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A Daughter of Fife by Amelia Edith Barr

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* * * * *

"Ah, wretched and too solitary he
Who loves not his own company!"

* * * * *

"Fortune came smiling to the maid, and woo'd her"

Life would be but a mean abode for men and women if they could not open
the windows of their souls and look beyond it. During the weeks which
immediately followed Janet Caird's association with Maggie she felt this
truth, though she did not define the feeling to herself. She only realized
the comfort of withdrawing from the fretful presence of her aunt to the
contemplative, passionless serenity of the Word of God. But even this was
an offence. "What are you doing at a', Maggie?" was the certain inquiry if
she went to the quiet of her own room for an hour.

"I'm reading the Book a wee, Aunt Janet."

The comments upon this reply varied, according to Janet's temper.
Sometimes it was, "Well, the gude ken, you need to read it." Again it
would be, "_Havers!_ Hoo can the like o' you understand it, and no
man body to gie you the sense?" And if the volume happened to be one from
Allan's small library, her railing at "no-vels and the sin o' them" was
unstinted.

But the real cause of difference between the women was far beyond Maggie's
knowledge or power to alter. It had sprung up the very hour that David
asked her to come to Pittenloch and be a companion to his sister. No
sooner had he left her than she began to consider in what light the
proposition could bring her personally the most respect and sympathy, and
a neighbor coming in at the moment, she found in her own small boast the
key-note of her future treatment of her niece.

"I hae been called for, Mistress Futtrit, a' the road to Pittenloch," she
said, with a sigh; "my nephew is settled for the ministry--an' nae less--
and I maun just gae and tak' the guiding o' his sister and his hoose."

"You're auld to be fashed wi' a bairn noo, Mistress Caird."

"Na, na, it isna a bairn; Maggie Promoter is a braw, handsome lass, wi'
mair lovers than she has fingers and toes."

"But that's waur than a bairn. You'll be worn oot wi' the care o' it. I
ken by the heartaches my ain Baubie gied me. Early and late she keepit me
in het water."

"I hear tell that oor Maggie is just extraordinar' handsome and
extraordinar' self-willed. I ken I'm going to sorrow, but her fayther was
my brither, and I'll hae to do my duty, or be a meeserable woman."

"It's a credit to you, Mistress Caird, to hae feelings like them, and
you'll be supported dootless."

Jean Futtrit's pretty Baubie had not always behaved well; and Jean was
suspicious of all other young girls. She had thought the worst of Maggie
at once, and she made Janet Caird feel herself to be a very meritorious
domestic martyr in accepting the charge of her. This idea satisfied
Janet's craving for praise and sympathy; she fully endorsed it; she began
to take credit for her prudence and propriety before she even entered upon
her new life.

And circumstances in Pittenloch favored Janet; in a few days she had
received so much condolence, and had committed herself so completely
regarding her niece, that nothing could have induced her to reconsider her
conduct. Every trifle also in Maggie's attitude testified against herself.
She resented the constant conclaves of tea-drinking, gossiping women in
her house, and she was too honest-hearted to hide her disapproval from
them. The result was, that backed by Janet Caird, they came still more
frequently, and were more and more offensive. If she determined to make
the best of the matter, and remained with them, she was subjected to
advices, and innuendoes, and rude jokes, almost intolerable; and if she
went away she was accused of bad temper, of a greedy, grudging
disposition, and of contempt for her own people and class.

If Maggie had been wise enough to attend faithfully the weekly meeting in
Elder Mackelvine's cottage, she would have silenced many of her enemies.
But this one evening Maggie looked forward to, on different grounds;
Janet Caird never missed the meeting, and her absence gave Maggie two
sweet hours alone in her home. She locked her door, visited Allan's room,
changed her book, and afterward sat still, and let the time slip away in
thoughts sacred to her own heart.

As the end of the year approached Dr. Balmuto was expected. He made a
visit to Pittenloch every three months. Then he consoled the sick,
baptized weakly infants, reproved those who had been negligent in
attending kirk, and catechised and examined the young people previous to
their admission to The Tables. Maggie had not been very faithful about
the ordinances. The weather had been bad, the landward road was dangerous
when snow had fallen, and she did not like going in the boats among so
many who gave her only looks of grave disapproval. So she had made many
excuses, and in this matter Janet Caird had let her take her own way
without opposition. Absence from kirk was a proof of a falling away from
grace, which in the eyes of these people was beyond explanation; provided
the delinquent was not unmistakably sick.

The minister had noticed Maggie's frequent lapses from duty. He spoke to
Elder Mackelvine about it; and as the elder was in a manner responsible
for the flock to his superior shepherd, he felt obliged to repeat much of
the gossip he had heard. He had no ill will to the girl, far from it; yet
unknowingly he did her many wrongs, even though he distinctly said, "he
_knew_ no ill of Maggie Promoter, and was but repeating what a lot of
idle women said."

But Dr. Balmuto was troubled and alarmed. He thought not only of Maggie,
but also of David. He had sanctioned his ambition for the ministry, and
had helped him toward the office; and he could not bear to think of a
whisper against a name likely to stand in the list of God's servants. He
was angry at Maggie's imprudences, even if they were no worse than
imprudences. He paid a special visit to the Promoter cottage, and putting
aside Mistress Caird with a polite wave of the hand which greatly
impressed her, he demanded to see Maggie alone.

He told her frankly all that he had heard, and the girl was astounded.
There was just truth enough with every lie to carry the lie through. Many
of them she found it almost hopeless to try to explain; and when the
doctor asked her, "if there had been any words of love between Mr.
Campbell and herself?" she could not deny it. She remained speechless, and
the minister thought very badly of the woman dumb and blushing before him.

"Mind what I tell you, Maggie Promoter," he said sternly, "I know the
young man Campbell. He is none of your kind. He cannot make you his wife.
If he could, you would be wretched, for he would soon scorn you. Can the
eagle mate with the kittywake? Sin and sorrow come of such love making. It
will ruin both David and yourself. Mind, I have warned you. If you were my
own daughter I would say no less to you."

"There has been nae wrang word between us, sir. Nae word my ain fayther
and mither mightna hae listened to. That is the truth, sir."

"Then do not hold yourself apart from your own people. Don't fret about
the young man's absence, and neglect the ordinances to do it; remember
they are for your comfort and salvation."

"Folks hae thocht ill o' me, sir; and they treat me according to their ill
thochts:--and I wish Davie was hame, for I'm broken-hearted wi' the wrang
that is done me; morning, noon and night," she said warmly.

"Keep your temper and hold your tongue, Maggie. I suffer no woman to rail
in my presence. Do well, and you will be well spoken of, and doubtless
also, well treated."

She covered her face with her hands and sobbed bitterly; and his heart
relented a little. "I am glad to see the tears, Maggie; no one can do more
than be sorry for their sins and then mend them. Come, come, lassie; turn
over a new leaf, and the future shall mend the past."

"There is naething to mend, sir. I hae done no wrang to man, woman, or
child. You should hae stood up for the orphan lass, that has nae one near
to befriend her; but when a' men are against me--then I'll lippen to the
Lord!"

Her short passionate rain of tears was over. She stood erect, calm,
perhaps with an air of indifference. The doctor was much annoyed; he felt
that he had failed in reaching the girl's heart, and he went away with
that sense of irritation which our inabilities always leave with us.

Maggie did not go out of the cottage for a week. She was expecting David
home for the holidays, and she confidently looked for him to right her.
Unfortunately, David came by Kinkell, and called first at Dr. Balmuto's.
He had done very well in his Greek and Hebrew, and he wished to show the
minister that his kindness had been appreciated and improved. Dr. Balmuto
received David a little coldly. He had not really been moved to help him
by any personal liking, but rather from a conscientious conviction that
the young man had a decided vocation for theology. In fact, there had
always been a tinge of self-satisfaction about David which he seriously
disliked, and for which very reason he had once sent him back to the boats
to learn humility. Though honestly pleased at his progress, he did not
think it well to praise him too much; especially as he observed that David
boasted in a quiet way of the favor shown him by his teachers, and named,
when there was no occasion for naming it, the circumstance of having been
twice asked to dinner by Prof. Laird.

"This and that is all very well, and I am glad of it, David," he said;
"but your name must be kept stainless; and the more learned you are, the
more people will look up to you, and the more readily the fly in the
ointment will be seen and heard tell of. I am sorry to say your sister has
been very imprudent. Pittenloch does nothing but talk of her queer ways,
and doubtless there have been love promises between her and Mr. Campbell.
Now if there is ill said about him and your sister, you must see that it
puts you in a bad light to take any favor whatever from him."

David rose angrily. "I canna let even you, sir, speak ill in that way
about Maggie. I was by her side until Mr. Campbell left Pittenloch. And I
will defend his name as well as Maggie's. There was not the wrong thocht
in either of their hearts. I am sure o' that."

"I am glad to hear you speak so bravely and confidently. Go home, and put
your house in better order than it is. There seems to be ill-will and
unhappiness in it. Make your women walk circumspectly, and give no
occasion for people to take your name up. Your name is not to be lightly
used now, David Promoter."

David had looked forward to this visit, anticipated the minister's praises
and satisfaction, had even brought him a little present of some fine
tobacco. He left the manse with a sense of anger and humiliation, and with
the tobacco in his pocket. He had found no opportunity to offer it. And
the home-coming from which Maggie had expected so much was an unhappy one.
David blamed her for Dr. Balmuto's coldness and apparent lack of interest
in his affairs; and whether Maggie had done wrong, or had only been
wronged, he felt that she had injured him and his prospects. Nervous and
sensitive to a foolish degree on the subject of social respect from those
in authority, he gave to the affair far more importance than it deserved.
He made Maggie almost feel as if she had brought absolute and
irretrievable ruin upon him.

Still he would not be unjust to her, nor listen to any accusation not made
before her face. Even Aunt Janet, though she attacked David on his weakest
side, by giving him all the respect due to a placed minister, did not
succeed in gaining his private ear. "I'll give nae occasion for
backbiting," he said, "tell me when Maggie is present, what you have to
say against her."

"She read novels, instead of working at her trade--she held herself aloof
from people, and stayed by herself. She did not go regularly to kirk and
meeting. She had spent good money having the 'Allan Campbell' put in
order, yet she would neither lend nor hire the boat when it was asked of
her. She kept Mr. Campbell's room locked up, and would not even let a
friend of the family drink a cup of tea inside it. She was queer and cold
to all the lads, and had been specially rude to Angus Raith, whose mother
was Mistress Caird's chief friend. Folks, too, wondered where she got
money, and Maggie had not respected their curiosity, and satisfied them
that she was living honest."

These were Aunt Janet's principal accusations against her niece. Maggie
answered them very plainly. She declared that she could not get work,
because her aunt's complaints had deprived her of all her friends. The
books she read were the same books Mr. Campbell had read aloud to them
both. As for the boat, she did not want it to go to waste, and if she
loaned it to one person, she might as well have given it to the village.
If she had taken hire, it would have been a great offence, and worse said
of her, than for keeping it at anchor. As it was, she asserted Aunt Janet
had lent it to the Raiths frequently, without her knowledge or consent at
the time.

"Not mair than three times, Maggie," interrupted Mrs. Caird, "and you were
that ill-tempered I couldna ask you anent it. You wad hae snappit my head
aff."

