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IMPORT ANT ART BOOKS 
 
 The Ceramic Jlrt. 
 
 A Compendium of the History and Manufacture of Pottery 
 and Porcelain. By Jennie J. Young. Illustrated. 8vo. 
 (Nearly Ready) 
 
 The China Hunters Club. 
 
 By the Youngest Member. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, 
 
 $i 75- 
 
 •Modem Dwellings. 
 
 Modern Dwellings in Town and Country, adapted to Amer- 
 ican Wants and Climate. In a Series of One Hundred 
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 With a Treatise on Furniture and Decoration. By H. Hud- 
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 Contemporary Jlrt in Europe. 
 
 By S. G. W. Benjamin. Illustrated. 8vo, Cloth, Illuminated 
 and Gilt, $3 50. 
 
 Jlrt Decoration Jlpplied to Furniture. 
 
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 Jlrt Education Jlpplied to Industry. 
 
 By Colonel George Ward Nichols. Illustrated. 8vo, 
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 ^Pottery and Porcelain. 
 
 Pottery and Porcelain of all Times and Nations. With 
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HARPER'S LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS. 
 
 'Hi- 
 
 Messrs. Harper & Brothers beg leave to call attention to the following revised 
 and enlarged list of their " Library of Select Novels," and to the reduced prices. 
 
 The list has been increased in number and interest by the addition of many works 
 of fiction by leading novelists of the day, whose productions have hitherto appeared in 
 more expensive form [see numbers 493 to 595 of accompanying list]. The series has 
 been long before the public, and its interest and sterling value have been generally 
 recognized. Well-informed readers of fiction have considered the appearance of a 
 novel in this series to be always a guarantee of merit. 
 
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 TRICE 
 
 Pelham. By Bulwer $ 40 
 
 The Disowned. By Bulwer 50 
 
 Uevereux. By Bulwer 40 
 
 Paul Clifford. By Bulwer 40 
 
 Eugene Aram. By Bulwer 35 
 
 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer ... 25 
 
 The Czarina. By Mrs. Holland 40 
 
 Rienzi. By Bulwer 40 
 
 Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 30 
 
 The Nabob at Home 35 
 
 Ernest Maltravers. By Bulwer 35 
 
 Alice; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 35 
 
 The Last of the Barons. By Bulwer 50 
 
 Forest Days. By James 40 
 
 Adam Brown, the Merchant. By H. Smith 35 
 
 Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Bulwer 20 
 
 The Home. By Miss Bremer 35 
 
 The Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 4' I 
 
 The False Heir. By James 40 
 
 The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 35 
 
 Nina. By Miss Bremer 35 
 
 The President's Daughters. By Miss Bremer. . 20 
 
 The Banker's Wife. By Mrs. Gore 35 
 
 The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 20 
 
 New Sketches of E very-day Life. ByMissBremer 35 
 
 Arabella Stuart. By James 35 
 
 The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering 35 
 
 The Unloved One. By Mrs. Holland 4 I 
 
 Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt 20 
 
 The Heretic. By Lajetchnikoff 40 
 
 The Jew. By Spindler 50 
 
 Arthur. By Sue 40 
 
 Chatsworth. By Ward 30 
 
 The Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray 50 
 
 Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 35 
 
 Rose d'Albret. By James 40 
 
 The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 40 
 
 The H Family. By Miss Bremer 40 
 
 The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering 30 
 
 Arrah Neil. By James 35 
 
 The Jilt 35 
 
 Tales from the German 25 
 
 Arthur Arundel. By H. Smith 40 
 
 Agincourt. By James 40 
 
 The Regent's Daughter 35 
 
 The Maid of Honor. 25 
 
 Safia. By De Beauvoir 25 
 
 Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 40 
 
 The Improvisatore. By Andersen 30 
 
 The Gambler's Wife. By Mrs. Grey 40 
 
 Veronica. By Zschokke 25 
 
 Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 35 
 
 Wyoming 30 
 
 De Rohan. By Sue 40 
 
 Self. By the Author of "Cecil" 50 
 
 50 
 35 
 20 
 35 
 50 
 35 
 
 The Smuggler. By James. 
 
 The Breach of Promise 
 
 Parsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer. . . 
 A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan. . 
 
 The White Slave 
 
 The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey 
 
 Amaury. By Dumas 26 
 
 The Author's Daughter. By Mary Howitt 20 
 
 Only a Fiddler! &c. By Andersen 50 
 
 TheWhiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 40 
 
 The Foster-Brother. Edited by Leigh Hunt.. . 40 
 
 Love and Mesmerism. By 11. Smith 50 
 
 Ascanio. By Dumas 50 
 
 Lady of Milan. Edited by Mrs. Thomson 50 
 
 The Citizen of Prague 60 
 
 The Royal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore 35 
 
 The Queen of Denmark. By Mrs. Gore. 35 
 
 The Elves. &c ByTieck 40 
 
 T5. The Step-Mother. By James 60 
 
 Jessie's Flirtat'ons 30 ' 
 
 ruiCE 
 
 77. Chevalier d'Harmental. By Dumas $ 35 
 
 7S. Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore 35 
 
 79. The Commander of Malta. By Sue 25 
 
 SO. The Female Minister 25 
 
 81. Emilia Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh 40 
 
 52. The Bush-Kanger. By Charles Rowcroft 40 
 
 53. The Chronicles of Clovernook 20 
 
 84. Genevieve. By Lamartine 20 
 
 S5. Livonian Tales 20 
 
 8(1. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 20 
 
 87. Father Darcy. By Mrs. Marsh 40 
 
 SS. Leontine. By Mrs. Maberly 40 
 
 89. Heidelberg. By James 40 
 
 90. Lucretia. By Bulwer 40 
 
 91. Beauchamp. By James 40 
 
 92. 94. Fortescue. By Knowles GO 
 
 93. Daniel Denison, &c. By Mrs. Holland 30 
 
 95. Cinq-Mars. By De Vigny 40 
 
 96. Woman's Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 50 
 
 97. The Castle of Ehrenstein. By James 35 
 
 98. Marriage. By Miss S. Ferrier 40 
 
 99. Roland Cashel. By Lever. Illustrated 75 
 
 100. Martins of Cro' Mai'tin. By Lever 60 
 
 101. RusselU By James 40 
 
 102. A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald 30 
 
 103. Norman's Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh. .. . 35 
 
 104. Alamance 40 
 
 105. Margaret Graham. By James. 20 
 
 106. The Wayside Cross. By E. II. Milman 20 
 
 107. The Convict. By James 35 
 
 10S. Midsummer Eve. By Mrs. S-. C. Hall 25 
 
 109. Jaue Eyre. By Currer Bell 40 
 
 110. The Last of the Fairies. By James, 20 
 
 111. Sir Theodore Broughton. By James 40 
 
 112. Self-Control. By Mary Brunton 50 
 
 113. 114. Harold. By Bulwer . 60 
 
 115. Brothers and Sisters. By Miss Bremer 40 
 
 116. Gowrie. By James 35 
 
 117. A Whim and its Consequences. By James 40 
 
 US. Three Sisters and Three Fortunes. By G. It 
 
 Lewes 50 
 
 119. The Discipline of Life 40 
 
 120. Thirty Years Since. By James. 50 
 
 121. Mary Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell. 40 
 
 122. The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By Thackeray 20 
 
 123. The Forgery. By James . 40 
 
 124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Bremer 20 
 
 125. 126. The Caxtons. By Bulwer 50 
 
 127. Mordaunt Hall. By Mrs. Marsh 40 
 
 128. My Uncle the Curate 40 
 
 129. The Woodman. By James 50 
 
 130. The Green Hand. A " Short Yarn" 50 
 
 131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 50 
 
 132. Shirlev. By Currer Bell 50 
 
 133. The Ogilvies 35 
 
 134. Constance Lyndsay, By G. C. H 30 
 
 135. Sir Edward Graham. By MisB Sinclair 50 
 
 136. Hands not Hearts. Bv Miss Wilkinson 30 
 
 137. The Wilmlngtons. By Mrs. Marsh 35 
 
 13S. Ned Allen. By D. Hannay 30 
 
 139. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 50 
 
 140. The Maid of Orleans 50 
 
 141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 40 
 
 142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 35 
 
 143. Reginald Hastings, By Warbarton 35 
 
 144. Pride and Irresolution 35 
 
 145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 40 
 
 146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell 30 
 
 147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. Marsh 25 
 
 14S. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trollope 40 
 
 149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 35 
 
 150. Singleton Fontenoy, R.N. By Hannay 49 
 
 151. Olive. By the Author of " The Ogilvies" 35 
 
 152. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 
 
 153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh 33 
 
Hmp&r's Library of Select Novels. 
 
 PBICF. 
 
 HARPER'S Library of Select Novels- 
 Continued. 
 
 ■J 54. The Commissioner. Bv James $ 60 
 
 155. The Wife's Sister. By'Mrs. Hubback 35 
 
 150. The Gold Worshipers 35 
 
 157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom 35 
 
 158. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caroline Norton. 35 
 
 159. Arthur Conway. By Captain E II. Milman . . 40 
 100. The Fate. By James 40 
 
 161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. Maberly. . . 35 
 
 162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 
 
 163. The Tutor's Ward 30 
 
 164. Florence Sackville. By Mrs. Burbury 50 
 
 165. Ravenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh 40 
 
 166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 50 
 
 10T. The Head of the Family. By Miss Mulock 50 
 
 16S. Darien. By Warburton 35 
 
 160. Falkenburg 50 
 
 170. The Daltons. By Lever 75 
 
 171. Ivar; or, The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss Carlen.. . 35 
 
 172. Pequinillo. By James 40 
 
 173. Anna Hammer. By Temme 40 
 
 174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James 25 
 
 175. Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 50 
 
 176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer 75 
 
 17S. Katie Stewart 20 
 
 179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 40 
 
 180. Agnes Sorel. By James 40 
 
 151. Agatha's Husband. By the Author of " Olive" 35 
 
 192. Villette. By Currer Bell 50 
 
 1S3. Lover's Stratagem. By Miss Carlen 35 
 
 184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess D'Orsay 30 
 
 1S5. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 50 
 
 186. Lady Lee's Widowhood 40 
 
 1S7. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever 60 
 
 1SS. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 50 
 
 1S9. Quiet Heart 20 
 
 190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 191. Ticonderoga. By James 40 
 
 192. Hard Times. By Dickens 25 
 
 193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey 85 
 
 194. The Mother's Recompense. By Grace Aguilar. 50 
 
 195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 60 
 
 196. North and South. By Mis. Gaskell 40 
 
 197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Dupuy 40 
 
 198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jewsbury 30 
 
 199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. Marsh 35 
 
 200. The Old Dominion. By James 40 
 
 201. John Halifax. By the Author of "Olive," &c. 50 
 
 202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Mann 35 
 
 203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 
 
 204. Leonora d'Orco. By James 40 
 
 205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 30 
 
 206. The Rose of Ashurst. By Mis. Marsh 35 
 
 207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 208. Scenes of Clerical Life 50 
 
 209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell 20 
 
 210. 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever 40 
 
 212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock 40 
 
 213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 20 
 
 214. Misrepresentation. By Anna H. Drury 60 
 
 215. The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 50 
 
 216. One of Them. By Lever 50 
 
 217. A Day's Ride. By Lever. Illustrated 40 
 
 21S. Notice to Quit. By Wills 40 
 
 219. A Strange Story. Blustrated 50 
 
 220. Brown, Jones, and Robinson. By Trollope 35 
 
 221. Abel Drake's Wife. By John Saunders 50 
 
 222. Olive Blake's Good Work. By J. C. Jeaffreson. 50 
 
 223. The Professor's Lady. Illustrated 20 
 
 224. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 30 
 
 225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon 40 
 
 226. Barrington. By Lever 40 
 
 227. Sylvia's Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell 40 
 
 228. A First Friendship 25 
 
 229. A Dark Night's Work. By Mrs. Gaskell 25 
 
 230. Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt. Illustrated. . 30 
 
 231. St. Olave's. By Eliza Tabor 40 
 
 232. A Point of Honor 30 
 
 233. Live it Down. By Jeaffreson 60 
 
 234. Martin Pole. By Saundera 30 
 
 235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Ponsonby 40 
 
 236. Eleanor's Victory. By M. E. Braddon. Ill's. 60 
 
 237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 35 
 
 2:'.8. John Marchmont's Legacy. By M. E. Braddon 50 
 
 239. Annis Warleigh's Fortunes. By Holme Lee 50 
 
 240. The Wife's Evidence. By Wills 40 
 
 241. Barbara's History. By Amelia B. Edwards. .. . 50 
 
 242. Cousin Phillis 20 
 
 243. What will he do with It? Bv Bulwer 75 
 
 244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards. . . 25 
 
 245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray. Illustrated.... 25 
 245. Maurice Dering. By Geo. Lawrence 25 
 
 fEICE 
 
 HARPER'S Library of Select Novels- 
 Continued. 
 
 247. Margaret Denzil's History $ 50 
 
 248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus Sala. Ill's. 60 
 
 249. Mattie : a Stray 40 
 
 250. My Brother's Wife. By Amelia B. Edwards.. . 25 
 
 251. Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanu 40 
 
 252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray 20 
 
 253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trollope 35 
 
 254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 40 
 
 255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 40 
 
 256. Denis Donne. By Annie Thomas 40 
 
 257. Belial 30 
 
 25S. Carry's Confession 50 
 
 259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Edwards 35 
 
 260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Edwards 30 
 
 261. Guy Deverell. By J. S. Le Fanu 40 
 
 262. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia B. Edwards. 
 
 Illustrated 50 
 
 263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony Trollope 35 
 
 264. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 205. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas 40 
 
 266. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H. Hiddell 50 
 
 267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo. Il- 
 
 lustrated 50 
 
 265. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 209. True History of a Little Ragamuffin. By James 
 
 Greenwood 35 
 
 270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of "A First 
 
 Friendship" 60 
 
 271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 35 
 
 272. Phemie Keller. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 35 
 
 273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates 40 
 
 274. Felix Holt, the Uadical. By George Eliot 50 
 
 275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saunders 50 
 
 276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu 30 
 
 277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 40 
 
 278. The Kace for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell. . 50 
 
 279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. Linton. . . 50 
 
 250. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By C. Clarke 25 
 
 251. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles Lever. ... 50 
 282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 253. Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Blackmore 60 
 
 254. Bernthal. From the German of L. Miihlbach. 30 
 
 255. Rachel's Secret 41) 
 
 256. The Claverings. By Anthony Trollope. Ill's.. 50 
 287. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. 
 
 Illustrated 25 
 
 2SS. Played Out. By Annie Thomas 40 
 
 2S9. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 40 
 
 290. Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn Linton 35 
 
 291. Nora and Archibald Lee 40 
 
 292. Raymond's Heroine 4(? 
 
 293. Mr. Wynyard's Ward. By Holme Lee 25 
 
 294. Alec Forbes. By George Macdonald 50 
 
 295. No Man's Friend. By F. W. Robinson 50 
 
 296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 40 
 
 297. Caste 35 
 
 29S. The Curate's Discipline. By Mrs. Eiloart 40 
 
 299. Circe. By Bahington White 35 
 
 300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S. Le Fanu. . . 50 
 
 301. Carlyon's Year. By James Payn 25 
 
 302. The Waterdale Neighbors 35 
 
 303. Mabel's Progress 40 
 
 304. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald. Ill's 40 
 
 305. The Brothers' Bet. By Miss Carlen 25 
 
 306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thom- 
 
 as. Illustrated 25 
 
 307. Margaret's Engagement 25 
 
 30S. One of the Family. By James Payn 25 
 
 309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By a Barrister. 35 
 
 310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 311. Charlotte's Inheritance. Bv Miss Braddon... 35 
 
 312. Jeanie's Quiet Life. By Eliza Tabor 30 
 
 313. Poor Humanity. By F. W. Robinson 60 
 
 314. Brakespeare. By Geo. A. Lawrence. W r ith an 
 
 Illustration 40 
 
 315. A Lost Name. By J. S. Le Fanu 40 
 
 316. Love or Marriage f By W. Black 30 
 
 317. Dead-Sea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 50 
 31S. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 35 
 
 319. The Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly. By Lever. 
 
 Illustrated 50 
 
 320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik CO 
 
 321. Nature's Nobleman. By the Author of "Ba- 
 
 ch el' 8 Secret" 35 
 
 322. Kathleen. By the Author of " Raymond's He- 
 
 roine." 50 
 
 323. That Boy of Norcott's. By Charles Lever. Il- 
 
 lustrated 25 
 
 324. In Silk Attire. By W. Black 35 
 
 325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 20 
 
 326. False Colors. By Annie Thomas 40 
 
Harper's Library of Select Novels. 
 
 50 
 
 40 
 
 ruicE 
 HARPER'S Library of Select Novels- 
 Continued. 
 
 32T. Mcta's Faith. By Eliza Tabor $ 35 
 
 32S. Found Dead. By James Payn 25 
 
 32!). Wrecked iu Port. By Edmund Yutes 35 
 
 330. The Minister's Wife. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 331. A Beggar on Horseback. By James Payn 35 
 
 332. Kitty. By M. Betham Edwards 35 
 
 333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas 35 
 
 334. Hirell. By John Saunders 40 
 
 335. Under Foot. By Alton Clyde. Illustrated... 40 
 330. So Runs the World Away. By Mrs. A. O. Steele. 35 
 
 337. Baffled. By Julia Goddard. Illustrated 50 
 
 33S. Beneath the Wheels 50 
 
 339. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 40 
 
 340. Gwendoline's Harvest. By James Bayu 25 
 
 341. Kilmeny. By William Black 35 
 
 342. John : A Love Story. By Mrs. Oliphant 25 
 
 343. True to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 
 
 344. Veronica. By the Author of "Mabel's Progress" 
 
 345. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author of "Gil- 
 
 bert Rugge" 
 
 346. Estelle Russell 
 
 347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author of " Ray- 
 
 mond's Heroine" 
 
 343. Which is the Heroine ? 40 
 
 349. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer Collins. . 35 
 
 350. In Duty Bound. Illustrated 35 
 
 351. The Warden and Barchester Towers. By A. 
 
 Trollope 60 
 
 352. From Thistles— Grapes ? By Mrs. Eiloart 35 
 
 353. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 40 
 
 354. Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite. By 
 
 Anthony Trollope. Illustrated 35 
 
 355. Earl's Dene. By R. E. Francillon 50 
 
 35S. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 35 
 
 357. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn. Ill's.... 40 
 
 35S. Fenton's Quest. By MissBraddon. Illustrated. . 50 
 
 359. Monarch of .Mincing-Lane. By W. Black. Ill's. 50 
 
 360. A Life's Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 40 
 
 361. Anteros. By the Author of "Guy Livingstone." 40 
 
 362. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross Church. . 30 
 
 363. Won— Not Wooed. By James Payn 35 
 
 364. For Lack of Gold. By Charles Gibbon 35 
 
 305. Anne Furness 50 
 
 366. A Daughter of Heth. By W. Black 35 
 
 307. Durntou Abbey. By T. A. Trollope 40 
 
 365. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Farjeon 40 
 
 309. Lovels of Arden. By M. E. Braddon. Ill's. 50 
 
 370. Fair to See. By L. W. M. Lockhart 40 
 
 371. Cecil's Tryst. By James Payn 30 
 
 372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid 50 
 
 373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas 25 
 
 374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 35 
 
 375. A Bridge of Glas-;. By F. W. Robinson 30 
 
 376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham 50 
 
 377. A Good Investment. By Wm. Flagg. Ill's.. 35 
 
 S73. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel lioey 40 
 
 379. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 350. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 
 
 351. The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Blackmore 50 
 
 382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon 30 
 
 383. A Girl's Romance, and Other Tales. By F. W. 
 
 Robinson 30 
 
 384 Dr. Wainwright's Patient. By Edmund Yates. 35 
 
 385. A Passion in Tatters. By Annie Thomas 50 
 
 SS6. A Woman's Vengeance. Bv Jame3 Payn 35 
 
 887. Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. ByW.Black. 50 
 
 358. To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 
 
 Illustrated 50 
 
 359. Robin Gray. By Charles Gibbon 35 
 
 390. Godolphin. Bv Bulwer 35 
 
 391. Leila. By Bulwer. Illustrated 25 
 
 392. Kenelm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. Ill's.. 5" 
 
 393. The Hour and the Man. By Harriet Martineau 50 
 
 394. Murphy's Master. By James Payn 20 
 
 395. The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins 30 
 
 396. '"He Cometh Not,' She Said." By Annie 
 
 Thomas 30 
 
 39T. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illustrated 50 
 
 398. Too Soon. By Mrs. Macquoid 30 
 
 399. Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss Braddon. Ill's. 50 
 
 400. A Simpleton. By Charles Reade 35 
 
 401. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 25 
 
 402. Joseph the Jew. By Miss V. W. Johnson 40 
 
 403. Her Face was Her Fortune. By F. W. Robinson. 40 
 
 404. A Princess of Thnle. ByW.Black 
 
 405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jeaffreson 
 
 406. The Bine Ribbon. By Eliza Tabor 
 
 40T. Harry Heathcote of GangoiL By A. Trollope 
 
 Illustrated 
 
 403. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss Braddon... 
 409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of "Caste".. . 
 
 I'BICE 
 
 HARPER'S Library of Select Novels- 
 Continued. 
 
 410. Through Fire and Water. By Frederick Talbot. 
 
 Illustrated $ 20 
 
 411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Trollope 30 
 
 412. Taken at the Flood. By Miss Braddon 50 
 
 413. At Her Mercy. By James Payn 30 
 
 414. Ninety-Three. By Victor Hugo.. Ill's 25 
 
 415. For Love and Life. By Mrs. Oliphant 5l 
 
 416. Doctor Thome. By Anthony Trollope 50 
 
 417. The Best of Husbauds. By James Payn 25 
 
 41S. Sylvia's Choice. By Georgiana M. Craik.... 30 
 
 419. A Sack of Gold. By Miss V. W. Johnson c5 
 
 4'20. Squire Arden. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 
 
 421. Lorna Dooue. By R. D. Blackmore. Ill's... 60 
 
 422. The Treasure Hunters. By Geo.ManvilleFenn. 25 
 
 423. Lost for Love. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Ill's. 50 
 
 424. Jack's Sister. By Miss Dora Havers 50 
 
 425. Aileen Ferrers. By Susan Morley 30 
 
 426. The Love that Lived. By Mrs. Eiloart 30 
 
 427. Iu Honor Bound. By Charles Gibbon 35 
 
 42S. Jessie Trim. By B. L. Farjeon 35 
 
 429. Hagarene. By George A. Lawrence 35 
 
 430. Old Myddelton's Money. By Mary Cecil Hay. 25 
 
 431. At the Sign of the Silver Flagon. By Farjeon.. 25 
 
 432. A Strange World. By Miss Braddon 40 
 
 433. Hope Meredith. By Eliza Tabor 35 
 
 434. The Maid of Killeena. By William Black.. .. 40 
 
 435. The Blossoming of an Aloe. By Mrs. Hoey. . . 30 
 
 436. Safely Married. By the Author of "Caste.". . 25 
 
 437. The Story of Valentine and his Brother. By 
 
 Mrs. Oliphant 60 
 
 43S. Our Detachment. By Katharine King. 35 
 
 439. Love's Victory. By B. L. Farjeon 20 
 
 410. Alice Lorraine. By It. D. Blackmore 50 
 
 441. Walter's Word. By James Payn 50 " 
 
 442. Playing the Mischief. By J. W. De Forest... Go 
 
 443. The Lady Superior. By Eliza F. Pollard 35 
 
 444. Iseulte. By the Author of " Vera," " Hotel du 
 
 Petit St. Jean," &c 30 
 
 445. Eglantine. By Eliza Tabor 40 
 
 446. Ward or Wife 1 Illustrated 25 
 
 447. Jean. By Mrs. Newman 35 
 
 44S. The Calderwood Secret. By Miss V.W. Johnson 40 
 
 449. Hugh Melton. By Katharine King. Ill's 25 
 
 450. Healey. 35 
 
 451. Hostages to Fortune. By Miss Braddon. Ill's. 50 
 
 452. The Queen of Connaught 35 
 
 453. Off the Roll. By Katharine King 60 
 
 454. Halves. By James Payn 30 
 
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THE PRIMROSE PATH 
 
 A Chapter in tie Annals of the Sujta of IA 
 
 By MRS. OLIPHANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD" "AGNES" "A SON OF THE SOIL" "CARITA' 
 "FOR LOVE AND LIFE" "MISS MARJORIBANKS" "INNOCENT" &c. 
 
 "A violet in the youth of primy nature, 
 Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting 
 The perfume and suppliance of a minute ; 
 
 • No more." 
 
 — "the primrose path of dalliance!" 
 
 Hamlet, Act I., Scene III. 
 
 t^c£^ry, 
 
 NEW Y O R K 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 1S78 
 
By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
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TO 
 
 THE VERY REVEREND THE PRINCIPAL: 
 
 THE EIGHT REVEREND 
 
 THE MODERATOR: 
 
 ONE OF THE CHIEF LIVING ILLUSTRATIONS OF FIFE: 
 
 FKOM 
 THE HUMBLE CHRONICLER OF THE KINGDOM 
 
 ©retting ! 
 
 JUNE, 1S7S. 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/primrosepathchapOOolip 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE old house of Earl's-hall stands on a 
 long strip of land between two rivers, in that 
 county affectionately known to its inhabitants as 
 the kingdom of Fife. It is not a great house, 
 but neither is it an insignificant one, though fort- 
 une has brought the family low which once held 
 some primitive state in it : a quaint, gray dwell- 
 ing, not formed for modern wants. To make 
 an ordinary dining-room and drawing-room in 
 it would be as impossible as to content an ordi- 
 nary band of modern servants with the accom- 
 modation provided in the low vaulted chambers 
 below, which are all the old house possesses in 
 the way of kitchen or servants' hall ; but when 
 you see its gray gable and turret projecting from 
 among a cloud of trees, the old Scotch manor- 
 house looks as imposing as any castle. The belt 
 of wood round the little park, or what in Scotland 
 is called "the policy," is old too, and as well- 
 grown as the winds will permit. . It is true that 
 a great turnip-field, reaching up to the walls of 
 the garden which lies on the southern side, has 
 been thrust in between the house and the wood, 
 and the policy is as ragged as a poor pony badly 
 groomed and badly fed ; but these are imperfec- 
 tions which a little money could remedy very 
 quickly. The house itself is very peculiar in form, 
 and consisted once of two buildings built on two 
 sides of a court, and united by a mere screen of 
 wall, in which is an arched door-way surmount- 
 ed by a coat of arms. Probably, however, the 
 second of these buildings, which has now fallen 
 into ruins, was a modern addition, the other be- 
 ing the ancient body of the house. It is of gray 
 stone, three stories high, with a round turret at 
 the western side, which rises higher than the 
 rest by one flight of the old winding stone stair- 
 case, and has a little square battlement and ter- 
 race at the top, from which you look abroad upon 
 a wide landscape, not beautiful, perhaps, but broad 
 and breezy, rich fields and low hills and vacant 
 sea. To the right lies the village, with its church 
 built upon a knoll in the rich plain, and its houses, 
 gray, red, and blue, as the topping of chill bluish 
 slate or rough -red generous tile predominates, 
 clinging about the little height. Cornfields wave 
 and nestle round this centre of rural population, 
 and behind are the hills of Forfarshire, and a 
 farther line of the Grampians, half seen among 
 the mists. The softly swelling heights of the 
 Lomonds lie in the nearer distance, and in the 
 
 foreground the Eden sweeps darkly blue, with a 
 line of breakers showing the bar at its mouth, 
 toward the low sand-hills and stormy waters of 
 St. Andrews Bay, a place in which no ship likes 
 to find itself; while over the low sweep of the 
 sands St. Andrews itself stands misty and fine, 
 its long line of cliff and tower and piled houses 
 ending in the jagged edge of the ruined castle, 
 and the tall mystery of St. Rule's — the square 
 tower which baffles archaeology. Such is the 
 scene, rural and fresh and green, with a some- 
 what chill tone of color, and many a token of 
 the winds in the bare anatomy and shivering 
 branches of the trees, and with no great amount 
 of beauty to boast of: yet ever full of attraction 
 and suggestion, as such a width of firmament, 
 such a great circle of horizon, such variety of sea 
 and land and hills and towers must ever be. 
 
 Through the door-way in the wall, which is 
 rich with rough but effective ornamentation, 
 boldly cut string-courses, which look as if there 
 might once have been some kind of fortification 
 to be supported, you enter a little court, from 
 which the house opens — a square court, turfed 
 and green, and containing a well and an old 
 thorn-tree. The ruined portion of the house, 
 roofless and mouldering, is on the east side ; the 
 habitable part on the west, an oblong block of 
 building ; and at the well, on the day when this 
 history opens, two figures, one old, one young, 
 both full in the gleam of westering sunshine 
 which breaks over the wall. One- half of the 
 court is in deepest shade, but this all bright, so 
 bright that the girl shades her eyes with one 
 hand, while with the other she pumps water into 
 the old woman's pail, who stands with arms a-kim- 
 bo, shaking her head, and giving vent to that mur- 
 mur of rembnstrative disapproval, inarticulate 
 yet very expressive, which is made by the tongue 
 against the palate. 
 
 " Tt-tt-tt," says old Bell. " If ever there was 
 a masterful miss and an ill-willy, and ane that 
 will have her ain way!" 
 
 "How can I be masterful and a miss too?" 
 said the girl, laughing. Her arm grew tired, 
 however, with the pumping, and she left off be- 
 fore the vessel was half full. ' ' There ! " she said, 
 "I'll cry on Jeanie to do the rest for you. I'm 
 tired now." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Margret! but you need not cry 
 upon Jeanie. I am fit enough, though I'm old, 
 to do that much for mysel'." 
 
 "It's the sun has got into my eyes," said the 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 girl ; and she strayed away into the shade, and 
 seated herself upon a heavy old wooden chair 
 that had been placed close to the door. The 
 sun would not have seemed unbearably hot to any 
 one accustomed to his warmer sway ; but Mar- 
 garet Leslie was not used to overmuch sunshine, 
 and what she called the glare fatigued her. Such 
 a mild glare as it was — a suffusion of soft light, 
 more regretful at giving so little than triumphant 
 in delight over its universal victory! It had 
 been rainy weather, and the light had a wistful 
 suddenness in it, like a smile in wet eyes. Mar- 
 garet withdrew into the shade. She was a girl 
 of seventeen or so, the only daughter of this old 
 gray house, the only blossom of youth about it 
 except Jeanie in the kitchen, whom she did not 
 "cry on" to help old Bell — not so much because 
 old Bell declined the help, but because she her- 
 self forgot next moment all about it. Margaret 
 had no idea that to say she would "cry upon" 
 Jeanie was not the best English in the world. 
 She was as entirely and honestly of the soil as 
 her maid was ; a little more careful, perhaps, of 
 her dialect ; not "broad " indeed, in her use of 
 the vernacular, because of the old father up- 
 stairs, but with an accent which would make a 
 young lady of Fife of the present day shiver, and 
 a proud and determined aversion to the "high 
 English " which only disapproving visitors ever 
 spoke — ladies who looked with alarm upon her, 
 suggesting schools and governesses. Nowhere 
 could there have been found a more utterly neg- 
 lected girl than Margaret, whom nobody, except 
 old Bell, had ever taken any care of, all her life. 
 Bell had been very careful of her — had kept her 
 feet warm and her head cool, had seen that she 
 ate her porridge all the mornings of her child- 
 hood, and that there were no holes in her stock- 
 ings ; but what more could Bell do ? She dis- 
 coursed her young mistress continually, putting 
 all kinds of homely wisdom into her head ; but 
 she could not teach her French, or to play the 
 "piany," which were the only accomplishments 
 of which Bell was even aware. 
 
 "It's no my fault," the old woman said, put- 
 ting out her open palms with a natural gesture 
 of mild despair. " If I were to speak till I was 
 hoarse (and so I have), what woidd that do to 
 mend the maitter? The maister he turns a 
 deaf ear, though I was to charm ever so wisely ; 
 and Miss Margret hersel' — oh, Miss Margret 
 hersel', if she could learn a' that a young leddy 
 should, in twa minutes by the clock, it might be 
 done; but hold her to one thing I canna — it 
 wants somebody with more authority than me ; 
 and a bonny creature like that, and with a fort- 
 une coming till her from her mother! How is 
 she ever to learn the piany, or a word but broad 
 Scots out here?" 
 
 Little Margaret cared for such lamentations. 
 She sat softly swinging the heavy chair against 
 the wall, which was not an easy thing to do. 
 She had not the aspect or physiognomy adapted 
 for a hoyden ; her features were small and re- 
 fined ; her color more pale than warm, lighted 
 up by evanescent rose-flushes, but never brilliant; 
 her hair singularly fine in texture and abundant 
 in quantity, but of no tint more pronounced than 
 brown, the most ordinary and commonplace of 
 shades. Her face was a cloudy, shadowy little 
 face, but possessed by a smile which came and 
 went in the suddenest way, brightening her and 
 
 everything about her. No particular art of the 
 toilet aided or hindered the prettiness of her lit- 
 tle slight figure. If she was not as God made 
 her, she was at least as Miss Buist in the village 
 made her — in a dress of blue serge, as near the 
 fashion as possible, of which the peculiarity was 
 that it was rather tight where it ought to be loose, 
 and loose where it ought to be tight. But Mar- 
 garet's soul had not been awakened to the point 
 of dress, and so long as it did not hurt, she 
 minded little. Her shoes were made, and 
 strongly made, by the village shoemaker ; every- 
 thing about her was of the soil. When she had 
 swung her chair to the wall, she let it drop back 
 again to its place, and swallowed a little yawn 
 as she watched the water brim into the pail. 
 
 "What will I do, Bell?" she said. "What 
 will I do next, Bell?" 
 
 (If any one thinks that Margaret ought to 
 have said, "What shall I do?" they are to re- 
 member that this is not how we use our verbs 
 in the kingdom of Fife.) 
 
 "Oh, Miss Margret! if you would but do one 
 thing, just wan thing, without changin' for wan 
 hour by the clock!" 
 
 " You've been saying that as long as I can 
 mind. You, you never change, and that's why 
 I like to be aye changing. There are so few 
 things to do in the afternoon. The morning's 
 better — there's something in the air. I'm al- 
 ways content in the morning." 
 
 "Eh ay! you're very content, flichterin' about 
 like the birds among the trees, wan moment on 
 this branch, the ither on that ; but the after- 
 noon, Miss Margret, the afternoon's the time for 
 rest— if you've been doing ony thing the fore part 
 of the da)'." 
 
 "If you want to rest," said Margaret ; " you, 
 perhaps, Bell, that are getting old, and papa — 
 I've seen him sleepin'. Figure such a thing! 
 Sleepin'! with the sun in the sky!" 
 
 "1 can figure it real well," said Bell; "it's 
 no often a poor body gets the chance : but just 
 to close your eyes in the drowsy time, when a's 
 well redd up, the fire burning steady, and the 
 kettle near the boil, and pussy bumming by your 
 side, ah, that's pleasant! it's a kind o' glimmer 
 o' heaven." 
 
 "Heaven! the kettle on the boil, and pussy 
 — that's a funny heaven, "said Margaret, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 " Weel, maybe it's ower mateerial an image; 
 but we're poor fleshly creatures; and I was 
 meaning a Sawbath afternoon, when you've come 
 hame from the kirk, your Bible at hand, and a' 
 sae quiet," said Bell, amending her first flight. 
 "Jeanie stepping saft about the place, waiting 
 till it's time to mask the tea, and auld John on 
 the other side of the fire, and nothing to do but 
 to thank your Maker for a' his mercies and think 
 upon the" sermon— if it was a sound sermon," 
 Bell added, after a pause, taking up her pail ; 
 "for I wouldna say they're a' of the kind that 
 ye would like to mind and think upon in a Saw- 
 bath afternoon in the gloamin'. Miss Margret, 
 what do you say to run up the stair and see if 
 your papaw's wanting onything? That would 
 ave be something to do." 
 
 " " Oh, Bell, if you only had more imagination ! 
 You always tell me to run and see if papa is 
 wanting anything : and he never wants anything, 
 except, perhaps, a book from the high shelf, 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 9 
 
 where they're all Greek, ami I have to climb up 
 upon the steps, and get no good." 
 
 "And whase fault's that?" said Bell, re- 
 proachfully. She had set down the pail again 
 and paused, looking with mournful eyes at the 
 voung creature seventeen years old, who did not 
 know what to do with herself. " Whase fault's 
 that ? Did I no beg ye on my bended knees to 
 learn your French book? — a' wee words, as 
 easy! I could have learned it mysel'; and then 
 ye would have had a' the shelfs and a' the books 
 open to you, and your papaw's learnin' at your 
 finger's-end." 
 
 "Do you think French and Greek are the 
 same?" cried Margaret. "Why, they're dif- 
 ferent print even— the a b c 's different; they 
 are no more like the same thing than you and 
 me." 
 
 "I'm no saying they're just the same," said 
 Bell, a little "discomfited. "One thing's aye 
 different from another. When I was learnin' it 
 was aw, bay, say that they learned me, no clip- 
 pit and short like your English. But the creat- 
 ure kens something after a', "she said to herself 
 as she went in-doors with her pail. "A thing 
 like that, with a' her wits about her, canna be 
 near a learned man without learning something. 
 But no a note o' the piany!" Bell said, with a 
 real sense of humiliation. For that want what 
 could make up? 
 
 Margaret was left alone in the little court, and 
 she soon tired of being alone. When she had 
 remained there for about five minutes, watching 
 the sun shine upon the ruin opposite to her, and 
 print all the irregularities of the wall which con- 
 nected it with the house upon the broken turf 
 of the court, she got up suddenly and went up- 
 stairs. Musing and dreaming were the only 
 things upon which she could spend with pleas- 
 ure more than "twa minutes by the clock," as 
 Bell said. She would read, indeed, as long as ! 
 any one pleased, but that was an unprofitable : 
 exercise, and tended to nothing ; for what was 
 it all but foolish stories and daft-like poetry, and j 
 play-acting and nonsense? These things were 
 naught in the estimation of the people in the 
 house who were anxious about Margaret's edu- 
 cation. The only member of the household who 
 took no thought of her education at all was the \ 
 master, who sat up-stairs in solitary state. Even 
 Jeanie, the handmaiden in the kitchen, was very 
 anxious on Miss Peggy's account. She wanted 
 to see her young mistress go to balls, and have 
 pretty dresses from Edinburgh, and enjoy her- 
 self. What was the use of being bonny and 
 young if you stayed aye in one auld house and 
 nobody saw ye? Jeanie asked herself. And 
 this was a question which much disturbed and 
 occupied her mind. Old John, too, who was 
 Bell's husband, and the male factotum, as she 
 was the female, had his anxieties about Miss 
 Peggy. When she began to want to have pair- 
 ties and young folk about her, what should they 
 all do? John demanded. He would be will- 
 ing, and so would Bell, to "put themselves 
 about " to the utmost ; but what was to be done 
 for chineyand plate? Wan dozen of everything 
 might be enough for the family, but what would 
 that do for a pairty ? So that John's mind was 
 disturbed also. But old Sir Ludovic, what did 
 he mind ? Give him a book, and ye might mine 
 the cellars, and throw your best bomb-shells at 
 
 the tower, and he would never hear ye. Such 
 was the general opinion of the house. 
 
 There was no entrance-hall in this primitive 
 house ; but only a little space at the " stair-foot," 
 the bottom of the well through which the spiral 
 staircase wound its narrow way ; but though it 
 was dark, and the twist of the unprotected steps 
 a little alarming to a stranger, Margaret ran up 
 as lightly as a bird. At about half the height 
 of an ordinary flight of stairs there were two 
 doors close to each other, forming a little angle. 
 One of these Margaret pushed open softly. It 
 led into a long room, running all the length of 
 the building, panelled wherever the wall was vis- 
 ible, and painted white, as in a French house : 
 one side, however, was covered entirely with book- 
 shelves. The depth of the recesses in which the 
 small windows were embedded showed the thick- 
 ness of the wall. One at each end and one in 
 the middle were all that lighted the long room, 
 two or three others which had belonged to the 
 original plan having been blocked up on account 
 of the window tax, that vexatious impost. In 
 the centre of the room stood a large old japanned 
 screen, stretched almost across the whole breadth, 
 and dividing it into two. On the south side, 
 into which the door opened, a large writing-ta- 
 ble was placed upon the old and much -worn 
 Turkey- carpet which covered the middle of the 
 floor ; and seated at this, but with his back to the 
 sunshine, which was pouring in, sat an old man 
 in a chair, reading. The window behind him 
 and the window in the side each poured its 
 stream of sunshine between the deep cuttings of 
 the ancient walls, five or six feet thick, but nei- 
 ther of these rays of warmth and light touched 
 this solitary inhabitant. He was so much ab- 
 sorbed in his reading that he did not hear the 
 door open. Margaret came in behind him and 
 stood in the sunshine, the impersonation of youth 
 — the light catching her at all points, gleaming 
 in her eyes, bringing color to her cheek, making 
 her collar and the edge of white round her hands 
 blaze against the darkness of her dress. But no 
 ray touched the old man in his chair. He was 
 as still as if he had been cut out of gray marble, 
 his face motionless, the movement of his eyes as 
 he read, the unfrequent movement necessary to 
 turn the page, being all the sign of life about him. 
 The book he was reading was a large old folio, 
 propped up upon a sort of reading-desk in front 
 of him. A large wide garment, something be- 
 tween a long coat and a dressing-gown, of dark- 
 colored and much -worn velvet, and wrapped 
 round his thin person, gave it some dignity ; and 
 he wore a little black velvet skull-cap, which made 
 his fine head and thin white locks imposing. 
 Margaret stood breathless, making no sound for 
 a moment, and then said, suddenly, "You look 
 like Archimage in the cave, papa!" 
 
 The old man made a faint movement of sur- 
 prise ; a wrinkle of impatience came into his 
 forehead, a momentary smile to his lip. "Yes, 
 yes, my little Peggy; go and play," he said. 
 She stood for a moment behind him, hesitating, 
 looking round her with eager eyes in search of 
 something, anything, to interest her. She was 
 neither surprised nor wounded to find herself 
 thus summarily disposed of: she was used to 
 it. Finally, seeing nothing likely to interest her, 
 Margaret turned lightly away, and disappeared 
 through a second door which was close to the one 
 
10 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 by which she had entered. This brought her 
 into a small rounded room, with one window, a 
 little white-panelled Scotch-French boudoir, with 
 a high mantel-piece and small antique furniture 
 — a little square of Tin key-carpet on the floor, 
 a pretty old marquetry cabinet, and some high- 
 backed chairs of the same covered with brocaded 
 silk from some great-grandmother's gown. Mar- 
 garet knew nothing about the value of these old 
 furnishings. She thought the walnut-wood ta- 
 ble, with its elaborate clustered legs, a much finer 
 article, though it was often in her way. There 
 were some old pictures on the walls, some books, 
 and more ornament and grace than in all the 
 rest of the house put together. What did Mar- 
 garet care? She sang an old tune to herself, 
 drumming with her fingers upon the window-sill, 
 and thinking what she should do. Then she 
 drew open a drawer in the cabinet and took from 
 it some old fancy-work, faded but fine, with a 
 bundle of wools and silks in the same condition. 
 It was the relic of some old lady's industry (Lady 
 Jean, old Bell said ; but how should she know ?) 
 which had been found in one of the periodical 
 routings out of old presses and drawers in which 
 Margaret delighted. The linen on which the 
 work was half done was yellow and the colors 
 faded, but it had struck the girl's fancy, and she 
 had carried it off with her to finish (this time a 
 hundred years, Bell said, satirically). Margaret 
 took it out now and laid it on the table ; then 
 she went flying up the stone stairs, and all over 
 the rooms, to find her thimble and her scissors, 
 which were not to be found. 
 
 And while she tries to find these, what can we 
 do better than let the reader know who old Sir 
 Ludovic was, and how he came to have so young 
 a child ? Margaret's foot flying up-stairs, and 
 the sound she made of doors and drawers open- 
 ing, and now an impatient exclamation (for the 
 way thimbles hide themselves and refuse to be 
 found!) and now a little snatch of song, was all 
 that was audible in the still old house. Bell and 
 John and Jeanie in the kitchen had their cracks, 
 indeed, as they took their tea ; but sounds did 
 not travel easily up the spiral stair, and the long 
 room with its one inhabitant was as void of all 
 movement as was the vacant little white-panelled 
 chamber with Lady Jean's old work thrown on 
 the table. All silence, languor, stillness ; and yet 
 one creature in the house to whom stillness was 
 as death. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Leslies had been settled at EaiTs-hall 
 since before the memory of man. Now they 
 were related to other Leslies in Fife ; and out of 
 it, I do not pretend to say. But this family it- 
 self was old enough to have carried any amount 
 of honors, much less the poor baronetcy which 
 was all it had got out of the sometimes lavish 
 hand of fame. The family was old enough to 
 have supported a dukedom, but not rich enough. 
 Sir Ludovic had got but a moderate fortune from 
 his father, and that which he would transmit to 
 his son would be considerably less than moder- 
 ate. Indeed, it was not worth calling a fortune 
 at all. When the Baronet began his life, the 
 policy was a real policy, a pretty small park 
 enough, with its girdle of hardy trees. No tur- 
 
 nip-field then thrust its plebeian presence and 
 odor between the house and its own woods ; the 
 garden was kept up with care, the other part of 
 the house was still habitable and inhabited, and 
 the greatest people in the country did not scorn 
 to dine and dance in the rooms so well adapted 
 for either purpose. But of all these good things, 
 the rooms and old Sir Ludovic were all that re- 
 mained. He had not done any particular harm 
 at any time, nor had he wasted his means in lav- 
 ish living, and nobody was so much surprised 
 as he when his money was found to have been 
 spent. "What have 1 done with it?" he had 
 asked all his life. But nobody could tell ; he 
 had no expensive tastes — indeed, he had no 
 tastes at all, except for books, and his own libra- 
 ry was a very good one. It was true, he had in- 
 dulged in three wives and three families, which 
 was inconsiderate, but each of the wives had, 
 greatly to the comfort of her respective children, 
 possessed something of her own. Time went 
 and came, however, taking these ladies away in 
 succession, but leaving Sir Ludovic still in his 
 great high-backed chair, older, but otherwise not 
 much different from what he had ever been. 
 The eldest son, also called Ludovic, was the 
 only one now surviving of the first marriage. He 
 was a man of forty-five, with a family of his 
 own; a hard-working lawyer in Edinburgh, with 
 no great income to keep up his position, and lit- 
 tle disposed to welcome the burden of his fa- 
 ther's little title when it should come. A baron- 
 etcy, and an old house altogether uninhabitable 
 by a family, and entirely out of modern fashion — 
 what should he make of these additions when 
 his father died? He had made his own way as 
 much as if he had been a poor school-master's 
 son, instead of the heir of an ancient and impor- 
 tant family. He could not even take his chil- 
 dren home to the old place, or give them any 
 associations with it, for there was no room at 
 Earl's-hall. "Your father might as well be in 
 Russia," his wife sometimes said when she want- 
 ed a change for a little boy who was delicate. 
 And privately, Mr. Leslie had made up his mind 
 to sell the place, though it had been so long in 
 the family, when Sir Ludovic died. 
 
 Of the second family there were two remain- 
 ing, two daughters, one of whom had been mar- 
 ried and had settled in England ; the other, who 
 had not married, living with her. They were 
 twins, and some five years younger than their 
 elder brother. And neither did they come often 
 to Earl's-hall. The same objection was in ev- 
 erybody's way — there was no room for them. 
 And Sir Ludovic disliked letter-writing. They 
 came occasionally to see their father, and to hold 
 up their hands and shake their heads at the way 
 in which little Margaret was being brought up. 
 But what could these ladies do ? To live at 
 Earl's-hall was impossible, and to go and stay 
 in a little cottage in the Kirkton, all for the sake 
 of a small step-sister, and without even any se- 
 curity that they could really be of any use to 
 her, was something more of a test than their 
 lukewarm family affection could bear. And they 
 hesitated about recommending a governess; for 
 with an old gentleman so much addicted to 
 marriage, who could tell what might happen? 
 Though he was seventy-five, he was the same 
 man as ever, and very fascinating when he chose 
 to exert himself ; and to have a new Lady Les- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 11 
 
 lie would be a still greater horror than to have 
 a young rustic for a step-sister. And then the 
 child would be rich. It does not require much 
 learning, as Mrs. Hardcastle says, to spend fif- 
 teen hundred a year. 
 
 So that Margaret was left alone. Her moth- 
 er had been the richest of all Sir Ludovic's wives. 
 She had been — more wonderful still — a young 
 beauty, courted and flattered, and how it was 
 that she passed over all her younger admirers 
 and fixed upon a man of fifty-five, a poor old 
 Scotch baronet, nobody could divine. But she 
 did so, and came home with him to Earl's-hall, 
 and brightened it a while with her youth and 
 her wealth, and would have done wonders for 
 the old house. Nothing less had been intended 
 than to rebuild the ruin, though ISir Ludovic 
 himself discouraged this, as the house, he re- 
 minded her, must pass into other hands. But 
 poor Lady Leslie's fine projects came to a pre- 
 mature end, by means of a bad cold which she 
 caught just after her little girl was born. She 
 died, and the last gleam of prosperity died away 
 with her. Margaret, it was true, was rich, and 
 the allowance her trustees made her was no small 
 help even now to the impoverished household ; 
 though, indeed, the trouble these trustees gave, 
 her father thought, was more than the money 
 was worth. They wrote to Sir Ludovic about 
 her education till he was roused to swear at, 
 though not to profit by, the perpetual remon- 
 strance. 
 
 "Education! what would they have at her 
 age ? A mere child," he said. 
 
 "Eh, Sir Ludovic! but she's sixteen," Bell 
 said, who was the only one in the house who 
 ever ventured to keep up an argument with her 
 old master. 
 
 '• Pshaw!" the old man said ; for what is six- 
 teen to seventy-five? And besides, did he not 
 see her before him a slim stripling of a girl, flit- 
 ting about in perpetual motion, a singing voice, 
 a dancing step, a creature never in the same 
 place, as Bell said, for " twa minutes by the 
 clock?" What does that kind of small thing 
 want with education ? Sir Ludovic liked her 
 better without it, and so perhaps would most 
 people : for are not the fresh wonder, curiosity, 
 and intelligent ignorance of a child its most cap- 
 tivating qualities? If we could but venture to 
 take the good of them with a clear conscience 
 and no thought of what the child will say to us 
 when it ceases to be a child ! Sir Ludovic had 
 this courage. He did not think much of his du- 
 ties to Margaret. She had duties to him — to be 
 always pretty and cheerful, not to speak too 
 broad Scotch, to get his books down for him 
 when he wanted them, to put everything ready 
 on his table, pens, pencils, and note-book, in case 
 he should want to write something (which he 
 never did), and to he neat and in order at meal- 
 times. In this one particular he certainly did 
 his duty. Margaret had not the privilege of be- 
 ing untidy, which is allowed to most neglected 
 heroines. Sir Ludovic required scrupulous neat- 
 ness, hair that shone, and garments that were 
 spotless, and ribbons as fresh as the day. Should 
 not we all like just such a creature about us, fair 
 as a new-blown rose, with a voice so toned and 
 harmonious, a step with rhythm in it, a pair of 
 eyes running over with understanding and inter- 
 est, and no education to speak of? If only the 
 
 creature would not arise upon us after and up- 
 braid us for its want of knowledge! But of this 
 risk Sir Ludovic never dreamed. She could 
 read, he supposed, for he saw her reading ; and 
 she could write, he knew, for he had seen her do 
 it. What could they want more? 
 
 Thus they lived, not uncontented, from year 
 to year. No one told Margaret to read, but she 
 did so, perhaps with all the more pleasure be- 
 cause nobody told her. She read all the best 
 poetry that is written in English, and a great 
 deal that was not the best. She was so great 
 in history that she had been a Lancastrian and 
 taken an active, even violent, part on the side of 
 her namesake, Margaret of Anjou, as long as she 
 could remember — a more violent part even than 
 she took for Queen Mary, though to that also 
 she was bound as a true Scot. She had read 
 Clarendon and Sir Thomas Brown, and Burton 
 on " Melancholy " (not caring much for that) and 
 an old translation of Froissart, and "Paul and 
 Virginia, "and Madame Cottin's "Elizabeth," 
 and "Don Quixote," all in translations ; so that 
 her range was tolerably wide; and everything 
 came natural to Margaret, the great and the 
 small. Needless to say that all Sir Walter was 
 hers by nature, as what well-conditioned Scots 
 person of seventeen has not possessed our home- 
 lier Shakspeare from his or her cradle ? Wheth- 
 er she loved best the Spanish Don, or Lord Falk- 
 land, or Sir Kenneth in the "Talisman," was not 
 to her mind perfectly clear. In this respect she 
 was not so sure about Shakspeare. His lovers 
 and heroes did not satisfy her youthful require- 
 ments ; she loved Henry the Fifth, and Faulcon- 
 bridge, and Benedick, but was not at all satisfied 
 about the relations between Hamlet and Ophelia, 
 naturally standing by her own side, and thinking 
 that poor maiden badly used : which is as much 
 as to say that the spell of story was still strong 
 upon her, though the poetry went to her head all 
 the same. These were the books Sir Ludovic saw 
 her reading — but he took no notice and no over- 
 sight. He did not think of her at all as a re- 
 sponsible creature to be affected one way or other 
 by what she read, or as undergoing any process 
 of training for the future. The future! what is 
 that at seventy-five? especially to a man who 
 amiably and without evil intention has always 
 found himself the centre of the world ! It is like 
 the future of a child — to-morrow. He did not 
 want to pry any further. What was to come, 
 would' come without any intervention of his. 
 Had his child been penniless, probably he would 
 have thought it necessary to remember that in 
 all probability (as he expressed it) she would sur- 
 vive him. But she was rich, and where was the 
 need of thinking ? The great thing was that 
 there was no room. The bedrooms in the house 
 were so few. Where could they put a governess, 
 he asked Bell ; and even Bell, though full of re- 
 sources, could not reply. There was one good- 
 sized room which Sir Ludovic himself occupied, 
 and another quaint small panelled chamber in 
 which Margaret was very snug and cosy, but be- 
 yond these scarcely any bedchamber in the house 
 was in a proper state of repair. What could any 
 one say against so evident a fact? "We could 
 dine fifty folk," Bell said, half proudly, half sad- 
 ly, "and we could gie a grand ball after that up 
 the stair ; but pit up one single gentleman that is 
 no very particular, that's all we could do beside." 
 
12 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 It was a curious state of affairs. The two long 
 rooms, one above the other, were the whole 
 house. 
 
 Of the wealth which Margaret was to inherit, 
 she knew absolutely nothing. There was a house 
 "in England," a vague description which the girl 
 had never much inquired into, seeing that till her 
 twenty-first birthday it was very unlikely that 
 she would have anything whatever to do witli it. 
 In the mean time it served a very pleasant pur- 
 pose in her life. It was the scene of so many 
 dreams and visions of that future which was 
 everything to Margaret, that it could not be said 
 to be an unknown place. She built it and fur- 
 nished it, and planted trees and invented glades 
 about the unrevealed place, such as in reality it 
 could not boast of. Everything that she thought 
 most beautiful in her small experience of things, 
 or whicli she found in her considerable experi- 
 ence of books, she placed in this distant man- 
 sion, where all manner of pleasant verdure was, 
 which was not to be found in Scotland, flowers 
 and fruits, and green lawns, and abundant foli- 
 age, and sunshine such as never shone in Fife. 
 She made pictures of it, and dreamed dreams, 
 but no troublesome dash of reality disturbed the 
 vision. She was the lady of the manor, a title 
 which pleased her fancy hugely, and which she 
 wove into many a fancy ; but it was all as vision- 
 ary as if she had found the Grange in a novel 
 and appropriated it. 
 
 If anything could have been more unlike an 
 English manor-house than the quaint old dwell- 
 ing in which her childhood had been passed, it 
 was the dreams Margaret wove of her future 
 home. Claude Melnotte"s palace was more like 
 that sunshiny fancy. No castle in Spain or in 
 the air was ever more unreal. There wants no 
 education to teach a girl how to dream, and the 
 less she knows, so much the more gorgeous and 
 delightful becomes the imagination. But nat- 
 urally this was a branch of her training totally 
 unknown to everybody connected with her. Sir 
 Ludovic knew a great deal, but had not a no- 
 tion of that branch of human effort; neither.it 
 may well be supposed, did Cell, though her in- 
 stincts were clearer. When she saw her young 
 mistress sit abstracted, her eyes far away, a half 
 smile on her lips, Bell knew that there must be 
 something going on within the small head. 
 What was it ? There were no young men, or, as 
 Bell called them, "lauds," about that could have 
 caught her youthful eye. Bell knew that the 
 romance of life begins early, and had some glim- 
 mering of recollection that before any "lauds" 
 appear on the horizon in reality, there are flut- 
 ters of anticipation in maiden souls, dreams of 
 being wooed like the rest, "respectit like the 
 lave." But Margaret had seen none of the rural 
 wooings which are a recognized institution in 
 Scotland, those knocks at the window and whis- 
 pers at the door, which add the charm of mys- 
 tery to the never-ending romance. Bell had 
 taken care even that Jeanie's "laud" and his 
 evening visits should be kept out of the young 
 lady's notice. But then, if it was not the glim- 
 mer of poetic love that flickered on the horizon, 
 what was it? And except Bell, and perhaps 
 Jeanie, no one had noticed the soft abstracted 
 look that sometimes stole into Margaret's eyes, 
 or knew her capacity for dreams. Mr. Leslie, 
 when lie came, took bnt little notice of his step- 
 
 sister. He had a daughter who was older than 
 she, indeed Margaret had become a great-aunt, 
 to the amusement of everybody, during the pre- 
 vious winter. Her brother took very little no- 
 tice of her. When he looked at her, he breathed 
 a private thanksgiving that she was provided 
 for, and would not be an additional burden upon 
 him when his father died. It was only when 
 Sir Ludovic was ill or in difficulty, that Mr. Les- 
 lie came, and the reflection, "Thank Heaven I 
 have not the lassie to think of," was the fore- 
 most sentiment in his breast. He had plenty 
 of his own to exhaust all the fund of interest in 
 his heart. She had no business ever to have 
 been, this young creature whose presence in the 
 old house made a certain difference naturally in 
 all the arrangements; but, being there, the chief 
 fact was this fortunate one that she was pro- 
 vided for. So far as Margaret was concerned, 
 this was the only thing in his thoughts. 
 
 As for Mrs. Bellingham and her sister, Miss 
 Leslie, they lived a long way from Fife. They 
 were ladies who travelled a great deal, and spent 
 all they had to spend in making their life pleas- 
 ant. Mrs. Bellingham was childless, and a 
 widow, so that her married life did not count for 
 much, though she herself regarded the elevation 
 it gave her with much contentment. Now and 
 then, instead of going to Switzerland or the Ital- 
 ian lakes, they would come to Scotland, making 
 expeditions into the Highlands, and preserving 
 everywhere their character as British tourists. 
 Once there had been some question between 
 them of inviting Margaret to accompany them 
 on one of these expeditions, which it was thought 
 might do her good and improve her manners, 
 and give her a little acquaintance with the world. 
 But on more mature reflection, it. became appar- 
 ent that the maid whom the two ladies shared 
 between them, when on their travels, was by no 
 means disposed to undertake the packing and 
 toilet of a third. 
 
 " Many a girl would be glad to give a little 
 assistance herself rather than trouble, for the 
 chance of such a treat," Miss Leslie said, who 
 was the weak-minded sister; "and in that way 
 I really think we might manage — if dear Mar- 
 garet was a sensible girl." 
 
 "Margaret is not a sensible girl, and we 
 could not manage at all, and I won't have For- 
 rester put about," Mrs. Bellingham said, who took 
 the management of everything upon her. " Be- 
 sides, a girl — she would be an endless trouble 
 to you and me. We should have to change our 
 route to let her see this thing and that thing, 
 and you would be afraid she did not enjoy her- 
 self, and the Lord knows what besides. There 
 are many things in conversation even that have 
 to be stopped before a girl. No, no ; it would 
 never do." 
 
 And thus one hope for Margaret's improve- 
 ment came to an end. A similar failure hap- 
 pened about the same time in Edinburgh. 
 When Mrs. Ludovic got that German governess, 
 who was at once her pride and her dread, she 
 was so much affected by the grandeur and su- 
 periority as to suggest an arrangement to her 
 husband by which his little sister might be ben- 
 efited. 
 
 "It appears to me that we, who have such 
 advantages, ought, perhaps, to share them a lit- 
 tle with others that are not so well off. There 
 
THE riUMROSE PATH. 
 
 13 
 
 is little Margaret at the Hall. What do you 
 think ? Sir Ludovic might send her to us to 
 share the children's lessons. Fiiuilein is an ex- 
 pensive luxury, and a little help with her salary 
 would be no harm. And if Margaret had six 
 months with our girls, ic would do her a great 
 deal of good ; if it was only to learn German — " 
 
 "What does she want with German? What 
 good would it do her to learn German?" said 
 Ludovic, testily. 
 
 "Well, I'm, sure, Ludovic, that's not an easy 
 question. I never thought you were one to ask 
 for an immediate result. I am sure you all say 
 learning anything is an advantage, whether the 
 thing they learn is any use or not. I do not 
 always see it myself," said Mrs. Leslie; "but 
 many is the time I've heard you all say so. And 
 if we could do Margaret a good turn, and at 
 the same time save something on our own ex- 
 penses — " 
 
 "Do Margaret a good turn! I do not see 
 what claim she -has on me. She has plenty of 
 people to look after her if they would do their 
 duty. Trustees of her money, and her mother's 
 relations, not to speak of my father himself, who 
 has plenty of energy left when you cross him. 
 Indeed, if you come to that, Jane and Grace are 
 nearer to her than I." 
 
 "Because the second is nearer the third than 
 the first is," Mrs. Ludovic said, who had some 
 sense of humor. But she added, " Well ! I 
 never made any attempt to fathom you Leslies 
 but I was baffled. I think there was never a 
 set of people like you. I hope I'll never be so 
 left to myself as to try again." 
 
 " We Leslies ! The most of the Leslies now- 
 adays are your own bairns." 
 
 "That's true, and more's the pity," said the 
 lady, discharging an arrow as she went away. 
 
 And thus another attempt to do something 
 for Margaret came to nothing. Everything fail- 
 ed. It was nobody's business, perhaps. The 
 trustees were strangers who did not know. Her 
 father was old, and did not care to be troubled, 
 and liked her best as she was. Her brothers 
 and sisters, what had they to do with it? They 
 were not their little sister's keeper. So between 
 them all she was left to grow as she pleased, like 
 a flower or a weed, nobody responsible for her, 
 whatever might happen. Even a School Board, 
 had there been one in the parish, what right 
 would it have had to interfere? 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Margaret searched a whole half- hour for 
 her thimble, which was found at the end of that 
 time in the pocket of a dress which she had not 
 worn for a week ; but when she had found it, she 
 no longer thought of Lady Jean's work. That 
 purpose had faded altogether from her mind. 
 She forgot even what she wanted the thimble 
 for, and being seized with a sudden fancy for 
 remedying the disorder of her drawers, immedi- 
 ately set to work to do so, with a zeal more fer- 
 vent than discreet ; for as soon as she had turn- 
 ed the top drawer out, scattering all her light 
 possessions, her collars and ribbons and bits of 
 lace, out upon her bed, she was summoned by 
 the bell for dinner, and thought of them no 
 
 more. Margaret hastily arranged her hair, put 
 on a bit of fresh ribbon, and rushed down-stairs; 
 for to keep Sir Ludovic waiting was a sin beyond 
 excuse. On the other side of the great japanned 
 screen which divided the room into two, stood 
 the table, laid with scrupulous care, and served 
 by John in his rusty but trim and sober " blacks," 
 with a gravity that would not have misbecome 
 an archbishop. Sir Ludovic had put down his 
 book, he had washed his hands, and he was 
 read}'. He stood dignified and serious, almost 
 as serious as John himself in the centre of the 
 room, by the edge of the screen. J'aifailli at- 
 tendre might be read in the curve above his eye- 
 brows ; and yet he received his erring child 
 with perfect temper, which was more than could 
 be said for John, who gloomed at her from un- 
 der his heavy eyebrows. 
 
 " Oh, papa, I am sorry," Margaret began. 
 "I was busy — " 
 
 " If you were busy, that is no reason for be- 
 ing sorry ; but you should not forget hours — they 
 are our best guide in life," said her father. But 
 he was not angry ; he took her by the hand and 
 led her in, handing her to her seat with stately 
 ceremony. 'Phis daily ceremonial, which Mar- 
 garet hated, and would have done anything to 
 avoid, was the means by which Sir Ludovic every 
 day made his claim of high-breeding and unfor- 
 gotten courtliness of demeanor, in presence of 
 men and angels. Whosoever might think he 
 had forgotten what was due to his daughter as a 
 young lady and a Leslie, and what was due to 
 himself as a gentleman of the old school, not a 
 modern man of no manners, here was his an- 
 swer. John looked on at this solemnity with 
 gloomy interest ; but Margaret hated it. She 
 reddened all over her youthful countenance, brow 
 and throat. Between the two old men she 
 moved, passive but resentful, to her seat, and 
 slid into it the moment her father released her, 
 with ungrateful haste to get done with the disa- 
 greeable ceremony. They were " making a fool 
 of her," Margaret thought. Though it occurred 
 every evening, she never got less impatient of 
 this formula. Then Sir Ludovic took his own 
 place. He was not tall, but of an imposing ap- 
 pearance, now that he was fully visible. In the 
 other half of the room, where all his work was 
 done, he sat invariably with his back to the 
 light. But here he was fully revealed. His 
 white locks surrounded a fine and remarkable 
 face, in which every line seemed drawn on ivory. 
 He had no color save in his lips, and the won- 
 derful undimmed dark eyes, darkly lashed and 
 eyebrowed, which shone in all the lustre of 
 youth. With those eyes Sir Ludovic could do 
 anything — "wile a bird from the tree," old Bell 
 said; and, indeed, it was his eyes which had be- 
 guiled Margaret's mother, and brought her to 
 this old-world place. But Margaret was used 
 to them ; perhaps she had not that adoring love 
 for her father which many girls have ; and es- 
 pecially at dinner, after the little ceremony we 
 have recorded, she was more than indifferent to, 
 she was resentful of his attractions. At that 
 age he might have known better than " to make 
 a fool," before John, day after day, of his little 
 girl. 
 
 This day, however, the dinner went on har- 
 moniously enough ; for Margaret never ventured 
 to show her resentment, except by the sudden 
 
14 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 angry flush, which her father took for sensitive- 
 ness and quickly moved feeling. He talked to 
 her a little with hind condescension, as to a 
 child. 
 
 "You were busy, you said; let us hear, my 
 little Peggy, what the busy-ness was." 
 
 "I was doing— a great many things, papa." 
 
 "Ah ! people who do a great many things all 
 at once are apt to get into confusion. I would 
 do one thing, just one thing at a time, my Peg- 
 gy, if I were a little girl." 
 
 "Papa!" said Margaret, with another wave 
 of color passing over her, "indeed, if you would 
 look at me, you would see that I am not a little 
 girl." 
 
 "Yes, you have grown a great deal lately, my 
 clear. I beg your pardon. It is hard to teach 
 an old person like myself where babyhood ends. 
 You see, I like to think that you are a little girl. 
 Eh, John? we like something young in the 
 house ; the younger the better — " 
 
 "No me, Sir Ludovic," said John. 
 
 He was very laconic, wasting no words ; and 
 Margaret felt that he disapproved of her youth 
 altogether. But this restored her to herself, and 
 she laughed. For John, though morose in out- 
 ward aspect, was, as she very well knew, her 
 slave actually. This made her laugh, and the 
 two old men liked the laugh. It brought a cor- 
 responding light into Sir Ludovic's fine eyes, 
 and it melted a little the morose muscles about 
 John's closely shut mouth. 
 
 "But I am not so very young," she said. 
 >" Jeanie's sister, who is just my age, has been 
 in a place for a long time ; and most people are 
 considered grown-up at my age. You ought 
 not to make a fool of me." 
 
 "My little Peggy," said Sir Ludovic, "that 
 is an incorrect expression. Nobody could make 
 a fool of you except yourself. It is Scotch, my 
 dear, very Scotch, which is a thing your sisters 
 Jean and Grace have already often warned me 
 against. You are very Scotch, they tell me." 
 
 "Set them up!" ejaculated old John, under 
 his breath. 
 
 Margaret reddened with ready wrath. 
 
 "And I am Scotch," she said. "How could 
 I speak otherwise? They were always going on 
 about something. Either it was my shoulders, 
 or it was my hair, or it was my tongue — " 
 
 "Your tongue! My Peggy, your idioms are 
 strange, it must be allowed; but never mind. 
 What had they to say against your hair? It is 
 very pretty hair. I don't see any ground to 
 find fault there." 
 
 "Oh, it was not in the fashion," said Marga- 
 ret. "You know, papa, you like it smooth, and 
 that is not the fashion now ; it ought to be all tow- 
 zy, like my little dog, and hanging in my eyes." 
 
 "The Lord preserve us !" said old John. He 
 was in the habit of giving utterance to his sen- 
 timents as constrained by some internal move- 
 ment }>Jusfort que lui ; and no one ever inter- 
 fered with this habit of his. "What next?" 
 said the old man, with a shrug of his shoulders 
 behind his master's chair. 
 
 "Then you must continue to be old-fashioned 
 so long as I live," said Sir Ludovic. "Your 
 sisters are very well-meaning women, my Peg- 
 gy; but even when you are as clever as Mrs. 
 Bellingham and as wise as Miss Leslie, you will 
 not have fathomed evervthing. We'll leave the 
 
 philosophy to them, my little woman, and vou 
 and I will manage the hair-dressing. That is 
 evidently the point in which our genius lies." 
 
 Margaret looked up, somewhat jealously, to 
 see whether she was again being made "a fool 
 of;" but as no such intention appeared in her 
 father's face, she returned to the consideration 
 of her dinner. It was not a heavy meal. A 
 little fish — "baddies," such as were never found 
 but in the Firth, little milk-white flounders, the 
 very favorites of the sea, or the homely herring, 
 commonest, cheapest, and best of fish. But 
 then, perhaps, they require to be cooked as Bell 
 knew how to cook them. No expensive exotic 
 salmon, turbot, or other aristocrat of the waters 
 ever came to Sir Ludovic's table. Let them be 
 for the vulgar rich, who knew no better. The 
 native product of his own coasts was good 
 enough, he would say, in mock humility, for 
 him. And then came one savory dish of the 
 old Scotch cuisine now falling out of knowledge; 
 no vulgar dainty of the haggis kind, but stews 
 and rai/outs which the best of chefs would not 
 disdain. This was all ; the plat doux has never 
 been a regular concomitant of a Scotch dinner ; 
 and Sir Ludovic was a small eater, and had his 
 digestion to consider. It was not, therefore, 
 a very lengthened meal ; and as six o'clock was 
 the dinner-hour at Earl's-hall, there were still 
 several long hours of sunshine to be got through 
 before night came. 
 
 Now was the time when Margaret felt what it 
 was to be alone. The long summer evening, 
 loveliest, most wistful, and lingering hour of all 
 the day, when something in the heart demands 
 happiness, demands that which is unattainable 
 one way or another — is it possible to be young, 
 to be void of care, to possess all the elements of 
 happiness, without wishing for something more, 
 a visionary climax, another sweetness in those 
 soft, lingering, visionary hours? Margaret did 
 not know what she wanted, but she wanted 
 something. She could not rest contented as her 
 father did, to sit over a book and see through 
 the west window (when he chanced to look up) 
 the flush of the sunset glories. To feel that aH 
 this was going on in the sky, and nothing going 
 on within, nor anything that concerned herself 
 in earth and heaven, was not to be borne. 
 
 The little witlidrawing-room — the East Cham- 
 ber, as it was called, though its window faced to 
 the south — was already all dim. deserted by the 
 sunshine. Lady Jean's work lay on the table, 
 where Margaret had thrown it in the afternoon, 
 but nothing living, nothing that could return 
 glance for glance and word for word. It was 
 but seven o'clock, and it would be ten o'clock, 
 ten at the earliest, before night began to fall. 
 Margaret got her hat and ran down-stairs. She 
 did not know what she should do, but something 
 she must do. The little court was by this time 
 quite abandoned by the sunshine, the body of 
 the house lying between it and the west; but all 
 the sky overhead was warm with pink and pur- 
 ple, and Bell was seated outside, with her knit- 
 ting dropped upon her lap. Jeanie had gone 
 out to milk the cow ; and even old John had 
 strolled forth with his hands behind him, to see, 
 he said, how the "pitawties" were getting on. 
 The " pitawties " would have got on just as well 
 without his supervision, but who could resist the 
 loveliness of the evening light? 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 15 
 
 " Our Jolin lie's awa', like Isaac, to meditate 
 among the fields at even-tide," Bell said. " Eh, 
 but it's an auld custom that ! and nae doubt 
 auld Sawra, the auld mither, would sit out at 
 the ha' door, and ponder in her mind just like 
 me." 
 
 "But John is not your son, Bell," said Mar- 
 garet, with the literal understanding of youth. 
 
 "Na, I never had a son, Miss Margret, nae- 
 thing but wan daughter., and she's been married 
 and gone from me this twenty years. Eh, my 
 dear, we think muckle of our bairns, but they 
 think little and little enough of us. I might as 
 well have had nane at all but for the thought." 
 
 To this Margaret made no reply, her mind 
 not taking in the maternal relation. She stood 
 musing, with her eyes afar, while Bell went on : 
 
 "They say a woman has no after-pain when 
 her first bairn's born, because of the Virgin 
 Mary, that had but wan. But ay me, I've had 
 mony an after-pain, and her too, poor woman, 
 though no the same kind. I think of her mony 
 a day, Miss Margret, how she would sit and 
 ponder things in her heart. Eh, they would be 
 so ill to understand — till the time came." 
 
 Still Margaret said nothing. The old woman 
 pondered the past, but the girl's brain was all 
 throbbing and thrilling with the future. The 
 sound of something coming was in her ears, a 
 ringing, a singing, a general movement and flut- 
 ter of she knew not what. To Bell the quiet 
 was everything; to Margaret, she herself was 
 the universe, and all the horizon was not too 
 big to hold the rustling pinions and approaching 
 foot- balls of the life to come. 
 
 "I think I will take a walk down the road," 
 she said, suddenly, over Bell's head. 
 
 "Take a hap with you, in case it should get 
 cauld. Sometimes there's a wind gets up when 
 the sun goes down. And you'll no bide too 
 long, Miss Margret," Bell called after her as she 
 ran lightly away. 
 
 Margaret did not care for the wind getting 
 up, nor foresee the possibility of the evening 
 dullness after the warmth of the day. It was 
 always chilly at night so near the sea ; but sev- 
 enteen years' experience to the contrai'y had not 
 dispelled Margaret's conviction that as the weath- 
 er was at one bright moment, so would it always 
 be. 
 
 The road down which Margaret went was not 
 very attractive as a road. The hedges were low 
 and the country bare. It is true that even the 
 rigor of Fife farming had not cut down the wild 
 roses, which made two broken lines of exquisite 
 bloom on either side of the way. Long branch- 
 es all bloomed to the very tips waved about in 
 the soft air, and concealed the fact that the 
 landscape on either side was limited to a potato- 
 field on the right and a turnip-field on the left. 
 But the wild roses were enough for Margaret. 
 "Were they not repeated all over the skies in 
 those puffs of snowy vapor tinted to the same 
 rose hue, and in the girl's cheeks, which bloomed 
 as softly, when the exercise, and the flowering 
 of the flowers, and the reflection of the sunset 
 reflections had got into her young veins ? The 
 color and sweetness rapt her for a moment in an 
 ecstasy, mere beauty satisfying her as it does a 
 child. But human nature, even in a child, soon 
 wants something more, and in Margaret the de- 
 mand came very quickly. She forgot the love- 
 
 liness all at once, and remembered the some- 
 thing that was wanted, the blank that required 
 filling up. She turned aside into a by-way, along 
 the edge of a cornfield, witli a sigh. The corn 
 was not high, as it was but June, and when she 
 turned her face away from the sunset, the world 
 paled all at once all around her. 
 
 Margaret went on more slowly, unconscious 
 why. She went on hanging her young head till 
 she came to a brook at the end of the field, over 
 which there was but a plank for a bridge. The 
 brook (she called it a burn) ran between two 
 fields, and on one side of it grew an old ash-tree, 
 its trunk lost among the bushes of the hedge. 
 Here a post, which had been driven into the 
 ground to support the homely bridge, made a 
 kind of seat upon which the wayfarer might 
 pause and look at the homely yet pretty Kirkton, 
 with its old church on the brae. Margaret her- 
 self had intended to rest upon this seat. But 
 when she was half-way across the plank, a sud- 
 den sound so startled her that she lost her foot- 
 ing; and though she saved herself from plunging 
 into the burn altogether by a despairing grasp at 
 the bushes, yet she got her foot fast imbedded 
 in the damp bank, and there stuck, to her infi- 
 nite embarrassment and disgust. Some one 
 started from the seat at the sound of the sup- 
 pressed cry she gave, and rushed to the rescue. 
 It was, need it be said, a young man ? yet not 
 exactly of heroic guise. 
 
 Margaret, crimson to the hair, and feeling her- 
 self the most gawky, the most awkward, the 
 most foolish of distressed damsels, her ungloved 
 hand all torn and pricked with the thorns of the 
 branch which she had caught at, her foot held 
 fast in the tenacious clay, did not know what 
 kind of hoyden, what rude village girl, red and 
 blowzy, she must have looked to the stranger. 
 She looked a nymph out of the poetic woods, a 
 creature out of the poets, a celestial vision to 
 him. He sprang forward, his heart beating, to 
 offer his hand and his assistance. Was it his 
 fault? He feared it was his fault; he had star- 
 tled her, moving just when she was in the act of 
 crossing the plank. He made her a thousand 
 apologies. It was all his doing ; he hoped she 
 would forgive him. He expended himself so in 
 apologies that Margaret felt it necessary to apol- 
 ogize too. 
 
 " It was me that was silly, " she said. ' ' Gen- 
 erally, I never mind a sudden sound. What 
 should it matter ? Nobody would do me harm, 
 and there's no wild beasts, that I should be so sil- 
 ly. Oh, it's nothing ; and it was all my fault." 
 
 "You are the queen in your own country. 
 There should be nothing in your path to startle 
 you." 
 
 "Oh no, I'm not the queen," said Margaret, 
 laughing. "I have to take my chance like 
 other folk. You are a stranger here," she said, 
 with friendly innocence. The fact that she was, 
 if not the queen, as she said, yet at least a prin- 
 cess, the first young lady hereabouts, and known 
 to everybody as such, made her friendly and 
 made her bold. Supremacy has many agreeable 
 accessories. The young man, who had taken off 
 his hat and held it in his hand, half in respect, 
 half in awkwardness, here blushed more deeply 
 than she had done when she saw him first. 
 
 "I am not a stranger, Miss Margaret. I am 
 Robert Glen, whom you used to play with when 
 
16 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 you were a little girl ; but I cannot expect you 
 to remember me, for I have been long away." 
 
 "Oh, Rob!" she cried. Margaret was de- 
 lighted. The vivid color came flushing back to 
 her cheeks out of pure pleasure. She held out 
 her hand to him. He had not been so respect- 
 ful when they had parted, which was ten years 
 ago. "Indeed, I mind you quite well, though I 
 should not have known you after all this long 
 time ; but how did you know me ?" 
 
 "The first moment I saw you," he said, "and 
 there is nothing wonderful in that. There are 
 many like me, but only one Miss Margaret, here 
 or anywhere else." 
 
 The last words he murmured in an undertone, 
 but Margaret made them out. She laughed, not 
 in ridicule, but in pleasure, just touched with 
 amusement. How funny to see him again, and 
 that he should know her; and still more funny, 
 though not disagreeable, that he should speak to 
 her so. 
 
 "I was vexed," she said, " very vexed that a 
 stranger should see me so, my shoe all dirty and 
 my hand all torn — it looked so strange ; but I 
 am not vexed now, since it is only you, and not 
 a stranger. Just look at me — such a figure ! and 
 what will Bell say ?" 
 
 " You have still Bell ?" 
 
 "Still Bell ! who should we have but Bell?" 
 cried Margaret, the idea of such a domestic 
 change as the displacement of Bell never having 
 so much as crossed her fancy. Then she added, 
 quickly, "But tell me, for I have not heard of 
 you for such a long, long time. You went to the 
 college, Rob?" 
 
 She said his name unadvisedly in the first im- 
 pulse ; but looking up at him, and seeing him 
 look at her in a way she was unused to, Marga- 
 ret's countenance flamed once more with a mo- 
 mentary blush. She shrank a little. She said 
 to herself that he was not a little boy now as he 
 used to be, and that she would never call him 
 Rob again. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Margaret, I went to the college. 
 I went through all the curriculum, and took my 
 degree sometime ago." 
 
 "Then are you a minister now?" 
 
 Margaret spoke with a little chill in her tone. 
 She thought that to be a minister implied a with- 
 drawal from life of a very melancholy and seri- 
 ous description, and that she might not be able 
 to keep up easy relations with poor Rob if he 
 had passed that Rubicon. She looked at him 
 earnestly, with a great deal of gravity in her 
 face. Margaret had not known many ministers 
 close at hand, and never any so nearly on a lev- 
 el with her own youthful unimportance as Rob 
 Glen. 
 
 "No," he said, shaking his head. "No. My 
 poor mother ! I will never give her the pleasure 
 I ought. I am not a minister, and never will be. 
 I say it with sorrow and shame." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Margaret, growing so much in- 
 terested that her breast heaved and her breath 
 came quick. " Oh ! and what was that for, Mr. 
 — Rob ? You have not done anything wrong ?" 
 
 " No," he said, with a smile ; " nothing wick- 
 ed, and yet perhaps you will think it wicked. I 
 cannot believe just what everybody else believes. 
 There are papers and things to sign, doctrines — " 
 
 Margaret put her hands together timidly and 
 looked into his face. 
 
 "You are not an infidel?"' she said, with a 
 look of awe and pain. 
 
 "No; lam — I don't quite know what. I don't 
 examine too closely, Miss Margaret. I believe 
 as much as I can, and I don't think anybody 
 does more ; but I can't sign papers, can I, when I 
 do not know whether they are true or not ? I 
 cannot do it. I may be wrong, but I cannot say 
 I believe what I don't believe." 
 
 "No," said Margaret, doubtfully. This was 
 something entirely out of her way, and she did 
 not know how to treat it. She made a hurried 
 sweep over her own experiences. "I always 
 think it is because I don't understand," she said ; 
 and then, after another pause, "When papa says 
 things I don't understand, I just hold my tongue." 
 
 "But I am obliged to say yes or no, and I 
 can't say yes. I hope you will not blame me, 
 Miss Margaret ; that would make me very un- 
 happy. I have often thought you were one that 
 would be sure to understand what my position 
 was." 
 
 Margaret did not ask herself why it was that 
 she was expected to understand ; but she was 
 vaguely flattered that he should think her appro- 
 bation so important. 
 
 " Me ! what do I know ?" she said. " I have 
 not been at the college, like you. I have never 
 learned anything ;" and, for almost the first time, 
 it occurred to Margaret that there might be some 
 reason in the animadversions and lamentations 
 over her ignorance, of her sisters Grace and 
 Jean. 
 
 "You know things without learning." 
 
 "Oh ! — but you are making a fool of me, like 
 papa, " cried Margaret. "And what are you do- 
 ing now, if you are not a minister ? You have 
 never been back again till now at the Farm ?" 
 
 "I am doing just nothing, that is the worst 
 of it. I cannot dig, and to beg I am ashamed." 
 
 "Beg!" Shelookedathimwith a merry laugh. 
 He was what Bell would have called " very well 
 put on." Margaret saw, by instinct, though she 
 was without any experience, that Rob Glen could 
 not have been a gentleman ; but yet he was well 
 dressed, and very superior to everybody else 
 about the Kirkton. " I suppose you have come 
 home on a visit, and to rest." 
 
 " Yes ; but, Miss Margaret, all this time your 
 foot is wet and your hand is scratched. Will 
 you come to the house ? Shall I go and get you 
 "dry shoes from Bell? What can I do?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing, "said Margaret ; "do you think 
 I never got my feet wet before ? I will change 
 them when I get in. But I think I will go home 
 now. What have you been doing? 01), draw- 
 ing !" she exclaimed, with a cry of delight. She 
 seized the book which he half showed, half with- 
 drew. "Oh, I should like to see it — it is the 
 Kirkton! Oh, I would like to draw like that! 
 Oh," cried Margaret, with a deep-drawn breath, 
 and all her heart in it, "what I would give!" 
 and then she remembered that she had nothing 
 to give, and stopped short, her lips half open, 
 her eyes aflame. 
 
 "Will you let me show you how to do it? 
 It would make me so happy. It is as easy as 
 possible. You have only to try." 
 
 Margaret did not make any reply in her ea- 
 gerness. She turned over the book with delight. 
 The sketches were not badly done. There was 
 the Kirkton, breezy and sunny, with its cold 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 17 
 
 tones of blue; there were all the glimpses of 
 Earl's-hall that could be had at a distance; there 
 was the estuary and the sand-banks, and the old 
 pale city on the headland. But Margaret had 
 never come across anything in the shape of an 
 artist before, and this new capability burst upon 
 her as something more enviable, more delightful 
 than any occupation she had as yet ever known. 
 
 "I have a great many more," said the young 
 man. "If you will come to the house, or here to 
 the burn to-morrow, I will show you some that 
 are better than these." 
 
 "Oh yes, I will come," said Margaret, with- 
 out hesitation. "I would like to see them. I 
 never saw anything so beautiful. The Kiikton 
 its very self, and Earl's-hall, old Earl's -ball. 
 Papa says it will tumble down about our ears ; 
 but it never can quite tumble down and come to 
 an end while there's that I" the girl said. If the 
 artist had been Turner himself he could not 
 have had finer praise. 
 
 And she let him walk the length of the field 
 with her, telling her about his wonderful art — 
 then ran home, her heart beating, her mind 
 roused, and amused, and delighted. The slow 
 twilight was just beginning to draw a magical 
 silvery veil over earth and sky. Margaret ran 
 home hurried and breathless, occupied to the full, 
 conscious of no more deficiencies. 
 
 " Have you been out all this time, Miss Mar- 
 gret?" said Bell, just rising from her seat by 
 the door, " and you've had your foot in the 
 burn. Go quick and change, my bonnie pet. 
 I've been ower lang in the court, and the dew's 
 falling, and a' the stairch out o' my cap. We're 
 twa fuils for the bonny gloamin', me and you." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Margaret went up-stairs with her heart and 
 her feet equally light. She was full of excitement 
 and pleasure. It was true that she had not 
 many excitements in her life, especially of a 
 pleasurable kind ; but those she had encounter- 
 ed had not been straightway communicated to 
 some one, as the happy privilege of her age in 
 most cases. Out of sheer inability to contain her 
 sentiments and sensations in one small bosom, 
 she had indeed often poured forth innocent dis- 
 closures into the ear of Bell. And when these 
 concerned anything that troubled her, specially 
 the remarks and criticisms of her sisters, Bell 
 had been the best of confidants, backing her up 
 steadfastly, and increasing her indignation by 
 the sympathy of warm and strong resentment. 
 But of other troubles and pleasures, Bell had 
 not been equally understanding. And she was 
 the last person, Margaret felt, to whom she 
 could tell the story of this evening's encounter. 
 Bell would not have been amused and interest- 
 ed like Margaret. She would have opened great 
 eyes of astonishment and exclaimed upon the 
 audacity of Rob Glen in venturing to approach 
 Miss Margaret. "Rob Glen! who was he to 
 proffer his acquaintance to the young lady of 
 Earl's-ha'?" Margaret knew as well how Bell 
 would have said this, as if she had actually de- 
 livered the tirade. Therefore the girl made no 
 mention of her new friend. She ran up-stairs, 
 
 where she found Jeanie lighting a pair of can- 
 dles on the table in the East Chamber. 
 
 "I've lighted Sir Ludovic's lights, and will 
 you want anything more the nicht, Miss Marga- 
 ret?" said Jeanie, her fair fresh face giving out 
 more light than did the candles. 
 
 "Oh, Jeanie!" — the girl began, but then she 
 checked herself. No, she would not tell any one, 
 why should she ? Better to keep it in her own 
 mind, and then there would be no harm. Mar- 
 garet was not often scolded, but she had a mis- 
 giving that she might come in the way of that 
 unusual discipline were she too communicative 
 on the subject of her long conversation with Rob 
 Glen. 
 
 She sat down in the East Chamber alone, her 
 face and her eyes glowing. How pleasant it was 
 to have an adventure ! The little white-panelled 
 room was but poorly lighted by the two candles. 
 The window still full of twilight, clouds of gray 
 here and there, with a lingering tinge upon them 
 of the sun or its reflections, hung like a great 
 picture on the wall. There were one or two act- 
 ual pictures, but they were small, and dark, and 
 old, not very decipherable at any time, and en- 
 tirely invisible now. On the table, in the speck 
 of light which formed the centre of the room, of 
 itself a picture had there been any one to see, 
 lay Lady Jean's old work, with its faded colors, 
 in pretty harmony with all the scene around ; 
 and centre of the centre, Margaret's face, not 
 faded, but so soft in its freshness, so delicate in 
 girlish bloom. She sat with her elbows on the 
 table, her face set in the palms of her hands, her 
 eyes looking into the light, making the two little 
 flames of the candles into stars reflected in their 
 clearness. A half- formed smile played about 
 the soft curve of her lips. How pleasant it was 
 to have an adventure at all! And how agreea- 
 ble the kind of the adventure! Rob Glen ! yes, 
 she remembered him quite well when she was 
 seven years old. He had been twelve, a big boy, 
 and very kind to little Miss Peggy. 
 
 The farm, which was a small farm, not equal 
 to the large farms of wealthy Fife, a little bit of 
 a place, which his mother had kept up when she 
 became a widow, was close to Earl's-hall ; and 
 Margaret recollected how " fond " she had been 
 of her playfellow in these old days, very fond of 
 him ! before he went into St. Andrews to school, 
 and then away to his uncle in Glasgow (it all 
 came back upon her) to college. She remem- 
 bered even, now she came to think of it, the 
 scoffs she had heard directed by Bell and John 
 at the Glens in general, who had not thought St. 
 Andrews good enough for their son, but had to 
 send him to Glasgow, to set him up ! And here 
 he was again. Margaret remembered how he 
 had carried her across the ditches and muddy 
 places, and how she had kissed him when he 
 went away ; she blushed at the thought, and 
 laughed a little. And now he had come back ! 
 and he could draw ! That was the most interest- 
 ing of all. He could make beautiful pictures of 
 everything he saw. 
 
 The Kirkton, poor little place, had never look- 
 ed so attractive before. It had been only a lit- 
 tle village of no interest, which sisters Jean and 
 Grace held in the utmost contempt, driving Mar- 
 garet wild with suppressed rage by the compari- 
 son they made between the Scotch hamlet and 
 their English villages ; and now it was a .pict- 
 
18 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 nre ! She wondered what they would think of 
 it now. Margaret gazed into the flame of the 
 candles and seemed to see it hanging upon a vi- 
 sionary background. A beautiful picture : the 
 gray old church with its rustic tombs, and all the 
 houses clustered below, where people were living, 
 waiting their advance and preferment into the 
 grassy graves above. Here was the real mission 
 of art accomplished by the humblest artist — to 
 make of the common and well-known a dazzling 
 undiscovered glory. Only the Kirkton, yet a 
 picture ! and all the doing of the old friend equal- 
 ly glorified and changed — Rob Glen. Margaret 
 was more pleasantly excited, more amused, more 
 roused in mind and imagination than perhaps 
 she had ever been in her life. 
 
 A stirring in the long room close by roused 
 her to a sense of her duties. That windowful 
 of sky had darkened ; it was almost night : as 
 much as it ever is night in Scotland in June — a 
 silvery night, with no blackness in it but a vague 
 whiteness, a soft celestial reflection of the de- 
 parted day. Evidently it was late, time to go to 
 bed. Margaret pushed the door open which led 
 into the long room. Sir Ludovic was closing 
 his book. He kept early hours; for it was his 
 habit to wake very early in the morning, as is so 
 usual to old people. He turned to her with a 
 smile upon his face. 
 
 ' ' My Peggy, you are late ; what has kept you 
 amused so long to-night ? It is you generally 
 who let me know when it is time for bed. What 
 have you been doing ?" 
 
 "Nothing, papa;" but Margaret blushed. 
 However, as she blushed so often this was noth- 
 ing to remark. 
 
 "Put it up upon the shelf," he said ; " I have 
 done with that one. It is heavy for you to lift, 
 my dear. It is a sign that I am an old man, a 
 very old man, my little Peggy, that I allow you to 
 do everything for me; but at the same time there 
 is a suitability in it. The young should learn to 
 serve. When you are a full-blown lady, it is then 
 that all the men you meet will serve you." 
 
 "I want no men to serve me, papa. When I 
 am middle-aged, as you say, I will have no ser- 
 vants but women. Is not Jeanie better to hand 
 you your plate and fill you your wine than old 
 John?" 
 
 "Old John and I have grown old together, 
 my Peggy ; but I think your taste is very natu- 
 ral. A young woman is a pleasanter object than 
 an old man." 
 
 "I did not mean that," she cried, with com- 
 punction; " you, papa, you are the handsomest 
 of us all. There is no one to match you ; but 
 the like of Jeanie looks so clean and fresh, and 
 John in his black clothes — " 
 
 "Looks like an old Cameronian minister, that 
 is true ; but, my Peggy, you must not judge by 
 appearances. Before you are — middle-aged, as 
 you say, you will learn that appearances are not 
 to be trusted to. And, by-the-way, what is it 
 to be middle-aged ? For my instruction I would 
 like to know." 
 
 Margaret paused to think. She stood looking 
 at him with the big book in her hand, leaning it 
 against the table, embracing it with one arm ; 
 then, naturally, as she moved, her eyes sought the 
 uncovered window, and went afar out into the 
 silvery clouds to find her answer. As for her 
 father, he sat with his ivory hands spread out on 
 
 the arms of his chair, looking at her with a smile. 
 Her slimness and gracefulness and soft-breathing 
 youth were a refreshment to him. It was like 
 the dew falling, like the morning breaking to the 
 old man ; and, besides the sense of freshness and 
 new life, it was a perpetual amusement to him to 
 watch the workings of her unaccustomed mind, 
 and the thoughts that welled up in the creature's 
 face. He had perhaps never watched the growth 
 of a young soul before, and he had never got over 
 his first surprise and amusement at the idea that 
 such a little being, only the other day a baby, 
 only the other day running after a ball like a kit- 
 ten, should think or have opinions at all. 
 
 "Middle-aged," said Margaret, with her pret- 
 ty head upon one side, and great gravity in her 
 face. " Perhaps, papa, you will not have the 
 same idea as I have. Would it be twenty-five? 
 That is not old, of course ; but then it is not 
 young either. If you were going to have any 
 sense, I think you would have it by that age." 
 
 " Do you think so, my Peggy ? That is but a 
 little way to travel to get sense. Where is sense 
 to be found, and can you tell me the place of 
 understanding ? It would be easily learned if it 
 could be got at twenty-five." 
 
 " Oh, but twenty-five is a very good age, papa. 
 Me — I am only seventeen." 
 
 "And you think you have a good deal of sense 
 already, and have found out whereabouts wisdom 
 dwells?" said Sir Ludovic ; " then, to be sure, in 
 eight years more you will have goue a long way 
 toward perfection." 
 
 " Papa, you are making a fool of me again." 
 
 "No, my dear, only admiring and wondering. 
 It is such a long time since I was twenty-five ; 
 and I am not half so sure about a great many 
 things as I was then. Perhaps you are right, 
 my little Peggy ; one changes one's opinions of- 
 ten after — but it may be that just then you are at 
 the crown of the brae. Far be it from me to 
 pronounce a judgment. Dante puts it ten years 
 later." 
 
 "But what Dante means," said Margaret, 
 boldly — for, ignorant as she was, she had read 
 translations of many things, even of the Divine 
 Comedy, not having, perhaps, anything more 
 amusing to read, which was the origin of most 
 of the better knowledge she possessed — "what 
 Dante means was the half of life, when it was 
 half done." 
 
 "Ay, ay, that was it," said the old man, " half 
 done ! yet you see here I am, at seventy-five, 
 still in everybody's way." 
 
 "Oh, papa," she said, fixing upon him re- 
 proachful eyes which two tears flooded, brim- 
 ming the crystal vessels over — "oh, papa!" 
 
 " Well, my Peggy ; I wonder if it is the bet- 
 ter for you that your old father should live on ? 
 Well, my dear, it's better for some things. The 
 old nest is gray, but it's warm. Though Jean 
 and Grace, you know — Jean and Grace, and even 
 Mrs. Ludovic, my dear, all of them think it's very 
 bad for you. You would be better, they tell me, 
 in a fine boarding-school in London." 
 
 "Papa!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm not going to send you away, my lit- 
 tle Peggy, not till the old man's gone — a selfish 
 old man. You must be a good girl, and prove me 
 right to everybody concerned. Now, good-night, 
 and run away to your bed ; and you can tell 
 John." 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 19 
 
 " Good-night, papa. I will be a good girl," 
 she said, half laughing, with the tears in her 
 eyes, as she had done when she was a child ; 
 and she made a little pause when she kissed him, 
 and asked herself whether she should speak to 
 him about Rob Glen, and ask if he would like to 
 see the pictures? Surely to see such pictures 
 would be a pleasure to anybody. But something 
 kept Margaret silent. She could not tell what 
 it was; and in the end she went away to tell 
 John, without a word about her old acquaint- 
 ance. Down-stairs she could hear Bell already 
 fastening the shutters, and Jeanie passed her on 
 the stair, fresh and smiling, though sleepy, with 
 a "Gude-nicht, Miss Margret." 
 
 "Good-night, Jeanie ; and you'll call me ear- 
 ly?" she said; upon which Jeanie shook her 
 head with a soft smile. 
 
 "If you were aye as ready to rise as me to 
 cry upon you!" 
 
 " I will rise to-morrow," said Margaret. How 
 good she was going to be to-morrow ! Light as 
 a bird she ran down to the old couple down- 
 stairs. "John, papa is ready. You are to go 
 to him this very minute. I stopped on the stair 
 to speak to Jeanie, and papa will be waiting." 
 
 John answered with a grunt and groan. "And 
 me, I'm to pay for it because little miss tarries !" 
 
 Bell pushed him out of the kitchen with a 
 laugh. " Gae away with you, " she said. " Miss 
 Margret, my man John would stand steady and 
 be cut in sma' pieces with a pair o' scissors soon- 
 er than that any harm should come to you. But 
 his bark is aye waur than his bite. And what 
 have you been doing all this night, my bonnie 
 bird? I've neither seen your face nor heard 
 your fit upon the stair." 
 
 "Oh, I was thinking," said Margaret, after a 
 pause; "thinking — " 
 
 "Lord bless us and save us, when the like of 
 you begin thinking ! And what were you think- 
 ing upon, my bonnie dear?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Margaret, musing. She had 
 fallen back into the strain of her usual fanciful 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Naething ? That's just the maist dangerous 
 subject you can think upon," said Bell, shaking 
 her head; "that'sjust what I dinna like. Think 
 upon whatever you please, but never upon nae- 
 thing, Miss Margret. Will I come with you 
 and see you to your bed ? It's lang since I've 
 put a brush upon your bonnie hair." 
 
 " Oh, my hair is quite right, Bell. I brush it 
 myself every night." 
 
 "And think about naething all the time. Na, 
 Miss Margret, you maunna do that. I've gath- 
 ered the fire, and shut the shutters, and put a' 
 thing ready for Sir Ludovic's tea in the morning. 
 Is there onything mair ? No, not a thing, not a 
 thing. Now come, my lamb, and I'll put you to 
 your bed." 
 
 Margaret made no objection. She could fol- 
 low her own fancies just as easily while Bell 
 was talking as when all was silent round her. 
 They went together up the winding stair, Bell 
 toiling along with a candle in her hand, which 
 flickered picturesquely, now here, now there, 
 upon the spiral steps. Margaret's room was on 
 the upper story, and to reach it you had to trav- 
 erse another long hall, running the whole length 
 of the building, like the long room below. This 
 room was scarcely furnished at all. It had some 
 
 old tapestry hanging on the walls, an old harpsi- 
 chord in a corner, and bits of invalided furniture 
 which were beyond use. 
 
 "Eh, the bonnie dances and the grand ladies 
 I've seen in this room!" Bell said, shaking her 
 head, as she paused for breath. The light of the 
 one little candle scarcely showed the long line of 
 the wall, but displayed a quivering of the wind in 
 the tapestry, as if the figures on it had been set 
 in motion. " Lord bless us !" said Bell. " Oh, 
 ay, I ken very well it's naething but the wind ; 
 but I've never got the better o' my first fright. 
 The first time I was in this grand banqueting- 
 hall — and oh, but it was a grand hall then ! nev- 
 er onything so grand had the like of me a chance 
 to see. I thought the Queen's Grace herself 
 could not possess a mair beautiful place." 
 
 "If it was any use," said Margaret, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " Oh, whisht, my bonnie bird. It's use to 
 show what great folk the Leslies were wance 
 upon a time, and that's what makes us a' proud. 
 There's none in the county that should go out o' 
 the room or into the room afore you, Miss Mar- 
 gret. You've the auldest blood." 
 
 "But what good does that do if I am the 
 youngest girl?" said Margaret, half piqued, half 
 laughing. 
 
 She was proud of her race, but the empty halls 
 were chill. She did not wait for any more re- 
 marks on Bell's part, but led the way into her 
 room, which opened off this banqueting-hall, a 
 turret room of a kind of octagon shape, panelled 
 like all the rest. It looked out through its deep- 
 est window on entirely a different scene, on the 
 moonlight rising pale on the eastern side, and 
 the whitening of the sea, the tremolar della ma- 
 rina, was in the distance, the silvery glimmer 
 and movement of the great broad line of unpeo- 
 pled water. 
 
 The girl stood and looked out while the old 
 woman lighted the candles on the table. How 
 wide the world was, all full of infinite sky and 
 sea, not to speak of the steady ground under foot, 
 which was so much less great. Margaret look- 
 ed out, her eyes straying far off to the horizon, 
 the limit beyond which there was more and more 
 water, more and more widening firmament. 
 She was very reluctant to have it shut out. To 
 draw down a blind, and retire within the little 
 round of those walls, what a shrinking and les- 
 sening of everything ensued ! " But it's more 
 sheltered like; it's no so cold and so far," said 
 Bell, with a little shiver. She was not so fond 
 of the horizon. The thick walls that kept out 
 the cold, the blind that shut out that blue open- 
 ing into infinity, were prospect enough for Bell. 
 She made her young lady sit down, and undid 
 the loops of her silken hair. This hair was 
 Bell's pride ; so fine, so soft, so delicate in text- 
 ure, not like the gold wire, all knotted and curly, 
 on Jeanie's good-looking head, who was the oth- 
 er representative of youth in the hour.e. "Eh, 
 it is a pleasure to get my hands among it," said 
 Bell, letting the long soft tresses ripple over her 
 old fingers. How proud she was of its length 
 and thickness! She stood and brushed and 
 talked over Margaret's head, telling her a hun- 
 dred stories, which the girl, half hearing, half 
 replying, yet wholly absorbed in her own fancies, 
 had yet a certain vague pleasure in as they float- 
 ed over her. 
 
20 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 It was good to have Bell there, to feel the 
 touch of homely love about her, and the sound 
 of the voice which was as familiar as her own 
 soft breath. Bell was pleased too. She was 
 not offended when she perceived that her nurs- 
 ling answered somewhat at random. "What is 
 she but a bairn? and bairns' ways are wonderful 
 when their bit noddles begin working," Bell said, 
 with the heavenly tolerance of wise affection. 
 She went out of the room afterward, with her 
 Scotch delicacy,to give Margaret time to say her 
 prayers, then came back and covered her care- 
 fully with her hard-working hand, softened mi- 
 raculously by love. "And the Lord bless my 
 white doo," the old woman said. There were 
 no kisses or caresses exchanged, which was not 
 the habit of the reserved Scotchwoman ; but her 
 hand lingered on the coverlet, "happing" her 
 darling. Summer nights are sweet in Fife, but 
 not ovenvarm. And thus ended the long mid- 
 summer day. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Robert Glen, whose reappearance had so 
 interested and excited the innocent mind of 
 Margaret Leslie, was no other than the farmer's 
 son, in point of locality her nearest neighbor, 
 but in every other respect, childhood being fairly 
 over, as far removed from her as if she had been 
 a princess, instead of the child of an impoverish- 
 ed country gentleman. In childhood it had not 
 been so. Little Margaret had played with Rob 
 in the hay-fields, and sat by him while he fished 
 in the burn, and had rides upon the horses he 
 was leading to the water, many a day in that in- 
 nocent period. She had been as familiar about 
 the farm "as if it had belonged to her," Mrs. 
 Glen bad said, and had shared the noonday 
 "piece" of her little cavalier often enough, as 
 well as his sports. Even Bell had found noth- 
 ing to say against this intimacy. 
 
 The Glens were very decent folks, not on a 
 level with the great farmers of Fife, yet well to 
 do and well doing ; and Rob's devoted care of 
 the little lady had saved Bell, as she herself ex- 
 pressed it, "many a trail ;" but in the ten years 
 from seven to seventeen many changes occur. 
 Rob, who was the youngest, had been the clever 
 boy of the family at the farm. His mother, 
 proud of his early achievements, had sent him to 
 St. Andrews to the excellent schools there, with 
 vague notions of advancement to come. That 
 he should be a minister was, of course, her chief 
 lesire, and the highest hope of her ambition ; 
 but at this early period there was no absolute 
 necessity for a decision. He might be a writer 
 if he proved to have no "call" for the ministry ; 
 or he might be a doctor if his mind took that 
 turn. However, when he had reached the age 
 at which in Scotland the college supplants the 
 school (too early, as everybody knows), Rob was 
 quite of opinion that he had a call to be a min- 
 ister; and he would have gone on naturally to 
 his college career at St. Andrews, but for the ar- 
 rival of an uncle, himself sonless, from Glasgow, 
 whose family pride was much excited by Rob's 
 prizes and honors. This was his mother's broth- 
 er, like herself come of the most respectable 
 folk, "a decent, honest man," which means ev- 
 erything in Scottish moral phraseology. He was 
 
 "a merchant "in Glasgow, meaning a shop- 
 keeper, and had a good business and money in 
 the bank, and only one little daughter — a fact 
 which opened his heart to the handsome, bright 
 boy who was likely to bring so much credit to 
 his family. Whether Robert Hill (for the boy- 
 was his namesake) would have thought so high- 
 ly of his nephew without these prizes is another 
 question ; but as it was, he took an immediate 
 and most warm interest in him. Mr. Hill, how- 
 ever, felt the, usual contempt of a member of a 
 large trading community for every small and 
 untrading place. 
 
 " St. An'rews!" he said ; "send the boy to St. 
 An'rews to sleep away his time in an auld hole 
 where there's naething doing ! Na, na, I'll no 
 hear o' that. Send him to me, and I'll look af- 
 ter him. We know what we're about in Glass- 
 kie ; nane o' your dreamin' and dozin' there. 
 We ken the value o' time and the value o' brains, 
 and how to make use o' them. There's a room 
 that's never used at the tap o' the house, and 
 I'll see till 'im," said the generous trader. 
 
 Mrs. Glen, though half offended at this depre- 
 ciation of native learning, was pleased and proud 
 of her brother's liberality. 
 
 "I'll no hear a word against St. An'rews," 
 she said. "Mony a clever man's come out of 
 it; but still I'm no blind to the advantages on 
 the other side. The lad's at an age when it's a 
 grand thing to have a man over him. No but 
 what he's biddable : but laddies will be laddies, 
 and a man in the house is aye an advantage. 
 So if you're in earnest, Robert (and I'm much 
 obliged to ye for your guid opinion of him), I'm 
 no saying but what I'll take ye at your word." 
 
 "You may be sure I mean it, or I wadna say 
 it," said her brother; and so the bargain was 
 made. 
 
 Rob went to Glasgow, half eager, half reluc- 
 tant, as is the manner of boys, and in due time 
 went through his classes, and was entered at the 
 Divinity Hall. A Scotch student of his condi- 
 tion has seldom luxurious or over-dainty life in 
 his long vacations — six months long ; and calcu- 
 lated for this purpose, that the student may be 
 self-supporting, Rob did many things which kept 
 him independent. He helped his uncle in the 
 shop at first with the placidity of use and wont, 
 thinking a good shop a fine thing, as who can 
 doubt it is? But when Rob began to get on in 
 his learning, and was able to take a tutorship, he 
 discovered with a pang that a shop was not so 
 fine a thing as he supposed. 
 
 Early, very early, the pangs of intellectual su- 
 periority came upon him. He was clever, and 
 loved reading, and thus got himself, as it were, 
 into society before he was aware of the process 
 that was going on within him, making friends of 
 very different social position from his own. Then 
 the" professors noticed him, found him what is 
 easily called "cultivated "— for he had read 
 much in his little room over the shop, with con- 
 stantly growing ambition to escape from his low- 
 ly place and find a higher — and one of them rec- 
 ommended him to a lady in the country as tutor 
 to her boys. This was a most anxious elevation 
 at first, but it trained him to the habits of a class 
 superior to his own ; and after that the shop and 
 its homely ways were anguish to Rob. Very 
 soon he found "out that it was inconvenient to go 
 so far to college ; then he found occupations in 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 21 
 
 the evening, even during the college session, and 
 thus felt justified in separating himself from his 
 kind uncle, who accepted his excuses, though 
 not without a shade of doubt. "Well, laddie, 
 well, laddie, we're no the folk to keep you if you 
 can do better for yourself," the good shopkeeper 
 said, affronted yet placable. The process is not 
 uncommon ; and, indeed, the young man meant 
 no great harm. He meant that his younger life 
 was pushing out of the husk in which it had been 
 confined, that he was no longer altogether the 
 same as the people to whom he belonged. It 
 was true enough, and if it was hard, who could 
 help that ? It gave him more pain to take his 
 plentiful meal rudely in the room behind the shop 
 than it could give them to take it without him. 
 
 So he reasoned, and was right and wrong, as 
 we all are, in every revolutionary crisis. Had 
 he been bred a shopkeeper or a farmer lad, no 
 such thoughts would have distracted his mind, 
 and probably he would have been happier ; but 
 then he had not been brought up either to the 
 shop or to the farm, and how could he help the 
 natural development which his circumstances 
 and training brought with them ? So by de- 
 grees he dropped the shop. There was no quar- 
 rel, and he went to see them sometimes on the 
 wintry Sunday afternoons, and restrained all his 
 feelings of dismay and humiliation, and bore 
 their " ways" as best he could ; but there is no- 
 body so quick as a vulgar relation to find out 
 when a rising young man begins to be ashamed 
 of him. The Hills were sore and angry with the 
 young man to whom they had been so kind. 
 But the next incident in Rob's career was one 
 that called all his relations round him, out of 
 sheer curiosity and astonishment, to see a prodi- 
 gy unprecedented in their lives. 
 
 After he had gone through all the Latin and 
 Greek that Glasgow could furnish, and he had 
 time for, and had roamed through all the phi- 
 losophies and begun Hebrew, and passed two 
 years at the Divinity Hall, this crisis came. Six 
 months more and Rob would have been ready 
 to begin his trials before the Presbytery for li- 
 cense as a probationer, when he suddenly petri- 
 fied all his friends, and drove his mother half 
 out of her senses, by the bewildering announce- 
 ment that his conscience made it impossible for 
 him to enter the Scotch Church. The shock 
 was one which roused the entire family into life. 
 Cousins unheard of before aroused themselves to 
 behold this extraordinary spectacle. Such hes- 
 itations are not so common with the budding 
 Scotch minister as with the predestined English 
 parson, and they are so rare in Rob's class, that 
 this announcement on his part seemed to his 
 relations to upset the very balance of heaven 
 and earth. Made up his mind not to be a min- 
 ister! The first sensation in their minds was 
 one of absolute incredulity, followed by angry 
 astonishment when the "infatuated" young fel- 
 low repeated and stood by his determination. 
 Not to be a minister ! What would he be, then ? 
 what would satisfy him? Set him up! they all 
 cried. It was like a fresh assertion of superi- 
 ority, a swagger and flourish over the mall, un- 
 bounded presumption and arrogance. Doubts ! 
 he was a bonnie one to have doubts. As if many 
 a better man had not signed the Confession be- 
 fore him, ay, and been glad to have the Confes- 
 sion to sijm .' 
 
 This at first was the only view which the kin- 
 dred felt capable of taking. But by-and-by, 
 when it became apparent that this general flut- 
 ter of horror was to have no effect, and that Rob 
 stood by his resolution, other features in his enor- 
 mity began to strike the family. All the money 
 spent upon him at the college, all the time he 
 had lost; what trade could he go into now with 
 any chance of getting on ? Two-and-twenty, 
 and all his time gone for nothing! His uncle, 
 Robert Hill, who had been as indignant as any, 
 here interposed. He sent for his sister, and 
 begged her to compose herself. The lad's head 
 was turned, he said. He had made friends that 
 were not good for a lad in his class of life, that had 
 led him away in other ways, and had made him 
 neglectful of his real friends. But still the lad 
 was a fine lad, and not beyond the reach of hope. 
 This placable sentiment was thought by every- 
 body to proceed from Uncle Robert's only daugh- 
 ter, Anne, who was supposed to regard her cous- 
 in with favorable eyes ; but anyhow the sugges- 
 tion of the Hills was that "the minister," their 
 own minister, should be got to "speak to "Rob. 
 Glad was the mother of this or any other sug- 
 gestion, and the minister undertook the office 
 with good-will. 
 
 "Perhaps I may be able to remove some of 
 your difficulties," he said, and he called to him- 
 self a professor, one of those who had the young 
 man's training in hand. Thus Rob became a 
 hero once more among all belonging to him. 
 Had the minister spoken ? What had the min- 
 ister said ? Had he come to his right mind ? 
 the good people asked. And, indeed, the min- 
 ister did speak, and so did the professor, both 
 of whom thought Rob's a most interesting case. 
 They were most anxious to remove his difficul- 
 ties ; nay, for that matter, to remove everything 
 — doctrines and all — to free the young man from 
 his scruples. They spoke, but they spoke with 
 bated breath, scarcely able to express the full 
 amount of the "respect and sympathy" with 
 which they regarded these difficulties of his. 
 "We too — " they said, in mysterious broken 
 sentences, with imperfect utterance of things too 
 profound for the common ear. And they did 
 their best to show him how he might gulp "down 
 a great many things without hurting his con- 
 science, which the robust digestion of the past 
 had been able to assimilate, but which were not 
 adapted for the modern mind. " There is more 
 faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half 
 the creeds," these gentlemen said. But Rob 
 held out. He would have been foolish, indeed, 
 as well as rarely disinterested and unsusceptible 
 to the most delicate of flatteries, had he not held 
 out. He had never been of so much importance 
 in the course of his life. 
 
 It may be doubtful, however, if it was his con- 
 science alone which stopped him short in his 
 career. Rob had learned in his tutorships, and 
 among the acquaintances acquired at college, to 
 know that a Scotch minister did not possess so 
 elevated a position as in rural Fife he was thought 
 to do. The young man had a large share of am- 
 bition in him, and he had read of society and of 
 the great world, that abstraction which capti- 
 vates inexperienced youth. A minister could 
 no more reach this than, indeed, could the coun- 
 try laird who was the highest representative of 
 greatness known to Rob ; but literature could 
 
22 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 (he thought), art could : and he could write (he 
 flattered himself), and he could draw. Why, 
 then, should he bind himself to the restraints 
 necessary for that profession, when other means 
 of success more easy and glorious were in his 
 power ? 
 
 This was a very strong supplementary argu- 
 ment to strengthen the resistance of his con- 
 science. And he did not give in ; he preferred 
 to go home with his mother, to take, as all his 
 advisers entreated him, time to think everything 
 over. Rob had no objections to take a little time. 
 He wanted money to take him to London, to start 
 him in life, even to pay off the debts which he 
 said nothing of, but which weighed quite as heav- 
 ily upon him as his troubles of conscience. This 
 was how he came to be, after such a long inter- 
 val, once more living with his mother at Earl's- 
 hall farm. He had come home in all the impor- 
 tance of a sceptical hero, a position very daz- 
 zling to the simple mind, and very attractive to 
 many honest people. But it was not so pleasant 
 at home. Instead of being the centre of anx- 
 ious solicitude, instead of being plied by concilia- 
 tory arguments, coaxed and persuaded, and re- 
 spected and sympathized with, he found himself 
 the object of his mother's irony, and treated with 
 a contemptuous impatience which he fain would 
 have called bigotry and intolerance. 
 
 Mrs. Glen was not at all respectful of honest 
 doubt, and she had a thorough contempt for any- 
 thing and everything that kept a man from mak- 
 ing his way in the world. She was not indeed 
 a person of refinement at all. She had lived a 
 hard life, struggling to bring up her children and 
 to "push them forrit,"as she said. The expres- 
 sion was homely, and the end to be obtained per- 
 haps not very elevated. To " push forrit" your 
 son to be Lord Chancellor, or even a general of- 
 ficer, or a bishop, is a fine thing, which strikes 
 the spectator ; but when all you can do is to push 
 him "forrit "to a shop in Dundee, is the strug- 
 gle less noble ? It is less imposing, at all events. 
 And the struggling mother who had done her 
 best to procure such rise in life and in comfort 
 as was within her reach for her children was not 
 a person of noble mind or generous understand- 
 ing. When Rob came home, upon whom her 
 highest hopes had been set, not prosperous like 
 the others, but a failure and disappointment, 
 doing nothing, earning nothing, and with no 
 prospect before him of either occupation or gain, 
 her mortification made her bitter. Fury and 
 disappointment filled her heart. She kept silent 
 for the first day, only going about her household 
 affairs with angry energy, scolding her servants, 
 and as they said, "dinging everything about." 
 "So lang as she disna ding me!" said Jean the 
 dairy-maid ; but it was not to be expected that 
 any long time should pass before she began to 
 "ding" some one, and ere long the culprit him- 
 self began to feel the force of her trouble. 
 
 "What are you doing?" she cried ; "do you 
 call that doing onything — drawing a crookit line 
 with a pencil and filling it up with paint ? Paint ! 
 ye might paint the auld cart if that's the trade 
 you mean to follow. It would aye be worth a 
 shilling or twa, which is mail' than ever thae 
 scarts and splashes will be." Or when Rob es- 
 caped into the seclusion of a book : "Read, oh 
 ay, ye can read fast enough when it's for nae- 
 thing but diversion and to pass the time ; butye'll 
 
 ne'er gather bawbees with your reading, nor be a 
 credit to them that belong to you." This was 
 the sting of the whole. He was no credit to 
 those who belonged to him, rather he was an 
 implied shame; for who would believe, Mrs. 
 Glen asked, that this sudden return was by his 
 own will? "Na, na,"she said, " they'll think 
 it is for ill-doing, and that he's turned "away out 
 of the college. It's what I would do mysel'. 
 And to think of all I've done, and all I've put up 
 with, and a' to come to naething ! Eh, man ! I 
 would soon, soon have put an end to your douts. 
 I would have made ye sure of ae thing, if it hadna 
 been your uncle Robert and his ministers, ye 
 should hae had nae douts about that : that no 
 idle lad should sit at my fireside and devour the 
 best o' everything. If ye had the heart of a 
 mouse ye couldna do it. Me, I would starve 
 first ; me, I would sweep the streets. I would 
 go down a coal-pit, or work in a gawley chain 
 afore I would sorn on my ain mother, a widow- 
 woman, and eat her out o' house and hame!" 
 
 Poor Rob ! he was not very sensitive, and he 
 had been used to his mother's ways and moods, 
 or these reproaches would have been hard upon 
 him. No doubt, had he been the innocent suf- 
 ferer for conscience' sake which he half believed 
 himself to be, life would have been unendurable 
 in these circumstances ; but as it was, he only 
 shrugged his shoulders, or jibed in return and 
 paid her back in her own coin. They were both 
 made of the same rough material, and were able 
 to give and take, playing with the blows which 
 would have killed others. Rob was not driven 
 out of the house, out upon the world in despair, 
 as a more sensitive person might have been. He 
 stayed doggedly, not minding what was said, till 
 he should succeed in extracting the money which 
 would be necessary for his start ; and from this 
 steady purpose a few warm Avoids were not like- 
 ly to dissuade him. He, on his side, felt that he 
 was too much of a man for that. But it is not 
 pleasant to have your faults dinned into your 
 ears, however much you may scorn the infliction, 
 and Rob had gone out on the day he met Mar- 
 garet very much cast down and discouraged. He 
 had almost made up his mind to confront fate 
 rather than his mother. Almost — but he was 
 not a rash young man, notwithstanding all that 
 had happened to him, and the discomfort of issu- 
 ing forth upon the world penniless was greater 
 than putting up (he said to himself) with an old 
 wife's flyting; but still the flyting was not pleas- 
 ant to bear. 
 
 "Wha's that?" his mother said when he re- 
 turned. "Oh, it's you! bless me, I thought it 
 was some person with something to do. There 
 was not the draigh in the foot that I'm getting 
 used to. Maybe something's happened ! You've 
 gotten something to do, or you've ta'en another 
 thought! and well I wot it's time." 
 
 "No," he said, "nothing's happened. I'm 
 tired enough and ready enough to take anything 
 that offered, mother ; but, worse luck, nothing 
 has happened. I don't know what could hap- 
 pen here." 
 
 "No, nor me neither," said Mrs. Glen ; "when 
 a lad hangs on at hame looking for luck like 
 you, and never doing a hand's turn, it's far from 
 likely luck will ever come the side he's on. Oh, 
 pit away your trash, and dinna trouble me with 
 the sight o't! Painting! paint the auld cart, as 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 23 
 
 I tell ye, if you're that fond o' painting, or the 
 by ie door." 
 
 " Everybody is not of your mind," said Rob, 
 stung by this assault. "There are some that 
 think them worth looking at, and that not far 
 off either : somebody better worth pleasing 
 than — " yon, lie had almost said ; but with better 
 taste lie added, "any one here." 
 
 "And whamay it be that has such guid taste?" 
 said the mother, satirically; "a lass, I'll wager. 
 Some poor silly thing or other that thinks Kob 
 Glen's a gentleman, and is proud of a word from 
 ane sae well put on. Eh, but it's easy to be 
 well put on when it comes out of another per- 
 son's pocket. It would be some lass out of the 
 Kirkton. How dare ye stand there no saying a 
 word, but smile-smiling at me?" 
 
 " Would you like it better if I cried ?" he 
 said; "smiling is not so easy always. I have 
 little enough to smile at ; but it is good some- 
 times to feel that all the world is not against 
 me." 
 
 "And wha is't that's on your side? Some 
 fool of a lass," repeated Mrs. Glen, contemptu- 
 ously. " They're silly enough for onything when 
 a young lad's in the case. Who was it ?" she 
 added, raising her voice ; " eh, I would just like 
 to gie her my opinion. It's muckle the like of 
 them know." 
 
 " I doubt if your opinion would matter much," 
 he said, with an air of superiority that drove her 
 frantic, "/respect it deeply, of course ; but she 
 — a young lady, mother — may be allowed, per- 
 haps, to think herself the best judge." 
 
 "Leddy !" said Mrs. Glen, surprised ; and in- 
 stinctively she searched around her to find out 
 who this could be. "You'll be meaning Mary 
 Fleming, the dress -maker lass; some call her 
 Miss ; or maybe the bit governess at Sir 
 Claud's." 
 
 Rob laughed ; in the midst of his troubles this 
 one gleam of triumph was sweet. "I mean no 
 stranger," he said, "but an old friend — one that 
 was once my companion and playfellow ; and 
 now she's grown up into the prettiest fairy, and 
 does not despise me even now." 
 
 Mrs. Glen was completely nonplussed. She 
 looked at him with an air of imperious demand, 
 which, gradually yielding to the force of her cu- 
 riosity, fell, as he made no reply, into a quite 
 softened interrogation. "An auld companion ?" 
 she said to herself, bewildered ; then added, in 
 a gentler tone than she had used since his re- 
 turn, a side remark to herself: "He's no that 
 auld himsel'." 
 
 "No," he said, "but she is younger, mother, 
 and as beautiful as an angel, I think ; and she 
 had not forgotten Rob Glen." 
 
 His mother looked at him more and more 
 perplexed. But with her curiosity and with her 
 perplexity her heart melted. Lives there a 
 mother so hard, even when her anger is hottest, 
 as to be indifferent to any one who oares for her 
 boy? "I canna think who you're meaning," 
 she said; "auld companions are scarce even to 
 the like o' me — I mind upon nobody that you 
 could name by that name, a callant like you. 
 Auld playfellow ! there's the minister's son, as 
 great a credit to his family as you're a trial ; but 
 he's no a leddy — " 
 
 Again Rob laughed ; he was indemnified for 
 all his sufferings. "I will not keep you in 
 
 doubt," he said, with a certain condescension. 
 "It is little Margaret Leslie ; you cannot have 
 forgotten her, mother. If she is not a lady I 
 don't know who is, and," he added, sinking his 
 voice with genuine feeling, and a tender rush 
 of childish recollection, " my little queen." 
 
 "Little Margaret Leslie!" said his mother, 
 looking at him stupefied, "you're no meaning 
 Miss Margrct at Earl's-haH?" she cried, with a 
 half shriek of astonishment, and gazed at him 
 open-mouthed, like one in a dream. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mrs. Glen was much more gentle with her 
 son after this triumph of his. Margaret Leslie 
 was but a girl, and her approbation did not 
 mean very much ; but it was astonishing how 
 the farmer-woman calmed down, and what a dif- 
 ferent aspect things began to take to her, after 
 she heard of this meeting. She said nothing 
 more that night ; but stared at her son, and let 
 him go, with a half-reluctant relinquishment of 
 her prey, for the moment. And many were the 
 thoughts which crowded through her mind dur- 
 ing the night. She had a respect for talent, 
 like all her nation ; but she did not admire the 
 talent which was unpractical, and which did not 
 serve a purpose. A young man who was clever 
 enough to pass all his examinations with credit, 
 to preach a good sermon, to get a living, that 
 was what she could understand, and she had 
 been proud by anticipation in her son's ability 
 to do all this ; but when it turned out that he 
 did not mean to employ his talent so, and when 
 his cleverness dwindled down into something 
 impalpable, something that could neither be 
 bought and sold, nor weighed and measured, 
 something which only made a difference between 
 him and other men, without being of any use to 
 him or placing him in the way of any advantage 
 — instead of respecting it, Mrs. Glen scorned the 
 miserable distinction. "Clever! ay, and much 
 good it did him. Tawlent! he would be better 
 without it." 
 
 Such unprofitable gifts exasperated her much 
 more than stupidity would have done. But 
 when she heard of the interview with Margaret 
 Leslie, and the renewal of friendship, and the 
 girl's delight with those "scarts," of which she 
 herself was so contemptuous, her practical mind 
 stopped short to consider. Perhaps, after all, 
 though they would never make a living for him, 
 nor were of any earthly use that she could see, 
 these talents might be so directed by a wise and 
 guiding hand as yet to produce something, per- 
 haps to bring him to fortune. A girl who was 
 an heiress might be almost as good a thing for 
 Rob as a kirk. To do Mrs. Glen justice, she did 
 not put the heiress on a level with the kirk, or 
 sceptically allow the one to be as good as the 
 other. She only seized upon the idea as a pis 
 aller, reflecting that, if the kirk was not to be 
 had, a lass with a tocher might make some 
 amends. 
 
 Here, then, was something to be done, some- 
 thing practical, with meaning and "an object" 
 in it. Mrs. Glen dearly loved to have an object. 
 It made all the difference to her. It was like 
 going somewhere on business instead of merely 
 
24 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 taking a walk. The latter mode of exercise she 
 could not abide; but put "an object" into it, 
 and it changed the whole aspect of affairs. This 
 was how her son Kob's hitherto useless accom- 
 plishments rose in her estimation now, when they 
 began to appear no longer useless, but possibly 
 capable of fulfilling some certain kind of end, if 
 not a very exalted one. At once they acquired 
 interest in her eyes. He himself and his pres- 
 ence at home ceased to be aimless, useless, al- 
 most disgraceful, as she had hitherto felt them 
 to be. When she got up next morning, it was 
 with a sense of comfort and encouragement 
 greater than she had felt since the unhappy mo- 
 ment when he had declared to her that it was 
 not possible for him to be a minister. Even 
 now, she could not look back without exaspera- 
 tion on that sudden change and downfall of her 
 pride and comfort. But here at least was a 
 prospect for him, a something before him, a way 
 in which his talents, unprofitable as they seem- 
 ed, might yet be made of practical use. The 
 change in her manner was instantly apparent to 
 her household. " The mistress has gotten word 
 of something," Jean, the dairy-maid, said, whose 
 hope had been that she herself might not be 
 "dinged" like everything else in the mistress's 
 way. She did not "ding" anything on that 
 blissful morning. She was even tolerant, though 
 it cost her a struggle, when Rob was late for 
 breakfast. Her whole being seemed softened 
 and ameliorated, the world had opened out be- 
 fore her. Here was an object for exertion, an 
 aim to which she could look forward; and with 
 this life could never be quite without zest to the 
 energetic disposition of Mrs. Glen. 
 
