EDWARD C. BRUCE.



TWO MIRRORS.

My love but breathed upon the glass, And, lo! upon the crystal sheen A tender mist did straightway pass, And raised its jealous veil between.

But quick, as when Aurora's face Is hid behind some transient shroud, The sun strikes through with golden grace, And she emerges from the cloud;

So from her eyes celestial light Shines on the mirror's cloudy plain, And swift the envious mist takes flight, And shows her lovely face again.

When o'er the mirror of my heart, Wherein her image true endures, Some misty doubt doth sudden start, And all the sweet reflex obscures,

There beams such glow from her clear eyes That swift the rising mists are laid; And, fixed again, her image lies, All lovelier for the passing shade.

F.A. HILLARD.



MALCOLM.

BY GEORGE MACDONALD, AUTHOR OF "ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD," "ROBERT FALCONER," ETC. CHAPTER LXIV.

THE LAIRD AND HIS MOTHER.

When Malcolm and Joseph set out from Duff Harbor to find the laird, they could hardly be said to have gone in search of him: all in their power was to seek the parts where he was occasionally seen, in the hope of chancing upon him; and they wandered in vain about the woods of Fife House all that week, returning disconsolate every evening to the little inn on the banks of the Wan Water. Sunday came and went without yielding a trace of him; and, almost in despair, they resolved, if unsuccessful the next day, to get assistance and organize a search for him. Monday passed like the days that had preceded it, and they were returning dejectedly down the left bank of the Wan Water in the gloaming, and nearing a part where it is hemmed in by precipitous rocks and is very narrow and deep, crawling slow and black under the lofty arch of an ancient bridge that spans it at one leap, when suddenly they caught sight of a head peering at them over the parapet. They dared not run for fear of terrifying him if it should be the laird, and hurried quietly to the spot. But when they reached the end of the bridge its round back was bare from end to end. On the other side of the river the trees came close up, and pursuit was hopeless in the gathering darkness.

"Laird, laird! they've ta'en awa' Phemy, an' we dinna ken whaur to luik for her," cried the poor father aloud.

Almost the same instant, and as if he had issued from the ground, the laird stood before them. The men started back with astonishment—soon changed into pity, for there was light enough to see how miserable the poor fellow looked. Neither exposure nor privation had thus weighed upon him: he was simply dying of fear. Having greeted Joseph with embarrassment, he kept glancing doubtfully at Malcolm, as if ready to run on his least movement. In few words Joseph explained their quest—with trembling voice and tears that would not be denied enforcing the tale. Ere he had done the laird's jaw had fallen and further speech was impossible to him. But by gestures sad and plain enough he indicated that he knew nothing of her, and had supposed her safe at home with her parents. In vain they tried to persuade him to go back with them, promising every protection: for sole answer he shook his head mournfully.

There came a sudden gust of wind among the branches. Joseph, little used to trees and their ways with the wind, turned toward the sound, and Malcolm unconsciously followed his movement. When they turned again the laird had vanished, and they took their way homeward in sadness.

What passed next with the laird can be but conjectured. It came to be well enough known afterward where he had been hiding; and had it not been dusk as they came down the river-bank the two men might, looking up to the bridge from below, have had it suggested to them. For in the half-spandrel wall between the first arch and the bank they might have spied a small window looking down on the sullen, silent gloom, foam-flecked with past commotion, that crept languidly away from beneath. It belonged to a little vaulted chamber in the bridge, devised by some vanished lord as a kind of summer-house—long neglected, but having in it yet a mouldering table, a broken chair or two and a rough bench. A little path led steep from the end of the parapet down to its hidden door. It was now used only by the game-keepers for traps and fishing-gear and odds and ends of things, and was generally supposed to be locked up. The laird had, however, found it open, and his refuge in it had been connived at by one of the men, who, as they heard afterward, had given him the key and assisted him in carrying out a plan he had devised for barricading the door. It was from this place he had so suddenly risen at the call of Blue Peter, and to it he had as suddenly withdrawn again—to pass in silence and loneliness through his last purgatorial pain.[1]

[Footnote 1: Com' io fui dentro, in un bogliente vetro Gittato mi sarei per rinfrescarmi, Tant' era ivi lo'ncendio senza metro.

Del Purgatorio, xxvii. 49.]

Mrs. Stewart was sitting in her drawing-room alone: she seldom had visitors at Kirkbyres—not that she liked being alone, or indeed being there at all, for she would have lived on the Continent, but that her son's trustees, partly to indulge their own aversion to her, taking upon them a larger discretionary power than rightly belonged to them, kept her too straitened, which no doubt in the recoil had its share in poor Stephen's misery. It was only after scraping for a whole year that she could escape to Paris or Homburg, where she was at home. There her sojourn was determined by her good or ill fortune at faro.

What she meditated over her knitting by the firelight—she had put out her candles—it would be hard to say, perhaps unwholesome to think: there are souls to look into which is, to our dim eyes, like gazing down from the verge of one of the Swedenborgian pits.

But much of the evil done by human beings is as the evil of evil beasts: they know not what they do—an excuse which, except in regard to the past, no man can make for himself, seeing the very making of it must testify its falsehood.

She looked up, gave a cry and started to her feet: Stephen stood before her, halfway between her and the door. Revealed in a flicker of flame from the fire, he vanished in the following shade, and for a moment she stood in doubt of her seeing sense. But when the coal flashed again there was her son, regarding her out of great eyes that looked as if they had seen death. A ghastly air hung about him, as if he had just come back from Hades, but in his silent bearing there was a sanity, even dignity, which strangely impressed her. He came forward a pace or two, stopped, and said, "Dinna be frichtit, mem. I'm come. Sen' the lassie hame an' du wi' me as ye like. I canna haud aff o' me. But I think I'm deein', an' ye needna misguide me."

His voice, although it trembled a little, was clear and unimpeded, and, though weak in its modulation, manly.

Something in the woman's heart responded. Was it motherhood or the deeper godhead? Was it pity for the dignity housed in the crumbling clay, or repentance for the son of her womb? Or was it that sickness gave hope, and she could afford to be kind?

"I don't know what you mean, Stephen," she said, more gently than he had ever heard her speak.

Was it an agony of mind or of body, or was it but a flickering of the shadows upon his face? A moment, and he gave a half-choked shriek and fell on the floor. His mother turned from him with disgust and rang the bell. "Send Tom here," she said.

An elderly, hard-featured man came.

"Stephen is in one of his fits," she said.

The man looked about him: he could see no one in the room but his mistress.

"There he is," she continued, pointing to the floor. "Take him away. Get him up to the loft and lay him in the hay."

The man lifted his master like an unwieldy log and carried him, convulsed, from the room.

Stephen's mother sat down again by the fire and resumed her knitting.



CHAPTER LXV.

THE LAIRD'S VISION.

Malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary ride when one of the maids informed him that a man from Kirkbyres wanted him. Hiding his reluctance, he went with her and found Tom, who was Mrs. Stewart's grieve and had been about the place all his days.

"Mr. Stephen's come hame, sir," he said, touching his bonnet, a civility for which Malcolm was not grateful.

"It's no possible," returned Malcolm. "I saw him last nicht."

"He cam aboot ten o'clock, sir, an' hed a turn o' the fa'in' sickness o' the spot. He's verra ill the noo, an' the mistress sent me ower to speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein' to see him."

"Has he ta'en till's bed?" asked Malcolm.

"We pat him infill 't, sir. He's ravin' mad, an' I'm thinkin' he's no far frae his hin'er en'."

"I'll gang wi' ye direckly," said Malcolm.

In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to Kirkbyres, neither with much to say to the other, for Malcolm distrusted every one about the place, and Tom was by nature taciturn.

"What garred them sen' for me, div ye ken?" asked Malcolm at length when they had gone about halfway.

"He cried oot upo' ye i' the nicht," answered Tom.

When they arrived Malcolm was shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Stewart met him with red eyes. "Will you come and see my poor boy?" she said.

"I wull du that, mem. Is he verra ill?"

"Very. I'm afraid he is in a bad way."

She led him to a dark, old-fashioned chamber, rich and gloomy. There, sunk in the down of a huge bed with carved ebony posts, lay the laird, far too ill to be incommoded by the luxury to which he was unaccustomed. His head kept tossing from side to side and his eyes seemed searching in vacancy.

"Has the doctor been to see 'im, mem?" asked Malcolm.

"Yes, but he says he can't do anything for him."

"Wha waits upon 'im, mem?"

"One of the maids and myself."

"I'll jist bide wi' 'im."

"That will be very kind of you."

"I s' bide wi' 'im till I see 'im oot o' this, ae w'y or ither,", added Malcolm, and sat down by the bedside of his poor distrustful friend. There Mrs. Stewart left him.

The laird was wandering in the thorny thickets and slimy marshes which, haunted by the thousand misshapen horrors of delirium, beset the gates of life. That one so near the light and slowly drifting into it should lie tossing in hopeless darkness! Is it that the delirium falls, a veil of love, to hide other and more real terrors?

His eyes would now and then meet those of Malcolm as they gazed tenderly upon him, but the living thing that looked out of the windows was darkened and saw him not. Occasionally a word would fall from him, or a murmur of half-articulation float up like the sound of a river of souls; but whether Malcolm heard, or only seemed to hear, something like this, he could not tell, for he could not be certain that he had not himself shaped the words by receiving the babble into the moulds of the laird's customary thought and speech: "I dinna ken whaur I cam frae—I kenna whaur I'm gaein' till.—Eh, gien He wad but come oot an' shaw Himsel'!—O Lord! tak the deevil aff o' my puir back.—O Father o' lichts! gar him tak the hump wi' him. I hae no fawvor for't, though it's been my constant compainion this mony a lang."

But in general he only moaned, and after the words thus heard or fashioned by Malcolm lay silent and nearly still for an hour.

All the waning afternoon Malcolm sat by his side, and neither mother, maid nor doctor came near them.

