David Elginbrod
George MacDonald

868686but is designed to help with the conversations in broad Scots found
in this work.  A further explanation of this list can be found
towards the end of this document, preceding the word list.

There are two footnotes in this book which have been renumbered and
87




DAVID ELGINBROD.

by GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D.




And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche.

CHAUCER.




TO THE MEMORY OF
LADY NOEL BYRON,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED,
WITH A LOVE STRONGER THAN DEATH.




BOOK I.


TURRIEPUFFIT.


With him there was a Ploughman, was his brother.

A trewé swinker, and a good was he,
Living in peace and perfect charity.
God loved he best with all his trewé heart,
At allé timés, were it gain or smart,
And then his neighébour right as himselve.

CHAUCER.--Prologue to the Canterbury Tales.




CHAPTER I.

THE FIR-WOOD.

     Of all the flowers in the mead,
Then love I roost these flowers white and rede,
Such that men callen daisies in our town.

     I renne blithe
As soon as ever the sun ginneth west,
To see this flower, how it will go to rest,
For fear of night, so hateth she darkness;
Her cheer is plainly spread in the brightness
Of the sunne, for there it will unclose.

CHAUCER--Prologue to the Legend of Good Women.


"Meg! whaur are ye gaein' that get, like a wull shuttle?  Come in to
the beuk."

Meg's mother stood at the cottage door, with arms akimbo and clouded
brow, calling through the boles of a little forest of fir-trees
after her daughter.  One would naturally presume that the phrase she
employed, comparing her daughter's motions to those of a shuttle
that had "gane wull," or lost its way, implied that she was watching
her as she threaded her way through the trees.  But although she
could not see her, the fir-wood was certainly the likeliest place
for her daughter to be in; and the figure she employed was not in
the least inapplicable to Meg's usual mode of wandering through the
trees, that operation being commonly performed in the most erratic
manner possible.  It was the ordinary occupation of the first hour
of almost every day of Margaret's life.  As soon as she woke in the
morning, the fir-wood drew her towards it, and she rose and went.
Through its crowd of slender pillars, she strayed hither and
thither, in an aimless manner, as if resignedly haunting the
neighbourhood of something she had lost, or, hopefully, that of a
treasure she expected one day to find.

It did not seem that she had heard her mother's call, for no
response followed; and Janet Elginbrod returned into the cottage,
where David of the same surname, who was already seated at the white
deal table with "the beuk," or large family bible before him,
straightway commenced reading a chapter in the usual routine from
the Old Testament, the New being reserved for the evening devotions.
The chapter was the fortieth of the prophet Isaiah; and as the
voice of the reader re-uttered the words of old inspiration, one
might have thought that it was the voice of the ancient prophet
himself, pouring forth the expression of his own faith in his
expostulations with the unbelief of his brethren.  The chapter
finished--it is none of the shortest, and Meg had not yet
returned--the two knelt, and David prayed thus:

"O Thou who holdest the waters in the hollow of ae han', and
carriest the lambs o' thy own making in thy bosom with the other
han', it would be altogether unworthy o' thee, and o' thy Maijesty
o' love, to require o' us that which thou knowest we cannot bring
unto thee, until thou enrich us with that same.  Therefore, like
thine own bairns, we boo doon afore thee, an' pray that thou wouldst
tak' thy wull o' us, thy holy an' perfect an' blessed wull o' us;
for, O God, we are a' thine ain.  An' for oor lassie, wha's oot amo'
thy trees, an' wha' we dinna think forgets her Maker, though she may
whiles forget her prayers, Lord, keep her a bonnie lassie in thy
sicht, as white and clean in thy een as she is fair an' halesome in
oors; an' oh! we thank thee, Father in heaven, for giein' her to us.
An' noo, for a' oor wrang-duins an' ill-min'ins, for a' oor sins
and trespasses o' mony sorts, dinna forget them, O God, till thou
pits them a' richt, an' syne exerceese thy michty power e'en ower
thine ain sel, an' clean forget them a'thegither; cast them ahint
thy back, whaur e'en thine ain een shall ne'er see them again, that
we may walk bold an' upricht afore thee for evermore, an' see the
face o' Him wha was as muckle God in doin' thy biddin', as gin he
had been ordering' a' thing Himsel.  For his sake, Ahmen."

I hope my readers will not suppose that I give this as a specimen of
Scotch prayers.  I know better than that.  David was an unusual man,
and his prayers were unusual prayers.  The present was a little more
so in its style, from the fact that one of the subjects of it was
absent, a circumstance that rarely happened.  But the degree of
difference was too small to be detected by any but those who were
quite accustomed to his forms of thought and expression.  How much
of it Janet understood or sympathized with, it is difficult to say;
for anything that could be called a thought rarely crossed the
threshold of her utterance.  On this occasion, the moment the prayer
was ended, she rose from her knees, smoothed down her check apron,
and went to the door; where, shading her eyes from the sun with her
hand, she peered from under its penthouse into the fir-wood, and
said in a voice softened apparently by the exercise in which she had
taken a silent share,

"Whaur can the lassie be?"

And where was the lassie?  In the fir-wood, to be sure, with the
thousand shadows, and the sunlight through it all; for at this
moment the light fell upon her far in its depths, and revealed her
hastening towards the cottage in as straight a line as the trees
would permit, now blotted out by a crossing shadow, and anon radiant
in the sunlight, appearing and vanishing as she threaded the upright
warp of the fir-wood.  It was morning all around her; and one might
see that it was morning within her too, as, emerging at last in the
small open space around the cottage, Margaret--I cannot call her
Meg, although her mother does--her father always called her "Maggy,
my doo," Anglicé, dove--Margaret approached her mother with a bright
healthful face, and the least possible expression of uneasiness on
her fair forehead.  She carried a book in her hand.

"What gars ye gang stravaguin' that get, Meg, whan ye ken weel
eneuch ye sud a' been in to worship lang syne?  An sae we maun hae
worship our lanes for want o' you, ye hizzy!"

"I didna ken it was sae late, mither," replied Margaret, in a
submissive tone, musical in spite of the rugged dialect into which
the sounds were fashioned.

"Nae dout!  Ye had yer brakfast, an' ye warna that hungry for the
word.  But here comes yer father, and ye'll no mend for his flytin',
I'se promise."

"Hoots! lat the bairn alane, Janet, my woman.  The word'll be mair
to her afore lang."

"I wat she has a word o' her nain there.  What beuk hae ye gotten
there, Meg?  Whaur got ye't?"

Had it not been for the handsome binding of the book in her
daughter's hand, it would neither have caught the eye, nor roused
the suspicions of Janet.  David glanced at the book in his turn, and
a faint expression of surprise, embodied chiefly in the opening of
his eyelids a little wider than usual, crossed his face.  But he
only said with a smile:

"I didna ken that the tree o' knowledge, wi' sic fair fruit, grew in
our wud, Maggy, my doo."

"Whaur gat ye the beuk?" reiterated Janet.

Margaret's face was by this time the colour of the crimson boards of
the volume in her hand, but she replied at once:

"I got it frae Maister Sutherlan', I reckon."

Janet's first response was an inverted whistle; her next, another
question:

"Maister Sutherlan'! wha's that o't?"

"Hoot, lass!" interposed David, "ye ken weel aneuch.  It's the new
tutor lad, up at the hoose; a fine, douce, honest chield, an'
weel-faured, forby.  Lat's see the bit beuky, lassie."

Margaret handed it to her father.

"Col-e-ridge's Poems," read David, with some difficulty.

"Tak' it hame direckly," said Janet.

"Na, na," said David; "a' the apples o' the tree o' knowledge are no
stappit wi sut an stew; an' gin this ane be, she'll sune ken by the
taste o't what's comin'.  It's no muckle o' an ill beuk 'at ye'll
read, Maggy, my doo."

"Guid preserve's, man!  I'm no sayin' it's an ill beuk.  But it's no
richt to mak appintments wi' stranger lads i' the wud sae ear' i'
the mornin'.  Is't noo, yersel, Meg?"

"Mither! mither!" said Margaret, and her eyes flashed through the
watery veil that tried to hide them, "hoo can ye?  Ye ken yersel I
had nae appintment wi' him or ony man."

"Weel, weel!" said Janet; and, apparently either satisfied with or
overcome by the emotion she had excited, she turned and went in to
pursue her usual house-avocations; while David, handing the book to
his daughter, went away down the path that led from the cottage
door, in the direction of a road to be seen at a little distance
through the trees, which surrounded the cottage on all sides.
Margaret followed her mother into the cottage, and was soon as busy
as she with her share of the duties of the household; but it was a
good many minutes before the cloud caused by her mother's hasty
words entirely disappeared from a forehead which might with especial
justice be called the sky of her face.

Meantime David emerged upon the more open road, and bent his course,
still through fir-trees, towards a house for whose sake alone the
road seemed to have been constructed.




CHAPTER II.

DAVID ELGINBROD AND THE NEW TUTOR.

     Concord between our wit and will
Where highest notes to godliness are raised,
And lowest sink not down to jot of ill.

What Languetus taught Sir Philip Sidney.


THE ARCADIA--Third Eclogue.


The House of Turriepuffit stood about a furlong from David's
cottage.  It was the abode of the Laird, or landed proprietor, in
whose employment David filled several offices ordinarily distinct.
The estate was a small one, and almost entirely farmed by the owner
himself; who, with David's help, managed to turn it to good account.
Upon week-days, he appeared on horseback in a costume more fitted
for following the plough; but he did not work with his own hands;
and on Sundays was at once recognizable as a country gentleman.

David was his bailiff or grieve, to overlook the labourers on the
estate; his steward to pay them, and keep the farm accounts; his
head gardener--for little labour was expended in that direction,
there being only one lady, the mistress of the house, and she no
patroness of useless flowers: David was in fact the laird's general
adviser and executor.

The laird's family, besides the lady already mentioned, consisted
only of two boys, of the ages of eleven and fourteen, whom he wished
to enjoy the same privileges he had himself possessed, and to whom,
therefore, he was giving a classical and mathematical education, in
view of the University, by means of private tutors; the last of
whom--for the changes were not few, seeing the salary was of the
smallest--was Hugh Sutherland, the young man concerning whom David
Elginbrod has already given his opinion.  But notwithstanding the
freedom he always granted his daughter, and his good opinion of Hugh
as well, David could not help feeling a little anxious, in his walk
along the road towards the house, as to what the apparent
acquaintance between her and the new tutor might evolve; but he got
rid of all the difficulty, as far as he was concerned, by saying at
last:

"What richt hae I to interfere? even supposin' I wanted to
interfere.  But I can lippen weel to my bonny doo; an' for the rest,
she maun tak' her chance like the lave o's.  An' wha' kens but it
micht jist be stan'in' afore Him, i' the very get that He meant to
gang.  The Lord forgie me for speakin' o' chance, as gin I believed
in ony sic havers.  There's no fear o' the lassie.  Gude mornin'
t'ye, Maister Sutherlan'.  That's a braw beuk o' ballants ye gae the
len' o' to my Maggy, this mornin', sir."

Sutherland was just entering a side-door of the house when David
accosted him.  He was not old enough to keep from blushing at
David's words; but, having a good conscience, he was ready with a
good answer.

"It's a good book, Mr. Elginbrod.  It will do her no harm, though it
be ballads."

"I'm in no dreed o' that, sir.  Bairns maun hae ballants.  An', to
tell the truth, sir, I'm no muckle mair nor a bairn in that respeck
mysel'.  In fac, this verra mornin', at the beuk, I jist thocht I
was readin' a gran' godly ballant, an' it soundet nane the waur for
the notion o't."

"You should have been a poet yourself, Mr. Elginbrod."

"Na, na; I ken naething aboot yer poetry.  I hae read auld John
Milton ower an' ower, though I dinna believe the half o't; but, oh!
weel I like some o' the bonny bitties at the en' o't."

"Il Penseroso, for instance?"

"Is that hoo ye ca't?  I ken't weel by the sicht, but hardly by the
soun'.  I aye missed the name o't, an' took to the thing itsel'.
Eh, man!--I beg yer pardon, sir--but its wonnerfu' bonny!"

"I'll come in some evening, and we'll have a chat about it," replied
Sutherland. "I must go to my work now."

"We'll a' be verra happy to see you, sir.  Good mornin', sir."

"Good morning."

David went to the garden, where there was not much to be done in the
way of education at this season of the year; and Sutherland to the
school-room, where he was busy, all the rest of the morning and part
of the afternoon, with Caesar and Virgil, Algebra and Euclid; food
upon which intellectual babes are reared to the stature of college
youths.

Sutherland was himself only a youth; for he had gone early to
college, and had not yet quite completed the curriculum.  He was now
filling up with teaching, the recess between his third and his
fourth winter at one of the Aberdeen Universities.  He was the son
of an officer, belonging to the younger branch of a family of some
historic distinction and considerable wealth.  This officer, though
not far removed from the estate and title as well, had nothing to
live upon but his half-pay; for, to the disgust of his family, he
had married a Welsh girl of ancient descent, in whose line the
poverty must have been at least coeval with the history, to judge
from the perfection of its development in the case of her father;
and his relations made this the excuse for quarrelling with him; so
relieving themselves from any obligations they might have been
supposed to lie under, of rendering him assistance of some sort or
other.  This, however, rather suited the temperament of Major Robert
Sutherland, who was prouder in his poverty than they in their
riches.  So he disowned them for ever, and accommodated himself,
with the best grace in the world, to his yet more straitened
circumstances.  He resolved, however, cost what it might in pinching
and squeezing, to send his son to college before turning him out to
shift for himself.  In this Mrs. Sutherland was ready to support him
to the utmost; and so they had managed to keep their boy at college
for three sessions; after the last of which, instead of returning
home, as he had done on previous occasions, he had looked about him
for a temporary engagement as tutor, and soon found the situation he
now occupied in the family of William Glasford, Esq., of
Turriepuffit, where he intended to remain no longer than the
commencement of the session, which would be his fourth and last.  To
what he should afterwards devote himself he had by no means made up
his mind, except that it must of necessity be hard work of some kind
or other.  So he had at least the virtue of desiring to be
independent.  His other goods and bads must come out in the course
of the story.  His pupils were rather stupid and rather
good-natured; so that their temperament operated to confirm their
intellectual condition, and to render the labour of teaching them
considerably irksome.  But he did his work tolerably well, and was
not so much interested in the result as to be pained at the moderate
degree of his success.  At the time of which I write, however, the
probability as to his success was scarcely ascertained, for he had
been only a fortnight at the task.

It was the middle of the month of April, in a rather backward
season.  The weather had been stormy, with frequent showers of sleet
and snow.  Old winter was doing his best to hold young Spring back
by the skirts of her garment, and very few of the wild flowers had
yet ventured to look out of their warm beds in the mould.
Sutherland, therefore, had made but few discoveries in the
neighbourhood.  Not that the weather would have kept him to the
house, had he had any particular desire to go out; but, like many
other students, he had no predilection for objectless exertion, and
preferred the choice of his own weather indoors, namely, from books
and his own imaginings, to an encounter with the keen blasts of the
North, charged as they often were with sharp bullets of hail.  When
the sun did shine out between the showers, his cold glitter upon the
pools of rain or melted snow, and on the wet evergreens and gravel
walks, always drove him back from the window with a shiver.  The
house, which was of very moderate size and comfort, stood in the
midst of plantations, principally of Scotch firs and larches, some
of the former old and of great growth, so that they had arrived at
the true condition of the tree, which seems to require old age for
the perfection of its idea.  There was very little to be seen from
the windows except this wood, which, somewhat gloomy at almost any
season, was at the present cheerless enough; and Sutherland found it
very dreary indeed, as exchanged for the wide view from his own home
on the side of an open hill in the Highlands.

In the midst of circumstances so uninteresting, it is not to be
wondered at, that the glimpse of a pretty maiden should, one
morning, occasion him some welcome excitement.  Passing downstairs
to breakfast, he observed the drawing-room door ajar, and looked in
to see what sort of a room it was; for so seldom was it used that he
had never yet entered it.  There stood a young girl, peeping, with
mingled curiosity and reverence, into a small gilt-leaved volume,
which she had lifted from the table by which she stood.  He watched
her for a moment with some interest; when she, seeming to become
mesmerically aware that she was not alone, looked up, blushed
deeply, put down the book in confusion, and proceeded to dust some
of the furniture.  It was his first sight of Margaret.  Some of the
neighbours were expected to dinner, and her aid was in requisition
to get the grand room of the house prepared for the occasion.  He
supposed her to belong to the household, till, one day, feeling
compelled to go out for a stroll, he caught sight of her so occupied
at the door of her father's cottage, that he perceived at once that
must be her home: she was, in fact, seated upon a stool, paring
potatoes.  She saw him as well, and, apparently ashamed at the
recollection of having been discovered idling in the drawing-room,
rose and went in.  He had met David once or twice about the house,
and, attracted by his appearance, had had some conversation with
him; but he did not know where he lived, nor that he was the father
of the girl whom he had seen.




CHAPTER III.

THE DAISY AND THE PRIMROSE.

Dear secret Greenness, nursed below
  Tempests and winds and winter nights!
Vex not that but one sees thee grow;
  That One made all these lesser lights.

HENRY VAUGHAN.


It was, of course, quite by accident that Sutherland had met
Margaret in the fir-wood.  The wind had changed during the night,
and swept all the clouds from the face of the sky; and when he
looked out in the morning, he saw the fir-tops waving in the
sunlight, and heard the sound of a south-west wind sweeping through
them with the tune of running waters in its course.  It is a
well-practised ear that can tell whether the sound it hears be that
of gently falling waters, or of wind flowing through the branches of
firs.  Sutherland's heart, reviving like a dormouse in its hole,
began to be joyful at the sight of the genial motions of Nature,
telling of warmth and blessedness at hand.  Some goal of life, vague
but sure, seemed to glimmer through the appearances around him, and
to stimulate him to action.  Be dressed in haste, and went out to
meet the Spring.  He wandered into the heart of the wood.  The
sunlight shone like a sunset upon the red trunks and boughs of the
old fir-trees, but like the first sunrise of the world upon the new
green fringes that edged the young shoots of the larches.  High up,
hung the memorials of past summers in the rich brown tassels of the
clustering cones; while the ground under foot was dappled with
sunshine on the fallen fir-needles, and the great fallen cones which
had opened to scatter their autumnal seed, and now lay waiting for
decay.  Overhead, the tops whence they had fallen, waved in the
wind, as in welcome of the Spring, with that peculiar swinging
motion which made the poets of the sixteenth century call them
"sailing pines."  The wind blew cool, but not cold; and was filled
with a delicious odour from the earth, which Sutherland took as a
sign that she was coming alive at last.  And the Spring he went out
to meet, met him.  For, first, at the foot of a tree, he spied a
tiny primrose, peeping out of its rough, careful leaves; and he
wondered how, by any metamorphosis, such leaves could pass into such
a flower.  Had he seen the mother of the next spring-messenger he
was about to meet, the same thought would have returned in another
form.  For, next, as he passed on with the primrose in his hand,
thinking it was almost cruel to pluck it, the Spring met him, as if
in her own shape, in the person of Margaret, whom he spied a little
way off, leaning against the stem of a Scotch fir, and looking up to
its top swaying overhead in the first billows of the outburst ocean
of life.  He went up to her with some shyness; for the presence of
even a child-maiden was enough to make Sutherland shy--partly from
the fear of startling her shyness, as one feels when drawing near a
couching fawn.  But she, when she heard his footsteps, dropped her
eyes slowly from the tree-top, and, as if she were in her own
sanctuary, waited his approach.  He said nothing at first, but
offered her, instead of speech, the primrose he had just plucked,
which she received with a smile of the eyes only, and the sweetest
"thank you, sir," he had ever heard.  But while she held the
primrose in her hand, her eyes wandered to the book which, according
to his custom, Sutherland had caught up as he left the house.  It
was the only well-bound book in his possession; and the eyes of
Margaret, not yet tutored by experience, naturally expected an
entrancing page within such beautiful boards; for the gayest
bindings she had seen, were those of a few old annuals up at the
house--and were they not full of the most lovely tales and pictures?
In this case, however, her expectation was not vain; for the volume
was, as I have already disclosed, Coleridge's Poems.

Seeing her eyes fixed upon the book--"Would you like to read it?"
said he.

"If you please, sir," answered Margaret, her eyes brightening with
the expectation of deliglit.

"Are you fond of poetry?"

Her face fell.  The only poetry she knew was the Scotch Psalms and
Paraphrases, and such last-century verses as formed the chief part
of the selections in her school-books; for this was a very retired
parish, and the newer books had not yet reached its school.  She had
hoped chiefly for tales.

"I dinna ken much about poetry," she answered, trying to speak
English. "There's an old book o't on my father's shelf; but the
letters o't are auld-fashioned, an' I dinna care aboot it."

"But this is quite easy to read, and very beautiful," said Hugh.

The girl's eyes glistened for a moment, and this was all her reply.

"Would you like to read it?" resumed Hugh, seeing no further answer
was on the road.

She held out her hand towards the volume.  When he, in his turn,
held the volume towards her hand, she almost snatched it from him,
and ran towards the house, without a word of thanks or
leave-taking--whether from eagerness, or doubt of the propriety of
accepting the offer, Hugh could not conjecture.  He stood for some
moments looking after her, and then retraced his steps towards the
house.

It would have been something, in the monotony of one of the most
trying of positions, to meet one who snatched at the offered means
of spiritual growth, even if that disciple had not been a lovely
girl, with the woman waking in her eyes.  He commenced the duties of
the day with considerably more of energy than he had yet brought to
bear on his uninteresting pupils; and this energy did not flag
before its effects upon the boys began to react in fresh impulse
upon itself.




CHAPTER IV.

THE COTTAGE.

O little Bethlem! poor in walls,
  But rich in furniture.

JOHN MASON'S Spiritual Songs.


There was one great alleviation to the various discomforts of
Sutherland's tutor-life.  It was, that, except during school-hours,
he was expected to take no charge whatever of his pupils.  They ran
wild all other times; which was far better, in every way, both for
them and for him.  Consequently, he was entirely his own master
beyond the fixed margin of scholastic duties; and he soon found that
his absence, even from the table, was a matter of no interest to the
family.  To be sure, it involved his own fasting till the next
meal-time came round--for the lady was quite a household martinet;
but that was his own concern.

That very evening, he made his way to David's cottage, about the
country supper-time, when he thought he should most likely find him
at home.  It was a clear, still, moonlit night, with just an air of
frost.  There was light enough for him to see that the cottage was
very neat and tidy, looking, in the midst of its little forest, more
like an English than a Scotch habitation.  He had had the advantage
of a few months' residence in a leafy region on the other side of
the Tweed, and so was able to make the comparison.  But what a
different leafage that was from this!  That was soft, floating,
billowy; this hard, stiff, and straight-lined, interfering so little
with the skeleton form, that it needed not to be put off in the
wintry season of death, to make the trees in harmony with the
landscape.  A light was burning in the cottage, visible through the
inner curtain of muslin, and the outer one of frost.  As he
approached the door, he heard the sound of a voice; and from the
even pitch of the tone, he concluded at once that its owner was
reading aloud.  The measured cadence soon convinced him that it was
verse that was being read; and the voice was evidently that of
David, and not of Margaret.  He knocked at the door.  The voice
ceased, chairs were pushed back, and a heavy step approached.  David
opened the door himself.

"Eh!  Maister Sutherlan'," said he, "I thocht it micht aiblins be
yersel.  Ye're welcome, sir.  Come butt the hoose.  Our place is but
sma', but ye'll no min' sitttin' doon wi' our ain sels.  Janet,
ooman, this is Maister Sutherlan'.  Maggy, my doo, he's a frien' o'
yours, o' a day auld, already.  Ye're kindly welcome, Maister
Sutherlan'.  I'm sure it's verra kin' o' you to come an' see the
like o' huz."

As Hugh entered, he saw his own bright volume lying on the table,
evidently that from which David had just been reading.

Margaret had already placed for him a cushioned arm-chair, the only
comfortable one in the house; and presently, the table being drawn
back, they were all seated round the peat-fire on the hearth, the
best sort for keeping feet warm at least.  On the crook, or hooked
iron-chain suspended within the chimney, hung a three-footed pot, in
which potatoes were boiling away merrily for supper.  By the side of
the wide chimney, or more properly lum, hung an iron lamp, of an old
classical form common to the country, from the beak of which
projected, almost horizontally, the lighted wick--the pith of a
rush.  The light perched upon it was small but clear, and by it
David had been reading.  Margaret sat right under it, upon a
creepie, or small three-legged wooden stool.  Sitting thus, with the
light falling on her from above, Hugh could not help thinking she
looked very pretty.  Almost the only object in the distance from
which the feeble light was reflected, was the patch-work counterpane
of a little bed filling a recess in the wall, fitted with doors
which stood open.  It was probably Margaret's refuge for the night.

"Well," said the tutor, after they had been seated a few minutes,
and had had some talk about the weather--surely no despicable
subject after such a morning--the first of Spring--"well, how do you
like the English poet, Mr. Elginbrod?"

"Spier that at me this day week, Maister Sutherlan', an' I'll
aiblins answer ye; but no the nicht, no the nicht."

"What for no?" said Hugh, taking up the dialect.

"For ae thing, we're nae clean through wi' the auld sailor's story
yet; an' gin I hae learnt ae thing aboon anither, its no to pass
jeedgment upo' halves.  I hae seen ill weather half the simmer, an'
a thrang corn-yard after an' a', an' that o' the best.  No that I'm
ill pleased wi' the bonny ballant aither."

"Weel, will ye jist lat me read the lave o't till ye?"

"Wi' muckle pleesur, sir, an' mony thanks."

He showed Hugh how far they had got in the reading of the "Ancient
Mariner"; whereupon he took up the tale, and carried it on to the
end.  He had some facility in reading with expression, and his few
affectations--for it must be confessed he was not free of such
faults--were not of a nature to strike uncritical hearers.  When he
had finished, he looked up, and his eye chancing to light upon
Margaret first, he saw that her cheek was quite pale, and her eyes
overspread with the film, not of coming tears, but of emotion
notwithstanding.

"Well," said Hugh, again, willing to break the silence, and turning
towards David, "what do you think of it now you have heard it all?"

Whether Janet interrupted her husband or not, I cannot tell; but she
certainly spoke first:

"Tshâvah!"--equivalent to pshaw--"it's a' lees.  What for are ye
knittin' yer broos ower a leein' ballant--a' havers as weel as
lees?"

"I'm no jist prepared to say sae muckle, Janet," replied David;
"there's mony a thing 'at's lees, as ye ca't, 'at's no lees a'
through.  Ye see, Maister Sutherlan', I'm no gleg at the uptak, an'
it jist taks me twise as lang as ither fowk to see to the ootside o'
a thing.  Whiles a sentence 'ill leuk to me clean nonsense
a'thegither; an' maybe a haill ook efter, it'll come upo' me a' at
ance; an' fegs! it's the best thing in a' the beuk."

Margaret's eyes were fixed on her father with a look which I can
only call faithfulness, as if every word he spoke was truth, whether
she could understand it or not.

"But perhaps we may look too far for meanings sometimes," suggested
Sutherland.

"Maybe, maybe; but when a body has a suspeecion o' a trowth, he sud
never lat sit till he's gotten eyther hit, or an assurance that
there's nothing there.  But there's jist ae thing, in the poem 'at I
can pit my finger upo', an' say 'at it's no richt clear to me
whether it's a' straucht-foret or no?"

"What's that, Mr. Elginbrod?"

"It's jist this--what for a' thae sailor-men fell doon deid, an' the
chield 'at shot the bonnie burdie, an' did a' the mischeef, cam' to
little hurt i' the 'en--comparateevely."

"Well," said Hugh, "I confess I'm not prepared to answer the
question.  If you get any light on the subject"--

"Ow, I daursay I may.  A heap o' things comes to me as I'm takin' a
daunder by mysel' i' the gloamin'.  I'll no say a thing's wrang till
I hae tried it ower an' ower; for maybe I haena a richt grip o' the
thing ava."

"What can ye expec, Dawvid, o' a leevin' corp, an' a' that?--ay, twa
hunner corps--fower times fifty's twa hunner--an' angels turnin'
sailors, an' sangs gaein fleein' aboot like laverocks, and tummelin'
doon again, tired like?--Gude preserve's a'!"

"Janet, do ye believe 'at ever a serpent spak?"

"Hoot!  Dawvid, the deil was in him, ye ken."

"The deil a word o' that's i' the word itsel, though," rejoined
David with a smile.

"Dawvid," said Janet, solemnly, and with some consternation, "ye're
no gaein' to tell me, sittin' there, at ye dinna believe ilka word
'at's prentit atween the twa brods o' the Bible?  What will Maister
Sutherlan' think o' ye?"

"Janet, my bonnie lass--" and here David's eyes beamed upon his
wife--"I believe as mony o' them as ye do, an' maybe a wheen mair,
my dawtie.  Keep yer min' easy aboot that.  But ye jist see 'at fowk
warna a'thegither saitisfeed aboot a sairpent speikin', an' sae they
leukit aboot and aboot till at last they fand the deil in him.  Gude
kens whether he was there or no.  Noo, ye see hoo, gin we was to
leuk weel aboot thae corps, an' thae angels, an' a' that queer
stuff--but oh! it's bonny stuff tee!--we micht fa' in wi' something
we didna awthegither expec, though we was leukin' for't a' the time.
Sae I maun jist think aboot it, Mr. Sutherlan'; an' I wad fain read
it ower again, afore I lippen on giein' my opingan on the maitter.
Ye cud lave the bit beukie, sir?  We'se tak' guid care o't."

"Ye're verra welcome to that or ony ither beuk I hae," replied Hugh,
who began to feel already as if he were in the hands of a superior.

"Mony thanks; but ye see, sir, we hae eneuch to chow upo' for an
aucht days or so."

By this time the potatoes wore considered to be cooked, and were
accordingly lifted off the fire.  The water was then poured away,
the lid put aside, and the pot hung once more upon the crook, hooked
a few rings further up in the chimney, in order that the potatoes
might be thoroughly dry before they were served.  Margaret was now
very busy spreading the cloth and laying spoon and plates on the
table.  Hugh rose to go.

"Will ye no bide," said Janet, in a most hospitable tone, "an' tak'
a het pitawta wi' us?"

"I'm afraid of being troublesome," answered he.

"Nae fear o' that, gin ye can jist pit up wi' oor hamely meat."

"Mak nae apologies, Janet, my woman," said David. "A het pitawta's
aye guid fare, for gentle or semple.  Sit ye doun again, Maister
Sutherlan'.  Maggy, my doo, whaur's the milk?"

"I thocht Hawkie wad hae a drappy o' het milk by this time," said
Margaret, "and sae I jist loot it be to the last; but I'll hae't
drawn in twa minutes."  And away she went with a jug, commonly
called a decanter in that part of the north, in her hand.

"That's hardly fair play to Hawkie," said David to Janet with a
smile.

"Hoot!  Dawvid, ye see we haena a stranger ilka nicht."

"But really," said Hugh, "I hope this is the last time you will
consider me a stranger, for I shall be here a great many times--that
is, if you don't get tired of me."

"Gie us the chance at least, Maister Sutherlan'.  It's no sma'
preevilege to fowk like us to hae a frien' wi' sae muckle buik
learnin' as ye hae, sir."

"I am afraid it looks more to you than it really is."

"Weel, ye see, we maun a' leuk at the starns frae the hicht o' oor
ain een.  An' ye seem nigher to them by a lang growth than the lave
o's.  My man, ye ought to be thankfu'."

With the true humility that comes of worshipping the Truth, David
had not the smallest idea that he was immeasurably nearer to the
stars than Hugh Sutherland.

Maggie having returned with her jug full of frothy milk, and the
potatoes being already heaped up in a wooden bowl or bossie in the
middle of the table, sending the smoke of their hospitality to the
rafters, Janet placed a smaller wooden bowl, called a caup, filled
with deliciously yellow milk of Hawkie's latest gathering, for each
individual of the company, with an attendant horn-spoon by its side.
They all drew their chairs to the table, and David, asking no
blessing, as it was called, but nevertheless giving thanks for the
blessing already bestowed, namely, the perfect gift of food, invited
Hugh to make a supper.  Each, in primitive but not ungraceful
fashion, took a potatoe from the dish with the fingers, and ate it,
"bite and sup," with the help of the horn-spoon for the milk.  Hugh
thought he had never supped more pleasantly, and could not help
observing how far real good-breeding is independent of the forms and
refinements of what has assumed to itself the name of society.

Soon after supper was over, it was time for him to go; so, after
kind hand-shakings and good nights, David accompanied him to the
road, where he left him to find his way home by the star-light.  As
he went, he could not help pondering a little over the fact that a
labouring man had discovered a difficulty, perhaps a fault, in one
of his favourite poems, which had never suggested itself to him.  He
soon satisfied himself, however, by coming to the conclusion that
the poet had not cared about the matter at all, having had no
further intention in the poem than Hugh himself had found in it,
namely, witchery and loveliness.  But it seemed to the young student
a wonderful fact, that the intercourse which was denied him in the
laird's family, simply from their utter incapacity of yielding it,
should be afforded him in the family of a man who had followed the
plough himself once, perhaps did so still, having risen only to be
the overseer and superior assistant of labourers.  He certainly
felt, on his way home, much more reconciled to the prospect of his
sojourn at Turriepuffit, than he would have thought it possible he
ever should.

David lingered a few moments, looking up at the stars, before he
re-entered his cottage.  When he rejoined his wife and child, he
found the Bible already open on the table for their evening
devotions.  I will close this chapter, as I began the first, with
something like his prayer.  David's prayers were characteristic of
the whole man; but they also partook, in far more than ordinary, of
the mood of the moment.  His last occupation had been star-gazing:

"O thou, wha keeps the stars alicht, an' our souls burnin' wi' a
licht aboon that o' the stars, grant that they may shine afore thee
as the stars for ever and ever.  An' as thou hauds the stars burnin'
a' the nicht, whan there's no man to see, so haud thou the licht
burnin' in our souls, whan we see neither thee nor it, but are
buried in the grave o' sleep an' forgetfu'ness.  Be thou by us, even
as a mother sits by the bedside o' her ailin' wean a' the lang
nicht; only be thou nearer to us, even in our verra souls, an' watch
ower the warl' o' dreams that they mak' for themsels.  Grant that
more an' more thochts o' thy thinkin' may come into our herts day by
day, till there shall be at last an open road atween thee an' us,
an' thy angels may ascend and descend upon us, so that we may be in
thy heaven, e'en while we are upo' thy earth: Amen."




CHAPTER V.

THE STUDENTS.

In wood and stone, not the softest, but hardest, be always aptest
for portraiture, both fairest for pleasure, and most durable for
profit.  Hard wits be hard to receive, but sure to keep; painful
without weariness, heedful without wavering, constant without
new-fangleness; bearing heavy things, though not lightly, yet
willingly; entering hard things, though not easily, yet deeply; and
so come to that perfectness of learning in the end, that quick wits
seem in hope but do not in deed, or else very seldom ever attain
unto.--ROGER ASCHAM.--The Schoolmaster.

Two or three very simple causes united to prevent Hugh from
repeating his visit to David so soon as he would otherwise have
done.  One was, that, the fine weather continuing, he was seized
with the desire of exploring the neighbourhood.  The spring, which
sets some wild animals to the construction of new dwellings, incites
man to the enlarging of his, making, as it were, by discovery, that
which lies around him his own.  So he spent the greater parts of
several evenings in wandering about the neighbourhood; till at
length the moonlight failed him.  Another cause was, that, in the
act of searching for some books for his boys, in an old garret of
the house, which was at once lumber room and library, he came upon
some stray volumes of the Waverley novels, with which he was as yet
only partially acquainted.  These absorbed many of his spare hours.
But one evening, while reading the Heart of Midlothian, the thought
struck him--what a character David would have been for Sir Walter.
Whether he was right or not is a question; but the notion brought
David so vividly before him, that it roused the desire to see him.
He closed the book at once, and went to the cottage.

"We're no lik'ly to ca' ye onything but a stranger yet, Maister
Sutherlan'," said David, as he entered.

"I've been busy since I saw you," was all the excuse Hugh offered.

"Weel, ye'r welcome noo; and ye've jist come in time after a', for
it's no that mony hours sin' I fand it oot awthegither to my ain
settisfaction."

"Found out what?" said Hugh; for he had forgotten all about the
perplexity in which he had left David, and which had been occupying
his thoughts ever since their last interview.

"Aboot the cross-bow an' the birdie, ye ken," answered David, in a
tone of surprise.

"Yes, to be sure.  How stupid of me!" said Hugh.

"Weel, ye see, the meanin' o' the haill ballant is no that ill to
win at, seein' the poet himsel' tells us that.  It's jist no to be
proud or ill-natured to oor neebours, the beasts and birds, for God
made ane an' a' o's.  But there's harder things in't nor that, and
yon's the hardest.  But ye see it was jist an unlucky thochtless
deed o' the puir auld sailor's, an' I'm thinkin' he was sair
reprocht in's hert the minit he did it.  His mates was fell angry at
him, no for killin' the puir innocent craytur, but for fear o' ill
luck in consequence.  Syne when nane followed, they turned richt
roun', an' took awa' the character o' the puir beastie efter 'twas
deid.  They appruved o' the verra thing 'at he was nae doot sorry
for.--But onything to haud aff o' themsels!  Nae suner cam the calm,
than roun' they gaed again like the weathercock, an' naething wad
content them bit hingin' the deid craytur about the auld man's
craig, an' abusin' him forby.  Sae ye see hoo they war a wheen
selfish crayturs, an' a hantle waur nor the man 'at was led astray
into an ill deed.  But still he maun rue't.  Sae Death got them, an'
a kin' o' leevin' Death, a she Death as 'twar, an' in some respecks
may be waur than the ither, got grips o' him, puir auld body!  It's
a' fair and richt to the backbane o' the ballant, Maister
Sutherlan', an' that I'se uphaud."

Hugh could not help feeling considerably astonished to hear this
criticism from the lips of one whom he considered an uneducated man.
For he did not know that there are many other educations besides a
college one, some of them tending far more than that to develope the
common-sense, or faculty of judging of things by their nature.  Life
intelligently met and honestly passed, is the best education of all;
except that higher one to which it is intended to lead, and to which
it had led David.  Both these educations, however, were nearly
unknown to the student of books.  But he was still more astonished
to hear from the lips of Margaret, who was sitting by:

"That's it, father; that's it!  I was jist ettlin' efter that same
thing mysel, or something like it, but ye put it in the richt words
exackly."

The sound of her voice drew Hugh's eyes upon her: he was astonished
at the alteration in her countenance.  While she spoke it was
absolutely beautiful.  As soon as she ceased speaking, it settled
back into its former shadowless calm.  Her father gave her one
approving glance and nod, expressive of no surprise at her having
approached the same discovery as himself, but testifying pleasure at
the coincidence of their opinions.  Nothing was left for Hugh but to
express his satisfaction with the interpretation of the difficulty,
and to add, that the poem would henceforth possess fresh interest
for him.

After this, his visits became more frequent; and at length David
made a request which led to their greater frequency still.  It was
to this effect:

"Do ye think, Mr. Sutherlan', I could do onything at my age at the
mathematics?  I unnerstan' weel eneuch hoo to measur' lan', an' that
kin' o' thing.  I jist follow the rule.  But the rule itsel's a
puzzler to me.  I dinna understan' it by half.  Noo it seems to me
that the best o' a rule is, no to mak ye able to do a thing, but to
lead ye to what maks the rule richt--to the prenciple o' the thing.
It's no 'at I'm misbelievin' the rule, but I want to see the richts
o't."

"I've no doubt you could learn fast enough," replied Hugh. "I shall
be very happy to help you with it."

"Na, na; I'm no gaein to trouble you.  Ye hae eneuch to do in that
way.  But if ye could jist spare me ane or twa o' yer beuks
whiles--ony o' them 'at ye think proper, I sud be muckle obleeged te
ye."

Hugh promised and fulfilled; but the result was, that, before long,
both the father and the daughter were seated at the kitchen-table,
every evening, busy with Euclid and Algebra; and that, on most
evenings, Hugh was present as their instructor.  It was quite a new
pleasure to him.  Few delights surpass those of imparting knowledge
to the eager recipient.  What made Hugh's tutor-life irksome, was
partly the excess of his desire to communicate, over the desire of
his pupils to partake.  But here there was no labour.  All the
questions were asked by the scholars.  A single lesson had not
passed, however, before David put questions which Hugh was unable to
answer, and concerning which he was obliged to confess his
ignorance.  Instead of being discouraged, as eager questioners are
very ready to be when they receive no answer, David merely said,
"Weel, weel, we maun bide a wee," and went on with what he was able
to master.  Meantime Margaret, though forced to lag a good way
behind her father, and to apply much more frequently to their tutor
for help, yet secured all she got; and that is great praise for any
student.  She was not by any means remarkably quick, but she knew
when she did not understand; and that is a sure and indispensable
step towards understanding.  It is indeed a rarer gift than the
power of understanding itself.

The gratitude of David was too deep to be expressed in any formal
thanks.  It broke out at times in two or three simple words when the
conversation presented an opportunity, or in the midst of their
work, as by its own self-birth, ungenerated by association.

During the lesson, which often lasted more than two hours, Janet
would be busy about the room, and in and out of it, with a manifest
care to suppress all unnecessary bustle.  As soon as Hugh made his
appearance, she would put off the stout shoes--man's shoes, as we
should consider them--which she always wore at other times, and put
on a pair of bauchles; that is, an old pair of her Sunday shoes, put
down at heel, and so converted into slippers, with which she could
move about less noisily.  At times her remarks would seem to imply
that she considered it rather absurd in her husband to trouble
himself with book-learning; but evidently on the ground that he knew
everything already that was worthy of the honour of his
acquaintance; whereas, with regard to Margaret, her heart was as
evidently full of pride at the idea of the education her daughter
was getting from the laird's own tutor.

Now and then she would stand still for a moment, and gaze at them,
with her bright black eyes, from under the white frills of her
mutch, her bare brown arms akimbo, and a look of pride upon her
equally brown honest face.

Her dress consisted of a wrapper, or short loose jacket, of printed
calico, and a blue winsey petticoat, which she had a habit of
tucking between her knees, to keep it out of harm's way, as often as
she stooped to any wet work, or, more especially, when doing
anything by the fire.  Margaret's dress was, in ordinary, like her
mother's, with the exception of the cap; but, every evening, when
their master was expected, she put off her wrapper, and substituted
a gown of the same material, a cotton print; and so, with her
plentiful dark hair gathered neatly under a net of brown silk, the
usual head-dress of girls in her position, both in and out of doors,
sat down dressed for the sacrament of wisdom.  David made no other
preparation than the usual evening washing of his large well-wrought
hands, and bathing of his head, covered with thick dark hair,
plentifully lined with grey, in a tub of cold water; from which his
face, which was "cremsin dyed ingrayne" by the weather, emerged
glowing.  He sat down at the table in his usual rough blue coat and
plain brass buttons; with his breeches of broad-striped corduroy,
his blue-ribbed stockings, and leather gaiters, or cuiticans,
disposed under the table, and his shoes, with five rows of
broad-headed nails in the soles, projecting from beneath it on the
other side; for he was a tall man--six feet still, although
five-and-fifty, and considerably bent in the shoulders with hard
work.  Sutherland's style was that of a gentleman who must wear out
his dress-coat.

Such was the group which, three or four evenings in the week, might
be seen in David Elginbrod's cottage, seated around the white deal
table, with their books and slates upon it, and searching, by the
light of a tallow candle, substituted as more convenient, for the
ordinary lamp, after the mysteries of the universe.

The influences of reviving nature and of genial companionship
operated very favourably upon Hugh's spirits, and consequently upon
his whole powers.  For some time he had, as I have already hinted,
succeeded in interesting his boy-pupils in their studies; and now
the progress they made began to be appreciable to themselves as well
as to their tutor.  This of course made them more happy and more
diligent.  There were no attempts now to work upon their parents for
a holiday; no real or pretended head or tooth-aches, whose
disability was urged against the greater torture of ill-conceded
mental labour.  They began in fact to understand; and, in proportion
to the beauty and value of the thing understood, to understand is to
enjoy.  Therefore the laird and his lady could not help seeing that
the boys were doing well, far better in fact than they had ever done
before; and consequently began not only to prize Hugh's services,
but to think more highly of his office than had been their wont.
The laird would now and then invite him to join him in a tumbler of
toddy after dinner, or in a ride round the farm after school hours.
But it must be confessed that these approaches to friendliness were
rather irksome to Hugh; for whatever the laird might have been as a
collegian, he was certainly now nothing more than a farmer.  Where
David Elginbrod would have described many a "bonny sicht," the laird
only saw the probable results of harvest, in the shape of figures in
his banking book.  On one occasion, Hugh roused his indignation by
venturing to express his admiration of the delightful mingling of
colours in a field where a good many scarlet poppies grew among the
green blades of the corn, indicating, to the agricultural eye, the
poverty of the soil where they were found.  This fault in the soil,
the laird, like a child, resented upon the poppies themselves.

"Nasty, ugly weyds!  We'll hae ye admirin' the smut neist," said he,
contemptuously; "'cause the bairns can bleck ane anither's faces
wi't."

"But surely," said Hugh, "putting other considerations aside, you
must allow that the colour, especially when mingled with that of the
corn, is beautiful."

"Deil hae't!  It's jist there 'at I canna bide the sicht o't.
Beauty ye may ca' 't!  I see nane o't.  I'd as sune hae a
reid-heedit bairn, as see thae reid-coatit rascals i' my corn.  I
houp ye're no gaen to cram stuff like that into the heeds o' the twa
laddies.  Faith! we'll hae them sawin' thae ill-faured weyds amang
the wheyt neist.  Poapies ca' ye them?  Weel I wat they're the
Popp's ain bairns, an' the scarlet wumman to the mither o' them.
Ha! ha! ha!"

Having manifested both wit and Protestantism in the closing sentence
of his objurgation, the laird relapsed into good humour and
stupidity.  Hugh would gladly have spent such hours in David's
cottage instead; but he was hardly prepared to refuse his company to
Mr. Glasford.




CHAPTER VI.

THE LAIRD'S LADY.

Ye archewyves, standith at defence,
Sin ye been strong, as is a great camayle;
Ne suffer not that men you don offence.
And slender wives, fell as in battaile,
Beth eager, as is a tiger, yond in Inde;
Aye clappith as a mill, I you counsaile.

CHAUCER.--The Clerk's Tale.


The length and frequency of Hugh's absences, careless as she was of
his presence, had already attracted the attention of Mrs. Glasford;
and very little trouble had to be expended on the discovery of his
haunt.  For the servants knew well enough where he went, and of
course had come to their own conclusions as to the object of his
visits.  So the lady chose to think it her duty to expostulate with
Hugh on the subject.  Accordingly, one morning after breakfast, the
laird having gone to mount his horse, and the boys to have a few
minutes' play before lessons, Mrs. Glasford, who had kept her seat
at the head of the table, waiting for the opportunity, turned
towards Hugh who sat reading the week's news, folded her hands on
the tablecloth, drew herself up yet a little more stiffly in her
chair, and thus addressed him:

"It's my duty, Mr. Sutherland, seein' ye have no mother to look
after ye--"

Hugh expected something matronly about his linen or his socks, and
put down his newspaper with a smile; but, to his astonishment, she
went on--

--"To remonstrate wi' ye, on the impropriety of going so often to
David Elginbrod's.  They're not company for a young gentleman like
you, Mr. Sutherland."

"They're good enough company for a poor tutor, Mrs. Glasford,"
replied Hugh, foolishly enough.

"Not at all, not at all," insisted the lady. "With your
connexions--"

"Good gracious! who ever said anything about my connexions?  I never
pretended to have any."  Hugh was getting angry already.

Mrs. Glasford nodded her head significantly, as much as to say, "I
know more about you than you imagine," and then went on:

"Your mother will never forgive me if you get into a scrape with
that smooth-faced hussy; and if her father, honest man hasn't eyes
enough in his head, other people have--ay, an' tongues too, Mr.
Sutherland."

Hugh was on the point of forgetting his manners, and consigning all
the above mentioned organs to perdition; but he managed to restrain
his wrath, and merely said that Margaret was one of the best girls
he had ever known, and that there was no possible danger of any kind
of scrape with her.  This mode of argument, however, was not
calculated to satisfy Mrs. Glasford.  She returned to the charge.

"She's a sly puss, with her shy airs and graces.  Her father's jist
daft wi' conceit o' her, an' it's no to be surprised if she cast a
glamour ower you.  Mr. Sutherland, ye're but young yet."

Hugh's pride presented any alliance with a lassie who had herded the
laird's cows barefoot, and even now tended their own cow, as an all
but inconceivable absurdity; and he resented, more than he could
have thought possible, the entertainment of such a degrading idea in
the mind of Mrs. Glasford.  Indignation prevented him from replying;
while she went on, getting more vernacular as she proceeded.

"It's no for lack o' company 'at yer driven to seek theirs, I'm
sure.  There's twa as fine lads an' gude scholars as ye'll fin' in
the haill kintra-side, no to mention the laird and mysel'."

But Hugh could bear it no longer; nor would he condescend to excuse
or explain his conduct.

"Madam, I beg you will not mention this subject again."

"But I will mention 't, Mr. Sutherlan'; an' if ye'll no listen to
rizzon, I'll go to them 'at maun do't."

"I am accountable to you, madam, for my conduct in your house, and
for the way in which I discharge my duty to your children--no
further."

"Do ye ca' that dischairgin' yer duty to my bairns, to set them the
example o' hingin' at a quean's âpron-strings, and fillin' her lug
wi' idle havers?  Ca' ye that dischairgin' yer duty?  My certie! a
bonny dischairgin'!"

"I never see the girl but in her father and mother's presence."

"Weel, weel, Mr. Sutherlan'," said Mrs. Glasford, in a final tone,
and trying to smother the anger which she felt she had allowed to
carry her further than was decorous, "we'll say nae mair aboot it at
present; but I maun jist speak to the laird himsel', an' see what he
says till 't."

And, with this threat, she walked out of the room in what she
considered a dignified manner.

Hugh was exceedingly annoyed at this treatment, and thought, at
first, of throwing up his situation at once; but he got calmer by
degrees, and saw that it would be to his own loss, and perhaps to
the injury of his friends at the cottage.  So he took his revenge by
recalling the excited face of Mrs. Glasford, whose nose had got as
red with passion as the protuberance of a turkey-cock when gobbling
out its unutterable feelings of disdain.  He dwelt upon this
soothing contemplation till a fit of laughter relieved him, and he
was able to go and join his pupils as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile the lady sent for David, who was at work in the garden,
into no less an audience-chamber than the drawing-room, the revered
abode of all the tutelar deities of the house; chief amongst which
were the portraits of the laird and herself: he, plethoric and
wrapped in voluminous folds of neckerchief--she long-necked, and
lean, and bare-shouldered.  The original of the latter work of art
seated herself in the most important chair in the room; and when
David, after carefully wiping the shoes he had already wiped three
times on his way up, entered with a respectful but no wise
obsequious bow, she ordered him, with the air of an empress, to shut
the door.  When he had obeyed, she ordered him, in a similar tone,
to be seated; for she sought to mingle condescension and
conciliation with severity.

"David," she then began, "I am informed that ye keep open door to
our Mr. Sutherland, and that he spends most forenichts in your
company."

"Weel, mem, it's verra true," was all David's answer.  He sat in an
expectant attitude.

"Dawvid, I wonner at ye!" returned Mrs. Glasford, forgetting her
dignity, and becoming confidentially remonstrative. "Here's a young
gentleman o' talans, wi' ilka prospeck o' waggin' his heid in a
poopit some day; an' ye aid an' abet him in idlin' awa' his time at
your chimla-lug, duin' waur nor naething ava!  I'm surprised at ye,
Dawvid.  I thocht ye had mair sense."

David looked out of his clear, blue, untroubled eyes, upon the
ruffled countenance of his mistress, with an almost paternal smile.

"Weel, mem, I maun say I dinna jist think the young man's in the
warst o' company, when he's at our ingle-neuk.  An' for idlin' o'
his time awa', it's weel waurd for himsel', forby for us, gin holy
words binna lees."

"What do ye mean, Dawvid?" said the lady rather sharply, for she
loved no riddles.

"I mean this, mem: that the young man is jist actin' the pairt o'
Peter an' John at the bonny gate o' the temple, whan they said:
'Such as I have, gie I thee;' an' gin' it be more blessed to gie
than to receive, as Sant Paul says 'at the Maister himsel' said, the
young man 'ill no be the waur aff in's ain learnin', that he
impairts o't to them that hunger for't."

"Ye mean by this, Dawvid, gin ye could express yersel' to the pint,
'at the young man, wha's ower weel paid to instruck my bairns,
neglecks them, an' lays himsel' oot upo' ither fowk's weans, wha hae
no richt to ettle aboon the station in which their Maker pat them."

This was uttered with quite a religious fervour of expostulation;
for the lady's natural indignation at the thought of Meg Elginbrod
having lessons from her boys' tutor, was cowed beneath the quiet
steady gaze of the noble-minded peasant father.

"He lays himsel' oot mair upo' the ither fowk themsels' than upo'
their weans, mem; though, nae doubt, my Maggy comes in for a gude
share.  But for negleckin' o' his duty to you, mem, I'm sure I kenna
hoo that can be; for it was only yestreen 'at the laird himsel' said
to me, 'at hoo the bairns had never gotten on naething like it wi'
ony ither body."

"The laird's ower ready wi's clavers," quoth the laird's wife,
nettled to find herself in the wrong, and forgetful of her own and
her lord's dignity at once. "But," she pursued, "all I can say is,
that I consider it verra improper o' you, wi' a young lass-bairn, to
encourage the nichtly veesits o' a young gentleman, wha's sae far
aboon her in station, an' dootless will some day be farther yet."

"Mem!" said David, with dignity, "I'm willin' no to understan' what
ye mean.  My Maggy's no ane 'at needs luikin' efter; an' a body had
need to be carefu' an' no interfere wi' the Lord's herdin', for he
ca's himsel' the Shepherd o' the sheep, an' wee! as I loe her I maun
lea' him to lead them wha follow him wherever he goeth.  She'll be
no ill guidit, and I'm no gaeing to kep her at ilka turn."

