Nevertheless, there was 
 something in Lady Douglas's rigid, and at 
 times, almost trance-like state, that made 
 them all fear to rouse her, almost as one 
 would dread breaking the long sleep of a sick 
 person after the crisis of an illness. It ended 
 
 o2
 
 19G FROM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 by Colonel Douglas going up again to London, 
 and taking both Ronald and Kenneth abroad 
 with him for the Christmas holidays. 
 
 But there was one person who could no 
 lonofer refrain herself. When G-rizel Dou2rlas 
 heard that Margaret still chose to be alone ; 
 that the Christmastide, so often a frightfully 
 wild and dark season in those northern regions, 
 was to roll over the solitary house of Dalbraith 
 with no kindred voice to give the greetings of 
 the holy time, no familiar face to break the 
 spell of empty desolation, her heart burned 
 within her. 
 
 That there are sorrows which are not ripe 
 for comfort, she knew, but scarcely understood. 
 At all events, the picture of Dalbraith, with its 
 frost-bound moors, and white peaks, and death- 
 stricken house, came between her and her rest. 
 Her heart sickened at the merry voices and 
 youthful mirth surrounding her in the house 
 near Edinburgh, where she had been bidden to 
 see the old year out and the new year in. She 
 must needs go to Margaret and comfort her. 
 
 Neither distance nor snow-drifts could daunt 
 her. She set out resolutely on one of the short 
 December days, and the delays in the tedious
 
 VII.] A WOELD WITHOUT A SUN. 197 
 
 wiuter journey only troubled her because, once 
 upon the way, she persuaded herself that each 
 day which kept her away from ^Margaret was a 
 loss. There was so much she would fain say 
 to her — much that she felt dimly stirring in 
 her own heart and striving for expression — such 
 a yearning desire to " exhort " Margaret, and to 
 show her how a sorrow never should be wasted. 
 
 At last she reached Dalbraith. After all. 
 Lady Douglas was not quite alone. Of late 
 she had become more restless, pacing up and 
 down her room for hours together. And her old 
 servants, getting frightened as they heard her 
 footsteps passing to and fro, long after mid- 
 night, and on into the dark morning hours, 
 took the matter into their own hands and sent 
 for Lady Beatrix. 
 
 It was a rough journey in this wild weather 
 for the frail old lady, made partly on a sledge 
 that was pushed across the frozen loch, partly 
 in a rude litter borne through the snow-filled 
 glen on the shoulders of sturdy Highlanders, 
 who had carried her off from her own house 
 almost by force, in the hope that she would 
 bring rest and sleep to their lady. 
 
 But though she came right bravely and
 
 198 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 willingly, she knew beforehand that she could 
 do no good. 
 
 Margaret had judged wisely for herself. She 
 was one of those rarely-constituted persons who 
 can best do battle by themselves with the un- 
 avoidable agony of regret. She greeted her 
 uninvited guest gently ; she put a force upon 
 herself, and sat quietly, staying her monotonous 
 wandering from room to room. She let the 
 old lady sit by her holding her hand, and talk- 
 ing now and then in her soft, musical voice. 
 
 But Lady Beatrix saw that it was only a 
 constraint, and after some hours, she said : 
 '' They meant well, Margaret, your kind people 
 who fetched me here, but you know best, dear 
 child. Tell me, shall I stay or go ? " Margaret 
 looked down into the sweet, fair, old face, 
 she took up one of Lady Beatrix's little, white, 
 withered hands, and kissed it passionately, but 
 she said in a whisper, "Go." 
 
 It was impossible, however, to say the same 
 to poor Grizel, w^hen she arrived that same day, 
 half frozen, and filled with love and zeal, from 
 the other end of Scotland. She was so earnest, 
 so humble, so overflowing with a boundless 
 grief and pity as she looked into the changed
 
 vn.] A WOELD WITHOUT A SUX. 193 
 
 face of that Margaret, whom slie had been 
 wont to describe proudly as the one perfectly 
 happy person in the world. 
 
 Lady Beatrix lost her calmness too, and 
 could not help crying as poor Grizel knelt at 
 her cousin's feet, kissing her unresisting hands, 
 and pouring on her every tender name in tones 
 that were broken and almost choked with tears. 
 
 Margaret scarcely showed any surprise at 
 seeing her, and the plans Grizel had laid 
 anxiously with old Angus in the hall, that her 
 coming should be broken to Lady Douglas 
 gradually, proved quite unnecessary. Angus 
 went away shaking his head and grumbling, 
 when Grizzy broke down at the first sight of 
 Margaret, forgetful of, or faithless to, the pro- 
 mise she had made outside the door, that she 
 would be " just perfectly calm." 
 
 It was Margaret who was calm, and who 
 looked at her with the half-impatient wonder 
 that an open show of sorrow always seemed to 
 awake in her. As yet sympathy was power- 
 less to touch her. 
 
 " And oh, my Margaret," said Grizel, drying 
 her eyes, and blundering uncompromisingly 
 into the middle of what she longed to say —
 
 200 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 *' You see, my Margaret, that something wonder- 
 ful is meant by all this ; the loving God would 
 not send such a sorrow without a meaning." 
 
 *' Maybe/' said Margaret, lifting her large 
 pain- wearied eyes listlessly for an instant. 
 
 " You see it ; then that is something gained, 
 my bonnie dear— something to comfort us. 
 No pain is useless ; we are to learn from it, 
 dear Margaret ; to learn." 
 
 *' I do not care to learn ; let me be, Grizel," 
 as the earnest " Eh, Margaret, love ? " was 
 repeated the second time. 
 
 " But you would love to learn God's gTand 
 secret lesson," persisted Grizel, laying her hand 
 on Lady Douglas's arm, " and then the bitter 
 pain, oh, my bairn, the bitter, bitter pain would 
 not be wasted." 
 
 Margaret put away the hand, not impatiently, 
 but as if the words did not move her. 
 
 " I can't bear to see aught wasted," said 
 Grizel, " not so much as a candle-end, and 
 when I see it burning in a wrong place, I just 
 long to move it : and so I cannot bear to think 
 that your burning pain is not shedding some 
 light into your poor heart, dear Margaret. 
 Do you understand me ? "
 
 vii.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 201 
 
 *^No," said Margaret, with a weary dazed 
 movement of the head. 
 
 " It was a kind of a wee parable, though 
 I didn't see it myself at first," explained 
 Grizel, rather pleased. " Let me try to show 
 you—" 
 
 But Lady Beatrix softly took her hand. 
 " Let the good God teach her, Grizel," she said 
 in her tender voice. " Perhaps He can do it 
 best when we are silent." 
 
 "If we are not wasting opportunities," re- 
 plied honest Grizel, " but we are bounden to 
 do all we can ; and our poor Margaret — " 
 
 Again Lady Beatrice stopped her. " Dear 
 Grizel, we can always pray," she said. 
 
 And Grizel went away into her own room, 
 and prayed with tearful eyes that before Mar- 
 garet's sorrow was taken away, she might be 
 taught its lesson. 
 
 Lady Beatrix prayed too, silently, and there 
 rose before her closed eyes the vision of a 
 stormy sea, with waves that lifted angrily, and 
 of a labouring boat over which those waves were 
 breaking, for the wind was contrary, and the 
 men toiled in rowing:. Awhile as^o, as she 
 looked on the sorrowful face over which the
 
 202 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 waves of trouble had beaten cruelly, piti- 
 lessly, the despairing prayer rose to her lips, 
 *' Lord, save us, we perish." But now (even 
 though the words had been faithless), as of old, 
 they were heard and answered. The calm 
 Figure of One who carried Divine comfort in 
 His Hand rose before her eyes, and the 
 reproachful yet pitying Voice seemed to be 
 saying to her, " thou of little faith, wherefore 
 did'st thou doubt ? " 
 
 Looking back at Margaret she saw that, 
 lulled by the quiet and the tender holding 
 of her hand, the calm of sleep had stolen 
 over her. 
 
 " Dear Grizel," said Lady Beatrix, when she 
 was leaving Dalbraith next day, and there was 
 dewy brightness in her dark soft eyes, '' Dear 
 Grizel, I am glad to leave you here, and I think 
 God sent for you.'' 
 
 So the two women lived on alone tos^ether 
 through the winter. Lady Douglas took her 
 cousin's coming very quietly ; she even thanked 
 her for it once, and said she was glad, for that 
 now her own people would be more at rest 
 about her. They were in Italy this winter, 
 and it was impossible for Lord Sandysmere to
 
 vii.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUX. 203 
 
 face the cold of Scotland, or for his wife to 
 leave him. 
 
 So they lived on alone, a monotonous and 
 silent life. To Grizel it was not so utterly 
 dreary as might have been supposed. She 
 was useful, and that alone was to her as the 
 breath of life. And as in her simple creed 
 it was wron^ and rel3ellious to grieve over- 
 much, she opened her heart willingly to such 
 bits of comfort and cheering as lay within her 
 reach. 
 
 The dear one who was orone had been taken 
 
 o 
 
 to a brighter world ; to the kind old heart that 
 had loved him it was great consolation to 
 speak of him and hear about him. That there 
 were none like him left, that his noble life only 
 grew brighter as it neared its end, that he was 
 ready even for a change so sudden ; — was it no 
 comfort that all so spoke of him, — that all had 
 loved him, — that he had been mourned as few 
 are mourned in death ? It was, to Grizel. 
 And to gather up his words, to hear of the 
 chance acts, the looks, the smiles of those days 
 when he was standing all unconscious, face 
 to face with death ; to know which dog it 
 was whose rough head he had last smoothed
 
 204 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 with his hand ; the hour when he had come 
 down the turret-steps ; what he said to Fergus 
 as he went out into the sunshine with his 
 gun over his shoulder ; the very gesture with 
 which he had waved a farewell to his wife, as 
 she leant out of her window to see him go 
 — all these things Grizel cared to know, and 
 treasured in her heart — simple chronicles 
 repeated, ah, how often ! by the people who 
 had loved him. 
 
 The months wore on ; Konald had not come 
 home at Easter, but he was coming at Mid- 
 summer, which now was close at hand. Nobody 
 spoke much about it to his mother. Grizel and 
 Lady Beatrix talked of it together in whispers, 
 wonderins: how it would all be. Was his mother 
 watching for him — she who spoke no word? 
 What welcome would she give her only son 
 when he returned ? And Eonald himself, 
 would he, boy- like, have outlived his bitter 
 sorrow ? — would he be much changed 1 
 
 How was it ? — had he changed much ? 
 
 He was older -looking, and he had grown 
 more silent, much more silent. His life amonsj 
 comparative strangers had forced on him a 
 power of outward reticence and self-command,
 
 yn.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUX. 205 
 
 and the interests of the world in which he 
 lived thrust themselves of necessity upon 
 him. 
 
 There were moments when, in the broad 
 light of everyday life, the past almost looked 
 to him like a ghastly dream ; there were others 
 when it started up again into vivid and present 
 reality. 
 
 One of these sudden shocks came to him one 
 day that he was by himself in his boat on the 
 river. It was a whole holiday, and as he 
 rowed quickly, he overtook another boat full of 
 people who were talking and laughing merrily. 
 There were two or three ladies, and a couple of 
 Eton boys, whose '* people " having come down 
 to see the place, were being shown, as its 
 crowning glory, the broad, silvery Thames, 
 dotted over with boats, as it especially is on a 
 holiday in summer. 
 
 Ronald exchanged a greeting with his school- 
 fellows, as his light boat went skimming past 
 them, and then a reedy bend in the river hiding 
 him from their view, he stopped, intending to 
 let them get ahead of him again. 
 
 As he did so their voices clearly reached 
 him ; their boat was moving very slowly.
 
 20 G FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " Who was that boy, Eeg ? " said a girl's 
 voice. " He had such a nice face, I thought." 
 
 " That ? oh, that was Douglas ; he is a very- 
 good-looking fellow, isn't he ? " 
 
 " Is he a friend of yours ? " asked some one 
 else. 
 
 *'Well, yes, he used to be. One does not 
 see so much of him now. I daresay you have 
 heard about him. He shot his own father last 
 year." 
 
 *' Oh, poor, poor fellow ! " exclaimed a very 
 compassionate voice. 
 
 *' On purpose ? " asked another, in shocked 
 and awe-struck tones. 
 
 " Nonsense, Tiny. On purpose ! — of course 
 not. How can you talk such nonsense ? It 
 was an accident out shooting." 
 
 ** Oh, I remember all about it," said a fresh 
 speaker. " It was a terrible thing. His poor 
 mother ! Was that young Douglas ? I 
 wasn't looking when he passed. I should like 
 to have seen him." 
 
 " Is he very miserable ? " asked the girl they 
 called Tiny. '' I wonder he could ever hold up 
 his head again." 
 
 " I say, look out — hush ! " as the boat now
 
 vn.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 207 
 
 rounded the river-bend and came full upon 
 Douglas's skiff drawn up near tlie bank. 
 