"That was three times o'er many, aunt," answered David; "the boat was
Maggie's; folks should speer it of hersel'; I would hae nae right to lend
it, and I wouldna do it, nae matter wha asked it o' me."

"The Raiths are gude frien's"--

"For a' the Raiths in Fife and Moray, no!"

"Then Davie, as for letting Mr. Campbell's room be for the use of a' and
sundry that liked it, how could I? You ken, he told me tak' care o' the
pictures and books inside it."

"You wad hae as much right to his purse as his room, if he had left his
purse in your keeping. The room wasna yours to lend, Maggie."

"And, Davie, I dinna like Angus Raith, and his mither is here the day
lang, and till the late night; and Angus is aye to convoy her hame; and he
sits in your chair, and glowers at me, or he says words I canna listen
till, and I want nae love from him or any other man. If you will be a
brither to me, and no let folks tread my gude name in the mire, I'll aye
be a true sister to you, Davie, and I'll care for nane but you."

"I'll let nane say ill o' you, if you dinna deserve it, Maggie. Folks
should think shame o' themselves to set on a lass without man or woman to
stand by her."

"I'm sure I aye said what I could wi' truth for the lassie."

"I dinna think it. And as for Maggie's money, that is Maggie's business
and my business. Maggie's money is clean money, every penny o' it. There
is my word for that. I am sure it was weel kent that fayther left money
lying in Largo Bank; but I'll gie accounts to nane; and I'll not hae
Maggie asked for them either. As for Angus Raith, he might hae taken his
'no' before this. I'll not blame Maggie for not liking him; and I wad be
as weel pleased for Maggie to bide single, till I hae my ain manse to
marry her from. Now I willna hae my life and prospects wrecked for
women's battlement and quarrels;" and then David very foolishly spoke of
Dr. Balmuto's coldness to him; and on this subject David got warm and
eloquent, and Aunt Janet perceived that the minister was disposed to blame
Maggie.

Before leaving for his classes again, he did what he thought was the
prudent thing to do for all parties. He really satisfied no one. Maggie
felt that he had been less kind to her in many ways than he ought to have
been. The villagers resented the change in his manners and speech. Their
affairs, never interesting to him, were now distasteful; he went little
among them, but sat most of his time reading in his own cottage. If he
walked down to the pier or the boat-house, he brought unavoidably a
different element with him. The elder men disputed all he said, the younger
ones took little notice of him. He might have understood from his own
experience what Maggie was suffering; but David had his mind full of grand
themes, and he brushed the opinions of a few fishermen off, as he brushed
a fly from his open book. After he had returned to Glasgow, Aunt Janet
said, with an air of wrong and offence--"Brither and sister sail in one
boat;" and she had more sympathy for her opinion.

The dreariest part of the winter was to come. David was not to return home
again until the end of July; perhaps not even then. He had been spoken to
about spending the long vacation with Prof. Laird's son in the Hebrides,
as a kind of travelling tutor; and he hoped for the appointment. If he got
it a whole year might pass before his next visit to Pittenloch. And
Maggie's position had not been in any respect bettered, either by the
minister's or David's interference. Aunt Janet had received no special
reproofs or threats for her encroachments on Maggie's rights, and she made
a point of extending them in many ways. Before March was over the girl was
growing desperate.

Character is cumulative, and Maggie had been through these days of mean
and bitter trials unconsciously gathering strength. She was not the same
woman that had stood reproachful at destiny by the beached boat eleven
months before. Yet even then she had nursed a rebellious thought against
the hopelessness of Fate. She had refused to believe that the boat had
been built and destined for death and destruction; if something had been
done, which had not been done, it would have come safe to harbor. So also
she would not believe that her own misery was beyond help, and that all
that remained to her was a weary hoping and watching for Allan's return.

She was just at the point when endurance is waiting for the last
unendurable straw, when one morning Angus Raith called early, and asked
permission to use the "Allan Campbell" for a day's fishing. "Tak' her and
welcome," answered Janet Caird, promptly.

"Aunt Janet, you hae nae right to lend what isna yours, nor ever like to
be yours. David told you that plain as words could mak' it."

"You and your brither wear the life oot o' me, wi' your pride and
ill-temper. Tak' the boat, Angus."

"You let it alone, Angus. It is my boat, and I'll send the water-bailiff
after you for theft, if you lift her anchor."

"You will, will you? You mean meeserable hizzy! Then you'll hae to tak me
up wi' Angus; for I'm wi' him, and will stand by him, afore a' the lords
o' Edinburgh. Tak' the boat, Angus. I'll tak' the blame o' it! David
Promoter willna publish a thief in his ain house; he's o'er much set up
wi' himsel' and his gude name."

"Thank you, Mistress Caird; I'll tak' it. If a man tak's your sweetheart,
you may weel tak' his boat. I'll bring you part o' my luck, when the boat
comes hame at night."

"Dinna count your feesh, until you've caught them, Angus Raith," said
Maggie, passionately; "and as for luck, it is bad luck you deserve, and
bad luck you'll get, wi' your stolen boat."

"Hear to the lass! bespeaking sorrow for gude men, on a gude day's wark!"

Maggie answered not a word; she turned dourly round, went into her room
and locked it. "I'll run awa' from it a'!" and in the first moment of her
solitary passion of grief, the words struck her like an order. In great
emergencies, the soul does gives orders; clear, prompt, decisive words,
that leave no shadow of doubt behind them. "Go" said her soul to her, and
she began immediately to consider her plans. She did not want for money.
She had upwards of £23 left, beside an order for the £50 lying in Largo
Bank, which David had insisted on her keeping in case any sudden need came
for it.

"I'll put on my kirk clothes, and I'll go to Kinkell; Watty Young will
carry me in his wagon to Stirling, and there, I'll tak' a train for
Glasgow. David will find some way to get me a shelter, and I can sew, and
earn my ain bite and sup."

This was her simple, straightforward plan, and as soon as she had
determined to go away, it seemed wonderful to her that she had not done it
sooner. "But one canna cross the stile till they get to it," she
reflected; now however the idea took complete possession of her. She heard
Mrs. Raith and various other women talking with her aunt: she heard
herself repeatedly called to come and look after the broth, or other
domestic concerns, but she took no notice of any demand upon her. She
occupied the morning in locking away her simple treasures, and in making
into a small bundle a linsey dress and a change of linen. She did not
notice, until her room grew suddenly dark, that the wind had risen, and
the sky become black and stormy. Some uneasy presentiment drove her then
to the cottage door, where she stood with the rain blowing into her face,
watching the boats tossing back to harbor.

"You see what your ill wishes hae brought. I hope there mayna be lives
lost by your temper."

"Parfect nonsense! There is nae ill wish that is mair than idle breath, if
it be na His will."

Just at dusk there was an outcry and a clamor of women's voices followed
by passionate wailing, and a few minutes afterward Mistress Raith ran
shrieking into the cottage. "The 'Allan Campbell' has gone to the bottom,
and my boy Laurie wi' her. Oh, the ill heart, and the ill tongue o' you,
Maggie Promoter! I'd like fine to send you after him! Gie us a help,
wives, and let's gie her a ducking at the vera least!" The wretched mother
was half crazy, and Maggie fled from her presence. The circumstance was
the seal to her purpose. She knew well how her few angry words would be
held against her, and she said mournfully, "There's nae hope o' kindness
nor justice here for me. I should hae gane this morning when the thocht
came to me. I wad hae been on the road to Stirling ere this."

There was a constant succession of visitors at the cottage until late, but
as soon as all was quiet, Maggie went to her wretched hearthstone, and
silently made herself a cup of tea. Janet Caird sat rocking herself to and
fro, bewailing the dead, and the living; but yet carefully watching the
unusual proceedings and dress of her niece. At length, finding Maggie was
not to be provoked into words, she pretended suddenly to observe her kirk
clothes--"Whatna for hae you that fine merino on this night? Surely,
Maggie Promoter, you arena thinking o' going to the house o' mourning
--you, that ought to be on your bended knees for the ill wishes you sent
the puir lad to the bottom wi'. And after a' it wasna Angus but little
Laurie that got the weight o' your ill thochts!"

"Do stop, aunt. Say them words to the minister, and hear the reproof
you'll get! As if the breath o' an angry woman could make Him turn the
keys that nane turn but Him. And if you want to ken whar I am going, I may
as weel tell you now, as the morn. I am going to my brither Davie, for I
cannot thole the bad tongue and the bad heart o' you, anither day."

"Hear to the wicked lass! My bad tongue! My bad heart! I sall scream oot
at sich words--"

"Dinna flyte mair at me for ony sake, Aunt Janet. You'll get the hoose to
yoursel' in the early morning."

"And then what sail I do? A puir auld woman wiled awa' frae her ain hame."

"Aunt Janet, you can go back to your ain hame. There is nane to hinder
you. When you are ready, lock the door, and gie the key to Elder
Mackelvine. But if you like this bien comfortable cottage better than the
one bit empty room David took you from, you can stay in it your lane. I
wadna bide wi' you anither day for gude words, nor gude gold; no, nor for
onything else."

"My bite and sup were aye sure at Dron Point; but what will I do here at
a'? Hae you made a provision for the five shillings weekly?"

"Na, na; I hae paid that o'er lang. At Dron Point you spun your pickle o'
tow, and you nursed the sick folk. There is mair spinning here, and mair
sick folk. You are nae waur off, but better. And it is little o' the
siller I hae given you that has been spent. A' expenses hae come oot o' my
pocket."

"I'll no hear tell o'you going awa'! Sich daftness. And surely if you will
gae, you'll no leave an auld body like me wi'out some sma' income. You
that's got siller."

"I hae nae mair than I want. But I'll ask Davie to do what he thinks he
can do for you; seeing that you are my fayther's sister. Puir fayther! I
hope he doesna ken how hard you hae been on me."

"You sall not go! I'll no be left my lane--"

"I tell you, aunt, I am going in the morning. There is naebody in
Pittenloch can stop me; no, nor Doctor Balmuto himsel'."

Still Janet Caird scarcely believed Maggie. The girl had never been
further from home than Kinkell. She thought she would go first to the
minister, and she felt sure the minister would send her back home. So
when Maggie passed out of the door soon after daybreak, and said
"good-bye, Aunt Janet," the old woman answered with an affected
laugh--"gude-bye till the sun is doon. The night will bring you hame,
Maggie."

Maggie took the hills and was far up them before the village was astir.
She had no intention of calling upon the minister; she still resented his
last conversation with her, and after what he had said to Davie she had
little hopes of obtaining a kind hearing from him just yet. She found
Sandy Young's wagon nearly ready to start for Stirling, and she easily got
a seat in it. It was a slow, lumbering conveyance, but she was in no
hurry; and she enjoyed very much the leisurely drive through lanes, and
inland hamlets, and queer old towns. It was a strange and wonderful
experience to a girl who had seen little of nature but the sea and the
rocks, and little of men, save the men and women of her own distinctive
class.

On the evening of the third day she reached Glasgow. It was a clear,
blowing March day, very near the anniversary of her father's and brothers'
death. Glasgow was in one of its brightest moods; the streets clean and
crowded, and the lamplighters just beginning to light them. She easily
found her way to the Candleriggs, and to the house in which David lodged.
Here, for the first time, her heart failed her. She loitered about the
window of the bakery until she had a sense of shame and hunger and
weariness that overcame all her fears. "I'm wanting Mr. Promoter, ma'am,"
she said at length to the woman behind the counter, and the woman looking
sharply at her answered, "He's in his room. Go through the close and up
the stair; it's at the right hand side."

