THE LINDSAYS.

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THE LINDSAYS

A Romance of Scottish Life

BY

JOHN K. LEYS

IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I.
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1888
[The right of translation is reserved]

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

THE LINDSAYS.

PROLOGUE.—FOUR LETTERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE FIRST LETTER.

Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith.

The Castle Farm, Muirburn,
Kyleshire, N.B., Sept. 12, 187-.

My dear Sophy,

I only arrived here last night, so you see I am losing no time in redeeming my promise. I can hardly tell you what I think of my new cousins; they are not to be known in a day, I can see that much. As for the country and its inhabitants generally—well, they are as different from an English county and English country-folks as if they were in different continents, and that is all I can say at present.

I left the railway at a tiny station called Kilmartin, and found ‘the coach’ waiting in the station yard. It was not a coach, but a queer dumpy omnibus, about two-thirds of the size of a London ’bus, with three big, raw-boned horses harnessed to it. I was lucky enough to get a seat in front beside the driver. It was just a little before sunset; and I wish I could put before you in words the freshness of the scene. We were ascending a rising ground in a very leisurely fashion. On either side of the road was a steep bank thickly clothed with crowsfoot and wild thyme. Above us on either side stretched a belt of Scotch firs. The sunset rays shone red on the trunks of the pines, and here and there one could catch through them a sight of the ruddy west, showing like a great painted window in a cathedral. The air was soft, and laden with the sweet smell of the firs, and yet it was cool and exhilarating.

As soon as we got to the top of the ridge we began to rattle down the other side at a great rate. It was really very pleasant, and thinking to conciliate the weather-beaten coachman at my side, I confided to him my opinion that of all species of travelling coaching was the most delightful.

‘Specially on a winter’s nicht, wi’ yer feet twa lumps o’ ice, an’ a wee burn o’ snaw-watter runnin’ doon the nape o’ yer neck!’ responded the Scotch Jehu.

I laughed, and glanced at the man sitting on my right, a big, brown-faced, gray-haired farmer, in a suit of heavy tweeds, who sat leaning his two hands on the top of an enormous stick. He was smiling grimly to himself, as if he enjoyed the stranger being set down.

‘Fine country,’ I remarked, by way of conciliating him.

‘Ay,’ said he, with a glance at the horizon out of the sides of his eyes, but without moving a muscle of his face.

‘And a very fine evening,’ I persisted.

‘Ay—micht be waur.’

Upon this I gave it up, lighted a cigar, and set myself to study the landscape. We had got to a considerable elevation above the sea-level; and in spite of the glorious evening and the autumn colours just beginning to appear in the hedges, the country had a dreary look. Imagine one great stretch of pasture barely reclaimed from moorland, with the heather and stony ground cropping up every here and there, divided into fields, not by generous spreading hedgerows, but by low walls of blue stone, built without mortar. The only wood to be seen was narrow belts of firs, planted here and there behind a farmhouse, or between two fields, and somehow their long bare stems and heavy mournful foliage did not add to the brightness of the scene, though they gave it a character of its own. But the country is not all moor and pasture. It is broken every now and then by long, deep, winding ravines, clothed with the larch and the mountain ash, each one the home of a bright brawling stream.

We had travelled for half an hour in silence, when the farmer suddenly spoke.

‘Ye’ll be frae the sooth, I’m thinkin’.’

He was not looking at me, but contemplating the road in front of us from under a pair of the bushiest eyebrows I ever saw. For a moment I thought of repaying his bad manners by giving him no answer, but thinking better of it I said ‘Ay,’ after the manner of the country.

‘Ye’ll no hae mony beasts like they in England, I fancy,’ said he.

We were passing some Ayrshire cows at the time, small, but splendid animals of their kind; and I soothed the old man’s feelings by admitting the fact.

‘Are ye traivellin’ faur?’ he asked.

‘Not much farther, I believe.’

‘Ye’re no an agent, are ye?’

‘No,’ I answered.

‘Nor a factor?’

‘No.’

(He was evidently puzzled to make out what an Englishman was about in his country, and I determined not to gratify his curiosity.)

‘Ye’ll maybe be the doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Sharely ye’re no the new minister?’ he exclaimed with an expression of unfeigned alarm.

I calmed his fears, and again we proceeded on our way in silence.

When we had gone perhaps some seven or eight miles from the railway station, I noticed a stout dog-cart standing at the corner of a by-road, under a tall, straggling thorn hedge. The youth who was seated in it made a sign to the coachman to stop, and I was made aware that the dog-cart had been sent for me. I got down, and as I bade good-night to the cross-questioning farmer, I observed a grim smile of triumph on his firmly compressed lips. He evidently knew the dog-cart, and would now be able to trace the mysterious stranger.

I and my portmanteau were finally left on the side of the road, and the young man in the dog-cart civilly turned the vehicle round (with some difficulty on account of the narrow road), and drew up beside me, to save my carrying my luggage a dozen yards. At first I was a little uncertain whether I had one of my third (or fourth, which is it?) cousins before me, or simply a young man from Mr. Lindsay’s farm. He was dressed in very coarse tweeds, and his hands were rough, and spoke of manual labour, and he breathed the incense of the farm-yard; but I thought his finely-cut features and sensitive lips bespoke him to be of gentle blood, and, luckily, I made a hit in the right direction.

‘You are one of Mr. Lindsay’s sons, I think—that is to say, one of my cousins,’ I said, as I shook hands with him.

The youth’s face lighted up with a blush and a pleasant smile as he answered that he was, and held open the apron of the dog-cart for me to get in. In another moment we were off, the sturdy old mare between the shafts carrying us along at a very fair pace.

There are some people, Sophy, who wear their characters written on their faces, and Alec Lindsay is one of them. I could see, even as we drove together along that solitary lane in the autumn twilight, that his was a frank, ingenuous nature, shy, sensitive, and reserved. I mean that his shyness made him reserved, but his thoughts and feelings showed themselves in his face without his knowing it, so little idea had he of purposely concealing himself. Such a face is always interesting; and besides, there was an under-expression of dissatisfaction, of unrest, I hardly know what to call it, in his eyes, which was scarcely natural in so young a lad. He could not be more than eighteen or nineteen.

After half an hour’s drive we approached the little town, or village—it is rather too large for a village, and much too small to be called a town—of Muirburn. It consists of one long double row of two-storied houses built of stone and whitewashed, with one or two short cross streets at intervals. The houses had not a scrap of garden in front of them, nothing but a broad footpath, the playground of troops of children. The lower part of these dwellings had a bare, deserted appearance, but I found that they were used in almost every case as workrooms, being fitted up with looms. In one or two of the windows a light twinkled, and we could hear the noise of the shuttle as we passed.

In the middle of the village stood a large square building, whitewashed all over, and provided with two rows of small square windows, placed at regular intervals, one above and one below.

‘What is that building?’ I asked.

‘The Free Church,’ answered my companion, with a touch of pride.