 For a moment both oarsmen stopped rowing 
 in blank dismay, the next they sent their boat 
 forward with a sudden spring that speedily 
 put several reaches of shining water between it 
 and Ronald's. 
 
 " There, Tiny ; I wish you would not speak 
 so loud," said Reg. " I declare he heard." 
 
 " Oh, no, no," cried Tiny. 
 
 " I tell you he could not help himself. He 
 heard quite well ; of course he did." 
 
 " Perhaps he did not, Reg. I daresay he 
 wasn't listening," and the girl who had first 
 spoken leant forward and took Tiny's hand in 
 hers, for she had become quite white with 
 compunction and regret. 
 
 " What shall we do ? " aorain asked Res:. 
 
 *' Make mother ask him to dinner at the 
 Christopher," suggested the other boy. 
 
 " By the bye, yes, the very thing ; " and 
 before his mother had time to stop him, Reg 
 had started up in the boat, and was shouting 
 out — " I say, Douglas, my mother wants you 
 to come and dine at the Christopher this 
 evening."
 
 208 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Ronald had pulled his straw hat over his 
 eyes, and was apparently quite intent on getting 
 his boat back into mid-stream. He made no 
 answer till another shout of " Douglas ! " com- 
 pelled him to look round, and then he only 
 said, " Thanks, I can't." 
 
 Reg was beginning a remonstrance, but he 
 was pulled down again into the boat, all his 
 relations calling to him, " Don't, Reg ; be quiet, 
 Reg 1 " at once. 
 
 Ronald's skiff glided away towards Eton, 
 and that was the end of the matter as far as 
 Res: was concerned. Five minutes afterwards 
 he had forgotten all about it. 
 
 But Ronald hurried up to his own room. He 
 had heard, sure enough, both the thoughtless 
 questions and the carelessly-given answers. 
 
 Was this the way his misfortune was handled 
 by the outside world ?— told lightly to curious 
 strangers, wondered at, pitied, and misunder- 
 stood. " Did he do it on purpose ? " Ronald 
 repeated the words half aloud — on purpose ! 
 So that was what people thought. 
 
 And somebody else in the boat said she was 
 sorry she had not seen him ; and then they 
 asked him to dinner, that they might look at
 
 VII.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 209 
 
 him, he supposed, as much as they Hked. He 
 wondered that they cared to have anybody to 
 dinner who they thought might have shot his 
 father on purpose — and he burst out into a laugh 
 that was much more like a sob. 
 
 And this was how all his friends were 
 talking ! He had fancied they never told the 
 story to any one, and thought of it only in 
 respectful silence. AYell, he knew better now. 
 They told everybody that came to Eton who 
 he was, and what had happened to him. All 
 his life he must be pointed out like this, and 
 invited to dinner by people who asked whether 
 he did it on purpose. 
 
 That little foolish speech cut him to the 
 heart more than all the rest. He could not 
 forget it. The night that followed was as 
 miserable an one to Eonald as any of those he 
 had gone through just after his father's death. 
 He paced up and down the tiny room, push- 
 ing aside the table, and dashing his one chair 
 out of the way, and crossing from door to window 
 in a couple of strides. 
 
 " She wondered how I could ever hold up 
 my head again," he said to himself. " She 
 was rip^ht there. I wonder at it too. I don't
 
 210 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 tliiDk I can stand it all much lons^er. ' Is he 
 miserable ? ' that girl said. I should like 
 her to try what it feels ; I don't think she 
 would care for it very much. If it was not 
 for mother, I would just bolt, and go to some 
 place where nobody ever heard of me * before ; 
 but I suppose Uncle Norman would call that 
 cowardly ! " and then Ronald stopped and sat 
 down on his bed, leaning forward on the table 
 with his eyes covered with his hands, and 
 there he remained a long while without moving, 
 except for a deep sigh now and then. 
 
 That little scene on the river shook his 
 confidence in his friends, and the rest of the 
 half year passed heavily. 
 
 It was brightened only by the thought that 
 at last he was going home. Dalbraith was 
 Dalbraith after all, saddened and shadowed 
 though it might be. There was no place in 
 the world like it. There too he should have 
 the comfort and relief of being alone again, 
 without the fear of people watching him, or 
 the haunting fancy that whenever two of his 
 companions were whispering together, they 
 were talking about him. 
 
 Above all, Ronald's whole heart turned to
 
 VII.] A WORLD WITHOUT A SUN. 211 
 
 his mother. Since he had been for so long 
 entirely among strangers who could have no 
 sympathy with either of them, the bond of 
 their common sorrow seemed to have grown so 
 strono- that it must needs draw them close 
 together. No one else could feel as they two 
 did. Surely his mother would be glad to see 
 him, and that dreadful shadow that had been 
 between them would be forgotten. Perhaps 
 she was even waiting for him to comfort her ; 
 at least she would let him try. The blank 
 despair of a little while ago was lessened by 
 this hope. 
 
 He would not be discouraged even when a 
 letter came from Lady Douglas, advising him 
 to spend his holidays once more in England. 
 She did not forbid his coming home, but she 
 feared he would find it dreary work, she wrote, 
 for Dalbraith was changed, and she herself 
 kept much to her own rooms. 
 
 Ronald's only answer to this was to fix the 
 time of his arrival. 
 
 p2
 
 CllAPTEE VIII. 
 THROWN AWAY. 
 
 *' But when the mither cam' to hear it 
 She said, ' Ye disobedient son, 
 I've gie'n you leamin', I've gie'n you schulvn*, 
 And will you to your ruin run ? ' " 
 
 "Bring some peats and light them up," said 
 Grizel Douglas ; " we must not have the callant 
 coming home to a cold hearth-stone." 
 
 But the peats that evening were damp and 
 would not burn. They soon crumbled down 
 to a dull red. 
 
 Everybody knows how lovely and how fickle 
 is a Highland summer. Now sunshine on the 
 heather — now rain upon the moss. 
 
 In the North, Queen Summer is seldom 
 suffered to hold her throne and sceptre undis- 
 turbed. Those rebel chiefs— the mighty wind, 
 the sullen rain — rise up often in revolt against 
 her sway; and Winter, her harsh impatient heir, 
 sends down storm and cloud and tempest, to
 
 THEOWN AWAY. 213 
 
 tear from her, if so lie may, tliat crown that he 
 will wear full surely, when she has laid down 
 to sleep, among the flowers of summers that are 
 dead. 
 
 It was a very dark stormy night on which 
 Ronald reached Dalbraith. One solitary light 
 glimmered from a window in the house ; other- 
 wise he could scarcely have traced its dark out- 
 line rising out of the gloom. The bell at the 
 turret-door echoed noisily, but it was a long time 
 before he could hear footsteps within coming to 
 answer it. In old time the door would have been 
 flung open long before the dog-cart reached the 
 crest of the brae, and his father would have 
 been standinsr on the threshold. 
 
 o 
 
 It seemed as if a shadow waited there now, 
 and that it feU upon him as he passed in. Old 
 Angus coming at last, grasped his outstretched 
 hand silently, and then welcomed him home as 
 if by an afterthought. Ronald thanked him, 
 and stood hesitating, thinking of the joyous 
 rush that would have taken him half over the 
 house, formerly, in less time than this. 
 
 " Where is my mother ? " he asked in a low 
 voice ; " am I to go to her ? " 
 
 '' In the tower-room, Master Ronald,"
 
 214 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 whispered back the old man, " and you'd best 
 be going there at once." 
 
 Grizel's peat fire had sunk to a glimmer, 
 and the hall was not lighted. There was a 
 dim lamp burning at the further end of the 
 gallery beyond, and as he w^alked slowly down 
 it he heard the moan of the vand, as if it was 
 praying for entrance at each window, and the 
 rain-drops splashing down. 
 
 At the door of the turret-room he stood 
 still and waited, listening for some movement 
 within. Surely in that silent house his mother 
 must have heard the bell, and it would be so 
 much easier to greet her if he found her 
 coming out to meet him. But nothing stirred ; 
 so presently he opened the door gently, and 
 looked in. The room was dimly lighted, like 
 the rest ; only a pair of wax-candles stood on 
 the writing-table, and his mother was standing 
 near the chair from which she had just risen, 
 and looking towards the door. 
 
 " Oh ! is it you ? " she said, coming forward 
 quickly ; " I thought I heard the bell. What a 
 bad night for your journey. Poor fellow, how 
 wet you are ! " and she passed her hand over 
 his soaked sleeve. '' You ought to change your 
 things at once."
 
 vm.] THROWN AWAY. 215 
 
 "Presently — it does not matter, mother." 
 A feeling of utter shyness and constraint 
 came upon him. His mother's quivering face 
 and quick words, the trembling of her hand on 
 his arm, and the attempt to treat this as if it 
 were but an ordinary meeting, made him feel 
 like a stranorer in a stranore house. 
 
 She busied herself in stirring the fire into a 
 blaze, but the fire-irons rattled and fell out of 
 her shaking hands, so she sat down, clasping 
 them together on her black dress. The candle- 
 light shone on her, and Ronald saw how grief 
 had beaten all traces of youth out of her face. 
 He stood silent, with something like an iron 
 hand grasping at his throat. His mother spoke 
 again directly, ringing the bell with nervous 
 haste. ''You must want something to eat. 
 Rory,'* — as the door opened, — " is supper ready 
 for Lord Dousflas '? " 
 
 o 
 
 Ronald had perforce become used at Eton to 
 hearing himself called by his father's name, 
 but he, winced as he heard it first from his 
 mother. She slightly raised her voice as she 
 pronounced it, as if determined not to spare 
 herself, and she tried to steady the lips which 
 would quiver with the pain. It may have 
 been riQ:ht that she should face the inevitable
 
 216 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 at once. It was inevitable, but it was 
 unfortunate for Ronald. Who knows how 
 much her dread of meeting him was increased 
 by knowing that she must call him by that 
 name, which she would fain have buried with 
 jealous silence in her heart ? 
 
 It was part of her plan to face the pang 
 at once. In those long months she had thouQ-ht 
 deeply, resolutely, and sternly. Out of the 
 ruins of joy and love had risen a strange, hard, 
 perverted ideal, which she called Duty. 
 
 Duty had ever been the key-note of Colonel 
 Douglas's gentle yet lofty teachings. Margaret 
 had fastened on the letter of his words, and let 
 the spirit go. She would yield to no softness, 
 would flinch before no pain ; only what she 
 renounced for herself she would not tolerate in 
 others. Neither Ronald nor any one else must 
 draw back where she could tread with an un- 
 faltering step. 
 
 But, poor woman, she overrated her strength. 
 In some of her words and ways there was the 
 unconscious cruelty of weakness. 
 
 On this evening she sat opposite to Ronald 
 while he stumbled hurriedly through his supper, 
 hungry after his long journey, yet choking over
 
 vni.] THEOWX AWAY. 217 
 
 every morsel he tried to swallow with her eyes 
 upon him. 
 
 " I am afraid, my boy," she said, when he 
 had finished, " that you have made a mistake 
 in coming home. It is lonely here now, and 
 you will be dull." 
 
 " Mother," and he came round and knelt 
 beside her chair, " don't say such things ; I 
 wanted to be with you." 
 
 "You must not think of me, Douglas." 
 
 "Oh!" he cried, "cannot you call me 
 Eonald ? " 
 
 A light flashed up suddenly in her eyes. 
 *' No, I can't. Leave me at least his name." 
 Then, as she saw him draw back, she checked 
 herself and took his hand. " My boy, be 
 reasonable," she said. 
 
 " Am I unreasonable ? " he asked, with a 
 swelling heart. 
 
 To this she made no answer ; but presently 
 saying that she would leave him now to have a 
 little talk with Grizel before he went to bed, 
 she kissed him on the forehead, and went away. 
 
 Grizel had been keeping discreetly aloof in 
 her own room that she might not disturb the 
 meetinoj between Marojaret and her son ; but
 
 218 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 she had not been able to resist creeping in to 
 see the boy eat his supper. Ronald turned to 
 her after his motlier was gone, and with a burn- 
 ing blush that covered his whole face, he asked, 
 in a low voice, " Grizel, does my mother hate 
 me f 
 
 " Hate you, hate i/oii, Ronald ? Whist, 
 whist, my bonny man ; how should she hate 
 you that are the whole she has left on earth — 
 her one bairn — her hope — and her joy that will 
 be, by and bye, when the days of her mourning 
 are accomplished ? Ronald, laddie, you should 
 not speak like that." 
 
 " She cannot forget," murmured Ronald, 
 leaning his head on the chimney-piece, and 
 turning his face away from Grizel. 
 
 " Forget, and how would she forget ? — she 
 cannot look at you without remembering — you, 
 the innocent cause, my poor, dear boy — " 
 
 Ronald stopped her with a gesture of his 
 hand. " Oh, don't," he groaned. 
 
