The Household of McNeil

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 491, 23 July 1890, Page 6

The Household of McNeil

BY AMELIA E. BARR. CHAPTER Vll—(Continued.) When the hour of parting came, McNeil roused himself. The mournful thoughtfulness of hid mood disappeared as a shadow might pass away. He watched Grizelda weeping in Helen's arm 3 with a kind of angry pity, and then, taking her hand, he led* her to his own room. She had not been in it since her bridal night. The thought of all that had passed since mado her shiver and sigh. She looked with a piteous inquiry into her father’s face when ho put her gently into a chair and sat down beside her. ‘I bavo been wondering, Grizelda, whether to speak or to keep silence. Havo you anything to say to me, dear ?’ ‘ No-no—l think not, dear father.’ . • Good girl i Keep your own counsel as long .as it is possible. When, you must speak, remember my ears are always open to your voice.’ She clasped his hands tightly, but said nob a word. ‘I will a3k you no questions, Gri/.dda. I will only tell you something. It happened a week ago. I was walking home by tho fir plantation ; Kinross and I were together. Just at the north corner, before we turned it, we heard some cries of distress. They were not human, and yet singularly humanlike.’ Grizclda covered her face with her hands. ‘‘l know what they'were! Oh, I know what they wore ! Morag ! Poor Morag !’ ‘Just so. The beautiful, sensitive crea-

ture was tied to a tree, and Maxwoll was lashing her. Her nostrils were decked with ■ a bloody foam. She was quivering and sobbing with a sense ol outrage and pain, and when she saw mo, she called me by a whinny as entreating and irresistible as a child s cry. I went up to your husband, and said : “ What are you beating the mare ho cruelly for, Maxwell ? ’ He was livid with passion, and ho answered, “lor my own pleasure. It is none of your business.-,’ Then Kinross said some very strong words to him ; and while I soothed the poor, trembling brute, Maxwell, brought to reason by the passion of Kinross, by his threats and reproaches, condescended to explain that Morag had attempted to bite him. and been disobedient both to his voice and his spur.’ ‘Poor Morag! I havo not seen her 1 afcely. She was my mare once.’ ‘Kinross forced Maxwell to sell her to him on the spot. He would have flogged Maxwell with his own whip if ho had not done sc. And Maxwell knows that Kinross cannot bo trifled with. It was a torrible scene, my child ; and during it my thoughts s were continually with you. The man who flog a gentle, proud, sensitive creative like Morag, could strike a woman, ui, Grizelda, when 1 think of this, my \pod boils !’ I Khe rose and looked at him witli bravo, ■ Vs, though they were full of tears. ‘He I \st not strike mo, father.’ I uf he did ?’ K \should know how to right myself.’ I lh, Grizelda, bo careful !lamso in ■ dark, child, 1 cannot advise you.’ - ‘ And I cannot tnako things plainer yet, father. I ha'e nob lost all hope. When he is away from here lie will be a better man. If I should need a friend—’

‘lf you should need a friend,’ he went to his secretary, and took from it a small parcel. ‘ Money is a sure friend. Here is two.thousand pounds in Bank of England notes. They are easily negotiable. Tell no one that you possess them. Arid you have always me and Helen, and never forgot, my ain dear one, “the Friend above all other.” ’ His voice trembled, for Grizelda was sobbing ou his breast. He let her head rest there for a few moments ; ho stroked her

fair hair, soothed and caressed her as if she had .been a little child, and then, with a kiss, bade her a long farewell. . Tho season was at its height when tho | Maxwells reached London, and for a few b weeks tho various society newspapers men- | tioned Grizelda often enough to give her w father and sister some idea of the life she ;| was leading. But a year’s interval of time I makes many changes. Grizelda herself 1 lacked tho fresh charm of the bride, the Kglad joyousness which had attracted all to ■her, and newer debutantes held her former Singh social place. It made little matter p that, to the thoughtful and the wisely obLservant she was a really far lovelier woman. ■The mas 3 of society is neither wise nor thoughtful; it does nob stop to investigate f changes ; it- treats them at their apparent ftjiilue ; and undoubtedly Lady Maxwell was ? not the bright, brilliant, obviously beautiful woman she had been during the previous ; year. Toward the close of the season, there was to be a ball at the Earl of Lauder’s. Lord Maxwell manifested a singular eagerness for an invitation, and an unusual legat'd for liis wife’s appearance there. He delighted Grizelda by critically examining her dress, and by his approval of it. He even complimented her upon her beauty, and, drawing her to his side, kissed her with a shadow of liis former tenderness. He could have taken no more effectual method to add the last grace to it. The few kind words brought a glory of colour into her cheeks ; the kiss, a wonderful light into her dark, blue eyes. .She took his arm.with something of her old confidence, and he did not chill it by sneers and indifference. She wondered at her own happiness. She glanced with such shy pleasure into his face, that even his hard heart was smitten with a moment’s remorse for the unnecessary suffering he had caused her. lb was so easy to make her beautiful and glad, that ho almost thought it would bo "worth iiis while to do