A church! Why, it was hardly fit to be a school-house. A mean iron railing, which had been painted at some remote epoch, alone protected it from the street. It was the very embodiment of ugliness; its sole ornament being a stove-pipe which protruded from one corner of the roof. Never, in all my life, whether among Hindoos, Mahometans, or Irish peasants, had I seen so supremely ugly an edifice dedicated to the service of the Almighty.

‘That’s the United Presbyterian one,’ said Alec, pointing with his whip to a building on the other side of the street, similar to the one we had just passed, but of less hideous aspect. It was smaller, and it could boast a front of hewn stone, and neat latticed windows, while a narrow belt of greensward fenced it off from the road.

Just then we passed a knot of men, perhaps ten or a dozen, standing at the corner of one of the side streets. All had their hands in their pockets, all were in their shirt-sleeves, and all wore long white aprons. They were doing nothing whatever—not talking, nor laughing, nor quarrelling, but simply looking down the street. At present our humble equipage was evidently an object of supreme interest to them.

‘What are these men doing there?’ I asked.

‘They’re weavers,’ answered Alec, as if the fact contained a reason in itself for their conduct. ‘They always stand there when they are not working, in all weathers, wet and dry; it’s their chief diversion.’

‘Diversion!’ I repeated; but at that moment the sweet tinkle of a church-bell fell upon my ears. I almost expected to see the people cross themselves, it sounded so much like the Angelus. It is the custom, I find, to ring the bell of the parish church at six in the morning and eight in the evening, though there is no service, and no apparent need for the ceremony. I wonder if it can be really a survival of the Vesper-bell?

The bell was still ringing as we passed the church that possessed it. This was ‘the Established Church,’ my companion informed me—a building larger than either of its competitors, and boasting a belfry.

‘What does a small town like this want with so many chapels?’ I asked my cousin.

I could see that I had displeased him, whether by speaking of Muirburn as a small town, or by inadvertently calling the ‘churches’ chapels, I was not sure. As he hesitated for an answer I hastened to add:

‘You are all of the same religion—substantially, I mean?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Then why don’t you club together and have one handsome place of worship instead of three very—well, plain buildings?’

‘What?’ exclaimed Alec, and then he burst into a roar of laughter. ‘That’s a good joke,’ said he, as if I had said something superlatively witty; ‘but I say,’ he continued, with a serious look in his bonny blue eyes, ‘you’d better not say anything of that kind to my father.’

‘Why not?’ I asked, but Alec did not answer me.

His attention was attracted by a child which was playing in the road, right in front of us. He called out, but the little one did not seem to hear him, and he slackened the mare’s pace almost to a walk. We were just approaching the last of the side streets, and at that moment a gig, drawn by a powerful bay horse, appeared coming rapidly round the corner. It was evident that there must be a collision, though, owing to Alec’s having slackened his pace so much, it could not be a serious one.

But the child? Before I could cry out, before I could think, Alec was out of the trap and snatching the little boy from under the horse’s very nose. I never saw a narrower escape; how he was not struck down himself, I cannot imagine.

The next moment the gig, which had brushed against our vehicle without doing it much damage, had disappeared down the road; and a woman, clad in a short linsey petticoat and a wide sleeveless bodice of printed cotton, had rushed out of the opposite house and was roundly abusing Alec for having nearly killed her child. Without paying much attention to her, Alec walked round to the other side of the dog-cart to see what damage had been done, and muttering to himself, ‘I’m thankful it’s no worse,’ he climbed back into his place, and we resumed our journey, while the young Caledonian was acknowledging sundry tender marks of his mother’s affection with screams like those of a locomotive.

Another half-hour’s drive brought us to a five-barred gate which admitted us to a narrow and particularly rough lane. We jolted on for a few minutes, and then the loud barking of several dogs announced that we had arrived at the farm. But I must keep my description of its inhabitants for my next epistle. I am too sleepy to write more. Good-night.

Your affectionate cousin,

Hubert Blake.

CHAPTER II.

THE SECOND LETTER.

Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith.

The Castle Farm, Muirburn, N.B.
September 15.

Dear Sophy,

I think I shall like this place, and shall probably stay till the beginning of winter. I have begun a large picture of a really beautiful spot which I found close by two days ago, and I should like to see my painting well on to completion before I return, lest I should be tempted to leave it unfinished, like so many others, when I get back to town.

I had a very hospitable welcome from Mr. Lindsay on the night I arrived. He met me at the door—a tall, broad-shouldered, upright man, perhaps sixty years of age, with the regular Scotch type of features, large nose, and high cheek-bones. I could see, even at first, that he is the sort of man it would not be pleasant to quarrel with.

He led me into a wide passage, and thence into a large low-roofed kitchen with a stone floor. Here there were seated two or three men and as many women, whom I took to be farm-servants. There was no light in the place, except that which came from a bit of ‘cannel’ coal, stuck in the peat fire. The women were knitting; the men were doing nothing. No one took the trouble of rising as we passed, except one of the young men who went to look after the mare.

After crossing the kitchen we passed through a narrow passage, and entered a pleasant and good-sized room in which a large coal fire and a moderator lamp were burning.

Did you ever see a perfectly beautiful woman, Sophy? I doubt it. I never did till I saw Margaret Lindsay. I was so astonished to see a lady at the Castle Farm that I positively stared at the girl for a moment, but she came forward and shook hands with the utmost self-possession.

‘I’m afraid you have had a cold drive, Mr. Blake,’ she said; and though she spoke in a very decidedly Scotch accent, the words did not sound so harshly from her lips as they had done when spoken by her father. For the first time I thought that the Doric might have an agreeable sound.

I will try to tell you what Margaret is like. She must be nearly twenty years of age, for she is evidently older than her brother, but her complexion is that of a girl of sixteen, by far the finest and softest I ever saw. She is tall, but not too tall for elegance. Her eyes are brown, like her father’s, and her hair is a dark chestnut. Her features are simply perfect—low forehead, beautifully moulded eyebrows, short upper lip—you can imagine the rest. You will say that my description would fit a marble bust nearly as well as a girl of nineteen, and your criticism would be just. Margaret’s face is rather wanting in expression. It is calm, reserved, not to say hard. But her deliberate almost proud manner suits her admirably.

I can see you smiling to yourself, and saying that you understand now my anxiety to get my picture finished before I leave the farm. All I can say is, you never were more mistaken in your life. I am not falling in love with this newly-discovered beauty, and I certainly don’t intend to do anything so foolish. But I could look at her face by the hour together. I wonder whether there are any capabilities of passion under the cold exterior.

I took an opportunity when Alec was out of the room to narrate our little adventure by the way, and just as I finished my recital the hero of the story came in.

‘So you managed to get run into on the way home, Alec,’ said his father, with a look of displeasure. ‘I should think you might have learned to drive by this time.’

The lad’s face flushed, but he made no answer.

‘Is the mare hurt?’ asked the old man.

‘No, she wasn’t touched,’ answered his son. ‘One of the wheels will want a new spoke; that’s all.’

‘And is that nothing, sir?’

‘No one could possibly have avoided the collision, such as it was,’ said I; ‘and I’ve seldom seen a pluckier thing than Alec did.’

The old man looked at me, and immediately changed the subject.

