Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Folding the Flock.After the busiest week known in the island by anybody living there, the Sabbath-day came in, calm and mild. The winters, however stormy, were never severely cold in this sea-beaten spot. It was seldom that ice was seen; and it was never more than half an inch thick. When, as on this Sunday, the wind was lulled and the sky was clear, the climate was as mild as in spring on the mainland. As soon as the aspect of the sunrise showed the experienced that the day would be fair, busy hands moved into the old roofless chapel the pulpit and benches which the pastor had brought with him—the pulpit being a mere desk of unpainted wood, and the benches of the roughest sort. For these the interior space of the old building had been cleared during the week; the floor was trodden hard and even; the walls were so far repaired as to make a complete enclosure; and some rough stones were placed as steps whereby to enter the burying-ground. Some willing hands had done more—had cleared the burying-ground of stones, so that the graves, though sunk, and unmarked by any memorial but a rough and broken headstone here and there, could be distinguished by an eye interested in searching out the dead of a century ago.Another week, if sufficiently fair, was to see the walls finished and the roof on: and afterwards would be discharged the pious task of enclosing the burying-ground, and preparing room for those whom death would lay to rest in their own island. While the minister remained here, no more of the dead would be carried over the sea to some place where there was a pastor to commit them to the grave. Room was to be secured for the graves of the fifty people who were now living on the island, and for their children after them: and to all the inhabitants the island appeared a better place when this arrangement was made.In the weak sunlight of that Sunday morning appeared gay groups of people, all excited with the great thought that they were going to the kirk. They were wonderfully cell clad. How such clothes could come out of such dwellings would have been a marvel to any stranger. Festival days were so rare that a holiday dress lasted for many years. The women’s cloth coats fitted at any age; and the caps with gay ribbons and bright cotton handkerchiefs did not wear out. On this remarkable day all wore their best, and a pretty sight it was to see the whole fifty people drawing towards the chapel as the pastor, his wife, and two children, issued from their lowly abode to meet the flock for the first time.Presently the island might have appeared deserted. Far round as the eye could reach not a human being was visible outside the chapel. But something was heard which told that the place was not only inhabited, but Christianised. The slow psalm rose into the still air. Everyone who could speak could sing a psalm. It was a practice lovingly kept up in every house. Some voices were tremulous, and a few failed; but this was from emotion. The strongest was Annie’s, for hers was the most practised. It was her wont to sing some of the many psalms she knew on summer days, when she sat at work on the platform of her house, and on winter nights, when Rollo was away. Now that she was once more joining in social worship, her soul was joyful, and she sang strong and clear—perhaps the more so for the thought of the one absent person, pining in the cavern on the shore, or looking from afar, in desolation of heart, at the little throng who came privileged to worship. Perhaps Annie’s voice might unconsciously rise as if to reach the lonely one, and invite her to come to the house of God and seek rest. However this might be, Annie’s tones so animated some hearts and strengthened some voices as that the psalm might be, and was, heard a long way off. It reached an unwilling ear, and drew forward reluctant steps. The links of old association, are, however, the strongest of chains, and no charm is so magical as that of religious emotion. Lady Carse was drawn nearer and nearer, in hope of hearing ano, her psalm, till the solemn tones of prayer reached her, and presently she was crouching under the wall outside, weeping like a sinner who dares not knock at the gate of heaven.Before the service was quite finished, angry voices were heard from without, almost overpowering that of the pastor as he gave the blessing. One of Macdonald’s people, who had stepped out to collect the ponies for some of the women and children, had seen the lady, and, after one start back as from the ghost of a drowned woman, had laid hold of her gown, and said she must stay where she could be spoken with by Macdonald on his return from Skye. She struggled to escape, and did break away—not down the hill, but into the chapel.The consternation was inexpressible. The people, supposing her drowned, took her for a ghost, though there was no ghostly calm about her; but her eyes were swollen, her hair disordered, her lips quivering with violent emotion. There was a solemnity about her, too; for extreme anguish is always solemn, in proportion as it approaches to despair. She rushed to the front of the pulpit, and held out her hands, exclaiming aloud to Mr Ruthven that she was the most persecuted and tormented of human beings; that she appealed to him against her persecutors; and if he did not see her righted, she warned him that he would be damned deeper than hell. Mrs Ruthven shuddered, and left her seat to place herself by her husband. And now she encountered the poor lady’s gaze, and, moreover, had her own grasped as it had never been before.“Are these children yours?” she was asked.“Yes,” faltered Mrs Ruthven.“Then you must help me to recover mine. Had you ever,”—and here she turned to the pastor—“had you ever an enemy?” Her voice turned hoarse as she uttered the word.“No—yes—Oh, yes!” said he. “I have had enemies, as every man has.”“Then, as you wish them abased and tormented, you must help me to abase and torment mine—my husband, and Lord Lovat—”“Lord Lovat!” repeated many wondering voices.“And Sir Alexander Macdonald; and his tenant of this place; and—”As Mr Ruthven looked round him, perplexed and amazed, one of Macdonald’s people went up to him, and whispered into his ear that this lady had come from some place above or below, for she was drowned last week. Mr Ruthven half smiled.“I will know,” cried the lady, “what that fellow said. I will hear what my enemies tell you against me. My only hope is in you. I am stolen from Edinburgh; they pretended to bury me there— Eh? what?” she cried, as another man whispered something into the pastor’s other ear. “Mad! There! I heard it. I heard him say I was mad. Did he not tell you I was mad?”“He did; and one cannot— really I cannot—”As he looked round again in his perplexity, the widow rose from her seat, and said, “I know this lady; my son and I know her better than anyone else in the island does; and we should say that she is not mad.”“Notmad!” Mr Ruthven said, with a mingling of surprise in his tone which did not escape the jealous ear of Lady Carse.“Not mad, sir; but grievously oppressed. If you could quietly hear the story, sir, at a fitting time—”“Ay, ay; that will be best,” declared Mr Ruthven.“Let me go home with you,” said Lady Carse. “I will go home with you; and—”Mrs Ruthven exchanged a glance with her husband, and then said, in an embarrassed way, while giving a hand to each of the two children who were clinging to her, that their house was very small, extremely small indeed, with too little room for the children, and none whatever left over.“It is my house,” exclaimed Lady Carse, impatiently. “It was built with a view to you; but it was done under my orders, and I have a claim upon it. And what ails the children?” she cried, in a tone which made the younger cry aloud. “What are they afraid of?”“I don’t know, I am sure,” said their mother, helping them, however, to hide their faces in her gown. “But—”Again Annie rose and said, “There could be no difficulty about a place for the lady if she would be pleased to do as she did before—live in her cottage. The two dwellings might almost be called one, and if the lady would go home with her—”Gratitude was showered on Annie from all the parties. As the lady moved slowly towards the widow’s house, holding Annie’s arm, and weeping as she went, and followed by the Ruthvens, the eyes of all the Macdonalds gazed after her, in a sort of doubt whether she were a witch, or a ghost, or really and truly a woman.As soon as Macdonald’s sloop could be discerned on its approach the next day, Mr Ruthven went down, and paced the shore while daylight lasted, though assured that the vessel would not come up till night. As soon as a signal could be made in the morning for the yawl, he passed to the sloop, where he had a conference with Macdonald, the consequence of which was, that as soon as he was set ashore the sloop again stood out to sea.Mrs Ruthven and Lady Carse saw this, as they stood hand in hand at the door of the new dwelling. They kissed each other at the sight. They had already kissed each other very often, for they called themselves dear and intimate friends who had now one great common object in life—to avenge Lady Carse’s wrongs.“Well, what news?” they both cried, as Mr Ruthven came towards them, panting from the haste with which he had ascended.“The tenant is gone back,” said he, “he has returned to Sir Alexander to contradict his last news—of your being drowned. By-the-way, I promised to contradict it, too—to the man who is watching for the body every tide.”“Oh, he must have heard the facts from some of the people at the chapel.”“If he had he would not believe them, Macdonald says, on any other authority than his. Nor will he leave his post till he finds the body, or—”“Or sees me,” cried Lady Carse, laughing. “Come, let us go and call to him, and tell him he may leave off poking among the weeds. Come; I will show you the way.”And she ran on with the spirits and pace of a girl. Mr and Mrs Ruthven looked at each other with smiles, and Mrs Ruthven exclaimed, “What a charming creature this was, and how shocking it was to think of her cruel fate.” Mr Ruthven shook his head and declared that he regarded the conduct of her persecutors with grave moral disapprobation. Meantime Lady Carse looked back, beckoned to them with her hand, and stamped with her foot, because they were stopping to talk.“What a simple creature she is! So childlike!” exclaimed Mrs Ruthven.“We must quicken our pace, my dear,” replied her husband. “It would not be right to detain the lady when she wishes to proceed.”But now Lady Carse was beckoning to somebody else—to little Kate Ruthven, who, with her brother Adam, was peeping from the door of their new home.“Come, Katie,” said her mother, “don’t you see that Lady Carse calls you? Bring Adam, and go with us.”Kate turned very red, but did not come. Lady Carse came laughing back to fetch them; but they bolted into the house, and, when still pursued, scrambled under a bed. When caught, they screamed.“Well, to be sure,” cried their mother; “what behaviour when a lady asks you to go with her! I declare I am quite ashamed.”Papa now came up, and said—“My dears, I do not approve such behaviour as this.”Kate began to sob, and Adam followed her example.“There, now, do not cry,” said papa; “I cannot permit you to cry. You may go with Lady Carse. Lady Carse is so kind as to wish you to go with her. You will like to go with the lady. Why do you not reply, my dears. You must reply when spoken to. You will like to go with the lady—eh?”“No,” murmured Kate.“No,” whispered Adam.“I am astonished,” papa declared. “I never saw them conduct themselves in this manner before. Did you, my dear?”“No; but it is an accident, I dare say. Something has put them out.”“I must ascertain the cause, however,” papa declared. “Such an incident must not pass uncorrected. Listen to me, my dears, and answer me when I ask you a question. Look at this lady.”Kate slowly lifted her eyes, and Adam then did the same. They seemed on the verge of another scream; and this was not extraordinary; for Lady Carse was not laughing now, but very far from it. There was something in her face that made the children catch at mamma’s gown.“Listen to me, my dears,” papa went on; “and reply when I ask you a question. This good lady is going to live with us—”A deeper plunge into the folds of mamma’s gown.“And from this time forwards you must love this lady. You love this lady now, my dears, don’t you?”After as long a pause as they dared make, the children said, “No.”“Well, I never heard—!” exclaimed mamma.“What can possess them?” inquired papa. “My dears, why do you not love the lady, eh,—Kate?”“I don’t know,” said Kate.“You don’t know?—That is foolish. Adam, why do you not love this lady who is to live with us? Do not tell me that you don’t know, for that is foolish. Why do you not love the lady?”“Because I can’t.”“Why, that is worse still. How perverse,” he said, looking at the ladies, “how perverse is the human heart. My dear, you can, and you must do what is right. You may love me and your mamma first, and next you must love this lady. Say you will try.”“I’ll try,” said Kate.Adam whimpered a little longer; but then he also said, “I’ll try.”“That is right. That is the least you can say after your extraordinary behaviour. Now you may go with the lady, as she is so kind as to wish it.”Lady Carse moved off in silence; and the children, tightly grasping each other’s hands, followed as if going to a funeral.“Jump, my dears,” said papa, when they had reached the down. “Jump about: you may be merry now.”Both looked as if they were immediately going to cry. “What now, Adam?” stooping down that the child might speak confidentially to him, but saying to Lady Carse as he did so, that it was necessary sometimes to condescend to the weakness of children. “Adam, tell me why you are not merry, when I assure you you may.”“I can’t,” whispered Adam.“You can’t! What a sudden fit of humility this boy has got, that he can’t do anything to-day. Unless, however, it be true, well-grounded humility, I fear—”Mamma now tried what she could do. She saw, by Lady Carse’s way of walking on by herself, that she was displeased; and, under the inspiration of this grief, Mrs Ruthven so strove to make her children agreeable by causing them to forget everything disagreeable, that they were soon like themselves again. Mamma permitted them to look for hens’ eggs among the whins, because they had heard that when she was a little girl she used to look for them among bushes in a field. There was no occasion to tell them at such a critical moment for their spirits that it was mid-winter, or that whins would be found rather prickly by poultry, or that there were no hens in the island but Mrs Macdonald’s well sheltered pets. They were told that the first egg they found was to be presented to Lady Carse; and they themselves might divide the next.Their mother’s hope, that if they did not find hens’ eggs, they might light upon something else, was not disappointed. Perhaps she took care that it should not. Adam found a barley-cake on the sheltered side of a bush; and it was not long before Kate found one just as good. They were desired to do with these what they would have done with the eggs—present one to Lady Carse and divide the other. As they were very hungry, they hastened to fulfil the condition of beginning to eat. Again grasping one another’s hands, they walked with desperate courage up to Lady Carse, and held out a cake, without yet daring, however, to look up.“Well, what is that?” she asked sharply.“A barley-cake.”“Who bade you bring it to me?”“Mamma.”“You would not have brought it if mamma had not bid you?”“No.”“Allow me to suggest,” observed papa, “that they would not have ventured. It would be a liberty unbecoming their years to—”“Oh, nonsense!” cried Lady Carse; “I hate these put-up manners. No, miss—no, young master—I will not take your cake. I take gifts only from those I love; and if you don’t love me, I don’t love you—and so there is a Rowland for your Oliver.”The children did not know anything about Rowlands and Olivers; but they saw that the lady was very angry—so angry that they took to their heels, scampered away over the downs, and never stopped till they reached home, and had hidden themselves under the bed.They were not followed. Punishment for their act of absconding was deferred till Lady Carse’s errand should be finished. When once down among the rocks, Lady Carse was eager to show her dear friends all the secrets of her late hiding. As soon as Macdonald’s watchman was convinced by the lady that she was not drowned, and by the minister that he might go home—as soon as he was fairly out of sight, the wonders of the caves were revealed to the pastor and his wife. The party were so interested in the anecdotes belonging to Lady Carse’s season of retreat, that they did not observe, sheltered as they were in eastern caves, that a storm was coming up from the west—one of the tempests which frequently rise from that quarter in the winter season, and break over the Western Islands.The children were aware of it before their parents. When they found they were not followed, they soon grew tired of whispering under the bed, and came cautiously forth.It was very dark, strangely dark, till a glare of lightning came, which was worse than the darkness. But the thunder was worse: it growled fearfully, so as to make them hold their breath. The next clap made them cry. After that cry came help.The widow heard the wail from next door, and called to the children from her door; and glad enough were they to take refuge with a grown-up person who smiled and spoke cheerfully, in spite of the thunder.“Are you not afraid of the thunder?” asked Kate, nestling so close to the widow that she was advised to take care lest the sharp bone knitting needles went into her eyes. “But are not you afraid of the thunder?”“Oh, no!”“Why?”“Because I am not afraid of anything.”“What, not of anything at all?”“Not of anything at all. And there are many things much more harmful than thunder.”“What things?”“The wind is, perhaps, the most terrible of all.”“How loud it is now!” said Adam, shivering as the rushing storm drowned his voice. When the gust had passed, the widow said, “It was not the wind that made all that noise, it was a dash of hail. Ah! if I do fear anything, it is large hail; not because it will hurt me, but because it may break my window, and let in the wind to blow out my lamp.”“But why do not things hurt you? If the lightning was to kill you—”“That would not hurt me,” said the widow, smiling. “I do not call that being hurt, more than dying in any other way that God pleases.”“But if it did not kill you quite, but hurt you—hurt you very much indeed—burned you, or made you blind?”“Then I should know that it was no hurt, but in some way a blessing, because the lightning comes from God. I always like to see it, because— There!” she said, as a vivid flash illumined the place. “Did you ever see anything so bright as that? How should we ever fancy the brightness of God’s throne, if He did not send us a single ray, now and then, in this manner—one single ray, which is as much as we can bear? I dare say you have heard it read in church how all things are God’s messengers, without any word being said about their hurting us,—‘fire and hail;’ here they are!”When that gust was past, she went on, “‘Snow and vapour, stormy winds fulfilling His word.’ Here we are in the midst of the fire and the hail and the stormy winds. If we looked out, perhaps we might see the ‘snow and vapour.’”The children did not seem to wish it.“Then again,” the widow went on, “we are told that ‘He causeth His wind to blow, and the waters flow.’ I am sure I can show you that. I am sure the sea must have risen much already, before such a wind as this. Come!” she continued, wrapping her plaid round herself and the children; “keep close to me and you will not be cold. The cold has not come yet: and if we stand under the sheltered side of the house we shall not be blown. Hark! there is the roar of the waves when the thunder stops. Now we shall see how ‘He causeth His wind to blow and the waters flow.’”She looked so cheerful and promised them such a sight, that they did not like to beg to stay within. Though the hail came pelting in gusts, there was no rain at present to wet them. The wind almost strangled them at the first moment; but they were under the eastern gable of the cottage in an instant, out of the force of the blast.There they sat down, all huddled together; and there the children saw more than they had been promised.The tempest had not yet reached Skye; and they could see, in the intervals of rolling clouds, mountain peaks glittering with snow.“There is the snow!” said the widow. “And see the vapours!—the tumbling, rolling vapours that we call steam-clouds! Look how the lightning flash darts out of them! and how the sea seems swelling and boiling up to meet the vapours! A little way from the land, the wind catches the spray and carries it up and away. If the wind was now from the east, as it will be in spring, that spray would wash over us, and drench us to the skin in a minute.”“What, up here?”“Oh, yes, and higher still. There! Adam felt some then.” And well he might. The sea was now wrought into such tumult that its waves rolled in upon the rocks with tremendous force, causing the caverns to resound with the thundering shock, and the very summit of the precipices to vibrate. Every projection sent up columns of spray, the sprinklings of which reached the heights, bedewing the window of the cottage, and sending in the party under the gable.“There now,” said the widow, when she had fed her fire, and sat down, “we have seen a fine sight to-day; and there will be more to-morrow.”“Shall we see it to-morrow?”“Oh, yes; if you like to come to me to-morrow, I think I can promise to show you the shore all black with weed thrown up by the storm, and, perhaps we may get some wood. These storms often cast up wood, sometimes even thick logs. We must not touch the logs; they belong to Sir Alexander Macdonald, but we may take the smaller pieces, those of us who can get down before other people have taken them away. If the minister is not aware of this, we must tell him, and the weeds will be good to manure his kail-bed, if he can find nothing better.”“Will you go to-morrow and pick up some wood?”“If I can get down alone; but I cannot climb up and down as I used to do. I will show you something prettier than wood or weed that I picked up, after one of these storms, when I was younger.” And she took out of her chest three shells, one very large and handsome, which had been cast upon the western shore some years before. Adam thought this so beautiful that he begged to have it; but the widow could not give it away. She told him she must keep it for a particular reason; but he could see it whenever lie liked to come to her for the purpose.But Adam thought he might pick up such an one himself, if he could go to-morrow to the western shore; and his friend could not say that this was impossible. Oh! then, would she not go and show him the way? Would she not try if he and Kate helped her with all their strength? They were very strong. If she would stand up they would show her how strong they were. She stood up, and they tried to carry her. Their faces were exceedingly red, and they were very near lifting up their friend, and she was laughing and wondering whether they could carry her down the rocks in that way, when the door burst open and Lady Carse appeared.“The children must come home,” said she to Annie; “they have no business here.”“I called them in, my lady, when the thunder frightened them.”“They should not have come. They should have told you that they were under their parents’ displeasure.”All now looked grave enough. The children stole away home, skilfully avoiding taking hold of the lady’s offered hands. She pulled the door after her in no gentle manner. She did not much care whether the children were fond of her; but it was somehow disagreeable to her that they should be happy with her next-door neighbour.

