"Certainly; by your having a peace which they could not touch."

There was a short pause; after which Lady Carse said, in no unamiable tone, "I do not say these things by way of asking your advice. I know my own feelings and circumstances, and the behaviour of my family to me, better than you can do. I may be left to judge for myself; but it is natural, when a summons may come any day, to tell you what I think of the past; and of how I shall act in the time to come."

"I quite understand that," said Annie. "And I like to hear all you like to tell me without judging or advising, unless you ask me."

"Well, I fairly own to you—and you may take the confession for what it is worth—if I had to live the last twenty years over again, I should in some respects act differently, I now believe that I have said and done some things that I had better not. But I was driven to it. I have been most cruelly treated."

"You have."

"And if they had only known how to treat me! Why, you are not afraid of me, are you?"

"Not in the least."

"And you never were?"

"Never."

"Why, there now! But you are a woman of sense."

"I am not afraid of you, and never was," said Annie looking calmly in her face; "but I can understand how some people might be."

"Not people of sense," exclaimed Lady Carse quickly.

"Perhaps not; but we do not expect all that we have dealings with to be people of sense."

"No, indeed! Nobody need ever look for sense in Lord Carse, for one. Well! I am so glad you never were afraid of me; and I am sure, moreover, that you love me: you are so kind to me!"

"I do," said Annie, smiling in reply to the wistful gaze.

Lady Carse's eyes filled with tears.

"Good night! God bless you!" said she.

"She says," thought Annie, "that I may take her confession for what it is worth. How little she knows the worth of that confession!—a confession that any acquaintance she has would blush or mock at, and that any pastor in Scotland would rebuke! but to one who knows her as I do, how precious it is! I like to be called to rejoice with the neighbours when a child is born into the world: but it is a greater thing to sit here alone and rejoice over the birth of a new soul in this poor lady. It is but a feeble thing, this new born soul—born so much too late; it is little better than blind and helpless, and with hard struggles coming on before it has strength to meet them. But still it is breathing with God's breath; and it may come freely to Christ. Christ always spoke to souls; and what were the years of man's life to Him? So I take it as an invitation in such a case as this, when He says, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' O may the way be kept clear for this infant soul to come to Him!"

Annie had all the kindly and cheerful instincts which simple hearts have everywhere; and among them the wish to welcome the newly born with music. With the same feeling which make the people of many a heathen island and Christian country pour out their music round the dwelling which is gladdened by a new birth, Annie now sang a cheerful religious welcome to the young conscience which she trusted must henceforth live and grow for ever. Her voice was heard next door, just so as to be favourable to rest. Without knowing the occasion of the song, the lady reposed upon it; and without knowing it, Annie sang her charge to sleep, as she had often done when Rollo was an infant on her knee.

When at daylight she rose to put out her lamp, and observe the weather, she saw what made her dress quickly, instead of going to bed for her needful morning hour of sleep. A boat was making for the harbour through the difficulties of the wintry sea. It rose and was borne on the long swell so fast and so fearfully, that it appeared as if nothing could save it from dashing on the ledges of projecting rock; and then, before it reached them, it sank out of sight, to be lifted up and borne along as before. There were four rowers, a steersman, and two others, muffled in cloaks. Annie watched them till the boat disappeared in the windings of the harbour; and she was out on the hill-side, in the cold February wind, when she saw the whole party ascending from the shore, and taking the road to Macdonald's.

Here was news! There must be news. Better not tell even Helsa till she had heard the news. So the widow made what haste she could by the nearer road; but her best haste could not compare with the ordinary pace of the strangers. They had arrived long before she reached Macdonald's gate.

She walked straight in: and as she did so, one of the gentlemen who was standing before the fire glanced at another who was walking up and down.

"We need no sentinels here, my lord," said the latter in reply to the glance. "There are none but women and children on the island, and they are all loyally disposed."

"This is Sir Alexander Macdonald," said the hostess to Annie. And then she told the chief that this was the Widow Fleming, who had no doubt come to obtain tidings of her son, who had gone with the company under Macleod.

