Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fourteen.Helsa’s news.One day when Annie was trimming her lamp, she observed Helsa, Lady Carse’s maid, watching the process earnestly from the door, where she was looking in. “Come in, Helsa,” said the widow, in Gaelic, which was more familiar to the girl than English. “Come in, if you have nothing better to do than to see me trim my lamp.”“I am afraid about that lamp, and that is the truth,” replied Helsa. “I had charge of a lamp at Macdonald’s once, when my mother went to the main for a week; but then, if it went out, nobody was much the worse. If this one goes out, and anybody drowns in the harbour, and the blame is mine, what shall I do?”“The blame yours!” said the widow, looking at her.“Yes; when you live at Macdonald’s, and I have to keep the lamp. I am not sure that I can keep awake all the night when winter comes: but they say I must.”Helsa was surprised to find that the widow knew nothing of the plan that Lady Carse now talked of more than anything else: that Annie was to go and live at Macdonald’s, that Lady Carse and her maid might have the widow’s house, where Helsa was to do all the work in the day, and to keep the lamp at night. The girl declared that the family never sat at meals without talking of the approaching time when they could all have more room and do whatever they pleased. Adam had cried yesterday about the widow going away; but he had been forbidden to cry about what would make Lady Carse so much happier; and when Kate had whispered to him that Lady Carse would no longer live in their house, Adam had presently dried his tears, and began to plan how he would meet the widow sometimes on the western sands, to pick up the fine shells she had told him of. Helsa went on to say that she could have cried longer than the boy, for she was afraid to think of being alone with Lady Carse at times when—Annie interrupted her by saying, with a smile, “You need not have any dread of living in this house, Helsa. I have no thought of leaving it. There is some mistake.”Helsa was delighted with this assurance. But she proved her point—that the mistake was not hers—that such a planwasdaily, almost hourly, spoken of next door as settled. She was going on to tell how her mistress frightened her by her ways: her being sleepy in the afternoons, unless she was very merry or dreadfully passionate, and so low in the mornings that she often did little but cry; but the widow checked this. While at Mrs Ruthven’s house Helsa should make no complaints to anybody else; or, if she had serious complaints to make, it should be to Macdonald. Helsa pleaded that Macdonald would then perhaps take away the anker of spirits, as being at the bottom of the mischief; and then Lady Carse would kill her. She had once shown her a pistol; but nobody could find that pistol now. Helsa laughed, and looked us if she could have told where it was. In a moment, however, she was grave enough, hearing herself called by her mistress.“I shall say I came to learn about the lamp,” said she; “and that is true, you know.”“Why do not you speak English, both of you?” demanded Lady Carse from the door. “You both speak English. I will have no mysteries. I will know what you were saying.”Helsa faltered out that she came to see how Widow Fleming managed her lamp.“Was it about the lamp that you were talking? I will know.”“If we had any objection, madam, to your knowing what we were saying,” interposed Annie, “we are by no means bound to tell. But you are quite welcome to it. I have been assuring Helsa that there is some mistake about my leaving this house. Here have I lived, and here I hope to die.”“We must talk that matter over,” declared Lady Carse. “We are so crowded next door that we can bear it no longer; and Imustlive in sight of the harbour, you know.”And she went over all the old arguments, while she sent Helsa to bring in Mr Ruthven, that he might add his pastoral authority to her claims. After having once declared herself immovable, Annie bore all in silence; the pleas that her lamp was so seldom wanted; that it would be well tended for her, while she could sleep all night, and every night; that it had become a passion with Lady Carse to obtain this house, and that anyone was an enemy who denied her the only thing she could enjoy. These pleas Annie listened to in silence, and then to reproaches on her selfishness, her obstinacy, her malice and cruelty. When both her visitors had exhausted their arguments, she turned to Lady Carse, and intimated that now they had all spoken their minds on this subject, she wished to be alone in her own house. Then she turned to Mr Ruthven, and told him that whatever he had to say as her pastor, she would gladly listen to.“In some other place than this,” he declared with severity. “I have tried rebuke and remonstrance here, beside your own hearth, with a perseverance which I fear has lowered the dignity of my office. I have done. I enter this house no more as your pastor.”Annie bowed her head, and remained standing till they were gone; then she sank down, melting into tears.“This, then,” and her heart swelled at the thought; “this, then, is the end of my hope—the brightest hope I ever had since my great earthly hope was extinguished! I thought I could bear anything if there was only a pastor at hand. And now—but there is my duty still; nothing can take that away. And I am forgetting that at this very moment, when I have so little else left! crying in this way when I want better eyes than mine are now for watching the sea. I have shed too many tears in my day; more than a trusting Christian woman should; and now I must keep my eyes dry and my heart firm for my duty. And I cannot see that I have done any wrong in staying by the duty that God gave me, and the house that I must do it in. With this house and God’s house—” And her thoughts recurred, as usual, to the blessing of the sabbath. She should still have a pastor in God’s house, if not in her own. And thus she cheered her heart while she bathed her eyes that they might serve for her evening gaze over the sea.She was destined, however, to be overtaken by dismay on the sabbath, and in that holy house where she had supposed her peace could never be disturbed. The pastor read and preached from the passage in the 18th chapter of Matthew, which enjoins remonstrance with sinners, first in private, then in the presence of one or two witnesses, and at last before the church. The passage was read so emphatically that Annie’s heart beat thick and fast. But this did not prepare her for what followed. In his sermon the pastor explained that though the scriptural expression was, “If thy brother trespass,” the exhortation was equally applicable to any Christian sister who should offend. He declared that if any Christian sister was present who was conscious of having trespassed on the comfort and natural feelings of an afflicted and persecuted personage whom they had the honour to entertain among them, he besought the offending sister to enquire of herself whether she had not been rebuked first alone, then in the presence of a witness—alas! in vain; and whether, therefore, the time had not come for a rebuke before the Church. He would, however, name no one, but leave yet some place for repentance; and so forth.Annie’s natural dismay, terrible as it was, soon yielded before the appeal to her conscience, which the pastor supposed would appal her. She knew that she was right; and in this knowledge she raised her bowed head, and listened more calmly than many others. If there had been any doubt among the small congregation as to who was meant, Lady Carse would have dispersed it. She sat in the front row, with the minister’s family. Unable to restrain her vindictive satisfaction, she started up and pointed with her finger, and nodded at Annie. The pitying calm gaze with which Annie returned the insult went to many hearts, and even to Mrs Ruthven’s so far so that she pulled the lady by the skirt, and implored her to sit down.There are many precious things which remain always secrets to those who do not deserve to know them. For instance, tyrants know nothing of the animating and delicious reaction which they cause in the souls of their victims. The cheerfulness, sweetness and joy of their victims has ever been, and will ever be, a perplexity to oppressors. It was so now to Mr Ruthven, after an act of tyranny perpetrated, as most acts of tyranny are, under a mistaken, an ignorant and arrogant sense of duty. Not only did the widow stand up with others for the closing psalm—her voice was the firmest, sweetest, clearest in the assembly—so sweet and clear that it came back even upon her own ear with a sort of surprise. As for others, all were more or less moved. But their emotion had the common effect of making them draw back from the object of it. After the service, nobody spoke to Annie. She heeded this but little, absorbed as she was in thankfulness in finding that the privileges of God’s house were not disturbed—that her relation to Him and her rights of worship were not touched by any fallibility in His minister. As she reached the entrance of the churchyard, Macdonald overtook her, and made her use his arm for the descent of the irregular steps. A few words from Helsa had put him in possession of the case. He desired the widow not to think for a moment of leaving her house. Everybody wished to do what could be done to reconcile the stranger lady to her abode in the island; but there was a point beyond which he was sure Sir Alexander would not permit encroachment. His advice was to serve and please her in small affairs, and leave it to Sir Alexander to deal with her in such an important one as her having a house to herself. Annie smiled, and said this was exactly her plan.That evening was, to the inhabitants of the island, the most memorable one of the year—of the generation—of the century. This was not fully known at the time. The most memorable days often appear just like other days till they are past; and though there was some excitement and bustle this evening, no one on the island saw the full meaning of what was before his eyes.A little before sunset, the widow plainly saw a larger vessel than often visited those seas approaching from the south-west. It was larger than Macdonald’s sloop. She was straining her eyes to see whether it had two masts or three, when she heard the children’s voices below. She called them up to her platform for the help of their young eyes; but when they came, they could spare little attention for the distant vessel, so full were they of the news that their mother had run down to the harbour to try to speak to some sailors who had landed from a boat which had come up the harbour while everybody was at church. It was such a pity that their father was gone, just at this time, to visit a sick person at Macdonald’s farm! But their mother went directly, as fast as she could run, and Lady Carse and Helsa were to follow her as soon as Helsa had put up a bundle.To recall Mr Ruthven was the first thing Annie thought of. She did not venture to send the children over for him, lest their hurry and excitement, or any air of mystery, should give the alarm to Macdonald. She set out alone, doubtful as she was how and how soon she could accomplish the walk, and bitterly lamenting that her son was not within call. With her best exertions, her progress was so slow that she met the pastor a quarter of a mile from Macdonald’s house.Breathless as she was, Mr Ruthven would have from her a full, true, and particular account of all she knew, and many declarations that she did not know as much again, before he would walk on. At last, however, he did set forth quickly on the shortest path to the harbour, while Annie turned slowly homewards over the ridge.She was on the hill-side, not far from home, when she saw the well-known group of neighbours—the pastor’s family—coming homewards, slowly and with many delays. She heard loud angry voices; and when she approached, she saw tokens of distress in them all. Mr Ruthven was very pale, and Helsa very red. Mrs Ruthven was in tears, and Lady Carse’s clothes and hair were dripping wet. It was clear that she had been in the water.“Alas! you have missed the boat!” exclaimed Annie.Lady Carse had just lost the chance of escape, as all believed; and all were now quarrelling as to whose fault it was. Mrs Ruthven was turning back from the shore, breathless from haste and vexation, as Lady Carse and Helsa came down. The boat, with several armed men in it, had pushed off when Mrs Ruthven appeared. They made no reply to her signs, but lay on their oars at a little distance from the beach till Lady Carse and her maid came down. After some delay, and many signals of entreaty from the ladies, the boat again approached, and the man in command of it was told that a lady of quality, wrongfully imprisoned in this island, desired to be carried to the main, and that, once among her friends in Edinburgh, she could give rewards for her escape to any amount. There was a short consultation in the boat, a laugh, and a decisive pull to shore. A sailor jumped out and seized the lady to carry her in. Whether it was the unaccountable shout of triumph that she set up, or something else that startled the sailor, he hastily set down his burden on the rock, looked her in the face, and then spoke to his comrades in the boat. They laughed again, but beckoned him on. He placed her in the boat, but she stumbled, swayed over, caught at the side of the boat as she went over, and very nearly upset it. The men swore at her, declared her to be no lady in distress, but a tipsy gipsy, laid her down on the shore, and rowed away. Mr Ruthven now declared that he could do nothing in such a case. Lady Carse, now sobered from everything but passion, protested that if he had had any sense or presence of mind, he might have detained the strangers till she could produce from her package proof of her rank and quality. If the wranglers could but have known who these strangers were, and whence came the distant vessel to which their boat belonged, all would have joined in thanksgiving for the lady’s escape from their hands.Annie had no more suspicion of the truth than they.She could only attempt to calm them, and make the best of matters by showing that possibly all might not be over yet. It was now nearly dark. If she could light two lamps for this once, it might bring back the boat. If the people on board were familiar with her light and its purpose, the singular circumstance of its being double might attract their curiosity; if strangers, they might attend to the signal from prudence.Mr Ruthven, being extremely cross, could see nothing but nonsense in this plan. Lady Carse, being offended with her friends, thought it the wisest and most promising scheme conceivable. Mr Ruthven would not hear of spending a night down in the harbour, watching for a boat which would never come. To ask such a thing of him after his sabbath-day’s services, and all for a woman’s freak, was such a thing as—as he would not describe. He could not think of doing such a thing. Lady Carse said he was no friend of hers if he did not. While Mrs Ruthven trembled and wept, Annie said that if she could only learn where Rollo was, all would be easy. Rollo would watch in the harbour, she was sure.Mr Ruthven caught at this suggestion for saving his night’s rest, and went off to seek Rollo; not so rapidly, however, but that he heard the remark sent after him by Lady Carse, that it was a pretty thing for a man to stand up in his pulpit, where nobody could answer him, and lecture people about Christian duty, and then to be outdone in the first trial by the first of his flock that came into comparison with him. Annie could not bear to hear this. She desired Helsa to assist Lady Carse to bed, that her clothes might be speedily dried, in readiness for any sudden chance of escape.

