The Household of McNeil

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 489, 16 July 1890, Page 3

The Household of McNeil

BY AMELIA E. BARR. CHAPTER V. okizelda’s marriage. Wc, ignorant of ourselves, Begoftcn our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good. Shakspeke. The journey home was most unhappy. The laird did not speak to his refractory daughter, and sho did not appear to regret a circumstance which gave her the opportunity of feeding her heart upon her own thoughts and dreams. The woather was stormy, the roads heavy and disagreeable, and no one, except Grizelda, had any equivalent for the altogether wretched and useless journey. To her ithad proved her lover’s faithfulness. She felt all the triumph of the pursuit, and she found a sufficient pleasure in affecting sleep, and mentally reviewing the fond words he had said and the delightful plans for the future which they had imagined. But at length the wearisome trial was over. McNeil crossed his doorstone again, and looked up at the declaration above it with a heart full of gratitude. The old rooms were glowing with fire-light, and bright with evory kind of comfort. Colin was at hand, full of joy and congratulation ; the servants were eager for a word from him ; the shepherds, the fishers, the village children, all tried to make him understand how welcome to his own homo and to his own people hG was. And it was very pleasant to see Helen’s delight also, to watch her going through the rooms and ordering the table and rearranging their lives. Colin followed her up and down, and was restless if the laird detained him. He had discovered in her absence how lonely his heart, how desolate his home was without her. He felo that a passive admiration would no longer suffice ; and he had met her with words that sent a wave of colour over her cheeks and filled her eyes with a new and sudden light. The laird noticed very soon how constantly Colin was at her side, how readily his voice fell intosoftertones when he spoke to her, how frequently he found opportunities of bending his dark, handsome head until he could almost have kissed the paler glory of her golden-brown hair. It pleased and it pained him. He was willing to givo Helen to Colin, but not yet—not just yet-—he kept saying to his heart. In tho evening Dr. Brodick called, and the two men went together into the laird’s parlour. * Well, old friend,’ said the minister, ‘have you brought good news with you ?’ 'lt has been a most unlucky journey, Doctor. The man followed us. She had been meeting him secretly every day.’ * Why did you give her any opportunity ?’ ‘She said she was sick. She lay upon the sofa constantly, and it was not likely I could shut Helen up night and day with her. There are McNeils in Edinburgh, and other friends and kin, and we had to eoo them or give them an offence not to be pardoned in this generation. If the girl was too sick to dino and visit with her own people, how could 1 suspect sho would be walking about the streets with her lover?’ * Rian, you are na up to women-folk. I’m feared you did not take proper care of her.' ‘ Did you over try to guide a love-sick girl yourself, Doctor ? If you have not, you know nothing about it. For perfect unreasonableness, for selfishness and deception they can beat the big devil himself. What will I do now ?’

• I’ll tell you, Laird. Deal openly with her. Don’t give her a chance to deceive you. Take away from her every excuse for Indulging herself in any romancing folly. Ask her if she is determined to marry Maxwell. If she says she is, let tho man come here and see her. The best half of such love-affairs as this is contradiction. If Maxwell means all he has said, give your permission to what will be otherwise taken without your permission. Of course, Maxwell would rather you refused him ; he would like you to order him from your presence, but I advise you to disappoint him. For Grizelda’s sake, give him at least a bare civility.’ ‘I cannot do it, Doctor! I cannot! I cannot do it!’

‘Think a bit, McNeil. Look at tho very worst side of tho man. lie isna a murderer or a thief or an out-and-out blackguard, that we know of. He is well born, he has an estate in Galloway beeide Blairgowrie. He is made welcome at many a grand house, and rides and hunts with the best men in the neighbourhood. And he goes regularly to kirk, eo that if he be not good he is at least in the way of getting good.’ *lf he be not good ! When Kilmory’s shepherd told him about his dogs tearing the sheep on the mountains, he went oft into a fit of outrageous laughter. When Greenless sent him word, he cursed the messenger, and wished the dogs had torn the men to pieces as well as the sheep ! He never attempted to restrain them until my false daughter betrayed my threat to him. The man has a brute’s nature ; I’m feared I am slandering the poor brutes ; he is naturally cruel ; he has a stone instead of a heart.’

‘But if Grizelda thinks differently what, then V *lf Grizelda be determined to make her bed in hell, and will neither listen to advice nor intreatics, she must even do so.’ * Try, for her sake, to conquer your dislike of Maxwell, Laird.’ * The feeling is beyond me, Doctor. When I car, drink poison and it not harm me 1 can sit with Maxwell and nob feel it to be an insult and an offence. The hatred of him is back of hero. My soul is acquainted w}th his soul, and when my soul says to me, t‘ The man is 4 villain,” 1 know he is pne. { don’t mind if he drank the holy cup gvery yunday, I would have it all the same. X'QU think this is pure prejudice, Doctor ?’ ‘True, McNeil: bijb what we call pre, judiqe is often only a veiled truth, subtly adopted to tho nature that holds it ; too fine, too oomplioatod, too delicate far argument and definition. Have you bold Grizelda of these impressions ?’ *To be sure I have. She only smiled and said, it was a pity I had so much of the melancholy, superstitious naturo of the Celt in mo. As if I could have too much of the Celt in me ! She is set upon going her own bad way.’ « Well, then, McNeil, you must trust God to bring good of bad. Neither of us can do it, for tho' root of Grizelda’s disobedience and folly is seffisbness ; and tho sin of selfishness is “ the old serpent that deceiveth the whole world.” *Oh ! Doctor, I know now how* David felt when he cried out, “It is thou, mine own familiar friend !” It is my child ! Oh, Grizelda ! Grizelda f