When tea (a remarkably substantial meal, by the way) was over, the farm-servants and the old woman who acts as housemaid were called into the large parlour in which we were sitting for prayers, or, as they call it here, ‘worship.’ I can’t say I was edified, Sophy. I dare say I am not a particularly good judge of these matters, but really there seemed to me a very slight infusion of worship about the ceremony. First of all Bibles were handed round, and Mr. Lindsay proceeded to read a few lines from a metrical version of the Psalms, beginning in the middle of a Psalm for the excellent reason that they had left off at that point on the preceding evening. Then they began to sing the same verses to a strange, pathetic melody. Margaret led the tune, and it was a pleasure to listen to her sweet unaffected notes, but the rough grumble of the old men and Betty’s discordant squeak produced a really ridiculous effect. Then a chapter was read from the Bible, and then we rose up, turned round, and knelt down. Mr. Lindsay began an extempore prayer, which was partly an exposition of the chapter we had just heard read, and partly an address to the Almighty, which I won’t shock you by describing. At the end of the prayer were some practical petitions, amongst them one on behalf of ‘the stranger within our gates,’ by which phrase your humble servant was indicated. The instant the word ‘Amen’ escaped from the lips of my host, there was a sudden shuffling of feet, and the little congregation had risen to their feet and were in full retreat before I had realized that the service was at an end. I fully expected that this conduct would have called down a reproof from Mr. Lindsay, but it seemed to be accepted on all hands as the ordinary custom. Half an hour afterwards I was in bed, and sound asleep.

I awoke next morning to a glorious day. The harvest is late in these parts, you know, and the ‘happy autumn fields,’ some half cut, some filled with ‘stooks’ of corn, were stretching before my window down to a hollow, which I judged to be the bed of a river.

After breakfast I had an interview with my host, and managed to get my future arrangements put upon a proper footing. Of course I could not stay here for an indefinite time at Mr. Lindsay’s expense; and though at first he scouted the proposal, I got him to consent that I should set up an establishment of my own in two half-empty rooms—the house is twice as large as the family requires—and be practically independent. I could see that the old man had a struggle between his pride and his love of hospitality on the one hand, and the prospect of letting part of his house to a good tenant on the other; but I smoothed matters a little by asking to be allowed to remain as his guest until Monday. Poor man, I am sorry for him. He used to be a well-to-do if not a wealthy ‘laird,’ and owned not only the Castle Farm, but one or two others. Now, in consequence of his having become surety for a friend who left him to pay the piper, and as a result of several bad seasons, he has been forced to sell one farm and mortgage the others so heavily that he is practically worse off than if he were a tenant of the mortgagees. This ‘come down’ in the world has soured his temper, and developed a stinginess which I think is foreign to his real nature. I fancy, too, he had a great loss when his wife died. She was a woman, I am told, of education and refinement. It must have been from her that Margaret got her beauty, and Alec his fine eyes.

But I have not told you what the neighbourhood is like. Well, the farmhouse is built on the side of a knoll, and at the top is a very respectable ruin. The castle, from which the farm takes its name, must have been a strong place at one time. The keep is still standing, and its walls are quite five feet thick. Besides the keep, time has spared part of the front, some of the buttresses, and some half-ruined doorways and windows. But the whole place is overgrown with weeds and nettles. No one takes the slightest interest in this relic of another age: nobody could tell me who built it, or give me even a shred of a legend about its history.

As I was wandering about the walls of the ruin, trying to select a point from which to sketch it, I was joined by Alec Lindsay. He had one or two books under his arm; and he stopped short on seeing me, as if he had not expected to find anyone there.

‘Don’t let me interrupt you,’ I said, beginning to move away. ‘You make this place your study, I see.’

‘Sometimes I bring my books up here,’ he replied. ‘There is a corner under the wall of the tower which is quite sheltered from the wind. Even the rain can hardly reach it, and I have a glorious view of the sunset when I sit there on fine evenings.’

‘I should like to see the place,’ said I, anxious to put the lad at his ease; and he led me to a corner among the ruins, from which, as he said, a wide view was obtained.

Near at hand were pastures and harvest-fields. Beyond them was the bed of the river, fringed with wood, and the horizon was bounded by low moorland hills.

‘From the top of that one,’ said Alec, pointing to one of the hills, ‘you can catch a glint of the sea. It shines like a looking-glass. I would like to see it near at hand.’

‘Have you never been to the seaside?’ I asked.

I must have betrayed my surprise by my voice, for the boy blushed as he answered:

‘No; I have been to Glasgow once or twice, but I have never been to the salt water.’ (The seaside is always spoken of as ‘the coast’ or ‘the salt water’ in this part of the country.) ‘I have never been beyond Muirburn, except once or twice, in my life,’ he added, as the look of discontent which I fancied I had detected in his face grew stronger.

‘May I look at your books?’ I asked, by way of changing the subject.

‘Oh yes; they’re not much to look at,’ he said with a blush.

I took them up—a Greek grammar, and a school-book containing simple passages of Greek for translation, with a vocabulary at the end of the volume.

‘Is this how you spend your leisure time?’ I asked.

‘Not always—not very often,’ answered Alec. ‘Often I am lazy and go in for Euclid and algebra—I like them far better than Greek. And sometimes,’ he added with hesitation, as if he were confessing a fault—‘sometimes I waste my time with a novel.’

‘I would not call it wasting time if you read good novels,’ said I. ‘What do you read?’

‘Only Sir Walter and old volumes of Blackwood; they are all I have got.’

‘You could not do better, in my opinion,’ said I emphatically. ‘Such books are just as necessary for your education as a Greek delectus.’

‘Do you think so?’ said the lad, with wondering eyes. ‘These are not my father’s notions.’

‘Shall I leave you to your work now?’ I asked, rising from the heather on which we were lying.

‘I like to have you to talk to,’ said Alec, half shyly, half frankly. ‘I seldom do get anyone to talk to.’

‘You have your sister,’ I said involuntarily.

‘Margaret is not like me. She has her own thoughts and her own ways; besides, she is a girl. Will you come and see the “Lover’s Leap?” It’s a bonny place.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Only half a mile up the Logan.’

‘You mean the stream that runs through the valley down there?’

‘No; that’s the Nethan. The Logan falls into it about a mile farther up.’

We were descending the knoll as we talked; and on our way we saw a field where the reapers were at work. As we approached, we saw a tall form leave the field and come towards us. It was Alec’s father.

‘I think, Alec,’ said the old man, ‘you would be better employed helping to stack the corn, if you’re too proud to take a hand at the shearing, rather than walking about doing nothing.’

The lad blushed furiously, and made no answer.

‘Alec meant to have been at work over his books,’ said I; ‘but he was kind enough to show me something of the neighbourhood. It doesn’t matter in the least, Alec; I can easily find my way alone.’

‘Oh, if you have any need for the boy, that’s another matter,’ said Mr. Lindsay.

I protested again that I could find my way perfectly well, and moved off, while Alec turned into the field with a set look about his mouth that was not pleasant to see.

