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 "L I E) RAFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVER.SITY 
 Of ILLINOIS
 
 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN.
 
 / /;■■ 
 
 \/i r^
 
 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 H IRoreL 
 
 BV 
 
 RITA," 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 DAME DUDEEN." " GRETCHEX," "DARr,Y AXD JOAN,' 
 
 "SHEBA," KTC, ETC. 
 
 7-V TJTBEE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1891.
 
 PKIKTED BY 
 
 KELIiT AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN PIEIiOS, 
 
 AND KINGSTON-ON-'IHAMES.
 
 4^ 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 5 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 J2 I. — " Looking Back " .... 1 
 
 "'' II. — Taken into Confidence . . . 11 
 
 $^ III.~"The Laird " . . . . •>S 
 
 ^ IT.— " Douglas '' 37 
 
 Y — a ^jjj, Kirk " 51 
 
 VI, — Oefended Prejudices ... G3 
 
 YIL — A Random Speech .... 78 
 
 "<- 
 
 YIII. — Jealousy 93 
 
 : IX.-— Kelief 100 
 
 <^ X.— First Love 120 
 
 XL — Keeping up Appearance> . . . 133 
 
 ^ XII.— Day Dream-^ 143 
 
 - XIIL— The Old Story L5ft 
 
 XIV.— The Witch's Cavern . . . 171 
 
 >^ XV. — "My Heart is 8air for Somebody" . 185 
 
 ^ XVL— "A Braw Wooer" . . .194 
 
 XV IL— Distrust 213 
 
 XVIII. — "Sounding the Depths". . . 226 
 
 XIX. — "Come Under myPlaidie". . . 244
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/lairdocockpennov01rita
 
 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN.
 
 NEW^ NOVELS 
 
 AT ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 2 vols. 
 
 vols. 
 
 vols. 
 
 THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE. 
 By John Straxgk Wjntek. 
 
 THE PLUNGER. 
 
 By Hawlky Smart. •-> vols. 
 
 JACK'S SECRET. 
 
 By Mrs. Lovett Camkron. i 
 
 A HOMBURG BEAUTY. 
 
 By Mrs. Edward Kennahd. 
 
 CRISS CROSS LOVERS. 
 
 By The Honble. Mrs. H. W. Cuetwvnu. 3 vols. 
 
 THAT AFFAIR. 
 
 By Anme Thomas. 3 vol^. 
 
 THE \^ AY SHE WON HIM. 
 
 By Mrs. HOUSTOHN. 2 vols. 
 
 APRIL'S LADY. 
 
 By Mrs. Hungerpord, Author of "Molly Bawn. 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31, Southampton Street, Strand, W.C.
 
 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " L K I X Cf B A C K . '* 
 
 I 
 
 " Comfort — comfort scorned of devils, 
 This is truth, the poet sings, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow 
 Is remembering happier things I " 
 
 /^ " AVherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
 
 The hills of the Highlands for ever I love." 
 
 " Jean, have ye taken the bit lassie up her 
 cup o' milk ? " 
 
 "Deed no, mem, it liae just sleepit my 
 memory, but I'll e'en go wi' it at once. I 
 doubt if the bairn's wakin' though, she 
 was ower tired the nicht." 
 
 The voices roused ms and I sprang up 
 from bed and went over to the window. It 
 looked out on a small yard, and there stood 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 Jean the old Scotch servant whose voice I 
 had heard. She was talking to Grannie, who 
 was in the kitchen. I threw open the 
 window and let the sweet June air into the 
 quaint little room which I had only seen as 
 yet by candlelight. 
 
 The noise of the opening window attracted 
 ^^aji^n's attention. She looked up and saw me. 
 A look of alarm crossed her face — wrinkled 
 and brown as a crab-apple. 
 
 " Are ye daft, lassie, to be standing there 
 wi' no covering save yon bit linen stuff? 
 Back to bed wi' ye this minnit. We've no 
 wish to ]iae ye sick on our hands, and a nice 
 character ye brought too. Aye, but the 
 mistress is gangin' to ye the noo, and siccan a 
 scolding as she can give! But I'm just 
 thinking ye'U be the better o' it." 
 
 I retreated hastily — taking a flying leap 
 back into the little white draped bed, which I 
 had scarcely reached when the door opened to 
 admit Grannie. 
 
 Our acquaintance had been short — but 
 short as it was I think I laughed in my
 
 "LOOKIN'G BACK." 3 
 
 sleeves at the bare idea of receiving a 
 scolding or anything approaching it from the 
 lips of that STveet-faced, gentle, old creature. 
 My father was her eldest son, and I was his 
 onlv child. He had sent me on a visit to her 
 for two reasons, one, that I was in very 
 dehcate health and the doctors had recom- 
 mended Scotland, the other, that he had 
 recently married again — a proceeding to 
 which I had strongly objected, having even 
 more than that proverbial dislike to a step- 
 mother which the only daughters of widowed 
 fathers are supposed to possess. 
 
 "And how is my bairn this morning?" 
 said Grannie, as she came towards me with a 
 glass of warm milk in her hand that she had 
 declared to be necessary for my health while 
 I remained under her roof. 
 
 " I am quite well, and not a bit tired," I 
 said, kissing the dear old kindly face bent 
 down in anxious tenderness to mine. 
 
 " That is good to hear, dearie. -N'ow drink 
 this, and then you may get up and dress. 
 We'll soon put some colour in those white 
 
 1*
 
 4 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 cheeks, je poor wee mite. Why your cousin 
 Nannie — who's a bit bairn of ten 3^ears old — 
 would make two o' ye. And how old is it 
 you are, seventeen — eighteen ? " 
 
 " Seventeen, Grannie, and three months." 
 
 " And nae much to show for it, dearie," 
 she said, smiling. '• What will ye look like 
 beside our bouncing Scotch lassies, and your 
 ain cousins, the Camerons, among them? 
 Some of them are sure to be here the morn — 
 they were so anxious to see you. Indeed 
 they wished to be here last night to welcome 
 you, but I said no. I knew you would be 
 tired after the long journey from the South." 
 
 She smoothed my hair and kissed me again. 
 I thought I had never heard anything so 
 sweet as this slow, soft speech of hers, with 
 its measured accents and occasional use of 
 Scotch expressions and phrases which were 
 as yet unfamiliar to my English ears. 
 
 Ah! how dear and how well-remembered 
 that accent and those expressions were 
 destined to become to me ! 
 
 I should like to have detained her there
 
 "Lookin'Ct back.' 5 
 
 for long. It was new to me to be caressed 
 and petted and made much of, and I possessed 
 a nature which had an absolute craving for 
 love. Not a very safe nature I fear — and 
 one apt to be jealous as well as exacting. A 
 nature that could not but lead to suffering and 
 sorrow in the future, being far less capable of 
 enjoyment than of suspicion, of analysis than 
 of acceptance. But at the present moment 
 my whole heart went out in a flood of 
 tenderness and delight to this grave-eyed, 
 sweet-faced, old Scotch lady, with her gentle- 
 dignity, her kindl}' grace of manner, her fond 
 protecting air of possession and regard, the 
 like of which I had never met before. 
 
 My heart had gone out to her from the 
 moment I saw her face and heard her sweet 
 voice, and warm and kindly welcome. I was 
 " her bairn " from that hour. Something- for 
 her to love, and cherish, and protect, and care 
 for. A new interest in her life, so she told me, 
 even as she was a wonder and delight to me. 
 
 Oh, Grannie, Grannie, I look back on all 
 that happy time of my youth — I, a saddened,
 
 6 THE LAIRD 0' CCCKPLN. 
 
 sorrowing woman now — I look back and 
 wonder what you w^ould say if you knew 
 what your " bairn " had suffered. I look 
 back and I think of all your gentle words 
 and kindly councils, and sometimes, in the 
 long dark hours of sleepless nights, 1 hear 
 your voice again. How it warned me, how 
 it counselled me, and I, in youth's headstrong 
 fashion, would only laugh and jest. 
 
 I do not laugh now. Grannie, but you can- 
 not know that, for between " your bairn '^ 
 and you is the gulf of a great mysterious 
 silence — set it seems to me for ever — the 
 silence of the grave. Grannie — that we cannot 
 bridge, thouo^h our hearts shcaild break for 
 
 sign or word of each other. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Poor old tear-stained book — the journal of 
 those days in my Highland home, and among 
 the dearest, kindliest folk it has ever been my 
 lot to meet ! How strange it seems to me to 
 read these pages, and the historj^ they record. 
 How strange to remember what I was, and 
 think of what I have become !
 
 "LOOKIXa BACK.' 7 
 
 I opened that journal Tvith a heart as pure, 
 a life as stainless, as its own pages. I think 
 now, as I look on them with a woman's eyes, 
 that the marred irregular lines, and the tears 
 that have stained them, are no unfitting 
 representative of that life's after history. 
 
 Grannie soon left me on this special 
 mornino'— the morning after mv arrival at 
 Craig Bank, as her little house was called. It 
 was but a small place on the outskirts of 
 Inverness, but to me it seemed a paradise of 
 loveliness, with its quaint old-fashioned 
 garden, full of fruit trees, and roses, and 
 strawberry beds, and useful kitchen stuff, all 
 mingled together in a fashion that would have 
 horrified an orthodox gardener. 
 
 I made my toilet rapidly, and ran down- 
 stairs to the parlour, where breakfast was laid 
 and waiting. The supply of hot scones, and 
 fish, and fancy bread, and marmalade, the 
 thick cream and delicious butter, astonished 
 my English tastes, used only to the inevitable 
 fried bacon and watery milk of a London 
 lodoring-house. I made a meal that aston-
 
 8 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 ished myself, thougli Grannie lamented my 
 poor appetite, and was perpetually comparing 
 it with that of " Nannie," the ten-year-old 
 lassie of whom she had spoken before. 
 
 I began to feel some curiosity about these 
 cousins. There were a great many of them 
 — ten altogether, I had heard — the eldest 
 being a son some twenty years old, then five 
 daughters, then two more sons, and finally 
 the redoubtable " Xannie " and a small sister 
 of eight, who completed the family. Grannie 
 assured me they would be round soon after 
 breakfast — some of them at least — and I 
 awaited their advent in the garden while she 
 went about household duties. 
 
 I had not been there very long when the 
 sound of voices reached me, and old Jean 
 appeared to summon me into the house. 
 
 I followed her into the little parlour as they 
 called it, and my first impression was that it 
 was filled to overflowing with a feminine 
 crowd of all ages and sizes. 
 
 There was my Aunt Margaret to begin 
 with, who gave me a most affectionate
 
 '^LOOKING BACK.-' 9 
 
 welcome, then tlie eldest daughter, Flora, 
 aged nineteen, a fak-haired, handsome girl, 
 who seemed inclined to be patronizing. Then 
 a dark haired, rosy-cheeked damsel, who 
 seemed brimming over with fun and laughter, 
 as if life had never ceased to be one huge joke 
 to her ; this was Bella, to whom my heart 
 went out as spontaneously as her own 
 greeting. The others, Maggie, Jessie, Eosa 
 and Nannie, were grour^ed together in mv 
 memory as parts of a whole with no very 
 distinguishing characteristics. 
 
 I felt a little shy and awkward at first, 
 more especially as I had to undergo a fire of 
 questions and personal remarks as to which 
 side of the family I " favoured." 
 
 However, as they unanimously agreed it 
 was the Scotch side and not the English, I 
 was received with general approbation. My 
 Aunt Margaret was very kind. She resembled 
 my father, and was his favourite sister she 
 informed me. She was rather inclined to 
 pity me as a poor, weak, sickly offshoot of a 
 very healthy and well-favoured line, but I
 
 10 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 took the compassion very indifferently. I 
 knew very little of the family, or the " lang 
 pedigree " on which the}^ prided themselves, 
 and which ran back to the days of the Bruce. 
 But I thought them all very frank and kind, 
 and I liked that slow, soft drawl in their 
 speech, and the faint Scotch accent, which 
 was so apparent, 3:et which none of them 
 imagined they possessed. 
 
 After a while Grannie suggested that some 
 of them should take me off and show me 
 what the town was like, which Flora and 
 Bella eagerly agreed to do. My aunt then 
 insisted that I should come back with them 
 for some lunch or " piece " as she called it, 
 and be introduced to my Uncle Jamie and the 
 eldest son Kenneth ; so all this being duly 
 arranged, I ran upstairs for my hat, and in 
 a few moments was walking along to Union 
 Street between my two cousins, feeling 
 smaller and more insignificant than ever 
 beside two such tall and well-developed 
 specimens of young womanhood.
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 TAKEX IXTO CONFIDENCE. 
 
 " The Laird o' Cockpeu he's proud and he's great ; 
 His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state ; 
 He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, 
 But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek." 
 
 —Old Song. 
 
 I AM afraid I was not so miicli impressed by 
 the be'auty of the town as my cousins 
 expected. To a girl who had seen London 
 and Paris, and most of the great continental 
 cities, the httle capital of the Highlands as it 
 appeared twenty years ago was not very 
 imposing. 
 
 I liked the ancient part of the town best, 
 and the view from the castle delighted me, as 
 did also the graceful Gothic beauty of the 
 cathedral. 
 
 Bella pointed out Craig-Phadric, and the 
 singulary shaped hill of Tom-na-hurich,
 
 12 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 wliicli was laid out as a cemetery, and wliere 
 slie suggested tliey sliould take me next day 
 if I was strono' enough for the walk. 
 
 " You are very delicate, are you not ? " she 
 asked. " Grannie said so ; you certainly are 
 the wee-est creature I ever saw. Are you 
 really seventeen ? " 
 
 " Indeed I am," I said. "Don't I look 
 it?" 
 
 She laughed. "You look about ten," she 
 said. " Who ever saw such hands and feet ? 
 You're not much taller than our Nannie." 
 
 " Oh, that's what Grannie is always saying," 
 I answered pettishly. "I don't know why I 
 should be compared with a child like Nannie. 
 "Why I'm quite grown up." 
 
 " What a pettish wee creature it is," 
 laughed Bella. "You've been spoilt. Miss, 
 I make no doubt. Being Uncle Jock's only 
 child " 
 
 "Indeed," I interrupted, "I have not been 
 spoilt, far from it. My life has been very 
 lonely, and I have always had the feeling that 
 I never was wanted bv anvone."
 
 TAKEN INTO CONTIDEN'CE. 13 
 
 The two oirls looked at me somewhat 
 curiously. 
 
 " Oh, that's not possible," they said in a 
 joint chorus of disbelief. 
 
 " Surely Uncle Jock was fond of you," 
 added Bella. 
 
 "Why do you call him that .^ " I asked. 
 " It's not his name." 
 
 " Grannie and mother always called him 
 so," said Flora, " and everyone who knew 
 him as a boy does the same." 
 
 "Here comes Alick IMacpherson," said 
 Bella suddenly. 
 
 She looked at me with a mischievous gleam 
 
 I— 
 
 in her dark eyes. " Look how Flora is 
 blushing," she whispered. "He's her beau." 
 I surveyed the approaching youth with 
 some curiosity. He was tall, fair, ruddy, like 
 most Scotch youths, and had a somewhat 
 awkward manner. He came up to my 
 cousins and shook hands with them, remark- 
 ing that the day was " verra warm." His 
 accent was very pronounced ; he had not 
 long left the University of Glasgow, where he
 
 14 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 had been studying for the medical profession. 
 They addressed him as "Alick," though he 
 called them Miss Cameron and Miss Bella 
 most scrupulously. When I was introduced 
 to him he favoured me with a somewhat 
 curious stare, and then shook hands. I men- 
 tally pronounced him " uncouth," but he was a 
 good-hearted, kindly young fellow, and I grew 
 to like him very much as I knew him better. 
 The two girls chatted away very frankly with 
 him. I remained silent, drinking in draughts 
 of the pure, sweet air, and watching the 
 effects of sun and shadow on the Ness. 
 
 My attention was at last drawn to the 
 conversation by hearing myself addressed. 
 
 I turned and met the blue eyes of young 
 Macpherson fixed on me. 
 
 "I was just saying. Miss Lindsay, that I 
 know my mother and sister would be so 
 pleased to know you. Could you not join 
 your cousins to-morrow night? They are 
 coming to drink tea with us." 
 
 " I should be very pleased," I said. " But 
 I am staying with my grandmother at Craig
 
 TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE. 15 
 
 Bank, and I'm not sure if she would be 
 willing to spare me, or have made any other 
 plans." 
 
 " Oh, I'll walk round to Craig Bank and 
 ask her," he said cheerfully. " She'll no mind. 
 She and I are auld friends, you know." 
 
 I did not know, but I was content to take 
 his word for it, and to be drawn into the 
 conversation by degrees, though it concerned 
 people and places about whom I was very 
 is^norant. 
 
 Alick Macpherson seemed to know 
 evervone in or about Inverness, and he 
 planned a number of walks and excursions 
 for us if the fine weather should last. As 
 my curiosity had been aroused by Bella's 
 whisper, I watched him and Flora with 
 great interest. 
 
 Lovers and sweethearts were to me an 
 unknown species. My only acquaintance with 
 them I owed to books. I cannot say that 
 either Flora or Alick behaved according to 
 my pre-conceived notions. They seemed 
 singularly cool and commonplace.
 
 16 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 Presently Bella suggested I should walk 
 round tlie Castle with her, and she would 
 show me her father's office. 
 
 "They'll be having something to say to 
 one another," she remarked, as she slipped 
 my arm in hers. 
 
 "Are they really in love ? " I asked, deeply 
 interested. " He looks very — young — does 
 he not?" 
 
 " He is two-and-twenty," said Bella. " As 
 for being in love — well — that I can't well 
 say. He has always dangled after Flora, 
 and he dances with her more than with 
 any other girl and takes her for walks to 
 the Islands. We always look upon that as 
 a sign of ' intentions ' here. You must see 
 the Islands ; they're just a grand place for 
 sweethearts." 
 
 " And is he Flora's onl}^ sweetheart ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't be too sure of that," 
 answered Bella. " She's rather a bit of a 
 flirt, in a quiet wa}^ and she's very much 
 admired in Inverness. She went to the
 
 TAKEN IXTO CONFIDENCE. 17 
 
 Northern Meetings Ball last year and she 
 was quite the belle of the evening." 
 
 " Did YOU go also ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; I don't care for dancing. I'm 
 just a 'house-wife' as father says. I have 
 quite enough to do looking after the 
 children and their clothes and one thing 
 and another. I can't spare time for balls 
 and parties ; when Flora's married it will 
 be time enough to think of myself." 
 
 She went on to tell me then of family 
 anxieties, of her mother's delicate health, 
 and the children's various requirements, of 
 the difficulty of balancing a small income 
 with the ever increasing expenses of a large 
 family, and she left me with a very sincere 
 admiration for the genuine unselfishness 
 and good temper with which she had 
 chosen to take this burden on her own 
 shoulders. 
 
 That honest, frank sympathy induced as 
 frank a response on my part, and I told 
 her all about myself. How strange and 
 wandering a life I had led — how unhappy 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 I had been in my lonely, unheeded childhood 
 — how my father's second marriage had 
 seemed to estrange us more than ever, and 
 iinall}^ how my health had broken down 
 and the doctors had advised him to send 
 me to Scotland for six months to try the 
 effect of my native air as a last resource, 
 when tonics and cod-liver oil had failed to 
 benefit me. 
 
 " Oh, we will soon alter all that," said 
 Bella cheerfully. " You want plenty of 
 fresh air and good milk and porridge, that's 
 the stuff for you, I'm sure. Why, you're 
 so slight, I should be afraid to trust you 
 in a gale of wind. You'd be blown into 
 the Canal. And do you ever have any 
 colour ? You look like a white rose beside 
 us all." 
 
 " That is very poetical," I said laughing. 
 " But I am too dark for the simile. I 
 am more like a yellow rose if it comes 
 to that " 
 
 " You are a very pretty rose," she said 
 frankly, " and I expect you'll be turning
 
 TAKEN INTO CONFIDENXE. 19 
 
 tlie heads of half the young men m the 
 town, before you've been here a month." 
 
 I surveyed her in genuine astonishment. 
 
 " My dear Bella," I exclaimed. " Pretty ! 
 — I — what are you talking of? Why, if 
 there's one thing that has been dinned into 
 my ears from the time I can remember, 
 it is that I am hopelessly ugly, small, 
 sallow, thin — why, I haven't a good point 
 about me." 
 
 " We'll soon see about that," lauijhed 
 
 Bella. '• Of course, Tm not meaning that 
 
 you're very extraordinarily good-looking 
 
 at present, but anyone can see what you 
 
 would be once vou ^jot colour and 
 
 «• >_ 
 
 plumpness." 
 
 " Well, please don't discuss my appear- 
 ance," I said, " it makes me feel uncom- 
 fortable. Tell me some more about Flora 
 and yourself." 
 
 "About myself there's not much to tell. 
 
 You know, in a big family like ours, there's 
 
 generally one to pipe while the others 
 
 dance. Flora is different. She is very 
 
 2*
 
 20 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 clever and, as everyone says, very pretty. 
 I've no talents, and nothing but a knack 
 of liousewifery and managing to make me 
 of any special use. But I like it. I 
 couldn't play the piano, or dance, or do 
 anything like Mora does, but I'm a very 
 good cook," she added, laughing, " and I 
 can keep the whole house going with only 
 one servant, and that's no easy matter." 
 
 "What a good wife you will make," I 
 exclaimed with involuntary admiration. 
 
 " I, oh, no ! " and she laughed merrily. 
 " I am going to be an old maid, my dear ; 
 I'm just cut out for it ; they will always 
 tell you that at home." 
 
 " Perhaps," I said, " they only say so in 
 order to keep you with them. If I were 
 a man " 
 
 " Well ? " and the merry eyes looked down 
 at mine and the bright smile flashed its 
 light and warmth over the kindly face. 
 
 " I'm very sure," I said emphaticallj^ " that 
 you would not be left an ' old maid ' ; I'd 
 give you no peace till you married me."
 
 TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE. 21 
 
 " You funny wee thing ! I do believe 
 you mean it. Well, I'll e'en take you for 
 a sweetheart, little coz ; I'm sure there's 
 a big heart in that small body. Why now, 
 what about pale cheeks and white roses ; 
 there's a fine colour ! I wish you could 
 see yourseK — and, as I live, here comes 
 Kenneth and my father. Look, just leaving 
 the Castle there. We'U go and meet 
 them." 
 
 I glanced in the direction indicated and 
 saw two figures approaching. One was that 
 of a tall, grey-haired man, with a florid 
 complexion and the same laughing, merry 
 eyes as Bella possessed. The other, younger 
 of the two, was a grave, stern-looking young 
 man, of whom I felt somewhat in awe. 
 
 "With Uncle Jamie I was friends at once ; 
 with the grave and solemn Kenneth, I felt 
 instinctively that friendship or famiharity 
 would be a work of time. They loitered 
 on the Castle hill talking to me until Bella 
 announced it was time for lunch, then we 
 parted company and, escorted by the
 
 22 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 devoted Alick Macplierson, took our way 
 through the httle town to the Macgregors' 
 house. 
 
 My aunt had returned, and we sat down 
 to a substantial luncheon, and more cousms 
 came on the scene, and I found myself 
 taken quite warmly and naturally into the 
 circle and getting as noisy and merry as 
 themselves. 
 
 Alick Macplierson had gone on his errand 
 to Craig Bank, and returned soon after 
 luncheon was over to proclaim that he 
 had won consent for my appearance at his 
 mother's that evening. 
 
 Later on, Bella walked back with me 
 to Grannie's to help me in the important 
 task of selecting a dress for the occasion, 
 and to assure the old lady that I w^ould be 
 taken care of and escorted home in good 
 time. 
 
 " The bairn looks better already ! She 
 w^ants young life about her," said Grannie, 
 regarding me affectionately. "But you 
 must take care and not over-tire her, Bella ;
 
 TAKEN INTO COXflDEXCE. 23 
 
 she's but a fragile thing in comparison Avith 
 you lassies, and I've made my mind up that 
 111 send her back south looking as bright and 
 bonny as any o' ye — so please the Lord." 
 
 Then we went upstairs, and I had to 
 display my not yery sumptuous wardrobe 
 to Bella, who decided that the most suitable 
 dress for me was a plain cream-coloured 
 serge with collar and cuffs of dark blue 
 yelyet. 
 
 " We don't do much line dressincr here," 
 she said, " and, indeed, I'm not sure but 
 that's too grand ; howeyer, you'll look yery 
 bonnie, and I'm proud to show you to the 
 Macphersons as our cousin from London." 
 
 I looked at myself in the glass oyer the 
 toilet-table and shook my head dubiously. 
 
 " Xot much to be proud of, BeUa," I said, 
 and, indeed, beside that glowing, healthful 
 face and taU full figure I looked yery pale, 
 very small, yery insignificant. 
 
 " We'U see, my dear, we'll see," she 
 answered, kissing me in a sudden impulsive 
 fashion that moved me to throw my arms
 
 24 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 round lier and cling to her in as sudden an 
 impulse of love and longing. 
 
 " Oh, Bella," I half sobbed, " love me a 
 little ; be good to me. I have been so 
 lonely always — always " 
 
 " Poor wee creature," she murmured again 
 and again, stroking the wild dark hair back 
 from my forehead. " Don't fret for that, 
 you'll win love enough here, I can tell you. 
 Too much, perhaps ; wait till you see the 
 laddies to-night. I'm going just out of pure 
 curiosity to see how they'll take to you ; 
 you're just like a wee fairy among all of us 
 great lassies. What a pity we grow so big ; 
 it's the porridge, I'm thinking." 
 
 "Bella," I said, suddenly withdrawing 
 from her arms, " I want you to do something 
 for me." 
 
 " Well, dearie ? " 
 
 " Will you teach me some Scotch songs ? 
 I can sing. They say my voice is very good, 
 but I should like to learn some Scotch songs 
 and how to pronounce them." 
 
 " Oh, you must ask Flora that, my dear,"
 
 TAKEN IXTO CONFIDLXCE. 25 
 
 she said, " I told you I had no accomplish- 
 ments, and no talents — except for cooking. 
 But, Flora, she's a fair musician, and I'm 
 sure she'd teach you with pleasure. For 
 the matter o' that, Grannie would do it — 
 she's fine at the Scotch music and used to 
 have the sweetest voice possible. Even now 
 we lassies trv to 2'et her to sino^ to us when- 
 ever we're here of an evening. You ask her 
 to sing you ' The Laird o' Cockpen ' or ' The 
 Land o' the Leal.' You'll never hear the 
 like o' it again. 
 
 "By the way," she added suddenly, "I 
 wonder will he be at the Macphersons' 
 to-night ? " 
 
 " He I — who ? " I asked wonderingly. 
 
 " ' The Laird o' Cockpen ' as we call him," 
 she said, laughing gaily. "He's just the 
 laird o' the song to the life. ' He's gude and 
 he's great,' and his mind is certainly taken up 
 with things ' o' the State ' for he's a great 
 politician, and very good and very charitable, 
 and a great pillar of the Free Kirk. More 
 than all, he wants a ' braw wifie,' and man}''s
 
 £6 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 the lass that's set her cap at him, but he's 
 not just easy to please, and he's not so 
 young as to be secured easily by just a 
 pretty face and no more. Now, wee coz, 
 suppose he took a fancy to you — my! but 
 that would be a fine thing. He's rich, he 
 has a beautiful place called Corriemoor, and 
 he'd make an excellent husband I'm 
 sure " 
 
 "Oh, Bella! Bella!" I cried, laughing, 
 " how you do run on. I don't want to get 
 married. I hate the idea. I've never even 
 had a sweetheart, like you and Flora. I 
 don't think I like men — at least, no man 
 I've ever seen yet." 
 
 " Listen to the bit creature," cried Bella, 
 laughing heartil}^ " and she but seventeen ! 
 What could you know about men, dearie ? 
 I should be sorry if you did too. There's 
 nothing takes the youth and innocence from 
 a girl so quickly as what they call flirtation. 
 But there, I must be going now. I'm sure I 
 shall find nothing right at home, for I've 
 been gadding about the whole day. We'll
 
 TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE. 27 
 
 come to fetch you at five o'clock to go to 
 the Macphersons'. I hope you won't be 
 th'ed. But it's not so much of a walk. 
 It's a bonnie place, theh's, just out of the 
 town. And as for likmii' them — well, Mrs. 
 Macpherson is just the kindest, sweetest 
 body in the world. Everyone loves her. 
 Alick is her onlv son. He's aoins; to be 
 a doctor, but he'll have all her money one 
 day. She had five children and they're all 
 dead. She just worships Alick, and he's 
 not a bad sort of lad, taking him altogether." 
 
 " And does he 'just worship' Flora?" I 
 asked, laughing. '• How Scotch you are 
 sometimes, Bella P " 
 
 " I'll make you Scotch too, my saucy coz, 
 before I've had vou long with me," she 
 answered. "You'll soon give up mincing 
 your words in that affected Southern fashion." 
 
 "It's not a bit affected," I said in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 " Ah ! now you look fine," she said with 
 a wicked gleam in her mischievous eyes. " I 
 wish the Laird could see you ! "
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 ^' On his head a bonnet blue, 
 
 Bonnie laddie — Highland laddie. 
 Tartan plaid and Highland trew, 
 Bonnie laddie — Highland laddie." 
 
 The Macpher sons' house was a very pretty 
 one. The drawing-room had a large bay 
 window looking out on the garden, with its 
 tangled masses of roses and bright flower- 
 beds shaded by ash, and larch, and elder 
 trees. 
 
 We were the first arrivals, but the room 
 soon filled, and Mrs. Macpherson, a gay and 
 lively old lady with a smile and a joke for 
 ever on her lips, introduced me to a variety 
 of Scotch youth and maidenhood, whose one 
 striking characteristic appeared to be that of 
 exuberant health and spirits. 
 
 Tea was soon announced. Such a tea !
 
 '•THE LAIRD." 29 
 
 Xo mere thin wafers of bread and butter 
 liere, but piles of scones and toast, and 
 rich cakes, and cream, and fruit, and every 
 variety of preserves, and cold spiced meats 
 for those who liked substantial dishes. And 
 how they ate, those Scotch youths and 
 maidens, and how thoroughly they seemed 
 to enjoy themselves. 
 
 When the meal was over we all roamed 
 about the garden and Bella joined me and 
 piloted me about, and explained who was 
 who, and a great deal about pedigrees and 
 " forbears," which I must confess did not 
 interest me in the very least. 
 
 We were standing in a part of the garden 
 that commanded a view of the river over 
 the low briar-hedo'e, when I heard the click 
 of the gate and looked round to see who 
 was coming. A tall figure appeared, turning 
 the corner of the gravelled walk, and seeing 
 us, lifted the " bonnet " from a head of 
 chestnut curls, and came forward to greet 
 Bella. 
 
 I stood quite still, watching him as he
 
 30 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 approached. I thought I had never seen so 
 handsome a face and figure. 
 
 " It's Douglas Hay," whispered Bella. " I 
 wonder at Mrs. Macpherson asking him 
 here" 
 
 I wondered greatly what objection there 
 could be to his presence, but as he was 
 close at hand I had to control my curiosity. 
 
 He shook hands with Bella, and I thought 
 her strangely stiff and cold in her greeting. 
 Then his blue eyes turned to me so frankly 
 and questioningly that Bella could not but give 
 the introduction they asked for. As for myself, 
 the " fine colour " she had lauded before made 
 itself felt in my hot cheeks and a strange 
 shyness and embarrassment came over me. 
 
 But the frank, gay, cordial manner had 
 an irresistible charm, and even Bella soon 
 forgot her coldness and stiffness as the 
 new comer rattled on, giving a host of 
 excuses for his late appearance. 
 