4 Consider, Lai-d, if one heart has been faithless to you, there are other hearts around you full of valiant tenderness—hearts that know how (o love. The earth might quake, tho he“vcns melt, you would still find them true. And though Grizelda’s affection has been alienated from you, I do not believe that anyone will have the power bo destroy the grand principles of morality on which I have helped you to build up lier life. And mind this, Laird, the one real, intolerable household ruin is

not that which separates but that which corrupts. If vice has not withered the soul of the child, the parents may still suy “Thank God!’ Bub I must away now. Laird, for I have a night-school to teach at eight o’clock; and the lad sand lasses would be sairly disappointed if I were not on hand.’

‘ A night-school! Such perfect nonsense ! Selwyn’s orders, is it?’ * Selwyn’s order, if it pleases you to call it so.’

‘ It does not please me. Doctor ; and 1 don’t think anybody will approve of the kirk being used for the like of it. It is a kind of desecration—that is my opinion.’ ‘I remembered that feeling, Laird, and respected it. The school is in my ain house ; Kirs by is tossing her head about it, but she will have to thole the bairns until I get a school-house built.’ * And where will you get the siller for it?’ ‘lam not justdestituteof siller myself; and I am looking for help from divers, and for land from you.’ ‘ I will nob give you enough ho set your feet together on, Doctor, for such a purpose.’ * Ay, w'cll, I am not asking you to-night. When you come to your best self, Laird, we will speak about it. God bo with you.’ Then he wrapped his plaid round his brenet and left the castle. lie was tossed and troubled in mind with the fretful worries and perplexities that he shared with McNeil and they chilled his enthusiasm and made all life’3 objects appear small and irritating. But there is also something very impressive in passing from light and human society into the dim spaces of the night and tho solemn company of the stars, and ere ho reached tho manse and the duty he had appointed there, he had quite recovered that elevation of spirit which made it nob only possible, but welcome and pleasant. In the morning, McNeil sent for Grizelda to his room. She had thought such a summons likely, and was prepared for it. Her resolution was in her face, and her face was very handsome. Her father had never been more struck with her beauty. Sho had the air of a princess, and her robe of dark cloth, falling in straight, heavy folds to her feet, clothed her with grace and dignity. ‘ Sit"down, Grizelda. I want you to tell mo truly if you have resolved to take Lord Maxwell in place of your father, your sister, and your home.’ N ‘I have determined to marry Lord Maxwell’ ‘ Then toll him to come hero when he wishes to sec you. The drawing-room is at your disposal. Only farm servants trapse about the moor and lean over gates and fences.’

* Do you mean, father, that you give your consent to our marriage ?’ ‘ I mean that 1 submit to the evil that you force upon me.’ ‘Father, I love Lord Maxwell.’ ‘Once you loved me. Oh, Grizelda, marriage is such a solemn thing ! It is so easy to marry ; bub to get unmarried ! what suffering must precede it! what shame must be associated with it!’ ‘ I shall never wish to be unmarried. I know Lord Maxwe 1 as others do not.' She looked at him a little entrcatingly and a little defiantly ; sho looked so like her dead mother that his heart melted. Ho had put out his hand, took her hand, drew her to his side and kissed her. * Will you wait one year, my child—only one year ; it is all I will ask you ?’ * Maxwell wishes to be married at Christmas. He is going to take mo to London. Lady Mary Maxwell will prosent me at court.’ * You seem to have settled all without me. That is not the way a gentleman seeks a wife, Grizelda. I have a right to bo consulted. My right is older than anyone’s ; stronger than anyone’?.’ ‘ You arc so prejudiced against Maxwell, father. Of course, he will Bee you if you give him permission.’ ‘ Tell him bo call on me. There are business considerations in your marriage that must be attended to. I want to know what settlement he proposes to make upon you. A daughter of the McNeil cannot be married like a milking-maid.' Ho glanced into her face. Her eyes wore cast down, but a beautiful light stole from under their dropped lids, and a soft smile lingered about her mouth. Her whole attitude was that of a girl thinking of her lorer with trust and expectation. But the father’s heart was sofull of trouble that he hardly understood; it was compacted of elements so diverse. From twenty years of love, memory seemed to instantly : every scene that was tenderesb and sweetest; and Lord Maxwell intruded himself as their defacer and destroyer. He had a sense, also, of being unjustly treated in tho matter, which was almost harder to bear than his slighted affection. For the first time in her life, Grizelda saw his face lose every particle of colour, and his hand trembled so violently that the paper-knife he had been holding fell from them. ‘ Are you sick, dear father ?’• She looked anxiously at him, us be shook his head in denial. But he put his elbow on the table, and for several minutes rested his head in his hand. Grizelda stood motionless beside him. She felt severely the pain she was giving ; she had a momentary intention of resigning her will to his will, but ere she could decide between her father and her lover, McNeil rose and went to his dosk. Grizelda knew the book which he took from it. ‘ Grizelda, a girl wants clothes—wedding clothes. I don’t know -how much money, here is a cheque for six hundred pounds ; if it is not enough, tell Helen to come to me for more. Get all that is necessary to your position. You have not much time before Christmas.’