SO. After dancing some time she became suddenly weary, and her uartner took her to a small couch a little aside from tlio moving throng. For a few minutes she was left unattended, and a shadow of sadness came into her face, lb came from her heart, which was vaguely reminding her "that she was weaker, less buoyant in step, les3 attractive altogether than she had once been. Into this thought a name was dropped, a name she had never before heard, and \ - et which gave her a shock, and affected her as if seme interior voice had said at the same moment. Beware ! * Miss Julia Casselis 1’

She said it over to herself; and when her partner returned to her, she asked if Miss Casselis was present. ' Have you not seen her ? Stand a little to this side, and you will have the pleasure. She is more than usually fascinating tonight. Ah ! Lord Maxwell is dancing with her, I see. I believe, indeed, they are very old friends.’ He went on talking of Casselis Coart, and

Maxwell’s old friendship with the family,

and a score of other things in which the I‘fi two names were blended together. GriK zelda heard the words as a wandering ac- : compatiiment to her own far more vivid i thoughts. For she knew the look upon her face. She had seen him bend to her in the same winning manner when he Jihad wooed her from her duty and her homo in the Edderloch fir wood. She bad parted from him with a smile. When they met again, his face was "dark '.50

and his manner cold. He gave her his arm until they reached their carriage ; then he withdrew himself as completely from her sympathy as if they were thousands of miles apart. Grizelda did not dare to talk/ She „eaw that he had shut himself in a reverie which he would not permit her to en'er.; and when the weary drive was over, she went to her room sick with tho unkind disappointment, and trembling with the presence of coming sorrow. She had no heart left; her long silk garments trailed up tho broad stairway as if they felt the weight of its despair. Her maid was not present, and she did not call her. She was glad to be alone. She fastened thedoor of her room, and stood still with her hands locked and downcast to collect her shocked and scattered thoughts. The grey dawn creeping into the room was not more wan than her face; and tho moonlight beauty of tho pearls around her throat and wrists added a strange pathos to her bewilderment of grief. She had forgotten them. At that moment all the externals of life were forgotten. She was only conscious of the misery in her heart; of the yearning for the love that was lost; of one sorrow answering to another sorrow, until her whole nature longed and ached for some word of comfort. Then she remembered the words of her father. But it was neither to him nor to Helen she would go. Only the Friend above all others could help her in this hour. There was a beautiful little engraving of tbo Man of Sorrows on the wall. It had been George Selwyn’s bridal gift to her, and more than once it had been strangely blent with those tokens of comfort which arc among the secret things nob uncommon in the experience of the loved children whom God chastens. A glimmer of the dawn was on the pale, uplifted face, and on tho crown of thorns; and as she stood with the sad question of her heart before it, she remembered suddenly somelinos Selwyn very often repeated : ‘ Tiio old and gray who travel wearily. All wlio lack bread, all who strivo and sign, Each motherless little one. Mothers whose little ones arc in tho sky, No pain is pain while Thou art nigh !’ and with the words a sense of consolation and strength came to her. She knew not how, for in mystery each soul abides ; yet she surely felt that, with Him nigh, all sorsow might bo borne, and that ‘The tasks in hours of insight willed. Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled. CAAPTER. VIII. -13KOKEN PLANS. Thus deluges, descending on the plains, Sweep o'er the yellow year, destroy tho pains Of lab’ring oxen and the peasant’s gains. The shepherdclimb3 the cliff, and soes from far The wasteful ravage of the wat’ry war Bear down the dams with unresisted sway And swcop the cattle and the cots away. DitYPEX. Death cried: ‘ Thou canst not walk, but I can carry.’ One evening early in the following August, the laird and the minister were walking together from tho new hotel. It was noarly ready for tho furnishing and plenishing, and the laird was very proud of the excellent way in which all had been wrought. ‘No half-and-half work there,’ he said, looking backward to tho building. ‘ I examined overy stone and every plank with my own oyes. I like all my work to be done at the first time—no patching up afterward.’ • It you do not watch yourself better, Laird, you will fall and sink altogether to the level of your age, to keeping an hotel and making a trifle of money, and the like o’ that.’ 4 You have your own schomes, too, Brodick, and you are just as proud of them as lam of mine. While we are in this world we must fash with this world ; and until you yourself are more than a man, dinna throw stones at me.’

•It matters somothing, Laird, as to the things wo fash about. 1 trust I am busy for the good of others. I wouldn’t think much of my work if it was just for myself.’

‘ You havo a habit of talking of my work as if it was a kind of now-fangled idea for money-making which my forefathers would havo thought scorn of. Now I hope I lenow tho McNeils better than you do, and I am particularly well satisfied that all of them were for money-getting in the way possible to their day and generation. They lifted cattle and harried their neighbours because there wer6 no English sbravaging up tho Highlands them days. I shall take my toll, of course, from men coming through my country, but I shall give them good food and lodging for it. And it is nob you that ought to object to new ways. You have more of them than the collego that licensed you would like, minister.’ • Colleges don’t know everything, Laird. They make divines; they don’t make ministers. It is the poor and tho sick and the sorrowful that make ministers.’ ‘ We should have miserable theologians from poor folk and sick folk, Brodick.’ ‘Ay, Laird ; but if men are to be good theologians before they are good Christians our blessed heaven will be empty.’ s ‘ I dislike now idoas in religion ; religion not a progi'essive science like— ’ ‘ Like money-making ? You are wrong, McNeil. Religion is progressive. The faith of Christ is meant to fit every age. Its ways of working must therefore conform to every age. The McNeils are nob surely the sole inheritors of that freedom.’