After the busiest week known in the island by anybody living there, the Sabbath-day came in, calm and mild. The winters, however stormy, were never severely cold in this sea-beaten spot. It was seldom that ice was seen; and it was never more than half an inch thick. When, as on this Sunday, the wind was lulled and the sky was clear, the climate was as mild as in spring on the mainland. As soon as the aspect of the sunrise showed the experienced that the day would be fair, busy hands moved into the old roofless chapel the pulpit and benches which the pastor had brought with him—the pulpit being a mere desk of unpainted wood, and the benches of the roughest sort. For these the interior space of the old building had been cleared during the week; the floor was trodden hard and even; the walls were so far repaired as to make a complete enclosure; and some rough stones were placed as steps whereby to enter the burying-ground. Some willing hands had done more—had cleared the burying-ground of stones, so that the graves, though sunk, and unmarked by any memorial but a rough and broken headstone here and there, could be distinguished by an eye interested in searching out the dead of a century ago.

Another week, if sufficiently fair, was to see the walls finished and the roof on: and afterwards would be discharged the pious task of enclosing the burying-ground, and preparing room for those whom death would lay to rest in their own island. While the minister remained here, no more of the dead would be carried over the sea to some place where there was a pastor to commit them to the grave. Room was to be secured for the graves of the fifty people who were now living on the island, and for their children after them: and to all the inhabitants the island appeared a better place when this arrangement was made.

In the weak sunlight of that Sunday morning appeared gay groups of people, all excited with the great thought that they were going to the kirk. They were wonderfully cell clad. How such clothes could come out of such dwellings would have been a marvel to any stranger. Festival days were so rare that a holiday dress lasted for many years. The women’s cloth coats fitted at any age; and the caps with gay ribbons and bright cotton handkerchiefs did not wear out. On this remarkable day all wore their best, and a pretty sight it was to see the whole fifty people drawing towards the chapel as the pastor, his wife, and two children, issued from their lowly abode to meet the flock for the first time.

Presently the island might have appeared deserted. Far round as the eye could reach not a human being was visible outside the chapel. But something was heard which told that the place was not only inhabited, but Christianised. The slow psalm rose into the still air. Everyone who could speak could sing a psalm. It was a practice lovingly kept up in every house. Some voices were tremulous, and a few failed; but this was from emotion. The strongest was Annie’s, for hers was the most practised. It was her wont to sing some of the many psalms she knew on summer days, when she sat at work on the platform of her house, and on winter nights, when Rollo was away. Now that she was once more joining in social worship, her soul was joyful, and she sang strong and clear—perhaps the more so for the thought of the one absent person, pining in the cavern on the shore, or looking from afar, in desolation of heart, at the little throng who came privileged to worship. Perhaps Annie’s voice might unconsciously rise as if to reach the lonely one, and invite her to come to the house of God and seek rest. However this might be, Annie’s tones so animated some hearts and strengthened some voices as that the psalm might be, and was, heard a long way off. It reached an unwilling ear, and drew forward reluctant steps. The links of old association, are, however, the strongest of chains, and no charm is so magical as that of religious emotion. Lady Carse was drawn nearer and nearer, in hope of hearing ano, her psalm, till the solemn tones of prayer reached her, and presently she was crouching under the wall outside, weeping like a sinner who dares not knock at the gate of heaven.

Before the service was quite finished, angry voices were heard from without, almost overpowering that of the pastor as he gave the blessing. One of Macdonald’s people, who had stepped out to collect the ponies for some of the women and children, had seen the lady, and, after one start back as from the ghost of a drowned woman, had laid hold of her gown, and said she must stay where she could be spoken with by Macdonald on his return from Skye. She struggled to escape, and did break away—not down the hill, but into the chapel.

The consternation was inexpressible. The people, supposing her drowned, took her for a ghost, though there was no ghostly calm about her; but her eyes were swollen, her hair disordered, her lips quivering with violent emotion. There was a solemnity about her, too; for extreme anguish is always solemn, in proportion as it approaches to despair. She rushed to the front of the pulpit, and held out her hands, exclaiming aloud to Mr Ruthven that she was the most persecuted and tormented of human beings; that she appealed to him against her persecutors; and if he did not see her righted, she warned him that he would be damned deeper than hell. Mrs Ruthven shuddered, and left her seat to place herself by her husband. And now she encountered the poor lady’s gaze, and, moreover, had her own grasped as it had never been before.

“Are these children yours?” she was asked.

“Yes,” faltered Mrs Ruthven.

“Then you must help me to recover mine. Had you ever,”—and here she turned to the pastor—“had you ever an enemy?” Her voice turned hoarse as she uttered the word.