"Dark wa's an' no a breath!" he murmured or seemed to murmur again. "Nae gerse nor flooers nor bees! I hae na room for my hump, an' I canna lie upo' 't, for that wad kill me. Wull I ever ken whaur I cam frae? The wine's unco guid. Gie me a drap mair, gien ye please, Lady Horn.—I thought the grave was a better place. I hae lain safter afore I dee'd.—Phemy! Phemy! Rin, Phemy, rin! I s' bide wi' them this time. Ye rin, Phemy!"

As it grew dark the air turned very chill, and snow began to fall thick and fast. Malcolm laid a few sticks on the smouldering peat-fire, but they were damp and did not catch. All at once the laird gave a shriek, and crying out, "Mither! mither!" fell into a fit so violent that the heavy bed shook with his convulsions. Malcolm held his wrists and called aloud. No one came, and, bethinking himself that none could help, he waited in silence for what would soon follow.

The fit passed quickly, and he lay quiet. The sticks had meantime dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up. The laird turned his face toward the flame; a smile came over it; his eyes opened wide, and with such an expression of seeing gazed beyond Malcolm that he turned his in the same direction.

"Eh, the bonny man! The bonny man!" murmured the laird.

But Malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird: his jaw had fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a sunset. He was dead.

Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend was at rest.

He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy on a fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him.

"Whaur are ye for?" asked Malcolm. "I'm gaein' for Mistress Cat'nach," answered the boy.

"Gang yer w'ys than, an' dinna haud the deid waitin'," said Malcolm with a shudder.

The boy cast a look of dismay behind him and galloped off.

The snow still fell and the night was dark. Malcolm spent nearly two hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who told him that Mrs. Catanach was not to be found.

His road lay down the glen, past Duncan's cottage, at whose door he dismounted, but he did not find him. Taking the bridle on his arm, he walked by his horse the rest of the way. It was about nine o'clock, and the night very dark. As he neared the house, he heard Duncan's voice. "Malcolm, my son! Will it pe your ownself?" it said.

"It wull that, daddy," answered Malcolm.

The piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling softly upon him.

"But it's ower cauld for ye to be sittin' there i' the snaw, an' the mirk tu," added Malcolm.

"Ta tarkness will not be ketting to ta inside of her," returned the seer. "Ah, my poy! where ta light kets in, ta tarkness will pe ketting in too. This now, your whole pody will pe full of tarkness, as ta Piple will say, and Tuncan's pody tat will pe full of ta light." Then with suddenly changed tone he said, "Listen, Malcolm, my son! Shell pe ferry uneasy till you'll wass pe come home."

"What's the maitter noo, daddy?" returned Malcolm. "Onything wrang aboot the hoose?"

"Something will pe wrong, yes, put she'll not can tell where. No, her pody will not pe full of light! For town here, in ta curset Lowlands, ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my son. It will now pe no more as a co creeping troo' her, and shell nefer see plain no more till she'll pe come pack to her own mountains."

"The puir laird's gane back to his," said Malcolm. "I won'er gien he kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin' at ilk ane he meets gien he can tell him whaur he cam frae. He's mad nae mair, ony gait."

"How? Will he pe not tead? Ta poor lairt! Ta poor maad lairt!"

"Ay, he's deid: maybe that's what'll be troublin' yer sicht, daddy."

"No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not ferry maad, and if he was maad he was not paad, and it was not ta plame of him: he was coot always, howefer."

"He wass that, daddy."

"But it will pe something ferry paad, and it will pe efer troubling her speerit. When she'll pe take ta pipes to pe amusing herself, and will plow 'Till an crodh a' Dhonnaehaidh' ('Turn the Cows, Duncan'), out will pe come' Cumhadh an fhir mhoir' ('The Lament of the Big Man'). Aal is not well, my son."

"Weel, dinna distress yersel', daddy. Lat come what wull come. Foreseein' 's no forefen'in'. Ye ken yersel' at mony 's the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin' to haud it aff."

"It will be true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come."

"Nae doubt. Sae ye jist come in wi' me, daddy, an' sit doon by the ha' fire, an' I'll come to ye as sune's I've been to see 'at the maister disna want me. But ye'll better come up wi' me to my room first," he went on, "for the maister disna like to see me in onything but the kilt."

"And why will he not pe in ta kilts aal as now?"

"I hae been ridin', ye ken, daddy, an' the trews fits the saiddle better nor the kilts."

"She'll not pe knowing tat. Old Allister, your creat—her own crandfather, was ta pest horseman ta worlt efer saw, and he'll nefer pe hafing ta trews to his own lecks nor ta saddle to his horse's pack. He'll chust make his men pe strap on an old plaid, and he'll be kive a chump, and away they wass, horse and man, one peast, aal two of tem poth together."

Thus chatting, they went to the stable, and from the stable to the house, where they met no one, and went straight up to Malcolm's room, the old man making as little of the long ascent as Malcolm himself.



CHAPTER LXVI.

THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER.

Brooding—if a man of his temperament may ever be said to brood—over the sad history of his young wife and the prospects of his daughter, the marquis rode over fields and through gates—he never had been one to jump a fence in cold blood—till the darkness began to fall; and the bearings of his perplexed position came plainly before him.

First of all, Malcolm acknowledged and the date of his mother's death known, what would Florimel be in the eyes of the world? Supposing the world deceived by the statement that his mother died when he was born, where yet was the future he had marked out for her? He had no money to leave her, and she must be helplessly dependent on her brother.

Malcolm, on the other hand, might make a good match, or, with the advantages he could secure him in the army, still better in the navy, well enough push his way in the world.

Miss Horn could produce no testimony, and Mrs. Catanach had asserted him to be the son of Mrs. Stewart. He had seen enough, however, to make him dread certain possible results if Malcolm were acknowledged as the laird of Kirkbyres. No: there was but one hopeful measure, one which he had even already approached in a tentative way—an appeal, namely, to Malcolm himself, in which, while acknowledging his probable rights, but representing in the strongest manner the difficulty of proving them, he would set forth in their full dismay the consequences to Florimel of their public recognition, and offer, upon the pledge of his word to a certain line of conduct, to start him in any path he chose to follow.

Having thought the thing out pretty thoroughly, as he fancied, and resolved at the same time to feel his way toward negotiations with Mistress Catanach, he turned and rode home.

After a tolerable dinner he was sitting over a bottle of the port which he prized beyond anything else his succession had brought him, when the door of the dining-room opened suddenly and the butler appeared, pale with terror. "My lord! my lord!" he stammered as he closed the door behind him.

"Well? What the devil's the matter now? Whose cow's dead?"

"Your lordship didn't hear it, then?" faltered the butler.

"You've been drinking, Bings," said the marquis, lifting his seventh glass of port.

"I didn't say I heard it, my lord."

"Heard what, in the name of Beelzebub?"

"The ghost, my lord."

"The what?" shouted the marquis.

"That's what they call it, my lord. It's all along of having that wizard's chamber in the house, my lord."

"You're a set of fools," said the marquis—"the whole kit of you!"

"That's what I say, my lord. I don't know what to do with them, stericking and screaming. Mrs. Courthope is trying her best with them, but it's my belief she's about as bad herself."

The marquis finished his glass of wine, poured out and drank another, then walked to the door. When the butler opened it a strange sight met his eyes. All the servants in the house, men and women, Duncan and Malcolm alone excepted, had crowded after the butler, every one afraid of being left behind; and there gleamed the crowd of ghastly faces in the light of the great hall-fire. Demon stood in front, his mane bristling and his eyes flaming. Such was the silence that the marquis heard the low howl of the waking wind, and the snow like the patting of soft hands against the windows. He stood for a moment, more than half enjoying their terror, when from somewhere in the building a far-off shriek, shrill and piercing, rang in every ear. Some of the men drew in their breath with a gasping sob, but most of the women screamed outright; and that set the marquis cursing.

Duncan and Malcolm had but just entered the bed-room of the latter when the shriek rent the air close beside, and for a moment deafened them. So agonized, so shrill, so full of dismal terror was it, that Malcolm stood aghast, and Duncan started to his feet with responsive outcry. But Malcolm at once recovered himself. "Bide here till I come back," he whispered, and hurried noiselessly out.

In a few minutes he returned, during which all had been still. "Noo, daddy," he said, "I'm gaein' to drive in the door o' the neist room. There's some deevilry at wark there. Stan' ye i' the door, an' ghaist or deevil 'at wad win by ye, grip it, an' haud on like Demon the dog."

"She will so, she will so," muttered Duncan in a strange tone. "Ochone! that she'll not pe hafing her turk with her! Ochone! ochone!"

Malcolm took the key of the wizard's chamber from his chest and his candle from the table, which he set down in the passage. In a moment he had unlocked the door, put his shoulder to it and burst it open. A light was extinguished, and a shapeless figure went gliding away through the gloom. It was no shadow, however, for, dashing itself against a door at the other side of the chamber, it staggered back with an imprecation of fury and fear, pressed two hands to its head, and, turning at bay, revealed the face of Mrs. Catanach.

In the door stood the blind piper with outstretched arms and hands ready to clutch, the fingers curved like claws, his knees and haunches bent, leaning forward like a rampant beast prepared to spring. In his face was wrath, hatred, vengeance, disgust—an enmity of all mingled kinds.

Malcolm was busied with something in the bed, and when she turned Mrs, Catanach saw only Duncan's white face of hatred gleaming through the darkness. "Ye auld donnert deevil!" she cried, with an addition too coarse to be set down, and threw herself upon him.

The old man said never a word, but with indrawn breath hissing through his clenched teeth clutched her, and down they went together in the passage, the piper undermost. He had her by the throat, it is true, but she had her fingers in his eyes, and, kneeling on his chest, kept him down with a vigor of hostile effort that drew the very picture of murder. It lasted but a moment, however, for the old man, spurred by torture as well as hate, gathered what survived of a most sinewy strength into one huge heave, threw her back into the room, and rose with the blood streaming from his eyes, just as the marquis came round the near end of the passage, followed by Mrs. Courthope, the butler, Stoat and two of the footmen. Heartily enjoying a row, he stopped instantly, and, signing a halt to his followers, stood listening to the mud-geyser that now burst from Mrs. Catanach's throat.