The cause of the discontent I had seen in the lad’s face was plain enough now. He is treated like a child, as if he had no mind or will of his own. I wonder how the boy will turn out. It seems to me a toss-up; or rather, the chances are that he will break away altogether, and ruin himself.

I went on my way to the bank of the river, by the side of a double row of Scotch firs. It was one of those perfect September days when the air is still warm, when a thin haze is hanging over all the land, when there is no sound to be heard but now and then the chirp of a bird, or the far-off lowing of cattle—a day in which it is enough, and more than enough, to sit still and drink in the silent influences of earth and heaven, when anything like occupation seems an insult to the sweetness and beauty of nature. Across the little river was a large plantation of firs, growing almost to the water’s edge; and I could feel the balmy scent of them in the air.

As I reached the river I overtook Margaret Lindsay, who was walking a little way in advance of me. She had a book under her arm, an old volume covered in brown leather. We greeted each other, and I soon found that she was bound, like myself, for the ‘Lover’s Leap.’

‘I will show you the place,’ she said; ‘we must cross the river here.’

As she spoke she stepped on a large flat stone that lay at the water’s edge; and I saw that a succession of such stones, placed at intervals of about a yard, made a path by which the river could be crossed. The current was pretty strong, and as the water was rushing fast between the stones (which barely showed their heads above the stream), I hastened to offer Margaret my hand. But the girl only glanced at me with a look of surprise, and with the nearest approach to a smile which I had seen in her face, she shook her head and began to walk over the stepping-stones with as much composure as if she had been moving across a floor. Now and then she had to make a slight spring to gain the next stone, and she did so with the ease and grace of a fawn. I followed a little way behind, and when we had gained the opposite side we walked in single file along the riverbank, till we came to the spot where the Logan came tumbling and dancing down the side of a rather steep hill to meet the larger stream. The hill was covered with brushwood and bracken, and a few scattered trees; but a path seemed to have been made through the bushes, and up this path we began to scramble. Once or twice I ventured to offer Margaret my hand, but she declined my help, saying that she could get on better alone.

After a few minutes of this climbing, Margaret suddenly moved to one side, and sprang down to a tiny morsel of gravelly beach, at the side of the burn. I followed her, and was fairly entranced by what I saw. A little way above us the gorge widened, allowing us to see the trees, which, growing on either side of the brook, interlaced their branches above it. From beneath the trees the stream made a clear downward leap, of perhaps thirty or forty feet, into a pool—the pool at our feet—which was so deep that it seemed nearly as black as ink. The music of the waterfall filled the air so that we could hardly catch the sound of each other’s words; and if we moved to the farther end of the little margin of beach, we heard, instead of the noise of the waterfall, the sweet babbling of the burn over its stony bed.

‘Do you often come here?’ I asked, as we stood at the edge of the stream, some little distance from the fall.

‘Yes, pretty often when I wish to be alone, or to have an hour’s quiet reading.’

‘As you do to-day,’ said I; ‘that’s as much as to say that you want to have an hour’s quiet reading now.’

‘So I do,’ said the girl calmly.

‘Or, in other words, that it is time for me to take myself off.’

‘I did not mean that,’ said Margaret, with perfect placidity. ‘Would you like to go up to the top of the linn?’

‘Very much,’ said I, and we scrambled up the bank to the upper level of the stream, and gazed down upon the black rushing water and the dark pool beneath, with its fringe of cream-coloured foam.

‘So this is the “Lover’s Leap,”’ I remarked.

‘Yes,’ said Margaret. ‘They say that once a young man was carrying off his sweetheart, when her father and brothers pursued them. The girl was riding on a pillion behind her lover. As the only way of escape, he put his horse at the gap over our heads—it must have been narrower in those days than it is now—missed it, and both himself and the lady were killed in the fall.’

‘Dreadful!’ I exclaimed.

‘Of course it isn’t true,’ pursued Margaret tranquilly.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Oh, such stories never are; they are all romantic nonsense.’

‘How different your streams are from those in the south,’ said I, after a pause; ‘Tennyson’s description of a brook would hardly suit this one.’

‘What is that?’ she inquired.

‘Don’t you know it?’ I asked, letting my surprise get the better of my good manners.

‘No, I never heard it,’ she said, without the least tinge of embarrassment; so I repeated the well-known lines, to which Margaret listened with her eyes still fixed on the rushing water.

‘They are very pretty,’ said the girl, when I had finished; ‘but I should not care for a brook like that. I should think it would be very much like a canal, wouldn’t it?—only smaller. I like my own brook better; and I like Burns’s description of one better than Tennyson’s.’

‘Has Burns described a brook? I wish you would quote it to me,’ said I.

‘Surely you know the lines,’ said Margaret; ‘they are in “Hallowe’en.”’

I assured her I did not, and in a low clear voice she repeated:

‘Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,

As through the glen it wimples;

Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays;

Whyles in a wiel it dimples.

Whyles glitterin’ to the noontide rays,

Wi’ bickerin’, dancin’ dazzle,

Whyles cookin’ underneath the braes,

Below the spreading hazel.’

‘I think they are beautiful lines, so far as I understand them,’ was my verdict. ‘What is “cookin’,” for example? I know it does not mean frying, or anything of that kind, but——’

I stopped, for the girl looked half offended at my poor little attempt to be funny at the expense of a Scotch word.

‘There is no word for it in English, that I know of,’ she said. ‘It means crouching down, contentedly, in a comfortable place. If you saw a hen on a windy day under a stook of corn, you might say it was “cooking” there.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied; ‘I won’t forget. And now I must be off, for I know you came here to read.’

If in my vanity I had hoped for permission to remain, I was disappointed. Nothing of the kind was forthcoming.

‘I hope you have got an interesting book,’ said I, wondering what the old brown-leather volume could be.

‘You might not think it very interesting,’ answered Margaret, raising her lovely eyes to mine, as tranquilly as if she had been speaking of a newspaper. ‘It is only a volume of old sermons. Good-bye till dinner-time, Mr. Blake;’ and so saying she turned to seek her favourite nook, at the side of the waterfall.

‘Old sermons!’ I exclaimed to myself as I left her. ‘What a singular girl she is. Fancy——’

But my reflections were cut short, for I ‘lifted up mine eyes’ and saw a mountain ash—they call them ‘rowan trees’ here—full of berries.

Sophy, such a tree is the most beautiful object in nature; there is no way of describing it, no way of putting its beauty into words. If you doubt what I say, look well at the next one you see, and then tell me if I am wrong. Good-night.

Ever yours affectionately,

Hubert Blake.

P.S.—I mean to get M. to sit for her portrait to-morrow; but I see that in order to gain this end I shall have to use all my skill in diplomacy, both with the young lady and with her respected father.

H. B.

CHAPTER III.

THE THIRD LETTER.

Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith.

The Castle Farm, Muirburn, N.B.,
September 17.

