OtlNP ^h r I IN HONOUR BOUND. CHARLES GIBBON. AUTHOR or "ROlilX GRAY," "FOR LACK OF COLl)," "FOR THE 'A creature not too bright or good For human natures daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles." WoRDSWOKTir. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON. 1874. All rights reserved. y, I To LADY COXF, of K Indian, the daughter of Burns' s " Bonnie Leslie^' I dedicate this book, in token of admi- ration ajid respect for one whose days are devoted to the good work of making others happy j and in token of affectionate gratitude for a never-failing sympathy whidi has many times dispelled morbid moods, and blessed me with the inspiratio7i of Courage and Hope. The influ- ence which that sympathy has exercised over my life is my happiest experiences and I wish to ntter here my heartfelt thankfulness for the good fortune -which gave me such a friend. Loudon, September 26th, 1874. CONTENTS OF VOL. L CHAPTER TACE I. MONEY I II. THE FISHER-FOLK 23 III. THE BOOK OF FATE 35 IV. YOUNG DALMAHOY 47 V. HIS STORY 6^ VI. SKIPPER DAN 79 VII. THE LAIRD 93 VIIL "GOING TO BE MARRIED" II 5 IX. AT CRAIGBURN I29 X. THE GOLDEN AGE I47 XL AN ORDEAL I54 XII. GOOD ADVICE 175 XIII. TEMPTATION 187 XIV. "the poet"' 204 vlii Contents. CHAI'TF.K PAGE XV. STRATAGEM 215 XVI. SHADOWS 226 XVII. DRUMLIEMOUNT 237 XVIII. WHAT FOLK SAID 253 XIX. THE BRIDAL EVE 264 XX. THE MARRIAGE 284 IN HONOUR BOUND CHAPTER I. MONEY, HERE was much commotion in the district of Kingshaven when the re- port circulated that George Meth- ven was dead. It was not so much his death which caused the commotion as the rumours of the enormous wealth he had left behind him. Some said he had left half a million ; others that a million was more like the thing; others again that the sum amounted to nearly two millions in bonds, shares, and stock of various kinds. It was therefore natural that VOL. I. 1 In Honour Bound, profound interest should be taken in the man's death : the wonder is that the good folk did not insist upon a public funeral — for was not the late George Methven a mil- lionaire ? The people of Kingshaven, who regarded ten thousand as a handsome fortune, and who considered themselves exceedingly- prosperous when their income passed five hundred a-year — a degree of prosperity demanding extra diligence in well-doing (that is, increasing the store), and punctual kirk-attendance — stared at each other in blank amazement as they listened to the reports of the fabulous wealth acquired by Geordie Methven. The deceased was still mentioned by the inhabitants of his native place as plain '' Geordie," sometimes " poor Geordie " Methven. '' I doubt it's not all well come by," observed the provost — a man of position and means. He owned property in the town ; and lately — to please his wife, who Money, 3 wished to spite her neighbours — he had braved the jeers of his brethren, and started a brougham (second-hand). But he was a bold man, and having made the innovation, he was resolved to extract from it the greatest amount of credit which could be extracted. So, towards the close of any- social gathering, you would hear the provost demanding in a loud voice if his "carriage and lamps " had come. Never before had a magistrate of Kingshaven presumed to any- grander vehicle than a dog-cart. '' Geordie was a queer lad," said Todd the miller ; '' but we're a deadly and lively, and it must come some day." He was very solemn, but somewhat vague ; probably he was the more impressive in consequence. " He was never married," was the com- ment of Brunton the farmer, who thought he had solved the problem of Methven's riches. He had been himself twice mar- ried. " Well, well, well," continued the provost I7i Honour Bound. with an air of retrospective patronage, '' if I had only known what he was to come to, I might have helped the laddie." ** He seems to have got on pretty well without your help," was the disagreeable rejoinder of the bailie, who was also the oldest doctor of the town. The provost walked home, thoughtful. '' Who is to be the heir ?" inquired his wife, Mrs. Dubbieside ; '' will it be Dal- mahoy ?" " More like to be Thorston's lass, if it s anybody. But there's no saying how it will go, for I hear there's no will, and the property will fall to the nearest friends. I wonder if any of our forebears were con- nected." The eyes of Mrs. Dubbieside started on her fat cheeks at the mere possibility of a relationship about which, not long ago, she would have been discreetly silent if it had existed. She was a short, stout Lancashire woman, and she was described by the bailie's Money. 5 wife as " a poor creature who was always ailing and always cooking." The provost and his wife laid their heads together, and devoted the day to a diligent study of genealogy, ranging as far as fourth and fifth cousins seven times removed. There were other people occupied at that moment in similar exciting speculations. George Methven was a natural child ; his mother, a poor lass, who died soon after his birth ; his father, a wild young laird, who never remembered the existence of the boy, and who had happened to be married to a wealthy widow on the very day George was born. The child was left to the care of his maternal grandmother : an honest, hard- working woman, who had too much respect for the '' gentry," and too much awe, to make any fuss about the misfortune of her daughter. She belonged to that class of dames who were ready to say, as one had /;/ Honozu' Botmd. said to a son who had offended his chiefs "" Come awa and be hanged, Dugald, to please the laird." Mrs. Methvens system of nursing was singularly simple. She filled a common bottle with milk, warm water, and a little coarse sugar ; next she tied a piece of soft rag, in several folds, over the mouth of the bottle which she placed beside the baby on the floor. Then she went forth to her work in the fields. Perhaps a neighbour wife would step in during the day to see how the bairn was getting on ; otherwise he was left to hug his bottle-mother until granny returned home in the evening. And the child lived ! Not only lived, but became so venturesome that soon granny found it necessary to tie him to the leg of the table during her absence. At eighteen months he was firm on his feet ; at two years he had to be sent to an infant-school to keep him out of mischief The school w^as a small room in a sort of Money. 7 hut, kept by a half-witted creature called Singgy Brod — '' Singgy," a nickname sug- gested by the man's sing-song intonation of speech. Nobody knew whence Singgy had come ; but he had been so long settled in the district that the people accepted him as a permanent institution. Droll, too, that no- body remembered Singgy as anything but what he was when George Methven became his pupil — a little wiry old man, with lank iron-gray hair, and dressed in a long frock- coat, brown with age and diversified with patches. His hut contained a single room ; and he took charge of all the children who had to be left unprotected by their natural guardians during working-hours. Singgy's was, in a manner, a feeder to the parish school — at which he was never wearied scoff- ing. He did manage to instil into his pupils a dim idea that the alphabet by certain magical combinations formed words, and a few of the children acquired the art of making bad pot-hooks. But in winter Singgy 8 III HonoiLT Bo2tnd, was chiefly occupied trying to keep up a fire with very little peat and no coal — down on his knees, alternately puffing at the feeble flame and scolding the urchins ; and in summer he generally began his day's work with the announcement — " We'll have no school to-day, bairns ; we'll awa to the burn and fush for min- nows." The infants, delighted to get out to the sunshine, raised a joyful shout, and followed their master. In the course of these excur- sions he would sometimes obtain a penny- worth of candy from the perambulating rag and bone merchant; with this confection — made of treacle and flour — he would treat all the good boys and girls, and the bad ones equally ; for although Singgy threatened much, he seldom carried his punishment beyond the threat. He fared well enough himself, for usually he stepped into the nearest farm-house at dinner-hour, and nobody ever thought of denying him a share Aloney. 