 " I went for a bathe in the Canal with the 
 Erasers," he said, " and had no idea it was so 
 late."
 
 "THE LAIRD." 31 
 
 " Well, you've missed your tea," said Bella, 
 " unless Mrs. Macplierson is inclined to give 
 you some all to yourself."' 
 
 " I suppose I must go and make my 
 apologies," lie said, looking somewhat rue- 
 fully at my cousin's face. ''I wish you 
 ■would come too," he added. 
 
 His eyes met mine. I smiled involuntarih'. 
 His manner was so boyish, but he looked a 
 great deal older than Alick Macpherson. 
 
 " Do you think we shall get you into 
 favour ? "asked Bella. '• You know very well 
 you can always get the right side of Mrs. 
 Macplierson if you wish." 
 
 " Xot always, she is partial to punctuality. 
 However, I won't be in bad company, for I 
 met the Laird as I was coming along, and 
 I'm sure he's on his way also. Only that he 
 was too dignified to run, we'd have arrived 
 together." 
 
 " The Laird. Then he is coming ! " ex- 
 claimed Bella eagerly. 
 
 " ' Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily 
 ben,' " quoted Douglas Hay with a gay laugh.
 
 32 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Bella, I'm almost sure lie's 
 coming here. He was in great feather. 
 More solemn and imposing even than usual. 
 I hope you young ladies will duly appreciate 
 the honour." 
 
 " You seldom have a good word to say of 
 the Laird, Douglas," said Bella quietly. 
 
 I wondered at her using his Christian 
 name, it savoured of acquaintance and 
 familiarity which neither manner nor words 
 had led me to expect. 
 
 The young fellow shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Oh, as for that," he said indifferently, 
 " he's no whit kinder to me than I to him." 
 Then he laughed softly. " I'm thinking. Miss 
 Bella," he said, " that he'll need a clothes 
 brush when he comes in. He met with a bit 
 accident on the high road — just a stick or 
 something that tripped him up. As I passed 
 he was shaking off the dust to an accompani- 
 ment that did not sound — quite — like the 
 Psalms of David." 
 
 " That's some of your mischief, I suppose," 
 said Bella, glancing at his demure face.
 
 "THE LAIRD." 33 
 
 " What a boy you are still, Douglas — always 
 at pranks. I never saw the like." 
 
 " It's — well it's something in the air, I'm 
 thinking," he said, with a sudden gravity. 
 " You're all such good folk here and so 
 solemn and so righteous. It's just terrible. 
 Everything that's fun and sport seems to be 
 looked on as a sin. But you're not to 
 be giving a bad character of me to your 
 cousin," he added suddenly ; " that would not 
 be fair ; Miss Lindsay, you must promise not 
 to believe everything you hear of me, and 
 you're bound to hear a good deal. Inverness 
 is just a fine place for gossip." 
 
 " People should not give cause for gossip," 
 said Bella severely. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Then they'd make it," he said. "I've no 
 patience with narrow - minded, canting 
 hypocrites, who put the worst construction 
 on everything and imagine you're marching 
 straight to perdition if you don't walk in the 
 everyday beaten track laid down by custom." 
 
 " Well you never did that," said Bella. 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN 
 
 His eyes ilaslied. 
 
 " Nor ever intend to," lie said. " Life is 
 something more to me than a road to a 
 churchyard — at least I'll pipe and dance as I 
 go along ; if others choose to groan, let them." 
 
 " You'll have to go to the churchyard all 
 the same," said Bella. 
 
 " Oh, no doubt ; but this is very melan- 
 choly conversation with which to entertain 
 your cousin. Miss Lindsa}^, is this your first 
 visit to Scotland ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said, " and I only arrived last 
 night, so I cannot say much about it." 
 
 " I should like to hear your opinion of a 
 Scotch Sabbath," he said, with a mischievous 
 glance at Bella. " They have no Sunday 
 here, you know. Why one word is better 
 than another to express the same thing I 
 never could understand. You'll go to the 
 Presbyterian, I suppose ? If you do I 
 declare I'll be there to watch the effect." 
 
 I glanced at Bella. She was looking 
 really annoyed. 
 
 " If you're a heathen yourself you needn't
 
 '•THE LAIRD." 35 
 
 try and set other people against tlieir duties," 
 she said crossly, " and I'm not sure that we 
 won't go to the Cathedral next Sunday, so 
 you needn't be troubling to follow us ; I dare- 
 say my cousin would like that service best." 
 
 " Xo. I want to go to the Presbyterian," I 
 said. 
 
 • " Do," urged Douglas Hay, looking at me 
 with the very demon of mischief laughing 
 out of his blue eyes ; " and if old Gillespie 
 is only half as eloquent in his discourse as he 
 was on the last occasion I had the pleasure of 
 hearing him — well, you'll be hard to please, 
 that's all. Miss Bella, it's no use your 
 frowning. Shall I eyer forget that peroration 
 with which he wound up a discourse of one 
 hour and a quarter on the text, ' And the 
 Sun stood still ' ? Here it is for you. Miss 
 Lindsay — ' And oh, brethren, is not the 
 world full of motion, and is not eyery liying 
 thing a proof of motion, and in the human 
 frame haye we not the motion of the arm and 
 the motion of the foot, the motion of the eye 
 and the motion of the lip ? and are not the 
 
 3 
 
 *
 
 36 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 rolling spheres in motion, and tlie waves of 
 the sea and the leaves that the wind stirs in 
 its flight? But brethren, take all these 
 motions, and every other that the brain of 
 man can conceive, and tell me is there one 
 grander and more magnificent than the 
 miracle of motion in my text, " And the Sun 
 stood still!'"" 
 
 Bella could not help laughing at the tragic 
 face and voice, and I followed her example 
 most heartily. We were now at the entrance, 
 and as we walked into the hall together, still 
 laughing over Douglas Hay's piece of 
 mimicry, we suddenly faced a gentleman 
 coming out of the dining-room. 
 
 He recognised Bella and favoured her with 
 a stiff bow, then, ignoring Douglas Hay's 
 presence and overlooking mine altogether, he 
 walked in stately fashion into the dining- 
 room, whence j)roceeded the sound of tea- 
 cups and Mrs. Macpherson's cheery voice. 
 
 Bella pressed my arm. 
 
 "There," she said, "that's the Laird. 
 Come in and be introduced to him."
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 " DOUGLAS." 
 
 •' He's comiii' frae the Xorth, 
 
 That's to fancy me ; 
 He's comin' frae the Xorth, 
 
 That's to fanc}' me ; 
 A feather in his bonnet and a ribbon at his knee, 
 He's a bonnie Highland laddie, and you be na he." 
 
 " Oh, Douglas, Douglas ! " cried Mrs. Mac- 
 plierson reproachfully, as we entered the 
 dining-room, " when will ye learn to keep 
 time, YOU graceless callant ! Did I no tell 
 you six o'clock ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Mrs. Macpherson, I am very 
 sorry. I went for a swim, and the time 
 passed quicker than I thought possible. 
 Please forgive me. It's mine is the loss, 
 you know." 
 
 "Well, sit ye down — sit ye down. You 
 shall have a cup o' tea, though you don't
 
 38 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 deserve it. Ah, Bella, my dear, just come 
 arid help me ; and Miss Lindsay, will you sit 
 here ? I'm not sure are ye acquainted wi' 
 Mr. Campbell. Mr. Campbell this is Miss 
 Athole Lindsay, grand-daughter of Mrs. Lind- 
 say of Craig Bank. She's just frae London, 
 and this is her first visit to her Scotch kins- 
 folk and friends. We must try and make it 
 a pleasant one." 
 
 The Laird rose and bowed solemnly to me, 
 but he said nothing. I glanced with some 
 curiosity at his grave face and ruddy hair, 
 and speculated as to what his age might be. 
 Anj^thing from thirty to fifty I should have 
 said. 
 
 He seemed a particularly reticent individual 
 — drinking his tea and eating buttered scones 
 in a solemn and sedate manner, as if weighing 
 in his own mind their relative merits and pos- 
 sible consequences. 
 
 Meanwhile Douglas Hay rattled on in a 
 jesting, nonsensical fashion peculiarly his own. 
 I think the presence of the solemn Laird 
 prompted him to be more audacious tlian he
 
 '•' DOUGLAS." 39 
 
 would liave been with us alone. He seemed 
 to take a malicious pleasure in saying the 
 most dreadful things, treating neither persons, 
 places, nor things with any sort of respect. 
 And yet what an irresistible manner he had. 
 Who could be angry or offended while those 
 blue eyes flashed defiance and the handsome 
 mouth laughed so gailv under the shade of 
 the brown moustache? 
 
 He drew Mrs. Macpherson and myself fairly 
 into the net of his fascination. That mixture 
 of audacity, coolness and fun was to me 
 simply irresistible. I had never met anyone 
 like him, and as the evening wore on and he 
 danced and sang, and played reels for us, and 
 performed conjuring tricks, and in every way 
 proved himself the life and soul of the party 
 besides being out and away the very hand- 
 somest of the men present, I could not but 
 acknowledge that I had never met with any- 
 one so dehghtful — and that the Laird might 
 well frown and look wrathfuUy at a rival 
 before whom all his own more solid advan- 
 tages saj^k into the background.
 
 40 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 He taught me the reel, and heartily I en- 
 joyed that merry and inspiriting dance. Then 
 he waltzed as no one there could waltz, and, 
 finding our steps were exactljr suited, claimed 
 me again and again on that ground. 
 
 Bella looked gravely disapproving, but I 
 was too thoroughly enjoying myself to care 
 about that. I seemed to catch the infection 
 of Douglas Hay's wild spirits. The blood 
 danced in my veins — laugh and jest responded 
 readily to his own. I was but seventeen, and 
 had only known a childhood and youth of 
 repression and loneliness. Something alto- 
 gether new and strange to myself awoke in 
 me on this night — a sense of power — a capa- 
 city for enjoyment — a delight in the new 
 sense of life and youth. I never before and 
 perhaps never — quite — again felt as I felt 
 then. I did not know or question wh}^ I 
 did not even want to analyse the cause of 
 feelings so altogether new and strange, or 
 pause to question the reason of so sudden 
 and subtle a sympathy between two natures 
 that were apparently so dissimilar.
 
 " DOUGLAS.-' 41 
 
 I conjugated the verb "To enjoy" in its 
 even^mood and tense that night, and perhaps 
 the stronnfest and sweetest of the many emo- 
 tions I underwent was in the moment before 
 parting, when we all stood in the hall, 
 cloaked and hooded, and awaiting attendant 
 cavaliers. 
 
 The door of the drawing-room was open 
 and Douglas Hay was seated at the piano. 
 Suddenly he struck a few chords, and then 
 his rich full voice broke out into the pathetic 
 strain of " Auld Eobin Gray." 
 
 A hush of silence fell on the chattering 
 group. As for me I listened as one en- 
 tranced to the sweet sad air and the sad 
 and simple words. I felt the tears well up 
 into my eyes. A great longing, and a strange 
 pain and weariness, seemed to fill my heart. 
 It was the story of so many lives. It sounded 
 so mournful to-night from those gay and 
 jesting lips. I wondered how he could sing 
 like that — if the feeling he put into the words 
 was forced and artificial. It seemed impos- 
 sible that it could be so, there was such a
 
 42 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 real ring of tenderness and regret in the 
 beautiful voice. Then the song ceased — 
 the singer rose abruptly and closed the piano. 
 
 " Are you all ready ? I hope I've not been 
 keeping you," he said. 
 
 His eyes fell on me. I forgot the tears 
 that were in my own. In some inexplicable 
 way he seemed to be near me, his hand on 
 mine, his voice at my ear. Only two words 
 that swept by me like the breath of a sigh as 
 he passed on to the open door. "Thank 
 you." 
 
 Then there came the noise and bustle of 
 parting, kisses and handshakes to Mrs. 
 Macpherson, and I found myself with the 
 solemn-faced Laird, who, to my unfeigned 
 amazement, proclaimed his intention of 
 taking me home to Craig Bank after we 
 had parted with my cousins at their own 
 door. 
 
 I had grown very quiet, and was feeling 
 somewhat tired before we reached Grannie's 
 house. My companion spoke but little, and 
 I made no effort to encourage any communi-
 
 " DOUGLAS." 43 
 
 cativeness on liis part, ^yly mind was full of 
 Douglas Hay — of that look in his eyes which 
 had so suddenly revealed to me a depth of 
 feeling, a possibility of earnestness, a fund of 
 sentiment, with which I had not been inclined 
 to credit him. 
 
 Ah! it is only after a long fight on the 
 world's battle-field, after many deep and 
 bitter draughts from the cup of expe- 
 rience, that we learn to read below the 
 surface of human nature, and not to 
 accept men and women as they seem. 
 How keen a capacit}' for suffering those 
 bright natures sometimes veil beneath that 
 sunny brightness. How near the tears lie 
 sometimes to smiling eyes that fain would 
 have us believe tears are unknown. What 
 mask of suffering equals that bitter one of 
 " face-joy," which sooner or later we all learn 
 to wear, formed, as has been rightly said by 
 the sweetest woman poet that Fame has given 
 us, " of pain long nourished and rounded to 
 despair."
 
 44 THE LAIKD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 I found Grannie sitting up for me and 
 eager to hear all about tlie experiences of the 
 evening. 
 
 She came up to my bed-room and helped 
 me to undress, and insisted on brushing out 
 my hair while I talked. I noticed she looked 
 grave when I spoke of Douglas Hay. 
 
 "I just wonder at Mrs. Macpherson," she 
 said. " He's no a safe sort of lad to have at 
 the house. He's a bit too fond o' the lassies 
 and mony's Lhe tale in the place about him 
 and his wild pranks and fickle heart. Not but 
 that the poor lad has had a hard fight wi' life. 
 His father's just a sour, cross-grained, miserly 
 body that never did a kind deed nor spoke 
 a gude word o' anybody. The mother died 
 when Douglas was but a wee bairn toddling 
 about. He's had any sort o' education, but 
 he's a clever lad and wi' a wonderful aptitude 
 for all sorts of accomplishments, music and 
 drawing and the like. But he won't steady 
 down and he won't work. He's main anxious 
 to be a soldier, but his father hates the 
 military and won't hear o' it. So he's just
 
 "DOUGLAS." 45 
 
 been doing a Lit office work liere and there. 
 He was at the Court House a while, but his 
 mischievous pranks got him into disgrace. 
 Xow I think he's in the wine merchants', 
 McDougall & Co., in the High Street." 
 
 " Perhaps," I said hesitatingly, " he's got a 
 worse name than he deserves. He is only 
 young and full of life and spirits. He doesn't 
 look bad." 
 
 Grannie shook her dear old head. " Oh, 
 my bairn," she said wistfully, "you're just 
 like all your sex, ready to excuse any man's 
 wickedness so that his looks please you. 
 There's the Laird now. He's just as good and 
 straight and God fearin' a man as ever walked 
 this earth, but he's not popular with maid or 
 matron, though he's a good match and would 
 make just an excellent husband." 
 
 " Xo doubt," T said vaguely. 
 
 I did not want to discuss the Laird and his 
 virtues. My mind would run ou Douglas 
 Hay, and I only saw the picture of him which 
 had imprinted itself so strongly on my 
 memory. The picture of the tall Hght figure
 
 46 THE LATIiD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 coming towards me under the ash trees, with 
 the Highland bonnet on the sunny brown 
 hair, and the clear evening light shining in 
 the blue ejes. 
 
 " How old is Douglas Hay ? " I asked, 
 rising from the chair and twisting up the long 
 thick tresses of hair Grannie had at last 
 released. 
 
 " How your mind runs on the lad," she 
 said, looking at me somewhat anxiously. 
 " About twentj^-two or three, I'm think- 
 insf ; not more. He'll be leavins^ Inverness 
 soon," she went on more cheerfully. " He's 
 away to Edinburgh the beginning o' the 
 month." 
 
 " I suppose that won't make any difference 
 to me," I said. " I'm not likely to see much 
 of him if he has such a bad character." 
 
 " Don't speak so vexed like, dearie," said 
 the old lady gently. " It's my duty to look 
 after you, and I only warn you against 
 Douglas because there's no denying he's very 
 handsome and very fascinating, and he might 
 just take it into his head to flirt with you out
 
 "DOUGLAS." 47 
 
 of pure mischief, and because you're a stranger 
 and so different from all the lassies here. It's 
 every new face wi' him for a time, and then a 
 laugh and a good-bye — and all's over. He's a 
 masterful Tvay wi' him too, has Douglas, and no 
 one can be just more agreeable and pleasant 
 when he likes. I'm not for taking the lad's 
 character away, dearie, but he's not just the 
 safest person in the word fur a bit lassie to be 
 thinking of I " 
 
 " As far as I can learn," I said, somewhat 
 pettishly, " he has not done anything so very 
 bad, and his faults and sins seem only 
 those of youth and light-heartedness. Because 
 he laughs and talks and dances, and is so gay 
 and amusing, I suppose he is called a flirt. I 
 know aU the ^rls to-niofht seemed onlv too 
 delighted when he noticed them or danced 
 with them." 
 
 " I'm sorry he's made you his champion so 
 quickly," said Grannie, with that strange un- 
 wisdom of age which will warn youth against 
 a scarcely foreseen danger as an inducement 
 to rush into it. " You are a mere child — you
 
 48 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 cannot possibly know what men are or what 
 the world is." 
 
 " I don't want to know," I said, with a 
 half-smothered yawn, for I was getting tired 
 and sleepy at last. " I only want to be loved 
 and to be happy just for a little while. 
 Grannie ; just while I am young and free as 
 I am now. You know," I went on with 
 sudden gravity, born of a memory I had tried 
 to banish, " you know the doctors say I shall 
 not live very long, and so it would not do for 
 me to trouble about things that concern most 
 girls — dresses and sweethearts and amuse- 
 ments. But you are all so kind to me here 
 that I cannot help loving you. Grannie, and I 
 feel as if I could be very, very happy." 
 
 " God knows, my bairn, I should like to 
 make you so," she said earnestly, the tears 
 gathering in the kind blue eyes that met my 
 own, " but I'm no going to have you despond- 
 ing. You're young, and youth is aye a 
 grand thing to build on, and I've no such 
 faith in doctors as to believe they can always 
 know what is to happen. I am sure we'll do you
 
 " DOUGLAS." 49 
 
 good here — it's just the air and the place and 
 the life for you. But now, dearie, to bed, to 
 bed. I'm no willing to see pale cheeks and 
 heavy eyes the morn. You'll just say your bit 
 prayer at your auld Grannie's knee as if }ou 
 were a bairn once more, for ye missed family 
 worship to-night, and then ye '11 shut those 
 bonnie brown eyes and sleep well and 
 soundly till I bring your cup o' warm milk at 
 eight o'clock." 
 
 And like a child I knelt at her knee and 
 heard her own petition join with mine and a 
 great peace and content stole over me — a new 
 sense of love and protection, and rest and 
 hope. 
 
 That night I slept soundly, but towards 
 morning I dreamt that I was being married to 
 the Laird with great state and ceremony, when 
 suddenly, instead of the wedding march the 
 organ began to play " Old Eobin Gray " and 
 ringing loud and clear above its rolling chords 
 I heard the voice of Douglas Hay, and I fell 
 down on the floor of the church in a passion 
 of bitter weeping. 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPKN. 
 
 I woke to see the sunlight streaming into 
 my room and hear the kindly greeting of 
 Grannie^woke with beating heart and tear- 
 wet eyes, but strangely, indescribably haj)py 
 to be able to say to myself, " It was only a 
 dream — only a dream." 
 
 But some dreams are prophetic. 

 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "THE KIRK." 
 
 *' Let us wander by the mill, bounie lassie, 0, 
 To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, 0, 
 ^Vhen the glens rebound the call 
 Of the roaring waters' fall 
 Through the mountains' rocky hall 
 Bonnie lassie, I " 
 
 My journal clironicles the events of each day 
 of that visit to Scotland -with the exactness 
 almost of Clarissa Harlovre, but I do not 
 intend to give those extracts here with the 
 minuteness of detail I then delighted in. I 
 never in my life had been so purely, innocently 
 happy, for never in my life before had I ex- 
 perienced what it was to be loved, and thought 
 of, and cared for, as they all loved and cared 
 for me. Xo wonder that my health improved, 
 that roses bloomed on ray white cheeks, and 
 strength returned to my languid frame, and in 
 
 4* 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF IlUNOf?
 
 52 THE lAIKD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 a month's time I looked a different being to 
 the pale, thin, sickly girl who had come to 
 Craig Bank. 
 
 I had been there three weeks with Grannie 
 before I went to church. The first Sunday I 
 was not well, and she would not let me go. 
 The second it rained heavily and persistently 
 from morning till night. On the third, how- 
 ever, the sun was shining warmly and 
 brilliantly, and at breakfast she announced 
 that it would be as well if I did go to " the 
 Kirk " with her. " No braws, lassie," she said 
 as I ran upstairs to dress. " It's no fitting 
 that one should be in any way remarkable in 
 the house o' the Lord, distracting the mind o' 
 puir weak bodies that are aye moved wi' 
 carnal vanities. You being the young leddie 
 from London, they will be aye looking and 
 wondering about ye, so just put on a quiet 
 gown and bonnet and pay no heed to any- 
 body ye may see." 
 
 " Very well, Grannie," I said meekly, and 
 forthwith proceeded to examine my wardrobe 
 and wonder what I had best select.
 
 "THE KIRK." 53 
 
 It was a warm June day — surely no one 
 could call a white dress remarkable or un- 
 suitable. I decided on white, a plain, white 
 muslin, and toned it down with a black lace 
 hat in which were twisted some poppies and 
 cornflowers. 
 
 Grannie looked at me doubtfully. I think 
 she objected in her heart to the poppies, but 
 as the bells were ringing there was no time to 
 change the hat. So we sallied forth together, 
 through the quiet streets on our way to the 
 Presbyterian church. 
 
 And how quiet the streets of a Scotch town 
 are on a Sunday. It seemed to me as if the 
 hush of Death or sleep lay on the silent 
 houses, with their half-drawn blinds and look 
 of desertion. 
 
 Then the whole aspect and demeanour of 
 the people seemed altered. They exchanged 
 grave bows and greetings, but the usual 
 smiling welcome or jest were absent. We 
 met the whole family of Camerons marching 
 in a solemn and imposing procession. 
 
 I thought Grannie would have spoken to
 
 54 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 or joined them, but she did not, and even 
 Bella's laughing face wore a new expression 
 of gravity that was almost awe inspiring. 
 
 I followed Grannie to her pew, and took my 
 place beside her — then, quite unabashed by 
 the preternatural gravity of my surroundings, 
 I proceeded to look about at the congregation, 
 
 A little to the right of our seats I caught 
 sight of the wavy brown hair and handsome 
 profile of Douglas Hay. He half turned and 
 our eyes met. I could not help smiling in 
 recognition of the quick flash of interroga- 
 tion in his eyes, but I was angered too at the 
 sudden flush that rose to my face, and 
 wondered a little why the fact of his presence 
 should have so suddenly altered, for me, all 
 the gloom and dulness of the surroundings. 
 
 The service commenced, and its novelty 
 astonished and puzzled me not a little. 
 
 It seemed so strange to stand up to pray, 
 and then to hear an extempore prayer de- 
 livered to the Almighty with a personal and 
 familiar method of speech and expression that 
 seemed more fitted for ordinary conversation.
 
 "THE KIRK." 55 
 
 It grated terribly on my ideas of reverence, 
 it seemed to me rather presumptuous than 
 otherwise to favour the Lord with a series of 
 personal and parish incidents and difficulties 
 that had occurred during the week. To hear 
 people spoken of by their Christian names as 
 " his servant so and so " or harangued for 
 faults and short comings in a manner that 
 was, to say the least of it, embarrassing. 
 
 Then the length of the petition ! Heavens ! 
 How tired I was and how terribly monotonous 
 w^as its mode of delivery. 
 
 It was w^ith a sense of intense relief that at 
 last I heard it come to a close, and received 
 the information that the congregation would 
 now sing, to the praise and glory of God, the 
 one hundred and twenty- fifth Psalm. 
 
 With aU the will in the world to be grave 
 and reverent I could not keep my gravity 
 when a being, whom I learnt was called " the 
 Precentor," rose to his feet and gave forth in 
 a cracked, harsh voice the air of this psalm. 
 
 To anyone with musical ears it was simply 
 torture, and alas ! when the congregation took
 
 56 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 it up just as each felt inclined, in any key, and 
 without the slightest notion of harmony, or 
 part singing, I positively shuddered. 
 
 The dissonance was indescribable, and the 
 fervour and force thrown into the so-called 
 singing only made it more horrible. 
 
 Then came some reading of the Scriptures, 
 and another long extempore prayer, after 
 which another ear-torturing psalm, sung to 
 the melancholy " Ooleshill," led the way to 
 the sermon. 
 
 Oh, that sermon ! For long it lived in my 
 memory. Its involved phrases, its bigoted 
 and perverted rendering of incidents that were 
 .surely never meant to be accepted in any 
 literal sense, its perversion of texts to suit 
 some special " point " — its occasional lapse 
 into personality — its apparent familiarity with 
 the person, attributes, and intentions of the 
 Supreme Being, all this jarred upon me to a 
 degree that left my brain irritated, my heart 
 indignant, and any spiritual feelings I might 
 have experienced, in a state of offence and 
 disgust.
 
 "THE KIRK." 67 
 
 I inwardly resolved I would not go to tlie 
 *' Kirk " again, and I was thankful when the 
 service was over and I once more found my- 
 self in the open air. 
 
 Grannie was speaking to some friends, when 
 Douglas Hay approached me in his " Sunday 
 get-up." I thought how much handsomer he 
 had looked in his Highland " bonnet " and 
 knickerbockers. 
 
 " Have you survived it ? " he asked, in a 
 mischievous whisper. '* I wish you could 
 have seen the expression of your face ! It 
 was a study. Do you intend coming to the 
 afternoon service ? You've only done half, 
 you know. There's the ' interval ' and then 
 we go through it all again." 
 
 " Oh, I couldn't I " I exclaimed in despair. 
 " Surely Grannie won't make me ? " 
 
 I looked round for her, but she was 
 engaged discussing some point of the dis- 
 course with another old lady, and had 
 apparently forgotten my presence. 
 
 " Listen," said Douglas Hay, coming close 
 to me and speaking low and hurriedly. " I
 
 68 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 will call round at Craig Bank when Mrs. 
 Lindsay has gone to the service and take 
 you for a walk. That will be much better. 
 It is a shame to waste a lovely afternoon 
 like this. I'll show you the Islands. Will 
 you come ? " 
 
 "Yes — certainly," I said readily. I had 
 no thought of wrong-doing. I did not 
 know even that to go for a walk on a 
 Sunday was counted quite a heinous offence 
 among the good Scotch folk of the town. 
 I only felt the natural reaction of spirits 
 after the penance of the morning. I only 
 thought of the delight of liberty and action 
 and congenial companionship. Then the 
 Camerons came up, and Douglas Hay merely 
 lifted his hat and left us. 
 
 " Don't be speerin' after that young man," 
 said Bella, sharply. " He's a ne'er do-weel, 
 and not fit company for you." 
 
 I laughed uneasily. "How 3^ou all do 
 abuse that poor young Hay," I said. "It's 
 quite a case of ' give a dog a bad name.' " 
 
 " And the best thinor to do when the do(?
 
 "THE KIRK." 69 
 
 deserves it," said Bella. " But how did you 
 like the service ? You'd better come home 
 with us, and then we'll iro tof?ether to the 
 
 ' CO 
 
 afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, no, thank you ! " I cried in unfeigned 
 terror. "I really couldn't, Bella. I never 
 sat through such a wearisome and depressing 
 service in my life. I've had quite enough 
 for one day, thank you ! " 
 
 " Grannie will be shocked at you. It's 
 no proper observance of the Sabbath if 3-ou 
 don't go to the two services. The interval is 
 only for rest and lunch, then it's concluded." 
 
 " I can't help that," I said obstinately. 
 " I simply can't and won't go through all 
 that again." 
 
 " Will you come to the Free Church wi' 
 us to-night instead?" asked Bella. "We 
 often go. You'll like it better than this, 
 and the minister, Mr. Grant, he is a powerful 
 preacher, very different to poor old Gillespie." 
 
 I shook my head. " I don't wan't any 
 more church or preaching to-day," I said. 
 
 " You're a heathenish, wicked, wee
 
 60 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 tiling," said Bella, giving my arm a pinch. 
 " And I've a mind not to tell you what 
 Kenneth's been planning for you — a rare 
 fine jaunt I can tell ye, my lady." 
 
 " Kenneth ! " I echoed in surprise. " Why, 
 what did he trouble himself about me for ? " 
 
 " Oh, listen to the innocence of the 
 creature," laughed Bella. " When she 
 knows she's just turned the lad's head with 
 her big eyes and her soft smiles, and 
 her dainty Southern ways. Kenneth's aye 
 quiet and serious for his age, but he's got 
 eyes in his head I can tell ye, and for 
 what does he go to Grannie's every evening 
 and teach ye reel steps, and how to 
 pronounce the Scotch songs, and get up 
 at five in the morning to fetch ye rowans 
 from Craig-Phadric, eh, my little lady — 
 just tell me that ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, Bella," I said 
 gravely, " I never noticed that he did all 
 these things." 
 
 " Poor Kenneth," said Bella, with mocking 
 compassion. "I'm thinking he'd just be
 
 "THE KIKK." 61 
 
 heart-broken if I told liim o' that cruel 
 speech. You never noticed, didn't ye ? Oh I 
 fie — fie — coz. Well, just open your eyes 
 a bit and try to notice. I'm thinking the 
 poor lad's brain is softening, myself, and his 
 appetite is just pitiable." 
 
 I laughed outright. Xot for a moment 
 did I believe her, or credit my solemn-faced 
 cousin, Kenneth, with anv such feelincf as 
 she implied. True he had been at Grannie's 
 very often and taught me Scotch songs, 
 or rather how to pronounce the words of 
 them, but I looked upon him as an elder 
 brother more than anything else. To think of 
 Kenneth Cameron regarding me with any- 
 thing like sentiment was infinitely amusing. 
 Kenneth, who never met my eyes, whose 
 greeting was always cold and abrupt, who had 
 never even made an attempt at a compliment 
 even in the rough and ready fashion of 
 Alick Macpherson and some of his friends. 
 No wonder I laughed. 
 
 All the same, I glanced somewhat 
 curiously at the Cameron group, among
 
 62 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 wliicli lie stood, almost a head taller than 
 any of them. He was watching Bella and 
 myself, bi^t he did not approach us. 
 
 At the same moment Grannie having 
 concluded her discussion turned to see 
 if I was ready to go home. 
 
 I said good-bye to Bella and joined the 
 old lady. 
 
 I fear I fell rather out of favour with her 
 by refusing to attend the afternoon service. 
 But I was resolute on that point, and she 
 gave way at last. 
 
 She went off, and so did old Jean ; and I, 
 with a sense of freedom, mischief, and 
 longing all combined, was left alone in the 
 house to await my expected visitor.
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 OFFENDED PREJUDICES. 
 
 " Oh, waly, waly, love is bounie 
 A little time when it is new ; 
 But when it's auld, it waxes caiild, 
 And fades awa' like morning dew." 
 
 I HAD not long to wait. 
 
 I was standing at tlie window when I saw 
 Douglas Hay approaching. 
 
 I ran to the front door and opened it. 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot go out," I said. 
 " Grannie and Jean have (^one to church, 
 and I am taking care of the house." 
 
 " Oh, botheration ! " was the curt and 
 comprehensive reply. " Can't they get in ? " 
 he added presently, " you might leave the 
 door open. Xo one would think of entering." 
 
