The Household of McNeil

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 485, 5 July 1890, Page 5

The Household of McNeil

BY AMELIA E. BARR. CHAPTER I. THE FAMILY OF MCNEIL. Thou huge-heavinpr sea. Thou art speaking to me. Ever strong, over free. In tho breath of the sea ; Ever rising with power To the call of the hour In the swell of thy tides as they now. Blackie. Strong arc the tics of kindred nnd long converse. _ VESCIIYLUS. Each man has some ono object of pursuit, And lavishes his thoughts delightedly On tho dear idol. Wordsworth. There had been a glorious sunset, red and radiant, floating and flaming above the pale grey sea, and the pale, grey rocks, and the dark islands low-lying amid the waste of waters. But as it faded away, tho eerie sense of the northern night with all its mysteries came over the lonely land, and touched the hearts of the two men who were slowly crossing the Soraba beach—a firm expanse of the billowy sand, ribbed and water-lined, and which was at thi3 point the, ‘thus far,’ boundary of the stormy Sound of Jura.

Theyhad been talking with much earnestness, but as the shadows grew darker, they spoke in lower tones, and at longer intervals ; the pauses being fitly tilled by the boom of the muffled billows, or the cries of the watchful sea-birds—shrill, unknown, secret cries, lending a weirder meaning to the silence.

They were both noticeable men, and both men of authority in their own sphere. One wore the sombre dress of a Presbyterian minister ; the other, a handsome suit of dark-brown broadcloth, with a tartan plaid over his shoulders and a bonnet tipped with an eagle’s feather on his head. The latter was Archibald McNeil, Laird of Edderloch and Ofctordale; and his_ companion was Dugald Brodick, minister in Edderloch, the terror of evil-doers, the friend and helper of all who did well.

As they came nearer to the castle of McNeil, they had to pass through a fishing hamlet. The men in a staid, low, noiseless manner, were moving towards the boats ; tho women, standing in the lone doors, watching them with a long, serious gaze. ‘The sea is a hard taskmaster, Ltird. It canna rest itself, and it gives no rest to those who get their bread on it.’ ‘Just so, Doctor ; but the unrest and the salt savour creop into the blood of all who live near by it. And I’m thinking, too, there is in all men a natural yearning for the sea. Once a year, at least, folk want to get a sight of it; ay, and them that never paw it have had very clear notions anent it. I’m thinking now of Shakspere. ’ ‘ Well ?’

‘ Well ? Who knew it better ? And yet, unless it was in bis dreams, when did he ever see it ?’ * Laird, I’ll answer you in the words of a very wise man :

Think you, ’mid all tin’s mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking l Besides, man, God Almighty yet gives to some of us the power of vision, the faculty divine that was doubtless lost for the main part in the abyss of the Fall. In all ages, men have seen the sea who never set mortal eyes on it. Where would that an Id Arabian, Job, get a sight of such mountainous billows as come dowD Jura Sound ? Or David ? Or the herdsman of Tekoa ? Or Jeremiah ? Or Habakkuk ? Or any ot those Hebrew prophets and poets and preachers ? They never saw the Atlantic come thundering down these narrow water-ways ; but they had a wonderful clear vision as to how it does it.’

‘You have made out your case, Doctor, and here we are at the door-stone ; will you come in ?’

‘No; we have talked enough for one night.’ He turned away with the words ; and Me* Neil stood a moment watching him descend the little acclivity on which the castle stood. It was an imposing building though dignified with the name of ‘ castle but its rude strength and square, massive masonry redeemed it. from all suspicion and meanness. And it had also the air of antiquity ; it looked old, just a 3 an old man had the look of his fourscore years. The door ptood open, and almost involuntarily, as McNeil entered, his eyes sought the quaint stone letters above it. They always did so : it was a habit which had become a kind of superstition with him; though usually he attached no importance to the declaration which his forefather had put there: ‘a.d. 1449. I, man, have the end of all wisdom. I trust in God.’ Hitherto the words had never roused a dissent in his mind. They had seemed to him truthful as words could be. For the first time he felt the chill of some mental antagonism. It wa3 undoubtedly well to trust in God, bub was there nob also some active and positive thing for him to do ? The stir and movement of his century had found him out in the green desert where his ancestors had lived and just let their days come to them. He had alwaye been a careful and in many ways a very prudent and fortunate man. He had the auriferious touch ; all his ventures had ended in gold ; and Hr. Brodick had been tolling him that night he was already rich enough, and that the carrying out of certain new plans which he had formed would be apt to bind him to the constant service of Mammon. He walked through the wide stone hall •with a questioning look. Though it was midsummer, there was a bright fire at the upper end, and a large chair, soft with deer-skins, stood before it. Every night in this cavernous entry the fire was pleasant; this night the chill mist driven up from the sea made it doubly so; bub McNeil did nob accept the mute invitation of the comfortable chair. He went into a little room diverging from the hall, lighted the candles in a silver sconce, and took from his locked desk a book, which he began to read with profound interest. It was a stoutly-bound book, secured by a brass lock, and was in manuscript. In fact, it was his private ledger. It kept the sum of his gains and the total of his bank account. Its contents eeemed to give him much solid satisfaction ; and when at length he re-locked the volume, and replaced it in his desk, it was with all the careful respect which he considered due to the representative of so many thousand pounds. His mood was now p’acid and inclined to retrospection. Thoughtfully fingering the key which locked up the record of his wealth, he walked to the window, drew apart the heavy curtains, and looked keenly Into the night. A pale watery moon was reflected in the sea beneath it; and between lights the fishing boats moved restlessly to and fro. The mountains and moors had now no beauty of colour ; they looked deso- ' late and dreary; but the bare, barren land, and the grey, mournful sea, were far. in sight. It was the country of the