 " Give her time, Ronald ; give your poor 
 mother time. It is but natural ; she never sees 
 you yet but she thinks of that awsome day." 
 
 " Grizel, be quiet ; you nearly drive me out 
 of my mind," said poor Ronald ; " and yet I 
 rather think vou are a comfort."
 
 vm.] THROWN AWAY. 219 
 
 " Am I, am 1 1 " cried Grizel, with tears of 
 pleasure in her eyes ; " am I really a bit of a 
 comfort to you ? I can't do much, Ronald ; 
 but 1 would die for you to-morrow, gladly." 
 
 But thouo;h honest Grizel did her best to 
 cheer him, she was scarcely better able in her 
 simplicity than he was to understand the 
 subtlety of grief, its strange wish for self- 
 torture, its wilful monopoly of suffering. 
 
 Only the next day came another jar between 
 Eonald and his mother. They had been talk- 
 inor over his school-life too*ether, and discussino; 
 the prospects of the next half. Lady Douglas 
 had ojot a letter from his Eton tutor, which she 
 gave him to read, telling him, in warm words, 
 of the pleasure it had given her. 
 
 Ronald was leaving her at last, somewhat 
 comforted and re-assured ; but as he reached 
 the door she called him back. It was a glorious 
 day after the rain, and the August sunshine 
 was pouring in at the windows. 
 
 " By the way," she said, speaking quickly, 
 and holding the open letter so as to shade her 
 face, "I wanted to remind you that the 12th will 
 soon be here. You had better see Fero'us, and 
 make your arrangements with him about your 
 shooting."
 
 220 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " Mother ! " called out Ronald, sharply, as if 
 she had given him a blow. 
 
 She heard his exclamation and the horror in 
 his voice, but she would not look at him. 
 
 "Yes," she continued; ''you must settle 
 these things for yourself now, I cannot look to 
 them for you." 
 
 He recovered himself by a great effort, and 
 spoke quietly, but very sadly. " Mother, can 
 you think — you — can you imagine that I — / 
 could shoot again ? " 
 
 She looked up quickly, growing paler, if it 
 were possible, than before. " That is foolish ; 
 I want you to have no morbid feeling, no false 
 sentiment. Why, what difference can it make ? 
 G-o out at once, and fcice it ; I tell you I wish 
 it. Do you suppose such a trifle as that makes 
 any difference to me ? " 
 
 " I don't know, mother ; how can I tell?" he 
 answered, with the bitterness that she was teach- 
 ing him. " What do 1 know of your sorrow ? 
 I only know that I can't do it, and I won't." 
 
 "But if I wish it?" 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of you," said Ronald, 
 roughly. 
 
 She looked at him again. Perhaps she saw
 
 VIT1.1 THROWN AWAY. 221 
 
 how deeply she had wounded him, for she 
 spoke more gently. ''My boy, I only spoke 
 for your good ; things are no easier because we 
 put them off. I have told you this before. 
 You must not brood over the past. At your 
 age trouble cannot go very deep ; turn away 
 from it ; leave it to those who cannot even 
 wish to escape from it. Go out and enjoy 
 yourself" 
 
 " Mother," he said, " you are too cruel." 
 He stood by the mndow ; the tears he was 
 too proud to let fall burning in his eyes, and 
 the hot iron of injustice scorching in upon his 
 soul. Those were bad moments in the boy's 
 life. 
 
 '' I do not mean to be cruel," she answered ; 
 " I wish you to be reasonable, and strong, and 
 sensible, ready to face the shadow that has 
 fallen on your life, and so to dispel it. A boy 
 like you should not shrink before a little pain. 
 Go out bravely ; only the first day or two can 
 be hard at your age." 
 
 " As there is a God in heaven," broke out 
 Konald, passionately ; " and as He sees and 
 judges, I swear that never in my life shall my 
 hand take a gun in it again — my hand that
 
 222 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 killed my father ! Uncle Norman," for Colonel 
 Douglas had opened the door as he began to 
 speak, *' I call you to witness my solemn 
 oath." 
 
 Lady Douglas silently left the room. 
 
 "You are too vehement, Ronald," said his 
 uncle, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder. 
 
 " I cannot stand it," continued Ronald, his 
 face all aflame with pain and anger ; " I won't 
 be treated so ; " but Colonel Douglas checked 
 him with a look and tone that had in them 
 more sternness than his thouo-hts. 
 
 ^'Ronald, you are speaking of your mother." 
 
 " And he was my father," answered Ronald, 
 with a bitter sob ; *' and she thinks I am not 
 worthy to be called his son." 
 
 " You had better say no more now," said his 
 uncle, trying to hide his pity and sympathy ; 
 " go out, and I will speak to your mother." 
 
 But Margaret, when he went, hot with 
 indignation, to her room, met his rebuke with 
 a humility and a pathos that disarmed him. 
 " What can the poor fellow do here," she 
 asked, *' if all amusement is cut off from him ? 
 — aud, Uncle Norman, his father wanted him 
 to love Dalbraith."
 
 vui.] THROWN AWAY. 223 
 
 " But SO soon, Margaret ; and his dear 
 father has only been gone a year." 
 
 " Only a year/' she echoed, with a world of 
 dreary meaning in her voice. 
 
 Colonel Douglas stood sorrowfully aside, 
 all the more conscious of his powerlessness to 
 help, because he saw both sides so clearly. He 
 understood the effort Margaret had made, her 
 mistaken attempt to do her duty by her son, 
 and her chilled, shocked feeling at the outburst 
 which had met her. Neither could he wonder 
 at Ronald, or blame him, for doubting his 
 mother's love. 
 
 Lady Douglas did not try again to interfere 
 with his pursuits, and for a time he held 
 himself proudly and coldly aloof from her ; 
 but the boy's heart, after all, yearned for his 
 mother, and he seemed to have made a resolve 
 that he would try once more to win back his 
 place with her. He was patient almost beyond 
 his years, courting her as a knight of old would 
 have courted his lady, with humble, wistful 
 service. And in her blindness she threw it all 
 away. 
 
 Norman Douglas was almost in despair. He 
 used to pace up and down the little morning-
 
 224 FKOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 room at the Lady's Lodge. "I can do no 
 more/' he said ; " it is of no use. For all her 
 imposing ways I sometimes think our poor 
 Margaret is no better than a spoilt child.'' 
 
 She has been used to so much love," pleaded 
 Lady Beatrix; "she does not know how to live 
 without it." 
 
 '* And so she throws away God's last good 
 gift ? Ah ! dear Lady, nothing would ever 
 have made you bitter or unjust." 
 
 But much as he pitied Ronald, Colonel 
 Douglas had no intention of letting him become 
 listless and idle. He ordered him out fishing, 
 a.nd watched him anxiously, until he saw that, 
 even in spite of himself, the glorious sport was 
 throwing its spell over him. The solitary 
 excitement, the dash of the falling river or 
 the stillness of its deep salmon pools, the 
 gloom upon the water when clouds were over- 
 head, the sudden glints of often unwelcome 
 sunshine, the mad moments of excitement 
 that made up twenty times for the hours of 
 patient waiting — all these met Ronald's un- 
 spoken need; and the great mother. Nature, 
 gathered him kindly to her mighty heart. 
 Duncan, the fisherman, was an apathetic, taci-
 
 VIII.] THROWN AWAY. 225 
 
 turn HigUander, whom nothing short of a big 
 fish could galvanise into life ; lout he was a 
 master of his craft,— and Ronald, being endowed 
 with all the patient coolness, the steadiness of 
 nerve and presence of mind that is necessary to a 
 good fisherman, Duncan thought it worth while 
 to take great pains with his education. But he 
 never exulted openly, or gave his pupil a single 
 word of praise. 
 
 One day Grizel burst upon them on the 
 river-side, wading through a sea of dripping 
 bracken and heather, and sending several 
 stones thundering down into the water as she 
 clambered down the bank. S}Tnpathy in what- 
 ever he had in hand was by nature so welcome 
 a thincr to Ronald, that he even orreeted Grizel 
 gladly now, though her advent seemed likely 
 to put an end to his chances for that day. 
 She arrived, loudly promising silence, and her 
 " whist-whist " in answer to Ronald's whis- 
 pered caution seemed to awake the echoes in 
 the opposite craigs, and only to lose itself 
 among the distant rocks. But the deep interest 
 in her face, its puckered anguish when Duncan 
 gravely proposed to give up and go home for 
 to-day, her wild delight when a fish (surely the 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 226 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 most deaf of his species) was hooked at last, 
 disarmed Ronald, and it was a pleasure to him 
 to show his prowess before such enthusiastic 
 eyes. There was no holding Grizel, as the 
 salmon rushed and plunged, and Ronald fol- 
 lowed him down the stream. She tore along, 
 stumbling over the rocks, clinging to the stems 
 of overhanging trees, entangling herself wildly 
 with Ronald's rod, and all but taking a header 
 into a rocky pool just as Duncan, his face 
 expressing unutterable things, was drawing in 
 the salmon with his landing-net. Ronald leant 
 ap-ainst a tree, and laughed till the glen rang 
 again ; and the sun streaming out all at once 
 (for it was a day of cloud and storm, with 
 flitting gleams and shadows), lighted up his 
 face with a ray of yellow gold. Duncan had 
 withdrawn in dudgeon behind a rock, round 
 which the river swept just there with a swifter 
 eddy, and Grizel came plunging up the bank, 
 stamping the water out of her Avet boots, and 
 looking up at Ronald with delight. 
 
 " Eh, you may laugh, Ronald, but I just 
 wish your mother could get a sight of you 
 now, with the light in your eyes, and looking 
 like the blithe laddie of a year ago."
 
 Till.] THROWN AWAY. 227 
 
 Hapless Grizel ! — she wondered wliy the gloom 
 fell suddenly over his face again, just as the 
 swift storm-shadow settled down on the hill-top. 
 
 Eonald felt weary of it all. If it had not 
 been for the fishing he would scarcely have 
 had any regrets when the holidays came to an 
 end, and he had to go back to Eton for his last 
 half. Colonel Douo:las had orone awav, and 
 Ronald went but seldom to the Lady's Lodge. 
 His old childish familiarity with Marion had 
 passed away, and she had grown shy and grave 
 with him. Kenneth was reading with a private 
 tutor in the south of Enoiand. And thing^s 
 never would o'o strais^ht between Eonald and 
 his mother. 
 
 Only a few days before his departure, he 
 
 was told one morning, much to his surprise, 
 
 that two young gentlemen had arrived and 
 
 were "spiering" for him. Going round to the 
 
 front of the house in great perplexity, he found 
 
 his unexpected visitors waiting for him on the 
 
 steps ; for Rory, unused to people coming to call, 
 
 and, in truth, rather indiguant that any one 
 
 should, under present circumstances, make an 
 
 attempt to do so, had not invited them to go 
 
 inside the door. They were two young fellows, 
 
 q2
 
 228 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 with knapsacks over their shoulders ; one a 
 school-fellow of Eonald's, the other his sailor- 
 brother, whom Ronald had seen once or twice 
 at Eton. Greetings and explanations were, 
 exchanged. The two brothers were making a 
 walking tour through the Highlands, where 
 everybody had been "tremendously" kind to 
 them, and hearing that Dalbraith was not far 
 from the Inn where they were staying for a 
 couple of days, they had come over to look 
 Douglas up. 
 
 Boys are as hospitable as Arabs, and there 
 is, besides, a sort of free-masonry among 
 Etonians that makes them claim each other's 
 friendship as a matter of course, however and 
 wherever they may meet. 
 
 It was quite impossible for Ronald to turn 
 these two away. He flushed hotly at the bare 
 thought, and yet how could he make his 
 mother understand ? Leaving his guests in 
 the hall, he ran up to her room, and told her 
 hurriedly that he must ask them to stay one 
 night. " I could not help it, you see, mother ; 
 I'm very sorry — indeed, I could not help it." 
 
 She looked at him for a few minutes without 
 speaking.
 
 vm.] THROWN AWAY. 229 
 
 '' Very well," she said, at last. 
 
 " You won't mind much, mother, will you ? " 
 he beo;an ao^ain, o^ettinor more and more em- 
 barrassed. " Of course, I don't like it at all 
 myself; but what could I do ? You see it isn't 
 my fault, don't you ? " 
 
 She bent her head a little, and said " Yes." 
 
 " And they won't be in your way, you know, 
 mother." 
 
 "Of course not," she rejoined quickly. 
 
 He linorered, lonoino: to s^ive her a kiss, or to 
 put his arm round her, or in some way to prove 
 that he was not disregardful of her. He was 
 trembling from head to foot himself, with a 
 sort of nervousness and dread of these guests — 
 his own first guests at Dalbraith. 
 
 But Lady Douglas was bending over a book 
 she held open on her lap, and her face was 
 turned away from him. Ronald did not venture 
 to go up to her, neither did he like to go away, 
 so he remained standing awkwardly near the 
 door. She did not notice him. *' Good-bye, 
 mother," he said at last. 
 