 The first sign of the improved condition of af- 
 fairs that struck Rob occurred after breakfast, 
 when his mother, instead of flinging a jibe at his 
 uselessness, as she went oft', bustling and hot- 
 tempered, to her own occupations, addressed him 
 mildly enough, yet with a hasty tone that sound- 
 ed half shame and half offence. It was not to 
 be expected, was it, that she should now en- 
 courage him in the habits she had despised and 
 abused yesterday without some sense of embar- 
 rassment and a certain shamefacedness? A 
 weaker woman would not have done it at all, but 
 would have thought of her consistency, and kept 
 silent at least. But Mrs. Glen was far too con- 
 sistent to have any fears for her consistency. 
 Her embarrassment only made her tone hasty, 
 and made her postpone her speech till she had 
 reached the door. When she had opened it, and 
 was about to leave the room, she turned round 
 to her son, though without looking at him. She 
 said, 
 
 "If you will draw, if you ca' that drawing, 
 there's a very bonnie view of the Kirkton from 
 the west green. I'm no saying you're to waste 
 your time on such nonsense, but if you will do't, 
 there's the bonniest view." 
 
 With this she disappeared, leaving Rob in a 
 state of wonder which almost reached the point 
 of consternation. It made him superstitious. 
 His mother — his mother! to pause and recom- 
 mend to him the bonniest view ! Something 
 must be going to happen. Never in his life had 
 he been so surprised. He got up, half stupefied, 
 as if under a mystic compulsion, and got his 
 sketching-block and his colors, and went out to 
 the west green. It was as if some voice had 
 
 come out of the sky above him, or from the soil 
 beneath his feet, commanding this work. What 
 was he that he should be disobedient to the heav- 
 enly vision? He went out like a man in a 
 dream, his feet turning mechanically to the in- 
 dicated spot. 
 
 It was a fresh yet sunny morning, the dew 
 not yet oft' the grass, for everything was early at 
 the farm. The hills, far oft', lay clear in softest 
 tints of blue, dark yet transparent, the very col- 
 or of aerial distance, while all the hues of the 
 landscape between, the brown ploughed land, 
 the green corn, the faint yellowing of here and 
 there a prosperous field, the darkness of the 
 trees and hedges, the pale gleams of water, rose 
 into fuller tones of color as they neared him, yet 
 all so heavenly clear. The morning was so clear 
 that Jean, in the byre, shook her head, and said 
 there would be rain. The clearness of the at- 
 mosphere brought everything near; you might 
 have stretched out your hands and touched the 
 Sidlaws, and even the blue peaks of the Gram- 
 pians beyond ; and in the centre of the land- 
 scape lay the Kirkton, glorified, every red roof 
 in it, every bit of gray-yellow thatch and dark 
 brown wall telling against the background of 
 fields ; the trees scarcely rufHed by the light 
 morning wind, the church rising like a citadel 
 upon its mound of green, flecked with the buri- 
 al-places of the past, the houses clustered round 
 it, the smoke rising, a faint darkening, as of 
 breath in the air, to mark where human living 
 was. What a scene ! yet nothing ; the homeli- 
 est country, low hills, broad fields, a common- 
 place village. For a moment Rob, though he 
 had no genius, fell into a trance, as of genius, 
 before this wonderful, simple landscape. "A 
 voice said unto me, Write ; and I said, What 
 shall I write?"' How put it into words, into 
 colors upon dull paper? His head was filled 
 with a magical confusion. For once in his life 
 he approached the brink of genius — in the sense 
 of his incapacity. He sat down, gazed, and 
 could do no more. 
 
 By-and-by Mrs. Glen came strolling out from 
 the house, with that assumed air of ease and 
 leisure which is always so comically transparent. 
 She meant to assume that she had nothing to 
 do, and was taking a walk for pleasure, which 
 was about as unlikely a thing as could have hap- 
 pened, almost as unlikely as pure interest in 
 Rob's work, which was her real motive. She 
 wanted to see what lie had done, whether he had 
 taken that bonniest view, how he was getting on 
 with it, and if it was a thing which could, by 
 any possibility, dazzle and delight a young lady 
 who was an heiress. Assuredly she had not 
 sent out her son to dream over the landscape, to 
 do anything but draw it there and then without 
 delay, as if he had been sent to plough a field. 
 She came up to him, elaborately unoccupied and 
 at her ease, yet explanatory. 
 
 "I've just come out to look about me," she 
 said, with fictitious jauntiness. "So you're at 
 it again ! Eh, laddie, what a waste o' time and 
 good paper, no to speak of time colors that cost 
 money ! And how far are you on by this time ? 
 are you near done ?" 
 
 Rob had the presence of mind to shut his book 
 hastily. 
 
 "I have just begun, mother; but I did not 
 think you took any interest in my poor drawing." 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 1 " Me— take an interest ? No! But if you're 
 to waste my substance and your ain time taking 
 pictures, I "may as well see what there is to see 
 as other folk." 
 
 " You shall see it when it is done," said Rob. 
 "It is not in a condition to show now. It 
 is not a thing that can be done in a minute. 
 There is a great deal of thought necessary— the 
 different harmonies of color, the relation of one 
 part to another — " 
 
 Mrs. Glen was overawed. 
 
 "Ane would think it was some grand affair. 
 A bit scait upon the paper, and a wheen greens 
 and blues : and ye talk as if it was a battle to 
 fight or a grand law-plea." 
 
 " My dear mother," said Rob, " many a man 
 could fight a battle that could not draw the 
 Kirkton, with all the hills behind it, and the 
 clouds, and the air." 
 
 "Air! ye can paint air, ye clever lad! "cried 
 Mrs. Glen, with a laugh.' "Maybe you can 
 paint the coos mowing and the sheeps baaing? 
 I would not wonder. It's as easy as the air, 
 which every bairn kens is no a thing you can 
 see." 
 
 "I don't say I can do it myself," said Rob; 
 "but I've seen pictures where you would think 
 you»heard the cows and the sheep — yes, and the 
 skylarks up in the sky, and the hare plashing 
 about in the wet woods." 
 
 "Just that," said his mother, "and the coun- 
 try gomerel that believes all you like to tell her. 
 Among a' thae bonnie things there should be a 
 place for the one that's to be imposed upon ; but 
 you'll no put me there, I'll warrant you," she 
 cried, flouncing away in sudden wrath. 
 
 This interruption roused Rob and put him 
 upon his mettle. If it was well to have thus 
 dignified his work in her eyes so that she should 
 be concerned in its progress, the result was not 
 an unmitigated good. Hitherto he had worked 
 as the spirit moved him, and when he was not 
 sufficiently stirred had let his pencil alone. But 
 this would not do, now that his labor had become 
 a recognized industry. He betook himself to 
 his task with a sigh. 
 
 Rob's artist-powers were not great. He drew 
 like an amateur, not even an amateur of a high 
 order, and would not have impressed any spec- 
 tator who had much knowledge of art. But he 
 had a certain amount of that indescribable qmil- 
 ity which artists call "feeling," a quality which 
 sometimes makes the most imperfect of sketches 
 more attractive than the skilfullest piece of paint- 
 ing. This is a gift which is more dependent 
 upon moods and passing impulses than upon 
 knowledge and skill ; and no doubt the subtlety 
 of those flying shadows, the breadth of the in- 
 finite morning light, so pure, so delicate, yet brill- 
 iant, put them beyond the hand of the untrained 
 craftsman. The consequence of this morning's 
 work, the first undertaken with legitimate sanc- 
 tion and authority, was accordingly a failure. 
 Rob put the Kirkton upon his paper very faith- 
 fully ; he drew the church and the houses so that 
 nobody could fail to recognize them ; but as for 
 the air of which he had boasted ! alas, there was 
 no air in it. He worked till the hour of the farm 
 dinner ; worked on, getting more eager over it 
 as he felt every line to fail, and walked home, 
 flushed and excited, when he heard his name 
 called through the mid -day brightness. The 
 
 broth was on the table when he went in, putting 
 down his materials on a side-table ; and Mrs. 
 Glen was impatient of the moment he spent in 
 washing his hands. 
 
 "You have as many fykes as a fine leddy," 
 she said. It had not occurred to her to make 
 this preparation for her meal. She drew her 
 chair to the table, and said grace in the same 
 breath with this reproach. "Bless these mer- 
 cies," she said; and then, "Ye canna say but 
 you've had a lang morning, and naebody to dis- 
 turb you. I hope you have something to show 
 for it now." 
 
 "Not much," said Rob. 
 
 " No much ! It's a pretence, then, like a' the 
 rest ! Lord bless me, I couldna spend the whole 
 blessed day without doing a hand's turn, no, if 
 you would pay me for it. Eh, but we're deceived 
 "creatures," cried Mrs. Glen ; "as glad when a 
 bairn comes into the world as if it brought a 
 fortune with it ! A bonnie fortune ! anxiety and 
 care; and if there's a moment's pleasure, it's aye 
 ransomed by days of trouble. Sup your broth ; 
 they're very good broth, far better than the like 
 of you deserve ; but maybe you think it's no a 
 grand enough dinner for such a fine gentleman ? 
 Na, when I was just making up my mind to let 
 you take your will and see what you could do 
 your ain way — and you set up your face and tell 
 me, no much! No much ! if it's not enough to 
 anger a saint!" 
 
 ' ' There it is ; you can judge for yourself," cried 
 Rob, with sudden exasperation. He jumped up 
 from the table so quickly that his mother had no 
 time to point out his want of manners in getting 
 up in the midst of his dinner. The words were 
 stopped on her lips, when he suddenly placed the 
 block on which he had been drawing before her. 
 Mrs. Glen had not condescended to look at any 
 of these performances before. It would have 
 seemed a sort of acceptance of his excuse had 
 she taken any notice of the "rubbitch" with 
 which he "played himself," and she had really 
 felt the contempt she expressed. Drawing pict- 
 ures ! it was a kind of childish occupation, an 
 amusement to be pursued on a wet day, when 
 nothing else was possible, or as a solace in the 
 tedium of illness. But when Rob put down be- 
 fore her, relieved against the white table-cloth, 
 the Kirkton itself in little, a very reproduction 
 of the familiar scene she had beheld every day 
 for years, the words were stopped upon his moth- 
 er's lips. 
 
 "Eh!" she cried, in mere excess of emotion, 
 able for nothing but a monosyllable. The very 
 imperfection of it gave it weight in Mrs. Glen's 
 unpractised eyes. "Losh me!" she cried, when 
 she had recovered the first shock of admiration. 
 "Rob, was it you that did that? are you sure 
 it's your ain doing?" She could not trust her 
 own eyes. 
 
 "And poor enough too," said Rob, but he liked 
 the implied applause: who would not? Praise 
 of what we have done well may satisfy our intel- 
 lectual faculties, but praise of a failure, that is a 
 thing which really goes to the heart. 
 
 " Poor ! I would like to ken what you mean 
 by poor?" Mrs. Glen pushed away the broth 
 and took up the block in a rapture of surprise 
 and delight. "It's the very Kirkton itself!" she 
 said; "there's Robert Jamieson's house, and 
 there's Hugh Macfarlane's. and there's the wav 
 
26 
 
 THE PRIMROSE RATH. 
 
 you go to the post, and there's the Kilnelly bury- 
 ing-ground, and the little road up to the kirk — 
 no a thing missed out. And do you mean to 
 tell me it's a' your own doing? Oh, laddie, lad- 
 die, the talents you've gotten frae Providence! 
 and the little use you make o' them," added his 
 mother, with a sudden recollection of the burden 
 of her prophecy against her son, which could not 
 be departed from even now. 
 
 Rob was so much encouraged that he ventured 
 to laugh. " There is nothing I wish so much as 
 to make more use of them," he said; "I ought 
 to study and have good teaching." 
 
 " Teaching! what do you want with teaching ? 
 You were never one that was easy satisfied ; 
 what mair would you have?" she cried. She 
 could not take her eyes from the drawing. She 
 touched it lightly with her finger to make sure 
 that it was flat, and did not owe its perspective 
 to mechanical causes. "To think it's naething 
 but a cedar pencil and a wheen paints! I never 
 saw the like ! and you to do it, a laddie like you ! 
 It beats me ! Ay, there's Robert Jamieson's 
 house, andyon's Hugh Macfarlane's, and the wee 
 gate into the kirk-yard as natural ! and Widow 
 Morrison's small shop joining the kirk. I can 
 'most see the things in the window. I would 
 like the Minister to see it," said Mrs. Glen. 
 
 "Not that one, it is not good enough; there 
 are others, mother." 
 
 She cast upon him a half- contemptuous 
 glance. He was "no judge," even though it 
 was he who had done it : how could he be a 
 judge, when he had so little appreciation of this 
 great work ? 
 
 " It's a great deal you ken," she said ; " I will 
 take it mysel' and let him see it. He would be 
 awfu' pleased. His ain kirk, and ye can just see 
 the Manse trees, though it's no in the picture. 
 And a' done in one forenoon ! I suppose," she 
 added, suddenly, "the like of this brings in sil- 
 ler. It's a business, like any other trade ?" 
 
 " When they are better than that, yes — pict- 
 ures sell ; but you should not speak of it as a 
 trade." 
 
 " I wish it was half as honest and straightfor- 
 ward as many a trade. Better than that ! that's 
 aye your way. But you have not suppit your 
 broth. I would not say now," said Mrs. Glen, 
 in high good-humor "(sit down and finish your 
 dinner), but Miss Margret would like a look at 
 that." 
 
 "It is not half good enough." 
 
 " Hold your peace, you silly lad ! I hope I 
 ken what I'm saying. She's but lonely, poor 
 thing — no a young person to speak to. It would 
 divert her to see it. I would not forbid you now 
 to give the young leddy the like o' that in a pres- 
 ent. Sir Ludovic's our landlord, after a'. He's 
 no an ill landlord, though he's poor. It is aye 
 a fine thing to be civil, and ye never can tell but 
 what a kind action will meet with its reward. I 
 see no reason why you should not take that to 
 Miss Margret in a present," Mrs. Glen said. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Rob had not been so light of heart since lie 
 made that momentous decision about his profes- 
 sion which had so strangely changed his Ike. 
 
 For the first time since then he felt himself an' 
 allowed and authorized person, not in disgrace or 
 under disapprobation of all men, as he had hith- 
 erto been ; and the permission to carry his draw- 
 ing of the Kirkton to Miss Margaret "in a pres- 
 ent" amused him, while it gave at the same 
 time a certain sanction to his engagement to 
 meet her, and show her the other productions of 
 his pencil. Rob had his wits about him more 
 than Margaret had, though not so much as his 
 mother. He was aware that to ask a young 
 lady to meet him at the burn, for what purpose 
 soever, was not exactly what was becoming, and 
 that the advantage he had taken of their childish 
 friendship was perhaps not quite so "like a gen- 
 tleman" as he wished to be. He could not, in- 
 deed, persuade himself that his mother was any 
 authority in such a question ; but still the fact 
 that she thought it quite natural that he should 
 carry on his old relations with Margaret, and 
 even encouraged him to make the young lady a 
 present, gave him a sort of fictitious satisfaction. 
 He would affect to take his mother's opinion as 
 his authority, if his conduct was called in ques- 
 tion, and thus her ignorance was a bulwark to 
 him. He went out again after his broth, and 
 worked diligently all the afternoon, though Mrs. 
 Glen thought it very unnecessary. 
 
 " 'Twill just spoil it," she said. " The like of 
 3-011 never knows where to stop : either you do 
 nothing at all, or you do a hantle o'er much." 
 
 But on this point Rob took his own way. 
 Certainly, even when you despise the opinion of 
 those around, it is good to be thought well off. 
 The moral atmosphere was lighter round him, 
 and there was the pleasant prospect of meeting 
 Margaret in the evening, and receiving the de- 
 lightful incense of her admiration ; a more agree- 
 able way of rilling up this interval of leisure could 
 not have been devised, had his leisure been the 
 most legitimate, the most natural in the world. 
 
 While he sat at his drawing in the breezy af- 
 ternoon, a further sign of tire rehabilitation he 
 had undergone was accorded to him. Voices ap- 
 proaching him through the garden, which lay be- 
 tween the house and the west green, prepared him 
 for visitors, and these voices were too familiar to 
 leave him in doubt who the visitors were. It was 
 the Minister, whom Mrs. Glen was leading to the 
 spot where her son was at work on his drawing. 
 "I'll no say that I expected much," said Mrs. 
 Glen, " for I'm not one that thinks everything fine 
 that's done by my ain. I think I'm a' the mair 
 hard to please ; but, Doctor, when I saw upon 
 the paper the very Kirkton itsel'! Losh me! 
 there wasn't a house but you would have kent it. 
 Robert Jamieson's and Hugh Macfarlane's, just 
 as like as if you had been standing afore them. 
 It clean beats me how a lad can do that, that 
 has had little time for anything but his studies ; 
 for, Doctor, I never heard but that my Rob was a 
 good student. He hasna come to a good issue, 
 which is awfu' mysterious; but a good student 
 he aye was, and there's no a man that kens who 
 will say me nay." 
 
 "I am well aware of that," said Dr. Burnside. 
 "It makes it all the more mysterious, as you 
 well say; but let us hope that time and thought 
 will work a change. I'm not one to condemn a 
 young man because he has troubles of mind. 
 We've all had our experiences," the good man 
 said, as he came through the opening in the hedge 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 27 
 
 to the west green, which was nothing more im- 
 posing than the "green," technically so called, 
 in which the farmer's household dried its clothes 
 — a green, or, to speak more circumstantially, "a 
 washing green," a square of grass on which the 
 linen could be bleached if necessary, and with 
 posts at each corner for the ropes on which it was 
 suspended to dry, being a necessity of every house 
 in Fife, and throughout Scotland. There was no 
 linen hung out at present to share the breezy green 
 with Rob. lie sat on the grass on a three-leg- 
 ged stool he had brought with him ; a low hedge 
 ran round the little enclosure, with a little burn 
 purling under its shadow, and beyond were the 
 green fields and the village, with all its reds and 
 blues. Behind him an old ash-tree fluttered its 
 branches and sheltered him from the sun. 
 
 " Well, Robert, and how do you do?" said 
 Dr. Burnside. "I have come out to see you, at 
 your mother's instance. She tells me you've 
 developed a great genius for painting. I am 
 very happy to hear of it, but I hope you will 
 not let the siren art lead you away from better 
 things." 
 
 "What are better things ?"said Rob ; " I don't 
 know any," and he got up to respond to the Min- 
 ister's salutation. Dr. Burnside shook his head. 
 
 " That is what I feared," he said. " You must 
 not give up for painting, or any other pleasure 
 of this earth, the higher calling you were first 
 bound to, my good lad. You've served your 
 time to the Church, and what if you have pass- 
 ing clouds that trouble your spirit ? Having 
 put your hand to the plough, you must not turn 
 back." 
 
 "Eh, that's what I tell him every day o' his 
 life," said Mrs. Glen. 
 
 " I came on purpose to have a long conversa- 
 tion with you," said the Minister. "Yes, very 
 pretty, very pretty. I am no judge of paintings 
 myself, but I've no doubt it's very well done. I 
 need not tell you I'm very sorry for all that's come 
 and gone ; but I cannot give up the hope, Rob- 
 ert, that you will see the error of your ways. I 
 cannot think a promising lad like you will con- 
 tinue in a wrong road." 
 
 "If it is a wrong road," said Rob. 
 
 "Whisht, lad, and hearken what the Minister 
 says ; but before I go in, Doctor, look at the pict- 
 ure. Is't no wonderful ? There's your ain very 
 trees, and the road we've ga'en to the kirk as 
 long as I can mind, and a' the whigmaleeries of 
 the auld steeple. Na, I put nae faith in it at 
 first, no me ! but when I saw it, just a bit sense- 
 less paper, good for nothin' in itsel'! Take a 
 good look at it, Doctor. It's no like the kind 
 of thing ye'll see every day." 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Glen," said the Minister, "I do 
 not doubt it is very pretty. I am no judge my- 
 self. I would like to hear what Sir Claude 
 would say ; he is a great connoisseur. But it 
 was not about pictures, however pretty, that I 
 was wanting to speak to Robert. My good lad, 
 put away your bonnie view and all your paints 
 for a moment, and take a walk down to the 
 Manse with me. I would like to satisfy myself 
 how you stand, and perhaps a little conversation 
 might be of use. There is nothing so good for 
 clearing the cobwebs out of the mind, as just en- 
 tering into the state of the case with a competent 
 person, one that understands you, and knows 
 what to advise." 
 
 "That is what I aye said when all thae pro- 
 fessors in Glasgow was taighling at him ; the 
 Doctor at hame would understand far better, 
 that is what I aye said. Go with the Minister, 
 Rob, and pay great attention. I'll cany in the 
 things. But I wish ye would take a good look 
 at the picture, Doctor; and yell no keep him 
 too long, for he has a friend to see, and two- 
 three things to do. You'll mind that, Rob, my 
 man." 
 
 Never since the fatal letter which disclosed 
 his apostasy had his mother addressed him be- 
 fore as "my man." And Rob knew that the 
 Doctor was not strong in argument. He went 
 with him across the fields he had just been put- 
 ting into his sketch, with an easy mind. He was 
 fond of discussion, like every true-born Scots- 
 man, and here at least he was pretty sure of hav- 
 ing the victory. Mrs. Glen, for her part, carried 
 in "the paints" with a certain reverence. She 
 put the sketch against the wall of the parlor, 
 and contemplated it with pride, which was a still 
 warmer sentiment than her pleasure. It was 
 " our Rob " that had done that ; nobody else in 
 the country-side was so clever. It was true that 
 Sir Claude was a connoisseur, as the Minister 
 said, and was supposed to kno.\v a great deal 
 about art, but nobody had ever seen a picture of 
 his to be compared with this of "our Rob's." 
 Mrs. Glen set the sketch against the wall, and 
 got her knitting and sat down opposite to it, not 
 to worship, but to build castles upon that foun- 
 dation, which was not much more satisfactory 
 than Alnascher's basket of eggs. The thought 
 passed through her mind, indeed, that he who 
 could do so much in this accidental and chance 
 way, what might he not have done had he fol- 
 lowed out his original vocation ? which was a 
 grievous thought. But then it never could have 
 been in Rob's way to be Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, or anything but a parish minister, like the 
 Doctor himself; whereas, perhaps, with this un- 
 suspected new gift, and out of his very idleness 
 and do-nothingness, who could tell what might 
 come ? Mrs. Glen's imagination was of a vulgar 
 kind, but it enabled her to follow out a perfectly 
 feasible and natural line of events, and to settle 
 what her own line of conduct was to be with ad- 
 mirable good sense : not to press him, not to put 
 herself forward as arranging anything, not to in- 
 terfere with the young lady, but to wait and see 
 how things would happen. Nothing could be 
 more simple. The end was a mist of confusion 
 before the farmer-woman's eyes. Perhaps she 
 fell asleep, nodding over her half-knitted stock- 
 ing in the drowsiness of the afternoon ; but if 
 so, a vague vision of "our Rob " turned into Sir 
 Robert, and reigning at EaiTs-hall, glistened at 
 the end of that vista. How he could be Sir 
 Robert, by what crown matrimonial he could be 
 invested with the title and the lands of which 
 Ludovic Leslie, and not Margaret, was the heir, 
 we need not try to explain. The dreamer her- 
 self could not have explained it, nor did she try ; 
 and perhaps she had fallen asleep, and was not 
 accountable for the fancies that had got into her 
 drowsy brain. 
 
 As for Rob, he had a long conversation with 
 the Minister, and posed him as he had intended 
 and foreseen. Dr. Bumside's theology was pon- 
 derous, and his information a trifle out of date. 
 Even in the ordinary way of reasoning, his argu- 
 
28 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 ments were more apt to unsettle the minds of 
 good believers and make the adversary rejoice, 
 than to produce any more satisfactory result ; 
 and it may be supposed that he was not very 
 ■well prepared for the young sceptic, trained in 
 new strongholds of learning which the good 
 Doctor knew but by name. Dr. Burnside shook 
 his puzzled head when he went into the Manse 
 to tea. " Yon's a clever lad," he said to his wife. 
 " I sometimes think the devil always gets the 
 cleverest." 
 
 " Well, Doctor," said Mrs. Burnside, who was 
 a very strong theologian, "have you forgotten 
 that the foolish tilings of this earth are to con- 
 found the strong?" 
 
 But the Doctor only shook his head. He did 
 not like to think of himself as one of the foolish 
 things of this earth, even though by so doing he 
 might have a better hope of confounding the au- 
 dacious strength of Rob Glen. But he ponder- 
 ed much upon the subject, and polished up his 
 weapons in private, going through many an ar- 
 gument in his own mind, which was more suc- 
 cessful, and preparing snares and pitfalls for the 
 young heretic. He had patronized Rob when 
 Rob was orthodox, but he respected him now as 
 he had never done before. 
 
 "I think I will preach my sermon on the fig- 
 tree next Sabbath morning," he said to his wife 
 after tea. "I think that will stagger him, if 
 anything can." 
 
 "Well, Doctor," Mrs. Burnside replied, "it 
 will always be a pleasure to hear it; but I fear 
 Robert Glen is one of those whose ears are made 
 heavy, that they cannot hear." 
 
 The Doctor shook his head again, out of re- 
 spect to the Scriptures ; but lie was not so hope- 
 less. Perhaps he believed in his sermon on the 
 fig-tree more than his wife did, and he felt that 
 to gain back the young man who had baffled 
 him would be indeed a crown of glory. He 
 spent an hour in his study that night looking up 
 other sermons which specially suited the case. 
 It gave him an interest in his sermons which he 
 had not felt since Sir Claude gave up coming to 
 the parish church, and seceded to the Episcopal 
 chapel in St. Rule's. That had been a distress- 
 ing event to the good Doctor, but he had got over 
 it, and now providence had been kind enough to 
 send him a young unbeliever to convince. Per- 
 haps the good folks of the Kirkton and the par- 
 ish generally would have heard of this looking 
 up of the old discourses with some apprehension ; 
 but the Doctor wrote a new introduction to the 
 sermon on the fig-tree, and that was some little 
 gain at least. 
 
 Rob left his pastor with less respectfulness 
 than the good Doctor felt for him. After run- 
 ning the gauntlet of the professors, and receiving 
 all the attention he had received as the represent- 
 ative of honest doubt, it is not to be supposed 
 that Dr. Burnside could impress him much, and 
 he took up a great deal of time with his feeble 
 argumentations. When, however, the Minister 
 invited him to come to the Manse to tea, Rob 
 made a very pretty speech about his mother. 
 " She has been very kind to me, though I know 
 I have disappointed her," he said, "and I must 
 not leave her alone. I don't think I can leave 
 her alone." 
 
 " That's the finest thing you've said, Robert," 
 said the Doctor. "I see your heart is right, al- 
 
 though your head is all wrong;" and with this 
 they parted, and the good man came in to look 
 over his sermons. As for Rob, he hurried home 
 to collect some sketch-books for Margaret's ben- 
 efit, and would not share his mother's tea, not- 
 withstanding his pretty speech. But it was as- 
 tonishing how tolerant Mrs. Glen had grown. 
 She shook her head, but she did not insist upon 
 the bread-and-butter. 
 
 "I'll have something ready for your supper 
 if you havena time now," she said ; and entreat- 
 ed him to take the block with to-day's drawing, 
 which she thought might be offered "in a pres- 
 ent " to the young lady. 
 
 "Not that, mother," said Rob, "not till it is 
 finished." 
 
 "Pinished!" she said, with a disdain which 
 was complimentary; "what would you have? 
 You canna mend it. It's just the Kirkton it- 
 sel'." 
 
 And she would have liked him to put on his 
 best black coat when he went to meet Miss Mar- 
 garet, and the tall hat he wore on Sundays. 
 "When you have good claes, why should ye no 
 wear them ? She should see that you ken the 
 fashion and can keep the fashion with the best — 
 as my poor purse will feel when the bill comes 
 in," she added, with a sigh. But at last Rob 
 managed to escape in his ordinary garments, and 
 with the sketches he had chosen. After the 
 events of the day, which had been a kind of 
 crisis in his career, Rob's mind was full of a 
 pleasant excitement; all things seemed once 
 more to promise well for him — if only this little 
 lady of romance would keep her promise. Would 
 she come again? or had he been flattering him- 
 self, supposing a greater interest in her mind 
 than really existed, or a greater freedom in her 
 movements ? He lingered about for some time, 
 watching the sun as it lighted up the west, and 
 began to paint the sky with crimson and purple ; 
 and as he watched it, Rob was natural enough 
 and innocent enough to forget most other things. 
 Who could attempt to put that sky upon paper? 
 There was all the fervor of first love in his en- 
 thusiasm for art, and as he pondered what color 
 could give some feeble idea of such a sky, he 
 thought no more of Margaret. What impossi- 
 ble combination could do it? And if it was 
 done, who would believe in it ? He looked at 
 the growing glory with that despair of the artist 
 which is in itself a worship. Rob was not an 
 artist to speak of, yet he had something of the 
 "feeling" which makes one, and all the enthu- 
 siasm of a beginner just able to make some ex- 
 pression of his delight in the beauty round him ; 
 and there is no one who sees that beauty so clear- 
 ly, and all the unimaginable glories of the atmos- 
 phere, the clouds and shadows, the wonderful va- 
 rieties of color of which our northern heaven is 
 capable, as the artist, however humble. He was 
 absorbed in this consideration, wondering how 
 to do it, wondering if he ever could succeed in 
 catching that tone of visionary light, that touch 
 of green amidst the blue — or whether he would 
 not be condemned as an impostor if he tried, 
 when suddenly his book of sketches was softly 
 drawn out of his hand. Looking round with a 
 start, he saw Margaret by his side. She had 
 stolen upon him ere he was aware, and her laugh 
 at having taken him by surprise changed into 
 her habitual sudden blush as she caught his eye. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 29 
 
 " You need not mind me," she said, confused. 
 " I am very happy, looking at the pictures. 
 Are vou trying to make a picture out of that 
 sky ?'"' 
 
 "If I could," he said; "hut I don't know 
 how to do it; and if I did, it would not he be- 
 lieved, though people see the sunset every day. 
 Did you ever see a Turner, Miss Margaret ? Do 
 you know he was the greatest artist — one of the 
 greatest artists ?" 
 
 " I have heard his name ; but I never saw any 
 pictures, never one except our own, and a few 
 in other houses. I have heard, or rather I have 
 read that name. Did he paint landscapes like 
 you 2" 
 
 "Like me!" Rob laughed. "You don't know 
 what you are saying. I am a poor creature, a 
 beginner, a fellow that knows nothing. But he ! 
 — and he is very fond of sunsets, and paints 
 them ; but he dared no more have done that — " 
 
 Margaret looked up curiously into the western 
 heavens. It was "all aflame," and the glow of 
 it threw a warm reflection upon her as she looked 
 up wistfully, with a look of almost infantile, sud- 
 denly awakened wonder. Her face was very 
 grave, startled, and full of awe, like one of Raph- 
 ael's child-angels. The idea was new to her. 
 She, who thought these sketches so much more 
 interesting than the sunset, it gave her a new 
 sensation to hear of the great artist who had 
 never dared to represent that which the careless 
 heavens accomplish every day. Some floating 
 conception of the greatness of that great globe 
 of sky and air which kept herself suspended a 
 very atom in its vastness, and of the littleness 
 of any man's attempt at representing it, came 
 suddenly upon her, then floated away again, 
 leaving her as eager as ever over Rob Glen's 
 poor little sketches. She turned them over with 
 hurried hands. Some were of scenes she did not 
 know, the lochs and hills of the West Highlands, 
 which filled her with delight, and now and then 
 an old tumble-down house, which interested her 
 less. 
 
 "Would you like to draw Earl's-hall ?." she 
 said. "I know you have it done in the distance. 
 But it is grand in the distance, and close at hand 
 it is not so grand, it is only funny. Perhaps 
 vou could make a picture, Mr. — Glen, of Earl's- 
 hall ?" 
 
 "I should very much like to try. Might I 
 try? Perhaps Sir Ludovic might not like it." 
 
 "Papa likes what I like," said Margaret. 
 But then she paused. " There is Bell. You 
 know Bell, Mr.— Glen." 
 
 She made a little pause before his name, and 
 he smiled. Perhaps it was better that she should 
 not be so easily familiar and call him Rob. The 
 touch of embarrassment was more attractive. 
 
 "Bell," she added, with a little furtive smile, 
 avoiding his look, "is more troublesome than 
 papa; and she will go and speak to papa when 
 she takes it into her head." 
 
 "Then you do not like Bell? I am wrong, 
 I am very wrong; I see it. You did not mean 
 that ! " 
 
 "Not like — Bell ? What would happen if you 
 did not care for those that belong to you?" 
 
 "But Bell is only your servant — only your 
 house-keeper." 
 
 Margaret closed the sketch-book, and looked 
 at him with indignant eves. 
 
 "I cannot tell you what Bell is," she said. 
 " She is just Bell. She took care of my mother, 
 and she takes care of me. Who would be like 
 Bell to me, if it were the Queen? But some- 
 times she scolds," she added, suddenly, coming 
 down in a moment from her height of serious- 
 ness ; " and if you come to Earl's-hall, you must 
 make friends with Bell. I will tell her you want 
 to draw the house. She would like to see a pict- 
 ure of the house, I am sure she would ; and, 
 Mr. Glen," said Margaret, timidly, looking up in 
 his face, "you promised — but perhaps you have 
 forgotten — you promised to learn me — " 
 
 (Learn, by one of the curious turns of mean- 
 ing not uncommon over the Border, means teach 
 in Scotch, just as to hire means to be hired.) 
 
 "Forgotten!" said Rob, his face, too, glowing 
 with the sunset. "If you will only let me! 
 The worst is that you will soon find out how lit- 
 tle I know." 
 
 " Not when I look at these beautiful pictures," 
 said Margaret, opening the sketch-book again. 
 " Tell me where this is. It is a little dark loch, 
 with hills rising and rising all round ; here there 
 is a point out into the water with a castle upon 
 it, all dim and dark ; but up on the hills the sun 
 is shining. Oh, I would like, I would like to 
 see it ! What bonnie places there must be in 
 the world!" 
 
 "It is in the Highlands. I wish I could show 
 you the place," said Rob. "The colors on the 
 hills are far beyond a poor sketch of mine. 
 They are like a beautiful poem." 
 
 Margaret looked up at him again with a misty 
 sweetness in her eyes, a recognition, earnest and 
 happy, of another link of union. 
 
 "Do you like poetry too?" she said. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Margaret went home that evening with her 
 head more full than ever of the new incident 
 which had come into her life. More full of 
 that, but not quite so much occupied, perhaps, 
 by the thought of her new acquaintance. She 
 had all the eagerness of a child to begin her 
 studies, to learn how to make pictures as he did, 
 and this for the moment took everything that 
 was dangerous out of the new conjunction of 
 young man and young woman which was quite 
 unfamiliar to her, but which had vaguely im- 
 pressed her on their first meeting. She came 
 home this time no longer in a dream of roused 
 and novel feeling, but with definite aims before 
 her ; and when she found Bell, as usual, seated 
 outside the door in the little court, Margaret 
 lost no time in opening the attack on the person 
 whom she knew to be the most difficult and un- 
 likely to be convinced. 
 
 "Bell!" she cried, running in, breathless with 
 eagerness, "something is going to happen to me. 
 Listen, Bell ! I am going to learn to draw." 
 
 "Bless me, bairn!" cried Bell, drawing back 
 her chair in semi-alarm. "Is that a'? I thought 
 you were going to tell me the French were com- 
 ing. No that the French have ony thought of 
 coming nowadays, puir bodies ; they've ower 
 muckle to do with themselves." 
 
 "Bell, you don't take the trouble to think 
 about me, and I am so happy about it. There 
 
30 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 never was a time that I did not care for pict- 
 ures. And there's a view of EaiTs-hall from 
 the Kirkton, and I cannot tell how many more. 
 You know I always was fond of pictures, Bell." 
 
 "No me! I never knew you had seen ony, 
 Miss Margret," said Bell, placidly; "but for 
 my part, I'm sure I've no objection. I would 
 like it far better if it was the piany ; but educa- 
 tion's aye a grand thing, however it comes. Can 
 do is easy carried about." 
 
 "And will you speak to papa?" said Marga- 
 ret. "Bell, I wish you would speak to papa; 
 for he jokes at me, and calls me little Peggy, 
 and you know I am not little, but quite grown 
 up." 
 
 "Oh, ay, as auld as him or me — in your ain 
 conceit," said Bell; "but whisht, my bonnie 
 doo — I wasna meaning to vex you. And what 
 am I to speak to Sir Ludovic about ?" 
 
 A slight embarrassment came over Margaret. 
 She began to fidget from one foot to another, 
 and a sudden wave of color flushed over her 
 face. It did not mean anything. Was it not 
 the trouble of her life that she blushed perpetu- 
 ally — blushed for nothing at all, with every fresh 
 thought that rushed upon her, with every new 
 impulse ? It was her way of showing every emo- 
 tion. Nevertheless this time it made her feel 
 uncomfortable, as if it might mean something 
 more. 
 
 " I told you," she said ; " it is about learning 
 to draw, and about letting him come here to 
 show me the way." 
 
 "Letting him come! that's another story; 
 and who's him ?" said Bell. She made a rapid 
 mental review of the county while she spoke — 
 puzzled, yet not disconcerted ; there was nobody 
 of whom the severest duenna could be afraid. 
 There was Sir Claude — known to be very fond 
 of pictures — but Sir Claude was a douce mar- 
 ried man, who was very unlikely to take the 
 trouble, and, even if he did, would hurt nobody. 
 "Na, I canna think. Young Randal Burnside 
 he's away ; that was the only lad in the country- 
 side like to be evened to our Miss Margret, and 
 him no half or quarter good enough. Na, ye 
 maun tell me ; there's no him in the country 
 that may not come and go free for anything I 
 care." 
 
 "Why should you care?" said Margaret. 
 "But I will tell you who it is. It is Rob Glen — 
 Mrs. Glen's son, at Earl's-lee. He used to play 
 with me when I was little, and I saw him draw- 
 ing a picture. And then he told me who he 
 was, and then he said he would learn me to 
 draw, if I liked to learn — and you may be sure I 
 would like to learn, Bell. Fancy! to take a bit 
 of paper out of a book, and put this house upon 
 it or any other house, and all the woods, and 
 the hills, and the sky. Look at that puff of 
 cloud ! it's all rosy and like a flower ; but in 
 a moment it will be gray, and next moment it 
 will be gone ; but if you draw it you have it for- 
 ever. It's wonderful, wonderful, Bell!" 
 
 " Rob Glen," said Bell, musing. She paid no 
 attention to Margaret's poetical outburst. " Rob 
 Glen — that's him that was to be a minister ; but 
 something's happened to him ; he's no conductit 
 himself as he ought, or else he tired of the no- 
 tion, and he's at hame doing naething." Bell 
 paused after this historical sketch. " He wasna 
 an ill laddie. He was very good to you, Miss 
 
 Margret, when you were but a little trouble- 
 some thing, greeting for drinks of water, and 
 asking to be carried, and wanting this and want- 
 ing that, just what puts a body wild with bairns.'' 
 
 "Was I ?" said Margaret, with wide-opened 
 eyes. "No! Rob never thought me a trouble. 
 You might do so," she added, with offence. "I 
 cannot tell for you, but I am sure Rob — " 
 
 "I weel believe he never said a word. He 
 was great friends with you, I mind well — oh, 
 great friends. And so he wants to learn you to 
 draw — or you want him? I see nae great ob- 
 jection," said Bell, doubtfully. " He's a young 
 man, but then you're a leddy far above him ; 
 and you're old friends, as you say. I will not 
 say but what I would rather he was marrit, Miss 
 Margret ; but I see nae great objection — " 
 
 "Married!" said Margaret, her eyes bigger 
 than ever with wonder and amusement — "mar- 
 ried!" She laughed, though she could scarcely 
 have told why. The idea amused her beyond 
 measure. There was something piquant in it, 
 something altogether absurd. Rob! But why 
 the idea was so ridiculous she could not say. 
 Bell looked at her in her laughter with a certain 
 doubt. 
 
 "Why should he no be married?" she said; 
 "lads of that kind marry young — they've nae- 
 thing to wait for: the moment they get a kirk 
 it's a' they can look for — very different from 
 some. I dinna ken what Sir Ludovic may say," 
 she added, doubtfully. "Sir Ludovic has awfu' 
 high notions ; a farmer's son to learn a Leslie. 
 I canna tell how he'll take it." 
 
 "Bell!" cried Margaret, with indignation, 
 " when you know it's you that have the high 
 notions ! Papa would never think of anything 
 of the kind ; but if you go and put them into 
 his head, and tell him what to think — " 
 
 "Lord bless the bairn, me!" cried Bell, with 
 the air of being deeply shocked ; and then she 
 got up and went back into her kitchen, which 
 was her stronghold. Margaret, for her part, 
 slightly discouraged, but still eager, stole up- 
 stairs. If Bell was against her, it did not mat- 
 ter very much who was on her side. She went 
 softly into the long room where her father was 
 reading. Would it ever happen to her, she won- 
 dered, to sit still in one place and read, whatever 
 might be going on — never thinking what was 
 happening outside, untroubled whether it rained 
 or was fine, whether it was summer or winter? 
 Though she came in and roamed about softly, 
 in a kind of subdued restlessness, looking over 
 the book -shelves, and flitting from window to 
 window, Sir Ludovic took no notice. With her 
 own life so warm in her, it was stranger and 
 stranger to Margaret to see that image of the 
 calm of age ; how strange it was ! He had not 
 moved even, since she came into the room, while 
 she was so restless, so eager, thinking nothing 
 in the world so important as her present fancy. 
 When she had fluttered about for some time 
 without attracting his notice, she grew impa- 
 tient. "Papa, I want to speak to you," she 
 said. 
 
 "Eh? Who is that— ?" Sir Ludovic roused 
 up as if he had been asleep; "you, little Peg- 
 gy?"' 
 
 "Yes; were you sleeping? I wondered and 
 wondered that you never saw me." 
 
 "I don't think I was asleep," he said, with a 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 31 
 
 little confusion. "To tell the truth, I do get 
 drowsy sometimes lately, and I don't half like 
 it," he added, in an undertone. 
 
 "You don't like it?" said Margaret: she was 
 not uneasy, but she was sympathetic. "But 
 then don't do it, papa ; come and take a little 
 walk with me " — (here she paused, remembering 
 that to-night, for instance, Sir Ludovic would 
 have been much out of place), "or a turn in the 
 garden, like John." 
 
 Sir Ludovic paid not much attention to what 
 she said: he rubbed his eyes, and raised his 
 head, shaking himself with a determination to 
 overcome the drowsiness, which was a trouble to 
 him. "You must sit with me more, my little 
 girl, and make a noise ; a little sound is life-like. 
 This stillness gets like " — (he made a pause ; 
 was the first word that occurred to him an un- 
 pleasant one, not such as was agreeable to pro- 
 nounce?) — "like sleep," he added, after a mo- 
 ment, "and I have no wish to go to sleep." 
 
 "Sleeping is not pleasant in the daytime," 
 said Margaret, unintentionally matter-of-fact. 
 The old man gave a slight shiver, which she did 
 not understand. It was no longer the daytime 
 with him, and this was precisely why he dis- 
 liked his unconscious doze ; was it not a sign 
 that .night was near? He raised himself in his 
 chair, and with the almost mechanical force of 
 habit began to turn over the leaves of the book 
 before him. It was evident he had not heard 
 her appeal. She stood by for a moment not 
 saying anything, then pulled his sleeve gently. 
 
 "Papa! it was something I had to say." 
 
 "Ay, to be sure. You wanted something, 
 my little Peggy ? what was it ? There are not 
 many things I can do, but if it is within my 
 power — " 
 
 "Papa! how strange to speak to me so — you 
 can do everything I want," said the girl. "And 
 this is what it is : I want — don't be very much 
 astonished — to learn to draw." 
 
 ' ' To draw ? I am afraid I am no good in 
 that respect, and cannot teach you, my dear." 
 
 " You ? Oh no ! But there is one that would 
 learn me." 
 
 "My little Peggy, you are too Scotch — say 
 teach." 
 
 "Very well, teach if you like, papa ; what does 
 the word matter ? But may he come to the house, 
 and may I have lessons ? I think it is the only 
 thing that is wanted to make me perfectly hap- 
 
 py." 
 
 Sir Ludovic smiled. "In that case you had 
 better begin at once. Mr. Ruskin himself ought 
 to teach you, after such a sentiment. At once, 
 my Peggy ! for I would have you perfectly hap- 
 py if I could. Poor child, who knows what may 
 happen after," he said, meditatively, putting his 
 hand upon her arm and smoothing the sleeve 
 caressingly. Margaret, occupied with her own 
 thoughts, did not take in the meaning of this ; 
 but she was vaguely discouraged by the tone. 
 
 ' ' You are not like yourself, papa ; what has 
 happened ?" she said, almost impatiently. " You 
 are not — ill? It is waking up, I suppose." 
 
 "Just that — or going to sleep — one or the 
 other. No, no, I am not ill ; yet — And let us 
 be comfortable, my little girl. Draw? Yes, 
 you shall learn to draw, and sit by me, quiet as 
 a little mouse with bright eyes." 
 
 " You said just now I was to make a noise." 
 3 " 
 
 "To be sure, so I did. I say one thing one 
 moment, and another the next ; but, after all, they 
 are much the same. So you sit by me, you may 
 be quiet or make a noise — it will be all the same. 
 Your noises are quiet, my Peggy. Your sleeve 
 rustling, your hand moving, and a little impa- 
 tience now and then, a start and a shake of your 
 little head. These are noises an old man likes 
 when Providence has given him a little girl." 
 
 "But really," said Margaret, with a crease in 
 her forehead, "really! I am grown-up — I am 
 not a little girl!" 
 
 "Well, my Peggy ! it will be so much the bet- 
 ter for you," he said, patting her sleeve. Mar- 
 garet was vaguely chilled by this acquiescence, 
 she could scarcely tell why ; and the slight pain 
 made her impatient, calling up a little auger, 
 causeless and vague as itself. 
 
 " Don't, papa," she said. " You are not like 
 yourself. I don't know what is the matter with 
 you. Then, he may come ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, at once," said Sir Ludovic, with a 
 dreamy smile; then he said, "But who is it?" 
 as if this mattered little. Altogether, Margaret 
 felt he was not like himself. 
 
 "Do you remember Rob Glen, papa, the son 
 of Mrs. Glen at Earl's-lee ? He used to play with 
 me when I was a child ; he was always very kind 
 to me. Oh, don't shake your head ; you must 
 mind him. Robert Glen at the farm ?" 
 
 "I mind, as you say — Scotch, Scotch, little 
 Peggy ; you should not be so Scotch — a Robert 
 Glen who took the farm thirty or forty years ago. 
 By-the-bye, the lease must be almost out ; but 
 how you are to get drawing or anything else out 
 of a rough farmer — " 
 
 "Papa!" — Margaret put her hand upon his 
 shoulder with impatience — "how could it be a 
 Robert Glen of thirty or forty years ago ? He is 
 only a little older than me. He played with me 
 when I was a little girl. He is perhaps the son, 
 or he may be the grandson. He is a little older 
 than me." 
 
 "Get your pronouns right, my little Peggy. 
 Ah ! the son ; va pour lejils," said Sir Ludovic, 
 with a drowsy smile, and turned back to his book. 
 Margaret stood for a moment with her hand on 
 his shoulder, looking at him with that irritation 
 which is the earliest form of pain. A vague un- 
 easiness came into her mind, but it was so veiled 
 in this impatience that she did not recognize it 
 for what it was. The only conscious feeling she 
 had was, how provoking of papa! not to take 
 more interest, not to ask more, not to say any- 
 thing. Then she dropped her hand from his 
 shoulder and turned away, and went to sit in the 
 window with the first chance book she could 
 pick up. She was not thinking much about the 
 book. She was half annoyed and disappointed 
 to have got her own way so easily. Had he un- 
 derstood her ? Margaret did not feel quite hap- 
 py about this facile assent. It made of Rob 
 Glen no wonder at a41, no disturbing individual- 
 ity. He was something more, after all, than Sir 
 Ludovic thought. What was all her own tre- 
 mor for, if it was to be lightly met with a va pour 
 le jils ? She was not satisfied ; and indeed the 
 little rustlings of her impatience, her subdued 
 movements, as she sat behind, did all for her fa- 
 ther that he wanted. They kept him awake. 
 The drowsiness which comforted him, yet which 
 he was afraid of, fled before this little thrill of 
 
32 
 
 THE PRIMHOSE PATH. 
 
 movement. Even if she had been altogether 
 quiet, is there not a thrill and reverberation in 
 the air about a thinking creature? Sir Ludovie 
 was kept awake and alive by the consciousness 
 of another near him, living in every nerve, filling 
 the silence with a little thrill of independent be- 
 ing. This kept him, not only from dozing, but 
 even from active occupation with his book. Af- 
 ter a little while he too began to be restless, 
 turned the pages hastily, then himself turned 
 half round toward her. "My Peggy !" he said. 
 In a moment she was standing by his side. 
 
 " What is it ? Did you want me, papa ?" 
 
 "No, it is nothing, only to see that you were 
 there. I heard you, that was all ; and in the 
 sound there was something strange, like a spirit 
 behind me — or a little mouse, as I said before." 
 
 " Had I better go away ? would you rather be 
 without me?" 
 
 " No, my little girl ; but sit in my sight, that 
 I may not be puzzled. The thing is that I can 
 feel you thinking, my Peggy." 
 
 "Papa! I was not thinking so much — not of 
 anything in particular, not to disturb yon." 
 
 "No, my dear, I am not complaining; they 
 were very soft little thoughts, but I heard them. 
 Sit now where I can see you, and all will go 
 right." 
 
 "Yes, papa. And yon are sure you have no 
 objections?" Margaret said, after a moment's 
 pause, standing by him still. 
 
 "To what? to the teaching of the drawing? 
 Oh, no objections — not the least objection." 
 
 "And you don't mind him coming to the 
 house — I mean — Mr. Glen ?" 
 
 "Is there any reason why I should mind?" 
 the old man asked, quickly, rousing into some- 
 thing like vigilance. 
 
 " Oh no, papa ; but I thought perhaps be- 
 cause he was not — the same as us — because he 
 was only — the farmer's son." 
 
 "This is wisdom ; this is social science : this 
 is worthy of Jean and Grace," said Sir Ludovie. 
 "My little Peggy! I do not know, my child. 
 Is this all out of your own head ?" 
 
 At this Margaret drooped a little, with one 
 of her usual overwhelming blushes. "It was 
 Bell," she said; but was it indeed all Bell? 
 Some instinct in her had made a more penetrat- 
 ing suggestion, but she could not tell this to her 
 father. She waited with downcast eyes for his 
 reply. 
 
 "Ah, it was Bell. I am glad my little Peg- 
 gy was not so clever and so far-seeing ; now run 
 and play, my little girl, run away and play, "he 
 said, dismissing her in his usual tone. She had 
 roused him at last to his ordinary mood, and 
 neither he nor she thought more of his desire 
 that she should stay in his sight. Margaret went 
 away with her heart beating to the west cham- 
 ber, which was her legitimate sitting-room. She 
 was half ashamed of her own fears about Bob, 
 which her father had treated so lightly. Was 
 it entirely Bell that had put it into her head that 
 this new visitor might be objected to? And was 
 it entirely because he was the farmer's son? 
 Margaret was too much puzzled and confused 
 to be able to answer these questions. She was 
 like a little ship setting out to sea without any 
 pilot. An instinct in her whispered the neces- 
 sity for guidance, whispered some faint doubts 
 whether this step she was taking was a right 
 
 one ; but what could the little ship do when the 
 man at the helm was so tranquilly careless? 
 At seventeen is one wiser than at seventy-five? 
 It is not only presumptuous, it is irreligious to 
 think so. And when her own faint doubt was 
 laughed at by her father as being of the order 
 of the ideas of Jean and Grace, what could Mar- 
 garet do but be ashamed of it? Jean and Grace 
 were emblems of the conventional and artificial 
 to Sir Ludovie. He could not speak of them 
 without a laugh, though they were his children ; 
 neither did they approve of their father — with 
 some reason it may be thought. 
 
 Thus it was settled that Bob Glen should have 
 access to Earl's-hall. Bell shook her head, but 
 she did not interfere. " It will divert the bairn," 
 she said to herself, " and I can aye keep my eye 
 upon him." What was the need of disturbing 
 Sir Ludovie, honest man ? The Leslies had 
 their faults, Bell reflected, but falling in love be- 
 neath them was not their weakness. They 
 were very friendly, but very proud. "As sweet 
 and as kind to the poorest body as if they 
 were their own kith and kin ; but it's hitherto 
 mayst thou come, and no a step furder," said 
 Bell; "that's the way o' them all. Even our 
 Miss Margret, I w-ould advise nobody to go too 
 far with her. She's very young. She disna un- 
 derstand herself; but as for the canailje, I would 
 not counsel them to come near by our young 
 leddy, simple as she is; there's just an instinck ; 
 it's in the Leslie blood." 
 
 Thus all went smoothly in this first essay of 
 wilfulness. Father and old duenna both con- 
 sented that the risk should be run. But in Mar- 
 garet's own mind there was one pause of hesita- 
 tion. Had there been any opposition to her will 
 she would have upheld Bob Glen to the utmost, 
 and insisted upon her drawingdessons ; but as 
 it was, there came a check to her eagerness 
 which she did not understand, a subtle sort of 
 hinderance in her path, a hesitation — because 
 no one else hesitated. Was that all ? 
 
 From this it will be seen that the ladies Jean 
 and Grace were not so wrong as was supposed 
 at Earl's-hall, when they shook their heads over 
 their father's proceedings, and declared that he 
 was not capable of being trusted with the charge 
 of a young girl. Any young girl would have 
 been rather unsafe in such hands, but a girl with 
 money, a girl who was an heiress! As for Sir 
 Ludovie, he went on serenely with his reading, 
 or dozed over his book in the long room, and 
 took no notice, or thought no more of the new 
 teacher Margaret had got for herself. He was 
 very glad she should do anything that pleased 
 her. Now and then he was anxious, and his 
 mind was occupied, by the drowsiness which 
 came over him. He did not like this, it was 
 not a good sign. It made his mind uneasy, for 
 he was an old man, and knew he could not go 
 on forever, and the idea of death was far from 
 pleasant to him. This he was anxious about, 
 but about his child he was not anxious. She 
 was not going to die, or anything to happen to 
 her. She had a long time before her, in which, 
 no doubt, many things would happen ; and why 
 should her father begin so early to make himself 
 uncomfortable about her? lie did not see the 
 
THE PBIMBOSB PATH. 
 
 33 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 While these events were going on in the 
 long room, and up the spiral stairs, thoughts not 
 less important to her than those that moved her 
 young mistress were going on in the head of 
 Jeanie, the young maid-servant at Earl's-hall. 
 Jeanie had been chosen as her assistant by Bell 
 on account of her excellent character and ante- 
 cedents, and the credit and respectability of all 
 belonging to her. "An honest man's daugh- 
 ter," Bell said, "a man just by-ordinary;" and 
 the girl herself was so well spoken of, so pretty 
 spoken in her own person, with such an artless 
 modesty in the soft chant of her voice, true Fife 
 and of "the East Neuk, that there had been noth- 
 ing to say against the wisdom of the choice. 
 Jeanie was always smiling, always good-humor- 
 ed, fresh as a rose and as clean, singing softly 
 about her work, with the natural freedom yet 
 sweet respectfulness which makes a Scotch lass 
 so ingratiating an attendant. Jeanie could not 
 have waited even upon a stranger without a cer- 
 tain tender anxiety and affectionate interest — 
 a desire not only to please, but to "pleasure" 
 the object of her cares, i. e., to give them pleas- 
 ure with sympathetic divining of all they want- 
 ed. Whether it was her "place " or not to do 
 one thing or another, what did it matter? Her 
 own genuine pleasure in the cleanness and neat- 
 ness she spread round her, and in the comfort 
 of those she served, reached the length of an 
 emotion. It did her heart good to bring order 
 out of chaos, to make dimness bright, and to 
 clear away stain and spot out of her way. She 
 had been two years at Earl's - hall, and before 
 that had been away as far as the west country, 
 where her mother's friends were. Jeanie was 
 her 'father's only daughter, and great was his 
 comfort and rejoicing when she came back to 
 be so near him ; for John Robertson was not 
 well enough off to keep her with him at home, 
 nor could he have thought it good for Jeanie 
 to keep her in his little cottage "learning nae- 
 thing," as he said. Perhaps there had risen 
 upon Jeanie's bright countenance some cloud of 
 uneasiness during these recent days ; at least it 
 had occurred to Bell, she could scarcely tell how, 
 that something more than usual was in the girl's 
 mind. "It'll do you good to go and have a 
 crack with your father," she had said, the day 
 after Margaret's second meeting with Rob Glen. 
 Perhaps Bell wanted to have her young lady all 
 to herself — perhaps it was only consideration 
 for Jeanie. 
 
 "You can go as soon as the dinner is up," 
 she said, "and take the old man a print o' our 
 sweet butter and twa- three eggs. It'll please 
 him to see you mind upon him." 
 
 "No me, but you," said Jeanie; "and I'm 
 real obliged to you, Bell." 
 
 Perhaps a rigid moralist would have said it 
 was not Bell, but Sir Ludovic, who had the right 
 to send these twa-three eggs ; but such a critic 
 would have met with little charity at Earl's-hall, 
 where, indeed, Bell's thrift and care, and nota- 
 ble management, as constant and diligent as if 
 the house-keeping had been her own, kept plenty 
 as well as order in the house ; nor did it ever 
 occur to the good woman that she was not free 
 to give as well as to increase this simple kind of 
 household wealth. Jeanie set out in the sum- 
 
 mer evening, after six o'clock, when she had de- 
 livered the last dish into John's hands. She 
 went along the country road with neither so 
 light a step nor so light a heart as those which 
 had carried Margaret in dreamy pleasantness 
 between the same hedges, all blossomed with the 
 sweet flaunting of the wild rose. 
 
 Jeanie, as was natural, being three-and-twen- 
 ty and a hard-working woman, was more solid 
 and substantial than the Laird's daughter at 
 seventeen ; but it would have been difficult to 
 imagine a more pleasant object, or one more en- 
 tirely suiting and giving expression to the rural 
 road along which she moved, than was Jeanie, 
 a true daughter of the soil. She was not tall or 
 slim, but of middle height, round and neat and 
 well proportioned, with a beautiful complexion, 
 impaired by nothing but a few freckles, and 
 golden-brown hair, much more "in the fashion," 
 with its crisp undulations and luxuriant growth, 
 than the brown silky locks of her young mis- 
 tress. Dark eyes and eyelashes gave a touch of 
 higher beauty to the fair, fresh face, which had 
 no particular features, but an air of modesty, 
 honesty, sweet good temper, and kindness very 
 delightful to behold. She was "a bonnie lass," 
 no more, not the beauty or reigning princess of 
 the neighborhood, or playing any fatal role in 
 the country-side. Jeanie was too good, too sim- 
 ple and kind, for any such position ; but she 
 was a bonnie lass, and "weel respectit," and 
 had her suitors like another. 
 
 As she went along by herself in that perfect 
 ease of solitude, unseen by any eye, which sub- 
 dues all instincts of pride and self-command, a 
 vague cloud became visible on her face. The 
 smile with which she met her little world, true 
 always, yet true sometimes rather in the sense 
 of self-denial than of fact, faded away ; her sim- 
 ple countenance grew serious, a curve of anxie- 
 ty came into her forehead, not deadly anxiety, 
 such as wrings the heart, but a wistfulness and 
 longing for something unattained ; for something, 
 perhaps, which ought to be attained, and which 
 might end in being a wrong if withheld from 
 her. Nothing so abstruse as this could be read 
 in Jeanie's face, which would besides have clear- 
 ed up and awoke into the soft sunshine of friend- 
 ly response, had any one met her ; but as she 
 went on alone, with nobody to see, there was a 
 gravity in her eyes, a wistfulness in the look 
 which she cast along the field-path which Mar- 
 garet had followed so pleasantly, which was not 
 like Jeanie. Was she looking for some one who 
 ought to be coming along that green and flow- 
 ery path ? She breathed out a soft little sigh 
 as she went on. "My faither will ken," Jeanie 
 said to herself; and though there was this anxie- 
 ty in her face, a certain languor was in her step, 
 as of one by no means confident that the news 
 she is going to seek will be comforting to hear. 
 
 The Kirkton, to which Jeanie was bound, and 
 of which Rob Glen had made so many sketches, 
 was, as already said, an irregular village sur- 
 rounding the kirk from which it took its name, 
 and built upon a mound, which stood eminent 
 over the low rich fields of Stratheden. The 
 greater portion of the church was new, and quite 
 in accordance with the eighteenth-century idea 
 of half-barn-half-meeting-house which, unfortu- 
 nately, in so many cases represents the parish 
 church in Scotland. But this was all the worse 
 
31 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 in the present case, from being added on to a 
 beautiful relic of the past, the chancel of an old 
 Norman church, still in perfect preservation, not 
 resenting, but silently indicating with all the 
 force of fact, the incredible difference between 
 the work of the united and catholic past, and 
 the expedient of a Scotch heritor to house at the 
 smallest possible cost, the national worship which 
 he himself is too fine to share. The little round 
 apsis of the original church, with its twisted 
 arches and toothed ornaments, brown with age 
 and lichen, and graceful, natural decay, was the 
 only part of it visible from the road along which 
 our Jeanie was coming. Jeanie neither knew 
 nor cared for the Norman arches, but the grassy 
 mound that rose above her head, with its grave- 
 stones, and the high steps which led up to it, 
 upon which the children clustered, were dear 
 and familiar to her eyes. 
 
 At the foot of the kirk steps was a road which 
 led to "the laigh toun," a little square or place 
 — semi-French, as are so many things in Scot- 
 land — surrounded by cottages ; while the road, 
 which wound round the base of the elevation 
 on which the church stood, took in "the laigh 
 toun," in which was the post-office and the shop, 
 and the "Leslie Arms," and two or three two- 
 storied houses, vulgar and ugly in their blue 
 slates, which were the most important dwellings 
 in the Kirkton. Jeanie, however, had nothing 
 to do with these respectable erections ; her steps 
 were turned toward the high town, where her 
 father's cottage was. Everybody knew her on 
 the familiar road. "Is that you, Jeanie?" the 
 men said, going home from their work with long 
 leisurely tread, which looked slow, yet devoured 
 the way. The children on the kirk steps " cried 
 upon her" with one voice, or rather with one 
 chant, modulating the long-drawn vowels with 
 the native sing-song of Fife. Even Dr. Burn- 
 side, walking stately down the brae, shedding a 
 wholesome awe about him, with hands under his 
 coat-tails, stopped to speak to her. 
 
 "Your father is very well, honest man," the 
 Doctor said. When she reached the little square 
 beyond the church, where the women were sit- 
 ting at their doors in the soft evening air, or 
 standing in groups, each with her stocking, talk- 
 ing across the open space like one family, a uni- 
 versal greeting arose. 
 
 "Eh, Jeanie, lass, you're a sight for sair 
 een!" they cried. "Eh, but the auld man will 
 be pleased to see you;" and "He's real weel, 
 Jeanie, my woman," was added by various 
 voices. This was evidently the point on which 
 she was supposed to be anxious. The girl nod- 
 ded to them all with friendly salutations. They 
 had their little bickerings, no doubt, now and 
 then ; but were they not one family, each know- 
 ing everything that concerned the others ? 
 
 "I'm real pleased to see you a', neebors," 
 Jeanie said; "but I maunna bide. I've come 
 to see my faither." 
 
 "That's right, Jeanie, lass," the women said; 
 "he's been a good faither to you, and weel he 
 deserves it at your hand." "Faither and mither 
 baith," said another commentator; and Jeanie 
 went on with a warm light of pleasure and kind- 
 ness in her face. Perhaps her name in the air 
 had caught her father's ear, though no name 
 was more common than Jeanie, or more often 
 heard in "the laigh toun;" or perhaps it was 
 
 that more subtle personal influence which her- 
 alds a new-comer — magnetical, electrical, who 
 can tell what? As she made her way to the 
 end of the square, where it communicated by 
 a steep street with "the laigh toun" below, he 
 came out to his cottage door. He was a tall 
 man, thin and stooping, and very pale, his face 
 sicklied o'er with more than thought. He wore 
 the sign of his trade, a shoemaker's apron, and 
 looked along the line of houses with a wistful 
 expression, like that which Jeanie had worn 
 when she Was alone. He was a man "above 
 the common," everybody said, for long years a 
 widower, who had been "faither and mither 
 baith " to his children ; and only some of them 
 had repaid poor John. Those of the lads who 
 were good lads had emigrated and gone far out 
 of his neighborhood, and those who were within 
 reach were not models of virtue. But Jeanie 
 had always been his support and stay. His 
 wistful inquiring look yielded to the tenderest 
 pleasure as he perceived her ; but there was no 
 enthusiasm of greeting between the father and 
 daughter. Few embracings are to be seen in 
 Scotch peasant families. The cobbler's face 
 lighted up ; be said, "Is that you, Jeanie, my 
 bonnie woman ?" with a tone that had more than 
 endearment in it. The sight of her brought a 
 glow to his wan face. "You are as good as the 
 blessed sunshine, my lass — and eh, but I'm glad 
 to see you !" 
 
 "And me too, faither," said Jeanie. That 
 was their greeting. "They tell me you're real 
 well," she added, as they went in-doors. 
 
 "A great deal they ken," said John Robert- 
 son, with that natural dislike to be pronounced 
 well by the careless outside world which every 
 invalid shares. "But I'm no that bad either," 
 he added, "and muckle the better for seeing 
 you. Come in and sit you down." 
 
 "I have but little time to stay," said Jeanie. 
 
 As she went in before him the shade again re- 
 turned to her face, though only for that moment 
 during which it was unseen. The small window 
 of the cottage gave but a dim greenish light, a 
 sort of twilight after the full glow and gladness 
 outside. But they were used to this partial 
 gloom ; and there seemed a consciousness on the 
 father's part as well as the daughter's of some- 
 thing serious that there might be to say. He 
 looked at her closely, yet half stealthily, with the 
 vivacious, dark eyes which lighted up his pale 
 face; but he asked no question. And Jeanie, 
 for her part, said nothing about herself. She 
 asked when he had seen Willie, and if all was 
 well with John, and he replied, shaking his head, 
 
 "Oh, ay, weel enough, weel enough for such 
 a ne'er-do-weel." 
 
 "No a ne'er-do-weel, faither. Poor laddie! 
 he's so easy led away ; but by-and-by he'll tak' 
 a thought and mend." 
 
 "Like the de'il — at least, accordin' to Robert 
 Burns. Ay, ay, Jeanie, by-and-by ! But maybe 
 he'll break our hearts afore then." 
 
 "And Willie, faither?" 
 
 "Since Willie 'listed, I try to think of him 
 nae mair," said the cobbler, with a quiver in his 
 lips ; then he added, "But he'll be held weel un- 
 der authority, as the centurion says in Scripture, 
 and maybe it's the best thing that could have 
 happened for himself." 
 
 " That's aye what Bell says — " 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 35 
 
 "Bell! and what does Bell ken about it — a 
 woman that never had a son ! If I were to have 
 my family over again, I would pray for a' lasses, 
 Jeanie, my woman, like you." 
 
 "Eh, faither! but you mustna forget Robin 
 and Alick, though they're far away ; and a' the 
 lasses are no like me," said Jeanie, with a tear 
 and a smile. "I might have been marriet, and 
 far from hame ; or I might have been licht-head- 
 ed ;" this she said, with a faith laugh at the idea, 
 and rising blush; for to be anything different 
 from her modest self was half incredible, half 
 alarming. The cobbler shook his head. 
 
 "Another might, but no my Jean. But what 
 is sent is the best, if we could but see it, nae 
 doubt, nae doubt." 
 
 "And that minds me," she said, abruptly, 
 with a Little gasp of rising agitation. Then she 
 stopped herself as quickly; "how is the work 
 getting on ? have ye aye plenty jobs to keep ye go- 
 ing, faither?" she added, as by an after-thought. 
 
 "No that bad," said the shoemaker. " Plen- 
 ty wark — pay's no just the same thing. There 
 was three pair last week for Merran Linsay, you 
 ken she's aye to be trusted." 
 
 "Trusted!" said Jeanie, " ay, for kindness 
 and a good heart, but for the siller — " 
 
 " My heart's wae for the poor decent woman," 
 said John Robertson, "with aye the wolf at her 
 door. The shoes thae bairns gang through ! no 
 to speak of other things. How could I bid her 
 depart, and get something elsewhere to put on 
 their feet when she came to me? Would you 
 ca' that Christianity — no that I'm blaming them 
 that can do it," he added, hastily. "Na, whiles 
 I wish I could do it; but nature's mair strong 
 than wishing — " 
 
 "You are aye the anld man," said Jeanie, 
 tenderly; "it's real foolish, faither, but I canna 
 blame ye. I like ye a' the better. You would 
 make shoes for a' the parish, and never take a 
 penny." 
 
 "Na, na, lass ! there you're wrong," he said, 
 briskly. "J[ charged a shilling mair than the 
 price to auld Will Heriot, nae further gane than 
 Friday last. He was in an awfu' hurry, and 
 awfu' ill tempered. I put on a shilling," said 
 the cobbler, with a low laugh. "In the abstract 
 it wasna right, and I'll no say but I may gie it 
 back ; but the auld Adam is strong now and 
 then." 
 
 "No half strong enough," said Jeanie. "I 
 wouldna gie him back, no a brass farden. " Then 
 she paused, and her countenance changed again — 
 that scarcely perceptible darkening, paling, came 
 over it, and this time she spoke quickly, with a 
 little almost impatient determination, as if re- 
 solved not to allow herself any more to be crush- 
 ed and silenced by herself. "Faither," she said, 
 "you'll ken he's come back. Have you heard 
 anything of Rob Glen ?" 
 
 "Not a word, Jeanie, no a word. I thought 
 that was what you were coming to tell me." 
 
 There was a pause — Jeanie said nothing. She 
 turned her face away, and made believe to look 
 out at the dim little window, while the cobbler, 
 with the delicacy of a prince, turned in the other 
 direction that he might not seem to watch her. 
 
 " It's a long time since the lad has been hame," 
 he said, with a slight tremor in his voice. " He 
 will have many things to take him up ; and his 
 mother — his mother's a proud woman ; he knows 
 
 neither you nor me would welcome him against 
 the will o' his ain folk." 
 
 " It's no that, faither," said Jeanie, with a low 
 sound like a sob, which escaped her unawares. 
 "It's no that. The like of that is nothing. 
 Am I one that would judge a hard judgment ? 
 It's no that." 
 
 " You would never mean it, Jeanie, my bon- 
 nie woman ; but when the heart is troubled the 
 judgment's a' ajee. You maun possess your soul 
 in patience ; maist things come right one way or 
 anither to them that will wait." 
 
 Jeanie gave a weary sigh, the light dying out 
 of her face. She kept gazing out of the little 
 window, in a strained attitude, with the tears un- 
 seen, blinding her eyes. "It was just that I 
 came for," she said, " to see if you could tell me 
 what to do. He has made great friends, I ken- 
 na how, with our Miss Margaret, and he's com- 
 ing to Earl's-ha' ; maybe I'll have to open the 
 door till him, maybe I'll have to show him up 
 the stair — to say Sir till him, and never let on 
 he's onything to me." Here a sob once more 
 broke the hurrying current of Jeanie's words. 
 "What will I do, faither— what will I do ?" she 
 cried, with an intense undertone of pain, which 
 made the words tragical in their simplicity — 
 smiling Jeanie, so fair and friendly, turning all 
 at once into a tragic representation (for the mill- 
 ionth time) of disappointed love, and that aching 
 loss which by reason of some lingering possibili- 
 ty of redemption for it, is more hard to bear than 
 despair. 
 
 "My bonnie woman!" said the cobbler; the 
 same ring of pain was in his voice ; but the very 
 delicacy of his sympathy, and its acuteness, kept 
 him silent. He made another pause : "Jeanie, 
 my lass," he said, "in a' the trials o' this life 
 I've found that true that was said to them that 
 were first sent out to preach the Word. God's 
 awfu' good, to give us the same for the common 
 need as is for the divine. ' Tak' nae thought 
 in that hour what ye will say.' That's aye the 
 guide as long as you're innocent of harm. It 
 will be put into your mouth what is best." 
 
 Jeanie turned upon him wistfully. "Is that 
 a' you have to say to me? — is that a', faither? 
 I want mair than that ; will I take the thing just 
 as it comes, or will I haud out o' the way ? Will 
 I let him see me, or will I no let him see me ? 
 Will I throw it on him to acknowledge me for — 
 a friend : or will I take it on me ? See how 
 many things I have to ask ! It's no just what to 
 say." 
 
 "I maun turn that ower in my mind," said 
 John ; and there was a pause. Jeanie, after this 
 little outburst, sat still with her head turned again 
 toward the window, not looking at him, conceal- 
 ing the tears in her eyes, and the agitation of 
 her face, which even to her father was not to be 
 betrayed. As for John, he dropped naturally 
 upon his familiar bench, and took up uncon- 
 sciously a shoe at which he had been working. 
 The little knock of the hammer was the natural 
 accompaniment to his thinking. Outside, the 
 voices of the neighbors, softened by the summer 
 air, made a murmur of sound through which some 
 word or two fell articulate now and then through 
 the silence. " She kens my mind ; but she will 
 gang her ain gait," one woman said to another; 
 and then there arose a cry of ' ' Tak care o' the 
 bairn — it'll fa' and break its neck," and a rush 
 
36 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 of feet. All these sounds and a great deal more 
 fell into the silence of the dim cottage room, 
 where nothing but the little tap of the cobbler's 
 hammer disturbed the stillness. Jeanie sat very 
 still, her bands clasped in her lap, the moisture 
 in her eyes, turning over many thoughts in her 
 mind. The time that had been ! the day when 
 they met in Glasgow, she a fresh country lass, 
 half friend, half servant, in the house of her rela- 
 tion ; he a student, half-gentleman, with his old 
 red gown, the sign of learning, on his arm. 
 
 How glad then had Rob been to see Jeanie ! 
 And even when he began to have "grand friends," 
 and to eschew his uncle's shop, her smiling looks, 
 her soft sympathy, had kept him always faithful. 
 And Jeanie had not thought very much of the 
 two years of silence since she came back to Fife. 
 They were both young, and she knew that Rob's 
 mother was not likely to smile upon so humble 
 a daughter-in-law. But his return bad roused 
 all the past, and the thought of meeting him 
 again had stirred Jeanie's being to the depths. 
 Even this visit had changed the aspect of affairs 
 for her. Eor it had not seemed possible that 
 Rob could have entirely neglected her father, 
 whom everybody esteemed, and she had come to 
 the Kirkton — honestly to ask counsel in her diffi- 
 culty, yet not without hope of hearing something 
 that might charm all difficulty away. 
 
 "Jeanie," said her father, at last, "whatever 
 we meet with in this world there's aye but one 
 path for right-minded folk. You maun neither 
 flee from your duty nor gang beyond your duty. 
 We've nae business to rin away from trouble 
 because its trouble, but we've nae call to put our- 
 sels in its way. If it's clear that no person can 
 let the lad in but you, open the door till him, 
 take him up the stair — do it, my woman, and 
 never think twice ; but if it's no needfu', forbear. 
 And as for leaving it on him to own you for a 
 friend, you must not do that; it would be un- 
 truthful on your part, for I hope you're ower 
 weel bred, my bonnie woman, to pass any per- 
 son you ken without a smile or a pleasant word. 
 You wouldna disown your friend if he turned 
 poor, and why should he, when he's turned rich ? 
 or I should say grand in his ways, for rich Rob 
 Glen will never be. Sae it will be but honest 
 when you see the lad to say 'How is a' wi' you, 
 Robin,' or 'I hope you're keeping your health,' 
 or the like of that. Say nothing of other things. 
 Let no lad think you are seeking him ; but nei- 
 ther should any lad think you are feared to let it 
 be seen you ken him. Na, I'll hear o' nae con- 
 cealments ; my Jeanie must be as clear as the 
 running water, aye true, and scornin' to deceive. 
 'Ay,' vou'll sav, 'Miss Margaret, I ken Robert 
 Glen.'" 
 
 "Ay," said the poor girl, with a wistful echo, 
 "I ken Robert Glen!" she shook her head, and 
 the tears with which her eyes were full, brimmed 
 over. "Ay, that do I, faither; I wish I had 
 never kent him, I wish I had never thought so 
 weel of him. Eh, but it's strange — awful strange 
 — to think ane ye ken can deceive! Them ye 
 dinna ken are different. But to say a thing and 
 no to mean it, faither — to give a promise and 
 forget — to mak' a vow before the Lord and think 
 nae mair o't ! Can such things be ?" 
 
 "Such things have been, Jeanie. I'm like 
 you, I cannot believe in them; but they have 
 been. And a' that you and me can do is to 
 
 bear whatever comes, and be aye faithful and 
 steady, and wait till you see the end." 
 
 "It's sae lang waiting," said Jeanie, with a 
 smile in her wet eyes, as she rose from her seat ; 
 "and it's no as if it would be ony satisfaction 
 to see them punished for't that do amiss. But 
 fareyewell, faither ; I'm muckle the better o' 
 your good advice. Thinkna of me, I'll win 
 through. It's no like a thing that would make 
 a person useless, no fit to do their day's work or 
 get their living. I'll win through." 
 
 And the tears were all clear out of her brown 
 eyes, and her smile ready, to meet the world with, 
 when she came out of the dimness of the cottage 
 door. John Robertson stood there watching her 
 as she went along by the neighbors' doors, and 
 it was more from the shadow on his face than 
 on hers that the women divined some trouble in 
 the family. 
 
 " Is't about Willie ?" they said. " You should 
 speak to your faither, Jeanie, a sensible lass like 
 you. Though he's listed, what's to hinder but 
 he may do real well yet ?" 
 
 " I had an uncle, as decent a man as ever was, 
 that listed in his young days," said another. 
 
 Jeanie received theee consolations with her 
 habitual smile. 
 
 "I think that too," she said. "There wouldna 
 be so muckle about good sodgers in the Bible if 
 they were all bad men that listed ; and so I've 
 tellt him." 
 
 So close to her heart did she wear it, that no- 
 body suspected Jeanie's own private cincture of 
 care. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Papa has no objections," said Margaret, 
 demurely ; " he says if you will come he will be 
 — glad to see you." This, however, being an 
 addition made on the spot, she faltered over it, 
 not quite knowing how it was to be supported by- 
 fact; and she added, timidly, "Will yon really 
 take all that trouble for me ? Perhaps I am stu- 
 pid. I think very likely I am stupid ; for I can- 
 not draw any tiring — I have been trying," she 
 said, with a great blush. 
 
 " You have been trying ! I should like to see 
 what you have done. If you could have seen 
 my stumbles and blunders, you would have had 
 no respect for me at all," said Rob Glen ; "and 
 how I dare now to take upon me to teach you, 
 who probably know more than I do — " 
 
 "Oh, I know nothing at all — just nothing at 
 all! What shall we do, Mr.— Glen? I found 
 a book and some pencils. I think there is every- 
 thing in the world up in the old presses in the 
 high room. What shall we do first ? Might I 
 begin with — the house? or a tree?" 
 
 "There are some preliminary exercises," said 
 Rob, " that are thought necessary; very simple 
 — drawing straight lines, and curves, and cor- 
 ners. I am sure you will do thein all — by in- 
 stinct." 
 
 "Oh!" said Margaret again. Her counte- 
 nance fell. "But any child would draw straight 
 lines ; a straight line is nothing — it is just that," 
 she added, tracing a line in the soft, brown, up- 
 turned earth of the ploughed field through which 
 the path ran. But when Margaret looked at it, 
 she reddened and furtively attempted another. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 37 
 
 She had met Roh by the burn as before, and he 
 was walking back with her toward home. The 
 sky was overcast and lowering. The brief in- 
 terval of lovely weather had for the moment 
 come to an end. Clouds were gathering on all 
 the hills, and the winds sighed about the hedges, 
 heavy with coming rain. 
 
 "The furrow is straight," said Rob, "straight 
 as an arrow ; that is the ploughman's pride ; but 
 it is not so easy to draw a straight line as you 
 think. I have known people who could never 
 do it." 
 
 Margaret was crimson with the failure. 
 
 "It's me that am stupid!" she cried, in sud- 
 den rage with herself. "How do the plough- 
 men learn to do it? There's nobody to show 
 them the way." 
 
 "It's their pride; and it's their trade, Miss 
 Margaret. " 
 
 "Oh!" cried Margaret, stamping her foot, 
 " it shall be my pride, and my trade too. I will 
 begin to-night when I go home. I will never, 
 never rest till I can do it." 
 
 "But it will never be your trade — nor mine," 
 said Rob Glen, with a sigh. " I wish I knew 
 what mine was. You are rich and a lady ; but 
 I am a poor man, that must work for my living, 
 and I don't know what I must do." 
 
 "If I were you — " said Margaret. As she 
 spoke she blushed, but only because she always 
 did, not with any special signification in it. Rob, 
 however, did not understand this. He saw the 
 glow of color, the sudden brightness, the droop 
 and sensitive fall of the soft eyelids : all things 
 telling of emotion, he thought, as though the 
 supposition, "if I were you," had thrilled the 
 girl's being; and his own heart gave a leap. 
 Did she — was it possible — feel like this for him 
 already ? " If I were you," said Margaret, mus- 
 ingly, "I would be a farmer; but no, not, per- 
 haps, if I were you. You could do other things ; 
 you could go into the world, you could do some- 
 thing great — -" 
 
 "No, no," he said, shaking his head. "I? 
 No, there is nothing great, nothing grand about 
 me." 
 
 "How can yon judge yourself ?" said Mar- 
 garet, with fine and flattering scorn ; "it is oth- 
 er people that can judge best. No; if I were 
 you, I would go away and paint and write, and 
 be a great man ; aud then you could come home 
 and visit the place where you used to live, and 
 see your old friends ; but just now I would go 
 away. I would go to London, into the world. 
 I would let people see what I could do — only 
 first I would learn Margaret Leslie to draw," 
 she said, with a little laugh; "that would be 
 kind — for she never could find any one else to 
 learn her about here." 
 
 "That would be the finest office of all," said 
 Rob, inspired. "To go to London, every ad- 
 venturer can do that; but to teach Miss Leslie 
 is for few. I would rather have that privilege 
 than — " 
 
 " Oh," cried Margaret, careless of the compli- 
 ment, "and will you paint a picture, a great 
 picture of Earl's-hall ? I know we are poor. 
 We are not great people, like the Bruces, or the 
 Lindsays, or Sir Claude. We have not grand 
 horses and carriages, and men in livery. That 
 is just why I should like poor old mossy Earl's- 
 hall to be in a bonnie picture, to make folks ask 
 
 where is that? what beautiful old house is that? 
 You see," she added, laughing, "it is not just a 
 beautiful house. It is not what you would call 
 comfortable, perhaps. Jean and Grace, that is, 
 my old sisters, Miss Leslie and Mrs. Bellingham, 
 are never tired of abusing it. It is quite true 
 that we have not got a thing that can be called 
 a drawing-room — not a real drawing-room," she 
 said, shaking her head. " You will wonder, but 
 it is true. There is the long room, and there is 
 the high room ; the one papa sits in ; and we 
 dine in it, and he lives in it ; and the other is 
 empty, and full of — oh, everything you can think 
 of! But there is no drawing-room, only the 
 little West Chamber, such a little place. They 
 say it was Lady Jean's room, and Lady Jean — 
 is the only ghost we have." 
 
 "Is she the lady with the silk gown ?" 
 
 "She is the Rustle," said Margaret, not dis- 
 posed to treat the family ghost lightly. "You 
 never see her, you only hear as if a grand lady 
 walked by with her train sweeping. I think 
 there is that very train in the old aurnrie, as Bell 
 calls it. But what I was saying was, because it 
 is so old, Mr. Glen, because it's not grand, nor 
 even comfortable — oh, I would like a bonnie 
 picture, a real beautiful picture, of poor old 
 Earl's-hall!" 
 
 "You must make one," he said. 
 
 "Yes, if I can ; but you must make one first. 
 You must take a big sheet of paper and draw it 
 all out ; I will show you the best view ; and you 
 must paint in every bit of it, the tower and the 
 view from the tower (but, perhaps, after all, it 
 would be difficult to put in the view, you must 
 make another picture of that) ; and you must 
 put it up in a beautiful frame, and write upon it 
 ' Old Earl's-hall.' Oh! that will make Jean and 
 Grace jump. They will say, 'Who can have 
 done it ? Earl's-hall — papa's place — that horrid, 
 tumble - down old Scotch crow's-nest ! ' " Mar- 
 garet was a mimic, without knowing it, and 
 mouthed this forth with the warmest relish in 
 Mrs. Bellingham's very tone. But her own act- 
 ing of her elder sister called forth lively indigna- 
 tion in the girl's warlike soul. "That's what 
 they dare to call it," she cried, stopping to stamp 
 her foot. "My Earl's-hall! But this is what 
 you will do, Mr. Glen, if you want to please me. 
 You will make a picture — not a common thing 
 — a beautiful picture, that everybody will talk 
 about ; and send it to the biggest place in Lon- 
 don, in the season when everybody is there, and 
 hang it up for everybody to see." 
 
 "To please you," said Rob, "I would do a 
 great deal — I would do — " he went on, sinking 
 his voice, "as much as man can do." Marga- 
 ret scarcely turned to him as he began to speak ; 
 but when his voice sank lower, her attention was 
 caught. She raised her head with a little sur- 
 prise, and, catching his eye, blushed : and paused, 
 arrested, and wondering — What did he mean ? 
 Her frank girlish astonishment was very discom- 
 posing ; he himself blushed and faltered, and 
 stopped in the middle of his pretty speech — "as 
 much as man can do!" but it was not so very 
 much she asked him for. It seemed necessary 
 to Margaret to say this to make things clear. 
 
 "Oh no," she said, with a shake of her head, 
 "not that; though there are many men could 
 not do what I want you to do, Mr. Glen ; but 
 you can do it easy — quite easy. What will I 
 
38 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 want to begin with?" she added, changing the 
 subject abruptl}', and with true Scotch disregard 
 for the difference between shall and will. This 
 gentle indifference to his protestations chilled 
 Rob a little. She had been so sweet and gra- 
 cious to him that her demand upon his services 
 only as something that he could do "easy, quite 
 easy," brought him to a sudden stand-still. He 
 did not know how to reply. 
 
 "It may not be much," he said; " but it will 
 be all I can do. Miss Margaret, I will begin 
 to-morrow, to show that I want to please you ; 
 and if it is not a good drawing it will not be my 
 fault, nor for want of trying." 
 
 "I am sure it will be beautiful," she said. 
 " Oh, I would like to see Grace and Jean jump 
 when they see all the people, all the fine folk in 
 London, running to look at old Earl's-hall." 
 
 Alas ! Rob knew the great London people 
 were not very likely to run in crowds to any per- 
 formance of his. But the idea was delightful, 
 however unlikely. He suffered himself to laugh, 
 too, though he shook his head. He had never 
 seen any one so sweet, so enchanting, or felt so 
 near to being transported and carried out of 
 himself as by this gracious little lady. Never 
 before, he thought, had he known what such en- 
 thusiasm was. He had not forgotten Jeanie, 
 and perhaps others. He was a connoisseur in- 
 deed in these soft emotions, the excitement of 
 love-making, the pleasure of pursuit, the flatter- 
 ing consciousness of being admired and loved. 
 All these sensations he knew well enough, not in 
 any guilty way, except in so far as multiplicity 
 of affections implied guilt ; but this was not only 
 something new, it was something altogether nov- 
 el. Margaret had much of the great lady in 
 her, simple as she was. She was not like his 
 previous loves. Even in the little foolishnesses 
 she said, there- were signs of a wider world, of 
 something more than even Rob himself, hereto- 
 fore the oracle of his friends and sweethearts, 
 was acquainted with. All the Fife gentry, all 
 the rural aristocracy, all the great world, so fine 
 at a distance, seemed to glide toward him half 
 caressingly, half mocking, in that girlish figure. 
 It gave him a new sensation. He was dazzled, 
 enchanted, drawn out of himself. Who could 
 tell what this new influence might effect in a 
 young man avowedly "clever," whose abilities 
 everybody had acknowledged? Love had in- 
 spired men who had no such eminence to start 
 from. Love had made the blacksmith a paint- 
 er ; why should it not make Rob Glen a painter. 
 To please her ! she had put it on that ground. 
 She was not like any of those he had trifled with 
 before. Love had done wonders in all ages, and 
 why not now — if perhaps this new sentiment, so 
 mingled, yet so strange, so dazzling, so bewilder- 
 ing, might be Love. 
 
 "If that is what will please you best, "he said, 
 faltering a little with something which felt to 
 him like real emotion, "then it shall be done, 
 Miss Margaret, you must let me say so, if man 
 can do it — I mean, if my skill can do it. But 
 perhaps the two things can be done together. I 
 will begin to - morrow, and you can watch me. 
 I will tell you all I know, and you will see how 
 I do it; that will be better, perhaps, than the 
 straight lines." 
 
 " Oh, a great deal better," cried Margaret, 
 fervently. "Come early; be sure you come 
 
 early, Mr. Glen. I will be ready. I will be wait- 
 ing. I will let you see the best place for the 
 view. And perhaps you would like to see the 
 house ? And then I will go with you, and stand 
 by you, and hold your colors and your pencils, 
 and watch the way you do it. Oh !" cried Mar- 
 garet, putting her hands together, and breathing 
 forth an earnest invocation of all the good spirits 
 of the elements. "Oh, that it may only be a 
 fine day !" 
 
 This very prayer brought home to them both 
 the too plaiu suggestion conveyed by these gath- 
 ering clouds, that it might not be a fine day, and 
 chilled their very souls within them. If it should 
 rain! "I think," said Rob, but timidly, "that 
 it is looking better. The sky is cloudy here, but 
 it's clear in the quarter where the wind is, and a 
 north wind is seldom rainy. I think it will be a 
 fine day." 
 
 "Do you think so, Mr. Glen?" Margaret 
 looked up at him very wistfully, and then at the 
 sky. Then she cleared up all at once, though 
 the sky did not. "Any way," she said, "you 
 will come ? If it's wet, I could let you see the 
 house. I think you would like to see the house. 
 And bring a great many pictures and sketch- 
 books to let papa see. Even if it is wet, it will 
 be not so very bad," said Margaret, throwing a 
 smile suddenly upon him like a light from a 
 lantern. But then she recollected herself, and 
 blushed wildly and grew serious — for he was a 
 man and a stranger. Was he a stranger ? No, 
 she said to herself — and not even a gentleman, 
 only Robert Glen. What fury would have been 
 in poor Rob's heart had he known this last 
 consoling sentiment which kept Margaret from 
 feeling herself overbold. But she did not mean 
 all the arrogance and impertinence that appear- 
 ed in the thought. Not all of it, nor half of it. 
 She meant no impertinence at all. She parted 
 with him where the by-way came out upon the 
 road, and went along the flowery hedge-row very 
 demurely, thinking very kindly of Rob Glen. 
 Margaret had not known before what it was to 
 have a companion of her own age. Youth loves 
 youth, all the more if youth has little experience 
 of anything but age. Rob was a great deal 
 more amusing (to Margaret) than Bell. This, 
 perhaps, was a mistake, for Rob was not nearly 
 so original as Bell was, nor so well worth know- 
 ing. But Margaret did not know that Bell 
 was original. She knew all her stories, and was 
 not too anxious to call forth that homely phi- 
 losophy which so often (or so the girl thought) 
 was subtly adapted for her own reproof and dis- 
 couragement. Rob was a novelty to Margaret, 
 even more than she was to him. The prospect 
 of his visit made her feel that even a wet day 
 would be endurable. He amused her more than 
 any one had ever done before. And then she 
 comforted herself that she could not be thought 
 forward, or too bold, because, after all, he was 
 not a gentleman or a stranger, but only Rob 
 Glen! 
 
 Jeanie had got in before her young mistress, 
 before the clouds had risen that threatened to 
 cover the sky. What different thoughts were 
 hers on the same subject ! She listened to Mar- 
 garet's voice talking to Bell, as she moved about 
 putting everything in order for the night. What 
 a sweet voice it was, Jeanie thought, speaking so 
 softly, such bonnie English ! no like us common 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATII. 
 
 39 
 
 folk. The tones which were so wofully Fifeish 
 to Sir Ludovic, and which made Mrs. Belling- 
 ham cry, seemed the very acme of refinement to 
 Jeanie; and when a lady spoke to him so sweet- 
 ly, looked at him with such lovely een, would it 
 be wonderful if Rob forgot ? And he was a gen- 
 tleman himself, for what was it that made a gen- 
 tleman but just education? and nobody could 
 say but he bad that. It gave Jeanie's heart a 
 pang, but she was too just and candid not to see 
 all this. How could he think of Jeanie Robert- 
 son with Miss Margaret for a friend? Jeanie 
 went away into the depths of those low vaulted 
 rooms, which formed the under-story of Earl's- 
 hall in order to escape the sweet sound of Mar- 
 garet's voice. Here there was a maze of rooms 
 and cellars one within another, among which 
 you might escape very easily from sounds with- 
 out. You might escape, even, which was more 
 difficult, from pursuers, even from persecutors, as 
 had been known, it was said, in the old times ; 
 but, ah me, in the very deepest of recesses, how 
 could poor Jeanie escape from herself? 
 
 Next day, next morning, Margaret looked at 
 the sky long before any one was up at EaiTs- 
 hall. She looked out over the tree-tops to the 
 sea, which swept round in a semicircle as far as 
 the eye carried. From the Eden to the Tay the 
 silvery line swept the horizon one dazzling curve 
 of light. St. Andrews lay on her right hand, 
 with all its towers and its ruins, and the glim- 
 mer of water beyond the headland on which it 
 stood. Not a trace of smoke or human breath 
 eame from the brown old city, which stood there 
 silent, with a homely majesty, in the profound 
 stillness of the early morning. Not a human 
 ereature was awake between Margaret's window 
 and the old town of St. Rule, except, indeed, in 
 the fishing-boat, with its brown sail, out upon 
 the dazzling line of sea, which was bearing slow- 
 ly toward the bar after a night's fishing, with 
 scarce wind enough to move it. The birds were 
 all up and awake, but nothing else — not the 
 ploughmen and laborers, so early was it, the sun 
 still low over the sea. The girl's heart leaped 
 at the beauty of the sight, but sank again so far 
 as her own interests were concerned. Is it not 
 a bad sign when it is so blight so early ? And 
 the light which thus lavished itself upon the 
 world with none to see it, had a certain pale 
 gleam which frightened the young observer, too 
 much used to atmospheric effects not to know 
 something about them. "Oh, what a lovely 
 morning!" she said to herself; but even san- 
 guine Margaret shook her head, thinking it 
 doubtful if the day would be as fine. And oh, 
 if she had but learned, if she could but make a 
 picture of that old town upon the headland, ly- 
 ing voiceless in the morning light, with the great 
 silver bow of the sea flashing round the vast 
 horizon, all round to the vague shores of Forfar- 
 shire, and the dazzling breadth of Tay ! If Rob 
 were but here with his pencil and his colors! 
 Margaret was in the enthusiast stage of ignorant 
 faith, believing all things possible to Rob. He 
 was to her the young Raphael, the Michael An- 
 gelo of the future. Or perhaps it would be bet- 
 ter to say (but Margaret at that stage knew no 
 difference) the Claude, the Turner of the new 
 generation. She seemed to see all that scene 
 transferred to canvas — nay, not even to canvas, 
 to paper (but she knew no difference), dazzling, 
 
 shining with early dew and freshness, with the 
 chirp of the birds in it, and the silence of nature, 
 fixed there never to die. Poor Rob and his box 
 of water-colors ! He would himself, fortunately, 
 at least when unintoxicated by the firmness of her 
 faith in him, have had sense enough not to try. 
 
 But when the common world was awake, and 
 when the working day had begun, the brilliancy 
 did not last. First, mists crept over the sun, 
 then the silver bow of the sea paled and whitened, 
 the old brown tower turned gray, the blue sky 
 disappeared. By eight o'clock everything was 
 the hue of mud — sky, sea, and land together, with 
 blurred shades of green and brown upon the last, 
 but not an honest color; and lastly, it began to 
 rain, softly, slowly, persistently, at first scarcely 
 audible upon the leaves, then pattering with con- 
 tinuous sound, which filled all the air. Nothing 
 but rain ! , The very air was rain, not disagreea- 
 ble, not cruel, but constant. 
 
 "Well, it's aye good for the turnips," said 
 Bell ; " and I'll get my stocking done that's been 
 so long in hand." 
 
 "And what do you say till the hay?" asked 
 John, who was a pessimist, " and a' the low land 
 about Eden in flood already." 
 
 But he, too, comforted himself by getting out 
 the oldest plate, and giving it "a guid clean," 
 which was an occupation he kept for this kind of 
 weather; it is easier to endure a wet day when 
 you are old than when you are young. Jeanie 
 was less well off. When her work was done, she 
 was not happy enough to take out the stocking, 
 with which every woman in Fife is provided 
 against a moment's leisure. To sit down tran- 
 quilly and turn the heel was not in Jeanie's pow- 
 er. She went up to her little turret room, and 
 began to turn over her little possessions, and there 
 found a keepsake or two from Rob, poor Jeanie ! 
 which filled her already dewy eyes with tears. 
 But even that was an occupation, and Margaret, 
 who had no occupation, was worst off of all. 
 She flitted all over the house, up-stairs and down, 
 sometimes disturbing Sir Ludovic with restless 
 movements, taking down books and putting them 
 up again, then flying down-stairs to warm her 
 hands by the fire and tease the long-suffering 
 Bell. 
 
 "Eh, Miss Margaret, if you would but try 
 something to do ! To see you aye coming and 
 going makes my head gang round and round." 
 
 "How can you sit there with your stocking?" 
 cried Margai - et, "as if you were a part of the 
 day? Will nothing happen — will nothing ever 
 happen ? Will it go on till dinner-time, and then 
 till bed-time, and nobody come?" 
 
 " Wha would come, or what should happen ?" 
 said Bell, startled. It was a new idea to her that 
 succor should come from without. "I ken no- 
 body that is such a fool as to come out of their 
 ain house on such a day. But, bless me! what 
 is that ?" And lo ! in a moment as they listened, 
 making Bell wonder and Margaret clap her hands, 
 there came — blessed sound — a knock at the door ! 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "Papa," cried Margaret, rushing in, her face 
 bright with excitement and pleasure. Some one 
 stood behind her on a lower step of the winding 
 
40 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 stair. They filled up that narrow ascent alto- 
 gether with their youth and the importance of 
 their presence, and of all they had to say and do. 
 She went in lightly, her eyes dancing, her light 
 figure full of eagerness, a large portfolio in her 
 hands. She had no doubt either that this ad- 
 vent of something to break the tedium would be 
 agreeable to her father too, or that he must feel, 
 as she did, the influence of the falling rain and 
 heaviness of the monotonous sky. She went in, 
 taking him amusement, variety, all that she would 
 herself have rejoiced to see coming. It was the 
 best of introductions, she felt, for the new-comer. 
 As for Rob, he stood behind, ready to follow, 
 with a little tremor in him, wondering how he 
 would be received. He had never been in the 
 company of any one so dignified as Sir Ludovic 
 before, never had addressed a titled personage, 
 upon terms of anything like equality,; and this 
 of itself was enough to make him nervous. 
 
 It seemed like an introduction into a new 
 world to Rob. Then Sir Ludovic had the name 
 of being a great scholar, a man of learning as 
 well as a man of rank and position, and in 
 every way above the range of a farmer's son ; 
 and, last of all, he was Margaret's father, and 
 much might depend on the way in which he al- 
 lowed the new visitor, who felt himself out of 
 place at EaiTs-hall, even while he felt himself 
 "as good as" any one whom he might meet 
 anywhere. Altogether it was an exciting mo- 
 ment. Rob was moved by the joyful welcome 
 Margaret had given him, perhaps, to a higher 
 idea of himself than he had ever entertained be- 
 fore. He had felt the flattery of it penetrate to 
 his very heart. She had rushed out of the lower 
 room, where she had been with Bell, almost 
 meeting him at, the door. She had spoken be- 
 fore he had time to say anything, exclaiming 
 how glad she was to see him. 
 
 Rob had forgotten the rain. Notwithstand- 
 ing that his mother had brought forth that very 
 argument, bidding him "Go away with you; 
 they would be glad to see you the day, if they 
 never let you in again;" yet in the pleasure of 
 being so received he had forgotten the very 
 chiefest cause of his welcome. The brightened 
 looks, the eager greeting, were too pleasant, too 
 flattering, to be taken unmoved. It was not 
 possible to believe that, it was not for himself; 
 and all these tilings had worked upon Rob to an 
 extent he was scarcely aware of. He who had 
 at first approached the young lady so respectful- 
 ly, and with so little ulterior motive, and who 
 had been half shocked, half amused at his moth- 
 er's treatment of the renewed acquaintance be- 
 tween them, came almost with a bound to his 
 mother's conclusion when he saw the brightness 
 of Margaret's eyes this particular rainy morning. 
 There could be no doubt that she was glad to see 
 him ; he was here by her own invitation. She 
 was eager to associate him with herself in the 
 interests of the old house, and anxious to accept 
 the lessons he offered, and to " put herself under 
 an obligation " to him in this way. 
 
 Margaret, entirely unacquainted with money 
 and the value of things, never thought of any 
 "obligation;" but he did, who was accustomed 
 to consider the price of lessons, and to whom 
 money's-worth would never be without impor- 
 tance. He was very willing, very anxious to 
 confer this favor ; but he could not help attach- 
 
 ing a certain significance to her acceptance of it, 
 a significance entirely unjustified by any idea in 
 Margaret's innocent mind. She was willing to 
 accept the obligation ; therefore, was it not at 
 least permissible to think that some other way 
 of clearing it, making up to him for his kindness, 
 was in her mind ? If she had any dawning 
 thought of bestowing all she had upon him, of 
 giving him herself and her money, her heiress- 
 ship altogether, that would indeed be a very 
 good reason for laying herself "under an obli- 
 gation " to him. Thus Rob had come to think 
 with a beating heart that there was meaning in 
 the innocent girl's happy reception of him, in 
 her eagerness to introduce him to her father, and 
 warm desire that he should please him. And 
 thus the moment was very serious to him, like 
 nothing lie had experienced before. 
 
 But Sir Ludovic did not stir. He had drop- 
 ped asleep again, and did not wake even at his 
 daughter's call. As he lay back in his chair, 
 with his old ivory hands spread out upon its 
 arms, and his white hair falling back, Rob thought 
 lie had never seen a more venerable appearance. 
 If it were possible that things should so come 
 about as that he should be familiar here, one of 
 themselves, perhaps, calling this old man father 
 (such things had been — and his mother thought 
 were likely to be again — and what else could be 
 the meaning in Margaret's eyes?), Rob felt that 
 he would have reason to be proud. Even the 
 very idea swelled his heart. The room, upon 
 the threshold of which he stood, was unlike any- 
 thing else he had seen before. He had been in 
 wealthy Glasgow houses where luxury abound- 
 ed — he had seen dwellings much more wealthy, 
 costly, and splendid than Earl's-hall ; but there 
 was something in the aspect of the place, its 
 gray noble stateliness outside, so poor, yet so 
 dignified, its antique old-world grace within, the 
 walls lined with books, the air of old establish- 
 ment and duration that was in everything, which 
 exercised the strongest influence over him. It 
 was like a scene in a fairy tale — an old magician, 
 and his fresh, fair young daughter, so liberal, so 
 gentle, receiving him like a princess, opening wide 
 the doors to him. He stood, as we have said, in 
 a kind of enchantment. He was on the borders 
 — was it of Paradise ? certainly of some unknown 
 country, more noble, more stately than anything 
 he had known before. 
 
 This train of thought was interrupted by Mar- 
 garet, who came back to him walking softly, 
 and putting her finger to her lips. "Papa has 
 fallen asleep again," she said, half annoyed, half 
 anxious, and she pushed open softly the door of 
 the little west chamber. "Here, come here!" 
 she said, and went in before him, pointing to a 
 chair and clearing Lady Jean's work and other 
 obstacles with her own hands from the table. 
 " Now let me see them," she cried. How eager 
 she was, how full of interest and admiration ! 
 She spread the portfolio open before him which 
 she had herself snatched from his hands and 
 carried to her father. In it was the drawing of 
 the Kirkton which his mother had suggested he 
 should give "in a present "to Margaret. She 
 was not aware yet of this happiness ; but she 
 was as simple as Mrs. Glen in ready admiration, 
 and it seemed to her that nothing ever was more 
 beautiful. "Oh!" she cried, struck dumb with 
 wonder and delight. She said nothing more at 
 
THE PRIMROSE RATH. 
 
 41 
 
 first, then suddenly burst into ecstasy. " Did 
 you ever see it from the tower, Mr. Glen ? Oh, 
 it does not look like that, you arc so high above 
 it. But I know that look just as well ; that 
 might be from the wood. It would be in the 
 morning when the dew was on the grass. It 
 would be when everything was quiet, the men 
 away to their work, the children in the school, 
 the women in their houses — and the church 
 standing against the sky: oh, how can you paint 
 things that are not things?" cried Margaret— 
 " the air, and the light, and the wind, and the 
 shadows flying, and the clouds floating ! Oh, 
 how can you do it ? how can you do it ?" 
 
 Rob was carried away by this flood of delicious 
 praise ; he stood modest and blushing, deprecat- 
 ing, yet happy. He knew at the bottom of his 
 heart that his drawing was not a poem like this, 
 but only very ordinary water-color. He did not 
 know what to say. 
 
 "You make me ashamed of my poor work. 
 It ought to be a great deal better to deserve to 
 be looked at at all. The beaitty is in your eyes," 
 he said. But Margaret took no notice of this 
 speech. She put that portfolio aside, and open- 
 ed the other, and plunged into a world of amuse- 
 ment. These were his more finished works, the 
 larger drawings which he had done from his 
 sketches ; and, indeed, Rob had spent a great 
 deal of time and trouble upon them ; they had 
 occupied him when he was going through the 
 squabbles and controversies of the last few months. 
 They had been his refuge and shelter from a 
 great deal of annoyance ; and sometimes, when 
 he looked at them, he had thought they might be 
 worthy of exhibition, and perhaps might help to 
 make his fortune — at least might open the door 
 to him and put him in the way of making his 
 fortune. But at other times he fell into gulfs of 
 despair, and saw the truth, which was that they 
 were only very tolerable studies of an amateur. 
 He shook his head now while Margaret praised 
 them. " Only daubs," he said, "only scratches. 
 Ah, you should see real artist work. I am only 
 an amateur." 
 
 "And so you ought to be," said Margaret. 
 "An amateur means a lover, a true lover, doesn't 
 it? I mean of pictures, you know," she added, 
 with her usual blush. "And if you do anything 
 for love, it is sure to be better than what you do 
 for — any other reason — for money. Could any- 
 body paint a real beautiful picture for money ? 
 No," cried the daring young theorist, "it must 
 be for love. " 
 
 "I think so too," said Rob. He reddened 
 also, but with more conscious sentiment. "I 
 think so too ! and if I paint Earl's-hall, it will be 
 so." 
 
 " Will you ?" said Margaret, grateful and hap- 
 py. Love of her was not what the girl was think- 
 ing of; nothing was farther from her mind, nor 
 did it ever occur to her that the word had other 
 meanings than that she gave it. Then she push- 
 ed the portfolio away from her, and changed the 
 subject in a moment. "You cannot begin to 
 make the picture, Mr. Glen ; what shall we do 
 now ? Will I show you the house ?" said Mar- 
 garet, with her Scotch imperfection of grammar, 
 " or will you begin me with the straight lines, or 
 will you (that would be the best) draw something 
 and let me watch. Draw papa ! I will open the 
 door, look, like this ; and he never stirs, I know 
 
 he will never stir for an hour at a time. Oh, 
 that is the thing I should like you to do. Draw 
 papa!" 
 
 Her voice sank into a softer cadence, not to 
 disturb Sir Ludovic ; but her face was more ea- 
 ger than ever. She put the door open, showing 
 like a picture the other room within : the back- 
 ground of books in many tones of subdued col- 
 or, with gleams of old gilding, giving a russet 
 edge of light here and there. In the midst of 
 the scene thus disclosed sat Sir Ludovic, his head, 
 with its silver locks, leaning back upon his high 
 chair. 
 
 "I cannot draw the figure," Rob had said, with 
 anxiety and alarm, feeling the task too much for 
 him ; but, after all, when he looked again there 
 was not much of the figure visible. The wide 
 old velvet coat was folded over the old student- 
 sleepers' t knees ; only his cheek was visible, still 
 perfect in its fine oval, and the outline of his no- 
 ble old head against the dark leather of the chair. 
 It was a study of still life, not a portrait, that was 
 wanted. Rob looked at the " subject " thus pro- 
 posed to him, and Margaret looked at him with 
 great anxiety, to see in his face what he was go- 
 ing to do. Would he consent? Would he re- 
 fuse to her this thing, which, now that she had 
 proposed it, she felt that she wanted more than 
 anything else in the world? Recklessly Mar- 
 garet threw herself " under obligations " to the 
 young man. 
 
 " Oh, if you please, do it!" she cried, in a half 
 whisper, putting her two pretty hands together 
 in a pretty, spontaneous gesture of supplication. 
 How could Rob resist, whose first desire was to 
 please her, and to whom in pleasing her so many 
 soft brightnesses of pleasure to himself opened 
 up? Even without that motive, to do him jus- 
 tice, he would have been melted by her entreaty 
 — he would have been proud to do anything for 
 her. 
 
 " I don't think I can do it ; but if it will please 
 you, Miss Margaret, I will try." 
 
 "Oh, I know you can do it," Margaret cried. 
 "Oh, tell me what to bring for you — water? 
 You have left your big book down-stairs, but I 
 will run and fetch it, and the pencils, and — " 
 
 "Miss Margaret, I cannot let you wait upon 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, but I will, though ; J like it. Fancy! 
 when you are going to paint papa for me," cried 
 Margaret, flying down-stairs. She came up again, 
 breathless, laughing and glowing, before he could 
 think what was the right tiling to do. " There 
 it is," she said, putting down the sketching-block 
 before him, "and I will bring the water in a 
 moment. You are not to stir. Oh, Mr. Glen, 
 think what it will be to have a picture of papa!" 
 
 "But I cannot, indeed, make a picture of him. 
 I cannot draw the figure ; it is quite difficult. I 
 am not so clever as you think," cried Rob, with 
 sudden fright. Margaret, carried away by the 
 flutter of haste and pleasure, and half-childish 
 familiar acquaintance, put up her hand as if to 
 stop his mouth. 
 
 What wonder if Rob almost forgot himself. 
 He half put out his hand to take hers, and he 
 raised his eyes to hers with a look which some- 
 how stopped the girl. She did not understand 
 it, but it frightened her. She drew a little far- 
 ther away, and her usual blush rushed over her 
 face in a flood of color. "That will be the best 
 
42 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 place to sit," she said, half abashed, she could 
 not tell why. And Rob remembered himself, 
 and took his place as she indicated. She stood 
 by him, the most eager, watchful attendant. 
 When she had got everything he could want, she 
 put herself behind him, watching over his shoul- 
 der every line he drew. This was bad for the 
 drawing ; but it was wonderfully enchanting and 
 inspiring for the young man thus elevated into an 
 artist, a genius, a creator. He felt her hand upon 
 his chair, he felt her breath as she bent over him, 
 a kind of perfumed atmosphere of her enveloped 
 him. Her eagerness grew as lines began to come 
 on the paper, he hardly knew how, her voice ran 
 on close by his ear with exclamations and broken 
 notes of soft, subdued sound, half a whisper, half 
 a cry. " Oh, is that how you begin ?" Margaret 
 cried ; " me, I would have thought the chair first. 
 Oh ! that is his face and the line of the hair — 
 yes ; but what do you make that dot for in the 
 middle? there is no spot there." 
 
 "You know we must measure the lines, and 
 see that one is in proportion with the other," 
 said Rob, holding up his pencil as a level ; " it 
 would not do to make one part larger than the 
 other. I might take all my paper for one arm 
 if I did not measure ; and that is what beginners 
 often do." 
 
 "Oh!" said Margaret. She watched him 
 with her head a little on one side, her lips just 
 parted with eagerness and interest, her brown 
 eyes all aglow. Sometimes her hand would 
 touch his shoulder as she leaned more and more 
 over him ; her breath moved the hair on his 
 temples, and went through and through the 
 young man. And he was very open to this kind 
 of influence. It did not require any mercenary 
 hopes, any dazzling realization of an heiress, to 
 send him into all the seductive beguilements of 
 the love-dream. Jeanie had done it with her 
 simple rural attractions — how much more her 
 young mistress, with a whole romance about her, 
 and so many charms, both visionary and real ! 
 
 Rob was not a fortune-hunter, bent on an heir- 
 ess. This was what his mother would have had 
 him to be ; but his nature was too susceptible 
 for such a cold-blooded pursuit. He did what 
 was far better, infinitely more likely to succeed, 
 a greater stroke of genius than any skill of fort- 
 une-hunting — he fell simply over head and ears 
 in love. He had done it before many times ; it 
 was not the intense and real passion which now 
 and then carries a man out of himself, the love 
 that has no room in its heart for more than one 
 image. But still it was what he knew as that 
 sentiment; and it was quite genuine. A little 
 mist came into Rob's eyes, through which he saw 
 Sir Ludovic in his chair, the task he had set be- 
 fore him ; his heart beat in his ears, a soft con- 
 fusion and excitement seized him. He did not 
 know what he was doing, as he sat there with 
 Margaret looking over his shoulder. His expe- 
 riences before of this same kind had been pleas- 
 ant enough, but none of them had possessed the 
 charm, the sweetness of this. Not only was site 
 more charming than any of his former loves, but 
 he himself was vaguely raised and elevated as to 
 another sphere of being. In the dazzlement and 
 tremor of the new crisis, the gratification of his 
 vanity and self-regard, he seemed to himself only 
 now to have attained his true sphere. 
 
 "Oh, how wonderful it is!" said Margaret; 
 
 "two or three strokes with a lead-pencil, and 
 there is papa ! This is more wonderful than the 
 views. Now his hand, Mr. Glen. How sleep- 
 ing it is on the chair! You could tell he was 
 sleeping only from the look of his hand. Hasn't 
 he a beautiful hand ? I never saw one like it. 
 My sister Jean's is white, with dimples in it ; 
 they say she has a pretty hand ; but then she has 
 so many rings, and she never forgets them. But 
 papa's hand is beautiful, I think. Did you ever 
 see one so fine ? It has bones in it, but Jean's 
 has no bones. It is like himself in little. Don"t 
 you think so, Mr. Glen ?" 
 
 "You forget how little I know Sir Ludovic. 
 I have not seen him since I was a boy. But 
 very often the hand is like the owner of it, in 
 little, as you say. Your own is, I have noticed 
 that." 
 
 "Mine?" Margaret raised the hand referred 
 to, and looked at it, then laughed softly. " Mine 
 is a brown thin thing, all fingers." 
 
 " May I stop to look at it ?" said Rob. 
 
 She laughed still more, and blushed, and held 
 it out with a little tremor. 
 
 "It is nothing to look at — unless you know 
 about the lines or can tell any one's fortune. 
 Can you tell any one's fortune by their hand, . 
 Mr. Glen? Mine is as brown as a toad, and not 
 soft and round like Jean's, nor like papa's. Oh, 
 there is nothing to look at in my hand. It is so 
 brown. I think shame when I see a lady's ; but 
 then I always lose my gloves, or at least one of 
 them, "said Margaret, half penitent, half laugh- 
 ing. While this dialogue was going on, a change 
 had begun ; Sir Ludovic had not stirred when 
 she went to call him, but the subdued sound of 
 the voices, and that sense of being looked at 
 which is so sure a spell against sleep, began at 
 last to affect him ; he stirred slightly, then made 
 a little change of position ; then lie said, drowsily, 
 "Little Peggy! are you there, my little girl?" 
 
 She sprang away from Rob in a moment, leav- 
 ing him somehow dazzled, disappointed, and im- 
 poverished, he could scarcely tell how. He 
 would have caught at her dress to detain her, 
 but dared not. He tried one whisper, however, 
 very earnest and urgent. 
 
 "Stay, stay, Miss Margaret! He must not 
 move till I have done. Do not answer, and he 
 will doze again." 
 
 She only shook her head in reply, and went to 
 her father's side lightly and rapidly like a bird. 
 
 " Yes," she said, "I am here, papa ; but keep 
 still, you are not to move ;" and she put her arms 
 round him, standing behind, her pretty hands — 
 still pretty, though they were brown — upon his 
 breast. "Now, quick, quick, Mr. Glen," she 
 cried, not thinking how she had changed the 
 group and the entire sentiment of the scene. All 
 at once it became dramatic, and utterly beyond 
 Rob, who had no gifts that way. He sat for a 
 few moments vaguely gazing at her, lost in ad- 
 miration and pleasure: but he shook his head. 
 He could do no more. 
 
 "Eh, my Peggy? what has happenc. 1 . r" said 
 Sir Ludovic, faintly struggling to wake hDiself. 
 "Not to — move? — why am I not to move? I 
 am — living, I think, still." 
 
 " He is drawing you, papa. Oh, you will 
 spoil it — you will spoil my picture!" cried Mar- 
 garet. She took away her arms from his shoul- 
 ders, provoked and ready to cry. "If you only 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 43 
 
 would have stayed still two minutes longer — oh, 
 papa ! and if you only would have been quick — 
 quick, Mr. Glen ! But now my picture's all 
 spoiled," cried the girl. 
 
 Sir Ludovic came to himself in a moment at 
 the name. 
 
 "Where is your — Mr. Glen?" he said, and 
 sat upright and looked round. Then Rob rose, 
 very much embarrassed, and came forward slow- 
 ly, "feeling more and more awkward. He felt 
 like a country lout when he was in presence of 
 this fine old gentleman. He did not seem able 
 even to walk as he ought with Sir Ludovic's eyes 
 upon him, and grew very red and very uncom- 
 fortable ; he had not so much as a hat to occu- 
 py his uncultivated hands, and all his self-pos- 
 session and powers of speech seemed to go from 
 him. Margaret, too, now that the moment had 
 come, felt a little afraid. 
 
 "We came while you were sleeping, papa," 
 she said, unconscious that she was thus identify- 
 ing herself with her visitor ; " and as it was wet, 
 and nothing else was to be done, and you were 
 sleeping, and I could not disturb you, I asked 
 Mr. Glen to draw you ; and he has been making 
 a beautiful picture — just you, your very self, in 
 j-our big chair — when you wakened. Why did 
 you waken just at that moment to stop Mr. 
 Glen's beautiful picture, papa?" 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Sir Ludovic was not quite sure that he liked 
 the sudden interposition between his child and 
 himself of this Rob Glen. He half forgot the 
 permission he had given that Rob Glen might 
 come and teach drawing to Margaret — that was 
 how he put it to himself. He was altogether 
 cross and annoyed by the circumstances gener- 
 ally. The name of Rob Glen, and the descrip- 
 tion of him as Mrs. Glen's son at EaiTs-lee, had 
 sounded quite innocent, but the apparition of a 
 good-looking young man had quite a different 
 effect upon Sir Ludovic. Perhaps he did not 
 look altogether a gentleman, but then he looked 
 quite as much a gentleman as various Fife po- 
 tentates whom Sir Ludovic readily recalled to 
 mind, and whose claims to gentility were un- 
 questionable. For that matter, young Fallow 
 of Greenshaw, with the best blood of the county 
 in his veins, looked a much greater lout than 
 Rob Glen ; so that was no safeguard. And then 
 he was half, or more than half, affronted by the 
 advantage they had taken of his doze. It might 
 be Margaret's fault, but then he had no desire to 
 blame his Peggy, and a great desire to find the 
 young fellow pushing and disagreeable. He 
 ought not to have permitted himself to take such 
 a liberty as to make a drawing of a gentleman 
 when he was asleep, notwithstanding any request 
 that a foolish girl might make to him. 
 
 By-and-by Sir Ludovic was mollified toward 
 Marg; re* by her delight in having what she 
 called "a picture" of him at any cost, and he 
 woidd not forbid that it should be finished some- 
 time or other ; but he did not for that fully for- 
 give the artist, nor, indeed, did it make much 
 difference that it was really a clever drawing, 
 slight as it was. He was determined to give no 
 further facilities for its completion — not to fall 
 
 asleep again when Rob Glen was in the way. 
 Perhaps if Sir Ludovic had wanted amusement 
 as much as his daughter did, Rob and bis portfo- 
 lios would have afforded him so much relief on 
 this wet day as to earn forgiveness ; but unfort- 
 unately Sir Ludovic did not care for the rain. 
 He was not depressed by it, nor were his other 
 occupations interfered with. Rain or shine, he 
 sat in the same chair and read over the same 
 books, of which he was never tired. And what 
 was a new little event to him ? if it were inno- 
 cent, only a bore and interruption, and if it were 
 not innocent, an annoyance and trouble. 
 
 Margaret would have been grateful to any- 
 body — a peddler, if no better could be had ; but 
 Sir Ludovic felt no want, and therefore knew no 
 gratitude. He was civil. He looked at the 
 portfolios and gave to their contents a faint 
 praise. He did not deny that the outline of 
 himself, just put in to be finished another time, 
 was a clever drawing ; but at the same time he 
 made Margaret a little sign with his eyebrows 
 to take the young man away. And though Sir 
 Ludovic had been startled into alarm on Marga- 
 ret's account at the sight of Rob Glen, it did not 
 occur to him that he was increasing all the dan- 
 gers by thus requiring of her that she should 
 get him away. He threw his child farther and 
 more intimately into the young man's society, 
 though he felt it was not society for her ; but 
 what then? he was too fine a gentleman to be 
 rude even to the farmer's son, but was he to take 
 the trouble to talk to him, making conversation 
 for a youth who did not amuse him, who bored 
 him, who kept him from his books ? This was 
 a thing which Sir Ludovic did not understand. 
 He gave Margaret that silent intimation of his 
 will, and he opened his book, which was another 
 hint to the intruder. If the young man would 
 take the hint and go, so much the better — if not, 
 then for this once it was better that Margaret 
 should entertain him, and leave her father in 
 peace. 
 
 "Perhaps we might go on with our lesson 
 now, Mr. Glen," said Margaret, with one of her 
 sudden suffusions of color. There was some 
 meaning in it this time, for she felt that her fa- 
 ther was wanting in courtesy, and was terrified 
 lest Mr. Glen should think he was cavalierly 
 treated. She took up the great portfolio her- 
 self to carry it away, and would not let Rob take 
 it from her. 
 
 "Why should not I carry it?" she said. 
 "You came to give us pleasure, not to please 
 yourself, Mr. Glen — and of course I will carry 
 the book. It is not at all heavy," she said, lug- 
 ging it along. Perhaps she intended to con- 
 vince Sir Ludovic of his own indifference to his 
 visitor and failure in the politeness necessary ; 
 and some idea of this kind did cross the old 
 man's mind, but too lightly to make the impres- 
 sion his daughter intended. It was not much 
 to him to see her carrying big books, and he 
 was glad to get rid of the visitor. He drew a 
 long breath of relief when the young pair disap- 
 peared in the West Chamber. He could not 
 be troubled with Rob Glen. He had been civil 
 enough. Sir Ludovic was not capable of being 
 uncivil under his own roof; but why should he 
 take more trouble ? As for Margaret, the idea 
 of any danger to her, or impropriety in this com- 
 panionship for her, died out of his mind when 
 
44 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 put in comparison with his risk of being dis- 
 turbed in his own person. He was glad to get 
 rid of the two. Had Margaret even been alone, 
 he would have said, " Run away, my little Peg- 
 gy, run and play," in those habitual words which 
 wounded Margaret's pride of young womanhood 
 so much. He opened his book, and set it 
 straight before him, and placed himself at a 
 more comfortable angle : and then — his eyelids 
 began to come together once more, his head 
 drooped on his breast, then settled on the back 
 of his chair. 
 
 It was afternoon, and all was drowsy and still ; 
 very still was the long room, now those younger 
 creatures were gone. The rain streamed down 
 outside with a soft, continuous patter upon the 
 trees. The skies were all gray, the earth all 
 silent. The faintest hum, no more than might 
 come from a beehive, might sometimes be audi- 
 ble from the West Chamber, but the walls were 
 thick and the doors fitted closely. If he heard 
 the voices at all, they fell into the subdued patter 
 of the rain, the general stillness. Afternoon — 
 and seventy-five. What reason had he to keep 
 himself awake, to insist upon living instead of 
 sleeping through that heavy, silent, drowsy af- 
 ternoon? And yet he did not like to think he 
 had been sleeping. When John came in behind 
 the screen and began to prepare for dinner, Sir 
 Ludovic sat upright with very wide-open eyes. 
 He was always erect, but now he sat bolt- up- 
 right in his chair. 
 
 "Is that you, John?" he said, with unusual 
 suavity, so that the old man might entertain no 
 doubt of his perfectly wide-awake condition. 
 
 "Ay, it's just me, Sir Ludovic," said John. 
 No one could have been more indifferent on this 
 subject than John was. He knew very well 
 that his master was apt to doze the afternoon 
 through — but what of that? It was a privilege 
 of his position, not a misfortune. Old John 
 would gladly have dozed too, and found it en- 
 tirely natural. He himself took a nap whenever 
 he could get it, and though he would cling with 
 natural vehemence to the fact that he had "not 
 slept a wink," there was neither shame nor an- 
 noyance in his mind at being caught in the act. 
 The signs of old age were not alarming nor 
 troublesome to John ; he had a distinct pleasure 
 in perceiving them in his master, and no objec- 
 tion to put them forth for himself, to boast a lit- 
 tle of what he still could do "at my age," and 
 to claim all manner of little exemptions on this 
 score. The old master sat up very erect in his 
 chair, with a great pretence of interest and ab- 
 sorption in his book, to cheat the other's obser- 
 vations, but the old servant was not to be cheated. 
 He said to himself quite calmly, and to Bell when 
 he went down-stairs, "Sir Ludovic's getting an 
 auld man." 
 
 "No so much aulder than yoursel', " Bell re- 
 torted, promptly. 
 
 "Was I saying he was much aulder than my- 
 sel' ? He's nearer ten years than five — and that 
 makes a great difference; but you women are 
 aye for comparisons," said John. "I said he 
 was getting an auld man." 
 
 How differently the same sentiment mingled 
 with the great stillness in the long room ! Sir 
 Ludovic did not want any change ; he was well 
 enough, willing to last just as he was, hoping 
 nothing different, satisfied if he could only go on 
 
 so. But here, creeping about him, irresistible, 
 not even to be kept at arm's-length or regarded 
 as something outside of himself, were the symp- 
 toms of change coming. How erect he sat, how 
 wide-awake he forced himself to look ! he would 
 not own to the weakness, and perhaps, who 
 could tell, by mere ignoring, might vanquish — 
 or, at least, appear to vanquish it. But it was 
 not to be forgotten, nor even resisted very effec- 
 tively. Even John's movements, the passing 
 of himself or his shadow across the light, the 
 sound of his heavy old leisurely footsteps, the 
 slight clang of the silver and tinkle of the glass 
 as it was put on the table, began to take a cer- 
 tain rhythm, and to lull the listener once more. 
 "There must be something the matter witli 
 me," Sir Ludovic said, as he roused himself 
 once more with an effort, and got up to shake 
 himself free, by movement, from the spell. 
 Movement, that must be what he wanted — a lit- 
 tle exercise, which he was aware he had neglect- 
 ed sadly. But now, perhaps, it might be of use. 
 He had to go to prepare for dinner, which was 
 always of use in charming the drowsiness away. 
 
 Margaret came in a few minutes after with a 
 little flutter and rustle of roused life about her, 
 which was very different from the slumbrous at- 
 mosphere of old age, in which Sir Ludovic had 
 discovered himself to be sinking. She was very 
 eager, and at the same time doubtful, as to what 
 he would say to her ; he had not found her vis- 
 itor so delightful as she had done, she felt. To 
 Margaret the afternoon had been full of pleasure. 
 The wet day, which in the morning had filled her 
 with despair, had become more attractive than 
 the finest of weather : Rob's society, the novelty 
 of talking to him, of pouring forth her own ideas 
 upon subjects with which Bell, for instance, had 
 little sympathy, and of hearing from him a great 
 deal which, if not very new in itself, was pro- 
 foundly intellectual, brilliantly original to the lit- 
 tle country girl — had transported Margaret. 
 How clever he was, how well he could talk ! She 
 had never met with anybody like him. What 
 worlds of books he had read ! not, perhaps, such 
 learned books (but of this she was not quite sure) 
 as papa. But then papa did not talk of them ; 
 and Mr. Glen was so willing to talk of them, 
 mingling his own impressions and ideas witli 
 hers, quoting his favorite poets and leading Mar- 
 garet herself, shyly, with glowing eyes and flam- 
 ing cheeks, to quote hers, and "say" verses out 
 loud which she had said to herself with all the 
 sweet enthusiasm of youth in many a solitary 
 place, but had never found anybody to care for. 
 Even Jeanie, Jeanie who was young, and full of 
 natural poetry too, when Margaret had tried to 
 "say " her beloved "pieces " to her, had dropped 
 asleep, which had been one of the girl's great dis- 
 appointments in life. 
 
 When she was younger, Bell, indeed, had lis- 
 tened with great complacency to these " pieces," 
 as proving how clever the child was ; but from 
 that time to this, when she suddenly found that 
 Rob Glen knew them too, and would say half, 
 asking if she remembered the next — most de- 
 lightful of suggestions — she had found nobody 
 who cared, nobody who would listen and respond. 
 Margaret's eyes grew brighter and brighter, the 
 ready flush of feeling went and came over her 
 face "like the flying shadows on a sunshiny land- 
 scape, as quick as those shadows fly upon the 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 45 
 
 hills; and a soft excitement got possession of 
 her. She talked as she had never talked in her 
 life before, and impressed him as he impressed 
 her by that easy poetry of youth which can look 
 almost like genius in its early outpouring. A 
 mutual admiration, a mutual interest, thus sprang 
 up between them : and how much your admira- 
 tion of the superiority of another is increased by 
 the certainty that the" other shows his superiority 
 by admiring you, who can doubt ? Rob, too, felt 
 all this. He was dazzled himself by the pretty, 
 simple strains of thinking and feeling which Mar- 
 garet showed unawares, and he dazzled her (wit- 
 tingly and of purpose) by his own eloquence, 
 his theories, his deep thoughts, his lofty fancies. 
 How delightful it all was, and how the hours of 
 wetness out-of-doors, of slow- falling rain, and 
 heavy clouds, and drippings and patterings and 
 overflowings, tedious to everybody else, flew over 
 the two young people in the little panelled room ! 
 