McNeils. He had a fixed idea that it always had been their country ; and when ho told himself, as he did at that hour, that so many acres of Scotland were actually his own, he was aggressively a Scotchman. 4 It is a bonnie bit of land,’ he muttered ; ‘and I have done as my father, Laird Alexander, told me to do. If we should meet in another world. I’ll be able to give him a good account of Edderloch and Otterdale. Thirty years ago, this very night, he gave me the ring off his finger, and said : “ Archibald, lam going tho way of all flesh. Be a good roan, and grip tight.” I have done as he bid me. There are £BO,OOO in tho Bank of Scotland, and every mortgage is lifted. lam sure he would bo pleased with me this hour, and, indeed, I am very well pleased with myself. There is none can say but I have been a good holder of Edderloch and Otterdale. Nob one !’

Bis sell-complacent reflections were cub short by tho entrance of his eldest daughter, Helen ; and ho dropped tho curtains together, and turned his face toward her. In that moment something finer came into it; tho firm, square lowor part broke up into lines that almost suggested smiles, and his eyes glinted kindly at her. ‘ Helen, my bird ! i almost missed you, Helen. If I had not had a few very grave thoughts for company, I should have been seeking you ere this. What is that paper in your hand ?’ ‘lt is a letter from Colin. I also have had one.’ ‘ Whatever news has the lad to need two letters at one post?’ 4 Only good news, father.’

She laid her head against his shoulder with a little caressing motion no other living cr- abure would have ventured upon with McNeil. But to him his daughter Helen was a being apart from common humanity. Nob even his youngest child, the beautiful Grizelda, had half the power over him ; for Grizelda touched only his fatherly instincts, while Helen appealed also to everything that was noblest and sweetest in his nature. In Helen’s presence he was his best self. . She generally managed to leave him on good terms with his conscience, and nothing is more certain than that the average man and woman love those best who insensibly carry them into the finest atmosphere their souls can breathe.

4 And what is it about Colin, my dearie?’

4 He has writb n a very fine paper in one of the great reviews, and every ono is praising what he says. I do nob understand it, but then it must be true, because he proves it by clever calculations.’ 4 And if a man can prove his words by figures, Helen, he is apt to be right. There are no flights and fancies about them. You can always toil what you are doing with figures. Helen, I don’t trust much else.’

4 You never do yourself justice, father. Y"ou have something in your soul far above such mechanical things as figures. At tho exercise last night I shall never forget how your faco glowed when you read that wonderful desciiption of the rainbow: “It. compasseth the heaven about with a glorious circle: and the hands of the Most High have headed it.” Father, your tone and action mado it so real to me that I was constrained to veil my eyes in adoration.’ 4 My dear, I trust I did feel the sublimity of that godlike act,’ and he looked tenderly down at the fair face bright with that invisible light which comes only from within. There was a moment’s silence, and then Helen said, softly : 4 Colin is coming straight home. He will be here by the afternoon packet to-morrow. And he is bringing a stranger with him. Shall I have the best guest-room mado ready for him' ?’ 4 Whom for?’ 4 Ho is an English gentleman from London—a very good man, Colin savs.’ ‘Humph! Would you put an Englishman in the room where a Stuart has slept? I'll not hear tell of it. I am not the man bo lift a quarrel my fathers dropped ; but I’ll not have any English body in tho Stuart’s room. It’s not likely, Helen. What is the man’s name ?’

‘ Mr George Sclwyn.’ ‘ Selwyn i There’s no Scotch Selwyns that ever I heard tell of. He will be Saxon altogether, no doubt. Pub him in the east room. I wonder whatever makes our Colin take up with strange men.’

