fc>i^^>(ilEgWfe*^tgcgyWc^ THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. POPULAR STORIES BY THE BEST AUTHORS. Library Editions, many Illustrated. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. By GRANT ALLEN. Philistia. By THE Author OF “JOHN HERRING.” Red Spider. By WALTER BESANT & JAMES RICE. Ready-Money Mor- tiboy. My Little Girl. Case of Mr. Lucraft. This Son of Vulcan. With Harp & Crown. The GoldenButterfly. By Celia’s Arbour. Monks of Tholema. ’Twas in Trafalgar’s Bay. The Seamy Side. Ten Years’ Tenant. Chaplain of the Fleet By WALTER BESANT. All Sorts and Conditions of Men. The Captains’ Room. All in a Garden Fair. Dorothy Forster. Uncle Jack. Children of Gibeon. The World Went Very Well Then. By ROBERT BUCHANAN. A Child of Nature. God and the Man. Shadow of the Sword The Martyrdom of Madeline. Love Me for Ever. Annan Water. The New Abelard. Matt. Foxglove Manor. The Master of the Mine. The Heir of Linne. By HALL CAINE. The Shadow of a Crime. A Son of Hagar. The Deemster. By MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON. 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The Queen of Connaught. By HENRY KINGSLEY. Number Seventeen. By E. LYNN LINTON. Patricia Kemball. The Atonement of Learn Duiidas. The World Well Lost lone. Under Which Lord? With a Silken Thread Rebel of the Family. ‘ My Love !’ Fasten Carew. By HENRY W. LUCY, j Gideon Fleyce. By JUSTIN McCarthy. The Waterdale Neighbours. A Fair Saxon. Dear Lady Disdain. Miss Misanthrope. Donna Quixote. Comet of a Season. Maid of Athens. Camiola. By MRS. MACDONELL. Quaker Cousins. By FLORENCE MARRYAT. Open ! Sesame ! 1 Written in Fire. By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. A Life’s Atonement. Joseph’s Coat. A Model Father. Coals of Fire. Val Strange. By the Gate of the Sea. Hearts. The Way of the World. A Bit of Human Nature. First PersonSingular ! Cynic Fortune. By MRS. OLIPHANT. Whiteladies. By MARGARET A. PAUL. Gentle and Simple. By JAMES PAYN. Lost Sir Massingberd The Best of Husbands Walter’s Word. . Less Black than We’re Painted. By Proxy. High Spirits. Under One Roof. A Confidential Agent From Exile. A Grape from a Thorn. For Cash Only. Some Private Views. The Canon’s Ward. Talk of the Town. Glow-worm Tales. By E. C. PRICE. Valentina. | The Foreigners. Mrs. Lancaster’s Rival. By CHARLES READE. It is Never Too Late The Autobiography to Mend. Hard Cash. Peg Woflangton. Christie Johnstone. Griffith Gaunt. Foul Play. The Double Marriage Love Me Little, Love Me Long. The Cloister and the Hearth. The Course of True Love. of a Thief. Put Yourself in His Place. Terrible Temptation The Wandering Heir. A Woman-Hater. A Simpleton. Readiana. Singleheart and Doubleface. The Jilt. Good Stories of Men and other Animals. By MRS. J. H. RIDDELL. Her Mother’s Darling. | Weird Stories. The Prince of Wales’s Garden Party. By F. W. ROBINSON. Women are Strange | The Hands of Justice. By JOHN SAUNDERS. Bound to the Wheel. | The Two Dreamers. Guy Waterman. \ The Lion in the Piuh . By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. Joan Merryweather. I Gideon’s Rock. Sebastian. The High Mills. Margaret & Elizabeth | Heart Salvage. By T. W. SPEIGHT. The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. By P. A. STEPNDALE. The Afghan Knife. By BERTHA THOMAS. Proud Maisie. I The Violin-Player. Cressida. By ANTHONY TROLT.OPE. The V/ay We Live Now. Frau Frohmann. Marion Fay. By FRANCES E. TROT.LOPE. Anne Furness. ! Mabel’s Progress. Like Ships upon the Sea. By IVAN TURGFNIEFF, and Others. Stories from Foreign Novelists. By SARAH TYTLER. Kept in the Dark. Mr Scarborough’s Family. The Land-Leaguers. What She Came Through. The Brule’s Pass. P'aint Mungo’s City. Beauty and the Least Citoyenne Jacque- line. } Noblesse Oblige. | The Huguenot ; Family. i Lady Bell. j Buried Diamonds. By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. Mistress Judith. 2] LONDON: CHATTO AND WINDCS, PICCADILLY, IV. ANNAN WATER Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/annanwaterromancOObuch ANNAN WATER ^onmin:c Bv ROBERT BUCHANAN AUTUOR OF ‘the shadow OF THE SWORD,’ ‘ GOD AND THE MAN,* ‘a child of nature,’ etc. A NEIV EDITION H ondoit CHATTO AND V/INDUS, ITCCADILLY i88t Kote. — This E-omance has been dramatized previous to publication, represented, and duly protected. All further dramatization of the subject, or of any portion thereof, is therefore forbidden by the Author. S^3 B8S3a^ 1 SB'S - dp:dication. This Romance, in certain pages of which an Englishwoman’s noble work abroad, among her suffering sisters, is faintly shadowed forth, and which is partly founded on records made public by her, I dedicate with the deepest respect and admiration to MISS LEIGH, Oi’ THE English Mission, PARIS. ‘ I never bowed but to superior worth. Nor ever failed in my allegiance there I ROBERT BUCHANAN. ^ October 27, 1883 J CONTENTS. C?51 AFTER I. TWO OLD BACIIELOLS - . - • PAO»5 1 II. ‘a gift from god’ - - - - - - 10 III. THE DEAD WOMAN - - - - - - IG IV. MARJORIE ANNAN - - - - - 23 V. HOMEWARD BOUND - - - - - - 29 VI. THE weaver’s COTTAGE - - - - - 3G VII. AT THE MANSE - 42 VIII. THE CASTLE AND ITS MISTRESS - - - - 62 IX. THE BAR SINISTER - - - - - - GO X. CAUSSIDIERE AND JOHN SUTHERL' '.ND - - - 6G XI. A SCOTTISH SUNDAY - - - - - - 75 XII. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER - - - - GO XIII. CAUSSIDIERE FINDS A CLUE - - - - 90 XIV. IS A LITTLE MYSTERIOUS - - - - - 98 XV. MARJORIE GOES AWAY - - - - - 108 XVI. BY THE FIRTH OF FORTH - - - - 115 XVII. TWO MARJORIES - - - - - 124 XVIII. ‘THE WOOING O’T ’ - - - - - - 133 XIX. A LITTLE CHEQUE - - - - - 140 XX. FLYING SOUTH - 148 XXl. A REVELATION - • . - - ' .. 1 j > CONTENTS. viii CHAPTER XXII. WEDDING BELLS - . - - - PAGE - 162 XXTII. THE PURSUIT - - - - - - 165 XXIV. FACE TO FACE - - - - - - 174 XXV. ON THE BANKS OF THE SEINE - - - - 181 XXVI. MOTHER AND CHILD - - - •• - - 188 XXVII. BEHIND THE SCENES - - - - - 198 XXVIII. A LITTLE SUPPER - - - - - - 201 XXIX. AN ARTISTS MODEL - - - - - - 208 XXX. A CRISIS - 221 XXXI. THE REVELATION - - - - - - 225 XXXII. HOMELESS - 235 XXXIII. A LONG JOURNEY - - - - - - - 243 XXXIV. LIGHT IN THE DAEK - - - - - - 250 XXXV. RESCUED - 257 XXXVI. HOME AGx\IN - - 264 XXXVII. STRANGE NEWS - - - - - - 269 XXXVIII. IS RETROSPECTIVE - - - - - - 274 XXXIX. A DISMAL EXPERIENCE - - - - - - 281 XL. RESURGAM - 285 XLI. FATHER AND CHILD - ' - - - - - 291 - 298 - 301 - 304 XLII. NEMESIS - - - . XLIII. THE END OF A ‘GOOD PATRIOT XLIV. CONCLUS>^O n" - - . - ANNAN WATER. CHAPTEE I. TWO OLD BACHELORS. It was Martinmas Sunday. The evening service was just over, and the congregation, more than usually scanty, had dispersed itself over the Moss towards the various farms and fields which were scattered here and there upon it. A light still burned in the vestry, while Solomon Mucklebackit, the sexton, waited in the porch for the minister to come forth. ‘ Therell be snaw the night,’ he muttered, placing the key in the oaken door, preliminary to locking up — ‘there’ll be snaw the night, or I’m sair mistaen. And the Annan’s rising ; it’s snawing noo amang the hills.’ So saying, he peered out into the dark night, looking inland, where black clouds were gathering and blotting out the faint rays of the full moon. The wind was crying, and blent with its cry was another fainter sound, that of the troubled Annan, which flowed seaward scarcely a stone’s throw away. Close to him, and to right and left of him, stretched the old kirkyard, in which he had been sexton, man and boy, for forty years. Here and there in the dimness flashed a tombstone, and everywhere the rough graves rolled like a sea. He looked out 1 ANNAN WATER. impatiently, while a sudden gust of wind crossing the kirkyard struck the old church till it shook again, and died away like low thunder in the direction of the firth. ‘ What’s keeping the meenister V he murmured impatiently. ‘ It’s time we were baith hame.’ As he spoke, there flitted before him on the grass-grown footpath something like a human figure, with a gleam of white like a dress fluttering in the wind. ‘ Wha’s there V he cried, starting nervously. In a moment the figure vanished, disappearing along the footpath towards the church-gate ; and simultaneously a low moan, as of a human creature in pain, rose and died upon the chilly air. Had Solomon been a superstitious man, instead of the most matter-of-fact of human creatures, he might have suspected some- thing supernatural in a presence so mysterious, coming at such an hour and in such a place ; but as it was, he simply grumbled to himself, audibly expressing his dislike of ^ graceless hizzies** w^ho came hanging about the sacred spot after dark. For the kirkyard was a favourite trysting and courting place of rural lovers of all ages, whose goings-on scandalized holier members of the population, especially Solomon the sexton, who was an old bachelor, and a misogynist into the bargain. To the cry of seeming agony he paid no heed, attributing it to the pranks of some one or other of the ‘graceless hizzies’ aforesaid, playing the ghost and trying to ‘ scaur’ or fright the lawful custodian of the place. All at once the light in the vestry was extinguished, and the minister, a man of about fifty years of age, appeared on the threshold, wrapped in a heavy winter cloak and carrying a thick staff. ‘Lock up, Solomon, my man,’ he said. Solomon obeyed, turning the key in the inner door, and then that of the outer one of solid oak, while the minister stood waiting on the path. Then the two, side by side, and with TPVO OLD BACHELORS. J much the Bame kind of mechanic trot, passed across the church- yard, pausing now and again to struggle with the fierce gustSy and to hold on their head-gear — the sexton his Sunday ‘ bonnet,’ and the minister his broad-brimmed clerical hat. Eeaching the iron gate, w^hich was, rattling and creaking in the wind, they descended three moss-grown steps and reached the highw^ay. Here all was pitch-dark, for the shadow of tall yew-trees fell from the other side, deepening the nocturnal black- ness ; but crossing the road they opened another gate, crossed the garden where the yew-trees grew, and reached the door of the manse. Standing here in complete shelter, they heard the ‘ sough ’ of the blast overhead among the tossing boughs, like the wild thunder of a stormy sea. The manse was a plain two-story building, as old as the times of the Covenant, and containing numberless cheerless chambers, the majority of which were unfurnished. Here the Eeverend Sampson Lorraine had dwelt in solitude for five-and-twenty years. He had come to the place as a shy young bachelor, a student and a bookworm, and despite all the sieges that had been laid to his heart, as w’as inevitable in a place where marriageable men were few and spinsters many, a bachelor he had remained ever since. People said that a love disappointment in early life had made him thereafter invulnerable to all the charms of women, but at first his single condition made him very popular. Presently, however, as his position as a bachelor grew more confirmed, and his eccentricities increased, he ceased to awaken much interest. For the rest, he was a ripe if somewhat pedantic scholar, and a constant contributor to a journal of Scottish antiquities published from month to month in Edin- burgh. Opening the door with a latch-key, he entered a bare lobby, and striking a light, led the way into a large room on the ground floor. It was scantily furnished with an old carpet, an old-fashioned circular table with drawers, and several chairs; 1—2 4 ANNAN WATER. tut on the walls were numerous shelves, covered witn hooks. The room had two large windows looking on the back lawn, which sloped down to the river, hut was without curtains of any kind. A fire burned on the hearth, and a rude box of peat fuel stood by the fireside. One side of the table was spread with a clean cloth, on which stood a tray with bread, oatcake, cheese, and butter, a large stone water jug, a black bottle, and some glasses. ^ Sit ye down, Solomon,^ said the minister, placing a lighted candle on the table. Solomon stood, hat in hand. Every Sunday evening for many a long year he had entered the house in the same way, at the same hour, and received the same invitation. Seen in the dim light of the room, the sexton was a little, wizened, white-haired man, with hoary bushy eyebrows, keen grey eyes, and sunken, sun-tanned cheeks. He was dressed in decent black, with a white shirt, and the kind of collar known in Scotland as ‘ stick ups.* The minister on the other hand, was tall and somewhat portly, with a round, boyish face, gentle blue eyes, and mild good-humoured mouth. His hair was white as snow, and fell almost to his shoulders. • Sit ye down, sit ye down,* he repeated ; ‘ and take a glass — the night is cold.* Solomon placed his bonnet carefully on the edge of the table, and seated himself respectfully on one of the cane-bottomed chairs. Then, leisurely and solemnly, he poured out a glass of raw spirit. Meantime Mr. Lorraine, having divested himself of his cloak and hat, sat down in the armchair by the fireside. ‘ Here*s fortune, sir,* said Solomon, drinking off the whisky ; then, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he sat bolt upright and expectant, waiting if his superior had anything more to say. ‘ We had but a small gathering the night, Solomon,* observed the minister thoughtfully. ‘ Fifteen folk, no counting the bairns ; but we hae preached TWO OLD BACHELORS, 5 to fewer. I mind last winter, when the snaw was on the groun^, we had but three at afternoon service, forbye Mysie Simpson and myser.' The minister laughed gently. ‘ I^m afraid the new lights are too much for us,^ he observed. ‘ Young Mr. Lauderdale up at the Knowes has, they tell me, a great congregation.’ Solomon drew himself up and gave a snort of contempt mingled with defiance. ‘ Sae ye had yourseF, when folk thought ye were a mairrying man, sir. I hae seen the auld kirk crammed to the door, and twa -thirds mairriageable lasses and their mithers ; but noo it’s a godless generation !’ The minister fixed his eye thoughtfully on the fire as he replied : ‘ I’m afraid we are behind the times, Solomon. We are both of us becoming old, and the young folk are growing up on every side. There’s marrying and christening everywhere, and still we two remain alone. In a little while, Solomon, we shall be called to our account, without having known, either of us, the blessing that woman’s love can give, or the comfort that comes with the cry of bairns.’ ‘ Ye mind what St. Paul said, sir,* said the other doggedly. ‘ And women are kittle cattle !’ ‘I suppose that’s good philosophy, but it’s small comfort, Solomon, my man. I think I should have been a happier man if I had married 1’ The sexton smiled incredulously and shook his head ; then, with as near an approach to a smile as his withered features could command, he said slyly and sarcastically : ‘ It’s never owre late to men’, sir. You’re a hale man yet, Lord kens, and three or fower I wat o’ wad jest snap at ye ! There’s Miss Dairy mple o’ the Mearns, and the Weedow Burness, and ’ ‘ Ko, no, Solomon,’ said Mr. Lorraine laughing, ‘ you over-i 6 ANNAN- WATER. ?ate my chances, and, whether or no, Tm far o'er old to try matrimony now. But it's a lonesome life, a lonesome life ! Whenever I hear the school bairns cryiog in the street, I envy those that have little ones to dandle upon the knee. I have no kith or kin — nay, scarce a friend, in all the world.' ‘ Ye hae me^ sir,' returned Solomon in a low voice, ‘no that 1 wad liken mysek to a meenister and a scholar like yoursel' ; but I hae been your clerk for nigh thirty years, and auld acquaintance is kindly, like clean linen. Atweel, is it no better to be a free man than to hae a scoldin' wife, or bairns that gang the deil's road, like mony i' the parish 1 And if you wad tak’ a (jless noo an' then to cheer your heart, you'd find it a better comforter than tane or tither !' With this pregnant sentence Solomon rose to go, while Mr. Lorraine, without responding, continued to look dreamily at the s lire. ‘Are ye mindin' the funeral the morn?' the sexton asked, taking up his bonnet. Mr. Lorraine nodded. ‘ Can I bring ye anything before I gang to bed ? I maun rise at five to feenish the grave.' ‘ l^^o ; go to bed. I shall sit up and read a little.' ‘ Weel, good-night, sir.' ‘ Good-night, Solomon.' Thereupon Solomon left the room, closing the door softly be- hind him. Lighting a candle in the lobby, he made his way quietly to a chamber in the upper part of the house, where he slept, and which was, indeed, the only chamber in the manse, excepting the minister's sitting-room and adjoining bedroom, which contained any furniture. Many years before Solomon had taken up his abode there, on the minister's invitation, and it was his only home. Besides performing the duties of sexton and clerk, he acted generally as factotum to Mr. Lorraine, attended to the garden, and groomed . the pony on which the minister made his visitations about the TWO OLD BACHELORS. 7 country. An aged woman, Mysie Simpson, came in every day to clean and cook, but invariably retired to her own dwelling at nightfall. So the two old men were practically alone together, and, despite the difference in their social positions, regarded each other with a peculiar attachment. The minister sat for some time musing, then with a sigh he took a book from the shelves and began to read. It was a volume of old sermons, written by a south country clergyman, impassioned, wrathful, and in the narrow sense Calvinistic. As he read the wind roared round the house, and moaned in the chim- neys, and rattled the shutterless windows ; but as the wind rose the darkness decreased, and the vitreous rays of the moon began playing on the window panes. Mr. Lorraine lit his pipe — the only luxury in which he in- dulged ; for despite his plump figure, which he inherited, he was abstemious and a teetotaller. Then, with another sigh, he rose and walked thoughtfully up and down the room ; paused at one of the windows, and looked down on the moonlighted lawn which sloped to the river-side ; talking all the time to himself, as was his confirmed habit. ‘ Ay, ay, a wild night ! — and snow coming, Solomon says ! Eerie, eerie is the sough of the wind in the trees. It minds me ever of her, and when the moon’s up it is like the shining of her face out of the grave. Wee Marjorie ! my bonnie doo 1 Thirty long years ago she died, and I’m still here ! still here !’ Tears stood in the old man’s eyes as he looked out in a dream. Through the long years of loneliness and poverty — for his living was indeed a poor one — he had cherished the memory of one who had gone away from him to God when only in her eighteenth year. ‘ She was a grand scholar tho’ a lassie and so young,’ he mur- mured after a pause. ‘ I taught her the Latin and the Greek, and she tried to teach me the French, but I was o’er blaze to learn a new-fangled tongue. Marjorie ! my own bonnie Marjorie! —I can hear her voice singing still, as when we were lass and lad,’ 2 ANNAN WATER. Presently he walked to the circular table, and unlocking a drawer drew forth several old school-books and some sheets of time-worn music. He turned them over gently, like a man touching sacred things. One of the books was Xenophon^s ‘Anabasis,’ another Ovid’s ‘ Metamorphoses,’ a third a book of French grammar and exercises ; and on the flyleaf of each was written, in a pretty feminine hand, the owner’s name — ‘ Marjorie Glen.’ The same name was written on all the pieces of music but one, on which was inscribed, in faded ink, and in the same hand, these words : — ‘ To dearest Sampson, with Maijorids love? The piece was an old Scotch song of infinite beauty and pathos — the ‘Land o’ the Leal.’ He opened it and read the words sadly with the sweet old music ringing in his ear — ‘ I^m wearing awa’, J ean, Like snaw when it’s thaw, Jean, I’m wearing awa’ to The Land o’ the Leal !’ Alas ! and nearly a lifetime had slipped away since the angels in that shining land had beckoned, and the little hand had put- down the sheet of music, and the loving heart had grown cold and still ! Close to the books and music, in a corner of the drawer, was a packet of old letters, bound with a silken ribbon which the writer had once worn in her hair. The old man took up the packet without opening it, and kissed it reverently, then with streaming eyes he knelt down before his chair, covered his face with his hands, and prayed. ‘Marjorie! my pet! my bonnie doo !’ he said aloud. ‘Can you hear my voice calling you where you sit and sing among the angels of God ? He took you from me when ye were little more than a bairn, and He left me toil to alone, though He gave me strength to thole my trouble and live on. You’re a bairn stilL my Marjorie, and I’m old, old ; your hair’s golden still, my pet, but mine is like the snow. Will you hen me when we meet at TWO OLD BACHELORS. 9 last ? Ay, ay, it will be a strange meeting that — between an old, old man and a bairn ! But though the body grows weak and old the heart keeps young, and I love you still, my doo ! May the Lord God that took you from me, have you in his keeping, Marjorie, now and for ever more. Amen T Even as he knelt a white face was pressed against the window pane, and two wild eyes looked in like the eyes of a spirit from another world. When he rose to his feet, still muttering to himself, they had vanished, but a minute after there came a loud single knock at the front door. The minister started, listening, and the same moment a gust of unusual force shook the house to its foundation. ^ Bless me, what’s that V he exclaimed. ‘ I thought I heard a knock at the hall door, but maybe my ears deceived me. It was only the wind. I’m thinking.’ And he placed his precious relics back in the drawer, locking it carefully and placing the key in a worn leathern purse whicli he carried in his pocket. At that moment the knock was repeated. ‘ Dear me !’ he cried, ‘ there’s some one knocking after alL Maybe it’s a sick call.’ Lifting the candle from the table he trotted from the room,, crossed along the lobby, and opened the hall door. As he did so the wind sprang in like a tiger, and the light was blown out,, but the front garden was flooded with moonlight save under the very shadow of the trees. He saw nobody, however ; whoever had knocked had dis-- appeared. ‘ Who’s there V he cried, looking round on every side. There was no reply. Perplexed and somewhat startled, he stepped out into theporch,, and instantaneously the door was banged and closed behind him. He took another step forward, and almost stumbled over something like a dark bundle of clothing lying on the door- step. ANNAN WATER. lo ‘Bless my soul!' he murmured, ‘what's this?' At the same moment a faint cry came upon his ear. Stoop, iog down in great agitation he lifted the bundle, and discovered to his consternation that it contained the form of a living child. CHAPTER II. GIFT FROM GOB.' A COARSE Paisley shawl was wrapt round the infant, covering all but a portion of its tiny face. As it lay like a mummy in its wrappings, it continued to cry loudly, and the cry went at ouce to the minister’s tender heart. But in a moment the old man guessed the truth — that the hapless creature had been left there by some one who had knocked and fled. Still holding the child in his arms, he ran out in the garden and looked on every side. ‘ Come back !’ he said, ‘ whoever you are, come back !' But no one responded. The wind moaned dismally in the trees that lifted their black branches overhead, that was all. He ran to the gate and looked up and down the road, but could see nobody. As he stood in perplexity the child cried again loudly and struggled in his arms. ‘ Bless me !’ he murmured, ‘ I must take it in or it will die of cold 1’ He ran back to the door and knocked loudly again and again. It was some time before he was heard. At last, however, he heard footsteps coming along the passage, and redoubled his knocking. The door opened, and Solomon Mucklebackit, half dressed, appeared on the threshold. Without a word the minister ran into the lobby. ‘ Losh me, meenister, is it yoursel’ V ejaculated Solomon in amazement, ‘I thought you were in bed,' *A GIFT FROM GOD: II ‘ Come this way — quick ? shouted Mr. Lorraine. ^ Bring a light r And, still carrying his burthen, he ran into the sitting-room. Solomon closed the door, struck a match and lighted a candle, and followed him immediately. Then his amazement deepened. To see Mr. Lorraine standing by the fireside with a crying infant in his arms was indeed enough to awaken perplexity and wonder. ‘ My conscience, meenister, what hae ye gotten there V ‘ A child ! some one left it in the porch, knocked, and ran •away. Eun, Solomon, search up and down the road, and see if you can find them. Shame upon them whoever they are. Don’t stand staring, but run.’ Perfectly bewildered, Solomon stood gaping ; then, with one horror-stricken look at the infant, left the room, and ran from the house. Left alone with the child the minister seemed puzzled what to do. He held it awkwardly, and its cries continued ; then to still it, he rocked it to and fro in his arms. Binding it still troublesome he placed it down in the arm-chair, and softly loosened the shawl in which it was wrapt, freeing its little arms. Its cries ceased for a time, and it lay with eyes wide open, spreading its little hands in the warm twilight. The minister put on his glasses and looked at it with solemn 'Curiosity. It was a tiny infant, about two months old ; its little pink face was pinched with cold, and its great blue eyes dim with crying. A common linen cap was on its head, and its gown was of coarse linen. But it was so small, so pretty, that the minister’s tender heart melted over it at once. He offered it his forefinger, which it gripped with its tiny hands, blinking up into his face. ‘ Poor wee mite !’ he murmured, ‘I wonder who your mother is ] A wicked woman, I’m thinking, to cast you away on such a night as this !’ As if in answer to the words, the child began to cry again. 12 ANNAN WATER. ‘ I can see naebody/ cried Solomon, re-entering the room ; ‘ I hae searchit up and doon, as far toonways as Mysie Simpson^s door, and beyont to the waterside, and there’s nane stirring. It’s awfu’ strange !’ He looked at the child, and scratched his head ; he looked at the minister, and nodded it ominously. A curious conjecture, too irreverent for utterance, had passed across his naturally sus- picious mind. The eyes of the two old men met, the minister flushed slightly, while Solomon’s dry lips assumed the shape generally taken when one is about to give a prolonged whistle ; but no sound followed. ‘ Whaur did your reverence find the bairn 1 on the doorstane did you say V The minister nodded. Thereupon Solomon walked over to the chair, put on a pair of brass-rimmed spectacles, and in- spected the child much as his master had done, but with pro- longed and dubious shakes of the head. ‘ Lord preserve us a’ !’ he muttered. ‘ Solomon,’ cried Mr. Lorraine impatiently, ‘ what’s to be done V Solomon scratched his head ; then his face lightened with sudden inspiration as he answered : ‘ Pat the thing whaur ye found him, on the doorstane. Lea’ him there — he’s nane o’ oors. Maybe the mither will come back and take him awa’.’ The minister’s face flushed indignantly. ‘ On such a night as this ! Solomon Mucklebackit, if you have no more Christian advice than that to offer, you can go back to bed.’ Solomon was astonished. Seldom had he seen his master exhibit such authority, tempered with indignation. Not know- ing how to reply, he efiected a diversion. ‘ See, sir,’ he said, still inspecting the child as if it were some curious species of fish, ‘ the cratur’s wringin’ vvat !’ M GIFT FROM GOD: 13 Such was the fact, though it had escaped the minister's agitated scrutiny. The shawl and under dress of the infant were soaked with rain or melted snow. ^ Bless my soul !’ cried Mr. Lorraine, bending down by Solomon’s side; ‘and its little body is quite cold. Fetch Mysio Simpson at once !’ Solomon shook his head. ‘Mysie’s away the night wi’ her kinsfolk at the Mearns.’ ‘ Then there’s only one thing to be done,’ cried Mr. Lorraine wdth sudden decision. ‘We must undress the child at once and put him to bed, and in the morning we can decide how to act. If we leave him like this he will die of cold.’ ‘ Put him to bed !’ echoed Solomon ; ‘ whaur V ‘ In my room, Solomon, unless you would like to take him with you !’ ‘Wi’ me/ I’m no use with bairns! I couldna sleep a wink !’ ‘ Then he shall stay wi’ me 1 Look, Solomon, how pretty he is, how bright his eyes are 1 Fetch me a blanket at once, and warm it by the fire.’ Solomon left the room. The minister lifted the burden in his arms and sat down by the hearth. Then, nervously and awkwardly, he undid the shawl and put it aside ; loosened the baby’s outer garments, which were quite wet, and drew them gently off. Thus engaged, the good man was indeed a picture to see — his soft eyes beaming with love and tenderness, his face puzzled and troubled, his little plump hands at work with clumsy kindness. Solomon entered with a blanket, warmed it for a minute at the fire, and then placed it softly under the child, which now lay mother-naked — as sweet and bright a little cherub as ever drew mother’s milk. Suddenly the sexton uttered an exclamation. ‘ Lord, preserve us a’ 1 It’s no a man-child ava ! It’s a wee lassie 1’ H ANNAN WATER. Mr. Lorraine started, trembled, and almost dropped bis load ; then, bashfully and tenderly, he wrapped the warm blanket round the infant, leaving only its face visible. ^ Lad or lassie,’ he said, ‘ the Lord has left it in our keeping f ‘But it is an awfu’ responsibility ! A woman-cratur’ in oor hoose, meenister ! We hae dwelt here thegither for nigh thirty years, and nane o’ that sex has ever bided here, save auld Mysie when she comes to redd up the place. I’m thinkin’ it’s the beginnin’ o’ trouble.’ Mr. Lorraine smiled ; then lifting the child in his arms, he kissed it on the cheek, adding with reverence : ‘ Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven !’ Stooping to the hearth-rug, Solomon lifed from it a tiny chemise which had fallen there, and examined it with ludicrous horror. Suddenly his eyes perceived something which had escaped Mr. Lorraine’s nervous gaze. Pinned to the chemise was a piece of paper with some writing upon it. ‘Look, meenister,’ cried Solomon, unpinning the paper and holding it up, ‘ there’s a letter addressed to yoursel’ here. Will I read it V ‘ Certainly.’ Then Solomon read, in his own broad accent, which we will not reproduce, these words, which were written in a clear though tremulous female hand : — ‘ To Mr. Lorraine, ‘ By the time you read this, the writer will he lying dead and cold in Annan Water. You are a good man emd a clergynmn. Keep the child, as the gift of God, and as you use her, may God use you P That was all. Solomon stammered through the words in horror, while Mr. Lorraine listened in genuine astonishment. ‘ There, meenister !’ exclaimed Solomon, indignantly. ‘ Did I no’ tell ye? It’s a scandal, an outrage. Keep the bairn, in* deed; and a woman bairn i Absurd notion.’ M GIFT FROM god: 15 ‘ Hush, Solomon,’ interposed the minister solemnly. * I begin to see the hand of God in this.’ ‘ The hand o’ some brazen hizzie, meenister 1 Send the bairn to the workhouse.’ The minister frowned angrily. ‘ Solomon Mucklebackit, if these are your sentiments be good enough to retire.’ ‘ But, meenister ’ ‘ I shall accept this trust. If, as is to be feared, the poor mother of this innocent bairn should perish this night, I shall not neglect her last appeal.’ ‘ Lord preserve us ! You’ll never keep the bairn V ‘ That is to be seen. Be sure I will do what my conscience bids me. Listen to me, Solomon. When that knock came to the door, I was thinking of one who is long dead — one who for many years has been one of the angels of God ; and my heart was full of its own loneliness, as you ken. And a little while before, Solomon, I was saying — do you mind ? — how dreary a house is without the cry of bairns. Then the knock came, and I went to the door, and I found this little child abandoned by its mother. Solomon, if God himself should have sent her to us to comfort our old age !’ As he spoke, the minister bent down again and kissed the child, and his gentle eyes streamed with tears, while the light blue orbs of the infant looked up into his face. In spite of him- self, Solomon was touched. He coughed violently to conceal his agitation. ‘ If it was a man-bairn, meenister, I shouldna mind sae much. But a lassie — a woman-bairn ! It looks like the deil’s wark !’ Mr. Lorraine laughed cheerily, and rose with the child in his arms. Lighted by Solomon, he passed into an adjoining room, a scantily furnished chamber, containing a plain bed and some common articles of furniture. Opening the bedclothes, he placed the infant in a cosy spot, and arranged the blankets tenderly around it. ANNAN WATER. ‘ Look, Solomon ! Is she not bonnie V Solomon gave a grunt of doubtful approval. ‘ Good-night, Solomon,’ continued the minister. A word of protest was on the sexton’s tongue, but he checked it in time, then with one last stare of amazement, perplexity, and surprise, he left the room. ‘ The warl’s cornin’ to an en’,’ he muttered, as he ascended the stairs to his room. ‘ A woman-bairn in our boose ! — a lassie in the minister’s ain bed ! Weel, weel, weel !’ Meantime Mr. Lorraine sat by the bedside, looking at the child, who had almost immediately fallen asleep. Presently he reached out his arm and took one of her little hands into his own, and his eyes were dim and his soul was travelling back to the past. Hours passed thus, and he still sat in a dream. ‘ Marjorie, my bonnie doo !’ he murmured aloud again. ‘ Is this indeed a gift from God — and you V CHAPTEE III. THE DEAD WOMAN. At five o’clock the next morning, when Solomon Mucklebackit, candle in hand, descended the stairs, he found the minister sitting by the bedside fast asleep, with his grey head resting on the side of the pillow, and his right arm outstretched over the counterpane above the still slumbering child. At the sound of Solomon’s entrance, however, Mr. Lorraine awoke at once, rubbed his eyes, and looked in a dazed way around him ; then his eyes fell upon the infant, and his face grew bright as sun- shine. ‘ Bless me, meenister ! Hae ye been watching here a’ nicht V ‘ I fell to sleep,’ was the reply, ‘ and I was dreaming, Solomon, such bonnie dreams ! I thought that I was up yonder among the angels, and that one of them came to me with a face I well THE DEAD WOMAN, 17 remember — ab, so bright ! — and put a little bairn — tlm bairn — • into my arms ; and then, as I held the pretty one, a thousand voices sang an old Scotch song, the “Land o’ the Leal.” Dear me — and it is nearly daybreak, I suppose V Solomon did not reply in words, but, pulling up the blind, showed the outer world still dark, but trembling to the first dim rays of wintry dawn, while snow was thickly falling, and the garden was covered with a sheet of virgin white. The minister rose shivering, for the air was bitter cold ; his limbs, too, were stiff and chilly. ‘ What’s to be done now T asked Solomon gloomily. ‘ I maun awa’ an’ feenish the grave, but Mysie will be here at six.’" ‘ I will watch until Mysie comes,’ answered Mr. Lorraine ; then bending over the bed he continued, ‘ See, Solomon, my man, how soundly she sleeps, and how pretty she looks !’ Solomon grunted, and moved towards the door. ‘ Will I put on the parritch mysel’ V he demanded. ‘ Ye maun be wanting something after sic a night.’ ‘ IN’othing, nothing. Go on to the kirkyard.’ An hour later, when the old woman appeared, having let her- self in by a key at the back door, she was at once apprised of the situation. Having learned by old habit to keep her thoughts to herself, and being of kindly disposition, and the mother of a large grown-up family, she at once, without questioning, entered upon her duties as nurse. The child having awakened, crying, she took it up in her arms and hushed it upon her bosom, where it soon became still ; then, passing to the kitchen, she warmed some new milk, and fed it with a spoon. The minister looked on with a puzzled smile. ‘ See, sir,’ she said, ‘ hoo she tak’s the milk frae the coo I She’s been rearit by hand, and has never tasted the briest ; but without a bottle to drink frae she’ll never leeve.’ By this time day had broken ; and when he had seen the child comfortably cared for, the minister put on his cloak and walked forth to make inquiries. He found the air still thick 2 ANNAN WATER. j8 with snow, which lay ankle-deep npon the ground, and all the lonely landscape wore that infinitely forlorn and dreary aspect which only comes in time of winter storm. In the distance, in- land, the hills loomed white and dim ; snow covered the fields and draped the hedges and leafless trees ; and snow was drifted knee-deep on the leeward side of the icebound road. Passing up townward, he reached the few scattered cottages on the skirts of the village, and met several farm labourers going sleepily to •work. Prom them he could gather no information, and he repeated his inquiries from door to door with the same result. The village consisted of one straggling street with numerous small cottages, a few poverty-stricken shops, and a one-storied tavern. Jock Steven, who kept the latter, was standing on the threshold with a drowsy stare, having just thrown open the door; and on questioning him Mr. Lorraine gained his first and only piece of information. A woman, a stranger to the place, had entered the inn over night, carrying an infant underneath her shawl, and had asked for a glass of milk, which she had drank hastily and flitted away — like a ghost. Her face was partially hidden, but Jock was certain that she was a stranger. Stay ! yes, there was something more. She had inquired for the manse, and the innkeeper had pointed out the direction of the church and the minister's abode. Purther inquiries up and down the village elicited no further information. Several other individuals had seen the stranger, but none knew her, and little attention had been paid her. Mr. Lorraine was more and more puzzled. It seemed quite clear, however, that the woman had come thither of set purpose and by no mere accident, and that her intention had been to abandon her infant, leaving it under the minister’s protection. Who could she be ? What wind of utter despair had wafted her to that place of all places, and to his door of all doors ? He racked his brain to think of any one of his parishioners whom he could connect with the mystery, but the attempt was useless. Then with a shudder of horror he thought of the words of the IHE DEAD WOMAN. 59 paper which Solomon had found pinned to the child’s garment. By that time, in all probability, the body of the wretched mother was lying at the bottom of Annan Water, while her sinful soul was face to face with its Eternal Judge. Perplexed and weary, the good man trotted back to tho manse. Here, in the rudely-furnished kitchen, he found a bright fire burning, his breakfast ready, and Mysie seated by the ingleside with the child in her lap, in voluble conversation with the old sexton. In answer to their eager questions he only shook his head, then sitting down at the wooden table he took his simple meal of oatmeal porridge, with tea and bread to follow. ‘ Have you finished the grave, Solomon f he asked presently. ‘ I hae feenished the grave, ^ answered Solomon, ‘ and I wish the wicked hizzie, the mither o’ that bairn, was lying ki it, though I sair misdoot she's nae Christian cratur’. May the deil grip her and punish her for bringing her ill deeds to oor door.’ ‘ Hush, Solomon !’ said Mr. Lorraine ; ‘ it is not for us to pass judgment upon her, or wish her harm. Perhaps, after all, she is more sinned against than sinning. God help her and I forgive her, whoever she is !' Solomon shook his head savagely, and grunted in deprecation. ‘ It’s a crying shame, and a scandal to the parish,’ he ex- claimed. ‘ We canna keep the bairn !’ ‘ We shall keep her !’ replied the minister thoughtfully. ‘ As I told you before, Solomon, my man, I begin to see the hand of God in this. If, as I fear, and as she has threatened, the miserable woman has destroyed herself, we must sooner or later discover who and what she is, but till then I must accept the sacred trust.’ ‘ It’s the way wi’ them a’, meenister,’ cried the sexton stub- bornly. ‘ They impose upon you, kenning your heart is ovvre tender.’ Mr. Lorraine smiled gently as he responded : ‘ I am glad that they think so well of me. I should have a 2—2 20 ANNAN WATER. hard heart indeed if I had neither love nor pity for this mother- less hairn/ * * * * * The wretched mother, whoever she was, had indeed chosen wisely when she had resolved, while determining to abandon her infant, to leave it at the gentle minister’s door. Days passed, and in spite of Solomon’s protestations it was still an inmate of the manse. Mysie Simpson understood the rearing process well, and since the child, as she had surmised, had never known the breast, it throve well upon ‘the bottle.’ The minister went and came lightly, as if the burthen of twenty years had been taken from his shoulders ; had it indeed been his own offspring, he could not have been more anxious or more tender. And Solomon Mucklebackit, despite his assumption of sternness and indignation, was secretly sympathetic. He, too^ had a tender corner in his heart, which the child’s innocent beauty did not fail to touch. Of course this extraordinary affair at once became the talk of the parish, as Solomon had predicted, and there were not want- ing evil tongues to say that the old minister had good reasons for accepting the office of foster-father and protector. Of the passing scandal, which no one really believed, but which was passed freely enough from mouth to mouth, Mr. Lorraine heard nothing ; but Solomon heard it, and was righteously indignant. However, Solomon was a wight of stubborn disposition, and the reflections on his master’s character only succeeded in making him a partizan of the pretty cause of them all. Before a week had passed he had begun to exhibit a sort of self-satisfied paternity, very curious to observe. One morning, some seven or eight days after the arrival of the infant, when the storms had blown themselves hoarse, and a dull, black, thaw had succeeded the falling and drifting snow, news came to the manse that the body of a woman had been found lying on the brink of the Annan, just where its waters meet the wide sands of the Solway, and mingle witn the salt THE DEAD WOMAN, 21 streams of the ocean tide. Greatly agitated, Mr. Lorraine mounted liis pony, and at once rode along the lonely highway which winds through the flat reaches of the Moss. Arriving close to the great sands, he was directed to a disused outbuilding or barn, belonging to a large sea-facing farm, and standing some hundred yards above high water-mark. A group of fishermen and peasant men and women were clustered at the door ; at his approach the men lifted their hats respectfully, and the women •courtesied. On making inquiries, the minister learnt that the body had been discovered at daybreak by some salmon fishers when netting the river that morning's tide. They had at once given the alarm, and carried ‘ it ' up to the dilapidated barn where it was then lying. The barn was without a door, and partially roofless. Day and night the salt spray of the ocean was blown upon it, encrusting its black sides with a species of filmy salt ; and from the dark rafters and down the broken walls clung slimy weeds and mosses, and over it a pack of sea-gulls wheeled and screamed. The minister took off his hat and entered in bareheaded. Stretched upon the earthen floor was what seemed at first rather a shapeless mass than a human form ; a piece of coarse tarpaulin was placed over it, covering it from head to foot. Gently and reverently, Mr. Lorraine drew back a corner of the tarpaulin and revealed to view the disfigured lineaments of what had once been a living face ; but though the features were changed and unrecognisable, and the eye-sockets were empty of their shining orbs, and the mouth disfigured and hidden by foulness, the face was still set in a woman's golden hair. With the horror deep upon him, the minister trembled and prayed. Then drawing the covering still lower, he caught a glimpse of a delicate hand, clutched as in the agonies of death; and sparkling on the middle finger thereof was a slender ring of gold. 22 AN'h^AN P/A TER, ‘ God forgive me P he murmured to himself ; ‘ if this is the mother of the child, I did her a cruel wrong.’ He stood gazing and praying for some time, his eyes dim with sympathetic tears ; then, after replacing the covering reverently, he turned away and passed through the group which clustered^ watching him at the door. The day following there was a simple funeral, in a solitary burial-place, seldom used, and lying within a short distance of the spot where the body was found. Mr. Lorraine defrayed the expenses out of his own pochet, saw that everything was decently though simply arranged, and himself read the beautiful burial service over the coffin. He had now no doubt in his mind that the drowned woman was the mother of the infant left under his care, and that by destroying herself she had simply carried out her desperate determination. All attempts to identify her, however, continued without avail. Inquiries were made on every side, advertisements in- serted in the local newspapers, without the slightest result ; no one came forward to give any information. But by this time the minister’s mind was quite made up. He would keep the child, and, with God’s blessing, rear her as his own ; he would justify the unhappy mother’s dependence on his charity and loving-kindness. So it came to pass that late in the gloaming of the old bache* lor’s life the cry of a child was heard in the lonely house ; and somehow or other, despite Solomon Mucklebackit’s prognostica- tions, the house became brighter and merrier ffir the sound. Solomon himself soon fell under the spell, and when a little warm with whisky he would allude to the child, with a comic sense of possession, as ‘ oor bairn.’ At last, one day, there was a quiet christening in the old kirk, where Mr. Lorraine had officiated so many years. Mysie held the infant in her arms, while Solomon stood at hand, blinking through his horn spectacles, and the minister performed the simple ceremony. THE DEAD WOMAN. 23 After long and tender deliberation the minister had fixed upon a name, which he now gave to the poor little castaway, who had neither father nor mother, nor any other kinsfolk in the world after whom she could be called. He christened her Marjorie Annan. Marjoi'ie, after that other beloved Marjorie, who had long before joined — or so he dreamed — the bright celestial band; Annan, after that troubled water wherein the miserable mother had plunged and died. CHAPTER IV. MARJORIE ANXAN. On a bright morning of early spring, between sixteen and seventeen years after the events described in the first chapters of this story, a golden-haired young girl might have been seen tripping down the High Street of the market town of Dumfries. Her dress was prettily if not over-fashionably cut, a straw hat shaded her bright blue eyes, and her boots and gloves were those of a lady. Under her arm she carried several books — school- books, to all intents and purposes. By her side, talking to her eagerly, was a young man about three years her senior. From time to time, as she tripped along with her companion, she had to stop and exchange words with passers-by, who greeted her by name ; and from many of the shop doors and windows friendly heads nodded and bright faces beamed. It was clear that she was well known in the little town, and a general favourite. Indeed, there were few of the residents Avithin a radius of ten miles round Dumfries who did not know something of Marjorie Annan, the foster-child and adopted daughter of Mr. Lorraine. Her companion, John Sutherland, was fair complexioned and very pale. He was plainly clad in a suit of dark tweed, and 24 ANNAN WATER. wore a wideawake hat. His whole aspect betokened delicate health, and there was a sad light in his large blue eyes which told of a thoughtful spirit longing within. His manners were gentle and retiring in the extreme. ‘ When did you come back, Johnnie V Marjorie had asked after some previous conversation. ‘Last night, by the express from London,’ answered the young man. ‘ Tm going down to see the old folk to-night. Shall you be at the manse V Marjorie nodded, smiling gaily. And how did you like London V she demanded. ‘ Did you see the Queen ? — and Westminster Abbey 1 — and did you go to the great Tabernacle to hear Spurgeon preach V ‘ No, Marjorie. My time was short, and most of my spare time was spent among the pictures; but when I saw them, thou- sands upon thousands of masterpieces, it made me despair of ever becoming a painter. I thought to myself, maybe it would be better after all to bide at home, and stick to weaving like my father.’ As he spoke, IMarjorie paused at the corner of a quiet street, and held out her hand. ‘ I must go to my lesson. Good-bye !’ ‘ How are you going down? By the waggonette?’ ‘ Yes, Johnnie.’ ‘ So am I ; so we can go together. Good-bye till then !’ And with a warm squeeze of the hand the young man walked away. Marjorie stood looking after him for a moment with a pleasant smile ; then she turned and walked down the street She had not many yards to go before she paused before a dingy-looking house, on the door of v/hich was a brass plate with the inscription : M. Leon Caussidiere, Professor of Languages. She rang the bell, and the door was opened almost im« MARJORIE AN A AN. 25 mediately by a Scotch servant in petticoat and short gown, who greeted her with a familiar smile. Answering the smile with a friendly nod, Marjorie tripped along the lobby, and knocked at an inner door, which stood ajar. A clear musical voice, with an unmistakably foreign accent, cried ‘ Come in,^ and she entered. The room was a plainly furnished parlour, at the centre table of which a young man sat writing. The table was littered with writing materials, books, and journals, and on a smaller table in the window recess was another table, also strewn with books. The young man, who was smoking a cigarette, looked up as Marjorie entered. ‘ Ah, it is you. Mademoiselle Marjorie ? he exclaimed, smiling pleasantly. ‘ I did not expect you so early, and I was just smoking my cigarette 1 You do not mind the smoke ? !N’o 1 Then, w'ith your permission, J will smoke on He spoke English fluently, though his accent was unmis- takable, and his pronunciation of certain words peculiar. Personally he was tall and handsome, with black hair worn very long, black moustache, and clean-shaven chin. His forehead was high and thoughtful, his eyes bright but sunken, his com- plexion swarthy. He was dressed shabbily but somewhat showily in a coat of brown velvet, shirt with turn-down collar loose at the throat-, and a crimson tie shapen like a true lover’s knot. He carried a ]jince-nez, secured to his person by a piece of elastic, disused while writing or reading, but fixed on the nose at other times. Through this pince-nez he now regarded Marjorie with a very decided look of admiration. ‘I came early, monsieur,’ said Marjorie, ‘because I cannot come in the afternoon. I am going home, and shall not be back in Dumfries till Monday. Can you give me my lesson now, pleased ‘ Certainly,’ answered the Frenchman. ‘ I was only writing my French correspondence, but I can finish that when you are 26 ANNAN WATER. gone. Will you sit there, mademoiselle, in the arm-chair % ^Ko ? Then in this otlier. We will begin at once.’ Marjorie sat down and opened her books. The Frenchman, taking the arm-chair she had refused, regarded her quietly and keenly. ‘ [N'ow, read, if you please,^ he said, with a wave of the hand. ‘ Begin — where you left off yesterday.’ Marjorie obeyed, and read aloud in a clear voice from an easy French reading book. From time to time the teacher inter-> lupted her, correcting her pronunciation. ‘ You advance, mademoiselle !’ he said presently. ‘ Ah, yes,, you are so quick, so intelligent. Now translate.’ In this portion of her task also the girl acquitted herself well, and when she had finished the young man nodded approv- ingly. ‘ Now let us converse — in French, if you please.’ But liere Marjorie was at a loss, not knowing what to talk about. She finally took the weather as a topic, and advanced the proposition that it was a very fine day, but that thero would soon be rain. Her master responded, and, urged to higher flights of imagination, Marjorie hoped that it would not rain till she reached home, as the public waggonette in which she was to travel was an open one, and she did not want to get wet. In this brilliant strain the conversation proceeded, Mar- jorie stumbling over the construction of her sentences, and getting very puzzled over the other^s voluble answers when they extended to any length. But at last the lesson was over, and the teacher expressed himself well pleased. ‘And now,’ he said with a smile, ‘we will talk the English again before you go. Will you tell me something more about yourself, mademoiselle'? I have seen you so often, and yet I know so little. For myself, I am almost a recluse, and go about not at all. Tell me, then, about yourself, your guardian, your home.’ don’t know what to tell you, monsieur/ answered Marjorie, MARJORIE ANNAN, 27 ‘Call me not “monsieur,” but “ Monsieur Leon.” “Monsieur” is so formal — so cold.’ ‘ Monsieur Leon.’ ‘That is better. jSTo^ answer me, if you please. You have no father, no mother V The girl’s eyes filled with tears. ‘ ^Yo, Monsieur ’ ‘ Monsieur Leon.’ ‘ ^ 0 , Monsieur Leon.’ ‘Ah, that is sad — sad to be an orphan, alone in the world! I myself have no father, but I have a mother whom I adore. And you live with your guardian always V ‘Yes, monsieur — Monsieur Leon! He is my guardian and my foster-father ; and Solomon is my foster-father too.’ ‘ Solomon ‘ Solomon is our clerk and sexton. He lives in the manse. He was living there when the minister found me, nearly seven- teen years ago.’ The young Frenchman had arisen, and stood facing Marjorie Annan. ‘Ah, yes, I have heard !’ he said. ‘And you have dwelt all these years, mignonne, alone with those two old menf ‘ Yes, Monsieur Leon 1’ ‘ It is terrible — it is not right I You who are so young and pretty ; they who are so old and dreary 1 And you have never seen the world — never travelled from your native land 1 Hever? You have lived in a desert, you have never known what it is to live 1 But you are a child, and it is not too late. You will see the world some day, will you not ? You will find someone to love you, to care for you, and you will bid adieu to this trlste Scotland, once and for ever V As he spoke, very volubly, he bent his face close to hers, smiling eagerly, while his breath touched her cheek. She blushed slightly, and drooped her eyes for a moment ; then she looked up quite steadily and said : 28 ANNAN WATER. ‘ I should not care to leave my home. Mr. Lorraine took mo to Edinburgh once, but I soon wearied, and was glad to come back to Annandale.* ‘ Edinburgh !’ cried Monsieur Leon, with a contemptuous gesture. ‘A city where the sun never shines, and it rains, six days out of the seven, what you call a Scotch mist ! You should see my country, la helle France, and Paris, the queen of the cities of the world ! There all is light and gay ; it is Para- dise on earth. Would you not like to see Paris, Mademoiselle Marjorie V ‘Yes, monsieur, maybe I should,^ replied Marjorie, ‘but Pm not caring much for the town. But I was forgetting something, though,’ she added ; ‘ Mr. Lorraine told me to give you this.’ So saying, she drew forth a small silk purse, and drawing thence two sovereigns placed them on the table. ‘ Put them back in your purse, if you please.’ ‘ But I have not paid you anything, and I owe you for ten lessons.’ ‘ Xever mind that, mademoiselle,’ answered the Frenchman. ‘ Some other time, if you insist, but not to-day. It is reward enough for me to have such a pupil. Take the money and buy yourself a keepsake to remind you of me !’ But Marjorie shook her little head firmly as she answered : ‘ Please do not ask me. Monsieur Leon. My guardian would be very angry, and he sent me the money to pay you.’ The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Well, as you please; only I would not have you think that I teach you for the money’s sake — ah, no ! You have brought light and sunshine to my heart in my exile ; when you come I forget my sorrows, and when you go away I am full of gloom. Ah, you smile, but it is true !’ ‘ Good-bye, now. Monsieur L6on,’ said Marjorie, moving to- wards the door, for she felt embarrassed and almost frightened by the ardent looks of her teacher. ‘ Good-bye ! You will come again on Monday, will you nott’ 29 MARJORIE ANNAN. ‘Yes, Monsieur Leon.’ And Marjorie left the room and passed out into the sunny street. Left to himself, the Frenchman threw himself into his chair, and covering his eyes with his delicate white hands, seemed to reflect deeply for some minutes. When he looked up again his eyes were full of eager, passionate light. ‘ How pretty she is, how pure and sweet !’ he murmured to himself in his own tongue. ‘ Though she is a child she has brought me to her feet ; and I who used to say that I was sick of love, and cared only for Liberty and France ! Every day that I look upon her I love her more. And she 1 Does she care for me, her teacher % Will she listen if I ask her to leave this gloomy land, and fly with me to a merrier home. The great change grows near —soon, perhaps I shall be no longer in exile — I can return, and I will not return alone,^ CHAPTEE V. HOMEWARD BOUND, The public waggonette in which Marjorie was to journey home ran daily between Dumfries and Annanmouth, a small seaside village much frequented in summer for its sea-bathing, and passed within half a mile of Mr. Lorraine’s abode, which was just six Scots miles away from Dumfries itself. The starting-place w^as the Bonnie Jean Commercial Inn, an establishment said to have been much patronised by the poet Burns during his resi- dence in the south of Scotland ; and hither Marjorie, after leaving her tutor, proceeded without delay. The waggonette stood waiting at the door, and on the thresh- old — smiling, smart, and spruce — were the Misses Dalrymple, Maggie and Annie, the two severe maidens who kept the inn. Miss Maggie was about forty-five years of age. Miss Annie about forty ; both were somewhat grim and aquiline of feature, 30 ANNAN WATER, but simple, hospitable, and kindly. Miss Maggie dressed severely in sober colours, with little or no ornament of any kind ; but Miss Annie, presuming upon her greater youthfulness, affected cheerful embellishments, had always a light kerchief in her bosom and gay ribbons in her cap. At Marjorie’s appearance their features grew radiant with friendliness. ‘ You’re jest in time, Marjorie !’ cried Miss Maggie. ‘ Tam has gane doun for the jDost bag.’ ‘ Come awa’ ben,’ said Miss Annie ; • you’ll tak’ something before you gang.’ So saying, they led her into a cosy parlour behind the bar or office, wherein the sisters presided over the hotel books and made up their accounts. Over the parlour mantelpiece was a picture in oil of Kobert Burns, taken at the period of his physical decline, and looking worn, weary, and old ; and in a small glass frame below was a kind of posy made of dried flowers, meadow grass, and ferns, with the inscription ; ‘ Gathered at Mauchlinej July, 18 — .’ The two good ladies placed Marjorie in the arm-chair, and while plying her with questions and amusing her with local gossip, looked at her with undisguised admiration ; for they were not so sour of disposition as to regard a pretty face, even in one of their own sex, with anything but sympathetic admiration. Presently, after general topics were disposed of. Miss Annie said : ‘ Hae ye seen Johnnie Sutherland yet? He’s back frae London.’ ‘Yes; and he’s going down in the waggonette,’ answered Marjorie. Miss Annie exchanged a hurried glance with her sister, and smiled on Marjorie. ‘ He’s a good lad and a clever,’ she exclaimed. ‘ I mind the time when he and you gaed cleeking thegither to the schooL Dae ye mind that, Marjorie ?’ HOMEWARD BOUND. 31 ‘I mind it fine/ answered Marjorie, with a slight blush. *He was very good to me, and often helped me with my lessons.’ ‘And he wad draw yer picture all over his books ! — dae ye mind that? Eh, Marjorie, he was awfu’ fond o’ ye when a bairn, and Pm thinking he’s fonder o’ ye noo he’s a man.’ ‘ Aye is he,’ said Miss Maggie, with an affirmative nod of the head. ‘ He’s like my own brother,’ replied Marjorie simply. The ladies of the inn exchanged another glance ; then Miss Annie changed the subject. ‘ And hoo are ye getting on wi’ the French, Marjorie h He’s a strange man, yon Frenchman, and the toon’s talk. They’re saying he’d wad be rich if he had his rights, but that the Emperor has banished him frae France on account o’ his polee- tical opinions.’ ‘ Yes, he has told me so,’ replied Marjorie. ‘I like him very much, he is so clever and so kind.’ ‘ He hasna many scholars,’ said Miss Maggie thoughtfully, ‘ and most 0’ them he has are lads. Hoo came you to gang till him, Marjorie ‘I wanted to learn the French, and Mr. Lorraine saw his name in the paper j so it was settled that I should go to him for an hour a day, four days a week.’ At this moment Tam the driver appeared at the door, an- nouncing that the waggonette was about to start ; and Marjorie, after a kiss from each of the sisters, hastened to take her place. The vehicle was drawn by two powerful horses, and could ac- commodate a dozen passengers inside and one more on the seat of the driver ; but to-day there were only a few going — three farmers and their wives, a sailor on his way home from sea, and a couple of female farm servants who had come in to the spring ‘hiring.’ All these had taken their seats, but John Sutherland stood by the trap waiting to hand Marjorie in. She stept in 32 ANNAN WATER, and took her place, and the young man found a seat at her side, when the driver took the reins and mounted to his seat, and with waves and smiles from the Misses Dalrymple, and a cheer from a very small boy on the pavement, away they went. The highway ran out of the market town until it reached sunny fields, where the corn was sproutiug, and the larks were singiug, past pleasant stretches of meadow, quiet clumps of woodland, comfortable farms, with glimpses all along of the distant mountains of Kirkcudbrightshire, and occasional peeps of the waters of the Solway, sparkling in the sunlight. Tam th*e driver chatted merrily with his passengers as he cracked his whip and rattled along, and had a nod and a greeting for the driver of every vehicle that passed, whether it was a slow country waggon, or a doctor’s smart dog-cart, or a minister’s wife driving her pony-chaise. Meanwhile John Sutherland and Marjorie talked in a low voice together of old times ; the girl happy, unconstrained, and little conscious of the admira- tion in the young man’s earnest eyes. At last they reached the cross-roads where John and Marjorie •were to alight. They leapt out, and pursued their way on foot, the young man carrying a small hand valise, Marjorie still hold- ing her school books underneath her arm. How still and bright it was that afternoon of early spring 1 How fresh was the air, how blue and peaceful the quiet sky I Their way lay along a quiet country road, the banks of which were sprinkled thick with speedwells and primroses, while the hedges were tangled with wild rose bushes just preparing to bloom. Often in after years when trouble came, John Suther- land thought of that happy walk, of his own blissful thoughts- and dreams, and of the pretty figure tripping so gracefully and talking so pleasantly by his side ! Presently they came to a two-arched bridge which spanned the Annan. They paused just above the keystone. The young man rested his valise on the mossy wall, and both looked thoughtfully down at the flowing stream. A heron, which was HOMEWARD BOUND, 3 . playing ISTarcissus in a pool twenty yards below tbe bridge, standing with crooked neck in solemn contemplation of his own blue shade, opened his great wings leisurely and flitted slowly away. ‘ It's many a long year, Marjorie, since we first stood here. I was a bare-footed callant, you were a wean scarce able to run ; and now I’m a man, and you’re almost a woman. Yet there’s the Annan beneath us, the same as ever, and it will be the same when we’re both old — always the same.’ IMarjorie turned her head away, and her eyes were dim with tears. ‘ Come away,’ she said, ‘ I cannot bear to look at it ! When- ever I watch the Annan I seem to see my mother’s drowned face keeking up at me out of the quiet water.’ The young man drew closer to her, and gently touched her hand. ‘ Don’t greet, Marjorie !’ he murmured softly ; ‘ your poor mother’s at peace with God !’ ‘ Yes, Johnnie, I ken that, answered the girl in a broken voice, ‘ but it’s sad, sad, to have neither kith nor kin, and to re- member the way my mother died — aye, and not even to be able to guess her name ! Whiles I feel very lonesome, when I think it all o’er.’ ‘ And no wonder ! But you have those that love you dearly for all that. There’s not a lady in a country more thought of than yourself, and wherever your bonnie face has come it has brought comfort.’ As he spoke he took her hand in his own, and looked at her very fondly; but her own gaze was far away^ following her wistful thoughts. ^ You’re all very good to me,’ she said presently, * Mr. Lor- raine, and Solomon, and all my friends ; but, for all that, I miss my own kith and kin.’ He bent his face close to hers, as he returned : 3 34 ANNAN WATER. ^ Some day, Marjorie, you^ll have a house and kin of youi own, and then ^ He paused blushing, for her clear, steadfast eyes were suddenly "turned full upon his face. ‘ What do you mean, Johnnie V ‘ I mean that you’ll maybe marry, and ’ Brightness broke through the cloud, and Marjorie smiled. ‘ Marry ? Is it me It’s early in the day to think of that^ at seventeen.’ ‘ Other young lasses think of it, Marjorie, and so must you. Our Agnes married last Martinmas, and she was only a year ’ older than yourself.’ Marjorie shook her head ; then her face grew sad again, as her eyes fell upon Annan water. ‘ I’m naebody’s bairn,’ she cried, ‘ and shall be naebody’s wife, Johnnie.’ ‘ Don’t say that, Marjorie,’ answered Sutherland, still holding iier hand and pressing it fondly. ‘ There’s one that loves you dearer than anything else in all the w^orld.’ She looked at him again steadfastly, while his face flushed scarlet. ‘I know you love me, Johnnie, as if you were my own brother.’ ‘ More that that, Marjorie — more a thousand times !’ the young man continued passionately. ‘ Ah ! it has been on my mind a thousand times to tell you how much. Ever since we were little lass and lad you’ve been the one thought and dream of my life ; and if I’ve striven hard and hoped to become a painter, it has all been for love of you, I know my folk are poor, and that in other respects I’m not a match for you, who have been brought up as a lady, but there will be neither peace nor happiness for me in this world unless you consent to become jny wife.’ As he continued to speak she had become more and more and more surprised and startled. The sudden revelation of what so HOMEWARD BOUND. 35 many people knew, but which she herself had never suspected, came upon her as a shock of sharp pain ; so that when he ceased, trembling and confused by the vehemence r f Ins own confession, she was quite pale, and all the light seemed to have gone out of her beautiful eyes as she replied : ‘ Don’t talk like that ! You’re not serious ! Your wife 1 I shall be “naebody’s wife” as I said, but surely, surely not yours.’ ‘Why not mine, Marjorie f he cried, growing pale in turn. ‘ I’ll work day and night. I’ll neither rest nor sleep until I have a home fit for you ! You shall be a lady ! — 0 Marjorie, tell me you care for me, and will make me happy !’ ‘ I do care for you, Johnnie, I care for you so much that I can’t hear to hear you talk as you have done. You have been like my own brother and now ’ ‘ And now I want to be something nearer and dearer. Mar- jorie, speak to me; at least tell me you’re not angry 1’ ‘ Angry with you, Johnnie V she replied, smiling again, and giving him both hands. ‘ As if I could be ! But you must be very good, and not speak of it again.’ She disengaged herself and moved slowly across the bridge. He lifted his valise and followed her anxiously. ‘ I know what it is,’ he said sadly, as they went on side by side together. ‘ You think I’m too poor, and you would be ashamed of my folk.’ She turned her head and gazed at him in mild reproach. ‘ Oh, how can you think so hardly of me ! I love your mother and father as if they were my own ; and as for your being poor, I shouldn’t like you at all if you were rich. But,’ she added gently, ‘ I like you as my brother best.’ ‘ If I could be always even that I should not mind ; but no, Marjorie, you’re too bonnie to bide alone, and if any other man came and took you from me, it would break my heart.’ ‘ What nonsense you talk !’ she exclaimed smiling again. ‘As if any other man would care. If I were twenty, it would be 3—2 36 ANNAN WATER. time enough to talk like that ; hut at seventeen — Oh, Johnnie, you almost make me laugh !* ‘ Tell me one thing,’ he persisted ; ‘ tell me you don’t like any one better than you like me.’ ‘ I don't like any one half so well, except, except — Mr. Lor- raine.’ ‘ You are sure, Marjorie V ‘ Quite sure.' ‘ Then I’ll hide my time and wait.’ By this time the village was in sight, and they were soon walking along the main street, which was as sleepy and deserted as usual. Even at the tavern door not a soul was to be seen ; but the landlord’s face looked out from behind the window pane with a grim nod of greeting. A few houses beyond the inn Sutherland paused, close to a small one-storied cottage, in front of which was a tiny garden, laid out in pansy beds. ‘Will you come in, Marjorie V he asked doubtfully. Marjorie nodded and smiled, and without another word he opened the garden gate, crossed the walk, and led the way into the interior of the cottage. CHAPTER YL THE weaver’s cottage. As they entered the door a loud humming sound came upon their ears, mingled with the sound of voices. Turning to the right, they found themselves on the threshold of a room, half parlour, half kitchen, at one end of which was a large loom, where an elderly man, of grave and somewhat careworn aspect, was busily weaving. Seated on a chair close to him was a girl of about fourteen, dressed in the ordinary petticoat and short- gown, and reading aloud from a book. At the other end of the THE WEAVERS COTTAGE. 37 room, where there was an open ingle and a fire, an elderly matron was cooking. Suddenly there was an exclamation from the latter, who was the first to perceive the entrance of the new-comers. ‘ Johnnie !' she cried, holding out her arms, and in another moment she had folded her son in her embrace, and was kissing him fondly. The youDg girl rose smiling, book in hand ; the man ceased his weaving, but remained quite still in his chair. ‘ Yes, here I am, mother ; and IVe brought company, as you see !* ‘ Hoo’s 8 l wi’ ye, Marjorie V cried the matron, holding out her hand. ‘ It’s a treat to see your bonnie face. Sit ye down by the fire.’ ‘ Is that my son V said the weaver in a deep musical voice, but without turning his head. His infirmity was now apparent — he was stone blind. John Sutherland walked across the room, gave his sister a passing kiss, and placed his hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder. ‘ It’s yoursel’, my lad. I ken you noo. I feel your breath about me. What way did ye no write to tell us you were on the road hame V ‘ I was not sure until the last moment that I could start so soon ; but I jumped into the train last night, and down I came.’ ‘ Who’s alang wi’ you V asked the weaver, smiling. ^ I’ll wager it^s Marjorie Annan.’ ‘ Yes, Mr. Sutherland,’ answered Marjorie, crossing the room and joining the little group. ‘I met Johnnie in Dumfries, and we came home together.’ The weaver nodded his head gently, and the smile on his face lightened into loving sweetness. ‘ Stand close side by side,’ he said, ‘ while I tak’ a long look at baith 0’ ye.’ ‘ While you look at us echoed Marjorie, in surprise. 38 ANNAN WATER. ‘ Aye, and what for no 1 Dinna think, because my bodily e’en are blind, that I canna’ see weel wi’ the e’en o’ my souk Aye, there you stand, lass and lad— my boy John and Marjorie Annan ; baith fair, baith 'with blue e’en ; John prood and glad, and Marjorie blushing by his side ; and I see what you canna see — a light all roond and abune ye, coming oot o’ the golden gates o’ Heaven. Stand still a wee and hark ! Do ye hear naething ? Aye, but I can hear ! A sound like kirk bells ring- ing far awa’.’ As he spoke he sat with shining face, as if he indeed gazed on the sweet vision he was describing. Marjorie grew red as fire, and cast down her eyes ; for she was only too conscious of the old man’s meaning, and remembering what had taken place that day she felt constrained and almost annoyed. John Sutherland shared her uneasiness, and to divert the conversation into other channels he spoke to his young sister, who stood smiling close by. ‘ What’s the book in your hand, Jessie ? You were reading out loud to my father when we came in.’ Jessie was about to reply, when the old man answered for her : ‘ It’s jest Jamie Hogg’s poems, John,’ he said. ‘ She was reading me yon bonnie ballant aboot Kilmeny : ‘ ‘‘ Bonnie Kilmeny went up the glen. But it wasna to meet Duneira’s men. Nor the rosy monk o’ the isle to see — For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.’^ Pure and fair like Marjorie Annan. Marjorie, my bairn, I whiles think you maun hae talk’d wi’ the fairy folk yoursel’, for when ye speak it’s like a sweet, sweet soond frae the spirit war!.’ ‘^Lord forfen, gudeman !’ broke in Mrs. Sutherland super- stitiously. But Marjorie, uneasy lest the old man’s dreamy talk should again take an awkward turn, was determined to make her escape. ^ Good-bye now, Mr. Sutherland,’ she said, taking his hand THE WE A FEE'S COTTAGE. 39 - in hers, * I must run home ; Mr. Lorraine -will he expecting me.^ And before any one could say a word to detain her, she was crossing the threshold of the cottage. Young Sutherland fob lowed her as far as the garden gate. ‘ Marjorie,’ he said, ‘ I hope you’re not angry V ‘ 'No, no,’ she replied ; ‘ but I wish your father would not talk as if we were courting, Johnnie. It makes me feel so awkward, and you know it is not true.’ ‘ Old folk will talk,’ said John Sutherland, ^ and father only speaks out of the fulness of his heart. He is very fond of you, Marjorie.’ ‘ I know that, and I of him — that is why it troubles me to hear him talk like that.’ There was a moment’s pause ; then Sutherland sadl}’- held out his hand. ‘Well, good-bye, just now. I’ll be looking ye up at the manse.’ ‘ Good-bye,’ she answered. ‘ Come soon; Mr. Lorraine will - be so glad to see you.’ So she hastened away, while Sutherland, with a sigh, stood looking after her. He had loved her so long and so silently, and now for the first time in his life he began to dread that she might not love him in return. To him, just then, it seemed as if all the world was darkened, the blue sky clouded, all the sweet spring weather touched with a wintry sense of fear. Their friendship had begun curiously enough. Sutherland’s father, though only a poor afflicted man, had thoughts far above his station, was self-educated, and well read in the literature of his country. He had composed, in the Scottish Doric, poems which were noticeable for plaintive beauty and delicacy of epithet, and when a young man he had published a volume ‘by subscription.’ Articles had appeared in the leading journals highly eulogising both his talents and his character, and in thousands of Lowland homes the name of 40 ANNAN WATER. * James Sutherland, the blind weaver poet/ was a household word. So he was a proud man, and had taken great pains with the education of his children, especially that of his favourite son. As a boy, John Sutherland was always better dressed than boys of his own station, who went barefoot and comparatively neglected, and went to the best schools available; and at a very early age he had attracted the attention of the worthy minister of the parish. He had thus become acquainted with Mr. Lorraine^s adopted daughter, who was brought up almost as a little lady, and speedily became attached to the weaver’s quiet, bashful, gentle son, so different in his 'manners to the other children of the village. The friendship, begun in infancy, had lasted through early youth, until Marjorie almost regarded John Sutherland, to use her own expression, as a ‘ brother,’ and when the day came for the youth’s departure to Glasgow University, where he was to complete his education, they had not separated without tears. Very early Sutherland had exhibited a natural talent for drawing and painting, and during the three or four years he had spent in Glasgow he attended the art classes and cultivated his gift to the utmost. He drew well, and had a fine eye for colour, and it was the ambition of his life to become a painter by profession. Howhere, perhaps save in Scotland, would it have been possible for a young man with such small means at his command to cultivate his natural talents so thoroughly ; but he was patient, diligent, and self-sacrificing, and had worked wonders out of his scanty opportunities — so that, from being a comparatively friendless lad he had risen high in the world’s esteem, and had awakened the sympathy of many persons powerful in the domain of Art. He stood at the gate watching till Marjorie disappeared ; then, with another heavy sigh, he turned back into the cottage. Meantime Marjorie Annan hastened homewards, not a little troubled by the event of the morning. Tond as she was of her THE WEAVER'S COTTAGE. 41 old playmate, she could not acknowledge to herself that his abrupt confession of love had awakened any response in her heart. On the contrary, it had startled and frightened her to a degree she could not have conceived possible. If like other growing maids she had sometimes dreamed of a lover, her ideal had certainly never taken the shape of poor John Sutherland. She looked upon him as a sort of humble friend, even a brother, but that was all. Though several years her senior, he seemed to her only a boy, and the idea of being courted by him, of all people in the world, was absurd. Yet, child as she was, she had woman’s wit enough to per- ceive that the young man was terribly in earnest, that the situ- ation was a delicate one, and that for the future the relations between them would have to be more or less altered. John Sutherland, avowedly her lover, with the full sanction and earnest hope of his father and mother, was a different person from her old friend, Johnnie, with whom she had no reserves, and whom she had all along regarded with the frank indifference of sisterly affection. Leaving the village behind her, she soon came in sight of the old church, and there, leaning over the church gate, was Solomon Mucklebackit, with hair white as snow, and a figure bent nearly double with old age. But, old as he was, and grim as ever, his face brightened at Marjorie’s coming, and his wrinkled cheeks were puckered up into the ghost of a smile. ‘ Here I am at last,* said Marjorie, nodding affectionately to him. The ruling passion was still strong in Solomon, and he began to grumble. ‘ An hour late,’ he muttered ; ‘ what kept ye, Marjorie? The meenister thought ye had missit the waggonette.’ ‘ I had a call to make in the village, Solomon.’ ‘ Weel hurry in and get your tea before it’s cauld,’ returned Solomon; ‘he’s waiting on ye.’ Then as she turned away he demanded querulously : ‘Ye were to bring doon five pounds o’ 42 ANNAN WATER, black tea and a bottle o’ sherry wine frae Cumstie the grocer’s. Hae ye gotten them V Marjorie shook her head. ‘ I forgot them in my hurry to get away. I’m so sorry ! But I’ll write to-night, and they’ll come over by the carrier to- morrow.’ Solomon grunted gloomily, while the girl crossed the road, opened the manse gate, and hastened to the house. She found the front door ajar, and, crossing the lobby, entered the very sitting-room whither she had been carried in the minister’s arms seventeen years before. After all these years, the little parlour remained just the same, with scarcely an article of furniture added ; and there, in the arm-chair by the fire, was the minister, just the same, but older, weaker, and wearier. He looked up as she entered, and his mild blue eye grew soft with loving, recognition. CHAPTEE VII. AT THE MANSE. Mr. Lorraine was now long past the great climateric, and breaking fast; indeed, so infirm had he become that he had more than once thought of retiring from the ministry altogether. Though his body was frail, however, his intellect was as bright as ever, and when Marjorie entered the study he was busily engaged in reading one of his favourite books. He looked up with his kindly smile as his foster-daughter appeared. ‘ Is it you, my bairn V he said, as he came over and kissed her. ‘ Welcome home again ! Though you have been scarcely a week away, I have missed you sorely, and have been counting the days till your return.’ For some months past, I should now explain, Marjorie had AT THE MANSE, 43 been accustomed to stay at a ladies’ school in the neighbouriug town from Monday till Friday of every week, returning each Friday afternoon, and remaining till the following Monday. This arrangement had been found necessary, as it was impossible for the girl to complete her simple education at home, and as the distance was too great for her to go to and fro daily without in- convenience. ‘ And what news have you got from the town*?’ continued the minister, as Marjorie, holding his hand in hers, sank into a chair at his side. ‘ How is Miss Carruthers ? and how do you get along with your studies f ‘ Miss Carruthers sends her compliments, and as she is called away to Edinburgh to see her sick sister, I am to bide at home for a week. A whole week, Mr. Lorraine ! — and in May time I Oh, I am so glad !’ ‘ So am I, my bairn,’ said the minister. ‘ A week’s rest will do you good, and it will do me good too, I hope, for I have been far from well since you went away. I had one of my old attacks on Tuesday, and have been obliged to keep the house.’ ‘ You will be better now,’ said Marjorie fondly ‘ I will nurse you !’ ^ Aye, aye ; and the sight of your face and the sound of your voice will do me more good than the doctor. By the way, my bairn, I had one here to-day inquiring after you, and she will be here again this evening.’ ‘ I know ! Miss Hetherington of the Castle V ‘ Yes, Miss Hetherington. It is strange, my bairn, how much interest the good lady takes in you — she who cares so little for any other living thing ; and yet after all it is not strange, for my Marjorie is a favourite with high and low.’ The girl’s face grew troubled as she answered : ^ I hope, Mr. Lorraine, she won’t be asking me up to the Castle ; I feel so lonely there, and she — she frightens me some- times ! She has such strange ways, and the house is an awful place.’ 44 ANNAN WATER. ‘Well, well, you must be careful not to offend her, for she is a true friend.* ‘ I know she is very rich, and good too, but for all that I cannot bear to be alone in her company. I wonder why sho likes to have me ! She sits in her arm-chair looking at me for hours together, till sometimes I feel as if I could scream out and run away.* ‘ She is a strange woman,* said the minister, thoughtfully ; ‘ but you have no reason to fear her. She takes a great interest in you, and in all that concerns you.* ‘ I know that, but * ‘ Her eccentricities are only put on, I think, to conceal a heart that is truly kindly. You must try to humour her, my bairn, remembering how much she has done for you, and may yet do. J^ot that I would have you shape your conduct towards her by any sordid hope of future gain; no, no, that would be unworthy; but it is well, after all, to have so powerful a friend should any- thing happen to me.* ‘ Oh, don’t speak like that !* exclaimed Marjorie, her eyes filling with tender tears. ‘ I cannot bear it.* ‘I am an old man, Marjorie, and in the natural course of things must very soon be called to my account. Seventy and seventeen cannot walk together long ! My pilgrimage is nearly at an end, your road lies long and bright before you. Eut there, we will not speak of that, for, indeed, I am not repining at my lot. These seventeen years, my bairn, you have been light and sunshine to our old dwelling. When you came, though I was an old man then, my heart leapt up again, and I seemed to take another lease of life ; and when I go, I shall go in peace, remembering how good the Lord has been to me, who, but for your coming, might have died a lonely man.* He ceased in' some consternation, for Marjorie was sobbing, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, and at that moment Solomon Mucklebackit entered the room, hat in hand. AT THE MANSE. 45 ‘What’s wrong noof cried the sexton, looking sharply at the pair. ‘ Nothing, Solomon, my man,’ said the minister mildly, ‘ only ’ ‘Dinna he flyting at the bairn, or preaching till her. I wonder at ye, meenister. Is it because she forgot to bring the message frae Cumstie the grocer V Mr. Lorraine burst out laughing ; and then exclaimed, patting Marjorie affectionately on the head ; ‘ You see, Marjorie, Solomon is as ready to take your part as ever, and even ere he kens your fault ! He thinks I have been scolding you.’ Solomon gave a grunt. ‘ I think the bairn’s wanting her tea, if you wish my opinion^ Will I bring it in V ‘ Aye ; unless Mysie is there ’ ‘ Mysie’s up the toon,’ replied the sexton, ‘ but the pot’s infusing at the kitchen fire, and I’ll fetch it in mysel’.’ So saying he left the room, and soon returned carrying the tray, with teapot, cups, and saucers, a loaf of bread and butter. He set them down on the table, and then, as he passed Marjorie’s chair, patted her on the shoulder. ‘Dinna heed the meenister 1’ he whispered. ‘He’s auld, and getting grumpy !’ At this remark, which was perfectly audible, and indeed was intended to be, Mr. Lorraine laughed cheerfully again, and Marjorie, drying her eyes, caught the contagion of his merri- ment. ‘ Mr. Lorraine was not scolding me, Solomon !’ she cried. But Solomon, who was never to be conciliated by anything but sheer opposition, puckered up his face into a comical frown. ‘Atweel, if he was, I warrant ye desairved it,’ he said shortly. ‘ What way did ye forget the tea frae Cumstie’s V And with another grunt he walked from the room, having 46 ANNAN WATER. managed somehow, by his grim interference and oddity of de- meanour, to dispel the temporary cloud of sad foreboding. Marjorie took off her hat and shawl, and, sitting at the table, began to pour out the tea, while Mr. Lorraine, forgetting his recent train of thought, questioned her anew about her doings in the town. Thus far they chatted cheerfully together, and shared the simple meal. ‘And how about the French, Marjorie f asked Mr. Lorraine presently. ‘ Are you coming on V ‘ Yery slowly,’ was her reply. ‘ I find it hard to pronounce, and the verbs are a dreadful trouble — and the genders. It’s so hard to tell whether a thing is masculine or feminine, and I wonder how the French folk themselves can tell. I’m afraid I’ll never learn the French rightly.’ ‘ I never could master it myself, though after all, maybe, I never fairly tried ; it’s a queer kind of tongue, like th.e chirping of birds, I’m thinking. What like is your teacher V ‘ Monsieur Caussidiere ! A handsome gentleman, with black hair and black eyes.’ ‘A young man, Marjorie V ‘ Kot old ; but very grave and sad, as if he had had much trouble ; and I think he has, for he is an exile, and cannot re- turn to his native land.’ Her eyes were full of dreamy sympathy and pity, and as she spoke she seemed to summon up before her the Frenchman’s thoughtful face. Mr. Lorraine glanced at her sideways, with a certain gentle suspicion. ‘ Has he any other scholars V he asked quietly. ‘ Only myself out of our school. I go to his house for my lesson every forenoon. And he is very, very kind ! He would scarcely take the fees. He said ’ Eut here Marjorie paused and blushed, for she suddenly remembered Caussidiere’s words and ardent looks of admira- tion. ‘Weil, what did he say V AT THE MANSE. 47 He said he was ashamed to take money for teaching, and then — then he talked about Erance, and how he longed to return, and how sad it was to be an exile. That was all T Mr. Lorraine did not question any further, but seemed plunged in thought. He did not quite like the idea of this handsome Frenchman ; indeed, he was old-fashioned and simple enough to have a low opinion of the morals of the whole French nation ! But he kept his suspicions to himself, and quietly determined to make inquiries. ‘ By the way, Marjorie,’ he said after a pause, ‘ you know that your school fees are paid by Miss Hetherington V Marjorie nodded. ‘ It was her wish that you should be taught the French. For my own part I never thought much of either the language or the people, but that may be my prejudice. Miss Hetherington thinks that every young lady should learn French. Curious the interest she takes in you !’ There was a noise at the front door, a sound of feet in the lobby. Solomon entered abruptly. ‘ She’s ootside,’ he said. ‘ Will I bring her ben ? ‘ Who is outside, Solomon, my man ?’ ‘Wha but Mistress Hetherington, frae the Castle. The carriage is at the door, and she’s wrangling wi’ the driver.’ Mr. Lorraine rose feebly from his chair, while Marjorie nervously put down her cup and saucer and prepared to receive the visitor. ‘ This way, mem 1’ said Solomon ; and immediately there entered the room a woman of middle height, with snow-white hair, leaning upon a staff or hand-crutch. She had black piercing eyes, a complexion like alabaster, and her front teeth projected slightly over her under lip. Though she had the air of an old woman, and walked with a stoop, her face had scarcely a wrinkle, and her voice was deep and powerful 48 ANNAN WATER. Marjorie sprang up and stood trembling. Without a word. Miss Hetherington crossed the room and looked fixedly in the young girhs face. ^ Weel, Marjorie Annan she said, in a strong Scotch accent. ‘ How — how do you do, Miss Hetherington V ‘As you see — weel enough not to complain. Stand still, and let me look at ye I There, you may kiss me if you like !’ Marjorie did not like, but she bent forward and touched the lady’s frosty cheek. ‘ Did ye come doon in the waggonette ? !N‘ae need to answer, for I ken, and I ken who came along wi’ ye I What’s this be- tween you and Johnnie Sutherland f Had a bomb exploded under her feet, Marjorie could not have shown more consternation. She stammered and blushed, and cast an appealing look at Mr. Lorraine. ‘How’s this Marjorie!’ he said gently. ‘You did not tell me that Johnnie had come back.’ ‘ I’ll swear she didna,’ exclaimed Miss Hetherington, with a low harsh laugh. ‘ See hoo she blushes 1 The lad and she had a tryste in Dumfries, and came down together.’ Here Solomon, who stood at the room door looking on, thought it his duty to interfere. ‘And what then 1 What if Johnnie Sutherland did convoy our Marjorie hame h There’s nae hairm in that, I’m thinking.’ ‘ Hold your tongue, Solomon Mucklebackit,’ said Miss Hether- ington, with a sharp rap of her crutch upon the ground. ‘ Mind your own business 1’ ‘ It is my business,’ retorted Solomon, doggedly. ‘ Marjorie, dinna heed her.’ ‘ Solomon 1’ cried Mr. Lorraine, with a certain authority. ‘ WeeU’ ‘ Be good enough to leave the room.” The old man uttered a low snort of defiance, but immediately obeyed. Miss Hetherington took a chair close to the fireplace, and sat in it, leaning heavily on her crutch. AT THE MANSE. 49 ^ Nae fool like an auld fool !’ she muttered, looking at Mr. Lorraine, but referring to the refractory sexton. ‘ Between the twa 0 * ye, you^re spoiling Marjorie Annan altogether.* ‘ I hope not,* returned the minister mildly, resuming his own seat. ‘After all, too, Solomon is quite right. Johnnie and Marjorie are old friends.* ‘ All the parish kens that' said the lady of the Castle. ‘ Come here, Marjorie, and dinna be feared — 1*11 no eat you ! Look me in the face ! Are you and Johnnie courting V Marjorie*s face was scarlet, and she trembled violently. ‘ Oh, Miss Hetherington,* she cried, ‘ what do you mean V And she held out her hands to Mr. Lorraine, as if beseeching him to take her part. ‘ Eeally, Miss Hetherington,* he said, ‘ Marjorie is a child, and I am sure such nonsense as you speak of has never entered her head.* ‘ Nonsense, is it V retorted the lady, with the same low, harsh laugh as before. ‘ Weel, it*s the nonsense to which a* folk come early or late, gentle and simple, and trust me to ken better than either you or that idiot Solomon what young lasses are made o*. Do you think Marjorie Annan*s made of stane or aim, and doesna ken a fair-favoured lad from a rowan tree or a milk coo'?* ‘I think she is too young for love-making,’ returned the minister. ‘ Then you think wrang ; it*s never o’er early for a lassie to begin. As for Johnnie, I’ll no say but what he’s a decent lad and a modest, and he has talent as weel, the rogue, heaps o* talent, though he’s only a weaver’s son — eh, Marjorie, has he no V And as she looked at Marjorie there was no anger in her stern black eyes, rather a sort of grim-humoured sympathy. Seeing his foster-child’s confusion, Mr. Lorraine attempted to give the conversation another turn. ‘ If young Sutherland has developed natural gifts, he has you 4 50 ANNAN WATER. to thank for the opportunity. We all know how kind you have been to him.’ ‘Because I bought twa o’ his pictures/ she retorted, with her characteristic and disagreeable laugh. ‘ I gave him fifty pound a-piece for them, the more fool I. One was a view o’ the Castle frae the south, wi’ a cuddie eating thistles in the foreground — a cuddie as big as a hippopotamus ; the other was Marjorie hersel’, wi’ her lap full o’ wild flowers, sitting by the side o’ Annan water, and about as like her, by that token, as it was like Solomon Mucklebackit.’ ‘We always considered it an excellent likeness,’ said Mr. Lorraine, good-humouredly. ‘ So it was,’ cried Marjorie, impulsively ; ‘ everybody said so.’ ‘And what everybody said must be true?’ demanded the lady, with a sneer. ‘ Weel, likeness or no likeness, the lad has talent, as I said ; and if he works hard, maybe he’ll be able, some fine day, to paint a picture. So much for Johnnie Sutherland. Now we’ll come to the business which brought me doon. I want Marjorie to come to me to-morrow and spend the day.’ The very proposal which Marjorie had dreaded ! She opened her lips to give a trembling refusal, to frame some awkward excuse; but before she could say a word. Miss Hetherington continued with decision : ‘ I’ll be expecting her early, say at ten. She can walk the distance, unless she’s o’er idle ; in that case I’ll send the carriage to fetch her.’ ‘ I am very sorry,’ stammered Marjorie, ‘ but to-morrow ’ She paused, and glanced in supplication at her foster-father. ‘ The fact is,’ said Mr. Lorraine, ‘ we had made other arrange- ments for to-morrow. Some other day maybe.’ Miss Hetherington’s eyes flashed, and her crutch was sharply struck upon the floor. ‘To-morrow, and no other day will suit me. I hae some- thing to say to her that willna keep. Do you hear that, Mar- jorie 1’ AT THE MANSE. 51 ‘Yes/ answered Marjorie timidly, ‘but I have only just como home, and I would rather * Here Miss Hetherington rose abruptly from her chair. ‘ Come or stay !’ she exclaimed. ‘ Please yourseP, Marjorie Annan ; but if you stay at home the morn, you'll wait lang for another invitation.' Eager not to give offence, Mr. Lorraine now interposed. ‘ If you wish it, Marjorie shall come !' ‘ Very weel,' said Miss Hetherington sharply; then, turning to the girl, she added, ‘ Will you walk, or shall I send the car- riage P ‘ I — I will walk,' returned Marjorie timidly, with the air of one doomed to condign punishment. ‘ Then I’ll expect you at ten, and nae later. E’ow, gie me your arm to the carriage.' Marjorie obeyed, and with a short ‘ Good day' to the minister Miss Hetherington left the room. By this time it had grown almost dark, and Solomon was waiting in the lobby with the church lanthorn. ‘Will I show you a light, mem f he asked, respectfully enough. ‘ Ko, I can see weel enough,' was the reply ; and still leaning on Marjorie's arm the lady passed out of the hall door, crossed the garden, and found her carriage, an old-fashioned one-horse brougham, waiting at the outer gate. Assisted by Marjorie she stepped in, and Marjorie drew back, ‘ Marjorie !' ‘Yes, Miss Hetherington.' ‘ Kiss me again, my bairn.' Was it Marjorie's fancy, or was the voice that spoke quite > different from the harsh voice that had so troubled her in the room ! She bent down her face, and the lady's two hands were uplifted to draw it softly down for the farewell kiss. Tha lips that kissed her on cheek and forehead were cold as ice. Itiwa^;?*>- no fancy, however, that the same gentle voice that she had just 0, OF ILL UB, 52 ANNAN WATER, iieard — so softened, so changed ! — spoke again, and in those words : ‘ God bless you, Marjorie Annan !* Then while Marjorie stood trembling and wondering, the lady of the Castle was driven rapidly away. CHAPTER YIII. THE CASTLE AND ITS MISTRESS. Miss Margaret Hetherington of Hetherington Castle was a spinster lady of great wealth, who inherited in her own right the estates that had once belonged to her father, and afterwards, for a short term, to a brother who died childless, leaving her the next of kin. For fifteen or sixteen years at least she had re- mained in solitary possession of the place ; and during that time she had scarcely left the neighbourhood, save for a few weeks each winter, when she went to occupy a house — her town-house, as she called it — in the city of Edinburgh. When local gossip first began to speak of the foundling who had been left on the manse doorstep, and who had been taken in so tenderly by the minister. Miss Hetherington was living at the Castle with her brother; and being a lady of somewhat stern virtue, she heard the news with a certain amount of moral indignation. A few Sundays afterwards she appeared at church, and after service questioned Mr. Lorraine, who told her all the circumstances, wjiich interested her so much that she at once went to the manse and saw the child. On learning the minister’s determination to rear the infant as his own, she at first inveighed bitterly against the wicked mother who had laid so heavy a bur- then on the good raan^s slender means, and then, after a pitying look at little Marjorie, presented the minister with a fifty-pound note. THE CASTLE AND ITS Jk'/STEESS. 53 ‘ Dinna tell my brother I gave it to you/ she said ; ‘ he would think me a fool for my pains, and maybe I am !* The minister promised to keep her charity private ; and from that day forth Miss Hetherington continued to take a friendly interest in the little castaway. Two years later her brother died, nd she reigned supreme and solitary at the Castle. As time advanced, she grew more and more eccentric, more and more oi a recluse ; but her interest in Marjorie did not cease, and she continued to assist the minister in his responsibility. Now and then, at long intervals, Marjorie was sent for to the Castle to spend a day or two in the stern lady’s company, and she never returned home without a handsome present. She never ceased, however, to regard her benefactress with a certain dread. Thus the long years had passed away; and now Miss Hethering- ton, though in reality little over fifty years of age, looked quite an old woman. She seemed to have no kinsfolks and fewer friends, but dwelt alone up at the Castle in utter solitude. Early in the morning, after Miss Hetherington’s visit, Marjorie prepared to set out for the Castle. She would gladly have made some excuse to stay at home, but Mr. Lorraine would not hear of it, and at his earnest request she consented. ‘ She is your best friend,’ said the minister, ‘ and you must not offend herd ‘ Very well ; I will go,’ answered Marjorie ; ‘ but I shall come home early in the afternoon. She’ll never ask me to stay all night ? If she does, I can’t do it.’ ‘Why not, Marjorie?’ ‘The Castle’s eerie enough at day time, but at night it’s dreadful, and Miss Hetherington creeps about like a ghost. I’d sooner sleep out in the kirkyard !’ At a quarter before nine she started, for she had three miles to walk, and she wished to linger on the road, which lay through pleasant country pastures and among green lanes. The morning was bright and clear, though there were clouds to seaward whicli spoke of coming rain. Passing up through the village, the way :54 ANNAN WATER. she had come the previous day, she saw young Sutherland standing at the gate of the weaver^s cottage. ‘ Good morning, Marjorie. Where are you going to so early X ‘ Up to Miss Hetherington^s at the Castle,^ she replied. ‘ Are you going to walk X ‘ Yes.’ ‘ Then may I come with you a piece of the road V ‘Not to-day, Johnnie,’ she said nervously. ‘I am late, and -must hurry on.’ The young man sighed, hut did not press his request. Trou- bled and vexed at the meeting, Marjorie walked quickly away. She followed the townward highway till she came to the cross-roads, where she had alighted from the waggonnette. Close to the cross-road there was a stile leading to a footpath across the fields. Her foot was on the stile, and she was about to step over, when she heard a voice behind her. Turning quickly, she saw to her astonishment the French teacher from Dumfries. He was clad in a dark walking suit, with broad-brimmed wideawake hat, and was smoking a cigar. He looked at her ^ smilingly, and raised his hat. She thought he had never looked so handsome, as he stood there in the sunshine, with his pale face smiling and his bright black eyes fixed eagerly upon her. ‘ Monsieur Caussidiere !’ she cried in astonishment. ‘ Yes, it is I !’ he replied, in his sad musical voice. ‘ I have walked from the town, and was going down to see you.’ ‘ To see me f she echoed. ‘ Yes, mademoiselle, and the good man your guardian. You have spoken of him so often that I longed to make his acquaint- ance, and having two idle days before me, I am here as you behold !’ Marjorie did not know what to say or do ; the encounter was so unexpected. She stood trembling and blushing in such ob- Tious embarrassment that the Frenchman came to her relief. ‘Do not let me detain you if you have an appointment. Or THE CASTLE AND ITS MISTRESS. 55 €tay ! pethaps you will permit me to walk a little way in your company f And before she quite understood what was taking place, he had lightly leapt the stile, and was handing her over with great politeness. They strolled along the footpath side by side. Suddenly Marjorie paused. ‘ I am going up to the Castle,’ she said, ‘ and I shall not be back till the afternoon. Do not let me take you out of your way.’ The Frenchman smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Oh ! one way is to me as good as another,’ he exclaimed, said you wished to see Mr. Lorraine.’ ‘ Precisely; but I prefer your company, my child.’ ‘ He is at home now, and will be so glad of some one to talk to.’ ‘ I see you want to get rid of me, little one,’ said Caussidiere paternally. ^ If I go, will you promise to return soon ? Eemem- ber, I shall not depart until you do return.’ ‘ Yes, I will promise,’ answered Marjorie. ‘ I — I would rather you did not come any further.’ ‘And wherefore, my child ? Is my company so disagree- able?’ ‘ JSo, monsieur ; but the folk in this place are aye talking, and if they saw me walking with a strange gentleman it would be' all over the parish before night, and then Miss Hetherington would hear of it, and I should get no peace.’ And as she spoke she looked round nervously, as if dreading an eye-witness. ‘ Miss Hetherington ! Pray, who is she ‘The lady I am going to see. She has eyes everywhere — nothing happens but she kens.’ ‘But surely there is nothing to conceal,’ persisted the French- man. ‘ It is very natural that, having met you, I should offer to escort you.’ ‘ In France, maybe, but not here in Annandale, Down here. ANNA A' WATER. / 56 monsieur, when two folks are seen out walking in the fields to- gether all the world believes them to be courting! She had spoken without reflection, and her face now grew crimson as she met her companion’s quiet eyes and realised the- significance of her own words. ‘I see,’ cried the Trenchman laughing. ‘They would take me for your lover.’ Marjorie did not reply, but turned her face away, and begaB to walk on rapidly. But the Frenchman kept at her side. ‘ Ah, my child,’ he continued, ‘ I am more fit to be your father than your lover. I am not so frivolous and vain as ta presume to think of one so young and pretty. You must not mind me ! lam your teacher, your friend — that is all !’ She was touched by the tone in which he spoke, but after a moment’s hesitation she paused again, and looked him full in the face. ‘ What you say is quite true, monsieur,’ she said ; ‘ but, oh ! do not follow me any further. See ! that is the Castle, and who knows but Miss Hetherington herself is watching us from the tower V She pointed across the fields and towards a dark belt of wood- land, over which two old-fashioned towers were indeed visible^ about a mile and a half away. ‘ Well, I will do as you desire, my child,’ answered Caus- sidiere, after a moment’s hesitation ; ‘ I will go and make the acquaintance of your guardian. Au revoir ‘ Au revoir, monsieur !’ He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it ; then, with an air of respectful gallantry, he swept off his hat and bowed. She could not help smiling ; he looked so fantastic to her simple sight, and yet so handsome ! She walked on thoughtfully. At the next stile she turned and looked .back. He w^as still stationary in the pathway, gazing after her ; but the moment she looked back he kissed his hand. THE CASTLE AND ITS MISTRESS. 57 Marjorie turned again and walked on, with no little fluttering of the heart; the moment she was quite out of sight she- slackened her pace and began thinking. The last twenty-four hours had been full of surprises for the simple girl She was beginning to realise, for the first time in her life, the curious sensation, confused yet delightful of being loved and admired — and not by one man only, but by two for there could be no mistaking the French master^s tender solicitation, though it had not been expressed in words. Child as she was, Marjorie felt rather frightened. Young Sutherland’s feelings towards her she could understand — he had known her so long, and they had always been such friends ; and though she could hardly look upon him in the light of a lover,, yet his passionate outburst had not taken her altogether by surprise. With Monsieur Caussidiere it was different. He seemed so far away from her, so much her elder and superior. Doubtless, had she been a romantic girl, given to- dreaming or novel-reading, she would have been fascinated by his admiration ; for he was very handsome, and interesting to boot. But she was not particularly romantic, and her feeling towards him was a peculiar mixture of awe, terror, and amuse- ment. She was afraid of him, firstly, because he was a foreigner, and secondly, because he was so clever ; amused by him, because he was so entirely different, both in character and manners, from all the men she had ever met. It seemed absurd to think that he could seriously care for a child, a school-girl, like herself. Troubled and perplexed, she crossed the fields, and reaching a lonely road, came into the dark shadow of the woods which surrounded Hetherington Castle. Following the road for about a hundred yards, she reached a dilapidated and uninhabited lodge, standing at the end of a grass-grown avenue. Pushing open a rusty iron gate, she entered the avenue and wandered on with gloomy woods on either side. Deep sylvan silence surrounded her, broken only by the twittering of small birds and the occa- 58 ANNAN WATER. sional coo of a stock-dove. Prom time to time a wood-pigeon crossed the blue open space above her head, and conies, like elfin things, gambolled iu the grass before her, saw her coming, and vanished away. Wild flowers of the spring-time, speedwells and primroses, grew thick on the sides of the avenue, and every- where, save where old ruts showed where vehicles once had passed, there was a carpet of long grass and soft many-coloured moss. At last, turning a corner and coming out into open sunshine, she saw the Castle standing in the midst of a broad piece of pasture where cows were grazing. It consisted of a two-storied building, attached to the two old ivied towers. The edifice itself, as well as the pasture in front of it and the walled garden behind it, looked forlorn and neglected. Eank grass and weeds grew almost to the very threshold, and the walls were disfigured with great mildew-like stains. Approaching nearer, she came to another carriage road, which swept right up to the main entrance. She passed along the front of the house, and came to the hall door, which stood wide open. Close to her hand was a brass handle communicating with a rusty bell ; she reached out her hand and rang, and the bell sounded a hollow jangling, dismal sound. She waited, no one came ; then she rang again, more loudly. In answer to the second peal, she heard shuffling footsteps along the lobby ; then a hard-featured elderly man-servant, dressed in rusty black, appeared on the threshold, and gave her a nod of gloomy recognition. ‘It's you, Miss Marjorie !’ he said. ‘What way did ye no come ben without ringing ? Slie^s waiting on ye.' So saying he led the way into the lobby, a dark and dreary passage hung with oil paintings and antique maps and prints ; thence into a large apartment, divided by an open folding door into two portions. Old family portraits covered the walls, the suite was of old-fashioned oak and crimson velvet, the oaken floor strewn with loose pieces of carpet, rugs, and skins of deer THE CASTLE AND ITS MISTRESS. 59 and foreign animals. On the tables were books — old keepsakes, eounty histories, albums of prints. There were heavy curtains to the windows, which looked out on the pasture or paddock described above. In the further room was a large mantelpiece of black marble, cracked across ; on the mantelpiece an old-fashioned clock, with a bronze figure of Wallace in complete armour; and above this hung a dingy oil painting of the last Master of Hetherington, booted and spurred, in his costume as leader of the Annan- dale Hunt. A faint fire burned in the grate, and lying before it, on a rug of black bearskin, was a deerhound, old and tooth- less. As Marjorie entered, the dog rose snarling and showing his toothless gums, but recognising her, he gave a faint wag of the tail and sank down again to doze. ‘ Bide here,’ said the old servant. ^ She’s up in the tower. I’ll tell her you’re come.’ And he shuffled from the room. Left alone in the chamber, Marjorie looked around her nervously. The place was dark and cheerless enough to make a strange frame for her young and glowing beauty. The faces on the walls looked down on her gloomily, that of the late master wearing a particularly forbid- ding expression. It was that of a man in the prime of life, with dark piercing eyes like his sister’s, a coarse, fierce mouth, and straight black hair. The original, when living, had been noto- rious for his life of reckless dissipation, which had laid him low when he had only just attained his fortieth year. Presently the room door opened, and the mistress of the house appeared. She was dressed in an old-fashioned robe of stiff black silk, and wore a cap, like that of a widow, over her snow-white hair. She came in leaning on her crutch, and nodded grimly to her guest. ‘ Sit ye doon,’ she said, pointing to a seat, and herself drop- ping into an arm-chair before the fire. Then drawing out a 6o ANNAN WATER. man’s gold hunting watch and opening it, she continued, ‘Twenty-five minutes after ten. You’re late in coining, Marjorie Annan. I doubt you were lingering on the way.’ CHAPTEE IX. THE BAR SINISTER. As she spoke, and closed her watch sharply. Miss Hetherington fixed her black eyes keenly on Marjorie, who, remembering her recent encounter with Caussicliere, flushed red and trembled. A curious smile grew upon the stern woman’s bloodless face as she continued : ‘Aye, aye, you were lingering, and maybe you had pleasant company ! Who was yon you parted with out there among the green fields V Marjorie started in consternation. Her fears, then, were right, and it was useless to conceal anything from Miss Hether- ington, who was like a witch, and had eyes and ears everywhere. ‘ 0, Miss Hetherington,’ she exclaimed, ‘ did you see us together V ‘ I was up on the tower wi’ my spying glass, and I saw far awa’ a lassie that looked like Marjorie Annan and a lad I took at first for Johnnie Sutherland, till he began booing and kissing his hand, and then I saw it couldna be Johnnie.’ Marjorie now perceived that all concealment was useless, and at once told her hostess of the meeting with her French teacher. She did not think it expedient, however, to describe with exact- ness the Frenchman’s conversation ; but even as it was Miss Hetherington’s brow darkened, and her eyes flashed with a light like that of anger. ‘Braw doings!’ she muttered. ‘Braw doings for a young growing lassie o’ seventeen. Your French teacher, say you ? What’s his name, Marjorie V THE BAR SINISTER. 6i * Monsieur Caussidi^re.’ ‘ And what’s the man doing down here instead of teaching his classes in the town V ‘Indeed I can’t tell,’ returned Marjorie. ‘I met him quite by accident on my way to see youl ‘ Humph ! What like is he ? Is he young f ‘ Not very young.’ ‘ Weel favoured]’ ‘ Yes j and very clever.’ ‘ Worse and worse,’ said Miss Hetherington. ‘Now, Marjorie, listen to me.’ ‘ Yes ; Miss Hetherington.’ ‘ Look me in the face while you answer. Do you think this French scoundrel — he is a scoundrel, tak’ it for granted — has come down here in pursuit o’ his pupil] Dinna be feared to answer. Is he fond o’ you, Marjorie ]’ ‘ I — I think he likes me.’ ‘ Has he said as muckle ]’ ‘Yes, Miss Hetherington,’ answered Marjorie, who was in- capable of a falsehood. ‘ And you ? What think ye of him ]’ ‘ I like him very much. Miss Hetherington. He has been very kind and patient with me.’ ‘But do you love him, tell me that] or is it Johnnie Suther- land that has won your silly heart ] Out with it, Marjorie Annan. Frank confession’s good for the soul, and I’m your friend.’ Marjorie blushed, but kept her frank blue eyes fixed on her questioner’s face. ‘ I don’t love anybody, Miss Hetherington — not in the way you mean.’ ‘ Are you sure o’ that ]’ ‘ Quite sure.’ ‘ Then you’re a wise lassie,’ cried the lady, rising to her feet. ^ Men are kittle cattle, and safer at a distance. Look at that 62 ANNAN WATER. picture/ she continued, suddenly pointing to the portrait over the mantelpiece. ‘ You ken who it is V ‘Yes; your brother, Mr. Hugh.’ ‘ Hugh Hetherington, God rest his soul ! and the best brother woman ever had. Folk thought that he was had, and he had my father’s temper; but he guarded his sister like a watch-dog ; and I wish you had a brother to guard you half as week Look underneath my een, on my right cheek ! You see that mark ? I shall carry it to my grave. Hugh gave it to me when I was a young lass ! He struck me in the face wi’ his fist, because he thought I was hiding something from him, and coorting wi’ one I needna name.’ The lady’s face grew full of a wild, fierce light as she spoke, and she laughed strangely to herself. Marjorie gazed at her in dread. ‘ It was a lie, but Hugh was right ; he loved his sister. He kenned what men were, he knew their black hearts. They’re a’ had, or mostly a’. Tak’ warning, Marjorie Annan, and hearken to me ! Let nae man come to you in secret, wi’ words o’ love ; hide naething from them that care for you, from Mr. Lorraine or from me. Trust the auld heads, Marjorie ; they ken what is right. God has made you honnie ; may He keep you pure and happy till the end !’ Her tone had changed to one of deep earnestness, even of pathos. She walked up and down the room in agitation, pausing now and again, and leaning upon her crutch. ‘ Ho that I would hae you lead a lonely life !’ she exclaimed after a pause. ‘ Look at me ! I’m no that old in years, but I’m grey, grey wi’ loneliness and trouble. I might hae had one ta care for me ; I might hae had bairns ; hut it wasna to he. I’m a rich woman, hut I hae neither kith nor kin. Lord forbid you should ever be the same ! But when you marry, and marry you will some day, you must choose a true man ; aye, true and honest, whether he be rich or poor, and if you canna choose, let the auld folk that care for you, and that ken the world, choose- THE BAR SINISTER, 63 for you. Trust their een, no your ain ! I^ever deceive them ; keep nae secrets from them 1 Mind that, Marjorie Annan !’ She ceased her tirade, and stood gazing keenly at Marjorie, who sat still, listening in wonder. Despite her sharp tone and brusque manner, there was a tenderness in her tone that could not he mistaken. Then all at once, with the abruptness peculiar to her, she changed her tone again, and broke into a low chuckling laugh. ‘And now I hae preachM my sermon/ she said, with her grim smile, ‘hae you had breakfast ? Will you tak' some tea V But Marjorie had breakfasted before starting, and wanted nothing. ‘Very weel ! Come and walk in the garden f She led the way from the room, and Marjorie quietly followed. Passing out by the rear of the house, across a lonely court- yard, they reached a door in the high wall, and entered the garden — a wilderness of fruit trees, shrubs, and currant bushes, sadly in need of the gardener^s hand. Tangled creepers and weeds grew over the grassy paths. Here and there were seats, and in one corner was an arbour almost buried in umbrage. It was a desolate, neglected place, but the sun was shining upon it, and the air was bright and warm. Miss Hetherington took her companion’s arm and walked slowly from path to path. ‘ The garden’s like its mistress,’ she said presently, ‘ lonesome and neglectit. Since Wattie Henderson died, I hae never em- ployed a regular gardener. Bat it’s bonnie in summer time, for a’ that, and I like it, wild as it is. I should like weel to be buried here, right in the heart 0’ the auld place !’ She entered the neglected arbour and sat down wearily. Marjorie stood looking at her in timid sympathy, while she pur- sued the dreary current of her thought. ‘Polk say I’m mean, and maybe I am ; but it’s no that ! I’m the last 0’ the Hetheringtons, and it’s right and fitting that the ANNAN WATER, place should waste awa^ like myser. But I mind the time weel — it’s no sae lang syne — when it was gladsome and merry. Everything was in grand order then, and my father kept open house to the gentry. iN'ow a’s changed ! Whiles I wonder what will become o^ the auld house when I’m ta’en. Strangers will come maybe and turn it upside doon. What would you dae, Marjorie Annan, if you were a rich leddy and mistress o’ a place like this V The question came so abruptly at the end of the long string of lamentations, that Marjorie scarcely knew what to reply. 'She smiled awkwardly, and repeated the question. ‘ What would I do^ Miss Hetherington V ‘ Aye. Come !’ ‘ I cannot tell, but I don’t think I could thole to live here all ^alone.’ ^ Aye, indeed] Would you sell the Castle, and pooch the 'Siller ]’ ‘No, Miss Hetherington. I should like to keep what my Torebears had owned.’ The lady nodded her head approvingly. ‘ The lassie has sense after a’ !’ she exclaimed. ‘ Aye, aye, Marjorie, you’re right ! It’s something to belang to the line o’ the Hetheringtons, and the auld lairds o’ the Moss would rise in their graves if they kenned that strangers were dwelling on the land. Did I ever tell ye how our line began, Marjorie?’ ‘ Ho, Miss Hetherington.’ ‘ Weel, I’ll tell you now. Sometimes I smile to mysel’ to think it o’er ; for, proud as our folk hae been, we began wi’ a bar sinister. Ken you what that is, Marjorie ? Weel, it’s this, ■Our ancestor, Hagh Hetherington, was a bastard son o’ Mary Montgomery, one o’ Queen Mary’s women, and folk said (I’m thinking it was true !) the great Earl o’ Bothwell was his father! That was the way we began,’ she continued, with her dry sar- -castic laugh ; ‘and what then? Folk thought little o’ a bar minister in those days ; and if you were to trace back half the THE BAR SINISTER. 6S proud families o’ Scotland to their beginnings, you’d find that few or none began wi’ the Kirk's blessing and a wedding-ring !* The theme was a curious one to pursue before so young a girl, but Miss Hetherington, for some reason or other, seemed to find peculiar interest in it. It was strange indeed to hear the lady of the Castle, who was notorious for her pride of birth and place, and who looked down on nearly all her neighbours as inferiors, actually making a laughing-stock of her own family tree. ‘ I have seen the Earl of Both well’s picture in a book,’ said Marjorie. ^ He was dark and handsome, like your brother, Mr. Hugh.’ Miss Hetherington rose suddenly to her feet and took Marjorie by the arm. ‘ Say you that V she exclaimed. ‘ Come wi’ me, and I’ll «how you something.’ They crossed the garden together, passed through the door in the wall, and walking across the court-yard approached the more ancient part of the Castle. Between the two towers was an arch with a heavy oaken gate, which stood half open. Miss Hetherington passed in, followed by Marjorie. Passing through a narrow door to the right, they ascended a dark flight of stairs, and paused on a stone landing before a door of black oak. Miss Hetherington drew from her pocket a large old-fashioned key and opened the door. They entered, and found themselves in a small apartment, circular like the tower of which it formed a part, and faintly lit by a high narrow window. The floor was stone as well as the wall ; but at one side of the room stood a large mahogany bed, with curtains of crimson and gold, worm-eaten and torn. Over an open fireplace, without a grate, there hung an old oil painting in a frame of tarnished gold. ‘ See there !’ said the lady, pointing to the picture. Marjorie looked, and started in wonder. It was the picture of a man in complete armour, leaning on a heavy two-handled 5 66 ANNAN WATER. sword. The flesh tints of the face were faded, leaving the countenance of death-like pallor ; hut out of the face, under- neath the iron-grey hair just peeping from the helm, looked two black burning eyes, just like the eyes of the picture in the draw- ing-room. The semblance extended to the hard, coarse mouthy the knitted brows, the heavy, determined chin. ‘It is Mr. Hugh !’ cried Marjorie. ‘ It was painted, Marjorie, many a long year before my brother Hugh was born or thought o’. It’s Eothwell himsel’l’ ‘ The great Earl of Eothwell !’ ‘ Aye, and nae other,’ said the lady, gazing thoughtfully up- ward at the picture. ‘ Eothwell, the Queen’s husband, and Mary Montgomery’s lover. He loved Mary Montgomery till ambition gript him, and he sprang up like a wild beast to seize the Queen and the Crown. Mary Montgomery died heart-broken they say; but the grim Earl didna forget her son. And out o’ that bar sinister sprang the Hetheringtons o’ Annandale.’ CHAPTER X. CAUSSIDIERE AND JOHN SUTHERLAND. Early in the afternoon, after a dismal lunch, Ute-a Ute with Mise Hetherington, Marjorie returned home across the fields. She was glad enough to escape from the gloomy house, and the equally gloomy conversation of its eccentric mistress ; but she was sensible enough to feel that the great lady’s interest in her was sincere and deep, and that the strange confidences of that day had their source in real sympathy and kindliness of heart. Nevertheless, it was with a sigh of relief that she left the dark woods behind her, and came out again upon the pleasant meadows. The sun was just beginning to sink as she passed through tho CAUSSIDIERE AND JOHN SUTHERLAND, village and approached the manse. As she did so she saw Mr., Lorraine standing inside the churchyard gate in quiet conversation with the French teacher. She entered the churchyard and joined them, the Frenchman saluting her with lifted hat as she approached. ‘Ah, Marjorie, my bairn,’ said the minister, ‘you are home early. Did you walk back % I thought you would have stayed later, and that Miss Hetherington would have sent you home in the carriage after gloaming.’ Marjorie glanced at Caussidiere, and met his eyes. ‘ She did not wish me to stay,’ she answered, ‘ and I was glad to escape. But I see you and Monsieur Caussidiere have made friends ! I met him on the way, and he said he was coming here.’ ‘ So he has told me,’ said Mr. Lorraine. ‘I have just been showing him over the kirk and through the graveyard, and now I have invited him to take pot-luck, as the English call it, thi& evening.’ ‘ But it is so late, monsieur,’ said Marjorie. ‘ How will you get back to Dumfries V ‘Did you not knowf returned the Frenchman smiling, ‘I am taking a leetle holiday, like yourself! I have engaged a bed at the inn, and shall not return till the beginning of the week.’ They passed through the churchyard gate, and crossing the road approached the manse, Mr. Lorraine leading the w’^ay. Since her conversation with Miss Hetherington, Marjorie was- more constrained than ever with the Frenchman, whose manner had entirely changed — from one of thoughtful respect to another of glad assurance. In her own mind she heartily wished he had not come. But there he was, already in favour with her guar- dian, and she knew not what to say. They entered the manse together, and Caussidiere joinecT them at their simple evening meal. At a whispered command^ from the minister, Marjorie ran into the kitchen and assisted^ 68 ANNAN WATER, Mysie Simpson to prepare tea, ham and eggs, and warm scones ; and when they were ready she carried them in with her own hands. Meantime Caussidiere talked gaily with the minister, who seemed delighted with his company. He had travelled a good deal, was well acquainted with Latin literature, had known (or said he had known) many of the notabilities of his own country, and was altogether a man of information. He soon drew the minister out on his pet subjects — Scottish history and antiquities — and listened to him with great respect and deference. Mr. Lorraine was charmed, and forgot all about his simple sus- picions when the Frenchman’s name had been mentioned that morning. Marjorie soon caught the contagion of so bright and congenial a presence. She listened delighted while Caussidiere rattled on. To her, as well as to the minister, their guest seemed a being from a brighter world. When they touched on French politics, as was inevitable, Caussidiere had a dark picture to draw of the French Empire, and his own persecution under it. ‘ The Emperor is a bandit,’ he exclaimed, ‘ and he is stupid, look you, into the bargain. When the time comes — and it is near — he will fall like an idol from its pedestal, and then the world will wonder he was endured so long.* ‘ Yet they tell me,’ said Mr. Lorraine, ^ that France was never so prosperous as under his rule.’ ‘ Believe me, it is not true. He has beautified a death’s head, he has made Paris a temple of pleasure, but at what a price ! There is no purity, no morality, now, in my unhappy country ; the tree is poisoned to the very roots. You, monsieur, who are a man of religion, will agree with me that the safeguard of a country is the sacredness of its domestic life, the holiness of its family ties ! Eh hien, he, the Emperor, has destroyed these. In Paris, there is nothing but iniquity ; in the country at large, only ignorance and love of gold. What is a little temporal pros- CAUSSIDIERE AND JOHN SUTHERLAND. 69 perity compared with that social purity which is so much more precious than all the riches of the world f Words of wisdom truly, thought the simple minister, and beautiful as coming from the mouth of so young a man. And he had been taught to think all Frenchmen so frivolous, so im- moral even. He listened benignly, taken quite captive by the other’s eloquence. When tea was over they sat round the hearth. The minister lit his pipe and his guest a cigar. They were chatting pleasantly together when Solomon Mucklebackit, who had been up the village on some household errand, quietly entered. ‘Johnnie Sutherland’s at the door. Will you see him V Marjorie started, for she had an instinctive dread of a meeting between the two young men ; but the minister at once replied : ‘ Show him in, Solomon and as the sexton disappeared he said to his guest, ‘ A young friend of ours and a schoolfellow of my foster-daughter.’ The next moment Sutherland appeared. A look of surprise passed over his face as he saw the stranger, who rose politely, but, recovering himself, he shook the minister warmly by the hand. ‘ Welcome, Johnnie,’ said Mr. Lorraine. ‘Take a seat. Do you know Monsieur Caussidiere ? Then let me introduce you.’ Sutherland nodded to the Frenchman, who bowed courteously. Their eyes met, and then both looked at Marjorie. ‘Monsieur Caussidiere is my French teacher,’ she said smiling. Sutherland looked somewhat puzzled, and sat down in silence. After an awkward pause the minister began questioning him on his London experiences; he replied almost in monosyllables, and was altogether so bashful and constrained that Marjorie could not avoid drawing an unfavourable comparison in her own mind between him and the fluent Frenchman. ‘ An artist, monsieur V said the latter presently, having gathered the fact from some of Mr. Lorraine’s questions. ‘I used to paint when I was a boy, but, finding I could not excel.. ANNAN WATER. I abandoned the attempt. To succeed in your profession is the A labour of a life, and alas ! so many fail.’ ‘ That’s true enough/ returned Sutherland, ‘ and when I see the great pictures I despair.’ ‘He paints beautifully, monsieur,’ cried Marjorie, eager to praise her old friend, ‘ Does he not, Mr. Lorraine ?’ The minister nodded benignly. ‘ Ah, indeed,’ said Caussidiere, with a slight yawn. ‘ The landscape, monsieur, or the human figure f ‘I have tried both,’ replied Sutherland. ‘I think I like .figure painting best.’ ‘ Then you shall not go far to find a subject,’ exclaimed Caus- : sidiere, waving his hand towards Marjorie. ‘ Ah, if I was an artist I would like to paint mademoiselle. I have seen such a face, such eyes, and hair in some of the Madonnas of the great Raphael.’ Marjorie cast down her eyes, then raised them again, laugh- ing. ‘ He has painted me, and more than once ; but I’m thinking he flattered the sitter. Miss Hetherington has one of the pictures up at the Castle.’ Caussidiere fixed his eyes suspiciously upon Sutherland. ‘ Do you work for pleasure, monsieur, or for profit ? Perhaps you are a man of fortune, and paint for amusement only. The question tickled the minister, who laughed merrily. ‘ I am only a poor man,’ answered Sutherland, ‘ and paint for my bread.’ ‘It is an honourable occupation,’ said Caussidiere emphati- cally, though not without the suspicion of a covert sneer. ‘ At one time the artist was neglected and despised ; now he is honoured for his occupation, and can make much money.’ The minister looked at Sutherland with a mild air of friendly patronage. ‘ Johnnie is almost self-taught,’ he said, ‘ and has pursued his w. art against great difiiculties. Why, it seems only yesterday that CAUSSIDIERE AND JOHN SUTHERLAND. 71 lie was a wee callant, hanging round the house for his playmate — our Marjorie. I always thought you cleverer than the rest, Johnnie, and knew you had a soul above weaving ! Besides your father is a gifted man, and you inherit his love for the beautifui.^ Sutherland did not reply. He felt the Frenchman’s eyes fixed upon him, and he could not resist a certain feeling of irritation. To tell the truth, he was still puzzling his mind as to the meaning of the other’s presence there, and wondering if it was in any way connected with Marjorie. And in Caussidike's manner, despite its studied politeness, there was an indescribable air of superiority, even of patronage, which he was beginning to resent. The conversation continued by fits and starts, but Suther- land’s appearance seemed to have quite destroyed the gay free- dom of the little party. At last Solomon reappeared, and grimly announced that it was nine o’clock. ‘ We keep early hours,’ explained Mr. Lorraine, ‘ and are all abed at ten o’clock.** ‘ Then I will go,’ cried Caussidiere rising, ‘ but I shall call again. It is not often, in Scotland, one finds such pleasant company.’ ‘ I will wish you good-night,’ said the minister, ^ unless before you go you would like to join us in family worship ? Perhaps, however, being a French gentleman, you do not belong to our faith ? ‘ I am a staunch Protestant,’ replied Caussidiere with a -curious smile; ‘and I will join you with pleasure.’ Sutherland decided to stay too, and when Mysie had been summoned from the kitchen the little group, including her and Solomon, sat round the table, wdiile Mr. Lorraine, with Bible and hymn-book before him, conducted evening prayer. A simple hymn was sung, a chapter read, and then all knelt down, while the minister prayed aloud. During the whole ceremony, whenever Marjorie glanced at 73 ANNAN WATER. Caussidiere, she found his eyes ardently fixed upon her — a fact which disturbed in no slight measure the fervency of her de- votion. Once or twice Sutherland intercepted this look, and his liking for the Frenchman, lukewarm from the beginning, sank down to zero. When all was done, ^good-night’ was said and hands were shaken. Caussidiere shook the minister’s hand cordially, and favoured Marjorie with a warm and lingering pressure, which left her more disturbed than ever. Then the two men walked out of the house together. Solomon Mucklebackit shut the door behind them, and stalked into the sitting-room, where Marjorie and her guardian were standing, ready to retire for the night. ^ Wha’s yon black-nebbit French parrot?’ he demanded abruptly. The black ^ neb ’ was a figurative allusion to Caussidiere’^ moustache. ‘ Do you mean Monsieur Caussidiere ?’ said the minister mildly. ‘ Solomon, my man, be good enough to speak of him more respectfully.’ Solomon gave his customary snort of defiance, ‘ Wha is he, meenister ? What brings him doon here ?’ ‘ He is a French teacher of languages, Solomon, and Marjorie is his pupil.’ ‘ I dinna like him !’ cried the sexton decisively. ‘ Come, come, Solomon !’ ‘I’m telling ye I dinna like him ! I saw him grinning to himsel’ when you were reading oot frae the Book. He was laughin’ al ye, meenister !’ Here Marjorie broke in good-humouredly — ‘ What ails you to-night, Solomon ! I’m sure he is a pleasant gentleman, and a kindly.’ ‘ Certainly,’ said Mr. Lorraine, ‘ and one of extraordinary in- formation.’ ‘ Information,’ repeated Solomoia contemptuously. * I tell you CAUSSIDIERE AND JOHN SUTHERLAND, 73 - what it is, meenister, if I saw a carle like yon hinging roon the hoose after dark, Td — I’d — deil tak’ me if I wouldna loch up th& spoons /’ And with this unexpected thunderclap, delivered with angry eyes and sonorous voice, Solomon Mucklebackit stalked out of the room, as he had entered it, refractory and determined. Marjorie and the minister looked at each other in astonished perplexity, and then both forced a laugh. They were used to Solomon’s ebullitions, which became more frequent as he grew older. Still, his angry words, ungracious and unreasonable as they were, did not fail to awaken uncomfortable feelings in them both. ****** Caussidiere and Sutherland walked up the village side by side in the light of the moon, which was then at the fall. ‘ You are a native of this place, monsieur V said the Trench- man, after a long silence. ‘ Yes,’ was the quiet reply. ‘ A charming place ! and the people still more charming I You have known our old friend a long, long time V ‘Ever since I can mind.’ ‘And his daughter — his foster-daughter, I should say. I have heard her story ; it is romantic, monsieur ; it touches my heart. Do you think her pretty V Sutherland started at the question, which was made with apparent nonchalance, but in reality with eager suspicion. He was silent, and the other continued : ‘ She is not like one of common birth; she has the grace of a lady. I was struck with her elegance when she first came to me for lessons. Poor child ! To have neither father nor mother, to be a castaway ! It is very sad.’ ‘ She is happy and well cared for,’ sturdily answered Suther- land, who didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking ; ‘ and she has many true friends.’ 74 ANNAN WATER. ‘ Yourself among the number, I am sure V said Caussidiere quickly. ‘ You are right there, at any rate,’ returned Sutherland ; he added coldly, ‘ I wish you good-night.’ He stood before the gate of his father’s cottage and held out his hand ; the Frenchman, however, did not attempt to take it, but kept his own hands in his coat pockets as he returned a polite ‘Good-night.’ Caussidiere strolled on till he heard Sutherland enter the cottage and close the door; then he returned, and stood listening at the gate. There was a light in one of the windows, which was half- covered by a muslin blind. After hesitating for a moment, he stole in across the garden, and kneeling on the ground, so that only the upper part of his face projected above the sill, he looked in. Thus placed, he could see the interior of a humble apartment, in which several people, including his new acquaintance, were seated, about to partake of a frugal supper. James Sutherland, the blind weaver, sat in his working elothes at the head of the table, on his right hand was his son, opposite him Mrs. Sutherland, and on her right, little Jessie. As Caussidiere watched, the blind man rose reverently, and all heads were bent ; his lips moved, and although no word was audible to the eavesdropper, he was evidently saying grace. Caussidiere had seen enough. He rose stealthily and crept back to the road. Then he walked carelessly on, laughing aloud. ‘ A common weaver’s son ! almost a beggar !’ he muttered to himself in his own tongue. ‘ What a fool you were, Caussidike, to take the alarm.’ Well satisfied, apparently, with the entire state of things, the Frenchman strolled on to seek his night’s rest at the village inn. A SCOTTISH SUNDAY. 75 CHAPTER XI. A SCOTTISH SUNDAY. The next day was Sunday — the solemn, not to say sancti- monious, Sabbath day of that people which, above all others, reverences the great work of creation. Marjorie rose early, and wandering into the garden, found that it was still sunny weather. At eight o’clock the minister and she breakfasted together, waited upon by Mysie Simpson. Solomon Mucklebackit, dressed in a suit of black broadcloth dismal enough for a mute, with a shirt-front of snowy whiteness, and a chimney-pot hat on his bald head, was already over at the church, seeing that everything was in order. After breakfast, Marjorie strolled to the front gate, and stood looking up and down the road, and enjoying the sunshine. Presently Solomon came over from the churchyard and accosted her. ‘ What dae ye here, Marjorie ? Looking oot again for yon birkie frae Prance V Marjorie flushed angrily. ‘ Eor shame, Solomon ! How dare you speak to me like that ? I’ll tell Mr. Lorraine.’ ‘ As ye please,’ replied Solomon. ^ If I dee for it. I’ll speak my mind.’ At that very moment, as if to confirm the sexton in his suspicion, the figure of Caussidiere appeared, coming round a bend of the road. ‘ Talk o’ the deil !’ muttered Solomon, adding quickly, with a look of pious self-reproach, ‘ Lord forgie me for naming him on the Sabbath day !’ And with a scowl up the road Solomon disappeared into the manse. Marjorie did not know whether to stand her ground or retire. 