 " I am afraid Grannie would be angry," I
 
 64 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 said doubtfully ; " she did not say I was to 
 stay in the house, but she seemed to expect 
 it. 
 
 " Well, may I stay and take care of it with 
 you ? " he asked, " she can't object to that." 
 
 " I shall be delighted," I answered, with 
 perfect truth. All the same I was sorry to 
 miss my walk. I looked wistfully out at the 
 blue sky and bright sunshine. 
 
 " I know you are longing to go," he said, 
 smiling. " Shall we risk it ? If we are quick 
 we can be back before they are home." 
 
 " But we can't possibly go to the Islands," I 
 said ; " they are a long way off I know, for 
 my cousins told me." 
 
 " We need not go there to-day, some 
 other afternoon I will take you if you will 
 let me." 
 
 " Yery well," I agreed, and ran off for my 
 hat, returning in a minute to find Douglas 
 Hay at the piano, softly playing over some of 
 the now familiar Scotch melodies. 
 
 " How beautifully you sang ' Auld Kobin 
 Gray ' that night at the Macphersons'," I said.
 
 OFFEXDED PREJUDICES. 65 
 
 '• I have often wished to tell you. I wish you 
 would sinsf it for me now."' 
 
 He regarded me with mock horror. 
 " What ! sing a profane song on the Sabbath ! 
 Oh ! you little heathen ; why the good folks 
 of the town would be for excommunicating 
 us. Don't you know you mustn't even play 
 the piano on Sunday ? " 
 
 " What nonsense I " I exclaimed impa- 
 tiently. " I don't believe that. How can 
 music be wrong ? If it is wrong to play one 
 instrument, it is wrong to play all. If it is 
 wrong to sing one sort of melody, it must be 
 wronf]^ to sino- another. Thev have oro-ans in 
 the churches and they sing " 
 
 " Xo, I beg your pardon," he interrupted, 
 " they drone. Surely 3'ou learnt that this 
 morning ! The more doleful and out of tune 
 the performance, the more pleasing they 
 consider it." 
 
 " But that is surely foolish," I exclaimed. 
 '' Why should we not offer God our best, if 
 we offer anything ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Lindsay," he said with 
 VOL. 1. 5
 
 66 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 sudden gravity, " it would puzzle a wiser 
 head than 3^ours to make out the why and 
 wherefore of Scotch ideas on religion. I gave 
 it up in despair long ago. You may sing in 
 the kirk, but it would be a sin to do so in 
 the house. You may walk to the service, 
 but it is a sin to walk in field or lane for sake 
 of exercise." 
 
 " Then," I said abruptly, " why did you 
 ask me to 2^0 for a walk with vou ? Would 
 not Grannie be angry ? " 
 
 " You are not a Presbyterian," he said 
 coolly, " and you are only a visitor here, and 
 may surely be allowed some little liberty. 
 Y^ou walk on Sundays in England." 
 
 " Of course," I said, laughing. " In what 
 does the sin consist ? " 
 
 " Perhaps," he said, " because it is a 
 pleasanter thing to do than to sit in a stuffy 
 church, listening to illogical and bigoted 
 discourses, or have one's ears tortured by 
 bad singing, or read dry books on sound 
 doctrine and other edifying but dreary 
 subjects."
 
 OFFENDED PEEJUDICES. 67 
 
 " But why should all pleasant thmgs be 
 wrong ? " I asked. 
 
 " You had better inquh'e of the mmister," 
 he said. '• You will be deluged with texts, 
 overwhelmed with prophecies — told you are 
 inclined to worship Bel and The Dragon, and 
 generally scolded, upbraided and declaimed 
 against. I hope it may convince you. I 
 have gone through it all. I am a signal 
 failure, and supposed to have fallen hope- 
 lessly away from grace. I assure you that 
 the more dreary and melancholy and de- 
 pressing they can make the Sabbath in 
 Scotland the more praiseworthy and accept- 
 able do they consider themselves." 
 
 " But why should they think only their 
 method is right ? " I persisted. *' I s&e no 
 harm in the service I have been accustomed 
 to. For the matter of that, I would go to 
 any church and witness any form of worship. 
 Surely it is the spirit that makes it of any 
 value. Xo religion can be absolutely wrong 
 if its meaning is to worship with reverence or 
 faith the one great Being in whom we believe. 
 
 5*
 
 68 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 We believe in one God — so we sa}^ — liow can 
 it matter to Him in wliat way we express that 
 belief ? As far as I can make out in the New 
 Testament, Christ did not establish any set 
 form or any special church. As for Himself, 
 he certainly walked on the Sabbath day and 
 worked too ! " 
 
 " Bravo ! " laughed Douglas Hay. " You've 
 got some sense in that small head of yours, I 
 can see. I must get old Gillespie to tackle 
 you. It would be rare fun. But come," he 
 added, closing the piano, " if we are going 
 for this walk we had better be off, or else 
 we shall find the gude folks all coming back 
 from kirk." 
 
 " I wonder if Grannie will be angry with 
 me," I said, still doubtfully. " I really did 
 not know they thought it a sin to go for 
 a walk." 
 
 " She has not forbidden it," he said. 
 
 " No, but probably she never thought I 
 would do so." 
 
 " Oh, come along, and chance conse- 
 quences," he said lightly, and nothing loth, I
 
 OFFENDED PREJUDICES. 6J 
 
 obeyed him. Douglas Hay had a certain 
 masterful way with him that rather swept 
 one off one's feet. I thought it a very 
 pleasant way as we strolled on together in 
 the warm June afternoon, and all the peace 
 and fragrance of the country air seemed 
 strangely still and sweet. We grew very 
 confidential. He told me all about his life at 
 college and his friends there, his escapades 
 and tricks, and the many scrapes he had 
 contrived to get into again and again. I, on 
 my part, favoured him with a good deal of 
 my personal history, in which he seemed 
 more interested than I could have imagined 
 possible. We drifted into discussion on all 
 sorts of subjects. Xow and then I was 
 surprised to find how deep a vein of senti- 
 ment and sadness underlay that apparent 
 recklessness and mirth. 
 
 " I often think," he said, " that I am 
 destined to play the part of buffoon in life. 
 Everyone has always seemed to expect it of 
 me. I must have a smile and jest for ever on 
 my lips, and be ready to dance, laugh, joke,
 
 70 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 and amuse others, however ' down ' I feel 
 m3^self. It is my groove, I suppose ; we all 
 have one." 
 
 " I wonder what mine is ? " I said mu- 
 singly." 
 
 " I think I could tell you. It is to be 
 sympathetic, and natural, and graceful, to 
 give the eye a sense of pleasure and the mind 
 a sense of trust. That is how you impressed 
 me, at least. Whatever you do seems just 
 the riorht thincf done at the rio-ht moment. I 
 could never imagine you being self-conscious, 
 or losing that graceful little air of self- 
 possession. There are people, you know^, who 
 always irritate one, and others who always 
 rest one. I should think you could make 
 life very pleasant for anyone you cared for." 
 
 I laughed. " You are flattering me and 
 giving me a much better character than I 
 deserve. I am not, as a rule, a favourite 
 with people." 
 
 *' Because you require to be known," he 
 said quickly. " That I can quite imagine ; 
 but don't you know that certain natures
 
 OFFENDED PPvEJUDICES. 71 
 
 arrive at an immediate understanding? with, 
 each other, while others take years and years 
 to get even tolerably intimate. I think now, 
 you and I would be very orood friends " 
 
 My face grew warmer as I met the frank 
 blue eyes. I thought of all I had heard 
 against him, of his reputation as a flirt, of 
 the many warnings from Grannie and my 
 cousins. 
 
 " What makes you think so ? " I asked, 
 looking 'away from him to where the warm 
 light lay over the dark hills and the fair green 
 country with its lines of hedges and copse. 
 
 " What ? Oh, I can't exactly explain. I feel 
 it. I felt it the moment I saw you. You are 
 quite different to any girl I have ever met. As 
 a rule, I don't like girls ; I am much more 
 popular with women — you, I suppose, would 
 .consider them quite old women. One can 
 talk to them and not be expected to flirt 
 or make love. I hate this place for that 
 reason. If you are seen walking once or 
 twice down the High Street with a girl, you 
 are immediately chaffed and twitted about it.
 
 72 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 My plan is to do that witli a different one 
 every day ; it gives them some trouble then 
 to decide which of the many is to be the 
 object of my wavering affections." 
 
 " No wonder," I said, " that you are called 
 a flirt." 
 
 He laughed. " But I am not one — really 
 I am not. It is very hard to live down a 
 reputation or alter people's opinions. You 
 will hear a great deal that is bad of me ; 
 perhaps I deserve it, I daresay I do, but I 
 hope I have some redeeming points — at least, 
 I should like you to think so. I can be very 
 loyal to anyone I care for, and I never forget 
 a , kindness ; as for other things, well God 
 knows I'm a graceless, ill-tempered, sus- 
 picious devil ! My education and teaching 
 are to blame for that. I've had a hard 
 bringing-up. Miss Lindsay ; it's bound to 
 tell on one soon or late." 
 
 His face otcw cold and hard. A sudden 
 silence fell between us. We stood beside a 
 little stream that ran through green meadows ; 
 above our heads were the feathery green
 
 OFFENDED PREJUDICES. 73 
 
 boughs of the rowan trees. In the blue sky 
 above Craig-Phadric, a few white clouds were 
 gathering. His eye rested on them for a 
 moment. 
 
 " There," he said suddenly, "is an illustra- 
 tion of the difference between a man and a 
 woman. Her moods and intentions, even her 
 promises, are like those clouds yonder ; now 
 here, now there, now resting, now floating off 
 to new points and new scenes. A man's heart 
 is like the sky beneath those clouds. You 
 cannot see it always, but it is there, stead- 
 fast, sure, patient, enduring for all time." 
 
 " I think a woman is quite as firm, and 
 steadfast, and patient, too, when she loves," I 
 said quickly. 
 
 " Aye, v:hen,'' he said, with the old mocking 
 smile on his lips. " But that's not often. She 
 thinks she loves ; she ssijs so, and a man 
 believes her. But the drifting clouds are not 
 more fickle than her fancies, the winds of 
 heaven more uncertain than her moods." 
 
 " What can you know about women ? " 
 I exclaimed indignantly, " you are much too
 
 74 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 young to have had an experience of any 
 value." 
 
 " Am I ? " he said, somewhat bitterly, " £hen 
 you are no student of character. Miss Lindsay. 
 I am far older than my years, and as for 
 experience — well, the less said of that the 
 better. Now I su2:)pose we had best be turning 
 homewards. I don't want to get you into a 
 scrape, so it might be as well for you to be in 
 the house before your grandmother returns." 
 
 We began to retrace our steps, but I felt 
 less at ease with him than I had done an hour 
 before, and I began to wonder if my walk 
 this afternoon was not a piece of imprudence, 
 to say the least of it. 
 
 " You must not forget your promise to go 
 to the Islands with me," said Douglas Hay 
 presently. " I should like to think I had 
 been the first to take you there." 
 
 u Yerj well," I said, " but would you mind 
 if my cousin Bella came with us ? I am afraid 
 Grannie won't let me go alone with you." 
 
 "You need not tell her," he said quickly. 
 '• I know I'm not a favourite either with her
 
 OFFENDED PREJUDICES. 75 
 
 or your cousins. And/' he added, lauorliing-, 
 " though it seems a rude thing to say, I 
 should very much object to the presence of a 
 third person. Two are company, you know.' 
 
 "Well," I said, laushinir also, "I will 
 see what I can do ; but I must ask per- 
 mission." 
 
 " You'll never get it then," he said gloomily. 
 " I know that very well." 
 
 " One can but try," I said cheerfully. 
 " Good gracious — " I broke off suddenly, 
 " why there is Grannie — and my cousin 
 Kenneth I " 
 
 We were so close to them that we involun- 
 tarily came to a standstill. Never in all my 
 life shall I forget the amazement, wrath and 
 indignation that spoke out in Grannie's face, 
 nor the cold, haughty greeting with which 
 Kenneth favoured my companion. 
 
 Not that Douglas Hay was one whit 
 abashed. I think he rather enjoyed the 
 scene. 
 
 " I found your grand-daughter moping in 
 the house alone, Mrs. Lindsay," he said,
 
 76 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " and I persuaded her that a little walk 
 was the best thing for her. You really 
 must not scold her." 
 
 " I'm thinking, Mr. Hay, that as you're 
 better acquainted with the manners and 
 customs o' the place than my grand- 
 daughter, ye might hae been more cir- 
 cumspect," said the old lady freezingiy. 
 " It's no usual, Athole, my dear, for people 
 to take walks about the town on the 
 Sabbath. I thought ye would have known 
 that." 
 
 " I didn't think there was any harm in 
 it. Grannie," I said, feeling rather abashed 
 by her stern face and Kenneth's shocked one. 
 
 " Perhaps it was my ain fault ; I should 
 have warned you," she answered more kindly. 
 "Well, Mr. Hay, you'll excuse me saying good- 
 bye, and I hope another time you find a 
 young leddy alone and ignorant of just what's 
 considered right and proper, in a place to 
 which she is a stranger, you'll no be takin' 
 advantage o' her ignorance. I'm no pleased 
 wi' ye, and that's the truth."
 
 OFFENDED PEEJUDICES. ' 77 
 
 " I'm very sorry, Mrs. Lindsay," said the 
 young fellow humbly ; " but you know I 
 never did hold with the prejudices and cus- 
 toms of the place, and your grand-daughter 
 is equally liberal-minded ; for the life of me 
 I never could see why it was wrong to take 
 a walk on Sunday." 
 
 " I'm no wishin' to argue the matter," said 
 the old lady with dignity. " You knew my 
 opinions even if Athole did not. I am more 
 than sorry to think ye should hae been sae 
 forgetful." 
 
 She did not offer to shake hands but 
 turned away, and Kenneth, with a stiff 
 bow, followed. Douodas Hay and I looked 
 at each other. 
 
 " Please forgive me," he said timidly ; " I 
 hope she won't scold you. I'm afraid there's 
 a poor chance for the Islands now." 
 
 A quick glance from the blue eyes — a 
 lingering hand-pressure — then he was gone, 
 and feehng as- if all the light and sunshine of 
 the summer day had gone with him, I followed 
 Grannie into the house.
 
 CHAPTEK YII. 
 
 A EANDOM SPEECH. 
 
 " All you that are in love, and cannot it remove, 
 
 I pity the pains yon endnre ; 
 For experience makes me know 
 That your hearts are full of woe — 
 
 A woe that no mortal can cure." 
 
 I WAS in disgrace. 
 
 Yes, there was no doubt about it. I 
 certainly was in disgrace with Grannie. I 
 could " not have believed the kind old lady 
 could have worn so freezing and dignified an 
 aspect as she adopted, and kept up too, for the 
 remainder of that eventful Sunday. 
 
 As for Kenneth, he sulked — that is the 
 only word that expresses it. But that did not 
 trouble me in the least ; I thought they were 
 both very foolish to make such a fuss about a 
 trifle.
 
 A EANDOM SPEECH. 79 
 
 After all, what could a short walk on a 
 Sunday afternoon matter to anyone ? I could 
 not see that it was wrong, and a natural 
 indignation rose in my mind against the follies 
 and shackles of a superstition that could turn 
 an innocent recreation into the semblance of a 
 sin. 
 
 The dreary monotony of a Scotch Sabbath 
 had not, as yet, been very strongly impressed 
 upon my mind. When I grew better ac- 
 quainted with its rigorous exactions and 
 wearisome formalities, I confess I wondered 
 greatly that an enlightened people could so 
 burden their lives and consciences, or find any 
 fitting argument by which to justify them- 
 selves for so doing. 
 
 I shall never forget old Jean's horror and 
 consternation when I asked her if she really 
 supposed the whole world had been created in 
 seven days, and that the seventh, on which 
 the Creator rested from His work, was the 
 identical Sabbath now observed by Christian 
 Churches. 
 
 Of course she believed this firmlv, and it
 
 80 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 was in vain I tried to convince her that the 
 age of tlie world was far greater than the Book 
 of Genesis allowed, and that Science could 
 prove, by geological investigations and dis- 
 coveries, the absurdity of a literal acceptance 
 of that much-abused word " Day." 
 
 But my task was hopeless. Every word of 
 Scripture, according to Jean, was a direct 
 inspiration from the Almighty. It was always 
 " His message," " His ordinance," '• His 
 prophets," " His judgments." Anyone at 
 once so narrow-minded, and so absolutely 
 unconvinceable, I never met with. 
 
 I was considered a most audacious and 
 godless sinner for my boldness in questioning 
 anything they believed, or pointing out any 
 inaccuracies or discrepancies between various 
 chapters and texts in their perpetually quoted 
 " Scriptures." I candidly confess that a pro- 
 longed residence in Caledonia, dearly as I love 
 it and its people, would have ended in making 
 a rank infidel of me. It was a trial of patience 
 and common sense, and a wilful blinding of 
 mind and vision to the light of later days and
 
 A EAXDOM SPEECH. 81 
 
 the larger and more cultured views of men of 
 science and learning. 
 
 But I now learnt that discussion only led to 
 anger and disapprobation without any better 
 result. I had thought so much on those 
 subjects myself, and had led a life so much 
 beyond my years, that I could not understand 
 why anyone should deem it wrong to take a 
 new or unprejudiced view of religious matters, 
 instead of fettering their minds with the 
 customs and faiths of their ancestors. 
 
 If material progress was a natural result of 
 life, why should not spiritual advance march 
 with it. Why should one always accept what 
 was told one, and never seek to look beyond 
 the line that had been long, long before 
 worked out, when superstition was rampant 
 and education limited ? 
 
 But when I spoke like this I was looked 
 upon with horror and amazement. I am not 
 at all sure that a good deal of it was not put 
 down to the one fact of that Sunday walk 
 with Douglas Hay. Even Kenneth took me to 
 task for that in his solemn fashion, but I cared 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 very little for Lis opinion, and told liim so 
 with a frankness tliat I fear was less polite 
 than candid. 
 
 I think Grannie's wrath lasted for two da3^s. 
 Then she began to soften, and I was received 
 back into favonr. I found out, however, that 
 some great festivitj^ was on the iajjis. There 
 were long discussions with Jean and with 
 Bella, and great studying of cookery books, 
 and I heard anxious questions as to how many 
 could possibly be seated at the dining-table. 
 The result of all this was conveyed to me at 
 last by Grannie. 
 
 " I've been thinking," she said, "that I 
 must just ask a few folk to dinner. The 
 house is but small, and I cannot well accom- 
 modate more than eight at the table. Myself 
 and yourself lassie, make two — then the Laird 
 and your Aunt and Uncle Cameron, five — and 
 Mistress Macpherson, six — and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gillespie will complete the number. Til just 
 ask your two cousins and young Macpherson 
 to drop in later in the evening to make it more 
 lively for you."
 
 A RANDOM SPEECH. 83 
 
 " Oh, don't trouble about that, Grannie," I 
 said laughing, " I shall enjoy studying the 
 people, especially the Laird. He amuses me 
 immensely. Was he ever seen to smile ? " 
 
 " Xow — now, lassie," said the old lady 
 rebukingly, " I canna' have ye making fun o' 
 your elders in that licht fashion. It's no just 
 respectful." 
 
 I onlv laui^hed, and smothered the dear old 
 thing with kisses. 
 
 " But he's so dreadfully grave and — ponder- 
 ous," I said. 
 
 " And what can a bit bairn o' seventeen like 
 you know of the cares and responsibilities of 
 a man ? " said she, gravely. '• He has a large 
 estate and is a very good and wise landlord, 
 I can tell ye. Xo tenants in all the High- 
 lands are better looked after than those at 
 Corriemoor, and Donald Campbell of Gorrie- 
 moor is just as good a man, and comes of as 
 good a family, as any in Scotland." 
 
 " Oh, no doubt," I said indifferently, " but 
 I'm not a bit clannish. Grannie, and I couldn't 
 be bothered thinking out people's pedigrees. 
 
 6*
 
 4 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 What better are they for their ancestors ? 
 One hkes a man for his own sake — not 
 because he was a Bruce or a Stuart or a 
 Macgregor, or the descendant of some great 
 Clan, who, after all, were nothing better than 
 freebooters originally — whose great deeds of 
 heroism seem to have been chiefly the result 
 of whisky." 
 
 " Oh, fie — fie on you, lassie," said Grannie, 
 deeply shocked at my want of patriotic feeling. 
 " And you wi' Scotch blood in your veins — 
 aye, and good blood too, though misfortune 
 has befallen our folk for more than half a 
 century. I'm just shocked at 3^e, Athole. You 
 ought to be proud o' your descent, and not 
 making a jest and a mock o' it in this feckless 
 fashion." 
 
 " Oh, I'm very bad, I know," I said, laugh- 
 ing at the grave old face. " Don't waste 
 time in trying to improve me. Grannie. Let 
 me hear about this grand dinner-party. I 
 feel quite excited. Will you let me do the 
 table for you — with flowers I mean? " 
 
 '• Well, I'll consider about that," said
 
 A RANDOM SPEECH. 85 
 
 Grannie, tliouglitfully. "I'm not just sure 
 about ye, Atliole. You've many foreign 
 ways ; and you're a wee bit flighty at times, 
 for all ye seem so grave and so demure. Ye 
 might just take it into your head to play 
 tricks on me, if I gave ye permission. We're 
 no used to flummeries and innovations here — 
 no Eussian and French setting out o' food wi' 
 flowers and fruits spread about honest roast 
 meats and vegetables — just as if they grew 
 together, or were aye intended to be side 
 by side." 
 
 " But, Grannie, a table looks so much 
 prettier," I argued. '• And half the pleasure 
 in eating comes from pleasant surroundings." 
 
 " I'm no sure — I'm no sure," repeated the 
 old lady, doubtfully. " These new-fangled 
 ways don't suit old-fashioned folks like myself, 
 dearie. However, I'm not saying I won't let 
 ye try your hand. It will give ye occupation 
 and keep ye out o' mischief perhaps." 
 
 " What mischief do I ever get into, 
 Grannie ? " I asked, pouting. " You're giving 
 me a very bad character ! "
 
 86 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " Oil ! ye may make pretence of being so 
 good and so solemn, my bit lassie, but your 
 eyes tell another story ; and you're just turn- 
 ing the heads o' all the lads in the place." 
 
 " Now — now, Grannie, you know that's not 
 true. They're kind and polite because I'm a 
 stranger — that's all. 
 
 She drew me into her kindly arms. " I'm 
 no wishing to make ye an auld wife yet, my 
 bairn. But I should be right glad to have ye 
 make your home in Scotland, and settle down 
 wi' a good steady loving husband. I know 
 you're not happy at home, little as ye've told 
 me ; and I like to see your eyes bright and 
 the colour come into your wee bit face, and 
 to hear ye laugh and sing about the house as 
 ye do now." 
 
 ^* I am so happy here," I said, with a sigh of 
 deep content, as I leant my head against her. 
 " But I don't want to settle dowm. Grannie," 
 I added hurriedly. "I should hate to be 
 married — so please don't begin match-making 
 for me. Besides — now, don't look shocked — 
 but really and truly, I don't think I could
 
 A RANUOM SPEECH. 87 
 
 many a Scotchman. They're so uninterest- 
 ing." 
 
 " I'm sorry to hear you say that," remarked 
 a grave voice behind me. I started from 
 Grannie's arms, blushing and confused. Ken- 
 neth stood in the door-way — a great bunch of 
 roses in his hand. 
 
 "How did you come in? — I never heard 
 ye," said Grannie, rising to welcome him. He 
 was her favourite grandson, and I think he 
 was also warmly attached to her. 
 
 " I found the hall-door open," he said, 
 " and so I walked in without knocking-. I 
 hope I'm forgiven for overhearing Athole's 
 unflattermg speech." 
 
 " It is a punishment for eaves-dropping," I 
 said. "What lovely roses, Kenneth, where 
 did you get them ? " 
 
 "I brought them for you," he said, some- 
 what brusquely. "And a message from 
 Bella. She wants you to come round at 
 three o'clock and go for a walk. Will you 
 be willing ? " 
 
 "Oh, ves," I said. "If Grannie doesn't
 
 88 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 want me. We are discussing a party," I 
 went on, to liide my confusion. " It is quite 
 exciting. A dinner party, too ! " 
 
 "Oh, I heard of that, from Bella," he 
 answered, offering me the roses somewhat 
 awkwardly. 
 
 I took them with delight. They were 
 lovely. A great fresh fragrant bunch, of 
 every colour, from creamj^ white to gold and 
 crimson. 
 
 " Thank you so much. It was ver}^ good 
 of you," I said, wishing he had not over- 
 heard that unfortunate speech of mine, or 
 that the rigid formality of his own face and 
 speech would relax in some small degree. 
 But I fear my random words had shot home. 
 He looked very stern and very uncom- 
 fortable ; and not all Grannie's attempts to 
 set him at ease seemed to have the least 
 effect. 
 
 She told him about her dinner-party, and 
 that I wished to decorate the table foreign- 
 fashion. 
 
 "I'm thinking the Laird will wonder at
 
 A RANDOM SPEECH. 89 
 
 such an innovation," she said. "But I'm 
 half inclined to let the lassie have her way, 
 for all that." 
 
 " Oh ! Is this party in the Laird's honour P " 
 I asked. " What has he done to deserve it ? " 
 
 Then Kenneth looked straight at me — his 
 handsome grave face wearing an expression 
 of sarcasm and ill-temper. 
 
 " He escorted you home from the Mac- 
 phersons ," he said. 
 
 I laughed aloud — peal after peal of merri- 
 ment. I could neither stop nor subdue my 
 mirth, though I saw that neither he nor 
 Grannie could understand its cause. In the 
 midst of it Jean came to the door to consult 
 her mistress about some domestic matters, 
 and the old lady left the room. 
 
 I tried to resume my usual demeanour, but 
 I found it very difficult. 
 
 Kenneth looked so terribly solemn, and he 
 evidently considered that speech of his such 
 a " facer," that every time I thought of it I 
 trembled on the brink of another fit of 
 lausfhter.
 
 90 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " I am glad you are so easily amused," lie 
 said at last. /' I thought Scotchmen were too 
 uninteresting even to afford you a laugh at 
 their expense." 
 
 "I did not think you took offence so 
 easily," I said — " or could be so sarcastic." 
 
 " I wonder you ever gave ^^ourself the 
 trouble to think of me at all," he answered 
 huffity. " And, as a rule, I do not easily 
 take offence. I am not aware I have done so 
 now." 
 
 " Well, it is a very good imitation," I said. 
 " And your speech about the Laird was really 
 too funny. Has he never seen any other 
 young lady home from a party, that you all 
 seem to think his doing so sucli a very re- 
 markable occurrence ? " 
 
 " No doubt," answered Kenneth, stiffly, 
 "he has done so before. But not to my 
 knowledge, and certainly not in Inverness." 
 
 " Oh ! Would it have been shouted from 
 the house-tops if he had ? " I said carelessly. 
 " What funny people you are — and what a 
 fuss you do make about trifles."
 
 A EANDOM SPEECH. 91 
 
 " We are unfortunate in not pleasing you," 
 he said, still very stiffly. 
 
 " I never said you did not please me. I 
 am getting very fond of Scotland and Scotch 
 people, but that does not prevent my 
 wondering at your little — peculiarities." 
 
 He was silent. His eyes remained fixed on 
 the carpet, and the moody expression of his 
 face slightly cleaned. 
 
 '' I should like," he said suddenly, and 
 with an effort at geniality which was 
 palpably an effort — " I should like to know 
 what sort of man you do consider — 
 interesting ? " 
 
 " How that speech rankles in your mind,'' 
 I said, laufi^hino^, and lifting the bunch of 
 roses to my face to inhale their fragrance. 
 *'Well — suppose I said a man who makes 
 one think about him — puzzle over what he 
 says and does, whom one never quite 
 understands, and in whose life there seems 
 always one more page to be read. It is 
 when one comes to that last page — when 
 there seems nothincr more to know — nothino-
 
 92 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 more to learn, that a person ceases to interest 
 one. At least that is my idea." 
 
 " Thank you," he said, coldly. " You are 
 very candid. I see that I have been making 
 a great mistake about you." 
 
 " In what way ? " I asked, lifting my eyes 
 to his and wondering a little why they seemed 
 so sad and — pained. 
 
 " I have been looking upon you as a child," 
 he said, more gently than he had yet spoken. 
 *' A child knowing little of life, and less of 
 men and women. I see I have been mis- 
 taken." 
 
 " I may not know much of life or people," 
 I said. " But I have thought a great deal 
 about them. I do not expect to find either 
 what I have imagined, or what I would like." 
 
 '• You are quite right," he said. " Believe 
 me you will not." 
 
 Then he took up his hat, and quite 
 abruptly said good-bye and left the house.
 
 CHAPTER YIIl. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 " Lofty firs and ashes cool 
 
 The lovely banks o'erspread, 
 And view — deep-bending in the pool 
 Their shadows' wacery bed I " 
 
 " Bella," I said, as we were on our way to 
 the Islands by the banks of the Xess. " Is 
 your brother Kenneth very easily offended — 
 touchy, I mean ? " 
 
 " Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Because I want to know." 
 
 " Well, I think he's a bit quick-tempered," 
 said Bella cautiously. " Perhaps we've spoilt 
 him at home. There were such a lot of girls, 
 and mother did make an awful fuss about 
 him. Then he's so good and steady and has 
 never given any trouble or uneasiness to us." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sure he's very good," I said
 
 94 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 carelessly. "But I wonder wliy ' good ' 
 young men are so heavy and so hard to 
 get on with. Now Kenneth always seems 
 to me to be seeing all sorts of harm and sin 
 in the most innocent actions — to be a 
 perpetual rebuke as it were to everything 
 that is light and gay and amusing. Does he 
 think life such a solemn thing ? " 
 
 " Not that I'm aware of," said Bella. 
 " But you're a frivolous wee body, Athole, 
 and can't expect him to be just companion- 
 able to you. That's more in Douglas Hay's 
 line." 
 
 " Ah ! " I said with wicked enjoyment of 
 an approaching battle. " Now, he is nice, 
 if you like. Nice to look at, nice to talk to, 
 and capital company. I wish," I added 
 discontentedly, " that Grannie would ask him 
 to her party. She might just as well. But 
 she's never forgiven him for that Sunday 
 walk." 
 
 " I should think not," said Bella. "It was 
 the most darins^ thingf I ever heard of. He 
 knew better if you did not."
 
 JEALOUSY. 95 
 
 *'I think you are the most ridiculous 
 people," I said. " And instead of making 
 Sundays pleasant, you just seem to delight 
 in makincr it the gloomiest and most 
 depressing day in the week. One would 
 think everyone was dead who walked 
 throucfh the streets at any hour after 
 church-time. If God wanted us all to 20 
 into mourning on a Sunday, I should think 
 He would have ordered the birds not to sing, 
 the sun not to shine, the breeze not to blow, 
 and all the flowers to close." 
 
 " Xow, Athole, we won't begin to argufy," 
 said Bella. " I know you're a wicked, self- 
 opinionated little creature, and because 
 you've travelled in foreign countries and 
 seen all sorts of religious ceremonies, and 
 all kinds of heathenish and izodless ways of 
 keeping the Sabbath day, you think you're 
 privileged to be dictating to your elders and - 
 betters on the matter." 
 
