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AS'IC^. 1. TJOy AND 

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From heaven at midnight an angel flew down, 

And softly a song he sang; 

And there hearkened the moon and the stars and the clouds, 

As its tones through the silence rang. 

He sang of the bliss of those happy souls 
Who dwell under Eden's trees; 
Of the greatness and mercy of God he sang, 
Who reigns o'er the lands and the seas. 

Within his arms, on its way to life, 
He bore an infant soul. 
And the glorious melody of his song 
Deep into that spirit stole. 

And all through its pilgrimage here below 
I yearned, amidst sorrow and mirth; 
For the heavenly song it could not forget 
For all the songs of the earth. 

{From the Russian of M, Lermontoff^ 








A Farewell 1 1 

The "Stiudant" 30 

Wooer or Wooed? 50 

The Commg Home 76 

The Discovery 100 


The Blast-Hole 125 

Before the Dance 132 



An Interlude 147 

AHer the Dance 159 

TheSick-Call 175 

A Cry of Distress 195 

Ella's Grave 211 

Air Castles . 232 

An Apology 249 

"Lame Uz" 268 




Afternoon in the slate-quarries. 

As John M'Donnell stood up, in his hand the "jumper" 
with which he had been at work upon a blasting-hole, 
he looked round at a scene familiar to his eyes since 
life itself was familiar. 

A small world of its own, this amphitheatre of dark- 
grey rock, closing almost to a circle. Once across the 
threshold of the wooden entrance-gate, everything that 
was not slate lost infallibly in significance. At first 
sight, and despite the smoking chimney of the engine- 
house, despite ^ crawling line of trucks upon lYie Ta\\^, 


the place looks so little alive that the clattering and 
chipping sound which fills the air calls for explanation. 
It requires an expert eye instantly to pick out the grey 
figures against the face of the grey cliff — at times hang- 
ing from ropes, at other times astride upon iron pegs, 
or seemingly glued to inaccessible ledges. The place is, 
in fact, a human ant-hill, and that monotonous "chip, 
chip," the only audible voice of those creeping, sprawl- 
ing, dangling creatures. 

John McDonnell had no need to strain his eyes after 
these figures on the cliff; nor would his head have swum 
at the end of any of those dangling ropes, or on the 
extreme edge of the abyss, into which the heart of the 
amphitheatre abruptly descended, and in the depths of 
which a miniature lake of dark-green water marked the 
base of the oldest working in the quarry. Man and 
boy, he had known it all for close upon a quarter of a 
century, just as his fathers before him; and the fathers 
of all his fellow-workers had known it for a space of 
two centuries back — ever since a certain memorable 
and bloody day in the annals of the M^onnells, which, 
with one fell swoop, had put an end to the original in- 
dustry of an enterprising clan. The name of that in- 


dustry? Superfluous question, surely! In view of those 
trackless hillsides, of those yawning chasms — natural 
fortresses inaccessible to all but the initiated, and re- 
quiring no more than a stout tree-trunk to bar out an 
army — in view of women calling for food, and men 
thirsting for adventure, what else could that industry be 
but the picturesque and time-honoured one of cattle- 

The neighbours had borne much; yet there dawned 
the day when they would bear no more; and upon that 
day the wrongs of several generations had been washed 
in the blood of the McDonnells — but not washed clean 
— since in what is sufficiently described as "The Mas- 
sacre," pure and simple, treachery grinned broadly be- 
hind the political mask donned for the occasion.^ 

It was that historical moment which gave birth to 
the Ardloch slate-quarries. The "lifting'- game was 
played out, clearly, and some substitute more in ac- 
cordance with the spirit of a degenerate age must be 
sought It was found close at hand; cows were no 
longer to be had for the taking, but slates were available 

* For reasons of literary convenience pseudonyms have been 
employed in reference to an historical incident. 


for the cutting. Instead of sitting down to lament their 
fallen fortunes, the McDonnells, born philosophers as 
they were, set about their new business with all the 
steady energy they had devoted to the old. 

John McDonnell had, like every lad for a couple of 
miles around, been almost literally brought up upon 
slates. Before he was fifteen, he had been earning a 
pound a week by picking bits out of the rubbish trucks 
on the bank; and before he was eighteen the proud 
moment of inclusion in a "crew" had lifted him to the 
level of a quarryman. 

Looking round now at the scene of past labours, 
his mild, brown eyes visibly yearned. Over the rock 
they passed — the grey rock, stained with the yellow of 
iron, speckled with the white of quartz — over a solitary 
dog-rose bush, which, laden with scarlet hips, stooped 
over the abyss — past that to the smoking engine-house, 
to the grimy smithy — objects not beautiful in themselves, 
but each with a tongue for his ear — further out yet 
through the ricketty gates to where beauty indeed lay 
even on this damp and heavy October day: in the grey 
gleam of the salt water loch alive with the ever-restless 
sea-birds; in the background of mountain and cloud, so 


intimately interwoven, so near akin in their misty tints 
as to leave the eye hesitating between rock and vapour 
— and against that background the firs of the Burial 
Island — on which slept his fathers, looming like some- 
thing not quite real. Upon all these things did John 
M'Donnell look with eyes in which a farewell stood 
plainly written. 

After a moment he turned back to his companions. 

"The hammer," he said, and the Gaelic sat softly 
upon his tongue. "Let me have a turn at the hammer, 
Adam. I've handled all the tools but it to-day, and 
I've a mind for feeling it once more between my 

Taking the jumper in exchange for the hammer, 
Adam sat down in front of the half-bored hole. Be- 
side him John M'Donnell swung the ponderous instru- 
ment high above his head, bringing it down with clock- 
work precision upon the top of the metal borer. Half- 
an-inch to the right or to the left would inevitably re- 
sult in maimed fingers or a split skull; but neither the 
men who wielded the hammer, nor the one who held 
the jumper, moving it about delicately between the 
strokes in order to regulate the shape of tive Yvo\^^ 


seemed even to glance at such a contingency. Drawn 
thus to his full stature, and despite his dirty white 
duck trousers and much- worn corduroy waistcoat, John 
McDonnell was a picture. His shoulders, indeed, were 
not broad enough for his height, and his dark-red head 
might be disproportionately small for both height and 
breadth, but the straightness of the features, the fair- 
ness of that particular grain of skin which never tans, 
and, above all, the luminous brown of the eye, made 
of that head alone a small and striking masterpiece. 
Outside the quarry his eyes had that peculiarly in- 
definite gaze which makes even the person on whom 
they are fixed wonder whether he is being looked at or 
only looked through; but let his hand but touch an in- 
strument and the dove-like eyes become those of an 
eagle. As he swung the hammer above his head there 
was as little want of keenness in them as in those of 
his companion on the ground, closely watching the 

Adam, too, was red-haired, though in a more ag- 
gressive, almost carrotty fashion, but bore otherwise no 
family likeness to his cousin John, being broader, heavier, 
duller, and altogether more everyday looking. 


"How many more minutes to the whistle?" inquired 
John, between the strokes, breathing equally but deeply. 

"About ten, I reckon. We'll be ready for the blast" 

A little old man, with a face almost as white and 
woolly as a lamb's, looked up from the blocks he was 
busy with. 

"Arm aching, eh?" he inquired, with a defective 
grin. "Supposing you pass on the cup, or let it be — 
hammer, hi, hi!" and he stretched a hairy paw in John's 

But a freckled lad, angular and solemn, came be- 
tween. If the hammer were to change hands, it was 
into his it must go, he declared. He had not had his 
turn tO"day. In the manner of both last speakers there 
pierced a suggestion of anxiety. One of them was 
aware of being there on sufferance, the other of being 
there on trial. This was Willie Robson's first inclusion 
in a "crew," and presumably Tim McLaren's last, since 
workers, however experienced, whose hands have begun 
to tremble, are no longer sought after as partners. 
Hence the burning anxiety of the one to prove himself 
up to his work, and the equal anxiety of the other to 
show himself not beyond it. Hence, also, the osXetvl^.- 


tious jocularity and the artificial solemnity. The trust- 
worthiness of age was what the lad aimed at — in ap- 
pearance; the lightheartedness — and, by implication, 
the robustness — of youth was what the old man laboured 
to display. The time for going back to the rubbish- 
heaps on the bank (whence Willie had lately come) 
might by such means be staved off a little longer; for 
on that bank both infantile and palsied hands worked 
side by side. The rubbish-bank was at once a school- 
room and a nursery for second childhood. To return 
to it — sometimes after an interval of fifty years — was 
equivalent to being laid on the shelf. 

John McDonnell shook his head smilingly at both 
candidates, and continued his clockwork strokes. 

When the steam whistle sounded, all was ready. 
John, having put the match to the long twist of salt- 
petre-impregnated paper which was to fire the blast, 
was the last to gain the shelter of the rough bothy, 
piled together of slate refuse. Close to the entrance he 
crouched down, where he could watch the face of the 
cliff opposite, yet acutely aware of the other three pairs 
of eyes beside him. In the "working" there had been 
no leisure for desultory conversation; but here was an 


enforced peace, and from the personal remarks impend- 
ing, he knew there was no escape. 

"So it's hey for Glasgow to-morrow?" remarked 
Tim M*Laren, as, faithful to his role of clown, he 
grinned within the frame of his woolly whiskers. John 
nodded without turning. "Yell be coming back a re- 
gular stiudant in spring, no doubt, eh? not knowing a 
double-handled hammer from a single, hi, hi!" 

"I don't think so," said John, with his slow smile, 
while Willie Robson solemnly gaped. 

No need for enforced gravity now; merely to look 
upon a man who was so soon to look upon Glasgow, 
bred awe automatically, as it were. 

Adam, sitting doubled up, with grimy elbows on 
knees, and cheeks pressed between two broad fists, spoke 

"Strikes me you might have put it off till next week. 
Would save me having that gowk, Davy, as best man. 
It's the usual thing to come to weddings, not to run 
away from them. Doesn't seem cousinly, somehow. 
What's eight days over the books, after all?" 

"Even one day is much when one has wasted ten 
years," said John, his wide, brown eyes following the 


ijaovements of a couple of men still lingering on one of 
the terraces of the cliff, and now, in answer to a second 
shrill summons of the whistle, running to shelter. 

"But two sheep, John — think of that!" urged Adam, 
warming up to his subject. "We've reckoned, Jean and 
I, that one would go round just a bit tightly, so to say. 
No end of mutton-chops, my lad, I tell you; and the 
cake ordered from Oban, and the whisky — " 

A dull explosion covered the next words, preceded 
by a small puff of smoke, followed by a spurt of slate 
pieces, whirling about the cliff like a flock of startled 
birds. Within the same half-minute another puff from 
another point — another detonation. Like a dull can- 
nonade they followed upon each other. The four men 
in the bothy cowered with craned necks, silently watch- 
ing the familiar sight, whose interest never staled. Upon 
one or two distant levels outside the blasting area the 
men stand in groups, fascinated spectators. The air 
began to smell of gunpowder. 

"That's ours!" said Willie Robson presently, in an 
accent which teemed of the pride of possession. 

Even after the cannonade was stilled, the men re- 
mained cowering and cramped, waiting for the releasing 


whistle, which would not sound until a margin of some 
minutes had allowed for a possibly forgotten blast 

"To come back to the sheep and the whisky," ob- 
served Adam, with fine tenacity, "you haven*t told us 
yet what harm it would do you to stop a week longer." 

John turned his face towards his cousin, a whimsical 
smile brightening its seriousness. 

"No harm, perhaps, but no good, Adam, neither to 
you nor to me. A roomful of people always strikes me 
stupid, as you well know." 

"And how about a churchful of people, eh?" 
quavered Tim? "You'll have to be trampling on that 
sheepishness of yours when once you get into the 

"Will I get into it?" mused John, below his breath. 

"As sure as we're all sitting here growing as stiff 
as salted herrings," asserted Adam gruffly, yet with a 
sidelong look at his cousin, which showed no want of 
faith in him. 

"You'll hurry up about it, eh?" urged Tim McLaren. 
"I'd be sorry to miss seeing you there. Not that there's 
any over-great hurry about it either," he added jauntily, 
remembering that this acknowledgment of age was, 


under the circumstances, impolitic. "Let it be within 
the next ten years, and it'll do richly." 

As the three pairs of eyes once more fixed them- 
selves upon the figure in the white duck trousers it was 
not hard to guess that, mentally, he was being put into 
clerical black. Not one of them doubted that that 
priestly garb was safely hanging in the wardrobe of the 
future. Keen workmen, though he was even the dullest 
among them, vaguely felt that there 'was something else 
besides the workman in John. To picture that long, 
narrow figure in a white surplice required no great 
effort of the imagination. 

Lest the "white surplice" should startle in this 
locality, let it be briefly interpolated that here too the 
"Massacre" — that crowning sin of the House of Orange 
— had played its part, by rivetting the descendants of 
its victims to the church of the Stuarts. For centuries 
past Ardloch and its district had formed one of those 
Episcopalian islands which have successfully withstood 
the Presbyterian ocean. 

John's plan was generally approved of, and yet 
between him and his well-wishers there existed a com- 
plete misunderstanding. They knew that for years past 


he had been laying shilling beside shilling, in order to 
reach the sum which would make study possible, and 
saw therein nothing but a very praiseworthy ambition 
which others before him had cherished either success- 
fully or otherwise — since the Church is, after all, the 
most attainable of the rungs in the social ladder. To 
a man they approved of his plan of "bettering" himself, 
without ever guessing that his own idea of "betterment" 
bore no resemblance to theirs. So careful had High- 
land shyness been of keeping its own counsel that not 
even his daily companions guessed that they had a 
fanatic in their midst. Unsuspected, he carried about 
with him his dream, having brought it out of his very 
boyhood. When it had been born he could not himself 
have said. Perhaps on some summer day, as he 
drowsed among the heather to the music of the bees 
and the murmur of the nearest bum; perhaps on some 
winter night, when the awfulness of wave and blast had 
taken his soul and shaken it free of the trammels of 
earthly ties. But it had been there almost since he 
had begun to think the thoughts of a man. 

Or perhaps it had been bom further back yet The 
angel, charged with ushering human souls into Time, 


from Eternity, does not always sing over his work — or 
else sings to closed ears. But once and again the song 
lives, and is remembered as in a dream, and sought 
after during a lifetime, as a haunting melody is sought. 
Such men and such women always run the risk of 
being a little ridiculous, as the abnormal is ridiculous; 
and if, in addition, they are shy, the opportunities of 
misunderstanding between them and their fellows are 
exceptionally rich. 

If John MT)onnell was not considered "feckless," it 
was only because he kept his own counsel; partly, also, 
because he could handle the double-handed hammer as 
could few men in the quarry. 

He was going to appear unfaithful to the quarry 
now, but only, so to say, through an excess of faith- 
fulness. By dint of studying his fellow-workers, he had 
arrived at his own conclusions concerning their wants. 
To all but the infirm and the incurably lazy bread was 
assured — laboriously earned, and sometimes at the risk 
of life, but fairly plentiful. Their bodies might be con- 
sidered provided for — but their souls? 

Even to pronounce the word in public outside a 
fhurch would; in his present character, b^ ^ §ort of 


moral indecency, as he well knew; and therefore it was 
that John M'Dougall had determined to earn for himself 
the right of speaking both in and outside church walls. 
Not that the pulpit had ever stood empty, but that the 
occupiers of it — strangers usually, if not to the country, 
then to the life of the workmen — so seldom found the 
word that went to its goal. To John it had been torture 
to sit out nine out of every ten sermons he had heard 
since childhood. He had begun by remaking them in 
his own mind; he had ended by resolving to stand one 
day in that pulpit 

How differently, living their daily lives, being of 
their very bone, he could speak to these toil-worn men! 
He knew^ where those others only guessed or imagined. 
It requires personal experience to teach how hard it is 
for men ever tied to the elementary material, ever at 
war with its laws, ever in contact with stone and earth 
and metal, and all the other brute physical facts, not 
to lose complete sight of the side of life which is not 
physical, which cannot either be cut or weighed, or 
measured or calculated. And no one who has not been 
in it himself knows how depressing is the purely physical 
groove. To lift his fellow-workers a little way oul o^ 


that groove, such was John's ambition; for, with his big, 
unpractical soul he loved them all too well to look on 
content at their slavery. He felt himself as distinctly 
called to this deliverance of his brethren as ever Catholic 
missionary felt drawn to the conversion of savages. 

And to-morrow the first step was to be taken. At 
thought of the five months that would pass — the proxi- 
mate college term — before he again looked upon that 
dark-grey cliff, a wave of anticipatory home -sickness 
passed over him. Yet, as he turned to answer another 
remark of Adam's, his face betrayed nothing. 

"But about the wedding," his cousin had recom- 
menced, being about as hard to get away from an idea 
once started as is a dog from a half-gnawed bone. 

John smiled a little wearily. 

"Fm no good at weddings, I tell you, Adam. You 
know that I always get out of them when I can." 

"Marrying and giving in marriage not much in your 
line, eh?" suggested Tim McLaren, successfully shutting 
one eye. "How'll that be when giving in marriage has 
become a part of your professional business, so to say?" 

"You won't be able to get out of wedding feasts 
when once you're the minister," grumbled Adam. (Even 


in this un-Presbyterian neighbourhood the Presbyterian 
designation stuck). 

"Let him alone," grinned Tim. "Give him time to 
grow out of his natural shyness. Hell be asking us to 
his own wedding before we know what we're about 
Shouldn't mind wagering that he'll presently come back 
with a braw wife from Glasgow, which would sorely 
disappoint all the lasses here." 

In John's wide, brown eyes, turned full upon the 
speaker, there was no irritation, but only a vast aston- 
ishment written. 

"A wife?" he repeated, in as startled a tone as 
though Tim had suggested his reappearance in the com- 
pany of some antediluvian monster. What would I 
want a wife for?" 

"For sewing your buttons to your waistcoat for one 
thing, and for telling you when it's time to have your 
boots mended for another." 

Thus the glib Tim, with two separate grins, and 
corresponding indications of certain weak points in the 
future clergyman's attire. 

Upon this new view of the case, John reflected 


deeply, but ended by shaking his head. Somehow a 
wife would not fit into his picture of the future. 

Into the middle of that picture sounded the releas- 
ing whistle for the cramped men within the bothies. 

A little later John McDonnell was passing out through 
the gates. The closing hour had not yet come, but he 
had things to see to, for the boat passed at break of 
day. He walked with wistful eyes turned across the 
loch to where he knew the hills were. Would those old 
friends not show him their faces once more? 

They would, and even more than their faces; for he 
was but half-way to the village when, from under the 
edge of the cloud canopy, there stole an almost hori- 
zontal ray, a pale and watery ray, yet enough to tear 
the coverings to shreds, enough to touch the heights 
with glory and to fill the hollows with colour, to turn 
the water from lead to silver, and the gulls from grey 
to white. John McDonnell gazed at the swiftly passing 
pageant as though he would print off on his memory 
each detail, to live upon during his winter exile. Had 
he not loved it all so deeply he would not be leaving it 
now. It was at once the proudest and the most heart- 
breaking moment of his life. 


A little later still, Willie Robson, outside the gate, 
was standing upon his head, as a means of relaxation 
after the enforced dignity of the afternoon. Simultane- 
ously Tim M*Laren was trudging homewards with frankly 
humped shoulders and not the ghost of a grin upon his 
face. There was no sense in playing the clown out- 
side the quarry. These were the times at which he 
could permit himself not only to be old, but also to 
look it 



The tram-car showed that peculiar congested ap- 
pearance typical of the time of day, this being the ma- 
tutinal hour which empties homes and fills public offices 
— the daily exodus from play to work. Here, upon the 
narrow wooden benches, the usual business-man in top- 
hat, his black bag beside him and his nose in the latest 
Stock Exchange telegrams, sat side by side with the 
inevitable shop-girl, whose frizzled hair and wasp-like 
waist pointed to much labour already at this early hour 
overcome — or with the ubiquitous woman in a shawl, 
her shapeless figure screened by a basket which in 
favourable cases contains vegetables, in unfavourable 
ones, fish. It would not have been hard at a glance 
to classify each one of the customary apparitions. Oc- 
casionally, however, a doubt might arise. That young 
woman, for instance, with the startlingly fair hair, ela- 
borately dressed under a straw hat somewhat light for 


the season, looked rather too superior for the counter, 
and could as easily be imagined at the head of a class, 
or even in a private schoolroom. From under the rim 
of this same hat she was at this moment occupied in 
watching one of her fellow-passengers just opposite. 
No question about his business in life. The long and 
rather lanky figure clothed in seedy black, the head 
of not too closely-cropped red hair bent so earnestly 
over the book in his hand — taken in conjunction with 
the car-line — would, even to less observant eyes than 
those of the fair-haired damsel, have proclaimed the 
college-bound student During the ten minutes and 
more which the journey lasted, he never once lifted his 
head nor ever moved except to turn a page of his book. 
More books in a bag lay upon his knee, as well as a 
small brown paper parcel with certain fatty marks about 
it, suggestive of sandwiches. The coming and going, 
the clanging bells, the rattlings and clatterings and 
shouts of the street did not seem able to disturb him. 

With his knees drawn in as tightly as they would 
go, in order to leave the passage free, he sat peacefully 
through all the unpeaceful proceedings, straining his 
eyes contentedly in the spare, wintry light It was not 


until the corner of University Avenue had been reached 
that, with an automatic gesture bom of habit, he raised 
his head and shut his book. This being the terminus 
of the line, the exit was tumultuous and complete. 
Clutching his belongings, and almost borne off his feet, 
the student succeeded in reaching firm ground. 

For a moment, while others dispersed, he stood look- 
ing about him almost blankly, as though under the ne- 
cessity of collecting his thoughts. Although this was 
the third winter in which he trod these same streets for 
five months at a time, he had not yet succeeded in 
feeling at home in them. Whenever awaking from ab- 
straction, he became conscious of the sights and sounds 
around him, they would bewilder him afresh, almost as 
at first sight* 

But it was no more than a momentary pause. 
Clutching his bag more tightly, he turned his face re- 
solutely towards the steep-roofed building on Gilmore 
Hill, whose stately walls dominate Kelvin Park, them- 
selves dominated by their soaring tower. It was the 
only thing with a roof in Glasgow — a few churches ex- 
cepted — that he was able to love. 

Just as he turned, some words struck his ear, too 

THE "snUDANT." 33 

pointedly to be confounded with the usual fragmentary 
street tones. 

"I beg your pardon," said someone close beside 
him, with a certain nervous sharpness. 

Turning again he became aware of a young, fair- 
haired person in a straw-hat, who was holding some- 
thing towards him. 

Vaguely he touched his hat; and then remembering 
his town manners, lifted it 

"You left this in the car, I think." 

The object in her hand was a small paper parcel. 

"My sandwiches? Thank you. Yes; I suppose I 
have dropped them." 

His English was correct, but slightly laborious, with 
that peculiar hardness of consonants which betrays the 

He took the parcel from her, quickly and rather 
shamefacedly, and, with another attack upon his hat, 
was about to go, when the sense of his own ingratitude 
seemed to overcome him, causing him to add: 

"It was stupid of me not to notice. I am sorry you 
had the trouble." 

The Com^omise. I. 3 


Her smile seemed to say that the sorrow was entirely 
on his side. 

"It is your luncheon, is it not?" she inquired, with 
an interest which scarcely appeared feigned. "What 
would you have done if I had not saved it for you? 
I was only just in time; in another instant it would have 
been trampled to a pulp." 

She shook her head at him in a very pleasantly re- 
proving manner. 

There seemed nothing for it but to add: "How did 
you know it was mine?" 

"Ah, because I saw it on your knee; and besides, 
you always have that sort of parcel." 

"Always?" he blankly repeated. 

"Yes. We're not strangers to each other, you 
know; or at least we oughtn't to be, considering that 
we've been in the same car at least twice a week since 
last October." 

"Have we really?" he asked, with an undisguised 
wonder, not calculated to pamper personal vanity, sup- 
posing the wearer of the straw-hat dealt in the article. 

There was a touch of irritation in the laugh with 
which she retorted: 


"Haven't we just? Why, you've sat opposite to me 
scores of times, and beside me too. Our roads and 
our hours seem to fit in splendid. You can't mean, 
surely, that you don't remember ever having seen me 
before?" she asked, with an almost sorrowful reproach. 

He looked at her a little shyly. She was small and 
slight, with a very white skin and pale-blue eyes, lashes 
and eyebrows as light-coloured as the hair. There were 
many elements of prettiness and also of delicacy in the 
face, spoilt partly by a too thin and too wide mouth 
which she seemed to have some difficulty in keeping 
under control. Its extreme and nervous mobility, 
whether during speech or silence, was almost disquieting. 

As the student looked, some dim recollection stirred. 
That aggressively fair hair was a thing to remain lodged 
in the memory, however subconsciously. Thankful for 
the chance of uniting civility and veracity he murmured: 

"Yes; now that you say it, I remember. Thank you 
most kindly — thank you again." 

He was on the point of turning definitely, having 
become unpleasantly aware that they were still occupy- 
ing the same spot on the pavement, when she spoke 
again quickly. 


"Is this your first term at the University?" 

"How do you know I am at the University?" 

She tossed her fair head ever so slightly. 

"As if that was difficult to guess! What else would 
you be doing at the comer of University Road every 
morning? And the books? Why, I even know what 
course you're following," she added, with a touch of 
coquetry — but of fairly discreet coquetry — in her glance. 
"I couldn't help seeing the titles of some of those 
volumes in your bag, and though I don't understand 
them, I know that they can't mean anything but the 

She paused and sank her eyes in a sudden access 
of nervous shyness. 

"I'm a stranger, of course, and have no right to say 
anything, but I should like to ask just one question: 
Have you no one to look after you?" 

"To look after me?" 

"Yes; I mean, to keep you from studying too hard. 
Do you know that you've been growing thinner ever 
since October?" 

From an acquaintance of five minutes' standing the 
remark was startling; yet there was so much genuine 


sympathy in the voice, and in the working of the un- 
steady mouth, that even a less conventional man than 
this one happened to be, might have accepted it with- 
out another thought There was far more gratitude 
than sarcasm in the tone in which he replied. 

"Thank you, you are very kind; but I am really 
quite well. I make up for it in summer, you see." 

"Oh, do you?" she said, with eyes that looked 
frankly curious; but the student's shyness could stand 
no more. 

"Pm afraid I must go," he said hurriedly. "My 
time is up." 

"So is mine," admitted his companion, glancing at 
the dock on the neighbouring church tower. "In five 
minutes I've got to be at — at my office in William 
Street Good-bye, then, for the present, and please don't 
lose your sandwiches." 

If in the farewell glance there was more than Christian 
fellojv-feeling, John M*Donnell, for want of a precedent 
to go upon, did not discover it 

As he trudged upwards towards the temple of learn- 
ing, looming dimly out of a curtain of fog, he was never- 
theless vaguely aware of an unexpected break in the 


monotony of his present existence. The five winter 
months spent among the din and grime and hurry of 
Glasgow had hitherto been one continual and very dull 
form of sacrifice, rendered bearable only by the end in 
view. What he had suffered at his first introduction to 
town-life could probably not be appreciated by anybody 
or anything short of a fish out of water. Even now he 
would still dream, shuddering, of the incredulous horror 
which had seized him at the first sight of that forest of 
chimneys vomiting smoke towards an invisible ally; while 
for years to come, Buchanan Street Station was to 
remain for him a sort of standing nightmare. If he 
had not believed in hell before, he certainly would have 
been converted to the dogma from the moment of his 
passage through that human pandemonium. And the 
streets were not much better. His eye, accustomed to 
plumb the many-tinted depths of heather-clad hills, felt, 
between these walls of dingy masonry, an imprisonment 
that was almost a physical pain. The mists of his 
Highland home were indeed thick; but how pure, how 
«weet to the nostrils, beside the unclean fumes which 
was the perfume shed by that grim, stone forest 

The plunge into study — so hard for a man not 


trained to consecutive brain-work — was the only thing 
that made the home-sickness bearable. Upon a little 
pocket calendar he would faithfully score out each day 
from October to March. With what silent joy the 
"stiudant" would yearly exchange his town clothes for 
the white duck trousers and the blue serge jacket, his 
books for the double-handed hammer — it would take an 
exile to understand. Upon the hope of that moment 
he lived through the winter; and upon the hope of a 
return which should be permanent, he had lived through 
these years — yet they were years of bondage as hard as 
those of Jacob in the house of Laban. Already was 
the goal appearing over the haziness, since this was his 
third term, and since one more would see him in orders. 
More than this, circumstances were conspiring in his 
favour. The present pastor of souls at Ardloch was 
ageing fast and yearning for rest — had, in fact, at the 
Bishop's special instance, agreed to "last" only until 
John McDonnell should be ready to take his place. For 
the Bishop, who was a brisk, cheerful, jolly personage, 
with a good-natured propensity for letting people have 
their own way, had taken up John's cause warmly, not 
the less warmly, perhaps, because such cases never 


failed to shed credit on the diocese. In his most 
sanguine dreams, John had not dared to hope for any- 
thing so speedy as this. With all the more unshakable 
belief in his "call" did he toil onwards. 

During all these three years he had never spoken to 
a woman besides the landlady of the little East-end 
room in which, despite the distance from the University, 
he lived for economy's sake. It was only by the strictest 
frugality — such frugality as was represented by the 
daily packet of sandwiches — that he could manage to 
make his earnings of the summer cover the expenses of 
the winter. No place of amusement had ever seen him, 
and not one of the women who threw inquiring and ap- 
proving glances at the tall figure with the small, finely- 
cut head, could boast that she had even made him aware 
of her existence. He had eyes and ears only for his 
studies. The Rachel he was serving for wore no woman's 

The experience of to-day from its very unprecedented- 
ness, could not well avoid leaving a mark. To his 
astonishment he discovered that it had not even been 
wholly unpleasant His loneliness was so complete that 
the idea of friendly sympathy could not fail to have a 


certain warming effect upon his home-sick heart. And 
she really had seemed to mean what she said. To 
John, who was the least vain of men, the idea of having 
been observed and almost watched over for months past, 
was at once startling and vaguely comforting. He 
blushed as he mounted the last slope, still occupied with 
the discovery, and simultaneously he began to wonder 
whether he should see her again. 

Of course he did — only two days later. The meet- 
ing took place at the hour of the evening return which 
corresponds to the exodus of the morning, for John 
spent most of his afternoons in the University Library, 
which saved him many a book-purchase, and offered an 
atmosphere more congenial to study than did his small 
sleeping-closet with the window on to a "close," and a 
dog-dealer next door. 

The lantern at the halting-place was lit already, and 
beneath it stood a slight figure with the blue and pink 
and yellow car tickets — relics of the day's traffic — strewn 
over the pavement at her feet, as thick and as many- 
coloured as autumn leaves. By this time John had 
half-forgotten the episode, and though the light of the 
lantern was full upon her face, might almost have failed 


to recognise her, but for the welcoming smile, which 
clearly said that she had no idea of letting the acquaint- 
ance, drop. 

"My car is your car, I know," she said confidently; 
"since our ways lie together. I just missed the last one, 
although I ran so fast" 

Her visible breathlessness made it seem obvious to 

"You look tired." 

"I am tired, but it is not with the running. It's the 
office that tires me." 

As she smiled at him a little deprecatingly, John saw 
that she certainly looked rather drawn and drooping, an 
observation which caused her to make an instant further 
stride in his sympathy. It was the robust and flourishing 
people he was shy of, not the weak and weary ones of 
the earth. 

"You must know what it is to be tired," she said, 
before he had framed the condolence he was meditat- 
ing. "You look as if you did. Ah, there is our car! 
We must not miss it this time!" 

That "our" and the "we" came as naturally as 
though the acquaintance were months old, instead of 


only days. It was equally natural that they should take 
place side by side upon the narrow seat, where the 
same business-men of the morning (or their twin-brothers) 
sat reading the evening paper in place of the early edi- 
tion, and the same shop-girls sat by the half-dozen, only 
with hair a good deal out of curl, and figures relaxed 
by the lassitude of the day. Even the usual woman 
with the basket was there — only that this time the latter 
was empty. 

"Where do you get down?*' inquired John's com- 
panion, in a half-whisper. 

" At the comer of Trongate." 

"How strange! Just where I have to leave the car." 

"Do you live in the Trongate?" inquired John, 
with a mingling of alarm and pleasure at the thought of 
a possible proximity. 

"No — in Grant Street But I have a — a visit to 
pay in that quarter — a message to take for my aunt. 
I live with my aunt," she added, a trifle more con- 
fidentially. "She has her own house." 

If the communication of this fact had been intended 
to impress, the speaker must have felt discouraged. 
John's face made it doubtful whether he had even Yveaxdi. 


The car was evidently not the place for conversa- 
tion. Relinquishing the attempt, she leant back wearily, 
yet, despite her half-closed eyes, it was she who first 
spotted their place of descent Somewhat to his astonish- 
ment, John found himself assisting his new acquaintance 
to alight. The small, shabbily-gloved hand stretched so 
confidingly towards him could not have been disregarded 
by anything but a brute. 

When they stood upon the pavement among the 
jostle of passers-by, she pressed, perhaps unconsciously, 
a little nearer to her protector. 

"Which is your way?" she asked, in an access of 
timidity, which was quite real of its kind. 

"My street turns off Bolton Street" 

"Ah — then perhaps you will not mind letting me 
stay beside you a bit longer. I have to — that is to say, 
I can quite well pass through Bolton Street on the way 
to my visit; and this part of the town is rather strange 
to me, and there are so many rough people about" 

" Certainly you can walk with me," said John bluntly. 

It did not occur to him to wonder at her confidence 
in a stranger. To himself it seemed that his own harm- 
}e$snes$ must be written broad upon his face. 


They started off together along the crowded pave- 
ment, having to keep close in order to avoid being 
separated. Yet the stranger's tongue, having rested in 
the car, was equal to the hubbub around them. 

"Isn't the noise just awful?" she asked, with a shrill- 
ness necessitated by circumstances. "Don't you hate 
these ugly streets?" 

"That I do," agreed John, looking down at her almost 

"I'm sure you're not a Glasgow man." 

"No; I am not. But how do you know?" 

"Ah, one feels that sort of thing, especially when 
one is a stranger oneself." 

"Ah, then, you do not belong to this city?" 

"Oh, dear, no! I only came from Peebles in 
autumn. My father was a teacher there. After he 
died my aunt took me in." 

"Then you are not quite lonely?" 

John said it with a queer little twinge of disappoint- 
ment whose origin was far too obscure to pursue. 

"Oh, yes; I am — very lonely indeed. My aunt is 
an invalid, and her daughter, my cousin, has no time 
for anything but to look after her. Besides, I am afraid 


we have not many tastes in common. They are such 
complete town-people, you see." 

"But perhaps you have friends?" 

She shook her head. 

"I don't make friends easily; and among my col- 
leagues at the office I haven't found any congenial spirit 
None of them seem to have any feeling for the beauties 
of Nature, for instance." 