"Weel, weel! that's yer ain affair, Dawvid, my man," rejoined Mrs.
Glasford, with rising voice and complexion. "A' 'at I hae to add is
jist this: 'at as lang as my tutor veesits her"--

"He veesits her no more than me, mem," interposed David; but his
mistress went on with dignified disregard of the interruption--

"Veesits her, I canna, for the sake o' my own bairns, an' the morals
o' my hoosehold, employ her aboot the hoose, as I was in the way o'
doin' afore.  Good mornin', Dawvid.  I'll speak to the laird
himsel', sin' ye'll no heed me."

"It's more to my lassie, mem, excuse me, to learn to unnerstan' the
works o' her Maker, than it is to be employed in your household.
Mony thanks, mem, for what ye hev' done in that way afore; an' good
mornin' to ye, mem.  I'm sorry we should hae ony misunderstandin',
but I canna help it for my pairt."

With these words David withdrew, rather anxious about the
consequences to Hugh of this unpleasant interference on the part of
Mrs. Glasford.  That lady's wrath kept warm without much nursing,
till the laird came home; when she turned the whole of her battery
upon him, and kept up a steady fire until he yielded, and promised
to turn his upon David.  But he had more common-sense than his wife
in some things, and saw at once how ridiculous it would be to treat
the affair as of importance.  So, the next time he saw David, he
addressed him half jocularly:

"Weel, Dawvid, you an' the mistress hae been haein' a bit o' a
dispute thegither, eh?"

"Weel, sir, we warna a'thegither o' ae min'," said David, with a
smile.

"Weel, weel, we maun humour her, ye ken, or it may be the waur for
us a', ye ken."  And the laird nodded with humorous significance.

"I'm sure I sud be glaid, sir; but this is no sma' maitter to me an'
my Maggie, for we're jist gettin' food for the verra sowl, sir, frae
him an' his beuks."

"Cudna ye be content wi the beuks wi'out the man, Dawvid?"

"We sud mak' but sma' progress, sir, that get."

The laird began to be a little nettled himself at David's stiffness
about such a small matter, and held his peace.  David resumed:

"Besides, sir, that's a maitter for the young man to sattle, an' no
for me.  It wad ill become me, efter a' he's dune for us, to steek
the door in's face.  Na, na; as lang's I hae a door to haud open,
it's no to be steekit to him."

"Efter a', the door's mine, Dawvid," said the laird.

"As lang's I'm in your hoose an' in your service, sir, the door's
mine," retorted David, quietly.

The laird turned and rode away without another word.  What passed
between him and his wife never transpired.  Nothing more was said to
Hugh as long as he remained at Turriepuffit.  But Margaret was never
sent for to the House after this, upon any occasion whatever.  The
laird gave her a nod as often as he saw her; but the lady, if they
chanced to meet, took no notice of her.  Margaret, on her part,
stood or passed with her eyes on the ground, and no further change
of countenance than a slight flush of discomfort.

The lessons went on as usual, and happy hours they were for all
those concerned.  Often, in after years, and in far different
circumstances, the thoughts of Hugh reverted, with a painful
yearning, to the dim-lighted cottage, with its clay floor and its
deal table; to the earnest pair seated with him at the labours that
unfold the motions of the stars; and even to the homely, thickset,
but active form of Janet, and that peculiar smile of hers with
which, after an apparently snappish speech, spoken with her back to
the person addressed, she would turn round her honest face
half-apologetically, and shine full upon some one or other of the
three, whom she honoured with her whole heart and soul, and who, she
feared, might be offended at what she called her "hame-ower fashion
of speaking."  Indeed it was wonderful what a share the motherhood
of this woman, incapable as she was of entering into the
intellectual occupations of the others, had in producing that sense
of home-blessedness, which inwrapt Hugh also in the folds of its
hospitality, and drew him towards its heart.  Certain it is that not
one of the three would have worked so well without the sense of the
presence of Janet, here and there about the room, or in the
immediate neighbourhood of it--love watching over labour.  Once a
week, always on Saturday nights, Hugh stayed to supper with them:
and on these occasions, Janet contrived to have something better
than ordinary in honour of their guest.  Still it was of the
homeliest country fare, such as Hugh could partake of without the
least fear that his presence occasioned any inconvenience to his
entertainers.  Nor was Hugh the only giver of spiritual food.
Putting aside the rich gifts of human affection and sympathy, which
grew more and more pleasant--I can hardly use a stronger word
yet--to Hugh every day, many things were spoken by the simple wisdom
of David, which would have enlightened Hugh far more than they did,
had he been sufficiently advanced to receive them.  But their very
simplicity was often far beyond the grasp of his thoughts; for the
higher we rise, the simpler we become; and David was one of those of
whom is the kingdom of Heaven.  There is a childhood into which we
have to grow, just as there is a childhood which we must leave
behind; a childlikeness which is the highest gain of humanity, and a
childishness from which but few of those who are counted the wisest
among men, have freed themselves in their imagined progress towards
the reality of things.




CHAPTER VII.

THE SECRET OF THE WOOD.

The unthrift sunne shot vitall gold,
  A thousand pieces;
And heaven its azure did unfold,
  Chequered with snowy fleeces.
     The air was all in spice,
       And every bush
     A garland wore: Thus fed my Eyes,
       But all the Eare lay hush.

HENRY VAUGHAN.


It was not in mathematics alone that Hugh Sutherland was serviceable
to Margaret Elginbrod.  That branch of study had been chosen for her
father, not for her; but her desire to learn had led her to lay hold
upon any mental provision with which the table happened to be
spread; and the more eagerly that her father was a guest at the same
feast.  Before long, Hugh bethought him that it might possibly be of
service to her, in the course of her reading, if he taught her
English a little more thoroughly than she had probably picked it up
at the parish school, to which she had been in the habit of going
till within a very short period of her acquaintance with the
tutor.--The English reader must not suppose the term parish school
to mean what the same term would mean if used in England.  Boys and
girls of very different ranks go to the Scotch parish schools, and
the fees are so small as to place their education within the reach
of almost the humblest means.--To his proposal to this effect
Margaret responded thankfully; and it gave Hugh an opportunity of
directing her attention to many of the more delicate distinctions in
literature, for the appreciation of which she manifested at once a
remarkable aptitude.

Coleridge's poems had been read long ago; some of them, indeed,
almost committed to memory in the process of repeated perusal.  No
doubt a good many of them must have been as yet too abstruse for
her; not in the least, however, from inaptitude in her for such
subjects as they treated of, but simply because neither the terms
nor the modes of thought could possibly have been as yet presented
to her in so many different positions as to enable her to comprehend
their scope.  Hugh lent her Sir Walter's poems next, but those she
read at an eye-glance.  She returned the volume in a week, saying
merely, they were "verra bonnie stories."  He saw at once that, to
have done them justice with the girl, he ought to have lent them
first.  But that could not be helped now; and what should come next?
Upon this he took thought.  His library was too small to cause much
perplexity of choice, but for a few days he continued undecided.

Meantime the interest he felt in his girl-pupil deepened greatly.
She became a kind of study to him.  The expression of her
countenance was far inferior to her intelligence and power of
thought.  It was still to excess--almost dull in ordinary; not from
any fault in the mould of the features, except, perhaps, in the
upper lip, which seemed deficient in drawing, if I may be allowed
the expression; but from the absence of that light which indicates
the presence of active thought and feeling within.  In this respect
her face was like the earthen pitcher of Gideon: it concealed the
light.  She seemed to have, to a peculiar degree, the faculty of
retiring inside.  But now and then, while he was talking to her, and
doubtful, from the lack of expression, whether she was even
listening with attention to what he was saying, her face would
lighten up with a radiant smile of intelligence; not, however,
throwing the light upon him, and in a moment reverting to its former
condition of still twilight.  Her person seemed not to be as yet
thoroughly possessed or informed by her spirit.  It sat apart within
her; and there was no ready transit from her heart to her face.
This lack of presence in the face is quite common in pretty
school-girls and rustic beauties; but it was manifest to an unusual
degree in the case of Margaret.  Yet most of the forms and lines in
her face were lovely; and when the light did shine through them for
a passing moment, her countenance seemed absolutely beautiful.
Hence it grew into an almost haunting temptation with Hugh, to try
to produce this expression, to unveil the coy light of the beautiful
soul.  Often he tried; often he failed, and sometimes he succeeded.
Had they been alone it might have become dangerous--I mean for
Hugh; I cannot tell for Margaret.

When they first met, she had just completed her seventeenth year;
but, at an age when a town-bred girl is all but a woman, her manners
were those of a child.  This childishness, however, soon began to
disappear, and the peculiar stillness of her face, of which I have
already said so much, made her seem older than she was.

It was now early summer, and all the other trees in the wood--of
which there were not many besides the firs of various kinds--had put
on their fresh leaves, heaped up in green clouds between the
wanderer and the heavens.  In the morning the sun shone so clear
upon these, that, to the eyes of one standing beneath, the light
seemed to dissolve them away to the most ethereal forms of glorified
foliage.  They were to be claimed for earth only by the shadows that
the one cast upon the other, visible from below through the
transparent leaf.  This effect is very lovely in the young season of
the year, when the leaves are more delicate and less crowded; and
especially in the early morning, when the light is most clear and
penetrating.  By the way, I do not think any man is compelled to bid
good-bye to his childhood: every man may feel young in the morning,
middle-aged in the afternoon, and old at night.  A day corresponds
to a life, and the portions of the one are "pictures in little" of
the seasons of the other.  Thus far man may rule even time, and
gather up, in a perfect being, youth and age at once.

One morning, about six o'clock, Hugh, who had never been so early in
the wood since the day he had met Margaret there, was standing under
a beech-tree, looking up through its multitudinous leaves,
illuminated, as I have attempted to describe, with the sidelong rays
of the brilliant sun.  He was feeling young, and observing the forms
of nature with a keen discriminating gaze: that was all.  Fond of
writing verses, he was studying nature, not as a true lover, but as
one who would hereafter turn his discoveries to use.  For it must be
confessed that nature affected him chiefly through the medium of
poetry; and that he was far more ambitious of writing beautiful
things about nature than of discovering and understanding, for their
own sakes, any of her hidden yet patent meanings.  Changing his
attitude after a few moments, he descried, under another beech-tree,
not far from him, Margaret, standing and looking up fixedly as he
had been doing a moment before.  He approached her, and she, hearing
his advance, looked, and saw him, but did not move.  He thought he
saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes.  She was the first to speak,
however.

"What were you seeing up there, Mr. Sutherland?"

"I was only looking at the bright leaves, and the shadows upon
them."

"Ah!  I thocht maybe ye had seen something."

"What do you mean, Margaret?"

"I dinna richtly ken mysel'.  But I aye expeck to see something in
this fir-wood.  I'm here maist mornin's as the day dawns, but I'm
later the day."

"We were later than usual at our work last night.  But what kind of
thing do you expect to see?"

"That's jist what I dinna ken.  An' I canna min' whan I began to
come here first, luikin' for something.  I've tried mony a time, but
I canna min', do what I like."

Margaret had never said so much about herself before.  I can account
for it only on the supposition that Hugh had gradually assumed in
her mind a kind of pastoral superiority, which, at a favourable
moment, inclined her to impart her thoughts to him.  But he did not
know what to say to this strange fact in her history.  She went on,
however, as if, having broken the ice, she must sweep it away as
well.

"The only thing 'at helps me to account for't, is a picter in our
auld Bible, o' an angel sittin' aneth a tree, and haudin' up his
han' as gin he were speakin' to a woman 'at's stan'in' afore him.
Ilka time 'at I come across that picter, I feel direckly as gin I
war my lane in this fir-wood here; sae I suppose that when I was a
wee bairn, I maun hae come oot some mornin' my lane, wi' the
expectation o' seein' an angel here waitin' for me, to speak to me
like the ane i' the Bible.  But never an angel hae I seen.  Yet I
aye hae an expectation like o' seein' something, I kenna what; for
the whole place aye seems fu' o' a presence, an' it's a hantle mair
to me nor the kirk an' the sermon forby; an' for the singin', the
soun' i' the fir-taps is far mair solemn and sweet at the same time,
an' muckle mair like praisin' o' God than a' the psalms thegither.
But I aye think 'at gin I could hear Milton playin' on's organ, it
would be mair like that soun' o' mony waters, than onything else 'at
I can think o'."

Hugh stood and gazed at her in astonishment.  To his more refined
ear, there was a strange incongruity between the somewhat coarse
dialect in which she spoke, and the things she uttered in it.  Not
that he was capable of entering into her feelings, much less of
explaining them to her.  He felt that there was something remarkable
in them, but attributed both the thoughts themselves and their
influence on him, to an uncommon and weird imagination.  As of such
origin, however, he was just the one to value them highly.

"Those are very strange ideas," he said.

"But what can there be about the wood?  The very primroses--ye
brocht me the first this spring yersel', Mr. Sutherland--come out at
the fit o' the trees, and look at me as if they said, 'We ken--we
ken a' aboot it;' but never a word mair they say.  There's something
by ordinar' in't."

"Do you like no other place besides?" said Hugh, for the sake of
saying something.

"Ou ay, mony ane; but nane like this."

"What kind of place do you like best?"

"I like places wi' green grass an' flowers amo't."

"You like flowers then?"

"Like them! whiles they gar me greet an' whiles they gar me lauch;
but there's mair i' them than that, an' i' the wood too.  I canna
richtly say my prayers in ony ither place."

The Scotch dialect, especially to one brought up in the Highlands,
was a considerable antidote to the effect of the beauty of what
Margaret said.

Suddenly it struck Hugh, that if Margaret were such an admirer of
nature, possibly she might enjoy Wordsworth.  He himself was as yet
incapable of doing him anything like justice; and, with the
arrogance of youth, did not hesitate to smile at the Excursion,
picking out an awkward line here and there as especial food for
laughter even.  But many of his smaller pieces he enjoyed very
heartily, although not thoroughly--the element of Christian
Pantheism, which is their soul, being beyond his comprehension,
almost perception, as yet.  So he made up his mind, after a moment's
reflection, that this should be the next author he recommended to
his pupil.  He hoped likewise so to end an interview, in which he
might otherwise be compelled to confess that he could render
Margaret no assistance in her search after the something in the
wood; and he was unwilling to say he could not understand her; for a
power of universal sympathy was one of those mental gifts which Hugh
was most anxious to believe he possessed.

"I will bring you another book to-night," said he "which I think you
will like, and which may perhaps help you to find out what is in the
wood."

He said this smiling, half in playful jest, and without any idea of
the degree of likelihood that there was notwithstanding in what he
said.  For, certainly, Wordsworth, the high-priest of nature, though
perhaps hardly the apostle of nature, was more likely than any other
writer to contain something of the secret after which Margaret was
searching.  Whether she can find it there, may seem questionable.

"Thank you, sir," said Margaret, gratefully; but her whole
countenance looked troubled, as she turned towards her home.
Doubtless, however, the trouble vanished before she reached it, for
hers was not a nature to cherish disquietude.  Hugh too went home,
rather thoughtful.

In the evening, he took a volume of Wordsworth, and repaired,
according to his wont, to David's cottage.  It was Saturday, and he
would stay to supper.  After they had given the usual time to their
studies, Hugh, setting Margaret some exercises in English to write
on her slate, while he helped David with some of the elements of
Trigonometry, and again going over those elements with her, while
David worked out a calculation--after these were over, and while
Janet was putting the supper on the table, Hugh pulled out his
volume, and, without any preface, read them the Leech-Gatherer.  All
listened very intently, Janet included, who delayed several of the
operations, that she might lose no word of the verses; David nodding
assent every now and then, and ejaculating ay! ay! or eh, man! or
producing that strange muffled sound at once common and peculiar to
Scotchmen, which cannot be expressed in letters by a nearer approach
than hm--hm, uttered, if that can be called uttering, with closed
lips and open nasal passage; and Margaret sitting motionless on her
creepie, with upturned pale face, and eyes fixed upon the lips of
the reader.  When he had ceased, all were silent for a moment, when
Janet made some little sign of anxiety about her supper, which
certainly had suffered by the delay.  Then, without a word, David
turned towards the table and gave thanks.  Turning again to Hugh,
who had risen to place his chair, he said,

"That maun be the wark o' a great poet, Mr. Sutherlan'."

"It's Wordsworth's," said Hugh.

"Ay! ay!  That's Wordsworth's!  Ay!  Weel, I hae jist heard him made
mention o', but I never read word o' his afore.  An' he never
repentit o' that same resolution, I'se warrant, 'at he eynds aff
wi'.  Hoo does it gang, Mr. Sutherlan'?"

Sutherland read:--

     "'God,' said I, 'be my help and stay secure!
      I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor;'"

and added, "It is said Wordsworth never knew what it was to be in
want of money all his life."

"Nae doubt, nae doubt: he trusted in Him."

It was for the sake of the minute notices of nature, and not for the
religious lesson, which he now seemed to see for the first time,
that Hugh had read the poem.  He could not help being greatly
impressed by the confidence with which David received the statement
he had just made on the authority of De Quincey in his unpleasant
article about Wordsworth.  David resumed:

"He maun hae had a gleg 'ee o' his ain, that Maister Wordsworth, to
notice a'thing that get.  Weel he maun hae likit leevin' things,
puir maukin an' a'--jist like our Robbie Burns for that.  An' see
hoo they a' ken ane anither, thae poets.  What says he aboot
Burns?--ye needna tell me, Mr. Sutherlan'; I min't weel aneuch.  He
says:--

     'Him wha walked in glory an' in joy,
      Followin' his ploo upo' the muntain-side.'

Puir Robbie! puir Robbie!  But, man, he was a gran' chield efter a';
an' I trust in God he's won hame by this!"

Both Janet and Hugh, who had had a very orthodox education, started,
mentally, at this strange utterance; but they saw the eye of David
solemnly fixed, as if in deep contemplation, and lighted in its blue
depths with an ethereal brightness; and neither of them ventured to
speak.  Margaret seemed absorbed for the moment in gazing on her
father's face; but not in the least as if it perplexed her like the
fir-wood.  To the seeing eye, the same kind of expression would have
been evident in both countenances, as if Margaret's reflected the
meaning of her father's; whether through the medium of intellectual
sympathy, or that of the heart only, it would have been hard to say.
Meantime supper had been rather neglected; but its operations were
now resumed more earnestly, and the conversation became lighter;
till at last it ended in hearty laughter, and Hugh rose and took his
leave.




CHAPTER VIII.

A SUNDAY MORNING.

It is the property of good and sound knowledge, to putrifie and
dissolve into a number of subtle, idle, unwholesome, and (as I may
tearme them) vermiculate questions; which have indeed a kinde of
quicknesse, and life of spirite, but no soundnesse of matter, or
goodnesse of quality.--LORD BACON.--Advancement of Learning.

The following morning, the laird's family went to church as usual,
and Hugh went with them.  Their walk was first across fields, by
pleasant footpaths; and then up the valley of a little noisy stream,
that obstinately refused to keep Scotch Sabbath, praising the Lord
after its own fashion.  They emerged into rather a bleak country
before reaching the church, which was quite new, and perched on a
barren eminence, that it might be as conspicuous by its position, as
it was remarkable for its ugliness.  One grand aim of the reformers
of the Scottish ecclesiastical modes, appears to have been to keep
the worship pure and the worshippers sincere, by embodying the whole
in the ugliest forms that could be associated with the name of
Christianity.  It might be wished, however, that some of their
followers, and amongst them the clergyman of the church in question,
had been content to stop there; and had left the object of worship,
as represented by them, in the possession of some lovable attribute;
so as not to require a man to love that which is unlovable, or
worship that which is not honourable--in a word, to bow down before
that which is not divine.  The cause of this degeneracy they share
in common with the followers of all other great men as well as of
Calvin.  They take up what their leader, urged by the necessity of
the time, spoke loudest, never heeding what he loved most; and then
work the former out to a logical perdition of everything belonging
to the latter.

Hugh, however, thought it was all right: for he had the same good
reasons, and no other, for receiving it all, that a Mohammedan or a
Buddhist has for holding his opinions; namely, that he had heard
those doctrines, and those alone, from his earliest childhood.  He
was therefore a good deal startled when, having, on his way home,
strayed from the laird's party towards David's, he heard the latter
say to Margaret as he came up:

"Dinna ye believe, my bonny doo, 'at there's ony mak' ups or mak'
shifts wi' Him. He's aye bringin' things to the licht, no covenin'
them up and lattin them rot, an' the moth tak' them.  He sees us
jist as we are, and ca's us jist what we are.  It wad be an ill day
for a' o's, Maggy, my doo, gin he war to close his een to oor sins,
an' ca' us just in his sicht, whan we cudna possibly be just in oor
ain or in ony ither body's, no to say his."

"The Lord preserve's, Dawvid Elginbrod!  Dinna ye believe i' the
doctrine o' Justification by Faith, an' you a'maist made an elder
o'?"

Janet was the respondent, of course, Margaret listening in silence.

"Ou ay, I believe in't, nae doot; but, troth! the minister, honest
man, near-han' gart me disbelieve in't a'thegither wi' his gran'
sermon this mornin', about imputit richteousness, an' a clean robe
hidin' a foul skin or a crookit back.  Na, na.  May Him 'at woosh
the feet o' his friens, wash us a'thegither, and straucht oor
crookit banes, till we're clean and weel-faured like his ain bonny
sel'."

"Weel, Dawvid--but that's sanctificaition, ye ken."

"Ca't ony name 'at you or the minister likes, Janet, my woman.  I
daursay there's neither o' ye far wrang after a'; only this is jist
my opingan aboot it in sma'--that that man, and that man only, is
justifeed, wha pits himsel' into the Lord's han's to sanctifee him.
Noo!  An' that'll no be dune by pittin' a robe o' richteousness
upo' him, afore he's gotten a clean skin aneath't.  As gin a father
cudna bide to see the puir scabbit skin o' his ain wee bit bairnie,
ay, or o' his prodigal son either, but bude to hap it a' up afore he
cud lat it come near him!  Ahva!"

Here Hugh ventured to interpose a remark.

"But you don't think, Mr. Elginbrod, that the minister intended to
say that justification left a man at liberty to sin, or that the
robe of Christ's righteousness would hide him from the work of the
Spirit?"

"Na; but there is a notion in't o' hidin' frae God himsel'.  I'll
tell ye what it is Mr. Sutherlan': the minister's a' richt in
himsel', an' sae's my Janet here, an' mony mair; an' aiblins there's
a kin' o' trowth in a' 'at they say; but this is my quarrel wi' a'
thae words an' words an' airguments, an' seemilies as they ca' them,
an' doctrines, an' a' that--they jist haud a puir body at airm's
lenth oot ower frae God himsel'.  An' they raise a mist an' a stour
a' aboot him, 'at the puir bairn canna see the Father himsel',
stan'in' wi' his airms streekit oot as wide's the heavens, to tak'
the worn crater,--and the mair sinner, the mair welcome,--hame to
his verra hert.  Gin a body wad lea' a' that, and jist get fowk
persuâdit to speyk a word or twa to God him lane, the loss, in my
opingan, wad be unco sma', and the gain verra great."

Even Janet dared not reply to the solemnity of this speech; for the
seer-like look was upon David's face, and the tears had gathered in
his eyes and dimmed their blue.  A kind of tremulous pathetic smile
flickered about his beautifully curved mouth, like the glimmer of
water in a valley, betwixt the lofty aquiline nose and the powerful
but finely modelled chin.  It seemed as if he dared not let the
smile break out, lest it should be followed instantly by a burst of
tears.

Margaret went close up to her father and took his hand as if she had
been still a child, while Janet walked reverentially by him on the
other side.  It must not be supposed that Janet felt any uneasiness
about her husband's opinions, although she never hesitated to utter
what she considered her common-sense notions, in attempted
modification of some of the more extreme of them.  The fact was
that, if he was wrong, Janet did not care to be right; and if he was
right, Janet was sure to be; "for," said she--and in spirit, if not
in the letter, it was quite true--"I never mint at contradickin'
him.  My man sall hae his ain get, that sall he."  But she had one
especial grudge at his opinions; which was, that it must have been
in consequence of them that he had declined, with a queer smile, the
honourable position of Elder of the Kirk; for which Janet considered
him, notwithstanding his opinions, immeasurably more fitted than any
other man "in the haill country-side--ye may add Scotlan' forby."
The fact of his having been requested to fill the vacant place of
Elder, is proof enough that David was not in the habit of giving
open expression to his opinions.  He was looked upon as a douce man,
long-headed enough, and somewhat precise in the exaction of the
laird's rights, but open-hearted and open-handed with what was his
own.  Every one respected him, and felt kindly towards him; some
were a little afraid of him; but few suspected him of being
religious beyond the degree which is commonly supposed to be the
general inheritance of Scotchmen, possibly in virtue of their being
brought up upon oatmeal porridge and the Shorter Catechism.

Hugh walked behind the party for a short way, contemplating them in
their Sunday clothes: David wore a suit of fine black cloth.  He
then turned to rejoin the laird's company.  Mrs. Glasford was
questioning her boys, in an intermittent and desultory fashion,
about the sermon.

"An' what was the fourth heid, can ye tell me, Willie?"

Willie, the eldest, who had carefully impressed the fourth head upon
his memory, and had been anxiously waiting for an opportunity of
bringing it out, replied at once:

"Fourthly: The various appellations by which those who have indued
the robe of righteousness are designated in Holy Writ."

"Weel done, Willie!" cried the laird.

"That's richt, Willie," said his mother.  Then turning to the
younger, whose attention was attracted by a strange bird in the
hedge in front. "An' what called he them, Johnnie, that put on the
robe?" she asked.

"Whited sepulchres," answered Johnnie, indebted for his wit to his
wool-gathering.

This put an end to the catechising.  Mrs. Glasford glanced round at
Hugh, whose defection she had seen with indignation, and who,
waiting for them by the roadside, had heard the last question and
reply, with an expression that seemed to attribute any defect in the
answer, entirely to the carelessness of the tutor, and the
withdrawal of his energies from her boys to that "saucy quean, Meg
Elginbrod."




CHAPTER IX.

NATURE.

When the Soul is kindled or enlightened by the Holy Ghost, then it
beholds what God its Father does, as a Son beholds what his Father
does at Home in his own House.--JACOB BEHMEN'S Aurora--Law's
Translation.


Margaret began to read Wordsworth, slowly at first, but soon with
greater facility.  Ere long she perceived that she had found a
friend; for not only did he sympathize with her in her love for
nature, putting many vague feelings into thoughts, and many thoughts
into words for her, but he introduced her to nature in many
altogether new aspects, and taught her to regard it in ways which
had hitherto been unknown to her.  Not only was the pine wood now
dearer to her than before, but its mystery seemed more sacred, and,
at the same time, more likely to be one day solved.  She felt far
more assuredly the presence of a spirit in nature,

     "Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
      And the round ocean, and the living air;"

for he taught her to take wider views of nature, and to perceive and
feel the expressions of more extended aspects of the world around
her.  The purple hill-side was almost as dear to her as the fir-wood
now; and the star that crowned its summit at eve, sparkled an
especial message to her, before it went on its way up the blue.  She
extended her rambles in all directions, and began to get with the
neighbours the character of an idle girl.  Little they knew how
early she rose, and how diligently she did her share of the work,
urged by desire to read the word of God in his own handwriting; or
rather, to pore upon that expression of the face of God, which,
however little a man may think of it, yet sinks so deeply into his
nature, and moulds it towards its own likeness.

Nature was doing for Margaret what she had done before for
Wordsworth's Lucy: she was making of her "a lady of her own."  She
grew taller and more graceful.  The lasting quiet of her face began
to look as if it were ever upon the point of blossoming into an
expression of lovely feeling.  The principal change was in her
mouth, which became delicate and tender in its curves, the lips
seeming to kiss each other for very sweetness.  But I am
anticipating these changes, for it took a far longer time to perfect
them than has yet been occupied by my story.

But even her mother was not altogether proof against the appearance
of listlessness and idleness which Margaret's behaviour sometimes
wore to her eyes; nor could she quite understand or excuse her long
lonely walks; so that now and then she could not help addressing her
after this fashion:

"Meg!  Meg! ye do try my patience, lass, idlin' awa' yer time that
get.  It's an awfu' wastery o' time, what wi' beuks, an' what wi'
stravaguin', an' what wi' naething ava.  Jist pit yer han' to this
kirn noo, like a gude bairn."

Margaret would obey her mother instantly, but with a look of silent
expostulation which her mother could not resist; sometimes, perhaps,
if the words were sharper than usual, with symptoms of gathering
tears; upon which Janet would say, with her honest smile of sweet
relenting,

"Hootoots, bairn! never heed me.  My bark's aye waur nor my bite; ye
ken that."

Then Margaret's face would brighten at once, and she would work hard
at whatever her mother set her to do, till it was finished; upon
which her mother would be more glad than she, and in no haste to
impose any further labour out of the usual routine.

In the course of reading Wordsworth, Margaret had frequent occasion
to apply to Hugh for help.  These occasions, however, generally
involved no more than small external difficulties, which prevented
her from taking in the scope of a passage.  Hugh was always able to
meet these, and Margaret supposed that the whole of the light which
flashed upon her mind when they were removed, was poured upon the
page by the wisdom of her tutor; never dreaming--such was her
humility with regard to herself, and her reverence towards him--that
it came from the depths of her own lucent nature, ready to perceive
what the poet came prepared to show.  Now and then, it is true, she
applied to him with difficulties in which he was incapable of aiding
her; but she put down her failure in discovering the meaning, after
all which it must be confessed he sometimes tried to say, to her own
stupidity or peculiarity--never to his incapacity.  She had been
helped to so much by his superior acquirements, and his real gift
for communicating what he thoroughly understood; he had been so
entirely her guide to knowledge, that she would at once have felt
self-condemned of impiety--in the old meaning of the word--if she
had doubted for a moment his ability to understand or explain any
difficulty which she could place clearly before him.

By-and-by he began to lend her harder, that is, more purely
intellectual books.  He was himself preparing for the class of Moral
Philosophy and Metaphysics; and he chose for her some of the simpler
of his books on these subjects--of course all of the Scotch
school--beginning with Abercrombie's Intellectual Powers.  She took
this eagerly, and evidently read it with great attention.

One evening in the end of summer, Hugh climbed a waste heathery hill
that lay behind the house of Turriepuffit, and overlooked a great
part of the neighbouring country, the peaks of some of the greatest
of the Scotch mountains being visible from its top.  Here he
intended to wait for the sunset.  He threw himself on the heather,
that most delightful and luxurious of all couches, supporting the
body with a kindly upholding of every part; and there he lay in the
great slumberous sunlight of the late afternoon, with the blue
heavens, into which he was gazing full up, closing down upon him, as
the light descended the side of the sky.  He fell fast asleep.  If
ever there be an excuse for falling asleep out of bed, surely it is
when stretched at full length upon heather in bloom.  When he awoke,
the last of the sunset was dying away; and between him and the
sunset sat Margaret, book in hand, waiting apparently for his
waking.  He lay still for a few minutes, to come to himself before
she should see he was awake.  But she rose at the moment, and
drawing near very quietly, looked down upon him with her sweet
sunset face, to see whether or not he was beginning to rouse, for
she feared to let him lie much longer after sundown.  Finding him
awake, she drew back again without a word, and sat down as before
with her book.  At length he rose, and, approaching her, said--

"Well, Margaret, what book are you at now?"

"Dr. Abercrombie, sir," replied Margaret.

"How do you like it?"

"Verra weel for some things.  It makes a body think; but not
a'thegither as I like to think either."

It will be observed that Margaret's speech had begun to improve,
that is, to be more like English.

"What is the matter with it?"

"Weel, ye see, sir, it taks a body a' to bits like, and never pits
them together again.  An' it seems to me that a body's min' or soul,
or whatever it may be called--but it's jist a body's ain sel'--can
no more be ta'en to pieces like, than you could tak' that red licht
there oot o' the blue, or the haill sunset oot o' the heavens an'
earth.  It may be a' verra weel, Mr. Sutherland, but oh! it's no
like this!"

And Margaret looked around her from the hill-top, and then up into
the heavens, where the stars were beginning to crack the blue with
their thin, steely sparkle.

"It seems to me to tak' a' the poetry oot o' us, Mr. Sutherland."

"Well, well," said Hugh, with a smile, "you must just go to
Wordsworth to put it in again; or to set you again up after Dr.
Abercrombie has demolished you."

"Na, na, sir, he sanna demolish me: nor I winna trouble Mr.
Wordsworth to put the poetry into me again.  A' the power on earth
shanna tak' that oot o' me, gin it be God's will; for it's his ain
gift, Mr. Sutherland, ye ken."

"Of course, of course," replied Hugh, who very likely thought this
too serious a way of speaking of poetry, and therefore, perhaps,
rather an irreverent way of speaking of God; for he saw neither the
divine in poetry, nor the human in God. Could he be said to believe
that God made man, when he did not believe that God created
poetry--and yet loved it as he did?  It was to him only a grand
invention of humanity in its loftiest development.  In this
development, then, he must have considered humanity as farthest from
its origin; and God as the creator of savages, caring nothing for
poets or their work.

They turned, as by common consent, to go down the hill together.

"Shall I take charge of the offending volume?  You will not care to
finish it, I fear," said Hugh.

"No, sir, if you please.  I never like to leave onything unfinished.
I'll read ilka word in't.  I fancy the thing 'at sets me against
it, is mostly this; that, readin' it alang wi' Euclid, I canna help
aye thinkin' o' my ain min' as gin it were in some geometrical shape
or ither, whiles ane an' whiles anither; and syne I try to draw
lines an' separate this power frae that power, the memory frae the
jeedgement, an' the imagination frae the rizzon; an' syne I try to
pit them a' thegither again in their relations to ane anither.  And
this aye takes the shape o' some proposition or ither, generally i'
the second beuk.  It near-han' dazes me whiles.  I fancy gin' I
understood the pairts o' the sphere, it would be mair to the
purpose; but I wat I wish I were clear o't a'thegither."

Hugh had had some experiences of a similar kind himself, though not
at all to the same extent.  He could therefore understand her.

"You must just try to keep the things altogether apart," said he,
"and not think of the two sciences at once."

"But I canna help it," she replied. "I suppose you can, sir, because
ye're a man.  My father can understan' things ten times better nor
me an' my mother.  But nae sooner do I begin to read and think about
it, than up comes ane o' thae parallelograms, an' nothing will
driv't oot o' my head again, but a verse or twa o' Coleridge or
Wordsworth."

Hugh immediately began to repeat the first poem of the latter that
occurred to him:

     "I wandered lonely as a cloud."

She listened, walking along with her eyes fixed on the ground; and
when he had finished, gave a sigh of delight and relief--all the
comment she uttered.  She seemed never to find it necessary to say
what she felt; least of all when the feeling was a pleasant one; for
then it was enough for itself.  This was only the second time since
their acquaintance, that she had spoken of her feelings at all; and
in this case they were of a purely intellectual origin.  It is to be
observed, however, that in both cases she had taken pains to explain
thoroughly what she meant, as far as she was able.

It was dark before they reached home, at least as dark as it ever is
at this season of the year in the north.  They found David looking
out with some slight anxiety for his daughter's return, for she was
seldom out so late as this.  In nothing could the true relation
between them have been more evident than in the entire absence from
her manner of any embarrassment when she met her father.  She went
up to him and told him all about finding Mr. Sutherland asleep on
the hill, and waiting beside him till he woke, that she might walk
home with him.  Her father seemed perfectly content with an
explanation which he had not sought, and, turning to Hugh, said,
smiling:

"Weel, no to be troublesome, Mr. Sutherlan', ye maun gie the auld
man a turn as weel as the young lass.  We didna expec ye the nicht,
but I'm sair puzzled wi' a sma' eneuch matter on my sklet in there.
Will you no come in and gie me a lift?"

"With all my heart," said Sutherland.  So there were five lessons in
that week.

When Hugh entered the cottage he had a fine sprig of heather in his
hand, which he laid on the table.

He had the weakness of being proud of small discoveries--the tinier
the better; and was always sharpening his senses, as well as his
intellect, to a fine point, in order to make them.  I fear that by
these means he shut out some great ones, which could not enter
during such a concentration of the faculties.  He would stand
listening to the sound of goose-feet upon the road, and watch how
those webs laid hold of the earth like a hand.  He would struggle to
enter into their feelings in folding their wings properly on their
backs.  He would calculate, on chemical and arithmetical grounds,
whether one might not hear the nocturnal growth of plants in the
tropics.  He was quite elated by the discovery, as he considered it,
that Shakspeare named his two officers of the watch, Dogberry and
Verjuice; the poisonous Dogberry, and the acid liquor of green
fruits, affording suitable names for the stupidly innocuous
constables, in a play the very essence of which is Much Ado About
Nothing.  Another of his discoveries he had, during their last
lesson, unfolded to David, who had certainly contemplated it with
interest.  It was, that the original forms of the Arabic numerals
were these:

     1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9. {original text has a picture}

the number for which each figure stands being indicated by the
number of straight lines employed in forming that numeral.  I fear
the comparative anatomy of figures gives no countenance to the
discovery which Hugh flattered himself he had made.

After he had helped David out of his difficulty, he took up the
heather, and stripping off the bells, shook them in his hand at
Margaret's ear.  A half smile, like the moonlight of laughter,
dawned on her face; and she listened with something of the same
expression with which a child listens to the message from the sea,
inclosed in a twisted shell.  He did the same at David's ear next.

"Eh, man! that's a bonny wee soun'!  It's jist like sma'
sheep-bells--fairy-sheep, I reckon, Maggy, my doo."

"Lat me hearken as weel," said Janet.

Hugh obeyed.  She laughed.

"It's naething but a reestlin'.  I wad raither hear the sheep
baain', or the kye routin'."

"Eh, Mr. Sutherlan'! but, ye hae a gleg ee an' a sharp lug.  Weel,
the warld's fu' o' bonny sichts and souns, doon to the verra
sma'est.  The Lord lats naething gang.  I wadna wonner noo but there
micht be thousands sic like, ower sma' a'thegither for human ears,
jist as we ken there are creatures as perfect in beowty as ony we
see, but far ower sma' for our een wintin' the glass.  But for my
pairt, I aye like to see a heap o' things at ance, an' tak' them a'
in thegither, an' see them playin' into ane anither's han' like.  I
was jist thinkin', as I came hame the nicht in the sinset, hoo it
wad hae been naewise sae complete, wi' a' its red an' gowd an'
green, gin it hadna been for the cauld blue east ahint it, wi' the
twa-three shiverin' starnies leukin' through't.  An' doubtless the
warld to come 'ill be a' the warmer to them 'at hadna ower muckle
happin here.  But I'm jist haverin', clean haverin', Mr.
Sutherlan'," concluded David, with a smile of apologetic humour.

"I suppose you could easily believe with Plato, David, that the
planets make a grand choral music as they roll about the heavens,
only that as some sounds are too small, so that is too loud for us
to hear."

"I cud weel believe that," was David's unhesitating answer.
Margaret looked as if she not only could believe it, but would be
delighted to know that it was true.  Neither Janet nor Hugh gave any
indication of feeling on the matter.




CHAPTER X.

HARVEST.

So a small seed that in the earth lies hid
And dies, reviving bursts her cloddy side,
Adorned with yellow locks, of new is born,
And doth become a mother great with corn,
Of grains brings hundreds with it, which when old
Enrich the furrows with a sea of gold.

SIR WILLIAM DRUMMOND.--Hymn of the Resurrection.


Hugh had watched the green corn grow, and ear, and turn dim; then
brighten to yellow, and ripen at last under the declining autumn
sun, and the low skirting moon of the harvest, which seems too full
and heavy with mellow and bountiful light to rise high above the
fields which it comes to bless with perfection.  The long threads,
on each of which hung an oat-grain--the harvest here was mostly of
oats--had got dry and brittle; and the grains began to spread out
their chaff-wings, as if ready to fly, and rustled with sweet sounds
against each other, as the wind, which used to billow the fields
like the waves of the sea, now swept gently and tenderly over it,
helping the sun and moon in the drying and ripening of the joy to be
laid up for the dreary winter.  Most graceful of all hung those
delicate oats; next bowed the bearded barley; and stately and
wealthy and strong stood the few fields of wheat, of a rich, ruddy,
golden hue.  Above the yellow harvest rose the purple hills, and
above the hills the pale-blue autumnal sky, full of light and heat,
but fading somewhat from the colour with which it deepened above the
vanished days of summer.  For the harvest here is much later than in
England.

At length the day arrived when the sickle must be put into the
barley, soon to be followed by the scythe in the oats.  And now came
the joy of labour.  Everything else was abandoned for the harvest
field.  Books were thrown utterly aside; for, even when there was no
fear of a change of weather to urge to labour prolonged beyond the
natural hours, there was weariness enough in the work of the day to
prevent even David from reading, in the hours of bodily rest,
anything that necessitated mental labour.

Janet and Margaret betook themselves to the reaping-hook; and the
somewhat pale face of the latter needed but a single day to change
it to the real harvest hue--the brown livery of Ceres.  But when the
oats were attacked, then came the tug of war.  The laird was in the
fields from morning to night, and the boys would not stay behind;
but, with their father's permission, much to the tutor's
contentment, devoted what powers they had to the gathering of the
fruits of the earth.  Hugh himself, whose strength had grown
amazingly during his stay at Turriepuffit, and who, though he was
quite helpless at the sickle, thought he could wield the scythe,
would not be behind.  Throwing off coat and waistcoat, and tying his
handkerchief tight round his loins, he laid hold on the emblematic
weapon of Time and Death, determined likewise to earn the name of
Reaper.  He took the last scythe.  It was desperate work for a
while, and he was far behind the first bout; but David, who was the
best scyther in the whole country side, and of course had the
leading scythe, seeing the tutor dropping behind, put more power to
his own arm, finished his own bout, and brought up Hugh's before the
others had done sharpening their scythes for the next.

"Tak' care an' nae rax yersel' ower sair, Mr. Sutherlan'.  Ye'll be
up wi' the best o' them in a day or twa; but gin ye tyauve at it
aboon yer strenth, ye'll be clean forfochten.  Tak' a guid sweep wi'
the scythe, 'at ye may hae the weicht o't to ca' through the strae,
an' tak' nae shame at bein' hindmost.  Here, Maggy, my doo, come an'
gather to Mr. Sutherlan'.  Ane o' the young gentlemen can tak' your
place at the binin'."

The work of Janet and Margaret had been to form bands for the
sheaves, by folding together cunningly the heads of two small
handfuls of the corn, so as to make them long enough together to go
round the sheaf; then to lay this down for the gatherer to place
enough of the mown corn upon it; and last, to bind the band tightly
around by another skilful twist and an insertion of the ends, and so
form a sheaf.  From this work David called his daughter, desirous of
giving Hugh a gatherer who would not be disrespectful to his
awkwardness.  This arrangement, however, was far from pleasing to
some of the young men in the field, and brought down upon Hugh, who
was too hard-wrought to hear them at first, many sly hits of country
wit and human contempt.  There had been for some time great jealousy
of his visits at David's cottage; for Margaret, though she had very
little acquaintance with the young men of the neighbourhood, was
greatly admired amongst them, and not regarded as so far above the
station of many of them as to render aspiration useless.  Their
remarks to each other got louder and louder, till Hugh at last heard
some of them, and could not help being annoyed, not by their wit or
personality, but by the tone of contempt in which they were uttered.

"Tak' care o' yer legs, sir.  It'll be ill cuttin' upo' stumps."

"Fegs! he's taen the wings aff o' a pairtrick."

"Gin he gang on that get, he'll cut twa bouts at ance."

"Ye'll hae the scythe ower the dyke, man.  Tak' tent."

"Losh! sir; ye've taen aff my leg at the hip!"

"Ye're shavin' ower close: ye'll draw the bluid, sir."

"Hoot, man! lat alane.  The gentleman's only mista'en his trade, an'
imaigins he's howkin' a grave."

And so on.  Hugh gave no further sign of hearing their remarks than
lay in increased exertion.  Looking round, however, he saw that
Margaret was vexed, evidently not for her own sake.  He smiled to
her, to console her for his annoyance; and then, ambitious to remove
the cause of it, made a fresh exertion, recovered all his distance,
and was in his own place with the best of them at the end of the
bout.  But the smile that had passed between them did not escape
unobserved; and he had aroused yet more the wrath of the youths, by
threatening soon to rival them in the excellencies to which they had
an especial claim.  They had regarded him as an interloper, who had
no right to captivate one of their rank by arts beyond their reach;
but it was still less pardonable to dare them to a trial of skill
with their own weapons.  To the fire of this jealousy, the
admiration of the laird added fuel; for he was delighted with the
spirit with which Hugh laid himself to the scythe.  But all the
time, nothing was further from Hugh's thoughts than the idea of
rivalry with them.  Whatever he might have thought of Margaret in
relation to himself, he never thought of her, though labouring in
the same field with them, as in the least degree belonging to their
class, or standing in any possible relation to them, except that of
a common work.

In ordinary, the labourers would have had sufficient respect for
Sutherland's superior position, to prevent them from giving such
decided and articulate utterance to their feelings.  But they were
incited by the presence and example of a man of doubtful character
from the neighbouring village, a travelled and clever ne'er-do-weel,
whose reputation for wit was equalled by his reputation for courage
and skill, as well as profligacy.  Roused by the effervescence of
his genius, they went on from one thing to another, till Hugh saw it
must be put a stop to somehow, else he must abandon the field.  They
dared not have gone so far if David had been present; but he had
been called away to superintend some operations in another part of
the estate; and they paid no heed to the expostulations of some of
the other older men.  At the close of the day's work, therefore,
Hugh walked up to this fellow, and said:

"I hope you will be satisfied with insulting me all to-day, and
leave it alone to-morrow."

The man replied, with an oath and a gesture of rude contempt,

"I dinna care the black afore my nails for ony skelp-doup o' the lot
o' ye."

Hugh's highland blood flew to his brain, and before the rascal
finished his speech, he had measured his length on the stubble.  He
sprang to his feet in a fury, threw off the coat which he had just
put on, and darted at Hugh, who had by this time recovered his
coolness, and was besides, notwithstanding his unusual exertions,
the more agile of the two.  The other was heavier and more powerful.
Hugh sprang aside, as he would have done from the rush of a bull,
and again with a quick blow felled his antagonist.  Beginning rather
to enjoy punishing him, he now went in for it; and, before the other
would yield, he had rendered his next day's labour somewhat
doubtful.  He withdrew, with no more injury to himself than a little
water would remove.  Janet and Margaret had left the field before he
addressed the man.

He went borne and to bed--more weary than he had ever been in his
life.  Before he went to sleep, however, he made up his mind to say
nothing of his encounter to David, but to leave him to hear of it
from other sources.  He could not help feeling a little anxious as
to his judgment upon it.  That the laird would approve, he hardly
doubted; but for his opinion he cared very little.

"Dawvid, I wonner at ye," said Janet to her husband, the moment he
came home, "to lat the young lad warstle himsel' deid that get wi' a
scythe.  His banes is but saft yet, There wasna a dry steek on him
or he wan half the lenth o' the first bout.  He's sair disjaskit,
I'se warran'."

"Nae fear o' him, Janet; it'll do him guid.  Mr. Sutherland's no
feckless winlestrae o' a creater.  Did he haud his ain at a' wi' the
lave?"

"Haud his ain!  Gin he be fit for onything the day, he maun be
pitten neist yersel', or he'll cut the legs aff o' ony ither man i'
the corn."

A glow of pleasure mantled in Margaret's face at her mother's praise
of Hugh. Janet went on:

"But I was jist clean affronted wi' the way 'at the young chields
behaved themselves till him."

"I thocht I heard a toot-moot o' that kin' afore I left, but I
thocht it better to tak' nae notice o't.  I'll be wi' ye a' day the
morn though, an' I'm thinkin' I'll clap a rouch han' on their mou's
'at I hear ony mair o't frae."

But there was no occasion for interference on David's part.  Hugh
made his appearance--not, it is true, with the earliest in the
hairst-rig, but after breakfast with the laird, who was delighted
with the way in which he had handled his scythe the day before, and
felt twice the respect for him in consequence.  It must be confessed
he felt very stiff, but the best treatment for stiffness being the
homœopathic one of more work, he had soon restored the elasticity of
his muscles, and lubricated his aching joints.  His antagonist of
the foregoing evening was nowhere to be seen; and the rest of the
young men were shame-faced and respectful enough.

David, having learned from some of the spectators the facts of the
combat, suddenly, as they were walking home together, held out his
hand to Hugh, shook his hard, and said:

"Mr. Sutherlan', I'm sair obleeged to ye for giein' that vratch,
Jamie Ogg, a guid doonsettin'.  He's a coorse crater; but the warst
maun hae meat, an' sae I didna like to refeese him when he cam for
wark.  But its a greater kin'ness to clout him nor to cleed him.
They say ye made an awfu' munsie o' him.  But it's to be houpit
he'll live to thank ye.  There's some fowk 'at can respeck no
airgument but frae steekit neives; an' it's fell cruel to haud it
frae them, gin ye hae't to gie them.  I hae had eneuch ado to haud
my ain han's aff o' the ted, but it comes a hantle better frae you,
Mr. Sutherlan'."

Hugh wielded the scythe the whole of the harvest, and Margaret
gathered to him.  By the time it was over, leading-home and all, he
measured an inch less about the waist, and two inches more about the
shoulders; and was as brown as a berry, and as strong as an ox, or
"owse," as David called it, when thus describing Mr. Sutherland's
progress in corporal development; for he took a fatherly pride in
the youth, to whom, at the same time, he looked up with submission,
as his master in learning.




CHAPTER XI.

A CHANGE AND NO CHANGE.

Affliction, when I know it, is but this--
A deep alloy, whereby man tougher is
To bear the hammer; and the deeper still,
We still arise more image of his will.
Sickness--an humorous cloud 'twist us and light;
And death, at longest, but another night.
Man is his own star; and that soul that can
Be honest, is the only perfect Man.

JOHN FLETCHER.--Upon an Honest Man's Fortune.


Had Sutherland been in love with Margaret, those would have been
happy days; and that a yet more happy night, when, under the mystery
of a low moonlight and a gathering storm, the crop was cast in haste
into the carts, and hurried home to be built up in safety; when a
strange low wind crept sighing across the stubble, as if it came
wandering out of the past and the land of dreams, lying far off and
withered in the green west; and when Margaret and he came and went
in the moonlight like creatures in a dream--for the vapours of sleep
were floating in Hugh's brain, although he was awake and working.

"Margaret," he said, as they stood waiting a moment for the cart
that was coming up to be filled with sheaves, "what does that wind
put you in mind of?"

"Ossian's Poems," replied Margaret, without a moment's hesitation.

Hugh was struck by her answer.  He had meant something quite
different.  But it harmonized with his feeling about Ossian; for the
genuineness of whose poetry, Highlander as he was, he had no better
argument to give than the fact, that they produced in himself an
altogether peculiar mental condition; that the spiritual sensations
he had in reading them were quite different from those produced by
anything else, prose or verse; in fact, that they created moods of
their own in his mind.  He was unwilling to believe, apart from
national prejudices (which have not prevented the opinions on this
question from being as strong on the one side as on the other), that
this individuality of influence could belong to mere affectations of
a style which had never sprung from the sources of real feeling.
"Could they," he thought, "possess the power to move us like
remembered dreams of our childhood, if all that they possessed of
reality was a pretended imitation of what never existed, and all
that they inherited from the past was the halo of its strangeness?"

But Hugh was not in love with Margaret, though he could not help
feeling the pleasure of her presence.  Any youth must have been the
better for having her near him; but there was nothing about her
quiet, self-contained being, free from manifestation of any sort, to
rouse the feelings commonly called love, in the mind of an
inexperienced youth like Hugh Sutherland.--I say commonly called,
because I believe that within the whole sphere of intelligence there
are no two loves the same.--Not that he was less easily influenced
than other youths.  A designing girl might have caught him at once,
if she had had no other beauty than sparkling eyes; but the
womanhood of the beautiful Margaret kept so still in its pearly
cave, that it rarely met the glance of neighbouring eyes.  How
Margaret regarded him I do not know; but I think it was with a love
almost entirely one with reverence and gratitude.  Cause for
gratitude she certainly had, though less than she supposed; and very
little cause indeed for reverence.  But how could she fail to revere
one to whom even her father looked up?  Of course David's feeling of
respect for Hugh must have sprung chiefly from intellectual grounds;
and he could hardly help seeing, if he thought at all on the
subject, which is doubtful, that Hugh was as far behind Margaret in
the higher gifts and graces, as he was before her in intellectual
acquirement.  But whether David perceived this or not, certainly
Margaret did not even think in that direction.  She was pure of
self-judgment--conscious of no comparing of herself with others,
least of all with those next her.

At length the harvest was finished; or, as the phrase of the
district was, clyack was gotten--a phrase with the derivation, or
even the exact meaning of which, I am unacquainted; knowing only
that it implies something in close association with the feast of
harvest-home, called the kirn in other parts of Scotland.
Thereafter, the fields lay bare to the frosts of morning and
evening, and to the wind that grew cooler and cooler with the breath
of Winter, who lay behind the northern hills, and waited for his
hour.  But many lovely days remained, of quiet and slow decay, of
yellow and red leaves, of warm noons and lovely sunsets, followed by
skies--green from the west horizon to the zenith, and walked by a
moon that seemed to draw up to her all the white mists from pond and
river and pool, to settle again in hoar-frost, during the colder
hours that precede the dawn.  At length every leafless tree sparkled
in the morning sun, incrusted with fading gems; and the ground was
hard under foot; and the hedges were filled with frosted
spider-webs; and winter had laid the tips of his fingers on the
land, soon to cover it deep with the flickering snow-flakes, shaken
from the folds of his outspread mantle.  But long ere this, David
and Margaret had returned with renewed diligence, and powers
strengthened by repose, or at least by intermission, to their mental
labours, and Hugh was as constant a visitor at the cottage as
before.  The time, however, drew nigh when he must return to his
studies at Aberdeen; and David and Margaret were looking forward
with sorrow to the loss of their friend.  Janet, too, "cudna bide to
think o't."