He spoke slowly, and with a depression that weighted e very word as with lead. And suddenly it seemed to Grizelda as if a wall had been built between him and her ; she wished to kiss and thank him for his consideration, but the cold despair of his attitude was too discouraging-

And the piece ot paper in her hands reproaohed her. Vet why ? She asked herself the question over and over, with an almost angry defiance ; she was only doing what other girls did. And of hia own freewill, perhaps only for the satisfaction of his own family pride and honour, had he given her the money at all. She clung to that last idea, and carefully nursed it; for when a girl is bent on a course of ingratitude and selfishness, the first thing the devil teaches her is to debase all the past love which she is violating, and to find for every forbearance and every kindness a selfish motive. Tho following day Lord Maxwell bad an interview with the laird. They met with a determination on both sides to think the best of each other. McNeil, for his daughter’s sake, wished to do so ; and Maxwell was not inclined to indulge his temper at the price of the sixty thousand pounds which might otherwise beGrizelda's fortune. Neither was he so much in love as to bo financially over-generous in the matter of future provision for liis wife. McNeil’s question as to the settlement which he int nded ,to make on her, was promptly met with one as to the fortune bo intended to give Grizelda.

‘ I am not prepared to say what 1 shall give Grizelda,’was the answer, r* You are aware, my lord, that my consent to her

marriage has been in a manner forced from me. When lam satisfied that it is a good marriage and a happy one, I will amply provide for your wife and her possible heirs. Until then, I shall keep her money where I can pub my own hands upon it.’ ‘Then, McNeil, you can hardly expect me to make any settlement of my property on her.’

‘I cannot say that I did expect it. It would have supposed a very unusual generosity, and an affection quito beyond money considerations—a thing not to be looked for.’

‘Suppose, then, we leave money considerations until you consider our affection thoroughly tested. What lapse of time is your idea of a trial ?’ He spoke with a slow insolence which lie found it impossible to control. Bub, though McNeil’s eyes Hashed, lie answered with a calm precision, which left no doubt of his sincerity :

‘lf at the end of five years Grizelda is a happy wife, willing to trust in your honour and rely on your love, I will givo her sixty thousand pounds ; at my death there may be more.’ Maxwell rose at the words. His fir-t impulse was to leave the castle and nevor see Grizelda again ; bub a faint flicker of satisfaction on McNeil’s face roused a suspicion in his heart, which made him determine to marry Grizelda, no matter what came after it,

‘ He intended to frighten me away, and then preach to Grizelda about my unworthiness ; to boast to every petty sheep-raising laird around of the way in which lie saved his child from me. He shall not do it. I will marry the girl !’ These thoughts flashed through his mind even as he rose to his feet. They helped him to keep his words and actions under control, and ho asked with a civility that astonished himself; 4 1 have now, then, your permission to see Grizelda?’ ‘ You have my permission, Maxwell.’ And in giving this permission, McNeil was chivalrous and honourable enough to give all that appertained to it. It included the courtesy of the whole household, and even a seeming i nterest in the necessary preparations for the marriage. Fortunately the strain was as great upon Maxwell as upon the McNeil family. He was anxious to shorten it ns much as possible, and Christmas ove was selected by him for the ceremony. McNeil had objections to the time, but he did not make them ; tho main thing in his mind being to keep the strained attitude of all parties at the point of cour tesy and politeness.

Colin wisely passed a great deal of the time in a visit to Edinburgh. The Edinburgh McNeils had to be told of the intended marriage, and they were quite pleased with it. They looked forward with satisfaction to their relationship with Lady Maxwell. Her house in London would be a nice place to call at, and to talk about. And Colin did nob think it necessary to say anything against the young lord. Indeed, he was rather inclined to think that bub scant justice bad been done him. Ho told Helen that ho could understand how a man might passionately sido with his dogs even against his sense of what, was right. And otherwise ho thought Maxwell a gentlemanly fellow enough. He wished the laird could see that Grizelda was doing very well, and he privately had little opinion of dislikes and impressions which had no tangible cause to rest upon. Presentiments of any kind bolonged to a by-gone age.

So the few intervening weeks went over with at least an apparent placidity. Helen was the sweet spirit who kept peace on every hand. She told the laird whatever could givo him pleasure or confidence; she hid from him all likely to breed suspicion or dislike. She kept the men apart when there was an atmosphere unfavourable to conciliation. fche pub Grizelda in every light that was charming to both her father and her lover; unconsciously she was hourly practising those numberless innocent hypocrisies of love which prevent many a domestic quarrel and make everyone satisfied with themselves and affectionate to others.

They were happy weeks bo Grizelda. The very hurry that was necessary in order to procure her wardrobe gave her a sen.ro of delightful occupation. Beautiful garments were constantly arriving, and as the wed-ding-day approached the castle began to fill with guests. McNeils were a great clan, and all the heads of the different branches had to be invited.

And the laird, in the presence of such a gathering of his family, began to have some uneasy feelings about Grizelda’s fortune. He had no ooubt that many of them would ask him straight questions on the subject. It would be very humiliating to confess that he had given her nothing. The reason would bo inquired for, and how could he say that ho had been led to this extraordinary caution by Maxwell’s unfeeling or ungenblomanly conduct about a few sheep, or by his own fixed conviction of the man’s cruel and dishonourable character?’