One day when Annie was trimming her lamp, she observed Helsa, Lady Carse’s maid, watching the process earnestly from the door, where she was looking in. “Come in, Helsa,” said the widow, in Gaelic, which was more familiar to the girl than English. “Come in, if you have nothing better to do than to see me trim my lamp.”

“I am afraid about that lamp, and that is the truth,” replied Helsa. “I had charge of a lamp at Macdonald’s once, when my mother went to the main for a week; but then, if it went out, nobody was much the worse. If this one goes out, and anybody drowns in the harbour, and the blame is mine, what shall I do?”

“The blame yours!” said the widow, looking at her.

“Yes; when you live at Macdonald’s, and I have to keep the lamp. I am not sure that I can keep awake all the night when winter comes: but they say I must.”

Helsa was surprised to find that the widow knew nothing of the plan that Lady Carse now talked of more than anything else: that Annie was to go and live at Macdonald’s, that Lady Carse and her maid might have the widow’s house, where Helsa was to do all the work in the day, and to keep the lamp at night. The girl declared that the family never sat at meals without talking of the approaching time when they could all have more room and do whatever they pleased. Adam had cried yesterday about the widow going away; but he had been forbidden to cry about what would make Lady Carse so much happier; and when Kate had whispered to him that Lady Carse would no longer live in their house, Adam had presently dried his tears, and began to plan how he would meet the widow sometimes on the western sands, to pick up the fine shells she had told him of. Helsa went on to say that she could have cried longer than the boy, for she was afraid to think of being alone with Lady Carse at times when—

Annie interrupted her by saying, with a smile, “You need not have any dread of living in this house, Helsa. I have no thought of leaving it. There is some mistake.”

Helsa was delighted with this assurance. But she proved her point—that the mistake was not hers—that such a planwasdaily, almost hourly, spoken of next door as settled. She was going on to tell how her mistress frightened her by her ways: her being sleepy in the afternoons, unless she was very merry or dreadfully passionate, and so low in the mornings that she often did little but cry; but the widow checked this. While at Mrs Ruthven’s house Helsa should make no complaints to anybody else; or, if she had serious complaints to make, it should be to Macdonald. Helsa pleaded that Macdonald would then perhaps take away the anker of spirits, as being at the bottom of the mischief; and then Lady Carse would kill her. She had once shown her a pistol; but nobody could find that pistol now. Helsa laughed, and looked us if she could have told where it was. In a moment, however, she was grave enough, hearing herself called by her mistress.

“I shall say I came to learn about the lamp,” said she; “and that is true, you know.”

“Why do not you speak English, both of you?” demanded Lady Carse from the door. “You both speak English. I will have no mysteries. I will know what you were saying.”

Helsa faltered out that she came to see how Widow Fleming managed her lamp.

“Was it about the lamp that you were talking? I will know.”

“If we had any objection, madam, to your knowing what we were saying,” interposed Annie, “we are by no means bound to tell. But you are quite welcome to it. I have been assuring Helsa that there is some mistake about my leaving this house. Here have I lived, and here I hope to die.”

“We must talk that matter over,” declared Lady Carse. “We are so crowded next door that we can bear it no longer; and Imustlive in sight of the harbour, you know.”

And she went over all the old arguments, while she sent Helsa to bring in Mr Ruthven, that he might add his pastoral authority to her claims. After having once declared herself immovable, Annie bore all in silence; the pleas that her lamp was so seldom wanted; that it would be well tended for her, while she could sleep all night, and every night; that it had become a passion with Lady Carse to obtain this house, and that anyone was an enemy who denied her the only thing she could enjoy. These pleas Annie listened to in silence, and then to reproaches on her selfishness, her obstinacy, her malice and cruelty. When both her visitors had exhausted their arguments, she turned to Lady Carse, and intimated that now they had all spoken their minds on this subject, she wished to be alone in her own house. Then she turned to Mr Ruthven, and told him that whatever he had to say as her pastor, she would gladly listen to.

“In some other place than this,” he declared with severity. “I have tried rebuke and remonstrance here, beside your own hearth, with a perseverance which I fear has lowered the dignity of my office. I have done. I enter this house no more as your pastor.”

Annie bowed her head, and remained standing till they were gone; then she sank down, melting into tears.

“This, then,” and her heart swelled at the thought; “this, then, is the end of my hope—the brightest hope I ever had since my great earthly hope was extinguished! I thought I could bear anything if there was only a pastor at hand. And now—but there is my duty still; nothing can take that away. And I am forgetting that at this very moment, when I have so little else left! crying in this way when I want better eyes than mine are now for watching the sea. I have shed too many tears in my day; more than a trusting Christian woman should; and now I must keep my eyes dry and my heart firm for my duty. And I cannot see that I have done any wrong in staying by the duty that God gave me, and the house that I must do it in. With this house and God’s house—” And her thoughts recurred, as usual, to the blessing of the sabbath. She should still have a pastor in God’s house, if not in her own. And thus she cheered her heart while she bathed her eyes that they might serve for her evening gaze over the sea.

She was destined, however, to be overtaken by dismay on the sabbath, and in that holy house where she had supposed her peace could never be disturbed. The pastor read and preached from the passage in the 18th chapter of Matthew, which enjoins remonstrance with sinners, first in private, then in the presence of one or two witnesses, and at last before the church. The passage was read so emphatically that Annie’s heart beat thick and fast. But this did not prepare her for what followed. In his sermon the pastor explained that though the scriptural expression was, “If thy brother trespass,” the exhortation was equally applicable to any Christian sister who should offend. He declared that if any Christian sister was present who was conscious of having trespassed on the comfort and natural feelings of an afflicted and persecuted personage whom they had the honour to entertain among them, he besought the offending sister to enquire of herself whether she had not been rebuked first alone, then in the presence of a witness—alas! in vain; and whether, therefore, the time had not come for a rebuke before the Church. He would, however, name no one, but leave yet some place for repentance; and so forth.

Annie’s natural dismay, terrible as it was, soon yielded before the appeal to her conscience, which the pastor supposed would appal her. She knew that she was right; and in this knowledge she raised her bowed head, and listened more calmly than many others. If there had been any doubt among the small congregation as to who was meant, Lady Carse would have dispersed it. She sat in the front row, with the minister’s family. Unable to restrain her vindictive satisfaction, she started up and pointed with her finger, and nodded at Annie. The pitying calm gaze with which Annie returned the insult went to many hearts, and even to Mrs Ruthven’s so far so that she pulled the lady by the skirt, and implored her to sit down.

There are many precious things which remain always secrets to those who do not deserve to know them. For instance, tyrants know nothing of the animating and delicious reaction which they cause in the souls of their victims. The cheerfulness, sweetness and joy of their victims has ever been, and will ever be, a perplexity to oppressors. It was so now to Mr Ruthven, after an act of tyranny perpetrated, as most acts of tyranny are, under a mistaken, an ignorant and arrogant sense of duty. Not only did the widow stand up with others for the closing psalm—her voice was the firmest, sweetest, clearest in the assembly—so sweet and clear that it came back even upon her own ear with a sort of surprise. As for others, all were more or less moved. But their emotion had the common effect of making them draw back from the object of it. After the service, nobody spoke to Annie. She heeded this but little, absorbed as she was in thankfulness in finding that the privileges of God’s house were not disturbed—that her relation to Him and her rights of worship were not touched by any fallibility in His minister. As she reached the entrance of the churchyard, Macdonald overtook her, and made her use his arm for the descent of the irregular steps. A few words from Helsa had put him in possession of the case. He desired the widow not to think for a moment of leaving her house. Everybody wished to do what could be done to reconcile the stranger lady to her abode in the island; but there was a point beyond which he was sure Sir Alexander would not permit encroachment. His advice was to serve and please her in small affairs, and leave it to Sir Alexander to deal with her in such an important one as her having a house to herself. Annie smiled, and said this was exactly her plan.

That evening was, to the inhabitants of the island, the most memorable one of the year—of the generation—of the century. This was not fully known at the time. The most memorable days often appear just like other days till they are past; and though there was some excitement and bustle this evening, no one on the island saw the full meaning of what was before his eyes.

