Winter Evening Tales Part 28

This was a revelation. Here, in Pauline Alexes, the girl he had fondly loved for nearly three years, Philip found the long-sought heiress of Kurston Chace!

Bitter, indeed, was her grief when she learned how sorrowfully her father had sought her; but she was scarcely to be blamed for not knowing of, and responding to, his late repentance of the life-long wrong he had done her. For Philip's sister moved far outside the narrow and supreme circle of the Kurstons.

She had hidden her ident.i.ty in her mother's maiden name--the only thing she knew of her mother. She had never seen her father since her flight from her home but in public, accompanied by his wife; she had no reason to suppose the influence of that wife any weaker; she had been made, by cruel innuendoes, to doubt both the right and the inclination of her father to protect her.

It now became Philip's duty to acquaint the second Mrs. Kurston with her true position, and to take the necessary steps to reinstate Athel Kurston in her rights.

Of course, he had to bear many unkind suspicions--even his friends believed him to have been cognizant all the time of the ident.i.ty of Pauline Alexes with Athel Kurston--and he was complimented on his cleverness in securing the property, with the daughter, instead of the widow, for an inc.u.mbrance. But those may laugh who win, and these things scarcely touched the happiness of Philip and Athel.

As for Mrs. Kurston she made a still more brilliant marriage, and gave up the Kurston estate with an ostentatious indifference. "She was glad to get rid of it; it had brought her nothing but sorrow and disappointment," etc.

But from the heights of her social autocracy, clothed in Worth's greatest inspirations, wearing priceless lace and jewels, dwelling in unrivalled splendor, she looked with regret on the man whom she had rejected for his poverty.

She saw him grow to be the pride of his State and the honor of his country. Loveless and childless, she saw his boys and girls cling to the woman she hated as their "mother," and knew that they filled with light and love the grand old home for which she had first of all sacrificed her affection and her womanhood.

"ONLY THIS ONCE."

Over the solemn mountains and the misty moorlands the chill spring night was falling. David Scott, master shepherd for MacAllister, of Allister, thought of his ewes and lambs, pulled his Scotch bonnet over his brows, and taking his staff in his hand, turned his face to the hills.

David Scott was a mystic in his own way; the mountains were to him "temples not made with hands," and in them he had seen and heard wonderful things. Years of silent communion with nature had made him love her in all her moods, and he pa.s.sionately believed in G.o.d.

The fold was far up the mountains, but the sheep knew the shepherd's voice, and the peculiar bark of his dog; they answered them gladly, and were soon safely and warmly housed. Then David and Keeper slowly took their way homeward, for the steep, rocky hills were not easy walking for an old man in the late gloaming.

Pa.s.sing a wild cairn of immense stones, Keeper suddenly began to bark furiously, and a tall, slight figure leaped from their shelter, raised a stick, and would have struck the dog if David had not called out, "Never strie a sheep-dog, mon! The bestie willna harm ye."

The stranger then came forward; asked David if there was any cottage near where he could rest all night, said that he had come out for a day's fishing, had got separated from his companions, lost his way and was hungry and worn out.

David looked him steadily in the face and read aright the nervous manner and a.s.sumed indifference. However, hospitality is a sacred tradition among Scotch mountaineers, whoever, or whatever the young man was, David acknowledged his weariness and hunger as sufficient claim upon his oaten cake and his embers.

It was evident in a few moments that Mr. Semple was not used to the hills. David's long, firm walk was beyond the young man's efforts; he stumbled frequently in the descent, the springy step necessary when they came to the heather distressed him; he was almost afraid of the gullies David took without a thought. These things the old man noted, and they weighed far more with him than all the boastful tongue could say.

The cottage was soon reached--a very humble one--only "a but and a ben,"

with small windows, and a thatched roof; but Scotland has reared great men in such cottages, and no one could say that it was not clean and cheerful. The fire burnt brightly upon the white hearthstone, and a little round deal table stood before it. Upon this table were oaten cakes and Ayreshire cheese and new milk, and by its side sat a young man reading.