4 I know wellwhabyou are after, minister. You have got a now kirk on your brain now. I heard of it from Helen.’

‘ The old one will not seat half the village, and when the hotel is opened, next year, where are the people in it to worship ? For the week days you offer them shooting and fishing and" sport of all kinds ; what about the Sabbath ?’ * It is not likely many of them will want to come to an established church. If you take ten Scotchmen from anywhere, you will find nine of them smitten with dissent of some kind ; and as for Englishmen, they dinna think a church is a church unless it be the unadulterated Church of England. Why, Brodick, you have not been able to get your own parishioners to worship together yet!’ 4 They are drawing nearer to it, Laird.’

‘Not they ! You could as easy move Ben Cruaohan across to Ben More as you could get Gael and Lowlander to call each other brother.’

* We are told, McNeil, that mountains can be moved by faith. Why not, then, by love ? lam a servant of God. Ido not think it any presumption to expect impossibilities.’

‘ Well, Brodick, a new kirk is just an impossibilty—but thanks be I the castle is in sight, and I’m glad, for your conversation has not been as pleasant as usual. Don’t turn your own way, Brodick. Come in, man, and let us have a bite and sup to--gether.’ ‘There is going to be a storm soon, Laird ; there’s no mistaking that old, mysterious, hungering sound in the waves.’ McNeil turned and looked over them. You are right, Brodick. The black clouds are gathering in the west-, and it is growing dark much quicker than it should do.*

* “ I made the cloud the garment thereof, and thick darkness a swaddling band,for it,”—that is what God said to his servant Job anent such a eea as wo are now looking

at. Oh, McNeil, how miserably small are our grandest works when we see the Almighty with our ain ayes, clothing the sea in clouds, and binding it in the thick darkness, and setting bars and doors before it, so that if a storm cornea we know that here its proud waves will bo staved.’

'*VVe are not God Almighty, Brodick; and wo are not called upon to measure our works with His works. You are wonderful sombre to-night. Come in, and Colin and Helen will maybe suit you better than myself.’

Colin and Helen stood together at the window watching ths gathering clouds. His arm was around her. Her fair head was against his shoulder, and his dark, handsome face was bent toward it. They had been talking of Grizelda, and Helen’s oyes had a troubled look. The laird noticed it at once, and feltan unpleasant chill when Colin answered thus his query as to what thsy bad been worrying about: 'There is no letter again from Grizelda, and Helen fears she iB ill.’ ‘ Where was the last from ?’ ‘ From Venice. She said they were going to Romo to spend tho winter. ’ ‘Very well; letters do not come from Rome as the crow flies. There will be delays at both ends and all the way too. Colin, you are a poor lover to let your betrothed weep for anything. You should smile away her fears, ray lad.’ ‘lie does far bettor, father; he shares them with me.’

* Uncle, I was saying to Helen that if you were willing we might be married next month, and take our wedding trip to Rome ; we should soe Grizelda, then.’ *lt is a very good idea,’ answered the minister.

• You are none of you thinking of me. What shall I do here by myself through the long months ?’ ‘ Why, Laird, you have the new hotel. It has been your life for the last two years or more. You had better get tho wedding past and throw the doors open. When all the world is coming to Kdderloch you’ll have no time to fash your head with such a small matter as two young things loving each other.’ ‘ You are in a moat uncomfortable temper, to-night, Brodick; but, good-will or ill-will, your words have a grain of wisdom in them.’