"He'll tak' the daylicht wi' him, I doot, my lass," she said, as she
made the porridge for breakfast one morning, and looked down
anxiously at her daughter, seated on the creepie by the ingle-neuk.

"Na, na, mither," replied Margaret, looking up from her book; "he'll
lea' sic gifts ahin' him as'll mak' daylicht i' the dark;" and then
she bent her head and went on with her reading, as if she had not
spoken.

The mother looked away with a sigh and a slight, sad shake of the
head.

But matters were to turn out quite different from all anticipations.
Before the day arrived on which Hugh must leave for the university,
a letter from home informed him that his father was dangerously ill.
He hastened to him, but only to comfort his last hours by all that
a son could do, and to support his mother by his presence during the
first hours of her loneliness.  But anxious thoughts for the future,
which so often force themselves on the attention of those who would
gladly prolong their brooding over the past, compelled them to adopt
an alteration of their plans for the present.

The half-pay of Major Sutherland was gone, of course; and all that
remained for Mrs. Sutherland was a small annuity, secured by her
husband's payments to a certain fund for the use of officers'
widows.  From this she could spare but a mere trifle for the
completion of Hugh's university-education; while the salary he had
received at Turriepuffit, almost the whole of which he had saved,
was so small as to be quite inadequate for the very moderate outlay
necessary.  He therefore came to the resolution to write to the
laird, and offer, if they were not yet provided with another tutor,
to resume his relation to the young gentlemen for the winter.  It
was next to impossible to spend money there; and he judged that
before the following winter, he should be quite able to meet the
expenses of his residence at Aberdeen, during the last session of
his course.  He would have preferred trying to find another
situation, had it not been that David and Janet and Margaret had
made there a home for him.

Whether Mrs. Glasford was altogether pleased at the proposal, I
cannot tell; but the laird wrote a very gentlemanlike epistle,
condoling with him and his mother upon their loss, and urging the
usual common-places of consolation.  The letter ended with a hearty
acceptance of Hugh's offer, and, strange to tell, the unsolicited
promise of an increase of salary to the amount of five pounds.  This
is another to be added to the many proofs that verisimilitude is not
in the least an essential element of verity.

He left his mother as soon as circumstances would permit, and
returned to Turriepuffit; an abode for the winter very different
indeed from that in which he had expected to spend it.

He reached the place early in the afternoon; received from Mrs.
Glasford a cold "I hope you're well, Mr. Sutherland;" found his
pupils actually reading, and had from them a welcome rather
boisterously evidenced; told them to get their books; and sat down
with them at once to commence their winter labours.  He spent two
hours thus; had a hearty shake of the hand from the laird, when he
came home; and, after a substantial tea, walked down to David's
cottage, where a welcome awaited him worth returning for.

"Come yer wa's butt," said Janet, who met him as he opened the door
without any prefatory knock, and caught him with both hands; "I'm
blithe to see yer bonny face ance mair.  We're a' jist at ane mair
wi' expeckin' o' ye."

David stood in the middle of the floor, waiting for him.

"Come awa', my bonny lad," was all his greeting, as he held out a
great fatherly hand to the youth, and, grasping his in the one,
clapped him on the shoulder with the other, the water standing in
his blue eyes the while.  Hugh thought of his own father, and could
not restrain his tears.  Margaret gave him a still look full in the
face, and, seeing his emotion, did not even approach to offer him
any welcome.  She hastened, instead, to place a chair for him as she
had done when first he entered the cottage, and when he had taken it
sat down at his feet on her creepie.  With true delicacy, no one
took any notice of him for some time.  David said at last,

"An' hoo's yer puir mother, Mr. Sutherlan'?"

"She's pretty well," was all Hugh could answer.

"It's a sair stroke to bide," said David; "but it's a gran' thing
whan a man's won weel throw't.  Whan my father deit, I min' weel, I
was sae prood to see him lyin' there, in the cauld grandeur o'
deith, an' no man 'at daured say he ever did or spak the thing 'at
didna become him, 'at I jist gloried i' the mids o' my greetin'.  He
was but a puir auld shepherd, Mr. Sutherlan', wi' hair as white as
the sheep 'at followed him; an' I wat as they followed him, he
followed the great Shepherd; an' followed an' followed, till he jist
followed Him hame, whaur we're a' boun', an' some o' us far on the
road, thanks to Him!"

And with that David rose, and got down the Bible, and, opening it
reverently, read with a solemn, slightly tremulous voice, the
fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel.  When he had finished, they
all rose, as by one accord, and knelt down, and David prayed:

"O Thou in whase sicht oor deeth is precious, an' no licht maitter;
wha through darkness leads to licht, an' through deith to the
greater life!--we canna believe that thou wouldst gie us ony guid
thing, to tak' the same again; for that would be but bairns' play.
We believe that thou taks, that thou may gie again the same thing
better nor afore--mair o't and better nor we could ha' received it
itherwise; jist as the Lord took himsel' frae the sicht o' them 'at
lo'ed him weel, that instead o' bein' veesible afore their een, he
micht hide himsel' in their verra herts.  Come thou, an' abide in
us, an' tak' us to bide in thee; an' syne gin we be a' in thee, we
canna be that far frae ane anither, though some sud be in haven, an'
some upo' earth.  Lord help us to do oor wark like thy men an'
maidens doon the stair, remin'in' oursel's, 'at them 'at we miss hae
only gane up the stair, as gin 'twar to haud things to thy han' i'
thy ain presence-chamber, whaur we houp to be called or lang, an' to
see thee an' thy Son, wham we lo'e aboon a'; an' in his name we say,
Amen!"

Hugh rose from his knees with a sense of solemnity and reality that
he had never felt before.  Little was said that evening; supper was
eaten, if not in silence, yet with nothing that could be called
conversation.  And, almost in silence, David walked home with Hugh.
The spirit of his father seemed to walk beside him.  He felt as if
he had been buried with him; and had found that the sepulchre was
clothed with green things and roofed with stars--was in truth the
heavens and the earth in which his soul walked abroad.

If Hugh looked a little more into his Bible, and tried a little more
to understand it, after his father's death, it is not to be wondered
at.  It is but another instance of the fact that, whether from
education or from the leading of some higher instinct, we are ready,
in every more profound trouble, to feel as if a solution or a refuge
lay somewhere--lay in sounds of wisdom, perhaps, to be sought and
found in the best of books, the deepest of all the mysterious
treasuries of words.  But David never sought to influence Hugh to
this end.  He read the Bible in his family, but he never urged the
reading of it on others.  Sometimes he seemed rather to avoid the
subject of religion altogether; and yet it was upon those very
occasions that, if he once began to speak, he would pour out, before
he ceased, some of his most impassioned utterances.




CHAPTER XII.

CHARITY.

Knowledge bloweth up, but charity buildeth up.

LORD BACON'S rendering of 1 Cor. viii. I.


Things went on as usual for a few days, when Hugh began to encounter
a source of suffering of a very material and unromantic kind, but
which, nevertheless, had been able before now, namely, at the
commencement of his tutorship, to cause him a very sufficient degree
of distress.  It was this; that he had no room in which he could
pursue his studies in private, without having to endure a most
undesirable degree of cold.  In summer this was a matter of little
moment, for the universe might then be his secret chamber; but in a
Scotch spring or autumn, not to say winter, a bedroom without a
fire-place, which, strange to say, was the condition of his, was not
a study in which thought could operate to much satisfactory result.
Indeed, pain is a far less hurtful enemy to thinking than cold.
And to have to fight such suffering and its benumbing influences,
as well as to follow out a train of reasoning, difficult at any
time, and requiring close attention--is too much for any machine
whose thinking wheels are driven by nervous gear.  Sometimes--for he
must make the attempt--he came down to his meals quite blue with
cold, as his pupils remarked to their mother; but their observation
never seemed to suggest to her mind the necessity of making some
better provision for the poor tutor.  And Hugh, after the way in
which she had behaved to him, was far too proud to ask her a favour,
even if he had had hopes of receiving his request.  He knew, too,
that, in the house, the laird, to interfere in the smallest degree,
must imperil far more than he dared.  The prospect, therefore, of
the coming winter, in a country where there was scarcely any
afternoon, and where the snow might lie feet deep for weeks, was not
at all agreeable.  He had, as I have said, begun to suffer already,
for the mornings and evenings were cold enough now, although it was
a bright, dry October.  One evening Janet remarked that he had
caught cold, for he was 'hostin' sair;' and this led Hugh to state
the discomfort he was condemned to experience up at the ha' house.

"Weel," said David, after some silent deliberation, "that sattles't;
we maun set aboot it immedantly."

Of course Hugh was quite at a loss to understand what he meant, and
begged him to explain.

"Ye see," replied David, "we hae verra little hoose-room i' this bit
cot; for, excep this kitchen, we hae but the ben whaur Janet and me
sleeps; and sae last year I spak' to the laird to lat me hae muckle
timmer as I wad need to big a kin' o' a lean-to to the house ahin',
so 'at we micht hae a kin' o' a bit parlour like, or rather a roomie
'at ony o' us micht retire till for a bit, gin we wanted to be oor
lanes.  He had nae objections, honest man.  But somehoo or ither I
never sat han' till't; but noo the wa's maun be up afore the wat
weather sets in.  Sae I'se be at it the morn, an' maybe ye'll len'
me a han', Mr. Sutherlan', and tak' oot yer wages in house-room an'
firin' efter it's dune."

"Thank you heartily!" said Hugh; that would be delightful.  It seems
too good to be possible.  But will not wooden walls be rather a poor
protection against such winters as I suppose you have in these
parts?"

"Hootoot, Mr. Sutherlan', ye micht gie me credit for raither mair
rumgumption nor that comes till.  Timmer was the only thing I not
(needed) to spier for; the lave lies to ony body's han'--a few
cart-fu's o' sods frae the hill ahint the hoose, an' a han'fu' or
twa o' stanes for the chimla oot o' the quarry--there's eneuch there
for oor turn ohn blastit mair; an' we'll saw the wood oorsels; an'
gin we had ance the wa's up, we can carry on the inside at oor
leisur'.  That's the way 'at the Maker does wi' oorsels; he gie's us
the wa's an' the material, an' a whole lifetime, maybe mair, to
furnish the house."

"Capital!" exclaimed Hugh. "I'll work like a horse, and we'll be at
it the morn."

"I'se be at it afore daylicht, an' ane or twa o' the lads'll len' me
a han' efter wark-hours; and there's yersel', Mr. Sutherlan', worth
ane an' a half o' ordinary workers; an' we'll hae truff aneuch for
the wa's in a jiffey.  I'll mark a feow saplin's i' the wud here at
denner-time, an' we'll hae them for bauks, an' couples, an' things;
an' there's plenty dry eneuch for beurds i' the shed, an' bein' but
a lean-to, there'll be but half wark, ye ken."

They went out directly, in the moonlight, to choose the spot; and
soon came to the resolution to build it so, that a certain back
door, which added more to the cold in winter than to the convenience
in summer, should be the entrance to the new chamber.  The chimney
was the chief difficulty; but all the materials being in the
immediate neighbourhood, and David capable of turning his hands to
anything, no obstruction was feared.  Indeed, he set about that part
first, as was necessary; and had soon built a small chimney, chiefly
of stones and lime; while, under his directions, the walls were
making progress at the same time, by the labour of Hugh and two or
three of the young men from the farm, who were most ready to oblige
David with their help, although they were still rather unfriendly to
the colliginer, as they called him.  But Hugh's frankness soon won
them over, and they all formed within a day or two a very
comfortable party of labourers.  They worked very hard; for if the
rain should set in before the roof was on, their labour would be
almost lost from the soaking of the walls.  They built them of turf,
very thick, with a slight slope on the outside towards the roof;
before commencing which, they partially cut the windows out of the
walls, putting wood across to support the top.  I should have
explained that the turf used in building was the upper and coarser
part of the peat, which was plentiful in the neighbourhood.  The
thatch-eaves of the cottage itself projected over the joining of the
new roof, so as to protect it from the drip; and David soon put a
thick thatch of new straw upon the little building.  Second-hand
windows were procured at the village, and the holes in the walls cut
to their size.  They next proceeded to the saw-pit on the
estate--for almost everything necessary for keeping up the offices
was done on the farm itself--where they sawed thin planks of deal,
to floor and line the room, and make it more cosie.  These David
planed upon one side; and when they were nailed against slight posts
all round the walls, and the joints filled in with putty, the room
began to look most enticingly habitable.  The roof had not been
thatched two days before the rain set in; but now they could work
quite comfortably inside; and as the space was small, and the
forenights were long, they had it quite finished before the end of
November.  David bought an old table in the village, and one or two
chairs; mended them up; made a kind of rustic sofa or settle; put a
few bookshelves against the wall; had a peat fire lighted on the
hearth every day; and at length, one Saturday evening, they had
supper in the room, and the place was consecrated henceforth to
friendship and learning.  From this time, every evening, as soon as
lessons, and the meal which immediately followed them, were over,
Hugh betook himself to the cottage, on the shelves of which all his
books by degrees collected themselves; and there spent the whole
long evening, generally till ten o'clock; the first part alone
reading or writing; the last in company with his pupils, who,
diligent as ever, now of course made more rapid progress than
before, inasmuch as the lessons were both longer and more frequent.
The only drawback to their comfort was, that they seemed to have
shut Janet out; but she soon remedied this, by contriving to get
through with her house work earlier than she had ever done before;
and, taking her place on the settle behind them, knitted away
diligently at her stocking, which, to inexperienced eyes, seemed
always the same, and always in the same state of progress,
notwithstanding that she provided the hose of the whole family, blue
and grey, ribbed and plain.  Her occasional withdrawings, to observe
the progress of the supper, were only a cheerful break in the
continuity of labour.  Little would the passer-by imagine that
beneath that roof, which seemed worthy only of the name of a shed,
there sat, in a snug little homely room, such a youth as Hugh, such
a girl as Margaret, such a grand peasant king as David, and such a
true-hearted mother to them all as Janet.  There were no pictures
and no music; for Margaret kept her songs for solitary places; but
the sound of verse was often the living wind which set a-waving the
tops of the trees of knowledge, fast growing in the sunlight of
Truth.  The thatch of that shed-roof was like the grizzled hair of
David, beneath which lay the temple not only of holy but of wise and
poetic thought.  It was like the sylvan abode of the gods, where the
architecture and music are all of their own making, in their kind
the more beautiful, the more simple and rude; and if more doubtful
in their intent, and less precise in their finish, yet therein the
fuller of life and its grace, and the more suggestive of deeper
harmonies.




CHAPTER XIII.

HERALDRY.

And like his father of face and of stature,
And false of love--it came him of nature;
As doth the fox Renard, the fox's son;
Of kinde, he coud his old father's wone,
Without lore, as can a drake swim,
When it is caught, and carried to the brim.

CHAUCER.--Legend of Phillis.


Of course, the yet more lengthened absences of Hugh from the house
were subjects of remark as at the first; but Hugh had made up his
mind not to trouble himself the least about that.  For some time
Mrs. Glasford took no notice of them to himself; but one evening,
just as tea was finished, and Hugh was rising to go, her restraint
gave way, and she uttered one spiteful speech, thinking it, no
doubt, so witty that it ought to see the light.

"Ye're a day-labourer it seems, Mr. Sutherlan', and gang hame at
night."

"Exactly so, madam," rejoined Hugh. "There is no other relation
between you and me, than that of work and wages.  You have done your
best to convince me of that, by making it impossible for me to feel
that this house is in any sense my home."

With this grand speech he left the room, and from that time till the
day of his final departure from Turriepuffit, there was not a single
allusion made to the subject.

He soon reached the cottage.  When he entered the new room, which
was always called Mr. Sutherland's study, the mute welcome afforded
him by the signs of expectation, in the glow of the waiting fire,
and the outspread arms of the elbow-chair, which was now called his,
as well as the room, made ample amends to him for the unfriendliness
of Mrs. Glasford.  Going to the shelves to find the books he wanted,
he saw that they had been carefully arranged on one shelf, and that
the others were occupied with books belonging to the house.  He
looked at a few of them.  They were almost all old books, and such
as may be found in many Scotch cottages; for instance, Boston's
Fourfold State, in which the ways of God and man may be seen through
a fourfold fog; Erskine's Divine Sonnets, which will repay the
reader in laughter for the pain it costs his reverence, producing
much the same effect that a Gothic cathedral might, reproduced by
the pencil and from the remembrance of a Chinese artist, who had
seen it once; Drelincourt on Death, with the famous ghost-hoax of De
Foe, to help the bookseller to the sale of the unsaleable; the Scots
Worthies, opening of itself at the memoir of Mr. Alexander Peden;
the Pilgrim's Progress, that wonderful inspiration, failing never
save when the theologian would sometimes snatch the pen from the
hand of the poet; Theron and Aspasio; Village Dialogues; and others
of a like class.  To these must be added a rare edition of Blind
Harry.  It was clear to Hugh, unable as he was fully to appreciate
the wisdom of David, that it was not from such books as these that
he had gathered it; yet such books as these formed all his store.
He turned from them, found his own, and sat down to read.  By and
by David came in.

"I'm ower sune, I doubt, Mr. Sutherlan'.  I'm disturbin' ye."

"Not at all," answered Hugh. "Besides, I am not much in a reading
mood this evening: Mrs. Glasford has been annoying me again."

"Poor body!  What's she been sayin' noo?"

Thinking to amuse David, Hugh recounted the short passage between
them recorded above.  David, however, listened with a very different
expression of countenance from what Hugh had anticipated; and, when
he had finished, took up the conversation in a kind of apologetic
tone.

"Weel, but ye see," said he, folding his palms together, "she hasna'
jist had a'thegither fair play.  She does na come o' a guid breed.
Man, it's a fine thing to come o' a guid breed.  They hae a hantle
to answer for 'at come o' decent forbears."

"I thought she brought the laird a good property," said Hugh, not
quite understanding David.

"Ow, ay, she brocht him gowpenfu's o' siller; but hoo was't gotten?
An' ye ken it's no riches 'at 'ill mak' a guid breed--'cep' it be
o' maggots.  The richer cheese the mair maggots, ye ken.  Ye maunna
speyk o' this; but the mistress's father was weel kent to hae made
his siller by fardins and bawbees, in creepin', crafty ways.  He was
a bit merchan' in Aberdeen, an' aye keepit his thoom weel ahint the
peint o' the ellwan', sae 'at he made an inch or twa upo' ilka yard
he sauld.  Sae he took frae his soul, and pat intill his siller-bag,
an' had little to gie his dochter but a guid tocher.  Mr.
Sutherlan', it's a fine thing to come o' dacent fowk.  Noo, to luik
at yersel': I ken naething aboot yer family; but ye seem at eesicht
to come o' a guid breed for the bodily part o' ye.  That's a sma'
matter; but frae what I ha'e seen--an' I trust in God I'm no'
mista'en--ye come o' the richt breed for the min' as weel.  I'm no
flatterin' ye, Mr. Sutherlan'; but jist layin' it upo' ye, 'at gin
ye had an honest father and gran'father, an' especially a guid
mither, ye hae a heap to answer for; an' ye ought never to be hard
upo' them 'at's sma' creepin' creatures, for they canna help it sae
weel as the like o' you and me can."

David was not given to boasting.  Hugh had never heard anything
suggesting it from his lips before.  He turned full round and looked
at him.  On his face lay a solemn quiet, either from a feeling of
his own responsibility, or a sense of the excuse that must be made
for others.  What he had said about the signs of breed in Hugh's
exterior, certainly applied to himself as well.  His carriage was
full of dignity, and a certain rustic refinement; his voice was
wonderfully gentle, but deep; and slowest when most impassioned.  He
seemed to have come of some gigantic antediluvian breed: there was
something of the Titan slumbering about him.  He would have been a
stern man, but for an unusual amount of reverence that seemed to
overflood the sternness, and change it into strong love.  No one had
ever seen him thoroughly angry; his simple displeasure with any of
the labourers, the quality of whose work was deficient, would go
further than the laird's oaths.

Hugh sat looking at David, who supported the look with that perfect
calmness that comes of unconscious simplicity.  At length Hugh's eye
sank before David's, as he said:

"I wish I had known your father, then, David."

"My father was sic a ane as I tauld ye the ither day, Mr.
Sutherlan'.  I'm a' richt there.  A puir, semple, God-fearin'
shepherd, 'at never gae his dog an ill-deserved word, nor took the
skin o' ony puir lammie, wha's woo' he was clippin', atween the
shears.  He was weel worthy o' the grave 'at he wan till at last.
An' my mither was jist sic like, wi' aiblins raither mair heid nor
my father.  They're her beuks maistly upo' the skelf there abune yer
ain, Mr. Sutherlan'.  I honour them for her sake, though I seldom
trouble them mysel'.  She gae me a kin' o' a scunner at them, honest
woman, wi' garrin' me read at them o' Sundays, till they near
scomfisht a' the guid 'at was in me by nater.  There's doctrine for
ye, Mr. Sutherlan'!" added David, with a queer laugh.

"I thought they could hardly be your books," said Hugh.

"But I hae ae odd beuk, an' that brings me upo' my pedigree, Mr.
Sutherlan'; for the puirest man has as lang a pedigree as the
greatest, only he kens less aboot it, that's a'.  An' I wat, for yer
lords and ladies, it's no a' to their credit 'at's tauld o' their
hither-come; an' that's a' against the breed, ye ken.  A wilfu' sin
in the father may be a sinfu' weakness i' the son; an' that's what I
ca' no fair play."

So saying, David went to his bedroom, whence he returned with a very
old-looking book, which he laid on the table before Hugh. He opened
it, and saw that it was a volume of Jacob Bœhmen, in the original
language.  He found out afterwards, upon further inquiry, that it
was in fact a copy of the first edition of his first work, The
Aurora, printed in 1612.  On the title-page was written a name,
either in German or old English character, he was not sure which;
but he was able to read it--Martin Elginbrodde.  David, having given
him time to see all this, went on:

"That buik has been in oor family far langer nor I ken.  I needna
say I canna read a word o't, nor I never heard o' ane 'at could.
But I canna help tellin' ye a curious thing, Mr. Sutherlan', in
connexion wi' the name on that buik: there's a gravestane, a verra
auld ane--hoo auld I canna weel mak' out, though I gaed ends-errand
to Aberdeen to see't--an' the name upo' that gravestane is Martin
Elginbrod, but made mention o' in a strange fashion; an' I'm no sure
a'thegither aboot hoo ye'll tak' it, for it soun's rather fearsome
at first hearin' o't.  But ye'se hae't as I read it:

     "'Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde:
      Hae mercy o' my soul, Lord God;
      As I wad do, were I Lord God,
      And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.'"

Certainly Hugh could not help a slight shudder at what seemed to him
the irreverence of the epitaph, if indeed it was not deserving of a
worse epithet.  But he made no remark; and, after a moment's pause,
David resumed:

"I was unco ill-pleased wi't at the first, as ye may suppose, Mr.
Sutherlan'; but, after a while, I begude (began) an' gaed through
twa or three bits o' reasonin's aboot it, in this way: By the natur'
o't, this maun be the man's ain makin', this epitaph; for no ither
body cud ha' dune't; and he had left it in's will to be pitten upo'
the deid-stane, nae doot: I' the contemplation o' deith, a man wad
no be lik'ly to desire the perpetuation o' a blasphemy upo' a table
o' stone, to stan' against him for centuries i' the face o' God an'
man: therefore it cudna ha' borne the luik to him o' the
presumptuous word o' a proud man evenin' himsel' wi' the Almichty.
Sae what was't, then, 'at made him mak' it?  It seems to me--though
I confess, Mr. Sutherlan', I may be led astray by the nateral desire
'at a man has to think weel o' his ain forbears--for 'at he was a
forbear o' my ain, I canna weel doot, the name bein' by no means a
common ane, in Scotland ony way--I'm sayin', it seems to me, that
it's jist a darin' way, maybe a childlike way, o' judgin', as Job
micht ha' dune, 'the Lord by himsel';' an' sayin', 'at gin he,
Martin Elginbrod, wad hae mercy, surely the Lord was not less
mercifu' than he was.  The offspring o' the Most High was, as it
were, aware o' the same spirit i' the father o' him, as muved in
himsel'.  He felt 'at the mercy in himsel' was ane o' the best
things; an' he cudna think 'at there wad be less o't i' the father
o' lichts, frae whom cometh ilka guid an' perfeck gift.  An' may be
he remembered 'at the Saviour himsel' said: 'Be ye perfect as your
father in Heaven is perfect;' and that the perfection o' God, as He
had jist pinted oot afore, consisted in causin' his bonny sun to
shine on the evil an' the good, an' his caller rain to fa' upo' the
just an' the unjust."

It may well be doubted whether David's interpretation of the epitaph
was the correct one.  It will appear to most of my readers to
breathe rather of doubt lighted up by hope, than of that strong
faith which David read in it.  But whether from family partiality,
and consequent unwillingness to believe that his ancestor had been a
man who, having led a wild, erring, and evil life, turned at last
towards the mercy of God as his only hope, which the words might
imply; or simply that he saw this meaning to be the best; this was
the interpretation which David had adopted.

"But," interposed Hugh, "supposing he thought all that, why should
he therefore have it carved on his tombstone?"

"I hae thocht aboot that too," answered David. "For ae thing, a body
has but feow ways o' sayin' his say to his brithermen.  Robbie Burns
cud do't in sang efter sang; but maybe this epitaph was a' that auld
Martin was able to mak'.  He michtna hae had the gift o' utterance.
But there may be mair in't nor that.  Gin the clergy o' thae times
warna a gey hantle mair enlichtened nor a fowth o' the clergy
hereabouts, he wad hae heard a heap aboot the glory o' God, as the
thing 'at God himsel' was maist anxious aboot uphaudin', jist like a
prood creater o' a king; an' that he wad mak' men, an' feed them,
an' cleed them, an' gie them braw wives an' toddlin' bairnies, an'
syne damn them, a' for's ain glory.  Maybe ye wadna get mony o' them
'at wad speyk sae fair-oot noo-a-days, for they gang wi' the tide
jist like the lave; but i' my auld minny's buiks, I hae read jilt as
muckle as that, an' waur too.  Mony ane 'at spak like that, had nae
doot a guid meanin' in't; but, hech man! it's an awesome deevilich
way o' sayin' a holy thing.  Noo, what better could puir auld Martin
do, seein' he had no ae word to say i' the kirk a' his lifelang, nor
jist say his ae word, as pithily as might be, i' the kirkyard, efter
he was deid; an' ower an' ower again, wi' a tongue o' stane, let
them tak' it or lat it alane 'at likit?  That's a' my defence o' my
auld luckie-daddy--Heaven rest his brave auld soul!"

"But are we not in danger," said Hugh, "of thinking too lightly and
familiarly of the Maker, when we proceed to judge him so by
ourselves?"

"Mr. Sutherlan'," replied David, very solemnly, "I dinna thenk I can
be in muckle danger o' lichtlyin' him, whan I ken in my ain sel', as
weel as she 'at was healed o' her plague, 'at I wad be a horse i'
that pleuch, or a pig in that stye, not merely if it was his
will--for wha can stan' against that--but if it was for his glory;
ay, an' comfort mysel', a' the time the change was passin' upo' me,
wi' the thocht that, efter an' a', his blessed han's made the pigs
too."

"But, a moment ago, David, you seemed to me to be making rather
little of his glory."

"O' his glory, as they consider glory--ay; efter a warldly fashion
that's no better nor pride, an' in him would only be a greater
pride.  But his glory! consistin' in his trowth an'
lovin'kindness--(man! that's a bonny word)--an' grand
self-forgettin' devotion to his creaters--lord! man, it's
unspeakable.  I care little for his glory either, gin by that ye
mean the praise o' men.  A heap o' the anxiety for the spread o' his
glory, seems to me to be but a desire for the sempathy o' ither
fowk.  There's no fear but men 'll praise him, a' in guid time--that
is, whan they can.  But, Mr. Sutherlan', for the glory o' God,
raither than, if it were possible, one jot or one tittle should fail
of his entire perfection of holy beauty, I call God to witness, I
would gladly go to hell itsel'; for no evil worth the full name can
befall the earth or ony creater in't, as long as God is what he is.
For the glory o' God, Mr. Sutherlan', I wad die the deith . For the
will o' God, I'm ready for onything he likes.  I canna surely be in
muckle danger o' lichtlyin' him.  I glory in my God."

The almost passionate earnestness with which David spoke, would
alone have made it impossible for Hugh to reply at once.  After a
few moments, however, he ventured to ask the question:

"Would you do nothing that other people should know God, then,
David?"

"Onything 'at he likes.  But I would tak' tent o' interferin'.  He's
at it himsel' frae mornin' to nicht, frae year's en' to year's en'."

"But you seem to me to make out that God is nothing but love!"

"Ay, naething but love.  What for no?"

"Because we are told he is just."

"Would he be lang just if he didna lo'e us?"

"But does he not punish sin?"

"Would it be ony kin'ness no to punish sin?  No to us a' means to
pit awa' the ae ill thing frae us?  Whatever may be meant by the
place o' meesery, depen' upo't, Mr. Sutherlan', it's only anither
form o' love, love shinin' through the fogs o' ill, an' sae gart
leuk something verra different thereby.  Man, raither nor see my
Maggy--an' ye'll no doot 'at I lo'e her--raither nor see my Maggy do
an ill thing, I'd see her lyin' deid at my feet.  But supposin' the
ill thing ance dune, it's no at my feet I wad lay her, but upo' my
heart, wi' my auld arms aboot her, to hand the further ill aff o'
her.  An' shall mortal man be more just than God?  Shall a man be
more pure than his Maker?  O my God! my God!"

The entrance of Margaret would have prevented the prosecution of
this conversation, even if it had not already drawn to a natural
close.  Not that David would not have talked thus before his
daughter, but simply that minds, like instruments, need to be
brought up to the same pitch, before they can "atone together," and
that one feels this instinctively on the entrance of another who has
not gone through the same immediate process of gradual elevation of
tone.

Their books and slates were got out, and they sat down to their
work; but Hugh could not help observing that David, in the midst of
his lines and angles and algebraic computations, would, every now
and then, glance up at Margaret, with a look of tenderness in his
face yet deeper and more delicate in its expression than ordinary.
Margaret was, however, quite unconscious of it, pursuing her work
with her ordinary even diligence.  But Janet observed it.

"What ails the bairn, Dawvid, 'at ye leuk at her that get? said she.

"Naething ails her, woman.  Do ye never leuk at a body but when
something ails them?"

"Ow, ay--but no that get."

"Weel, maybe I was thinkin' hoo I wad leuk at her gin onything did
ail her."

"Hoot! hoot! dinna further the ill hither by makin' a bien
doonsittin' an' a bed for't."

All David's answer to this was one of his own smiles.

At supper, for it happened to be Saturday, Hugh said:

"I've been busy, between whiles, inventing, or perhaps discovering,
an etymological pedigree for you, David!"

"Weel, lat's hear't," said David.

"First--do you know that that volume with your ancestor's name on
it, was written by an old German shoemaker, perhaps only a cobbler,
for anything I know?"

"I know nothing aboot it, more or less," answered David.

"He was a wonderful man.  Some people think he was almost inspired."

"Maybe, maybe," was all David's doubtful response.

"At all events, though I know nothing about it myself, he must have
written wonderfully for a cobbler."

"For my pairt," replied David, "if I see no wonder in the man, I can
see but little in the cobbler.  What for shouldna a cobbler write
wonnerfully, as weel as anither?  It's a trade 'at furthers
meditation.  My grandfather was a cobbler, as ye ca't; an' they say
he was no fule in his ain way either."

"Then it does go in the family!" cried Hugh, triumphantly.
"I was in doubt at first whether your name referred to the breadth
of your shoulders, David, as transmitted from some ancient sire,
whose back was an Ellwand-broad; for the g might come from a w or v,
for anything I know to the contrary.  But it would have been braid
in that case.  And, now, I am quite convinced that that Martin or
his father was a German, a friend of old Jacob Bœhmen, who gave him
the book himself, and was besides of the same craft; and he coming
to this country with a name hard to be pronounced, they found a
resemblance in the sound of it to his occupation; and so gradually
corrupted his name, to them uncouth, into Elsynbrod, Elshinbrod,
thence Elginbrod, with a soft g, and lastly Elginbrod, as you
pronounce it now, with a hard g.  This name, turned from Scotch into
English, would then be simply Martin Awlbore.  The cobbler is in the
family, David, descended from Jacob Bœhmen himself, by the mother's
side."

This heraldic blazon amused them all very much, and David expressed
his entire concurrence with it, declaring it to be incontrovertible.
Margaret laughed heartily.

Besides its own beauty, two things made Margaret's laugh of some
consequence; one was, that it was very rare; and the other, that it
revealed her two regular rows of dainty white teeth, suiting well to
the whole build of the maiden.  She was graceful and rather tall,
with a head which, but for its smallness, might have seemed too
heavy for the neck that supported it, so ready it always was to
droop like a snowdrop.  The only parts about her which Hugh
disliked, were her hands and feet.  The former certainly had been
reddened and roughened by household work: but they were well formed
notwithstanding.  The latter he had never seen, notwithstanding the
bare-foot habits of Scotch maidens; for he saw Margaret rarely
except in the evenings, and then she was dressed to receive him.
Certainly, however, they were very far from following the shape of
the clumsy country shoes, by which he misjudged their proportions.
Had he seen them, as he might have seen them some part of any day
during the summer, their form at least would have satisfied him.




CHAPTER XIV.

WINTER.

Out of whose womb came the ice? and the hoary frost of heaven, who
hath gendered it?  The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face
of the deep is frozen.

He giveth snow like wool; he scattereth the hoar frost like ashes.

JOB xxxviii. 29, 30; PSALM cxlvii. 16.


Winter was fairly come at last.  A black frost had bound the earth
for many days; and at length a peculiar sensation, almost a smell of
snow in the air, indicated an approaching storm.  The snow fell at
first in a few large unwilling flakes, that fluttered slowly and
heavily to the earth, where they lay like the foundation of the
superstructure that was about to follow.  Faster and faster they
fell--wonderful multitudes of delicate crystals, adhering in shapes
of beauty which outvied all that jeweller could invent or execute of
ethereal, starry forms, structures of evanescent yet prodigal
loveliness--till the whole air was obscured by them, and night came
on, hastened by an hour, from the gathering of their white darkness.
In the morning, all the landscape was transfigured.  The snow had
ceased to fall; but the whole earth, houses, fields, and fences,
ponds and streams, were changed to whiteness.  But most wonderful
looked the trees--every bough and every twig thickened, and bent
earthward with its own individual load of the fairy ghost-birds.
Each retained the semblance of its own form, wonderfully, magically
altered by its thick garment of radiant whiteness, shining
gloriously in the sunlight.  It was the shroud of dead nature; but a
shroud that seemed to prefigure a lovely resurrection; for the very
death-robe was unspeakably, witchingly beautiful.  Again at night
the snow fell; and again and again, with intervening days of bright
sunshine.  Every morning, the first fresh footprints were a new
wonder to the living creatures, the young-hearted amongst them at
least, who lived and moved in this death-world, this sepulchral
planet, buried in the shining air before the eyes of its
sister-stars in the blue, deathless heavens.  Paths had to be
cleared in every direction towards the out-houses, and again cleared
every morning; till at last the walls of solid rain stood higher
than the head of little Johnnie, as he was still called, though he
was twelve years old.  It was a great delight to him to wander
through the snow-avenues in every direction; and great fun it was,
both to him and his brother, when they were tired of snowballing
each other and every living thing about the place except their
parents and tutor, to hollow out mysterious caves and vaulted
passages.  Sometimes they would carry these passages on from one
path to within an inch or two of another, and there lie in wait till
some passer-by, unweeting of harm, was just opposite their lurking
cave; when they would dash through the solid wall of snow with a
hideous yell, almost endangering the wits of the maids, and causing
a recoil and startled ejaculation even of the strong man on whom
they chanced to try their powers of alarm.  Hugh himself was once
glad to cover the confusion of his own fright with the hearty fit of
laughter into which the perturbation of the boys, upon discovering
whom they had startled, threw him.  It was rare fun to them; but not
to the women about the house, who moved from place to place in a
state of chronic alarm, scared by the fear of being scared; till one
of them going into hysterics, real or pretended, it was found
necessary to put a stop to the practice; not, however, before
Margaret had had her share of the jest.  Hugh happened to be looking
out of his window at the moment--watching her, indeed, as she passed
towards the kitchen with some message from her mother; when an
indescribable monster, a chaotic mass of legs and snow, burst, as if
out of the earth, upon her.  She turned pale as the snow around her
(and Hugh had never observed before how dark her eyes were), as she
sprang back with the grace of a startled deer.  She uttered no cry,
however, perceiving in a moment who it was, gave a troubled little
smile, and passed on her way as if nothing had happened.  Hugh was
not sorry when maternal orders were issued against the practical
joke.  The boys did not respect their mother very much, but they
dared not disobey her, when she spoke in a certain tone.

There was no pathway cut to David's cottage; and no track trodden,
except what David, coming to the house sometimes, and Hugh going
every afternoon to the cottage, made between them.  Hugh often went
to the knees in snow, but was well dried and warmed by Janet's care
when he arrived.  She had always a pair of stockings and slippers
ready for him at the fire, to be put on the moment of his arrival;
and exchanged again for his own, dry and warm, before he footed once
more the ghostly waste.  When neither moon was up nor stars were
out, there was a strange eerie glimmer from the snow that lighted
the way home; and he thought there must be more light from it than
could be accounted for merely by the reflection of every particle of
light that might fall upon it from other sources.

Margaret was not kept to the house by the snow, even when it was
falling.  She went out as usual--not of course wandering far, for
walking was difficult now.  But she was in little danger of losing
her way, for she knew the country as well as any one; and although
its face was greatly altered by the filling up of its features, and
the uniformity of the colour, yet those features were discernible to
her experienced eye through the sheet that covered them.  It was
only necessary to walk on the tops of dykes, and other elevated
ridges, to keep clear of the deep snow.

There were many paths between the cottages and the farms in the
neighbourhood, in which she could walk with comparative ease and
comfort.  But she preferred wandering away through the fields and
toward the hills.  Sometimes she would come home like a creature of
the snow, born of it, and living in it; so covered was she from head
to foot with its flakes.  David used to smile at her with peculiar
complacency on such occasions.  It was evident that it pleased him
she should be the playmate of Nature.  Janet was not altogether
indulgent to these freaks, as she considered them, of Marget--she
had quite given up calling her Meg, "sin' she took to the beuk so
eident."  But whatever her mother might think of it, Margaret was in
this way laying up a store not only of bodily and mental health, but
of resources for thought and feeling, of secret understandings and
communions with Nature, and everything simple, and strong, and pure
through Nature, than which she could have accumulated nothing more
precious.

This kind of weather continued for some time, till the people
declared they had never known a storm last so long "ohn ever
devallt," that is, without intermission.  But the frost grew harder;
and then the snow, instead of falling in large adhesive flakes, fell
in small dry flakes, of which the boys could make no snaw-ba's.  All
the time, however, there was no wind; and this not being a sheep
country, there was little uneasiness or suffering occasioned by the
severity of the weather, beyond what must befall the poorer classes
in every northern country during the winter.

One day, David heard that a poor old man of his acquaintance was
dying, and immediately set out to visit him, at a distance of two or
three miles.  He returned in the evening, only in time for his
studies; for there was of course little or nothing to be done at
present in the way of labour.  As he sat down to the table, he said:

"I hae seen a wonnerfu' sicht sin' I saw you, Mr. Sutherlan'.  I
gaed to see an auld Christian, whase body an' brain are nigh worn
oot.  He was never onything remarkable for intellec, and jist took
what the minister tellt him for true, an' keepit the guid o't; for
his hert was aye richt, an' his faith a hantle stronger than maybe
it had ony richt to be, accordin' to his ain opingans; but, hech!
there's something far better nor his opingans i' the hert o' ilka
God-fearin' body.  Whan I gaed butt the hoose, he was sittin' in's
auld arm-chair by the side o' the fire, an' his face luikit dazed
like.  There was no licht in't but what cam' noo an' than frae a low
i' the fire.  The snaw was driftin' a wee aboot the bit winnock, an'
his auld een was fixed upo't; an' a' 'at he said, takin' no notice
o' me, was jist, 'The birdies is flutterin'; the birdies is
flutterin'.'  I spak' till him, an' tried to roose him, wi' ae thing
after anither, bit I micht as weel hae spoken to the door-cheek, for
a' the notice that he took.  Never a word he spak', but aye 'The
birdies is flutterin'.'  At last, it cam' to my min' 'at the body
was aye fu' o' ane o' the psalms in particler; an' sae I jist said
till him at last: 'John, hae ye forgotten the twenty-third psalm?'
'Forgotten the twenty-third psalm!' quo' he; an' his face lighted up
in a moment frae the inside: 'The Lord's my shepherd,--an' I hae
followed Him through a' the smorin' drift o' the warl', an' he'll
bring me to the green pastures an' the still waters o' His
summer-kingdom at the lang last.  I shall not want.  An' I hae
wanted for naething, naething.'  He had been a shepherd himsel' in's
young days.  And so on he gaed, wi' a kin' o' a personal commentary
on the haill psalm frae beginnin' to en', and syne he jist fell back
into the auld croonin' sang, 'The birdies is flutterin'; the birdies
is flutterin'.'  The licht deed oot o' his face, an' a' that I could
say could na' bring back the licht to his face, nor the sense to his
tongue.  He'll sune be in a better warl'.  Sae I was jist forced to
leave him.  But I promised his dochter, puir body, that I would ca'
again an' see him the morn's afternoon.  It's unco dowie wark for
her; for they hae scarce a neebor within reach o' them, in case o' a
change; an' there had hardly been a creatur' inside o' their door
for a week."

The following afternoon, David set out according to his promise.
Before his return, the wind, which had been threatening to wake all
day, had risen rapidly, and now blew a snowstorm of its own.  When
Hugh opened the door to take his usual walk to the cottage, just as
darkness was beginning to fall, the sight he saw made his young
strong heart dance with delight.  The snow that fell made but a
small part of the wild, confused turmoil and uproar of the ten-fold
storm.  For the wind, raving over the surface of the snow, which, as
I have already explained, lay nearly as loose as dry sand, swept it
in thick fierce clouds along with it, tearing it up and casting it
down again no one could tell where--for the whole air was filled
with drift, as they call the snow when thus driven.  A few hours of
this would alter the face of the whole country, leaving some parts
bare, and others buried beneath heaps on heaps of snow, called here
snaw-wreaths.  For the word snow-wreaths does not mean the lovely
garlands hung upon every tree and bush in its feathery fall; but
awful mounds of drifted snow, that may be the smooth, soft, white
sepulchres of dead men, smothered in the lapping folds of the almost
solid wind.  Path or way was none before him.  He could see nothing
but the surface of a sea of froth and foam, as it appeared to him,
with the spray torn from it, whirled in all shapes and contortions,
and driven in every direction; but chiefly, in the main direction of
the wind, in long sloping spires of misty whiteness, swift as
arrows, and as keen upon the face of him who dared to oppose them.

Hugh plunged into it with a wild sense of life and joy.  In the
course of his short walk, however, if walk it could be called, which
was one chain of plungings and emergings, struggles with the snow,
and wrestles with the wind, he felt that it needed not a stout heart
only, but sound lungs and strong limbs as well, to battle with the
storm, even for such a distance.  When he reached the cottage, he
found Janet in considerable anxiety, not only about David, who had
not yet returned, but about Margaret as well, whom she had not seen
for some time, and who must be out somewhere in the storm--"the wull
hizzie."  Hugh suggested that she might have gone to meet her
father.

"The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Janet. "The road lies ower the tap o'
the Halshach, as eerie and bare a place as ever was hill-moss, wi'
never a scoug or bield in't, frae the tae side to the tither.  The
win' there jist gangs clean wud a'thegither.  An' there's mony a
well-ee forbye, that gin ye fell intill't, ye wud never come at the
boddom o't.  The Lord preserve's!  I wis' Dawvid was hame."

"How could you let him go, Janet?"

"Lat him gang, laddie!  It's a strang tow 'at wad haud or bin'
Dawvid, whan he considers he bud to gang, an' 'twere intill a deil's
byke.  But I'm no that feared aboot him.  I maist believe he's under
special protection, if ever man was or oucht to be; an' he's no more
feared at the storm, nor gin the snaw was angels' feathers
flauchterin' oot o' their wings a' aboot him.  But I'm no easy i' my
min' aboot Maggy--the wull hizzie!  Gin she be meetin' her father,
an' chance to miss him, the Lord kens what may come o' her."

Hugh tried to comfort her, but all that could be done was to wait
David's return.  The storm seemed to increase rather than abate its
force.  The footprints Hugh had made, had all but vanished already
at the very door of the house, which stood quite in the shelter of
the fir-wood.  As they looked out, a dark figure appeared within a
yard or two of the house.

"The Lord grant it be my bairn!" prayed poor Janet.  But it was
David, and alone.  Janet gave a shriek.

"Dawvid, whaur's Maggie?"

"I haena seen the bairn," replied David, in repressed perturbation.
"She's no theroot, is she, the nicht?"

"She's no at hame, Dawvid, that's a' 'at I ken."

"Whaur gaed she?"

"The Lord kens.  She's smoored i' the snaw by this time."

"She's i' the Lord's han's, Janet, be she aneath a snaw-vraith.
Dinna forget that, wuman.  Hoo lang is't sin' ye missed her?"

"An hour an' mair--I dinna ken hoo lang.  I'm clean doitit wi'
dreid."

"I'll awa' an' leuk for her.  Just haud the hert in her till I come
back, Mr. Sutherlan'."

"I won't be left behind, David.  I'm going with you."

"Ye dinna ken what ye're sayin', Mr. Sutherlan'.  I wad sune hae twa
o' ye to seek in place o' ane."

"Never heed me; I'm going on my own account, come what may."

"Weel, weel; I downa bide to differ.  I'm gaein up the burn-side;
baud ye ower to the farm, and spier gin onybody's seen her; an' the
lads 'll be out to leuk for her in a jiffey.  My puir lassie!"

The sigh that must have accompanied the last words, was lost in the
wind, as they vanished in the darkness.  Janet fell on her knees in
the kitchen, with the door wide open, and the wind drifting in the
powdery snow, and scattering it with the ashes from the hearth over
the floor.  A picture of more thorough desolation can hardly be
imagined.  She soon came to herself, however; and reflecting that,
if the lost child was found, there must be a warm bed to receive
her, else she might be a second time lost, she rose and shut the
door, and mended the fire.  It was as if the dumb attitude of her
prayer was answered; for though she had never spoken or even thought
a word, strength was restored to her distracted brain.  When she had
made every preparation she could think of, she went to the door
again, opened it, and looked out.  It was a region of howling
darkness, tossed about by pale snow-drifts; out of which it seemed
scarce more hopeful that welcome faces would emerge, than that they
should return to our eyes from the vast unknown in which they vanish
at last.  She closed the door once more, and knowing nothing else to
be done, sat down on a chair, with her hands on her knees, and her
eyes fixed on the door.  The clock went on with its slow swing,
tic--tac, tic--tac, an utterly inhuman time-measurer; but she heard
the sound of every second, through the midst of the uproar in the
fir-trees, which bent their tall heads hissing to the blast, and
swinging about in the agony of their strife.  The minutes went by,
till an hour was gone, and there was neither sound nor hearing, but
of the storm and the clock.  Still she sat and stared, her eyes
fixed on the door-latch.  Suddenly, without warning it was lifted,
and the door opened.  Her heart bounded and fluttered like a
startled bird; but alas! the first words she heard were: "Is she no
come yet?"  It was her husband, followed by several of the farm
servants.  He had made a circuit to the farm, and finding that Hugh
had never been there, hoped, though with trembling, that Margaret
had already returned home.  The question fell upon Janet's heart
like the sound of the earth on the coffin-lid, and her silent stare
was the only answer David received.

But at that very moment, like a dead man burst from the tomb,
entered from behind the party at the open door, silent and white,
with rigid features and fixed eyes, Hugh. He stumbled in, leaning
forward with long strides, and dragging something behind him.  He
pushed and staggered through them as if he saw nothing before him;
and as they parted horror-stricken, they saw that it was Margaret,
or her dead body, that he dragged after him.  He dropped her at her
mother's feet, and fell himself on the floor, before they were able
to give him any support.  David, who was quite calm, got the whisky
bottle out, and tried to administer some to Margaret first; but her
teeth were firmly set, and to all appearance she was dead.  One of
the young men succeeded better with Hugh, whom at David's direction
they took into the study; while he and Janet got Margaret undressed
and put to bed, with hot bottles all about her; for in warmth lay
the only hope of restoring her.  After she had lain thus for a
while, she gave a sigh; and when they had succeeded in getting her
to swallow some warm milk, she began to breathe, and soon seemed to
be only fast asleep.  After half an hour's rest and warming, Hugh
was able to move and speak.  David would not allow him to say much,
however, but got him to bed, sending word to the house that he could
not go home that night.  He and Janet sat by the fireside all night,
listening to the storm that still raved without, and thanking God
for both of the lives.  Every few minutes a tip-toe excursion was
made to the bedside, and now and then to the other room.  Both the
patients slept quietly.  Towards morning Margaret opened her eyes,
and faintly called her mother; but soon fell asleep once more, and
did not awake again till nearly noon.  When sufficiently restored to
be able to speak, the account she gave was, that she had set out to
meet her father; but the storm increasing, she had thought it more
prudent to turn.  It grew in violence, however, so rapidly, and beat
so directly in her face, that she was soon exhausted with
struggling, and benumbed with the cold.  The last thing she
remembered was, dropping, as she thought, into a hole, and feeling
as if she were going to sleep in bed, yet knowing it was death; and
thinking how much sweeter it was than sleep.  Hugh's account was
very strange and defective, but he was never able to add anything to
it.  He said that, when he rushed out into the dark, the storm
seized him like a fury, beating him about the head and face with icy
wings, till he was almost stunned.  He took the road to the farm,
which lay through the fir-wood; but he soon became aware that he had
lost his way and might tramp about in the fir-wood till daylight, if
he lived as long.  Then, thinking of Margaret, he lost his presence
of mind, and rushed wildly along.  He thought he must have knocked
his head against the trunk of a tree, but he could not tell; for he
remembered nothing more but that he found himself dragging Margaret,
with his arms round her, through the snow, and nearing the light in
the cottage-window.  Where or how he had found her, or what the
light was that he was approaching, he had not the least idea.  He
had only a vague notion that he was rescuing Margaret from something
dreadful.  Margaret, for her part, had no recollection of reaching
the fir-wood, and as, long before morning, all traces were
obliterated, the facts remained a mystery.  Janet thought that David
had some wonderful persuasion about it; but he was never heard even
to speculate on the subject.  Certain it was, that Hugh had saved
Margaret's life.  He seemed quite well next day, for he was of a
very powerful and enduring frame for his years.  She recovered more
slowly, and perhaps never altogether overcame the effects of Death's
embrace that night.  From the moment when Margaret was brought home,
the storm gradually died away, and by the morning all was still; but
many starry and moonlit nights glimmered and passed, before that
snow was melted away from the earth; and many a night Janet awoke
from her sleep with a cry, thinking she heard her daughter moaning,
deep in the smooth ocean of snow, and could not find where she lay.

The occurrences of this dreadful night could not lessen the interest
his cottage friends felt in Hugh; and a long winter passed with
daily and lengthening communion both in study and in general
conversation.  I fear some of my younger readers will think my story
slow; and say: "What! are they not going to fall in love with each
other yet?  We have been expecting it ever so long."  I have two
answers to make to this.  The first is: "I do not pretend to know so
much about love as you--excuse me--think you do; and must confess, I
do not know whether they were in love with each other or not."  The
second is: "That I dare not pretend to understand thoroughly such a
sacred mystery as the heart of Margaret; and I should feel it rather
worse than presumptuous to talk as if I did.  Even Hugh's is known
to me only by gleams of light thrown, now and then, and here and
there, upon it."  Perhaps the two answers are only the same answer
in different shapes.

Mrs. Glasford, however, would easily answer the question, if an
answer is all that is wanted; for she, notwithstanding the facts of
the story, which she could not fail to have heard correctly from the
best authority, and notwithstanding the nature of the night, which
might have seemed sufficient to overthrow her conclusions, uniformly
remarked, as often as their escape was alluded to in her hearing,

"Lat them tak' it They had no business to be oot aboot thegither."




CHAPTER XV.

TRANSITION.

Tell me, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad,
Whither away so frolic?  Why so glad?
What all thy wealth in council? all thy state?
Are husks so dear? troth, 'tis a mighty rate.

RICHARD CRASHAW.


The long Scotch winter passed by without any interruption to the
growing friendship.  But the spring brought a change; and Hugh was
separated from his friends sooner than he had anticipated, by more
than six months.  For his mother wrote to him in great distress, in
consequence of a claim made upon her for some debt which his father
had contracted, very probably for Hugh's own sake.  Hugh could not
bear that any such should remain undischarged, or that his father's
name should not rest in peace as well as his body and soul.  He
requested, therefore, from the laird, the amount due to him, and
despatched almost the whole of it for the liquidation of this debt,
so that he was now as unprovided as before for the expenses of the
coming winter at Aberdeen.  But, about the same time, a
fellow-student wrote to him with news of a situation for the summer,
worth three times as much as his present one, and to be procured
through his friend's interest.  Hugh having engaged himself to the
laird only for the winter, although he had intended to stay till the
commencement of the following session, felt that, although he would
much rather remain where he was, he must not hesitate a moment to
accept his friend's offer; and therefore wrote at once.

I will not attempt to describe the parting.  It was very quiet, but
very solemn and sad.  Janet showed far more distress than Margaret,
for she wept outright.  The tears stood in David's eyes, as he
grasped the youth's hand in silence.  Margaret was very pale; that
was all.  As soon as Hugh disappeared with her father, who was going
to walk with him to the village through which the coach passed, she
hurried away, and went to the fir-wood for comfort.