A little before sunset, the widow plainly saw a larger vessel than often visited those seas approaching from the south-west. It was larger than Macdonald’s sloop. She was straining her eyes to see whether it had two masts or three, when she heard the children’s voices below. She called them up to her platform for the help of their young eyes; but when they came, they could spare little attention for the distant vessel, so full were they of the news that their mother had run down to the harbour to try to speak to some sailors who had landed from a boat which had come up the harbour while everybody was at church. It was such a pity that their father was gone, just at this time, to visit a sick person at Macdonald’s farm! But their mother went directly, as fast as she could run, and Lady Carse and Helsa were to follow her as soon as Helsa had put up a bundle.

To recall Mr Ruthven was the first thing Annie thought of. She did not venture to send the children over for him, lest their hurry and excitement, or any air of mystery, should give the alarm to Macdonald. She set out alone, doubtful as she was how and how soon she could accomplish the walk, and bitterly lamenting that her son was not within call. With her best exertions, her progress was so slow that she met the pastor a quarter of a mile from Macdonald’s house.

Breathless as she was, Mr Ruthven would have from her a full, true, and particular account of all she knew, and many declarations that she did not know as much again, before he would walk on. At last, however, he did set forth quickly on the shortest path to the harbour, while Annie turned slowly homewards over the ridge.

She was on the hill-side, not far from home, when she saw the well-known group of neighbours—the pastor’s family—coming homewards, slowly and with many delays. She heard loud angry voices; and when she approached, she saw tokens of distress in them all. Mr Ruthven was very pale, and Helsa very red. Mrs Ruthven was in tears, and Lady Carse’s clothes and hair were dripping wet. It was clear that she had been in the water.

“Alas! you have missed the boat!” exclaimed Annie.

Lady Carse had just lost the chance of escape, as all believed; and all were now quarrelling as to whose fault it was. Mrs Ruthven was turning back from the shore, breathless from haste and vexation, as Lady Carse and Helsa came down. The boat, with several armed men in it, had pushed off when Mrs Ruthven appeared. They made no reply to her signs, but lay on their oars at a little distance from the beach till Lady Carse and her maid came down. After some delay, and many signals of entreaty from the ladies, the boat again approached, and the man in command of it was told that a lady of quality, wrongfully imprisoned in this island, desired to be carried to the main, and that, once among her friends in Edinburgh, she could give rewards for her escape to any amount. There was a short consultation in the boat, a laugh, and a decisive pull to shore. A sailor jumped out and seized the lady to carry her in. Whether it was the unaccountable shout of triumph that she set up, or something else that startled the sailor, he hastily set down his burden on the rock, looked her in the face, and then spoke to his comrades in the boat. They laughed again, but beckoned him on. He placed her in the boat, but she stumbled, swayed over, caught at the side of the boat as she went over, and very nearly upset it. The men swore at her, declared her to be no lady in distress, but a tipsy gipsy, laid her down on the shore, and rowed away. Mr Ruthven now declared that he could do nothing in such a case. Lady Carse, now sobered from everything but passion, protested that if he had had any sense or presence of mind, he might have detained the strangers till she could produce from her package proof of her rank and quality. If the wranglers could but have known who these strangers were, and whence came the distant vessel to which their boat belonged, all would have joined in thanksgiving for the lady’s escape from their hands.

Annie had no more suspicion of the truth than they.She could only attempt to calm them, and make the best of matters by showing that possibly all might not be over yet. It was now nearly dark. If she could light two lamps for this once, it might bring back the boat. If the people on board were familiar with her light and its purpose, the singular circumstance of its being double might attract their curiosity; if strangers, they might attend to the signal from prudence.

Mr Ruthven, being extremely cross, could see nothing but nonsense in this plan. Lady Carse, being offended with her friends, thought it the wisest and most promising scheme conceivable. Mr Ruthven would not hear of spending a night down in the harbour, watching for a boat which would never come. To ask such a thing of him after his sabbath-day’s services, and all for a woman’s freak, was such a thing as—as he would not describe. He could not think of doing such a thing. Lady Carse said he was no friend of hers if he did not. While Mrs Ruthven trembled and wept, Annie said that if she could only learn where Rollo was, all would be easy. Rollo would watch in the harbour, she was sure.

Mr Ruthven caught at this suggestion for saving his night’s rest, and went off to seek Rollo; not so rapidly, however, but that he heard the remark sent after him by Lady Carse, that it was a pretty thing for a man to stand up in his pulpit, where nobody could answer him, and lecture people about Christian duty, and then to be outdone in the first trial by the first of his flock that came into comparison with him. Annie could not bear to hear this. She desired Helsa to assist Lady Carse to bed, that her clothes might be speedily dried, in readiness for any sudden chance of escape.

Chapter Fifteen.Annie’s news.Dull and sad was the first meal at the Ruthvens’ the next morning. Lady Carse could eat nothing, having cried herself ill, and being in feverish expectation still of some news—she did not know what. Mr Ruthven found fault with the children so indefatigably, that they gulped down their porridge and slipped out under Helsa’s arm as she opened the door, and away to the next house, where the voice of scolding was never heard. The pastor next began wondering whether Rollo was still playing the watchman in the harbour—tired and hungry; and he was proceeding to wonder how a clever lad like Rollo could let himself be made such a fool of by his mother, when Helsa cut short the soliloquy by telling that Rollo was at home. He had come up just now with the steward.“The steward,” cried Lady Carse, springing to her feet. “I knew it! I see it all!” And she wrung her hands.“What is it? my dear love, my precious friend,—whatisthe matter? Compose yourself!” said Mrs Ruthven, soothingly.But the lady would not hear of being soothed. It was plain now that the distant vessel, the boat, the sailors, were sent by her friends. If Mr Ruthven had only been quick enough to let them know who she was, she should by this time have been safe. How could they suppose that she was Lady Carse, dressed as she was, agitated as she was! A word from Mr Ruthven, the least readiness on his part, would have saved her. And now, here was the steward come to baffle all. Sir Alexander Macdonald had had eyes for her deliverers, though her nearest friends had none. Annie was her best friend after all. It was Annie’s ball of thread, no doubt, that had roused her friends, and made them send this vessel; and Annie alone had shown any sense last night.Mr Ruthven did not understand or approve of very sudden conversions; and this was really a sudden conversion, after pointing at the widow Fleming in church yesterday. He ought to state too that he did not approve of pointing at individuals in church. He should be sorry that his children should learn the habit; and—“You would?” interrupted Lady Carse. “Then take care I do not point at her next sabbath as the only friend I have on this island.”“My dear creature!” said Mrs Ruthven, “pray do not say such severe things: you will break my heart. You do the greatest injustice to our affection. Only let me show you! If this wicked steward prevents your escape now, I will get away somehow, and tell your story to all the world; and they shall send another vessel for you; and I will come with it, and take you away. I will indeed.”“Nonsense, my dear,” said Lady Carse.“Nonsense, my dear,” said the pastor.Lady Carse laughed at this accord. Mrs Ruthven cried.“If you get away,” said Lady Carse, more gently, “you may be sure you will not leave me behind.”“It is all nonsense, the whole of it, about this vessel and the steward,” Mr Ruthven pronounced. “The steward comes, as usual, for the feather-rent.”“It is not the season for the feather-rent,” declared Lady Carse.“The steward comes when it suits his convenience,” decided the pastor; “the season is a matter of but secondary regard.”“You are mistaken,” said the lady. “I have lived here longer than you; and I know that he comes at the regular seasons, and at no other time.”“Oh, here are the children,” observed Mrs Ruthven, hoping to break up the party. “My dears, don’t leave the room; I want you to stay beside me. There now, you may each carry your own porridge-bowl into the kitchen, and then you may come back for papa’s and mine.”Mr Ruthven stalked out into the garden, to find fault with his cabbages, if they were not growing dutifully. Lady Carse stood by the window, fretted at the thick seamy glass which prevented her seeing anything clearly. Mrs Ruthven sat down to sew.“Mamma,” said Adam, presently, “what is a Pretender?”“A what, my dear?—a Pretender? I really scarcely know. That is a question that you should ask your papa. A Pretender?”“No, no, Adam. It is Adventurer. That was what the steward said. I know it, because that is the name of one of papa’s books. I will show it you.”“I know that,” said Adam. “But Widow Fleming called it Pretender, too.”“What’s that?” cried Lady Carse, turning hastily from the window. “What are you talking about?”The children looked at each other, as they usually did when somebody must answer the lady. “What are you talking about?”“The steward says the Pretender has come: and we do not know what that means.”“The Pretender come!” cried Mrs Ruthven, letting fall her work. “What shall we do for news? Run, my dears, and ask Widow Fleming all about it. I can’t leave Lady Carse, you see.”The children declared they dared not go. Widow Fleming was busy; and she had sent them away. “Then go and tell your father. Ask him to come in.” Mr Ruthven was shocked into his usual manners when he saw Lady Carse unable to stand or speak. His assurances that he did not believe her in any personal danger, if the report were ever so true, were thrown away. Her consternation was about a different aspect of the matter. She at once concluded that the cause of the Stuarts would be triumphant. She saw in imagination all her enemies victorious—her husband and Lord Lovat successful in all their plottings, high in power and glory; while she, who could have given timely intimation of their schemes—she who could have saved the throne and kingdom—was confined to this island like an eagle in a cage. For some time she sat paralysed by her emotions; then she rose and went in silence to Annie’s dwelling. The steward was just departing, and he seemed in the more haste for the lady’s appearance; but Annie stopped him—gravely desired him to remain while she told the lady what it concerned her to know. She then said, “I learn from the steward, madam, that it is known throughout Edinburgh that you are still in life, and that you are confined to some out-of-the-way place, though, the steward believes, the real place is not known.”“It is not known,” the steward declared; “and it is anything but kind of you, in my opinion, Mrs Fleming, to delude Lady Carse with any hope of escape. Her escape is, and will always be, impossible.”“I think it my business,” said Annie, “to inform the lady of whatever I hear of her affairs. I think she ought to have the comfort of knowing that her friends are alarmed: and I am sure I have no right to conceal it from her.”The steward walked away, while the lady stood lost in reverie. One set of ideas had driven out the other. She had forgotten all about the Jacobite news, and she stood staring with wide open eyes, as the vision of her escape and triumph once more intoxicated her imagination.Annie gently drew her attention to the facts, telling her that it was clear that the ball of thread had done its duty well. The alarm had begun with Mr Hope, the advocate. He had demanded that the coffin supposed to contain the remains of Lady Carse should be taken up and searched. When he appeared likely to obtain his demand, Lord Carse had avoided the scandal of the proceeding by acknowledging that it had been a sham funeral. Annie believed that now the lady had only to wait as patiently as she could, in the reasonable hope that her friends would not rest until they had rescued her.At this moment Lady Carse’s quick sense was caught by Adam’s pulling the widow’s gown and asking in a whisper, “What is a Pretender?” and by Annie’s soft reply, “Hush, my dear!”“Hush! do you say?” exclaimed Lady Carse, with a start. “What do you mean by saying ‘hush’? Is the Pretender come? Answer me. Has the Pretender landed in Scotland?”“He has not landed, madam. He is in yonder vessel. You had a great deliverance, madam, in not being taken away by his boat last night.”“Deliverance! There is no deliverance for me,” said the lady. “Every hope is dashed. There is no kindness in holding out new hopes to me. My enemies will not let me stay here now my friends know where to find me. I shall be carried to Saint Kilda, or some other horrible place; or, if they have not time to take care of me while they are setting up their new king, they will murder me. Oh, I shall never live to see Edinburgh again: and my husband and Lovat will be lording it there, and laughing at me and my vain struggles during all these years, while I lie helpless in my grave, or tossing like a weed in these cruel seas. If God will but grant my prayer, and let me haunt them! Stop, stop: do not go away.”“I must, madam, if you talk so.”“Stop. I want to know about this Pretender. Why did you not tell us sooner? Why not the moment you knew?”“I considered it was the steward’s business to tell what he thought proper: but I have no objection to give all the particulars. I know he whom they call Prince Charlie is in yonder vessel, which carries eighteen guns. It cannot hold many soldiers; and Sir Alexander does not believe that he will be joined by any from his islands. He is thought to have a good many officers with him—”“How many?”“Some say twenty; some say forty. It is pretty sure that Glengarry will join him—”“Glengarry! Then all is lost.”“Sir Alexander thinks not. He and Macleod have written to the Lord President, that not a man from these islands will join.”“They have written to Duncan Forbes! Now, if they were wise, they would send me to him— You need not look so surprised. He is a friend of mine; and glad enough he would be at this moment to know what I could tell him of the Edinburgh Jacobites. Where is the Lord President at this time?”“In the north, I think, preparing against the rising.”“Ay; at his own place near Inverness. If I could but get a letter to him— Perhaps he knows already that I am not dead. If I could see Sir Alexander! Oh! there are so many ways opening, if I had but the least help from anybody to use the opportunity! Sir Alexander ought to know that I am a loyal subject of King George; and that my enemies are not.”“True,” said Annie. “I will endeavour to speak to the steward again before he sails, and tell him that.”“I will speak to him, myself. Ah! I see your unwillingness; but I have learnt—it would be strange if I had not—to trust nobody with my business. With Prince Charlie so near, there is no saying who is a Jacobite, and who is not. I will see the steward myself.”Annie knew that this would fail; and so it did. The steward’s dispositions were not improved by the lady’s method of pleading. He told her that Sir Alexander’s loyalty to King George had nothing to do with his pledgethat Lord Carse should never more be troubled by her. He had pledged his honour that she should cause no more disturbance, and no political difficulties would make him forfeit his word. The steward grew dogged during the interview.Did her friends in Edinburgh know that she was alive? she demanded. “Perhaps so.”Did they know where she was? “Perhaps so.”Then, should she be carried somewhere else? “Perhaps so.”To some wretched, outlandish place, further in the ocean? “Perhaps so.”Would they murder her rather than yield her up? “Perhaps so.”The steward’s heart smote him as he said this, but he forgave himself on the plea that the vixen brought it all upon herself. So, when she asked the further question—“Is there any chance for the Pretender?—any danger that he may succeed?” the answer still was “Perhaps so.”Mr Ruthven, who was prowling about in search of news, heard these last words, and they produced a great effect upon him.