“No—yes—Oh, yes!” said he. “I have had enemies, as every man has.”

“Then, as you wish them abased and tormented, you must help me to abase and torment mine—my husband, and Lord Lovat—”

“Lord Lovat!” repeated many wondering voices.

“And Sir Alexander Macdonald; and his tenant of this place; and—”

As Mr Ruthven looked round him, perplexed and amazed, one of Macdonald’s people went up to him, and whispered into his ear that this lady had come from some place above or below, for she was drowned last week. Mr Ruthven half smiled.

“I will know,” cried the lady, “what that fellow said. I will hear what my enemies tell you against me. My only hope is in you. I am stolen from Edinburgh; they pretended to bury me there— Eh? what?” she cried, as another man whispered something into the pastor’s other ear. “Mad! There! I heard it. I heard him say I was mad. Did he not tell you I was mad?”

“He did; and one cannot— really I cannot—”

As he looked round again in his perplexity, the widow rose from her seat, and said, “I know this lady; my son and I know her better than anyone else in the island does; and we should say that she is not mad.”

“Notmad!” Mr Ruthven said, with a mingling of surprise in his tone which did not escape the jealous ear of Lady Carse.

“Not mad, sir; but grievously oppressed. If you could quietly hear the story, sir, at a fitting time—”

“Ay, ay; that will be best,” declared Mr Ruthven.

“Let me go home with you,” said Lady Carse. “I will go home with you; and—”

Mrs Ruthven exchanged a glance with her husband, and then said, in an embarrassed way, while giving a hand to each of the two children who were clinging to her, that their house was very small, extremely small indeed, with too little room for the children, and none whatever left over.

“It is my house,” exclaimed Lady Carse, impatiently. “It was built with a view to you; but it was done under my orders, and I have a claim upon it. And what ails the children?” she cried, in a tone which made the younger cry aloud. “What are they afraid of?”

“I don’t know, I am sure,” said their mother, helping them, however, to hide their faces in her gown. “But—”

Again Annie rose and said, “There could be no difficulty about a place for the lady if she would be pleased to do as she did before—live in her cottage. The two dwellings might almost be called one, and if the lady would go home with her—”

Gratitude was showered on Annie from all the parties. As the lady moved slowly towards the widow’s house, holding Annie’s arm, and weeping as she went, and followed by the Ruthvens, the eyes of all the Macdonalds gazed after her, in a sort of doubt whether she were a witch, or a ghost, or really and truly a woman.

As soon as Macdonald’s sloop could be discerned on its approach the next day, Mr Ruthven went down, and paced the shore while daylight lasted, though assured that the vessel would not come up till night. As soon as a signal could be made in the morning for the yawl, he passed to the sloop, where he had a conference with Macdonald, the consequence of which was, that as soon as he was set ashore the sloop again stood out to sea.

Mrs Ruthven and Lady Carse saw this, as they stood hand in hand at the door of the new dwelling. They kissed each other at the sight. They had already kissed each other very often, for they called themselves dear and intimate friends who had now one great common object in life—to avenge Lady Carse’s wrongs.

“Well, what news?” they both cried, as Mr Ruthven came towards them, panting from the haste with which he had ascended.

“The tenant is gone back,” said he, “he has returned to Sir Alexander to contradict his last news—of your being drowned. By-the-way, I promised to contradict it, too—to the man who is watching for the body every tide.”

“Oh, he must have heard the facts from some of the people at the chapel.”

“If he had he would not believe them, Macdonald says, on any other authority than his. Nor will he leave his post till he finds the body, or—”

“Or sees me,” cried Lady Carse, laughing. “Come, let us go and call to him, and tell him he may leave off poking among the weeds. Come; I will show you the way.”

And she ran on with the spirits and pace of a girl. Mr and Mrs Ruthven looked at each other with smiles, and Mrs Ruthven exclaimed, “What a charming creature this was, and how shocking it was to think of her cruel fate.” Mr Ruthven shook his head and declared that he regarded the conduct of her persecutors with grave moral disapprobation. Meantime Lady Carse looked back, beckoned to them with her hand, and stamped with her foot, because they were stopping to talk.

“What a simple creature she is! So childlike!” exclaimed Mrs Ruthven.

“We must quicken our pace, my dear,” replied her husband. “It would not be right to detain the lady when she wishes to proceed.”

But now Lady Carse was beckoning to somebody else—to little Kate Ruthven, who, with her brother Adam, was peeping from the door of their new home.

“Come, Katie,” said her mother, “don’t you see that Lady Carse calls you? Bring Adam, and go with us.”

Kate turned very red, but did not come. Lady Carse came laughing back to fetch them; but they bolted into the house, and, when still pursued, scrambled under a bed. When caught, they screamed.

“Well, to be sure,” cried their mother; “what behaviour when a lady asks you to go with her! I declare I am quite ashamed.”

Papa now came up, and said—

“My dears, I do not approve such behaviour as this.”

Kate began to sob, and Adam followed her example.

“There, now, do not cry,” said papa; “I cannot permit you to cry. You may go with Lady Carse. Lady Carse is so kind as to wish you to go with her. You will like to go with the lady. Why do you not reply, my dears. You must reply when spoken to. You will like to go with the lady—eh?”

“No,” murmured Kate.

“No,” whispered Adam.

“I am astonished,” papa declared. “I never saw them conduct themselves in this manner before. Did you, my dear?”

“No; but it is an accident, I dare say. Something has put them out.”

“I must ascertain the cause, however,” papa declared. “Such an incident must not pass uncorrected. Listen to me, my dears, and answer me when I ask you a question. Look at this lady.”

Kate slowly lifted her eyes, and Adam then did the same. They seemed on the verge of another scream; and this was not extraordinary; for Lady Carse was not laughing now, but very far from it. There was something in her face that made the children catch at mamma’s gown.

“Listen to me, my dears,” papa went on; “and reply when I ask you a question. This good lady is going to live with us—”

A deeper plunge into the folds of mamma’s gown.

“And from this time forwards you must love this lady. You love this lady now, my dears, don’t you?”

After as long a pause as they dared make, the children said, “No.”

“Well, I never heard—!” exclaimed mamma.

“What can possess them?” inquired papa. “My dears, why do you not love the lady, eh,—Kate?”

“I don’t know,” said Kate.

“You don’t know?—That is foolish. Adam, why do you not love this lady who is to live with us? Do not tell me that you don’t know, for that is foolish. Why do you not love the lady?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Why, that is worse still. How perverse,” he said, looking at the ladies, “how perverse is the human heart. My dear, you can, and you must do what is right. You may love me and your mamma first, and next you must love this lady. Say you will try.”

“I’ll try,” said Kate.

Adam whimpered a little longer; but then he also said, “I’ll try.”

“That is right. That is the least you can say after your extraordinary behaviour. Now you may go with the lady, as she is so kind as to wish it.”

Lady Carse moved off in silence; and the children, tightly grasping each other’s hands, followed as if going to a funeral.

“Jump, my dears,” said papa, when they had reached the down. “Jump about: you may be merry now.”

Both looked as if they were immediately going to cry. “What now, Adam?” stooping down that the child might speak confidentially to him, but saying to Lady Carse as he did so, that it was necessary sometimes to condescend to the weakness of children. “Adam, tell me why you are not merry, when I assure you you may.”

“I can’t,” whispered Adam.

“You can’t! What a sudden fit of humility this boy has got, that he can’t do anything to-day. Unless, however, it be true, well-grounded humility, I fear—”

Mamma now tried what she could do. She saw, by Lady Carse’s way of walking on by herself, that she was displeased; and, under the inspiration of this grief, Mrs Ruthven so strove to make her children agreeable by causing them to forget everything disagreeable, that they were soon like themselves again. Mamma permitted them to look for hens’ eggs among the whins, because they had heard that when she was a little girl she used to look for them among bushes in a field. There was no occasion to tell them at such a critical moment for their spirits that it was mid-winter, or that whins would be found rather prickly by poultry, or that there were no hens in the island but Mrs Macdonald’s well sheltered pets. They were told that the first egg they found was to be presented to Lady Carse; and they themselves might divide the next.

Their mother’s hope, that if they did not find hens’ eggs, they might light upon something else, was not disappointed. Perhaps she took care that it should not. Adam found a barley-cake on the sheltered side of a bush; and it was not long before Kate found one just as good. They were desired to do with these what they would have done with the eggs—present one to Lady Carse and divide the other. As they were very hungry, they hastened to fulfil the condition of beginning to eat. Again grasping one another’s hands, they walked with desperate courage up to Lady Carse, and held out a cake, without yet daring, however, to look up.

“Well, what is that?” she asked sharply.

“A barley-cake.”

“Who bade you bring it to me?”

“Mamma.”

“You would not have brought it if mamma had not bid you?”

“No.”

“Allow me to suggest,” observed papa, “that they would not have ventured. It would be a liberty unbecoming their years to—”

“Oh, nonsense!” cried Lady Carse; “I hate these put-up manners. No, miss—no, young master—I will not take your cake. I take gifts only from those I love; and if you don’t love me, I don’t love you—and so there is a Rowland for your Oliver.”

The children did not know anything about Rowlands and Olivers; but they saw that the lady was very angry—so angry that they took to their heels, scampered away over the downs, and never stopped till they reached home, and had hidden themselves under the bed.

They were not followed. Punishment for their act of absconding was deferred till Lady Carse’s errand should be finished. When once down among the rocks, Lady Carse was eager to show her dear friends all the secrets of her late hiding. As soon as Macdonald’s watchman was convinced by the lady that she was not drowned, and by the minister that he might go home—as soon as he was fairly out of sight, the wonders of the caves were revealed to the pastor and his wife. The party were so interested in the anecdotes belonging to Lady Carse’s season of retreat, that they did not observe, sheltered as they were in eastern caves, that a storm was coming up from the west—one of the tempests which frequently rise from that quarter in the winter season, and break over the Western Islands.

The children were aware of it before their parents. When they found they were not followed, they soon grew tired of whispering under the bed, and came cautiously forth.

It was very dark, strangely dark, till a glare of lightning came, which was worse than the darkness. But the thunder was worse: it growled fearfully, so as to make them hold their breath. The next clap made them cry. After that cry came help.

The widow heard the wail from next door, and called to the children from her door; and glad enough were they to take refuge with a grown-up person who smiled and spoke cheerfully, in spite of the thunder.

“Are you not afraid of the thunder?” asked Kate, nestling so close to the widow that she was advised to take care lest the sharp bone knitting needles went into her eyes. “But are not you afraid of the thunder?”

“Oh, no!”

“Why?”

“Because I am not afraid of anything.”

“What, not of anything at all?”

“Not of anything at all. And there are many things much more harmful than thunder.”

“What things?”

“The wind is, perhaps, the most terrible of all.”

“How loud it is now!” said Adam, shivering as the rushing storm drowned his voice. When the gust had passed, the widow said, “It was not the wind that made all that noise, it was a dash of hail. Ah! if I do fear anything, it is large hail; not because it will hurt me, but because it may break my window, and let in the wind to blow out my lamp.”

“But why do not things hurt you? If the lightning was to kill you—”

“That would not hurt me,” said the widow, smiling. “I do not call that being hurt, more than dying in any other way that God pleases.”

“But if it did not kill you quite, but hurt you—hurt you very much indeed—burned you, or made you blind?”

“Then I should know that it was no hurt, but in some way a blessing, because the lightning comes from God. I always like to see it, because— There!” she said, as a vivid flash illumined the place. “Did you ever see anything so bright as that? How should we ever fancy the brightness of God’s throne, if He did not send us a single ray, now and then, in this manner—one single ray, which is as much as we can bear? I dare say you have heard it read in church how all things are God’s messengers, without any word being said about their hurting us,—‘fire and hail;’ here they are!”

When that gust was past, she went on, “‘Snow and vapour, stormy winds fulfilling His word.’ Here we are in the midst of the fire and the hail and the stormy winds. If we looked out, perhaps we might see the ‘snow and vapour.’”

The children did not seem to wish it.