Hugh found his new situation in Perthshire very different from the
last.  The heads of the family being themselves a lady and a
gentleman, he found himself a gentleman too.  He had more to do, but
his work left him plenty of leisure notwithstanding.  A good portion
of his spare time he devoted to verse-making, to which he felt a
growing impulse; and whatever may have been the merit of his
compositions, they did him intellectual good at least, if it were
only through the process of their construction.  He wrote to David
after his arrival, telling him all about his new situation; and
received in return a letter from Margaret, written at her father's
dictation.  The mechanical part of letter-writing was rather
laborious to David; but Margaret wrote well, in consequence of the
number of papers, of one sort and another, which she had written for
Hugh. Three or four letters more passed between them at lengthening
intervals.  Then they ceased--on Hugh's side first; until, when on
the point of leaving for Aberdeen, feeling somewhat
conscience-stricken at not having written for so long, he scribbled
a note to inform them of his approaching departure, promising to let
them know his address as soon as he found himself settled.  Will it
be believed that the session went by without the redemption of this
pledge?  Surely he could not have felt, to any approximate degree,
the amount of obligation he was under to his humble friends.
Perhaps, indeed, he may have thought that the obligation was
principally on their side; as it would have been, if intellectual
assistance could outweigh heart-kindness, and spiritual impulse and
enlightenment; for, unconsciously in a great measure to himself, he
had learned from David to regard in a new and more real aspect, many
of those truths which he had hitherto received as true, and which
yet had till then produced in him no other than a feeling of the
common-place and uninteresting at the best.

Besides this, and many cognate advantages, a thousand seeds of truth
must have surely remained in his mind, dropped there from the same
tongue of wisdom, and only waiting the friendly aid of a hard
winter, breaking up the cold, selfish clods of clay, to share in the
loveliness of a new spring, and be perfected in the beauty of a new
summer.

However this may have been, it is certain that he forgot his old
friends far more than he himself could have thought it possible he
should; for, to make the best of it, youth is easily attracted and
filled with the present show, and easily forgets that which, from
distance in time or space, has no show to show.  Spending his
evenings in the midst of merry faces, and ready tongues fluent with
the tones of jollity, if not always of wit, which glided sometimes
into no too earnest discussion of the difficult subjects occupying
their student hours; surrounded by the vapours of whisky-toddy, and
the smoke of cutty pipes, till far into the short hours; then
hurrying home, and lapsing into unrefreshing slumbers over intended
study; or sitting up all night to prepare the tasks which had been
neglected for a ball or an evening with Wilson, the great
interpreter of Scottish song--it is hardly to be wondered at that he
should lose the finer consciousness of higher powers and deeper
feelings, not from any behaviour in itself wrong, but from the
hurry, noise, and tumult in the streets of life, that, penetrating
too deep into the house of life, dazed and stupefied the silent and
lonely watcher in the chamber of conscience, far apart.  He had no
time to think or feel.

The session drew to a close.  He eschewed all idleness; shut himself
up, after class hours, with his books; ate little, studied hard,
slept irregularly, working always best between midnight and two in
the morning; carried the first honours in most of his classes; and
at length breathed freely, but with a dizzy brain, and a face that
revealed, in pale cheeks, and red, weary eyes, the results of an
excess of mental labour--an excess which is as injurious as any
other kind of intemperance, the moral degradation alone kept out of
view.  Proud of his success, he sat down and wrote a short note,
with a simple statement of it, to David; hoping, in his secret mind,
that he would attribute his previous silence to an absorption in
study which had not existed before the end of the session was quite
at hand.  Now that he had more time for reflection, he could not
bear the idea that that noble rustic face should look disapprovingly
or, still worse, coldly upon him; and he could not help feeling as
if the old ploughman had taken the place of his father, as the only
man of whom he must stand in awe, and who had a right to reprove
him.  He did reprove him now, though unintentionally.  For David was
delighted at having such good news from him; and the uneasiness
which he had felt, but never quite expressed, was almost swept away
in the conclusion, that it was unreasonable to expect the young man
to give his time to them both absent and present, especially when he
had been occupied to such good purpose as this letter signified.  So
he was nearly at peace about him--though not quite.  Hugh received
from him the following letter in reply to his; dictated, as usual,
to his secretary, Margaret:--

"MY DEAR SIR,

"Ye'll be a great man some day, gin ye haud at it.  But things
maunna be gotten at the outlay o' mair than they're worth.  Ye'll
ken what I mean.  An' there's better things nor bein' a great man,
efter a'.  Forgie the liberty I tak' in remin'in' ye o' sic like.
I'm only remin'in' ye o' what ye ken weel aneuch.  But ye're a
brave lad, an' ye hae been an unco frien' to me an' mine; an' I pray
the Lord to thank ye for me, for ye hae dune muckle guid to his
bairns--meanin' me an' mine.  It's verra kin' o' ye to vrite till's
in the verra moment o' victory; but weel ye kent that amid a' yer
frien's--an' ye canna fail to hae mony a ane, wi' a head an' a face
like yours--there was na ane--na, no ane, that wad rejoice mair ower
your success than Janet, or my doo, Maggie, or yer ain auld obleeged
frien' an' servant,

"DAVID ELGINBROD.

"P.S.--We're a' weel, an' unco blythe at your letter.

Maggy--

"P.S. 2.--Dear Mr. Sutherland,--I wrote all the above at my father's
dictation, and just as he said it, for I thought you would like his
Scotch better than my English.  My mother and I myself are rejoiced
at the good news.  My mother fairly grat outright.  I gaed out to
the tree where I met you first.  I wonder sair sometimes if you was
the angel I was to meet in the fir-wood.  I am,

"Your obedient servant,

"MARGARET ELGINBROD."

This letter certainly touched Hugh. But he could not help feeling
rather offended that David should write to him in such a warning
tone.  He had never addressed him in this fashion when he saw him
every day.  Indeed, David could not very easily have spoken to him
thus.  But writing is a different thing; and men who are not much
accustomed to use a pen, often assume a more solemn tone in doing
so, as if it were a ceremony that required state.  As for David,
having been a little uneasy about Hugh, and not much afraid of
offending him--for he did not know his weaknesses very thoroughly,
and did not take into account the effect of the very falling away
which he dreaded, in increasing in him pride, and that impatience of
the gentlest reproof natural to every man--he felt considerably
relieved after he had discharged his duty in this memento vivere.
But one of the results, and a very unexpected one, was, that a yet
longer period elapsed before Hugh wrote again to David.  He meant to
do so, and meant to do so; but, as often as the thought occurred to
him, was checked both by consciousness and by pride.  So much
contributes, not the evil alone that is in us, but the good also
sometimes, to hold us back from doing the thing we ought to do.

It now remained for Hugh to look about for some occupation.  The
state of his funds rendered immediate employment absolutely
necessary; and as there was only one way in which he could earn
money without yet further preparation, he must betake himself to
that way, as he had done before, in the hope that it would lead to
something better.  At all events, it would give him time to look
about him, and make up his mind for the future.  Many a one, to whom
the occupation of a tutor is far more irksome than it was to Hugh,
is compelled to turn his acquirements to this immediate account;
and, once going in this groove, can never get out of it again.  But
Hugh was hopeful enough to think, that his reputation at the
university would stand him in some stead; and, however much he would
have disliked the thought of being a tutor all his days, occupying a
kind of neutral territory between the position of a gentleman and
that of a menial, he had enough of strong Saxon good sense to
prevent him, despite his Highland pride, from seeing any great
hardship in labouring still for a little while, as he had laboured
hitherto.  But he hoped to find a situation more desirable than
either of those he had occupied before; and, with this expectation,
looked towards the South, as most Scotchmen do, indulging the
national impulse to spoil the Egyptians.  Nor did he look long,
sending his tentacles afloat in every direction, before he heard,
through means of a college friend, of just such a situation as he
wanted, in the family of a gentleman of fortune in the county of
Surrey, not much more than twenty miles from London.  This he was
fortunate enough to obtain without difficulty.

Margaret was likewise on the eve of a change.  She stood like a
young fledged bird on the edge of the nest, ready to take its first
long flight.  It was necessary that she should do something for
herself, not so much from the compulsion of immediate circumstances,
as in prospect of the future.  Her father was not an old man, but at
best he could leave only a trifle at his death; and if Janet
outlived him, she would probably require all that, and what labour
she would then be capable of as well, to support herself.  Margaret
was anxious, too, though not to be independent, yet, not to be
burdensome.  Both David and Janet saw that, by her peculiar tastes
and habits, she had separated herself so far from the circle around
her, that she could never hope to be quite comfortable in that
neighbourhood.  It was not that by any means she despised or refused
the labours common to the young women of the country; but, all
things considered, they thought that something more suitable for her
might be procured.

The laird's lady continued to behave to her in the most supercilious
fashion.  The very day of Hugh's departure, she had chanced to meet
Margaret walking alone with a book, this time unopened, in her hand.
Mrs. Glasford stopped.  Margaret stopped too, expecting to be
addressed.  The lady looked at her, all over, from head to foot, as
if critically examining the appearance of an animal she thought of
purchasing; then, without a word, but with a contemptuous toss of
the head, passed on, leaving poor Margaret both angry and ashamed.

But David was much respected by the gentry of the neighbourhood,
with whom his position, as the laird's steward, brought him not
unfrequently into contact; and to several of them he mentioned his
desire of finding some situation for Margaret.  Janet could not bear
the idea of her lady-bairn leaving them, to encounter the world
alone; but David, though he could not help sometimes feeling a
similar pang, was able to take to himself hearty comfort from the
thought, that if there was any safety for her in her father's house,
there could not be less in her heavenly Father's, in any nook of
which she was as full in His eye, and as near His heart, as in their
own cottage.  He felt that anxiety in this case, as in every other,
would just be a lack of confidence in God, to suppose which
justifiable would be equivalent to saying that He had not fixed the
foundations of the earth that it should not be moved; that He was
not the Lord of Life, nor the Father of His children; in short, that
a sparrow could fall to the ground without Him, and that the hairs
of our head are not numbered.  Janet admitted all this, but sighed
nevertheless.  So did David too, at times; for he knew that the
sparrow must fall; that many a divine truth is hard to learn,
all-blessed as it is when learned; and that sorrow and suffering
must come to Margaret, ere she could be fashioned into the
perfection of a child of the kingdom.  Still, she was as safe abroad
as at home.

An elderly lady of fortune was on a visit to one of the families in
the neighbourhood.  She was in want of a lady's-maid, and it
occurred to the housekeeper that Margaret might suit her.  This was
not quite what her parents would have chosen, but they allowed her
to go and see the lady.  Margaret was delighted with the
benevolent-looking gentlewoman; and she, on her part, was quite
charmed with Margaret.  It was true she knew nothing of the duties
of the office; but the present maid, who was leaving on the best of
terms, would soon initiate her into its mysteries.  And David and
Janet were so much pleased with Margaret's account of the interview,
that David himself went to see the lady.  The sight of him only
increased her desire to have Margaret, whom she said she would treat
like a daughter, if only she were half as good as she looked.
Before David left her, the matter was arranged; and within a month,
Margaret was borne in her mistress's carriage, away from father and
mother and cottage-home.




END OF THE FIRST BOOK.




BOOK II.


ARNSTEAD.

The earth hath bubbles as the water has.

MACBETH.--I.3




CHAPTER I.

A NEW HOME.

A wise man's home is whereso'er he's wise.

JOHN MARSTON.--Antonio's Revenge.


Hugh left the North dead in the arms of grey winter, and found his
new abode already alive in the breath of the west wind.  As he
walked up the avenue to the house, he felt that the buds were
breaking all about, though, the night being dark and cloudy, the
green shadows of the coming spring were invisible.

He was received at the hall-door, and shown to his room, by an old,
apparently confidential, and certainly important butler; whose
importance, however, was inoffensive, as founded, to all appearance,
on a sense of family and not of personal dignity.  Refreshment was
then brought him, with the message that, as it was late, Mr. Arnold
would defer the pleasure of meeting him till the morning at
breakfast.

Left to himself, Hugh began to look around him.  Everything
suggested a contrast between his present position and that which he
had first occupied about the same time of the year at Turriepuffit.
He was in an old handsome room of dark wainscot, furnished like a
library, with book-cases about the walls.  One of them, with glass
doors, had an ancient escritoire underneath, which was open, and
evidently left empty for his use.  A fire was burning cheerfully in
an old high grate; but its light, though assisted by that of two wax
candles on the table, failed to show the outlines of the room, it
was so large and dark.  The ceiling was rather low in proportion,
and a huge beam crossed it.  At one end, an open door revealed a
room beyond, likewise lighted with fire and candles.  Entering, he
found this to be an equally old-fashioned bedroom, to which his
luggage had been already conveyed.

"As far as creature comforts go," thought Hugh, "I have fallen on my
feet."  He rang the bell, had the tray removed, and then proceeded
to examine the book-cases.  He found them to contain much of the
literature with which he was most desirous of making an
acquaintance.  A few books of the day were interspersed.  The sense
of having good companions in the authors around him, added greatly
to his feeling of comfort; and he retired for the night filled with
pleasant anticipations of his sojourn at Arnstead.  All the night,
however, his dreams were of wind and snow, and Margaret out in them
alone.  Janet was waiting in the cottage for him to bring her home.
He had found her, but could not move her; for the spirit of the
storm had frozen her to ice, and she was heavy as a marble statue.

When he awoke, the shadows of boughs and budding twigs were waving
in changeful network-tracery, across the bright sunshine on his
window-curtains.  Before he was called he was ready to go down; and
to amuse himself till breakfast-time, he proceeded to make another
survey of the books.  He concluded that these must be a colony from
the mother-library; and also that the room must, notwithstanding, be
intended for his especial occupation, seeing his bedroom opened out
of it.  Next, he looked from all the windows, to discover into what
kind of a furrow on the face of the old earth he had fallen.  All he
could see was trees and trees.  But oh! how different from the
sombre, dark, changeless fir-wood at Turriepuffit! whose trees
looked small and shrunken in his memory, beside this glory of
boughs, breaking out into their prophecy of an infinite greenery at
hand.  His rooms seemed to occupy the end of a small wing at the
back of the house, as well as he could judge.  His sitting-room
windows looked across a small space to another wing; and the windows
of his bedroom, which were at right-angles to those of the former,
looked full into what seemed an ordered ancient forest of gracious
trees of all kinds, coming almost close to the very windows.  They
were the trees which had been throwing their shadows on these
windows for two or three hours of the silent spring sunlight, at
once so liquid and so dazzling.  Then he resolved to test his
faculty for discovery, by seeing whether he could find his way to
the breakfast-room without a guide.  In this he would have succeeded
without much difficulty, for it opened from the main-entrance hall,
to which the huge square-turned oak staircase, by which he had
ascended, led; had it not been for the somewhat intricate nature of
the passages leading from the wing in which his rooms were
(evidently an older and more retired portion of the house) to the
main staircase itself.  After opening many doors and finding no
thoroughfare, he became convinced that, in place of finding a way
on, he had lost the way back.  At length he came to a small stair,
which led him down to a single door.  This he opened, and
straightway found himself in the library, a long, low,
silent-looking room, every foot of the walls of which was occupied
with books in varied and rich bindings.  The lozenge-paned windows,
with thick stone mullions, were much overgrown with ivy, throwing a
cool green shadowiness into the room.  One of them, however, had
been altered to a more modern taste, and opened with folding-doors
upon a few steps, descending into an old-fashioned, terraced garden.
To approach this window he had to pass a table, lying on which he
saw a paper with verses on it, evidently in a woman's hand, and
apparently just written, for the ink of the corrective scores still
glittered.  Just as he reached the window, which stood open, a lady
had almost gained it from the other side, coming up the steps from
the garden.  She gave a slight start when she saw him, looked away,
and as instantly glanced towards him again.  Then approaching him
through the window, for he had retreated to allow her to enter, she
bowed with a kind of studied ease, and a slight shade of something
French in her manner.  Her voice was very pleasing, almost
bewitching; yet had, at the same time, something assumed, if not
affected, in the tone.  All this was discoverable, or rather
spiritually palpable, in the two words she said--merely, "Mr.
Sutherland?" interrogatively.  Hugh bowed, and said:

"I am very glad you have found me, for I had quite lost myself.  I
doubt whether I should ever have reached the breakfast-room."

"Come this way," she rejoined.

As they passed the table on which the verses lay, she stopped and
slipped them into a writing-case.  Leading him through a succession
of handsome, evidently modern passages, she brought him across the
main hall to the breakfast-room, which looked in the opposite
direction to the library, namely, to the front of the house.  She
rang the bell; the urn was brought in; and she proceeded at once to
make the tea; which she did well, rising in Hugh's estimation
thereby.  Before he had time, however, to make his private remarks
on her exterior, or his conjectures on her position in the family,
Mr. Arnold entered the room, with a slow, somewhat dignified step,
and a dull outlook of grey eyes from a grey head well-balanced on a
tall, rather slender frame.  The lady rose, and, addressing him as
uncle, bade him good morning; a greeting which he returned
cordially, with a kiss on her forehead.  Then accosting Hugh, with a
manner which seemed the more polite and cold after the tone in which
he had spoken to his niece, he bade him welcome to Arnstead.

"I trust you were properly attended to last night, Mr. Sutherland?
Your pupil wanted very much to sit up till you arrived, but he is
altogether too delicate, I am sorry to say, for late hours, though
he has an unfortunate preference for them himself.  Jacob," (to the
man in waiting), "is not Master Harry up yet?"

Master Harry's entrance at that moment rendered reply unnecessary.

"Good morning, Euphra," he said to the lady, and kissed her on the
cheek.

"Good morning, dear," was the reply, accompanied by a pretence of
returning the kiss.  But she smiled with a kind of confectionary
sweetness on him; and, dropping an additional lump of sugar into his
tea at the same moment, placed it for him beside herself; while he
went and shook hands with his father, and then glancing shyly up at
Hugh from a pair of large dark eyes, put his hand in his, and
smiled, revealing teeth of a pearly whiteness.  The lips, however,
did not contrast them sufficiently, being pale and thin, with
indication of suffering in their tremulous lines.  Taking his place
at table, he trifled with his breakfast; and after making pretence
of eating for a while, asked Euphra if he might go.  She giving him
leave, he hastened away.

Mr. Arnold took advantage of his retreat to explain to Hugh what he
expected of him with regard to the boy.

"How old would you take Harry to be, Mr. Sutherland?"

"I should say about twelve from his size," replied Hugh; "but from
his evident bad health, and intelligent expression--"

"Ah! you perceive the state he is in," interrupted Mr. Arnold, with
some sadness in his voice. "You are right; he is nearly fifteen.  He
has not grown half-an-inch in the last twelve months."

"Perhaps that is better than growing too fast," said Hugh.

"Perhaps--perhaps; we will hope so.  But I cannot help being uneasy
about him.  He reads too much, and I have not yet been able to help
it; for he seems miserable, and without any object in life, if I
compel him to leave his books."

"Perhaps we can manage to get over that in a little while."

"Besides," Mr. Arnold went on, paying no attention to what Hugh
said, "I can get him to take no exercise.  He does not even care for
riding.  I bought him a second pony a month ago, and he has not been
twice on its back yet."

Hugh could not help thinking that to increase the supply was not
always the best mode of increasing the demand; and that one who
would not ride the first pony, would hardly be likely to ride the
second.  Mr. Arnold concluded with the words:

"I don't want to stop the boy's reading, but I can't have him a
milksop."

"Will you let me manage him as I please, Mr. Arnold?"  Hugh ventured
to say.

Mr. Arnold looked full at him, with a very slight but quite manifest
expression of surprise; and Hugh was aware that the eyes of the
lady, called by the boy Euphra, were likewise fixed upon him
penetratingly.  As if he were then for the first time struck by the
manly development of Hugh's frame, Mr. Arnold answered:

"I don't want you to overdo it, either.  You cannot make a muscular
Christian of him." (The speaker smiled at his own imagined wit.)
"The boy has talents, and I want him to use them."

"I will do my best for him both ways," answered Hugh, "if you will
trust me.  For my part, I think the only way is to make the
operation of the intellectual tendency on the one side, reveal to
the boy himself his deficiency on the other.  This once done, all
will be well."

As he said this, Hugh caught sight of a cloudy, inscrutable
dissatisfaction slightly contracting the eyebrows of the lady.  Mr.
Arnold, however, seemed not to be altogether displeased.

"Well," he answered, "I have my plans; but let us see first what you
can do with yours.  If they fail, perhaps you will oblige me by
trying mine."

This was said with the decisive politeness of one who is accustomed
to have his own way, and fully intends to have it--every word as
articulate and deliberate as organs of speech could make it.  But he
seemed at the same time somewhat impressed by Hugh, and not
unwilling to yield.

Throughout the conversation, the lady had said nothing, but had sat
watching, or rather scrutinizing, Hugh's countenance, with a far
keener and more frequent glance than, I presume, he was at all aware
of.  Whether or not she was satisfied with her conclusions, she
allowed no sign to disclose; but, breakfast being over, rose and
withdrew, turning, however, at the door, and saying:

"When you please, Mr. Sutherland, I shall be glad to show you what
Harry has been doing with me; for till now I have been his only
tutor."

"Thank you," replied Hugh; "but for some time we shall be quite
independent of school-books.  Perhaps we may require none at all.
He can read, I presume, fairly well?"

"Reading is not only his forte but his fault," replied Mr. Arnold;
while Euphra, fixing one more piercing look upon him, withdrew.

"Yes," responded Hugh; "but a boy may shuffle through a book very
quickly, and have no such accurate perceptions of even the mere
words, as to be able to read aloud intelligibly."

How little this applied to Harry, Hugh was soon to learn.

"Well, you know best about these things, I daresay.  I leave it to
you.  With such testimonials as you have, Mr. Sutherland, I can
hardly be wrong in letting you try your own plans with him.  Now, I
must bid you good morning.  You will, in all probability, find Harry
in the library."




CHAPTER II.

HARRY'S NEW HORSE.

Spielender Unterricht heisst nicht, dem Kinde Anstrengungen ersparen
und abnehmen, sondern eine Leidenschaft in ihm erwecken, welche ihm
die stärksten aufnöthigt und erleichtert.

JEAN PAUL.--Die Unsichtbare Loge.


It is not the intention of sportive instruction that the child
should be spared effort, or delivered from it; but that thereby a
passion should be wakened in him, which shall both necessitate and
facilitate the strongest exertion.

Hugh made no haste to find his pupil in the library; thinking it
better, with such a boy, not to pounce upon him as if he were going
to educate him directly.  He went to his own rooms instead; got his
books out and arranged them,--supplying thus, in a very small
degree, the scarcity of modern ones in the book-cases; then arranged
his small wardrobe, looked about him a little, and finally went to
seek his pupil.

He found him in the library, as he had been given to expect, coiled
up on the floor in a corner, with his back against the book-shelves,
and an old folio on his knees, which he was reading in silence.

"Well, Harry," said Hugh, in a half-indifferent tone, as he threw
himself on a couch, "what are you reading?"

Harry had not heard him come in.  He started, and almost shuddered;
then looked up, hesitated, rose, and, as if ashamed to utter the
name of the book, brought it to Hugh, opening it at the title-page
as he held it out to him.  It was the old romance of Polexander.
Hugh knew nothing about it; but, glancing over some of the pages,
could not help wondering that the boy should find it interesting.

"Do you like this very much?" said he.

"Well--no.  Yes, rather."

"I think I could find you something more interesting in the
book-shelves."

"Oh! please, sir, mayn't I read this?" pleaded Harry, with signs of
distress in his pale face.

"Oh, yes, certainly, if you wish.  But tell me why you want to read
it so very much."

"Because I have set myself to read it through."

Hugh saw that the child was in a diseased state of mind, as well as
of body.

"You should not set yourself to read anything, before you know
whether it is worth reading."

"I could not help it.  I was forced to say I would."

"To whom?"

"To myself.  Mayn't I read it?"

"Certainly," was all Hugh's answer; for he saw that he must not
pursue the subject at present: the boy was quite hypochondriacal.
His face was keen, with that clear definition of feature which
suggests superior intellect.  He was, though very small for his age,
well proportioned, except that his head and face were too large.
His forehead indicated thought; and Hugh could not doubt that,
however uninteresting the books which he read might be, they must
have afforded him subjects of mental activity.  But he could not
help seeing as well, that this activity, if not altered in its
direction and modified in its degree, would soon destroy itself,
either by ruining his feeble constitution altogether, or, which was
more to be feared, by irremediably injuring the action of the brain.
He resolved, however, to let him satisfy his conscience by reading
the book; hoping, by the introduction of other objects of thought
and feeling, to render it so distasteful, that he would be in little
danger of yielding a similar pledge again, even should the
temptation return, which Hugh hoped to prevent.

"But you have read enough for the present, have you not?" said he,
rising, and approaching the book-shelves.

"Yes; I have been reading since breakfast."

"Ah! there's a capital book.  Have you ever read it--Gulliver's
Travels?"

"No. The outside looked always so uninteresting."

"So does Polexander's outside."

"Yes. But I couldn't help that one."

"Well, come along.  I will read to you."


"Oh! thank you.  That will be delightful.  But must we not go to our
lessons?"

"I'm going to make a lesson of this.  I have been talking to your
papa; and we're going to begin with a holiday, instead of ending
with one.  I must get better acquainted with you first, Harry,
before I can teach you right.  We must be friends, you know."

The boy crept close up to him, laid one thin hand on his knee,
looked in his face for a moment, and then, without a word, sat down
on the couch close beside him.  Before an hour had passed, Harry was
laughing heartily at Gulliver's adventures amongst the Lilliputians.
Having arrived at this point of success, Hugh ceased reading, and
began to talk to him.

"Is that lady your cousin?"

"Yes. Isn't she beautiful?"

"I hardly know yet.  I have not got used to her enough yet.  What is
her name?"

"Oh! such a pretty name--Euphrasia."

"Is she the only lady in the house?"

"Yes; my mamma is dead, you know.  She was ill for a long time, they
say; and she died when I was born."

The tears came in the poor boy's eyes.  Hugh thought of his own
father, and put his hand on Harry's shoulder.  Harry laid his head
on Hugh's shoulder.

"But," he went on, "Euphra is so kind to me!  And she is so clever
too!  She knows everything."

"Have you no brothers or sisters?"

"No, none.  I wish I had."

"Well, I'll be your big brother.  Only you must mind what I say to
you; else I shall stop being him.  Is it a bargain?"

"Yes, to be sure!" cried Harry in delight; and, springing from the
couch, he began hopping feebly about the room on one foot, to
express his pleasure.

"Well, then, that's settled.  Now, you must come and show me the
horses--your ponies, you know--and the pigs--"

"I don't like the pigs--I don't know where they are."

"Well, we must find out.  Perhaps I shall make some discoveries for
you.  Have you any rabbits?"

"No."

"A dog though, surely?"

"No. I had a canary, but the cat killed it, and I have never had a
pet since."

"Well, get your cap, and come out with me.  I will wait for you
here."

Harry walked away--he seldom ran.  He soon returned with his cap,
and they sallied out together.

Happening to look back at the house, when a few paces from it, Hugh
thought he saw Euphra standing at the window of a back staircase.
They made the round of the stables, and the cow-house, and the
poultry-yard; and even the pigs, as proposed, came in for a share of
their attention.  As they approached the stye, Harry turned away his
head with a look of disgust.  They were eating out of the trough.

"They make such a nasty noise!" he said.

"Yes, but just look: don't they enjoy it?" said Hugh.

Harry looked at them.  The notion of their enjoyment seemed to dawn
upon him as something quite new.  He went nearer and nearer to the
stye.  At last a smile broke out over his countenance.

"How tight that one curls his tail!" said he, and burst out
laughing.

"How dreadfully this boy must have been mismanaged!" thought Hugh to
himself. "But there is no fear of him now, I hope."

By this time they had been wandering about for more than an hour;
and Hugh saw, by Harry's increased paleness, that he was getting
tired.

"Here, Harry, get on my back, my boy, and have a ride.  You're
tired."

And Hugh knelt down.

Harry shrunk back.

"I shall spoil your coat with my shoes."

"Nonsense!  Rub them well on the grass there.  And then get on my
back directly."

Harry did as he was bid, and found his tutor's broad back and strong
arms a very comfortable saddle.  So away they went, wandering about
for a long time, in their new relation of horse and his rider.  At
length they got into the middle of a long narrow avenue, quite
neglected, overgrown with weeds, and obstructed with rubbish.  But
the trees were fine beeches, of great growth and considerable age.
One end led far into a wood, and the other towards the house, a
small portion of which could be seen at the end, the avenue
appearing to reach close up to it.

"Don't go down this," said Harry.

"Well, it's not a very good road for a horse certainly, but I think
I can go it.  What a beautiful avenue!  Why is it so neglected?"

"Don't go down there, please, dear horse."

Harry was getting wonderfully at home with Hugh already.

"Why?" asked Hugh.

"They call it the Ghost's Walk, and I don't much like it.  It has a
strange distracted look!"

"That's a long word, and a descriptive one too," thought Hugh; but,
considering that there would come many a better opportunity of
combating the boy's fears than now, he simply said: "Very well,
Harry,"--and proceeded to leave the avenue by the other side.  But
Harry was not yet satisfied.

"Please, Mr. Sutherland, don't go on that side, just now.  Ride me
back, please.  It is not safe, they say, to cross her path.  She
always follows any one who crosses her path."

Hugh laughed; but again said, "Very well, my boy;" and, returning,
left the avenue by the side by which he had entered it.

"Shall we go home to luncheon now?" said Harry.

"Yes," replied Hugh. "Could we not go by the front of the house?  I
should like very much to see it."

"Oh, certainly," said Harry, and proceeded to direct Hugh how to go;
but evidently did not know quite to his own satisfaction.  There
being, however, but little foliage yet, Hugh could discover his way
pretty well.  He promised himself many a delightful wander in the
woody regions in the evenings.

They managed to get round to the front of the house, not without
some difficulty; and then Hugh saw to his surprise that, although
not imposing in appearance, it was in extent more like a baronial
residence than that of a simple gentleman.  The front was very long,
apparently of all ages, and of all possible styles of architecture,
the result being somewhat mysterious and eminently picturesque.  All
kinds of windows; all kinds of projections and recesses; a house
here, joined to a hall there; here a pointed gable, the very bell on
the top overgrown and apparently choked with ivy; there a wide front
with large bay windows; and next a turret of old stone, with not a
shred of ivy upon it, but crowded over with grey-green lichens,
which looked as if the stone itself had taken to growing; multitudes
of roofs, of all shapes and materials, so that one might very easily
be lost amongst the chimneys and gutters and dormer windows and
pinnacles--made up the appearance of the house on the outside to
Hugh's first inquiring glance, as he paused at a little distance
with Harry on his back, and scanned the wonderful pile before him.
But as he looked at the house of Arnstead, Euphra was looking at
him with the boy on his back, from one of the smaller windows.  Was
she making up her mind?

"You are as kind to me as Euphra," said Harry, as Hugh set him down
in the hall. "I've enjoyed my ride very much, thank you, Mr.
Sutherland.  I am sure Euphra will like you very much--she likes
everybody."




CHAPTER III.

EUPHRASIA.

     then purged with Euphrasy and Rue
The visual nerve, for he had much to see.

Paradise Lost, b. xi.


Soft music came to mine ear.  It was like the rising breeze, that
whirls, at first, the thistle's beard; then flies, dark-shadowy,
over the grass.  It was the maid of Fuärfed wild: she raised the
nightly song; for she knew that my soul was a stream, that flowed at
pleasant sounds.

Ossian.--Oina-Morul.

Harry led Hugh by the hand to the dining-room, a large oak hall with
Gothic windows, and an open roof supported by richly carved
woodwork, in the squares amidst which were painted many escutcheons
parted by fanciful devices.  Over the high stone carving above the
chimney hung an old piece of tapestry, occupying the whole space
between that and the roof.  It represented a hunting-party of ladies
and gentlemen, just setting out.  The table looked very small in the
centre of the room, though it would have seated twelve or fourteen.
It was already covered for luncheon; and in a minute Euphra entered
and took her place without a word.  Hugh sat on one side and Harry
on the other.  Euphra, having helped both to soup, turned to Harry
and said, "Well, Harry, I hope you have enjoyed your first lesson."

"Very much," answered Harry with a smile. "I have learned pigs and
horseback."

"The boy is positively clever," thought Hugh.

"Mr. Sutherland"--he continued, "has begun to teach me to like
creatures."

"But I thought you were very fond of your wild-beast book, Harry."

"Oh! yes; but that was only in the book, you know.  I like the
stories about them, of course.  But to like pigs, you know, is quite
different.  They are so ugly and ill-bred.  I like them though."

"You seem to have quite gained Harry already," said Euphra, glancing
at Hugh, and looking away as quickly.

"We are very good friends, and shall be, I think," replied he.

Harry looked at him affectionately, and said to him, not to Euphra,
"Oh! yes, that we shall, I am sure."  Then turning to the lady--"Do
you know, Euphra, he is my big brother?"

"You must mind how you make new relations, though, Harry; for you
know that would make him my cousin."

"Well, you will be a kind cousin to him, won't you?"

"I will try," replied Euphra, looking up at Hugh with a naïve
expression of shyness, and the slightest possible blush.

Hugh began to think her pretty, almost handsome.  His next thought
was to wonder how old she was.  But about this he could not at once
make up his mind.  She might be four-and-twenty; she might be
two-and-thirty.  She had black, lustreless hair, and eyes to match,
as far as colour was concerned--but they could sparkle, and probably
flash upon occasion; a low forehead, but very finely developed in
the faculties that dwell above the eyes; slender but very dark
eyebrows--just black arched lines in her rather sallow complexion;
nose straight, and nothing remarkable--"an excellent thing in
woman," a mouth indifferent when at rest, but capable of a beautiful
laugh.  She was rather tall, and of a pretty enough figure; hands
good; feet invisible.  Hugh came to these conclusions rapidly
enough, now that his attention was directed to her; for, though
naturally unobservant, his perception was very acute as soon as his
attention was roused.

"Thank you," he replied to her pretty speech. "I shall do my best to
deserve it."

"I hope you will, Mr. Sutherland," rejoined she, with another arch
look. "Take some wine, Harry."

She poured out a glass of sherry, and gave it to the boy, who drank
it with some eagerness.  Hugh could not approve of this, but thought
it too early to interfere.  Turning to Harry, he said:

"Now, Harry, you have had rather a tiring morning.  I should like
you to go and lie down a while."

"Very well, Mr. Sutherland," replied Harry, who seemed rather
deficient in combativeness, as well as other boyish virtues. "Shall
I lie down in the library?"

"No--have a change."

"In my bed-room?"

"No, I think not.  Go to my room, and lie on the couch till I come
to you."

Harry went; and Hugh, partly for the sake of saying something, and
partly to justify his treatment of Harry, told Euphra, whose surname
he did not yet know, what they had been about all the morning,
ending with some remark on the view of the house in front.  She
heard the account of their proceedings with apparent indifference,
replying only to the remark with which he closed it:

"It is rather a large house, is it not, for three--I beg your
pardon, for four persons to live in, Mr. Sutherland?"

"It is, indeed; it quite bewilders me."

"To tell the truth, I don't quite know above the half of it myself."

Hugh thought this rather a strange assertion, large as the house
was; but she went on:

"I lost myself between the housekeeper's room and my own, no later
than last week."

I suppose there was a particle of truth in this; and that she had
taken a wrong turning in an abstracted fit.  Perhaps she did not
mean it to be taken as absolutely true.

"You have not lived here long, then?"

"Not long for such a great place.  A few years.  I am only a poor
relation."

She accompanied this statement with another swift uplifting of the
eyelids.  But this time her eyes rested for a moment on Hugh's, with
something of a pleading expression; and when they fell, a slight
sigh followed.  Hugh felt that he could not quite understand her.  A
vague suspicion crossed his mind that she was bewitching him, but
vanished instantly.  He replied to her communication by a smile, and
the remark:

"You have the more freedom, then.--Did you know Harry's mother?" he
added, after a pause.

"No. She died when Harry was born.  She was very beautiful, and,
they say, very clever, but always in extremely delicate health.
Between ourselves, I doubt if there was much sympathy--that is, if
my uncle and she quite understood each other.  But that is an old
story."

A pause followed.  Euphra resumed:

"As to the freedom you speak of, Mr. Sutherland, I do not quite know
what to do with it.  I live here as if the place were my own, and
give what orders I please.  But Mr. Arnold shows me little
attention--he is so occupied with one thing and another, I hardly
know what; and if he did, perhaps I should get tired of him.  So,
except when we have visitors, which is not very often, the time
hangs rather heavy on my hands."

"But you are fond of reading--and writing, too, I suspect;" Hugh
ventured to say.

She gave him another of her glances, in which the apparent shyness
was mingled with something for which Hugh could not find a name.
Nor did he suspect, till long after, that it was in reality
slyness, so tempered with archness, that, if discovered, it might
easily pass for an expression playfully assumed.

"Oh! yes," she said; "one must read a book now and then; and if a
verse"--again a glance and a slight blush--"should come up from
nobody knows where, one may as well write it down.  But, please, do
not take me for a literary lady.  Indeed, I make not the slightest
pretensions.  I don't know what I should do without Harry; and
indeed, indeed, you must not steal him from me, Mr. Sutherland."

"I should be very sorry," replied Hugh. "Let me beg you, as far as I
have a right to do so, to join us as often and as long as you
please.  I will go and see how he is.  I am sure the boy only wants
thorough rousing, alternated with perfect repose."

He went to his own room, where he found Harry, to his satisfaction,
fast asleep on the sofa.  He took care not to wake him, but sat down
beside him to read till his sleep should be over.  But, a moment
after, the boy opened his eyes with a start and a shiver, and gave a
slight cry.  When he saw Hugh he jumped up, and with a smile which
was pitiful to see upon a scared face, said:

"Oh!  I am so glad you are there."

"What is the matter, dear Harry?"

"I had a dreadful dream."

"What was it?"

"I don't know.  It always comes.  It is always the same.  I know
that.  And yet I can never remember what it is."

Hugh soothed him as well as he could; and he needed it, for the cold
drops were standing on his forehead.  When he had grown calmer, he
went and fetched Gulliver, and, to the boy's great delight, read to
him till dinner-time.  Before the first bell rang, he had quite
recovered, and indeed seemed rather interested in the approach of
dinner.

Dinner was an affair of some state at Arnstead.  Almost immediately
after the second bell had rung, Mr. Arnold made his appearance in
the drawing-room, where the others were already waiting for him.
This room had nothing of the distinctive character of the parts of
the house which Hugh had already seen.  It was merely a handsome
modern room, of no great size.  Mr. Arnold led Euphra to dinner, and
Hugh followed with Harry.

Mr. Arnold's manner to Hugh was the same as in the
morning--studiously polite, without the smallest approach to
cordiality.  He addressed him as an equal, it is true; but an equal
who could never be in the smallest danger of thinking he meant it.
Hugh, who, without having seen a great deal of the world, yet felt
much the same wherever he was, took care to give him all that he
seemed to look for, as far at least as was consistent with his own
self-respect.  He soon discovered that he was one of those men, who,
if you will only grant their position, and acknowledge their
authority, will allow you to have much your own way in everything.
His servants had found this out long ago, and almost everything
about the house was managed as they pleased; but as the oldest of
them were respectable family servants, nothing went very far wrong.
They all, however, waited on Euphra with an assiduity that showed
she was, or could be, quite mistress when and where she pleased.
Perhaps they had found out that she had great influence with Mr.
Arnold; and certainly he seemed very fond of her indeed, after a
stately fashion.  She spoke to the servants with peculiar
gentleness; never said, if you please; but always, thank you.  Harry
never asked for anything, but always looked to Euphra, who gave the
necessary order.  Hugh saw that the boy was quite dependent upon
her, seeming of himself scarcely capable of originating the simplest
action.  Mr. Arnold, however, dull as he was, could not help seeing
that Harry's manner was livelier than usual, and seemed pleased at
the slight change already visible for the better.  Turning to Hugh
he said:

"Do you find Harry very much behind with his studies, Mr.
Sutherland?"

"I have not yet attempted to find out," replied Hugh.

"Not?" said Mr. Arnold, with surprise.

"No. If he be behind, I feel confident it will not be for long."

"But," began Mr. Arnold, pompously; and then he paused.

"You were kind enough to say, Mr. Arnold, that I might try my own
plans with him first.  I have been doing so."

"Yes--certainly.  But--"

Here Harry broke in with some animation:

"Mr. Sutherland has been my horse, carrying me about on his back all
the morning--no, not all the morning--but an hour, or an hour and a
half--or was it two hours, Mr. Sutherland?"

"I really don't know, Harry," answered Hugh; "I don't think it
matters much."

Harry seemed relieved, and went on:

"He has been reading Gulliver's Travels to me--oh, such fall!  And
we have been to see the cows and the pigs; and Mr. Sutherland has
been teaching me to jump.  Do you know, papa, he jumped right over
the pony's back without touching it."

Mr. Arnold stared at the boy with lustreless eyes and hanging
checks.  These grew red, as if he were going to choke.  Such
behaviour was quite inconsistent with the dignity of Arnstead and
its tutor, who had been recommended to him as a thorough gentleman.
But for the present he said nothing; probably because he could
think of nothing to say.

"Certainly Harry seems better already," interposed Euphra.

"I cannot help thinking Mr. Sutherland has made a good beginning."

Mr. Arnold did not reply, but the cloud wore away from his face by
degrees; and at length he asked Hugh to take a glass of wine with
him.

When Euphra rose from the table, and Harry followed her example,
Hugh thought it better to rise as well.  Mr. Arnold seemed to
hesitate whether or not to ask him to resume his seat and have a
glass of claret.  Had he been a little wizened pedagogue, no doubt
he would have insisted on his company, sure of acquiescence from him
in every sentiment he might happen to utter.  But Hugh really looked
so very much like a gentleman, and stated his own views, or adopted
his own plans, with so much independence, that Mr. Arnold judged it
safer to keep him at arm's length for a season at least, till he
should thoroughly understand his position--not that of a guest, but
that of his son's tutor, belonging to the household of Arnstead only
on approval.

On leaving the dining-room, Hugh hesitated, in his turn, whether to
betake himself to his own room, or to accompany Euphra to the
drawing-room, the door of which stood open on the opposite side of
the hall, revealing a brightness and warmth, which the chill of the
evening, and the lowness of the fire in the dining-room, rendered
quite enticing.  But Euphra, who was half-across the hall, seeming
to divine his thoughts, turned, and said, "Are you not going to
favour us with your company, Mr. Sutherland?"

"With pleasure," replied Hugh; but, to cover his hesitation, added,
"I will be with you presently;" and ran up stairs to his own room.
"The old gentleman sits on his dignity--can hardly be said to stand
on it," thought he, as he went. "The poor relation, as she calls
herself, treats me like a guest.  She is mistress here, however;
that is clear enough."

As he descended the stairs to the drawing-room, a voice rose through
the house, like the voice of an angel.  At least so thought Hugh,
hearing it for the first time.  It seemed to take his breath away,
as he stood for a moment on the stairs, listening.  It was only
Euphra singing The Flowers of the Forest.  The drawing-room door was
still open, and her voice rang through the wide lofty hall.  He
entered almost on tip-toe, that he might lose no thread of the fine
tones.--Had she chosen the song of Scotland out of compliment to
him?--She saw him enter, but went on without hesitating even.  In
the high notes, her voice had that peculiar vibratory richness which
belongs to the nightingale's; but he could not help thinking that
the low tones were deficient both in quality and volume.  The
expression and execution, however, would have made up for a thousand
defects.  Her very soul seemed brooding over the dead upon Flodden
field, as she sang this most wailful of melodies--this embodiment of
a nation's grief.  The song died away as if the last breath had gone
with it; failing as it failed, and ceasing with its inspiration, as
if the voice that sang lived only for and in the song.  A moment of
intense silence followed.  Then, before Hugh had half recovered from
the former, with an almost grand dramatic recoil, as if the second
sprang out of the first, like an eagle of might out of an ocean of
weeping, she burst into Scots wha hae.  She might have been a new
Deborah, heralding her nation to battle.  Hugh was transfixed,
turned icy cold, with the excitement of his favourite song so
sung.--Was that a glance of satisfied triumph with which Euphra
looked at him for a single moment?--She sang the rest of the song as
if the battle were already gained; but looked no more at Hugh.

The excellence of her tones, and the lambent fluidity of her
transitions, if I may be allowed the phrase, were made by her art
quite subservient to the expression, and owed their chief value to
the share they bore in producing it.  Possibly there was a little
too much of the dramatic in her singing, but it was all in good
taste; and, in a word, Hugh had never heard such singing before.  As
soon as she had finished, she rose, and shut the piano.

"Do not, do not," faltered Hugh, seeking to arrest her hand, as she
closed the instrument.

"I can sing nothing after that," she said with emotion, or perhaps
excitement; for the trembling of her voice might be attributed to
either cause. "Do not ask me."

Hugh respectfully desisted; but after a few minutes' pause ventured
to remark:

"I cannot understand how you should be able to sing Scotch songs so
well.  I never heard any but Scotch women sing them, even endurably,
before: your singing of them is perfect."

"It seems to me," said Euphra, speaking as if she would rather have
remained silent, "that a true musical penetration is independent of
styles and nationalities.  It can perceive, or rather feel, and
reproduce, at the same moment.  If the music speaks Scotch, the
musical nature hears Scotch.  It can take any shape, indeed cannot
help taking any shape, presented to it."

Hugh was yet further astonished by this criticism from one whom he
had been criticising with so much carelessness that very day.

"You think, then," said he, modestly, not as if he would bring her
to book, but as really seeking to learn from her, "that a true
musical nature can pour itself into the mould of any song, in entire
independence of association and education?"

"Yes; in independence of any but what it may provide for itself."

Euphrasia, however, had left one important element unrepresented in
the construction of her theory--namely, the degree of capability
which a mind may possess of sympathy with any given class of
feelings.  The blossom of the mind, whether it flower in poetry,
music, or any other art, must be the exponent of the nature and
condition of that whose blossom it is.  No mind, therefore,
incapable of sympathising with the feelings whence it springs, can
interpret the music of another.  And Euphra herself was rather a
remarkable instance of this forgotten fact.

Further conversation on the subject was interrupted by the entrance
of Mr. Arnold, who looked rather annoyed at finding Hugh in the
drawing-room, and ordered Harry off to bed, with some little
asperity of tone.  The boy rose at once, rang the bell, bade them
all good night, and went.  A servant met him at the door with a
candle, and accompanied him.

Thought Hugh: "Here are several things to be righted at once.  The
boy must not have wine; and he must have only one dinner
a-day--especially if he is ordered to bed so early.  I must make a
man of him if I can."

He made inquiries, and, with some difficulty, found out where the
boy slept.  During the night he was several times in Harry's room,
and once in happy time to wake him from a nightmare dream.  The boy
was so overcome with terror, that Hugh got into bed beside him and
comforted him to sleep in his arms.  Nor did he leave him till it
was time to get up, when he stole back to his own quarters, which,
happily, were at no very great distance.

I may mention here, that it was not long before Hugh succeeded in
stopping the wine, and reducing the dinner to a mouthful of supper.
Harry, as far as he was concerned, yielded at once; and his father
only held out long enough to satisfy his own sense of dignity.




CHAPTER IV.

THE CAVE IN THE STRAW.

All knowledge and wonder (which is the seed of knowledge) is an
impression of pleasure in itself.

LORD BACON.--Advancement of Learning.


The following morning dawned in a cloud; which, swathed about the
trees, wetted them down to the roots, without having time to become
rain.  They drank it in like sorrow, the only material out of which
true joy can be fashioned.  This cloud of mist would yet glimmer in
a new heaven, namely, in the cloud of blooms which would clothe the
limes and the chestnuts and the beeches along the ghost's walk.  But
there was gloomy weather within doors as well; for poor Harry was
especially sensitive to variations of the barometer, without being
in the least aware of the fact himself.  Again Hugh found him in the
library, seated in his usual corner, with Polexander on his knees.
He half dropped the book when Hugh entered, and murmured with a
sigh:

"It's no use; I can't read it."

"What's the matter, Harry?" said his tutor.

"I should like to tell you, but you will laugh at me."

"I shall never laugh at you, Harry."

"Never?"

"No, never."

"Then tell me how I can be sure that I have read this book."

"I do not quite understand you."

"All!  I was sure nobody could be so stupid as I am.  Do you know,
Mr. Sutherland, I seem to have read a page from top to bottom
sometimes, and when I come to the bottom I know nothing about it,
and doubt whether I have read it at all; and then I stare at it all
over again, till I grow so queer, and sometimes nearly scream.  You
see I must be able to say I have read the book."

"Why?  Nobody will ever ask you."

"Perhaps not; but you know that is nothing.  I want to know that I
have read the book--really and truly read it."

Hugh thought for a moment, and seemed to see that the boy, not being
strong enough to be a law to himself, just needed a benign law from
without, to lift him from the chaos of feeble and conflicting
notions and impulses within, which generated a false law of slavery.
So he said:

"Harry, am I your big brother?"

"Yes, Mr. Sutherland."

"Then, ought you to do what I wish, or what you wish yourself?"

"What you wish, sir."

"Then I want you to put away that book for a month at least."

"Oh, Mr. Sutherland!  I promised."

"To whom?"

"To myself."
"But I am above you; and I want you to do as I tell you.  Will you,
Harry?"

"Yes."

"Put away the book, then."

Harry sprang to his feet, put the book on its shelf, and, going up
to Hugh, said,

"You have done it, not me."

"Certainly, Harry."

The notions of a hypochondriacal child will hardly be interesting to
the greater part of my readers; but Hugh learned from this a little
lesson about divine law which he never forgot.

"Now, Harry," added he, "you must not open a book till I allow you."

"No poetry, either?" said poor Harry; and his face fell.

"I don't mind poetry so much; but of prose I will read as much to
you as will be good for you.  Come, let us have a bit of Gulliver
again."

"Oh, how delightful!" cried Harry. "I am so glad you made me put
away that tiresome book.  I wonder why it insisted so on being
read."

Hugh read for an hour, and then made Harry put on his cloak,
notwithstanding the rain, which fell in a slow thoughtful spring
shower.  Taking the boy again on his back, he carried him into the
woods.  There he told him how the drops of wet sank into the ground,
and then went running about through it in every direction, looking
for seeds: which were all thirsty little things, that wanted to
grow, and could not, till a drop came and gave them drink.  And he
told him how the rain-drops were made up in the skies, and then came
down, like millions of angels, to do what they were told in the dark
earth.  The good drops went into all the cellars and dungeons of the
earth, to let out the imprisoned flowers.  And he told him how the
seeds, when they had drunk the rain-drops, wanted another kind of
drink next, which was much thinner and much stronger, but could not
do them any good till they had drunk the rain first.

"What is that?" said Harry. "I feel as if you were reading out of
the Bible, Mr. Sutherland."

"It is the sunlight," answered his tutor. "When a seed has drunk of
the water, and is not thirsty any more, it wants to breathe next;
and then the sun sends a long, small finger of fire down into the
grave where the seed is lying; and it touches the seed, and
something inside the seed begins to move instantly and to grow
bigger and bigger, till it sends two green blades out of it into the
earth, and through the earth into the air; and then it can breathe.
And then it sends roots down into the earth; and the roots keep
drinking water, and the leaves keep breathing the air, and the sun
keeps them alive and busy; and so a great tree grows up, and God
looks at it, and says it is good."

"Then they really are living things?" said Harry.

"Certainly."

"Thank you, Mr. Sutherland.  I don't think I shall dislike rain so
much any more."

Hugh took him next into the barn, where they found a great heap of
straw.  Recalling his own boyish amusements, he made him put off his
cloak, and help to make a tunnel into this heap.  Harry was
delighted--the straw was so nice, and bright, and dry, and clean.
They drew it out by handfuls, and thus excavated a round tunnel to
the distance of six feet or so; when Hugh proceeded to more extended
operations.  Before it was time to go to lunch, they had cleared
half of a hollow sphere, six feet in diameter, out of the heart of
the heap.

After lunch, for which Harry had been very unwilling to relinquish
the straw hut, Hugh sent him to lie down for a while; when he fell
fast asleep as before.  After he had left the room, Euphra said:

"How do you get on with Harry, Mr. Sutherland?"

"Perfectly to my satisfaction," answered Hugh.

"Do you not find him very slow?"

"Quite the contrary."

"You surprise me.  But you have not given him any lessons yet."

"I have given him a great many, and he is learning them very fast."

"I fear he will have forgotten all my poor labours before you take
up the work where we left it.  When will you give him any
book-lessons?"

"Not for a while yet."

Euphra did not reply.  Her silence seemed intended to express
dissatisfaction; at least so Hugh interpreted it.

"I hope you do not think it is to indulge myself that I manage
Master Harry in this peculiar fashion," he said. "The fact is, he is
a very peculiar child, and may turn out a genius or a weakling, just
as he is managed.  At least so it appears to me at present.  May I
ask where you left the work you were doing with him?"

"He was going through the Eton grammar for the third time," answered
Euphra, with a defiant glance, almost of dislike, at Hugh. "But I
need not enumerate his studies, for I daresay you will not take them
up at all after my fashion.  I only assure you I have been a very
exact disciplinarian.  What he knows, I think you will find he knows
thoroughly."

So saying, Euphra rose, and with a flush on her cheek, walked out of
the room in a more stately manner than usual.

Hugh felt that he had, somehow or other, offended her.  But, to tell
the truth, he did not much care, for her manner had rather irritated
him.  He retired to his own room, wrote to his mother, and, when
Harry awoke, carried him again to the barn for an hour's work in the
straw.  Before it grew dusk, they had finished a little, silent,
dark chamber, as round as they could make it, in the heart of the
straw.  All the excavated material they had thrown on the top,
reserving only a little to close up the entrance when they pleased.

The next morning was still rainy; and when Hugh found Harry in the
library as usual, he saw that the clouds had again gathered over the
boy's spirit.  He was pacing about the room in a very odd manner.
The carpet was divided diamond-wise in a regular pattern.  Harry's
steps were, for the most part, planted upon every third diamond, as
he slowly crossed the floor in a variety of directions; for, as on
previous occasions, he had not perceived the entrance of his tutor.
But, every now and then, the boy would make the most sudden and
irregular change in his mode of progression, setting his foot on the
most unexpected diamond, at one time the nearest to him, at another
the farthest within his reach.  When he looked up, and saw his tutor
watching him, he neither started nor blushed: but, still retaining
on his countenance the perplexed, anxious expression which Hugh had
remarked, said to him:

"How can God know on which of those diamonds I am going to set my
foot next?"