9 of whatever might be on the table, Some- times he would fix upon the house where he intended to dine, and he would call in the morning to intimate his intention, also to direct the goodwife to " be sure and put ingans in the broth." All this freedom was rarely resented. Singgy [was pitied and laughed at with an undercurrent of liking ; for he always carried in his hand a torn dirty copy of Horace (which he was never known to read); and Latin and the Church being so closely allied in the agri- cultural mind, the book served as a talisman which secured for the owner food and en- durance. By this man, George Methven was con- ducted to the threshold of the beautiful world of which reading, writing, and arithmetic are the gates. The boy actually did learn some- thing ; he had an instinctive power of acquisi- tion of the meaning and spirit of the lessons which were set before him ; and at seven he could read the whole of the first horn-book ! I o In Honour Bonnd. There Is no telling what he might have been able to do at that age, if he had been brought up by an experienced crammer ; as it was, the httle he could do was a marvellous achieve- ment under the circumstances. It was fortu- nate for him that he had succeeded so well ; for at this period granny died, and he was left homeless, without a friend able or willing to pay on his account the moderate penny a week which was Singgy's charge for tuition. But the schoolmaster did not desert his pupil; he took care of him for a year — making some profit out of his benevolence, it must be owned ; but then benevolence is so much more enjoyable when it is profitable — and after that placed him with a small farmer as a herd. Geordie was only about eight when he began the real work of life. In return for his services in herding sheep and cattle, he had food, and a corner of the stable-loft to sleep in at night, besides any cast-off clothes which the farmer s wife might give him. At ten, he Money. 1 1 earned a few shillines as washes, In addition to food and lodging. On the hill-side during the day, by the kitchen fire at night, he spelled through every scrap of printed matter which fell in his way, and he exercised his penman- ship with the aid of a bit of slate which had been blown off a roof, and a piece of pencil which had been given to him by one of the farmer's children. At twelve he could read tolerably, and write plainly, thanks in some measure to the hours which Singgy spent with him during the bright summer days when study and herding were congenial occu- pations, and thanks still more to his own dogged resolution to learn. The boy was not much liked ; he was too silent — dour, he was often called. He per- formed whatever task was set before him, but there was no alacrity in his movements, no sign of pleasure in his work ; and although he seldom blundered, he was set down as a very stupid, discontented lad, who would come to no good. He was conscious of the little 1 2 In Honour Bound. esteem in which he was held ; yet he did not try to win favour. On several occasions he had been abused as an '' ill-getted loon," and reminded of his illegitimate existence. He hung his head and made no reply, but the re- proach sank deep in his nature. The world seemed to him a very hard place to live in, and the future very blank. He was shy and nervous. There was a pinched, eager look in his face, and never a glint of warmth. The face seemed to reflect the warped condition of the poor child's heart. One cold day when the east wind, which thereabout was known very appropriately as *'the Razor," was blowing in keenly from the sea, Geordie had to make a journey across the moors to bring sheep down from the hills into the home fields. With his jacket buttoned close up to his neck, his bonnet pulled over his brows, and his head bent against " the Razor," he trudged along the bleak road. A solitary crow sat on a dilapidated fence, uttering at intervals a melancholy ''Caw, caw." Money. 1 3 Geordie looked at the bird, and whilst the wind was biting through his jacket, and some thoughts of his own miserable position were passing through his mind, he muttered — *' Caw, caw, you idiot ! What for did the Lord gi'e you wings, if it wasna to flee awa from a country like this ?" The crow, frightened by his approach, rose on the wing, and the boy watched it till it dis- appeared over the trees of a distant planta- tion. Geordie wished he could fly. Then it oc- curred to him that although he had no wings he had legs, and they might be used to as good purpose. At fourteen he took leave of Kingshaven. He had a red cotton handkerchief in his hand, full of oatcakes and cheese, and he had a white shilling in his pocket. The cakes and cheese sufficed to satisfy his appetite during the day, and at night he slept under the most con- venient haystack. So he tramped to Glasgow, the shilling safe in his pocket when he entered 14 In Honoicr Bound, that smoky city. He had also a letter written by the minister of Kingshaven, certifying that he was an honest lad. With the help of this certificate he obtained a situation as message- boy in the office of a small contractor, at a salary of five shillings a week. On that sum he contrived to exist and to save a few pence. He was painfully methodical in the per- formance of every act, whether the act affected himself or his master. In three years he was advanced to a stool in the office ; at twenty he was regarded as one of the most valuable of the contractor's assistants ; at twenty-five he was head clerk ; and at thirty he was in Manchester, beginning business in a very humble way on his own account. He prospered rapidly, marvellously. It seemed as if all the ills of his youth were to be compensated by the unprecedented success of his manhood. Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. Amongst Manches- ter men it became a business to note the Money. 1 5 speculations in which Methven interested himself, and to leap at them the instant they were assured that he was " in the swim," satis- fied that the results must be profitable. His '' good luck," the title which people like to give to clear vision and steadfast work, never failed him. The confidence he inspired w^as unlimited. There was a serious crisis in his affairs, as there is in the affairs of every man. He went to the bank, told the directors plainly his position, and the risk they would run in trusting him. They were a little frightened, but they trusted him. The bank gained a hundred thousand through the faith of its directors, and Methven was established as a millionaire. The man was cold, silent, dour, as the boy had been. His life was a sort of golden nightmare. There was in it no love, which is the sun of life. He had no friends, no affections. No woman's shadow crossed his thoughts, to interfere with entire devotion to business success. He gave large sums to t6 In Hoiio7ir Bo7L7id. charities, he assisted the deserving, he paid his full Income-tax — and there his moral re- sponsibilities appeared to end. If he had re- grets, desires, or hopes outside his ledger, they were never apparent In word, act, or look. One grateful act he had performed. He had brought his old dominie from the hut at KIngshaven, and established him in his Man- chester palace. He clothed him anew, made him an allowance for pocket-money, which in the dazed eyes of SInggy Brod was unbounded wealth, and the servants were directed to at- tend to his wishes as they would to their masters. At first SInggy was dumb with bewilder- ment. He was humble, grateful, although he sometimes sighed for the freedom of his hut and rags. He was afraid of the servants, and slunk out of their way as quietly as possible. He was afraid to use the beautiful furniture of the grand mansion. Dinner was a daily tor- ture to him. He never dared to ask for Money. 