"Ye blin' abortion o' Sawtan's soo!" she cried, "didna I tak ye to du wi' ye as I likit? An' that deil's tripe ye ca' yer oye (grandson)—He! he! him yer gran'son! He's naething but ane o' yer hatit Cawm'ells!"

"A teanga a' diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag denamh breug (O tongue of the great devil! thou art making a lie)," screamed Duncan, speaking for the first time.

"God lay me deid i' my sins gien he be onything but a bastard Cawm'ell!" she asseverated with a laugh of demoniacal scorn. "Yer dautit (petted) Ma'colm's naething but the dyke-side brat o' the late Grizel Cawm'ell, 'at the fowk tuik for a sant 'cause she grat an' said naething. I laid the Cawm'ell pup i' yer boody (scarecrow) airms wi' my ain han's, upo' the tap o' yer curst scraighin' bagpipes 'at sae aften drave the sleep frae my een. Na, ye wad nane o' me! But I ga'e ye a Cawm'ell bairn to yer hert for a' that, ye auld, hungert, weyver (spider)-leggit, worm-aten idiot!"

A torrent of Gaelic broke from Duncan, into the midst of which rushed another from Mrs. Catanach, similar, but coarse in vowel and harsh in consonant sounds. The marquis stepped into the room. "What is the meaning of all this?" he said with dignity.

The tumult of Celtic altercation ceased. The old piper drew himself up to his full height and stood silent. Mrs. Catanach, red as fire with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale. The marquis cast on her a searching and significant look.

"See here, my lord," said Malcolm.

Candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed. At the same moment Mrs. Catanach glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of mutual intelligence to the group at the door, and vanished.

On Malcolm's arm lay the head of a young girl. Her thin, worn countenance was stained with tears and livid with suffocation. She was recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless.

"It's Phemy, my lord—Blue Peter's lassie, 'at was tint," said Malcolm.

"It begins to look serious," said the marquis.—"Mrs. Catanach! Mrs. Courthope!"

He turned toward the door. Mrs. Courthope entered, and a head or two peeped in after her. Duncan stood as before, drawn up and stately, his visage working, but his body motionless as the statue of a sentinel.

"Where is the Catanach woman gone?" cried the marquis.

"Cone!" shouted the piper. "Cone! and her huspant will be waiting to pe killing her! Och nan ochan!"

"Her husband!" echoed the marquis.

"Ach! she'll not can pe helping it, my lort—no more till one will pe tead; and tat should pe ta woman, for she'll pe a paad woman—ta worstest woman efer was married, my lort."

"That's saying a good deal," returned the marquis.

"Not one wort more as enough, my lort," said Duncan. "She was only pe her next wife, put, ochone! ochone! why did she'll pe marry her? You would haf stapt her long aco, my lort, if she'll was your wife and you was knowing ta tamned fox and padger she was pe. Ochone! and she tidn't pe have her turk at her hench nor her sgian in her hose."

He shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and wept in the agony of frustrated rage.

Mrs. Courthope took Phemy in her arms and carried her to her own room, where she opened the window and let the snowy wind blow full upon her. As soon as she came quite to herself, Malcolm set out to bear the good tidings to her father and mother.

Only a few nights before had Phemy been taken to the room where they found her. She had been carried from place to place, and had been some time, she believed, in Mrs. Catanach's own house. They had always kept her in the dark, and removed her at night blindfolded. When asked if she had never cried out before, she said she had been too frightened; and when questioned as to what had made her do so then, she knew nothing of it: she remembered only that a horrible creature appeared by the bedside, after which all was blank. On the floor they found a hideous death-mask, doubtless the cause of the screams which Mrs. Catanach had sought to stifle with the pillows and bed-clothes.

When Malcolm returned he went at once to the piper's cottage, where he found him in bed, utterly exhausted and as utterly restless. "Weel, daddy," he said, "I doobt I daurna come near ye noo."

"Come to her arms, my poor poy," faltered Duncan. "She'll pe sorry in her sore heart for her poy. Nefer you pe minding, my son: you couldn't help ta Cam'ell mother, and you'll pe her own poy however. Ochone! it will pe a plot upon you aal your tays, my son, and she'll not can help you, and it'll pe preaking her old heart."

"Gien God thoucht the Cam'ells worth makin', daddy, I dinna see 'at I hae ony richt to compleen 'at I cam' o' them."

"She hopes you'll pe forgifing ta plind old man, however. She couldn't see, or she would haf known at once petter."

"I dinna ken what ye're efter noo, daddy," said Malcolm.

"That she'll do you a creat wrong, and she'll be ferry sorry for it, my son."

"What wrang did ye ever du me, daddy?"

"That she was let you crow up a Cam'ell, my poy. If she tid put know ta paad blood was pe in you, she wouldn't pe tone you ta wrong as pring you up."

"That's a wrang no ill to forgi'e, daddy. But it's a pity ye didna lat me lie, for maybe syne Mistress Catanach wad hae broucht me up hersel', an' I micht hae come to something."

"Ta duvil mhor (great) would pe in your heart and prain and poosom, my son."

"Weel, ye see what ye hae saved me frae."

"Yes; put ta duvil will be to pay, for she couldn't safe you from ta Cam'ell plood, my son. Malcolm, my poy," he added after a pause, and with the solemnity of a mighty hate, "ta efil woman herself will pe a Cam'ell—ta woman Catanach will pe a Cam'ell, and her nainsel' she'll not know it pefore she'll be in ta ped with ta worstest Cam'ell tat ever God made; and she pecks his pardon, for she'll not pelieve He wass making ta Cam'ells."

"Divna ye think God made me, daddy?" asked Malcolm.

The old man thought for a little. "Tat will tepend on who was pe your father, my son," he replied. "If he too will be a Cam'ell—ochone! ochone! Put tere may pe some coot plood co into you—more as enough to say God will pe make you, my son. Put don't pe asking, Malcolm—ton't you'll pe asking."

"What am I no to ask, daddy?"

"Ton't pe asking who made you, who was ta father to you, my poy. She would rather not pe knowing, for ta man might pe a Cam'ell poth. And if she couldn't pe lofing you no more, my son, she would pe tie before her time, and her tays would pe long in ta land under ta crass, my son."

But the remembrance of the sweet face whose cold loveliness he had once kissed was enough to outweigh with Malcolm all the prejudices of Duncan's instillation, and he was proud to take up even her shame. To pass from Mrs. Stewart to her was to escape from the clutches of a vampire demon to the arms of a sweet mother-angel.

Deeply concerned for the newly-discovered misfortunes of the old man to whom he was indebted for this world's life at least, he anxiously sought to soothe him; but he had far more and far worse to torment him than Malcolm even yet knew, and with burning cheeks and bloodshot eyes he lay tossing from side to side, now uttering terrible curses in Gaelic and now weeping bitterly. Malcolm took his loved pipes, and with the gentlest notes he could draw from them tried to charm to rest the ruffled waters of his spirit; but his efforts were all in vain, and believing at length that he would be quieter without him, he went to the House and to his own room.

The door of the adjoining chamber stood open, and the long-forbidden room lay exposed to any eye. Little did Malcolm think as he gazed around it that it was the room in which he had first breathed the air of the world; in which his mother had wept over her own false position and his reported death; and from which he had been carried, by Duncan's wicked wife, down the ruinous stair and away to the lip of the sea, to find a home in the arms of the man whom he had just left on his lonely couch torn between the conflicting emotions of a gracious love for him and the frightful hate of her.



CHAPTER LXVII.

FEET OF WOOL.

The next day, Miss Horn, punctual as Fate, presented herself at Lossie House, and was shown at once into the marquis's study, as it was called. When his lordship entered she took the lead the moment the door was shut. "By this time, my lord, ye'll doobtless hae made up yer min' to du what's richt?" she said.

"That's what I have always wanted to do," returned the marquis.

"Hm!" remarked Miss Horn as plainly as inarticulately.

"In this affair," he supplemented; adding, "It's not always so easy to tell what is right."

"It's no aye easy to luik for 't wi' baith yer een," said Miss Horn.

"This woman Catanach—we must get her to give credible testimony. Whatever the fact may be, we must have strong evidence. And there comes the difficulty, that she has already made an altogether different statement."

"It gangs for naething, my lord. It was never made afore a justice o' the peace."

"I wish you would go to her and see how she is inclined."

"Me gang to Bawbie Catanach!" exclaimed Miss Horn. "I wad as sune gang an' kittle Sawtan's nose wi' the p'int o' 's tail. Na, na, my lord. Gien onybody gang till her wi' my wull, it s' be a limb o' the law. I s' hae nae cognostin' wi' her."

"You would have no objection, however; to my seeing her, I presume—just to let her know that we have an inkling of the truth?" said the marquis.

Now, all this was the merest talk, for of course Miss Horn could not long remain in ignorance of the declaration her fury had, the night previous, forced from Mrs. Catanach; but he must, he thought, put her off and keep her quiet, if possible, until he had come to an understanding with Malcolm, after which he would no doubt have his trouble with her.

"Ye can du as yer lordship likes," answered Miss Horn, "but I wadna hae 't said o' me 'at I had ony dealin's wi' her. Wha kens but she micht say ye tried to bribe her? There's naething she wad bogle at gien she thoucht it worth her while. No 'at I 'm feart at her. Lat her lee! I'm no sae blate but—Only dinna lippen till a word she says, my lord."

The marquis hesitated. "I wonder whether the real source of my perplexity occurs to you, Miss Horn," he said at length. "You know I have a daughter?"

"Weel eneuch that, my lord."

"By my second marriage."

"Nae merridge ava', my lord."

"True, if I confess to the first."

"A' the same whether or no, my lord."

"Then you see," the marquis went on, refusing offence, "what the admission of your story would make of my daughter?"

"That's plain eneuch, my lord."

"Now, if I have read Malcolm right he has too much regard for his—mistress—to put her in such a false position."