* From what Colin says, he is good and he is a gentleman. The McNeil is not used to ask his guest “ Whose son art thou ?” ’

* Wait a wee, Helen. When the McNeil has two bonnie daughters, it is only right for him to ask questions ho would not ask if he had not such a charge, and that minds me of Grizelda. Where is she? I have not seen her or heard tell of her since the noon hour.’

‘ She was practising all morning.’ ‘ I know that right well. I have surely bought a pianoforte to my own trouble and confusion ; for I could not make my counts up for it.’ ‘ But, then, in the evening, father ! What sweet songs Zelda sings, and how you do enjoy them !’ *I am nob denying it. Where was she since the noon hour ?’

‘ She went riding, and she met Lord Maxwell, and they took the Bruff Road, and got out of the way. She came home a bib tired ; bub she is well rosbed now, and supper will be ready very 30on, and you ought to be with us in the parlour, father ; it is lonely without you.’ * Helen, there is no use in trying to stay the words that be to come. Listen to them. You are to keep better ward over your sister. I like not Maxwell. ITe i 3 but a stranger and an interloper here. Let him bide in Galloway, where he comes from.'

‘ Father, have you heard anything wrong of Lord Maxwell ?’ ‘No.’ ‘ Have you seen anything wrong ?’ ‘No.’ ‘ Why, then, do you think wrong of him ?’

‘Helen, there aie things we know that we cannot comprehend, just as there are things' appointed for us that are not explained to us. The first hour that I saw Maxwell, I judged him rightly; and for that reason he dislikes mo. I also do not like him. Now, dearie, I will go with you, and we will have a bit of supper and a song.’

They went silently through the chill, stone passages, and came suddenly into a parlour filled with light and comfort. A bright fire was on the hearth, and before it, in a low sewing-chair, sab Grizelda McNeil. Her fine face was veiled in a maze of tender thought; her eyes misty with the languorous melancholy of hidden love. It" was some moments before she could summon h6r soul from its intensely personal reverie to the simple relative duties and courtesies the hour demanded ; but her manner was naturally so reticent and dignified that neither her father nor sister noticed the effort. She had an exquisite face, and a tall and very slender form, and an oasy, stately carriago that had in it something maidenly, exclusive, impossible to bo described.

Usually, at this hour, she unbent her whole nature bo her father and 3ister. She made it pass to a little flurry of song and gay conversation. She told in it all the news she had gathered in the fishing village

or up among the shepherds on the mountains. She exhibited the sketches she had made —the bits of wood and moor and sea, the solitary fisherman, the groups of roundeyed, round-faced children. She had a great genius for such sketching, and McNeil was rather proud of her ability. Being a woman, he thought she had a right to pass tho hours in what he considered, after all, a very useless kind of fashion ; for pretty, purposeless work was, at that day, the special vocation of wealthy women. But this night, Grizelda seemed unable to mix her personality with that of others. She was singularly silent, and when asked to sing, did so with an indifference which made McNeil say, fretfully :

‘ You are giving good music poor justice, Grizelda. You must have been in ill company, for it has taken the song out of your heart. Helen, read me the letter Colin sent you ; maybe there will be a bit of kindness and pleasantness in it.’ Colin’s letter, however, was no more satisfactory than Griselda’s music had been. It was full of the Itev. George Selwyn ; and McNeil found himself anticipating annoyance and disappointment ' from the visit. In the first place, ho had a new business plan to carry out, and he had been waiting nearly a year for the termination of Colin’s law studies. He needed his co-operation, and he was impatient of any visitor who would probably prolong the days of unprofitable inactivity. In the second place, he was intensely jealous of Helen, and every young man, in his eyes, was a probable suitor. For a few years, he wished to retain her by his own side, and at his own hearth ; and when the question of her marriage had to be faced, he had quite determined to give her to his nephew and elected heir, Colin McNeil. He had adopted tho young man at his brother’s death, and though the estate was nob entailed, it was a tacitly understood thing that Colin would bo the future McNeil. And a decided part of this scheme, in the laird’s eyes, was the marriago of the heir to his own oldest daughter. There seemed such an element of justness and fitness in this arrangement; it was so clear to his own mind, that ho never anticipated opposition or dissent in the matter ; so he could not think with patience or pleasure of any element coming into McNeil Castle which might be a disturbing one to plans so well considered and satisfactory. But with the morning light he faced the circumstances more hopefully. 4 There are mostly two good sides to ono bad one,’ he thought. 4 lb will be an ill man that is not better than Maxwell. Grizelda thinks she is in love with him because ho has the ground to himself in a manner ; and if this stranger can only make her waver there will bo time gained ; and with time on his side, a man may hope for all things. And it is not likely Helen will take a thought anent him. Her heart is with her own people ; and if she knows anything well,she knows that Colia McNeil and Helen McNeil are sorted out for each other. She never has gone contrary to my wish ; it's no likely she will begin wrong-doing with an English stranger.’ So, confiding in liis own wishes and opinions, lie went in high spirits to meet his nephew and his guest. He had not seen Colin for threo years, and the young man was an object very near to his heart; his nephew, his designed son-in-law, and the inheritor of lands and honors stretching backward into the mists of Ossianic traditions, and forward into the hope 3 and ambitions of an era whose possibilities were almost too large to dream about. As the packet approached the small pier, he was sensible of some anxiety regarding the young man’s personal appearance. The McNeils were a handsome race ; he hoped that Colin would be physically worthy of his ancestors. And he drew a long sigh of gratification as the young man, with outstretched hands, leaped from the boat to meet him. For the future McNeil was certainly a proper Highland gentleman ; tall and swarthy,with the glowing eyes and rather melancholy air of the true Celt.