1 7 **ingans" in the soup now. He ate in fear and trembling lest the butler should be offended, and was always anxious to save trouble by using one plate throughout the meal. The exclamation he had uttered on his arrival was continually rising in his throat, and half choking him as he gulped it down — "Man, Geordie, it's no possible that it's you I It was so like enchantment — a modern ver- sion of Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp. Some day it would all disappear just as sud- denly as Aladdin's palace, and he would find himself back in the old hut, with the bairns squalling around him. He thought he would prepare for the evil day, and he began to hoard his allowance. But as time passed and the dreaded transformation did not take place, his mood changed. He began to think, *' It is to me that Geordie owes all this. If it had not been for me, where would he have been .^ Certainly not here." This idea developed gradually into a con- VOL. I. 2 In Honour Boiuid. viction that whatever Methven possessed, he had a right to share it. ' Presently, instead of being timid in deahng with the domestics, he took to bullying them. He detected waste everywhere ; with nervous anxiety to punish the delinquents, he took to listening at key- holes and spying into drawers and cupboards. He roundly abused the whole staff, from scullion to butler, for robbing him. The servants grumbled at this tyranny ; but Methven would not interfere. In conse- quence there were frequent changes in the household, and soon there was not left one •of the domestics who had witnessed the dominie's arrival. Then the old man felt more at ease, but he did not relax his vigilance, and his parsi- monious ways became more marked than be- fore. He had been happy as a vagrant school- master, depending almost upon charity for his dinner ; he was miserable with wealth at his command. The gold-fever had entered into the poor creature's blood, and had wrought a Money. 19 greater traiisformatiori in his nature than in his circumstances. It was the passion of the miser which possessed him. He had no sense of the power of happiness with which the genius of benevolence can inspire money; it was the gold itself he loved. Formerly he had seldom had the opportunity to rub two coppers together ; now his one amusement was to sit with a roll of sovereigns, slowly dropping them from one hand to the other, and listening with pitiful glee to the music they made. By-and-by he found another occupation in watching with greedy interest Methven's movements and progress. He began to con- sider who were Methven's relations ; to speculate upon the possibility that all the great fortune of his benefactor might descend to himself. The possibility grew into proba- bility, and then into assurance that nobody else could be or should be Methven's heir. He became jealous of every creature who ap- proached him, hunted them away, or with 2 — 2 20 In Honott7' Bound. transparent cunning warned his pupil that they had designs upon him. The last stage of his mania was soon reached ; without the shehtest reo:ard to the difference between them in years, the old man waited for the comparatively young man's death. One day Singgy was thrown into a frenzy, upon learning that George Methven's father — the Laird, now a poor man — was with his son. He revived when he saw the Laird go away with head bowed, humbled and evidently disappointed. All his efforts to learn the result of this visit failed, and he never quite recovered from the effects of the fright it had given him. He took ill — died — railing at his benefactor, wildly accusing Methven of having cheated him, robbed him, and poisoned him. It does, in certain moods, appear unkind of other people to outlive us. Methven buried his old teacher quietly, erecting a plain marble slab to his memory, inscribed with nothing more than his name and date of death. He never again tried to Money. 2 r make a friend. Friendship and love seemed denied to him, more decidedly now that he was rich than when he had been a poor laddie, herding sheep on the hill-side, striving to acquire knowledge and to attain the something which he had missed, notwith- standing his marvellous success. " But work cures everything," was his constant cry ; " regrets, the loss of hope, shame, all yield to work." So he worked harder than ever, and for- tune still favoured all his efforts. In his office, in his house, he was always at w^ork. He sat late in his study ; he was there early in the morning ; and one morning he was found seated at the writing table, pen in hand, the lamp still burning, although the sun was up, his eyes fixed upon a blank sheet of paper. He was dead : the cause — paralysis. There was no will ; and that circumstance astounded every one who had known the methodical habits of the man. One feasible 2 2 In H 01107 tr Bound. explanation was suggested by the solicitors who had transacted much business for the deceased : that it had been Mr. Methven's intention to distribute his wealth whilst living, and thus he had omitted to prepare a will. Whether that w^as the case or not, here was a great fortune going a-begging for an heir. CHAPTER II. THE FISHER-FOLK. HE cottage of Dan Thorston stood on the high point known as the Norlan' Head, overlookine a little bay, round which the huge black and brown rocks formed a rugged horse-shoe. A few steps from the door of the cottage, was the opening of a perilous footpath which wound round the rocky walls of the bay^ down to the pale yellow sand where lay Dan's boat, and where, in a sheltered corner,, he had a tar-painted hut for his oars and fishing tackle. The cottage was like two buildings placed lengthwise together, the one beinor smaller than the other. The walls were of unhewn stone, whitewashed ; the 24 Iji Honour Boimd. roof, thatch — in colour, a piebald of brown and green — and the two big squat chimneys were carefully bound with straw-rope. It was a weather-beaten building, for it was exposed to every wind that blew. That was why Dan made it his home. Wind and sea were his comrades ; he loved them ; they spoke to him — he under- stood them, and he was happiest when in closest communion wuth them. There was something of the old Viking in his heart, and much of the Norse blood in his veins. When any one spoke of the dangers of stormy seas, he laughed in wonder. He seemed to have no sense of danger ; and in this respect his daughter, Christina, or Teenie as she was always called, resembled him. *' It was just frightsome to see her," was the opinion of the wives of Rowanden — women who were not cowards — as she clambered over the rocks ; or when, in the wildest weather, she stood on the Norlan' The Fisher-Folk. Head, gazing at the storm, and apparently- taking delight in the furious strife of the elements. There was something " uncanny " about the bairn, was the unanimous ver- dict. Thorston and his daughter were much respected, but in many minds the respect was dashed with a degree of fear. *' Master " or " Skipper " Dan, as he was called, on account of a share he had in two whaling vessels, was supposed to be endowed with a special gift for forecasting the weather. At early morning his move- ments were eagerly observed. If when he looked out he thrust his hands into his pockets, as if satisfied with the appearance of affairs, there was a general race for the boats and a struggle who should be out first. But if Dan raised his hand to his brow as if to concentrate his vision upon some object far out at sea, every man turned into his cot w^ith the growl, " There will be nae fish the-day." 26 In Honotir Bo2tnd. Dan had not sought this singular reputa- tion ; but having obtained it, he was proud of it — sometimes even he would catch himself stooping to some little trick to heighten the fishers' faith in him, and he would feel ashamed of himself. When away upon a whaling expedition, it gratified him to think that he would be missed at Rowanden ; that he V\/ould be joyfully welcomed home ; and that during his