There was a break here, caused partly by a noisy 
group on the pavement, partly by John's astonishment 
at the remark. His own love of Nature was almost a 
passion — though he had become aware of it only since 
his exile — but it is probable that he would rather have 
died in tortures than put it into words. 

It was she who picked up the thread of talk. 

"It's bad having no friends — for the Sundays 
especially. Positively I sometimes don't know how to 
spend my Sunday afternoons. My cousin has no time 
to go out with me — poor thing, and it's rather dull work 
walking in the parks by oneself. Besides, it's sometimes 
unpleasant," she added, casting down her large, white- 
Jidded eyes. "People can be so rude. It's true that I 


have had escorts offered me; but Tm afraid Pm rather 
— well, choice about my acquaintances." 

After another pause, during which she had ap- 
parently been waiting for something, and with a very 
fair assumption of starting a new subject: 

"How do you spend your Sunday afternoons, Mr. — 
Mr.— ? " 

"My name is McDonnell. I go to church." 

"Oh, yes; of course — so do I." 

Again a tiny pause. And then: "Which church do 
you go to?" 

"To St. Mary's— the Episcopal." 

"Ah — how nice! That's where I go too. I'm glad 
you're not a Presbyterian. It's such a — common re- 
ligion, I think. Our church is really quite pretty. But 
after the service, when one sees people meeting at the 
door and setting out for their Sunday walk, it's a bit 
sad to have to go off alone. I have wandered about on 
the Necropolis until I know all the monuments by heart, 
but I've resolved never to go there again, or, at least, 
not alone. It only makes one quite melancholy. Oh, 
is this your way?" as John halted at the entrance of a 
narrow and badly-lighted side-street, down which sh^ 


sent a keenly exploring glance. "I am afraid you can't 
have very good air here; perhaps that is why you have 
got so thin. Pm sure your landlady doesn't look after 
you properly. Thank you so much for your protection. 
It isn't very far to go now. I hope I shall manage all 

Anyone less socially blunder-headed than John would 
have understood what was expected of him, but the case 
was altogether too unprecedented in his experience. The 
rather plaintive "good night" was therefore answered 
civilly, but decisively, and the hand stretched timidly 
towards him just touched by his inexperienced fingers. 

It was only in the privacy of his room that remorse 
for what struck him suddenly as a grievous want of 
charity, seized upon him. If anyone looked in want of 
protection, less able to cope with the accidents of a crowd, 
it was this frail, fair-haired girl. And it was a pleasing 
discovery too, to find that she hated the town as much 
as he did himself. 

And meanwhile the fair-haired one, looking more tired 
than ever, as well as slightly disappointed, trudged farther 
on her way. The visit to pay was no more than a mes- 
sage to a cheap dressmaker patronised by her aunt, and 

THE "SnUDANT." 49 

might conveniently have waited till another day. It is 
safe to assert that if John M'Donnell had happened to 
board another car than just the one he did board, the 
errand would have so waited. 

The Compromise, I, 



Next Sunday at 2 p.m. punctually, John M'Donnell 
dressed in a suit which more nearly approached to 
genuine black than the one sported on week-days, and 
with a tall hat, two sizes too large for his head, stood 
at St. Mary's door. During the two past days the feel- 
ing of remorse had augmented rather than diminished, 
so much so that the idea of an apology for his remiss- 
ness had actually dawned upon his mind. A meeting 
in the tram-car would be the most convenient opportunity. 
Perhaps it was because no such meeting had taken place 
in the interval that he so distinctly remembered the 
stranger having mentioned St. Mary's as her favourite 
place of worship. As to what might possibly happen 
after the service he did not allow himself to think, though 
undeniably he had been haunted by the vision of a for- 
lorn and fair-haired damsel wandering about alone in 
the Sunday streets. 


That his devotions were to-day quite as detached 
from the things of the earth as they were wont to be, 
it might be rash to assert Neither was he among the 
last to leave the sacred precincts; while, once outside 
the door, he seemed without any definite act of volition, 
to come to a standstill, and presently found himself 
watching the outpouring congregation with an interest 
never before felt in his fellow-worshippers. At every 
particularly fair head of hair he actually craned his long 
neck, and when at last his roaming eyes met another 
pair of eyes, likewise roaming, but which in the same 
instant gave up their wanderings with a finality which 
showed that the goal was reached, he began to have a 
glimmering of his own motive. 

In another moment they had met — she openly 
radiant, he abruptly self-conscious. 

"Oh, how pleasant!" she smiled frankly, from under 
the shade of an obviously new and very becoming grey 
hat "It was real kind of you to think of me." 

Her naive taking for granted that she alone had 
been the object of his station at the door, somehow 
savied the situation. 

"I wanted to ask you whether you had no disagce^- 



ables in your walk the other night?" said John, a trifle 
pompously. "It occurred to me afterwards that it was 
remiss of me not to have stayed along with you." 

She coloured, obviously not with displeasure. 

"Thank you; well, it was rather nervous work, but 
it's over now, and nothing particular happened. Shall 
I tell you how you can make up for your remissness?" 
she asked, glancing up at him with insinuating blue 


"By taking me a walk now." 

"To one of the parks?" 

"No; to the Necropolis. It's the only thing that 
appeals to my imagination in this dreadful town; the 
only spot at all romantic. Don't you think so?" 

"It certainly has the finest view in Glasgow," ac- 
quiesced John, as together they turned up the street like 
any other Sunday couple. 

She prattled pleasantly as they walked along. But 
it was not until they had crossed the bridge which spans 
the Monlindinar Valley, and above which, among the 
leafless trees, rose a second forest of monuments, that 
Intimacy began to make strides. 


"You know that this is called the 'Bridge of Sighs/ 
do you not? It's a name that delights me." 

"Do sad things delight you?" 

"Serious ones do. They are so much more inter- 
esting than the jokes people always are making. I find 
jokes so vulgar. Don't you?" 

"I don't think I know much about jokes," confessed 
John, whose sense of humour was, in truth, deficient 
When a good many adjectives had been expended upon 
the view — not by John — a short halt was made before 
the gigantic statue crowning the height Though an 
enemy in one sense, John Knox, in another, was an ally 
against a common foe — a sort of Moses who had led 
his people out of the Egyptian darkness of Popery. 
Utterly devoid though he was of the grimness of the 
great reformer, this other John found no objection to 
paying him his qualified respects. 

Despite the naked branches, the February day was 
no longer quite a winter day. The well-kept grass 
showed a hint of green, the sky actually a suggestion of 
blue, which might possibly endure as long as the monstrous 
chimneys held their labouring breath. In the newly- 
turned borders the bulbs were beginning to show, U^oa 


the gnarled branch of a veteran oak a bird was singing 
with all the might of its small heart; and the song had 
evidently something to do with spring, and possibly also 
with one of the passions apt to be stirred by the season. 
So suggestive was that song, that not all the slabs and 
columns and urns and sham temples and over-life-size 
figures, could quite succeed in turning the ancient Fir 
Park of the city into a stone-cutter's yard. 

As presently he rested upon a bench (for it was 
actually mild enough to sit) beside his new acquaintance, 
John McDonnell made an unlooked-for discovery — the 
discovery that he was young. It might almost be called 
an original discovery. Hitherto his youth had appeared 
to him to be chiefly an obstacle to the rapid attainment 
of his end; now it occurred to him that in itself it had 

While they walked about, Miss Mitchell (such, as 
she informed him, was her name) had supported the 
conversation almost single-handed, imparting a good deal 
of information as she did so. He had heard more 
about Peebles, and about the aunt who was an invalid 
and a householder. He had also learnt that the "office" 


was a post office, though this information was given re- 
luctantly and principally for the sake of evoking sym- 
pathy. The life at Peebles had been much more con- 
genial, she assured him. She had helped her father in 
the school, and had always had the management of all 
the school-feasts. She loved school-feasts, especially 
when they were given by charming country ladies who 
lived in beautiful parks, and houses of whose inner 
elegancies she had on more than one occasion — generally 
owing to sudden showers of rain — caught glimpses. She 
thought that "country-house ladies" must be the hap- 
piest people in the world. The post office in William 
Street was awfully stuffy compared even to the Peebles 
class-room. But alas! she had no choice in the matter. 
Situations of any sort were so difficult to get 

"But it's really a sort of slavery," she assured him, 
gently plaintive. "To any person with an imagination, 
such prosaic occupation is torture. It's an awful bother 
to have a lively imagination, I can tell you. Nothing 
but weighing parcels and counting stamps all day; and 
in the evening when I yearn for a little cultured talk, 
Fanny is either dosing my aunt, or else too tired to 
open her mouth." 


"It must be rather a hard life for your cousin," said 
John naively. 

"Oh, yes, poor Fanny! of course it is. But I don't 
think she /es/s things as I do. She is quite elderly, you 
know — past thirty; and besides, she hasn't got to earn 
her bread." 

There was a silence, during which Miss Mitchell 
drew circles on the sand with her umbrella. 

"And your home?" she began presently, in a more 
tentative tone; "is it far from here? Have you many 

Evidently she considered that the time for gathering 
information, instead of imparting it, had arrived. 

"It is very far away — high up on the west coast" 

"Ah, the Highlands! I have only read about them; 
but oh, kow I have longed to see them! They must be 
just beautiful!" 

"I never knew how beautiful they were till I left 
them, though I always loved them, without knowing 

"Ah, tell me about them!" implored Miss Mitchell. 

And haltingly at first, by degrees more fluently, John 
began to draw a picture of his home — a picture which 


was meant to be no more than a catalogue of land- 
scape features, but into which, despite himself, and 
fostered by the breathless attention with which he was 
listened to, a little rude eloquence stole. 

"Oh, how happy the people must be who live in 
those ^lovely places!" exclaimed Miss Mitchell, clasping 
her hands, and with eyes to which positively a little 
moisture had risen. "Surely the prosaic side of life 
must quite disappear among those mountains! Oh, I 
wonder you could leave them!" 

"I left them only to go back to them. I have 
hopes of getting appointed to my own native place, and 
to be able to be some comfort to my old fellow-workers." 

"Fellow- workers?" she repeated, a little anxiously. 

"Yes; in the quarry. We all work at the slates, 
from the time almost that we can stand." 

"And you have worked there too?" 

With the question she glanced instinctively at his 
hands, which, however, were decently encased in a pair 
of black Sabbath gloves, a trifle pale about the seams. 

"I did nothing else till three years ago, and even 
now I am in the quarry from March till October. It's 
there I gain the money I spend from October tUl Maxciv" 


"Ah, I see/' said Miss Mitchell, and was silent for 
a moment, weathering the blow — for a blow it un- 
doubtedly was. 

She had not expected to hear that he was a man 
of means (the look of his clothes alone knocked that 
idea on the head); but neither had she been quite pre- 
pared for the discovery that her new acquaintance was 
a quarryman, which, to her, meant nothing else than a 
common day-labourer. Nothing about his appearance 
had suggested this; for the Celtic rustic is not as visibly 
hall-marked as his Saxon brother. "Boorish" would 
have been the very last adjective to apply either to John 
or to any of his fellow- workers; while in him natural 
refinement was heightened by a great personal mildness. 

After that pause, almost of consternation, the lady 
inquired, rather more coldly, when he expected to get 
his appointment 

"Next year, I hope— as soon as I am ordained. 
The Bishop is very favourably inclined to me." 

"Have you a bishop up there?" 

"At Bonnet Ferry — two miles from Ardloch. He is 
very kind, and so is Mrs. Madley." 

^'Ah, he is married?" 


"Yes. And he is good enough to take an interest 
in me. His lordship likes the pastors to be risen from 
the people." 

"Yes; it is rather a picturesque idea," she said me- 
ditatively. "How strange you will feel, and how proud 
coming back to your old home in your new position." 

"Proud? Oh, no — not that. I shall be too much 
afraid of filling it unworthily, even doing my best — and 
I mean to do my best!" 

As he said it his eyes grew bright and fixed, gazing 
away between the many-shaped stones towards the hazy 
horizon beyond the roofs. She looked at him curiously, 
favoured by his absorption — a block of white marble 
close at hand, making so good a background to his 
finely-moulded head and straight-cut features as almost 
to suggest a medallion. 

"I am sure your best will be very good!" she said, 
with returning warmth, caught as it were, by his own 
zeal. "Tell me more about your work. It will be hard, 
I suppose? But with one's heart in it, what work is 

Presently John McDonnell, who had never before dis- 
cussed himself with any fellow-creature, fouud \iv3X \\fc 


was confiding his dreams to a girl of whose existence 
he had not been conscious this time last week. By 
what process his natural shyness had been overcome, his 
natural reserve forced, he felt it useless to investigate. 
All he knew was that the operation had been quite 
easy. Also, he was conscious of a certain sweetness in 
the unprecedented indulgence. After the confidences 
which he himself had that day received, and the almost 
child-like simplicity of her avowals, complete reticence 
would have struck him as churlish. Gradually, as she 
listened, Ella Mitchell felt herself warming to the idea 
of the "mission," at first so coldly received. At the 
end of ten minutes the disappointment touching the 
slate-quarry had been quite lost sight of in this new as- 
pect of the case. 

"It is a noble end!*' she said, when John paused, 
a little startled to find how far he had gone. "A grand 
— an elevating idea! To raise these poor people out 
of their lowly state — that indeed is something worth 
living for. Oh, you have my very best wishes for your 

She cast her eyes downwards, as she had a becom- 
ing habit of doing, for the eyes themselves, though large. 


were rather shallow in colour, while the eyelids, very 
white and as delicately veined with pink as the petals 
of an anemone, bulged agreeably over the somewhat 
prominent orbs. 

In face of this undisguised sympathy, John quite 
forgot to regret his abnormal talkativeness. 

"You must come and see my aunt," she said to 
him, at parting. "I scarcely like to walk with you" 
(here another down-casting of the eyes) "without having 
introduced you to her; and yet I should so love to hear 
more about your interesting work! It would be good 
practice, you know, since visiting the sick will be on 
your list of duties, will it not?" 

The wide mouth twitched into an almost espihgle 
smile, as she gave him her hand. 

Miss Mitchell regained her aunt's house still in the 
best of spirits, but was not able to preserve them at the 
given level throughout the evening. Mrs. Watson — the 
relict of a fairly successful green-grocer — being one of 
those invalids whose chief amusement in life seems to 
be to experiment upon the patience of their fellow- 
creatures. To give as much trouble and make them- 


selves as disagreeable as they can, seems to such people 
a perfectly justifiable revenge upon the healthy portion 
of mankind. The role of wet blanket was one which 
Mrs. Watson, in particular, revelled in. And she looked 
the part, too, being large, pale, and pasty, with a face 
grown puffy from want of exercise, and an almost bald 
head, muffled in folded muslin which might easily have 
passed for a compress. The eyes alone were as alive 
as flies, and as sharp as pins — ever on the look-out for 
grievances, and ready to punish them with a sharp little 
double prick. 

It was upon Fanny, the poor, patient sick-nurse, 
that the revenge fell most heavily — a creature sallow 
and "beaky," with, upon her thready lips, a conciliatory 
Smile which had become chronic, as though, painfully 
aware of her own extreme ugliness, she was striving to 
disarm criticism by an extra dose of amiability. That 
smile might be compared to the sauce in which she 
endeavoured to dish up her looks in hopes of making 
them more palatable. Her "boniness" and the size 
of her nose suggested the vulture, but an extremely mild 
vulture, with the temperament, presumably, of a sucking- 
dove. Indeed, someone had once unkindly but not in- 


appropriately declared of Fanny Watson that the only 
bone not visible about her was a backbone. 

Ella Mitchell came off more easily than Fanny, 
partly because of her absences, and partly because she 
paid for her board, since to put a roof over the head 
of her brother's child quite satisfied Mrs. Watson's sense 
of kinship. But even Ella could not always escape the 
wet blanket 

The heightened colour and animated glance with 
which she entered the sick-room to-day were enough to 
call for an application, since, if there was one thing 
Mrs. Watson could not stand, it was seeing people en- 
jopng their Hves. 

"Wherever have you been the whole blessed after- 
noon?" she demanded, in a cavernous sort of growl, 
peculiar to herself, for the deep pitch of voice in which 
she uttered her usual complaints added much to their 
impressiveness. "Gadding about the streets, eh? Not 
even respectable, I call it — (don't you see that my hand- 
kerchief has dropped, Fanny?) — let alone that it might 
occur to you that a sick woman like me might want a 
little talk of a Sunday afternoon. It's not much you 
contribute to my entertainment, as it is." 


"Pve been to church, auntie." 

"Not since two o'clock, surely?" 

"No," confessed Ella, in a burst of frankness, pro- 
duced by exceptional elation; "I had a walk afterwards. 
I have made an acquaintance — such an interesting ac- 
quaintance and so respectable. Fanny knows about it 

Ella looked at her bony cousin, who smiled back a 
rather frightened smile as she glanced towards her 
mother, and instantly met the pin-prick stare. 

"Oh, she knows about it already, does she? That 
means that it*s a man, of course, and that you've been 
gossiping away into all the hours of the night, quite 
regardless of me, naturally. What's the wonder, then, 
if Fanny oversleeps herself in the morning, and I've got 
to call for my beef-tea four times running? Oh, what 
it is to be a martyr chained to the rack!" 

"We didn't talk about it at night — at least, not al- 
ways. It was on Sundays we usually talked, when I 
was at home." 

"Usually talked!" The two flabby hands were up- 
lifted, while the two pin-sharp eyes dealt a blow in 
EJJa's direction. "Why, how long has this been going 


on, pray? Stuffing your heads with nonsense, indeed, 
and evil nonsense, no doubt; young people nowadays 
have far more evil in them than good. Not that that 
applies to you, my dear — I mean about the youthful- 
ness;" and the two little pins fastened back on Fanny's 
face. "You're past the age of danger in that direction, 

She laughed in an underground sort of fashion which 
suggested the rumbling of an earthquake, at which the 
vulture-faced creature smiled more affably than ever, 
though rather red about the temples. 

But Ella had more spirit — fed, no doubt, by the 
consciousness of that weekly bill for board. Loudly she 

"There was nothing bad about our talk. It was 
only that I told Fanny of — of somebody whom I used 
often to travel with in the same car, and whom I 
couldn't help noticing, though it was only the other day 
that we made acquaintance. And he is more than a 
mere man; he is almost a gentleman — at least, he will 
be that some day, for he is going into orders, and all 
clergymen are gentlemen, surely." 

"And it's him you've been walking with?*' inquired 

The Compromise, /, C 


Mrs. Watson, surprised into a less aggressive tone; but 
hastening to add: "Depend upon it, he's making a fool 
of you." 

"I'm sure he isn't!" said the indignant Ella. "He 
is far too — serious for that We sat upon a bench for 
ever so long, and he told me all about his plans. He 
has such beautiful ideas!" 

"Which means that you flirted shamefully with him. 
Ah, I know you fair-haired innocents; and I've no 
doubt he knows them too. Men aren't so blind as some 
women would like them to be. (There's my cushion 
slipping down again, Fanny — can't you keep your eyes 
open, girl, instead of only your ears?) So that's where 
you spend your afternoons, ogling young men, while a 
stricken woman like me can sit a prisoner in her room, 
with no more cheerful company than that long-faced 

The corners of Ella's mouth began to droop. 

"But, auntie, I've only got one afternoon in the 
week! You know that I'm shut up in that post office 
from Monday to Saturday, and my head aches some- 
times so terribly. It is so hard never to get a little 
fresh air." 


"Stuff and nonsense! You're as healthy as a cat," 
decided Mrs. Watson curtly. 

Evidently there was no room for two martyrs in one 
family. This was not the first time that her niece had 
attempted to encroach upon her own premises. Such 
efforts could not be too promptly discouraged. In the 
interests of the family peace it certainly was fortunate 
that the real mart)n: in the case had never yet thought 
of laying claim to the title. 

The end of it was that, having swallowed a few 
more insults, Ella retired in tears to her room, while 
Mrs. Watson, satisfied with her evening's work, settled 
down comfortably to find fault with the delicate little 
supper-dish over which Fanny had been scorching her 
thin face for the best part of the evening. 

Upstairs, behind her locked door, Ella was trying 
to reconstruct her elation of the aflemoon. To-day's 
event had crowned the wishes of months past, for the 
schoolmaster's daughter possessed a disposition which 
inclined to the sentimental, as well as a combustible 
sort of imagination, as much at the mercy of any stray 
spark that might be flying about as is an imperfectly 
isolated powder magazine. She had been quite rigjit 


in saying that her imagination was a bother, but it was 
likewise a danger, to herself and others. A touch of 
fastidiousness, which she herself called "choiceness," 
and which had never had the chance of developing into 
refinement, made her ill at ease in her present groove. 
She owned to nothing as common as ambition, pre- 
ferring to deal in "aspirations," hitherto unfulfilled. 
Eminently she was one of the dissatisfied ones of the 
earth; ever on the look-out for an escape from the 
monotony, and what she considered the degradation, of 
her present existence — chronically scouring the horizon 
far afield, and unavoidably overlooking the one beneath 
her hand, as too small, and altogether too commonplace 
for her powers. 

The very first sight of John McDonnell had stirred 
her interest. The tall young man with the striking 
head and the deeply abstracted gaze, had instantly 
taken her fancy. She began to weave theories about 
him, which grew more and more highly coloured the 
oftener she sat opposite to him. In time the theories 
began to turn into dreams, and the dreams, in order to 
be fully tasted, had to be confided to somebody. Thence 
those midnight talks, so deeply condemned by Mrs. Watson. 


"I am sure he is very learned," Ella told Fanny, 
who lent herself to the rdle of confidant as resistlessly 
as to that of whipping-boy. "He evidently lives only 
for his books. He must be a very superior person, so 
serious and earnest; and his hair is such a beautiful 
colour, so quite different from the usual common red. 
But oh, I should like him sometimes to take his eyes 
off the books! One glance from those deep, brown 
eyes would make me feel quite happy for a whole day, 
I am sure. And if ever I could obtain one word!" 

By the time the confidences reached this point, Ella 
was quite as genuinely in love with her unknown fellow- 
passenger as it was in her nature to be with anything 
but herself, though becomingly resigned to the apparent 
hopelessness of her case. Her role of silent and un- 
requited adoration pleased her fancy considerably, and 
also greatly touched her. She had a useful knack of 
looking at herself from the outside, as it were, taking 
what might be termed a bird's-eye view of her own 
person — such a view as may be gained from a balloon 
mounted to a reasonable height Often had she con- 
templated herself from this vantage-point, and had been 
immensely touched by the sight of the fait-Viaii^^ 


orphan (the colour of the hair somehow greatly en- 
hanced the effectiveness of the picture) thrown upon the 
mercy of a hard-hearted relative, utterly incapable of 
grasping her aspirations. At the affecting vision, tears 
were ready at a moment's notice to rise to her eyes. 
She always kept a supply, at the disposal of self-pity. 

But resignation could not make her hesitate to take 
the chance offered by the forgotten sandwiches, and 
from that moment an element of hope entered into the 
dreams. It was not in accordance with any deep-laid 
plot that she pursued her advantage. There was 
nothing either of the cold-blooded schemer, or of the 
false siren in Ella Mitchell, though a good deal of the 
naive flirt. Besides, to her it was not flirtation, but 
desperate earnest — or so she believed. John's picture 
of his Highland home had in very truth gone to her 
somewhat uncertainly balanced head. Having lived all 
the dull part of her life in towns, the country repre- 
sented to her the holiday part of existence. On the 
subject of John's "mission," her imagination had proved 
somewhat less combustible; but here, too, the magic of 
his earnestness had lit a spark. To the helpmate of so 
picturesque an apostle as this, a field would be opened 


not absolutely unworthy of even a superior soul. Also, 
she began to consider (but this, as it were, sub- 
consciously) that the taking of orders has been known 
to lead to high places. If she did not tell herself that 
the Church has frequently served as an ante-chamber 
to the drawing-room, it was partly because the achieve- 
ment of the expression was beyond her, and partly 
because she was honestly unaware of having come to 
any such conclusion; for though never willingly deceiving 
others, she rarely passed a day without deceiving herself. 
Invariably, she was the first of her own dupes, though 
not necessarily the sole one. Even in the privacy of 
her own mind, she liked to keep up the picturesque 
side of things. Religion was undoubtedly picturesque; 
which was probably one of the reasons why Ella, having 
dried her tears on the Sunday night in question, came 
to the conclusion that she had been neglecting it lately, 
and that it was time to take it into a more serious 

Next day, accordingly, she purchased a new prayer- 
book, and resolved to work up her knowledge of Scripture. 

. • a • • 

When at the end of the third term John lelMixv^^ 


to Ardloch for the last time before his ordination, he 
did not bring to the slate-quarry quite his habitual 
disengagement of mind. The prospect of the future, 
hitherto so sternly simple, had somehow got complicated. 
Tim McLaren, having been definitely put on the "bank," 
had given up joking, as a thing which no longer served 
his purpose, but there was plenty of frank curiosity as 
to the person of the future "missis." That there was 
to be a "missis" was taken almost for granted. Who 
would elect to live alone in the grey stone house, which 
was so obviously planned to hold two — and more? 
John listened thoughtfully, making no absolute denial 
of the possibility of the thing. That consternation 
which the first suggestion had roused in him was no 
longer visible on his face. 

For that afternoon on the Necropolis had not re- 
mained solitary of its kind, and during his last weeks 
in Glasgow the meetings, both in tram-cars and in Ihe 
street, had multiplied extraordinarily. So had the 
mutual confidences. More and more deeply had John 
unfolded to the eagerly listening girl his plans and his 
hopes; thrilled by. the belief that his zeal was shared. 
Even the visit to Grant Street had been paid; for Mrs. 


Watson, her first indignation cooled, had reflected that 
to get Ella off her hands would not be half a bad job, 
seeing that it might enable her to take a lodger who 
would pay, not only for board, but also for lodging, 
and since a poor relation has a terrible way of turning 
into a stone around one's neck. 

Dating from that visit to Grant Street the acquaint- 
ance entered unmistakably on another stage. With an 
alarm that was yet not wholly unpleasant, John began 
to realise that he was regarded as having "intentions." 
It was certain, at any rate, that she had. Even John 
was vaguely conscious of them; and could not find in 
himself either the energy or even the desire to resist. 
Occasionally even the practical side of the question 
would put in its argument Had not Tim McLaren long 
ago recommended a wife for the sewing on of buttons 
and similar proceedings? And might not a wife, whose 
care would keep the sordid things of life from him, 
prove a help, rather than a hindrance? Yes, a help- 
mate must be good — else why should so many pastors 
be husbands? Thus John argued, struggling with some 
obscure doubt, and overlooking the only decisive argu- 
ment in the case, which was that he was young and 


but a man, and that she was Ukewise young and also 
very tolerably fair. He would be doing nothing wrong, 
he was sure of that, even when beginning to be aware 
of the personal element in the prospect Legitimate 
love was not forbidden to the spiritual labourer. And 
yet — and yet, it had not been in the plan before; 
and, do what he would, he could not get it quite to 
fit in. 

. • • . • 

Another thing which, .on this his last return to the 
quarry, helped to disturb John's mind was a certain 
heap of stones which he found piled up by the side of 
a narrow by-road winding into one of the valleys. Was 
that for the new school-house? he inquired. No, he 
was told; it was for the Roman Catholic chapel, for 
which the sum had been raised by subscription. 

John's surprise verged on indignation. Was it worth 
while building a chapel for the hundred and odd Roman 
Catholics extant within a round of three miles? And 
how about John Knox? The existence even of that 
hundred seemed to show that his measures had, after 
all, not been searching enough. There was a certain 
cottage in the village whose thatch was weighted by 


bricks dangling from wires, and which was pointed out 
as the place where, during the persecutions, Mass had 
been secretly celebrated. John, despite all his mild- 
ness, could not help thinking that, for the purpose, it 
might have continued to suffice. A chapel meant a 
priest, of course, and it was impossible to relish the 
idea of meeting, even only on the road, a papist worker 
— on this ground which he had so long looked at as 
exclusively his own future field. 

But after all, this was a free country. 



"How perfectiy lovely! Oh, how truly picturesque!" 
It was Ella who said it to John — no longer Miss 
Mitchell — to Mr. M*Donnell. And the occasion on which 
she said it was one which comes to a good many lives, 
though not to all, and which Society has agreed fan- 
tastically to dub a honeymoon. 

For Fate had been too strong for John; either that 
or else Ella's pale blue eyes. Seeing her again at the 
outset of his last college term, he had known how it 
would end, and had not even been sorry to know. Was 
there not something clearly providential in his meeting 
with this so sympathetic soul? And how should he 
doubt her lively interest in his work when she did not 
doubt it herself? Towards one of the eternally giggling 
girls of the period, John could never have felt drawn; 
but Ella herself was so convinced of being "serious," 
that she easily convinced him. That during one of 
their Sunday walks he should take her hand and say to 


her: "Will you work with me, Ella; will you help me?** 
was therefore just as unavoidable as that a stone dropped 
into the water should sink to the bottom; and as un- 
avoidable too was the affirmative answer. After that 
John's doubts vanished, and were believed by himself 
to be dead; which, under the circumstances, was an- 
other unavoidable thing. 

As now, upon the steamer's deck, he stood by the 
side of his new-made wife, doing the honours, so to say, 
of his native shores, there was, nevertheless, a faint 
scruple in his mind; for was not the consciousness of 
being a husband in danger of overshadowing the con- 
sciousness of those orders so lately received? Often 
had he figured to himself this taking possession of his 
kingdom, but not one of his dreams had showed him 
the face of a queen by his side. 

So much the more reason for gratitude to Providence, 
he decided, as he gave a furtive pressure to the little 
hand within his arm, a thing he could do with im- 
punity, fellow-passengers being scarce at this ante-tourist 
season. About a dozen human beings were thinly 
sown upon the deck, of which a goodly portion 
was occupied by a small menagerie, consisting of a 


shaggy pony, half-a-score of sheep, and a frantically ex- 
cited collie-dog, barely beyond puppyhood, whose youth- 
ful shoulders were obviously not up to the burden of 
responsibility laid upon them. 

Such adjectives as "picturesque," "romantic," "ex- 
quisite," had a good deal of hard work that day at 
young Mrs. M^DonneU's hands. Some people are struck 
dumb by a certain sort of scenery, but not she. The 
sweeps of hill on each side of the advancing steamer, 
the fantastic boldness of the peaks running against the 
sky into never-ending patterns, the huge surfaces upon 
which the thin mountain-grass strove in vain to clothe 
the nakedness of those grim and stony flanks, scarred 
so deeply by the beds of furious torrents — all that awful 
impression of solitude and solemnity upon those bare 
heights and in those deep, abrupt, unclothed valleys — 
none of these things had power to tie her tongue. Here 
and there, a forlorn-looking cottage pressed as near as 
possible to the water's edge, as though to get away from 
the miles of solitude behind it, and into contact with 
the element which bound it to the rest of the world. 
More rarely, a glimpse was caught of a house of greater 
pretensions, shrouded in artificial plantations, it, too, 


having violentiy and protestingly fenced itself off from 
the wilderness. 

"Do you think there will be anybody expecting 
us?" asked Ella, rather fluttered, as towards the middle 
of the afternoon the boat headed for the Bonnet Ferry 
pier, which was the station for Ardloch. 

John smiled in a rather shy manner. 

"I am sure there will not I took good care not 
to give them warning. It was only this morning I 
wired to the Stuart Arms for a machine. I knew you 
would not like to be troubled with a lot of strange faces 
just at first" 

"Oh," said Ella, looking down rather blankly at 
her pearl-grey travelling-gown, whose tint had been so 
carefully selected with a view to a possible "reception." 

She had seen herself so distinctly being handed by 
John into a vehicle — perhaps even decorated — smiling 
and bowing from under the shadow of her rose-trimmed 
hat, in answer to the respectful salutations of the popu- 
lace, turned out to do honour to the new minister and 
his wife. It was strange that John should miss so 
good an opportunity of making a favourable impression 
upon his flock. He certainly was strange in some 


things. But then, he was likewise good-looking, and, 
so far, very attentive; a consciousness which helped the 
new-made bride to take her disappointment with a 
wonderfully good grace. Some things, quite unpalatable 
in everyday life, are swallowed down almost easily when 
served with a certain sauce a la lune de tnieL 

There were a hundred pictures to look at upon the 
loch and across it, but Ella had apparently been a 
little overgorged with scenery for one day. The feature 
of the drive which appealed to her most was a stately- 
looking mansion in a wooded part, whose gates they 

"The Bishop's residence," said John, in answer to 
her eager question. 

Ella actually turned in her seat to take a better look 
at it. The thought that to enter those majestic gates 
would be her privilege — nay, her duty — could not but 
make her heart swell. 

"I suppose we shall have to call there at once, 
John? " 

"I shall go immediately, of course; but Mrs. Madley 
is away at present." 

Ella said nothing for some time after that. 


"What is all that black stuff?" was her next query, 
as a turn of the road brought them into view of a 
miniature mountain range, dusky and bare, which here 
descended abruptly to the very side of the road. 

"Slate refuse," came John's answer, in accents almost 
of pride. "We shall be passing the gates in a minute, 
and then you will see!" 

What she did see was only a smoking engine-house, 
and beyond what seemed to her a great black hole in 
the hill, on which John's eyes rested with a tenderness 
quite incomprehensible to her. Beyond that, more of 
the refuse: black, shiny, and loose in the more recent 
deposits, dull and closely packed in the older ranges, 
the crevices filled up with green moss, and here and 
there a wild rose bush having taken root upon the in- 
hospitable slope, to which it clung like an eagle to a 
cliffl At one place a passage had been cut through the 
projecting mass, and the stone arch seemed to groan 
under the weight of the slate above. 

" This part isn't pretty," said Ella, glad of an object 
on which to vent the still rankling disappointment "Why, 
it's positively ugly." 

"Is it?" queried John, genuinely astonished. "Per- 

T^e Compromise. /, U 


haps it's because I know it so well that I never found it 
out. That black heap represents the labour of two 
centuries, you know." 

The look of the village — of the straw-thatched cottages, 
with the grass flourishing on the roofs, and the green 
mildew creeping up the walls, undoubtedly picturesque 
though they were — astonished Ella more than it 
enchanted her. But the Rectory raised her spirits. 
True, it was rather too much mixed up with the cottages, 
but it was a real modem stone house, with real bow- 
windows, almost as good as a Peebles villa, and with a 
front garden which presented possibilities. From ex- 
perience gathered during school-feasts, she knew that 
gardening was quite a suitable occupation for a lady, 
and even before she had alighted from the "machine" 
— alas! with only a group of barefooted urchins as 
spectators, and while John, with all sorts of things in his 
eyes, was looking up the village street towards where a 
modest grey spire pointed above the roofs — she had 
resolved to buy a gardening manual. 

That first evening might be likened to a sort of 
moral sea-saw between elation and disappointment Some 
things surpassed her expectations; others fell below them. 