"If you could understand how God knows, Harry, then you would know
yourself; but before you have made up your mind, you don't know
which you will choose; and even then you only know on which you
intend to set your foot; for you have often changed your mind after
making it up."

Harry looked as puzzled as before.

"Why, Harry, to understand how God understands, you would need to be
as wise as he is; so it is no use trying.  You see you can't quite
understand me, though I have a real meaning in what I say."

"Ah!  I see it is no use; but I can't bear to be puzzled."

"But you need not be puzzled; you have no business to be puzzled.
You are trying to get into your little brain what is far too grand
and beautiful to get into it.  Would you not think it very stupid to
puzzle yourself how to put a hundred horses into a stable with
twelve stalls?"

Harry laughed, and looked relieved.

"It is more unreasonable a thousand times to try to understand such
things.  For my part, it would make me miserable to think that there
was nothing but what I could understand.  I should feel as if I had
no room anywhere.  Shall we go to our cave again?"

"Oh! yes, please," cried Harry; and in a moment he was on Hugh's
back once more, cantering joyously to the barn.

After various improvements, including some enlargement of the
interior, Hugh and Harry sat down together in the low yellow
twilight of their cave, to enjoy the result of their labours.  They
could just see, by the light from the tunnel, the glimmer of the
golden hollow all about them.  The rain was falling heavily
out-of-doors; and they could hear the sound of the multitudinous
drops of the broken cataract of the heavens like the murmur of the
insects in a summer wood.  They knew that everything outside was
rained upon, and was again raining on everything beneath it, while
they were dry and warm.

"This is nice!" exclaimed Harry, after a few moments of silent
enjoyment.

"This is your first lesson in architecture," said Hugh.

"Am I to learn architecture?" asked Harry, in a rueful tone.

"It is well to know how things came to be done, if you should know
nothing more about them, Harry.  Men lived in the cellars first of
all, and next on the ground floor; but they could get no further
till they joined the two, and then they could build higher."

"I don't quite understand you, sir."

"I did not mean you should, Harry."

"Then I don't mind, sir.  But I thought architecture was building."

"So it is; and this is one way of building.  It is only making an
outside by pulling out an inside, instead of making an inside by
setting up an outside."

Harry thought for a while, and then said joyfully:

"I see it, sir!  I see it.  The inside is the chief thing--not the
outside."

"Yes, Harry; and not in architecture only.  Never forget that."

They lay for some time in silence, listening to the rain.  At length
Harry spoke:

"I have been thinking of what you told me yesterday, Mr. Sutherland,
about the rain going to look for the seeds that were thirsty for it.
And now I feel just as if I were a seed, lying in its little hole
in the earth, and hearing the rain-drops pattering down all about
it, waiting--oh, so thirsty!--for some kind drop to find me out, and
give me itself to drink.  I wonder what kind of flower I should grow
up," added he, laughing.

"There is more truth than you think, in your pretty fancy, Harry,"
rejoined Hugh, and was silent--self-rebuked; for the memory of David
came back upon him, recalled by the words of the boy; of David, whom
he loved and honoured with the best powers of his nature, and whom
yet he had neglected and seemed to forget; nay, whom he had
partially forgotten--he could not deny.  The old man, whose thoughts
were just those of a wise child, had said to him once:

"We ken no more, Maister Sutherlan', what we're growin' till, than
that neep-seed there kens what a neep is, though a neep it will be.
The only odds is, that we ken that we dinna ken, and the neep-seed
kens nothing at all aboot it.  But ae thing, Maister Sutherlan', we
may be sure o': that, whatever it be, it will be worth God's makin'
an' our growin'."

A solemn stillness fell upon Hugh's spirit, as he recalled these
words; out of which stillness, I presume, grew the little parable
which follows; though Hugh, after he had learned far more about the
things therein hinted at, could never understand how it was, that he
could have put so much more into it, than he seemed to have
understood at that period of his history.

For Harry said:

"Wouldn't this be a nice place for a story, Mr. Sutherland?  Do you
ever tell stories, sir?"

"I was just thinking of one, Harry; but it is as much yours as mine,
for you sowed the seed of the story in my mind."

"Do you mean a story that never was in a book--a story out of your
own head?  Oh! that will be grand!"

"Wait till we see what it will be, Harry; for I can't tell you how
it will turn out."

After a little further pause, Hugh began:

"Long, long ago, two seeds lay beside each other in the earth,
waiting.  It was cold, and rather wearisome; and, to beguile the
time, the one found means to speak to the other.

"'What are you going to be?' said the one.

"'I don't know,' answered the other.

"'For me,' rejoined the first, 'I mean to be a rose.  There is
nothing like a splendid rose.  Everybody will love me then!'

"'It's all right,' whispered the second; and that was all he could
say; for somehow when he had said that, he felt as if all the words
in the world were used up.  So they were silent again for a day or
two.

"'Oh, dear!' cried the first, 'I have had some water.  I never knew
till it was inside me.  I'm growing!  I'm growing!  Good-bye!'

"'Good-bye!' repeated the other, and lay still; and waited more than
ever.

"The first grew and grew, pushing itself straight up, till at last
it felt that it was in the open air, for it could breathe.  And what
a delicious breath that was!  It was rather cold, but so refreshing.
The flower could see nothing, for it was not quite a flower yet,
only a plant; and they never see till their eyes come, that is, till
they open their blossoms--then they are flowers quite.  So it grew
and grew, and kept its head up very steadily, meaning to see the sky
the first thing, and leave the earth quite behind as well as beneath
it.  But somehow or other, though why it could not tell, it felt
very much inclined to cry.  At length it opened its eye.  It was
morning, and the sky was over its head; but, alas! itself was no
rose--only a tiny white flower.  It felt yet more inclined to hang
down its head and to cry; but it still resisted, and tried hard to
open its eye wide, and to hold its head upright, and to look full at
the sky.

"'I will be a star of Bethlehem at least!' said the flower to
itself.

"But its head felt very heavy; and a cold wind rushed over it, and
bowed it down towards the earth.  And the flower saw that the time
of the singing of birds was not come, that the snow covered the
whole land, and that there was not a single flower in sight but
itself.  And it half-closed its leaves in terror and the dismay of
loneliness.  But that instant it remembered what the other flower
used to say; and it said to itself: 'It's all right; I will be what
I can.'  And thereon it yielded to the wind, drooped its head to the
earth, and looked no more on the sky, but on the snow.  And
straightway the wind stopped, and the cold died away, and the snow
sparkled like pearls and diamonds; and the flower knew that it was
the holding of its head up that had hurt it so; for that its body
came of the snow, and that its name was Snow-drop.  And so it said
once more, 'It's all right!' and waited in perfect peace.  All the
rest it needed was to hang its head after its nature."

"And what became of the other?" asked Harry.

"I haven't done with this one yet," answered Hugh. "I only told you
it was waiting.  One day a pale, sad-looking girl, with thin face,
large eyes, and long white hands, came, hanging her head like the
snowdrop, along the snow where the flower grew.  She spied it,
smiled joyously, and saying, 'Ah! my little sister, are you come?'
stooped and plucked the snowdrop.  It trembled and died in her hand;
which was a heavenly death for a snowdrop; for had it not cast a
gleam of summer, pale as it had been itself, upon the heart of a
sick girl?"

"And the other?" repeated Harry.

"The other had a long time to wait; but it did grow one of the
loveliest roses ever seen.  And at last it had the highest honour
ever granted to a flower: two lovers smelled it together, and were
content with it."

Harry was silent, and so was Hugh; for he could not understand
himself quite.  He felt, all the time he was speaking, is if he were
listening to David, instead of talking himself.  The fact was, he
was only expanding, in an imaginative soil, the living seed which
David had cast into it.  There seemed to himself to be more in his
parable than he had any right to invent.  But is it not so with all
stories that are rightly rooted in the human?

"What a delightful story, Mr. Sutherland!" said Harry, at last.
"Euphra tells me stories sometimes; but I don't think I ever heard
one I liked so much.  I wish we were meant to grow into something,
like the flower-seeds."

"So we are, Harry."

"Are we indeed?  How delightful it would be to think that I am only
a seed, Mr. Sutherland!  Do you think I might think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then, please, let me begin to learn something directly.  I haven't
had anything disagreeable to do since you came; and I don't feel as
if that was right."

Poor Harry, like so many thousands of good people, had not yet
learned that God is not a hard task-master.

"I don't intend that you should have anything disagreeable to do, if
I can help it.  We must do such things when they come to us; but we
must not make them for ourselves, or for each other."

"Then I'm not to learn any more Latin, am I?" said Harry, in a
doubtful kind of tone, as if there were after all a little pleasure
in doing what he did not like.

"Is Latin so disagreeable, Harry?"

"Yes; it is rule after rule, that has nothing in it I care for.  How
can anybody care for Latin?  But I am quite ready to begin, if I am
only a seed--really, you know."

"Not yet, Harry.  Indeed, we shall not begin again--I won't let
you--till you ask me with your whole heart, to let you learn Latin."

"I am afraid that will be a long time, and Euphra will not like it."

"I will talk to her about it.  But perhaps it will not be so long as
you think.  Now, don't mention Latin to me again, till you are ready
to ask me, heartily, to teach you.  And don't give yourself any
trouble about it either.  You never can make yourself like
anything."

Harry was silent.  They returned to the house, through the pouring
rain; Harry, as usual, mounted on his big brother.

As they crossed the hall, Mr. Arnold came in.  He looked surprised
and annoyed.  Hugh set Harry down, who ran upstairs to get dressed
for dinner; while he himself half-stopped, and turned towards Mr.
Arnold.  But Mr. Arnold did not speak, and so Hugh followed Harry.

Hugh spent all that evening, after Harry had gone to bed, in
correcting his impressions of some of the chief stories of early
Roman history; of which stories he intended commencing a little
course to Harry the next day.

Meantime there was very little intercourse between Hugh and Euphra,
whose surname, somehow or other, Hugh had never inquired after.  He
disliked asking questions about people to an uncommon degree, and so
preferred waiting for a natural revelation.  Her later behaviour had
repelled him, impressing him with the notion that she was proud, and
that she had made up her mind, notwithstanding her apparent
frankness at first, to keep him at a distance.  That she was fitful,
too, and incapable of showing much tenderness even to poor Harry, he
had already concluded in his private judgment-hall.  Nor could he
doubt that, whether from wrong theories, incapacity, or culpable
indifference, she must have taken very bad measures indeed with her
young pupil.

The next day resembled the two former; with this difference, that
the rain fell in torrents.  Seated in their strawy bower, they cared
for no rain.  They were safe from the whole world, and all the
tempers of nature.

Then Hugh told Harry about the slow beginnings and the mighty birth
of the great Roman people.  He told him tales of their battles and
conquests; their strifes at home, and their wars abroad.  He told
him stories of their grand men, great with the individuality of
their nation and their own.  He told him their characters, their
peculiar opinions and grounds of action, and the results of their
various schemes for their various ends.  He told him about their
love to their country, about their poetry and their religion; their
courage, and their hardihood; their architecture, their clothes, and
their armour; their customs and their laws; but all in such
language, or mostly in such language, as one boy might use in
telling another of the same age; for Hugh possessed the gift of a
general simplicity of thought, one of the most valuable a man can
have.  It cost him a good deal of labour (well-repaid in itself, not
to speak of the evident delight of Harry), to make himself perfectly
competent for this; but he had a good foundation of knowledge to
work upon.

This went on for a long time after the period to which I am now more
immediately confined.  Every time they stopped to rest from their
rambles or games--as often, in fact, as they sat down alone, Harry's
constant request was:

"Now, Mr. Sutherland, mightn't we have something more about the
Romans?"

And Mr. Sutherland gave him something more.  But all this time he
never uttered the word--Latin.




CHAPTER V.

LARCH AND OTHER HUNTING.

For there is neither buske nor hay
In May, that it n'ill shrouded bene,
And it with newé leavés wrene;
These woodés eke recoveren grene,
That drie in winter ben to sene,
And the erth waxeth proud withall,
For swoté dewes that on it fall,
And the poore estate forget,
In which that winter had it set:
And than becomes the ground so proude,
That it wol have a newé shroude,
And maketh so queint his robe and faire,
That it hath hewes an hundred paire,
Of grasse and floures, of Ind and Pers,
And many hewés full divers:
That is the robe I mean, ywis,
Through which the ground to praisen is.

CHAUCER'S translation of the Romaunt of the Rose.


So passed the three days of rain.  After breakfast the following
morning, Hugh went to find Harry, according to custom, in the
library.  He was reading.

"What are you reading, Harry?" asked he.

"A poem," said Harry; and, rising as before, he brought the book to
Hugh. It was Mrs. Hemans's Poems.

"You are fond of poetry, Harry."

"Yes, very."

"Whose poems do you like best?"

"Mrs. Hemans's, of course.  Don't you think she is the best, sir?"

"She writes very beautiful verses, Harry.  Which poem are you
reading now?"

"Oh! one of my favourites--The Voice of Spring."

"Who taught you to like Mrs. Hemans?"

"Euphra, of course."

"Will you read the poem to me?"

Harry began, and read the poem through, with much taste and evident
enjoyment; an enjoyment which seemed, however, to spring more from
the music of the thought and its embodiment in sound, than from
sympathy with the forms of nature called up thereby.  This was shown
by his mode of reading, in which the music was everything, and the
sense little or nothing.  When he came to the line,

     "And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,"

he smiled so delightedly, that Hugh said:

"Are you fond of the larch, Harry?"

"Yes, very."

"Are there any about here?"

"I don't know.  What is it like?"

"You said you were fond of it."

"Oh, yes; it is a tree with beautiful tassels, you know.  I think I
should like to see one.  Isn't it a beautiful line?"

"When you have finished the poem, we will go and see if we can find
one anywhere in the woods.  We must know where we are in the world,
Harry--what is all round about us, you know."

"Oh, yes," said Harry; "let us go and hunt the larch."

"Perhaps we shall meet Spring, if we look for her--perhaps hear her
voice, too."

"That would be delightful," answered Harry, smiling.  And away they
went.

I may just mention here that Mrs. Hemans was allowed to retire
gradually, till at last she was to be found only in the more
inaccessible recesses of the library-shelves; while by that time
Harry might be heard, not all over the house, certainly, but as far
off as outside the closed door of the library, reading aloud to
himself one or other of Macaulay's ballads, with an evident
enjoyment of the go in it.  A story with drum and trumpet
accompaniment was quite enough, for the present, to satisfy Harry;
and Macaulay could give him that, if little more.

As they went across the lawn towards the shrubbery, on their way to
look for larches and Spring, Euphra joined them in walking dress.
It was a lovely morning.

"I have taken you at your word, you see, Mr. Sutherland," said she.
"I don't want to lose my Harry quite."

"You dear kind Euphra!" said Harry, going round to her side and
taking her hand.  He did not stay long with her, however, nor did
Euphra seem particularly to want him.

"There was one thing I ought to have mentioned to you the other
night, Mr. Sutherland; and I daresay I should have mentioned it, had
not Mr. Arnold interrupted our tête-à-tête.  I feel now as if I had
been guilty of claiming far more than I have a right to, on the
score of musical insight.  I have Scotch blood in me, and was indeed
born in Scotland, though I left it before I was a year old.  My
mother, Mr. Arnold's sister, married a gentleman who was half
Sootch; and I was born while they were on a visit to his relatives,
the Camerons of Lochnie.  His mother, my grandmother, was a Bohemian
lady, a countess with sixteen quarterings--not a gipsy, I beg to
say."

Hugh thought she might have been, to judge from present appearances.

But how was he to account for this torrent of genealogical
information, into which the ice of her late constraint had suddenly
thawed?  It was odd that she should all at once volunteer so much
about herself.  Perhaps she had made up one of those minds which
need making up, every now and then, like a monthly magazine; and now
was prepared to publish it.  Hugh responded with a question:

"Do I know your name, then, at last?  You are Miss Cameron?"

"Euphrasia Cameron; at your service, sir."  And she dropped a gay
little courtesy to Hugh, looking up at him with a flash of her black
diamonds.

"Then you must sing to me to-night."

"With all the pleasure in gipsy-land," replied she, with a second
courtesy, lower than the first; taking for granted, no doubt, his
silent judgment on her person and complexion.

By this time they had reached the woods in a different quarter from
that which Hugh had gone through the other day with Harry.  And
here, in very deed, the Spring met them, with a profusion of
richness to which Hugh was quite a stranger.  The ground was
carpeted with primroses, and anemones, and other spring flowers,
which are the loveliest of all flowers.  They were drinking the
sunlight, which fell upon them through the budded boughs.  By the
time the light should be hidden from them by the leaves, which are
the clouds of the lower firmament of the woods, their need of it
would be gone: exquisites in living, they cared only for the
delicate morning of the year.

"Do look at this darling, Mr. Sutherland!" exclaimed Euphrasia
suddenly, as she bent at the root of a great beech, where grew a
large bush of rough leaves, with one tiny but perfectly-formed
primrose peeping out between. "Is it not a little pet?--all
eyes--all one eye staring out of its curtained bed to see what ever
is going on in the world.--You had better lie down again: it is not
a nice place."

She spoke to it as if it had been a kitten or a baby.  And as she
spoke, she pulled the leaves yet closer over the little starer so as
to hide it quite.

As they went on, she almost obtrusively avoided stepping on the
flowers, saying she almost felt cruel, or at least rude, when she
did so.  Yet she trailed her dress over them in quite a careless
way, not lifting it at all.  This was a peculiarity of hers, which
Hugh never understood till he understood herself.

All about in shady places, the ferns were busy untucking themselves
from their grave-clothes, unrolling their mysterious coils of life,
adding continually to the hidden growth as they unfolded the
visible.  In this, they were like the other revelations of God the
Infinite.  All the wild lovely things were coming up for their
month's life of joy.  Orchis-harlequins, cuckoo-plants, wild arums,
more properly lords-and-ladies, were coming, and coming--slowly; for
had they not a long way to come, from the valley of the shadow of
death into the land of life?  At last the wanderers came upon a
whole company of bluebells--not what Hugh would have called
bluebells, for the bluebells of Scotland are the single-poised
harebells--but wild hyacinths, growing in a damp and shady spot, in
wonderful luxuriance.  They were quite three feet in height, with
long, graceful, drooping heads; hanging down from them, all along
one side, the largest and loveliest of bells--one lying close above
the other, on the lower part; while they parted thinner and thinner
as they rose towards the lonely one at the top.  Miss Cameron went
into ecstasies over these; not saying much, but breaking up what she
did say with many prettily passionate pauses.

She had a very happy turn for seeing external resemblances, either
humorous or pathetic; for she had much of one element that goes to
the making of a poet--namely, surface impressibility.

"Look, Harry; they are all sad at having to go down there again so
soon.  They are looking at their graves so ruefully."

Harry looked sad and rather sentimental immediately.  When Hugh
glanced at Miss Cameron, he saw tears in her eyes.

"You have nothing like this in your country, have you, Mr.
Sutherland?" said she, with an apparent effort.

"No, indeed," answered Hugh.

And he said no more.  For a vision rose before him of the rugged
pine-wood and the single primrose; and of the thoughtful maiden,
with unpolished speech and rough hands, and--but this he did not
see--a soul slowly refining itself to a crystalline clearness.  And
he thought of the grand old grey-haired David, and of Janet with her
quaint motherhood, and of all the blessed bareness of the ancient
time--in sunlight and in snow; and he felt again that he had
forgotten and forsaken his friends.

"How the fairies will be ringing the bells in these airy steeples in
the moonlight!" said Miss Cameron to Harry, who was surprised and
delighted with it all.  He could not help wondering, however, after
he went to bed that night, that Euphra had never before taken him to
see these beautiful things, and had never before said anything half
so pretty to him, as the least pretty thing she had said about the
flowers that morning when they were out with Mr. Sutherland.  Had
Mr. Sutherland anything to do with it?  Was he giving Euphra a
lesson in flowers such as he had given him in pigs?

Miss Cameron presently drew Hugh into conversation again, and the
old times were once more forgotten for a season.  They were worthy
of distinguishing note--that trio in those spring woods: the boy
waking up to feel that flowers and buds were lovelier in the woods
than in verses; Euphra finding everything about her sentimentally
useful, and really delighting in the prettinesses they suggested to
her; and Hugh regarding the whole chiefly as a material and means
for reproducing in verse such impressions of delight as he had
received and still received from all (but the highest) poetry about
nature.  The presence of Harry and his necessities was certainly a
saving influence upon Hugh; but, however much he sought to realize
Harry's life, he himself, at this period of his history, enjoyed
everything artistically far more than humanly.

Margaret would have walked through all this infant summer without
speaking at all, but with a deep light far back in her quiet eyes.
Perhaps she would not have had many thoughts about the flowers.
Rather she would have thought the very flowers themselves; would
have been at home with them, in a delighted oneness with their life
and expression.  Certainly she would have walked through them with
reverence, and would not have petted or patronised nature by saying
pretty things about her children.  Their life would have entered
into her, and she would have hardly known it from her own.  I
daresay Miss Cameron would have called a mountain a darling or a
beauty.  But there are other ways of showing affection than by
patting and petting--though Margaret, for her part, would have
needed no art-expression, because she had the things themselves.  It
is not always those who utter best who feel most; and the dumb poets
are sometimes dumb because it would need the "large utterance of the
early gods" to carry their thoughts through the gates of speech.

But the fancy and skin-sympathy of Miss Cameron began already to
tell upon Hugh. He knew very little of women, and had never heard a
woman talk as she talked.  He did not know how cheap this
accomplishment is, and took it for sensibility, imaginativeness, and
even originality.  He thought she was far more en rapport with
nature than he was.  It was much easier to make this mistake after
hearing the really delightful way in which she sang.  Certainly she
could not have sung so, perhaps not even have talked so, except she
had been capable of more; but to be capable of more, and to be able
for more, are two very distinct conditions.

Many walks followed this, extending themselves farther and farther
from home, as Harry's strength gradually improved.  It was quite
remarkable how his interest in everything external increased, in
exact proportion as he learned to see into the inside or life of it.
With most children, the interest in the external comes first, and
with many ceases there.  But it is in reality only a shallower form
of the deeper sympathy; and in those cases where it does lead to a
desire after the hidden nature of things, it is perhaps the better
beginning of the two.  In such exceptional cases as Harry's, it is
of unspeakable importance that both the difference and the identity
should be recognized; and in doing so, Hugh became to Harry his big
brother indeed, for he led him where he could not go alone.

As often as Mr. Arnold was from home, which happened not
unfrequently, Miss Cameron accompanied them in their rambles.  She
gave as her reason for doing so only on such occasions, that she
never liked to be out of the way when her uncle might want her.
Traces of an inclination to quarrel with Hugh, or even to stand
upon her dignity, had all but vanished; and as her vivacity never
failed her, as her intellect was always active, and as by the
exercise of her will she could enter sympathetically, or appear to
enter, into everything, her presence was not in the least a
restraint upon them.

On one occasion, when Harry had actually run a little way after a
butterfly, Hugh said to her:

"What did you mean, Miss Cameron, by saying you were only a poor
relation?  You are certainly mistress of the house."

"On sufferance, yes.  But I am only a poor relation.  I have no
fortune of my own."

"But Mr. Arnold does not treat you as such."

"Oh! no.  He likes me.  He is very kind to me.--He gave me this ring
on my last birthday.  Is it not a beauty?"

She pulled off her glove and showed a very fine diamond on a finger
worthy of the ornament.

"It is more like a gentleman's, is it not?" she added, drawing it
off. "Let me see how it would look on your hand."

She gave the ring to Hugh; who, laughing, got it with some
difficulty just over the first joint of his little finger, and held
it up for Euphra to see.

"Ah!  I see I cannot ask you to wear it for me," said she. "I don't
like it myself.  I am afraid, however," she added, with an arch
look, "my uncle would not like it either--on your finger.  Put it on
mine again."

Holding her hand towards Hugh, she continued:

"It must not be promoted just yet.  Besides, I see you have a still
better one of your own."

As Hugh did according to her request, the words sprang to his lips,
"There are other ways of wearing a ring than on the finger."  But
they did not cross the threshold of speech.  Was it the repression
of them that caused that strange flutter and slight pain at the
heart, which he could not quite understand?




CHAPTER VI.

FATIMA.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said, "I hate,"
To me that languished for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that, ever sweet,
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
"I hate" she altered with an end,
That followed it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
>From heaven to hell is flown away.
"I hate" from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying--"Not you."

SHAKSPERE.


Mr. Arnold was busy at home for a few days after this, and Hugh and
Harry had to go out alone.  One day, when the wind was rather cold,
they took refuge in the barn; for it was part of Hugh's especial
care that Harry should be rendered hardy, by never being exposed to
more than he could bear without a sense of suffering.  As soon as
the boy began to feel fatigue, or cold, or any other discomfort, his
tutor took measures accordingly.

Harry would have crept into the straw-house; but Hugh said, pulling
a book out of his pocket,

"I have a poem here for you, Harry.  I want to read it to you now;
and we can't see in there."

They threw themselves down on the straw, and Hugh, opening a volume
of Robert Browning's Poems, read the famous ride from Ghent to Aix.
He knew the poem well, and read it well.  Harry was in raptures.

"I wish I could read that as you do," said he.

"Try," said Hugh.

Harry tried the first verse, and threw the book down in disgust with
himself.

"Why cannot I read it?" said he.

"Because you can't ride."

"I could ride, if I had such a horse as that to ride upon."

"But you could never have such a horse as that except you could
ride, and ride well, first.  After that, there is no saying but you
might get one.  You might, in fact, train one for yourself--till
from being a little foal it became your own wonderful horse."

"Oh! that would be delightful!  Will you teach me horses as well,
Mr. Sutherland?"

"Perhaps I will."

That evening, at dinner, Hugh said to Mr. Arnold:

"Could you let me have a horse to-morrow morning, Mr. Arnold?"

Mr. Arnold stared a little, as he always did at anything new.  But
Hugh went on:

"Harry and I want to have a ride to-morrow; and I expect we shall
like it so much, that we shall want to ride very often."

"Yes, that we shall!" cried Harry.

"Could not Mr. Sutherland have your white mare, Euphra?" said Mr.
Arnold, reconciled at once to the proposal.

"I would rather not, if you don't mind, uncle.  My Fatty is not used
to such a burden as I fear Mr. Sutherland would prove.  She drops a
little now, on the hard road."

The fact was, Euphra would want Fatima.

"Well, Harry," said Mr. Arnold, graciously pleased to be facetious,
"don't you think your Welsh dray-horse could carry Mr. Sutherland?"

"Ha! ha! ha!  Papa, do you know, Mr. Sutherland set him up on his
hind legs yesterday, and made him walk on them like a dancing-dog.
He was going to lift him, but he kicked about so when he felt
himself leaving the ground, that he tumbled Mr. Sutherland into the
horse-trough."

Even the solemn face of the butler relaxed into a smile, but Mr.
Arnold's clouded instead.  His boy's tutor ought to be a gentleman.

"Wasn't it fun, Mr. Sutherland?"

"It was to you, you little rogue!" said Sutherland, laughing.

"And how you did run home, dripping like a water-cart!--and all the
dogs after you!"

Mr. Arnold's monotonous solemnity soon checked Harry's prattle.

"I will see, Mr. Sutherland, what I can do to mount you."

"I don't care what it is," said Hugh; who though by no means a
thorough horseman, had been from boyhood in the habit of mounting
everything in the shape of a horse that he could lay hands upon,
from a cart-horse upwards and downwards.

"There's an old bay that would carry me very well."

"That is my own horse, Mr. Sutherland."

This stopped the conversation in that direction.  But next morning
after breakfast, an excellent chestnut horse was waiting at the
door, along with Harry's new pony.  Mr. Arnold would see them go
off.  This did not exactly suit Miss Cameron, but if she frowned, it
was when nobody saw her.  Hugh put Harry up himself, told him to
stick fast with his knees, and then mounted his chestnut.  As they
trotted slowly down the avenue, Euphrasia heard Mr. Arnold say to
himself, "The fellow sits well, at all events."  She took care to
make herself agreeable to Hugh by reporting this, with the omission
of the initiatory epithet, however.

Harry returned from his ride rather tired, but in high spirits.

"Oh, Euphra!" he cried, "Mr. Sutherland is such a rider!  He jumps
hedges and ditches and everything.  And he has promised to teach me
and my pony to jump too.  And if I am not too tired, we are to begin
to-morrow, out on the common.  Oh! jolly!"

The little fellow's heart was full of the sense of growing life and
strength, and Hugh was delighted with his own success.  He caught
sight of a serpentine motion in Euphra's eyebrows, as she bent her
face again over the work from which she had lifted it on their
entrance.  He addressed her.

"You will be glad to hear that Harry has ridden like a man."

"I am glad to hear it, Harry."

Why did she reply to the subject of the remark, and not to the
speaker?  Hugh perplexed himself in vain to answer this question;
but a very small amount of experience would have made him able to
understand at once as much of her behaviour as was genuine.  At
luncheon she spoke only in reply; and then so briefly, as not to
afford the smallest peg on which to hang a response.

"What can be the matter?" thought Hugh. "What a peculiar creature
she is!  But after what has passed between us, I can't stand this."

When dinner was over that evening, she rose as usual and left the
room, followed by Hugh and Harry; but as soon as they were in the
drawing-room, she left it; and, returning to the dining-room,
resumed her seat at the table.

"Take a glass of claret, Euphra, dear?" said Mr. Arnold.

"I will, if you please, uncle.  I should like it.  I have seldom a
minute with you alone now."

Evidently flattered, Mr. Arnold poured out a glass of claret, rose
and carried it to his niece himself, and then took a chair beside
her.

"Thank you, dear uncle," she said, with one of her bewitching
flashes of smile.

"Harry has been getting on bravely with his riding, has he not?" she
continued.

"So it would appear."

Harry had been full of the story of the day at the dinner-table,
where he still continued to present himself; for his father would
not be satisfied without hint.  It was certainly good moral training
for the boy, to sit there almost without eating; and none the worse
that he found it rather hard sometimes.  He talked much more freely
now, and asked the servants for anything he wanted without referring
to Euphra.  Now and then he would glance at her, as if afraid of
offending her; but the cords which bound him to her were evidently
relaxing; and she saw it plainly enough, though she made no
reference to the unpleasing fact.

"I am only a little fearful, uncle, lest Mr. Sutherland should urge
the boy to do more than his strength will admit of.  He is
exceedingly kind to him, but he has evidently never known what
weakness is himself."

"True, there is danger of that.  But you see he has taken him so
entirely into his own hands.  I don't seem to be allowed a word in
the matter of his education any more."  Mr. Arnold spoke with the
peevishness of weak importance. "I wish you would take care that he
does not carry things too far, Euphra."

This was just what Euphra wanted.

"I think, if you do not disapprove, uncle, I will have Fatima
saddled to-morrow morning, and go with them myself."

"Thank you, my love; I shall be much obliged to you."  The glass of
claret was soon finished after this.  A little more conversation
about nothing followed, and Euphra rose the second time, and
returned to the drawing-room.  She found it unoccupied.  She sat
down to the piano, and sang song after song--Scotch, Italian, and
Bohemian.  But Hugh did not make his appearance.  The fact was, he
was busy writing to his mother, whom he had rather neglected since
he came.  Writing to her made him think of David, and he began a
letter to him too; but it was never finished, and never sent.  He
did not return to the drawing-room that evening.  Indeed, except for
a short time, while Mr. Arnold was drinking his claret, he seldom
showed himself there.  Had Euphra repelled him too much--hurt him?
She would make up for it to-morrow.

Breakfast was scarcely over, when the chestnut and the pony passed
the window, accompanied by a lovely little Arab mare, broad-chested
and light-limbed, with a wonderfully small head.  She was white as
snow, with keen, dark eyes.  Her curb-rein was red instead of white.
Hearing their approach, and begging her uncle to excuse her, Euphra
rose from the table, and left the room; but re-appeared in a
wonderfully little while, in a well-fitted riding-habit of black
velvet, with a belt of dark red leather clasping a waist of the
roundest and smallest.  Her little hat, likewise black, had a single
long, white feather, laid horizontally within the upturned brim, and
drooping over it at the back.  Her white mare would be just the
right pedestal for the dusky figure--black eyes, tawny skin, and
all.  As she stood ready to mount, and Hugh was approaching to put
her up, she called the groom, seemed just to touch his hand, and was
in the saddle in a moment, foot in stirrup, and skirt falling over
it.  Hugh thought she was carrying out the behaviour of yesterday,
and was determined to ask her what it meant.  The little Arab began
to rear and plunge with pride, as soon as she felt her mistress on
her back; but she seemed as much at home as if she had been on the
music-stool, and patted her arching neck, talking to her in the same
tone almost in which she had addressed the flowers.

"Be quiet, Fatty dear; you're frightening Mr. Sutherland."

But Hugh, seeing the next moment that she was in no danger, sprang
into his saddle.  Away they went, Fatima infusing life and frolic
into the equine as Euphra into the human portion of the cavalcade.
Having reached the common, out of sight of the house, Miss Cameron,
instead of looking after Harry, lest he should have too much
exercise, scampered about like a wild girl, jumping everything that
came in her way, and so exciting Harry's pony, that it was almost
more than he could do to manage it, till at last Hugh had to beg her
to go more quietly, for Harry's sake.  She drew up alongside of them
at once, and made her mare stand as still as she could, while Harry
made his first essay upon a little ditch.  After crossing it two or
three times, he gathered courage; and setting his pony at a larger
one beyond, bounded across it beautifully.

"Bravo!  Harry!" cried both Euphra and Hugh. Harry galloped back,
and over it again; then came up to them with a glow of proud
confidence on his pale face.

"You'll be a horseman yet, Harry," said Hugh.

"I hope so," said Harry, in an aspiring tone, which greatly
satisfied his tutor.  The boy's spirit was evidently reviving.
Euphra must have managed him ill.  Yet she was not in the least
effeminate herself.  It puzzled Hugh a good deal.  But he did not
think about it long; for Harry cantering away in front, he had an
opportunity of saying to Euphra:

"Are you offended with me, Miss Cameron?"

"Offended with you!  What do you mean?  A girl like me offended with
a man like you?"

She looked two and twenty as she spoke; but even at that she was
older than Hugh. He, however, certainly looked considerably older
than he really was.

"What makes you think so?" she added, turning her face towards him.

"You would not speak to me when we came home yesterday."

"Not speak to you?--I had a little headache--and perhaps I was a
little sullen, from having been in such bad company all the
morning."

"What company had you?" asked Hugh, gazing at her in some surprise.

"My own," answered she, with a lovely laugh, thrown full in his
face.  Then after a pause: "Let me advise you, if you want to live
in peace, not to embark on that ocean of discovery."

"What ocean? what discovery?" asked Hugh, bewildered, and still
gazing.

"The troubled ocean of ladies' looks," she replied. "You will never
be able to live in the same house with one of our kind, if it be
necessary to your peace to find out what every expression that
puzzles you may mean."

"I did not intend to be inquisitive--it really troubled me."

"There it is.  You must never mind us.  We show so much sooner than
men--but, take warning, there is no making out what it is we do
show.  Your faces are legible; ours are so scratched and interlined,
that you had best give up at once the idea of deciphering them."

Hugh could not help looking once more at the smooth, simple, naïve
countenance shining upon him.

"There you are at it again," she said, blushing a little, and
turning her head away. "Well, to comfort you, I will confess I was
rather cross yesterday--because--because you seemed to have been
quite happy with only one of your pupils."

As she spoke the words, she gave Fatima the rein, and bounded off,
overtaking Harry's pony in a moment.  Nor did she leave her cousin
during all the rest of their ride.

Most women in whom the soul has anything like a chance of reaching
the windows, are more or less beautiful in their best moments.
Euphra's best was when she was trying to fascinate.  Then she
was--fascinating.  During the first morning that Hugh spent at
Arnstead, she had probably been making up her mind whether, between
her and Hugh, it was to be war to the knife, or fascination.  The
latter had carried the day, and was now carrying him.  But had she
calculated that fascination may re-act as well?

Hugh's heart bounded, like her Arab steed, as she uttered the words
last recorded.  He gave his chestnut the rein in his turn, to
overtake her; but Fatima's canter quickened into a gallop, and,
inspirited by her companionship, and the fact that their heads were
turned stablewards, Harry's pony, one of the quickest of its race,
laid itself to the ground, and kept up, taking three strides for
Fatty's two, so that Hugh never got within three lengths of them
till they drew rein at the hall-door, where the grooms were waiting
them.  Euphra was off her mare in a moment, and had almost reached
her own room before Hugh and Harry had crossed the hall.  She came
down to luncheon in a white muslin dress, with the smallest possible
red spot in it; and, taking her place at the table, seemed to Hugh
to have put off not only her riding habit, but the self that was in
it as well; for she chatted away in the most unconcerned and easy
manner possible, as if she had not been out of her room all the
morning.  She had ridden so hard, that she had left her last speech
in the middle of the common, and its mood with it; and there seemed
now no likelihood of either finding its way home.




CHAPTER VII.

THE PICTURE GALLERY.

     the house is crencled to and fro,
And hath so queint waies for to go,
For it is shapen as the mase is wrought.

CHAUCER--Legend of Ariadne.


Luncheon over, and Harry dismissed as usual to lie down, Miss
Cameron said to Hugh:

"You have never been over the old house yet, I believe, Mr.
Sutherland.  Would you not like to see it?"

"I should indeed," said Hugh. "It is what I have long hoped for, and
have often been on the point of begging."

"Come, then; I will be your guide--if you will trust yourself with a
madcap like me, in the solitudes of the old hive."

"Lead on to the family vaults, if you will," said Hugh.

"That might be possible, too, from below.  We are not so very far
from them.  Even within the house there is an old chapel, and some
monuments worth looking at.  Shall we take it last?"

"As you think best," answered Hugh.

She rose and rang the bell.  When it was answered,

"Jacob," she said, "get me the keys of the house from Mrs. Horton."

Jacob vanished, and reappeared with a huge bunch of keys.  She took
them.

"Thank you.  They should not be allowed to get quite rusty, Jacob."

"Please, Miss, Mrs. Horton desired me to say, she would have seen to
them, if she had known you wanted them."

"Oh! never mind.  Just tell my maid to bring me an old pair of
gloves."

Jacob went; and the maid came with the required armour.

"Now, Mr. Sutherland.  Jane, you will come with us.  No, you need
not take the keys.  I will find those I want as we go."

She unlocked a door in the corner of the hall, which Hugh had never
seen open.  Passing through a long low passage, they came to a
spiral staircase of stone, up which they went, arriving at another
wide hall, very dusty, but in perfect repair.  Hugh asked if there
was not some communication between this hall and the great oak
staircase.

"Yes," answered Euphra; "but this is the more direct way."

As she said this, he felt somehow as if she cast on him one of her
keenest glances; but the place was very dusky, and he stood in a
spot where the light fell upon him from an opening in a shutter,
while she stood in deep shadow.

"Jane, open that shutter."

The girl obeyed; and the entering light revealed the walls covered
with paintings, many of them apparently of no value, yet adding much
to the effect of the place.  Seeing that Hugh was at once attracted
by the pictures, Euphra said:

"Perhaps you would like to see the picture gallery first?"

Hugh assented.  Euphra chose key after key, and opened door after
door, till they came into a long gallery, well lighted from each
end.  The windows were soon opened.

"Mr. Arnold is very proud of his pictures, especially of his family
portraits; but he is content with knowing he has them, and never
visits them except to show them; or perhaps once or twice a year,
when something or other keeps him at home for a day, without
anything particular to do."

In glancing over the portraits, some of them by famous masters,
Hugh's eyes were arrested by a blonde beauty in the dress of the
time of Charles II.  There was such a reality of self-willed
boldness as well as something worse in her face, that, though
arrested by the picture, Hugh felt ashamed of looking at it in the
presence of Euphra and her maid.  The pictured woman almost put him
out of countenance, and yet at the same time fascinated him.
Dragging his eyes from it, he saw that Jane had turned her back
upon it, while Euphra regarded it steadily.

"Open that opposite window, Jane," said she; "there is not light
enough on this portrait."

Jane obeyed.  While she did so, Hugh caught a glimpse of her face,
and saw that the formerly rosy girl was deadly pale.  He said to
Euphra:

"Your maid seems ill, Miss Cameron."

"Jane, what is the matter with you?"

She did not reply, but, leaning against the wall, seemed ready to
faint.

"The place is close," said her mistress. "Go into the next room
there,"--she pointed to a door--"and open the window.  You will soon
be well."

"If you please, Miss, I would rather stay with you.  This place
makes me feel that strange."

She had come but lately, and had never been over the house before.

"Nonsense!" said Miss Cameron, looking at her sharply. "What do you
mean?"

"Please, don't be angry, Miss; but the first night e'er I slept
here, I saw that very lady--"

"Saw that lady!"

"Well, Miss, I mean, I dreamed that I saw her; and I remembered her
the minute I see her up there; and she give me a turn like.  I'm all
right now, Miss."

Euphra fixed her eyes on her, and kept them fixed, till she was very
nearly all wrong again.  She turned as pale as before, and began to
draw her breath hard.

"You silly goose!" said Euphra, and withdrew her eyes; upon which
the girl began to breathe more freely.

Hugh was making some wise remarks in his own mind on the unsteady
condition of a nature in which the imagination predominates over the
powers of reflection, when Euphra turned to him, and began to tell
him that that was the picture of her three or four times
great-grandmother, painted by Sir Peter Lely, just after she was
married.

"Isn't she fair?" said she.--"She turned nun at last, they say."

"She is more fair than honest," thought Hugh. "It would take a great
deal of nun to make her into a saint."  But he only said, "She is
more beautiful than lovely.  What was her name?"

"If you mean her maiden name, it was Halkar--Lady Euphrasia
Halkar--named after me, you see.  She had foreign blood in her, of
course; and, to tell the truth, there were strange stories told of
her, of more sorts than one.  I know nothing of her family.  It was
never heard of in England, I believe, till after the Restoration."

All the time Euphra was speaking, Hugh was being perplexed with that
most annoying of perplexities--the flitting phantom of a
resemblance, which he could not catch.  He was forced to dismiss it
for the present, utterly baffled.

"Were you really named after her, Miss Cameron?"

"No, no.  It is a family name with us.  But, indeed, I may be said
to be named after her, for she was the first of us who bore it.  You
don't seem to like the portrait."

"I do not; but I cannot help looking at it, for all that."

"I am so used to the lady's face," said Euphra, "that it makes no
impression on me of any sort.  But it is said," she added, glancing
at the maid, who stood at some distance, looking uneasily about
her--and as she spoke she lowered her voice to a whisper--"it is
said, she cannot lie still."

"Cannot lie still!  What do you mean?"

"I mean down there in the chapel," she answered, pointing.

The Celtic nerves of Hugh shuddered.  Euphra laughed; and her voice
echoed in silvery billows, that broke on the faces of the men and
women of old time, that had owned the whole; whose lives had flowed
and ebbed in varied tides through the ancient house; who had married
and been given in marriage; and gone down to the chapel below--below
the prayers and below the psalms--and made a Sunday of all the week.

Ashamed of his feeling of passing dismay, Hugh said, just to say
something:

"What a strange ornament that is!  Is it a brooch or a pin?  No, I
declare it is a ring--large enough for three cardinals, and worn on
her thumb.  It seems almost to sparkle.  Is it ruby, or carbuncle,
or what?"

"I don't know: some clumsy old thing," answered Euphra, carelessly.

"Oh!  I see," said Hugh; "it is not a red stone.  The glow is only a
reflection from part of her dress.  It is as clear as a diamond.
But that is impossible--such a size.  There seems to me something
curious about it; and the longer I look at it, the more strange it
appears."

Euphra stole another of her piercing glances at him, but said
nothing.

"Surely," Hugh went on, "a ring like that would hardly be likely to
be lost out of the family?  Your uncle must have it somewhere."

Euphra laughed; but this laugh was very different from the last.  It
rattled rather than rang.

"You are wonderfully taken with a bauble--for a man of letters, that
is, Mr. Sutherland.  The stone may have been carried down any one of
the hundred streams into which a family river is always dividing."

"It is a very remarkable ornament for a lady's finger,
notwithstanding," said Hugh, smiling in his turn.

"But we shall never get through the pictures at this rate," remarked
Euphra; and going on, she directed Hugh's attention now to this, now
to that portrait, saying who each was, and mentioning anything
remarkable in the history of their originals.  She manifested a
thorough acquaintance with the family story, and made, in fact, an
excellent show-woman.  Having gone nearly to the other end of the
gallery,

"This door," said she, stopping at one, and turning over the keys,
"leads to one of the oldest portions of the house, the principal
room in which is said to have belonged especially to the lady over
there."

As she said this, she fixed her eyes once more on the maid.

"Oh! don't ye now, Miss," interrupted Jane. "Hannah du say as how a
whitey-blue light shines in the window of a dark night,
sometimes--that lady's window, you know, Miss. Don't ye open the
door--pray, Miss."

Jane seemed on the point of falling into the same terror as before.

"Really, Jane," said her mistress, "I am ashamed of you; and of
myself, for having such silly servants about me."

"I beg your pardon, Miss, but--"

"So Mr. Sutherland and I must give up our plan of going over the
house, because my maid's nerves are too delicate to permit her to
accompany us.  For shame!"

"Oh, du ye now go without me!" cried the girl, clasping her hands.

"And you will wait here till we come back?"

"Oh! don't ye leave me here.  Just show me the way out."

And once more she turned pale as death.

"Mr. Sutherland, I am very sorry, but we must put off the rest of
our ramble till another time.  I am, like Hamlet, very vilely
attended, as you see.  Come, then, you foolish girl," she added,
more mildly.

The poor maid, what with terror of Lady Euphrasia, and respect for
her mistress, was in a pitiable condition of moral helplessness.
She seemed almost too frightened to walk behind them.  But if she
had been in front it would have been no better; for, like other
ghost-fearers, she seemed to feel very painfully that she had no
eyes in her back.

They returned as they came; and Jane receiving the keys to take to
the housekeeper, darted away.  When she reached Mrs. Horton's room,
she sank on a chair in hysterics.

"I must get rid of that girl, I fear," said Miss Cameron, leading
the way to the library; "she will infect the whole household with
her foolish terrors.  We shall not hear the last of this for some
time to come.  We had a fit of it the same year I came; and I
suppose the time has come round for another attack of the same
epidemic."

"What is there about the room to terrify the poor thing?"

"Oh! they say it is haunted; that is all.  Was there ever an old
house anywhere over Europe, especially an old family house, but was
said to be haunted?  Here the story centres in that room--or at
least in that room and the avenue in front of its windows."

"Is that the avenue called the Ghost's Walk?"

"Yes. Who told you?"

"Harry would not let me cross it."

"Poor boy!  This is really too bad.  He cannot stand anything of
that kind, I am sure.  Those servants!"

"Oh!  I hope we shall soon get him too well to be frightened at
anything.  Are these places said to be haunted by any particular
ghost?"

"Yes. By Lady Euphrasia--Rubbish!"

Had Hugh possessed a yet keener perception of resemblance, he would
have seen that the phantom-likeness which haunted him in the
portrait of Euphrasia Halkar, was that of Euphrasia Cameron--by his
side all the time.  But the mere difference of complexion was
sufficient to throw him out--insignificant difference as that is,
beside the correspondence of features and their relations.  Euphra
herself was perfectly aware of the likeness, but had no wish that
Hugh should discover it.

As if the likeness, however, had been dimly identified by the
unconscious part of his being, he sat in one corner of the library
sofa, with his eyes fixed on the face of Euphra, as she sat in the
other.  Presently he was made aware of his unintentional rudeness,
by seeing her turn pale as death, and sink back in the sofa.  In a
moment she started up, and began pacing about the room, rubbing her
eyes and temples.  He was bewildered and alarmed.

"Miss Cameron, are you ill?" he exclaimed.

She gave a kind of half-hysterical laugh, and said:

"No--nothing worth speaking of.  I felt a little faint, that was
all.  I am better now."

She turned full towards him, and seemed to try to look all right;
but there was a kind of film over the clearness of her black eyes.

"I fear you have headache."

"A little, but it is nothing.  I will go and lie down."

"Do, pray; else you will not be well enough to appear at dinner."

She retired, and Hugh joined Hairy.

Euphra had another glass of claret with her uncle that evening, in
order to give her report of the morning's ride.

"Really, there is not much to be afraid of, uncle.  He takes very
good care of Harry.  To be sure, I had occasion several times to
check him a little; but he has this good quality in addition to a
considerable aptitude for teaching, that he perceives a hint, and
takes it at once."

Knowing her uncle's formality, and preference for precise and
judicial modes of expression, Euphra modelled her phrase to his
mind.

"I am glad he has your good opinion so far, Euphra; for I confess
there is something about the youth that pleases me.  I was afraid at
first that I might be annoyed by his overstepping the true
boundaries of his position in my family: he seems to have been in
good society, too.  But your assurance that he can take a hint,
lessens my apprehension considerably.  To-morrow, I will ask him to
resume his seat after dessert."

This was not exactly the object of Euphra's qualified commendation
of Hugh. But she could not help it now.

"I think, however, if you approve, uncle, that it will be more
prudent to keep a little watch over the riding for a while.  I
confess, too, I should be glad of a little more of that exercise
than I have had for some time: I found my seat not very secure
to-day."

"Very desirable on both considerations, my love."

And so the conference ended.




CHAPTER VIII.

NEST-BUILDING.

If you will have a tree bear more fruit than it hath used to do, it
is not anything you can do to the boughs, but it is the stirring of
the earth, and putting new mould about the roots, that must work it.

LORD BACON'S Advancement of Learning, b. ii.


In a short time Harry's health was so much improved, and
consequently the strength and activity of his mind so much
increased, that Hugh began to give him more exact mental operations
to perform.  But as if he had been a reader of Lord Bacon, which as
yet he was not, and had learned from him that "wonder is the seed of
knowledge," he came, by a kind of sympathetic instinct, to the same
conclusion practically, in the case of Harry.  He tried to wake a
question in him, by showing him something that would rouse his
interest.  The reply to this question might be the whole rudiments
of a science.

Things themselves should lead to the science of them.  If things are
not interesting in themselves, how can any amount of knowledge about
them be?  To be sure, there is such a thing as a purely or
abstractly intellectual interest--the pleasure of the mere operation
of the intellect upon the signs of things; but this must spring from
a highly exercised intellectual condition, and is not to be expected
before the pleasures of intellectual motion have been experienced
through the employment of its means for other ends.  Whether this is
a higher condition or not, is open to much disquisition.

One day Hugh was purposely engaged in taking the altitude of the
highest turret of the house, with an old quadrant he had found in
the library, when Harry came up.

"What are you doing, big brother?" said he; for now that he was
quite at home with Hugh, there was a wonderful mixture of
familiarity and respect in him, that was quite bewitching.

"Finding out how high your house is, little brother," answered Hugh.

"How can you do it with that thing?  Will it measure the height of
other things besides the house?"

"Yes, the height of a mountain, or anything you like."

"Do show me how."

Hugh showed him as much of it as he could.

"But I don't understand it."

"Oh! that is quite another thing.  To do that, you must learn a
great many things--Euclid to begin with."

That very afternoon Harry began Euclid, and soon found quite enough
of interest on the road to the quadrant, to prevent him from feeling
any tediousness in its length.

Of an afternoon Hugh had taken to reading Shakspere to Harry.
Euphra was always a listener.  On one occasion Harry said:

"I am so sorry, Mr. Sutherland, but I don't understand the half of
it.  Sometimes when Euphra and you are laughing,--and sometimes when
Euphra is crying," added he, looking at her slyly, "I can't
understand what it is all about.  Am I so very stupid, Mr.
Sutherland?"  And he almost cried himself.

"Not a bit of it, Harry, my boy; only you must learn a great many
other things first."

"How can I learn them?  I am willing to learn anything.  I don't
find it tire me now as it used."

cannot teach you, and that some people never learn.  Most of them
will come of themselves.  But of one thing you may be sure, Harry,
that if you learn anything, whatever it be, you are so far nearer to
understanding Shakspere."

The same afternoon, when Harry had waked from his siesta, upon which
Hugh still insisted, they went out for a walk in the fields.  The
sun was half way down the sky, but very hot and sultry.

"I wish we had our cave of straw to creep into now," said Harry. "I
felt exactly like the little field-mouse you read to me about in
Burns's poems, when we went in that morning, and found it all torn
up, and half of it carried away.  We have no place to go to now for
a peculiar own place; and the consequence is, you have not told me
any stories about the Romans for a whole week."

"Well, Harry, is there any way of making another?"

"There's no more straw lying about that I know of," answered Harry;
"and it won't do to pull the inside out of a rick, I am afraid."

"But don't you think it would be pleasant to have a change now; and
as we have lived underground, or say in the snow like the North
people, try living in the air, like some of the South people?"

"Delightful!" cried Harry.--"A balloon?"

"No, not quite that.  Don't you think a nest would do?"

"Up in a tree?"

"Yes."

Harry darted off for a run, as the only means of expressing his
delight.  When he came back, he said:

"When shall we begin, Mr. Sutherland?"

"We will go and look for a place at once; but I am not quite sure
when we shall begin yet.  I shall find out to-night, though."

They left the fields, and went into the woods in the neighbourhood
of the house, at the back.  Here the trees had grown to a great
size, some of them being very old indeed.  They soon fixed upon a
grotesque old oak as a proper tree in which to build their nest; and
Harry, who, as well as Hugh, had a good deal of constructiveness in
his nature, was so delighted, that the heat seemed to have no more
influence upon him; and Hugh, fearful of the reaction, was compelled
to restrain his gambols.