absence, Teenie would be guarded and cared for as if she were queen of the land. Although the village of Rowanden was near neighbour to the town of Kingshaven and had many friendly transactions with it, the two communities were quite distinct. The first was entirely composed of fisher- folk ; the second contained the usual mixed population which gathers around flax-mills ship-building yards, fish-curing establish- ments and agricultural markets. The first stuck fast to its old ways and old supersti- tions ; the second was eao^er to be in advance TJic Fisher- Folk. 27 of the time, and was never done shouting ** Progress," as if the mere word were a charm by which miracles could be wrought. The fishers looked on stolidly, and would not believe in the new charm. The nuisance inspector was, in their eyes, himself a nuisance. Folk had lived and died comfort- ably for hundreds of years before there had been any ado about drainage and atmosphere, and they could not see why they should not be permitted to go on living and dying in their own way as their fathers had done. The village, from a distance, looked like an irregular pile of whitewashed walls diversified by sheets of black, red, and dark gray, where tarcoated huts, red tiles, or thatch prevailed. Closer inspection showed that the village and its belongings formed three terraces, one rising above the other. First there was the shore, on which were groups of boats, tall stakes overhung with nets like huge cobwebs, black huts for housing oars, cords, floats, baskets, and other fishing-gear ; in the back- 28 I 71 Honou7' Boimd. ground a dark wall of rock, in which a steep flight of steps had been cut, leading up to the shelf or terrace above. Here were piles of nets, dried, mended, and ready for use ; and upon them lounged men and boys, in rough blue trousers and jackets, smoking, gossiping, and repairing other nets. The women, stout- limbed and healthful, in big white caps, short gray or red-striped petticoats, thick blue or gray stockings, and heavy boots, were busy at large tubs cleaning and salting fish, or pre- paring bait. On the walls were rows of had- docks drying ; heaps of refuse dotted the sides of the roadway, and the fine fishy atmosphere could be tasted. The third row of houses was approached by a steep pathway ; and behind this upper row were patches of vege- table gardens, then rocks and fields. On the top of the hill stood a white house — the manse; on the gable facing the village the minister had placed a large barometer, for the benefit of the fishers. During a storm which continued for several days, the women The Fishcr-Folk. 29 marched up to the manse and prayed the minister to set the weather-guide to '' fair." He endeavoured to explain the nature of the instrument ; but the women w^ere not satisfied. They beHeved in Skipper Dan's weather- wisdom — they could not believe in this strange machine ; so they took stones and smashed it. Soon after the weather changed for the bet- ter, and old Tibbie Gow, who had been a ringleader In the outrage on the barometer, exclaimed triumphantly — " I tell't you how it would be ! — it's just thae new-fangled whigmaleeries that's setting a'- thlng wrang. We maun take care o' the minister, for he's a guid sort o' sowl, though he's weak, like a man bodies." But foul weather came again, notwithstand- ing ; wives were widowed and children left fatherless, just as before. Tibbie Gow, how- ever, firmly believed that the storms might have been subdued if she could have only offered to each the sacrifice of a barometer. There was another ado In the village when In Honoicr Bound. the railway was planned and made. The first intimation of the appearance of a train was given by Willie Stark — a man in years, but a child in mind. He had been at Kingshaven one winter evening, and on his way home saw a train. He burst into his mother's cottage, crying in much wonder, " Eh, mither, mither ! what do you think I saw but the smiddy running awa with a row of houses !" Another report was made by David Fin- nie, an old man, who, expressly to see this new monster called a train, walked over to the hill through which a tunnel had been made. He took his stand on the height and observed the animal approaching. '•' But I didna think muckle o' her," he said, contemptuously ; " she came on panting and panting, and tried hard to get up the hill, but as soon as she saw me ! — she just gied a great scraich, and ran into a hole." They were slow to appreciate modern im- provements, but they were an honest, sturdy The Fisher-Folk, race. Simple In heart, and in many respects commonplace enough in nature, their coarse- ness was leavened by their kindness, and by a certain unconscious humour in their ways and sayings. Rugged in form and speech as their own rocky coast, they were capable of the tenderest sympathy for the suffering, and of much self-sacrifice to help a neighbour in peril or misfortune. Every bay, every cavern along; the coast had its name and les^end ; every one of the rocky islets, which rose like strange monsters from the sea, dripping and flashing their watery diamonds in the sun- light, was a monument of some sad loss or of some brave deed of rescue. There was the black-looking rock near the bar, ominously named " the Wrecker," on account of the many disasters for which it was accountable. One of the latest incidents which had justified its evil repute was the destruction of a cobble from a northern fishinof station. It was midday, and the sea was in one of its angry moods. There w^ere three men and Ill Honour Botmd. a boy in the cobble ; they attempted to cross the bar, but the boat struck the rock and capsized. Men, women, and children hastened down to the beach, and six stalwart fellows put off to the rescue. The boy was seen clinging to the keel of the upturned boat, and his piteous cries were heard by those on shore. A o^reat wave was rolling^ towards him ; it would break above him and destroy him. The people held their breath as they watched the race between the destroyer and the rescue. A woman, at whose breast clung a frightened infant, whilst her eyes were fixed upon the boy in such sore need out yonder, gave voice to the prayer of all who stood by — " God ! — be near him — he's some one's bairn 1" The boy and one of the men were saved. This was the kind of legend which formed part of the fisher-folk's lives, and, in their eyes, endowed rocks and sea and wind with a spiritual significance. They had a plain matter-of-fact way of speaking about things The Fisher-Folk. spiritual as well as temporal. Providence was a real presence to them ; He walked amongst them, noted their doings, and promptly punished the sinners. They spoke of Him with a familiarity which would have startled a stranger. They carried this mat- ter-of-fact spirit even to their tombstones, on one of which appeared this droll epitaph : — '•' Here lies poor Susan Gray ; . ,r' She would if she could, but she could not stay, She had two bad legs and a very bad cough, But it was the two bad legs that carried her off." It was written in all seriousness. The con- versation of the men was mostly occu- pied with questions as to the state of the fishinof, accidents to the stakes and to com- rades, quarrels with the water-bailies in close- time and out of it. Sick men and plaisters, with an occasional diversion about the price of fish and provisions, engaged the tongues of the elder women. Rheumatism was an enemy they had frequent struggles with ; and they encountered him with vigorous measures. VOL. I. ^ 34 -^^^ Ho7ioitr Bound. " Sandy's just that bad he canna move hand or foot," said Jean Watt to a cronle ; '' but he's had mustard and vinegar on at the foot o' the shoulder-blades, and a batter as big as your twa hands, and I canna tell you how muckle salts he's taken, so I'm thinking he'll be some better the-morn. What are you paying for tattles now ?" • Teenle Thorston grew up amongst these fishermen, sharing in their superstitions, listening to their eerie stories, to their merry or sad