The sitting-room (which, from the first, she firmly called 
the drawing-room) was larger than she had dared to 
hope, and the entrance lobby was distinctly "superior"; 
while, again, the furniture, taken over from their pre- 
decessor, positively cried out for new coverings, and the 
carpets were certainly as ripe for retirement as had been 
their venerable possessor. The tea-cups too, produced 
in a hurry — since John's funny idea about a clandestine 
arrival had naturally resulted in no tea being ready — 


were of a dreadfully common pattern. But all the 
same, the possibilities were there, inside as well as 

"At last, Ella!" said John, as for the first time they 
sat at their own hearth, with the primitively set-out tea- 
table between them. "Ah, I am thankful!" 

"So am I, John. Do you know, I had not at all 
expected a bow-window. You never mentioned it It 
will do beautifully for a flower-stand. And with new 
chintz covers on the chairs and a folding tea-table, and 
one of those neat little cake-stands to bring in along with 
it, the room will really look all right" 

"Isn't it all right?" asked the innocent John, open- 
ing his eyes rather wide. *'And what do we want a 



cake-Stand for, when we only eat bread and butter, and 
there's room enough for that here, surely." 

Ella smiled indulgently. 

"There's far too much room, John. Nobody has 
these big, set-out tables nowadays — I mean nobody of 
the better sort I've seen how they do it in the country- 
houses. And of course we'll have to give our guests 
something besides bread and butter. We can't help 
having guests, you know. Don't trouble your dear head 
about it; just leave it to me. You shall have a com- 
fortable home to come to between your labours, never 
fear! and a pretty one too; for I mean to be a credit to 
you, John. Just see if I won't be that!" 

Upon which a pair of hands met impulsively across 
the too broad table. 

"And since we're talking about meals, John, I heard 
that woman in charge saying something about supper. 
Of course it's all right for to-day; but from to-morrow 
I'll take all that into my hands. Tell me, at what hour 
are you accustomed to dine?" 

"At one o'clock. From one to two is the quarry 

The white brow ruffled slightly. 


"Oh, but that was in the — former times. You're 
not bound by quarry hours now. I really think that in 
the matter of meals we ought to keep the same hours 
as our neighbours." 

"All the neighbours dine at one." 

"I don't mean these neighbours, John. Now, for in- 
stance, the Bishop — he dines in the evening, doesn't 
he? And when he asks us to dinner, as I suppose he 
will do occasionally" — Ella had some difficulty in 
governing the thrill in her voice as she said it — "you 
will have to eat your dinner in the evening; so surely it 
is better to accustom yourself to it at once. And there 
may be other people toa By-the-bye, who lives at that 
big house just across the water, there among the trees? 
It seems a very handsome house. I should like to see 
it near." 

"You will see it near, for that's where Alick is 
gardener — my sister Polly's husband, you know — and of 
course we shall go to see her." 

"Oh!" said Ella, burying her face in her enormous 

She had heard before of the gardening brother-in- 


law, but had carefully kept his existence in the back- 
ground of her mind. 

"But I mean the house itself; who does it belong 

"To Mrs. Gordon, a rich widow. She's a great help 
to the village." 

"And does she come to this church?" 

"Yes; she's very regular in attendance, except on 
those days when the loch is too rough to cross." 

"Do you think she will call on me?" 

"I daresay she will." 

With newly-fed vigour Ella returned to the charge 
about the dinner-hour, successfully overcoming John's not 
very determined resistance. It was the newness of the 
idea more than anything else which had startled him; 
in itself it could have no importance. Once it was 
proved to him that even his work would be benefited 
by the arrangement, he acquiesced without another 

"Two more days till Sunday!" he mused, as he 
rose. "And after that, to work!" 

"Yes, to work!" echoed Ella, with another of her 
semi-critical, semi-prophetical glances round the room. 


There was another shock in store for Ella that 
evening; for about an hour later, while perambulating 
the house with a view to deciding future arrangements, 
she was astonished, on opening a door, to find herself 
confronted by a rather uncouth-looking individual in a 
much stained blue serge jacket and grimy white duck 
trousers. This person's face and beard were of two 
different shades of red, which did not match, and he 
was actually sitting down in John's presence and talking 
quite easily. 

Ella was for at once shutting the door upon this 
startling vision ; but with a radiant face, John sprang up 
and stopped her. 

"Don't run away, Ella! It's only Adam — my cousin, 
you know. He'll be very glad to see you." 

But Adam scarcely looked glad. John's serene un- 
consciousness touching the defects of his cousin's attire 
was evidently not shared by the visitor, who, despite his 
toil-worn hands, had a much clearer idea of what was 
"the custom" and what was not, than that possessed by 
his clerical relative. The colour of his face put his 
beard to shame as in the midst of a shuffling salutation 
he explained that positively he had no idea of meeting 


Mrs. McDonnell, else he certainly would not have taken 
the liberty of presenting himself without his Sunday 
coat; but that being on his way back from the quarry, 
and hearing of John's unexpected arrival, he had not 
been able to keep himself from stepping in, just to bid 
his cousin welcome. 

John's laugh broke into his stammered excuses. 

"Don't trouble, my lad! Ella understands perfectly. 
What's the need of ceremonies between men who have 
played at marbles together in the village street? And 
we've done that — haven't we, Adam?" 

"Aye; and many's the blast-hgle to the making of 
which our four hands have gone. When I look at your 
black coat, John, it seems to me like a kind o' dream; 
and yet it's real enough too. He's a wonderful hand at 
the double-handed hammer, Mrs. McDonnell," added 
Adam, with a laudable attempt at easing the conver- 
sation; though, in truth, the look of Ella's pearl-grey 
gown seemed to have overpowered him quite as much 
as John's black coat — "and with the jumper as well." 

"I'm afraid I don't understand much about those — 
those instruments," said Ella, with a rather unsteady but 
studiously affable smile, "And John too will soon have 


forgotten all about them. He has another field before 
him now, you know, Mr. — Mr. — " 

"My name's McDonnell, same as yours, ma'am," 
grinned Adam, meaning no harm. "We're pretty nearly 
all McDonnells here unless we're McLarens, or maybe 
Robsons. But I'll be going now, ma'am, if you'll ex- 
cuse me" — for under the lofty gaze of those pale blue 
eyes, a recrudescence of shyness had occurred. "And 
on the first off-day Jean and I will honour ourselves by 
waiting on you — and in proper fashion," he added bash- 
fully, taking stock of his lower extremities. 

"And the boy? Bring the boy along with you," 
urged John, pleasingly unaware of the social enormity 
he was committing. "Why, Duncan must be three by 
this time?" 

"Is three the visiting age at Ardloch?" asked Ella, 
with a faintly playful smile; and again Adam revealed 
himself as a much more experienced man of the world 
than John by looking genuinely horrified, and explained 
somewhat sternly, as he picked up his bag of instru- 
ments from the floor, that Jean knew "the custom" far 
too well to bring a brat like that along with her on the 
occasion of a first visit. 


Ella bravely gave him her hand at parting, but rather 
regretted her heroism when she found upon her own the 
gunpowder stain transmitted from Adam's broad palm. 

To John she could not forbear one word of gentle 

"Is it quite wise of you, dear, to keep up this 
familiarity?" she inquired, when they were alone. 
"Didn't you see that the poor man himself was quite 
awkward at being presented to me in those dreadful clothes 
and so completely without — without the usual forms?" 

"But he is my first cousin, Ella; just the same as 
my brother." 

"I know — I know; but he can't continue to be your 
brother now that your stations are so different. Surely 
a little more distance would be more dignified. You 
owe something to your position, after all; and it is very 
important to put things on a proper footing from the 
first;" to which John had nothing to reply. 

By his puzzled look she could see that her meaning 
was not grasped; yet refrained from pressing the point 
His social ideas required reforming, evidently; but per- 
haps it was the honeymoon mood which made her re- 
solve that the process should be a gentle one. 


Presently she began to cheer up at the thought of 
the Sunday. No doubt it was because she wanted to 
do credit to John that she so very carefully settled the 
details of her attire for the holy day. For she had as- 
certained that her private pew was in a conspicuous 
place; and though the villagers were no judges, of course, 
there might be more understanding eyes present — for 
instance, those of the wealthy widow across the loch. 

When the moment came, to her own surprise a wave 
of genuine emotion, unconnected with the set of her 
bonnet-ribbons, made her hold her breath in expectation 
of John's appearance in the "high place." He too had 
been living in this moment for two days past, as she 
knew by the whiteness of his face, by the alarmed glitter 
in his eye, when at last, visibly trembling, he stood be- 
fore the dose-packed congregation. 

"Even if I die to-morrow I shall die content," he 
had said to her, as he kissed her before leaving the 
house. "Pray only that I should not die yet to*day." 

On that first Sunday John dazzled nobody with his 
eloquence. His natural sh)niess still hampered his move- 
ments quite as much as did his long cassock. He had 
not yet learnt to pitch his voice, and turned dizzy before 


the rows of familiar eyes. The carefully prepared dis- 
course was stiff and almost cold. It was not until its 
last word pronounced, he realised that in another moment 
he would be descending the pulpit steps, that a rush of 
regret for the opportunity slipping from him, a sudden 
realisation of what this moment meant, came over him, 
sweeping personal diffidence aside as easily as a cobweb. 
He had actually half-turned towards the steps when he 
turned again to say, without choosing his words, without 
pitching his tone, simply and irresistibly: 

"My friends, my brothers, I cannot go like this. Let 
me tell you: this is the day I have waited for. I have 
come to live among you — to grow grey among you, if 
God will allow it He has called me to work in His 
vineyard, and this is the corner He has given me. I 
am but His servant and yours. Day and night you will 
find me ready. Call me — come to me — summon me at 
all times. I do not think you will tire my patience, for 
that will be given me. I belong to you from to-day!" 

As from his eager lips the words seemed to overflow, 

his hands clutched the edge of the pulpit, as though to 

keep themselves from stretching yearningly towards the 

men below, li\% straight- featured face, free of self-con- 


sciousness, was transformed by the illumination of the 
eyes, while the summer light turned his closely-moulded 
head to dusky gold. At that moment his nearest rela- 
tions seemed to be looking on a stranger; and as for 
Ella, her gunpowder imagination flared up so violently 
that it drove the tears to her eyes. 

"That was beautiful, John — beautiful!" she said to 
him at home, still in a flurry of agreeable excitement. 
"But you don't belong to them only, you know; you 
belong to me too!" 

Whereupon John smiled tenderly but abstractedly, 
being in spirit still in the pulpit 

It was, after all, a great thing to belong to a man 
who understood his business, Ella reflected, having noted 
the emotion of the congregation; for those few final 
moments had completely covered the negative effect of 
the rest of the service. 

This revived enthusiasm served very well for carry- 
ing her through the ordeals of that first trying week; 
for Adam in his Sunday coat and a collar which visibly 
hampered his breathing appealed to her scarcely more 
than in his duck trousers; while the round-eyed, shiny- 
faced Jean, whose gloves were evidently bursting, aivd 


who held her pocket-handkerchief in her hand during 
the entire duration of the visit, did not appeal at all. 
What could Ella have in common with a woman who 
thought she was making conversation when she was dis- 
cussing the composition of oat-cakes? 

The manners of John's sister, Polly, were even less 
sympathetic, for Jean was at least profoundly respectful, 
whereas the blowsy, carrotty-haired Polly, in virtue of 
her elder-sistership, took it upon herself to be familiar, 
and even jocular, to a point which offended Ella's finer 

"Many's the time I've skelpit him," she laughed ro- 
bustly, right into Ella's face, and pointing a red finger 
at the minister. "Not that he much needed skelping," 
she presently admitted, "except for forgettin' the things 
he was sent for. John always was a bit moonstruck." 

The return visits were a harder task still. The 
thought of entering a thatched hut as a visitor had cost 
Ella some sleepless hours, and would have cost her more 
had she not fortunately remembered in time that even 
great ladies have been seen in cottages — as benefactors, 
of course. It was from this point of view only that the 
thing became bearable. This was not a case of dis- 


tributing bread; but other things could be dispensed, 
such as kind counsels and admonitory words, calculated 
to elevate the rustic mind. It was with this view that 
she began to cultivate an amiable condescension of 
manner, and that particular affability which she under- 
stood to be the characteristic of the Lady Bountiful. 

In this way, she succeeded in weathering an ex- 
perience which, after all, need not be too often repeated. 

And there were compensations; for Mrs. Madley had 
returned, and the happy moment of crossing the epi- 
scopal threshold dawned for Ella, with consequences to 
her mental equilibrium which she herself was scarcely 
aware of at the time. So also came that other proud 
moment of returning Mrs. Gordon's visit — in a boat, 
perforce. There was a dark blot upon that delight, 
however, for John seemed to take for granted that Polly's 
visit should be returned at the same time, and could 
absolutely not be got to see that there was an)rthing in 
the least indecorous in going from the big house to the 
gardener's cottage. At a later period of domestic felicity 
she would scarcely have pelded, and even as it was, 
she did so with a rather bad grace. 

"Well, let it be so, in Heaven's name!" she ac- 

q6 the compromise. 

quiesced, with a sigh; "but I do think it looks 

It had not previously occurred to John that that 
large, mobile mouth held in it possibilities of peevish- 
ness, but it did occur to him now. 

The impression produced by Ella upon the mistress 
of Balladrochit will best be given in a letter to a friend, 
posted on the day of that first visit. The passage in 
question ran as follows: 

"I've just been interrupted by a visit — such a visit, 
my dear! I wish you could have been here to enjoy it. 
I've told you about our *stiudant,' haven't I? — John 
McDonnell, who has recently got the Ardloch living. 
Well, he brought a wife with him from Glasgow, on 
whom I recently left a card; hence to-day's visitation. 
He is nothing new to me, of course; I've seen him in 
the garden often — such times as the quarries were rest- 
ing — helping his brother-in-law. He's much the same 
in a black coat as in shirt-sleeves, and the metaihorphosis 
doesn't really call for special notice. His elevation (the 
social one, I mean) embarrasses him frankly, nor does 
he dream of throwing any veils over the past By way 


of filling up a pause in the conversation he inquired 
politely how the briar hedge was getting on he had 
helped Alick to plant You should have seen the glance 
she threw him at that! But her first appearance was 
what nearly did for me. They usually come in their 
Sunday clothes, you know, but this young woman knows 
a thing or two beyond that — a new development of the 
species altogether. For the flounced silk gown, the 
flower-trimmed bonnet, and the pale kid gloves, sub- 
stitute in your mind a tweed coat and skirt (the latter 
stopping short well above the ankles, if you please) — an 
exceedingly sporting-looking * tammy* and dog-skin (or 
let us say would-be dog-skin) gauntlets — and there you 
have her bodily before your eyes. She took great care 
to keep her left hand in the pocket of her coat, and to 
give me her right one at the latest angle. I was a little 
bewildered at first, not being used to the type, but after 
she had inquired whether there were many country- 
house ladies *in the neighbourhood* I got my cue. It's 
the * country-house' lady she's aiming at, and of whom 
she has evidently made an exhaustive study. The re- 
sult is not bad really. It would be interesting to hear 
Redfem's remarks upon the set of the skirt; but con- 

Hie Coinpromise. /. 7 


sidering that she has probably cut it out herself, I think 
it's wonderfully creditable. So is her conversation, and 
the studiously cultivated nonchalance. She must have 
had some rather good models to go by. Now and then 
a vowel plays the traitor, as, for instance, when she 
complained of there being no *hally' in the garden — 
she positively adores *hally,' and is quite jealous of the 
Bishop's hedge. The Bishop is evidently a great joy in 
life. He has become *the dear Bishop' already, for 
reasons not hard to imagine. Dr. Madley is grand at 
letting people have their own way, you know, and see- 
ing which way this young person's desires tend, I've no 
doubt he's been humouring her to the top of her bent 
Mrs. Madley had been so kind as to lend her a seed 
catalogue, she told me, and was just embarking upon a 
rhapsody on gardening, when she stopped short, ab- 
ruptly, I believe, because the recollection of Alick's 
existence had made her realise the delicacy of the sub- 
ject. When I asked how she liked her house, she be- 
came more measured in her answers. It was not bad, 
on the whole, she informed me, though it had its faults, 
which she h6ped to remedy. Evidently she has decided 
that it won't do to be too pleased with everything — 


might lead one to imagine, don't you see? that she had 
not been used to better things. Everything is rather 
nice; the rooms, the *sitooation,' etc But she likes the 
*sitooation' of the Bishop's house ever so much better. 
The Bishop and everything pertaining to him has clearly 
been adopted as the standard of comparison. I sup- 
pose it does not suit her so well to institute comparisons 
with other people nearer at hand, though the village 
swarms with first and second cousins who also have 
houses and gardens — of a sort 

"I'm rather curious to know whether they'll have 
gone to Alick's cottage after leaving me. He began 
sapng something about a second visit, but she promptly 
suppressed him. Poor girl, I fancy he must be a hand- 
ful for her in some ways. I wonder how these two 
came to pair — and I wonder still more how they will 
pull together!" 

407028 , 



A YEAR later the question of how they would "pull 
together" was being partially answered. During this 
year a good many prosaic facts had poked their plain 
faces right through the rose-coloured veils of illusion 
hitherto shrouding them. 

Things had not turned out just as Ella expected. 
John's social education, in particular, dragged sadly. 
Curiously enough, he had not yet begun to grasp the 
extent of his duties both towards herself and towards 
his own position. It was all right, of course, his de- 
voting himself to his ministry; but did his duty demand 
of him to be at the beck and call of every rheumatic 
old woman for miles around, who was too stiff in her 
legs to come and fetch the spiritual consolation she 
imagined herself in need of? What strength could he 
have remaining for the real, urgent calls, if he exhausted 
himself in those purely optional ones — for this was a 


parish of widely scattered crofts, and many a mile of 
rough walking was entailed? It was for the sake of 
his work itself that she protested, she assured him. As 
for her own claims, she did not wish to put them for- 
ward, though it was rather lonely sometimes of an even- 
ing, and tiresome too, to have to wait dinner at least 
four times a week. Once or twice she had hazarded a 
gently reproachful remark in which the word "neglect" 
had been playfully interpolated; but he had looked at 
her with so naYve an astonishment that perforce she held 
her tongue. And this blindness of his held good with 
regard to others of her wishes. Theoretically, she had 
of course been aware of the existence of all these 
humbly situated blood relations, but had not doubted 
that they could be "kept in their place" by judicious 
treatment And so they could have been, if only John 
would hear reason. As matters stood, they acted as a 
dead-weight to the soarings of social aspirations. The 
neighbourhood of the quarries was in itself a grievous 
trial. What was the good of carefully avoiding every 
reference to them, when John on all possible occasions 
plumped out with some reminiscence of his own work- 
ing days? And that ubiquitous slate-stone, ftom vj\i\^ 


there was no getting away, in the shape of door-steps 
and seats, and even queer, irregular palings, just as 
though it took a special pleasure in provoking Ella by 
reminders of the sore subject! 

If John, on his side, was only indistinctly aware of 
something in his marriage which fell short of his ex- 
pectations, it was principally because the marriage itself 
had never been to him the event which it had been to 
Ella. If gradually he dropped out of the habit of dis- 
cussing his work with his wife, whom he found generally 
too much occupied with domestic "improvements" to 
lend him an undivided attention, this was no great sacri- 
fice. Reticence was far more natural to him than ex- 
pansion, which had, in fact, been only a passing phase, 
artificially provoked. With scarcely a pang he returned 
to his former exclusive self-communions. 

Occasionally, as he viewed the "improvements" Ella 
assured him were essential, a mild bewilderment would 
come over him. The white cap and apron which the 
maid-of-all-work was rigorously compelled to don before 
opening the door, the dessert plates and the finger-bowls 
(out of which he had begun by trying to drink) — these 
were things so strange to him as to be almost disquiet- 


ing, Gently, but firmly, he had been trained to change 
his coat every evening, and had got used to the silk 
blouse in which Ella sat opposite to him as she dis- 
pensed the roast mutton, without quite realising that the 
increased smartness of her appearance belonged to the 
process known as "dressing for dinner." Though un- 
able to see the necessity of these things — and even at 
moments uneasily aware of something that jarred be- 
tween them and his private conception of his life-task 
— he never actively resisted them, partly because they 
did not seem to him of enough importance, and partly 
because rebellion would have appeared to him ungrate- 
ful. Could he, in justice, reproach Ella with wanting to 
beautify her home and his — with striving to minister to 
what she took to be his bodily wants? Because, per- 
sonally, he happened to be a born ascetic, supremely 
independent of creature comforts, could he therefore fail 
to be touched by her efforts to do things which she 
evidently considered ought to please him? 

At the end of that year the situation might have 
been summed up as a mutual but not yet acute dis- 
appointment, conscious on one side, subconscious on the 
other, and here still veiled by the concentration of mind 


on what had remained the chief object right through 
the episode of marriage. To say that Ella had entirely 
cooled towards her husband would be unfair. Her ad- 
miration for his person persisted, but of her enthusiasm 
for his work there remained but the ashes. The social 
drawbacks of her surroundings hopelessly outweighed 
the delights she had expected to draw from their 
picturesque elements. The very picturesqueness was not 
of the sort which appealed to her, except in theory. 
All that rugged grandeur was too high and broad — in 
one word, too big for her personality, whether of mind 
or body. 

The peevish twitch of the lips began to predominate, 
betraying a growing fretfulness. The excursions in the 
mental balloon afore-mentioned had likewise been re- 
sumed. The picture she saw from there was extremely 
touching: a young wife, living a life almost forlorn, cut 
off by her present delicate state of health from any 
assistance she might otherwise have given her husband, 
and thus virtually shut out from his life. Or, from an- 
other point of view, a woman of education and "aspira- 
tions," exiled in a land of semi-barbarians, and tied to 
a man who would not understand her real wants. Th^ 


vision caused more than one flood of tears to rise to 
her eyes during those idle days spent perforce upon the 
sofa in the much-improved sitting — no, drawing-room. 

That even the prospect of becoming a father, should 
have changed John so little was, in Ella's opinion, the 
worst symptom of all. True, he had beamed at the 
first intelligence, and thanked God upon his knees for 
the favour; but his remarks upon the coming event 
only too clearly betrayed the subjective place it took in 
his mind. 

"If it were a boy, Ella — oh, if it were a boy!" had 
been almost his first words. "What happiness to think 
that perhaps some day he may be able to take up the 
work I shall be forced to lay down!" 

Upon which Ella had only smiled a little faintly, 
while inwardly registering the wish that it should not be 
a boy. A daughter would be in many ways preferable, 
if only because she would be more exclusively given into 
her own hands to be trained up in the way she would 
consider fit 

It was in favour of her wish that the balance of 
Fate inclined. 

The news met John six miles from home, and under 


circumstances which remained in his mind for many a 
day to come. 

He had been out of the house for twenty-four hours, 
summoned to a dying woman in the wildest part of the 
hills. His task had been done ere nightfall, but a 
violent thunderstorm had kept him prisoner all night in 
the distant croft Even by daylight the smaller burns, 
the slippery rocks, made progress slow and difficult 
As he tramped through the wet heather beaten all awry 
by the violence of the past downpour, he was thinking 
a good deal of Ella, and hoping that his absence would 
not have distressed her, but he was also thinking a good 
deal of the old woman whose eyes he had closed last 
night and of the marvellous way in which the lines of 
care, drawn by eighty years, had been smoothed out in 
a few minutes by the hand of death. 

He was not more than half-way home when the 
messenger, sent in haste from the village, met him with 
the great news. 

"The finest lassie you could pick for miles around, 
they say, minister, and the missis doing splendid, but 
frettin' after you, and you're to come home just as fast 
as your feet will carry you" — such was the purport of 


the good tidings, brought by a grinning and breathless 
youth perspiring congratulation at every pore! 

In a flash John's heart leaped up almost to his 
mouth. The face of the dead woman sank into an 
abyss of oblivion, and a tiny baby-face rose in its stead. 
At that moment he was as average a man as any in 
the village. Not even the fact of its being a girl in- 
stead of a boy could damp the natural pride of the father. 

"As fast as my feet will carry me, you say?" he 
laughed aloud. "I should think so! But with the hill- 
side in this state, that won't be over-fast. And she's 
fretting, is she? My poor Ella! It wouldn't be a bad 
plan to borrow the wings of yonder hawk. Would he 
give me a loan of them, I wonder? What say you, 
Sandy? " 

Sandy, pleasantly astonished at this quite unusual 
jocularity — for John was indeed talking as though under 
the influence of new wine — broadened his grin, while 
producing a less picturesque but more practical sug- 
gestion. Though wings might not be procurable, legs 
might be. Or, to put it more plainly, Mick Stuart, the 
forester in the gully hard by, possessed a pony which 
he would presumably be inclined to let out, and which 


would certainly do the road in half the time required 
by human legs. 

John jumped at the suggestion, and in another ten 
minutes came in sight of the solitary cottage. It would 
almost appear as though Mick had foreseen his wish 
and met it half-way, for before his door the very pony 
in question stood, ready saddled and bridled. 

"That's for me, isn't it?" was John's elate greeting to 
the lad at its head. "You thought I'd be wanting him." 

Before any answer came two men stepped out of 
the house, one of them the grey-bearded forester, whom 
John knew, the other a person whom he likewise knew 
by sight, though never before having exchanged a word 
with him. 

It was some months now since the heap of stones 
noted by John two years ago with so much disapproval 
had turned into that quite superfluous Catholic Chapel, 
but only some weeks since Father Flinter had taken 
possession. John had seen him from afar, never with- 
out a slight attack of heart-burning; and once or twice 
had even taken the trouble to make a round, in order 
to avoid an inconvenient proximity. To-day, for the 
first time, he saw his spiritual rival near, 


He was a very small person, of boyish, or more 
strictly speaking, girlish appearance, being fair and pink, 
while within his clear grey eyes was that particular frank 
fearlessness most often seen in the faces of very young 
and very healthy girls. The smallness of his stature 
and the daintiness of his limbs were anything but im- 
posing — a fact to which, judging from the careful as- 
sumption of gravity both in feature and movements, he 
seemed very much alive. Willie Robson himself, in the 
year of his d^hut in the quarries, had not been more 
jealously watchful of his demeanour than was the small 
Father Flinter. "If you think Pm a mere pink-and- 
white doll, you're very much mistaken," his ostentatiously 
serious look seemed to say; while, by forbidding his full 
lips to smile unnecessarily, he evidently believed himself 
to be vindicating the dignity of his office. People who 
knew Father Flinter in later life reported of him that he 
laughed at least as frequently as other folk, but at this 
early stage of professional experience he evidently 
laboured under the impression that every sign of hilarity 
suppressed added something like a cubit to his stature 
both physical and mental. 

At sight of the "minister" he first coloured as 


deeply as any girl could have done, and then gravely 
lifted his hat. 

Hastily and indifferently John returned his salute. 
Father Flinter was of no interest to him at that moment 
He turned to Mick Stuart 

"I can have the pony, can I not? I must get to 
Ardloch without delay. Fve been away since yesterday. 
That storm in the night kept me back." 

Mick began to dig about in his beard in evident 

"Pm really sorry, minister, but the pony's bespoke 
for Father Flinter here. He's been up in the hills all 
night, same as yourself. 

John made an impatient gesture. 

"Have you no second beast? I must get home, I 
tell you. I've just had the news that my wife has been 
brought to bed. She's fretting after me." 

"I'm real sorry," repeated Mick, still tormenting his 
beard. But at this moment the miniature priest stepped 

"Oh, please take the pony," he said eagerly. "I 
don't mind walking at all, and of course you must get 
home at once." 


John looked at him gratefully, not at all as though 
at a natural enemy, but still hesitating to accept help 
from such a quarter. 

"But you've been up all night, Father — you know 
you have!" objected Mick, who being of the old faith 
himself, evidently inclined to favour his own pastor. 

"Been havin' an awful hot time of it with Tom 
Scott," he explained to John, in an aside. "Last stage 
of what they call deleerum treem's," 

"I don't like abusing of your — your kindness," 
stammered John, sorely pressed between two considera- 
tions. A closer look at the youthful face had revealed 
to him bluish shadows upon its pink, and a slight droop 
at the comers of the lips. "I did have some sleep 
in the night, for my — my patient died before dark. 
But it's not on my own account, you see, but on that 
of my wife. She is waiting. And then I must con- 
fess that I am just a bit impatient to embrace my 

The laugh with which he ended rang with the pride 
of the young father. 

Father Flinter echoed the laugh, his grey eyes 
twinkling in a manner that was decidedly more boyish 


than girlish. But even before he had spoken, he had 
remembered his official dignity and corrected his ex- 
pression into a gravity more decorous. 

"Naturally you must be impatient. Pray, have no 
scruples at all. I'm quite well able for the walk — and 
there is nobody waiting for mey you know." 

He smiled again as he said it, but in a different 
way this time. In fact, John did not quite know what 
to make of this second smile. 

"Ah, no — to be sure," he said, and in the gaze he 
turned upon the youthful priest there stood written a 
sympathy which verged upon pity. "As you say, 
perhaps it's, after all, I who have the first claim on that 
pony. So if you are quite sure — " 

A few more polite words were exchanged, during 
which John tried hard not to look too sorry for the poor 
celibate before him — who, strangely enough, did not look 
particularly sorry for himself, and on whose lips the 
same enigmatical smile once or twice appeared. It was 
still there as he stood in the doorway watching John 
mount, and as, with measured gesture, he lifted his hat 
in farewell. 

While the pony picked its way among the boulders. 


and the dainty little figure of the pink-faced priest, with 
the eyes of a girl and the gravity of a judge, still 
hovered before John's mental vision, he continued to 
break his head over the meaning of that smile. It 
could not be, surely, that that funny little man was 
actually laughing at him? And with what reason? — 
since, most obviously, the laugh was on his (John's) 

Even while he was sitting between Ella's bed and 
the baby-girl's cradle, his mind darted back once or 
twice to Father Flinter. He could not regret the 
meeting. Even he caught himself wondering whether 
a few more minutes' conversation might not have proved 
interesting; for something in the look of those straight 
and dear grey eyes made him fancy that, despite all 
differences of faith, they might possibly have found 
some things to say to each other. 

It is probable that the appearance of the small Julia 
(Ella had been careful to select a name not indigenous 
to the district) would have served to keep the eyes of 
her parents longer closed to their real position tow^xfti.^ 

The Com^fim/se. /. \ 

114 '^^^^ COMPROMISE. 

each other, had not an unlooked-for event hurried on a 
discovery which, sooner or later, had to come. 

Ella was still partially on the sofa when there 
arrived a letter from Glasgow, which, harmless though 
its appearance might be, nevertheless contained a moral 
bomb — destined to shatter a good many dreams both 
of husband and wife. 

A week earlier this letter had been preceded by a 
piece of news which, being of a mortuary character, 
ought to be defined as sad, although borne by Ella, 
despite her still delicate state, with considerable com- 
posure. That for some time past poor Fanny had been 
ailing had principally transpired through Mrs. Watson's 
complaints of not being properly attended to — but she 
had been a sick-nurse for so long that imagination re- 
fused to picture her as a patient When, after a few 
days' illness, and without making any fuss whatever 
about it, she quietly departed this life, astonishment 
was the uppermost feeling. Her mother herself seemed 
quite as much aggrieved as grieved, and evidently 
principally exercised in mind as to where to take a sick- 
nurse from. The result of these mental researches was 
contained in the letter. 


It was at the end of another long day of absence 
that John, returning tired and hungry, found Ella sitting 
up on the sofa, with bright eyes, heightened colour, 
and evidently in a simmer of impatience. 

"This looks like progress!" he said, as he kissed 
her, disregardful of the open letter in her hand. " We*ll 
be having you about soon." 

"Oh, you'll be having me about at once, John, I've 
had such a grand piece of news? It's made me feel 
quite strong again. Oh, I've been counting the minutes 
till you came!" 

"A piece of news in that letter?" he asked incredu- 
lously, for he could not imagine the post-bag bringing 
anything which could disturb him greatly, either plea- 
sureably or otherwise. Did not his world lie close 
around him? 

"Yes; here, read it? Oh, I do wonder what you 
will say? But of course you can only say one thing. 
It's from my aunt You will be astonished." 

Resignedly John took the sheet she held towards 
him — Mrs. Watson had never appealed to more than 
his sense of Christian charity — and bent his head to 
the task. The writing was cramped, but legible, ^xvd 


the meaning itself left nothing whatever to be desired 
on the score of clearness. If the frankness with which 
it was expressed occasionally verged on brutality, at 
least all danger of misunderstanding was effectually 
done away with. 

In delightfully plain words her aunt proposed to 
Ella a bargain. If John M'Donnell would give up his 
living at Ardloch, and seek for an appointment in 
Glasgow, she declared herself ready not only to afford 
to the couple the hospitality of her house, but likewise 
to assure to Ella the ultimate possession of the two 
thousand pounds which constituted her fortune, as well 
as of the house itself, representing at least another 
thousand, on the sole condition that her niece should 
"look after" her in the various ways which her un- 
fortunate health required. It was, in fact, the vacant 
position of sick-nurse she was offering her, unpaid for 
the present, but with the money held out as a bribe at 
the end; and evidently Mrs. Watson considered that, 
by her readiness to take the baby into the bargain — 
whose wants might reasonably be considered as dan- 
gerous rivals to her own — she was acting in a parti- 
cularly handsome and generous manner. 


Ella breathlessly watching John's face while he read, 
did not know what to make of its undisturbed in- 

"Yes, I am astonished — very much astonished," he 
said, at the end, as he quietly folded up the sheet 
"Whatever could have put such an idea into your 
aunt's head?" 

"It's a very natural idea, surely. Poor auntie needs 
someone to look after her, and I'm her nearest relation." 

Ella was on the defensive ahready, armed for the 
struggle without which John would probably not think 
it right to )deld, if only out of r^ard for his principles. 

"But you would never even have had the strength 
for nursing her. Fanny was much stronger than you, I 
am sure, and yet it killed her." 

"That's only because she did not know how to 
manage. Poor Fanny wasn't at all clever. I know I 
shall do better. Auntie never bullied me in the way 
she bullied her. I'm sure I shall be an excellent sick- 

"I'm sure you would," smiled John abstractedly. 
"But what's the use of discussing your talents in that 
direction, since the whole thing is impossibly." 


Ella sat up quite straight upon her sofa. 

"Impossible, John? You surely forget what you're 
saying. What's there impossible about it?" 

"But don't you see that this involves my giving up 
my work here?" 

"Well?" she asked defiantly. 

"That's a thing that, of course, I can't do." 

In the fever of her excitement Ella had almost 
sprung up, but restrained herself in time, remembering 
that she had resolved on patience. It could not be that 
reason should not triumph in the end. She even forced 
herself to lean back again amongst her cushions. 

"But, John," she argued, with laboured gentleness, 
though her wide mouth was twitching a little ominously 
already, "nobody wants you to give up your work. Of 
course you will go on working — whether in Glasgow or 
here, what difference can that make? Are there not, 
well — things to do, souls to save there as well as here?" 