 The drawing-lesson was not so happy; spite 
 of all the master's efforts, it had been impossible 
 to get Margaret's wavering pencil to execute the 
 necessary straight line. This had been hum- 
 bling; but it had been partially sweetened by 
 Rob's assurance that many who could not over- 
 come such a commonplace difficulty became ex- 
 cellent in color, and in a sense of the harmonies 
 of Nature. What a lovely phrase this was, "the 
 harmonies of Nature!" Margaret felt instinc- 
 tively that she would understand them, though 
 she could not make a straight line. Then she 
 took him over the house, showing him " the 
 high room," which was over the long room, the 
 vaulted gallery with its tapestries, which filled 
 him with wonder and admiration. Neither of 
 them perceived another figure, which retreated 
 before them, getting out of their way as they lin- 
 gered at every point of interest, and which was 
 poor Jeanie, who finally took refuge behind the 
 tapestry, with a forlorn wish to see and hear 
 again the faithless " freend" who had forgotten 
 her. The two stood close to that tapestry for 
 some time, he talking, smiling upon the young 
 lady, giving her a great deal of information (of 
 dubious accuracy) about tapestry and art manu- 
 factures, while Jeanie, in great terror of discov- 
 ery, and still greater shame and horror of her- 
 self for so mean an action as "listening," lurk- 
 ed behind, scarlet with anxiety, confusion, and 
 wretchedness. Jeanie, however, it is needless 
 to deny, was a little comforted by what she heard. 
 
 Courtship goes quickly on the lower levels of 
 society, and how Rob should occupy the time in 
 talking of the old hangings which were just "an 
 awfu' place for dust," if he really wished to make 
 himself agreeable to Miss Margaret, Jeanie could 
 not understand. " No a word but that the hale 
 world might hear," she said to herself, puzzled 
 but soothed, as she escaped to her little room in 
 the top of the turret, after the others had gone 
 away. She could hear their voices, with little 
 breaks of laughter still going on, as they went 
 down-stairs — the same sound which was as the 
 humming of bees to Sir Ludovic in his great 
 chair. Not so, Jeanie knew, had Rob made his 
 advances to herself. These approaches were 
 much less abstract, far more rapid. Perhaps 
 "he wasna meaning onything," perhaps it was 
 but a polite visit, for abstract reasons, occupied 
 by abstract subjects. This thought consoled 
 Jeanie, and made her heart swell with a secret 
 
 pride in Rob's education and capability to hold 
 his place with the best. 
 
 But, after all this, Margaret, it may be sup- 
 posed, did not present herself c^uite so calmly as 
 usual at the dinner-table. She had a little rose- 
 tint, which was very seldom permanent, upon 
 her pretty cheek, and her eyes glowed with un- 
 usual brightness. She was more resigned than 
 usual to the ceremony of being handed to her 
 seat, and did not think the two old men were 
 making a fool of her, as she was apt to do ; and 
 she did not say anything, but awaited her fa- 
 ther's questioning with much suppressed excite- 
 ment. Sir Ludovic for some time disappointed 
 her by saving nothing on the subject — which, 
 when you expect to be questioned, and, indeed, 
 to be found fault with, and stand on the defen- 
 sive, is the most trying of all treatment. How- 
 ever, after a time, Margaret's pulses woke again 
 to liveliest beating. 
 
 " Did your artist stay long, my Peggy ?" slie 
 heard Sir Ludovic saying, without any warning 
 at all. 
 
 " Oh ! n-not very long, papa," said Margaret, 
 slightly faltering. Then — for she suddenly re- 
 membered that John, who knew everything that 
 went on, did by no means hesitate to contradict 
 her when he thought proper — she added, hasti- 
 ly, "But first he learned me to draw." 
 
 "That was very clever of him," said Sir Lu- 
 dovic; "and did you learn, as you say, to draw 
 — all in one lesson, my little Peggy ? That was 
 very clever of you, too." 
 
 "Why should you always make a fool of 
 me?" said Margaret, pathetically. "You know 
 I did not mean that, papa. But we tried ; and 
 then I let him see the house, and the high room, 
 and the tapestry. We could not go up to the 
 tower, because it was raining. He is to come 
 another day," said Margaret, with the extreme 
 of simple candor, "to see the view from the 
 tower. And he thought the tapestry was very 
 fine, papa." 
 
 "Did he, my little Peggy? Then I fear he 
 cannot know very much about it," said Sir Lu- 
 dovic. "He is rather a clumsy imitation of a 
 hero, very rustic and Fifish, your Mr. Glen." 
 
 "You call me Fifish too," said Margaret, with 
 a little laugh which expressed a good deal of ir- 
 ritation. The finest and most significant satire 
 was implied in Margaret's tone. "If me, then 
 anybody!" it seemed to say, with a mixture of 
 wounded pride and sense of absurdity. Sir Lu- 
 dovic forgot the moral he had meant to draw in 
 his amusement. He laughed, with that tender 
 laugh which is called from us by the dear follies 
 of our children. 
 
 " Did I call you Fifish too, my Peggy ? — which 
 shows I am a very ignorant, ridiculous old man. 
 But he should not have begun that drawing of 
 your old father while I — dozed. It is not often 
 I doze," said Sir Ludovic, with the same uneasy 
 feeling which Margaret had felt, that old John 
 behind his chair was quite capable of contradict- 
 ing him; "and if he had been a gentleman, I 
 don't think he would have done it." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Margaret, clasping her hands, 
 "it was all my fault — I assure you it was all my 
 fault, papa." 
 
 "Well, my little girl : but a gentleman would 
 not have done it. He would not have taken an 
 advantage of a man he did not know. Friends 
 
46 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 may do that kind of thing, but not a stranger, 
 my little Peggy. " 
 
 "Oh, papa!" cried Margaret, the tears com- 
 ing to her eyes, "why will you always blame 
 other people for what was my fault? He did 
 not want to do it (this was a fib, but perhaps a 
 pardonable one); it was me that wanted it, papa ; 
 and when I said to him, ' Oh, Mr. Glen, I have 
 not got any picture of papa, not even a poor 
 photograph — oh, draw me a picture of papa!' 
 he did it; but it was me that wanted it — and 
 how could he refuse me?" 
 
 " He would have been a brute if he had," said 
 the old man, melted; "but still it is true, my 
 Peggy, your stranger should not have done that, 
 without my knowledge, the first time he ever 
 saw me." 
 
 "As if he had not known you all his life!" 
 cried Margaret. "He knew you as well as I 
 did when we were little — when you used to walk 
 about. He wondered why you never walked 
 about now ; he asked me if you were ill, and I 
 told him you were not ill, only — " 
 
 " Only "what, my little girl? — old and useless?" 
 said Sir Ludovic, with a pathetic undertone of 
 protest, yet acquiescence, a wistful desire to be 
 contradicted in his faltering voice. 
 
 "No — oh, I beg your pardon, papa. I did 
 not mean to be so — impudent. It sounds so, 
 but I did not mean it. I said you were only — 
 lazy. " 
 
 Sir Ludovic laughed. What relief was in the 
 laugh ! what ease from the pang which had 
 struck him ! His little girl, at least, did not see 
 the true state of affairs, and why should he not 
 be able to look at this, at least, through her eyes? 
 
 "Perhaps there is some truth in it," he said. 
 "You were always saucy, my Peggy. If I were 
 not so lazy, but moved about a little more, it 
 might be better for me. What have you to say 
 against that?" he cried, turning round half an- 
 grily to old John, who had given a significant 
 "Humph !" behind his chair. 
 
 " Oh, just nothing at all, Sir Ludovic. I was- 
 na speaking. But exercise is good for man and 
 beast — when they're no ower auld or ower frail." 
 
 Sir Ludovic laughed again, though less pleas- 
 antly. 
 
 "I will defy the cleverest talker in the world," 
 he cried, "old John, you old grumbler, to make 
 anything of you." 
 
 "I just aye say what I think, Sir Ludovic," 
 said the old man, without a smile ; but he 
 chuckled when he went down-stairs and recount- 
 ed the incident to Bell. "Would he hev me say 
 he was as souple as a laud o' twenty ?" said old 
 John. 
 
 "Ye auld grumbler, as Sir Ludovic weel says. 
 What for could you no say a pleasant word to 
 pleasure the maister?" cried the more sympa- 
 thetic Bell. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Sir Ludovic was reading a book which was 
 of the greatest interest to him, connected with a 
 branch of study in which he was strong, and in 
 which he himself meant to leave his mark for 
 other students ; but he could not fix his atten- 
 tion to it. Was it that he was drowsy again 
 this fresh morning? The rain and all the clouds 
 
 had cleared away. The whole earth was fresh- 
 ened and sweetened by the deluge of the previous 
 day, and everything was rejoicing in the return 
 of the sun. The birds chirped more loudly than 
 usual, and a playful little wind, a kind of baby- 
 breeze, an elemental urchin, full of fun and mis- 
 chief, was in the wood, shaking the trees, and 
 sending showers of glittering drops at any mo- 
 ment upon the soaked and humid soil. The 
 fragrance of the grass, and "goodly smell" of 
 the turned - up rich brown earth, that genial 
 mother soil out of which was not man made, and 
 unto which he goes back when the world is done 
 with him ? was in the air. Summer is so wide in 
 her common blessings ; for everybody something ; 
 to those who have, the joyful fruits of the earth, 
 to those who have not, at least this goodly smell. 
 The window was open ; the wind came in 
 fresh and sweet, ruffling such papers as it could 
 find about, and singing airy songs to Margaret 
 as she went and came. But it was an air of a 
 different kind that it breathed about Sir Ludo- 
 vic in his chair. Drowsy? — no, he was not 
 drowsy, in the softness of the morning, but his 
 mind was full of thoughts which were not cheer- 
 ful. He had lived for so long a time in one 
 steady, endless, unchanging routine, that it had 
 seemed as if it never would end. The more 
 active pleasures and toils of life must end, it is 
 certain ; but why should the gentle routine of a 
 recluse life ever be disturbed? Five years ago, 
 when he had been seventy, thoughts of the age 
 he had attained and the crisis he had reached 
 had been in his mind. The full score of years 
 had been accomplished, and what reason had he 
 to expect that they should be prolonged ! But 
 they had been prolonged, and the old man had 
 been lulled into absolute calm. He had good 
 health ; nothing except 
 
 "Those locks in silvery slips, 
 This drooping gait, this altered size," 
 
 to remind him how near he must be to the end. 
 He had risen up cheerfully in the morning, and 
 gone to bed cheerfully at night ; and what was 
 to hinder that it should be so forever ? But now 
 all at once the old man seemed to hear the mes- 
 senger knocking at the door. He was knocking 
 very softly as yet, only a confused, faint tapping, 
 which might be some chance passer-by, and not 
 the emissary of the Great King — tapping very 
 softly, and the door had not yet been opened to 
 him; but how if it was he? This was the thought 
 that assailed Sir Ludovic with something like 
 the same fretting, disturbing influence as actual 
 knocking at the old door, faintly persistent, though 
 never violent, might have had. He was impa- 
 tient of it, but he had not been able to get rid 
 of it. After all, it was not wonderful that an 
 old man should get tired and be drowsy in the 
 afternoon. He had not for a long time acknowl- 
 edged to himself that this was the case; but 
 lately it had been difficult to deny it, and the 
 little event of yesterday had forced it, with a 
 deepened touch of the disagreeable, on his no- 
 tice. 
 
 Rob Glen's sketch, though it was so slight, 
 had conveyed a stronger impression to his own 
 mind of his own agedness and feebleness than 
 all his other experiences of himself. The old 
 figure reclining back in the easy-chair, thin, with 
 meagre limbs following the angles of the chair,, 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 47 
 
 and languid, helpless bands stretched out upon 
 its supports : the sight of it had given Sir Ludo- 
 vic a shock. He had been partially soothed af- 
 terward by the natural desire of Margaret to have 
 " a picture " of him, as she said. " Not like the 
 grand gentleman over the mantel-piece," the girl 
 had said, "but in your chair, sitting there with 
 your book, as you have always, always been to 
 me." This "always, always," had been a com- 
 fort to him. It had breathed the very essence 
 of that continuance which had seemed to become 
 the one quality of life that mattered much ; but 
 notwithstanding Margaret's " always," the sketch 
 had given him a shock. He thought of it again 
 this morning as he sat in the same spot and felt 
 now and then the soft puff of the fresh summer 
 air. Was it, perhaps, that even Margaret, his lit- 
 tle Peggy, was already conscious of that "after- 
 ward," when it would be something for her to 
 have even so slight a sketch of her father ? That 
 bit of paper would last longer than he should. 
 When his chair had been set back against the 
 wall, and his books all dispersed to the ends of 
 the earth, how well he could fancy his little girl 
 taking it out, crying, perhaps — then smiling, 
 saying, " This is the one I like best of poor 
 papa ; that was how he used to be at the last. " 
 She would cry at first, poor little girl — it would 
 make a great difference to his little Peggy ; but 
 after a while she would smile, and be able to tell 
 how like it was to poor papa. 
 
 So vivid was this imagination that Sir Ludo- 
 vic almost seemed to see and hear already all 
 that he imagined ; and the fancy gave him no 
 pang. It was only part of a confused discom- 
 fort of which he could not get rid. This is so 
 different from most of our disquietudes. In 
 other matters it is almost certain that the future 
 which alarms us will come with a difference at 
 least. Our apprehensions will change, if no 
 more, and we will be able to persuade ourselves 
 either that the evil we fear may not come, or 
 that it will not be so great an evil as we 
 thought. But the case is otherwise when it is 
 death that is coming, whether to another or to 
 ourselves. That is the one thing which is not to 
 be got rid of. Poor human nature, so shifty, so 
 clever at eluding its burdens, so sanguine that 
 to-morrow will not be as to-day, is brought to a 
 stand befoi'e this one approach which cannot be 
 eluded. No use attempting to escape from this, 
 to say that something unforeseen may happen, 
 that things may turn out better. Better or worse 
 than we think, it may be ; but there is no elud- 
 ing it. Sir Ludovic could not steal past on one 
 side or the other to avoid the sight of Him who 
 was approaching. This was the inevitable in 
 actual presence. If not to-day, then to-morrow, 
 next day ; in any case, coming always nearer 
 and more near. 
 
 These thoughts had been forced upon him by 
 the progress of events, chiefly by that drowsi- 
 ness which he did not like, but could not ignore 
 nor yet resist. Why should he be so ready to 
 sleep? it had never been his way; and the 
 thoughts it roused within him now, when it had 
 forced itself on his attention, were very confus- 
 ing. He was rather religious than otherwise, 
 not a man of profane mind. True, he had not 
 of late, in the languor that had crept over him, 
 been very regular in his attendance at church ; 
 but he was not undevout — rather, on the whole, 
 
 disposed toward pious observances ; and without 
 going into any minuteness of faith, a sound be- 
 liever. The effect of these new thoughts upon 
 him in this respect was strange. He said to 
 himself that it was his duty to think of his latter 
 end, to consider the things that concerned his 
 peace before they were forever hid from his eyes. 
 Anyhow, even if he was not going to die, this 
 would be right. To think of his latter end, to 
 consider the things that concerned his everlast- 
 ing peace. Yes, yes, this was, there could be no 
 doubt, the right thing as well as the most expe- 
 dient ; but as soon as he had repeated this sug- 
 gestion to himself, the most trivial fancy would 
 seize upon him, the merest nothing would take 
 possession of his mind, till, with a little start as 
 of awaking, he would come back to the recollec- 
 tion that he had something else to do with his 
 thoughts, that he must consider his latter end. 
 So easy it was to conclude that much, if that 
 would do — but so difficult to go farther! And 
 all was so strange before him, far more confus- 
 ing than the thought of any other change in life. 
 To go to India, to go to China, would be trou- 
 blesome for an old man — if such a thing had 
 been suggested to him, no doubt he would have 
 said that he would much prefer to die quietly at 
 home — yet dying quietly, when you come to 
 think of it, is far more bewildering than going to 
 China. It was not that he felt afraid; judg- 
 ment was not the thing that appalled him. 
 
 No doubt there were many things in his life 
 that he might have done better, that he would 
 gladly have altered altogether, but these were 
 not the things that oppressed him. Nothing 
 could be farther from the old man's mind than 
 that thought of "an angry God" which is sup- 
 posed in so much simple-minded theology to be 
 the great terror of death. It was not an angry 
 God that Sir Ludovic feared. He had that sort 
 of dumb confidence in God which perhaps would 
 not satisfy any stern religionist, but which is 
 more like the sentiment of the relation which 
 God himself has chosen to express his position 
 toward men than any other — a kind of unques- 
 tioning certainty that what God would do with 
 him would be the right thing, the most just, 
 the most kind ; but then he had no notion what 
 kind of thing that would be, which made it very 
 confusing, very depressing to him. 
 
 An old man, by the time he has got to be sev- 
 enty-five, has given over theorizing about life ; he 
 has no longer courage enough to confront the 
 unknown — quiet continuance, without any break 
 or interruption, is the thing that seems best for 
 him ; but here was an ending about to come, a 
 breaking off — and only the unknown beyond ; 
 and no escaping from it, no staving it off, no post- 
 ponement. All so familiar here, so natural, the 
 well-known chair, the old cosy coat : and beyond 
 — what ? he could not tell what : an end ; that 
 was all that was certain and clear. He believed 
 everything that a Christian should believe, not 
 to say such primary principles as the immortality 
 of the soul ; but imagination was no longer live- 
 ly nor hope strong in the old man, and what he 
 believed had not much to do with what he felt. 
 This was not an elevated state of mind, but it 
 was true enough. He himself felt guilty, that he 
 could not realize something better, that he could 
 not rise to some height of contemplation which 
 would make him glad of his removal into realms 
 
THE PEIMROSE PATH. 
 
 above. This was how he ought to think of it, 
 ought to realize it, he knew. 
 
 But he could not be clear of anything except 
 the stop which was coming. To sit in his old 
 chair with his old book, the fresh morning air 
 breathing in upon him, his little girl coming and 
 going, these were not much to have, of all the 
 good things of which the world is full ; but they 
 were enough for him. And to think that one of 
 these mornings he should no longer be there, the 
 chair pushed away against the wall, the books 
 packed up on its shelf, or worse, sent off to some 
 dusty auction-room to be sold ; and himself — 
 himself : where would old Sir Ludovic be ? shiv- 
 ering, unclothed in some unknown being, per- 
 haps seeing wistfully, unable to help it, the dis- 
 mantling of everything here, and his little girl 
 crying in a corner, but unable to console her. 
 He knew he ought to be thinking of high spirit- 
 ual communion, of the music of the spheres. But 
 he could not ; even of his little Peggy crying for 
 her old father and missing him, he did not think 
 much : but most of the dull, strange fact that he 
 would be gone away, a thing 60 strange and yet 
 so certain that it gave him a vertigo and bewil- 
 dering giddiness — and sometimes, too, a kind of 
 dreary impatience, a desire to get it over and 
 know the worst that could happen ; though he 
 was not afraid of any worst. There was no In- 
 ferno in that vague world before him, nothing 
 but dimness ; though, perhaps, that was almost 
 worse than an Inferno — a wide, vague, confusing 
 desert of the unknown. 
 
 These thoughts were present with him even 
 while he held playful conversations with Mar- 
 garet and talked to old John and Bell, always 
 with a certain kindly mockery in all he said to 
 them. He laughed at Bell, though she was so 
 important a personage, just as he laughed at his 
 little Peggy : yet all the while, as he laughed, he 
 remembered that to-morrow, perhaps, he might 
 laugh no more. One thing, however, that he did 
 not think it necessary to do was to send for the 
 doctor, to try what medical skill might be able to 
 suggest toward a little postponement of the end. 
 What could the doctor do for him ? there was 
 nothing the matter with him. He was only 
 drowsy, falling asleep without knowing why. 
 Even now, while Sir Ludovic sat upright in his 
 chair and defied it, he felt his eyelids coming to- 
 gether, his head drooping in spite of himself; 
 and he felt a wondering curiosity in his mind, 
 after a momentary absence of this kind, whether 
 other people noticed it, or if it was only him- 
 self who knew. 
 
 "Do you want anything, papa?" said Mar- 
 garet, at the door. She had her hat in her hand, 
 and stood at the door looking in, with little more 
 than her head visible and the outline of her light 
 summer frock. 
 
 "Going out, my little Peggy?" He raised 
 his head with a start, and the young, fresh ap- 
 parition seemed to float upon him through some 
 door in the visionary darkness about, as well 
 as through that actual opening at which she 
 stood. 
 
 "I think so, papa: unless you want me. It 
 is such a bonnie morning, and Mr. Glen is going 
 to begin his sketch. He thinks, " said Margaret, 
 with a little hesitation, "that it will be a better 
 lesson for me to see him drawing than doing the 
 straight lines ; they were not very straight," she 
 
 added, with blushing candor. " I was not clever 
 at them, though I tried — " 
 
 "Mr. Glen," he said, with a little annoyance. 
 "Mr. Glen again; did you not have enough of 
 him yesterday ?" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Margaret, half alarmed; "but 
 yesterday it was to let you see the pictures, and 
 to-day it is to learn me — " 
 
 "I hope he will not learn you — as you call it 
 — too much," said the old man. " I wish some- 
 body would learn you English. I have a great 
 mind — " But here he stopped and looked at 
 her, and seeing the alarm on Margaret's face, 
 was melted by the effect which ought to have 
 made him stern. Perhaps it might be so short 
 a time that she would have any one to indulge 
 her. "Well, my little Peggy! run, run away, 
 since you wish it, and learn.!' 
 
 He ought to have been all the more determined 
 because she wanted it so much. This was a 
 lesson which his daughters Jean and Grace could 
 both have taught him ; but an old man with a 
 young girl is proverbially weak. It just crossed 
 his mind, though, that he ought to write to Jean 
 and Grace, and invite them to hasten their usual 
 visit. On the whole, they would take more trou- 
 ble about his little Peggy than Ludovic could, to 
 whom the old house would go. Sir Ludovic had 
 no particular feeling one way or another about 
 these middle-aged people. They were people 
 whom he knew very well, of course, belonging 
 to the family ; but there was no special sympa- 
 thy between them and himself. Ludovic had a 
 large family, and " a good deal to do." It was 
 all he could manage to make his ends meet, to 
 keep up his position, to do the best he could for 
 his own children. And Jean and Grace would 
 be very fussy, they would worry his little girl out 
 of her life ; but still they would be kind to her, 
 too kind — no more of her own way for poor lit- 
 tle Peggy. He could not but smile as this as- 
 pect of the future rose before him ; they would 
 watch her so that she would be unable to put in 
 a pin that they did not know of. And perhaps, 
 in a way, it would be better for her ; perhaps she 
 had done too much as seemed right in her own 
 eyes. This Eob Glen, for instance — Sir Ludo- 
 vic was by no means sure that he was doing 
 exactly as was right about Rob Glen. He 
 would see to it, he would speak to Bell about 
 it ; and with this he floated away again on his 
 own vague stream of thought, which was not 
 thought. 
 
 Margaret came in, however, late in the after- 
 noon, all aglow with enthusiasm and delight. 
 " Oh, papa!" she cried, "it will make the most 
 beautiful picture ; he has taken it from the east, 
 where you can see the house best, how it is built. 
 I never knew it was so fine before. The tower 
 all round, with that great ivy-tree, and then the • 
 side of the house all in shade with the big win- 
 dows that are shut up, the windows there, you 
 know, papa, that would look out upon the court 
 if you could see through them ; and then the 
 gable, and the round turret with the stair in it, 
 and all the little openings. But the sun would 
 not stay in one place," said Margaret, laughing; 
 "first it sent the shadows one way and then 
 another, and gave Mr. Glen a great deal of trou- 
 ble. I understand now about shadows," she 
 added, with a serious air of importance. Sir 
 Ludovic had been getting drowsy again. Her 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 49 
 
 coming woke him entirely, with a little pleased 
 sensation of liveliness which roused his spirits. 
 
 " Have you been about your picture all this 
 time?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, papa, out there among the potatoes. 
 You could have seen us from the east window if 
 you had liked to look. And Bell gave us 'a 
 piece ' at one o'clock, just as she used to do when 
 I was little. Often she would give Rob a piece 
 too — I mean Mr. Glen," said Margaret, blushing 
 wildly ; " I forgot he was not a boy now." 
 
 "My little Peggy," said Sir Ludovic, looking 
 grave, "there are some things which you ought 
 to be very careful not to forget." 
 
 "I did not mean to be rude, papa," said Mar- 
 garet, half alarmed; "indeed it was not that: 
 I don't think I ever could be rude and hurt peo- 
 ple's feelings ; indeed he said it himself; he said 
 to Bell, ' You often gave me my lunch when I 
 was a boy,' and she said, ' Ay, Rob Glen, many's 
 the piece Eve given you,' I was rather shocked 
 to hear her," Margaret acknowledged, "but he 
 only laughed, he was not offended ; and so — " 
 
 "And so you did the same? that was not 
 like my little girl," said Sir Ludovic ; " whatever 
 happens, you must always be civil. So it is a 
 beautiful picture, is it — as good a picture of the 
 old house as of the old man it belongs to ? Two 
 old things, my Peggy, that you will miss, that 
 you will like to have pictures of when you go 
 away." 
 
 "Papa!" — Margaret looked at him with sud- 
 denly dilated eyes — " I am not going away." 
 
 "Not till I go first," he said, with a sigh and 
 a smile. " But that will not be long, that will 
 come sometime ; and then, my little Peggy, then 
 — why, you must go too." 
 
 Margaret came behind his chair and put her 
 arm round him, and laid down her head on his 
 shoulder. The old man could have cried too. 
 He too was sorry for what was going to happen 
 — very sorry ; but he could not help it. He 
 patted the arm that had been thrown round him. 
 "Poor little Peggy, you will miss the old man 
 and the old house. It is well you should have 
 pictures of them," he said. 
 
 "I want no pictures now," cried Margaret, 
 weeping. " Oh, are you ill — are you ill, papa?" 
 
 "No, I am just as usual. Don't cry, my little 
 girl. Whisht, now whisht, you must not cry ; I 
 did not mean to vex you. But we must not have 
 too much of Rob Glen or Mr. Glen, whichever 
 is his name. It might be bad for him, my dar- 
 ling, as well as for you." 
 
 " I don't care anything about him or them, or 
 anything," cried Margaret; "all the pleasure is 
 gone out of it. Will I send for the doctor ? will 
 I cry upon Bell ? You must be feeling ill, papa." 
 
 " Will you speak decent English ?" said her 
 father, with a smile ; her anxiety somehow re- 
 stored himself to himself. " Cry upon Bell! 
 what does that mean, my little Peggy ? You are 
 too Fifish ; you will not find anything like that 
 in books, not in Shakspeare, or in — " 
 
 "It is in the Bible, papa," said Margaret, 
 roused to a little irritation in the midst of her 
 emotion. "I am quite sure it is in the Bible; 
 and is not that the best rote." 
 
 Sir Ludovic was a little puzzled. "Oh yes, 
 certainly the best rule for everything, my little 
 girl ; but the language, the English is perhaps a 
 little old-fashioned, a little out of use, a little—" 
 
 "Papa! is it not the Word of God ?" 
 
 Sir Ludovic laughed in spite of himself. 
 
 "It was not first delivered in English, you 
 know. It was not written here ; but still there 
 is something to be said for your view. Now, my 
 Peggy, run away." 
 
 But when she left him reluctantly, unwinding 
 her arms from his shoulders slowly, looking at 
 him anxiously, with a new awakening of feeling 
 in her anxiety and terror, Sir Ludovic shook his 
 head, looking after her. He was not capable of 
 crossing his little girl ; but he had his doubts that 
 her position was dangerous, though she was far 
 too innocent to know it. Unless what he had 
 said were to disgust her altogether, how could he 
 interfere to prevent the execution of this picture 
 which it would be so pleasant for her to have af- 
 terward ? "Decidedly," he said to himself — 
 " decidedly ! I must write to Jean and Grace." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 As there was, however, no more said on this 
 subject, and Sir Ludovic was — probably having 
 shaken off something of the heaviness of his mind 
 by putting it in words — as gay as usual at dinner 
 and during the evening, the impression on Mar- 
 garet's mind wore off. She had been very un- 
 happy for half an hour or so, then less wretched, 
 then not wretched at all ; deciding that it was 
 nothing particular, that it was only some passing 
 cloud or other, or a letter from her brother, or 
 something which had vexed him about "busi- 
 ness," that grand, mysterious source of trouble. 
 Instead of going out that evening, she went 
 down-stairs to where Bell sat in her chair "out- 
 side the door," breathing the quiet of the even- 
 ing. Bell was full of the excitement of "the 
 view." "It will be equal to ony picture in a 
 museeum," said Bell. "To think a creature 
 like that, that I mind just a little callant about 
 the doors, should have such a power." Marga- 
 ret, however, did not respond at first. Her mind 
 was still occupied with her father, notwithstand- 
 ing that his demeanor since had wiped much of 
 the alarming impression away. 
 
 " Do you think papa is quite well ?" she said. 
 ' ' Bell, will you tell me true ? Do you think any- 
 thing is the matter with papa ?" 
 
 " The matter with your papa ? is he complain- 
 ing ?" said Bell, hastily rising from her chair. 
 " Na, no me, I've heard nothing; that's just the 
 way in this world, the one that ought to ken nev- 
 er kens. Miss Margret, what ails your papa ?" 
 
 " It was me that was asking you, Bell : it was 
 not him that complained ; he spoke of — going 
 away: that some day I would leave Earl's-hall, 
 and some day he — would be gone," said Marga- 
 ret, faltering, large tears coming to her eyes. 
 
 "Was that a'?" said Bell, sitting down again 
 on her chair. "Dyin' is a thing we a' think of 
 whiles. Sir Ludovic is just in his ordinary so 
 far as I ken, just as particular about his dinner. 
 No, no, my bonnie dear, you need not fash your- 
 sel' about what the like of us old folk says. We 
 say whiles mair than we mean ; and other times 
 it will come to us to think without any particu- 
 lar occasion (as we aye ought to be thinking) of 
 our latter end." 
 
 "Would that be all, Bell?'" 
 
50 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 "That would just be all. I havena heard a 
 word of ony complaints. He takes his meals 
 aye in a way that's maist satisfactory, and John 
 he would be the first to see if onything was 
 wrang. Na, na, my bonnie doo, you need not 
 fash your head about Sir Ludovic. He's hale 
 and strong for his age, and runs nae risks : and 
 the Leslies are long -living folk. We mustna 
 count upon that for ourselves," said Bell, serious- 
 ly. ' ' I would not say sae to him ; for to think 
 of our latter end is what we should a' bo doing, 
 even the like of yoursel', young and bonnie, far 
 mair auld folk ; but auld Sir Paitrick lived to be 
 ninety. I mind him as weel as I mind my ain 
 faither ; and every Sabbath in the kirk, rain or 
 shine, a grand-looking auld man with an ee like 
 a hawk. Na, na, my bonnie dear, troubles aye 
 sune enough when it comes ; we needna gang out 
 to look for it ; but wait till it chaps at the ha' 
 door." 
 
 This gave Margaret great comfort ; the ten- 
 sion of her mind relaxed, and even before Bell 
 had done speaking her young mistress had done 
 thinking. She went back with a bound to the 
 more agreeable subject. " You are to be sitting 
 here, Bell," she sail, "just here, when the pict- 
 ure is done." 
 
 ' ' Bless my heart ! " said Bell ; the change was 
 so sudden that she scarcely could follow it; " the 
 picture ? I thought you had forgotten all about 
 the picture ; but, Miss Margret, what would ye 
 hae an auld wife for, sitting here on her auld 
 chair ? Something young and bonnie, like your- 
 sel' now — or even Jeanie — would be mair to the 
 purpose in a picture than an auld wife like me." 
 
 "But it is you I want," said Margaret, with 
 pretty obstinacy. ' ' What should I care about 
 myself? And Jeanie is very good, but not like 
 you. It must be you, Bell, or nobody. It would 
 not be natural not to see you with your stocking 
 outside the door." 
 
 " Weel, weel !" said Bell, with the air of yield- 
 ing, half against her will, "you were aye a wilfu' 
 miss, and would have your way, and few, few 
 have ever crossed you. If a' your life be like 
 the past, and ye win to heaven at the end, ye 
 may say you were never out of it ; for you've aye 
 had your ain way." 
 
 " Do they get their own way in heaven ?" said 
 Margaret, half laughing ; " but I wish you would 
 not speak of the past like that, and my life. 
 Nothing's past. It has always been just as it is 
 now. Papa is only seventy-five — that makes fif- 
 teen years before he can be as old as grandpapa ; 
 and by that time I will be old myself. Why 
 should there be any change? I like things to 
 be as they are : you at the door, and John tak- 
 ing a look at the potatoes, and papa reading in 
 the long room. And the summer nights so long, 
 so long, as if they would never end." 
 
 " But this ane is ending, and you must go to 
 your bed," said Bell. " The dew's no so heavy 
 10-night after the rain ; but it's time to go inbye 
 and go to all our beds ; it's near upon ten o'clock. " 
 
 Margaret lingered to look at the soft bright- 
 ness of the skies, those skies which never seemed 
 to darken. And now that her mind was relieved, 
 there was something else she wished to look at 
 and pass a final judgment upon. Though it was 
 ten o'clock and bedtime, she could still see all 
 there was to see in the little sketch-book which 
 Rob had given her to draw in. She had made 
 
 a few scratches in the intervals of her careful at- 
 tendance upon the chief artist; and Rob had 
 looked with satisfaction upon these scraps, and 
 said that this was good and that better. Mar- 
 garet, for her part, surveyed them now with min- 
 gled hope and shame. They were not like the 
 picture at all, though they were intended to rep- 
 resent the same thing ; but perhaps if she work- 
 ed very hard, if she gave her mind to it ! Bell 
 did not think very much of them, as she came 
 and looked over the young lady's shoulder. She 
 shook her head. " He's a clever lad, yon," said 
 old Bell, " but I wish he could learn you the 
 piany instead of drawing pictures. I canna 
 think but you would come more speed." Mar- 
 garet shut up her book hastily, with some petu- 
 lance, not liking the criticism, and this time she 
 did not resist the repeated call to go "inbye." 
 She could not but feel that a great deal was want- 
 ing before she could draw like Rob ; but as for 
 the piano which Bell brought up upon all occa- 
 sions, what could Margaret do? She had tried 
 to puzzle out "a tune " upon the old spinnet in 
 the high room with indifferent success, and this 
 had given Bell real pleasure. But then that 
 was apt to disturb papa ; whereas these scratches 
 of uneven lines in the sketch-book disturbed 
 nothing except her own self-esteem and ease of 
 mind. 
 
 Margaret said nothing about it next morning, 
 learning prudence by dint of experience, but was 
 out among the potatoes arranging the artist's 
 seat, and the little table to hold all his require- 
 ments, and the water for his colors, in readiness 
 for his appearance. The whole house indeed, 
 except Sir Ludovic among his books, who had 
 fallen back into his ordinary calm, externally at 
 least, and asked no questions, was in agitation 
 about this picture. Jeanie, poor girl, kept in 
 the background altogether. She would not even 
 come to look at the picture, though Bell adjured 
 her to do so. 
 
 "What makes you blate, you silly thing?" 
 Bell said. "It's no a gentleman; it's naebody 
 but Rob Glen, Mrs. Glen's son, at Earl's-lee — a 
 neebor lad, so to speak. You must have been at 
 the school with him. Gang forward and see 
 what's doing, like the rest." But nothing would 
 make Jeanie gang forward. She felt sure by 
 this time that he did not know she was here, and 
 had begun to think that there was some mis- 
 take, and that perhaps he was not to blame. It 
 wrung her heart a little, peeping from her turret- 
 window, to see Miss Margaret hovering about 
 him, looking over his shoulder, waiting on him, 
 a more graceful handmaid than Jeanie ; but at 
 the same time a little forlorn pride was in her 
 mind. Miss Margaret understood about his 
 painting, no doubt, and could talk about things 
 that were above her own range ; but it was not 
 in that stiff polite way that Rob would have con- 
 ducted his intercourse with Jeanie. She watch- 
 ed them, herself unseen, with pain, yet with con- 
 solation. Not like that ; not with so many com- 
 monplace witnesses — Bell lingering about look- 
 ing on, even old John marching heavily across 
 the lines of potatoes to take a look — would Rob 
 have been content to pass the hours if she had 
 been by, instead of Margaret. But it was well 
 for Rob to have such grand friends. She would 
 not put herself in the way to shame him or make 
 him uncomfortable. Jeanie went to her work 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 51 
 
 magnanimously, and with a lightened heart. 
 She would not even sing as she put the rooms in 
 order, lest her voice should reach him through 
 the open window, and he should ask who it was. 
 She hid herself in the depths of the old house 
 that he might not see her ; but yet his presence 
 made a difference in the atmosphere. She could 
 not blame him now that she had seen him. And 
 she had waited long already, and had not lost 
 heart. After all, Jeanie reflected, nothing was 
 changed ; and insensibly a little confidence and 
 hope came back to her ; for it was very evident, 
 for one thing, that he did not know she was here. 
 
 As for Margaret, she was very happy in the 
 fresh exhilaration of the morning air, in the ex- 
 citement of what was going on, and in the soci- 
 ety of her new friend. Nobody had so much 
 amused her, occupied her, filled her mind with 
 novel thoughts as Rob Glen. To watch him as 
 he worked was an unceasing delight. He had 
 chosen his place on the edge of the little belt of 
 wood which encircled Earl's-hall. Had the Les- 
 lies been well-to-do this would have been a mere 
 flower-garden for beauty and pleasure ; but as 
 the Leslies were poor, it was potatoes, a more 
 profitable if less lovely crop. The fir-trees, of 
 which the wood was chiefly composed — for that 
 corner of Fife is not favorable to foliage — shel- 
 tered them from the sun, which streamed full 
 upon the old house, with all its picturesque ir- 
 regularities. The little court, with its well and 
 its old thorn-tree, which lay so deep in shadow 
 in the evening, was now full of light. The door 
 standing open let in a mass of sunshine into the 
 little vaulted passage which led to the lower 
 story, and touched the winding stair with an 
 edge of whiteness; and the huge old "ivy-tree," 
 as Margaret called it, the branches of which, 
 against the wall which shut in the court on the 
 west side, were like architecture, great ribs of 
 wood, dark, mossy, and ancient, as if they had 
 been carved out of stone — shone and glowed, 
 and sent back reflections from the heavy masses 
 of blunt-leaved foliage, which clad the tower 
 completely from head to foot. Bell's chair was 
 placed in front of this open door to show where 
 the figure was to be. 
 
 " But to pit me there in the forenoon with 
 the sun in my een, and a' the work of the house 
 lyin' neglectit !" said Bell. "Well, I wat you'll 
 never see me sae." 
 
 "It might be Sunday," suggested Rob, "the 
 day of rest." 
 
 "The Sabbath's more than a day of rest," 
 said Bell, reprovingly. "In the morning all 
 right-minded folk are at the kirk, the only place 
 for them ; and to gie a stranger to suppose that 
 me, I was letting ony idle lad draw my picture 
 on the Lord's-day !" 
 
 "Bell, Bell!" cried Margaret, horrified. 
 
 But Rob could afford to laugh. 
 
 "Never mind," he said; "I am not offend- 
 ed. Bell can call me an idle lad if she likes — 
 so does my mother, for that matter. She thinks 
 I might as well swing on a gate all day, as do 
 what I am doing now." 
 
 "Poor body!" said Bell, with a deep sigh of 
 sympathy. "I feel for her with a' my heart. 
 But you'll be wanting a piece," she added, turn- 
 ing to go in, " and, Miss Margret, there's a cold 
 air about. If I was you I would slip on a bit 
 of a jacket or something. The earth's damp 
 
 amang the pitawties. I'll send you out your 
 piece." 
 
 "I feel as if I were a boy again, fishing in 
 the burn, when Bell speaks of a piece," said Rob, 
 in an undertone. 
 
 "I hope you are not angry," said Margaret, 
 humbly. "Bell always says whatever she 
 pleases. She does not stand in awe of anybody 
 — even my sister Jean, who is a grand lady — 
 at least, I am sure she thinks she is very grand ; 
 but Bell never minds. You must not be angvv, 
 Mr. Glen." 
 
 "Angry! I am pleased. I like to feel my- 
 self a boy again ; then too, if you will recollect, 
 I had a beautiful little lady beside me, Miss 
 Margaret, who would hold the rod sometimes 
 and watch for a nibble." 
 
 "Don't call me that" said Margaret, with 
 momentary gravity. "Yes — a funny little girl 
 in a sun-bonnet. How glad I used to be when 
 you caught anything! It was not very often, 
 Mr. Glen." 
 
 "Not at all often, Miss Margaret; and some- 
 times you would take off your little shoes, and 
 dabble your little white feet in the water — how 
 white they were! I remember thinking the 
 fishes would bite just to get nearer, just to have 
 a sight of them." 
 
 "Indeed the fishes were not so silly," cried 
 the girl, blushing, and half affronted, but too 
 shy to venture on showing her offence. In such 
 matters as this Rob's gentleman-breeding failed 
 him. He did not know in what he had gone 
 wrong. "The sun is changing already," she 
 said, hurriedly; "have you got your shadows 
 right, Mr. Glen ? I think you will soon want 
 the umbrella. " 
 
 "Not yet," he said; "I can work for anoth- 
 er hour ; but here is old John interfering with 
 my foreground. Is this the ' piece ?' It is not 
 so simple as that you used to share with me on 
 the burn-side." 
 
 "It is a picnic," said Margaret, with a little 
 awe, as John appeared, slowly progressing among 
 the potatoes, with a white-covered tray. John's 
 approach was a solemnity under any circum- 
 stances, but across the long lines of potatoes it 
 was still more imposing. 
 
 "You're to pit that on, Miss Margaret," he 
 said, after he had set down his burden, with a 
 sigh of relief, handing to her the little gray 
 jacket which he carried over his arm. 
 
 " But it is not cold. I don't want it, the sun 
 is shining; and, John, will you bring the big 
 umbrella, the great big one with the heavy han- 
 dle, to shelter Mr. Glen ?" 
 
 "She said you were to pit it on. I maun fin- 
 ish one errant afore I begin anither," said the 
 old man. " She said there was a cauld air, and 
 that yon were to pit it on." 
 
 "I will when I am cold. Oh, tell Bell she 
 has sent us a great deal too much. Chicken 
 and cake, and white bread and cheese — and 
 jam !" The last pleased the critic, and subdued 
 her remonstrance. "But it is too much. I 
 would like a little milk instead of the wine." 
 
 "She said the wine was better for ye," said 
 the old man ; ' ' and she said you were to pit 
 that on." 
 
 "Oh, John! you are worse, you are a great 
 deal worse than Bell is. You never will hear 
 any reason. She, if one speaks to her, one can 
 
52 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 make her see what is sense," cried Margaret, 
 half crying; "but you, you are a great deal 
 worse — you are tyrannical ! " 
 
 "I am doing what I'm bid," said John. 
 "It's no me. Do I ken when you should pit 
 on your jaicket and when you should pit it off? 
 But she said you were to pit that on." 
 
 "And Bell is a very sensible woman," said 
 Rob. "It is cold this morning after the rain ; 
 and, John, I hope you will tell her that her pro- 
 vision is noble. I never saw such a ' piece ' be- 
 fore." 
 
 John made no reply. He gave a glance of 
 surly disdain at the interloper. What had Rob 
 Glen to do here, beside "our young leddy?" 
 "And me to wait upon him — set him up !" the 
 old man grumbled to himself as he went back 
 grimly to the house, having seen one, at least, 
 of his orders fulfilled. There were points upon 
 which John was proud to think he himself was 
 "maister and mair;" but on ordinary domestic 
 occasions he was content to accept the role of 
 executor, and see that his wife's behests were 
 carried out. 
 
 Margaret, in her gray jacket (which was not 
 unacceptable, after all), went away from Rob's 
 side and opened her sketch-book. She did not 
 choose to be laughed at, which she felt to be 
 possible, and it was time for her to try that gable 
 again, which had eluded her so often. To jump 
 at the outline of a rugged Scotch gable, after 
 having proved your incapacity to draw a straight 
 line, was, perhaps, a bold proceeding ; and there 
 was a perplexing little round of masonry pene- 
 trated by slits of little windows, and giving light, 
 as Margaret knew, to the second little spiral 
 staircase, the one at the east end of the house, 
 which tried her ignorance dreadfully, but which 
 she returned to notwithstanding, again and again. 
 Margaret was gazing up against the sky, intent- 
 ly studying this, when her eyes were caught by 
 a face at the high window looking down as in- 
 tently upon the group in the sunshine. 
 
 "Ah, Jeanie!" she said, with a nod and a 
 smile ; but Jeanie took no notice of the little 
 salutation. 
 
 "Did you speak, Miss Margaret?" said Rob 
 Glen, busy over his drawing, and not looking up. 
 
 " I was only nodding to Jeanie," said the girl. 
 
 Jeanie ! Rob did not budge. It was the com- 
 monest of names ; there was nothing in it to 
 rouse his special attention. And even if he had 
 known that it was the one Jeanie with whom he 
 had some concern, would that have made any 
 difference? He worked on quite calmly. But 
 Jeanie withdrew in haste, with a pang for which 
 she could not account. She had seen and heard, 
 by the sound of the voices, that something was 
 said between them ; but Rob never looked up to 
 see who it was of whom Miss Margaret spoke. 
 When Jeanie came back to peep again, they 
 were sitting together at the little luncheon Bell 
 had sent them, with much talking and soft laugh- 
 ter, sharing the same meal, and reminding each 
 of humbler picnic meals eaten together in other 
 years. As they grew more at ease with each 
 other, the doubtful taste of Rob's compliments 
 ceased to offend Margaret ; or perhaps in the 
 greater intimacy of this odd conjunction, so ab- 
 solutely free, yet so entirely under restraint, pub- 
 lic to all the watchful eyes that guarded her, 
 there was something that made him avoid com- 
 
 pliments. There is always much that is sug- 
 gestive in a meal thus shared by two, with no in- 
 trusive third to break its completeness. A cer- 
 tain romance infolds the laughing pair ; the very 
 matter-of-fact character of the conjunction, the 
 domesticity, the homeliness, increase their sense 
 of union. It suggests everything that is in life. 
 The boy and girl over their "piece," the youth 
 and the maiden over their impromptu repast : 
 what Avas it but playing at honey - mooning, a 
 pleasant mockery, or essay at, or caricature of, 
 the most serious conjunction? Even Margaret 
 felt a certain half delightful shyness of her com- 
 panion in this odd union, free as her mind was 
 of all embarrassing thoughts ; and as for Rob, 
 the suggestion gave him a thrill of pride and 
 pleasure not to be put into words. Jeanie stole 
 to the window to look at them again, while they 
 were thus engaged, and the sight went to her 
 heart. 
 
 " If I were you, I wouldna let them bide ower 
 lang philandering, they twa," said John. "I'm 
 no that sure that I would have left them there 
 ava'. Like twa young marrit folk, the aue fore- 
 nenst the ither — " 
 
 "Hand your tongue, you ill-thinking man!" 
 cried Bell, with a half-shriek. " How dare ye ! 
 But be a lassie the maist innocent that ever was 
 born, ye'll aye put it upon her that she kens as 
 muckle as yoursel'." 
 
 "It's no what she kens I'm thinking o' : it's a' 
 instinck," said John. "A lad and a lass — they're 
 drawn to ane anither ; it's nature. I wish it was 
 a gentleman that had come this gate instead o' 
 that laud. Plenty gentlemen waste their time 
 drawing pictures. There's Sir Claude ; he's auld 
 and a married man ? I kent you would say that. 
 Was I meaning Sir Claude ? but he aye has his 
 house fu' o' his ain kind ; or even if it had been 
 Randal Burnside — yon's a lad that will rise in 
 the world ; but whatever evil spirit sent us Rob 
 Glen—" 
 
 "John, my man, you're no an ill man, and if 
 you'll baud to the tilings ye understand — " 
 
 "I wuss there was one of ye a' that under- 
 stood that poor bairn's living, and what's to come 
 o' her," said John. "Sir Ludovic, he's no lang 
 for this world." 
 
 " He's just in his ordinar, and his faither lived 
 to ninety." 
 
 "He's no just in his ordinar. I havena likit 
 the looks of him this month past ; and now he 
 sees it himsel'." 
 
 "Lord bless us, man !" cried Bell, in alarm ; 
 " and ye never said a word to me !" 
 
 " What good would that have done if I had said 
 a word to ye ? You canna keep out Death. If 
 he's coming, he'll come, and no be hindered by 
 you or me. But now he's found it out himsel'. 
 Will I tell ye what he said to me no an hour 
 ago ? But I'll not tell you ; maybe ye would think 
 it was just naething, and pit your jokes on me." 
 
 "You may do just what you like," said Bell: 
 "speak or no speak, he seems just in his ordinar 
 to me." 
 
 "Is this like his ordinar?" says John, indig- 
 nantly. "He says to me no an hour ago, 'Are 
 the horses busy, John?' he said; and I says 
 (for it doesna do to let on when walk's slack; 
 you never ken what folk may take into their 
 head), ' Oh ay, Sir Ludovic,' I says, ' they're aye 
 busy.' 'Could we have them for the carriage 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 53 
 
 on Sunday ?' he says. ' Weel, Sir Ludovic,' says 
 I, ' it might be sae ; but what would it be for ? 
 Miss Margret, she aye walks, and wouldua thank 
 ye for ony carriage ; and the ither lcddies, they're 
 no here.' Then he strikes his stick on the floor. 
 ' Can I have the carriage on Sunday ?' he cries, 
 him that's aye so quiet. Aweel ! that's a' ; and 
 if that doesna prove that he's been turning many 
 a thing ower in his mind." 
 
 " Was it to gang to the kirk ?" said Bell, some- 
 what struck by awe ; "he hasna been at the 
 kirk this year or more." 
 
 " I tellt ye sae," said John ; " and Sir Ludo- 
 vic, he's no man to make a careless end. He'll 
 do all decently and in order. He'll no let the 
 minister think he's neglectit. Ye '11 give me out 
 my best claes, as if it was a funeral. I ken what 
 he means, if naebody else does ; and syne what 
 is to become of that bairn ?" 
 
 "Oh, man, haud your tongue, haud your 
 tongue," cried Bell. "Sir Ludovic! that has 
 aye been so steady and so weel in health. I can- 
 na credit what you say. Your best claes ! Put 
 on your bonnet, mair like, and gang and bid the 
 doctor come this way, canny, the morn's morn- 
 ing, without saying a word to anybody. That's 
 the thing for you to do. And now I'll send that 
 laud away," she added, briskly. This was a lit- 
 tle outlet to her feelings ; and to do Bell justice, 
 she was glad to have a moment alone after hear- 
 ing this alarming news. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The doctor came, very careful to explain that 
 he had come to call out of friendship only, be- 
 cause it was so long since he had seen Sir Ludo- 
 vic. But he could perceive nothing to justify 
 John's alarm. Sir Ludovic was glad to see the 
 neighbor who was more intelligent than most of 
 his neighbors, and with whom he could have a 
 little talk. The doctor was a plain man of home- 
 ly Scotch manners and speech ; but he knew all 
 about the county and everybody in it, and was 
 not unacquainted with books. Sir Ludovic, who 
 was glad to be delivered from himself, and who 
 found it easier to escape from the prospect which 
 oppressed him, by means of society than in any 
 other way, detained the doctor as long as he 
 could, and listened with much more patience than 
 usual to the gossip of the parish, and smiled at 
 the jokes which Dr. Hume carried about from 
 patient to patient to "give the poor bodies a 
 laugh," he said. 
 
 "Come back again soon," the old man said, 
 accompanying his visitor to the door. The doc- 
 tor was pleased, for he had seen Sir Ludovic much 
 less complaisant. He stepped into the vaulted 
 kitchen before he left the house, to tell Bell what 
 he thought. 
 
 " I see no difference in him," said Dr. Hume ; 
 "he's an old man. We are none of us so young 
 as we once were, Bell ; and an old man cannot 
 live forever. He's bound to get an attack of 
 bronchitis or something else before long, and to 
 slip through our fingers. But I see nothing to 
 be alarmed at to-day. There's a little bit of a 
 vacant look in his eyes ; but, Lord bless us ! many 
 of us have that all our lives, and never die a day the 
 sooner. He tells me the ladies are expected — •" 
 
 "Na,but that's news, doctor! "said Bell ; "the 
 ladies! it's no their time for three months yet, 
 the Lord be thanked, and I've never heard a 
 word." 
 
 " Well," said the doctor, " now you're warned, 
 and you can take your measures accordingly. 
 He certainly said they were coming. They're 
 no the wisest women on the face of the earth ; 
 but still, if you are anxious, it would be a com- 
 fort, do you not think so, to have some of the 
 family in the house ?" 
 
 "Ye dinna ken our ladies, doctor — ye dinna 
 ken our ladies," said Bell. 
 
 "Atweel, I ken a heap of ladies," said the 
 doctor, with a laugh. He liked a joke at wom- 
 en when it was to be heard. "One's very like 
 another ; but if it was only for his little Peggy, 
 as he calls her, I should think he would be glad 
 to have his daughters here." 
 
 "He's no a bit glad, no more nor the rest of 
 us — nor Miss Margaret either," said Bell; and 
 it was with a clouded countenance that she saw 
 the doctor mount his horse at the door of the 
 court. And when John came in to ask what 
 Dr. Hume thought, she gave him an answer 
 which was full of sorrowful impatience. "He 
 said nothing it was any pleasure to hear," said 
 Bell, and it was only later that she unbosomed 
 herself of her vexation. "He says there's noth- 
 ing wrong ; and syne he goes away telling me 
 that the ladies are coming, and that it will be a 
 comfort to have some of the family in the house. 
 That means that a's wrong, so far as I'm equal 
 to judging. Sir Ludovic in his bed wi' a long 
 illness and the ladies here !" 
 
 Bell flung up her hands with a groan ; the 
 very idea was too much for her ; but John was 
 obstinate in his preconceived certainty. 
 
 "Na," he said, "Sir Ludovic will no have a 
 long illness. He'll just fail, just in a moment; 
 that's what he'll do. If I dinna ken him better 
 than a dizzen doctors, it would be a wonder — me 
 that have been his body-servant these twenty 
 years." 
 
 "I maun gang up the stair and see for my- 
 sel'," said Bell. She tied on her clean apron 
 with decision, and could not quite banish from 
 her countenance the look of a person who would 
 stand no nonsense, who was not to be taken in 
 — but whose inspection would be final. And 
 Sir Ludovic was pleased to see Bell too. He 
 was not annoyed to be disturbed. He turned 
 toward her with a vague smile, and gave his 
 book a scarcely perceptible push away from him. 
 This little action made Bell's heart sink, as she 
 confessed afterward. She would much rather 
 have seen him impatient, and been requested to 
 cut her errand short. On the contrary, her mas- 
 ter was not displeased to talk. He let her tell 
 him about the drawing which was still going on, 
 and her own wonder that one who had been the 
 other day "a callant about the doors" should 
 possess such a wonderful gift. 
 
 ' ' Callants about the doors are very apt to sur- 
 prise us as they grow up," Sir Ludoviu said, 
 "and Rob Glen is certainly clever; but you 
 must not let him lose his time here. It is cer- 
 tain that I cannot afford to buy his picture, 
 Bell." 
 
 " But maybe the ladies would do it, Sir Lu- 
 dovic," said Bell, seeing an opening; "maybe 
 the ladies would like a picture of the auld house 
 
54 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 —though me at the door (as Miss Margret will 
 have me) would be a drawback. I hear from 
 the doctor, Sir Ludovic, that you're expecting 
 the ladies? I didna think it was near their 
 time." 
 
 "To be sure," said Sir Ludovic, "I wrote, 
 
 but the letter has never been posted. If you 
 
 had not spoken I should have forgotten all about 
 
 it. Bell, I thought they might come a little 
 
 f sooner." 
 
 "It's very true," said Bell, with a grave coun- 
 tenance, "that it's bonnie weather; and when 
 they were here last, in September, we had noth- 
 ing but wind and rain ; but for a' that, when la- 
 dies have made their plans, it's a great deal of 
 trouble to change them, and it's aye in Septem- 
 ber they come. Do you no think, Sir Ludovic, 
 they would like it better if you let them come at 
 their ain time ?" 
 
 "Do you suppose they would think it a trou- 
 ble, Bell ?" Sir Ludovic had written his letter as 
 a matter of duty for his little Peggy's sake ; but 
 he was not disinclined to get out of it, to allow 
 a feasible reason for not sending it, if such a one 
 should present itself; for he did not anticipate 
 the arrival of his daughters with any pleasure. 
 
 "Weel, Sir Ludovic, you see they've all their 
 plans made. They're awfu' leddies for plans. 
 You ken yoursel' it's a' laid out every day wliat 
 they're to do ; and Mrs. Bellingham, she canna 
 bide being put out o' her way." 
 
 "That's true, Bell, that's very true," said Sir 
 Ludovic, suddenly remembering how his eldest 
 daughter received any interference with her proj- 
 ects. "I am very glad you reminded me," 
 said the old man ; "after all, perhaps, I had bet- 
 ter let things take their course. I thought it 
 might be better, whatever happened, to have them 
 here ; but, as you say, Jean does not like any in- 
 terference with — I think I will keep my letter to 
 myself, after all." 
 
 "And nothing's going to happen that I ken 
 of, Sir Ludovic. We are all in our ordinar." 
 
 " That is very true, too," he said, with a smile ; 
 "and now you can go away and tell John to 
 bring me my wine and my biscuit. The doctor 
 and you together have wasted my morning." 
 He drew his book toward him again as he dis- 
 missed her. This was the only "good sign" 
 that Bell saw in her master ; and her face was 
 so grave when she went down-stairs that John 
 paused in his preparation for his master's simple 
 luncheon with a sombre triumph. 
 
 "Aweel? You'll not tell me I'm an auld 
 fule again," John said. 
 
 "Then I'll tell you you're an auld raven, a 
 prophet o' evil," said his wife, with vehemence. 
 "Gang up the stairs this moment and gie the 
 maister his drop o' wine ; he's crying for that 
 and his biscuit, and there he might sit, and you 
 never take the trouble to gang near him. Oh 
 ay!" said Bell, dreamily — "oh ay ! The bairn 
 divined it, and the auld man saw it, and the doc- 
 tor sees it too, though he winna say sae ; and 
 Bell's the last to ken ! In our ordinar, just in 
 our ordinar! but them that has een can see the 
 end." 
 
 However, though this foreboding gathered 
 force by the adhesion of one after another, it was 
 not as yet any more than a foreboding, and the 
 days went on very quietly without any new 
 event. The next Sunday, on which Sir Ludovic 
 
 had intended to go to church, was very wet, and it 
 was not until a fortnight after his first announce- 
 ment of his intention, that the old carriage was 
 at last got out, and the horses, which had been 
 making themselves useful in the farm, harnessed. 
 They were not a very splendid or high-spirited 
 pair, as may be conceived, but they answered 
 the purpose well enough. It was a true summer 
 Sunday, the sunshine more warm, the air more 
 still, than on any other day. The roses were 
 fading off the hedge-rows, the green corn was 
 beginning to wave and rustle in the fields ; the 
 country groups that came from afar on every 
 visible road, not all to the kirk on the hill (for 
 there was a Free Church in the "laigh toun," 
 not to speak of "the chapel," which was Bap- 
 tist, and had a dozen members, like the Apos- 
 tles), were sprinkled with light dresses in honor 
 of the season, and all was still in the villages 
 save for this gathering and animated crowd. 
 The big old coach, with its old occupant, called 
 forth much excitement in the Kirkton. Car- 
 riages and fine people had failed to the parish 
 church. 
 
 Perhaps it is one of the penalties which Scot- 
 land has paid for being no longer unanimous, 
 and dividing herself into different camps, that 
 her gentry should have deserted that old centre 
 of local life, and left the National Church which 
 has played so large a part in Scotch history. It 
 is one of the least sensible as well as the least 
 lovely features of modern Scotland. Of all the 
 squires in this division of Fife, not one but old 
 Sir Ludovic united in the national worship. The 
 others drove miles away to the "English Chap- 
 el" at the county town, which was gay with 
 their carriages and finery, like the corresponding 
 " English Chapel " in Florence or Rome ; very 
 like it, indeed, in more ways than it is necessary 
 to mention. Gentility poured thither, even the 
 rich shopkeepers, or at least the manufacturers 
 of the second generation ; for to belong to the 
 English Church gave a kind of brevet rank. Sir 
 Ludovic, perhaps, was too indifferent to change 
 his ways in his old age ; and then neither he nor 
 the Avorld required any outward proof that he 
 was a very superior person. Why it was that 
 he had set his mind on going to church at all 
 after this long gap in his attendance it would be 
 hard to tell. He could not have told himself. 
 It was like a last visit to court, a last parade to 
 an old soldier, a thing to be done as long as he 
 could calculate upon his time, before the days 
 had arrived, which he could see advancing, when 
 he would no longer have command of his own 
 movements. 
 
 Sir Ludovic felt a sensation of relief when he 
 had fairly set out. Of this thing, then, which 
 he had determined to do, he was not to be balk- 
 ed. He was to have power and time to accom- 
 plish this last duty. The burial-place of the Les- 
 lies was close to the east end of the church, the 
 head of the vault touching the old chancel, a rel- 
 ic of the times when to be near that sacred spot 
 in the morning quarter, "toward the sunrising," 
 was to be doubly safe. Here Sir Ludovic stood 
 for a moment, looking less at the familiar grave 
 than at the still more familiar landscape, the low 
 hills round the horizon on three sides, the glim- 
 mer of the sea that filled up the circle, the broad 
 amphitheatre of fertile fields that swept around. 
 He did not care to turn from that wide and lib- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 55 
 
 eral prospect, all sweet with summer air and 
 warm with sunshine, to the heavy mass of stone 
 that shut in the remains of his kindred. He 
 gave one glance at it only, as he walked past, 
 though it was that spot he had chosen to view 
 the landscape from. A faint smile came upon 
 his face as he looked at it. There was his place 
 waiting and ready, and soon to be filled. He 
 asked himself, with a little thrill of strange sen- 
 sation, whether he would feel the breezes, such 
 as were always rife in Stratheden, or have any 
 consciousness of the landscape, when he lay 
 there, as, by -and -by, he should be lying. He 
 walked very steadily, yet with a nervous tremor, 
 of which he himself was conscious, if nobody 
 else, and kept his hand upon Margaret's shoul- 
 der, scarcely to support him — that was not nec- 
 essary — but yet to give him a little prop. Some 
 of the people, the elders and the farmers who 
 felt themselves sufficiently important, threw them- 
 selves in his way, and took off their hats with 
 kindly respect. 
 
 "I'm real glad to see yon out, Sir Ludovic," 
 and, "I hope you're well this fine morning, Sir 
 Ludovic," they said. The old man took off his 
 hat and made them all a sweeping bow. 
 
 " Good - morning to you all, my friends," he 
 said, and, with a little additional tremor, hurried 
 into church, to be safe from all these greetings. 
 The church, as we have already said, was a 
 monstrous compound, such as perhaps only Scot- 
 land could produce nowadays. The old door 
 opened into a noble but gloomy old Norman 
 church, very small, but lofty and symmetrical, 
 in the corners of which some old monuments, 
 brass denuded of their metal (if that is not a 
 bull), rude in Northern art, but ancient, and look- 
 ing, by dint of their imperfections, more ancient 
 than they were — were piled together. In the 
 little round basement of the tower, where there 
 had been a tiny chapel behind the altar in the 
 old days, a man in his shirt-sleeves stood pulling 
 the rope, which moved a cracked and jingling 
 bell ; and the vast chancel arch opposite was 
 blocked up with a wooden partition, through 
 which, by means of a little door, you entered the 
 new painted and varnished pews of the modern 
 building, which Sir Claude Morton had built for 
 the parish. The parish was quite contented, be 
 it allowed, and Sir Claude went to the English 
 Chapel, and did not have his sins brought home 
 to him every Sunday ; and among the higher 
 classes you may be sure that it was the old Re- 
 formers and John Knox who were supposed to 
 be in fault, and not an enlightened connoisseur 
 like Sir Claude, who did so much for the art-in- 
 struction of the world away from home. Sir 
 Claude was the chief " heritor " of the parish, 
 for the lands of the Leslies had dwindled almost 
 to nothing. 
 
 We will not affirm that Sir Ludovic would 
 have done much better, but then, at least, he 
 was not a connoisseur. He, for his part, made 
 no reflections upon this as he went in, and placed 
 himself in the great square pew, the only one of 
 the kind in the new church, all lined with red 
 cloth, and filled with chairs instead of benches, 
 which marked his own importance in the parish. 
 He thought of the difference between the old 
 and the new without troubling himself about 
 art, and with a little shiver acknowledged that 
 the light and air and brightness of the wooden 
 
 barn were more comfortable than the stately 
 grace and dampness of the old building, which 
 was, like himself, chilled and colorless with age. 
 But how many generations of old men like him- 
 self had passed under the great gray arch that 
 " swore," as the French say, at the vulgar new 
 walls ! A lifetime of threescore and fifteen years 
 was as nothing in the history of that ancient 
 place. And there it would stand for genera- 
 tions more, watching them come and go — It, 
 and he with it, lying so close under the old 
 stones. Would it be anything to Ludovic Les- 
 lie, once placed there, who came and who might 
 go ? This thought gave him, as it always did, 
 a kind of vertigo and swimming of the brain. 
 To fancy one's self — one's self, not another, as 
 insensible to everything in life — 
 
 "Whirled round in earth's diurnal course, 
 With rocks, and stoues, and trees." 
 
 Is that possible? Sir Ludovic tried, but could 
 not do it. It made his head swim round and 
 round. 
 
 All the time the people were taking their 
 places, clattering in with much noise, and per- 
 haps not much reverence. Ordinarily they wait- 
 ed about, the men at least, until the bell stopped 
 and the hour had struck. But perhaps out of 
 respect to old Sir Ludovic, who had not been 
 there for so long, and who might never — who 
 could tell? — be there again, for he was an old 
 man, they came in after him, making a great 
 noise, shutting and fastening after them the 
 doors of their pews. And then Dr. Eurnside 
 walked into the pulpit, solemnly preceded by 
 the beadle with the big Bible, and the service 
 began. Neither Sir Ludovic nor his daughter 
 paid any attention to the fact that the singing 
 of the old metrical psalms was very rough and 
 tuneless. Margaret did not know much better, 
 having had no training, and heard no music ; 
 and Sir Ludovic, it must be confessed, was full 
 of his own thoughts, and paid but little atten- 
 tion. He was scarcely caught even by the words 
 of that Psalm, known from their cradles to all 
 Scots, which Dr. Burnside hastily, and with 
 some perturbation, on hearing of Sir Ludovic's 
 presence, had changed for the one before chosen. 
 
 Dr. Burnside had not had it in his power for 
 a long time now to set Sir Ludovic's duty before 
 him. And when his wife brought him the news 
 that the old carriage from Earl's-hall had pass- 
 ed, with the Leslies in it, the minister had a mo- 
 ment of great excitement. His sermon had not 
 been at all adapted for such an occasion, but 
 had been addressed very generally to the parish 
 world about its commonplace sins of gossip and 
 fibbing, and such-like. Dr. Burnside ran to his 
 writing-table and hastily chose a sermon of a 
 different complexion. He had preached it be- 
 fore, but he had a great and consoling conscious- 
 ness that nobody paid much attention, and cer- 
 tainly Sir Ludovic had never heard it. It was 
 about the conclusion of life. He did not think 
 of it as touching himself, and never had known 
 the tremulous attempt to realize that conclusion 
 which made Sir Ludovic's head turn round ; but 
 he knew that an old man ought to think of his 
 latter end, and that it was of great importance 
 not to neglect an opportunity that might not oc- 
 cur again. 
 
 " Will you tell the precentor, my dear, to wait 
 
5G 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 a moment. I have some changes to make," the 
 Doctor said, hastily ; and thus it was that the 
 Psalm was altered, and the one now chosen sung 
 to an unusual tune, which had been intended for 
 the former one, and which put the rude singers 
 out — 
 
 "Yea, thongh I walk in death's dark vale, 
 Yet will I fear none ill ; 
 For Thou art with rue, aud Thy rod 
 And staff rue comfort still," 
 
 sang the rough, rural voices. They sang as if 
 the object of their worship was far away at sea, 
 and required a hearty shout to catch his ear. 
 And Sir Ludovic did not pay much attention. 
 He had known the words by heart ever since he 
 knew anything, which made them less striking 
 to him. Besides, he had no trouble on that 
 point ; he did not doubt the rod and staff that 
 would support him ; he wanted rather dimly to 
 know what sort of place that dark valley was, 
 and what — not whether it was bliss or despair, 
 but what — lay beyond. ' 
 
 Dr. Burnside preached his sermon with great 
 feeling and great meaning, so that everybody in 
 church felt that it had a bearing upon Sir Ludo- 
 vic; but Sir Ludovic himself did not see it. He 
 propped himself in the corner and listened re- 
 spectfully, sometimes asking himself, however, 
 how Burnside could keep on so long, and why 
 the fact of being in the pulpit should bring twad- 
 dle to the lips of a reasonable man. Once when 
 the good Doctor was moved by his own elo- 
 quence almost to weeping, Sir Ludovic was quite 
 roused too, and sat more upright, and gave his 
 whole attention to the speaker ; but it was rath- 
 er with an amazed desire to know what could 
 have so much moved his old friend than from 
 any mere personal motive. Even then he could 
 not make it out. He said to himself that what 
 you say yourself may possibly seem more strik- 
 ing than what another says ; but still he could 
 not see what Burnside had to cry about. Not- 
 withstanding those thoughts, which were not vis- 
 ible, Sir Ludovic was a most respectful and de- 
 vout worshipper. Though prayer is supposed to 
 be extempore in the Church of Scotland, and the 
 idea of reading their devotions out of a book 
 would have shocked the people beyond measure, 
 yet Sir Ludovic having gone to church regularly 
 for a great many years, knew Dr. Burnside's 
 prayers by heart, and was able to follow them 
 as closely as if they had been in a prayer-book. 
 He knew where and how the habitual supplica- 
 tions would come. He knew in what words the 
 good minister would embody his ascriptions of 
 praise. All was familiar to him, as if it had 
 been going on forever, as if it would never come 
 to an end. 
 
 By -and -by it was over, and the people all 
 streamed out with equal noise and no more rev- 
 erence, putting on their hats before they were 
 out of church, and beginning to talk in loud 
 whispers. It was over like everything else — an- 
 other thing ended — another something removed 
 between him and the end. This was the thought 
 that came involuntarily to the old man. He 
 smiled to himself, but not with pleasure, with a 
 kind of amused pain or painful amusement, as 
 the little roll of things to be clone was worked 
 out. Here was another over and done with, 
 though it had begun only a moment since. Just 
 so the philosopher might have watched the hours 
 
 stealing away that lay between him and thaS 
 slave with the hemlock, just so noticed the 
 gradual development of the symptoms afterward 
 — the beginning of the death - cold, the rising 
 gasp in the throat. Sir Ludovic was like Soc- 
 rates, yet with a curious sense that it was some- 
 body else he was watching, not, it could not be, 
 himself. He felt half inclined to laugh as the 
 things to be got through lessened in number; 
 and now this church-going was over, which was 
 one of the last incidents of all. 
 
 "Even though I walk iu death's dark vale, 
 Yet will I fear none ill." 
 
 No, no, not any ill ; but what ? That was 
 the question ; and in the mean time this was 
 ended too. 
 
 "I think we may go now, the crowd is gone, 
 papa," whispered Margaret; and he assented 
 with a smile. They came out again, once more 
 through the fine Norman arch, which had been 
 there from time immemoi'ial. 
 
 "Just there, my little Peggy, is where my 
 place will be," he said, still smiling, pointing to 
 the wall of the apse, and came out, with his 
 hand upon her shoulder, into the sunshine, his 
 erect, delicate head, with its white hair, held up 
 with unconscious, gentle stateliness, leaning upon 
 the young creature in her white frock — leaning 
 only a very little, rather for love than for sup- 
 port. A great many people had lingered about 
 the church-yard, scattered among the graves, to 
 look at them. The parish that day had listen- 
 ed to the sermon much less drowsiby than usual. 
 They had recognized by instinct that it was not 
 themselves, but Sir Ludovic, who was addressed, 
 and they had all been interested to hear what 
 the Doctor had to say to Sir Ludovic. They 
 stood with friendly and shy curiosity, pretending 
 to study the tombstones, to look at him as he 
 came out. It was a long time since he had been 
 there before, and who could tell if he would ever 
 be there again ? 
 
 And the sight of the pair touched the people. 
 An old man leaning upon his child is always a 
 touching sight, and Margaret's pretty, slim fig- 
 ure, in her white frock, her head raised to him, 
 a look of wistful half-anxiety in her eyes, mixed 
 with her pleasure in having him by her, made 
 a great impression upon the kindly neighbors. 
 Some of the women unfolded the handkerchiefs 
 which they carried with their Bibles and put 
 them to their eyes. He was "sore failed" 
 since he had been last seen at the kirk — failed 
 and frail, and no long for this world. And ah, 
 how well the Doctor had set his duty before him ! 
 The father and daughter went softly round the 
 east end of the old church ; and it was when 
 they were passing the Leslie vault again, that 
 Sir Ludovic suddenly stumbled. It was not "a 
 stroke," nor any fainting on his part, as at first 
 the trembling yet eager spectators thought, but 
 only a projecting stone in his way, against which 
 his foot caught. Margaret gave a cry of dis- 
 tress. 
 
 "It is nothing, my Peggy, nothing," said the 
 old man. But the shock and the shake affected 
 him, and he turned very pale, and tottered as he 
 went on. 
 
 " Will he take my arm? — ask him to take my 
 arm," said some one close by. Sir Ludovic did 
 not wait to be entreated ; he put forth his hand 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 57 
 
 eagerly and grasped the strong young arm, which 
 he felt, without knowing whom it belonged to, 
 to be sustaining and steady. 
 
 "That is right, that is all I want," he said, 
 and walked along the rest of the path to the car- 
 riage, leaning upon Rob Glen. Margaret was at 
 his other side. He smiled at her, and bade her 
 not be frightened. " This is all I want," he said, 
 leaning upon the young man. As for Margaret, 
 she, in her fright and anxiety,, thought nothing of 
 the words he was saying ; but who can describe 
 with what a thrill the repeated assurance went 
 through the ambitious heart and glowing imagi- 
 nation of Rob Glen ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 There were a great many spectators of this 
 scene in the church-yard. Mrs. Burnside, the 
 minister's wife, had been detained most unwill- 
 ingly by some importunate "poor bodies" from 
 the "laigh toun,"and was hurrying round from 
 the other end of the church, with her son Randal, 
 to speak to " the Earl's-hall family," when Rob 
 Glen thus made himself conspicuous. There 
 were various people who held the opinion that he 
 had made himself conspicuous, and none more 
 than Mrs. Burnside, who thought the group very 
 incongruous. Margaret on one side, and a young 
 country lad, Janet Glen's son, on the other ! It 
 was quite out of the question. But an old man 
 was an ill guide for a young girl. She hastened 
 round, calling Randal to follow, and reached the 
 gate just as John was putting up the carriage 
 steps. 
 
 "Margaret, my dear Margaret, will you not 
 come to the Manse and get a glass of wine ? And, 
 Sir Ludovic, I hope you're not hurt. The Doc- 
 tor will be quite disappointed if he does not see 
 you." 
 
 Rob Glen stood at the carriage-door, but Mrs. 
 Burnside took no notice of him. 
 
 "Thank you," said Sir Ludovic. "I'm not 
 hurt ; but I've got a shake, and the best thing I 
 can do is to get home. Tell the Doctor I will be 
 glad to see him, very glad to see him, whenever 
 he will come so far — with my thanks for a very 
 good sermon." He smiled, but he was still very 
 pale, and old John stood upon little ceremony. 
 He took his seat beside the coachman, and bade 
 him in low tones "no to bide a moment if it was 
 the Queen, but to get hame, to get hame." The 
 consequence of this was that the carriage was al- 
 ready in motion when Mrs. Burnside resumed. 
 
 " A glass of wine will do you good, Sir Ludo- 
 vic ; a nd here's my son Randal. Margaret, my 
 dear, you're not going like this, without a word !" 
 cried the Minister's wife; but Margaret only 
 waved her hand, and said something that was 
 inaudible in the rush of the carriage-wheels. 
 
 "I don't call this civil," said Mrs. Burnside, 
 growing red. " I cannot think it civil, Randal, 
 either to you or to me." 
 
 " It was not intended for incivility," said Rob 
 Glen. "But Sir Ludovic was shaken. He was 
 more shaken than you would have thought pos- 
 sible. It was the best thing he could do to get 
 home, and I think I will go and tell the doctor. 
 He has certainly grown much weaker within the 
 last month." 
 
 How did Rob Glen know how Sir Ludovic 
 had been for the last month ? Mrs. Burnside 
 looked upon him with a disapproving counte- 
 nance. He had made himself a great deal too 
 conspicuous. Janet Glen's son, a lad of no con- 
 sideration ! what right had he to put himself in 
 the way? 
 
 "Sir Ludovic shows himself so little that 
 there's very few can be able to judge," she said, 
 meaning to snub the forward young man. And 
 what should Randal do but neutralize all her dig- 
 nity by making a step forward with friendly hand 
 outstretched ? 
 
 "Why this," he said, "must be Rob Glen?" 
 
 "Oh yes, it is Rob Glen," said his annoyed 
 mother; while Rob accepted the overture gra- 
 ciously. Randal was a year or two older than 
 Rob, and had begun life in the company of the 
 whole juvenile family at the parish school ; an 
 early association which made all his father's 
 parishioners his friends. He was a handsome 
 young fellow, full of high spirits and kindness, 
 but so shy that the paths of society were pain 
 and grief to him. He had been absent for a 
 long time, studying in Germany, and had but 
 lately returned, and taken his place in Edin- 
 burgh, with every prospect of success at the bar; 
 for he had a family firm of Writers to the Sig- 
 net behind him. Though Randal had an old 
 boyish kindness for little Margaret, her grown- 
 up looks had somewhat disconcerted him, and 
 it was with more relief than regret that he had 
 seen the carriage turn away. But Randal's shy- 
 ness did not affect him in respect to the people 
 of the parish, to most of whom his notice was a 
 favor; and, indeed, at this moment he had no 
 idea that it was anvthing else than an honor to 
 Rob Glen. 
 
 "You may as well tell your father, Randal, 
 that Sir Ludovic has gone," said Mrs. Burnside, 
 with a little nod to the intruder. "Good-morn- 
 ing, Rob ; I saw your mother, worthy woman, 
 was out this morning. I am glad her cold is 
 better;" and, so saying, she went slowly away 
 toward the Manse in anything but a tranquil 
 state of mind. She was not mercenary, nor had 
 she really engaged in any matrimonial specula- 
 tions for her son. But he was a young man, 
 she well knew, who would be a credit to every- 
 body belonging to him ; and if Margaret and he 
 had met, and if they had taken a fancy to each 
 other, why then — They had both a little mon- 
 ey ; indeed, it was generally known that Mar- 
 garet had more than a little; but upon thi9 
 point the minister's wife assured herself that 
 she had no information ; and they were both 
 well-born (for the Burnsides were as old as any- 
 thing in the county), and it would have been 
 very suitable : he a rising young lawyer, with a 
 good profession and a good head, and the best 
 of prospects before him. There was no un- 
 worthy scheming in her desire to bring these 
 two perfectly matched young people together. 
 The question in her eyes was not, was Randal 
 good enough for Margaret ? but, was Margaret 
 good enough for Randal? But they had played 
 together when they were children, and there 
 was nobody far or near so like Margaret as Ran- 
 dal, so like Randal as Margaret. This was 
 what Mrs. Burnside was thinking, as she walked 
 very gently toward the Manse. The children 
 and the old women did not courtesy when they 
 
58 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 met her, for such are not the habits of rural 
 Scotland ; but the little things looked at her 
 with shy smiles, and the women wished her 
 good -day, and were blithe to see Mr. Randal 
 back. "And so am I, Jenny," she said ; " more 
 glad than words can say." 
 
 "Eh, mem, ye hae nae need to say it ; a' the 
 kirk," said the old woman, sympathetic, "could 
 see it in your' face." And why should she not 
 ask herself, what was the very best thing to be 
 had — the fairest and the sweetest to get for her 
 boy? But that intrusive Rob Glen making 
 himself so conspicuous! what was he, a country 
 lad, nobody at all, not a gentleman, to put him- 
 self in Randal's way ? 
 
 "And what have you been doing, Rob, all 
 these years ? I've heard of you from time to time ; 
 but I've been wandering, as you know, and for 
 some time back I know nothing. Little Marga- 
 ret Leslie, I thought her a child, and lo ! she's a 
 lovely lady. I thought I should have found you 
 in the pulpit preaching for my father ; but here 
 you are, without so much as a black coat. 
 What has happened to you ?" 
 
 "Not much," said Rob. He paused rather 
 nervously, and looked at his gray coat, wonder- 
 ing, perhaps, was it the proper dress to come to 
 church in, even when you have ceased to think 
 of being a minister. Randal's coat was black, 
 and he seemed to Rob a young man of fashion. 
 This thought made him very uncomfortable. 
 "Indeed nothing at all has happened to me. 
 I am a failure, Mr. Burnside. Your father tries 
 to set me right ; but I am afraid we don't even 
 agree as to the meaning of words." 
 
 "A failure?" said Randal, puzzled. 
 
 "Yes; the church is too exacting for me. I 
 can't sign a creed because my great-grandfather 
 believed it." 
 
 "Ah! oh!" said the other young man. It 
 meant that he had nothing to say on the sub- 
 ject, and did not care to enter into it ; but it 
 meant at the same time the slightest tone of 
 disapproval, a gravity which would not smile. 
 Randal thought a man should stick to his colors, 
 whatever they were. "And what are you doing 
 now ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; idling, drawing, dreaming, losing 
 my time; absolutely nothing;" then he added, 
 for he did not want to conceal his privileges, " I 
 have been busy for the last fortnight with a pict- 
 ure of Earl's-hall. " 
 
 "Are you turning artist, then? I did not 
 think the parish had any such possession. I 
 hope I may come and see it," said young Burn- 
 side, wondering whether he might venture to ask 
 his old school-fellow to dinner. He would have 
 done it instantly had he been alone. But his 
 mother was not to be trifled with. As he hesi- 
 tated, however, his father joined him, coming 
 from the church. 
 
 " So Sir Ludovic has gone," said the doctor ; 
 "I expected he would have waited to see you, 
 Randal, and perhaps gone on to the Manse ; but 
 he is looking frail, and perhaps he was wearied. 
 It's an unusual exertion for him, a very unusual 
 exertion. Good-day, Rob ; I am glad to see you 
 have resumed church-going; I hope it's a good 
 sign." 
 
 "I don't think it means much," said Rob; 
 " but perhaps it would be a good thing if I were 
 to go on to the doctor, and tell him of Sir Ludo- 
 
 vic's stumble. It might be well that he should 
 know at once." 
 
 "What's about Sir Ludovic's stumble?" said 
 the Minister ; while Randal called after the oth- 
 er as he went away, "I will come and see you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Rob Glen replied with an acquiescing nod and 
 wave of his hand. But he said within himself, 
 "if you find me," and went along with a jubi- 
 lant step and all kinds of dreams in his head. 
 Sir Ludovic had not received Rob with enthusi- 
 asm when he had gone to Earl's-hall. He had 
 not applauded his drawings as Margaret did, 
 who knew nothing about it, though he allowed 
 them to be clever. But at the same time he had 
 always tolerated Rob, never objected to his visits, 
 nor to the hours which Margaret had spent flit- 
 ting about his encampment among the potatoes. 
 If he had disapproved of this association, surely 
 he would have prevented it ; and what could 
 those words mean, as the old man grasped at his 
 offered arm, " This is all I want?" Wonderful 
 words ! meaning all, and more than all, that the 
 brightest hopes could look for. "This is all I 
 want." Margaret had taken no notice, but it did 
 not seem possible to Rob that she could have heard 
 such words unmoved. It is astonishing how easy 
 it is to believe miracles on our own behalf. In 
 any other case, Rob Glen would have had enough 
 of the shrewd good-sense of his class to know 
 how very unlikely it was that Sir Ludovic Leslie 
 should choose for his young daughter, who was 
 an heiress, in addition to every other advantage 
 she possessed, an alliance with the son of a small 
 farmer in the neighborhood, a "stickit minis- 
 ter," not at all successful or satisfactory even to 
 his own humble kith and kin. But the fact that 
 it was he himself, Rob Glen, who was the hero, 
 dazzled him, and threw a fictitious air of proba- 
 bility upon things the most unlikely. "This is 
 all I want." What could the fond father, who 
 has selected an Admirable Crichton to insure his 
 child's happiness, say more ? 
 
 "Oh ay," said Mrs. Glen, on her way home 
 from church. "The Earl's-hall family makes a 
 great work with our Rob. He's there morning, 
 noon, and nicht. I never see him, for my part. 
 Either he's drawing pictures of the house, or he's 
 learning Miss Margret to draw them, or he's 
 doin' something for Sir Ludovic. They take up 
 a' his time that lie never does a hand's turn for 
 his ain affairs. It's an awfu' waste of time ; but 
 when there are young folk concerned, really you 
 never can ken what's the maist profitable occupa- 
 tion ; just nonsense, in that kind of way, is some- 
 times mair for their advantage in the long-run ; 
 but that's no my way of judging in the general, 
 far enough from my way." 
 
 " That is just what I was thinking," said Mrs. 
 Cupar, of the Longriggs, a neighboring farm, 
 but a much more important one. If Mrs. Cupar 
 walked, it was because she chose to do so, not 
 from any need to employ this vulgar natural mode 
 of locomotion ; for, besides her husband's gig, 
 there was a pony-chaise at her orders, and her 
 dress was made by one of the best artistes in Ed- 
 inburgh, and her daughters, who came behind, 
 were young ladies who might have walked through 
 the Park without remark, infinitely better dress- 
 ed than Margaret Leslie. They were better than 
 Margaret in a great many ways ; they could play 
 on the piano ; and it was their mother's determi- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 59 
 
 nation to keep them clear of Rob Glen, or any 
 other suitor of his class, that made her so "neigh- 
 bor-like" with Rob Glen's mother. If he had 
 finished his studies in an orthodox way, and 
 become a "placed minister," then, indeed, she 
 might have relaxed her vigilance ; but as matters 
 were, no fox could have been more dangerous to 
 the hen-roost than this idle young man of educa- 
 tion, who was only a sma' farmer's son. Small 
 farmers, who cannot be denied as part of the 
 profession, yet who sink it down among the ranks 
 of the commonalty, are not liked by their larger 
 neighbors in the kingdom of Fife. 
 
 " That is just what I was thinking," said Mrs. 
 Cupar. " I did not imagine you were one who 
 would give in to idleness under any excuse." 
 
 "No me," said Mrs. Glen; "if my lad had 
 taken up his head with foreign travel, and wan- 
 derings about the world like that son of the min- 
 ister's, Randal — no that it's our place to judge 
 our neighbors; but there is a time for every- 
 thing, as is said in Scripture, and I've confi- 
 dence in my Rob that it's no just for nothing his 
 stopping here so long. They make a great work 
 with him at Earl's-hall. Sir Ludovic, you see 
 for yourself, is very frail. How he grippit to 
 Rob's arm ! It's a grand thing for an auld man 
 to find a young arm to lean upon, and a kind 
 person to be good to him." 
 
 Mrs. Glen could not help bragging a little. 
 She was as much elated as Rob was, and as en- 
 tirely blind to all the difficulties, though in any 
 other case, who would have seen more clearly ? 
 She had kept herself in the background, having 
 sense enough to see that Rob's mother could not 
 further his pursuits ; but she could not hold her 
 tongue, or refrain from waving her flag of tri- 
 umph before her neighbors — these neighbors who 
 were themselves " upsetting," and gave them- 
 selves airs much beyond any possible at Earl's- 
 lee. Mrs. Glen was not by any means sure that 
 "the Misses" at Longriggs, and their mother 
 had not designs of their own upon her son, and, 
 to tell the truth, either Bessie or Jessie Cupar 
 would have been an excellent match for Rob. 
 If he had fulfilled his fate and become " a placed 
 minister," what could have been better ? But 
 Margaret Leslie and her fortune had intoxicated 
 Mrs. Glen. She could not help flourishing this 
 sublime hope before her neighbors' eyes. 
 
 " Then we need not be surprised if we hear of 
 an engagement," said Mrs. Cupar, " in that quar- 
 ter." She thought the woman was daft, as she 
 said to the girls afterward. Miss Leslie ! a beau- 
 ty, and an heiress, and one of the proudest fam- 
 ilies in Fife. Surely the woman was out of her 
 wits! But it was as well to give her her own 
 way, and hear all that there was to hear. 
 
 "Na, it's no for me to say," said Mrs. Glen. 
 "I'm no saying just that. I'm saying nothing, 
 it's no my part, and Rob, he's no a lad to brag: 
 but I keep my een open, and I form my ain opin- 
 ions for all that. My son's not just a common 
 lad. Till something opens him up, he's real 
 hard to divine. He's more than ordinar clever, 
 for one thing, and when he gets with folk that 
 can enter into his ways — I'm free to confess I'm 
 no one of that kind mysel'. I've nae education 
 to put me on a par with him. There's his pict- 
 ures. You've no seen his pictures? I'm told, 
 and I can well believe it," said the proud moth- 
 er, ' ' that there's many a warse in the National 
 
 Gallery, though that's considered the best collec- 
 tion in a' the world." 
 
 "Dear me, now, to think of that!" said the 
 other farmer's wife. "Jessie and Bessie are 
 both very good at drawing. They were consid- 
 ered to have a great taste for it ; but for my 
 part I've always thought for a man that it was a 
 great wastery of time." 
 
 "No when it's the best kind," said Mrs. Glen, 
 in her superior knowledge. "I wouldna say 
 for the young ladies' bits of drawings ; but when 
 it's the right kind, there's nothing I ken that 
 brings in more money." Rob's mother felt just- 
 ly that this was the true test. "There's thou- 
 sands on thousands o' pounds to be made by it; 
 but it wants a real genius, aud that's just what 
 Rob has shown." 
 
 " Dear me," said her listener again. Not- 
 withstanding a natural undercurrent of scorn, 
 she could not help being impressed by so posi- 
 tive an assertion. Had Jessie and Bessie shown 
 real genius? There was something deeply im- 
 pressive, even though she scarcely believed in it, 
 in a thing by which thousands and thousands 
 could be made. 
 
 " I must look out the girls' sketches to-mor- 
 row," she said, "and see what your son thinks 
 of them. It must be a great comfort for you, 
 Mrs. Glen, when he has made up his mind not to 
 follow one thing, to find he has a good prospect 
 in another. It's not often a young man has that 
 luck when he gives up what he's been brought up 
 to. But now I must bid you good-day, for this is 
 our nearest road ; and I hope you'll let me hear 
 when anything happens." "The woman's daft," 
 Mrs. Cupar said, as she went on. "She thinks 
 because Sir Ludovic, poor old frail gentleman, 
 gripped Rob's arm, finding him the foremost, 
 that he's going to give her son his daughter Mar- 
 garet Leslie!— that thinks herself of a different 
 kind of flesh and blood from the like of you ; 
 and I would think myself sore brought down in 
 the world if I had to give one o' you to Rob 
 Glen!" 
 
 "Well, mamma," said one of the girls, "he 
 is what the maids call a bonnie lad." "And 
 very like a gentleman," said the other. They 
 both gave a glance behind them as they spoke, 
 not at all unwilling, if truth were told, to be over- 
 taken by Rob Glen. 
 
 "Jessie, Jessie, how often must I tell you not 
 to be vulgar? There is nothing so vulgar as 
 that broad Scotch," cried the genteel farmer's 
 wife. She was more horrified than Sir Ludovic 
 was with Margaret's idioms and Fifish confusion 
 of grammar ; but the girls were not nearly so de- 
 cided as to the folly of Mrs. Glen. They thought 
 there was something to say on the other side. 
 Margaret Leslie had no education ; she had nev- 
 er been out of that old crow's-nest of a house. 
 She had never had masters for anything, or seen 
 the world. Family was not everything, nor 
 money either ; and if there was a nice-looking, 
 handsome, well-educated young man who did 
 not mind her want of education — Mrs. Cupar 
 thought her own girls were almost as daft as 
 Mrs. Glen. 
 
 But there was another humble pedestrian com- 
 ing after them, who was of the same opinion as 
 the girls. Jeanie had seen Mrs. Glen and her 
 son from a distance, but bad not been seen by 
 Rob, who had eyes only for Margaret, and, an- 
 
60 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 der the shade of her book, the poor girl had 
 watched him, all unconscious of her observation. 
 He had not been at church before since he re- 
 turned to his mother's house, and all his thoughts 
 were bent, it seemed to Jeanie, upon the large, 
 square, red-lined pew which held her master and 
 Miss Margaret; Even if Margaret were not 
 there, was it likely that he would have greeted 
 her in the face of day — he, a gentleman, and she 
 but a servant-lass ? Jeanie felt the impossibili- 
 ty of the connection more than she had ever 
 done before. She had seen nothing, indeed, 
 that was impossible in it when she had gone to 
 his uncle's shop, or taken a Sunday walk with 
 Rob out by Glasgow Green and upon the water- 
 side. But here the reality of the matter burst 
 upon her. She saw him walk past with Sir Lu- 
 dovic leaning on his arm, while she hung back 
 while ' ' the kirk skaaled. " She saw him shake 
 hands with Randal Burnside. And she was 
 nothing but Bell's helper, a servant -lass. Her 
 father had been one of the elders who stood at 
 the plate on this eventful day, and John Rob- 
 ertson understood the wistful look his daughter 
 gave him when the service was over. 
 
 "Ay, ay, he saw me weel enough — he could 
 not help seeing me. He gave me a little nod as 
 he passed, quite civil : but — I would think na 
 mair of such a whillie-wha, " said John. 
 
 " You must not ca' names, faither," said gen- 
 tle Jeanie ; but it was a heavy heart which she 
 carried along that same road, keeping far behind 
 Mrs. Glen and Mrs. Cupar and the young ladies. 
 It was no wonder to Jeanie, nor had she any 
 doubt about Sir Ludovic. Who would not be 
 glad of such a lad as Rob ? She was not angry 
 with Margaret, nor even with Rob himself, for 
 that matter. It was her own fault ever to think 
 that she was his equal. What was he but a lad- 
 die, that did not know his own mind, when he 
 had pledged himself to her that ought to have 
 known better ? She was younger than he was, 
 yet she ought to have known better. He was 
 not a whillie-wha, as her father said, but only 
 too tender-hearted, liking to please those he was 
 with. Only this could ever have made him 
 waste so much of his time and kindness upon 
 John Robertson's daughter — a servant-lass — he 
 that, at the least, would be "a placed minister!" 
 At last Jeanie saw clearly the absurdity of the 
 thought. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Sir Ludovic was "none the worse" of his 
 stumble, and next day all things went on as be- 
 fore. Rob Glen was one of the first who came 
 to inquire, and he was asked to go up - stairs, 
 and was thanked for his aid with all ceremony, 
 yet kindness, Margaret standing by, beaming 
 upon him, beaming with pleasure and gratitude. 
 Rob, she felt, was her friend much more than 
 her father's, and she was grateful to him for his 
 succor of her father, and grateful to Sir Ludovic 
 for accepting the service. She stood by and 
 smiled upon the young man. "I am very 
 thankful too," she said, " Mr. Glen," and the 
 look in Rob's eyes made her blush. She had 
 always been given to blushing; but Margaret 
 blushed more than ever now, in the vague ex- 
 citement of thought and feeling which these last 
 
 weeks had revived in her. They had been spent 
 almost in Rob's constant companionship, so long 
 had the sketching lasted ; and the two had been 
 for hours together, alone, in close proximity, 
 with unlimited opportunities of conversation. 
 He had told her a great deal about himself, and 
 she had revealed to him all the corners of her 
 innocent memory. They had become again as 
 closely united as when little Margaret sat by the 
 big boy, with her little feet dabbling in the wa- 
 ter, spoiling his fishing, but filling him with vague 
 delight. 
 
 He had indulged in various other loves since 
 then ; but, after all, when you came to look back 
 upon it, was not little Margaret his first love? 
 He got her to go with him one day to the burn, 
 which they had haunted as children, and told 
 her he meant to make a picture of it. This was 
 just the spot, he said. It was nothing but a bit 
 of grassy bank, a ragged willow dipping into the 
 brook, a great old hawthorn-bush upon the slope. 
 "You used to be so fond of the white hawthorn " 
 ("And so I am still," Margaret said), " and here 
 was where you sat with the clear water running 
 over your little feet. I think I can see them 
 now." Margaret grew crimson, but that was 
 an effect so easily produced ; and she too thought 
 she could remember sitting on these summer af- 
 ternoons, witli the soft ripple, like warm silk, 
 playing over her feet, and the scent of the haw- 
 thorn (we do not call it May in Fife) filling the 
 air, and flies and little fishes dimpling the sur- 
 face of the pool. "I will paint a picture of it," 
 said Rob ; and the idea pleased her. Thus the 
 days went on ; they were shorter than any days 
 had ever been before to Margaret, full of interest, 
 full of pleasure. An atmosphere of soft flattery, 
 praise, too delicate to be put into words, a kind 
 of unspoken worship, surrounded her. She was 
 amused, she was occupied, she was made happy. 
 And it did not occur to her to ask herself the 
 reason of this vague but delightful exhilaration. 
 She felt it like an atmosphere all round her, but 
 did not ask herself, and did not know what it 
 was. 
 
 And perhaps with this round of pleasant occu- 
 pation going on outside, she was not quite so 
 much with her father, or so ready to note his 
 ways as she had been. On the Monday evening, 
 Rob, by special invitation, dined with them, and 
 exerted himself to his utmost to amuse Sir Lu- 
 dovic ; and after this beginning he came often. 
 He did amuse Sir Ludovic, sometimes by his 
 knowledge, sometimes by his ignorance; by the 
 clever things he would say, and the foolish things 
 he would say — the one as much as the other. 
 
 "Let your friend come to dinner," the old 
 man would say, with a smile. "John, you will 
 put a plate for Mr. Glen. " And so it came about 
 that for a whole week Rob shared their meal ev- 
 ery evening. When Sir Ludovic got drowsy (as 
 it is so natural to do after dinner, for every one, 
 not only for old men), the two young people 
 would steal away into the West Chamber and 
 watch the sun setting, which also was a danger- 
 ous amusement. Thus it will be seen poor little 
 unprotected Margaret was in a bad way. 
 
 During all this time, the old servants of the 
 house watched their master very closely. Even 
 Bell had to give up the consideration of Mar- 
 garet and devote herself to Sir Ludovic. And 
 they saw many signs and tokens that they did 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 C] 
 
 not like, and had many constdtations whether 
 Mr. Leslie or " the ladies " should be sent for. 
 The ladies seemed the most natural, for the 
 young master was known to have his business 
 to attend to, and his family; but Bell "could 
 not bide" calling for the ladies before their 
 time. And Sir Ludovic was just in his ordinar ; 
 there was nothing more to be said ; failing, but 
 that was natural: nothing that anybody could 
 take notice of. It was well to have Rob Glen at 
 night, for that amused him ; and when the Min- 
 ister called, bringing his son to be re-presented 
 to his old friend, they were glad, for Sir Ludovic 
 was interested. When Dr. Burnside went away, 
 he stopped at the door expressly to tell Bell 
 how glad he was to see the old gentleman look 
 so well. 
 
 "He's taking out a new lease," said the Doc- 
 tor. 
 
 " Eh me," Bell said, looking after him, " how 
 little sense it takes to make a minister!" But 
 this was an utterance of hasty temper, for she 
 had in reality an exalted respect for Dr. Burn- 
 side, both as minister and as man. 
 
 But it fell upon the house like a bomb-shell, 
 when suddenly one morning, after being unusu- 
 ally well the night before, Sir Ludovic declined 
 to get out of bed. No, he said, he was not ill, 
 he was quite comfortable ; but he did not feel 
 disposed to get up. Old John, upon whose im- 
 agination this had an effect quite out of propor- 
 tion to its apparent importance as an incident, 
 begged and entreated almost with tears, and, 
 finding his own remonstrances ineffectual, went 
 to get Bell. 
 
 " I canna stand it," the old man said. " Get 
 you him out of his bed, Bell. Pit it to me ony 
 other way, and I'll bear it ; but to see him lie 
 yonder smiling, and think of a' that's to come !" 
 
 Bell put on a clean apron and went up-stairs. 
 
 "Sir Ludovic," she said, "you're no going 
 to bide there as if you were ill, and frighten my 
 auld man out of his wits. Ye ken, John, he's a 
 dour body on the outside, but within there's no 
 a baby has a softer heart ; and he canna bide to 
 see you in your bed — nor me either!" cried the 
 old woman, suddenly, putting up her hands to 
 her face. 
 
 Sir Ludovic lay quite placid, with his white 
 head upon the white pillows, his fine dark eyes 
 full of light, and smiling. It was enough, Bell 
 thought, to break the heart of a stone. 
 
 "And why should I get up when I am com- 
 fortable here?" said Sir Ludovic, "my good 
 Bell. You've ruled over me so long that you 
 think I am never to have a will of my own ; 
 and, indeed, if I do not show a spark of resolu- 
 tion now, when am I to show it?" he said, with 
 a soft laugh. " There is but little time." 
 
 On this John made an inarticulate outburst, 
 something between a sob and a groan — a roar 
 of grief and impatience such as an animal in ex- 
 tremity might have uttered. He had stolen up 
 behind his wife, not able to keep away from his 
 old master. Bell had long been her husband's 
 interpreter when words failed him. She dried 
 her eyes with, her apron, and turned again to the 
 bedside. 
 
 ' Sir Ludovic," she said, solemnly, " he says 
 '11 break his heart." 
 
 'My good friend," said the old man, with a 
 humorous twitch about his mouth, "let us be 
 
 you 
 
 honest. It must come some time, why shouldn't 
 it come now? I've been trying, like the rest of 
 you, to push it off, and pretend I did not know. 
 Come, you are not so young yourself, to be fright- 
 ened. It must come, sooner or later. What is 
 the use of being uncomfortable, trying to keep 
 it at arm's-length? I'm very well here. lam 
 quite at my ease. Let us go through with it," 
 said Sir Ludovic, with a sparkle in his eye. 
 
 "You're speaking Hebrew-Greek to me, Sir 
 Ludovic. I canna tell no more than the babe 
 unborn what you're going through with," cried 
 Bell ; and when she had said this she threw her 
 apron over her head and sobbed aloud. 
 
 "Well, this is a cheerful beginning," said Sir 
 Ludovic. " Call ye this backing of your friends ? 
 Go away, you two old fools, and send me my 
 little Peggy ; and none of your wailing to her, 
 Bell. Leave the little thing at peace as long as 
 that may be." 
 
 "I hope I ken my duty to Miss Margret," 
 said Bell, with an air of offence, which was the 
 easiest to put on in the circumstances. She hur- 
 ried out of the room with hasty steps, keeping 
 up this little fiction, and met Margaret coming 
 down-stairs, fresh as the morning, in her light 
 dress, with her shining hair. "You're to go to 
 your papa, Miss Margret," said Bell, "in his ain 
 room: where you'll find him in his bed — " 
 
 "He's not ill, Bell?" cried Margaret, with 
 quick anxiety. 
 
 "111! He's just as obstinate and as ill-willy 
 as the mule in the Scriptures," cried Bell, dart- 
 ing down the winding stair. She could not bear 
 it any more than John. Margaret, standing on 
 the spiral steps, an apparition of brightness, ev- 
 erything about her 
 
 " Drawn 
 From morning and the cheerful dawn ;" 
 
 her countenance all smiling, her eyes as soft and 
 as happy as the morning light — Bell could not 
 see her for tears. She seemed to see the crape 
 and blackness which so soon would envelop them 
 all, and the deeper darkness of the world, in 
 which this young creature would soon have no 
 natural home. "No another moment to think 
 upon it," Bell said to herself; "no a moment. 
 The ladies maun come now." 
 
 Margaret, surprised, went through the long 
 room in which, by this hour, her father's chair 
 was always occupied, but felt no superstitious 
 presentiment at seeing it desolate. Sir Ludo- 
 vic's rooms — there were two of them, a larger 
 and a smaller — opened off from the long room. 
 He had taken, quite lately, as his bedchamber, 
 the smaller room of the two, an octagon-shaped 
 and panelled room, as being the warmest and 
 most bright ; and there he was lying, smiling as 
 when Bell saw him first, with the morning light 
 upon his face. 
 
 "You sent for me, papa," said Margaret. 
 " Are you ill that you are in bed ? I have nev- 
 er seen you in bed before." 
 
 "Remember that, then, my Peggy, as a proof 
 of the comfortable life I have had, though I am 
 so old. No, not ill, but very comfortable. Why 
 should I get up and give myself a great deal of 
 trouble, when I am so comfortable here ?" 
 
 " Indeed, if you are so very comfortable — " 
 said Margaret, a little bewildered: "it must be 
 only laziness, papa;" and she laughed, but stop- 
 ped in the middle of her laugh, and grew serious, 
 
62 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 she could not tell why. "But it is very lazy of 
 you," she said. "I never heard of any one who 
 was quite well staying in bed because it was 
 comfortable." 
 
 "No? But then there are things in heaven 
 and earth, my Peggy, and I want you to do some- 
 thing for me. I want you to write a letter for 
 me. Bring your writing things here, and I will 
 tell you what to say." 
 
 She met John in the long room, coming in 
 with various articles, as if to provision a. place 
 which was about to be besieged. He had some 
 wood under his arm to light a fire, and a tray 
 with cups and glasses, and a hot-water bottle 
 (called in Scotland a "pig") ; and there was an 
 air of excitement about him, suppressed and som- 
 bre, which struck Margaret with vague alarm. 
 " Why are you taking in all these things?" she 
 said ; "he did not say he was cold." 
 
 "If he doesn't want them the day, he may 
 want them the morn," said John. 
 
 " The mom ! he is not going to lie in bed al- 
 ways because it is comfortable ; that would be 
 too absurd," said Margaret. "What is it? 
 There is not going to be — anything done to 
 papa? — any — operation? What is it? You look 
 as if there was — something coming — " 
 
 "I have my work to do," said John, hastily 
 turning away. "I've nae time to say ay and no 
 to little misses that canna understand." 
 
 "Oh, John, what an old bear you are!" said 
 Margaret. He made her uneasy. It seemed as 
 if something must have happened during the 
 night. Was her father, perhaps, going to have a 
 leg off, or an arm ? She knew this was nonsense ; 
 but John's paraphernalia and his face both looked 
 so. She went to the West Chamber, where all 
 her special possessions were, and got her little 
 writing-case, which one of her sisters had given 
 her. Last night before she went to bed she had 
 set np a little drawing she had done, and which 
 she thought was more successful than any hith- 
 erto attempted. She had set it up so that she 
 might see it the first thing in the morning, to 
 judge how it bore the light of day. And on the 
 table was Rob's block with the sketch he had made 
 of Sir Ludovic in his chair. He was to come 
 again that very day, with her father's consent, 
 to go on with it. All this looked somehow, she 
 could not tell how, a long way off to Margaret, 
 as if something had happened to set these simple 
 plans aside. She felt, in the jargon of her new 
 art, as if the foreground had suddenly grown into 
 such importance that all that was behind it was 
 thrown miles back. It was very strange ; and 
 yet nothing had happened, only her father was 
 lazy, and had not got out of bed. 
 
 "Who is it for? And am I to write from 
 myself, papa, or am I to write for you ?" she said, 
 sitting down at the bedside and opening her 
 writing-case. He paused, and looked at her for 
 a moment before he spoke. 
 
 "It is to your sisters, to Jean and Grace, my 
 little Peggy." 
 
 "To Jean and Grace !" 
 
 " To ask them, if it is quite convenient, to 
 come here now, instead of waiting till Septem- 
 ber, according to their general custom — " 
 
 "Oh, papa!" cried Margaret, suddenly real- 
 izing the change that was coming in her life ; 
 the sketches and the drawing -lessons, and the 
 talks, and the confidences, and Rob Glen him- 
 
 self — What would Jean and Grace say to Rob ? 
 She felt as if in a moment all her little structure 
 of amusement and pleasure was falling to pieces. 
 She closed her writing-case again with a gesture 
 of despair. "Oh, papa, is not September soon 
 enough? I don't want them here now. In — 
 the summer," said Margaret, hastily, blushing for 
 herself at the little subtle subterfuge to which 
 she was resorting to conceal her real terror — 
 "in the summer there is always something — I 
 mean so many things to do." 
 
 "Yes," her father said, with a smile; "and 
 for some of us, my little girl, things we shall 
 never do again." 
 
 She did not realize the meaning of this, and 
 perhaps Margaret may be pardoned if, not know- 
 ing the sadder circumstances involved, her mind 
 was for the moment absorbed in her own disap- 
 pointment and confusion ; the sudden sense of 
 arrest and stoppage in all her pleasant ways 
 which overwhelmed her. "Why do you want 
 them, papa?" she went on ; "am I not enough ? 
 You used to say you liked me best. You used 
 to say, just you and me, you and me, got on best 
 in the old house." 
 
 "And so I would say still," said the old man, 
 "my little Peggy, my bonnie Peggy ! Yes, it is 
 enough to have you and me. (I forgive you the 
 grammar.) But however selfish I might be were 
 there only myself to think of, I must think now 
 of you, my little girl." 
 
 "And what is about me?" cried Margaret; 
 "if you think I want Jean and Grace, papa, 
 what will they do but find fault ? They are nev- 
 er satisfied with anything we do. They find 
 fault with everybody. They say John is stu- 
 pid — " 
 
 "And so he is, a doited old body — and, my 
 Peggy, sometimes very far from civil to you." 
 
 "Old John, papa? To me? He is as fond 
 of me as if I were his own. When he scolds, 
 I don't pay any attention, any more than when 
 you scold." 
 
 Sir Ludovic laughed. 
 
 " That is a pretty way of telling me how little 
 authority I have," he said. 
 
 "Papa!" cried Margaret, impatiently, "you 
 know very well that is not what I mean. I 
 would not vex you, not for the world — never you 
 — and not even John. I cannot bear him to be 
 called names, and everything found fault with. 
 There's not this and there's not that ; no draw- 
 ing-room ; and the bedrooms are not big enough, 
 and me not well enough dressed." 
 
 "Perhaps they are right there, my Peggy. I 
 fear you are dressed anyhow, though I see no- 
 body that looks so well." 
 
 "Then why must they come before Septem- 
 ber?" said Margaret. "Let them come, papa, 
 at their own time." 
 
 He laughed a little, lying there upon the white 
 pillow, with a delicate hue of life in his old cheek, 
 and all the vigor of twenty in his dark eyes. He 
 did not look as if there was anything the matter 
 with him. He only looked comfortable, luxuri- 
 ously comfortable, that was all. She laughed, 
 too, as she looked at him. "How lazy you are, 
 papa!" she said; "do you think it is right? 
 What would Bell say to me if I did not get up ? 
 You look so comfortable — and so happy." 
 
 "Yes, very comfortable," he said; but the 
 laugh went off his face. " My Peggy," he went 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 C3 
 
 on, with sudden gravity, "don't ask any ques- 
 tions, but write to your sisters. Say I wisli them 
 to come, and to come now. No more, my dear, 
 no more. I am not joking. Say I will look fur 
 them as soon as they can get here." 
 
 She opened her writing-book again, and got 
 her paper, and began to write. When he took 
 this tone, there was nothing to be done but to 
 obey. But when she had written a few lines, 
 Margaret stopped suddenly with a little start, as 
 if all at once overtaken by a sense of the mean- 
 ing of what she was doing. "Papa," she cried, 
 the color leaving her face, two big tears starting 
 into her eyes, "you are hiding something from 
 me : you are ill ! " 
 
 " No, no," he said — " no, I am not at all ill ; 
 but, my Peggy, one never knows what may be 
 going to happen, and I want to have your sisters 
 here." 
 
 "Oh," cried Margaret, throwing away her 
 book, " let them stay away— let them stay-away ! 
 I want you all to myself. I can take care of you 
 better than they can. Papa, I know you are ill, 
 though you will not own it." 
 
 " No, no," he said, more feebly. " Run away 
 and play, my little girl. I am — tired, just a trifle 
 tired : and come back in half an hour, in half an 
 hour, before post-time." 
 
 "Here's a cordial to ye, Sir Ludovie," said 
 John, and he made an imperative sign to his 
 young mistress. "Let him be — lethimbe! he's 
 no weel enough to be teased about anything," he 
 whispered in her ear. 
 
 Margaret stood gazing at her father for a 
 moment thunderstruck. Then she snatched up 
 the letter she had begun, and rushed rapidly, 
 yet on noiseless feet, out of the room. Oh, old 
 I John was cruel ! Would she do anything to 
 1 tease her father? And, oh! he was cruel not 
 1 to tell her — to wish for Jean and Grace, and to 
 hide it from her. She went down-stairs like the 
 wind, her feet scarcely touching the steps, mak- 
 ing a brightness in the dim light of the stair, and 
 a movement in the stillness, to go to Bell, her 
 referee in everything, and to ask what it meant. 
 j "Oh, Bell, what does it mean?" was on her 
 I lips ; when suddenly, through the open door, 
 | Margaret saw two figures approaching, and stop- 
 ped short. They were young men both, both 
 pleasant to behold ; but even at that agitated 
 moment, and in the suddenness of the appari- 
 tion, the girl observed the difference between 
 them without knowing that she observed it. 
 The difference was to the disadvantage of Rob, 
 on whose behalf all her prepossessions were en- 
 gaged ; and this gave her a faint pang, the cause 
 of which she was at the moment quite uncon- 
 scious of. " Oh ! " she cried, not able to restrain 
 her little outcry of trouble, as she met their sur- 
 prised and questioning looks — "oh, papa is ill ; 
 I think he is very ill ; and I don't know what to 
 do." 
 
 The second of the visitors was Randal Burn- 
 side, who had met Rob Glen at the door ; and 
 it was he who answered first, eagerly, "I pass- 
 ed Dr. Hume's carriage on the road, at a cottage 
 door. Shall I go back and tell him to come 
 here?" 
 
 " Oh, will you ?" cried Margaret, two big tears 
 trembling out with a great plash, like big rain- 
 drops, from her anxious eyes. " Oh, will you ? 
 That is what I want most." 
 
 He did not stop to tell his errand, or to receive 
 any greeting or acknowledgment, but turned, 
 with his hat in his hand, and sped away. Rob 
 had said nothing ; he only stood gazing at her 
 wistfully, and took her hand when the other was 
 gone. "I see what is the matter," he said, ten- 
 derly; "is there anything new? is there any 
 cause for fear ?" 
 
 In her excitement, Margaret was not like her- 
 self. The touch and the tone of tenderness 
 seemed to go through her with a strange, almost 
 guilty, sense of consolation ; and yet she was 
 angry that it was not he who had gone to serve 
 her practically. She drew her hand away, fright- 
 ened, angry, yet not displeased. " Why did you 
 let him go ?" she cried, with a reproach that said 
 more than confession. 
 
 Rob's face brightened and glowed all over. 
 " I wanted to stay with you and comfort you," 
 he said ; " I can think of no one else when you 
 are in trouble. Come in and rest, and tell me 
 what it is. You must not overdo yourself. You 
 must not suffer. I want to take care of you!" 
 
 "Oh, what is about me?" said Margaret. 
 But she suffered herself to be persuaded, and 
 went with him up to the West Chamber to tell 
 him how it all was. 
 
 .CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Mrs. Bellingham and Miss Leslie arrived 
 as soon as convenient trains could bring them. 
 The summons which Margaret wrote later that 
 day, taking down her father's message from his 
 lips, was not instant, though as decided as he 
 could make it without too much alarming the 
 girl, whose nerves were shaken, and who sat and 
 gazed at him with a wistful countenance, large- 
 eyed and dismal, watching every look. When 
 he spoke to her, her eyes filled, and she did not 
 seem able to keep that anxious gaze from his 
 face. But the doctor, when he came, was more 
 consoling than alarming. There was nothing to 
 be frightened about, he said, scolding Margaret, 
 paternally. And by degrees the household calm- 
 ed down and accepted the new state of affairs, 
 and began to think it natural that Sir Ludovie 
 should have taken to his bed. His son came 
 and paid him a visit from Edinburgh, staying a 
 single night, and sitting for a solemn hour or 
 two by his father's bedside, though he did not 
 say much. "Is there anything I can do for 
 you, sir ?" he asked, and begged that he might 
 be written to daily with news of his father's state, 
 though he could find so little to say to him. 
 But the visit of Mr. Leslie was not nearly so im- 
 portant as that of " the ladies," to which every- 
 body looked forward with excitement. They 
 arrived in the afternoon, having slept in Edin- 
 burgh the previous night. Just at the right mo- 
 ment they arrived, at the hour which is most 
 proper for the arrival of a visitor at a country 
 house, leaving just time enough to dress for din- 
 ner. And they came in with a rustle of silk 
 into Sir Ludovic's octagon room, where there 
 was scarcely room for them, and gave him each 
 a delicate kiss, filling the place with delicate 
 odors. 
 
 "I hope you are a little better, dear papa," 
 Grace said ; and Mrs. Jean, who was large and 
 
64 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 round, and scarcely could pass between the bed 
 and the wall, cried out cheerily that it was a re- 
 lief to her mind to see him looking so well. 
 
 "I never should have found out he was ill at 
 all, if I had not been told," Mrs. Bellingham 
 said, whose voice was pitched higher than that 
 of the others. Sir Ludovic greeted them kind- 
 lv, and allowed them to put their faces against 
 his for a moment without disturbing himself. 
 
 "Yes, I told you — I am very comfortable," 
 he said to Margaret, who stood behind, very ea- 
 ger to see what impression her father's appear- 
 ance would make on her sisters. She was very 
 happy, poor child, to hear those cheerful words 
 from Mrs. Beliingham's high-pitched voice. 
 
 " Well, papa, now we have seen you, and I 
 feel quite happy about you, we will go and make 
 ourselves comfortable too," said Mrs. Belling- 
 ham. "I hope you have a cup of tea for us, 
 Margaret, after our journey? and you must 
 come and pour it out, for I want to look at you. 
 Papa will spare you a little. John is waiting in 
 the next room, I see." 
 
 "John will do very well," said Sir Ludovic ; 
 ' ' don't derange yourselves, my dears, from your 
 usual habits for me." 
 
 "I assure you, dear papa," said Grace, "I do 
 not care at all for being put out of my usual 
 habits. I will stay with you. What is there in 
 comparison with a dear father's wishes? You 
 go, dearest Jean ; I am sure you want some tea, 
 and I will stay with dear papa. I can see in his 
 eyes," she added, in an audible undertone, push- 
 ing her sister gently toward the door, "that he 
 wishes me to stay." 
 
 " My dear," said Sir Ludovic, "you must not 
 begin your self-sacrifices as soon as you enter 
 the house. I am looking quite well, as you both 
 say. There is no reason why you shouldn't have 
 your tea in peace. My eyes are very deceitful 
 if they say anything about it except what I have 
 said. Go, and make yourselves quite comforta- 
 ble." 
 
 "Come, come," said Mrs. Bellingham. "This 
 is just your usual nonsense ; of course papa likes 
 his old John, whom he can order about as he 
 pleases, better than you in that old silk that 
 makes such a noise. We shall come and sit 
 with papa after dinner; good-bye for the mo- 
 ment," she said, kissing the tips of her fingers. 
 Sir Ludovic laughed to himself softly as they 
 disappeared. They came back every year with 
 all their little peculiarities unchanged, all their 
 little vanities and minauderies — Grace self-sacri- 
 ficing, Jean sensible. They were so little like 
 his children that he could laugh at their foibles 
 without any harshness, but without any pain. 
 The constant reappearance of these two ladies, 
 always falling into their little genteel comedy 
 as they entered the room, exactly at the point 
 where, on the previous year, they left it off, made 
 the interval of time appear as if it had never 
 been. John, who was coming in with one of the 
 many additional adjuncts to comfort which he 
 was always bringing, caught the sound of the 
 laugh. John did not know if he approved of a 
 laugh from a dying man, but he could not help 
 joining in with a faint chuckle. 
 
 " The ladies, Sir Ludovic, are aye just the 
 same, a' their little ways," he said. 
 
 Meanwhile Margaret followed them in a little 
 flutter of excitement. She had not wanted them 
 
 to come ; but now that they were here, the nov- 
 elty was always agreeable, and she had been 
 grateful to them for thinking so well of Sir 
 Ludovic's looks, which by dint of anxiety and 
 watching she had ceased to be satisfied with. 
 Bell, who knew the ways and the wants of the 
 ladies, had sent up tea to the West Chamber, 
 whither they went, giving a sensation of compa- 
 ny and fulness to the quiet old house. Tire other 
 voices in Earl's-hall had a different sound ; they 
 were lower, softer, with a little of the chant and 
 modulation which belongs to Fife, and did not 
 make the air tingle as Mrs. Bellingham did. 
 Even down -stairs the women - servants could 
 trace the movements of the new-comers by the 
 flow of what was chiefly a monologue on the 
 part of the elder lady. Miss Leslie had no ob- 
 jection to take her share ; but Mrs. Bellingham 
 had most boldness and most perseverance, and 
 left little room for any one else. "Hear to her 
 lang tongue," Bell said; "high English, and as 
 sharp as the clipping of a pair of shears." It 
 ran on from Sir Ludovic's dressing-room, through 
 the long room, which was so vacant, and which 
 Margaret could scarcely go through without tears. 
 
 "I wish papa would have been advised about 
 this room, it might have been made so much 
 more comfortable. A partition where that screen 
 is would have given a real dining-room and li- 
 brary, instead of this ridiculous long wilderness. 
 Oh, Margaret, why do you leave that huge old 
 chair standing out there, to break one's legs 
 against ? It should be put back out of the 
 way," said Mrs. Bellingham, advancing her hand 
 to put aside the chair. 
 
 " Oh, stop, stop ! It is papa's chair ; it must 
 not be moved!" 
 
 "Ah, to be sure, it is papa's chair," said Mrs. 
 Bellingham. She stood and looked at it for a 
 moment, with her head on one side. " Well, do 
 you know it is touching, this? Poor papa! I 
 remember he always sat here. It is affecting, 
 like a soldier's sword and his horse. But, my 
 dear little Margaret, my poor child, you cannot 
 leave it always here blocking up the way." 
 
 "Dear papa's chair !" said Miss Grace, put- 
 ting her hand caressingly upon it ; and then she 
 touched the back with her cheek, as she had 
 touched Sir Ludovic's face. " Poor dear old 
 chair! never again to be what it has been, never 
 again — " 
 
 "Yes, poor old thing, I should not like to see 
 it sent away to a lumber-room," said Mrs. Bel- 
 lingham. "But there will be so many changes, 
 that it is sad to contemplate ! Now, Margaret, 
 tell me all about it : how was he seized ? You 
 did not say anything about a fit, and he does 
 not look as if there had been any fit, No sugar 
 for me, dear. Were you with him when it hap- 
 pened ? or how did it come on ? We must 
 know all this, you know, before we see the doc- 
 tor. I shall make it a point of going fully over 
 the case with the doctor. One knows then what 
 we have to expect, and how long a course it is 
 likely to run." 
 
 "Jean!" cried Margaret, aghast with grief 
 and horror; "I thought you thought he was 
 looking well! You said you would not have 
 known there was anything the matter. You 
 said — " 
 
 "My dear child, did you expect me to tell 
 him that I saw death in his face ? Is that the 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 sort of thing, do you think, to let the patient 
 know? Do you expect me to say to him — 
 Good gracious, child ! what is the matter ? 
 What are you going to do ?" 
 
 "You must pour out your tea for yourselves," 
 said Margaret; "I am going to papa. Oh, if 
 you think he is so ill, how can you sit and take 
 your tea ? How can you sit down and talk, and 
 tell him you will come after dinner, as if it was 
 nothing? You cannot mean it!" said the poor 
 girl, "you cannot mean it! Oh! how can you 
 tell, that have seen him only once? The doctor 
 thinks he will soon be well again ; and Ludovic 
 — Ludovic is as old as you are — he never said a 
 word tome." 
 
 "Ludovic thought j*ou were too young to be 
 told ; lie thought it was best for us to come 
 first; and there are some doctors that will nev- 
 er tell you the truth. I don't hold with that. I 
 would not blurt it out to the patient to affect his 
 spirits, but I would tell the family always. Now, 
 Margaret, you must not go to papa with that cry- 
 ing face. Sit down and compose yourself. He 
 is very well ; he has got old John. You don't 
 suppose that I am looking for anything imme- 
 diate — " 
 
 "Take this; it will do you good," said Miss 
 Leslie, forcing upon Margaret her own cup of 
 tea. "I will pour out another for myself." 
 
 Margaret put it away from her with out- 
 stretched hands. She turned from them with 
 an anguish of disgust and impatience which Jean 
 and Grace had done nothing to deserve, feeling 
 only the justice of that one advice not to go to 
 her father with her countenance convulsed with 
 weeping. But where could she go? She had 
 been frightened, and had recovered from her 
 fright ; had taken comfort from what the doctor 
 said, and joyful consolation from the comments 
 of her sisters on the old man's Appearance : but 
 where was she to seek any comfort now ? With 
 her heart sick, and fluttering, tingling, with the 
 stroke she had received so unexpectedly, the 
 girl turned to the window, where at least she 
 could conceal her " crying face," and stood there 
 gazing out, seeing nothing, stunned with sudden 
 misery, and not knowing what to do. But the 
 intolerable pain into which she had been plunged 
 all at once did not deaden her faculties. Though 
 her mind was in such commotion, she could not 
 help hearing all that went on behind her. Jean 
 and Grace were quite free from any bewilder- 
 ment of pain. They were glad to have their 
 tea after their journey, and they discussed every- 
 thing with a little excitement and expectation, 
 just touched by solemnity. To be thus sum- 
 moned to their father's death-bed, to be placed 
 in the foremost places at this tragic act which 
 was about to be accomplished, themselves shar- 
 ing in the importance of it, and with a claim 
 upon the sympathy and respect of the world in 
 consequence, gave Jean and Grace a sense of 
 solemn dignity. When the heart is not deeply 
 affected, and when, indeed, your connection with 
 the dying is, as it were, an official one, it is 
 difficult not to feel thus advanced in moral im- 
 : portance by attendance on a death-bed. It was 
 Miss Leslie who felt this most. 
 
 " How sad to think of poor dearest papa on 
 that bed from which he will never rise ! " she 
 said, shaking her head; "and when one re- 
 members how active he used to be! But we 
 
 have nothing to murmur at. He has been 
 spared to us for so many years — " 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Grace?" said 
 Mrs. Bellingham. "I am older than you are, 
 but I never can remember a time when papa was 
 active ; and, to be sure, he is an old man, but 
 not half so old as grandpapa, whom I recollect 
 quite distinctly. He was active, if you like." 
 
 "At such a time, dearest Jean, why should 
 we dispute about words ? Of course, you are 
 right ; I am always making mistakes," said Miss 
 Grace; "but all the same, we have no right to 
 complain. Many, many years we have had him 
 longer than numbers of people I could mention. 
 Indeed, to have a father living is rare at our 
 time of life." 
 
 "That's true, at least," said Mrs. Bellingham. 
 "I hope you are not going to keep on that dress. 
 I told you in Edinburgh that a silk gown with a 
 train was preposterous to travel in, and it is 
 quite impossible for a sick-room. I shall p 
 on a soft merino, that does not make any noise 
 Merino is never too warm, even in the height 01 
 summer, at Earl's-hall." 
 
 "I have nothing but black, and I could not 
 put on black to hurt poor papa's feelings'," said 
 Grace. "He would think we were getting our 
 mourning already. Indeed, when you think how 
 long we will have to wear it without putting it 
 on a day too soon — " 
 
 "As if he would remark what you are wear- 
 ing! But I must go and see that Steward has 
 unpacked. It is true there will be black enough 
 before we are done with it, and once in mourn- 
 ing, I always say you never can tell when you 
 may take it off," said Mrs. Bellingham ; " but I 
 will not let you come into the sick-room in that 
 rustling dress. He was always fidgety at the 
 best of times. He would not put up with it. 
 There's your muslins, if you are not afraid of 
 taking cold; but I won't have silk," said the 
 elder sister, peremptory and decided. 
 
 Miss Leslie came to Margaret, and put an 
 arm round her where she stood at the window, 
 as the other went away. 
 
 "Dearest child, you must not cry so," she 
 said. "He is not suffering, you know. What 
 a blessing that there is no pain, that he is com- 
 fortable, as he says. Dear Jean seems to be a 
 little hard, but she means it very well ; and now 
 that we are here, you will be able to rest ; you 
 will not have so much responsibility." 
 
 "Oh, do you think I want to rest? am I 
 thinking of myself? It is because you are all 
 wrong — you are mistaken. The doctor did not- 
 say so. It is not true !" 
 
 Miss Leslie shook her head, and gave a little 
 moan. 
 
 " Dearest child !" she said, putting her cheek 
 against Margaret's wet and tear-stained cheek. 
 "But I must go and see about my things too," 
 she said. "Steward never thinks of me till she 
 has done everything for Jean. I am very glad 
 of that, of course ; it is just what I like ; but it 
 gives me a little more to do. Come with me, 
 dear, and tell me what to put on. It will amuse 
 you a little to see my things, though I haven't 
 got anything new — not a thing all this year. 
 You see, dear Ludie told us of dearest papa's 
 uncertain state of health, and what was the 
 good ? There is nothing more provoking than 
 having got a supply of colored things just before 
 
66 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 a long mourning. Alas ! it is bad enough with- 
 out that," said Grace, with a deep sigh. 
 