It seemed strange to knock at her brother's door, and yet Maggie felt as
if David would expect it of her. He answered the timid summons by a loud
peremptory "Come in;" but when Maggie entered he leaped to his feet in
amazement, and let the big book in his hand fall to the floor. There were
the remains of tea on the table, and a young man who was sitting with
David had pushed the cups aside, and filled their places with his papers
and books.

"Maggie!"

"Ay, it's me, Davie."

"What has brought you to Glasgow?"

"You ken I wouldna come without a good reason. I hope I am na unwelcome."
Her eyes filled, she could scarcely endure the strain of uncertainty as
she stood before him.

Then he took her hands and kissed her brow, and said, "Cameron, this is
my sister, my only near relative, so I'm sure you'll excuse me the night."
And the young man, who had been gazing with delight on Maggie's beauty,
rose with an apology and went away.

"Now, Maggie, I want to know what has brought you here?"

"Gie me some bread and tea first, for I am fair famished, and then I'll
tell you."

"I must also speak to the good wife about a sleeping place for you under
her own eye. You'll be going back to-morrow '"

"I'll not go back to Pittenloch again." Then she told him all the wrong
and shame and sorrow that had dogged her life since he had left her at the
New Year. "Let me stay near by you, Davie. I can sew, I can go oot to
service. I'll be happy if I see you one hour on the Sabbath day."

His face was white and stern and pitiless. "You want to ruin my life,
Maggie, and your ain too. Mr. Cameron will speak of having seen you here.
And it is nae less than evendown ruin for a theology student to have
women-folks coming to his room--young women like yoursel'."

"I'm your ain sister, Davie."

"Who is to know that? Can I go about saying to this one and to that one
'the woman who came to see me, or the woman I went to see, on Sabbath last
is my sister.' It would not do for you to stay here, for I have company
to see me and to study with me, and you and I would both be spoken of. It
would not be right for you to take a room and live by yourself, and sew
out by the day. You are too noticeable, and I could not spare the time to
call and look after you in any way. And as to going out to service, I am
mair than astonished to hear you naming a thing like that. _We are
fisher folk._ Nane of the Promoters ever served mortal man as hand-maid
or flunkey. We have always served God and cast the nets for a living. We
werena indebted to any human being. We aye took our daily bread from His
hand. And if you, Maggie Promoter, would dare to go out as a servant I
would give you the back of my hand for ever."

"Then what will I do, Davie? What will I do? I am sae miserable. Do hae
some pity on me."

"You speak as if happiness was 'the because' of life. Do? Do your duty,
and you will be happy, whatever wind blows. And as to my having pity on
you, I would love you little if I gave way now to your impatience and
your wounded pride. Who loves you if I don't? I am aye thinking of the
days when we will have a braw house of our ain. Can you not wait?"

"It is lang waiting; and many a hope goes wi' the weeks and the months.
Davie, I canna go back."

"You must go back. I will write a letter to Dr. Balmuto and ask him to put
you with some decent family in Kinkell: and keep his own eye on you. What
can you want more than that? And let me tell you, Maggie, I think it very
unsisterly of you, bothering and hampering me with women's quarrels, when
I am making myself a name among them that will be looked to for the
carrying on o' the kirk in the future. But I'll say no more, and I'll
forgive this romantic folly o' yours, and to-morrow I'll put you in the
Stirling train, and you'll go, as I tell you, to Dr. Balmuto."

Maggie made no further objections. David wrote the promised letter, and he
spent a part of the next day in showing her the "wonderfuls" of the
cathedral and the college. He was even gentle with her at the last, and
not a little proud of the evident sensation her fresh, brilliant beauty
caused; and he asked her about her money matters, and when he put her in
the train, kissed her fondly; and bade her "be brave, and patient, and
cheerful."

And still Maggie said nothing. Her eyes were full of tears, and she looked
once or twice at her brother in a way that made his heart dirl and ache;
but she seemed to have resigned herself to his direction. Only, at the
first station beyond Glasgow, she got out of the train, and she allowed it
to go on to Stirling without her.

CHAPTER XI.

DRUMLOCH.

"Brown shell first for the butterfly
And a bright wing by and by.
Butterfly good-bye to your shell,
And, bright wings, speed you well"

In leaving the train Maggie had not yielded to a passing impulse. It was a
deliberate act. David's indifference to her happiness, his subordination
of all her likes and dislikes, her time, and work, and hopes, to his own
ambition shocked and pained her. She had spent the night in thought and
had reached a decided conclusion. As they walked about the cathedral and
college, and up and down the High Street, while she looked with shuddering
horror on the squalid, hopeless poverty of the inhabitants of those
localities, she asked her brother where the rich people lived.

"At the West End," answered David. "On Sauchiehall Road, and the crescents
further on, away maistly up to Kelvin Grove." And later on, as they were
passing down Buchanan Street, he pointed out the stages which ran
constantly to these aristocratic quarters of the city, and asked, "if she
wished to see them?"

"Ay, I wad like too, but there's little time noo, it will do again."

Yet she took good note of everything, and David Promoter, as he sat that
night at his own fireside with his tea and books, little dreamed that his
sister Maggie had found herself a home within an hour's ride from the
Candleriggs. It was not much of a home, but it satisfied the weary,
heart-sore girl. A little back room on a fourth story, with a window
looking into a small court; but it was clean and quiet, and the bit of
fire burned cheerily, and the widow woman from whom she had rented it made
her a refreshing cup of tea, and brought with it the good wheat loaf and
the "powdered" butter for which Glasgow is famous; as well as a slice or
two of broiled Ayrshire bacon. The food was cheap, and the ordinary food
of the people, but it seemed a great treat to the fisher-girl, who had
been used to consider wheat flour, fine butter, and bacon, very like
luxuries.

And the peace! Oh how good, how good that was! No captious old woman
flyting and complaining at every mouthful. No laughing noisy gossips. No
irritating interferences. No constant demand on her attention or sympathy.
She sat and drank and thanked God with every mouthful; and with grateful
tears promised Him to live a good life, and do her honest, kindly duty
every hour.

At last too, she could think of Allan without fear of any evil suspicious
eye upon her. She had been in such excitement and anxiety for some days,
that she had let him slip from her mind; for it was one of this loving
woman's superstitions, never to mix his memory with angry or sorrowful
thoughts. But in the peace and stillness that followed her meal, she
called him back to her. With closed eyes and folded hands she remembered
the words he had said to her, remembered the strength and sincerity of his
promise, the glow and tenderness of his handsome face, the truth in the
firm clasp of his hands, the glance of commingled love and grief which had
been his farewell. "I'll never wrong him by a doubt. Never, never, never,"
she whispered. "If God has willed him to me, there's nane can keep him
frae me. Oceans canna part us, nor gold, nor friends, nor time, nor death
itself. _Allan! Allan! Allan!_"

At that moment Allan was in a pretty pleasure yacht idly drifting on the
gulf of Mexico. Mardi Gras had taken him to New Orleans, and there he had
hired the boat, and was leisurely sailing from one gulf town to another.
The skipper was his only companion, but he was fore, and Allan lay under
an awning, full of the afternoon's lazy content. The scent of orange
blossoms was blown from the shore, the blue waters dimpled in the
sunshine, and the flop of their ripple in the clincher-landings was an old
and pleasant music to him. Suddenly he sat erect and listened: "Maggie
called me. Three times over she called me." The impression upon his
spiritual ear was so strong that ere he was aware he had answered the call.

He could dream no longer. His nobler part was on the alert. He was not,
however, unhappy. The impression made upon him had been one of love and
longing, rather than of distress. His eyes brightened, his face flushed,
he walked rapidly about, like a man under a keener sense of life. Lovers
see miracles, and believe in them. Allan thought it nothing extraordinary
that Maggie's soul should speak to his soul. And why should we doubt the
greeting? Do we any of us know what subtle lines are between spirit and
spirit? A few years since, who dreamed of sending a message through the
air? Is it not more incredible that flesh and blood in New York should
speak with flesh and blood in Washington, than that spirits, rare, rapid
and vivid as thought, should communicate with each other, even though the
circumference of the world be between them? Allan did not try to analyze
the circumstance; he had a conviction, positive and delicious, and he
never thought of reasoning it away.

With a sense of infinite comfort and content, Maggie read her evening
portion, and went to rest. She had determined to enjoy that evening's
calm, without letting any thought of the future trouble her; and she awoke
in the morning strong and cheerful, and quite ready to face the question
of her support. She spoke first to her landlady. "Mistress Malcolm," she
said, "I'm a dressmaker, and I want wark. Will you gie me your advice, for
I'm not used to city ways?"

"You hae come to the city in a good time though. In the spring there is
aye work in plenty. Tak' the 'Herald' and read the advertisements. I hae a
paper ben the kitchen, I'll get it for you. See here now! Nae less than
nine dressmakers wanting help! The first call comes frae Bute Crescent;
that isna ten minutes walk awa'. Go and see the lady."

Half an hour afterward, Maggie was ringing at the door of Mrs. Lauder's
house. It was a very handsome one, handsomely furnished, and the
show-rooms were gay with the newest fashions. Maggie's beauty and fine
figure was an instant commendation. "Can you sew well, and cut, and fit?"
asked Mrs. Lauder.

"'Deed, ma'am, I think I can. I was wi' Miss Jean Anderson o' Largo for
twa years. She'll say the gude word for me, every way."

"I shall want you to be part of the day in the salesroom; but I will
provide you a suitable dress for that purpose; and I will give you ten
shillings a week, at first. Will that do?"

"It will do weel, ma'am."

"What is your name?"

"Maggie Promoter."

"Come to-morrow, Miss Promoter."

"Folks aye call me Maggie."

"Very well. Come to-morrow, Maggie."

The dress provided by Mrs. Lauder was a long, plain, black merino, tightly
fitting, with small turned back linen cuffs and collar; and Maggie looked
exceedingly handsome and stately in it. Her work was not hard, but the
hours were long, and there was no outlook. She could not lift her head and
catch from the sea the feeling of limitless space and freedom. Still she
was happy. It was better to live among strangers who always gave her the
civil word, than to be with kin who used the freedom of their relationship
only to wound and annoy her. And her little room was always a sanctuary in
which she found strength and peace. Also, the Sabbath was all her own; and
her place in the kirk to which she regularly went was generally filled an
hour before service bells. That kirk was a good place to Maggie. She was
one of those delightsome women, who in this faithless age, have a fervent
and beautiful faith in God. Into His temple she took no earthly thought,
but kept her heart, there,

"one silent space,
A little sacred spot of loneliness.
Where to set up the memory of His cross,
A little quiet garden, sacred still
To visions of His sorrow, and His love"

So the weeks went calmly, and not unpleasantly away. Now and then she had
a restless heartache about David; and three times she walked all the way
to the Barony kirk, where she knew he worshiped, to get a sight of her
brother. She did not fear to do so. David Promoter, on Sabbath days,
looked neither to the right hand nor to the left. In the kirk his pale
grave face was bent toward his Bible, or lifted to the preacher. Maggie
could have sat within the touch of his hand and he would not have seen
her. But she got no comfort from these visits to David's kirk, and she
missed all the comfort of her own kirk. So she finally said to herself--
"I'll tak' my ain road, and I'll ne'er look his road, and when it will be
the right time, the twa roads will meet again."