Dull and sad was the first meal at the Ruthvens’ the next morning. Lady Carse could eat nothing, having cried herself ill, and being in feverish expectation still of some news—she did not know what. Mr Ruthven found fault with the children so indefatigably, that they gulped down their porridge and slipped out under Helsa’s arm as she opened the door, and away to the next house, where the voice of scolding was never heard. The pastor next began wondering whether Rollo was still playing the watchman in the harbour—tired and hungry; and he was proceeding to wonder how a clever lad like Rollo could let himself be made such a fool of by his mother, when Helsa cut short the soliloquy by telling that Rollo was at home. He had come up just now with the steward.

“The steward,” cried Lady Carse, springing to her feet. “I knew it! I see it all!” And she wrung her hands.

“What is it? my dear love, my precious friend,—whatisthe matter? Compose yourself!” said Mrs Ruthven, soothingly.

But the lady would not hear of being soothed. It was plain now that the distant vessel, the boat, the sailors, were sent by her friends. If Mr Ruthven had only been quick enough to let them know who she was, she should by this time have been safe. How could they suppose that she was Lady Carse, dressed as she was, agitated as she was! A word from Mr Ruthven, the least readiness on his part, would have saved her. And now, here was the steward come to baffle all. Sir Alexander Macdonald had had eyes for her deliverers, though her nearest friends had none. Annie was her best friend after all. It was Annie’s ball of thread, no doubt, that had roused her friends, and made them send this vessel; and Annie alone had shown any sense last night.

Mr Ruthven did not understand or approve of very sudden conversions; and this was really a sudden conversion, after pointing at the widow Fleming in church yesterday. He ought to state too that he did not approve of pointing at individuals in church. He should be sorry that his children should learn the habit; and—

“You would?” interrupted Lady Carse. “Then take care I do not point at her next sabbath as the only friend I have on this island.”

“My dear creature!” said Mrs Ruthven, “pray do not say such severe things: you will break my heart. You do the greatest injustice to our affection. Only let me show you! If this wicked steward prevents your escape now, I will get away somehow, and tell your story to all the world; and they shall send another vessel for you; and I will come with it, and take you away. I will indeed.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Lady Carse.

“Nonsense, my dear,” said the pastor.

Lady Carse laughed at this accord. Mrs Ruthven cried.

“If you get away,” said Lady Carse, more gently, “you may be sure you will not leave me behind.”

“It is all nonsense, the whole of it, about this vessel and the steward,” Mr Ruthven pronounced. “The steward comes, as usual, for the feather-rent.”

“It is not the season for the feather-rent,” declared Lady Carse.

“The steward comes when it suits his convenience,” decided the pastor; “the season is a matter of but secondary regard.”

“You are mistaken,” said the lady. “I have lived here longer than you; and I know that he comes at the regular seasons, and at no other time.”

“Oh, here are the children,” observed Mrs Ruthven, hoping to break up the party. “My dears, don’t leave the room; I want you to stay beside me. There now, you may each carry your own porridge-bowl into the kitchen, and then you may come back for papa’s and mine.”

Mr Ruthven stalked out into the garden, to find fault with his cabbages, if they were not growing dutifully. Lady Carse stood by the window, fretted at the thick seamy glass which prevented her seeing anything clearly. Mrs Ruthven sat down to sew.

“Mamma,” said Adam, presently, “what is a Pretender?”

“A what, my dear?—a Pretender? I really scarcely know. That is a question that you should ask your papa. A Pretender?”

“No, no, Adam. It is Adventurer. That was what the steward said. I know it, because that is the name of one of papa’s books. I will show it you.”

“I know that,” said Adam. “But Widow Fleming called it Pretender, too.”

“What’s that?” cried Lady Carse, turning hastily from the window. “What are you talking about?”

The children looked at each other, as they usually did when somebody must answer the lady. “What are you talking about?”

“The steward says the Pretender has come: and we do not know what that means.”

“The Pretender come!” cried Mrs Ruthven, letting fall her work. “What shall we do for news? Run, my dears, and ask Widow Fleming all about it. I can’t leave Lady Carse, you see.”

The children declared they dared not go. Widow Fleming was busy; and she had sent them away. “Then go and tell your father. Ask him to come in.” Mr Ruthven was shocked into his usual manners when he saw Lady Carse unable to stand or speak. His assurances that he did not believe her in any personal danger, if the report were ever so true, were thrown away. Her consternation was about a different aspect of the matter. She at once concluded that the cause of the Stuarts would be triumphant. She saw in imagination all her enemies victorious—her husband and Lord Lovat successful in all their plottings, high in power and glory; while she, who could have given timely intimation of their schemes—she who could have saved the throne and kingdom—was confined to this island like an eagle in a cage. For some time she sat paralysed by her emotions; then she rose and went in silence to Annie’s dwelling. The steward was just departing, and he seemed in the more haste for the lady’s appearance; but Annie stopped him—gravely desired him to remain while she told the lady what it concerned her to know. She then said, “I learn from the steward, madam, that it is known throughout Edinburgh that you are still in life, and that you are confined to some out-of-the-way place, though, the steward believes, the real place is not known.”

“It is not known,” the steward declared; “and it is anything but kind of you, in my opinion, Mrs Fleming, to delude Lady Carse with any hope of escape. Her escape is, and will always be, impossible.”

“I think it my business,” said Annie, “to inform the lady of whatever I hear of her affairs. I think she ought to have the comfort of knowing that her friends are alarmed: and I am sure I have no right to conceal it from her.”

The steward walked away, while the lady stood lost in reverie. One set of ideas had driven out the other. She had forgotten all about the Jacobite news, and she stood staring with wide open eyes, as the vision of her escape and triumph once more intoxicated her imagination.

Annie gently drew her attention to the facts, telling her that it was clear that the ball of thread had done its duty well. The alarm had begun with Mr Hope, the advocate. He had demanded that the coffin supposed to contain the remains of Lady Carse should be taken up and searched. When he appeared likely to obtain his demand, Lord Carse had avoided the scandal of the proceeding by acknowledging that it had been a sham funeral. Annie believed that now the lady had only to wait as patiently as she could, in the reasonable hope that her friends would not rest until they had rescued her.

At this moment Lady Carse’s quick sense was caught by Adam’s pulling the widow’s gown and asking in a whisper, “What is a Pretender?” and by Annie’s soft reply, “Hush, my dear!”