‘ Doctor, what will I do in the premises ?’ he asked one day, when tho subject pressed him closely. ‘You have done right, McNeil. What will you want to undo it for ?’ ‘ Folks will ask questions.’ ‘ You have nob such a small measure of capacity as to fear a few old men and women asking questions. You have done right. Then do nob undo it.’

Still, at tho laet he was induced to give more than he intended. Partly his action was a spontaneous outgrowth of purest love, partly it was the result of a foolish pride which could not suffer itself to be put in a secondary place. It happened very naturallj that Lord Maxwell, subjected constantly to Grizelda’s many charms, became deeply in lovo with her, and to gratify his passionate admiration of her beauty, he presented her with many beautiful ornaments. It gave him delight to clasp his shining bracelets on her lovely arms, and kiss the brilliant locket around her white throat, and gem her fingers with rings, and pin up her hair with gold and coral. And yet, as a secondary pleasure, ho was not unconscious that lie enjoyed showing McNeil he could adorn Grizelda ns she had never been adorned before. McNeil was aware of this feeling. It may be doubted if Maxwell had ever a mean thought of which McNeil was not aware. And he watched Grizelda’s pride and excitement over her lover’s gifts, until acertainintention gradually took form in his mind. He did not speak of it: he did not put it into action until Grizelda came to him on Christmas-eve in all her bridal beauty. Full of pride and joy, she tapped lightly at the locked door, a 3 she said : ‘ Father !’

He opened to her at once. He was already dressed for the ceremony, and she was as much, struck with his noble appearance as he was with her own surpassing loveliness. Ho held her hands and looked with an inexpressible affection at the white-robed girl. She glistened in white satin and lace ; she carried orange blossoms and mistletoe in her hand ; her eyes shonn with love and happiness ; her face was like a young rose with the summer sunshine on it.

‘ Mj* sweet Grizelda ! My dear child !’ * Father, you will not cease to love me ? ‘ Never, while I live.'

‘ Will you forgive me to-night all my disobedience to you ? lam sorry for it.’ "■.* I will forgive you, freely.’ ‘ Will you try and love Walter V

‘ I will try- for your sake.’ ‘ For his own sake, dear father?' ‘Yes, I will try, if he is good and kind to you.’ *He is sure to be good to me, I do nob fear. ’

‘Grizelda, this is my bride present to you.’ He opened some cases, and took from them a necklace and pendant of diamonds and sapphires ; a bracelet, a ring for her finger, and a comb for her hair of tho same brilliant gems * Part of these I bought for your mother, Grizelda ; part of them I have bought purposely for you.’ ‘ Oh my father, how good you are to mo ! —how kind !’

‘ 1 mean to bo so ; truly, I mean to be kind to you in all things. God knows I do !’

Then he kissed her, and put tho jowels in her hand. In his heart there was a great struggle of feeling ; but amid all, ho wns p!eased tosee Grizelda shining in gems that dwarfed all of Maxwell’s gift?. For, in spite of his promise to try and love him for hie daughter’s sake, he did nob like or trust him one bib better; and though he heard him vow, in the presence of God and the gathered clan of McNeil, to love and cherish Grizelda, he did nob believe in him—ho never for a moment believed in him.

CHAPTER VI. THE MCNEII's WORK. Wise men no’er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly seek how to redress their harms, Siiakspbre. Find something to do. The power to find or make an object is a great part or genius. iV ALLOCK. Life does not make us: we make life. J. Kavanagii. The best remedy for injuries is to forget them. Aftor Grizelda, with all her charms and all her faults, had left her home, everyone made the effort not only to hope to the utmost for her happiness, bub also to forget every unpleasant circumstance and suspicion connected with Lord Maxwell, He had shown his most plausible side to Colin, and Colin had an apology or a good word always ready for him. And it was bub natural that Helen should, in a measure, echo Colin’s thoughts, especially when her own kind heart and her hopes for her sister’s happiness made it wise and desirable to do so. The laird said nothing contrary to thiß tone, and he appeared to enter into the pleasure and triumph of Grizelda’s London life with great interest. Ho had, in fact, made a compact with himself to givo Maxwell perfect justice in all •• eflU;ta. So in this amicable tone the castta ftetled down to its new conditions. For i a year, life in it had seemed like a restless dream. Different elements had crept into each new day,and nothing had gone on in that regular manner which alone gives the feeling of security and permanence. But very soon a happy placid monotony became tho rule of daily events. Peace and order reigned undisputed ; the morning and the evening came, each with its own quiet meal and happy conversation. The pleasant rooin3 shone in the firelight or the sunlight, or gained a tenfold comfort by tho beating of the rain and the howling of the stormy winds outside. Or, when the weather was fine and clear, McNeil and the young laird spent the day upon the hills, and came home at night happily wearied with bags full of birds, with hunters’ hearty appetites, and scraps of country-side gossip. And so for a few weeks the sweet monotony of a happily ordered home went on, and in it everyone gathered strength. Toward the end of February, McNeil began to contemplate again the plans for a more active life, which had occupied his thoughts at intervals during the past five years : and one morning, after a long storm when the gray atmosphere was still full of misty rain, and the beach or the hills nob to bo thought of, he called Colin into his room.