“Then again,” the widow went on, “we are told that ‘He causeth His wind to blow, and the waters flow.’ I am sure I can show you that. I am sure the sea must have risen much already, before such a wind as this. Come!” she continued, wrapping her plaid round herself and the children; “keep close to me and you will not be cold. The cold has not come yet: and if we stand under the sheltered side of the house we shall not be blown. Hark! there is the roar of the waves when the thunder stops. Now we shall see how ‘He causeth His wind to blow and the waters flow.’”

She looked so cheerful and promised them such a sight, that they did not like to beg to stay within. Though the hail came pelting in gusts, there was no rain at present to wet them. The wind almost strangled them at the first moment; but they were under the eastern gable of the cottage in an instant, out of the force of the blast.

There they sat down, all huddled together; and there the children saw more than they had been promised.

The tempest had not yet reached Skye; and they could see, in the intervals of rolling clouds, mountain peaks glittering with snow.

“There is the snow!” said the widow. “And see the vapours!—the tumbling, rolling vapours that we call steam-clouds! Look how the lightning flash darts out of them! and how the sea seems swelling and boiling up to meet the vapours! A little way from the land, the wind catches the spray and carries it up and away. If the wind was now from the east, as it will be in spring, that spray would wash over us, and drench us to the skin in a minute.”

“What, up here?”

“Oh, yes, and higher still. There! Adam felt some then.” And well he might. The sea was now wrought into such tumult that its waves rolled in upon the rocks with tremendous force, causing the caverns to resound with the thundering shock, and the very summit of the precipices to vibrate. Every projection sent up columns of spray, the sprinklings of which reached the heights, bedewing the window of the cottage, and sending in the party under the gable.

“There now,” said the widow, when she had fed her fire, and sat down, “we have seen a fine sight to-day; and there will be more to-morrow.”

“Shall we see it to-morrow?”

“Oh, yes; if you like to come to me to-morrow, I think I can promise to show you the shore all black with weed thrown up by the storm, and, perhaps we may get some wood. These storms often cast up wood, sometimes even thick logs. We must not touch the logs; they belong to Sir Alexander Macdonald, but we may take the smaller pieces, those of us who can get down before other people have taken them away. If the minister is not aware of this, we must tell him, and the weeds will be good to manure his kail-bed, if he can find nothing better.”

“Will you go to-morrow and pick up some wood?”

“If I can get down alone; but I cannot climb up and down as I used to do. I will show you something prettier than wood or weed that I picked up, after one of these storms, when I was younger.” And she took out of her chest three shells, one very large and handsome, which had been cast upon the western shore some years before. Adam thought this so beautiful that he begged to have it; but the widow could not give it away. She told him she must keep it for a particular reason; but he could see it whenever lie liked to come to her for the purpose.

But Adam thought he might pick up such an one himself, if he could go to-morrow to the western shore; and his friend could not say that this was impossible. Oh! then, would she not go and show him the way? Would she not try if he and Kate helped her with all their strength? They were very strong. If she would stand up they would show her how strong they were. She stood up, and they tried to carry her. Their faces were exceedingly red, and they were very near lifting up their friend, and she was laughing and wondering whether they could carry her down the rocks in that way, when the door burst open and Lady Carse appeared.

“The children must come home,” said she to Annie; “they have no business here.”

“I called them in, my lady, when the thunder frightened them.”

“They should not have come. They should have told you that they were under their parents’ displeasure.”

All now looked grave enough. The children stole away home, skilfully avoiding taking hold of the lady’s offered hands. She pulled the door after her in no gentle manner. She did not much care whether the children were fond of her; but it was somehow disagreeable to her that they should be happy with her next-door neighbour.

Chapter Twelve.The Steward on his Rounds.The return of Macdonald’s boat was a great event; and especially to the inhabitants of the hill-side cottages. Macdonald was accompanied by Sir Alexander’s steward, who brought some furniture and finishings for the chapel and the minister’s dwelling, and, for the first time, a parcel for Lady Carse.When the package was brought up from the shore, Lady Carse rushed in to tell Annie the news, and to bid her come and see the unpacking.The poor lady was sure that by means of Mr Johny, or through some other channel, tidings of her existence and banishment had reached her friends at Edinburgh, and that this parcel contained some warrant of release. With raised colour and sparkling eyes, she talked of her departure the next morning; of how it would be best to travel, when she once set foot on the main; of how soon she could reach Edinburgh, and whether it would not be better to go first to London, to lay her own case and the treason of her enemies before the Prime Minister. Mrs Ruthven agreed to all she said. Mr Ruthven walked to and fro before the door, stopping at every turn to offer his congratulations. Annie looked anxious and eager.When the package was deposited before the door, and the glee of the party was at the highest, the children capered and shouted. Annie quietly checked this, and kept them by her side; whereupon Lady Carse smiled at Mrs Ruthven, and said she pitied people who were grave when good fortune befell their friends, and who could not bear even to let children sympathise in it.“You mistake me, madam,” said Annie. “If this package was from Edinburgh, I should feel more like dancing myself than stopping the children’s dancing; but I sadly fear this comes from no further off than Skye. I know the Skye packages.”“Nonsense!” cried Lady Carse. “I know nobody in Skye. I hate croakers. Some people take a pleasure in spoiling other people’s pleasure.”“That is a temper that I do not approve of,” observed Mr Ruthven. “This life is to some such a vale of tears that I think it is ungrateful not to pluck the few flowers of innocent pleasure which grow by the wayside. I should think that a Christian temper would be ready to assist the enjoyment. Here, my good men—”“What stupid fellows those men are!” cried Lady Carse. “They are actually going away without helping us to uncord the package.”She called after them; but in answer to her scolding, the men only stared; which made Lady Carse tell them they were idiots. A word or two from Annie in Gaelic brought them back directly, and obtained from them what aid was needed.“Shall I enquire, madam,” asked Annie, “anything that you may wish to know?”“No,” replied Lady Carse, sharply. “Youspeak Gaelic, I think,” she said to Mr Ruthven. “Will you learn from the men all you can about this package, and tell me every word they say?”Mr Ruthven bowed, cleared his throat, and began to examine the men. Lady Carse meantime said to Mrs Ruthven, in Annie’s hearing, that she must wait, and restrain her patience a little while. There was no saying what might be in the package, and they must be by themselves when they opened it.Mrs Ruthven said she would send the children away; and Annie offered to take them home with her.“The children!” exclaimed Lady Carse. “Oh, bless them! what harm can they do? Letthemstay by all means. I hope there will be nobody to spoiltheirpleasure.”Annie curtseyed, and withdrew to her own house. As she shut the door and sank into a chair, she thought how bad her rheumatic pains were. Her heart was swelling a little too; but it soon subsided as she said to herself, “A vale of tears, indeed, is this life; or rather a waste and howling wilderness, to that poor lady with her restless mind. God knows I would not reckon hardly with her, or anyone so far from peace of mind. Nor can I wonder, when I pity her so much, that others should also, and forget other things when she is before their eyes. I did think, when I heard the minister was coming— But I had no right to expect anything beyond the blessing of the sabbath, and of burial, and the ordinances. And oh, there is the comfort of the sabbath! The Word is preached, and there is prayer and praise now on sabbath-days for a year to come; or, perhaps, as many years as I shall live. If this was a place for peace of mind before, what can trouble us now?” The closing psalm of last sabbath had never been out of her ears and her heart since. She now began to sing it, softly at first, but louder as her soul warmed to it. She was soon stopped by a louder sound; a shrill cry from the next house, and presently Mrs Ruthven rushed in to know what she was to do. Lady Carse was hysterical. The package had contained no news from her friends, but had brought cruel disappointment. It contained some clothing, a stone of sugar, a pound of tea, six pecks of wheat, and an anker of spirits; and there was a slip of paper to say that the same quantity of these stores would be brought yearly by the steward when he came to collect the heather rent. At this sentence of an abode of years in this place, Lady Carse had given way to despair; had vowed she would choke the steward in his sacks of feathers, that she might be tried for murder on the main; and then she had attempted to scatter the wheat, and to empty out the spirits, but that Mr Ruthven had held her hand, and told her that the anker of spirits was, in fact, her purse—her means of purchasing from Macdonald and others her daily meat and such service as she needed. But now she was in hysterics, and they did not know what to do next. Would Mrs Fleming come?Annie thought the lady would rather not see her; told Mrs Ruthven how to treat the patient, and begged that the children might be sent to her, if they were in the way.The children were with Annie all the rest of the day; for their father and mother were exceedingly busy writing letters, to go by the steward.In the evening the steward paid them a visit, in his round back to the boat. He was very civil, brought with him a girl, the handiest and comeliest he said, that he could engage among Macdonald’s people, to wait upon Lady Carse; gave order for the immediate erection of a sort of outhouse for her stores, and desired her to say if there was anything else she was pressingly in want of. She would not say a word to him of one kind or another, but turned him over to the minister. But the minister could not carry his own points. He could not induce the steward to convey a single letter of the several written that day. The steward was sorry: had hoped it was understood that no letter was to leave the island,—no written paper of any kind,—while Lady Carse resided there. He would not take these to Sir Alexander: he would not ask him to yield this point even to the minister. Sir Alexander’s orders were positive; and it was clear that in these parts that settled the question.While the argument was going on, Lady Carse rose from her seat, and passed behind the steward, to leave the room. She caught up the letters unperceived, and unperceived slipped them into the steward’s pocket: so that while he bowed himself out, declining to touch the letters, he was actually carrying them with him.Helsa, Lady Carse’s new maid, witnessed this prank; and, not daring to laugh at the moment, made up for this by telling the story to her acquaintance, the widow, when sent for the children at night.“That will never do,” Annie declared. “Harm may come of it, but no good.”And this set her thinking.The consequence of her meditation was that she roused the family from their beds when even Lady Carse had been an hour asleep. When Mr Ruthven found that there was neither fire nor illness in the case, he declared to Annie his disapprobation of untimely hours; and said that if those who had a lamp to keep burning became in time forgetful of the difference between night and day, they should remember that it was not so with others; and that the afflicted especially, who had griefs and agitations during the day, should be permitted to enjoy undisturbed such rest as might be mercifully sent them.Annie listened respectfully to all this, and acknowledged the truth of it. It was, however, a hope that Lady Carse might possibly sleep hereafter under the same roof with her children, if this night were not lost, which made her take the liberty of rousing the minister at such an hour.She was confident that the steward would either bring back the letters, as soon as he put his hand upon them, or destroy them; for such a thing was never heard of as an order of Sir Alexander’s being disobeyed. She had thought of a way of sending a note, if the minister could write on a small piece of paper what would alarm the lady’s friends. She had now and then, at long intervals, a supply from a relation from Dumfries, of a particular kind of thread which she used to knit into little socks and mittens for sale. This knitting was now too fine for her eyes: but the steward did not know this; and he would no doubt take her order, as he had done before. She believed he would come up to return the letters quite early in the morning. If she had a ball of thread ready, he would take it as a pattern: and this ball might contain a little note;—a very small one indeed, if the minister would write it.“How would the receiver know there was a note?” asked Mr Ruthven.“It might be years before the ball was used up,” Mrs Ruthven observed: “or it might come back as it went.”“I thought,” said Annie, “that I would give the order in this way. I would say that I want four pieces of the thread, all exactly the same length as the one that goes. The steward will set that down in his book; and he always does what we ask him very carefully. Then my relation will unwind the ball to see what the length is, and come upon the note; and then—”“I see. I see it all,” declared Mr Ruthven. “Do not you, my dear?”“Oh yes; I see. It will be delightful, will it not, Lady Carse?”“That is as it may be,” said Lady Carse. “It is a plan which may work two ways.”“I do not see how it can work to any mischief,” Annie quietly declared. “I will leave you to consider it. If you think well of the plan, I shall be found ready with my thread. If the steward returns, it will be very early, that he may not lose the tide.”As might be expected, Annie’s offer was accepted; for even Lady Carse’s prejudiced mind could point out no risk, while the success might be everything. There was something that touched her feelings in the patient care with which the widow sat, in the lamplight, winding the thread over and over the small slip of paper, so as to leave no speck visible, and to make a tight and secure ball.The slip of paper contained a request that the reader would let Mr Hope, advocate, Edinburgh, know that Lady Carse was not dead, though pretended to be buried, but stolen away from Edinburgh, and now confined to the after-mentioned island of the Hebrides. Then followed Lady Carse’s signature and that of the minister, with the date.“It will do! It will do!” exclaimed Mrs Ruthven. “My dear, dear Lady Carse—”But Lady Carse turned away, and paced the room, “I don’t wonder, I am sure,” declared Mrs Ruthven, “I don’t wonder that you walk up and down. To think what may hang on this night— Now, take my arm,—let me support you.”And she put her arm around the waist of her dear friend. But Lady Carse shook her off, turned weeping to Annie, and sobbed out, “If you save me— If this is all sincere in you, and—”“Sincere!” exclaimed Annie, in such surprise that she almost dropped the ball.“O yes, yes; it is all right, and you are an angel to me. I—”“What an amiable creature she is!” said Mrs Ruthven to her husband, gazing on Lady Carse. “What noble impulses she has!”“Very fine impulses,” declared the minister. “It is very affecting. I find myself much moved.” And he began pacing up and down.“Sincere!” Annie repeated to herself in the same surprise.“Oh, dear!” observed Mrs Ruthven, in a whisper, which, however, the widow heard: “how long it takes for some people to know some other people. There is Mrs Fleming, now, all perplexed about the dear creature. Why, she knew her; I mean, she had her with her before we ever saw her, and now we know her— Oh! how well, how thoroughly we know her—we know her to the bottom of her heart.”“A most transparent being, indeed!” declared Mr Ruthven. “As guileless as a child.”“Call me a child; you may,” sobbed Lady Carse. “None but children and such as I quarrel with their best friends. She has been to me—”“You reproach yourself too severely, my dear lady,” declared the minister. “There are seasons of inequality in us all; not that I intend to justify—”His wife did not wait for the end, but said, “Quarrel, my dear soul? Quarrel with your best friends? You do such a thing! Let us see whether you ever quarrel with us; and wearefriends, are we not; you and we? Let us see whether you ever quarrel with us! Ah!”Annie had finished her work; and she was gone before the long kiss of the new friends was over.“It is only two days more to the sabbath,” thought she. Then she smiled, and said, “Anyone might call me a child, counting the days as if I could not wait for my treat. But, really, I did not know what the comfort of the sabbath would be. The chapel is all weather-tight now; and thank God for sending us a minister!”As all expected, up came the steward; very early and very angry. Nobody from the minister’s house cared toencounter him. He threw the letters down upon the threshold of the door, and shouted out that his bringing them back was more than the writer deserved. If he had read them, and made mischief of their contents, nobody could, under the circumstances, have blamed him. Here they were, however, as a lesson to the family not to lose their time, and waste their precious ink and paper in writing letters that would never leave the island.As he was turning to go away, the widow opened her door, and asked if he would excuse her for troubling him with one little commission which she had not thought of the day before, and she produced the ball of thread.Lady Carse was watching through a chink in a shutter. She saw the steward’s countenance relax, and heard his voice soften as he spoke to the widow. She perceived that Annie had influence with him, if she would use it faithfully and zealously. Next she observed the care with which he wrote in his note book Annie’s directions about her commission, and how he deposited the precious ball in his securest pocket. She felt that this chance of escape, though somewhat precarious, was the best that had yet occurred.Before the steward was out of sight she opened the shutter, though it creaked perilously, and kissed her hand to the surprised Annie, who was watching her agent down the hill. Annie smiled, but secured caution by immediately going in.