My dear Sophy,

It did not occur to me, when I agreed to consider myself Mr. Lindsay’s guest until to-day, that the arrangement would entail my spending the greater part of a glorious autumn day within the walls of the Muirburn Free Kirk—but you shall hear. I suspected, from something which fell from my host at breakfast, that the excuses which I intended to offer for my not accompanying the family to church would not be considered sufficient; but when I ventured to hint at something of the kind my remark was received by such a horrified stare (not to speak of the look of consternation on Margaret’s beautiful face), that I saw that to have made any further struggle for freedom would have been a positive breach of good manners. I submitted, therefore, with as good a grace as I could; and I was afterwards given to understand that to have absented myself from ‘ordinances’ that Sunday would have been little short of a scandal, seeing that it happened to be ‘Sacrament Sunday.’

If you ask a Scotchman how many sacraments there are, he will answer, if he remembers the Shorter Catechism, two. If, however, he is taken unawares, he will answer, one. Baptism is popularly considered to be a mere ceremony, of no practical importance to the infant recipient of it. It is regarded chiefly as an outward sign and token of the respectability of the parents, since it is only administered to the children of well-behaved people. ‘The Sacrament’ means the Lord’s Supper, which is administered in Presbyterian churches generally four times, but in country places often only twice a year. This, as it happened, was one of the ‘quarterly’ Communions, and as such popularly considered as of less dignity than those which occur at the old-fashioned seasons of July and January.

We set off about a quarter-past ten in the heavy, two-wheeled dog-cart which brought me here. I manifested an intention of walking to the village, and asked Alec to accompany me, but Mr. Lindsay intervened and protested strongly against my proposal. He said it would not be ‘seemly,’ by which I suppose he meant that it would be inconsistent with the dignity of the family, if a guest of his house were to be seen going to church on foot; but I could not help suspecting that he envied Alec and myself the sinful pleasure which a four-mile walk on so lovely a morning would have afforded us.

I can see that my elderly cousin (three times removed) is one of those people who are thoroughly unhappy unless they get their own way in everything, and never enjoy themselves more than when they have succeeded in spoiling somebody’s pleasure. I mentally resolved to have as little to do with the old gentleman as I possibly could, and mounted to the front seat of the dog-cart, which, as the place of honour, had been reserved for me.

As the old mare trotted soberly along, I could not help noticing the silence that seemed to brood over the fields. I have remarked the same thing in England, but somehow a Scotch Sunday seems even more still and quiet than an English one. Is it merely a matter of association and sentiment? Or is it that we miss on Sundays hundreds of trifling noises which on week-days fall unconsciously upon our ears?

Presently we began to pass little knots of people trudging along churchwards. The old women carried their Bibles wrapped up in their pocket-handkerchiefs to preserve them from the dust, along with the usual sprig of southern-wood. The men, without exception, wore suits of black, shiny broadcloth. They seemed to be all farmers. Very few of the weavers or labourers have any religion whatever (so far as outward rites go), any more than your unworthy cousin; and I can’t help thinking that the necessity for shiny black clothes has something to do with it. The women are different; as usual in all countries, and in all creeds, they are more devout than the men.

On the way we passed a group of young women just inside a field not far from the town, who were sitting about and stooping in various attitudes. I could not conceive what they were about, and turned to my host for an explanation.

He gravely informed me that they were putting on their shoes. Being accustomed throughout the week to dispense with these inventions of modern effeminacy, they find it extremely irksome to walk for miles over dusty roads in shoes and stockings. They therefore carry them in their hands till they reach some convenient field near the town which is the object of their journey, and then, sitting down on the grass, they array themselves in that part of their raiment before going into church.

We were now close to the town, and the sweet-toned little bell which I had heard on the evening of my arrival, along with a larger one of peculiarly strident tone in the belfry of the United Presbyterian Kirk, were ‘doing their best.’ There were whole processions of gigs or dog-carts such as that in which we were seated. No other style of vehicle was to be seen.

I was rather amused to see that the corner at which on week-days the weavers stand in their shirt-sleeves was not left unoccupied. The place was crowded with farmers, most of them highly respectable-looking men, clad in long black coats and tall hats. As to the hats, by the way, they were of all shapes which have been in fashion for the last twenty years, some of them taller than I should have supposed it possible for a hat to be.

We alighted at the door of an inn, and I noticed that the inn yard was crowded with ‘machines,’ i.e., dog-carts and gigs, which I thought pretty fair evidence of the prosperity of the country. Then we proceeded to our place of worship. In the little vestibule was a tall three-legged stool covered with a white napkin, and upon this rested a large pewter plate to receive the contributions of the faithful. Two tall farmers, dressed in swallow-tail coats, tall hats, and white neckties of the old-fashioned, all-round description, were standing over the treasury, and in one of them I recognised my acquaintance of the coach. I was prepared to nod him a greeting, but he preserved the most complete immobility of countenance, and kept his gaze fixed on the horizon outside the church door, as if no nearer object were worthy of his attention.

I found the church filled with dreadfully narrow pews of unpainted wood, and facing them an immensely tall pulpit, with a subsidiary pulpit in front of the other at a lower elevation. There were carpets on the staircase which led up to the pulpits, and the desks of both were covered with red cloth, with elaborate tassels. From either side of the upper pulpit there projected slender, curving brass rods about two feet long, terminating in broad pieces of brass, fixed at right angles to the rods. What the use of this apparatus was I could not imagine. A steep gallery ran round three sides of the little building; and in front of the pulpit was a table covered with a white cloth.

I was not so uncharitable as to suppose that those who came here to worship were guilty of any intentional irreverence, but certainly they carried out the theory that no reverence ought to be paid to sacred places very completely. No male person removed his hat till he was well within the doors; and in many cases men did not uncover themselves till they were comfortably seated. No one so much as thought of engaging in any private devotions. I was surprised to see that the congregation (which was, for the size of the building, a large one) was composed almost entirely of women and children; but as soon as the bells stopped ringing, a great clatter of heavy boots was heard in the vestibule, and the heads of families, whom I had seen standing at the corner, poured into the place. Like wise men, they had been taking the benefit of the fresh air till the last available moment.

Hardly had the farmers taken their seats when a man appeared, dressed entirely in black, carrying an enormous Bible, with two smaller books placed on the top of it. Ascending the pulpit stairs, he placed one of the smaller books on the desk of the lower pulpit; and then, going a few steps higher, he deposited the other two volumes on the desk of the higher one. He then retired, and immediately the minister, a tall, dark man, with very long black hair, wearing an immense gown of black silk, black gloves, and white bands such as barristers wear, entered the church and ascended to the pulpit. He was followed by an older man dressed in a stuff gown, who went into the lower pulpit. Last of all came the door-keeper, who also went up the pulpit stairs and carefully closed the pulpit door after the minister. The man in the stuff gown was left to shut his own door, and he did so with a bang, as if in protest at the want of respect shown to him, and his inferior position generally.

The ritual part, as I may call it, of the service being over, the minister rose and gave out a psalm, just as old Mr. Lindsay does at prayers; and as he did so, the man in the stuff gown got up, and pulling out two thin black boards from under his desk, he skilfully fixed one of them on the end of the brass rod which projected from the right-hand side of the pulpit; and then, turning half round, he fixed the other upon the similar rod on the left-hand side. On each of these boards I read, in large gilt letters, the word ‘Martyrdom.’ I could not imagine, even then, the meaning of this ceremony; but Alec informed me afterwards that it was meant to convey to the congregation the name of the tune to which the psalm was to be sung, so that they might turn it up in their tune-books, if they felt so inclined.