Then, supper being ready, they drew around the table, and finished the discussion over it. But such opposition as the laird made was feeble. He was, himself, uneasy about Grizelda. Ho had long seen that Colin’s importunity for. an early marriage would havo to bo submitted to, and lie had become eo fond of Colin that the surrender of Helen to him was not in his imagination so painful 03 it had once been. For as to any actual surrender of the comfort of her continual presence, there was no question of that. There would, be no change in his home, in its beautiful order and ordering. And Helen had never neglected his lightest wish or put lmr lover one moment before him. He had no fear that to a husband he would havo to resign the smallest tittle of his rights as a father. So after a hesitation which was mostly assumed, ho agreed to Colin’s proposal. The marriage was to take place some time in October, and after it, Colin and Helen were to go directly to Rome. And when the decision was really made, McNeil felt a positive satisfaction in it. Ho had not understood until now what an ever-present fear and care Grizelda was in his heart. But he had never been able to rid himself of tho scene between Maxwell and the mare Morag, and' with tho shameful memory there always came a torturing terror lost his child, his daughter, was in the physical power of a. natural, human brute. He tried to deny the possibility of such a terror ; to oppose to it reason and the social conditions of society ; but it laughed at his limping logic, and tho struggle only gave it added energy. For whether a man resists a fear or succumbs to it, the very fact of measuring himself against it insures its hold upon him, And while this conversation was going on, the threatened storm broke. The. terrorstricken rain flung itself wildly against the windows ; tho wind went howling around the castle, clamouring at every ancient door for admission. The great sea’s eternal roar filled the old rooms with an echo that it soon became impossible to interrupt. The laird and Brodick crept close to the fire and smoked their pipes tc monosyllables. Golin and Helen sat together in the background. The tic betweon them had been drawn closer that night, but a strange depression prevented them from discussing it further. Both noticed tho melancholy, and both tried to explain it. ‘lt is nob in my heart, Helen,’ said Colin ; ‘ for I am tho happiest man alive.’ ‘lt is I who am to blame, dear Colin. The moaning and roaring of the waves always make me sad. When I was a girl I fancied they told me ghastly tales of what was happening in the storm, and I used to steal away to sleep with a pain in my heart.’ The storm continued for a week. It flooded tho harvest fields and made tho bogs and moors impassable. The wretched old burf-and-stone cottages in the village were constantly wet ; and even in the new cottages there was great discomfort and suffering. They had been built without anydrainago, though natural facilities for drainage were in sight. 1 The laird found it impossible to reach his work and workers, and was cross and apprehensive of all sorts of wrong and misfortune. The minister found it impossible to relieve one-half of the suffering and necessity brought to him, and ho was irritated by his inabilities. Only Colin and Helen found some vital interest which the storm had nob interfered with. But no storms last for ever. In ten days all was going on again as if sunshino was the perpetual right of earth. The laird had found all well at the building. The deep foundation, the excellent materials and fine workmanship had stood the test of the elements. .McNeil’s heart was settled now. He iiad often feared that tho lofty situation chosen might be a dangei’ous one. But his building had been tried by an unusually long and furious storm, and had nob lost a roof slate. So that now, when the sun was shining again over tho dark dayshine of the sea and the pillared rocks of the heathery hills, he could nob help feeling a kind of satisfaction in the tempest which had brought him so comfortable an assurance.

Besides, a now thought had come into his mind. For the next generation of the McNeils he would build a grander home. The old castle was very dear bo him, but it could be made much larger, and more stately in form, and much more magnificent in the interior. In fact, the passion of dabbling in stone and mortar had taken possession of the laird, and he felt as if life would lack something important when he had no building on hand and no workmen to look after.

As it happened, his architect paid him a visit whi e the-thought was simmering in his mind. The possibilities of the castle were thoroughly examined, the additions and alterations decided on, and McNeil’s heart was uplifted witlKthe idea of the bouse he would leave to those--who would come after him. He thought of himself as tho second McNeil —the. founder of> the family upon circumstances suited to tb\ aims and genius of the nineteenth century. \ Ho felt as if in the land of shadows; thewloNeu

who had first built their home would greet him with a peculiar approbation and affection. He stopped proudly about the old rooms to his ambitious thoughts; and Colin and Helen, happily busy about their bridal arrangements, were glad of the now interest that he hud called into his life. So tho pleasant weeks went by, and there was no sorrow in them, nor yet any shadow or presentiment of sorrow. A letter from Grizelda, dated Rome, had lulled such fears regarding her as were spoken of ; those which lay at the bottom of each hoarb did not interfere with the visible happy routine of daily life. The laird had determined to make his daughter Helen’s marriage a notable event. The festivities at Grizelda’s had been in a manner forced and formal ones, in which the bride had taken littleintorest and which had simply been gob through with by himself because the family name and family feeling demanded them. But Helen’s marriage would be the realisation of his pet plans and hopes. Ho loved Colin, and thought him as worthy of Helen as any more mortal could be. Their union was in every way a fit one ; and ho was resolved to show the McNeils, who had not thought much of Grizelda’s wedding-feast, that when the occasion was worthy of it, lie knew how to rejoice royally with his kindred. And he also had a very decided feeling of pleasure in the prospect of astonishing them with the improvements he had mado on tiie estate.

The castle was in a manner renovated for the event. Rooms that lmd not been used for a generation were thrown open and refurnished. The uneven black oak floors wero covered with rich carpets ; the illfitting windows shielded with draperies of heavy velvet. Antique chairs and sofas were je covered ; polishers, paperera and gilders were brought from Glasgow to make the ancient rooms a lib residence for a young and lovely bride. Helen and Colin found in all these changes hourly cause for delightful hopes and confidences. Helen had all a woman’s delight in a beautiful home. Every fresh ornament pleased her. The disposition of every piece of furniture, tho hanging of every picture, was an event to the lovers. Two chaffinches, building their spring nests among the apple blossoms, were never happier than those two loving mortals, arranging together their futuro home. In the matter, also, of Helen’s wardrobe, the laird had been singalarly thoughtful and generous. Boxes, bearing wedding garments of all kinds, were continually arriving, and Colin knew that whenever he should go to Glasgow to purchase his bride jewels he would carry with him an order from the laird for diamonds of great worth. So, although September was an unusually rainy month, there was a perpetual sunshine of love and hope in the castle.