 " Good-bye, Douglas," she answered, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 He went out and closed the door after him
 
 230 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 gently, and stood in the passage twisting his 
 hands together, hating to go down, dreading 
 having to face his friends ; angry with them 
 for coming ; rebelling in his heart against the 
 unnatural dreariness of his life. He dimly 
 understood, too, that it was a bitter moment 
 for his mother, in which the outside world broke 
 for the first time upon the silence of that 
 mourning house. 
 
 At last he went downstairs with a rush, and 
 opened the hall-door. There they were waiting 
 for him, the sailor sitting in Lord Douglass 
 great carved chair, his brother balancing a 
 Highland claymore in his hand; and both 
 looking so frankly unconscious of being in 
 any one's way, so sure of their welcome, and 
 of their host's delight at their arrival, that 
 for a moment he stood still without knoVing 
 whether he was most provoked with them for 
 not knowing better, or pleased at their want 
 of perception. 
 
 " My mother does not see strangers — visitors, 
 I mean," he said, coming forward and speaking 
 rather stiffly, "but she hopes you will enjoy 
 yourselves. What would you like to do ? " 
 
 " Let us go out. I suppose we couldn't go
 
 vm.] THROWN AWAY. 231 
 
 after the grouse?" suggested Frank Giffard, 
 the Etonian. 
 
 " I never shoot," answered Eonald, sharply 
 and shortly. 
 
 To do the two young men justice, neither of 
 them knew much of the real state of the case. 
 Frank had not been at Eton when Konald's 
 father died, and though he had heard the story, 
 he had nearly forgotten it, while his brother 
 Harry was out in China at the time. Some 
 remembrance of the accident and its especial 
 sadness suddenly dawned upon them. 
 
 " I say, old fellow," exclaimed the sailor, 
 jumping up and putting his hands on Eonald's 
 shoulders, ''isn't there a screw loose some- 
 where ? — we ought not to have come, ought 
 we? — hadn't we better make ourselves scarce 
 as fast as we can ? " 
 
 " No, no, indeed ; I'm particularly glad to see 
 you. It's uncommonly jolly of you to come ; " 
 and Eonald spoke all the more heartily for his 
 previous coldness, and felt all the more heartily 
 too. " It's capital having you both. I'll tell 
 you what — we'll go out fishing. It's a first- 
 rate day. I know you like fishing, G-iffard." 
 
 ^' Eather — I believe you," echoed Frank ;
 
 232 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " but is it all right ? Are you sure you like to 
 fish V 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I'm always at it. Come along, 
 and we will find the fishermen." 
 
 Half an hour afterwards the three passed 
 under Lady Douglas's window. It was open, 
 and Ronald glanced up at it with an uncom- 
 fortable misgiving. Choosing the rods and 
 flies had put his two friends quite at their ease 
 again ; now they were both talking at once, 
 telling their travelling adventures, and laugh- 
 ing over them unrestrainedly. Ronald did not 
 like to check them, but he flushed hotly once 
 more as he fancied the merry, careless voices 
 going up into his mother's room. Would she 
 think that he was laughing with them ? He 
 hurried them on past the house and down to 
 the river, and then he discovered his own silence 
 with a start, finding that they were growing 
 silent in their turn. So, recalling his thoughts 
 by a great effort, he forced himself to talk and 
 laugh, and to become a hospitable and gracious 
 host. By degrees a kind of excitement crept 
 over him — it was but the natural reaction from 
 the strain under which he had been living. A 
 wild merriment took possession of him ; he
 
 Tin.] THROWN AWAY. 233 
 
 laughed at the smallest jokes, and talked louder 
 and faster than he had ever done in his life. 
 When they began fishing he did not take a rod 
 himself, but went from one Mend to the other, 
 giving them the benefit of his experience and 
 advice. 
 
 At one o'clock a pony came from the house 
 with a luncheon-basket that made Duncan open 
 his eyes with wonder. This was clearly not a 
 day on which any business was to be done. As 
 the three young fishermen sat on the gTass round 
 their basket, the air rang with their merriment. 
 Eonald's eyes were sparkling ; he could not 
 help being proud of his beautiful Dalbraith in 
 its autumn garb. "The birch-trees seem as if 
 they were hung over with gold sovereigns, and 
 the other trees look like oranges and lemons 
 and copper tea-kettles," said Frank Gifl:ard, 
 poetically ; " and it is all so jolly, you know, 
 with the silver water spouting away, just like 
 a scene at the theatre." 
 
 Eon aid's high spirits never flagged all day — 
 he would not let them flag. If a qualm came 
 over him now and then, or a stab of memory 
 recalled a certain other luncheon on the hill- 
 side more than a year ago, he stifled it with a
 
 234 FROM GENERATION TO GENEEATION. [ch. 
 
 laugh and a fresli story. Duncan, watching 
 him with grim astonishment, came to the 
 conclusion that his young master was '* fey." 
 
 But towards evening his exhilaration began 
 to fade. He fancied that Eory looked at him 
 reproachfully as he waited on them at dinner, 
 and when they went out into the quiet star- 
 light afterwards it was not so easy to keep 
 thought at bay. 
 
 As soon as he decently could he conducted 
 the two Giffards up to their rooms. " Well, 
 we've had a tremendously jolly day," said 
 Harry, as he closed his door. 
 
 Eonald rushed away to his mother's room 
 and knocked. There was no answer, but bend- 
 ing down to listen he could hear that she was 
 pacing up and down within. 
 
 Up and down — up and down without a pause. 
 He tried the lock softly, but it was fastened. 
 He stood listening to the footstep, restless and 
 yet monotonous, for a few minutes ; at last in 
 a low voice he called her. She took no notice, 
 probably she did not hear him ; but it w^ould 
 have made any one sad to see the boy standing 
 there, leaning against the wall, waiting, and 
 listening wistfully outside the door, in vain.
 
 vjiT.] THROWX AWAY. 235 
 
 The colour sank out of his cheeks — his brow 
 knit — he looked years older than he had done 
 awhile ago ; while his merry mood ebbed away 
 and shivered out of sight. 
 
 At last he gave up in despair and went 
 away to his own room. There he dashed the 
 door to, and blew out his candle, that no light 
 even might look in upon him at the close of 
 his " jolly " day. 
 
 The two GifFards were astir betimes next 
 morning. Eonald went with, them part of 
 their way, and though it was his last day at 
 home, he did not return until late in the after- 
 noon. When he met Lady Douglas, neither 
 of them made any allusion to his guests of 
 yesterday, but from that time there was a 
 little change in Ronald. It was very slight — 
 hardly perceptible — still it was there. Hence- 
 forward he went his own way more, and tried 
 less to please his mother. 
 
 The fame that had been so fair during all 
 his time at Eton, got somehow rather dimmed 
 during his last half. He was restless and idle. 
 He got into bad company. Something seemed 
 to have gone wrong with him, said his tutor. 
 There was no great actual harm, but he would
 
 236 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 be better away from Eton now. So the sun 
 of his school-life went down cloudily at the 
 end. 
 
 He braved it out with his mother, and sent 
 her no answer to a severe letter she wrote to 
 him, just at the moment when a few soft 
 pitying words would have touched his heart. 
 
 Colonel Douglas was away with his regiment, 
 and, left to his own devices, Eonald went to 
 London when he quitted Eton. He was fast 
 growing up, and a desperate craving after 
 excitement had seized upon him. He longed 
 by some means, he scarcely cared by what, 
 to escape from the burden of gloom he had 
 laboured under so long. He was very young, 
 ignorant, and unwary. One or two of his 
 companions took him to some races, and taught 
 him to bet. Eonald gave himself up to this 
 new enthralment, and went on for a time in a 
 sort of fever of excitement — then suddenly he 
 awoke to the horrible consciousness that he 
 had been losing heavily. 
 
 He was smitten with despair and with 
 loathing of himself, but he did the best thing 
 that remained to him under the circumstances, 
 and went straight to Colonel Douglas with his
 
 viii.] THROWN AWAY. 237 
 
 remorse and Ms confession. The gentleness 
 that met him where he most expected harsh- 
 ness went far to save the poor boy. His uncle 
 listened quietly, pitied, and forgave him, but 
 he did not tell him of the compassion that 
 secretly filled him, for the desolate position, 
 and the home coldness which he believed to 
 be the chief causes of the evil. Loyal as 
 he was to his nephew's widow, there were 
 moments when a flame of generous anger 
 rose up against her in the heart of Norman 
 Douglas. 
 
 Yet, once acrain he was forced to feel for her. 
 Just now the money so wantonly lost was 
 especially needed at Dalbraith. At a sufiiciently 
 low ebb at all times, the legal expenses of 
 a succession had nearly drained the exchequer. 
 And there was one old tenant — a loyal, faithful 
 old man, one of Lord Douglas's truest friends 
 — who had been patiently waiting for a long 
 time until a new farm-stedding, much needed, 
 could be put up on his farm. It had been 
 promised by Lord Douglas, and was one of the 
 last plans with which he had occupied himself; 
 but his death had delayed its being carried 
 out. Now the sum needed had been gathered
 
 238 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 together again painfully, almost pound by 
 pound, by Eon aid's guardians ; and this money 
 had to be taken to pay the young heir's 
 gambling debts. 
 
 The blow was very bitter to his mother. 
 She was righteously, naturally, fatally dis- 
 pleased. It fell to her lot to tell the old 
 farmer of this new delay, and to witness the 
 grieved, surprised, puzzled expression on his 
 rugged face. 
 
 To go back from a promise, and for such a 
 cause, stung her haughty spirit to the quick ; 
 and that Konald should thus belie an enorage- 
 ment entered into by his father was a thing 
 she found it hard to forgive. 
 
 She did not write to him, but when Colonel 
 Douo^las refused to show him the letter he had 
 himself received, Ronald guessed at its con- 
 tents. He was broken down with remorse, 
 and his uncle judged it wisest to spare him 
 many words. 
 
 One thing it was possible to do. The moor 
 and the deer-forest of Dalbraith could be let. 
 There was a sore struggle before the family pride 
 of Norman Douglas yielded to what he felt to 
 be his duty. He belonged to the old school, to
 
 nil.] THKOWX AWAY. 239 
 
 whicti sucli dealings were both new and 
 distasteful ; but in this way only, money, to 
 be spent among the people on the estates, 
 could be obtained. That argument silenced, 
 without reconciling Lady Douglas to the step. 
 It might be that her husband would have 
 wished it, and as she said rather bitterly to 
 her uncle, " It will be no sacrifice to Ronald.'' 
 
 *' If it were ever so great a sacrifice, he 
 has been extravagant, and he must pay the 
 penalty," answered Colonel Douglas. 
 
 Ronald thought so too. He agreed \nth a 
 mute gesture, when his uncle told him of his 
 decision and its reasons. 
 
 A few minutes after he looked up and said, 
 *' Uncle Norman." 
 
 '' Well, Ronald." 
 
 " I think the river ought to be let too," said 
 Ronald, quickly. 
 
 " Hey-dey ! why, Ronald, I thought it was 
 the one thing you did care for." 
 
 "I know. I would rather give up some- 
 thing I do care for." 
 
 Colonel Douglas smiled, and made no imme- 
 diate answer. It went against the grain with 
 him to sever one of the only links that bound
 
 240 FKOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. 
 
 Eonald to Dalbraitli ; but after all there might | 
 
 be things for him to learn in life more valuable ;^ 
 even than the love of home. "And trust a 
 
 Highlander for that/' thought Norman. J 
 
 The river at Dalbraith was let that year, 
 
 and " dour and glum as a nor'- east er " did the i 
 
 sportsmen who rented it, find Duncan the ] 
 
 fisherman. j
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LORD RONALD, MY SON. 
 
 " But wae, wae was the heavy mane 
 Gaed thro' that Castle ha', ; 
 When gloamin' cam' ae summer e'en, 
 Young Ronald was awa', 0." 
 
 A FEW weeks afterwards an old Eton friend, 
 who was going abroad for a long journey, asked 
 Eonald to go with him. The two young fellows 
 were to take a travelling tutor with them, who 
 would to a certain extent look after them. 
 They were to go to Canada to begin ^Hth, and 
 after that their plans of travel were uncertain. 
 Colonel Douglas thought the scheme a good one, 
 Lady Douglas gave her consent, and the pre- 
 parations were quickly made. 
 
 Ronald was staying in London at the empty 
 house of his friend Hugh Raymond's father. 
 The very day had come on the evening of 
 which they were to start for Liverpool, when 
 a letter was put into his hands. It was from 
 Grizel — an incoherent, illegible, tearful epistle— 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 242 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 that, being wrongly directed, could not even 
 arrive by the morning post like other people's 
 letters, but must needs come straggling in, late 
 in the afternoon, when it was all but too late to 
 be of use to any one. 
 