Pursuing their way through the dark warp of the wood, with its
golden weft of crossing sunbeams, Hugh began to tell Harry the story
of the killing of Cæsar by Brutus and the rest, filling up the
account with portions from Shakspere.  Fortunately, he was able to
give the orations of Brutus and Antony in full.  Harry was in
ecstasy over the eloquence of the two men.

"Well, what language do you think they spoke, Harry?" said Hugh.

"Why," said Harry, hesitating, "I suppose--" then, as if a sudden
light broke upon him--"Latin of course.  How strange!"

"Why strange?"

"That such men should talk such a dry, unpleasant language."

"I allow it is a difficult language, Harry; and very ponderous and
mechanical; but not necessarily dry or unpleasant.  The Romans, you
know, were particularly fond of law in everything; and so they made
a great many laws for their language; or rather, it grew so, because
they were of that sort.  It was like their swords and armour
generally, not very graceful, but very strong;--like their
architecture too, Harry.  Nobody can ever understand what a people
is, without knowing its language.  It is not only that we find all
these stories about them in their language, but the language itself
is more like them than anything else can be.  Besides, Harry, I
don't believe you know anything about Latin yet."

"I know all the declensions and conjugations."

"But don't you think it must have been a very different thing to
hear it spoken?"

"Yes, to be sure--and by such men.  But how ever could they speak
it?"

"They spoke it just as you do English.  It was as natural to them.
But you cannot say you know anything about it, till you read what
they wrote in it; till your ears delight in the sound of their
poetry;--"

"Poetry?"

"Yes; and beautiful letters; and wise lessons; and histories and
plays."

"Oh!  I should like you to teach me.  Will it be as hard to learn
always as it is now?"

"Certainly not.  I am sure you will like it."

"When will you begin me?"

"To-morrow.  And if you get on pretty well, we will begin our nest,
too, in the afternoon."

"Oh, how kind you are!  I will try very hard."

"I am sure you will, Harry."

Next morning, accordingly, Hugh did begin him, after a fashion of
his own; namely, by giving him a short simple story to read, finding
out all the words with him in the dictionary, and telling him what
the terminations of the words signified; for he found that he had
already forgotten a very great deal of what, according to Euphra, he
had been thoroughly taught.  No one can remember what is entirely
uninteresting to him.

Hugh was as precise about the grammar of a language as any Scotch
Professor of Humanity, old Prosody not excepted; but he thought it
time enough to begin to that, when some interest in the words
themselves should have been awakened in the mind of his pupil.  He
hated slovenliness as much as any one; but the question was, how
best to arrive at thoroughness in the end, without losing the higher
objects of study; and not how, at all risks, to commence teaching
the lesson of thoroughness at once, and so waste on the shape of a
pin-head the intellect which, properly directed, might arrive at the
far more minute accuracies of a steam-engine.  The fault of Euphra
in teaching Harry, had been that, with a certain kind of tyrannical
accuracy, she had determined to have the thing done--not merely
decently and in order, but prudishly and pedantically; so that she
deprived progress of the pleasure which ought naturally to attend
it.  She spoiled the walk to the distant outlook, by stopping at
every step, not merely to pick flowers, but to botanise on the
weeds, and to calculate the distance advanced.  It is quite true
that we ought to learn to do things irrespective of the reward; but
plenty of opportunities will be given in the progress of life, and
in much higher kinds of action, to exercise our sense of duty in
severe loneliness.  We have no right to turn intellectual exercises
into pure operations of conscience: these ought to involve essential
duty; although no doubt there is plenty of room for mingling duty
with those; while, on the other hand, the highest act of suffering
self-denial is not without its accompanying reward.  Neither is
there any exercise of the higher intellectual powers in learning the
mere grammar of a language, necessary as it is for a means.  And
language having been made before grammar, a language must be in some
measure understood, before its grammar can become intelligible.

Harry's weak (though true and keen) life could not force its way
into any channel.  His was a nature essentially dependent on
sympathy.  It could flow into truth through another loving mind:
left to itself, it could not find the way, and sank in the dry sand
of ennui and self-imposed obligations.  Euphra was utterly incapable
of understanding him; and the boy had been dying for lack of
sympathy, though neither he nor any one about him had suspected the
fact.

There was a strange disproportion between his knowledge and his
capacity.  He was able, when his attention was directed, his gaze
fixed, and his whole nature supported by Hugh, to see deep into many
things, and his remarks were often strikingly original; but he was
one of the most ignorant boys, for his years, that Hugh had ever
come across.  A long and severe illness, when he was just passing
into boyhood, had thrown him back far into his childhood; and he was
only now beginning to show that he had anything of the boy-life in
him.  Hence arose that unequal development which has been
sufficiently evident in the story.

In the afternoon, they went to the wood, and found the tree they had
chosen for their nest.  To Harry's intense admiration, Hugh, as he
said, went up the tree like a squirrel, only he was too big for a
bear even.  Just one layer of foliage above the lowest branches, he
came to a place where he thought there was a suitable foundation for
the nest.  From the ground Harry could scarcely see him, as, with an
axe which he had borrowed for the purpose (for there was a
carpenter's work-shop on the premises), he cut away several small
branches from three of the principal ones; and so had these three as
rafters, ready dressed and placed, for the foundation of the nest.
Having made some measurements, he descended; and repairing with
Harry to the work-shop, procured some boarding and some tools, which
Harry assisted in carrying to the tree.  Ascending again, and
drawing up his materials, by the help of Harry, with a piece of
string, Hugh in a very little while had a level floor, four feet
square, in the heart of the oak tree, quite invisible from
below--buried in a cloud of green leaves.  For greater safety, he
fastened ropes as handrails all around it from one branch to
another.  And now nothing remained but to construct a bench to sit
on, and such a stair as Harry could easily climb.  The boy was quite
restless with anxiety to get up and see the nest; and kept calling
out constantly to know if he might not come up yet.  At length Hugh
allowed him to try; but the poor boy was not half strong enough to
climb the tree without help.  So Hugh descended, and with his aid
Harry was soon standing on the new-built platform.

"I feel just like an eagle," he cried; but here his voice faltered,
and he was silent.

"What is the matter, Harry?" said his tutor.

"Oh, nothing," replied he; "only I didn't exactly know whereabouts
we were till I got up here."

"Whereabouts are we, then?"

"Close to the end of the Ghost's Walk."

"But you don't mind that now, surely, Harry?"

"No, sir; that is, not so much as I used."

"Shall I take all this down again, and build our nest somewhere
else?"

"Oh, no, if you don't think it matters.  It would be a great pity,
after you have taken so much trouble with it.  Besides, I shall
never be here without you; and I do not think I should be afraid of
the ghost herself, if you were with me."

Yet Harry shuddered involuntarily at the thought of his own daring
speech.

"Very well, Harry, my boy; we will finish it here.  Now, if you
stand there, I will fasten a plank across here between these two
stumps--no, that won't do exactly.  I must put a piece on to this
one, to raise it to a level with the other--then we shall have a
seat in a few minutes."

Hammer and nails were busy again; and in a few minutes they sat down
to enjoy the "soft pipling cold" which swung all the leaves about
like little trap-doors that opened into the Infinite.  Harry was
highly contented.  He drew a deep breath of satisfaction as, looking
above and beneath and all about him, he saw that they were folded in
an almost impenetrable net of foliage, through which nothing could
steal into their sanctuary, save "the chartered libertine, the air,"
and a few stray beams of the setting sun, filtering through the
multitudinous leaves, from which they caught a green tint as they
passed.

"Fancy yourself a fish," said Hugh, "in the depth of a cavern of sea
weed, which floats about in the slow swinging motion of the heavy
waters."

"What a funny notion!"

"Not so absurd as you may think, Harry; for just as some fishes
crawl about on the bottom of the sea, so do we men at the bottom of
an ocean of air; which, if it be a thinner one, is certainly a
deeper one."

"Then the birds are the swimming fishes, are they not?"

"Yes, to be sure."

"And you and I are two mermen--doing what?  Waiting for mother
mermaid to give us our dinner.  I am getting hungry.  But it will be
a long time before a mermaid gets up here, I am afraid."

"That reminds me," said Hugh, "that I must build a stair for you,
Master Harry; for you are not merman enough to get up with a stroke
of your scaly tail.  So here goes.  You can sit there till I fetch
you."

Nailing a little rude bracket here and there on the stem of the
tree, just where Harry could avail himself of hand-hold as well,
Hugh had soon finished a strangely irregular staircase, which it
took Harry two or three times trying, to learn quite off.




CHAPTER IX.

GEOGRAPHY POINT.

I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the farthest inch of Asia;
bring you the length of Prester John's foot; fetch you a hair off
the great Cham's beard; do you any embassage to the Pigmies.

Much Ado about Nothing.


The next day, after dinner, Mr. Arnold said to the tutor:

"Well, Mr. Sutherland, how does Harry get on with his geography?"

Mr. Arnold, be it understood, had a weakness for geography.

"We have not done anything at that yet, Mr. Arnold."

"Not done anything at geography!  And the boy getting quite robust
now!  I am astonished, Mr. Sutherland.  Why, when he was a mere
child, he could repeat all the counties of England."

"Perhaps that may be the reason for the decided distaste he shows
for it now, Mr. Arnold.  But I will begin to teach him at once, if
you desire it."

"I do desire it, Mr. Sutherland.  A thorough geographical knowledge
is essential to the education of a gentleman.  Ask me any question
you please, Mr. Sutherland, on the map of the world, or any of its
divisions."

Hugh asked a few questions, which Mr. Arnold answered at once.

"Pooh! pooh!" said he, "this is mere child's play.  Let me ask you
some, Mr. Sutherland."

His very first question posed Hugh, whose knowledge in this science
was not by any means minute.

"I fear I am no gentleman," said he, laughing; "but I can at least
learn as well as teach.  We shall begin to-morrow."

"What books have you?"

"Oh! no books, if you please, just yet.  If you are satisfied with
Harry's progress so far, let me have my own way in this too."

"But geography does not seem your strong point."

"No; but I may be able to teach it all the better from feeling the
difficulties of a learner myself."

"Well, you shall have a fair trial."

Next morning Hugh and Harry went out for a walk to the top of a hill
in the neighbourhood.  When they reached it, Hugh took a small
compass from his pocket, and set it on the ground, contemplating it
and the horizon alternately.

"What are you doing, Mr. Sutherland?"

"I am trying to find the exact line that would go through my home,"
said he.

"Is that funny little thing able to tell you?"

"Yes; this along with other things.  Isn't it curious, Harry, to
have in my pocket a little thing with a kind of spirit in it, that
understands the spirit that is in the big world, and always points
to its North Pole?"

"Explain it to me."

"It is nearly as much a mystery to me as to you."

"Where is the North Pole?"

"Look, the little thing points to it."

"But I will turn it away.  Oh! it won't go.  It goes back and back,
do what I will."

"Yes, it will, if you turn it away all day long.  Look, Harry, if
you were to go straight on in this direction, you would come to a
Laplander, harnessing his broad-horned reindeer to his sledge.  He's
at it now, I daresay.  If you were to go in this line exactly, you
would go through the smoke and fire of a burning mountain in a land
of ice.  If you were to go this way, straight on, you would find
yourself in the middle of a forest with a lion glaring at your feet,
for it is dark night there now, and so hot!  And over there,
straight on, there is such a lovely sunset.  The top of a snowy
mountain is all pink with light, though the sun is down--oh! such
colours all about, like fairyland!  And there, there is a desert of
sand, and a camel dying, and all his companions just disappearing on
the horizon.  And there, there is an awful sea, without a boat to be
seen on it, dark and dismal, with huge rocks all about it, and waste
borders of sand--so dreadful!"

"How do you know all this, Mr. Sutherland?  You have never walked
along those lines, I know, for you couldn't."

"Geography has taught me."

"No, Mr. Sutherland!" said Harry, incredulously.
"Well, shall we travel along this line, just across that crown of
trees on the hill?"

"Yes, do let us."

"Then," said Hugh, drawing a telescope from his pocket, "this hill
is henceforth Geography Point, and all the world lies round about
it.  Do you know we are in the very middle of the earth?"

"Are we, indeed?"

"Yes. Don't you know any point you like to choose on a ball is the
middle of it?"

"Oh! yes--of course."

"Very well.  What lies at the bottom of the hill down there?"

"Arnstead, to be sure."

"And what beyond there?"

"I don't know."

"Look through here."

"Oh! that must be the village we rode to yesterday--I forget the
name of it."

Hugh told him the name; and then made him look with the telescope
all along the receding line to the trees on the opposite hill.  Just
as he caught them, a voice beside them said:

"What are you about, Harry?"

Hugh felt a glow of pleasure as the voice fell on his ear.

It was Euphra's.

"Oh!" replied Harry, "Mr. Sutherland is teaching me geography with a
telescope.  It's such fun!"

"He's a wonderful tutor, that of yours, Harry!"

"Yes, isn't he just?  But," Harry went on, turning to Hugh, "what
are we to do now?  We can't get farther for that hill."

"Ah! we must apply to your papa now, to lend us some of his
beautiful maps.  They will teach us what lies beyond that hill.  And
then we can read in some of his books about the places; and so go on
and on, till we reach the beautiful, wide, restless sea; over which
we must sail in spite of wind and tide--straight on and on, till we
come to land again.  But we must make a great many such journeys
before we really know what sort of a place we are living in; and we
shall have ever so many things to learn that will surprise us."

"Oh! it will be nice!" cried Harry.

After a little more geographical talk, they put up their
instruments, and began to descend the hill.  Harry was in no need of
Hugh's back now, but Euphra was in need of his hand.  In fact, she
spelled for its support.

"How awkward of me!  I am stumbling over the heather shamefully!"

She was, in fact, stumbling over her own dress, which she would not
hold up.  Hugh offered his hand; and her small one seemed quite
content to be swallowed up in his large one.

"Why do you never let me put you on your horse?" said Hugh. "You
always manage to prevent me somehow or other.  The last time, I just
turned my head, and, behold! when I looked, you were gathering your
reins."

"It is only a trick of independence, Hugh--Mr. Sutherland--I beg
your pardon."

I can make no excuse for Euphra, for she had positively never heard
him called Hugh: there was no one to do so.  But, the slip had not,
therefore, the less effect; for it sounded as if she had been saying
his name over and over again to herself.

"I beg your pardon," repeated Euphra, hastily; for, as Hugh did not
reply, she feared her arrow had swerved from its mark.

"For a sweet fault, Euphra--I beg your pardon--Miss Cameron."

"You punish me with forgiveness," returned she, with one of her
sweetest looks.

Hugh could not help pressing the little hand.

Was the pressure returned?  So slight, so airy was the touch, that
it might have been only the throb of his own pulses, all consciously
vital about the wonderful woman-hand that rested in his.  If he had
claimed it, she might easily have denied it, so ethereal and
uncertain was it.  Yet he believed in it.  He never dreamed that she
was exercising her skill upon him.  What could be her object in
bewitching a poor tutor?  Ah! what indeed?

Meantime this much is certain, that she was drawing Hugh closer and
closer to her side; that a soothing dream of delight had begun to
steal over his spirit, soon to make it toss in feverous unrest--as
the first effects of some poisons are like a dawn of tenfold
strength.  The mountain wind blew from her to him, sometimes
sweeping her garments about him, and bathing him in their faint
sweet odours--odours which somehow seemed to belong to her whom they
had only last visited; sometimes, so kindly strong did it blow,
compelling her, or at least giving her excuse enough, to leave his
hand and cling closely to his arm.  A fresh spring began to burst
from the very bosom of what had seemed before a perfect summer.  A
spring to summer!  What would the following summer be?  Ah! and what
the autumn?  And what the winter?  For if the summer be tenfold
summer, then must the winter be tenfold winter.

But though knowledge is good for man, foreknowledge is not so good.

And, though Love be good, a tempest of it in the brain will not
ripen the fruits like a soft steady wind, or waft the ships home to
their desired haven.

Perhaps, what enslaved Hugh most, was the feeling that the damsel
stooped to him, without knowing that she stooped.  She seemed to him
in every way above him.  She knew so many things of which he was
ignorant; could say such lovely things; could, he did not doubt,
write lovely verses; could sing like an angel; (though Scotch songs
are not of essentially angelic strain, nor Italian songs either, in
general; and they were all that she could do); was mistress of a
great rich wonderful house, with a history; and, more than all, was,
or appeared to him to be--a beautiful woman.  It was true that his
family was as good as hers; but he had disowned his family--so his
pride declared; and the same pride made him despise his present
position, and look upon a tutor's employment as--as--well, as other
people look upon it; as a rather contemptible one in fact,
especially for a young, powerful, six-foot fellow.

The influence of Euphrasia was not of the best upon him from the
first; for it had greatly increased this feeling about his
occupation.  It could not affect his feelings towards Harry; so the
boy did not suffer as yet.  But it set him upon a very unprofitable
kind of castle-building: he would be a soldier like his father; he
would leave Arnstead, to revisit it with a sword by his side, and a
Sir before his name.  Sir Hugh Sutherland would be somebody even in
the eyes of the master of Arnstead.  Yes, a six-foot fellow, though
he may be sensible in the main, is not, therefore, free from small
vanities, especially if he be in love.  But how leave Euphra?

Again I outrun my story.




CHAPTER X.

ITALIAN.

Per me si va nella città dolente.

DANTE


Through me thou goest into the city of grief.

Of necessity, with so many shafts opened into the mountain of
knowledge, a far greater amount of time must be devoted by Harry and
his tutor to the working of the mine, than they had given hitherto.
This made a considerable alteration in the intercourse of the youth
and the lady; for, although Euphra was often present during
school-hours, it must be said for Hugh that, during those hours, he
paid almost all his attention to Harry; so much of it, indeed, that
perhaps there was not enough left to please the lady.  But she did
not say so.  She sat beside them in silence, occupied with her work,
and saving up her glances for use.  Now and then she would read;
taking an opportunity sometimes, but not often, when a fitting pause
occurred, to ask him to explain some passage about which she was in
doubt.  It must be conceded that such passages were well chosen for
the purpose; for she was too wise to do her own intellect discredit
by feigning a difficulty where she saw none; intellect being the
only gift in others for which she was conscious of any reverence.

By-and-by she began to discontinue these visits to the schoolroom.
Perhaps she found them dull.  Perhaps--but we shall see.

One morning, in the course of their study--Euphra not present--Hugh
had occasion to go from his own room, where, for the most part, they
carried on the severer portion of their labours, down to the library
for a book, to enlighten them upon some point on which they were in
doubt.  As he was passing an open door, Euphra's voice called him.
He entered, and found himself in her private sitting-room.  He had
not known before where it was.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Sutherland, for calling you, but I am at
this moment in a difficulty.  I cannot manage this line in the
Inferno.  Do help me."

She moved the book towards him, as he now stood by her side, she
remaining seated at her table.  To his mortification, he was
compelled to confess his utter ignorance of the language.

"Oh!  I am disappointed," said Euphra.

"Not so much as I am," replied Hugh. "But could you spare me one or
two of your Italian books?"

"With pleasure," she answered, rising and going to her bookshelves.

"I want only a grammar, a dictionary, and a New Testament."

"There they are," she said, taking them down one after the other,
and bringing them to him. "I daresay you will soon get up with poor
stupid me."

"I shall do my best to get within hearing of your voice, at least,
in which Italian must be lovely."

No reply, but a sudden droop of the head.

"But," continued Hugh, "upon second thoughts, lest I should be
compelled to remain dumb, or else annoy your delicate ear with
discordant sounds, just give me one lesson in the pronunciation.
Let me hear you read a little first."

"With all my heart."

Euphra began, and read delightfully; for she was an excellent
Italian scholar.  It was necessary that Hugh should look over the
book.  This was difficult while he remained standing, as she did not
offer to lift it from the table.  Gradually, therefore, and hardly
knowing how, he settled into a chair by her side.  Half-an-hour went
by like a minute, as he listened to the silvery tones of her voice,
breaking into a bell-like sound upon the double consonants of that
sweet lady-tongue.  Then it was his turn to read and be corrected,
and read again and be again corrected.  Another half-hour glided
away, and yet another.  But it must be confessed he made good use of
the time--if only it had been his own to use; for at the end of it
he could pronounce Italian very tolerably--well enough, at least, to
keep him from fixing errors in his pronunciation, while studying the
language alone.  Suddenly he came to himself, and looked up as from
a dream.  Had she been bewitching him?  He was in Euphra's
room--alone with her.  And the door was shut--how or when?  And--he
looked at his watch--poor little Harry had been waiting his return
from the library, for the last hour and a half.  He was
conscience-stricken.  He gathered up the books hastily, thanked
Euphra in the same hurried manner, and left the room with
considerable disquietude, closing the door very gently, almost
guiltily, behind him.

I am afraid Euphra had been perfectly aware that he knew nothing
about Italian.  Did she see her own eyes shine in the mirror before
her, as he closed the door?  Was she in love with him, then?

When Hugh returned with the Italian books, instead of the
encyclopædia he had gone to seek, he found Harry sitting where he
had left him, with his arms and head on the table, fast asleep.

"Poor boy!" said Hugh to himself; but he could not help feeling glad
he was asleep.  He stole out of the room again, passed the fatal
door with a longing pain, found the volume of his quest in the
library, and, returning with it, sat down beside Harry.  There he
sat till he awoke.

When he did awake at last, it was almost time for luncheon.  The
shame-faced boy was exceedingly penitent for what was no fault,
while Hugh could not relieve him by confessing his.  He could only
say:

"It was my fault, Harry dear.  I stayed away too long.  You were so
nicely asleep, I would not wake you.  You will not need a siesta,
that is all."

He was ashamed of himself, as he uttered the false words to the
true-hearted child.  But this, alas! was not the end of it all.

Desirous of learning the language, but far more desirous of
commending himself to Euphra, Hugh began in downright earnest.  That
very evening, he felt that he had a little hold of the language.
Harry was left to his own resources.  Nor was there any harm in
this in itself: Hugh had a right to part of every day for his own
uses.  But then, he had been with Harry almost every evening, or a
great part of it, and the boy missed him much; for he was not yet
self-dependent.  He would have gone to Euphrasia, but somehow she
happened to be engaged that evening.  So he took refuge in the
library, where, in the desolation of his spirit, Polexander began,
almost immediately, to exercise its old dreary fascination upon him.
Although he had not opened the book since Hugh had requested him to
put it away, yet he had not given up the intention of finishing it
some day; and now he took it down, and opened it listlessly, with
the intention of doing something towards the gradual redeeming of
the pledge he had given to himself.  But he found it more irksome
than ever.  Still he read on; till at length he could discover no
meaning at all in the sentences.  Then he began to doubt whether he
had read the words.  He fixed his attention by main force on every
individual word; but even then he began to doubt whether he could
say he had read the words, for he might have missed seeing some of
the letters composing each word.  He grew so nervous and miserable
over it, almost counting every letter, that at last he burst into
tears, and threw the book down.

His intellect, which in itself was excellent, was quite of the
parasitic order, requiring to wind itself about a stronger
intellect, to keep itself in the region of fresh air and possible
growth.  Left to itself, its weak stem could not raise it above the
ground: it would grow and mass upon the earth, till it decayed and
corrupted, for lack of room, light, and air.  But, of course, there
was no danger in the meantime.  This was but the passing sadness of
an occasional loneliness.

He crept to Hugh's room, and received an invitation to enter, in
answer to his gentle knock; but Hugh was so absorbed in his new
study, that he hardly took any notice of him, and Harry found it
almost as dreary here as in the study.  He would have gone out, but
a drizzling rain was falling; and he shrank into himself at the
thought of the Ghost's Walk. The dinner-bell was a welcome summons.

Hugh, inspirited by the reaction from close attention, by the
presence of Euphra, and by the desire to make himself generally
agreeable, which sprung from the consciousness of having done wrong,
talked almost brilliantly, delighting Euphra, overcoming Harry with
reverent astonishment, and even interesting slow Mr. Arnold.  With
the latter Hugh had been gradually becoming a favourite; partly
because he had discovered in him what he considered high-minded
sentiments; for, however stupid and conventional Mr. Arnold might
be, he had a foundation of sterling worthiness of character.
Euphra, instead of showing any jealousy of this growing
friendliness, favoured it in every way in her power, and now and
then alluded to it in her conversations with Hugh, as affording her
great satisfaction.

"I am so glad he likes you!" she would say.

"Why should she be glad?" thought Hugh.

This gentle claim of a kind of property in him, added considerably
to the strength of the attraction that drew him towards her, as
towards the centre of his spiritual gravitation; if indeed that
could be called spiritual which had so little of the element of
moral or spiritual admiration, or even approval, mingled with it.
He never felt that Euphra was good.  He only felt that she drew him
with a vague force of feminine sovereignty--a charm which he could
no more resist or explain, than the iron could the attraction of the
loadstone.  Neither could he have said, had he really considered the
matter, that she was beautiful--only that she often, very often,
looked beautiful.  I suspect if she had been rather ugly, it would
have been all the same for Hugh.

He pursued his Italian studies with a singleness of aim and effort
that carried him on rapidly.  He asked no assistance from Euphra,
and said nothing to her about his progress.  But he was so absorbed
in it, that it drew him still further from his pupil.  Of course he
went out with him, walking or riding every day that the weather
would permit; and he had regular school hours with him within doors.
But during the latter, while Harry was doing something on his
slate, or writing, or learning some lesson (which kind of work
happened oftener now than he could have approved of), he would take
up his Italian; and, notwithstanding Harry's quiet hints that he had
finished what had been set him, remain buried in it for a long time.
When he woke at last to the necessity of taking some notice of the
boy, he would only appoint him something else to occupy him again,
so as to leave himself free to follow his new bent.  Now and then he
would become aware of his blameable neglect, and make a feeble
struggle to rectify what seemed to be growing into a habit--and one
of the worst for a tutor; but he gradually sank back into the mire,
for mire it was, comforting himself with the resolution that as soon
as he was able to read Italian without absolutely spelling his way,
he would let Euphra see what progress he had made, and then return
with renewed energy to Harry's education, keeping up his own new
accomplishment by more moderate exercise therein.  It must not be
supposed, however, that a long course of time passed in this way.
At the end of a fortnight, he thought he might venture to request
Euphra to show him the passage which had perplexed her.  This time
he knew where she was--in her own room; for his mind had begun to
haunt her whereabouts.  He knocked at her door, heard the silvery,
thrilling, happy sound, "Come in;" and entered trembling.

"Would you show me the passage in Dante that perplexed you the other
day?"

Euphra looked a little surprised; but got the book and pointed it
out at once.

Hugh glanced at it.  His superior acquaintance with the general
forms of language enabled him, after finding two words in Euphra's
larger dictionary, to explain it, to her immediate satisfaction.

"You astonish me," said Euphra.

"Latin gives me an advantage, you see," said Hugh modestly.

"It seems to be very wonderful, nevertheless."

These were sweet sounds to Hugh's ear.  He had gained his end.  And
she hers.

"Well," she said, "I have just come upon another passage that
perplexes me not a little.  Will you try your powers upon that for
me?"

So saying, she proceeded to find it.

"It is school-time," said Hugh "I fear I must not wait now."

"Pooh! pooh!  Don't make a pedagogue of yourself.  You know you are
here more as a guardian--big brother, you know--to the dear child.
By the way, I am rather afraid you are working him a little more
than his constitution will stand."

"Do you think so?" returned Hugh quite willing to be convinced. "I
should be very sorry."

"This is the passage," said Euphra.

Hugh sat down once more at the table beside her.  He found this
morsel considerably tougher than the last.  But at length he
succeeded in pulling it to pieces and reconstructing it in a simpler
form for the lady.  She was full of thanks and admiration.
Naturally enough, they went on to the next line, and the next
stanza, and the next and the next; till--shall I be believed?--they
had read a whole canto of the poem.  Euphra knew more words by a
great many than Hugh; so that, what with her knowledge of the words,
and his insight into the construction, they made rare progress.

"What a beautiful passage it is!" said Euphra.

"It is indeed," responded Hugh; "I never read anything more
beautiful."

"I wonder if it would be possible to turn that into English.  I
should like to try."

"You mean verse, of course?"

"To be sure."

"Let us try, then.  I will bring you mine when I have finished it.
I fear it will take some time, though, to do it well.  Shall it be
in blank verse, or what?"

"Oh! don't you think we had better keep the Terza Rima of the
original?"

"As you please.  It will add much to the difficulty."

"Recreant knight! will you shrink from following where your lady
leads?"

"Never! so help me, my good pen!" answered Hugh, and took his
departure, with burning cheeks and a trembling at the heart.  Alas!
the morning was gone.  Harry was not in his study: he sought and
found him in the library, apparently buried in Polexander.

"I am so glad you are come," said Harry; "I am so tired."

"Why do you read that stupid book, then?"

"Oh! you know, I told you."

"Tut! tut! nonsense!  Put it away," said Hugh, his dissatisfaction
with himself making him cross with Harry, who felt, in consequence,
ten times more desolate than before.  He could not understand the
change.

If it went ill before with the hours devoted to common labour, it
went worse now.  Hugh seized every gap of time, and widened its
margins shamefully, in order to work at his translation.  He found
it very difficult to render the Italian in classical and poetic
English.  The three rhyming words, and the mode in which the stanzas
are looped together, added greatly to the difficulty.  Blank verse
he would have found quite easy compared to this.  But he would not
blench.  The thought of her praise, and of the yet better favour he
might gain, spurred him on; and Harry was the sacrifice.  But he
would make it all up to him, when this was once over.  Indeed, he
would.

Thus he baked cakes of clay to choke the barking of Cerberian
conscience.  But it would growl notwithstanding.

The boy's spirit was sinking; but Hugh did not or would not see it.
His step grew less elastic.  He became more listless, more like his
former self--sauntering about with his hands in his pockets.  And
Hugh, of course, found himself caring less about him; for the
thought of him, rousing as it did the sense of his own neglect, had
become troublesome.  Sometimes he even passed poor Harry without
speaking to him.

Gradually, however, he grew still further into the favour of Mr.
Arnold, until he seemed to have even acquired some influence with
him.  Mr. Arnold would go out riding with them himself sometimes,
and express great satisfaction, not only with the way Harry sat his
pony, for which he accorded Hugh the credit due to him, but with the
way in which Hugh managed his own horse as well.  Mr. Arnold was a
good horseman, and his praise was especially grateful to Hugh,
because Euphra was always near, and always heard it.  I fear,
however, that his progress in the good graces of Mr. Arnold, was, in
a considerable degree, the result of the greater anxiety to please,
which sprung from the consciousness of not deserving approbation.
Pleasing was an easy substitute for well-doing.  Not acceptable to
himself, he had the greater desire to be acceptable to others; and
so reflect the side-beams of a false approbation on himself--who
needed true light and would be ill-provided for with any substitute.
For a man who is received as a millionaire can hardly help feeling
like one at times, even if he knows he has overdrawn his banker's
account.  The necessity to Hugh's nature of feeling right, drove him
to this false mode of producing the false impression.  If one only
wants to feel virtuous, there are several royal roads to that end.
But, fortunately, the end itself would be unsatisfactory if gained;
while not one of these roads does more than pretend to lead even to
that land of delusion.

The reaction in Hugh's mind was sometimes torturing enough.  But he
had not strength to resist Euphra, and so reform.

Well or ill done, at length his translation was finished.  So was
Euphra's.  They exchanged papers for a private reading first; and
arranged to meet afterwards, in order to compare criticisms.




CHAPTER XI.

THE FIRST MIDNIGHT.

     Well, if anything be damned,
It will be twelve o'clock at night; that twelve
Will never scape.

CYRIL TOURNEUR.--The Revenger's Tragedy.


Letters arrived at Arnstead generally while the family was seated at
breakfast.  One morning, the post-bag having been brought in, Mr.
Arnold opened it himself, according to his unvarying custom; and
found, amongst other letters, one in an old-fashioned female hand,
which, after reading it, he passed to Euphra.

"You remember Mrs. Elton, Euphra?"

"Quite well, uncle--a dear old lady!"

But the expression which passed across her face, rather belied her
words, and seemed to Hugh to mean: "I hope she is not going to bore
us again."

She took care, however, to show no sign with regard to the contents
of the letter; but, laying it beside her on the table, waited to
hear her uncle's mind first.

"Poor, dear girl!" said he at last. "You must try to make her as
comfortable as you can.  There is consumption in the family, you
see," he added, with a meditative sigh.

"Of course I will, uncle.  Poor girl!  I hope there is not much
amiss though, after all."

But, as she spoke, an irrepressible flash of dislike, or displeasure
of some sort, broke from her eyes, and vanished.  No one but himself
seemed to Hugh to have observed it; but he was learned in the lady's
eyes, and their weather-signs.  Mr. Arnold rose from the table and
left the room, apparently to write an answer to the letter.  As soon
as he was gone, Euphra gave the letter to Hugh. He read as
follows:--

"MY DEAR MR. ARNOLD,

"Will you extend the hospitality of your beautiful house to me and
my young friend, who has the honour of being your relative, Lady
Emily Lake?  For some time her health has seemed to be failing, and
she is ordered to spend the winter abroad, at Pau, or somewhere in
the south of France.  It is considered highly desirable that in the
meantime she should have as much change as possible; and it occurred
to me, remembering the charming month I passed at your seat, and
recalling the fact that Lady Emily is cousin only once removed to
your late most lovely wife, that there would be no impropriety in
writing to ask you whether you could, without inconvenience, receive
us as your guests for a short time.  I say us; for the dear girl has
taken such a fancy to unworthy old me, that she almost refuses to
set out without me.  Not to be cumbersome either to our friends or
ourselves, we shall bring only our two maids, and a steady old
man-servant, who has been in my family for many years.--I trust you
will not hesitate to refuse my request, should I happen to have made
it at an unsuitable season; assured, as you must be, that we cannot
attribute the refusal to any lack of hospitality or friendliness on
your part.  At all events, I trust you will excuse what seems--now I
have committed it to paper--a great liberty, I hope not presumption,
on mine.  I am, my dear Mr. Arnold,

"Yours most sincerely,

"HANNAH ELTON."

Hugh refolded the letter, and laid it down without remark.  Harry
had left the room.

"Isn't it a bore?" said Euphra.

Hugh answered only by a look.  A pause followed.

"Who is Mrs. Elton?" he said at last.

"Oh, a good-hearted creature enough.  Frightfully prosy."

"But that is a well-written letter?"

"Oh, yes.  She is famed for her letter-writing; and, I believe,
practises every morning on a slate.  It is the only thing that
redeems her from absolute stupidity."

Euphra, with her taper fore-finger, tapped the table-cloth
impatiently, and shifted back in her chair, as if struggling with an
inward annoyance.

"And what sort of person is Lady Emily?" asked Hugh.

"I have never seen her.  Some blue-eyed milk-maid with a title, I
suppose.  And in a consumption, too!  I presume the dear girl is as
religious as the old one.--Good heavens! what shall we do?" she
burst out at length; and, rising from her chair, she paced about the
room hurriedly, but all the time with a gliding kind of footfall,
that would have shaken none but the craziest floor.

"Dear Euphra!"  Hugh ventured to say, "never mind.  Let us try to
make the best of it."

She stopped in her walk, turned towards him, smiled as if ashamed
and delighted at the same moment, and slid out of the room.  Had
Euphra been the same all through, she could hardly have smiled so
without being in love with Hugh.

That morning he sought her again in her room.  They talked over
their versions of Dante.  Hugh's was certainly the best, for he was
more practised in such things than Euphra.  He showed her many
faults, which she at once perceived to be faults, and so rose in his
estimation.  But at the same time there were individual lines and
passages of hers, which he considered not merely better than the
corresponding lines and passages, but better than any part of his
version.  This he was delighted to say; and she seemed as delighted
that he should think so.  A great part of the morning was spent
thus.

"I cannot stay longer," said Hugh.

"Let us read for an hour, then, after we come up stairs to-night."

"With more pleasure than I dare to say."

"But you mean what you do say?"

"You can doubt it no more than myself."

Yet he did not like Euphra's making the proposal.  No more did he
like the flippant, almost cruel way in which she referred to Lady
Emily's illness.  But he put it down to annoyance and haste--got
over it somehow--anyhow; and began to feel that if she were a devil
he could not help loving her, and would not help it if he could.
The hope of meeting her alone that night, gave him spirit and
energy with Harry; and the poor boy was more cheery and active than
he had been for some time.  He thought his big brother was going to
love him again as at the first.  Hugh's treatment of his pupil might
still have seemed kind from another, but Harry felt it a great
change in him.

In the course of the day, Euphra took an opportunity of whispering
to him:

"Not in my room--in the library."  I presume she thought it would be
more prudent, in the case of any interruption.

After dinner that evening, Hugh did not go to the drawingroom with
Mr. Arnold, but out into the woods about the house.  It was early in
the twilight; for now the sun set late.  The month was June; and the
even a rich, dreamful, rosy even--the sleep of a gorgeous day. "It
is like the soul of a gracious woman," thought Hugh, charmed into a
lucid interval of passion by the loveliness of the nature around
him.  Strange to tell, at that moment, instead of the hushed gloom
of the library, towards which he was hoping and leaning in his soul,
there arose before him the bare, stern, leafless pine-wood--for who
can call its foliage leaves?--with the chilly wind of a northern
spring morning blowing through it with a wailing noise of waters;
and beneath a weird fir-tree, lofty, gaunt, and huge, with bare
goblin arms, contorted sweepily, in a strange mingling of the
sublime and the grotesque--beneath this fir-tree, Margaret sitting
on one of its twisted roots, the very image of peace, with a face
that seemed stilled by the expected approach of a sacred and unknown
gladness; a face that would blossom the more gloriously because its
joy delayed its coming.d above it, the tree shone aGGAT "still,"
almost "awful red," in the level light of the morning.

The vision came and passed, for he did not invite its stay: it
rebuked him to the deepest soul.  He strayed in troubled pleasure,
restless and dissatisfied.  Woods of the richest growth were around
him; heaps on heaps of leaves floating above him like clouds, a
trackless wilderness of airy green, wherein one might wish to dwell
for ever, looking down into the vaults and aisles of the
long-ranging boles beneath.  But no peace could rest on his face;
only, at best, a false mask, put on to hide the trouble of the
unresting heart.  Had he been doing his duty to Harry, his love for
Euphra, however unworthy she might be, would not have troubled him
thus.

He came upon an avenue.  At the further end the boughs of the old
trees, bare of leaves beneath, met in a perfect pointed arch, across
which were barred the lingering colours of the sunset, transforming
the whole into a rich window full of stained glass and complex
tracery, closing up a Gothic aisle in a temple of everlasting
worship.  A kind of holy calm fell upon him as he regarded the dim,
dying colours; and the spirit of the night, a something that is
neither silence nor sound, and yet is like both, sank into his soul,
and made a moment of summer twilight there.  He walked along the
avenue for some distance; and then, leaving it, passed on through
the woods.--Suddenly it flashed upon him that he had crossed the
Ghost's Walk. A slight but cold shudder passed through the region of
his heart.  Then he laughed at himself, and, as it were in despite
of his own tremor, turned, and crossed yet again the path of the
ghost.

A spiritual epicure in his pleasures, he would not spoil the effect
of the coming meeting, by seeing Euphra in the drawingroom first: he
went to his own study, where he remained till the hour had nearly
arrived.  He tried to write some verses.  But he found that,
although the lovely form of its own Naiad lay on the brink of the
Well of Song, its waters would not flow: during the sirocco of
passion, its springs withdraw into the cool caves of the Life
beneath.  At length he rose, too much preoccupied to mind his want
of success; and, going down the back stair, reached the library.
There he seated himself, and tried to read by the light of his
chamber-candle.  But it was scarcely even an attempt, for every
moment he was looking up to the door by which he expected her to
enter.

Suddenly an increase of light warned him that she was in the room.
How she had entered he could not tell.  One hand carried her
candle, the light of which fell on her pale face, with its halo of
blackness--her hair, which looked like a well of darkness, that
threatened to break from its bonds and overflood the room with a
second night, dark enough to blot out that which was now looking in,
treeful and deep, at the uncurtained windows.  The other hand was
busy trying to incarcerate a stray tress which had escaped from its
net, and made her olive shoulders look white beside it.

"Let it alone," said Hugh, "let it be beautiful."

But she gently repelled the hand he raised to hers, and, though she
was forced to put down her candle first, persisted in confining the
refractory tress; then seated herself at the table, and taking from
her pocket the manuscript which Hugh had been criticising in the
morning, unfolded it, and showed him all the passages he had
objected to, neatly corrected or altered.  It was wonderfully done
for the time she had had.  He went over it all with her again,
seated close to her, their faces almost meeting as they followed the
lines.  They had just finished it, and were about to commence
reading from the original, when Hugh, who missed a sheet of Euphra's
translation, stooped under the table to look for it.  A few moments
were spent in the search, before he discovered that Euphra's foot
was upon it.  He begged her to move a little, but received no reply
either by word or act.  Looking up in some alarm, he saw that she
was either asleep or in a faint.  By an impulse inexplicable to
himself at the time, he went at once to the windows, and drew down
the green blinds.  When he turned towards her again, she was
reviving or awaking, he could not tell which.

"How stupid of me to go to sleep!" she said. "Let us go on with our
reading."

They had read for about half an hour, when three taps upon one of
the windows, slight, but peculiar, and as if given with the point of
a finger, suddenly startled them.  Hugh turned at once towards the
windows; but, of course, he could see nothing, having just lowered
the blinds.  He turned again towards Euphra.  She had a strange wild
look; her lips were slightly parted, and her nostrils wide; her face
was rigid, and glimmering pale as death from the cloud of her black
hair.

"What was it?" said Hugh, affected by her fear with the horror of
the unknown.  But she made no answer, and continued staring towards
one of the windows.  He rose and was about to advance to it, when
she caught him by the hand with a grasp of which hers would have
been incapable except under the influence of terror.  At that moment
a clock in the room began to strike.  It was a slow clock, and went
on deliberately, striking one...two...three...till it had struck
twelve.  Every stroke was a blow from the hammer of fear, and his
heart was the bell.  He could not breathe for dread so long as the
awful clock was striking.  When it had ended, they looked at each
other again, and Hugh breathed once.

"Euphra!" he sighed.

But she made no answer; she turned her eyes again to one of the
windows.  They were both standing.  He sought to draw her to him,
but she yielded no more than a marble statue.

"I crossed the Ghost's Walk to-night," said he, in a hard whisper,
scarcely knowing that he uttered it, till he heard his own words.
They seemed to fall upon his ear as if spoken by some one outside
the room.  She looked at him once more, and kept looking with a
fixed stare.  Gradually her face became less rigid, and her eyes
less wild.  She could move at last.

"Come, come," she said, in a hurried whisper. "Let us go--no, no,
not that way;"--as Hugh would have led her towards the private
stair--"let us go the front way, by the oak staircase."

They went up together.  When they reached the door of her room, she
said, "Good night," without even looking at him, and passed in.
Hugh went on, in a state of utter bewilderment, to his own
apartment; shut the door and locked it--a thing he had never done
before; lighted both the candles on his table; and then walked up
and down the room, trying, like one aware that he is dreaming, to
come to his real self.

"Pshaw!" he said at last. "It was only a little bird, or a large
moth.  How odd it is that darkness can make a fool of one!  I am
ashamed of myself.  I wish I had gone out at the window, if only to
show Euphra I was not afraid, though of course there was nothing to
be seen."

As he said this in his mind,--he could not have spoken it aloud, for
fear of hearing his own voice in the solitude,--he went to one of
the windows of his sitting-room, which was nearly over the library,
and looked into the wood.--Could it be?--Yes.--He did see something
white, gliding through the wood, away in the direction of the
Ghost's Walk. It vanished; and he saw it no more.

The morning was far advanced before he could go to bed.  When the
first light of the aurora broke the sky, he looked out again;--and
the first glimmerings of the morning in the wood were more dreadful
than the deepest darkness of the past night.  Possessed by a new
horror, he thought how awful it would be to see a belated ghost,
hurrying away in helpless haste.  The spectre would be yet more
terrible in the grey light of the coming day, and the azure breezes
of the morning, which to it would be like a new and more fearful
death, than amidst its own homely sepulchral darkness; while the
silence all around--silence in light--could befit only that dread
season of loneliness when men are lost in sleep, and ghosts, if they
walk at all, walk in dismay.

But at length fear yielded to sleep, though still he troubled her
short reign.

When he awoke, he found it so late, that it was all he could do to
get down in time for breakfast.  But so anxious was he not to be
later than usual, that he was in the room before Mr. Arnold made his
appearance.  Euphra, however, was there before him.  She greeted him
in the usual way, quite circumspectly.  But she looked troubled.
Her face was very pale, and her eyes were red, as if from
sleeplessness or weeping.  When her uncle entered, she addressed him
with more gaiety than usual, and he did not perceive that anything
was amiss with her.  But the whole of that day she walked as in a
reverie, avoiding Hugh two or three times that they chanced to meet
without a third person in the neighbourhood.  Once in the
forenoon--when she was generally to be found in her room--he could
not refrain from trying to see her.  The change and the mystery were
insupportable to him.  But when he tapped at her door, no answer
came; and he walked back to Harry, feeling, as if, by an unknown
door in his own soul, he had been shut out of the half of his being.
Or rather--a wall seemed to have been built right before his eyes,
which still was there wherever he went.

As to the gliding phantom of the previous night, the day denied it
all, telling him it was but the coinage of his own over-wrought
brain, weakened by prolonged tension of the intellect, and excited
by the presence of Euphra at an hour claimed by phantoms when not
yielded to sleep.  This was the easiest and most natural way of
disposing of the difficulty.  The cloud around Euphra hid the ghost
in its skirts.

Although fear in some measure returned with the returning shadows,
he yet resolved to try to get Euphra to meet him again in the
library that night.  But she never gave him a chance of even
dropping a hint to that purpose.  She had not gone out with them in
the morning; and when he followed her into the drawing-room, she was
already at the piano.  He thought he might convey his wish without
interrupting the music; but as often as he approached her, she
broke, or rather glided, out into song, as if she had been singing
in an undertone all the while.  He could not help seeing she did not
intend to let him speak to her.  But, all the time, whatever she
sang was something she knew he liked; and as often as she spoke to
him in the hearing of her uncle or cousin, it was in a manner
peculiarly graceful and simple.

He could not understand her; and was more bewitched, more fascinated
than ever, by seeing her through the folds of the incomprehensible,
in which element she had wrapped herself from his nearer vision.
She had always seemed above him--now she seemed miles away as well;
a region of Paradise, into which he was forbidden to enter.
Everything about her, to her handkerchief and her gloves, was
haunted by a vague mystery of worshipfulness, and drew him towards
it with wonder and trembling.  When they parted for the night, she
shook hands with him with a cool frankness, that put him nearly
beside himself with despair; and when he found himself in his own
room, it was some time before he could collect his thoughts.  Having
succeeded, however, he resolved, in spite of growing fears, to go to
the library, and see whether it were not possible she might be
there.  He took up a candle, and went down the back stair.  But when
he opened the library door, a gust of wind blew his candle out; all
was darkness within; a sudden horror seized him; and, afraid of
yielding to the inclination to bound up the stair, lest he should go
wild with the terror of pursuit, he crept slowly back, feeling his
way to his own room with a determined deliberateness.--Could the
library window have been left open?  Else whence the gust of wind?

Next day, and the next, and the next, he fared no better: her
behaviour continued the same; and she allowed him no opportunity of
requesting an explanation.




CHAPTER XII.

A SUNDAY.

A man may be a heretic in the truth; and if he believe things only
because his pastor says so, or the assembly so determines, without
knowing other reason, though his belief be true, yet the very truth
he holds becomes his heresy.--MILTON.--Areopagitica.


At length the expected visitors arrived.  Hugh saw nothing of them
till they assembled for dinner.  Mrs. Elton was a benevolent old
lady--not old enough to give in to being old--rather tall, and
rather stout, in rich widow-costume, whose depth had been moderated
by time.  Her kindly grey eyes looked out from a calm face, which
seemed to have taken comfort from loving everybody in a mild and
moderate fashion.  Lady Emily was a slender girl, rather shy, with
fair hair, and a pale innocent face.  She wore a violet dress, which
put out her blue eyes.  She showed to no advantage beside the
suppressed glow of life which made Euphra look like a tropical
twilight--I am aware there is no such thing, but if there were, it
would be just like her.

Mrs. Elton seemed to have concentrated the motherhood of her nature,
which was her most prominent characteristic, notwithstanding--or
perhaps in virtue of--her childlessness, upon Lady Emily.  To her
Mrs. Elton was solicitously attentive; and she, on her part,
received it all sweetly and gratefully, taking no umbrage at being
treated as more of an invalid than she was.

Lady Emily ate nothing but chicken, and custard-pudding or rice, all
the time she was at Arnstead.

The richer and more seasoned any dish, the more grateful it was to
Euphra.

Mr. Arnold was a saddle-of-mutton man.

Hugh preferred roast-beef, but ate anything.

"What sort of a clergyman have you now, Mr. Arnold?" asked Mrs.
Elton, at the dinner-table.

"Oh! a very respectable young gentleman, brother to Sir Richard, who
has the gift, you know.  A very moderate, excellent clergyman he
makes, too!"

"All! but you know, Lady Emily and I"--here she looked at Lady
Emily, who smiled and blushed faintly, "are very dependent on our
Sundays, and"--

"We all go to church regularly, I assure you, Mrs. Elton; and of
course my carriage shall be always at your disposal."

"I was in no doubt about either of those things, indeed, Mr. Arnold.
But what sort of a preacher is he?"

"Ah, well! let me see.--What was the subject of his sermon last
Sunday, Euphra, my dear?"

"The devil and all his angels," answered Euphra, with a wicked flash
in her eyes.

"Yes, yes; so it was.  Oh!  I assure you, Mrs. Elton, he is quite a
respectable preacher, as well as clergyman.  He is an honour to the
cloth."

Hugh could not help thinking that the tailor should have his due,
and that Mr. Arnold gave it him.

"He is no Puseyite either," added Mr. Arnold, seeing but not
understanding Mrs. Elton's baffled expression, "though he does
preach once a month in his surplice."

"I am afraid you will not find him very original, though," said
Hugh, wishing to help the old lady.

"Original!" interposed Mr. Arnold. "Really, I am bound to say I
don't know how the remark applies.  How is a man to be original on a
subject that is all laid down in plain print--to use a vulgar
expression--and has been commented upon for eighteen hundred years
and more?"

"Very true, Mr. Arnold," responded Mrs. Elton. "We don't want
originality, do we?  It is only the gospel we want.  Does he preach
the gospel?"

"How can he preach anything else?  His text is always out of some
part of the Bible."

"I am glad to see you hold by the Inspiration of the Scriptures, Mr.
Arnold," said Mrs. Elton, chaotically bewildered.

"Good heavens!  Madam, what do you mean?  Could you for a moment
suppose me to be an atheist?  Surely you have not become a student
of German Neology?"  And Mr. Arnold smiled a grim smile.

"Not I, indeed!" protested poor Mrs. Elton, moving uneasily in her
seat;--"I quite agree with you, Mr. Arnold."

"Then you may take my word for it, that you will hear nothing but
what is highly orthodox, and perfectly worthy of a gentleman and a
clergyman, from the pulpit of Mr. Penfold.  He dined with us only
last week."

This last assertion was made in an injured tone, just sufficient to
curl the tail of the sentence.  After which, what was to be said?

Several vain attempts followed, before a new subject was started,
sufficiently uninteresting to cause, neither from warmth nor
stupidity, any danger of dissension, and quite worthy of being here

Dinner over, and the ceremony of tea--in Lady Emily's case, milk and
water--having been observed, the visitors withdrew.

The next day was Sunday.  Lady Emily came down stairs in black,
which suited her better.  She was a pretty, gentle creature,
interesting from her illness, and good, because she knew no evil,
except what she heard of from the pulpit.  They walked to church,
which was at no great distance, along a meadow-path paved with
flags, some of them worn through by the heavy shoes of country
generations.  The church was one of those which are, in some
measure, typical of the Church itself; for it was very old, and
would have been very beautiful, had it not been all plastered over,
and whitened to a smooth uniformity of ugliness--the attempt having
been more successful in the case of the type.  The open roof had had
a French heaven added to it--I mean a ceiling; and the pillars,
which, even if they were not carved--though it was impossible to
come to a conclusion on that point--must yet have been worn into the
beauty of age, had been filled up, and stained with yellow ochre.
Even the remnants of stained glass in some of the windows, were
half concealed by modern appliances for the partial exclusion of the
light.  The church had fared as Chaucer in the hands of Dryden.  So
had the truth, that flickered through the sermon, fared in the hands
of the clergyman, or of the sermon-wright whose manuscript he had
bought for eighteen pence--I am told that sermons are to be procured
at that price--on his last visit to London.  Having, although a
Scotchman, had an episcopalian education, Hugh could not help
rejoicing that not merely the Bible, but the Church-service as well,
had been fixed beyond the reach of such degenerating influences as
those which had operated on the more material embodiments of
religion; for otherwise such would certainly have been the first to
operate, and would have found the greatest scope in any alteration.
We may hope that nothing but a true growth in such religion as
needs and seeks new expression for new depth and breadth of feeling,
will ever be permitted to lay the hand of change upon it--a hand,
otherwise, of desecration and ruin.

The sermon was chiefly occupied with proving that God is no
respecter of persons; a mark of indubitable condescension in the
clergyman, the rank in society which he could claim for himself duly
considered.  But, unfortunately, the church was so constructed, that
its area contained three platforms of position, actually of
differing level; the loftiest, in the chancel, on the right hand of
the pulpit, occupied by the gentry; the middle, opposite the pulpit,
occupied by the tulip-beds of their servants; and the third, on the
left of the pulpit, occupied by the common parishioners.
Unfortunately, too, by the perpetuation of some old custom, whose
significance was not worn out, all on the left of the pulpit were
expected, as often as they stood up to sing--which was three
times--to turn their backs to the pulpit, and so face away from the
chancel where the gentry stood.  But there was not much
inconsistency, after all; the sermon founding its argument chiefly
on the antithetical facts, that death, lowering the rich to the
level of the poor, was a dead leveller; and that, on the other hand,
the life to come would raise the poor to the level of the rich.  It
was a pity that there was no phrase in the language to justify him
in carrying out the antithesis, and so balancing his sentence like a
rope-walker, by saying that life was a live leveller.  The sermon
ended with a solemn warning: "Those who neglect the gospel-scheme,
and never think of death and judgment--be they rich or poor, be they
wise or ignorant--whether they dwell in the palace or the hut--shall
be damned.  Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy
Ghost," &c.