 " I'm not dictating, Bella," I said earnestly. 
 *' Perhaps if you knew how perplexed and 
 troubled 1 have felt ever since I began to
 
 96 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 think about such matters you'd be more 
 sorry than vexed with me. It is no use 
 pretending. I cannot beheve and accept a 
 faith just because I'm told it is right. Some- 
 thing within me wants to know more about 
 it — is always caUing for proof — proof — 
 proof. In the Cathohc churches the service 
 was beautiful, but amidst all the singing 
 and the incense and the organ-playing and 
 the beautiful vestments, one could not help 
 thinking there was so much more of ' man ' 
 in the service than of God, and I used to 
 find myself picturing Him looking down on 
 it all and wondering what He thought of it, 
 and if it could really be a matter of 
 importance that on a certain day a certain 
 vestment must be worn, or a certain number 
 of candles lighted, and whether Christ had 
 ever thought it possible that his last, simple, 
 homely meal with his disciples could have 
 been perverted and twisted into a ceremony 
 so widely different as the Mass. And do 
 you know, Bella," I added, growing bolder 
 as I noted the earnestness of her face, " there
 
 JEALOUSY. 97 
 
 is another thing which has puzzled me often 
 and often, and that is about the birth of 
 Christ. I cannot but think Joseph and 
 Mary were really His father and mother — 
 that He was one of those mystical, spiritual- 
 minded beings who from time to time have 
 been born into the world to keep alive some 
 relicfious fervour and feelincr in it. I have 
 read His history and heard it discussed by 
 very wise and clever people — people who 
 have made it the study of their lives — not 
 merely accepted it as it has been told to 
 them. Have you ever noticed that he 
 always spoke of himself as the ' Son of 
 Man ' ? It is his disciples who would call 
 him Son of God, and who really fitted him 
 into the Messianic character as events forced 
 it upon them." 
 
 " Where did you learn all this ? " asked 
 Bella, looking rather shocked and startled. 
 
 " I have read it," I said curtly. " My 
 father has books that you have not even 
 thoucrht of, and thev s,o far, far back into 
 the history of the world It is curious and 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 interesting to trace out how a leading idea 
 or belief will find acceptance and imitation, 
 until it gets rooted in certain minds as truth." 
 
 " I think," said Bella. " We had best not 
 discuss such matters. They only lead us 
 astray. What can a lassie like you know of 
 the Scriptures and the history of the Church, 
 when even a minister who has made it the 
 study of his life is often at fault ? " 
 
 " It seems to me," I said sadly, " that that 
 is just where we all make the mistake. We 
 are afraid to speak— afraid to discuss our 
 doubts — afraid to question the why and 
 wherefore of our faith, and yet on that faith 
 we are pinning our eternal loss or gain. Oh ! 
 how I have lain awake in the dark nights and 
 cried and prayed for something — someone — 
 to tell me the truth ! How I have thought 
 that I must be naturally very wicked because 
 it seemed so hard to believe, so easy to 
 question — because I could not help seeing 
 discrepancies and inaccuracies where wiser 
 and better people saw none, and the world 
 seemed so lonely and life so cold and hard,
 
 JE.lLOUSr. 99 
 
 and I could only wonder wliy I was put there 
 and wliy I had been made to live without my 
 own will or consciousness, and my head 
 would ache and my eyes burn with crying 
 and self-torture, and I would ask for a sign 
 that religion was true, and for peace or end 
 to my doubts if the}^ were wrong, but there 
 never came anv sio-n, and the doubts — are 
 doubts still." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Bella, " God is only trj'ing 
 you. I never imagined you felt or thought 
 so deeply. I must say I cannot follow you, 
 my dear — I have never looked at these 
 matters in the liaiit that vou do." 
 
 I sighed heavilv. AVe crossed a little 
 bridge now, and stood under drooping shady 
 trees, and the sun shone on the sparkling 
 water, and the quiet blue sky was without a 
 cloud. 
 
 I looked at it all in silence. How beauti- 
 ful, how peaceful the fair earth seemed, and 
 yet how sad and burdened were human 
 hearts. 
 
 "It has lasted so long, so long," I said 
 
 7*
 
 100 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 suddenly, " and it must know so much, and 
 could teacli so mucli, and yet it will tell us 
 nothing." 
 
 " What ? " asked Bella, looking at me in 
 wonder. 
 
 " The earth," I said. " The earth that God 
 made, and yet that cannot tell us what He 
 is." 
 
 " Oh hush, my dear — hush," she cried in a 
 sort of fear, I think at my strange way and 
 words. " Why perplex your head with such 
 matters ? It is best not to question. I think 
 we are not meant to know." 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "Perhaps," I said, "it is best for us to 
 think so. But why are we given minds, 
 brains, intelligence ? are they not meant for 
 use ? " 
 
 " No doubt," she said, " but human wisdom 
 is limited. It cannot possibly understand its 
 own origin, or the why and wherefore of its 
 surroundings. I think you had best talk to 
 Mr. Gillespie. He has just a wonderful 
 knowledge of the Scriptures."
 
 JEALOUSY. 101 
 
 I laughed a little, for the first time since 
 our discussion. I thought of Douglas Hay's 
 description of the sermon on Motion, and my 
 own vivid recollection of his discourse the 
 previous Sunday. 
 
 " I do not think he would convince me,'"' I 
 said. " Perhaps my nature is sceptical. I 
 know I have always found it hard to believe 
 a thing just because I am told I must beHeve 
 it." 
 
 " I am sorry for you, Athole," said Bella, 
 her bright face looking strangely grave, " it's 
 not a nature that I would envy, and it's 
 bound to bring you trouble and unhappi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right,"' I said, '" but such 
 as it is I must put up with it, my dear. I 
 accept it as my inheritance from the 
 Unknown Source, and I suppose I shall not 
 make it much better than it will allow me." 
 
 " I never thouofht von were so stranore or 
 so thoughtful," said Bella, surveying me with 
 a very grave and puzzled expression. 
 
 " I don't often speak of these feelings," I
 
 102 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 said, " and never to people unless I know 
 them, or care for them. But the}^ make up a 
 great deal of my life, and since I was so ill and 
 had to think so much of what might soon be 
 my future — the great strange mystery that lay 
 bej^ond this world and what we call life here 
 — I have given myself up a great deal more 
 to such thoughts than anyone would believe." 
 
 " But you are not going to die, my dearie," 
 said Bella cheerfully. "You're just going to 
 get strong and well and bonnie, and lose all 
 these fancies and feelings. You want young 
 life about you, you've been moped too much 
 with elderly folk, and uncanny books and the 
 like. But even in this short time we've done 
 3^ou good and we will continue to do it, I'm 
 sure of that." 
 
 " Indeed I think you have done me good, a 
 great deal of good," I said gaily, " but you've 
 made me almost in love with life instead of 
 lessening m}^ hold on it." 
 
 " You're not admiring the Islands at all," 
 said Bella. " Isn't it just beautiful here 
 among the ferns and with the glint of the
 
 JEALOUSY. 103 
 
 sunshine on the waters. It's a rare fine spot 
 
 for lovers, here, and — that looks like a pair 
 
 of them yonder," she added suddenly. 
 
 I glanced in the direction she indicated and 
 
 saw two figures silting on a fallen tree some 
 
 distance off. The cool, grey liiien dress of 
 
 the woman made a pretty spot of colour 
 
 acjainst the briijht green backiiround of the 
 
 many trees. I could only see the back of the 
 
 man's head, yet there seemed something 
 
 familiar to me in its pose and in the soft 
 
 brown curls under the Hio-hland bonnet. 
 
 <_- 
 
 We drew nearer ; thev were sittino- close 
 to the pathway and talking in low confidential 
 voices. 
 
 I felt mv face grow suddenlv hot. I knew 
 who the man was now, even before he had 
 turned his head at the sound of our approach- 
 ing footsteps. 
 
 Bella's hand squeezed my arm. 
 
 " It is Douglas Hay," she exclaimed. 
 
 " I know," I said quietly, " but we had 
 better go on. It will look odd if we turn 
 back now. He must have seen us."
 
 104 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 We walked calmly by the two figures. 
 Douglas lifted his cap ; I did not look at him, 
 but my eyes took in every detail of his com- 
 panion's appearance and dress. She was not 
 young — not — I thought j ealously — even 
 pretty ; but yet there was something — some- 
 thing about her that seemed to stamp her 
 with a charm, a grace, and an individuality 
 far exceeding mere youth and mere pretti- 
 ness. 
 
 What was it ? The perfect figure in its 
 grey linen gown, the smooth hair of pale 
 dead gold, the large eyes with their white 
 drooping lids. No, not one of these, but a 
 curious subtle charm that pervaded them all, 
 and which even in my brief glance I detected 
 and felt. 
 
 " W^ho is she ? " I asked Bella eagerly when 
 we were out of earshot. 
 
 "I'm not quite sure," answered my cousin, 
 " but I fancy she is Mrs. Dunleith, a widow, 
 wilo has lately come to live at a little jDlace 
 called ' The Eowans,' not far from here. I 
 can show it you on our way home. She's not
 
 JEALOUSY. 105 
 
 much known yet. I think she's not been 
 here above two months, and hves very 
 quietly. Of course," she added, rather spite- 
 fully, "Douo'las Hav is there at once. I 
 never saw the like o' him. Maid, wife, 
 widow, 'tis all one. He's bound to be 
 dangling after some petticoat." 
 
 I was silent. My heart seemed to have 
 grown strangely heavy, and all the golden 
 sunshine of the day looked dull and ob- 
 scured. 
 
 I could not have oiven any reason for the 
 change, but I was keenly conscious of it, I 
 am afraid — so was Bella. But she was too 
 discreet to say anything, and we walked on, 
 under the green trees and through all 
 the pretty winding ways, in sympathetic 
 silence. 
 
 I began to think it would have been better 
 for me if I had not met Douglas Hay — or, 
 having met him, if I had been content to 
 accept other people's opinion of him, instead 
 of forming my own.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BELIEF. 
 
 "Round the sylvan fairy nooks, 
 Feathery braikens fringe the rocks ; 
 'iS'eath the brae the burnie jouks, 
 And ilka thing is cheerie ; 
 Trees may bud and birds may sing, 
 Flowers may bloom and verdure spring, 
 Joy to me they canna' bring, 
 Unless wi' thee, my dearie ! " 
 
 We crossed another bridge and walked slowly 
 on by the bright blue water on our way 
 home. 
 
 My visit to the Islands had been spoilt for 
 me, and I was still too young and took ever}^- 
 thing too seriously to be able to disguise my 
 feelings. Bella had also grown very quiet 
 and subdued, and for some time we were too 
 busied with our own thoughts to exchange 
 a word.
 
 EELTEF. 107 
 
 " I am tired,'* I said, suddenly, " let us sit 
 down." The banks were quite deserted. The 
 afternoon was growinof late. There was no 
 need to be home till seven o'clock for tea, so 
 Bella made no objection. " So you don't 
 know Mrs. Dunleith ? " I asked abruptly. 
 " She is very pretty, isn't she ? " 
 
 " Oh, the folk here think her quite a 
 beauty," said Bella, " and I believe she is 
 rich too. ' The Eowans ' is but a small place, 
 but the grounds are lovely ; she keeps a car- 
 riage, too. You've seen her driving several 
 times. I wonder whether she's come to stay 
 here, or only just for the Meetings." 
 
 " What are the Meetings ? " I asked, ab- 
 sently. 
 
 " The Xorthern Meetings ! Why, surely 
 you've heard of them. They take place in 
 September. Highland games — bag-pipe play- 
 ing — all the pipers of the different clans 
 compete. They wind up with a ball. That 
 is the great event of the year here. But 
 you're sure to <io if vou stav." 
 
 " I have never been to a ball in m}- life,"
 
 108 THE LAIRD COCKPEN. 
 
 I said, " I don't think I should care about 
 one." 
 
 '• Oh yes, you would," said Bella ; " you 
 must go to this one, at all events. Flora 
 always does. She will go with Lady Forbes 
 from Blairmore. They generally have a large 
 house party for it." 
 
 " And do you think," I persisted, " that 
 Mrs. Dunleith will be there ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," she answered. " It 
 all depends on the people she knows, of 
 course. They're very particular. But if 
 her husband was one of the Dunleiths of 
 Morayshire, she's sure to be accepted." 
 
 " What funny people you are ! Fancy 
 questioning and enquiring all about a per- 
 son — who they were — and whom they mar- 
 ried — and where they came from, before 
 calling or condescending to know them." 
 
 " And why not ? " said Bella ; " it is as well 
 to be particular." 
 
 A step close beside us — firm, quick, eager — 
 made me look up, instead of replying. To 
 my surprise I saw Douglas Hay. He doffed
 
 RELIEF. 109 
 
 the Scotch cap and greeted us with an evident 
 delight in the meeting. 
 
 " I'm so glad I've caught you up," he said, 
 breathlessly. Then he shook hands with 
 Bella and dropped down unceremoniously 
 by my side. 
 
 "I thought," he began, reproachfully, '' that 
 3^our first visit to the Islands was to be with 
 me. You evidently don't keep your promises. 
 Miss Lindsay." 
 
 " I never made one — to you," I said, 
 coldly. 
 
 I felt angered with myself, because my 
 heart had given so glad a throb, because 
 the colour had flushed so warmly over 
 cheek and brow, because I could not meet 
 his glance calmly and coldly as Bella did, and 
 I perceived he noticed it. 
 
 " Well, it was something very like a 
 promise," he said, " a mutual agreement, 
 let us say, and now it's broken and of 
 none effect. Hard upon me. Miss Lind- 
 say." 
 
 " Do you know Mrs. Dunleitli ? " inter-
 
 110 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 posed Bella, evidently not approving liis con- 
 fidential tone and manner. " You soon made 
 her acquaintance." 
 
 " Or — she mine ? " he said, with a mis- 
 chievous glance. " Isn't she a pretty 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Was it her first visit to the Islands ? " I 
 asked, ignoring that question. 
 
 " Oh, no ; you see she lives close by, over 
 there, at that little house shut in from the 
 roadside ; she often walks to them." 
 
 "Now tell me all about her," said Beha, 
 eagerly. "Is she one of the Dunleiths, 
 of Morayshire ? Is she rich — does she 
 mean to stay here ? Have many folk called 
 on her ? " 
 
 "What a string of questions," he said, 
 laughing. " Yes, to them all. Her husband 
 was Eobert Dunleith — rather a bad lot, I 
 believe. Went off to Australia — bought a 
 sheep run — made a pile — died judiciously, 
 and left her everything. She came to Scot- 
 land for change, has travelled slowly over it, 
 finally rested here, which shows her good
 
 RELIEF. in 
 
 taste — has rented ' The Eowans ' for a year. 
 Is very anxious to see the Xorthern Meeting 
 sports, and go to the balL Xow, anything 
 more you would like to know ? " 
 
 " What people haye called upon her ? " 
 asked Bella, with a curiosity that surjorised 
 me. 
 
 " I will get a hst of the cards that haye 
 been left the yery next time I go there," said 
 Douoias Hay, orrayely. "I really haye not 
 asked her the exact number of yisitors she 
 has receiyed. But she has only been here 
 two months." 
 
 " Well, you seem yery thick with her at all 
 eyents," said Bella. 
 
 " I think," he said, with eyident enjoyment 
 of her discomfiture, " that she prefers men's 
 society to women's. She has giyen one or 
 two charming little dinners. There were no 
 ladies present but herself, and a friend staying 
 with her — a Mrs. Langley White — an English- 
 woman." 
 
 " And who were the men ? " asked Bella, 
 eagerly.
 
 112 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 He mentioned two or three names. I was 
 not acquainted with any of them. Bella 
 shook her head at each. 
 
 "Fast and military; so that is her taste! 
 Well, I don t think we shall call on her." 
 
 "She will be heart-broken if you don't," 
 said Douglas Hay, gravely. But I caught the 
 expression in his eye, and knew very well he 
 was only making fun of her. He bent his 
 handsome head to me, and lightly touched 
 my hand. " You see I soon left her when I 
 saw you," he said softly. " I did feel so cross. 
 I would have given anything to have joined 
 you, there and then. What made you come 
 to-day ? " 
 
 " Bella asked me," I answered, glancing at 
 that young lady. 
 
 She was apparently absorbed in studying 
 the opposite bank and not paying any atten- 
 tion to us. 
 
 " And so 5^ou don't think Mrs. Dunleith 
 pretty ? " he said, presently. " She admired 
 you very much." 
 
 I coloured angrily. " I am sure she did
 
 RELIEF. 113 
 
 not," I said ; " slie may have said so, but it is 
 not likely. I am far too — too insignificant 
 looking." 
 
 He looked down at liis boots, smiling 
 slightly, 
 
 " Fairies — as a rule — are not very massive 
 beings," he said. " But that is no reason 
 vrhy they should not be admired, is it Miss 
 Bella ? " 
 
 Bella glanced somewhat vacantly at him. 
 '• \Vlio is not admired ? Are you still dis- 
 cussing Mrs. Dunleith ? " 
 
 " Dora Dunleith," he said musingly. " That 
 is her name. Isn't it pretty ? So alliterative 
 — wonder why one falls into calling some 
 people by their Christian names directly ? " 
 
 " Always a bad sign," snapped Bella. She 
 was evidently out of temper. 
 
 " Why is it a bad sign ? " asked Douglas 
 Hay teazingly. 
 
 '• It shows an inclination to be familiar and 
 — and fast," she answered. " Mrs. Dunleith 
 looks quite capable of being both." 
 
 " Yes," he said quietly. " I think she is. 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 THE LAIRD 0' COOKPEX. 
 
 But iliat does not matter, as you are not 
 going to call upon her." 
 
 " Have you seen tlie Laird lately ? " asked 
 Bella, by way of changing the subject. 
 
 " ^o," he said, " not to speak to. We are 
 not very friendly you know." 
 
 " Grannie is going to entertain him at 
 dinner next week," I remarked. 
 
 " Oh — is she ? " He glanced keenly at me. 
 " That is a very wise proceeding," he added 
 presently. " I am sure you will find him 
 most entertainimr — after dinner." 
 
 o 
 
 " He can be very nice when he likes," said 
 Bella warmly. " .ind he is a very good, sen- 
 sible, well-informed man." 
 
 " I never denied it," said Douglas Hay 
 gravely. " His merits are patent. He has 
 everything a man ought to have — including 
 wealth. It would be hard indeed to find fault 
 with so well-balanced a character." 
 
 I laughed. " Eeall}^," I said, " I am getting 
 a little tired of the Laird's praises. I have 
 had them ringing in ni}^ ears ever since I came 
 to Liverness."
 
 RELIEF. 115 
 
 " You had better introduce him to ^Irs. 
 Dunleith," said Bella somewhat spitefully, as 
 she rose at last and intimated it was time to 
 return. " Perhaps they would make a match 
 of it." 
 
 "Improbabilities do sometimes attain the 
 region of the possible," he answered, offering 
 me his hand to assist me in rising. " But in 
 this case, Miss Bella, I feel doubtful. The 
 Laird is too quiet and sedate for Mrs. Dun- 
 leitli, I'm thinking; and he is at present 
 encfao'ed in singringr ' My love she's but a lassie 
 yet ! ' " 
 
 Bella looked at him sharply, an expression 
 of annoyance on her usually good-tempered 
 face. " What do you mean? " she said. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," he said, with well-acted 
 indifference. " Xothing, I assure you. Only 
 I heard him chanting (really that best ex- 
 presses his views on time and melody) that 
 air as he walked along the banks of the Canal 
 the other night. I don't often deny myself a 
 whim or fancy," he added coolly, " but it was 
 with great difficulty I refrained from pitching 
 
 8*
 
 116 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 liim into the water by way of cooling his 
 ardour, or assisting him to make up his mind 
 about the ' lassie.' " 
 
 "Why do you dislike him so?" asked 
 Bella. 
 
 " Why ?— Oh, really I can't tell. Perhaps 
 because he is always quoted as an example 
 of perfection, perhaps because he has always 
 been praised, and I have never met with any- 
 thing but blame and discouragement — perhaps 
 because he is rich and I — poor. Oh, there 
 are a hundred reasons, for I candidly own I 
 do disUke him. But chief of all I think it is 
 because he is so overpoweringly, stolidly, 
 steadily good. If he only had a weakness, a 
 vice that one could get hold of and say, ' Ah, 
 now you are on a level with your fellow men,' 
 it would be such a satisfaction ! " 
 
 I had been silent all this time. Douglas 
 Hay was walking by my side. Now and then 
 I glanced at the handsome profile. Now and 
 then too he would meet my eyes. The sky 
 had grown bright for me again, the day fair. 
 I told myself he could not have cared so very,
 
 RELIEF. Ii7 
 
 very much for Mrs. Dunleith's society, or he 
 would not have left her, would not have 
 hurried to overtake us, would not have 
 seemed so glad to see me again. We had 
 not met since that eventful Sunday when 
 I had 2[ot into dis^^race for walkino^ with 
 him. 
 
 " By the bye, Miss Lindsay, he said, suddenly 
 turning to me. " AVas your grandmother 
 very angry about our walk ? " 
 
 " Yes, very," I said. *' She thought I had 
 done something sinful." 
 
 " So you had," said Bella. " And I wonder 
 at you, Douglas Hay, tempting the lassie to 
 do such a thing. You knew better if she did 
 not." 
 
 " I am rather fond of shocking people's pre- 
 judices," he said laughing. " And I don't 
 hold with the views you Kirk folk take of the 
 Sabbath. They are altogether wrong and 
 foolish. Miss Lindsay and I are quite agreed 
 on that point." 
 
 "Bella knows that," I said quietly. ''We 
 have had many discussions on the matter."
 
 118 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 "Still," said my cousin," "one has to 
 submit to the opinions and habits of other 
 people. I'm not saying that it is wrong to go 
 for a walk on Sunday, but no one here would 
 do it, and it leads to talk, and offends folk, 
 and so it is just better to give in." 
 
 "I daresay you are right there," said 
 Douglas Hay, '' and I will not ask Miss Lindsay 
 to offend again. All the same," he added, 
 lowering his voice so that only I could hear 
 what he said — " All the same I consider I 
 have been defrauded of my anticipated 
 privilege in taking you to the Islands. What 
 shall I do to make up for it ? Have you been 
 up to Tom-na-Hurich yet ? " 
 
 "No," I said, colouring slightly, as I 
 wondered what Bella would think of this 
 new suggestion. 
 
 " Well, let us go there, let me see — Tuesday 
 — Wednesday — Wednesday will suit me. Can 
 you manage it ? " 
 
 " I don't know," I said doubtfully. " Per- 
 haps Grannie may not be willing." 
 
 "You needn't ask her."
 
 BELIEF. 119 
 
 " Oil, I must. I couldn't o-q off walkino; 
 
 ' CO 
 
 with you and not tell her about it." 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Bella will help us/' he said 
 audaciously. " She is too kind-hearted to 
 refuse." 
 
 Bella laughed. " You're a young scape- 
 grace, Douglas, and you know it, and I'm not 
 sure it's rio'ht for mv cousin to be with you at 
 all. If she goes I shall have to play chaperon." 
 "Z^o," he said eagerly, "and that will settle 
 the question at once. You can go out to- 
 gether as you did to-day, and I will meet you. 
 There — that's settled. And now I'm afraid I 
 must leave you. I'm late as it is, and my 
 father won't be in the best of humours. Good- 
 bye, Miss Lindsay. Wednesday three o'clock. 
 You won't foro-et ? "
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 FIEST LOVE. 
 
 "Oh, where — tell me where did your Highland laddie 
 
 dwell ? 
 He dwelt in bonnie Scotland, where blooms the sweet 
 
 blue-bell, 
 And it's oh ! in my heart I lo'e my laddie well." 
 
 " I don't approve of it," said Bella, " and I'm 
 not sure I ouglit to countenance any such 
 proceedings, but I know you're a wilful bit of 
 perversity, and I suppose if you have made 
 up your mind to go to Tom-na-Hurich with 
 Douglas you'll do it." 
 
 " Certainly, I will," I made answer. 
 
 It was the Wednesday appointed for that 
 excursion to the " Hill of the Fairies " and 
 Bella, true to her word, had come round for 
 me a little before the appointed hour. 
 
 The day was lovely. Indeed I had been 
 singularly fortunate in my experience of
 
 FIEST LOVE. 121 
 
 weather since I had come to Scotland. Warm, 
 bright, windless ; the sky a pale, soft-blue 
 flecked with drifting clouds, the scent of roses 
 and fresh grass in the air, fair and fertile 
 valleys where the barley and the oats were 
 quickly ripening — the pale glimmer of waters 
 as canal and river came into view. I felt the 
 blood dancing in my veins. I drew in great 
 draughts of that sweet, pure air. I was glad, 
 without questioning any reason for m}' glad- 
 ness, and my spirits rose to wild excitement 
 as I walked by Bella's side to the trysting 
 place. 
 
 Douglas Hay was there awaiting us, sitting 
 cross-leo'cred on a stile, and smokinf? a cio-ar. 
 
 CO ' CO 
 
 I suppose there are times and seasons when 
 the old proverb about '• two being company " 
 does not hold good. I know I was perfectly 
 happy only to feel his presence — only to 
 know that pleasant consciousness that I might 
 look, laugh, speak to him when I felt inclined. 
 
 Alone I might have been embarrassed, with 
 Bella there I was quite happy and quite 
 natural. The two amused me verv much. I
 
 122 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 thought Douglas Hay the least Scotch of any 
 of the Scotch folk I had met. His accent 
 was refined, his manners, looks, gestures, all 
 singularly free from the idiosyncrasies I had 
 noticed among the people to whom I had 
 been introduced. I happened to say some- 
 thing of this to him, and considerably roused 
 Bella's wrath by so doing. 
 
 " It's just an affectation," she said — mimick- 
 ing the Southern tongue and the Southern 
 manners as if his own weren't good enough 
 for him. All the best Highland folk and the 
 heads of the great clans keep as Scotch as 
 Scotch can be. They're proud of their 
 country and their descent, and well they 
 may be. Look at the Macintosh, and the 
 MacGregor, and the Morays, and the Argyles, 
 they're not ashamed of accent or manner, or 
 anything that marks the Scotchman in their 
 descent." 
 
 " But I'm not of a great clan or a great 
 race," said Douglas Hay, "and so I have 
 no reason to be proud of an accent or affect 
 one."
 
 PIEST LOVE. 123 
 
 " Oh ! " said Bella, " I know it's your own 
 ambition to be thought English." 
 
 " And why not ? They're yery good folk 
 in their way — less characteristic perhaps than 
 ourselyes and not so amusing, but I like 
 them and haye always liked them. Do you 
 think the two races yery different. Miss 
 Lindsay ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said frankly, '• wh}^ I should 
 scarcely haye belieyed that a people so near 
 to each other and so closely related could be 
 so different. As a rule the Scotch are very 
 proud of their nationality, are they not ? " 
 
 " Most certainly they are. Xo thing offends 
 a Scotchman more than to be taken for 
 Enghsh." 
 
 "They are far more hospitable, warm 
 hearted and witty, too, than the generality 
 of English people," I said. 
 
 He laughed. " Is that how they appear to 
 you ? " 
 
 " She is quite right," said Bella warmly. 
 " They are yery genuine, and haye no affecta- 
 tions."
 
 124 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 "I'm not finding fault with them," said 
 Douglas. " They are good enough folk, and 
 bad enough too," he added in a lower tone. 
 "But with all their virtues there is a want of 
 refinement about them. They are stolid — 
 sensible — clever, I grant. But also they are 
 bigoted, self-opinionated, narrow-minded, and 
 money-loving. It is a proverb that a Scotch- 
 man succeeds in everything he undertakes — 
 but the main reason is not that he is cleverer, 
 or clearer-headed, but that he is more obsti- 
 nate, more frugal, and more persevering. 
 Then socially he is less exacting and less 
 extravagant, and comes of a hardier and 
 more matter-of-fact race. There is httle 
 sentiment in him, but much shrewdness and 
 no false pride. His rehgion too is such a 
 personal matter that it is associated with 
 every detail of daily life. He says, ' Heaven 
 will help you if you help yourself,' and he 
 does help himself — to the best he can get, 
 and with an eye to the main chance. He is 
 always practical and never idle. There lies 
 the great difference between them and the
 
 FIRST LOVE. 125 
 
 Irish and the Enghsh. There is not nearly 
 so much misery and poverty in the large 
 Scotch towns as in those of the sister coun- 
 tries, though there is just as much vice and 
 wickedness." 
 
 " "Wliat a pity," I said with a sigh, as I 
 looked round at the beautiful scene, " that 
 there must be wickedness in the world. I 
 wonder God couldn't have made it without." 
 
 " You're surelv not fjoing^ to sav now that 
 God created sin into the world ! " exclaimed 
 Bella in horror. 
 
 " She could quote some of 3^our own 
 favourite texts for her argument," said 
 Douglas Hay, laughing at her shocked face. 
 " For instance — ' Without Him was not anv- 
 thing made that is made ! ' — and again " 
 
 " We will have no religious discussions, if 
 you please," said Bella with dignity. "I 
 don't know who is worst at that — jou or 
 Athole. She drives me just wild with her 
 ' whys ' and her ' wherefores.' " 
 
 '- A Scotch person should never object to 
 religious discussions," said Douglas gravely.
 
 126 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEX. 
 
 " That is one of tlieir virtues, perfect acquaint- 
 ance with the Scriptures. You know very well, 
 Miss Bella, that our folk discuss theological 
 subtleties, or quote and misquote texts and 
 passages from the Bible as familiarly and 
 naturally as other nations talk of a new play, 
 or a new book." 
 
 " That may be," said Bella. " But I'm not 
 fond of doing it. I've no desire to have my 
 faith shaken and my mind confused." 
 
 " A cemetery is a very good place for such 
 a discussion," said Douglas Hay. " Here we 
 are at last. Miss Lindsa}^ You see how the 
 path is cut round and round the side of the 
 hill. What do you think of this as a spot to 
 lay one's bones to rest ? " 
 
 I looked round with unconcealed interest. 
 I thought I had never seen so picturesque and 
 lovely a place. The winding paths, the lovely 
 green of foliage shadowing the marble and 
 granite, the vivid hues of flowers, the wonder- 
 ful peace and stillness breathing like a blessing 
 over those who lay in Death's long sleep below 
 the green turf.
 
 FIRST LOVE. 127 
 
 A strange sadness and melancholy crept 
 over me. '* It is most beautiful," I said. 
 " How different from most burying-grounds." 
 
 " Yes," said Douglas, '' I often wonder 
 what made them think of turning it into one. 
 As I told you before, I do not ever credit my 
 countrymen with anything like sentiment, or 
 fine feeling." 
 
 " Perhaps," I said, '' they feel it, if they do 
 not show it. I have known a o'reat deal of 
 sentiment sometimes underlie a very rough 
 exterior." 
 
 We were standing looking at a tomb 
 smothered in roses, and fragrant with helio- 
 trope and verbena. 
 
 I pointed to the name and date. " Just my 
 age," I said. 
 
 " You must not get melancholy," he said 
 quickly. " I was thinking it was not a very 
 lively place to bring you to." 
 
 " Oh," I answered eagerly, " as for that, 
 it does not affect me in the least. I have 
 always had rather a fancy for visiting burial- 
 grounds. But no one could possibly associate
 
 128 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 this place with death. It makes one only 
 think of rest and sleep, and the peace we all 
 speak of so often. I wonder if we are ever 
 to know it ? " 
 
 " You mean," he said very softly, " the 
 peace that passeth all understanding." 
 
 " Yes/' I said. 
 
 " And is it not strange," he went on speak- 
 ing rapidly, but in the same low ke}-, " that 
 all this day, every step of our walk here, that 
 has been my own feeling — perfect peace, per- 
 fect rest, perfect happiness ? It was enough 
 just to know that you were beside me, just to 
 feel your dress sweep my feet as the wind 
 blew it from time to time, just to hear your 
 voice-^ — it is such a sweet low voice, Athole — 
 speaking a chance word, or know I need but 
 look down and I should see your soft eyes 
 looking back to mine. You — you are not 
 offended ? " 
 
 I was listening like one in a dream. We 
 were quite alone there. Bella had strolled 
 on, and was quite out of sight. I heard only 
 the rustling of the leaves overhead, the hum
 
 FIRST LOVE. 129 
 
 of a bee among the white roses, the quick beat- 
 ing of my own heart, afraid of its own new 
 gladness. 
 