His companion, the Rev. George Selwyn, was singularly unlike him. The McNeill had judged rightly ; he was a pure Saxon, and he showed it in his fresh complexion, his fearless, wide-open, grey eyes, and his bright, brown hair. But, as it was only physically that McNeil looked at him, he was not at all conscious that there was something in George Selwyn which struck a deeper and wider sympathy than the sympathy of race—a heart boating for all humanity.

‘There is no danger with the Ike of him,’ was McNeil’s mental comment as he glanced with satisfaction at the young clergyman’s short, square figure, and welldefined educated face. ‘ I need nob fear for Helen. Colin is six inches taller, and every way a far prettier man. CHAPTER 11. A DAY OF EARTH'S UNREST. His doctrines from the streets he brings, From ploughman’s lowly col. From proud palatial halls of kings, From dens where sinners rot In darkness and disease. He hath The wise man’s art to borrow From other’s life he treads the patii Of each man's joy and sorrow. Dr. Blacicie. Sing of the nature of women, and then the song shall surely be full of variety, old crotchets, and most sweet closes, McNeil had anticipated no interference of any kind from a man of such insignificant presence as George Selwyn : but in three weeks his influence had become remarkably dominant. When he first arrived, the laird, out of respect for his office, had delegated to him the conduct of the family worship. His own ' exercises ’ had often been slipped away from, excuses had been frequent, absentees usual ; bub the whole housshold came to listen to Selwyn with an eagerness which was very irritating to McNeil. And both tho laird and his servants heard some startling truths. For the gospel of Christ, interpreted as the gospel of humanity, bringing forth free schools, free hospital, food for the hungry, clothes for the naked, homes for the homeless, helps of all kinds, as part of every church organisation, was, in that day, strange doctrine. It was struggling for a hold in the great cities ; country parishes had never heard of it. McNeil listened with indignation. He thought it very ungentlemanly of Selwyn to preach at him in his own house, and he bv no moans approved of the responsibilities which the young preacher assigned to men of wealth and authority. A religion of intellectual faith, which had certain wellrecognised claims bn his pocket, ho was willing to support, and, if need were, to defend; but one which made him on every hand his brother’s keeper—that was a different thing; he considered it a dangerously democratic theology. ‘ And I’ll have no socialism in my religion any more than I’ll have it in my politics, Colin,’ he said one morning angrily. ‘lf this friend of yours belongs to what they call the Church of England, 1 am more sot up than ever with the Kirk of Scotland, God bless her!’ * ‘ .

‘ The same'ideas are spreading in the Kirk of Scotland, uncle.. .When I, was in Edinburgh, X went with Selwyn to some

ragged schools just founded by our own great Dr. Guthrie. Selwyn was talking to me of what might be done among these poor kinsmen of ours.’ 4 No doubt; but I’ll no need Mr Selwyn to holp me to order my affairs. He may have a big parish in London, but the McNeils are nob in his congregation. You can tell him, Colin, that I am a king and bishop within my own bounds.’ He reached down his bonnet as he spoke, and, without waiting for Colin's answer, walked rapidly to the beach. The salt coolness of the air, the fresh seaweeds glistening with olive fronds and black sea grapes, the sand snipes piping to one another across the sands, the peregrines screaming at and scolding him as they rose from their rock, all these things comforted him in their way. They were familiar ; there was no element of change about them ; they seemed to assure him that, in the world at least, as things had been, so they would continue to bo.

But the morning was destined to be one of annoyance to him. On his return homeward, he met Dr. Brodick. The minister had seen him coniine, and he stood waiting his approach on the web sands. He had lifted his hat to catch the cool breeze, and his tall, sombre figure imparted to the majesty of nature the nobler majesty ot humanity. The wide expanse of beach looked grander for tho man standing on it.