 After they had made their toilet, the ladies 
 dined, and not without appetite, while Margaret 
 sat unable to swallow a morsel, unable to escape 
 to her father's room for the tears which she 
 could not suppress. In the mean time it was 
 Bell that had taken the place of watcher. Bell's 
 heart was heavy too ; but she exerted herself to 
 amuse her patient, to tell him all the circum- 
 stances of his daughters' arrival. 
 
 "They've but a box apiece," said Bell, "and 
 that's wonderful for our ladies. But they've 
 minded this time that it's not that easy to get 
 trunks up our stairs. They've minded and 
 they've no minded, Sir Ludovic : for Mrs. Bel- 
 lin'am's is that big that no mortal, let alone 
 John, could get it up the stair. Her woman has 
 had a' the things to carry up in armfu's. And 
 oh, the heap o' things a leddy wants when she 
 gangs about! It's just a bondage — gowns for 
 the mornin' and gowns for the evenin', and 
 gowns to put on when she's dressing hersel', and 
 as mony fykes of laces and collars, and caps for 
 her head — if they ca' thae vanities caps." 
 
 Sir Ludovic laughed. 
 
 " Poor Jean and poor Grace !" he said. " I 
 hope they think mourning is becoming to them, 
 Bell, for they will not stint me of a ribbon ; I 
 know my daughters too well for that. They 
 will give me everything that is due to me, to the 
 very last scrap of crape." 
 
 "They'll do that, Sir Ludovic," said Bell, di- 
 vided between her desire to humor him and her 
 wish to keep off painful subjects ; " the ladies 
 have never shown any want o' respect. But Miss 
 Grace was aye fond of bright colors. They're 
 no so young as I mind them, but they're weel- 
 fa'ured women still. The Leslies were aye a 
 handsome family. They take it from yourself, 
 Sir Ludovic, if 1 may make so bold." 
 
 " Not entirely from me," said Sir Ludovic, 
 with a smile. He did not dislike the allusion 
 to his good looks, even though he was dying. 
 "Their mother, whom you scarcely remember, 
 was a handsome woman. We were not a bad- 
 looking couple, people said. Ah ! that's a long 
 time ago, Bell." 
 
 " Deed and it's a long time, Sir Ludovic ;" but 
 Bell did not know what to say on this subject, 
 for the interpolation of a third Lady Leslie no 
 doubt made the matter somewhat more difficult. 
 Probably this struck Sir Ludovic too, and he 
 was in the condition when human nature is glad 
 to seek a little help from another, or sympathy 
 at least, no help being possible. This time he 
 sighed — which was a thing much more befitting 
 than laughter on a dying bed. 
 
 "That's a strange subject altogether," he said ; 
 "any meeting after so long a time would be 
 strange. If she had been at one end of the 
 world and I at the other, there would be many 
 changes even then. Would we understand each 
 other ?" Sir Ludovic had ceased to speak to 
 Bell. He was musing alone, talking with him- 
 self. "And the difference must be greater than 
 any mortal separation. Know each other ? Of 
 course we must know each other, she and I ; but 
 the question is, will we understand each other?" 
 
 " Eh, Sir Ludovic," said Bell, "it was God's 
 will that parted you, not your ain. There would 
 be fault on one side or the other, if my lady had 
 
 been in, say America, a' this time, and you at 
 hame ; but she's been in — heaven ; that makes 
 a' the difference." 
 
 "Does it?" he said; "that's just what I 
 want to be sure of, Bell. Time has made great 
 changes on me. If I find her just where she 
 was when she left me, I have gone long beyond 
 that ; and if she has gone on too, where is she ? 
 and how shall we meet, each with our new ex- 
 periences which the other does not know ?" 
 
 Bell was very much perplexed by this inquiry. 
 It had not occurred to her own mind. "Eh, Sir 
 Ludovic," she said, "I am no the one, the like 
 o' me, to clear up sic mysteries. But what new 
 things can the lady meet with in heaven, but 
 just the praise o' God and the love o' God ? and 
 that doesna distract the mind." 
 
 "Ah, Bell! but I've met with a great many 
 more things since I parted with her; and then," 
 he said, with a gleam in his eyes which might 
 have been half comic in its embarrassment had 
 the circumstances been different, "there is — my 
 little Peggy's mother, poor thing." 
 
 Bell sat down, in her confusion and bewilder- 
 ment, by the bedside, and pondered. " I'm think- 
 ing," she said, " that my late leddy, Miss Mar- 
 gret's mother, will be the one that will maist 
 cling to ye when a's done." 
 
 "Poor little thing!" he said, softly, with a 
 smile on his face — "poor little thing! She 
 should have seen me safe out of the world, and 
 then had a life of her own. That would have 
 made a balance ; but how are we to know what 
 my wife thinks ? You see, we know nothing — 
 we know nothing. And it is very hard to tell, 
 when people have been parted so long, and 
 things have happened, how they are to get on 
 when they meet again." 
 
 (Sir Ludovic, perhaps, was a little confused in 
 his mind as to -which of the Ladies Leslie he 
 meant when he said "my wife;" but at all 
 events it was not the last one, the "poor little 
 thing," Margaret's mother, who was to him as 
 a child.) 
 
 "Sir Ludovic, there's neither marrying nor 
 giving in marriage there," said Bell, solemnly. 
 It had never occurred to herself certainly that 
 old John would not form part of her paradise ; 
 but then there was no complication in their rela- 
 tions. "And you maunna think of things like 
 that," she added, reverently, "eh, Sir Ludovic? 
 There's One we should a' think of. And if He's 
 pleased, what does it matter for anything else in 
 the wide world ?" 
 
 "Ay, Bell; that's very true, Bell," he said, 
 acquiescing, though scarcely remarking what she 
 said. But the dying will rarely see things with 
 the solemnity which the living feel to be appro- 
 priate to their circumstances, neither does the 
 approach of death concentrate our thoughts on 
 our most important concerns, as we all fondly 
 hope it may, without difficulty or struggle. "I 
 would like to know — what my wife thinks," he 
 said. 
 
 "What are you talking so much about?" said 
 Mrs. Bellingham, coming in. " I heard your 
 tongues going all the time of dinner. Is that 
 you, Bell ? How are you, Bell ? I was won- 
 dering not to have seen you before ; but I don't 
 think you should let papa talk so much when he 
 is so weak. Indeed, I don't think you should 
 talk, papa. It is always exhausting your 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 67 
 
 Strength. Just lie quiet and keep quite still, till 
 you get your strength back." 
 
 ISir Ludovic turned round and looked at Bell 
 with a glimmer of fun, about which this time 
 there could be no mistake, in his eyes. Bell did 
 not know what it meant. She did not see any 
 fun in Mrs. Bellingham's orders, nor in the way 
 in which she herself was speedily, noiselessly 
 displaced from the position she had taken. But 
 so it was. Bell was put out of the way very in- 
 nocently and naturally, and, with a soft flood of 
 unrostling merino about her, Mrs. Bellingham 
 took possession. She made no sound ; she was 
 quite fresh in dress, in looks, in spirits. 
 
 "I have made Margaret tell me all about how 
 it came on, and cheered her up, the silly little 
 thing. She has never seen any illness ; she is 
 like to cry if you only look at her. But we must 
 make her more practical," said the elder sister. 
 Grace was in a blue gown with rose-colored rib- 
 bons. She came in, stealing with noiseless feet, 
 a much slimmer shadow than her sister, and 
 bent over the bed, and put her cheek to Sir Ludo- 
 vic's again, and kissed his hand and murmured, 
 "Dearest papa!" If he had been in the article 
 of death Sir Ludovic must have laughed. 
 
 But Margaret did not appear. She could not 
 present herself with her swollen eyes and pale 
 cheeks. Oh ! if Jean and Grace had but stayed 
 away — had they but left him to herself, to Bell, 
 and John, who loved him ! But she could not 
 creep into her corner in her father's room while 
 the ladies were there, filling it up, taking pos- 
 session of him. Her heart was as heavy as lead 
 in her bosom ; it lay there like a stone. People 
 will sometimes speak of the heart as if it were 
 a figure of speech. Margaret felt hers lying, 
 broken, bleeding, heavy — a weight that beat her 
 to the ground. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Margaret roamed about the house, unable 
 to take any comfort or find any. Jeanie found 
 her crying in the long room when she went to 
 remove the remains of the dinner; for John had 
 a hundred things to do, and showed his excite- 
 ment by an inability to keep to his ordinary 
 work. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Margret, dinna be so cast down !" 
 Jeanie said, with tender sympathy, brushing the 
 tears from her own eyes. 
 
 "What can I be but cast down," she cried, 
 "when papa is — Oh, Jeanie, what does Bell 
 say? Does Bell think he is — " Dying, the girl 
 meant to say, but to pronounce the word was 
 impossible to her. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Margret," said Jeanie; "what 
 does it matter what Bell says ; how can she 
 ken? and the doctor he says quite different — " 
 
 This was a betrayal of all that Margaret had 
 feared ; Bell, too, was then of the same opinion. 
 The poor girl stole to the door of her father's 
 room, and stood there for a moment listening to 
 the easy flow of Mrs. Bellingham's dogmas, and 
 Grace's sigh of "Dearest papa!" and she heard 
 him laugh, and say something in his own natu- 
 ral tone. Would he laugh if he were — dying ? 
 
 "Come in, Miss Margret," said John, com- 
 ing through the dressing-room, this time with 
 
 some extra pillows (for he might want to have 
 his head higher, John thought). 
 
 "Oh, I cannot — I cannot bear it!" cried 
 Margaret, turning away. He put his large old 
 hand softly upon her arm. 
 
 " My bonnie leddy !" he said. He would not 
 have said it, Margaret felt, if there had been any 
 hope. Then she went out in her despair, rest- 
 less, not knowing where to seek relief from the 
 pain in her heart, which was so sore, and which 
 could not be shaken off. She said to herself 
 that she could not bear it. It was her first ex- 
 perience of the intolerable. The fine weather 
 had broken which had so favored the drawing, 
 and the wind was moaning about the old house, 
 prophesying rain. With another pang in her 
 heart — not that she was thinking of Rob, but 
 only of the contrast between that light-hearted- 
 ness and her present despair, she stumbled 
 through the potato furrows, past the place where 
 she had spent so many pleasant hours, thinking 
 no evil — though the evil she remembered must 
 have been in existence all the same — and made 
 her way into the wood. There was shelter 
 there, and no one would see her. The trees 
 were all vocal with those sighings of melancholy 
 cadence that are never long absent from the 
 Scotch fir-woods. The wind came sweeping 
 over them, with one great sigh after another, 
 like the waves of the sea : and she sighed, too, 
 in heaviness. Oh, if she could but sigh deep 
 enough, like the wind, to get that burden oft' her 
 breast ! Margaret sat down on a damp knoll, 
 with all the firs rising up round her like a con- 
 gregation of shadows, and the wind sweeping 
 with long complaint, sadder and sadder over 
 their melancholy branches : and gazed at the 
 gray old house through her tears. How differ- 
 ent it had looked in the morning sunshine, with 
 her father sitting among his books, and no evil 
 near! All the color and light had gone out of 
 it now ; it was gray as death, pale, solemn — the 
 old tower and gables rising against a sky scarce- 
 ly less gray than they were, the trees swaying 
 wildly about, the clouds . rolling together iu 
 masses across the colorless sky. 
 
 It was not a time or a place to cheer any one. 
 All the severity of aspect, which melts so com- 
 pletely out of a Scotch landscape with the shin- 
 ing of the sun, had come out in fullest force. 
 The trees looked darker in their leafage, the 
 house paler in its grayness, than houses and trees 
 are anywhere else. But Margaret did not make 
 any comparisons. She knew no landscape half 
 so well. She was not disposed to find fault with 
 it, or wish it more lovely. And for this moment 
 she was not thinking of the landscape, but of 
 what was going on in that room, where she could 
 see a little glimmer of fire-light at the window. 
 Both John and Bell thought it natural and seem- 
 ly, when there was illness in the house, that there 
 should be a fire. Dying ! oh, the chill and mys- 
 terious terror of the word ; lying there smiling, 
 but soon, perhaps at any moment, Margaret 
 thought, in her inexperience, to be gone out of 
 reach, out of sight ! he who had always been at 
 hand to be appealed to in every difficulty, to be 
 greeted morning and evening! he who was al- 
 ways smiling at her, "making a fool of her," 
 as she had so often complained. Perhaps there 
 is no desolation so complete as the shrinking and 
 gasp of the young soul when it first comes thus 
 
GS 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 within sight, within realization, of death. If it 
 had been she who had to die, Margaret wotdd 
 not have found it so hard. She would have been 
 ineffably, childishly, consoled by the thought of 
 the flowers with which she would be covered, 
 and the weeping of "all the house," and the 
 broken hearts of those whom she would leave be- 
 hind ; but nothing of this comforted her now. 
 For the first time in her life, misery took hold 
 upon her — a thing that would not be shaken off, 
 could not be staved aside. She sat at the foot 
 of the big fir-tree, gazing with wide eyes at the 
 gray old house which was like her father, who 
 was dying. The tears gathered and fell, minute 
 by minute, from her eyes, blinding her, then 
 showing clearer than ever, as they fell, the old 
 pale outline, the ruddy glimmer in that window 
 where he was lying. Why did she not rush to 
 him, to be with him every moment that remain- 
 ed ? But she could not bear it. She could not 
 go and watch for that coming. To have it over, 
 to get through the unimaginable anguish any- 
 how, at any cost, seemed the best thing, the only 
 thing that remained for her. She had not heard 
 any one coming, being too much rapt in her own 
 thoughts to pay attention to what was going on 
 around her ; and indeed the moaning of the 
 trees and the sweep of the wind were enough to 
 silence all other sounds. 
 
 Tims Margaret was taken entirely by surprise, 
 when a well-known voice over her head sudden- 
 ly addressed her. 
 
 "Miss Margaret!" Rob Glen said. He was 
 greatly surprised and very glad, having heard 
 of the arrival, which he feared would put a stop 
 to the possibility of his visits. But then he add- 
 ed, in anxious tones, "What is the matter? you 
 are crying. What has happened ?" He thought, 
 so miserable were her looks, that Sir Ludovic 
 was dead, and it was with a natural impulse of 
 tenderness and pity that the young man sud- 
 denly knelt clown beside her and took her hand 
 quietly between his own. 
 
 "Oh no," said Margaret, with a sob; "not 
 that, not yet ! but they tell me — they tell me — " 
 She could not go any farther for tears. 
 
 Rob did not say anything, but he put his lips 
 to her hand, and looked anxiously in her face. 
 Margaret could not look at him again — could 
 not speak. She was blind and inarticulate with 
 tears. She only knew that he wept too, and 
 that seemed to make them one. 
 
 "Did you hear that ?" she said ; " is that what 
 everybody says ? I think it will kill me too !" 
 
 Rob Glen had no premeditated plan. His 
 heart ached for her, so desolate, so young, under 
 the moaning firs. He put his arm round her un- 
 consciously, holding her fast. 
 
 "Oh, my poor darling!" he said, "my love! 
 I would die to keep any trouble from you!" 
 
 Margaret was entirely overpowered with the 
 sorrow and the sympathy. She leaned her head 
 upon him unawares ; she felt his arm support 
 her, and that there was a vague comfort in it. 
 She cried and sobbed without any attempt to re- 
 strain herself. No criticism was here, no formal 
 consolations, nothing to make her remember that 
 now she was a woman, and must not abandon 
 herself like a child to her misery. He only wept 
 with her, and after a while began to kiss her 
 hair and her pale cheeks, murmuring over her, 
 "My Margaret, my poor darling !" She did not 
 
 hear or heed what he said. She was conscious 
 of nothing but anguish, with a vague, faint relief 
 in it, a lessening of the burden, a giving way of 
 the iron band that had seemed to be about her 
 heart. 
 
 When this passion of weeping was spent, the 
 evening had fallen into dusk. The house had 
 become grayer, paler than ever ; the glimmer of 
 the window more red ; the trees about were like 
 ghosts, looming indistinctly through the gloom ; 
 and Rob was kneeling by her with his arms round 
 her, her head pillowed against him, his face close 
 to hers. There did not seem anything strange 
 in it to poor Margaret. He was very, very kind ; 
 he had wept, too, breaking his heart like her ; it 
 seemed all so natural, so simple. And she was a 
 little relieved, a little consoled. 
 
 "Darling," he was saying, "I don't think it 
 can be quite true. The doctor would not de- 
 ceive me, and he did not say so. Who should 
 know best — they who have just come, or we who 
 have been here all the time ? Oh, my sweet, 
 don't break your dear heart ! — that would break 
 mine too. I don't think it can be so bad as they 
 say." 
 
 " Oh, do you think so ? do you think there is 
 any hope?" said Margaret. 
 
 This gave her strength to stir a little, to move 
 from the warm shelter in which she found her- 
 self. But he kept her close to him with a gentle 
 pressure of his arm. 
 
 "Yes, let us hope," he said; "he is not so 
 old, and he is not \ery ill. You told me he was 
 not suffering — " 
 
 "No — he ought to know better than they do; 
 he said he was not ill. Oh, I do not think it 
 can be so bad," said Margaret, raising herself 
 up, "and you — don't think so, Mr. Glen?" 
 
 "Do you call me Mr. Glen still?" he said, 
 with his lips close to her ear. "Oh, my dar- 
 ling, don't tempt me to wish harm to Sir Ludo- 
 vic. If I may only comfort you when you are 
 in trouble — if I am to be nothing to you when 
 you are happy — " 
 
 "Oh!" said Margaret, with a deep sigh, "do 
 you think I am happy yet ? I am not quite so 
 wretched, perhaps ; but I shall never be happy 
 till papa is out of danger, till he is well again, 
 sitting in his chair witli his books. Oh, you do 
 not say anything now ! You think that will 
 never be — " 
 
 "And I working at my drawing," he said. 
 He did not want to deceive her, and his voice 
 was husky; but he could not do other than hu- 
 mor her, whatever shape her fancy might take. 
 "I finishing my drawing, and making it more 
 like him ; and my sweet Margaret sitting by me, 
 not trying to escape from me : and her kind 
 father giving us his blessing — " 
 
 "Oh," Margaret cried, starting away from 
 him, "it is quite dark, it is quite late, Mr. 
 Glen." 
 
 "Yes, darling," he said, rising reluctantly, 
 "I must take you in now; it is too cold and 
 too late for you, though it has been better than 
 the brightest day to me." 
 
 " I thought you were sorry for me," said Mar- 
 garet. "I thought you were unhappy too. 
 Oh, were vou only glad because I was in trou- 
 ble, Mr. Glen ?" 
 
 There was a poignant tone of pain in the 
 question which encouraged Rob. He caught 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 CD 
 
 her hand in his, and drew it through his arm 
 and held her fast. 
 
 "You don't know," he said, "because you 
 are so young, and love is new to you. You 
 don't know that a man can be happy in his 
 worst misery if it brings him close, close to the 
 girl he loves." 
 
 Margaret did not say a word. She did not 
 understand : but yet did not she feel, too, a 
 vague bliss that overwhelmed her in the midst 
 of her sorrow? The relief that had stolen over 
 her, was it real hope, or only a vague sense that 
 all must be well because something had come 
 into her life which made her happy? She was 
 willing to go with Rob, when he led her, the 
 long way round, through the wood, and by the 
 other side of the house. He did not want to be 
 circumscribed in his good-night by the possible 
 inspection of old John or Bell. "This is the 
 best way for you," he said, leading her very ten- 
 derly along the margin of the wood. All the 
 way he talked to her in a whisper, saying, Mar- 
 garet could not tell what, caressing words that 
 were sweet, though she did not realize the 
 meaning of them ; nor did she in the least re- 
 sist his "kindness." She suffered him to hold 
 her hand and kiss it, and call her all the tender 
 names he could think of. It seemed all quite 
 natural. She was half stunned by her sorrow, 
 half intoxicated by this strange sweet opiate of 
 tender reassurances and impassioned love. It 
 did not occur to her to make any response, but 
 neither did she repulse him. She trembled with 
 the strangeness and the naturalness, the conso- 
 lation, the tremor; but her mind was so much 
 confused between pain and relief that she could 
 not realize what this new thing was. 
 
 They had come round to the door in the 
 court-yard wall, which was the chief entrance to 
 the house, and here Rob reluctantly parted with 
 her, saying a hundred good-byes, and venturing 
 again, ere he let her go, to kiss her cheek. 
 Margaret was much more startled now than she 
 had been before, and made haste to draw her 
 hands from his. Then she heard him utter a 
 little sharp, short exclamation, and he tried to 
 hold her back. But she was not thinking of 
 spectators. She stepped on through the door- 
 way, which was open, and came straight upon 
 some one who was coming out. It did not oc- 
 cur to her to think that he had seen this parting, 
 or what he had seen. She did not look at the 
 stranger at all, but went on hurriedly into the 
 court-yard. Rob had dropped her hand as if it 
 had been a stone. This surprised her a little, 
 but nothing else. Any necessity for conceal- 
 ment, any fear of being seen, had not entered 
 into Margaret's confused and troubled mind, 
 troubled with more than grief now, with a kind 
 of bewilderment, caused by this something new 
 which had come upon her unawares, and which 
 she did not understand. 
 
 The two young men stood together outside. 
 There was no possibility of mistake, or chance 
 that they might be unable to recognize each 
 other. There had been a moment's intense 
 suspense, and then Randal Burnside, coming out 
 from his evening inquiries after Sir Ludovic, had 
 discovered, in spite of himself, the discomfited and 
 abashed lover. Randal's surprise was mingled 
 with a momentary pang of disappointment and 
 pain to think so young a creature as Margaret, 
 
 and so sweet a creature, should have thus been 
 found returning from a walk with, evidently, her 
 lover, and capable of dalliance at such a mo- 
 ment, when her father was dying. It hurt his 
 ideal sense of what was fit. He had scarcely 
 renewed his childish acquaintance with her, and 
 had no right to be disappointed. What did it 
 matter to him whom she walked with, or what 
 was the fashion of her wooing? But it wound- 
 ed him to class this delicate Margaret with the 
 village lasses and their "lads." He tried not 
 to look at the fellow, not to surprise her secret. 
 Heaven knows, he had no desire to surprise any- 
 body's secret, much less such a vulgar one as 
 this. But his eyes were quicker than his will, 
 and he had seen Rob Glen before he was aware. 
 This gave him a greater shock still. He stared 
 with a kind of consternation, then gave his old 
 acquaintance a hasty nod, and went on much 
 disturbed, though why he should be disturbed 
 he could not tell. She was nothing to him — 
 why should he mind ? Poor girl, she had been 
 neglected ; there had been no one to train her, 
 to tell what a lady should do. But Randal felt 
 vexed as if she had been his sister, that Marga- 
 ret had not known by instinct how a lady should 
 behave. He went on more quickly than usual 
 to drive it out of his mind. 
 
 But Rob had the consciousness of guilt in 
 him, and could not take it so lightly. He 
 thought Randal would betray him ; no doubt 
 Randal had it in his power to betray him ; and, 
 on the whole, it might be better to guard the 
 discovered secret by a confidence, lie went 
 hastily after the other, making his way among 
 the trees ; but he had called him two or three 
 times before Randal could be got to stop. When 
 at last he did so, he turned round with a half- 
 angry "Well!" Randal did not want the con- 
 fidence ; he did not care to play the part of con- 
 venient friend to such a hero ; he was angry to 
 find himself in circumstances which obliged him 
 to listen to an explanation. Rob came panting 
 after him through the gathering dark. 
 
 " Mr. Burnside," he said, breathless, "I must 
 speak to you. I am sure you could not help 
 seeing who it was that went in as you came out, 
 or what was between her and me." Rob could 
 not help a movement of pride, a little dilation 
 and expansion of his breast. 
 
 "I had no wish to notice anything, or any 
 one," Randal said; "pray believe me that I 
 never pry into things which are no business of 
 mine." 
 
 "I am sure you are the soul of honor," said 
 Rob, "but it is better you should know the cir- 
 cumstances. Don't think she had come out to 
 meet me. She had been driven out by despair 
 about her father, and I was in the wood by 
 chance — I declare to you, by chance. I might 
 have gone there to see the light in her window, 
 that was all. But she did not come with any 
 idea of meeting me." 
 
 "This is quite unnecessary," said Randal; 
 "I expressed no opinion, and have no right to 
 form one. I didn't want to see, and I don't 
 want to know — " 
 
 "I perceive, however," said Rob, "that you 
 do not approve of me, and won't approve of me ; 
 that you think I had no right to do what I have 
 done, to speak to Mar — " 
 
 "Hold your tongue," said Randal, savagely; 
 
70 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 "what do you mean by bringing in a lady's 
 name?" 
 
 Rob blushed to his very shoes ; that he should 
 have done a thing which evidently some private 
 rule in that troublesome unwritten code of a 
 gentleman, which it was so difficult to master in 
 all its details, forbade, was worse to him than a 
 crime. The annoyance with which he felt this 
 took away his resentment at Randal's tone. 
 
 "Of course you are right," he said ; " 1 made 
 a mistake ; but, Mr. Burnside, you must not 
 judge us too harshly. We have been thrown in 
 each other's way all day long, and almost every 
 day. They have allowed us to be together so 
 much, that we were encouraged to go a little far- 
 ther. And she was very unhappy," he added, 
 with a little tremor in his voice ; " not to console 
 her was beyond the strength of man." 
 
 How Randal would have liked to pitch him 
 over the hedge -row into a flourishing bed of 
 nettles which he knew to be thereabout! But 
 he restrained himself, and made a stiff bow in- 
 stead. 
 
 " This is very interesting," he said, " no doubt ; 
 but I fail to see what I have to do with it. It 
 was not my fault that my coming was at so in- 
 discreet a moment." 
 
 "Then I may ask you not to betray us," said 
 Rob; " the circumstances are peculiar, as you 
 will easily perceive. I should not wish — " 
 
 "Really this is doubly unnecessary," said Ran- 
 dal, angrily; "I am not a gossip, nor would it 
 occur to me to betray any one. Is not this 
 enough ?" 
 
 "I should have liked to take you into my con- 
 fidence," said Rob, "to ask your advice — " 
 
 " My advice ? It could not be of much use." 
 But why should he be angry? Other love af- 
 fairs had been confided to him, and he had not 
 rejected the confidence ; but this fellow was not 
 his friend, and it was a dastardly thing to take 
 advantage of a poor little girl in her trouble. 
 "I am no more a judge than I am a gossip," he 
 said ; " take my assurance that what I saw shall 
 be precisely as if I had not seen it. Good- 
 night," he added, abruptly, turning on his heel. 
 Rob found himself alone in the middle of the 
 road, feeling somehow shrunken and small, he 
 could not tell why. But presently there burst 
 upon him the recollection, the realization of all 
 that had happened, and Randal Burnside's im- 
 plied contempt (if it was not rather envy) ceased 
 to affect him. He turned down the path across 
 the fields where he had first met Margaret, in a 
 kind of half-delirious triumph. He was "in 
 love" too, and had that delight quite honestly, if 
 also superficially, to fill up the measure of his 
 happiness. To be in love with the girl who can 
 make your fortune, who can set you above all 
 slights and scorns, and give you all the good 
 things the world contains — is not that the most 
 astounding piece of good-fortune to a poor man ? 
 A mercenary courtship is always despicable ; but 
 to woo the girl whom you love, notwithstanding 
 that she has the advantage of you in worldly 
 goods, is permissible, nay, laudable, since it 
 shows you to have a mind far above prejudice. 
 Rob felt, too, that he had got this crowning gift 
 of fortune in the most innocent and disinterested 
 way. Had it been Jeanie whom he had met in 
 trouble — Jeanie, who was but a poor servant- 
 lass, and no heiress, and with whom he had been 
 
 once in love, as he was now in love with Marga- 
 ret — his tenderness would all have come back to 
 him, and he would have exerted himself to con- 
 sole her in the self-same way. He would have 
 done it by instinct, by nature, out of pure pity 
 and affection ateness, and warm desire to make 
 her happy, if he had not done so out of love. 
 The weeping girl would have been irresistible to 
 him. "And thus I won my Genevieve," he said 
 to himself, as he turned homeward in an intoxi- 
 cation of happiness. His success went to his 
 head like wine. He could have danced, he could 
 have sung, as he went along the darkling path 
 through the fields. He had won his Margaret, 
 the prettiest, the sweetest of all his loves. His 
 heart was all aglow with the thought of her, and 
 melting with tenderness over her tears and her 
 grief. His beautiful little lady, Margaret ! The 
 others had been but essays in love. He did not 
 forget them ; not one of them but Rob had a 
 kind thought for, and would have been kind to 
 had occasion served, Jeanie among the rest. He 
 did not suppose for a moment that it had ever 
 occurred to him to marry Jeanie. She would 
 have been as unsuitable a wife for a minister as 
 for a prince. He had not meant very much one 
 way or other; but he had been very fond of 
 Jeanie, and she of him. He was very fond of 
 her still ; and if he had seen her cry woidd have 
 been as ready to comfort her as if Margaret did 
 not exist. But Margaret ! Margaret was the 
 queen of all. That white, soft, lady's hand! Nev- 
 er any like it had lingered in Rob's before. He 
 was as happy as kings very seldom are, if all 
 tales be true, and was no more ashamed of him- 
 self than if he had been a young monarch giving 
 a throne to his chosen, as soon as he had got 
 clear of Randal Burnside. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Randal returned to the Manse preoccupied 
 and abstracted, his mother could not tell why. 
 He brought her word that Sir Ludovic was in 
 the same condition as before, neither better nor 
 worse, and that the ladies had arrived ; but he 
 told no more. 
 
 " Did you see nobody ?" Mrs. Burnside asked. 
 Perhaps in her heart she had hoped that her son 
 might occupy some such post of comforter as 
 Rob Glen had assumed, if not quite in the same 
 way. 
 
 "I saw old John," said Randal; "the ladies 
 were with their father, and John was so gruff 
 that I fear things must be looking badly. He 
 grumbled behind his hand, ' What change could 
 they expect in a day?' as if your inquiries irri- 
 tated him. I don't wonder it' they do. I think 
 I should be worried too by constant questions, if 
 any one was ill who belonged to me." 
 
 "Oh, don't say that, Randal," said Mrs. Burn- 
 side ; " we must always paj' proper respect. You 
 may depend upon it, Jean and Grace are capa- 
 ble of saying that we paid no attention at all if 
 we did not send twice a day. One must be upon 
 one's p's and q's with such people. And Mar- 
 garet — you saw nothing of poor little Margaret ? 
 It is for her my heart bleeds. It is more a ploy 
 than anything else for Jean and Grace." 
 
 The same remark had been made by Bell in 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 71 
 
 the vaulted kitchen the very same night. "It's 
 just a ploy for the leddies," Bell said ; " I heard 
 them say they were going to look out all the old 
 tilings in the high room. You'll see they'll have 
 a' out, and make their regulations, wha's to have 
 this, and wha's to have that ; but I say it should 
 all go to Miss Margret. She'll have little enough 
 else on the Leslie side of the house. 1*11 speak 
 to Mr. Leslie about it. He has not muckle to 
 say, but he's a just man." 
 
 "A wheen auld duds and rubbitsh," said 
 John, who was busy preparing still another tray- 
 ful of provisions for his beleaguered city up- 
 stairs. 
 
 " Ay ; but leddies think muckle o' them," said 
 Bell. They had not surmounted their sorrow, 
 but already it had ceased to affect them as a 
 novelty, and all the inevitable arrangements had 
 been brought nearer by the arrival of the visit- 
 ors. These arrangements, are they not the sav- 
 ing of humanity, which without them must have 
 suffered so much more from the perpetual falling 
 out of one after another familiar figure on the 
 way? Even now it occupied Bell a little, and 
 the ladies a great deal, to think of these stores, 
 which must be arranged and disposed of some- 
 how, in the high room. Margaret's wild grief 
 and terror were not within the range of any such 
 consolation ; but those who felt less keenly found 
 in them a great relief. 
 
 The day after their arrival, Mrs. Bellingham 
 and her sister went up-stairs with much solem- 
 nity of aspect, but great internal satisfaction, to 
 do their duty. Sir Ludovic was still " very com- 
 fortable," he said; but dozed a great deal, and 
 even when he was not dozing kept his eyes shut, 
 while they were with him. They had remained 
 by his bedside all the previous evening with the 
 most conscientious discharge of duty, and Jean 
 had done everything a woman could do to keep 
 up his spirits, assuring him that he would soon 
 feel himself again, and planning a hundred things 
 which were to be done "as soon as you are 
 about." To say that this never deceived Sir 
 Ludovic, is little. He listened to it all with a 
 smile, knowing that she was as little deceived as 
 he was. If he had not been in bed and so fee- 
 ble, he would have shrugged his shoulders and 
 said it was Jean's way. Miss Grace had not the 
 opportunity to talk, had she wished it ; but she 
 did not take the same line in any case. She 
 stood by him on the other side, and from time 
 to time put down her face to touch his, and said, 
 "Dearest papa!" When he wanted anything, 
 she was so anxious to be of use that she would 
 almost choke him by putting his drink to his lips 
 as if he had been a baby. 
 
 Poor Sir Ludovic was very patient; they 
 amused him as if they had been a scene in a 
 comedy; but he was very tired when night 
 came, and this was one of the reasons why he 
 kept his eyes closed next morning. He woke 
 up, however, when Margaret stole in — a pale lit- 
 tle ghost, large-eyed and trembling. She looked 
 at him so piteously, scarcely able to speak, that 
 the old man was moved to the very heart, not- 
 withstanding the all-absorbing languor of his 
 condition. "Are you better to-day, papa?" she 
 said, in a scarcely audible whisper. When he 
 put out his hand to her, she took it in both hers, 
 and laid down her pretty head upon it, and cried 
 silently, her shoulders heaving with suppressed 
 
 sobs, though she tried her best, poor child, not 
 to betray them. 
 
 "My little Peggy!" said her father, "why is 
 this? Have I not told you I am very comforta- 
 ble? And by-and-by I shall be more than com- 
 fortable — happy ; so everybody says ; and so I 
 believe, too, though it troubles me not to know 
 a little better. And you will be — like all of us 
 who have lost our parents. It is a loss that 
 must come, my little girl." 
 
 " Oh no, no, papa!" her voice was muffled and 
 hoarse with crying. She could not consent to 
 her own desolation. 
 
 "Ah yes, my little girl, it must come ; and so 
 we go on to have children of our own, and then 
 to leave them a la grace de Dieti. My Peggy, 
 listen ! If you were old like Jean and Grace, 
 you would not care ; and then think this wonder 
 to yourself: I am glad that my little girl is so 
 young and breaks her heart. Glad! think of 
 that, my little Peggy. It is good to see that 
 your little heart is broken. It will mend, but it 
 warms my old one." 
 
 "Oh, papa!" she cried, kissing his pale hand, 
 "oh, papa!" but could not lift her head or look 
 him in the face. 
 
 "So now, my little girl," he said, "we will 
 not make believe, you and I, but acknowledge 
 that we are going to part for a long, long time, 
 my Peggy. I hope for a very long time; but 
 probably," he said, with a smile, "if all is true 
 that we fancy and believe, it will not be so long 
 for me as for you. I shall have the best of it. 
 You would like your old father to have the best 
 of it, my little girl ?" 
 
 At this she lifted her face and gave hi in a 
 look which said Yes, yes, a hundred times! but 
 could not speak. 
 
 "I knew you would," he said. "I, you see, 
 will find myself among old friends ; and we will 
 have our talks about what's come and gone since 
 we parted, and there will be a great many peo- 
 ple to make acquaintance with that I have known 
 only — in the spirit, as the Bible says ; — and there 
 will be the One, you know, that you say your 
 prayers to, my Peggy. When you say your 
 prayers, you can fancy (the best of life is fancy," 
 said Sir Ludovic, with a faint smile,) " that I'm 
 there somewhere, about what the Bible calls His 
 footstool, and that He, perhaps, being so tender- 
 hearted, may call to me and say, 'Ludovic ! here 
 is your little girl.' " 
 
 "Oh, papa! will you say something more, 
 something more?" 
 
 "I would if I could, my Peggy; but I am 
 tired again. I'll have a little doze now ; but sit 
 still and stay by me, my own little girl." 
 
 And there Margaret sat almost all the day. 
 Excessive weeping brought its own cure, and she 
 could not weep any more, but sat like a snow 
 statue, except that her eyes were swollen ; and 
 by-and-by fell into a kind of torpor, a doze of 
 the spirit, sitting in the warm stillness, with no 
 sound but the soft stir of the fire, and sometimes 
 the appearance of old John, who would open the 
 door stealthily, and look in with his long, grave, 
 serious face to see if anything was wanted. Mar- 
 garet sat holding her father's hand, stilled by ex- 
 haustion and warmth, and quiet and grief: and 
 Sir Ludovic dozed, opening his eyes now and 
 then, smiling, dozing again. So the long, still 
 morning went by. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 A very different scene was going on in the high 
 room, which was over the long room, and as 
 long and large, running the whole width of the 
 house. It had a vaulted roof, curiously painted 
 with old coats of arms, and was hung with old 
 tapestry, gradually falling to pieces by process 
 of time. Several of the windows, which had 
 originally lighted it, had been built up in the 
 days of the window-tax, and stretching across 
 the place where two of them had been was a 
 great oak " aumory " or press, full of those rich- 
 es which John called "old rubbitsh," but which 
 were prized by ladies, Bell knew. There were 
 old clothes enough to have set up several thea- 
 tres, costumes of all kinds, sacques and pelisses, 
 brocade and velvets, feathers and lace. Mrs. 
 Bellingham remembered specially that there was 
 a drawer full of lace; but Sir Ludovic had never 
 permitted these treasures to be ransacked when 
 his elder daughters were at Earl's - hall. He 
 would not tolerate any commotion over his head, 
 and accordingly they had been shut out from 
 these delightful hoards. It was with correspond- 
 ing excitement now that they opened the doors, 
 their fingers trembling with eagerness. Mrs. 
 Bellingham had interpreted something he said 
 into a desire that they should make this investi- 
 gation, and had immediately declared that his 
 wish was a law to her. 
 
 "Certainly, Grace," she had said; "we will 
 do it at whatever cost, since papa wishes it." 
 
 " Oh yes, if dearest papa wishes it," said 
 Grace. And Sir Ludovic smiled, as usual, see- 
 ing the whole, with an amused toleration of their 
 weakness. Jean got out the drawer of lace with 
 nervous anxiety. "It may be nothing, it may 
 be nothing," she said, meaning to save herself 
 from disappointment. She took out the drawer 
 altogether, and carried it to the window where 
 there was a good light, with her heart beating. 
 
 "Don't be excited, Grace," she said, "per- 
 haps it is only modern ; most likely mere babies' 
 caps, Valenciennes and common stuff." Then 
 she made a little pause, gave one hurried glance, 
 and produced the one word "Point!" with an 
 almost shriek. 
 
 "Point?" said Miss Grace, pressing forward 
 with the point of her nose; she was short-sight- 
 ed, and only thus could she inspect the treasure. 
 Mrs. Bellingham held her off with one hand, 
 while with the other she dived among the deli- 
 cate yellow rags ; the excitement grew to a 
 height when she brought out her hand garland- 
 ed with wreaths as of a fairy web. There was 
 a moment of silent adoration while the two 
 ladies gazed at it. Some sea-fairy, with curious 
 knowledge of all the starry fishes and twisted 
 shells, and filmy fronds of weed at the bottom 
 of the ocean, must have woven this. " Venice ! 
 and I never saw finer ; and not a thread broken ! " 
 cried the finder, almost faint with delight. 
 
 "And enough to trim you from top to toe," 
 said Grace, solemnly. Bell coming in jealously 
 on some pretence, saw them, with their hands 
 uplifted and eyes gleaming, and approached to 
 see what the cause of so much emotion might 
 be. 
 
 "Eh!" said Bell, "the heap o' things that 
 us poor folk miss for want o' kennin'. Is that 
 something awfu' grand now, leddies, that makes 
 you look so fain ?" 
 
 "It is a most lovely piece of lace," cried Mrs. 
 
 Jean. " Venice point ; though I fear, Bell, you 
 will not know what that means. Every little 
 bit done by the needle — you will understand 
 that. Look at all those little sprays." 
 
 " Eh, leddies," said Bell. " Ye ken what the 
 fishwife says in ane o' Sir Walter's novels — ' It's 
 no fish you're buy in", but men's lives.' Eh, 
 what heaps o' poor women's een must be workit 
 into that auld rag. But it was my late lady's a' 
 the same. I've seen her wear it, and many a 
 time she's told me the same story. So it will be 
 Miss Margret's part o' her fortune," said the old 
 house-keeper, with malicious demureness. This 
 discouraged the investigators considerably. 
 
 "I never saw it before," said Mrs. Belling- 
 ham; "but then I knew but little of the late 
 Lady Leslie; of course, if it was her mother's 
 it must be Margaret's. Fold it up and put it 
 aside, Grace. Was this Lady Leslie's too?" 
 
 "Na, I canna say; I never saw that before," 
 said Bell, overwhelmed. "Eh, that was never 
 made by woman's fingers. It must be shaped 
 out o' the gossamer in the autumn mornings, or 
 the foam of the sea." 
 
 But Bell's presence disturbed the inquiry ; it 
 was not until she was called away to see to Sir 
 Ludovic's beef-tea that they fully rallied to their 
 work. 
 
 " I don't believe a word of what that old wom- 
 an says. Lady Leslie, indeed ! Lady Leslie 
 was not five-and-twenty when she died, poor 
 thing. Stand out of the way, Grace, don't come 
 so close. You may be sure you shall see it all 
 — and no girl understands lace. It might be 
 her mother's ? Dear me, what a memory you 
 have got, Grace! She had no mother. She 
 would never have married poor papa if there had 
 been a mother to look after her. Thank Prov- 
 idence, Margaret will be better off. This af- 
 fliction," said Mrs. Bellingham, with solemnity, 
 "which is so sad for all of us, will not be with- 
 out its good side for poor little neglected Mar- 
 garet. Though whether it is ijot too late to 
 make any change in her—" 
 
 "She is very nice-looking," said Miss Grace, 
 "and being pretty covers a great deal — at least 
 as long as you are young." 
 
 "Pretty ! None of the Leslies were ever ugly," 
 said her sister; " but it breaks my heart to look 
 at her. Neither education nor manners. She 
 might be a country lass at the meanest farm ; 
 she might be a fisher-girl mending nets — Grace, 
 I wish you would sometimes let me get in a 
 word ! It's melancholy to see her running about 
 in those cotton frocks, and think that she is my 
 father's daughter. We will have our hands full 
 with chat girl. Now this is old Flanders — there 
 is not very much of it. I remember it as well 
 as if I had seen it yesterday, on old Aunt Jean." 
 
 "Then that should be yours, for you were her 
 name-daughter — " 
 
 " Grace, how can you be so Scotch ! Say god- 
 child — you can always say godchild — it sounds a 
 great deal better ! " 
 
 "But we were not English Church people when 
 we were born, and there's no godmo — " 
 
 " I think there never was such a clatter in this 
 world ! " cried Mrs. Bellingham. "Talk — talk — 
 one cannot get in a word ! I know papa's old- 
 fashioned ways as well as yon do, but why should 
 we publish them ? What would anybody think 
 at the Court if it was known that we were Pies- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 73 
 
 byterians — not that I ever was a Presbyterian 
 after I was old enough to think for myself." 
 
 "It was being at school," said Grace; "and 
 a great trouble it was to have to drive all the 
 way to Fifetown on Sundays, instead of going to 
 Dr. Burnside. You were married, it didn't mat- 
 ter for you ; but — do you mean to have Aubrey 
 down, Jean, after all ?" 
 
 "Of course I mean to have Aubrey," said Mrs. 
 Bellingham. She had been carefully measuring 
 on her finger and marking tbe lengths of the 
 lace, which was the reason Miss Leslie had been 
 allowed to deliver herself of so long a speech. 
 "He will perhaps join us somewhere after this 
 sad time is over. It is not to be supposed that 
 we will be able for much company at first," she 
 said, with a sigh. " There are three yards of 
 the Flanders — too much for a bodice and too lit- 
 tle for anything else, and it would be wicked to 
 cut it. After all we have gone through, of course 
 there will be a time when we will have no spirits 
 for company ; but Aubrey is not like a stranger. 
 Being my nephew, he will be a kind of cousin to 
 Margaret. Dear me, I wish I could think there 
 was a good chance that he would be something 
 more ; for the responsibility on you and me of a 
 young girl — " 
 
 " Oh, he will be very willing to be something 
 more," cried Miss Grace, with alacrity ; " a pret- 
 ty young creature like Margaret, and a good in- 
 come." 
 
 "Her income is but a small one to tempt a 
 Bellingham ; but I suppose because he is my 
 nephew you must have a fling at him. I have 
 often noticed that inclination in you, Grace. I 
 am sure my family, by marriage, have never but 
 shown you the greatest attention, and Aubrey 
 never makes any difference between us. He calls 
 you Aunt Grace, though you are no more his 
 Aunt Grace — Here is a very nice piece, I don't 
 know what it is. It is English, or perhaps it 
 might be Argentan, or one of the less known 
 kinds. "Would you like to have it? It is very 
 pretty. So here are three pieces to commence 
 with : the Venice point for Margaret, if it really 
 was her mother's — but I don't believe it — and 
 the Flanders for me. " 
 
 Grace lifted the piece allotted to her now with 
 but scant satisfaction. It was Jean who had al- 
 ways the lion's share; it was she who took the 
 management of everything, and put herself for- 
 ward. Though Miss Leslie was very willing to 
 sacrifice herself when occasion offered, she did 
 not like to be sacrificed calmly by others, with- 
 out deriving any glory from it. But she said 
 nothing. There was a great deal more still to 
 be looked over, and Jean could not always have 
 so good an excuse for appropriating the best, as 
 she had when she secured Aunt Jean's old piece 
 of Flanders lace. 
 
 While these very different scenes were going 
 on within the walls of Earl's-hall, the old gray 
 house in which so soon the last act of a life was 
 to be accomplished was the centre of many 
 thoughts and discussions outside. At the break- 
 fast-table at the Manse Mrs. Burnside read aloud 
 a letter from Mrs. Ludovic in Edinburgh, asking 
 whether the Minister's wife could receive her hus- 
 band, who was uneasy about his father, and anx- 
 ious "to be on the spot," whatever happened. 
 
 " I thought of sending my Effle with Ludovic, 
 
 if you would take her in," Mrs. Leslie wrote. 
 " Of course, Earl's-hall, so little bedroom accom- 
 modation as they have, is quite full with Jean 
 and Grace and their maid. It is very provoking 
 that it should be such a fine old house, and one 
 that we would be very unwilling to let go out of 
 the family, and yet so little use.- Ludovic has 
 always such confidence in your kindness, dear 
 Mrs. Burnside, that I thought I might ask you. 
 Of course, you will say No at once, if it is not 
 convenient. Effie is not very strong, and I would 
 like her to have a change ; and we thought it 
 might be something for poor little Margaret, if 
 anything happens, to have some one near her of 
 her own age. She is the one to be pitied ; and 
 yet she has been sadly neglected, poor child — 
 and I don't doubt but in this, as in other matters, 
 all things will work together for good." 
 
 "That's a sorely misused text," said the Min- 
 ister, shaking his head. 
 
 "Is this better?" said Randal: "'Whereso- 
 ever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gath- 
 ered together.' They seem all rushing upon 
 their prey." 
 
 "No, no, you must not say that. Their own 
 father — who should come to his death-bed but 
 his children ? I'll write and say, ' Certainly, let 
 Ludovic come;' and if you can do without that 
 green room for your old portmanteaux, Randal, 
 I'll find a place for them among the other boxes ; 
 and we might take little Effie too. I am always 
 glad to give a town-child the advantage of good 
 country air." 
 
 " She cannot be such a child if she is the same 
 age as Margaret — " 
 
 "And what is Margaret but a child? Poor 
 thing, poor thing ! Yes, she has been neglected ; 
 she has not had the up-bringing a lady of her 
 family should have; but, dear me," said Mrs. 
 Burnside, who was of the old school, " I've seen 
 such things before, and what harm did it do 
 them? She cannot play the piano, or speak 
 French, or draw, or even dance, so far as I can 
 tell ; but she cannot but be a lady — it was born 
 with her — and the questions she asks are just ex- 
 traordinary. I would not make a stipulation for 
 the piano myself everywhere ; but still there's no 
 doubt she has been neglected. Jean and Grace 
 are far from being ill women ; but I don't think 
 I would like to change old Sir Ludovic, that nev- 
 er said a harsh word to her, for the like of them." 
 
 "Yes, mother, Margaret can draw. The 
 young fellow who put Sir Ludovic into his car- 
 riage last Sunday, whom you were so impatient 
 of—" 
 
 "Me impatient! Randal, you take the very 
 strangest ideas. Why should I be disturbed, 
 one way or other, by Rob Glen ? What abont 
 Rob Glen ?" 
 
 "Not much, except that he is giving her — 
 lessons. It seems he is an artist — " 
 
 "An artist — Rob Glen! But oh, did I not 
 say Mrs. Ludovic was right? She has been 
 sorely neglected ! Not that old Sir Ludovic 
 meant any harm. He was an old man and she 
 a child ; and he forgot she was growing up, and 
 that a girl is not a child so long as a boy. After 
 all, perhaps, she will be better in the hands of 
 Grace and Jean." 
 
 "And so the text is not misused, after all," 
 said the Minister, once more shaking his head. 
 
74 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 CHAPTER XX L 
 
 Ludovic came accordingly, with his little 
 daughter Effie — a sentimental little maiden, 
 with a likeness to her aunt Grace, and very anx- 
 ious to be "of use" to Margaret, who, though 
 only six months older than herself, was her aunt 
 also. Ludovic himself was a serious, silent man 
 — not like the Leslies, everybody said, taking 
 after his mother, who had been a Montgomery, 
 and of a more steady-going race. While Mrs. 
 Bellingham sat by her father's side and talk- 
 ed to him about what was to be done when he 
 was better, saying, "Oh yes, you are mending 
 — slowly, making a little progress every day, 
 though you will not believe it;" and Grace 
 stood, eager, too, to "be of use," touching his 
 cheek — most generally, poor lady, with her nose, 
 which was cold, and not agreeable to the patient 
 — and saying, " Dearest papa!" Ludovic, for 
 his part, would come and sit at the foot of the 
 bed for an hour at a time, not saying anything, 
 but keeping his serious eyes upon the old man, 
 who was more glad than ever to doze, and keep 
 his eyes shut, now that so many affectionate 
 watchers were round him. Now and then Sir 
 Ludovic would rouse up when they were all tak- 
 ing a rest from their anxious duties, as Grace 
 expressed it, and "was just his ain man again," 
 Bell would say. 
 
 "Oh, if my children would but neglect me!" 
 he said, when one of these blessed intervals 
 came. 
 
 ■ "There is nobody but me here now, papa," 
 said Margaret, like a little shadow in the corner, 
 with her red eyes. 
 
 "And that is just as it ought to be, my little 
 Peggy; but who," he said, with that faint little 
 laugh, which scarcely sounded now at all, but 
 abode in his eyes with all its old humor — "who 
 will look after your pronouns when I am away, 
 my little girl?" But sometimes he moaned a 
 little, and complained that it was long. " Could 
 you not give me a jog, John ?" he would say ; 
 "I'm keeping everybody waiting. Jean and 
 Grace will lose their usual holiday, and Ludovic 
 has his business to think of." 
 
 "They're paying you every respect, Sir Ludo- 
 vic," said John, not feeling that his master was 
 fully alive to the domestic virtue exhibited by 
 his children. Perhaps John, too, felt that to 
 keep up all the forms of anxious solicitude was 
 hard for such a lengthened period, which made 
 the " respect "of the group around Sir Ludovic's 
 death - bed more striking still. Sir Ludovic 
 smiled, and repeated the sentiment with which 
 he began the conversation — " I wish my children 
 would but neglect me." But he was always 
 patient and grateful and polite. He never said 
 anything to Grace about her cold nose; he did 
 not tell Ludovic that his steady stare fretted him 
 beyond measure ; he let Jean prattle on as she 
 would, though he knew that what she said was 
 all a fiction. Sir Ludovic was never a more 
 high-bred gentleman than in this last chapter of 
 his life. He was bored beyond measure, but he 
 never showed it. Only when he was alone with 
 his little daughter, with the old servants who 
 loved him, who always understood him more or 
 less, and always amused him, which was, per- 
 haps, as important, he would rouse up by mo- 
 ments and be his old self. 
 
 As for Margaret, she led the strangest double 
 life — a life which no one suspected, which she did 
 not herself realize. They made her go to bed 
 every night, though she came and went, a white 
 apparition, all the night through, to her father's 
 door to listen, lest anything should happen while 
 she was away from him ; and in the evenings after 
 dinner, when the family were all about Sir Ludo- 
 vic's bed, she would steal out, half reluctant, half 
 eager, half guilty, half happy ; guilty because of 
 the strange flutter of sick and troubled happiness 
 that would come upon her. 
 
 "Yes, my bonnie lamb, yell get a moment to 
 yoursel' ; gang your ways and get a breath of 
 air," Bell would say, all unwitting that something 
 else was waiting for Margaret besides the fresh 
 air and soft soothing of the night. 
 
 "I will be in the wood, Bell, where you can 
 cry upon me. You will be sure to cry upon me 
 if there's any need." 
 
 "My bonnie doo! I'll cry soon enough; but 
 there will be no need," said the old woman, pat- 
 ting her shoulder as she dismissed her. 
 
 And Margaret would flit along the broken 
 ground where the potatoes had been, where her 
 feet had made a path, and disappear into the 
 sighing of the firs, which swept round and hid 
 her amidst the perplexing crowd of their straight 
 columns. There was one tree, beneath the sweep- 
 ing branches of which some one was always wait- 
 ing for her. It was a silver-fir, with great angu- 
 lar limbs, the biggest in the wood, and the little 
 mossy knoll between its great roots was soft and 
 green as velvet. There Rob Glen was always 
 waiting, looking out anxiously through the clear 
 evenings, and with a great gray plaid ready to 
 wrap her in when it was cold or wet. They 
 did not feel the rain under the great horizontal 
 branches of the firs, and the soft pattering it 
 made was more soothing than the wild sweep of 
 the wind coming strong from the sea. There 
 the two would sit sheltered, and look out upon 
 the gray mass of EaiTs-hall, with that one ruddy 
 lighted window. 
 
 Margaret leaned upon her lover, whom, in her 
 trouble, she did not think of as her lover, and 
 cried and was comforted. He was the only one, 
 she felt, except, perhaps, Bell, who was really 
 good to her, who understood her, and did not 
 want her to be composed and calm. He never 
 said she should not cry, but kissed her hands 
 and her cheek, and said, soft caressing words : 
 "My darling! my Margaret!" His heart was 
 beating much more loudly than she could under- 
 stand ; but Rob, if he was not all good, had a 
 certain tenderness of nature in him, and poetry 
 of feeling which kept him from anything which 
 could shock or startle her. Ai these moments, 
 as the long summer day darkened and the soft 
 gloaming spread over them, he was as nearly her 
 true and innocent and generous lover as a man 
 could be who was not always generous and true. 
 He was betraying her, but to what ?— only to ac- 
 cept his love, the best thing a man had to give ; 
 a gift, if you come to that, to give to a queen. 
 He was not feigning nor deceiving, but loved her 
 as warmly as if he had never loved any one be- 
 fore, nor meant to love any other again. And 
 then he would go toward the house with her, not 
 so far as he went that first night in over-bold- 
 ness, when they were caught — an accident he 
 always remembered with shame and self-reproach, 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 75 
 
 yet a certain pride, as having proved to Randal 
 Burnside, once for all, his own inferiority, and 
 that he, Rob Glen, had hopelessly distanced all 
 competitors, however they might build upon be- 
 ing gentlemen. He led her along the edge of 
 the wood always under cover, and stole witli her, 
 under shadow of the garden -wall, to the cor- 
 ner, beyond which he did not venture. Then 
 he would take her into his arms unresisted, and 
 they would linger for a moment, while he lavish- 
 ed upon Margaret every tender name he could 
 think of — 
 
 "Remember that I am always thinking of 
 you, always longing to be by you, to support you, 
 to comfort you, my darling." 
 
 " Yes, I will remember," Margaret said, meek- 
 ly, and there fluttered a little forlorn warmth and 
 sweetness about her heart ; and then he would 
 release her, and, more like a shadow than ever, 
 would stand and watch while she flitted along 
 the wall to the great door. 
 
 And what thoughts were in Rob's mind when 
 she was gone ! That almost innocence, and no- 
 bleness and truth, which had existed in the 
 emotion of their meeting, disappeared with Mar- 
 garet, leaving him in a tumult of other and less 
 noble thoughts. He knew very well that he had 
 beguiled her, though he meant nothing but love 
 and devotion to her. He had betrayed her, in 
 the moment of her sorrow, into a tacit accept- 
 ance of him, and committal of herself from which 
 there was no escape. Rob knew very well — no 
 one better — that there were girls who took such 
 love passages lightly enough ; but to a delicate 
 little maiden, "a lady," like Margaret, he knew 
 there could be but one meaning in this. Though 
 she had scarcely responded at all, she had ac- 
 cepted his tenderness, and committed herself for- 
 ever. And he knew he had betrayed her into 
 this, and was glad with a bounding sense of de- 
 light and triumph such as made him almost 
 spurn the earth. This occurrence gave him, not 
 only Margaret, whom he was in love with, and 
 whose society was for the time sweeter to him 
 than anything in the world, but with her such a 
 dazzling flood of advantages as might well have 
 turned any young man's head : a position such 
 as he might toil all his life for, and never be 
 able to reach : money, such as would make him 
 admired and looked up to by everybody he knew : 
 a life of intoxicating happiness and advance- 
 ment, with no need to do anything he did not 
 care to do, or take any further trouble about 
 his living, one way or another. Rob's organiza- 
 tion was not so fine as to make him unwilling to 
 accept all these advantages from his wife ; in 
 practical life there are indeed very few men who 
 are thus delicately organized ; neither were his 
 principles so high or so honorable as to give him 
 very much trouble about the manner in which 
 he had won all this, by surprise. He just felt it, 
 just had a sense that there was something here 
 to be slurred over as much as possible — but it 
 did not spoil his pleasure. It was, however, ter- 
 ribly difficult to know what it would be best to 
 do in the circumstances, what step he should 
 next take : whether he should boldly face the 
 family, on the chance that Sir Ludovic would be 
 glad before he died to see his daughter with a 
 protector and companion of her own, or whether 
 it was wise to keep in the background, and watch 
 the progress of events, keeping that sure hold 
 
 upon Margaret herself, which he felt he could 
 now trust to. lie had done her good ; he had 
 been more to her than any one else, and had 
 helped her to bear her burden ; and he had thus 
 woven himself in with every association of her 
 life, at its, as yet, most important period, and 
 made himself inseparable from her. 
 
 He had no fear of losing his hold of Margaret. 
 But from the family, the brother and sisters who 
 were like uncle and aunts to the young creature, 
 Rob knew very well he should find little mercy. 
 They would all want to make their own out of 
 her, he felt sure ; for it is hard, even when es- 
 caping from all sensation of vulgarity in one's 
 person, to get rid of that deeply-rooted principle 
 of vulgarity which shows itself in attributing 
 mean motives to other people. This birth-stain 
 of the meaner sort, not always confined to the 
 lower classes, was strong in him. He did not 
 feel that it was her fortune and her importance 
 which made Margaret valuable in his own eyes 
 (for was he not in love?), but he had no hesita- 
 tion in deciding that her family and all about her 
 must look at her in this mercenary light. They 
 certainly would not let her fortune slip through 
 their fingers if they could help it. There might 
 be some hope of a legitimate sanction from Sir 
 Ludovic, who was beyond the reach of any ad- 
 vantage from his daughter's money, and might 
 like to feel that she was "settled" and safe; 
 but there could be no hope from the others. 
 They would have plans of their own for her. 
 The Leslies were known not to be rich, and an 
 heiress was not a thing to be lightly parted with. 
 They would keep her to themselves ; of that he 
 was sure. And at such a moment as this, what 
 chance was there of reaching Sir Ludovic's bed- 
 side, and gaining his consent? It would be im- 
 possible to do so without running the gauntlet 
 of all the family ; it would make a scene, and 
 probably hurt the old man or kill him. 
 
 Thus lie was musing, as after an interval he 
 followed Margaret's course under the shadow of 
 the garden-wall, meaning to make his way out 
 by what was called the avenue, though it was 
 merely a path opened through the belt of wood, 
 which was thin on that side, to the gate in the 
 high-road. But this spot was evidently unlucky 
 to Rob. When he was about to pass the door 
 of Earl's - hall, he met Mr. Leslie coming out. 
 Mr. Leslie was one of the men who are always 
 more or less suspicious, and he had just seen 
 Margaret, with her hat in her hand and the fresh 
 night air still about her, going up the winding 
 stair. Ludovic looked at the man walking along 
 under the wall with instinctive mistrust. 
 
 "Did you want anything?" he asked, hastily. 
 "This path is private, I think." 
 
 " I think not," said Rob ; " at least everybody 
 has been free to pass as long as I can remember ; 
 but I was on my way," he added, thinking it 
 good to try any means of conciliation, "to ask 
 for Sir Ludovic." 
 
 "There is no change," said Mr. Leslie, stiffly. 
 He was himself, to tell the truth, very weary of 
 this invariable answer, but there was nothing else 
 to be said ; and he tried to see who the inquirer 
 was, but was unable to make him out in the late 
 dusk. He had never seen him before, for one 
 thing. " You are from — " 
 
 "I am from nowhere," said Rob. "I don't 
 suppose you know me at all, Mr. Leslie, or even 
 
7C 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 my name. I am Robert Glen ; but Sir Ludovic 
 has been very kind to me. He lias allowed me 
 to come and sketch the house, and latterly I have 
 seen a great deal of liim. His illness has grieved 
 me as much — as if I had a right to be grieved. 
 He was very kind. Latterly I saw a great deal 
 of him." 
 
 "Ah!" said Mr. Leslie. He had heard the 
 people at the Manse talking of Rob Glen, and 
 he had seen Margaret's return a minute before. 
 What connection there might be between these 
 two things he did not very clearly perceive; but 
 there seemed to be something, and he was sus- 
 picious, as indeed he had a right to be. 
 
 "Is he too ill — to ask to see him ?" said Rob, 
 with a sense that a refusal would take ail the re- 
 sponsibility off his shoulders. If he could see 
 Sir Ludovic it might be honorable to explain 
 everything ; but if not — 
 
 "See him!" said Mr. Leslie; "I don't know 
 what your acquaintance may be with my father, 
 Mr. Glen, but he is much too ill to see anybody 
 — scarcely even his own children. I am leaving 
 early, as you perceive, because I feel that it is 
 too much for him to have even all of ourselves 
 there." 
 
 "I am very sorry to hear it," said Rob, with 
 the proper expression in his voice ; but in reality 
 he was relieved ; no need now to say anything 
 to the family. He had Margaret only to deal 
 with, and in her he could fully trust, he thought. 
 "I began a sketch of Sir Ludovic," he said, 
 "for which he had promised me a second sit- 
 ting; will you kindly ask Miss Margaret Leslie 
 to send it back to me, that I may finish it for 
 her as well as I can ? Poor though my drawing 
 was, it will have its value now." 
 
 " I will tell my sister," said Mr. Leslie, and 
 he swung open the gate and waited till Rob 
 passed through. "Good-night," said the young 
 man. It was better in any case to be courteous 
 and friendly, if they would permit it, with " the 
 family." But Mr. Leslie only made an indistinct 
 murmur in the darkness. He gave no articulate 
 response ; there was no cordiality on his side ; 
 and why, indeed, should he be cordial to the 
 farmer's son? Rob went quickly homeward, 
 forcing a smile of contempt, though there was 
 nobody to see. This haughty and distant per- 
 sonage would yet learn to respond to any saluta- 
 tion his sister's husband might make ; he would 
 have to be civil, if nothing more, Rob said with- 
 in himself. What was he that he should be 
 so high and mighty ? An Edinburgh advocate 
 working for his living, a poor laird at the best, 
 with a ramshackle old house for all his inherit- 
 ance. Thus the vulgar came uppermost again 
 in Rob's heart ; he scorned for his poverty the 
 man with whom he was indignant for scorning 
 him, because he was unknown and poor. He 
 hurried home with this little fillip of additional 
 energy given to all his schemes. His mother 
 was standing at the door as he approached, look- 
 ing out for him, or perhaps only looking to see 
 the last of the cows looming through the dusk 
 coming in from the fields. He was absent ev- 
 ery night, and Mrs. Glen wanted to know where 
 he went. She was getting impatient on all points, 
 and had determined to wait no longer for any in- 
 formation he might have to give. 
 
 "Where have you been?" she asked, as he 
 came in sight. 
 
 "To Earl's-hall." 
 
 "To Earl's-hall! And what have you been 
 doing at Earl's-hall ? No drawing and fiddling 
 while the poor auld man lies dying ? Ye're ill 
 enough, but surely you have not the heart for 
 that ?" 
 
 "I have neither been drawing nor fiddling — 
 indeed I did not know that I could fiddle ; but, 
 all the same, I have come from Earl's-hall," he 
 said. "Let me in, mother ; I've been sitting in 
 the wood, and the night has got cold." 
 
 "What have you been doing — sitting in the 
 wood ? There's no light to take your views — 
 tell me," said Mrs. Glen, with determination, 
 "what have you been doing, once for all." 
 
 "I may as well tell you," he said; "I have 
 been sitting in the wood with Margaret." 
 
 "With — Margaret? you're no blate to speak 
 o' a young lady like that. Rob, my bonnie man, 
 I aye thought you were to be the lucky bairn of 
 my family. Have ye naething mair to tell me 
 about — Margaret ? I would like weel, real weel, 
 to hear." 
 
 "Can you keep a secret, mother ?" he said. 
 "I will tell you something if you will swear to 
 me never to repeat it, never to hint at it, never 
 to brag of what is coming, or to give the slight- 
 est ground for suspicion : if you will promise me 
 this — " 
 
 "I was never a tale -pyet," said Mrs. Glen, 
 offended, "nobody ever laid tittle-tattle, or brag- 
 ging of ony kiud, to my door. But if you can- 
 na trust your mother without promises, I see not 
 why you should trust her at all." 
 
 "It is not that I doubt you, mother ; but you 
 know how difficult it is not to mention a thing 
 that is much in your mind. Margaret Leslie is 
 my own ; it is all settled and fixed between us. 
 She came out to me in her trouble when she 
 found her father was dying, and what cotdd I do 
 but comfort her, and support her, and show my 
 feeling — " 
 
 " Oh, ay, Rob," his mother interpolated, "you 
 were aye grand at that !" 
 
 " What could a man do else ? — a sweet young 
 creature like Margaret Leslie crying by his side! 
 I told her, what I suppose she knew very well 
 before, for I never hide my feelings, mother, as 
 you say. And the issue is, she's mine. How- 
 ever it was done, you will not say but what it 
 was well done. I have been fond of her since 
 ever I can remember." 
 
 "And of twa-three mair," said Mrs. Glen, 
 " but no a word o' that, Rob my man. Eh, but 
 I'm weel pleased ! That's what I've been think- 
 ing of since the very week you came hame. 
 'Now if Rob, with all his cleverness, could get 
 that bonnie Miss Margret,' I said to myseP. 
 The Lord bless ye, my man ! I aye thought 
 you were born to be the lucky one of my family. 
 Is it a' in her ain disposition, or have the family 
 ony power over it, Rob ? Eh, my bonnie man, 
 what a down-sitting! and the bonniest leddy in 
 Fife of her years. You're a lucky lad, if ever 
 there was one." 
 
 "Let me in, mother; I don't want to tell this 
 to any ears but yours." 
 
 "Ay, ay, my man, I'll let you in," said Iris 
 mother, standing aside from the door. "Come 
 in and welcome, my lucky lad. Is there any- 
 thing you would like for your supper? Nae- 
 thing in a' the house is ower good for such good 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 77 
 
 news. We'll take a bottle o' wine out of the 
 press, or maybe ye would like a drap toddy just 
 as well, which is mair wholesome. Come in, 
 come in, my bonnie man. A bonnie lass, and 
 plenty wi' her ; and a real auld family an honor 
 to anybody to be connected with. My word, 
 Rob Glen, you're a lucky lad ! Wha will look 
 down upon you now ? Wha will say a word 
 about your opinions ? I've never upbraided you 
 mysel'; I saw your talents, and felt ye could 
 bide your time. Eh," cried Mrs. Glen, exultant, 
 " wha will say now but that marriages are made 
 in heaven ? And Rob, my bonnie man, when is 
 it to be?" 
 
 "We are not so far as that, mother," he said ; 
 "do you think she lias the heart to think of 
 marrying, and poor old Sir Ludovic lying on his 
 death- bed? We must wait for all that. I'm 
 too happy in the mean time to think of more. 
 She's mine ; and that is more than I could have 
 hoped." 
 
 ■ "That's very true, my man: but still some- 
 thing settled would have been a grand stand-by," 
 said Mrs. Glen, slightly disappointed ; "I would 
 have thought now it would have been a great 
 comfort to Sir Ludovic to see his daughter mar- 
 ried and settled before he slips away. But the 
 gentry's ways are not as our ways. I'm doubt- 
 ing you'll have some trouble with the family, if 
 nothing's settled afore the auld gentleman dies." 
 
 "I doubt I will, mother," said Rob; "but 
 whatever trouble I may have, Margaret's mine, 
 and she will never go back from her word." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 At last the time came when old Sir Ludovic's 
 dozing and drowsiness, his speculations, and the 
 gleam of humor with which they were all accom- 
 panied, and which most of those around him 
 thought so inappropriate to his circumstances, 
 came to an end. All his affairs were in order, 
 his will made, though he had not much to leave, 
 and Dr. Burnside (which was a great satisfac- 
 tion to the family) paid him a daily visit for the 
 last week of his life ; so that everything was 
 done decently and in order. Dr. Burnside had 
 not so very much to say to the old man. He 
 had no answer to give to his questions. He 
 bade Sir Ludovic believe. "And so I do," he 
 said ; he could not be got to be frightened ; and 
 now that he had got over the shock of it, and 
 into that dreamy slumbrous valley of the shadow, 
 he did not even wish to avoid what was coming. 
 "It is not so bad as one thinks," he said to old 
 John, his faithful servant, and to the good min- 
 ister, who was approaching old age too, though 
 not so near as either of these old men. Dr. 
 Burnside was a little disturbed by the smile on 
 his patient's face, and hoped it did not show any 
 inclination toward levity; but he was glad to 
 hear, having that journey in view, that it was 
 not so bad as one thought. " He is a man of a 
 very steady faith," the Minister said, and he him- 
 self was wise enough to let Sir Ludovic glide 
 away out of the world with that smile upon his 
 face. 
 
 As for Jean and Grace, they did their best to 
 disturb their father and to unsettle him, and in- 
 sinuated that Dr. Burnside's instructions were 
 
 of an unsatisfactory kind. Even Bell held it un- 
 orthodox that, except in cases of religious tri- 
 umph and ecstasy, which no doubt were on rec- 
 ord, a human creature should leave this earth 
 smiling, to appear in the presence of his Maker, 
 as she said. Mrs. Bellingham did all she could 
 to question her father on the subject, but was not 
 successful. " Leave him in peace," his son said ; 
 but neither was Mr. Leslie satisfied. It was very 
 strange to them all. The old man did not even 
 seem to feel that anxiety for Margaret's future 
 which they expected, and never made that solemn 
 appeal to them to take care of her, to which both 
 the sisters were prepared to respond, and which 
 even Ludovic expected, though he felt that, with 
 such a large family of his own, nothing much 
 could be looked for from him. But Sir Ludovic 
 made no appeal. He said "My little Peggy," 
 when all other words had failed him ; and on 
 the very last day of his life a gleam as of laugh- 
 ter crossed his face, and he shook his head faint- 
 ly at her when she said "me" instead of "I," 
 and thus faded quite gently and pleasantly away. 
 
 There was silence in EaiTs-hall that night, si- 
 lence and quiet, scarcely a whisper even between 
 the sisters, who generally had a meeting in Mrs. 
 Bellingham's room for a last discussion of every- 
 thing that had passed, notwithstanding that they 
 were all the day together. But on this evening 
 nobody talked. Ludovic went away with the 
 Minister and ate a solemn late meal, having, as 
 everybody said, eaten nothing all day (but that 
 was a mistake, for he had not been called to the 
 last ceremonial till after luncheon^. And in 
 Eaii's-hall everybody went to bed. They had 
 been keeping irregular hours, had sometimes sat 
 late, and sometimes been called early ; and John 
 and Bell, in particular, had not for a week past 
 kept any count which was night and which was 
 day. A few broken phrases about "him yon- 
 der," a groan from John, a few tears rubbed off, 
 till her eyes were red, by Bell's apron, and the 
 sound of "greeting" from Jeanie's little turret- 
 room, was almost all that could be heard in the 
 sileut house. Margaret, for her part, could not 
 "greet" as Jeanie did. She was stunned, and 
 did not know what had happened to her. Eor 
 the moment it was over ; the worst had come, 
 and a blank of utter exhaustion came over the 
 girl. She allowed herself to be put to bed, and 
 did nothing but sigh, long sighs which went to 
 Bell's heart, sighs which seemed almost a physi- 
 cal necessity to the young bosom oppressed with 
 such an unknown burden. Mrs. Bellingham 
 (though she was not quite satisfied in her mind) 
 said a few words to her maid that it was a most 
 peaceful end, that it was beautiful to see him ly- 
 ing there at rest just as if he were asleep; and 
 Miss Leslie cried copiously, and said "Dearest 
 papa!" They were all in bed by ten o'clock, and 
 the old gray house shut up and silent. A dark 
 night, the wind sweeping through the firs, every- 
 thing silent and hushed in earth and heaven, and 
 all dark except the one window in which a faint 
 watch -light burned palely, but no longer the 
 warm, inconstant glimmer of any cheerful fire. 
 
 But with the morning, what a flood of pent-up 
 energy and activity was let loose. They were 
 all anxious to keep quiet in Margaret's part of 
 the house, that she might sleep as long as possi- 
 ble and be kept out of every one's way. The 
 arrangements into which everybody else plunged 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 were not for her. The first thing to be thought 
 of, of course, Mrs. Bellingham said, was the 
 mourning, and there was not a moment's time 
 to lose. Telegraphs were not universally preva- 
 lent in those clays, and one of the men from the 
 farm had to be sent on horseback to Fifeton to 
 send a message to Edinburgh about the bomba- 
 zine and the crape. 
 
 As Sir Ludovic bad anticipated, his daughter 
 Jean did not stint him of a single fold ; she meant 
 to show " every respect." Fortunately Steward, 
 their maid, was quite equal to the occasion, both 
 the ladies congratulated themselves. " Of course, 
 we shall want no evening dresses, nothing beyond 
 the mere necessary here," Mrs. Bellingham said. 
 "One for the morning and another to go out 
 with, a little more trimmed, that will be all." 
 But even for this little outfit a good deal of trou- 
 ble had to be taken. That very evening a man 
 arrived from Edinburgh with mountains of crape 
 and boxes full of hemstitched cambric for the 
 collars and cuffs. There was crape all over the 
 house — even Bell and Jeanie had their share — 
 no stint. When a man has been so much thought 
 of as Sir Ludovic, and has a respectable family 
 whose credit is involved in showing him every 
 respect, a good deal of quiet bustle becomes in- 
 evitable ; the house was full of whispers, of con- 
 sultations, of measurements, and a great hurry 
 and pressure to get done in time for the funeral ; 
 though the funeral was delayed long, according 
 to use and wont in the country. 
 
 Mr. Leslie, on his part, went over all the house, 
 and walked diligently about the farm and in- 
 spected everything, though, being a silent man, 
 he said little about it. It was too early to say 
 anything. When his sisters put questions to him 
 about what he was going to do, he said he had 
 not made up his mind ; and it was only when the 
 funeral was over, and the shutters opened, and 
 old Sir Ludovic's chair put against the wall, that 
 he at all opened his mind. Nearly a week passed 
 in this melancholy interval ; he had become Sir 
 Ludovic himself, but nobody in Earl's-hall could 
 give him the familiar title ; old John ground his 
 teeth together (though he had not many left) and 
 tried to get it out, but the conclusion was a hur- 
 ried exclamation, 
 
 "I canna do it ! Pit me away, sir. Bell and 
 me, we're ready to gang whenever ye please ; but 
 I canna ca' ye your right name." 
 
 The new Sir Ludovic, though he said little, 
 had a kind heart. He said, "Never mind, John ; 
 tell Bell never to mind;" but Mrs. Bellingham 
 had no such feeling. She said it was ridiculous 
 in servants, when the family themselves had to 
 do it. "I hope I know what is due to the living 
 as well as to the dead," she cried ; "and if I can 
 say it, why should not John?" 
 
 But at first, no doubt, it was difficult enough. 
 After the funeral, however, the new Sir Ludovic 
 went " home " to Earl's-hall, where his wife came 
 and joined him. The eldest boy, too, arrived for 
 the ceremony itself, and walked with his father 
 to the church-yard as one of the chief mourners. 
 The house was filled to overflowing with the fam- 
 ily as soon as the last act of old Sir Ludovic's 
 earthly history was accomplished. Beds were 
 put in the high room to accommodate the boys. 
 It was all novelty to them, who had not known 
 very much of their grandfather, and their moth- 
 er liked being my lady. It was natural. She 
 
 had not known much of the old man any more 
 than her children had, and he was only her fa- 
 ther-in-law — not a very tender relationship. 
 Thus the new tide rose at once, and new life 
 came in. Had there been only the elders in the 
 house, no doubt they would have kept up a drow- 
 sy appearance of gravity ; but that was not to be 
 done with young people in the house. 
 
 As for Margaret, this period passed over her 
 like a dream. While the house was shut up, 
 and everything went on in a pale twilight, she 
 wandered about like a ghost, not knowing what 
 to do or say, unable to take up any of her occu- 
 pations. It seemed years to her, centuries since 
 the careless time when she went and came so 
 lightly, fearing no evil; trying to draw straight 
 lines with an ineffectual pencil ; flitting out and 
 in of her father's room ; getting out books for 
 him ; searching for something she might read 
 herself; taking up for half an hour Lady Jean's 
 old work; knitting a bit of Bell's stocking; roam- 
 ing everywhere about as light as the wind. All 
 that, Margaret thought, was over forever; but 
 she did not " break her heart "altogether, as she 
 supposed she would. Sometimes, indeed, an ach- 
 ing sense of loss, a horrible void about her would 
 make her heart sick, and her whole being giddy 
 with pain ; but in the intervals life went on, and 
 she found that it was possible to sit at table, to 
 talk to the others, to have her dresses fitted on. 
 And when the children came, there were mo- 
 ments when she felt inclined to smile at their 
 curious little ways, even (was that possible?) to 
 laugh at little Loodie, who was the youngest of 
 the boys, and never, Heaven forbid ! would be 
 Sir Ludovic. Bell, too, found little Loodie "a 
 real diverting bairn." "Eh, if his grandpapaw 
 had but been here to see him!" she said, with 
 tears and smiles. 
 
 But Margaret, naturally, was more unwilling 
 to be " diverted "than Bell was. When she was 
 beguiled into a smile at little Loodie, it was very 
 unwillingly, and she would recover herself with 
 a sense of guilt ; for it was a terrible revelation 
 to Margaret, a most painful discovery to feel that 
 a smile was possible even within a week of her 
 father's death, and that her heart was not alto- 
 gether broken. She wept for her own heartless- 
 ness as well as for her dear father, of whom she 
 had thought beforehand that all she wished for 
 would be to be buried in his grave. 
 
 But she went out of the house only once be- 
 tween the death and the funeral. Rob, for his 
 part, roamed round about it, and stayed for hours 
 in the woods, looking for her ; but it seemed to 
 Margaret that for the moment she shrank from 
 Rob. Oh, how could she have thought of Rob, 
 or any one, while he lay dying ? How could she 
 have gone out and spent those hours in the wood 
 with him, which might have been spent with Sir 
 Ludovic ? What would she give now, she said 
 to herself, to be able to steal up-stairs to him, to 
 sit by his bedside, to hold his hand, to hear him 
 say " My little Peggy " again. Now that this was 
 no longer possible, she felt a kind of resentment 
 against Rob, who had occupied her at times when 
 it was still possible. And the state of his mind 
 during this interval was not pleasant to contem- 
 plate. When he had asked once or twice for the 
 ladies, he had no further excuse for returning 
 openly, and he was afraid to be seen lest he 
 should again meet some one — perhaps the new 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 79 
 
 Sir Ludovic himself— who had not been delight- 
 ed by his previous appearance, or some jealous 
 spectator like Randal Burnside. 
 
 Rob stood for hours behind the big fir-tree 
 looking toward the house in which there were 
 more lights now, but no glimmer in that window 
 which had been his beacon for so long, and more 
 voices audible— never Margaret's soft notes, like 
 a bird. He was very fond of Margaret. Those 
 dreary evenings when she was kept from him, or 
 kept herself from him, Rob was wild with love, 
 and fear, and disappointment. Could they have 
 found it out? could they be keeping her away? 
 He stood under the fir-tree scarcely daring to 
 move, and watched with his heart beating in his 
 ears. Sometimes John would loom heavily across 
 the vacant space, coming out again, according to 
 his old habit, to "take a look at the potatoes." 
 Sometimes Bell would appear at the opening of 
 the little court-yard to "cry upon" her husband 
 when something was wanted. "There's aye 
 something wanting now," John would say, as he 
 turned back. Or Rob would see some one at 
 the wall, drawing water, under the shade of the 
 thorn-tree, without knowing who it was, or that 
 there were any thoughts of himself, except those 
 which might be in Margaret's bosom, within the 
 gray shadow of those old walls. How breath- 
 lessly he watched John's lumbering steps about 
 the potatoes, and the whiteness of Bell's aprons, 
 and the clang of the water-pails ! 
 
 But no one came. Had she accepted his con- 
 solations only because there was no one else to 
 comfort her, without caring for him who breathed 
 them in her ear? Were all his lofty hopes to 
 end in nothing, and his love to be rejected? 
 Terror and anxiety thrilled through Rob as he 
 stood and watched, tantalized by all those sounds 
 and half-seen sights. Once only she came, and 
 then she would say little or nothing to him : she 
 had never said much ; but she shrank from his 
 outstretched arms now, crying, "Don't, don't!" 
 in tones half of terror. That one meeting was 
 a greater disappointment than when she did not 
 come at all. Had she but been taking advan- 
 tage of him, as great people, Rob knew, were so 
 ready to take advantage of small people ? And 
 now that she needed him no longer, was she 
 about to cast him off? In that case, all his line 
 anticipations, all his triumph, would be like Al- 
 nascher's hopes in the story. His very heart 
 quailed in terror. The disappointment, the 
 downfall, the decay of hopes and prospects 
 would be more than he could bear. 
 
 The truth was that Margaret, left all alone 
 suddenly in the midst of what to her was a 
 crowd of people, all more or less strangers, 
 seemed to have lost the power of doing so much 
 for herself as to go anywhere. Though they 
 amused her sometimes in spite of herself, they 
 kept her in a kind of subjugation which was very 
 confusing and very novel. 
 
 "Where are you going, Margaret?" Mrs. Bel- 
 lingham would say, if she went across the room. 
 "Darling Margaret, don't leave us," Grace 
 would add, next time she moved. Even Effie, 
 who was so anxious to be "of use," would inter- 
 fere, throwing her arms about her youthful aunt, 
 whispering, "You are not to go to your own 
 room and cry. Oh, come with me to the tower, 
 and look at the sunset." 
 
 "Yes, my dear Margaret, go with Effie; it 
 6 
 
 will take off your thoughts a little," said the new 
 Lady Leslie. 
 
 Thus Margaret had weights of kindness hung 
 round her on every side, and was changed in ev- 
 ery particular of her life from the light-hearted 
 creature who flitted about like the wind, in and 
 out a hundred times a day. Even Bell approved 
 of this thraldom. 
 
 "Ah, my bonnie dear, keep wi' Miss Effie. 
 She's your ain flesh and blood. What would 
 you do out your lane when you have sic com- 
 pany ?" 
 
 "I always went out alone before," Margaret 
 said, mechanically turning up-stairs again. 
 
 "Yes, my bonnie doo; but you hadna a bon- 
 nie young Miss, a cousin of your ain (for niece 
 is but a jest), to keep ye company." 
 
 Thus Margaret was held fast. And by-and- 
 by her habit of wandering out would probably 
 have been broken, and she might have been car- 
 ried away by her sisters safe out of all contact 
 or reach of her lover. For the lover, as will be 
 seen, was not violently in Margaret's mind. If 
 she missed him, there were so many other things 
 that she missed more ! He was but part of the 
 general privation, impoverishment of her life. 
 She had lost everything, she thought — her fa- 
 ther, her careless sweetness of living, her light 
 heart, the sunshine of her morning. All these 
 other happinesses being gone, how could Marga- 
 ret make an effort for Rob only ? She was not 
 strong enough to do this. She was not even 
 unwilling to let him go with all the rest. Per- 
 haps there was ingratitude in the feeling. He 
 had been very "kind" to her, had given her a 
 little comfort of sweet sympathy in her trouble. 
 It was ungrateful to forget that now ; and she 
 did not forget it, but was too languid, too weary, 
 and had lost too much already to be able to 
 make any effort for this. Meanwhile, while she 
 sat in a kind of lethargy within, and followed 
 the directions of all about her, and let him drop 
 from her, Rob roamed about outside, gnashing 
 his teeth, sometimes almost cursing her, some- 
 times almost praying for her, watching every 
 door and window, holding the post of a most 
 impatient sentinel under the great fir-tree. 
 
 It happened to Margaret, however, one even- 
 ing to find herself alone. Mrs. Bellingham had 
 a headache, a thing which was not generally re- 
 garded as a great calamity in places where Mrs. 
 Bellingham paid visits. It confined her to her 
 room, and it was, on the whole, not a disagree- 
 able change for her friends. Her sister, who in 
 weal and woe was inseparable from her, though 
 she would have been glad enough to escape too, 
 was, under Jean's orders, writing letters for her 
 in her room. And the new proprietors of Earl's- 
 hall were glad enough for once to be by them- 
 selves. They took a conjugal walk aboutthe 
 place, examining into everything — the ruined 
 part to see if anything could be done to it ; the 
 stables, which had been made out of part of the 
 ruin ; even the pigsty, which was John's favorite 
 spot in the demesne. The subject of consider- 
 ation in the mind of the pair was whether the 
 old place, with all its associations, should be 
 sold, or whether anything could be done with 
 it, cheaply, to adapt it for the country residence 
 of the family. In its present state, certainly, it 
 did not take much to "keep up;" but, on the 
 other hand, the rental of the little scraps of es- 
 
80 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 tate which old Sir Ludovic had left scarcely 
 justified the new Sir Ludovic, with his large 
 family, in "keeping up" any country place at 
 all. To decide upon this subject was the reason 
 of Lady Leslie's presence here. 
 
 And Effie, whose mourning was less deep, and 
 her mind less affected by " the family loss " than 
 Margaret, had gone to visit Mrs. Burnside. 
 Even little Loodie was being put to bed. Mar- 
 garet, for the first time since her father's death, 
 was alone. She had found that day, among a 
 collection of papers into which it had been shuf- 
 fled heedlessly amidst the confusion of the mo- 
 ment, the drawing of her father which Rob Glen 
 had begun on his first appearance at Earl's-hall; 
 and this had plunged her back into all that 
 fresh agitation of loss and loneliness which is, 
 in its way, a kind of pleasure to the mind, in- 
 stead of the dull stupor of habitual grief which 
 follows upon the immediate passion of an event. 
 She had wept till her eyes and her strength were 
 exhausted, but her heart relieved a little ; and 
 then that heart yearned momentarily for some 
 one to comfort her. Where was he ? She had 
 not thought of him in this aspect before — per- 
 haps looking for her, perhaps waiting for her, he 
 who had been so "kind." She put on her hat 
 with the heavy gauze veil which Jean had 
 thought necessary. She was all hung and gar- 
 landed with crape, the hat itself wrapped in a 
 cloud of it, her dress covered with it, so that Mar- 
 garet's very movements were hampered. The 
 grass always damp, more or less, the mossy un- 
 derground" beneath the firs, the moist brown 
 earth of the potato -ground, were all alike un- 
 suitable for this heavy and elaborate robe of 
 mourning. Margaret gathered it about her and 
 put on her hat, with its thick black gauze veil — 
 she did not know herself in all this panoply of 
 woe — and went out. There was nobody about. 
 John was showing the new Baronet his pigsty, 
 and Bell, more comforted and cheerful than she 
 had yet felt, stood in the door of the byre and 
 talked to Lady Leslie about her favorite, her 
 bonnie brown cow. The old people were amused 
 and pleased ; they were more near "getting over 
 it" than they had felt yet; and even John be- 
 gan to feel that it might be possible, after a 
 while, to say Sir Ludovic again. 
 
 Margaret went out, hearing their voices, 
 though she did not see them. She had no feel- 
 ing of bitterness toward her brother, though he 
 was assuming possession of her old home. He 
 had not much to say, but he was kind ; and 
 good Lady Leslie was a good mother, and could 
 not but speak softly and think gently of every- 
 body. They were, perhaps, a humdrum and 
 somewhat care-worn couple, but no unkindness 
 was in them. It gave Margaret no pang to hear 
 them talking about Bell's beloved Brownie or 
 what they were to do with the stables, neither 
 did it occur to her to take any pains not to be 
 seen by them. It was still light, but the even- 
 ing was waning, the sky glowing in the west, the 
 shadows gathering under the fir-trees in the 
 woods which lay to eastward of the house. She 
 made her way to her usual haunt, her feet mak- 
 ing no sound on the soft path. Would he be 
 there, waiting for her as in that dreadful time ? 
 or would he have gone away? Margaret had 
 not enough animation left to feel that she would 
 be disappointed if he were not there, but yet 
 
 her heart was a little lighter, for the first time 
 relieved from the dull burden of sorrow which is 
 so intolerable to youth. And who can say with 
 what transport Rob Glen saw this slim black- 
 clad figure detach itself from the shadow of the 
 house ? He had come here, as he said to him- 
 self, half indignantly, half sullenly, for the last 
 time, to wait for her — the last time he would 
 come and wait — but not on that account would 
 he give up the pursuit of her. She was his — that 
 he would maintain with all his force. He would 
 write to her next day, and ask why she did not 
 come. He would let her feel that he had a 
 claim upon her, that she could not cast him off" 
 when she pleased. But in his very vehemence 
 there was a tremor of fear, and it is impossible 
 to describe with what feelings of anxiety he had 
 come, putting his fortune to the touch, meaning 
 that this vigil should be final before he proceed- 
 ed to "other steps." And how had fortune, 
 nay, providence, rewarded him ! Not John this 
 time, not Bell smoothing down her apron, not 
 Jeanie with her pitcher at the well; but slim 
 and fair as a lily in her envelope of gloom, pale 
 with grief and exhaustion, with wet eyes and a 
 pitiful lip, that quivered as she tried to smile at 
 him, at last Margaret was here. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 "At last!" He came out from the shadow' 
 of the firs and took her hands, and drew her to- 
 ward him. "At last! my Margaret, my own 
 Margaret ! Such a weary time it has been wait- 
 ing, but this repays all. Say that it is not your 
 doing, darling. You have been kept back ; you 
 have not forgotten me, or that I was waiting 
 here ?" 
 
 "No," she said; "but I did not know you 
 were waiting here. I did not know, even, if I 
 would find you to-night." 
 
 "It would have been strange, indeed, if you 
 had not found me. Every evening, as sure as 
 the gloaming came, I have been here waiting for 
 you, Margaret. I did not think you would have 
 kept me so long. But it is not as it used to be 
 between us, when I thought, perhaps, you might 
 cast me oft' at any moment. I a poor farmer's 
 son, you the young lady of Earl's-hall ; but that 
 could not be now ; for you are mine, and I am 
 yours." 
 
 "It would not have been at any time — for 
 that reason," said Margaret. She was uneasy 
 about the very close proximity he wished for, 
 and avoided his arm. In her great trouble she 
 had not thought of this, but now it troubled and 
 partially shocked her, though she could scarcely 
 tell why. She was roused, however, by the idea 
 that she could have slighted him for any ignoble 
 reason. "It is you that have always been kind 
 to me," she said. "I, who am only a country- 
 girl, and know nothing at all." 
 
 " You are a princess," said Rob ; " you are a 
 queen to me. My queen and my Margaret ; but 
 you will not keep me so long hungering and 
 thirsting out here, far from the light of your 
 sweet countenance ? you will not leave me so 
 long again ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Glen !" said Margaret, " I ought to 
 let you know at once, we are going away." 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 81 
 
 " Do not, for Heaven's sake, call me Mr. 
 Glen ! Do you want to make me very unhappy, 
 to take away all pleasures from me ? Surely the 
 time is over in which you should call me Mr. 
 Glen. You cannot want to play with me and 
 make me wretched, Margaret ?" 
 
 "No," she said, with a tremor in her voice; 
 "I will call you by your name, as I used to do 
 when I was little. But it is quite true that I 
 said — we are going away." 
 
 " Going away ? Where are you going, and 
 who are we ? Oh yes, I knew it was not likely 
 they would stay here," cried Rob, with mingled 
 irritation and despair. " Where are they going 
 to take you, my Margaret ? — nowhere that I 
 cannot come and see you, nowhere that I will 
 not follow you, my darling. I would go after 
 you to the world's-end. " 
 
 "I am going with my sisters, Jean and Grace. 
 They are my guardians now. I am to live with 
 them till — for three years at least, till I am twen- 
 ty - one ; then they say I can do what I like. 
 What does it matter now about doing what I 
 like? I do not think I care what becomes of 
 me, now that I have no one, no one that has a 
 right to me! and they will not even let me cry." 
 
 She began to weep, and he did not stop her, 
 though his mind was full of impatience. He 
 drew her to him close, and this time she did not 
 resist him. 
 
 "Cry there," he said, "Margaret — my Mar- 
 garet ! I will never try to keep you from cry- 
 ing. Oh ! he deserved it well. He loved you 
 better than all the earth. You were the light of 
 his eyes, as you are of mine. They ! what does 
 it matter to them ? They will bother you ; they 
 will make you do what they like ; they will not 
 worship you as he did, and as I do. But, Mar- 
 garet, there is still one that has a right to you. 
 Had he known, had I but had the courage to 
 go and tell him everything, he would have given 
 you to me ; I am certain he would. He would 
 have thought, like you, that it was better, far 
 better for you, to have some one of your very 
 own. The others ! what are you to them ? But 
 to him you were everything, and to me you are 
 everything. Margaret ! say this, darling ! Say, 
 Rob, I am yours ; I will always be yours, as you 
 are mine ! " 
 
 Margaret looked in his face with her wet eyes. 
 But she did not say the words he dictated to 
 her. Her heart was full of emotion of another 
 kind. She was thankful to Rob for his kind- 
 ness, and he was not like — any one else ; he had 
 a special standing-ground of his own with her. 
 To nobody elte could she talk as she was talk- 
 ing, on nobody else would she lean ; but still it 
 did not occur to her to obey him, to say what he 
 asked her to say. 
 
 "I found that picture you made," she said, 
 "only to-day. It is him, just himself. I took 
 it away to my own room that nobody might see 
 it. It must have been some angel that put it 
 into your mind to do that." 
 
 "Yes, Margaret," he said, "it was an angel, 
 for it was you. And it was not I that did it, 
 but love that did it; but if you will give it to 
 me, I will make it still more like him. I will 
 never forget how he looked, and how you looked 
 — and my heart all full, and running over with 
 love, which I dared not say." 
 
 Alas ! there Avas this peculiarity in the conver- 
 
 sation, that while Rob was eager to speak of 
 himself and his love, Margaret, in the most in- 
 nocent and unwitting way, made it apparent that 
 this was not the subject that interested her most. 
 She was too polite not to listen to him, too grate- 
 ful and sensitively affected by the curious link 
 between them to show any opposition ; but when 
 she could, she turned aside from this subject, 
 which to him was the most interesting subject in 
 heaven or earth ; and it is impossible to say how 
 this fact moved Rob, who had never met with 
 anything of the kind before. It piqued him, and 
 it made him more eager. He watched her with 
 an anxiety and impatience which he could scarce- 
 ly keep in check, while she, with downcast eyes 
 full of tears, pursued that part of the subject 
 which interested her most. 
 
 " I should not like it touched," she said ; "I 
 would not give it for all the pictures in the world ! 
 If I gave it to you, it would be only that it might 
 be put into some case that would preserve it. I 
 have folded it in paper, but that is not enough. 
 I would not give it for all the pictures in the 
 world !" 
 
 "Thank you, my darling," he said. "It is 
 something to have done a thing that so pleases 
 you. If you will bring it to me, I will get it put 
 in a case for you. Indeed, it was an angel that 
 put that scene before me ; for now when you 
 look at that, and think of him, you will think of 
 me too." 
 
 "Oh no, Mr. Glen," said Margaret — then she 
 stopped, confused : " I mean, Rob — I am very, 
 very thankful to you. But when I look at that, 
 all the world goes away, and there is only papa 
 leaning back, sleeping. I am glad he was sleep- 
 ing. He slept a great deal, do you know, before 
 he died. But it was better to see him in his 
 chair, as he used always to be, than in his bed. 
 I don't want any one to see it but myself — other 
 people do not understand it. They would hand 
 it about from one to another, and say, ' Is it not 
 like?' and talk. I could not bear that ; I prefer 
 to keep it to myself." 
 
 "But you don't mind me seeing it?" he said. 
 "I should not be so unfeeling. Many a time 
 when we are together — when we are married, 
 darling — we will look at it together; and I will 
 make a picture from it, a real picture, with you 
 at my elbow, and it shall be hung in the best 
 place in our house." 
 
 At this Margaret winced slightly, but made 
 no remark. She had not the courage to con- 
 tradict him, to say anything against this strange 
 view; but it disturbed her all the same. Prob- 
 ably it would have to be some time. There 
 seemed a necessity for it, though she could not 
 quite tell why ; but as it could not be now, nor 
 for a long time, why should it be spoken of, or 
 brought in to disturb everything? She said, not 
 knowing how to put aside this subject gently, 
 yet to say something all the same : " Jean and 
 Grace are going to take me to the Grange — to 
 my house." 
 
 "To your house!" Rob felt the blood flush 
 to his face with the excitement of this thought. 
 " I did not know you had a house of your own, 
 Margaret." 
 
 " Oh yes ; it was my mother's. It is away 
 in England, where I never was. I have seen a 
 picture of it. They say it is very English, with 
 creepers hanging about the walls, roses and 
 
82 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 honeysuckle, and beautiful great trees. Jean 
 thinks everything in England is better than any- 
 thing in Scotland. However pretty it may be, 
 it will never, never be like old gray Earl's-hall." 
 
 Rob dropped his arm from her, and hung his 
 head. "What am I thinking of?" he said; 
 "you a great lady, with beautiful houses and 
 lands, and I a poor man, with nothing. I must 
 be mad to think that you could care for me — 
 that you would even think of me at all." 
 
 "Mr. — Rob! oh, what must you think of me 
 that you say so ? Do I care for money or for a 
 house? Are you going away? Are you going 
 to — leave me? oh!" cried Margaret, penitent, 
 clasping her hands; "did you not know I had 
 a fortune? But what does that matter? You 
 have been kind, very kind to me, thinking I was 
 poor — Rob ! are you going to cry, you ! — no, 
 don't, don't ; you will break my heart ! I am 
 calling you by your name now," she said, anx- 
 iously, with one hand upon his arm, and with 
 the other pulling down the hand which covered 
 his face. She put her own face close to his in 
 her generous, foolish earnestness — " I am call- 
 ing you by your name now, Rob ; don't hide 
 your face from me, don't go away and leave me. 
 If I am rich, is it not all the better? There 
 will be plenty for us both." 
 
 "It makes a difference," he said ; and indeed 
 lie was able to play his part very well, for nev- 
 er before in his life had Rob been so entirely 
 ashamed of himself. Her very earnestness, she 
 who had been so cool and calm before, her gen- 
 erous trouble and importunity humbled him to 
 the very depths. A man may do a great many 
 things that will not bear examination before 
 he finds himself out ; but to act such a false- 
 hood as this — to pretend that he did not know 
 what he knew so much more definitely than she 
 did — to pretend to resist her generous anxiety — 
 to avert his face, and let her woo him, she who 
 had taken his hot wooing with such shy cold- 
 ness ! This made Rob feel himself the most 
 wretched creature, the most despicable, miser- 
 able, mercenary wretch. He could not endure 
 himself. Well might he hide his face for a poor 
 swindler and cheat, worse, far worse than he 
 had ever known himself before ! To breathe 
 deceitful vows, to say more than he meant, to 
 promise more than lie intended to perform, all 
 this was not a thousandth part so bad ; for in- 
 deed he had always been "in love," when he 
 made love ; and a promise more or less, what is 
 that? The common coin of young deceivers. 
 Hitherto Rob had not been bad, only fickle and 
 false. But what was he now ? A cheat, a liar, 
 a traitor, unfit to breathe where such innocent 
 creatures were. Thus he played his part very 
 well ; his misery was not dissembled ; and when 
 he allowed himself to yield to her entreaties, to 
 be moved by the eager eloquence of that soft 
 lip which was so ready to quiver, what vows he 
 made in his heart to be to Margaret something 
 more than ever man had been before ! 
 
 After this their intercourse was more easy, 
 and by-and-by Rob came to feel that perhaps the 
 momentary fear of losing him (which was how, 
 in his native vulgarity and self-importance, he 
 put it, after a while, to himself) had been a good 
 thing. More than ever now she had committed 
 herself. They wandered about among the trees 
 and talked. They talked of her departure, and 
 
 of how he could write to her — winch Margaret 
 was half shy again to think of, yet half happy 
 too, a novelty as it was. But she could not tell 
 him how this was to be managed, or how he 
 could come to see her; all was strange, and 
 Jean and Grace were very different from any- 
 thing she had known in all her previous life. 
 
 " They tell me to sit down when I am stand- 
 ing, and to stand up when I am sitting down ; 
 they will always have me doing something dif- 
 ferent," she avowed, though gently, and with a 
 faint sense of humor. But this made it very ev- 
 ident that the life before her would be quite un- 
 like the past. And it did not occur to Margaret 
 that Jean and Grace ought perhaps to be in- 
 formed of Rob, and the understanding between 
 him and herself. Rob naturally said nothing 
 about this, and to Margaret the thought did not 
 occur. She had no idea of concealment, but sim- 
 ply did not think of her sisters in connection 
 with this "secret," which was something too 
 strange and confusing to herself to be capable of 
 explanation to others, who could not know how it 
 had come about. 
 
 " Will you come up to the tower ?" said Effie 
 Leslie to Randal Burnside, who had walked 
 home with her from the Manse. Randal had 
 been much about Earl's-hall since Sir Ludovic's 
 death. He had been ready to do anything for 
 the family, and the family had been very willing 
 to employ him. It was a kindness to give him 
 something to do, his mother said, who was glad 
 to throw him in Margaret's way ; and the dec- 
 orousness of the grief which made Mrs. Belling- 
 ham and Miss Leslie quite unable to see anybody 
 was put aside on his behalf as well as on his 
 father's. And Margaret and he had grown 
 friends, though she was almost the only one in 
 the house who never gave him any commissions 
 in that moment of bustle. She had never ceased 
 to be grateful to him for calling the doctor when 
 her father's illness began, but she was too inde- 
 pendent to have any personal wants to which he 
 could minister, and too shy to have asked his aid 
 if she had. Effie was much more disposed to 
 make use of the young man. She was not un- 
 happy — why should she be, having seen so little 
 of grandpapa? She was a little elated, indeed, 
 to think that mamma was now my lady, and 
 she herself entitled to precedence as a baronet's 
 daughter, and she was very glad to have some 
 one to speak to who did not melt into tears in 
 the middle of the conversation, or say, "Hush, 
 child ! remember that this is a house of mourn- 
 ing." The Manse was not a house of mourn- 
 ing, and she liked to go there, and she liked 
 Randal to walk home with her and talk. Lady 
 Leslie was still looking at the brown cow and 
 John's pigsty, and Mrs. Bellingham, as has 
 been said, had a headache. Effie peeped into 
 the West Chamber and the long room, and saw 
 nobody. And then she said, " Have you ever 
 been on the tower, Mr. Burnside? Oh, do come 
 up to the tower." 
 
 Randal had climbed the tower a hundred times 
 in former days. He went up the winding stair 
 very willingly, thinking he would have all the 
 better chance of seeing " the others," when the 
 falling night drove them in from their walks. 
 Perhaps "the others" meant only the new Sir 
 Ludovic ; perhaps it had another significance. 
 He was interested about Margaret, he allowed to 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 83 
 
 himself— move interested than he dared let any 
 one know ; for had he not almost seen a lover's 
 parting between her and Rob Glen ? — a secret 
 knowledge which made him very uneasy. Ran- 
 dal felt that he could not betray them ; it would 
 be a base thing in their contemporary — or so, 
 at least, he thought ; but he was uneasy. Many 
 thoughts had gone through his mind on this sub- 
 ject. He did not know what to do. The only 
 thing that seemed to him possible was to speak 
 to Rob Glen himself, to represent to him that it 
 was not manly or honorable to engage a girl in 
 Margaret's position, without the knowledge and 
 consent of her friends. But to make such a 
 statement to a young man of your own age, with 
 whom you have not the warrant of friendship 
 for your interference, nor even the warrant of 
 equality, is a difficult thing to do. If Rob, re- 
 senting it, could have called him out, there would 
 have been less harm ; but that was ridiculous, 
 and what could be done to expiate such an af- 
 front ? There was nothing to be done, unless 
 he permitted Rob to knock him down, and he 
 did not feel that his forbearance was equal to 
 that. So that Randal remained very uneasy on 
 this subject, and did not know what to do. To 
 let Margaret fall into the hands of a — of Rob 
 Glen, seemed desolation and sacrilege ; but what 
 could Randal — who had known them both from 
 his cradle — what could he do between them. 
 Was it his part to tell — most despicable of all 
 offices in the opinion of youth ? This train of 
 uneasy thought was brought back when Effie 
 looked into the little white-panelled sitting-room, 
 the West Chamber, where Margaret, he knew, 
 spent most of her time. She liked it better than 
 the long room, every nook of which was so full 
 of her father's memory ; and the ladies humored 
 her, and, small as it was, made the West Cham- 
 ber their centre. Where was she, if she was not 
 there ? Possibly out-of-doors in the soft even- 
 ing, confiding all her griefs to Rob Glen. Pos- 
 sibly it was the thought that Randal himself 
 would have liked to have those griefs confided to 
 him, and to act the part of comforter, that made 
 his blood burn at this imagination. So soon af- 
 ter her father's death ! He felt disposed to de- 
 spise Margaret too. 
 
 "Go softly just here," said Effie, whispering; 
 "for there is Aunt Jean's room, and we must 
 not do anything to disturb her headache. It is 
 a very good thing, you know, that she has a 
 headache sometimes : even Aunt Grace says so 
 — for otherwise she would wear herself out. Per- 
 haps it is a little too late for the view, but the 
 sky was still full of glow when we came in. Ah ! 
 it is very dark up here ; but now there is only 
 another flight. Oh no, it is not too late for the 
 view," Effie cried, her young voice coming out 
 soft yet ringing, as they emerged into the open 
 air. " Nobody can hear us here," she said, with 
 a laugh ; for at seventeen it is not easy to be se- 
 rious all day, especially when it is only a grand- 
 father, nothing more, who is dead. 
 
 It was not too late for the view, and the view 
 was not a view to be despised. There does not 
 seem much beauty to spare in the east of Fife. 
 Low hills, great breadths of level fields : the sea 
 a great expanse of blue or leaden gray, fringed 
 with low reefs of dark rocks, like the teeth of 
 some hungry monster, dangerous and grim with- 
 out being picturesque, without a ship to break 
 
 its monotony. But yet, with those limitless 
 breadths of sky and cloud, the wistful clearness 
 and golden after-glow, and all the varying blue- 
 ness of the hills, it would have been difficult to sur- 
 pass the effect of the great amphitheatre of sea 
 and land of which this solitary gray old house 
 formed the centre. The hill, behind which the sun 
 had set, is scarcely considerable enough to have 
 a name ; but it threw up its outline against the 
 wonderful greenness, blueness, goldenness of the 
 sky with a grandeur which would not have mis- 
 become an Alp. Underneath its shelter, gray 
 and sweet, lay the soft levels of Stratheden in 
 all their varying hues of color — green corn, and 
 brown earth, and red fields of clover, and dark 
 belts of wood. Behind were the two paps of 
 the Lomonds, rising green against the clear se- 
 rene, and on the other side entwining lines 
 of hills, with gleams of golden light breaking 
 through the mists, clearing here and there as far 
 as the mysterious Grampians, far off under High- 
 land skies. 
 
 This -was one side of the circle ; and the oth- 
 er was the sea, a sea still blue under the faint 
 evening skies, in which the young moon was ris- 
 ing ; the yellow sands of Forfarshire on one 
 hand, stretching downward from the mouth of 
 the Tay — the low brown cliffs and green head- 
 lands bending away on the other toward Fife- 
 ness — and the great bow of water reaching to 
 the horizon between. Nearer the eye, showing 
 half against the slope of the coast and half 
 against the water, rose St. Andrews on its cliff', 
 the fine dark tower of the College Church poised 
 over the little city, the jagged ruins of the Castle 
 marking the outline, the Cathedral rising majes- 
 tic in naked pathos ; and old St. Rule, homely 
 and weather-beaten, oldest venerable pilgrim of 
 all, standing strong and steady, at watch upon 
 the younger centuries. This was the view at 
 that time from Earl's-hall. It is a little less no- 
 ble now, because of the fine, vulgar, comfortable 
 gray stone houses which have got themselves 
 built everywhere since, and spoiled one part of 
 the picture ; but all the rest will remain forever, 
 Heaven be praised. The little wood of Earls- 
 hall, pinched and ragged with the.wind, lay im- 
 mediately below, and the flat Eden, with its 
 homely green lines of bank on either side, light- 
 ed up by here and there a sand-bank ; but the 
 tide was out, and the Eden meandered in a des- 
 ert of wet brown sand, and was not lovely. The 
 two young people did not speak for a moment. 
 They were moved, in spite of themselves, by all 
 this perfect vault of sky, and perfect round of 
 earth and sea. It is not often that you can see 
 the great world in little, field and mountain, sun- 
 set and moonrise, land and sea, at one glance. 
 They were silenced for sixty seconds ; and then 
 Effie Leslie drew a long breath and began to 
 chatter again. 
 
 "Well!" she said, with as much expression as 
 the simple word was capable of bearing, " I don't 
 think I should like to sell this oldjiouse where 
 the family has been so long, if I were papa!" 
 
 " I would not sell it, if it were mine, for any- 
 thing that could be offered me!" cried Randal, 
 in the enthusiasm of the moment. Effie shook 
 her head. 
 
 "Perhaps not, Mr. Burnside; but then you 
 would not have ten children — or nine at least ; 
 for now Grade is married she does not count. 
 
81 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 But oh, I wish we could keep Earl's -hall! It 
 must be very pleasant to live where everybody 
 knows you, and knows exactly what you are — 
 that is, if you are anybody. Poor Margaret will 
 not like leaving, but then she is a lucky girl ; 
 she is an heiress ; she has a house of her own ; 
 and I dare say she will get very fond of that 
 when she knows it. Do you think I ought to 
 call her Aunt Margaret, Mr. Burnside?" 
 
 Effie's laugh rang out so merrily as she said 
 this, that she checked herself with a little alarm. 
 
 "Suppose Aunt Jean should hear me!" she 
 said; and then, after a pause, "Oh! look 
 straight down, straight down under the fir-trees, 
 Mr. Burnside. Oh, this is more interesting than 
 the view! A pair of — " 
 
 "Do you think it is quite honorable to look 
 at them ?" said Randal. He had a presenti- 
 ment who it must be. 
 
 " Oh, it can't be anybody we know," said 
 light-hearted Effie. 
 
 Far down in the wood, under the firs, no 
 doubt the lovers felt themselves perfectly safe ; 
 but there were treacherous groups of trees, whose 
 branches had been swept in one direction by the 
 wind, laying bare the two who stood beneath. 
 They were standing close together, holding each 
 other's hands. 
 
 "The girl is crying, I think," said Effie, "and 
 leaning against the man. What can be the mat- 
 ter ? can they have quarrelled ? and she is all in 
 black, with a thick veil — " 
 
 "Come to this side," said Randal, hastily, 
 "there is a break in the mist. I think I can 
 show you Schehallion." 
 
 "I like this better than Schehallion," said 
 Effie ; and then she started and cried, " O-oh !" 
 with a long breath ; and suddenly blushing all 
 over, looked Randal in the face. 
 
 "I think Schehallion is much the most inter- 
 esting to look at," he said, and, touching her el- 
 bow with his hand, endeavored to lead her away. 
 But Effie was too much startled to conceal her 
 wonder and alarm. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Burnside! you are not thinking of 
 Schehallion, vou only want to get me away. I 
 believe you know who he is." 
 
 "I don't know who either is, and I don't 
 want to know," cried Randal; "and I think, 
 Miss Leslie, I must bid you good-night." 
 
 That was easy enough ; but Effie did not 
 budge, though Randal went awav. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Effie was not a tell-tale, and she was fond 
 of her young aunt ; but still this was such a 
 revelation as made the blood stand still in her 
 veins. She was deeply, profoundly interested, 
 and strained her eyes to make out "the gentle- 
 man." Who could he be? Effie felt almost 
 certain Mr. Burnside knew, and almost certain 
 Mr. Burnside had seen them before, and was 
 their confidant, or he would not have been so 
 anxious to call her attention to Schehallion. 
 Schehallion! nothing but a hill — whereas this 
 was a romance! She leaned over the parapet 
 of the tower till the night grew so dark that she 
 took fright and felt disposed to cry for help, 
 never thinking, unaccustomed to it as she was, 
 
 that she could grope her way in safety down the 
 spiral stair. But she did manage it, partly for- 
 tified by a generous determination not to "make 
 any noise near Aunt Jean's room, which might 
 end in a betrayal of the lovers. Effie would 
 have gone to the stake rather than betray the 
 lovers to Aunt Jean. But her mother was a 
 different matter. She knew she could not go to 
 bed with a secret from her mother; and per- 
 haps it was not right, was it quite right, of Mar- 
 garet ? Effie reflected, however, as she stumbled 
 down in the dark to the West Chamber, where 
 John had just placed candles (the inspection of 
 the pigsty being over), that perhaps grandpapa 
 had known all about it ; most likely Margaret 
 had told him — and she had no need to tell any 
 one else. But to meet a — gentleman, in the 
 wood ! It was the most strange, and most ex- 
 citing, and most wonderful thing in real life 
 which Effie had ever seen with her own eyes. 
 She crept in to the West Chamber, where Miss 
 Leslie had just come, relieved of her attendance 
 on her sister. 
 
 "Your dear Aunt Jean is a little better," she 
 said, "dear Effie; and where is dearest Marga- 
 ret, and your dear papa and mamma? Dear 
 Jean has gone to bed, she will not come down 
 to-night. And had you a pleasant walk, my 
 love ? And how is dear Mrs. Burnside ?" 
 
 All these dears put Effie out of breath ; and 
 she had been out of breath before, with the 
 shock she had got, and with her progress down- 
 stairs : for a very narrow spiral stair which you 
 are not familiar with is rather alarming, when it 
 is quite dark. Effie, however, made what breath- 
 less answer she could, and sat down in a corner, 
 getting some work to conceal her burning cheeks 
 from Aunt Grace's gaze, and forgetting altogeth- 
 er that Aunt Grace was short-sighted, and saw 
 nothing when she had not her spectacles on, 
 which she did not wear when she was knitting. 
 Miss Leslie, however, very glad to have a listen- 
 er, and to have la parole in the absence of her 
 sister, talked, without requiring any answer, 
 straight on, flowing in a gentle stream, and gave 
 Effie no trouble ; and the girl sat turning her 
 back to the light, and watching very keenly who 
 should come in next. The first was her mother, 
 placid and fresh from the cool air, saying it was 
 very pleasant out-of-doors after having been in 
 the house all day ; and then, after an interval, 
 Margaret followed, very pale, with her eyes red, 
 and her hat, with its heavy veil, in her hand. 
 
 "Have you been out too, my dear?" said 
 Lady Leslie. "I wonder we did not see you; 
 your brother and I have been taking a walk." 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, "I saw you ; I was in 
 the wood. I always go to the wood." 
 
 "I don't think it is at all a good place," said 
 Aunt Grace, "a damp place; and no doubt you 
 will have been standing about, or even sitting 
 down upon the moss and grass. Your dear 
 Aunt Jean — no, I forgot, she is not your dear 
 aunt, darling Margaret, but your dear sister — it 
 is so strange to have a dear sister so young — 
 She is better, but she has gone to bed ; that is 
 why you see me here alone. Dear Effie has 
 been a good child ; she has been sitting, talking 
 to me, while you have been out, dear Mary, with 
 dearest Ludovic, and while dear Margaret has 
 been out. But about the wood, darling Mar- 
 garet; you must go and change your shoes di- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 85 
 
 rectly. Deal - Jean would never forgive me if I 
 did not make you go and change your shoes." 
 
 "They are not wet," cried Margaret, going to 
 the other corner opposite to Effie, who gazed at 
 her with the eagerest curiosity ; but Effie was 
 much more like the heroine of a love-story than 
 Margaret, and the little girl's heart was sore for 
 her young aunt. She had no mother to go to 
 and tell, and how could she tell Aunt Jean ? 
 As for Aunt Grace, that might be possible, per- 
 haps ; but then Aunt Jean would be told direct- 
 ly, and there would be no fun. These were 
 Effie's thoughts, sitting with her back to the 
 light, so that nobody might see the excitement 
 in her scarlet cheeks; but Margaret did not 
 seem excited at all. She was quite quiet and 
 still, though she was obstinate about changing 
 her shoes. Oh, Effie thought, if I could only 
 lend her mamma ! but then you cannot lend a 
 mother. There was nothing to be done but to 
 pity the poor girl, who had nobody to breathe 
 the secret of her heart to, except Aunt Jean and 
 Aunt Grace. 
 
 That night, however, after all the ladies had 
 gone up -stairs, Lady Leslie appeared again in 
 her dressing-gown in the long room, where her 
 husbaud was sitting at his father's table. The 
 room was dark, except in the small space light- 
 ed by his lamp ; and if the good man, though he 
 had not much imagination, was startled by the 
 sight of the white figure coming toward him 
 through the dimness, he may be forgiven, so 
 soon after a death in the family. When he saw 
 who it was, he recovered his calm, and drew a 
 chair for her to the table. 
 
 "Is it you, my dear?" he said; "you gave 
 me a fright for the moment." He thought she 
 had some new light on the subject of the house ; 
 and as it was a matter of great thought to him, 
 and they had not been able to come to any de- 
 cision on the subject, he was very glad to see 
 her. "I hope you have thought of some other 
 expedient," he said, "I can^make neither head 
 nor tail of it." How was it likely he could think 
 of anything but this very troublesome and knotty 
 problem of their own ? 
 
 "No indeed, Ludovic," said Lady Leslie, "I 
 have no new light ; and what I came to speak 
 about is a new fash for you. No, nothing about 
 the children, they are all right, thank God ! But 
 when I went to say good-night to Effie, I found 
 her with red cheeks and such bright eyes, that I 
 felt sure something was the matter." 
 
 "Not fever?" he said. "It was all quite 
 right, in a sanitary point of view — far better than 
 most old houses, the surveyor told me." 
 
 "No, no, not fever: when I told you it was 
 nothing about the children ! But I don't know 
 what to do about it, Ludovic. It is poor little 
 Margaret. Effie told me — the monkey to know 
 anything about such things ! that standing by 
 accident on the tower, looking down upon the 
 wood, she saw — " 
 
 " You and me, my dear, taking our walk ; 
 that was simple enough." 
 
 "No, not you and me ; but two people under 
 the big silver fir — Margaret and — a gentleman ; 
 there is no use mincing the matter. By what 
 Effie saw, a lover, Ludovic ! Well, you need not 
 get up in a passion, it may be no harm. It may 
 be somebody your father knew of. We are all 
 strangers to her, poor little thing. There may 
 
 be nothing to blame in it. Only I don't know 
 what gentleman it can be near this, for it was 
 not Randal liurnside." 
 
 " How do you know it was not Randal Burn- 
 side?" said Sir Ludovic, rising and pacing about 
 the room, in much fuss and fret, as his wife had 
 feared. "No, but it could not be. He is too 
 honorable a fellow." 
 
 ; "Mind, Ludovic, we don't know it is not as 
 honorable as anything can be ; your father might 
 have sanctioned it. I would lay my life upon 
 Margaret that she is a good girl. It cannot be 
 more than imprudent at the worst, if it is that." 
 
 "She should be whipped," said her brother; 
 "a little light-headed thing! not a fortnight 
 since my father died!" 
 
 Sir Ludovic, though his blood was as good as 
 any king's, was a homely Scotsman, and the di- 
 alect of his childhood returned to him when his 
 mind was disturbed, as happens sometimes even 
 in this cosmopolitan age. 
 
 " Whisht, whisht, Loodie !" said his wife. 
 "She is a poor little motherless girl, and my 
 heart bleeds for her — and I cannot bear to say 
 anything to Jean. Jean would interfere with a 
 strong hand, and make everything worse. If 
 we only knew who it was ! for I can think of no 
 gentleman of these parts, unless it was one of 
 the young men that are always staying with Sir 
 Claude." 
 
 At this her husband started and gave a long 
 whew-w! of suspicion and consternation. "I 
 know who it is," he said — "I know who it is!" 
 and began to walk about the room more than 
 ever. Then he told his wife of his encounter 
 with Rob Glen ; and the circumstances seemed 
 to fit so exactly that Lady Leslie could but hold 
 up her hands in pain and horror. 
 
 "No doubt my father was foolish about it," 
 said Sir Ludovic. "It is true that he used to 
 have him here to dinner ; it is true that he made 
 a sketch of the house, spending days upon it. 
 John says he always disapproved, but my father 
 had taken a fancy to the young man. Rob Glen 
 — I know all about him — the widow's son that 
 has the little farm at Earl's-lee: a stickit min- 
 ister, John says, an artist — a forward, confident 
 fellow, as I saw from the way he addressed me ; 
 and, by-the-way, I met Margaret coming in just 
 before I met him. That makes it certain. It 
 is just Rob Glen, and no gentleman of these 
 parts : not even an artist of the better sort from 
 Sir Claude's — a clodpole, a lout, a common 
 lad—" 
 
 "Oh, Ludovic!" Lady Leslie shivered, and 
 covered her face with her hands ; " but if your 
 father took him up and had him about the house, 
 Margaret was not to blame. If he is, as you 
 say, 'a stickit minister,' he must have some ed- 
 ucation ; and if he could draw your poor father, 
 he must be clever. And probably he has the 
 air of a gentleman — " 
 
 " I took him for a pushing forward fellow." 
 "And how was the child to know? Good- 
 looking, very likely, and plenty of confidence, as 
 you say ; and she a poor little innocent girl 
 knowing nothing, with nobody to look after her ! 
 Oh, Ludovic, you will not deserve to have so 
 many sweet daughters of your own, if you are 
 not very tender to poor Margaret ; and if you 
 can, oh, say nothing to Jean !" 
 
 " It is Jean's business," said Ludovic [ but he 
 
86 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 was pleased that his wife should think him more 
 capable than his sister. ''Jean thinks she can 
 do everything better than anybody else," he said ; 
 "but what is to be done? I will speak to him. 
 I will tell him he has taken a most unfair advan- 
 tage of an ignorant girl. I will tell him it's a 
 most dishonorable action — " 
 
 " Oh, Ludovic, listen to me a little ! How do 
 you know that it is dishonorable ? I incline to 
 think your father sanctioned it. But speak to 
 Margaret first. You are her brother, though you 
 might be her father; and remember, poor thing, 
 she has never had a mother. Speak to her gen- 
 tly ; you have too kind a heart to be harsh. Tell 
 her how unsuitable it is, and how young she is, 
 not able to judge for herself. But don't abuse 
 him, or she will take his part. Tell her — " 
 
 " I wish you would tell her yourself, Mary. 
 You could manage that part of the matter much 
 better than I." 
 
 " But she is not my flesh and blood," said Lady 
 Leslie. "She might not think I had any right 
 to interfere." 
 
 And the decision they came to, after a length- 
 ened consultation, was that Sir Ludovic should 
 have a conversation with Margaret next morning, 
 and ascertain how far things had gone, and per- 
 suade her to give up so unsuitable a connection ; 
 but that if she were obdurate, he should try his 
 powers upon Rob, who might, perhaps, be brought 
 to see that the transaction was not to his credit ; 
 and in any case the affair was to be kept, if pos- 
 sible, from the knowledge of the aunts, who 
 henceforward would have the charge of Marga- 
 ret. Sir Ludovic's calculations were all put out, 
 however, by this troublesome piece of business, 
 and Lady Leslie shook her head as she went 
 away through the long room and up the dark 
 stair, a white figure, with her candle in her hand. 
 
 ' ' Papa will speak to Margaret to-morrow, " she 
 said, going into her daughter's room as she passed, 
 "and we hope she will see what is right. But 
 you must take great care never to breathe a word 
 of this, Efne, for I am most anxious to keep it all 
 from Aunt Jean." 
 
 " But oli, mamma, what will happen if she will 
 not give him up ? and who can it be ?" said Effie. 
 Lady Leslie did not think it necessary to make 
 any further revelations to her daughter. She 
 said, "Go to sleep, dear," and gave her a kiss, 
 and took away the light. And shortly after, Lu- 
 dovic, disturbed in all his thoughts (though they 
 were much more important, he could not but feel, 
 than any nonsense about a lassie and her sweet- 
 heart), tramped heavily up-stairs, also with his 
 candle, shedding glimmers of light through all 
 the window-slits as he passed ; and silence and 
 darkness fell once more over the house. 
 
 But Sir Ludovic had a face of care when he 
 made his appearance next day. The sense of 
 what he had got to do hung heavy on his soul. 
 Though his wife had entreated him not to be 
 harsh, it was not of cruelty, but of weak indul- 
 gence, that the good man felt himself most capa- 
 ble. He almost hoped the girl would be saucy 
 and impertinent, to put him on his mettle ; but 
 one glance at Margaret's pale, subdued child's 
 face, which had been so happy and bright a little 
 while ago, made this appear impossible. If only 
 his wife could have done it! But he supposed 
 Mary was right, and that it was "his place" to 
 do it. How many disagreeable things, he re- 
 
 flected, it is a man's "place" to do when he is 
 the head of a family! He did not feel that the 
 dignity of the place made up for its troubles. If 
 Mary would only do it herself! And Mrs. Bel- 
 lingham had emerged as fresh as ever after the 
 little retirement of yesterday. Her headache was 
 quite gone, she was glad to say. It was so much 
 better just to give in at once, and go to bed, and 
 then you were as right as possible next day. She 
 was able for anything now, Jean said. Sir Lu- 
 dovic gave his wife an appealing glance across 
 the table. Jean would enjoy doing this, she would 
 do it a great deal better than he should ; but Lady 
 Leslie paid no attention to these covert appeals. 
 Mrs. Bellingham was in better spirits, she allow- 
 ed, than she had been since papa's death. " In- 
 deed, it would be wicked for us to grieve over 
 that very bitterly, though great allowance must 
 be made for Margaret; for he was an old man, 
 and life had ceased to be any pleasure to him." 
 
 ' ' Dearest papa ! " said Miss Leslie, putting her 
 handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 "But here is a letter from my nephew, Au- 
 brey Bellingham," said Jean. "I think you 
 have met him, Ludovic — a very fine young fel- 
 low 7 , and one I put the greatest trust in. He is 
 to be at Edinburgh to-day, and to-morrow he is 
 coming on here. I am sure good Mrs. Burnside 
 will not mind giving him a bed. He has come 
 to take us home, or to go anywhere with us, if 
 we prefer that. It is such a comfort on a long, 
 troublesome journey, with a languid party, to 
 have a gentleman." 
 
 "I should have thought you were very well 
 used to the journey," said Lady Leslie. 
 
 " So I am ; and it is nothing with only Grace 
 and myself; but three ladies, and one a very in- 
 experienced traveller — I am too glad to have 
 Aubrey's help. My spirits might not be equal 
 to it, and my strength is not what it once 
 was — " 
 
 "No, indeed, dear Jean," said Miss Grace; 
 " those who knew you a few years ago would 
 scarcely recog — " 
 
 "And Aubrey is invaluable about travelling. 
 I never saw a man so good ; for one thing I 
 have very much trained him myself; he has 
 gone about with me since Ire was quite a little 
 fellow. I used to make him take the tickets, 
 and then he got advanced to looking after the 
 luggage. To be sure, he once made us a pres- 
 ent of his beautiful new umbrella, letting the 
 guard put it into our carriage ; but that was a 
 trifle. I think, as he has come, we must settle 
 to go in a day or two, Mary. This just gives 
 me the courage to go. I should have lingered 
 on, not able to make up my mind to tear our- 
 selves away from a spot — " 
 
 "Where we have been so unhappy." Miss 
 Leslie took advantage of the moment when 
 Mrs. Bellingham took up her cup of coffee. A 
 mouthful of anything, especially when it is hot, 
 is an interruption perforce of the most eloquent 
 speech. 
 
 "It will be better for us all, and better for 
 Margaret, not to linger here," said Jean. "Poor 
 child ! she will never do any good till we get 
 her away. Yes, you will suffer, Margaret, but 
 believe me, it is real consideration for your good 
 — real anxiety for you. Ask Mary ; she will tell 
 you the same thing. EaiTs-hall will never be 
 the same to you again. You must begin your 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 87 
 
 new life sometime or other, and the sooner the 
 better, Margaret. Would yon like to go to the 
 Highlands and see a little of the country? or 
 shall we go straight to the Grange at once? 
 Now that Aubrey is to be with us, it is quite the 
 same for my comfort; and we will do, my love, 
 what you like best." 
 