"That is, my lord, ye wad hae yer lawfu' son beir the lawless name."

"No, no: it need never come out what he is. I will provide for him—as a gentleman, of course."

"It canna be, my lord. Ye can du naething for him, wi' that face o' his, but oot comes the trouth as to the father o' 'im; an' it wadna be lang afore the tale was ekit oot wi' the name o' his mither—Mistress Catanach wad see to that, gien 'twas only to spite me—an' I wunna hae my Grizel ca'd what she is not for ony lord's dauchter i' the three kynriks."

"What does it matter, now she's dead and gone?" said the marquis, false to the dead in his love for the living.

"Deid an' gane, my lord? What ca' ye deid an' gane? Maybe the great anes o' the yerth get sic a forlethie (surfeit) o' grand'ur 'at they're for nae mair, an' wad perish like the brute beast. For onything I ken, they may hae their wuss, but for mysel', I wad warstle to haud my sowl waukin' (awake) i' the verra article o' deith, for the bare chance o' seein' my bonny Grizel again. It's a mercy I hae nae feelin's," she added, arresting her handkerchief on its way to her eyes, and refusing to acknowledge the single tear that ran down her cheek.

Plainly she was not like any of the women whose characters the marquis had accepted as typical of womankind.

"Then you won't leave the matter to her husband and son?" he said reproachfully.

"I tellt ye, my lord, I wad du naething but what I saw to be richt. Lat this affair oot o' my han's I daurna. That laad ye micht work to onything 'at made agane himsel'. He's jist like his puir mither there."

"If Miss Campbell was his mother," said the marquis.

"Miss Cam'ell!" cried Miss Horn. "I'll thank yer lordship to ca' her by her ain, an' that's Lady Lossie."

What of the something ruinous heart of the marquis was habitable was occupied by his daughter, and had no accommodation at present either for his dead wife or his living son. Once more he sat thinking in silence for a while. "I'll make Malcolm a post-captain in the navy and give you a thousand pounds," he said at length, hardly knowing that he spoke.

Miss Horn rose to her full height and stood like an angel of rebuke before him. Not a word did she speak, only looked at him for a moment and turned to leave the room. The marquis saw his danger, and striding to the door stood with his back against it.

"Think ye to scare me, my lord?" she asked with a scornful laugh. "Gang an' scare the stane lion-beast at yer ha'-door. Haud oot o' the gait an' lat me gang."

"Not until I know what you are going to do," said the marquis very seriously.

"I hae naething mair to transac' wi' yer lordship. You an' me 's strangers, my lord."

"Tut! tut! I was but trying you."

"An' gien I had ta'en the disgrace ye offert me, ye wad hae drawn back?"

"No, certainly."

"Ye wasna tryin' me, then: ye was duin' yer best to corrup' me."

"I'm no splitter of hairs."

"My lord, it's nane but the corrup'ible wad seek to corrup'."

The marquis gnawed a nail or two in silence. Miss Horn dragged an easy-chair within a couple of yards of him.

"We'll see wha tires o' this ghem first, my lord," she said as she sank into its hospitable embrace.

The marquis turned to lock the door, but there was no key in it. Neither was there any chair within reach, and he was not fond of standing. Clearly, his enemy had the advantage.

"Hae ye h'ard o' puir Sandy Graham—hoo they're misguidin' him, my lord?" she asked with composure.

The marquis was first astounded, and then tickled by her assurance. "No," he answered.

"They hae turnt him oot o' hoose an' ha'—schuil, at least, an' hame," she rejoined. "I may say they hae turnt him oot o' Scotlan', for what presbytery wad hae him efter he had been fun' guilty o' no thinkin' like ither fowk? Ye maun stan' his guid freen', my lord."

"He shall be Malcolm's tutor," answered the marquis, not to be outdone in coolness, "and go with him to Edinburgh—or Oxford, if he prefers it."

"Never yerl o' Colonsay had a better," said Miss Horn.

"Softly, softly, ma'am," returned the marquis. "I did not say he should go in that style."

"He s' gang as my lord o' Colonsay or he s' no gang at your expense, my lord," said his antagonist.

"Really, ma'am, one would think you were my grandmother, to hear you order my affairs for me."

"I wuss I war, my lord: I sud gar ye hear risson upo' baith sides o' yer heid, I s' warran'."

The marquis laughed. "Well, I can't stand here all day," he said, impatiently swinging one leg.

"I'm weel awaur o' that, my lord," answered Miss Horn, rearranging her scanty skirt.

"How long are you going to keep me, then?"

"I wadna hae ye bide a meenute langer nor's agreeable to yersel'. But I'm in nae hurry sae lang's ye're afore me. Ye're nae ill to luik at, though ye maun hae been bonnier the day ye wan the hert o' my Grizel."

The marquis uttered an oath and left the door. Miss Horn sprang to it, but there was the marquis again. "Miss Horn," he said, "I beg you will give me another day to think of this."

"Whaur's the use? A' the thinkin' i' the warl' canna alter a single fac'. Ye maun do richt by my laddie o' yer ainsel', or I maun gar ye."

"You would find a lawsuit heavy, Miss Horn."

"An' ye wad fin' the scandal o' 't ill to bide, my lord. It wad come sair upo' Miss—I kenna what name she has a richt till, my lord."

The marquis uttered a frightful imprecation, left the door, and, sitting down, hid his face in his hands.

Miss Horn rose, but instead of securing her retreat, approached him gently and stood by his side. "My lord," she said, "I canna thole to see a man in tribble. Women's born till 't, an' they tak it an' are thankfu'; but a man never gies in till 't, an' sae it comes harder upo' him nor upo' them. Hear me, my lord: gien there be a man upo' this earth wha wad shield a woman, that man's Ma'colm Colonsay."

"If only she weren't his sister!" murmured the marquis.

"An' jist bethink ye, my lord: wad it be onything less nor an imposition to lat a man merry her ohn tellt him what she was?"

"You insolent old woman!" cried the marquis, losing his temper, discretion and manners all together. "Go and do your worst, and be damned to you!"

So saying, he left the room, and Miss Horn found her way out of the house in a temper quite as fierce as his—in character, however, entirely different, inasmuch as it was righteous.

At that very moment Malcolm was in search of his master, and seeing the back of him disappear in the library, to which he had gone in a half-blind rage, he followed him. "My lord!" he said.

"What do you want?" returned his master in a rage. For some time he had been hauling on the curb-rein, which had fretted his temper the more, and when he let go the devil ran away with him.

"I thoucht yer lordship wad like to see an auld stair I cam upo' the ither day, 'at gangs frae the wizard's chaumer—"

"Go to hell with your damned tomfoolery!" said the marquis. "If ever you mention that cursed hole again I'll kick you out of the house."

Malcolm's eyes flashed and a fierce answer rose to his lips, but he had seen that his master was in trouble, and sympathy supplanted rage. He turned and left the room in silence.

Lord Lossie paced up and down the library for a whole hour—a long time for him to be in one mood. The mood changed color pretty frequently during the hour, however, and by degrees his wrath assuaged. But at the end of it he knew no more what he was going to do than when he left Miss Horn in the study. Then came the gnawing of his usual ennui and restlessness: he must find something to do.

The thing he always thought of first was a ride, but the only animal of horse-kind about the place which he liked was the bay mare, and her he had lamed. He would go and see what the rascal had come bothering about—alone, though, for he could not endure the sight of the fisher-fellow, damn him!

In a few minutes he stood in the wizard's chamber, and glanced around it with a feeling of discomfort rather than sorrow—of annoyance at the trouble of which it had been for him both fountain and storehouse, rather than regret for the agony and contempt which his selfishness had brought upon the woman he loved: then spying the door in the farthest corner, he made for it, and in a moment more, his curiosity now thoroughly roused, was slowly gyrating down the steps of the old screw-stair.

But Malcolm had gone to his own room, and, hearing some one in the next, half suspected who it was, and went in. Seeing the closet-door open, he hurried to the stair, and shouted, "My lord! my lord! or whaever ye are! tak care hoo ye gang or ye'll get a terrible fa'."

Down a single yard the stair was quite dark, and he dared not follow fast for fear of himself falling and occasioning the accident he feared. As he descended he kept repeating his warnings, but either his master did not hear or heeded too little, for presently Malcolm heard a rush, a dull fall and a groan. Hurrying as fast as he dared with the risk of falling upon him, he found the marquis lying amongst the stones in the ground entrance, apparently unable to move, and white with pain. Presently, however, he got up, swore a good deal and limped swearing into the house.

The doctor, who was sent for instantly, pronounced the knee-cap injured, and applied leeches. Inflammation set in, and another doctor and surgeon were sent for from Aberdeen. They came, applied poultices, and again leeches, and enjoined the strictest repose. The pain was severe, but to one of the marquis's temperament the enforced quiet was worse.



CHAPTER LXVIII.

HANDS OF IRON.

The marquis was loved by his domestics, and his accident, with its consequences, although none more serious were anticipated, cast a gloom over Lossie House. Far apart as was his chamber from all the centres of domestic life, the pulses of his suffering beat as it were through the house, and the servants moved with hushed voice and gentle footfall.

Outside, the course of events waited upon his recovery, for Miss Horn, was too generous not to delay proceedings while her adversary was ill. Besides, what she most of all desired was the marquis's free acknowledgment of his son; and after such a time of suffering and constrained reflection as he was now passing through he could hardly fail, she thought, to be more inclined to what was just and fair.

Malcolm had of course hastened to the schoolmaster with the joy of his deliverance from Mrs. Stewart, but Mr. Graham had not acquainted him with the discovery Miss Horn had made, or her belief concerning his large interest therein, to which Malcolm's report of the wrath-born declaration of Mrs. Catanach had now supplied the only testimony wanting, for the right of disclosure was Miss Horn's. To her he had carried Malcolm's narrative of late events, tenfold strengthening her position; but she was anxious in her turn that the revelation concerning his birth should come to him from his father. Hence, Malcolm continued in ignorance of the strange dawn that had begun to break on the darkness of his origin.