 Tearing it impatiently open, Ronald found in 
 it a piteous appeal to him not to leave England 
 on any account without saying good-bye to his 
 mother. Oddly mixed up together, were messages 
 that Lady Douglas would have sent if she had 
 been told of this letter, assurances from Grizel 
 of his mothers love to him, and a harrowing 
 description of what his own remorse would be 
 if he went abroad without one farewell word 
 or kiss. 
 
 Authorised or unauthorised, Ronald received 
 the missive only too willingly as a summons 
 from his mother. His heart, which he never 
 could really harden towards her, had been fail- 
 ing him more every day as his departure drew 
 near, but till now he had been given no excuse 
 for going to her. 
 
 There was not a moment to be lost if he 
 meant to catch the Scotch express that night. 
 Rushing down to the hall, he seized hap-hazard 
 on a portmanteau that was waiting with the
 
 IX.] LORD EOXALD, MY SON. 243 
 
 remainder of the lug^o-agre to be taken to the 
 station. Then hailing a hansom, he was in the 
 act of leaving a hurried, confused message with 
 the servant, when Hugh Eaymond himself came 
 unexpectedly along the pavement. 
 
 " Dous^las 1 Good heavens ! what are vou 
 about ? Where are you going off to "? " 
 
 " Home — to Scotland. 1 have been sent 
 for," answered K/onald, briefly. *' I was just 
 leaving a message for you. I can't stay now, 
 or 1 shall lose my train." 
 
 " But I say — stop a moment — what are you 
 thinking of ? We can't wait for you." 
 
 " You must do as you please about that. I 
 shall be back in less than a week. Great 
 Northern. Quick ! " he shouted to the cabman, 
 and away went the hansom rattling down Brook 
 Street, leaving Hugh Raymond and the tutor, 
 who had just come out of the house, staring 
 blankly at each other on the doorstep. 
 
 Late on the afternoon of his third day's 
 travelling, Ronald reached Dalbraith. He had 
 not lost any time, and had scarcely stopped to 
 eat, much less to sleep, on the road. 
 
 The stable-yard was empty when he dis- 
 mounted there from the dog-cart which had 
 
 b2
 
 244 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 Lrouglit him the last stage of his journey, and 
 as he met no one on his way to the house, he 
 entered without ringing the bell, and ran 
 upstairs at once to his mother's room. 
 
 Lady Douglas sat at her table writing. There 
 was a softer, gentler expression than usual on 
 her face. The letter that lay half-finished 
 before her was a farewell to her son, -and was 
 touched with greater kindness — a more motherly 
 and melancholy tenderness — than any she had 
 written to him for months. She had not been 
 told rightly of the day he was to leave England, 
 and thought that her letter would be in plenty 
 of time to reach him. 
 
 " Perhaps it is better that you should not 
 come home before you go," she wrote ; "but I 
 wish you to know that you carry with you your 
 mother's " 
 
 The opening of the door startled her. She 
 raised her eyes quickly, and a young man stood 
 on the threshold, looking in on her. Her hus- 
 band's influence had been all day very strongly 
 over her. She had almost fancied that he was 
 near her, approving of the kind words she wrote, 
 and now — 
 
 Very tall, with the same dark eyes and hair,
 
 Es.] LORD RONALD, MY SOK 245 
 
 seen indistinctly in the half light, standing in 
 the heavy shadow of the doorway, and with the 
 gloom of the passage behind him, it seemed to 
 her for one short mad moment as if the Eonald 
 of her youth — her husband — stood before her. 
 
 She started up with a wild cry of '' Ronald!" 
 He came hastily forward, and she knew him. 
 
 Some women would have been softened by 
 the wonderful momentary likeness, but this 
 woman it seemed to turn to stone. The keen 
 agony of disappointment coming upon that 
 brief second of unreasoning hope, the horror 
 she had of being betrayed into showing strong 
 emotion, even a strange pang of indignation at 
 his glad, eager look as he approached her — all 
 combined to make her heart stand still, and the 
 blood freeze in her veins. 
 
 She disengaged herself from his arms, and 
 putting one hand for support on the table 
 behind her, she said, in a trembling voice : 
 
 " What are you doing here ? Where are 
 your friends ? " 
 
 " Gone abroad, I believe. I came to you, 
 mother." 
 
 " Do you want me to pay more gambling 
 debts ? "
 
 246 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 To her own ears it scarcely seemed as if she 
 herself was speaking. The words appeared to 
 be uttered in her hearing, and some power out- 
 side herself forced her to repeat them aloud. 
 
 Konald drew back. 
 
 " Did you send for me to ask me that, 
 mother ? " 
 
 ** I did not send for you." 
 
 He turned away without another word, and 
 left the room. 
 
 Lady Douglas fell back heavily into her 
 chair, and sat motionless. Presently she took 
 up the letter from the table before her and tore 
 it in two, and the action seemed to bring back 
 the life that had been almost suspended. 
 
 Bitter tears poured down her face. The 
 pride and strength was all beaten out of her. 
 She was torn from head to foot with sobs. 
 
 Then after the storm there came a great calm 
 down upon her. The two faces — the fathers 
 and the son's — w^ere distinctly now under her 
 eyes ; both, as if in very presence, were before 
 her. The bewildered pain and surprise on the 
 young face scarcely seemed to upbraid her more 
 than did the frank, trusting eyes that she felt 
 looking into hers with no reproach in them —
 
 E.] LORD RONALD, MY SOX. 247 
 
 only a question why she had thus sent away 
 their son. 
 
 " Konald, forgive me," she said half aloud, 
 and she covered her face with her hands. 
 
 A long time passed before she recollected 
 herself, with a sudden start. Why had she left 
 him alone so long under the impression of her 
 cruel words ? 
 
 She went hastily upstairs, and knocked at 
 Eonald's door. There was no answer, and as 
 she glanced in she saw that the room looked 
 just as usual, with closed blinds, and no sign of 
 preparation or habitation. 
 
 Evidently no one knew yet of his arrival. 
 He must have come up straight to her. 
 
 He must be in the library below, she thought, 
 or in the gallery or the hall. But each one of 
 these was empty and undisturbed. 
 
 He had gone out to the stable, or perhaps he 
 did not know that Norman was away, and was 
 seeking him at the tower. 
 
 Lady Douglas rang the bell hastily, then she 
 went back into the hall. A plaid that she knew 
 to be Ronald's lay half on the table, half on 
 the floor, just as he had thrown it down in his 
 hurry. She gathered it up, and carried it with
 
 248 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 her to the turret-door of the entrance, which 
 she opened. 
 
 On the step outside stood Grizel, her bonnet 
 awry, her eyes inflamed with tears, and beside 
 her was Marion Stuart. 
 
 " Grizel, where is Douglas ? " asked his 
 mother hurriedly. " You have seen him." 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, I did not think he would 
 come so soon," said Grizel, breaking forth into 
 a fresh fit of crying, " and he is gone.'* 
 
 " Gone— where ? " 
 
 " I meant to tell you I had written before he 
 came. Now he is gone." 
 
 " Who is gone ? " 
 
 " Eonald— your boy. Oh, my poor Mar- 
 garet, I ought to have told you sooner, and now 
 he is gone." 
 
 " Gone ! " repeated Lady Douglas, and she 
 began to tremble. " He cannot have gone far. 
 He was with me only a few minutes ago." 
 
 " My poor Margaret, he has been away for 
 more than half an hour." 
 
 Margaret rang the bell vehemently again and 
 again. They heard it go echoing in long peals 
 through the house. 
 
 *' Follow my son," she cried ; " find him ;
 
 K.J LORD RONALD, MY SON. 249 
 
 bring him back. He cannot have gone far. I 
 must see him." 
 
 Marion Stuart had stood looking silently into 
 Lady Douglas's face. She started forward now. 
 *' Cousin Maroraret, I will oro." And she turned 
 and flew along the road. She was fleet of foot, 
 light of limb, and strong. They saw her cross 
 the burn and scramble in a moment up the steep 
 short cut, disdaining the easier windings of the 
 road. She reached the top of the hill, turned aside 
 into the shadow of the wood, and disappeared. 
 
 " It is no good at all. She cannot come up 
 with him," said Grizel, sitting down on the 
 stone step in despair. '' How should she ? and 
 it is all my fault." 
 
 Others — messengers of a forlorn hope— had 
 followed Marion. They went at Margaret's 
 desire, but they knew it was of no avail. 
 
 " He came upon me like his own wraith," 
 explained Grizel, " as I was standing, misdoubt- 
 ing nothing, in the hall. I heard a footstep 
 run down the corkscrew stair. 1 thought it 
 would be Marion, and I cried on her that I was 
 here ; but instead, Ronald came out upon me, 
 white like the wall, a braw, tall laddie, and oh, 
 Margaret ! just the moral of his father."
 
 250 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 She paused and dried her eyes, then went on 
 again. 
 
 " He was for passing on without heeding me, 
 for there was a queer, scared look in his eyes 
 and I cannot tell if he even saw me. But I just 
 ran and caught him by his two hands, for I 
 couldn't rightly speak, and he stooped down — 
 a fine, bonny man with his tall head — and 
 kissed me. ' God bless you, Grizzy,' he said ; 
 * you meant all for the best.' And straight out 
 of the hall, without another word. 
 
 ^' I ran after him round to the stable-yard, and 
 there was the machine that brought him over 
 from Invershane, and the horse still in the 
 shafts, and the driver giving the poor beastie 
 its bit and sup of water. 
 
 " ' Aye,' Eonald was saying when I came 
 up ; * feed him well, Sandy, for he'll need to 
 go back faster than he came, for I'll have to 
 catch the coach at Dalmally to-night.'" 
 
 '' And you let him go "? " said Margaret. 
 
 '^ Margaret, woman — what was I to do? 
 The coachman lad grumbled out that his horse 
 couldn't do the job, but Ronald just got up 
 quietly and said he'd have to try ; and he took 
 the reins into his hands, and never heeded me
 
 IX.] LORD EOXALD, MY SOX. 251 
 
 till he was just driviug away. Then he said, 
 *I couldn't stay, Grizzy,' and lifted his cap 
 from his head to little Marion, as if she had 
 been a stranger — and away. And now that 
 will be better than three quarters of an hour 
 ago." 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Douglas, in a quiet voice. 
 " They cannot stop him ; " and she went into 
 the house. 
 
 Marion was brought back that evening by a 
 sympathizing sheep-farmer, who, jogging home 
 from a distant market, found her very weary, 
 on the road, and mounted her on his own 
 pony, after assuring her that he had met the 
 Glasgow coach a mile and a bit on the other 
 side of Invershane, and with his " ain twa een '* 
 had seen the young Lord on its roof. 
 
 There was no more to be done. 
 
 His mother wrote to him while her heart 
 was still burning, her nerves thrilling, her 
 repentance fresh and keen upon her, such a 
 letter as should have brought him back to her 
 feet and to her arms at once. It was such a 
 letter as a mother and a proud woman could 
 only write once in a life- time — such a letter, 
 that, to think of it as she lay in her bed at
 
 252 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 night, made her flush and tremble with mixed 
 humiliation and thaukfulness. 
 
 She sent it to Sir Piers Eaymond's house in 
 London, believing that as the ship he was to 
 have gone in would have sailed, he would be 
 sure to go there for tidings of his friend. 
 Besides, they would know his whereabouts, 
 and she had drawn a strong score under the 
 " To be forwarded " on the cover. He would 
 be sure to get it. 
 
 She waited long for bis coming, starting 
 whenever a ring, or the sound of wheels, or a 
 quick step was heard. 
 
 He did not come. 
 
 Then she watched for an answer — in vain. 
 
 Months afterwards the letter was returned 
 to her, enclosed in a note from Sir Piers 
 Raymond, regretting that the housemaid left 
 in charge of his London house had failed to 
 forward to him the enclosed letter for Lord 
 Douglas at the time, but that, judging by its 
 post-mark and its ancient date, he thought it 
 wiser to return it at this late period to Lady 
 Douglas. That was the end. 
 
 She drew the old letter half out of its cover 
 and read a few lines, wondering bow it was
 
 IX.] 
 
 possible that she could ever have penned sueli 
 words. The warm glow of feelinor had lonor 
 since sunk into ashes, failing a response. She 
 read but half a page, and then tossed it just as 
 it was into the fire. 
 
 It was unreasonable to feel hurt and wounded 
 with Ronald for the fate of a letter that had 
 never reached him. She knew that it was 
 unreasonable ; and yet what a chill those months 
 of silence had sent into her heart. 
 
 Ronald had never been near London ao^ain. 
 When he left it he knew that his friends pur- 
 posed spending a day or two at Sir Piers 
 Raymond's country house, on their way to 
 Liverpool. It was barely possible that by 
 rapid travelling he might catch the ship before 
 she sailed. He liked the race across Scotland 
 and half England against time. It gave him 
 something to think about, and kept off other 
 thoughts. He was lucky, and caught one or 
 two trains unexpectedly. 
 