4 Well met, Doctor. Are you going to the castle ?’ 4 Even so. I am for an hour’s talk witli that fine young English minister you have staying at with you.’ * Brodick, let me tell you that you have been too much with him lately. His sermons on the beach the two last Sabbath nights havena given satisfaction. There is a kind of papistical sensation in preaching outside of the kirk.’

‘ But, Laird, the kirk would not hold the congregation ; and, as for preaching out of doors, the Great Preacher aye did it. You will surely not be accusing Him of sensation and papacy.’ ‘Things were fit for Him that are not to bo though of with the like of George Selwyn. The kirk is the place for men to preach. Why, Doctor, he is an Episcopal and an Arminian of the worse kind. I’m more than astonished at you listening to him at all.’

4 Tuts, Laird ! Arminianism isna a contagious disease. I’ll no more take Arminianism from George Selwyn than I’ll take Toryism and Jacobibism from Laird Archibald McNeil. My theology and my politics, both of them, aro far beyond inoculation.’

4 Have you gotten up an argument with him, Brodick ? I’d like fine to hear you two at it.’

4 No, no *, Selwyn is not inclined to argue. He makes downright assertions, and every one of them hits my conscience like a sledge hammer. He said that to me last night, as we walked these sands together, that has not lot me sleep a blink.’ 4 He is a very disagreeable young man. What could ho say to you ? You have aye done your duty.’ 4 1 thought so once, McNeil. I taught the bairns their catechism. I looked well after the spiritual life of both old and young. I have had a word in season for all. But this I ought to have done, and not left the other undone.’

4 You are talkingfoolishness, Brodick, and that is a thing nob usual with yon.’ 4 Nob oftener than with other folk. Bub, Laird, I feel that there must be a change. I have gotten my orders, and I am going to obey them. Y’ou may be very certain of that.’ 4 1 never thought that I should live to see Doctor Brodick taking orders from a disciple of Arminius—and an Englishman, forbye.’ 4 I’ll take my orders. McNeil, from any messenger my Master chooses to send them by. And 111 do His messenger justice. He laid down no law to me. Ho only spoke of the duty laid on his con science ; bub my conscience said amen to his. That is all about it. There have been great questioning and seeking lately among the women at Oxford, and though I don’t agree with them in all things, I can see that they have gotten a kind of revelation.’

‘ Humph ! it is aye tho young men that want to burn the world upside down. Nothing as it is suiis them.’ ‘Laird, it is like anew epiphany. The hungry are fed, the naked clothed, the prisoners comforted, the poor wee bairns gathered into homes and schools. It is the Gospel with bread and meat and shelter and schooling in its hands, and while he was telling me about these things, my ain heart burned. I bethought mo of all that could be done right here in Edderlooh.’

The laird had listened thus far in speechless indignation. He now stood still, and said, ‘l’llhave you bo understand, Doctor Brodick, that I am laird of Edderloch and Otberdale, und that I will have no newfangled ways or doctrines taught in either of my clachans.’ *lf you are a laird, lam a dominie. You know mo well enough, McNeil, to be sure if this thing is a matter of conscience with me, no laird can stop me. I would snap my fingers in the face of anyone who said to me, “Stop,” when my conscience said to me “Go on,” and the doctor accompanied the threat with that sharp, resonant fillip of the fingers which is a Scotchman’s natural expression of intense excitement of any kind.

* Brodick, you are in a temper. You will be sorry for it ere long. You have given way more than I have. You ken how you feel about it.’

‘I feel ashamed, Laird. \ou‘ll no lay the blame to my office, but to Dugald Brodick himself. There is a deal of Dugald Brodick in me yet; and whiles he if too much for Dominie Brodick to manage.’ They were at the door by this time, and the laird said : ‘Comein, doctor.’

‘No ; I’ll go home now, and give myself a talking to ; forbye, I see Mr Selwyn is in the garden with Helen, and I’ll perhaps spoil a better talk.’ The words struck McNeil with a singular force. His face flushed angrily as he turned it toward the shady walk which traversed the garden, and then meandered through the little pine wood bordering the sweet plac?, and into which, indeed, the garden strayed. Acting upon the impulse of the moment, he walked rapidly toward them.