There was gentleness too — of another sort — in John's 
shake of the head. 

"It is not to the Glasgow folk I have been called, 
it is to my own folk. I know how to speak to them. 
How do I know whether words would be given me for 


the Others? This is my place. I should be betraying 
my call if I left it — an unfaithful servant, not worthy of 
another appointment — and neither would I get it" 

"That's a mere idea, John dear, — ^just because 
you're so fond of your own country. And of course, 
you would get another appointment — perhaps not im- 
mediately, but in no very long time. An exchange can 
perhaps be managed. The Bishop will help you — he 
is so kind; and when he hears the circumstances of the 
case — " 

**What circumstances?" 

"The fortune that depends upon our resolution. 
You see what my aunt says about leaving me out of her 
will if I do not agree to her proposal; and Tm sure 
she'd do it" 

"You would have me be untrue to my mission be- 
cause of a fortune? " asked John, with a stem astonish- 
ment that almost struck her dumb — but not quite. 

"But no — not untrue — it's not unfaithfulness I ask 
of you, only a little accommodation. Your plan of 
ministering to others remains untouched. It's only de- 
tails that would have to be altered. You can't be so 
obstinate, so narrow-minded as that And when so 


much depends upon it — the whole future of our child, 
John — ^just think of that!" 

Despite all resolutions Ella's voice shook audibly. 

** He will take care of our child," said John, with an 
instinctive sinking of the head. 

Ella stared aghast, something like panic dawning in 
her eyes. The struggle she had foreseen, without seri- 
ously doubting the victory. This was the first moment 
at which her confidence actually wavered. 

"You — you don't mean to say seriously that you 
expect me to refuse my aunt's offer?" 

John stared back at her in an amazement no less 
palpable than her own. 

"Could you actually believe that I should agree to 
your accepting it?" 

She leaned forward, gripping him by the sleeve, as 
though in hopes of rivetting his attention to the crucial, 
the all-important point. 

"But three thousand pounds, John! three thousand 
pounds! Surely you can't have understood the letter 
right? It would be three thousand pounds I should be 
refusing if J say *No' to my aunt!" 


"What do we want with three thousand pounds? 
We are very well as we are." 

For a moment longer she stared — well-nigh glared 
at him; then the over-strain of her nerves sought relief 
in a burst of sharp, hysterical laughter. 

"Ah, you are joking!" she gasped, with her face in 
her handkerchief. "It can only be a joke. You cannot 
seriously mean to refuse three thousand pounds. If 
you had only yourself to think of it would be different, 
but you're a husband and a father — John — oh, that I 
should have to remind you of that!" 

This time John said nothing, but looked at her with, 
on his face, the puzzled frown which lately had been a 
rather frequent visitor there. 

"Your duty is to your family, John! Have you for- 
gotten that?" 

"No, I have not forgotten it," John said slowly; 
"but my duty to my office comes first." 

Her strained face grew rather white. 

"You mean that I and the baby — I and your daughter 
come only second with you?" 

"It cannot be otherwise, surely," said John, still 
frowning perplexedly. 


She sank back upon the sofa, staring at him, horror- 
stricken. It was only a momentary paralysis; presently 
her tongue began to move faster than ever. A final 
and desperate charge upon John's resolution was being 
made. He was appealed to, argued with, admonished — 
all to no purpose. During the half-hour which followed, 
the young couple made more discoveries about each 
other than they had made during the thirteen months 
of their marriage. This John whom she encountered to- 
day was not at all the same John whom Ella had 
known hitherto. He had been so pliabfe in small 
things that naturally she had expected him to be the 
same in big. Wax in trifles, how should she be pre- 
pared to find him granite in what he considered to be 
essentials? He did not even seem to be conscious of 
any difficulty in opposing her. There was no symptom 
of hesitation, or of any particular straining of resolution. 
It was simply that the possibility of yielding did not so 
much as occur to him. At argument he made no at- 
tempt, though there were many things he might have 
urged beyond the mere point of conscience; such as 
the unnatural position of himself in Mrs. Watson's 
house, the real difficulties in the way of obtaining 


another appointment But John, not being practical 
enough for these considerations, simply stuck to his 
point by patiently repeating — possibly not without a 
touch of mere human obstinacy mingled with his 
higher motive: "This is my place and I will not 
leave it" 

The scene ended in something like hysterics on her 
side — in much distress on his, joined to a general sense 
of amazement, qu\te as great as her own. 

Late that night, while already he slept, Ella still 
bent, weeping, over the cradle of her child. The battle 
was lost; she knew it Short of separation from John 
there was no way of securing those three thousand 
pounds; and to this she could not quite make up her 
mind, not because he was any longer essential to her 
happiness, but because hef mind was fashioned on lines 
too conventional for so unconventional a step. Oh, the 
agony of that letter which would have to be written to- 
morrow! The bitterness of that forced refusal of the 
gift of Fortune! Such a chance could never come 
again: material comfort in the future, and for the pre- 
sent, escape from these hateful associations which en- 
tangled her at every step! Could it be expecl^d VVv^X 


she should continue to feel what she had once fdt for 
the man who was compelling her to take this step? 
It was some time since she had begun to suspect that 
she had made a niess of her life; to-day she felt sure 
of it 

"Oh, my darling!" she sobbed, as she bent over the 
muslin-trimmed cradle. "How shall I ever make up to 
you for the wrong that is being done you?" 

Visions of an innocent and injured infant, robbed 
of its rightful possessions by the obstinacy of a fanatical 
father, crowded in upon her. The existence of the in- 
fant itself at once deepened the despair, while stirring 
some faint embers of hope. 

"You shall not make the mistake I made, «my dar- 
ling," she murmured, with heart and lips. "It shall be 
the task of my life to prevent it" 

Before she slept that night various vows, all bear- 
ing upon the education of the small Julia, had been 
fervently registered. 

PART 11. 


Another aflemoon in the slate-quarries, with close 
upon thirty years separating it from the one upon which 
John McDonnell had bade his first farewell to the beloved 
scene of his labours. 

No very startling difference to be discovered in this 
world of dark-grey rock. The walls of the amphitheatre, 
scarred by the slanting lines of the blasts, have retreated 
somewhat, and the green pool at the bottom of the abyss 
has visibly widened. The big drums — gigantic bobbins, 
which are the agents of communication with the lower 
levels — have been renewed, and the engine-house has 
been reconstructed upon a more modem principle. 
Otherwise nothing but the tints of spring to distinguish 
this afternoon from that distant autumn day. The same 
monotonous "chip, chip," the same dangling, sprawling, 


crawling figures — apparently the same rose bush stooping 
over the abyss, only that, instead of sinking under the 
weight of its ripe fruit, its branches bristling with tiny 
green points, flirt gaily with the breeze. The hills across 
the loch, framed by the gates, still wear their grim 
winter faces, ghastly almost with the pallor of last year's 
bleached grass, but upon the Burial Island, half-way, 
there is a shimmer of green at the feet of the black firs. 
Upon one of the central levels Adam McDonnell is 
working away almost as vigorously as on that former 
afternoon. The red of his hair no longer screams so 
loudly against the red of his face, its fire being as though 
sprinkled with ashes, and his firame has thickened con- 
siderably, which is the labourer's only way of growing 
stout. Beside him, as he crouches before the ready 
bored blast-hole, and with the powder-bag in his hand^ 
stands that same Duncan who, when aged three had, in 
consequence of John's indiscreet invitation, been the 
cause of some scandal to Ella McDonnell: now a ripe 
man, and a comely one too, having taken after his "black" 
mother, rather than after his "red" father, and with no 
more than a few ruddy threads among the deep brown 
of his hair and beard to recall the M'Donnell strain. He 


has his father's powerful frame without its peculiarly thick 
set of bones, and his mother's quick, black eyes. 

Of the two other members of the "crew" present, 
one had worked with Adam on that far-off afternoon; 
but Willie Robson has no more need of artificial gravity, 
life having, within these twenty-nine years, furnished him 
with material quite sufficient for the genuine article. 
Custom has long since staled the charm of his present 
occupation, which consists in loading the rough blocks 
upon a truck drawn by a large, patient horse, who cir- 
culates the level from morning till night, collecting the 
blocks from each working in turn, to pass them on pre- 
sently to the miniature engine which starts for the sheds 
whenever a sufficiently long train has been formed. 

As for Tim M'Laren, he has as little need of artificial 
jocularity as of anything else, having for twenty years 
past slept soundly upon the Burial Island. 

The fourth worker in the crew, and the youngest of 
the lot, is busy preparing the primitive fuse, a long and 
stout oat straw, which, filled with gunpowder, was pre- 
sently to be inserted in the blast-hole. With the fixing 
of its tail of "match-paper," ready for the igniting flame, 
the work will be accomplished. 


"That's enough powder, but it will take some 
squeezing. Where's the dresser?" 

Duncan handed a tool to his father. 

"Do you know what I'm thinking, father?" 


"That we're fools to give in to the new manager's 
high horse. He knows as well as we do that the iron 
tools are forbidden. Why have none of us the spirit to 
threaten him with the law? Mr. Gillies had promised 
us the steel hammers and bearers; and just because this 
man wants to make favour with the company, and knows 
that he will do it best by saving the pennies, the promise 
has been taken back. They keep their pennies, and we 
keep the risk. It's infamous!" 

Adam shook his big head reprovingly. 

"Aye, Duncan; that's you again. Always for attack- 
ing somebody, and talking about rights and things, when 
you ought to be thankful, in these hard days, just to get 
along. It's an awful ill thing to grapple with a manager, 
I tell ye. Ye'll find that out when you're my age. And 
that new man looks bad to deal with. We've worked with 
the iron these many years, and what harm's come of it?" 

Adam, as he spoke was placidly pressing down the 


powder into the hole, preparatory to filling it up with the 
dry clay which lay ready. 

After a moment he spoke again, cowering a little 
closer to the hole. 

"Duncan, my lad?" 

"Yes, father." 

"I'm heavy to-day, Duncan; there's misfortune in 
the air." 

"There's no need for misfortune, so long as you are 
careful," said Duncan, a trifle impatiently. "That's an 
extra big blast-hole, mind, father!" 

"It's not the blast-hole I'm thinking of — it's Bessie." 

"Then it would be better if it were the blast-hole, 
father. What's the good of worrying over Bessie?" 

"You've no heart for your sister, Duncan. You 
heard what the doctor said. She'll go the way her 
mother did. And another thing, Duncan" — Adam 
dropped his voice by a tone to add: "The corpse-lights 
have been seen." 

Duncan kicked a fragment of slate out of the way, 
perhaps all the more vigorously as he was not as ab- 
solutely unaffected by the final remark as he wished to 

TAe Compromise, J, 9 


"If worrying over Bessie would do her any good, 
rd worry ten hours a day to please you, father; but it*s 
not my way to fret for the fretting*s sake." 

" You know that she was nearly gone the first time." 

"But she wasn't quite gone, and she's not gone yet 
Cheer up, father! By the time we get home to-night 
who knows whether you won't have a grandson waiting 
to be cuddled!" 

"But will I have a daughter?" harped on Adam, 
when Duncan sharply interrupted himw 

"The whistle, father! There you have it. Much 
good will it do Bessie if we've missed the blast!" 

The shrill, long-drawn scream of the steam-whistle 
had not yet done re-echoing against the walls of rock 
when the sound of an explosion — a premature explo- 
sion, as every experienced ear knew — covered its final 
tones. The men on the different levels, gathering up 
their tools before retiring to shelter, stood abruptly up- 
right, their startled eyes sweeping the grey arena, to re- 
main fixed upon one smoking spot, through whose thick 
fumes the figures of running men could be seen dis- 


persing with the haste of terror, their upraised arms 
shielding their heads from the flying slate pieces. 

As the smoke began to draw away, two figures be- 
came visible upon the distant level, both lying upon 
their backs, and neither moving. 

"It's Donald Robson's quarry," ran the excited 

"No; it's Adam McDonnell's." 

"Who can say what quarry it is, until the smoke's 

"That's Adam upon his back." 

"No; it's Duncan." 

"Why, there are two of them!" 

"One's moving now." 

Over the edges of the rock-terraces the men peered, 
horror-struck, gazing breathlessly upon the spot of danger, 
which might so easily prove to be a spot of death. 



In the same bow-windowed room in which a quarter 
of a century ago John and Ella McDonnell had for the 
first time sat down at their own hearth, three persons 
were earnestly occupied around a fourth. There was 
only one man among them; and of the women one was 
obviously a menial, her part in the process being con- 
fined to handing pins, threading needles, and giving 
forth various tones suggestive of acute bodily pain, 
which, however, to judge from the radiancy of her fat 
face, were intended to express delighted admiration. 

Wrapped in a dingy dressing-gown, though with care- 
fully-dressed hair, Julia McDonnell was on her knees 
upon the floor, putting the last touches to her sister 
Fenella's white evening dress. 

The child over whose cradle poor Ella had shed such 
bitter tears on a certain agitated evening long past, had 
developed into a big, well-built, but alas! carrot-haired 


young woman, with her mother's light-blue eyes only of 
a smaller and sharper make, and with a shower of those 
pale-brown freckles almost inseparable from the wrong 
shade of red hair. Throughout the three children the 
red McDonnell strain had triumphed over Ella's flaxen 
locks, though with widely different results. When a 
year after Julia's birth Ella had presented her husband 
with the son he had coveted, the unmistakable tint of 
the soft down covering the tiny skull had awakened in 
him a secret hope, for might not the affinity in com- 
plexion denote a similarity of tastes? Another vain 
dream! its vanity more surely proved with every year 
that the boy, whom Ella, in defiance of all associations, 
had insisted on christening Albert, grew up. Even the 
physical likeness between father and son served but to 
emphasise the moral differences. The small, narrow 
head was there, with its close-grown crop of ruddy gold, 
but yet in its very poise, and in the nervous rapidity of 
its movements, was obviously the head of another sort 
of man. That spareness of feature which in the father 
suggested the ascetic, made for business-like keenness in 
the son. The brown eyes were there too, but with all 
the difference that lies between the gaze of the mystic 


and that of the positivist. A certain restlessness of his 
thin lips recalled his mother, but was more likely a re- 
flection of that modem disquiet which stands for what 
used formerly to be healthy activity. For this descendant 
of generations of quarrymen had been caught by the 
spirit of the age, or by as much of it as he had been 
able to assimilate during the years of study, which 
miracles of economy on the part of the family at large 
had rendered possible. The result was clearly visible 
upon this face of twenty- three, whose keen brown eyes 
and clean-shaven set of jaw spoke far more of twentieth 
century precocity than of that joie de vivre which used 
to be the privilege of his years. 

As now, clad in a black tail-coat, of whose defects 
of quality he was bitterly aware, he sat half-turned upon 
his chair, one elbow resting on the back, and his eyes 
fixed critically upon the figure of the girl in the white 
dress, his expression testified to his powers of mental 
concentration upon whatever might be the question of 
the moment. Just now it was the question whether 
Fenella should wear white or coloured flowers to-night — 
a point which to an outsider might appear irrelevant, 
but which iieither he nor Julia were inclined to treat 


carelessly. As to Fenella's own views on the subject, 
they appeared to be of minor importance. Moderately 
patient and slightly bored, she stood there upon the 
footstool which she had obediently mounted, in order to 
give Julia a better command of her flounced skirt, her 
bare, white arms hanging down before her, her hands 
lightly clasped. 

"Pink, of course, is impossible," argued Julia, still 
upon her knees. "That unfortunate colour of hair 
leaves one so very small a range. But what do you say 
to this bunch of forget-me-nots, Albert? I think the 
effect is rather good;" and she held a tuft of artificial 
flowers against the white of her sister's dress. 

Albert put back his head, shading his eyes with his 
hands, and gazing hard at the forget-me-nots. 

"I'm sure they will do very well," remarked Fenella, 
beginning to fidget upon her footstool. 

"No; they won't do," decided Albert, in a tone which 
admitted of no contradiction. "Away with them! White 
— unbroken white — that's the thing for our money. The 
McDonnell hair won't be hidden, and that's a fact, so 
let's make a virtue of necessity, and brazen it out. It 
claims to be the only colour in the picture, and spits 


at every rival. Nothing for it but to let it have its 
own way." 

"The white hawthorn, then. Janet, hand me that 
trail. Do keep quiet for a few minutes longer, child! 
You know how terribly important it is that you should 
look your best to-night." 

"But there's a pin running into my shoulder, Julia! 
and that ribbon round my neck is choking me." 

"Take it off altogether!" directed Albert, with the 
same sharp decision as before. "Ribbon necklaces are 
all very well for old women with wrinkled throats; but 
you've no particular reason for hiding your throat that I 
know of. Yes; that's much better." 

"You will soon learn to overlook such trifles as pins," 
argued Julia, in the soothing tone of one comforting a 
child. "With the dance music in your ears, I don't be- 
lieve you'll even feel them. One has to suffer, in order 
to be beautiful, you know; and I'm sure I wouldn't 
mind a whole paper of pins running into me if that 
would buy me your looks." Julia laughed good-naturedly 
as magnanimously she added: "But I'll try and find this 
particular pin, if you like. There!" she announced, a 
moment later, "That's all I can do. Like to have a 


look at yourself? Janet, don't stand gaping there, but 
get away from before the mirror." 

With a breath of relief Fenella stepped cautiously to 
the ground. Mounted upon the footstool she had ap- 
peared over-tall, but revealed herself now as of merely 
medium height. Julia, having scrambled to her feet, 
overtowered her by well-nigh half a head. 

There had been a trifle of ill-humour, mixed of 
fatigue and impatience, upon Fenella's face as she 
accepted her deliverance, but in the moment that she 
stepped before the mirror every cloud vanished. The 
picture reflected there was indeed calculated to stimulate 
the spirits even of people who were not standing upon 
the threshold of their first ballroom. 

Albert had been right. The unbroken white was 
the thing. What need of any artificial colour, beside the 
glorious depth, the triumphant warmth of these heavily- 
wound tresses, beneath whose weight the small head might 
have been in danger of drooping had it not borne itself 
•so straight and fearlessly, with just the slightest tilt^back- 
wards, dictated by the exigencies of balance? The face 
itself was small and exquisite, with all those delicious 
roundnesses of chin and cheek and throat YihvcU ^\^ 


never carried very far out of childhood, and with dark- 
brown eyes under delicately level brows supplying just 
the point of contrast necessary to the wonderful copper 
tints of her hair. When a red-haired woman's com- 
plexion is good at all — that is, when it has escaped its 
besetting danger of freckles — then it is usually almost 
perfect; and Fenella had not only escaped that danger, 
but in the matter of sunburn and frost-bite, and all 
the other perils to the female skin, had been watched 
over with a solicitude as assiduous as any that ever 
fluttered around a professional beauty preparing for a 
London career. The average British maiden decolletee 
is apt to startle by the hard and fast line on throat and 
wrist, representing the limit of exposure; but between 
Fenella's fair face and her spotless shoulders no note of 
disharmony could have been discovered. 

"I think she will do, won't she?" asked Julia, look- 
ing exultingly towards her brother, who had risen from 
his chair, and with hands behind his back, was taking 
final stock of the result of many days' labour and reflection. 

"I think she will," he said briefly, but significantly, 
while Janet groaned louder than ever in the inarticulate 
effort of expressing her feelings. 


Fenella herself was the last to speak. She was still 
gazing into her own eyes in dumb astonishment. It was 
her hair which astonished her most Personally, she 
had always hated its colour, because of the kinship it 
proclaimed to the populace around. Until to-day she 
had regarded it as the blot upon her beauty — for she 
knew that she was beautiful — now suddenly it occurred 
to her that instead of being the blot it might possibly 
prove to be the crown. 

All at once she clapped her hands together, curt- 
seying to herself in the glass. 

"Of course Til do. I hadn't an idea Pd look like 
that! Had you, Julia? Yes, I suppose you had, or 
you wouldn't have taken so much trouble. Poor dear! 
and you haven't got your own dress on yet, and the 
machine will be here in a moment Oh, please, please 
be quick!" 

"Oh, I!" laughed Julia contentedly. "What do I 
matter? Pll be dressed in a flash, somehow or other." 

"You know Mrs. Perkins said that they would begin 
sharp at nine, and it would be too dreadful to miss the 
first dance. Oh, Julia, do hurry up! I will help you." 

"And crush your flounces and disarrange your ftowex^ 


in the process? No, thank you. I've had work enough 
with them already. Janet will come upstairs with me, 
and meanwhile you will sit . here — no, you had better 
stand. Bertie, will you see that she doesn't do anything 
foolish until I'm down again? Come along, Janet! You 
can look at yourself in the glass meanwhile," remarked 
Julia, from the door, by way of consolation. 

Submissively Fenella remained standing upon the 
spot Julia had pointed to, but she no longer saw her 
own reflection. Visions of the coming event had risen 
between her and her bodily image; for a dance within 
an available distance was an event here. What a 
splendid idea that had been of Mrs. Perkins, the wife of 
the quarry doctor employed by the company, to celebrate 
her only daughter's coming out in this fashion! Miss 
Perkins, being five feet high, with the gait of a duck 
well prepared for the market, could not easily look to 
more disadvantage than she would in a ballroom; but 
this circumstance could not be expected to weigh upon 
the minds of irresponsible guests. She furnished the 
pretext, and that was enough. Viewed in this light, 
Fenella was even prepared to admire her. 

Presently, in the mirror, Fenella met the eyes of 


her brother fixed upon her earnestly and a little 

"Fenella," he said, in the same moment 

"Yes, Bertie?" 

"You remember all that Julia and I told you yester- 

"About not giving too many dances to one per- 

"About not giving them to the wrong persons. To 
the right ones you may give as many as you like." 

"Pm afraid I'll be so excited that I'll mix up the 
right ones and the wrong ones." 

"I hope not You can't have already forgotten all 
the directions I gave you. And mind that even if Mr. 
Berrell should not ask you at once, you must keep at 
least two dances, in case he asks you later." 

"But if he doesn't ask me at all?" 

"That could only be through your own fault. He 
can't help noticing you, since he isn't blind; and after 
that — well, I don^t know how women manage these 
things, but if you play your cards at all well, he is 
bound to ask you." 


"PU do what I can," said Fenella, a little doubt- 
fully. "But — but somebody was saying the other day 
that he is very ugly." 

"Ugly? Not a bit of it! He's a very striking-look- 
ing man; and besides, he's the only eligible person for 
miles around. His income must be at least eight hun- 
dred; and he'll mount higher, for he has no want of 
push. Poor father never thinks of these things, of 
course; but I should not be doing my duty as your brother 
if I did not call your attention to what may be a great 
opportunity. You see, I cannot forget what I promised 
mother at the end. From a practical point of view, 
she knew quite well that you were being virtually left 
fatherless as well as motherless. That's why I feel more 
as though I were talking to my daughter than to my 
sister," smiled the youthful monitor. "Of course, no- 
body thinks of forcing your inclinations," he added in a 
tone of general concession. "All I ask of you is that 
you should not set your mind against the idea. It's a 
great chance this new man being a bachelor, and on the 
look out for a wife, as they say. You've got nothing 
but your face, remember; and the chances of its being 
seen are not many, in this wilderness." 


"Oh, no; Pm not setting my mind against it," agreed 
Fenella, almost readily. 

As the beauty of the family she knew what was ex- 
pected of her. Indeed, she had heard of little else al- 
most since she had attained the age of reason. 

In the next instant excitement pure and simple had 
retaken possession of her shining eyes and smiling lips, 
as she stood still, listening. 

"Surely that's the machine? Isn*t that Janet coming 
to tell us?" 

But at the same moment the door opened to admit 
not Janet, but a long, black figure, somewhat stooping 
in the shoulders, and with scanty silver hair framing a 
high and narrow forehead. The neck appeared to have 
lengthened, whereas it had only shrunk, and the small 
face to have grown yet smaller, as is the manner of 
some thin faces, in contradistinction to those coun- 
tenances to whom age invariably brings expansion. But 
the brown eyes were not changed; they gazed out as 
mild and as child-like from beneath the grey wisps as 
they had ever done from under the luxuriant shadow 
of the ruddy-golden locks; yet through their very mild- 
ness there pierced at this moment a deep agitation. 


"Oh, father," exclaimed Fenella, turning quickly to- 
wards him. "You have just come in time to see my 
dress. You know you promised to look at it, but I do 
believe you had forgotten!" 

With a startled sort of surprise, and yet with evident 
blankness, John gazed et the dazzling vision. 

"I am afraid I had forgotten," he admitted, in a 
tone which verged on apology. "I came in only to say — " 

"Has anything happened, father?" asked Fenella, 
standing still to gaze alarmed at his altered face. 

"Yes; something has happened. There has been a 
bad accident at the quarries — a premature explosion, 
it seems. Adam is half-killed, they say, and Duncan 
too is hurt I must be off to them at once. I came in 
to tell Julia that I shall require nothing more to-night" 

"Oh!" said Fenella, genuinely started, and yet with 
the thought crossing her mind that surely — oh, surely, 
this was not going to interfere with the evening's pro- 

"Poor fellows! This is bad luck, certainly," re- 
marked Albert, with a subtle stiffening of tone; "that is 
to say, ;/ it is true. You know how thick the colour is 
laid on whenever anything happens in the quarries. 


Really, father, you shouldn't take on so, until you know 
how matters stand." 

"What's he not to take on about?" inquired Julia's 
high voice, as she appeared behind her father, her mas- 
sive shoulders and arms emerging triumphantly from a 
blue tulle gown. 

The minister hastily explained. 

"Another piece of imprudence, probably. And now 
they'll expect you to sit up all night, and perhaps even 
tie up their wounds. Poor, dear father! But you've 
really got yourself to thank for it, you know, for mak- 
ing yourself too cheap. Now, mind you're back before 
we are, unless you want me to come after you and 
march you home. Really, I'm sorry for that great lump 
of an Adam. What can he have been after? Here's 
your cloak, Fenella, and the machine is waiting. Now, 
mind your flowers!" 

But Fenella, for a brief moment, had forgotten her 
flowers. Her brown eyes remained fixed a little wist- 
fully upon her father's face, s)rmpathetically spelling out 
the disturbance written there. A second sharp re- 
primand from Julia was required to recall her to more 
urgent matters. 

The Compr^mt'sf, /, lO 


The next few minutes consisted of those rapid move- 
ments, that agitated collecting of gloves and fans, that 
feverish draping of wraps and tucking up of skirts 
which, on such evenings as this, mark the final stage 
before departure. Even before the preparations were 
quite finished, John had silently withdrawn. He was 
aware of being not only a superfluous figure, but also a 
discordant note. Though those three young people 
were his own flesh and blood, they had no use for him 
at this moment — nor he for them. 

** Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?" 



It was long past midnight when John, his body 
weary, his soul bleeding with the pity of the things he 
had seen, entered the small bedroom he had inhabited 
since Ella's death. Into a shabby easy-chair he sank 
down before the grate, in which, here and there, among 
the dead ashes, an ember gleamed, like a bloodshot 
eye. Of the revellers there was no sign as yet; and, 
since someone would have to sit up to let* them in, it 
might as well be he; seeing that the pictures so vividly 
filling his mind would be sure to keep sleep at bay for 
some time yet It was to this consideration that Janet 
owed release from her post 

As he sat there, gently though unconsciously rock- 
ing his head from side to side between his hands, John 
was aware of a pervading sense of loneliness. Ever 
since the evening on which he and Ella had discovered 
the truth about each other, the sensation had been 

latent, to become periodically acute. To-day tVvt ^\^\. 



of the man he loved as a brother, mutilated and ap- 
parently dying — perhaps also that of his own children, 
rigged out so bravely in the livery of fashion, had 
brought about one of these moments. 

Though he had been a widower for barely two years, 
he had been practically alone for twenty-four. 

From a material point of view, Ella had lost nothing 
by her grudging submission to John's will; since, less 
than two years after the crucial stene, the three thou- 
sand pounds in question had, by one of those subtle 
ironies in which Fate delights, found their way, after 
all, into her ready hands; the relative whom Mrs. Watson 
had selected as her heir having died intestate, close 
upon the heels of her benefactress, and Ella proving to 
be the nearest of kin. So, as far as the figure of her 
income was concerned, the battle with John had not 
been crucial at all; and yet it was by far the most 
crucial thing which came to either of their lives, either 
before or after. Although to outside eyes nothing was 
altered in their relations, yet nothing had been quite 
the same again after that evening. The reproachful, 
martyr-like airs sported by Ella somehow completely 
failed to touch John's not usually adamantine heart 


Neither was there much talk of the "assistance" she 
had once dreamt of giving him — as, indeed, how could 
there be, with maternal duties multiplying? Besides, 
their ideas with regard to "raising" the native speedily 
proved not to be identical. When Ella spoke of "rais- 
ing," she evidently meant improving their manners, and 
incidentally also their taste in dress, while John used 
just the same expression for a field of activity not em- 
braced within her horizon. 

Yet his patience never failed him. The form which 
his disappointment took was not irritation, but a slowly 
growing reserve, in which human pride undeniably had 
its part Every glimpse of his inner self which he had 
granted to this so inadequate confidant now struck him 
as a humiliation. On the evening of the discovery he 
had understood that henceforward he would have to go 
on his way alone; and alone he had gone ever since, 
always with the wound of his disappointment upon him 
— but not actually unhappy, since his work never failed 
him. The work itself had its disappointments, its fre- 
quent and bitter deceptions; but the spiritual has this 
great advantage over the material worker that the effort 
in itself satisfies some otherwise unquenchable craving, 


and that even failure fails entirely to depress, since it 
is but visible failure, and he knows himself to be work- 
ing in a field of invisible harvests. Under such con- 
ditions even the shovelling of earth into an abyss can 
be accomplished with a whole heart 

The growing up of his children around him could, 
under the given circumstances, only accentuate John's 
virtual loneliness. From the cradle on they had been 
taught another catechism than the one he would have 
loved to instil. Without an open struggle there was 
evidently no means of leading them into his own grooves 
of thought, and from the idea of domestic disharmony 
he fearfully shrank. Here, again, the inherent reserve 
had triumphed. He stood aside, seeing how, year by 
year, the intangible barrier which stood already between 
him and his wife was growing up between him and his 
children. When at last he was left alone with them it 
was too late to throw down the barrier — or so it seemed 
to him. During the two years since Ella's death no- 
thing had changed between father and children; he con- 
tinued to look at them yearningly, but from a distance; 
and to them he remained "poor father," an object of 
more or less tender veneration, tinged with that half- 


contemptuous pity with which so-called "healthy-minded** 
people regard those who differ from them in the ap- 
preciation of visible goods. 

And yet his memories of Ella were not entirely 
bitter. They were even touched with remorse. Was it 
so completely her fault that she had failed to come up 
to the ideal companion he had pictured? or not rather 
his for having expected of her more than she was able 
to give? It was this question which, throughout all her 
foolishness and peevish deterioration of temper had kept 
him patient 

On one solitary occasion had patience failed him. 
This had been during the smallpox epidemic which had 
raged at Ardloch some eight years after his marriage. 
For some days there had been sickness about, to which 
an incompetent doctor had not been able to give a 
name. But on that day an Oban authority had pro- 
nounced the terrifying word, and a summons arriving in 
John's absence had been promptly suppressed by Ella. 
On his return he had indeed observed an increased 
nervousness of manner, and had been closely questioned 
as to the people he had met on the road; but no suspi- 
cion had awakened in him until next morning, when a 


second, and this time tearful messenger, burst into the 
room in which he was preparing to breakfast Chariie 
Robson had died in the night, it appeared, and now his 
wife was sinking so fast that she felt it needful to see 
to her soul. 

"Charlie Robson?" repeated John, thunderstruck. 
"Gone already? Why was I not called?" 

"You was called, minister," whimpered the excited 
girl. "I gave the message to the missis myself; and the 
missis said as how you would come the moment you got 

For a brief space John stared very hard at the 
speaker; then, without a word, turned on his heel and 
went straight upstairs to Ella. 

"Is this true, Ella?" he asked, closing the door be- 
hind him. 

Young Mrs. McDonnell, in a white morning-gown, 
was sitting in a low chair with her youngest-born upon 
her lap, while the six-year-old Albert was pretending to 
fetter the seven-year-old Julia with the ends of the blue 
ribbon which floated from the maternal waist It was 
as pretty a domestic picture as anyone could wish to see. 

"Is what true? " she inquired, with a flush of defiance. 


"That I was summoned to Charlie Robson last night 
while I was out?" 

"Yes; it is true." 

"And why did you not give me the message?" 
Ella's underlip went out, but she remained silent "Why 
did you not give me the message?" repeated John, not 
loudly, but much more emphatically. 

"How could I give the message?" burst out Ella, 
visibly quivering. "I had just heard that the Oban 
doctor had diagnosed smallpox." 


"Isn't that enough? Could I let you risk your life 
and the lives of your children by catching the infection? 
Would I be a mother if I exposed them to such danger? 
And Fenella so delicate! The slightest attack would do 
for her. Oh, John, you can't be so madly imprudent? 
Just look at the darlings." 

John looked as he was bid, and looking, the angry 
retort which had risen to his lips hovered there for an- 
other moment unspoken. As he gazed at these tender, 
flawless faces, and thought of the fearful ravages he had 
seen on others, a rush of purely human panic came over 
him ; in the next moment detected already, and resolutely 

154 Tra: compromise. 

cast aside. The angry retort came all the angrier for 
coming a moment late. 

"So you would have me neglect my duties because 
of personal considerations?" he asked, in the harshest 
voice Ella had yet heard from him. "And I sleep 
soundly in my bed while Charlie Robson goes unassisted 
to his account? Oh, Ella, this is the end of all the trust 
I ever had!" 

"Where are you going?" asked Ella, starting to her 
feet, as he turned abruptly to the door. 

"To the Robsons' cottage. Minnie Robson is likely 
to follow her husband, it seems, and I cannot let all my 
parishioners die without my help." 

"If you go to the Robsons' cottage you can't come 
back here," declared Ella shrilly. "We can have no 
communication with the village. Surely you might have 
had enough regard for your own wife and children to 
think of that, John." 

The last words swam in tears already, whereupon 
Julia began to whimper and the baby to bawl in sympathy. 

"Very well, I won't come back," said John, with 
small trace of his habitual mildness. "I shall stop in 
the village, and shall have my things fetched." 


And hastily he closed the door upon a scene of 
domestic distress which irritated him in this moment far 
more than it appealed to him. 