Miss Horn had told Mr. Graham what the marquis had said about the tutorship, but the schoolmaster only shook his head with a smile, and went on with his preparations for departure.

The hours went by, the days lengthened into weeks, and the marquis's condition did not improve. He had never known sickness and pain before, and like most of the children of this world counted them the greatest of evils; nor was there any sign of their having as yet begun to open his eyes to what those who have seen them call truths—those who have never even boded their presence count absurdities.

More and more, however, he desired the attendance of Malcolm, who was consequently a great deal about him, serving with a love to account for which those who knew his nature would not have found it necessary to fall back on the instinct of the relation between them. The marquis had soon satisfied himself that that relation was as yet unknown to him, and was all the better pleased with his devotion and tenderness.

The inflammation continued, increased, spread, and at length the doctors determined to amputate. But the marquis was absolutely horrified at the idea—shrank from it with invincible repugnance. The moment the first dawn of comprehension vaguely illuminated their periphrastic approaches he blazed out in a fury, cursed them frightfully, called them all the contemptuous names in his rather limited vocabulary, and swore he would see them—uncomfortable first.

"We fear mortification, my lord," said the physician calmly.

"So do I. Keep it off," returned the marquis.

"We fear we cannot, my lord." It had, in fact, already commenced.

"Let it mortify, then, and be damned," said his lordship.

"I trust, my lord, you will reconsider it," said the surgeon. "We should not have dreamed of suggesting a measure of such severity had we not had reason to dread that the further prosecution of gentler means would but lessen your lordship's chance of recovery."

"You mean, then, that my life is in danger?"

"We fear," said the physician, "that the amputation proposed is the only thing that can save it."

"What a brace of blasted bunglers you are!" cried the marquis, and, turning away his face, lay silent.

The two men looked at each other and said nothing.

Malcolm was by, and a pang shot to his heart at the verdict. The men retired to consult. Malcolm approached the bed. "My lord!" he said gently.

No reply came.

"Dinna lea 's oor lanes, my lord—no yet," Malcolm persisted. "What's to come o' my leddy?"

The marquis gave a gasp. Still he made no reply.

"She has naebody, ye ken, my lord, 'at ye wad like to lippen her wi'."

"You must take care of her when I am gone, Malcolm," murmured the marquis; and his voice was now gentle with sadness and broken with misery.

"Me, my lord!" returned Malcolm. "Wha wad min' me? An' what cud I du wi' her? I cudna even hand her ohn wat her feet. Her leddy's maid cud du mair wi' her, though I wad lay doon my life for her, as I tauld ye, my lord; an' she kens 't weel eneuch."

Silence followed. Both men were thinking.

"Gie me a richt, my lord, an' I'll du my best," said Malcolm, at length breaking the silence.

"What do you mean?" growled the marquis, whose mood had altered.

"Gie me a legal richt, my lord, an' see gien I dinna."

"See what?"

"See gien I dinna luik weel efter my leddy."

"How am I to see? I shall be dead and damned."

"Please God, my lord, ye'll be alive an' weel—in a better place, if no here to luik efter my leddy yersel'."

"Oh, I dare say," muttered the marquis.

"But ye'll hearken to the doctors, my lord," Malcolm went on, "an' no dee wantin' time to consider o' 't."

"Yes, yes: to-morrow I'll have another talk with them. We'll see about it. There's time enough yet. They're all coxcombs, every one of them. They never give a patient the least credit for common sense."

"I dinna ken, my lord," said Malcolm doubtfully.

After a few minutes' silence, during which Malcolm thought he had fallen asleep, the marquis resumed abruptly. "What do you mean by giving you a legal right?" he said.

"There's some w'y o' makin' ae body guairdian till anither, sae 'at the law 'll uphaud him—isna there, my lord?"

"Yes, surely. Well! Rather odd—wouldn't it be?—a young fisher-lad guardian to a marchioness! Eh? They say there's nothing new under the sun, but that sounds rather like it, I think."

Malcolm was overjoyed to hear him speak with something like his old manner. He felt he could stand any amount of chaff from him now, and so the proposition he had made in seriousness he went on to defend in the hope of giving amusement, yet with a secret wild delight in the dream of such full devotion to the service of Lady Florimel.

"It wad soon' queer eneuch, my lord, nae doobt, but fowk maunna min' the soon' o' a thing gien 't be a' straucht an' fair, an' strong eneuch to stan'. They cudna lauch me oot o' my richts, be they 'at they likit—Lady Bellair or ony o' them—na, nor jaw me oot o' them aither."

"They might do a good deal to render those rights of little use," said the marquis.

"That wad come till a trial o' brains, my lord," returned Malcolm: "an' ye dinna think I wadna hae the wit to speir advice; an', what's mair, to ken whan it was guid, an' tak it. There's lawyers, my lord."

"And their expenses?"

"Ye cud lea' sae muckle to be waured (spent) upo' the cairryin' oot o' yer lordship's wull."

"Who would see that you applied it properly?"

"My ain conscience, my lord, or Mr. Graham gien ye likit."

"And how would you live yourself?"

"Ow! lea' ye that to me, my lord. Only dinna imagine I wad be behauden to yer lordship. I houp I hae mair pride nor that. Ilka poun'-not', shillin' an' bawbee sud be laid oot for her, an' what was left hainet (saved) for her."

"By Jove! it's a daring proposal!" said the marquis; and, which seemed strange to Malcolm, not a single thread of ridicule ran through the tone in which he made the remark.

The next day came, but brought neither strength of body nor of mind with it. Again his professional attendants besought him, and he heard them more quietly, but rejected their proposition as positively as before. In a day or two he ceased to oppose it, but would not hear of preparation. Hour glided into hour, and days had gathered to a week, when they assailed him with a solemn and last appeal.

"Nonsense!" answered the marquis. "My leg is getting better. I feel no pain—in fact, nothing but a little faintness. Your damned medicines, I haven't a doubt."

"You are in the greatest danger, my lord. It is all but too late even now."

"To-morrow, then, if it must be. To-day I could not endure to have my hair cut, positively; and as to having my leg off—pooh! the thing's preposterous."

He turned white and shuddered, for all the nonchalance of his speech.

When to-morrow came there was not a surgeon in the land who would have taken his leg off. He looked in their faces, and seemed for the first time convinced of the necessity of the measure.

"You may do as you please," he said: "I am ready."

"Not to-day, my lord," replied the doctor—"your lordship is not equal to it to-day."

"I understand," said the marquis, and paled frightfully and turned his head aside.

When Mrs. Courthope suggested that Lady Florimel should be sent for, he flew into a frightful rage, and spoke as it is to be hoped he had never spoken to a woman before. She took it with perfect gentleness, but could not repress a tear. The marquis saw it, and his heart was touched. "You mustn't mind a dying man's temper," he said.

"It's not for myself, my lord," she answered.

"I know: you think I'm not fit to die; and, damn it! you are right. Never one was less fit for heaven or less willing to go to hell."

"Wouldn't you like to see a clergyman, my lord?" she suggested, sobbing.

He was on the point of breaking out into a still worse passion, but controlled himself. "A clergyman!" he cried: "I would as soon see the undertaker. What could he do but tell me I was going to be damned—a fact I know better than he can? That is, if it's not all an invention of the cloth, as, in my soul, I believe it is. I've said so any time these forty years."

"Oh, my lord! my lord! do not fling away your last hope."

"You imagine me to have a chance, then? Good soul! you don't know any better."

"The Lord is merciful."

The marquis laughed—that is, he tried, failed, and grinned.

"Mr. Cairns is in the dining-room, my lord."

"Bah! A low pettifogger, with the soul of a bullock. Don't let me hear the fellow's name. I've been bad enough, God knows, but I haven't sunk to the level of his help yet. If he's God Almighty's factor, and the saw holds, 'Like master, like man,' well, I would rather have nothing to do with either."

"That is, if you had the choice, my lord," said Mrs. Courthope, her temper yielding somewhat, though in truth his speech was not half so irreverent as it seemed to her.

"Tell him to go to hell. No, don't: set him down to a bottle of port and a great sponge-cake, and you needn't tell him to go to heaven, for he'll be there already. Why, Mrs. Courthope, the fellow isn't a gentleman. And yet all he cares for the cloth is that he thinks it makes a gentleman of him—as if anything in heaven, earth or hell could work that miracle!"

In the middle of the night, as Malcolm sat by his bed, thinking him asleep, the marquis spoke suddenly. "You must go to Aberdeen to-morrow, Malcolm," he said.

"Verra weel, my lord."

"And bring Mr. Glennie, the lawyer, back with you."

"Yes, my lord."

"Go to bed, then."

"I wad raither bide, my lord. I cudna sleep a wink for wantin' to be back aside ye."

The marquis yielded, and Malcolm sat by him all the night through. He tossed about, would doze off and murmur strangely, then wake up and ask for brandy and water, yet be content with the lemonade Malcolm gave him.

Next day he quarreled with every word that Mrs. Courthope uttered, kept forgetting he had sent Malcolm away, and was continually wanting him. His fits of pain were more severe, alternated with drowsiness, which deepened at times to stupor.

It was late before Malcolm returned. He went instantly to his bedside.

"Is Mr. Glennie with you?" asked his master feebly.

"Yes, my lord."

"Tell him to come here at once."

When Malcolm returned with the lawyer the marquis directed him to place a table and chair by the bedside, light four candles, provide everything necessary for writing and go to bed.



CHAPTER LXIX.

THE MARQUIS AND THE SCHOOLMASTER.

Before Malcolm was awake his lordship had sent for him. When he re-entered the sick chamber Mr. Glennie had vanished, the table had been removed, and, instead of the radiance of the wax-lights, the cold gleam of a vapor-dimmed sun, with its sickly blue-white reflex from the widespread snow, filled the room. The marquis looked ghastly, but was sipping chocolate with a spoon.

"What w'y are ye the day, my lord?" asked Malcolm.

"Nearly well," he answered; "but those cursed carrion-crows are set upon killing me—damn their souls!"