 When he got to Liverpool, the American 
 steamer was all but moving. The people for 
 the shore had left her, and her great engines 
 were throbbing. But he got on board, how, 
 did not matter very much. Hugh Raymond
 
 254 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 was shaking him by the hand, welcoming and 
 reproaching him in a breath, as they steamed 
 down the Mersey. 
 
 A. few days afterwards, Colonel Douglas 
 received a hurried line or two by the pilot : 
 
 "Deae Uncle Norman, 
 
 " We are off at last, and I write to tliank you for 
 all your kindness to me. They say we are likely to have 
 a fair run across. Will you say good-bye to Granny for 
 me, and remember me to Kenneth when you see him? 
 
 " Your affectionate nephew, 
 
 " Ronald. 
 
 " I went to Dalbraith before we sailed, and saw my mother, 
 and said good-bye to Grizel." 
 
 Colonel Douglas sent the note to Margaret, 
 and that was all they heard of Ronald for a 
 season. 
 
 He was away five years. 
 
 For two years of that time his mother and 
 his uncle were well content that he should be 
 abroad. The last three were years of growing 
 anxiety and disquiet to both in their several 
 ways. 
 
 As long as Ronald and Hugh Raymond kept 
 together. Colonel Douglas was more at ease, 
 even though their so-called tutor demanded 
 his recall after eighteen months of incessant
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 255 
 
 journeying, being exhausted and alarmed at 
 their wild schemes of further travel. He gave 
 a good report of both on his return, but said 
 they were bent on finding their way into 
 all the most outlandish corners of the earth. 
 Douglas was the leading spirit, but his friend 
 followed willingly enough. 
 
 Sir Piers and General Douglas (as he had 
 lately become) conferred together, and agreed 
 that it was perhaps wiser to let the boys have 
 their fling for a little while longer. Hugh, at 
 all events, said his father, must be home for 
 his coming of age next year. So, till then, 
 General Douglas made up his mind to wait. 
 He was a great deal at Dalbraith now, for his 
 promotion had taken from him the command 
 of his beloved regiment, and he had retired 
 from active service. And thouojh Douo;las 
 would soon be of age, and his guardianship 
 nominally ended, the management of the estates 
 fell entirely into his hands while their young 
 master was roaming over the world. Lady 
 Douglas, thouo;h she still interested herself 
 keeDly in everything that concerned the pro- 
 perty, left the business part of it to him. 
 
 She said very little about her son's prolonged
 
 256 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 absence. It may be tbat she grieved over it 
 in secret — they could not tell. His unfortunate 
 visit just before he started had only widened 
 the breach between them, by throwing a con- 
 straint over their letters to each other. How 
 could she write easily, when for many months 
 she did not know whether or no he had wil- 
 fully left that one letter of hers unanswered ? 
 
 The general was more visibly troubled about 
 his nephew. He was extremely fond of the 
 lad. " It w^as easy to see the young Lord 
 had gotten on his honour's blind side," said 
 Adam Haldane, discontentedly. Something in 
 Eonald's circumstances, but more in Eonald's 
 self, had by degrees knit his uncle's heart to 
 him in warm aifection. He had been compelled 
 to be his champion — he was deeply sorry for 
 him, and sometimes indignant on his behalf; 
 and then he had a peculiar feeling of loyalty 
 to Ronald as the young head of his house. To 
 be the chief of the Douglas's of Dalbraith w^as 
 still something in the eyes at least of Norman 
 Douglas. 
 
 And in the last few years the boy's generous, 
 true, faulty character, had fairly won his love. 
 He fretted after him, and could not get him
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 257 
 
 out of his head ; and when, after some months 
 of rather impatient waiting, Hugh Raymond 
 returned alone to fulfil the promise to his father, 
 the poor General was bitterly disappointed. 
 
 He had looked upon Eonald's accompanying 
 his friend as so completely a matter of course, 
 that he had not even thous^ht of ofivino- an 
 order to that efi'ect in any of his letters. 
 Xorman Douglas would indeed have been sur- 
 prised if a command of his had been disre- 
 garded, but on this occasion he had given 
 none. Ronald merely wrote that it was a pity 
 Raymond had to go home, but as there was no 
 hurry about his return, he might as well stay 
 out as he was there, and see what there still 
 remained to be seen. 
 
 General Douglas went up to London on 
 purpose to see young Ra}Tnond, but it was 
 wonderfully little which he could extract from 
 the returned traveller. " They had parted at 
 San Francisco. Douglas was very well ; never 
 had been better in his life, he should say. They 
 had done California together, and he believed 
 Douglas was going to Mexico, and that he 
 wanted to see Texas. That would just suit the 
 queer old fellow." 
 
 TOL. I. «j
 
 258 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " Queer, eh ? What sort of a fellow now ? " 
 asked the uncle anxiously. 
 
 " Well, you see," meditatively, *' he is none 
 too like other people." 
 
 " Rather hot-headed and restless, I dare say," 
 observed the General with a smile. 
 
 " Eestless ! I believe you. He couldn't stand 
 a day in any decent quiet place where one could 
 get a respectable dinner and have a little peace. 
 There never was such a reckless dare-devil fellow 
 for getting you into every manner of scrape. 
 But then," continued Hugh, relenting, " when 
 he had got you up a tree, he was awfully good 
 and plucky and cheery till he got you oflf clear 
 again. Goodness knows at other times he is 
 glum and silent enough." 
 
 General Douglas scratched his eyebrow with 
 his tortoise-shell eye-glasses, and sighed. The 
 description was not entirely reassuring. 
 
 '' Well," he said, " perhaps he is just as well 
 out of England just now " (it was at the beginn- 
 ing of the Crimean war) ; "he would be volun- 
 teeriug out to the East to join my boy Kenneth 
 there, or something." 
 
 " Oh, he couldn't do that, could he ? " ob- 
 served Hugh.
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SOX. 259 
 
 " ^V^lat do you mean ? " asked the General 
 quickly. 
 
 *' Oh, I don't know. I thought he had made 
 a vow never to shoot a man, or see a gun fired, 
 or some humbug of that kind. They used to 
 have a story about it at EtoD." 
 
 " Rubbish," said General Douglas. 
 
 "Ah, I dare say. I don't know myself. Of 
 course I never spoke to him about anything of 
 the sort." 
 
 " It's wonderful to me how little you young 
 fellows seem to know of each other after all 
 this time," remarked General Douglas, with an 
 impatient frown. To which Hugh Raymond 
 responded only by a laugh. 
 
 Ronald's letters were even less enliehtenino- 
 than was his friend. They contained absolutely 
 no clue to his character, and might have been 
 published as one of those books of travels, in 
 which a few stars are always to be found when- 
 ever something personal or a little interesting 
 seems about to be told ; only Ronald's letters 
 would have needed no stars. Studying them 
 with painful interest, as did the one or two 
 people to whom they were addressed, they could 
 see the school-boy scrawl gradually settle into 
 
 8 2
 
 260 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 a firm, close, manly handwriting ; the sentences 
 grew shorter, the descriptions less diffuse and 
 more careless. Occasionally an impression was 
 powerfully rendered, or a thought expressed in 
 terse, nervous language ; but they were merely 
 thoughts and impressions about outward things. 
 He spoke of time with the careless prodigality 
 of youth : "I might, perhaps, get there next 
 year," he sometimes said of some place which 
 he wished to see. And he was moving so 
 constantly that letters were most uncertain in 
 reaching him. 
 
 Then occurred long silences with their name- 
 less fears. There was a blank of several months 
 during which Ronald, last heard of at the foot 
 of the Rocky Mountains, sent no tidings of 
 himself, and which traced one or two new lines 
 on his uncle's brow. 
 
 But when next they heard, he was far on his 
 way home through Japan, China, and India. 
 In the late summer he wrote from Alexandria. 
 He was coming. 
 
 But was there some strange fate that dogged 
 his footsteps ? Could it be that the old super- 
 stition they had all laughed at, yet held good ? 
 
 He was on board the steamer coming from
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SOX. 261 
 
 Alexandria to Marseilles, and at dinner the first 
 day, he sat opposite to a lively, black-bearded 
 young Frenchman, who eyed him with a good 
 deal of attention. 
 
 Afterwards he came up to the tall English- 
 man as he was pacing the deck in the sunset, 
 and taking ofi" his hat, said courteously, " I 
 believe we ou^ht to know each other, Lord 
 Douglas ; my name is Gaston de Beaurepaire." 
 
 Yes ; it must have been fate — for Gaston de 
 Beaurepaire, the eldest son of Lord Douglas's 
 old friend, was an inveterate gambler. 
 
 Less than a month afterwards Norman Doug- 
 las received a short quiet note from his nephew, 
 praying him as a proof of kindness — (perhaps the 
 last proof, wTote Eonald, that his uncle would 
 ever care to give him) — to come and meet him 
 immediately in London. 
 
 Full of forebodings, the General hurried up to 
 town. Alas ! it was the old story. Eonald 
 had been playing again, and losing. A few mad 
 miserable days had undone at a stroke the work 
 of years. Poor Dalbraith ! — almost freed from 
 its burdens by Norman's patient toil and the 
 mother's ceaseless self-denial through the time of 
 the young man's mi lority ! It did almost break
 
 262 FROM GENEEATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 his heart to mortgage it again — and for this. 
 Por the old pLace, with its wide, poor acres, and 
 its scanty rent-roll, was more precious than a 
 kingdom in the eyes of Norman Douglas. 
 
 "Margaret," said General Douglas, "for all 
 that's come and gone, your son is a grand 
 creature." 
 
 Lady Douglas sat looking up at the General 
 as he stood before the fire. There was a light 
 of hopefulness in his eyes, and a glad ring in 
 his Yoice. 
 
 " This has been a terrible business, my poor 
 child ; but it is over ; we must forget it. I have 
 good hopes now ; upon my word I have." 
 
 Lady Douglas smiled a little. She would fain 
 be glad and hopeful too, but it was not easy. 
 
 " I wish I had it in me to forget," she said. 
 
 He bent down and took her hand. " I shall 
 wait until you see him. But you will mind our 
 bargain, Margaret. For my sake no reproaches 
 — not a disapproving look even, when your 
 prodigal son comes home." 
 
 " He is not a boy now," she said, with another 
 of her faint smiles. 
 
 " You will not scold him ? Good ! But I
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 263 
 
 want more than that. Why, Margaret, you 
 mis^ht leave it to me. I am sure I was severe 
 enough ; aye, and sore enough ! and I tell you 
 now that I am satisfied. Should I have bound 
 him else to come straight home to you ? I 
 swear to you," he added, firing up suddenly, 
 " that you may trust your son ! " 
 
 She looked up, somewhat moved by his 
 energy. He met her eyes with his keen grey 
 ones. " Be yourself, Margaret," he said, gravely. 
 " Be loving — and be wise ! " 
 
 A tinge of colour came into her pale face. 
 If she had once sent him away, had she not 
 paid the penalty in the course of these five 
 years ? She glanced up nervously at the clock. 
 The hands were on the stroke of eio-ht. 
 
 o 
 
 " He will soon be here," said General Douglas. 
 
 She pressed her hands against her heart as if 
 it was beating heavily. The hall where they 
 were sitting was lighted up. 
 
 " Where are they all ? " she asked. " Granny, 
 and Marion, and Grizel ? They were all to be 
 here to welcome him." 
 
 Almost as she spoke Lady Beatrix entered, 
 and came quietly to sit down by Margaret, 
 holding her cold hand.
 
 264 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 There followed a tall, very fair girl, witli clear, 
 honest blue eyes, and a noble, brave, serious 
 face, on which just now the flickering red 
 colour of expectation was coming and going 
 every minute. Then Grizel trotted in, in the 
 highest state of glee and fidget, with her best 
 cap on her head, and a clean pocket-handkerchief 
 ready for immediate action folded in her hand. 
 " For we shall all shed tears without a doubt," 
 she said to Marion. 
 
 " Oh, Cousin Grizel, I hope not ! " replied 
 the girl, in a tone of horror. 
 
 Grizel hurried up to Lady Douglas. " And are 
 you feeling sadly nervous, my dear ? " she asked. 
 
 Margaret hastily straightened herself, and sat 
 very upright, grasping both the arms of her chair. 
 
 '' Certainly not," she answered, waving aside 
 the fan with which Grizel had armed herself. 
 
 The latter held up her hand. " I hear a 
 carriage ! " she exclaimed suddenly. 
 
 Everybody started. Margaret half rose ; the 
 General walked quickly to the hall-door ; Marion 
 drew back into the shadow. " It was nothing," 
 said General Douglas, coming back, and casting 
 a look of reproof on Grizel. " It was just 
 Grizel's imairination. "
 
 IX.] LORD ROXALT), MY SOX. 265 
 
 '' I am sure I heard it. Hark ! there again ! 
 Listen ! " 
 
 ''There isn't even a sough of wind to-night," 
 added the General, scarcely vouchsafing to 
 notice her. " It is a remarkably still evening." 
 