The return of Macdonald’s boat was a great event; and especially to the inhabitants of the hill-side cottages. Macdonald was accompanied by Sir Alexander’s steward, who brought some furniture and finishings for the chapel and the minister’s dwelling, and, for the first time, a parcel for Lady Carse.

When the package was brought up from the shore, Lady Carse rushed in to tell Annie the news, and to bid her come and see the unpacking.

The poor lady was sure that by means of Mr Johny, or through some other channel, tidings of her existence and banishment had reached her friends at Edinburgh, and that this parcel contained some warrant of release. With raised colour and sparkling eyes, she talked of her departure the next morning; of how it would be best to travel, when she once set foot on the main; of how soon she could reach Edinburgh, and whether it would not be better to go first to London, to lay her own case and the treason of her enemies before the Prime Minister. Mrs Ruthven agreed to all she said. Mr Ruthven walked to and fro before the door, stopping at every turn to offer his congratulations. Annie looked anxious and eager.

When the package was deposited before the door, and the glee of the party was at the highest, the children capered and shouted. Annie quietly checked this, and kept them by her side; whereupon Lady Carse smiled at Mrs Ruthven, and said she pitied people who were grave when good fortune befell their friends, and who could not bear even to let children sympathise in it.

“You mistake me, madam,” said Annie. “If this package was from Edinburgh, I should feel more like dancing myself than stopping the children’s dancing; but I sadly fear this comes from no further off than Skye. I know the Skye packages.”

“Nonsense!” cried Lady Carse. “I know nobody in Skye. I hate croakers. Some people take a pleasure in spoiling other people’s pleasure.”

“That is a temper that I do not approve of,” observed Mr Ruthven. “This life is to some such a vale of tears that I think it is ungrateful not to pluck the few flowers of innocent pleasure which grow by the wayside. I should think that a Christian temper would be ready to assist the enjoyment. Here, my good men—”

“What stupid fellows those men are!” cried Lady Carse. “They are actually going away without helping us to uncord the package.”

She called after them; but in answer to her scolding, the men only stared; which made Lady Carse tell them they were idiots. A word or two from Annie in Gaelic brought them back directly, and obtained from them what aid was needed.

“Shall I enquire, madam,” asked Annie, “anything that you may wish to know?”

“No,” replied Lady Carse, sharply. “Youspeak Gaelic, I think,” she said to Mr Ruthven. “Will you learn from the men all you can about this package, and tell me every word they say?”

Mr Ruthven bowed, cleared his throat, and began to examine the men. Lady Carse meantime said to Mrs Ruthven, in Annie’s hearing, that she must wait, and restrain her patience a little while. There was no saying what might be in the package, and they must be by themselves when they opened it.

Mrs Ruthven said she would send the children away; and Annie offered to take them home with her.

“The children!” exclaimed Lady Carse. “Oh, bless them! what harm can they do? Letthemstay by all means. I hope there will be nobody to spoiltheirpleasure.”

Annie curtseyed, and withdrew to her own house. As she shut the door and sank into a chair, she thought how bad her rheumatic pains were. Her heart was swelling a little too; but it soon subsided as she said to herself, “A vale of tears, indeed, is this life; or rather a waste and howling wilderness, to that poor lady with her restless mind. God knows I would not reckon hardly with her, or anyone so far from peace of mind. Nor can I wonder, when I pity her so much, that others should also, and forget other things when she is before their eyes. I did think, when I heard the minister was coming— But I had no right to expect anything beyond the blessing of the sabbath, and of burial, and the ordinances. And oh, there is the comfort of the sabbath! The Word is preached, and there is prayer and praise now on sabbath-days for a year to come; or, perhaps, as many years as I shall live. If this was a place for peace of mind before, what can trouble us now?” The closing psalm of last sabbath had never been out of her ears and her heart since. She now began to sing it, softly at first, but louder as her soul warmed to it. She was soon stopped by a louder sound; a shrill cry from the next house, and presently Mrs Ruthven rushed in to know what she was to do. Lady Carse was hysterical. The package had contained no news from her friends, but had brought cruel disappointment. It contained some clothing, a stone of sugar, a pound of tea, six pecks of wheat, and an anker of spirits; and there was a slip of paper to say that the same quantity of these stores would be brought yearly by the steward when he came to collect the heather rent. At this sentence of an abode of years in this place, Lady Carse had given way to despair; had vowed she would choke the steward in his sacks of feathers, that she might be tried for murder on the main; and then she had attempted to scatter the wheat, and to empty out the spirits, but that Mr Ruthven had held her hand, and told her that the anker of spirits was, in fact, her purse—her means of purchasing from Macdonald and others her daily meat and such service as she needed. But now she was in hysterics, and they did not know what to do next. Would Mrs Fleming come?

Annie thought the lady would rather not see her; told Mrs Ruthven how to treat the patient, and begged that the children might be sent to her, if they were in the way.

The children were with Annie all the rest of the day; for their father and mother were exceedingly busy writing letters, to go by the steward.

In the evening the steward paid them a visit, in his round back to the boat. He was very civil, brought with him a girl, the handiest and comeliest he said, that he could engage among Macdonald’s people, to wait upon Lady Carse; gave order for the immediate erection of a sort of outhouse for her stores, and desired her to say if there was anything else she was pressingly in want of. She would not say a word to him of one kind or another, but turned him over to the minister. But the minister could not carry his own points. He could not induce the steward to convey a single letter of the several written that day. The steward was sorry: had hoped it was understood that no letter was to leave the island,—no written paper of any kind,—while Lady Carse resided there. He would not take these to Sir Alexander: he would not ask him to yield this point even to the minister. Sir Alexander’s orders were positive; and it was clear that in these parts that settled the question.

While the argument was going on, Lady Carse rose from her seat, and passed behind the steward, to leave the room. She caught up the letters unperceived, and unperceived slipped them into the steward’s pocket: so that while he bowed himself out, declining to touch the letters, he was actually carrying them with him.

Helsa, Lady Carse’s new maid, witnessed this prank; and, not daring to laugh at the moment, made up for this by telling the story to her acquaintance, the widow, when sent for the children at night.

“That will never do,” Annie declared. “Harm may come of it, but no good.”

And this set her thinking.

The consequence of her meditation was that she roused the family from their beds when even Lady Carse had been an hour asleep. When Mr Ruthven found that there was neither fire nor illness in the case, he declared to Annie his disapprobation of untimely hours; and said that if those who had a lamp to keep burning became in time forgetful of the difference between night and day, they should remember that it was not so with others; and that the afflicted especially, who had griefs and agitations during the day, should be permitted to enjoy undisturbed such rest as might be mercifully sent them.

Annie listened respectfully to all this, and acknowledged the truth of it. It was, however, a hope that Lady Carse might possibly sleep hereafter under the same roof with her children, if this night were not lost, which made her take the liberty of rousing the minister at such an hour.

She was confident that the steward would either bring back the letters, as soon as he put his hand upon them, or destroy them; for such a thing was never heard of as an order of Sir Alexander’s being disobeyed. She had thought of a way of sending a note, if the minister could write on a small piece of paper what would alarm the lady’s friends. She had now and then, at long intervals, a supply from a relation from Dumfries, of a particular kind of thread which she used to knit into little socks and mittens for sale. This knitting was now too fine for her eyes: but the steward did not know this; and he would no doubt take her order, as he had done before. She believed he would come up to return the letters quite early in the morning. If she had a ball of thread ready, he would take it as a pattern: and this ball might contain a little note;—a very small one indeed, if the minister would write it.

“How would the receiver know there was a note?” asked Mr Ruthven.

“It might be years before the ball was used up,” Mrs Ruthven observed: “or it might come back as it went.”

“I thought,” said Annie, “that I would give the order in this way. I would say that I want four pieces of the thread, all exactly the same length as the one that goes. The steward will set that down in his book; and he always does what we ask him very carefully. Then my relation will unwind the ball to see what the length is, and come upon the note; and then—”

“I see. I see it all,” declared Mr Ruthven. “Do not you, my dear?”

“Oh yes; I see. It will be delightful, will it not, Lady Carse?”

“That is as it may be,” said Lady Carse. “It is a plan which may work two ways.”

“I do not see how it can work to any mischief,” Annie quietly declared. “I will leave you to consider it. If you think well of the plan, I shall be found ready with my thread. If the steward returns, it will be very early, that he may not lose the tide.”

As might be expected, Annie’s offer was accepted; for even Lady Carse’s prejudiced mind could point out no risk, while the success might be everything. There was something that touched her feelings in the patient care with which the widow sat, in the lamplight, winding the thread over and over the small slip of paper, so as to leave no speck visible, and to make a tight and secure ball.

The slip of paper contained a request that the reader would let Mr Hope, advocate, Edinburgh, know that Lady Carse was not dead, though pretended to be buried, but stolen away from Edinburgh, and now confined to the after-mentioned island of the Hebrides. Then followed Lady Carse’s signature and that of the minister, with the date.