"We'll hae Leddy Florimel sweirin' awfu' gien ye gang on that gait, my lord," said Malcolm.

The marquis laughed feebly.

"An' what's mair," Malcolm continued, "I doobt they're some partic'lar aboot the turn o' their phrases up yonner, my lord."

The marquis looked at him keenly. "You don't anticipate that inconvenience for me?" he said. "I'm pretty sure to have my billet where they're not so precise."

"Dinna brak my hert, my lord," cried Malcolm, the tears rushing to his eyes.

"I should be sorry to hurt you, Malcalm," rejoined the marquis gently, almost tenderly. "I won't go there if I can help it—I shouldn't like to break any more hearts—but how the devil am I to keep out of it? Besides, there are people up there I don't want to meet: I have no fancy for being made ashamed of myself. The fact is, I'm not fit for such company, and I don't believe there is any such place. But if there be, I trust in God there isn't any other, or it will go badly with your poor master, Malcolm. It doesn't look like true—now does it? Only such a multitude of things I thought I had done with for ever keep coming up and grinning at me. It nearly drives me mad, Malcolm; and I would fain die like a gentleman, with a cool bow and a sharp face-about."

"Wadna ye hae a word wi' somebody 'at kens, my lord?" said Malcolm, scarcely able to reply.

"No," answered the marquis fiercely. "That Cairns is a fool."

"He's a' that, an' mair, my lord. I didna mean him."

"They're all fools together."

"Ow, na, my lord. There's a heap o' them no muckle better, it may be; but there's guid men an' true amang them, or the Kirk wad hae been wi' Sodom and Gomorrah by this time. But it's no a minister I wad hae yer lordship confar wi'."

"Who, then? Mrs. Courthope, eh?"

"Ow na, my lord—no Mistress Courthoup. She's a guid body, but she wadna believe her ain een gien onybody ca'd a minister said contrar' to them."

"Who the devil do you mean, then?"

"Nae deevil, but an honest man 'at's been his warst enemy sae lang 's I hae kent him—Maister Graham, the schuil-maister."

"Pooh!" said the marquis with a puff. "I'm too old to go to school."

"I dinna ken the man 'at isna a bairn till him, my lord."

"In Greek and Latin?"

"I' richteousness an' trouth, my lord—in what's been an' what is to be."

"What! has he the second sight, like the piper?"

"He has the second sicht, my lord, but ane 'at gangs a sicht farther nor my auld daddy's."

"He could tell me, then, what's going to become of me?"

"As weel 's ony man, my lord."

"That's not saying much, I fear."

"Maybe mair nor ye think, my lord."

"Well, take him my compliments and tell him I should like to see him," said the marquis after a minute's silence.

"He'll come direckly, my lord."

"Of course he will," said the marquis.

"Jist as readily, my lord, as he wad gang to ony tramp 'at sent for 'im at sic a time," returned Malcolm, who did not relish either the remark or its tone.

"What do you mean by that? You don't think it such a serious affair, do you?"

"My lord, ye haena a chance."

The marquis was dumb. He had actually begun once more to buoy himself up with earthly hopes.

Dreading a recall of his commission, Malcolm slipped from the room, sent Mrs. Courthope to take his place, and sped to the schoolmaster. The moment Mr. Graham heard the marquis's message he rose without a word and led the way from the cottage. Hardly a sentence passed between them as they went, for they were on a solemn errand.

"Mr. Graham's here, my lord," said Malcolm.

"Where? Not in the room?" returned the marquis.

"Waitin' at the door, my lord."

"Bah! You needn't have been so ready. Have you told the sexton to get a new spade? But you may let him in; and leave him alone with me."

Mr. Graham walked gently up to the bedside.

"Sit down, sir," said the marquis courteously, pleased with the calm, self-possessed, unobtrusive bearing of the man. "They tell me I'm dying, Mr. Graham."

"I'm sorry it seems to trouble you, my lord."

"What! wouldn't it trouble you, then?"

"I don't think so, my lord."

"Ah! you're one of the elect, no doubt?"

"That's a thing I never did think about, my lord."

"What do you think about, then?"

"About God."

"And when you die you'll go straight to heaven, of course?"

"I don't know, my lord. That's another thing I never trouble my head about."

"Ah! you're like me, then. I don't care much about going to heaven. What do you care about?"

"The will of God. I hope your lordship will say the same."

"No I won't: I want my own will."

"Well, that is to be had, my lord."

"How?"

"By taking his for yours as the better of the two, which it must be every way."

"That's all moonshine."

"It is light, my lord."

"Well, I don't mind confessing, if I am to die, I should prefer heaven to the other place, but I trust I have no chance of either. Do you now honestly believe there are two such places?"

"I don't know, my lord."

"You don't know? And you come here to comfort a dying man!"

"Your lordship must first tell me what you mean by 'two such places.' And as to comfort, going by my notions, I cannot tell which you would be more or less comfortable in; and that, I presume, would be the main point with your lordship."

"And what, pray, sir, would be the main point with you?"

"To get nearer to God."

"Well, I can't say I want to get nearer to God. It's little he's ever done for me."

"It's a good deal he has tried to do for you, my lord."

"Well, who interfered? Who stood in his way, then?"

"Yourself, my lord."

"I wasn't aware of it. When did he ever try to do anything for me and I stood in his way?"

"When he gave you one of the loveliest of women, my lord," said Mr. Graham with solemn, faltering voice, "and you left her to die in neglect and her child to be brought up by strangers."

The marquis gave a cry. The unexpected answer had roused the slowly-gnawing death and made it bite deeper.

"What have you to do," he almost screamed, "with my affairs? It was for me to introduce what I chose of them. You presume."

"Pardon me, my lord: you led me to what I was bound to say. Shall I leave you, my lord?"

The marquis made no answer. "God knows I loved her," he said after a while with a sigh.

"You loved her, my lord?"

"I did, by God!"

"Love a woman like that and come to this?"

"Come to this? We must all come to this, I fancy, sooner or later. Come to what, in the name of Beelzebub?"

"That, having loved a woman like her, you are content to lose her. In the name of God, have you no desire to see her again?"

"It would be an awkward meeting," said the marquis.

His was an old love, alas! He had not been capable of the sort that defies change. It had faded from him until it seemed one of the things that are not. Although his being had once glowed in its light, he could now speak of a meeting as awkward.

"Because you wronged her?" suggested the schoolmaster.

"Because they lied to me, by God!"

"Which they dared not have done had you not lied to them first."

"Sir!" shouted the marquis, with all the voice he had left.—"O God, have mercy! I cannot punish the scoundrel."

"The scoundrel is the man who lies, my lord."

"Were I anywhere else—"

"There would be no good in telling you the truth, my lord. You showed her to the world as a woman over whom you had prevailed, and not as the honest wife she was. What kind of a lie was that, my lord? Not a white one, surely?"

"You are a damned coward to speak so to a man who cannot even turn on his side to curse you for a base hound. You would not dare it but that you know I cannot defend myself."

"You are right, my lord: your conduct is indefensible."

"By Heaven! if I could but get this cursed leg under me, I would throw you out of the window."

"I shall go by the door, my lord. While you hold by your sins, your sins will hold by you. If you should want me again I shall be at your lordship's command."

He rose and left the room, but had not reached his cottage before Malcolm overtook him with a second message from his master. He turned at once, saying only, "I expected it."

"Mr. Graham," said the marquis, looking ghastly, "you must have patience with a dying man. I was very rude to you, but I was in horrible pain."

"Don't mention it, my lord. It would be a poor friendship that gave way for a rough word."

"How can you call yourself my friend?"

"I should be your friend, my lord, if it were only for your wife's sake. She died loving you. I want to send you to her, my lord. You will allow that, as a gentleman, you at least owe her an apology."

"By Jove, you are right, sir! Then you really and positively believe in the place they call heaven?"

"My lord, I believe that those who open their hearts to the truth shall see the light on their friends' faces again, and be able to set right what was wrong between them."

"It's a week too late to talk of setting right."

"Go and tell her you are sorry, my lord—that will be enough for her."

"Ah! but there's more than her concerned."

"You are right, my lord. There is another—One who cannot be satisfied that the fairest works of his hands, or rather the loveliest children of his heart, should be treated as you have treated women."

"But the Deity you talk of—"

"I beg your pardon, my lord: I talked of no deity. I talked of a living Love that gave us birth and calls us his children. Your deity I know nothing of."

"Call Him what you please: He won't be put off so easily."

"He won't be put off, one jot or one tittle. He will forgive anything, but He will pass nothing. Will your wife forgive you?"

"She will, when I explain."

"Then why should you think the forgiveness of God, which created her forgiveness, should be less?"

Whether the marquis could grasp the reasoning may be doubtful.

"Do you really suppose God cares whether a man comes to good or ill?"

"If He did not, He could not be good Himself."

"Then you don't think a good God would care to punish poor wretches like us?"

"Your lordship has not been in the habit of regarding himself as a poor wretch. And, remember, you can't call a child a poor wretch without insulting the father of it."

"That's quite another thing."

"But on the wrong side for your argument, seeing the relation between God and the poorest creature is infinitely closer than that between any father and his child."

"Then He can't be so hard on him as the parsons say."

"He will give him absolute justice, which is the only good thing. He will spare nothing to bring his children back to Himself, their sole well-being. What would you do, my lord, if you saw your son strike a woman?"

"Knock him down and horsewhip him."

It was Mr. Graham who broke the silence that followed: "Are you satisfied with yourself, my lord?"

"No, by God!"

"You would like to be better?"

"I would."

"Then you are of the same mind with God."

"Yes, but I'm not a fool. It won't do to say I should like to be. I must be it, and that's not so easy. It's damned hard to be good. I would have a fight for it, but there's no time. How is a poor devil to get out of such an infernal scrape?"

"Keep the commandments."

"That's it, of course; but there's no time, I tell you—no time; at least, so those cursed doctors will keep telling me."

"If there were but time to draw another breath, there would be time to begin."