As the summer advanced there was less work to do, and she frequently was
at home in sufficient time to stroll along Kelvin side, or visit the
Botanic Gardens. Inland scenery, trees, and, above all things, flowers,
greatly delighted her. It gave her a thrill of exquisite pleasure to tread
among long, green grass, and feel the wavering sunshine and shadows of the
woods about her; and in the midsummer month, when she was to have a short
holiday, she promised herself many days of such pure and natural enjoyment.

But often fortune has better plans for us than we make for ourselves. One
day, near the end of June, Maggie was standing at an upper window, gazing
wistfully at the little park, full of pretty shrubs, which belonged
specially to Bute Crescent. A handsome carriage rapidly took the turn,
came dashing up the broad gravelled sweep, and stopped at Mrs. Lauder's
house. In a few minutes there was a call for Maggie, and she went down
stairs. The customer was before a long mirror with a mantle of black silk
and lace in her hands. She was a young lady, slight and small, and as
Maggie entered she turned toward her.

It was Mary Campbell, and Mary knew in a moment who the tall beautiful
woman in the black dress was. She was very much astonished, but she did
not in any way betray her surprise. On the contrary, she gathered her
faculties quickly together and looked at Maggie critically, and at first
without kindness.

Mary was at this time living at Drumloch, but a variety of business had
brought her to Glasgow for a week or two. Her first impulse was to go to
her uncle and tell him of her discovery. Her second was to keep it, at
least for a little while, to herself. It was almost certain that there had
been some great change in the girl's circumstances, or else she had come
to Glasgow in search of her lover. Mary could not tell how much or how
little Maggie knew of Allan's movements and intentions; she thought it
likely the girl had grown impatient and left her home. If so, perhaps it
was her duty to interfere in a life brought so directly to her notice. She
almost wished she had not seen her; gratified curiosity is very well, but
if it bring with it a sense of obligation, it may not be worth the price
to be paid.

Such were the drift of Mary's thoughts; and yet for Allan's sake she felt
that Maggie ought to be cared for. If she did not choose to assume the
charge, she ought to tell her uncle. Mary's conscience had taken up the
question, and Mary's conscience was a tyrannical one. It gave her no rest
about Maggie. "Maggie!" She repeated the name with a smile. "I knew she
would have to come down to 'Maggie' or 'Jennie'. I said so. Oh, Theodora,
what a fall! But she is handsome, there is no doubt of that. And she walks
as a mortal ought to walk, 'made a little lower than the angels'. And she
really has a ravishing smile, and perfect teeth also. I own I was afraid
about the teeth, nature generally forgets that detail. And her hands, if
large, are shapely; and her hair is a glory, as it ought to be in a woman
--and I wonder who taught her to dress it, and if she herself chose the
long, plain, black garment. Maggie is more of a puzzle than ever. I think
I will find her out without Uncle John's help."

The next day, and every day afterward for a week, she went to Mrs.
Lauder's on some pretext or other. She always saw Maggie. She made little
plans to see her, and she went away from every interview feeling a greater
bondage to her. "I suppose I shall have to take her back to Drumloch with
me!" As her visit to Glasgow drew to its close she came to this
conclusion. She felt that for Allan's sake Maggie had a claim on their
care; either John Campbell or herself ought to find out if she needed help
or friends, and after consideration Mary thought she had better assume the
charge. John Campbell would go straight to her, tell her who he was, and
invite her to Blytheswood Square, and, in fact, take the girl wholly on
trust. Mary also meant to be kind to her, but how hard it is for a woman
to do a kindness as God does it, without saying, "Whose son art thou?"

Just before her return to Drumloch, she said to Mrs. Lauder, "I want some
one to sew in my house. Do you think Maggie would give me a couple of
months. You cannot need her until September."

"I think she will be very willing. I will send her to you."

"Mistress Lauder says you wad like me to go wi' you, Miss Campbell. I'll
be glad to do it. I am just wearying for the country, and I'll do my best
to pleasure you."

"Oh, thank you. It is to sew table damask. I will give you. £5 a month."

"That is gude pay. I'll be gratefu' for it."

"Be ready by nine o'clock to-morrow morning. I will call here for you."

Drumloch was a very ancient place. The older portion was battlemented, and
had been frequently held against powerful enemies; but this part of the
building was merely the nucleus of many more modern additions. It stood in
one of the loveliest locations in Ayrshire, and was in every respect a
home of great splendor and beauty. Maggie had never dreamt of such a
place. The lofty halls and rooms, the wide stairways, the picturesque air
of antiquity, the fine park and gardens, the wealth of fruits and flowers
quite bewildered her. Mary took her first real liking to the girl as she
wandered with her through the pleasant places of Drumloch. Maggie said so
frankly what she liked and what she did not like; and yet she had much
graceful ingenuousness, and extremely delicate perceptions. Often she
showed the blank amazement of a bird that has just left the nest, again
she would utter some keen, deep saying, that made Mary turn to her with
curious wonder. Individualities developed by the Bible have these strange
contradictions, because to great guilelessness they unite an intimate
knowledge of their own hearts.

Mary had been much troubled as to where, and how, she was to place this
girl. As David had boasted, she belonged to a race "who serve not." "She
may come to be mistress of Drumloch. It is not improbable. I will not make
a menial of her. That would be a shame and a wrong to Allan." She had
formed this decision as they rode together in the train, and acting upon
it, she said, "Maggie, what is your name--all your name?"

"My name is Margaret Promoter. I hae been aye called Maggie."

"I will call you Maggie, then; but my servants will call you Miss
Promoter. You understand?"

"If it is your will, Miss Campbell."

"It is my wish, Maggie. You are to be with me entirely; and they must
respect my companion. Can you read aloud, Maggie?"

"I wad do my best."

"Because I want you to read a great deal to me. There is so much fine
sewing to do, I thought as we worked together one of us could have a
needle, the other a book."

Following out this idea, she gave Maggie a pretty room near her own. Into
one adjoining immense quantities of the finest linen and damask were
brought. "I am just going to housekeeping, Maggie," said Mary, "and
Drumloch is to have the handsomest napery in Ayrshire. Did you ever see
lovelier damask? It is worthy of the most dainty stitches, and it shall
have them." Still Maggie's domestic status hung in the balance. For a week
her meals were served in her own room, on the plea of fatigue. Mary did
not feel as if she could put her with the housekeeper and upper servants;
she could not quite make up her mind to bring her to her own table. A
conversation with Maggie one morning decided the matter. She found her
standing at the open window looking over the lovely strath, and the
"bonnie Doon," with eyes full of happy tears.

"It is a sweet spot, Maggie."

"It is the sweetest spot on earth, I think."

"If we only had a view of the sea. We might have, by felling timber."

Maggie shook her head. "I dinna like the sea. 'There is sorrow on the sea,
it canna be quiet.' [Footnote: Jeremiah 49, v. 23.] I ken't a fisher's
wife wha aye said, the sweetest promise in a' the Book, was that in the
Revelations, 'there shall be nae sea there.'"

"Did you ever live near the sea?"

"Ay; I was born on the coast of Fife."

"Have you any kin living?"

"I hae a brother--he minds me little."

"Promoter, I never heard the name before."

"It is a Fife name. The Promoters dinna wander far. If my fayther hadna
been drowned, I should hae stayed wi' my ain folk."

"But you are glad to have seen more of the world. You would not like to go
back to Fife, now?"

"If my eye hadna seen, my heart wouldna hae wanted. I was happy."

"Promoter is an uncommon name. I never knew a Promoter before; but the
Campbells are a big clan. I dare say you have known a great many
Campbells?"

"The man whom fayther sold his fish to was a Campbell. And the woman I
lodged wi' in Glasgow had a daughter married to a Campbell. And Mistress
Lauder often sent me to Campbell's big store for silk and trimmings. And
whiles, there was a minister preached in oor kirk, called Campbell--and
there is yoursel', miss, the best o' them all to Maggie Promoter."

"Thank you, Maggie." Not in the faintest way had Maggie betrayed her
knowledge of Allan, and Mary respected her for the reticence very much.
"Now for our work. I will sew, and you shall read aloud. I want you to
learn how to talk as I do, and reading aloud is an excellent exercise."

"I'll ne'er speak such high English as you, and I like my braid Scotch
weel."

"But your voice is so delightful when you say the words as you ought to.
You can read 'high English,' why not talk it?"

"My ain tongue is mair homelike and kindly. But I'll try yours, an' you
want me to."

After Mary had listened an hour, she suddenly interrupted Maggie. "You
read that love scene with wonderful feeling. Had you ever a lover, Maggie?"

"Maist girls have lovers. I couldna expect to escape. You will dootless
hae lovers yoursel', ma'am?"

"I had one lover, Maggie, not much of a lover, he wanted to marry
Drumloch, not me."

"That was a' wrang. Folks shouldna marry for gold. Sorrow comes that way."

"You would not, I am sure'"

"No, not for a' the gold in Scotland."

"Is your lover poor then, Maggie?"

"I ne'er asked him if he had this or that. He is a gude kind lad."

"Did he ever give you any beautiful things--precious rings or lockets--as
the lovers in books do? The Sir Everard of whom you have just been reading
gave Lady Hilda a ring of diamonds and opals, you remember?"

"The Fife lads break a sixpence in twa wi' their troth lass; and I hae my
half sixpence. There can be no ring but a wedding ring for a lassie like
me."

Then Mary laid down her work, and as she passed Maggie she touched her
gently, and smiled in her face. She was rapidly coming to a decision; a
few minutes in her own room enabled her to reach it. "The girl is a born
lady; I gave her every opportunity, but neither to the text of 'Campbell,'
nor 'lover,' did she betray herself or Allan. And really, when I think of
it, I had almost a special direction about her. I did not intend to go to
Mrs. Lauder's that morning. I should not have gone, if Madame Bartholemew
had been at home. I should not have gone if Miss Fleming had been able to
do my work. Maggie has evidently been put in my charge. Not to go any
higher than Uncle John and Allan, I think when they demand her of me, they
will say--'Where is thy sister?' not 'Where is thy servant maid, or thy
sewing maid.' But I must be sure of myself. If I accept this obligation, I
must accept it fully with all its contingencies and results. Can I be
generous enough? Patient enough? Just enough? Loving enough?" And no
wonder men honor good women! Who could have helped honoring Mary Campbell
who saw her stand with honest purpose examining her own heart, and then
lowly kneeling, asking God's blessing and help for the resolve so
consecrated.

It was no light favor to be quickly given and quickly removed. Most good
things are gradual; and Mary's kindness fell as the dew, a little in the
morning, and a little in the evening. Here, a formality was dropped; there
a tangible token of equality given. First, the evening dresses of white
mull and pale merinos; then the meal at her table, and the seat in her
carriage. And when this point had been reached, it had been so naturally
and unobtrusively reached, that even the servants only remembered the
first days of Maggie's residence at Drumloch, as a time when "Miss
Promoter dootless had a sorrow o' her ain, and keepit much to hersel'."

With a more conventional girl, Mary might have had much difficulty in
reaching this state of affairs; but Maggie took her kindness with the
simple pleasure and gratitude of a child; and she certainly had not the
faintest conception of Mary Campbell's relation to Allan.