ballads — one of themselves apparently, and yet curiously unlike them. " Uncanny," said all ; *' a bairn of the storm," said some ; *'a sea-kelpie," said old David Finnic, grin- ning at his own conceit. " Eh, but she's bonnle," sighed the youths who looked at her, yearning, and dare not speak. CHAPTER III. THE BOOK OF FATE. HE Stood at the door of the cotta2:e. A clear day. She could see miles of the bare coast-line guarded by its savage battlements of rock ; the busy port of Kingshaven, nestling in its natural bay, and behind, long stretches of moorland melt- ing into fields of ripe grain, which rolled up- ward to the mountains, whose bright green plains hung upon the edge of black valleys. Before her, the opal sea, alwaysVestless, often furious, flecked with foam and fishing smacks. The colour deepened as the waters reached the horizon, and through a white haze mingled with the sky. All the wrath of the sea ap- peared to be close at hand ; out yonder there 36 In Honour Bottnd. seemed to be a placid mere, from which came long sweeping waves, graceful, and so calm In their streno^th, liftlnof their white crests, be- neath which flashed the colours of the rainbow, trembling an Instant in the sunlight, then dipping and curving with such gentle lines shoreward, that it seemed a lover in his hap- piest mood hastening to kiss his mistress. But as they neared the shore, the waves be- came turbulent, rose In white jagged points, broke In spiteful foam upon the rocks, and retired moaning, disappointed. Within that hazy horizon line those who looked from shore saw, for themselves or those who were dear to them, rough work and danger enough ; beyond it, the discontented or ambitious Imagined mysterious possibilities, and gazed long, with vague yearnings ; until, by-and-by, quickened by necessity or hope, some broke the ties of home, and sailed out into the mists of new worlds, to find fortune or despair. At times Teenle was conscious of these The Book of Fate. 37 vague yearnings, and became restless as the sea she loved. There was a laro^e dovecot above the door of the cottage ; the pigeons were continually fluttering about the roof, cooing and pluming themselves. They were Teenie's pets ; they would gather around her, sit on her shoulders, on her arms, and peck from her hand, but they took flight as soon as a second person appeared. This familiarity with animals was regarded as another element of uncanniness in her character. The pigeons were flocking about her now. One fine fellow, wath a grand sheeny blue breast, was marching up and down before her, cr-r-ooing, dipping his head at Intervals to give emphasis to his guttural notes, and patronising his mates with all the pomposity of the provost at a tea-meeting. Teenie spoke to her pets occasionally, but she was much occupied looking down the road towards the village which lay below her, KIngshaven be- hind it, yellow and black in the sunlight, its ^S In Honour Bound. church tower and dissenting steeple rising sharp and clear against the sky. She stood with the left hand resting on her hip, the other now playing with the fringe of the little blue scarf which was pinned round her neck, and again raised to shade her eyes from the bright rays of the sun. A tall sinewy lass, with wavy fair hair, and plenty of it, hanging down her back ; big blue eyes ; soft rounded features, sun-browned and healthful. Her dress a simple stuff gown, apron, white stockings, and thick-soled shoes. There was a sense of grace and strength in her appear- ance — beauty, in fact; the light of blissful ignorance of sorrow in her eyes, and a smile on her lips. She saw a woman with a square yellow basket on her arm, marching up the hill. Teenie's whole face beamed with delight ; pressing her elbows to her sides, her pets were scattered right and left as she sprang forward to meet the woman, all the poetry of motion in her joyful bounding pace. The Book of Fate. 39 '' Have you gotten it, Ailie ?" she cried. Alison nodded, and Teenie clapped her hands gleefully. " Eh, but that's fine ! Come on ; let's try it at once !" Catching the woman's sleeve, she dragged her towards the house, impatient of her pace, although Alison Burges, having the bones and muscles of a man, walked with the stride of one. Alison was about sixty — clean, neat, and fresh, from the white cap with its huge frill on her head, to the clumsy but serviceable boots on her feet. She had long dry features, marked with red marble lines ; pale gray eyes, in which there was plenty of shrewdness, but not a glimpse of tenderness apparent. She yielded to the impulsive girl, but neither smiled nor frowned. Inside the house, Alison placed the basket on the table, wiped her dry mouth with the corner of her apron, rested her hands on her sides, and then, shaking her head slowly, she exclaimed, in a sing-song tone, which 40 In Honour Bo2ind. might have indicated pity or surprise, or both— " Eh, Teenle, Teenie, you may die for want o' breath, but no for want o' wiles." Teenie laughed, and said, " Haste you." Alison deliberately sat down on a wooden chair, the back of which formed a rough imi- tation of a lyre. Then she lifted her skirts,, and after much fumbling found a capacious leathern pouch, from which she produced a small pamphlet, printed on dingy coarse paper. This Alison handled respectfully, and laying it on her knee with much care, smoothed out. the creases. The sun seemed to flash on Teenie's face- She dropped on her knees, crying — " Let's see it ! let's see it !" It was one of those penny chap-books which at one time were extensively sold throughout the country by pedlars, and which constituted the chief literature of the people, affording them, in the long winter evenings, delight,, wonder, and material for conversation when The Book of Fate. 41 they gathered round the kitchen fire. The chap-books comprised sheets of songs, anec- dotes — not always particular in regard to delicacy — tales of the Covenant Martyrs, ser- mons, biographies (one sheet contained the lives of all the Kings of England, from Arthur to George III.), and half a dozen different instructors in the arts of fortune-telling and charm-working, each professing to unveil the future to the dullest eyes. Amongst the sheets of verse, " Chevy Chase " and *' Thrummy Cap '' were the most popular. Of the serious works a favourite one was " The Life and Wonderful Prophecies of Donald Cargill, who was Executed at the Cross of Edinburgh on the 26th July, 1680, for his Adherence to the Covenant and Work of Reformation." The most read of the ghost-stories was " The Laird of Cool's Ghost ;" whilst by far the best relished of the humorous sheets was " The Life and Wonderful Sayings of Geordie Bu- chanan, the King's Fool." That was George Buchanan, the poet and historian, who, when 42 In Honour Bound. tutor to the Scottish Solomon, proved his independence by quickening the wits of his majesty by the help of a birch — and he be- came famous amongst his countrymen in later days as the King's Fool ! The chief favourite of the fortune-telling sheets was the one which Alison held in her hand, entitled "Napoleon Bonaparte's Book of Fate." Beneath the title was a smudgy wood engraving, which represented Bonaparte, in dancing pumps with round buckles, standing on a rock ; arms folded on his breast, head bowed, and the smear of ink intended to indi- cate his eyes, supposed to be gazing sadly into space, or at four black spots below him which symbolized anything the imagination of the onlooker might suggest. Turning over the leaf Teenie saw a curious table, called grandly *' The Oraculum." She had not the least idea what that hard word meant, and therefore looked with some awe at the mystery. The table was divided into small squares, The Book of Fate. 43 each occupied by a letter of the alphabet ; along the top were a series of asterisks ar- ranged in various forms, thus — * ^ i.-T * * ^ * * * ^ i:^ ^c- -;:^ * -;:j * * * TiJ « * ^ * ■^ vie ^ii ^J -;.^ and so on. The left-hand side of the page was occupied by sixteen interesting ques- tions : — I. Shall I obtain my wish ? 