"How am I to begin? Which am I to begin with?"

"There is one commandment which includes all the rest."

"Which is that?"

"To believe in the Lord Jesus Christ."

"That's cant."

"After thirty years' trial of it, it is to me the essence of wisdom. It has given me a peace which makes life or death all but indifferent to me, though I would choose the latter."

"What am I to believe about Him, then?"

"You are to believe in Him, not about Him."

"I don't understand."

"He is our Lord and Master, Elder Brother, King, Saviour, the divine Man, the human God: to believe in Him is to give ourselves up to Him in obedience—to search out his will and do it."

"But there's no time, I tell you again," the marquis almost shrieked.

"And I tell you there is all eternity to do it in. Take Him for your master, and He will demand nothing of you which you are not able to perform. This is the open door to bliss. With your last breath you can cry to Him, and He will hear you as He heard the thief on the cross, who cried to Him dying beside him: 'Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.'—'To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.' It makes my heart swell to think of it, my lord. No cross-questioning of the poor fellow, no preaching to him. He just took him with Him where He was going, to make a man of him."

"Well, you know something of my history: what would you have me do now?—at once, I mean. What would the Person you are speaking of have me do?"

"That is not for me to say, my lord."

"You could give me a hint."

"No. God is telling you Himself. For me to presume to tell you would be to interfere with Him. What He would have a man do He lets him know in his mind."

"But what if I had not made up my mind before the last came?"

"Then I fear He would say to you, 'Depart from me, thou worker of iniquity.'"

"That would be hard when another minute might have done it."

"If another minute would have done it, you would have had it."

A paroxysm of pain followed, during which Mr. Graham silently left him.



CHAPTER LXX.

END OR BEGINNING?

When the fit was over and he found Mr. Graham was gone, he asked Malcolm, who had resumed his watch, how long it would take Lady Florimel to come from Edinburgh.

"Mr. Crathie left wi' fower horses frae the Lossie Airms last nicht, my lord," said Malcolm; "but the ro'ds are ill, an' she winna be here afore some time the morn."

The marquis stared aghast: they had sent for her without his orders. "What shall I do?" he murmured. "If once I look in her eyes, I shall be damned.—Malcolm!"

"Yes, my lord."

"Is there a lawyer in Portlossie?"

"Yes, my lord: there's auld Maister Carmichael."

"He won't do: he was my brother's rascal. Is there no one besides?"

"No in Portlossie, my lord. There can be nane nearer than Duff Harbor, I doobt."

"Take the chariot and bring him here directly. Tell them to put four horses to: Stokes can ride one."

"I'll ride the ither, my lord."

"You'll do nothing of the kind: you're not used to the pole."

"I can tak the leader, my lord."

"I tell you you're to do nothing of the kind," cried the marquis angrily. "You're to ride inside, and bring Mr.—what's his name?—back with you."

"Soutar, my lord, gien ye please."

"Be off, then. Don't wait to feed. The brutes have been eating all day, and they can eat all night. You must have him here in an hour."

In an hour and a quarter Miss Horn's friend stood by the marquis's bedside, Malcolm was dismissed, but was presently summoned again to receive more orders.

Fresh horses were put to the chariot, and he had to set out once more—this time to fetch a justice of the peace, a neighbor laird. The distance was greater than to Duff Harbor; the roads were worse; the north wind, rising as they went, blew against them as they returned, increasing to a violent gale; and it was late before they reached Lossie House.

When Malcolm entered he found the marquis alone.

"Is Morrison here at last?" he cried, in a feeble, irritated voice.

"Yes, my lord."

"What the devil kept you so long? The bay mare would have carried me there and back in an hour and a half."

"The roads war verra heavy, my lord. An' jist hear till the win'."

The marquis listened a moment, and a frightened expression grew over his thin, pale, anxious face. "You don't know what depends on it," he said, "or you would have driven better. Where is Mr. Soutar?"

"I dinna ken, my lord. I'm only jist come, an' I've seen naebody."

"Go and tell Mrs. Courthope I want Soutar. You'll find her crying somewhere—the old chicken!—because I swore at her. What harm could that do the old goose?"

"It'll be mair for love o' yer lordship than fricht at the sweirin', my lord."

"You think so? Why should she care? Go and tell her I'm sorry. But really she ought to be used to me by this time. Tell her to send Soutar directly."

Mr. Soutar was not to be found, the fact being that he had gone to see Miss Horn. The marquis flew into an awful rage, and began to curse and swear frightfully.

"My lord! my lord!" said Malcolm, "for God's sake, dinna gang on that gait. He canna like to hear that kin' o' speech; an' frae ane o' his ain' tu!"

The marquis stopped, aghast at his presumption and choking with rage, but Malcolm's eyes filled with tears, and, instead of breaking out again, his master turned his head away and was silent.

Mr. Soutar came.

"Fetch Morrison," said the marquis, "and go to bed."

The wind howled terribly as Malcolm ascended the stairs and half felt his way, for he had no candle, through the long passages leading to his room. As he entered the last a huge vague form came down upon him like a deeper darkness through the dark. Instinctively he stepped aside. It passed noiselessly, with a long stride, and not even a rustle of its garments—at least Malcolm heard nothing but the roar of the wind. He turned and followed it. On and on it went, down the stair, through a corridor, down the great stone turnpike stair, and through passage after passage. When it came into the more frequented and half-lighted thoroughfares of the house it showed as a large figure in a long cloak, indistinct in outline.

It turned a corner close by the marquis's room. But when Malcolm, close at its heels, turned also, he saw nothing but a vacant lobby, the doors around which were all shut. One after another he quickly opened them, all except the marquis's, but nothing was to be seen. The conclusion was that it had entered the marquis's room. He must not disturb the conclave in the sick chamber with what might be but "a false creation proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain," and turned back to his own room, where he threw himself on his bed and fell asleep.

About twelve Mrs. Courthope called him: his master was worse, and wanted to see him.

The midnight was dark and still, for the wind had ceased. But a hush and a cloud seemed gathering in the stillness and darkness, and with them came the sense of a solemn celebration, as if the gloom were canopy as well as pall—black, but bordered and hearted with purple and gold; and the terrible stillness seemed to tremble as with the inaudible tones of a great organ at the close or commencement of some mighty symphony.

With beating heart he walked softly toward the room where, as on an altar, lay the vanishing form of his master, like the fuel in whose dying flame was offered the late and ill-nurtured sacrifice of his spirit.

As he went through the last corridor leading thither, Mrs. Catanach, type and embodiment of the horrors that haunt the dignity of death, came walking toward him like one at home, her great round body lighty upborne on her soft foot. It was no time to challenge her presence, and yielding her the half of the narrow way he passed without a greeting. She dropped him a courtesy with an up-look and again a veiling of her wicked eyes.

The marquis would not have the doctors come near him, and when Malcolm entered there was no one in the room but Mrs. Courthope. The shadow had crept far along the dial. His face had grown ghastly, the skin had sunk to the bones, and his eyes stood out as if from much staring into the dark. They rested very mournfully on Malcolm for a few moments, and then closed softly.

"Is she come yet?" he murmured, opening them wide with sudden stare.

"No, my lord."

The lids fell again, softly, slowly.

"Be good to her, Malcolm," he murmured.

"I wull, my lord," said Malcolm solemnly.

Then the eyes opened and looked at him: something grew in them, a light as of love, and drew up after it a tear; but the lips said nothing. The eyelids fell again, and in a minute more Malcolm knew by his breathing that he slept.

The slow night waned. He woke sometimes, but soon dozed off again. The two watched by him till the dawn. It brought a still gray morning, without a breath of wind and warm for the season. The marquis appeared a little revived, but was hardly able to speak. Mostly by signs he made Malcolm understand that he wanted Mr. Graham, but that some one else must go for him. Mrs. Courthope went.

As soon as she was out of the room he lifted his hand with effort, laid feeble hold on Malcolm's jacket, and, drawing him down, kissed him on the forehead. Malcolm burst into tears and sank weeping by the bedside.

Mr. Graham, entering a little after, and seeing Malcolm on his knees, knelt also and broke into a prayer.

"O blessed Father!" he said, "who knowest this thing, so strange to us, which we call death, breathe more life into the heart of Thy dying son, that in the power of life he may front death. O Lord Christ! who diedst Thyself, and in Thyself knowest it all, heal this man in his sore need—heal him with strength to die."

A faint Amen came from the marquis.

"Thou didst send him into the world: help him out of it. O God! we belong to Thee utterly. We dying men are Thy children, O living Father! Thou art such a father that Thou takest our sins from us and throwest them behind Thy back. Thou cleansest our souls as Thy Son did wash our feet. We hold our hearts up to Thee: make them what they must be, O Love! O Life of men! O Heart of hearts! Give Thy dying child courage and hope and peace—the peace of Him who overcame all the terrors of humanity, even death itself, and liveth for evermore, sitting at Thy right hand, our God-brother, blessed to all ages. Amen."

"Amen!" murmured the marquis, and, slowly lifting his hand from the coverlid, he laid it on the head of Malcolm, who did not know it was the hand of his father blessing him ere he died.

"Be good to her," said the marquis once more.

But Malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the marquis was not satisfied. Gathering all his force, he said again, "Be good to her."

"I wull, I wull," burst from Malcolm in sobs; and he wailed aloud.

The day wore on, and the afternoon came. Still Lady Florimel had not arrived, and still the marquis lingered.

As the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early darkness of the winter night he opened wide his eyes, and was evidently listening. Malcolm could hear nothing, but the light in his master's face grew and the strain of his listening diminished. At length Malcolm became aware of the sound of wheels, which came rapidly nearer, till at last the carriage swung up to the hall-door. A moment, and Lady Florimel was flitting across the room.

"Papa! papa!" she cried, and, throwing her arm over him, laid her cheek to his.

The marquis could not return her embrace: he could only receive her into the depths of his shining, tearful eyes.

"Flory!" he murmured, "I'm going away. I'm going—I've got—to make an—apology. Malcolm, be good—"

The sentence remained unfinished. The light paled from his countenance: he had to carry it with him. He was dead.