‘Colin,’ he said, ‘I think we are both ready for work : if you are, I am.’ ‘ I shall bo glad of it.’ ‘ Ic is the only thing of which a man does not weary. I have already said something to you nnent my plan?. They havo been growing to perfection without any care of mine, but they are ripe for the working now ; and if we do nob turn events into gold, others, and perhaps strangers, will do so.’

‘ Count on me to be your right hand, uncle.’

‘ I do that, Colin. Well, on the eteep bluff we call Britba, I propose to build a fine summer hotel. The travellers up the Crinan Canal will fill it. For the past three years, thousands have turned aside to visit the grand waterfalls and lovely a alleys in tho vicinity. Artists have camped there, bringing their own tents ; and sportsmen have sheltered themselves in the shepherds’ liut3 near by, for the salmon and trout fishing in the small estuaries from Loch Fine is wonderful. And 1 have encouraged all these visitors, until the place is already well-known.’

' But you cannot keep an hotel, Uncle ; it is a business by itself.’ ‘ I am not such a fool, Colin, as to think I can. Forbye, the McNeil cannot do anything so mechanical and tradesmanlike. It is an investment to me. Others will do the labour. It would bean insult to the living and the dead if the McNeil was to put himself in the way of serving stangers for money.’ ‘Then, if you nfcev the real proprietor, and some other man the active one, are you not afraid ofibeing wronged #*•><•' ‘No, I am'-mot.' They avil! be cleverer rogues than have yet been born if they wrong mo. When I have money out, I mostly know what every penny of it is doing. Admitting this, what do you think of tho soheme ?’

* I think very well of it. McLean has built such an hotel on Loch Scredon, and he is growing rich on the revenue from it MacLeod has one in Harris, and Mackenzie in Lewis ; I do not see why McNeil should not have one in Knapdale. I shall be delighted to holpyou,in every way that I can.’

* Thank you, Colin. lam a happy man to have a helper like you First, there will be an architect to see.’

‘ We can get a good one in Glasgow ; and in Glasgow lean always hire whatever men are necessary.’ ‘ Diggers and delvers are the first, necessity. But as these men must have shelter, stone-masons are wanted. There is plenty of materials for them. We might build about adozen cottages nob far from the hotel site. They will form the nucleus for the village—ay, the town—which will be certain to spring 11 p there.’ ‘I will go about the work to-morrow if you wish.’ •I do. You are all I hoped for, Colin. One hand washes the other, and it is a sign of prosperity when the men in a house can work out one scheme together. And there aro other godsends at our door, Colin, such as the lobster fishery, for which the market is just .extraordinary ; and I am going to have a small fleet of boats to carry them to Glasgow. The catching of them and the carrying of them to'market will make a grand winter industry for the men. I’ll

givo an invite to all honest idle men around about, and I’ll be doing good to myself and to others.’

After this conversation, there was no lack of vivid enterprise in McNeil Castle. Colin was going and coming continually, and the laird appeared to have grown ten years younger. His bold and yet cautious enterprise was splendidly backed by Colin’s enthusiasm and physical endurance ; and in a few weeks his work had been well begun. And time passes rapidly that is filled with labour. The spring opened to the sound of the pick and the hammer, and thore was an air of hope and prosperity, and a sense of business that admitted of no lazy intervals, about the little hamlet. It mado the staid old fishers shake their heads and wonder mournfully what the world and the McNeil were coming to. As the summer grew and the work went busily on, the laird was like another person. Nature had given him all the qualities necessary for a leader or director of largo bodies of men. His presence was felt everywhere. His gigantic form stood like a tower among the bowed workers. His clear resonant voice, commanding, directing, encouraging, was the one distinct tone in the babel of tongues, the chip, chip of the stone-masons, the ring of the trowels, and the sounds of the hammers and saws.

Colin was his lieutenant. He was nearly always on the move. The change of workers, the constant need for material, or directions not remembered until the necessity demanded them, the money transactions incident to the enterprise wero all dependent upon him ; so that the drowsy old castle was now ever on the lookout or the preparation. Colin was going away, or Colin was coming home ; the architect from Glasgow was making hie regular inspection, or Mr Balfour, the writer from Edinburgh, who had a share in the investment, was paying a visit to the laird, to consult or advise with him as to the progress of the work.

And this change in the business life of Eddorlocb was met by one equally great in its social and domestic aspects. The minister, in his way, was ns full of fresh interests as the laird. Ho had been brought suddenly into contact with a new and perplexing kind of parishioners, and put face to face with the very duties which ho had discussed theoretically with George Selwyn.