As he hurried down the village street, all his pulses 
still throbbed, and a certain chronic perplexity set 
numberless bewildering wheels agoing in his head. For 
there was truth in Ella's complaints, and there was rea- 
son on her side. Could she justly be blamed for think- 
ing more of the safety of her children than of the mental 
peace of Charlie Robson's last hours? Human though 
these considerations might be, they yet had to be 
weighed; and so deep was John in the question of how 
his family's safety could best be assured without detri- 
ment to his own duties, that he came near to stumbling 
over a certain rather disreputable-looking Irish terrier 
with whom he had a bowing acquaintance, and who at 
this moment was sitting in the street with one eye upon 
the dead rat he was worrying and the other upon the 
door of the cottage which stood next door to that of 
the Robsons, and which was the very cottage in which, 
in a less free age. Popish rites were said to have been 
celebrated. At sight of the mangy terrier, whose bold- 
ness was partly due to ill-treatment — not unprovoked — 


at the hands of the village cats, John somewhat hastened 
his step, for fear of a meeting with the animal's priestly 
owner, who was bound to be not far off. This was no 
longer Father Flinter, but a very different sort of per- 
sonage — loud-spoken, ribicund, quite as Irish, and not 
always much more respectable -looking than his in- 
separable four-footed companion. That Father O'Bream 
regarded certain classes of liquids as having other uses 
beyond the mere quenching of thirst, would have been 
an open secret, even had he not himself been the first 
to pronounce the remorseful Med culpa, John knew the 
man as two quite different persons: one a flushed, hazy- 
eyed, and very common-looking individual, keeping the 
middle of the road with some difficulty; the other, a 
devoted and indefatigable worker, whose fever of zeal 
seemed to scorn such trifles as sleep and food, ffis 
time at Ardloch had been chiefly divided between alter- 
nate bursts of over-indulgence and of remorse — the 
emptying of a whisky-bottle and the strewing of ashes 
upon his head. He was continually falling, or, at any 
rate, stumbling, and perpetually getting up again; and 
each time freshly convinced that this was the final re- 
surrection. It was so impossible not to admire his 


courage, that it became possible to forgive his weakness, 
and to believe in the sincerity of the cry: "My words! 
my words! Not my deeds!" which he was continually 
calling into the ears of his small congregation. 

John, personally, had, even in his manifestly weak 
moments, always looked at Father O'Bream with more 
pity than disgust. It was not a noble way of cheering 
enforced solitude, but apparently it was a way. Often, 
when hurrying home to his own fireside, which, what- 
ever else it was, was certainly not solitary, the minister 
would cast a look of curiosity and what he believed to 
be compassion towards the forlorn light twinkling in the 
little presbytery beside the glaringly-new chapel. With 
only a mangy Irish terrier for company, the whisky-bottle 
might be supposed to loom disproportionately big. 

But the whisky-bottle was going to have a rest now, 
no doubt, since it was only in times of peace that it 
ever became dangerous to Father O'Bream; and if the 
Oban doctor spoke true, these were no times of peace 
that were coming. There seemed every prospect of his 
enjoying what he himself called one of his "grand old 
flings;" and with no one, of course, to reproach him 
with endangering lives that hung upon his. Ah, well, 


no doubt there were compensations to the absence of 
domestic dehghts. 

It had been with a certain soreness of heart that, 
during the weeks that followed, John watched the com- 
mon-looking priest exposing himself with that whole- 
hearted recklessness which knows nothing of afterthoughts. 
John's own work was harder, in proportion to the number 
of his parishioners, but the afterthought was there; nor 
could he even pass the house from which he was 
banished without being clutched by the fear of seeing 
the blinds down in the nursery, and of knowing it trans- 
formed into a sick-room. When just as the epidemic 
appeared exhausted Father O'Bream succumbed to the 
infection, John was conscious of a pang that resembled 
envy. The fact that almost simultaneously arrived an 
order from his bishop, suspending the priest from his 
post — the result of unfavourable reports received — could 
not soften that pang, for the ill-regulated Irishman had 
been relieved of his post already, and in a fashion 
which, to John's fancy, bore some of the appearances of 

• . • . • * 

Among the pictures which passed through John's 


mind as he kept watch beside the ash-filled grate, listen- 
ing for the return of the ball-goers, Father O'Bream had 
his place, along with many other people and things. 


"Not a success?" indignantly repeated Fenella, as 
together the sisters sat in the large bedroom they 
shared, diligently detaching the crushed flower-trimmings 
from yesterday's gowns — smoothing out ribbons, examin- 
ing gathers, and generally taking stock of the damage 
done upon Fashion's battlefield. To Fenella the oc- 
cupation appealed but indifferently; but Julia's house- 
wifely conscience was inexorable. "How can you say 
that it was not a success?" 

"I did not say that // had not been a success," re- 
marked the elder sister, as she carefully straightened the 
wire stalks of the hawthorn sprays worn by Fenella, 
preparatory to stowing them away against some future 
occasion; "I said that you had not been a particularly 
conspicuous success — by which I mean that Bertie and 


I had expected something of you which — well, which 
did not come off." 

Fenella laughed gaily. 

"Mr. Berrell, of course! No; that did not come off, 
thank Heavens! But it wasn't my fault. I really be- 
haved quite nicely to him: at least, I tried very hard to 
remember all that Bertie had said to me about him. 
It's clear Fm not in his line; but then, what's the odds, 
since apparently j/(?« are!" 

Julia met her sister's quizzical look with one of 
serious and quite unembarrassed consideration. 

"Yes; it would almost seem as though I did suit his 
books, somehow; though how this comes to be, beats 
me entirely. That a man should take the trouble to 
look at me twice, when you are by, is a thing I never 
would have believed, without personal experience. Well, 
there's no doubt that tastes differ; but I can't honestly 
say much for his." 

She finished with her downright laugh, which, though 
but indifferently musical, was calculated to disarm her 
bitterest enemies, had she had any. In her reference to 
her sister's looks, there had been na shade of flattery; 


and Fenella took it for what it stood — a naked state- 
ment of facts. 

"Oh, well, it would never do if all men admired the 
same sort of women," she remarked, in a tone of com- 
plete detachment from the subject. 

"Fenella?" said Julia, a moment later, while thought- 
fully smoothing out a ribbon upon her knee. 


"Are you quite sure that you wouldn't like a — well, 
let's call it another try at Mr. Berrell?" 

"Absolutely certain!" pronounced Fenella, in un- 
mistakable accents. "I think he is the ugliest man I 
have ever seen — at least," she added, with a half-de- 
precating glance at her sister — "of course, if you like 
his looks, then I'll try to get used to them." 

"Thank you. And you're sure there's nothing of 
the sour grape in all this? — that if he had danced with 
you oftener you mightn't have discovered some good 
features about him?" 

"I should probably have discovered worse ones, 
since I should have seen him closer," laughed the 
frivolous Fenella. "Oh, Julia, do, do take him off my 
hands I As long as he's not appropriated by somebody, 

TAe Conipromise. I. II 


Bertie will always be expecting me to be nice to him; 
but of course he*ll be quite as pleased if he takes up 
with you instead of me." 

"He'd be more pleased. To procure a husband for 
one's plain sister is always a harder task than for one's 
pretty one. To be sure, there's nobody else for you on 
the horizon just at present, but you're only eighteen, 
after all, while I am twenty-four. And besides, your 
chances are bound to be much greater than mine. 
Upon my word, Mr. Berrell's bad taste does seem to be 
rather providential!" 

"Then it's settled!" declared Fenella, dropping a 
handful of tulle in order to clap her hands. "Oh, what 
a comfort it is that tastes do differ! Even if I had tried 
ever so hard I don't believe I ever could have really 
liked that big, black man." 

"As for the liking," remarked Julia, as with dis- 
passionate precision she folded the ribbon into a box, 
"it will be time enough to think of that when his in- 
tentions become manifest I don't think I have any 
greater weakness for big, black men than you have — or 
for small, fair ones either, for the matter of that; I be- 
y/ere I couid do very well without any of them, but then 


I have got a liking for being comfortable, and Mr. 
Berrell's wife is pretty sure to be that" 

With a shyly curious glance at her sister, Fenella 
bent again over the flounce she was mending. It was 
almost the first time she had heard Julia speculating 
upon her own future, and the plainness of the senti- 
ments expressed moved to reflection. When she herself 
was in play, the banner of "family duty," so assiduously 
waved before her younger sister's eyes, could apparently 
be allowed to rest No doubt it was less trouble, and 
also more congenial to her nature to call things by their 
names. With Fenella, of course, one could not be too 
careful, very young girls being so easily frightened off* 
by plain speech. Any development of "ideas" on her 
side could not fail to be a blow to the family; since it 
was from Fenella that the match was expected which 
was to consolidate the still so painful "newness" of 
their social position, and finally fix the gulf across which 
far too many bridges still connected them with a whole 
host of most undesirable relations. A beauty in the 
family was too precious a pawn in the game of worldly 
success to be neglected. In order to make the most of 

the chance conferred by Fate no trouble Vvsidi Xi^^w. 



thought too great, no means too far-fetched. Under the 
intelligent tuition of a sharp-witted mother, who burnt 
to repair the mistake of her own life, Julia had easily 
learnt to content herself with a back place, even before 
she had left the nursery, to give up her share of fine 
clothes or of pocket-money without a grumble, fully 
understanding how necessary it was that Fenella should 
be properly fitted for the position she would presumably 
be called upon to fill. The money spent on her school- 
ing — nothing short of an Oban establishment would 
satisfy Ella's ambition for her youngest daughter — was 
saved upon that of Julia's, and as little grudged by her 
as the shillings that went in the cold-cream and the 
almond soap that were destined to keep Fenella's hands 
white and her face unblemished — and even though it 
meant less jam to her own bread-and-butter, and smaller 
helpings of pudding. Even Albert, to whom Hkewise 
sacrifices had been largely made, was always ready to 
give up a mere pleasure if any material advantage was 
thereby to be gained for the family beauty. Privately, 
he considered himself quite as valuable a pawn in the 
game as was Fenella, but his admiration for his youngest 
sister was nevertheless perfectly genuine, and his interest 


in her future career only one shade less intense than 
that which he took in his own. 

So successful had Ella been in inoculating her chil- 
dren with her own social views, that when plucked away 
unexpectedly before the accomplishment of her work, 
Julia and Albert proved themselves perfectly competent 
to carry it on. 

Nor did the task tax their powers greatly; for in 
the victim thus carefully prepared for the marriage- 
market no resistance had yet been met Ideas imbibed 
with the mother's milk are generally too perfectly assi- 
milated to shock even the finest sensibilities, and the 
light of "Duty" once turned upon any particular course 
of action has a way of leaving even things that lie close 
by in a pitch-dark shadow. That she should make a 
"good" marriage appeared to Fenella herself almost as 
necessary a part of her life as that she should get up 
in the morning and go to bed at night Nothing could 
be more congenial than the prospect, since the few 
glimpses she had had of the higher strata of society 
had appeared to her not unlike glimpses of a sort of 
earthly paradise, filled with such things as beautiful 
rooms, wonderful pictures, cut flowers, and a hundred 


daintinesses which strongly appealed to something in 
her nature. That the man who would one day procure 
her all these delights should not only be rich but also 
"nice" had been a sort of accepted belief, too latent 
to have reached the stage of investigation. It had re- 
quired yesterday's sight of Mr. Berrell, coupled with the 
thought of him as a possible husband, to disturb her 
instinctive optimism on this point Until now, the 
future husband had remained purely abstract; yester- 
day, for the first time, he had threatened to become 
concrete, and she had scarcely yet recovered from the 
shock received. The manager's fortunate favouring of 
Julia filled her with an exulting sense of danger escaped. 
Decidedly she was glad that, for the moment, no other 
candidate loomed on the horizon; for might it not again 
be somebody whom Bertie approved of more than she 
did? And at the thought of a conflict with the virtual 
head of the family, and notwithstanding his liberal re- 
marks about not wishing to force her inclinations, she 
inwardly quailed. 

But what would the candidate need to be like of 
whom both she and Bertie approved? For the first 
time she began consciously to speculate upon the per- 


sonality of that cloud-husband, and wandered so far in 
her speculations that when Julia abruptly observed: 
"It is quite eight hundred, with the perquisites nearer 
nine, I should say," she was reduced to asking blankly: 
"What is?" 

"Mr. BerrelPs income. Am I not right, Bertie?" 

This to her brother, who, at that moment, cap and 
stick in hand, made one of his characteristically brisk 
entries. To see Albert McDonnell either come into or 
go out of a room during business hours was to think of 
a well-oiled machine working at high pressure. 

As the door opened, Fenella had looked up ex- 
pectantly, then down again at her work with a slight 
contraction of the lips, which showed that her brother 
was not the person she had hoped to see. While he 
settled the question of Mr. Berrell's income, there re- 
mained an expectant look upon her lowered face. It 
would almost seem as though she were listening for an- 
other step. But presently she found herself directly 

"Morning, Fenella! I just stepped in to see what 
ravages last night's campaign has left But you don't 
show much traces, I'm glad to say." 


He looked at her approvingly as she sat there in 
the full light of the window. Evidently his equanimity 
had not suffered from Fenella's comparative failure, so 
fortunately outweighed by Julia's unlooked-for success. 

*'A good thing to be able to stand late hours. 
Satisfied with your first hop, eh?" 

"Quite satisfied, and only sorry that there isn't a 
second in view. Why, it may be two years before these 
hawthorns come out of that box ! " 

"I doubt it, now that Balladrochit has grown alive 
again, more alive probably than it ever was in poor 
Mrs. Gordon's time. Somebody was saying yesterday 
that the new people are remarkably wide-awake." 

"What do they consist of?" 

"When are they expected?" 

There was but one breath of the two questions, for 
the curiosity entering around the new possessors of 
Balladrochit was of many rtfonths' standing now. By 
the lingering end of Captain Gordon, who had taken 
three years to die of the wounds received in South 
Africa, and, dying, had dragged his tortured mother 
into the grave with him, the Balladrochit succession had 
fallen, not into any Scotch, but into intrinsically English 


hands — which was only next best to foreign ones. But 
even this blot could be overlooked for the sake of the 
lights which would once again shine in the solitary 
house across the water, and the smoking chimney-stacks, 
so long unused. In a spot of earth so thinly inhabited 
every house that is a house becomes a public benefac- 
tion. No one looked more eagerly for those lighted 
windows than the inmates of the Rectory — since to no 
one did an inhabited Balladrochit mean so many possi- 

"They are expected on Wednesday, and they con- 
sist of mother and daughter. It is the daughter who is 
the heiress, and it seems that she intends to pitch her 
tent here for good. That means a good deal of liveli- 
ness in prospect, I fancy, since it isn't likely that an 
heiress of twenty-two will live the life of a hermit" 

"What a lot you seem to have found out about 
them," observed Fenella, a trifle overcome by this 
abundance of information. 

"I've found out another thing. I've found out what 
Lady Atterton was before her marriage." 

"Nothing bad, surely?" asked Julia, with an alarmed 
look towards Fenella, 


"Nothing bad at all, and nothing grand either: a 

There was a certain triumphant ring in the word, 
which called for explanation. 

"Isn't that rather disappointing?" asked Fenella, a 
little blankly. 

"Disappointing? Say rather, exhilarating. A wo- 
man who has begun in the schoolroom, and who ends 
as a baronet's widow and the mother of an heiress to 
fifteen thousand a year, must certainly have something 
in her. One more example of what can be done with 
good luck and good management. I confess that I'm 
quite as curious to make the mother's acquaintance as 
the daughter's." 

"Oh, I see," said Fenella, abruptly perceiving 
whither the moral was pointing. 

"It's an engrossing subject, but it must stand over 
for the present; since I'm off to the loch-end. Don't 
expect me back before Saturday night I've arrears to 
catch up, you know, and we hope to get the trace 
started this week. And, look here, Julia, mind you 
don't let father kill himself over this blasting business. 
It's extraordinary how he takes things to heart. Have 


you seen him to-day? Oh — speak of the devil! — Morn- 
ing, father!" 

"Father!" said Fenella, looking up quickly as the 
tall, frail figure appeared in the doorway; "tell me the 
truth, father: have you slept at all?" 

"And tell me another truth: where are you off to? 
Surely not to Adam's hut again?" 

Julia looked disapprovingly at the shabby hat in his 

"Yes, to Adam. I promised him. He is hanging 
between life and death, Julia, and it is to-day only that 
the doctor will be able to make a guess as to whether 
it is to be life or death." 

"If he is to lose his eyesight, then surely death 
would be the better of the two," remarked Albert, in a 
tone that was not nearly so cruel as the words. 

"As to the eyes, the doctor can say nothing for at 
least a week — that is, supposing — " 

"Supposing there remains any necessity for saying 
anything," finished Julia, with business-like directness. 

"Is he suffering much?" 

"He doesn't say so, but the doctor does. Tm told 
it's about the worst sort of pain there is: and y^X. \v^ 


manages not even to groan. He did groan just at first, 
but when he noticed how mad it made Duncan, he 
stopped himself, and now he pretends that he's feeling 
comfortable, with the skin off his face, mind, and his 
eyes swollen shut!" 

"Are Duncan's hands very bad?" 

"Not so very. He'll be able to use them again 
quite soon, though for the moment, I believe, the pain 
is about as bad as his father's. But this also I gather 
only from what the doctor says. Duncan doesn't talk 
about it; he talks only of bringing the Company and 
Mr. Berrell to their knees, for it's them he makes re- 
sponsible for the accident." 

"He had better not tackle Mr. Berrell," put in Albert, 
with an audible sharpening of tone. "Can't you keep 
him quiet, father?" 

"I am preaching patience as hard as I can," said 
John, with his faint smile; "but Duncan is no easy sub- 
ject to deal with. It's good-bye till Saturday, is it not, 
Bertie? Don't mind about keeping any luncheon for 
me, Julia. I'll get a bit at Adam's." 

While the talk went on Fenella had sat silent, her 
work dropped to her lap, her eyes fixed wistfully upon 


her father's face. That half-remorseful feeling which 
had touched her last night as, standing there in all her 
gay finery, she had seen him go off, solitary, upon his 
errand of pain and sorrow, had come over her again. 

His fingers were on the handle already, when she 
started from her chair. 

"Father!" she cried impulsively. "Let me go with 
you ! " 

John looked back at his daughter in an astonishment 
which verged on incomprehension. 

"Eh, my dear? With me? But Tm going to 
Adam's cottage.** 

"Yes, I know. But couldn't I go too? Perhaps I 
might be of some use. They must be in such distress, 
and perhaps it might please poor Adam." 

"Please him? It would enchant him. But are you 
sure? It is a very distressing sight; and — " 

"I'm not afraid of that," said Fenella quickly. "And 
perhaps if we are two of us, we won't be so much 

"Fenella, you're mad!" ejaculated Julia, recovering 
from an astonishment which had kept her dumb, for 
the idea was almost unprecedented. "After y^^Xeid^^c^ 


— and without having had your proper night's rest. It's 
preposterous! Isn't it, Bertie?" 

"What is there preposterous about paying a sick 
call?" argued Fenella, whose eagerness was growing at 
sight of the new radiance dawning in her father's eyes 
— an incredulous hope which she had never seen there 
before. "Don't people go into hospital wards every 
day? and usen't Mrs. Gordon to sit for hours beside 
the old women's beds?" 

"She certainly used to," admitted Albert, who, though 
quite as astonished as Julia, was rarely in danger of 
losing his head. "If it was not for last night's fatigue, 
I should really see no objection to your accompanying 
father. And if you promise to be back for luncheon, 
and to lie down afterwards — " 

"Yes, yes; I promise," agreed Fenella, making a 
rather reckless heap of her ball-dress on the bed, before 
proceeding to dash through her preparations. 

"Well, I suppose there's no particular harm in it," 
was all that Julia could be got to concede. 

"Harm in it?" said Albert to her a few minutes 
later, having lingered expressly to make the remark en 
tete-a-tete, "The harm would have been to make a 


forbidden fruit of this new idea. Why shouldn't Fenella 
play at philanthropy if it amuses her? Sick calls are 
quite legitimate, you know. It's a pity it should just 
be Adam, on account of the relationship; but that can't 
be helped. Tve a notion that, for all her docility, once 
Fenella begins to think for herself, she will require 
careful handling; and to thwart her in trifles is the way 
to make her think for herself." 

By which it will be seen that Albert's horizon was 
wider and his perceptions keener than those of the 
matter-of-fact Julia. 


Along the wide village street, straggling with the 
line of the shore, Fenella and her father walked almost 
in silence. The situation was too new to be accepted 
by either of them without a flavour of embarrassment. 
With only an occasional remark exchanged, they passed 
by many slate-roofed cottages and a few thatched ones, 
down whose white walls the moisture lay in streaks as 
vividly green as though the colour had run out of the 


grass-tufts flourishing above, — by the little bay about 
which the seagulls were perpetually busy, — the old pier 
built of slate-refuse and marking the spot of the erst- 
while ferry, now no more than the starting-point of the 
water-side funerals. The sky was as blue as a High- 
land April sky knows how to be, the hills across the 
lock as clear as the remains of winter moisture — woven 
into wonderful filmy veils — could permit The incline 
rising steeply above the cottage row to the right — the 
"green hill," as it was called, in contradistinction to its 
grimmer neighbours — was barely beginning to live up 
to its name. Only here and there the sunshine deli- 
cately picked out the fresh sprouts of the alder and 
hazel bushes, while down to the left it drew gleams 
from the fields of seaweed, freshly left bare, and even 
from the wet grass beyond, washed by the high tides, 
and upon whose flattened and salt-encrusted tufts the 
cows were greedily feeding. 

Adam's croft lay in the glen beyond the village, the 
historical glen in whose shadow the massacre which had 
shaped the future of the McDonnell dan had taken place, 
and at whose entrance a Celtic cross reared its tall, 
white neck in memory of the murdered chief. It was 


not until she had crossed the stone bridge spanning the 
river, whose green and white waters tumbled seawards, 
and were fairly in the glen, that Fenella's tongue loosened. 

"Do you think that Adam will die, father?" she 
timidly asked. 

John drew a breath which seemed to be a sigh. 

"I still hope he may not There is no vital injury, 
it seems. It is the shock to the heart which the doctor 
fears. He was thrown nearly ten yards, you know." 

"Was the accident really his own fault?" 

"It's difficult to say. Duncan says it was the fault 
of the iron tools. But it is possible that Adam pushed 
the dresser harder than he should have done. The 
whistle had sounded, it seems, and he was in a hurry 
to get the powder in. The blast went off in his face. 
It is a very painful sight I hope that you — that you 
won't find it too much for you." 

There was a little doubt in John's tone — a doubt of 
which Fenella was so keenly conscious that, having given 
a hasty assurance, she lapsed into another spell of 
silence. No wonder, surely, if her father felt sceptical 
regarding her qualifications as an angel of consolation. 

The Compromise. I. 12 


seeing that she had never fairly tried her hand at the 
work. The part of John's children in his labours had 
always been as good as nil, A given number of flannel 
petticoats were sewed every winter, and a given quantity 
of soup dispensed from the Rectory kitchen. Practi- 
cally they acted as a ransom from any more intimate 
co-operation, and a cheap ransom too, considering the 
embarrassments thus escaped. That soup and flannel 
petticoats, though excellent things in themselves, did 
not necessarily represent the highest forms of charity 
had scarcely occurred to Fenella hitherto, though she 
could not help dimly understanding that in her father's 
eyes other forms stood higher. 

That father, with his world-abstracted gaze, his 
undying interest in what most people seemed to con- 
sider the dullest side of life, had always been to Fenella 
a half sacred and wholly enigmatical figure. The 
attraction of the enigma put a note of tenderness into 
the awe-struck veneration with which she regarded him. 
It was both mortifying and astonishing, for instance, 
that he should stand so completely aloof from the cult 
of the family beauty. He alone seemed to feel no 
interest in her future career. Yet, something told her 


that it was no want of tenderness which lay at the 
bottom of this strange indifference. Lately — perhaps 
since Ella's shadow no longer fell between them — she 
had begim to feel that she wanted to find out what it 
was that did lie at the bottom of it; and yesterday's 
incident had brought the desire to a head. The pathos 
of his solitary mission had pursued her even into the 
ball-room. To-day's resolve was the fruit. As she 
walked by her father's side up the glen that was musical 
with the voices both of birds and of the many burns 
hurrying to throw themselves into the embrace of the 
river in the hollow, Fenella's state of mind was a mix- 
ture of self-approval and of trepidation — of self-approval 
because she was doing a thing which struck herself as 
verging on the heroic, of trepidation because, in spite 
of her brave words, she was a little afraid of the painful 
sights awaiting her, and still more afraid of the moral 
discomfort inseparable from any contact with these 
humbly-situated blood-relations. For Fenella, despite her 
unspoiled heart, was as deeply imbued with the im- 
portance of her own social position as Ella herself could 
have wished her to be. She was quite disposed to be 

sympathetic, and as helpful as need be, but even tha 



desire of pleasing her father could not dispose her to 
be more than condescending. 

The sight of Adam's croft, perched high upon the 
river-bank, and in the mighty shadow of the opposite 
hillside helped to quicken her misgivings. Yes; de- 
cidedly it was a little humiliating to own cousins who 
lodged as humbly, even though as picturesquely as this. 
Adam, with his thirty-five years' earnings, might well 
have afforded himself a slate roof, had he chosen, but 
out of sheer constitutional conservatism, held on grimly 
to the straw thatch, and even to the dangling stones 
whose mission in life was to counteract the rush of 
winter blasts tearing down the glen from the wilderness 
beyond, for ever on the point of lifting the roof from 
the walls as readily as any hat from a human head. 
A chimney indeed was visible, but one of that time- 
honoured sort which is produced by inserting a small 
herring-barrel, with the bottom knocked out, in the thick 
of the thatch. What had been good enough for his fore- 
fathers was good enough for him, Adam argued. The 
thatch itself was in excellent repair, and the garden 
patch beside the cottage carefully dug; but this and 
various other signs of thriftiness and method could 


not, in Fenella's eyes, redeem the lowliness of the 

"You had better wait a bit, until I inquire," said John, 
a little nervously, standing still before the closed door. 

She watched him as he bent his head under the 
low-hanging door-beam, and while she waited the tre- 
pidation sharpened to anxiety. Might not Adam be 
dead already, and she be called upon to look upon a 
corpse? Long afterwards she remembered the look of 
the bare hillside opposite, with the sheep wandering 
about among the boulders in search of the first green 
tufts, and the sound of the invisible river at the foot of 
the steep bank. All these things seemed to partake of 
that sense of expectation, of the fear of the sight of 
death which had come over her. 

Then her father looked out and said, his voice 
mingling with that of the water: 

"The night has been good, thank God! You can 
come in, Fenella, if you want to, but you must not stay 
long; he is very weak." 

With somewhat accelerated heart-beats, Fenella, in 
turn, bent her head and followed her father through 
the tiny entrance and through a door to the left. The 


space within was so darkened that at first she could 
distinguish nothing but the flames upon the hearth, whose 
reflection fell upon the flagged floor, and the girdle sus- 
pended above which, to judge from the smell of hot oat- 
meal which met her, was doubtless laden with oat-cakes. 

"This way," whispered her father, taking her by the 
hand and leading her towards what seemed to be a sort 
of square cave in the wall, draped with narrow curtains. 

She had stood beside it for several moments before 
she was able to distinguish what seemed to be a human 
form in the deep cupboard-bed, with a package of ban- 
dages on the pillow, which presumably was the head, 
and two smaller bandaged packets lying outside the 
blanket — probably the hands. 

"Adam," said John, bending over him; "I have come 
back, as I promised. You hear me, do you not?" 

"Aye, I hear you," came the faint whisper from the 
bed, while one of the bandaged hands made a tentative 
movement, as though groping for something. "You're 
aye as good as your word." 

"Pm better than my word, Adam — I haven't come 
alone. Fenella is with me, my youngest girl, you know. 
She wants to know i{ she cai\ be of any help to you." 


There was a more lively movement in the bed, and 
then, after a speechless pause, the words came almost 

"Your girl, John? Has she come in here? Is she 
near me now?" 

"You shouldn't have brought her in without telling 
him," said a voice behind Fenella, speaking in a whisper 
that sounded angry. "The doctor said he wasn't to be 
excited, and this visit is no such an ordinary thing." 

Fenella, though she did not turn her head, supposed 
it was Duncan who was speaking, and wondered why he 
should be bitter as well as angry. 

"Yes, she is near you, Adam; here is her hand." 
And John gently pulled Fenella's half-reluctant fingers 
towards one of the bandaged packages. 

"It is good of you — very good of you, Miss Fenella, 
to visit a stricken wretch — and stricken through his own 
fault too." 

"That's a lie!" said that same deep and emphatic 
whisper behind Fenella. 

"It's because John — because your father has a kind 
of affection for me that you've come, I'm thinkin'?" 

It was evident that, even in its present weaketv^d 


state, Adam's brain required an explanation of the 

"Yes; I — I was so dreadfully sorry to hear of the 
accident," stammered Fenella, much embarrassed by her 
new role, and utterly unable to express the real sym- 
pathy which at sight of the sufferer had welled up from 
some unplumbed depth. 

"You're a bit easier now, Adami, aren't you?" asked 
John, bending yet lower. "What is it you are feeling?" 

"It's joy and gladness I'm feeling, John. Since the 
morning I jaist lie here and am thankfu'." 

Fenella looked at her father with a startled question 
in her eyes. Clearly Adam's mind was wandering. Was 
this the final delirium? 

"Have you not heard yet?" said the crippled man, 
with a momentary strength in his whisper. "Bessie's 
safe, and the boy's a fine one. Ah, but the Almighty 
is good!" 

To Fenella's consternation she abruptly became 

aware of the sting of tears in her eyelids. She was loo 

new to the moral atmosphere of sick-rooms to be able 

to bear with equanimity the sight of genuine resignation, 

or not to stagger at the sound of God's praises spoken 


by those maimed and invisible lips. The quite new set 
of sensations which, from her first step into this room, 
had claimed her, threatened for a moment to break down 
her self-control. John, hearing a suppressed sob, looked 
at her in alarm, and seeing her discomposure, concluded 
that her nerves were not equal to the task set them. 

"You're feeling the closeness, maybe," he said quickly. 
"You can look in again presently, but meanwhile you'll 
be the better for a mouthful of air, Tm thinking. Dun- 
can will take you out" 

At that Fenella drew her fingers away from the bed, 
and, a little dazed, followed the broad-shouldered figure 
which moved before her towards the door. Her eyes, 
grown used to the half-light, vaguely took in another 
figure — that of some old female relative of the house, 
acting as a scratch sick-nurse, and stirring something in 
a bowl, as well as a few of the rustic details of the 
room: the small bits of carpet upon the uneven flag- 
stones, the plain deal chairs and dressers. Also, she 
took with her an undecided impression of a good deal 
of bright crockery, and a more pronounced one of that 
same methodical tidiness which had struck her outside. 

Upon a broad slab of slate-stone, which flanked tb^e. 


door in guise of a seat, she sat down with a deep-drawn 
breath. It took her some moments to become quite 
calm again, and during those moments she forgot that 
she was not alone, or rather the presence of Duncan 
alongside, silent and immovable, did not seem to her 
important enough to rank as an intrusion. 

Having mopped her eyes and restored her pocket- 
hankerchief, she was somewhat taken aback, on raising 
her head, to find that he was looking at her with an 
expression that was not in the least sympathetic, in 
fact, barely friendly. At the same moment, she caught 
sight of the sling in which his left arm rested and of 
the rags tied round several fingers of his right hand, 
and abruptly remembered that he too was a sufferer, 
though a minor one. 

"I haven't insquired about your hands yet," she 
began, with none of the emotion she had felt when 
speaking to Adam, and with a point of condescension 
discernible in her tone: for she was, by this time, com- 
posed enough to remember the part she had meant to 
play. "Do they hurt you much?" 

Duncan uttered the fragment of a not very pleasant 


"What necessity is there to inquire about my hands? 
Is it not enough that you should have been so gracious 
to stand for two minutes beside your father's cousin's 
bed? — for he is that, you know." 

Fenella met his openly defiant glance with one of 
hurt astonishment. This address was not at all what 
she had expected. She had indeed guessed that Duncan 
was not a particularly amiable character, a fact she 
deduced principally from the almost churlish salutations 
he was wont to bestow upon Julia and herself when they 
met in the road; for though there had never been a 
time when she did not know him by sight, the words 
exchanged with him had hitherto been pretty well con- 
fined to "good mornings" and "good evenings." In her 
ignorance of the real man, she had unavoidably ex- 
pected him to be both pleased and flattered by her 
errand of to-day. The astonishment at perceiving that 
this was apparently not the case caused her to look at 
him for the first time attentively. Looking thus, she 
discovered, firstly, that he was very big, quite as tall as 
Bertie or her father, only with ever so many more inches 
to his shoulders. She also supposed that he ought to be 
considered good-looking, or, with a pleasanter expression 


on his face, had some chances of being so, for his black 
eyes, even filled as they now were with gloom, showed 
finely under his level brows, and his white teeth flashed 
out in brilliant contrast to- the short, dark beard, whose 
brown ^mouldered at the fringes into a ruddier tint. 

"Did you not knock your head against the door- 
beam?" he asked, with that same flavour of bitterness 
which she had noted in his first whisper. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean that I never expected to see Miss Fenella 
stoop so low as to bend her head beneath our humble 
door. It's when we're supposed to be on our death- 
beds that we become worth taking notice of, is it not?" 

"It's then that my duty seems to point the way," 
answered Fenella, grown cool from the strength of sheer 

Was this bear actually daring to call her to account, 
presuming, maybe, on the strength of their relationship 
— that relationship which even the red threads in his 
brown beard, so alike in tint to her own heavy plaits, 
inconveniently proclaimed? At the thought her head 
instinctively went up. 

"You have not told me yet whether your hands hurt 


you?" she resumed quickly and a little loftily, more 
anxious than ever to keep the real object of her visit 
well in view. 

"Maybe they do, but Pve no room in me to feel the 
pain; it's all filled up with the anger against those who 
are at fault" 

"And who is at fault?" 

"Mr. Berrell, in the first line, and next to him, the 
whole Company as it stands." 

The deepening of his frown made it evident that a 
fiercer anger had chased away the lesser one. 

"You mean about the tools?" 

"I mean about the godless want of conscience. The 
iron has been contrary to the law for years, but be- 
cause the steel and the copper costs some shillings more, 
men's lives are allowed to take their chance. And what 
for? In order that these gentlemen who call themselves 
directors should be able to put two horses to their 
carriage instead of one, and their missis' have six silk 
gowns instead of five. But it will not go on like that. 
This thing's a famous handle." 

"Then your father is going to — " 

"Father is going to do nothing; he's a great one for 


keeping quiet, but Tm not made that way. As sure ^s 
I*m a Christian, I*m going to have a try at the law. 
I'm mighty curious to see whether it's made for the poor 
folk as well as for the rich. I'll not be content with a 
mere compensation — should they grant it — I'll have no 
peace till the iron tools are gone. There's a whisper 
abroad that Mr. Berrell means to advise the Company 
to refuse compensation, on the ground of culpable 
carelessness — but I shouldn't just counsel him to try 
that trick." 