Lady Florimel gave a loud cry. Mrs. Courthope ran to her assistance. "My lady's in a dead faint," she whispered, and left the room to get help.

Malcolm lifted Lady Florimel in his great arms and bore her tenderly to her own apartment. There he left her to the care of her women and returned to the chamber of death.

Meantime, Mr. Graham and Mr. Soutar had come. When Malcolm re-entered the schoolmaster took him kindly by the arm and said, "Malcolm, there can be neither place nor moment fitter for the solemn communication I am commissioned to make to you: I have, as in the presence of your dead father, to inform you that you are now marquis of Lossie; and God forbid you should be less worthy as marquis than you have been as fisherman!"

Malcolm stood stupefied. For a while he seemed to himself to be turning over in his mind something he had heard read from a book, with a nebulous notion of being somehow concerned in it. The thought of his father cleared his brain. He ran to the dead body, kissed its lips as he had once kissed the forehead of another, and falling on his knees wept, he knew not for what. Presently, however, he recovered himself, rose, and, rejoining the two men, said, "Gentlemen, hoo mony kens this turn o' things?"

"None but Mr. Morrison, Mrs. Catanach and ourselves—so far as I know," answered Mr. Soutar.

"And Miss Horn," added Mr. Graham, "She first brought out the truth of it, and ought to be the first to know of your recognition by your father."

"I s' tell her mysel'," returned Malcolm. "But, gentlemen, I beg o' ye, till I ken what I'm aboot an' gie ye leave, dinna open yer moo' to leevin' cratur' aboot this. There's time eneuch for the warl' to ken 't."

"Your lordship commands me," said Mr. Soutar.

"Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave," said Mr. Graham.

"Whaur's Mr. Morrison?" asked Malcolm.

"He is still in the house," said Mr. Soutar.

"Gang till him, sir, an' gar him promise, on the word o' a gentleman, to haud his tongue. I canna bide to hae't blaret a' gait an' a' at ance. For Mistress Catanach, I s' deal wi' her mysel'."

The door opened, and, in all the conscious dignity conferred by the immunities and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs. Catanach walked into the room.

"A word wi' ye, Mistress Catanach," said Malcolm.

"Certainly, my lord," answered the howdy with mingled presumption and respect, and followed him to the dining-room. "Weel, my lord—" she began, before he had turned from shutting the door behind them, in the tone and with the air—or rather airs—of having conferred a great benefit, and expecting its recognition.

"Mistress Catanach," interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing her, "gien I be un'er ony obligation to you, it's frae anither tongue I maun hear't. But I hae an offer to mak ye: Sae lang as it disna coom oot 'at I'm onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s' hae yer twinty poun' i' the year, peyed ye quarterly. But the moment fowk says wha I am ye touch na a poun'-not' mair, an' I coont mysel' free to pursue onything I can pruv agane ye."

Mrs. Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was gray as putty and its muscles declined response.

"Ay or no?" said Malcolm. "I winna gar ye sweir, for I wad lippen to yer aith no a hair."

"Ay, my lord," said the howdy, reassuming at least outward composure, and with it her natural brass, for as she spoke she held out her open palm.

"Na, na," said Malcolm, "nae forhan' payments. Three months o' tongue-haudin', an' there's yer five poun'; an' Maister Soutar o' Duff Harbor 'ill pay 't intill yer ain han'. But brack troth wi' me, an' ye s' hear o' 't; for gien ye war hangt the warl' wad be a' the cleaner. Noo quit the hoose, an' never lat me see ye aboot the place again. But afore ye gang I gie ye fair warnin' 'at I mean to win at a' yer byganes."

The blood of red wrath was seething in Mrs. Catanach's face: she drew herself up and stood flaming before him, on the verge of explosion.

"Gang frae the hoose," said Malcolm, "or I'll set the muckle hun' to shaw ye the gait."

Her face turned the color of ashes, and with hanging cheeks and scared but not the less wicked eyes she hurried from the room. Malcolm watched her out of the house, then, following her into the town, brought Miss Horn back with him to aid in the last earthly services, and hastened to Duncan's cottage.

But, to his amazement and distress, it was forsaken and the hearth cold. In his attendance on his father he had not seen the piper—he could not remember for how many days; and on inquiry he found that, although he had not been missed, no one could recall having seen him later than three or four days agone. The last he could hear of him was that about a week before a boy had spied him sitting on a rock in the Baillies' Barn with his pipes in his lap. Searching the cottage, he found that his broadsword and dirk, with all his poor finery, were gone.

That same night Mrs. Catanach also disappeared.

A week after, what was left of Lord Lossie was buried. Malcolm followed the hearse with the household. Miss Horn walked immediately behind him, on the arm of the schoolmaster. It was a great funeral, with a short road, for the body was laid in the church—close to the wall, just under the crusader with the Norman canopy.

Lady Florimel wept incessantly for three days; on the fourth she looked out on the sea and thought it very dreary; on the fifth she found a certain gratification in hearing herself called the marchioness; on the sixth she tried on her mourning and was pleased; on the seventh she went with the funeral and wept again; on the eighth came Lady Bellair, who on the ninth carried her away.

To Malcolm she had not spoken once.

Mr. Graham left Portlossie.

Miss Horn took to her bed for a week.

Mr. Crathie removed his office to the House itself, took upon him the function of steward as well as factor, had the state-rooms dismantled, and was master of the place.

Malcolm helped Stoat with the horses and did odd jobs for Mr. Crathie. From his likeness to the old marquis, as he was still called, the factor had a favor for him, firmly believing the said marquis to be his father and Mrs. Stewart his mother; and hence it came that he allowed him a key to the library.

The story of Malcom's plans and what came of them requires another book.



THE STAGE IN ITALY.

The Italians are undoubtedly the most theatre-loving people in the world. With them the play-house takes the place to a great extent of drawing-room and evening lounge. Almost every Italian family of any social position possesses a box at one of the principal theatres, where visits are received and many a scene from the School for Scandal is enacted whilst the fair gossip-mongers flirt and sip ices. In winter the opera is the standard amusement of the fashionable world, while the favorite resort in summer is the diurno or open air theatre, which is in the form of an amphitheatre, the stage with its accessories facing an unroofed enclosure, with the seats arranged in tiers one above another, and fenced off by an iron balustrade from a terrace which serves the purpose of a gallery. A vast covered corridor is nearly always to be found adjacent to the diurno, beneath which the audience can take refuge in case of a shower, walk between the acts and indulge in bebite—cooling drinks, such as sherbets and beer. The abbonamento (or subscription) to a diurno costs from three to ten dollars for the season of thirty or forty representations. When a dramatic company is about to visit a city the manager first secures his abbonati, for according to their number he is able to regulate his expenses, as he counts little on chance spectators, and is sure to have almost always to play before the same audience.

The lyric stage in Italy takes precedence of the dramatic, and in the large cities, Milan, Venice, Genoa, Florence, Rome and Naples, the production of a new opera is considered a national event, forming for many days previous to its production the chief topic of conversation in salons and caffes. No such enthusiasm is manifested in regard to the first representation of a new play; and although the house may be crowded and the author called before the curtain, he may deem himself happy if his drama is played four times during the season; whereas a popular opera will be given night after night for two months. An opera, if it has any merit, may be the means of carrying the fame of Italian genius to the farthest limits of the earth, but it is a chance if the comedy which pleases at Venice will be appreciated in the least degree at Rome or Naples, such are the variations in manners and customs, especially amongst the lower orders, between one Italian province and another. Hence, opera is greatly fostered and protected. There are a dozen musical conservatori, public and private, in each of the principal cities, for the training of singers, and prizes are accorded to them out of funds especially set apart for the purpose by the government, which also grants large annual subsidies to the leading lyric theatres, such as the Scala at Milan, the San Carlo at Naples, the Fenice at Venice, the Pergola at Florence, the Carlo Felice at Genoa, the Communale at Bologna, and the Apollo at Rome. The dramatic stage has none of these aids, the various companies have to pay their own expenses, and, whatever may be the merits of the artists who compose them, they scarcely ever obtain any special recognition from the government. Although the smallest Italian city possesses its theatre, and some of the capitals—Milan and Naples, for instance—at least a dozen, there is no training-school for the stage in any part of the country. Nor is there such an institution as the English Dramatic College, where decayed artists can retire when their day of glory is past and they have become poor and lonely. Each city has one theatre, the largest and most magnificent, reserved exclusively for operatic performances, and where the unmusical drama is scarcely ever tolerated. I once saw Ristori act in Metastasio's Dido at the Scala for the benefit of the wounded during the war for Italian independence; but this was the only occasion in fifty years on which an actress had declaimed in that enormous edifice, and nothing but patriotic charity would have excused such an infringement of time-honored etiquette. When, therefore, the Italian opera-houses close for the season, they are never reopened for the accommodation of wandering "stars." The consequence of this is, that the drama is banished to the inferior theatres, and whilst thousands of francs are spent on the scenery of a new opera or ballet, the poor player has to content himself with an indifferent stage and wretched decorations. In short, to quote an observation made to me recently by Signor Salvini, "Theatrical affairs are just the opposite in Italy to what they are in America. In Italy the opera-bill is never changed more than three times in as many months: in America it varies almost every evening. In Italy the play-bill is renewed nightly, while in this country and in England a drama, if good, may have a run of over a hundred representations." Nothing surprised Salvini more during his stay in the United States than the splendor of the mise en scene of some of the New York plays, but he accounted for it easily enough. The managers of most of the New York, Paris and London theatres do not hesitate to lavish large sums of money upon their decorations and scenery, because should the piece fail for which they were painted they can be used in some other. The Italian theatres are nearly always the property either of some nobleman or of a company of speculators, whose principal object is to make as much money out of them, and spend as little upon them, as possible. They are rented out for a month or so to one or other of the many troupes of actors which are constantly wandering about the country, and which bring their own scenery and dresses with them, generally of the cheapest and most tawdry description.