Colin had made it a special condition in all the workmen brought from Glasgow that they should be Protestant®. It was, indeed, a pieco of practical wisdom to insist on this point, for the neighbouring lairds would have opposed the introduction of x -toman Catholic element and an adverse nationality into their quiet villages and pastures; and between it and the indigenous race, fierce quarrels would certainly have sprung up, nob only retarding the work, bub also bringing it into bad reputo. Bub, for all that, they wore very different Protestants from the grave, mystical Calvinists who ga'hered in Dr. Brodick’s kirk every Sabbath-day from the sheep folds and the boats. Those of them who really cared for their religion were usually from Ayrshire and Galloway, and had an old Covenanting rebelliousness about them. And they carried the almost inevitable democratic tendency of Calvinism to its extreme outcome of radicalism. They disputed with Dr. Brodick on church government, and they sang Robert Burns’s most democratic songs in McNeil's very presenca. They were also vulgar and quarrelsome. The poorest Highland gillie on the hills had a vein of poetry in his nature : but these men from tlio Glasgow pavements were painfully matter-of-fact. They could not even understand a courtesy unless it took the form of a glass of whisky. Tho problem which they presented to Brodick Was one to which be bent his whole nature. He understood now why Georgo Selwyn had been sent to speak to him ; and be nnswerod the call, ho believed himself to have received, with a cheerful nlaerity, a glad * Here I am, Lord,’ that had in it not only the wisdom of age, but the enthusiasm of youth. And what Colin was to tho laird, Holon was to that minister. They took sweet counsel together ; they encouraged one another when difficulties sprang up; they w’orked hand in hand for tho tangible welfare of the people, whom they accepted as God’s special charge to them. In many respects it was impossible to do much without the laird’s consent. He owned all the land ; he was a master no one dared to disobey. But he was not able to resist Helen ; sooner or later she won from him whatever she desired.

Thus the pummer passed rapidly away, and in October six new lobster boats, with all their traps and tongs, etc., etc., were launched. They brought nearly twenty new families to Edderloch, and the utmost capacities of the village were needed to shelter them. The cottages building had. been severely denounced by Brodick. Ho pointed out to the laird how they disregarded all the laws of health, and were, in fact, just as barbarous as those which the McNeils had built three or four centuries ago. But the men themsolves were with MclSeil and against change, and Brodick then understood what Relwyn had often told him : ' You will have to teach men what is good for their bodies as well as their souls ; and the latter is far mroo dependent on the former than most ministers like to admit,’ As the first natural result of the increase of population, the Change House was enlarged ; and before the winter was over a rival one had been opened. ‘ The devil is a busy bishop in his parish,’ said Brodick to the laird, when the subject was named, but thero is one good offset against it; the men are mostly very well pleased to learn something; it is wonderful how many of them come at night for the schooling thoy never had before.’ * Humph !’ * I have men forty years old, Laird, as eager as bairns for knowledge ; and I tell you, McNeil, it was a good thought to turn the manse barn into a warm room for them. When the lessons are over and the children gone home, I ask the men to take out their pipes and gather about the lire and talk with me. And they have a wonderful natural capacity for argument.’ * You need not tell me that, Doctor. I know it to my sorrow, and I wish you would not encourage it. They dispute over everything my own orders as well as the rest. I don’t approve of these night-schools—-specially for working men. They are a wrong to mo ; men cannot work all day and study at night. Some one’s right is wronged, and I’m thinking it is mine.’ ‘lf they werena in the school-room, they would bo in the Change House, Laird. Which is the better?’

The laird thought in bis heart that the whisky would be more to bis intereet than the books, bub he did not eay so; there was something in Brodick’s face which restrained him. Yet he continued his complaint in that half-hectoring way that always hides the white feathers somowhere beneath it, until theminisber said solemnly : 4 McNeil, it seems to be your work to make money. It is my work to save soulp, Oar roads are so far apart that we need not run against each other unless we try to.’ 4 But I do not like the way you are doing your work, that is all, Doctor, I don’t like the way.’

'Mammon never did like God’s ways. There it a very old disagreement between them.'

1 A man has a right to consider his own welfare, Brodick. lam justified in that.’ ‘Just so, McNeil; but a man’s welfare ehouldna be more to him than the two tables of the law and the four gospels.’ McNeil had determined at that very hour to speak to Dr. Brodick about his workers ; bub be was not able to make a stronger stand than this. For there was something imperial about the man when he took his stand by the humblest altar of his duty. And, besides, a dim fear crept into the laird’s heart that Brodick might say something to him which would make him feel uncomfortable. It was, upon the whole, better that both the minister and his conscience should bo quiet at present. And yet, perhaps, the sorest point in this interference of Brodick’s was Helen. He had been too busy as yet to interfore with their alliance, bub ho promised himself he would do so very soon. Helen McNeil nursing sick children, and sending broths and jollies to tho3o who could eat no coarser food, and making clothing for tho old and indigent, and interesting herself in the troubles and sorrows of every cotter in the clachan, was an imposition which ho was determined to put an end to. Ho said to himsolf indignantly that, if Brodick folb ho must bo a of Providence to ©very kilo or unfortunate family around, he had no right to impose the rules of his own conscience on Helen. Bub the laird need nob have troubled himself about Helen. Never had she spent so happy a year. Her days were brimful of duties. She had now no need to resort to bits of embroidery, or pencil sketches, or any of the inefficient make-believes of employment with which naturally industrious women, without real work to do, attempt to pass the long hours. Her own domestic duties had been much enlarged. Guests of somo kind or other were constantly at the castle. Tho laird’s lunch must generally be sent to the now building. He kept a messenger running between it and his home. For he had a score of wants, of uncertainties, which must be settled by references Helen alone could send him. Colin also had his claims, and he was nob inclined to forego one of them. Helen must leave everything sometimes and walk with him. She must ait beside him while he took a hurried meal before somo hurried journey. She must listen to all that had happened to him while he was away. She was tho dear house-angel to whom he constantly looked for love and sympathy and assistance.