' Holon, you aro needed in the house,’ he said, abruptly; and then, burning to Selwyn, asked : ‘ Will you walk a while with mo in the wood, Air Selwyn ?’ The young man pleasantly complied. He was quite unconscious of anger in the tone of McNeil’s request. And for a few yards neither spoke; then the laird, with an irritable glance at his placid companion, said :

‘ Air Selwyn, fore-speaking sometimes saves after-speaking. I may as well tell you that my daughter Helen is intended for the wifo of my nephew Colin. If you are thinking of wiving in my house—’ ‘ Laird, I thank you for your warning; bub I have no thought of marrying anyone. Holen McNeil is a pearl among women, but I should not dare ask her to be my wife. Even if I desired such a great honour, she would nob be able to endure the labour and the surroundings to which I am pledged heart and soul, When I took a

curacy in the East End of London,l counted all the cost, and nob for the fairest of the daughters of men could I desert the work

to which I have solemnly pledged myself.’ McNeil was intensely mortified. He had simply pub it in the power of a poor preacher, and an Englishman, to refuee his daughter—his Helen, whom he secretly regarded as a being too good for any man’s love or care bub his own. It did not help to conciliate him that Selwyn passed over the conversation as if it had been the most unimportant of episodes. And McNeil was one of those men who. while they are capable of looking over great wrongs, ore made implacable enemies by a slight insult. For the dagger’s thrust, may be forgiven, bub the slap in the face, never ! The pain of the one is tolerable; the humiliation of the other intolerable. And Sehvyn’s calm disclaimer had been felt by McNeil to be an affront of the most insufferable kind.

The great pride of his character saved him from the petty retaliation of impertinence ; he listened with a semblance of perfect courtesy to Selwyn as he proceeded to describe the abject poverty and the degradation of the people among whom he had elected to live. He was even just enough to acknowledge to himself that the young man was a sincere enthusiast, an apostle filled with his own evangel. Yet never in his whole life had he spent a more humiliating and disagreeable halfhour, and ho was exceedingly grateful when Colin pushed aside the tall brackens, and, leaping the stone wall of the plantation, joined them. And the young man’s dark, vivid beauty, his 6upple, graceful figure, his world-like words and manners, made him, in the laird’s eyes, a delightful contrast to the pale, spiritual visionary who had so deeply mortified him. He left Colin and Selwyn together, and returned home in a hurry of mingled annoyance and irritability. The men in the garden took offence because he passed them without a word; the men in the court-yard because ho spoke to them in tones of most unaccustomed and undeserved anger. He went to his own parlour, and locked himself in. His coat and necktie oppressed him ; he throw them off with a passionate exclamation of chagrin. For a few minutes, he permitted himself a full and adequate expression of the storm raging within him. Ah ! the worst of all wounds are those which our own hands inilieb. Though the sun was shining brightly, the laird sat in his own shadow ; and the future seemed to him full of those fearsome phantoms that haunt darkness of any kind. He remembered now how much Helen and Selwyn had been bogother, how often he had seen j them so eager in conversation that their very walk was but a shadow of movement, coming often to a positive standstill. Was it credible they were only discussing the needs of poverty and ignorance, and the best methods of relieving them ? He called himself tiie hardest of all names for his credulity, for his carelessness, for his wrong estimate of his daughter’s character.

' 1 might have known Helen better ! I might have boon sure that Colin, with all his beauty and his full height, would bo nowhere beside that little saint fighting the devil and all his works. Helen isn’t like other women, and I should have had more sense than even her with them. But I’ll tell her what ho said. If she has any hopes of martyrdom with Georgo Selwyn. I’ll let her ken that he docs not need her company. It’s a brutal thing to do ; but there’s hurts for which the Knife is the only kindness.’

Having partially allayed this annoyance by deciding how ib was to be conquered, be began bo trouble himself aboub Grizelda. His antipabhy to Lord Maxwell was a sincere one, none the less vigorous in its nature because there was no apparent reason for ib. And he felt certain that Grizelda’s reputed wealth was the object of Maxwell's desires. He would nob permit himself to suppose that Maxwell was under the influence of a sincere affection.