"Won't all this be rather dangerous?" asked Fenella, 
a little alarmed by the look of the wrathful black eyes, 
and with her brother's warning still fresh in her mind. 
"Will it not be bad for you to make an enemy of Mr. 
Berrell? He has so many ways of — of making himself 

"Then it's just got to be bad for me! It can't be 
worse than bending for ever under another's man's will 
— crawling to his feet for fear of being kicked. I'm too 
big to crawl, and too clumsy. What I Isn't our lot 
hard enough, as it is? Is the skin we wear off our 
hands, winter and summer, too little yet? Don't we 
have to take our lives in our hands often enough at the 


end of those ropes, and upon those pegs that would 
barely seat a cat? The ordinary risks of the quarry are 
too little yet, it seems, since we're to be bullied into 
taking the by-ordinary ones too. The minister preaches 
patience, and of course it's his business to do so; but 
he shouldn't preach it beside father's bed — or not to 
me anyway; for the bandages on father's face have a 
louder tongue, to my mind. Do you think I can look 
on that and stay quiet?" 

He stared down at her with wrathful inquiry, but 
Fenella found no answer, being most genuinely taken 
aback. In growing astonishment she had listened to the 
vehement words which detached themselves so strangely 
from the peaceful rush of the unseen river, down at the 
back of the cottage. Her own indignation of a minute 
ago had been swept aside like a straw by this unlooked- 
for burst of something so very like rage. Really she 
had had no idea that this unknown cousin of theirs was 
so fiercely rebellious a character. 

• . . . . 

Within the darkened cottage-room John still sa^by 
Adam's bed, listening to the broken whispers, which, 
with pauses of exhaustion, came from under the bandages. 


The joy of a great relief still predominated over the 
merely physical pain. 

"I don't so much mind now whether or not I've got 
to go. Bessie's doing all right now, and it's quite in 
order that I should make the trip to the island ahead 
of her. There just ,one other thing I should like to have 
seen before they put me in the ground." 

"Mind you're not to worry," said John softly, as he 
paused. "These things are better in the hands they're 
in than they could be in ours." 

"I know — I know," whispered Adam, with the eager- 
ness of latent fever; "but it will ease me to say it It's 
about Duncan. If he had chosen a wife, I could die 

"He'll choose one yet; and, please God, you'll be 
there to see it." 

"No, he'll no choose one. I tell you. It's these 
five years that I've been at him for it, but Duncan's got 
a head like a stone. He's taken up some idea against 
marrpng; but it's contrary to nature, for a man to be 
single at twenty-eight." 

"Duncan is such a hard worker that he can't take 
the time to go courting." 


"He needn't go courting. There's Elsie Robson ready 
to take him, if he would but lift his little finger. A 
bonny, stout lass, just the sort we should need about the 
house. And with a croft of her own, and two cows 
upon it You won't believe it, but I can't get Duncan 
to look at her. I'm just wondering, John — " 

The weak voice wavered, and for a few moments the 
man with the invisible face lay still, gathering strength. 

"I'm just wondering whether a word from you might 
not bring him to his senses. Maybe if you could put 
the thing before him as a sort of duty — now that I'm 
as likely as not to go, and he to become the head of 
the family." 

"Yes, I'll speak to him if you like, but only if you 
promise not to worry any further. Let us put that 
aside now. Maybe you'd like to have another word with 
Fenella before she goes, for she's got to be getting 
home. Shall I call her in?" 

"Aye, to be sure — call her in," said Adam eagerly. 
"It's as grand as hearing an angel, that soft voice of 
hers. Oh, but it was good of you to bring her, John." 

Presently Fenella stood again beside the cavernous 

The Compromite. /. 1 3 


bed, with more composure this time, already better able 
to bear the sight of those terribly suggestive bandages. 

"You'll come again, Miss Fenella, won't you?" 
pleaded the injured man. "I don't know whether it'll 
be given to me to look on your bonny face again, but 
its something to hear your voice. Ah, but it's no so 
unfortunate an accident, after all, if it brings me nearer 
to John's children." 

"I'll come again," said Fenella, without hesitation, 
though only a few minutes ago, while smarting under 
Duncan's veiled reproaches, she had inwardly resolved 
that her first visit should be her last. To disappoint 
the entreaty in the voice of the sufferer was quite beyond 
her strength. 

As alone she walked back down the glen she was 
thinking more deeply than she had ever done before. 
She had caught her first intimate glimpse into lives 
which yet lay so close to her own, and among the new 
impressions surging confusedly within her the only thing 
she was quite sure of was that she had got nearer to 
her father. At any rate, the secret of that zeal which 
devoured him no longer appeared so insoluble an 



•*li/A April, 1905. 

"My Dear Ronald, — If youVe got a heart in your 
body you'll board the next boat that comes our way! 

"Being a Highland landowner is quite too delight- 
ful for words, but not so simple a matter as in the in- 
nocence of my heart I had imagined. The amount of 
knowledge expected of me is appalling. Keepers and 
factors and crofters and other strange creatures demand 
audience at all hours of the day, and lay before me 
problems which I'm expected to settle off-hand: aboat 
repairs, and renewals of leases, and sheep drives — what- 
ever that may mean — and hundreds of other dark 
things. Since we got here on Wednesday I've been 
chiefly occupied in veiling my ignorance. Yesterday my 
dignity had a narrow shave ; for when I asked the head- 
keeper where the deer-forest was, and he pointed to a 

bare hill-side opposite, I only just stopped myself from 



asking what had become of the trees. Luckily, I re- 
membered in time that a Scotch forest isn't a forest at 
all. But this is only one among the pitfalls that gape 
around me, and from which I expect your superior ex- 
perience to preserve me. Mamma is no good at all, 
though she does all that a Queen-Mother can be ex- 
pected to do. In spite of twenty-three years* experience, 
she's remained far too governessy to rule a house; and 
for all her majestic presence, she's a mere toy in the 
hands of either under or upper-bailiffs. How do you 
think she's been spending her evenings since we came 
here? In rubbing up her knowledge of Scotch history! 
As if it did not shine already with a perfectly blinding 
brightness! It's in vain I keep repeating to her that it's 
anything but good form to be so dreadfully wdl-in- 
formed; old habits are too strong for her. She's got all 
the details of a certain Massacre — with a big M — which 
it appears took place here once upon a time, and all 
the dates pat, and shows a strong inclination to treat it 
as an examination paper — efforts which, needless to say, 
I steadily ignore. 

"By this time I take it that your duty is dear to 
you. Your conscience will insist upon your coming to 


the rescue of two forlorn women, dumped down upon a 
brand-new soil, and not knowing the difference between 
a factor and a gillie. I've never maintained that you're 
a genius, but brought up to the business, as you've been, 
I can't see how you can help having some crumbs of 
wisdom over upon which I may feed. I say, Ronny, 
did you ever expect to see me reigning as a Highland 
chieftainess? I guess not, else you'd have treated me 
with more respect in the days of your visits to Nettleton, 
when you actually expected me to carry your worm-bag 
for you and sometimes even your rod. I'm awfully 
sorry, of course, for poor Henry Gordon, into whose 
shoes I have stepped; but my recollection of him is 
really too faint to make a plausible pretext for heart- 
break. And now I've a bird to pluck with you, my 
cousin! What on earth do you mean, sir, by being so 
badly supplied with imagination? Whenever I've asked 
you for a description of your native land, you've never 
found anything more satisfactory to say than that there's 
a lot of heather and stones and water, and that the 
cottages are smaller and dirtier than in England! Is 
this male blindness, or male perversity? One or the 
other it must be. I'm just drunk with it all: the peaks. 


the glens, the rocks, the gulls, the tumbling waters, the 
long, serious faces, the red-haired children — everything, 
everything! Mamma evidently fears for my head, for 
she watches me with a slightly scandalised anxiety. I 
keep telling her that a perfectly decorouis behaviour, 
such as suits the stately lawns of Nettleton, would be 
utterly out of keeping with these hill-sides — artistically 
incompatible — but she doesn't seem to see it, poor dear I 
I'm so busy swallowing local colour that I'm sometimes 
in danger of choking upon it. That's another reason 
why your presence is needed: you've got to rub it down 
for me a bit, and then administer it in spoonfuls. See? 
I'm taking my position very seriously, you perceive, and 
doing my best to live up to the chieflainess. I mean 
to have a piper to walk up and down before the din- 
ing-room windows (by-the-bye, perhaps you can procure 
me one? Must be at least six feet, mind, and red hair 
de rigueur)—-and I'm trying to screw up my courage to 
buy a tartan frock, only that, en/re nous, I haven't done 
making up my mind which of the patterns is the least 
ugly. I read nothing but Scott and Burns nowadays, 
and — this is the crown — I've taken to eat porridge for 
breakfast! So far, my impression is that it belongs to 


the so-called acquired tastes. No matter! I just mean 
to acquire it. Whenever the idea insinuates itself that 
stick-fast paste can't be much different in flavour, I 
crush down the suggestion, and nobly go on ladling in 
the spoonfuls. I'd wear a kilt if mamma would let me, 
even though I haven't seen one since I came here — the 
one blot of disappointment upon the picture. 

"Yes; I'm going to sit down here. The drop of 
Scotch blood in my veins demands it too loudly to be 
refused. Nettleton must take care of itself. My solicitors 
say it will let well. 

"And now, let the next sign from you be a wire. 
There's a delightful Burial Island visible from the 
windows, which I'm dying to visit; but I'll put it off till 
you're here to row me over, as I'm sure the exercise is 
good for you. It's all bristling with gravestones, and 
there's something that looks like a ruined chapel in the 

"That's all for to-day; and please hurry up unless 
you want mamma and me to sink entirely under the 
burdens laid upon us. — Your affectionate cousin, 

"Mabel Atterton. 

"F,S. — I mean to ask lots of questions about your 


place; it's an easy way of assimilating instruction. What 
fun it will be comparing the sizes of our deer-forests, 
and counting the number of our crofts!" 

Two days after the above letter, addressed to 
"Ronald Macgiluray, Esq., Rockshiel, Barres," had been 
taken over in the boat to the Ardloch post-office, three 
people sat together in the airy Balladrochit drawing- 
room, whose windows almost directly overlooked the 

The house itself, standing between mountain and 
water, seemed, when viewed from a distance, to be hard- 
pressed by both. That distant prospect was pretty de- 
solate; the bare hill-side, with scanty patches of fir and 
no visible paths, and the big, grey house, set down at 
the water's-edge, and with barely a thin belt of wind- 
blown plantation to shield its nakedness. There was 
nothing in its aspect which suggested cosy rooms, roar- 
ing fires, well-set-out tea-tables, and punctual dinner- 
gongs, in which things, nevertheless, Balladrochit abounded, 
each item gaining in intensity by contrast to the bleak 

Round such a tea-table as has been referred to, the 


three persons just entering on the scene of this story 
were assembled. 

Of the trio one was an elderly and dignified-looking 
person with luxuriant grey hair, wonderfully and fear- 
fully waved, and with considerable remains of good 
looks. There was rather too much of her by this time; 
but the growing stoutness, if not concealed, had at any 
rate been successfully dealt with by Lady Atterton's 
dressmaker. If the mother of the Balladrochit heiress 
looked like a governess at all, it could only be the most 
superior sort on the market — that type which is never 
mentioned without the added epithet of "finishing." To 
watch Lady Atterton's movements was to enjoy a lesson 
in deportment, gratis; to listen to her speech, to feel re- 
buked for slipshod language. 

The heiress herself, big, well-grown, with a large 
supply of somewhat coarse. but very effective brown hair, 
and the bloom of perfect health on cheeks and lips, 
came within measurable distance of being likewise a 
beauty. It was impossible to deny her claims on ad- 
miration, while, at the same time, it was equally im- 
possible for several classes of people to admire her; sen- 
sitive or nervous people, for instance, who objected to a 


rather loud voice slightly inclined to "rattle," or to a 
too ringing and frequent, though bell-dear laugh; or 
limp and indolent people, who were apt to find her 
aggressive robustness, both of mind and body, a trifle 
overpowering; precise and pedantic people too, who took 
exception to her somewhat random modes of expression. 
How so precise a person as Lady Atterton came to have 
so casual a daughter as Mabel was a mystery which 
only the laws of natural reaction could explain. 

Just now as, tea-pot in hand, she held forth to 
Ronald upon his future duties, her mother could not 
help keeping an apprehensive eye upon the heavily- 
wrought silver article, with which Mabel found it con- 
venient to emphasise her points. One small splash had 
already alighted upon the embroidered tea-cloth, closely 
shaving the pale-brown gown over whose immaculacy 
Lady Atterton, from the undying force of habit, watched 
as tenderly as in the days when she had possessed only 
one "best" 

"If it was not from the huge profit I intend to 

draw from your presence," the heiress was explaining 

to her cousin, "I should never have waited tea for you. 

-Four- thirty is our hour, you kivow, because of mamma's 


tea-pains which come on punctually at four, and make 
her very difficult to deal with. Believe me or not when 
I tell you that to come between a lioness and her cubs, 
would be mere child's play compared to interposing 
yourself between mamma and her four-thirty tea. Judge, 
then, what hopes I build upon you for having dared 
that wait of an hour!" 

Lady Atterton shook her stately head in a stately 

"My dear Mabel, what extraordinary exaggeration! 
— What will your cousin think of you? " 

"You don't seriously suppose that that question 
exercises my mind?" 

From under her thick lashes a glance of provocative 
inquiry went towards Ronald, who during the whole of 
her address had been placidly stowing away bread and 
butter. He answered the look with one which was very 
open and friendly, but with nothing either excited or 
exciting in its quality. The person who had answered 
the appeal of the letter was a large, fair-haired young 
man of about twenty-six, with no particular features to 
speak of, but with that share of chiefly animal good looks 
which are inseparable from health, youth, svz.e, 2l ^^v 


petual use of hot water, and an expression which was 
at least negatively agreeable, inasmuch as, though per- 
haps a trifle somnolent, it was neither morose, fatuous, 
nor ill-natured. There was the merest suggestion of 
superfluous flesh upon his big, well-set-up frame, and oc- 
casionally malicious people might feel tempted to run a 
pin into it somewhere just in order to see a less con- 
tented expression upon the fair, boyish face, and to as- 
certain whether the sleepy blue eyes could ever fairly 
wake up; yet, such as he was, he did no dishonour to a 
nation which prides itself on producing a greater propor- 
tion of well-grown specimens of manhood than any other. 

"Pm sorry you waited," was all he now said, with a 
solid regret which however seemed powerless to affect 
his appetite. 

As once more he stretched his hand towards the dish 
of bread and butter there was a shriek from Mabel. 

"Traitor! And on your own native soil! How dare 
you eat bread and butter from a dish flanked by oat- 
cakes on one side and scones on the other! Need I tell 
you that a Scotch cook was the first article I procured? 
The bread and butter wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't 
as a concession to mamma. And, by-the-bye — " 


She put down the tea-pot — at which act the Queen- 
Mother breathed a sigh of relief — and stared at him 
with mock-tragical seriousness: 

"What on earth do you mean by daring to present 
yourself without a kilt? " 

"A how-much?" asked Ronald, his hand arrested in 
mid-air from the sheer shock of the astonishment 

"A kilt — the Celtic garb. Is that clear enough?" 

"Great Scott! But I don't possess such a thing!" 

"Do you mean to tell me" — the sternness in Mabel's 
tone was increasing — "that you call yourself a Highland 
gentleman, and that your wardrobe doesn't contain a 

"I don't call myself anything, but the last kilt I wore 
was got on my sixth birthday. It's only a gillie here and 
there that sports one, and even that's giving out What 
the blazes should I do with a kilt, if I had one? " 

"What would you do with it? Wear it, of course, 
and pay your mite towards the preservation of the 
custom of your country." 

"I don't see what good I'm doing my country by 
making a guy of myself." 

Mabel sketched another shriek, and sinking against 


the chair-back, went through a show of feeling mo- 
mentarily faint 

"Good gracious! Is this what Scotch patriotism has 
come to? Oh, you degenerate scion of kilted ancestors! 
You'll have to come out very strong in other ways if I 
am to forgive you this. If these are your principles, 
then I suppose you don't speak Gaelic either?" 

"Don't know a mortal word of it" 

"This is becoming serious. But you can't help 
knowing some Scotticisms. I've learnt to say 'feckless' 
and 'frugal,' and I've mastered the difference between 
a 'bairn' and a 'bum,' but I'm thirsting to enlarge my 

"My dear child," interposed the ex-governess, "it is 
only the lower classes who use these expressions. You 
cannot possibly employ them in drawing-rooms." 

"What's to prevent me, mother dear? I mean to 
.be an innovator in this respect Great reformers have 
always got to put up with a certain amount of persecu- 
tion, I am aware; but I'm quite prepared for my fate. 
I'll propound my views on the subject further, as soon 
as I've done putting Ronald through his paces. Let's 
get aJong, Ronnie! No hints for either language or 


dress to be got from you, as I perceive; but perhaps 
you'll do better in other departments. Pve booked you 
for an interview to-morrow with the head-keeper. He 
has a list of grievances, partly against poachers, of which 
they seem to breed a fine lot in these hills. Also, he 
has something connected with the health of the grouse- 
broods weighing on his mind, of which I feel powerless 
to relieve him. You'll be able to bring him peace, I 


The transformation on Ronald's face was remarkable; 
even the blue eyes abruptly wakened up. 

"Anything in that line is my line, you know. Just 
send him to me, and I'll settle him all right." 

"That's good," said Mabel, looking at him from 
under half-closed lids. "You can talk it out in the 
morning, and in the afternoon, as a reward, you may 
row me over to the Burial Island. I'm just expiring to 
get to closer quarters with that ruined chapel." 

Here signs of animation became observable in Lady 

"Yes, Mabel, that is a very good idea; almost the 
first sensible thing you have said to-day. If the water 


is smooth enough I shall be of the party. I am told 
the island contains the grave-stone of a Scotchman who 
fought in the battle of Prestonpans, under George the 
Second, you know, Mabel, in the year seventeen hundred 

"No; I know nothing at all," said Mabel, who de- 
lighted in stiffening herself against the too ample in- 
formation exhaled by her mother. From long practice 
she had developed a habit of excluding either direct or 
indirect instruction almost as automatically as the valves 
of a submarine boat close at the contact with water. 
"I never could remember a date in my life, you know, 
and I don't believe I ever heard of the battle of 

"My dear Mabel, what will your cousin — " 
"Ronald knows less about it than I — if possible," 
calmly assured Mabel; and the blank look on Ronald's 
face seemed to confirm her estimate of his historical 

When, a couple of hours later the cousins met again 
in the same room, respectively attired in black cloth and 


in pink satin, the gaze with which Mabel measured her 
guest was plainly one of disapproval. 

"Tell me, Ronald, is there anything in the world 
that would induce you to make a guy of yourself by 
putting on a kilt?" 

"It would need to be a pretty big inducement" 

"Would it be big enough if I asked you to do it?" 

Ronald looked taken aback, and consequently rather 

"Oh, well, if you ask me, of course, that would be 
a different thing altogether." 

"Answer me!" she said, with an imperious tap of 
her fan upon the chimney-piece. "Yes or no: would it 
be enough?" 

"Well, you know I couldn't say *No* to you, could 
I, Mab?" he stammered, with frankly admiring eyes, 
but an obvious want of enthusiasm for the subject. 

The words were drowned by the sound of the 
dinner-gong; yet, to judge from the gracious softening 
of the glance which rewarded him, Mabel had heard. 
It was all the reward he got for the moment, Lady Atter- 
ton being already in the room, with the butler at her 

7 he Compromise, /, 1 4 


"He's a nice boy, really, and wouldn't be difficult 
to manage," Mabel reflected as she dodged the black 
velvet train of her mother, whose plump white hand 
rested upon Ronald's arm, while, in truly regal fashion 
she accomplished the progress to the dining-room. 

Ronald too was making comments, which ran some- 
what in this fashion: 

"She's awfully good-looking, and an awfully good 
sort; but I do wish she wasn't so awfully quick and 
clever. Never know exactly when she's joking and when 
she's serious. Makes a fellow feel so awfully foolish." 



"Oh, that was one, wasn't it?" asked Mabel, pro- 
jecting the upper part of her person over the boat-edge 
at a somewhat perilous angle, in order to keep in view 
the spot from which a black, shiny head had just sunk 
out of sight 

"I believe it was. By Jove! there's another! I say, 
what a pity I haven't my rifle with me." 

"Barbarian! As if I would suffer you to harm a 
hair of their heads, before my eyes. Don't you know 
that they're enchanted princes? I found that out the 
other day, in Scott" 

"It wouldn't harm them to shoot them dead — at 
least, it wouldn't hurt them, I mean; and unless you 
make a clean job of a seal he dives to the bottom, and 
clutches hold of the seaweed, and you never see an inch 
of him again." 

"That's romantic, and also poetically just K 1 ^q^.*^ 


a seal I would much rather rot away entangled in sea- 
weed, my claws stiffening over their slimy stalks, than 
gratify my murderer by the possession of my skin." 
The cousins were en tete-a-tete , the swell on the loch 


having proved too much for Lady Atterton's interest 
even in the historical grave. 

Grey and breezy, with more than a touch of Scotch 
mist in the air, the April day might almost have been 
an October one. Behind the veils of the rolling vapours 
the shores of the loch seemed indefinitely to recede. 
All was grey and moist and unbrokenly uniform. 

"How about a landing-place?" asked Mabel, as 
slowly they drew near to the island, which, with a tail 
of smaller ones, broke the surface of the loch. "It's 
rather a bore having no one to tell one the right spot. 
Perhaps we ought to have brought a native with us. 
Oh, Ronald, this is wild!" 

About its being wild there could not well be two 
opinions. Hard indeed to imagine any more weirdly 
suggestive burial-spot than this morsel of earth girdled 
with dripping seaweed, tufted with coarse rushes, haunted 
by the never-resting gulls — where the wind sung de- 
soktely in the tops of the weather-beaten firs, and the 


waves beat eternally upon the rocky sides with the moan 
of a wild beast that hungers after the prey which the 
earth has swallowed, but of which it would fain have 
its share. Upon one or two of the smaller islands a 
few bleached tree-stumps gave an illusive impression of 
grave-stones; but that was a mere freak of Nature, a 
playing at the grave-yard game — for the big island alone 
held human bones. As, very neatly, Ronald ran up to 
a flat ledge of rock a feathered cloud rose into the air 
— black birds and white birds, rooks and gulls, circled 
shrieking above the tree-tops. 

"Mind you make the boat fast," said Mabel, as 
Ronald helped her onto the slippery rock. "I*ve known 
cheerfuller places for spending the night in. And, look 
here, Ronald, I believe you'll have to give me your 

He gave it without demur, having first gone through 
some scientific-looking manoeuvre with the boat chain 
and some stones. 

"It's as exciting as walking upon crackers," declared 
Mabel, as the last year's pods snapped underfoot. "And 
what are those funny squares cut in the turf for, I 
wonder? Oh, I do wish we had a native heieV 

214 '^^^^ COMPROMISE. 

No trace of a path guided the visitors' steps among 
the wilderness of grave-stones, of which the most ancient, 
with yellow lichen picking out what remained of an in- 
scription or of an obviously Celtic ornament, were not 
always distinguishable from the natural rock rearing its 
head above the uncared-for grass. The slate-stone 
which, in a more practical age, had taken the place of 
the granite, affected the perpendicular rather than the 
horizontal, forming as dreary and unbeautiful a forest 
as mind of man could conceive. The summit of the 
rising ground was crowned by some fragments of masonry, 
thick with ivy, and in a sheltered dip last year's iris 
leaves still waved disconsolately like broken banners, or 
trailed on the ground, as limp as soaked ribbons, with 
here and there an upright stalk to which the seed-pods 
had clung all the winter, while alongside the new green 
spears were ahready piercing victoriously. 

Mabel, with her cousin at her heels, had been 
examining, exclaiming, and lamenting the absence of 
an intelligent native for quite ten minutes, when, on 
rounding a hillock, astonishment brought her to an ab- 
rupt standstill. The discovery that they were not the 
only visitors to the island was indeed, from a practical 


point of view, not at all surprising, but all the more so 
from an artistic one. So palpably did the spot breathe 
death that every evidence of life was bound to come 
with something of a shock. The encounter of an ortho- 
dox ghost, even by broad daylight, would have ap- 
peared far more appropriate than the revelation of two 
persons — a young man and a young girl, busy ap- 
parently beside one of the modem head-stones. At the 
foot of the dark-grey slab, and apparently freshly de- 
posited, lay one of those monstrosities in white beads 
and wire, which, on this side of the Channel are ap- 
parently considered a tribute to the dead. The girl, 
handkerchief in hand, was bending low, carefully wiping 
the glass shade which was to preserve its beauties from 
the ravages of wind and wet 

"Ronald," said Mabel, beneath her breath, "I do 
believe here are the very aborigines we want. Just look 
at their hair." 

"By Jove, yes!" murmured Ronald, becoming aware 
of two dark-red heads bending in close proximity over 
the grave. "What are you going to do?" he added, 
in some apprehension, as Mabel moved resolutely for- 


"Pm going to scrape acquaintance with them. They 
will be able to tell us about things." 

"But, look here, how do you know who they are?" 
objected Ronald, whose views concerning the conven- 
tionalities of life were much narrower than those of 
his headstrong cousin. "Do you think that Aunt Caro- 

"I don't care who they are. I need them, and Tm 
going to appropriate them — that's all! You needn't 
come on if you're afraid." 

Albert McDonnell, looking up quickly at the sound 
of footsteps on the turf, was scarcely less surprised than 
Mabel had been — fashionably clad young ladies, out of 
the tourist season being, at least, as rare as white grouse 
on the moors; but even before she had reached the spot 
he had made a correct guess at her identity. There 
was scarcely time to repress the movement of pleasure 
whose display would have been all too naive, and no 
time to warn Fenella, before the apparition was upon 

"I beg your pardon," Miss Atterton began, in a 
tone which obviously begged nothing at all, but smil- 
ingly, breezily commanded; "We are strangers here, and 


anxious to find out the whereabouts of an old grave we 
have been told of. Somebody who was killed in some 
battle or other — no, I mean who killed somebody else. 
Wasn't that it, Ronald? This is my cousin, Mr. Mac- 
giluray. We've come over from Balladrochit, you know." 

"Oh," said Fenella, with very wide eyes; "then you 
are the — " 

A cutting glance from Albert checked the word 
"heiress," which had all but rushed to her lips. She 
had raised herself from the grave-mound barely in time 
to become aware of the strangers, close already, and the 
flurry of the astonishment was still upon her, painting 
her cheeks a delicious rose-colour. 

"My sister and I will be very pleased to show you 
the way," Albert was saying, with an aplomb which did 
much credit to his self-confidence, even though at that 
very moment he was wondering whether the angle at 
which he was raising his hat did or did not come up to 
the requirements of fashion. "The grave you mean is 
our show-grave here. It is up there in the old 

"That's nice. And there are lots of other things 
we're dying to know — at least, I'm dying to know theccv. 


Please tell me first: what's all that black stuff opposite, 
and what makes it rattle so?" 

She pointed to the nearest shore where strange, 
dusky-looking promontories ran out into the water, loom- 
ing indistinctly through the low-hanging mist From 
behind the moist curtain a continual clatter sounded, as 
though vast masses of crockery were being perpetually 

"Slate-refuse, and the slate workers on the banks. 
If the mist lifted, you would see the sheds under which 
they are working, shaping the slates as they come from 
the quajry." 

"What fun! I must have a look at the quarries 
one of these days. Just listen, Ronald!" 

But Ronald seemed just then to be busier with his 
eyes than with his ears, as a mere turn of the head 
would have betrayed to Mabel; and the object he a 
using them on, sh) ly but persistently, ■ 
had revealed itself in the 
had stood up from theii 


to this spot of Death, more loudly, but study not nwre 
inesisubly than Death, day by day, spoke b»(i to tiK« 
men, who from morning to night, Ubmrcd wbit t^<«r 
place of final rest ever before their eyes. 

"And now for the chapel!" deodol Mabel, after 
that brief pause. 

In the act of turning she thre» a anioas glance at 
the slab of slate-stone alongade. 

"My mother's grave," muinniral Fendla. "It is 
two years to-day since she died* 

Mabel put out her hand with j gorture whicii looked 
more impulsive than it really wa-j gesture often being 
less trouble than a word. 

As they made their way o«r the uneven grouud. il 
was Mabel's tongue that aminiKd busiest She wuiurd 
to know "everything about emyfliing," as she exi.lamtrd 
to Albert— the iiuartp-- -,.^ ^^^.^ uuavuidubly rc- 

L solved cheerful voiu'uilrty 

jb- b tiie surruuiidiii?- 

in ti.^ lurf V*'"' 
it a r.i:u:^ I"^'"' 

- dt^.. w-^'^ ,. 


settied by scraping a shallow hole and heaping turf 
upon the coffin. The whole island was scarred with 
the signs of these unsuccessful graves, and of the spots 
from which the turf — cut to the shape required, and 
capable of being rolled up like a mat — had been taken. 

"What excellent consciences you all must have!" 
declared Mabel. "Fancy being able to sleep quiet 
under a turf mat! But perhaps you don't always sleep 
quiet? Do you know that when I caught sight of you 
and your sister just now my first impression was that 
you must be ghosts." 

"Do ghosts wear tweed suits?" asked Albert, glanc- 
ing down discontentedly at the cheap material of his 

"Why not? They're up to anything nowadays. The 
old style of ghost in a sheet and with fiery eyes has 
quite gone out, you know. That sort never used to do 
anything but groan and rattle chains while the ambition 
of a real, up-to-date ghost is evidently to look as unlike 
a ghost as possible. I should say it affects daylight 
more than darkness; and if it goes in for chains at all, 
it's the latest thing in muff or bag chains. I beg your 
pardon for chattering; I see you want to say something." 


They had stood still before a more imposing-looking 
monument; but when her over-eager guide, having ex- 
plained that it was the grave of the chief of the 
McDonnell clan, murdered in the Massacre, showed signs 
of wanting to enter into the details of the event, Mabel 
stopped him firmly. 

"No history, please. Mamma supplies that Ah! 
you don't know mamma. I once was weak enough to 
visit Westminster Abbey in her company, with the re- 
sult that the mere sight of it gives me a moral nausea. 
You can tell me the story another time," she added, 
seeing a look of disappointment upon her new ac- 
quaintance's face, "from your own point of view — not 
from that of the history books. But to-day I'm hunger- 
ing only for local colour. Talk to me about second 
sight and * corpse lights,' and those sort of things, if you 

The smile that went with the words was well cal- 
culated to heal wounded vanity. 

And Albert, rising to the occasion, as was his habit 
of doing, talked well, even brilliantiy, of the customs 
and beliefs of his country. Already he had grasped his 
role, and was playing it to perfection. If Miss Atterton 


wanted folklore, she should have it by the ton. Whether 
he fed her with facts or with fancies was quite in- 
different to himself. To hear his ready narrative was to 
suppose that he had made a special study of a subject 
which, on principle, he contemptuously neglected. 

By the time they reached the chapel, whose stony 
carcase bulged with century-old ivy, Mabel was looking 
with open approval upon the cicerone whom Providence 
had put in her way. 

"If I might venture to mention history," he laughed, 
"this would be the moment for referring to the battle of 

They were standing around a slab of stone upon 
which was depicted a stout man on horse-back — or 
rather off horse-back, being in the act of sprawling down 
the side of his steed, with a dirk stuck into his head, 
which dirk was in the hand of an extremely long-armed 
and short-legged gentleman in a kilt, standing in an easy 
attitude at some distance from his victim, and apparently 
exerting himself as little as an ordinary mortal would in 
the extermination of a fly. 

"This is generally known as the grave of the 'Eng- 
lish Dragon,' " explained Albert, "though, strictly speak- 


ing, it's the dragon's slayer who rests here. As you see 
by the date, he lived to a good old age, but obviously 
this was considered M^ achievement of his life." 

"He doesn't seem to have had much trouble over 
it," mused Mabel. "I take it that the ease with which 
he knocks off his enemy is meant to symbolise the de- 
generacy of the English nation. Really, this is rather 
mortifying to my patriotic feelings. I wonder you had 
the face to bring me to this monument of my country's 

There was sparkling reproach in the eyes which 
laughed upon him, but again Albert proved equal to the 

"Why not of my country's childish vanity? If the 
event had been kodaked, instead of cut in stone forty 
years later, who knows what face it would have borne!" 

"Whatever have they made his legs so short for?" 
demanded Ron|Lld. "Was he a dwarf?" 

"I fancy the stone gave out, and possibly deficiency 
of space — more than deficiency of orthography — is 
equally responsible for having turned the dragoon into 
a dragon." 

Upon which the laugh became as general and as 

224 '^^^ COMPROMISE. 

unrestrained as though they had known each other for 
days, at least, instead of only minutes. 

"I pierce your motive in that speech: you want to 
spare me the extra humiliation of knowing my country- 
man laid low by a pigmy. This speaks for your gopd 
heart, and seems to promise that Northerners and 
Southerners may, after all, hope to dwell in peace to- 

"It shall not be our fault if the peace is broken," 
said Albert, with another inclination which he inwardly 
judged to be more successful than the first 

There were no signs of its being broken, on any side, 
as they slowly descended towards the spot where the 
Balladrochit boat had been tethered, but it was only with 
the foremost couple that conversation flourished. Fenella 
was too unused to society to talk readily, and Ronald's 
efforts in this direction were not crowned with marked 
success. His usual rule, on making acquaintance with 
any "new" young lady, was to open fire by a series of 
questions regarding the various games and sports she 
might be supposed to patronise, in the course of which 
process it was ten to one that some common ground of 
interest was struck which, without any undue intellectual 


effort, "floated" the conversation. To-day, after having 
evoked a few shy negatives, he found himself first sink- 
ing into embarrassed silence, and then abruptly seeking 
enlightenment upon various points which half an hour 
ago had not existed for him. 

"You live here, don't you? I mean at Ardloch?" 

"Oh, yes, of course. My father is minister here." 

"Ah I" 

Then after a reflective pause: 

"Mabel — my cousin, I mean, is sure to go to your 
father's church. It's quite a short row over, I see." 

No comment from Fenella, who was inwardly com- 
paring the make of his boots to those which Albert 

"You go to church every Sunday, don't you?" 

"Oh, yes." 

"Morning or afternoon service?" 

"Both, generally," she said, opening a pair of 
genuinely astonished eyes at this strange interest in her 
religious practices. "My father likes it, you know." 

"Do you play tennis?" he asked, at the end of an- 
other long pause, and for the second time to-day. 

"A little; but I so seldom have the chance." 

77ie Compromise. /. 1$ 


"There's a famous court at Balladrochit; you should 
come over and try your hand." 

This time Fenella flushed with pleasure. "I should 
like to — if Miss Atterton asks me." 

"Oh, Mabel will ask you right enough. Til get her 
to," he added, with rather a stumble over the words. 

Ahead there was a cry from Mabel, that sounded 
like one of distress. 