But amid all these claims upon her time, those that Dr. Brodick brought wero never neglected. They slipped in between, and brightened all tho rest. They wore the .precious ointment upon tho dusty foot of daily life. She found herself often wondering how it was that Dr. Brodick, ns well as Helen McNeil, had been blind and deaf to all this sweet service, before George Selwyn had opened their eyes and ears to it. If there had been any shadow in tho sunshino of this year, it had come from Grizelda. Her letters during her stay in London had been full of joy and triumph ; and, even the laird bad then hours in which ho doubtod if he had not been unjust to Grizelda’s husband. After tho season closed, the young couple had betaken themselves to Switzerland and Germany. It was when they were travelling in these countries Helen first began to notice a change in tho tone of her sister’s letters. She nude no complaint, and they wero brilliant with the atmosphere of foreign travel, luxurious and leisurely ; but Helen missed something. However, Grizelda was not in very good health, and probably, if there was a fault it lay in the lassitude of her spirits, and in her inability to bake tho same interest in what surrounded her. Helen was delighted when, in the lato fall, they returned to Blairgowrie. And in spite of all her own cares, she found time to go thore and superintend the adornment of the house and the arrangement of tho arches of evergreens which the tenants desired to erect in honour of their return. Considering the small resources and tho poverty of tho people on Maxwell’s estate, they made a brave attempt at the customary public welcome.

But Maxwell was scornfully indignant at what ho called 4 the farce.’ His first step across his own threshold was to a muttered imprecation at the stupid folly. He mado no speech, no acknowledgment of it, and looked with a sneer at Grizeida’s poor, heart-failing attempt to make up for her lord’s churlishness by her own smiles and courtesy There was an inoxplicablo change in her face. Helen fancied in her deprecating tone there was even a distinct element of fear. She was still lovely, but a look of fragility about her was in direct contrast bo that royalty of exuberant life and beauty which had characterised Grizolda at the time of her marriage. And Helen soon perceived Maxwell was less suave. The laird’s new enterprises wero in reality a great and constant irritation to him. While he was away nothing had been said in regard to thorn. The grand new building rising on the Britta bluff was the greatest possible surprise to him. So were the litblo lobster fleet and the rapid growth of tho c'achan. He told McNeil thabboth these enterprises had been in his own mind when he bought Blairgowrie, and that he thought ha might have been asked to share in tho speculation. 4 lb was all planned five years ago, Maxwell,’ was the answer, 4 and my partner, Balfour, was the man who pub the thought into my head. So, then, he had the first right to his own idea.’ Bub Maxwell deplored his loss in the matter, and told his own lie so often that he soon hoartily belioved it; nor was it much later ere he began, even in Grizelda's presence, to blame his marriage for his business disappointment. 4 1 bought this place,’ he %vould say, savagely, 4 that I might command a fine coast and build a summer resort, and start a lobster fishery, and I was such a fool as to let a pretty face and a contradictious old man hurry me into a marriage. 1 wonder how McNeil gob hold of my idea ! Did I tell you, Grizelda, that these were my intentions ? lam pure I must have done so and he loo'/ed at her in a way which she understood to be an order to confirm his insinuation.

But, greatly to her own surprise, she dared to disavow his assertion. 4 1 never heard you speak of such a thing Some years ago my fathor and Mr Balfour used to discuss the subject. I often heard them.’

4 Then why the devil did you not tell me about it ?’ He loft the room in a rage, and Grizelda buried her face in her hand, and burst into passionato weeping.

CHAPTER VII. A NEW somtow. Wo arc not driftwood on the wave : But. like the ships that tempests brave, Ourhcait upon their voyage stand. We utter no unheeded cry : * Where is my God?’ lo.He is nigh. And says: * Take, child,, thy Father's hand.’ ".... . Lynch.

A few days before Christmas, Grizelda had a daughter. The. child lived only a few hours, and tho mother lay for many weeks within the shadow of death. “ Indeed, on'

the anniversary of her marriage, the laird and Helen kept a sorrowful vigil at Blairgowrie. The young husband, white and : silent, sab motionless by the fire. The laird walked slowly up and down the room. A great love and pity wero struggling with a mysterious coldness and anger in his heart; the one for his apparently dying child, the other for the impassive husband whose grief appeared to bo so easily borne. Helen was by her sister’s side. She had been there for many awful hours, but she knew nob that her watch had lasted two long days and nights, until Grizelda’s soul came back, wan, weary, from the strange solitude in which it had been fighting for a return. ;

It was near nightfall of the grim winter day when the father and the sister of the sick woman dared to turn homeward with a flicker of hope in their hearts. The laird was silent. Helen could see that ho was nursing a grief, made bitter by suspicions of wrong. She knew his heart by her own ; and yet she could not offer comfort for a sorrow which neither of them cheso to voice.

They brought its shadow with them in-,**", to tho castle. It followed McNeil to his | new building ; he could not lock it out of his room ; and often as he pub it down, , it climbed again into his topmost thought. Yet not.even to God in his most private prayer would ho speak of tho trouble % which he foresaw. He determined not bo anticipate, to hope for the best, to mis- fi trust his own judgment. But Helen eon-:.', fronted the grief, and retiring with it into - that solitude which is the prosence of God, I she sought there counsel and comfort. 1 For it was evident that Grizelda was an unhappy wife - perhaps,indeed.an unkindly * used one. The physicians had thought it ’! well to forbid Maxwell the sick-room. The servants’ piteous looks and eager service I needed no words to interpret them. My . I lady had become an object of commiseration *5 in her own home. A year ago she had ruled V? there like a queen of love and beauty. . »; As tho spring came back toearth,Grizelda came back to health. Yet, old or young, in every great sickness wo lose something 4 that wo never regain. Grizelda stood one morning looking mournfully in her l mirror for a trace of a charm gone for ever. She had lost the dew of her youth in that ' burning fight for life ; lost that nameless, indescribable atmosphere of young years untouched by sorrow and undimtned by tears.