“It will do! It will do!” exclaimed Mrs Ruthven. “My dear, dear Lady Carse—”

But Lady Carse turned away, and paced the room, “I don’t wonder, I am sure,” declared Mrs Ruthven, “I don’t wonder that you walk up and down. To think what may hang on this night— Now, take my arm,—let me support you.”

And she put her arm around the waist of her dear friend. But Lady Carse shook her off, turned weeping to Annie, and sobbed out, “If you save me— If this is all sincere in you, and—”

“Sincere!” exclaimed Annie, in such surprise that she almost dropped the ball.

“O yes, yes; it is all right, and you are an angel to me. I—”

“What an amiable creature she is!” said Mrs Ruthven to her husband, gazing on Lady Carse. “What noble impulses she has!”

“Very fine impulses,” declared the minister. “It is very affecting. I find myself much moved.” And he began pacing up and down.

“Sincere!” Annie repeated to herself in the same surprise.

“Oh, dear!” observed Mrs Ruthven, in a whisper, which, however, the widow heard: “how long it takes for some people to know some other people. There is Mrs Fleming, now, all perplexed about the dear creature. Why, she knew her; I mean, she had her with her before we ever saw her, and now we know her— Oh! how well, how thoroughly we know her—we know her to the bottom of her heart.”

“A most transparent being, indeed!” declared Mr Ruthven. “As guileless as a child.”

“Call me a child; you may,” sobbed Lady Carse. “None but children and such as I quarrel with their best friends. She has been to me—”

“You reproach yourself too severely, my dear lady,” declared the minister. “There are seasons of inequality in us all; not that I intend to justify—”

His wife did not wait for the end, but said, “Quarrel, my dear soul? Quarrel with your best friends? You do such a thing! Let us see whether you ever quarrel with us; and wearefriends, are we not; you and we? Let us see whether you ever quarrel with us! Ah!”

Annie had finished her work; and she was gone before the long kiss of the new friends was over.

“It is only two days more to the sabbath,” thought she. Then she smiled, and said, “Anyone might call me a child, counting the days as if I could not wait for my treat. But, really, I did not know what the comfort of the sabbath would be. The chapel is all weather-tight now; and thank God for sending us a minister!”

As all expected, up came the steward; very early and very angry. Nobody from the minister’s house cared toencounter him. He threw the letters down upon the threshold of the door, and shouted out that his bringing them back was more than the writer deserved. If he had read them, and made mischief of their contents, nobody could, under the circumstances, have blamed him. Here they were, however, as a lesson to the family not to lose their time, and waste their precious ink and paper in writing letters that would never leave the island.

As he was turning to go away, the widow opened her door, and asked if he would excuse her for troubling him with one little commission which she had not thought of the day before, and she produced the ball of thread.

Lady Carse was watching through a chink in a shutter. She saw the steward’s countenance relax, and heard his voice soften as he spoke to the widow. She perceived that Annie had influence with him, if she would use it faithfully and zealously. Next she observed the care with which he wrote in his note book Annie’s directions about her commission, and how he deposited the precious ball in his securest pocket. She felt that this chance of escape, though somewhat precarious, was the best that had yet occurred.

Before the steward was out of sight she opened the shutter, though it creaked perilously, and kissed her hand to the surprised Annie, who was watching her agent down the hill. Annie smiled, but secured caution by immediately going in.

Chapter Thirteen.True Solitude.The season advanced, bringing the due tokens of the approach of summer. The gales came from the east instead of the west, and then subsided into mild airs. The mists which had brooded over sea and land melted away, and, as the days lengthened, permitted the purple heights of the rocky Saint Kilda to be seen clear and sharp, as the sun went down behind them. The weed which had blackened the shore of the island at the end of winter was now gone from the silver sands. Some of it was buried in the minister’s garden as manure. The minister began to have hopes of his garden. He had done his best to keep off the salt spray by building the wall ten feet high; and it was thought that just under the wall a few cabbages might grow; and in one corner there was an experiment going forward to raise onions. Kate and Adam told the widow, from day to day, the hopes and fears of the household about this garden; and it was then that she knew that her son Rollo was now gardener, as he had been head builder of the wall.From Rollo himself she heard less and less of his proceedings and interests. Anxious as she was, she abstained from questioning or reproving him on the few occasions when he spent an hour with her. She was aware of his high opinion of himself, and of the point he made of managing his own affairs; and she knew that there were those next door who would certainly engross him if anything passed in his mother’s house to make him reluctant to stay there. She therefore mustered all her cheerfulness when he appeared on the threshold, gave him her confidence, made him as comfortable as she could, and never asked him whence he had come, or how long he would stay. She had a strong persuasion that Rollo would discover in time who was his best friend, and was supremely anxious that when that time came there should be nothing to get over in his return to her—no remembrance of painful scenes—no sting of reproach—no shame but such as he must endure from his own heart. Strong as was her confidence in the final issue, the time did seem long to her yearning spirit, lonely as she was. Many a night she listened to the melancholy song of the throstle from the hill-side, and watched the mild twilight without thinking of sleep, till was silent; and was still awake when the lark began its merry greeting to the dawn which was streaking the east. Many a day she sat in the sun watching the pathways by which she hoped her son might come to her; and then perhaps she would hear his laugh from behind the high garden wall, and discover that he had been close at hand all day without having a word to say to her. How many true and impressive things passed through her mind that she thought she would say to him! But they all remained unsaid. When the opportunity came she saw it to be her duty to serve him by waiting and loving, feeling and trusting that rebuke from God was the only shock which would effectually reach this case, and reserving herself as the consoler of the sinner when that hour should arrive.As for the other parties, they were far too busy—far too much devoted to each other to have any time to spare for her, or any thought, except when the children were wished out of the way, or when the much more ardent desire was indulged that her house could be had for the residence of Lady Carse and her maid. In spite of all the assurances given to Lady Carse that her presence and friendship were an unmixed blessing, the fact remained that the household were sadly crowded in the new dwelling. There was talk, at times, of getting more rooms built: but then there entered in a vague hope that the widow’s house might be obtained, which would be everything pleasant and convenient. At those times she was thought of, but more and more as an obstruction—almost an intruder. Now and then, when she startled them by some little act of kindness, they remarked that she was a good creature, they believed, though they considered that there was usually something dangerous about people so very reserved and unsociable.One day this reserved and unsociable person volunteered a visit to her astonished neighbours. She walked in, in the afternoon, looking rather paler than usual, and somewhat exhausted. Mr Ruthven was outside the door, smoking his pipe after dinner. He came in with the widow, and placed a stool for her. His wife was not in the room. Lady Carse was lying on the settle, flushed and apparently drowsy. She opened her eyes as Annie and the minister entered, and then half-closed them again, without stirring.“Yes, I have been walking,” said the widow, in answer to Mr Ruthven’s observation. “But it is not that that has tired me. I have been only as far as Macdonald’s. But, sir, I must go further to-night, unless I can interest you to do what must be done without loss of time.”The minister raised his eyebrows, and looked inquiringly. “I have learned, sir, that from this house invitations have been sent to smugglers to begin a trade with these islands, and that it is about to begin; and that this has been done by corrupting my son. I see well enough the object of this. I see that Lady Carse hopes to escape to the main by a smuggling vessel coming to this coast. I can enter into this. I do not wonder at any effort the poor lady makes—”“You insufferable woman!” cried Lady Carse, starting up from her half-sleep with a glowing face and a clenched hand. “Do you dare to pity me?”“I do, madam: and I ask of you in return—I implore you to pity me. This is the bitterest day to me since that which made my boy fatherless. I have this day discovered that my fatherless boy has been corrupted by those who—”“I do not approve of innuendo,” declared Mr Ruthven. “I recommend you to name names.”“Certainly, sir. My son has been made a smuggler by the persuasion and management of Lady Carse; and, as I have reason to believe, sir, with your knowledge.”“Here is treachery!” cried Lady Carse. “We must make our part good. I will—I know how—”She was hastening out, when the minister stopped her at the door. She made some resistance, and Annie heard her say something about a pistol on the top of the bed, and the wonder if her father’s daughter did not know how to use it.Even in the midst of her own grief, Annie could not but remark to herself how the lady’s passions seemed to grow more violent, instead of calming down.“You had better go, Mrs Fleming,” said Mr Ruthven. “Make no disturbance here, but go, and I will come in and speak to you.”“How soon?” Annie anxiously enquired.“As soon as possible—immediately. Go now, for Lady Carse is very angry.”“I will, sir. But I owe it to you to tell you that the adventure is put an end to. I have been to Macdonald’s and told him, speaking as Rollo’s mother, of the danger my son was in; and Macdonald will take care that no smuggling vessel reaches this coast to-night or in future.”“Go instantly!” exclaimed Mr Ruthven, and, seeing Lady Carse’s countenance, Annie was glad to hasten out of her reach.The widow sat down on the threshold of her cottage awaiting the minister. Her heart throbbed. A blessingmight be in store at the end of this weary day. Good might come out of evil. She might now have an opportunity of appealing to her minister—of opening her heart to him about the cares which she needed to share with him, and which should have been his cares as pastor. She trusted she should be enabled to speak freely and calmly.She prayed that she might; but her body was exhausted, so that she could not overcome to her satisfaction the agitation of her mind. It did not mend the matter that she was kept waiting very long; and when Mr Ruthven came out at his own door, it was with some difficulty that Annie rose to make respectful way for him.“Be seated,” said Mr Ruthven, in a tone of severity; “I have much to say to you.”Both seated themselves. Mr Ruthven cleared his throat, and said—“It is the most painful part of a pastor’s duty to administer reproof, and more especially to members of his flock whose years should have brought them wisdom and self-control.”Annie clasped her hands on her knees, and looked meekly in his face.“I should have hoped,” Mr Ruthven went on, “that a Christian woman of your standing, and one who is blest, as you yourself have been known to acknowledge, with a life of peace, would have had compassion on a most suffering sister, and have rather striven to alleviate her sorrows, and to soften her occasional self-reproach for what she amiably calls her infirmities of sensibility, than have wounded and upbraided her, and treacherously cut off her frail chance of release from a most unjust captivity.”“I!—I wound and upbraid Lady Carse!”“Now, do not compel me to remind you of what you ought to know full well—the deceitfulness of the human heart. Listen to me.”Again Annie looked gently in his face.“I left that poor lady, already overwhelmed with misfortune, prostrated anew by your attack of this afternoon. I left her dissolved in tears—shaken by agitation; and I resolved that my first act of duty should be to remonstrate privately—observe, I say privately—against the heartlessness which could pour in drops of bitterness to make the already brimming cup overflow. Now, what have you to say?”“I should wish to know, sir, what part of my conduct it is that is wrong. If I knew this, I am sure—”“If you knew! My good woman, this blindness and self-satisfaction appear to show that this life of peace, which you yourself acknowledge yours has been, has gone somewhat too far—has not been altogether blessed to you. If you are really so satisfied with yourself as to be unable to see any sin within you—”“Oh, sir! Do not think me impatient if I make haste to say that I never harboured such a thought. It makes me sink with shame to think of my ever having possibly such a thought. What I asked for, sir, was to know my sin towards Lady Carse, that I might make reparation if I could, and—will it please you, sir, to tell me—”“Tell me, rather, what sin you are conscious of; and we shall then get at the bottom of this last offence. Come, let me hear!”Annie looked down, hesitated, blushed deeply, and said she supposed it was owing to her not being accustomed to the blessing of having a pastor that she found it so difficult to open her heart now that the blessing was given for which she had so often prayed. She would strive to overcome the difficulty. After a pause she said her chief trouble about her state of mind was that some of her trust and peace seemed to have left her.“Ah! the moment it is put to the test!” said Mr Ruthven.“Just so, sir; that is what I said to myself. As long as I lived alone, out of the sound of any voice but Rollo’s, I thought my peace was settled, and that I was only waiting for the better peace which is to come hereafter. Then, when Rollo was away, and my mind was searching doubtfully after him, where he might be, and whether safe or killed, I could always find rest, and say to myself that he was in God’s hand, to dienowor to live to close my eyes. But now, sir, there is a sadness come over me; though I am obliged to your dear children for many cheerful hours—I would not forget that. But as for my own child, when I hear his voice merry from behind your garden wall, when I have been longing for days to see his face—or when your children tell me things that he has said, just while my ear is pining for his voice, I find myself less settled in mind than I was—much less settled, sir, than I think a Christian woman ought to be.”“And this indicates more than you tell me,” observed Mr Ruthven. “What can you have done to drive your son from his home and from his mother’s side? Some mistake there must be, to say the very least—some fatal mistake, I will call it, for I would not be severe—some awful mistake. Eh?”“Perhaps so, sir.” And she smothered a sigh.The minister then gave her, at some length, his views on education, insisting much on the duty of making young people happy at home; ending with saying that no young man could, he thought, expect much comfort in the society of a mother who could be so reckless of anybody’s peace as she had shewn herself that afternoon. He hoped she would take what he said in good part. It was not pleasant to him to deal rebuke but he must not shrink from it; and he rose to go.“Certainly, sir,” said Annie, rising too, and holding by the bed to steady herself. “But, sir, if you would please to tell me particularly what you think I have done so wrong to-day— Sir, you would not have me let my son be made a smuggler?”“You should— Nothing can be clearer than that you should—I wonder you need to be told that you should have spoken to me. Instead of which, you went quietly and told Macdonald.”“I am sure, sir, I thought you knew all about it.”“What of that? I am here at hand, to be your adviser—not to be treated with disrespect. I leave you now to think over what I have said. I trust the result will be that you will make what reparation you can to Lady Carse: though it is foolish to talk of reparation; for the mischief done is, I fear, irreparable. I leave you to think of this. Good evening!”Annie thought of all that had passed; and of a few other things. She thought that while it was clear that a pastor might take a wrong view of the state of mind and conduct of one of his flock, it was a privilege to know, at least, what view he took. He was faithful, as far as plain speaking went: and that was much. And then, it is so rarely that any censure is uttered for which there is absolutely no foundation, that it is usually profitable to receive it. While feeling that “it is a small thing to be judged of man’s judgment,” it may be a great thing to know a man’s unfavourable opinion of us. She would soon recover from this conversation; and then, if she had obtained any wisdom from it, it would be, after all, the marking blessing of this day. She was not aware of another: that Mr Ruthven had been somewhat touched by what she had said of Rollo—his eyes somewhat opened.Once more her mind rested on the idea now become so prominent with her. “The sabbath is coming round again,” she thought. “It pleases God to give us a complete blessing then. It is His word that is spoken then—His judgment that we are judged by. Nothing comes between us and Him then. There is always the sabbath now to think of.”Tired as she was, or as she thought herself till she found herself enjoying the repose of the moonlight shore, there was one more walk necessary before Annie could try to sleep.The sea was calm, and there was scarcely any wind. If the smuggling vessel had approached the island in any part, it could hardly have got away again. She had not seen it from her hill-side; but she must be satisfied that it was not on the northern shore. The western was safe enough, from its being overlooked from Macdonald’s farm.Annie had just reached the longest and widest stretch of beach when the large moon rose out of the still waters. There was not even the slightest veil of mist obscuring the horizon; and the fluctuation of the water-line was distinct upon the clear disk of the moon. The gush of quivering light which instantaneously reached from the horizon to her feet illumined Annie’s heart no less than the scene around her. The ripple of the little waves which played upon the pebbles was music to her ear. In a tranquil and hopeful spirit she thought of her errand, and looked steadily over the whole expanse of the sea, where, under the broad moonlight, and a sky which had at this season no darkness in it, there was certainly no vessel in sight.Pursuing her walk northwards, she perceived a small dark object lying on the silvery sands. When she reached it, she found it was a little cask, which the smell declared to contain rum. By the smell, and the cask being light, it was clear that some of the spirit had been spilled. Annie found a small hole, beside which lay a quill. She feared that this told too plainly of the neighbourhood of smugglers, and her heart sunk. She went on, and immediately saw another dark object lying on the beach—a person, as she thought. It was a woman, in the common country clothing, sound asleep. Annie hastened to wake her, thinking it unsafe to sleep under the moon’s rays. To her extreme surprise she found it was Lady Carse.She could imagine the lady to have come down in hope of meeting a smuggling vessel. She would not have wondered to meet her wandering among the coves; but that on such an errand, at such a time, she should be asleep, was surprising.Annie tried gentle means to rouse her, which would enable her to slip away as the lady awoke, sparing her the pain of her presence. She rattled the pebbles with her foot, coughed, and at last sang—but all without causing the lady to stir. Then the widow was alarmed, and stooped to look closer. The sleeper breathed heavily, her head was hot, and her breath told the secret of her unseasonable drowsiness. Annie shrank back in horror. At first she concluded that much of Lady Carse’s violent passion was now accounted for. But she presently considered it more probable that this was a single instance of intemperance, caused by the temptation of finding a leaking cask of spirit on the sands, just in a moment of disappointment, and perhaps of great exhaustion. This thought made Annie clear what to do.She went back to the cask, made the hole larger with a stone, and poured out all the rum upon the sand. The cask was now so light that she could easily roll it down to the margin of the tide, where she left it, half full of sea-water. Having thus made all safe behind her, she proceeded to the coves, where she found, not any signs of a vessel, but one of Macdonald’s men on the watch. From him she learned that Macdonald had gone out to look for the smuggling boat; had seen it, and turned it back; and that the smuggling crew had been obliged to throw overboard some of their cargo to lighten their vessel for flight. Macdonald thought they would hardly venture hither again for some time to come. This was good news; but there was better; Rollo was not with the smugglers. He was out fowling this afternoon. Perhaps by this time he might be at home.Annie’s errand was finished; and she might now return and rest. Macdonald’s man spoke of his hope of some goods being washed up by the next tide. Annie told him nothing of the cask, nor of what she had done with the rum. She commended him to his watch, and left him.Lady Carse was still sleeping, but less heavily. She roused herself when spoken to, started up, and looked about her, somewhat bewildered. “I took the liberty, madam, of speaking to you, to waken you,” said Annie; “because the moon is up, and was shining on your head, which is considered bad for the health.”“Really,” said Lady Carse, “it is very odd. I don’t know how I could think of falling asleep here. I suppose I was very tired.”“You look so now, madam. Better finish your sleep at home. And first, if I may advise you, you will throw some salt water on your head, and drink some fresh at the spring, when we come to it. The people here say that bathing the head takes away the danger from sleeping under the moon’s rays.”Lady Carse had no objection to do this, as her head was hot; and now Annie hoped that she would escape detection by the Ruthvens, so that she alone would know the secret. Both drank at the spring, and after that it might be hoped that there would be little more smell of spirits about the one than the other.When they passed the cask, now beginning to float in the rising tide, Lady Carse started. It was clear that she now remembered what had made her sleep. “There is a cask!” said she, in her hurry.“Yes, a cask of sea-water,” Annie quietly observed. “I emptied out the bad stuff that was in it, and—”“You did! What right had you?”“It was contraband,” said Annie. “Macdonald saw the cargo thrown over: nobody would have claimed it, and plenty would have helped themselves to what is unfit to drink. So I poured it out upon the sand.”“Very free and easy, I must say,” observed Lady Carse.“Very,” Annie agreed; “but less of a liberty than some would have taken, if I had left it to tempt them. I threw away only what is some man’s unlawful property. Others would have thrown away that which belongs to God, and is very precious in His eyes—the human reason, which he has made but a little lower than the glory of the angels.”Lady Carse spoke no more—not even when they reached their own doors. Whether she was moody or conscience-stricken, Annie could not tell. All the more anxious was she to do her part; and she went in to pray that the suffering lady might be saved from this new peril—the most fearful of the snares of her most perilous life. Annie did not forget to pray that those who had driven the sufferer to such an extremity as that she could not resist even this means of forgetting her woes, might be struck with such a sense of their cruelty as to save their victim before it was too late.