When the minister had read the verses which he wished to have sung, he gave out the number of the psalm again in a loud voice, and read the first line a second time, so that there might be no mistake. He then sat down, and the little man beneath him, rising up, began to sing. I very nearly got into trouble at this point by rising to my feet, forgetting for the moment that the orthodox Scotch fashion is to sit while singing and to stand at prayer. (I am told that in the towns a good many churches have adopted the habit of standing up to sing and keeping their seats during the prayer; but older Presbyterians look upon this custom, as, if not exactly heretical, yet objectionable, as tending in the direction of ritualism, prelacy, and other abominations.) For a line or two the precentor was left to sing by himself, then one or two joined in, and presently the whole body of the congregation took up the singing. I was surprised to find what a good effect resulted—it was at least infinitely better than that of an ordinary choir of mixed voices led by a vile harmonium or American organ. Many of the voices were rough, no doubt; and the precentor seemed to make it a point of honour to keep half a note ahead of everybody else; but, in spite of this, the general effect of so many sonorous voices singing in unison was decidedly impressive.

As soon as the four prescribed verses had been sung, the minister rose up to pray, and everybody got up at the same time. You know I am not easily shocked, Sophy; and hitherto, though I had seen much that was ludicrous and strange, I had not seen anything that I considered specially objectionable; but I must say that the behaviour of these good folks at the prayer which followed did shock me. They simply stood up and stared at each other; perhaps I noticed it more particularly because I, being a stranger, came in for a good share of attention. Many of the men kept their hands in their pockets; some were occupied taking observations of the weather, through the little windows of plain glass, half the time. The minister, I noticed, kept his hands clasped and his eyes tightly closed; and some of his flock, among whom were my host and his daughter, followed his example; but the majority, as I have said, simply stared around them. They may have been giving, meanwhile, a mental assent to the truths which the minister was enunciating; I dare say some of them were; but as far as one could judge from outward appearances they were no more engaged in praying than they were engaged in ploughing. The prayer lasted a very long time; when it was over we heard a chapter read, and after another part of a psalm was sung the sermon began. This was evidently the event of the day, to which everything said or done hitherto had been only an accessory; and everybody settled himself down in his seat as comfortably as he could.

From what I had heard of Scotch sermons I was prepared for a well-planned logical discourse, and the sermon to which I now listened fulfilled that description. But then it was, to my mind at least, entirely superfluous. Granting the premisses (as to which no one in the building, excepting perhaps my unworthy self, entertained the slightest doubt), the conclusion followed as a matter of course, and hardly needed a demonstration lasting fifty minutes by my watch. I was so tired with the confinement in a cramped position and a close atmosphere that I very nearly threw propriety to the winds and left the building. Fortunately, however, just before exhausted nature succumbed, the preacher began what he called the ‘practical application of the foregoing,’ and I knew that the time of deliverance was at hand. And I must say that, judging from the fervour with which the concluding verses of a psalm were sung, I was not alone in my feeling of relief. As soon as the psalm was ended everybody rose, and the preacher, stretching out his arms over his flock, pronounced a solemn benediction. The ‘Amen’ was hardly out of the good man’s mouth when a most refreshing clatter arose. No one resumed his seat. Everybody hurried into the narrow passages, which were in an instant so crammed that moving in them was hardly possible. Here, again, I am convinced that there was no intentional irreverence; it was merely a custom arising from the extremely natural desire of breathing the fresh air after the confinement we had undergone. As we passed out I overheard several casual remarks about the sermon, which was discussed with the utmost freedom.

‘Maister McLeod was a wee thocht dry the day,’ said one farmer.

‘But varra guid—varra soon’,’ responded his neighbour.

‘I thocht he micht ha’ made raither mair o’ that last pint,’ said the first speaker.

‘Weel—maybe,’ was the cautious reply.

We went over to the inn for a little refreshment, and in three-quarters of an hour the bells began to jangle once more. This was more than I had bargained for; but there was no help for it. I could not offend my host by retreating; and besides, I was desirous of seeing for myself what a Scottish Communion Service was like.

After the usual singing of a few verses of a psalm, and prayer, the minister descended from the pulpit, and took his place beside the table beneath, on which there had now been placed two loaves of bread, and four large pewter cups. From this position he delivered an address, and after it a prayer. He then took a slice from one of the loaves of bread which were ready cut before him, broke off a morsel for himself, and handed the piece of bread to one of several elderly men, called ‘elders,’ who were seated near him. This man broke off a morsel in the same way, and handed the remainder of the bread to another, and so on till all the elders had partaken. Four of the elders then rose, and two went down one side of the church, and two down the other side, one of each pair bearing a plate covered with a napkin, and holding a loaf of bread cut in slices, which they distributed among those of the congregation who were sitting in the centre of the church, and who alone were about to take part in the rite. The ceremony is, in fact, very much, or altogether, the same as the ‘love-feasts’ among the Methodists; except that the Methodists use water while the Presbyterians use wine. There is nothing of the sacramental character left in the ordinance; it is avowedly a commemorative and symbolic rite, and nothing more.

In the meantime perfect silence reigned in the little building. There was literally not a sound to be heard but the chirping of one or two sparrows outside the partly-opened windows. Have you ever noticed how impressive an interval of silence is at any meeting of men, especially when they are met together for a religious purpose? Silence is never vulgar; and it almost seems as if any form of worship in which intervals of silence form a part were redeemed thereby from vulgarity. Whatever may have been the reason, this service impressed me, I must confess, in a totally different way from that in which the long sermon in the morning had done.

Suddenly a gentle falsetto voice fell upon my ear; and looking up, I saw that the elders, having finished their task, had returned to the table, and that a little white-haired man had risen to address the people. He wore no gown, but he had on a pair of bands, like his friend Mr. McLeod, which gave him a comical sort of air. This, however, as well as the curious falsetto or whining tone in which his voice was pitched, was forgotten when one began to listen. The old man had chosen for his text one of the most sacred of all possible subjects to a Christian; and no one who heard him could doubt that he was speaking from his heart. A deeper solemnity seemed to fall upon the silent gathering. I glanced round, but whatever emotions were excited by the touching address, none of them were suffered to appear on the faces of the people. On Alec Lindsay’s face, alone, I noticed a look of rapt attention; his sister’s beautiful features seemed as if they had been carved in marble.

Before the old minister sat down he raised one of the large cups (which had been previously filled with wine from a flagon), and handed it to one of the elders, who, after drinking from it, passed it to his neighbour. After the ministers and elders had tasted the wine, two of the latter rose, and each proceeded down one of the passages, bearing a large pewter cup, while he was followed by one of his fellows carrying a flagon. The cups were handed to the people still sitting in the pews, exactly as the bread had been, and circulated from one to another till all the communicants had partaken of the wine. Then followed another address, from the black-haired gentleman this time; and with a prayer and a little more singing the ceremony came to an end.