 Of course it was a false alarm. Grizel con- 
 tinued to experience one every three minutes. 
 Though she said nothino; more, she was con- 
 stantly starting to her feet, and kept them 
 all in such commotion, guarding against the 
 shocks they could not help receiving from her 
 wild looks, that when at last, without sound 
 of wheels or bell, the outer door was opened, 
 and a tall man walked in, no one noticed him 
 till he was nearly in their midst. 
 
 *' Ronald," then said the General, (quickly 
 and quietly, " where did you spring from, my 
 dear boy ? " But nobody heeded the question, 
 for there was a moment's pause, and then Ronald 
 was kneeling at his mother's feet. 
 
 " My word ! " said Grizel beneath her breath ; 
 '* my word, but what a kingly-looking creature ! " 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Uncle Norman," said Marion earnestly, later 
 in the evening, as they two were left together 
 for a moment after the others had dispersed ;
 
 266 FEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " you do think, don't you, that lie and Cousin 
 Margaret will be happy together now ? " 
 
 " It is in the hands of God, Marion," he 
 replied. But something in the evening had 
 damped his sanguine hopes. 
 
 It was certainly not any coldness on the 
 part of either Eonald or his mother. Both 
 appeared to be unable to keep their eyes off 
 one another. 
 
 She sat gazing at him, her hands clasped 
 together on her knee, and her great eyes seem- 
 ing to burn in her pale face. And certainly no 
 mother could have looked at him without pride. 
 ''Kingly-looking," as Grizel said, and of lofty 
 stature, there was something in his dark splen- 
 dour of beauty, that brought to the old cousin's 
 mind the description of the '*' choice young 
 man and goodly " whom the prophet Samuel 
 had anointed king in Gilboa. 
 
 But not with the one great shock of meeting 
 could be overthrown the barriers of years. 
 Lady Douglas shrank with a strange shyness 
 from being alone with him, and when the others 
 tried to manage that they should be left to- 
 gether, she kept Lady Beatrix carefully by her 
 side, while Ronald seemed trying to understand
 
 Es.] LORD EOXALD, MY SOX. 267 
 
 and to meet her wishes with an acquiescence 
 that was half proud and half humble. 
 
 In a few days they appeared to have drifted 
 back into much their old manner of life. The 
 young man was very grave, very silent, and 
 had a look of hopelessness and discouragement 
 about him that it distressed General Douglas 
 terribly to see, and which, ever since they met 
 in London, it had been his great wish to free 
 him from. He watched Eonald, and hovered 
 about him, like an old hen, Lady Beatrix told 
 him, that could not get its one chick to be 
 contented under the once familiar coop. 
 
 The General was always going up to Dal- 
 braith, to see what the lad was after, or else 
 cominof across the loch to talk him over with 
 Lady Beatrix. 
 
 Marion w^as reading in the window one day 
 when one of these discussions was going on. 
 She could not help listening, and her book 
 dropped on to the window-sill before her as the 
 two elders talked. General Douglas laughed 
 for a moment w^hen Granny gently made fun 
 of him, but he was greatly in earnest. 
 
 " Now little Marion there," he said sud- 
 denly, " she sees and understands it all.'*
 
 268 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 " 1 ! " exclaimed Marion, turning round with 
 such a start and such a rush of colour to her 
 cheeks as could not but attract the attention 
 of both uncle and grandmother. 
 
 " She was dreaming over her book. You 
 frightened her, Norman/' said granny quickly. 
 
 "I beg her pardon/' and General Douglas 
 held out his hand to her with a smile. " I 
 know she is gentle and womanly enough to 
 wish she could help all who stand in need of 
 it." Marion came slowly and took his hand, 
 but kept her head turned away. 
 
 " Ah, dear lady," he went on, speaking to 
 Lady Beatrix, but still clasping Marion's hand 
 with a kindly pressure, "you are the very last 
 person to smile at a spoilt life — such fair pro- 
 mise wasted, such a power of affection and 
 happiness and usefulness thrown away. Things 
 seem always to have gone against him, — and for 
 what ? For an accident, a visitation of God, a 
 misfortune that might just as well have fallen 
 on one of us ! " He felt Marion's hand tremble 
 in his. 
 
 " I know the poor fellow has gone wrong of 
 late. I don't defend him, dear lady, as you 
 know, — but he has bitterly repented. I go
 
 IX.] LORD ROXALD, MY SON. 269 
 
 further back than these last unfortunate weeks ; 
 1 look back, and I remember that lad with his 
 sunny face ; I remember what hopes his dear 
 father had of him. I can see Ronald, on that 
 very last day, laughing and larking with my 
 own boy. I believe it has saddened Kenneth's 
 life too, and no wonder. The one poor fellow 
 was not more innocent in it all, not more 
 blameless than the other." Marion tried to 
 draw away her hand. " And so, Marion," he 
 continued, turning to her, " you do not wonder 
 that sometimes the old uncle's heart aches 
 sorely for his boy." 
 
 Marion struggled to answer, and at the same 
 time to hide the tears that had brimmed over 
 her eyelashes, and one of which fell with a 
 great splash on to the hand that was still held 
 in General Douglas's. 
 
 He glanced up at her quickly, then turned 
 his eyes away and became very thoughtful. 
 Marion left the room, and the two w^ho re- 
 mained sat without speaking for a loDg time. 
 
 " Granny," said General Douglas at last, 
 with a sort of shyness in his voice. 
 
 " Don't say anything, Norman," she answered 
 quickly, and then they were silent again.
 
 270 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [en. 
 
 But from that day a thought, a wish, a hope 
 dawned upon his mind. He tried to put it 
 away at first with a *' Pooh, nonsense ! " but it 
 was tenacious, and not easy to get rid of. 
 
 He could not help watching Douglas and 
 Marion when they were together. Ronald's 
 manner to women was one after his own heart, 
 gentle, reverential, slightly formal ; and of late 
 he had acquired a melancholy dignity of bear- 
 ing, that to his uncle's mind could scarcely fail 
 to be attractive to any one with whom he was 
 constantly thrown. 
 
 He looked at the young man through 
 Marion's eyes, as it were, with wistful eager- 
 ness — sometimes wishing he were more cheerful, 
 sometimes wondering what he talked to her 
 about, or getting restless over his long days of 
 solitary absence. 
 
 As for Marion, the General well-nigh fell in 
 love with her himself ; he thought her sweet, 
 maidenly ways so lovable and perfect. She 
 was almost cold in manner to her cousin, but 
 no one could think she was indifferent. Quiet 
 she always was, but her colour came and went; 
 she could not seem unconscious of his presence, 
 or keep herself from listening when he spoke,
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 271 
 
 whoever she might be talking to at the moment. 
 The rare sound of his laugh lighted up her face. 
 It was her evident constraint that gave most 
 hope to the vicarious lover who was watching 
 her thus earnestly ; — her shy, modest little 
 attempts to dispel the shadow on Lord Douglas's 
 face, if, as sometimes happened, he was silent 
 and moody in her presence. 
 
 Uncle Norman was ashamed of himself for 
 his eagerness, and for the impatience he felt 
 when things appeared to be at a standstill. 
 Twenty times a day he called himself a ridicu- 
 lous old match-maker, but none the less his 
 heart beat when he saw the two young people 
 speaking to each other. 
 
 So inuch, so very much, seemed to him to be 
 at stake — the welfare of his boy's whole future. 
 It might prove the turning-point for him ; the 
 lifting of the cloud. He had been tempted to 
 despair, and then one day he thought he read 
 the solution of the difficulty in Marion's face. 
 A happy home ; a loving wife ; the wholesome 
 breaking in of sweet common influences, happy 
 voices, laughter, light words and daily duties, 
 on the long-sustained tragedy of his life. It 
 was terrible to General Douglas to think that
 
 272 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 all this certain good might be left undone for 
 a girl's whim, a young man's halting fancy. 
 
 By-and-by he perceived that others were 
 beginning to look on as well as himself. He 
 caught a shrewd smile, and something that 
 almost amounted to a wink, on G-rizel's kindly 
 face, and he rejoiced to see it, though he frowned 
 on her sternly in return. 
 
 " Gin our young Lord thocht o' gettin' 
 wedded I should na be that set against it," 
 said Fergus significantly. The General cut him 
 short so haughtily that his heart smote him 
 afterwards, and he had to go back for a crack 
 and a good-natured joke with the old man. 
 
 Thus weeks passed on. There was only a 
 slight chill now and then, a faint misgiving 
 about Douglas himself. Could it be possible 
 that he was yet blind to the chance of 
 happiness that might be within his reach ? 
 
 One morning General Douglas had been 
 doing some business with his nephew, in his 
 own study at Norman's Tower. It was a 
 lovely day, and the sunshine was streaming in 
 at the open window, playing with the white 
 hair of the old soldier and lighting up his 
 noble-looking countenance. Douglas, a misty
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 273 
 
 sunbeam dancing on liis head, sat with his 
 chin supported by his hand, dutifully atten- 
 tive, but not greatly interested in the business 
 before him. He looked, as his uncle could not 
 bear to see any young man look, half wearied, 
 half indifferent. 
 
 Once or twice the General glanced at him 
 over his spectacles, and rather sarcastically 
 regretted that he was under the necessity of 
 boring him, but he had no idea of letting him 
 off before the work was done. 
 
 " Ronald," he said at last, and he threw do^Ti 
 his pen, leant back in his arm-chair and crossed 
 his legs. " You ought to marry, my dear boy.'' 
 
 " I, Uncle Norman ? " answered Ronald, 
 looking up with a stretch and a smile, " I 
 don't believe there is any nice, good woman 
 who would have me." 
 
 " Stuff and rubbish. I hate to hear you 
 talk that unreal, morbid kind of nonsense. I 
 tell you there are plenty of nice women who 
 would take you and be thankful." 
 
 " I don't know any," said Ronald, rather 
 absently. 
 
 The General did not quite like to say, 
 ''Then I do," though that was pretty nearly 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 274 EEOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch, 
 
 what lie had in his mind. He hesitated, looked 
 at Konald, and blushed as if he had been a 
 young lady himself. "So the fellow really 
 hasn't seen it," he thought with some concern. 
 
 " You are modest, my boy," he said aloud, 
 patting the young man's shoulder. 
 
 Eonald shook his head, but made no answer. 
 He was not very much occupied with the 
 subject, which give him an advantage over the 
 General, who was. 
 
 " You would be the better of a wife, Ronald," 
 he said again. 
 
 " Can you find me one. Uncle Norman ? " 
 asked Douglas, smiling ; but he was far from 
 thinking there was any earnest in this idle 
 talk. The question was so d propos that 
 it took the General completely aback. He 
 hummed and had, blushed again, put his 
 glasses on his nose, and throwing back his 
 head pretended to read a letter. This was a 
 manoeuvre to gain time, but to his dismay 
 Ronald did not seem anxious to pursue the 
 subject. He also took up one of the papers 
 on the table. 
 
 " The blindness of some people astonishes 
 me," burst out the baffled diplomatist, after a
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 275 
 
 few minutes, duriug which Eonald had been 
 reading on unsuspiciously ; *' it looks as if 
 the J must shut their eyes on purpose.'"' 
 
 " What is it, Uncle Norman ? " and Ronald 
 dutifully laid aside his paper, and looked 
 puzzled and attentive. 
 
 " They can't see, or they won't see, what is 
 for their own good ; they let all the best chances 
 in the world slip by. Either they won't use their 
 eyes or they have not heart enough to care. 
 It passes my patience to put up with the 
 young people of the present day." 
 
 '' Are you talking of me ? What is it I 
 have done ? " asked Douglas ; but his uncle 
 went on unheeding — *' Yes ; it entirely passes 
 my patience. I give you my word it fairly 
 makes my blood boil to see such cool, calcu- 
 lating ways. Why, in my day if a fine young 
 creature, — as sweet, kind, modest a little soul 
 as ever lived fie, Ronald ; can t you under- 
 stand ? " 
 
 Perhaps Ronald did begin to understand a 
 little, for he coloured as frankly as the General 
 had done. 
 
 '* Do pray speak out, Uncle Norman. What 
 is it that you mean ? " 
 
 t2
 
 276 FKOM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 *'I mean that I think you have a chance 
 now, Ronald, and that you are a fool if you do 
 not take it." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Do you really think that ? " 
 
 "I do indeed ; bless my soul, my dear 
 boy,'' he said, calming down when he saw 
 the emotion he had aroused in the young 
 man, *' I haven't lived all these years in the 
 world for nothing." 
 
 " Will you mind telling me what has put it 
 into your head ? " 
 
 " Not I — tell you indeed ! — that's your busi- 
 ness to find out, not mine to tell." 
 