"Archie, here is a strange _gentleman_ I found up at Donald's cairn."

The two youths exchanged looks and disliked each other. Yet Archie Scott rose, laid aside his book, and courteously offered his seat by the fire.

The stranger took it, eat heartily of the simple meal, joined decently in their solemn worship, and was soon fast asleep in Archie's bed. Then the old man and his son sat down and curtly exchanged their opinions.

"I don't like yon lad, fayther, and I more than distrust his being aught o' a gentleman."

David smoked steadily a few minutes ere he replied:

"He's eat and drank and knelt wi' us, Archie, and it's nane o' our duty to judge him."

When Archie spoke again it was of other matters.

"Fayther, I'm sore troubled wi' MacAllister's accounts; what wi' the sheep bills and the timber and the kelp, things look in a mess like.

There is a right way and a wrong way to keep tally of them and I can't find it out."

"The right way is to keep the facts all correct and honest to a straw's worth--then the figures are bound to come right, I should say."

It was an old trouble that Archie complained about. He was MacAllister's steward, appointed by virtue of his sterling character and known worth; but struggling constantly with ignorance of the methods by which even the most honest business can alone satisfactorily prove its honest condition.

When Mr. Semple awoke next morning, Archie had disappeared, and David was standing in the door, smoking. David liked his guest less in the morning than he had done at night.

"Ye dinna seem to relish your parritch, sir," said David rather grimly.

Mr. Semple said he really had never been accustomed to anything but strong tea and hot rolls, with a little kippered salmon or marmalade; he had never tasted porridge before.

"More's the pity, my lad. Maybe if you had been brought up on decent oatmeal you would hae thankit G.o.d for your food;" for Mr. Semple's omission of grace, either before or after his meat, greatly displeased the old man.

The youth yawned, sauntered to the door, and looked out. There was a fresh wind, bringing with it flying showers and damp, chilling mists--wet heather under foot, and no sunshine above. David saw something in the anxious, wretched face that aroused keen suspicion. He looked steadily into Mr. Semple's pale, blue eyes, and said:

"Wha are you rinnin awa from, my lad?"

"Sir!"

There was a moment's angry silence. Suddenly David raised his hand, shaded his eyes and peered keenly down the hills. Mr. Semple followed this movement with great interest.

"What are you looking at, Mr. Scott? Oh! I see. Two men coming up this way. Do you know who they are?"

"They may be gangers or they may be strangers, or they may be policemen--I dinna ken them mysel'."

"Mr. Scott! For G.o.d's sake, Mr. Scott! Don't give me up, and I will tell you the whole truth."

"I thought so!" said David, sternly. "Well, come up the hills wi' me; yon men will be here in ten minutes, whoever they are."

There were numerous places of partial shelter known to the shepherd, and he soon led the way to a kind of cave, pretty well concealed by overhanging rocks and trailing, briery stems.

The two sat down on a rude granite bowlder, and the elder having waited until his companion had regained his breath, said:

"You'll fare best wi' me, lad, if you tell the truth in as few words as may be; I dinna like fine speeches."

"Mr. Scott, I am Duncan Nevin's bookkeeper and cashier. He's a tea dealer in the Gallowgate of Glasgow. I'm short in my cash, and he's a hard man, so I run away."

"Sortie, lad! Your cash dinna gang wrang o' itself. If you werna ashamed to steal it, ye needna be ashamed to confess it. Begin at the beginning."

The young man told his shameful story. He had got into gay, dissipated ways, and to meet a sudden demand had taken three pounds from his employer _for just once_. But the three pounds had swollen into sixteen, and finding it impossible to replace it, he had taken ten more and fled, hoping to hide in the hills till he could get rowed off to some pa.s.sing ship and escape to America. He had no friends, and neither father nor mother. At mention of this fact, David's face relaxed.

"Puir lad!" he muttered. "Nae father, and nae mother, 'specially; that's a awfu' drawback."

"You may give me up if you like, Mr. Scott. I don't care much; I've been a wretched fellow for many a week; I am most broken-hearted to-day."