‘ And Grizelda is as proud and self-willed as her mother was,’ he muttered; ‘what she wants she’ll take and have, if it is within the bound of mortal capacity to win at ib. Preserve me ! To be between two daughters is to be between two fires. 1 do not feel as if it was right for the Almighty to set a man more than one woman at a time to guide. I have had three,’ he added mournfully ; * my wife Grizelda—Heaven give her rest! —and the two girls she left in her place. Dear me ! I am afraid they have been given for my heartache.’ With two such wo rios on hand, a man may torment himself indefinitely ; anci in suspicions and suppositions, all alike full of disappointment and sorrow, the laird let the whole afternoon pass away. Twice some one had gently tried the door, and, finding it locked, gone away. He knew it was Helen. He know that she would be uneasy about his fasting and his long seclusion ; but it was not until the sun began to wester that he felt any inclination, or indeed any ability, to face the domestic duties that belonged to him. And, after all, it was the physical sensation of hunger that first brought his rebelli ous soul to listen to reason. The tinkling of the glass and china was like a soothing voice to him. 4 I’ll have to go to the dinnertable,’ bethought, and the thought was not now unpleasant. He remembered the lordly salmon that had been brought from the loch that morning, and the saddle of mutton and the sweetmeats, and his after-dinner tranquiliisea—the hot glass of fine Campbolton with the slow pipe of Virginia tobacco, These were real and tangible pleasures. He was now prepared to lot them banisli the unpleasant uncertainties which had been employing him. And just at that moment the door handle moved softly again, and ho hastened to turn the lock and give the delayed words of permission, * Come in.’ No sweeter form could have answered the words. Strictly speaking, Helen was not as beautiful as her sister Grizelda ; but her face was fair and pleasing, and luminous with a clear and limpid soul such as God loves. Her dress of rich silk was quite destitute of the usual fla-flx of an evening toilet ; her manner full jof simplicity and a natural candor. Hope and happiness came back to McNeil's heart as soon as he looked at her; and, in the first moment, he felt as if it would be simply impossible and inexcusable to annoy her with his own annoyance. But 6elf-seeking, and not self-sacrifice, is the natural bent of man. When Helen’s hand was in his, when be heard her say : 4 The day has been so dreary without you, father; and I missed you so much at the lunch-table ; and, dear, you look as if you were in trouble he could not resist the craving for her sympathy. 4 1 made a big blunder, Helen ; and because it was about you, my bird,l have had a double portion of shame anent it.’ Then he repeated the conversation which had taken plaoe between Selwyn and himself ; perhaps unconsciously softening his own warning and strengthening the positiveness of Selwyn’s declaration. No mortal could know how bitterly Helen felt the position in which she had been placed. In that moment she realised, for the first time, that Selwyn had been something more to her than a passing visitor. She bad not certainly admitted

the thought of love in her heart, but she had idealised the man, and the conditions of love were present. A word, a sigh, a glance might at any moment have kindled a flame holy and inextinguishable in her pure heart. It was as if the door into some grand temple had been set open, and then, while her toot was on the threshold, sud-

denly closed in her face. Many words and incidents flashed across her memory, which, ones so pleasant, now made her cheeks burn, and her heart turned sick with shame.

Bub to blame her fathor would do no good, and she hastened to say the words which, at the moment, seemed most likely to prevent any suspicion of her own hearttrouble.

‘ Mr Selwyn cares nob for any woman, father; andlthink, besides, Colin will have told him that—that I am

' To*be Colin’s wife, surely, Helen, in a few years, my dear. There is no hurry. Colin must travel a year or two first: see the world. All young men ought to, and he knows I want no forwardness in this mattor. There is no sense in forcing life on. A man should take things in their order ; his education, then his profession, syne, when ho is wearied himself with sfrange countries and strange people, his ain folk, and his ain home. lam in no, hurry to give anybody a share of your love, Helen.’

What could Holen do but clasp his hand tightly, and, with a kiss, give him once more the assurance of her own faithfulness, and of her contentment in his will?

Bub though the laird was partially restored to himself, the evening was nob by any means concordant. Everyone was conscious of an undertone that was nob harmonious, and Helen was almost troubled by a tenderness and attention in Colin’s manner much more marked than usual. She wondered if her father had also spoken to Colin. She felt resentful of such open discussion of herself, and the unexpressed feeling imparted a certain dignity to her manner.

Bub the change in Colin had not originated with the laird. Mr Selwyn was accountable for it. While they wore in the wood together, he had thought it best to tell Colin of McNeil’s suspicion, and, in the conversation growing outof this confidence, Selwyn had spoken of Helen’s spiritual and personal beauty in words which had aroused all the latent jealousy of Colin’s nature. He saw and felt, what was possibly nob clear to Selwyn, that the young preacher was far more under the sweet influence of Helen McNeil than he was aware of; and while he was satisfied that Selwyn had no thought of being unfaithful to his convictions or his’friend, he was secretly angry at the unconscious infidelity. And so subtle and unconfirmed are the springs that move us to action, that Selwyn felt in that moment that his visit was over ; that ho had got the call to go back to London and to work. He did not hesitate a moment, and Colin was a little a«hamed of himself, because he found if impossible to urge his friend with any warmth or sincerity to extend his’visit. Still he made the attempt. * Stay a week longer and I will go as far a 3 Glasgow with you,’ he said.

‘ No, Colin, I Imve done the work I was sent to do. The ground is broken. lean trust the seed time and harvesting to that good Mr Brodick and to your cousin Helen.’