76 ANNAN WATER. Before she could decide what to do, Caussidiere came up and smilingly saluted her. ‘ Good morning, mademoiselle.' ‘ Good morning,’ answered Marjorie, rather coldly. ‘You are out early,’ continued the young man. ‘ For myself, I could not sleep. The fresh country air acted on my brain like champagne, and kept me wide awake. I was going for a morn- ing stroll. Will you come with me V Marjorie shook her head. ‘ I have a great deal to do before the church begins. I — I cannot come.’ ‘ I am sorry for that. But I shall see you by-and-by.' I think so,’ she stammered in reply. ‘ Maybe ! I can’t tell.’' Caussidiere looked at her keenly, and then uttered an ex- clamation. ‘ You are not angry with me, my child V ‘ Angry, monsieur ? Why do you ask that V ‘Because — ah, perhaps it is my foolishness, but I thought you seemed a little angry h But it is not so '? ]^o ? Then I am happy again. Tell me, at what hour does the service of your church begin V ‘ At eleven. You are coming, then V ‘ Yes, since you are to be there.’ ‘ I think there will be a good congregation,’ said Marjorie, not noticing the words nor the ardent look which accompanied them. Mr. Lorraine is a beautiful preacher, I am sure you will like him.’ ‘ Perhaps — yet I am afraid,’ ‘ Afraid V ‘That if you are near I shall not hear much of the service.’ ‘ Pray do not talk like that, monsieur ; I am sure you do not mean it, and — and it is the Sabbath !’ Caussidiere smiled; then forcing his face to a grave ex- pression, he said : ‘Forgive me ! I will try to be good ; but ah ! you aie more A SCOTTISH S [/NBA y. 77 interesting to me than all the sermons in the world. Well, au plaisir / You know what that means, my dear scholar? It means this — to the pleasure of seeing you again. But I see you are impatient, and I will not trouble you any longer now.’ So he left her, having quite succeeded in disturbing the serenity of her seventh-day meditations. She turned back into the manse, struggling mentally, like a bird entangled in a net. The man fascinated and yet repelled her ; his admiration flat- tered and pleased, yet irritated her. In her eyes he seemed liandsomer and cleverer than ever, and where is the young maid over whom a handsome face, combined with the prestige of in- tellect does not exercise a certain spell ? She could understand Sutherland’s love for her — it seemed natural enough, and no great compliment — but that Monsieur Caussidiere, a being alto- gether superior to her usual experience, and so much wiser and -cleverer than herself, should be seriously captivated, awoke a strange sensation of delight and pride. His manners, too, were so engaging — so gay and unaffected, and yet so full of profound respect. Alas for Marjorie ! She had already forgotten Miss Hetherington’s warning, and was beginning to yield to a grow- ing fascination. Her prediction turned out to be quite correct ; there was an -unusually large gathering that day in the little church. Whole families came in, in vehicles or on foot, from the neighbouring farms ; the farmers in decent broadcloth, the farmer’s wives re- splendent in new summer bonnets and other finery ; and there were groups of labouring men and girls, all as brightly attired as their condition would allow. Then there was the doctor and his young wife, whom he had just brought from Fife; and other worthies of the parish, including Jock Steven of the inn, in a splendid embroidered waistcoat and the Gladstonian collar, known in Scotland as ‘ stick-ups.’ James Sutherland, the blind weaver, occupied a seat, with his wife, son, and daughter by his side. I^ot far from them sat Caussidiere, with his eyes turned towards Marjorie, whose place was just under the pulpit, close to 78 ANNAN WATER. the double row of forms occupied by the little lads and lasses of the village school. Just as the bells ceased to ring, and Mr. Lorraine was issuing from the vestry, there was a stir in the congregation, and all eyes were turned to see Miss Hetherington, who appeared at the door and came slowly towards the family pew. The old man- servant followed behind her, carrying her Bible and hymn-book. She moved to her place and gave one flash of her dark eyes round the congregation, while the servant placed the books before her, and withdrew to another part of the church. The service began. It is no part of my duty to describe it, or the sermon, though Mr. Lorraine was really, as Marjorie had asserted, a good preacher, and Solomon Mucklebackit, seated just under his master, spectacles on nose, had a way of delivering out the first words of the hymn, and of starting the air with his tuning fork, which was sufficiently awe-inspiring. Once, as Solomon struck the fork on the desk and applied it to his ear, the expression of his face was so comical that Caussidiere could not repress a smile ; and at that moment, unfortunately, he was detected by the precentor, who scowled at him with a coun- tenance of unutterable wrath. It was a warm and sunny day, as I have said — one of those days in early spring when the lambs leap, and waters are loud, and boughs rustle, and the very grass seems stirring and alive. A beam of golden light coming through one of the church windows fell full on Marjorie Annan, and rested round her with a tremor of moted rays ; and following the beam outward the eyes saw the boughs of a silver birch tree waving close to the pane, and beyond again, a peep of the blue sky. A drowsy stillness, broken only by the measured tones of the preacher's voice, filled the sacred building. The farmers and labouring people sat and listened — half hear- ing and half dozing — enjoying, after their six days of hard work, a delicious sense of rest. Girls crept closer to their lovers, drowsily happy. In the brightest place in the church, with her A SCOTTISH SUNDA F. 79 aureole round her, sat Marjorie Annan; and three pairs of eyes- at least were constantly fixed upon her. The first pair belonged to young Sutherland, the second to the French visitor, the third to the eccentric mistress of Hetherington Castle. Of these three individuals Caussidiere was the most ill at ease. The sermon bored him, and he yawned again and again. ‘ This tiresome Scotland 1’ he thought to himself, as he sleepily regarded Marjorie, and watched the increeping sunshine. ‘ To think of sitting in a dreary church on such a day, instead of walking about in the sun and rejoicing in the new birth of nature ! In Paris just now the streets are gay, there is life and music and pretty faces everywhere. But here — corbleu /' If it were not for la belle Marjorie I should run away.’ Instead of running away, Caussidiere went to sleep. He was awakened by a loud noise, and looking round him he^ saw the congregation moving towards the door, and Solomon Mucklebackit, from the precentor’s desk, glaring down at him in renewed indignation. He rose languidly, and joined the stream of people issuing from the church. Out in the churchyard the sun was shining golden on the graves. At the gate several vehicles were waiting, including the brougham from Hetherington Castle. As Caussidike moved down the path he saw before him a small group of persons conversing — the blind weaver and his wife, John Sutherland, Marjorie, and the lady of the Castle. He passed by them with lifted hat, and moved on to the gate, where he waited. ‘ Who’s yon I’ asked Miss Hetherington, following him with her dark eyes. ‘ That is Monsieur Caussidiere,’ answered Marjorie, ‘ my French teacher.’ ‘ Humph !’ said the lady. ‘ Come aw^i’ and introduce me !’ She walked slowly down the path, while Marjorie followed in astonishment, and coming right up to the Frenchman, she looked him deliberately from head to foot. ANNAN WATER. .€o 'Not at all disconcerted, lie took off his hat again, and bowed politely. ‘ Monsieur Caussidiere,’ said Marjorie, ^ this is Miss Hethering- ton of the Castle. Caussidi^re bowed again, with great respect. ‘ I am charmed to make madame's acquaintance.' To his astonishment, Miss Hetherington addressed him in his own tongue, which she spoke fluently, though with an unmis- takable Scottish inflection. ‘ You speak English well, monsieur,' she said. ‘ Have you been long absent from your native land V ‘Ever since the crime of December,' he returned, also in French. ‘ But madame is almost a Frenchwoman — she speaks the language to admiration. Ah, it is a pleasure to me, an exile, to hear thebeloved tongue of France so perfectly spoken ! You know France You have lived there, madame V ‘ I know it, and know little good of it,' cried the lady sharply. ‘ Are you like the rest of your countrymen, light and treacherous, believing in nothing that is good, spending their lives in vanity and sensual pleasure V Caussidi^re started in surprise, he was not accustomed to such plain-speaking. ‘ Madame is severe,' he replied with a sarcastic smile. ‘ She does not approve of the morals of my nation? 'No'l Yet parUeuf they compare not unfavourably with those of pious Scotland !' This rebuff rather disconcerted the plain-spoken lady, who was driven back upon her citadel of idiomatic Scotch. ‘ Think ye sae !’ she said with her harsh laugh. ‘ And what ken you o' pious Scotland, as ye call it ? Hae you lived sae lang amongst us without finding man or woman to set your foreign lordship a good example ?' ‘ Pardon me,' said Caussidi^re, in the same dry tone as before. I am foolish enough to place reliance, not upon my own obser- vation, but upon — what you call — statistics !' A SCOTTISH SUNDA Y. 8c ‘ Stateestics, quotha !’ echoed Miss Hetherington. ‘ Weel^ you're glib and clever enough, I dinna doot, to twist a bunch o’ lily flowers into the shape o’ a soo’s lug — if ye ken what that is? You may sneer at our Scotch morals as ye please, my man, but my certie ! we hae taught your lordships many a sair lesson,, besides the one ye learned sae weel at Waterloo?’ And she turned up the path impatiently, while the French- man shrugged his shoulders and looked loftily indignant. Mar- jorie, who had watched the preceding passage of arms with na little anxiety, not quite following the conversation so long as ife took place in French, glanced imploringly at Caussidiere. ‘ Don’t mind Miss Hetherington,’ she said when that lady was out of hearing. ‘ What Mr. Lorraine says of her is true, her bark’s waur than her bite ; and she means no offence.’ ‘ Who is she, my child ? Oh, I remember, the eccentric old lady whom you visited yesterday.’ Marjorie nodded ; and at that moment Mr. Lorraine came down the path, followed by Solomon, and met Miss Hethering- ton, who began talking to him vehemently. ‘ She is not very polite,’ muttered Caussidiere ; ‘ and see, she is already abusing me to your guardian.’ He held out his hand. ‘ Good-bye ! I shall see you, perhaps, later in the day.’ ‘ Perhaps. Oh, monsieur, you are not offended ?’ ‘ Not at all,’ replied Caussidiere, though the look with which he regarded his late antagonist rather belied his words. ‘ I for- give her for your sake, my child !’ He looked so sad and injured that Marjorie quite pitied him, and felt angry with Miss Hetherington for having been so rude, ‘ What must he think of us ?’ she thought to herself as ho walked away with a sigh. ^ He, who is so polite to everybody, so unwilling to cause anyone a moment’s pain.’ Without waiting any longer she walked over to the manse. In a few minutes Mr. Lorraine joined her, and informed her that Miss Hetherington, in a high temper, had driven away home, 6 ANNAN WATER. Questioned as to wliat had taken place, Marjorie warmly de- fended Caussidiere, and soon convinced her guardian that the rudeness had been all on the other side. ‘ Well, well,’ said the minister, ‘ we must hear with her ; in spite of her strange ways and violent temper she has a kind heart, and you, my bairn, have no sincerer friend.’ Here Solomon Mucklebackit, who had been listening to the conversation, delivered his professional fiat. ‘ Mistress Hetherington's right,’ he said. ^ She doesna like him, and she's a wise woman !’ ‘ Solomon, my man,’ said the minister, with some severity, *we were not asking your opinion.’ ‘ Eut ye’ll get it, meenister. Are ye blin’ that ye canna see what brings the birkie here? !N^a, na, Marjorie, you needna froon. He’s coming after yoursel’, and I wish he were a hun- nerd miles awa’.’ ‘ It’s not true /’ cried Marjorie, her eyes filling with indignant lears. ^ Oh, Mr. Lorraine !’ ‘ Solomon, leave the room ! You have no right to use such language !’ exclaimed the minister indignantly. ‘ I hae this right,’ returned Solomon, moving to the door, * that the bairn’s my foster as weel as yours, meenister. I’m speaking for Marjorie’s gude ! You can order me frae the room if you please — ay, and turn me frae the hoose — but I’ll say this in your teeth — I dinna like him, and I dinna trust him, and ’twas an ill win’ that blew him doon here.’ He passed out of the room, but the next moment thrust in his head, saying : ‘ And he went soond asleep in the middle o’ your ain sermon, the awtheist ! I had a mind to fling the muckle hymn-book at his heid !’ * * * * * * Marjorie did not go to church again that day. She had a headache, and kept her room. It was altogether a gloomy after- A SCOTTISH SUNDA Y. 83 noon. Mr. Lorraine, secretly troubled in his mind, had diffi- culty in concentrating his thoughts on his religious duties, and Solomon preserved an invincible taciturnity. So the day passed away, and evening came. There was no evening service, for Mr. Lorraine was too infirm to conduct three services in one day. After a dismal tea, to which Marjorie came down, the minister sat reading a volume of sermons, and presently Marjorie left the room, put on her hat, and strolled into the garden. It was a beautiful evening, and the moon w^as rising over the far-off hills. With her head still aching wearily, the girl wan- dered out upon the road and into the churchyard. She crept close to the western wall, and looked for a long time at one of the tombstones. Then sighing deeply, she came out and strolled up the village. The bright weather and the fresh air enticed her on and on till she came to the rural bridge above Annan Water. All was still and peaceful; not a sound, not a breath disturbed the Sabbath silence. She leaned over the stone parapet and looked sadly down. Her thoughts were wandering far away — flowing, flowing with the murmuring stream. She had fallen into a waking dream when she heard a footstep behind her. She started and uttered a low cry as she saw a dark figure approaching in the moonlight. CHAPTEE XIL THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. The figure advanced rapidly, and in a moment Marjorie recog- nised her tutor. ‘ Monsieur Caussidiere f she cried. ‘ Yes,’ returned the Frenchman quietly, Ht is L’ He took her hand in his, and found it cold and trembling. 6—2 H ANNAN WATER, ‘ I have frightened you/ he said . ‘Yes, monsieur; I was startled because I did not hear you coming, and I seemed to be far away/ ‘You were dreaming, Marjorie ‘Yes, monsieur, I was dreaming/ She did not notice tliat he called her by her Christian name; had she done so, she would have taken little heed. It seemed but natural that he should do so ; she was so small and young,, he so much beyond her both in years and education, and, indeed, was she n t known to everyone as plain Marjorie Annan. She seemed strangely sad and preoccupied to-night. After the Prencbman had joined her, she relapsed into her former dream ; she folded her arms upon the bridge again, and fixed her sad eyes upon the flowing river. Caussidiere, partaking of her mood, looked downward too. ‘ You love the water, Marjorie ‘ Yes, it is my kith and kin.’ ‘ You have been here for hours have you not ] I sought you at the manse in vain !’ ‘ I was not here, monsieur. I was in the kirkyard among the graves.’ ‘Among the graves!’ returned the Frenchman, looking anxiously at her. ‘ A strange place for you to wander in, my child ! It is only when we have seen trouble and lost friends that we seek such places. For me it would be fitting, perhaps, but for you it is different. You are so young and should be so happy.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ sighed Marjorie, ‘I am happy enough.’ ‘ And yet you sadden the days that should be brightest by wandering near the dead. Why did you go to the churchyard, little one V ‘ Why, monsieur '? To see my mother’s grave.’ ‘Your mother’s grave. I thought you did not know your mother 1’ ‘ They say she was my mother,’ returned Marjorie quickly. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 85 < She was found drowned in Annan Water — was it not dreadful, monsieur ? — and she was buried yonder in the kirkyard when I was a little child/ ‘ And you think she was your mother ? ‘They say so, monsieur, but I do not think it is true/ ‘No V ‘ I have gone to her grave and stayed by it, and tried to think they are right, but I cannot — I aye come away as I did to-night and look at Annan Water, and feel it more my kin/ ‘ Marjorie / ‘ Yes, monsieur f ‘I fancy you are right, child : perhaps your mother lives/ ‘Ah; you think thatf ‘ More ; she is perhaps watching over you though she cannot speak. She may reveal herself some day.’ ‘ You believe so, monsieur,’ repeated Marjorie, her face bright- ening with joy. ‘It is very probable, my child. You are not of the •canaille, Marjorie. When I first saw you I knew that ; then I heard your story, and it interested me. I thought, “ We are strangely alike — we are like two of a country cast adrift in a foreign land, but our destinies seem to be one. She is exiled from her kindred ; I am exiled from my home. She has a kindly heart and will understand me ; we must be friends.” We will be friends, Marjorie, will we not V He held out his hand and the girl took it. ‘ You are very good, monsieur,’ she answered simply. ‘ Then you must treat me as a friend indeed, little one,’ he answered. ‘ I will take no money for your lessons ; it is a pleasure for me to teach you, and — and Mr. Lorraine is not rich.’ ‘ Mr. Lorraine f said Marjorie, opening her blue eyes ; ‘ it is not Mr. Lorraine who pays for my schooling but Miss Hether- ington.’ 86 ANNAN WA TER. ‘ Is that so ‘ Yes, that is so. Mr. Lorraine did not wish to have taught me beyond my station ; hut Miss Hetherington said I must learn.** Caussidi^re seemed to reflect profoundly. ‘ Miss Hetherington is a philanthropic lady, then V ‘ Do you think so, monsieur V ‘Do not you think so, MarjoTio, since she is universally kind and generous.’ ‘Ah,’ returned Marj-iH*:?, ‘I do not think she is always generous,, monsieur ; hut she is very kind to me. Why, she has almost kept me ever since I was a child.’ To this the Frenchman did not reply. He leaned forward carelessly, as if dreamily watching the water, but in reality he was stealthily watching Marjorie’s face. A new light had come into Marjorie’s eyes, and her brow was knit. Presently he spoke again, returning to the subject, which seemed to possess a strange interest for him. He reminded Marjorie of the encounter be- tween himself and Miss Hetherington that afternoon, and by a little quiet questioning he got her to talk unrestrainedly of the strange relations between Miss Hetherington and herself. Thus he learned that the lady, not content with helping Mar- jorie, had given fifty pounds for a picture of her, ‘though,’ Marjorie hurriedly explained, ‘it was more to patronize Mr. Sutherland than because she wanted the picture.’ ‘ Which proves that she is a philanthropist after all,’ said the Frenchman quietly. ^ Mon Dieu, I am sorry I have offended the lady 1 I adore all people who do good deeds.’ ‘ You have offended her, monsieur V ‘ I fear so, my child. She was violent against my country, which I could not hear abused. I defended the absent, voiUi tout f Again there was silence between them ; the Frenchman seemed somewhat disturbed ; he lit a cigar and watched Marjorie through the clouds of smoke. Presently the clock iu the church tower struck the hour, and Marjorie started. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 87 * I must be walking home/ she said. She began to move across the bridge, the Frenchman keeping beside her ; he took her hand and placed it on his arm, but Mar- jorie quickly drew it away again. ‘ You are not angry with me V he asked in alarm. ‘ iN’o, indeed, monsieur, I am not angry, but / she paused, confused. ‘ Well?’ said he. *lt would not look right,’ said Marjorie desperately ; ‘ we are so different — you and I.’ ‘Ah, I understand,’ he replied, sadly; ‘ a poor exiled French- man is no fit companion for you — you will give him a word in private and the poor devil clutches at it as a starving dog would clutch at a bone; in public he is no longer your friend.’ ‘ Indeed, monsieur, you misunderstand,’ said Marjorie quickly. ‘ I did not mean that ; I — I ’ ‘ Pardon, my child ! I am a brute to distress you ; but I am not what I was, Marjorie; much sorrow and adverse fortune have made me sad and almost bitter; yes, alas ! made me doubt my best friends ; but I will doubt you no more, for you are my one comfort in this dreary land.’ They had been walking steadily onward, and now they reached the door of the inn. Marjorie paused and held forth her hand. ‘ Good-night, monsieur,’ she said. ‘ Good-night !— shall I not walk with you to the manse, little one V Marjorie shook her head. ‘ I would rather walk there alone.' The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Eh bien, since you wish it I will think you are right. Good- night, my little friend, and au revoir.’ He took the hand which she had extended towards him,, raised it to his lips, then patted it as if he had been patting the 58 ANNAN WATER. fingers of a child ; it was this air of fatherly friendliness which made her trust him, and which won for him all the sympathy of her affectionate heart. It was so terrible to be alone, thought Marjorie ; to be exiled from his country, his home, his friends. She pitied everyone in trouble, and she pitied and sympathized with Caussidiere above all, never once dreaming that pity is a •dangerous thing, and sometimes turns to love. When Caussidiere imprinted a kiss upon her hand she neither blushed nor drew it away, but she said softly. Good night, monsieur, God bless you at which the French- man kissed her hand again, and then, turning quickly, entered the inn. Marjorie turned too, feeling her kind little heart overflowing, ^nd walked away down the moonlit road. She had not gone many steps when she was abruptly joined by a man. She did not start nor seem surprised; indeed, while she was parting with the Frenchman she had seen John Sutherland watching her from the opposite side of the road. ‘ Good evening, Johnnie,^ said Marjorie quietly. ‘ Why did you not come forward and speak to Monsieur Caussidiere The young man started, but made no answer. ‘ Johnnie, what is wrong V she asked. He paused and looked at her. ‘ Marjorie,’ he said, ‘ tell me what you were doing with that man V It was no time for his reproaches ; her wdiole soul rose in revolt. ‘ With that man she repeated angrily. ‘ Do you mean with Monsieur Caussidike ?’ ‘ Yes, with that villainous Frenchman,’ he returned, driven recklessly onward by his anger. ‘ Why are you always in his company, Marjorie Annan V Marjorie drew herself proudly up. Had the Frenchman seen her then he would have had little doubt as to the stock whence fihe came. THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 89 * I am in his company because I am his friend/ she answered proudly. ‘Yes, his friend ; and as his friend I will not hear him insulted. Good night.’ She walked quickly away, but in a moment he was again beside her. ‘Marjorie, will you not listen to meV ‘ !N’o, I will not,’ returned the girl angrily. ‘ Whatever you have to say against Monsieur Caussidiere you shall not say to me. He was right ; you are all against him, and you are the worst of all. Do you think it just or kind to abuse a man simply because he is a stranger and unfortunate ? What has Monsieur Caussidiere ever done to you that you should dislike him so much V The young man stared at her flushed cheeks and angry eyes ; then he exclaimed : ‘ Marjorie, answer me ! Tell me it’s not possible that you care for yon man.’ She flushed crimson and turned aw^ay. ‘ I care for anyone,’ she answered evasively, ‘ who is alone, and who wants a friend. Monsieur Caussidiere has been very kind to me, and — and I am sorry for him.’ ‘ You are more than that, Marjorie ; but take care, for I know he is a scoundrel.’ ‘How dare you say so?’ returned Marjorie. ‘You are a coward, Johnnie Sutherland. If he were here you would not speak like that.’ ‘ I would say the same to him as to you. If he were not a scoundrel he would not entice you from your home.’ This was too much for Marjorie. She uttered an indignant exclamation, and, without deigning to reply, hastened rapidly away. This time he did not hasten after her, and almost before he could recover from his surprise she had entered the manse door. She found them preparing for evening prayers. Both Mr. Lorraine and Solomon were getting uneasy at her 90 ANNAN WATER. absence. Solomon, the moment the load of anxiety was lifted from his heart, began to rate her soundly, and asked her where she had been. ‘To the kirkyard first,’ she answered, ‘then to Annan Bridge.’ ‘ Alanef asked Solomon, who guarded her like a very watch dog. ‘^No,* answered Marjorie, ‘not alone.’ ‘ And wha might have been your companion V ‘ I had two,’ she replied, ‘ Johnnie Sutherland and Monsieur Caussidiere.’ ‘Monsieur Caussidiere'?’ repeated Solomon contemptuously, ‘ the sleekit French scoondrel wha laughed at the meenister’s prayers, and sleepit owre the meenister’s sermon % Braw com- pany for a Sabbath night I’m thinkin’, and for Marjorie Annan. Ye’ll pray for Monsieur Caussidiere, mayhap, and muckle gude your prayers will do In one thing Solomon was right, Marjorie did pray for Monsieur Caussidiere ; for since she found that every voice was raised against him, her little heart warmed to him the more. So she prayed for him ; for the man whom she believed to be fully deserving of her friendship — perhaps of her love. CHAPTEE XIIL CAUSSIDIERE FINDS A CLUE. When the Frenchman sat at breakfast the next morning he was thinking a good deal of Marjorie Annan, and strange to say, the next individual mingled up intimately in his reflections was Miss Hetherington of the Castle. ‘ There is a mystery !’ he said to himself, as he sipped his chocolate and ate his bread and butter ; ‘ and if they were to search all England, and perhaps la lelle France, they would not CAUSSIDIERE FINDS A CLUE. 91 find a man better able to unravel a mystery than myself. The old witch was a fool to abuse me — she may have cause to regret it before our acquaintance shall cease. Let me see ! Why did she become violent % Ah, I have it ! because I said the morals of Trance would compare with those of bonnie Scotland. It was a random shot, but it told, it seems.’ He rose, walked to the window, and looked out. He could see in the distance the dim outline of the Castle woods. ‘ A charming place,’ he continued ; ‘ old and crusty, like its mistress. If I were an artist now ! But, alas ! my education in that respect has been neglected, which I regret now for the first time in my life. Farhleu, I must think, for the fault must be remedied. Since I am not an artist, and cannot sketch the Castle, I must be interested as an amateur in something which the Castle contains. He left the window, returned to the table, and proceeded leisurely to finish his breakfast. ‘Marjorie !’ he said. ‘Marjorie Annan ! Ma foi, but it is a pretty name, and she is a pretty creature who bears it ; and she is of gentle birth too — every look and gesture tells me that 1 How things are changing ! I had thought her a mere play- thing; I had thought her fit to make the dull hours pass pleasantly for me till such time as I could return to my native land ; but it seems she may be destined for something better t Well, we shall see.’ There remained but four days before the classes reopened, and the Frenchman resolved that those days should not be spent idly. To a casual observer it would seem that he did nothing, for the great part of his time seemed to be spent in wandering about the meadows and lanes lazily, cigar in mouth, enjoying the spring sunshine. Sometimes during those strolls he met Marjorie and had some pleasant talk with her ; some- times he called at the manse to chat with Mr. Lorraine, re- ceiving a scowl from Solomon as he came or went. Strange to say, at neither of these interviews either with Marjorie or 92 ANNAN WATER, h^r foster-father, did he ever again mention Miss Hethering* ton’s name. But, on the other hand. Miss Hetherington was becoming strangely interested in him. After that scene with Marjorie on Sunday night, Sutherland was in a state of despair; for two days he walked about in misery ; on the third day his resolution was fixed, and he determined to act. He went up to the Castle and sought an interview with Miss Hetherington. ‘Weel, Johnnie Sutherland,’ began the lady, regarding him grimly, ‘ what’s wrong now V Five minutes before the young man had been resolute, but once he found himself under the lady’s baleful eye he grew extremely ill at ease. ‘ Miss Hetherington,’ he began, blushing, and looking strangely uncomfortable, ‘I — I wished to speak to you.’ ‘ Of course, of course,’ replied the lady impatiently, ‘ else why did ye come to Annandale. What’s your news V ‘ I think — in fact, I am sure — you are interested in Marjorie Annan.’ ‘ Call ye that news h Disna a’ the glen ken I’m interested in the lassie because she’s good and bonnie 1 What more V ‘ You would be sorry if she came to harm V In a moment the lady’s face changed. ‘ Deil take the lad !’ she exclaimed ; ‘ what’s he driving at ? Where’s the harm that’s threatening Marjorie Annan V ‘ The Frenchman,’ said Sutherland. ^ She is being wooed away from her home by the Frenchman.’ ‘ What do you mean V asked the lady sharply. ^ What fool’s tale is this that ye bring to me, Johnnie Sutherland V Emboldened at last, Sutherland spoke out. He told of the scene which he had had with Marjorie, of her anger against him- self, and of her constant meetings with the stranger. Miss Hetherington listened with averted head, and laughed grimly when he had done. CAUSSIDIERE FINDS A CLUE. 93 ‘ I see how it is/ she said ; ‘ ’tis the old tale — twa lads and a lassie. But I dinna like the Frenchman, Johnnie, no more than yoursel’. I’ll speak wi’ Mr. Lorraine maybe ; ’tis his work to keep the bairnie right, though he does his work ill, Fm thinking. You’re a good lad, Johnnie, and as to Marjorie, she’s a short- sighted eediot not to see wha’s her friend.’ She spoke lightly and cheerfully, but the moment Sutherland disappeared both her face and manner changed. ‘ The lad was right,’ she said. ‘ Love has made him keen- sighted, and he has told me the truth. Marjorie is in danger. Xow is the time when she needs the care o’ kind folk to keep her frae the one false step that ruins all. Marjorie Annan, what shall I do for you, my bairn V She stood for a time meditating; then she looked at her watch and found it was still early in the day. She summoned her old servant, ordered the carriage ; and a quarter of an hour later was driving away towards the town of Dumfries. On the way, a few hundred yards from the manse door, she saw the Frenchman, nonchalantly strolling onward in the direc- tion of the manse. Monsieur Caussidiere swept off his hat and bowed almost to the ground, but the lady stared sternly at him and made no sign. A strange smile lit the Frenchman’s face as the clumsy old carriage swept on. ‘ Madame,’ he muttered, * you do not know what you do when you declare open war with Caussidiere.’ He turned and strolled on in another direction — across the field and through the lanes towards Annandale Castle. After the first half mile his face brightened, his step quickened, and he walked right up to the door like a man who has a fixed pur- pose in view. Caussidiere walked boldly forward and pulled the bell. The first summons produced no effect at all ; on its being repeated, however, the old serving-man shuffled to the door, and seeing a stranger, asked in somewhat sharp tones what he sought. 94 ANNAN WATER. The Frenchman’s face wore its most winning smile as he replied suavely : ‘ I seek Madame — or rather I should say Mademoiselle ’ The old man’s face was black as thunder. Foreigners were by no means popular in Annandale. ‘ If you are thinking to see Miss Hetherington, ye’ll no be gratified. She’s awa’ till Dumfries and bey out, and she'll no be hame till nicht.’ The Frenchman looked disappointed. ‘ I am sorry,’ he said. ‘ I should have liked to see the lady. When do you think she will be back, my friend V ‘ The nicht. What dae ye want wi’ her V ‘Very little after all, you will say. I merely wished to be allowed to inspect the northern tower of the Castle.’ ‘ You wish to gang wannerin’ ovver the hoose ? It canna be dune.’ ‘ You are right, my friend,’ returned the Frenchman blandly. ‘ Of course it cannot be done since the mistress is away.’ ‘If the mistress, as ye are pleased to ca’ her, was ben the hoose it would be a’ ane. It couldna be done. A bonnie thing, on my life, to turn Annandale intill a sliow hoose for a’ the carles i’ the toon !’ The Frenchman put his finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket, and drew forth something, which he placed in the old man’s hand. ‘ I am sorry to have troubled you, my friend,’ he said, ^ but since you say the interior of the Castle is not on view, perhaps I may be permitted to walk for ten minutes in the garden V The old man looked down ; there in his withered palm lay a golden piece of money. He started and looked again. At first he felt impelled to give it back ; then his lean fingers closed over the prize, and with a grunt he put it in his pocket. ‘ May I be permitted,’ said Caussidiere, ‘ to walk in the grounds V CAUSSIDIERE FINDS A CLUE, 95 ^ Of coorse, of coorse/ returned the old fellow testily, ‘ what for no ? The grounds are open till ane as well as till anither.’ ‘ Thanks, my good friend/ The Frenchman lifted his hat in his most courteous manner, and was about to move away when the voice of the old servant arrested him. ‘ Will you come hack when Miss Hetherington’s hame ? I dinna ken, hut maybe she^d let ye ben the hoose.’ ‘^No, I cannot return.’ ‘ And wherefore no ‘ Because on the morrow I return to my work in town. This was an idle day, and I had hoped to spend it pleasantly. How- ever, since mademoiselle will not trust you ’ ‘ And wha dare say that f broke in the old man angrily, ‘ wha dare say that Sandie Sloane canna be trusted by the Mistress o’ Annandale V ‘ Pardon me, good friend,’ interrupted the Frenchman, more blandly than before, ‘ I was about to say, but you interrupted me, that mademoiselle would not trust you to show the Castle.' ‘ And wha might it be that set that tale about h !N'o show the hoose ! — have I no shown the hoose to folk before the day ? Ay, and if I had a mind I could show it till yersel’, tho’ you think I canna.’ The old fellow evidently wanted to be taken at his word, and the Frenchman immediately gratified him. ‘ Thanks, good friend,’ ho said, as he stepped into the hall. The plunge once taken, the deed was done. The Frenchman had paid liberally for civility, and he was about to get his money’s worth. His polite manners, coupled with his liberality, soon cleared away the old man’s prejudice against foreigners. ‘Maybe,’ said he, remembering the gold which lay in his pocket, ‘ noo you’re here, you’d like to see a’ the hoose. Tho Lord kens there isna muckle to see ; the auld place is fading awa’ like the line 0’ the Hetheriugtons.’ 96 ANNAN WATER. ^ I have heard,’ returned the Frenchman, ‘ that Miss Hether- ington was the last of the family.’ ‘ And you hae heard richt. ’Twill be an end to a’ the Hetheringtons when she gangs her gait.’ ‘ It is strange, is it not, that she never married T Caussidiere as he spoke looked curiously at his companion, but the old man’s face did not change. ‘ Aye,’ he returned, ‘ there was ance a time when folk thought she would mairry. She gangit awa’ to London toon ; after she came hame there were letters through the post for her ilka day. Ane day Mr. Hugh took the letters frae the postman wi’ his ain hand, and that nicht we heard moans and cries at mirk. In the morning the mistress was sent awa’, driven forth by Mr. Hugh, we thought ; and she was awa’ for months.’ ^ And after she returned V ‘ Aye, hut no till she had promised to be obedient till her brither. Then she cam’ to Annandale, but she was a changed woman. She bore Mr. Hugh’s mark upon her face then as she bears it noo.’ ‘And that is long ago?’ ‘Aye, seventeen years.’ ‘ Seventeen years !’ thought the Frenchman. ‘ That is the very age of Marjorie Annan !’ It was a strange coincidence. Caussidiere kept it in his mind as he followed the footsteps of his guide. They passed from room to room, finding each one gloomier than its predecessor. The old man pointed out the pictures and various relics which he thought might be interesting, and Caussidiere glanced about him with eyes like a hawk. As they passed onward his face became less radiant; a frown of weariness and disappointment began to cloud his brow. At length the whole of the Castle had been examined, and the two men began to descend the quaint oaken stairs. Caussidiere, lingering as if in no haste to be gone, still talked pleasantly, and glanced im- patiently about him. CAUSSIDTERE FINDS A. CLUE, 97 Presently they passed the half-open door of a kind of boudoir. Caussidiere, who had looked keenly in, paused suddenly, ‘ Surely/ he said, ‘ I know that face.’ The old man went forward, and pushed open the door, and the Frenchman, following closely upon him, entered the room, and stood thoughtfully regarding the object which had arrested his attention. It was a picture, a good-sized painting, which hung above the mantelpiece. ‘ ’Tis Marjorie Annan,’ explained the old man, 'foster-daughter to the minister. ’Twas painted by Johnnie Sutherland. The mistress bought it because she likes the lassie, and because it has a favour o^ hersel’.’ The Frenchman stared. ' Like Miss Hetherington V said he. ‘Aye, like hersel’,’ returned the old man. ‘You’d no be denying it if you saw the picture in that press. ’Tis Miss Hetherington at seventeen or eighteen years of age.’ ‘ I should like to see the picture.’ ‘ Aweel, aweel, you should see it; but the press is locked, and Mysie has the key.’ ‘ You could not get it, I suppose V ‘ Ay, I could get it,’ returned Sandie, still under the influence of the Frenchman’s gold. ‘ Bide awhile and you shall see.* He shuffled off, leaving the Frenchman alone. The moment he was gone, Caussidiere’s face and manner underwent a complete change. He sprang upon the room, as it were, with cat-like fury, turned over papers, opened drawers, ransacking everything completely. At last he came upon a drawer which would not open ; it was in a writing cabinet, the counterpart of one he had at home ; he pressed a hidden spring; in a moment the drawer flew open, and Caussidiere was rapidly going over the papers which it contained. Suddenly he started, drew forth a paper, opened and read it. A gleam of light passed over his face. He folded the paper, thrust it into the inner pocket of his coat, and closed the drawer. T 98 ANNAN WATER, When the old man returned with his key, he found Caussidi^re with his hands behind him, quietly regarding the picture of Marjorie Annan. CIIAPTEE XIV. IS A LITTLE MYSTERIOUS. While the persevering Caussidiere was inspecting the interior of Annandale Castle, Miss Hetherington was busily making inquiries about him at Dumfries. She had commenced in the hope of hearing something which she might use against him; to her amazement, and, it must be admitted, rather to her annoyance, public opinion was decidedly in his favour. Caussidiere was known to one and all as an inoffen- sive man enough, who always conducted himself properly, and had a smile and a kind word for everyone. The lady was honestly disappointed at the result of her re- searches ; and when at length her carriage stopped before the door of the school which Caussidiere attended, she was by no means in an amiable frame of mind. She stalked into the house and sat bolt upright in the drawing-room ; and when the mis- tress appeared she looked severely at her, and blurted out at once the thought that was in her mind. ‘ Aweel,’ she said, ‘ I dare swear youTe like the rest o’ the silly townsfolk ; you’ll be tollin’ me you think weel o’ this Drench carle.’ The lady looked puzzled. ‘ I don’t quite understand,’ she said. ‘ Tell me, then, in plain English, what you think o’ this Monsieur Caussidiere, as he calls himsel’.’ ‘ Of Monsieur Caussidiere % I think very well indeed of him, Miss Hetherington.’ ‘ And if you had to send him packin’ nae doubt you’d be sorry.’ ‘I should be very sorry.’ A LITTLE MYSTERIOUS. ^9 ^ And why V ‘Because I consider him a good teacher ; besides, he is plea- sant, and has always conducted himself well. I fear you do not like him, Miss Hetherington.' ‘And ye fear right. I dinna like him, and I dinna trust him. Will ye bid him quit the school V The lady looked troubled. ‘Give up the school*?’ she said. ‘I am afraid, madam, I could not do that.’ ‘ And why no V ‘ It would hardly be just to the gentleman. Consider, Miss Hetherington, he has always behaved well, and done his work admirably. I could not bring forward a single thing against him.’ ‘ Aweel, weel, maybe you’re right ; but with or without your help I’ll keep him awa’ frae Marjorie Annan.’ And without waiting for further conversation she abruptly took her leave. She did not call at the minister’s house that night, but drove straight up to the Castle. Her mind was in a strange state of perturbation ; she did not know which way to act. She could not explain even to herself the reason of her curious detestation of the Frenchman. It was an omen, and she believed in omens. Though she had not been able to make one person speak against him, her heart told her that evil would surely come, unless he could be got fairly out of the way. As that seemed impossible, at any rate for the time being, the next and only thing to do was to remove Marjorie from his close vicinity. Miss Hetherington spent that night in dreaming and planning; the next day she ordered out her carriage and drove down to the manse. She was lucky enough to find both Mr. Lorraine and Marjorie. The latter, who was looking flushed and somewhat pleased, in- formed her visitor that she had been packing up her things to return to school on the following day. 7—2 lOO ANNAN WATER. / ‘And ye’ll be glad to gol’ said Mivss Hetherington, looking at the girl’s bright eyes and smiling lips. ‘ Yes/ said Marjorie candidly. ‘ I shall be glad.’ The lady was silent for a few moments, then she turned to Mr. Lorraine : ‘ You were ne’er muckle in favour of Marjorie’s French lessons/ she said abruptly. The clergyman started but made no reply, so she continued sharply : ‘ You’re no the man to deny what you ken to be true, Mr. Lorraine.’ ‘ Dear me, no ; lam not denying it. Miss Hetherington,’ said the clergyman mildly. ‘ !N’ow you mention it, I remember I did say at the time I thought French was an accomplishment which Marjorie would never be likely to need ; but you thought other- wise, and there was no more to be said.’ ‘Ay, I was an old fool. . . . Weel,’ she continued after a pause, ‘ I’m no of the same mind to-day. The lassie’s had enough French for a while. We’ll take it off this quarter, and she can gie her time till other things.’ While she spoke Miss Hetherington turned her eyes from Mr. Lorraine to Marjorie, and she saw the girl’s countenance fall. ‘ Miss Hetherington,’ she said, ‘ what have I done ? How have I annoyed you f ‘ Hark till her !’ broke in the lady with a grim smile : ‘ “ what have I done and hoo have I annoyed you,” because an old woman changes her mind. Marjorie, my bairn, I’m just anxious to do what I think will he for the best.’ ‘But — but there must be something,’ began Marjorie, when her trembling voice warned her to be silent, and with quivering lips she turned away. Miss Hetherington watched her quietly ; when she turned again to Mr. Lorraine she saw that his eyes were also fixed upon the girl. ‘ W ell, Mr. Lorraine,’ she said sternly, ‘ is it to be as I say f The clergyman hesitated. A LITTLE MYSTERIOUS, 101 ‘ Marjorie is a good girl, Miss Hetherington,* said he, ‘ and would be always anxious to do as you wish, but I think — I fear, she is sorry to give up her French studies. ‘ She^s but a foolish lassie, and she may be glad that she has got elders to judge for her. She’ll gie up French for the present, Mr. Lorraine, and by-and-by — weel, we shall see.’ This time Mr. Lorraine did not speak. He looked a little sadly at Marjorie, but he was quite man of the world enough to know that it would be a foolish thing to set Miss Hetherington’s will at defiance. Besides, to his mind there was nothing so wonderful in the situation at all. Miss Hetherington had bought the right to be humoured. Ten to one her fancy would dis- appear as quickly as it had come, and Marjorie would be in- dulged again. Knowing her nature as he did, he attempted no further remonstrance, and when Miss Hetherington said again : ‘ Is that settled, Mr. Lorraine ? he answered mildly : ‘Most certainly. Miss Hetherington, if you wish it. You have shown that you have Marjorie’s interest at heart, and I have no doubt you are acting for the best.’ Miss Hetherington rose. ‘ Marjorie Annan,’ said she, ‘gie me your arm to the gate.’ Marjorie obeyed courteously enough. She assisted the lady to the gate and into her carriage, but when Miss Hetherington bent forward to kiss her cheek she shrank away. ‘Marjorie, Marjorie,’ she murmured, ‘ you think I’m a hard- hearted old woman, but I’m trying hard to be your friend.’ The carriage moved off. It had gone scarcely a hundred yards when the lady pulled the check string and ordered her coachman to change his course. ‘ Drive to the inn where the French teacher lives,’ she said. ‘ They’re telling me, my leddy, the Frenchman has gone to Dumfries !’ ‘ Dumfries V ‘Aye, Miss Hetherington, to be ready for the schooL’ ‘ Then drive to Dumfries.’ 102 ANNAN WATER. The coachman obeyed, and turned his horse’s head towards the Dumfries road. When they reached the town they drove straight to Caus- sidiere’s lodgings, and with a very determined face the lady of the Castle descended and walked up the doorsteps. She knocked sharply at the door, which was immediately opened by a servant girl. ‘ Pm seeking the gentleman that lodges here — the French teacher,’ she said, stepping without ceremony into the lobby. Caussidiere, who was within, put his head out of the door of his room, and recognised his visitor at once with a beaming smile. ‘ Pray step this way, Miss Hetherington,’ he cried. ^ I am delighted to see you T She followed him into his little sitting-room, and stood lean- ing upon her staff and looking at him with her black eyes, while he drew forward a chair and begged her to be seated. She nodded grimly, and glanced round the apartment — at the table littered with correspondence, at the books scattered here and there, at the roses and creepers which peeped in at the open window. Then she walked to the chair he had prepared for her, and sitting down looked at him fixedly again. Not in the least daunted he stood smiling at her, and waiting for her to explain her business. At last she spoke in her native tongue. *' Do you ken what brought me here V she asked sharpl}^ Caussidiere shrugged his shoulders. ‘ I have not an idea,’ he replied ; ‘ and yet,’ he added, ‘ I have been thinking — ah, perhaps it was a presentiment ! — I have been thinking that I should have the pleasure !’ His tone, despite its extreme politeness, was significant enough to attract the attention of one so keen- witted. ‘ What do you mean by that V she demanded, gazing at him as if to read his very soul. ^ What I say. Miss Hetherington. I am spirituely and have these presentiments. When I saw you first I knew that we A LITTLE MYSTERIOUS. 103- sliould become better acquainted. But will you talk to me in my own language, which you speak to admiration V * ril speak till ye in simple English, my lad, or, 'what’s the same to my thinking, good Scots Doric. I^m here for plain speaking, and Eli use nae heathen tongue this day. Eirst and foremost, how muckle is Marjorie Annan owing ye for her Erench lessons V As she asked the question, Miss Hetherington drew out an old-fashioned silk purse and began examining its contents. Eind- ing that the Erenchman did not reply, she looked up and repeated it. ‘ How muckle is Marjorie Annan owing ye ? Tell me that, if you please.* ‘Hothing, Miss Hetherington,* he replied. *Haething? Then Marjorie has paid ye already, maybe?* ‘ Yes, she has paid me,* returned Caussidiere quietly. Haturally enough his manner had changed, and his courteous smile had given way to a cold expression of hauteur, tempered with gentle indignation. ‘How muckle has she paid ye?* demanded the lady of the Castle. ‘She has paid me,* answered the Erenchman, ‘ with her sym- pathy, with her sweet society. I have not taken money from her ; I shall never take it. My labour. Miss Hetherington, has been labour of love.* The lady*s eyes flashed, and putting up her purse she uttered an impatient exclamation. ‘ Nae doubt 1* she cried. ‘ But from this day forward your labours done. I have come here to pay you your hire, and to tell you with my ain mouth that Marjorie Annan*s French lessons are ended, and that if she needs mair she’ll get them from another teacher.* Caussidiere flushed angrily, but still preserved his composure. He gazed earnestly and thoughtfully at his visitor for some moments, and then said with the same peculiar smile he had ^ worn at first : 104 ANNAN WATER. ‘ May I ask you a question, Miss Hetherington f ‘ If you please/ ‘ I should like to know what authority you have to act on hehalf of my dear pupil % I don’t ask out of mere curiosity ; hut you would oblige me by informing me if the young lady her- self has requested you to come here on so peculiar an errand f ‘ The young lady % — a bairn, who kens naething of the world f ‘ But, pardon me, had you her authority to dismiss me, or that of her guardian V ‘ The bairn’s a bairn, and the minister’s foolish and old. I've taen the business into my own hands !’ ‘ Indeed !’ exclaimed Caussidiere, still sarcastically smiling. ‘ Aye, indeed !’ repeated the lady with growing irritation. ‘And I warn you, once and for a’, to cease meddling with the lassie. Aye, ye may smile ! But you’ll smile, maybe, on the wrong side o’ your face, my friend, if ye dinna tak’ the warning I bring ye, and cease molesting Marjorie Annan.’ It was clear that Caussidiere was amused. Instead of smiling now, he laughed outright ; still most politely, but with a self- satisfaction which was very irritating to his opponent. Sub- duing his amusement with an effort, he quietly took a chair, and sat down opposite Miss Hetherington. ‘Weel,’ she cried, striking with her staff upon the floor, ‘ what's your answer to my message V ‘ You must give me a little time; you have so taken me by surprise. In the first place, why do you object to my friendship for the young lady ? My interest in her is great ; I respect and admire her beyond measure. Why can we not be friends? Why can I not continue to be her teacher V ‘ A bonnie teacher ! A braw friend ! Do you think I’m blind ?’ ‘ I think,’ said Caussidiere with a mocking bow, ‘ that your eyes are very wide open. Miss Hetherington. You perceive quite clearly that I love Miss Annaru' A LITTLE MYSTERIOUS. 105 The lady started angrily, ‘ What V she cried. ‘ I love her, and hope some day, with your permission, to make her my wife.' Trembling from head to foot, Miss Hetherington started to her feet. ‘ Your wife !' she echoed, as if thunderstruck. ^ Why not V asked Caussidiere, calmly. ‘ I am not rich, but I am a gentleman ; and my connections are honourable, I assure you. Why, then, should you distrust me so? If you will permit me, I think I can give you very good reasons for approv- ing of my union with Miss Annan.' ‘ How daur ye think of it !' cried Miss Hetherington. ‘ Marry that bairn ! I forbid ye even to come near her, to speak wi' her again.' Caussidi6re shrugged his shoulders. ‘ Let us return, if you please, to where we began. You have not yet informed me by what right you attempt to interfere with the happiness of my dear pupil.' ‘ Ey what right V ‘Precisely. What may be the nature of your relationship to the young lady V As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon her, to her obvious embarrassment. Her pale face grew paler than ever, though her eyes flashed dangerously. ‘ Pm Marjorie Annan’s friend,' she answered after a pause. ‘ Of that I'm aware. Miss Hetherington. I am aware, also, that you have been very kind to her, that you have assisted her from childhood with large sums out of your own pocket. May I ask, without offence, have you done all this out of pure philan- thropy, because you have such a charitable heart V He still watched her with the same half-sarcastic penetrating look. Her embarrassment increased, and she did not reply ; but her lips became dry, and she moistened them nervously with the tip of her tongue. io6 ANNAN WATER. Suddenly his manner changed, and he rose smiling from his seat. ‘ You are fatigued/ he said politely. ‘ Let me offer you a glass of wine.’ She declined the offer with an angry gesture, and moved to- wards the door. ‘ I hae warned you,’ she said in a low voice. ^ I hae warned you, and forbidden you. If ye dinna heed my warning I’ll maybe find other means to bring you to your senses.’ She would have left the house, but quietly approaching the door, he set his back against it and blocked the way. ‘ Pray do not go yet,’ he said. ^ Pardon me, but you mud not. You have given me your message, my dear Miss Hether- ington ; now let me ask you to hear mine.’ There was something in his manner so ominous, so significant,, that the lady again became startled. ‘ What’s your will with me she cried impatiently. ‘ Will you sit and listen a little while V ‘ I’ll stand where I am. Weel V ‘ Pirst let me thank you for the kindness of your servant in showing me over the beautiful castle where you live. I am in- terested in all old houses, and yours is charming.’ She stared at him in blank amazement. ‘ The Castle ! when were ye there V ^ Just before I returned to Dumfries. I regretted that you were not at home in order that I might ask your kind permission ; but in your absence I took the liberty of making a reconnaissance, I came away delighted with the place. The home of your ancestors, I presume H The words were innocent enough, but the speaker’s manner was far from assuring, and his eyes, keenly fixed on hers, still preserved that penetrating light — almost a threat. ‘ Deil tak’ the man ! Why do you glower at me like that ? You entered my house like a thief, then, when I was awa’ ‘ Ah, do not say that ; it is ungenerous. I went merely as- A LITTLE MYSTERIOUS. lo- an amateur to see the ruins, and I found — what shall I say ? — so much more than I expected/ He paused, while she stood trembling, then he continued : ‘ The Castle is so picturesque, the ruin so ravissante, and the pictures — the pictures are so romantic and so strange. Ah, it is a privilege indeed to have such a heritage and such an ancestry;, to belong to a family so great, so full of honour ; to have a ’scutcheon without one blot since the day when the first founder wore it on his shield.’ It was clear that he was playing with her, laughing at her. As he proceeded, his manner became almost aggressive in its studied insolence, its polite sarcasm. Unable any longer to re- strain her anger. Miss Hetherington, with outstretched hand,, moved towards the door. ^ Stand awa’, and let me pass !’ He obeyed her in a moment, and with a profound bow, drew aside ; but as she passed him, and put her trembling hand upon the door-handle, he said in a low voice close to her ear : ‘It would be a pity, perhaps, after all, to quarrel with one who knows so much.’ She turned furiously, and fixed her eyes upon him. ‘ What’s that V she cried ‘ Who knows so much, let us say, about the morals of your bonnie Scotland, as compared with those of la belle Francel ‘ What do you mean 1 Speak out ! What do ye mean V He smiled, and bending again close to her ear, he whispered something which drove the last tint of blood from her cheek, and made her stagger and gasp as if about to fall. Then, before she could recover herself, or utter a single word, he said aloud, with the utmost politeness : ‘ And now, my dear lady, will you stay a little while longer and talk with me about Maijorie Annan V ANNAN WATER. so8 CHAPTEK XV. MARJOKIE GOES AWAY. When Miss Hetlierington left the Erenchman’s rooms that afternoon she tottered like one enfeebled by the sudden on- coming of age. Monsieur Caussidiere was beside her; it was his hand which placed her in her carriage, his head which bowed politely as the carriage moved away. But the lady seemed neither to see nor hear. Her face was deathly pale and her eyes were fixed; she entered the carriage mechanically, and mechanically lay hack among the moth-eaten cushions ; but she never came to herself until the carriage stopped before the door of Annandale Castle. The approaching carriage wheels had been heard by the inmates of the Castle, so that when the vehicle stopped, there stood Sandie Sloane ready to assist his mistress to alight. With her usual erect carriage and firm tread, Miss Hetherington stepped from the vehicle and walked up the stone steps to the Castle door, saying as she passed the old serving man : ‘ Sandie Sloane, come ben wi^ me !’ She walked on, Sandie following. They walked into the great dining-room, and the door closed upon the two. What passed at that interview no one knew ; but half-an-hour later Sandie came forth, returned to the kitchen, and sat there crying like a heart-broken child. ‘ Mysie,’ said he to the housekeeper, ^ Mysie, woman, I’m turned aw a’ — oot on the world. God help me. The mistress has shown me the door o’ Annandale Castle.’ Before Mysie could reply the bell rang violently. She ran up the stairs, entered the dining-room, and found Miss Hetherington still sitting in her cloak and bonnet, and looking strangely dis- turbed. ‘ Mysie,’ she said, ‘ where is Sandie Sloane 1 ’ MARJORIE GOES A WA Y. 109 ‘In the kitchen, my lady/ ‘ In ten minutes you’ll come back to me and tell me that he has left the Castle. Do you understand ‘ I do, my lady, but ‘ Mysie, listen to me. You hae been a good servant to me, and I want to be a good mistress to you, therefore I warn you. From this night forth, if ever you allow Sandie Sloane or any other man to cross the threshold o’ this house without my express permission, out you go like Sandie. ’Tis the men that bring all the harm and all the sorrow that ever came into the world. iN’ow go, Mysie, and dinna come back till you tell me that Sandie is awa’.^ It was not till two days later that Mr. Lorraine, happening to call at the Castle, heard that Miss Hetheriugton could not see him, for she had taken to her bed, and was seriously ill. He heard also from Mysie, who seemed scared and wild, that her mistress had never been herself since that night when Sandie Sloane had been driven from his situation. The clergyman, much shocked and mystified, asked to be allowed to see the lady, but Mysie, remembering her mistress’s instructions, re- fused to permit him to place his foot inside the door. After a little persuasion, however, she consented to allow him to remain on the threshold while she went and informed her mistress of his call. In a short time the woman returned, and Mr. Lorraine was at once admitted to the bedside of the mistress of the house. Mr. Lorraine began forthwith to express his regret at the lady’s illness, but he was at once stopped. ‘ ’Twasna’ of mysel’ I wanted to speak,’ she said, in her hard cold tones j ‘ ’twas o’ something that concerns you far more — ’twas of one dear to you — ’twas of Marjorie Annan !’ ‘ Of Marjorie V ‘ Aye — do ye mind, Mr. Lorraine, when you first showed me the mite 0’ a bairnie I gave ye some money, and I told you I’d do what I could to help you wi’ the burden 1 Do ye ken why I did that, Mr. Lorraine V 310 ANNAN WATER. ^ Because you had a kind heart. Miss Hetherington, and were sorry for the little one/ ‘ Sorry ! aye, that was it. I was sorry for her then — but now it’s both sorrow and love, Mr. Lorraine. I’m a foolish old woman you’ll say, but the bairn has found her way to my hard heart — as surely as you love her, Mr. Lorraine, I love her mysel’.’ Mr. Lorraine was silent, for he was growing rather perplexed. What did it all mean ? Suddenly an idea came to him. Miss Hetherington wanted a reward for her past kindnesses — the time had come when they could all be repaid. She was ill and alone, she wished Marjorie to nurse her. A poor return enough when all was said and done for the kindnesses Marjorie had received ! Mr. Lorraine was about to make the offer when he suddenly paused, remembering the difficulty he had always had in getting Marjorie to visit the Castle at all. How could they possibly induce her to take her place, for weeks perhaps, beside the sick bed of its mistress ? He was still sitting in perplexed silence when Miss Hetherington spoke. ^ Mr. Lorraine,’ said she, ‘where is Marjorie 1’ ‘ Marjorie is at the manse,’ returned the clergyman, dreading what the next question might be. ‘ At the manse ! and wherefore is she no at the school ? She should hae gone back ere this.’ ‘Yes, she should have gone, but the lassie was not herself, so I kept her with me. She is troubled in her mind at what you said about the French lessons. Miss Hetherington, and she is afraid she has annoyed you.’ ‘ And she would be sorry V ‘ How could she fail to be ? You have been her best friend.’ There was a great pause, which was broken by Miss Hether- ington. ‘Mr. Lorraine,’ said she, ‘I’ve aye tried to give you good advice about Marjorie. I kenned weel that twa silly men, like MARJORIE GOES A WA Y. Ill yersel’ and that fool Solomon Mucklebackit, wanted a woman’s sharp wits and keen eyes to help them train the lassie. Tve watched her close, and I see what maybe you dinna see. There- fore, I advise you again — send her awa’ to Edinburgh for a while — ’twill be for her gude.’ ^To Edinburgh'?’ ‘ Aye ; do you fear she’ll no obey V ‘Not at all ; when I tell her you wish it she will go.’ Miss Hetherington sat bolt upright, and stared round the room like a stag at bay. wish it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I dinna wish it — mind that, Mr. Lorraine. If onybody daurs say I wish it ye’ll tell them ’tis a lee. You wish it ; you'll send her awa’ ; ’tis for the bairn’s good 1’ Mr. Lorraine began to be of opinion that Miss Hetherington’s brain was affected ; he could not account for her eccentricity in any other way. Nevertheless her whims had to be attended to, and as in this case they would cause no great inconvenience he promised implicit obedience to her will. ‘Yes, you are right, Miss Hetherington; ’twill do the child good, and she shall go,’ he said as he rose to take his leave. Lut the lady called him back. ‘Mr. Lorraine,’ she said, ‘send Marjorie up to me to say good-bye and having again promised to obey her, Mr. Lor- raine retired. When he reached home he was rather relieved to find that his foster-child was out ; when she returned he was busily en- gaged with Solomon ; and it was not indeed until after evening prayers that the two found themselves alone. Then Mr. Lor- raine summoned Marjorie to his side, took her head between his hands, and kissed her fondly upon the brow. ‘Marjorie, my doo,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking to-day I would give you a change. I shall send you away for a few days, Marjorie, to my sister’s house in Edinburgh.’ The girl opened her eyes with troubled wonder. 112 ANNAN WATER. ^ You are going to send me away V she said. ‘ Ah, Mr. Lor- raine, are you angry with me too V ‘ Angry with you ? Angry with my Marjorie? — no, my darling, it is not that. I am afraid I am too fond of you, my bairn. I have been selfish, and kept you o’er much by my side. I shall miss you, Marjorie, for you brought sunshine and happiness with you when you first entered the old manse door, but I shall get my reward when I see my bairn come back to me with roses in her cheeks again.’ The girl clung to him, and her gentle eyes filled with tears. ^ Oh, Mr. Lorraine,’ she said, ‘ do not send me away.’ ^ Why, Marjorie, my bairn, why are you so sad ? You talk as if we should never meet again. After all, ’tis but for a short while, and ’twill be better for us all. You’ll see braw things in Edinburgh, and when you come home you can brighten up Solomon and me with the stories of what you have seen. It will be like living through our youth again to hear you, Mar- jorie !’ Marjorie patted his hand and smiled through her tears. Yet despite her attempt at cheerfulness she felt very sad. Was it a foreshadowing of the future ? Perhaps ; for something told her even then that the parting from her dear foster-father was to be long and sad. The next day, however, she was brighter ; they could hear her singing about the house as she collected her things together, and now and then she would run into the little parlour where Mr. Lorraine sat busily at work upon his Sunday sermon, and ask him to talk to her again of all the wonders she was going to see. By early in the afternoon all was done, and, as Marjorie was to start early on the morrow, she, in obedience to Mr. Lor- raine’s wish, put on her bonnet and went up to the Castle to wish Miss Hetherington good-bye. She had heard from Mr. Lorraine that the lady was indis- MARJORIE GOES A WA K 113 posed, but he had not spoken of the malady as serious, and she was, therefore, utterly unprepared for what she saw. She was admitted by Mysie, conducted along the dreary passage, and led at once towards Miss Hetherington’s bedroom. ^ She’s waitin’ on ye/ said Mysie ; ‘ she’s been waitin’ on ye all the day.’ Marjorie stepped into the room, looked round, and then shrank fearfully back towards the door. Could this be Miss Hether- ington — this little, shrivelled old woman, with the dim eyes and thin, silvery hair % She glanced keenly at Marjorie ; then, see- ing the girl shrink away, she held forth her hand and said : ‘ Come awa’ ben, Marjorie, my bairnie ; come ben.’ ‘ You — you are not well, Miss Hetherington,’ said Marjorie. ^ I am so sorry !’ She came forward and stretched forth her hand. Miss Hetherington took it, held it, and gazed up into the girl’s face. ‘ I’m no just mysel’, Marjorie,’ she said ; ‘ but whiles the best of us come to this pass. Did ye think I was immortal, Mar- jorie Annan, and that the palsied finger 0 ’ death couldna be pointed at me as weel as at another?’ ‘ Of death !’ said Marjorie, instinctively withdrawing her hand from the old lady’s tremulous grasp. ‘ Oh, Miss Hether- ington, you surely will not die V ‘ Wha can tell 1 Surely I shall die when my time comes, and who will there be to shed a tear V Marjorie looked at her sadly, but said nothing. The tones were peevish, the face looked awful and old. Some great change had taken place in her protectress which Marjorie could not eomprehend. Dor a time there was silence, then Miss Hetherington spoke : ‘ What more have you got to say to me, Marjorie Annan f The girl started as from a dream, and rose hurriedly from her seat. ‘ ISTothing more,’ she said. ‘ Mr. Lorraine thought I had better come and wish you good-bye. I am going away !’ 8 ANNAN WATER, 114; ^ Mr. Lorraine ; you didna wish it yerseh f ‘ Yes I — I wished it ’ ‘ Aweel, good-bye \* She held forth her trembling hands again, and Marjorie placed her warm fingers between them. ‘Good-bye, Miss Hetherington.' She withdrew her hand and turned away, feeling that the good-bye had been spoken, and that her presence was no longer desired by the proud mistress of Annandale. She had got half- way to the door when her steps were arrested — a voice called her back. ‘Marjorie ! Marjorie Annan ? She turned, started, then running back fell on her knees be- side Miss Hetherington’s chair. Lor the first time in her life Marjorie saw her crying. ‘ Dear Miss Hetherington, what is it V she said. ‘ Tis the old tale, the old tale,’ replied the lady, drying her eyes. ‘Won’t you kiss me, Marjorie, and say only once that you’re sorry to leave me sickening here V ‘ I am very sorry,’ said Marjorie, then she timidly bent for- ward and touched the lady’s cheek with her lips. Curiously enough, after having solicited the embrace. Miss Hetherington shrank away. ‘ Cold and loveless,’ she murmured. ‘ But Marjorie, my bairn, I’m no blaming ye for the sins o’ your forbears. Good- bye, lassie, good-bye.’ This time Marjorie did leave the room and the Castle, feeling thoroughly mystified as to what it could all mean. But both the interview and the eccentric manner of the old lady soon went out of her mind. When she reached the manse she found she had still many preparations to make. Early the next morning, after bidding an affectionate good-bye to her twa foster-fathers, she started on her journey to Edinburgh. BY THE FIRTH OF FORTH 115 CHAPTER XVL BY THE FIRTH OF FORTH. On the outskirts of the town of Leith, and on the direct road of communication between Leith and Edinburgh, stood the plain abode of the Rev. Mungo Menteith, minister of the Free Kirk of Scotland. The church itself lay within a stone’s throw ; and from the upper windows of the house was seen, on the one hand, a panorama of the busy waters of the Firth and the distant shores of Fife, and on the other the heights of Arthur s Seat, towering high above the clustering habitations of ‘ Auld Reekie.’ The Rev. Mr. Menteith had espoused, late in life, the only sister of Mr. Lorraine, a little timid clinging woman, with fair hair and light blue eyes, who was as wax in the bony hands of her pious husband. The clergyman — a tall, cadaverous man of fifty, with cavernous eye-sockets, a beetling brow, and a saturnine complexion — was a pillar of the Church and a shining light to an admiring congregation. FTo preacher, even in Scotland, dis- tributed the threats of eternal perdition with more impartial relish, or was so far removed from spiritual backsliding in any question of gloomy Calvinistic dogma. At the house of this pair, one morning in early summer, ar- rived Marjorie Annan, escorted thither in a hired fly from Edin- burgh by the minister. It was by no means her first visit, and the welcome she received, if a little melancholy, was not alto- gether devoid of sympathy. Her aunt was an affectionate creature, though weak and superstitious; and Mr. Menteith, like many of his class, was by no means as hard as the doctrines he upheld. They had no children of their own, and the coming of one so pretty and so close of kin was like a gleam of sunshine. So Marjorie was soon at home. Her bedroom at the top of 8—2 tio ANNAN WATER, the house commanded a pleasant view of land and sea, and the busy prospect seemed quite delightful to her simple gaze, ac- -customed to the quiet places of a sleepy country town. True, there was a good deal of gloomy praying and much talk of a solemn turn, but Marjorie was used to all that, having spent all her days, as it were, in the shadow of the Church. A week passed away, with one supernaturally, dreary Sabbath, spent in what may be called, figuratively, wailing and gnashing of teeth. The week-days were spent by Marjorie in visiting friends of the family, in quiet tetes-a-tetes with Mrs. Menteith, and in country and seaside walks alone. Her bright face and pretty figure soon became familiar objects in Leith and its vicinity. At last there came one day of terrific dissipation, when what is known by profane Scotchmen as a ‘tea and cookie shine’ was given by one of the elders of the kirk. There were cakes of all kinds, tea and coffee in profusion, and much extempore discours- ing by divers reverend gentlemen. To a young girl accustomed to the gay world, the whole affair might have seemed dismal -enough, but to Marjorie it was quite delightful. It was some- thing at least to see society of some sort, and to chat, even in the Church’s shadow, with young people of her own age. Early in the evening, Mr. Menteith was called away, and when the meeting broke up at about nine o’clock, Marjorie and her aunt had to walk home alone. It was a fine moonlight night ; and as they left the elder’s house and lingered on the doorstep, Marjorie saw standing in the street a figure which she seemed to know. She started and looked again, and the figure returned her look. In a moment, to her utter amazement, she recognised Caussi- diere. Startled and afraid, not knowing what to say or do, she descended the steps by her aunt’s side. As she did so, the figure disappeared. She walked on up the street, trembling and wondering, while BV THE FIRTH OF FORTH. iiy Mrs. Menteith talked with feeble rapture of the feast they ha(^ left and its accompanying ‘ edification.’ ‘Did you take notice of Mr. Montgomery, Marjorie? He? was only ordained last hairst, and they’re telling me he has a« call to Strathpepper already. He seemed muckle taken with yourself.’ Mr. Montgomery was a cadaverous young man, with large* feet and large red hands ; and Marjorie had indeed noticed hie admiration, finding it very disagreeable. ‘When you marry, Marjorie,’ continued her aunt, ‘and you’ll be marrying some day, I hope and pray it will be a member of our Kirk — best of all, a minister like your uncle. Mr. Ferguson^ the linen-draper, is a marrying man — him with the long beard and the glasses ; he’s just for all the world like the picture of an Apostle.’ Marjorie laughed nervously. ‘ I’m not thinking of marrying,’ she replied. ‘ Weel, there’s time enough. But marriage with a holy man? is a sheaf of blessing. Yf hat thought you of young Mr. Spence^ who sat by your side and handed you the currant bun V Marjorie made some wandering reply, paying little heed to the question, for at that moment she heard footsteps behind her. Glancing over her shoulder she saw the figure she had previously noticed following at a few yards’ distance. She would have paused and waited, but she dreaded tho observation of her companion. So she simply walked faster, hurrying her aunt along. They passed from the street, and still she heard the feet follow- ing behind her. At last they reached the gate of the minister’® house. Here Marjorie lingered, and glancing down the road saw the figure pause and wait. Mrs. Menteith pushed open the gate, hastened across the garden, and knocked at the door. In a moment the figure came up rapidly. ANNAN WATER. si8 ‘Hush, mademoiselle r said a familiar voice in Trench; and simultaneously she felt a piece of paper pressed into her hand. She grasped it involuntarily, and before she could utter a word the figure flitted away. Meantime the house door had opened. ‘Marjorie f cried Mrs. Menteith from the threshold. Marjorie hastened in. ‘ What kept ye at the gate h and who was yon that passed V ‘A man — a gentleman.^ ‘ Did he speak to you V Without replying, Marjorie passed in. As soon as possible she hastened up to her own room, locked the door, and there with trembling fingers unfolded the paper and read as follows : ‘ I have something important to say to you. Meet me to-morrow at noon on the Edinburgh Road. Pray tell no one that you have received this, or that I am here. ‘L^on Caussidiere.’ Marjorie sat down trembling, with the paper in her lap. She read it again and again, and as she did so her wonder grew. What had brought her French teacher to Leith, and why had he appeared in so mysterious a manner ] She felt frightened and suspicious, yet she could not disguise from herself that the unexpected rencontre gave her a curious thrill of pleasure. He had come thither in pursuit of her, that was clear ; and his request for a secret meeting, unknown to her friends, had a significance not to be mistaken. Her first impulse was to inform her aunt of what had taken place. A little reflection, however, convinced her that this would be undesirable. ‘After all,’ she thought, ‘she had no right to assume that Caussidiere’s message had not a perfectly innocent significance. Perhaps he had brought her news from home V A little later, just before she retired to rest, she drew the • BY THE FIRTH OF FORTH. 1 19 curtain of her room and looked out. The moon was shining brightly, and a figure stood at the gate gazing at the house. It was impossible to distinguish it very clearly, but she thought that she again recognised Caussidiere. Fluttering and flushing with a new fear, which was almost akin to a new delight, she went to bed ; but before her eyes were closed in slumber she had resolved to meet Caussidiere at the appointed place next day. It was not an easy task for Marjorie to keep her appointment on the following day ; indeed, everything seemed to conspire to keep her at home. To begin with, the family were much later than usual ; then it seemed to Marjorie that the prayers were unusually long ; then Mr. Menteith had various little things for her to do ; so that the hands of the clock wandered towards twelve before she was able to quit the house. At last she was free, and with palpitating heart and trembling hands was speeding along the road to meet the Frenchman. It was half an hour past the appointed time when she neared the trysting-place, and she was beginning to wonder whether or not Monsieur Caussidiere had grown weary and had gone away, when to her relief he emerged from some nook where he had been hiding and stood before her. Yes, it was he, looking anxious and restless, but brightening up considerably at sight of her face. !Now that the meeting had really come about, Marjorie felt somewhat abashed at the thought of her own boldness. She paused in some confusion, and timidly held forth her hand ; but the Frenchman strode boldly forward, and, the place being lonely, took her in his arms. ‘ Marjorie, my Marjorie,^ he murmured. Both words and action took her so completely by surprise, that for a moment she could do nothing but tremble passively in his embrace, like a trembling, frightened child ; then recover- ing herself, she drew back, blushing and trembling. ‘ Monsieur — Monsieur Caussidi^e f she cried. 120 ANNAN WATER, The Erenchnian looked at her strangely ; he took her hand, and held it lovingly in both of his. ‘ Marjorie/ he said, ‘ my little friend ! It seems, now that I have you by me, that I am born again. I have travelled all the way from Dumfries to see you ; and do you know why ? — because, my child, you have taught me to love you !’ Marjorie paused in her walk ; she felt her heart throbbing painfully, and her cheeks burning like fire. She looked up at him in helpless amazement, but she did not speak. ^ When you departed, Marjorie/ continued Caussidiere, affectionately clasping the little hand which still lay passively in his, ‘ I felt as if all the light and sunshine had been with- drawn from the world, and I knew then that the face of my little friend had left such an image on my heart that I could not shake it away. I tried to fight against the feeling, but I could not. You have made me love you, my darling ; and now I have come to ask you if you will be my wife P ‘ Your wife, monsieur f Marjorie could say no more. It was the first time such a proposal had been made to her, and it fairly took away her breath. Did she love Monsieur Caussidiere ] She did not know. Several times while laying awake at night she had pondered over the question, but she had never once thought of the possibility of becoming united to him. And now her feeling was one of amazement, that he who was so accomplished and highly gifted should deign to make such a proposition to Marjorie Annan — a little waif who had been born of the water and reared on the bread of charity. She looked so helplessly perplexed that the Frenchman smiled. ‘ Well, Marjorie,’ he said, ‘of what are you thinking, mapetiteP ‘ I was wondering, monsieur, why you had spoken to me as you have done.’ For a moment the man’s face clouded; then the shadow passed and he smiled again. BY THE FIRTH OF FORTH. I2f •Because I adore you, Marjorie,’ he said. Again the girl was silent, and the Frenchman pulled his moustachios with trembling fingers. Presently he stole a glance at her, and he saw that her face was irradiated with a look of dreamy pleasure. He paused before her, and regained possession of her trembling hands. ‘Marjorie,’ he said, and as he spoke his voice grew very tender and vibrated through every nerve in the girl’s frame, ‘ my little Marjorie, if you had been left to me, I don’t think I should ever have spoken, but when you did go away I felt as if the last chance of happiness had been taken from me. So I said, “ I will go to my little girl, I will tell her of my loneliness, I will say to her I have given her my love, and I will ask for hers in return.’’ Marjorie, will you give it me, my dear She raised her eyes to his and answered softly : ‘I like you very much, monsieur.’ ^ And you will marry me, Marjorie f ‘ I — I don’t know that.’ ‘ Marjorie !’ ‘ I mean, monsieur, I will tell Mr. Lorraine.’ ‘ You will not ! — you must not !’ ‘ Monsieur !’ ‘ Marjorie, do you not see what I mean 1 They are all against me, everyone of them, and if they knew they would take my little girl away. Marjorie, listen to me. You say you love me, and you do love me, I am sure of that, therefore I wish you to promise to marry me and say nothing to any soul.’ ‘ To marry you in secret % Oh, I could not do that, monsieur !’ ‘Then you do not love me, Marjorie*?’ ‘ Indeed, it is not true. And Mr. Lorraine is like my father, and he loves me so much. I would not do anything to vex or hurt him, monsieur.’ For a moment the Frenchman’s face was clouded, and he cast a most ominous look upon the girl; then all in a moment again the sunshine burst forth. 12^2 ANNAN WATER, ‘ You have a kind heart, Marjorie,^ he said. ‘ It is like my little girl to talk so, hut she is sensible, and will listen to me. Marjorie, don’t think I want to harm you, or lead you to do wrong. I love you far too well, little one, and my only thought is how I can keep and cherish you all my life.’ It must not he supposed that Marjorie was altogether proof against such wooing as this. She believed that the Frenchman was incapable of deceit, and though at first the proposal had given her a shock, she soon came to think in listening to his persuasive voice that she was the one to blame. He was so much wiser than she, and he knew so much more of the world ; and he loved her so much that he would never counsel her amiss. Marjorie did not consent to his wish, for it is not in a moment that we can wipe away the deeply instilled pre- judice of a lifetime, but she finally promised to think it over and see him again. He walked with her to within a quarter of a mile of the clergyman’s gate, then he left her. During the rest of that day Marjorie went about in a sort of dream, and it was not until she had gone to bed at night that she was able to think dispassionately of the interview. She reviewed all that he had said to her, and was astonished to find how little his proposal seemed to shock her. Of course she still held to her first opinion that an open straightforward course of action would be the best. Besides, now that she knew that Caussidiere loved her, she had an inexpressible longing to kneel at her dear father’s feet, and tell him of her great joy and happi ness ; but then came the dread of which Caussidiere had spoken, the fear that Mr. Lorraine might refuse his consent and separate her from her lover for ever. There certainly was a possibility of this, and now that she was alone Marjorie freely acknowledged the danger. She herself had noticed that, though at first Mr. Lorraine had been kindly disposed to the Frenchman, yet that latterly his feeling seemed to have changed. Miss Hetherington’s will, BY THE FIRTH OF FORTH. 123 paramount in this as in all things, had made the clergyman take her view of the matter, and the Frenchman had suffered accord- ingly. But why were they all so prejudiced against him ? What was his crime ? Simply the most venial crime of all, that of being unfortunate ! He was an exile, friendless, and poor, and so all doors were shut against him. Marjorie saw, or thought she saw, the injustice of it all, and her affectionate little heart rose in revolt. The next day she went to meet the Frenchman again. The moment he saw her face he knew that in leaving her to reason out the problem he had done well. She came forward with all the confidence of a child, and said : ‘ Monsieur Caussidiere, since I love you, I will trust you with all my heart.’ Oh, the days which followed, the hours of blissful dreamy joy ! Marjorie went every day to’ meet her lover ; each day found her happier than she had been before. He was good and kind, and her love for him increased ; his reasoning seemed logical as well as pleasant, and it was beginning to take a firm hold of her accordingly. What he might eventually have persuaded her to do it is difficult to imagine, but an event happened which for the time being saved her from precipitation. She had left her lover one day, promising to think over his proposition of an immediate secret marriage, and give him her decision on the following morning. She walked along the road with her head filled with the old and still perplexing problem, but the moment she reached her home all such thoughts were rudely driven from her head. She found Mrs. Menteith in the parlour crying bitterly. Mr, Menteith, pale and speechless, stood by her side with an open telegram in his hand. ‘ What is the matter V asked Marjorie. Taking the telegram from the minister’s unresisting grasp she xead as follows : 124 ANNAN WATER. ‘ Send Marjorie home at once. Mr. Lorraine is dangerously ill/ The girl sank with a low cry upon the ground ; then with an effort she rose and cried : ‘ Let me go to him ; let me go home/ N^ot once that night did Marjorie remember Caussidifere or her appointment with him on the following day. Her one thought now was of Mr, Lorraine. She hurriedly collected together her few belongings, and that very night she left for home. CHAPTEE XYIL TWO MARJORIES. It was a raw, wet, windy night, when Marjorie arrived at the railway station of Dumfries. Scarcely had the train reached the platform when the figure of a young man leapt upon the foot- board and looked in at the carriage window, while a familiar voice addressed her by name. She looked round, as she stood reaching down some parcels and a small hand-bag from the net above her seat, and recognised John Sutherland. ^ They have sent me to meet you,’ he said, stretching out his hand. ‘ I have a dog-cart writing outside the station to drive you down.’ She took the outstretched hand eagerly, quite forgetful of the angry words with which they had last parted, and cried in a broken voice : ‘Oh, Johnnie, is he better?’ The young man’s face looked grave indeed as he replied : ‘ He is about the same. He is very weak, and has been asking for you. But come, let me look after your luggage, and then we’ll hurry down.’ TWO MARJORIES, 125 There were few passengers and little luggage by the train, and they found Marjorie’s small leather trunk standing almost by it- self on the platform. A porter shouldered it, and, following him, they passed out of the station and found a solitary dog-cart waiting, with a ragged urchin at the horse’s head. A few minutes later Marjorie and Sutherland were driving rapidly side by side through the dark and rain-washed streets of the town. Then, while he held the reins and guided the animal — a fast- trotting country cob — Sutherland explained, in fragmentary sentences, all that had occurred. On the previous Sunday, just after concluding his usual sermon, Mr. Lorraine had been seized by a curious faintness, consequent on a sharp spasm at the heart, and had with difficulty dismissed his congregation ; then, tottering like a man death-stricken, he had passed into the vestry and fallen, almost insensible, into the arms of his clerk and sexton. Presently he had recovered suffi- ciently to crawl, with Solomon’s assistance, over to the manse ; but on his arrival there the painful symptoms increased, and he was undressed and placed in bed. The village doctor, called in hurriedly, had first prescribed brandy and water, which the patient, staunch in his teetotalism, firmly refused to take ; and, after some delay, the doctor had substituted a medicinal stimu- lant. During the night Mr. Lorraine had continued in great suffering, with frequent recurrence of the pectoral spasms. By the next morning, though incredibly weakened in the short space of time that had occurred since his first seizure, he seemed rather better. But within the next twenty-four hours the symptoms, ominous from the beginning, became still more grave, and he alternated between sharp attacks of pain and periods of semi-stupor. Then, in the pauses of one of the attacks, he had first asked for Mar- jorie, for whom the telegram had been despatched at once. Sobbing wildly, while the wind and rain smote her in the face, Marjorie listened and questioned. She was so young and inex- perienced in sorrow that even yet she did not realise the possi- 126 ANNAN WATER. bility of a mortal loss ; and, indeed, Sutherland, anxious to spare her, made the picture he was drawing as little dark as possible. It was a dreary drive ; and Marjorie, through her tears, saw the dull lights of the town disappear, the houses and hedges glide darkly past her, till they came out upon the open country road, where the wind was wild and unrestrained, and the rain fell in torrents. The horse, knowing the road blindfold, splashed swiftly down through the darkness. To Sutherland it was a sweet, though a mournful, experience. To feel the frail, beautiful form of the maid he loved trembling so close to him, to be so near to her with his affectionate protect- ing influence, to listen to her murmured inquiries, and to answer her with gentle words of comfort, seemed to make amends for much that was unhappy in the past. Again and again he felt the fond impulse to put his arm around her and soothe her with words of love ; but he lacked the courage, and, indeed, he felt that to obtrude his affection at that moment would be profana- tion. Meanwhile he felt almost happy. That drive became memor- able to him long afterwards, when darker days came, and he would gladly have prolonged it through the whole night. Eut after little more than an hour it came to an end. Passing rapidly through the streets of the village, they at last drew up before the gate of the manse. With an eager cry, half a sob, Marjorie leapt down. ‘ ril put up the horse and come back,’ cried Suther- land. Marjorie scarcely heard, but, opening the gate, ran in across the garden, and knocked softly at the manse door, which was opened almost instantly by Mysie, the old serving woman. The moment she saw Marjorie she put her finger on her lips. Marjorie stepped in, and the door was softly closed. Mysie led the way into the study, where a lamp was dimly burning. ‘ Oh, Mysie, how is he now V TIVO MARJORIES, 127 The woman’s hard world-worn face was sad beyond expression, and her eyes were red with weeping. ‘ Wheesht, Miss Marjorie/ she answered, ‘speak low. A wee while syne he sank into a bit sleep. He’s awfu’ changed ! Tm thinkin’ he’ll no last mony hoors langer.’ ‘ Oh, Mysie !’ sobbed the girl convulsively. ‘ Wheesht, or he may hear ye ! Bide here a minute and I’ll creep ben and see if he has waukened.’ She stole from the room. In a few moments she returned to the door and beckoned. Choking down her emotion Marjorie followed her without a word. They crossed the lobby and entered the rudely-furnished bed- room where Mr. Lorraine had slept so many years, and there in the very bed where the little foundling had been placed that wintry night long ago lay the minister — haggard, worn, and ghastly, with all the look of a man that was sinking fast. His- white hair was strewn upon the pillow, his cheeks were sunken and ashen pale, and his dim blue eyes looked at vacancy, while his thin hand fingered the counterpane. Marjorie crept closer with bursting heart and looked upon him. As she did so she became conscious of a movement at the foot of the bed. There kneeling in silence was old Solomon. He looked up with a face almost as grey and stony as that of his master, but gave no other sign of recognition. The minister rocked his head from side to side, and continued to pick the coverlet, muttering to himself : ‘Marjorie ! Marjorie, my doo ! Aye, put the bairn in my arms — she has ^our own eyes, Marjorie, your own eyes o’ an heaven’s blue. Solomon, my surplice ! To-day’s the christening. . . . We’ll call her Marjorie, after her mother. . . . Abonnienamel A bonnie bairn ! . . . Bring the light, Solomon ! • . . She’s wet and weary. We’ll lay her down in the bed !’ At the mention of his name, Solomon rose like a gaunt spectre, and stood gazing desolately at his master. His eyes were wild and tearless, and he shook like a reed. 128 ANNAN WATER. Marjorie drew nearer, till she stood close over the bed. The minister’s eyes met hers, hut showed no sign of recognition. ‘ Oh, Mr. Lorraine !’ she sobbed. ‘ Do you not know me ? It is Marjorie !’ He did not seem to hear. ‘ We were lass and lad — lass and lad. Solomon, my man, draw up your chair and light your pipe. Listen to the wind, Solomon — it’s an awful night. Speak low, lest you waken the bairn — Marjorie’s bairn. Is that Marjorie ? Somebody’s knock- ing at the door. Open, and let her in to the fire. Marjorie, my doo, what’s that you’re holdiug ’neath your shawl? Is it our bairn? You’re wet, wet, and your face is like a dead woman’s, and why do you moan and greet like that ? I thought you were sleeping in the kirkyard. Aye, aye, I’m grey and old — but you’re young still, Marjorie; young and bonnie for ever- more, Come closer, Marjorie ! There, lean your head upon my breast.’ As he spoke he seemed to clasp some visionary form in his embrace, while his wan face wore an expression of ineffable tenderness and beauty. Sobbing as if her heart would break, Marjorie reached out her hand and took the right hand of the minister, which lay out upon the coverlet ; then overcome with emotion, she sank on her knees by the bedside. There was a long silence, broken only by the sick man’s feeble murmurs, which had now become almost inarticulate. Marjorie, with her face buried, prayed silently for the life of her guardian and benefactor. Suddenly there was a low cry from Solomon. Marjorie started up, and at the same moment Mr. Lorraine half raised himself on his elbow and looked wildly around him. ‘ Who’s there ?’ he moaned — ‘ Marjorie !’ And for the first time his eyes seemed fixed on hers in actual recognition. ‘ Yes, Mr. Lorraine ! Oh, speak to me !’ He did not answer, but still gazed upon her with a beautiful TIFO MARJORIES. 129 emile. His hand was still in hers, and she felt it flattering like a leaf. Suddenly the smile faded into a look of startled wonder and divine awe. He looked at Marjorie, but through her, as it were at something beyond. ‘ Marjorie ? he moaned, ‘ I^m coming !* Alas ! it was to another Marjorie, some shining presence un- beheld of other eyes, that he addressed that last joyful cry. Scarcely had it left his lips than his jaw dropped convulsively,, and he fell back upon his pillow dead. ****** When Marjorie came to herself — for in the pain and horror of that first experience of death she had fainted completely away — • she found herself in the arms of Mysie, who tried to lead her from the room. She looked round, and there lay the minister white and cold, with Solomon bending over him and softly closing his eyes. She uttered a wild cry and rushed to the bedside^ ‘ Tak’ the bairn awaV said Solomon, in a low voice. ‘Oh, Solomon, is he dead indeed she cried, weeping wildly. ‘Aye, he’s gane !’ replied the sexton, in a voice hollow as the sound of the church bell ‘ Gane, and gane first !’ he added, muttering to himself. ‘ ]^ae woman folk shall lay him oot. I hae sairved him leeving, and Til sairve him deid. God rest ye, meenister ! ’Twill soon be my turn — aye, aye, the sooner the better.’ At last Marjorie suffered herself to be led away. When she returned half-an-hour later, she found that all the last offices of death had been carefully and tenderly performed. Washed, and dressed in a bedgown as white as snow, with his hair carefully combed and arranged, and his hand placed gently by his side, the minister lay, smiling as if asleep. On the cover- lit lay the small household Bible which he had been accustomed to use at home. In a chair by the bedside Solomon sat watching, still without a tear. ‘ Oh, Solomon, may I kiss him f whispered Marjorie ; and 9 ANNAN WATER, >30 without waiting for a reply, she bent down and touched the marble cheek with her warm young lips. Ah, that icy kiss of Death ! The cold beyond all living cold- ness, the inexpressible and awful sense of hopeless, eternal chill ! ^he shrank in terror, being only a child. ‘Dinna greet, Marjorie!’ said Solomon. ‘Dae ye think, if he wasna ripe, he wad be gather’d ? He was an auld, auld man, — aulder than me, and I’m auld eneugh. Does he no look bonnie and at peace % He preached the Word o’ God for nigh sixty years ; he’ll never preach mair 1 He was a grand man and a grand preacher ; I was prood to be his precentor and his servant. God rest his soul ! Amen.’ The tone in which Solomon spoke was strangely monotonous and dreary, and he himself had almost the semblance of a dead man. ****** Let me draw a veil over the sorrow of that night, which was spent by poor Marjorie in uncontrollable grief. Sutherland, re- turning a little while after the minister’s breath had gone, tried in vain to comfort her, but remained in or about the house till break of day. Early next morning. Miss Hetherington, driving up to the manse door in her faded carriage, heard the sad news. She entered in, looking grim and worn beyond measure, and looked at the dead man. Then she asked for Marjorie, and learned that she had retired to her room. As the lady returned to her carriage, she saw young Sutherland standing at the gate. ‘It’s all o’er at last, then,’ she said, ‘and Marjorie Annan has lost her best friend. Try to comfort her, Johnnie, if ye can.’ ‘ I’ll do that. Miss Hetherington,’ cried Sutherland eagerly. ‘ The old gang and the young come,’ muttered the lady. * She’s alone now in the world, but I’m her friend still. When %he funeral’s o’er she must come to stay a while wi’ me. Will ) e tell her thatf TIVO MARJORIES. *31 ^ Yes, if you wish ‘ Aye, I wish it. Poor bairn ! It’s her first puff o’ the ill wind o’ sorrow ; hut when she’s as old as me she’ll ken there are things in this world far waur than death' So saying she moved to her carriage, and entering it was slowly driven away. With a deep sigh Sutherland crossed to the manse door wdiich he found open. Using his privilege of intimate friendship he entered the hall. As he did so he heard voices from the bedroom behind ; he approached on tip-toe and looked into the room. There, decently laid out in the darkened chamber, lay the body ot the minister; and by the bedside was Solomon Muckle- backit in whispered consultation with Hew Moffatt, the local grocer and undertaker, who stood with measuring tape in hand. ‘ Let it be o’ strang aik, Mister Hew, wu’ brass heided nails, but plain and decent like himsel’. Hae ye the measure ? Line it wi’ white sawtin, a’ complete. Weel, weel, I wis I was lying beside him, and there w^as room for twa.’ ‘ It was awful sudden, was it no V said the undertaker. ^ I didna ken that the meenister was ailing. . . . . Six foot frae held till foot. What age will I put on the plate, Solomon V ‘ Seeventy year and seeven ; and his name in fu’ — the Eev. Sampson Lorraine.’ Here the eye of the sexton fell on Sutherland, who stood hesitating at the door. ‘ Come in, Johnnie Sutherland,’ he said. ‘Dinna stand glower- ing, but come ben. See, there he lies !’ Sutherland entered noiselessly, and stood reverently by the bed. Solomon approached his side, and joined him as he gazed at the dead man. ‘ In the midst o’ life we are in death,’ the sexton murmured. ^Did ye ever look on a bonnier corpse ? As white and clean as a bairn, for his heart was pure. I’ll dig his grave wi’ my ain hands — nae ither man shall touch it There’s a peacefu’ spot 9-2 132 ANNAN WATER close to the vestry wiudow, and he shall rest there. Maybe he^ll no^ he angry if I lea’ a corner near for mysel’. I hae been his servant a’ these years, and I’ll be near him when I dee. He was a kindly man, and never prood.’ Deeply affected, Sutherland stole from the room and entered the adjoining study. Solomon followed him, and continued to talk, as if muttering dreamily to himself. ‘ The funeral will be on Saturday. I hae sent word already to his sister and her gudeman, and nae doot they’ll be here ; and there will be heaps o’ the neebours, nae doot, to pay him the last respecks. You’ll be there yoursel’ V ‘ Of course,’ answered Sutherland. ‘ How is Marjorie*?’ ‘ She’s upstairs greetin’ in her room — ye canna see her. A lassie’s tears ! They flow easy as water, and siccan tears are soon mended.’ ‘ I am sure she loved him very much,’ interposed Sutherland, gently. Solomon gazed grimly at the speaker, but made no reply. A few minutes later Sutherland left the dreary house. ■^ * * * * * The day of the funeral came. It broke bright and sunny, and long before the time fixed there was a goodly gathering round the churchyard gate, on the road, and in the little study, where the usual funeral bakemeats were spread for a few of the gentry. Mrs. Menteith presided, having arrived with her husband on the previous day, and there were several clergymen from the surrounding districts. Miss Hetherington too had come over, and sat with her keen eyes fixed on Marjorie, who was pale and tolerably resigned. Alas, that dismal last passage from the light of day to the gloom of the grave 1 Of all the company there, scarcely one save Marjorie showed any sign of abiding grief. As for Mrs. Men- teith, the dead man’s only kith and kin, she had lived in a world of gloom so long and had known so much personal sorrow TWO MARJORIES. 133 that she seemed little changed, save for a few external signs of grief. Young Sutherland, who was present, seemed greatly moved, but if the truth must be spoken his distress was more for the maiden he loved and her distress, than for the pure sense of bereavement. The church bell tolled, and the company passed slowly across to the churchyard behind the oaken coffin, borne on the shoulders of four men, one of whom was the faithful Solomon. Then, when the coffin was set down in the church, Solomon took his place as clerk, while the Eev. Mr. Menteith, in the dis- mallest of voices, read the funeral service.. Marjorie, sitting by the side of Mrs. Menteith, sobbed as if her heart must break. Out into the still kirkyard, where the sun was brightly shining, and up to the verge of the open grave which Solomon had dug, as he had sworn to do, with his own hands. Then — ‘ashes to ashes; dust to dust^ As he sprinkled the first clay on the hard wood of the coffin, and looked down into the dark grave where it was lying, Solomon’s tears flowed freely for the first time. ‘ Oh, meenister, meenister,’ he moaned ; ‘ why did ye gang first, and lea’ me lingering behind V When the cold earth fell into the grave, Marjorie uttered a low^ cry, and turned convulsively away. As she did so, she saw Caussidiere, dressed in complete black, standing at a little dis- tance, with his sad eyes fixed on hers. CHAPTEK XYIIL ‘the wooing o’t!’ The few days which followed immediately upon the clergyman’s funeral, were the most wretched Marjorie had ever spent. Habited in her plain black dress, she sat at home in the little 134 ANNAN WATER, parlour, watching with weary, wistful eyes the figures of Solomon and Mysie, who, similarly clad, moved like ghosts about her; and all the while her thoughts were with the good old man, who, after all, had been her only protector in the world. While he had been there to cheer and comfort her she had never realised how far these others were from her. Xow she knew ; she was as one left utterly alone. It was by her own wish that she remained at the manse. Mrs. Menteith, obliged after the funeral to return to her home, had offered to take Marjorie with her, and Miss Hetherington had sent a little note requesting her to make the Castle her home. Both of these invitations Marjorie refused. To go to Edinburgh would take her too far from her beloved dead, while the thought of living with Miss Hetherington at Annandale Castle positively appalled her. So she said ‘Ho.’ The lady of the Castle received the refusal kindly, saying that although Marjorie could not take up her residence at the Castle, she must not altogether avoid it. ‘ Come when you wish, my bairn,’ concluded the old lady. ‘You’ll aye be welcome. We are both lonely women, now, and must comfort one another.’ During the first few days, however, Marjorie did not go. She sat at home during the day, and in the dusk of the evening, when she believed no one would see her, she went forth to visit the churchyard and cry beside her foster-father’s grave. At length, however, she remembered the old lady’s kindly words, and putting on her bonnet and a thick veil, she one morning set out on a visit to Annandale Castle. Marjorie had not seen Miss Hetherington since that day she came down to the funeral ; when, therefore, she was shown into the lady’s presence she almost uttered a frightened cry. There sat the grim mistress of the Castle in state, but looking as worn and faded as her faded surroundings. Her face was pinched and worn as if with heart-eating grief or mortal disease. She received ‘ THE WOOING arr 13; the girl fondl}’’, yet with something of her old imperious manner; and during the interview she renewed the olfer of protection. But Marjorie, after looking at the dreary room and its strange mistress gave a most decided negative. ‘ rd better stay at home,^ she said. ‘ Ye silly bairn, you cannot aye bide at the manse,’ returned the lady; ‘if the house is aye to be in the possession of that daft Solomon and you, where do you mean to put the new minister that’s coming to Annandale'l’ Marjorie did not answer. To tell the truth, this was a phase of the situation which had never once entered her mind. She had thought in a vague sort of way that she would remain at the manse, and that was all. But now her eyes were opened. She knew that a new minister would be needed, and the manse was his proper home. Solomon, in all probability, would retain his place as sexton, but assuredly she would be compelled to go. She remained with Miss Hetherington only a short time^ and when she left the Castle her mind was so full of solici- tude, that she walked along utterly oblivious to everything about her. Suddenly she started and uttered a glad cry of sur- prise. A man had touched her on the shoulder, and, lifting her eyes, she beheld her lover. The Frenchman was dressed as she last had seen him, in plain black ; his face was pale and troubled. Marjorie, feeling that new sense of desolation upon her, drew near to his side. ^ ‘ Ah, monsieur,’ she said, ‘ you have come — at last.’ Caussidiere did not embrace her, but held her hands, and^ patted them fondly, while Marjorie, feeling comforted by his very presence, allowed her tears to flow unrestrainedly. He let her cry for a time, then he placed her hand upon his arm, and walked with her slowly in the direction of the manse. ‘ My Marjorie,’ he said, ‘ my own dear love ! this has been a-» ANNAN WATER. 136 sore trial to you, but you have borne it bravely, I have seen you suffer, and I have suffered too.’ ‘You have seen, monsieur? ‘ Yes, Marjorie, Did you think because I was silent I had forgotten Ah, no, my love. I have watched over you always, I have seen you go forth at night, and cry as if your little heart would break. But I have said nothing, because I thought “ Such grief is sacred. I must watch and wait,” and I have waited.’ ‘ Yes, monsieur ? ‘But to-day, Marjorie, when I saw you come from the Castle with your face all troubled — ah, so troubled, my Marjorie ! I thought, “ I can wait no longer, my little one needs me ; she will tell me her grief, and now, in her hour of need I will help her.” So I have come, Marjorie, and my little one will confide all her sorrows to me.’ Then the child in her helplessness clung to him ; for he loved her and sympathised with her ; and she told him the full extent of her own desolation. The Frenchman listened attentively while she spoke. When she ceased he clasped her hands more fervently than before, and said : ‘ Marjorie, come to my home !’ She started, and drew her hands away. She knew what more he would say, and it seemed to her sacrilege when the clergyman had been so recently laid in his grave. The French- man, gathering from her face the state of her mind, continued prosaically enough : ‘ I know it is not a time to talk of love, Marjorie ; but it is a time to talk of marriage ! When you were in Edinburgh you gave me your promise ; and you said you loved me. I ask you now, Fulfil your promise; let us become man and wife !’ ‘ You wish me to marry you now^ monsieur V ‘Ah, yes, Marjorie.’ ‘ Although I am a penniless, friendless, homeless lass,* ^THE WOOING arr 137 ‘ What is that to mo, my dear ] I love you, and I wish you to he my wife/ ‘You are very good/ ‘ Marjorie V ‘ Yes/ ‘ Tell me ; when will you make me the happiest man alive 1* Marjorie looked at her black dress, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘ I do not know — I cannot tell,’ she said. ‘ Not yet/ ‘ Eh lien ! — but it must not be long delayed. The decrees of destiny hurry us onward. You will soon be thrust from the manse, as you say, while I must return to France.^ ‘ You are going away.’ ‘ Most assuredly I must soon go. My future is brightening before me, and I am glad — thank Heaven ! — there are few dark clouds looming ahead to sadden our existence, my child. The tyrant who desecrates France will one day fall ; meantime his advisers have persuaded him to pardon many political offenders, myself amongst them. So I shall see France again ! God is good ! When He restores me to my country, He will give me also my wife.’ He paused, and Marjorie was silent. Was it all real or only a dream ! It seemed so strange that she, plain little Marjorie Annan, should marry a gentleman like Monsieur Caussidiere and go away to lead a life of fairy-like happiness in France. Already the old, peaceful life by Annan Water seemed to be fading away, while that other life rising before her showed as yet no dark spot upon its shining face. And yet Marjorie felt afraid ; perhaps even then a faint feeling of what was before her made her shrink a little from entering that strange land unprotected and almost alone. Caussidiere felt her hand tremble as it lay upon his arm ; he looked at her, and he saw that her eyes were again full of tears. ‘ Marjorie,’ he said, ‘ what is itf The girl hastily brushed away her tears, and choked down the sobs which were rising in her throat I3S ANNAN WATER. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but I feel so sad. Oh, monsieur, if I go with you, I leave my home and every one who cares for me in the world.’ For a moment the Frenchman’s face was by no means pleasant to behold. He pulled his moustache, brought down his brows, and opened his lips to say something, when suddenly the im- pulse passed away, and he addressed her more lovingly than ever. ‘ It is your kind heart, my child,’ he said, ‘ which makes you say so much. Your home, what is it? A house which you will soon be turned from. Your friends, who are they % At the head of them stands Miss Hetherington, a selfish woman, who would sacrifice you to her own iron, lieadstrong temper, and, if you dared gainsay her, would have sufficient strength of will to see you starving in the streets without much ]3ity. Then there is Solomon, the sexton, and Mysie, the servant at the manse. What would they do for you, Marjorie ? while I, whom you fear, would willingly make you my wife, and give you a happy future.’ ‘ Ah, monsieur, I do not fear you, but ’ ‘ Then prove it, Marjorie ; put your little hand in mine, and say “ Leon, I trust you with all my heart.” Say it, my child^ and believe me your faith shall not be misplaced.’ He held forth his hand to her, and Marjorie, tremblingly raising her eyes to his face, said in broken accents. ‘ I do trust you.’ So a second time the troth was plighted, and, whether for good or ill, Marjorie’s fate was sealed. Every day after this she met the Frenchman, and at each of these interviews his influence over her seemed to increase. Having got her thus far into his power, he easily persuaded her to keep their relations private, and to consent to a secret mar- riage. It certainly seemed strange to Marjorie that he should wish this, but after a little reflection she persuaded herself that after all he might be right. Now that the minister was gone^ ^THE WOOING art 139 where was the sympathetic soul in whom she could confide? There was absolutely no one. So Marjorie, having been drawn on and on, quite unconscious, poor child, of the meshes of the net which were being laid so cunningly about her, had al- ready begun to recover from her first sharp sense of deso- lation. The prospect of a secret marriage was the only thing that troubled her, and here her fears were soon lulled at rest. After all, what was there to daunt her ? Caussidiere had proposed nothing dishonourable ; she loved him better than anyone she had met ; so where was the harm in marrying him ? Then again, he had held out hopes to her which made her heart very glad. She must go to France with him as his wife. He wished to show her his home, he said, and to make her known to all his dear relations. Then after a while she would come back again ; he would bring her to Annandale to revisit her old home and her old friends. Flow proud they would all be of her, and they would then assuredly open their hearts to him, for he would show them how little he had deserved their coldness and mis- trust ! Having got her thus far under his influence, Caussidiere began to press on the marriage. His plan was clear. He would obtain a special license, armed with which he would disappear from Annandale to take up his abode for the necessary period in the place fixed upon by him for the marriage ceremony to take place. At first Marjorie shrank from this as she had done from his other proposals ; but after a while she consented. Caussidiere, however, was by no means easy in his mind. Perceiving well enough that the maiden was acting more under his will than her own, he feared that, if left to herself, her courage at the last moment might fail her. He therefore generously volunteered to come back to Annandale to fetch her. must take care of you now’' he said as they stood together near the manse gate. ‘Marjorie, my darling,’ he added, lifting 140 ANNAN WATER, her face and kissing it — ‘ Marjorie, my little love, only a very few days now and you will be my wife,’ CHAPTER XIX, A LITTLE CHEQUE. The day following her final promise to Caussidiere, Marjorie received intimation that the new minister was coming without delay to take possession of the living. Her informant was Solomon Mucklehackit, whose funereal despair was tempered with a certain lofty scorn. ‘ He’s frae the Hielan’s beyond Glasgow, and a callant scarce thirty years o’ age. Ereeland they ca’ him, and he has a wife and a hoosefu’ o’ weans. That I should leeve to see a hen-peckib upstart preachin’ in our poopit, and a flock o’ red-heided Hielan’ bairns screechin’ in oor hoose ! It’s enough to gar the meenister — God rest him ! — rise in his grave !’ When will they come, Solomon ?’ cried Marjorie, her eyes full of tears. • He’s coming himsel’ first, to preach next Sabbath, and he’s to hae the meenister’s ain bed in the manse. We’re here on sufferance noo, you ken, and directly the sale is owre ’ Marjorie turned away sobbing. The break-up of her house- hold gods was nearly complete ; for under Mr. Menteith’s in- structions the few goods and chattels were already announced to be disposed of by public roup. As to the general state of Mr. Lorraine’s worldly affairs, Marjorie as yet knew nothing; but she had heard and seen quite enough to be aware that he died, as he had lived, a very poor man. The next day, which was a Thursday, the Reverend Mr. Men- teith arrived from Edinburgh, and summoned Marjorie to an interview in the little study. When she appeared, his gloomy A LITTLE CHEQUE. 141 face was not nnkindly, and he took her hand and kissed her on the forehead with almost paternal gentleness. ‘ I have had a letter from Mr. Freeland/ he exclaimed, and he wishes to take possession directly the sale is over. Have you thought again over Mistress Menteith’s proposal that you should bide, for a time at least, as a member of our family'?’ Yes, Marjorie had thought of it ; but she begged, with many sobs and tears, to remain where she was. ‘That, my child, is impossible,’ responded Mr. Menteith. ‘ This place is no longer your home, and you are o’er young to dwell by yourself. There is a little money, about a hundred and twenty pounds, besides the produce of the sale, which will amount, say, to fifty more ; and though Mr. Lorraine has left no will. Mistress Menteith and myself are agreed to lay out this sum for your benefit. Such a trifle, however, if placed out at interest, would scarcely keep you in porridge and milk, and if you lived upon the principal, it would be gone directly. If you will come to us, you will be welcome, and the money shall be your portion when you marry.’ The proposal was a kind one, and under other circumstances Marjorie would have accepted it with a grateful heart ; but she remembered her promise to Caussidiere, who seemed indeed the only real refuge in her desolation. ‘Please give me time to think it over,’ said Marjorie sadly. ‘ I can’t realise it all yet, Mr. Menteith.’ She added, almost as if to herself, ‘ Miss Hetherington has offered me a home as well as you.’ Mr. Menteith opened his eyes. Although a pious man, he was not without his reverence for the aristocracy of this world. ‘ At the Castle, Marjorie 1 To reside with her temporarily or as a guest V ‘ As long as I like, Mr. Menteith. She has been kind to me ever since I was a bairn, and she would like me to live with her altogether.’ ‘Then of course you will go? Hay, don’t think I shall 142 ANNAN WATER, blame you for preferring Miss Hetherington^s protection to the shelter of our humble home !’ But Marjorie shook her head. ‘ I would rather go to Edinburgh with you than stay therey she answered. ‘ I cannot thole the dreary place ; and Miss Hetherington, though she is so kind, is very strange. Often, Mr. Menteith, I think she is not quite in her right mind. Whiles she is kind to me, and greets over me, and is very tender ; but whiles she changes, and scolds and storms, till Em in dread to look her in the face. I am sure I could never bide up at the Castle.’ ‘ Well, we shall see,’ muttered Mr. Menteith, rather irritably; and so the conversation ended. On the following Saturday arrived the new minister, prepared to officiate for the first time in the parish. He was, as Solomon had predicted, a youngish man, with red hair and beard, and very pink complexion ; but his manners were unassuming and good-natured. His wife and family, he explained, were to follow him in about ten days; and in the meantime his furniture and other chattels were coming on by train. Shown over the manse by Solomon, he expressed no little astonishment at find- ing only two or three rooms furnished, and these very barely. ‘Mr. Lorraine never married f he inquired as they passed from room to room. ‘ The meenister \vas a wise man,’ replied Solomon ambiguously. ^ He lived and he dee’d in single sanctity, according to the holy commandment o’ the Apostle Paul.’ ‘Just so/ said Mr. Freeland with a smile. ‘Well, I shall find the manse small enough for my belongings. Mistress Free- land has been used to a large house, and we shall need every room. The chamber facing the river, upstairs, will make an excellent nursery.’ ‘My ain bedroom!’ muttered Solomon. ‘Weel, weel, I’m better oot o’ the house.’ At the service on the following day there was a large attend- A LITTLE CHEQUE. 143 aiice to welcome the new minister. Solomon occupied his usual place as precentor, and his face, as Mr. Freeland officiated above him, was a study in its expression of mingled scorn, humiliation, and despair. But the minister had a resonant voice, and a manner of thumpiug the cushion which carried conviction to the hearts of all unprejudiced observers. The general verdict upon him, when the service was over, was that he was the right man in the right place, and ‘ a grand preacher.’ The congregation slowly cleared away, while Marjorie, linger- ing behind, walked sadly to the grave of her old foster-father and stood looking upon it through fastly falling tears. So rapt was she in her own sorrow that she did not hear a footstep be- hind her, and not till Caussidiere had come up and taken her by the hand was she aware of his presence. ‘ So the change has come at last, my Marjorie,* he said. * Was I not right? This place is no longer a home for you,’ ^Monsieur.’ ‘ Call me Leon. Shall we not soon be man and wife ?* But Marjorie only sobbed. ‘ He was so good. He was my first, my only friend.* ‘Peace be with him,’ returned the Frenchman tenderly. ‘He loved you dearly, mignonne^ and I knew his only wish would be to see you happy. Look what I hold in my hand. A charm — a talisman — parhleiCj it is like the wonderful lamp of Aladdin, which will carry us, as soon as you will, hundreds of miles away.* As he spoke he drew forth a folded paper and smilingly held it before her. ‘What is it, monsieur?* she asked, perplexed. ‘ Ho ; you must call me Leon — then I will tell you.* ‘ What is it — Leon V ‘The special license, Marjorie, which permits us to marry when and where we will.* Marjorie started and trembled, then she looked wildly at the grave. 144 ANNAN WATER. ‘ Not yet/ she murmured. ‘ Do not ask me yet He glanced round— no one was near — so with a quick movoi ment he drew her to him, and kissed her fondly on the lips. ‘ You have no home now,’ he cried ; ^ strangers come to dis- place you, to turn you out into the cold world. Eut you have one who loves you a thousand times better for your sorrow and your poverty — ah, yes, I know you are poor ! — and who will be your loving protector till the end.’ She looked at him in wonder. Ah, how good and kind he was. Knowing her miserable birth, seeing her friendless and almost castaway, he would still be beside her, to comfort and cherish her with his deep affection. If she had ever doubted his sincerity could she doubt 7iow ? * * * * * * Half-an-hour later Caussidiere was walking rapidly in the direction of Annandale Castle. He looked supremely self-satisfied and happy, and hummed a light French air as he went. Arriving at the door he knocked, and the old serving-woman appeared in answer to the summons. ‘ Miss Hetherington, if you please.’ ‘ You canna see her/ was the sharp reply. ‘ What’s your beesiness V ^ Give her this card, if you please, and tell her I must see her without delay.’ After some hesitation the woman carried the card away, first shutting the door unceremoniously in the visitor s face. Pre- sently the door opened again, and the woman beckoned him in. He followed her along the gloomy lobbies, and upstairs, till they reached the desolate boudoir which he had entered on a former occasion. The woman knocked. ‘ Come in,’ said the voice of her mistress. Caussidike entered the chamber, and found Miss Hether- ington, wrapt in an old-fashioned morning gown, seated in an arm-chair at her escritoire. Parchments, loose papers, and A LITTLE CHEQUE, 14 ? packets of old letters lay scattered before her. She wheeled her chair sharply round as he entered, and fixed her eyes upon the frenchman’s face. She looked inexpressibly wild and ghastly, but her features wore an expression of indomitable resolu- tion. Caussidiere bowed politely, then, turning softly, closed the door. ‘ What brings you here V demanded the lady of the Castle. ‘ I wished to see you, my lady,’ he returned. * First, let me trust that you are better, and apologise for having disturbed you on such a day.’ Miss Hetherington knitted her brows, and pointed with tremulous forefinger to a chair. ‘ Sit down,’ she said. Caussidiere obeyed her, and sat down, hat in hand. There was a pause, broken at last by the lady’s quick, querulous voice. ‘ Weel, speak! Have you lost your tongue, man? What’s your will with me V Caussidiere replied with extreme suavity : ‘ I am anxious, my lady, that all misunderstanding should cease between us. Much as you distrust me, I feel for you the greatest sympathy and respect — ah, yes ! — and I wish we could be friends.’ ‘Friends?’ echoed the lady incredulously. ‘Why not? You are a lady of wealth and stainless reputa- tion ; I am a gentleman and a man of honour. I have acci- dentally become acquainted with circumstances which are unknown to the rest of the world; but, believe me, the know- ledge is safe in my keeping, and you may rely on my discretion. Why, then, should you regard me with suspicion, and refuse the offer of my sympathy and my poor service ?’ Curiously enough, even this conciliatory style of address had little or no effect upon the listener, who still kept her dark eyes fixed upon the speaker, and nodded her head grimly in time to his well-rounded periods. 10 ANNAN WATER. i '46 ‘ Gang on/ she said, as he paused smiling ; ‘ you’re not finished yet.’ ‘ IN’ot quite : and yet I have little to say that you have not heard before. The sad event which has just occurred has only confirmed me, madame, in my wish to win your confidence. To prove my sincerity I wull give you a piece of news. I have asked Miss Annan to marry me, and with your consent she is quite willing.’ ‘ What !’ cried Miss Hetherington, half-rising from her chair, and then sinking back with a gasp and a moan. ‘ Have y© dared V Caussidiere gently inclined his head. ‘ And Marjorie — she has dared to accept ye without warning me f ‘ Pardon me, she is not a'vvare that you have any right to be consulted. I, however, who acknowledge your right, have come in her name to solicit your kind approbation.’ ‘ And what do you threaten, man, if I say “ no, no ” — a hundred times no V Caussidiere shrugged his shoulders. ^ Parlleu, I threaten nothing; I am a gentleman, as I have told you. Put should you put obstacles in my way, it may be unpleasant for all concerned.’ Miss Hetherington rose to her feet, livid with rage, and shook her two extended hands in her tormentor’s face. ‘ It’s weel for you I’m no a man ! If I w^ere a man ye should never pass that door again living ! I defy ye — I scorn ye 1 Ye coward, to come here and molest a sick woman !’ She tottered as she spoke, and fell back into her chair. ‘ You are very unjust, my lady,’ answered the Frenchman. ‘ Believe m*e, I am your friend.’ She lay back moaning for some seconds ; then, struck by a new thought, she looked up wearily. ‘ I see how it is ! You want money V * I am not a rich man, madame,’ answered Caussidiere smiling. A LITTLE CHEQUE. 147 ‘If I give 3’ou a hundred pounds will you leave this place, and never let me see your face again f Caussidiere mused. ‘ One hundred pounds. It is not much.' ‘ Two hundred/ exclaimed the lady eagerly. ‘ Two hundred is better, but still not much. With two hundred pounds — and fifty — I might even deny myself the pleasure of your charming acquaintance.’ Miss Hetherington turned towards her desk, and reached her trembling hand towards her cheque-book, which lay there ready. ‘ If I give you two hundred and fifty pounds will you do as I bid ye % Leave this place for ever, and speak no word of what has passed to Marjorie Annan V ‘ Yes,’ said Caussidiere, ‘ I think I can promise tliaV Quickly and nervously Miss Hetherington filled up a cheque. ‘ Please do not cross it,’ suggested Caussidiere. ‘ I will draw the money at your bankers in Dumfries.’ The lady tore off the cheque, but still hesitated. ‘ Can I trust ye V she muttered. ‘ I knew it was siller ye sought, and not the lassie, but ’ ‘ You may rely upon my promise that I shall return forthwith to Prance, where a great political career lies open before me.’ ‘ Will you put it down in writing V ‘ It is needless. I have given you my word. Besides, madame, it is better that such arrangements as these should not be written in black and white. Papers may fall into strange hands, as you are aware, and the result might be unfortunate — -for yon! She shuddered and groaned as he spoke, and forthwith handed him the cheque. He glanced at it, folded it up, and put it in his waistcoat-pocket. Then he rose to go. ‘ As I informed you before,’ he said, ‘ you have nothing to fear from me. My only wish is to secure your good esteem.’ ‘When will you gangf demanded Miss Hetherington. ‘ In the course of the next few days. I have some little arrange- ments, a few bills to settle, and then — en route for Prance.’ 10—2 I4S ANNAN WATER. He bowed again, and gracefully retired. Passing downstairs and out at the front door, he again hummed gaily to himself. As he strolled down the avenue he drew forth the cheque and inspected it again. ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds f he said, laughing. ‘How good of her, how liberal, to pay our travelling expenses 1’ Meantime, Miss Hetherington sat in her gloomy boudoir, looking the picture of misery and despair. Her eyes worked wildly, her lips trembled convulsively. ‘ Oh Hugh, my brother Hugh !’ she cried, wringing her hands ; ‘ if you were living, to take this scoundrel by the throat ! . . . Will he keep his word ] Maybe I was mad to trust him ! I must wait and wait till he's awa'. I'll send doon for the bairn this day ! She's safer here wi' me P CHAPTER XX. FLYING SOUTH. Immediately after his interview with Miss Hetherington, Caussidiere disappeared from the neighbourhood for some days ; a fact which caused Marjorie little or no concern, as she had her own suspicion as to the cause of his absence. Her heart was greatly troubled, for she could not shake off the sense of the deception she was practising on those most interested in her welfare. Again and again, in the privacy of her own chamber, she knelt and prayed for help and advice from the spirit of her dead foster-father. Ah, if he had only been alive to guide her ! Bitterly now did she reproach herself that she had not told him everything and confided in his love and sympathy. There was no one to take his place. Mr. Menteith was kind, but antipathetic ; she dared not tell him the whole truth. As for Solomon, such confidences as she had with Mr. Lorraine were impossible with him. Since his master's death he had FLYING SOUTH, 149 grown gloomier and more irritable than ever : and even her tender approaches to some affectionate understanding were dis* regarded or misunderstood. Poor Solomon was wandering like a haunted creature in the shadow of the grave. Her only other friend was Miss Hetherington, and for her she still felt the old awe and timidity. She feared her violent bursts of temper and her general severity of disposition. ISTo ; there was no safe guide and comforter left, now the good old minister was gone. While she was waiting and debating, she received a visit from the lady of the Castle, who drove down post haste, and stalked into the manse full of evident determination. Marjorie was sent for at once, and, coming downstairs, found Miss Hetherington and Mr. Menteith waiting for her in the study. ‘It’s all settled, Marjorie,’ said the impulsive lady. ‘You’re to come home with me to the Castle this very day/ Marjorie started in astonishment, but before she could make any reply, Mr. Menteith interposed. ‘ You cannot do better, my child, than accept Miss Hethering- ton’s most generous invitation. The day after to-morrow, as you are aware, the sale will take place, and this will be no longer your home. Miss Hetherington is good enough to offer you a shelter until such time as we can decide about your future mode of life.’ ‘Just so,’ said the lady decisively. ‘Pack your things and come awa’ with me in the carriage.’ ‘ I cannot come,’ replied Marjorie ; ‘ at least, not to-day. Oh ! Mr. Menteith, let me stop in the manse till they turn me out, and then ’ She paused, weeping and hiding her face in her hands. ‘ Marjorie, Marjorie,’ murmured Miss Hetherington, not un- kindly, ‘when will ye learn sense, my bairn'? It’s useless greeting for the dead. The silly old man that’s gone has taught you naething o’ the ways 0’ the world/ ‘ Do not say a word against him !’ cried Marjorie, with sudden 150 ANNAN WATER. indignation, uncovering her face, while her eyes flashed through her tears. ‘ Oh ! he was good and wise. I’ll never hear him miscalled.’ ‘ Hush, Marjorie !’ interposed Mr. Menteith. ‘ Let the lassie speak her mind,’ cried Miss Hetherington , ‘ it’s better to flyte than to fret, and I’m glad she has a woman’s spirit. But, Marjorie, I’m not miscalling him that’s gone, for all the world kens that he was a decent. God-fearing man. All I want you to understand is that greeting will never bring him hack, and that my house is your home when you like to come.’ ‘I know you are very kind,’ returned Marjorie, ‘and maybe you’ll be thinking I’m ungrateful. Mr. Lorraine always said you were my best friend. But I cannot come with you to-day.’ ‘ When will you come V demanded the lady. ‘ Give me time, please,’ pleaded Marjorie; ‘in a day or two maybe — after the sale. I should like to stay till I can stay no more.’ So it was settled, to Marjorie’s great relief; and Mr. Menteith led the great lady back to her carriage. As they crossed the garden Miss Hetherington said, leaning on the minister’s arm : ‘ Watch her weel, if you please, till she comes to me, and if you see that foreign scoondrel in her company, let me ken.’ Mr. Menteith looked astonished, for he had neither heard nor seen anything of the Frenchman. In answer to his hurried queries. Miss Hetherington rapidly explained the state of affairs, saying nothing, of course, of her own relations with Caussidiere. She seemed greatly relieved when the minister informed her that Marjorie spent the greater part of each day in her own room, only creeping out now and then to walk in the churchyard. ‘ Maybe the man has gone awa’,’ she muttered ; ‘ maybe he is not so eager to woo a lassie without a tocher. But should you see him in the neighbourhood be sure to send to me.’ The minister promised, and the lady drove awa}^ At sunset that day as Marjorie left the manse and crossed over to the old churchyard she was accosted by John Sutherland, FLYING SOUTH. 151 who had been waiting at the gate some time in expectation of her appearance. She gave him her hand sadly, and they stood together talking in the road. ‘ They tell me you are going to stop at the Castle. Is that so, Marjorie V ‘ I am not sure ; maybe.’ ‘ If you go, may I come to see you there ? I shan’t be long in Annandale. In a few weeks I am going back to London.’ He paused, as if expecting her to make some remark, but she did not speak, and her thoughts seemed faraway. ‘ Marjorie,’ he continued, ‘ I wish I could say something to comfort you in your trouble, for though my heart is full I can hardly find my tongue. It seems as if all the old life was breaking up under our feet and carrying us far asunder. For the sake of old times we shall be friends still, shall we not V ‘Yes, Johnnie, of course,’ was the repl}^ ‘You’ve aye been very good to me.’ ‘ Because I loved you, Marjorie. Ah, don’t be angry — don’t turn away — for I’m not going to presume again upon our old acquaintance. But, now that Death has come our way, and all the future seems clouding, I want to say just this — that come what may, I shall never change. I’m not asking you to care for me — I’m not begging yon this time to give me what you’ve maybe given to another man : but I want you to be sure, what- ever happens, that you’ve one faithful friend at least in the world, who would die to serve you, for the sake of what you were to him lang syne.’ The words were so gentle, the tone so low and tender, the manner of the man so full of melancholy sympathy and respect, that Marjorie was deeply touched. ‘ Oh, Johnnie,’ she said,’ you know I have always loved you — always trusted you, as if you were my brother.’ ‘ As your brother, then, let it be,’ answered Sutherland sadly. ^ I don’t care what title it is, so long as it gives me the right to watch over you.’ ANNAN HEATER. To this Marjorie said nothing, She continued to walk quietly onward, and Sutherland kept by her side. Thus they passed together through the churchyard, and came to the spot where Mr. Lorraine was at rest. Here she fell upon her knees, and quietly kissed the grave. Had Sutherland been less moved by his own grief he might have noticed something strange in the girl’s manner, for she kissed the ground almost passionately, and murmured between her sobs, ‘ Good-bye, good-bye.’ She was recalled to herself by Sutherland’s voice. ‘Don’t cry, Marjorie,’ he said. ‘Ah, I can’t help it,’ she sobbed. ‘ You are all so good to me — far better than I deserve.’ ‘ Don’t say that, Marjorie ; you’ve always been a good lassfe and a bonnie, and so you’ve won your way into all hearts. I’m not denying that I should have been better pleased if you could have looked more kindly on me ; but it’s no fault of yours, Marjorie. You are a good lassie, and though I know well enough you’ll give to some other man the heart that I’ve been hungering for, I shall love you till my dying day.’ They left the churchyard together, and wandered back to the manse gate. When they paused again, Sutherland took her hand and kissed it. ‘ Good-bye, Johnnie.’ ^ ‘ 1^0, not good-bye. I may come and see you again, Marjorie,, mayn’t I, before I go away V ‘ Yes,’ she returned, ‘ if — if you like.’ ‘ And Marjorie, maybe the next time there’ll be folk by, so that we cannot speak. I want you to promise me one thing before we part this night.’ ‘ What do you wish*?’ said Marjorie, shrinking half fearfully away. ‘ Only this, that as you’ve given me a sister’s love, you’ll give me also a sister’s trust. I want to think when I’m away in the great city that it‘ you were in trouble you’d send right away to- FLYING SOUTH. 155 me. Just think always, Marjorie, that your brother, and be sure there isn’t a thing in this world I wouldn’t do for you.* He paused, but Marjorie did not answer; she felt she could not speak. The unselfish devotion of the young man touched her more than any of his ardent love-making had done. Perhaps she was thinking what a peaceful life hers might have been if she had been able to give him the love which he sought ; but alas ! we cannot command our affections, and pos- sibly young Sutherland’s love-suit might not have been more prosperous even if the Frenchman had never come to Annandale^ ‘ Marjorie, will you promise me ’ ‘ Promise what ‘ To send to me if you’re in trouble; to let me be your brother indeed.’ She hesitated for a moment ; then she gave him her hand. ‘ Yes, Johnnie, I promise,’ she said. ‘ Good-bye.’ ‘No, good-night, Marjorie.’ ‘ Good-night,’ she repeated, as she left his side and entered the manse. About ten o’clock that night, when all the inmates of the manse had retired to rest, and Marjorie was in her room about to prepare for bed, she was startled by heariug a sharp shrill whistle just beneath her window. She started, trembling, sat on the side of her bed and listened. In a few minutes the sound was repeated. This time she ran to the window, opened it, and put out her head. ‘ Who is it T she asked softly. ‘ Is anyone there f At the sound of her voice a figure advanced from the shadow of the wall, and a voice answered her. ‘ Yes, Marjorie. It is I, Leon ; come down 1’ Trembling more and more, Marjorie hurriedly closed the window, wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and noiselessly descended the stairs. The next minute she was in the Frenchman’s arms. He clasped lier fervently to him. He kissed her again and again as he said : 454 ANNAN WATER. ‘ To-morrow night, Marjorie, you will come to mo/ The girl half shrank away as she said : ‘ So soon — ah, no !’ ‘ It is not too soon for me, little one,’ returned the Frenchman gallantly, ‘ for I love you — ah ! so much, Marjorie, and every hour seems to me a day. Listen, then. You will retire to bed to-morrow night in the usual way. When all the house is quiet, and everyone asleep, you will wrap yourself up in your travelling