 " No," I said at kst, " I am not — offended. 
 Why should I be ? " 
 
 His face flushed, the blue eyes looked at me 
 as I had never seen them look. 
 
 " I suppose," he said humbly, " I have no 
 right to say such a thing. Xo right to tell 
 you that I fell in love with you at first sight, 
 but it is the truth I am afraid. I, who never 
 cared for any girl — or woman either, who only 
 thought of amusing myself — and — now — why, 
 I can't get you out of my head, morning, noon 
 or night. How pale you look, I — I hope you 
 are not angry. It is not likely that you 
 should have thought of me — that you should 
 care even a little. I — I can't understand it 
 myself. To fall in love has always seemed to 
 me more or less a misfortune. And now — I 
 have done it." 
 
 It was rather strancre love-makincr. It 
 certainly was not a bit like what I had always 
 pictured and dreamt of, but to me it was as 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 sweet as any words could be, as true as any 
 truth could make it. 
 
 " I should not have said so much, I sup- 
 pose," he went on, " but I am rather impetuous 
 I fear, and you — well, I seem to know you so 
 much better than our short acquaintance 
 warrants. I suppose it comes of thinking so 
 much and fancying so much about it. Are 
 you vexed, Athole ? " 
 
 I shook my head. I could not speak, but 
 I longed to hear him go on speaking. 
 
 " You are not vexed ? I — I hardly dare 
 ask any more. It seems too much to expect 
 that you should have thought of me as I have 
 done of you, that I should have filled your 
 heart as you filled mine. You gave me back 
 some of my old belief in the purity and inno- 
 cence of womanhood — a belief I had lost, 
 Athole, in a sharp and bitter experience. I 
 lost all the faiths and sentiments of youth long 
 ago. Perhaps some day I may tell you why. 
 !N"ow — well now I only want you to look 
 at me and say you — you care just a little, 
 for the graceless ne'er-do-well who has been
 
 FIRST LOVE. 131 
 
 SO abused to you. Won't you look at me, 
 Athole ? " 
 
 For an instant I stood irresolute, my eyes 
 fixed on the white marble which told that 
 Effie Gray, age seventeen, had " passed into 
 rest." 
 
 Passed into rest I Mentally I repeated the 
 words over and over again How short a 
 life .... and now — rest. Had she 
 wanted it ? Had she sorrowed — suffered — 
 loved in those seventeen years ? Had some- 
 one wept for her ? or did someone come now 
 to weep where the white roses bloomed, and 
 the bees hummed amidst their fragrance ? 
 
 So ran my thoughts as I stood there in 
 silence by Douglas Hay's side, unable yet to 
 look at those eloquent eyes — to give any 
 answer to his love. 
 
 He sighed, and half turned away. 
 
 " You will not look — then I have offended 
 you. But won't you even say you forgive 
 me, Athole ? " 
 
 Then something altogether strange and 
 mastering, and passionate, and sweeter far 
 
 9*
 
 132 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 than any feeling or emotion I had ever known, 
 swept over me hke a wave. 
 
 I looked up. I felt the tears throng hot 
 and swift to my eyes, and the tumult in my 
 heart made me faint and giddy. 
 
 " Oh ! my darling ! " he cried fiercely — 
 eagerly, with triumph and yet fear in face and 
 voice. " You love me — you love me — say it, 
 Athole, say it ! " 
 
 But I could not say it. I could not speak. 
 His arms were round me, he lifted my face 
 to meet his eager gaze — his lips touched 
 mine .... 
 
 Oh ! Douglas — Douglas, 
 
 my only love — the first love of my life, why 
 was not fate kind to us then — why did I not 
 die in your arms, knowing you true — believing 
 all your love was mine ! asking no more — 
 desiring no more ; content — at peace — at 
 rest !
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 KEEPING UP APPEAEANCES. 
 
 " But had I wist before I kissed, 
 That love had been sae ill to win. 
 I'd locked my heart in case o' gold 
 And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin I " 
 
 After that kiss, those hurried words, my 
 whole brain seemed confused and bewildered. 
 It was all so sudden, so wild, so strange. I 
 was scarcely conscious even of how it had 
 come about, of the fetters of iron that this 
 interview might fasten round my life. 
 
 His words rang in my ears. The blue sky 
 grew misty and indistinct. I had heard of 
 love and happy lovers, had dreamt and 
 wondered if in my own life one would ever 
 come to woo me from dreams to reality. 
 And now — now it had happened, really 
 happened, and I was utterly bewildered by 
 the suddenness and strangeness of it all.
 
 134 THE LAIKD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 Douglas's voice roused me at last. 
 
 " Had we not better follow your cousin, 
 sweetheart ? " lie said. " You look as if you 
 would dream here for ever. I wonder if you 
 are happy, as happy as I am ? " 
 
 " I don't know how happy you are," I said, 
 looking shyly at the handsome face, " but I 
 know for myself I am very, very happy." 
 
 " Then why did you look so grave ? " 
 
 " I was trying to realize what had hap- 
 pened. It seems so strange that you should 
 care for me. I am not pretty, or clever, 
 or — fascinating like your friend Mrs. Dun- 
 leith." 
 
 A shade crossed his face. "Don't speak 
 of her, pray," he said hastily. " It is just 
 because you are so different to the other 
 women I have known, that I love you. And 
 don't think I am at all a good fellow, Athole. 
 God knows I'm sorry now for my experience, 
 but perhaps, without it, I could not have 
 appreciated you." 
 
 I was silent. Those words pained me, 
 although I but half understood their meaning.
 
 KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 1?5 
 
 Into my love, as yet, no jealous fear or pain 
 had entered. But the day was to come when 
 the shadow of my lover's past was to fall 
 darkly and terribly over my life ; when to 
 me, as to all women, that knowledge of the 
 wide, wide difference between the love a man 
 brings to a woman, and a woman gives to a 
 man, would strike sharply home, and destroy 
 at once and for ever my dreaming peace, my 
 innocent faith, my perfect trust. 
 
 We walked on together, and presently 
 came in sight of Bella. 
 
 " Don't say anything to her," said Douglas 
 hurriedly. I looked at him in momentary 
 wonder. 
 
 " Oh, no, I could not," I said. 
 
 It seemed impossible to me that I could 
 speak to anyone of this strange, sweet secret. 
 To share it would have seemed a sort of 
 sacrilege. I was perfectly content to know 
 that Douglas loved me — to dream over his 
 words and looks, and the strange and subtle 
 sweetness of my own new emotions, but I 
 could not have spoken of them even to hira.
 
 136 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " I must see you alone again," he went on, 
 laying a detaining hand on my arm to keep 
 me out of earshot of my cousin. " Where 
 can you meet me ? This is such a beastly 
 place for spying and gossip, one has to be 
 careful. Stay, I know a place. I will write 
 and tell you. Promise you will come." 
 
 " Oh, yes," I said gladly, " I will come, if I 
 can possibly get away. But Grannie gene- 
 rally has a nap in the afternoon, she never 
 minds my going out then " 
 
 He pressed my hand, and we walked on to 
 join Bella. 
 
 •' Have you been studying all the 
 epitaphs ? " she asked, as we reached her. 
 
 " Yes," said Douglas, mendaciousl}^, " and I 
 have been telling your cousin stories of the 
 witches and warlocks. But she has no 
 superstition, despite her Scotch blood. By- 
 the-bye," he said suddenly, " would you like 
 to see a witch — a real witch ? I know where 
 one lives, and I'll take you if you like." 
 
 " Will you really ? I should like it above 
 all things." ,
 
 KEEPDs'G UP APPEARANCES. 137 
 
 " Xow, Douglas Hay, I'll have none of your 
 Tnischief," said Bella gravely. " My cousin's 
 but a wee, weak thing, and we're all re- 
 sponsible for her. I'll not have her fright- 
 ened out of her wits for anybody ; and I 
 know where you mean to take her. It's to 
 that ' Auld Wife o' Cawdor,' as folks call her, 
 who lives in the cave near Craig-Phadric." 
 
 " You're quite right," he said coolly. 
 " She's a great friend of mine, and a very 
 harmless old lady too, though she does a 
 little in the way of prophesying and ' charm- 
 seUing ' occasionally, and is the owner of a 
 black cat. Would you be frightened to see 
 her, Miss Lindsay ? " 
 
 " Not I," I said, laughing, " I am not a bit 
 afraid, as I told you before." 
 
 Our eyes met. What I read in his would 
 have banished any fears even had I been of 
 the most timorous disposition ; but happily I 
 was not. 
 
 Douglas rattled on after this in wild spirits, 
 utterly ignoring Bella's hints that mirth was 
 unseemly in a burying ground.
 
 138 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " You'll be telling me the dead folk know 
 we are liere," he said. "By-the-bye, Miss 
 Lindsay, I'll tell you a story of an old Scotch 
 soldier I know. Fe has seen a lot of rough 
 service, and left many companions in arms on 
 the battle field. He was telling me of a 
 'brush' they had had in India with some 
 sepoys, and that a friend of his, Sandy Mac- 
 Dougall, had his head cut off clean by one of 
 those black fellows. ' And I'm wondering 
 often,' he adds, ' whether he found it, for, of 
 course, on the Judgment Day he must appear 
 wi' it, and I am thinking he'll just march up 
 as cool as he went to that battle, carrying it 
 under his arm.' " 
 
 " Certainly, your people have the queerest 
 ideas respecting the Judgment Day I ever 
 heard of," I said, laughing. " What on earth 
 should we want with material bodies, with all 
 their necessities and defects, their deformities 
 and weakness ? " 
 
 "I confess I don't know," said Douglas, 
 " but it's a rooted belief here that we shall 
 ' enter into glory ' with them. It's a good
 
 KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. 13^ 
 
 thing," lie added presently, '• that funerals are 
 more decorously conducted than they used to 
 be. My father has a story of the burying of 
 a certain Laird, whose coffin did not reach 
 the cemetery for a fortnight after it had 
 started." 
 
 " But why ? " I asked curiously. 
 
 He laughed. " Oh, too much hospitality," 
 he said. " The relations and friends had to 
 keep their spirits up ; I suppose, then it was 
 a case of ' like to like.' They did not get on 
 very far at a time, and had to rest rather 
 frequently by the way-side, but at last the 
 matter was accomplished." 
 
 " You need not be telling the child all 
 those things," said Bella rebukingly. " Such 
 customs belong to the past. They never 
 have such scenes now-a-days ; you must go 
 to Ireland for that." 
 
 "The Scotch are much more temperate 
 than they used to be, aie they not ? " I asked. 
 
 " Well," said Douglas, reflectively, " we 
 won't be too sure of that. They seem so. 
 But I have my own ideas on the subject.
 
 140 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 The^^'re very fond of their native beverage. 
 It may be a sin to do any manner of work on 
 the Sabbath day. I never heard — even in a 
 minister's family — that it was a sin to boil 
 the kettle for toddy ! " 
 
 We all laughed. We were descending the 
 hill now, and Bella was again in advance. 
 Douglas bent to me. "I suppose," he said 
 hurriedly, "you wonder I can laugh and jest, 
 and all the time my heart so full of you." 
 
 " No," I answered gravely, " I am very 
 glad you are so natural. It seems a little 
 strange to believe it all yet." 
 
 " It shall not be strange long, sweetheart. 
 Oh ! to have you to myself for one hour — 
 one hour. When is it to be ? Not really 
 till to-morrow. Could you not stroll out 
 to-night, to those meadows beyond Craig 
 Bank. I would wait for hours on the chance 
 of seeing you." 
 
 " Oh, no," I cried, startled by his im- 
 petuosity, " indeed I could not leave." 
 
 " I wish I had not offended Mrs. Lindsay," 
 he said regretfully, " I am always acting on
 
 KEEPING VP APPEAKANCES. 141 
 
 impulse and then regretting it. If I could 
 only make some excuse to call. I suppose 
 now Kenneth is always dropping in." 
 
 " But he is a relation," I said. 
 
 " So am I — in a way. A sixteenth cousin 
 or something. Well, Bella is waiting — won't 
 you try to see me this evening ? '' 
 
 I shook my head. The proposition was 
 tempting, but hazardous. 
 
 " I could not manage it, really. You must 
 wait till to-morrow afternoon." 
 
 " An eternity," he sighed. " Oh, why can't 
 Bella go on ? I must kiss you. I can't let 
 you go from me like this." 
 
 I drew back, abashed and colouring. 
 '• Please not," I said. Somehow, though I 
 could not explain it to him, I wanted to keep 
 the memory of that first kiss sacred for that 
 day. Xo other, so it seemed to me, could 
 ever be quite the same. 
 
 " You shy little thing. Xot that I would 
 have you different, sweetheart. God forbid ! 
 Well, good-bye, we must join your cousin, 
 she is lookinoj back for us : sav ' Good-
 
 142 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 bye, Douglas ' — and yet, no, not that ; it 
 sounds ominous ; I wish the word need never 
 be uttered between us — say ' till to-morrow, 
 Douglas.'" 
 
 And very meekly and obediently I 
 responded, " Till to-morrow, Douglas."
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 DAY DREAMS. 
 
 " white's the moon upon the tree, 
 And black the bushes on the brae, 
 And red the light in your window-pane. 
 
 TVhen will ye come away ? 
 see the moon is sailing on 
 
 Through fleecy clouds across the skies, 
 But fairer far the light I know, 
 
 The lovelight in your eyes." 
 
 " YoL' mustn't be letting yourself think too 
 much of Douglas Hay, little coz," said Bella, 
 as we went on to Craisf Bank, after biddinir 
 my lover good-bye. 
 
 I felt the colour spring warmly to my face. 
 Would they never give up warning and 
 setting me against him. 
 
 " Wliat makes you say that ? " I asked. 
 
 She looked very wise. 
 
 '' I know him and his ways, and you don't. 
 I have told you before he's just a fearful flirt,
 
 141 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 and I can see lie's trying it on with you, just 
 as with everybody else. The wind that blows 
 is not more fickle and uncertain than Douglas 
 Hay." 
 
 "My dear Bella," I said, somewhat 
 impatiently, "I wish you would give up 
 speaking about him. You've never a good 
 word to say, and yet to his face you are all 
 that is pleasant and friendly." 
 
 " I've known him since he was a lad no 
 higher than that," she said, holding her hand 
 a few spans from the ground ; " so it would 
 look odd if I was not civil. But with you it 
 is different." 
 
 Yes, I thought to myself, very different. 
 But I did not feel the least inclination to take 
 her into my confidence. It was very hard 
 though to hear Douglas Hay constantly 
 abused and found fault with. How I longed 
 to be able to defend him. How I should 
 have loved to face them all — my hand in his 
 — and say, " He is mine — my love, my lover. 
 You will see he can be true at last." 
 
 I wonder now that I was not more distrust-
 
 DAY DKEAMS. 145 
 
 fill — that I did not feel afraid his love for me 
 was but a Ught aiid passing fancy — as so 
 many of his loves seemed to have been. But 
 perhaps I was too young then to be distrust- 
 ful ; that is the bitter lesson of later years 
 taught in the school of experience. I felt 
 proud of my love for him and my belief in 
 him. It was all so wonderful — so new — so 
 sudden — but it was very sweet to my heart 
 that night. 
 
 I remember when I vrent to my room I 
 blew out the candle and sat by the open 
 window, looking over the fields where I had 
 walked with him. 
 
 The moon was shining brilliantly in the 
 sky ; the soft air was full of scents of roses 
 from the garden below. As 1 sat and looked 
 I saw a figure afar off, leanino- afjainst the 
 
 O ^ CD C 
 
 Stile that crossed the footpath. I felt sure it 
 was his figure. The moonUcrht showed me 
 the now familiar Highland bonnet, set so 
 jauntil}^ on the soft brown curls — the strong 
 slight form, so supple and active and graceful. 
 Even at that distance the thought of his 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 presence brought the colour to my face. 
 Had he ever troubled himself to watch the 
 light from any other woman's window — had 
 he ever said to them such words as he had 
 said to me to-day ? 
 
 Instinctively I felt he had not. Flirt, 
 laugh, jest as he might, surely that one look 
 in his eyes was no pretence, but as earnest as 
 his feeling — as fond as my heart. 
 
 It was pleasant to sit there, unseen — to 
 watch him as he, unconscious of my observa- 
 tion or presence, kept his own guard over 
 me. 
 
 Ah me ! How foolish and how useless and 
 how far away seems that time now. I 
 wonder often can I be the same Athole 
 Lindsay who sat dreaming by her casement 
 on that sweet summer night — who watched 
 the gracious glory of the heavens with so 
 glad a soul, so innocent a heart — to whom 
 love came in angel's guise, with never a 
 thought of wrong or shame or suffering to 
 mar its beauty — who was content enough 
 then but to know her lover was near — his
 
 DAY DREAMS. 147 
 
 thoughts and dreams with her, as hers with 
 him ? 
 
 Ah dear Heaven ! to which our vain 
 prayers rise, surely you must pity and 
 wonder at us ! The faith and hopes of youth 
 that again and yet again are born to dis- 
 appointment — the sorrows and sufferings of 
 maturity, that again and yet again are 
 reahzed — the broken idols — the futile hopes — 
 the vain expectances ! . . . . 
 
 The night grew later. The moon veiled 
 herself behind dim soft clouds, and one by 
 one the stars grew faint and faded slowly out 
 of sight. The figure by the stile turned 
 slowly away at last and, followed by my 
 unheard farewell, passed up the pathway and 
 through the dewy shades of copse and hedge- 
 row, and so out of the circle of light, away 
 from my happy, wakeful eyes. 
 
 When I woke next mornin<T it was rainincr 
 heavily. A dreary, dull, persistent rain, that 
 gave no promise of clearing off for many 
 hours to come. 
 
 10*
 
 118 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 I looked out at tlie sodden garden— the 
 dripping trees — the wet, misty fields, and 
 shivered as I looked. No prospect of that 
 meeting if this weather continued — no hope 
 of seeing Douglas Hay to-day. I put on a 
 warm serge dress and went down to breakfast, 
 feeling melancholy and depressed. 
 
 There was no enchantment in the air 
 now. No glorious world of yesterday ! The 
 splendour of sunlight and hope seemed to 
 have vanished together, for in all these long, 
 wet, dreary hours I should be alone. Alone 
 to all intents and purposes, since — even in 
 this brief time — my world was narrowing 
 itself to one presence, and finding out how 
 much that meant. 
 
 Grannie noted my depression and quietude, 
 and expressed concern thereat in many fond 
 and sympathetic words. She put it down to 
 fatigue, and was inclined to blame Bella for 
 that walk to Tom na-IIurich, which she de- 
 clared was a great deal too much for me. 
 
 I got away from her at last, and shut myself 
 in the little drawing-room to practise my
 
 DAY DREAMS. 149 
 
 singing. I knew she would not disturb me 
 there. I fear the practice was very me- 
 chanical, and only served as an excuse for 
 my solitary musings. But at least I could 
 dream undisturbed, as I softly struck chance 
 notes, or hummed an air, or ran up a scale. 
 
 I played all the songs I had heard Douglas 
 sinof. Thev all had memorv and meanincr 
 now. I thought of the first evening we had 
 met. How strangely attracted I had felt — 
 how complete had been my enjoyment. 
 
 There were many other memories now, 
 besides that first one. Every place where we 
 had walked — the riverside — the meadows, 
 green with the ripening barley crops — the 
 green hedgerows — the stile where we had 
 met and parted yesterday. My heart was 
 full of phantoms, chasing each other with 
 vague and foolish restlessness. I had no 
 calm — no peace now ; I wanted him again — 
 wanted to hear his voice — to meet his eyes — 
 to be sure that he loved me — that I had not 
 only dreamt of those sweet words of his. 
 
 Keen pangs of fear began to tear my
 
 160 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 heart. If lie had not really meant them — if 
 what Bella said of him was true ! 
 
 Ah, no — no ! Faith was very strong in me 
 then, and my ignorance and innocence of 
 men and of the world gave me no real foot- 
 hold for suspicions such as later years might 
 bring. But oh — to see him again — to hear 
 the assurance for which my heart craved. I 
 grew impatient. I went to the window\ 
 Alas ! the weather w^as more hopeless than 
 ever. The rain pelted against the panes, the 
 wind blew in fierce and fitful gusts, shaking 
 the rose-petals ruthlessly from their stems, 
 the loosened gravel ran in red streams down 
 the garden paths, great grey masses of cloud 
 shut out the sky and allowed but chance 
 gleams of sunlight. 
 
 I shivered at the dreary prospect, and 
 presently Grannie came bustling in — de- 
 claring I must be cold, and that old Jean 
 must light a fire. I did not attempt to deny 
 that I was cold — and nothing could have 
 been more welcome on that dreary, tempes- 
 tuous July day, than the leaping flames that
 
 DAY DREAMS. 151 
 
 soon filled the wide old grate, and gave a 
 new appearance of comfort to the stiff and 
 formal room. 
 
 I took a volume of Scott's poems from the 
 book-case, and settled myself down by the 
 fire for a quiet read. I had but scant 
 acquaintance with Scotch literature — though 
 I had read largely and widely of English, 
 French and German authors, Kenneth had 
 taken me to task for my ignorance of Scott — 
 so I straightway plunged into " Marmion " 
 and the " Lady of the Lake," by way of 
 making up for lost time. 
 
 The beautiful imagery and bold ring of the 
 words soon arrested my attention, and I 
 became gradually more and more absorbed 
 in the poems. For two hours I read on 
 undisturbed, and in rapt enjoyment of a new 
 world and new scenes. Then a pleasant 
 sense of peace and drowsiness stole over me. 
 I closed the book, and closed my eyes. I 
 forgot the rain and the wild blasts, and the 
 disappointment the weather had brought me. 
 I fell asleep and dreamt of golden meadows.
 
 152 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 and flowers — unlike all flowers of earth — of a 
 hand-clasp warm on mine, and a voice for 
 ever whispering in my ear, " I love you, 
 sweetheart — onl}^ you — only you." Of the 
 lucid, lovely green of birch and larch, as the 
 sunlight filtered through their leaves — of 
 woodland plumes, alight in the glow of 
 sunset ; and still I seemed wandering, wan- 
 dering, with joyful tireless feet to some far-off 
 and beckoning mountain-height, where the 
 rosy clouds lay piled in masses of beauty, and 
 the last sweet glow of daylight seemed to 
 rest. Then the scene changed, and I was in 
 a dark and lonely cave. The water dripped 
 from roof and sides. A strange dull light 
 showed me its depth and extent. My feet 
 seemed slipping on slimy moss and dank 
 moist floor. I felt cold and frightened, and 
 tried in vain to follow my companion. I 
 could see him hurrying far ahead, but I could 
 not keep up with him, or reach him. And 
 then suddenly a dull red glow seemed to leap 
 up in the darkness, and a face looked out at 
 me. A woman's face — mocking — triumphant
 
 DAY DREAMS. 153 
 
 — evil. And, lo ! my lover was beside lier ; 
 and, between us, tlie fire rose and spread — 
 making a barrier I could not pass, and from 
 which I shrank, trembling and affrighted. 
 Eedder and redder the red glow gleamed — 
 fiercer and fiercer the flames roared and 
 spread. Imploringly I held out my arms, but 
 he never seemed to heed — for those other 
 arms held him back, and that lovely evil face 
 defied me ; and, far above the roar of the 
 flames, I heard her voice in its triumph and its 
 pride : " He is mine — mine — mine. Xo other 
 woman shall come between us while I live !" 
 And then, suddenly, and with a cold thrill of 
 fear, numbing vein and sense alike, I saw and 
 recognized the face. 
 
 It was that of Dora Dunleith. 
 
 Cold, and trembling, I awoke, and sprang 
 up from my chair. The vivid horrors of 
 that dream seemed still to hold me. I looked 
 round the warm and cosy room — with the 
 ruddy fire-flames dancing on the old-fashioned 
 furniture — the quaint, spindle-legged chairs
 
 154 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN, 
 
 and tables — the worsted work and wax 
 flowers, that were the achievements of 
 Grannie's grandchildren, and of which she 
 was very proud. 
 
 How safe and warm and pleasant it all 
 looked. Yet I was trembling in every limb. 
 I could not shake off the superstitious terror 
 of my dream. What had it meant ? Was 
 it prophetic ? 
 
 In a moment my thoughts flew back to 
 the Islands — to the fallen log under the dark 
 shade of the trees and the two figures sitting 
 there. Again I saw the pale glitter of golden 
 hair — the graceful figure in its grey linen 
 dress — the large soft eyes raised, half 
 curiously, to mine, as our brief glances 
 challenged each other. I had never thought 
 of her since that morning. What could have 
 made her face so vivid in my dream — I felt 
 angered with myself for my folly. I tried 
 to think that " The Lady of the Lake " and 
 the memory of Douglas Hay's " Witch o' 
 Cawdor " had been the cause of my curious — 
 and certainly terribly real — vision. Still, I
 
 DAY DEEAMS. 155 
 
 was utterly unnerved, and in vain tried to 
 recover my composure. 
 
 The rain was lighter now ; there were a 
 few gleams and breaks in the dark grey 
 clouds. I tried to convince myself that 
 those signs were hopeful — that I might still 
 keep the tryst of that afternoon. 
 
 As I knelt down by the bright blaze and 
 picked up my fallen volume of Scott, I heard 
 the bell ring. 
 
 In another moment there came the sound 
 of the hall-door closing — then a quick, firm 
 step, which already my heart seemed to 
 recognize. 
 
 Trembling — doubtful — eager, I sprang to 
 my feet, as the door was flung open, and old 
 Jean ushered in Douglas Hay. 
 
 To say I was amazed, is to say very little. 
 His visit seemed at once so bold and so 
 audacious. Scarcely had the door closed on 
 Jean, before I was folded in his arms — my 
 lips covered with eager kisses. 
 
 "My darling — I couldn't keep away. It 
 was no use trying. Hell and furies wouldn't
 
 153 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 have held me back. You haven't been out of 
 my thoughts a single mstant since yesterday." 
 
 "But what will Grannie think — what will 
 she say to me ? " I exclaimed, as, flushing 
 and joyful, and trembling in every limb, I 
 tried to draw myself from those warm and 
 eager arms. 
 
 " Oh ! bother Grannie ! I'll get over her. 
 I'll swear I've brought you a message from 
 the Gamer ons." 
 
 " How could you have come out in such 
 weather ! " I continued, looking admiringly 
 at the clustering curls — all damp and bright 
 with rain — that the Scotch bonnet no longer 
 hid. 
 
 " Why, I'm not made of sugar, child ! " 
 he said, laughing. " And I'm sorry for 
 Scotch blood and Scotch chivalry, if they 
 wouldn't dare a worse thing than weather, 
 for the sake of the lassie of their love." 
 
 The answer was so sweet, and the lips that 
 gave it so masterful in their claims, that I 
 could make no response. 
 
 How proud I felt of him. How I loved
 
 DAY DREAMS. 157 
 
 liim in his daring, and his boldness, and his 
 bright eager youth. 
 
 Was there ever anyone so handsome, and 
 so loving and so bold ? I asked myself. And, 
 having no previous experience to draw upon, 
 was well content to answer : " Xo." 
 
 I sat down in my chair by the fire, and he 
 took one opposite to me. "For propriety, 
 not from choice," he explained. 
 
 Then I prepared to entertain him till 
 Grannie should come in, feeling not a little 
 nervous, however, as to the manner in which 
 she would look upon this unexpected visitor. 
 
 « t>f~^ -l-lgg 'Cl- H^^^^ ^^-
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 '' Oh, haste, haste — the night is sweet, 
 But sweeter far what I would hear. 
 And I have a secret to tell to you 
 A whisper in your ear." 
 
 But Grannie did not come in for a long time. 
 She was busy over culinary matters, and, as 
 I learnt afterwards, took Douglas Hay's visit 
 very coolly. 
 
 " I suppose lie's brought some message for 
 the bairn," she said to Jean, and, satisfied 
 with that conjecture, left us to entertain each 
 other. 
 
 Needless to say we did that very success- 
 fully. 
 
 Douglas was no laggard wooer, and assur- 
 edly possessed none of those national virtues 
 of caution and cool-headedness I had always 
 heard lauded. I was supremely happy that 
 morning. Outside, the rain beat remorselessly
 
 THE OLD STOEY. 159 
 
 ou the window-panes, and filmy mists and 
 broken gusts of wind showed that the storm 
 was in no mood to clear. But the little 
 drawing-room was, for the time being, a region 
 of enchantment and seclusion. 
 
 We did not speak of the future, the present 
 was enough for us, as yet. And how 
 wonderful that present seemed. How, again 
 and again, we asked each other the still in- 
 explicable riddle — " Why do you care ? 
 What could have made you think of me — 
 love me ? Anyone else would have been 
 natural, as choice for that divine heart-gift, 
 but not I— not you." And so on, with all the 
 foolish happy talk and doubt and wonderment 
 that love has ever known and ever taught. 
 
 Presently I told him of my dream, to be 
 softly chided that even in a dream I should 
 have learned that sin of Doubt. He was so 
 true, he would always be so true — promises 
 signed and sealed with that " for ever " of 
 love, which means just as much, or as little, 
 as each life may choose. 
 
 " Never doubt me, sweetheart. I could not
 
 160 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 cease to love you. I could not care for any 
 other woman. I know it — I am sure of it. 
 You fancy, because you have heard so much 
 against me, that I am fickle. Indeed, indeed, 
 I am not. All men are fickle till they find 
 the right woman. Instinct shows her to us. 
 We recognize in a moment what we have been 
 seeking. We are content. We ask no more 
 of any other." 
 
 It was sweet to listen to him — sweet to 
 believe the truth of those words — sweet to 
 revel in the wonderment and wherefore of 
 those first steps in love's rosy pathway. Why 
 should we have met, why should we have 
 cared? We agreed it was Fate — or some- 
 thing even kinder and holier. Some angel's 
 blessed power that from our birth had watched 
 over us and guided us to this supreme 
 moment. Our voices grew lower and softer 
 — eyes said more than speech. Heart and 
 soul were filled with a joy almost too deep, 
 too great to bear. 
 
 From love's divine world I drew him back 
 to earth again.
 
 THE OLD STORY. 161 
 
 " You promised to take me to this witcli, 
 Douglas. Did you mean it ? " 
 
 " Of course, my darling, if you care to 
 come. We will go to morrow if you like. 
 This rain is too violent to last. . . . You 
 won't be afraid, Athole ? " 
 
 " Afraid — with you ! " 
 
 He crossed over to my side and wound his 
 arms about me. I lifted my face to his. 
 
 " Oh, Douglas ! you are sure you love 
 me ? '*' 
 
 " As sure as that I live, sweetheart." 
 
 " But — before ? I am not the only one. 
 You have loved other women — kissed them, 
 perhaps, but I — oh, Douglas ! there has been 
 no one — no one in my life till you came to 
 hU it." 
 
 He bent his head on 1113^ shoulder. 
 
 " Believe me, you are the first woman who 
 has taught me love. As for the past . . 
 every man has to live through some experi- 
 ence. His nature and the world force him to 
 do it. But the fancied pleasure is never half 
 so keen, sweetheart, as the regret that follows 
 VOL. r. 11
 
 162 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 after, when he knows what the love of a good 
 woman reall}^ means, and wishes that for her 
 sake he had been stronger and better." 
 