2. Shall I have success in my undertakings ? 3. Shall I gain or lose in my cause ? 4. Shall I have to live in foreign parts ? &c. This looked delightfully cabalistic, and pro- mised some amusement. But there was no suspicion of fun in Alison's mind. She understood the workins: of the oracle and respected it. She made Teenie write at randon four lines of dots. They counted the first line and found that the number of the dots was even, so Teenie was told to mark two dots opposite the end of the 44 ^1^ Honour Botnid. first line. The number of the next line was odd, so one dot was scored beneath the first two ; the third Hne even — two dots again ; the fourth Hne odd, which gave one dot ; the whole producing a figure like this — . * . and corresponding v/ith the second square of asterisks. " Now," said Alison solemnly, and lowering her voice as if fearing to mar the spell which was being worked, *' what question would you like to speir ?" A moment of hesitation, and Teenie pointed to the first question — " Shall I obtain my wish ?" Alison traced with her forefinger the line of the question till it came to the letter B, be- neath the asterisks corresponding with the form of Teenie's six dots. She wetted her thumb, and slowly turned over the leaves till she came to the page at the top of which was a big black B. Down the side of the page were asterisks similar to those of the " Ora- The Book of Fate. 45 culum/^ and opposite the second figure was the answer to Teenie's question — -:ij je "Whatever your desires are, for the pre- ^* '^ sent dedlne them." The Hght of expectation and hope left the girl's face. She knotted the fringe of her scarf and absently tried to unravel it. Then she laughed as if at her own doubts, and said boldly— " We'll try it again, Ailie." Ailie was astounded at this irreverence. " You're not allowed to try the same ques- tion twice in the same day ; it's no lucky, and it w^ould spoil the charm." '' Then we'll try another one," cried fearless Teenie. The dottirig process was repeated, and after grave consideration Teenie sought the answer to this important question — '' Does the person love and regard me ?" The answer was found — '' This love is from the heart and will continue until death." '* That's fine !" she cried, delighted and 4-6 In Honour Boimd, ready to believe in the oracle, now that its promise accorded with her wishes. She re- peated the gratifying words with a kind of wondering pleasure, as If listening to some one. She would try her luck again, and now, with something of the reckless or defiant spirit in which the gambler throws his las£ stake, she demanded — "" Will the marriage be prosperous ?" The answer was given — *' Various misfor- tunes will attend this marriage." " It's just nonsense," Teenie exclaimed, jumping up, indignant. But the cloud passed immediately ; she stooped and whispered to Alison, *' And the book does not tell true — for I've got my wish, and there he is at the door!" CHAPTER IV. YOUNG D A L M A H O Y. T was Walter Burnett, Dalmahoy's son, who was at the door. And ^ what was the Laird's son doine there ? People had been asking that ques- tion frequently of late, with suggestive looks, sly winks, or foreboding shakes of the head. There was no particular reason for this ques- tioning, except that he was the Laird's son and she was Dan Thorston's daughter. But Walter — or young Dalmahoy, as he was generally called to distinguish him from his father, old Dalmahoy — Walter had been from childhood accustomed to visit the cot- tage. 48 In HonotLV Bound. He used to go out fishing with Thorston, and Teenie — a bare-legged cutty then, flying about in healthy recklessness — used to find bait for the big boy, who brought her hand- fuls of sweeties in exchange. Often she would go out in the boat with them, and she would mend Walter's lines, or bait the hooks when the fish were taking fast, whilst Thorston sat guiding the bark, watching the sail, and attending to his own lines. The boat leap- ing over the waves, the brown sail flapping between the man and the children, the latter would gossip in this fashion : — She : '' Ha'e you got a bite ?" He : "I think there was a nibble." ^'Your bait will be off." ''No, I saw the float bobbin' — there! — aha, I've got him this time!" He would draw in the line, hand-over- hand, she bending over the side, eyes wide, eagerly watching the arrival of the prize. Then at the first silvery flash in the water, she would clap her hands, crying — Yoimg DalmaJioy . 49, ** Eh, it's a fine ane — It's a codlin — ca canny or you'll miss him." That accident happened occasionally, when Walter in his enthusiasm, panting and anxious, sensible that the hook was not se- cure in the criUs of the fish, was straining his strength as if to convey the energy of his own desire into the line; the prize rose to the surface, half out of the water, and then — snap ! a silver gleam, and fish and hook dis- appeared, a wave washing the boy's heated face with spray. " Hoot, you fool !" was Teenie's exclama-^ tlon, " you've lost him, and he was such a bonnie ane. You'll not get another chance like that." And she would turn contemptuously from him to the lines, whilst Walter, looking sheepish and disappointed, would humbly prepare to try his fortune again. " You canna catch a' the fish in the sea," Dan would say, consolingly, as he quietly hauled in a brace of whitings. ^ VOL. I. 4 50 In Honour Bound. The brave breeze, the refreshing salt smell of the sea, the inspiring pulsations of the boat, and another " bite," presently dispelled from the boy's mind all remembrance of his dis- appointment, and from Teenie's all sense of scorn. " There now !" he would shout, his cheeks glowing with joy, as success rewarded his next effort. "Man, but that's fine!" says Teenie, sharing his joy. There never was the least shyness between them, and no thought of degree. The only difference Teenie was conscious of observing iDetween Walter and the other boys of the neighbourhood was, that his clothes were never ragged and seldom patched— they were patched sometimes. The material of them — a rough tweed — was not in childish eyes a bit finer than the coarse homespun of the other loons. Then, like them, he went to the parish school, got his palmies like the rest, scrambled and fought amongst them, Young Dalmcihoy. 5 1 conquered or got beaten just like an ordinary- boy. It was the proper training for a sturdy- youth ; and even if he had been in the least priggish or '' upsetting," he would have been speedily taught, by the fists of his school- mates, that in the republican playground the strong arm carries the day. After the parish school — at which girls as well as boys obtained their first lessons, and competed in the same classes — came the Academy at Kingshaven. Every morning Walter, with his brothers and sisters, took his breakfast of porridge and milk in the kitchen — sometimes, as an indulgence, he was allowed to have a cup of coffee— and then he trudged off to the Academy, four miles distant. Besides books he carried in his satchel his " twal-hours " or " piece " — plain bannocks and cheese generally ; or, rare delight, a penny in his pouch, with which to buy for his noonday meal the coveted deli- cacy, a treacle-bapp — a scone of coarse flour cut open and spread with treacle. 