 "You must let me think this over," said 
 Ronald, after another long interval. '*It is 
 a new thought to me." 
 
 " Judge for yourself, my dear fellow," 
 answered the General. 
 
 Douglas leant over the table shading his 
 eyes with his hand. "Is it possible ? " he 
 said softly. Then in a few minutes he looked 
 up. " May I ask you one or two questions — 
 my mother ? " 
 
 " She will rejoice. I am convinced that she 
 has thought of it, and that she wishes it."
 
 IX.] LORD ROXALD, MY SON. 277 
 
 " And granny ? " 
 
 General Douglas took off his glasses, rubbed 
 tbem, fitted them on again, and said rather 
 huskily : " I believe you would have her 
 granny's blessing." 
 
 " Thank you, Uncle Norman," said Douglas, 
 holding out his hand. The General grasped 
 it with a half-uttered petition that God 
 would guide the young man aright ; and 
 then no more words were spoken on the 
 subject. 
 
 There are surprises that cease to be surprises 
 at all after the first moment of enlightenment. 
 
 Like memories lodged, but not lost, in some 
 deep recess of the brain, and startled into life 
 with curious distinctness by an unexpected 
 touch, so it may be with impressions that 
 have been unconsciously received. Ronald 
 had been blind, and yet — ■ 
 
 When he was gone General Douglas returned 
 to his arm-chair, closed his eyes, drew a deep 
 breath of relief, and smiled. It had been an 
 anxious moment — a great risk — a serious step 
 to take on the impulse of the hour What if 
 Ronald had not responded just in the way 
 he had responded? It was a thing only to
 
 278 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 be justified by success — but then, it had 
 succeeded, — and so the General smiled. 
 
 Meanwhile Ronald was mounting the hill- 
 side with long and rapid strides. The sun 
 struck hotly on the moor, but there was a 
 great rock yonder that would make a covert 
 from the heat. A brace of young grouse went 
 whirring up ; a mountain hare rushed across 
 his path ; how beautiful everything was look- 
 ino;! At last he threw himself down on the 
 heather and tried to think coherently. 
 
 It was impossible to say how much the 
 idea of being loved affected him. He had 
 lived very little with w^omen, and had in a 
 manner lost his mother just as he was growing 
 up to manhood. His ideas of family affection 
 and of ho me -life had become invested with a 
 halo of vague regretful tenderness and rever- 
 ence. He had thought himself cut off from 
 them, and had grown to believe that a good 
 woman would shrink from linking her fate 
 with his. 
 
 That Marion, brave, true, sweet Marion, 
 who had known him ever since they were both 
 children — to whom the tragedy of his life and 
 its shadows were no secrets — that she, out of
 
 IX.] LORD ROXALD, MY SON. 279 
 
 her pure, womanly sympatliy, had grown to 
 care for him, seemed to him like the opening 
 of a new and better life. He was very weary 
 of the one he had been leading ; it was all 
 hollow and lonely, and worse than unsatisfying. 
 The vision of a bright calm home, with a wife 
 who loved him, came to him with a curious 
 swell of hope. His feeling for Marion was not 
 so much a young man's impetuous first love 
 as the deep tenderness of a world-wearied and 
 disappointed man, who turns back to the pure 
 dreams of his youth and finds wondering they 
 are still within his reach. That day, alone 
 on the hill-side, he took Marion to his heart, 
 vowing to her the deepest gratitude and the 
 most faithful love. 
 
 General Douglas gave him leave a day or 
 two afterwards to go and talk to "Granny," 
 whom he had been preparing for the announce- 
 ment Ronald found her a little agitated and 
 tremulous, for Norman, with all his prepara- 
 tion, had taken her by surprise, and had been 
 as impetuous and eager in advocating his 
 nephew's cause as if he had been a young 
 lover pleading for himself. 
 
 She looked up with a kind of wistfulness at
 
 280 FROM GENERATION TO GENEEATION. [ch- 
 
 Ronald as he came in ; he seemed so tall in 
 her little low-roofed drawing-room ; and a 
 feeling of anxiety so oppressed her that she 
 did not speak directly, 
 
 " Uncle Norman told me I might come," he 
 said, hesitating as he missed the customary 
 bright welcome. 
 
 ''Yes, Ronald ; yes, come in ; I was expect- 
 ing to see you." 
 
 *' Granny, you know what I want to say?" 
 he began at once, as he took the little trembling 
 hand that she stretched out to him. 
 
 " Yes ; Norman has told me." 
 
 *' And will you say yes. Granny ? " 
 
 She clasped her hands tightly together, and 
 sighed. When she spoke it was with a visible 
 effort. 
 
 *' Ronald, I should like to say yes. But I have 
 a duty to my Marion. I have to ask myself — 
 ought I to trust you with Charley's child ? " ■ 
 
 He started slightly. " I would try to be 
 more worthy," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 "Norman so trusts you," she resumed, 
 smiling, with her eyes full of tears, " that he 
 is angry with my fears ; but I am frightened, 
 Ronald ; " and she looked up into his face.
 
 E.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 281 
 
 " Granny, I will so try to be better." 
 
 There was something about her that always 
 made great big men as gentle and simple T\dth 
 her as little children ; Douglas knelt down 
 beside her chair and held her hand. 
 
 " Granny, I have been so unhappy," he said, 
 bending down his head. 
 
 *' My boy — " she put up her other hand and 
 smoothed his hair caressingly — " I know ; it has 
 all been hard and sad ; I should be glad if I 
 could give you my little Marion to comfort you." 
 
 '' I would take care of her," he whispered, 
 with a tremble in his voice. 
 
 " Yes ; I think so. You are true and faith- 
 ful ; but, Eonald, forgive Granny — I do so 
 wish you had never met with poor Eene's 
 unhappy son." 
 
 He held her hand tighter. " It frightens 
 me for you, Eonald," she added, softly. 
 
 " Yes ; I know." 
 
 *' You yielded once, it might come to you in 
 the same way again" — he sighed — '*how can 
 we be sure ? I hurt you, my poor boy ; you 
 are good to be so patient, Eonald.'' 
 
 '' May I tell you about it ? " he asked, after 
 a long pause.
 
 282 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 "Yes, surely." 
 
 And then, still kneeling by her chair, in 
 simple, hunil)le, broken words, Ronald for the 
 first time in his life made his confession in 
 the ears of a kindly, gentle woman. 
 
 At first she listened with her hand held in 
 his strong grasp ; then she released it to put 
 it on his shoulder ; before he quite finished her 
 arms were round his neck. Oh, Ronald ! the 
 cry was in her heart — Oh, Ronald, why has 
 your mother never known you ? 
 
 *' Granny ? " he said, looking up when they 
 had both been quiet for some time. 
 
 Where were her fears — gone, or forgotten ? 
 " If Charley says yes, take Marion," she whis- 
 pered, ^' and my blessing with her." 
 
 The next thing taken in hand by General 
 Douglas was the finding of an opportunity for 
 Ronald to tell his tale to Marion. But some- 
 how this was not so easy. 
 
 Perhaps Ronald preferred to choose his own 
 time. Granny refused her help, telling the 
 eao^er General that such thinojs fall out much 
 better when they are left to themselves. She 
 even proposed to wait until Marion's father
 
 E.] LORD RONALD, MY SON. 283 
 
 returned from a journey he was making in 
 Switzerland ; but to that uncle and nephew 
 both demurred. 
 
 Marion, however, grew provokingly shy and 
 afraid of being left alone with her cousin, and 
 Grizel was a marplot of the first order. 
 
 She had forgotten her suspicions, and, 
 besides, was quite full of some interests of her 
 own. In the spring she had been away visit- 
 ing some relations, and since then, whenever 
 the whole party met together, Grizel was sure 
 to be talking of the MacMichaels of DuUsmuir. 
 
 Now the MacMichaels of DuUsmuir had lono^ 
 been subjects of dread to everybody at Dal- 
 braith. They were excellent people no doubt, 
 but they came into Grizel's talk on every occa- 
 sion. They were very numerous, they appeared 
 to be indefatio-able letter-writers, and the 
 interests of one and all of them were terribly 
 dear to Grizel. 
 
 AYhether it was a letter from the Laird him- 
 self, with a ponderous account of his crops, and 
 his Ayrshires ; or from '' our dear Jane," about 
 her trials, and her bairns, and her poultry -yard ; 
 or from one of the " DuUsmuir girlies," Grizel 
 never could keep it to herself. She was
 
 284 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 pre -occupied and communicative, and after 
 Ksmiling, and frowning, and shaking her head over 
 the letter in the morning, she went about frown- 
 ing, and smiling, and shaking her head all day. 
 
 There were sons innumerable at Dullsmuir> 
 all growing up, all " by ordinair " lads, and all 
 unlucky. It seemed impossible to start them 
 in life. They were perpetually making new 
 ventures out into the world, and invariably 
 falling back, defeated by fortune, on Dullsmuir. 
 
 It was very remarkable how active a share 
 all Grizel's friends were perforce compelled to 
 take in the career of these young gentlemen. 
 She was so vitally interested in them herself ; 
 she so confidently claimed sympathy in their 
 few successes, and their many failures, that the 
 Douglases found themselves full of triumph 
 when Alick once contrived to pass an examina- 
 tion, and greatly humbled and cast down when 
 Patie failed to get into a writer's office in 
 Edinburgh, and Gibbie to win a fellowship at 
 Glasgow University. 
 
 As for " poor Bob," nothing ever went well 
 with him— that was not to be expected. Even 
 Grizel gave him up with a long face. 
 
 But by dint of her certainty of sympathy
 
 IX.] LORD RONALD, MY SOX. 285 
 
 she did set all her family to work, even while 
 they groaned, for the " dear MacMichaels." 
 Lady Douglas herself was roused into writing 
 long letters to her brother on Cosmo's behalf. 
 Ronald was already deep in correspondence 
 with a merchant he knew at Shano:hae regard- 
 ing Davie. Lady Beatrix thought she saw her 
 way, through her son, to an opening in India 
 for " poor Bob." Even the minister of 
 Dalbraith, Doctor Maclean, had his own 
 thought whether it did not behove him to 
 have Patie at the Manse for a season, with a 
 view to preparing him for the ministr}^ Amid 
 all these brilliant prospects " Dullsmuir " and 
 dear Jane were more active with their pens 
 than ever. Letters rained down upon Grizel. 
 
 The MacMichaels threatened seriously to 
 impede the settlement of affairs betT\^een 
 Douglas and Marion. Several times had the 
 General, as he thought, left them a free field, 
 but on his return Grizel and Dullsmuir were 
 masters of the situation. Marion seemed to 
 cling to her old cousin, and to try and keep by 
 her side, and Ronald listened to her with a 
 grave patience that would have been admirable 
 if he had heard a word she said.
 
 286 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. [ch. 
 
 On one occasion Marion was putting roses 
 into a great jar, in the gallery at Dalbraith, 
 and Douglas, sitting on the window-sill, half in 
 and half out of the room, was talking to her. 
 Uncle Norman, when he saw them, refrained 
 from passing through the gallery, though it 
 was his only way out of the house, but re- 
 treated, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, into 
 the turret-room, where he had nothing to do. 
 
 Having waited there what seemed to him an 
 unconscionable time, he ventured forth, and 
 opened the door discreetly. " And so," he 
 heard, "the Laird, honest man, passed the 
 remark, that though the lad himself might not 
 be just so solid as we Avished, yet he would 
 fain hope that poor Bob " — 
 
 "As I live ; the MacMichaels again ! " 
 ejaculated the exasperated General. 
 
 At last, one evening at the Lady's Lodge, 
 he had managed to wheedle Granny out to see 
 the sunset. Presently he came back to warn 
 Mamselle Ugly that her lady might find the 
 evening air fresh without a shawl ; and as 
 she hurried off in search of one he gave a 
 severe and significant look to Grizel, who, 
 standing near the window, was holding forth
 
 IX.] LORD EOXALD, MY SON. 287 
 
 with a placid smile, while Marion knitted, and 
 Douglas just come in was sitting with his 
 arms crossed on the table, in an attitude of 
 resolute and patient waiting. 
 
 " By that, I would be understood to say, 
 Konald," went on Grizel, happily, " that Tibbie 
 MacMichael is not to call a beauty. She'll not 
 be that, but she's a sonsie lassie * wi' her twa 
 pawkie een,' as the song says ; and young 
 Morrison " 
 
 " Grizel," growled a deep peremptory voice 
 outside the window. She jumped up — '' Eh ? 
 will you be wanting me, Cousin Norman ? " 
 
 He beckoned to her silently. 
 
 The two who were left did not move for a 
 moment — then Douglas got up. 
 
 " They say it's a lovely evening," said the 
 girl, rising too, and hurriedly throwing down 
 her work ; shall we go out ? 
 
 " Marion," said Douglas, laying his hand on 
 hers 
 
 END OF VOL. L
 
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