 I drew myself away from his arms. My 
 heart felt jjained and saddened. Already 
 love was teaching me that vague jealousy, 
 that longing to know" who and what has 
 " been before " in the life one loves, that all 
 women feel whenever they love. 
 
 He saw the cloud and tried to learn its 
 meaning, but I could not have put my thoughts 
 into words. 
 
 " If you should change. If I should lose 
 you . . ." 
 
 I clung to him in sudden terror. Already 
 in this short time to have let my life go out 
 to another, and that other, one of whom I 
 knew so little. It was strange, it was incom- 
 prehensible, but all the same I knew it was 
 only too true. 
 
 " Dearest, do not persist in saying that," he 
 entreated. " Surely I know my own heart, 
 my own feelings. When I saw you first, that 
 night at the Ma cplier sons', I knew, A thole, I
 
 THE OLD STORY. 163 
 
 should love you. AVlien I met your eyes in 
 the hall, all full of tears, as I came out after 
 sincfiDCf 'Auld Eobm Gray' it seemed as 
 if all my heart went out to you. Oh, 
 darlinof ! if I could onlv make you believe — 
 if you were only as sure of me as I am of 
 myself. " 
 
 The handsome face, the eager eyes, the 
 loving lips, who could resist them ? I let 
 myself be convinced, I gave every assurance 
 for which he asked. AVe were once more 
 happy. 
 
 Our interview must have lasted quite half- 
 an-hour before Grannie come in to disturb us. 
 She was quite cordial and gracious to the 
 young man — accepted his excuse of a message 
 from Bella to me with praiseworthy credulity, 
 sat there by the hre with us, as pleasant and 
 cheery as only a sweet and kindly old Scotch 
 lady could be. Then she insisted Douglas 
 must stay for some lunch, and bustled off to 
 see about Jean's preparations in that line. 
 
 '' It is a shame to deceive her," I said, when 
 
 we were again alone. 
 
 11*
 
 164 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " Shall I tell her ever3'thing then, and get 
 a decree of banishment ? " laughed Douglas. 
 
 I shivered. 
 
 " Oh no ! but perhaps things might not be 
 so bad as you imagine." ^ 
 
 " My dear child," he said gloomily, " they 
 would be as bad as bad could be. I have 
 no money — no profession — no matrimonial 
 advantages whatever, and I am looked 
 upon with extreme disfavour among the 
 ' unco guid ' folk of the town. What 
 could I expect for my audacity in loving 
 you? Not that I care for myself. But 'tis 
 a shame that your visit should be spoilt, 
 and it certainly would be if this were 
 known." 
 
 I was easily persuaded. It was much 
 pleasanter to be taken in hand and have things 
 decided for one than to have to act for 
 oneself. Besides, who at seventeen regards 
 love as the prosaic portal of matrimony ? It 
 is an idyll — a dream — a beautiful vague 
 mystery — one does not wish to analyze it, or 
 discuss it. Only to know that it is ours is
 
 THE OLD STOKY. 165 
 
 enough, the present is far too sweet for the 
 future to affect it. 
 
 "^ "^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^p 
 
 Douglas must have made himself very fasci- 
 nating indeed, for Grannie actually asked him 
 to drop in with the other young folk on the 
 evening of the dinner-party, thereby winning 
 my eternal gratitude, and presenting that 
 festive occasion in a new and much more 
 delightful aspect to my eyes. Douglas's 
 presence would make all the difference to me. 
 I could have hugged the dear old lady in the 
 access of gratitude and wonder which that 
 unexpected invitation occasioned. 
 
 I think even Douglas was surprised, but 
 needless to say he accepted it with an alacrity 
 and delight which must have been highly 
 gratifying. 
 
 After luncheon he took leave of us, despite 
 the weather. We had arranged between our- 
 selves that we would pay that visit to the 
 Witch of Cawdor on the next afternoon. I 
 knew Grannie was going to Nairn to visit an 
 old friend who was very ill. I should be free
 
 166 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 to do wliat I pleased, and could only hope 
 tliat tlie weather might favour our plans and 
 behave with more consideration than it had 
 done to-day. 
 
 My last thoughts when I fell asleep that 
 night were of that projected visit. I slept 
 soundly, dreamlessly, waking with that soft, 
 vague ecstacy that speaks of peace and happy 
 memories. 
 
 Alas ! Alas ! That time does not tarry 
 long with us ! 
 
 The weather had changed. The sky was 
 clear and bright once more. 
 
 Bella came round after breakfast to see me, 
 and we walked round the garden, lamenting 
 the havoc done to the strawberries and 
 currants. 
 
 I told her that I was going to the Witch's 
 Cave that afternoon with Douglas, a piece of 
 information she received with great disfavour. 
 But I coaxed her round to her usual s^ood 
 humour at last, and when Grannie departed to 
 the station at mid-day, I believe she was
 
 THE OLD STORY. 167 
 
 under the impression that Bella was to take 
 care of me during her absence. 
 
 " It is better she should think so," said my 
 cousin. " Xot that I would be denying any- 
 thing if she asked me. But she's gone off 
 happy in her mind, the dear old lady, and if I 
 know anything of her and of Mrs. Mactavish, 
 there'll be such ' havers ' and clacketing as 
 never was. She's one of Grannie's pet cronies. 
 I wonder she didn't take you with her. Oh I 
 but she's ill, poor body." 
 
 '• Grannie wants me to go to Xairn for the 
 sea bathing," I said, pulling a half-blown rose 
 from the stem and fastening it in my dark 
 serene 2'own. "She thinks it willdo me a 
 world of good." 
 
 "I daresay she's right. But you look won- 
 derfully better already." 
 
 " Oh, I feel quite strong and well," I said 
 
 gaily. 
 
 " It's just a grand place, this," said Bella, 
 with complacent pride in her right to sing its 
 praises. " Where would you find the like of 
 the air, and the scenerv, and P "
 
 168 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPJiN. 
 
 " The weather ? " I interrupted. " Think 
 of yesterday, Bella." 
 
 "It just makes you appreciate to-day all 
 the more, 3^ou saucy bit thing. But look, 
 here comes your gallant. Certainly he is a 
 well-favoured lad is Douglas Hay. I'm not 
 the one to deny it ; but mind, Athole, I've not 
 spared my warnings. Take care of your 
 heart." 
 
 I laughed, but the colour sprang rosily 
 warm to my face as the welcome figure 
 approached. He looked a little put out 
 when he saw my companion. Perhaps Bella 
 noticed it. At all events she hastened to 
 assure him that she was not going to accom- 
 pany us on our expedition. 
 
 " It's a great deal too far for Athole to 
 walk," she added. " But she's just as wilful 
 as yourself, so I know there's no use in 
 speaking." 
 
 " It's not so far as it looks," said Douglas 
 cheerily. " And I know a very short cut 
 to the Cave. I found it out accidentally, 
 and I'll take her that way. We've got
 
 THE OLD STORY. 169 
 
 plenty of time. It's only two o'clock 
 now. ' 
 
 " AVell, take care of the child," Bella said 
 warningly, " or Grannie will be fine and 
 angry with you both. And what's to become 
 of her dinner party if anything happens ? " 
 she added laughingly. 
 
 " Do you know I've been invited on that 
 evening ? " asked Douglas, with an assump- 
 tion of dignity and importance that almost 
 rivalled Kenneth's manner. 
 
 Bella looked astonished. 
 
 " Xo — reallv? I believe vou're ioking ! 
 Has he been asked, Athole ? " 
 
 " Indeed, yes," I said. " Grannie invited 
 him herself." 
 
 " Oh, then you've been forgiven for your 
 misbehavour P " she said, res^ardinor him with 
 evident curiosity. 
 
 " Will that Sunday walk ever be for- 
 gotten ? " he answered laughing. " One 
 would think it was a criminal offence. I 
 suppose, Miss Bella, you agree with the 
 minister, who, when a parishioner told him
 
 170 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 she had the Lord's own example for walking 
 among the cornfields on the Sabbath Bay, 
 said rebukingly, ' I do not deny that, Mary, 
 but let me tell you that I dinna think the 
 more o' Him for doing it ! ' " 
 
 " Now, now," said Bella warningly. 
 " When 3^ou begin with your anecdotes, 
 you're nigh as ungodly as papa. He's just 
 stocked with such stories, and that's one of 
 them. I'm not going to listen, so you and 
 Athole had better be off to your Witch, and 
 much good may she do you ! " 
 
 " Is that a benediction ? " asked Douglas. 
 " You don't happen to have a charm of any 
 sort, do you, to give your cousin, so as to 
 prevent her being spirited away on a broom- 
 stick, or some such catastrophe ? " 
 
 " You're a foolish callant," said Bella, " and 
 only that you've grown so tall and manly I'd 
 like to box your ears as I used to do." 
 
 Tlien she nodded gaily, and went off down 
 the road to the town leavins^ us tog:etlier.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE witch's CAVEEX. 
 
 " Loud sobs and laughter imder-ran, 
 
 And voices unlike the voice of man, 
 
 As if the fiends kept holiday 
 
 Becanse these spells were wrought to-day." 
 M^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 " Mv sand is run — my thread is spun — 
 This sign regardeth me." 
 
 The way might liave been long or short. To 
 me it was filled with all the light and perfume 
 of summer, and all the joy and dreams and 
 delight of first love. 
 
 Douglas was in wild spirits ; he told me 
 legends and tales without end, humorous, 
 mysterious, witty, as the case might be. 
 
 " Our old servant at home, Janet Scott, is 
 just full of these stories," he said at last. 
 " My childhood and boyhood were well dosed 
 with them, and I didn't dare tell her I didn't 
 believe them."
 
 172 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " Does she know the Witch ? " I asked. 
 
 '• Janet ? oh, yes. She's great in favour 
 with her, and many's the bottle of whisky, 
 and bowl of oatmeal, that finds its way to 
 old wife Garvie's retreat, I'm thinking." 
 
 "But is she really a witch, or is it just a 
 superstition of the folk about here ? " 
 
 He laughed. " You had better judge for 
 yourself. If looks mean anything, hers are 
 uncanny enough. She is terribly ugly. 
 However, sweetheart, I'm not going to let her 
 frighten you." 
 
 Impulsively I clung to his arm. How bold 
 and strong and handsome he was. More 
 than ever I wondered what he could have 
 seen in me to care for. A little, dusky- 
 haired, insignificant slip of a girl, neither 
 pretty, nor witty, nor brilliant. 
 
 However, I was too happy to do just more 
 than wonder. It was so plain he did care, so 
 evident in every look and tone that I met or 
 heard. 
 
 So we went on arm in arm, or hand in 
 hand, over rough roads and pathways, climb-
 
 THE WITCH'S CAVEEN. 173 
 
 inor stiles, skirtino' baiiev fields, drmkino- in 
 sweet air and golden sunshine, liappy as 
 youth and love and freedom could make us. 
 
 The way was certainly long, but I was 
 conscious of no fatigue. I had but a vague 
 remembrance of how we went, or by what 
 means we seemed to come suddenly upon the 
 Cave where the redoubtable witch had made 
 her dwelling-place. 
 
 The entrance was concealed by bushes. 
 When Douglas Hay pulled them aside, I saw 
 only a dark recess, which seemed to stretch 
 far away into vague depths of darkness. The 
 dripping of water sounded in a monotonous 
 patter in the distance. The coldness and 
 dampness and gloom struck with chilling awe 
 on my nerves and senses. I turned to 
 Douglas in a sudden access of terror and 
 foreboding. 
 
 " It is a terrible place. 1 am sorry I 
 came," I whispered. 
 
 " Shall we go away, then ? " he asked. 
 
 But a sudden shame for my momentary 
 cowardice made me insist on pursuing the
 
 174 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 adventure. Indeed just as I stood hesitating 
 there, a rough, harsh voice from the interior 
 of the Cave, demanded our business, and 
 requested us to come in if we wished. 
 
 Still chnging to Douglas's hand, I went 
 forward through the darkness, stumbling over- 
 the rough, uneven floor, hearing always that 
 monotonous drip-drip of falling water. At 
 last a dull hght came into view — the gleam of 
 a peat fire, by which a solitary figure 
 crouched, stretching lean and withered hands 
 to the blaze as if for warmth. 
 
 " Come in, ye whaup, come in," crooned a 
 harsh voice. " Ye will na think that I dinna 
 ken ye, and the leddy too. Sit ye doon, baith 
 o' ye. It wass a prood day for auld wife 
 Garvie when the Southron leddy cam' to her, 
 and it's muckle she could say aboot the twain 
 o' ye." 
 
 There was a rough, wooden bench near the 
 fire, and to this Douglas led me, while his 
 cheery voice answered back the old woman's 
 greeting. 
 
 As ni}^ eyes grew accustomed to the dim
 
 THE WITCH'S CAVERN. 175 
 
 light, I looked at her with increased curiosity. 
 A wrinkled, weather-beaten face, gnarled and 
 brown as a tree-stem. Wisps of grey hair 
 straying from a not over clean " mutch " or 
 cap. A garb which seemed composed of any 
 scraps and ends of tattered clothing, man or 
 woman's, that she had been able to collect — 
 fierce-looking, dark eyes, that gleamed redly 
 in the iire-li<zht — altoo-ether an ill-favoured 
 and repulsive specimen of feminine humanity. 
 
 " I've brought ye a present, wife," said 
 Douglas presently, as he produced a flask from 
 an inner pocket of his coat. " Something to 
 keep the cold out of your bones." 
 
 " Ye were aye a gude calhint," muttered 
 the old woman. " And who should ken that 
 better than Meg Garvie, who held ye in her 
 airms your birth-nicht and your puir, young 
 mither nigh giving up the ghaist ? But it's a 
 sair fortune for ye, lad, and an ill day for the 
 lass that may love ye. Ye've no' the face nor 
 the luik that brings gude to maid or wife. 
 Many's the time I've tell't ye so." 
 
 " Come, come, old wife. Xone of your ill
 
 176 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 omens to-day," laughed Douglas. " You'll be 
 frightening the young lady, and I wanted you 
 to cheer her up, and tell her some good of her 
 future whatever may be your opinion of mine." 
 
 The red eyes flashed suddenly and search- 
 ingly upon my face. Then the old woman 
 began to rock herself to and fro, every now 
 and then indulging in a sip at the whisky- 
 flask, while she crooned away half to herself, 
 half to us, the following mysterious jargon : — 
 
 " 111 fa's the fate when the young and the 
 auld match togither. Ill for the lass is the 
 love o' the lad that woos her sae young and 
 sae trustful, and ill for the lad is the fierce, 
 wild love that he woke wi'out thought, and 
 won wi'out care, and that follows him into the 
 future. Shadows, shadows, shadows, dark 
 and ill and man}^, the}^ lower o'er twain and 
 three ; and ill-faured and fearsome the fate o' 
 the braw wooer and the lass that he loves. 
 Faith will na' hold and trust will na' stay. 
 Dark fa's the clouds o'er the Bridal Day. 
 Pale is the bride and tearful her ee. Gane is 
 the brideOTOom she dreamt there to see . . .
 
 THE WITCH'S CAVERN. 177 
 
 Eaith is na fause, but loving and loth, the 
 Laird and the leddy hae plighted their troth." 
 
 I looked at Douglas, only half comprehend- 
 ing the muttered words in their queer accent 
 and occasional lapses into Gaelic. 
 
 He was writing them down with pencil and 
 paper, and I afterwards made him give me a 
 copy of them. 
 
 " What does she mean ? " I whispered. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing, do not pay any 
 attention," he said hurriedly. " She's not in 
 a good temper to-day." 
 
 The old woman, still rocking her withered 
 frame to and fro in the fire-light, looked in a 
 stupefied, bleared way at us both. 
 
 " I hear ye, Douglas Hay," she said suddenly. 
 " And ye ken weel that's it's nae truth ye're 
 speaking. Many's the time, ye idle, laughing, 
 graceless callant, that I've prophesied to ye 
 the fate I foresaw. Ye love too often and too 
 easy to love well and truly, and many's the 
 broken heart that ye ken of — and will ken 
 again " 
 
 " Hush, hush, wife, speak fair," interrupted 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 THE LAIRD 0' COOKPEN. 
 
 Douglas. " I'm not so bad as ye pretend to 
 think me. You'll be frightening the young 
 lady, and indeed, I'm sorry now I brought 
 her, seeing you are not well-disposed to either 
 of us to-day." 
 
 " Ye maun not think that, Douglas Hay. 
 I've no forgotten ye, a bit bairn that greeted 
 so sair in my auld airms, and the dead mither 
 in the Kirk- yard. But there's the black mark 
 i' your line and your race, lad, and ye'll no 
 escape, try as ye may. There's ill bluid 
 betwixt fayther and son, and it will aye stir 
 and burn i' your veins, and wax hotter and 
 fiercer till wrath and evil shall spring from 
 it, and hame and country shall ken ye nae 
 more." 
 
 " Oh, come away, come away," I cried in 
 sudden terror of all these horrible prophecies. 
 " Don't listen to her, Douglas, don't. Let us 
 go home. Why, oh why, did you ever bring 
 me here ? " 
 
 The tears were running down my face. 
 Tears of terror and grief, the like of which I 
 had never known. The darkness and gloom
 
 THE WITCH'S CAVERN. 179 
 
 of the Cave seemed closing round me, tlie air 
 felt stifling and oppressive. 
 
 With a sudden effort I tried to draw my 
 lover away from the horrible place, away to 
 where the green, sunny world of wood and 
 sunhght might banish these horrors. But 
 suddenly my strength seemed to fail. My feet 
 refused to stir. Something of the feeling that 
 oppresses one in nightmare seemed to stifle 
 and surround me. I gave a faint cry, a gasp 
 for breath, as the black darkness seemed to 
 close around. 
 
 I remember no more. 
 
 ***** 
 
 When I recovered I was lying on the grass, 
 supported by Douglas's arms, my face and 
 hair wet with the water he had brought from 
 the spring near by. 
 
 I struggled to my feet, feeling ashamed of 
 my weakness, but the terror of that scene was 
 still upon me, and I looked round afraid I 
 should see that horrible face again, and the 
 evil gleam of the red eyes as they watched me. 
 
 " Don't look so frightened," entreated 
 
 12*
 
 180 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 Douglas. " She won't molest us here. Oh, 
 darling, I'm so sorry I took you there. I 
 never dreamt she would be in such a diaboli- 
 cal mood." 
 
 I clung to him, faint and speechless. It was 
 something more than mortal fear that chilled 
 my heart and froze my blood and left upon me 
 from that hour the dread of impending evil, 
 the certainty that some dreadful fate was in 
 store for me, and that my lover would share 
 in its sorrow. 
 
 I did not tell him so. I only clung to him, 
 helpless and sad, listening to his cheering 
 words and trying to believe them, but sure, 
 with an inward certainty that defied explana- 
 tion, that evil days were in store for us, that 
 the beauty of our love-dream would be only 
 equalled by its brevity. 
 
 Slowly and wearily I retraced my steps. 
 How different the way looked now. 
 
 I think the impression borne in u23on my 
 mind, then and for ever, was the impotence 
 of human will against Fate. Something had 
 come between my lover and myself — warning
 
 THE WITCH'S CAVEEN. 181 
 
 — omen — premonition — call it wliat you will, 
 but I could neither reason asainst nor over- 
 come it. We should never be happy — we 
 should know no sweet smooth stream of 
 wedded love over which to float our frail bark 
 of happiness, and all his cheering words and 
 loving speeches were of no avail. Heavier and 
 heavier grew my heart as we neared home, 
 and there rang in my ears unceasingly the ill- 
 omened words of the witch. " Ye love too 
 often and too easy to love well, and many's 
 the broken heart that ye ken of — and will ken 
 again." 
 
 It was the same storv again, the storv 
 everyone had told me of Douglas Hay, and 
 which I would not let myself believe. Swiftly 
 as my love had sprung to life, yet I knew in 
 my own heart it was a very deep and real 
 thing to me. It meant everything — every- 
 thing. 
 
 A summons had come and my spirit had 
 flung wide its doors to answer it — childhood 
 and girlhood had fled away, and love had 
 been the birth-kiss of womanhood.
 
 182 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 But of sucli feelings I could not speak. 
 They lay too deep — their joy so nearly 
 touched the border line of pain, and the 
 shadow of Love's wings seemed solemn and 
 mysterious as Death as they stretched over 
 my life and folded me in their close embrace. 
 
 Perhaps Douglas grew weary of his efforts 
 to rouse me — perhaps he wisely thought it 
 was best to let my mood have its way, for 
 gradually he ceased to speak, and in silence, 
 and now no longer hand in hand, we crossed 
 the hills and meadows to the old stile that 
 had become our trysting place. 
 
 The sky was growing overcast and lieav}^ 
 It was close on sunset, but the clouds in the 
 west were dark and violet-hued^ and only a 
 faint line of gold edged their glories. 
 
 "I wish I could cheer you, sweetheart," 
 said Douglas, tenderly. " You look so 
 sad and so wearied. I shall never forgive 
 myself for taking you to that old hag." 
 
 I tried to smile and reassure him, but I 
 know I echoed his wish with all my heart. 
 
 Suddenly he started.
 
 THE WITCH'S CAVERN. 183 
 
 " Good Heavens I " he exclaimed. " I 
 quite forgot I'm engaged to dine at ' The 
 Rowans ' to-night — I'll never ^et there bv 
 seven surely." 
 
 A little jealous pang shot through my 
 heart. I hated to think of his joiner there — 
 of the fair woman whose tall, lithe grace had 
 so impressed me. And she would have him 
 all to herself, and I should be alone the whole 
 loner evening. 
 
 He looked at me. " Whv what is it, little 
 one ? " he asked in surprise perhaps at my 
 face. I had not yet learnt to mask my 
 feeUngs. 
 
 " I wish — I wish you were not going there," 
 I said timidly. 
 
 "Why — whatever objection can you have 
 to Mrs. Dunleith ? You never spoke to her 
 in your life." 
 
 " No," I said abruptly, " and I don't wish 
 to do so." 
 
 " Why, sweetheart ? " and there was sur- 
 prise and pain also in his voice as he raised 
 my face and made me meet his eyes.
 
 184 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEK 
 
 "Surely you are not jealous — ^jealous of that 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," I said mendaciously, " only — 
 only — well I suppose it sounds selfish, 
 Douglas, but I don't like to think of you 
 laughing, talking, flirting, perhaps, with her, 
 and I so lonely and so miserable here to- 
 night." 
 
 " Oh, dearest," he cried reproachfully, 
 " you must not think such things of me. 
 They are untrue and unkind, and — and they 
 hurt me, Athole. For God's sake let me 
 think one woman trusts me and believes in 
 me. Every beat of heart and every thought 
 of mine will be yours and with you, sweet- 
 heart. Don't 3^ou feel it ? " 
 
 The words comforted me. I stifled the 
 jealous pain that was so hard and cruel to 
 bear. 
 
 But alas — cruel as jealousy is — unreason- 
 ing, torturing, vain — what love was ever 
 worth the name that loved without it ?
 
 CHAPTEE XV: 
 
 "inr HEAET IS SAIR TOR SOMEBODY." 
 
 " My heart is sair, I daur no tell, 
 My heart is sair for somebody. 
 I could wake a winter's night 
 For the sake o' somebody. 
 Oh, oh — for somebody I 
 Oh, hey — for somebody I 
 I could range the world around — 
 For the sake of somebody." 
 
 We parted then, and I went home, sadly and 
 wearily enough. 
 
 Grannie had not yet returned, so I went 
 up to my own room and threw myself on the 
 bed. I was utterly spent and tired — and yet, 
 tired as I was, how long the time would seem 
 till to-morrow — what weary, weary hours 
 had to be passed before I should see Douglas 
 again. 
 
 I was still lying there with closed eyes and 
 in a general condition of misery and depres-
 
 186 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 sion, when a knock came at the door and 
 old Jean entered. 
 
 " Mr. Kenneth is below, miss, and waiting 
 to see ye. Will ye come down ? Lord's sake, 
 lassie, but how wdiite and weary ye look." 
 
 I sprang up in the bed. 
 
 " Yes, I am rather -tired. Jean. I had a 
 long walk — but I'll come down. Tell Mr. 
 Kenneth I'll be with him in a few minutes." 
 
 I made a dash at the cold water, and then 
 smoothed my hair, and ran down stairs to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " How do you do ? I hope you're going 
 to stay to tea ? " I said gaily, as I shook 
 hands. After all, he was better than no one, 
 better than my own company and my jealous 
 fancies about Douglas and Mrs. Dunleith. 
 
 He looked surprised at my unusually 
 cordial greeting. 
 
 " Yes, I shall be very pleased to stay — if 
 you wish it ? " 
 
 I ignored the latter part of his speech, and 
 seated myself on the low, broad window-seat 
 from which I could see the road.
 
 ":MY HEAET is SAIR for somebody." 187 
 
 " Grannie has not returned from Nairn 
 yet," I said, " but I suppose she is sure to be 
 back by tea-time. It is nearly seven, isn't it ? " 
 
 " About five minutes to the hour," he an- 
 swered, looking at his watch before commit- 
 tino^ the indiscretion of a ofuess. " And what 
 have you been doing all the day ? " he asked, 
 replacing it in his pocket. "You look rather 
 pale and tired." 
 
 "I am tired. I've been for a loner walk." 
 
 " With Bella ? " he asked quickly. 
 
 " Do you suppose I'm always with Bella ? " 
 I asked evasively. " Xo, I did not go with 
 her to-day, though she was here." 
 
 I had no intention of telling him where I 
 had been, or who had accompanied me, and 
 perhaps he saw that, for he did not pursue 
 the subject. 
 
 " I want you to come with us to Drumna- 
 drochit by the steamer one day next week." 
 
 " Wliat a name," I said laughing. " Where 
 is it, and what does one do there ? " 
 
 " You go by the Caledonian Canal — it is a 
 lovely trip. There is a famous ruin — Urqu-
 
 188 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 hart Castle — to be seen, and the glen itself — 
 Glen Urquhart — is magnificent. But I hope 
 you will see many of our famous glens and 
 lochs while you are here. The Western 
 Highlands are famous, you know. I went 
 there once with a friend who had a yacht. 
 You can have no idea how weird and wild 
 and lovely the scenery is." 
 
 " Tell me about it," I said, glad to see him 
 interested and inclined to be talkative. I 
 always had considered Kenneth so heavy and 
 hard to get on with. 
 
 He needed no second invitation, but burst 
 into quite an eloquent description of Loch 
 Fyne, and Loch Linnhe, and Loch Eanza ; of 
 the hills of Bute and the craggy wildness of 
 the Kyles, and the beautiful shores of Cowal 
 and Cantire, and the wonders of Oban and 
 Skye. 
 
 Listening to him I felt eager to see all 
 these places for myself and judge of them 
 accordingly. By myself I meant of course 
 with Douglas for guide and companion. I 
 fell to wondering if such good fortune would
 
 «'3IY HEART IS SAIR FOR SOMEBODY." 189 
 
 ever befall me, and in the midst of that 
 wonderment Grannie arrived, tired with the 
 long day's outing and a little dispirited at the 
 condition of her old friend's health. 
 
 We all went in to tea, one of those good 
 old-fashioned teas which still linger in my 
 memory, and Kenneth was so cheerful and 
 agreeable that I could not help wondering at 
 the change. He told Grannie of the projected 
 excursion to Glen Urquhart, and she offered 
 no objections to my accompanying them all. 
 I believe the whole Cameron family were to 
 go, and the day was arranged before we left 
 the table. 
 
 As Kenneth showed no signs of taking his 
 departure, we again adjourned to the drawing- 
 room for some music. I sang a song or two, and 
 then made Grannie take my place at the piano, 
 and play reels and strathspeys and pibrochs 
 and marches, while I talked to Kenneth. 
 
 We had no lights, but sat in the window in 
 the clear brightness of the twilight, watching 
 the stars come out, and the moving shadows 
 of the trees on the white road.
 
 190 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 My thoughts flew to my lover, and I 
 scarcely noted what Kenneth was saying. I 
 wondered whether he too was looking out at 
 the soft beauty of the night, and could spare 
 a thought to me, despite the attractions of 
 that low-voiced, fair-haired syren, by whose 
 side perchance he sat. 
 
 " Kenneth," I said suddenly, " do you know 
 Mrs. Dunleith ? " 
 
 He looked somewhat surprised at so irre- 
 levant a question. I believe he had been 
 telling me some historical facts about Cullo- 
 den, and the witch's prophecy to Lochiel. 
 
 " No," he said, after a slight pause. " I 
 have not the pleasure. But I have heard a 
 good deal about her." 
 
 " What have you heard ? " I asked, 
 curiously. 
 
 " Oh — that she is rich and pretty, and a 
 widow, and very good company." 
 
 " And what else ? " I persisted, as he hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " Eather fonder of gentlemen's society than 
 of ladies'."
 
 "IMY HEART IS SAlPw YOR SOMEBODY." 191 
 
 " I daresay slie finds them more amusing." 
 
 "No doubt," lie said. "Xo doubt — at least 
 she acts as if she did." 
 
 " You talk," I said abruptly, " as if — as if 
 there was something wrong about her. Is 
 there ? " 
 
 "Xot that I am aware of," he answered, 
 looking at me in surprise. 
 
 " I mean," I said, " as if she were fast or 
 bold — or not a nice woman. Do you think 
 her pretty ? " 
 
 "I can't say that I do. But then, I don't 
 admire fair women." 
 
 " You have never spoken to her ? " I 
 persisted, ignoring any point in that last 
 speech, or the look with which it was accom- 
 panied. 
 
 "Never," he said, emphatically. "But why 
 do you take such an interest in her ? " 
 
 " I saw her the other day. She is very 
 pretty — different to most of the women one 
 meets, that is all. And I heard that she was 
 going to stay here for the Northern Meetings." 
 
 " Who told you that ? " he asked, quickly.
 
 192 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " Douglas Hay," I said, colouring. 
 
 " Oh," lie answered, rather huffily. " No 
 doubt he would know all about her." 
 
 " Why should he not ? " I asked, coldly. 
 " That is to say, if she chooses to tell him." 
 
 " There is no reason whatever — only I 
 should think he would be better able to 
 answer your questions than I am." 
 
 For a moment I was silent. Then I 
 gathered courage and said boldly, " I cannot 
 ask him, because she is a friend of his. He 
 does not speak against friends." 
 
 " Then you wish to hear something against 
 her," he said quickly. " Oh, I daresay I 
 could discover plenty, if it would be any 
 satisfaction to you to know it." 
 
 " I am not so ill - natured as that," I 
 answered, listening somewhat sadly to the 
 strains of "My heart is sair for Somebody," 
 which Grannie's dear old fingers were sending 
 forth from the worn and untuneful piano. 
 
 "No; I don't think you are," he said, 
 lowering his voice, " that is why I wonder at 
 your questions."
 
 "MY HEART IS SAIR FOR SOMEBODY." 193 
 
 I was silent. That plaintive air seemed to 
 thrill me with its melancholy and its regret — 
 but even as I listened, it seemed that in my 
 heart there was a new pain — a gnawing, 
 vague jealousy, that made it ache as it had 
 never ached before. 
 
 Do what I might, my mind would revert 
 to that scene on the Islands. Then I won- 
 dered how she looked to-night, in what sort 
 of room they were sitting ; whether they were 
 alone. If she looked very pretty? Xo doubt 
 she did. She was just one of the women who 
 would look well by lamplight and in evening 
 dress — with her fair hair, her white skin^ her 
 lissom, graceful figure. 
 
 I rose abruptly from my seat and leaned 
 out of the window — the smart of tears was 
 in my eyes, my heart beat furiously and fast. 
 The scent of the roses made me feel faint, 
 and the soft air seemed oppressive. And 
 all the time the sad soft music was sounding 
 on and on, and sadly enough I echoed it, 
 seeing how " sair " my own heart was for 
 "Somebody." 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 "A BRAW WOOER." 
 