“Hush! do you say?” exclaimed Lady Carse, with a start. “What do you mean by saying ‘hush’? Is the Pretender come? Answer me. Has the Pretender landed in Scotland?”

“He has not landed, madam. He is in yonder vessel. You had a great deliverance, madam, in not being taken away by his boat last night.”

“Deliverance! There is no deliverance for me,” said the lady. “Every hope is dashed. There is no kindness in holding out new hopes to me. My enemies will not let me stay here now my friends know where to find me. I shall be carried to Saint Kilda, or some other horrible place; or, if they have not time to take care of me while they are setting up their new king, they will murder me. Oh, I shall never live to see Edinburgh again: and my husband and Lovat will be lording it there, and laughing at me and my vain struggles during all these years, while I lie helpless in my grave, or tossing like a weed in these cruel seas. If God will but grant my prayer, and let me haunt them! Stop, stop: do not go away.”

“I must, madam, if you talk so.”

“Stop. I want to know about this Pretender. Why did you not tell us sooner? Why not the moment you knew?”

“I considered it was the steward’s business to tell what he thought proper: but I have no objection to give all the particulars. I know he whom they call Prince Charlie is in yonder vessel, which carries eighteen guns. It cannot hold many soldiers; and Sir Alexander does not believe that he will be joined by any from his islands. He is thought to have a good many officers with him—”

“How many?”

“Some say twenty; some say forty. It is pretty sure that Glengarry will join him—”

“Glengarry! Then all is lost.”

“Sir Alexander thinks not. He and Macleod have written to the Lord President, that not a man from these islands will join.”

“They have written to Duncan Forbes! Now, if they were wise, they would send me to him— You need not look so surprised. He is a friend of mine; and glad enough he would be at this moment to know what I could tell him of the Edinburgh Jacobites. Where is the Lord President at this time?”

“In the north, I think, preparing against the rising.”

“Ay; at his own place near Inverness. If I could but get a letter to him— Perhaps he knows already that I am not dead. If I could see Sir Alexander! Oh! there are so many ways opening, if I had but the least help from anybody to use the opportunity! Sir Alexander ought to know that I am a loyal subject of King George; and that my enemies are not.”

“True,” said Annie. “I will endeavour to speak to the steward again before he sails, and tell him that.”

“I will speak to him, myself. Ah! I see your unwillingness; but I have learnt—it would be strange if I had not—to trust nobody with my business. With Prince Charlie so near, there is no saying who is a Jacobite, and who is not. I will see the steward myself.”

Annie knew that this would fail; and so it did. The steward’s dispositions were not improved by the lady’s method of pleading. He told her that Sir Alexander’s loyalty to King George had nothing to do with his pledgethat Lord Carse should never more be troubled by her. He had pledged his honour that she should cause no more disturbance, and no political difficulties would make him forfeit his word. The steward grew dogged during the interview.

Did her friends in Edinburgh know that she was alive? she demanded. “Perhaps so.”

Did they know where she was? “Perhaps so.”

Then, should she be carried somewhere else? “Perhaps so.”

To some wretched, outlandish place, further in the ocean? “Perhaps so.”

Would they murder her rather than yield her up? “Perhaps so.”

The steward’s heart smote him as he said this, but he forgave himself on the plea that the vixen brought it all upon herself. So, when she asked the further question—

“Is there any chance for the Pretender?—any danger that he may succeed?” the answer still was “Perhaps so.”

Mr Ruthven, who was prowling about in search of news, heard these last words, and they produced a great effect upon him.

Chapter Sixteen.Timely Evasion.Mr Ruthven was walking up and down his garden that afternoon in a disturbed state of mind, when his wife came to him and asked him what he thought Lady Carse could be in want of. She was searching among his books and boxes as if she wanted something. He hastened in.“Yes,” Lady Carse replied, in answer to his question; “I want that pistol that used to be kept on the top of your bed. You need not look so frightened. I am not going to shoot you, nor anybody you ought to care for.”“I should like to understand, however,” observed the pastor. “It is unusual for ladies to employ fire-arms, I believe, except in apprehension of the midnight thief: and I am not aware of any danger from burglars in these islands.”“Why no,” replied the lady. “We have no great temptation to offer to burglars; and nothing to lose worth the waste of powder and bullet.”“Then, if I may ask—”“O yes; you may ask what I want the pistol for. It strikes me that the boat from yonder vessel may possibly be sent back for me yet. They may think me a prize worth having, if the stupid people carried my story right. I would go with them—I would go joyfully—for the chance of shooting that young gentleman through the head.”“Young gentleman!” repeated Mr Ruthven, aghast.“Yes, the young Pretender. My father lost his life for shooting a Lord President. His daughter is the one to go beyond him, by getting rid of a Prince Charlie. It would be a tale for history, that he was disposed of among these islands by the bravery of a woman. Why, you look so aghast,” she continued, turning from the husband to the wife, “that— Yes, yes. Oh, ho! I have found you out!—you are Jacobites! I see it in your faces. I see it. There now, don’t deny it Jacobites you are—and henceforth my enemies.”With stammering eagerness, both husband and wife denied the charge. The fact was, they were not Jacobites; neither had they any sustaining loyalty on the other side. They understood very little of the matter, either way; and dreaded, above everything, being pressed to take any part. They thought it very hard to have their lot cast in precisely that corner of the empire where it was first necessary to take some part before knowing what the nation, or the majority, meant to do. First, they prevented the lady’s finding the pistol, as the safest proceeding on the whole; next, they wished themselves a thousand miles off, so earnestly and so often, that it occurred to them to consider whether they could not accomplish a part of this desire, and get a hundred miles away, or fifty, or twenty—somewhere, at least, out of sight of the Pretender’s privateer.In a few hours the privateer was out of sight—“Gone about north,” the steward declared, “for supplies:” as nobody was willing to give them any help while under the shadow of Macdonald and Macleod. In the evening, little Kate rushed into Annie’s cottage, silently threw her arms about the widow’s neck, and almost strangled her with a tight hug. Adam followed, and struggled to do the same. When he wanted to speak, he began to cry; and grievously he cried, sobbing out, “What will you do without me? You can’t see the boats at sea well now; and soon, perhaps, you will hardly be able to see them at all. And I was to have helped you: and now what will you do?”“And papa would not let us come sooner,” said the weeping Kate, “because we had to pack all our things in such a hurry. He said we need not come to you till he came to bid you good-bye. But I made haste, and then I came.”“But, my dears, when are you going? where are you going?”“Oh, we are going directly: the steward is in such a hurry! And papa says we are not to cry; and we are not to come back any more. And we shall never get any of those beautiful shells on the long sands, that you promised me; and—”Here Mr Ruthven entered. He had no time to sit down. He told the children that they must not cry; but that they might kiss their friend, and thank her for her kindness to them, and tell her that they should never see her any more. There was so much difficulty with the sobbing children on this last point, that he gave it up for want of time, threatening to see about making them more obedient when he was settled on the mainland. While they clung to Annie, and hid their faces in her gown, he explained to her that his residence in this island had not answered to his expectation; that he did not find it a congenial sphere; that he was a man of peace, to whom neither domestic discord, nor the prospect of war and difficulty without, were agreeable; and that he was, therefore, taking advantage of the steward’s vessel to remove himself to some quiet retreat, where the pastoral authority might be exercised without disturbance, and a man like himself might be placed in a more congenial sphere. He was then careful to explain that, in speaking of domestic discord, he was far from referring to Mrs Ruthven, who, he thought he might say, however liable to the failings of humanity, was not particularly open to blame on the ground of conjugal obedience. She was, in fact, an excellent wife; and he should be grieved to cause the most transient impression to the contrary. It was, in truth, another person—a casual inmate of his family—whom he had in his eye; a lady who—“I understand, sir. If you will allow me to go home with you—”“Permit me to conclude what I was saying, Mrs Fleming. That unhappy lady, in favour of whose temper it is impossible to say anything, has caused us equal uneasiness by another tendency of late—a tendency to indulge—”But Annie did not, at such a moment, stand upon ceremony. She was by this time leading the children home, one in each hand.“So you are really going away, and immediately?” said she to Mrs Ruthven.“Immediately,” replied the heated, anxious Mrs Ruthven.“Where is Lady Carse?”The question again brought tears into Mrs Ruthven’s swollen eyes.“I do not know. Mr Ruthven wishes to be gone before she returns from her walk.”“We leave her the entire house to herself,” declared the pastor, now entering. “Will you bear our farewell message to her, and wish her joy from us of being possessor of the whole house; and of—”“Here she comes,” said Annie, quietly. “Lady Carse,” she said, “this is a remarkable day. Here is another way opening for your deliverance—a way which appears to me so clear that you have only to be patient for a few weeks or months before your best wishes are fulfilled. Mrs Ruthvenwill now be able to do for you what she has so often longed to do. She is going to the main—perhaps to Edinburgh; she will see Mr Hope, and others of your friends; and tell your story. She will—”“She will not have anything of the sort to do,” interrupted Lady Carse. “I shall go and do it myself. I told her, some time since, that whenever she quitted this island I would not be left behind. I shall do my own business myself, if you please.”“That is well,” interposed the pastor; “because I promised the steward, passed my solemn word to him, as a condition of my departure, that it should never become known through me or mine that Lady Carse had ever been seen by any of us. I entirely approve of Lady Carse managing her own affairs.”Annie found means to declare solemnly to Mrs Ruthven her conviction that no such promise could be binding on her, and that it was her bounden duty to spare no effort for the poor lady’s release.She was persuaded that Mrs Ruthven thought and felt with her; and that something effectual would at last be done.The children now most needed her consolations.“Do not be afraid,” she said cheerfully to them. “I shall never forget you. I shall think of you every day. Whenever you see a sea-bird winging over this way, send me your love: and when I see our birds go south, I will send my love to you.”“And whenever,” said Helsa, “you see a light over the sea, you will think of Widow Fleming’s lamp, won’t you?”“And whenever,” said Lady Carse, with a solemnity which froze up the children’s tears, and made them look in her face, “whenever, in this world or the next, you see a quiet angel keeping watch over a sinful, unhappy mortal, you may think of Widow Fleming and me. Will you?”The awe-struck children promised, with a sincerity and warmth which touched Lady Carse with a keen sense of humiliation; not the less keen because she had brought it upon herself by a good impulse.The pastor and his family were presently gone; and without Lady Carse. The steward guarded against that by bringing Macdonald to fasten her into her house, and guard it, till the boat should be out of reach.Annie did not intrude upon her unhappy neighbour for the first few hours. She thought it better to wait till she was wished for.“Our pastor gone!” thought she, as she sat alone. “No more children’s voices in this dwelling! No more worship in the church on sabbaths! Thus is our Father always giving and taking away, that we may fix our expectations on Him alone. But He always leaves us enough. He leaves us our duty and our sabbaths, whether the church be open or in ruins. And He has left me also an afflicted neighbour to comfort and strengthen. Now that she thinks she depends on me alone, I may be the better able to lead her to depend on Him.”And she was presently absorbed in meditating how best to do this most needful work.