 "Oh, I do not care about anything," said 
 Margaret, "whatever, whatever you please." 
 
 "That is very natural, my dear," said Lady 
 Leslie, "and Jean is right, though perhaps it 
 sounds hard. Effie and I will miss you dread- 
 fully, Margaret, but the change is the best thing 
 for you. If you go to the Highlands, would you 
 like' Effie to go too, for company?" said the kind 
 woman. But Margaret could not speak for cry- 
 ing, and Jean and Grace did not seem delighted 
 with the suggestion. 
 
 "It will be best for her to make the break at 
 once," said Mrs. Bellingham. " Effie can come 
 after ; we shall be most happy to see her when we 
 are settled at the Grange." 
 
 "I dare say you are right," said Effie's moth- 
 er ; but this rejection of the offer, which she 
 knew to be so kind on her own part, of her 
 daughter's company made her heart colder to 
 poor Margaret than all the story about Rob 
 Glen. 
 
 Ludovic put his hand on his little sister's 
 shoulder as she was leaving the breakfast-table. 
 
 "Will you come out with me and take a little 
 walk about the place, Margaret? I want to say 
 something to vou," he said. 
 
 "What is that?" said Mrs. Bellingham. "I 
 suppose, Ludovic, you would like me to come 
 too? I will get on my hat in a moment; in- 
 deed Margaret can fetch it when she brings her 
 own. A turn in the morning is always pleas- 
 ant. Run away, my dear, and bring our hats ; 
 the air will do us both good." 
 
 "But I wanted your advice," said Lady Les- 
 lie — "yours and Grace's; there are still some 
 things to jettle. These laces, for instance, which 
 we were to look over." 
 
 "That is true," said Mrs. Bellingham. "But 
 I am afraid it will be a disappointment to Ludo- 
 vic ; and then, of course, it is necessary I should 
 be there if he has really something to say to 
 Margaret." 
 
 " Let me go, dear Jean," said Grace ; " I will 
 not mind, indeed I will not mind much, being 
 away, and the lace could never be settled without 
 you. I am not so clever about knowing the 
 kinds, and I am sure you will not forget that I 
 am fond of it too." 
 
 "Does Margaret want a chaperon when she 
 goes out with me?" said Ludovic. "It is only 
 to put a little color in her cheeks." But he was 
 not clever at these little social artifices, and look- 
 ed once more at his wife. 
 
 "Leave him alone with his girls," said Lady 
 Leslie; "a man is always fond of a walk with 
 girls. Get \ r our hat, Margaret, my dear, and 
 you too, Effie, and take a run with him. He 
 will like that a great deal better than you and 
 me, Jean. We are very well in our way, but he 
 likes the young things, and who will blame him ? 
 and we will settle about the lace before they 
 come in." 
 
 "There is no accounting for tastes," Mrs. 
 Bellingham said ; " but if there is anything par- 
 ticular, it will be better to wait till I can be with 
 
 you, Ludovic ; and, Margaret, put on your gal- 
 oches, for it rained last night." 
 
 "You can take mine, dear," whispered Grace, 
 who knew that Margaret did not possess these 
 necessary articles. And thus, at last, the party 
 got under way. Effie, warned by her mother, 
 deserted them as soon as her aunts were safe in 
 the high room, and Margaret, without any fore- 
 boding of evil, went out with her brother peace- 
 fully into the morning. It was very damp after 
 the rain, as Mrs. Bellingham had divined, and 
 cost her some trouble to keep her crape unsoiled. 
 But except for that care, and that there was 
 some excitement in her mind to hear of the 
 speedy departure from Earl's -hall, Margaret 
 went out with Ludovic, with great confidence in 
 his kindness and without anv fear. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " I said to Jean it was nothing, for I did not 
 care to mix her up with it ; but I have some- 
 thing very serious to say to you, Margaret," said 
 Sir Ludovic. 
 
 She looked up at him with eyes wistful, yet 
 candid, fearing nothing still. The character of 
 Margaret's face seemed to have changed within 
 the last month. What she was in June was not 
 like what she was in July. The trouble she had 
 gone through had not seemed to develop, but to 
 subdue her. She had been full of variety, ani- 
 mation, and energy before. Now the life seem- 
 ed to have sunk to so low an ebb in her paled 
 being, exhausted with tears, that there was little 
 remaining but simple consciousness and intelli- 
 gence. She did not seem able to originate any- 
 thing on her own side, not even a question. A 
 half smile, the reflection of a smile, came to her 
 face, and she looked up, without any alarm, for 
 what her brother had to say. 
 
 " Margaret," he said (how hard it was ! hard- 
 er even than he thought. He cleared his throat, 
 and a rush of uncomfortable color came to his 
 middle-aged countenance, though she took it so 
 calmly, and did not blush at all) — "Margaret, 
 I have found out something, my clear, that gives 
 me a great deal of pain — something about you." 
 
 But even this solemn preamble seemed to con- 
 vey no thrill of conscious guilt to Margaret's 
 mind. She only looked at him again a little 
 more earnestly. "Have I lost my — money?" 
 she said. 
 
 "No, it is not that. What made you think 
 of losing your money ?" 
 
 "It often happens, does it not?" she said. 
 " I am sure I should not care." 
 
 " Oh yes, you would care — we should all care ; 
 but your money is safe enough. I wish you 
 yourself were as safe. Margaret, my dear, give 
 me your full attention ; you were seen last night 
 in the wood." 
 
 "Yes!" she said, a little alarmed. 
 
 "With a — gentleman ; or at least, let us hope 
 he was a gentleman," said Ludovic. "You 
 know that it is not — usual, nor perhaps — right. 
 I want you to tell me all about it : and first of 
 all, who was the man ?" 
 
 Margaret was taken entirely by surprise. It 
 had not occurred to her to think of Rob Glen as 
 one about whom she could be questioned. He 
 
88 
 
 THE PRIMROSE RATH. 
 
 had grown so familiar while her father lived, and 
 he had been so kind. There was no sort of 
 novelty about it — nothing to be thus solemnly 
 questioned about. But she looked up at her 
 brother with startled eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Ludovic, the gentleman — " 
 
 "Yes; don't be frightened for me, my poor 
 little sister, I will not be unkind ; but tell me 
 truly, everything. You must not keep back any- 
 thing, Margaret." 
 
 "I don't know, perhaps, if — you would call 
 him a gentleman," said Margaret, the color be- 
 ginning to rise in her pale face. Keep back 
 nothing! Would she have to tell him all they 
 had said ? Her heart began to beat faster, "it 
 is Rob Glen, Ludovic ; perhaps you remember 
 him long ago, when he was a boy. I used to go 
 fishing with him ; he was very kind to me. 
 Bell always says — " 
 
 "Yes — yes; it does not matter about chil- 
 dren ; but you are not a child now, Margaret. 
 Have you always kept on such — intimate terms 
 with Rob Glen?" 
 
 Margaret winced, and her face began to burn. 
 He seemed to himself to be speaking brutally to 
 her ; but what else could he say ? 
 
 "I did not see him at all for a long time," 
 she said; "and then he came back. He al- 
 ways said he was not — as good as we were. 
 But do you think it all depends upon where you 
 are born? You can't help where you are born." 
 
 "No; but you must be content with it, and 
 keep to your own place," said Ludovic, an argu- 
 ment which did not make much impression on 
 his own mind. 
 
 "But he is very clever; he can draw most 
 beautifully," said Margaret. "The first time 
 he came — It was — papa that said he might 
 come." 
 
 The name brought with it, as was natural, a 
 sob ; and Ludovic, horribly compunctious, patted 
 his little sister on the shoulder with a. kind and 
 lingering hand. 
 
 " He made a picture of him," cried Margaret, 
 half inarticulate, struggling with the "climbing 
 sorrow." "Oh, Loodie! I found it just yester- 
 day; it is him, his very self." 
 
 "My poor little Margaret! don't think me 
 cruel," said the good man, with a break in his 
 voice. " I must hear." 
 
 "Yes, Ludovic. He used to come often, and 
 sometimes would cheer him up and make him 
 laugh. And he grew — a great friend. Then, 
 when he was ill, when I went out to cry — I could 
 not cry when everybody was there." 
 
 " My poor child !" 
 
 "That was the first time I met him in the 
 wood. He was very, very kind. I — could do 
 nothing but cry." 
 
 Ludovic took her hand into his, and held it 
 between his own. He was beginning to under- 
 stand. 
 
 "I see how it was," he said, his voice not so 
 steady as at first. "I see exactly how it was; 
 and I don't blame you, my dear. But, Marga- 
 ret, has he taken advantage of this? Has he 
 got you to promise — to marry him? Is that 
 what he talks to you about? Forget I am an 
 old man, old to the like of you — or rather think 
 that I am your father, Margaret." 
 
 "No, no," she said, "you are not that; no 
 one will ever be that again ; but you are very 
 
 kind. My father — would have been pleased to 
 see how kind you are." 
 
 " God knows — and my poor father too, if he 
 knows anything of what he's left behind him — 
 that I want to be kind to you, as kind as he 
 could have been, my poor little Margaret. Tell 
 me then, dear, has this young man spoken of 
 marriage to you, and love ?" 
 
 "Of love? oh yes!" said Margaret, drooping 
 her head. "I am not sure about the other. 
 He was for going away yesterday when I told 
 him I had a fortune; and I had to tell him my- 
 self that was no reason for going away, that 
 there would be plenty for us both." 
 
 " Does that mean that you promised to marry 
 him, Margaret?" 
 
 "I do not know," she said, slowly; "I did 
 not think of that. I suppose, when you come 
 to think of it " — the color had all gone out of 
 her face, and she was quite pale again, and let- 
 ting the words fall more and more slowly — 
 " when you come to think of it, though I never 
 did stop to think — that is what it would mean." 
 
 There was a touch of regret in her tone, a 
 weary acknowledgment of necessity, but no 
 blushing pride or fervor. It had not occurred 
 to her before; but being put to her, it must, no 
 doubt, mean that. She did not look at her 
 brother, but at the ground ; but not to hide any 
 happy flush of consciousness. Ludovic was half 
 bewildered, half irritated by her calm. 
 
 "But, Margaret," he cried, "you cannot 
 think what you are saying. This must be put 
 a stop to ; it must be brought to an end ! it is 
 monstrous; it is impossible! My dear, you can- 
 not really have the least idea what you are do- 
 ing. Giving yourself up to the first fortune- 
 hunter that appears — a vulgar fellow without a 
 penny, without even the position of a gentleman. 
 He has taken a base advantage of your youth 
 and your trouble. It must be put a stop to," 
 he said. He had dropped her hand and with- 
 drawn from her side, and was crushing the 
 damp grass under his feet with all those fret- 
 tings and fidgetings of embarrassment and irri- 
 tation of which his wife was afraid. 
 
 Margaret had looked up at him again. She 
 was quite quiet, but as steady as a statue. 
 
 "How can it be put a stop to?" she said. 
 "He is not what you say, Ludovic; he is very 
 kind." 
 
 "Margaret! are you in love with him?" 
 cried her brother; "is that what you mean?" 
 
 A slight color wavered over Margaret's face. 
 
 " It is he that is — that," she said, softly. 
 
 This gave Ludovic, ignorant man, courage. 
 
 " Heaven be praised if it is only he! I would 
 make short work with him. The only difficulty 
 would be to make you unhappy. My dear, I 
 will see him this very day, and you shall never 
 be troubled with him any more." 
 
 "He has not been a trouble at all, Ludovic. 
 I cannot tell you how kind he was ; and yester- 
 day again he was very kind. He would have 
 gone away if I had let him, but I would not let 
 him." 
 
 "Now that you see how serious it is, my 
 dear," said Ludovic, "you will let him now? I 
 will go and see him at once. I will lose no 
 time. Go you back to the house, and don't say 
 anything to Jean. Speak to Mary, if you like, 
 but not to Jean ; and don't give yourself any 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 89 
 
 more trouble about it, my dear ; I will manage 
 it all." 
 
 But Margaret did not move ; she stood very 
 steadily, all the trembling gone away from her, 
 the tears dried from her cheeks, and her eyes 
 shining. These eyes were still fixed on the 
 ground, and her head was drooping, but she 
 showed no other signs of emotion. 
 
 "Ludovic," she said, slowly, " it is a mistake 
 you are making ; it cannot be settled so easily. 
 Indeed, it would be better just to let it alone," 
 she added, after a pause. 
 
 "Let it alone!" cried Sir Ludovic; "that is 
 just the thing that cannot be done." 
 
 Margaret put out her hand and touched his 
 arm. She raised her head with a slight, proud 
 elevation, unlike anything that had been seen in 
 it before. 
 
 "You must not meddle with me," she said, 
 with a wistful look, half warning, half entreating. 
 
 " But I must meddle with you, my dear. You 
 must not go to your ruin ; you cannot be allow- 
 ed to go." 
 
 "Don't meddle with me, Ludovic! I have 
 never been meddled with. You need not think 
 I will do anything wrong." 
 
 "I must act according to my judgment, Mar- 
 garet. You are too young to know what you are 
 doing. I must save you from this adventurer. 
 You do not even care about him. I know how 
 a girl looks when she is in love : not as you do, 
 Margaret, thank God for it ; and that is the one 
 thing of any importance. I must interfere." 
 
 "t do not want to be disobedient," she said; 
 "but, Ludovic, you know there must be some 
 things that are my own. You cannot judge for 
 me always, nor Jean either. And whatever you 
 may say about this, I will not do it ; anything 
 else ! but about this I will not do it. It is very, 
 very difficult to say so, when you are so kind ; 
 but I cannot, and do not bid me, Ludovic ; oh, 
 do not bid me, for I will not!" she said. 
 
 "But if I tell you you must!" He was en- 
 tirely out of patience. What fantas-jic piece 
 of folly was this that had made her set herself 
 against him like a rock ? He was beyond his 
 own control with impatience and irritation. " I 
 hope you will not drive me to say something I 
 will be sorry for," he said. " You, Margaret, 
 who have always been a good girl, and you don't 
 even care for this young man!" 
 
 11 He cares," said Margaret, under her breath. 
 
 " Is that why you resist me ?" cried her broth- 
 er, "i/e cares! yes, for your money, you fool- 
 ish girl — for what you have got ; because he will 
 be able to live and think himself a gentleman !" 
 
 "Ludovic!" she cried, her face growing crim- 
 son ; " but you are only angry ; you don't mean 
 to be so unkind." 
 
 And then he stopped short, touched, in the 
 midst of his anger, by the simplicity of her con- 
 fidence. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me— that you are really 
 going to marry — Rob Glen, Margaret?" 
 
 "Oh! but not for such a long, long time!" 
 she said. 
 
 What was he to say to her — a girl so simple, 
 so almost childish, so unyielding? If Mary had 
 only done it herself! probably she would have 
 had some means of insight into this strange, sub- 
 tle girl's mechanism which was out of his way. 
 What was reason, argument, common-sense, to 
 
 a creature like this, who refused to abandon her 
 lover, and yet drew a long breath of relief at the 
 thought that it must be "a long, long time " be- 
 fore he could claim her? Sir Ludovic was at 
 his wit's end. They had been walking up and 
 down in front of the house, where, out of reach 
 of all the windows, their conversation was quite 
 safe. The grassy path was damp, but it was 
 noiseless, affording no interruption to their talk. 
 On the ruined gable the tall wall-flowers were 
 nodding, and the ivy threw a little shower of 
 rain-drops over them whenever the wind blew. 
 Looking up at that ruined gable reminded him 
 of all his own cares, so much more important 
 than this love nonsense. Should he ever be able 
 to rebuild it? But in the mean time he must 
 not think of this question at all, but address him- 
 self to the still more difficult subject of Rob Glen. 
 
 When the conversation, however, had come to 
 this pass, beyond which it seemed so difficult to 
 carry it, an interruption occurred. A lumbering 
 old hackney-carriage, well known in the country, 
 which carried everybody to and from the station, 
 of the few who wanted any other means of con- 
 veyance but their own legs or their own carriage 
 — and there were not many people of this inter- 
 mediate class in Stratheden — suddenly swung in 
 heavily at the gate, and sinking deep in the rut, 
 which it went to Ludovic's heart to see, disfig- 
 uring the muddy road through the scanty trees, 
 which called itself the avenue — came laboring 
 toward them. There was a portmanteau on the 
 outside of this vehicle, and somebody within, who 
 thrust out his head as he approached, reconnoi- 
 tring the curious old gray house. When he saw 
 the two figures advancing from the other side, 
 he called to the driver and leaped out. It was a 
 young man, fair and fashionable, and spotless in 
 apparel, with a beardless but not boyish face, an 
 eyeglass in his eye and a great-coat on his arm. 
 
 " Excuse me," he said, "I am sure that I am 
 speaking to — " 
 
 While at the same time Ludovic Leslie, leav- 
 ing Margaret, upon whom the stranger had al- 
 ready fixed a very decided gaze, went forward, 
 saying, 
 
 "Aubrey Bellingham — how do you do? My 
 sister told us she expected you to-day." 
 
 "Yes," said the young man, "here I am. I 
 came up as soon as I got her summons. It is a 
 fine thing to have nothing to do, for then one is 
 always at the call of one's friends. May I be 
 presented to — Miss Leslie ? whom I have heard 
 of so often. As I am about to enter her service, 
 don't you think I should know her at once when 
 good-fortune throws me in her way ?" 
 
 "Only Miss Margaret Leslie, Bellingham. 
 You understand, Margaret, that this is Jean's 
 nephew, whom she was speaking of this morn- 
 ing. I don't know what he means by entering 
 your service, but perhaps he can explain that 
 himself. " 
 
 The stranger gave Margaret a very keen look 
 of examination — not the chance glance of an 
 ordinary meeting, nor yet the complimentary 
 surprise of sudden admiration of a pretty face. 
 The look meant a great deal more than this, and 
 might have confused Margaret if she had not 
 been far beyond noticing anything of the kind. 
 He seemed to look, try, judge all in a moment, 
 and the keen, sudden inspection struck Sir Lu- 
 dovic, though he was not very swift to mark such 
 
90 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 undercurrents of meaning. It seemed to take 
 a long time, so searching and thorough was it ; 
 and yet almost before Ludovic's voice had ceased 
 to vibrate, Bellingham replied, 
 
 "I believe I am to be the courier of the party, 
 which is the same as entering Miss Leslie's ser- 
 vice. My aunts are used to me. Miss Leslie, 
 it is a very quaint relationship this of yours to 
 my aunts. I call both your sisters by that en- 
 dearing title." 
 
 "I hope you don't mean to make my little 
 sister into Aunt Margaret," said Sir Ludovic. 
 ' ' Perhaps, my dear, you had better go and tell 
 Jean of Mr. Bellingham's arrival. I don't know 
 what you will think," he added, escaping with 
 some relief, as Margaret hurried away, into the 
 more habitual current of his thoughts, "of my 
 tumble-down old house." 
 
 " It is a most curious old house," said the 
 stranger ; " I can see that already. I have been 
 studying it all the time ; fifteenth century, do 
 you suppose? Domestic architecture is always 
 a little bewildering. I know there are people 
 who can read it like a church, but I don't pre- 
 tend to be clever about it. It always puzzles 
 me." 
 
 "No doubt it is puzzling, when you know 
 only a little about it," said Ludovic, who knew 
 nothing at all. 
 
 "That is just my case," said the other, cheer- 
 fully. " I have been taught just a little of most 
 things. It is very unsatisfactory. Indeed, to 
 have the reputation of a handy man in a large 
 ,family party is ruin to everything. You can 
 neither work nor study : and when you are 
 cursed, in addition, with a little good-nature — " 
 
 "A large share of that," Sir Ludovic said, 
 chiefly because it seemed to him the only thing 
 to say ; and it was very good-natured, indeed, 
 for a young man, a man so entirely comme il 
 faut, and looking more like Pall Mall than Earl's- 
 hall, to come when his aunt called him so readi- 
 ly. Ludovic knew he himself would not have 
 done it for any number of old ladies, but then 
 he had always had his profession to think of; 
 and how many things he had at this moment to 
 think of! Thank Heaven, at least he had got 
 rid of Margaret's affairs for the moment. Let 
 Mary put her own brains to work and see what 
 she could make of it. For himself, there was a 
 certain relief in the sight of a new face. In the 
 mean time, while Sir Ludovic's mind was thus 
 condoling with itself, the new arrival had paid 
 his cab, and seen his portmanteau handed over 
 to John, who had made his appearance at the 
 sound of the wheels. 
 
 "For some things, sir," said yonng Belling- 
 ham. peering at John through his eyeglass, 
 "this is a delightful country. Fancy your old 
 butler, who looks an archbishop at least", meekly 
 carrying off my portmanteau ! If he had been 
 on the other side of the Tweed, he would have 
 looked at it helplessly, and requested to know 
 what he was supposed to have to do with such 
 an article." 
 
 "John is not used to much grandeur," said 
 Sir Ludovic, not knowing whether this was 
 compliment or depreciation; "a man -of- all- 
 work about a homely Scotch country-house is 
 not like one of your pampered menials in the 
 South. Did you have a good crossing at the 
 Ferry?" 
 
 There are times when the Ferry at Burntisl- 
 and is not much more agreeable than the worse 
 ferry at Dover, and it was always a civil question 
 —though privately he thought "that a little toss- 
 ing, or even a little sea-sickness, would not have 
 done any harm to this spruce gentleman. Lu- 
 dovic felt plainer, rustier, in his old black coat, 
 which had seen much service at his office, since 
 this carefully dressed young hero had dawned 
 upon the horizon. He felt instinctively that he 
 did not like him ; though nothing could be more 
 cheerful or friendly than Mr. Aubrey Belling- 
 ham. He was good enough to explain the 
 house to its master as they went in, and told 
 him why the screen wall between the two blocks 
 of building existed, and all about it. Ludovic 
 was so startled that he found nothing to reply ; 
 he had even a little heraldic lecture upon his own 
 coat-of-arms over the door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 There was quite a cheerful flutter of talk at 
 the luncheon-table in the long room. Sir Ludo- 
 vic had never much to say, and his wife was very 
 anxious to know the result of his interview with 
 Margaret, and EfEe was shy, and Margaret her- 
 self perfectly silent. But the rapid interchange 
 of question and answer between Mrs. Belling- 
 ham and her nephew made the most lively com- 
 motion, and stirred all the echoes in the quiet 
 place, where nobody as yet had ventured upon a 
 laugh. It was not to be supposed that Aubrey 
 Bellingham, who was a stranger and had never 
 seen the old Sir Ludovic, could be much sub- 
 dued in his tone by " what had happened" — and 
 Jean had already begun to feel that there was 
 really no reason to regret such a happy release. 
 
 "I am just beginning to be able to look peo- 
 ple in the face again," she said. "I need not 
 tell you, Aubrey, it has been a dreadful time. 
 My sister and I have had a great deal to do, and 
 naturally, though it may not tell at the time, one 
 feels it afterward. I did not leave my room yes- 
 terday at all. Grace will tell you I had one of 
 my bad headaches. But what with seeing you 
 to-day, and being obliged to bestir myself in the 
 morning about some business, a piece of work 
 quite after your own heart, Aubrey, arranging 
 some lace." 
 
 "If it is fine, I quite understand the improve- 
 ment in your health," he said. "What kind? 
 and who is the happy possessor ? I hope some 
 of it has fallen to your share." 
 
 "Oh, a little," said Mrs. Bellingham; and 
 Grace echoed "a little" with some dolefulness. 
 
 This division of the stores of the house into 
 three portions had not been so successful as was 
 hoped ; and when it was again gone over, some 
 scraps naturally fell to Lady Leslie and her 
 daughters. It was Miss Leslie upon whom the 
 loss chiefly fell, and there was accordingly in her 
 tone a tinge of melancholy. She was not sorry 
 that dear Mary and the dear girls should have 
 it, but still it was notorious that she was gener- 
 ally the sufferer when any one had to suffer. 
 
 "Margaret is the most fortunate; Margaret 
 has a piece of point de Venise. I never saw 
 such a lovely piece. It will go to your very 
 heart. After lunch you shall see it all, and I 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 91 
 
 know you will think Margaret a lucky girl — too 
 lucky ! She will not appreciate it for a dozen 
 years, and by that time she will have grown 
 familiar with it, and it will not impress her," 
 said Mrs. Bellingham, regretfully. "You don't 
 think half so much of things you have had since 
 you were a girl. But tell me, Aubrey, how is 
 "everybody ? Had you heard from the Court be- 
 fore you left? What were they all doing? I 
 declare it seems about a year since we came 
 here in such a hurry. I dare say you have heard 
 .ill about us, and the sad way in which we have 
 been spending our time? I have had a great 
 deal of flying neuralgia, and yesterday it quite 
 settled in my head. Scotland does not suit me, 
 I always say. It does very well for Grace, who 
 is as strong as a pony, though she does not look 
 it—" 
 
 " Dearest Jean !" said Miss Leslie, touched to 
 the quick, and this time insisting upon a hear- 
 ing. "I strong? Dear Aubrey knows better 
 than to believe — " 
 
 "Oh yes, we all know, my dear, you are strong 
 at bottom, though you have your little ailments ; 
 and with me it is just the other way. I am kept 
 up by my spirit. Now, Aubrey, you have not 
 given us one single piece of news. Tell us some- 
 thing about the Court." 
 
 "I appeal to your candor, Aunt Jean; what 
 can I tell you about the Court when I am fresh 
 from town? — unless you mean the other kind of 
 a court, the royal one, or the Club. You shall 
 hear, if you please, about the Club. You know 
 about that trial that was so much talked of? It 
 is to be all hushed up, I believe. She is to be 
 condoned, and he is to have his debts paid, and 
 they are all to live happy ever after. You should 
 hear Mountfort on the subject. He says it will 
 not be six months before it is all on again, and 
 the detectives at work." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" cried Mrs. Bellingham. "I 
 thought Lady Arabella had really taken the last 
 step and run off, you know, in the yacht ; and 
 that Lord Fred — " 
 
 "No names, my dear aunt, I entreat. Of 
 course, everybody knows who is meant, but it is 
 better not to bandy names about. Oh no ; my 
 lady would have done it, I don't doubt for a 
 moment, but Fred is a fellow who knows very 
 well how far the world will permit you to go, 
 and he wouldn't hear of it ; so it is all hushed 
 up. There is something very piquant, however, 
 going on in another quarter, where you would 
 never suspect it. It sounds just like a romance. 
 A couple that have always been one of the most 
 devoted couples, and a friend who has been the 
 most devoted friend — husband's school-fellow, 
 you know, and saved his life in India, or some- 
 thing — and there they are, the three of them ; 
 everybody sees it, except the silly fellow himself. 
 It's as good as a play to watch them ; you know 
 whom I mean. They have a place not a hun- 
 dred miles from us ; wife the most innocent", 
 smiling creature — " 
 
 "Ah!" cried Miss Leslie, holding up her 
 hands, " I can see who you me — " 
 
 " Of course, anybody can see," said Mrs. Bel- 
 lingham. "The A.'s, of course, of A. C. Do 
 you really mean it, Aubrey? and the man? 
 Goodness gracious ! why, of course it must be ! 
 — no — not that, don't say so — Algy — ? I never 
 heard of such a complication in all my life." 
 
 "Exactly," said the new-comer; "that is 
 what everybody says. Algy, of all men in the 
 world, with a character to lose ! But in this 
 sort of affair you never can trust any one; and 
 still waters run deep, you know. It is the 
 woman that puzzles me, smiling and looking so 
 innocent. Happily Sir Cresswell Cresswell does 
 not want a jury, for no jury would ever go 
 against such an innocent-looking little woman." 
 
 Effie had been taking all this mysterious talk 
 in with the most rapt attention. She did not 
 understand a word of it, but still a lively discus- 
 sion of other people, even when you don't know 
 who they are, and don't know what they are ac- 
 cused of, has a certain interest. But Sir Cress- 
 well Cresswell's well-known name roused Lady 
 Leslie, who had been longing to interfere be- 
 fore, and woke up even Ludovic, who had been 
 eating his luncheon steadily, and thinking how 
 the avenue could be put in order at the least 
 expense. What did he care for their chatter? 
 But this name woke the good man up. 
 
 "You will think me very stupid," said Lady 
 Leslie, "but we are only plain Scotch people, you 
 know, and very seldom go to England, and don't 
 know about your friends. I dare say Mr. Aubrey 
 would be so kind as to tell us something about 
 the Court, as he said — not Bellingham Court, 
 but the Queen's Court. Effie would like to hear 
 about the princes and princesses, and so would 
 Margaret. They say we are going to have one 
 of them up here." 
 
 "Oh, surely," said Aubrey, "there is always 
 plenty of talk on that subject. Most of them 
 are going a frightful pace. I am not posted up 
 in the very last scandals, for, you know, I have 
 never been a favorite. But there is a very pretty 
 story current about a pretty Galician or Wal- 
 lachian, or some of those savage tribes. The 
 lady, of course, was quite civilized enough to 
 know all about the proprieties — or perhaps it 
 would be better to say the improprieties — of our 
 princely society, and she thought, I suppose, that 
 an English Royalty — " 
 
 "Oh!" said Lady Leslie; "but I feel sure 
 half these stories are nonsense, or worse than 
 nonsense. I know you gentlemen are fond of 
 a little gossip at your club, and I suppose you 
 don't mean the half of what you say. Were the 
 pictures fine this year, Mr. Bellingham ? That 
 is one thing I regret never going to London for ; 
 one sees so few pictures." 
 
 "I think everybody who has seen them will 
 agree with me in saying the fewer the better," 
 said Bellingham, ready for all subjects. " The 
 dinner this year was as great bosh as usual. But 
 there is a very good story about an R.A. who 
 asked a great" lady he happened to meet with 
 how she liked the portrait of her husband. It 
 was her Grace of X., or Y., or Z. — never mind 
 who; I dare say you will all guess. She stared 
 at him, as you may suppose. But he insisted. 
 'Oh yes, he had finished it a month before; 
 and he always understood it was the Duchess 
 herself who had suggested that pose which was 
 so successful!' Fancy the unfortunate fellow's 
 feelings when he saw what he had done ! And 
 I hope her Grace gave it hot and hot to the 
 Duke." 
 
 " There, Aubrey, that will do ; that is enough 
 of your funny stories. They are not pretty sto- 
 ries at all, though sometimes they make one 
 
92 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 laugh when one oughtn't," said Mrs. Belling- 
 ham. "Those clubs of yours are not at all nice 
 places, as my sister-in-law says — and talk of wom- 
 en's gossip ! But now and then it is like a sniff 
 of salts, you know, or a vinaigrette, which is not 
 nice in itself, but wakes one up. Now we must 
 be going to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow ; 
 and I think, as you are here, Aubrey, we might 
 as well go to Perth, and then make a little round 
 through the Highlands. I dare say you are go- 
 ing somewhere shooting as soon as the moors 
 are open. We cannot do much mountain work, 
 because of the sad circumstances and our crape ; 
 but we might stay for a week in one place and 
 a week in another, and so make our way to the 
 Grange about the end of August. That would 
 be a very good time. The very hot weather 
 will be over, and it will be best not to try Mar- 
 garet too much with the heat of an English sum- 
 mer. I wish you would not always interrupt 
 me, Grace. There is never any heat in Scot- 
 land. It is rather fine now, and warmish, and 
 quite pleasant ; but as for a scorching sun, and 
 that sort of thing — You are very quiet, Mar- 
 garet. Has Ludovic been scolding you ? You 
 ought to leave that to me, Ludovic ; a man has 
 always a heavier hand. I always said, if I had 
 been blessed with children, I never should have 
 let their father correct them. Men mean very 
 well, but they have a heavy hand." 
 
 "But not dearest Loodie !" cried Miss Leslie ; 
 "he always was the kindest! and dear Jean 
 knows as well as any of us — " 
 
 " Yes, I know that a man's hand is always 
 heavier than he thinks, whether it is a simple 
 scolding or something more serious. Margaret 
 looks like a little mouse, with all the spirits out 
 of her. If she comes in like that after walks 
 with you, Ludovic, I don't think I will trust her 
 With you again." 
 
 "Margaret has not been very lively lately," 
 said kind Lady Leslie. "She has not been 
 keeping us all in amusement, like Mrs. Belling- 
 ham. I think I will take the two girls away 
 with me this afternoon, if you have no objec- 
 tions, Jean. I am going to the Manse to see 
 Mrs. Burnside, and the walk will do Margaret 
 good." 
 
 " Will you speak to Mrs. Burnside, please, 
 about giving Aubrey a bed ?" Mrs. Bellingham 
 said ; and Lady Leslie, who was anxious about 
 her husband's interview with his sister, and not 
 at all anxious to cultivate Aubrey's acquaintance, 
 hurried them away. She had a hasty interview 
 with Ludovic before she went out, who was very 
 anxious she should take the business into her 
 own hands. What was to be done? Would it 
 be better to say nothing at all about it, but trust 
 to the "long, long time," and the distance, and 
 the development of the girl's mind ? 
 
 "But it would be better for her to marry Rob 
 Glen than Aubrey Bellingham, with all his nasty 
 stories," Lady Leslie said, indignantly. 
 
 "What was the fellow talking about?" asked 
 Ludovic. He had not paid any attention, save 
 for one moment, at the sound of that too remark- 
 able name ; but it had not come to anything 
 except "havers," and he had resumed his own 
 thoughts. Lady Leslie, however, did not let her 
 victim off so easily. She insisted that he should 
 see Rob Glen, and warn him of the disapproval 
 of the family ; and this at last, with many sighs 
 
 and groans, the unfortunate head of the family 
 consented to do. 
 
 "I have been watching her all the time," said 
 the stranger, when he had been taken by the two 
 ladies to the West Chamber, "and I approve. 
 She is not very lively, and I dare say she will 
 never be amusing (begging your pardons, my 
 dear aunts, for so plain a speech); but she is 
 very pretty, and what you call interesting ; and 
 a little money, though it is not much, is always 
 acceptable. I have not come off hitherto, not- 
 withstanding my merits. You put me up at too 
 high a price, you ladies; and I have gone through 
 a good many seasons without ever fetching that 
 fancy price. So if you think I have any chance, 
 really I don't mind. I will go in for Miss Mar- 
 garet seriously, and I will not tell her naughty 
 stories, but bring her up in the way she should 
 go." 
 
 " No ; you must be more careful how you talk 
 before young ladies," said Mrs. Bellingham. 
 "People here are not used to it. My sister-in- 
 law is a very good little body, but quite untrain- 
 ed, as you would see. Yes, Aubrey, it would 
 make me happy to see dear Margaret in your 
 hands. I am sure you would always be kind to 
 her. And it is a very nice little property, and 
 could be improved; and she would make you a 
 very nice little wife. It would just be the kind 
 of thing to make me feel I had all I wished for, 
 if I could provide for my little sister and for you, 
 Aubrey, my husband's godchild, at the same 
 time." 
 
 "Oh, we can't have you take the Nunc Dimit- 
 tis view," he said, "that is out of the question ; 
 but I am quite willing, if she is; and if she isn't 
 after a while, with all my opportunities, I shall 
 be a precious fool, Aunt Jean. By-the-way, it 
 is a little odd, if you come to think of it, marry- 
 ing into a previous generation, as I should be do- 
 ing if she'd have me — marrying my aunt, isn't 
 it? I think it's within the forbidden degrees." 
 
 " Margaret your aunt, dear Aubrey ? Dar- 
 ling Margaret is not quite eighteen ; so how 
 could that be?" said Miss Leslie; "and do you 
 mean that this is what you were thinking of? 
 Oh, I wondered what dear Jean, with her own 
 clever head, wanted Aubrey for — Jean, who can 
 manage everything. But how can you tell wheth- 
 er you will love her, dear Aubrey ? You cannot 
 always love where you wish to ; and I never 
 would give my consent, never for a moment, to 
 a match which was not — " 
 
 "What nonsense is she talking?" said Mrs. 
 Bellingham. She had gone to get Margaret's 
 lace to exhibit, and this was why Grace had 
 found the occasion to address Aubrey at such 
 length, "a match which was not — something or 
 other; I am sure, Aubrey, you will fall in love, 
 as everybody does before they marry. I suppose 
 you don't want to shut up little Margaret in a 
 prison with you and me, Grace, and keep her 
 money, that her husband might not get the use 
 of it? That would be just like you old maids. 
 But I mean Margaret to have a good husband, 
 and live a happy life." 
 
 "Dearest Jean!" said Miss Grace, with tears. 
 "J keep dear Margaret unmarried, or want her 
 money ! She shall have all I have when I die ; 
 and as for being an old maid — " 
 
 This was a very unkind cut indeed, and Miss 
 Leslie was unable to resist the impulse to cry. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 93 
 
 Her tears were not so interesting as Margaret's, 
 for her nose became red, and her short-sighted 
 eyes muddy. " I am sure I have not done any- 
 thing to deserve this," she said, and sobbed ; 
 while Jean told'her not to be so silly, and, with- 
 out paying any more attention, held up the point 
 de Venise, which had belonged to Margaret's 
 mother, in her plump hands. 
 
 " Look at that, Aubrey ! If all goes well, you 
 may have a wife with that upon her wedding- 
 dress. Dear me, I think I would almost marry 
 myself to have it. Is it not lovely ? But Mar- 
 garet will not care a bit ; no one does at her 
 age. She would think a bit of common Valen- 
 ciennes from a shop just as pretty, or perhaps, 
 Lord knows, imitation would please her. I had 
 a piece myself in my trousseau not half so good 
 as that, nor half so much of it, but still lace, you 
 know, real lace ; and I let it lie about, and wore 
 net ruffs and things. Even I ! so you may fan- 
 cy what Margaret will do. But if it was her 
 mother's (and Bell swears it was), she has a 
 right to it," Mrs. Bellingham said, with integri- 
 ty beyond praise. 
 
 "It is very nice, Aunt Jean," said Aubrey, 
 holding it to the light ; " but I think you are a 
 little too enthusiastic. If it is point de Venise, 
 it is very late work — not the best. I should be 
 disposed to say it was point de France — very 
 pretty all the same, and valuable in its way. 
 Now look at that stitch : I don't think you 
 would find that in real old Venetian. I think 
 that is a French stitch. But it is very nice," he 
 added, looking at it critically, " very nice : on a 
 dark velvet or brocade, it would look very well. 
 As for putting it over white satin, I never should 
 consent to such a thing. Light point de Flan- 
 dres, or modern Brussels, or Malines, I shouldn't 
 mind ; but Venetian point, no. You ladies have 
 your own ideas ; but I wouldn't allow it, not if 
 my opinion was asked." 
 
 " You see, you allow it is Venetian, after all." 
 
 "Or point de France. It is very much the 
 same thing. Sometimes you can scarcely tell 
 that it has travelled over the Alps. But I think 
 I have an eye for lace. Any china ?" said Au- 
 brey, walking to a door in the panelling and 
 opening it coolly. "Ay, I thought it was a cup- 
 board. But here's only common stuff." 
 
 " The best tea-things !"said Miss Grace, with 
 a little shriek," that have always been kept there 
 ever since I was a child." 
 
 " In that case, perhaps they are better than 
 they appear," said Aubrey, calmly ; and after a 
 closer inspection, he decided that this was the 
 case. They were Chelsea, "but not much." 
 From this it will be seen that young Mr. Bel- 
 lingham was a young man of extended and vari- 
 ous information. He went up-stairs to the high 
 room with them, and was really excited by the 
 old clothes. The house, though he appreciated 
 its curiousness, did not otherwise attract the 
 young man. " If one could spend a few thou- 
 sands on old oak and tapestry, it might be made 
 very nice," he acknowledged ; but there were 
 some old cups and saucers here and there in the 
 various rooms which pleased him. And as he 
 accompanied the ladies up and down, and ex- 
 amined everything, he gave an occasional thought 
 to Margaret, which ought to have made her 
 proud, had she been aware of the distinction. 
 She would do very well. She was not at all the 
 
 kind of person whom, in such circumstances, it 
 would have been natural to see. A red-haired 
 young woman, with high cheek-bones — was not 
 that the recognized type of a Scotch heiress? 
 Aubrey knew that the conventional type does 
 not always hold ; but he had thought of Miss 
 Leslie's nose and her short sight, and he had 
 also thought of his aunt's plumpness, and that 
 peculiarity of tone which many Scotchwomen in 
 England attain, with the proud consciousness of 
 having lost all their native accent. 
 
 There are few things so disagreeably provin- 
 cial as this tone, which is not Scotch, which is 
 the very triumph and proclaimed conviction of 
 having shaken off Scotch and acquired the finest 
 of Southern speech. Aubrey had been afraid of 
 all these things ; but Margaret had not come up 
 to the conventional requirements of her position. 
 Her soft native Fife, even with its modulations, 
 did not alarm him like Aunt Jean's high Eng- 
 lish, and her nose would never be like that of 
 Aunt Grace. Altogether, she was an unexcep- 
 tionable heiress, sweet and sorrowful, and " in- 
 teresting." It was a commonplace sort of word, 
 but yet even a superfine young man is some- 
 times obliged to use such ordinary mediums of 
 expression. For a man who, previously set up 
 at much too high a figure (to quote his own met- 
 aphor), and commanding no offers, was ready to 
 accept a moderate fortune even under disadvan- 
 tageous conditions, the thought of a nice little 
 property, weighted only by Margaret, was very 
 consolatory indeed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Next day was Sunday, the last day that Mar- 
 garet was to spend at home ; not like the brill- 
 iant Sunday on which old Sir Ludovic, for the 
 last time, attended "a diet of worship" in the 
 parish church, and was reminded of his latter 
 end' by good Dr. Burnside ; but gray, and dull, 
 and cloudy, with no light on the horizon, and 
 the whole landscape, hill and valley and sea, all 
 expressed in different tones of a flat lead color, 
 the change of all others which most affects the 
 landscape. In Fife, as has been candidly allow- 
 ed, the features of the country have no splendor 
 or native nobleness ; and accordingly there is 
 no power in them to resist this invasion of gray- 
 ness. Mr. Aubrey Bellingham, though he did 
 pretend to "go in" for the beauties of nature, 
 intimated very plainly his discontent with the 
 scene before him. 
 
 "Anything poorer in the way of landscape 
 I don't know that I ever saw," he said, and sigh- 
 ed, when he was made to take his place in the 
 old carriage to be driven to Fifeton, to the 
 "English Chapel." It was six miles off; where- 
 as the parish church, with the Norman chancel, 
 was scarcely one. But, as Mrs. Bellingham said, 
 if you do not hold by your church, what is to 
 become of you ? 
 
 "Only the common people go there," she 
 said — "the farmers, and so forth. The gentry 
 are all Episcopalian. My brother, Sir Ludovic, 
 may go now and then for the sake of example, 
 and because Dr. Burnside is an old family friend ; 
 but Sir Claude, and everybody of importance, 
 you will find at our church. All the elite go 
 
94 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 there. I can't think what the gentry were think- 
 ing of, to allow the Presbyterians to seize the 
 endowments. It is quite the other way in Eng- 
 land, where it is the common people who are 
 dissenters, and we have a church which is really 
 fit for ladies and gentlemen to go to. But things 
 are all very queer in Scotland, Aubrey. That 
 is one thing, I suppose, that gives the common 
 people such very independent ways." 
 
 "Well, Aunt Jean, let us be thankful we were 
 not born to set it right," said Aubrey, recon- 
 ciled to see that his six-miles' drive was to be in 
 company with Margaret. But she, in her deep 
 mourning, did not afford much good diversion 
 during the drive. The fact that it was the last 
 day — the last day ! had at length penetrated her 
 mind ; and a vague horror of what might hap- 
 pen, of something hanging over her which she 
 did not understand, of leave-takings, and engage- 
 ments to be entered into and promises to be 
 made, had come over Margaret like a cloud. 
 She had passively obeyed her sisters' orders, and 
 followed them into the carriage, though not with- 
 out an acute recollection of her last drive in that 
 carriage by her father's side at a time when she 
 was not passive at all, but liked her own way 
 and had it, and was not aware how happy she 
 was. 
 
 Margaret took all the other changes as sec- 
 ondary to the one great change, and did not feel 
 them as an old man's darling, a somewhat spoil- 
 ed child, accustomed to unlimited indulgence for 
 all her fancies, might have been expected to do. 
 But her individuality came back to her, and with 
 it a sense of unknown troubles to be encoun- 
 tered, as she leaned back in her corner, saying 
 nothing. She drew herself as far as possible 
 away from Aubrey Bellingham, and she let her 
 veil drop, with its heavy burden of crape, and 
 took refuge within herself. She had to part 
 with her home, and Bell and John, the attend- 
 ants of her life, but, more alarming still and 
 strange, she had to part with Rob Glen. Ludo- 
 vic's interposition had increased tenfold the im- 
 portance of everything about Rob Glen, the cir- 
 cumstances of which she had thought so little 
 when the first step had been taken. How could 
 she have thought of the young man's position, 
 or of any consequences that might follow, at the 
 moment when her father lay dying? Rob had 
 been very kind ; his tenderness, his caresses, 
 had gone to her heart. There were indeed mo- 
 ments, after the first, when they no longer im- 
 pressed her with such a sense of kindness, when 
 she would have been glad enough to avoid the 
 close contact, and when the touch of his arm 
 round her gave Margaret a sense of shy shrink- 
 ing, rather than of the utter confidence and 
 soothing which she had felt at first — and when 
 she had not liked to vex him by resistance, but 
 had edged and shrunk away, and made herself 
 as small as possible to avoid the embarrassing 
 pressure. 
 
 But all this vague shyness and shrinking had 
 changed at their last interview, when Margaret, 
 in generous impetuosity, and terror lest he should 
 think she considered herself raised above him 
 by her fortune, had taken the matter into her 
 own hands and made all the vague ties defi- 
 nite. What an extraordinary sensation it was 
 to feel that she belonged to him — she, Margaret 
 Leslie, to him, Rob Glen ! She could not real- 
 
 ize or understand it, but felt, with a sense of 
 giddiness through her whole being, that some- 
 thing existed which bound her to him forever. 
 Yes, no doubt, when you came to think of it, 
 that was what it meant. She had not been 
 aware of it at first, but this no doubt was how it 
 was. And Ludovic's questioning had made it 
 all so much more real. After what her brother 
 had said, there was no avoiding the certainty. 
 
 Between Rob Glen and herself was an invis- 
 ible link, woven so closely that nothing could 
 undo it. How changed all the world was! 
 Once it lay free and bright and open before her, 
 with but one restriction, and that heij natural 
 obedience to her father and loyalty to her home. 
 Now, with a giddiness and dazzling in her eyes, 
 she felt how different it all was. She had no 
 longer any home, and the world was closed up 
 to her by that figure of Rob Glen. She did not 
 know that she objected to him, or disliked his 
 presence, but it made everything different. And 
 chiefly it made her giddy, so that she herself and 
 the whole universe seemed to be going round 
 and round — Rob Glen. She was not sure, even 
 — but all was confusion in her mind — that she 
 thought of him now just as she had thought of 
 him in those old, old times, when he had sat 
 among the potatoes and made his picture; when 
 he had seemed so clever, such a genius, such a 
 poet, making a common bit of paper into a land- 
 scape, in which the sun would shine and the 
 wind blow forever. 
 
 That side of the subject was dim to her now. 
 Rob was no longer an artist doing wonders be- 
 fore her eyes, but a man whose touch made her 
 shrink, yet held her fast; one whom she was 
 more shy of, yet more bound to, than to any- 
 body else in the world ; from whom she would 
 like to steal a little farther off, if she could do 
 it unnoticed, yet move a step nearer to, should 
 he find her out. This strange jumble of feeling 
 seemed to be brought to a climax by the thought 
 that she was going away to-morrow. To-night 
 — there was no avoiding the necessity — she must 
 go again and meet him, and explain everything 
 to him, and part with him. What might he 
 say, or make her do and say? She could not 
 wound his feelings by refusing, by letting him 
 see that she shrank from him. She felt that 
 she must yield to him, not to hurt his feelings. 
 A mingled sense of sympathy and gratitude, 
 and (though the word is so inadequate) polite- 
 ness, made it seem terrible to Margaret to with- 
 draw from her lover. 
 
 To betray to a person who loves you that his 
 gaze, his touch, his close vicinity is distasteful, 
 what a dreadful thing to do — what a wound to 
 his feelings, and his pride, and his fondness ! If 
 he would not do it ; if he would keep a little far- 
 ther oft", and keep his arms by his side like other 
 people, how much more pleasant; but to be so 
 unsympathetic, so unfeeling, as to show him that 
 you did not like what he meant in such great 
 kindness! this was more than Margaret could 
 do. As she sat back in the carriage and was 
 carried along through the gray landscape, with a 
 whiff of Mrs. Bellingham's mille-jleurs pervading 
 the atmosphere, and a sea of crape all about her, 
 and the voices of the others flowing on, Marga- 
 ret, whom they thought so impassive, was turning 
 over this question, with flushes of strange con- 
 fusion and trouble. What would he say ? what 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 would he ask of her ? what promises would she 
 have to make, and pledges to give ? To give 
 him up was a thing that did not enter into her 
 mind ; she could not have done anything so 
 cruel : but she looked forward to the next meet- 
 ing with an alarm which was very vivid, while 
 nt the same time she was aware that it was quite 
 inevitable that she must see him, and that in all 
 likelihood she would do what he wanted her to do. 
 
 This pervading consciousness confused Mar- 
 garet much in respect to the morning's service, 
 and the people who came up to her and pressed 
 her hand, and said things they meant to be kind. 
 It was a little chapel, very like, as Mrs. Belling- 
 ham said indignantly, the chapels which the dis- 
 senters had in England ; and to see all the com- 
 mon folk going to the big church with the stee- 
 ple, to which they were called by all the dis- 
 cordancy of loudly clanging bells, while the car- 
 riages drew up before that little non-conforming 
 tabernacle, was very offensive to all right-mind- 
 ed people. 
 
 "Tilings must have been dreadfully misman- 
 aged, Aubrey, at the time when all was settled," 
 Mrs. Bellingham said, very seriously ; "for you 
 see for yourself all the best people were there. 
 One advantage is that it is much pleasanter sit- 
 ting among a congregation that is all ladies and 
 gentlemen ; but surely, surely, taking the most 
 liberal view of it, it is more suitable that we 
 should have the churches, and the common peo- 
 ple be dissenters, as they are in England ? I 
 would not prevent them — I would let them have 
 their way ; but naturally it is not we that should 
 give place to them, but they to us." 
 
 "But, dearest Jean, we were all once — " 
 
 "And when you think — Grace, I wish you 
 would let me get in a word — that we really can- 
 not get a very good set of clergy because there is 
 no money to give them, while the Presbyterians 
 have got it all, though it comes out of our pock- 
 ets ! I have never studied history as I ought to 
 have done, for really education was not so much 
 attended to in our days ; but I am sure the Scots 
 gentry must have been very badly treated. For 
 that John Knox, you know, sprang of the com- 
 mon people himself, and they were all he cared 
 about, and no pains were taken, none at all, to 
 suit the Church to the better classes. But Mar- 
 garet has been more seen to-day ; and we have 
 had more condolences and sympathy from our 
 own kind of people at this one service than we 
 would have had at the parish church in twenty 
 years." 
 
 These shakings of hands, however, and the 
 words of sympathy were too much for Margaret, 
 who was not perhaps in the best condition for 
 being inspected and condoled with, after all the 
 secret agitation of this long, silent drive, and who 
 had to be sent home, finally, alone, while her sis- 
 ters and their attendant stopped half-way to take 
 luncheon with Sir Claude. 
 
 "You will send back the carriage for us, Mar- 
 garet, since you don't feel equal to staying ? Of 
 course, it is a very different thing to her, who 
 never was away from him, to what it is to us, 
 who had not been with him for years," Mrs. Bel- 
 lingham said, while Miss Leslie lingered at the 
 carriage-door, and could not make up her mind 
 to leave her dearest Margaret. 
 
 "I think I ought to go with her, dear child. 
 
 Don't you think so, dear Aubrev ? But then 
 
 7 
 
 Sir Claude and Lady Jane are so kind ; and 
 then it will be such a trouble sending back the 
 carriage. Darling Margaret, are you sure, are 
 you quite sure you don't mind going alone ? for 
 I will come witli you in a minute. I don't re- 
 ally care to stay at all, but fur Jean, who always 
 likes a change ; and dear Sir Claude is so kind ; 
 and it will be a change, you know, for dear Au- 
 brey — the chief people in Pile!" she added, anx- 
 iously putting her nose into the carriage, " if you 
 are quite sure, dearest Margaret, that you don't 
 mind." 
 
 Free of the crape, and of that sense of a mul- 
 titude which belongs to a closely packed car- 
 riage, Margaret went home very much more tran- 
 quilly in her corner, and cried, and was relieved 
 as the heavy old vehicle rolled along between 
 the well-known hedge-rows, and passed the well- 
 known church upon its mound where her old fa- 
 ther lay sleeping the sleep of the weary and the 
 just. She gazed out wistfully through her tears 
 at the path round the old apse of the church 
 where she had walked with him so lately, and 
 close to which he was now laid. In these days 
 no idea of floral decorations had visited Scotch 
 grave-yards, and the great gray stone-work of 
 the Leslie tomb, rearing its seventeenth-century 
 skulls and crossbones against the old twisted 
 Norman arches, was not favorable to any loving 
 deposit of this kind. But a rose-bush that grew 
 by the side door had thrown a long tendril round 
 the gray wall, which was drooping with a single 
 half-opened »rose upon it straight across those 
 melancholy emblems, pointing, as it seemed to 
 Margaret, to the very spot where old Sir Ludo- 
 vic lay. This went to her heart, poor child. 
 They were taking her away, but the rose would 
 remain and shed its leaves over the place, and 
 make it sweet ; and kind eyes would look at it, 
 and kind people would talk of old Sir Ludovic, 
 and be sorry for his poor little Peggy, whose life 
 was so changed. 
 
 There is something in the pang of self-pity in 
 a young mind which is more poignant, and yet 
 more sweet, than any other sorrow. There is 
 nothing so ready to bring the tears that give re- 
 lief. They would talk about her, all the kind 
 poor people ; not the ladies and the gentlemen, 
 perhaps, who went to the English chapel, and of 
 whom Jean was so fond, but a great many peo- 
 ple in the high town and the " laigh toun " whom 
 Margaret knew intimately, and the family in 
 the Manse, Dr. Burnside and his wife and Ran- 
 dal. Randal had been kind too. How he had 
 run for the doctor that day, though it was of no 
 use! and how many things he had done after, 
 not stopping, Margaret thought, to talk to her, 
 but always doing what was most wanted ! Ah ! 
 — this thought brought her to the other end of 
 the circle again with a spring. It was always 
 herself, Margaret remembered, that Rob had 
 thought of, always her first. She began to go 
 over all the course of events as the carriage rolled 
 on, too quickly now, to Earl's-hall. Had she 
 forgotten, she asked herself, that time when he 
 came to her father's aid on the church-yard path 
 — how careful he had been of the old man — and 
 how much trouble he had taken to please him 
 afterward ? Thinking of her own troubles, she 
 had forgotten half that Rob had done. How 
 kind he had been ! and Sir Ludovic had liked 
 him — he had got to be fond of him ; surely he 
 
96 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 had been fond of him ! He had allowed her to 
 be with Rob, drawing, talking, as much as she 
 pleased. He had never said "You must give 
 up Rob Glen." Perhaps, indeed, that was what 
 her father meant. What did it matter about 
 being what people called a gentleman ? Sir 
 Claude was all that; but except when he sent a 
 servant to ask how Sir Ludovic was, what had 
 lie ever done, though Grace said he was so kind ? 
 The great people had all been the same. They 
 had sent a servant ; they had sent their carriages 
 to the funeral. But Rob had held up her fa- 
 ther when he stumbled, and had come to talk to 
 him and amuse him, and had made a picture of 
 him which was more to Margaret than all the 
 National Gallery. Oh, that was what it was to 
 be kind ! The carriage heaving horribly as it 
 turned into the rut inside the gate, stopped Mar- 
 garet in the full current of these thoughts. But 
 they were a great support to her in the prospect 
 that lay before her, the farewell scene that she 
 knew she would have to go through, when he 
 would be so sorry, and she would not know what 
 to say. 
 
 The Leslies, like so many kind people, dined 
 earlier than usual on Sundays. They dined at 
 five, to the great discomfort of the party who 
 had lunched with Sir Claude, and who arrived 
 just in time for this second meal. Mr. Aubrey 
 Bellingham thought it was done in deference to 
 the national desire to be uncomfortable on Sim- 
 day, and submitted with a shrug of his shoul- 
 ders ; but Mrs. Bellingham, having more right 
 to express an opinion, did so frankly, and with 
 much indignation. She said : 
 
 "I know it's Mary's way in Edinburgh; and 
 there may be excuses where there is a young 
 family, and servants have to be considered. Of 
 course they are not rich, and servants insist on 
 being considered when they know they have you 
 in their power; but at EaiTs-hall, and when ice 
 are here! I think it is very unnecessary. Last 
 Sunday we were not thinking of dinner, and I 
 am sure I cannot tell you when we had it ; but 
 just when people are recovering their spirits, 
 and when a cheerful meal is your best restora- 
 tive ! It may be very good of Mary to consider 
 her servants, but I must say she might just as 
 well, for once in a way, have considered you and 
 me." 
 
 "But, dearest Jean! dear Mary is the most 
 unselfish ! She does not mind any inconven- 
 ience — " 
 
 "Oh, inconvenience! don't speak to me — she 
 likes it!" cried Mrs. Jean, indignant. "She is 
 just the kind of woman that relishes a tea-dinner, 
 and all that sort of tiling ; and if she can make 
 out that she saves sixpence, what a thing that 
 is ! And Ludovic just lets her do what she likes. 
 She is getting him into all her huggermugger 
 ways. If a woman has not more self-respect, 
 she ought, at least, to have some respect for her 
 husband. But everything is made to give in to 
 the children and the servants, in that house. I 
 could have put up with it, not that I ever like it, 
 in Edinburgh, for there one knows what one has 
 to expect. But here, where Bell and John were 
 so used to my father — and when ice are in the 
 house, and without even asking my opinion, and 
 the excellent luncheon we have just had ! she 
 might have thought of Aubrey, who is not accus- 
 tomed to any nonsense of consideration for ser- 
 
 vants ; but I always said, though she is a good 
 enough wife to Ludovic, that she was a woman 
 of no perception," Mrs. Bellingham said. 
 
 After this little storm, the untimely dinner 
 was marred by some sulkiness on Jean's part, as 
 was perhaps natural. And though Aubrey made 
 himself very agreeable, with the most noble and 
 Christian forgiveness of injuries, devoting him- 
 self to little Effie, whom he regaled with histo- 
 riettes of a less piquant description than those 
 of his debut, yet there was a general irritability 
 about the simple meal which, it must be allowed, 
 often attends that well-meant expedient for the 
 keeping of Sunday. The company dispersed 
 early, flocking off to their rooms, where Mrs. 
 Bellingham, with her feet up, instructed her 
 maid as to her packing, and once more tinned 
 over the packet of lace which had fallen to her 
 share. Margaret, when she had seen the rest 
 of the party go away, fled too, to escape another 
 interview with her brother, who looked, she 
 thought, as if meditating a renewal of his remon- 
 strances, and, having watched her opportunity, 
 stole softly down-stairs. Even Bell was still 
 busy after the dinner. Her chair stood in the 
 court outside the door, but she had not yet come 
 out to enjoy her favorite seat. And Bell's heart 
 was so heavy that her work went but slowly. 
 She had no thought of anything but Miss Mar- 
 garet, who to-morrow was to be taken away. 
 
 Margaret stole out like one who had learned 
 that she was guilty. Never before had she 
 emerged so stealthily from the shadow of the old 
 house. She did not go the usual way, to run the 
 risk of being seen, but crept round by the garden- 
 wall, as she had clone sometimes when returning, 
 when Rob was with her. There was a feeble at- 
 tempt at a sunset, though the sun had not shone 
 all day, and consecpiently had no right to his usu- 
 al pomps, but in the west there was a redness 
 breaking through the gray, which brightened the 
 face of the country, and changed the character 
 of the landscape. Under the trees it fell like 
 lamps of rich gold, escaping here and there 
 through broken openings in the clouds, and 
 warming the wood with gleams of color which 
 had looked so dark and wind-scathed in the morn- 
 ing. Margaret went softly, threading through 
 the colonnades of the great fir trunks, and sat 
 down on the little mossy knoll under the silver- 
 fir. She placed herself so that she could not be 
 seen from the house, but yet could spy through 
 the branches the approach of any danger from 
 that side. 
 
 It was the first time she had been first at the 
 place of meeting, and her heart beat as she sat 
 and waited. She, who had shrunk from the 
 prospect of this meeting, she became alarmed 
 now lest he should not come, and longed for him 
 with a kind of sick anxiety. Oh that he would 
 come, that she might get it over ! She did not 
 know what it was to be, but instinctively felt that 
 there must be something painful in this last meet- 
 ing. The last ! She would not be sorry to have 
 met, perhaps, when she was away and had no 
 longer any chance of seeing him. She would 
 understand better what he meant, and what she 
 herself meant ; and there is something which 
 subdues the pride in thus waiting for one who 
 does not come. She did not seem so sure that 
 it was lie who cared, that it was he only who 
 would break his heart, as she sat there alone; 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 97 
 
 and she had almost lost herself in fancies more 
 bitter than any she had yet known — in dreamy 
 realization of her loneliness and a sense that no 
 one, perhaps, would care much when she went 
 away. Who did care ? Not Ludovic, who wish- 
 ed her to do well, but would not have suffered 
 much had Margaret died with her father ; nor 
 his wife, who was very kind, but had so many 
 girls of her own ; nor Effie, though she would 
 cry and think she was sorry. Nobody would 
 care ; and Jean and Grace would often find her 
 a trouble ; and nobody in the world belonged to 
 Margaret, cared for her above everything else, 
 was happy when she was happy, and grieved 
 when she was sorry ; — nobody — except, perhaps, 
 him alone. 
 
 "Margaret!" A low eager voice that seemed 
 the very essence of subdued delight, trembling 
 with satisfaction and happiness, and he suddenly 
 made a spring to her side from under the trees, 
 through which he had been threading his way to 
 the place of meeting. He threw himself on his 
 knees by her, and seized and kissed her hands a 
 hundred times. " You here before me ! waiting 
 for me ! To think I should have lost a moment 
 of the little time I may have you ! I shall never 
 forgive myself; but I thought it was too early for 
 you, even now." 
 
 " Oh, I have not been waiting long," she said. 
 "It was because we dined so early; and then 
 they were all — tired." 
 
 "Except my Margaret. God bless my Mar- 
 garet, that came out and took the trouble to wait 
 for me ! How often I have sat here and watch- 
 ed for the sweep of your dress at the corner of 
 the house, for the least sign of you ! And to 
 think that you should have been first to-night, 
 and waiting — " 
 
 "Why should not I wait," she said, "as well 
 as you? And to-morrow I am going away." 
 
 " To-morrow !" he cried, in a voice of despair. 
 "How am I to endure it? how am I to go on 
 without you ? I am afraid to think of it, my 
 darling. Margaret! Margaret! what are you 
 going to say to me to give me strength to get 
 through to-morrow, and all the days after it, till 
 we meet again ?" 
 
 Now it has come! said Margaret to herself; 
 and she felt with astonishment that the emergen- 
 cy seemed to give her possession of her faculties. 
 
 "I do not know," she said, steadily, " what 
 you want me to do or say. I shall be very sorry 
 to go away and to — part from you. But what 
 can I do? My sisters have the right to do what 
 they think proper with me ; and I think I ought, 
 too, to go and see my own house. I would like 
 to take Bell or somebody, but they will not let 
 me. And now that Ludovic is here and his fam- 
 ily, it is natural that I should go away." 
 
 " Yes ; but first say something to comfort me, 
 Margaret. I did not suppose you could stay here 
 forever: but tell me you love me, and will be 
 faithful to me. Tell me when I may come after 
 you ?" 
 
 " Come after me ?" she exclaimed, with a cer- 
 tain dismay. 
 
 "Did you not think I would come after you ? 
 Did you think I could stay in one country while 
 you were in another — I, who have had the hap- 
 piness of seeing you every day ? But it is bet- 
 ter this should end, though it is like to break 
 my heart, for we should have lost time, and been 
 
 content just with seeing each other ; and now, 
 Margaret, my darling, we must settle something. 
 Tell me what I may do? To wait till you are 
 of age is a lifetime. If I come to England af- 
 ter you in about three months, when you are in 
 your own house, will you receive me and tell 
 your sisters what I am to you ? Margaret ! you 
 are not frightened, darling? You did not think 
 I would let my love go away and carry my heart 
 with her without settling something ? You could 
 not have been so cruel!" 
 
 "I do not want to be cruel," she said; "but 
 oh ! wouldn't it do to wait — to wait a little? It 
 is only three years ; I am very near eighteen. I 
 shall be eighteen in November ; and three years 
 go so quickly. Why do you look at me like 
 that ? I am not unkind. It is only that I think ; 
 it is only that — oh ! I am sure that would be the 
 best ! " 
 
 "Three years!" he said; "you might as well 
 bid me wait thirty years. How can I be sure 
 you will not forget me long before three years 
 are out? What ! live without knowing anything 
 of you — without seeing you, for three centuries — 
 it would be all the same." Tell me to go out 
 into St. Andrew's Bay in a storm, and be erst 
 away on the rocks — tell me to drown myself in 
 the Eden — as you please, Margaret ! I think it is 
 in me to do it if you bid me ; but wait for three 
 years and never see you — never know -what you 
 are thinking, never hear the sound of your voice? 
 I had rather go and hang myself at once!" cried 
 Rob. He was walking up and down under the 
 shadow of the trees. He was very much ex- 
 cited. After coming so far, after holding her in 
 his lyind, as he thought, was he going to lose her 
 at the last ? 
 
 "I did not mean that" — she stood leaning 
 against the fir, very much troubled — " what can 
 I do ? Oh, what am I to do ?" 
 
 "You must not ask me to be content without 
 you," he said, "for I cannot — I cannot. It is 
 not possible for me to give you up and live 
 without you now. If you had sent me away at 
 the very first, perhaps — But after all that has 
 passed, Margaret, after feeling that you were 
 mine, to ask me to go away and give you up — 
 now!" 
 
 "I did not say give me up ; I said — " 
 
 "You said three years, darling — three life- 
 times ; you could not mean anything so dread- 
 ful ! You would not kill me, would you ? It is 
 like taking my heart out of my breast. What 
 good would there be in the world for me ? What 
 could I do? What would I be fit for? Mar- 
 garet, Margaret! you could not have the heart 
 to treat me so!" 
 
 "What can I do?" she said, trembling. 
 "Ludovic has found out about you, and he 
 asked me to give you up. I did not mean to 
 tell you, but I cannot help it. He says they 
 will never, never consent. And what am / to 
 do? How can I fight with them? I said I 
 would not give you up. I said it would break 
 your heart." 
 
 "And so it would, my darling!" he cried, 
 coming to her side, putting his arm round her ; 
 "and, oh, my Margaret, yours too!" 
 
 Margaret made no reply to this. She with- 
 drew the least little step — but how could she 
 hurt his feelings? 
 
 " That was why I said three years," she said ; 
 
98 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 ''three years is not so very long. Poor Jeanie 
 in the house, did you ever see Jeanie ? She is — 
 very fond of some one ; and she has not heard 
 of him at all or seen him, for two years. It 
 would pass very fast. You would become a 
 great painter — and then ; but Jeanie does not 
 know if she will ever see him again ; and his 
 name is Rob, too, like you." 
 
 " What has Jeanie to do with it?" he cried, 
 with a look of dismay. Then he caught her 
 arm and drew her away. "There is some one 
 coming from the house ; let us not wait here, 
 but come down the other side of the wood. I 
 must not be interrupted now. I have a great 
 deal more to say to you, Margaret, my Marga- 
 ret, this last night before we part." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Rob had a great deal to say, but it was 
 chiefly repetition of what he had said before. 
 He drew her arm within his, and they wandered 
 down by the edge of the wood and into the 
 fields. That last little accidental outbreak of 
 sunshine was over, and all once more was gray- 
 ness and monotones. There was nobody about; 
 the evening was not tempting enough to bring 
 out walkers. In the kirktown people were out 
 "about the doors," sitting on the kirk steps, 
 keeping up a confused little hum of conversation, 
 quieter than usual as suited the Sabbath night ; 
 and the people who had gardens strolled about 
 them in domestic stillness, and commented upon 
 the coming apples; but it was not the fashion 
 in Stratheden to take walks on Sunday evening. 
 The fields were very silent and still ; and so 
 absorbed were the two in their conversation that 
 they wandered far out of the woods of EaiTs- 
 hall, and were skirting the fields about the farm 
 before they were aware. Rob's plan was to go 
 to London, to make what progress he could with 
 his drawing, to study and work, and achieve 
 success; the last went without saying. Mar- 
 garet was as certain of it as that the sun would 
 rise to-morrow. But she was not equally cer- 
 tain of the other part of the programme, which 
 was that he should go to the Grange — her house 
 where she was to live — and be produced there 
 as her betrothed husband, and introduced to her 
 sisters. 
 
 This prospect alarmed her more than she could 
 say. She did not want him to come to the Grange. 
 She did not know what to say about writing to 
 him. The idea brought a hot blush to her face. 
 Margaret was not quite sure that she could write 
 a letter that she would like Rob Glen to see. He 
 was very clever, and she did not think she could 
 write a very pretty letter. In short, she was un- 
 practical and unmanageable to the last degree, 
 and Rob had some excuse for being impatient. 
 She had no idea what could be done, except that 
 she might perhaps come to Earl's-hall and see 
 him there, and that three years was not so very 
 long. He lost himself in arguments, in eloquent 
 appeals to her; and she had nothing very elo- 
 quent to say in return. After a while she was 
 silenced, and made very little answer at all, but 
 walked along by his side demurely, with her thick 
 gauze veil drooping over her face, and heard ail 
 he had to say, saying yes now and then, and 
 
 sometimes no. Her position was very simple; 
 and though he proved to her that it was unten- 
 able by a hundred arguments, and showed her 
 that some other plan was necessary, he did not 
 drive Margaret out of it. 
 
 What could she do? she asked, wringing her 
 hands. Ludovic was against them, and Jean 
 would be much more against them. She dared 
 not let Jean know. Even her brother himself 
 had said that Jean must not know. And, to tell 
 the truth, Rob himself was of the opinion that 
 it would be better to keep this secret from Mrs. 
 Bellingham ; but yet he thought he might at 
 least be allowed to visit at the Grange, as an 
 old friend, if nothing more. They got through a 
 series of by-ways into the field path, where their 
 first meeting had been, and Rob was trying, for 
 the hundredth time, to obtain some promise of 
 intercourse from Margaret, when suddenly some 
 one coming behind them laid a hand upon a shoul- 
 der of each. Rob gave a violent start and turned 
 round, while Margaret, with a little cry, shrank 
 back into the shadow of the hedge-row. 
 
 "My certy!" said the intruder; "this is a 
 fine occupation, Rob, my man, for a Sabbath 
 nicht ! " And then she, too, gave a cry of surprise, 
 more pretended than real, but in which there was 
 a little genuine fright. " Eh, bless me, it's Miss 
 Margret, and so far from hame!" she cried. 
 
 "Mother! what are you doing here?" cried 
 Rob. But as for Margaret she was relieved. She 
 had thought nothing less for the moment than 
 that Jean was upon her, or, at the very least, 
 Bell coming out to seek and bring her back. 
 Mrs. Glen was not a person of whom she stood 
 in any fear, and she would not tell or interfere to 
 let Jean know, for Rob's sake. So that Marga- 
 ret turned round from the hedge-row with a re- 
 lieved soul, and said, 
 
 "Oh, is it you, Mrs. Glen ?" with a new sense 
 of ease in her tone. 
 
 "Deed and it is just me, my bonnie young 
 lady. I hear you are going away, Miss Margret, 
 and many a sore heart you will leave in the coun- 
 try-side. You're so near the farm, you must 
 come in and I will make you a cup of tea in a 
 moment. It's real gray and dull, and there's a 
 feel in the air like rain. Come your ways to 
 the farm, Miss Margret, my bonnie dear; and 
 after that Rob will take you home." 
 
 Margaret made no resistance to this proposal. 
 She had been walking for some time, and she 
 was tired, and even the idea of the tea was wel- 
 come. She went in after Mrs. Glen with some 
 misgivings as to the length of her absence, but a 
 sense of relief on that point too ; for it had al- 
 ways been a good excuse to Bell, and even to her 
 father, that she had accepted the civility of one 
 of their humbler neighbors. "It pleases them ; 
 and so long as they are decent folk they will nev- 
 er but be awfu' keen to take care of Miss Mar- 
 gret: and she knows none but decent folk," Bell 
 had said. The cup of tea in the farm -parlor 
 would be as good a reason for Margaret's absence 
 as Sir Claude's luncheon-table was for her sis- 
 ters'. To be sure, in former days there had been 
 no son at Mrs. Glen's to make such visits dan- 
 gerous. She went in with a sense of unexpected 
 relief and sat down, very glad to find herself at 
 rest in the parlor, where a little fire was burning. 
 To be sure, Rob would walk home with her and 
 renew his entreaties ; but he could not, she 
 
THE PRIMKOSE PATH. 
 
 99 
 
 thought, continue them in his mother's presence, 
 and the relief was great. 
 
 "Mony a time have you come in here to get 
 your tea, Miss Margrct. I've seen Kob come 
 ben carrying ye in his arms. I mind one time 
 you were greeting for tiredness, a poor wee mis- 
 sie, and your shoe lost in the burn ; that lad was 
 aye your slave, Miss Margrct, from the time you 
 were no bigger than the table. " 
 
 "Oh, I remember," said Margaret; "I 
 thought Bell would scold me, and I did not 
 know how I was to go home without my shoe." 
 
 "You went home in that lad's arms, my bon- 
 nie dear, for all he stands there so blate, looking 
 at ye as if you were an angel ; he wasna aye sae 
 blate. You went home in his arms, and gave 
 him a good kiss, and thought no shame. But 
 you were only six then, and now you're eighteen. 
 Oh ay, my dear, I can tell your age to a day. 
 You were born the same week as my youngest 
 that died, a cauld November, and that sent your 
 bonnie young mother to her grave. It was an 
 awfu' draughty house, and no a place for a deli- 
 cate young woman, that auld house at EaiTs- 
 hall. Pine, I mind ; and Rob there he's five years 
 older. Prom the time you could toddle he aye 
 thought you the chief wonder o' the world." 
 
 "Mother, you that know so much you had 
 better know all," said Rob. "I think her the 
 chief wonder of the world still." 
 
 "You need not tell me that, my bonnie man ; 
 as if I could not see it in your een !" Margaret 
 stirred uneasily while this conversation went on 
 over her head. She had never thought of hav- 
 ing this engagement told to anybody, of being 
 talked about to anybody. She got up with a lit- 
 tle gasp, feeling as if there was not air enough 
 to breathe. If they would not surround her so, 
 close her up, all these people ; oh, if they would 
 only let her alone ! She tried to turn away to 
 escape before Rob should have said any more — 
 but, before she clearly understood what was pass- 
 ing, found herself suddenlv in the arms of Mrs. 
 Glen. 
 
 " Oh, my pretty miss ! my bonnie young lady ! 
 is this all true that I hear ?" Rob's mother cried, 
 with effusive surprise and delight. "Did I ever 
 think, when I rose out of my bed this morning, 
 that I was to hear such wonderful news afore the 
 night? Eh, Miss Margret, my dear, I wish ye 
 much joy, and I think ye'll have it, for he's a 
 good lad ; and you, ye smiling loon, I need not 
 wish you joy, for you're just leaping out of your- 
 self with happiness and content." 
 
 "And I think I have good reason," cried Rob, 
 coming up in his turn and receiving her out of 
 his mother's embrace. Oh, how horribly out of 
 place Margaret felt between them ! Never in 
 her life had she felt the dignity of being Marga- 
 ret Leslie, old Sir Ludovic's daughter, as she did 
 at that moment. Her cheeks burned crimson ; 
 she shrank into herself, to escape from the em- 
 bracing arms. What had she to do here ? How 
 had she strayed so far from home? It was all 
 she could do not to break forth into passionate 
 tears of disgust and repugnance. Oh, Margaret 
 thought, if she could but get away ! if she could 
 but run home all the way and never stop ! if she 
 could but beg Jean to leave Earl's-hall instantly 
 that very night! But she could not do any of 
 these things. She had to stand still, with eyes 
 cast down and crimson cheeks, hearing them 
 
 talk of her. It was to them she seemed to be- 
 long now ; and how could she get away ? 
 
 " Now give us your advice, mother," said Rob, 
 "we cannot tell what to do. The Leslies are 
 prejudiced, as may easily be supposed, especially 
 the old ladies (oh that Jean and Grace had but 
 heard themselves -called old ladies !), and Mar- 
 garet wants me to wait the three years till she 
 comes of age. She wants me to trust to chances 
 of seeing her and hearing of her — not even to 
 have any regular correspondence. I would cut 
 off my right hand to please her, but how am I 
 to live without seeing her, mother? "\Ve had 
 been talking and consulting, and wandering on, 
 a little farther and a little farther, till we did not 
 know where we were going. But now that we 
 are here, give us your advice. Will you be for 
 me, I wonder, or on Margaret's side?" 
 
 He had called her Margaret often before, and 
 she was quite used to it ; why did it suddenly 
 become so offensive and insupportable now ? 
 
 "You see," said Mrs. Glen, "there is a great 
 deal to be said on both sides." Mrs. Glen was 
 very much excited, her eyes gleaming, her heart 
 beating. It seemed to her that she had the fate 
 of these two young people in her hands, and 
 might now clinch the matter and establish her 
 son's good-fortune if Providence would but in- 
 spire her with the right thing to say. "There 
 is this for our bonnie Miss Margret, that she 
 would be all her lane to bear the opposition o' 
 thae ladies, and hard it would be for a delicate 
 young thing no used to struggle for herself; and 
 there's that for you, Rob, that nae doubt it would 
 be a terrible trial to worship the ground she 
 treads on as you do, and never to see her for 
 three lang years. Now let me think a moment, 
 bairns, while this dear lassie takes her cup of 
 tea." 
 
 Margaret could not refuse the cup of tea. 
 How could she assert herself and withdraw from 
 them, and let them know that she was not to be 
 taken possession of and called a dear lassie by 
 Mrs. Glen ? Her heart was in revolt ; but she 
 was far too shy, far too polite to make a visible 
 resistance. She drew back into the room as far 
 as she could out of the fitful gleams of the fire- 
 light, and she shrank from Rob's arm, which was 
 on the back of her chair ; but still she took the 
 tea and sat still, bearing with all they said and 
 did. It was the last time ; but oh, what trouble 
 she had got into without meaning it ! Sudden- 
 ly it had come to be salvation and deliverance to 
 Margaret that she was going away. 
 
 " Now, bairns," said Mrs. Glen, " listen to me. 
 I think I have found what you want. The grand 
 thing is that you should be faithful to each other, 
 and mind upon each other. It's no being parted 
 that does harm. Three years will flee away like 
 three days, and yon will be young, young, ower 
 young to be married at the end ; and you would 
 do more than that, Rob Glen, for your bonnie 
 Margaret ; weel I ken that. So here is just what 
 you must do. You must give each other a bit 
 writing, saying that ye'll marry at the end of 
 three years — you to her, Rob, and her to you. 
 And then you will be out of all doubt, and troth- 
 plight, the one to the other, before God and man." 
 
 " M other !" cried Rob, starting up from where 
 he had been bending over Margaret, with a wild 
 glow of mingled rage, terror, and hope in his 
 eves. The suggestion gave him a shock. He 
 
100 
 
 THE PRIMROSE RATH. 
 
 did not know anything about the law on that 
 point, nor whether there was more validity in 
 such a promise than in any other love-pledge. 
 But he was struck with sudden alarm at the idea 
 of doing something which might afterward be 
 brought against him, and a certain generosity 
 and honor not extinguished in his mind made 
 him realize Margaret's helpless condition be- 
 tween his mother and himself, and her ignorance 
 and her youth ; while at the same time, to se- 
 cure her, to make certain of her, gave him a tug 
 of temptation, a wild sensation of delight. "No, 
 no," he cried, hoarsely, "I could not make her 
 do it;" then paused, and lo'oked at her with the 
 eager wildness of passion in his eyes. 
 
 But Margaret was perfectly calm. No pas- 
 sion was woke in her — scarcely any understand- 
 ing of what this meant. A bit writing? Oh 
 yes, what would that matter, so long as she could 
 get away ? 
 
 "It is getting dark," she said; "they will 
 not know where I am ; they will be wondering. 
 Will I do it now, whatever you want me to do, 
 and go home?" 
 
 " Margaret, my love!" he cried, "I thought 
 you were frightened ; I thought you were shrink- 
 ing from me ; and here is your sweet consent 
 more ready than even mine!" 
 
 " Oh, it is not that," she said, a little alarmed 
 by the praise and by the demonstrations that ac- 
 companied it. " But it is getting dark, and it 
 is late ; and oh, I am so anxious to get home." 
 
 Rob wrung his hands. "She doesn't under- 
 stand what we mean, mother ; I can't take ad- 
 vantage of her. She thinks of nothing but to 
 get home." 
 
 "You gomerel!" said his mother, between her 
 teeth ; and then she turned a smiling face upon 
 Margaret. "Just that, my bonnie miss," she 
 said ; "a woman's heart's aye ready to save sor- 
 row to them that's fond of her. It's time you 
 were home, my sweet lady. Just you write it 
 down to make him easy in his mind, and then 
 he will take you back to Earl's-hall." 
 
 "Must I write it myself?" Margaret said; 
 and it came across her with a wave of blushing 
 that she did not write at all nicely — not so well 
 as she ought. "And what am I to say ? I don't 
 know what to say." Then she gave another 
 glance at the window, which showed the night 
 drawing near, the darkness increasing every 
 moment, with that noiseless, breathless pleasure 
 ■which the night seems to take in getting dark 
 when we are far from home. She got up with 
 a sudden, hasty impulse. "Oh, if you please, 
 Mrs. Glen, if you will be as quick as ever you 
 can ! for I must run all the way." 
 
 "That will I, my darlin' lady," said the de- 
 lighted mother. It was she who had the whole 
 doing of it, and the pride of having suggested it. 
 Rob stood by, quite pale, his eyes blazing with 
 excitement, his mind half paralyzed with trou- 
 ble and terror, hope to have, reluctance to take, 
 fear of something unmanly, something dishon- 
 orable, intensified by the eagerness of expecta- 
 tion, with which he looked for what was to come. 
 He stood "like a stock stane," his mother said 
 afterward, his lips parted, his eyes staring, in her 
 way as she rushed to the desk at the other side 
 of the room to find what was wanted. "You 
 eedeeot !" she said, as she pushed him aside, in 
 an angry undertone. Had he not the sense even 
 
 to help in what was all for his own advantage ? 
 Margaret pulled off her black glove and took the 
 pen in her hand. She knew she would write it 
 very badly, very unevenly — not even in a straight 
 line ; but if she had to do it before she could run 
 home, it was better to get it over. 
 
 "Oh, but I never wrote anything before," she 
 said ; "Mrs. Glen, what must I say ?" 
 
 " Nor me. I never wrote the like of that be- 
 fore," cried Mrs. Glen ; "and there's Rob even — 
 too happy to help us." She had meant to use 
 another word to describe his spasm of irresolu- 
 tion and apprehension, but remembered in time 
 that he must not be contemned in Margaret's 
 eyes. " It will be just this, my bonnie dear : '1, 
 Margaret Leslie, give my word before God and 
 man, to marry Robert Glen as soon as I come 
 of age. So help me God. Amen.'" 
 
 "Don't put that," cried Rob, making a hasty 
 step toward her. " Don't let her put that." But 
 then he turned away in such passion and trans- 
 port of shame, satisfaction, horror, and disgust 
 as no words could tell, and covered his face with 
 his hands. 
 
 "Not that last," said Margaret, stumbling, in 
 her eagerness, over the words, and glad to leave 
 out whatever she could. " Oh, it is very badly- 
 written. I never could write well. Mrs. Glen, 
 will that do ?" 
 
 "And now your bonnie name here," said the 
 originator of the scheme, scarcely able to restrain 
 her triumph. And as Margaret, with a trem- 
 bling hand, crossed the last t, and put a blot for 
 a dot over the i, in her distracted signature, she 
 received a resounding kiss upon her cheek which 
 was as the report of a pistol to her. She gave 
 a little cry of terror, and threw down the pen, 
 and turned away. "Oh, good-bye!" she cried, 
 "good-bye. I must not" stay another moment. 
 I must run all the way." 
 
 Rob did not say a word — he hurried after her, 
 with long strides, keeping up with her as she flew 
 along, in her fright, by the hedge- row. "Oh, 
 they must have missed me by this time. They 
 will be wondering where I have been," she said, 
 breathless. Rob set his teeth in the dark. Nev- 
 er in his life had he been so humiliated. Though, 
 she had pledged herself to him, she was not think- 
 ing of him ; and in all the experiences of his life 
 he had never yet known this supreme mortifica- 
 tion. He had been loved where he had wooed. 
 The other girls whom Rob had addressed had 
 forgotten everything for him. He half hated 
 her, though he loved her, and felt a fierce eager- 
 ness to have her — to make her his altogether — 
 to snatch her from the great people who looked 
 down upon him — to make himself master of her 
 fate. But this furious kind of love was only the 
 excitement of the moment. At the bottom of 
 his heart he was fond of Margaret (as he had 
 been of other Margarets before). He could not 
 bear the idea of losing her, of parting from her 
 like this, in wild haste, without any of the lin- 
 gering caresses of parting. 
 
 "Is this how you are going away from me, 
 Margaret," he cried, "flying — as if you were 
 glad to part, not sorry, when we don't know 
 when we may meet again ?" 
 
 " Oh, it is not that I am glad ; it is only thnt 
 they will wonder — they will not know where I 
 have been." 
 
 "Will vou ever be as breathless running to 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 101 
 
 me as you are to run away from me ?" he cried. 
 "Slop, Margaret! one moment before we come 
 near the gate, and say good-bye." 
 
 She yielded with panting breath. That sacred 
 kiss of parting — which, to do him justice, he gave 
 with all the fervor that became the occasion, giv- 
 ing, as he felt, his very heart with it — how glad 
 she was to escape from it, and run on ! 
 
 " Oh no ! I will not forget — I could not for- 
 get ! " she cried. 
 
 Who was this, once more in the lovers' way ? 
 A dark figure, who, they could see, by the move- 
 ment of his head, turned to look at them, buj; 
 went on without taking any notice. Margaret, 
 anxious as she was, recognized Randal Burnside, 
 and wondered that he did not notice her, then 
 was glad to think that he could not know her. 
 Rob had other thoughts. "Again found out — 
 and by the same fellow !" he said to himself, and 
 gnashed his teeth. Randal was going over to 
 Earl's-hall, a familiar visitor, while he, the be- 
 trothed husband of the daughter of Earl's-hall, 
 had to skulk about the house in the dark, and 
 take leave of his love under cover of the night. 
 Not without bitter humiliations was this hour of 
 his triumph. 
 
 "We must wait till he is out of sight," he 
 said, hoarsely, holding her back. It was like 
 holding an eager greyhound in the leash. " Oh, 
 Margaret," he said, and despite and vexation 
 filled his heart, "you are not thinking of me at 
 all — and here we have to part! You were not 
 in such a hurry when you used to cry upon my 
 shoulder, and take a little comfort from my 
 love!" 
 
 This, and the necessity of keeping back till 
 Randal had passed, touched the girl's heart. 
 
 "It is not my fault that I am in such a hur- 
 ry," she said. "Oh, you were kind — kind — 
 kinder than any one. I will never forget it, 
 Rob." 
 
 " It was not kindness," he said, "it was love." 
 
 "Yes, Rob." She put her soft cheek to his 
 with compunction in her heart. She had been 
 so eager to get away, and yet how kind he had 
 been — kinder than any one! Thus there came 
 a little comfort for him after all. 
 
 But just then, with a sudden flutter, as of a 
 bird roused from the branches, some one came 
 out through the gate, which Randal had not 
 closed behind him — a figure of a woman indis- 
 tinguishable against the dimness of the twilight, 
 with a little thrill and tremor about her, which 
 somehow made itself felt though she could not 
 be seen. 
 
 "Is that you, Miss Margret? Bell sent me 
 to look for you," she said, with the same thrill 
 and quiver in her voice. 
 
 Rob Glen started violently. It was a new 
 shock to him, and he had already met with 
 many shocks to his nerves that night. Her 
 name came to his lips with a cry ; but he had 
 sufficient sense of the position to stop himself. 
 Jeanie ! was it possible, in the malice of fate, 
 that this was the Jeanie of whom Margaret had 
 told him? He grasped her in his arms for a 
 moment with vehemence, partly because of that 
 sudden startling interruption, and, with one 
 quickly breathed farewell on her cheek, turned 
 and went away. 
 
 "Oh, Jeanie, yes, it is me. I am very, very 
 sorry. I did not want to be so late. Have thev 
 
 found out that I was away ? have they been 
 looking for me?" cried Margaret. It was not, 
 perhaps, in the nature of things that Jeanie 
 should be unmoved in her reply. 
 
 " You're no looking after the gentleman," she 
 said. "He's gone and left you, feared for me ; 
 and you've given him no good-bye. You need- 
 na be feared for me, Miss Margret. Cry him 
 back, and bid him farewell, as a lass should to 
 her lad. I'm nae traitor. ' You needna be fear- 
 ed that Jeanie will betray ye. It's no in my 
 heart." 
 
 " Oh, but he's gone, Jeanie," said Margaret, 
 with a ring of relief in her voice. "And oh, 
 I'm glad to be at home ! They made me stay 
 when I wanted to be back. Oh, how dark it is! 
 Give me your hand, Jeanie, for I cannot see 
 where you are among the trees." 
 
 Jeanie held out her hand in silence and re- 
 luctantly, and Margaret, groping, found it, and 
 took hold of it. 
 
 "You are all trembling," she said. 
 
 "And if I am all trembling, it's easy enough 
 to ken why. Standing out in the dark among 
 the black trees, and thinking of them that's gone 
 to their rest, and waiting for one that was not 
 wanting me. Eh, it's no so long since you had 
 other things in your head, Miss Margret — your 
 old papa, that was as kind as ever father was. 
 But nobody thinks muckle about old Sir Ludo- 
 vic now." 
 
 "Oh, Jeanie! I think upon him night and 
 day !" cried Margaret ; and what with the re- 
 proach, and what with her weariness and the 
 past excitement, she fell into sudden tears. 
 
 " Is that you, my bonnie lamb?" said another 
 voice ; and Bell came out t>f the gloom, where 
 she, too, had been on the watch. "It's cold 
 and it's dreary, and you're worn to death," she 
 said. "Oh, Miss Margret, where have you been, 
 my bonnie doo, wandering about the house, and 
 greeting till your bit heart is sair ? Weel, I ken 
 your heart is sair, and mine too. What will we 
 do without you, John and me? You are just 
 the light of our eyes, as you were to the auld 
 maister, auld Sir Ludovic, that was a guid mais- 
 ter to him and to me. Eh, to think this should 
 be the last night, after sae many years !" 
 
 "But, Bell," said Margaret, calmed by tha 
 sense of lawful protection and the shadow of 
 home, "it is not the last night for you ?" 
 
 "Ay, my bonnie pet, it's that or little else. 
 When you're gane, Miss Margret, a' will be gane. 
 And my lady's a good woman ; but I couldna 
 put up with her, and she couldna put up with 
 me. We're no fit for ither service, neither me 
 nor John — na, no even in your house, my bon- 
 nie lamb, for I know that's what you're gaun to 
 say. Nae new house nor new ways for John and 
 me. We're to flit into a bit cot o' our ain, and 
 there we'll bide till the Lord calls, and we gang 
 east to the kirk-yard. God bless ye, my bonnie 
 bairn. Run up the stairs ; nobody kens you were 
 away; for weel I divined," said Bell, with an 
 earnestness that filled Margaret's soul with the 
 sense of guilt — "weel I divined that ye would 
 have little heart for company this sorrowful 
 night." 
 
102 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Whkn Margaret stole into the long room, 
 vhere the family were assembled that evening, 
 she heard a little discussion going on about her- 
 self. Ludovic had risen up, and was standing 
 with an uneasy look upon his face, preparing to 
 go in search of her, while Jean was asking who 
 had seen Margaret last. Randal Burnside had 
 nime in only a few minutes before, and was still 
 standing with his hat in his hand; and he it was 
 who was explaining when Margaret entered. 
 
 "I saw her with Bell as I came in," he said 
 (which was so far true that he lingered till Bell 
 had met her). " I fear she has been making 
 some sad pilgrimages about ihe house. Has she 
 ever left Earl's-hall before ?" 
 
 "Never — not for a single day," said kind 
 Lady Leslie ; and there, was a little pause of 
 commiseration. "Poor Margaret!" they all 
 said, in their various tones. 
 
 They were seated at one end of the long room, 
 two lamps making a partial illumination about 
 them, while the surrounding space lay in gloom. 
 The books on the walls shone dimly in the in- 
 effectual light, the dim sky glimmered darkly 
 through the windows, opening this little in-door 
 world to the world without. Mrs. Bellingham 
 had got her feet up on a second chair, for there 
 were no sofas in the long room. Sunday was a 
 tiring day, and Lady Leslie had yawned several 
 times, and would have liked had it been bed- 
 time. She was a woman of very good princi- 
 ples, and she did not like to think of worldly af- 
 fairs on Sundays ; but it was very hard, at the 
 same time, to get them out of her head. As for 
 Miss Leslie, she had got a volume of sacred poe- 
 try, which had many beautiful pieces. She re- 
 membered to have said some of them to her dear 
 papa on the Sunday evenings of old, between 
 thirty and forty years ago-^ and though it was a 
 long time since, she had been crying a little to 
 herself over the thought. Effie was, perhaps, the 
 only thoroughly awake member of the family; 
 for it had just been intimated to her that her 
 aunt Jean, after all, had invited her to go to 
 the Highlands to be Margaret's companion, and 
 her heart was beating high with pleasure. Au- 
 brey had whispered to her his satisfaction too. 
 "Thank Heaven you are coming," he said ; " we 
 shall not be so very funereal after all." It was 
 while she was still full of smiles from this whis- 
 per, and while Randal stood with his hat in his 
 hand, giving that little explanation about Mar- 
 garet, that Margaret herself stole in, with a little 
 involuntary swing of the door of the West Cham- 
 ber, through which she came, which made them 
 all start. Margaret w*as very pale and worn out, 
 with dark lines under her eyes ; and she came at 
 an opportune time, when they were all sorry for 
 her. Instead of scolding, Lady Leslie came up 
 and kissed her. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " we all know how hard 
 it must be for you to-night;" and when the ready 
 tears brimmed up to the girl's heavy eyes, the 
 K r nod woman nearly cried too. Her heart yearn- 
 ed over the motherless creature thus going away 
 from all she had ever known. 
 
 This kiss, and the little murmur of sympathy, 
 and the kind looks they all cast upon her, had 
 the strangest effect upon Margaret. She gave a 
 little startled cry, and looked round upon them 
 
 with a momentary impulse of desperation. It 
 had never occurred to her that she was deceiving 
 any one before. But now, coining in worn with 
 excitement and trouble of so different a kind, all 
 at once there burst upon Margaret a sense of the 
 wickedness, the guiltiness, the falsehood she was 
 practising. She had never thought of it before. 
 But now when she gave that startled look round, 
 crying "Oh!" with a pang of compunction and 
 wondering self-accusation, the whole enormity of 
 it rushed on her mind. She felt that she ought 
 to have stood up in the midst of the group in the 
 centre of the room, even "before the gentlemen," 
 and have owned the truth. "I am not innocent 
 as you think me, it is not poor papa I am crying 
 for. I was not so much as thinking of papa," 
 was what she ought to have said. But there 
 was only one individual present who had the 
 least understanding of her, or even guessed what 
 the start and the exclamation could mean. When 
 she opened those great eyes wide in her sudden 
 horror of what she was doing, Lady Leslie, a 
 little frightened lest grief should be taking the 
 wilder form of passion, unknown to the placid 
 mind, in this poor iittle uneducated, undisciplined 
 girl, did all she could to soothe her with gentle 
 words. "We are all a little dull to-night," she 
 said. "My dear, I am sure the best thing you 
 can do is to go to bed." 
 
 " Oh yes," said Mrs. Bellingham, " we are all 
 going to bed. Though it is not a day when one 
 is supposed to do very much, yet there is no day 
 in the week more tiring than Sunday. We al- 
 ways keep early hours on Sunday. By all means, 
 Margaret, go to your room and get a good rest 
 before to - morrow. You have been making a 
 figure of yourself, crying, and you are not fit to 
 be seen ; though, indeed, we might all have been 
 crying if we had not felt that it would never do 
 to give way. When you think," said Jean, sit- 
 ting back majestically, with her feet upon the 
 second chair, "of all that has happened since we 
 came here, and that nobody can tell whether we 
 will ever meet under this old roof again !" 
 
 "Let us hope that Margaret will come back 
 often; and I am sure she will always find her 
 brother's house a home," said Lady Leslie, still 
 holding her hand and patting her shoulder kind- 
 ly. All these words came into her mind in a 
 confusion which prevented her from realizing 
 what they meant. She saw Jean shake her 
 head, and demand sadly how that could be, if 
 Ludovic were to sell the house, as he had just 
 been saying? But even this extraordinary sug- 
 gestion did not wake Margaret's preoccupied 
 mind. They all said "Hush!" looking at her. 
 It was supposed among them that the only one 
 who would really suffer by the sale of Earl's- 
 hall was Margaret, and that to hear of the idea 
 would be more than she could bear. But in her 
 confused condition she took no notice of any- 
 thing. She did not seem to care for Earl's-hall, 
 or for the family trouble, or for anything in the 
 world except this strange thing which absorbed 
 her, and which none of them knew. The lamps 
 and the circle of faces were like a phantasmago- 
 ria before her eyes, a wreath of white sparks in 
 the darkness, all pale, all indistinct against the 
 dim background. Randal only became a little 
 more real to her by dint of what seemed to her 
 the reproachful look he gave her. She thought 
 it was a reproachful look. He had seen her out- 
 
I 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 103 
 
 of-doors, though he had not taken any notice of 
 her. She remembered now that he had not even 
 showed her the civility of taking oft' his hat. 
 
 "He has no respect for me any more," Mar- 
 garet said to herself; and this thought went deep, 
 with a pang, to her very heart. 
 
 Bell was waiting for her in her room, where 
 already her boxes were packed, and most of her 
 preparations made ; and poor Margaret, her mind 
 all confused with a sense that what was supposed 
 to occupy and engross her was scarcely in her 
 thoughts at all, gave herself up into the old wom- 
 an's hard yet tender hands, as passive as a child, 
 with all the ease that perfect confidence gives. 
 She was not afraid of Bell, nor did she feel the 
 guilt of keeping from her that uncomfortable se- 
 cret which was no happiness to her, poor child, 
 and which she would so gladly have pushed aside 
 from her own mind had it been possible. " Eh, 
 1 wonder if onybody will ever take the pride in 
 it that I have done," Bell said, taking down her 
 young mistress's hair, and letting it fall in long, 
 soft undulation of silky brown over her hands. 
 She turned her head away while she brushed, 
 that no tear might drop upon it. "Na, nae- 
 body will take the same pride in it as me : for 
 I've been a' ye've had to bring ye up from a bairn, 
 my bonnie, bonnie darlin' : and nae ither woman 
 can ever be that. It's like taking the heart out 
 o' my breast to see you turn your back on Earl's- 
 hall." 
 
 The same words had been said to her not very 
 long before, and in a way which ought to have 
 touched her more deeply. Margaret trembled a 
 little with the recollection. "But I will come 
 back again, Bell, and see yon," she said, with a 
 far more ready response. She pulled down the 
 old woman's arms about her neck, and clung to 
 her. "Oh, I will come back!" she cried; "Bell, 
 there will never be anybody in the world like 
 you. " 
 
 "You maunna say that, my bonnie lamb. 
 Many, many there are in the world better worth 
 thinking upon than the like o' me. I am no sae 
 selfish a creature as that ; bnt you'll keep a cor- 
 ner for your old Bell, Miss Margret, ay, and 
 auld John too. He's just speechless with greet- 
 in': but he canna yield to shed a tear — and a 
 temper like the auld enemy himsel'. But it's no 
 temper, it's his heart that's breaking. You'll no 
 forget the auld man ? and whiles ye'll write us a 
 word to say you're well and happy, and getting 
 up your heart?" 
 
 "How will I ever get up my heart," cried 
 Margaret, "in a strange place, with nobody, no- 
 body — not one that cares for me ?" 
 
 "Whisht, whisht, my darling! You'll find 
 plenty that will care for you — maybe ower many, 
 my bonnie doo — for you'll be a rich lady and 
 have a grand house, far finer than puir Earl's- 
 ha'. And oh, Miss Margret, above a' take you 
 great care wha you set your heart on. There's 
 some that are fair to see and little good at the 
 heart, and a young creature is easy deceived. 
 You mustna go by looks, and you mustna let 
 your heart be tangled with the first that comes. 
 Eh, if Sir Ludovic had but lived a little longer, 
 and gotten you a good man afore he slippit 
 away ! " 
 
 Margaret was silenced, and could not say a 
 word. If he bad known this, what would he 
 have thought of it? Would he have handed his 
 
 little Peggy over to the first that came? Would 
 he have chosen for her, and made this confusing 
 harassing bondage into something legitimate and 
 holy? Margaret received the thought of that 
 possibility with a gasp, not of wishing, but of 
 terror. It seemed to her as if she had escaped 
 something from which there could have been no 
 escape. 
 
 "But that's far from your thoughts as yet," 
 said Bell, "and it's no me that will trouble your 
 bonnie head with the like o' that before the time ; 
 and the ladies will take great care — I'm no feared 
 but what they will take great care. They will 
 keep poor lads away, and poor lads are aye the 
 maist danger. Here I'm just doing what I said 
 I wouldna do ! But eh, we're silly folk ; we 
 canna see how the bairns are to be guided that 
 gang from us : as if God would bide in Fife as 
 well as the like o' me : as if he wasna aye there 
 to baud my darlin' by the hand !" 
 
 Bell paused to dry her eyes, and to twist in a 
 knot for the night the long locks of the pretty 
 hair in which nobody again would ever take so 
 much pride. 
 
 "And, Miss Margret," she said, "you'll no 
 let some light-headed thing of a maid tear thae 
 bonnie locks out o' your head with her curlings 
 and frizzings? Sir Ludovic couldna endure 
 them. He would aye have it like silk, shining 
 in the sun. He never could bide to see it neg»- 
 lected. The ladies even, though they're no so 
 young as they once were, did you ever see such 
 heads? But yours is as God made it, and as 
 bonnie as a flower. And you'll aye mind your 
 duty, my bonnie darlin', and your prayers, and 
 remember your Creator in the days o' your youth. 
 And dinna think ower muckle about your dress- 
 es, nor about lads. That will come in its time. 
 I'm just beginning again, though I said I wouldna 
 do it ! But oh, to think it's the last night, and 
 I'll never put you to your bed again, nor gie you 
 good advice, nor keep you from the cauld, nor 
 take it upon me to find fault with my bonnie 
 young lady ! I canna tell what will be the use 
 of me mair when my bonnie bird flies away." 
 
 "Oh, Bell, I will come back; I will come 
 back!" 
 
 "Ay, you'll come back, my darlin' bairn ; but 
 if you come a hundred times, and a hundred to 
 that, you'll never be the same, Miss Margret. 
 The Lord bless you, my bonnie lamb — but you'll 
 never be the same." 
 
 Whether this was a very good preparation for 
 the long night's rest which Mrs. Belhngham 
 thought necessary for travellers, may perhaps be 
 doubted. But Margaret soon cried herself to 
 sleep when Bell withdrew. She was too much 
 exhausted with excitement to be further excited, 
 and this gentle chapter of domestic life, the re- 
 turn of the faces and voices, and looks and feel- 
 ings familiar to her, gave some comfort to the 
 girl's overworn brain. They interfered between 
 her and that strange scene in the farm-house. 
 They formed a new event, a something which 
 had happened since, to soften to her the trouble 
 and commotion of that strange interruption of 
 her life. She slept, and woke in the morning 
 with a sense of relief which at first she could 
 scarcely account for. What was it of comfort 
 and amelioration that had happened to her ? 
 Was it all a dream that her father was dead, 
 that her youthful existence was closed ? No, it 
 
104 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 was that she was going away. Margaret shud- 
 dered and trembled with wonder to think that it 
 was possible this could be a relief to her. But 
 yet it was so. She could not doubt it, she 
 could not deny it to herself. When she ought 
 to have been broken-hearted, she was glad. To 
 go away, to escape from all that was so secret 
 and so strange was so much a comfort to her, 
 that she had almost forgotten that she was leav- 
 ing home at the same time, going out upon a 
 strange and unrealized existence, leaving the 
 friends of her infancy, the house she was born 
 in, all the familiar circumstances of her life, and 
 her father's grave, where he had been laid so 
 lately. 
 
 Margaret felt vaguely with her mind that all 
 these farewells ought to have broken her heart, 
 and she shed a few tears because Bell did so, 
 because old John, speechless and lowering like 
 a thunder-cloud, turned his back upon her and 
 could not say good-bye. John had tossed her 
 trunks on to the cart with the rest with absolute 
 violence, as if he would have liked to break them 
 to pieces ; his face was dark with woe which wore 
 the semblance of wrath. He turned his back upon 
 her when she went to shake hands with him, 
 and Margaret turned from the door of the old 
 gray house with tears dropping like rain, but oh ! 
 for her hard heart! with an unreasonable, un- 
 feeling sensation of relief, glad to get away from 
 EaiTs-hall and Rob Glen, and all that might 
 follow. They thought it was perhaps the socie- 
 ty of Effie which had " made it so much easier" 
 for her ; and Mrs. Bellingham congratulated her- 
 self on her own discrimination in having thus 
 pleased Ludovic and consoled Margaret. 
 
 Dr. Burnside and his wife, who came to the 
 railway to see the party off", applauded her ten- 
 derly, and bade God bless her for a brave girl 
 who was bearing her burden as a Christian 
 ought. Did Randal know better what it was 
 that supported her, and made even the sight of 
 the grave, high up upon the mound, a possible 
 thing to bear? Did he know why it was that 
 she went away almost eagerly, glad to be free? 
 She gave him a wistful, inquiring look, as he 
 stood by himself a little apart, looking at the 
 group with serious eves. Randal was the last 
 to divine what her real feelings were, but how 
 could Margaret tell this ? He thought she was 
 calmed and stilled by the consciousness of a new 
 bond formed, and a new love that was her own, 
 and was grieved for her, feeling all the vexa- 
 tions she must encounter before this love could 
 be acknowledged, and doubting in his heart 
 whether Rob Glen, he who could press his suit 
 at such a moment and keep his secret, was a 
 lover worth acknowledging. But Randal had 
 no right to interfere. He looked at her with 
 pity in his eyes, and thought he understood, and 
 was very sorry, while she, looking at him wist- 
 fully, wondered, did not he know ? 
 
 Thus Margaret went away from her home and 
 her childhood, and from those bonds which she 
 had bound upon herself without understanding 
 them, and which still, without understanding, 
 she was afraid of and uneasy under. Sir Lu- 
 dovic and his wife left EaiTs-hall at the same 
 time to join their children in Edinburgh, and 
 there to make other calculations of all they 
 could, and all they could not, do. Perhaps 
 when they were at a distance, the problem would 
 
 seem less difficult. Earl's-hall was left silent 
 and solitary, standing up gray against the light, 
 the old windows wide open, the chambers all 
 empty, nobody stirring but Jeanie, who was put- 
 ting all things into the order and rigidness of 
 death. Bell, for her part, sat down-stairs in her 
 vaulted room, with her apron thrown over her 
 head ; and John had gone out, though it was 
 still morning, "to look at the pitawties," with a 
 lowering brow, but eyes that saw nothing through 
 the mist of unwilling tears. 
 
 That very night Rob Glen came back to his 
 seat under the silver fir, and gazed at the vacant 
 house with eager and restless eyes. He was 
 not serene, like his mother, but unhappy and 
 dissatisfied, and with a great doubt as to the 
 efficacy of all that had been done. Margaret 
 had mortified him to the heart, even in giving 
 him her promise. He was a man who had been 
 loved ; and to be thus accepted with reluctance 
 gave a stab to his pride which it was hard to 
 bear. And perhaps it was this sentiment which 
 brought him, angry and impatient and morti- 
 fied, back to the neighborhood of the house 
 from which his new love had just gone away, 
 but where, he could not but recollect, his old 
 love still was. Jeanie had gone about her 
 work all day with that arrow in her heart. She 
 had known very well what was coming, had 
 watched it even as it came, and sadly contem- 
 plated the transference to her young mistress of 
 all that had been so dear to herself. She had 
 followed the course of the story almost as dis- 
 tinctly as if she had been present at all their in- 
 terviews ; seeing something, for her turret had 
 glimpses of the wood, and guessing more, for 
 did not Jeanie know ? But yet to see them to- 
 gether had been for the moment more than 
 Jeanie could bear. It had seemed an insult to 
 her that Rob should come, leading her succes- 
 sor, to the very house in which she was ; and her 
 more charitable certainty that he did not know 
 of her presence there had gone out of her mind 
 in the sharpness of the shock. And when her 
 work was over, Jeanie too went out, with a nat- 
 ural impulse of misery, to the same spot where 
 she had seen them together. "No fear that 
 he'll come here the night," Jeanie said to her- 
 self, bitterly ; and lo ! before the thought had 
 been more than formed in her mind, Rob was 
 by her side. She gave a cry, and sprang from 
 him in anger ; but Rob was not the man to let 
 a girl fly from him over whom he had ancient 
 rights of wooing. His countenance was down- 
 cast enough before. He put into it a look of 
 contrition and melancholy patience now. 
 
 "Jeanie," he said, "will yon say nothing, 
 not a word of forgiveness, to an old friend ?" 
 
 "What can the like of me say that could be 
 pleasant?"' said Jeanie; "you're far ower grand 
 a gentleman, Maister Glen, to have anything to 
 say to the like of me." 
 
 " You know very well that yon are doing me 
 a great deal of injustice," he said, sadly; "but 
 I will not defend myself. If I had but known 
 that you were here — but I did not know." 
 
 "I never heard that you took much trouble 
 to ask," said Jeanie; "and wherefore should 
 you ? You were aye far above me. There was 
 a time when I was silly, and thought little of 
 that ; but I ken better now." 
 
 "I don't know that I am above anvbodv ; 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 105 
 
 there are many people that are ahove me," he 
 said, with a sigh, and a look of dreary vacancy 
 beyond her, which deeply provoked yet interest- 
 ed the girl in spite of herself. 
 
 "Ay," she said, "you will feel for other folk 
 now ; you will ken what it means now. But 
 I've naething to say to you, Maister Glen, and 
 I'm wishing ye nae harm. A's lang ended that 
 ever was between you and me." 
 
 "Are you sure of that, Jeanie?'' he said. 
 It was not in Rob's nature to let any one es- 
 cape from him upon whom he had ever had a 
 hold. 
 
 "Ay, I'm sure of it," she cried ; "and you 
 are but a leer and a deceiver if you dare speak 
 to me in that voice, after what I've seen with 
 my ain een — after the way I've seen ye with 
 Miss Margret! Oh, she's ower good for you, 
 ower innocent for one that hasna a true heart! 
 Last night, no further gane, I saw you here 
 with my bonnie young lady; and now, if I 
 would let you, that's how you would speak to 
 me." 
 
 "Jeanie," he said, "it's all just that you are 
 saying ; but how do you know how I was led to 
 it? You could not see that. She came out, in 
 her trouble, to cry here, and I was here when 
 she came. Could I see her cry and not try to 
 comfort her? I don't pretend to be strong, to 
 be able to resist temptation. I should have 
 thought of you, but you were not here ; I did 
 not know where you were. And she, poor 
 child, was in great need of some one to rest 
 upon, some one to console her. That was how 
 it came about. You know me. I did not for- 
 get you ; but she was there, and in want of 
 some one to be a comfort to her. I am confess- 
 ing to you like a Catholic to his priest ; for all 
 that you say there is nothing between us now." 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, "speak to me no more, 
 Rob Glen. I canna tell what's ill and what's 
 well, when you talk and talk, with that voice 
 that would wile a bird from the tree." 
 
 " Why do you find such fault with my voice ?" 
 he said, coming a little nearer. "It may be as 
 you say, Jeanie, that all is ended ; but, at least, 
 your good heart will do me justice. You were 
 away, and here was a poor young creature in 
 sore trouble. Say I've been foolish, say my life 
 has gone away from me into another's hands ; 
 but do not say that I forgot my Jeanie ; that I 
 never did — that I will never do." 
 
 "Oh, dinna speak to me!" cried the girl — 
 "dinna Speak to me! I'm neither your Jeanie, 
 nor I will not give an ear to anything you can 
 say. " 
 
 " Then I will wait till you change your mind," 
 he said ; and as she turned hastily toward the 
 house, Rob went with her, gentle as a woman, 
 respectful, with a sort of deprecation and melan- 
 choly softness. Perhaps she was right, he would 
 allow, with a soft tone of sorrow. Life might 
 be changed, the die was cast; but still it was 
 not in Rob's nature to let any one drop. He 
 talked to her with a tone of studious gentleness 
 and quiet. "At least we may be friends," he 
 said. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 The party of travellers went to Perth, and 
 from thence wandered among the hills and 
 woods, and by the wild and lonely glens, to 
 which that gate of the Highlands gives an en- 
 trance. It was all new to Margaret. In all her 
 life she had seen nothing more imposing than 
 the lion crest of Arthur's Seat, as seen across the 
 stately breadth of the Firth, the low twin heads 
 of the Lomonds, or, in the far distance among 
 the mists, the long withdrawing line of the 
 Grampians. When she saw these misty hills 
 nearer, when she watched the clouds at play 
 upon them, and counted the flying shadows, and 
 shared the instantaneous brightening of the sun- 
 glints, what wonder that Margaret felt her heart 
 rise in her breast notwithstanding all the trouble 
 there. She had not thought it possible that the 
 world could be so lovely. The weather was fine, 
 with now and then a rainy day, and the days 
 were still long, though midsummer was past. 
 
 Mrs. Bellingham and Miss Leslie were good 
 travellers. Given two comfortable places in a 
 carriage, and weather at all tolerable, and they 
 were ready to drive anywhere, and to go on 
 from morning to night. A bag fitted, with all 
 manner of conveniences, a novel, a piece of 
 knitting, and plenty of shawls, was all they de- 
 manded. Even when it rained they could make 
 themselves very comfortable in the hotels, find- 
 ing out who everybody was — and did not object 
 even to walking within limits. And they knew 
 about everything : which were the best routes, 
 and how much the carriages ought to cost in 
 which they preferred travelling ; for it did not 
 suit these ladies to go in coaches or other public 
 vehicles along with the raskal multitude — and 
 indeed, as it was still only July, the raskal mul- 
 titude had as yet scarcely started on its peregri- 
 nations. As soon as they felt that their crape 
 was safe under the shelter of large water-proofs 
 they were happy. Mrs. Bellingham took the 
 best seat with undaunted composure ; but Miss 
 Leslie thought it necessary to go through a good 
 many processes of explanation or apology before 
 she placed herself by her sister's side. 
 
 " Oh no ! I cannot think of always taking that 
 place: really T , Margaret, you must have it to- 
 day. You can see the view so much better. 
 Dearest Jean, do make dear Margaret take my 
 place. She sat all yesterday with her back to 
 the horses ; and I don't mind, not in the very 
 least. I would much rather sit with my back to 
 the horses. I never have been used to monopo- 
 lize the best place." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Grace, and get in," said 
 Mrs. Bellingham. " I suppose you mean that 
 I do — and I think, at my age, it is my place to 
 have the best seat. You are only wasting our 
 time, now that we really have a fine day. Now 
 this is very comfortable. It is the kind of thing 
 I always enjoy : a decent carriage, and horses 
 that are not bad — I have seen better, but we 
 might have a great deal worse — and two nice 
 girls opposite, and a gentleman at hand what- 
 ever happens, and as lovely a drive before us as 
 heart could desire. We will stop for lunch at 
 Kenmore, Aubrey; do you know Kenmore? It 
 is close to Taymouth, which is as beautiful a 
 place as any you could see. It always reminds 
 me of Windsor Castle, except that it lies low, 
 
106 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 nnd Windsor is on a li ill. We go by the side of 
 Loch Tay, which is a beautiful loch. Margaret ; 
 not so picturesque as some you will see farther 
 west, but beautiful for all that. Now, Grace, 
 the girls have settled themselves, and Aubrey is 
 on the box. Are we to wait for you all day ? 
 You always keep us waiting when every one is 
 ready to start." 
 
 "It is only because I wanted some one to 
 have this seat," said Miss Grace, anxiously. " I 
 have been this way before, and the dear girls 
 have not; or Aubrey, perhaps, dear Aubrey 
 would rather be here than on the box ? It would 
 be much more amusing for you all, dear Jean, 
 than to have me. Oh !" said the trembling lady, 
 as her more energetic sister dragged her in with 
 a grip of her arm, and the door was closed upon 
 her. She kept asking Margaret and Effie all the 
 day to change places with her, and kept the par- 
 ty in a fidget; "for, you see, I have been this 
 way before," she said. It was a bright day, and 
 Loch Tay lay before them, a sheet of light, be- 
 tween pale and golden, its fringe of trees wet 
 with past rain, and big Ben Lawers rising huge 
 into the blue air. 
 
 Margaret felt that she had to make an effort 
 to retain .the sadness that she had kept round her 
 like a mantle. How could she laugh ? how could 
 she let them talk, and chime in with irrestrain- 
 able reply and remark, when only such a little 
 while ago — not yet a month ago ? — she said to 
 herself. But when things had come so far as 
 this, it was not to be supposed that the little veil 
 of natural sentiment could keep her eyes always 
 drooping. Her face began to glow again, to 
 change from white to red, and back into that 
 delicate paleness which was habitual to her. The 
 clouds and the mists cleared away from her brown 
 eyes. The scent of the young birches, the plash 
 of the water on the shore, the soft shower of rain- 
 drops now and then shaken out over their heads 
 by some mischievous breeze as they passed ; the 
 atmosphere so heavenly clear, the sun so gay and 
 friendly, beguiled her out of her trouble. 
 
 In grief, as in sickness, there is a moment 
 when the burden is sensibly lightened, the bonds 
 relax for the first time. This moment came to 
 Margaret now. She was terrified to feel how 
 light her heart was, and what an involuntary 
 glow of exhilaration had come over her. Noth- 
 ing had happened to make her glad. She was 
 only rising again, in spite of herself, into the 
 beauty of the common day, into the light and 
 brightness of her youth. "And indeed, but for 
 the sense that she ought not to be happy, Mar- 
 garet might well have felt the well-being of the 
 moment enough for her. The fresh air, and the 
 pleasant progress, and all the beautiful sights 
 around her, were brightened by Effie's bright 
 countenance, full of smiles and delight, and by 
 the other companion on the box, who leaned over 
 them to shower down a flood of comments upon 
 everything — comments which were generally 
 amusing enough, and often witty to Margaret's 
 simple ears. And even the self-contented com- 
 fort of Jean, sitting well back in her corner, with 
 her eau-de-cologne, her purse, her little paper- 
 knife, her novel lest the drive should get dull, 
 and Miss Grace's anxious regret to have the best 
 side, and desire that some one would "change 
 seats with her," were full of fun, full of amuse- 
 ment to the inexperienced girl. Nature betrav- 
 
 ed her into laughter now and then, into smiles 
 between times. 
 
 It was only a month yet, not quite a month, 
 since old Sir Ludovic died ; but was it Marga- 
 ret's fault that she was only eighteen ? These 
 four weeks had lasted the length of generations. 
 Now they were creeping into their natural length 
 again, into mornings and evenings, soft and swift 
 as the passage of the clouds. And the country 
 was so fresh and sweet, and all the world so 
 amusing in its varied humors. Her heart came 
 back again into renewed life, with a little thrill 
 and tremor of unconscious yet half-guilty pleas- 
 ure. She could not be churlish enough to close 
 herself up against all the seductions of nature 
 and gentle persuasions of her youth. 
 
 Killin was one of the places where the party 
 had arranged to stay, or, rather, where Mrs. 
 Bellingham had arranged to stay. To have one 
 person with a decided will and taste, and all the 
 rest obedient in natural subjection or good-hu- 
 mored ease, is the grand necessity for such an 
 expedition. Mrs. Bellingham fulfilled all these 
 requirements. She knew what she herself liked, 
 and was very well disposed to make other peo- 
 ple accept that, as the standard of beaut}'. And 
 luckily Jean had been on Loch Tay before, and 
 had arbitrarily decided, like a despot of intelli- 
 gence, that on Loch Tay Killin was the place to 
 stay. She sat up in her carriage with a pleased 
 importance as they drove in through the homely 
 cottages, thatched, and tiled, and mossy, through 
 the genial odor of peat in the blue air, past the 
 swift flowing of the brown golden stream which 
 winds its way into the loch round that island 
 where the dead Campbells have their mansion 
 as lordly as Taymouth, and how much more safe 
 and sweet. Jean sat up in her place with a 
 pleased relaxation of her countenance as the car- 
 riage drove round to the inn-door where Steward, 
 her maid, who had gone by the coach with all 
 the boxes of the party, stood in attendance be- 
 hind the smiling landlord, but heading the home- 
 ly waiters and chamber-maids. Steward knew 
 her place. To be mistress of a Highland inn 
 would not at all have displeased her; but she 
 knew very well that she was of a different and 
 higher order of being from those smiling High- 
 land maids with their doubtful English, and the 
 anxious waiter who had so many parties to look 
 after, and lost his wits now and then when the 
 coach was crowded. A party taking so many 
 rooms, and not illiberal in their way, though 
 Mrs. Bellingham looked sharply after the bills, 
 gave importance to everybody connected with 
 them. 
 
 " Yon got my letter, Mr. MacGillivray ?"' said 
 Mrs. Bellingham. 
 
 "Ay, my leddy; oh, ay, my leddy ; and I 
 hope ye'll find everything to your satisfaction," 
 said the landlord, opening the door with anxious 
 obsequiousness, as if Jean had been the Queen 
 herself, Miss Leslie could not but remark. It 
 was a pleasant moment. The sun was declin- 
 ing westward ; the roar of the waterfall above 
 the bridge came fitfully upon the air; the rush 
 of the nearer stream sounded clear and close at 
 hand ; the cottage children ran in picturesque 
 little russet groups to gaze at the new-comers. 
 On the other hand, Ben Lawers, clumsy but 
 grand, heaved upward against the sky and cut 
 its arch in two. The trees filled in all the crev- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 107 
 
 ices about, and in the distance Glen Dochart 
 glimmered far away, opening up between the 
 hills a golden path into the west. 
 
 "Make haste, children," said Mrs. Belling- 
 ham, "for we will have to dine at the table- 
 d'hote ; and that I know by experience waits for 
 nobody, and a very funny business it is. But 
 it's a great pity we're a month too early, and 
 you'll get no grouse." 
 
 "That is a mistako indeed," said Aubrey; 
 " but, after all, we are only a fortnight too early, 
 and the time may come when we shall have bet- 
 ter luck." 
 
 "And oh, darling Margaret," said Miss Leslie, 
 "I have had such a beautiful view! I am so 
 sorry, I cannot tell you how sorry, I am that 
 neither you nor dear Effie would take my seat!" 
 
 It had been a most successful day, with no 
 clang or bustle of railways, but only the horses' 
 measured trot ; the roll of the wheels ; the flash 
 of the sunshiny loch; the honest Highland sun- 
 shine, sweet as heavenly light can be, but never 
 scorching, only kindly warming, cheering, smil- 
 ing, upon the wayfarer. And now it was very 
 pleasant to see the friendly people at their doors : 
 the Highland maids, happy to please you, with 
 their kind voices and looks of friendly interest; 
 the waiter, bothered to death, poor man, but 
 anxious, too, that you should eat and show an 
 appetite. Nowhere else is there such homely in- 
 terest in the chance guest. Perhaps the bill is 
 a trifle high : is it a trifle high ? Not any high- 
 er than in England, though perhaps just a little 
 more than in the big, inhuman Swiss caravansary 
 where all the Cockney world is crowding. There 
 are caravansaries in the Highlands too, but not 
 at Killin. There, still, the maids smile kindly, 
 and cannot bide that you should not be happy ; 
 and the waiter (though drawn three ways at the 
 same moment) is troubled if you do not "enjoy 
 your dinner." And the peat smoke rises in 
 aromatic wreaths into the clear blue air, and 
 the river flows golden in the sunshine, but above 
 the bridge tumbles in foaming cataracts ; and 
 broad and large, with a homely magnificence, 
 the loch spreads out its waters under the sun or 
 moon. 
 
 After the meal, grandly entitled a table-d'hote, 
 to which our party sat down in friendly conjunc- 
 tion with a stranger pair, whom Mrs. Bellingham 
 was very condescending to, and whom it was 
 odd not to know intimately, as they did to each 
 other all the honors of the family dinner, Jean 
 retired to the most comfortable room, where 
 Steward brought her writing things, and her 
 books and knitting. "I will put up my feet a 
 little," she said, "but I advise the rest of you to 
 go out for a walk. You should never lose a fine 
 evening in the Highlands, Aubrey, for you nev- 
 er know what to-morrow may be. I know the 
 place as well as I know my Bible. Go up to 
 the bridge and look at the water-fall, for it is 
 considered very fine; and there is a man, where 
 the boats lie, who sells Scotch pearls ; you can 
 tell him to bring them up to show us after you 
 come in again. But go out and take a walk 
 first, and get the good of the fine evening. I 
 will just put up my feet." 
 
 "And, dearest Jean, as Aubrey is a kind of 
 cousin— or perhaps it is a kind of nephew — to 
 darling Margaret, don't you think I may stay 
 with you? for it would be very selfish of me", 
 
 dear Eflie, and dear Margaret, to leave dearest 
 Aunt Jean alone." 
 
 The younger people strayed out without wait- 
 ing for the conclusion of the controversy which 
 was thus opened between the ladies; for Mrs. 
 Bellingham was quite able to dispense with her 
 sister's society, though kind Miss Grace, with 
 many a whisper behind her back, declared that 
 she did not at all mind, but that it would never 
 do to leave dear Jean alone. They went out 
 discussing their own curious relationships with a 
 great deal of natural amusement; for there was 
 no doubt that Effie at seventeen and a half was 
 the unquestionable niece of Margaret, who had 
 not yet arrived at her eighteenth birthday. 
 "And as Miss Leslie is my aunt Grace, it is un- 
 questionable that Miss Margaret Leslie must be 
 my aunt Margaret, most venerable of titles," 
 said Aubrey, taking off his hat and making her 
 a reverential bow. He protested that no Chris- 
 tian name could be added to the title of aunt 
 which could produce so profound an impression 
 of age and awe. Aunt Grace might sound skit- 
 tish and youthful, and Aunt Jean be no more 
 than matronly; but nothing less than a white- 
 haired grandmother could do justice (they all 
 allowed) to the name of Aunt Margaret. Effie, 
 who was a great novel -reader, reckoned upon 
 her fingers how many there were to be found in 
 books. 
 
 Thus discussing, they went lightly along 
 through the soft Highland evening all scented 
 with the peat. The sky was still blue and clear, 
 but in the village street it was almost dark, glim- 
 mers of the never-extinguished fires shining cheer- 
 fully from the cottage-windows, and the few pas- 
 sengers about looking at each other with pucker- 
 ed eyelids, "as an old tailor looks at the eye of 
 his needle," according to Dante. Some one con- 
 templating them thus, with contracted pupils and 
 projected head, attracted the notice of the girls 
 as they went along, in a little pause after their 
 laughter — some one with a fishing-basket over 
 his shoulder — and came to a sudden pause be- 
 fore them. 
 
 "Randal Burnside!" Margaret cried, with a 
 little start. And Randal made a very elaborate 
 explanation as to how he had been under an old 
 engagement to come here to fish, and how much 
 surprised he was to see them arriving whom he 
 bad parted from only about ten days before. 
 
 " I could not believe my eyes," he said. 
 
 Why should not he believe his eyes? Mrs. 
 Bellingham, when told of this explanation, de- 
 clared indignantly that she had herself told him 
 of her intention to stay a few days at Killin. 
 
 "What should he be surprised at?" she ask- 
 ed ; but this was a question to which nobody 
 could reply. 
 
 He turned with them, as was natural, and 
 they all continued their walk together. There 
 were no lamps nor other worldly vulgarities in 
 Killin ; there was no railway even, in those days, 
 invading the silence of the hills — nothing but the 
 cottages, low, homely places, in pleasant tones 
 of gray, and red, and brown, with soft blue pen- 
 nons of the aromatic peat-reek floating over them. 
 and clouds of white convolvulus threaded up and 
 down their homely walls — and the big shadows 
 of the hills forming the background, or, when you 
 reached higher ground, the silver brightness of 
 the loch. And how quiet it was! the distant 
 
10S 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 roar of the wild water only heightening, as with 
 a great abstract voice of nature, taking no note 
 of humanity, the tranquillity and softened dim- 
 ness of the village. The little group took in the 
 stranger and increased itself, then unconsciously 
 sundered and formed into two and two. 
 