The season advanced, bringing the due tokens of the approach of summer. The gales came from the east instead of the west, and then subsided into mild airs. The mists which had brooded over sea and land melted away, and, as the days lengthened, permitted the purple heights of the rocky Saint Kilda to be seen clear and sharp, as the sun went down behind them. The weed which had blackened the shore of the island at the end of winter was now gone from the silver sands. Some of it was buried in the minister’s garden as manure. The minister began to have hopes of his garden. He had done his best to keep off the salt spray by building the wall ten feet high; and it was thought that just under the wall a few cabbages might grow; and in one corner there was an experiment going forward to raise onions. Kate and Adam told the widow, from day to day, the hopes and fears of the household about this garden; and it was then that she knew that her son Rollo was now gardener, as he had been head builder of the wall.

From Rollo himself she heard less and less of his proceedings and interests. Anxious as she was, she abstained from questioning or reproving him on the few occasions when he spent an hour with her. She was aware of his high opinion of himself, and of the point he made of managing his own affairs; and she knew that there were those next door who would certainly engross him if anything passed in his mother’s house to make him reluctant to stay there. She therefore mustered all her cheerfulness when he appeared on the threshold, gave him her confidence, made him as comfortable as she could, and never asked him whence he had come, or how long he would stay. She had a strong persuasion that Rollo would discover in time who was his best friend, and was supremely anxious that when that time came there should be nothing to get over in his return to her—no remembrance of painful scenes—no sting of reproach—no shame but such as he must endure from his own heart. Strong as was her confidence in the final issue, the time did seem long to her yearning spirit, lonely as she was. Many a night she listened to the melancholy song of the throstle from the hill-side, and watched the mild twilight without thinking of sleep, till was silent; and was still awake when the lark began its merry greeting to the dawn which was streaking the east. Many a day she sat in the sun watching the pathways by which she hoped her son might come to her; and then perhaps she would hear his laugh from behind the high garden wall, and discover that he had been close at hand all day without having a word to say to her. How many true and impressive things passed through her mind that she thought she would say to him! But they all remained unsaid. When the opportunity came she saw it to be her duty to serve him by waiting and loving, feeling and trusting that rebuke from God was the only shock which would effectually reach this case, and reserving herself as the consoler of the sinner when that hour should arrive.

As for the other parties, they were far too busy—far too much devoted to each other to have any time to spare for her, or any thought, except when the children were wished out of the way, or when the much more ardent desire was indulged that her house could be had for the residence of Lady Carse and her maid. In spite of all the assurances given to Lady Carse that her presence and friendship were an unmixed blessing, the fact remained that the household were sadly crowded in the new dwelling. There was talk, at times, of getting more rooms built: but then there entered in a vague hope that the widow’s house might be obtained, which would be everything pleasant and convenient. At those times she was thought of, but more and more as an obstruction—almost an intruder. Now and then, when she startled them by some little act of kindness, they remarked that she was a good creature, they believed, though they considered that there was usually something dangerous about people so very reserved and unsociable.

One day this reserved and unsociable person volunteered a visit to her astonished neighbours. She walked in, in the afternoon, looking rather paler than usual, and somewhat exhausted. Mr Ruthven was outside the door, smoking his pipe after dinner. He came in with the widow, and placed a stool for her. His wife was not in the room. Lady Carse was lying on the settle, flushed and apparently drowsy. She opened her eyes as Annie and the minister entered, and then half-closed them again, without stirring.

“Yes, I have been walking,” said the widow, in answer to Mr Ruthven’s observation. “But it is not that that has tired me. I have been only as far as Macdonald’s. But, sir, I must go further to-night, unless I can interest you to do what must be done without loss of time.”

The minister raised his eyebrows, and looked inquiringly. “I have learned, sir, that from this house invitations have been sent to smugglers to begin a trade with these islands, and that it is about to begin; and that this has been done by corrupting my son. I see well enough the object of this. I see that Lady Carse hopes to escape to the main by a smuggling vessel coming to this coast. I can enter into this. I do not wonder at any effort the poor lady makes—”

“You insufferable woman!” cried Lady Carse, starting up from her half-sleep with a glowing face and a clenched hand. “Do you dare to pity me?”

“I do, madam: and I ask of you in return—I implore you to pity me. This is the bitterest day to me since that which made my boy fatherless. I have this day discovered that my fatherless boy has been corrupted by those who—”

“I do not approve of innuendo,” declared Mr Ruthven. “I recommend you to name names.”

“Certainly, sir. My son has been made a smuggler by the persuasion and management of Lady Carse; and, as I have reason to believe, sir, with your knowledge.”