Mr Ruthven was walking up and down his garden that afternoon in a disturbed state of mind, when his wife came to him and asked him what he thought Lady Carse could be in want of. She was searching among his books and boxes as if she wanted something. He hastened in.

“Yes,” Lady Carse replied, in answer to his question; “I want that pistol that used to be kept on the top of your bed. You need not look so frightened. I am not going to shoot you, nor anybody you ought to care for.”

“I should like to understand, however,” observed the pastor. “It is unusual for ladies to employ fire-arms, I believe, except in apprehension of the midnight thief: and I am not aware of any danger from burglars in these islands.”

“Why no,” replied the lady. “We have no great temptation to offer to burglars; and nothing to lose worth the waste of powder and bullet.”

“Then, if I may ask—”

“O yes; you may ask what I want the pistol for. It strikes me that the boat from yonder vessel may possibly be sent back for me yet. They may think me a prize worth having, if the stupid people carried my story right. I would go with them—I would go joyfully—for the chance of shooting that young gentleman through the head.”

“Young gentleman!” repeated Mr Ruthven, aghast.

“Yes, the young Pretender. My father lost his life for shooting a Lord President. His daughter is the one to go beyond him, by getting rid of a Prince Charlie. It would be a tale for history, that he was disposed of among these islands by the bravery of a woman. Why, you look so aghast,” she continued, turning from the husband to the wife, “that— Yes, yes. Oh, ho! I have found you out!—you are Jacobites! I see it in your faces. I see it. There now, don’t deny it Jacobites you are—and henceforth my enemies.”

With stammering eagerness, both husband and wife denied the charge. The fact was, they were not Jacobites; neither had they any sustaining loyalty on the other side. They understood very little of the matter, either way; and dreaded, above everything, being pressed to take any part. They thought it very hard to have their lot cast in precisely that corner of the empire where it was first necessary to take some part before knowing what the nation, or the majority, meant to do. First, they prevented the lady’s finding the pistol, as the safest proceeding on the whole; next, they wished themselves a thousand miles off, so earnestly and so often, that it occurred to them to consider whether they could not accomplish a part of this desire, and get a hundred miles away, or fifty, or twenty—somewhere, at least, out of sight of the Pretender’s privateer.

In a few hours the privateer was out of sight—“Gone about north,” the steward declared, “for supplies:” as nobody was willing to give them any help while under the shadow of Macdonald and Macleod. In the evening, little Kate rushed into Annie’s cottage, silently threw her arms about the widow’s neck, and almost strangled her with a tight hug. Adam followed, and struggled to do the same. When he wanted to speak, he began to cry; and grievously he cried, sobbing out, “What will you do without me? You can’t see the boats at sea well now; and soon, perhaps, you will hardly be able to see them at all. And I was to have helped you: and now what will you do?”

“And papa would not let us come sooner,” said the weeping Kate, “because we had to pack all our things in such a hurry. He said we need not come to you till he came to bid you good-bye. But I made haste, and then I came.”

“But, my dears, when are you going? where are you going?”

“Oh, we are going directly: the steward is in such a hurry! And papa says we are not to cry; and we are not to come back any more. And we shall never get any of those beautiful shells on the long sands, that you promised me; and—”

Here Mr Ruthven entered. He had no time to sit down. He told the children that they must not cry; but that they might kiss their friend, and thank her for her kindness to them, and tell her that they should never see her any more. There was so much difficulty with the sobbing children on this last point, that he gave it up for want of time, threatening to see about making them more obedient when he was settled on the mainland. While they clung to Annie, and hid their faces in her gown, he explained to her that his residence in this island had not answered to his expectation; that he did not find it a congenial sphere; that he was a man of peace, to whom neither domestic discord, nor the prospect of war and difficulty without, were agreeable; and that he was, therefore, taking advantage of the steward’s vessel to remove himself to some quiet retreat, where the pastoral authority might be exercised without disturbance, and a man like himself might be placed in a more congenial sphere. He was then careful to explain that, in speaking of domestic discord, he was far from referring to Mrs Ruthven, who, he thought he might say, however liable to the failings of humanity, was not particularly open to blame on the ground of conjugal obedience. She was, in fact, an excellent wife; and he should be grieved to cause the most transient impression to the contrary. It was, in truth, another person—a casual inmate of his family—whom he had in his eye; a lady who—

“I understand, sir. If you will allow me to go home with you—”

“Permit me to conclude what I was saying, Mrs Fleming. That unhappy lady, in favour of whose temper it is impossible to say anything, has caused us equal uneasiness by another tendency of late—a tendency to indulge—”

But Annie did not, at such a moment, stand upon ceremony. She was by this time leading the children home, one in each hand.

“So you are really going away, and immediately?” said she to Mrs Ruthven.

“Immediately,” replied the heated, anxious Mrs Ruthven.

“Where is Lady Carse?”

The question again brought tears into Mrs Ruthven’s swollen eyes.

“I do not know. Mr Ruthven wishes to be gone before she returns from her walk.”

“We leave her the entire house to herself,” declared the pastor, now entering. “Will you bear our farewell message to her, and wish her joy from us of being possessor of the whole house; and of—”

“Here she comes,” said Annie, quietly. “Lady Carse,” she said, “this is a remarkable day. Here is another way opening for your deliverance—a way which appears to me so clear that you have only to be patient for a few weeks or months before your best wishes are fulfilled. Mrs Ruthvenwill now be able to do for you what she has so often longed to do. She is going to the main—perhaps to Edinburgh; she will see Mr Hope, and others of your friends; and tell your story. She will—”

“She will not have anything of the sort to do,” interrupted Lady Carse. “I shall go and do it myself. I told her, some time since, that whenever she quitted this island I would not be left behind. I shall do my own business myself, if you please.”

“That is well,” interposed the pastor; “because I promised the steward, passed my solemn word to him, as a condition of my departure, that it should never become known through me or mine that Lady Carse had ever been seen by any of us. I entirely approve of Lady Carse managing her own affairs.”

Annie found means to declare solemnly to Mrs Ruthven her conviction that no such promise could be binding on her, and that it was her bounden duty to spare no effort for the poor lady’s release.

She was persuaded that Mrs Ruthven thought and felt with her; and that something effectual would at last be done.

The children now most needed her consolations.

“Do not be afraid,” she said cheerfully to them. “I shall never forget you. I shall think of you every day. Whenever you see a sea-bird winging over this way, send me your love: and when I see our birds go south, I will send my love to you.”

“And whenever,” said Helsa, “you see a light over the sea, you will think of Widow Fleming’s lamp, won’t you?”

“And whenever,” said Lady Carse, with a solemnity which froze up the children’s tears, and made them look in her face, “whenever, in this world or the next, you see a quiet angel keeping watch over a sinful, unhappy mortal, you may think of Widow Fleming and me. Will you?”

The awe-struck children promised, with a sincerity and warmth which touched Lady Carse with a keen sense of humiliation; not the less keen because she had brought it upon herself by a good impulse.

The pastor and his family were presently gone; and without Lady Carse. The steward guarded against that by bringing Macdonald to fasten her into her house, and guard it, till the boat should be out of reach.

Annie did not intrude upon her unhappy neighbour for the first few hours. She thought it better to wait till she was wished for.

“Our pastor gone!” thought she, as she sat alone. “No more children’s voices in this dwelling! No more worship in the church on sabbaths! Thus is our Father always giving and taking away, that we may fix our expectations on Him alone. But He always leaves us enough. He leaves us our duty and our sabbaths, whether the church be open or in ruins. And He has left me also an afflicted neighbour to comfort and strengthen. Now that she thinks she depends on me alone, I may be the better able to lead her to depend on Him.”

And she was presently absorbed in meditating how best to do this most needful work.