At the end of September Golin went to Glasgow to make tlie last purchases and arrangements. It seemed to Helen as if he took with him all the rare, sweet atmosphere in which she had been living for a little while. A sudden sense of suspended duties gave her a feeling of remorse. She remembered how soldom Dr. Brodick had been to speak to her, and how little interest she had taken in her usual village work. The thought was a premonition, for ere it had passed away, she saw the minister coming—nob at hi 3 usual thoughtful pace, bub with the rapid steps of a man urged by some powerful reason, and full of a determined purpose. She glanced at her father, who was sitting by the hearth, taking his after-dinner pipe and glass of toddy. He had received that morning tho first draught of the plans for the enlargement of the castle, and he was musing with pride and contentment on their anticipated splendour. Ha greeted Brodick with a peculiar kindness, and held his hand with a hearty grip, for he loved the man, and was not happy in any purpose till ho had discussed it with him, and, if possible, secured his active sympathy. * Sit down beside me, Brodick. There is not a man in the world I would rather see at this hour. Helen, my bird, call for tho minister's pipe and glass,’ He was so full of his own plans he did not notice that Brodick's cheeks had on them the red spot which always indicated his anger ; nor yet that his manner was full of stern prooccupation. The laird, at that moment, could soe nothing but tho magnificent turrets of the projected home, with the ensign of tho McNeila floating loftily from it; and as tha specifications lay beside him, he opened them proudly, and began to explain their purport to his old friend.

Brodick lookedjab them a moment with gathering anger ; then he pushed them passionately away, and cried out: 4 1 dare not look at them, Laird ! I dare nob look at them ! Do you know that there arc fourteen cases of typhus in those cottages you built? Do you remember wiiab George Selwyn said about the right of the labourer to pure air and pure water ? I knew he was right then, bub yet—oh God, forgive me ! —l let you take your own way. Six little bits of bairns, and their two mothers, and six of your best fishermen. You must away instanter for doctors and medicine, and such things as are needful. There is not a minute to lose, Laird !’

Helen had risen while the minister was speaking, and there was a calm determination about her manner which frightened her father. He did not answer Brodick : he turned to his daughter. 4 Helen McNeil, where ure you going?’ ‘To tho village. I know something of nursing tiie sick. I can give a little help until bettor help is gob.’ 4 Sit down ! sit down ! Bide where you are ; I will do whatever Brodick tolls mo to do. 1

Then ho turned angrily to the minister.'* 4 You aro aye bringing the bad nows. Am Ito blame if iever comes? Is life and death in my hand V’ 4 You are to blame, McNeil; very much to blame.’

* Brodick, keep to your own text. I say the cottages are good ones. If men and women oro lazy and dirty, and give fever an invite into their homes, can I help it ?’ ‘AmI my brother’s keeper ? It is an old question, an old excuse; Laird. The first murderer ‘asked it and pleaded it. I am bound to say that you are to blame. When you did not give the cottages good drainage and plenty of pure water, you asked fever into them ; and I will not hear you lay it. to the Almighty. You should have built as Georgo Selwyn advised you to build.’

‘ Name not that man to me ! I hate him ! What did he come here for ? He has brought me nothing but trouble. And I will nob bo hectored by you either, Doctor, as if I was d bad bairn. Say what I must do, and I’ll da it, if it is anything in reason —only Helen shall not leave the castle ; that is sure as death ! Sit down, Helen. Send all the wine and dainties you like to ; but I forbid you to put a foot over the threshold of the castle.’

‘I am not asking for Helen. There is nothing she could do now that some old crone in the village cannot do better.’ ‘ Do or nob do. Helen will bide just where she is. I will count you my enemy for evermore if you set any other duty but my word before her.’ The laird’s anger was, in its way, quite as authoritative as the minister’s, and

Helen signified her assent to his order by a kiss which somehow sent a pang into his heart and a sob into his throat. He put on his hat and went out with Brodick. It was a bitterly anuoying interruption to all his pleasant dreaming. And Brodick’s selfreproaches were his own self reproaches, though he resented them, even while he acknowledged their justice. ‘I wish now that I had built differently. You should have urged me more, Brodick. If you had put it to me, as a matter of right and wrong, yon know I would have minded you.’ ‘ Oh, Laird, my own conscience is enough this day.’ 1 You should have made mo do right. You should havo been more determined witli me.’

It was nob at all likely that McNeil would have listened to any advice on the subject ; it was even probable that urging would have only made him more stubbornly against such slight improvements as had been made ; but it relieved McNeil to think he would have listened to reason, and besides, ho had a sorb of angry satisfaction in augmenting tho trouble of the minister's conscience..