‘ Then you think you camo hove on a special mission, Selwyn ?’ 1 1 trust that Igo nowhere with aimless feet. There was a word to be spoken hete, and God sent me to speak it. The word has fallen on good ground ; you will seo that. But to-morrow morning 1 must go. I am sure it is right to do 30.’ Colin no longer opposed. Perhaps ho was even a little glad. He had been impressed by the spiritual heroism of this new band of evangelists ; but his enthusiasm lacked the strength of continuity. A little good done now and then, a holy Sabbath to savour the week : that was salt enough for life, ns Colin looked at life. A conviction which drives, like rain, to the very roots, was too hard for him. And then he had suddenly become jealous. Selwyn spoke of Helen boo familiarly, too admiringly. He felt sure of her sympathy. He relied upon her to carry out the charities he had planned; made a claim, as it were, upon her life and remembrance. Without consciously analysing these feelings, he wa° moved by them, and their first result was that access of attention and tenderness which had half offended Holen.

As for McNeil, he grandly put behind him all consideration but the fact that Selwyn was liia guest. Every tradition, every inherited feeling, led him to set this duty first of all ; but there was undoubtedly an effort in it, and the entrance of Dr. Brodick was sincerely welcomed. He speedily claimed Selwyn’s attention, and left to the laird and to Cohn and to Helen the less trying position of listeners. Grizelda had never affected the slightest interest in Mr Selwyn cr his theories. She said that his enthusiasm had oven a chilling effect upon her. So she sat at the piano, softly practising with one hand. a brilliant fantasia of Henri Herz s ; but its sweet croscendos did not seriously command her attention ; the running music was only an accompaniment to dreams and hopes of a far more personal character. Gradually the voices of Selwyn and Brodick became softer and yot more earnest, and Helen sat, with her crochet in hothand, listening to them; her fine, sensitive face expressing her assent far more eloquently than words could have done. The laird smoked,and thought his own thoughts. Colin, standing by the open window, put in a word now and then, and watching Helen’s face furtively, as his eyes wandered between the speakers and the misty mountains ; and over all the evening shadows gathered, grey and solemn, and the parlour seemed strangely quiet, in spite of the serious voice.? and the soft, tinkling music.

Suddenly the door was hastily opened, and the footman said, in a voice of suppressed excitement: ‘ Hector Oe would speak with you, Laird.’ McNeil rose in a moment, with a face full of alarmed expectation. Hector Oe was his head shepherd ; and any unusual visit from him generally portended some calamity among the flocks. Dr. Brodick understood this ; he rose and stood by the side of Colin. Selwyn bent forward and spoke to Helen. Grizelda’s soft, aimless playing went on without a break. In a few minutes McNeil re-entered the room. He was trembling with passion ; he could scarcely command his voice as he said :

4 Doctor, Colin, those dogs of Maxwell’s have worried to death more than two-score of mv best ewes. ’

4 It is an outrageous shame,’ answered the minister. * They have already done great damage to the flocks on the Greenlees estate. I heard that Greenlees was suing him for the price of two thousand sheep.* • I will not trouble the law. I w ill be my own judge and jury in this matter. I have bid Hector Oe shoot the brutes, and thon hang them on Maxwell’s gateposts.’ Grizelda had stopped playing when McNeil first spoke ; at these words she rose, and, coming forward into the clearer light, said;

‘ You have given a most ungentlemanly and un wise order, father. It is Hector Oo’s fault. What are shepherds for but to protect the sheep ?’ Her father heard her with amazement which had no words, and Doctor Brodick answered for hitb.

‘ You do nob know what you are talking about, Grizelda. Maxwell is quite awaro of the vice which these brutes practise. He has been kindly remonstrated with, for I w'ent myself to him ; he has been asked to keep them, at least, within his own bounds. He ought to destroy them.’ ‘ A man has a right to keep the dogs if he prefers. Ho does not interfere with those which you or your father keep.’ ‘He has no such right, Grizelda. In a community of sheep-owners, a dog that worries sheep—’

‘Doctor, Grizelda knows what is right. Out of a wicked perversity she speaks. Go to your own room, miss, till you can find a better cause to espouse than that of two vicious dogs and their hound of a master.’ * Lord Maxwell is not a hound.’

*He is the worst hound of the three. I will nob have aanother word from you, 'Grizelda,’ and McNeil himself set wide the door, and imperiously ordered the contumacious girl through it. This event impressed everyone with a sense of finality ; the life embodied in the past few weeks was a finished scene; the actors in it had now new parts to fill. Mr Selwyn went away with less regret than he would have thought possible twenty-four hours previously ; for McNeil, Colin, and oven Dr Brodick were heart-full of the malicious injury perpetrated on the old lairds of the land by a stranger, a borderer, almost an Englishman. [To be Continued ]