 Was it not the merest accident that the two 
 in advance were merry Effie and the gay Eng- 
 lishman, and the two behind ltandal and Mar- 
 garet? Nothing could have been more natural. 
 But Margaret's hesitating laughter was quench- 
 ed henceforward. She was half ashamed of it, 
 as not befitting her orphanhood and her black 
 dress : and then she could not but think of the 
 other evening, not so very long ago, when Ran- 
 dal's appearance had startled her before : the 
 time when he had not taken any notice, not even 
 taken off his hat. Margaret had never got over 
 the humiliation of that greeting withheld. He 
 had seen her, for she had heard him say so : but 
 then and there, she felt, Randal must have lost 
 his respect for her — Randal, who had known her 
 all her life. Even in the excitement of the mo- 
 ment this had given Margaret a wound ; and she 
 had not got over it, though that evening had so 
 many recollections that were painful to her. Two 
 or three times now in the soft gloom, as they 
 walked along side by side, she raised her head 
 and gave him a furtive, timid glance, with the 
 words on her lips, "Why did you take no no- 
 tice that night?" But though her mind was full 
 of it, she had not the courage to ask the ques- 
 tion. Effie and Aubrey went on before, their 
 voices sounding softly through the night; but 
 Randal did not say very much, and Margaret 
 nothing at all. The spell of the momentary 
 gayety was broken. A little moisture even stole 
 into her eyes under cover of the night ; and yet 
 she was not unhappy, if only she could have had 
 the courage to ask why it was that he " took no 
 notice." They went as far as the bridge and 
 stood there, looking at the torrent as it foamed 
 down, leaping and dashing in white clouds over 
 the rocks. 
 
 Margaret had never seen such a scene ; even 
 the brawling cataracts of the Tummel and Gar- 
 ry, which had been her first experience of the 
 kind, were not like this. In the midst of the 
 wild commotion a knot of stately firs held them- 
 selves aloof, intrenched in a citadel of rock amidst 
 all the rage of the torrents, the wild water raging 
 on every side, but the tree-island, coldly proud, 
 scarcely owning, by a quiver of its leaflets, the 
 influence of so much passion roused. Randal 
 said something to her as he stood by her, but 
 she could not hear a syllable. She looked up at 
 him and shook her head, and he smiled. Some- 
 how he did not look (though it was so dark that 
 6he could scarcely see) as if he had lost his re- 
 spect for her, after all. 
 
 "What a row," said Aubrey, as they came 
 away, "for such a cupful of water! If it had 
 been Niagara, there might have been some ex- 
 cuse." 
 
 "That is just like the Highlands," said Ran- 
 dal, with that partial offence which always moves 
 a Scotsman when it is suggested by any imper- 
 tinent stranger that his country is not the equal 
 in every respect of every other country under the 
 sun. "It is not Niagara, and Ben Lawers is 
 not Mont Blanc; but they impose upon us all 
 the same." 
 
 " Hush !" said Margaret ; "don't talk; one is 
 enough." What she said was not very intelligi- 
 ble, but, indeed, the one voice was enough in the 
 air. It seemed to her to declaim some great 
 poem, some wild chant, like a sublime Ossian. 
 The others went chattering on before, delighted 
 with themselves and their jokes. And when the 
 rush of the wild stream had sunk into a murmur, 
 Margaret herself began again to wonder. ' ' Why 
 did he take no notice that night?" 
 
 Next day. Randal joined them quite early. It 
 was not a good day for fishing, he said. It was 
 too bright. Besides, if they were only going to 
 stay a day or two, he could make up for his idle- 
 ness afterward. He had got a boat ready, and 
 was bent on taking the ladies to Einlarig, and 
 afterward upon the loch. 
 
 " Of course, we are going to Einlarig, Ran- 
 dal," said Mrs. Bellingham. "Do you think I 
 have never been here before ? Good-morning, 
 Duncan Macgregor. Have you any of your 
 pearls to-day ? Oh yes ! I should like to look 
 at them. The little ones are beautiful, but the 
 big ones are too milky. I like the small size 
 best. You can come up and see us after dinner 
 to-night, and bring them with you. Duncan 
 and I are old friends. Many a pearl I have got 
 from him, and had them set afterward at San- 
 derson's, in Princes Street. I invented the set- 
 ting myself, and it was very much admired — 
 just a gold thread twisted round them. Marga- 
 ret, you don't wear any rings. I must have one 
 made for you. Duncan Macgregor had much 
 better come with us, Randal. I have no confi- 
 dence in gentlemen rowers. You will go off 
 with the girls as soon as we get to Einlarig, and 
 then where shall we be ?"' 
 
 " You will have your devoted nephew, Aunt 
 Jean. My aunts are the aim and object of my 
 life. I never think of anything else, sleeping or 
 waking. How can you talk of being left alone 
 so long as you have me ?" 
 
 "I prefer Duncan Macgregor," said Aunt 
 Jean ; "and as for your aunts, as you call them, 
 you have only one. And I don't want to see 
 you pushed out of your place by that lad, Ran- 
 dal Burnside," she added, in a whisper. "Just 
 you keep your eyes upon him, Aubrey. I can't 
 think what business he has here." 
 
 Mrs. Bellingham's prophecy was so far ful- 
 filled that the young men and the girls did some- 
 how, as is their use and wont, manage to sepa- 
 rate themselves from their elder companions, 
 one of whom, at least, had every desire to fur- 
 ther this separation. It was Randal who was 
 the cicerone of the party, and who led them 
 through the winding path to that secluded, shel- 
 tered palace of peace where the dead Campbells 
 rest. They were not thinking much about the 
 Campbells. Who, indeed, thinks of the silent 
 occupants, be they Pharaohs, be they Highland 
 caterans, of those still dwellings of the dead ? 
 The Campbells lie in lordly guardianship of 
 their loch and their trees, with their clan within 
 call, and their castle scarcely out of hearing, and 
 all kinds of Highland bravery — honeysuckles and 
 wild roses in the summer, barberries and rowans 
 in the autumn, flaunting upon the half- ruined 
 wall that surrounds their tomb. 
 
 The young people strayed that way — two of 
 them full of talk and laughter, two of them quiet 
 enough. Why it was that Effie and Aubrey fell 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 100 
 
 together it would be difficult (yet not very diffi- 
 cult) to say ; but the reason why Margaret 
 stayed her steps for those of Randal was easy 
 enough. She wanted, constantly wanted, to ask 
 him why he took no notioe that night. For this 
 reason she lingered while the others went on, 
 looking at him now and then with a shy, eager 
 look, which at once puzzled the young man, and 
 filled his heart with a dangerous interest. She 
 wanted to ask him something — what was it she 
 wanted to ask him? Randal was on his guard, 
 lie felt. He had been warned effectually enough. 
 Margaret was not for him. Even if he had 
 wanted her (which he did not, he said to him- 
 self with a little indignation), was not he fore- 
 stalled ? Had not her heart been caught in its 
 first flight? He might be sorry, but that did 
 not matter much : the deed was done. And he 
 was fully warned, completely forestalled, even if 
 he had wished for anything else. But what was 
 it she wanted to say ? Probably, in the inno- 
 cence of her heart, something about that fellow, 
 for whom, poor thing, she must fancy — she who 
 knew nobody, because she loved him — that every 
 one cared. 
 
 They came at last to a little sheltered glade 
 close to the little river, with its golden brown 
 water. There was a beautiful barberry growing 
 in a comer, which Margaret had caught sight 
 of. She wanted a branch of it to put in her 
 hat, she said — until she remembered that her 
 hat was covered with crape. But Randal was 
 cutting the scarlet grapes before that evident in- 
 congruity had occurred to her. She sat alone 
 upon a bit of the broken wall close by, among 
 ferns and ivy, and watched him. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I am so sorry I have given 
 you the trouble. I forgot that it was crape I 
 was wearing. It is very strange that one should 
 ever be able to forget." 
 
 " But you are — by moments." 
 
 "Yes; it shows how little one knows. I 
 thought I would die." 
 
 " But that could not be," said Randal, kindly. 
 " The world would come to an end very quickly 
 if grief killed ; but it does not, even the most 
 terrible." 
 
 "And you will think mine was not like that," 
 said Margaret. " But I do not forget him ! oh, 
 I do not forget him ! only — I do not know how 
 it is — my mind will not keep to one thing. I 
 suppose," she said, with a deep sigh, "it is be- 
 cause I have not very much mind at all." 
 
 " Nay, you accuse yourself unjustly," he said, 
 with a half smile; "after the shock of a great 
 event, a great trouble, there comes a time of 
 quiet — " 
 
 "Oh!" she said, finding herself, by no doing 
 of hers, brought to the point she desired, and 
 turning to him with a sudden start, "Randal, I 
 would like to tell you something. I thought I 
 should have told them all that night when I 
 came in, but I had not the courage." 
 
 "What is it?" Randal threw a twig of his 
 barberries into the stream and watched it carried 
 along, tossing on the swift current. She was 
 going to speak to him of her love, the poor child ; 
 and his heart revolted against such a confidence. 
 He could not look at her. Girls receive the con- 
 fidences of men with interest, but it is very sel- 
 dom indeed that a young man plays the same 
 part to a girl. 
 
 " When I came in that night you all thought 
 my heart was breaking because I was going 
 away, and I did not dare to say otherwise. But 
 oh, Randal! it was not that!" 
 
 " I understand. " He threw in another branch 
 of the barberries and watched it intently, turn- 
 ing his head away from her. " It was another 
 kind of parting that made you cry ; you were 
 thinking of — " 
 
 "Oh, I was thinking — how glad, how glad I 
 would be just to get away, only to get away !" 
 
 "Margaret!" he turned round and looked at 
 her quickly now. She was not embarrassed nor 
 blushing, as if the words could bear some hap- 
 pier meaning, but quite pale and serious, looking 
 at the water as he had been doing. Though he 
 had known her all her life, he had of late given 
 up calling her by her Christian name. It was 
 the surprise that forced it from his lips. 
 
 "It sounds like wickedness," she said, fer- 
 vently. " I can see that, but I do not mean any 
 ill. I could not help it; things had been so 
 strange. How could I help trembling and cry- 
 ing? All had gone wrong, some way. And 
 oh, I was glad, so glad to get away, to be free ! 
 But if I had said so you would all have thought 
 me — I don't know what you would have thought 
 me. But it came into my head that perhaps 
 you guessed my true meaning, and thought it 
 was a lie I was telling, and had no more respect 
 for me." 
 
 "Respect for you! That is not the word I 
 would have used, Margaret. I have always — 
 liked you — taken an interest in you ever since 
 you were a little baby. How could I lose what 
 you call respect?" 
 
 "But you looked like it, Randal. Why did 
 you pass me in the gloaming and never say a 
 word, nor even nod your head, or take off your 
 hat ?" 
 
 "Margaret!" he cried, in great confusion, "I 
 — I thought you did not want to be recognized. 
 I — thought you would like to think I had not 
 seen you — I thought — " 
 
 "How could I do that?" said Margaret, seri- 
 ously; "for that could not have been true. I 
 have wondered ever since if you thought me — a 
 — a — bad girl, Randal ? Oh ! I think I have no 
 heart ! I can laugh, though papa has only been 
 gone a month. I — almost — forget sometimes 
 that I am so unhappy ; but I am not a bad girl, 
 Randal. You might always take off your hat 
 to me. You need not think shame to speak to 
 me — " 
 
 "Margaret, for Heaven's sake! who could 
 have imagined you would take it so? I thought 
 you had some one with you whom you cared 
 for more than any one else, and that you would 
 rather I took no notice. I did not think I had 
 any right to interfere between him and you." 
 
 "No," said Margaret, with a deep sigh, "I 
 suppose nobody could do that;" and after a 
 pause she resumed, half smiling — "But you 
 should not look as if you thought shame of your 
 friends, Randal ; you should take off your hat, 
 even when a girl is not very wise. 1 thought 
 you had no respect for me after that night." 
 
 Margaret pronounced the word icise as if it 
 had been written wice, which the reader who is 
 Scotch will be aware is a word with a quite dis- 
 tinct meaning of its own ; a girl who is not wise 
 means a girl who is wildly silly, without any 
 
110 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 gense — perhaps with not all her wits about her. 
 What would Sir Ludovic have thought had he 
 heard a speech so outrageously Scotch from his 
 little Peggy? How he would have smiled, how 
 he would have scolded! Randal remembered 
 the old man's amused reproofs ; but his heart 
 was too much troubled to permit him to smile. 
 And the inference that lay in Margaret's words 
 was more than his intelligence could fathom. 
 He was thrown into the wildest commotion of 
 curiosity, anxiety, and wonder. Was it possible 
 that there was no love, after all, between her and 
 Rob Glen? or what did her joy in escaping, her 
 sigh at the thought that no one could interfere, 
 mean ? He answered her at last in a strain 
 quite confused and wide of the purpose, like a 
 man in a dream. 
 
 "If I should ever be able to do anything for 
 you, to be of any use to you, Margaret, will you 
 send for me ? will you let me know ? Whatever 
 it may be, and wherever I may be," he cried, in 
 his confusion, "if you ever tell me you want me, 
 I will come to you if I am at the end of the 
 world!" 
 
 She looked up at him with faint surprise, yet 
 gratitude. "Yes, Randal," she said; "now I 
 know that you have not lost your respect for me. 
 But how should I ever want anything?" she add- 
 ed, with a smile ; " there is Jean always to take 
 care of me, you know." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Mrs. Bellingham did not stay long at Killin. 
 How it came about could never be discovered ; 
 but wherever the party went, in whatsoever ad- 
 mirable order they set out, it was discovered on 
 their return that Aubrey was somehow at the 
 side, not of Margaret, but of Effie Leslie. His 
 aunt took him severely to task when this dere- 
 liction from all the rules of duty had been made 
 evident by the experience of several successive 
 days. Aubrey did not deny or defy his aunt's 
 lawful authority. "It is all that fellow," he 
 said, "continually poking in before me, wher- 
 ever we go, with his Margaret, Margaret! as if 
 she belonged to him. I hate these men who 
 have known a nice girl from the time she was 
 that high. They are always in the way." 
 
 "And do you really allow yourself to be put 
 off your plans so easily — you, Aubrey, a man of 
 the world ? If I were you, 1 would soon let Mr. 
 Randal Barnside find his proper place. Let him 
 take care of Effie. Effie would do for him very 
 well. She is the second daughter, and they are 
 not very rich, and her sister has made but a 
 poorish sort of marriage. Effie might do worse 
 than put up with Randal Burnside. It would 
 be doing them all a good turn if you would be 
 firm, Aubrey, and insist on doing what we all 
 wish." 
 
 "Surely," said Aubrey, "nothing can be 
 more easy. I hope I know as well as anybody 
 how to keep a presuming fellow in his right 
 place." But, comforting as this assurance was, 
 the very same thing happened the next day, and 
 Mrs. Bellingham was not only angry, but dis- 
 turbed by it. She called Aubrey into her room 
 at quite a late hour, when she was sitting in all 
 the sanctity of her dressing-gown. Perhaps 
 
 their tempers were a little ^disturbed by the fact 
 that they were both chilly — he with his walk by 
 the side of the loch to finish a cigar, she in the 
 before - mentioned dressing-gown, which, being 
 but muslin, was a little too light for the latitude 
 of Killin. 
 
 "The same thing over again, Aubrey," she 
 said; "always that little flirt of an Effie. I de- 
 clare I never see you pay the slightest attention 
 to Margaret ; and when you know how much 
 all your friends wish you to settle — " 
 
 "All right, Aunt Jean," said Aubrey, with a 
 tone of injury. " It is all those girls that will 
 derange the most careful calculations. They 
 are both of a height, they are both all black ; it 
 is only when you hear their voices that you can 
 tell which is which : and if one will go off in one 
 direction while you have settled all your plans 
 for the other — " 
 
 "Ah, Aubrey, I am afraid it is just the old 
 story," said Mrs. Bellingham, shaking her head ; 
 "you like the wrong one the best." 
 
 "That is a trifle," said the dutiful nephew; 
 "we were not born to follow our inclinations. 
 The wrong always suits the best, that goes with- 
 out saying ; but I hope I am not quite a fool, 
 and I was not born yesterday. Your Effie may 
 be all very well to chatter with, but what should 
 I do with her? I should not choose to starve 
 for her sake, nor I don't suppose she would for 
 mine. It is Margaret for my money ; or per- 
 haps the other way would be more like the fact : 
 it is her money for me. But what can a fellow 
 do with the best intentions, if the other three 
 make a point of thwarting him ? The only 
 thing to be done is this : send the little one 
 home, and turn that other man about his busi- 
 ness : when there are only two of us, we are 
 bound to be civil to each other," Aubrey said, 
 with fine ease, turning over the bottles on his 
 aunt's toilet-table. Mrs. Bellingham was struck 
 by the thorough-going honesty of this suggestion. 
 
 " Well, that sounds very fair, Aubrey," she 
 said. "I would not expect you to say more. 
 And, to be sure, when a girl makes a dead set at 
 you, it is very difficult for a young man to keep 
 quite clear. We must not do anything violent, 
 you know, and it makes me much more com- 
 fortable to hear you speak so sensibly. Randal 
 Burnside, of course, will be left behind here, and 
 Effie can go home from Stirling or Glasgow. 
 And as we leave in two days, there will be no 
 great harm done. But after that, my dear boy, 
 I do hope you will not lose your time." 
 
 "Trust'me for that!" he said. "Do you 
 really use such an antediluvian cosmetic as Kaly- 
 dor, Aunt Jean — you whom I always believed to 
 be in advance of the age ? Creme de th€ is a 
 great deal better. Without it I could never' 
 have made up my mind to face the rude winds 
 of the North. Have a little of mine and try ; I 
 am sure you will never use the other again." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Aubrey ; but I am very well 
 satisfied with my own," said Mrs. Bellingham, 
 who did not choose that anything belonging to 
 her should be called antediluvian. "It is more 
 refreshing than anything when one has been a 
 long time in the air. Then that is settled, and 
 I shall not have to speak of it again, I hope. 
 But if I were you — a university man and a club 
 man — I would show that I was more than a 
 match for Randal Burnside, who never was at 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 anything but a Scotch college, and can't belong 
 to anything better than one of those places in 
 Princes Street. I would not allow myself to be 
 put out of my way by a provincial. I should 
 be ashamed to give in like that, if I was such a 
 young man as you." 
 
 Aubrey shrugged his shoulders, and offered 
 no further defence ; and the remaining two days 
 were passed happily enough, Margaret and Ran- 
 dal remaining upon terms of confidential intima- 
 cy, without any word on either side to make the 
 situation more plain. She felt that she had com- 
 mitted her secret to his trust, and was partially 
 supported in consequence in the bearing of it — 
 and encouraged to forget it, which she did ac- 
 cordingly with a secret ease and relief beyond all 
 words — while he, too, felt that something had 
 been confided to him, something far more serious 
 than she seemed to be aware of; and yet did 
 not know what it was. Thus, while she was per- 
 fectly at her ease with him, Randal was not so 
 happy. He could not ask her a question, could 
 not even let her see that he remembered the half- 
 involuntary confidence, yet felt the most eager 
 desire to know fully what it was which had been 
 confided to him. How could he help her, how 
 could he be of use to her if he did not know? 
 This pleasant fiction of being "of use," and the 
 eager prayer he had made to her to call him 
 whenever and wherever she wanted him, was it 
 not the natural protest of honest affection against 
 the premature bond which had forestalled itself, 
 which had no right to have come in the way of 
 the real hero? He did not himself know that 
 this was the origin of his anxiety about Marga- 
 ret, his strong wish "to be of use." How could 
 he be of use? how interfere between the girl 
 and her lover — he whose only possible stand- 
 ing-ground by Margaret's side would be that of 
 a lover too ? 
 
 But Randal, though he was very clear-sighted 
 in general, had but a confused vision of things 
 relating to himself, and deluded himself with the 
 idea that he might "be of use," might help her, 
 and do a great deal for her — if he only knew! 
 And he did know that some kind of tie exist- 
 ed between her and Rob Glen, but no more. 
 Whether it was wholly clandestine, as it ap- 
 peared, whether " the fellow " had secured her to 
 himself under any vow of secrecy, whether any- 
 body belonging to her knew, or suspected, Ran- 
 dal could not tell. And the frankness with 
 which she had admitted himself to some sort of 
 participation in the mystery made it more con- 
 fusing ami bewildering still. He could not put 
 any question to her on the subject, but shrank 
 from the very thought of such an interrogation 
 with a mixture of pain and shame, feeling his 
 own delicacy wounded. That Margaret should 
 have a secret at all was intolerable. He could 
 not bear to be her confidant, to hear her ac- 
 knowledge anything that marred the simple ideal 
 of her maidenhood ; and yet how was he " to be 
 of use," if he did not know ? 
 
 She, for her part, was greatly relieved by the 
 little snatch of conversation which had conveyed 
 so much. He had not lost his respect for her. 
 He did not "think shame" of her. This was 
 very comforting to Margaret. She had made it 
 all quite clear, she thought, how things had gone 
 wrong, and how it was a relief more than a sor- 
 row to leave her home ; and now she could be 
 S 
 
 quite at her ease with Randal, who knew. Hav- 
 ing thus spoken of it, too, made the burden of it 
 very much lighter. The thing itself was over 
 for the present ; and it must be a long time, a 
 very long time, before she would be forced to re- 
 turn to that matter. Perhaps, some time or oth- 
 er, she might be forced to return to it ; but not 
 for such a long, long time. 
 
 Thus all seemed easy for the moment, and 
 Margaret thrust her foolishness behind her, and 
 managed to forget. They had two more cheer- 
 ful days. They took long walks into Glen 
 Dochart, and went out on the loch in the even- 
 ings ; and Effie sang, who had a pretty voice 
 and had been taught ; whereas Margaret had a 
 pretty voice, but had not been taught, and was 
 fired with great ambition. And Aubrey took 
 upon him to make researches into the crock- 
 ery-ware in the cottages, by way of looking for 
 old china, of which, he assured them, he often 
 "picked up" interesting "bits," at next to no 
 price at all. in the neighborhood of Bellingham 
 Court. It did not answer, however, in Perth- 
 shire, and Randal and the two girls being Scotch, 
 had to interfere to rescue him from Janet Camp- 
 bell, at the post-office, who thought nothing less 
 than that the man was mad, and intended to 
 break her "pigs," which is the genuine name of 
 crockery in Scotland. 
 
 All these things amused them mightily, and 
 filled up the days, which were not invariably 
 fine, but checkered by showers and even storms 
 — which latter amused the party as much as any- 
 thing, since there was a perpetual necessity for 
 consultations of all kinds, and for pilgrimages in 
 twos and threes to the window, and to the door, 
 to see if it was going to be fine. During all this 
 time Mrs. Bellingham persistently labored to 
 control fate, and to pair her young people ac- 
 cording to her previous determination. That 
 Randal and Effie should have taken to each oth- 
 er would have been a perfectly reasonable and 
 suitable arrangement, and Jean felt that she 
 could meet her brother and his wife with a 
 pleasant sense of triumph, had she been the 
 means under Providence of arranging so very 
 suitable a match. He was a very pleasant young 
 man, well educated, sufficiently well-born, with 
 a little money and a good profession — what 
 could a girl's parents ask for more? But it is 
 inconceivable how blind such creatures are, how 
 little disposed to see what is best for them. 
 With all the pains that she took to prevent it, 
 the wrong two were always finding themselves 
 in each other's way. 
 
 And perhaps it helped this result that Miss 
 Leslie, all unconsciously, and in the finest spirit 
 of self-sacrifice, did everything she could to 
 thwart her sister, and to throw the wrong per- 
 son in the way. It went so to her heart to see 
 Margaret smiling, as she talked to Randal, that 
 she walked all the way home from the bridge by 
 herself, though it was getting dark, and she was 
 nervous to leave the two to themselves. "They 
 will like their own company better than mine," 
 Miss Leslie said to herself. And when Jean 
 asked sharply what had become of Aubrey. 
 Grace quaked, but did not reply that she had 
 seen him taking Effie down the river in the 
 gleam of compunctious brightness, after the af- 
 ternoon's rain. 
 
 "Dear Jean," she said, "you must not be 
 
112 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 anxious. I am sure he will be back directly, 
 almost directly." 
 
 "Anxious!" cried Mrs. Bellingham. It was 
 hard upon so sensible a woman to have to deal 
 with persons so entirely unreasonable. Then 
 Randal let fall various intimations that he had a 
 great fancy for seeing Loch Katrine again. 
 
 "The fishing here is not so good as I expect- 
 ed," he said. " I think I shall go farther west. 
 
 "I would not do that if I were you," Mrs. 
 Bellingham said, with a very serious face. "I 
 would not be so long away from your good fa- 
 ther and mother. Of course you will be going 
 somewhere to shoot after the 12th. So is Au- 
 brey. Ladies have not much chance in com- 
 parison with the grouse. And, do you know, I 
 thought them very much failed, both of them. 
 They are getting old people, Randal. I am sure 
 you are a good son, and would do anything you 
 can to please them ; and I could see that your 
 good mother did not like you to come away for 
 the fishing, though she would not say anything. 
 As for Loch Katrine, I don't think it all likely 
 that we shall be able to make it out." 
 
 Randal was at no loss to understand what this 
 meant. He smiled to himself to think how mis- 
 taken she was, and how little it really matter- 
 ed who went or stayed, so far as Margaret was 
 concerned ; but, after all, why should he follow 
 Margaret? why should he run the risk of mak- 
 ing himself hate Rob Glen, and wonder at his 
 "luck" more than he did now? However, he 
 said to himself, there ought not to be any dan- 
 ger of that. He did not think there was any 
 danger. What danger could there be when 
 there was a clear understanding that some one 
 else was master of the field ? But still, he could 
 not suppose that the moment of fate, the tragi- 
 cal moment at which he could be of use to Mar- 
 garet, was coming now. And why should he 
 insist upon going where he was not wanted? 
 So he yielded and sighed, and took his dismis- 
 sal, though both the girls protested. 
 
 "Oh, why will you go and spoil the party?" 
 cried Effie. 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Bellingham, "I am 
 afraid there will not be much more of the party, 
 for your papa is going to meet us in Glasgow to 
 take you home." 
 
 This threw a cloud over poor little Effie, who 
 went to her own room in tears. Was it over, 
 then, this beautiful holiday ? Margaret said 
 good-bye to Randal with a cloudy look between 
 smiles and tears. 
 
 "You will never pass me by again as if I was 
 not good enough to be spoken to ?" she said, 
 with a little broken laugh ; and he once more 
 hurriedly adjured her "if she should ever want 
 anything," "if she should want a friend to stand 
 by her." Margaret smiled, and gave him her 
 hand like a young princess. " But how can I 
 ever want anybody," she said, "when there is 
 Jean?" which was not so satisfactory. He felt 
 more lonely, more dismal, more altogether out 
 of place than there was any reason for, when, 
 finally, Mrs. Bellingham packed her little com- 
 forts into the carriage, and Miss Grace entreated 
 everybody to take her place, and the travellers 
 rolled away, waving their hands to him as he 
 stood at the inn door. 
 
 It is always a dismal thing to stand at the 
 door of an inn and see the greater part of the 
 
 party who have been rambling, walking, talking, 
 laughing, and crying together, drive away. Ran- 
 dal felt his heart sink in his breast. To be sure, 
 Margaret Leslie was nothing to him, except a 
 child whom he had known all his life. He stood 
 there and fell a thinking, while the landlord nod- 
 ded and winked to the waiter, and the maids 
 behind pitied the poor young gentleman. How 
 well he remembered the little motherless baby 
 in her black ribbons, whom his mother had once 
 placed in his astonished arms ! He had told 
 Margaret of it only yesterday ; but he did not 
 tell her what Mrs. Burnside said. "It will be 
 time enough for you to marry, Randal, when 
 she is old enough to be your wife," the prudent 
 mother had said. She would never be his wife 
 now, nor anybody's who could understand her 
 who was worthy of her. To think of that creat- 
 ure falling to the lot of Rob Glen ! The blooti 
 rushed to Randal's face, and he clenched his 
 hands unawares ; then, coming to himself, seized 
 his fishing-tackle, which had been of so little use, 
 and hurried away. 
 
 And Margaret was very quiet all the day af- 
 ter, leaving Effie to respond to Aubrey's witti- 
 cisms from the box. It had come to be the 
 habit that Effie should reply. Mrs. Bellingham 
 was just as comfortably placed as usual, and had 
 her eau -de -cologne, and her paper-knife, and 
 plenty of shillings in her purse for the Highland 
 tolls, and everything as she liked it ; but she was 
 not so amiable as in the earlier part of the jour- 
 ney. For one thing, there was not at all a sat- 
 isfactory place for luncheon, and the wind was 
 cold, and she had not the kind of large pin she 
 liked to fasten her shawl. 
 
 "We are going to have a wet August," she 
 said. " When August is wet, the best thing to 
 do is to get out of Scotland. It is bad enough 
 anywhere, but it is abominable in the Highlands. 
 There are the same sort of looking tourists you 
 find in Chamouni, only poorer, and it is cold, 
 which it is not in Switzerland ; at least, it is not 
 always cold in Switzerland. Your papa, Effie, 
 is to meet us in Glasgow on Tuesday, and then 
 I think we shall go South." 
 
 Nobody said anything against this sentence. 
 There are days when the wind is more keen than 
 usual, when the rain is wetter, and the mud mud- 
 dier. This was one of these days. It came 
 down in torrents in the middle of the journey; 
 and before the hood of the carriage could be got 
 up a large piece of Mrs. Bellingham's crape on 
 the side next the wind had been soaked and 
 ruined forever. This, her sister thought, was her 
 own fault, in that she had incautiously thrown 
 aside her water-proof; but she herself held it to 
 be Effie's, who had thrown a shawl over that 
 water-proof, "carefully concealing it," the ag- 
 grieved lady said. To have your crape ruined 
 when you have just gone into mourning is a 
 grievance enough to upset any lady's temper, 
 and it cannot be said that any of the party en- 
 joyed the drive on this ill-fated day. 
 
 After this the pleasure of the expedition grew 
 less and less. Sir Ludovic, who met the party 
 in Glasgow, took an opportunity to take Marga- 
 ret aside, and talked to her with a grave face. 
 
 " I hope you will see how wrong you are, Mar- 
 garet," he said, "about that lad. I have seen 
 him, and he is as firm as a rock because of your 
 encouragement. Do you think it is a light thing 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 113 
 
 for a young girl like you to give such a man en- 
 couragement, and dispose of yourself without the 
 knowledge of one of your friends ? I told him 
 I would never give my consent ; but lie as good 
 as said he did not care a pin for my consent ; 
 that he had got yours, and that was all he want- 
 ed. But there is one thing I must insist upon, 
 Margaret, and that is that you will hold no clan- 
 destine intercourse with him. It would not be 
 — delicate, and it would not be honorable. It is 
 only to save you that I don't tell Jean. Jean 
 would be neither to hold nor to bind. I don't 
 know what Jean might not do ; but unless you 
 will promise me that there shall be no corre- 
 spondence, it is my duty to tell Jean." 
 
 "I don't wish to have any correspondence," 
 said Margaret, drooping her head, with a burn- 
 ing blush. Oh, if they would but let her forget 
 it all ! But this was what they would not do. 
 
 "If you will give me your promise to that" — 
 he said ; and in his pleasure at what seemed to 
 him his little sister's dutifulness, Sir Ludovic 
 took her hand into his and gave a fatherly kiss 
 on her forehead ; all which his sisters contem- 
 plated with wondering eyes. 
 
 "Dear Ludovic, how kind you are to darling 
 Margaret !" cried Miss Grace, running to him 
 and bestowing a kiss of her own by way of 
 thanks. 
 
 "I see no need for all this kissing, "said Mrs. 
 Bellingham ; "what is the meaning of it? I 
 hope, Ludovic, you are not encouraging Mar- 
 garet to make you her confessor, and to have 
 secrets and mysteries from Grace and me, who 
 are her natural guardians and her best friends !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 It was on a bright day in the end of August 
 that Margaret Leslie arrived at the Grange, 
 which was her own house, her mother's birth- 
 place, and her future home. They had been 
 rather more than a month on the way, and had 
 last come from Mrs. Bellingham's house, which 
 was in the neighborhood of Bellingham Court — 
 not the great house of her district, but very near 
 and closely related to that reigning mansion. 
 Mrs. Bellingham had not been without grievances 
 in her life. Indeed, had one of two events hap- 
 pened which she had every reason to expect 
 would happen, her present position would have 
 been different and much more satisfactory. Had 
 her husband lived only a year longer, she would 
 have been Lady Bellingham of the Court, the 
 foremost lady in the county ; and had she been 
 the mother of a son, that son would have been 
 Sir Somebody, and his mother would still have 
 been — during his inevitably long minority at 
 least — the mistress of the great house. But 
 these two natural events did not happen. Jean 
 was the mother of neither son nor daughter, and 
 her husband, the eldest son — old Sir Anthony's 
 heir— had cheated her effectually out of all share 
 in the splendors of the house — which splendors, 
 indeed, had been much more attractive than 
 himself — by dying most spitefully a year before 
 his father. If it had been a year after, she 
 would not have minded so much. But as it was, 
 there was nothing for it but to retire to the 
 Dower House, and to see her next sister-in-law, 
 
 with whom she had not been on very affectionate 
 terms, become Lady Bellingham, and enter into 
 possession of everything. It may be supposed 
 that this was no slight trial; but Jean, every 
 one allowed, had behaved like a heroine. In the 
 moment of deep and real affliction which follow- 
 ed old Sir Anthony's death, she had taken the 
 situation under review, and considered it very 
 deeply. The first suggestion naturally had been 
 that she should return home, or at least settle 
 in the neighborhood of her father's house. But 
 Jean reflected that her father was not only old 
 but poor, that his house was very limited in ac- 
 commodation, and that when her present gloom 
 and crape were over, there was neither amuse- 
 ment nor occupation to be had at EaiTs-hall, such 
 as might oil the wheels of life and enable every- 
 thing to go smoothly. Fife was not lively, nor 
 was Earl's-hall attractive ; whereas in the neigh- 
 borhood of the Court, though it would be hard 
 to see another woman reigning there, there was 
 always likely to be something going on. and the 
 family was of the first consequence in the district, 
 not shabby and worn-out like the poor Leslies. 
 Having come to this decision, Mrs. Bellingham 
 had taken her measures accordingly. She had 
 thrown off at once the natural air of grievance 
 which everybody had excused in her after such 
 disappointments. Instead of troubling the new 
 Lady Bellingham in her arrangements, she had 
 thrown herself heartily into the work, and aided 
 her in every way in her power. " I don't mean 
 to say that it is not a disappointment," she said ; 
 "I hoped, of course — I don't deny it — to be mis- 
 tress here myself. I have worked for it : through 
 all Sir Anthony's illness, I am sure, I never was 
 less attentive to him because I knew I should be 
 turned out as soon as he was released from his 
 sufferings." 
 
 " No, I am sure you never were," said the new 
 Sir Anthony, warmly. 
 
 "And I should have liked to be my lady, I 
 don"t deny it. If my poor Aubrey had lived, I 
 should have enjoyed the position quite as much 
 as you I hope will enjoy it, my dear." 
 
 "Oh, enjoy it! think of the responsibility!" 
 cried the new Lady Bellingham. 
 
 "I should not have minded the responsibility ; 
 but Providence has settled otherwise — you have 
 it, and I have not. But don't think I am going 
 to be disagreeable on that account. I will move 
 into the Dower House as soon as you please, and 
 I will do everything I can to help you in settling 
 down. I know how to struggle for my rights 
 when it is necessary, "Mrs. Bellingham had said, 
 not without a warning glance at Sir Anthony, 
 " but, thank Heaven, I also know how to sub- 
 mit." 
 
 In this spirit she had begun her life, and with 
 the same noble meaning had lived many years a 
 kind of secondary star in the Bellingham firma- 
 ment, shining independently, but never in oppo- 
 sition. A close connection with the Court made 
 the Dower House important, and she kept up 
 that connection. She was always serviceable, 
 giving as well as receiving, maintaining her own 
 position, even while she magnified it by that of 
 the great house; and, in short, nothing, all her 
 friends allowed, could be more perfect than her 
 behavior, which was everything a sister's ought 
 to be, and everything that could be desired in an 
 aunt. The Dower House was a pretty house, 
 
114 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 and Mrs. Bellingham's jointure was sufficient to 
 permit her a comfortable little carriage, a nice 
 little establishment, with the means of giving ex- 
 cellent dinners when she chose, and enjoying life 
 in a dignified and most comfortable way. On 
 the other hand, she dined very often at the Court, 
 and had the use of their superfluous luxuries, 
 and a share in everything that was going on, 
 which increased at once her comfort and her 
 consequence. This was the position in which 
 she stood to her relations and neighbors. She 
 felt now that she was about to repay them a hun- 
 dred-fold for all the little advantages they had 
 thrown in her way by providing for Aubrey, who 
 was her husband's godson, and the least success- 
 ful member of the family. Aubrey was very ac- 
 complished, very charming, very idle. He could 
 not be got to do anything, except make himself 
 agreeable, and he had never even done that to 
 any purpose. When Mrs. Bellingham heard that 
 her father was dying, her first thought was of 
 this. But she was a woman who could keep her 
 own counsel. She sent Aubrey a check, and 
 directions for his route : she threw facilities in 
 his way, of which he did not, perhaps, quite 
 make the use she expected ; but still things had 
 mended in the latter part of their journey, and 
 Margaret and he had been very good friends 
 when they parted, and all was well in train in 
 pursuit of this purpose. Mrs. Bellingham car- 
 ried her young sister to the Dower House, and 
 showed her the greatness of the Court. It was 
 vacant for the moment, but its imposing size and 
 splendor filled Margaret with admiration. 
 
 "All this would have been mine, Margaret, if 
 my poor dear Aubrey had lived. You may think 
 what a grief it was to me to lose him," said Jean, 
 with a sigh. "And that is why I take such 
 deep interest in Aubrey, who was his godson, 
 you know. This is Aubrey's home." 
 
 " Dearest Jean ! how much more we ought to 
 think of her, and try to please her, darling Mar- 
 garet," said Miss Leslie; "when we see how 
 much she has lost." 
 
 And when they had gone over all the empty 
 stately rooms, and looked at all the portraits — 
 docile Margaret receiving the tale of family gran- 
 deur with unquestioning assent — and had made 
 acquaintance with the lesser world of the Dower 
 House, its paddock, its gardens, its conservatory, 
 all the little comforts and elegancies which were 
 so dear to the sisters, it was time to set out for 
 the Grange, that Margaret might see her own 
 house. It had been settled that Mrs. Bellingham 
 and Miss Leslie should go there with her to take 
 possession of it, and to see what changes would 
 require to be made, to fit it for occupation — and 
 that they were to remain with her there as long 
 as the fine weather lasted, going back to the 
 Dower House for winter and Christmas. The 
 Grange lay in another county, and was some dis- 
 tance from the house of the Bellingham's, with 
 which it communicated only by a very circuitous 
 route. In old days, when the ladies would have 
 been obliged to post, it would have taken days 
 instead of hours to get to it, and yet it would 
 have proved a nearer way. They had to go to 
 the nearest town and then take a train going 
 north, in order to find at the junction a train 
 going south, in which they could proceed to the 
 end of their journey. And what between the 
 changes, and the waiting here and there, this 
 
 journey occupied most part of the day. It was 
 dark when they drove from the little town where 
 the railway ended, through a succession of dim 
 roads and lanes and under overshadowing trees 
 that made the twilight dimness greater, to the 
 Grange : which presented no recognizable feat- 
 ure, but was merely a large shadow in the gloom 
 surrounded by shadows less solid — ghosts of wav- 
 ing trees and high hedge-rows. There was a 
 woman visible at the little lodge, who came out 
 and opened the gate and courtesied to the stran- 
 gers, leaving her cottage door open and showing 
 a cheerful glow of fire-light, and a tiny little girl 
 of three or four years old, standing against the 
 light and gazing at the carriage ; but this was the 
 only gleam of cheerfulness that dwelt in Marga- 
 ret's mind. The child's face was scarcely visible, 
 but its little sturdy figure against the fire-light, 
 with two small feet well apart, and the most won- 
 dering curiosity in its entire pose, made the for- 
 lorn little mistress of the place smile as she went 
 through those gates which led to her home. After 
 this there was a long avenue to drive through., 
 with great trees overshadowing the carriage, and 
 tossing their branches about in the night wind. 
 It had been a very hot day, and the breeze which 
 had sprung up was very grateful, but the moaning 
 it made in the branches was very melancholy, and 
 affected poor Margaret's imagination. "How 
 the wind soughs," she said, with full use of the 
 dreary guttural. She was sitting in the front 
 seat of the cab as it jolted along amidst all those 
 waving shadows, aud Margaret felt very sad, she 
 did not know why. She had been curious about 
 her sister's house, and interested, and had liked 
 the novelty and perpetual change ; but she did 
 not feel any curiosity, nothing but sadness, in 
 coming to this place, which was her own, though 
 there was nobody here to welcome her. How 
 the wind soughed! no other word could express 
 so well the wild moan and wailing, which is an 
 exaggeration by nature of the sound which the 
 French call tears in the voice. It went to Mar- 
 garet's heart : the tears came into her voice, too, 
 and filled her eyes in the darkness. All was 
 melancholy in this home-coming to nothing but 
 darkness and the unknown — the wind tossing 
 about the branches and complaining to the night, 
 the sound of water somewhere, complaining too, 
 with a feeble tinkle — the sky invisible, except in 
 a speck here and there, just light enough to show 
 how the branches were tossing overhead. The 
 young traveller drooped her head in her corner, 
 and felt her courage and her heart fail. 
 
 " Margaret," said Jean's voice out of the dark- 
 ness, from the other side of the carriage, "you 
 must learn to remember now that you are not a 
 Scotch country girl in Fife, but an English young 
 lady with a character to keep up — a landed pro- 
 prietor. Don't talk that vulgar Scotch. If you 
 use such language here nobody will understand 
 you ; and they will think you a girl without any 
 education, which would be most painful for all 
 your relatives, and a slur upon poor papa's mem- 
 ory. Therefore remember, no Scotch." 
 
 This altogether completed Margaret's down- 
 fall. The gloom, the sobbing wind, the contrast 
 between this home-coming and all that is ordi- 
 narily implied in the word, were enough in them- 
 selves to overwhelm so young a creature, still so 
 short a way removed from the first grief of her 
 life ; but the reproof was of a kind which made 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 11.' 
 
 the contrast still move poignant Nothing in all 
 his intercourse with his favorite child had heen 
 so tender or so characteristic as Sir Ludovic's 
 soft, laughing animadversions upon that very 
 point — "My little Peggy, you must not he so 
 Scotch!" How often had he said it, his face 
 lighted up with tenderest laughter, his reproof 
 more sweet than other people's praise. But how 
 different it sounded when Jean said it ! Some- 
 thing came climbing into Margaret's throat and 
 choked her. When the carriage stopped with a 
 jar and a crash, as it did at that moment at the 
 scarcely discernible door, she could not wait for 
 its opening, or till the coachman should scramble 
 from his perch, but flung the carriage door open, 
 and jumped out, eager for movement of any 
 kind ; her forehead throbbing with pain over her 
 eyebrows, the sob in her throat, and a sudden 
 gush of salt-water, hot and bitter, blinding her 
 eyes. What could be more unlucky than to 
 alight thus before the closed door and not be able 
 to see it for tears? It opened, however, while 
 Margaret began to help Steward, who had groped 
 her way from the box, to get out the innumerable 
 small articles with which the cab was crowded. 
 The country girl, who appeared at the door with 
 a candle protected by a long glass shade in her 
 hand, did not imagine for a moment that the 
 slim creature not so big as herself, with the arm- 
 ful of cloaks and shawls, was her mistress. She 
 addressed herself to the ladies in the carriage, as 
 was natural. 
 
 "If you please, ma'am," she said, making a 
 courtesy, ' ' Miss Parker have gone to bed with a 
 bad headache ; but please there's tea in the par- 
 lor, and all your rooms is ready." 
 
 Margaret, however, scarcely saw the dark 
 wainscoted room into which she followed her 
 sisters, hearing their voices and exclamations as 
 in a dream. It only seemed to Margaret to look 
 very dark, very cold, with its gleams of reflec- 
 tions. Her little white-panelled room at home 
 was far more cheerful than this dark place. She 
 heard them say it was lovely ! perfect ! in such 
 good keeping! without paying any attention. 
 It was not in keeping with Margaret. In all 
 her life she had never felt such a poor little mel- 
 ancholy stranger, such a desolate childish atom 
 in an unknown world, as during this first hour 
 in the house which belonged to her, the place 
 where she was absolute mistress. 
 
 Finding that there was nothing to be made of 
 her, that she would neither eat the plentiful fare 
 on the table, nor admire the china in the great 
 open cupboards, nor make herself amiable in any 
 way, Mrs. Bellingham gave her a cup of warm 
 tea and sent her to bed ; where Steward, with a 
 little pity, deferring her mistress's unpacking, 
 benevolently followed to help her to undress. 
 They had put her into a large, low, many-lat- 
 ticed room, with that mixture in it of Venerable 
 mansion and homely cottage which is the dream 
 of such rural houses ; but in the darkness made 
 visible by two poor candles, even that was little 
 ' more cheerful than the dark parlor with its wain- 
 scot. At Earl's-hall, even in August, there might 
 have been a little friendly fire to make a stranger 
 at home; but in " the South — !" How many 
 a pang of cold have we all supported in much 
 warmer latitudes than England, for very shame 
 because of "the South!" 
 
 Naturally, however, Margaret could not sleep, 
 
 though she was glad to be alone. She kept her 
 candle lighted, to bear her company with some- 
 thing of a child's dread of the darkness, and lay 
 thinking with eyes preternaturally awake, now 
 that the tears had been all wept out. She thought 
 of everything — of Earl's-hall, and the rhythm 
 of the pines which were not like that rainy mel- 
 ancholy sough, and of those moments in the 
 wood when she had gone out with her eyes just 
 so hot with tears unshed, and just such a fiery 
 throbbing of pain in her forehead, and choking 
 in her throat. And oh, how kind he had been ! 
 he had not thought of himself, but only of com- 
 forting her. How he had drawn her to him, 
 made her lean upon him, taken off the weight of 
 her sorrow. How hard-hearted she had been to 
 poor Rob, never thinking of him all these days, 
 glad to escape from the thought of him. Aud 
 he had been so kind ! A great compunction 
 came into her mind. How much he had been 
 mingled in the twist of her life at that time which 
 of all other times had been the most momentous 
 in it ! and how was it possible that when that 
 crisis was over her very fancy should have so 
 fled from him, her thoughts thrust him away ? 
 Poor Rob ! and he had been so kind ! Margaret 
 begged his pardon in her heart with great self- 
 reproach, but it did not occur to her to make him 
 any amends. She had no desire to call him 
 back to her, to see him again, to write to him. 
 Oh no ! she drew her breath hard, with a sudden 
 panic: why should she write to him? It was 
 not necessary. She could not write at all a nice 
 letter such as would be a pleasure to any one. 
 But the thought seemed to catch her very breath, 
 her heart began to thump again, and her brow to 
 burn aud throb. 
 
 "Are you asleep, dear Margaret ?" said Grace, 
 coming in. " I just ran up-stairs for a moment 
 to see. Dearest Jean is going over the rooms, 
 to see what sort of rooms they are — not that we 
 can see very much at night ; and, of course, dar- 
 ling Margaret, I should like much better, and so 
 would dear Jean, to wait till you were with us 
 yourself ; and if you would like me to stay with 
 you, I would much rather stay. I shouldn't at 
 all mind giving it up. So far as one can see, it 
 is the dearest old place, so old-fashioned! and 
 such china, and old armor in the hall ! — real 
 armor, just as delightful as what you see in War- 
 dour Street. Dear Jean is so pleased. Now do 
 go to sleep, darling Margaret, go to sleep. The 
 wainscot parlor is the dearest old room, just like 
 a picture. I am to go out and join dear Jean 
 on the stairs when I hear her coming up. She 
 is talking to Steward about unpacking, for dear 
 Jean is very particular about her unpacking. 
 Are you asleep, darling? — not yet? but you 
 must really go to sleep, and be quite fresh for 
 to-morrow. That is right, shut your eyes, and 
 I will shade the candle ; or perhaps it would be 
 better to have a night-light ; I think I must try 
 to get you a night-light. There is dear Jean 
 coming up the stairs. She enjoys anything like 
 this. That is her voice coming up. You can 
 always hear dear Jean's voice, walking about a 
 house. At the Dower House, when I am in my 
 room, I always hear her at night starting to see 
 that all the doors and windows are safe. She 
 begins with the scullery and goes everywhere. 
 Dear Jean is energetic to a fault. She does not 
 mind what trouble she takes. Now you are 
 
116 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 asleep, darling Margaret, quite fast : hush — 
 hush !" said Miss Grace, patting her shoulder 
 softly. It was not a very sensible proceeding, 
 hut it soothed Margaret. She turned round her 
 cheek, still wet with tears, with a soft laugh, 
 which was half derision and half pleasure. 
 
 "I am fast asleep; now run, Grace, run, or 
 Jean will scold you." 
 
 "Oh, it is not that I am afraid! but really, 
 really if you are going to sleep, and don't want 
 me to stay — I will stay in a moment if you 
 would like it, darling Margaret ; but perhaps I 
 should only keep you from sleeping, and dear 
 Jean — " 
 
 "Where has she run to now?" they could 
 hear Jean's voice saying at a distance, and Miss 
 Grace gave her young sister a hasty kiss and 
 hurried away. Margaret lay still and listened 
 for a long time while Jean's voice perambulated 
 the house, going everywhere. It gave a new 
 sort of brisk activity to the dark and cold place. 
 Up and down and about the passages went the 
 high-pitched tones, commenting on everything. 
 It was seldom that Margaret could make out 
 what they said. But the sound made a cheer 
 and comfort, a sense of society and protection. 
 By -and -by she got drowsy with those cheerful 
 echoes in her ears, and dropped at last into the 
 deep sleep of youth, with a sense of this peaceful 
 patrolling all about her, the darkness lighted by 
 gleams of the candles they carried, and by Jean's 
 voice. 
 
 And in the morning what a flood of sunshine 
 filled the room ! lavish, extravagant sunshine 
 pouring in, as if it had nothing else to do ; 
 which indeed was pretty nearly the case, as all 
 the harvest was housed about the Grange, and 
 there was not much, except light matters of fruit, 
 for that magnificent sun to do, nothing but to 
 ripen the peaches on the walls and the apples on 
 the trees, and wake for a joke, with a blaze and 
 illumination which might have done for a king, 
 a little bit of a slim girl in the low-roofed cham- 
 ber with its many windows. Margaret woke all 
 in a moment, as you wake with a start when 
 some one stands and looks at you fixedly, pene- 
 trating the strongest bond of drowsiness. She 
 sprang up, her mind already full of excitement 
 as she recollected where she was : in the Grange, 
 in her own house ! a curious thrill of pleasure, 
 and wonder, and eager curiosity came over her. 
 She got up and dressed hastily in her eagerness 
 to see her surroundings. 
 
 From her windows she looked out upon noth- 
 ing but trees, a walled garden on one side, a lit- 
 tle park on the other, a glimpse of a small stream 
 with a little wooden bridge over it, and trees, and 
 more trees as far as the eye could go. Her eye 
 went as far as eye could go in that unconscious 
 appeal for something to rest upon which is in- 
 stinctively made by all who are accustomed to 
 hills ; but there was no blue line upon the hori- 
 zon, no undulation to relieve her. The only in- 
 equality was in the trees, which were some lower 
 and some more lofty — in tufts of rich foliage ev- 
 erywhere, shading the landscape like a delicate 
 drawing. Though it would not be September 
 till next day, yet there were already traces here 
 and there that autumn had tinted the woods 
 with that "fiery finger." It was nothing more 
 than a touch ; but it brightened the picture. 
 How different from the parched elms and oaks 
 
 all bare with the wind, and the dark unchanging 
 firs in the Earl's-hall woods ! 
 
 The house was still asleep when she stole down- 
 stairs, half afraid of herself, down the oak stair- 
 case, with its heavy balustrade. She was the 
 only thing waking in the silent house, which still 
 was so full of living, waking sunshine. She 
 seemed to herself to be the last survivor — the 
 only inhabitant. Timorously she stole down, 
 finding shutters at all the windows, bolts at all 
 the doors. At Earl's-hall who ever dreamed of 
 a bolt or a bar ! The door was " snecked " when 
 John thought of it, but often enough was left on 
 the latch, so that any one might have come in ; 
 but very different were the ' precautions here. 
 She stole about on tiptoe, peeping here and 
 there, feeling herself an intruder, totally unable 
 to believe that all this was hers ; and very much 
 frightened by the noise she made, undid the 
 heavy fastenings and opened the great door, 
 which creaked and clanged as if calling for help 
 against some invader. 
 
 The dew was still sparkling on the flowers 
 when she issued forth into the fresh air of the 
 morning, doubly refreshed with last night's show- 
 ers. The birds were singing, nations and tribes 
 of them, in every tree. They made such a din 
 round her as she stepped out that she could 
 scarcely hear herself thinking. Instinctively 
 Margaret ran down to the little brook, which 
 she called (to herself) the burn. And there, 
 looking back, she stood entranced with a novel 
 delight. She had never before seen anything 
 like it. A great old rambling simple- minded 
 English house, of old brick with a bloom on it, 
 and touches of lichen, golden and gray : covered 
 with verdure, nothing new or petty ; the very 
 honeysuckles grown into huge trees, forests of 
 the simplest white clematis, the traveller's joy, 
 with its wild wreaths and sweet clusters of flow- 
 ers, roses in their second bloom mounting up to 
 the old chimneys, which had retreated into great 
 bushes of ivy ; and everywhere through a hun- 
 dred folds and wreaths of green — everywhere 
 the mellow redness of the old house itself peep- 
 ing through. Margaret clasped her hands in de- 
 light. The landscape was nothing but trees, 
 and had little interest for her; but the house! 
 It was itself like a great flower, all warm and 
 strong. And this was hers! She could not be- 
 lieve it. She stood rapt, and gazed at the per- 
 fect place — a mass of flowers and leafage, and 
 bloomy old walls. It was a poem in homely red 
 and brown, an autumnal sonnet. And this was 
 hers ! She could not believe it — it was too beau- 
 tiful to be true. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 After* this there ensued a moment of great 
 quiet and pleasant domestic life. Miss Parker, 
 who was the house-keeper, was a very legitimate 
 member of the class which nobody had then 
 thought of calling Lady-help, but which flourish- 
 ed in the shadow and protection of a family as 
 Poor Relation. She was a distant cousin of Mar- 
 garet's mother, who, having no money and no 
 talents of any serviceable sort, had been kindly 
 provided for in this very natural domestic office ; 
 and the good woman took a great deal of inter- 
 est in Margaret, and would not have at all dis- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 117 
 
 liked to inspire her with rebellion, and persuade 
 her to make a stand for " her own place " in 
 her own house. That the other family, the oth- 
 er side of the house, should be regnant at the 
 Grange, making Margaret appear like the daugh- 
 ter rather than the mistress, offended her in ev- 
 ery point ; but as she was not a wicked woman, 
 and Margaret not a rebellious girl, these little in- 
 tentions of malice came to nothing, and Jean 
 commenced an unquestioned and on the whole 
 beneficent sway with little resistance. As for 
 Margaret herself, the novelty of everything filled 
 her life with fresh springs of enjoyment, and gave 
 her a genuine new beginning, not counter to the 
 natural, nor in any way antagonistic, but yet gen- 
 uinely novel, fresh, and unconnected with any 
 painful or disturbing recollection. 
 
 The soft unlikeness of the leafy English land- 
 scape round, to all she had been used to, was 
 not more marked than the other differences of 
 her life. When she went along the rural road 
 the little girls courtesied to her, and so did the 
 women at the cottage-doors ; they stood obse- 
 quious in their own houses, when she went to see 
 them, as if she had been the Queen ; not like the 
 cottagers about Earl's -hall, to whom she was 
 only Miss Margaret, who courtesied to nobody, 
 and who were more likely to offer the little girl 
 "a piece" or a "drink of milk" than to take 
 the surreptitious shillings which Margaret at the 
 Grange was so delighted to find herself able to 
 give. " But they will be affronted !" she said, in 
 horror, when this liberality was first suggested to 
 her ; such a difference was there between Fife 
 and "the South." Then, within reach, there 
 lay a beautiful little church, in which there were 
 monuments and memorial marbles without num- 
 ber to the Sedleys, the family of her mother, the 
 owners of the Grange, and where an anxious 
 new incumbent had established daily service, to 
 which he was very anxious the Leslies at the 
 Grange should come by way of setting a good 
 example. To this admirable man, who thought 
 that within the four seas there was no salvation 
 except in the Anglican Communion, Margaret 
 unguardedly avowed, knowing no harm in it, 
 that she had been brought up in the Church of 
 Scotland, and was not very familiar with the pray- 
 er-book. Oh, what daggers Jean looked at her, 
 poor Margaret not knowing why ! Mrs. Belling- 
 nam made haste to explain. 
 
 "My father was old-fashioned, Mr. St. John, 
 and never would give up the old kirk. I think 
 he thought it was right to go, to countenance 
 the common people. I always say it is a dis- 
 grace, that it is they who have the parish church- 
 es in Scotland, just the set of people who are dis- 
 senters here; but I assure you all the gentry go 
 to the English Church." 
 
 Mr. St. John, though he was a little appalled 
 by that generalization, and did not like to learn 
 that "the common people" were dissenters, or 
 that any church but the Anglican could be call- 
 ed "old," yet nevertheless was not so shocked 
 as he might have been, thinking, good man, that 
 the common people in Fife probably spoke Gae- 
 lic, and that this was the reason why they had 
 their service separate from the gentry. He be- 
 gan immediately to talk to Margaret about the 
 beauty and pathos of Celtic music, which bewil- 
 dered her extremely, for naturally Margaret Les- 
 lie, who had scarcely ever been out of the East 
 
 Neuk till her father's death, had never heard a 
 word of Gaelic in her life. •» 
 
 And now at last Bell's fondest desires were 
 carried out. The little town which was near, 
 and which the lessening limits of this history for- 
 bid us to touch upon, was a cathedral town full 
 of music and with many educational advantages ; 
 for there were numerous schools in the neighbor- 
 hood, and masters came from town to supplv the 
 demand two or three times a week. Margaret 
 began to play upon the "piany," as Bell had al- 
 ways longed to have her do, and to speak French. 
 We cannot assert that she made very much 
 progress in the former accomplishment with her 
 untrained fingers and brief patience; but she 
 had a pretty voice and learned to sing, which is 
 perhaps a rarer gift, though it cannot be denied 
 that she abused this privilege and went about the 
 house and the garden, and even the park, singing 
 at the top of her voice, till her sisters were pro- 
 voked into expostulation. " What is the use of 
 teaching you," Jean cried, "when you go sing- 
 ing, singing — skirling they would call it in Fife — 
 straining all your high notes ? When I was a 
 girl like you, I was never allowed to open my 
 mouth except for practising, and when there was 
 an occasion for it. It is all gone now, but I as- 
 sure you when I was twenty I was considered to 
 have a very pretty voice. I wish yours may ever 
 be as good. It will not be so long if you go 
 straining it in this way. Do you think the birds 
 want to hear you singing?" cried Mrs. Belling- 
 ham, with scorn. 
 
 "Oh, dearest Jean! but dear Margaret has 
 much more of a voice than we ever had. We 
 used to sing duets — " 
 
 "Yes, Grace had a little chirp of a second — 
 just what you will come to, Margaret," said Mrs. 
 Bellingham, "if you go on as you are doing, 
 straining all your high tones." 
 
 As for the French, they found fault with her 
 pronunciation, which was natural enough ; but 
 perhaps it was not so natural that Mrs. Belling- 
 ham should find fault with the irreproachable ac- 
 cent of Monsieur Dubois, a Parisian, pur sang, 
 who had taught princesses in his day. "No, 
 Margaret, my dear ; you may go on with him, 
 for any kind of French is better than none, when 
 you are so far behind with your education. But 
 I am sure he is taking all these good people in 
 with his fine certificates and testimonials. His 
 French cannot be good, for I dorit understand a 
 word he says !" Thus the autumn went on : the 
 trees about the Grange got aglow, and began to 
 blaze with glorious colors, and Margaret with her 
 crape getting shabby (crape gets shabby so soon, 
 heaven be praised !) ran about the house, the park, 
 the country roads, and the village, scolded, pet- 
 ted, taken care of, watched over, teased and wor- 
 ried, and made much of, as she had never been 
 before. She had been the child at EaiTs-hall, 
 whose innocent faults everybody had smiled at, 
 whose innocent virtues had met the same fate, 
 who was indeed the spring of everybody's happi- 
 ness, the most cherished, the most beloved — but 
 yet, so to speak, of no importance at all. Here 
 it was different ; here everything hinged on Mar- 
 garet. Jean, though she was a despot, insisted 
 loudly on the fact that she was but a despot-re- 
 gent, and Margaret's name was put to everything, 
 and Margaret's supremacy upheld, though Mar- 
 garet herself was scolded. 
 
118 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 What difference it might have made in this 
 state of affairs, had little Margaret, Sir Ludovic's 
 orphan child, been dependent upon her sisters, 
 as, but for that mother of hers of whom Marga- 
 ret knew nothing, she well might have been, it 
 would be impossible to say. They would have 
 clone her " every justice ;" they would have taught 
 her to sing and scolded her for singing ; they 
 would have called in Monsieur Dubois, and then 
 declared his French could not be good ; all these 
 things would have happened all the same, and 
 they would have meddled with and dictated to, 
 and teased, and tried, their little sister. But 
 whether the process would have been as bearable 
 as it was under the present circumstances, who 
 can tell? The dependent might have felt that 
 insupportable which tempted the heiress into 
 laughter, and .disclosed a fund of mirth within 
 which she did not know she possessed. 
 
 One thing, however, Jean would not have done 
 had Margaret been penniless, which she did for 
 Margaret as the young lady of the Grange. She 
 certainly would not have invited Aubrey, after 
 his return from Scotland, to come and see the 
 new horse that had been bought for Margaret, 
 and to superintend her instructions in that kind. 
 The girl had ridden at home, cantering about the 
 country, all unattended, on a gray pony, in a gray 
 garment, which bore but a faint resemblance to 
 the pretty habit in which she was now clothed ; 
 but she had never mounted anything like the 
 praucing steed which was now to be called hers. 
 The sisters were a great deal too careful of her 
 to allow this fiery steed to be mounted until after 
 Margaret and the horse had received all kinds of 
 preparation for the conjunction ; but when the 
 ladies came out to superintend the start, and 
 watched while Aubrey, newly arrived, put the 
 slim light creature upon her horse, Jean and 
 Grace felt a movement of pride in her, which 
 made the more emotional sister cry, and swelled 
 Mrs. Bellingham's bosom with triumph. " Take 
 care of her,'" she said to her nephew with a mean- 
 ing glance, " for you will not find many like her." 
 
 "I will take care," said Aubrey, returning the 
 look. This Mrs. Bellingham would not have 
 done had Margaret been only her little sister 
 without any fortune, instead of the young lady 
 of the Grange. 
 
 It was a very pleasant ride, and it was so dif- 
 ferent from all her former exercises of the kind 
 that it became one of those points in Margaret's 
 life which tell like milestones when one looks 
 back. She did not talk very much after the first 
 delighted outbreak of pleasure ; but in her heart 
 went back to the stage of the gray pony, and 
 with a startled sense of the change in everything 
 round her, contemplated herself. What change 
 had passed upon her? Was it only that she was 
 a little taller, a little older, transplanted into new 
 surroundings, separated altogether by death and 
 distance from the group of old people who had 
 been all her world ? Not altogether that : there 
 were other changes too important to be fully 
 fathomed during a ride through the green lanes, 
 and under the falling leaves. She rode along, 
 hearing vaguely what Aubrey said to her, mak- 
 ing only what response was necessary, wondering 
 over this being who was, yet was not, herself. 
 She had forgotten all about herself so far as that 
 was possible in the novelty of this new chapter of 
 her career. She had lived only from day to day, 
 
 from moment to moment, not asking herself what 
 she was doing, how she was changing ; and lo 
 she was changed. She found it out all in a mo- 
 ment. It bewildered and turned her head, and 
 made her so giddy, that her companion thought 
 she had taken a panic and was going to fall. He 
 started and put out his hand to hold her. 
 
 "Oh, it is nothing," Margaret said; "it is 
 over now ; it was all so strange." 
 
 "What was strange? You are ill, you are 
 giddy, you have got nervous." 
 
 " Yes, I am giddy ; but neither ill nor nervous. 
 I am giddy to think — oh, how strange it is ! Do 
 you remember, Mr. Aubrey, when we were in the 
 Highlands in August ?" 
 
 "Nearly three months ago. Indeed, I remem- 
 ber verv well. Do you think it is likely I should 
 forget?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't suppose it was much to yon," 
 said Margaret, with an abstraction of tone which 
 prevented him, though very willing, from accept- 
 ing this as provocative of something like flirta- 
 tion. "It was myself that I was thinking of, 
 and it made me giddy. Since that time I am 
 quite different. Since then I have grown up." 
 
 "I don't see very much difference," said Au- 
 brey, contemplating her with those pleased looks 
 of unspoken admiration which he knew did not 
 in general afford an ungrateful mode of homage. 
 
 " Oh ! perhaps I have not grown much taller ; 
 but this is more than tallness. Do you remem- 
 ber Earl's-hall, Mr. Aubrey ? It is not really, is 
 it, so very far away ?" 
 
 ' ' I should not say so — about fifteen or sixteen 
 hours' journey, if the railway went straight, with- 
 out that horrid interval of the Firth." 
 
 "Oh, that was not what I w r as meaning!" 
 said Margaret, turning her head away a little 
 coldly. And though he went on talking, she did 
 not pay much attention. She came home with 
 dreamy eyes, and suffered him to lift her off her 
 horse, and went straight up to her room, leaving 
 him. They had not ridden quite so far as they 
 intended, and the ladies had not got home from 
 their drive. 
 
 As Margaret went up-stairs, carrying her train 
 over her arm, she met Miss Parker, her poor re- 
 lation, on the stairs, who gave a jump at the sight 
 of her, and uttered a cry. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, I thought you were a ghost!" 
 she said. 
 
 " Why should I be a ghost ? I don't feel like 
 a ghost. Come in and tell me," said Margaret, 
 opening the door of her room. Miss Parker had 
 palpitations, and this was quite enough to bring 
 one of them on. 
 
 "I never thought you were like your poor 
 mamma before," cried the house-keeper in her 
 agitation, " not a bit like. You are just like the 
 Leslies, not her features at all ; but in that habit, 
 and in the very same hat and feathers ! " Mar- 
 garet took off her hat at these words, and Miss 
 Parker breathed a little more freely. "Ah, 
 that is better, that is not so startling. You were 
 as like her, as like her — " 
 
 " Why should not I be like her? Poor mam- 
 ma, it is hard upon her having nothing but me 
 to leave in the world, that I should be so unkind 
 as not to be like her," said Margaret, musing, 
 half thinking through the midst of this conver- 
 sation how strange it was that Earl's-hall should 
 seem so very far away. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 119 
 
 "I remember her as well as if it were yester- 
 day," said Miss Parker, "coming up that very 
 stair after her last ride with — oh, I should not 
 speak of him to you ! It was before she had ever 
 seen Sir Ludovic, your papa." 
 
 "Her last ride with — whom?" Margaret's 
 cheeks grew crimson. Somehow it seemed to 
 be half herself about whom she was hearing — 
 herself in her mother. 
 
 "Oh, my dear! I don't know if I ought to 
 tell you all that story. They were a sort of 
 cousins, as I was to them both. He had no 
 money, poor fellow ; but otherwise so suitable ! 
 just of an age, brought up much the same — and 
 she was an heiress, if he had nothing. They 
 tried to put it into her head that he was not good 
 enough for her. And then they put it into his 
 head (they succeeded there) that a man ought 
 not to owe his living to his wife. So he would 
 go away, let her say what she pleased. Oh, I 
 remember that night when they took their last 
 ride together. She came up-stairs and met me 
 in her riding-habit, in just such a hat and feath- 
 ers, and her face pale with thinking, like yours, 
 my dear. She changed color, too, like you (ah, 
 there it goes!), all in a moment changing from 
 white to red." 
 
 "And what happened," cried Margaret, 
 breathless. 
 
 "Well, my dear, nothing more than this hap- 
 pened— He went away. He went to India 
 with his regiment; he thought he might get on 
 there, perhaps, and get his promotion, and come 
 back for her (she was not of age then). But he 
 never came back, poor fellow — he died in less 
 than a year." 
 
 "And she — she?" Margaret became breath- 
 less with anxiety and interest. She had not 
 known her mother had any story ; and how 
 strange it was — half as if it might be herself! 
 
 "She felt it very much, my dear. She put on 
 mourning for him — indeed, she had to do that, 
 for he was her cousin. Memorial windows were 
 just coming into fashion, and she put up a win- 
 dow to his memory in the church. Well, then ! 
 after a while, she went to Scotland, and met with 
 Sir Ludovic. He was not young, but he was a 
 most striking-looking gentleman — and — well, I 
 need not tell you any more. You know, as well 
 as I can tell you, that he was your papa." 
 
 "Poor papa!" said Margaret, her eyes filling, 
 though she had said " poor mamma" a moment 
 before. " Did she care for him at all 2" 
 
 "Oh, my dear! she was in love with him, a 
 great deal more in love with him than she ever 
 was with poor Edward. She would have him. 
 Of course it was pointed out to her that he was 
 poor, too, and living so far away, and a Scotch- 
 man, which is almost like a foreigner, and quan- 
 tities of poor relations. She must have liked 
 him more than she did poor Edward, for she 
 would not listen, not for a moment; even when 
 it was said that he was old, she cried, ' What do 
 I care?' Oh, you must not think there was any 
 doubt on that point. She was very fond of your 
 papa. That is poor Edward's picture in the cor- 
 ner," said Miss Parker, crying a little, " he never 
 had eyes for any one when she was there ; but 
 he was my cousin too." 
 
 Margaret got up tremulously, and went to 
 look at the portrait. It was a feeble little water- 
 color : a young man in a coat which had once 
 
 been intended to be red, but which had become 
 the palest of pink. When she looked at his in- 
 significant good-looking features, she could not 
 but remember her father's with a glow of pride. 
 But Miss Parker was crying sofily in the corner 
 of the sofa. Why does it always happen that 
 people are at cross -purposes in loving? Miss 
 Parker would have been very happy with Ed- 
 ward : why was it not she but the other whom 
 the young soldier loved ? It made Margaret sad 
 to think of it. And then all at once there came 
 into her mind, like a pebble cast into tranquil 
 water, Rob Glen. Something in the features of 
 poor Edward, who had died in the jungle, re- 
 called Rob to her mind. Her heart began to 
 beat. Perhaps, no doubt, there was some one 
 who would be very happy to have Rob, who would 
 think him the noblest man in existence. And 
 Margaret gave a little shiver. Suddenly it came 
 to her mind with overpowering force that, not- 
 withstanding all these changes, notwithstanding 
 the difference in herself, notwithstanding the 
 Grange and all its novel life, she, this new Mar- 
 garet, who was so different from the old Marga- 
 ret, was bound to Rob Glen. It seemed to her 
 that she had never understood the position be- 
 fore. Miss Parker had gone away crying, poor, 
 sentimental, middle-aged lady ! and Margaret 
 sat down on the sofa when she had left it, with 
 dismay in her heart, and gazed at Edward's wa- 
 ter-color with blank discomfiture. There seemed 
 to rise before her the little parlor in the farm — 
 every detail of its homely aspect ; the red and 
 blue cloth on the table, the uncomfortable scratch- 
 ing of the pen with which she wrote her prom- 
 ise, the bit of paper smoothed out by Mrs. Glen's 
 hand, the little common earthenware ink-bottle. 
 
 She had not been aware before that she re- 
 membered all these things ; but now they start- 
 ed to the light, as if they were things of impor- 
 tance, all visible before her, remade. How was 
 it possible that she could have put them all away 
 out of her memory so long ? She had thought 
 of him now and then, chiefly with compunctions, 
 feeling herself ungrateful to him who had been 
 so kind. But it was not with any compunction 
 now that she remembered him, but with sudden 
 alarm and sense of an incongruity beyond all 
 words. Supposing Edward had not died, but 
 had come back from the jungle after her moth- 
 er had met Sir Ludovic, what would she have 
 thought? how would she have felt? would she 
 have welcomed him or fled from him ? But then 
 I — have never seen — any one, Margaret said to 
 herself. She blushed, though she was alone. 
 There was nothing in that — her color was al- 
 ways coming and going — and even this momen- 
 tary change of sentiment relieved her a little. 
 The horror was to have remembered, all of a 
 sudden, in this calm and quiet — Rob Glen. 
 
 When such a sudden revelation as this occurs, 
 it is astonishing how heaven and earth concur 
 to keep the impression up. Next evening their 
 dinner was more lively than usual. To keep 
 Aubrey company over his wine, Mrs. Belling- 
 ham had invited Mr. St. John, the young rector 
 (though they were in such deep mourning, your 
 parish clergyman is never out of place, he is not 
 company), to dine with them ; and there was a 
 little more care than usual about the flowers on 
 the table (since the garden-flowers were exhaust- 
 ed, Jean had restricted the article of flowers), 
 
120 
 
 THE PKIMKOSE PATH. 
 
 and a, more elaborate meal than was ever put 
 upon the table for the three ladies. Mr. St. 
 John was High-Church, and had been supposed 
 to incline toward celibacy for the clergy, but of 
 late his principles had been wavering. The elder 
 ladies at the Grange had given him no rest on 
 the subject ; they had declared the idea to be 
 Popish, infidelistic, heathen. Not marry ? Grace 
 in particular had almost wept over this strange 
 theory. What was to become of a parish with- 
 out a lady to look after it ; and by this time Mr. 
 St. John had been considerably moved by one 
 of two things, either by the arguments of Mrs. 
 Bellingham and Miss Leslie, or by the consider- 
 ation that the Grange was very near the recto- 
 ry; that it was a very nice little property, the 
 largest house in the parish, its inhabitants the 
 most important family ; and that its heiress was 
 eighteen, and very pretty, though brought up a 
 Presbyterian, and probably, therefore, quite un- 
 regenerate, and as good as unbaptized. He sat 
 opposite Margaret at the table, while Aubrey 
 Bellingham sat by her, and the young priest felt 
 an unchristian warmth of enmity arise in his 
 bosom toward the stranger. But this put him 
 on his mettle, and the talk was very lively and 
 sometimes amusing ; it made Margaret forget 
 the fright of recollection that had seized her. 
 The two young men remained but a very short 
 time in the dining-room after the ladies had left, 
 and Mr. St. John had just, managed to get pos- 
 session of a seat beside Margaret and to resume 
 the question of the Celtic music, which he had 
 so skilfully hit upon at one of their earlier meet- 
 ings, as a subject sure to interest her, when an in- 
 cident occurred that threw back all her thoughts 
 vividly into their former channel. 
 
 "Don't you think that the invariably pathetic 
 character of their music reflects the leading ten- 
 dency of the race?" Mr. St. John had just said; 
 and she was actually making what she felt to be 
 a very foolish answer. 
 
 "I have heard the pipes playing," she was 
 saying, " but not often ; and except reels, I don't 
 know any — Did you call me, Jean ?" 
 
 "Here is a parcel for you, a large parcel by 
 the railway," said Mrs. Bellingham. "Yes, real- 
 ly; it is not for me, as I thought, but for you, 
 Margaret. What can it be, I wonder? It has 
 got Edinburgh on the ticket, and a great many 
 other marks. Bland, will you please undo it 
 carefully, and take away all the brown paper 
 and wrappings. I dare say it is a present, Mar- 
 garet ; it looks to me like a present. I should 
 say it was a picture ; perhaps something Ludovic 
 may have sent you from Eai Ts-hall. Was there 
 any picture you were fond of that can have been 
 sent to you from Earl's-hall ?" 
 
 "Dearest Margaret, it will be one of the por- 
 traits. How kind of dear Ludovic to think of 
 you. Surely you have a right to it," said Miss 
 Leslie ; and even the young men drew near with 
 the lively curiosity which such an arrival always 
 creates. The very name of picture made Mar- 
 garet tremble ; she approached the large white 
 square which Bland — Jean's most respectable 
 servant — had carefully freed from the rough 
 sheets of card-board and brown paper in which it 
 had been so carefully packed, with the thrill of 
 a presentiment. Miss Leslie's fingers quivered 
 with impatience to cut the last string, to unfold 
 the last enclosure, but a heroic sense of duty to 
 
 Margaret kept her back. It was Margaret's par- 
 cel : she it was who had the right to disclose the 
 secret, to have the first exquisite flutter of dis- 
 covery. Grace knew the value of these little 
 sensations against the gray background of mo- 
 notonous life. But it seemed to Margaret that 
 she knew what it was, even although she had no 
 recollection for the moment what it could be. 
 She unfolded the last cover with a trembling 
 hand. 
 
 Ah ! It was Earl's-hall, the old house, exact- 
 ly as it had been that sunshiny morning before 
 any trouble came — when little Margaret, think- 
 ing no evil, went skimming over the furrows of 
 the potatoes, running up and down as light as 
 air, hovering about the artist whose work seem- 
 ed to her so divine. What an ocean of time 
 and change had swept over her since then ! She 
 gave a tremulous cry full of wonder and anguish, 
 as she saw at a glance what it was. They all 
 gathered round her, looking over her shoulder. 
 There it stood, with the sun shining full upon it, 
 the old gray house : the big ivy leaves giving out 
 gleams of reflection, the light blazing upon Bell's 
 white apron — for Bell, too, was there : he had 
 forgotten nothing. Margaret's heart gave a beat 
 so wild that the little group round her must have 
 heard it, she thought. 
 
 "Earl's-hall!" said both the ladies together. 
 " And, dear me, Margaret, where has this come 
 from ?" said Mrs. Bellingham ; " Ludovic had 
 no picture like this. It is beautifully mounted, 
 and quite fresh and new; it must be just fin- 
 ished. It is very pretty. There is the terrace 
 in the tower, you can just make it out — and 
 there are the windows of the long room; and 
 there, I declare, is my room, just a comer of it, 
 and somebody sitting at the door — why, it is 
 something like Bell! Who can have sent you 
 such a beautiful present, Margaret? Who can 
 it be from ?" 
 
 Margaret gained a little time while her sister 
 spoke ; but she was almost too much agitated to 
 be able to say anything, and she did not know 
 what to say. 
 
 "It was a friend," she said, with trembling 
 lips. " It was done — before — It was not fin- 
 ished." And then, taking courage from desper- 
 ation, she added, "May I take it up-stairs?" 
 
 What so natural as that she should be over- 
 whelmed by the sudden sight of her old home ? 
 Grace rushed to her with open arms. "Let me 
 carry it for you ; let me go with you, darling 
 Margaret," she said. But the girl fled from her, 
 almost pushing her away in the nervous impa- 
 tience of agitation. Even Jean was moved. She 
 called back her sister imperatively, yet with a 
 softened voice. 
 
 "Let her alone; let her carry it herself. 
 Come here, Grace, and let the child alone," said 
 Mrs. Bellingham. "The sight of the old place 
 has been too much for her, coming so suddenly 
 — and not much wonder. After all, it is but 
 four months. But I should like to know who 
 did it, and who sent it," she added. That was 
 the thought that was foremost with Aubrey too. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 This incident completed the painful process 
 which was going on in Margaret's mind. The 
 little visionary link of kindness, tenderness, grat- 
 itude, which had existed between herself and 
 Rob Glen had been really broken by the shock 
 administered to her on the evening when she 
 pledged herself to him forever ; but she had nev- 
 er attempted to realize her feelings, or inquire 
 into them — rather had been glad to forget them, 
 to push away from her and postpone all consid- 
 eration of the subject which all at once had be- 
 come so painful, so full of difficulty and confu- 
 sion. She had avoided even the idea of any 
 communication with him. When Ludovic spoke 
 to her of correspondence, it had seemed impos- 
 sible that the pledge he asked for could be nec- 
 essary, or that there should be any question of 
 correspondence. She had never thought of it, 
 never meant it. There was her promise against 
 her which sometime or other must be redeemed. 
 There was the fact that Rob had parted from 
 her like a lover, a thing which it now made her 
 blush hotly to recollect, but which then had 
 seemed part of the confused strangeness of every- 
 thing — a proof of his "kindness," that kindness 
 for which she had never been so grateful as she 
 ought to have been. These were appalling cer- 
 tainties which overshadowed her life ; but then, 
 nothing could come of them for a long time, that 
 was certain ; three immense lifetimes of years 
 stood between her and anything that could be 
 done to her in consequence. 
 
 And how familiar we all become with the 
 Damocles sword of an impending, but uncertain 
 event ! — Margaret had been able to escape for a 
 long time, and had put all thought of it aside. 
 But her mother's story had recalled one aspect 
 of her own, and here was another, bursting upon 
 her distinct and vivid, which could not be pushed 
 aside, which must be faced, and even explained. 
 Heaven help her! She carried away the big 
 drawing in her arms, her heart thumping against 
 the card-board wildly with suffocating force, her 
 head throbbing, her mind in the most violent 
 commotion. Had there been nothing else, no 
 doubt the sudden recalling of all her thoughts 
 to her old home, without any warning, in a 
 moment, must have had a certain effect upon 
 her. Even Jean had fully acknowledged this. 
 It was natural that she should feel it. But 
 something much more agitating, something more 
 even than the bewildering thought of all that 
 had happened in the last few weeks of her stay 
 at Earl's-hall, came upon her with the first 
 glimpse of the picture. Recollections rushed 
 upon her like a torrent, recollections even more 
 confusing, more painful than these. The draw- 
 ing itself was a memorial of the time when there 
 was no trouble at all involved, when Rob, newly 
 discovered, was a curiosity and delight to the 
 young creature in quest of something new, to 
 whom he was a godsend ; and this it was which 
 suddenly came before her now. 
 
 There is no such anguish of retrospection as 
 that with which the very young look back upon 
 moments in which they feel they have made 
 themselves ridiculous, and given their fellow- 
 creatures an inferior, inadequate representation 
 of them. This it was which overwhelmed Mar- 
 garet now. She had acquired a little knowl- 
 
 edge, if from nothing else, from the conversation 
 of Mrs. Bcllingham, which had modified her in- 
 nocence. She had heard of girls who "flung 
 themselves at the heads" of men. She had 
 heard of those who gave too much "encourage- 
 ment," who "led on" reluctant wooers. This 
 talk had passed lightly enough over her head, 
 always full of dreams ; but yet it had left a de- 
 posit as so much light talk does. 
 
 When first her eyes fell upon the picture, this 
 was the thought that rushed upon her. Almost 
 before the ready tear had formed which came at 
 the sight of Earl's-hall, before the quick pang of 
 grief for the loss of all which the old house rep- 
 resented to her, before the sense of fatal bondage 
 and entanglement which was her special burden, 
 had time to make itself felt — came, with a flood 
 of agony and shame, a realization of herself as 
 she had been when Rob Glen had seated him- 
 self at the end of the potato field to make this 
 drawing. 
 
 Other things that had happened to her had 
 not involved any fault of hers ; she did not even 
 feel that she was seriously to blame for the forg- 
 ing of the chain that bound her — but this, this 
 had been her own doing. She it was who had 
 wooed him to Earl's-hall; she had asked him 
 to come, and to come again ; she had persuaded 
 him to a hundred things he never would have 
 thought of by himself. But for her he would 
 not have returned day by day, getting more and 
 more familiar. When she rushed about every- 
 where for the things he wanted, when she ad- 
 mired everything he did with such passionate 
 enthusiasm, when she could hang over his shoul- 
 der watching every line he drew, what had she 
 been doing? "Elinging herself at his head," 
 "leading him on," "encouraging him," oh, and 
 more than encouraging him ! as Ludovic had 
 said. This was worse even than the bondage in 
 which it had resulted. Her face was covered 
 with burning blushes ; her soul overflowed with 
 shame. 
 
 Oh, how well she recollected the ridiculous 
 ardor with which she had taken up her old play- 
 fellow ; the sense of some new delightful event 
 which had come into her life when she met him, 
 and discovered his sketches, and appropriated 
 him, as it were, to her own amusement and pleas- 
 ure ' What a change he had made in the child- 
 ish monotony and quiet ! She remembered how 
 she had brought him to the house, how she had 
 coaxed her father for him, how she had fluttered 
 about him as he sat there beginning his draw- 
 ing. If he said he wanted anything, how she 
 flew to get it. How she watched every line over 
 his shoulder ; how she praised him with all sim- 
 ple sincerity. (Margaret still thought the pict- 
 ure beautiful, more beautiful than anything she 
 had ever seen.) She seemed to see herself, oh, 
 so over-eager, over-bold, unmaidenly! Was it 
 wonderful that he should think her ready to do 
 everything he asked her — ready to make any 
 sacrifice, to separate herself from all belonging 
 to her for his sake ? 
 
 There is always a certain consolation, a cer- 
 tain power which upholds and supports, in the 
 consciousness of suffering for something which 
 is not one's own fault. To have been the victim 
 of some wonderful combination of circumstances, 
 to have been caught in some snare, which all 
 your skill was not able to elude, that is far from 
 
122 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 being the worst that can befall any one. But 
 to see in your conduct the germ of all your suf- 
 ferings, to perceive how you have yourself led 
 lightly up, dancing and singing, to the precipice 
 over which you are about to be pitched — this is 
 the most appalling ordeal of all. Margaret grew 
 hot all over, with a blush that tingled to her fin- 
 ger points, and seemed to scorch her from head 
 to foot. Whose fault was it, all the self-betrayal 
 that followed, the horrible bond that bound her 
 scul, and which she did not even venture to 
 think of; whose fault was it but her own? 
 
 "Margaret, dear Margaret, dearest Jean has 
 sent me to ask, are you not coming down-stairs 
 again? We all feel for you, darling — and oh, 
 do you think it is nothing to us? Dear Jean 
 puts great force upon herself, she has such a 
 strong will, and commands it ; but we all feel 
 the same. Oh, what a beautiful picture it is ! 
 What a dear, dear old house ! How it brings 
 back our youth, and dearest, dearest papa!" 
 
 Miss Leslie put her nose to the picture as if 
 she would have kissed it. She felt in the depths 
 of her artless soul that this was her duty to old 
 Sir Ludovic, of whom poor Grace had known 
 little enough for twenty years before. The tear 
 came quite easily, which she dried with her white 
 handkerchief, pressing it to her eyes. Not for 
 anything in the world would she have failed of 
 this duty to her clearest papa. Jean thought 
 chiefly of crape, and was content with that way 
 of expressing her sentiments ; but within the 
 first year, within, indeed, the first six months, 
 to mention her father without the tear he had 
 a right to, would have been to Grace a cruel 
 dereliction from natural duty. After a twelve- 
 month, when the family put off crape, it would 
 no doubt cease to be necessary — though always, 
 she felt, a right thing — to pay that tribute of 
 tears. 
 
 Margaret stood by, and looked on with a 
 dreary helplessness. She had no tears for her 
 father, no room for him even in her overladen 
 and guilty soul. And this she felt acutely, with 
 a pang the more, feeling as if all love had died 
 out of her heart, and nothing but darkness and 
 confusion, and ingratitude and insensibility, was 
 in her and about her. She took up the picture 
 with a slight shudder, as she touched it, and put 
 it away in the comer where hung the faded por- 
 trait of her mother's young lover. 
 
 This touch of contact with the story of one 
 who had gone before her, whom somehow — she 
 scarcely knew how — she could not help identify- 
 ing with herself, gave her a little fanciful conso- 
 lation. Margaret did not long, as so many girls 
 have done, to have a mother to flee to, and in 
 whom to confide all her troubles ; but it seemed 
 to her, in some confused way, that it must have 
 been but a previous chapter in her own life, which 
 had passed under this same roof, in this same 
 house, twenty years ago. She seemed almost 
 dimly to recollect it, as she recollected (but far 
 more vividly) that time of folly in which she had 
 " encouraged " and " led on " Rob Glen. 
 
 It was better for her to obey Jean's call, to go 
 down-stairs and try to forget it all, for a mo- 
 ment, than to stay here and drive herself wild, 
 wondering what he might do next, and what, oh 
 what! it would be necessary for her to do. 
 Grace, who was a little disappointed not to find 
 her dissolved in tears, recommended that she 
 
 should bathe her eyes, and brought her some 
 water, and took a great deal of pains to obliterate 
 the traces of weeping which did not exist. She 
 tucked Margaret's hand under her arm, and pat- 
 ted it and held it fast. 
 
 "My poor darling!" she said, cooing over the 
 unresponsive girl. Jean, too, who was not given 
 to much exhibition of feeling, received her, when 
 she came back, with something like tenderness. 
 
 "Put a chair for Margaret by the fire, Au- 
 brey," she said, "the child will be cold coming 
 through all those passages ; that is the worst of 
 an old house, there are so many passages, and a 
 draught in every one of them. I would not say 
 a word against old houses, which are of course 
 all the fashion, and very picturesque, and all that ; 
 but I must say I think you suffer from draughts. 
 And what good is the fireplace in the hall ? the 
 heat all goes up that big chimney. It does not 
 come into the house at all. I would like hot- 
 water pipes, but they are a great expense, and 
 of course you would all tell me they were out of 
 keeping. So is gas out of keeping. Oh, you 
 need not cry out; I don't mean in the drawing- 
 room, of course, which is a thing only done in 
 Scotland, and quite out of the question ; but to 
 wander about those passages in the dark, and 
 never to stir a step without a candle in your 
 hand ! I think it a great trouble, I must allow." 
 
 " Your ancestral home, Miss Leslie," said Mr. 
 St. John, who had secured a place in front of 
 the fire, " must be a true mediaeval monument. 
 I am very much interested in domestic architect- 
 ure. And so I am sure you must be, familiar 
 with two such houses — " 
 
 "People who possess old houses seldom care 
 for them," said Aubrey, taking up a position on 
 the other side. " You know what my aunt says 
 about gas and hot-water pipes. Tell me," he 
 said, half whispering, stooping over her, to the 
 great indignation of the clergyman, "what I 
 must call you. I must reserve the endearing 
 title of aunt for the family circle, but I can't say 
 Miss Leslie, you know, for you are not Miss 
 Leslie ; and Margaret, tout court, would be a 
 presumption." 
 
 " Everybody calls me Margaret," she said. 
 
 " That man did at Killin. I felt disposed to 
 pitch him into the loch when I heard him ; but 
 probably," said Aubrey, laughing, " there might 
 have been two words to that, don't you think ? 
 Perhaps, if it had come to a struggle, it would 
 have been I who was most likely to taste the 
 waters of the loch." 
 
 "Oh, Randal is very good-natured," said Mar- 
 garet, making an effort to recover herself, "and 
 perhaps he would not have known what you 
 meant if you had spoken about a loch. I never 
 saw this house till just a little while ago," she 
 added to Mr. St. John, anxious to be civil. "I 
 never was out of Fife." 
 
 "And the Northern architecture is different 
 from ours ; more rude, is it not ? I have heard 
 that people often get confused, and attach an 
 earlier date to a building than it really has any 
 right to." 
 
 "It is kind of you to say the man at Killin 
 was good-natured," said Aubrey, on the other 
 side; "of course, you think /would not have 
 given him much trouble. It seemed to me that 
 everybody showed an extraordinary amount of 
 confidence in that man at Killin. He pretended 
 
THE PBIMROSE PATH. 
 
 123 
 
 to be fisliing, but he never fished. I suspect his 
 fishing related to — who shall we say — your little 
 cousin? Nay, I am making a mistake again; I 
 always forget that you belong to the previous 
 generation — your niece." 
 
 "Effie!" cried Margaret, completely ronsed, 
 so great was her surprise. "Oh! but it was 
 always — it was never — Effie — " Here she made 
 a. pause, bewildered, and caught Mr. St. John's 
 eye. "Oh, I beg your pardon," she cried, with a 
 sudden blush ; " I — don't know about architect- 
 ure. I have not had — very much education," she 
 answered, looking piteously at her sisters for aid. 
 
 "Oh, dearest Jean! I think I must really go 
 and tell Mr. St. John — " 
 
 "Hold your tongue!" said Mrs. Bellingham, 
 holding her sister fast by her dress ; " let the 
 child make it out for herself. Do you think 
 they mind about her education ? Who cares for 
 education? Men always like a girl to know 
 nothing. Just keep out of the way and stop 
 meddling." 
 
 This aside was inaudible to the group round 
 the fire ; though Mr. St. John's admirable enun- 
 ciation made all he said quite distinct to them, 
 and Mrs. Eellingham's sharp ears were very con- 
 scious of Aubrey's whispering — which was ill- 
 bred, but of no effect — on the other side of Mar- 
 garet's chair. 
 
 Mr. St. John gave a little laugh of respectful 
 derision and flattery. 
 
 " In the present age of learned ladies it is 
 quite a relief to hear such a statement," he said, 
 "though I should not like to trust in your 
 want of education. But this country is very 
 rich architecturally, and I should be delighted 
 to offer my humble services as cicerone. I 
 should like to convert you to the pure English 
 Elizabethan — " 
 
 " It must have been Miss Effie," said Aubrey ; 
 "who else? for Aunt Grace, though charming — 
 And it stands to reason that a man who says he 
 has gone to a certain place for fishing, yet never 
 touches a rod, must have ulterior motives. And 
 Aunt Jean is of opinion that these two would 
 make a very pretty pair." 
 
 Why Aubrey said this it would be hard to 
 tell; whether from malice, as meaning to prick 
 her into annoyance, or whether out of simple 
 mischief, anyhow it roused Margaret. 
 
 " Oh, I do not know if Jean would care — I 
 am sure you are — very kind," she said, vacantly, 
 to Mr. St. John ; then more rapidly to the oth- 
 er hand: "I am almost sure you are mistaken. 
 Neither Jean nor Effie knew Bandal — that is, to 
 call knowing; he was — quite a stranger. I 
 don't think he knew Effie at all." 
 
 "These are just the most favorable circum- 
 stances for a flirtation," said Aubrey; "but 
 look, they are all on the alert, and Aunt Jean is 
 making signs to me. It is evident they mean 
 you to talk to him, not me. When he goes 
 away, let us return to Miss Effie and the man at 
 Killin." 
 
 " Oh, I don't want to talk about them !" cried 
 Margaret — here at least there was nothing to 
 make her shrink from Jean's inspection ; she 
 said this quite out loud, so that all the company 
 heard. Because she had one thing to conceal, 
 was it not natural that she should take particular 
 pains to show that there was nothing to conceal ? 
 She did not want any one to whisper to her. 
 
 And there was besides, there could be no doubt, 
 a certain tone of pique and provoked annoyance 
 in Margaret's voice. 
 
 "I was saying," said Mr. St. John, mildly, 
 "that in our own church there is a great deal 
 that is interesting ; and if you would allow me 
 to take you over it some day, you and Mrs. Bel- 
 lingham or Miss Leslie, I should not despair of 
 interesting you. Besides, there are so many of 
 your ancestors commemorated there. I hope 
 we may succeed in making your mother-country 
 very interesting to you," he said, lowering his 
 tone. It was a great relief to the young cler- 
 gyman when " that fellow " went away from the 
 heiress's side. 
 
 " Oh, I like it very well," Margaret said. 
 
 "But I am very ambitious, Miss Leslie ; very 
 well is indifferent. I want you to like it more 
 than that; I want you to love it, to prefer it to 
 the other," he said, with fervor in his voice. 
 "And now I must say good-night." He held 
 out his hand bending toward her, and Margaret, 
 looking up, caught his eye : she gave a little 
 start, and shrank backward at the very moment 
 of giving him her hand. Why should he look 
 like that — like him whom she was so anxious to 
 forget ? She dropped his hand almost before 
 she touched it, in the nervous tremor which 
 came over her. Why should he look like Bob 
 Glen ? Was he in the conspiracy against her to 
 make her remember ? She could scarcely keep 
 in a little cry which rose to her lips in her sud- 
 den pain. Boor Mr. St. John ! anything farther 
 from his mind than to make her think of any 
 other suitor could not be. But Mrs. Belling- 
 ham, who was more clear-sighted, saw the look, 
 and put an interpretation upon it of a different 
 kind. When Mr. St. John had gone, attended 
 to the door by Aubrey at his aunt's earnest re- 
 quest, Mrs. Bellingham came and placed herself 
 where Mr. St. John had been, in front of the 
 fire. 
 
 "That man," she said, solemnly, when he was 
 gone, "is after Margaret too. Oh! you need 
 not make such signs to me, Grace ; I know per- 
 fectly well what I am saying. I never would 
 speak about lovers to girls in an ordinary way ; 
 the monkeys find out all that for themselves 
 quite fast enough — do you think there is any- 
 thing that I could teach Effie on that point? 
 But Margaret's is a peculiar case : she ought to 
 know how to distinguish those who are sincere 
 — she ought to know that it is not entirely for 
 herself that men make those eyes at her. Oh, 
 I saw him very well ; I perceived what he meant 
 by it. You have a very nice fortune, my dear, 
 and a very nice house, and you will have to pay 
 the penalty like others. You will very soon 
 know the signs as well as I do ; and I can tell 
 you that that man is after you too." 
 
 "Dearest Jean!" said Grace, "he may be a 
 little High-Church, more high than I approve, 
 but he is a very nice young man. Whom could 
 Margaret have better than a good, nice-looking, 
 young clergyman ? They are more domestic 
 and more at home, and more with their wives — " 
 
 "Fiddle-faddling eternally in a drawing- 
 room," said Mrs. Bellingham; "always in a 
 woman's way wherever she turns. No, my dear, 
 whoever you marry, Margaret, don't marry a 
 clergyman ; a man like that always purring about 
 the fireside would drive me mad in a month." 
 
124 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 "Is it St. John who is in question?" said Au- 
 brey, coming back. "Was he provided for my 
 amusement ? or is he daily bread at the Grange 
 already? I don't see how so pretty-behaved a 
 person could drive any one mad ; he is a great 
 deal safer than your last j>rotey€, the man at 
 Killin." 
 
 "I don't mean to discuss such questions with 
 you, Aubrey," said Mrs. Bellingham; "it is 
 late, and I think if you will light our candles for 
 us, we will say good-night. And I will go with 
 you, Margaret, and look at that picture again ; 
 it was a very pretty picture. I must have it 
 framed for you ; there is a place in the wainscot 
 parlor where it would hang very well. Who 
 did you say sent it to you ? or did you tell me ? 
 I did not know that there ever was anybody at 
 Earl's-hall that could draw so well." 
 
 "Dear Jean," said Grace, thinking it a good 
 opportunity to appear in Margaret's defence, 
 "let her alone, let the poor child alone to-night ; 
 she is too tired for anything. Are you not too 
 tired, darling Margaret? I am sure you want 
 to go to bed." 
 
 "I hope I know better than to overtire her," 
 said Jean, witli some offence ; "there is no need 
 for you to come, Grace. Where have you put 
 the picture, Margaret? Why, you have put it 
 with its face to the wall! Is that to save it 
 from the dust, or because you don't like to see 
 it? My dear, I don't want to be unkind, but 
 this is really carrying things too far. You don't 
 mean to say you have taken a dislike to Earl's- 
 hall?" 
 
 "No," Margaret said, under her breath; 
 though it seemed to her that to look at the 
 picture again was more than she could bear. 
 
 "And it is a very pretty picture," said Jean, 
 turning it round and sitting down on the sofa to 
 look at it — " a very pretty picture ! By-and- 
 by you will be very glad to have it. And who 
 was it you said did it ? I never thought Randal 
 Burnside was an artist. Perhaps he got one 
 of the people to do it who are always at Sir 
 Claude's. But, my dear, if that is so, I can't 
 let you take a present from a young man like 
 Randal Burnside." 
 
 "It was not Randal" — Margaret was eager 
 to clear him : " he never sent me anything in a 
 present ; he would not think of me at all. It 
 was — once when he came to make a picture of 
 papa, which is beautiful — He was a young 
 man from the farm." 
 
 "A young man from the farm !" 
 
 "Rob Glen," said Margaret, almost choked, 
 yet forcing herself to speak. "Papa said he 
 might do it. I did not know anything about it, 
 but I suppose he must have finished it ; and here 
 it is." It seemed a simple statement enough, if 
 she had not been so breathless, and changed col- 
 or so continually, and looked so haggard about 
 the eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Bellingham heard this account with a 
 
 "Rob Glen!" she said; "Rob Glen! where 
 have I heard the name before ? Was it the ser- 
 vants at Earl's-hall, or was it Ludovic, or — who 
 was it ? Papa said he might do it ? Dear me ! 
 papa might have known better, Margaret, though 
 I am sure I don't want to blame him. It will 
 have to be paid for, I suppose ; and how very 
 strange it should have been sent like this, with- 
 
 out a word ! He will send a bill, most likely. 
 How strange I should not have heard anything 
 about this artist! Was there any price men- 
 tioned that you remember, Margaret? They 
 ask such sums of money for one of those trifling 
 sketches. It is nice enough, but I am sure it is 
 not worth the half of what we shall have to give 
 for it. When there is no bargain made be- 
 forehand, it is astonishing the charges they will 
 make ; and papa really had no money for such 
 nonsense: he ought not to have ordered it ; but 
 perhaps he thought it would be a gratification to 
 you. Can you remember at all, Margaret, if 
 anything was said about the price?" 
 
 "Oh no, no — there was to be no price. It 
 was not like that. He asked to do it, and papa 
 let him do it. Nobody thought of any mon- 
 ey." 
 
 " But, my dear !" said Jean — " my dear ! you 
 are a little simpleton ; but you could not think, I 
 hope, of taking the man's work and giving him 
 nothing for it? That is out of the question — 
 quite out of the question. I never heard of such 
 a thing," said Mrs. Bellingham. The words 
 seemed to penetrate through all Margaret's be- 
 ing. She trembled, notwithstanding all her ef- 
 forts to control herself. What could she reply ? 
 Take a man's work and give him nothing for it ; 
 but it was not money that Rob would take. 
 
 "Of course it could not be expected that you 
 should know anything of business," said Jean, 
 "and poor papa was already feeling ill, perhaps, 
 and out of his ordinary way. I dare say a letter 
 will come by the next post to explain it. And 
 if not, you must give me the young man's ad- 
 dress, and I will write and ask, or we might 
 send word to Ludovic. Aubrey is a very good 
 judge of such things ; we can ask Aubrey to- 
 morrow what he thinks the value should be. 
 Now, Margaret, you are trembling from head to 
 foot — you are as white as a sheet ; you have a 
 nervous look about your eyes that it always 
 frightens me to see. My dear, what is to be- 
 come of you," cried Jean, "if you let every little 
 thing upset you ? It was in the course of nature 
 that we should lose papa — he was an old man ; 
 and, I believe, though he was never a man who 
 talked much about religion, that he was well 
 prepared. And as for Earl's-hall, you would not 
 grudge that to Ludovic ? It is his right as the 
 only son. It shows great weakness, my dear, 
 both of body and mind, that you should be upset 
 like this only by a picture of Earl's-hall." 
 
 Margaret listened with all that struggle of 
 conflicting feelings which produces hysteria in 
 people unused to control themselves. The chok- 
 ing in the throat, the burning of those unshed 
 tears about her eyes, the trouble in her heart, 
 was more than she could bear. She could not 
 make any reply. She could not even see her 
 sister's face ; the room reeled round with her ; 
 everything grew dark. To save her balance, 
 she threw herself suddenly upon the firm figure 
 before her, clutching at Jean's support, throwing 
 her arms round her with a movement of despera- 
 tion. Few people had ever clung wildly to Mrs. 
 Bellingham in moments of insufferable emotion. 
 She was quite overcome by this involuntary ap- 
 peal to her. She took her young sister into her 
 arms, all unconscious of the cause of her misery, 
 and caressed and soothed her, and stayed by her 
 till she had calmed down, and was able to es- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 12." 
 
 cnpe from her trouble in bed. Jean believed in 
 bed as a cure for most evils. 
 
 "You must not give way," she said — "in- 
 deed, my dear, you must not give way ; but a 
 good night's sleep will be the best thing for you ; 
 lie still and rest." 
 
 "What a tender-hearted thing it is!" she 
 said, going down -stairs again for a last word 
 with Aubrey, after this agitating task was over. 
 "I declare she has quite upset me, too; though 
 it is scarcely possible, after being so long away 
 from home, that I could feel as she does. She 
 is a great deal too feeling for her own comfort. 
 But, Aubrey, you must not lose your time, my 
 dear boy ; you must push on. It would be the 
 greatest ' divert ' to her, as they say in Scotland, 
 if you could only get her to fall in love with you. 
 I have the greatest confidence in falling in love." 
 
 "And so have I — when they will do it," said 
 Aubrey, puffing out a long plume of smoke from 
 his cigar. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Curiously enough, Margaret's first thought, 
 when she woke in the morning, was not of the 
 picture nor of all the consequences which it 
 seemed to threaten. Sometimes the most tri- 
 fling matter will thrust itself in, before those 
 giant cares, which generally wait by our bed- 
 sides, to surprise us when we first open our eyes. 
 And the first thing she thought of, strangely 
 enough, was Aubrey's suggestion of last night — 
 Effie ! What could he mean by it ? Eftie had 
 been his own companion, not Randal's. Randal 
 had not walked or talked with, or sought any 
 one, except — It was very strange, indeed, how 
 any one could suppose that Effie — He did not 
 know her. Of all the party, the one he knew 
 best was certainly herself. She must certainly 
 be best aware of what his feelings were — of what 
 he had been thinking about! It annoyed her to 
 think that Aubrey should have so little percep- 
 tion, should know so little about it, though Jean 
 had such confidence in him. There was a little 
 irritation in her mind about this point, which 
 quite pushed to the front and made itself appear 
 more important than it was. She could not help 
 making a little survey of the circumstances, of 
 all that had happened — and it had just occurred 
 to her to recollect the offer of service and help 
 that Randal had made her. This had made her 
 half smile at the moment, and since then she 
 had smiled more than once at the idea that she 
 could want his help. She had said, "Jean will 
 manage everything ;" and yet he had said it with 
 fervid meaning, with a look of anxious concern. 
 
 Ah ! she sprang up in her bed, and clasped 
 her hands together. The occasion had come ; 
 but she could not consult Randal, nor any one. 
 She must struggle through it by herself, as best 
 she could, holding her peace, saying nothing. 
 That was the only safety for her. But Marga- 
 ret was surprised to find that when she turned 
 the picture round again, and looked at it trem- 
 bling, as though it had been capable of doing 
 her bodily harm, she did not feel so much power 
 in it as she had done the day before. It did not 
 sting her the second time. She looked at it al- 
 most tranquilly, seeing in it no dreadful accuser, 
 bringing before her all her own past levity and 
 
 folly, but only a memorial of a time and a place 
 which indeed made her heart beat with keen 
 emotion and with pain, but not with the over- 
 whelming, sickening passion of misery which 
 had been like death to her last night. 
 
 She could not understand how this was, for 
 the circumstances had not changed in any way; 
 and there was still evidently before her the diffi- 
 culty of making Jean understand how it was 
 that this picture could be accepted without pay- 
 ment, and keeping her, energetic as she was, 
 from interfering in her own person. There was 
 still this difficulty ; and all that made the future 
 so alarming, the dread of other surprises that 
 might follow this, was undiminished ; but yet, 
 instead of turning the picture to the wall again, 
 in sick horror of it and fear of it as of a ghost, 
 Margaret left it in the recess, uncovered, the 
 corner of the broad rim of white touching the 
 little faded water -color portrait. That touch 
 gave her a certain soothing and consolation. It 
 was not the same kind of trouble as her own ; 
 probably the other girl who had been engaged 
 to that poor fellow without loving him had not 
 been at all to blame ; but yet there his portrait 
 stood, a memorial of other uneasy thoughts that 
 had gone on in this same chamber. Probably 
 she blamed herself too, though not as Margaret 
 was doing. But certainly, anyhow, she must 
 have sat thinking, and cried in the same corner 
 of that sofa, and looked at the pale painted face. 
 Margaret leaned the cause of her trouble against 
 the frame of that dead and gone one, which the 
 other girl had lived through, and felt that there 
 was consolation in the tomb. What so vision- 
 ary, so painful, so foolish even, that will not 
 console at eighteen when it happens to offer a 
 parallel to our own distresses ? 
 
 And it was with renewed courage and a great 
 deal more composure than she could have hoped 
 for, that Margaret went down-stairs. They all 
 came to meet her with kindly questions how she 
 was. "But I, for one, think it quite unneces- 
 sary to put any such question," said Aubrey. 
 He looked at her with a lingering look of pleas- 
 ure. He did not object to Margaret. She was 
 not "his style;" but still he did not object to 
 her, and this morning he admired her, as she 
 came down-stairs in her morning freshness, her 
 black dress bringing out the delicate tints of her 
 complexion. Jean had told him that he had 
 better lose no time ; and the fact of Mr. St. 
 John's evident intentions had quickened Au- 
 brey's. The good which another man was try- 
 ing to secure became more valuable in his eyes. 
 She was certainly very pretty, he said to himself, 
 a delicate little creature, like a pale rose — not 
 altogether a white rose, but that delicate blush 
 which is not definable by any vulgar name of 
 color ; and her silky hair was piquant among all 
 the frizzy unkempt heads that were more fash- 
 ionable. On the whole, he had not the least ob- 
 jection to make what "running" he could for 
 Margaret. She was worth winning, with her 
 beautiful old house, and her pretty little income, 
 though she was not quite his style. 
 
 " Here is a fat letter for you," he said ; " we 
 have all been grumbling over our letters. Aunt 
 Jean, I think, would like to read them all, to 
 see if they were fit to be delivered to us ; she 
 takes all the charge of our moral as well as of 
 our physical well-being. I saw her look at this 
 
126 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 very narrowly, as if she had the greatest mind 
 to break the seal. That is of course a figure of 
 speech nowadays. I mean to open the enve- 
 lope ; it is very fat and tempting to the curious 
 spectator. I should like myself to know what 
 was in it; it must be from some dear confiden- 
 tial young lady friend." 
 
 Margaret looked at the letter with a little 
 thrill of alarm. She did not get many letters, 
 and every one that came was a slight excite- 
 ment ; but when she had looked at it she laid it 
 down very calmly. "It is from Bell," she said. 
 She knew very well what Bell would say to her. 
 She would tell her about the brown cow and the 
 chickens, and how John was with his rheuma- 
 tism ; and there was no great hurry to read it 
 for a few minutes, until they had ceased to take 
 so much notice of her. Margaret knew that 
 after a minute or two her sisters would be fully 
 occupied with their own concerns. 
 
 "Aubrey is talking nonsense, Margaret, as 
 he generally does," said Mrs. Bellingham. 
 "The idea that I would open anybody's letter! 
 not but what I think it a very right thing of 
 young people to show their letters to their par- 
 ents, or to those who stand in the place of 
 parents ; it shows a right sort of confidence, 
 and I confess, for my part, I always like to see 
 it ; but I am not the sort of person that would 
 ever force confidence. It is nothing, I always 
 say, unless it comes spontaneously. I wonder 
 if Bell will tell you anything about that picture 
 that arrived last night, Margaret! I saw your 
 letter was from Bell, and that is what made me 
 look at it, as Aubrey says, though he always 
 exaggerates. Of course, I knew Bell and you 
 had no secrets, Margaret. I really think if you 
 had been out of the way I should have done 
 violence to my own feelings and gone the length 
 of opening it, just to see if there was anything 
 to explain what that young man could mean by 
 sending it without a word." 
 
 "Oh!" said Aubrey, "it was a young man, 
 then, was it, who made the drawing? it is satis- 
 factory to know that it was a young man." 
 
 "Why is it satisfactory to know that he is a 
 young man ? I can't say that I see that at all ; 
 it is neither satisfactory nor unsatisfactory : it is 
 not a person in our condition of life, so that it 
 does not matter in the least to Margaret. Why 
 do you say it is satisfactory to know that he is a 
 young man ?" 
 
 "Well, because then there is hope that he 
 will do better when he is older," said Aubrey. 
 " You all seemed to like it so much that I did 
 not venture to say anything ; but it is not great 
 in point of art. I have no doubt it is a most 
 faithful representation of the place, but it is 
 nothing to speak of, you know, in the point of 
 art. " 
 
 "Oh, really, do you think so ?" cried Mrs. 
 Bellingham; "then you would not think it 
 worth a very high price, Aubrey? I am very 
 glad of that — for I thought we might be obliged 
 to offer a large sum — " 
 
 "It is a beautiful picture," said Margaret, 
 hotly; she could not bear anything to be said 
 against this rooted belief of hers : its presence 
 alarmed and troubled her, but she would not 
 have it undervalued. "If it were to be sold it 
 would be worth a great deal of money — it is a 
 beautiful picture ; but there is nothing about 
 
 selling it," she cried, a flush rising into her 
 cheeks. " It was done for — papa : money would 
 not buy it — and him that painted it was not 
 thinking about money." Her pronouns, poor 
 child, were wrong, but her heart was right. 
 Rob Glen was her greatest terror on earth, but 
 she would be just to him all the same. 
 
 "But that is just what I cannot be satisfied 
 about," said Jean. "If you pay a man for his 
 work, why there you are ! but if you don't pay 
 him, or give him anything as an equivalent, 
 why where are you ? Every man must be paid 
 one way or another. Open Bell's letter, Mar- 
 garet, and tell me if she says anything about it. 
 I shall have to write to Ludovic, or to the young 
 man himself, if we do not know what he 
 means." 
 
 Margaret opened Bell's letter with a hand 
 that trembled a little. She did not expect to 
 find anything there on the subject which had so 
 deeply occupied her ; but still, to open this thick 
 enclosure before Jean, whose mind was so much 
 set upon it that something was to be found 
 there, and who would watch her while she read 
 it, and ask to see Bell's humble epistle, was 
 very alarming. She opened it with a tremulous- 
 ness which she could scarcely disguise. Bell 
 had folded her letter, which was written on a 
 large sheet of paper, in the way in which letters 
 had been folded before the days of envelopes, 
 and consequently it was with some little delay 
 and difficulty that a trembling hand opened the 
 big folds. But Margaret was suddenly petri- 
 fied, frozen to her very heart with terror, when 
 she saw another letter lying enclosed — a tiny 
 letter of a very different aspect from Bell's. She 
 dared not move — she dared not do anything to 
 show the greatness of the shock she had re- 
 ceived. The danger was not of a kind that she 
 dared disclose. The paper shook in her hands 
 convulsively, and then they became pre ter natu- 
 rally still and steady. She did not know Rob 
 Glen's handwriting, but she knew that this was 
 from him by instinct, by inspiration of her ter- 
 ror. What was she to do ? Her face she felt 
 grow crimson, then fell into a chill of paleness; 
 and when she lifted her eyes in a momenta- 
 ry glance of panic to see if Jean was looking at 
 her, she met the eyes of Aubrey, and without 
 knowing what she did, in a kind of delirium 
 made a terrified, instantaneous appeal to him. 
 Her thoughts were too hurried, her desperation 
 too complete even to make her conscious that 
 the appeal was unreasonable, or, indeed, aware 
 that she had made it, till the thing was done ; 
 and next moment all became dim before her 
 eyes, though she still kept her balance desper- 
 ately upon her seat, and held the papers firmly 
 in her hands. 
 
 Aubrey was not insensible or unkind : he was 
 startled by the look ; for whatever Margaret's 
 emotion might mean it was evidently something 
 very real and terrible for the young, inexperi- 
 enced creature who put this involuntary trust in 
 him. He said instantly : 
 
 " Have you finished breakfast, Aunt Jean ? — 
 for if so, I want you to look at some things 
 of mine — a parcel I received this morning. 
 Christmas is coming, and with all that crew of 
 children at the Court, a man is put to his wit's 
 end : come into my room and give me your ad- 
 vice about them. Oh yes, of course they are 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 127 
 
 rabbis}] ; what can I buy but rubbish on my lit- 
 tle scrap of money ? But come and give me 
 your opinion." 
 
 "Wait a minute, my dear boy, wait a min- 
 ute; you shall have my opinion with the great- 
 est of pleasure ; but I want to hear what Bell 
 says." 
 
 Upon this he got up, and walking solemnly to 
 her, offered his arm. "Who is Bell? I de- 
 cline to yield the pas to Bell. Come now with 
 me, and Bell will do afterward ; if it takes so 
 long to read as it promises from the size of it, I 
 should have to wait till to-morrow, and that 
 does not suit me at all. Whisper! there is a 
 scrap of Sevres, Rose du Barri, and one or two 
 small rags of lace." 
 
 " Oh!" Mrs. Bellingham uttered a cry. She 
 made a little dart toward Margaret to inspect 
 the letter over her shoulder, thus hoping to se- 
 cure both the advantages offered ; but before 
 she could carry out her intention, her hand was 
 caught fast in Aubrey's arm. "I want you to 
 see them all first" he whispered in her ear. 
 
 "1 do think dear Aubrey might have asked 
 me too," said Miss Grace, querulously ; "I don't 
 know that there is so much difference, though it 
 is Jean, to be sure, who is his real aunt. But 
 then, perhaps, dearest Margaret, you know, he 
 might not like to ask me, an unmarried lady, to 
 go into his room. Yes, yes, dear Aubrey, I see 
 exactly what he meant — he gave me a look as 
 he went away, as much as to say, I will explain 
 it all afterward. Naturally, you know, he would 
 not ask me, bdlng an unmarried lady, to go into 
 his room. Where are you going, my dear — 
 where are you going ? You have not eaten any- 
 thing, darling Margaret; you have not even 
 taken your tea." 
 
 But it was not difficult to escape from Grace; 
 and Margaret, with a sense of desperation, 
 snatched a cloak from the hall and stole out, 
 wending her way among the shrubbery to the 
 most retired spot she could think of. She would 
 not go to her room, where her sister would in- 
 evitably come after her. She had thrust Bell's 
 big letter — innocent production, penned out of 
 the fulness of Bell's heart, which was as big as 
 the letter — into her pocket. And she dared not 
 look at the other till she had got safe into some 
 corner where nobody would see her, some covert 
 where she would be free from inspection. The 
 cold wind revived her, and a little spiteful rain 
 came damp upon her face, bringing back a little 
 of its color ; but she was unconscious of both 
 wind and rain. She went to a little breezy sum- 
 mer-house in a corner of the grounds ; and then 
 she bethought herself that the gravel-paths were 
 dry there, and Jean might easily follow ; so she 
 retraced her steps hurriedly, and pulled the hood 
 of her cloak over her head, and ran across the 
 little bridge over the stream, to the park, where 
 all the ground was still thickly sprinkled with the 
 autumn carpet of yellow leaves. The grass was 
 wet, the rain came spitefully in her face, but she 
 did not mind. When she was in the midst of 
 the big clump of elms, where the leaves were al- 
 most gone, she stopped and paused a moment to 
 rest, with her back against a tree. Jean would 
 never follow her there ; the wet grass and univer- 
 sal dampness spreading round her made her safe. 
 She opened her fingers in which she had held 
 it fast, the innocent-looking little missive. With 
 9 
 
 what a beating heart she opened it ! Oh, how 
 foolish, foolish she had been to bind all her life. 
 for ever and ever, and she not eighteen ! And 
 here it was that she raid her first love-letter — 
 her heart beating, but not with pleasure ; her 
 bosom heaving with terror, and dismay, and 
 pain. 
 
 "Margaret, my own darling, where have yon 
 gone from me ? Why do you not send me a word 
 in charity? It is three months since you went 
 away! Is it possible that in all that time you 
 have never thought of me, nor thought how mis- 
 erable I was, deprived of you and of all knowl- 
 edge of you ? You have put my love to a tre- 
 mendous test, though it is strong enough to bear 
 that, and a great deal more. But oh, my love, 
 don't make me so unhappy ! Shake me off, you 
 cannot ; make me forget, you cannot. My love 
 is too tender and too constant to fail ; but you 
 can make me very wretched, Margaret, and that 
 is what you are doing. I have waited and wait- 
 ed, and looked every day for a letter — the mer- 
 est little scrap would have made me happy. I 
 knew you could not write often or much ; but 
 one word, surely I might have had one word. 
 I am just finishing the drawing you liked, the 
 view of Earl's - hall, hoping that, notwithstand- 
 ing all changes, you may like it still, and that it 
 may remind you of the happy time when we first 
 knew each other, when nobody thought of part- 
 ing us. Your dear old father would never have 
 parted us ; he would have preferred your happi- 
 ness to everything. He would rather have chos- 
 en a loving husband to take care of his little 
 Peggy, than all the world could give her. Your 
 brother thinks otherwise, my darling, and I don't 
 blame him ; but I know what old Sir Ludovic 
 would have thought. And you will not let them 
 turn you against me, my sweetest Margaret? 
 you will not give me up because I am poor? 
 That is a thing I would scarcely believe, if you 
 said it with your own dear lips. Margaret Les- 
 lie give up her betrothed husband because he had 
 nothing! I never would believe it. But I know 
 your delicate sense of honor, my own dear girl. 
 You do not like to write to me in secret for the 
 sake of the people you are living among. I un- 
 derstand how you feel, and you are right — I 
 know you are right; but, my sweet love, remem- 
 ber that to please them you are killing me, and 
 I don't feel that I can bear it much longer. The 
 silence is becoming too much ; it is making an 
 end of me. One word — one sweet loving word, 
 my own Margaret, just to keep me alive ! I feel 
 that I am getting desperate. If I do not have 
 one word from you I cannot answer for myself, 
 even if it be for my own destruction : if I do not 
 hear of you, I must come and see you. I mu,st 
 get sight of you. Three months without a word 
 — without a message, is enough to kill any one 
 who loves as I do. 1 say to myself, she cannot 
 have forgotten me, she cannot have forsaken me. 
 she is too true, too faithful to her word; and 
 then another day comes, and I get desperate. 
 Half a dozen times I have been ready to start 
 off to go after you, to watch about your house, 
 only to get a glimpse of you. Write to me, my 
 Margaret, put me out of my misery — only one 
 word — ! " 
 
 Then, in a postscript, it was added that he had 
 asked Bell to send this for once, in order that 
 her friends, her unkind friends, who wanted to 
 
128 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 separate her from him, might not find out he had 
 written, and that he had sent the drawing — and 
 that once more he begged for one word, only one 
 word in reply. It was written under two dates, 
 one some weeks before the other. Margaret 
 stood with her back against the elm-tree, and 
 read it with a flutter of terror. Oh, what would 
 she do if he were to carry out his threat, if he 
 were to come and watch about the house, and 
 look for her ! Was that a thing that might hap- 
 pen any time, when she was walking through the 
 lanes, even here in her own little park under her 
 elm-trees? Might he come at any moment and 
 do as he used to do at Earl's-hall? Oh! Mar- 
 garet started from her shelter and clinched her 
 hands, and stamped her foot on the wet, yield- 
 ing grass ! Oh ! should it ever have to be gone 
 through again, all that it made her blush so hot- 
 ly to think of? The blush that was usually so 
 evanescent got fixed in hot crimson of excite- 
 ment on her cheek. If he came, it seemed to 
 her that it was she who must fly — anywhere — to 
 the end of the world : but yet he had a right to 
 come, and some time he would come, and she 
 would not be able to say a word against it. 
 "Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" cried 
 Margaret to herself. Would he not let her even 
 have her three years to herself? He might wait, 
 surely he might wait for three years ! 
 
 But it would'be impossible to give any idea 
 of the confused muddle of pain and helpless, in- 
 stinctive resistance in her thoughts. A hot flush 
 of resentment against him for daring to use the 
 name her father had ever called her by — a kind 
 of speechless fury and indignation, burst out in 
 the midst of all her other excitements. How 
 dared he do it, Rob Glen, who was nobody, who 
 was not even a gentleman ? And then she cov- 
 ered her face with her hands, and cried out with 
 horror and bewilderment to think that this was 
 her opinion of one to whom she had pledged 
 herself, to whom she would belong almost more 
 than to her father himself. And she had no one 
 to go to, no one she could confide in, no one 
 whose help she could ask. And what help would 
 avail her? She must keep her word, she must 
 fulfil her promise — at the end of three years. 
 
 She never even contemplated the possibility 
 of breaking her word ; but at present why could 
 he not let her alone ? Had she not begged him 
 to let her alone? She sank down by the foot of 
 the elm, not even noting the wet, and cried. Cry- 
 ing could do no good, she knew that ; but yet 
 it relieved her mind. She was hemmed in and 
 encompassed with danger. Perhaps he might 
 come, might appear suddenly in her path, with 
 arms ready to take hold of her, with those ca- 
 resses which made her shrink, even in imagina- 
 tion, with shame and pain. There had never 
 been a time — except the first moment when she 
 was too broken-hearted, too miserable to care 
 what happened to her — that she had not shrunk 
 from his tenderness. And how could she bear 
 it now? Terror came upon her breathless and 
 speechless ; here even, under these very trees, he 
 might appear suddenly. A stifled shriek came 
 out of her oppressed heart at the thought. It 
 seemed to her that she could never move any- 
 where with safety, without a sense of terror again. 
 
 And then there were lesser but very apparent 
 dangers. Jean would ask her what Bell had 
 said ; she would ask, perhaps, to see Bell's let- 
 
 ter, in which there was a sentence which was as 
 bad as telling all. Bell wrote r "I am sending 
 to you, my dear Miss Margret, a note that Rob 
 Glen — him that you had to come so much to 
 Earl's-hall before my dear old maister died — has 
 asked me to send. Lothe, lothe was I to do it ! 
 It may be something misbecoming the like of 
 you to receive. But I will send it this one time. 
 For a young lady like you to be writing of let- 
 ters with a young gentleman of her own kind is 
 a thing I would not encourage ; but Rob Glen 
 is more a match for your maid, Miss Margret, 
 than he is for you. And» it's real impudent of 
 him to ask me; but as he says it's something 
 about one of his pictures, I do it for this one 
 time." If Jean asked to see Bell's letter, would 
 not this betray her? So that her path was sur- 
 rounded by perils both great and small. After 
 a while, weary, wet, and draggled, with her dress 
 clinging to her, and her cloak dripping, she re- 
 turned across the sodden grass. Jean, she knew, 
 would be busy for the moment with household 
 cares, and it seemed to Margaret that, if she lost 
 no time, she might still make an attempt to avert 
 the fate that threatened. She went to her own 
 room, holding up as best she could her poor 
 black dress with its spoiled crape, and, still crim- 
 son and hot with her excitement, wrote two let- 
 ters in the time which she ordinarily took to ar- 
 range the preliminaries of one. She wrote to 
 Rob as follows, with a terseness of expression 
 partly dictated by the terror of him that had 
 taken possession of her mind, partly by the head- 
 strong haste in which she wrote. ' 
 
 "Dear Rob, — I could not write, and I can- 
 not now, because I promised to Ludovie. You 
 must not come; oh. don't come, if you have any 
 pity for me! My life would be made miserable. 
 How is it possible I could forget you ? You 
 don't forget anything in such a short time — and 
 how could I ever forget? Oh, it has cost me 
 too much ! Please, please do not come. I am 
 quite well, and you must not — indeed you must 
 not — mind my not writing, for I promised Lu- 
 dovie. Good-bye, dear Rob ; I do not want to 
 hurt you. I always knew that you were very 
 kind; but you must not — indeed, indeed, you 
 must not — think of coming to me here." 
 
 Her wet dress, her spoiled crape, clung about 
 her limbs ; her wet shoes were like two pools, in 
 which her cold little feet were soaked. As is 
 usual at such moments of excitement, her head 
 was burning but her feet cold. Nevertheless, 
 she wrote another little note to Bell, telling her 
 that she was quite right not to send any letters, 
 and begging that if she saw Mr. Randal Burn- 
 side she would ask him to speak to Mr. Glen. 
 Bell was to say that Margaret had told her to 
 make this extraordinary request — and Mr. Ran- 
 dal Bumside would understand. Nothing could 
 be more incoherent than this last letter, for Mar- 
 garet did not half know what she meant Randal 
 to do or say ; but he had promised to help her ; 
 he had told her to call him whenever she wanted 
 him. Was her poor little head getting feverish 
 and light? She went out again, stealing, in her 
 wet garments, once more down-stairs, leaving a 
 dimness upon the polished wood, and walked all 
 the way through the gradually increasing rain 
 to the post-office in the village, where she put in 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 129 
 
 her two letters. She was aching all over, her 
 head hot and light, her feet cold and heavy, her 
 crape all soaked and ruined, her hands too feeble 
 to hold np her dress, which clung about her an- 
 kles, and made her stumble at every step, before 
 she got home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 The time that had passed so peacefully over 
 Margaret, bringing so many new experiences, 
 new scenes, and enlarged acquaintance with her 
 own circumstances and advantages, had not gone 
 with equal satisfaction over Hob Glen. Marga- 
 ret's pledge to him — that pledge which she had 
 given so easily, and which his mother prized so 
 deeply — had been nothing but painful and shame- 
 ful to him. Conscience has curious varieties in 
 different persons, even in persons so nearly re- 
 lated as mother and son. Rob felt no sting in 
 his moral consciousness from the fact that he 
 had led Margaret to commit herself in her mo- 
 ment of trouble, and had taken advantage of the 
 very abandonment of her grief to assume the 
 position of a lover, the mere fact of which gave 
 him a hold over her which nothing else could 
 have given. To do him justice, he would have 
 taken the same position with any comely poor 
 girl whom he had encountered in equal distress ; 
 but the poor lass would probably have thought 
 little of it, whereas to Margaret's more delicate 
 nature there was all the reality of an unbreak- 
 able bond in the embrace and kiss with which 
 he had taken possession of her, before she wns 
 aware. But Rob felt no trouble in his conscience 
 in this respect. It did not occur to him that he 
 had surprised her, and taken advantage of her 
 sorrow and loneliness and bewilderment ; but 
 in respect to the pledge which his mother had 
 with so little trouble got from her, his conscience 
 did speak. Margaret, it was true, had thought 
 nothing of it ; she had felt that all was done al- 
 ready, that her fate was fixed and irrevocable, 
 that she could not go back — and what did her 
 name on a piece of paper signify? But here 
 was where Rob's honor, such as it was, came in ; 
 he hated that piece of paper. He was deeply- 
 mortified by Margaret's readiness to consent to 
 everything so long as she could get free from 
 his mother and himself. The written bond 
 seemed to put him in a false position, to lessen 
 him in his own eyes. He would have nothing 
 to say to it. 
 