This was tho beginning of evil days. It soon became evident that the wedding would have to be postponed. Guests could hardly bo invited to a village plague-stricken in every household, and the suffering and mourning were eo great and so general that the very idea of festivity amid it was unnatural and revel tin g. Colin alone had a moment’s contemplation of it. He thought it would bo well to havo a very quiet and private ceremony, and take Helen away from tho infected locality. But Helen would not permit the suggestion to be made. ‘ I should bo solfish indeed,’ she said, * to leavo my father alone in his trouble ; and I should be haunted by the constant fear of his death. Besides, Colin dear, our marriage was to be such a great pleasure to him. We may not care for the company and the stir of the wedding feast, but ho thinks so much of it. If wo are married quietly for our own pleasure or safety, I should always feel as if we had defrauded him of a joy he could never have again. An old man’s disappointment counts double, I think, Colin.’ And Colin kissed her fondly. He had no wish but her wish, for she had continually taught him, by her sweet unselfishness, that neither men nor women can live for themselves a life worth living—that all tho flowers of love and happiness blow doublo. CHAPTER IX. TARTIXG. She bought with price of purest broath a grave among the eternal. They parted, yet they love ; And shall these spirits 'n an air serene. Where nought can shadow, nought can conio between. Meet onco again, and to tho other grow More close and sure than could, have been below ! During tho following six weeks, Brodick’s efforts were almost superhuman. He was doctor and nurse and cook. He carried the wailing babies and held the raving men in his strong arms. Ho watched over the sick till the last hope had fled ; he buried them tenderly when life was over. The splendour of the man’s humanity had never shown itself until io stood erect, and feared not though tho pestilonce that walked in darkness and the destruction that wasted at noonday were around him on every side. McNeil also in this extremity roee nobly to the topmost level of what he conceived to be his duty. Flenty of people are willing to play the Good Samaritan without the oii and twopence ; but that was not the laird’s way. Brodick’s outspoken blame had really made him tremble at his new responsibilities. He pub hie hand in his pocket and liberally helped the sufferers. Nor, unless all our own motives ring clear throughout, must we blame him too much if, at the foundation of all his efforts at atonement, lay one haunting thought— Helen ! If he did what be could for others, Helen would bo safer. He never audibly admitted that Helen was in danger; but—but, if there should bo danger, he was, he hoped, paying a ransom for her safety. Toward the end of October the epidemic appeared to have spent itself. Mon began to creep into the sunshine and to handlo their nets with wastedand trembling hands. White-faced women counted their children, and wept because of gthose that were not. Boys and girls, with a strange sbillnees about thorn, played their games softly in tho twilight, and then sab down to whisper together of the dread things that had been seen and heard in the fever-time. The laird tried, as fav as possible, to resume his usual life, but there was still a shadow on the minister’s face, and he know himself that there was a shadow on his heart. Was it from tho still solemnity of death in which he had lately lived so much ? Or was it the shadow of a coming instead of a departing sorrow ? One afternoon Brodick thought he would go and sit with Helen a little while. During his close intimacy with the cotters, lie had learned many things about their daily life which would materially alter his methods of working for their welfare ; and of these changes he wished to talk with Helen. The preparations for her marriage were being slowly renewed, and if she went, •as previously determined upon, to Rome for the winter, there would be few other opportunities for consultation until, her return. She was just going to take a walk on the moor, and he joined her. ‘ Colin has gone to Glasgow,’ she said. ■ ‘ My father had some business he desired him to attend to before we go away.’ ‘ Yes, deal - . Is your wedding-day fixed, Helen ?’

‘On the eleventh of November, if God will.

‘You are gad, my child.’ ‘ Am I ? I thought, indeed, how sad your face was.

The day was itself mournful and grey, even, for a November day. The purple glory of the heather was all gone. The wood was a sombre, silent realm of leafless trees ; and a chill breath of wind shivered through it and made Helon draw her wrap closer around her throat. The rocky shore, the black seaboard, the scaly fish-boats, the jetties thick with kelp and tangle made a dreary picture. And in spite of the Doctor’s intention to talk to Helen of work to be done in the future, ho could not say a word of it though it was a subject that filled his heart.. A pathetic silence fell between them, and he was not able to break it. As for Helen, she walked on with a step a little dragging, and with eyes mournfully fixed on the tossing waves. * They never rest! Neither in sunshine nor in moonshine do they know the blessedness of perfect sleep. ’ ,/ Her voice had a wistful weariness in it. The Doctor looked sharply at her. ‘ Helen, my dear, are you quite well ?’ * I have not been quite well for two weeks. 1 had a strange dream last night. Doctor, if I should die, comfort my father and Colin.’ Her words fell on his ears like words that he had been expecting. He realised in a moment they were the words he had been fearful of hearing. A terror he could not put down made biro speechless; but he

took her hands and felt that they were burning with fever. ‘ Let us go home, Doctor.’

She turned with the words and gave one long, mournful look at the mountains and the sea and the lonely brown stretch of moorland. She was bidding farewell to them. The soul has marvellous intuitions, and Brodick was aware of it. Yet he had not a word to say to her. There are spiritual moods beyond all human intermeddling. The silence was broken by Helen. ‘Doctor, when your heart sinks and is full of doubts, and when the road is dark before you, what do you do ?’ ‘ He that carried our sins can surely carry our doubts ; nay, but, my clear girl, as Ho carries lambs like you in His arms, is there any need to trouble yourself what kind of road is before you ? You cannot miss your way, you cannot bo frightened by anything, not even by death, for He is Eternal Life.’

She looked into his face with the grave gladness of one thab had grasped the hand of a friend.

‘You said you had a strange dream, Helen ?’