Lady Emily was forced to confess that she had not been much
interested in the sermon.  Mrs. Elton thought he spoke plainly, but
there was not much of the gospel in it.  Mr. Arnold opined that
people should not go to church to hear sermons, but to make the
responses; whoever read prayers, it made no difference, for the
prayers were the Church's, not the parson's; and for the sermon, as
long as it showed the uneducated how to be saved, and taught them to
do their duty in the station of life to which God had called them,
and so long as the parson preached neither Puseyism nor
Radicalism--(he frowned solemnly and disgustedly as he repeated the
word)--nor Radicalism, it was of comparatively little moment whether
he was a man of intellect or not, for he could not go wrong.

Little was said in reply to this, except something not very audible
or definite, by Mrs. Elton, about the necessity of faith.  The
conversation, which took place at luncheon, flagged, and the
visitors withdrew to their respective rooms, to comfort themselves
with their Daily Portions.

At dinner, Mr. Arnold, evidently believing he had made an impression
by his harangue of the morning, resumed the subject.  Hugh was a
little surprised to find that he had, even of a negative sort,
strong opinions on the subject of religion.

"What do you think, then, Mrs. Elton, my dear madam, that a
clergyman ought to preach?"

"I think, Mr. Arnold, that he ought to preach salvation by faith in
the merits of the Saviour."

"Oh! of course, of course.  We shall not differ about that.
Everybody believes that."

"I doubt it very much.--He ought, in order that men may believe, to
explain the divine plan, by which the demands of divine justice are
satisfied, and the punishment due to sin averted from the guilty,
and laid upon the innocent; that, by bearing our sins, he might make
atonement to the wrath of a justly offended God; and so--"

"Now, my dear madam, permit me to ask what right we, the subjects of
a Supreme Authority, have to inquire into the reasons of his doings?
It seems to me--I should be sorry to offend any one, but it seems
to me quite as presumptuous as the present arrogance of the lower
classes in interfering with government, and demanding a right to
give their opinion, forsooth, as to the laws by which they shall be
governed; as if they were capable of understanding the principles by
which kings rule, and governors decree justice.--I believe I quote
Scripture."

"Are we, then, to remain in utter ignorance of the divine
character?"

"What business have we with the divine character?  Or how could we
understand it?  It seems to me we have enough to do with our own.
Do I inquire into the character of my sovereign?  All we have to do
is, to listen to what we are told by those who are educated for such
studies, whom the Church approves, and who are appointed to take
care of the souls committed to their charge; to teach them to
respect their superiors, and to lead honest, hard-working lives."

Much more of the same sort flowed from the oracular lips of Mr.
Arnold.  When he ceased, he found that the conversation had ceased
also.  As soon as the ladies withdrew, he said, without looking at
Hugh, as he filled his glass:

"Mr. Sutherland, I hate cant."

And so he canted against it.

But the next day, and during the whole week, he seemed to lay
himself out to make amends for the sharpness of his remarks on the
Sunday.  He was afraid he had made his guests uncomfortable, and so
sinned against his own character as a host.  Everything that he
could devise, was brought to bear for their entertainment; daily
rides in the open carriage, in which he always accompanied them, to
show his estate, and the improvements he was making upon it; visits
sometimes to the more deserving, as he called them, of the poor upon
his property--the more deserving being the most submissive and
obedient to the wishes of their lord; inspections of the schools,
&c., &c.; in all of which matters he took a stupid, benevolent
interest.  For if people would be content to occupy the corner in
which he chose to place them, he would throw them morsel after
morsel, as long as ever they chose to pick it up.  But woe to them
if they left this corner a single pace!

Euphra made one of the party always; and it was dreary indeed for
Hugh to be left in the desolate house without her, though but for a
few hours.  And when she was at home, she never yet permitted him to
speak to her alone.

There might have been some hope for Harry in Hugh's separation from
Euphra; but the result was, that, although he spent school-hours
more regularly with him, Hugh was yet more dull, and uninterested in
the work, than he had been before.  Instead of caring that his pupil
should understand this or that particular, he would be speculating
on Euphra's behaviour, trying to account for this or that individual
look or tone, or seeking, perhaps, a special symbolic meaning in
some general remark that she had happened to let fall.  Meanwhile,
poor Harry would be stupifying himself with work which he could not
understand for lack of some explanation or other that ought to have
been given him weeks ago.  Still, however, he clung to Hugh with a
far-off, worshipping love, never suspecting that he could be to
blame, but thinking at one time that he must be ill, at another that
he himself was really too stupid, and that his big brother could not
help getting tired of him.  When Hugh would be wandering about the
place, seeking to catch a glimpse of the skirt of Euphra's dress, as
she went about with her guests, or devising how he could procure an
interview with her alone, Harry would be following him at a
distance, like a little terrier that had lost its master, and did
not know whether this man would be friendly or not; never spying on
his actions, but merely longing to be near him--for had not Hugh set
him going in the way of life, even if he had now left him to walk in
it alone?  If Hugh could have once seen into that warm, true, pining
little heart, he would not have neglected it as he did.  He had no
eyes, however, but for Euphra.

Still, it may be that even now Harry was able to gather, though with
tears, some advantage from Hugh's neglect.  He used to wander about
alone; and it may be that the hints which his tutor had already
given him, enabled him now to find for himself the interest
belonging to many objects never before remarked.  Perhaps even now
he began to take a few steps alone; the waking independence of which
was of more value for the future growth of his nature, than a
thousand miles accomplished by the aid of the strong arm of his
tutor.  One certain advantage was, that the constitutional trouble
of the boy's nature had now assumed a definite form, by gathering
around a definite object, and blending its own shadowy being with
the sorrow he experienced from the loss of his tutor's sympathy.
Should that sorrow ever be cleared away, much besides might be
cleared away along with it.

Meantime, nature found some channels, worn by his grief, through
which her comforts, that, like waters, press on all sides, and enter
at every cranny and fissure in the house of life, might gently flow
into him with their sympathetic soothing.  Often he would creep away
to the nest which Hugh had built and then forsaken; and seated there
in the solitude of the wide-bourgeoned oak, he would sometimes feel
for a moment as if lifted up above the world and its sorrows, to be
visited by an all-healing wind from God, that came to him, through
the wilderness of leaves around him---gently, like all powerful
things.

But I am putting the boy's feelings into forms and words for him.
He had none of either for them.




CHAPTER XIII.

A STORM.

     When the mind's free,
The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else
Save what beats there.

King Lear.


While Harry took to wandering abroad in the afternoon sun, Hugh, on
the contrary, found the bright weather so distasteful to him, that
he generally trifled away his afternoons with some old romance in
the dark library, or lay on the couch in his study, listless and
suffering.  He could neither read nor write.  What he felt he must
do he did; but nothing more.

One day, about noon, the weather began to change.  In the afternoon
it grew dark; and Hugh, going to the window, perceived with
delight--the first he had experienced for many days--that a great
thunder-storm was at hand.  Harry was rather frightened; but under
his fear, there evidently lay a deep delight.  The storm came nearer
and nearer; till at length a vivid flash broke from the mass of
darkness over the woods, lasted for one brilliant moment, and
vanished.  The thunder followed, like a pursuing wild beast, close
on the traces of the vanishing light; as if the darkness were
hunting the light from the earth, and bellowing with rage that it
could not overtake and annihilate it.  Without the usual prelude of
a few great drops, the rain poured at once, in continuous streams,
from the dense canopy overhead; and in a few moments there were six
inches of water all round the house, which the force of the falling
streams made to foam, and fume, and flash like a seething torrent.
Harry had crept close to Hugh, who stood looking out of the window;
and as if the convulsion of the elements had begun to clear the
spiritual and moral, as well as the physical atmosphere, Hugh looked
down on the boy kindly, and put his arm round his shoulders.  Harry
nestled closer, and wished it would thunder for ever.  But longing
to hear his tutor's voice, he ventured to speak, looking up to his
face:

"Euphra says it is only electricity, Mr. Sutherland.  What is that?"

A common tutor would have seized the opportunity of explaining what
he knew of the laws and operations of electricity.  But Hugh had
been long enough a pupil of David to feel that to talk at such a
time of anything in nature but God, would be to do the boy a serious
wrong.  One capable of so doing would, in the presence of the
Saviour himself, speculate on the nature of his own faith; or upon
the death of his child, seize the opportunity of lecturing on
anatomy.  But before Hugh could make any reply, a flash, almost
invisible from excess of light, was accompanied rather than followed
by a roar that made the house shake; and in a moment more the room
was filled with the terrified household, which, by an unreasoning
impulse, rushed to the neighbourhood of him who was considered the
strongest.--Mr. Arnold was not at home.

"Come from the window instantly, Mr. Sutherland.  How can you be so
imprudent!" cried Mrs. Elton, her usually calm voice elevated in
command, but tremulous with fear.

"Why, Mrs. Elton," answered Hugh on whose temper, as well as
conduct, recent events had had their operation, "do you think the
devil makes the thunder?"

Lady Emily gave a faint shriek, whether out of reverence for the
devil, or fear of God, I hesitate to decide; and flitting out of the
room, dived into her bed, and drew the clothes over her head--at
least so she was found at a later period of the day.  Euphra walked
up to the window beside Hugh, as if to show her approval of his
rudeness; and stood looking out with eyes that filled their own
night with home-born flashes, though her lip was pale, and quivered
a little.  Mrs. Elton, confounded at Hugh's reply, and perhaps
fearing the house might in consequence share the fate of Sodom,
notwithstanding the presence of a goodly proportion of the
righteous, fled, accompanied by the housekeeper, to the wine-cellar.
The rest of the household crept into corners, except the coachman,
who, retaining his composure, in virtue of a greater degree of
insensibility from his nearer approximation to the inanimate
creation, emptied the jug of ale intended for the dinner of the
company, and went out to look after his horses.

But there was one in the house who, left alone, threw the window
wide open; and, with gently clasped hands and calm countenance,
looked up into the heavens; and the clearness of whose eye seemed
the prophetic symbol of the clearness that rose all untroubled above
the turmoil of the earthly storm.  Truly God was in the storm; but
there was more of God in the clear heaven beyond; and yet more of
Him in the eye that regarded the whole with a still joy, in which
was mingled no dismay.

Euphra, Hugh, and Harry were left together, looking out upon the
storm.  Hugh could not speak in Harry's presence.  At length the boy
sat down in a dark corner on the floor, concealed from the others by
a window-curtain.  Hugh thought he had left the room.

"Euphra," he began.

Euphra looked round for Harry, and not seeing him, thought likewise
that he had left the room: she glided away without making any answer
to Hugh's invocation.

He stood for a few moments in motionless despair; then glancing
round the room, and taking in all its desertedness, caught up his
hat, and rushed out into the storm.  It was the best relief his
feelings could have had; for the sullen gloom, alternated with
bursts of flame, invasions of horrid uproar, and long wailing blasts
of tyrannous wind, gave him his own mood to walk in; met his spirit
with its own element; widened, as it were, his microcosm to the
expanse of the macrocosm around him.  All the walls of separation
were thrown down, and he lived, not in his own frame, but in the
universal frame of nature.  The world was for the time, to the
reality of his feeling, what Schleiermacher, in his Monologen,
describes it as being to man, an extension of the body in which he
dwells.  His spirit flashed in the lightning, raved in the thunder,
moaned in the wind, and wept in the rain.

But this could not last long, either without or within him.

He came to himself in the woods.  How far he had wandered, or
whereabout he was, he did not know.  The storm had died away, and
all that remained was the wind and the rain.  The tree-tops swayed
wildly in the irregular blasts, and shook new, fitful, distracted,
and momentary showers upon him.  It was evening, but what hour of
the evening he could not tell.  He was wet to the skin; but that to
a young Scotchman is a matter of little moment.

Although he had no intention of returning home for some time, and
meant especially to avoid the dinner-table--for, in the mood he was
in, it seemed more than he could endure--he yet felt the weakness to
which we are subject as embodied beings, in a common enough form;
that, namely, of the necessity of knowing the precise portion of
space which at the moment we fill; a conviction of our identity not
being sufficient to make us comfortable, without a knowledge of our
locality.  So, looking all about him, and finding where the wood
seemed thinnest, he went in that direction; and soon, by forcing his
way through obstacles of all salvage kinds, found himself in the
high road, within a quarter of a mile of the country town next to
Arnstead, removed from it about three miles.  This little town he
knew pretty well; and, beginning to feel exhausted, resolved to go
to an inn there, dry his clothes, and then walk back in the
moonlight; for he felt sure the storm would be quite over in an hour
or so.  The fatigue he now felt was proof enough in itself, that the
inward storm had, for the time, raved itself off; and now--must it
be confessed?--he wished very much for something to eat and drink.

He was soon seated by a blazing fire, with a chop and a jug of ale
before him.




CHAPTER XIV.

AN EVENING LECTURE.

     The Nightmare
Shall call thee when it walks.

MIDDLETON.--The Witch.


The inn to which Hugh had betaken himself, though not the first in
the town, was yet what is called a respectable house, and was
possessed of a room of considerable size, in which the farmers of
the neighbourhood were accustomed to hold their gatherings.  While
eating his dinner, Hugh learned from the conversation around
him--for he sat in the kitchen for the sake of the fire--that this
room was being got ready for a lecture on Bilology, as the landlady
called it.  Bills in red and blue had been posted all over the town;
and before he had finished his dinner, the audience had begun to
arrive.  Partly from curiosity about a subject of which he knew
nothing, and partly because it still rained, and, having got nearly
dry, he did not care about a second wetting if he could help it,
Hugh resolved to make one of them.  So he stood by the fire till he
was informed that the lecturer had made his appearance, when he went
up-stairs, paid his shilling, and was admitted to one of the front
seats.  The room was tolerably lighted with gas; and a platform had
been constructed for the lecturer and his subjects.  When the place
was about half-filled, he came from another room alone--a little,
thick-set, bull-necked man, with vulgar face and rusty black
clothes; and, mounting the platform, commenced his lecture; if
lecture it could be called, in which there seemed to be no order,
and scarcely any sequence.  No attempt even at a theory, showed
itself in the mass of what he called facts and scientific truths;
and he perpeturated the most awful blunders in his English.  It will
not be desired that I should give any further account of such a
lecture.  The lecturer himself seemed to depend chiefly for his
success, upon the manifestations of his art which he proceeded to
bring forward.  He called his familiar by the name of Willi-am, and
a stunted, pale-faced, dull-looking youth started up from somewhere,
and scrambled upon the platform beside his master.  Upon this
tutored slave a number of experiments was performed.  He was first
cast into whatever abnormal condition is necessary for the
operations of biology, and then compelled to make a fool of himself
by exhibiting actions the most inconsistent with his real
circumstances and necessities.  But, aware that all this was open to
the most palpable objection of collusion, the operator next invited
any of the company that pleased, to submit themselves to his
influences.  After a pause of a few moments, a stout country fellow,
florid and healthy, got up and slouched to the platform.  Certainly,
whatever might be the nature of the influence that was brought to
bear, its operative power could not, with the least probability, be
attributed to an over-activity of imagination in either of the
subjects submitted to its exercise.  In the latter, as well as in
the former case, the operator was eminently successful; and the
clown returned to his seat, looking remarkably foolish and conscious
of disgrace--a sufficient voucher to most present, that in this case
at least there had been no collusion.  Several others volunteered
their negative services; but with no one of them did he succeed so
well; and in one case the failure was evident.  The lecturer
pretended to account for this, in making some confused and
unintelligible remarks about the state of the weather, the
thunder-storm, electricity, &c., of which things he evidently did
not understand the best known laws.

"The blundering idiot!" growled, close to Hugh's ear, a voice with a
foreign accent.

He looked round sharply.

A tall, powerful, eminently handsome man, with a face as foreign as
his tone and accent, sat beside him.

"I beg your pardon," he said to Hugh; "I thought aloud."

"I should like to know, if you wouldn't mind telling me, what you
detect of the blunderer in him.  I am quite ignorant of these
matters."

"I have had many opportunities of observing them; and I see at once
that this man, though he has the natural power, is excessively
ignorant of the whole subject."

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to Hugh's modest inquiry.
Hugh had not yet learned that one will always fare better by
concealing than by acknowledging ignorance.  The man, whatever his
capacity, who honestly confesses even a partial ignorance, will
instantly be treated as more or less incapable, by the ordinary man
who has already gained a partial knowledge, or is capable of
assuming a knowledge which he does not possess.  But, for God's
sake! let the honest and modest man stick to his honesty and
modesty, cost what they may.

Hugh was silent, and fixed his attention once more on what was going
on.  But presently he became aware that the foreigner was
scrutinizing him with the closest attention.  He knew this, somehow,
without having looked round; and the knowledge was accompanied with
a feeling of discomfort that caused him to make a restless movement
on his seat.  Presently he felt that the annoyance had ceased; but
not many minutes had passed, before it again commenced.  In order to
relieve himself from a feeling which he could only compare to that
which might be produced by the presence of the dead, he turned
towards his neighbour so suddenly, that it seemed for a moment to
embarrass him, his eyes being caught in the very act of devouring
the stolen indulgence.  But the stranger recovered himself instantly
with the question:

"Will you permit me to ask of what country you are?"

Hugh thought he made the request only for the sake of covering his
rudeness; and so merely answered:

"Why, an Englishman, of course."

"Ah! yes; it is not necessary to be told that.  But it seems to me,
from your accent, that you are a Scotchman."

"So I am."

"A Highlander?"

"I was born in the Highlands.  But if you are very anxious to know
my pedigree, I have no reason for concealing the fact that I am, by
birth, half a Scotchman and half a Welchman."

The foreigner riveted his gaze, though but for the briefest moment
sufficient to justify its being called a gaze, once more upon Hugh;
and then, with a slight bow, as of acquiescence, turned towards the
lecturer.

When the lecture was over, and Hugh was walking away in the midst of
the withdrawing audience, the stranger touched him on the shoulder.

"You said that you would like to know more of this science: will you
come to my lodging?" said he.

"With pleasure," Hugh answered; though the look with which he
accompanied the words, must have been one rather of surprise.

"You are astonished that a stranger should invite you so.  Ah! you
English always demand an introduction.  There is mine."

He handed Hugh a card: Herr von Funkelstein.  Hugh happened to be
provided with one in exchange.

The two walked out of the inn, along the old High Street, full of
gables and all the delightful irregularities of an old country-town,
till they came to a court, down which Herr von Funkelstein led the
way.

He let himself in with a pass-key at a low door, and then conducted
Hugh, by a stair whose narrowness was equalled by its steepness, to
a room, which, though not many yards above the level of the court,
was yet next to the roof of the low house.  Hugh could see nothing
till his conductor lighted a candle.  Then he found himself in a
rather large room with a shaky floor and a low roof.  A
chintz-curtained bed in one corner had the skin of a tiger thrown
over it; and a table in another had a pair of foils lying upon it.
The German--for such he seemed to Hugh--offered him a chair in the
politest manner; and Hugh sat down.

"I am only in lodgings here," said the host; "so you will forgive
the poverty of my establishment."

"There is no occasion for forgiveness, I assure you," answered Hugh.

"You wished to know something of the subject with which that
lecturer was befooling himself and the audience at the same time."

"I shall be grateful for any enlightenment."

"Ah! it is a subject for the study of a benevolent scholar, not for
such a clown as that.  He jumps at no conclusions; yet he shares the
fate of one who does: he flounders in the mire between.  No man will
make anything of it who has not the benefit of the human race at
heart.  Humanity is the only safe guide in matters such as these.
This is a dangerous study indeed in unskilful hands."

Here a frightful caterwauling interrupted Herr von Funkelstein.  The
room had a storm-window, of which the lattice stood open.  In front
of it, on the roof, seen against a white house opposite, stood a
demon of a cat, arched to half its length, with a tail expanded to
double its natural thickness.  Its antagonist was invisible from
where Hugh sat.  Von Funkelstein started up without making the
slightest noise, trod as softly as a cat to the table, took up one
of the foils, removed the button, and, creeping close to the window,
made one rapid pass at the enemy, which vanished with a shriek of
hatred and fear.  He then, replacing the button, laid the foil down,
and resumed his seat and his discourse.  This, after dealing with
generalities and commonplaces for some time, gave no sign of coming
either to an end or to the point.  All the time he was watching
Hugh--at least so Hugh thought--as if speculating on him in general.
Then appearing to have come to some conclusion, he gave his mind
more to his talk, and encouraged Hugh to speak as well.  The
conversation lasted for nearly half an hour.  At its close, Hugh
felt that the stranger had touched upon a variety of interesting
subjects, as one possessed of a minute knowledge of them.  But he
did not feel that he had gained any insight from his conversation.
It seemed rather as if he had been giving him a number of
psychological, social, literary, and scientific receipts.  During
the course of the talk, his eye had appeared to rest on Hugh by a
kind of compulsion; as if by its own will it would have retired from
the scrutiny, but the will of its owner was too strong for it.  In
seemed, in relation to him, to be only a kind of tool, which he used
for a particular purpose.

At length Funkelstein rose, and, marching across the room to a
cupboard, brought out a bottle and glasses, saying, in the most
by-the-bye way, as he went:

"Have you the second-sight, Mr. Sutherland?"

"Certainly not, as far as I am aware."

"Ah! the Welch do have it, do they not?"

"Oh! yes, of course," answered Hugh laughing. "I should like to
know, though," he added, "whether they inherit the gift as Celts or
as mountaineers."

"Will you take a glass of--?"

"Of nothing, thank you," answered and interrupted Hugh. "It is time
for me to be going.  Indeed, I fear I have stayed too long already.
Good night, Herr von Funkelstein."

"You will allow me the honour of returning your visit?"

Hugh felt he could do no less, although he had not the smallest
desire to keep up the acquaintance.  He wrote Arnstead on his card.

As he left the house, he stumbled over something in the court.
Looking down, he saw it was a cat, apparently dead.

"Can it be the cat Herr Funkelstein made the pass at?" thought he.
But presently he forgot all about it, in the visions of Euphra
which filled his mind during his moonlight walk home.  It just
occurred to him, however, before those visions had blotted
everything else from his view, that he had learned simply nothing
whatever about biology from his late host.

When he reached home, he was admitted by the butler, and retired to
bed at once, where he slept soundly, for the first time for many
nights.

But, as he drew near his own room, he might have seen, though he saw
not, a little white figure gliding away in the far distance of the
long passage.  It was only Harry, who could not lie still in his
bed, till he knew that his big brother was safe at home.




CHAPTER XV.

ANOTHER EVENING LECTURE.

This Eneas is come to Paradise
Out of the swolowe of Hell.

CHAUCER.--Legend of Dido.

The next day, Hugh was determined to find or make an opportunity of
speaking to Euphra; and fortune seemed to favour him.--Or was it
Euphra herself, in one or other of her inexplicable moods?  At all
events, she had that morning allowed the ladies and her uncle to go
without her; and Hugh met her as he went to his study.

"May I speak to you for one moment?" said he, hurriedly, and with
trembling lips.

Yes, certainly," she replied with a smile, and a glance in his face
as of wonder as to what could trouble him so much.  Then turning,
and leading the way, she said:

"Come into my room."

He followed her.  She turned and shut the door, which he had left
open behind him.  He almost knelt to her; but something held him
back from that.

"Euphra," he said, "what have I done to offend you?"

"Offend me!  Nothing."--This was uttered in a perfect tone of
surprise.

"How is it that you avoid me as you do, and will not allow me one
moment's speech with you?  You are driving me to distraction."

"Why, you foolish man!" she answered, half playfully, pressing the
palms of her little hands together, and looking up in his face, "how
can I?  Don't you see how those two dear old ladies swallow me up in
their faddles?  Oh, dear?  Oh, dear!  I wish they would go.  Then it
would be all right again--wouldn't it?"

But Hugh was not to be so easily satisfied.

"Before they came, ever since that night--"

"Hush-sh!" she interrupted, putting her finger on his lips, and
looking hurriedly round her with an air of fright, of which he could
hardly judge whether it was real or assumed--"hush!"

Comforted wondrously by the hushing finger, Hugh would yet
understand more.

"I am no baby, dear Euphra," he said, taking hold of the hand to
which the finger belonged, and laying it on his mouth; "do not make
one of me.  There is some mystery in all this--at least something I
do not understand."

"I will tell you all about it one day.  But, seriously, you must be
careful how you behave to me; for if my uncle should, but for one
moment, entertain a suspicion--good-bye to you--perhaps good-bye to
Arnstead.  All my influence with him comes from his thinking that I
like him better than anybody else.  So you must not make the poor
old man jealous.  By the bye," she went on--rapidly, as if she would
turn the current of the conversation aside--"what a favourite you
have grown with him!  You should have heard him talk of you to the
old ladies.  I might well be jealous of you.  There never was a
tutor like his."

Hugh's heart smote him that the praise of even this common man,
proud of his own vanity, should be undeserved by him.  He was
troubled, too, at the flippancy with which Euphra spoke; yet not the
less did he feel that he loved her passionately.

"I daresay," he replied, "he praised me as he would anything else
that happened to be his.  Isn't that old bay horse of his the best
hack in the county?"

"You naughty man!  Are you going to be satirical?"

"You claim that as your privilege, do you?"

"Worse and worse!  I will not talk to you.  But, seriously, for I
must go--bring your Italian to--to--" She hesitated.

"To the library--why not?" suggested Hugh.

"No-o," she answered, shaking her head, and looking quite solemn.

"Well, will you come to my study?  Will that please you better?"

"Yes, I will," she answered, with a definitive tone. "Good-bye,
now."

She opened the door, and having looked out to see that no one was
passing, told him to go.  As he went, he felt as if the oaken floor
were elastic beneath his tread.

It was sometime after the household had retired, however, before
Euphra made her appearance at the door of his study.  She seemed
rather shy of entering, and hesitated, as if she felt she was doing
something she ought not to do.  But as soon as she had entered, and
the door was shut, she appeared to recover herself quite; and they
sat down at the table with their books.  They could not get on very
well with their reading, however.  Hugh often forgot what he was
about, in looking at her; and she seemed nowise inclined to avert
his gazes, or check the growth of his admiration.

Rather abruptly, but apparently starting from some suggestion in the
book, she said to him:

"By the bye, has Mr. Arnold ever said anything to you about the
family jewels?"

"No," said Hugh. "Are there many?"

"Yes, a great many.  Mr. Arnold is very proud of them, as well as of
the portraits; so he treats them in the same way--keeps them locked
up.  Indeed he seldom allows them to see daylight, except it be as a
mark of especial favour to some one."

"I should like much to see them.  I have always been curious about
stones.  They are wonderful, mysterious things to me."

Euphra gave him a very peculiar, searching glance, as he spoke.

"Shall I," he continued, "give him a hint that I should like to see
them?"

"By no means," answered Euphra, emphatically, "except he should
refer to them himself.  He is very jealous of his possessions--his
family possessions, I mean.  Poor old man! he has not much else to
plume himself upon; has he?"

"He is kind to you, Euphra."

She looked at him as if she did not understand him.

"Yes. What then?"

"You ought not to be unkind to him."

"You odd creature!  I am not unkind to him.  I like him.  But we are
not getting on with our reading.  What could have led me to talk
about family-jewels?  Oh!  I see.  What a strange thing the
association of ideas is!  There is not a very obvious connexion
here; is there?"

"No. One cannot account for such things.  The links in the chain of
ideas are sometimes slender enough.  Yet the slenderest is
sufficient to enable the electric flash of thought to pass along the
line."

She seemed pondering for a moment.

"That strikes me as a fine simile," she said. "You ought to be a
poet yourself."

Hugh made no reply.

"I daresay you have hundreds of poems in that old desk, now?"

"I think they might be counted by tens."

"Do let me see them."

"You would not care for them."

"Wouldn't I, Hugh?"

"I will, on one condition--two conditions, I mean."

"What are they?"

"One is, that you show me yours."

"Mine?"

"Yes."

"Who told you I wrote verses?  That silly boy?"

"No--I saw your verses before I saw you.  You remember?"

"It was very dishonourable in you to read them."

"I only saw they were verses.  I did not read a word."

"I forgive you, then.  You must show me yours first, till I see
whether I could venture to let you see mine.  If yours were very bad
indeed, then I might risk showing mine."

And much more of this sort, with which I will not weary my readers.
It ended in Hugh's taking from the old escritoire a bundle of
papers, and handing them to Euphra.  But the reader need not fear
that I am going to print any of these verses.  I have more respect
for my honest prose page than to break it up so.  Indeed, the whole
of this interview might have been omitted, but for two
circumstances.  One of them was, that in getting these papers, Hugh
had to open a concealed portion of the escritoire, which his
mathematical knowledge had enabled him to discover.  It had
evidently not been opened for many years before he found it.  He had
made use of it to hold the only treasures he had--poor enough
treasures, certainly!  Not a loving note, not a lock of hair even
had he--nothing but the few cobwebs spun from his own brain.  It is
true, we are rich or poor according to what we are, not what we
have.  But what a man has produced, is not what he is.  He may even
impoverish his true self by production.

When Euphra saw him open this place, she uttered a suppressed cry of
astonishment.

"Ah!" said Hugh, "you did not know of this hidie-hole, did you?"

"Indeed, I did not.  I had used the desk myself, for this was a
favourite room of mine before you came, but I never found that.
Dear me!  Let me look."

She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned over him, as he pointed
out the way of opening it.

"Did you find nothing in it?" she said, with a slight tremour in her
voice.

"Nothing whatever."

"There may be more places."

"No. I have accounted for the whole bulk, I believe."

"How strange!"

"But now you must give me my guerdon," said Hugh timidly.

The fact was, the poor youth had bargained, in a playful manner, and
yet with an earnest, covetous heart, for one, the first kiss, in
return for the poems she begged to see.

She turned her face towards him.

The second circumstance which makes the interview worth recording
is, that, at this moment, three distinct knocks were heard on the
window.  They sprang asunder, and saw each other's face pale as
death.  In Euphra's, the expression of fright was mingled with one
of annoyance.  Hugh, though his heart trembled like a bird, leaped
to the window.  Nothing was to be seen but the trees that "stretched
their dark arms" within a few feet of the oriel.  Turning again
towards Euphra, he found, to his mortification, that she had
vanished--and had left the packet of poems behind her.

He replaced them in their old quarters in the escritoire; and his
vague dismay at the unaccountable noises, was drowned in the bitter
waters of miserable humiliation.  He slept at last, from the
exhaustion of disappointment.

When he awoke, however, he tried to persuade himself that he had
made far too much of the trifling circumstance of her leaving the
verses behind.  For was she not terrified?--Why, then, did she leave
him and go alone to her own room?--She must have felt that she ought
not to be in his, at that hour, and therefore dared not stay.--Why
dared not?  Did she think the house was haunted by a ghost of
propriety?  What rational theory could he invent to account for the
strange and repeated sounds?--He puzzled himself over it to the
verge of absolute intellectual prostration.

He was generally the first in the breakfast-room; that is, after
Euphra, who was always the first.  She went up to him as he entered,
and said, almost in a whisper:

"Have you got the poems for me?  Quick!"

Hugh hesitated.  She looked at him.

"No," he said at last.--"You never wanted them."

"That is very unkind; when you know I was frightened out of my wits.
Do give me them."

"They are not worth giving you.  Besides, I have not got them.  I
don't carry them in my pocket.  They are in the escritoire.  I
couldn't leave them lying about.  Never mind them."

"I have a right to them," she said, looking up at him slyly and
shyly.

"Well, I gave you them, and you did not think them worth keeping.  I
kept my part of the bargain."

She looked annoyed.

"Never mind, dear Euphra; you shall have them, or anything else I
have;--the brain that made them, if you like."

"Was it only the brain that had to do with the making of them?"

"Perhaps the heart too; but you have that already."

Her face flushed like a damask rose.

At that moment Mrs. Elton entered, and looked a little surprised.
Euphra instantly said:

"I think it is rather too bad of you, Mr. Sutherland, to keep the
poor boy so hard to his work, when you know he is not strong.  Mrs.
Elton, I have been begging a holiday for poor Harry, to let him go
with us to Wotton House; but he has such a hard task-master!  He
will not hear of it."

The flush, which she could not get rid of all at once, was thus made
to do duty as one of displeasure.  Mrs. Elton was thoroughly
deceived, and united her entreaties to those of Miss Cameron.  Hugh
was compelled to join in the deception, and pretend to yield a slow
consent.  Thus a holiday was extemporised for Harry, subject to the
approbation of his father.  This was readily granted; and Mr.
Arnold, turning to Hugh, said:

"You will have nothing to do, Mr. Sutherland: had you not better
join us?"

"With pleasure," replied he; "but the carriage will be full."

"You can take your horse."

"Thank you very much.  I will."

The day was delightful; one of those grey summer-days, that are far
better for an excursion than bright ones.  In the best of spirits,
mounted on a good horse, riding alongside of the carriage in which
was the lady who was all womankind to him, and who, without taking
much notice of him, yet contrived to throw him a glance now and
then, Hugh would have been overflowingly happy, but for an unquiet,
distressed feeling, which all the time made him aware of the
presence of a sick conscience somewhere within.  Mr. Arnold was
exceedingly pleasant, for he was much taken with the sweetness and
modesty of Lady Emily, who, having no strong opinions upon anything,
received those of Mr. Arnold with attentive submission.  He saw, or
fancied he saw in her, a great resemblance to his deceased wife, to
whom he had been as sincerely attached as his nature would allow.
In fact, Lady Emily advanced so rapidly in his good graces, that
either Euphra was, or thought fit to appear, rather jealous of her.
She paid her every attention, however, and seemed to gratify Mr.
Arnold by her care of the invalid.  She even joined in the
entreaties which, on their way home, he made with evident
earnestness, for an extension of their visit to a month.  Lady Emily
was already so much better for the change, that Mrs. Elton made no
objection to the proposal.  Euphra gave Hugh one look of misery,
and, turning again, insisted with increased warmth on their
immediate consent.  It was gained without much difficulty before
they reached home.

Harry, too, was captivated by the gentle kindness of Lady Emily, and
hardly took his eyes off her all the way; while, on the other hand,
his delicate little attentions had already gained the heart of good
Mrs. Elton, who from the first had remarked and pitied the sad looks
of the boy.




CHAPTER XVI.

A NEW VISITOR AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

     He's enough
To bring a woman to confusion,
More than a wiser man, or a far greater.

MIDDLETON.--The Witch.


When they reached the lodge, Lady Emily expressed a wish to walk up
the avenue to the house.  To this Mr. Arnold gladly consented.  The
carriage was sent round the back way; and Hugh, dismounting, gave
his horse to the footman in attendance.  As they drew near the
house, the rest of the party having stopped to look at an old tree
which was a favourite with its owner, Hugh and Harry were some yards
in advance; when the former spied, approaching them from the house,
the distinguished figure of Herr von Funkelstein.  Saluting as they
met, the visitor informed Hugh that he had just been leaving his
card for him, and would call some other morning soon; for, as he was
rusticating, he had little to occupy him.  Hugh turned with him
towards the rest of the party, who were now close at hand; when
Funkelstein exclaimed, in a tone of surprise,

"What!  Miss Cameron here!" and advanced with a profound obeisance,
holding his hat in his hand.

Hugh thought he saw her look annoyed; but she held out her hand to
him, and, in a voice indicating--still as it appeared to Hugh--some
reluctance, introduced him to her uncle, with the words:

"We met at Sir Edward Laston's, when I was visiting Mrs. Elkingham,
two years ago, uncle."

Mr. Arnold lifted his hat and bowed politely to the stranger.  Had
Euphra informed him that, although a person of considerable
influence in Sir Edward's household, Herr von Funkelstein had his
standing there only as Sir Edward's private secretary, Mr. Arnold's
aversion to foreigners generally would not have been so scrupulously
banished into the background of his behaviour.  Ordinary civilities
passed between them, marked by an air of flattering deference on
Funkelstein's part, which might have been disagreeable to a man less
uninterruptedly conscious of his own importance than Mr. Arnold; and
the new visitor turned once more, as if forgetful of his previous
direction, and accompanied them towards the house.  Before they
reached it he had, even in that short space, ingratiated himself so
far with Mr. Arnold, that he asked him to stay and dine with
them--an invitation which was accepted with manifest pleasure.

"Mr. Sutherland," said Mr. Arnold, "will you show your friend
anything worth note about the place?  He has kindly consented to
dine with us; and in the meantime I have some letters to write."

"With pleasure," answered Hugh.

But all this time he had been inwardly commenting on the appearance
of his friend, as Mr. Arnold called him, with the jealousy of a
youth in love; for was not Funkelstein an old acquaintance of Miss
Cameron?  What might not have passed between them in that old hidden
time?--for love is jealous of the past as well as of the future.
Love, as well as metaphysics, has a lasting quarrel with time and
space: the lower love fears them, while the higher defies them.--And
he could not help seeing that Funkelstein was one to win favour in
ladies' eyes.  Very regular features and a dark complexion were
lighted up by eyes as black as Euphra's, and capable of a wonderful
play of light; while his form was remarkable for strength and
symmetry.  Hugh felt that in any company he would attract immediate
attention.  His long dark beard, of which just the centre was
removed to expose a finely-turned chin, blew over each shoulder as
often as they met the wind in going round the house.  From what I
have heard of him from other deponents besides Hugh, I should judge
that he did well to conceal the lines of his mouth in a long
moustache, which flowed into his bifurcated beard.  He had just
enough of the foreign in his dress to add to the appearance of
fashion which it bore.

As they walked, Hugh could not help observing an odd peculiarity in
the carriage of his companion.  It was, that, every few steps, he
gave a backward and downward glance to the right, with a sweeping
bend of his body, as if he were trying to get a view of the calf of
his leg, or as if he fancied he felt something trailing at his foot.
So probable, from his motion, did the latter supposition seem, that
Hugh changed sides to satisfy himself whether or not there was some
dragging briar or straw annoying him; but no follower was to be
discovered.

"You are a happy man, Mr. Sutherland," said the guest, "to live
under the same roof with that beautiful Miss Cameron."

"Am I?" thought Hugh; but he only said, affecting some surprise:

"Do you think her so beautiful?"

Funkelstein's eyes were fixed upon him, as if to see the effect of
his remark.  Hugh felt them, and could not conform his face to the
indifference of his words.  But his companion only answered
indifferently:

"Well, I should say so; but beauty is not, that is not beauty for
us."

Whether or not there was poison in the fork of this remark, Hugh
could only conjecture.  He made no reply.

As they walked about the precincts of the house, Funkelstein asked
many questions of Hugh, which his entire ignorance of domestic
architecture made it impossible for him to answer.  This seemed only
to excite the questioner's desire for information to a higher pitch;
and as if the very stones could reply to his demands, he examined
the whole range of the various buildings constituting the house of
Arnstead "as he would draw it."

"Certainly," said he, "there is at least variety enough in the style
of this mass of material.  There is enough for one pyramid."

"That would be rather at the expense of the variety, would it not?"
said Hugh, in spiteful response to the inconsequence of the second
member of Funkelstein's remark.  But the latter was apparently too
much absorbed in his continued inspection of the house, from every
attainable point of near view, to heed the comment.

"This they call the Ghost's Walk," said Hugh.

"Ah! about these old houses there are always such tales."

"What sort of tales do you mean?"

"I mean of particular spots and their ghosts.  You must have heard
many such?"

"No, not I."

"I think Germany is more prolific of such stories.  I could tell you
plenty."

"But you don't mean you believe such things?"

"To me it is equal.  I look at them entirely as objects of art."

"That is a new view of a ghost to me.  An object of art?  I should
have thought them considerably more suitable objects previous to
their disembodiment."

"Ah! you do not understand.  You call art painting, don't you--or
sculpture at most?  I give up sculpture certainly--and painting too.
But don't you think a ghost a very effective object in literature
now?  Confess: do you not like a ghost-story very much?"

"Yes, if it is a very good one."

"Hamlet now?"

"Ah! we don't speak of Shakspere's plays as stories.  His characters
are so real to us, that, in thinking of their development, we go
back even to their fathers and mothers--and sometimes even speculate
about their future."

"You islanders are always in earliest somehow.  So are we Germans.
We are all one."

"I hope you can be in earnest about dinner, then, for I hear the
bell."

"We must render ourselves in the drawing-room, then?  Yes."

When they entered the drawing-room, they found Miss Cameron alone.
Funkelstein advanced, and addressed a few words to her in German,
which Hugh's limited acquaintance with the language prevented him
from catching.  At the same moment, Mr. Arnold entered, and
Funkelstein, turning to him immediately, proceeded, as if by way of
apology for speaking in an unknown tongue, to interpret for Mr.
Arnold's benefit:

"I have just been telling Miss Cameron in the language of my
country, how much better she looks than when I saw her at Sir Edward
Lastons."

"I know I was quite a scare-crow then," said Euphra, attempting to
laugh.

"And now you are quite a decoy-duck, eh, Euphra?" said Mr. Arnold,
laughing in reality at his own joke, which put him in great
good-humour for the whole time of dinner and dessert.

"Thank you, uncle," said Euphra, with a prettily pretended
affectation of humility.  Then she added gaily:

"When did you rise on our Sussex horizon, Herr von Funkelstein?"

"Oh!  I have been in the neighbourhood for a few days; but I owe my
meeting with you to one of those coincidences which, were they not
so pleasant--to me in this case, at least--one would think could
only result from the blundering of old Dame Nature over her
knitting.  If I had not had the good fortune to meet Mr. Sutherland
the other evening, I should have remained in utter ignorance of your
neighbourhood and my own felicity, Miss Cameron.  Indeed, I called
now to see him, not you."

Hugh saw Mr. Arnold looking rather doubtful of the foreigner's fine
speeches.

Dinner was announced.  Funkelstein took Miss Cameron, Hugh Mrs.
Elton, and Mr. Arnold followed with Lady Emily, who would never
precede her older friend.  Hugh tried to talk to Mrs. Elton, but
with meagre success.  He was suddenly a nobody, and felt more than
he had felt for a long time what, in his present deteriorated moral
state, he considered the degradation of his position.  A gulf seemed
to have suddenly yawned between himself and Euphra, and the loudest
voice of his despairing agony could not reach across that gulf.  An
awful conviction awoke within him, that the woman he worshipped
would scarcely receive his worship at the worth of incense now; and
yet in spirit he fell down grovelling before his idol.  The words
"euphrasy and rue" kept ringing in his brain, coming over and over
with an awful mingling of chime and toll.  When he thought about it
afterwards, he seemed to have been a year in crossing the hall with
Mrs. Elton on his arm.  But as if divining his thoughts--just as
they passed through the dining-room door, Euphra looked round at
him, almost over Funkelstein's shoulder, and, without putting into
her face the least expression discernible by either of the others
following, contrived to banish for the time all Hugh's despair, and
to convince him that he had nothing to fear from Funkelstein.  How
it was done Hugh himself could not tell.  He could not even recall
the look.  He only knew that he had been as miserable as one waking
in his coffin, and that now he was out in the sunny air.

During dinner, Funkelstein paid no very particular attention to
Euphrasia, but was remarkably polite to Lady Emily.  She seemed
hardly to know how to receive his attentions, but to regard him as a
strange animal, which she did not know how to treat, and of which
she was a little afraid.  Mrs. Elton, on the contrary, appeared to
be delighted with his behaviour and conversation; for, without
showing the least originality, he yet had seen so much, and knew so
well how to bring out what he had seen, that he was a most
interesting companion.  Hugh took little share in the conversation
beyond listening as well as he could, to prevent himself from gazing
too much at Euphra.

"Had Mr. Sutherland and you been old acquaintances then, Herr von
Funkelstein?" asked Mr. Arnold, reverting to the conversation which
had been interrupted by the announcement of dinner.

"Not at all.  We met quite accidentally, and introduced ourselves.
I believe a thunderstorm and a lecture on biology were the
mediating parties between us.  Was it not so, Mr. Sutherland?"

"I beg your pardon," stammered Hugh. But Mr. Arnold interposed:

"A lecture on what, did you say?"

"On biology."

Mr. Arnold looked posed.  He did not like to say he did not know
what the word meant; for, like many more ignorant men, he thought
such a confession humiliating.  Von Funkelstein hastened to his
relief.

"It would be rather surprising if you were acquainted with the
subject, Mr. Arnold.  I fear to explain it to you, lest both Mr.
Sutherland and myself should sink irrecoverably in your estimation.
But young men want to know all that is going on."

Herr Funkelstein was not exactly what one would call a young man;
but, as he chose to do so himself, there was no one to dispute the
classification.

"Oh! of course," replied Mr. Arnold; "quite right.  What, then,
pray, is biology?"

"A science, falsely so called," said Hugh, who, waking up a little,
wanted to join in the conversation.

"What does the word mean?" said Mr. Arnold.

Von Funkelstein answered at once:

"The science of life.  But I must say, the name, as now applied, is
no indication of the thing signified."

"How, then, is a gentleman to know what it is?" said Mr. Arnold,
half pettishly, and forgetting that his knowledge had not extended
even to the interpretation of the name.

"It is one of the sciences, true or false, connected with animal
magnetism."

"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Arnold, rather rudely.

"You would have said so, if you had heard the lecture," said
Funkelstein.

The conversation had not taken this turn till quite late in the
dining ceremony.  Euphra rose to go; and Hugh remarked that her face
was dreadfully pale.  But she walked steadily out of the room.

This interrupted the course of the talk, and the subject was not
resumed.  Immediately after tea, which was served very soon,
Funkelstein took his leave of the ladies.

"We shall be glad to see you often while in this neighbourhood,"
said Mr. Arnold, as he bade him good night.

"I shall, without fail, do myself the honour of calling again soon,"
replied he, and bowed himself out.

Lady Emily, evidently relieved by his departure, rose, and,
approaching Euphra, said, in a sweet coaxing tone, which even she
could hardly have resisted:

"Dear Miss Cameron, you promised to sing, for me in particular, some
evening.  May I claim the fulfilment of your promise?"

Euphra had recovered her complexion, and she too seemed to Hugh to
be relieved by the departure of Funkelstein.

"Certainly," she answered, rising at once. "What shall I sing?"

Hugh was all ear now.

"Something sacred, if you please."

Euphra hesitated, but not long.

"Shall I sing Mozart's Agnus Dei, then?"

Lady Emily hesitated in her turn.

"I should prefer something else.  I don't approve of singing popish
music, however beautiful it may be."

"Well, what shall it be?"

"Something of Handel or Mendelssohn, please.  Do you sing, 'I know
that my Redeemer liveth?'"

"I daresay I can sing it," replied Euphra, with some petulance; and
went to the piano.

This was a favourite air with Hugh; and he placed himself so as to
see the singer without being seen himself, and to lose no slightest
modulation of her voice.  But what was his disappointment to find
that oratorio-music was just what Euphra was incapable of!  No doubt
she sang it quite correctly; but there was no religion in it.  Not a
single tone worshipped or rejoiced.  The quality of sound necessary
to express the feeling and thought of the composer was lacking: the
palace of sound was all right constructed, but of wrong material.
Euphra, however, was quite unconscious of failure.  She did not
care for the music; but she attributed her lack of interest in it to
the music itself, never dreaming that, in fact, she had never really
heard it, having no inner ear for its deeper harmonies.  As soon as
she had finished, Lady Emily thanked her, but did not praise her
more than by saying:

"I wish I had a voice like yours, Miss Cameron."

"I daresay you have a better of your own," said Euphra, falsely.

Lady Emily laughed.

"It is the poorest little voice you ever heard; yet I confess I am
glad, for my own sake, that I have even that.  What should I do if I
never heard Handel!"

Every simple mind has a little well of beauty somewhere in its
precincts, which flows and warbles, even when the owner is
unheedful.  The religion of Lady Emily had led her into a region far
beyond the reach of her intellect, in which there sprang a constant
fountain of sacred song.  To it she owed her highest moods.

"Then Handel is your musician?" said Euphra. "You should not have
put me to such a test.  It was very unfair of you, Lady Emily."

Lady Emily laughed, as if quite amused at the idea of having done
Euphra any wrong.  Euphra added:

"You must sing now, Lady Emily.  You cannot refuse, after the
admission you have just made."

"I confess it is only fair; but I warn you to expect nothing."

She took her place at the piano, and sang--He shall feed his flock.
Her health had improved so much during her sojourn at Arnstead,
that, when she began to sing, the quantity of her voice surprised
herself; but after all, it was a poor voice; and the execution, if
clear of any great faults, made no other pretence to merit.  Yet she
effected the end of the music, the very result which every musician
would most desire, wherein Euphra had failed utterly.  This was
worthy of note, and Hugh was not even yet too blind to perceive it.
Lady Emily, with very ordinary intellect, and paltry religious
opinions, yet because she was good herself, and religious--could, in
the reproduction of the highest kind of music, greatly surpass the
spirited, intellectual musician, whose voice was as superior to hers
as a nightingale's to a sparrow's, and whose knowledge of music and
musical power generally, surpassed hers beyond all comparison.

It must be allowed for Euphra, that she seemed to have gained some
perception of the fact.  Perhaps she had seen signs of emotion in
Hugh's face, which he had shaded with his hand as Lady Emily sang;
or perhaps the singing produced in her a feeling which she had not
had when singing herself.  All I know is, that the same night--while
Hugh was walking up and down his room, meditating on this defect of
Euphra's, and yet feeling that if she could sing only devil's music,
he must love her--a tap came to the door which made him start with
the suggestion of the former mysterious noises of a similar kind;
that he sprang to the door; and that, instead of looking out on a
vacant corridor, as he all but anticipated, he saw Euphra standing
there in the dark--who said in a whisper:

"Ah! you do not love me any longer, because Lady Emily can sing
psalms better than I can!"

There was both pathos and spite in the speech.

"Come in, Euphra."

"No. I am afraid I have been very naughty in coming here at all."

"Do come in.  I want you to tell me something about Funkelstein."

"What do you want to know about him?  I suppose you are jealous of
him.  Ah! you men can both be jealous and make jealous at the same
moment."  A little broken sigh followed.  Hugh answered:

"I only want to know what he is."

"Oh! some twentieth cousin of mine."

"Mr. Arnold does not know that?"

"Oh dear! no.  It is so far off I can't count it, In fact I doubt it
altogether.  It must date centuries back."

"His intimacy, then, is not to be accounted for by his
relationship?"

"Ah! ah!  I thought so.  Jealous of the poor count!"

"Count?"

"Oh dear! what does it matter?  He doesn't like to be called Count,
because all foreigners are counts or barons, or something equally
distinguished.  I oughtn't to have let it out."

"Never mind.  Tell me something about him."

"He is a Bohemian.  I met him first, some years ago, on the
continent."

"Then that was not your first meeting--at Sir Edward Laston's?"

"No."

"How candid she is!" thought Hugh.

"He calls me his cousin; but if he be mine, he is yet more Mr.
Arnold's.  But he does not want it mentioned yet.  I am sure I don't
know why."

"Is he in love with you?"

"How can I tell?" she answered archly. "By his being very jealous?
Is that the way to know whether a man is in love with one?  But if
he is in love with me, it does not follow that I am in love with
him--does it?  Confess.  Am I not very good to answer all your
impertinent downright questions?  They are as point blank as the
church-catechism;--mind, I don't say as rude.--How can I be in love
with two at--a--?"

She seemed to cheek herself.  But Hugh had heard enough--as she had
intended he should.  She turned instantly, and sped--surrounded by
the "low melodious thunder" of her silken garments--to her own door,
where she vanished noiselessly.

"What care I for oratorios?" said Hugh to himself, as he put the
light out, towards morning.

Where was all this to end?  What goal had Hugh set himself?  Could
he not go away, and achieve renown in one of many ways, and return
fit, in the eyes of the world, to claim the hand of Miss Cameron?
But would he marry her if he could?  He would not answer the
question.  He closed the ears of his heart to it, and tried to go to
sleep.  He slept, and dreamed of Margaret in the storm.

A few days passed without anything occurring sufficiently marked for
relation.  Euphra and he seemed satisfied without meeting in
private.  Perhaps both were afraid of carrying it too far; at least,
too far to keep clear of the risk of discovery, seeing that danger
was at present greater than usual.  Mr. Arnold continued to be
thoroughly attentive to his guests, and became more and more devoted
to Lady Emily.  There was no saying where it might end; for he was
not an old man yet, and Lady Emily appeared to have no special
admirers.  Arnstead was such an abode, and surrounded with such an
estate, as few even of the nobility could call their own.  And a
reminiscence of his first wife seemed to haunt all Mr. Arnold's
contemplations of Lady Emily, and all his attentions to her.  These
were delicate in the extreme, evidently bringing out the best life
that yet remained in a heart that was almost a fossil.  Hugh made
some fresh efforts to do his duty by Harry, and so far succeeded,
that at least the boy made some progress--evident enough to the
moderate expectations of his father.  But what helped Harry as much
as anything, was the motherly kindness, even tenderness, of good
Mrs. Elton, who often had him to sit with her in her own room.  To
her he generally fled for refuge, when he felt deserted and lonely.




CHAPTER XVII.

MATERIALISM alias GHOST-HUNTING.

Wie der Mond sich leuchtend dränget
Durch den dunkeln Wolkenflor,
Also taucht aus dunkeln Zeiten
Mir ein lichtes Bild hervor.

HEINRICH HEINE


As the moon her face advances
Through the darkened cloudy veil;
So, from darkened times arising,
Dawns on me a vision pale.

In consequence of what Euphra had caused him to believe without
saying it, Hugh felt more friendly towards his new acquaintance; and
happening--on his side at least it did happen--to meet him a few
days after, walking in the neighbourhood, he joined him in a stroll.
Mr. Arnold met them on horseback, and invited Von Funkelstein to
dine with them that evening, to which he willingly consented.  It
was noticeable that no sooner was the count within the doors of
Arnstead House, than he behaved with cordiality to every one of the
company except Hugh. With him he made no approach to familiarity of
any kind, treating him, on the contrary, with studious politeness.