And her heart sank, for she knew that she held Maxwell only by the lustre and brightness of her physical beauty. Her mental qualities he held in low estimation ; he thought her a fool, and did not scruplo to tell her so; while tho very purity of her * morals and her lofty standard of right-and wrong constantly irritated him ; for Grizelda had been so rigidly trained that sin was always sin to her ; her conscience never consented to it; even in hergreatdisobedience, * the sting of it secretly wounded her love, and darkened her happiest hours. Helen watched her with tender solicitude. She went often to Blairgowrie, though she could easily feel that Maxwoll disliked her visits ; and with every one ho threw oiF some particle of the restraint, duo to her presence only, until one day his evil temper passed beyond his control. He talked at Grizolda instead of to her; ho sneered at \ her health ; lie kicked her pet dog out of tho room; he did his best to drive her either into the mistake of open revolt, or the equal mistake of tears and complaints. Holon was burning with finger, yet she watched her sister’s behaviour with pride and approbation. Grizelda became calm as Maxwell lost his self-control. Though''she felt personally every blow given to hor favourite terrier, she knew that interference would be useless, and she made no attempt to interfere. She ignored the hnrd speeches eho could not turn away, with a polite question or remark. Sho did what so many hardly-pressed women do—affected to thinic the particular and private faults of Maxwell were the faults of all his sox, and that she was only enduring the usual fate of all married women.

Even when he left tho room she did not say a word against him. With a patience and pathos Helen had never conceived of as part of Grizelda’s character, sho turned tho conversation upon hor dress, her summer plans, the visits she had to make. * Let me show you the bonnet and mantle Walter brought mo from London last week,’ sho said. ‘Heis so generous. I am sura the lace on them co3t a great deal of money. And he is talking of taking me to Switzerland. He thinks the mountain air will givo me back my roses. What do you think, Helen ?’

And Helen, for very pity, admired tho garment, and affected to approve of the Swiss Mounbains. But oh ! at tho last, when they stood holding each other’s hands, when thoy kissed each other silently, with eyes full of tears, a complaint beyond all words was made, a sympathy beyond all words was given.

Still, until Grizelda spoke, Helen felt 6he must be silent. She had no right to force confidence, no right to make tier sister’s private sorrow the eubject of conversation. Indeed, she respected Grizelda’s reticence, and sympathised with her womanly and wifely feeling which shrank from any dia* cussion of her husband’s conduct. Max; well had, however, no conception of so delicate a feeling. lie belioved the sisters spent their interviews in discussing ' his faults ; and ho had no doubt that Helen faithfully carried his wife’s complaints to her father. There were days in which the suspicion pleased him ; days in which he was rude to Grizelda solely because he expected Helen to report his indignities to tho laird.

For the continual sight of prosperity in which he had no share irritated him more and more. Ho had really cotne to believe himself very greatly wronged by McNeil’s enterprise. The busy clachan of Edderloch, with its happy, prosperous-looking fishers ; tho fine hotel, wliero carpenters, painters and finishers of all kinds were now busy ; the cheering sound of human toil, well paid, and full of contentment; the entire transformation of tho lonoly const filled him with envy. < He camo homo ono day in a passion, and ordered Grizelda to be ready to leave Blairgowrie in a week.

4 Bub where nro we going, Walter?’ 1 Anywhere out of sight of this misorable wilderness. 1 wish I had never set foot in it. But wo shall visit London first;- so take all your fineries with you. It is not unlikely', also, that we shall nover come back here. lam sick of the placo, and will sell it, if I can.’

She did not answer the threat, for she scarcely believed it. Yet it mado her sad

and anxious, for thero were many times when she felt grateful for tho simple sense that her father and sister wero nob far off, and the grey turrets of her old home almost within sight. As the day approached for her journey, j she became very unhappy. A depression ;i she was not able to account for weighed her down, a sense of uncertainty and wrong - made her fearful. She wont to bid her . 'A--father and Helen good-bye, with a heart heavy with unformed forebodings, and her % lather’s manner unconsciously intensified tho feeling. Never had ho been so tender V and so pitiful to her, and yet withal so ■; silent and preoccupied. Sbe wondered if he had heard anything of her trouble. Sho 3? hoped he would not ask her any questions j '

for how could she resist his sympathy ? She would weep uDon his breast; she would tell him all; porhaps-perhaps she mißht beg never moro to leave his loving care.’ And as yet she could not bear to contemplate such an alternative. Maxwell was still unreasonably dear to her. To be with him for the chance of a smile or a kind word wsb something. Besides, there was the social shame of a separation. And G meld a was almost foolishly sensitive to public opinion ; sho could suffer in silence and solitude; she could not bear to think of strangers discussing her domestic life; eho shrank even from their sympathy. (7’o be Continued.)