' Yes, a dream—a vision—l know not how to speak of it. Could a mortal being ■ee one that is immortal ? If 1 said that I had seen an angel would you believe it?’ * Yes; for the angel of tho Lord encampefch round about them that fear Him, and those who come into the reception of heavenly things, Helen, come also into the companionship with heavenly beings. Infusions of light and comfort —inward helps that blees us when we are not looking for them—intimations, holy thoughts, suggestions of purity and beauty, desires after God, motions of that hidden fire we call prayer—how come they, Helen ? I will tell you. Good minds are joined to holier minds, and the angels of God stiil ascend and descend ministering to those who love Him.’

‘I would toll you what I saw and what I heard, bub I cannot find the words.’ ‘ To you only was tho message, Helen. They who have to hear understand ; they who have nob to hear cannot understand.’

They were by this time in the castle garden. Helen stooped and touched gently the few last flowers blooming there, a cluster of golden chrysanthemums; and tho laird, who had seon them coming, opened the door wide to welcome them. Alas ' Alas ! though ho saw him nob, Death entered with them.

At midnight there was the old, old cry of despair and anguish, the hurrying for help where no help could avail, the desolation of a terror creeping hour by hour closer to tiro hearthstone : for Helen lay in a stupor while tho fever burned her young life away, and the laird was stricken with a stony grief, deaf to all consolation. He wandered up and down, wringing his hands, and crying out at intervals, like a man in mortal agony. Brodick had felt from the first thab there was no hope. Something in the girl’s face, thab last afternoon they walked togobher, had impressed him more than her words and manner. Her soul was looking out from it, a little sad, a little wistful and wondering; silent, and yet restlesH, as the birds are silent and restless just before they leave their summer nests and depart for a land that is very far off. They dream of its sunshine and beauty, they are ready to go ; bub oh ! the long flight over tho cruel sea, where there will be no rest for their weary wings.

And during that last mournful walk tho minister had seen, also,that she had dropped from her care and thought all relating to her marriage and her future. Tho subject interested her no moro than the toy which a child has outgrown interests it. Life, with its joys and sorrows, was already over ; she know that she was going tho way of all the earth, and though heaven had opened to her, and she had undoubtedly had some vision of its beauty, that unknown thing, the passage between the two lands, frightened her. Toward the closo of her life, 6ho became almost radiantly conscious, and radiantly happy. Holding Colin's hand, she had nob one regretful thought for the earthly life they were to have shared together. Loving him with the sweetest tenderness, she felt it no wrong to dosire for thab love, rather the tryst of eternity than tlio fruition of time.

She went away very early in the morning, just when tho horizon was beginning to redden and the earliest robins to twitter in the wood. Colin, with sorrow-haunted, tearless eyes, stood watching her. The laird, bravely struggling with his grief, knelt silently at her side. Brodick also was there and a few of the oldest servants ; but not a word or movement broke the divine stillness of the death room.

It was at this moment Helen said, quite clearly : ‘ Father !’ * 1 am here, Helen.’ * There is a paper in my iewel-box on tho able.’

He went and got it. It was only a small strip, folded crosswise. ‘ Read it when I am beyond all pain. I shall trust you, father! Colin, dear ! Brodick !’ Colin could not spoak. The minister stooped, and said, softly : ‘ls it well, Helen ? Do you feel the bonds of death, my child ?’ * I trusb in those pierced hands that have broken tho bonds of death. Oh, breadth ! Oh, depth !. Oh, boundless length ! Oh, inaccessible height! Oh, Christ’s love !’ Tho mystical grey shadow stole over her face at these last words. Brodick stood praying with lifted hands. It was soon all past—

‘ She had outsoarecl the shadow of our night, And that unrest which men miscall delight.

They dressed her in her bridal gown, and, three days afterward, laid her among the generations of her people, the fighting thanes of the olden years, the brides and widows and children of the McNeils for many a century. Her kindred on the other side were far greater, far more numerous than those in the earthly home she had left.

And the poor, heart-broken fatherthought of this, and derived a strange comfort from the thought. ‘They were good men, according to their lights,’ he said to Colin; ‘ rough men, doubtless, but aye ready to stand up for the faith and for the right. And their women would have the sorrows of women, and their consolations. a Thank God ! Helen will not be without her ain folk, and even there they’ll be nearer than other folk. Eh, Colin ?’

The young man answered only with passionate tears and sobs. The words had broken down the flood-gates of his sorrow. Tfie laird looked at him almost with envy. The eyes grow dry as we grow old, tears are further away ; and oh ! how wo miss the soft rain that soothes the bitterness of woe, and makes it possible for the desert places of the heart to grow green and beautiful again.

McNeil had not wept at her grave. He could not weep for his child, and he could not forget her. For who can say to the heart: Thou shalt not remember? And would he have said it ? .Did the thought of a prolonged sorrow have a certain vague terror for him? Was there in his secret soul a determination to make the best of what had happened to say, what

finished is finished, and the dead ar« dead ?