Chapter Seventeen.The Lamp Burns.Annie had supposed that her life would be almost as quiet an one as it used to be when the minister and his family were gone. Lady Carse was her neighbour, to be sure; but every day showed more and more that even to such restless beings as Lady Carse, a time of quiet must come. Her health and strength had been wasting for some months, and now a change came over her visibly from week to week. She rarely moved many yards from the house, spending hours of fine weather in lying on the grass looking over the sea; and when confined to the house by the cold, in dozing on the settle.This happened just when her prison was, as it were, thrown open, or, at least, much less carefully guarded than ever before. Prince Charlie’s successes were so great as to engross all minds in this region, and almost throughout the whole of the kingdom. Wherever the Macdonalds and the Macleods had influence, there was activity, day and night. Every man in either clan, every youth capable of bearing arms, was raised and drilled, and held in readiness to march, as soon as arms should be provided by the government.Annie had many anxieties about Rollo,—many feelings of longing and dread to hear where he was, and what he was doing. The first good news she had was that of the whole population of Skye and the neighbouring islands, not one man had joined the Pretender. The news was carefully spread, in order that it might produce its effect on any waverers, that Sir Alexander Macdonald had written to Lord President Forbes that not one man under him or Macleod had joined the Pretender’s army; and that he should soon be ready to march a force of several hundred men, if arms could be sent or provided for them against their arrival at Inverness. Meantime, no day passed without the men being collected in parties, and exercised with batons, in the absence of fire-arms. Rollo came to the very first drill which took place on the island; and great was his mother’s relief; and great the satisfaction with which she made haste to equip him, according to her small means, for a march to Inverness.Here was an object too for Lady Carse. She fretted sadly, but not quite idly, about her strength failing just now when boats came to the island so often that she might have had many chances of escape if she could now have borne night watching, and exposure to weather and fatigue. She complained and wept much; but all the time she worked as hard as Annie to prepare Rollo for military service; for her very best chance now appeared to be his seeing Lord President Forbes, and telling him her story. The widow quite agreed in this; and it became the most earnest desire of the whole party,—Helsa’s sympathies being drawn in,—that the summons to march might arrive. Somebody was always looking over towards Skye; and there was so much traffic on these seas at present, that some new excitement was perpetually arising. Now a meal bark arrived, telling of the capture of others by the prince’s privateer: and next there was a seizure of fish for the king’s service. Now all eyes were engaged, for days together, in watching the man-of-war which hovered round the coasts to prevent the rebels being reinforced by water, and arms being landed from foreign vessels: and then there were rumours, and sometimes visions, of suspicious boats skulking among the islands, or a strange sail being visible on the horizon. Such excitements made the island appear a new place, and changed entirely the life of the inhabitants. The brave enjoyed all this: the timid sickened at it; and Lady Carse wept over it as coming too late for her.“The lady looks ill,” the steward observed to the Widow Fleming, one day when, as often happened now, he came without notice. “She is so shrunk, she is not like the same person.”Annie told how she had lost strength and spirits of late. She had not been down even to the harbour for two months.“Ay, it is a change,” said the steward. “I was saying to Macdonald just now that we have been rather careless of late, having had our heads so full of other matters. I almost wondered that she had not slipped through our fingers in the hurry and bustle: but I see now how that is. However, Macdonald will keep a somewhat stricter watch; for, as I told him, it concerns Sir Alexander’s honour all the more that she should not get loose, now that those who committed her to his charge are under suspicion about their politics—Ah! you see the secret is getting out now,—the reason of her punishment. She wanted to ruin them, no doubt, by telling what she knew; and they put her out of the way for safety.”“Is her husband with the Pretender then? And is Lord Lovat on that side? They are the two she is most angry with.”“Lord Carse is safe enough. He is a prudent man. He could not get into favour with the king and the minister:—they knew two much harm of him for that. So he has made himself a courtier of the Prince of Wales. He has no idea of being thrust upon the dangers of rebellion while the event is uncertain; so he attaches himself in a useless way to the reigning family. And if Prince Charlie should succeed, Lord Carse can easily show that he never favoured King George or his minister, or did them any good.—As for Lovat, he is ill and quiet at home.”“Which side is he on?”“He complains bitterly of his son being disobedient to him, and put upon his disobedience by his Jacobite acquaintance. If the young man joins Prince Charlie, it is thought that his father will stand by King George, that the family estates may be safe whichever way the war ends,—Bless me! what a sigh! One would think— Come now, what’s the matter?”“The wickedness of it!” said Annie.“Oh! is that all? Lovat’s wickedness is nothing new; and what better could you expect from his son? By the same rule, I have great expectations of your son. As you are sound, he will be sound too, and do his king and country good service. You are both on the same side, and not like the master of Lovat and his father.”“We have no estates to corrupt our minds,” observed Annie. “We have only our duty to care for.”“Ay, then, you are on the same side.”“Rollo is ready to march with the men of these islands. I am on no side, sir. I do not understand the matter, and I have nothing to do with it. There is no occasion for me to take any side.”“Why yes; as it happens, there is, Mrs Fleming: and that is one of the things that brought me here to-day. Sir Alexander Macdonald desires that you will oblige him by not burning your lamp in the night till the troubles are over.”“I am sorry that there is anything in which I cannot oblige Sir Alexander Macdonald: but I must burn my lamp.”“But hear: you do not know his reasons. There are some suspicious vessels skulking about among these islands; and you ought to show them no favour till they show what they are.”“You do not think, sir, you cannot surely think that anybody on this island is in danger from the enemy. There is nothing to bring them here,—no arms, nor wealth of any kind;—nothing that it would be worth the trouble of coming to take.”“Oh no: you are all safe enough. No enemy would lose their time here. But that is no reason why you should give them help and comfort with your beacon-light.”“You mean, sir, that if a storm drives them hither, or they lose their way, you would have them perish. Yes; that is what you mean, and that I cannot do. I must burn my lamp.”“But my good friend, consider what you are doing. Consider the responsibility if you should succour the king’s enemies!”“I did consider it well, sir, some years ago, and made up my mind. That was when the pirates were on the coast.”“You don’t mean that you would have lighted pirates to shore?”“I could not refuse to save them from drowning: and He who set me my duty blessed the deed.”“I remember hearing something of that. But if the pirates did no mischief, your neighbours owe you nothing for that. You may thank the poverty of the island.”“Perhaps so,” said Annie, smiling. “And if so, I am sure we may thank God for the poverty of the island which permits us to save men’s lives, instead of letting them drown. And now you see, sir—”“I see you are as wilful on this point as I heard you were. I would not believe it, because I always thought you a superior woman. But now—I wish I could persuade you to see your duty better, Mrs Fleming.”“As my duty appears to me, sir, it is to save people’s lives without regard to who they are, and what their business is.”“If the Pretender should come—”“He would go as he came,” said Annie, quietly. “He would get nothing here that could hurt the king, while the men of the island are gone to Inverness.”“Well, to be sure, if you would succour and comfort pirates, there is nobody whom you would not help.”“That is true, sir.”“But it is very dangerous, Mrs Fleming. Do you know the consequences of aiding the enemy?”“I know the consequences of there being no light above the harbour,” said Annie, in a low voice.The steward knew it was useless to say more. He thought it better to put into her hand some newspapers which contained a startling account of the progress of the rebels, embellished with many terrifying fictions of their barbarity, such as were greedily received by the alarmists of the time.“Here,” said he. “You can look these over while I go to speak to Macdonald about removing the lady to some remoter place while we have only women on the island. Pray look over these papers, and then you will see what sort of people you may chance to bring upon your neighbours, if you persist in burning your lamp. But Sir Alexander must put forth his authority—even use force, if necessary. What do you say to that?”“Some old words,” said Annie, smiling, “given to those who are brought before governors. It shall be given me in that same hour what I shall speak.”“I will look in for the papers as I return,” said the steward. “You are as wilful on your own points as your neighbour. But you must give way, as you preach that she ought—”“I do not preach that, sir, I assure you. I wish, for her own peace, that she would yield herself to God’s disposal; but I would have her, in the strength of law and justice, resist the oppression of man.”The steward smiled, nodded, and left Annie to read the newspapers.The time was short. Lady Carse was asleep; but Annie woke her, and left one paper with her while she went home to read the other. She was absorbed in the narrative of the march of the rebels southwards, and their intention of proceeding to London, eating children, as the newspaper said, after the manner of Highlanders, all the way as they went, when Lady Carse burst in, trembling from head to foot, and unable to speak. She showed to Annie a short paragraph, which told that a vessel chartered by Mr Hope, advocate, of Edinburgh, and bound to the Western Islands, had put into the Horseshoe harbour in Lorn, to land a lady whom the captain refused to carry to her destination through a quarrel on the ground of difference of political sentiment. The lady, wife of a minister of the kirk, had sought the aid of the resident tenant to be escorted home through the disturbed districts in Argyle, while the vessel proceeded on its way—not unwatched, however, as Mr Hope’s attachment to the house of Stuart was no secret, etcetera, etcetera.The widow was perplexed; but Lady Carse knew that Mr Hope, her lawyer and her friend, was a Jacobite—the only fault he had, she declared. She was persuaded that the lady was Mrs Ruthven, and that the vessel was on its way to rescue her—might arrive at any hour of the day or night.“But,” said Annie, “this lady is loyal to King George, and you reproached the Ruthvens for being on the other side.”“O! I was wrong about her, no doubt. I detest him; but she is a good creature; and I was quite wrong ever to suspect her.”“And you think your loyalty to the king would do you no harm with Mr Hope? You think he would exert himself for you without thinking of your politics?”“Why, don’t you see what is before your eyes?” cried Lady Carse. “Is it not there, as plain as black and white can make it?”The fact was so, though the lady’s reasoning was not good. The vessel, with armed men in it, was sent by Mr Hope to rescue Lady Carse; and Mrs Ruthven was to act as guide. In consequence of a quarrel between the captain and her, she was set ashore at the place where the little town of Oban has since arisen; and the vessel sailed on out of sight. It was an illegal proceeding of Mr Hope’s, and resorted to only when his attempts to obtain a warrant from the proper authority to search for and liberate Lady Carse were frustrated by the influence of her husband and his friends.“He will be coming! Burn the paper!” cried Lady Carse impatiently, looking from the door.“Better not. Indeed we had better not,” said Annie quietly. “They have no suspicion, or they would not have let us see the paper. They do not know that Mr Hope is your agent; and Mrs Ruthven’s name is not mentioned. If we do not return both the papers, there will be suspicion; and you will be carried to Saint Kilda. If we quietly return both papers, the danger may pass.”“O! burn it, and say it was accident. How slow you are!”“I cannot tell a lie,” said Annie. “And the steward would only get another copy of the paper, and look over it carefully,—No, we have only to give him back the papers, and thank him, without agitation.”“I cannot do that,” exclaimed Lady Carse. “If you will not tell a lie in such a case, I shall act one. I shall go and pretend to be asleep. I could not contain myself to speak to that man, with my deliverers almost within hearing perhaps, and that detestable Saint Kilda within sight.”She commanded herself so far as to appear asleep, when the steward looked in, on his return. Annie remarked on the news of the rebels, and saw him depart evidently unaware of the weighty nature of what he carried in his pocket.

Annie had supposed that her life would be almost as quiet an one as it used to be when the minister and his family were gone. Lady Carse was her neighbour, to be sure; but every day showed more and more that even to such restless beings as Lady Carse, a time of quiet must come. Her health and strength had been wasting for some months, and now a change came over her visibly from week to week. She rarely moved many yards from the house, spending hours of fine weather in lying on the grass looking over the sea; and when confined to the house by the cold, in dozing on the settle.

This happened just when her prison was, as it were, thrown open, or, at least, much less carefully guarded than ever before. Prince Charlie’s successes were so great as to engross all minds in this region, and almost throughout the whole of the kingdom. Wherever the Macdonalds and the Macleods had influence, there was activity, day and night. Every man in either clan, every youth capable of bearing arms, was raised and drilled, and held in readiness to march, as soon as arms should be provided by the government.