 " A weel stockit mailin' himself o't the laird, 
 And marriage off-hand was his proffer ; . 
 I never loot on that I kenn'd it or cared, 
 Eut thocht I might hae a wanr offer." 
 
 The day of the dinner-party at last ! 
 
 I woke up feeling tliat something wonderful 
 and exciting was to happen. Jean brought 
 me my milk with a look of importance. 
 There seemed a stir and commotion through- 
 out the house even at that early hour. A 
 racket of pails and buckets — an odour of 
 soap and soda, a general slashing and clean- 
 ing, and bustle — that amused me as I 
 listened. 
 
 I lay back on my pillow, vaguely and 
 quietly happy. I had seen Douglas every 
 day — I had got over my attack of jealousy — 
 I loved him even more because of it, though 
 not for worlds would I have told him so.
 
 '^A BRAW WOOER." 195 
 
 There had been no tete-a-tete dinner that 
 evening with Mrs. Dunleith — several other 
 people had been present. I need not have 
 tortured myself with pictures of him looking 
 back at her fair face and dreamy eyes in the 
 moonhght, nor passed a sleepless night won- 
 dering if she had made him forget me, or 
 repent his choice. 
 
 However, no pain or smart was in my heart 
 now as I leant lazily back there, thinking over 
 all the sweet and foolish things Douglas and I 
 had said to one another — wondering whether 
 he would think I looked pretty to-night in 
 my white silk frock and the scarlet geraniums 
 I had elected to wear with it. It was a pity 
 so many others would be there — all the 
 Camerons and the redoubtable Laird, and 
 Alick Macpherson. However, Douglas would 
 dance with me, speak to me, sing to me ; that 
 was better than nothincr. 
 
 At this point the noise downstairs seemed 
 
 so obtrusive that I thought I had best get up 
 
 and dress, and offer my services in household 
 
 matters. 
 
 13*
 
 196 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 I threw open my window to the glorious 
 air and sunshine. How beautiful was the 
 world, and oh ! how happy was I ! 
 
 I heard Jean's voice in the little yard as I 
 stood there brushing out my hair. 
 
 " 'Deed mem," she said, " and I'm no saying 
 the bit lassie has na' made hersel' a general 
 favourite. And she's got a pleasant way wi' 
 her, though she's main troubled aboot things 
 o' the warld. Still I would gie every man 
 and woman the due o' their actions. Though 
 works theirselves are no' saving, still there 
 may be grace behind them. I could wish she 
 were mair fond o' the Kirk, and not so ready 
 wi' her quips and her arguments. It's no 
 just weel for a young creature to be setting 
 herself up in judgment against her elders 
 and superiors, and so I've aye told the 
 lassie." 
 
 " Oh, the bairn's well enough, Jean," 
 said Grannie, somewhat impatiently. " Ye 
 canna put an old head on 5^oung shoul- 
 ders." 
 
 " I'm nae wanting to do that, mistress,"
 
 "A BRAW WOOER/' 197 
 
 retorted the ancient handmaiden. " I'm but 
 just desirous that the head should hae some 
 ballast in it, but young things are aye flighty, 
 and I'm sorry she's so taken up wi' that young 
 Douglas Hay. Have ye no' noticed it your- 
 self, mem ? "' 
 
 "Xo," exclaimed Grannie quickly. "What 
 makes you say such a thing, Jean ? " 
 
 •' Well, he's aye here, speerin' after her, 
 and many's the time they've met and walked 
 together in the fields and woods yonder. I'm 
 no saying there's harm in it, but the lassie's a 
 bonnie wee thin<z, and Mr. Doucflas is no 
 exactly what one would call — circumspect. 
 A callant that scarce sets foot wi'in the Kirk 
 door, and reads week-day books — not to speak 
 of such ill-deeds as smoking and walkinj]^ — on 
 the Sabbath Day, weel, he's no' the best com- 
 pany in the world for the lassie." 
 
 " Xo — you're quite right, Jean, and I've 
 cautioned her against him many a time. 
 But I did not know they took walks 
 together. At least Miss Bella is always 
 with them."
 
 198 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 "Deed, Miss Bella is nae always with 
 them," Jean said cautiousl}^ " I've been 
 told by the neebors how often they meet. I 
 thought, mem, I would just gie ye a hint o' 
 it. It would be a sair misfortune if the lassie 
 lost her heart to Douglas Hay. He's but a 
 penniless lad, and he comes of a wild and 
 graceless stock — but he's just got that 
 way wi' him that the lasses love, and 
 he's main and well-favoured i' the matter 
 o' looks." 
 
 They both went within then, and I heard 
 no more. 
 
 I finished my toilet, laughing softly to 
 myself at their gossip and prognostica- 
 tions. 
 
 What woman does not love a man the 
 better because he is ill spoken of, or abused, 
 or the hero of misfortunes ? 
 
 And everyone abused my poor Douglas. I 
 had scarcely ever heard a good word spoken 
 of him ; but that made no difference to me. 
 I loved him — that said all. 
 
 I ran downstairs to breakfast with spirits
 
 ''A BRAW WOOER." 199 
 
 in no way impaired by the unflattering com- 
 ments I had chanced to overhear. Grannie 
 did not rejDeat what Jean had told her 
 about ni}' meetings and walks with Douglas 
 Hay. She looked grave and thoughtful, but 
 perhaps she did not consider this a fitting 
 opportunity for lectures or cautions. 
 
 Meanwdiile I f ound plenty to do in arranging 
 the little drawincr-room, and fillinir everv vase 
 and corner with flowers and grasses. 
 
 It looked so pretty when finished that 
 Grannie declared she would hardly have 
 recognised it, and grew more confident 
 as to my capability of arranging the dinner- 
 table. 
 
 The hour for dinner was the somewhat 
 primitive one of half-past-six. The Camerons 
 had lent the services of their domestic to 
 assist Jean, and she duly arrived about 
 five, laden with floral contributions from 
 Kenneth. 
 
 Grannie, having done everything that she 
 possibly could do, took herself off to her room 
 for a rest and a nap before dressing. I there-
 
 200 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 fore arranged the flowers and fruit according 
 to my own fancy, watched by the wondering 
 eyes of Maggie, and the somewhat doubtful 
 and critical glances of Jean. 
 
 " Weel, I'll no say but what it looks pretty 
 enoV' she said, when my labours were ended ; 
 " but it's a heathenish fashion for a' that. 
 I've heard of how the godless folk of Eome 
 and other Popish places decked their tables 
 out, and garlanded their heads. I'm no sure 
 it's fit for Christian folk to do likewise." 
 
 " Oh, Lord's sake, Jean," said pretty Maggie, 
 " dinna you fash yoursel' aboot what folks 
 did so lang syne. You're ower fond o' think- 
 ing everything evil that's no exactly the same 
 as it has aye been. There's innocent recrea- 
 tion eno' to be found, but some folk will na 
 see it. Ye're all just for discovering the 
 image o' Satan when ye look beyond your ain 
 porridge-pot." 
 
 I left them to their discussion and went 
 upstairs to dress, for which important cere- 
 mony I had only allowed myself three quarters 
 of an hour.
 
 "A BRAVV AVOOKR." 201 
 
 " I wish one knew how one looked to other 
 people," 1 thought discontentedly, as I sur- 
 veyed myself in the glass. I did not feel 
 pleased. Certainly excitement had lent colour 
 to my face, and the white silk fitted my slight 
 figure to perfection, and the scarlet geraniums 
 gave just the necessary touch of warmth and 
 brightness, but the old feeling of discontent 
 at my entire lack of personal charms was 
 strong upon me as I turned away and went 
 slowly to Grannie's room for her inspection. 
 
 That was flattering enough to have satis- 
 fied anybody, but I knew the dear old soul 
 was prejudiced in my favour. Then we went 
 downstairs together to await the arrival of the 
 guests. 
 
 They followed close on one another's heels. 
 First, my uncle and aunt, then the Macpher- 
 sons, then the Laird, who looked remarkably 
 well in Highland dress. His manner too, was 
 more genial and courteous than usual. He 
 took Grannie in to dinner, but I was seated 
 on his other side, and he talked to me a great 
 deal.
 
 2C2 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 However, as his conversation was entirely 
 about the superiority of everything Scotch over 
 everything any other country could boast of, 
 I did not find it particularly interesting. 
 
 He seemed to consider his nationality as a 
 virtue in itself, and I found it less trouble to 
 aOTee with him than to argue as to the 
 accident of birthright. When the wine began 
 to circulate, he brightened up wonderfully, 
 and I was astonished at the fund of dry 
 humour and the quick-wittedness that lay 
 beneath his seemingly stolid exterior. 
 
 The Laird was a very typical Scotchman, 
 tall, stalwart, sinewy of frame, with keen eyes, 
 and a mouth both shrewd and humorous. 
 
 He had never left his native land, never 
 crossed the Border, or set foot in England, 
 and he informed me he never wished to do so. 
 Naturally, with such an experience, his insular 
 prejudices were very strong, yet though he 
 was proud of them, he did not fail to see their 
 weak points, and to join in a laugh against 
 himself, provoked by Uncle Jamie's sly hints 
 and humorous anecdotes.
 
 "A BEAW WOOER." 2(3 
 
 " Why should I trouble to travel in other 
 countries ? " he said to me. " There may be 
 finer scenery, better climates, grander towns. 
 I'm not saying there are, but I'm quite content 
 with what I've seen here, and I'll take other 
 folks' word for the advantages or the beauties 
 of other places." 
 
 " But if you had seen them you would be 
 better able to judge," I ventured to say. 
 
 He shook his head. " I'm very well content. 
 Scotland may not be the best place in the 
 world, but it's good enough for me." 
 
 He then proceeded to dilate on the charms 
 of scenery, the wonders of mountain and glen, 
 and loch and river. 
 
 " It would take a life-time for you to see all 
 that is to be seen here," he said, and for the 
 first time, I met the full, direct gaze of the 
 keen grey eyes fixed on my face. "And I'm 
 thinking," he added slowly, "that I would 
 be well pleased to be the one that will be 
 showing it to you." 
 
 I wondered whether the speech was meant 
 for a compliment. I know I laughed merrily
 
 204 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 over it, and told him I felt sure I could have 
 no better or more enthusiastic guide — if I ever 
 needed one. 
 
 Then, at last, the welcome signal came to 
 leave the table, and Kenneth and Alick 
 Macpherson, and myself, set to work to clear 
 the drawing-room from chairs and tables for 
 the promised dance. 
 
 What a merry, happy evening that was ! 
 
 How we laughed, and jested and sang. 
 How light our hearts and feet, how amused 
 we were when the Laird led Grannie out and 
 the old lady footed a reel as lightly and 
 briskly as any of us. 
 
 Douo^las and I were not much tosfether, but 
 a look, a smile, a word from time to time, 
 made happiness enough for me. 
 
 I felt so proud of him. Never had he 
 seemed so handsome — so winning — so well 
 worth loving as he did that night. As usual, 
 he was the life and soul of the whole party. 
 Who could sing so merrily, dance so lightly, 
 jest so gaily, as my Scotch laddie ? 
 
 And no pang of jealousy touched my heart.
 
 •'A BRAW WOOER." 205 
 
 no fear or dread came nigli me. iUas ! had I 
 but known it — that was to be the last night 
 on which I and happiness were to clasp hands 
 for many and many a weary day. 
 
 " You look altogether too sweet and bonnie 
 for anything," whispered Bella to me, as she 
 came to my side in a pause of the dancing. 
 " Do you know you've fairly made a conquest 
 of the Laird ? Grannie told mother that he 
 had almost proposed for you." 
 
 I laughed merril}' — but happening to glance 
 across the room, I saw the individual in 
 question watching me with grave and absorbed 
 attention. 
 
 " I am glad," I said to Bella, " that it was 
 only 'almost.' I haven't heard stories of 
 Scotch courtship for nothing, and I know 
 how long it takes them to make up their 
 mind." 
 
 " Campbell of Corriemoor is no fool," said 
 Bella, " and perhaps he began to make up his 
 mind a lon^^er time back than you imagine." 
 
 Just then the individual in question came 
 to claim me for the last reel of the evening.
 
 206 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 It astonished me that such a " grave and 
 reverend signer " should perpetrate such 
 folly as dancing, but he performed his 
 national steps and figures with as much zeal 
 as grace. 
 
 " You don't consider dancing sinful, then ? " 
 I asked him as the reel ended. 
 
 "I — certainly not! It is a pleasant and 
 harmless exercise. I'm not in favour of the 
 waltz — nor do I consider it a proper or 
 becoming dance — but no one could find 
 objection to the schottische or the reel — or 
 the quadrille, as we dance it here." 
 
 " Your national prejudices are very strong," 
 I said smiling. 
 
 " Have you none yourself. Miss Lindsay ? " 
 he asked, looking keenly at me from under his 
 thick and strongly-marked brows. " You 
 are as much Scotch as I am — by descent." 
 
 " So I believe," I said. " But you see, Mr. 
 Campbell, I never lived here as you have 
 done. I came among you as a stranger 
 to strangers. That makes all the difference." 
 
 " I'm thinking you need not be a stranger
 
 "A BRAW WOOEK." 207 
 
 long," he said gravely and earnestly. " We'd 
 be glad enough to keep you with us, now you 
 are here." 
 
 " Do you mean Grannie, or -the nation in 
 general ? " I said somewhat flippantly. My 
 eyes were wandering after Douglas. He was 
 at the other end of the room talking and 
 laughing gaily with the Camerons. 
 
 " Xeither," said the Laird gravely. " I was 
 just thinking of — myself." 
 
 I turned and stared at him in unfeis^ned 
 amazement. Was he proposing to me, or 
 what ? 
 
 " I — I really don't understand you," I 
 answered coldly. 
 
 " We've not been very long acquainted," he 
 explained. " But I cannot help saying I've a 
 great admiration for you, Miss Lindsay, and 
 a great liking too. I know you're but a 
 youno- tiling — but I know too that you've not 
 just been what one would call happy. I'm 
 sure I could make you so. I would like ye 
 for my wife, and that's just the truth. Will 
 you think it over ? "
 
 208 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 His accent and liis expressions had grown 
 very Scotch in his earnestness. I Hstened to 
 him with more amusement than sympathy. 
 I wondered what Douglas would think if he 
 knew I was receiving a proposal of marriage 
 under his very eyes. 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for the honour 
 you have done me," I said, " but really, Mr. 
 Campbell, I could not dream of accepting 
 your offer. Indeed, I have never thought of 
 you at all." 
 
 He looked somewhat hurt at my frankness. 
 
 "I hope I have not offended you," he said. 
 *'Ifear I have spoken too soon. But will 
 you not consider over the matter, and give 
 me an answer ? I will bide your own time. 
 You need not hurry." 
 
 I looked at him in amazement, unqualified 
 by any other expression. It was the one 
 feeling in my heart. 
 
 That this middle-aged, sensible, unromantic 
 individual could really have fallen in love 
 with me — be seriously desirous of making 
 me his wife, seemed almost incredible.
 
 "A BRAW WOOER." 2C9 
 
 " Will YOU ? " lie said gently and persist- 
 ently, as I remained silent. 
 
 " Will I— will I wliat ? " I asked, rousing 
 myself with a start from my abstraction. 
 
 " Have you no' been listening ? " lie said in 
 a somewhat vexed tone. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I — I beg your pardon," I 
 answered hurriedly. 
 
 At the same moment, Douglas went over 
 to the piano and struck up " There came a 
 braw wooer." I could scarcely help smiling, 
 but as I looked up at the face of my 
 companion something in its pallor and ear- 
 nestness moved me to f^raver thoughts. 
 
 " Does that ' yes ' mean you will be 
 considering the subject," he said under cover 
 of Doucflas's rich rincfino' notes. 
 
 " I am afraid it would be no use," I said 
 hurriedly, and rather vexed at the obser- 
 vation our prolonged tete-a-tete was drawing 
 down upon me. 
 
 " Am I so very objectionable ? " he asked 
 gently. " Old, perhaps, by comparison with 
 yourself, but all the better able to care for 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 and protect you. I'm no' speaking hastily, or 
 without thought. Miss Lindsay. I never cared 
 for lass or woman yet — but I just felt my whole 
 heart go out to ye that first night I saw ye 
 at Mrs. Macpherson's, and I know well that I 
 shall never care for any other lassie, now." 
 
 " I am so sorry," I said stupidly. " I 
 really never thought, never dreamt of such 
 a thing. But it could never be, Mr. 
 Campbell. Don't think I'm speaking hastily 
 or with prejudice — I like you very much as 
 a friend, but that is all." 
 
 " In a year," he urged. " Or even two, if 
 3^e would but just gie' yourself time to 
 think it over." 
 
 I shook my head resolutely. " No, indeed, 
 I am sure — quite sure." 
 
 He half turned away. A sort of hysterical 
 nervousness seized me. "The braw wooer." 
 was still careering merrily through the phases 
 of his courtship. It seemed all so ludicrous, 
 so odd. I thought of Bella's jests — of our 
 nickname — of a hundred and one things as 
 I glanced at the broad shoulders in all their
 
 "A B.1AW WOOER." 211 
 
 bravery of tartan plaid and flying ribbons . 
 And he wanted me to take a year or two to 
 think over liis proposal! Oh! unexampled 
 patience of the Celt ! 
 
 " I suppose," he said at last, once more 
 turning his grey eyes and grave face to mine, 
 " I must e'en rest content. But I would like 
 you to remember I mean this most sincerely. 
 I shall mean it always — and if you should think 
 better of it, Miss Lindsay, I need scarcely say 
 you would make me very, very happy." 
 
 There was something so earnest, so deep- 
 feeling in his voice, that it touched me more 
 than anything he had yet said. 
 
 " As long as you are free," he went on, " I 
 shall not despair. We are a patient race, 
 you know, and I can be very patient, for to 
 me love and friendship are no boy's fancies." 
 
 Then he moved away from my side, and, 
 with scarlet cheeks and an uncomfortable 
 sensation as of a lump in my throat, I crossed 
 the room to the piano. 
 
 " ' He begged for gudesake I wad be his wife, 
 Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow. ' " 
 
 14*
 
 212 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 sang Douglas. He looked up at me ; our 
 eyes met. Then he ended abruptly and 
 with no mkth or meaning so it seemed to 
 me : 
 
 " ' I think I maun wed him to-morrow — to-morrow, 
 I think I maun wed him to-morrow ! ' 
 
 " Are you going to wed the Laird, 
 Athole ? " he asked abruptly, under cover 
 of the closing chords. " I'm sure he's fallen 
 in love with you, and it would be a good 
 thing for you — I was thinking how selfish and 
 inconsiderate I have been." 
 
 " Oh, Douglas," I cried quickly — pas- 
 sionately. " Do you regret — are you tired — 
 sorry already ? " 
 
 He heard the break in my voice — he saw 
 the quick tears spring to my eyes. And yet 
 — and yet — he turned away, coldly, silently, 
 leaving me standing there gazing in blank 
 and pained bewilderment at the open page 
 on the music rest. 
 
 (( 
 
 And I maun wed him to-morrow — to-morrow, 
 And I maun wed him to-morrow."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 DISTRUST. 
 
 *' 'Oh, rise, my child,' her mother said, 
 ' Xor sorrow thus in vain. 
 A perjured lover's fleeting heart 
 No tears recall again.' 
 
 " ' Oh, mother what is gone is gone. 
 What's lost — for ever lorn. 
 Death — death alone can comfort me. 
 Would I had ne'er been born I ' " 
 
 1 TOOK a heavy heart upstaks with me to my 
 room that night. 
 
 In some way — by some means — I had 
 offended Douglas, and he had left me coldl}', 
 formally, just as if I had been a stranger. I 
 tried to remember any cause for offence, but 
 my conscience did not reproach me on any 
 point. I could not help the Laird's atten- 
 tions — I could not have prevented his 
 proposal, and yet Douglas was angry with 
 me. Coldly, silently angry — the sort of
 
 214 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 anger I detested. I never minded anyone 
 getting into a good passionate rage and 
 storming at me to their heart's content, but 
 the sort of anger my lover had displayed, 
 which offered no scope for explanation, 
 and sheltered itself behind chilling ironies 
 and huffy speeches — that I could not bear 
 with equanimity. 
 
 I tore off the pretty white silk, and threw 
 the scarlet flowers, now drooping and dead, 
 on the floor. Of what use had been the 
 wearing of grand apparel, the " tiring of my 
 hair," the flush of cheek, and sparkle of eye, 
 which — for once — had made me look so well, 
 and so happy ? 
 
 Douglas had not cared — Douglas had left 
 me coldly and sternly ; had said I was a flirt 
 who encouraged admiration, had not even 
 hinted at a meeting or appointment for the 
 next day, had not offered any opportunity 
 that we might " make it up again." 
 
 I threw myself down on the bed and cried 
 bitterly and passionately. The day had 
 begun so well, it had been so happy — and
 
 I'ISTRUST. 215 
 
 now — now, liow miserably it was ending. 
 My fit of weeping exhausted me and made ni}" 
 head ache. Then I, in turn, became angered 
 and offended. 
 
 If Douglas could so quickly distrust me, so 
 easily grew cold, he could not love me so 
 very, very much. My thoughts grew bitter, 
 and brought up in array against him all the 
 stories in his prejudice that I had heard so 
 often. Perhaps he was getting tired of me 
 already, perhaps he had been contrasting me 
 with Mrs. Dunleith, or some new acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 In incoherent misery I ran over suggestions 
 — hints — incidents — suspicions. After all, 
 had not everyone warned me against him, 
 declared him to be fickle and untrustworthy ? 
 Why should I set up my judgment as being 
 more correct, my brief experience as more 
 trustworthy ? Just as I reached this point, 
 the door suddenly opened and Grannie 
 entered. 
 
 I sprang up in the bed, conscious of flushed 
 cheeks and disordered hair, and tear-wet eves.
 
 216 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 The old lady came up to me with some eager- 
 ness. 
 
 " I could not go to rest, my dearie," she 
 said, "without just a word of congratulation 
 to you. A rare and fine piece o' luck it is, 
 my bairn — he, so good, and so wise, and so 
 kind, and wi' such a grand place and position. 
 Campbell o' Corriemoor is a match to be 
 proud of I can tell 3^e. And he's just daft 
 about ye ; the way he spoke, flushing and 
 halting for all the world like a school-boy wi' 
 his first sweetheart, and he always so cool 
 and so circumspect. But of course he told 
 you j^oursel' eh, dearie, and . . . Why, 
 my bairn, for what are ye greeting ? " 
 
 I smoothed back ni}^ disordered hair and 
 tried to compose myself. " Oh, Grannie," I 
 cried miserably, " I'm so unhappy." 
 
 " And for wh}^, dearie ? You ought to be 
 just the most thankful lassie in all Scotland 
 the night, wi' your gran' prospects and braw 
 wooer." 
 
 Her kind arms were round me, my head 
 rested on her dear old shoulder. I wished
 
 DISTRUST. 217 
 
 she liad not been so confident that I had 
 accepted my " braw wooer." I wondered if 
 she would be very angry if I told her I had 
 refused his suit, and scorned his manifold 
 advantages. 
 
 "Grannie," I said wearily, "you mustn't 
 be cross, but I'm not going to marry the 
 Laird. I couldn't, I don't care for him one 
 bit. I never was so astonished in my life as 
 when he spoke to me to-night." 
 
 Her arms relaxed their clasp of me. She 
 simply stood there beside the bed — astonish- 
 ment and indignation on every -line of her 
 face. 
 
 "You're no goin' to marry him — you've 
 refused Campbell o' Corriemoor ? Lord 
 forgie ye, bairn — are ye daft ? " 
 
 "Perhaps," I said despondingly. "I'm 
 sure he's very good and kind and all that — 
 but what does that matter Grannie, when I 
 don't care for him ? It would surely be a 
 sin to marry a man only because he was rich 
 and had a fine position to offer you, and all 
 the time your heart was quite cold and in-
 
 218 THE LaTRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 different. And that's just liow I feel about 
 the Laird." 
 
 But Grannie's face looked very stern and 
 severe. 
 
 " It's just flying in the face o' Providence/' 
 she said wrathfully. "I never heard o' such 
 wilfulness. Why cannot ye love him ? He's 
 good-looking and good-hearted, he's true and 
 fond of you. There's never a voice can be 
 raised against him of man or woman to say 
 harm or evil that he's done. Ye've not so 
 happy a home, lassie, that ye should be so 
 quick in refusing anither, and the day will 
 come when 3^e'll surely repent o' it." 
 
 I sighed wearily. " All that may be quite 
 true. Grannie, but I cannot marry the Laird." 
 
 " Ye're sure of that ? " she asked quickl3^ 
 " Is there any other reason ? Are ye foolish 
 eno' to be thinking and hankering after yon 
 graceless callant, Douglas Hay ? I've heard 
 you've been much together. But surely, 
 lassie, ye'll no be quite sic' a fool as to listen 
 to him ! The wind that blows is not more 
 fickle, the burn that babbles i' the meadow
 
 DISTHUST. 219 
 
 yonder not more shallow, or useless, or idle a 
 thing. He wad make love to any one just for 
 sheer mischief or amusement, but he canna' 
 marry, and he kens that weel, and for all his 
 good looks and winning ways, I"m sorry for 
 the lass who gives her heart to his keeping.'"' 
 
 I was silent. What use to vindicate him? 
 What use to tell her that I had committed 
 the folly against which I had been warned so 
 unceasingly ? She would only be angry and 
 indignant. She would only rank it as a piece 
 of youthful folly, she would only repeat, with 
 the wisdom and foresight of age — that fore- 
 sight against which youth so passionately 
 rebels — " Of what use to love, of what use to 
 think of him ? — he cannot marry you.'"' Just 
 as if the prose of matrimony ever entered into 
 the consideration of seventeen — as if it did 
 not seem rather a drawback than an incentive 
 to love, seeing how few married folk were 
 lovers, and how one and all raged against the 
 imprudence of such proceedings on the part 
 of their respective sons and daughters. 
 
 She noted mv silence and mv troubled face.
 
 220 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " Well, well," she said more gently, " I 
 mustn't be too hard on ye, lassie. Ye're ower 
 young to have much sense. But I hope 
 3^ou'll think over this matter, for the Laird's 
 no just the person to be easily daunted, and 
 the ' 'No ' of a lassie has been changed to ' Yes ' 
 before now." 
 
 She kissed me in the old affectionate way. 
 " You look very weary, my bairn," she said. 
 " Go to sleep now and never fash yoursel' 
 about lovers and husbands any more the 
 nicht. Ye'll get wiser as ye grow older, and 
 be more ready to believe in your old 
 Grannie's advice. It's aye for your ain gude 
 she means it." 
 
 Then she left me, and very slowly 
 and wearily I went through the task of 
 undressing, and laid my head on the pillow 
 at last. 
 
 I did not sleep well, my dreams were 
 feverish and disturbed, and among them there 
 figured constantly the uncanny face and 
 words of the Witch of Cawdor. I woke with 
 a severe headache, which obliged me to spend
 
 DISTRUST. 221 
 
 the whole morning lying down on the couch 
 in the little drawing-room. I could not read, 
 the pain was too severe. I could only just He 
 there with the room darkened to keep out the 
 sun, and mv own miserable thoui^hts for 
 company. 
 
 Grannie was kindness itself, and so was 
 Jean, but the day was a very long and weary 
 one for me. Xo message came from Douglas 
 Hay, and I could only conclude that he was 
 still offended. 
 
 In the evening Kenneth and Bella came in 
 to discuss the day for our jaunt to Glen 
 Urquhart. Bella exclaimed at my white face 
 and heavy eyes, but her cheery presence did 
 me good and roused me a little from the 
 apathy and general depression of mind and 
 body to which I had resigned myself through- 
 out the day. Shortly before they left, 
 Kenneth and Grannie went into the dining- 
 room for some refreshment, and Bella and I 
 were left alone. 
 
 She turned to me with a sort of suppressed 
 eagerness.
 
 222 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " Tell me, Atliole," slie said liurriedly, " did 
 the Laird propose to you last night ? " 
 
 " What makes you think he would do any- 
 thing so foolish ? " I asked evasively. 
 
 " Well, his manner, and the mysterious 
 hints Grannie was giving us. He spoke to 
 her about you I know. What a fine thing it 
 would be for you, my dear — Mrs. Campbell 
 of Corriemoor ! " 
 
 " You had better say Queen of England at 
 once," I said ill-temperedly, " one is as 
 probable as the other." 
 
 " But he is fond of you, anyone could see 
 that," she answered, " and for such a quiet, 
 cold sort of man as he has always shewn 
 himself, it was just wonderful to see him last 
 night. Not but what ye looked the bonniest 
 wee thing anyone could wish to see," she 
 added extenuatingly. 
 
 " I laughed scornfully. " My dear Bella," 
 I said, " whatever I looked or seemed I only 
 know this, I am not going to marry your 
 Laird o' Cockpen — or — or anyone else," I 
 added with a sudden break in my voice.
 
 DISTEUST. 223 
 
 Bella looked at me in silent concern, and 
 for a moment neither of us spoke. " Have 
 vou heard," she said at last, " that Dousflas 
 Hay is away to Edinburgh to-morrow morn- 
 ing ? I met him on his way to ' The Eowans/ 
 to say good-bye to Mrs. Dunleith." 
 
 Every drop of blood in my body seemed to 
 rush in a passion of strength to my heart, then 
 slowly and coldly ebb away, leaving me white 
 and chill as marble. 
 
 Goim:^ awav — going; to Edinburodi — o'oinf? 
 
 o V <_ o coo 
 
 without a word of farewell to me I What had 
 I done — what could it mean ? 
 
 " Are you sure ? " I cried fainth', thankful 
 that the gathering darkness hid the self- 
 betrayal of my face. 
 
 " As sure as his own words could make 
 me," she answered. "Didn't you know? I 
 thought he would have told you last night." 
 
 I shook my head. I did not find it easy to 
 speak. 
 
 " From what he said," Bella continued, " I 
 fancy he's had another row with his father. 
 They're always disagreeing — especially when
 
 224 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 the old man's had a break-out at the whiskey, 
 which happens not unfrequently. Douglas 
 seemed in a tearinor rac^e, I know." 
 
 I was silent. What could I say ? How 
 express in any words the bitter pain — the 
 passionate indignation — the fierce jealousy 
 raging in my heart. He could leave me like 
 this — he, my lover, who had sworn eternal 
 truth — leave me with no farewell — no expla- 
 nation — and yet he could find time and 
 opportunity to go to that other woman ; he 
 could tell her of his plans ; he could say good- 
 bye to her ! " 
 
 Eage and fury took possession of me. 
 Every sweet and pleasant memory of Douglas 
 Hay, of my brief love-dream, turned to gall- 
 like bitterness. I la}^ back on the couch, my 
 eyes closed — outwardly calm and indifferent, 
 but inwardl}^ raging with a fire and passion 
 that almost terrified myself. 
 
 How dared he treat me so ? How dared 
 he? 
 
 So this was what came of believincr in him ! 
 Of setting myself in judgment against the
 
 LISTEUST. 225 
 
 opinion of my elders, of building up my own 
 Castle of Faith in defiance of all warning — of 
 thinking the world a Paradise of Love's own 
 making — of throwing myself madly, impul- 
 sively, on the fair smiling waters of trust and 
 happiness. 
 
 In all my life to come should I be haunted 
 by this one failure ? Should I know no other 
 golden memories on which to lay my finger, 
 saying — " Ah ! I was happy then " ? 
 
 Bella's voice sounded on — I never heeded 
 it. kSilent, stony — cold — so I la}' there in the 
 dusk of the fadimr twilis^ht, feelino- that, for 
 me, all sweetness and glory of life had flown 
 for ever awav on the wincfs of a falsified 
 faith ! 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 CHAPTEE XYIII. 
 