No ; McNeil bad far too loyal and tender a. heart to accept the comfort; of this practical stoicism—-this secret defiance of God’a will. He cherished the memory of his child by night and day. Cherished it, though it always came with a charge which lay like a stone upon his heart, a heavy trust, which he durst not destroy, and which he was determined not to accept. It was in the strip of paper he had taken from Helen’s dying fingers. It was only a few words, but the request in them was bo stupendous it haunted him constantly for an answer.

‘Dear Father,— Whatever you intended to give me personally, give it, I entreat you, to God’s poor, Helen.’

To givo to the poor all the thousands which ho had intended to givo to Helen ! Ho could not do it! He could not do it! Helen had not known what she was asking. It was a dying sentiment in her to wish it. And it would be a foolish suporstition in him to regard it. Bub, oh, how that slip of paper tortured him ! He pub it away in the most secret drawer of his secretary, bub he could nob hide it. lIU spiritual eyes saw it clearly and continually, saw it in tho broad moontide, saw it in the dark midnight, saw it when ho sat talking with Colin by his fireside, saw it whon ho lay on hi 3 bed in tho loneliness of his own room. And as it happened, he had not tho distraction which the oversight of a number of men had given him for nearly two years. When the fever became epidemic, tho craftsmen on the new hotel had been dis missed, and work on the building stopped until tho spring. Little was bo be done now bub bhe last finishing and the furnishing, and for these things there would bo ample time before the season for opening it arrived.

So that he had no special employment for his hours. He wanderod about the castle, and on fine days persuaded Colin to go to the moors with him. Bub neither of the men shot anything. They walked mournfully about an hour or two, and came home chilled and thoroughly depressed with the bleak hopelessness of their tramp. For neither the laird nor Colin was inclined to talk of Helen. Both jealously guarded their own memories of tho dead girl. Their sorrow was yet too selfish to share. But toward Christmas these solitary reminiscences had to give place in some measure to a roal, active, living anxiety, in which both participated. Grizelda had been informed of her sister’s death, and had writen a long, heart broken and heartbreaking letter to her father, in which she bitterly complained of her inability to come to him in his loneliness and sorrow. ‘ He won’t lot me ! He won’t let me ! I cannot leave without his permission ! He would bring me back, if 1 were at the gate of tiie castle.’ The whole letter was the cry of a soul almost in an extremity of anguish, and Colin had roused himself bo say some very, decided words about his cousin’s position. True, she was drinking the cup her own hands had mingled ; but that was the last of Colin's meditations on the subject. Ho thought of her as Helen’s sister, as his own cousin, as the young girl who had been bis companion and friend; he recalled her beauty, her good-nature, her gay temper ami pretty accomplishments ; and then he thought of Maxwell. He was angry at himself that ho had ever said a word in his favour; he remembered now many doubts and suspicions against him to which it would have been well had he given heed and speech. It made him burn with indignation to know that Grizelda was in the power of such a - man. On Christmas Day the laird and ho, after their dinner, sat down together. The laird was on one side of the hearth : C olin was on the other. They were quite silent for a long time, then Colin, who had been thinking of Grizelda in the manner indicated, suddenly rose, and walking impatiently about the half-lit room, said * I want to see Rome, uncle. I havo been thinking of Grizelda until I am scarcely master of myself. lam suro she is in great trouble.’ 1 Poor Grizelda ! It is just two years since she was married. A sad thing ! a sad thing !’ ‘ And a year ago she lay at tho point of death ! Where is she now? In whab circumstances? We have nob heard a word from her since that pitiful letter after—’

‘ I know ! I remember it ! I thought that day a living sorrow was maybe worse than a dead one.’

* Shall Igo and eee her ? lam ready at any hour.’ ‘I wish you would, Colin, I wish you would ; still, we had better ask what Brodick thinks. It isn’t a light thing to come, 6ver so little, between a man and his wife, unless there are reasons overt, and nob to be denied. Then, who would go for my child quicker than I would ? And who would moet that cowardly, cruel wretch as gladly ?’ • And he seemed to me, when I first kDew him, so handsome and agreeable, I thought him a very fair man.’

* I wonder at it, Colin. Handsome as he was, I saw the imbruted serpent of selfishness in him. I saw the cruelty of the wolf in him. I saw also that be was full of vulpine cunning. Even the gentle Christ called such a one a fox.’ ‘ Patience, Laird* patience ! Who are you calling ill names at the Christmastide?’ It was the minister who spoke. He had entered unobserved by the excited father, and, in spite of his protestations, had listened with sympathy to his opinion of Maxwell. ‘ I was speaking of my fine son-in law. Colin thought him a very fair man once.’ ‘ We have to tako men as they seem to be, uncle ; and, after all, what is a man V ‘ I’ll tell you what God calls a man : “ One that cxecuteth judgment, and eeeketh the truth.” ’ ‘ What think you, Brodick, of Colin going his ain self to eee after Grizelda ?’ ‘lt is what he ought to do, and the sooner the better. Itwillbegood for Colin, too.’ ‘I am ready to go for Grizelda’a sake, for I believe her to be in trouble. My own trouble can never be healed.’ ‘ My dear lad, the hand of Time, which is always the hand of God, will bring you resignation—yea, even happiness. “ For Ho will swallow up death in victory ; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces.” ’ (To be Continued.)