"The Lord President will give you more exact news of the company than I can," said Sir Alexander. "I only know that my people are marched to Aberdeen to protect that city from the insolence of the rebels."

The President, who was sitting by the fire, looked up kindly, and cheerfully told the widow that he had good news to give of the company from these islands. They had not been in any engagement, and were all in good health when they marched for Aberdeen, a fortnight before. "And are they all in their duty, my lord?"

"You remind me, friend, that I ought to have put that before my account of their health and safety. They are in their duty, being proof, so far, against both threat and seduction from the rebels."

"Thus far?"

"Why, yes; I used those words because their loyalty to the king is likely to be tried to the utmost at the present time. The king's cause is in adversity, we will hope only for a short time. The rebels have won a battle at Falkirk, and dispersed the king's troops; and this gentleman, the Earl of Loudon," pointing to the one who was standing by the fire, "and I have had to run away from my house at Culloden, and throw ourselves on the hospitality of Sir Alexander Macdonald."

"And what will become of your house, my lord?"

"I have thrown my house and fortune into the cause, as you have thrown something much more important—your son. If you can wait God's disposal cheerfully, much more should I. I cannot bestow a thought on my house."

"Except," said Sir Alexander, "that you have nothing else to think about here; and nothing to do but to think, for this day, at least. We must remain here. So safe as it is, in comparison with any part of Skye, or even Barra, I should recommend your staying here till we have some assurance of safety elsewhere."

"I will venture to offer something for the Lord President to think of and to do," said the widow, coming forward with an earnestness which fixed everybody's attention at once, and made Sir Alexander stop in his walk. He was about to command silence on Annie's part, but a glance at her face showed him that this would be useless.

"Let me first be sure that I am right," said Annie. "Is the Lord President whom I speak to named Duncan Forbes? And is he a friend of Lord Carse?"

"I am Duncan Forbes, and Lord Carse is an acquaintance of mine."

"Has he ever told you that his unhappy wife is not dead, as he pretended, but living in miserable banishment on this island?"

"On this island! Nonsense!" cried Sir Alexander.

When assured by the hostess and Annie that it was so, he swore at his steward, his tenant, and himself. On first hearing of the alarm being taken by the lady's friends at Edinburgh, he had ordered her removal to Saint Kilda, and had supposed it effected long ago. The troubles of the time, which left no boat or men disposable, had caused the delay; and now, between his rage at any command of his having been disregarded, and his sense of his absurdity in bringing a friend of his prisoner to her very door, he was perfectly exasperated. He muttered curses as he strode up and down.

Meantime the Lord President was quietly preparing himself for a walk. Everybody but Annie entreated him to stay till he had breakfasted, and warmed himself, Lord Loudon adding that the lady would not fly away in the course of the next hour if she had been detained so many years. It did not escape the President's observant eye that these words struck Sir Alexander, and that he made a movement towards the door. There being a boat and rowers at hand, she might be found to have flown within the hour, if he stayed to breakfast.

He approached Sir Alexander, and laid his hand on his arm, saying—

"My good friend, I advise you to yield up this affair into my hands as the first law officer of Scotland. All chance of concealment of this lady's case has been over for some time. Measures have been taken for some months to compel you to resign the charge which you surely cannot wish to retain—"

Sir Alexander broke in with curses on himself for having ever been persuaded into involving himself in such a business.

"By the desire, I presume, of Lord Carse, Lord Lovat, Mr Forster, and others, not now particularly distinguished for their loyalty."

"That is the cursed part of it," muttered Sir Alexander. "It was to further their Jacobite plots that they put this vixen out of the way, because she had some secrets in her power, and they laid it all on her temper, which, they told me, caused my lord to go in fear of his reputation and his life."

"There was truth in that, to my knowledge," observed the President; "and there were considerations connected with the daughters—natural considerations, though leading to unnatural cruelty."