 "SOUNDING THE DEPTHS."' 
 
 " Had we never loved so kindly, 
 Had we never loved so blindly. 
 
 Never met — and never parted — 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
 
 A WEEK had passed. 
 
 I had not thought a week could be so long 
 and wearisome a space of time — that into 
 seven d?ijs and nights, a lifetime of hope, fear, 
 expectation, anguish, disappointment, could 
 be crammed. Yet such was my experience. 
 
 Every morning I rose thinking, "To-day 
 there will be a letter — everything can be 
 explained." Every night I laid my aching 
 head on my pillow, and heard my sick heart 
 throb out its misery in the silence, knowing 
 hope was dying within me, that Douglas was 
 only showing himself in the character that 
 had been painted so often for me, and which I 
 so steadily refused to believe.
 
 " SOUNDING THE DEPTHS." 227 
 
 Why does not Love die as swiftly as it 
 wakens ? Wh}' does not one sharp blow of 
 distrust and wrong kill it out of the heart and 
 memory ? Why must one still go on suffer- 
 ing, remembering — tortured every hour of 
 the day by hopes that will never again be 
 realized — by memories that are too bitter- 
 sweet to be soon forgotten ? 
 
 Oh ! that week, that hateful, terrible week. 
 Xever again would its marks leave me ; never 
 could I rise and face life, and look at it with 
 the same feelings, the same faith, as did that 
 Athole Lindsay whom I had known before 
 the first of those fatal seven days ! 
 
 Oh, men I to whom a girl's love seems so 
 light a thing — whose young life gives itself to 
 you as the spring flowers give themselves to 
 the wooincr of the sun, when his ardour 
 wakens them to life — do you never think 
 what it is you do with your careless words 
 and fickle caresses ? 
 
 You meet in later years sad women, hard 
 and bitter women, reckless women, bad 
 women. Be very sure that it is to one such 
 
 15*
 
 228 THE LAIKD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 broken faith of girlhood, one such cruel 
 lesson as I was taught, that they owe that 
 change. Be very sure — you whose blame is 
 so ready, and whose judgment so harsh — that 
 somewhere, sometime — in the far off remote- 
 ness of the past — they loved, trusted, hoped, 
 and woke — to desolation. 
 
 And when all the sunshine is dulled, and 
 all the beauty of the earth grown dark and 
 sombre, and the sky is no longer blue, and 
 the sunshine no longer golden — oh ! then it 
 is hard indeed to turn the same face to life, 
 and accept it as we once accepted it ; to try 
 and patch up the broken faith and the soiled 
 honour, and the frank and happy trust in 
 innocence and truth. 
 
 Wearily must Time drag on its course, and 
 sharp and heavy fall the blows of sorrow, ere 
 life's great lesson of endurance is learnt — ere 
 with humble hearts and patient eyes we can 
 fold our hands and murmur, thankfully — 
 " Peace is won at last." 
 
 Joy makes no long tarrying with us. But 
 for even its brief flashes of sun-light we learn
 
 •'SOUNDING THE DEPTHS." 229 
 
 to be very, very thankful. Impatience and 
 expectation are but fuel to the fires of }'outh. 
 Gradually they exhaust themselves, and the 
 fires burn with fainter, but steadier, light, till 
 naught but ashes are left. 
 
 But, oh ! it is hard, hard, hard ! And who 
 shall help us —and who shall know us — and 
 who shall read the secret of the struggle and 
 the vanity of effort ? No one — no one. Xot 
 our nearest and dearest — not even that one 
 who deems he knows us best. For though 
 all life is lonely, in a deep and saddened sense 
 of loneliness when it fails to find sympath}^ 
 and comprehension — it descends to the very 
 deepest depths of loneliness when sorrow 
 touches and misfortune crushes it. Xone can 
 know its bitterness, or suffer with its suffering. 
 In all that is most sad and solemn in our 
 lives — as perhaps even in our moments of 
 deepest joy — we are utterly and entirely 
 alone, living out for ourselves the Fate that is 
 the birthright of each life, and by it con- 
 demned or blessed. 
 
 So for me went on the weary days, and I
 
 230 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 kept ni}^ secret in my lieart, and did my best 
 to be cheerful, and to accept all the simple 
 pleasures and amusements provided for me. 
 
 We went to Glen Urquhart as arranged. 
 The Camerons, Macphersons, Grannie and 
 myself. The day was lovely. The views 
 — as the steamer took us through the Canal — 
 were like a changing panorama of beauty. 
 Hills and plains were bathed in the clear and 
 quiet sunshine of the perfect summer day — 
 there was scarcely a ripple on the water, 
 scarce a stir of bough or branch on the 
 the wooded shores — and a faint haze covered 
 the distant heights, and fell mistily on bush 
 and rock and heather of the wide moorland. 
 
 A week before, and how I should have 
 revelled in all the wild and rugged beauty 
 that met my eyes that day ! But now my 
 heart was too heavy, and my spirits were very 
 forced indeed, and tears were nearer to my 
 eyes than smiles to my lips. 
 
 I have but a vague remembrance of all the 
 places pointed out to me — of stories and 
 legends galore related by Uncle Jamie or
 
 "SOUNDIXa THE DEPTH3." 231 
 
 Kenneth — tales of Highlanders and chieftains, 
 and great exploits and great villainies too, 
 and many pitying comments on my total 
 ignorance of Scottish history. 
 
 I sat there on the deck watching the 
 changing scenes, and listening to Kenneth 
 as he pointed out the different points of in- 
 terest. The party seemed yery merry indeed. 
 Alick Macpherson and Flora were looking 
 supremely happy. Bella was in sympa- 
 thetic conyerse with an elderly doctor from 
 Inyerness, who had chanced to be on the 
 steamer, and was bound for Drumnadrochit. 
 My aunt and Mrs. Macpherson were deeply 
 engrossed in an interesting gossip anent their 
 friends and acquaintances. Grannie was 
 chattincr to Uncle Jamie, and c^iyincr vent to a 
 shocked exclamation occasionally at some 
 broad jest or equivocal joke, on his part, 
 respecting things sacred or moral. He loved 
 nothing better than to shock the old lady, 
 and soms of his stories were certainly cal- 
 culated to do so. To me, however, they 
 were slightly unintelligible, as he always
 
 232 THK LAIKD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 related them in the very broadest Scotch, 
 and I was not yet fully acquainted with 
 the quaint expressions and phrases he so 
 plentifully scattered abroad. 
 
 " Jamie, Jamie," 1 heard her say re- 
 bukingly, "when will ye learn to conduct 
 yourself with gravity and discretion ? I'm 
 thinking ye're just demented." 
 
 I looked at Kenneth. "Your father is 
 younger than you in spirits," I said. " You 
 are twice as grave and solemn as he is." 
 
 He glanced with disfavour at his relative, 
 who was expatiating on some point of 
 resemblance between " the de'il, a Hielander, 
 and a whisky-bottle," which I confess I was 
 unable to detect, and which Grannie vainly 
 endeavoured to silence. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "we are very unlike." 
 
 " You say that as if you were more thank- 
 ful than regretful," I said. 
 
 He looked at me. " Life is not altogether 
 a jest, nor always a subject for ridicule," he 
 said. " My father appears to consider it is. 
 I do not."
 
 " SOL'NDING THE DEPTHS." 233 
 
 " A jest I " — I shivered sliglitly even in the 
 noonday warmth. "Indeed no — it is very 
 terribly earnest I think." 
 
 " You cannot surely think so yet," he said, 
 with a quick searching glance at my face. 
 '•What can life be to you but a fairy dream 
 — with nothing hard or sad or painful to 
 shadow it ? " 
 
 " A dream," I said bitterly. " Yes, of 
 course, that is all. But every dream is not 
 pleasant." 
 
 " Yours should be. You are so young, and 
 life can't have been very hard for you yet." 
 
 " Oh," I cried impatiently, " how sick I am 
 of hearing that I am ' so young.' It forms 
 the basis of all the lectures and advice I am 
 perpetually receiving." 
 
 " Don't be so cross about it," said Kenneth 
 smiling. " It's a fault we all mend of very 
 soon. But no wonder everyone preaches it 
 to you, for vou look even voun"-er than vou 
 are." 
 
 " And you," I said quickly, " seem older 
 than you look."
 
 234 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " That is a good fault for a lawyer. No 
 one would trust a very young man witli an 
 important case. By-the-bye, do you know I 
 am going to Edinburgli ? " 
 
 "To Edinburgli?" I echoed feebly, and 
 with that sudden sickness of heart the 
 name and its associations always brought 
 to me. 
 
 "Yes. I leave directly the Northern 
 Meetings are over, and shall stay there all 
 the winter." 
 
 *' Indeed," I said indifferently. 
 
 What did it matter to me how long he 
 stayed, what he did ? If it had been 
 
 I broke off sharply and impatiently^ I 
 would not allow myself to think of him. 
 Was he not utterly faithless and unworthy ? 
 
 "I mean to work very hard," continued 
 Kenneth, his voice very low and earnest. " I 
 want to get on — to be independent — to make 
 a position." 
 
 I said nothing. I only looked at the quiet 
 power of the face that had so little youth in 
 it — the firm lips, the serious brow — and
 
 "SOUNDING THE DEPTHS." 2:\o 
 
 thought that what he wished to do was quite 
 possible to him. 
 
 " Don't you agree with me ? " he went on 
 presently. " Don't you think a man cannot 
 begin work too early ? " 
 
 " I don't know," I said vaguely. " I am 
 afraid I have never thought about it all. But 
 I suppose it is better to have a definite plan, 
 to set some object before one, and work for 
 it. That is the best of being a man. He can 
 afford to fling everything aside for an ambi- 
 tion, or project. He can work steadily on 
 at it till he attains it. Women must bear the 
 monotony and dreariness of life as best they 
 can — waiting — hoping for something that 
 after all may never come ! " 
 
 " Why do you speak so sadly, Athole ? A 
 little while back vou seemed so bright and 
 full of life. Are you less happy than you 
 were a week ago ? " 
 
 " Of course not. Wh}^ should I be ? " I 
 exclaimed quickly, angered that the colour 
 would fly to my face before the searching 
 glance of those grave eyes.
 
 236 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 " That is not for me to say," lie answered. 
 " Only just as you spoke you looked so very, 
 very sad. You are too young to be enquiring 
 into the ' why and wherefore ' of life. You 
 ought only to enjoy it." 
 
 " That," I said is not always possible — 
 even with all the will to do it. Besides I am 
 not of the temperament that accepts without 
 question, and enjoys without effort. I am 
 afraid I have rather a fancy for the ' whys 
 and wherefores ' — for followinc^ evervthinj? to 
 the vanishing point. I always had." 
 
 " Then you will never be happy." 
 
 I was silent. My eyes followed the track 
 of the steamer — the long line of churned 
 white foam that marked its course over the 
 placid waters. The fair green land lay bathed 
 in sunlight, and afar off the faint hills shone 
 whitely in the noonday glow. A sort of 
 terror came over me as I looked at all that 
 beauty. A terror of long years to come, 
 when my heart would ache and long and 
 strive for forgetfulness — but strive in vain. 
 When every day would be a landmark of pain
 
 "SOUNDING THE DEPTHS." 237 
 
 in my memory. When I should vainly strive 
 to reach some higher peace or content on 
 the wings of my broken faith. When, for 
 the sake of this sweet Northern summer- 
 time, all other summers should seem cold 
 and blank. 
 
 I heard Kenneth's voice sounding on and 
 on. I paid no heed to it — only sat there with 
 clasped hands, and eyes that watched the 
 shores with strained, unseeino' craze. And in 
 my heart there burnt like flame that love and 
 lonorincr for some word, some sio-n from 
 Douglas — Douglas who had so lightly loved 
 — so soon forgotten me. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was quite late in the evening when we 
 returned home. I was utterly tired out — so 
 tired that as I stumbled into the little dining- 
 room at Craig Bank, I forgot my usual 
 enquiry as to the evening post. There were 
 several letters on the table, and Grannie bent 
 over and commenced examining them. 
 
 " One for you, Atliole," she said, and 
 handed me a square, boldly addressed en-
 
 238 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 velope. I glanced at the post-mark. Edin- 
 buro^li ! 
 
 My heart gave one wild throb. The blood 
 seemed to leap m a boiling flood to my brain, 
 and for a moment the room and everything 
 in it spun round and round in giddy circles. 
 
 Then, with a violent effort at self-command, 
 and muttering something explanatory to 
 Grannie about going to take off my hat, I 
 rushed away to my room. 
 
 Breathless with joy, I looked at the 
 envelope again. I dared not open it at once. 
 I sank down into a chair, keeping my 
 treasure clasped close to my throbbing heart, 
 the glad tears rushing to my eyes. 
 
 " Oh, my darling," I sobbed, " and you did 
 not forget after all! How could I have 
 wronged vou so ? " 
 
 Passionately I kissed the paper — he had 
 touched it — his hand had written that ad- 
 dress. It was no mere earthly, ordinary letter 
 to me, but something wondrous, magical ; 
 something dropped from Paradise to make 
 the dark earth glad and bright once more.
 
 "SOUNDING THE DEPTHS.' 2c9 
 
 Then I grew calmer. I dashed the tears 
 aside, and with trembling fingers opened the 
 envelope at last. The letter was not very 
 long. With a sense of disappointment I took 
 that fact in, even before I began to read it. 
 
 There was no formal beginning. He did 
 not address me even by my name. This was 
 the letter : 
 
 " I had made up my mind not to write to 
 you at all. It would have been wiser and 
 better, but perhaps I owe you some explan- 
 ation. I have been very selfish, and you 
 very unwise. Why should I tie you down 
 to my ill-fortunes and unlucky reputation ? 
 For I am a bad fellow, xithole. People have 
 not lied when they told you that. Try and 
 believe it, think the worst of me that you 
 can. I should never have said I loved you — 
 should never have stood in 3'our light — but 
 you are very young, and women so soon 
 forget. Marry the Laird, Athole, if you are 
 wise. He is a good man, if you like. He 
 will be to you what I never can and never
 
 240 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 could be. As for me — well, my father 
 kicked me out of liis house, and I am thrown 
 on the world to smk or swim as the case 
 may be. I suppose I shall sink. Heaven 
 knows, a more miserable, reckless devil never 
 breathed on the face of this earth than the 
 fellow who now writes these lines to you ; 
 but in all the recklessness and misery the 
 one regret that haunts him most, is the regret 
 that he may have made you unhappy. Think 
 all that is bad of him, if that will help you to 
 forget — but think he never was worth one 
 thought of your pure and tender heart, and 
 you will be right. 
 
 "Douglas." 
 
 The paper fell from my nerveless hands. I 
 seemed turned to stone. 
 
 This was all. This was the reward of my 
 love — my tortures — my trust ! 
 
 How intense the silence seemed. I could 
 hear my heart beating with slow, strange, 
 heavy throbs. 
 
 Oh, God ! the pain — the pain — the pain.
 
 "SOUXDIN'C^ THE DEPTHS." 241 
 
 Had I ever suffered before ? No ! I had 
 only vaguely dreamt ^vliat suffering might be. 
 Now — I knew. 
 
 I don't know how lono- I sat there. I don't 
 know what I didj save that now and then a 
 low moan would startle me in the stillness, 
 and I knew it came from my lips. And 3'et 
 it sounded strange and unfamiliar, as if some 
 one else must be there beside me ... . 
 some one else, not Athole Lindsay. 
 
 She — why surely she was dead. Killed in 
 her youth and happiness — killed in her love 
 and trust. Slain without warning, without 
 pity, without remorse. 
 
 I remember I rose, and moved feebly to 
 the glass, and looked with a sort of horror 
 and wonder at myself — at my ghastly face, 
 my tearless eyes, round which the black 
 shadows of pain and grief had set their 
 heavy marks. 
 
 I took the letter — the cruel letter which 
 had robbed me of all that was best in life — 
 every word of which seemed burnt in letters 
 of flame on my heart. I took it and tore it 
 
 VOL. T. 16
 
 242 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 deliberately into fragments, and going to tlie 
 open window I tossed them out to the cool 
 night air. They fluttered over the ground, 
 the wind carr'ed them here and there, as far 
 as the hopes they had scattered. 
 
 A knock at the door roused me. Mechani- 
 cally I blew out the candle and commenced 
 to unfasten my dress. The moon was nearly 
 full, the whole room was flooded with its 
 radiance. 
 
 " Are you going to bed, Athole ? " said 
 Grannie's voice, and the old lady entered 
 carrying a glass of milk in her hand. 
 
 " Yes," I said with effort, " I am very, very 
 tired," 
 
 " Well then, I'll no disturb ye. Indeed, 
 I'm just wearying for bed myself. Prink this 
 milk before ye lie down, my bairn, and now% 
 good-night." 
 
 She could not see my face, she noticed 
 nothing about me in any way strange, or 
 remarkable. Mechanically I kissed her and 
 answered her, and with intense relief saw her 
 leave the room and close the door.
 
 "SOUNDING THE DEPTHS." 243 
 
 Then my self-command seemed to forsake 
 me. I besran to tremble with a violence that 
 shook me from head to foot. Dry, tearless 
 sobs burst suddenly from my breast. I felt 
 suffocating. I threw myself on my knees 
 
 beside the bed the ao-ony 
 
 of thought and feelimx seemed to crush me 
 with a grasp of iron. I stretched my arms 
 out to the darkness. What was in me of 
 consciousness or strength struggled in some 
 vain appeal. 
 
 " God ! Have you no pity ? " my dumb 
 lips cried. 
 
 And the silence seemed suddenly filled 
 with voices — fiendish — mocking — trium- 
 phant. 
 
 " Xone," they echoed again and 3'et again. 
 " None for you, oh mortal, rebellious and 
 deceived — for you have chosen to worship a 
 false god of your own making, and your 
 worship makes your fate ! " 
 
 16*
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Come under my jDlaidie, 
 
 The night's gann to fa' ; 
 Come in frae the cauld blast, 
 
 The drift and the snaw ; 
 Come under my plaidie, and sit doon beside me, 
 
 I'll shield ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw.*' 
 
 My dream had ended. 
 
 Its beginning had been sudden, so was its 
 termination. 
 
 All through the hours of that long sleepless 
 night I lay awake in tearless misery, battling 
 with my shame and sorrow as best I could. 
 
 I had loved him so — and he had cared so 
 little. He had but amused himself with me 
 as a novelty, something to talk and jest with 
 in idle days and hours, and I had given him 
 all my heart — my love — my life ! 
 
 I knew that so well. I knew it in the 
 agony and self-abasement of that terrible
 
 "COME UNDER MY PL.UDIE/' 245 
 
 nicrht — a nif?ht that left its mark on me for 
 many a year to come — a niglit in which I 
 cried for death to end my misery, feeling that 
 never again would I care to rise and face the 
 daylight, to hear familiar voices, to see the 
 kindly smihng faces of my kinsfolk. A night 
 in which I drank of my cup of humiliation to 
 the very dregs. 
 
 I had scarcely known how I had hoped 
 even against hope for explanation or excuse 
 of Douglas Hay's conduct until that letter 
 had reached me. But with it all my hopes 
 fell shattered to the oTound. 
 
 o 
 
 I had been wandering in a world of inno- 
 cent joy, but now its sunshine was dimmed, 
 its flowers poisoned, its beauty marred for 
 ever. 
 
 The next morning I felt too ill to rise from 
 bed. I pleaded my usual excuse of " head- 
 ache," and Grannie attributed it to the 
 fatigues of the previous day. She was never 
 fussy or troublesome, the dear old soul. She 
 seemed to recognise that quiet was the best 
 thing for me, and so I lay there all day in my
 
 1246 THE LAIKD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 darkened room, ■with cool bandages on my 
 burning head and cool drinks for my burning 
 throat, and gradually my pulse grew less 
 feverish, my head throbbed less madly — and 
 the calm of utter weariness and utter despair 
 stole over tortured brain and aching heart. 
 
 No one came near me but Grannie. I 
 could not have borne it. Every sound, every 
 voice jarred on my strained nerves — my only 
 prayer was to be alone, quite alone. 
 
 * # * * * 
 
 There is no need to dwell at length upon 
 this time. Almost every life has to go 
 through some such crisis of misery at some 
 period or another. I went through mine. I 
 cannot tell whether it lasted long. It seemed 
 an eternity ; but probably it could not have 
 lasted more than that night and day, for I 
 was up and about as usual the next morning, 
 and to all appearance looking much as I 
 always looked, save for those dark circles 
 under my eyes and a little additional paleness 
 of my never very rosy cheeks. 
 
 Pride had come to my rescue. No one
 
 ''COME UXJjER 3IY PLAIDIE." 247 
 
 knew my secret. Xo one should know it. I 
 would live my life. I would travel the road 
 before me, but I alone should know of the 
 knife-thrust in my heart, drawing its life- 
 blood from it with every step of that destined 
 journey. 
 
 " Good-bye, Douglas," I cried. " Good-bye 
 hope — good-bye youth." 
 
 ^ * ^ ^ * 
 
 The days passed into weeks, the summer 
 was nearly over now. The time for the 
 Xorthern Meetino-s was at hand. I heard of 
 nothino" else. The little town was all astir 
 with excitement. The dressmakers had their 
 hands full of work. 
 
 The Camerons were to take me to the first 
 day of the Highland Games, as Grannie did 
 not care to go. 
 
 The day was cold and showery, and I 
 dressed myself for the great occasion with 
 many shivers and a growing disinclination to 
 accompany my cousins. 
 
 However, when they all descended upon 
 me in a cheery and excitable frame of mind,
 
 248 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 scorning to see any threats in tlie gloomy 
 clouds, or detect any chill in the rising wind, 
 I was fain to appear cheerful too, and we all 
 set out for the festive oratherinof. 
 
 The Grand Stand was cold and draughty, 
 and the threatened rain descended just as the 
 procession of pipers appeared on the scene 
 with their brilliant tartans and flying ribbons. 
 
 I had grown more and more depressed as 
 the da}^ had gone on, and I was huddled up 
 in my corner, shivering and melancholy, as 
 the weird strains of the bagpipes sounded from 
 the distance. Just then a kind and familiar 
 voice sounded close to my ear. 
 
 " Miss Lindsay, you look so cold and chilly 
 — do me the pleasure to accept this plaid." 
 
 I half turned my head, and saw the Laird 
 standing just behind me. 
 
 His kindly grey e^^es, his honest concerned 
 face, gave me a sense of pleasure and friendli- 
 ness to which I had long been a stranger. 
 
 " Thank you," I said cordially. " There's 
 no use denying it, Mr. Campbell, I am cold — 
 horribly cold."
 
 •'COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE." 249 
 
 The thick tartan plaid was wrapped round 
 my shoulders immediatel}^, and the sense of 
 warmth and comfort it brought made me feel 
 quite genially disposed to its owner. He 
 leant forward and chatted away to me, ex- 
 plaining the gyrations of the players, the 
 names of the clans they represented, and the 
 tunes they played in such spirited and ex- 
 hilarating fashion. Bella and Flora had 
 recognised his proximity by this time, and 
 Kenneth had favoured him with a somewhat 
 distant bow — they were not within hand- 
 shaking distance. 
 
 The rain had now evidently made up its 
 mind to hold off no longer, and from a 
 scattered showeriness had settled down into 
 a good steady downpour. The sun had 
 finally hidden his face for the day. All over 
 the great wide expanse of sky the leaden 
 clouds were rolling and massing themselves in 
 a gloomy phalanx. The wind swept coldly 
 and cheerlessly over the open ground, and 
 even the pipers seemed to lose heart, and the 
 proceedings were brought to a close.
 
 250 THE LAIRD 0* COCKPEN. 
 
 There was a stampede out of tlie building, 
 tlie rain was dripping through crevices in the 
 roof, and the wind blew gusty showers into 
 the faces of those occupying the front rows 
 of seats. 
 
 Everyone looked more or less blue and 
 damp and dismal. The Laird kept beside me, 
 and insisted on my still wearing the warm 
 thick plaid. 
 
 "How will ye be going home ? " he asked 
 Mora, who was looking extremely chilly and 
 disconsolate in her thin summer dress and 
 airy bonnet, neither of which were at all 
 suitable to the day. 
 
 "Oh, we must have a fly and pack 
 ourselves into it," she said rather ill- 
 temperedly. 
 
 " Then may I see your cousin back to Craig 
 Bank ? " he said. " I have a covered carriage 
 here. It is quite at her service." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," cried Flora eagerly. 
 " That will save us going out of our way, and 
 will you please explain to Mrs. Lindsay " 
 
 "Certainly — certainly," he said, cutting
 
 " COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE." 251 
 
 short her words, and regardless of Kenneth's 
 scowls. As for myself I was too anxious to 
 o'et home, to care how or with whom I 
 journeyed. 
 
 We all parted somewhat hurriedly, and the 
 Laird put me into a comfortable carriage and 
 seated himself opposite to me, and through 
 the now blinding rain I was driven swiftly 
 home to Craig Bank. 
 
 Grannie was looking anxiously out of 
 the window, and there was no small amaze- 
 ment visible in her face as she saw my 
 companion. 
 
 He followed me into the house. A blazing 
 fire gave us welcome in the dining-room, the 
 table was laid for dinner. It was very 
 pleasant after the cold and damp of the outer 
 air. 
 
 I threw off the plaid and went eagerly up 
 to the fire. I left the Laird to make his 
 own explanations. Presently I heard Grannie 
 urging him to take " pot luck " and stay 
 dinner. 
 
 He hesitated for a moment and then
 
 252 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 accepted, only asking if he might give his 
 coachman the necessary orders as to going 
 back to the stables. 
 
 I thought how pleased and radiant Grannie 
 looked, as I slowly dragged my tired and 
 half frozen limbs upstairs, and removed my 
 hat and finery for the plain dark serge of 
 every-day life. 
 
 The soup was on the table when I 
 went down, and the Laird, grave-eyed, 
 solemn, stolid as ever, took the chair oppo- 
 site mine. 
 
 I had not seen him since the night of his 
 proposal. He had left Inverness next day 
 and been at his own place, Corriemoor, ever 
 since. I listened silently as he and Grannie 
 chatted on about all the topics of general and 
 local interest. From time to time I caught 
 the grey eyes looking at me with an intent, 
 observant gaze. 
 
 I wondered whether he detected any 
 change in my appearance. To me it seemed 
 apparent enough. I had never been very 
 brilliant at conversation, but now it seemed
 
 "COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE." ^^53 
 
 more of an effort than ever. When he spoke 
 to me my rephes were as brief as they well 
 could be. His presence was another stab to 
 memory. It brought back the night of that 
 dinner-party — the last night I had spent with 
 ni}^ love — the last night I had seen his hand- 
 some face, and heard the ringing notes of the 
 voice I had learnt to love so dearly. Ah, 
 me I how long ago it all seemed, how terribly 
 long ago ! 
 
 # * * # * 
 
 Dinner was over. The rain still poured 
 down in a steady, uncompromising fashion, 
 and Grannie would not hear of her .':>uest 
 departing. 
 
 We drew up our chairs to the fire and 
 chatted — or rather they chatted, and I 
 listened. The Laird seemed in wonderfully 
 good spirits. I even found myself laughing 
 at some of his anecdotes and descriptions. 
 Once Grannie left the room on some errand 
 or excuse, and I found myself alone with my 
 quondam suitor. 
 
 A momentary silence fell between us.
 
 254 THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 Then lie looked at me in his direct simple 
 fashion. 
 
 " You are not looking well, Miss Lindsay," 
 he said. " You are pale and thin ; are you 
 minded to stay on for the winter in Scot- 
 land ? " 
 
 " I have not thought about it yet," I said. 
 " Grannie seems loth to part with me ; but I 
 don't know what my father's wishes on the 
 subject may be." 
 
 He was silent for a time. " Perhaps the 
 air is too bleak and strong for you," he said. 
 " You look as white and frail as any snow- 
 drop. I felt just horrified when I saw you at 
 the Meetings yonder." 
 
 I coloured slightly at his look and tone. 
 "Oh," I said lightly, "I am well enough. 
 Pray don't regard me as an invalid. You 
 know I was not very robust when I came 
 here, but I think I have grown much stronger 
 now." 
 
 ''• I hope so," he said doubtfully ; " but you 
 must excuse my saying that your looks are 
 very unlike your words. And you are not
 
 "COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE/' 255 
 
 bright and merry as a yoiinof tliino- should 
 be. Are you in any trouble ? If you would 
 but let me be a friend to you — help }'0u — 
 it would make me so happy." 
 
 " You are very kind," I said, my voice a 
 little tremulous, for something in his earnest 
 face and kind grey eyes touched me deeply, 
 " but indeed I am quite well, as well as I 
 shall ever be." 
 
 " But there is a trouble," he said gently ; 
 " I am sure of it ; but I cannot press for your 
 confidence, Miss Lindsay. I have no right to 
 it_I wish I had." 
 
 I was silent. X feeling of embarrassment 
 sprang up between us, and I began to wish 
 heartily for Grannie's return. I glanced at 
 the window ; the day was rapidly closing in, 
 the dull grey rain and mist made the prospect 
 very dismal. 
 
 His eyes followed mine. 
 
 " I am staying at the hotel for a few days," 
 lie said, " I arrived last night. I suppose 
 it is about time for me to take my leave 
 now."
 
 255 IHE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 He rose and walked to the window and 
 stood for a moment there, looking out at the 
 wet trees and the sodden ground. I also 
 rose and fetched the plaid which he had lent 
 me, and laid it on the table. 
 
 " Will you take this ? " I asked hesitatingly. 
 " Or shall I send it to the hotel ? " 
 
 He turned quickly, and glanced from the 
 wrap to me. " You have greatly honoured 
 me by wearing it. Miss Lindsay. From this 
 time it is a possession of value to me. I will 
 take it myself unless — unless " 
 
 I looked at him enquiringly, a little con- 
 scious flush rising to my face. 
 
 " Unless you would still further honour 
 me by keeping it," he said at last, making 
 a vigorous effort to appear natural and 
 unconstrained. " In memory of some slight 
 service it has done you," he added in a lower 
 key. 
 
 I felt somewhat embarrassed ; the plaid 
 was a very handsome one of his own tartan, 
 but I scarcely liked to accept it as a gift from 
 him under the circumstances.
 
 'COME L'NDER MY PLAIDIE." 257 
 
 " You are veiy good," I stammered, blush- 
 ing furiously as I met his eyes. " But I — I 
 don't like — I mean I think Grannie would 
 hardly like me to accept such a handsome 
 present from you/' 
 
 "I am not asking your grandmother's 
 opinion," he said somewhat sternly. "I only 
 wish for yours. Will you not accept it in 
 the same spirit in which it is offered, and for 
 sake of — someone who cares very dearly for 
 you, although he knows he is but a fool for 
 his pains." 
 
 " I — I am sure you are not a fool," I ex- 
 claimed eagerly, " and certainly I will accept 
 your gift in the spirit you offer it. It is 
 most kind of you, and I think I should have 
 caught my death of cold to-day had it not 
 been for that plaid." 
 
 He was still standing by the window, his 
 face slightly averted. 
 
 " Do you remember the old song ? " he said 
 
 somewhat hesitatingly. " I fear that is very 
 
 much how I felt to-day. Oh, Athole, if I 
 
 could only tell you how much you are to me 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 THE LAIED 0' COCKPEN. 
 
 — how gladly I would shield you from ' every 
 cauld blast that may blaw ' ; every hardship, 
 every trouble — nay, there — it is no use — we 
 will speak of it no more." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 KELLY AKD CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, LONDON, AV.C, 
 AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES. 
 
 K. 
 
 ^