Annie had many anxieties about Rollo,—many feelings of longing and dread to hear where he was, and what he was doing. The first good news she had was that of the whole population of Skye and the neighbouring islands, not one man had joined the Pretender. The news was carefully spread, in order that it might produce its effect on any waverers, that Sir Alexander Macdonald had written to Lord President Forbes that not one man under him or Macleod had joined the Pretender’s army; and that he should soon be ready to march a force of several hundred men, if arms could be sent or provided for them against their arrival at Inverness. Meantime, no day passed without the men being collected in parties, and exercised with batons, in the absence of fire-arms. Rollo came to the very first drill which took place on the island; and great was his mother’s relief; and great the satisfaction with which she made haste to equip him, according to her small means, for a march to Inverness.

Here was an object too for Lady Carse. She fretted sadly, but not quite idly, about her strength failing just now when boats came to the island so often that she might have had many chances of escape if she could now have borne night watching, and exposure to weather and fatigue. She complained and wept much; but all the time she worked as hard as Annie to prepare Rollo for military service; for her very best chance now appeared to be his seeing Lord President Forbes, and telling him her story. The widow quite agreed in this; and it became the most earnest desire of the whole party,—Helsa’s sympathies being drawn in,—that the summons to march might arrive. Somebody was always looking over towards Skye; and there was so much traffic on these seas at present, that some new excitement was perpetually arising. Now a meal bark arrived, telling of the capture of others by the prince’s privateer: and next there was a seizure of fish for the king’s service. Now all eyes were engaged, for days together, in watching the man-of-war which hovered round the coasts to prevent the rebels being reinforced by water, and arms being landed from foreign vessels: and then there were rumours, and sometimes visions, of suspicious boats skulking among the islands, or a strange sail being visible on the horizon. Such excitements made the island appear a new place, and changed entirely the life of the inhabitants. The brave enjoyed all this: the timid sickened at it; and Lady Carse wept over it as coming too late for her.

“The lady looks ill,” the steward observed to the Widow Fleming, one day when, as often happened now, he came without notice. “She is so shrunk, she is not like the same person.”

Annie told how she had lost strength and spirits of late. She had not been down even to the harbour for two months.

“Ay, it is a change,” said the steward. “I was saying to Macdonald just now that we have been rather careless of late, having had our heads so full of other matters. I almost wondered that she had not slipped through our fingers in the hurry and bustle: but I see now how that is. However, Macdonald will keep a somewhat stricter watch; for, as I told him, it concerns Sir Alexander’s honour all the more that she should not get loose, now that those who committed her to his charge are under suspicion about their politics—Ah! you see the secret is getting out now,—the reason of her punishment. She wanted to ruin them, no doubt, by telling what she knew; and they put her out of the way for safety.”

“Is her husband with the Pretender then? And is Lord Lovat on that side? They are the two she is most angry with.”

“Lord Carse is safe enough. He is a prudent man. He could not get into favour with the king and the minister:—they knew two much harm of him for that. So he has made himself a courtier of the Prince of Wales. He has no idea of being thrust upon the dangers of rebellion while the event is uncertain; so he attaches himself in a useless way to the reigning family. And if Prince Charlie should succeed, Lord Carse can easily show that he never favoured King George or his minister, or did them any good.—As for Lovat, he is ill and quiet at home.”

“Which side is he on?”

“He complains bitterly of his son being disobedient to him, and put upon his disobedience by his Jacobite acquaintance. If the young man joins Prince Charlie, it is thought that his father will stand by King George, that the family estates may be safe whichever way the war ends,—Bless me! what a sigh! One would think— Come now, what’s the matter?”

“The wickedness of it!” said Annie.

“Oh! is that all? Lovat’s wickedness is nothing new; and what better could you expect from his son? By the same rule, I have great expectations of your son. As you are sound, he will be sound too, and do his king and country good service. You are both on the same side, and not like the master of Lovat and his father.”

“We have no estates to corrupt our minds,” observed Annie. “We have only our duty to care for.”

“Ay, then, you are on the same side.”

“Rollo is ready to march with the men of these islands. I am on no side, sir. I do not understand the matter, and I have nothing to do with it. There is no occasion for me to take any side.”

“Why yes; as it happens, there is, Mrs Fleming: and that is one of the things that brought me here to-day. Sir Alexander Macdonald desires that you will oblige him by not burning your lamp in the night till the troubles are over.”

“I am sorry that there is anything in which I cannot oblige Sir Alexander Macdonald: but I must burn my lamp.”

“But hear: you do not know his reasons. There are some suspicious vessels skulking about among these islands; and you ought to show them no favour till they show what they are.”

“You do not think, sir, you cannot surely think that anybody on this island is in danger from the enemy. There is nothing to bring them here,—no arms, nor wealth of any kind;—nothing that it would be worth the trouble of coming to take.”

“Oh no: you are all safe enough. No enemy would lose their time here. But that is no reason why you should give them help and comfort with your beacon-light.”

“You mean, sir, that if a storm drives them hither, or they lose their way, you would have them perish. Yes; that is what you mean, and that I cannot do. I must burn my lamp.”

“But my good friend, consider what you are doing. Consider the responsibility if you should succour the king’s enemies!”

“I did consider it well, sir, some years ago, and made up my mind. That was when the pirates were on the coast.”

“You don’t mean that you would have lighted pirates to shore?”

“I could not refuse to save them from drowning: and He who set me my duty blessed the deed.”

“I remember hearing something of that. But if the pirates did no mischief, your neighbours owe you nothing for that. You may thank the poverty of the island.”

“Perhaps so,” said Annie, smiling. “And if so, I am sure we may thank God for the poverty of the island which permits us to save men’s lives, instead of letting them drown. And now you see, sir—”

“I see you are as wilful on this point as I heard you were. I would not believe it, because I always thought you a superior woman. But now—I wish I could persuade you to see your duty better, Mrs Fleming.”

“As my duty appears to me, sir, it is to save people’s lives without regard to who they are, and what their business is.”

“If the Pretender should come—”

“He would go as he came,” said Annie, quietly. “He would get nothing here that could hurt the king, while the men of the island are gone to Inverness.”

“Well, to be sure, if you would succour and comfort pirates, there is nobody whom you would not help.”

“That is true, sir.”

“But it is very dangerous, Mrs Fleming. Do you know the consequences of aiding the enemy?”

“I know the consequences of there being no light above the harbour,” said Annie, in a low voice.

The steward knew it was useless to say more. He thought it better to put into her hand some newspapers which contained a startling account of the progress of the rebels, embellished with many terrifying fictions of their barbarity, such as were greedily received by the alarmists of the time.

“Here,” said he. “You can look these over while I go to speak to Macdonald about removing the lady to some remoter place while we have only women on the island. Pray look over these papers, and then you will see what sort of people you may chance to bring upon your neighbours, if you persist in burning your lamp. But Sir Alexander must put forth his authority—even use force, if necessary. What do you say to that?”

“Some old words,” said Annie, smiling, “given to those who are brought before governors. It shall be given me in that same hour what I shall speak.”

“I will look in for the papers as I return,” said the steward. “You are as wilful on your own points as your neighbour. But you must give way, as you preach that she ought—”

“I do not preach that, sir, I assure you. I wish, for her own peace, that she would yield herself to God’s disposal; but I would have her, in the strength of law and justice, resist the oppression of man.”

The steward smiled, nodded, and left Annie to read the newspapers.

The time was short. Lady Carse was asleep; but Annie woke her, and left one paper with her while she went home to read the other. She was absorbed in the narrative of the march of the rebels southwards, and their intention of proceeding to London, eating children, as the newspaper said, after the manner of Highlanders, all the way as they went, when Lady Carse burst in, trembling from head to foot, and unable to speak. She showed to Annie a short paragraph, which told that a vessel chartered by Mr Hope, advocate, of Edinburgh, and bound to the Western Islands, had put into the Horseshoe harbour in Lorn, to land a lady whom the captain refused to carry to her destination through a quarrel on the ground of difference of political sentiment. The lady, wife of a minister of the kirk, had sought the aid of the resident tenant to be escorted home through the disturbed districts in Argyle, while the vessel proceeded on its way—not unwatched, however, as Mr Hope’s attachment to the house of Stuart was no secret, etcetera, etcetera.

The widow was perplexed; but Lady Carse knew that Mr Hope, her lawyer and her friend, was a Jacobite—the only fault he had, she declared. She was persuaded that the lady was Mrs Ruthven, and that the vessel was on its way to rescue her—might arrive at any hour of the day or night.

“But,” said Annie, “this lady is loyal to King George, and you reproached the Ruthvens for being on the other side.”

“O! I was wrong about her, no doubt. I detest him; but she is a good creature; and I was quite wrong ever to suspect her.”

“And you think your loyalty to the king would do you no harm with Mr Hope? You think he would exert himself for you without thinking of your politics?”

“Why, don’t you see what is before your eyes?” cried Lady Carse. “Is it not there, as plain as black and white can make it?”

The fact was so, though the lady’s reasoning was not good. The vessel, with armed men in it, was sent by Mr Hope to rescue Lady Carse; and Mrs Ruthven was to act as guide. In consequence of a quarrel between the captain and her, she was set ashore at the place where the little town of Oban has since arisen; and the vessel sailed on out of sight. It was an illegal proceeding of Mr Hope’s, and resorted to only when his attempts to obtain a warrant from the proper authority to search for and liberate Lady Carse were frustrated by the influence of her husband and his friends.

“He will be coming! Burn the paper!” cried Lady Carse impatiently, looking from the door.

“Better not. Indeed we had better not,” said Annie quietly. “They have no suspicion, or they would not have let us see the paper. They do not know that Mr Hope is your agent; and Mrs Ruthven’s name is not mentioned. If we do not return both the papers, there will be suspicion; and you will be carried to Saint Kilda. If we quietly return both papers, the danger may pass.”

“O! burn it, and say it was accident. How slow you are!”

“I cannot tell a lie,” said Annie. “And the steward would only get another copy of the paper, and look over it carefully,—No, we have only to give him back the papers, and thank him, without agitation.”

“I cannot do that,” exclaimed Lady Carse. “If you will not tell a lie in such a case, I shall act one. I shall go and pretend to be asleep. I could not contain myself to speak to that man, with my deliverers almost within hearing perhaps, and that detestable Saint Kilda within sight.”

She commanded herself so far as to appear asleep, when the steward looked in, on his return. Annie remarked on the news of the rebels, and saw him depart evidently unaware of the weighty nature of what he carried in his pocket.

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