"Politics were at the bottom, for all that," said the chief, "And now, as she has been my prisoner for so long, I suppose they will throw the whole responsibility upon me. The rebel leaders hate me for my loyalty as they hate the devil. They hate me—"

"As they hate Lord Loudon and myself," interposed the President, "which they do, I take it, much more bitterly than they ever did the devil. But, Sir Alexander, let me point out to you that your course in regard to this lady is now clear. If the rebellion succeeds, let the leaders find that you have taken out of their hands this weapon, which they might otherwise use for your destruction. Let them find you acting with me in restoring the lady to her rights. If, as I anticipate, the rebellion is yet to fail, this is still your only safe course. It will afford you the best chance of impunity—which impunity, however, it is not for me to promise—for the illegality and the guilt of your past conduct to the victim. There is something in our friend's countenance here," he continued, turning to the widow with a smile, "which I should like to understand. I fear I have not her good opinion, as I could wish."

Annie told exactly what she was thinking: that all this reasoning was wrong, because wasteful of the right. Surely it was the shortest and clearest thing to say that, late as it was, it was better for Sir Alexander to begin doing right than persist in the wrong.

"I quite agree with you," said the President, "and if people generally were like you, we should be saved most of the argumentation of our law courts—if, indeed, we should need the courts at all, or, perhaps, even any human law. Come, Sir Alexander, let me beg your company to call on Lady Carse. One needs the countenance of the chief, who is always and everywhere welcome in his own territory, to excuse so early a visit."

Sir Alexander positively declined going. He was, in truth, afraid of the lady's tongue in the presence of a legal functionary, before whom he could neither order nor threaten violence.

It was a great relief to Annie that he did not go. She needed the opportunity of the walk to prepare the President to meet his old acquaintance, and to speak wisely to her.

Even the President, with his habitual self-possession, could not conceal his embarrassment at the change in Lady Carse. The light from the window shone upon her face; yet he glanced at the widow, as in doubt whether this could be the right person, before he made his complaints. In the midst of her agitation at the meeting, Lady Carse said to herself that the good man was losing his memory; and, indeed, it was time; for he must be above sixty. She wondered whether it was a sign that her husband might be losing his faculties too: but she feared Duncan Forbes was a good deal the older of the two.

It would have astonished those who did not know Duncan Forbes to see him now. He was a fugitive from the rebels, who might at the moment be burning his house, and impoverishing his tenants; he had been wandering in the mountains for many days, and had spent the last night upon the sea; his clothes were weather-stained, his periwig damp, and his buckles rusted; he was at the moment weary and aching with cold and hunger; he was in the presence of a lady whom he had for years supposed dead and buried; and he was under the shock of seeing a face once full of health and animation now not only wasted, but alive with misery in every fibre: yet he sat on a bench in this island dwelling—in his eyes a hovel—with his gold-headed cane between his knees, talking with all the courtesy, calmness, and measured cheerfulness, which Edinburgh knew so well. Nothing could be better for Lady Carse than his manner. It actually took away the sense of wonder at their meeting, and meeting thus. While he had stood at the threshold, and she heard whom she was to see, her brain had reeled, and her countenance had become such as it might well dismay him to see; but such was the influence of his composure, and of the associations which his presence revived, that she soon appeared in Annie's eyes a totally altered person. As the two sat at breakfast, Annie saw before her the gentleman and lady complete, in spite of every disguise of dress and circumstance.

At the close of the meal, Annie slipped away to her own house: but it was not long before she was sent for, at the desire, not of Lady Carse, but of the President. He wished her to hear what he had to relate. He told of Mr Hope's exertions in Edinburgh, and of his having at length ventured upon an illegal proceeding for which only the disturbance of the times could be pleaded in excuse. He had sent out a vessel, containing a few armed men, and Mrs Ruthven, who had undertaken to act as guide to Lady Carse's residence. It was understood that the captain had set Mrs Ruthven ashore in Lorn, through some disagreement between them; and that the vessel had proceeded as far as Barra, when the captain was so certainly informed that the lady had been removed to the mainland that he turned back; pleading, further, that there was such evident want of sense in Mrs Ruthven, and such contradictory testimony between her and her husband, that he doubted whether any portion of their story was true. It was next believed that a commission of enquiry would be soon sent to this and other islands: but this could not take place until the public tranquillity should be in some degree restored.

"Before that, I shall be dead," sighed Lady Carse, impatiently.