4—2 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOU 5 2 hi Honoitr Bound. On his way home he would halt at the cottage, to hear from Dan some wild story of his whaling adventures, or to tell Teenie how many marbles he had won during the play- hour, or maybe to play a game at *' ringgy " with her, or to help her In making some alteration In the dovecot. Then he would trudge on to his motherless home to supper — six o'clock — the preparation of his lessons for the following day, "■ a chapter," prayers, and bed. Occasionally the evenings were diversified by a merry hour spent with his cousin, Grace Wishart, to whom he was accustomed to appeal for help In all his boyish troubles. She was his senior by two or three years — a vast period in childish eyes — and her quiet ways made her appear to Walter quite a woman. Teenie was his playmate ; Grace was his guide and counsellor. On one occasion, for some slight ailment he was taken by his nurse to Dr. Lumsden — then beginning to be recognized as the esta- Yoimg Dalmahoy, 53 43115116(1 surgeon of the district. Walter s old nurse, who believed him to be the most wonderful boy that had ever been born, assured the doctor that the " laddie fashed himself far ower muckle with books." '' You mean that he studies too much," said Dr. Lumsden, pompously. ''Jistthat — he's aye reading and steaUng candles to read with when a' decent folk are bedded." " Indeed ! and what does he read ?" " I dinna ken — he reads the Bible for ae thing." " A very excellent work," said the doctor, with something like patronage of the Book and the boy in his tone. " And he reads Burns ?" The doctor looked disappointed. " And he reads Shakespeare, and that's a I ken about." The doctor lifted his nose contemptuously. He was a man of middle-age, who by ^very severe effort had passed through college, and 54 In Honotir Botmd. obtained his degree. The moment he had touched his first fee, he felt that he was a superior person to all and everything around him. He knew little of Burns, for he never had time to indulge in miscellaneous reading; nothing of Shakespeare, except by report ; and he was conscious of being practically much better than either of these persons — morally, infinitely their superior. " Very trivial reading indeed," he said^ scornfully. Had she told him that the boy had been reading the Materia Medica, he would have called that study ; but the idea of applying the word study to such ephemeral works as those of Burns and Shakespeare ! ** His stomach is disordered' — he only needs a powder," concluded the doctor decisively. The powder was compounded, the boy never took it, and he recovered ! By-and-by came the Important change from home to the university, and the decision as to a profession. The Laird had certain Ideas. Yotmg Dalmahoy. 55 about minerals, and therefore wished Walter to become an enorineer. Walter was delig^hted with the idea, and for a while devoted himself arduously to physics and mechanical science. But, slowly at first, and then rapidly, there took place a transformation in the character of the youth — it was really a development — and to the surprise of everybody he determined to enter the ministry. He had been always re- garded as such a light feather of a youth, stirred and influenced by every wind that blew, that it was difficult for those who knew him to imagine him capable of fulfilling the grave duties of a parish minister. The Laird was angry : all the more so that his neighbours, like himself, were quite satisfied that Walter was unfitted for the services and re- sponsibilities he was so boldly and recklessly, not to say presumptuously, about to undertake. It was not the responsibility which affected the Laird, but the destruction of a long- cherished scheme. Walter, however, was resolute, and so he 56 In Honoii}" Botmct. applied himself to the study of theology — still keeping up his acquaintance with Burns and Shakespeare. He was full of enthusi- astic aspirations, but was curiously unconscious of his own growth. He never thought of him- self as a man, and he paid a kind of boyish respect to his seniors. He sometimes had visions of marriage, a happy home in some quiet manse near the sea, and great work to be done in helping others ; but that was such a long way off in the future that the visions were very dim. So it was that he was very slow to realize the fact that Teenie had be- come a woman. But a word was spoken — *' Some smart lad will carry her off before long," said one of his college friends in the course of a summer day's ramble — and Walter wakened from a dream. He felt shy, and amused with himself ; he felt awkward, and puzzled with himself. Teenie went blithely to the door, and threw it open. Yoimg Dalmahoy. 57 " I knew you would come," she said, look- ing up with her clear frank eyes into the face of the man. He was a tall fellow, dressed in gray tweed. The welcome pleased him, and with the smiling curiosity of one who is amused by the drollery of a child, he asked — " And how did you know I would come, Teenie ?" " Because I dreamed ] you were sailing away out on the sea, never to come back, and dreams go by contraries 1" '' Were you frightened when you saw me sailing away ?" " No ; what would I be frightened for ? — Hoosh, cat ! — she s always trying to worry the doos." Teenie threw a stone at a large tortoise- shell cat, which had been patiently watching an opportunity to pounce upon one of the pigeons. *' Frightened that I might not return,'' he said, continuing the conversation. 5^ In Honotir Bointd. " Oh, but I knew you would come back." '' You would trust me then, no matter what others might say ?" " I suppose so," she answered, somewhat carelessly, for she did not observe the serious- ness of his tone. *' But if I did not come back, you would be sorry ?" *' I dare say I would, for a while at any rate." '' Only for a while !" he cried, making a wry face. " Yes ; what more ? — did you not tell me that we would be awful miserable creatures if we could not forget ?" '' So we would ; but for all that I would not like you to forget me, for that would be a sign you did not care much for me." "' Oh, but I do care a great deal for you.** " More than for anybody else ?" '' I cannot say that " (thoughtfully). With a mock tragical air, he said — '' Would you die for me ?" Young Dalmahoy. 59 "■ I am quite sure I would not," she an- swered with disagreeable frankness. *' What !" he exclaimed, laughing, '' if you saw me in the bay there, and the waves dash- ing me about like a shuttlecock, and heard me crying, ' Teenie, Teenie, come, or Til be drowned !' — wouldn't you try to save me ?" " To be sure I would, and I would do the same for any other poor creature in such a pass." Although he had been speaking apparently In jest, he did not quite enjoy the answer. Only a little while ago she had been question- ino- the future about her relations with this man ; and yet here she was speaking as if she cared no more for him than for anybody else ! But she had neither desire nor inten- tion to deceive him. She had a child's reck- less way of uttering the thought which hap- pened to be uppermost, without the least speculation as to the effect her words might produce on the hearer. She saw that he was not satisfied. 6o In Hoiioitr Bound, "■ Why do you ask me these questions/* she said, '' if you do not like me to answer them ?" '' But I do like you to answer them, only — in another way. Let us go down to the bay, and ril tell you a story." " Yes, and I'll tell you the ploy I had with Ailie this morning. — Til be back in a while, Ailie," she added, thrusting her head in at the door. Then she darted off after Walter, who was walking towards the path which led down the face of the rock to the bay. She passed him, and sprang down the steep path ; he followed quickly, and yet was far behind her. She seemed to bound along with the buoyancy and brightness of a wavelet upon which the sun is flashing. He watched her, admiration and a kind of wonder in his eyes. She stood on the yellow sand, throwing back her long hair, as the wind tossed it on her face and round her neck — looking up and laughing at the laggard. What could he Young DalmaJioy, 6 1 make of this brlofht creature ? — at one moment she was such a child in thought and desire, and in the next, a woman of prompt word and action. " Is it not fine ?" she cried, pointing to the sea, her eyes reflecting its colours ; '' do you not hear the waters bamffling on the stones, and do you not see the bonnie tarns of silver and gold the sun is making out yonder ? Oh, I would just like to be aye sailing, sailing on the bonnie water." " Ay, but there are storms and wrecks as well as sunshine, Teenie." " What a pity !" she said, her face