 "Keep it yourself, if you like it, now that you 
 have got it — it is none of my doing," he had 
 said, throwing it from him. Mrs. Glen secured 
 it with a cry of dismay, as it was fluttering to- 
 ward the fire. 
 
 " Ay, I'll keep it," she said ; " and ye'll be fain 
 some day to come questing to me for your bit 
 o' paper, as ye call it, that you never would have 
 had if your mother had been as thoughtless as 
 yonrsel'." 
 
 "Mother!" he said, furious, "do you think I 
 would hold a girl to her written promise, if she 
 did not want to keep her word ?" 
 
 "I canna say what you would do," said Mrs. 
 Glen ; "you're just a great gomerel, that's what 
 you are. Ye have mair confidence in her being 
 in love with ye, a lang leggit ne'er-do-weel, than 
 in onything that's reasonable : but, Robbie, my 
 
 man, love comes and love goes. You're no bad- 
 looking, and you have the gift of the gab, which 
 goes a lang way — and Maybe she'll stick to ye, 
 as you think, against a' her friends can say ; but 
 for me, I've aye a great confidence in what's put 
 down in black and white, and I wouldna say but 
 you would be fain to come to me for my bit o' 
 paper, for a' so muckle as you despise it now." 
 
 "Never will I build my faith on such a foun- 
 dation — never will I hold Margaret to her bond !"' 
 cried Rob ; but his mother locked the precious 
 bit of paper in the old secretary which stood in 
 the parlor, with a cynical disregard to his prot- 
 estations. 
 
 "It's there in the left-hand drawer, if any- 
 thing should happen to me ; if you should ever 
 want it, you'll ken where to find it," she said. 
 
 And several weeks went on without any im- 
 patience on the part of either in respect to Mar- 
 garet ; even the conversation which Rob had 
 with the new Sir Lndovic, who summoned him 
 curtly to give up all idea of his sister, had rather 
 encouraged than depressed him ; for it was evi- 
 dent that Margaret had showed no signs of yield- 
 ing, and her brother was not even her guardian, 
 and had no power whatever over her. When 
 he thus ascertained from Sir Ludovic's inadvert- 
 ent admission that Margaret had remained stead- 
 fast, Rob had metaphorically snapped his fingers 
 at the Baronet. He had been perfectly civil, 
 but he had given Sir Ludovic to understand that 
 he cared little enough for his disapprobation. 
 "If I was in your position I should no doubt 
 feel the same," he had said with fierce candor; 
 "I should think that Margaret was about to 
 throw herself away ; but she does not think so, 
 which is the great matter." 
 
 "She will think so when she comes to her 
 senses — when she i6 fit to form an opinion," Sir 
 Ludovic cried ; and Rob had smilingly assured 
 him that he was contented to wait and put this 
 to the proof. But after that interview, when 
 Earl's-hall was dismantled and left vacant, and 
 everything belonging to the Leslies seemed about 
 to disappear, and not a word came out of the 
 distance in which Margaret was, both Rob and 
 his mother began to be uneasy. Rob had not 
 calculated upon an}' correspondence ; but yet he 
 had felt that somehow or other she would man- 
 age to communicate with him, and to find some 
 means by which he could communicate with 
 her. Girls of Margaret's condition do not sub- 
 mit to entire separation as those of Jeanie's do; 
 and when day after day passed, and week after 
 week, it was natural that he should become un- 
 easy. Nor was the anxiety which he felt as a 
 lover unshared by the cooler spectator. Mrs. 
 Glen began to ply him with questions, anxious, 
 fretful, scornful, derisive. 
 
 "Ony word to-day, Rob?" she would say; 
 "I saw you gang out to meet the lassie with the 
 post." "Dear, dear, Rob, I hope our bonnie 
 young lady may be well!" would be the burden 
 of the next inquiry — and then came sharper ut- 
 terances: "Lord! if I was a lad like you, I 
 wouldna stick there waiting and waiting, but I 
 would ken the reason." "Do you think that's 
 the way to court a lass, even if she be a lady? 
 I would give her no peace if it were me ; I would 
 let her see that I wasna the one to play fast and 
 loose with." These repealed assaults were fol- 
 lowed by practical consequences quite as dis- 
 
130 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 agreeable. Instead of the indulgence with which 
 he had been for some time treated, the tacit con- 
 sent given to his do-nothingness, the patience of 
 his mother, though it went sorely against the 
 grain, with an existence which produced no prof- 
 it and was of no use — he began to be once more 
 the object of those bitter criticisms and flying 
 insults which she knew so well how to make use 
 of, to the exasperation of the compelled listener. 
 " What it is to be a man and a good scholar!" 
 she would say. "I couldna sit hand-idle, look- 
 ing at other folk working — no ! if it were to save 
 my life. Eh, ay, there's a wonderful difference 
 atween them that are born to earn their living, 
 and them that are content to live on their friends. 
 I hope the time will never come when that will 
 be my lot. But no one of a' my friends would 
 help me, that's one thing, certain, though there 
 are some that have aye the luck to get somebody 
 to toil and moil, while they live pleasantly and 
 gang lightly. It is the way of the world." 
 
 Another time she would burst out with all the 
 fervor of roused temper. "Lord, man, how can 
 ye sit there and see every creature in the house 
 working but yoursel' ? I would sooner weed 
 the turnips or fiichten the craws — but you're of 
 less use than a bairn of three years auld." 
 
 Rob steeled himself as best he could against 
 these blighting words. He would stroll forth 
 whistling by way of defiance and be absent the 
 whole day, absent at meal-times when his moth- 
 er exacted punctuality, and late of returning at 
 night. It was a struggle of constant exaspera- 
 tion between them. He had no money and no 
 means of getting any, or he would gladly have 
 left the farm, where there was no longer even 
 anything to amuse him, anything to give him 
 the semblance of a pursuit. To be sure, he 
 worked languidly at his drawings still, and re- 
 sumed the interrupted sketch of Earl's -hall 
 which had occupied so important a place in his 
 recent history. 
 
 To have before you the hope of being rich in 
 three years, of being able to enter another sphere 
 and cast away from you all those vulgar neces- 
 sities of work which fill the lives of most people 
 — to have ease before you, happiness, social ele- 
 vation, but only on the other side of that long 
 chasm of time, which for the moment you can 
 see no way of getting through — it is impossible 
 to imagine a more tantalizing position. Say 
 that it is utterly mean and miserable of any man 
 to fix his entire hopes upon an elevation pro- 
 cured in such a way ; but Rob was not conscious 
 of this. A rich wife, who was also pretty and 
 young, seemed to him a most satisfactory way 
 of making a fortune. Had she been old and 
 ugly the case would have been different ; but he 
 had no more hesitation about enriching himself 
 by means of Margaret, than li£ had felt in se- 
 curing Margaret to himself in the incaution and 
 prostration of her grief. His conscience and his 
 honor had in these particulars nothing to say. 
 But as day after day went on and he received 
 nothing from Margaret to prove his power over 
 her, no stolen letter, no secret assurance of her 
 love and faithfulness, Rob's mind became more 
 and more uneasy, and his thoughts more and 
 more anxious. She was the sheet-anchor of his 
 safety, without which he must return into a chaos 
 all the more dark that it had been irradiated by- 
 such a hope. 
 
 And this suspense, while it made his position 
 at home more and more uncomfortable every 
 day, did not improve his mental condition, as may 
 be easily supposed. He had entertained plans, 
 before he had perceived how easily he might 
 step upward by aid of Margaret's hand, of seek- 
 ing his fortune in London, and either by means 
 of pen or pencil, or both together, making out 
 some kind of future for himself. But why should 
 he take this trouble, and expose himself to the 
 rich man's contumely, etc., when, by-and-by, he 
 might himself appear among the best (as his ig- 
 norant fancy suggested), a patron of art instead 
 of a feeble professor of it — a fine amateur, with 
 all the condescension toward artists which it is 
 in the power of the wealthy to show ? This was 
 an ignoble thought, and he was partially con- 
 scious that it was so ; but there was a latent 
 love of indolence in him which is always fostered 
 by such prospects of undeserved and unearned 
 aggrandizement as now flaunted before his eyes. 
 Why should he work laboriously to gain a little 
 advancement for himself, when by mere patience 
 and waiting he might reach to such advancement 
 as the most Herculean work of his could not 
 bring him to? And the suspense in which he 
 was worked upon his mind and led him on in 
 this evil path. He could do nothing till he had 
 heard from her ; and she would write, she must 
 write, any day. 
 
 These motives altogether, and the want of 
 money to do anything for himself, and even the 
 reproaches of his mother, who denounced him 
 for eating the bread of idleness without affording 
 him any means to attempt a better existence — 
 which latter acted by hardening his heart and 
 making him feel a defiant satisfaction in thwart- 
 ing her — all drove him deeper and deeper into 
 the slipshod habits of an unoccupied life. He 
 got up late, happy to escape a tete-a-tete break- 
 fast with his mother, and her sneers and re- 
 proaches, at the cost of Jenny's integrity, who 
 smuggled him in a much better breakfast than 
 his mother's while the mistress was busy about 
 her dairy or in her poultry-yard ; he dawdled 
 over his sketches, doing a little dilettante Avork 
 as pleased him ; then he would stroll out and 
 perhaps walk across the country to some other 
 farm-house, where he was sure of a hospitable 
 invitation to share the family dinner, and an ex- 
 cellent reception from the mother and daughters, 
 to whom it was no trouble to make himself 
 agreeable ; or he would go to the Manse, and re- 
 sume the often interrupted discussion about his 
 "difficulties " with Dr. Burnside, who was anx- 
 ious to be "of use" to Rob, and to be instru- 
 mental, as he said, in bringing him back to the 
 right way. 
 
 These discussions amused both parties greatly 
 — the Minister, as affording him a means of 
 bringing forth from their ancient armory those 
 polemical weapons in which every man who has 
 ever attempted to wield them, takes a secret 
 pride — and the young sceptic, by reason of the 
 delightful sense of superiority with which he felt 
 able to see through his adversary's weakness, 
 and sense of power in being able to crush him 
 when he wished to do so. Often these con- 
 troversies, too, which were continually renewed 
 and never-ending, got Rob a dinner, and saved 
 him from the domestic horrors of the farm. And 
 by-and-by there happened another accident which 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 131 
 
 threw I.im s'ill more into the way of mischief, 
 as happens so often to those who dally with 
 temptation. He had made his peace with Jcanie 
 on that melancholy night after Margaret's de- 
 parture. She had been angry ; but she had been 
 persuaded to hear his story — to understand 
 him, to see how it was that he had been " drawn 
 into " the present circumstances of his life — -and 
 finally to be sorry for him who had gone astray 
 because unaware that she was near, and because 
 of poor little' Margaret's need of comfort and 
 solace. 
 
 Did not Jeanie know how he could console a 
 poor girl in trouble with that tongue of his, that 
 would wile a bird from a tree? She had for- 
 given him, and they had parted in melancholy 
 kindness, recognizing that fate, not any fault of 
 theirs, had separated them. When the house- 
 hold at Earl's-hall was broken up, Jeanie had 
 returned to her father ; and not long after she 
 had, as was most natural, encountered Rob in a 
 lonely lane, where she was taking a melancholy 
 evening walk. What could be more natural ? 
 She could not sit and talk with the wives at their 
 doors, when the soft autumn twilight, so full of 
 wistful suggestion, dropped softly over the "laigh 
 toun." Jeanie was too much in the midst of 
 her own life, too much absorbed by the dramatic 
 uncertainties of fate, to be capable of that tran- 
 quil amusement. There were not many people 
 in the Kirkton who cared for the exercise of a 
 walk. The men might stray out a hundred yards 
 beyond the village, on one side or the other, 
 with their evening pipe, but the women kept at 
 " the doors ;" they had enough of exercise in the 
 care of their families and in " redding up the 
 hoose." 
 
 Thus Jeanie, even if she had wanted a com- 
 panion, would have been unlikely to rind one ; 
 and indeed it was much more to her mind to 
 stray forth alone, very melancholy, with her head 
 full of Rob, and all her old anger and indigna- 
 tion softened into indulgence and pity. He was 
 made like that, could he help it ? He could not 
 see trouble anywhere without doing what he 
 could to console the sufferer. Jeanie knew this 
 well — and how tender a comforter he was. And 
 poor Miss Margaret was so young and so bonnie, 
 and in such sore trouble ; and oh, it was easy to 
 see, Jeanie thought to herself, how soft her heart 
 was to him ! No wonder ; he would wile a bird 
 from the tree. They met while she was in this 
 softened mood ; and Rob was one who never neg- 
 lected the good the gods provided of this sort. 
 He in his turn had recourse to Jeanie for conso- 
 lation, throwing himself upon that feminine mer- 
 cy and sympathy which never had yet failed him. 
 And Jeanie cried, and was dismally flattered by 
 his confidence in the midst of her suffering, and 
 told him all she had heard from Bell about Mar- 
 garet's movements, and forgot herself, poor girl, 
 in the intensity of fellow-feeling and understand- 
 ing. 
 
 Next time they met it was not by accident ; 
 and Rob, while growing more and more anxious 
 about the new love, which meant more than hap- 
 piness to him, which meant likewise fortune and 
 an altogether elevated and loftier life, took the 
 comfort of the old love which was thus thrown 
 in his way, and found life much more tolerable 
 from the fact that he could talk over his distress- 
 es with Jeanie. He could confide to her his 
 
 mother's taunts, and the hardness of his life at 
 home, till Jeanie almost felt that to see him mar- 
 ried to Margaret would be an advantage to her- 
 self, though she cried over it bitterly enough 
 when she was alone. Hut what did she matter, 
 after all, a poor lass? Jeanie thought she could 
 put up with anything to see him happy. 
 
 "A bonnie end your drawing and your paint- 
 ing and a' your idleness is coming to," said Mrs. 
 Glen, one November morning, while Rob ob- 
 scured all the light in the little parlor window, 
 putting the last touches to that drawing of Earl's- 
 hall. "A bonnie way of spending your life. Eh, 
 man ! I would sooner sweep the house, or clean 
 the rooms ! What is the good o' a' this fvking 
 and splairging? and what is to be the end of 
 your bonnie miss that a' this idle work was to 
 win ? I'll warrant she thinks she's gotten clear 
 off, and got a' she wanted, and no need to do a 
 hand's turn for you, in recompense of a' that you 
 have thrown away upon her." 
 
 " You have a very poor opinion of Margaret," 
 he said, "if you think so little of her. You can 
 scarcely want her for a daughter-in-law." 
 
 " Me !" said Mrs. Glen ; " am I wanting her ? 
 I hope I have mair sense than to put my trust 
 in daughters-in-law. 'A gude green turfs a fine 
 gude mither,' that's a' the most of them are 
 thinking. Na! she might gang to — Jerusalem 
 for me, if it wasna that her siller is the only 
 way I can think of to get you bread, ye weird- 
 less lad. When you have no mother to keep a 
 roof over your head, what is to become of you ? 
 The Lord be thanked there's no a weirdless one 
 in my family but yoursel'. Do I want the lass 
 or her siller — no me! But I'm real glad I've 
 got yon bond over her, for you and no for me." 
 
 He frowned as he always did at the mention 
 of this. "I am going to pack up this drawing 
 and send it to Miss Leslie," he said. 
 
 "The picter! in a present!" Mrs. Glen stood 
 for a moment taken by surprise, and a little be- 
 wildered by the suddenness of the suggestion. 
 "I'm no that sure but what it's a good notion," 
 she said, slowly ; "them that dinna ken might 
 say it was throwing good money after bad ; but 
 I'm no that sure. In a present? What might 
 you get for that now if you were to sell it? for 
 there's plenty folk, I hear, that are fuilish enough 
 to give good solid siller for a wheen scarts upon 
 paper." She had the most exalted idea of her 
 son's skill, and secretly admired his work with 
 enthusiasm — with all the naive appreciation of a 
 "picture" which is natural to the uninstructed 
 but not dull understanding — though she would 
 not have betrayed her admiration for the world. 
 
 "What might I get for it ?" said Rob, looking 
 critically yet complacently, with his head a little 
 upon one side, at the finished drawing. "Well 
 — if I were known, if I had got a connection 
 among the picture-dealers, perhaps — let us say 
 twenty pounds." 
 
 " Twenty pound !" (she drew a long breath of 
 awe and wonder) ; "and you'll go and give that 
 light-headed lassie, in a present, a thing that 
 might bring you in twenty pound!" 
 
 Rob did not explain that the bringing in of 
 twenty pounds was an extremely problematical 
 event. He got up with a little thrill of excite- 
 ment and easy superficial feeling. "I would 
 give her," he said, "just to hear from her — just 
 to have her back again — just to have her hand 
 
132 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 in mine — I would give her everything I have in 
 the world !" 
 
 "Ay, ay, my bonnie man," said his mother, 
 impressed for the moment by this little flourish 
 of trumpets. But she added, "And it would 
 not be that hard to do it, if she'll only return you 
 back your compliment, Rob, and do as muckle 
 for you ! " 
 
 This was how the sending of the picture "in 
 a present " was decided upon, as a touching, if 
 dumb appeal, to Margaret's recollection — not to 
 say as "laying her under an obligation," which 
 it would be necessary to take some notice of; 
 for both mother and son fully appreciated this 
 side of the question, which also forced itself at 
 once upon Mrs. Bellingham's practical and sensi- 
 ble eyes. Mrs. Glen, for her part, entertained a 
 secret hope that Margaret would have sense 
 enough to see the necessity of giving not only 
 thanks and renewed affection, but perhaps some- 
 thing else "in a present," which would make a 
 not inadequate balance to Rob's gift. This was 
 how things were managed by all reasonable peo- 
 ple, that neither side might be "under an obli- 
 gation" of too serious a character. But she was 
 wise enough to say nothing of this to her son, 
 though it is just possible that the thought may 
 have glanced across his mind too. And about 
 the letter which he sent immediately afterward, 
 through Bell, and which produced such results 
 for Margaret, Rob, on his side, said nothing at 
 all. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Bell had left Earl's- hall when the house was 
 dismantled, a melancholy operation, which was 
 proceeded with soon after the departure of the 
 ladies. Old Sir Ludovic's library was sent over 
 to Edinburgh, where the greater part had been 
 sold and dispersed. It was, in its way, a valu-« 
 able library, containing many rare editions and 
 old works of price, a costly taste, which the 
 present Sir Ludovic did not share. Whatever 
 was done with the old house, his wife and he 
 agreed that to get rid of the books would be al- 
 ways an advantage. If they kept it, the long 
 room must be either divided into two, or at least 
 arranged, for the comfort of the family, in a 
 manner impossible at present while it was block- 
 ed up with shelves in every corner, and a succes- 
 sion of heavy bookcases. 
 
 In these innocent regions it was not necessary 
 to keep servants in charge of an empty house 
 out of alarm for the safety of its contents. Is it 
 not the simple custom, even of householders in 
 Edinburgh, secure in the honesty of their popu- 
 lation, to lock their doors for all precaution, and 
 leave emptiness to take care of itself? There 
 was not much fear for Earl's-hall. If Aubrey 
 Bellingham had known, indeed, that the various 
 "bits" of china that he admired, and the old 
 dresses in the "aumie" in the high room, and 
 the bits of forlorn old tapestry that wantoned in 
 the wind, were thus left without any protection, 
 it is very possible that he might have organized 
 a gang of aesthetic cracksmen to seize upon those 
 treasures ; but they were not in danger from any 
 one in Fife. 
 
 Bell and John, or rather, to speak correctly, 
 John and Bell, taking with them their brown 
 
 cow and all the chickens, removed into a cot- 
 tage which they had acquired some years be- 
 fore, on the road to the Kirkton, with one or 
 two fields attached to it, and a neat little barn, 
 byre, and poultry -yard. This had been for a 
 long time past the object of their hopes, their 
 Land of Promise, to which they looked forward 
 as their recompense for years of long labor; and 
 it was pleasant, there could be no doubt, to es- 
 tablish the brown cow in the byre and see her 
 "like my leddy in her drawin'-room,"Bell said, 
 making herself comfortable in her new habita- 
 tion. But it is a very different thing to have 
 only "a but and a ben," when you have been 
 virtual mistress of a fine old house like Earl's- 
 hall : and although Bell had always prided her- 
 self upon her willingness "to turn her hand to 
 anything," it did not quite please her to do all 
 the little sweepings and dustings, and fulfil ev- 
 ery duty of her little menage, after having Jeanie 
 under her, to whom she could refer all the rough- 
 er work which did not please herself. But above 
 all, it was hard upon Bell that she had no lon- 
 ger " the family " to occupy her thoughts, to call 
 forth her criticisms, and rouse her temper now 
 and then, and give her a never-failing subject of 
 interest and animadversion. Bell had a daughter 
 of her own, who had been married as long as she 
 could remember, it appeared to the old woman, 
 and who had ifo children to give her mother a 
 new hold upon life ; and when she had finished 
 her work and sat down in the evening "outside 
 the door," but with a totally different prospect 
 from that she had been familiar with so long, Bell 
 would talk to any neighbor that chanced to pass 
 that way, and paused to cheer her up — about 
 "my family" and even about "my ladies," 
 though they were the same whom she had talk- 
 ed of a little while ago with nothing but the 
 definite article to distinguish them, and of whom 
 she had never been fond, though they had risen 
 so much in her estimation now, and she general- 
 ly concluded the audience by a sudden relapse 
 into crying on the subject of "my Miss Mar- 
 garet" which filled the Kirkton half with pity for 
 " the poor old body that had been so long in one 
 place, and couldna bide to be parted from them," 
 and half with indignation that she should "think 
 mair o' a young lady that wasna a drap's blood 
 to her, than of her ain." Mrs. Dreghorn, Bell's 
 daughter, who kept the "grocery shop" in the 
 " laigh toun," was strongly of this opinion. "My 
 mother thinks nothing o' me in comparison with 
 her Miss Margret — aye her Miss MargretT'said 
 this good woman -, but as Mrs. Dreghorn was 
 forty, it may perhaps be allowed to be a differ- 
 ent sentiment which Margaret called forth, from 
 that steady-going affection on equal, or nearly 
 equal terms, which subsisted between herself and 
 her mother. Bell could not speak of her child 
 without a moistening of the eyes. "My bonnie 
 bairn !" she was never tired of talking of her, and 
 of the letters Margaret wrote to her ; Bell was 
 perhaps the only one of Margaret's correspond- 
 ents of whom she was not at all afraid. 
 
 Bell, however, was very much bewildered by the 
 hasty, incoherent little epistle which she received 
 in reply to hers, which had co'ntained the letter 
 of Rob Glen. " If you see Mr. Randal Burnside, 
 will you ask him to speak to Mr. Glen ? Say I 
 told you to ask him, dear Bell ; oh, be sure I 
 said vou were to ask him ! and Mr. Randal will 
 
THE PRIMROSE RATH. 
 
 188 
 
 .understand." What did this mean ? Bell grew 
 frightened, and for her part could not under- 
 stand. The first step in the matter had been 
 strange enough : that Rob Glen should have ven- 
 tured to forward a letter to Miss Margaret, was 
 of itself a strange and inexplicable fact. But it 
 might be, as he said, about his picture ; it might 
 be about some price which old Sir Lndovic bad 
 offered. In such circumstances writing might 
 be necessary, and he might not like, perhaps, to 
 write to "the ladies themselves." But Marga- 
 ret's message made the mystery more mysterious 
 still. It confounded Bell so much that she said 
 nothing about it to John, but wrote witli much 
 trouble and pain another letter, begging her 
 young lady "not to trouble her bonnie head 
 about young men ; but to leave them to them- 
 selves, as being another kind of God's creatures, 
 innocent enough in their way, but not the best of 
 company for bonnie young ladies like her darling." 
 
 When, however, Bell had entered this protest, 
 she immediately bent her mind to the due car- 
 rying out of Margaret's request. Randal had 
 adopted the habit of coming over from Edinburgh 
 in the end of the week and staying till Monday, 
 a praiseworthy habit which his mother much en- 
 couraged, and of which she too spoke with tears 
 in her eyes (so weak are women !) as proving 
 her son to be the very best son in the world, and 
 the very prop and staff of old age to " the doc- 
 tor and me." It was true enough that he was 
 the delight and support of the old couple in the 
 Manse, of whom one was as yet not particularly 
 old. And if Randal was fond of golf, and ar- 
 ranged "a foursome "for all the Saturdays of 
 his visits, upon the Links which were within 
 reach, in what respect did that affect the matter ? 
 A man may be a "keen golfer," let us hope, and 
 a very good son as well. 
 
 "Is there ony news at the Kirkton ?" Bell 
 said, when John came in, throwing off an old 
 furred coat that had been old Sir Ludovic's ; for 
 John's bones were getting cranky with rheuma- 
 tism, and his blood thin, as happens to every 
 man. The fur glistened as he came into the 
 warm room with bis breath, which the cold with- 
 out had fixed like beads upon every little hair. 
 John put it away carefully on its peg, and came 
 "into" the fire, and put himself into his big 
 wooden arm-chair before he replied — 
 
 "Naething of consequence ; there's a change 
 o' the ministry looked for afore lang, but that's 
 been maistly aye the case as lang as I can mind. 
 Either they're gaun out, or they're coming in ; 
 they're a' much alike as far as I can see." 
 
 "I wouldna say that," said Bell, who was 
 more of a partisan than her husband. " There's 
 our ain side — and there's the tither side, and our 
 ain's muckle the best. It's them I would stand 
 by through thick and thin — I'm nane o' your in- 
 different masses," said the old woman ; "but it 
 wasna politics I was thinking of. Did you see 
 naebody that you and me kens ?" 
 
 "Naebody that you and me kens? I saw a 
 body that you and me kens," said John, taking 
 a very large mouthful of the vowel, which he 
 pronounced aw — "first Katie and her man, just 
 in their ordinar ; and syne John Robertson at 
 his door, complaining that he never could find 
 Jeanie ; and syne John Armstrong at the smid- 
 dy, very Strang, shoeing ane of Sir Claude's horses 
 that's to hunt the morn ; and syne — " 
 
 "Touts, I dinna want a dictionary," said 
 Bell, probably meaning directory ; " naebody 
 mair particular than John here and John there ? 
 as if I was wanting a list o' a' the Johns ! Weel 
 I wat there's plenty o' ye, young and auld, and 
 great and sma'." 
 
 "Is't the wives you're so keen about? I can 
 tell ye naething o' the women ; there were few 
 about the doors at this time o' the night, and 
 them just taupies, that would have been mair in 
 their place, getting ready their man's supper, or 
 putting their bairns to their beds." 
 
 " Eh, man John, but ye've awfu' little inven- 
 tion," said Bell. "If it had been me that bad 
 been to the Kirkton, I would have heard some 
 story or other to divert you with that were bid- 
 ing at liame. But ye canna get mair out of a 
 man than Providence has put infill him," she 
 said, with a sigh of resignation ; then added, as 
 by a sudden thought, "You wouldna see ony of 
 the Manse family about?" 
 
 "Ay did I," said John, provoked to hear any 
 doubt thrown upon his capacity of seeing the 
 Manse family. "I saw the gig trundling up the 
 bit little avenue with Mr. Randal and his little 
 portmanteau that I could have carried in ae 
 hand. But Robert's just a useless creature that 
 will have out a horse for naething, sooner than 
 up with a bit small affair upon his shoulder and 
 carry 't. It's bad for the horse and it's worse for 
 the man, to let him go on in such weirdless 
 ways. " 
 
 " So Randal Burnside's back again ?" said Bell. 
 She did not pay much attention to John's further 
 animadversions upon Robert, who was the man- 
 of-all-work at the Manse. Having at last got 
 at the scrap of information she wanted, she got 
 up and bestirred herself about the supper, and 
 listened to just as much as interested her and no 
 more. In this way at his own fireside, without 
 even Jeanie to disturb him, and no bell to break 
 the thread of his discourse, John loved to talk. 
 
 The next day was Saturday, which Bell al- 
 lowed to pass without any attempt to execute 
 her commission ; but when Sunday came, after 
 the service was over, the sermon ended, and the 
 kirk "skailing," in all decency and good order, 
 she seized her opportunity. "Will you speak 
 a word, Mr. Randal ?" she said, lingering behind 
 the rest. " Na, no afore a' the folk ; but if you'll 
 come round to me at poor Sir Ludovic's tomb 
 yonder, where I'm gaun to see if ony weeding's 
 wanted." 
 
 Randal gave a hasty assent. His heart began 
 to beat, in sympathy, perhaps, with Margaret's 
 heart, which had beat so wildly when she gave 
 the commission now about to be communicated 
 to him. He got free of the people, doubly tire- 
 some at this moment, who insisted on shaking 
 hands with the Minister's son as part of the per- 
 formance. "Eh, what a sermon the Doctor's 
 given us!" the kind women said. Perhaps Ran- 
 dal had not been so much impressed by his fa- 
 ther's eloquence; but he was very eager to make 
 an end of these weekly salutations and congratu- 
 lations. He hurried back to Bell, with such an 
 increase and quickening of all the currents of 
 his blood, that the old woman looked with sur- 
 prise upon his glorified countenance. "I never 
 thought he was such a bonnie lad," Bell said to 
 herself. As for Randal, he tried very hard, but 
 with no success, to persuade himself that what 
 
131 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 she wanted with him must be some trifling busi- 
 ness of her own. But his heart travelled on to 
 Margaret, and to some chance message from her, 
 with a determination which he could not resist. 
 
 "Well, Bell, what is it?" he said. 
 
 " I am real obliged to you, Mr. Randal. It's 
 no my business, and it's a thing I canna approve 
 of, that maun be said to begin with. Mr. Ran- 
 dal, I was writing to my young lady, to Miss 
 Margret — " 
 
 "Yes?" said Randal, a little breathless, and 
 impatient of the suspense. 
 
 "Ay, just that — and ye'll no guess what hap- 
 pened. Rob Glen, that's him that is Mrs. Glen's 
 son at Earl's-lee farm, a lad that was to be a 
 minister — you'll ken him by name at least — Rob 
 Glen ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know him ;" Randal felt as if she had 
 thrown a deluge of cold water upon him ; his 
 very heart was chilled. "Oh yes," he said, cold- 
 ly, "I know Rob Glen." 
 
 " Well, sir, what does that lad do but come 
 to me with a bit letter in his hand. ' When 
 ye're writing to Miss Margret, will ye send her 
 that for me?' he said. You may think how I 
 glowered at him. 'For Miss Margret!' I said. 
 He gave me a kind of fierce look, and ' Just for 
 Miss Margret,' he says. You might have laid 
 me on the floor with a puff o' your breath. Miss 
 Margret! so young as she is, far ower young to 
 get letters from onv man, far less a lad like Rob 
 Glen." 
 
 "But why are you telling me this?" said Ran- 
 dal, half angry, half miserable. "I hope you 
 will not tell it to any one else." 
 
 "I will tell it to no one else, Mr. Randal ; I'm 
 no one to talk. I have to tell you because I'm 
 bidden to tell you. When I looked like that at 
 the lad, he said it was about a picture that he 
 had drawn of auld Earl's-ha'. And weel I mind- 
 ed the drawing of that picture, and the work my 
 bonnie lady made about it. Well, I sent the 
 letter, and yesterday morning, nae farther gane, 
 I got twa-three lines from her, a' blotted and 
 blurred, poor lamb. I'm thinking the ladies 
 maun have been at her — her that never had a 
 hard word from man or woman! 'Bell,' she 
 says, ' if you see Mr. Randal Burnside, will you 
 tell him to speak to Mr. Glen ? Say it was me 
 that bade ye, and then he'll ken fine what I 
 mean.' I hope ye do ken what she means, Mr. 
 Randal, far it's mair than I do ; and I canna ap- 
 prove for a young lady, and such a young thing 
 as Miss Margret, ony such troke with young 
 men." 
 
 Randal's face had been almost as changeable 
 as Margaret's while these words floated on. He 
 reddened, and paled, and brightened, and was 
 overshadowed, one change following another like 
 the clouds on the sky. Finally, the last result 
 was a mixture of confusion and bewilderment, 
 with eager interest, which it is difficult to de- 
 scribe. "I fear I don't understand at all, Bell," 
 he cried. " Was that all ? Was there no more 
 than that?" 
 
 "No another word ; but a' blurred and blot- 
 ted, as if she had been in an awfu' hurry. And 
 ye canna understand ? She said you would ken 
 fine." 
 
 "I think I understand a little," Randal said, 
 ruefully. He had asked her to call upon him 
 whenever there was anvthinir in which she want- 
 
 ed help, and here it was evident she wanted help ; 
 but of what kind ? Was he to help her lover, or 
 to discourage him? But of tl.is Margaret gave 
 no intimation. The office in itself was embar- 
 rassing enough, and what man ever received a 
 more mysterious commission ? She had appeal- 
 ed to him for aid, and who so willing to give it ? 
 But what kind of aid it was she wanted he could 
 not tell. " I know in a way," he said, " I know 
 she wants me to do something, but what? Nev- 
 er mind, I will do my best to find out ; and when 
 you write to her, Bell, my good woman, will you 
 tell her — " 
 
 "Na, na," said Bell, briskly, "no a word. 
 I've had enough to do with that kind of thing. 
 I'll carry no message, nor I'll take charge o' no 
 letters ; na, na, lads are a destruction to every- 
 thing. And no a lad even that might be evened 
 to the like of her. Na, na, Mr. Randal, it might 
 be the tnaist innocent message in the world; I'm 
 no blaming you, but I canna undertake no more." 
 
 "And 1 think you are quite right," he said, 
 confusedly; "but — what did she want him to 
 do?" He went away in great perplexity and 
 excitement, whicli it was very difficult to shut 
 up within his own bosom. To speak to Glen — 
 that was his commission ; but with what object ? 
 To help Margaret, poor little Margaret caught 
 in the toils, and who had no one to help her ; 
 but what did she want him to do? 
 
 Randal went out after afternoon church was 
 over, the "second diet of worship, "as his father 
 called it. It was not a promising evening for 
 a walk. The short November day was closing 
 in ; the foggy atmosphere was heavy and chill — 
 the clouds so low that they seemed within the 
 reach of his hand. Hedge-rows and trees were 
 all coated with a chill dew which soon would 
 whiten with the night's frost ; everything was 
 wet underfoot. Even in the "laigh tonn " few 
 of the people were " about the doors." Gleams 
 of ruddy fire-light showed through the cottage 
 windows, often over a moving mass of heads, of 
 different sizes, the children sitting about " read- 
 ing their books " as became a Sabbath evening, 
 and the elders on either side of the fire carrying 
 on solemn "cracks," each individual furnishing 
 a remark in slow succession. In-doors there was 
 something drowsy and Sabbatical in the air; 
 but there was nothing drowsy or comfortable 
 out-of-doors. Randal walked toward the farm 
 in the grim gray winterly twilight, wondering 
 whether he could make any plausible errand to 
 the house, or how he was to make sure of seeing 
 Rob. But Fortune favored him in this respect, 
 as indeed Fortune could scarcely help favoring 
 any one who, wanting Rob Glen, walked in the 
 twilight toward Earl's-lee. When he was with- 
 in a field or two of the farm-house. Randal be- 
 came aware of two figures in the shadow of a 
 hedge -row, and of a murmur of voices. He 
 divined that it was a " lad and lass." Lads and 
 lasses are nowhere more common spectacles, 
 "courting" nowhere a more clearly recognized 
 fact than in Fife. Randal took care not to look 
 at them or disturb them ; and by-and-by he saw 
 a little figure detach itself out of the shadows 
 and run across the field. Who could it be? 
 Their fervor of love-making must be warm in- 
 deed to enable them to bear the miseries of this 
 " drear-nighted November." He went on with 
 a certain sympathy and a little sigh. Randal 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 132 
 
 did not feel as if there could ever be any oc- 
 casion for "courting" on his part. lie was 
 vaguely excited ; but sadness, more than any 
 other feeling, filled his mind; if he saw Rob be- 
 fore him, what was he to say to him? "Ah, 
 Glen!" he exclaimed, "is that you?" while yet 
 this question was fresh in his mind. 
 
 Rob came forward from the shadow with ev- 
 ident discomfiture. He recognized the new- 
 comer sooner than Randal knew him. Was he, 
 tiien, the man who had been whispering behind 
 the hedge, from whose side that little female 
 figure, not, he thought, unknown to Randal ei- 
 ther, had flitted so hurriedly away? Hot indig- 
 nation rose in Randal's veins. 
 
 "Can it be you?" he said, with a sudden 
 mingling of displeasure and contempt with the 
 surprise in his voice. 
 
 "Not a pleasant evening for a walk," said 
 Rob. He was uneasy too, but he did not see 
 what he could do better than talk, and forestall 
 if possible any objection the other might seem 
 disposed to make. " I dropped something in 
 the ditch," he said, accusing as he excused him- 
 self, " but it is evidently too dark to hope to find 
 it now." 
 
 "You are still staying here?" said Randal, 
 still more contemptuous of the lie, and feeling a 
 secret desire, which almost mastered him, to 
 push his companion into the chill ooze under the 
 hedge-row. "Though the country," he added, 
 "has not the same attraction as when we met 
 last." 
 
 "No," said Rob, with a slight falter, "that is 
 true; but necessity has no law. I am here be- 
 cause — I have nothing to do elsewhere. I am 
 not so lucky as you, to be able to hold by and 
 follow out the trade to which 1 have been bred." 
 
 "That is a misfortune, certainly." 
 
 "Yes, it is a misfortune — and such a mis- 
 fortune in my case as you can scarcely realize. 
 I have disappointed my friends and put them 
 out of temper. There could be no harm in 
 abandoning the law, but there is great harm in 
 abandoning the Church." 
 
 " There is always harm, I suppose," said Ran- 
 dal, "in throwing up the career in which our 
 training can tell. Church or law, it does not so 
 much matter; there is always disappointment 
 in such a drawing back." 
 
 "Perhaps that is true; but most in the first, 
 and most of all in my class. Yes," said Rob, 
 suddenly, "you may say there is less attraction 
 now. The last night we met, it was just before 
 the Leslies left EaiTs-hall." 
 
 "I remember the night," said Randal, with 
 some irrestrainable bitterness in his tone. 
 
 "I am sure you do. I felt it in your tone to- 
 night. You disapproved of me then ; and now," 
 said Rob, with an air almost of derision, and he 
 laughed a little nervous, self-conscious laugh. 
 
 "I don't pretend to any right either of ap- 
 proval or disapproval," said Randal. Anger 
 was rising hotter and hotter within him ; but 
 what was it she wanted him to do? 
 
 "No right; but people don't wait for that," 
 said Rob. He was not comfortable nor happy 
 about his good-fortune. He had got Margaret's 
 note, and it had stung him deeply. And here 
 was one who could communicate with her, 
 though he could not — who belonged to her 
 sphere, which he did not, "We all approve or 
 
 disapprove by instinct, whatever right we may 
 have. If you had felt more sympathy with me, 
 I might have found a friend in you," Rob went 
 on, after a pause. " When two people, so dif- 
 ferent in external circumstances as Margaret and 
 myself, love eacli other, a mutual friend is of tlie 
 greatest advantage to both." 
 
 The blood rushed to Randal's face in the dark- 
 ness. He felt the veins fill and throb upon his 
 forehead, and fury took possession of his heart. 
 He could have seized the fellow by the throat 
 who thus wantonly and without necessity had 
 introduced Margaret's name. But then — who 
 could tell? — this office of mutual friend might 
 be the very thing she had intended him to take. 
 
 "I cannot see what use I could be — " 
 
 "You could be of the greatest use. You 
 could find out for me, without suspicion, a hun- 
 dred things I want to know ; or, if you fell un- 
 der the suspicion of being after Margaret your- 
 self," said Rob, with the unconscious vulgarity 
 which he had never been able to get over, " there 
 would be no harm done. They would not turn 
 you to the door for it. You see our correspond- 
 ence has to be of a very limited character till 
 I she is of age." 
 
 " Do you think," said Randal, hotly, " that to 
 i carry on such a correspondence at all is right or 
 j honorable without the sanction of the friends? 
 No creature so young " (he kept to words as im- 
 personal as possible, not feeling able to use a 
 pronoun to indicate Margaret, whose sacred name 
 ought never to have been breathed) " can under- 
 stand what such a correspondence is. Glen, since 
 you ask me, as a man of honor you ought not" to 
 do it. I am sure you ought not to do it." 
 
 "It is all very well talking," said Rob, "but 
 what am I to do ? Lose sight of her altogether — 
 for three long years?" 
 
 "Is that the time fixed?" said Randal, with 
 dismay. 
 
 " When she comes of age. Then, whatever 
 happens, I have sufficient faith that all will go 
 merry as a marriage-bell. But in the mean 
 time — " Rob said, half-bragging, half-mournful- 
 ly : he was in reality in the lowest depths of dis- 
 couragement ; but the last person to whom he 
 would have confided this was Randal Burnside. 
 
 Randal was struck with a sudden thought. 
 "Look here," he said, somewhat hoarsely, "I 
 have given you my opinion, which I have no 
 right to do ; but you may make some use of me 
 in return, if you like. Look here, Glen ; I'll get 
 you something to do in my uncle's office in Ed- 
 inburgh, which will be better than hanging on 
 here, if you'll have patience and wait till the 
 time you mention, and take my advice." 
 
 Was this what she wanted him to do? The 
 effort was a great one ; for Randal felt a loath- 
 ing grow over him for the under-bred fellow to 
 whom such celestial good-fortune and unexam- 
 pled happiness had fallen. To annoy and harass 
 himself with the constant sight of him in order to 
 leave her free and unmolested, it was a sacrifice 
 of which Margaret would never know the full 
 difficultv. Was this what she wanted him to do? 
 
130 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Aubrey Bellingham was in the hall at the 
 Grange when Margaret, all wet and weary, came 
 in from that journey to the post-office. She was 
 very anxious to get to the shelter of her own 
 room, not only because she was feeling ill and 
 wretched, hut for the more immediately impor- 
 tant reason that she was feverishly anxious to get 
 rid of her wet dress before Jean should see her; 
 for Margaret knew that Jean would more easily 
 forgive a slight moral backsliding than her di- 
 shevelled appearance, blown about by the wind 
 and soaked by the rain, and not without traces 
 of the mud. She was ashamed of her own plight, 
 though she had been too tired and had felt too 
 miserable the latter half of the road, to keep up 
 the struggle with the elements. Her feet made 
 a splashing noise upon the tiles as she came in, 
 and were cold as two pieces of lead ; so were the 
 hands, with one of which she had tried to keep 
 up her umbrella, till it was blown inside out, 
 when she gave up the struggle. A faint glim- 
 mer of anger rose in her when she saw Aubrey, 
 all trim and dry and point devise as he always 
 was, evidently waiting for her with the intention 
 of speaking to her in the hall. 
 
 " How wet you are!" he said; "I could not 
 believe my eyes when I saw you out in this rain. 
 Could nobody have gone to the village instead 
 of you ? Why did you not send me ?" 
 
 " Oh, you, Mr. Aubrey ? It would have been 
 worse for you than me," said Margaret. "I 
 never thought much of the weather ; but I can- 
 not wait now to talk. I must run and change 
 my dress. Jean," she added, ruefully looking at 
 her spoiled trimmings, "will be angry about the 
 crape." 
 
 " I hope I managed rightly," he said, follow- 
 ing her to the stair. "1 hope I did what you 
 wanted ?" 
 
 Margaret gazed at him with blank, wide-open 
 eyes. What had he done ? She had forgotten 
 the silent appeal she had made to him in her 
 pain. Aubrey was a man of sense, and he per- 
 ceived that to insist upon this good office which 
 he had in reality done out of pure good-nature, 
 without any thought of interest, was more likely 
 to hurt than to help him now ; so he added hur- 
 riedly, "I did not. see how wet you are; I can- 
 not detain you an instant longer. Why didn't 
 you send me ? You will be ill after this." 
 
 " Oh ! I never take cold," said Margaret ; but 
 how glad she was to struggle up-stairs, holding 
 up the clinging skirts of her wet dress. Fortu- 
 nately, Mrs. Bellingham, who had a thorough in- 
 stinct of comfort, kept fires in all the bedrooms, 
 so that Margaret had the glimmer of a little 
 brightness to console her in the bodily misery 
 which for the moment prevailed over all the dis- 
 tresses of her mind. She took off her wet cloth- 
 ing with great haste, and with an impulse to hide 
 it, to keep it from Jean's keen eyes ; and when 
 she " was fit to be seen," she sat down to think 
 how she could explain that hurried errand to 
 Jean. The post-bag went from the Grange twice 
 a day, in a regular and orderly manner, as it 
 ought. What need had she to rush through the 
 rain with her letters ? But this problem proved 
 too much for poor Margaret's brain : her head 
 kept getting hotter and hotter; her feet, not- 
 withstanding the fire, would not get warm ; her 
 
 bosom seemed bound as by an iron chain ; she 
 could not get her breath. What could be the 
 matter with her? Jean had said she had a cold 
 on the previous night; she supposed it must be 
 that — a bad cold ; how stupid and how wretched 
 she felt ! She sank back into the corner of the 
 sofa which was opposite the fire ; it was very 
 lazy of her to do so, she knew, in broad daylight, 
 when there was all the day's work to do. Mar- 
 garet planned to herself that she would do it to- 
 morrow—her practising and her French exer- 
 cises, and all the little studies with which, under 
 Mrs. Bellingham's energetic guidance, she was 
 making up for her neglected education. She 
 would do them to-morrow — yes, to-morrow ; but 
 was not to-morrow Sunday, when you cannot 
 work ? Was not night coining, in which you 
 could do no work ? Was not — Here Margaret 
 seemed to break off with a start, and found that 
 she had been dozing, dozing in the middle of the 
 day, in broad daylight! It seemed impossible. 
 She woke wretched, as young and healthy creat- 
 ures do after such a feverish sleep. How could 
 anybody sleep in the day? and how, of all won- 
 ders, was it that Margaret herself had slept in 
 the day? It seemed something incredible ; but 
 before she knew what was coming, in those trou- 
 bled wanderings, she had dropped again into an- 
 other snatch of uncanny sleep. She did not hear 
 the luncheon bell, nor if she had heard it would 
 she have had energy enough to go down-stairs, 
 or, indeed, to get up from Iter seat ; and when 
 Miss Leslie, coming up, hurried into the room, 
 in wonder and alarm, to call her, Margaret was 
 found propped up in the corner of the sofa, all 
 flushed and confused, her pretty hair falling out 
 of its fastenings, her hands hot and feverish. She 
 woke with a start when her sister opened the door. 
 "Oh ! where am I? where am I ?" she cried. 
 
 After this there was nothing but alarm in the 
 house. The doctor was sent for, and Miss Grace, 
 who had cried herself almost into hysterics, and 
 could do nothing but kiss her little sister, and 
 ask, in a melancholy voice, "Are you better — do 
 you think you are a little better, darling Marga- 
 ret ?" was turned out and sent away, while Jean 
 hastily took the place of nurse. If Jean had a 
 fault as a nurse, it was that she required so many 
 preparations. She assured Margaret it was noth- 
 ing at all but a feverish cold, and that it would 
 be better to-morrow; but she provisioned the 
 room, as John had provisioned old Sir Ludovic's, 
 as for a siege of six weeks at least, and took her 
 place in a dressing-gown and large cap by the 
 bedside, like a woman who had made up her 
 mind to hold out to the end. Margaret, how- 
 ever, was too ill to be alarmed by these precau- 
 tions ; she was too ill to mind anything except 
 the pain which had her by the throat, and check- 
 ed her breathing and filled her veins with fire. 
 It was not a bad cold only, but that sublimation 
 and intensification of cold which carries death 
 and destruction under the name of congestion of 
 the lungs. She was very ill for a week, during 
 which time Mrs. Bellingham kept heroically by 
 her bedside, resolute to keep out Grace and to 
 fight the malady in the correct and enlightened 
 way. Aubrey had to search through all the ad- 
 joining town, from shop to shop, for a thermom- 
 eter good enough to satisfy his aunt, which she 
 received from his hands in all the mingled so- 
 lemnitv and familiarity of her nursing-dress. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 137 
 
 " I am sure the Red Cross lias nothing half 
 so imposing," he said, in his flippant way ; "you 
 would strike an army with awe." He himself 
 had hut a dull time of it down-stairs, lie re- 
 mained till Margaret was out of danger — very 
 kindly solicitous — hut when the crisis was over 
 he withdrew. "You see I can make no progress 
 now," he said, on the occasion of an interview 
 which Mrs. Bellingham awarded him, when the 
 good news was proclaimed ; " but perhaps a 
 week or two hence I may come in with the chick- 
 en and champagne, and help to amuse the con- 
 valescent. One may make a great deal of run- 
 ning with a convalescent, Aunt Jean." 
 
 "I wonder how you can talk so lightly, when 
 we have just escaped such a danger," said Mrs. 
 Bellingham. "Not only Margaret, poor dear, 
 but the property would have gone to quite a dis- 
 tant branch of the family, and even the savings 
 of the minority. I can't bear to think what 
 might have happened. But you can do nothing 
 now, it is true ; you may as well go and return 
 when you will be of use. But mind and go to 
 the very best shop you can find in town, and get 
 me a really good thermometer. I put no faith 
 in anything that is bought in the country." And 
 that night, for the first time, Mrs. Bellingham 
 permitted herself to go to bed. 
 
 It would be needless to follow Margaret 
 through all the feverish thoughts that assailed 
 her, or even those more coherent ones that came 
 after the first stupor of illness. She recovered 
 the power of thought now and then by intervals, 
 as the fever abated, and then, no doubt, soft, 
 dreamy musings, half dismal, half pleasant, of a 
 pretty grave somewhere which would cut all the 
 knots that bound her, and make all things clear, 
 came into her mind. If she were to die, how 
 little would it matter whether Jean was angry, 
 whether Ludovic scolded! They would all for- 
 give her, even if she had been silly. And though 
 poor Rob, to whom her heart melted, as the one 
 person whom she felt sure (besides Bell) to he 
 very fond of her, would, no doubt, "break his 
 heart" over that grave of hers, it would, she 
 thought, be less hard for him, than to find out 
 how little pleasure she took in the bond between 
 them, and to bear the brunt of that struggle 
 which she had so little heart to encounter — the 
 struggle with Ludovic and Jean. And then an- 
 other thing : what would it matter if Aubrey 
 were right after all, and it was really Effie, Effie 
 that Randal Burnside cared about ? They would 
 be happy, no doubt ; and they would sometimes 
 give a sigh to poor little Margaret, and tell each 
 other that they never thought she would live long. 
 This wrung Margaret's heart with an exquisite 
 pity for her poor young tender self, cut down 
 like a flower. And as the fever recurred, she 
 would lose herself in wonderings where they 
 would bury her ; if they would take her down 
 to the Kirkton, and lav her with her father in the 
 breezy mound where she would be able to see 
 her own hills, and hear, on stormy nights, the 
 moaning of the sea? And then it would seem 
 to Margaret that she was being rolled and jolted 
 through a vast darkness going toward that last 
 home of the Leslies — dead at eighteen, but yet 
 feeling and seeing everything, and half pleased 
 with the universal pity. Over all these wan- 
 derings of sick and feverish fancy Jean presided 
 in her big cap, the shadow of which against the 
 
 wall— sometimes rigidly steady, with a steadiness 
 that only Jean could possess, sometimes nodding 
 so that "Margaret trembled, feeling that nothing 
 could survive so great a downfall — ran through 
 them all. Jean, in her big cap, was very tender 
 to the girl. She was very quiet in her move- 
 ments, and, notwithstanding the nodding of the 
 cap, very vigilant, never forgetting an hour or 
 dose. 
 
 The strangest week it was! — the time some- 
 times looking not an hour, since she had begun 
 to doze in the corner of the sofa, sometimes look- 
 ing like a year, during which she had been wan- 
 dering through dreariest wilds of confusion and 
 pain. When she came to herself at last, with- 
 out any choking, without any suffering, but ut- 
 terly weak and passive, Margaret did not quite 
 know whether she was glad that she was better, 
 or disappointed to feel that everything outside 
 her was just of as much consequence as ever ; 
 that she would have to marry Rob Glen, and sub- 
 mit to Jean's scolding, and wonder if it was true 
 about Randal and Effie — just the same. 
 
 But she did not recover in the speedy and sat- 
 isfactory way which was desired. When she 
 got what her anxious attendants called almosi 
 well, and got up and with an effort got herself 
 dressed, it was astonishing to find how few wishes 
 she had. She did not want anything. She did 
 not care about going down-stairs, did not want 
 to get out, and was quite content to be let alone 
 in her corner of the sofa, reading sometimes, still 
 oftener doing nothing at all. At this point of 
 her convalescence it was that Jean had retired, 
 leaving the remainder of the nursing to Grace, 
 who, with a great grievance at her heart on the 
 score of being shut out of the sick-room, took 
 the place now ofi'ered her with enthusiasm, and 
 did her best to administer the wines and jellies, 
 the beef-tea, the concentrated nourishment of all 
 kinds which were wanted to make her charge 
 strong again. One day, however, Jean, return- 
 ing from some outside occupation, found the 
 sick-room in a grievous state of agitation. Mar- 
 garet had fainted, for no particular cause that 
 any one knew ; and Grace and Miss Parker 
 stood weeping over her, scarcely capable of do- 
 ing anything but weep. 
 
 "Her mother, bless her, was just like that," 
 Miss Parker was saying. "I often thought af- 
 terward if we had taken her abroad for the win- 
 ter it might have been the saving of her. The 
 doctor said so, but no one would believe it. Oh, 
 if we had only taken her abroad !" 
 
 This was said in the intervals of fanning Mar- 
 garet, who lay extended on the sofa as pale as 
 marble, whileGrace held salts to her nose. Mar- 
 garet came to herself as her sister came into the 
 room, with a shiver and long sigh, and Jean, 
 rushing in, cleared away the two incapable per- 
 sons and resumed the charge of affairs. But, 
 like a wise woman, she took a hint even from 
 her inferiors. When she had restored poor 
 Margaret and made all quiet and comfortable 
 round her, and ordained that she was not to talk 
 or be talked to. Jean's heart throbbed with ter- 
 ror. Not only did Margaret herself seem in 
 renewed danger, but there was the estate to be 
 considered, which would go away to a distant 
 cousin, and do no one (as Mrs. Bellingham said) 
 any good. When the doctor came, she consulted 
 him with great anxiety on the subject. "Yes," 
 
138 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 the doctor said ; "no doubt it would be very 
 good for her to go to Mentone for the winter." 
 He would not say she was in any particular dan- 
 ger now, but delicate, very delicate ; all the Sed- 
 leys had been delicate, and it must not be forgot- 
 ten that her mother died young. All this made 
 Jean tremble. The girl herself, though she had 
 been almost a stranger to her a little while ago, 
 had got hold of her fussy but kind nature. She 
 had nursed Margaret successfully through a se- 
 rious illness ; was she to submit to have her 
 snatched out of her hands now for no reason at 
 all, with no disease to justify the catastrophe? 
 Jean said No stoutly. She would not submit. 
 
 " My dear, I am going to take you to Men- 
 tone," she said. "1 hope you will like it. It 
 is very pretty, you know, and all that. There 
 are a great many invalids ; but, poor things, they 
 can't help being invalids. I am very sorry we 
 sha'n't enjoy Christmas at the Court ; that is a 
 thing that would have done you good. But, to 
 be sure, as we are still wearing deep mourning, 
 we could only have gone to the family parties, 
 which are not very amusing. Grace, you may 
 as well begin your packing ; you always take such 
 a time. I am going to take Margaret to Men- 
 tone." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Grace, ready to cry, "dearest 
 Jean ! then the doctor thought that dear Mar- 
 garet — " 
 
 "The doctor thought nothing about Mar- 
 garet," cried Mrs. Bellingham. "The doctor 
 thought what I told him. I said Mentone would 
 do the child good after her illness, and all that 
 has happened, and he agreed, of course. That 
 is all they can do. They tell you to go if they 
 think you will like it. If they think you will 
 not like it, they recommend you to stay at home. 
 I'll take Aubrey with me: he will always amuse 
 Margaret. " 
 
 "And, dearest Margaret, how good it is of 
 dear Jean to settle it all ! Do you think you 
 will like—" 
 
 "Like! of course she will like it," said Jean. 
 "We shall start in a week; so you had better 
 speak to Steward about your packing. A day 
 will do for Margaret and me." 
 
 "Mentone? that is Italy!" said pale Mar- 
 garet, with a little glow rising upon her face ; 
 and then she put her pale little hands together, 
 which were as small as a child's, and said to her- 
 self, inaudibly, "That is away!" 
 
 She got a little better from that hour. All 
 the circumstances of her bondage, all the risk of 
 discovery, the chance of agitating letters, such 
 as those which had been the cause of the ex- 
 posure that had ended in her illness, had come 
 rushing back upon her memory. And it was a 
 sudden intimation of some letters that had been 
 put aside for her that had caused her faint, over- 
 powering her, in her weakness, with sudden agi- 
 tation. Letters! What might they be? She 
 dared not ask for them. She dared not say any- 
 thing about them in case of questions which she 
 could not answer. He might be coming, for 
 aught she knew, to haunt the neighborhood of 
 the house, to watch for her, to waylay her, to 
 claim and take possession of her, whether she 
 liked or not. It is not to be described what a 
 soft gush of ease and relief and quiet came over 
 her, when she realized that she was now to be 
 taken away. Away! out of reach of all painful 
 
 visitors, where it would be too far for him to 
 come after her, where she would be safe. Mar- 
 garet mended from that hour. And when, by 
 means of Miss Parker, of whom she was not 
 afraid, she managed that evening, while Jean 
 and Grace were at dinner, to get possession of 
 the letters, and found one from Bell giving an 
 account of the execution of her commission, and 
 another from Randal, her heart threw off its 
 burden, although Randal's letter filled her with 
 strange yet. pleasant excitement. She was not 
 frightened by it as she had been by Rob's letter, 
 but felt, on the contrary, a great thrill of eager- 
 ness and wonder. Would he say anything about 
 Effie ? This, however, was all Randal said : 
 
 "Dear Margaret, — If I may call my old 
 playfellow so, I got your message, and thank 
 you most cordially for it. I understood it, though 
 I did not know what you wanted me to do. But 
 I will tell you what I did. I saw him : he was 
 anxious and complaining. I advised him to 
 have patience, not to attempt to write, which 
 would probably put you in a false position, and 
 offered him a place in my uncle's office. He has 
 accepted, and he will take my advice. If this is 
 not what you meant, let me know by one word. 
 I thought it was for the best ; but if silence is 
 disagreeable to you, it is I that am to be blamed, 
 not any one else. Thank you, with all my heart, 
 for understanding that I would serve you, if there 
 was any need, with my life. Yours ever, 
 
 "Raxdal Bdrnside." 
 
 How her heart bounded ! She seemed to have 
 found some one who would set things right, who 
 would manage those disturbed affairs for her. It 
 did not occur to her that she had no right to put 
 such a charge upon Randal, or make him her 
 agent. That idea never entered her mind. How 
 well he had divined what she wanted ! The way 
 in which he told her of it was very curt and brief, 
 it is true, and she felt disposed to wonder why 
 he had put it in such few words ; but it relieved 
 her of all her fears. It was in Randal's hands 
 now. Randal would not let Mm come to worry 
 her. Randal would save her from all this trou- 
 ble. Jean heard her laugh, as she was coming 
 up-stairs — heard her laugh, the little monkey! 
 and Mrs. Bellingham was so glad that she could 
 not be angry, though had this outburst happened 
 twenty-four hours sooner, she probably would not 
 have taken her away. 
 
 And she was quite equal to the journey when 
 the day came, though she was still weak and 
 white. One incident occurred, however, before 
 they started, which very much surprised Marga- 
 ret. She was in the wainscot parlor, alone, re- 
 clining among her cushions, when Mr. St. John 
 came in. The elder ladies were out, and Mar- 
 garet had been left alone. Perhaps it was Miss 
 Grace who had suggested this to the gentle An- 
 glican. He came in and sat down beside her. 
 with eyes enlarged by emotion and anxiety ; and 
 after he had told her how much sympathy her 
 illness had brought out, and how many people 
 had asked for her, and how fervently they had 
 all thought of her when the prayer for sick per- 
 sons came in the Litany, Mr. St. John startled 
 Margaret beyond measure by suddenly telling 
 her that he loved her, and asking if she would 
 be his wife. " Me?" she cried, with wondering, 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 133 
 
 questioning eyes, id pvofoundest bewilderment 
 and surprise, and with her usual Scotch indiffer- 
 ence to her pronouns. !She grew paler than ever 
 with horror. "Oh, it cannot be me!" she said, 
 shaking her head. Put this gave her a shock 
 of surprise and pain. She did not want to hurt 
 anybody's feelings. Could it be anything in her 
 that made this painful thing happen over again ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Aubrey joined the travellers in London. It 
 was very self-denying of him, very kind, to give 
 up all the festivities at the Court, and all his 
 many Christmas invitations, in order to accom- 
 pany and take care of a party of ladies on a jour- 
 ney to Mentone, his aunt said; "I will not say 
 that it is not a sacrifice to myself to give up 
 Christmas at the Court. I don't grudge the sac- 
 rifice, my dear, for your sake, and for the sake of 
 your health ; but I will not say it is nothing and 
 does not matter, as Grace does. Don't you be- 
 lieve, either, that it does not matter to Grace. 
 She likes her amusement just as well as the rest 
 of us, though, to be sure, our mourning would 
 make a difference. But Aubrey is a young man, 
 and has as many engagements as he can set his 
 face to; and we are nothing hut a couple of old 
 aunts, and you a bit of :i little girl. Yet when 
 he can be of use he never hesitates. You ought 
 to be very grateful, Margaret, for all he is doing 
 for you." 
 
 "And so I am," said Margaret: it was very 
 kind. And though Aubrey, when he arrived, 
 scouted the notion, and declared that he would 
 go anywhere to get rid of the festivities of the 
 Court, this did not make any impression upon 
 the ladies, who praised his self-denial to the echo. 
 As for Margaret, there could be no doubt that 
 his presence made the expedition very much 
 more agreeable to her. Jean and Grace were 
 very kind : but Jean was a little overpowering in 
 her manifold arrangements, and Grace's tender- 
 ness did not always fall in with the girl's humor, 
 who was apt to be impatient now and then. 
 Margaret got better day by day; and there was 
 so great a load lifted from her mind that she was 
 able to enjoy everything as she had never done 
 before. No chance now that she should be fol- 
 lowed and pursued by any attendant of whom 
 she would be afraid. Every step they took made 
 that more impossible. She seemed to get out 
 of the range of Rob Glen altogether when she 
 crossed the Channel, not to say that Randal had 
 already made her deliverance certain. 
 
 She dwelt upon this action of Randal in many 
 a musing, with mingled admiration and grati- 
 tude. How clever it was of him to divine what 
 she wanted to be done! The confusion of the 
 moment had been partly to blame for the inco- 
 herent message she had sent ; but it was not al- 
 together the confusion of the moment. There 
 had been, besides, a reluctance to mention the 
 name of Rob Glen to Randal, a desire to imply, 
 rather than to state distinctly, what she wanted 
 him to do. The vagueness was at least partly 
 voluntary, and partly she did not know what she 
 wanted to be done. She wanted something, 
 some one to interpose who should know better 
 than herself, who should be able to see what was 
 
 most expedient. What claim had she on Ran- 
 dal that he should have done so much for her? 
 And what inspiration could it be that made him 
 divine so exactly what she wanted — exactly what 
 she wanted! — not to hurt Rob's feelings? Uh 
 no, very far from that. If she had not been un- 
 willing to hurt Rob's feelings, it would never have 
 been in his power to give Iter so much alarm as 
 he had done. 
 
 Margaret sat and thought over all this as they 
 crossed the bit of sea between Dover and Calais. 
 Jean and Grace had betaken themselves to a 
 deck cabin, where they lay each on a sofa, scarce- 
 ly venturing to congratulate each other that the 
 sea was not quite so bad as usual, but prepared 
 for every emergency, and Aubrey had gone to 
 the other end to smoke a cigar. Margaret, in 
 her excitement, had scorned the deck cabin, 
 which both her sisters protested had been se- 
 cured entirely for her. She was, though she did 
 not as yet know it, one of those happy people 
 who are excited, not prostrated, by the sea. She 
 felt that she would like to walk about the decks 
 with Aubrey ; but all that had been permitted 
 to her was to sit in the most sheltered corner, 
 done up in shawls and wraps, so as to lessen all 
 chances of taking cold. And after a while, when 
 the first thrill of excitement calmed down, and 
 she began to get accustomed to her own emotion, 
 and the fact that she had left England, and the 
 extraordinary certainty that these were the shores 
 of France to which she was going, the extreme 
 isolation of the moment drove Margaret back, 
 as is so often the case, upon her most private 
 thoughts. The exhilaration of her being, which 
 was partly convalescence and partly change, she 
 attributed entirely to the fact that, for the mo- 
 ment, she was free — delivered from the danger 
 that had seemed about to overwhelm her. 
 
 This consciousness seemed to triumph over 
 everything — her grief which was still so recent, 
 her illness, all the ills her flesh was heir to. And 
 as Margaret's mind was growing amidst all this 
 agitation, it was now, at this moment, in the 
 middle of the Channel, that the thought sudden- 
 ly occurred to her : if she had been a sensible 
 girl — if she had not been a very foolish girl, how- 
 much better it would have been to pay no heed 
 to Rob Glen's feelings — to cut at once this bond 
 which was all his making, which had been woven 
 between them without any wish of hers — which 
 she had always rebelled against, except those 
 first nights when she had scarcely been aware 
 what he was saying, or what doing — when she 
 had received his declarations of love almost with- 
 out hearing them, and allowed his kisses on her 
 cheek with no more perception of their meaning 
 than that he wanted to be " kind" and comfort 
 her. There had been no lover's interview be- 
 tween them in which Margaret had not — a little 
 — shrank from him. She had held herself away 
 as far as she could from his embracing arm. 
 She had averted her cheek as much as possible ; 
 but it had been impossible for her to fling away 
 from him, to deliver herself altogether at the cost 
 of Rob's feelings. This she had not strength of 
 mind to do. But now she perceived that it 
 would have been better had she done it — had 
 she said plain No, when he declared his love with 
 all the hyperbole of passion. 
 
 Margaret knew she did not love him, certainly 
 not in that way ; but how she had shrunk from 
 
1.0 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 saving it — from letting liim feel that she did not 
 care for him as he cared for her ! How it would 
 have hurt his feelings ! Rather put up with some 
 little excess of affection for herself, she thought, 
 than humiliate him in this way ! And now was 
 the first time when she really ashed herself. 
 Would it not have been better to say the truth ? 
 The question flushed Margaret's cheek with 
 crimson, then sent back all her blood in a sud- 
 den flood upon her heart. She did not venture 
 to contemplate the possibility of having done this 
 — of having actually said to him, "It is a mis- 
 take; you are very — very kind, but I am not in 
 love with you." 
 
 The mere idea of it appalled her. How cruel 
 it would have been! How he would have 
 "thought shame!" How his feelings would 
 have been hurt! But still — but still — perhaps 
 it would have been better. She had just become 
 pale and chill all over with the horrible possibil- 
 ity of having given such pain as this, when Au- 
 brey's voice startled her. He was saying, anx- 
 iously, 
 
 "I am afraid you are ill. I am afraid you 
 are feeling cold. Won't you go into the cabin 
 and lie down? We shall be there in half an 
 hour. " 
 
 "Oh no!" said Margaret, her paleness disap- 
 pearing in another sudden blush. The days of 
 her blushing — her changes of countenance, which 
 were like the coming and going of the shadows — 
 had come back. " Oh no ! I am not cold ; and 
 I am not ill. I like it. But I — was thinking — " 
 
 "I wonder if I might offer you a penny for 
 your thoughts ? I dare say they are worth a 
 great deal more than that. Would you like to 
 liave mine ? They are not worth the half of a 
 penny. I was thinking what poor creatures we 
 all are — how unamiable we are on board of a 
 steamboat (the most of us). Look what pictures 
 of misery these people are ! It is not rough, but 
 they cannot believe that it may not be rough any 
 moment: when there is a pitch — there — like 
 that!" said Aubrey, himself looking a little 
 queer. "They think, now it is coming! All 
 their strength of mind, all their philosophy, if 
 they have any, cannot resist one heave of that 
 green water. Ugh— here's another!" he cried, 
 relapsing out of his fine moral tone into abject 
 sensationalism. Margaret laughed as merrily, 
 with her eyes dancing, as if there was no Rob 
 Glen in the world. 
 
 "But I don't care," she cried. "I like it: 
 when it seems to go from under your feet, and 
 then bounds like a greyhound." 
 
 "Don't speak of it," he said, faintly. "And 
 why is it you are so superior to the rest of us? 
 Not because you are so much brighter, and purer, 
 and better — " 
 
 "Oh no!" cried Margaret, interrupting him. 
 shaking her head and smiling. "Oh no! for I 
 am not that — " 
 
 " You should not contradict people who are 
 older than yourself — it is not good manners," he 
 said, solemnly. " You are all that, I allow ; but 
 that is not the reason. It is simply because of 
 some little physical peculiarity, some excellence 
 of digestion, or so forth, if one may venture to 
 use such a word : not because it is you — which I 
 should think quite a natural and proper reason. 
 No. for I have seen a creature as fair and as 
 good almost as yon are, Margaret (our travel- 
 
 lers' names are Margaret and Aubrey, you know 
 — that's understood), I have seen a beautiful 
 young girl, everything that was sweet and charm- 
 ing, lying dishevelled, speechless, a prey to name- 
 less horrors. Ah ! that'was a bad one !" said the 
 young man, unable to conceal that he himself 
 had become extremely pale. 
 
 " Oh ! I am very sorry for her," said Mar- 
 garet, forgetting the compliment in the interest 
 of the story. "Who was she, Mr. Aubrey?" 
 and she turned her sympathetic eyes full upon 
 him, which was almost more than, in his present 
 state of sensation, he could bear ; but, happily, 
 Calais was within a stone's -throw; and that is 
 a circumstance which steels the suffering to en- 
 durance. He got up, saying, "I think I must 
 look after the aunts." 
 
 Margaret looked after him with a warm gusli 
 of sympathy. Who was this beautiful young 
 girl who had been so ill ? Was poor Aubrey, 
 too, "in love?" She felt disposed to laugh a 
 little, as is natural in the circumstances ; for 
 does not every one laugh when a love-story is 
 suddenly produced ? But she was deeply inter- 
 ested, and at once felt a kindred sympathy and 
 affectionate interest opening up in her bosom. 
 Poor Aubrey ! Had anything happened, she 
 wondered, to the beautiful young girl who was 
 everything that was sweet and charming ? Was 
 not that enough to make everybody take an in- 
 terest in her at once ? 
 
 Margaret got no immediate satisfaction, how- 
 ever, about that beautifid young girl, but she of- 
 ten thought of her; and when she saw any shad- 
 ow come over Aubrey's face, she immediately set 
 it down to the credit of this anonymous young 
 lady. For the moment, however, she was her- 
 self carried away by the excitement of being 
 "abroad." But, alas ! is not the very first of 
 all sensations "abroad "a bewildering sense that 
 it is just the same world as at home, and that 
 "foreigners" are nothing else than men and 
 women very much like the rest of us? For the 
 first hour Margaret was in a kind of wonder- 
 land. The new. unusual sound of the language, 
 the different looks of the people, delighted her, 
 and she could understand what they were say- 
 ing ; though both Jean and Grace declared it to 
 be such bad French that they never attempted 
 to understand. "Is it very bad French ?" she 
 whispered to Aubrey; "perhaps that is why I 
 know what they mean." And he gave her a 
 comical look which made Margaret inarticulate 
 with suppressed laughter. Thus the two young 
 people became sworn allies, and understood each 
 other. But, after the first hour, the old familiar 
 lines of the world she had been previously ac- 
 quainted with came back to Margaret. The 
 people, though they were dressed differently and 
 spoke French, were the same kind of men and 
 women as she had always known. Indeed, the 
 old women in their white caps looked as if they 
 had just come from Fife. 
 
 "That is just what they were at home," she 
 said again to Aubrey: "the old wives — those 
 that never mind the fashions — even Bell !" There 
 were some of the old women on the French roads, 
 and at the stations, so like Bell that the sight of 
 them brought tears to Margaret's eyes. 
 
 " Who is Bell ? I have so often heard of Bell. 
 Bell has been put forward again and again, till 
 I am afraid of her. I am sure vou are afraid 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 141 
 
 of her ; and Aunt Jean, too, though she will not 
 say so." 
 
 "Oh, not me!" cried Margaret, uncertain as 
 ever about her pronouns; "Bell is — she is just 
 Bell. She was our house-keeper; she was ev- 
 erything to me ; she brought me up. I never 
 recollect any one else. Afraid of Bell — oh ! no, 
 no. But I would not like Bell to know," said 
 Margaret, slowly, " if I did anything that was 
 bad — anything that was real wrong — " 
 
 " You never will," said Aubrey, " so it doesn't 
 matter; but I should call that being afraid of 
 her. Now there are some people whom you only 
 go to when you have done something that is 
 real wrong." 
 
 "Are there? I don't know. It was Bell that 
 brought me up, more than any one else. She 
 is living now near — on the way to the Kirkton. 
 But you will not take any interest in that." 
 
 "I take the greatest interest," said Aubrey; 
 and it so chanced that this conversation, broken 
 off in the railway, was renewed again when they 
 were settled at Mentone, where again old women 
 were to be found like Bell. They passed rapidly 
 through Paris, and settled at once in the place 
 that was supposed to be good for Margaret. But 
 by the time they reached the sunny Riviera Mar- 
 garet had thrown off all trace of indisposition, 
 and evidently wanted nothing but air and sun- 
 shine, and a little petting, like other flowers. 
 They had a little villa on the edge of that bright- 
 est sea; and there along a path bordered by a 
 hedge of aloes, and with a great stone-pine at 
 the end, its solemn dome of foliage and its great 
 column of trunk relieved against the Mediter- 
 ranean blue, the two young people took a great 
 many walks together. 
 
 One of these evenings specially stamped itself 
 on their memories ; the sky was flushed rose-red 
 with the sunset, and all the sounds in the air 
 were soft, as summer only makes them in Eng- 
 land : there was a tinkle going on close at hand 
 from a convent-bell, and there was a soft sound 
 of voices from the beach — voices, of which the 
 inflections, the accents, were all dramatic, though 
 they could not tell a word that was said. It was 
 the enchanted hour, the time of natural magic 
 and poetry ; and Aubrey, though he was not at 
 all poetical, felt it a little more than he could 
 have believed possible. He had found out how 
 pretty Margaret was — how much prettier, day 
 by day. It was not that there was any striking 
 beauty in her that conquered with a glance; but 
 every morning when she appeared down-stairs, 
 with her color coming and going, with her brown 
 eyes full of such eagerness and lovely wonder, 
 "she grew upon you," Aubrey said. He had 
 thought her very tolerable even at first — no par- 
 ticular drawback to her income and her estate. 
 But by this time he took a great deal of interest 
 in her. She was never the same ; always chang- 
 ing from serious to gay, from red to white, from 
 quiet to eagerness. He was interested, never 
 wearied. He had not really found it much of a 
 sacrifice to accompany the ladies, after all. The 
 place was a bore ; but then, fortunately, Marga- 
 ret no longer required to be kept at this place ; 
 there was a reasonable hope of moving on to 
 places in which there was more amusement; and 
 Margaret was really amusing, very amusing, as 
 girls go. There was a variety abcut her which 
 kept your interest alive. 
 
 " Did you ever do anything that was real 
 wrong?" said Margaret, dreamily, looking out 
 toward the horizon where the rose of the sky 
 met the blue of the sea. She was rather think- 
 ing aloud, than realizing the scope of what she 
 said; and it is doubtful whether the girl ever 
 realized the difference between a girl and a man 
 — tire very different sense that real wrong might 
 have to him, or the equivocal meaning which 
 such words might bear to a listener of so much 
 more experience in the world. 
 
 He laughed, startling Margaret from her 
 dreamy musing. "Alas!" he said, "a great 
 many times, I am afraid. Did you? But I 
 don't suppose you know what wrong means." 
 
 "Yes," she said, drawing a deep breath, "I 
 am not in fun ; once : and it seems as if you 
 never can get better of it. I don't know if it is 
 any excuse that I did it because I did not like 
 to hurt a person's feelings." 
 
 "What was it?" he said, lightly; "a little 
 fib — a statement that was not quite justified by 
 fact? These are the angelical errors that count 
 for wrong among creatures like you." 
 
 "Then what do you call wrong, if that is not 
 wrong? Aubrey, it was more wicked than that: 
 but I am not going to tell you what it was. I 
 have been dreadfully sorry ever since I did it. 
 But I feel a little easier, a little happier now." 
 
 "Perhaps you broke a bit of old Dresden?" 
 he said, "or lost that Venice point Aunt Jean 
 showed me. I should never forgive you for such 
 sins, Margaret. No wonder you are reluctant to 
 confess them. You are happier because nobody 
 could be unhappy in this delicious evening, walk- 
 ing as we are. It is only in such a scene that 
 I could look with complacency upon the heart- 
 less destroyer of china, the careless guardian of 
 lace — " 
 
 "You are only laughing at me," she said ; "I 
 think you are always laughing. Don't you think 
 there is anything in the world more serious than 
 china and lace ?" 
 
 "Very few things, Margaret. Few things so 
 dear, which you will allow is very serious, and 
 few things so easily injured." 
 
 "But oh, Aubrey! I think that is almost 
 wicked, to love a thing that cannot love you 
 again, as much as — more than things that have 
 life." 
 
 "I don't do that, Margaret." He looked at 
 her so earnestly that she was almost abashed, 
 yet, fearing nothing, went on, moved by the 
 flowing of her own newly awakened thoughts. 
 "You and Jean, you talk as if a little bit of a 
 cup or a plate — what we call pigs in Fife — was 
 of more importance — What are you laughing 
 at, Aubrey? — because I said pigs ? But it is the 
 common word." 
 
 "My dear little Margaret, - ' he said, "don't 
 make me laugh, with your pigs. Lecture me. 
 Let us go and sit under the pine and look out 
 upon the sea, and do you preach me a little ser- 
 mon about real right and real wrong. I am just 
 in the mood to profit by it now." 
 
 "You are doing what papa used to do," said 
 Margaret, half laughing, half crying ; " he would 
 always make a fool of me. And how should I 
 lecture you? You must know much better than 
 I do." " 
 
 "I ought, I suppose," he said. The pine 
 stood on a little point, one of those innumerablo 
 
142 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 fairy headlands that line that lovely coast, the 
 sea lapping softly, three parts round, the foot of 
 the cliff on which it holds its place. The air was 
 more fresh there than anywhere else. The pine 
 held high its clump of big branches and sharp 
 evergreen needles high over their heads : behind 
 them was a bosquet of shrubs which almost hid 
 them as they sat together. The blue sea thus 
 softly whispering below upon the beach, the del- 
 icate rose that tinted the sky, the great pine 
 isolated and splendid, how could they recall 
 to Margaret the dark wood, all worn with the 
 winds, the mossy knoll, the big elbows of the 
 silver fir, the moan of the Northern sea with 
 which she had been so familiar ? The one scene, 
 though made up of almost the same details, bore 
 no more resemblance to the other than Aubrey 
 Bellingham did to Rob Glen : and where could 
 a greater difference be ? 
 
 "Yes," he said; "so far as wrong is con- 
 cerned, I should suppose so. I must be better 
 up in that than you are ; but, all the same, I 
 should like you to teach me. Let it be about 
 the right; there you are strong. What must I 
 do to cease to be a useless dilettante — as you say 
 I am ?" 
 
 "Me? I never said so, Aubrey — not such a 
 word. I never said such a word." 
 
 "But you meant it. Tell me, Margaret: if 
 I can cease to be a dilettante and a trifling per- 
 son, what would you have me be?" 
 
 He bent toward her, looking into her eyes, 
 and half put out his hand to take hers ; and 
 Margaret, startled, saw once more what it had 
 so much bewildered her to see in Mr. St. John, 
 the same look which she knew in the eyes of 
 Rob Glen. What an amount of experience she 
 was acquiring, ever renewed and extended ! 
 This frightened her greatly. She drew away 
 from him upon the garden-seat, and kept her 
 hands clasped firmly together, and beyond the 
 reach of any other hand. 
 
 " I do not want you to be anything," she said, 
 "you are very well as you are. You might 
 think upon — perhaps you might think upon — 
 the common folk a little more. When you came 
 to EaiTs-hall we did not know what you meant; 
 and sometimes even now Jean and you — I 
 know most about the common folk, they are just 
 as interesting as the others." 
 
 "Ah," he said, laughing, but a little discom- 
 fited, "you mean the poor. Must I take to vis- 
 iting the poor?" 
 
 " I suppose you call them the poor, in 
 England," said Margaret, doubtfully, "but you 
 know a great deal better than I do, Aubrey ; 
 for one thing, you are older. I think perhaps 
 Jean will think I ought to go in now." 
 
 "Certainly, I am a great deal older; but not 
 so very much, either. I am twenty-five — just 
 about the right age to go with eighteen. Yes, 
 tell me a little more. I shall recollect about — 
 what do you call them ? the common people — 
 not the poor. (Jo on, my moralist; I am ready 
 to be taught." 
 
 "I think I hear Grace calling," she said, rising 
 to her feet. "I am sure Jean will think the 
 wind is getting cold, and that I should have gone 
 in before." 
 
 " The wind is as soft as summer," he said, 
 with a little excitement, "and the evening as 
 sweet as — yourself. Wait a little, only a few 
 
 minutes ; there is something I wish so much to 
 say to you." 
 
 "Oil, Mr. Aubrey ! " she said, frightened. " Do 
 not say it ! I would rather you did not say it. 
 Once I did very wrong, not wishing to hurt a 
 person's feelings ; but that is what I must never 
 do any more." 
 
 "Are you sure," he said, rising too, with a 
 sudden flush of anger, "that you know what I 
 was going to say?" 
 
 Margaret .paused, with an alarmed look at 
 him, the color wavering in her cheeks, her eyes 
 very anxious, her lips a little apart. 
 
 "What I was going to say," he continued, 
 pointedly, "was, that I fear I must soon leave 
 the villa, and the fine weather, and your delight- 
 ful society. This kind of holiday life cannot en- 
 dure forever-" 
 
 "Oh!" She uttered her favorite exclamation 
 with a look of distress and, he thought, disap- 
 pointment. This was balm to Aubrey's heart. 
 
 " Yes, I am sorry, too. But what can be done 
 when duty calls ? My office is getting clamorous, 
 and there is nothing tor a man to do here. Now, 
 perhaps, we had better carry out your intention, 
 and go back to Aunt Jean." 
 
 And they walked through the garden back to 
 the house, with scarcely a word spoken between 
 them. One way or the other way, both were 
 equally uncomfortable modes of managing such 
 a crisis. She had hurt his feelings ! It was 
 better than all that followed the episode of Rob 
 Glen ; but still it was not a pleasant way. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 And it was true that the very next morning 
 Aubrey declared his intention of going away. 
 "My chief finds that the office cannot get on 
 without me," he said, pretending to have had 
 letters by the morning mail ; while Margaret sat, 
 not daring to look up, feeling more guilty than 
 she could say. Her consciousness that she was 
 to blame even carried the day over her deter- 
 mined belief in the sincerity and absolute truth- 
 fulness of every one about her. Twenty -four 
 hours since she would have accepted Aubrey's 
 statement as a matter-of-fact which left no room 
 for doubt or comment. But now she could not 
 but feel that she had something to do with it, 
 that she had hurt his feelings, which made Mar- 
 garet feel very guilty and wretched. He had 
 been so kind to them, to her and her sisters, and 
 sacrificed a great many pleasant things to come 
 with them : and this was all her gratitude! She 
 did not like to lift her eyes. When Jean and 
 Grace both rushed into wailing and lamenta- 
 tions, she said nothing. She tried to swallow 
 her tea, though it nearly choked her, but she 
 could not speak. 
 
 As for Mrs. Bellingham, she said not half so 
 much to her nephew then as she did after break- 
 fast, when she had him to herself. 
 
 "You can't be going to do anything so fool- 
 ish, Aubrey, my dear Aubrey !" she said ; " why, 
 you are making progress day by day ! If ever a 
 girl was delighted with a young man, and pleased 
 to be with him, and happy in his society, Marga- 
 ret is that girl. And you know how anxious I 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 143 
 
 am, and how it would please everybody at the 
 Court to see you provided for." 
 
 "You are very kind, Aunt Jean," he said, 
 with a flush of angry color. "I know you mean 
 nothing that is not amiable and kind ; but I 
 think, all the same, I might be provided for in 
 some other way." 
 
 Jean, though she was so strong-minded, felt 
 very much disposed to cry at this failure of all 
 her wishes. 
 
 "I don't understand you at all," she said; "I 
 am sure there was nothing meant that was the 
 least disagreeable to your feelings. Margaret, 
 though I say it that perhaps shouldn't, is as nice 
 a girl as you will find anywhere ; and though 
 her education has been neglected, nobody need 
 be ashamed of her. And you seemed to be 
 quite pleased; and I am sure she is really fond 
 of you." 
 
 "Yes, that is one of your Scotticisms," he 
 said; "you mean that as long as I am service- 
 able, and don't ask too much, Margaret likes me 
 well enough. I don't say anything against that — " 
 
 This time Mrs. Bellingham really did put up 
 her handkerchief to her eyes. "I never ex- 
 pected to hear of my Scotticisms from you, Au- 
 brey," she said. "Of course I am Scotch — 
 there is no doubt about it — and I would never 
 be one to deny my country. But I did think 
 that, after spending by far the greater part of 
 my life in England, I might have been free of 
 any such abuse as that." 
 
 "My dear Aunt Jean, do you think I meant 
 abuse? I mean that Margaret likes me well 
 enough as a friend — which you call being fond 
 of me. I shouldn't wonder if she would herself 
 say, with all the innocence in the world, that 
 she was fond of me, knowing perfectly what she 
 means; but then I should put a different mean- 
 ing on such words. She will never be fond of 
 me in my sense ; and so, as I have still a little 
 pride left (though you might not think so), it is 
 clear that I cannot be provided for, as you say, 
 in that way." 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Aubrey ? Has 
 anything happened between Margaret and you. 
 Have you said anything, or has she said any- 
 thing?" 
 
 Aubrey saw he had gone too far, and had al- 
 most committed himself; and he did not want 
 any one to think that a mere ingenue, a bread- 
 and-butter girl like Margaret, had repulsed or 
 discouraged so accomplished a gentleman as 
 himself. He said, with a little laugh, " My dear 
 aunt, what are you thinking of? That has not 
 been at all necessary. Margaret and I are the 
 best friends in the world. I am ' very fond of 
 her,' as you say. She is a charming little girl. 
 But your scheme will not do ; that is all. Was 
 not I quite willing to be provided for? But it 
 will never come to anything. Oh yes, I sup- 
 pose the chief might be smoothed down ; there 
 is nothing so very important going on at the of- 
 fice : but what is the good of it ? Margaret and 
 I will stroll up and down the beach, and listen 
 to the band, and all that, and be very fond of 
 each other ; but we will never get a step farther 
 than we are now." 
 
 " I know what it is," said Mrs. Bellingham — 
 
 "you are bored; that is the whole business; 
 
 and I don't wonder. To see all the poor things 
 
 about, with their sick faces, is enough to make 
 
 10 
 
 anybody ill. And Margaret, the little monkey, 
 after giving us such a fright, is just as well as I 
 am. Some one was speaking to me the other 
 day about the villa. I dare say we could get it 
 off our hands quite easily; and in that case, if 
 we go on to some place which is more amusing, 
 will you change your mind — or, let us say, re- 
 consider your decision ?" 
 
 He shook his head and shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, and then he remembered his interests like 
 a young man of sense. " Well, perhaps I will 
 reconsider my decision," he said. 
 
 After this the party went on into Italy, and 
 saw a great many things that filled Margaret 
 with delight and wonder. She expanded like a 
 flower, as the spring came on — that Italian spring 
 which is as youth to whosoever can receive it with 
 an unburdened soul. And to Margaret, who al- 
 ready possessed youth, it was not only delight, 
 but mental growth and expansion of the whole 
 being. Aubrey left them for a time, but return- 
 ed again to escort them home in that month of 
 May which is the climax of all the splendors of 
 spring. The interval between his going and his 
 coming back did a great deal more for Aubrey 
 than any attentions of his could have done. 
 They were in Florence when he left them, where 
 Mrs. Bellingham and Miss Leslie had already 
 found a number of acquaintances, and where 
 soon they were deep in afternoon teas and social 
 evenings, as if they had been at home. 
 
 Margaret had no education which fitted her 
 for the delights of this life, and she could not 
 run about alone in the solemn Italian city as she 
 had done at home ; and she missed her compan- 
 ion, who, though he was not clever nor particu- 
 larly well-informed, understood how to set afloat 
 those half- thoughtful, half- bantering conversa- 
 tions which youth loves, and in which young 
 talkers can soar to heights of wise or foolish 
 speculation, or drop into nonsense, at their pleas- 
 ure : an art in which, it is needless to say, nei- 
 ther Mrs. Jean nor Miss Grace was skilled ; and 
 now and then he had an acces of enthusiasm 
 equally beyond the range of the ladies, who walk- 
 ed about, guide-book in hand, and insisted that 
 nothing should be omitted. "Margaret, Mar- 
 garet! you are running away without seeing 
 half of the pictures. I am only at No. 310," 
 Mrs. Bellingham would say. But when Aubrey- 
 was there, the girl was emancipated, and allowed 
 to gaze her soul away upon what she liked and 
 what he liked. How she missed him ! She was 
 quite ready, as he said, to declare with fervor 
 that she was "very fond" of Aubrey, and wel- 
 comed him when he came back with genuine 
 pleasure. "Oh, how glad I am you are to be 
 with us now till we get home !" she said. 
 
 Aubrey looked at her with a 'glance which was 
 half angry and half affectionate. "You are a 
 little deceiver," he said ; "you like me to be with 
 you only so long as I am useful. I am a kind 
 of courier; that is all the good of me." 
 
 "Oh no," cried Margaret, "I cannot tell yon 
 how much I missed you. It is because you are 
 so kind." 
 
 "It is because of me, not because of you," he 
 said, with a frown and a laugh; "and so it al- 
 ways will be, women are so " — he was going to 
 say selfish ; but when he caught Margaret's eyes 
 puckered with emotion and wistfulness, looking 
 anxiously at him, he stopped short and changed 
 
1« 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 the word — "ridiculous," lie added, not knowing 
 what she meant, and feeling a little, just a very 
 little, prick in his heart that it was so, and that 
 Margaret only found him agreeable for his good 
 qualities, and not from any inclination toward 
 him within her own being. Her eager reception 
 of him, however, woke a sentiment in him which 
 was not unlike love ; he was pleased by the 
 brightness of her welcome: and to be unable to 
 make a girl fall in love with you, a simple girl 
 of eighteen who has never seen anybody, after 
 months of companionship — a girl, too, whom to 
 marry would be to provide for yourself for life — 
 this, there can be no doubt, is humbling to a man 
 of accomplishment and experience. So Aubrey 
 made up his mind to another effort, with more 
 determination, if with less lively hope. He would 
 not quarrel with her if in the long-run she still 
 refused to fall in love with him, but he began to 
 hope that a different result might be attained. 
 He liked Margaret, and Margaret liked him, 
 without any disguise ; and, after all, there was 
 no telling : perhaps perseverance on his part, 
 and the habit of referring to him perpetually, 
 and getting a great deal of her pleasure through 
 him, might bring about a satisfactory state of 
 things at the last. 
 
 They reached London in the beginning of June, 
 when everything looked at its brightest. What 
 a change Margaret felt in herself! She was no 
 longer the little girl who had been allowed to 
 grow up in all the simplicity of a country maid- 
 en, untaught and unsophisticated, at Earl's-hall. 
 She had seen a great many things and places, 
 though that mere fact does not make very much 
 difference. She had learned to think; and there 
 had grown about her that little subtle atmosphere 
 of personal experience which can rarely be ac 
 quired in the little world of home. It was not pos- 
 sible for her to identify herself with her old sisters 
 as she might have done with her mother. From 
 the first they had been separate existences, de- 
 tached from her, though in close incidental con- 
 junction, and so kind to her. She was grateful 
 to them, and loved them as she could, but she 
 was very conscious of the isolations of her exist- 
 ence ; and how could she help the little criticisms, 
 the little laughters, the amusement which their 
 "ways" could afford only to one whose life was 
 not involved in theirs, and whose duty to them 
 was less than the most sacred ? Such detached- 
 ness has much to do with the energy of personal 
 existence. Margaret had begun to feel herself, 
 and to know what her life was, during the hours 
 of solitude that were inevitable; and through the 
 long period of partial companionship in which she 
 went and came, docile and quiet in the train of 
 Jean and Grace, without feeling herself ever iden- 
 tified with them, her own being was slowly de- 
 veloping within her. She had begun to see what 
 the position was that she was born to occupy, 
 and to foresee dimly duties which she had no nat- 
 ural guide to instruct her in, no natural represent- 
 ative to do for her, but which would have to be 
 done otherwise than as Jean and Grace would bid. 
 
 These grave foreshadowings of the future came, 
 however, but by glimpses upon Margaret. She 
 had no desire to think of the future : over it there 
 was a shadow which she did not know how to 
 meet. She held it as much as she could at arm's- 
 length, still with a dumb faith in circumstances, 
 in something which might still happen to deliver 
 
 her. So entirely had she succeeded in this, that 
 the alarming image of Rob Glen, which every 
 time she thought of him had more and more ter- 
 rors for her, had not even troubled her in any vi- 
 sion for M'eeks before the party recrossed the 
 Channel on their way home. But on that pas- 
 sage, as they came back, Margaret suddenly re- 
 membered the thought that had occurred to her 
 there as she went away. It was a breezy day, 
 and the sea was not smooth : Jean and Grace 
 lay on sofas in the deck cabin, indifferent to Mar- 
 garet, and everything else in earth and heaven. 
 Aubrey, not much more strong in this particular, 
 had taken himself and his miseries out of the 
 way. Margaret, in happy exemption, sat alone. 
 But this was not a happy exemption, as it hap- 
 pened ; for suddenl}' there leaped into her mind 
 a recollection of the question she had asked her- 
 self first, in this very steamboat, on this very 
 ocean, five months ago — Would it not have been 
 better to disregard Rob Glen's feelings and tell 
 him the truth ? " Yes," she said now to herself, 
 firmly, though with pale lips, and a shadow im- 
 mediately fell over the brightness : the time was 
 coming when her fortitude would be put to the 
 test, when she must meet him and decide what 
 was to be the course of her life — and every tick 
 of her watch, every throb of her pulse, every 
 bound of the boat, was bringing her nearer — 
 nearer to this terrible moment, and to Rob Glen. 
 
 They stopped in London for a few days to " do 
 some shopping" — perennial necessity which 
 haunts every mortal — and "to see the exhibi- 
 tions." This was a thing which Mrs. Belling- 
 ham considered absolutely necessary. She had 
 not failed to go through the Royal Academy, 
 with her catalogue in her hand, marking the 
 pictures she liked, once in the last twenty years. 
 Nobody in society could avoid doing this. 
 Whether you cared for them or not, it was indis- 
 pensable that you should see them — they are al- 
 ways a topic of conversation afterward ; and 
 Mrs. Bellingham had seen a dull party redeemed,, 
 quite redeemed, by a little knowledge of the ex- 
 hibitions. 
 
 "Oh yes, dearest Margaret, we must stay; 
 dear Jean never misses the pictures, and you and 
 dear Aubrey must see them. Dearest Jean says 
 that all young people should see them ; certainly 
 they are very beautiful and humanizing, and will 
 do us all a great deal of good. We are to start 
 as soon as we have had our luncheon. I should 
 have liked to go in the morning, but dear Jean 
 likes to see the people as well as the pictures ; 
 and, darling Margaret, you that have never seen 
 anything, that will be so good for you too." 
 
 "Not your hat, Margaret, your bonnet!" said 
 Mrs. Bellingham ; " we are in town : it is not 
 like Florence or Paris, or any of those foreign 
 places where we were visitors. Here you must 
 understand that we are in town. Next year we 
 will come up for the season, when we are out of 
 mourning (or almost out of mourning), and you 
 must be presented and all that ; but there is 
 nothing to be done in crape; it would be alto- 
 gether out of the question, and a disrespect to 
 papa. But, such as it is, put on your bonnet, 
 my dear Margaret. We shall see nobody — but 
 we may see a good many people; and you must 
 never forget that you are in town now." 
 
 The bonnet was put on accordingly, and the 
 ladies went to the Academv, with Aubrey in at- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 li: 
 
 tendance as usual. Perhaps he did not like it 
 so well as in foreign places, for they were a lit- 
 tle travel-worn, and their crape not so fresh as 
 it ought to be ; but still the faithful Aubrey was 
 faithful, and went. He knew that if anybody 
 saw him (and of course somebody would see him), 
 it would be supposed that he had expectations 
 from the old aunt in her imperfect crape ; or the 
 truth would creep out about Margaret, and he 
 would be forgiven everything when it was known 
 that it was an heiress upon whom he was in at- 
 tendance. Such facts as these change the ex- 
 ternal aspect of affairs. 
 
 It was a bright day, warm and cheerful, and 
 the Academy, of course, was crowded. Aubrey 
 did not consider that it was his duty to follow 
 Mrs. Bellingham while she made her conscien- 
 tious round ; but he kept close by Margaret, who 
 was half frightened by the jostling and crowd, 
 and could not see anything, and had a vague 
 sense of dread she could not tell why. "I am 
 afraid you have a headache," Aubrey said ; but 
 Margaret did not feel that it would be honest to 
 take refuge in that common safeguard of a head- 
 ache. It was something more like a heartache 
 that she had, though she could not tell why. 
 She was standing looking round her vaguely 
 enough, tired and waiting for a seat, in the great 
 room, in a corner not so crowded as the rest, 
 and Aubrey was coming up hurriedly to tell her 
 of a sudden vacancy on one of the benches, when 
 he was arrested by the sudden change in her 
 countenance. Her eyes, which had been wan- 
 dering vaguely over a prospect which afforded 
 her but little interest, suddenly cleared and kin- 
 dled ; her face, which had been so pale, was sud- 
 denly lighted by one of those flushes of color 
 which changed Margaret's aspect so completely ; 
 her lips, which had been so serious, parted with 
 the brightest of smiles. She made a step for- 
 ward, all lighted up with pleasure, and held out 
 her hand. Aubrey stopped suddenly short in 
 his advance, and looked suspiciously, keenly at 
 the new-comer who produced this change on her. 
 He was not a man who was addicted even to the 
 most innocent of oaths ; but this time his feel- 
 ings were too much for him. "By Jove! the 
 man of Killin," he said ; and he was so much 
 startled that the words were uttered half aloud. 
 
 "Bandal!" Margaret said, all smiling, hold- 
 ing out her hand. "Oh! I did not think I 
 should see .any one I knew — much less you. 
 How little one can tell! I had been wanting to 
 go away." 
 
 The simplicity of pleasure with which she said 
 this took Bandal by surprise. He clasped her 
 hand and held it in his own for a moment with 
 a corresponding self-betrayal. "It seemed too 
 good to be true," he said; and they stood to- 
 gether for a moment so completely absorbed in 
 this sudden delight of seeing each other, that Au- 
 brey gave way to another vulgarism quite un- 
 like his good-breeding : he made as though he 
 would have whistled that long note of wonder 
 and discovery which is one of the primeval signs 
 invented before language. "When did this 
 come about?" Aubrey said to himself; and his 
 surprise was so genuine that he could do nothing 
 but stand half petrified, and watch the course of 
 this singular interview going on in all simplicity 
 before his eyes. 
 
 "Jean and Grace are both here," said Mar- 
 
 garet, "and Aubrey — Aubrey, whom you saw 
 with us last summer. Oh, Bandal, have you 
 just come from home ? Are they all quite well ? 
 Is it long since you saw Bell ? Is EaiTs-hall 
 very dreary, standing empty ? Oh ! I would like 
 to hear about everything. Will you come and 
 see us? But tell me, now, are you staying in 
 London, and what was it that brought you here, 
 just this very afternoon, when I was coming 
 too ?" 
 
 "My good angel, I think," said Bandal, fer- 
 vently ; and again the color rushed over her face, 
 and she smiled — as Aubrey thought he had nev- 
 er seen her smile before. 
 
 "Let us say a kind fairy," said Margaret; 
 " but will you come and see us where we are 
 living? For here there is no quiet place to talk. 
 Uon*t go away though, Bandal : Jean and Grace 
 would like to see you — and I too." 
 
 "Is it likely that I should want to go away?" 
 he said ; and then his face paled a little, and" he 
 added: "There is some one else you want to 
 ask me about, Margaret. You will not need to 
 trust to me for information at second-hand.'' 
 Then he lowered his voice, and said, bending to- 
 ward her, " Glen is here." 
 
 "Oh!" Aubrey could see the usual little 
 exclamation prolonged almost into a cry. She 
 grew quite pale with a dead pallor of fright. 
 " Oh, Bandal, take him away ; or take me away. 
 What shall I do ?" she cried. 
 
 "Do you not wish to see him, Margaret?" 
 
 " Oh no, no, Bandal ! Turn round; pretend 
 to be looking at the pictures. What shall I do ? 
 Oh, do not let him know I am here! It was 
 that made me ill before. It was — all a mistake, 
 Bandal. Oh, I felt sure when I came out to- 
 day something was going to happen ; and then 
 when I saw you I thought how silly I had been 
 — that it was something good that had hs}> 
 pened : now here is the right reading of it. Oh, 
 Bandal, you helped me before ; can you not help 
 me again now?" 
 
 "I will do anything, whatever you wish," he 
 said ; "but, Margaret, if this is your feeling, it 
 is scarcely fair to Glen ; I think he ought to 
 know." 
 
 "Yes, yes," she said, but in too great a panic 
 to know what she was saying; "which will be 
 the best? Should I stay here while you take 
 him away, Bandal? I could stand close to the 
 pictures and put down my veil ; or will you take 
 me away ? Oh, think, please, for I do not seem 
 able to think! But he would be sure to know 
 me if he saw me with you. Aubrey — oh, here 
 is Aubrey," she said, seizing his arm as he ap- 
 proached ; " he will take me : and, Bandal, come 
 — will you come to-night?" 
 
 "Where ?" said Bandal, putting out his hand 
 to detain her. Aubrey, with a somewhat surly 
 nod of recognition which the other was scarcely 
 aware of, gave him the address ; and almost 
 dragged through the crowd by Margaret's eager- 
 ness, went away with her, not ill-pleased, not- 
 withstanding this disagreeable evidence of some 
 mystery he did not understand, to carry her off 
 from the man she had smiled upon so brightly. 
 She had dropped her veil, which was half crape, 
 over her face, and, holding her head d.own and 
 clinging to his arm, drew him through the crowd. 
 
 "Are you ill?" he said; "what is the mat- 
 ter, Margaret ?" But she made no reply ; and 
 
1-4G 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 it was only when he had found Mrs. Belling- 
 ham's hired carriage, which was waiting outside, 
 and put her into it, that she seemed to be able 
 to speak. Even then she would not let him go. 
 
 "Will you come home with me?" she said, 
 with a sweetness of appeal and a wistful look 
 which Aubrey, with some indignation, felt to be 
 false, after the reception she had given to " that 
 Scotch fellow," yet could not resist. 
 
 "I am afraid you must be ill," he said, half 
 sullenly — "yes, if you wish it, I will go with 
 you ; but Aunt Jean, I am afraid, will think this 
 very strange." 
 
 "There was some one that I did not want to 
 see. Ah!" she cried, putting up her hands to 
 her face and sinking back into a corner of the 
 carriage. Aubrey, looking out where her terri- 
 fied glance had fallen, saw a man turn round and 
 stare after them as they drove away ; but he 
 could not see who or what kind of man this was. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 When Rob Glen accepted the offer that Ran- 
 dal made him and agreed to the conditions, it 
 was done partly in despite, partly in impatience, 
 partly because' the novelty tempted him, in the 
 state of discouragement and irritation which 
 Margaret's troubled response had thrown him 
 into. He had not ceased to be "in love" with 
 her, nor was the impassioned letter he had ad- 
 dressed to her really false, notwithstanding his 
 constant confidential interviews with Jeanie, 
 which would have been the direst offence to 
 Margaret had they been known, or had she real- 
 ly cared for him as he supposed and hoped her 
 to do. Had she been within reach, Rob would 
 have been really as much in love with Margaret 
 as ever ; but he was angry and hurt by her in- 
 difference, and humiliated, he who had won so 
 much love in his day, that she did not receive 
 his letter with pleasure. Even if she had seen 
 the inexpediency or impossibility of continuing 
 the correspondence, he could not forgive her that 
 she had no word of thanks to send him for the 
 letter, which might have made a girl happy, no 
 breathing of soft response to its impassioned 
 strain. He was pleased to punish her, to re- 
 venge himself by the hasty pledge not to write 
 again. Yes, he would punish her. Next time 
 she received one of these letters it should be 
 after months of weary waiting, when she would 
 thank him as she ought. 
 
 It was absolutely impossible for Rob to real- 
 ize that it would be a relief to Margaret not to 
 hear from him at all. The idea was incredible. 
 Never before in all his experience had he met 
 with a girl who was quite insensible to his woo- 
 ing, and Margaret, who was so young, so art- 
 less! She might be afraid to snatch that pain- 
 fid joy ; the perils of a clandestine correspond- 
 ence might alarm instead of exciting her; but 
 that she should not like it, was beyond all Rob's 
 acquaintance with human nature, and altogether 
 incredible to him. And thus he would punish 
 her. Edinburgh too would no doubt be more 
 cheerful than the farm in the depth of winter, 
 when his mother's ill-humor and the absence of 
 all amusement would aggravate the short days 
 and long, cold nights, in which even a stroll with 
 
 Jeanie was no longer practicable. Mrs. Glen, 
 too, looked favorably on the idea. It would 
 " pass the time." "And you'll be in the wav of 
 seeing a good kind of folk," his mother said; 
 "plenty of gentry is aye about thae lawyers' 
 offices. They're in want o' siller, or they're 
 wanting to get rid o' their siller ; and I wouldna 
 lose a chance of a good acquaintance. Then, 
 when the time comes, and when you set up in 
 your ain house with your lady-wife, you'll no be 
 without friends." 
 
 "Friends made in an Edinbnrgh writer's of- 
 fice, of what use will they be in the heart of 
 England ?" said Rob, with lofty superiority ; but 
 he was not displeased by the suggestion. He 
 no more thought it possible that, with his tal- 
 ents, he could fail to "win forward," as his 
 mother said, than he thought it possible that 
 Margaret could really be indifferent to such a 
 glowing composition as the love-letter he had 
 sent her. The only thing in the whole matter 
 that he felt any reluctance about was, how he 
 was to break it to Jeanie, whose sweetness, as 
 his confidential friend and adviser, had been very 
 soothing and consolatory to him. As the deci- 
 sion had to be made at once, there was not even 
 much time in which to break it to Jeanie. He 
 strolled past her father's cottage in the high 
 toun on one of the nights when Margaret lay at 
 her worst in a haze of fever, with her life appar- 
 ently hanging on a thread. But none of all the 
 little knot of people at the Kirkton, whose lives 
 were tangled with hers, were as yet aware of 
 anything that had occurred to her. Rob went 
 slowly past the little window, all glowing with 
 fire-light, where John Robertson sat tired with 
 his work, while Jeanie put away the cups and 
 saucers after their tea. By-and-by it would be 
 necessaiy to light "the candle," for he had still 
 a job to finish before bedtime ; but what did 
 they want with the candle when they were at 
 their tea? Fire-light was quite enough for the 
 scanty meal and the conversation which went 
 on, not without a divided attention on Jeanie's 
 part ; for she could not but think that she heard 
 a step outside which she knew. 
 
 " I think I will run out for two or three min- 
 utes and see Katie Dewar, when you are settled 
 to your work, faither," Jeanie said; "she is al- 
 ways complaining, and it's a fine night," she add- 
 ed, with a little compunction, looking out through 
 the uncurtained window. The sense of deceiv- 
 ing, however, was not at all strong or urgent in 
 her, for such little deceits about a lover's meeting 
 are leniently dealt with in Jeanie's sphere. 
 
 "You'll no be very long, Jeanie." Her father 
 had a sufficiently good notion of what was going 
 on, and, as he was quite unconscious of any com- 
 plication in Rob Glen's affections, and quite con- 
 fident in his daughter's purity and goodness, it 
 did not disturb him much. "Mind that it's a 
 cold night, and dinna loiter about." 
 
 " I'll no be very long, faither." Jeanie threw 
 a shawl round her, but left her pretty head, witli 
 its golden-brown curling hair, uncovered. If it 
 was very cold it was always easy to throw a fold 
 of the shawl over her head. She went out, with 
 her heart beating — not altogether with pleasure. 
 To be with him was still a kind of happiness, and 
 it was better even to be the confidant of his 
 engagement with another — which Rob had so 
 cunningly implied would never have existed had 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 147 
 
 Jennie's presence hereabouts been known — than 
 to have nothing at all to do with him. She stole 
 along, half flying, in the shadow of the houses, 
 and finally came out into the cold moonlight, at 
 the corner beyond the little square, where she 
 could see some one waiting. Poor Jeanie ! her 
 pleasure and her sadness, and the mixture of 
 the sweet with the bitter which was in these in- 
 terviews, had become a kind of essential elixir to 
 her life. 
 
 "Jeanie," he said, after their first greetings 
 were over, "I am going away." 
 
 " Going away!" She had to grasp at his arm 
 to support herself. "Ay," she said, drearily, af- 
 ter a pause, "nae doubt; I aye kent that was 
 how it would have to be." 
 
 "I only knew it myself yesterday," he said; 
 " I have not lost a moment in telling you. How 
 did you know that this was how it would be ?" 
 
 " Oh, I kent it," she said, holding her hands 
 clasped to support herself; "it was easy to di- 
 vine — it was no such a mystery. Weel, Maister 
 Glen, ye'll go to her ye've chosen, and ye'll be — 
 real happy with her. She's bonnie, and she's 
 good, and she'll give ye more, far more, than the 
 like of us could give you. I wish ye luck with 
 a' my heart. Ay, a' my heart ! baith her and 
 you." 
 
 Jeanie withdrew a step from his side as she 
 spoke, and her voice took something of the soft 
 wail of the dove in the inflections and modula- 
 tions which mark the native tongue of Fife. It 
 was in a kind of soft cadence that she spoke — 
 too soft to be tragic, but pitiful and wailing, the 
 most pathetic of utterances. Jeanie did not re- 
 bel — it was natural, it was right ; but the blow 
 went to her heart. 
 
 " My foolish Jeanie," he said ; "what are you 
 thinking of? Do you think it is Margaret that 
 has sent for me ? Do you think she is going to 
 acknowledge me all at once, and that all our 
 troubles are over? No, my dear; you are too 
 simple and too good, my bonnie Jeanie. It is 
 not that. Margaret takes no notice of me. I 
 am going to Edinburgh — to a situation, not for 
 ease, not very far away — and not to her, Jeanie. 
 You must not give me up so soon." 
 
 He put his arm round her, and drew her close 
 to him ; and Jeanie, though full of better resolu- 
 tions, was weak with the shock she had just re- 
 ceived. She was thankful to lean against him 
 for a moment. 
 
 "No that — not to her? when she could settle 
 a' if she pleased. Eh, Rob, ladies are no like — 
 they're no like — " 
 
 "You, Jeanie? No; who is like you? Al- 
 ways kind — whatever happens, always ready to 
 forgive. What is that in the Bible, ' Suffereth 
 long, and is kind.' I think that must have been 
 made for you." 
 
 " Oh !" said Jeanie — like Margaret, in the soft 
 long breath of that ejaculation — "we shouldna 
 quote Scripture, you and me ! for what we are 
 doing is a' wrang. Oh, Rob, it's a' wrang ! You 
 that are troth-plighted to another lass — though 
 she is a lady — and me, that — " 
 
 "Yes, you that — what of you, Jeanie? not 
 pledged, you must not say so, to another man." 
 
 "And if I was," she cried, "what would you 
 have to do with it ? it would be but justice. Na, 
 na, that's no what I'm meaning, as weel ye ken. 
 My heart has never had room but for ane. No 
 
 — me that should ken better. Oh, dinna, dinna, 
 I canna have it ! Me that should have kent bet- 
 ter was what I meant to say." 
 
 "Why should you know better? How can 
 we tell what will happen in three years? And 
 till three years are over nothing is settled," he 
 said, with a secret thrill of anxiety and pain in 
 his heart to remember that this, unlike much that 
 lie said, was altogether true. 
 
 "It's true," she said, shaking her head. "My 
 heart's that heavy I can think of nothing but 
 harm ; we may a' be dead in three years ; and 
 oh, I wish it might be over with me!" 
 
 "I cannot have you speak like this," he said. 
 "I am going to Edinburgh — you don't seem to 
 care to hear — to a situation Randal Burnside has 
 offered me. I don't know that I will stay in it 
 long. Very likely it will only be a stepping- 
 stone to something better. I will see you when 
 I come back, which will be often, Jeanie ; and 
 indeed I think you might come over to see your 
 friends in Edinburgh — you must have friends in 
 Edinburgh — and see me." 
 
 "I'll not do that," said Jeanie, decidedly. 
 "You'll not do that? I don't think that is 
 quite kind. But never mind, I will come home 
 — often — on Saturday, like Randal Burnside. " 
 
 " Will von be in the same line as Maister 
 Randal, Rob ?" 
 
 "I think not just the same line. He pleads, 
 you know, Jeanie, in the Parliament House, be- 
 fore the judges, and I will have to manage cases 
 before they get there. It is a very important 
 business. Failing what I was brought up to — 
 the pulpit, and all that I was trained for — I think 
 my people will be more pleased with the law than 
 anything else. It is always respectable ; it is 
 one of the learned professions. I will not deny 
 that it is a very good opening, Jeanie." 
 "And when do you go away ?" 
 " This week," he said. " I don't want to lose 
 any more time; I have lost all my summer. It 
 would have been better for me if I had never 
 come home. I would have missed you, Jeanie ; 
 but then I might have avoided other things that 
 can never be got rid of now. " 
 
 " Oh!" she said, her heart wrung with the sug- 
 gestion, pleased with the regret, wounded with 
 the comparison; "I wonder if you would say 
 just the same of me to her as of her to me ?" 
 
 " How could I, when you are so little like each 
 other?" he said. "But, Jeanie, let us think of 
 ourselves ; let us not bring in her, or any one. 
 My bonnie Jeanie, when I come back I shall al- 
 ways find you here?" 
 
 "I canna tell — the cobbling's no just a grand 
 trade, and what will feed ane does not aye serve 
 two. I think I will maybe take a new place — at 
 the New-Year." 
 
 "But not to take you from the Kirkton, Jea- 
 nie — not to take you away from me ?" 
 
 "If it was to take me far, far away — to Lon- 
 don, or to America, or New Zealand, where so 
 many are going — and I wish my faither would 
 think of it," she said, softly. "Oh! I've great 
 reason to pray, 'Lead me not into temptation,' 
 for I would be far, far better away." 
 
 "You are not like yourself to-night, Jeanie. 
 Why should you lecture me to-night, just when 
 you have to say good-bye to me — good-bye for 
 a little while ?" 
 
 "It would be far, far better if it was good-bye 
 
148 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 forever," she said; "but eh, Rob, I canna un- 
 derstand mysel'. I would be glad if it was me 
 that was to go — ay would I. I would go to 
 New Zealand, if my faither would but come, the 
 morn ; but when it's you, a' my strength fails me, 
 my heart goes sinking away from me, my head 
 begins to turn round. I know it's right, but I 
 canna bide it, Rob !" 
 
 "My poor little Jeanie," he said, caressingly. 
 "And I cannot bide it, if you speak of what a 
 man likes ; but it is better for me that I should 
 not be wasting my time. I should be doing some 
 work that will be worth a man's while. What is 
 money, Jeanie ? I shall have plenty of money. 
 But I ought to be known, I ought to think of my 
 name." 
 
 "Oh, that's true," she said. "I know well 
 you're no a lad to spend your life in a quiet coun- 
 try place. And that just shows me more and 
 more the difference between you and me, Rob. 
 I sh'ouldna call you Rob — I should say Maister 
 Glen." 
 
 ' ' Will you write to me, Jeanie ? That was why 
 we lost sight of each other. I did not know where 
 you were ; but now I will often send you a let- 
 ter, and then, on the Saturdays, I will probably 
 corae over with Randal Burnside." 
 
 " Rob, Mr. Randal is a gentleman, and so will 
 you be a gentleman. No, oh no ; you and me 
 should say farewell. I'll aye think upon you. 
 I'll pray for you night and morning ; but dinna 
 speak about you and me. We're like the twa 
 roads at Earl's -ha' that creep thegither under 
 the trees, and then pairt, ane west, the ither east. 
 Oh, Rob !" said Jeanie, with streaming eyes, " no 
 good will ever come of this. Let us summon up 
 a good courage and pairt. Here we should pairt. 
 No, I'll no grudge you a kiss, for it will be the 
 last. It's a' been meesery and confusion, but if 
 we pairt the warst will be past. Say Farewell, 
 and God bless you, Jeanie ! — and ah ! with all 
 my heart, I'll say the same to you." 
 
 "You are trembling so that you can scarcely 
 stand," he said. "Do you think I will let you 
 leave me like this? I cannot part from you, 
 Jeanie, and why should I ? It would break my 
 heart." 
 
 "It has broken mine," said Jeanie, fervently ; 
 "but rather a broken heart as a false lite. 
 Rob, Rob, baud me nae longer, but let me gang 
 to my faither. I'm safe when I'm with him." 
 
 But it was not for a long hour after this that 
 Jeanie returned to her father, conducted as near 
 as he could venture to go by her lover, who 
 grew more and more earnest the more he was 
 resisted. She went in very softly, with a flushed 
 and glowing cheek, stealing into the cottage not 
 to disturb the solitary inmate who sat working 
 on by the light of his dim candle. 
 
 "Is that you, Jeanie?" he said, placidly; 
 "and how is Katie Dewar, poor body?" This 
 question went to the bottom of her guilty heart. 
 "I'll no tell you a lie, faither; I wasna near 
 Katie Dewar. It's a fine night, and the moon 
 shining; I gaed down the road, and then a lit- 
 tle up the road, and then — " 
 
 " Oh, ay, my lass, I ken weel what that means," 
 he said; "but I can trust my Jeanie, the Lord 
 be praised for it. I'm just done with my job, 
 and it's been a lang job. When the supper's 
 ready I'll blow out the candle, and then if you've 
 onything to tell me — " 
 
 " I have naething to tell you," she cried. But 
 as they sat together over their supper, which was 
 of "stoved" potatoes, a savory dish unknown 
 to richer tables, Jeanie pressed upon her father 
 once more with incomprehensible energy and 
 earnestness the idea of New Zealand, which had 
 already two or three times been talked of be- 
 tween them before. 
 
 Rob, however, left her with little alarm as to 
 New Zealand. He was deeply gratified by that 
 attachment to .himself which made her ready to 
 put up with everything, even the bond which 
 bound him to another ; and the struggle in 
 Jeanie's mind between what she wished and 
 what she thought right, which ended in the tri- 
 umph of himself, Rob, over all other powers and 
 arguments, was very sweet and consolatory to 
 him. It healed the wounds of his amour propre. 
 If Margaret did not give him the devotion he 
 deserved, Jeanie gave him a devotion which he 
 did not hesitate to confess he had not deserved, 
 and this reconciled him to himself. The maid 
 made up for the short-comings of the mistress, 
 and perhaps Jeanie's simple worship even gave 
 a little license to Margaret as to the great lady, 
 from whom, in her ladyhood and greatness, the 
 same kind of love was not to be expected. . She 
 had tilings in her power to bestow more substan- 
 tial than Jeanie's tenderness, and with these she 
 had vowed in due time to crown this favorite of 
 fortune. Rob was a sort of Sultan in his way, 
 and liked the idea of getting from these two 
 women the best they had. He went away from 
 Stratheden a few days after, with his heart quite 
 soft and tender to his Jeanie. He would not 
 forget her this time. He would write to her and 
 say to her what he could not say to Margaret. 
 He would keep a refuge for himself in her soft 
 heart, whatever happened. And, indeed, who 
 could tell what might happen in three years ? 
 
 While he thus made a settlement which quite 
 pleased him in his affairs of the heart, the other 
 part of his life was not quite so satisfactory. 
 The position which he took in the office of Ran- 
 dal's uncle in Edinburgh was naturally that of 
 a beginner, and he did not "win forward "as he 
 had hoped. When clients came, they preferred 
 to see the principal of the office, and instead of 
 making acquaintance among the gentry, Rob 
 found that all he had to do with them was open- 
 ing the door to them when they came in, or 
 showing them the way out when they left the 
 office. 
 
 He did not say much about this, nor did he 
 reveal his discontent to Randal, having sufficient 
 good-sense to learn by experience, and perceiv- 
 ing that this was indeed quite natural and the 
 only thing to be expected, as soon as circum- 
 stances had impressed it upon him. But strug- 
 gles with reason and circumstances of this kind, 
 if they invariably end in an increase of hardly 
 acquired knowledge, and are thus, perhaps, in- 
 structive in the highest degree, are not pleasant. 
 And Rob having made no advance in "posi- 
 tion, "and having no important work confided to 
 him, but only, as was natural, the most element- 
 ary and routine business, soon became heartily 
 sick of the office and of himself. He returned 
 more hotly to his former hopes, as he felt th<^ 
 folly of this, and soon began to be conscious of 
 the utter incongruity between his prospects and 
 his present position. He tried to console him- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 149 
 
 self like any child, by imagining to himself 
 scenes of delightful revenge for nil those " spurns 
 which patient merit of the unworthy takes." 
 When he was Margaret's husband, and the pos- 
 sessor of her fortune, he planned to himself how 
 he too would become a client of the employers 
 who now treated him so coolly. What piece of 
 business would he intrust to them ? lie would 
 make them buy in EasTs-hall if it ever came to 
 be sold. He would consult them about the in- 
 vestment of the long accumulations of Marga- 
 ret's minority. But in the mean time, while 
 these grandeurs were not his, the office became 
 more and more irksome to him. 
 
 He had lost the habit of work during those 
 idle months at home, where love-making had 
 been his only serious occupation, and indeed he 
 had never had the habits of work necessary here, 
 the routine of certain hours and clearly defined 
 duties, which the more free and less regular 
 work of education is in general so little akin to. 
 He had not been what is called idle in his stud- 
 ies ; but then these are always vague, and a 
 young man may make up the defective work of 
 the day at night or at odd moments, which a 
 clerk in an office never can do. After a while, 
 Rob had become so entirely disgusted with the 
 humbleness of his position and the character of 
 his work — so deeply impressed by the incongru- 
 ity of his present with the future he looked for- 
 ward to — and so indignantly conscious of pow- 
 ers within him which were capable of something 
 better than this, that he threw up the situation 
 which it had taken Randal no small trouble to 
 get for him. and, without warning, suddenly set 
 out for London, carrying with him his sketches 
 and some slight and frothy literary essays which 
 he had written, with the full intention of be- 
 coming a painter and an author, and taking the 
 world by storm. The payment of three months' 
 salary had given him the means for this ; and 
 he felt that it was the only way, and that he 
 had known all along it was the only way, to 
 acquire for himself fame and fortune. He had 
 by this time heard of Margaret's illness, and of 
 her absence ; but even had he thought of doing 
 so, he had no means of following her into the 
 expense and mystery of that unknown world 
 which the ignorant know as " abroad." Indeed, 
 to do him justice, he went to London with no 
 intention of molesting Margaret, but only with 
 a very fixed determination of making himself 
 known — of coming to some personal glory or 
 profit which should make up to him for the per- 
 sonal failure of the past. Rob had been in 
 London for about a month on that eventful day 
 when Randal Burnside, who was in town upon 
 business, had met him in the Exhibition. They 
 had met not without a certain friendliness ; and 
 Randal, curious to know what he was doing, and 
 still more curious to ascertain how much he knew 
 about Margaret, and if he was keeping his prom- 
 ise in respect to her, had engaged Rob to dine 
 with him, and had parted from him only a few 
 minutes before he met Margaret herself. 
 
 Meantime Rob, having finished his inspection 
 of the pictures, and convinced himself that there 
 were many there much inferior to his own, though 
 he could find no purchasers for them, was issu- 
 ing somewhat moodily forth, when a slight fig- 
 ure in black hurrying down the steps before 
 him, and clinging closely to the arm of a man 
 
 whom he thought he had seen before, yet did 
 not recognize, caught his eye. He stood and 
 looked after them while the carriage was call- 
 ed, his curiosity awakened he could scarcely tell 
 why. He had followed them down to the pave- 
 ment, and had just reached it when Aubrey put 
 Margaret into the carriage ; and all at once a vi- 
 sion of that well-known face, all tremulous and 
 eager, avoiding, as he thought, his suddenly ex- 
 cited gaze, rose before him. In another moment 
 the carriage was dashing along more quickly than 
 is usual in the streets of London. Rob stood 
 with a gasp gazing after it, and did not come to 
 himself till it was too late to attempt the frantic 
 expedient of jumping into a hansom and rushing 
 after it. He did so when he realized what it 
 was that had happened ; but by this time it was 
 too late, and he had not remarked the appear- 
 ance of the carriage, but only the face in it. 
 Margaret ! The sight put sudden fire into his 
 veins. He must see her ; he must claim her. 
 It was irrational and monstrous that a girl who 
 was his promised wife should be entirely sepa- 
 rated from him. Whether it was her own will 
 or that of her friends, he would not submit to it 
 any more. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 It was Rob, perhaps, who had the most right 
 to be excited by this unexpected vision ; but 
 Randal, who had no right, was also driven half 
 wild by it, and altogether lost his head as he 
 stood gazing blankly about him, and saw Mar- 
 garet, rather dragging Aubrey after her than be- 
 ing conducted by him, thread through the crowd 
 with such an eager impulse of flight. Few 
 young men could have refused to be a little bi- 
 assed and shaken from their equilibrium by the 
 sweetness of such a reception as he had just re- 
 ceived. The brightening of her countenance, 
 the look of pleasure that overspread her face, 
 the gleam of sweet friendliness and welcome 
 would have been pleasant from any one ; but 
 from her who had already touched his fancy and 
 interested his heart — from her to whom already 
 he had given a devotion which was of the nature 
 of friendship rather than love — it was more than 
 pleasant, it set every nerve tingling. His devo- 
 tion had borne a kind of character of friendship, 
 he thought ; for was not love hopeless on her 
 side, pledged as she was? And yet he could 
 not do less than serve her for the sake of her 
 childhood, for the sake of all the associations of 
 the past, but chiefly for the sake of herself, so 
 sweet as she was, so tender, and lovely, and 
 young — the kind of creature whom it would be 
 sweet to shield from all trouble. 
 
 It had wrung his heart before now to think 
 how little he could do for Margaret, having no 
 right to stand by her. What right had he to 
 interfere? He was not even a connection like 
 Aubrey, whom he called "that English fellow," 
 just as Aubrey called him " that Scotch fellow " 
 and "the man of Killin." He had to stand by 
 and see her go out into the world with nobody 
 who understood her, her life already fettered by- 
 bonds so unsuitable, so foolishly formed, but be- 
 yond all power of his to interfere. And now to 
 receive such a welcome from her, to see her face 
 so lit up with pleasure to greet him, went to 
 
150 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 Randal's very heart. It seemed to send a cor- 
 responding light over his whole being : he did 
 not ask himself what it meant ; but it was not 
 possible that Margaret's sudden unaffected light- 
 ing up at sight of himself, and her unaccount- 
 able horror and terror and flight at the name 
 of Glen, should not have stirred all manner of 
 strange emotions in Randal. He made a virtue 
 of patience for an hour or two until he thought 
 it certain that her sisters would also have gone 
 home, and then he hastened to the address Au- 
 brey had unwillingly given him, missing, by so 
 doing, an excited visit from Rob Glen, who, 
 after driving wildly through the bewildering 
 streets in hopeless confusion, bethought him- 
 self that Randal might know where Margaret 
 was likely to be found. They missed each oth- 
 er on the crowded way, and Randal went on, 
 with his head full of dreams, in a kind of intox- 
 ication of beatitude and wonder. What a change 
 since this morning had come over the young 
 man's life ! 
 
 When, however, he reached the place where 
 the ladies were staying, it was into the midst 
 of confusion and excitement that Randal found 
 himself suddenly thrown. Mrs. Bellingham was 
 walking about the room in great commotion, 
 Miss Grace crying softly on a sofa. They re- 
 ceived him without surprise as people already 
 too much excited to find any new event unex- 
 pected or strange. 
 
 " How do you do, Randal ?" said Mrs. Belling- 
 ham ; " I am sorry to say we have scarcely time 
 to receive you as we should like. We had set- 
 tled ourselves for a week in town, and got very 
 nice rooms and everything; and I had quanti- 
 ties of things to do — the work of a year, I may 
 say. We have no clothes, not an article to put 
 on, and there were a hundred things I wanted. 
 But all is thrown into disorder, all is unsettled, 
 and I sha'n't be able to do anything. We must 
 go back to the Grange at once without a mo- 
 ment's delay." 
 
 "Dearest Jean!" said Miss Grace, with 
 streaming eyes, "you know you said we must 
 just give ourselves up to dear Margaret ; and if 
 it makes her ill to stay in London, how can it be 
 helped ? Let me go with dearest Margaret, and 
 do you stay and do your shopping — " 
 
 "As if I would trust her out of my hands! 
 especially if she is going to be ill again. But 
 here is the thing that puzzles me. Did you 
 ever hear of Margaret being ill, Randal, at Earl's- 
 hall? But here is a girl that was as strong as 
 — as strong as a little pony — in Fife, and she 
 gets congestion of the lungs as soon as she comes 
 to the South, and cannot stay two days in Lon- 
 don ! I never heard anything like it — of course 
 I am very sorry for Margaret. What have I 
 been doing but devoting myself to her for the 
 last five months? And she was just blooming 
 — would you not have called her blooming, Au- 
 brey? But London does not agree with her. 
 Fancy London not agreeing with a girl ! I don't 
 know when I have been so much put out in all 
 my life." 
 