"There is no need now to wait for the commission," said the President. "Where I am, all violations of the law must cease. Your captivity is now at an end, except in so far as you are subject to ill health, or, like myself, to winter weather and most wintry fortunes."

"The day is come, then," said Annie, through shining tears. "You are now delivered out of the hand of man, and have to wait only God's pleasure."

"What matters it," murmured Lady Carse, "how you call my misfortunes? Here I sit, a shivering exile—"

"So far like myself," observed the President, moving nearer the scanty fire.

"You have not been heart-sick for years under insufferable wrongs," declared Lady Carse. "And you have not the grave open at your feet while everything you care for is beckoning to you to come away. You—"

"Pardon me, my old friend," said he, mildly. "That is exactly my case. I am old: the grave is open at my feet; and beyond it stands she who, though early lost, has been the constant passion of my life. Perhaps my heart may have pined under the privation of her society as sensibly as yours under afflictions more strange in the eyes of the world. But it is not wise—it does not give strength, but impair it—thus to compare human afflictions. I should prefer cheerfully encouraging each other to wait for release; I see little prospect of any release this day for us exiles; so let me see what my memory is worth in my old age—let me see what I can recall of our Janet. You know I always consider Janet my own by favouritism; and she called me grandfather the last time we met, as she used to do before she was able to spell so long a word."

He told so much of Janet, that Lady Carse changed her opinion about his loss of memory. Again Annie stole home: and there did the President seek her, after a long conversation with her neighbour.

"I wish to know," said he, "whether the great change that I observe in this lady is recent."

"She is greatly changed within a few months," replied the widow: "and I think she has sunk within a few days. I see, sir, that you look for her release soon."

"If the change has been rapid of late," he replied, "it is my opinion that she is dying."

"Is there anything that you would wish done?" asked Annie.

"What can we do? I perceive that she is in possession of what is perhaps the only aid her case admits of—a friend who can at once soothe her earthly life, and feed her heavenly one."

Annie bowed her head, and then said—

"You would not have me conceal her state from herself, I think, sir."

"I would not. I believe she is aware that I think her very ill— decisively ill."

"I hope she is. I have seen in her of late that which makes me desire for her the happy knowledge that she is going home to a place where she may find more peace than near her enemies in a city of the earth." Fancying that the President shook his head, Annie went on—

"I would not be presumptuous, sir, for another any more than for myself: but when a better life is permitted to begin, ever so feebly, here, surely God sends death, not to put it out, but to remove it to a safer place."

The President smiled kindly, and walked away.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

FREE AT LAST!

Sir Alexander and his guests remained on the island only a few days; but during that time the President gave Lady Carse many hours of his society. Full as his mind was of public and private affairs—charged as he was with the defence of Scotland against the treason of the Pretender and his followers—grieved as he was by the heart-sorrows which attend civil war—and now a fugitive, destitute of means, and in peril of his life—he still had cheerfulness and patience to minister to Lady Carse. From his deliberate and courteous entrance, his air of leisure, his quiet humour in conversation, and his clear remembrance of small incidents relating to the lady's family and acquaintance, anyone would have supposed that he had not a care in the world. For the hour, Lady Carse almost felt as if she had none. She declared herself getting quite well; and she did strive, by a self-command and prudence such as astonished even Annie, to gain such ground as should enable her to leave the island when the President did—that is, as she and others supposed, when the spring should favour the sending an English army to contest the empire once more with the still successful Pretender.

But, in four days, there was a sudden break up. A faithful boatman of Sir Alexander's came over from Skye to give warning of danger. There were no three men in Scotland so hated by the rebels as the three gentlemen now on the island; and no expense or pains were to be spared in capturing them. They must not remain, from any mere hope of secrecy, in a place which contained only women and children. They must go where they could not only hide, but be guarded by fighting men. It was decided to be off that very moment. The President desired one half-hour, that he might see Lady Carse, and assure her of his care and protection, and of relief, as soon as he could command the means. He entered as deliberately as usual, and merely looked at his watch and said that he had ten minutes, and no more.