"Good gracious, Ronald — our boat — where is it?" 

"Over there!" replied Albert, pointing to a dark ob- 
ject drifting sea- wards, about a quarter of a mile 

"By Jove! And I thought I had made it so fast!" 

"You can't make it fast except at the right places." 

"Ronald, you wretch! This means sleeping in the 
chapel, I suppose, with our heads pillowed on the Eng- 
lish dragon!" 

"Or condescending to make use of our boat You 
will allow me to row you over to Balladrochit, will you 
not. Miss x\tterton? After which I can return to fetch 
my sister." 

Despite his habitual self-control, Albert said it a little 
too eagerly, inwardly blessing the chance which was 


enabling him to render a service to the mistress of 

"And leave her to mope alone among the tombstones 
for an hour! How truly fraternal! I know a better way 
than that. I'll take your boat only on condition that 
you come along in it yourselves — both of you. We'll 
just be in time for tea, I reckon; and daylight lasts long 
enough for you to get home easily after that" 

The challenging glance towards her cousin which 
went along with the words evidentiy anticipated some 
conventional objection, but somewhat to her astonish- 
ment, was met with one of full approval. 

"By Jove — that's a capital idea!" pronounced 
Ronald, his face expanding, and not a trace of sleepi- 
ness in his blue eyes. 

A faint show of resistance having been quickly con- 
quered, the party of four presently found themselves 
dancing over the grey waves towards the solitary house 
upon the opposite shore. At least two of the hearts 
within the boat danced in unison with its elastic move- 
ment; for who could have dreamt of such good fortune 
as this? 

Dusk was falling when brother and sister, aCtet ^. 


veritable feast of a tea, and a yet more dazzling feast 
of subtler social delights, recrossed the loch. Such was 
the joyful preoccupation of both their minds that for 
awhile silence reigned between them. What they had 
to say to each other was almost too self-evident to re- 
quire to be said at all. 

It was Fenella who, at last, with a long-drawn breath 
remarked: "What a pity Julia was not there!" 

"I'm not sure that it was a pity. Julia will come in 
all right now; but just for a beginning you know. Fen, 
I do believe that you and I do better; more ornamental, 
you know!" and he laughed with a gaiety that was al- 
most boyish. 

"How kind Miss Atterton is — and how amusing! 
Not at all proud." 

"Well, no — hem — I suppose not," mused Albert. 
"At any rate, I believe that we'll get on all right An 
acquaintance made up in this way is a trump-card. 
Saves at least six months of the ordinary conventional 
intercourse. Quite a famous short cut! We've made 
all sorts of appointments already. We're to take her to 
see Lame Liz and hear more second-sight stories, and 
we're to show her over the quarries." 


"That will be nice. But why did you need to tell 
Lady Atterton that father had worked in the quarries? 
Won't that give them — a low opinion of us?" 

"It will give them a less low opinion than if they 
had found it out for themselves, as they were bound to. 
If prevarication would do it, I'd prevaricate cheerfully; 
but when a thing can't be hid, it's better brazened out, 
as I always say about our hair. Julia is for making it 
darker with pomatum; and so would I be if the pomatum 
worked properly; but it doesn't— you make your hair 
greasy and yourself ridiculous. And besides," added 
Albert, as he dipped his oars more vigorously, "you 
mustn't forget that Lady Atterton herself is risen from 
the ranks — or very nearly so. If she doesn't think 
lowly of herself, she won't think lowly of us." 

There was a silence, during which Fenella turned 
back in spirit to the luxuriously furnished room, the 
daintily set-out tea-table, lately left, and hovered de- 
lightedly around the fascinating vision. 

"Where did you get that cap, Fenella?" 

Fenella, awaking from her vision, became aware of 
her brother's eyes fixed upon her with a radiantly ap- 
proving gaze. 


"This cap? From Oban." 

"It suits you splendidly: down to the ground. But 
don't you think it's time for a new frock?" 

"Julia told me she can't afford one just now." 

"She'll afford one fast enough when I've — given her 
my views. You shall have that new frock, Fenella. 
You've earned it this afternoon." 

"By eating so many cakes?" laughed Fenella. 

"No; by looking your best while you ate them." 

And a moment later he added, in a half soliloquy: 
"How pleased poor mother would be!" 

• ••••■ 

That evening, the dinner-gong at Balladrochit was 
once more preceded by a short conversation between 
the cousins. 

"What do you think of the natives?" inquired 
Mabel, with one foot on the fender, and an openwork 
silk stocking freely displayed. "/ think they're rather 
a success. The young man is not a bit of an idiot, 
and his hair is simply adorable. I'd be half-inclined 
to offer him the situation of a piper, but I suppose he 
doesn't pipe, since he told me he's an engineer. Yes; 
they're quite amusing, and the girl is quite pretty." 


"Pretty?" repeated Ronald, tearing open his eyes in 
a manner that was positively disconcerting. "Surely 
she's — she's," he stopped short under his cousin's sur- 
prised gaze, rather red in the face. 

"I see," Mabel was saying in the mild accents of 
genuine amusement; "I suppose it's here that the ad- 
jective 'adorable' would have better come in. Cheer 
up, Ronnie," and she lightly touched his sleeve with 
her fan; "you'll have your opportunities since I mean 
to cultivate the aborigines. I'm not narrow in my views, 
you know; only mind you don't turn the native head 
too completely!" 

Whereupon the confidences were cut short in pre- 
cisely the same fashion as those of yesterday. 



The loch-end had this much resemblance to the 
world's end that it seemed difficult to get beyond it. 
The steeply rising hill, up to whose rocky feet the 
water crept, stood here like a rampart, its forbidding 
solitude broken, until a few months back, by nothing 
but the gulls, or the big grey herons, flapping lazily 
between the oak-trees which, from the borders of pre- 
cipices, bent as though to catch their own reflections in 
the shifting mirror below. At low tide the base of the 
rampart revealed itself as twisted into heavy columns, 
draped with tons of gleaming, yellow-brown seaweed — 
a whole submarine colonnade, into and out of whose 
entrances the water sucked tirelessly, with hollow sounds 
which set one dreaming of endless caves, and dreamingly 
— and maybe shudderingly — wonder what possible se- 
crets they held. 

But upon the virginal beauty of the wilderness 


human hands had been violentiy laid — the spell of soli- 
tude broken, the rampart stormed. Already the roughly- 
cut road, running like a shelf round the base of the 
mountain, spoke of future communications, undreamt of 
by a former generation. 

Within a primitive hut, closet to the new track, 
Albert McDonnell was occupied in stuffing a couple of 
shirts, a tooth-brush and a few other necessaries of life 
into a bag. It might have been the prospect of the 
week-end holiday that was causing him to smile to 
himself as he packed, but more likely it was something 
else. His working quarters were comfortless, and the 
usual resources of the loch-end consisted of the presence 
of rough workmen, and the periodical inspecting visit 
of some higher engineering authority; but none of these 
things mattered to Albert, so long as they served his end. 

And that end? 

A very simple one, and a very single one: that of 
"arriving," as our Gallic neighbours put it with a con- 
ciseness we shall never reach — of achieving "something," 
of becoming "somebody." Poor Ella might have spared 
herself the trouble of here sewing the seeds of ambition; 
there are some soils which possess it spontarvooM^Vj . T<^ 

234 "^^ COMPROMISE. 

Stand still upon the level assigned to him by Fate had 
early struck Albert as an ignominy — almost a cowardice. 
If he had decided for engineering, it was because in 
this machine-made age it seemed to offer the most 
possibilities. The Glasgow University which, to the 
father, had been a prison-house, was to the son a palace 
of delights — but of purely intellectual delights, since he 
was far too prudent, as well as far too determined, to 
waste precious hours upon the orthodox follies. Time 
enough for that later on — when he had "arrived." 
There he had drunk with rapture the creeds of the age, 
which threw open the world to energy and intellect, and put 
up barriers only to the stupid and lazy. From thence he 
emerged a socialist in theory, contemptuously intolerant 
of the tyranny of class distinctions, and yet calmly pre- 
pared in practice to profit by them, should they happen 
to serve his purpose. They were ridiculous, of course; 
but so were many things in the world. It was his 
Highland "canniness" which told him that the time for 
kicking them over was not yet come. 

The very handicaps upon his own prospects stimu- 
lated the fighting powers inherited from a race of an- 
cestors as handy with the dirk as their descendants now 


were with borer and hammer. Most keenly was he 
aware of the position of his family: precariously poised 
between two classes of society. On themselves it de- 
pended to which of the two they would finally belong. 
That the "rise" achieved by John McDonnell should 
prove permanent in its effects had long been resolved 
by Albert, since upon him the burden of the situation 
fell. Not that in his heart, and even while, as a matter 
of policy, keeping his humble relatives at a distance, 
he at all despised his own origin — he was too intellec- 
tually democratic for that — but because the prizes he 
coveted belonged to the higher social level. Free though 
he was of his mother's snobbishness, he could not al- 
ways avoid the adoption of snobbish methods. 

So far, worldliness had not killed family affection. 
Of his younger sister, in particular, he was proud with 
a true brotherly pride, and the assiduity with which he 
watched over her was not entirely spent on the trump- 
card in the game of life. Even for his father he was 
not devoid of a sort of tolerant tenderness. The idea 
of converting the dreamer to more reasonable views of 
life had long since been dropped as unfeasible. John 
M'Donnell, clearly, was past education. But there re- 


mained the possibility of keeping him within reasonable 
bounds — of restraining any action which would too con- 
spicuously clash with his children's plans. Such had 
been the motive which had caused Albert to compete 
for his present post; for the proximity to Ardloch 
enabled him to keep an eye on his family, and to direct 
them in the way in which he intended them to go. 

If to-day, as he made his hasty preparations, he was 
smiling to himself, it was because he thought he saw 
signs of a right path having been struck. The goal was 
a mere air castle as yet, of which the foundations had 
been laid on the day of the visit to the Burial Island, 
and to which a few more layers had been added on the 
occasion of his last week-end at home. It was on that 
occasion, too, that the appointment had been made, in 
obedience to which he was quitting his work prematurely, 
for it was to-day that the slate-quarries were to be visited 
under his personal guidance, supplemented by that of the 
manager. As light-heartedly he closed his bag, it was 
not of Fenella alone and her possible chances that he 
was thinking. In his constitutionally sanguine mind there 
was a second air castle building, yet more cloudy and 
far more undefined than the first — so improbable, in 


fact, of aspect that even his supreme self-confidence 
could not but smile at the fancy, without being able to 
smile it quite down. In flat deflance of his sober reason 
it was with a fairy-tale sort of feeling that he emerged 
from his humble quarters and, having given his orders 
to the shaggy foreman, stepped into one of the half- 
dozen boats which at high tide rode close to the rocky 
shore. The loch-end smiled on him to-day as it had 
never done before. The rough track of the future road, 
the smoking road-engine, brought hither in pieces, which 
had been fitted on the spot, the stone- heaps, the primi- 
tive smithy, the cabins for the workmen, they were all, 
in truth, so many blots upon the landscape; but to 
Albert personally the only features worthy of attention 
— weapons as they were of that battle with Nature, in 
which his bellicose soul could not but delight. 

"If I weren't myself," remarked Mabel Atterton, at 
about 4 p.m. on that same day, "I think I should like 
to be a slate-quarryman." 

It was to Albert that the remark was addressed, as 
together they emerged from the gates of the grey amphi- 


theatre whose inspection had just been concluded — but 
it was Mr. Berrell who replied. 

"I don't think you'd like it for long, Miss Atterton; 
not unless you have a set of young ladies like yourself 
for fellow-workers. You wouldn't stand a week of such 
rough company as these fellows are." 

"Rough?" Albert promptly took up the word. "Al- 
low me to protest against the adjective. Hard work 
slate-quarrying may be, but not rough. It's too full of 
surprises for that Why, every single bit asks for in- 
dividual treatment: the grain of the stuff, its power of 
resistance, the thickness to which it will bear to JJDe split, 
one has to judge of all that, and one has to be ready 
for emergencies. Did you notice that man with the 
single-handed hammer, how quickly and neatly he 
chiselled a drain to carry off the rain-water that was 
trickling into his bore-hole? That's t3rpical of what I 
mean; and that's why I maintain that we've got no real 
boors here, since every slate quarryman has got to use 
his brains quite as much as his hands, almost from the 
cradle upwards." 

Albert spoke eagerly, bent on the persuasion of his 
hearers. That family origin which would not be con- 


cealed might yet gain by being invested with a certain 
intellectual glamour. 

"I wonder you didn't go in for slate-quarrying your- 
self, if you're so keen over it?" remarked Mr. Berrell, 
with a coarse-grained laugh. 

The new manager was a more striking than attractive 
person, whose physiognomy, perhaps owing to a pair of 
broad and over-conspicuous lips, or possibly to an ag- 
gressive gleam in the whites of his small black eyes, 
vaguely suggested the negro — a suggestion, however, in 
which his complexion, of a somewhat unwholesome pallor, 
played no part Both in the rather grating voice, and 
in the lines about the broad, squat nose, there was an 
element of harshness. It was beside Julia McDonnell that 
he had been walking during the inspection just concluded, 
and where difficult places made assistance advisable it 
was Julia who was favoured by the support of his large, 
flabby hand. Ronald Macgiluray rendered precisely the 
same services to Fenella, while Albert successfully divided 
his attentions between Mabel Atterton and her mother, 
undeterred by the fragmentary lectures on mineralogy 
and geology, for which the quarries furnished fatally con- 


venient pretexts. The arriviste had upon his sympathy 
an especial claim which made for patience. 

"Have you found it interesting?" asked Fenella of 
her attentive cavalier, with whom conversation somehow 
did not seem to grow easier as acquaintance advanced. 

"Oh, just awfully," he replied, with a readiness to 
acquiesce which would doubtless have embraced more 
unpromising things than slate-quarries. Then, after a 
moment's reflection: 

"But it must be deuced hard work, all the same." 

"Yes, it is hard work," said Fenella, with a convic- 
tion bom of recent revelations; "but I do think it must 
be fascinating. I have been 'hearing about it a good 
deal lately," she explained. "One of our — one of the 
quarrymen was injured by a blast, and I have been 
visiting him with father. I am afraid he will remain 

"That's hard luck. But anyway, he won't have to 
work any more." 

This also was an afterthought, and spoken so seri- 
ously that Fenella could not help laughing. 

"Would that be a compensation to you?" 

"Well, no, really, I don't mean that, Miss Fenella! 


But, you know, it must be an awful business having to 
be here at eight o'clock every morning: and hammering 
and boring away at that confounded rock, and putting 
the pieces on to the trucks, and all that sort of thing. 
How glad the fellows must be when Saturday comes! 
And on Sunday morning I'd bet even odds that they 
lie in bed till eleven o'clock. Just fancy having to be 
here by eight!" 

It was evident that this point in the quarryman's 
day appealed most deeply to his personal sympathy. 

"Do you never get up before eight o'clock?" 

"Rather! I've known myself get up at six — once 
for a big shoot in Ireland, for instance, or on hunting 
days with a meet twenty miles off. But there was an 
inducement, you see. I don't think I could do it for 
the sake of chipping slates. And even then," he added, 
with a pleasantly boyish laugh, "didn't I just take it out 
next day! You bet!" 

"Perhaps if your breakfast depended upon the 
chipping, and you were very hungry for it, that might 
be an inducement too," mused Fenella. "But then, of 
course, you don't know what it is to be hungry." 

"Don't I, though! I don't think any fellow could 

71te Compromise. /. 1 6 


feel hungrier than I have felt after a hard day on the 
moors with an east wind in one's face, and all the sand- 
wiches gone." 

"Oh, yes; but that's different," said Fenella, and for 
an instant contemplated propounding this difference, but 
quickly dropped the project, as holding out but slender 
prospects of mutual understanding. 

They had crossed the road, and, between the rails 
of the miniature line, were making their way on to the 
"bank," where the sheds stood in a close row. Here 
the final shaping of the slates took place, and here also 
they were stacked in neat, beautifully-packed black piles, 
ready to be shipped. 

Mr. Berrell self-consciously played the cicerone. 

"Each crew — of six men, generally — tells off two of 

its best workmen for the finishing work. It's as good 


as a play to see the court that's paid to any extra-good 
workman, in order to lure him into a crew. Why, the 
best hands at the double-handed hammer are positively 
made love to." 

"And on the first of each month when the claims 
are distributed afresh it's Mr. Berrell who is made love 
to," laughed Albert "It makes all the difference in the 


world, you see, whether you get one of the rich or one 
of the poor workings — a fat one or a thin one." 

"What an opportunity for favouring your friends!" 
laughed Mabel. 

"Or for disfavouring your enemies," finished Mr. 
Berrell, showing his large, even teeth. 

"If for one minute you watch that man shaping the 
slates, you will see what I mean by the delicacy of the 
work," said Albert to Mabel 

They had stopped before one of the open sheds, in 
which two men sat on the ground, silently and swiftly 
transforming the rough slate into small oblong pieces, 
with two sharp and two rounded comers. 

"Room for the trucks!" ordered Mr. BerrelPs 
peremptory voice; and the company stepped aside, be- 
fore the miniature engine with its tail of loaded trucks; 
the men were round it already ere it stopped, each 
looking for the red chalk number identifying the property 
of each crew. 

From the shed alongside a man had likewise stepped 

out, and, having examined one of the trucks, called back 

over his shoulder: 

"A fine lot this time, Duncan!" 



Fenella had not yet done wondering rather uneasily 
what Duncan he was speaking to when the shed was 
reached, and she became aware of Duncan M'Donnell 
sitting on the ground in the orthodox attitude of the 
slate-shaper, in the orthodox white duck trousers, and 
with strips of sackcloth protecting knees and ankles 
against the sharpness of the slate-edges. The bandage, 
still conspicuous on his left hand, seemed no obstacle to 
the dexterity with which he turned out the slates — a 
process in which the knees that balanced thr -Inb tn biti 
split, and the constantly-working toes that saved it from 
many a lurch, played a part only subordinate to that of 
the hands. 

**Vm sure this is one of those who is made love to," 
said Mabel, beneath her breath, as she watched one 
shaped slate after the other tossed across onto the ready 
heap, with a clatter which sounded ominous, and which 
yet regularly avoided breakage. "It looks like magic." 

As Fenella's eyes met the black ones of the worker 
the colour rushed to her face. Nervous alarm was her 
first sensation. Would he speak to her? And if he 
did so, how could she avoid acknowledging the rela- 
tionship? What was Albert going to do? He had 


such strange theories. But no, Albert had passed on 
already. Evidently he drew the line at any such per- 
sonal recognition. Besides, {jfi^carcely knew Duncan, 
whereas over Fenella's mind there rusheo^ecollections of 
meetings beside a sick-bed which, though not devoid of 
stiffness, had at any rate, been free of the bitterness of 
their first encounter. She was still asking herself 
whether it would be cowardly to ignore him when, after 
that one straight look into her face, and without any 
further sign, he bent again over his work. 

With a feeling of mingled relief and shame, Fenella, 
in the wake of the others, moved on. 

"A dangerous fellow that," Mr. Berrell was saying to 
Miss Atterton, in a sotto voce growl. "Choke-full of 
these new socialistic ideas. A regular agitator. But 
I'll teach him to agitate!" added the manager, with an 
ominous contraction of his white-negro face. 

Mabel laughed carelessly. 

"It's clear, at any rate, that he won't get the best 
working in the mine next time!" 

Fenella had heard the remark, and thought it so 
alarming that she forgot to make any res^Q\^s«. \si ^. 


question addressed to her at that moment by Mr. 

"This is what they call the 'outer bank,'" ran Mr. 
Berrell's next explanation. 

The party had reached the extreme end of the 
promontory running out into the water — a purely artificial 
promontory, built exclusively of slate-refuse, and still 
slowly growing inch by inch with each working-day — 
thrusting its ugly black tongue further and further into 
the shining beauty of the loch. Here, beyond the regime 
of the regular working-sheds, the boys, and an occasional 
old man — shapers of undersized slates — reigned supreme. 
Each "rubbish-train," as it reached the "point," was 
pounced upon by a swarm of youngsters, and rapidly 
overhauled by hands and eyes that already were those 
of experts. It was the grey-headed dotards who — easily 
distanced by youth — lingered latest about the trucks 
which, when even they had taken their fill, were presentiy 
pushed to the end of the rails, where, disgorging them- 
selves of the refuse, they added their item to the monstrous 
black tongue. 

"How thick the yellow specks are in some of the 
slates," remarked Mabel, as slowly they returned from 


the point "Are you sure your slate-quarry isn't a gold 
mine, Mr. McDonnell?" 

"That isn't gold, my dear, but michre," interposed 
Lady Atterton, seizing one of those opportunities which 
had been escaping her all afternoon. "It is a very 
common formation in slate-rock, and — " 

"We call them diamonds,'" smiled Albert, as he 
stooped to pick up a small piece of slate which shone 
particularly bright with the metallic points. "Just 
popular foolishness, you know. Lady Atterton," he 
apologetically added. 

"Popular picturesqueness," corrected Mabel. "I don't 
care what they're called, but I think they're delightfully 

"If you think so, then perhaps you will be gracious 
enough to keep this piece — in recollection of your first 
sight of the quarries." 

Albert, though he said it with a trifle of alarm at 
his own presumption, was evidently quite as quick at 
taking an opportunity as Lady Atterton herself. 

Mabel brought back her eyes from the couple in 
front — Fenella and Ronald — who seemed to be very 
busy over a stack of slates. 


"Really, Mr. M'Donnell," she laughed, with a mock 
pursing of the lips, amply belied by the sparkle in her 
eyes, "do I know you well enough to accept presents of 
'diamonds' from you?" 

"Of Ardloch diamonds, surely," smiled Albert, and 
then a little lower as he laid the shining piece upon her 
out-stretched palm: "They are humble, our diamonds, 
but they will grow proud, now that you have deigned to 
notice them." 



Monday afternoon had come, and found Fenella 
following the road up the glen bent upon a mission 
which took her there at least twice in every week; for 
the verdict upon Adam's eyes had been spoken, and her 
visits had become the spots of light in the life of the 
man condemned to darkness. Though JuUa grumbled 
at her new "fad," Fenella could not find it in her heart 
to disappoint the blind man. The very quiver in his 
voice as, at the sound of the latch, he would say: "Is 
that you. Miss Fenella?" would have been enough to 
ensure the next visit, even had that delicious feeling of 
being necessary to somebody not already made itself at 
home in her life. The new radiancy upon her father's 
face went far, too, to keep her zeal alive, and even to 
widen its field; for Adam was no longer her only charge, 
though he remained her favoured one. 


In this May season the walk up the glen was in 
itself a delight Yet to-day she hurried, looking neither 
to the right nor to the left, anxious to get this thing 
over. In particular she hoped to be able to get away 
before Duncan was home from the quarry. She did not 
want to meet him — had not yet made up her mind as 
to the best face to put upon it when next they did 
meet He was so apt to say bitter and unpleasant 
things, and their last meeting beside the shed upon the 
bank might well serve as a pretext for bitterness. The 
look in his scornful black eyes had spoken plainly 
enough. And just as his first hostility had began to 
melt; it was a pity, really, and would make her visits to 
Adam so much more difficult They had grown so 
pleasant, these visits; and, with increasing familiarity, 
the rustic details had revealed such unexpected charms. 
She was quite intimate now with the inside of that hut 
which, at first sight, had given her such a shock of dis- 
pleasure. Neither the flagstones of the floor, nor the 
hanging platform which represented the ceiling, nor 
even the underside of the thatch, plainly visible above, 
crossed by birchen branches with the bark still on, any 
longer offended her finer sensibilities; and this principally 


for the reason that, humble though it all was, she had 
gradually discovered that it was yet absolutely free of 
that offensive "messiness" which too often is the boon 
companion of such humility. The impression of cleanli- 
ness and order which had struck her on the first day 
grew steadily with each fresh visit. There were things 
that amused her — such as the display of empty biscuit- 
tins upon the mantelpiece — or the choice of prints upon 
the neatly papered walls. Her favourite among these 
was a certain very well-fed Joseph, being sold by his 
brethem, one of whom was pinching the calves of his 
legs, something after the method of a farmer showing 
off the "points" of a prize-pig; though this was closely 
run by an imposing array of personages in kilts, which, 
to judge from the uniform gloom of the wearers 
countenances, must have been considerably too tight 
about the waist But though some of the details made 
Fenella smile, none of them made her shudder. What- 
ever there was of metal shone ever with blinding- bright- 
ness, what there was of crockery blinked immaculate. 
That distressing display of family linen which was the 
rule elsewhere seemed here unknown. So abnormal, in 
fact, did this state of things appear to Fenella — all the 


more abnormal in the absence of a house-wife — that 
on one occasion she had interpolated Adam on the 

"Is it a neighbour who keeps your hut so tidy for 
you?" she once asked him, her eye being caught by 
some wonderful edging of pink paper fringing the 
crockery shelves, which had not been there at her last 

Adam laughed — a laugh that held both contempt 
and vanity. 

"Are any of the neighbours' huts kept like ours is?" 

From where he sat in the wooden armchair before 
the hearth he turned his still bandaged head from side 
to side, as though with his lost eyes he could see the 
familiar details. 

"Tell me truly, Miss Fenella: have you seen any- 
thing as braw as this here room in all Ardloch — barring 
the Rectory, of course," he deferentially added. 

"No, indeed, I haven't; and that's why I can't under- 
stand — " 

"No more can I," chuckled Adam. "It won't enter 
into me how he finds time to keep things as straight as 
he does,** 


"He?" repeated Fenella, astonished at the use of 
the pronoun. 

"Duncan, to be sure! And the trouble he takes 
over it! — more trouble than it's worth," added Adam, 
with a conviction which was proof even against vanity. 
"What do you think he does when he comes home dog- 
tired from the quarry? Take a rest, maybe? Not 
Duncan! It's down on his knees, he is, the moment 
he's swallowed his supper, scrubbing at the flagstones 
as though he were bent on scrubbing the face off them 
— or maybe careering round with the broom after the 
cobwebs. And it's no that alone; he's no content with 
having things clean, he wants them smart too. Now, 
that paper edging to the shelves," and Adam waved a 
bandaged hand in the direction in which he knew the 
latest ornament to be — "you'll maybe no believe me 
when I tell you that he was up at four this morning to 
get them ready. 'What's that you're snippin' at?' I 
asks him, when I heard the scissors go. *New fringes 
for the shelves, father,' he says, *the old ones are getting 
ower shabby.' 'Duncan,' I whiles says to him, 'you're 
as bad as a woman, any day; if you don't look out 
you'll be growing as fussy as any old maid in the parish.' " 


"How Strange — I never would have thought that of 
Duncan. He — doesn't look like that, somehow." 

Fenella glanced about her with frankly astonished 
eyes. The pink paper-fringes and the blindingly bright 
biscuit-tins were far from being isolated in their language, 
for in a pot upon the window-sill something seemed to 
be trying to grow — not over-successfully — while in a 
mug upon the table a branch of flowering hawthorn, 
evidently freshly gathered, mingled its scent with that 
of the hot oatmeal which, within these walls, seemed 
p;erennial. The symptoms struck her all the more be- 
cause of their seeming incongruity with the alleged 
author of them. It was indeed difficult to connect 
pedantry and fussiness with the almost aggressive virility 
of Duncan's personality. Apparently there were dis- 
coveries to be made about this rustic cousin of hers. 
Nor was this the first of the discoveries; for a few days 
back, upon a little shelf in the darkest corner of the 
room, she had come upon a small collection of well- 
worn books, and not exactly the sort of books she would 
have expected to find in a quarryman's hut; for beside 
the inevitable "Scriptures" and a volume of "Sunday at 
Home," she had been rather taken aback to read such 


titles as "Emerson's Essays," "Paradise Lost," as well 
as a condensed history of England, and a third or 
fourth hand copy of a work entitled, "Ten Years in 

"Duncan's books," Adam had explained when ques- 
tioned. "He's mighty fond o' readin*." 

This, too, had been a revelation to Fenella, and had 
helped to explain the superior quality of his English 
compared to that of his father. 

So interested was she in her latest discovery that 
when Duncan had returned from the quarry that day 
she could not forbear a half-quizzical compliment, des- 
tined, perhaps, to provoke some explanation of the 
phenomenon. But here she succeeded ill. 

"I've just found out that it's you who act the house- 
maid here," she had said smilingly, though with that 
touch of condescension which still lingered in her bear- 
ing towards the son, though no longer towards the 
father. "Do you know, I am quite astonished at your 

Duncan flushed hotly, more hotly than offiended 
modesty seemed to demand. 

"What is there to astonish you? A man doesn't 


need to be a gentleman, does he, in order not to be 
fond of living in a pigsty?" 

The brusqueness of the answer was so pronounced 
that Fenella hastily dropped a subject which, for some 
reason or other, seemed to be a sore one. But he was 
not always so unfriendly as this; and though he had 
never, in so many words, thanked her for her attentions 
to his father, Fenella yet, by innumerable small signs, 
by countless unspoken words, knew that he was not 

And yet, to-day, as she walked up the hawthorn- 
scented glen, where the burns, swollen by yesterday's 
rain, seemed, as they leapt down the hillside, to be 
shouting to the bawling river below: "We come! we 
come!" — and where the sheep grazed among the boulders 
with their noses as persistently close to the ground as 
though they had been great white leeches sucking out 
the earth's blood, Fenella fervently hoped not to meet 
Duncan. The resolve to leave the hut before there was 
any danger of his return stood firm within her. 

It was Adam who, unconsciously, put several spokes 
into her wheel, in the shape of wants and wishes which 
he was growing bolder to formulate, and of that garrulity 


which his misfortune had increased. At the end, as ill- 
luck would have, there came up a subject which, with 
Adam, was inexhaustible. 

"Elsie Robson, you know her, don't you?" he blurted 
out, just as Fenella was drawing on her gloves. 

"That dark girl? Yes; I think I know whom you 

"And would you say there was anything amiss with 
her? Anything to scare off a suitor, for example?" 

"Amiss with her? No; if I remember right, she is 
rather good-looking. But Adam," and she rose resolutely, 
"you will tell me about her another time; it is getting 
late to-day." 

"One moment, Miss Fenella!" and he groped blindly 
for her sleeve. "Only this one more question: What 
would you think now of a man who might have her for 
the asking — her and her croft and her cow — a man 
who'll require a wife some day, and who yet looks on 
the other side when he meets her on the road." 

"I should say he was very foolish," pronounced 
Fenella, with all the authority of eighteen. 

"Well, Duncan's that fool. Miss Fenella." 

"Duncan? Oh? Is he going to marry her?" 

The Compromise. /. "VT 


"No, he isn% worse luck — though IVe urged him, 
times out of number. *What do we need a housewife 
for?' he'll say, sort of joking in reply. 'Will any house- 
wife keep the hut cleaner than I do? Or will any of 
them stir the porridge fairer? ' — for he's as good a hand 
at the cooking as at the sweeping," put in Adam par 
parenthese — "and all the while knowing that I would die 
easier to see them come together. It's no the act of a 
dutiful son, in my judgment, though I'm bound to say, 
it's the only thing he's ever crossed me in," came the 
gloomy admission. 

"Perhaps he doesn't care for her," ventured Fenella, 
far more uncertainly than she had spoken a minute ago, 
for this was a ground upon which she felt strange and 

Adam threw up his maimed hands. 

"Care for her. Miss Fenella! Unless he's got a 
piece of wood in place of a heart he can't help caring 
for a lass as bonnie, and as well dowered as that! And 
so daft as she is upon him too! If he's got ever so 
small a bit of liking in him, it can't help growing beside 
her, just as fast as a potato grows when it's put into the 


"Then she is very fond of him, is she?" asked 
Fenella, with that inevitable interest which every typical 
woman feels in the heart concerns of other women. 

"How should she not be? The finest lad in the 
parish! There is no finer lad in the parish, is there, 
Miss Fenella?" 

"Oh, yes, Duncan is very good-looking," she agreed 
reflectively; "and he would be better-looking still if he 
did not so often look cross. Good night, Adam!" she 
added, in the same breath, for her own words had con- 
jured up a picture of the scorn in Duncan's eyes which 
she was anxious to escape. "It is nearly dark. I 
have stayed too long." 

"Just this still," quavered Adam, not yet relinguish- 
ing his hold upon her sleeve; "your father has tried his 
hand for nought, but maybe if you'd say a word. Miss 
Fenella. It's likely he'll put more on a woman's judg- 
ment of another woman than on anything a man may 
say, and be he the minister himself." 

"But I've got no judgment about the girl," pro- 
tested Fenella, now in a fever to be gone. "But all 
right, Adam," she hastily stemmed the flood of further 


entreaties. "I'll try and see her, and I'll do what I 
can to help you — I really will. But now, good night!" 

Outside she breathed only half freely, since the 
steep hillside to the right and the precipitous bank to 
the left kept her tied to the one narrow road along 
which the quarryman was bound to regain his home. 
In the dusk gathering fast within the hollow the heights 
had melted into one featureless rampart, while the oaks 
and ashes upon the river-bank were no more than black 
silhouettes against a streak of pale yellow sky. There 
were pale patches upon the shadow, some of which 
were movable, and some stationary: the still greedily 
feeding sheep or else some unusually blossom-laden 
hawthorn bush — while each of the busy burns, swelling 
in her ear as she approached it and dying away as she 
left it behind, borrowed from the shadows a mystery 
which daylight had denied them. It was their voices 
which drowned the sound of the footsteps approaching, 
just as the thickening dusk so effectively veiled the 
figure of the returning quarryman, that not until it was 
imminent did Fenella know that the meeting she had 
dreaded had become inevitable. 

Evidently her nerves had suffered a little from the 


suspense, for, with the surging up of the tall figure in 
such dose vicinity, a slight shiver passed over her. 
Simultaneously she quickened her step, so as to dis- 
courage any attempt at conversation, which was all the 
easier to do as they were walking on different sides of 
the road. But apparently he was not thinking of any 
such attempt, for having looked across and hesitated, 
for just one moment, he lifted his hat, and with a simple 
"Good evening," would have passed on. If he did 
not do so Fenella had herself to thank for it; for it 
was she who in this very moment stood still, perhaps 
because it had rushed over her that, after all, she owed 
him an apology, or perhaps because the silent con- 
demnation which she thought to read in his attitude 
proved more mortifying than could be any spoken word. 
It was the mixture of these feelings which made her 
voice a little uncertain as she said: 

"Good evening, Duncan!" Then, with an attempt 
at lightness: "In a hurry, I see, as usual." 

"I'm not in any greater hurry than any other day," 
said Duncan, standing still at his side of the road, but 
with his face still half-turned towards his home. 