Allan had distinctly spoken of his home as being in Bute; and of his
cousin, as living in the same house with him from her childhood. Mary, in
her own castle in Ayrshire, was certainly far enough away from all Allan's
statements to destroy every suspicion of her identify. And the name of
"Campbell" told her nothing at all. As Mary said, "The Campbells were a
big clan." They abounded throughout the west of Scotland. Around Drumloch,
every third man was a Campbell. In Glasgow the name was prominent on the
sign boards of every street. In a Fife fishing village there are rarely
more than four or five surnames. A surname had not much importance in
Maggie's eyes. She had certainly noticed that "Campbell" frequently met
"Promoter;" but certain names seem to have affinities for certain lives;
at least certain letters do; and Maggie, quoting a superstition of her
class, settled the matter to her own satisfaction, by reflecting "what
comes to me wi' a 'C,' aye comes wi' good to me."

CHAPTER XII

TO THE HEBRIDES.

"And yet when all is thought and said.
The heart still overrules the head."

"From the lone shieling of the misty islands.
Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas:
But we in dreams behold the Hebrides."

One morning toward the end of July, Mary was reading the "Glasgow Herald."
"Maggie," she said, "one of the Promoters has evidently left Fife, for I
see the name among the list of students--David Promoter--he has done
wondrously. The man is a miracle, he has taken every prize in his classes,
I think."

"I'm right glad to hear tell o' it. I must aye wish weel--"

"_Well_, Maggie, not weel."

"Well, to the name."

It was true. David had overstepped even his own ambition. He had finished
the term with an ovation from his fellows, and he had been urged to go
with Prof. Laird's son to the outer Hebrides. And now that the strain of
his study was over, and the goal, so far, nobly won, he could afford to
remember his sister. Indeed David deserves more justice than these words
imply. He had often thought of her since that March afternoon when he had
put her into the train for Stirling. But he really believed that his first
duty was to his studies, and he fully expected that his letter to Dr.
Balmuto would be a sufficient movement to insure her welfare. Practically,
he had thrown his own duty upon the minister's conscience, but he felt
sure that the good man had accepted the obligation, for if not, he would
certainly have written to him on the subject.

He sent the doctor the newspapers advertising his success, and a couple of
days afterward went to Kinkell. Young Laird did not require his company
for a week, and he thought well of himself for taking a journey to Fife
merely to pleasure his sister, before he took his own pleasure. He had
improved much in personal appearance during his residence in Glasgow. He
was well dressed, and he had acquired an easy confidence of manner which
rather took Dr. Balmuto by surprise. Perhaps it irritated him a little
also; for he was not at all satisfied with David. The first words he said
were not words of congratulation, they were a stern inquiry.

"David Promoter, where is your sister Maggie? Has she come back with you?"

"I came to ask you about Maggie, sir."

"Me! What way would you come to me? I have nothing to do with Maggie
Promoter."

"Sir, when she left me last March, I gave her a letter to you, and put her
in the train that was to bring her here."

"What did you write to me about?"

"I told you how unhappy and dissatisfied my sister was at Pittenloch; and
I asked you to advise her to stay at Kinkell under your eye. Then none
could speak ill o' her."

"Why under my eye? Are you not your sister's natural protector?"

"My studies--my college duties--"

"Your first duty was Maggie. You will be a miserable divine, let me tell
you, if you have not plenty of humanity in you; and the kirk and the
household are bound together with bands that cannot be broken. What is the
worth of all the Greek you know, if you have forgotten your own flesh and
blood? I'll not give you one word of praise, David, until you can tell me
that Maggie is well and doing well."

"My God! Maggie not here! Where then is she? I must awa' to Pittenloch;
maybe she is gone back there."

"No, she has not gone back. Poor girl! What would she go back there for?
To be worried to death by a lad she hates, and a lot of women who hate
her? I went to Pittenloch a week after she left, and I had a day of
inquiries and examinations; and I can tell you Maggie has been sair
wronged. That old woman in your house has the poison of hell under her
tongue:--and the lifted shoulder and the slant eye, what woman can stand
them? So she went to her brother, as a good girl past her wits would do,
and her brother put her on the train and sent her back to her sorrow!"

"I sent her to you, sir. I thought I could trust in you--"

"Why to me, I ask again? You knew that I had spoken sharply to her at the
New Year, how was she likely to come to me then? Where is your sister,
David Promoter?"

"You should hae written to me, sir, when you found out that Maggie was
gone from her hame."

"I thought, everyone thought, she was with you. I am shocked to find she
is not. Whom else can she be with? Whom have you driven her to?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Where is Allan Campbell? That is what you must next find out."

David looked at the minister like one distraught.

"I can't understand--I can't believe--gie me a drink o' water, sir."

He was faint and sick and trembling. He drank and sat down a few minutes;
but though the doctor spoke more kindly, and set clearly before him what
was best to be done, he heard nothing distinctly. As soon as he was able,
even while the doctor was speaking, he rose and went out of the house.
Sorrow has the privilege to neglect ceremonies, and David offered no
parting courtesy, but for this omission the minister was rather pleased
than angry with him:

"The lad has some heart, God be thanked!" he muttered, "and the day will
come when he will be grateful to me for troubling it."

David went with rapid steps down the rocks to Pittenloch. How hateful the
place looked to him that afternoon! How dreary those few tossing boats!
How mean the cottages! How vulgar the women in their open doors! How
disagreeable the bare-footed children that recognized him and ran hither
and thither with the news of his arrival.

He was full of shame and anger. Where was his praise, where was his honor,
with this disgrace in his home? How could he show those newspapers
extolling his diligence and attainments, when Maggie had made his very
success a disgrace to him? Oh, how bitterly he felt toward her!

Mistress Caird met him at the door with her apron at her eyes: "Come in,
sir," she said, with a courtesy, "though it is a sorrowfu' house you come
to."

"Aunt Janet, you have been drinking. I smell the whiskey above everything.
Ah, there is the bottle!" His sharp eyes had seen it behind the tea caddy
on the mantelshelf. He took it and flung it upon the shingle as far as his
arm could send it.

"That is my ain whiskey, David; bought wi' my ain siller, and the gude ken
I need a wee drappie to keep my vera heart frae breaking wi' the sorrow I
hae had."

"Say, wi' the sorrow you hae made. Pack your trunk, Aunt Janet. I'll take
you to Dron Point in the morning."

He would talk no more to her. He let her rave and explain and scold, but
sat silent on his hearth, and would go and see none of his old friends.
But it did console him somewhat that they came crowding in to see him.
That reaction which sooner or later takes place in favor of the injured
had taken place in Maggie's favor since the minister's last visit.
Mistress Caird felt that she was leaving Pittenloch something like a
social criminal. No one came to bid her farewell. David and a boy he hired
took her silently to her old home. She had sacrificed every good feeling
and sentiment for popularity, and everyone spoke ill of her.

Getting near to Dron Point, she said to David, "You are a miserable set-up
bit o' a man; but you'll pay me the £4 10s. you are owing me, or I'll send
the constable and the sherra a' the way to Glasca' for it."

"I owe you nothing, woman."

"Woman, indeed! Maggie, the hizzy!--agreed to gie me five shillings weekly
if I wad say the gude word for her she ne'er deserved, and I havna been
paid for eighteen weeks. That mak's it £4 10s. Just hand o'er the siller
and be done wi' it."

"It is a theft, an extortion;" but he took a £5 note from his pocket-book
and gave her it. "That is a gratuity," he said, "a gratuity to help you
until you find employment. I do not owe you a penny."

"There's nae gratuity in honest earned money; and if you wad gie me £50 it
wad be too little to pay me for the loss o' health and time and gude name
I hae made through you and yours. Set you up for a minister, indeed! Clean
your ain door-stane before you speak o' other folks. I'm glad to be rid o'
the sight and the hearing o' you."

That was the parting shot, and David could have very heartily returned it.
But he heeded his Bible rule, and to her railing made no answer. Janet
would rather have been sworn at. He left her bargaining with a man to take
her blue kist to the village public, but he did not return to Pittenloch.
He had given Elder Mackelvine the key of the cottage, and the elder had
promised to find a proper woman to care for it. So he sent the boy back
with the boat, and found the quickest way from Dron Point to Glasgow.

In his last interview with Allan Campbell, Allan had told him, if any
difficulty arose about his money matters, or if he needed more money
before he returned, to go to his father; and in view of such an emergency,
had given David the address of Campbell & Co. He went there as soon as he
arrived in Glasgow. It was in the middle of the afternoon and John
Campbell had just gone to his house in Blytheswood Square. The young man
who answered his inquiry was pleasant spoken, and trustworthy, and David
said to him--"Where is Mr. Allan Campbell?"

"He is in the United States. I believe in New Orleans."

"When will he return?"

"It is very uncertain. Not for a year or more."

Then he concluded that Maggie had gone to him. That was the thing Dr.
Balmuto feared. What a fool he had been not to suspect earlier what
everyone else, doubtless, perceived. One hope yet remained. He wrote to
the Largo Bank about the £50. If Maggie had lifted it, then he would feel
certain she was doing honestly for herself, in some quiet village, or
perhaps, even in Glasgow. But when he found the money had not been
touched, he accepted without further hope the loss and the shame. It is so
much easier to believe evil than good, even of those we love. Yet, how
could David, knowing Maggie as he did, do her this shame? Alas! David
Promoter thought very badly of the majority of men and women. It was his
opinion that God had so made them, that they preferred evil to good, and
only by some special kind of Divine favor and help--such as had been
vouchsafed to himself--chose the right road.

He certainly grieved for Maggie; but oh! how bitterly he felt the wrong
she had done him. For her own indulgence, how she would curtail and cramp
all his future college course! He had hitherto dressed well, and been able
to buy easily all the books he needed. For the future he would have to
rely upon his own exertions; for his first decision had been to pay back
the money he had taken from Allan's fund, and make the proceeds of his
teaching defray his class fees. When he had done this, he had only £8
left, out of the £50 which his father had left accumulated; but he was to
receive £25 from Prof. Laird for his two months' services, and with this
£33, and the stray teaching he would certainly find to do, he really had
no fear of pushing his way through the next year. But yet he felt keenly
the bondage to care and necessity which Maggie's selfishness had put him
under. He never thought of blaming himself. It did not occur to him that
she had rights as sacred as his own. "The cruelty of her! The cruelty of
her!" he kept saying, as he moodily paced his little room. He did not
remember his own indifference, nor reflect that a trifle of kindness, even
the small favor of a-weekly visit, would have kept the girl contentedly
under his own eye.

But David had marked out his course, and he was not the man to permit any
woman to seriously interfere with his plans. He put down with a mighty
will his grief and disappointment, and shame, and went off to the Hebrides
with his pupil. But in spite of himself, Maggie went with him. He was
compelled to be very economical, and he could not quite get rid of
anxiety, and of planning for the future, which the change in his money
affairs forced upon him. And it was all Maggie's fault. "Her weakness,
her craving 'to be made of,' and to be happy, her inability to bear a
little feminine gossip, her longing after the companionship of himself
--or another." Maggie, after all, spoiled the trip to which he had looked
forward for half a year with longing and delight.