"You must not go," said she. "We cannot spare you. Oh, you need not fear any danger! We have admirable hiding-places in our rock, where, to my knowledge, you can have good fires, and a soft bed of warm sand. You are better here. You must not go."

Of course the President said he must, and civilly stopped the remonstrance. Then she declared, with a forced quietness, "If you will go, I must go with you. Do not say a word against it. I have your promise, and I will hold you to it. Oh, yes, I am fit to go—fitter than to stay. If I stay, I shall die this night. If I go, I shall live to keep a certain promise of mine—to go and see my Lord Lovat's head fall. I will not detain you; we have five minutes of your ten yet I will be across the threshold before your ten minutes are up. Helsa! Helsa, come with me."

"What is to be done?" asked the President of Annie. "You know her best. What if I compel her to stay? Would there be danger?"

"I think she would probably die to-night, as she says. If she could convince herself of her weakness, that would be best. She cannot walk to the shore. She cannot sit in an open boat in winter weather."

"You are right. I will let her try. She may endure conviction by such means."

"I will go with you to help her home."

"That is well; but you are feeble yourself."

"I am, sir; but I must try what I can do." Lady Carse was over the threshold within the ten minutes, followed by Helsa with a bundle of clothes. She cast a glance of fiery triumph back at the dwelling, and round the whole desolate scene. For a few steps she walked firmly, then she silently accepted the President's arm. Further on, she was glad to have Helsa's on the other side.

"Let me advise you to return," said the President, pausing when the descent became steeper. "By recruiting here till the spring, you—"

"I will recruit elsewhere, thank you. When I once get into the boat I shall do very well. It is only this steep descent, and the treacherous footing."

She could not speak further. All her strength was required to keep herself from falling between her two supporters. "You will not do better in the boat. You mistake your condition," said the President. "Plainly, my conviction is, that if you proceed you will die."

"I shall not. I will not. If I stay, I shall not see another day. If I go, I may live to seventy. You do not know me, my lord. You are not entitled to speak of the power of my will."

The President and the widow exchanged glances, and no further opposition was offered.

"We may as well spare your strength, however," said the President. "The boatmen shall carry you. I will call them. Oh! I see. You are afraid I should give you the slip. But you may release my skirts. Your servants will do us the favour to go forward and send us help."

The boatmen looked gloomy about conveying two women—one of them evidently very ill; and Sir Alexander would have refused in any other case whatever. But he had vowed to interfere no more in Lady Carse's affairs, but to consider her wholly the President's charge.

"I see your opinion in your face," said the President to him, "and I entirely agree with you. But she is just about to die, at all events; and if it is an indulgence to her to die in the exercise of a freedom from which she has been debarred so long, I am not disposed to deny it to her. I assume the responsibility."

"My doubt is about the men," observed Sir Alexander; "but I will do what I can."

He did what he could by showing an interest in the embarkation of the lady. He laid the cloaks and plaids for her in the bottom of the boat, and spoke cheerfully to her—almost jokingly—of the uncertainty of their destination. He lifted her in himself, and placed Helsa beside her; and then his men dared not show further unwillingness but by silence.

Lady Carse raised herself and beckoned to Annie. Annie leaned over to her, and said, "Dear Lady Carse, you look very pale. It is not too late to say you will come home with me."

Lady Carse tried to laugh; but it was no laugh, but a convulsion. She struggled to say, "I shall do very well presently, when I feel I am free. It is only the last prison airs that poison me. If we never meet again—"

"We shall not meet in life, Lady Carse. I shall pray for you."

"I know you will. And I—I wished to say—but I cannot—"

"I know what you would say. Lie down and rest. God be with you!"

All appeared calm and right on board the boat, as long as Annie could watch its course in the harbour. When it disappeared behind a headland, she returned home to look for it again. She saw it soon, and for some time, for it coasted the island to the northernmost point for the chance of being unseen to the last possible moment. It was evidently proceeding steadily on its course, and Annie hoped that the sense of freedom might be acting as a restorative for the hour to the dying woman. Those on board hoped the same; for the lady, when she had covered her face with a handkerchief, lay very still.

"She looks comfortable," whispered the President to Sir Alexander. "Can you suggest anything more that we can do?"