 "Is— Miss Leslie — ill?" said Randal, not 
 knowing how to shape the question. 
 
 ' ' Yes ; she grew faint and ill just after we met 
 you," said Aubrey, looking at him with steady 
 composure. " I thought the best thing to do was 
 to get her out of that beastly atmosphere at once." 
 
 "Oh, you did quite right, Aubrey; I am not 
 in the least blaming you. Much better, in such 
 a case, to leave at once ; for if she had fainted 
 outright, in the middle of the crowd, that would 
 have been a pretty business ! I never was used 
 to girls who fainted," said Mrs. Bellingham, 
 plaintively. " I have known them to get bad 
 headaches when there was nothing going on ; 
 but fainting, just when we were all amusing our- 
 selves — and we have got a box at the opera to- 
 night ! it really is enough to send one out of 
 one's wits — a box at the opera ! and you know 
 what a chance that is." 
 
 "But, dearest Jean! do you go; I will stay 
 with dear Margaret. I shall not mind it ; in- 
 deed, I shall not mind it much ; and you know 
 she has been persuaded ; she has given up the 
 idea of going home to-night." 
 
 " Going to-night was simply impossible ! we 
 are not all born idiots !" said Mrs. Bellingham, 
 with a vigor of language which betrayed her na- 
 tionality. Then, calming down a little, she seat- 
 ed herself and began to pour out the tea, which 
 had been neglected. "I am sure I beg your 
 pardon, Randal, for letting you see me in such a 
 'fuff.' But it is provoking, you will allow. And 
 as for going to the opera by myself, or with only 
 Grace, instead of having a pretty, fresh young 
 girl by our side that everybody would remark ! I 
 declare one would need to have the patience of 
 a saint not to feel it. Oh, ill ? No, I don't think 
 she is very ill ; just upset, you know. Indeed, 
 I should have said it was more like a fright than 
 anything else ; but Aubrey says there was noth- 
 ing — no accident, nor runaway horse, nor man 
 killed. I've seen that happen in London streets, 
 and very awful it was." 
 
 "No," said Aubrey, steadily, "there was 
 nothing of that sort ; but the atmosphere was 
 bad enough for anything; and then the fatigue 
 of the journey — " 
 
 "Do you take sugar in your tea, Randal? 
 So many people take no sugar, it is always a 
 trouble to recollect what you young people 
 take and what you don't take. Well, I suppose 
 we will just have to make up our minds to it. 
 Steward can stay with Margaret to-night, and 
 we will go. It is no use throwing away a box 
 at the height of the season." 
 
 " But, dearest Jean, let me stay with dear 
 Margaret. I don't really mind. I am sure I 
 don't mind — " 
 
 " And to-morrow we must just go back," said 
 Mrs. Bellingham, sweeping on in the larger cur- 
 rent of her discourse. "You must remember 
 me very kindly to your excellent father and 
 mother, Randal. I hope we shall see them in the 
 autumn. We are pretty sure to be in Fife in the 
 autumn. Margaret will be distressed not to see 
 you ; but, after all that has happened, I thought 
 "the best place for her was just her bed ; so I 
 made her lie down, and I don't like to disturb 
 her. She will be quite distressed not to see you, 
 when you have been so kind as to take up your 
 time calling — which really is a thing, with peo- 
 ple only up in town for a few days, that I never 
 expect. You must have so many things to do." 
 
 This Randal took as a hint that he had at 
 present "taken up his time" and hers long 
 enough, and he went away horribly disappoint- 
 ed, tingling with pain as he had done with pleas- 
 ure and excitement when ho came, yet, but for 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 151 
 
 the disappointment, not so entirely cast down as ' 
 lie might have been. Margaret's determined 
 flight, her abandonment of the place where Rob 
 Glen was, even though that place was London — 
 large enough, it might be supposed, to permit 
 two strangers to inhabit it at the same time 
 without meeting — and her evident horror of the 
 engagement between them, made Randal's spir- 
 its rise more than his disappointment subdued 
 them. This bondage once cleared away, and 
 Rob Glen dropped back again into the regions 
 to which he belonged, who could tell what 
 might happen ? 
 
 There was but one thing that abode a promi- 
 nent alarm in his mind, after the first sting of 
 disappointment was over, and that was " the 
 other fellow," who lied so calmly on Margaret's 
 behalf. Was he in her confidence too ? Ran- 
 dal felt that to possess her confidence as he him- 
 self did was as great a privilege as any man 
 could have ; but somehow, curiously enough, it 
 did not seem to him either so sacred or so seem- 
 ly that Aubrey should possess it too. He felt 
 that the suggestion of this wounded him for 
 Margaret's sake. She ought not to take a 
 young man into her confidence — it was not 
 quite delicate, quite like the perfection of Mar- 
 garet. This was the only thing that really and 
 permanently troubled him as he went away. 
 
 And he had not been long back in his hotel 
 when, a little before the dinner hour at which he 
 expected Rob to appear, the chief hero of the 
 whole entanglement suddenly made his appear- 
 ance in a very evident state of excitement. Rob 
 was pale, his eyes wild with anxiety, his hair 
 hanging dishevelled over his forehead, as he 
 wiped it with his handkerchief, and his coat 
 covered with dust. He looked eagerly round, 
 though he did not know himself what he expected 
 to see. He waited till the door was closed, and 
 then he said hurriedly, "Burnside, I have seen 
 Margaret ; I saw her coming out of the Acade- 
 my when I met you this morning. I have been 
 rushing about half over London after her, and I 
 cannot find her. Have you heard anything or 
 seen anything, or can you guess where she is 
 likely to be ?" 
 
 "Sit down, Glen." 
 
 " Sit down! — that is no answer. I don't feel 
 as if I could sit down until I have spoken to her. 
 Tell me where you think she can be." 
 
 "Glen, I want to speak to you. I have 
 something to say to you. They are gone, or go- 
 ing away, that much I heard. I saw Mrs. Bel- 
 lingham this afternoon, and she told me that her 
 sister was ill again, and that they were off at 
 once. She found that London did not agree 
 with her." 
 
 " HI again ? — gone away!" said Rob, hoarse- 
 ly : then he threw down his hat upon the table 
 with an exclamation of annoyance and pain. 
 " It is not treating me fairly. I ought to see 
 her," he cried, and threw himself, weary and an- 
 gry, upon the nearest chair. 
 
 " I think so too," said Randal, seriously. "I 
 think you ought to see her. I don't want to 
 hurt your feelings, Glen ; but I think you should 
 see her, and make her tell you candidly the 
 state of affairs." 
 
 ' ' What do you mean by the state of affairs ? 
 Tf it is that her family are oppssed to the ex- 
 istence of any tie between hsr and me, that is 
 
 no new discovery. I know that, and site knows 
 that I know it." 
 
 " That was not all I meant, Glen — that is bad 
 enough. You know my opinion: As a man of 
 honor, I think you have a duty even to the fam- 
 ily ; but this is different. She is not happy. I 
 think you ought to have a full explanation, and 
 — set things on a right footing." 
 
 "What does setting things on a right footing 
 mean ?" Rob said, with an attempt at a sneer, 
 which was more like a snarl of despair. He 
 had not found it such easy work "making his 
 way " in London. His money was running short, 
 and he had nothing to do, and no prospect 
 of being able to support himself much longer. 
 Margaret was his sheet-anchor, his sole hope in 
 the future. He thought, too, that the rapid 
 dash away of the carnage was not accidental, 
 that she had seen him and driven him wild ; and 
 this bitter reflection embittered him, and made 
 him ready to take offence at anything or noth- 
 ing. He was miserable altogether, excited, dis- 
 tracted, anxious — and tired to death besides. 
 He had taken nothing since the morning, having 
 rushed off in wild pursuit of her instead of get- 
 ting his usual mid-day meal. He bent down his 
 head upon his folded arms, after that angry 
 question, and thus defeated all Randal's disposi- 
 tion to find fault or blame him, if there had been 
 any such disposition in Randal's mind. 
 
 On the contrary, however, the young man's 
 heart, softened by the gleam of brightness that 
 had seemed to come upon his own life out of 
 Margaret's eyes, melted altogether over the un- 
 lucky presumptuous lover, the fool who had rush- 
 ed in "where angels might fear to tread," the 
 unfortunate one who had lost all chance of that 
 prize at which he had snatched too quickly and 
 too roughly. Randal forgot to think of his pre- 
 sumption, of his doubtful conduct, and all his of- 
 fences against good taste and the highest stand- 
 ard of honor, in sheer pity for the downfall of 
 him who had soared so high. He laid his hand 
 upon the other's shoulder. 
 
 "Glen," he said, "you are not the first who 
 has made a mistake, or who has been the victim 
 of a mistake. That is no disparagement to you : 
 it is only continuing in the mistake that would 
 be blamable. You and she — let her name be 
 sacred — I do not like even to refer to her — " 
 
 "Who? Margaret?" said Rob, defiant. He 
 would have his way, whatever the other might 
 think. "I have no reason to be so shy about 
 her name. Advice is very seldom palatable in 
 the best of circumstances ; but between me and 
 Margaret — " Because Randal had deprecated 
 the use of her name, he insisted on using it. 
 He had a kind of insolent satisfaction in turning 
 it over and over. "Between me and Marga- 
 ret," he said, with a laugh, "there is no need 
 of advice, that I know of — we understand each 
 other. Mistake there is none between Marga- 
 ret and me." 
 
 Randal bowed very gravely — he did not smile. 
 The color wavered over his face — then departed, 
 " In that case there is nothing to be said." 
 
 "Not a word; Margaret and I understand 
 each other. Margaret — I suppose I can wash 
 my hands somewhere before dinner. I am aa 
 dusty as a lamplighter with rushing about." 
 
 And they dined together, talking of everything 
 in the world except Margaret, and thinking of 
 
152 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 nothing else. It was a relief to Randal that her 
 name was no longer on the lips of his unconge- 
 nial companion ; but yet the silence brought in 
 a more eager and painful wonder as to what he 
 was going to do. But Randal could not renew 
 the subject, and Rob did not. He went away 
 early, without having once again referred to the 
 matter which occupied both their thoughts. 
 
 He lived in a humble room in one of the 
 streets which run from the Strand to the river — 
 not an unpleasant place, for his window com- 
 manded the Thames ; but it was a very long 
 walk from Randal's hotel. He went slowly 
 through the streets, through all the loitering 
 crowds of the summer evening, which were no 
 longer bustling and busy, but had an air of re- 
 pose and enjoyment about them. Rob loitered 
 too, but not from any sense of the pleasantness 
 of the air, or the season. He had no one to 
 care whether he came in or not, and it was easier 
 to think, and think again, over this difficult ques- 
 tion which must be decided one way or another, 
 in the open air, than it was within-doors, shut 
 up with a question which he had debated so of- 
 ten. If Margaret was weary of the bargain, if 
 she shrank from him and avoided him, what 
 should he do? One moment he thought of 
 casting her off proudly, of showing her what he 
 thought of her fickleness, and taunting her with 
 her Englishman, " that fellow " who was always 
 with her. This would have been the most con- 
 solatory to his feelings. But, on the other hand, 
 to point out to her the cowardice, the dishonor 
 of breaking her word, the strength of the pledge 
 which she could not escape from, was better in 
 another sense. Why should she be permitted to 
 forsake him because she had changed her mind? 
 What right had she to change her mind ? Was 
 it a less sin in a woman than in a man to break 
 a promise, to think nothing of a vow ? A man 
 would not be allowed to escape scathless from 
 such a perjury, why should a girl ? And as he 
 walked along the street, mortified, humbled, 
 breathing forth fumes of anger and pain, there 
 even gleamed before Rob's eyes the scrap of 
 paper, the promise on which his mother counted, 
 which was locked in the secretary in the farm- 
 parlor. He had hated the vulgar sharpness 
 which had exacted that promise from Margaret, 
 he had scouted it as a means of keeping any hold 
 upon her. But now, when he felt so strong a 
 desire to punish her, such an eager, vindictive 
 determination not to let her go free, even this 
 came into his mind. Not to secure her by it — 
 which was his mother's thought, but at least to 
 punish her by it. He would send for it, he 
 thought ; he would keep it by him as a scourge, 
 not as a compulsion. He would let all her friends 
 see at least how far she had gone, how she had 
 pledged herself, and how she was forsworn. 
 
 While he was pursuing these thoughts, loi- 
 tering along through the soft summer night, jos- 
 tled by the sauntering crowds who could not 
 walk, even in the London streets, at that soft 
 hour as they did during the day, his ear was 
 suddenly caught by the intonations, so different 
 from those around, the low-pitched, lingering 
 vowels, and half chanting measure of his natural 
 tongue. Not only Scotch but Fife were the 
 sounds that reached his ears: now the heavy 
 rolling bass of a man, then a softer voice. Good 
 heavens! who was it? A tall, feeble -looking, 
 
 large-boned man, a trim little figure by his side, 
 moving lightly and yet languidly, like her voice, 
 which had caught Rob's ear by" reason of some- 
 thing pathetic in it. The words she said were 
 words of ordinary wonder and curiosity, such as 
 became a country lass in the street of London ; 
 but the tone was sad and went to the heart, not- 
 withstanding the little laugh with which it was 
 sometimes interrupted. Was it possible? He 
 turned round and followed them eagerly, growing 
 more and more certain of their identity, schem- 
 ing to get a glimpse of their faces, and make 
 certainty sure. Jeanie! how came she here? 
 He stepped forward as soon as he was certain of 
 her, and laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. 
 She started and turned round with a low cry. 
 A gleam of delight came over her face. Her 
 soft eyes lighted up with sudden warmth and 
 gladness. It was the same change that had taken 
 place on Margaret's face while Aubrey Belling- 
 ham — who was not the cause — watched it with 
 disagreeable surprise; but this was warmer and 
 more brilliant, more evanescent too ; for Jeanie's 
 countenance fell the next moment, and trouble, 
 like a gray shadow, came over her face. 
 
 "Jeanie!" cried Rob, "how on earth have 
 you come here? What has brought you here? 
 Where are you staying? What are you going 
 to do? I cannot believe my eyes !" 
 
 She stood trembling before him, unable to raise 
 her eyes, overcome by the happiness of seeing 
 him, the wretchedness of parting — a wretched- 
 ness which she thought, poor girl, she had eluded, 
 with all the conflict of feeling it must have 
 brought. She tried to speak, but she could only 
 smile at him faintly, and begin to cry. 
 
 "Maister Glen," said her father, "you maun 
 speak to me ; Jeanie has had enough of fash 
 and sorrow. We are on our way — to please her, 
 no for ony wish of mine — on a lang voyage. 
 We're strangers and pilgrims here in this muckle 
 London, as I never realized the state before." 
 
 "On a long voyage!" Rob, though he had 
 got through so much emotion one time and an- 
 other, felt his heart stand still and a cold sensa- 
 tion of dismay steal over him. Had he not been 
 keeping himself a refuge in Jeanie's heart, what- 
 ever might happen? He said, "This is a terri- 
 ble surprise. I never thought you would have 
 taken such a step as this, Jeanie, without letting 
 me know." 
 
 " Maister Glen," said Jeanie, adopting her fa- 
 ther's solemn mode of address, and hastily brush- 
 ing the tears from her cheek, " wherever I gang, 
 what's that to you ?" Her voice was scarcely 
 audible ; he had half to guess at what she said. 
 
 "It is a great deal to me," he cried; "I 
 never thought you would treat me so : going 
 away without a word of warning, without say- 
 ing good-bye, without letting me know you had 
 any thought of it !" 
 
 A thrill of pain penetrated Rob's heart. It 
 was half ludicrous, but he did not see anything 
 ludicrous in it. They were both flying from 
 him, one on either side, the two girls with whom 
 his fate was woven — one for want of love, the 
 other for too much love. Rob saw no humor in 
 the position, but he felt the poignancy and sting 
 of it piercing through and through his heart. 
 Should he be abandoned altogether, then ; left 
 entirely alone, without any love at all ? But his 
 whole nature rose up fiercely against this. He 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 153 
 
 would not submit to it. If not one, then the 
 other. "It cannot be, it cannot be. I will not 
 let you go," he said. 
 
 " Maister Glen," said her father, "I canna 
 rightly tell what has been between Jeanie and 
 you. You're better off than she is in this world, 
 and your friends might have reason to complain 
 if you bound yourself to a poor cobbler's daugh- 
 ter. But this I ken, you have brought my Jeanie 
 more trouble than pleasure. Gang your ways, 
 my man, and let us gang ours. Jeanie, bid Mr. 
 Glen farewell." 
 
 " I will say no farewell till I know more about 
 it," he said. " Where are you staying ? I must 
 see more of you, I must hear all about it. We 
 are old friends at least, John Robertson; you 
 cannot deny me that." 
 
 " Old enough friends ; but what o' that ? It's 
 no years, but kindness, that I look to. We're 
 biding up west a bittie, with a decent woman 
 from Cupar. I'm putting no force upon Jeanie 
 to take her away. It's a' her ain doing ; and if 
 her and you have onything you want to say, I'll 
 no forbid the saying of it ; but I dinna advise 
 thae last words and thae lang farewells," said 
 John Robertson, shaking his head. Jeanie look- 
 ed up at him wistfully, with a sad smile in her 
 wet eyes. 
 
 "Let him come this ae night, faither — this ae 
 night," she said, in her plaintive voice; "rnaist 
 likely it will be the last." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Randal Bcunside was found at the station 
 in the morning, though the train was an early 
 one, to see the ladies away; which, as the trav- 
 ellers were only Margaret and Grace, and as this 
 was one of the things impossible to Aubrey, who 
 could not get up in the morning, was a kindness 
 very much appreciated. It had finally been de- 
 cided, after much consultation, that as nothing 
 ever happened at the Grange, and as even Mr. 
 St. John was absent, Grace might be sufficient 
 guardian for Margaret for the few days longer 
 which Mrs. Bellingham was compelled by her 
 shopping to remain in town. There was Miss 
 Parker, who would keep her right on one hand, 
 and there was Bland, the most respectable of 
 butlers, on the other, to guide her steps. So, 
 with a flutter of mingled disappointment and 
 exhilaration, Miss Leslie had assumed the charge 
 of her young sister. It was a great relief to 
 Grace's mind to see "a gentleman" at the sta- 
 tion, j-eady to relieve her of all anxieties in re- 
 spect to the luggage, and she thought it " a great 
 attention" on his part. He was very useful, as 
 she always said afterward. Not only did he se- 
 cure them in a carriage in the very centre of the 
 train (which was such a safeguard in case of 
 accidents) and look after the luggage, but he 
 waited till the very last moment, though it was 
 wasting his time sadly ; and young men, when 
 they are in London only for a few days, really 
 have no time, as Miss Grace knew. She smiled 
 upon him most sweetly, and entreated him not 
 to wait ; but he kept his post ; it was a great 
 attention. 
 
 "And if you should want anything," Randal 
 said, with great meaning, "I shall be in town, 
 
 at the Wrangham, for ten days longer." This 
 was repeated as he stood with his hand upon tho 
 carriage door just before the train started. 
 
 " I am sure, Randal, we are very much 
 obliged," said Miss Leslie; "but you see dear 
 Jean is in town behind us, and she will do all 
 our commissions, if there is anything wanted. 
 Dearest Margaret and I will not want very much, 
 and dear Jean knows about everything ; but I 
 am sure it is very kind of you, and a great atten- 
 tion — " And as the train was gliding away out 
 of the station, she put out her head again to beg 
 that he would give her very kind regards, when 
 he saw them, to his dear papa and mamma. 
 
 Margaret's mind had been preoccupied with a 
 dread of seeing some one else waiting to pre- 
 vent her escape, and it was not till the train was 
 in motion that she felt safe, and sufficiently re- 
 lieved to wave her hand in answer to Randal's 
 parting salutation. What a thing it is to be out 
 of pain when you have been suffering, and out 
 of anxiety when you have been racked with that 
 torture! Margaret leaned back in the corner, 
 feeling the relief to the bottom of her heart. 
 And it was a beautiful day, the country still all 
 bright with the green of the early summer. 
 When they had got a little way out of town, the 
 faint little shade of disappointment in Miss Les- 
 lie's mind over lost shopping and relinquished 
 operas gave way to a sense of unusual exhilara- 
 tion in being her own mistress, and even more 
 than that, having an important trust in her 
 hands. 
 
 "After all," she said, "dearest Margaret, I 
 think it will be very nice to get back to the coun- 
 try, though dear Jean always says a week or two 
 in town is very reviving at this time of the year; 
 but you must not think I am unhappy about 
 coming away, for I really do not mind it much — 
 nothing at all to speak of. I shall always say 
 it was a great attention on the part of Randal 
 Burnside, and I am sure dear Jean wiil feel it. 
 But how could he think we should want him, or 
 anything he could do for us, when dear Jean is 
 in town ? Did you hear him, give me his ad- 
 dress, dearest Margaret ? He said he would be 
 at the Wrangham for ten days more. My word, 
 but that must cost him a pretty penny! The 
 Burnsides must be very well off, when Randal 
 can afford to live at the Wrangham, for it cannot 
 be expected that he can be getting much by his 
 profession yet. We once went to the Wrang- 
 ham ourselves, but it was too expensive. I think 
 you never go there without finding some Fife 
 person or other. I wonder how they have got 
 their Fife connection. But it amuses me to 
 think that Randal Burnside should give us his 
 address." 
 
 Margaret listened to this monologue witli but 
 slight attention ; neither did she attach any im- 
 portance to Randal's parting words. She was 
 languid in the great relief of her mind, and quite 
 content to rest in her corner, and listen to Grace's 
 soft ripple of talk, which flowed only with a ful- 
 ness most delightful to herself, the speaker, who 
 had not for many a long day had such an op- 
 portunity of expressing, uninterrupted, her gen- 
 tle sentiments. She was pleased with her com- 
 panion, who neither interrupted, nor contradict- 
 ed, nor did anything but contribute a monosylla- 
 ble now and then, such as was necessary to car- 
 rv on what Grace called the conversation. The 
 
154 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 Grange was as bright and sweet to the eyes when 
 they got there, as it had been dark and melan- 
 choly on their first arrival. Everything was be- 
 ginning to bloom — the early roses on the walls, 
 the starry blossoms of the little mountain clem- 
 atis threading along the old dark-red wall, the 
 honeysuckle preparing its big blooms, and the 
 garden borders gay with flowers. 
 
 Miss Parker met them smiling upon the steps, 
 and all the servants of the household, which Jean 
 had organized liberally, courtesying behind her, 
 while Eland, as affable as his name, with his own 
 hands opened the carriage door. And to be 
 consulted about everything was very delightful 
 to Miss Leslie. She seized the opportunity to 
 make a few little changes in the garden, which 
 she had long set her heart upon, and even cor- 
 rected one or two things in-doors, which she had 
 not ventured to touch before. And she wrote 
 to dearest Jean that Miss Parker was very kind, 
 and studied their comfort in every way, and that 
 Cook was behaving very well indeed, and Bland 
 was most attentive. All her report was thor- 
 oughly satisfactory ; and she could not help ex- 
 pressing a hope that dearest Jean would not hur- 
 ry, but would enjoy herself. And Miss Leslie 
 found Margaret a very pleasant companion, giv- 
 ing "no trouble," and ready to listen for the 
 whole da}', if her sister pleased, and Grace was 
 very well pleased to go on. She was very well 
 pleased, too, to go on in her viceroyalty, and 
 very liberal to the old women in the cottages, 
 where Margaret and she paid a great many 
 kindly visits. And, in short, Miss Leslie's feel- 
 ings were of the most comfortable kind, and her 
 rule, though probably it would have been much 
 less successful in the long-run, and consequently 
 less popular, was for a time, to all the depend- 
 ants who were permitted to have their own way, 
 a very delightful sway in comparison with that 
 of her sister ; and it was very pleasant to herself 
 to be looked up to, more or less, instead of being 
 looked down upon. 
 
 "I was always fond of you, dearest Margaret, 
 but I never did you full justice till now," she 
 said, half crying, as it was so natural for her to 
 do when she was moved either happily or other- 
 wise. Dear Jean, no doubt, was a great loss ; but 
 then dear Jean was enjoying herself too. Thus 
 the beginning of this exile and retreat was very 
 pleasant to both the ladies ; and Margaret, with 
 her expanded being, took real possession — with 
 a sense of security and calm which sank into her 
 heart like a benediction — of her own house. 
 
 On the third day after their arrival she had 
 gone out into the park alone. It was the after- 
 noon, and very bright and warm — too warm, 
 Grace thought, for walking; but Margaret, in 
 all the ardor of her young strength, four.d noth- 
 ing too cold or too hot. She strayed across the 
 park in the full sunshine : her broad straw hat 
 was shade enough, and the long, black gauze 
 veil, which Jean still insisted upon, hung floating 
 behind her. Her dress, though black, was thin 
 and light. She had recovered all the soft splen- 
 dor of health, though in Margaret it could 
 scarcely be called bloom or glow. A faint rose- 
 tint like the flowers, as delicate and as sweet, 
 was on her cheek going and coming ; she had a 
 book clasped under her arm, but she was not at 
 all sure that she meant to read. She made her 
 way through the blaze of the sunshine, defying 
 
 it, as foolish girls do, to the clump of trees where 
 she had rushed, in her despair, to read Rob 
 Glen's letter on the wet wintry day when she 
 had caught her illness. 
 
 Without premeditation she had started for this 
 shelter ; but as she gained the shade and sat 
 down at the foot of the great elm, the whole 
 scene came back to her. Her heart woke, and 
 seemed to echo the frantic beating which had 
 been in it then. What a difference! Winter 
 then, all weeping and dreary ; yellow leaves 
 scattered on the grass, naked branches waving 
 in the dank air, against the mud-colored clouds ; 
 now nothing but summer — the grass covered 
 with flickering gleams of gold and soft masses 
 of grateful shade, the sky so blue and the leaves 
 so green ; and, what was more wonderful still, 
 her heart then so agitated and miserable, now 
 so tranquil and calm. Yes, she said to herself, 
 with a little tremor, but why should she be so 
 tranquil and calm? Nothing was changed; 
 three days ago she had dashed through the Lon- 
 don streets in the same frantic flight and horror. 
 Nothing was changed. W T hat did the distance 
 matter, a hundred miles or a thousand, when in 
 fact and reality everything was the same? And 
 distance could not settle it one way or another : 
 running away could not settle it. By word or 
 by letter, must she not make up her mind to do 
 it — absolutely to meet the difficulty herself, to 
 confront the danger, not to run away? 
 
 Her book dropped down upon the warm, de- 
 licious turf beside her. In any case this, in all 
 likelihood, would have been its fate ; but it fell 
 from her hand now with a kind of violence. 
 Yes ! it must be settled — not by running away — 
 it must be done somehow, beyond all chance of 
 undoing. Margaret was a child no longer : she 
 had learned at least the rudiments of that great 
 lesson ; she had found that those evils which we 
 have brought on ourselves cannot be undone by 
 chance or good-fortune. If she was to reclaim 
 herself, it must be by a conscious struggle and 
 effort ; and how was it possible that she could 
 encounter this boldly, forestall the next danger, 
 go out to meet the trouble ? If he would but 
 leave her alone, it would not matter so much. 
 She thought she could thrust it away from her 
 and be happy — too grateful to let the days drift 
 by, to enjoy her life till the inevitable moment 
 when the long -dreaded fate must come; and 
 then — ? 
 
 Margaret's heart began once more to sing wild- 
 ly in her ears. Then ! What was it she must 
 do ? She was not as she had been a year ago, 
 when nothing but a frightened acquiescence, 
 compulsion yet submission, to something against 
 which there seemed no possibility of effectual re- 
 sistance, a dreadful fate which she must make 
 the best of when it came, seemed before her. 
 Now she could no longer contemplate the fut- 
 ure so; she would not be passive, but must act, 
 must make some effort for her own emancipa- 
 tion : but not yet ! not yet ! her fluttering heart 
 seemed to say : though something sterner in her, 
 something stronger, protested and held another 
 strain. "If 'twere done, when 'tis done, then it 
 were well it were done quickly." If a struggle 
 was inevitable, one desperate effort must be made 
 to get herself free, why should she delay and suf- 
 fer so many agonies in the mean time ? 
 
 A flutter of daring, a sinking of despair, com- 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 1; 
 
 bated in her : and then arose the horrible ques- 
 tion — If she did summon courage enough to 
 parley with her fate and ask for her freedom, 
 would he grant it ? She had not come so far as 
 to think anything was possible without his con- 
 sent. Would he let her go free? If she could 
 but dare to tell him that she did not love him, 
 that it was all a mistake, would he believe her, 
 and be persuaded, and let her go ? Awful ques- 
 tion to which it was impossible to give an answer. 
 Margaret felt like a criminal dependent on the 
 clemency of a monarch, before whom she could 
 only kneel, and weep, and pray. Would he 
 hear her? Would he waive his claims — the 
 claims which she could not deny — and let her go 
 free? 
 
 When she was in the midst of these thoughts, 
 too much engrossed to heed what might be go- 
 ing on round her, and secure that here nothing 
 could be going on, the creaking of a branch, as 
 under a footstep, caught Margaret's ear. She 
 looked up, but saw nothing to alarm her, and 
 with that curious deliverance from all fears or 
 suspicions, and simplicity of trust which is apt 
 to precede a catastrophe, returned to her fancies 
 and questions and took no further notice. What 
 harm could come near her there? She was in 
 the middle of the park, in an island of shade in 
 the midst of the blaze of sunshine, out of sight 
 of the house, out of reach of the gate, a place 
 shut up and sacred, where no one interfered with 
 the freedom of the young mistress of all. It 
 might be a squirrel, it might be a rabbit ; what 
 could it be else ? She did not even go so far as 
 to ask herself what it was ; there was not the 
 break of a moment in her thoughts. Would he 
 let her free? Her word was pledged to him. 
 How could she release herself from that solemn 
 promise? He was her master by reason of this 
 pledge. Would he be merciful ? would he have 
 pity upon her ? would he set her free ? 
 
 What was that? A voice: "Margaret!"' 
 She seemed to hear it somehow before it really 
 sounded, so that when the word was uttered it 
 felt like a repetition. She looked up with a 
 sudden cry. The voice was close over her head, 
 and the very air seemed to tremble with it — re- 
 peating it, "Margaret !" She sprang to her feet 
 with a wild impulse of flight, requiring no second 
 glance, no second hearing, to tell her that the 
 moment of fate had come. She had even made 
 one hurrying, flying step, with terror in her looks, 
 her throat suddenly dry and gasping, her strength 
 and courage gone. Was it he? what was it that 
 caught at her dress? She darted away in ter- 
 ror indescribable; but just as she did so all the 
 desperation of her case flashed upon Margaret. 
 She stopped, and, turning round, looked him in 
 the face. 
 
 There he stood looking at her, leaning against 
 the tree, holding out his hands — "Margaret!" 
 he cried. His face was all glowing and mov- 
 ing with emotion — unquestionably with genu- 
 ine emotion. No cheat ever got by guile such 
 an expression into his lying face. Rob was not 
 lying. There was great emotion in his mind. 
 He who could not look at a girl without trying 
 to please her felt his first glance at Margaret 
 reillumine all the first fire of loving in his heart. 
 He had never seen her look half so beautiful. 
 The health that was in her cheeks, the develop- 
 ment that had come to her whole being, all tend- 
 
 ed to make her fairer ; and even the improve- 
 ment of her dress under her sister's careful su- 
 pervision increased her charm to Rob. He was 
 keenly alive to all those signs of ladyhood which 
 separated Margaret from his own sphere, and 
 which proved not only her superiority, but his 
 who loved her. She shone upon him like a new 
 revelation of beauty and grace, tempting in her- 
 self — irresistible in that she was so much above 
 him. But if she had not been at all above him, 
 Rob still would not have let her go without the 
 most strenuous effort to retain her. His face 
 shone with the very enthusiasm of admiration 
 and happiness. "Margaret! my beautiful dar- 
 ling!" he cried; and he held out his hands, in- 
 viting, wooing her to him. "Do not be afraid 
 of me," he said, with real pathos in his voice. 
 "Margaret! I will not come a step nearer till 
 you give me leave — to look at you seems happi- 
 ness enough." 
 
 Oh, what a reproach that look was to the 
 poor girl, who, frightened and desperate, had 
 yet intelligence enough left to see that there was 
 no safety in flight ! Happiness enough to look 
 at her! while she — she, ungrateful — she, hard- 
 hearted, shrunk from the sight of him! She 
 could not bear the delight and the petition in 
 his eyes. Instead of being a supplicant to him 
 for her freedom, it was he who, for his happi- 
 ness, was a supplicant to her. 
 
 "Oh, do not speak so," she said, wringing her 
 hands ; " do not speak so well of me — 1 do not 
 deserve it. Oh, why have you come here?" 
 
 "Why should I have come? To see you, 
 my only love. How do you suppose I could 
 keep away from you ? Margaret, do you think 
 I am made of stone ? do you think I only pre- 
 tend to love you? You did not think so once 
 at EaiTs-hall," he said, coming very softly a step 
 nearer to her. His look was wistful, his voice 
 so soft that Margaret's heart was pierced with a 
 thousand compunctions. She shrank, without 
 venturing to step farther back, bending her pli- 
 ant, slight young figure away from him ; and 
 thus he got her hand before she was aware. 
 Margaret shrank still farther from his touch, 
 her whole frame contracting; but the instinct 
 of constancy and the sense of guilt were too 
 much for her. She could not withdraw her 
 hand. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Glen," she said — "oh, Rob," for 
 he gave her a startled look of wonder and pain, 
 "what can I say to you? I do not want to be 
 unkind, and oh, I hope — I hope you don't care 
 so much, not so very much! Oh," she cried, 
 breaking out suddenly into the appeal she had 
 premeditated, "don't you think we have made a 
 mistake — a great mistake?" 
 
 " What mistake, Margaret ? Is it because 
 you are so much richer than we ever thought, 
 and I so poor? Yes, it was a mistake. I had 
 no right to lift my hopes so high. But do you 
 think I remembered that ? It was you I was 
 thinking of — not what you had!" 
 
 "What does it matter what I have?" she 
 said, sadly. "Do you think that was what / 
 was thinking of? Rich or poor, has that any- 
 thing to do with it ? But oh, it is true — I can- 
 not help it — we have made a mistake." 
 
 "I have made no mistake," he said; "I 
 thought you the sweetest and the fairest creat- 
 ure that ever crossed my path, aud so you are» 
 
156 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 And I loved you, Margaret, and so I do now. 
 A king could not do more. I have not made 
 any mistake." 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, with a shiver of desperation 
 running through her, drawing her hand from his, 
 "you may scorn me, you may despise me, but I 
 must say it. It is I, then. Oh, Rob, do not be 
 angry ! You have been kind, very kind, as good 
 as an angel to me ; but I — I am ungrateful, I 
 have no heart. I cannot, cannot — " Here Mar- 
 garet, entirely overcome, broke forth into sudden 
 weeping, and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 Then he took the step too far, which was all 
 that was wanted. How could he tell it was too 
 far? He would have done it had she been no 
 beautiful lady at all, but a country girl who had 
 been once fond of him, whom he could not allow 
 to escape. He put his arm tenderly round her, 
 and tried to draw her toward him. 
 
 Margaret sprang from his side with a quick 
 cry, putting him away with her hands. "Oh 
 no, no, no!" she cried, "that cannot be, that 
 can never be! Do not touch me; do not come 
 near me, Mr. Glen !" 
 
 "Margaret!" his tone was full of astonish- 
 ment and pain ; " what does this mean ? It seems 
 like a bad dream. It cannot be you that are 
 speaking to me." 
 
 And then there was a pause. She could say 
 nothing, her very breathing was choked by the 
 struggling sobs. Oh, how cruel she was, how 
 barbarous, how guilty ! And he so tender, so 
 struck with wonder and dismay, gazing at her 
 with eyes full of surprise and sudden misery! 
 Would it not have been better to bear anything, 
 to put up with anything, rather than inflict such 
 cruel pain ? 
 
 It was Rob who was the first to speak. There 
 was no make-believe in him ; it was indeed cruel 
 pain, bitter to his heart and to his self-love. He 
 was mortified and wounded beyond measure. He 
 could not understand how he could be repulsed 
 so. " If this is true," he said, " if it is not some 
 nightmare — if I am not dreaming — what is to 
 become of me ? My God ! the girl I love, with- 
 out whom I don't care for my life, my betrothed, 
 my wife that was to be, tells me not to come near 
 her, not to touch her ! What does it mean — what 
 does it mean, Margaret ? You have been hear- 
 ing something of me that is false, some slander, 
 some ill stories — " 
 
 "No, no! oh no, no! not that, not a word." 
 
 " Then, what is it, Margaret ? If you have any 
 pity, tell me what it is. I have done something 
 to displease you. I have offended you, though 
 Heaven knows I would sooner offend the whole 
 world." 
 
 " It is not that: oh, can you not understand, 
 will you not understand ? I was so young. I 
 did not know what it meant. Oh, forgive me, 
 Mr. Glen. It is not that I want to be unkind. 
 My heart is broken too. I was never — oh, how 
 can I say it ? — I was never — never — but do not be 
 angry! — never so — fond of you as you thought." 
 
 She raised Iter eyes to him as the dreadful 
 truth was said, with the awed and troubled gaze 
 of a child, not knowing what horror of suffering 
 she might see, or what denunciation might blast 
 her where she stood. But Margaret was not 
 prepared for something which was much more 
 difficult to encounter. He listened to her, and 
 a smile came over his face. 
 
 "My darling," he said, softly, "never mind; 
 I have love enough for the two of us. We have 
 been parted for a long time, and you have for- 
 gotten what you thought once. 1 think I know 
 better, dear, than you. I was content, and so 
 shall I be again, and quite happy when all these 
 cobwebs are blown away. I will take my chance 
 that you will be fond of me," he said. 
 
 This was a turn of the tables for which she 
 was absolutely unprepared. She could do noth- 
 ing but gaze at him blankly, not finding a single 
 word to reply. 
 
 "And you shall be humored, my darling," he 
 said. "I am not such a clown as you think. 
 Do you suppose I don't understand your delica- 
 cy, your shyness, my Lady Margaret ? Oh, I am 
 not such a clown as you think. I will wait till 
 you give me that dear little hand again. I will 
 be patient till you come to my arms again. Oh 
 no, I will not hurry you, darling. I will wait 
 for you; but you must not ask me," he cried, 
 "you must not expect me, to give up my be- 
 trothed wife." 
 
 " Dearest Margaret," said another voice behind, 
 which made Margaret start, "I have been look- 
 ing for you everywhere. Here is a letter from 
 dearest Jean, saying that dear Ludovic is in 
 town, and that she will bring him with her when 
 she comes. Is this gentleman a friend of yours, 
 darling Margaret? You must introduce him to 
 me," Miss Grace said. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 Miss Leslie was hospitality itself. This na- 
 tional virtue belonged to all the Leslies, even 
 when they had little means of exercising it ; and 
 it was intensified in Grace's case by the fact that 
 she had so seldom any power of independent ac- 
 tion. She was like a school-girl suddenly placed 
 at the head of a household, and made absolute 
 mistress in a place where hitherto even her per- 
 sonal freedom had been limited. And the pleas- 
 ure of making a new acquaintance was doubled 
 by the consciousness that there was no brisk ruler 
 behind her to limit her kindness to the stranger. 
 She insisted that he should come to dinner that 
 evening, since she heard that he was staying in 
 the village. "Of course dear Margaret will like 
 to be able to talk to you about home," she said. 
 It was not often that she had the opportunity of 
 entertaining any one ; and though Rob, to do 
 him justice, hesitated for a moment, feeling that 
 his acceptance of the unlooked-for opportunity 
 should depend upon Margaret, still it was scarce- 
 ly to be expected that he could refuse an invita- 
 tion so manifestly advantageous to him. Mar- 
 garet said nothing. She would not reply to his 
 look. She gave Grace a glance" of mingled hor- 
 ror and entreaty ; but Grace scarcely noticed 
 this, and did not understand it. Margaret walk- 
 ed silently by their side to the house, as if in a 
 dream. She heard them talk, the voices com- 
 ing to her as through a mist of excitement and 
 pain; but what could she do? When Grace 
 suggested that she should show Mr. Glen the 
 house, she shrank away and declared that she 
 was tired, and was going to her room to rest; 
 but the only result of her defection was, that 
 Grace herself took the part of cicerone, and that 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 15? 
 
 Margaret, shutting herself up in her room, heard 
 them going up and down stairs, Grace's voice 
 leading the way, as Mrs. Belli ilgbam'fl had done 
 on the first night of their arrival. 
 
 ' ' Dearest Margaret, do you know you are al- 
 most rude to Mr. Glen ?" her sister said, before 
 dinner; "and such a pleasant young man, and 
 so clever and so agreeable. I am sure dear Jean 
 will think him quite an acquisition." 
 
 " I hate him!" cried Margaret, with the fervor 
 of despair. When she heard the words which 
 she had uttered in her impatience, a chill of hor- 
 ror came over her. Was it true that she hated 
 him, to whom she was bound by her promise, 
 who loved her and expected her to love him ? 
 She went away to the other end of the room, 
 pretending to look for something, and shed a few 
 hot and bitter tears. It was horrible, but in the 
 passion of the moment it seemed true. What 
 was she to do to deliver herself? 
 
 "I don't want to see him," she said, coming 
 back, "and Jean would not like to have him 
 here : I know she would not like to have him 
 here." 
 
 "You will forgive me, darling Margaret," said 
 Miss Leslie, "but I think I know what dear Jean 
 would like : she would not neglect a stranger. 
 She is always very kind to strangers. How do 
 you do again, Mr. Glen ?" 
 
 And the evening that followed was dreadful 
 to Margaret. Grace, who liked to study what 
 her companions would like, made a great many 
 little efforts to bring these two together. " They 
 will like to have a little talk," she said, running 
 up-stairs to consult Miss Parker about something 
 imaginary. "They are old friends, and they 
 will like to have a little talk." 
 
 Margaret, thus left alone with Rob, grew des- 
 perate. She turned to him with a pale face and 
 flashing eyes, taking the initiative for the first 
 time. 
 
 "Oh, why did you come?" she cried; "do 
 you think it is like a man to drive a poor girl 
 wild — when I told you that I wanted you to go 
 away? that it was all a mistake — all a mistake !" 
 
 " It was no mistake so far as I am concerned," 
 he said. "Margaret, you have given me your 
 hand and your promise ; how can you be so cruel 
 as to deny me your heart now ?" 
 
 "I did not give you anything; I was dis- 
 tracted. I did not know what you were saying," 
 she said ; " I did not give you anything. What- 
 ever there was, you took. It was not I — it was 
 not I!" 
 
 "Margaret, my darling!" he said, coming 
 close to her, " you cannot mean to be so unkind. 
 Do not let us spend all these precious moments 
 in quarrelling. Will you let me tell her when 
 she comes back ?" 
 
 Margaret's voice seemed to fail in her throat, 
 and a wild panic came into her eyes. She was 
 afraid of his vicinity; she could not bear any ap- 
 pearance of intimacy, any betrayal of their pre- 
 vious relations. And just then Miss Grace came 
 back, profuse in apologies. 
 
 "I had something to say to the house-keeper, 
 Mr. Glen. I thought that dear Margaret, as an 
 old friend, would be able to entertain you for a 
 little while, for I heard you were old friends." 
 
 "From our cradles, I think," said Rob, sig- 
 nificantly. "Miss Margaret used to go fishing 
 with me when I was a boy, and she a tiny little 
 
 fairy, whom I thought the most wonderful creat- 
 ure on earth. There are traditions of childhood 
 to which one holds all one's life." 
 
 "Ah!" said Grace, "childish friendships are 
 very sweet. At dear Margaret's age they are 
 sometimes not so much appreciated ; but as one 
 grows older, one understands the value of them. 
 Are you going to stay for some time in our vil- 
 lage, Mr. Glen ? Ancl are you making some 
 pretty sketches? That was beautiful, that one 
 of Earl's-hall, that you sent to dear Margaret. 
 Dearest Jean was so much struck by it. I am 
 sure it is a great gift to bo able to give so much 
 pleasure." 
 
 "I will make a companion sketch of the 
 Grange for you, if you would like it," said Rob; 
 " nothing would give me more pleasure. It is a 
 beautiful old house." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Glen! But you are a great deal 
 too good — much too good ! And how could I 
 ever repay — how could I ever thank you !" 
 
 Margaret rushed from the room while these 
 compliments were being exchanged. It seemed 
 to her like a scene from some old play which she 
 had seen played before, save that the interest 
 was too sharp and intense, too close to herself, 
 for any. play. She felt herself insulted and de- 
 fied, provoked and wounded. What did he care 
 for her or her feelings ? Had he felt the least 
 real consideration for her, he could not have 
 done it. She rushed up the half-lighted stairs 
 to her room, with passion throbbing in her heart. 
 Oh, that Jean were here to send him away ! 
 though there was, in reality, nobody whom Mar- 
 garet was more alarmed for than Jean. Oh, 
 that there was some one whom she could trust 
 in — whom she might dare to speak to ! But to 
 whom could she speak ? If she did betray this 
 secret, would not she be thought badly of, as of 
 a girl who was not a good girl ? How well she 
 remembered the sense of humiliation w-hich had 
 come over her when Randal Burnside took no 
 notice of her presence, and did not even take 
 off his hat! Randal Burnside! The name 
 seemed to go through and through her, tingling 
 in every vein. Ah ! was it because of this that 
 he had" looked at her so wistfully, when he put 
 her into the railway- carriage, to warn her per- 
 haps of what was coming? Could it be for 
 this that he had told Grace where he was to be 
 found ? 
 
 The breath seemed to stop on Margaret's lips 
 when this idea occurred to her. She had ap- 
 pealed to Randal before, in her despair, and Ran- 
 dal had helped her ; should she appeal to him 
 again? There was a moment's confusion in her 
 brain, everything going round with her, a sound 
 of ringing "in her ears. What right had she to 
 call upon Randal ? But yet she knew that Ran- 
 dal would reply to her appeal ; he would do 
 what he could" for her ; he would not betray, 
 and, above all, he would not blame her. That 
 was a great deal to say, but it was true. Per- 
 haps (she thought) he would be more sorry than 
 any one else in the world ; but he would not 
 blame her. The only other person who knew 
 was Ludovic ; but to Ludovic she dared not ap- 
 peal. He would think it was all her own fault ; 
 but Randal would not think it was her fault. 
 He would understand. She stood for a moment 
 undecided, feeling that she must do something at 
 once, that there was no time to lose ; and then 
 
158 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 she made a sudden dash at her writing - table, 
 scattering the papers on it, in her confusion. 
 (She must not think any longer ; she must do 
 something, whatever it might be. And how 
 could she write an ordinary letter in such a cri- 
 sis, with an ordinary beginning and ending, as 
 if there was nothing in it out of the common ? 
 She plunged at it, putting nothing but what she 
 was obliged to say. 
 
 "He has come here, and I don't know what 
 to do. Oh, could you get him to leave me in 
 peace, as you did before ? I have no right to 
 trouble you ; but if you have any power over 
 him, oh, will you help me? will you get him to 
 go away ? I know I ought not to write to you 
 about this; but I am very unhappy, and who 
 can I go to ? Oh, Randal, if you have any pow- 
 er over him, get him to go away !" 
 
 At first she did not sign this at all ; then she 
 reflected that he might not know her handwrit- 
 ing, though she knew his. And then she signed 
 it timidly with an M. L. But perhaps he might 
 not know who M. L. was ; other names began 
 with the same letters. At last she wrote, very 
 tremulously, her whole name, the Leslie dying 
 into illegibility. She did not, however, think it 
 necessary to carry this herself to the post-office, 
 as she had done the letter to Bell. Grace was 
 not so alarming as Jean, and the post-bag was 
 safe enough, she felt. When she had thus 
 stretched out her hand for help, Margaret was 
 guilty of the first act of positive rebellion she had 
 ever ventured upon. She refused to go down- 
 stairs. The maid who took her message said, 
 apologetically, that she had a headache ; but 
 Margaret herself made no such pretence. She 
 could not keep up any fiction of gentle disability 
 when the crisis was coming so near. And though 
 she so shrank from confiding her griefs to any 
 one, the girl, in her desperation, felt that the 
 moment was coming in which, if need were, she 
 would have strength to defy all the world. 
 
 All was dark in Margaret's room, when Grace, 
 having parted from her visitor, who had done 
 his very best to be amusing, notwithstanding the 
 unsatisfactory circumstances, came softly into 
 her little sister's room and bent over the bed. 
 
 "Poor darling!" Miss Leslie said, " how pro- 
 voking, just when your old friend was here. But 
 he is coming again, dearest Margaret, to-mor- 
 row, to begin his sketch. How nice of him to 
 offer to make a sketch — and for me! I never 
 knew anything so kind ; for he scarcely knows 
 me." 
 
 Thus fate made another coil round her help- 
 less feet. 
 
 As for Rob, he went back to the inn in the 
 village scarcely less disturbed than Margaret. 
 He had come to a new chapter in his history. 
 Her coldness, her manifest terror of him, her 
 flight from the room in which he was, provoked 
 him to the utmost. He was less cast down than 
 exasperated by her desire to avoid him. He 
 was not a man, he said to himself, from whom 
 girls generally desired to escape, nor was he one 
 with whom they could play fast and loose. He 
 had not been used to failure. Jeanie, who had 
 a hundred times more reason to be dissatisfied 
 with him than Margaret could have, had been 
 won over by his pleading even at the last mo- 
 
 ment, and was waiting now in London for the 
 last interview, which he had insisted upon. And 
 did Margaret think herself so much better than 
 everybody else that she was to continue to fly 
 from him ? He was determined to subdue her. 
 She should not cast him off when she pleased, or 
 escape from her word. In the fervor of his feel- 
 ings he forgot even his own horror at the vulgar 
 expedient his mother had contrived, to bind the 
 girl more effectually. Even that he had made 
 up his mind. to use, if need were, to hold as a 
 whip over her. It was no fault of his, but en- 
 tirely her own fault, if he was thus driven to use 
 every weapon in his armory. He had written to 
 his mother to send it to him before he came to 
 the village, and now expected it every day. Per- 
 haps to-morrow, before he set out for the Grange, 
 it would arrive, and Margaret would see he was 
 not to be trifled with. All this did not make 
 him cease to be "in love with" her. He was 
 prepared to be as fond, nay, more fond than ever, 
 if she w»uld but respond as she ought. No one 
 had ever so used him before, and he would not 
 be beaten by a slip of a girl. If he could not 
 win her back as he had won Jeanie, then he 
 would force her back. She should not beat him. 
 Thus the struggle between them, which had been 
 existing passive and unacknowledged for some 
 time back, had to his consciousness, as well as 
 Margaret's, come to a crisis now. 
 
 Next morning she kept out of the way, re- 
 maining in her own room, though without any 
 pretence of illness. Margaret was too highly 
 strung, too sensible of the greatness of the emer- 
 gency, to take refuge in that headache which is 
 always so convenient an excuse ; she would not 
 set up such a feeble plea. She kept up-stairs in 
 her room in so great a fever of mental excite- 
 ment that she seemed to hear and see and feel 
 everything that happened, notwithstanding her 
 withdrawal. She heard him arrive, and she 
 heard Grace's twitterings of welcome; and then 
 she heard the voices outside again, moving about, 
 and divined that they were in search of the best 
 point of view. They found it at last, in sight of 
 Margaret's window, where Rob established him- 
 self and all his paraphernalia fully in her view. 
 It was for this reason, indeed, that he had chosen 
 the spot, meaning, with one of his curious fail- 
 ures of perception, to touch her heart by the fa- 
 miliar sight, and call her back to him by the rec- 
 ollection of those early days at Earl's-hall. 
 
 The attempt exasperated her ; it was like the 
 repetition of a familiar trick — the sort of thing 
 he did everywhere. She looked out from behind 
 the curtain with dislike and annoyance which 
 increased every moment. It seemed incredible 
 to her, as she looked out upon him, how she 
 could ever have regarded him as she knew she 
 had once done. All that was commonplace in 
 him, lightly veiled by his cleverness, his skill, his 
 desire to please, appeared now to her disenchant- 
 ed eyes. The thought that he should ever have 
 addressed her in the tenderest words that one 
 human creature can use to another; that he 
 should ever have held her close to him and kiss- 
 ed her, made her cheek burn, and her very veins 
 fill and swell with shame. But, notwithstand- 
 ing all her reluctance, she had to go down to 
 luncheon, partly compelled by circumstances, 
 partly by the strange attraction of hostility, and 
 partly by the distress of Grace at the possibility 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 159 
 
 of having to take her lunch "nlone with a gen- 
 tleman !" Margaret went down;- but she kept 
 herself aloof, sitting up stately and silent, all un- 
 like her girlish self, at the table, where Miss Les- 
 lie did the honors with anxious hospitality, press- 
 ing her guest to eat, and, happily, leaving no 
 room for any words but her own. Grace, how- 
 ever, was too anxious that the young people 
 should enjoy themselves, not to perceive how 
 very little intercourse there was between them, 
 and, after vain attempts to induce Margaret to 
 show Mr. Glen the wainscot parlor, she adopted 
 the old expedient of running out of the room and 
 leaving them together as soon as their meal was 
 over. 
 
 "I must just speak to Bland," she said, hur- 
 riedly, "I shall not be a moment. Margaret, 
 you will take care of Mr. Glen till I come back." 
 
 Margaret, who was herself in the very act of 
 flight, was obliged to stay. She rose from her 
 chair and stood stiffly by it, while Grace ran 
 along the passage. Her heart had begun to beat 
 so loudly that she could scarcely speak, but speak 
 she must ; and before the sound of her sister's 
 footsteps had died out of hearing, she turned 
 upon the companion she had accepted so reluc- 
 tantly, with breathless excitement. 
 
 "Mr. Glen," she said, trembling, "I must 
 speak to you. We cannot go on like this. Oh, 
 why will you not go away ? If you will not go 
 away, I must. I will not see you again ; I can- 
 not, I cannot do it. For God's sake go away!" 
 
 " Why should you be so urgent, Margaret ?" 
 he said. " What harm am I doing ? It is hard 
 enough to consent to see so little of you ; but 
 even a little is better than nothing at all." 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, in her desperation, "do not 
 stop to argue about it. Don't you see — but you 
 must see — that yon are making me miserable ? 
 If there is anything you want, tell me ; but oh, 
 do not stay here !" 
 
 . "What I want is easily enough divined. I 
 want you, Margaret," he said ; "and why should 
 you turn me away ? Let us not spend the little 
 time we have together in quarrelling. You are 
 offended about something. Somebody has been 
 speaking ill of me — " 
 
 "No one has been speaking ill of you," she 
 cried, indignantly. " Oh, Mr. Glen, even if I 
 liked you to be here, it would be dishonorable 
 to come when my sister Jean was away, and to 
 impose upon poor Grace, who knows nothing, 
 who does not understand — " 
 
 "Let me tell her," he said, eagerly ; "she 
 will be a friend to us ; she is kind-hearted. Let 
 me tell her. It is not I that wish for conceal- 
 ment ; I should like the whole world to know. 
 I will go and tell her — " 
 
 "No!" Margaret cried, almost with a scream 
 of terror. She stopped him as he made a step 
 toward the door. " What would you tell her, or 
 any one ? — that I — care for you, Mr. Glen ? Oh, 
 listen to me ! It is not that I have deceived you, 
 for I never said anything ; I only let you speak — 
 But if I have done wrong, I am very sorry; if 
 you told her that, it would not be true !" 
 
 "Margaret," he said, with forced calmness, 
 "take care what you are saying. Do you for- 
 get that you are my promised wife? Is that 
 nothing to tell her ? Do you think that I will 
 let you break your vow without a word. There 
 is more than love concerned, more than caring 
 11 
 
 for each other, as you call it — there is our whole 
 life!" 
 
 "Yes," she said. Her voice sank to a whis- 
 per, in her extreme emotion ; her face grew pal- 
 lid, as if she were going to faint. She clasped 
 her hands together and looked at him piteous- 
 ly, with wide-open eyes. "Yes," she said, "I 
 know ; I promised, and I am false to it. Oh, 
 will you forgive me, and let me go free? Oh, 
 Mr. Glen, let me go free!" 
 
 " Is this all I have for my love?" he said, with 
 not unnatural exasperation. " Let you go free ! 
 that is all yon care for. What I feel is nothrng 
 to you ; my hopes, and my prospects, and my 
 happiness — " 
 
 Margaret could not speak. She made a sup- 
 plicating gesture with her clasped hands, and 
 kept her eyes fixed upon him. Rob did not 
 know what to do. He paced up and down the 
 room in unfeigned agitation ; outraged pride and 
 disappointed feeling, and an impulse which was 
 half generosity and half mortification tempting 
 him on one side, while the rage of failure and 
 the force of self-interest held him fast on the 
 other. He could not give up so much without 
 another struggle. He made a hasty step toward 
 her and caught her hands in his. 
 
 "Margaret !" he cried, "how can I give you 
 up ? This hand is mine, and I will not let it go. 
 Is there nothing in your promise — nothing in 
 the love that has been between us? Let you 
 go free? Is that all the question that remains 
 between you and me ?" 
 
 They stood thus, making a mutual appeal to 
 each other, he holding her hand, she endeavor- 
 ing to draw it away, when the sound of a steady 
 and solemn step startled them suddenly. 
 
 " If you please, miss," said Bland, at the door, 
 " there is a gentleman in the hall asking for Mr. 
 Glen ; and there is a person as says she's just 
 come off a journey, and wants Mr. Glen too. 
 Shall I show them into the library, or shall I 
 bring them here?" 
 
 Rob had dropped her hand hastily at the first 
 sound of Bland's appearance ; and Margaret, 
 scarcely knowing what she did, her head swim- 
 ming, her heart throbbing, struggled back into a 
 kind of artificial consciousness by means of this 
 sudden return of the commonplace and ordinary, 
 though she was scarcely aware what the man 
 said. 
 
 "I am coming," she answered, faintly; the 
 singing in her ears sounded like an echo of voices 
 calling her. All the world seemed calling her, 
 assembling to the crisis of her fate. She did not 
 so much as look at Rob, from whom she was 
 thus liberated all at once, but turned and follow- 
 ed Bland with all the speed and quiet of great 
 excitement, feeling herself carried along almost 
 without any will of hers. 
 
 The hall at the Grange was a sight to see, 
 that brilliant summer day. The door was wide 
 open, framing a picture of blue sky and flower- 
 ing shrubs at one end ; and the sunshine, which 
 poured in through the south window, caught the 
 wainscot panels and the bits of old armor, con- 
 verting them into dull yet magical mirrors full 
 of confused reflections. There were two stran- 
 gers standing here, as far apart as the space 
 would allow, both full of excitement to find 
 themselves there, and each full of wonder to find 
 the other. Thev both turned toward Margaret 
 
1G0 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 as she came in, pale as a ghost in her black 
 dress. Her eye was first caught by him who had 
 come at her call, her only confidant, the friend 
 in whom she had most perfect trust. The sight 
 of him woke her out of her abstraction of terror 
 and helplessness. 
 
 "Randal!" she cried, with a gleam of hope 
 and pleasure lighting up her face. 
 
 Then she stopped short and paled, again, with 
 a horrible relapse into her former panic. Her 
 voice changed into that pitiful "oh!" of wonder 
 and consternation, which the sight of a mortal 
 passenger called forth, as Dante tells us, from the 
 spirits in purgatory. The second stranger was a 
 woman ; no other than Mrs. Glen, from Earl's- 
 lee, in her best clothes, with a warm Paisley 
 shawl enveloping her substantial person, who 
 stood fanning herself with a large white hand- 
 kerchief in the only shady corner. These were 
 the two seconds whom, half consciously, half 
 willingly, yet in one case not consciously or will- 
 ingly at all, the two chief belligerents in this 
 strange duel had summoned to their aid. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 The strangers made their salutations very 
 briefly ; as for Randal, he did not approach 
 Margaret at all. He made her a somewhat stiff* 
 bow, which once more, in her simplicity, wound- 
 ed her, though the sight of him was such a re- 
 lief; but even the comfort she had in his pres- 
 ence was sadly neutralized by this apparent evi- 
 dence that he did not think so charitably of her 
 as she had hoped. Amidst all the pain and be- 
 wilderment of the moment, it was a pang the 
 more to feel thus driven back upon herself by 
 Randal's disapproval. She gave him an anxious, 
 questioning look, but he only bowed, looking be- 
 yond her at Rob Glen ; and it was Mrs. Glen 
 who hurried forward with demonstration to take 
 and shake between both her own Margaret's re- 
 luctant hand. 
 
 " Eh, but I'm glad to see you, Miss Margret !" 
 Mrs. Glen said. " What a'heat ! I thought I 
 would be melted, coming from the station, but 
 a's weel, now I'm safe here. " 
 
 " Will you forgive me, Miss Leslie," said Ran- 
 dal, " if I ask leave to speak to Glen on business ? 
 I took the liberty of coming when I heard he 
 was here. I should not have ventured to disturb 
 you but for urgent business. Glen, I have heard 
 of something that may be of great importance to 
 you. Will you walk back with me to the sta- 
 tion, and let me tell you what it is ? I have not 
 a moment to spare." 
 
 "Na, na, ye'll gang wi' nobody to the station. 
 How's a' with ye, Rob, my man ?" cried Mrs. 
 Glen; "you're no going to leave me the first 
 moment I'm here?" 
 
 Rob stood and gazed, first at one, then at the 
 other. The conjunction did not seem to bode 
 him any good, though he did not know how it 
 could harm him. He looked at them as if they 
 had dropped from the clouds, and a dull sense 
 that his path was suddenly obstructed, and that 
 he was being hemmed in by friends as well as 
 by foes, came over him. " What do you want ?" 
 he said, hoarsely. The question was addressed 
 chiefly to his mother, to whom he could relieve 
 
 himself by a savage tone not to be endured by 
 any stranger. ' 
 
 " Me ?" said Mrs. Glen ; " I want nothing but 
 a kindly welcome from you and your bonnie young 
 lady ; that's a' I'm wanting. But I couldna trust 
 yon intil a letter," she added, in a lower tone — "I 
 thought it was a great deal safer just to bring it 
 myself." 
 
 "But I," said Randal, quickly, "have come 
 upon business, Glen. Miss Leslie will excuse 
 me for bringing it here, though I had not meant 
 to do so. I have a very advantageous offer to 
 tell you of. It was made to me, but it will suit 
 you better. There is pleasant work and good 
 pay, and a good opening. Could you not put off 
 this happy meeting for a little, and listen to what 
 I have to say ?" 
 
 "Good pay, and a good opening? Rob, my 
 man," said Mrs. Glen, "leave you me with Miss 
 Margret — we were aye real good friends — and 
 listen like a good lad to what Mr. Randal says. 
 A good opening, and good pay — eh ! but you're 
 a kind lad when there's good going no to keep it 
 to yourself." 
 
 " If Glen will not give me his attention, I may 
 be tempted to keep it to myself," said Randal, 
 with a smile — "and there is not a moment to 
 lose." He had meant what he said when he 
 pledged himself to serve her, to do anything for 
 her that his power could reach. Nobody but 
 himself knew what a sacrifice it was that he was 
 prepared to make. And there was not a mo- 
 ment to lose. It was evident by the look of all 
 parties, and by the unexplained appearance of 
 Mrs. Glen, that the crisis was even more alarm- 
 ing, more urgent than he thought. The only 
 thing he could do was to insist upon the prior 
 urgency of Ms business. Could he but get Rob 
 away ! Randal knew that Margaret's natural 
 protectors were on the way to take charge of 
 her: he made another anxious appeal. "Par- 
 don me if I have no time for explanations or 
 apologies," he said ; "you may see how impor- 
 tant it is, when I have come from London to tell 
 you of it. Glen, you ought not to neglect such 
 an opportunity. Miss Leslie will excuse you — it 
 may make your fortune. Won't you come with 
 me, and let me tell you ? I can't explain every- 
 thing here — " 
 
 "Eh, Rob," said Mrs. Glen, who had pressed 
 forward anxiously to listen. "What's half an 
 hour, one way or another? I would gang with 
 him, and I would hear what he's got to say. 
 We're none so pressed for time, you and me. 
 What's half an hour? and me and your bonnie 
 Miss Margret will have our cracks till ye come 
 back. Gang away, my man, gang away !" 
 
 Rob stood undecided between them, looking 
 from one to another, distrusting them all, even 
 his mother. Why had she come here? They 
 seemed all in a plot to get him away from this 
 spot, where alone (he thought) he could insist 
 upon his rights. "How did he know I was 
 here?" he said, between his teeth. 
 
 As for Margaret, everything was in a confu- 
 sion about her. She did not comprehend why 
 Randal should stand there without a word to her, 
 scarcely looking at her. Was this the way to 
 serve her? And yet was it not for her sake that 
 he was trying to take the other claimant — this 
 too urgent suitor — away? As she stood there, 
 passive, confused, and wondering, Margaret, 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 1G1 
 
 standing with her face to the door, was the first 
 to perceive, all at once detaching themselves from 
 the background of the sky, two figures outside, 
 whose appearance brought a climax to all the 
 confusion within. In the pause within- doors, 
 while they all waited to see what Rob would do, 
 a brisk voice outside suddenly took up and oc- 
 cupied the silence : 
 
 "I think most likely they don't expect us at 
 all. You never can be sure of Grace. Her very 
 letters go astray as other people's letters never 
 do. The post itself goes wrong with her. If 
 they had expected me, they would have sent the 
 carriage. But I declare, there are people in the 
 hall ! I wonder," said Mrs. Bellingham, in a 
 tone of wonder, not unmingled with indignation, 
 "if they have been having visitors — visitors, 
 Grace and Margaret, while I have been away ?" 
 No one said a word. Randal, who had been 
 standing with his back to the door, turned round 
 hastily, and the others stood startled, not know- 
 ing what was about to happen, but with a con- 
 sciousness that the tad of all things was draw- 
 ing near. Mrs. Bellingham marched in, with 
 mingled curiosity and resolution in her face. 
 She came in, as the head of a house had a right 
 to come, into a place where very high jinks had 
 been enacted in his or her absence. She looked 
 curiously at Rob Glen and his mother, who faced 
 her first, and said "Oh!" with a slight swing of 
 her person — a half bow, a half courtesy, less of 
 courtesy than suspicion ; but Jean was always 
 aware what was due to herself, and could not be 
 rude. When the third stranger caught her eye, 
 she gave way to a little outcry of genuine sur- 
 prise — "You here, Randal Burnside!" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," he said. "You must think it 
 very strange ; but I will explain everything to 
 you afterward." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure there is no need for expla- 
 nations ; your father's son can never be un- 
 welcome," said Mrs. Bellingham, guardedly. 
 "Well, Margaret, my dear, so this is you! I 
 think either you or Grace might have thought 
 of sending the carriage ; but you have been hav- 
 ing company, I see — where is Grace ?" 
 
 "Oh, dearest Jean!" cried Miss Leslie, rush- 
 ing forward, "to think that you should arrive 
 like this without any one expecting you ! And 
 oh, dear Ludovic, you too ! I am sure — " 
 
 "You have been having company, I see," said 
 Mrs. Bellingham ; " I trust we are not interrupt- 
 ing anything. I will take a seat here for a lit- 
 tle ; I think it is the coolest place in the house. 
 You had better ask your friends to take chairs, 
 Grace." 
 
 "Oh, dearest Jean, it is Mr. Glen, the clever 
 artist, you know, who — but I don't know the — 
 the — " What should Miss Leslie have said ? 
 To call Mrs. Glen a lady was not practicable, 
 and to call her a woman was evidently an of- 
 fence against politeness. "I assure you," she 
 said in her sister's ear, "I don't know in the least 
 who she is." 
 
 Mrs. Bellingham sat down in the great chair 
 which stood by the fireplace, a great old carved 
 throne in black wood, which looked like a chief- 
 justice's at least. It was close to the door, and 
 served to bar all exit. Sir Ludovic had come 
 in a minute after her, and he had been engaged 
 in greeting his little sister Margaret, and shak- 
 ing hands with Randal Burnside, whom he was 
 
 very glad to see, with a little surprise, but with- 
 out arriere-pensee. But when the salutations 
 were over he looked round him, and with a sud- 
 den, sharp exclamation, discovered Rob Glen by 
 his side. 
 
 "Margaret," he said at once, "you had bet- 
 ter retire ; my dear, you had better retire. I 
 don't think this is a place for you." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Ludovic," said Mrs. 
 Bellingham ; " where her brother and her sisters 
 are is just the right place for Margaret. I have 
 not the pleasure of knowing the Miss Leslies' 
 friends — neither do you, I suppose ; but Marga- 
 ret will just remain, and I dare say everything 
 will be cleared up. It is a very fine day," 
 Jean said, with a gracious attempt to conciliate 
 everybody, "and very good for bringing on the 
 hay." 
 
 After this there was a slight pause again ; but 
 Mrs. Glen felt that this was a tribute to her own 
 professional knowledge ; and as no one else took 
 up the role of reply, she came forward a step, 
 with a little cough and clearing of her throat. 
 
 "England's a great deal forwarder in that 
 respeck than we are in our part of the world," 
 she said. " It's no muckle mair than the spring 
 season wi' us, and here it's perfit simmer. We'll 
 no be thinking o' the hay for this month to 
 come ; but I wouldna wonder if it was near cut- 
 ting here." 
 
 Meanwhile, Sir Ludovic had gone up to Rob 
 Glen in great agitation. "What are you doing 
 here ?" he said. " Why did you come' here ? I 
 never thought you would have taken such a step 
 as this. I gave you credit for more straightfor- 
 wardness, more gentlemanly feeling — " 
 
 "There has been enough of this !" cried Rob. 
 Exasperation is of kin to despair. Amidst all 
 these bewildered faces looking at him, not one 
 was friendly — not one looked at him as the fut- 
 ure master of the house, as the man who was 
 one day to be Margaret's husband should have 
 been looked at. And Margaret herself had no 
 thought of standing by him. She had shrunk 
 away from him into the background, as if she 
 would have seized the opportunity to escape. 
 "There has been enough of this," he said; "I 
 do not see any reason why I should put up with 
 it. If I am here, it is because there is no other 
 place in the world where I have so much right 
 to be. I have come to claim my rights. Mar- 
 garet can tell you what right I have to be here." 
 
 "Margaret !" repeated Mrs. Bellingham, won- 
 dering, in her high-pitched voice. 
 
 "Glen!" cried Randal, interrupting him with 
 nervous haste — "I told you I had an impor- 
 tant proposal to make to you. When you know 
 that I came down expressly to bring it, I think 
 I might have your attention at least. Will you 
 come with, me and hear what it is ? I beg your 
 pardon, Mrs. Bellingham ; I do not want to in- 
 terfere with any other explanation ; but I came 
 down on purpose, and Glen ought to give me an 
 answer, while I have time to stay — " 
 
 "Eh, bide a moment, bide a moment, Mr. 
 Randal ; gie him but a half-hour's grace," cried 
 Mrs. Glen. "Speak up, Rob, my bonnie man." 
 
 Randal, though he felt his intervention useless, 
 made one last effort. "I must have my answer 
 at once," he cried, impatient. "I tell you it is 
 for your interest, Glen — " 
 
 "I don't think, gentlemen," said Sir Ludovic, 
 
1G2 
 
 THE PEIM110SE PATH. 
 
 "that this is a place to carry on an argument 
 between yourselves, with which the ladies of this 
 house, at least, have nothing to do." 
 
 " It* you will not come, I at least must go!" 
 Randal cried, with great excitement. He gave 
 her an anxious glance, which she did not even 
 see, and threw up his hands with a gesture of 
 despair. " I can do no good here," he said. 
 
 Rob glared round upon them all — all looking 
 at him — all hostile, he thought. He had it in 
 his power, at least, to frighten these people who 
 looked down upon him, who would think him 
 not good enough to mate with them. He turn- 
 ed toward Margaret, who still stood behind him, 
 trembling, and called out her name in a voice 
 that made the hall ring. 
 
 "Margaret! it is you that have the first right 
 to be consulted. Sir Ludovic, you know as well 
 as I do that Margaret is pledged to be my wife." 
 
 "His wife!" Mrs. Bellingham sat bolt- up- 
 right in her chair, and Miss Leslie, with a little 
 shriek, ran to Margaret's side, with the instinct 
 of supporting what seemed to her the side of 
 sentiment against tyranny. "Darling Marga- 
 ret ! lean upon me — let me support you ; I will 
 never forsake you !* she breathed, fervently, in her 
 young sister's ear. 
 
 " Silence ! " cried Sir Ludovic ; " how dare you, 
 sir, make such a claim upon a young lady under 
 age ? If you had the feelings of a gentleman — " 
 
 At this moment, Mrs. Glen stepped forward 
 to do battle for her son. 
 
 "You may think it fine manners, Sir Ludovic, 
 to cast up to my Rob that he's no a gentleman ; 
 but it doesna seem fine manners to me. Ay, 
 that she is ! troth-plighted till him, as I can bear 
 witness, and by a document, my ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, that ye'll find to be good in law." 
 
 "Mother, hold your tongue!" cried Rob. A 
 suppressed fury was growing in him ; he felt 
 himself an alien among these people whom he 
 was claiming to belong to, but of whom nobody 
 belonged to him, except the mother, whose home- 
 liness and inferiority was so very apparent to his 
 eyes. He was growing hoarse with excitement 
 and passion. "Sir Ludovic knows so well what 
 my position is," he said, with dry lips, " that he 
 has asked me to give it up ; he has tried before 
 now to persuade me that I was required to prove 
 myself a gentleman by giving it up. A gentle- 
 man ! what does that mean ?" cried Rob. " How 
 many gentlemen would there be left if they were 
 required to give up everything that is most dear 
 to them, to prove the empty title? Do gentle- 
 men sacrifice their interests and their hopes for 
 nothing? — or do you count it honorable in a 
 gentleman to abandon the woman he loves ? If 
 so, I am no gentleman, as you say. I will not 
 give up Margaret. She chose me as much as I 
 chose her. She is frightened, and you may force 
 her into abandoning her betrothed and breaking 
 her word. Women are fickle, and she is afraid 
 of you all ; but she is mine, and I will never give 
 her up." 
 
 "Margaret," said Sir Ludovic, taking her hand 
 and drawing her forward, " give this man his an- 
 swer. Tell him you will have none of him. You 
 may have been imprudent — " 
 
 "But she can be prudent now," said Rob 
 Glen, with a smile; "she can give up, now that 
 she is rich, the man that loved her when she was 
 poor. Margaret ! yes, you can please them and 
 
 leave me because I have nothing to offer you. 
 They say such lessons are easily learned ; but I 
 would not have looked for it from you." 
 
 Margaret stood in the centre, in" face of them 
 all, with her brain reeling and her heart wrung. 
 She had a consciousness that Randal was there 
 too, looking at her, which was a mistake, for he 
 had left the hall hastily when his attempt was 
 foiled ; but all the others were round her, mak- 
 ing a spectacle of her confusion, searching her 
 with their eyes. What had she to do but to re- 
 peat the vehement denial which she had given 
 to Rob himself not half an hour ago ? She wrung 
 her hands. The case was different : here he was 
 alone, contending with them all for her. Her 
 heart ached for him, though she shrank from 
 him. She gave a low cry and hid her face in 
 her hands : how could she desert him ? how 
 could she cast him off, when he stood thus alone ? 
 
 "You see," said Rob, triumphantly, with a 
 wonderful sense of relief, "she will not cast me 
 off as you bid her. She is mine. You will nev- 
 er be able to separate us if we are true to each 
 other. Margaret, my darling, lift your sweet 
 face and look at me. All the brothers in the 
 world cannot separate us. Give me your hand, 
 darling, for it is mine." 
 
 "Stand off, sir!" cried Sir Ludovic, furious; 
 and Mrs. Bellingham, coming down from her 
 chair as from a throne, came and stood between 
 them, putting out her hand to put the intruder 
 away. Jean was all but speechless with wonder 
 and rage. She put her other hand upon Marga- 
 ret's shoulder and pushed her from her, giving 
 her a shake, as she did so, of irrepressible wrath. 
 "What is the meaning of all this? Put those 
 people out, Ludovic ! put this strange woman, I 
 tell you, to the door!" 
 
 "Put us out!" cried Mrs. Glen. "I'll daur 
 ye to do that at your peril ! Look at what I've 
 got here. I have come straight from my ain 
 house to bring this, that has never left my hands 
 since that frightened lassie there wrote it out. 
 It's her promise and vow before God, that is 
 as good as marriage in Scots law, as everybody 
 kens. Na, you'll no get it out of my hands. 
 There it is! You may look till you're tired. 
 You'll find no cheatery here." 
 
 "Did you write this, Margaret?" said her 
 brother, in tones of awful judicial severity, as it 
 seemed to her despairing ears. They all gath- 
 ered round, with a murmur of excitement. 
 
 "Marriage in Scots law ! good Lord, anything 
 is marriage in Scots law," Mrs. Bellingham said, 
 under her breath, in a tone of horror. Grace 
 burst out into a little scream of excitement, 
 wringing her hands. 
 
 "Did you write this, Margaret?" still more 
 solemnly Sir Ludovic asked again. Margaret 
 uncovered her face. She looked at them all 
 with her heart sinking. Here was the final mo- 
 ment that must seal her fate. It seemed to her 
 that after she had made her confession there 
 would be nothing for her to do but to go forth, 
 away from all she cared for, with the two stran- 
 gers who had her in their power. She clasped 
 her hands together, and looked at the group, 
 which was all blurred and indistinct in her eyes. 
 She could not defend herself, or explain herself at 
 such a moment, but breathed out from her very 
 soul a dismal, reluctant, almost inaudible "Yes!" 
 which seemed the very utterance of despair. 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 1G3 
 
 "Ay, my bonnie lady," said Mrs. Glen, tri- 
 umphant, " you never were the one to go against 
 your ain act and deed. Me and my Rob, we 
 ken you better than all your grand friends. 
 Weel I kent that whatever they might say-, you 
 would never go against your ain hand of write." 
 
 Rob had been standing passive all this time, 
 with such a keen sense of the terror in Margaret's 
 eyes, and the contempt that lay under the seri- 
 ous trouble of the others, as stung him to the 
 very centre of his being. The unworthiness of 
 his own position, the bewildered misery of the 
 girl whom he was persecuting, the seriousness 
 of the crisis as shown by the troubled looks of 
 the brother and sister who were bending their 
 heads over the paper which his mother held out 
 so triumphantly — all this smote the young man 
 with a sudden, sharp perception. He was not of 
 a mean nature altogether. The quick impulses 
 which swayed him turned as often to generosity 
 as to self-interest; and all this while there had 
 been films about this pursuit of the young heiress 
 which had partially deceived him as to its true 
 nature. 
 
 What is there in the world more hard than to 
 see ourselves as we appear to those on the other 
 side ? A sudden momentary overwhelming reve- 
 lation of this came upon him now. He did not 
 hear the whispers of "compromise it" — "offer 
 him something — offer him anything, "which Jean, 
 utterly frightened, was pouring into her broth- 
 er's ear. He saw only the utter abandonment 
 of misery in Margaret's face, the vulgar triumph 
 in his mother's, the odious position in which he 
 himself stood between them. In a moment his 
 sudden resolution was taken : he pushed in 
 roughly into the group, in passionate preoccupa- 
 tion, scarcely seeing them, and snatched the scrap 
 of paper she held out of his mother's hands. 
 "Margaret!" he cried, loudly, in his excitement, 
 "look here! and here! and here!" tearing it 
 into a thousand fragments. He pushed his 
 mother aside, who rushed with a shriek upon 
 him to save them, and tossed the little white 
 atoms into the air. "I asked for your love," he 
 said, his eyes moistening, his face glowing, "not 
 for papers or promises. Give me that, or noth- 
 ing at all." 
 
 Sudden tears rushed to Margaret's eyes ; she 
 did not know what had happened, but she felt 
 that she was saved. 
 
 " Oh, Rob !" she cried, turning to him, putting 
 out her hands. 
 
 Sir Ludovic sprang forward and took both 
 these hands into his. 
 
 " Margaret, do you want to marry him ?" he 
 cried. 
 
 " Oh no, no, no ; but anything else ! " the girl 
 said. "It was never he that did that. He was 
 always kind — kinder than anybody in the world : 
 I am his friend ! Let me go, Ludovic ! Rob," 
 she said,' going up to him, giving him her hand, 
 the tears dropping from her eyes, "not that; 
 but I am your friend ; I will always be your 
 friend, whatever may happen, wherever we may 
 be. I will never forget you, Rob. Good-bye! 
 You are kind again, you are like yourself; you 
 are my old Rob that always was my friend." 
 
 Rob took her hands into his. He stooped 
 over her and kissed her on the forehead : he 
 would not give in without a demonstration of his 
 power. Then he flung her hands away from 
 
 him almost with violence, and turned to the 
 door. 
 
 " It seems my fate never to be able to do what 
 is best for myself," he said, looking back with 
 a wave of his hand and an irrepressible burst 
 of self-assertion, as he turned and disappeared 
 among the flowering bushes outside the open 
 door. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 Rob issued forth out of the Grange discomfited 
 and beaten, but without the sense of moral down- 
 fall which had been bowing him to the ground. 
 His heart was melted, his spirit softened. He 
 was defeated, but he was not humiliated. He 
 had come off with all the honors of war — not an 
 insulted coward, but a magnanimous hero. "All 
 is lost but honor," he said to himself, with an 
 expansion of his breast. His eyes were still wet 
 with the dew of generous feeling : he had not 
 been forced into renunciation ; he had himself 
 evacuated the untenable position. There was a 
 little braggadocio in this self- consciousness — a 
 little even of what in school-boy English is called 
 swagger; but still he had a certain right to his 
 swagger. He had taken the only possible way 
 of coming out with honor from the dilemma in 
 which he had placed himself. He said to him- 
 self that it was a great sacrifice he had made. 
 All the hopes upon which he had dwelt so long 
 and fondly were gone; he was all at sea again 
 for his future, and did not know what to do. 
 What was he to do? He could not return to 
 the aimless life he had pursued in his mother's 
 house ; and by this time he had found out that 
 it was by no means so easy as he had supposed 
 to get fortune and reputation in London. What 
 should he do ? He could hope nothing from his 
 mother. He knew well with what reproaches 
 she would overwhelm him, what taunts she would 
 have in her power. He must do something to 
 secure himself independence, though for so long 
 he had hoped that independence was coming to 
 him in the easiest way — a rich wife — not only 
 rich, but fair — the "position of a gentleman," 
 most dearly cherished of all the gifts of fortune 
 — a handsome house, leisure and happiness, and 
 everything that heart of man could desire. The 
 breaking up of this dream called forth a sigh 
 when the first elation of his victory over himself 
 was over, and then he began to droop as he 
 walked on. No elevation in the social scale was 
 likely to come now. Rob Glen, the son of a small 
 farmer, he was, and would remain ; not the happy 
 hero of a romance, not the great artist undevel- 
 oped, not the genius he had thought. Thus the 
 brag and the swagger gradually melted away : 
 the sense of moral satisfaction ceased to give 
 him as much support as at first — even the gen- 
 erous sentiment sank into a sense of failure. 
 What was to become of him ? He walked on, 
 dull but dogged, going steadily forward, but 
 scarcely knowing where he was going ; and thus 
 came upon Randal Burnside walking along the 
 same road before him, more anxious and excited, 
 and not much less discouraged and melancholy 
 than he. 
 
 Randal's face brightened slightly at the sight 
 of him. 
 
164 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 "You have come, after all, Glen," he said; 
 "I had almost given you up." 
 
 " I gave myself up before I came," said Rob. 
 
 "What do you mean? I suppose they were 
 hard upon you — perhaps you could scarcely ex- 
 pect it to be otherwise ; but with your good-fort- 
 une you may easily bear more than that," said 
 Randal : then he checked himself, remembering 
 that Margaret's horror of her lover's presence 
 pointed to not much good-fortune. "Let me 
 tell you now what my business was," he said, 
 with a sigh. He was too loyal to depart from 
 his purpose ; but though (he thought) he would 
 have given up life itself to serve Margaret, yet 
 he could not make this sacrifice without a sigh. 
 He told his companion very briefly what it was. 
 It was an offer from a newspaper to investigate 
 a subject of great popular interest, requiring 
 some knowledge of Scotch law. "But that I 
 could easily coach you in," Randal said. He 
 went into it in detail", showing all its advantages, 
 as they walked along the country road. The first 
 necessity it involved was a speedy start to the 
 depths of Scotland, close work for three months, 
 good pay, and possible reputation. Rob listened 
 to the whole with scarcely a remark. When 
 Randal paused, he turned upon him hastily : 
 
 "This was offered not to me, but to your- 
 self," he said. 
 
 "Yes; but you know a little of the law, and 
 I could easily coach you in all you require." 
 
 "And why do you offer it to me?" 
 
 "Come," said Randal, with a laugh, "there 
 is no question of motive ; I don't offer it to you 
 from any wish to harm you. To tell the truth, 
 it would suit me very well myself." 
 
 "And you would give it to me, to relieve her 
 of my presence?" cried Rob. "I see it now! 
 Burnside, will you tell me honestly, what is your 
 reward to be ?" 
 
 "I have neither reward nor hope of reward," 
 cried Randal ; " evidently not even a thank-you. 
 I would not answer such a question, but that I 
 see you are excited — " 
 
 " Yes, I am excited — I have good cause. I 
 have given her up, and every hope connected 
 with her ; so there is no more need to bribe me," 
 said Rob, with a harsh laugh. "Keep your ap- 
 pointment to yourself." 
 
 " Will you take it, or will you leave it, Glen ? 
 What may have happened otherwise is nothing 
 to me — " 
 
 "There is the train," said Rob. "No! I'll 
 take nothing, either from her dislike or your 
 friendship — nothing! There are still some in 
 the world that care more for me than charity. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 He made a dash up the bank, where a train 
 was visible, puffing and pulling up at the little 
 station — the legitimate road being a quarter of a 
 mile round, and hopeless. 
 
 " Come back !" cried Randal ; " you will break 
 your neck. There is another train — " 
 
 Rob made no reply, but waved his hand, and 
 dashed in wild haste over ditch and paling. 
 Randal stood breathless, and saw him reach the 
 height and spring into a carriage at the last mo- 
 ment, as the train puffed and fretted on its way. 
 The spectator did not move — what was the use ? 
 He had no wish to take the same wild road : he 
 stood and looked after the long white plume as 
 it coursed across the countrv. 
 
 " He has got it, and I have lost it," he said ; 
 but Randal smiled to himself. A sense of ease, 
 of relief, and pleasure after so much pain, came 
 over him. There was no longer any hurry. 
 Should he go forward ? should he turn back ? — 
 it did not much matter : he had two or three 
 hours on his hands before he could get away. 
 
 The rush and noise of the train was a relief, 
 on the other hand, to the traveller. As it 
 pounded along, with roll and clang, and shrill 
 whistle, the sudden hurry of his thoughts kept 
 time. He had not a moment to lose. Now 
 and then, when its speed slackened, he got up 
 and paced about the narrow space of the car- 
 riage, as if the continued movement got him 
 on the faster. When he reached London, he 
 jumped into a hansom and dashed through the 
 crowded Strand to one of the little streets lead- 
 ing down toward the river. Arrived there, he 
 thundered at a door and rushed up-stairs, three 
 steps at a time, till he came to a little room at 
 the top of the house, where the sole occupant, 
 a young woman, had been sitting, looking wist- 
 fully out upon a glimpse of the river, which 
 showed in dim twilight reflections at the foot of 
 the street, for it was almost night. Her father 
 was out, and Jeanie sat alone. She had " nae 
 heart" to walk about the streets, to look in at 
 the dazzling shop-windows, to take any pleasure 
 in the sight of London. She was thinking — 
 would she see him again ? would he come and 
 bid her farewell, as he said, " The day after the 
 morn, the day after the morn ?'' she was say- 
 ing to herself, sometimes putting up her hand 
 to brush away a furtive tear from the corner of 
 her eyes. That was the final day ; after which, 
 in this world, she should see Rob's face no 
 more. 
 
 "Jeanie," he cried, coming in breathless, "I 
 have come back to you as I said." Jeanie stum- 
 bled up to her feet, and fell a crying with a 
 tremulous smile about her lips. 
 
 "Oh, I'm glad, glad to see you," she cried, 
 "once mair, once mair, though it's naething but 
 to say farewell ! We're to sail the day after the 
 morn." 
 
 " The day after the morn." He took Jeanie's 
 hands, which gave themselves up to his as Mar- 
 garet's shrinking fingers had never done, and 
 looked into her pretty, rustic face, all quivering 
 with love and the anguish of parting. Jeanie 
 had made her little pretences of pride, her stand 
 of maidenly dignity against him ; but at this 
 moment all these defences were forgotten. He 
 had come so suddenly ; and it was this once and 
 never more, never more in all the world again. 
 "The day after the morn," repeated Rob; 
 "then there will just be time. I am coming 
 with you ; and if you will have a man without 
 a penny, Jeanie, it shall be as man and wife that 
 you and I will go." 
 
 She gave a cry of sharp pain and drew her 
 hands out of his. "How dare you speak like 
 that to me that means no harm ? How dare you 
 speak like that to me — and you another lass's 
 lad, and never mine ?" 
 
 "I am nobody's but yours," he said, "and, 
 Jeanie, you need not try to deceive me. You 
 never were but mine." 
 
 "But that's nae reason," she cried, wildly, 
 "to come and make a fool of me to my face, 
 Rob Glen. Oh, go, go to them you belong to! 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 161 
 
 I thought I might have said farewell to you 
 without another word ; but even that canna be." 
 
 "There will never be farewell said between 
 you and me, Jeanie," said Rob, seriously, " nev- 
 er from this moment till death does us ]>art." 
 
 When Rob Glen, stung at once by the kind- 
 ness and severity of which he had been the ob- 
 ject, took this sudden resolution, and with a wild 
 dash of energy, and without a pause, thus carried 
 it out, Randal was left alone upon the country 
 road, all strange and unfamiliar to him, but with 
 which he seemed all at once to have formed so 
 many associations, with two or three hours at 
 his disposal. He stood and watched the train 
 till it was out of sight, idly, with the most singu- 
 lar sense of leisure in opposition to that hurry 
 and rush. From the moment when Rob had 
 dashed up the bank, Randal had felt no longer 
 in any hurry or anxiety about the train. It did 
 not matter if he lost his train — nothing, indeed, 
 seemed to matter very much for the moment. 
 He saw the carriage that contained Rob rush out 
 of sight while he was standing in the same place: 
 if he chose to spend an hour in the same place, 
 thinking over the causes which had carried Rob 
 awaj', what would it matter ? He had plenty of 
 time for that or anything else — no hurry or care 
 — the whole afternoon before him. Would it 
 not be better, more civil to go back, and pay his 
 respects at the Grange as he ought? He had 
 rushed into the house like a savage, and rushed 
 out again without a word to say for himself. 
 Evidently this was not the way to treat ladies to 
 whom he owed the utmost respect. He would 
 go back. He turned accordingly, and went 
 back ; still at the most perfect leisure. Plenty 
 of time ; no hurry one way or another. 
 
 He had not gone far, however, before he met 
 a curiously-matched pair coming up along the 
 road together — Mrs. Glen talking loudly and 
 angrily, Sir Ludovic walking beside her, some- 
 times saying a word, but for the most part pas- 
 sive, listening, and taking no notice. Randal 
 heard her long before he saw the pair on the 
 windings of the road. Mrs. Glen did not know 
 whether to abuse or defend her son. She did 
 both by turns. "A fine son, to leave me, that 
 has aye thought far ower muckle of him, to find 
 my way home as best I can, after making a fool 
 of himself and a' belanging to him ! But where 
 was he to gang, poor lad ? abused on a' hands — 
 even by those that led him into his trouble," she 
 cried. There was no pause in her angry mono- 
 logue. And, indeed, the poor woman, in her 
 great Paisley shawl, with the hot sun playing 
 upon her head, her temper exasperated, her body 
 fatigued, her hopes baffled, might have something 
 forgiven to her. "Gentry!" she cried, as she 
 began to ascend the slope which led to the sta- 
 tion, and which Randal was coming down; "a 
 great deal the gentry have done for my family 
 or me ! Beguiled my Rob, the cleverest lad in 
 a' Fife, till he's made a fool o' himself and ruined 
 a' his prospects ; and brought me trailing after 
 him to a country where there's nae kindness nor 
 hospitality — among people that never offer you 
 so much as a s,tool to rest your weary limbs 
 upon, or a cup o' tea to refresh you. Eh ! if 
 that's gentry, I would rather have the colliers' 
 wives or the fisher bodies in Fife, let alone a 
 good farm-house, and that's my ain." 
 
 "Mrs. Glen," said Sir Ludovic, "I am sure 
 
 my sisters would have wished you to rest and re- 
 fresh yourself." 
 
 "Ay, among their servant-women, no doubt 
 — if I would have bowed myself to that. I've 
 paid rent to the Leslies for the last thirty years 
 — nae doubt but they durstna have refused me 
 a cup of tea; but I would have you to ken, Sir 
 Ludovic, though you're a Sir, and I'm a plain 
 farmer, that the like o' your servant-women are 
 nae neebors for me." 
 ' ' My good woman ! " 
 
 "I'm nae good woman to be misca'ed by ane 
 of your race! Good woman, quo' he ! as I would 
 say to some gangrel body. You're sair mis- 
 taken, Sir Ludovic, if that's what you think of 
 the like of me, that has paid you rent, as I was 
 saying, and held up my head with any in the 
 parish, and given my bairns as good an educa- 
 tion as you or yours could set your face to. If 
 ye think, after a' that I've put up with, that I'm 
 to take a 'good woman' from the laird, as if I 
 wasna to the full as guid a tenant as he is a 
 landlord, or maybe mair to lippen to. " 
 
 "Would you have me say 'ill woman?'" said 
 Sir Ludovic, with momentary peevishness, yet 
 with a gleam of humor. " You are quite right, 
 Mrs. Glen ; you are better off, being a tenant, 
 than I am as a landlord. The Leslies never 
 were rich, that I heard tell of; and if we were 
 proud, it never was to our neighbors, the people 
 on our own land." 
 
 "Well, I wouldna say but that's true," said 
 Mrs. Glen, softened. "Auld Sir Ludovic, your 
 father, had aye a pleasant word for gentle and 
 simple ; and if it was not for that lang-tongued 
 wife down bye yonder — " 
 
 Sir Ludovic, though he was a serious man, 
 felt a momentary inclination to chuckle when he 
 heard his sister Jean, the managing person of 
 the family, described as a lang - tongued wife. 
 But he said, gravely, 
 
 "In such a question, Mrs. Glen, there is a 
 great deal to be considered. You would not 
 have liked it yourself, had one of your daughters 
 been courted without your knowledge by a pen- 
 niless lover. When you see your son, if I can 
 do anything for him, if I can advance his inter- 
 ests, let me know, and I will do it. He behaved 
 like a man at the last." 
 
 "Oh ay; when a lad plays into your hands, 
 it's easy to say that he's behaving like a man," 
 she said. "But she was mollified by the praise, 
 and her wrath had begun to wear itself out. 
 "I'll gie you a word o' warning, Sir Ludovic, 
 though you've little title to it from my hands," 
 she added. "Here's Randal Burnside coming 
 back. If you've saved your little Miss from ae 
 wooer, here's another; and my word, I would 
 sooner have a bonnie lad like my Rob, with real 
 genius in his head, than a minister's son, neither 
 ae thing nor another, like Randal Burnside." 
 
 They met a moment afterward, and Randal 
 recounted what had happened ; how Rob had 
 caught the train, but he himself, being too late, 
 had intended to return to the Grange for the in- 
 terval, and was now on his way there. Mrs. 
 Glen, however, would not return ; she was too 
 glad to be deposited in a shady room where she 
 could loose her shawl and bonnet -strings, and 
 fan herself with her large handkerchief. Sir 
 Ludovic, who had "a warm heart for Fife," as 
 he himself expressed it, and who had been touch- 
 
166 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 ed by Rob's final self-vindication, did everything 
 that" could be done for her comfort, before he 
 turned back with Randal. But they had no 
 sooner left her, than he fell to talking with an 
 appearance of relief. 
 
 "Thank God, that's done with!" he said. 
 "It was very foolish of poor little Margaret; 
 but, after all, it was nothing — nothing in law. 
 My sister Jean got a terrible fright. There is 
 a panic abroad in the world about Scotch mar- 
 riages ; but a promise that is only on one side 
 can never be anything. You don't seem to know 
 what I am talking of." 
 
 "No," said Randal, who had gone out of the 
 hall before the climax came. He looked with 
 bewildered curiosity in his companion's face. 
 
 "You should have told me, you should have 
 told me — what did you know about it, then? 
 And what were you doing there, Randal ? Ex- 
 cuse me, but I have a right to know." 
 
 "You have a perfect right to know. I knew 
 that Glen had, by some means, engaged — her — 
 to himself," said Randal, not knowing how to 
 express what he meant, reddening and faltering, 
 as if he himself had been the culprit. "I saw 
 them together twice at Earl's-hall ; and once she 
 was good enough to speak to me about it. I 
 had taken no notice of her when I saw them, 
 thinking, as one does brutally, that she under- 
 stood what she was doing, as I did. And in her 
 innocence she asked me why ? What could I 
 say but that I was a brute, and a fool — and that 
 if ! could ever serve her I would do it, should it 
 cost me my life." 
 
 "That is the way you young idiots speak," 
 said Sir Ludovic, with an impatient gesture. 
 " Your life : how could it affect your life? But 
 you were neither a fool nor brutal, that I can 
 see. Poor little silly tiling, she thought you 
 were rude to pass her, did she? and what then? 
 Innocent! oh yes, she's innocent enough." 
 
 "And then," said Randal, "she sent to beg 
 me to help her, to keep him away from her. I 
 managed it that time ; and this morning she 
 sent to me again. She must have seen her mis- 
 take very soon, Sir Ludovic, and what it has 
 cost her. But I hope it is all over now." 
 
 "And you came down here, ane's errand, as 
 we say in Scotland, for nothing but to relieve 
 her mind ? How did you mean to do it ? What 
 was the business you were so anxious to tell him 
 about ? I thought it was a strange business that 
 yon were so anxious to talk over with Rob Glen." 
 
 "It was very simple," said Randal, coloring 
 high under this examination. "He is a clever 
 fellow ; he can write and draw, and has a great 
 deal of talent. I wanted to send him off on a 
 piece of work that had been offered to me — " 
 
 "To relieve her?" 
 
 "Because I thought he could do it — and for 
 other reasons." 
 
 "I understand." Sir Ludovic went on in si- 
 lence for some time while Randal's heart beat 
 quick in his breast. He had said nothing to be- 
 tray himself, and yet he felt himself betrayed. 
 
 After a while, Sir Ludovic turned and laid his 
 hand kindly, but gravely, on Randal's shoulder. 
 
 "Tell me the simple truth," he said ; "has it 
 ever been breathed between you that you should 
 succeed to the vacant place?" 
 
 " Never !" cried Randal, indignantly ; " nor is 
 there any vacant place," he added. " Glen took 
 
 advantage of a child's ignorance. She thought 
 him kind to her. She was grateful to him. no 
 more ; and he took advantage of it. There is 
 no vacant place." 
 
 "I see," said Sir Ludovic: then, after a 
 pause: "Randal, you will act a man's part, and 
 a friend's, if you will leave her to come to her- 
 self, with Jean to look after her. Jean may be 
 'a lang-tongued wife,'" he said, not able to re- 
 press a smile, "but she's a good woman in her 
 way. She will take good care of our little sis- 
 ter. What is she but a child still? You will 
 act an honorable part if you leave her to the 
 women : leave her to be quiet and come to her- 
 self." 
 
 " I will follow your advice faithfully, as you 
 give it in good faith, Sir Ludovic," said Randal, 
 "if I can do so; but I warn you frankly that I 
 will never be happy till I have told her what is 
 in mv heart." 
 
 "Oh yes, it needs no warlock to see what's 
 coming." said Sir Ludovic, shaking his head; 
 "and there's Jean's nephew, that young haverel 
 of an Englishman — and probably two or three 
 more, for anything I can tell. But let her alone, 
 let her alone, Randal, I beseech you, till the 
 poor little silly thing comes to herself." 
 
 It would be impossible to describe what hot 
 resentment against such a disparaging title min- 
 gled with the softened state of sentiment and 
 amiable friendliness with which Randal felt dis- 
 posed to regard all the world, and especially this 
 paternal brother, who was so much more like a 
 father. " I will remember what you say, and 
 attend to it — as far as I can," he said. 
 
 "That means, as far as it may happen to suit 
 you, and not a step farther," said Sir Ludovic, 
 once more shaking his head. 
 
 Margaret was not visible when they got to 
 the Grange. She was supposed to be in her 
 own room, and unable to see any one ; and, 
 what was more extraordinary, Miss Grace was 
 actually in her own room, and unable to see any 
 one — having wept herself blind, and made her 
 nose scarlet with grief, over the separation of 
 the two lovers, and all the domestic tragedy that 
 had occurred, as Mrs. Bellingham declared, en- 
 tirely by her fault. If ever there was a woman 
 to whom the separation of true lovers was dis- 
 tressful and terrible, Grace Leslie was that wom- 
 an ; and Jean said it was all her fault ! " When 
 I would give my life to make darling Margaret 
 happy!" cried the innocent offender. "They 
 should have my money, every penny ; I would 
 not care how I lived, or what I put on, so long 
 as dearest Margaret was happy ! " and she had 
 retired speechless and sobbing, feeling the ca- 
 lamity too cruel. As for Mrs. Bellingham, she 
 was in sole possession of the drawing-room, 
 where the gentlemen found her, walking about 
 and fanning herself, bursting with a thousand 
 things to say. The sight of an audience within 
 reach calmed her more than anything else could 
 have done. 
 
 "What have you done with that woman, Lu- 
 dovic?" she said. "She was an impertinent 
 woman ; but I'm sorry for her if you walked her 
 all that way to the station as you walked me. 
 Did ever anybody hear such a tongue — and the 
 temper of a demon ! But I hope I have some 
 Christian feeling ; and after the young man was 
 gone, if you had not been in such a hurry, as she 
 
THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 1G7 
 
 is a Fife woman, and a tenant, I would have or- 
 dered her a cup of tea." 
 
 "I told her so," said Sir Ludovic ; "but she 
 is comfortable enough at the station, and I or- 
 dered the people at the inn to send her one." 
 
 "I would have done nothing of the kind," 
 said Jean ; "a randy, nothing but a randy ; and 
 just as likely as not to enter into the whole ques- 
 tion, and make a talk about the family. And 
 the way news spreads in an English village is 
 just marvellous ! Fife is bad enough, but Fife 
 is nothing to it ! So you have come back, Ran- 
 dal Burnside — oh yes, you young men are al- 
 ways missing your train. There's Aubrey would 
 have been here with me and of some use, but 
 that he could not get out of his bed soon enough 
 in the morning. I am very glad Aubrey's com- 
 ing; he will be a change from all this. And I 
 never saw a young man with so much tact. Are 
 you going up by the next train, Randal, or are 
 you going to stay ? Oh well, if you will not 
 think it uncivil, I am glad for one thing that 
 you're going; for I came away in such a hur- 
 ry, and forgot one of the things I wanted most. 
 If you would go to Simpson's — not Simpson's, 
 you know, in Sloane Street, nor the one in the 
 Burlington Arcade, but Simpson's in Wigmore 
 Street, the great shop for artificial flowers — " 
 
 " You need not be at so much trouble to con- 
 ceal our family commotions," said Sir Ludovic ; 
 "Randal knows all about it better than either 
 you or me." 
 
 "Then I would just like to hear what he 
 knows !" said Mrs. Bellingham. "I don't know 
 anything about it myself, and I don't think I 
 want to know. Randal, what time is your train ? 
 Will you be able to stay till dinner, or can I give 
 you some tea? The tea will be here directly, 
 but dinner may be a little late for Aubrey, who 
 is coming by quite a late afternoon train. He 
 said he had business ; but you young men you 
 have always got business. To hear you, one 
 would think you never had a moment. And, 
 Ludovic, just sit down and be quiet, and not fuss 
 about and put me out of my senses. Now I will 
 give you your tea." 
 
 Randal, however, did not stay until it was time 
 for his train. Signs of the past excitement were 
 too strong in the house to make it pleasant to 
 a stranger; and Margaret being absent, he had 
 small interest in the Grange. He took his leave, 
 saying he would take a stroll and look at the 
 grounds — a notion much encouraged by Mrs. 
 Bellingham. "Do that, Randal," she said ; "I 
 wish I were not so tired, I would go with you 
 myself, and let you see everything. And I'll tell 
 Grace and Margaret you were very sorry not to 
 see them, but time and trains wait for no man. 
 You'll give my kind regards to your excellent fa- 
 ther and mother, and you'll not forget the wreaths 
 at Simpson's — plain white for Margaret. No, 
 I'll not keep you, for my mind is occupied, and I 
 know I'm not an amusing companion. Good- 
 bye ; I hope you will come another time, Randal, 
 when we expect you, and when we will be able to 
 show a little attention. Good-bye !" 
 
 Randal went away with a smile at the mean- 
 ing that lay beneath Mrs. Bellingham's signifi- 
 cant words. Should he ever come here as one 
 who was expected, and who had a claim upon 
 the attention she promised him ? He looked 
 wistfully up the oak staircase and at the winding 
 
 passages, by some of which Margaret must have 
 gone. Perhaps she would never know that he 
 had been here. And at the same time, perhaps, 
 it was better that he should not see her. She 
 was rich, while as yet he was not rich, and he 
 had no right to say anything to her; while, per- 
 haps, if they met at this moment of agitation, it 
 might be difficult to refrain from saying some- 
 thing. Thus sadly disappointed, but trying to 
 represent to himself that he was not disappoint- 
 ed, he went through the shrubbery and out into 
 the little park. 
 
 How different it was from old Earl's -hall! 
 Glimpses of the old red house, glowing at every 
 corner in some wealth of blossom, early roses 
 climbing everywhere, wreaths of starry clematis 
 twisted about the walls, and clusters of honey- 
 suckle up to the very eaves, came to him through 
 the trees at every turn he took. So full of color 
 and warmth, and set in the brilliant sunshine of 
 this June day. warm as no midsummer ever at- 
 tains to be in Fife — the contrast between Marga- 
 ret's old home and her new one struck him 
 strangely. The old solemn gray walls, the keener, 
 clearer tones of the landscape, the dark masses 
 of ivy about the half-ruinous tower of EaiTs-hall, 
 came suddenly before his eyes. The scene was 
 grayer and colder, but the central figure had been 
 all life and color there. Here it was the land- 
 scape that was warm, in its wealthy background, 
 and she that was pale, in her dress of mourn- 
 ing. 
 
 He was thinking this, musing of her and noth- 
 ing else, when he suddenly saw a shadow glide 
 softly through the trees and stand for a moment 
 upon a little rustic bridge over the small stream 
 which flowed at a distance from the house. He 
 started and hurried that way, striding along over 
 the grass that made his steps noiseless. And, 
 sure enough, it was Margaret. The fresh air 
 was a more familiar restorative than "lying 
 down," which was Jean's panacea for agitation 
 as for toothache. She was standing watching 
 the clear running water, wondering at all that had 
 happened — her sob scarcely sobbed out, and apt 
 to come back ; her eyes not yet dry, and her lips 
 still parted with that quick breath which told 
 the unstilled beating of her heart. Poor Rob! 
 would he be unhappy ? Her heart gave a special 
 ache for him, then quivered with another ques- 
 tion: Was Randal angry? Did he think badly 
 of her, that he would not speak ? 
 
 She looked up hastily, when a step sounded 
 close to her on the path, and that same flutter- 
 ing heart gave a leap of terror. Then it stilled 
 into sudden relief and repose. "Oh, Randal! 
 you have not gone away!" she cried; and her 
 face, that had been so passive, lighted up. 
 
 "I came back," he said; and the two stood 
 looking at each other for a moment — he on one 
 side of the tinkling water, she on the bridge. 
 "But I am going away," he added : "Rob has 
 gone." 
 
 " Oh, poor Rob ! — he was very kind after all : 
 it was a mistake, only a mistake. It was my 
 fault. 1 did not like — to hurt his feelings. Yon 
 should never let any one think a thing is true 
 that is not true, Randal. It is as bad as telling 
 a lie. It is all over now," she said, looking at 
 him wistfully, with a faint smile. 
 
 "And you are glad ?" He grudged her mois- 
 tened eyes and the sob that broke, in spite of 
 
168 
 
 THE PRIMROSE PATH. 
 
 her, into her voice, and the tone with which she 
 said "poor Rob !" 
 
 Margaret did not make any reply to this ques- 
 tion ; she looked at him once more wistfully. 
 
 "Were you angry," she said, " that you would 
 not speak ? I should not have troubled you, 
 Randal, but my heart was broken. I was near- 
 ly out of my wits with terror. I did not know 
 how to stand out and keep my own part. Were 
 you angry, Randal, that you would not speak ?" 
 
 "Margaret," he said, "why should you ask 
 me such questions ? I am never angry with 
 you ; or, if I am angry, it is for love ; because 
 I would do anything you ask me, even against 
 myself. " 
 
 Margaret smiled. Her eyes filled with some- 
 thing that was half light and half tears. "And 
 me too ! " she said. 
 
 Thus, without any grammar, and without any 
 explanation, a great deal was said. Randal went 
 to his train, and Margaret, smiling to herself, 
 went home across the bridge. Both Jean and 
 Grace heard her singing softly as she went up 
 the oak staircase, and could not believe their 
 ears. Grace cried more bitterly still to think 
 that her darling Margaret should show so little 
 feeling, and Jean was dumfounded that she 
 should not be ashamed of herself — a girl just 
 escaped from such a danger, and so nearly mixed 
 up in a horrible story ! Sir Ludovic, who had 
 girls of his own, only laughed and shook his 
 head. "She will have seen the right one," he 
 said, with a gleam of amusement to himself. 
 Perhaps he was all the more indulgent that Au- 
 brey, who was clearly Jean's candidate, and far 
 too much a man of society for plain Sir Ludo- 
 vic, arrived with the cream of current scandal, 
 and a most piquant story about Lady Grandton 
 
 and a certain Duke — "the same man, you know 
 — all come on again, as everybody prophesied," 
 that very night. 
 
 Rob Glen set off within forty-eight hours for 
 the other side of the world, with Jeanie as his 
 wife. He had not much more money than would 
 buy the license that made this possible, and pay 
 his passage, and would have faced the voyage 
 and the New World without either outfit or 
 preparation but for a timely present of a hun- 
 dred pounds that reached him the night before 
 he sailed. But he never spoke of this even to 
 his wife, though his mother was aware of it, 
 who — though she would not see Jeanie — saw 
 him, and dismissed him with a stormy fare- 
 well. 
 
 " Sir Ludovic, honest man, might well say it 
 was a heart-break to see your bairn throw him- 
 sel' away — little we kent, him and me, how sooth 
 he was speaking," Mrs. Glen said. When it was 
 all over, it gave her a little consolation to quote 
 Sir Ludovic, what "he said to me, and I said to 
 him," when she met him "in the South." 
 
 On the other hand, it cannot be denied that it 
 was a great shock to Margaret to hear what had 
 happened, and how soon and how completely the 
 baffled suitor had consoled himself. "All the 
 time it was Jeanie's Rob," she said to herself, 
 with a scorching blush ; and for the moment felt 
 as deeply shamed and humbled as Rob himself 
 had been by her indifference. And when Jean 
 heard of these two or three words with Randal, 
 which, indeed, as Mrs. Bellingham said indig- 
 nantly, "settled nothing — for after an affair of 
 that kind what is to hinder her having a dozen ?" 
 she was very angry, and planted thorns in Mar- 
 garet's pillow. But Jean will not be supreme 
 forever over her little sister's life. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Hillyer Eggleston. 
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 of New York by its author on various chemical and 
 physical topics, between 1830 and 1S70, chiefly in con- 
 nection with light, radiant heat, and electricity. The 
 memoirs of which it is composed have been published 
 in most modern languages; they form a portion of 
 the current scientific literature. Their value has 
 been distinguished by the American Academy of Arts 
 aud Science in the award of the Rumford Medal to 
 their author — the highest testimonial of approbation 
 that American Science has to bestow on those who in 
 our country have devoted themselves to the enlarge- 
 ment of knowledge. 
 
 " The reader will find here the early contribntions of 
 American science to spectrum analysis and photogra- 
 phy ; the discovery of invisible fixed lines in the sun- 
 light, which more than doubled the number of visi- 
 ble ones previously known ; the application both of 
 the spectroscope and photograph to astronomical in- 
 vestigations, as to the condition of the sun's surface 
 and pictures of the moon ; the description of instru- 
 ments for measuring the intensity and chemical action 
 
 of light ; the examination of the phosphorescence of 
 such bodies as the diamond, and the effect of heat 
 upon them ; the mode in which the yellow rays of 
 light maintain unimpaired the composition of the at- 
 mosphere by placing oxygen in it ; the photographic 
 employment of the diffractive spectrum ; the existence 
 of invisible phantom images on surfaces, and the 
 methods of bringing them into view ; the process of 
 taking portraits from the life by photography, which 
 was invented by the author, he having taken the first 
 ever made ; the electromotive power of heat ; the dis- 
 tribution of heat and chemical force in the spectrum ; 
 the chemical effects of burning glasses, and many oth- 
 er physical and physiological topics. 
 
 " No American public or private library ought to be 
 without this book. In the national contests every 
 day becoming sharper for the credit of priority in sci- 
 entific discoveries, the claims of America in many im- 
 portant particulars will depend on these memoirs. 
 They therefore possess no common recommendation 
 to the patronage of our people. Written in clear and 
 simple language, divested of everything like scientific 
 repulsiveness, they can be readily understood and ap- 
 preciated by every one." 
 
Harper &* Brothers' List of New Books. 
 
 The Vova^e of the " Challenger." 
 
 The Atlantic 
 the eat 
 
 tlantic : an Account of the General Results of the Voyage during the year 1873 and 
 v „.ly part of the year 187G. By Sir C. Wyville Thomson, P.R.S. With a Portrait 
 of the Author engraved by C. H. Jeens, many Colored Maps, Temperature Charts, and Illustra- 
 tions engraved by J. D. Cooper, from Drawings by J. J. Wyld. Published by Authority of 
 the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty. 
 
 Few recent books of travel will be found to possess 
 a greater degree of interest for the intelligent reader, 
 regarded either as a storehouse of rare aud important 
 information, or a specimen of vigorous and attractive 
 composition. Sir Wyville Thomson is a master of the 
 pen as well as of scientific instruments. He possesses 
 the instinctive judgment and cultivated taste which 
 lead him to select the appropriate words for the ex- 
 pression of his ideas.* * * His absolute simplicity of 
 expression indicates a natural, unaffected character, 
 and calls forth equal esteem for the man and admira- 
 tion of the writer. The illustrations of the work are 
 of great value, presenting the facts related in the let- 
 ter-press in a visible form, and are no less attractive 
 as specimens of art than informing as elucidations of 
 science. — N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 Sir Wyville Thomson's style is particularly attrac- 
 tive ; he is easy aud graceful, but vigorous aud ex- 
 ceedingly happy in the choice of language, and 
 throughout the work there are touches which show 
 that science has not banished sentiment from his 
 bosom.— London Times. 
 
 by J. J. Wyld. 
 2 vols., 8vo, Cloth, $i: 
 
 The clearness aud simplicity of the style, the singu- 
 lar caution aud candor of statement, the elegant ty- 
 pography and admirable engravings, the vast array 
 of facts preseuted with copious detail and excellent 
 classification, carrying with them evident demonstra- 
 tion of ninny truths of higher scientific value, and 
 furnishing abundaut material for systematic induction 
 aud further establishment of important principles, 
 give the work a claim to an honored position among 
 the volumes that compose the literature of science, 
 as well as a title to the consideration of all who are 
 interested in new truths regarding the mysteries of 
 creation N. Y. Times. 
 
 The general reader who is not concerned with 
 scientific details will find abundant interest in the de- 
 scription of various places visited in the course of the 
 expedition, especially that of Bermudas, with its coral 
 reefs and "iEolian" or wind-formed rocks,of the Falk- 
 land Islands, and of Tristan d'Acunha,the most remote 
 from the rest of the world of all human residences. 
 * * * The style is clear and unpretending.and sometimes 
 rises into picturesque description.— Spectator, London. 
 
 Macaulay's History of England, 
 
 New Edition of Lord Macaulay's History of England, from New Electrotype Plates, printed 
 from the Last English Edition, with all of Lord Macaulay's Corrections very carefully 
 Examined and Revised. Harper's Elegant Library Edition, Small 8vo, Bevelled Boards, 
 Gilt Top, Superfine Paper, and English Cloth Binding. Five Volumes. (In Press.) 
 
 This will be the best edition of Macaulay. In order to supply the demand for a really 
 elegant edition of this standard work great expense has been incurred in making new 
 electrotype plates from new type, and this may confidently be recommended as the most 
 accurate and attractive edition for libraries. 
 
 •ST Harper & Brothers will also publish elegant editions of Hume's England and 
 Gibbon's Rome, from new plates, uniform with Macaulay's England. 
 
 Hill's Rhetoric. 
 
 The Principles of Rhetoric, and their Application. By Adams S. Hill, Boylston Professor 
 of Rhetoric and Oratory in Harvard College. With an Appendix comprising General 
 Rules for Punctuation. 12mo, Half Leather, $1 17. 
 
 We commend the book to all educators of youth, 
 aud we particularly advise those who are seeking to 
 educate themselves in English composition to make a 
 thorough study of its pages.— Christian at Work, N. Y. 
 
 It is succinct, clear, and pithy, aud covers the sub- 
 ject adequately. * * * Evidently the result of practical 
 experience in the class-room.— X. Y. World. 
 
 The arrangement of the work is excellent, its style 
 is clear, and it is in all respects a desirable and a use- 
 ful manual for students.— Saturday Evening Gazette, 
 Boston. 
 
 Professor Hill's style is plain and direct, and his 
 book deserves an immediate and permanent place in 
 the schools of the country.— Boston Transcript. 
 
 De Mille's Rhetoric. • 
 
 The Elements of Rhetoric. By James De Mille, M.A. 12mo, Cloth, $1 40. 
 
 Its principles are sound, its arrangement logical- 
 ly systematic, its style unusually attractive. One 
 marked and very praiseworthy feature is the copi- 
 ous and felicitous way iu which the author illustrates 
 the rules laid down. No rhetorical principle is 
 formulated, but the practical working of it is clearly 
 showu by an appropriate quotation. Thus each law 
 of composition is brought home with the greatest 
 possible force to the reader's mind. — Philadelphia 
 Inquirer. 
 
 A comprehensive book. * * * Its distinctive merits 
 are comprehensiveness, thoroughness, and concise- 
 ness, with aptness, fulness, and clearness of illustra- 
 tion. — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 It is the production of a scholar of excelleut tastes 
 and a wide range of reading, and habits of accurate 
 thinking.— Howie Journal, N. Y. 
 
 It is an eminently well-written book, and offers iu 
 itself a good example of the art of which it is the ex- 
 ponent — Boston Transcript. 
 
Harper 6-» Brothers' List of New Books. 
 
 Franklin Square Library. 
 
 The "Franklin Square Library" puts within the 
 reach of the public, at the very lowest rates, some of 
 the most valuable literary productions of the day. * * * 
 These works are clearly printed, with large type and 
 excellent paper j and yet the price of most of them is 
 only ten cents each. For summer reading nothing 
 could be more convenient or economical than the num- 
 bers of the "Franklin Square Library." — IS. Y. Sun. 
 
 All success to the " Franklin Square Library," which 
 gives to a man for ten or fifteen cents what he has 
 heretofore paid a dollar and a half for.— JS. Y. Herald. 
 
 This series is decidedly the most praiseworthy at- 
 tempt to popularize the best class of literature that 
 has ever been made iu this country.— Saturday Even- 
 ing Gazette, Boston. 
 
 Never was so much choice reading-matter published 
 in such excellent style at so low a price. — Troy Press. 
 
 Convenient, neatly printed, and exceedingly cheap. 
 — S. & Times, Philadelphia. 
 
 The "Franklin, Square Library" may be best and 
 briefly characterized as the cheapest publication iu 
 the world.— Philadelphia Press. 
 
 1. IS HE POPENJOY? A Novel. By Anthony Trollope. 15 cents. 
 
 Anthony Trollope has never written a more satisfactory novel. — X Y. Herald. 
 
 Very entertaining, and in Mr. Trollope's best vein. — Philadelphia Telegraph. 
 
 The most readable story that Mr. Trollope recently has given to the public. * * * The story is 
 cleverly constructed and thoroughly well written.— Hartford Courant. 
 
 Anthony Trollope's latest novel, like all the rest of this marvellously gifted writer's productions, will 
 command the admiring notice of thousands of readers on both sides of the Atlantic— Baltimore Gazette. 
 
 Is the favorite of the moment. * * * The story will be followed with interest ; the characters are well 
 drawn, consistently developed, and thoroughly natural The Week, London. 
 
 2. THE HISTORY OF A CRIME. By Victor Hcgo. 10 cents. 
 No novel can compare with it in interest. — Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 A terribly fascinating narrative, picture, drama, that is here given, re-enacting before our own eyes 
 the scenes of a stormy epoch.— Advance, Chicago. 
 
 3. THE RUSSIANS OF TO-DAY. 10 cents. 
 
 The brilliant work on The .Russians of To-Day is one of the most animated and interesting pictures 
 of the Eussiau empire and people that the peculiar relations of that power to Europe have called out.— 
 Saturday Evening Gazette, Boston. 
 
 A book that every one should read who takes the slightest interest in the great question of the 
 hour.— N. Y. Herald. 
 
 There is much brilliant writing in this book. — Examiner, London. 
 
 4. PAUL KNOX, PITMAN. A Novel. By John Berwick Harwood. 10 cents. 
 
 "A pathetic story of mining life, full of incident, and strong in character painting." 
 
 5. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. A Novel. By the Author of "The Sun-Maid." 
 
 10 cents. 
 A pleasant book. * * * It tells its story well and spiritedly.— Academy, Loudon. 
 
 6. HENRIETTE. A Novel. Translated from the French of Ernest Datjdet by Laura E. 
 
 Kendall. 10 cents. 
 
 "A work of decided power and considerable interest. The translation appears to have been made 
 with knowledge and care." 
 
 7. CHRISTINE BROWNLEE'S ORDEAL. A Novel. By Mart Patrick, Author of 
 
 "Marjorie Bruce's Lovers." 15 cents. 
 
 "This is a bright and pleasantly written love story, readable and entertaining, with an interest that 
 is well sustained to the end." 
 
 8. A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. A Novel. By Leon Brook. 10 cents. 
 
 "A well written and interesting story, describing scenes of great attractiveness to the lovers of 
 exciting fiction." 
 
 By Proxy, • 
 
 A Novel. By James Payn, Author of "Won— Not Wooed," "The Best of Husbands," 
 "At Her Mercy," "Murphy's Master," &c. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. 
 
 The Wreck of the "Grosvcnon" 
 
 An Account of the Mutiny of the Crew and the Loss of the Ship when Trying to Make 
 
 the Bermudas. 8vo, Paper, 30 cents. 
 
 rare an order, managed with such an uncommon de- 
 gree of skill, as to convince one that it must be the 
 work of some writer of fiction of acknowledged stand- 
 ing.— The Nation, N. Y. 
 
 We have seldom met with a novel calculated to in- 
 spire the reader with a more lively curiosity as to its 
 authorship than the "Wreck of the Grosvenor." From 
 the first line to the last it is marked by power of so 
 
HOLLY'S MODEM DWELLINGS. 
 
 Modern Dwellings in Town and Country, adapted to American Wants 
 and Climate : In a Series of One Hundred Original Designs, com- 
 prising Cottages, Villas, and Mansions. "With a Treatise on Furni- 
 ture and Decoration. By II. Hudson Holly. 8vo, Cloth, $4 00. 
 
 No one has dealt with this snbjoct in a more practi- 
 cal and straightforward manner than Mr. Holly. It 
 is only necessary to turn the leaves of the volume he 
 now offers to the public In the most casual manner to 
 be convinced that he speaks with the voice of one 
 having authority. He is an architect himself, and 
 the subject with which he deals is one with which the 
 labor of years has made him perfectly familiar. The 
 improvement he desires to effect is of a nature to 
 contribute to the comfort while it adds to the ele- 
 gance of our dwellings. He is business-like ; for his 
 volume abounds in plans, designs, specifications, and 
 estimates. In short, he has attacked his work not in 
 the character of a litterateur, but after the manner of 
 a man who aims to prepare what he calls in his pref- 
 ace " a practical and reliable guide for those persons 
 who wish to build, furnish, and beautify their houses 
 without an extravagant outlay of money." — K Y. 
 Times. 
 
 Mr. Holly's designs are not only tasteful, but his 
 plans are arranged with an eye to comfort, plenty of 
 closet room, and a convenient arrangement of rooms. 
 — N, Y. Herald. 
 
 Can be safely trusted as an authority on every sub- 
 ject of which it treats Boston Commercial Bulletin. 
 
 Mr. Holly has succeeded in investing the subject 
 with a great deal of interest. * * * The designs and 
 plans of this volume are so simple and artistic that 
 they can but delight all readers Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 The work of Mr. Holly is eminently sensible and 
 practical. * * * The suggestions as to expense, orna- 
 mentation, and furniture and decoration, if read and 
 followed, would save amateur builders much money, 
 and secure them much more satisfactory results for 
 their outlays.— Zion's Herald, Boston. 
 
 A most tasteful, sensible, and beautiful little trea- 
 tise on a subject of practical importance as yet far 
 from being generally understood. * * * Mr. Holly 
 writes with an architect's skill and fulness of knowl- 
 edge. — Congregalionalist, Boston. 
 
 The handsomest architectural volume we have yet 
 seen. — Observer, N. Y. 
 
 For those " who wish to build, furnish, and beautify 
 their houses without an extravagant outlay of mon- 
 ey," this is the book. — Philadelphia Press. 
 
 The book abounds hi information of value.— Chris- 
 tian Advocate, N. Y. 
 
 It is very useful and practical. All the important 
 details of domestic architecture are treated in a way 
 to be at once intelligible and interesting to the ordi- 
 nary reader.— Watchman, Boston. 
 
 Exquisite taste is exhibited in the whole book. — 
 Methodist Protestant, Baltimore. 
 
 Nothing could be more timely and useful than a 
 practical and trustworthy guide for that numerous 
 class of persons who wish to build, furnish, and beau- 
 tify their houses without a large outlay of money. ** * 
 The precise kind of information needed is supplied 
 by a book before us— "Modern Dwellings." — X. Y. 
 Sun. 
 
 No feature of a house, whether important or insig- 
 nificant, fails to receive its due share of attention. 
 * * * The practical, sensible directions of Mr. Holly's 
 book are numberless. * * * In regard to the art illus- 
 trations of the volume, they are executed in the most 
 careful manner, figures and scenery being introduced 
 so that the effect of a dwelling or apartment may be 
 distinctly seen Boston Transcript. 
 
 The work is such a treatise as thousands who con- 
 template bnilding, altering, furnishing, ornamenting 
 and repairing, will be glad to get. * * * What is said 
 is clear and practical, and something is stated npoij 
 every branch of home creation from tbe cellar aud 
 drain and water and gas pipes to the trees, roads and 
 paths — the china and silverware, draperies and crock- 
 ery. It is a book for all households to etniy.-^Phil- 
 adelphia North American. 
 
 Mr. Holly's work is entertaining and instructive 
 from beginning to conclusion, as it covers the whole 
 subject in a thoroughly intelligent and admirable 
 manner.— Philadelphia Item. 
 
 This volume differs from every other of the kind 
 which any of our American publishers, so far as we 
 are aware, have given us. It, indeed, supplies hints 
 how to furnish houses, or rather how to beautify our 
 homes. But it is also something more. It is a prac- 
 tical hand-book of house architecture. * * * When we 
 pay there is scarcely a subject relating to house build- 
 ing and house furnishing which is not treated of in 
 Mr. Holly's work the reader will understand some- 
 what the nature of the service which our author has 
 rendered in this admirable book. It is a rare combi- 
 nation of the useful, the beautiful, and the practical, 
 and as such, Mr. Holly's "Modern Dwellings" com- 
 mends itself to all people of taste, of common-sense, 
 and to all friends of a wise and timely economy in 
 the matter of house building or ornamentation. In 
 brief, it is an indispensable vade mecum to every one 
 of taste who would build a house or adorn a home, 
 and has neither money nor time to throw away on 
 the meretricious and vulgar. — Christian at Work, N. Y. 
 
 A most lovely volume, beautifully illustrated, and 
 written in an attractive style that beguiles the reader 
 on from page to page without letting him perceive 
 what a profound subject he is reading about.— Louis- 
 ville Courier-Journal. 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 II AErEE & Brothers will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, 
 
 on receipt of the price. 
 
VOLUME 57. ) TT TV T j NEW YORK, 
 
 Number 339- J HARPER'S IVlAGAZINE. \ Aug., 1878. 
 
 WITH the June Number was begun the Fifty-seventh Volume of Harper's Magazine. For the 
 artistic excellence, as for the number of its illustrations, Harper's Magazine is unsurpassed. 
 Each Number contains Serial and short Stories from the best writers in Europe and America, contrib- 
 uted expressly for Harper's Magazine ; richly illustrated articles of Travel ; carefully prepared papers 
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 upon important Current Topics; lighter papers upon an infinite variety of subjects; Poems from our 
 most brilliant and popular writers; and five Editorial departments. In the February Number were be- 
 gun two new Serial Novels by William Black and Thomas Hardy. Mr. Black's story, "Macleod 
 of Dare," is illustrated by Petti e, Millais, Boughton, and other first-class English artists. 
 
 Published Monthly, with profuse Illustrations. 
 
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 xx„. \ Harper's Weekly. 1 .878. 
 
 HARPER'S WEEKLY is an illustrated record of and commentary upon the events-of the times. It 
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 in brief, calculated to make an American home attractive. 
 
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