When he returned to the Candleriggs, the first thing he saw was a letter
from Maggie. It had been lying upon his table for some weeks. In fact
Maggie had written it soon after her removal to Drumloch, but she did not
wish to post it from so small a place, and she therefore waited until her
first visit to Glasgow, which occurred early in August. She had remembered
the time when it was possible that David might go to Pittenloch, and she
feared that he would be very miserable when he found out that she had
never returned to Kinkell. Without revealing her own location or
circumstances, she wished to satisfy him as far as possible of her
innocence and welfare; so she had thus written--

"Dear Davie. I am feared you will not get this, ere you find out I did not
go back yonder day you sent me. I have met with good friends, and am
living honest and happy. Have no fear anent me. I will do right, and do
well. Where I am there is no ill can be said of me, and no ill can come to
me. I was glad beyond telling to read of your well-doing. You'll win to
the top of the tree, Davie, I aye thought that. Some day, you will find it
in your heart to love Maggie, and to forgive her, that she was forced to
lay an anxious thought on you. Your true, loving sister, Maggie Promoter."

The letter was a comfort to him, and for a moment or two a great surprise.
The writing was Maggie's writing, but much improved, the spelling was
correct. It was evident that she was trying to teach herself, and it
pleased him somewhat; although he was far from considering education as a
necessity for women. "To think of Maggie reading the newspapers!" he
exclaimed; "but then," he reflected, "she had doubtless been looking for a
word about him," and with this thought, he became just, even tender, to
her memory. As he folded away the letter, he said, "I was wrong to think
wrong of her. She was always a good girl, and very fond of me. It would be
long ere she would do aught to hurt my good name. It's no to be thought
of." So with a lighter heart he went bravely to work again, and the weeks
and months in their busy monotony passed wisely and quickly away.

To Maggie also, they went wisely and quickly, although life at Drumloch
was far from being monotonous. Mary had the quick, nervous temperament
which is eager for change and movement. She went frequently into Glasgow
to give and to attend entertainments, for Drumloch was yet in the hands of
painters and upholsterers. But she always went alone. She had fully made
up her mind that it would not be well to let John Campbell see Maggie. If
he liked her, he would be sure to write to Allan, and curtail his
probation, and Mary felt that such a course would be an injustice to her
plans for the gradual preparation of the girl for the position she might
have to fill.

So Maggie was left in charge at Drumloch. Almost imperceptibly she rose to
this duty. First one thing, then another, was fully grasped by her, until
the steward and the housekeeper took her directions as readily as they did
those of Miss Campbell. Maggie had a natural aptitude for comprehending
small pecuniary and household details, "accounts" did not confuse her, and
they did seriously confuse Mary. She could make nothing of the "books"
which her head servants rendered weekly, and which were clear to Maggie.
So, while Mary was entertaining in Blytheswood Square, and going to dinner
parties, and dances, Maggie was equally happy looking after the hundred
things which from the village, the farm, the gardens and the house
demanded her supervision and direction.

During this winter John Campbell did not often visit Drumloch, and when he
did Mary had always a long list of shopping for Maggie to attend to in
Glasgow. The change was pleasant to Maggie and it was also pleasant to
Mary; for it cannot be denied, that she sometimes, at this period, chafed
under her self-imposed duty. Every one has peculiarities; they may be
admirable ones, and yet be irritating to those whose peculiarities run in
a different direction. There were occasional days in which Mary felt that
it was the first necessity of life to get rid of Maggie Promoter for a
little while. But she never suffered Maggie to suspect this feeling; she
was even at such times effusively kind to her, and generally compromised
with her conscience by giving her _protégé_ some rich or pretty present.

Thus the winter passed, and in May Mary went to London. John Campbell
accompanied her; he had not been well for some months and he hoped the
change of scene would benefit him. Also, he had a great pride in his
niece, and he was no little pleased when she was presented at Court, and
for some months reigned a belle in the very best Scottish society in the
metropolis. At this time she had not much interest in Drumloch, though
Maggie wrote to her daily, and Maggie's letters were wonderfully clever
and amusing. And yet she had not received any special lessons; she had
simply passed in a silent sort of way out of a region of ignorance, into
one penetrated by the thought of educated men and women. There had been in
her mentally a happy unconscious growth upward, like that of a
well-watered plant. But no system of education could have been so
excellently fitted for her development. The charge taught her
self-reliance; the undisputed authority she wielded imparted to her manner
ease and dignity, and that nameless something which is the result of
assured position. There was also the advantage of a conscious, persistent
effort on Maggie's own part; she tried to make every letter she wrote more
neat, and clear, and interesting. She took pride in the arrangement of her
hair, was anxious about the fit of her dresses, and did not regard the
right mixture of colors in her costumes as a thing beneath her
consideration. Early in July Mary returned to Drumloch. She had come as
far as Glasgow with a party who were going to Oban. Oban was then little
known. During the summer tourists of the wealthy and cultivated classes,
who had read Scott's "Lord of Isles," came on short pilgrimages to the
pretty clachan; but it was not, as now, the Charing Cross of the
Highlands, where all the world you see.

"The doctor and the scholar.
The poor man with his penny fee.
The rich man with his dollar.
The priest who steals short holiday,
The prince who goes incog, sir
The schoolboy with his dreams of play,
The sportsman with his dog, sir."

"We are going over classic ground, Maggie, and we will read the 'Lord of
the Isles' together this week, ere we put a foot on it," said Mary, who
was in a merry mood with life, and all the love and care of it.

"But if I go also, what shall be done with Drumloch?"

"Mrs. Leslie and Bruce will do the best they can; and for the rest, let
things 'gae tapsal-teerie,' as Uncle John says. I have made up my mind,
Maggie, to take you with us, and I am not going to be disappointed for a
trifle. Oh, Maggie! how we shall enjoy the great bens, and the corries
hazy with blue bells, and the wonderful isles of Skye and Iona."

"Skye! My mother was a Skye woman. I should like well to see Skye. How
long shall we be away?"

"Only a month. Winter comes soon among the mountains, and the roads are
bad, even the sea road, which is the one we shall take."

"I have a tryst," said Maggie, blushing scarlet; "it is at the end of
August. I canna break it; if I did, life would be a miserable uncertainty
to me, and maybe, to some one else."

Then Mary remembered how nearly the two years of Allan's absence were
over; and she understood well what tryst Maggie had to keep. "We shall be
back in Glasgow by the 20th of August. How long will it take you to keep
this tryst, Maggie?"

"I would ask a week to go and come again."

"But would you come again?"

"I would do that whate'er befell."

"Do you think your lover will be there?"

"He said that."

"And do you believe in him after two years?"

"Yes. I believe in every word he said. He will be there."

"You shall be there also, Maggie, though we should have to send special
horses and carriages with you. I intend to be back at Drumloch about the
22d, that will give you plenty of time. When you return we will go to
Blytheswood Square, until Uncle John gets home."

"What would take him at all to a heathen country like Russia?"

"They are not quite heathens, Maggie; indeed, I believe they claim to be
the best kind of Christians; and Russian rubles turn into very good
English sovereigns. There was some trouble about one of his ships at
Odessa, and as a very clever London physician said that Uncle John needed
travel and change, he thought he would go himself and see about it. But he
is one of those men who do not like to tread in their own footsteps, so
instead of coming back by the way he went, he will pass through Russia
northward, to a port on the Baltic, called Riga, where also he has some
business. I think Riga is on the Baltic; suppose you get the atlas, and we
will trace his course together."

"I have heard you speak much of Mr. Campbell, I would like well to see
him."

"You should have seen him ere this, Maggie; but I was waiting until
--until, you looked and spoke as you do this morning;" and she rose and
kissed the blush of Maggie's cheek, and then turned the conversation to
the dark tartans which she thought would be the best material for
travelling dresses. "And we want them very prettily made," she added, with
a rising color, "for it is fine folk we are going to meet, Maggie--Lord
John Forfar, and Captain Manners, and Lady Emma Bruce, and Miss Napier; so
you see, Miss Promoter and Miss Campbell must dress accordingly."

Maggie was young enough and happy enough to feel all the excitement of the
proposed trip. Still she was troubled about her tryst with Allan. Oban and
the Highlands were so far away. In Pittenloch, her mother, coming from
Skye, had been looked upon almost as a foreigner. She was quite unable to
compute the distances; she knew nothing of the time it would take to
travel them: she felt ashamed to show anxiety to Mary on the matter. "But
I'll trust my way to His ordering. He'll no let me be too late for any
good thing He wills me;" and having thus settled the subject in her heart,
she went about the necessary preparations in a joy of anticipation, which
made Mary feel how pleasant it would be to have so fresh and charming a
companion.

Two weeks afterward they were in Oban, watching from the heights the
exquisite bay, and the lovely isle of Kerrera, the high mountains of Mull,
and Ossian's "Misty Morven." The Petrel, a cutter yacht of forty tons, was
lying at anchor. In the morning they were to start for a glimpse of the
Atlantic across the purple bogs of the Lews; going by way of Mull and
Canna, and swinging round Barra Head, toward the red, rent bastions of
Skye. Through that charmful circle of the outer isles, with their
slumbrous tarns, and meres, and treeless solitudes they went. And oh, how
full of strange and dreamy beauty were the long quiet summer days in that
land of mystic forgetfulness! that great, secret land of waters, with its
irresistible tides, and the constant ocean murmur haunting it like a
spirit voice.

Maggie enjoyed them with all her soul, though she did not speak in italics
about her feelings; perhaps she did not know very well how to express
herself. Forty years ago, even highly educated women did not rave about
scenery, they knew nothing of shadows and colors, nothing of "effects"
scarped, jagged and rifted. Neither had they any uneasy consciousness that
they ought to blend the simple delights of fresh air, fresh scenes, and
pleasant company, with some higher kind of recreation.

Coming home through the sound of Barra, Mary said, "We are a day or two
late, Maggie, but I have not forgotten your tryst. We shall run down the
coast now, and round the Mull of Kintyre on the 24th. The next day we may
be at Drumloch, that will be early enough?"

"Mair than enough, Miss Campbell. I needna leave Drumloch until the 27th,
though if it came easy I would leave before that."

"How near we are to the cliffs; we are rippling the shadows along shore.
Look at those forlorn headlands, Maggie. It was the sombre sadness of this
land that charmed the early saints, and girt all these isles with their
solitary cells."

"I liked well to read about them; and I can never think of Iona without
remembering Columba with his face bright from the communion of angels."

"And the hymn he wrote there, Maggie, we shall never forget that; it
breathes the soul of the saint, and pictures the scene of his saintship.
Now to the cries of the sea-birds overhead, let us have a few lines; the
swell of the waves will keep the time and the tune."

"That I might often see
The face of the ocean.
That I might see its heaving waves
Over the wide ocean,
When they chaunt music to their Father
Upon the world's course,
That I might see its level sparkling strand,
It would be no cause of sorrow,
That I might hear the songs of the wonderful birds,
Source of happiness;
That I might hear the thunder of the crowding waves
Upon the rocks;
That I might hear the roar by the side of the church
Of the surrounding sea,
That I might see its ebb and flood
In their career;
That I might bless the Lord
Who conserves all,
Heaven with its countless bright orders.
Land, strand and flood.
At times kneeling to beloved Heaven;
At times psalm-singing;
At times contemplating the King of Heaven,
Holy, the Chief;
At times work without compulsion;
This would be delightful;
At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;
At times fishing;
At times giving food to the poor;
At times in a solitary cell.
The best advice in the presence of God
To me has been vouchsafed.
The King, whose servant I am, will not let
Anything deceive me."

_Skene_, Celtic Scotland, v. 2, p. 93.