"Better let her sleep while she can, my lord. She appears comfortable at present."

Three more hours passed without anything being observable in Lady Carse, but such slight movements now and then as showed that she was not asleep. She then drew the handkerchief from her face and looked up at Helsa, who exclaimed at the change in the countenance. The President bent over her, and caught her words—

"It is not your fault—but I am dying. But I am sure I should have died on land, and before this. And I have escaped! Tell my husband so."

"I will. Shall I raise you?"

"No; take no notice. I cannot bear to be pitied. I will not be pitied; as this was my own act. But it is hard—"

"It is hard: but you have only to pass one other threshold courageously, and then you are free indeed. Man cannot harm you there."

"But, to-day, of all seasons—"

"It is hard: but you have done with captivity. No more captivity! My dear Lady Carse, what remains! What is it you would have? You would not wish for vengeance! No! it is pain!—you are in pain. Shall I raise you?"

"No, no: never mind the pain! But I did hope to see my husband again."

"To forgive him. You mean, to forgive him?"

"No: I meant—"

"But you mean it now? He had something to pardon in you."

"True. But I cannot—Do not ask me."

"Then you hope that God will. I may tell him that you hope that God will forgive him."

"That is not my affair. Kiss my Janet for me."

"I will; and all your children—What? 'Is it growing dark?' Yes, it is, to us as well as to you. What is that she says?" he inquired of Helsa, who had a younger and quicker ear.

"She says the widow is about lighting her lamp. Yes, my lady; but we are too far off to see it."

"Is she wandering?" asked the President.

"No, sir: quite sensible, I think. Did you speak, my lady?"

"My love!"

"To Annie, my lady? I will not forget."

She spoke no more. Sir Alexander contrived to keep from the knowledge of the boatmen for some hours that there was a corpse on board. When they could conceal it no longer, they forgot their fatigue in their superstition, and rowed, as for their lives, to the nearest point of land. This happened, fortunately, to be within the territories of Sir Alexander Macdonald.

In the early dawn the boat touched at Vaternish Point, and there landed the body, which, with Helsa for its attendant, was committed by Sir Alexander to a clansman who was to summon a distant minister, and see the remains interred in the church at Trunban, where they now lie.

When the President returned to his estate at Culloden; in the ensuing spring, on the final overthrow of the Jacobite cause, his first use of the re-established post was to write to Lord Carse, in London, tidings of his wife's death, promising all particulars if he found that his letter reached its destination in safety. The reply he received was this:—

"I most heartily thank you, my dear friend, for the notice you have given me of the death of that person. It would be a ridiculous untruth to pretend grief for it; but as it brings to my mind a train of various things for many years back, it gives me concern. Her retaining wit and facetiousness to the last surprises me. These qualities none found in her, no more than common sense or good nature, before she went to those parts; and of the reverse of all which if she had not been irrecoverably possessed, in an extraordinary and insufferable degree, after many years' fruitless endeavours to reclaim her, she had never seen those parts. I long for the particulars of her death, which, you are pleased to tell me, I am to have by next post."

"Hers was a singular death, at last," observed Lord Carse, when he put the President's second letter into the hands of his sister. "I almost wonder that they did not slip the body overboard, rather than expose themselves to danger for the sake of giving Christian burial to such a person."

"Dust to dust," said Lady Rachel, thoughtfully. "Those were the words said over her. I am glad it was so, rather than that one more was added to the tossing billows. For what was she but a billow, driven by the winds and tossed?"

When, some few years after, the steward approached the island on an autumn night, in honour of Rollo's invitation to attend the funeral of the Widow Fleming, his eye unconsciously sought the guiding light on the hill-side.

"Ah!" said he, recollecting himself, "it is gone, and we shall see it no more. Rollo will live on the main, and this side of the island will be deserted. Her light gone! We should almost as soon thought of losing a star. And she herself gone! We shall miss her, as if one of our lofty old rocks had crumbled down into the sea. She was truly, though one would not have dared to tell her so, an anchorage to people feebler than herself. She had a faith which made her spirit, tender as it was, as firm as any rock."

THE END.