As we emerged into the afternoon sunshine, and waited for ‘the beast to be put in,’ as the innkeeper called it, I could not be sorry that I had sacrificed my inclinations and had seen something of the practice of religion in this country.

But I dare say you have had enough of my experiences for the present—so, good-night.

Your affectionate cousin,

Hubert Blake.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FOURTH LETTER.

Hubert Blake to Sophy Meredith.

The Castle Farm, Muirburn, N.B.
Oct. 5, 187-.

My dear Sophy,

Yesterday there was a ‘feeing fair’ at Muirburn, and under Alec’s guidance I paid a visit to the scene of dissipation.

But, first of all, I wish to tell you of a curious Scotch custom that fell under my notice the evening before. Alec and I were returning from a short ramble in the ‘gloaming,’ i.e., the twilight, when we happened to meet a young couple walking side by side. As soon as they caught sight of us they separated, and walked on opposite sides of the road till we had passed. This, it seems, was according to local ideas of what is proper under such circumstances. As we went by I glanced at the girl, and saw that she was one of Mr. Lindsay’s farm-servants.

‘So Jessie has got a sweetheart,’ I remarked.

‘Very likely,’ said Alec, with a laugh; ‘but I don’t think Tom Archibald is her lad. He is only the “black-fuit.”’

‘The what?’

‘The “black-fuit.” Dae ye no ken—I mean, don’t ye know what that is?’

On confessing my ignorance, I learned that the etiquette of courtship, as understood among the peasantry of south-west Scotland, demands that no young ploughman shall present himself at the farm on which the young woman who has taken his fancy may happen to be employed; if he did so, it would expose the girl to a good deal of bantering. He invariably secures the services of a friend, on whom he relies not only for moral support, but for actual assistance in his enterprise.

At the end of the working-day, when the dairymaids, as we should call them in England, have ‘cleaned themselves,’ and are chatting together in a little group at the door of the byre, John, the friend, makes his appearance, and presently contrives to engage the attention of Jeanie, who is the object of his friend’s devotion. The other girls good-naturedly leave them alone, and John suggests that ‘they micht tak’ a bit daun’er as far as the yett’ (i.e., the gate). Jeanie blushes, and picking up the corner of her apron as she goes, accompanies the ambassador to the gate and into the lane beyond. There, by pure accident, they meet Archie, and he and John greet each other in the same way as if they had not met each other for a week. The three saunter on together, under the hawthorn, till suddenly John remembers that he will be ‘expeckit hame,’ and takes his departure, leaving Archie to plead his cause as best he may.

I declared my conviction that the custom sprang from unworthy fears of an action for breach of promise; but Alec was almost offended by this imputation on the good faith of his countrymen, and assured me most seriously that that kind of litigation was unheard of in Kyleshire.

Next day we went to the fair. The object of this gathering is to enable farmers to meet and engage their farm-servants, male and female; it takes place twice a year, the hiring being always for six months.

The village, or ‘the toon,’ as they always call it here, was in a state of great excitement. There was quite a crowd in the middle of the street, chiefly composed of young women in garments of many colours, in the most enviable condition of physical health; and young giants of ploughmen in their best clothes, with carefully oiled hair. On the outskirts of the crowd (which was as dense as four hundred people could possibly make it), were a few queys, i.e., young cows, and a few rough farm-horses. The public-houses were simply crammed as full as they would hold. There was a swing, and a merry-go-round, and a cheap-Jack. There was also a sort of lottery, conducted on the most primitive principles. You paid sixpence, plunged your hand into a little wooden barrel revolving on a spindle, and pulled out a morsel of peculiarly dirty paper bearing a number. This entitled you to a comb, or an accordion with three notes, or a penny doll, as the case might be.

What chiefly impressed me was the sober, not to say dismal, character of the whole thing. I saw no horse-play, no dancing, no kiss-in-the-ring, or games of any kind. One might have thought it was an ordinary market-day, but for the crowd and the cracking of the caps on the miniature rifles with which the lads were shooting for nuts. This, in fact, was the only popular amusement; and, as all the boys and young men took part in it, and all held the muzzle of their weapon within twelve or fourteen inches of the mark, I perceived that every proprietor of a nut-barrow would have been ruined if he had not secured himself against bankruptcy by prudently twisting the barrels of his firearms.

There was, by the way, one other amusement besides the shooting for nuts: every young man presented every girl of his acquaintance with a handful of nuts or sweetmeats, the degree of his regard being indicated by the quantity offered. I convinced myself that some of the prettier and more popular girls must have carried home several pounds’ weight of saccharine matter.

We did not leave the village till it was getting dark and the naphtha lamps were blazing at the stalls. Probably the fun was only beginning, but we did not stay to witness it. Happily, the drinking seemed to be confined to great, large-limbed farmers, on whom half a bottle of whisky seemed to make not the slightest impression, beyond loosening their tongues. As the night advanced, however, a change must have occurred, for I was told afterwards that Hamilton of Burnfoot (my friend of the coach and of the offertory) had been seen sitting upright in his gig, thrashing with all his might, and in perfect silence, a saddler’s hobby-horse, which some wag had put between the shafts in place of his steady old ‘roadster.’

On the way home Alec and I had some confidential conversation as to his future.

‘Mr. Blake,’ he began, ‘what do you think I ought to be?’

‘How can I tell, Alec?’ I answered; ‘what would you like to be?’

‘That’s just what I don’t know,’ said the lad gloomily. ‘I don’t know what I am fit for, or whether I am fit for anything. How can I tell, before I have seen anything of the world, what part I should try to play in it?’

‘You have no strong taste in any direction?’

‘No; I can’t say that I have. I like the country, but I am sick of the loneliness of my life here. I long to be out in the world, to be up and doing something, I hardly know what. You see, I know so little. What I should like is to go to college for the next three or four years—to Glasgow, or Edinburgh—and by that time I would have an idea what I could do, and what I should not attempt.’

‘But do you think,’ I said, with some hesitation, ‘that you are ready to go to college?’

‘Why not? Don’t you think I am old enough? I am almost nineteen. I dare say you think I am too ignorant; but there are junior classes for beginners. I can do Virgil and Cicero, and I think I could manage Xenophon and Homer.’

‘What is the difficulty then?’

‘My father thinks it would be wasting money to send me to college, unless I were to be a minister or a doctor, and I don’t want to be either the one or the other.’

‘But you must be something, you know.’

‘Yes, but I won’t be a minister. Do you know that I was once very nearly in the way of making my fortune through paraffin oil. and lost my chance through an ugly bull-pup?’

‘Really? How was that?’

‘Mr. Lindsay of Drumleck——’

‘Is he a relation of yours?’ I interposed.

(It was a surprise to me to hear that I was, ever so distantly, related to a millionnaire.)