"Thank you, Maggie, historical places are not much to see, often, but they
are a great deal to feel. That hymn set me back into the sixth century,
and I have been wondering what sort of women you and I would have been
then. Perhaps nuns, Maggie."

"We will not think ill o' ourselves, Miss Campbell. Nane o' the Promoters
were ever Catholics."

"The Campbells prayed as the king prayed always--we have been a prudent
clan for both worlds, Maggie. 'To get on' has been the one thing needful
with us; but there are many families of that kind. Has not the wind
changed?"

"Yes; it looks like bad weather;" and the mist as she spoke came rolling
down the sound with the swoop of a falcon. Hitherto they had been
singularly fortunate. "Fine weather and fair winds," had been the usual
morning greeting; or if a passing squall appeared it had found them near
to some sheltered loch, or inlet. Lord Forfar was for putting into
Boisdale, for the glass was going down rapidly; but Lady Bruce was sure,
"a little breeze would be a most delightful change."

It was not very likely to be so with the wind rising out of the northeast;
and ere long the Petrel's topmast was sent down, and a double reef put in
her mainsail. Until midnight it blew hard with a fast rising sea, and a
mist as thick as a hedge. After this, it was ugly weather all the way
home, and as they passed Ailsa Craig the wind changed to full north, and
fetched the sea down with it.

"The waves come high down the Frith," said Maggie to the owner of the
yacht, a hardy young fellow who leaned against the taffrail, and watched
his boat hammering through the heavy seas.

"They come any size you like down here, Miss Promoter. But our skipper is
a good sailor; he has only one fault; he drives a boat without mercy.
Still I think even Captain Toddy will run for shelter to-night."

Captain Toddy thought not. He had a name for carrying on, and the Petrel
was not his boat if she did get a bit crushed. So the ladies, sitting
under the weather railing, watched the storm from among the folds of
yellow oilskin in which they had been tucked. Ere long, in the thick of a
gusty squall, the Petrel took her first header very heavily. Her bow
disappeared to the butts, and with a tremendous noise the sea came over
the deck in a deluge. Every plunge she made it was the same thing, and all
of the ladies were thoroughly drenched. The cabin was wet and miserable,
and there was no promise of any favorable change. Evidently the best thing
to do was to make for the port of Ayr; for on the following day Mary
Campbell was suffering very much from the effects of her exposure, and
when Captain Toddy let the anchor fly underfoot pretty near the 'auld
Brig' she was in a high fever, and breathing with pain and difficulty.

CHAPTER XIII

THE BROKEN TRYST.

"I sit on my creepie, and spin at my wheel,
And I think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel;
He had but ae sixpence, he brake it in twa,
And gied me the hauf o' t when he gaed awa'.
He said, think na lang lassie tho' I gang awa'.
I'll come and see you in spite o' them a'"

--Logie O Buchan.

"I am going to be ill," said Mary, with trembling lips, "I feel as if I
were walking into a great darkness, Maggie."

They were driving toward Drumloch in the early morning, and there was that
haunted, terrified look in her eyes, with which a soul apprehensive of
suffering and danger bespeaks the help and sympathy of those near to it.
Maggie had seen the look before; the little children dying upon her knees
had pierced her heart with it. She remembered it, even in the eyes of
strong men driven by a sense of duty or humanity into the jaws of death.
Mary took her hand and clung to it; and let her head fall helplessly upon
Maggie's breast. When they reached home, she had almost to be carried to
her room, and servants were sent off on fleet horses for medical aid.

"A bad case of inflammation of the lungs," was the doctor's verdict. "It
is likely to be a serious business, Miss Promoter, and Miss Campbell's
friends should be informed at once of her condition."

Mary would not be spoken to on the subject. "Her uncle," she said, "was
her only friend. In his last letter he had told her to send communications
to the Hotel Neva at Riga. It was uncertain when he would get there. And
what was the use of alarming him, when he was too far away to help her?"
Maggie perceived from the first moment of Mary's conviction of danger and
suffering, that the girl had flung herself upon her love and care. With
all her soul she accepted the charge. She would have held herself as
unworthy to live if she had had one moment's reluctance in the matter. In
strong physical anguish it is almost impossible to be generous and
self-forgetting, and Mary, in the first hours of acute, lacerating agony,
forgot all things but her ever-present need of relief. Early in the second
day the fever reached the brain, and her talk became incoherent. It
required all Maggie's firm strength and tender love to control the
suffering girl.

And it was nearly time for her tryst with Allan. On the twenty-ninth of
August he had bidden her farewell; two years from that day he had promised
to be in Pittenloch. She believed he would keep his promise; but how was
she to keep hers? Only by being recreant to every sentiment of honor,
gratitude and humanity. "And if I could be that false to Mary Campbell, I
wad weel deserve that Allan should be false to me," she said. She had
never read Carlyle, never heard of him, but she arrived at his famous
dictum, as millions of good men and women have done, by the simplest
process of conscientious thought: "I'll do the duty that lies close by my
hand and heart, and leave the rest to One wiser than I am."

She remembered also that she could write to Allan. There was a bare chance
that he might get the letter, especially if he should linger a few days in
Fife. But although she was ignorant of the action which David had taken
with regard to Janet Caird, she never thought of addressing the letter to
her care. For a moment she hesitated between Willie Johnson and Elder
Mackelvine, but finally chose the former, for Willie and Allan had been
great friends, and she was certain if Allan went to Pittenloch he would
not leave the village without seeing his old boat mate. It was a loving,
modest little letter, explaining the case in which she found herself, and
begging him to come to Drumloch and say a word of kindness to her. When
she folded and sealed it, she thought with pleasure of Allan's
astonishment and delight at her improvement; and many an hour she passed,
calculating, as well as she could, the distance, the time, and the chances
of Allan receiving her message.

As it happened, he just missed it; but it was Maggie's own fault. If she
had trusted it to the Drumloch mail-bag and servant it would have reached
Dalry on the twenty-ninth; and on that day Willie Johnson was in the
post-village, and received several letters lying there for himself and
others in Pittenloch. But when, in our anxiety, we trust to our own
judgment, instead of to that something which, for lack of a better name,
we call good fortune, we are usually, and perhaps justly, deserted by good
fortune. Maggie feared the footman would shirk her solitary letter, and
perhaps keep it until his regular visit to the post the following day; so
she gave it to the doctor, earnestly asking him to post it as he passed
through the town. And the doctor fully intended to do so, but he was met
by an urgent call for help; he forgot it then; he did not pass near the
post-office for two days, and the two days might as well have been two
months, for it was fully that time before Willie Johnson received his next
letters.

Mary was exceedingly ill on the twenty-ninth. Her soul had reached the
very border-land of being. In the dim, still room she lay, painfully
breathing, faintly murmuring words unintelligible and very far away. But
as Maggie sat motionless beside her, sometimes hopelessly watching,
sometimes softly praying, she could not help thinking of the beach at
Pittenloch, of the fresh salt air, and the sea coming in with the wind,
and the motion and sparkle and sunshine, and the tall, handsome man she
loved looking with sorrowful longing for her. And though she never grudged
Mary one moment of the joy she was sacrificing, yet her tears dropped upon
the clay-like hands she clasped in her own; for human love and human hopes
are very sweet, never perhaps more sweet than in the very hour in which we
yield them up to some noble duty, or some cruel fatality.

And Maggie mourned most of all, because Allan would think her faithless;
would judge her from the wicked, envious tongues that had driven her from
her home; and it is always the drop of injustice in sorrow that makes
sorrow intolerable. Only, Maggie trusted! In spite of many a moment's fear
and doubt she trusted! Trusted God, and trusted Allan, and trusted that
somehow out of sorrow would come joy; and as she stepped softly about her
loving cares, or watched, almost breathlessly, Mary passing Death's
haggard hills, she often whispered to herself part of a little poem they
had learned together:

"I will try to hope and to trust in God!
In the excellent Glory His abode
Hath been from of old; thence looketh He,
And surely He cannot help seeing me.
And I think perhaps He thinks of me;
For my heart is with Him continually."

In the meantime, Allan, like all true lovers, had outrun the clock to keep
his tryst. On the evening of the 28th of August a small steamer cast
anchor at Pittenloch pier. She had one passenger, Allan Campbell. He had
been waiting two days in Leith, but no boat from Pittenloch having arrived
during that time, he had hired a small steamer to run up the coast with
him. He landed in the evening, just about the time the lamps in the
cottages were being lit; and he looked eagerly toward the Promoter cottage
for some such cheering sign. As he looked, the window became red, and he
leaped off the boat in a fever of joyful expectation. Surely Maggie would
be watching! The arrival of a strange steamer must have told her who was
coming. Every moment he expected to see her at the open door. As he neared
it, the turfs sent up a ruddy glow, and touched the whole interior with
warm color. The entrance was light, but the house place was empty. Smiling
to himself, he went in, and stood upon the snow-white hearth, and glanced
round the dear, familiar room. Nothing was changed. In a moment or two he
heard a step; he looked eagerly toward it, and a very pleasant-looking old
woman entered.

"I thocht it wad be you, Maister Campbell. Welcome hame, sir! I'll mak you
a cup o' tea anon, for the kettle's boiling, and a' things ready."

"Thank you. I don't remember--I suppose Mistress Caird has left?"

"Sent awa', sir--not before she deserved it."

"And you are in her place? I think I have seen you before?"

"Nae doot, sir. I'm Mysie Jardine--the Widow Jardine, sir."

"And Maggie? Is she near by? At home? Where is she?"

"There is nane ken that, sir."

"What do you mean, Mysie?"

"Maggie's gane awa', sir."

"Maggie gone away! Where to?"

"'Deed, sir, I'd be fain to ken where to--but I hae the house for the care
o' things; and David Promoter left word that if I took up Maggie's name in
my lips, I wad be to leave instanter; sae I'll say naething at a'. Elder
Mackelvine kens a' that anybody kens, and when you hae had a drap o' tea,
you can ask him a' the questions you like to."

"Never mind tea, I am going at once to Mackelvine's."

"I'll be to get your room ready, sir; and put a bit o' fire in it, and the
like o' that?"

"Yes, I shall come back here." He felt stunned, and glad to get into the
fresh air. Maggie gone! He could hardly believe the words he had heard.
Sorrow, anxiety, keen disappointment, amazement, possessed him; but even
in those moments of miserable uncertainty he had not one hard or wrong
thought of Maggie. Elder Mackelvine's cottage was quite at the other end
of the village, and he was walking rapidly down the shingle toward it,
when he met Willie Johnson.

"I heard tell you were here, Maister Campbell, and I cam' instanter to
meet you, sir. You'll hae to bide wi' us to-night, for a' is changed at
the Promoters."

"So I see, Willie." Then mindful of Maggie's good name, and of the fact
that their betrothal was unknown, he said, with as much of his old manner
as he could assume, "What has come to the Promoters? I hope some good
fortune?"

"I hope that, too; but there's nane can say, if it be good or ill. Davie,
you will dootless hae heard tell o'?"

"I have heard nothing from him for two years."

"Then your ears will be like to tingle wi' the news; for he has set
himsel' in a' the high seats in Glasca' College; and folks talk o'
naething less than a Glasca' pu'pit for him; and you ken, it tak's doctors
in divinity to stand up afore a Glasca' congregation. Elder Mackelvine
never wearies o' talking anent him. For mysel', I canna say I ever likit
him o'er weel; and since puir Maggie gaed awa', I hae ta'en little
pleasure in the honor he has done oor village."