In the course of the dinner, Mr. Arnold said:

"It is curious, Herr von Funkelstein, how often, if you meet with
something new to you, you fall in with it again almost immediately.
I found an article on Biology in the newspaper, the very day after
our conversation on the subject.  But absurd as the whole thing is,
it is quite surpassed by a letter in to-day's Times about
spirit-rapping and mediums, and what not!"

This observation of the host at once opened the whole question of
those physico-psychological phenomena to which the name of
spiritualism has been so absurdly applied.  Mr. Arnold was profound
in his contempt of the whole system, if not very profound in his
arguments against it.  Every one had something to remark in
opposition to the notions which were so rapidly gaining ground in
the country, except Funkelstein, who maintained a rigid silence.

This silence could not continue long without attracting the
attention of the rest of the party; upon which Mr. Arnold said:

"You have not given us your opinion on the subject, Herr von
Funkelstein."

"I have not, Mr. Arnold;--I should not like to encounter the
opposition of so many fair adversaries, as well as of my host."

"We are in England, sir; and every man is at liberty to say what he
thinks.  For my part, I think it all absurd, if not improper."

"I would not willingly differ from you, Mr. Arnold.  And I confess
that a great deal that finds its way into the public prints, does
seem very ridiculous indeed; but I am bound, for truth's sake, to
say, that I have seen more than I can account for, in that kind of
thing.  There are strange stories connected with my own family,
which, perhaps, incline me to believe in the supernatural; and,
indeed, without making the smallest pretence to the dignity of what
they call a medium, I have myself had some curious experiences.  I
fear I have some natural proclivity towards what you despise.  But I
beg that my statement of my own feelings on the subject, may not
interfere in the least with the prosecution of the present
conversation; for I am quite capable of drawing pleasure from
listening to what I am unable to agree with."

"But let us hear your arguments, strengthened by your facts, in
opposition to ours; for it will be impossible to talk with a silent
judge amongst us," Hugh ventured to say.

"I set up for no judge, Mr. Sutherland, I assure you; and perhaps I
shall do my opinions more justice by remaining silent, seeing I am
conscious of utter inability to answer the a priori arguments which
you in particular have brought against them.  All I would venture to
say is, that an a priori argument may owe its force to a mistaken
hypothesis with regard to the matter in question; and that the true
Baconian method, which is the glory of your English philosophy,
would be to inquire first what the thing is, by recording
observations and experiments made in its supposed direction."

"At least Herr von Funkelstein has the best of the argument now, I
am compelled to confess," said Hugh.

Funkelstein bowed stiffly, and was silent.

"You rouse our curiosity," said Mr. Arnold; "but I fear, after the
free utterance which we have already given to our own judgments, in
ignorance, of course, of your greater experience, you will not be
inclined to make us wiser by communicating any of the said
experience, however much we may desire to hear it."

Had he been speaking to one of less evident social standing than
Funkelstein, Mr. Arnold, if dying with curiosity, would not have
expressed the least wish to be made acquainted with his experiences.
He would have sat in apparent indifference, but in real anxiety
that some one else would draw him out, and thus gratify his
curiosity without endangering his dignity.

"I do not think," replied Funkelstein, "that it is of any use to
bring testimony to bear on such a matter.  I have seen--to use the
words of some one else, I forget whom, on a similar subject--I have
seen with my own eyes what I certainly should never have believed on
the testimony of another.  Consequently, I have no right to expect
that my testimony should be received.  Besides, I do not wish it to
be received, although I confess I shrink from presenting it with a
certainty of its being rejected.  I have no wish to make converts to
my opinions."

"Really, Herr von Funkelstein, at the risk of your considering me
importunate, I would beg--"

"Excuse me, Mr. Arnold.  The recital of some of the matters to which
you refer, would not only be painful to myself, but would be
agitating to the ladies present."

"In that case, I have only to beg your pardon for pressing the
matter--I hope no further than to the verge of incivility."

"In no degree approaching it, I assure you, Mr. Arnold.  In proof
that I do not think so, I am ready, if you wish it--although I
rather dread the possible effects on the nerves of the ladies,
especially as this is an old house--to repeat, with the aid of those
present, certain experiments which I have sometimes found perhaps
only too successful."

"Oh!  I don't," said Euphra, faintly.

An expression of the opposite desire followed, however, from the
other ladies.  Their curiosity seemed to strive with their fears,
and to overcome them.

"I hope we shall have nothing to do with it in any other way than
merely as spectators?" said Mrs. Elton.

"Nothing more than you please.  It is doubtful if you can even be
spectators.  That remains to be seen."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Elton.

Lady Emily looked at her with surprise--almost reproof.

"I beg your pardon, my dear; but it sounds so dreadful.  What can it
be?"

"Let me entreat you, ladies, not to imagine that I am urging you to
anything," said Funkelstein.

"Not in the least," replied Mrs. Elton. "I was very foolish."  And
the old lady looked ashamed, and was silent.

"Then if you will allow me, I will make one small preparation.  Have
you a tool-chest anywhere, Mr. Arnold?"

"There must be tools enough about the place, I know.  I will ring
for Atkins."

"I know where the tool chest is," said Hugh; "and, if you will allow
me a suggestion, would it not be better the servants should know
nothing about this?  There are some foolish stories afloat amongst
them already."

"A very proper suggestion, Mr. Sutherland," said Mr. Arnold,
graciously. "Will you find all that is wanted, then?"

"What tools do you want?" asked Hugh.

"Only a small drill.  Could you get me an earthenware plate--not
china--too?"

"I will manage that," said Euphra.

Hugh soon returned with the drill, and Euphra with the plate.  The
Bohemian, with some difficulty, and the remark that the English ware
was very hard, drilled a small hole in the rim of the plate--a
dinner-plate; then begging an H B drawing-pencil from Miss Cameron,
cut off a small piece, and fitted it into the hole, making it just
long enough to touch the table with its point when the plate lay in
its ordinary position.

"Now I am ready," said he. "But," he added, raising his head, and
looking all round the room, as if a sudden thought had struck
him--"I do not think this room will be quite satisfactory."

They were now in the drawing-room.

"Choose the room in the house that will suit you," said Mr. Arnold.
"The dining-room?"

"Certainly not," answered Funkelstein, as he took from his
watch-chain a small compass and laid it on the table. "Not the
dining-room, nor the breakfast-room--I think.  Let me see--how is it
situated?"  He went to the hall, as if to refresh his memory, and
then looked again at the compass. "No, not the breakfast-room."

Hugh could not help thinking there was more or less of the charlatan
about the man.

"The library?" suggested Lady Emily.

They adjourned to the library to see.  The library would do.  After
some further difficulty, they succeeded in procuring a large sheet
of paper and fastening it down to the table by drawing-pins.  Only
two candles were in the great room, and it was scarcely lighted at
all by them; yet Funkelstein requested that one of these should be
extinguished, and the other removed to a table near the door.  He
then said, solemnly:

"Let me request silence, absolute silence, and quiescence of thought
even."

After stillness had settled down with outspread wings of intensity,
he resumed:

"Will any one, or, better, two of you, touch the plate as lightly as
possible with your fingers?"

All hung back for a moment.  Then Mr. Arnold came forward.

"I will," said he, and laid his fingers on the plate.

"As lightly as possible, if you please.  If the plate moves, follow
it with your fingers, but be sure not to push it in any direction."

"I understand," said Mr. Arnold; and silence fell again.

The Bohemian, after a pause, spoke once more, but in a foreign
tongue.  The words sounded first like entreaty, then like command,
and at last, almost like imprecation.  The ladies shuddered.

"Any movement of the vehicle?" said he to Mr. Arnold.

If by the vehicle you mean the plate, certainly not," said Mr.
attempting a laugh, in order to get rid of the oppression which they
had felt for some time.

"Hush!" said Funkelstein, solemnly.--"Will no one else touch the
plate, as well?  It will seldom move with one.  It does with me.
But I fear I might be suspected of treachery, if I offered to join
Mr. Arnold."

"Do not hint at such a thing.  You are beyond suspicion."

What ground Mr. Arnold had for making such an assertion, was no
better known to himself than to any one else present.  Von
Funkelstein, without another word, put the fingers of one hand
lightly on the plate beside Mr. Arnold's.  The plate instantly began
to move upon the paper.  The motion was a succession of small jerks
at first; but soon it tilted up a little, and moved upon a changing
point of support.  Now it careered rapidly in wavy lines, sweeping
back towards the other side, as often as it approached the extremity
of the sheet, the men keeping their fingers in contact with it, but
not appearing to influence its motion.  Gradually the motion ceased.
Von Funkelstein withdrew his hand, and requested that the other
candle should be lighted.  The paper was taken up and examined.
Nothing could be discovered upon it, but a labyrinth of wavy and
sweepy lines.  Funkelstein pored over it for some minutes, and then
confessed his inability to make a single letter out of it, still
less words and sentences, as he had expected.

"But," said he, "we are at least so far successful: it moves.  Let
us try again.  Who will try next?"

"I will," said Hugh, who had refrained at first, partly from dislike
to the whole affair, partly because he shrank from putting himself
forward.

A new sheet of paper was fixed.  The candle was extinguished.  Hugh
put his fingers on the plate.  In a second or two, it began to move.

"A medium!" murmured Funkelstein.  He then spoke aloud some words
unintelligible to the rest.

Whether from the peculiarity of his position and the consequent
excitement of his imagination, or from some other cause, Hugh grew
quite cold, and began to tremble.  The plate, which had been
careering violently for a few moments, now went more slowly, making
regular short motions and returns, at right angles to its chief
direction, as if letters were being formed by the pencil.  Hugh
shuddered, thinking he recognised the letters as they grew.  The
writing ceased.  The candles were brought.  Yes; there it was!--not
plain, but easily decipherable--David Elginbrod.  Hugh felt sick.

Euphra, looking on beside him, whispered:

"What an odd name!  Who can it mean?"

He made no reply

Neither of the other ladies saw it; for Mrs. Elton had discovered,
the moment the second candle was lighted, that Lady Emily was either
asleep or in a faint.  She was soon all but satisfied that she was
asleep.

Hugh's opinion, gathered from what followed, was, that the Bohemian
had not been so intent on the operations with the plate, as he had
appeared to be; and that he had been employing part of his energy in
mesmerising Lady Emily.  Mrs. Elton, remembering that she had had
quite a long walk that morning, was not much alarmed.  Unwilling to
make a disturbance, she rang the bell very quietly, and, going to
the door, asked the servant who answered it, to send her maid with
some eau-de-cologne.  Meantime, the gentlemen had been too much
absorbed to take any notice of her proceedings, and, after removing
the one and extinguishing the other candle, had reverted to the
plate.--Hugh was still the operator.

Von Funkelstein spoke again in an unknown tongue.  The plate began
to move as before.  After only a second or two of preparatory
gyration, Hugh felt that it was writing Turriepuffit, and shook from
head to foot.

Suddenly, in the middle of the word, the plate ceased its motion,
and lay perfectly still.  Hugh felt a kind of surprise come upon
him, as if he waked from an unpleasant dream, and saw the sun
shining.  The morbid excitement of his nervous system had suddenly
ceased, and a healthful sense of strength and every-day life took
its place.

Simultaneously with the stopping of the plate, and this new feeling
which I have tried to describe, Hugh involuntarily raised his eyes
towards the door of the room.  In the all-but-darkness between him
and the door, he saw a pale beautiful face--a face only.  It was the
face of Margaret Elginbrod; not, however, such as he had used to see
it--but glorified.  That was the only word by which he could
describe its new aspect.  A mist of darkness fell upon his brain,
and the room swam round with him.  But he was saved from falling, or
attracting attention to a weakness for which he could have made no
excuse, by a sudden cry from Lady Emily.

"See! see!" she cried wildly, pointing towards one of the windows.

These looked across to another part of the house, one of the oldest,
at some distance.--One of its windows, apparently on the first
floor, shone with a faint bluish light.

All the company had hurried to the window at Lady Emily's
exclamation.

"Who can be in that part of the house?" said Mr. Arnold, angrily.

"It is Lady Euphrasia's window," said Euphra, in a low voice, the
tone of which suggested, somehow, that the speaker was very cold.

"What do you mean by speaking like that?" said Mr. Arnold,
forgetting his dignity. "Surely you are above being superstitious.
Is it possible the servants could be about any mischief?  I will
discharge any one at once, that dares go there without permission."

The light disappeared, fading slowly out.

"Indeed, the servants are all too much alarmed, after what took
place last year, to go near that wing--much less that room," said
Euphra. "Besides, Mrs. Horton has all the keys in her own charge."

"Go yourself and get me them, Euphra.  I will see at once what this
means.  Don't say why you want them."

"Certainly not, uncle."

Hugh had recovered almost instantaneously.  Though full of
amazement, he had yet his perceptive faculties sufficiently
unimpaired to recognise the real source of the light in the window.
It seemed to him more like moonlight than anything else; and he
thought the others would have seen it to be such, but for the effect
of Lady Emily's sudden exclamation.  Perhaps she was under the
influence of the Bohemian at the moment.  Certainly they were all in
a tolerable condition for seeing whatever might be required of them.
True, there was no moon to be seen; and if it was the moon, why did
the light go out?  But he found afterwards that he had been right.
The house stood upon a rising ground; and, every recurring cycle,
the moon would shine, through a certain vista of trees and branches,
upon Lady Euphrasia's window; provided there had been no growth of
twigs to stop up the channel of the light, which was so narrow that
in a few moments the moon had crossed it.  A gap in a hedge made by
a bull that morning, had removed the last screen.--Lady Euphrasia's
window was so neglected and dusty, that it could reflect nothing
more than a dim bluish shimmer.

"Will you all accompany me, ladies and gentlemen, that you may see
with your own eyes that there is nothing dangerous in the house?"
said Mr. Arnold.

Of course Funkelstein was quite ready, and Hugh as well, although he
felt at this moment ill-fitted for ghost-hunting.  The ladies
hesitated; but at last, more afraid of being left behind alone, than
of going with the gentlemen, they consented.  Euphra brought the
keys, and they commenced their march of investigation.  Up the grand
staircase they went, Mr. Arnold first with the keys, Hugh next with
Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily, and the Bohemian, considerably to Hugh's
dissatisfaction, bringing up the rear with Euphra.--This
misarrangement did more than anything else could have done, to
deaden for the time the distraction of feeling produced in Hugh's
mind by the events of the last few minutes.  Yet even now he seemed
to be wandering through the old house in a dream, instead of
following Mr. Arnold, whose presence might well have been sufficient
to destroy any illusion, except such as a Chinese screen might
superinduce; for, possessed of far less imagination than a horse, he
was incapable of any terrors, but such as had to do with robbers, or
fire, or chartists--which latter fear included both the former.  He
strode on securely, carrying a candle in one hand, and the keys in
the other.  Each of the other gentlemen likewise bore a light.  They
had to go through doors, some locked, some open, following a
different route from that taken by Euphra on a former occasion.

But Mr. Arnold found the keys troublesome.  He could not easily
distinguish those he wanted, and was compelled to apply to Euphra.
She left Funkelstein in consequence, and walked in front with her
uncle.  Her former companion got beside Lady Emily, and as they
could not well walk four abreast, she fell behind with him.  So Hugh
got next to Euphra, behind her, and was comforted.

At length, by tortuous ways, across old rooms, and up and down
abrupt little stairs, they reached the door of Lady Euphrasia's
room.  The key was found, and the door opened with some
perturbation--manifest on the part of the ladies, and concealed on
the part of the men.  The place was quite dark.  They entered; and
Hugh was greatly struck with its strange antiquity.  Lady
Euphrasia's ghost had driven the last occupant out of it nearly a
hundred years ago; but most of the furniture was much older than
that, having probably belonged to Lady Euphrasia herself.  The room
remained just as the said last occupant had left it.  Even the
bed-clothes remained, folded down, as if expecting their occupant
for the last hundred years.  The fine linen had grown yellow; and
the rich counterpane lay like a churchyard after the resurrection,
full of the open graves of the liberated moths.  On the wall hung
the portrait of a nun in convent-attire.

"Some have taken that for a second portrait of Lady Euphrasia," said
Mr. Arnold, "but it cannot be.--Euphra, we will go back through the
picture gallery.--I suspect it of originating the tradition that
Lady Euphrasia became a nun at last.  I do not believe it myself.
The picture is certainly old enough to stand for her, but it does
not seem to me in the least like the other."

It was a great room, with large recesses, and therefore irregular in
form.  Old chairs, with remnants of enamel and gilding, and seats of
faded damask, stood all about.  But the beauty of the chamber was
its tapestry.  The walls were entirely covered with it, and the rich
colours had not yet receded into the dull grey of the past, though
their gorgeousness had become sombre with age.  The subject was the
story of Samson.

"Come and see this strange piece of furniture," said Euphra to Hugh,
who had kept by her side since they entered this room.

She led him into one of the recesses, almost concealed by the
bed-hangings.  In it stood a cabinet of ebony, reaching nearly to
the ceiling, curiously carved in high relief.

"I wish I could show you the inside of it," she went on, "but I
cannot now."

This was said almost in a whisper.  Hugh replied with only a look of
thanks.  He gazed at the carving, on whose black surface his candle
made little light, and threw no shadows.

"You have looked at this before, Euphra," said he. "Explain it to
me."

"I have often tried to find out what it is," she answered; "but I
never could quite satisfy myself about it."

She proceeded, however, to tell him what she fancied it might mean,
speaking still in the low tone which seemed suitable to the awe of
the place.  She got interested in showing him the relations of the
different figures; and he made several suggestions as to the
possible intention of the artist.  More than one well-known subject
was proposed and rejected.

Suddenly becoming aware of the sensation of silence, they looked up,
and saw that theirs was the only light in the room.  They were left
alone in the haunted chamber.--They looked at each other for one
moment; then said, with half-stifled voices:

"Euphra!"

"Hugh!"

Euphra seemed half amused and half perplexed.  Hugh looked half
perplexed and wholly pleased.

"Come, come," said Euphra, recovering herself, and leading the way
to the door.

When they reached it, they found it closed and locked.  Euphra
raised her hand to beat on it.  Hugh caught it.

"You will drive Lady Emily into fits.  Did you not see how awfully
pale she was?"

Euphra instantly lifted her hand again, as if she would just like to
try that result.  But Hugh, who was in no haste for any result, held
her back.

She struggled for a moment or two, but not very strenuously, and,
desisting all at once, let her arms drop by her sides.

"I fear it is too late.  This is a double door, and Mr. Arnold will
have locked all the doors between this and the picture-gallery.
They are there now.  What shall we do?"

She said this with an expression of comical despair, which would
have made Hugh burst into laughter, had he not been too much pleased
to laugh.

"Never mind," he said, "we will go on with our study of the cabinet.
They will soon find out that we are left behind, and come back to
look for us."

"Yes, but only fancy being found here!"

She laughed; but the laugh did not succeed.  It could not hide a
real embarrassment.  She pondered, and seemed irresolute.  Then with
the words--"They will say we stayed behind on purpose," she moved
her hand to the door, but again withdrew it, and stood irresolute.

"Let us put out the light." said Hugh laughing, "and make no
answer."

"Can you starve well?"

"With you."

She murmured something to herself; then said aloud and hastily, as
if she had made up her mind by the compulsion of circumstances:

"But this won't do.  They are still looking at the portrait, I
daresay.  Come."

So saying, she went into another recess, and, lifting a curtain of
tapestry, opened a door.

"Come quick," she said.

Hugh followed her down a short stair into a narrow passage, nowhere
lighted from the outside.  The door went to behind them, as if some
one had banged it in anger at their intrusion.  The passage smelt
very musty, and was as quiet as death.

"Not a word of this, Hugh, as you love me.  It may be useful yet."

"Not a word."

They came through a sliding panel into an empty room.  Euphra closed
it behind them.

"Now shade your light."

He did so.  She took him by the hand.  A few more turns brought them
in sight of the lights of the rest of the party.  As Euphra had
conjectured, they were looking at the picture of Lady Euphrasia, Mr.
Arnold prosing away to them, in proof that the nun could not be she.
They entered the gallery without being heard; and parting a little
way, one pretending to look at one picture, the other at another,
crept gradually round till they joined the group.  It was a piece of
most successful generalship.  Euphra was, doubtless, quite prepared
with her story in case it should fail.

"Dear Lady Emily," said she, "how tired you look!  Do let us go,
uncle."

"By all means.  Take my arm, Lady Emily.  Euphra, will you take the
keys again, and lock the doors?"

Mrs. Elton had already taken Hugh's arm, and was leading him away
after Mr. Arnold and Lady Emily.

"I will not leave you behind with the spectres, Miss Cameron," said
Funkelstein.

"Thank you; they will not detain me long.  They don't mind being
locked up."

It was some little time, however, before they presented themselves
in the drawing-room, to which, and not to the library, the party had
gone: they had had enough of horrors for that night.

Lest my readers should think they have had too many wonders at
least, I will explain one of them.  It was really Margaret Elginbrod
whom Hugh had seen.  Mrs. Elton was the lady in whose service she
had left her home.  It was nothing strange that they had not met,
for Margaret knew he was in the same house, and had several times
seen him, but had avoided meeting him.  Neither was it a wonderful
coincidence that they should be in such close proximity; for the
college friend from whom Hugh had first heard of Mr. Arnold, was the
son of the gentleman whom Mrs. Elton was visiting, when she first
saw Margaret.

Margaret had obeyed her mistress's summons to the drawing-room, and
had entered while Hugh was stooping over the plate.  As the room was
nearly dark, and she was dressed in black, her pale face alone
caught the light and his eye as he looked up, and the giddiness
which followed had prevented him from seeing more.  She left the
room the next moment, while they were all looking out of the window.
Nor was it any exercise of his excited imagination that had
presented her face as glorified.  She was now a woman; and, there
being no divine law against saying so, I say that she had grown a
lady as well; as indeed any one might have foreseen who was capable
of foreseeing it.  Her whole nature had blossomed into a still,
stately, lily-like beauty; and the face that Hugh saw was indeed the
realised idea of the former face of Margaret.

But how did the plate move? and whence came the writing of old
David's name?  I must, for the present, leave the whole matter to
the speculative power of each of my readers.

But Margaret was in mourning: was David indeed dead?

He was dead.--Yet his name will stand as the name of my story for
pages to come; because, if he had not been in it, the story would
never have been worth writing; because the influence of that
ploughman is the salt of the whole; because a man's life in the
earth is not to be measured by the time he is visible upon it; and
because, when the story is wound up, it will be in the presence of
his spirit.

Do I then believe that David himself did write that name of his?

Heaven forbid that any friend of mine should be able to believe it!

Long before she saw him, Margaret had known, from what she heard
among the servants, that Master Harry's tutor could be no other than
her own tutor of the old time.  By and by she learned a great deal
about him from Harry's talk with Mrs. Elton and Lady Emily.  But she
did not give the least hint that she knew him, or betray the least
desire to see him.

Mrs. Elton was amusingly bewildered by the occurrences of the
evening.  Her theories were something astounding; and followed one
another with such alarming rapidity, that had they been in
themselves such as to imply the smallest exercise of the thinking
faculty, she might well have been considered in danger of an attack
of brain-fever.  As it was, none such supervened.  Lady Emily said
nothing, but seemed unhappy.  As for Hugh, he simply could not tell
what to make of the writing.  But he did not for a moment doubt that
the vision he had seen was only a vision--a home-made ghost, sent
out from his own creative brain.  Still he felt that Margaret's
face, come whence it might, was a living reproof to him; for he was
losing his life in passion, sinking deeper in it day by day.  His
powers were deserting him.  Poetry, usually supposed to be the
attendant of love, had deserted him.  Only by fits could he see
anything beautiful; and then it was but in closest association of
thought with the one image which was burning itself deeper and
deeper into his mental sensorium.  Come what might, he could not
tear it away.  It had become a part of himself--of his inner
life--even while it seemed to be working the death of life.  Deeper
and deeper it would burn, till it reached the innermost chamber of
life.  Let it burn.

Yet he felt that he could not trust her.  Vague hopes he had, that,
by trusting, she might be made trustworthy; but he feared they were
vain as well as vague.  And yet he would not cast them away, for he
could not cast her away.




CHAPTER XVIII.

MORE MATERIALISM AND SOME SPIRITUALISM.

God wisheth none should wreck on a strange shelf:
  To Him man's dearer than to himself.

BEN Jonson.--The Forest: To Sir Robert Wroth.


At breakfast the following morning, the influences of the past day
on the family were evident.  There was a good deal of excitement,
alternated with listlessness.  The moral atmosphere seemed
unhealthy; and Harry, although he had, fortunately for him, had
nothing to do with the manifestations of the previous evening, was
affected by the condition of those around him.  Hugh was still
careful enough of him to try to divert the conversation entirely
from what he knew would have a very injurious effect upon him; and
Mr. Arnold, seeing the anxious way in which he glanced now and then
at his pupil, and divining the reason, by the instinct of his
affection, with far more than his usual acuteness, tried likewise to
turn it aside, as often as it inclined that way.  Still a few words
were let fall by the visitors, which made Harry stare.  Hugh took
him away as soon as breakfast was over.

In the afternoon, Funkelstein called to inquire after the ladies;
and hoped he had no injury to their health to lay on his conscience.
Mr. Arnold, who had a full allowance of curiosity, its amount being
frequently in an inverse ratio to that of higher intellectual gifts,
begged him to spend the rest of the day with them; but not to say a
word of what had passed the day before, till after Harry had retired
for the night.

Renewed conversation led to renewed experiments in the library.
Hugh, however, refused to have anything more to do with the
plate-writing; for he dreaded its influence on his physical nature,
attributing, as I have said, the vision of Margaret to a cerebral
affection.  And the plate did not seem to work satisfactorily with
any one else, except Funkelstein, who, for his part, had no great
wish to operate.  Recourse was had to a more vulgar method--that of
expectant solicitation of those noises whereby the prisoners in the
aërial vaults are supposed capable of communicating with those in
this earthly cell.  Certainly, raps were heard from some quarter or
another; and when the lights were extinguished, and the crescent
moon only allowed to shine in the room, some commotion was
discernible amongst the furniture.  Several light articles flew
about.  A pen-wiper alighted on Euphra's lap, and a sofa-pillow
gently disarranged Mrs. Elton's cap.  Most of the artillery,
however, was directed against Lady Emily; and she it was who saw, in
a faint stream of moonlight, a female arm uplifted towards her, from
under a table, with a threatening motion.  It was bare to the elbow,
and draped above.  It showed first a clenched fist, and next an open
hand, palm outwards, making a repellent gesture.  Then the back of
the hand was turned, and it motioned her away, as if she had been an
importunate beggar.  But at this moment, one of the doors opened,
and a dark figure passed through the room towards the opposite door.
Everything that could be called ghostly, ceased instantaneously.
The arm vanished.  The company breathed more freely.

Lady Emily, who had been on the point of going into hysterics,
recovered herself, and overcame the still lingering impulse: she
felt as if she had awaked from a momentary aberration of the
intellect.  Mr. Arnold proceeded to light the candles, saying, in a
righteous tone:

"I think we have had enough of this nonsense."

When the candles were lighted, there was no one to be seen in the
room besides themselves.  Several, Hugh amongst them, had observed
the figure; but all had taken it for part of the illusive
phantasmagoria.  Hugh would have concluded it a variety of his
vision of the former night; but others had seen it as well as he.

There was no renewal of the experiments that night.  But all were in
a very unhealthy state of excitement.  Vague fear, vague wonder, and
a certain indescribable oppression, had dimmed for the time all the
clearer vision, and benumbed all the nobler faculties of the soul.
Lady Emily was affected the most.  Her eyes looked scared; there
was a bright spot on one cheek amidst deathly paleness; and she
seemed very unhappy.  Mrs. Elton became alarmed, and this brought
her back to a more rational condition.  She persuaded Lady Emily to
go to bed.

But the contagion spread; and indistinct terrors were no longer
confined to the upper portions of the family.  The bruit revived,
which had broken out a year before--that the house was haunted.  It
was whispered that, the very night after these occurrences, the
Ghost's Walk had been in use as the name signified: a figure in
death-garments had been seen gliding along the deserted avenue, by
one of the maid-servants; the truth of whose story was corroborated
by the fact that, to support it, she did not hesitate to confess
that she had escaped from the house, nearly at midnight, to meet one
of the grooms in a part of the wood contiguous to the avenue in
question.  Mr. Arnold instantly dismissed her--not on the ground of
the intrigue, he took care to let her know, although that was bad
enough, but because she was a fool, and spread absurd and annoying
reports about the house.  Mr. Arnold's usual hatred of what he
called superstition, was rendered yet more spiteful by the fact,
that the occurrences of the week had had such an effect on his own
mind, that he was mortally afraid lest he should himself sink into
the same limbo of vanity.  The girl, however, was, or pretended to
be, quite satisfied with her discharge, protesting she would not
have staid for the world; and as the groom, whose wages happened to
have been paid the day before, took himself off the same evening, it
may be hoped her satisfaction was not altogether counterfeit.

"If all tales be true," said Mrs. Elton, "Lady Euphrasia is where
she can't get out."

"But if she repented before she died?" said Euphra, with a muffled
scorn in her tone.

"My dear Miss Cameron, do you call becoming a nun--repentance?  We
Protestants know very well what that means.  Besides, your uncle
does not believe it."

"Haven't you found out yet, dear Mrs. Elton, what my uncle's
favourite phrase is?"

"No. What is it?"

"I don't believe it."

"You naughty girl!"

"I'm not naughty," answered Euphra, affecting to imitate the
simplicity of a chidden child. "My uncle is so fond of casting doubt
upon everything!  If salvation goes by quantity, his faith won't
save him."

Euphra knew well enough that Mrs. Elton was no tell-tale.  The good
lady had hopes of her from this moment, because she all but quoted
Scripture to condemn her uncle; the verdict corresponding with her
own judgment of Mr. Arnold, founded on the clearest assertions of
Scripture; strengthened somewhat, it must be confessed, by the fact
that the spirits, on the preceding evening but one, had rapped out
the sentence: "Without faith it is impossible to please him."

Lady Emily was still in bed, but apparently more sick in mind than
in body.  She said she had tossed about all the previous night
without once falling asleep; and her maid, who had slept in the
dressing-room without waking once, corroborated the assertion.  In
the morning, Mrs. Elton, wishing to relieve the maid, sent Margaret
to Lady Emily.  Margaret arranged the bedclothes and pillows, which
were in a very uncomfortable condition, sat down behind the curtain;
and, knowing that it would please Lady Emily, began to sing, in what
the French call a, veiled voice, The Land o' the Leal. Now the air
of this lovely song is the same as that of Scots wha hae; but it is
the pibroch of onset changed into the coronach of repose, singing of
the land beyond the battle, of the entering in of those who have
fought the good fight, and fallen in the field.  It is the silence
after the thunder.  Before she had finished, Lady Emily was fast
asleep.  A sweet peaceful half smile lighted her troubled face
graciously, like the sunshine that creeps out when it can, amidst
the rain of an autumn day, saying, "I am with you still, though we
are all troubled."  Finding her thus at rest, Margaret left the room
for a minute, to fetch some work.  When she returned, she found her
tossing, and moaning, and apparently on the point of waking.  As
soon as she sat down by her, her trouble diminished by degrees, till
she lay in the same peaceful sleep as before.  In this state she
continued for two or three hours, and awoke much refreshed.  She
held out her little hand to Margaret, and said:

"Thank you.  Thank you.  What a sweet creature you are!"

And Lady Emily lay and gazed in loving admiration at the face of the
lady's-maid.

"Shall I send Sarah to you now, my lady?" said Margaret; "or would
you like me to stay with you?"

"Oh! you, you, please--if Mrs. Elton can spare you."

"She will only think of your comfort, I know, my lady."

"That recalls me to my duty, and makes me think of her."

"But your comfort will be more to her than anything else."

"In that case you must stay, Margaret."

"With pleasure, my lady."

Mrs. Elton entered, and quite confirmed what Margaret had said.

"But," she added, "it is time Lady Emily had something to eat.  Go
to the cook, Margaret, and see if the beef-tea Miss Cameron ordered
is ready."

Margaret went.

"What a comfort it is," said Mrs. Elton, wishing to interest Lady
Emily, "that now-a-days, when infidelity is so rampant, such
corroborations of Sacred Writ are springing up on all sides!  There
are the discoveries at Nineveh; and now these Spiritual
Manifestations, which bear witness so clearly to another world."

But Lady Emily made no reply.  She began to toss about as before,
and show signs of inexplicable discomfort.  Margaret had hardly been
gone two minutes, when the invalid moaned out:

"What a time Margaret is gone!--when will she be back?"

"I am here, my love," said Mrs. Elton.

"Yes, yes; thank you.  But I want Margaret."

"She will be here presently.  Have patience, my dear."

"Please, don't let Miss Cameron come near me.  I am afraid I am very
wicked, but I can't bear her to come near me."

"No, no, dear; we will keep you to ourselves."

"Is Mr.--, the foreign gentleman, I mean--below?"

"No. He is gone."

"Are you sure?  I can hardly believe it."

"What do you mean, dear?  I am sure he is gone."

Lady Emily did not answer.  Margaret returned.  She took the
beef-tea, and grew quiet again.

"You must not leave her ladyship, Margaret," whispered her mistress.
"She has taken it into her head to like no one but you, and you must
just stay with her."

"Very well, ma'am.  I shall be most happy."

Mrs. Elton left the room.  Lady Emily said:

"Read something to me, Margaret."

"What shall I read?"

"Anything you like."

Margaret got a Bible, and read to her one of her father's favourite
chapters, the fortieth of Isaiah.

"I have no right to trust in God, Margaret."

"Why, my lady?"

"Because I do not feel any faith in him; and you know we cannot be
accepted without faith."

"That is to make God as changeable as we are, my lady."

"But the Bible says so."

"I don't think it does; but if an angel from heaven said so, I would
not believe it."

"Margaret!"

"My lady, I love God with all my heart, and I cannot bear you should
think so of him.  You might as well say that a mother would go away
from her little child, lying moaning in the dark, because it could
not see her, and was afraid to put its hand out into the dark to
feel for her."

"Then you think he does care for us, even when we are very wicked.
But he cannot bear wicked people."

"Who dares to say that?" cried Margaret. "Has he not been making the
world go on and on, with all the wickedness that is in it; yes,
making new babies to be born of thieves and murderers and sad women
and all, for hundreds of years?  God help us, Lady Emily!  If he
cannot bear wicked people, then this world is hell itself, and the
Bible is all a lie, and the Saviour did never die for sinners.  It
is only the holy Pharisees that can't bear wicked people."

"Oh! how happy I should be, if that were true!  I should not be
afraid now."

"You are not wicked, dear Lady Emily; but if you were, God would
bend over you, trying to get you back, like a father over his sick
child.  Will people never believe about the lost sheep?"

"Oh! yes; I believe that.  But then--"

"You can't trust it quite.  Trust in God, then, the very father of
you--and never mind the words.  You have been taught to turn the
very words of God against himself."

Lady Emily was weeping.

"Lady Emily," Margaret went on, "if I felt my heart as hard as a
stone; if I did not love God, or man, or woman, or little child, I
would yet say to God in my heart: 'O God, see how I trust thee,
because thou art perfect, and not changeable like me.  I do not love
thee.  I love nobody.  I am not even sorry for it.  Thou seest how
much I need thee to come close to me, to put thy arm round me, to
say to me, my child; for the worse my state, the greater my need of
my father who loves me.  Come to me, and my day will dawn.  My
beauty and my love will come back; and oh! how I shall love thee, my
God! and know that my love is thy love, my blessedness thy being.'"

As Margaret spoke, she seemed to have forgotten Lady Emily's
presence, and to be actually praying.  Those who cannot receive such
words from the lips of a lady's-maid, must be reminded what her
father was, and that she had lost him.  She had had advantages at
least equal to those which David the Shepherd had--and he wrote the
Psalms.

She ended with:

"I do not even desire thee to come, yet come thou."

She seemed to pray entirely as Lady Emily, not as Margaret.  When
she had ceased, Lady Emily said, sobbing:

"You will not leave me, Margaret?  I will tell you why another
time."

"I will not leave you, my dear lady."

Margaret stooped and kissed her forehead.  Lady Emily threw her arms
round her neck, and offered her mouth to be kissed by the maid.  In
another minute she was fast asleep, with Margaret seated by her
side, every now and then glancing up at her from her work, with a
calm face, over which brooded the mist of tears.

That night, as Hugh paced up and down the floor of his study about
midnight, he was awfully startled by the sudden opening of the door
and the apparition of Harry in his nightshirt, pale as death, and
scarcely able to articulate the words:

"The ghost! the ghost!"

He took the poor boy in his arms, held him fast, and comforted him.
When he was a little soothed,

"Oh, Harry!" he said, lightly, "you've been dreaming.  Where's the
ghost?"

"In the Ghost's Walk," cried Harry, almost shrieking anew with
terror.

"How do you know it is there?"

"I saw it from my window.--I couldn't sleep.  I got up and looked
out--I don't know why--and I saw it!  I saw it!"

The words were followed by a long cry of terror.

"Come and show it to me," said Hugh, wanting to make light of it.

"No, no, Mr. Sutherland--please not.  I couldn't go back into that
room."

"Very well, dear Harry; you shan't go back.  You shall sleep with
me, to-night."

"Oh! thank you, thank you, dear Mr. Sutherland.  You will love me
again, won't you?"

This touched Hugh's heart.  He could hardly refrain from tears.  His
old love, buried before it was dead, revived.  He clasped the boy to
his heart, and carried him to his own bed; then, to comfort him,
undressed and lay down beside him, without even going to look if he
too might not see the ghost.  She had brought about one good thing
at least that night; though, I fear, she had no merit in it.

Lady Emily's room likewise looked out upon the Ghost's Walk.
Margaret heard the cry as she sat by the sleeping Emily; and, not
knowing whence it came, went, naturally enough, in her perplexity,
to the window.  From it she could see distinctly, for it was clear
moonlight: a white figure went gliding away along the deserted
avenue.  She immediately guessed what the cry had meant; but as she
had heard a door bang directly after (as Harry shut his behind him
with a terrified instinct, to keep the awful window in), she was not
very uneasy about him.  She felt besides that she must remain where
she was, according to her promise to Lady Emily.  But she resolved
to be prepared for the possible recurrence of the same event, and
accordingly revolved it in her mind.  She was sure that any report
of it coming to Lady Emily's ears, would greatly impede her
recovery; for she instinctively felt that her illness had something
to do with the questionable occupations in the library.  She watched
by her bedside all the night, slumbering at times, but roused in a
moment by any restlessness of the patient; when she found that,
simply by laying her hand on hers, or kissing her forehead, she
could restore her at once to quiet sleep.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE GHOST'S WALK.

Thierry.--'Tis full of fearful shadows.
Ordella.--     So is sleep, sir;
   Or anything that's merely ours, and mortal;
   We were begotten gods else.  But those fears
   Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts,
   Fly, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.--Thierry and Theodoret.


Margaret sat watching the waking of Lady Emily.  Knowing how much
the first thought colours the feeling of the whole day, she wished
that Lady Emily should at once be aware that she was by her side.

She opened her eyes, and a smile broke over her face when she
perceived her nurse.  But Margaret did not yet speak to her.

Every nurse should remember that waking ought always to be a gradual
operation; and, except in the most triumphant health, is never
complete on the opening of the eyes.

"Margaret, I am better," said Lady Emily, at last.

"I am very glad, my lady."

"I have been lying awake for some time, and I am sure I am better.
I don't see strange-coloured figures floating about the room as I
did yesterday.  Were you not out of the room a few minutes ago?"

"Just for one moment, my lady."

"I knew it.  But I did not mind it.  Yesterday, when you left me,
those figures grew ten times as many, the moment you were gone.  But
you will stay with me to-day, too, Margaret?" she added, with some
anxiety.

"I will, if you find you need me.  But I may be forced to leave you
a little while this evening--you must try to allow me this, dear
Lady Emily."

"Of course I will.  I will be quite patient, I promise you, whatever
comes to me."

When Harry woke, after a very troubled sleep, from which he had
often started with sudden cries of terror, Hugh made him promise not
to increase the confusion of the household, by speaking of what he
had seen.  Harry promised at once, but begged in his turn that Hugh
would not leave him all day.  It did not need the pale scared face
of his pupil to enforce the request; for Hugh was already anxious
lest the fright the boy had had, should exercise a permanently
deleterious effect on his constitution.  Therefore he hardly let him
out of his sight.

But although Harry kept his word, the cloud of perturbation gathered
thicker in the kitchen and the servants' hall.  Nothing came to the
ears of their master and mistress; but gloomy looks, sudden starts,
and sidelong glances of fear, indicated the prevailing character of
the feelings of the household.

And although Lady Emily was not so ill, she had not yet taken a
decided turn for the better, but appeared to suffer from some kind
of low fever.  The medical man who was called in, confessed to Mrs.
Elton, that as yet he could say nothing very decided about her
condition, but recommended great quiet and careful nursing.
Margaret scarcely left her room, and the invalid showed far more
than the ordinary degree of dependence upon her nurse.  In her
relation to her, she was more like a child than an invalid.

About noon she was better.  She called Margaret and said to her:

"Margaret, dear, I should like to tell you one thing that annoys me
very much."

"What is it, dear Lady Emily?"

"That man haunts me.  I cannot bear the thought of him; and yet I
cannot get rid of him.  I am sure he is a bad man.  Are you certain
he is not here?"

"Yes, indeed, my lady.  He has not been here since the day before
yesterday."

"And yet when you leave me for an instant, I always feel as if he
were sitting in the very seat where you were the moment before, or
just coming to the door and about to open it.  That is why I cannot
bear you to leave me."

Margaret might have confessed to some slighter sensations of the
same kind; but they did not oppress her as they did Lady Emily.

"God is nearer to you than any thought or feeling of yours, Lady
Emily.  Do not be afraid.  If all the evil things in the universe
were around us, they could not come inside the ring that he makes
about us.  He always keeps a place for himself and his child, into
which no other being can enter."

"Oh! how you must love God, Margaret!"

"Indeed I do love him, my lady.  If ever anything looks beautiful or
lovely to me, then I know at once that God is that."

"But, then, what right have we to take the good of that, however
true it is, when we are not beautiful ourselves?"

"That only makes God the more beautiful--in that he will pour out
the more of his beauty upon us to make us beautiful.  If we care for
his glory, we shall be glad to believe all this about him.  But we
are too anxious about feeling good ourselves, to rejoice in his
perfect goodness.  I think we should find that enough, my lady.
For, if he be good, are not we his children, and sure of having it,
not merely feeling it, some day?"

Here Margaret repeated a little poem of George Herbert's.  She had
found his poems amongst Mrs. Elton's books, who, coming upon her
absorbed in it one day, had made her a present of the volume.  Then
indeed Margaret had found a friend.

The poem is called Dialogue:

     "Sweetest Saviour, if my soul
      Were but worth the having--"

"Oh, what a comfort you are to me, Margaret!"  Lady Emily said,
after a short silence.  Where did you learn such things?"

"From my father, and from Jesus Christ, and from God himself,
showing them to me in my heart."

"Ah! that is why, as often as you come into my room, even if I am
very troubled, I feel as if the sun shone, and the wind blew, and
the birds sang, and the tree-tops went waving in the wind, as they
used to do before I was taken ill--I mean before they thought I must
go abroad.  You seem to make everything clear, and right, and plain.
I wish I were you, Margaret."

"If I were you, my lady, I would rather be what God chose to make
me, than the most glorious creature that I could think of.  For to
have been thought about--born in God's thoughts--and then made by
God, is the dearest, grandest, most precious thing in all thinking.
Is it not, my lady?"

"It is," said Lady Emily, and was silent.

The shadows of evening came on.  As soon as it was dark, Margaret
took her place at one of the windows hidden from Lady Emily by a
bed-curtain.  She raised the blind, and pulled aside one curtain, to
let her have a view of the trees outside.  She had placed the one
candle so as not to shine either on the window or on her own eyes.
Lady Emily was asleep.  One hour and another passed, and still she
sat there--motionless, watching.

Margaret did not know, that at another window--the one, indeed, next
to her own--stood a second watcher.  It was Hugh, in Harry's room:
Harry was asleep in Hugh's.  He had no light.  He stood with his
face close against the windowpane, on which the moon shone brightly.
All below him the woods were half dissolved away in the moonlight.
The Ghost's Walk lay full before him, like a tunnel through the
trees.  He could see a great way down, by the light that fell into
it, at various intervals, from between the boughs overhead.  He
stood thus for a long time, gazing somewhat listlessly.  Suddenly he
became all eyes, as he caught the white glimmer of something passing
up the avenue.  He stole out of the room, down to the library by the
back-stair, and so through the library window into the wood.  He
reached the avenue sideways, at some distance from the house, and
peeped from behind a tree, up and down.  At first he saw nothing.
But, a moment after, while he was looking down the avenue, that is,
away from the house, a veiled figure in white passed him noiselessly
from the other direction.  From the way in which he was looking at
the moment, it had passed him before he saw it.  It made no sound.
Only some early-fallen leaves rustled as they hurried away in
uncertain eddies, startled by the sweep of its trailing garments,
which yet were held up by hands hidden within them.  On it went.
Hugh's eyes were fixed on its course.  He could not move, and his
heart laboured so frightfully that he could hardly breathe.  The
figure had not advanced far, however, before he heard a repressed
cry of agony, and it sank to the earth, and vanished; while from
where it disappeared, down the path, came, silently too, turning
neither to the right nor the left, a second figure, veiled in black
from head to foot.

"It is the nun in Lady Euphrasia's room," said Hugh to himself.

This passed him too, and, walking slowly towards the house,
disappeared somewhere, near the end of the avenue.  Turning once
more, with reviving courage--for his blood had begun to flow more
equably--Hugh ventured to approach the spot where the white figure
had vanished.  He found nothing there but the shadow of a huge tree.
He walked through the avenue to the end, and then back to the
house, but saw nothing; though he often started at fancied
appearances.  Sorely bewildered, he returned to his own room.  After
speculating till thought was weary, he lay down beside Harry, whom
he was thankful to find in a still repose, and fell fast asleep.

Margaret lay on a couch in Lady Emily's room, and slept likewise;
but she started wide awake at every moan of the invalid, who often
moaned in her sleep.




CHAPTER XX.

THE BAD MAN.

She kent he was nae gentle knight,
  That she had letten in;
For neither when he gaed nor cam',
  Kissed he her cheek or chin.

He neither kissed her when he cam'
  Nor clappit her when he gaed;
And in and out at her bower window,
  The moon shone like the gleed.

Glenkindie.--Old Scotch Ballad.


When Euphra recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen--for
I need hardly explain to my readers, that it was she who walked the
Ghost's Walk in white--on seeing Margaret, whom, under the
irresistible influences of the moonlight and a bad conscience, she
took for the very being whom Euphra herself was personating--when
she recovered, I say, she found herself lying in the wood, with
Funkelstein, whom she had gone to meet, standing beside her.  Her
first words were of anger, as she tried to rise, and found she could
not.

"How long, Count Halkar, am I to be your slave?"

"Till you have learned to submit."

"Have I not done all I can?"

"You have not found it.  You are free from the moment you place that
ring, belonging to me, in right of my family, into my hands."

I do not believe that the man really was Count Halkar, although he
had evidently persuaded Euphra that such was his name and title.  I
think it much more probable that, in the course of picking up a mass
of trifling information about various families of distinction, for
which his position of secretary in several of their houses had
afforded him special facilities, he had learned something about the
Halkar family, and this particular ring, of which, for some reason
or other, he wanted to possess himself.

"What more can I do?" moaned Euphra, succeeding at length in raising
herself to a sitting posture, and leaning thus against a tree. "I
shall be found out some day.  I have been already seen wandering
through the house at midnight, with the heart of a thief.  I hate
you, Count Halkar!"

A low laugh was the count's only reply.

"And now Lady Euphrasia herself dogs my steps, to keep me from the
ring."  She gave a low cry of agony at the remembrance.

"Miss Cameron--Euphra--are you going to give way to such folly?"

"Folly!  Is it not worse folly to torture a poor girl as you do
me--all for a worthless ring?  What can you want with the ring?  I
do not know that he has it even."

"You lie.  You know he has.  You need not think to take me in."

"You base man!  You dare not give the lie to any but a woman."

"Why?"

"Because you are a coward.  You are afraid of Lady Euphrasia
yourself.  See there!"

Von Funkelstein glanced round him uneasily.  It was only the
moonlight on the bark of a silver birch.  Conscious of having
betrayed weakness, he grew spiteful.

"If you do not behave to me better, I will compel you.  Rise up!"

After a moment's hesitation, she rose.

"Put your arms round me."

She seemed to grow to the earth, and to drag herself from it, one
foot after another.  But she came close up to the Bohemian, and put
one arm half round him, looking to the earth all the time.

"Kiss me."

"Count Halkar!" her voice sounded hollow and harsh, as if from a
dead throat--"I will do what you please.  Only release me."

"Go then; but mind you resist me no more.  I do not care for your
kisses.  You were ready enough once.  But that idiot of a tutor has
taken my place, I see."

"Would to God I had never seen you!--never yielded to your influence
over me!  Swear that I shall be free if I find you the ring."

"You find the ring first.  Why should I swear?  I can compel you.
You know you laid yourself out to entrap me first with your arts,
and I only turned upon you with mine.  And you are in my power.  But
you shall be free, notwithstanding; and I will torture you till you
free yourself.  Find the ring."

"Cruel! cruel!  You are doing all you can to ruin me."

"On the contrary, I am doing all I can to save myself.  If you had
loved me as you allowed me to think once, I should never have made
you my tool."

"You would all the same."

"Take care.  I am irritable to-night."

For a few moments Euphra made no reply.

"To what will you drive me?" she said at last.

"I will not go too far.  I should lose my power over you if I did.
I prefer to keep it."

"Inexorable man!"

"Yes."

Another despairing pause.

"What am I to do?"

"Nothing.  But keep yourself ready to carry out any plan that I may
propose.  Something will turn up, now that I have got into the house
myself.  Leave me to find out the means.  I can expect no invention
from your brains.  You can go home."

Euphra turned without another word, and went; murmuring, as if in
excuse to herself:

"It is for my freedom.  It is for my freedom."

Of course this account must have come originally from Euphra
herself, for there was no one else to tell it.  She, at least,
believed herself compelled to do what the man pleased.  Some of my
readers will put her down as insane.  She may have been; but, for my
part, I believe there is such a power of one being over another,
though perhaps only in a rare contact of psychologically peculiar
natures.  I have testimony enough for that.  She had yielded to his
will once.  Had she not done so, he could not have compelled her;
but, having once yielded, she had not strength sufficient to free
herself again.  Whether even he could free her, further than by
merely abstaining from the exercise of the power he had gained, I
doubt much.

It is evident that he had come to the neighbourhood of Arnstead for
the sake of finding her, and exercising his power over her for his
own ends; that he had made her come to him once, if not oftener,
before he met Hugh, and by means of his acquaintance, obtained
admission into Arnstead.  Once admitted, he had easily succeeded, by
his efforts to please, in so far ingratiating himself with Mr.
Arnold, that now the house-door stood open to him, and he had even
his recognised seat at the dinner-table.




CHAPTER XXI.

SPIRIT VERSUS MATERIALISM.

Next this marble venomed seat,
Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold--
Now the spell hath lost his hold.

MILTON.--Comas.


Next morning Lady Emily felt better, and wanted to get up: but her
eyes were still too bright, and her hands too hot; and Margaret
would not hear of it.

Fond as Lady Emily was in general of Mrs. Elton's society, she did
not care to have her with her now, and got tired of her when
Margaret was absent.

They had taken care not to allow Miss Cameron to enter the room; but
to-day there was not much likelihood of her making the attempt, for
she did not appear at breakfast, sending a message to her uncle that
she had a bad headache, but hoped to take her place at the
dinner-table.

During the day, Lady Emily was better, but restless by fits.

"Were you not out of the room for a little while last night,
Margaret?" she said, rather suddenly.

"Yes, my lady.  I told you I should have to go, perhaps."

"I remember I thought you had gone, but I was not in the least
afraid, and that dreadful man never came near me.  I do not know
when you returned.  Perhaps I had fallen asleep; but when I thought
about you next, there you were by my bedside."

"I shall not have to leave you to-night," was all Margaret's answer.

As for Hugh, when first he woke, the extraordinary experiences of
the previous night appeared to him to belong only to the night, and
to have no real relation to the daylight world.  But a little
reflection soon convinced him of the contrary; and then he went
through the duties of the day like one who had nothing to do with
them.  The phantoms he had seen even occupied some of the thinking
space formerly appropriated by the image of Euphra, though he knew
to his concern that she was ill, and confined to her room.  He had
heard the message sent to Mr. Arnold, however, and so kept hoping
for the dinner-hour.

With it came Euphra, very pale.  Her eyes had an unsettled look, and
there were dark hollows under them.  She would start and look
sideways without any visible cause; and was thus very different from
her usual self--ordinarily remarkable for self-possession, almost to
coolness, of manner and speech.  Hugh saw it, and became both
distressed and speculative in consequence.  It did not diminish his
discomfort that, about the middle of dinner, Funkelstein was
announced.  Was it, then, that Euphra had been tremulously expectant
of him?

"This is an unforeseen pleasure, Herr von Funkelstein," said Mr.
Arnold.

"It is very good of you to call it a pleasure, Mr. Arnold," said he.
"Miss Cameron--but, good heavens! how ill you look!"

"Don't be alarmed.  I have only caught the plague."

"Only?" was all Funkelstein said in reply; yet Hugh thought he had
no right to be so solicitous about Euphra's health.

As the gentlemen sat at their wine, Mr. Arnold said:

"I am anxious to have one more trial of those strange things you
have brought to our knowledge.  I have been thinking about them ever
since."

"Of course I am at your service, Mr. Arnold; but don't you think,
for the ladies' sakes, we have had enough of it?"

"You are very considerate, Herr von Funkelstein; but they need not
be present if they do not like it."

"Very well, Mr. Arnold."

They adjourned once more to the library instead of the drawing-room.
Hugh went and told Euphra, who was alone in the drawing-room, what
they were about.  She declined going, but insisted on his leaving
her, and joining the other gentlemen.

Hugh left her with much reluctance.

"Margar