‘He is my father’s uncle,’ said Alec. ‘Well, last year he sent for me to pay him a visit, and he had hinted to my father that if I pleased him he would “make a man of me.” I didn’t please him. The very day I went to his house, I happened to be standing near a table in the drawing-room on which there was a precious vase of some sort or other. There was a puppy under the table that I didn’t see; I trod on its tail, and the brute started up with a yowl and flew at my leg. I stooped down to drive it off, and managed to knock over the table, vase and all. You should have seen the old man’s face! He very nearly ordered me out of the house. I don’t believe he particularly cared for the thing, but then you see he had given five-and-twenty pounds for it. It ended my chances so far as he is concerned at any rate; and, to tell the truth, I wasn’t particularly sorry. I shouldn’t care to spend my life in making oil.’

‘But, my dear fellow, it seems to me you are too particular. Take my advice, and if you have an opportunity of getting into your grand-uncle’s good books again, don’t lose it.’

‘Oh! he has taken another in my place, a fellow Semple—I don’t think much of him. He is a grand-nephew, too. I shouldn’t wonder if he makes him his heir; and I don’t care. I don’t want to be a Glasgow merchant, any more than I want to be a Kyleshire farmer.’

‘Ah! Alec, are you smitten too?’ I said. ‘You want to climb, and you will not think that you may fall. I didn’t know you were ambitious.’

‘I want to go into a wider world than this one;’ said the lad, and his eyes flashed, and his voice trembled with excitement. ‘I want to learn, first of all; then I want to find what I can do best, and try to make a name for myself. I want to rise to the level of—oh! what am I talking about?’

He broke off abruptly, as if ashamed of his own enthusiasm.

For my own part I felt sorry for him. I always do, somehow, when I see a brave young spirit eager to meet and conquer fortune—a ship setting sail from port, colours all flying, guns firing, crowds cheering. How many reach the harbour? How many founder at sea? One is wrecked in this way, another in that. One gallant bark meets with headwinds nearly all the way; another is run down by a rival and is heard of no more; a third, after baffling many a wintry gale, goes down in smooth water, within sight of land. How many unsuccessful men are there in the world for every one who succeeds? And of those who gain their heart’s desire, how many can say, ‘I am satisfied’?

October 29.

I was fairly amazed to find this unfinished letter, begun three weeks ago, between the leaves of my blotter this morning. Another example of my incurable laziness!

My stay here is almost at an end. My large picture is nearly completed. My portrait of Margaret is finished; and though it is not what I would like it to be, I think it is the best thing I have done yet. I leave to-morrow morning, and hope to be with you in a day or two. Alec goes with me as far as Glasgow, for he has persuaded his father to send him to college—or rather, the old man has yielded to the lad’s discontent, backed by my expressions of the high opinion I hold of his abilities. I fancy Mr. Lindsay thinks his son will yet be an ornament to the Free Kirk, but, if I am not very much mistaken, Alec will never change his mind on this point.

We had a regular family council, at which the matter was settled. The old man sat on his chair, bolt upright, his hands folded before him. Alec sat near by while his future was being decided, carelessly playing with a paper-knife on the table. Margaret was, as usual, at her sewing; but I could tell by little signs in her face, that for once her composure was more than half assumed.

‘You had your chance a year ago,’ said the old man in a harsh unyielding tone, ‘and you threw it away. Why should I stint myself, and go back from my task of buying back the land, to give you another one?’

‘I don’t wish you to stint yourself,’ said the boy half sullenly.

‘I don’t want to injure your sister,’ said his father, in the same tone.

‘Do you think I wish Margaret injured? If you cannot spare five-and-twenty pounds without inconvenience, there’s an end of it.’

‘It’s not the first winter only,’ began Mr. Lindsay.

‘But I can support myself after that,’ interrupted Alec; ‘I can get a bursary; I can get teaching——’

‘You’ll have to give up idling away your time over Blackwood then,’ said the old man, with a grim smile.

Alec’s face flushed, and he made no reply.

Then, having proved that Alec’s wish was wholly unreasonable and impracticable, Mr. Lindsay gave his consent to the proposal, and, to cut short further discussion, told Margaret to bid the servants come to ‘worship.’

I was rather surprised that Margaret had said nothing on her brother’s behalf, and a little disappointed that she had not declared that her own interests ought not to stand in the way of her brother’s education; but I found that I had misjudged her.

‘Well, I owe this to Margaret,’ said Alec to me, as soon as we found ourselves alone together.

‘To your sister?’ I said, with some surprise.

‘Yes; my father thinks more of her opinion than he does of anybody else’s, and I know she has been urging him to let me go. As for that about injuring her, it is all stuff. Do you think I would take the money, if I didn’t know my father could afford it perfectly well?’

I hardly knew what reply to make to this, and Alec went on:

‘There will be a row between them one of these days. My father will want her to marry Semple. I know he is in love with her; and Margaret won’t have him.’

‘I should think not, indeed!’ I exclaimed.

I had seen this young fellow, and I confess I took a violent dislike to him. He came over to the farm one afternoon, and I thought I had never seen a more vulgar creature. He was dressed in the latest fashion—on a visit to a farmhouse, too! He had a coarse, commonplace face, a ready, officious manner, and the most awful accent I ever heard on the tongue of any human being. I cannot say I admire the Scotch accent; it is generally harsh and disagreeable; but when it is joined to an affectation of correctness, when every syllable is carefully articulated, and every r is given its full force and effect, the result is overpowering. The young man was good enough to give me a considerable share of his attention, and I could hardly conceal my dislike of him. He patronized old Mr. Lindsay, was loftily condescending to Alec, and treated Margaret as if she ought to have been highly flattered by the admiration of so fine a gentleman.

‘Your respected cousin seemed to me as if he were greatly in need of a kicking,’ I said to Alec.

‘If he gets even a share of Uncle James’s property he will be a rich man,’ said Alec thoughtfully. ‘My father would think it a sin for Maggie to refuse a man with a hundred thousand pounds.’

‘So would a good many fathers, I suppose,’ said I.

I am sorry to see Alec’s attitude to his father; yet I fear he judges the old man only too accurately.

For the last few days we have had nothing but rain. Rain, rain, rain, till the leaves were fairly washed off the trees, and the very earth seemed as if it must be sodden to the rocks beneath. Yesterday afternoon I felt tired of being shut up in the large bare room which I have been using as a studio, so I put on a thick suit, and went out for a stretch in the midst of a perfect deluge. I crossed the river by a stone bridge, about a mile lower down, as the stepping-stones were covered, and soon I got to a wide expanse of country, composed of large sodden green fields, barely reclaimed from the moor, and even now, in spite of drains, partly overgrown with rushes. There were no fences; and the hardy cattle wandered at will over the land.

It was inexpressibly dreary. There was little or no wind—no clouds in the sky—only a lead-coloured heaven from which the rain fell incessantly. There was not a house, not a tree, not a hedgerow in sight; and the rain-laden atmosphere hid the horizon.

Suddenly I heard the noise of singing, the singing of a child. I was fairly startled, and looked round, wondering where the sound could come from. I was on the border between the moor and the reclaimed land; and there was literally nothing in sight but the earth, the sky, and the rain, except what looked like a small heap of turf left by the peat-cutters. Could some stray child be hidden behind it? If so, I thought, its life must be in danger.