"Maggie gone away! Where to?"

"Nane can tell. She had a sair trial wi' yonder auld harridan her brother
brought to bide wi' her."

"I did not like the woman, Willie."

"Like her? Wha wad like her but the blackhearted and the black-tongued?
She gied the girl's gude name awa' to win hersel' a bit honor wi' auld
wives, and even the minister at first was against Maggie; sae when she
couldna thole her trouble langer, she went to her brither, and folks say,
he gied her the cold shoulder likewise. But when four months had gane he
cam' here oot o' his wits nearly, and sent Janet Caird hame wi' a word,
and the care o' the house was put on Mysie Jardine. Davie hasna set e'en
on his cottage, nor foot in it, since; nor sent any word to his auld
frien's--though as to frien's it is naething less than a professor he
changes hats or the time o' day with noo, they tell me; and I can weel
believe it, for he aye had the pride o' a Nebuchadnezzar in him."

Elder Mackelvine in a measure corroborated Willie Johnson's statements.
Maggie had been "hardly spoken of," he admitted; but "I dinna approve o'
the way oot o' trouble that she took," he added sternly. "Lasses ought to
sit still and thole wrang, until He undertakes their case. If Maggie had
bided in her hame a few weeks langer, He wad hae brought oot her
righteousness as the noon-day. There was a setting o' public feeling in
the right direction followed close on her leaving, and then cam' Dr.
Balmuto wi' searchings, and examinations, and strong reproofs, for a',
and sundry; and I didna escape mysel';" said the elder in a tone of
injury.

"What could they say wrong of Maggie Promoter?" asked Allan, with flashing
eyes.

"Ou, ay, a better girl ne'er broke her cake; but folks said this, and
that, and to tell the even-down truth, they put your ain name, sir, wi'
hers--and what but shame could come o' your name and her name in the same
breath?"

"'Shame!' Who dared to use my name to shame hers with? Let me tell you,
elder, and you may tell every man and woman in Pittenloch, that if I could
call Maggie Promoter my wife, I would count it the greatest honor and
happiness God could give me. And if I find her to-morrow, and she will
marry me, I will make her Mrs. Allan Campbell the same hour."

"You are an honorable young man, there's my hand, and I respect you wi' a'
my heart. Gudewife, mak' us a cup o' tea, and put some herring to toast.
Maister Campbell will eat wi' me this night, and we' hae a bed to spare
likewise, if he will tak' it."

Allan gratefully ate supper with the elder, but he preferred to occupy his
old room in the Promoter cottage. "I have a kind of right there," he said,
with a sorrowful smile, "I hired it for two years, and my term is not
quite out yet."

"And David told me also, that whenever you came, this year, or any year,
to gie you the key o' it. You will find a' your books and pictures
untouched; for when Dr. Balmuto heard tell what trouble Maggie had had to
keep Janet Caird oot o' it, he daured her to put her foot inside; and
Davie cam' himsel' not long after, and took her back to Dron Point in a
whiff and a hurry, wi' nae words aboot it."

"I am afraid David is much to blame about his sister. He should have let
Maggie stay with him."

"I'll no hear David Promoter blamed. He explained the hale circumstances
o' the case to me, and I dinna think the charge o' a grown, handsome girl
like Maggie was comformable, or to be thocht o'. A man that is climbing
the pu'pit stairs, canna hae any woman hanging on to him. It's no decent,
it's no to be expectit. You ken yoursel' what women are, they canna be
trusted wi' out bit and bridle, and David Promoter, when he had heard a'
that Maggie had to complain o', thocht still that she needed over-sight,
and that it was best for her to be among her ain people. He sent her back
wi' a letter to Dr. Balmuto, and he told her to bide under the doctor's
speech and ken, and the girl ought to hae done what she was bid to do; and
so far I dinna excuse her; and I dinna think her brother is to hae a word
o' blame. A divinity student has limitations, sir; and womenfolk are clean
outside o' them."

The elder was not a man who readily admitted petty faults in his own sex.
He thought women had a monopoly of them. He was quite ready to confess
that their tongues had been "tongues o' fire;" but then, he said, "Maggie
had the 'Ordinances' and the 'Promises,' and she should hae waited wi'
mair patience. Davie was doing weel to himsel' and going to be an honor to
her, and to the village, and the country, and the hale Kirk o' Scotland,
and it was the heighth o' unreason to mak' him accountable for trouble
that cam' o' women's tongues."

That night Allan slept again in his old room; but we cannot bring back the
old feelings by simply going back to the old places. Besides, nothing was
just the same. His room wanted, he knew not what; he could not hear the
low murmur of Maggie's voice as she talked to her brother; or the solemn
sound of David's, as he read the Exercise. Footfalls, little laughs,
slight movements, the rustle of garments, so many inexpressible keys to
emotion were silent. He was too tired also to lay any sensible plans for
finding Maggie; before he knew it, he had succumbed to his physical and
mental weariness, and fallen fast asleep.

He kept the boat waiting two days in Pittenloch, but on the morning of the
third sorrowfully turned his back upon the place of his disappointment. He
felt that he could see no one, nor yet take any further step until he had
spoken with David Promoter; and late the same night he was in the
Candleriggs Street of Glasgow. He was so weary and faint that David's
sonorous, strong, "come in," startled him. The two men looked steadily at
each other a moment, a look on both sides full of suspicion and inquiry.
Allan was the first to speak. He had taken in at a glance the tall sombre
grandeur of David's appearance, his spiritual look, the clear truthfulness
of his piercing eyes, and without reasoning he walked forward and said,
somewhat sadly,

"Well, David?"

"I do not know if it is well or ill, Mr. Campbell, and I will not shake
hands on uncertain grounds, sir. Ken you where my sister is?"

"How can you wrong me so, David Promoter? But that would be a small wrong
in comparison--how can you shame Maggie by such a question of me? Since
we parted in Pittenloch I have neither seen nor heard from her. _Oh,
Maggie! Maggie!_"

He could control himself no longer. As he paced the small room, the tears
stood in his eyes, and he locked and unlocked his hands in a passionate
effort to relieve his emotion. David looked at him with a stern curiosity.
"You are mair than needfully anxious, sir. Do you think Maggie Promoter
has no brother? What is Maggie to you?"

"Everything! Everything! Life is hopeless, worthless, without Maggie. She
is my promised wife. I would give every shilling I have in the world
rather than lose her. I would throw the whole of my world behind me, and
go into the fishing boats for her. I love her, sir, as you never can love
any woman. Do you think I would have given Maggie a heartache, or let
Maggie slip beyond my ken, for all the honor and glory in the world, or
for a pulpit as high as the Tower of Babel?"

"Dinna confound things, Mr. Campbell. Maggie, and the pulpit, and the
Tower o' Babel are a' different. If you love Maggie sae blindly as a'
that, whatna for did you leave her then? Why didn't you speak to me anent
the matter? Let me tell you, that was your plain duty, and you are noo
supping the broo you hae brewed for yoursel'."

David was under powerful emotion, and culture disappeared; "he had got to
his Scotch;" for though a man may speak many languages, he has only one
mother tongue; and when the heart throbs, and glows, and burns, he goes
back to it. "Why didna you speak wi' me?" he asked again, as he let his
hand fall upon the table to emphasize the inquiry.

"I will tell you why. Because Maggie loved you, and thought for you, and
would not put one dark drop into your cup of happiness. Because she was
afraid that if you knew I loved her, you would think I had tried to help
you from that motive, and so, refuse the help. Because the dear girl would
not wound even your self complacency. Do not think I am ashamed of her, or
ashamed of loving her. I told my father, I told the only female relative I
have, how dear she was to me. My father asked me to test my love by two
years' travel and absence. I did so to convince him, not because I doubted
myself. Do you know where Maggie is? If you do, tell me, I have a right to
see her."

David went to a big Bible lying on a small table, and took from among its
leaves three letters. "I have had these from her at different times. Two
you see are posted in Glasgow, the last received was posted three weeks
ago, from Portree, in Skye. She says she is with friends, and doing well,
and you have but to read the letters to understand she is with those who
are more than kind to her. There are few women in Scotland that could
write a letter like her last. It shows a mind well opened, and the pen o a
ready writer."

"May I have them?"

"Since you make so great a claim on Maggie, you may; but why did she not
write to you, if you were trothplighted?"

"Because it was fully understood there was to be no communication of any
kind between us for two years. That much I owed to the best of fathers.
Also, as you know, Maggie has learned to write since we parted. But I
ought to have made surer provision for her happiness. I am only rightly
punished for trusting her where I did."

"You trusted her with her ain brother, Mr. Campbell. If Maggie had done as
she should hae done--"

"Maggie has done perfectly right. I am sure of that. I could swear to it."

"Sir, we will keep to lawful language. Christian gentlemen don't need
oaths. I say Maggie should have gone to Dr. Balmuto when I sent her."

"I do not know the circumstances, but I say she ought not to have gone to
Dr. Balmuto. I am sure she only did whatever was wise and womanly."

"There is no use in reasoning with one who talks without knowledge. If I
get any information about Maggie, or from her, I will send it to your
address. I love Maggie. The lassie aye loved me. She wouldna thank you to
speak sae sharply to me. She will tell you some day that I did all that
could be expectit of me."

"Forgive me, David. I feel almost broken-hearted. I am irritable also for
want of food. I have not eaten since early this morning."

"That is not right, sir. Sit down, in a few minutes you shall have all
that is needful."

"No, no; I must go home. Half an hour will take me there. Shake hands,
David. Whatever differences we may have, you, at least, understand fully
that I never could wrong your sister."

"I am glad to give you my hand, sir. I owe you more than can be told. I
had not been where I am to-day but for you."

"And if there is anything more needed?"

"There is nothing more, sir. I have paid back all I borrowed. I have been
fortunate above my fellows. I owe you only the gratitude I freely and
constantly pay."

Allan scarcely understood him; he grasped the hand David offered him, then
walked to Argyle Street and called a cab; in half an hour, he was in his
own rooms in the Blytheswood Square house. His advent caused a little
sensation; the housekeeper almost felt it to be a wrong. "In the very
thick of the cleaning!" she exclaimed; "every bit of furniture under
linen, and all the silver put by in flannel. Miss Campbell said she wasna
coming until the end o' September; and as for Mr. Allan, every one thought
he was at a safe distance. We'll hae to hurry wi' the paint work noo, and
if there's one thing mair than anither no to be bided it's hurrying up
what should be taken pains wi'."

Generally Allan would have been conscious of the disapproval his visit
evoked, and he would have reconciled the servants to any amount of trouble
by apologies and regrets; but at this time his mind was full of far more
personal and serious affairs. He had been inclined to think the very best
of Maggie, to be quite certain that she had been detained by circumstances
absolutely uncontrollable by her; but after reading again and again her
letters to David, he did think she ought to have had some written
explanation of her absence waiting for him. She knew he would certainly
see either Willie Johnson or Elder Mackelvine, and he felt that she might
--if she wished--have spared him much anxiety and disappointment.

He longed now to see his father; he determined to tell him the truth, and
be guided by his advice. But John Campbell's last letter to his son had
been dated from Southern Russia, and it was scarcely likely he would be in
Glasgow for three weeks. However, Mary Campbell was at Drumloch, and he
thought as he sipped his coffee, that it would probably be the best thing

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