darken- ing whilst she continued to gaze with vague questioning across the sea. " What's at the other side — land, and folk something like our- selves ?" *' Yes, and water again, and land ; and if you went on far enough, you would just come back to where you started from.'' She laughed, and the cloud passed away from eyes and face. 62 In Hojioicr Botmd. ** It's scarcely worth while starting then." She seated herself on a large stone beside a boat which lay dry on the sand, smelling of tar and fish. Walter sat on the boat, and tiny waves rippled up to their feet, casting bits of sea-weed and specks of foam towards them. The brown rocks, with their many black clefts, rose up high around them ; and the two seemed to be shut into a little world of their own, from which there was only one outlet — the big one, so easy to pass, opening upon the great sea, and its storms and wrecks as well as its sunshine. CHAPTER V. HIS STORY. j^^^^E began, looking at her with the :||g^| quiet smile of assurance which ^ ■ ^- ■ti brightens the face of a lover who is certain of acceptance — ** Once upon a time " "Is it a fairy story ?" she interrupted, whilst she proceeded to plait long strips of seaweed into true lovers' knots. " It will be just what you like to make it." "What I like to make it?" Her busy fingers paused, and she looked up at him with a curious expression of wonder and doubt She was thinking of the Book of Fate, and speculating in what fashion its contradictory predictions were to be fulfilled. She resumed 64 In Honotcr Boitnd. her work with the brown wet weeds, singing low, as if to herself, a snatch from an old ballad— *^ S)nie she's gar'd build a bonnie boat, To sail the salt salt sea ; The sails were of the light-green silk, The tows [ropes] of taffety." *' You're a droll lass. What put that song in your head just now ?" " Thinking about your story, I suppose, and how Fm to make It what I like." '' You'll see. Well, once upon a time there was a loon — suppose we give him my name, just for fun — and there was a lass " The plaiting of the seaweed ceased again, but she did not look up. ''Suppose we give the lass my cousin's name — Grace." Teenle's fingers worked more rapidly than ever ; one might have fancied there was even a degree of spite In their energy. " The loon was very fond of Grace/' he went on, '' and she liked him ; at any rate His Story. 65 she often helped him out of the scrapes he blundered into. So one day Wat's father says to him, ' There, sir, when you are old enough you shall marry her. She is a fine lass, and she has a fine bit of land that will be worth a ransom when the coal and iron are worked, but keep your thumb on that. Be kind to her, and see that she does not slip through your fingers ; for let me tell you that beyond your education you have nothing to get from me.' " " And what did the loon say to that ?" " Nothing. He did not know what he could say ; but he laughed to himself at the notion of his own marriage ; for then it seemed to be only a funny notion. So the affair came to be looked upon by all his friends as quite settled, and they thought the arrangement a lucky one for him. But by-and-by Wat began to feel that he had got into]another scrapCj for one fine morning he came to look seriously into himself, and he discovered that if ever he VOL. I. 5 66 In Honour Bound. married the woman who had all his heart, Grace would not be his wife." Teenie plaited and sang another snatch of the ballad — ''She sailed It round, and sailed it round, And loud, loud cried she — ' Now break, now break, ye fairy charms, And set my true love free.' " He rested his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his hand, thus bringing his face down close to hers. " What was he to do then ?" he said, earnestly. "He was, in a way, bound to Grace, and yet he could not marry her without doing her a grievous wrong, besides laying up for himself a future of discontent and re- gret ; and maybe the woman he loved would also be a sufferer. He would have done a great deal to save either of those lassies from pain, but It seemed as if Injury to one or both must follow, whichever way he turned." " Was he not himself to blame for It all ?" she said, almost wickedly. His Story. 6j •' He was, and he did not spare himself. The circumstances caused him many weary- nights and troubled days. What made his position the more painful was, that he had quite recently undertaken the solemn respon- sibilities of a minister— undertaken to teach duty to others — and here he was doubting about his own on the very threshold of his work. What was he to do ? *' Maybe he Avent to Grace and asked her," she said, so quietly that the gentle plash of the water on the sand at their feet almost drowned her voice. But Walter heard, and he was glad to hear. " He did so ; and he went to her, deter- mined to submit to her decision, whatever It might be. She had helped him in many diffi- culties before, and he knew that she would help him to do what was right In this one." " She must be very good. I would not like a man to come to me on such an errand." " Aye, Teenie, she Is good." His hand 5—2 6S III Honour Bound. dropped on hers, his eyes glowing with enthu- siasm, and he forgot the imaginary character in whose name he had thus far spoken. ** On my way to her house I formed all sorts of plans for telling her my purpose gently. In this way I would ask her forgiveness, in that way I would try to explain how bitter had been the struggle with myself before I had dared to take this step. But my plans were useless. After the first bungling word she seemed to understand everything. * Don't speak, Walter. Wait,' she said ; and I stood there, dumb. I felt so contemptible in my own eyes, as well as in hers." Teenie began to tear her true lovers' knols of seaweed into shreds, and to drop them on the sand. His face looked cold and white; he went on, with a kind of subdued pain in his voice and manner — ** She turned away from me, but I knew the beauty of the face which was hidden from me, or rather the beauty of the soul which it re- His Story. 69 fleets, and I remembered her affliction. It seemed as if my duty only became clear to me at that moment ; it was to be faithful and helpful to her — to put away as best I could the cravings of my own heart, and to try to make her life happy. Was not that right ?" " I dare say" (slowly, and as if she were speaking whilst her thoughts were occupied with other matters). " I am glad you think so," he said, eagerly, as if she had given the fullest assent to his question, " and I tried to tell Grace that. But she came quietly up to me and put her hands on my shoulders, just as she used to do when I had made some blunder at home, and she persuaded me to acknowledge my fault and promise to be good. " * Thank you, Walter,' she said ; ' I am very happy in feeling that you love me well enough to think of making the sacrifice you propose. But you would be foolish and wrong to make it ; I would be still more foolish to accept it. You have been brave 70 In Honour Bottnd. and right to come and tell me this, and I thank you for that too. But I have long ex- pected it. Don't trouble ^^ourself about me. I am glad that this happens before our mar- riage instead of after. Oh, I have often thought of the possibility of your meeting somebody younger, brighter than myself, and I amx glad that it happens now. Go to her ; tell her that she shall have no truer or fonder friend than me. And, to relieve you from all doubt in the matter, let me tell you as I shall tell the Laird to-morrow — I will not marry you, Walter Burnett, whatever may happen/ ** I argued very earnestly that it was my wish to do Vv'hatever would inake her happy. Then she bade me oo and do as she had told me. I left her, not satisfied with myself, you may be sure, but feeling that she was right, as she always is, and that if she had yielded to my entreaties we would have both re- pented when too late. — What is the matter, Teenie ?" Teenie was bending forward, dropping the His Story. 71 last fra