“Here is treachery!” cried Lady Carse. “We must make our part good. I will—I know how—”

She was hastening out, when the minister stopped her at the door. She made some resistance, and Annie heard her say something about a pistol on the top of the bed, and the wonder if her father’s daughter did not know how to use it.

Even in the midst of her own grief, Annie could not but remark to herself how the lady’s passions seemed to grow more violent, instead of calming down.

“You had better go, Mrs Fleming,” said Mr Ruthven. “Make no disturbance here, but go, and I will come in and speak to you.”

“How soon?” Annie anxiously enquired.

“As soon as possible—immediately. Go now, for Lady Carse is very angry.”

“I will, sir. But I owe it to you to tell you that the adventure is put an end to. I have been to Macdonald’s and told him, speaking as Rollo’s mother, of the danger my son was in; and Macdonald will take care that no smuggling vessel reaches this coast to-night or in future.”

“Go instantly!” exclaimed Mr Ruthven, and, seeing Lady Carse’s countenance, Annie was glad to hasten out of her reach.

The widow sat down on the threshold of her cottage awaiting the minister. Her heart throbbed. A blessingmight be in store at the end of this weary day. Good might come out of evil. She might now have an opportunity of appealing to her minister—of opening her heart to him about the cares which she needed to share with him, and which should have been his cares as pastor. She trusted she should be enabled to speak freely and calmly.

She prayed that she might; but her body was exhausted, so that she could not overcome to her satisfaction the agitation of her mind. It did not mend the matter that she was kept waiting very long; and when Mr Ruthven came out at his own door, it was with some difficulty that Annie rose to make respectful way for him.

“Be seated,” said Mr Ruthven, in a tone of severity; “I have much to say to you.”

Both seated themselves. Mr Ruthven cleared his throat, and said—

“It is the most painful part of a pastor’s duty to administer reproof, and more especially to members of his flock whose years should have brought them wisdom and self-control.”

Annie clasped her hands on her knees, and looked meekly in his face.

“I should have hoped,” Mr Ruthven went on, “that a Christian woman of your standing, and one who is blest, as you yourself have been known to acknowledge, with a life of peace, would have had compassion on a most suffering sister, and have rather striven to alleviate her sorrows, and to soften her occasional self-reproach for what she amiably calls her infirmities of sensibility, than have wounded and upbraided her, and treacherously cut off her frail chance of release from a most unjust captivity.”

“I!—I wound and upbraid Lady Carse!”

“Now, do not compel me to remind you of what you ought to know full well—the deceitfulness of the human heart. Listen to me.”

Again Annie looked gently in his face.

“I left that poor lady, already overwhelmed with misfortune, prostrated anew by your attack of this afternoon. I left her dissolved in tears—shaken by agitation; and I resolved that my first act of duty should be to remonstrate privately—observe, I say privately—against the heartlessness which could pour in drops of bitterness to make the already brimming cup overflow. Now, what have you to say?”

“I should wish to know, sir, what part of my conduct it is that is wrong. If I knew this, I am sure—”

“If you knew! My good woman, this blindness and self-satisfaction appear to show that this life of peace, which you yourself acknowledge yours has been, has gone somewhat too far—has not been altogether blessed to you. If you are really so satisfied with yourself as to be unable to see any sin within you—”

“Oh, sir! Do not think me impatient if I make haste to say that I never harboured such a thought. It makes me sink with shame to think of my ever having possibly such a thought. What I asked for, sir, was to know my sin towards Lady Carse, that I might make reparation if I could, and—will it please you, sir, to tell me—”

“Tell me, rather, what sin you are conscious of; and we shall then get at the bottom of this last offence. Come, let me hear!”

Annie looked down, hesitated, blushed deeply, and said she supposed it was owing to her not being accustomed to the blessing of having a pastor that she found it so difficult to open her heart now that the blessing was given for which she had so often prayed. She would strive to overcome the difficulty. After a pause she said her chief trouble about her state of mind was that some of her trust and peace seemed to have left her.

“Ah! the moment it is put to the test!” said Mr Ruthven.

“Just so, sir; that is what I said to myself. As long as I lived alone, out of the sound of any voice but Rollo’s, I thought my peace was settled, and that I was only waiting for the better peace which is to come hereafter. Then, when Rollo was away, and my mind was searching doubtfully after him, where he might be, and whether safe or killed, I could always find rest, and say to myself that he was in God’s hand, to dienowor to live to close my eyes. But now, sir, there is a sadness come over me; though I am obliged to your dear children for many cheerful hours—I would not forget that. But as for my own child, when I hear his voice merry from behind your garden wall, when I have been longing for days to see his face—or when your children tell me things that he has said, just while my ear is pining for his voice, I find myself less settled in mind than I was—much less settled, sir, than I think a Christian woman ought to be.”

“And this indicates more than you tell me,” observed Mr Ruthven. “What can you have done to drive your son from his home and from his mother’s side? Some mistake there must be, to say the very least—some fatal mistake, I will call it, for I would not be severe—some awful mistake. Eh?”

“Perhaps so, sir.” And she smothered a sigh.

The minister then gave her, at some length, his views on education, insisting much on the duty of making young people happy at home; ending with saying that no young man could, he thought, expect much comfort in the society of a mother who could be so reckless of anybody’s peace as she had shewn herself that afternoon. He hoped she would take what he said in good part. It was not pleasant to him to deal rebuke but he must not shrink from it; and he rose to go.

“Certainly, sir,” said Annie, rising too, and holding by the bed to steady herself. “But, sir, if you would please to tell me particularly what you think I have done so wrong to-day— Sir, you would not have me let my son be made a smuggler?”

“You should— Nothing can be clearer than that you should—I wonder you need to be told that you should have spoken to me. Instead of which, you went quietly and told Macdonald.”

“I am sure, sir, I thought you knew all about it.”

“What of that? I am here at hand, to be your adviser—not to be treated with disrespect. I leave you now to think over what I have said. I trust the result will be that you will make what reparation you can to Lady Carse: though it is foolish to talk of reparation; for the mischief done is, I fear, irreparable. I leave you to think of this. Good evening!”

Annie thought of all that had passed; and of a few other things. She thought that while it was clear that a pastor might take a wrong view of the state of mind and conduct of one of his flock, it was a privilege to know, at least, what view he took. He was faithful, as far as plain speaking went: and that was much. And then, it is so rarely that any censure is uttered for which there is absolutely no foundation, that it is usually profitable to receive it. While feeling that “it is a small thing to be judged of man’s judgment,” it may be a great thing to know a man’s unfavourable opinion of us. She would soon recover from this conversation; and then, if she had obtained any wisdom from it, it would be, after all, the marking blessing of this day. She was not aware of another: that Mr Ruthven had been somewhat touched by what she had said of Rollo—his eyes somewhat opened.

Once more her mind rested on the idea now become so prominent with her. “The sabbath is coming round again,” she thought. “It pleases God to give us a complete blessing then. It is His word that is spoken then—His judgment that we are judged by. Nothing comes between us and Him then. There is always the sabbath now to think of.”

Tired as she was, or as she thought herself till she found herself enjoying the repose of the moonlight shore, there was one more walk necessary before Annie could try to sleep.

The sea was calm, and there was scarcely any wind. If the smuggling vessel had approached the island in any part, it could hardly have got away again. She had not seen it from her hill-side; but she must be satisfied that it was not on the northern shore. The western was safe enough, from its being overlooked from Macdonald’s farm.

Annie had just reached the longest and widest stretch of beach when the large moon rose out of the still waters. There was not even the slightest veil of mist obscuring the horizon; and the fluctuation of the water-line was distinct upon the clear disk of the moon. The gush of quivering light which instantaneously reached from the horizon to her feet illumined Annie’s heart no less than the scene around her. The ripple of the little waves which played upon the pebbles was music to her ear. In a tranquil and hopeful spirit she thought of her errand, and looked steadily over the whole expanse of the sea, where, under the broad moonlight, and a sky which had at this season no darkness in it, there was certainly no vessel in sight.

Pursuing her walk northwards, she perceived a small dark object lying on the silvery sands. When she reached it, she found it was a little cask, which the smell declared to contain rum. By the smell, and the cask being light, it was clear that some of the spirit had been spilled. Annie found a small hole, beside which lay a quill. She feared that this told too plainly of the neighbourhood of smugglers, and her heart sunk. She went on, and immediately saw another dark object lying on the beach—a person, as she thought. It was a woman, in the common country clothing, sound asleep. Annie hastened to wake her, thinking it unsafe to sleep under the moon’s rays. To her extreme surprise she found it was Lady Carse.

She could imagine the lady to have come down in hope of meeting a smuggling vessel. She would not have wondered to meet her wandering among the coves; but that on such an errand, at such a time, she should be asleep, was surprising.

Annie tried gentle means to rouse her, which would enable her to slip away as the lady awoke, sparing her the pain of her presence. She rattled the pebbles with her foot, coughed, and at last sang—but all without causing the lady to stir. Then the widow was alarmed, and stooped to look closer. The sleeper breathed heavily, her head was hot, and her breath told the secret of her unseasonable drowsiness. Annie shrank back in horror. At first she concluded that much of Lady Carse’s violent passion was now accounted for. But she presently considered it more probable that this was a single instance of intemperance, caused by the temptation of finding a leaking cask of spirit on the sands, just in a moment of disappointment, and perhaps of great exhaustion. This thought made Annie clear what to do.

She went back to the cask, made the hole larger with a stone, and poured out all the rum upon the sand. The cask was now so light that she could easily roll it down to the margin of the tide, where she left it, half full of sea-water. Having thus made all safe behind her, she proceeded to the coves, where she found, not any signs of a vessel, but one of Macdonald’s men on the watch. From him she learned that Macdonald had gone out to look for the smuggling boat; had seen it, and turned it back; and that the smuggling crew had been obliged to throw overboard some of their cargo to lighten their vessel for flight. Macdonald thought they would hardly venture hither again for some time to come. This was good news; but there was better; Rollo was not with the smugglers. He was out fowling this afternoon. Perhaps by this time he might be at home.

Annie’s errand was finished; and she might now return and rest. Macdonald’s man spoke of his hope of some goods being washed up by the next tide. Annie told him nothing of the cask, nor of what she had done with the rum. She commended him to his watch, and left him.

Lady Carse was still sleeping, but less heavily. She roused herself when spoken to, started up, and looked about her, somewhat bewildered. “I took the liberty, madam, of speaking to you, to waken you,” said Annie; “because the moon is up, and was shining on your head, which is considered bad for the health.”

“Really,” said Lady Carse, “it is very odd. I don’t know how I could think of falling asleep here. I suppose I was very tired.”

“You look so now, madam. Better finish your sleep at home. And first, if I may advise you, you will throw some salt water on your head, and drink some fresh at the spring, when we come to it. The people here say that bathing the head takes away the danger from sleeping under the moon’s rays.”

Lady Carse had no objection to do this, as her head was hot; and now Annie hoped that she would escape detection by the Ruthvens, so that she alone would know the secret. Both drank at the spring, and after that it might be hoped that there would be little more smell of spirits about the one than the other.

When they passed the cask, now beginning to float in the rising tide, Lady Carse started. It was clear that she now remembered what had made her sleep. “There is a cask!” said she, in her hurry.

“Yes, a cask of sea-water,” Annie quietly observed. “I emptied out the bad stuff that was in it, and—”

“You did! What right had you?”

“It was contraband,” said Annie. “Macdonald saw the cargo thrown over: nobody would have claimed it, and plenty would have helped themselves to what is unfit to drink. So I poured it out upon the sand.”

“Very free and easy, I must say,” observed Lady Carse.

“Very,” Annie agreed; “but less of a liberty than some would have taken, if I had left it to tempt them. I threw away only what is some man’s unlawful property. Others would have thrown away that which belongs to God, and is very precious in His eyes—the human reason, which he has made but a little lower than the glory of the angels.”

Lady Carse spoke no more—not even when they reached their own doors. Whether she was moody or conscience-stricken, Annie could not tell. All the more anxious was she to do her part; and she went in to pray that the suffering lady might be saved from this new peril—the most fearful of the snares of her most perilous life. Annie did not forget to pray that those who had driven the sufferer to such an extremity as that she could not resist even this means of forgetting her woes, might be struck with such a sense of their cruelty as to save their victim before it was too late.

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