"I am glad I have met you," resumed Fenella, speak- 


ing nervously and quite sincerely, despite her recent 
dread of this very meeting. "I wanted to — to say some- 
thing to you, about the other day — on the bank, you 

She paused expectantly, but he said nothing, stand- 
ing there immovable, and in the dark inscrutable, a 
figure that might have been cut out of black paper with 
a queer hump on its back, produced by the bag of 
tools he was carrying. Peer across as she would to 
read upon his features the scorn she expected, she 
could discover nothing. As well try to decipher an 
expression upon the holes of one of the oak-trees of 
the background. There was nothing for it but to go on, 
having once begun, and since evidently he wes not going 
to help her. 

"It was very stupid of me — not to speak to you, I 
mean. But it all passed so quickly; there was no time 
to think, somehow." 

"On the contrary, not stupid at all, but uncom- 
monly clever, Tm thinking," came the voice from over 
the road, very measured, yet with an accent which 
helped her to guess at the expression of the face. "In 
such company as you were it would have been hard. 


would it not, to point to an ordinary quarryman — a 
quite ordinary quarryman," he repeated, with careful 
deliberation, "and to say: 'Ladies and gentlemen, this is 
my cousin!' Oh, no, I think you did it mighty well." 

Fenella's head sunk guiltily. This was what she 
had expected, what, in her heart of hearts, she knew 
she had deserved. A few weeks ago the head, instead 
of sinking, would have been petulantly thrown up, but 
though still smarting occasionally under what struck her 
as Duncan's arrogance, she had lately, beside his father's 
sick-bed, learnt to know and to respect other qualities 
in him beside the arrogance. It was this rather un- 
willing respect which made it possible to bear his re- 

"I did not mean it that way," she said, now al- 
most humbly. "I should not like you to think that — 

"That you're ashamed of us? I should not like to 
think so either; for in that case. Miss Fenella" — and 
there came a deeper note into his voice — "I should 
have no choice but to be ashamed of you." 

This time the head did go up, and her lips opened 
angrily, yet the words which, after a moment's pause, 


came over them were not angry ones, for the conscious- 
ness of her fault had returned upon her. 

"If I had had a moment to think — It was so awk- 
ward, somehow" — she said, in a burst of childish sin- 

"Mighty awkward," agreed Duncan, with ominous 
readiness. "What would your friends have said, and 
what sort of face would the fine gentleman beside you 
have made, if you had had the idea of introducing us 
to each other? Do you think he would have shaken 
hands with me? or would he have been too much afraid 
of getting the slate-dust onto his fingers?" 

"You're unkind, Duncan!" murmured Fenella, while 
the tears of mortification stung her eyelids. "And when 
you see that I'm sorry — you must see that I'm sorry, 
surely?" she asked, with a mixture of irritation and 

Probably he did see, or rather hear, since under the 
present conditions of light there was only her voice to go 
by, for when, after a short silence, he said gravely: 

"I am glad you are sorry. Miss Fenella, for I 
shouldn't like to think ill of you," the sting had gone 
out of his voice. 


Before she had spoken again he added: 

"It's late for you to be walking alone. Father has kept 
you beyond your time, I'm thinking." 

"Oh, I'm not afraid; it's only a short bit to the vil- 

"It's too long a bit for you to be walking alone 
after daylight; just ask the minister if it isn't. I'd better 
be seeing you as far as the bridge." 

"There is no need at all," assured Fenella, but he 
had already crossed the road. 

"I'm more likely to know the need than you," he 
was muttering in his beard. 

"But you're tired; you ought to be getting home." 

Duncan had made one step in the direction of the 
village; but now stood abruptly still. 

"Is it that you would rather not be seen with me?" 

With a rush of eagerness she answered: "No — oh, 
no! Please do not believe that, Duncan!" 

"Then let us get along," he said shortly, and 
tramped on. 

Accepting the inevitable, she kept by his side, not 
without a certain inward trepidation, since a meeting 
would undoubtedly be awkward. Yet what choice had 


she ill the matter? Only the choice of offending him 
again by flatly refusing his escort; and she was feeling 
far too glad of having made her peace with this so un- 
manageable man — a gladness which at this* moment 
amounted to light-heartedness — to court that danger so 
soon again. 

With the minutes the trepidation passed, perhaps 
diverted by the interest of the subject started, for Dun- 
can, fresh from a conflict with the manager, had got 
launched on a theme round which his daily life was 
wrapping itself more and more closely. 

"He thinks to frighten me out of going to law, but 
he'll sooner frighten the deer off" the hills and the seals 
out of the loch." 

Fenella listened with the alarmed interest which the 
subject always aroused in her, yet to-day she was listen- 
ing with but one ear, as it were. With the other she 
was barkening to the voice of the leaping bums which, 
through the darkness, called on: "I come! I come!" to 
the impatient river below. Their hurry and their shouts 
served but to make more palpable the cool, blossom- 
scented peace of the glen. 

Fenella was quite astonished when the bridge was 


reached, beyond which protection became superfluous; 
and the good night she gave her escort was devoid of 
that condescension which hitherto had marked her most 
gracious mood, and all the warmer for that conscious- 
ness of a reparation due. 



"Red wi' plood, and plack wi* smoke — that's what 
it was — the most hell-like night that th' Almighty ever 
sent to curse this mortal earth." 

Thus spoke Lame Liz, propped against a mound of 
chintze-covered pillows, her large flat face — enlarged yet 
by the supplementary frill of a perpetual nightcap — 
looming out of the shadows of the cupboard-bed, in 
which she spent her days. 

This was the sort of thing she loved; thus to hold 
her court in the midst of a half-circle of attentive lis- 
teners, the very doubt and half-repulsion of whose gaze 
flattered her secretly, tribute as it was to that uncanny 
reputation which it was the object of her life to live up 
to. For there were gruesome things said about Lame 
Liz. That she possessed "the second sight" no one 
seriously doubted; but it was not this which caused most 
people to choose the further side of the road when pass- 

"LAME LIZ." 269 

ing her hut — nor was her supposed familiarity with the 
spirits of the dead calculated to lower her in her neigh- 
bours' esteem. She might ht fr^re cochon with as many 
ghosts as she chose, and no one think the worse of her. 
But Ardloch's large-mindedness in matters occult drew 
the line at the arch-enemy of mankind, and it was with 
no less than intimacy with him that Lame Liz was uni- 
versally credited. Unholy rites in lonely places, the 
assumed form of both four-footed and feathered beasts, 
all this was put down to her account Her very in- 
firmity had, according to popular belief, been caused by 
a stray shot fired on a certain full-moon night on which 
she was masquerading, as a hare, which, hitting her — 
for the time being — furry hip, had ever since kept her 
tied to that bed, so often abandoned with evil intentions. 
Upon all these points Mabel had been informed be- 
fore entering the sybil's hut, where, to her deep dis- 
appointment, she found nothing but a very ordinary old 
woman in a nightcap, and with surroundings which had 
nothing whatever in common with a sybil's cave — for the 
unwashed plates and soiled linen, in Adam McDonnell's 
hut so conspicuous by their absence, flourished here 
unchecked. Whatever other uses Liz might be sup- 


posed to make of broomsticks, their normal, domestic 
use was obviously much neglected within these walls. 

But when she began to talk, matters improved, for 
the store of incidents which, with a vigour of consonants 
highly diverting to MabePs English ears, she laboriously 
produced, was well calculated to further that rare luxury : 
a genuine shiver. Already the company had been re- 
galed with supernatural anecdotes, and had heard ex- 
pounded the meaning of the "corpse lights," whose 
mission, floating over the Burial Island, was to foretell 
a death in one of the three chief families of the com- 
munity. And now Albert M*Donnell, leaning insinuatingly 
forward upon the stool that was his seat, and exchang- 
ing meanwhile a glance of amused understanding with 
Mabel, made an approach to a more delicate subject 

"Will you not tell this lady, Liz, how you came to 
be confined to your bed?" 

At this, in the dim light of the recess, Liz might be 
seen to straighten — perhaps to stiffen herself upon the 
pillows, while her large, knotted hands, folded on the 
top of the patch- work coverlet, unclasped uneasily, and 
then shakily refolded. 

"NO; nO; Mr. Alpert! Ye know full well that that's 

«T A»;rE> TT7 ff 

LAME LIZ." 271 

forbidden talk, just calculated to bring Father Grey 
down upon me with his penances. Tm thinkin* he wud 
no be ofer well pleased to have peen listenin' this last 
half-hour. He's just wild against any talk of the *seein* 
— suppersteeshun, he calls it. If by ill-luck he should 
coom in now and find ye all here, he*d guess in a 
moment what you've peen after; and he whiles cooms 
in at this very hour," finished Liz, the frill of her dingy 
nightcap visibly quivering in a crescendo of agitation. 

"She's a Roman Catholic," explained Albert, aside 
to Mabel; then aloud: 

"Father Grey isn't an)rwhere near, and we won't 
betray you. Come, Liz; what was the truth of that 
nightly adventure thirty years ago — or was it thirty-five?" 

But Liz, though visibly tempted, continued to shake 
her large head. The delight of posing as a genuine 
"spaewife" evidently fought hard against her dread of 
Father Grey, with whom, upon this very subject, she 
stood in a chronic feud. For Father Grey, despite his 
mild white hairs, had declared war to the knife against 
beliefs which he termed "heathenish." 

"He can't take it in, poor man, and how should 
he?" Liz would say, with a pity which was real. "He's 


no o' our folk, and they Southerners have no im- 

But for all that she writhed under the spiritual 
threats of the man of no imagination, and submitted to 
the extent of never positively confirming the legend con- 
cerning her own lameness, though not to the point of 
admitting — as he would have her do — that nothing more 
occult than "the rheumatics" forbade her putting her 
foot to the ground. At this humiliating confession she 
stopped short, to-day as always, while the darkness of 
the hints which she allowed to hover around the subject, 
and which, issuing from the depths of the cavernous 
bed, gained considerably in darkness, might be supposed 
to reconcile conscience and desire. 

From this point the company, perhaps gorged with 
the supernatural, had turned to more earthly matters. 

"Red wi* plood, and plack wi' fire," repeated Liz, 
obviously pleased with her own choice of epithets, and 
settling herself in her pillows for the narrative of the 
"Massacker," for which she had been called upon. 

"Maybe ye've read in yer history books" ("No, I 
haven't," interpolated Mabel, from mere force of habit) 
"how the usurrper called William putt his heel down on 

"LAME LIZ." 273 

our folk, and how the chiefs were held to make their 
submeeshun by a certain day, or else to lose their 
heads. Well, our chief, Alan Macdonald, held out to 
the last — God pless him! — and when he did set out wi* 
his heavy heart and his auld, weary feet, the road was 
ower bad, or else he made a mistake about the place, 
and he missed the turn by quite a wee bit, and because 
of that wee bit the bloody order was given. They do 
say that the auld chiefs submeeshun was kept from the 
English William by the M*Muirs, of course, who stood 
in favour just then, and who for a hundred years had 
been thirsting for our blood. And wherefore? Because 
of a few head o' cattie, forsooth, which the puir fools 
had been too feckless to guard, and which our folk had 
better use for than they. And it was done in cold 
blood too — in cold, Saxon blood; for the company of 
red-coats that came from the South were too weak to 
do it alone. For fourteen days they sat in our huts, 
eatin' our bread, warmin' themsels at our hearthstone, 
kissin' our maids, and all the while waitin' for the other 
red-coats from the North that were to help them in the 
butcherin'. Fearfu' must have been the oaths that 
bound them to silence; for some o' them had hearts in 

The Compromise, J, V« 

274 "^^^^ COMPROMISE. 

their bodies. They'll show you the stane in the glen — 
it*s no far off the monument — to which one o' the red- 
coats — one o' those that kissed the lasses, Tm thinkin' 
— tried to speak the truth wi'out breakin* his word. 
*0h, stane,' he said, and stood before it, *if I was you 
rd lift myself out o' a place where such black deeds 
are gettin' ready, and Td leap ower the mountains rather 
than look upon that which be comin'.' But our folks 
were deaf and blind, as honest folks are, and they went 
on feedin' their murderers, and the chief himself lit the 
candles every evenin* on the card-table, to do honour 
to the English captain who was quartered upon him. 

"It was at the card- table they were sittin' when the 
signal-shot was fired by the company from the North, 
comin' down the glen. They'll show ye the thorn-bush 
where the gun went off, and they'll show you the walls 
up the glen with the mark of the smoke still upon them, 
and the brackens growin* out o' them — for it was at 
that shot that the murderin' and the firin' began. Wi' 
the chief it began. Upon his own doorstep he fell, 
whither he had stepped out to hearken if more shots 
were comin' — stabbed in the back by the very man who 
had sat at his table for two weeks. And in the huts 

"lame LIZ." 275 

the English swords held fine harvest Like bullocks our 
people were butchered — and wherefore? Wherefore?" 
asked Liz, sitting up slowly in her bed, one big, gaunt 
hand clenching in mid-air. "For the sake of those very 
bullocks which those fools had not known how to herd. 
Ah, it was a night that the M*Muirs had seen in their 
dreams for long — for long! And yet, by the mercy of 
God, they did not get all the blood they wanted. The 
old bull fell, but the bull-calves got away over the hills. 
It was the snow that helped the brave boys, the heavy 
snow and their own wits. For more than a mile they 
walked as folk say the crabs do — backwards — and so 
made fools o' the thick-skulled English murderers. Red 
wi' plood — red wi' plood — that's what it was!" 

Her clenched hand fell on the coverlet, while, with 
a groan, the straightened figure collapsed among the 
cushions. The two small eyes, burning like coals in the 
shadow, were not those of a "spaewife" but of an in- 
corrigible clan-woman. 

"It's no wonder you hate the English," remarked 
Mabel, after a quite genuinely awe-stricken pause. 

"We don't hate them as we hate the M^Muir^i^" 


came the retort, in a voice grown abruptly shaky. "The 
instrooment's no so bad as the hand that holds it, I'm 
thinkin*. Even now, after two hundred years, it would 
be a bold man who, wi' the name of M*Muir upon him, 
wud walk down the village street in the light o' the sun. 
The time for dirks is past, more's the pity — but eyes 
full o' hate have their edge, Pm thinkin', and to pass 
through a lane o' them wud be no just conveenient." 

Mabel was about to explore this side of the question 
when Fenella, who sat nearest the window, rose 

"Father Grey — I do declare! — and he'll catch us 
here, after all." 

"Strike me we'd better be romping out of this!" 
And Mabel rose in mock alarm. 

The frill of Liz's nightcap resumed its quivering 

"Holy Virgin! But ye've no call for tellin' him what 
our talk's been turnin' round. And I've said no word 
about my leg, mind ye, or touchin' what might ha' 
brought me to my back. And, hark ye, Miss Fenella" 
- — practical considerations rising triumphant above spiri- 

"LAME LIZ." 277 

tual fears — "if ye*d happen to hae a bit o' puddin' 
same as ye sent me last week, Td no be ower sorry for 
it. The comfort that's to be got out o' a bit o' puddin' 
is almost past believin'." 

The pudding promised, and other soothing assur- 
ances given, the company hurried laughing from the hut, 
abandoning Liz to the mercies of her spiritual director, 
a small old man with a fox-terrier at his heels, who 
uncovered his long, white hair as he stood aside to let 
them pass. 

"It's a pity one couldn't take away a slice of the 
atmosphere in one's pocket," said Mabel, drawing a deep 
breath of the pure air. "It could not help being an 
interesting study for a physiologist. But it was worth 
the stuffiness. Who would have thought that an old 
woman in a nightcap could rise to the role of avenging 
angel? And are her sentiments really typical? Do you, 
too, burn with hatred towards the name of M*Muir? 
You ought to, I take it, being a McDonnell?" 

"Yes, I ought to," mused Albert, "but I confess that 
clan-feeling seems to me to belong to the rubbish-heap 
of the past If I have any pronounced feeling regard- 


ing the M*Muirs, it is more of unwilling admiration than 
of loathing." 

"Gracious goodness! Does your sympathy belong 
to traitors and murderers?" 

"No; but to men who know what they want, and 
do not hesitate to go to extreme measures to attain it 
We were in their way, don't you see, and we had to 
be cleared away. That this clearing away implied a 
slaughter was an unfortunate circumstance, for which 
they were not entirely responsible. When you are march- 
ing towards a goal, you can't stop to negotiate with ob- 
stacles; they have got to be either cleared away, or else 
trampled down. That's why I can't help admiring their 
energy, though I deplore the shape it took. One has 
only to look at the thing from an objective point of 
view, and I'm able to do that, even though I am a 

"I had no idea you were so terrible a person," 
laughed Mabel. "Then if anything should stand in your 
way, you would — " 

"Either clear it away, or if it will not let itself 
be cleared, then trample it down, just as I have 

"LAME LIZ." 279 

"But not in so bloody a fashion as the M*Muirs, 

"Blood is another thing which belongs to the rubbish- 
heap of the past But there are other fashions of reach- 
ing one's end, and not necessarily tamer ones. At any 
rate," and Albert smiled expressively, "I should be sorry 
for the person who came between me and my goal." 

The tightness with which he closed his lips upon 
the word carried conviction with it, as did also the flash 
of the keen, brown eyes gazing straight ahead. 

"Oh, Mr. McDonnell, what a pity you don't wear a 
kilt!" burst out Mabel. 

Then, when a general laugh had greeted her 

"I am sure you would wear it with as fine an air as 
any of your forefathers did. But do you know, I think 
the dirk would have been a more than usually dangerous 
instrument in your hand — far more dangerous, for in- 
stance, than in that of my cousin Ronald, who, after all, 
is a Highlander too. Can you see yourself sticking it 
into anything or anybody, Ronald — even under the 
severest provocation?" 

There was* quite a discernible flavour of mockery in 


the tone with which she addressed Mr. Macgiluray 
who was in his usual position — that is, by Fenella's 
side. It was a tone which had lately predominated in 
her speeches to her cousin. 

The four young people were strolling down the 
centre of the village street — a street which, what with 
gardens and potato-patches, and stretches of bank pro- 
miscuously mixed up with the huts, almost deserved to 
be called a lane — vegetation being, on the whole, quite 
as conspicuous as masonry. Those obdurate dog-roses 
which managed to find footing even on the inhospitable 
slate-refuse, rioted here upon every spare yard, spring- 
ing out of broken walls, leaning over the bits of slate- 
stone paling, their bursting buds peeping as often as not 
from under the edge of a petticoat hung out to dry, 
since in the eyes of Ardloch housewives they were not 
rose bushes at all, but clothes'-lines, provided gratis by 

"Are you really a Highlander?" asked Fenella of her 
companion; and if there had been mockery in Mabel's 
tone there was something of irritation in hers. 

Her eyes had just come back from her brother's 
face, the energy of whose expression contrasted some- 

"LAME LIZ." 281 

what sharply with the easy-going good-nature of Ronald's 

"Well, there's no doubt that I am. I was just 
wondering now what that old woman would do if she 
knew that the M*Muirs are cousins of mine. Have me 
hunted out of the village, I suppose." 

He laughed pleasantly. 

"Oh, then, in other words, you are half a M*Muir? 
— and yet you did not know the story of the Massacre 
— how does this come?" 

The look which went with the question was almost 

Already she had attempted to get at his opinions 
concerning the bloody event; but had not been able to 
elicit more than that it certainly wasn't "a sporting 
thing" to do. 

"I don't go in much for history," he now ad- 

"What do you go in for, by-the-bye? beyond shooting 
and hunting, I mean." 

Instantly Ronald's face became the meeting-ground 
of two divergent expressions; pleasure at the interest in 
his person implied by the question, and perplexity as to 


how it could be truthfully answered. Had not Fenella 
come to his help by particularising — for they were far 
enough ahead now to make private conversation pos- 
sible — he would have been sorely embarrassed. 

"Are you fond of reading?" 

His face cleared. 

"Oh, amen't I just! I never miss an article in the 
Field, and Tve got the whole *Fur, Feather, and Fin' 
series in the library at Rockshiel. Know some of them 
almost by heart." 

The handle of Fenella's parasol twirled rather im- 
patiently in her hand. 

"And how about farming? You have farms, of 
course, and tenants too. Does it keep you very busy to 
look after them?" 

"I don't look after them," was the candid reply. 
"Not personally, at least My bailiff manages all that, 
far better than I could do it. My hands are quite full 
enough with the moors and the forests." 

"Tell me," said Fenella, after a short pause during 
which she had been worrying her underlip, "did you 
never think of volunteering for South Africa, like so many 
people did?" 

"LAME LIZ." 283 

This time Ronald's eyes opened to an almost un- 
mannerly breadth. 

"South Africa? The war? No; I never thought of 

"It wouldn't have been astonishing if you had, would 
it? — considering that you seem to have nothing to do 
but to drive deer and shoot grouse." 

"Ah, but I wasn't wanted, was I? There were plenty 
of other fellows." 

"Does that mean that you do not go in for patriotism 
either?" she asked, with a rather sharp laugh. 

"Ah, come. Miss Fenella, of course I'm patriotic, 
and all that sort of thing, but — " 

"You don't like putting yourself out, isn't that it? Per- 
haps also you find killing beasts easier than killing people." 

Poor Ronald's face, upon which the shadow of im- 
pending departure had lain all the afternoon, became 
positively woebegone. Despite bailiffs and foresters 
Rockshiel could not be left entirely to itself, and a more 
urgent summons than usual had prevailed with him, the 
more readily that Mabel seemed just a little tired of his 

"Would you — would you think better of me if I had 


volunteered?" he now asked, pushed to it by the thought 
of to-morrow's blank. 

"I always think well of people who are able to bring 
a sacrifice," said Fenella gravely, striving not to show 
the irritation which had been growing upon her; for she 
was unreasonably provoked with Mr. Macgiluray for not 
having better sustained the examination just applied. 

"If I had known you then I believe I would have 
gone, for — for. Miss Fenella, I should like you to have 
a good opinion of me. You haven't a bad one, have 
you? It would make me regularly sick to think you had 
a bad one; and I*d have no time to better it either, 
since Pm off to-morrow." 

"Oh, you're going away, are you?" said Fenella, 
with a perceptible softening of tone. 

"Yes, I'm bound for Rockshiel. But I'll be back in 
August," he eagerly added. "Mabel is going to have a 
lot of guns for the 1 2th, and she wants me to look after 
them; so I'm going to give up my own 12th and come 
here. Will you — will you have forgotten me quite, by 
that time?" he blurted out, with a humility astonishing 
in the possessor of ten thousand a year, and in a great 
hurry, for the spot was reached at which was tethered 

"LAME LIZ." 285 

the Balladrochit boat, about whose chain Albert was 
akeady busy. 

"No, I won't forget you," said Fenella, almost as 
hurriedly, and with a glance such as had not been granted 
him that afternoon. "And my opinion of you isn't bad 
at all; only — only I think you want waking up." 

And she laughed with an audacity which, in the 
daughter of a village minister, was at least as astonish- 
ing as was his humility. But what woman, seeing a man 
at her mercy, does not presume upon her power? 

"If you're quite done with your adieux," — came 
Mabel's voice from the landing-place. 

With a start Ronald awoke to a sense of his duties. 

"I beg your pardon, Mabel. You'll require a hand in." 

"Mr. McDonnell's hand will do as well as yours," 
smiled Mabel, as Albert — rewarded by another and far 
superior sort of smile — assisted her to her place. 
• . • • • 

That evening at the Rectory, Julia and Albert had 
a talk, after which Fenella could not help noting an in- 
crease of warmth in the symptoms of family affection, 
and something almost respectful in Julia's manner of 
addressing her. She knew as well as though she had 


had her ear at the keyhole what they had been talking 
about. That air castle built by Albert in spring, had, 
within the last two months, been gradually solidifying. 
After this afternoon it could not be doubted that it stood 
on a far more substantial foundation than clouds. Already 
Fenella herself was beginning to speculate upon the look 
of its inner apartments. It could not be otherwise than 
dazzling. And yet, despite conviction on this point, she 
fretted a little under the approving glances of her family. 
It was not pleasant to be disposed of in this matter-of- 
fact way, so entirely without reference to her own opinion. 
That this happened to coincide with theirs could not 
lessen the injury done to her personal independance; for 
by this time the danger foreseen by Albert had approached : 
Fenella was beginning to think for herself. If Julia did 
not openly discuss with her her chances of catching this 
rich husband, she guessed that this was in obedience to 
Albert's 3uperior diplomacy,, which preferred to maintain 
the illusion of a free choice. 

Well, the choice was made, and it was hers to make 
too, as, after to-day, she could no longer doubt Ten 
thousand a year! — (Albert had found means of ascer- 
taining the figure) — what was contained in those words? 

"lame LIZ." 287 

or, rather, what was not? Was it a wonder if, standing 
on the pinnacle of that cloud castle, which was no 
longer cloudy, at a height to which her ambition had 
never dared raise its eyes, Fenella*s brain should reel in 
sheer delight at the prospect of the future which lay 
within her grasp? 




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VOL. n. 









VOL. n 












"Clams" 7 

Albert has an Idea 22 

How Fenella tried 31 

Fenella gets a Shock 52 

"Boxer" 66 

The Pride of Life 85 

"Meet me by Moonlight alone!" loi 



In the "Pass" 117 

A Declaration of War 135 

The First Encounter 156 

The Probation 171 

Niel Moffat's Boat 201 

The Day after 219 

The Confession 231 

Expiation 246 

Between Cousins 260 

Adam goes to the Island 272 


PART n. 




Summer had come to Ardloch — tardily — yet come 
at last 

The yellow iris in the creek of the Burial Island — ^ 
solitary decoration of the wild graveyard — were waning 
already. The thorn bushes in the glen — among them 
the historical bush, popularly supposed to have been 
witness to the fatal signal-shot — had shed their bloom. 
The primroses had paled and died. It was the turn of 
the dogroses now, whose pink blossoms waged, upon 
washing days, an unequal warfare with quarrymen's 


shirts and children's pinafores. The "green hill" had 
grown genuinely green, and even the short, compact 
moss, seaming the alder slopes of slate-refuse like as 
many velvet ribs, had freshened in tint The brackens 
were uncurling, the moors faintly flushing, while upon 
the shore the crude yellow of the new seaweed had 
ousted the dead brown of the old. 

For Fenella's taste, there was a good deal too much 
of this seaweed as, upon one of those June evenings 
which seem bent upon re-establishing the character of 
the West Highlands, she staggered along the slippery 
carpet, basket on arm, and revelling in that delightful 
sense of irresponsibility, which the donning of one's very 
oldest frock never fails to produce. The old frock was 
quite safe to wear, seeing that the person at whom the 
new frocks were chiefly aimed was, for the time being, 
"over the hills and far away." Had he been anywhere 
within a radius of ten miles, she would never have 
ventured to sport this faded print, if only for fear of 
Albert's displeasure. But Albert was safe at the loch- 
end, else she would as little have ventured upon her 
present occupation as upon the old print 

What precise name to give to this occupation might 

"CLAMS." 9 

have puzzled any distant observer. The movements of 
the slight figure in the bleached print, as seen from the 
road in the fading daylight, seemed to call for ex- 
planation. Was she likely to be digging holes in the 
sand? was she even substantial enough for so material 
a task? for distance and gloaming combined to give a 
sense of unreality to the apparition. Was she a crea- 
ture of flesh and blood at all, or not rather one 
of the inhabitants of the Burial Island enjoying an 

Maybe it was curiosity on this point which caused 
one of the returning quanymen, having stood still for a 
minute in observation, to turn off" the road and tramp 
downwards over the short-cropped grass which stretched 
to the shore. Soon the turf grew broken, eaten by the 
salt water which covered it at high tide into odd, 
irregular pools of which each might have been an ec- 
centrically-shaped grass-lidded casket, lined with pebbles 
and minute-shells and with an occasional seaweed wreath 
fading among the grass. After that, the legitimate 
region of seaweed and sand. 

"Miss Fenella! what are you taking all that trouble 


At the sound of the deep voice so close by, P enella 
straightened herself with a start 

"Oh, Duncan, it's you. I did not see you coming. 
I am looking for clams." 

She stood before him laughing half-guiltily — her 
face flushed with her labours, her hat hanging down 
her back, her glorious hair lightly powdered with 
sand, her ungloved hands richly coated with the same 

Duncan looked her over not altogether approvingly. 

"And is it your sister who has set you this grimy 
work? Even supposing she wants to eat clams, has she 
no servant to fetch them?" 

"Julia? Oh, no; Julia knows nothing about it It's 
— it's a surprise. She loves clams, but she would never 
allow me to get my hands into this state." 

"And right too," decided Duncan briefly. "I don't 
know much about drawing-rooms, but I've heard it said 
that white hands are much thought of there. What 
would your friends at Balladrochit say if they saw yours 

The glance from under the down-drawn brows grew 
keener with the last words. 


"Oh, they can't see them now," said Fenella, in a 
hurry that was slightly ludicrous. 

"To be sure! Balladrochit has grown a bit empty 
of late, but it will fill up again, I'm told. It would be 
a pity to spoil your hands before the grouse-season 
comes on, would it not. Miss Fenella?" 

For one moment Fenella thought she was going to 
get angry; it seemed so impossible to keep peace with 
Duncan for long. She had all but fired up when it 
struck her that a jocular treatment of the subject pre- 
sented greater advantages. So it was in a saucy in- 
stead of an irate tone that she replied: 

"I don't mean to spoil them. Cold-cream will make 
it all right again, and I have a new supply at home." 

"Cold-cream is a mighty good thing, no doubt, but 
I've heard it said that prevention is better than cure; 
so maybe it would be as well if you left the digging to 
me, and just contented yourself with holding the basket." 

To judge from the pause which had preceded the 
words, and from a certain flash which had passed 
through his black eyes, Duncan, too, had been on the 
point of anger, and, like Fenella, had decided in favour 
of peace. 


He had laid down his tool -bag on the sand and 
turned back his sleeves from the wrist The care with 
which he did it was characteristic of the man, and 
characteristic, too, of the man were the mighty muscles 
bared to view. 

"All right!" said Fenella. "That arrangement will 
be all the better for me and certainly all the worse for 
the clams." 

Only a short time ago the suggestion would have 
filled her with doubts. But there is nothing like a re- 
conciliation for giving an impulse to intercourse; and 
had Fenella thought of comparing the footing on which 
she had stood with her rustic relative before the day on 
which he had escorted her down the glen to what it 
now was, she would have gone through some surprises. 
She had even quite lately grown bold enough to offer 
an old padded armchair as substitute for the wooden 
one in which Adam spent his days, and the acceptance 
of the loan — very explicitly defined as a loan — had ac- 
tually been sanctioned by Duncan, though afler a visible 
struggle. Decidedly he was growing tamer, no longer 
quite so alert on the subject of possible insults. The 
mere fact of his coming to her aid to-day was a proof. 

"CLAMS." 13 

And as a clam-hunter he was unquestionably a suc- 
cess. The basket, so poorly furnished until lately, soon 
began to grow heavy on Fenella's arm, as, laughing and 
slipping, she picked her way among the stones and 
seaweed, wondering at the sureness with which, by mys- 
terious signs on the sand, Duncan marked down the 
hidden prey. Fenella was enjoying herself after the 
fashion of a truant schoolchild — that is, about as much 
as it is possible to enjoy oneself upon this mortal earth. 
The flavour of illegality about the whole excursion — a 
flavour which she knew to be enhanced by Duncan's 
presence — unavoidably raised its charm in her eyes, 
while the comfortable knowledge of Mr. Macgiluray's 
and Albert's present whereabouts did not allow this 
flavour to become too acute. That gladness which is 
engendered by a sense of respite was upon her. It was 
just as well to have a few weeks' time for "living up to" 
the idea of that future which was to be seen from the 
pinnacles of the cloud-castle. So far, the figure of 
Ronald himself had been the cloudiest part of all the 
picture; but no doubt if she looked long enough and 
hard enough the Prince of the Castle would emerge more 
plainly, and would even end by dominating the land- 


scape as she most honestly desired him to do. If he 
had not done so yet, it could only be because she had 
not yet got the picture into the right focus. 

"That basket is getting too much for you," said 
Duncan presently; "you'd better be taking a rest" 

It was not as much a suggestion as a command, 
and a convenient rock being close at hand, Fenella, no- 
thing loath, obeyed. 

"Won't you sit down too?" she asked shyly, as 
Duncan, having washed his hands in a pool and read- 
justed his sleeves, looked about him a little doubtfully. 

There was plenty of accommodation upon the rock 
she occupied, but Duncan, without a word, took place 
upon one a few paces off, at which Fenella, her Ught- 
hearted mood notwithstanding, could not but feel re- 

The sun had been behind the hills for a good while 
now, yet darkness was a long way off — such darkness 
as would come to this midsummer night In the river- 
mouth close at hand, where fresh water met salt, the 
very foam-rings on the pools, and the very honeycomb- 
ing of the dark rocks — the mark of the turbulent cur- 
rents — were plain to the eye. The trees upon the 

" CLAMS." 1 5 

Burial Island had melted into a black canopy, supported 
by black columns, but beneath the grave-stones gleamed 
a ghastly grey, while the background of bare heights 
had taken upon itself that illusive transparency which at 
times turns earth and stone into the most immaterial of 

Fenella, so thoughtlessly gay but a moment back, 
seemed to have fallen a victim to the magic of the 
hour and spot With her basket beside her, and her 
chin upon her clasped hands, she stared out into the 
summer night, while Duncan, upon his own rock, sat 
as immovable as though he felt himself to be in the 

But the result of her abstraction took him by sur- 
prise; for only a few minutes had passed when, dropping 
her hands, she turned towards him. 

"Do you know," she said, with the first touch of 
constraint she had shown to-day, "I made the acquaint- 
ance of Elsie Robson the other day." 

He was silent for a moment, from surprise. 

"Well?" he then said, and the ring in his tone was 
unmistakably defiant. 


"She is very nice-looking, I think. And do you 
know, Duncan, I believe she is very fond of you." 

It was not quite an easy thing to say, and Fenella 
flushed rather hotly as she said it If it had not been 
for her promise it is doubtful whether she would have 
said it at all; for the inspection of Elsie Robson — and 
she had taken a good look at her — had engendered 
the conviction that she was not really good enough for 

"It's father who has put you up to this," said 
Duncan vehemently. "But I did not expect to get this 
from you — no I did not!" 

He looked so strangely agitated, even so deeply 
wounded, that Fenella, in a sort of fright, began to 

"But Duncan, I did not mean any harm. I only 
fancied that — " 

But he had already recovered himself. 

"Of course you would fancy," he said, in a sud- 
denly softened tone; "of course you could not know 
what you were sapng. Tell the truth, Miss Fenella, did 
you say this of yourself, or because of father?" 

"Your father certainly did mention to me — " 

"CLAMS." 17 

"That's all right then," and Duncan seemed to draw 
a rather deep breath. "I thought it would be that 
Let's never talk of this again, Miss Fenella, if you want 
us to be friends, that's to say." 

"Of course I want that, Duncan," Fenella hastened 
to say, in reply to the unspoken point of interrogation. 
And then, looking about rather anxiously for some safe 
ground to get upon, she thought to have found it in the 
now openly acknowledged warfare between Duncan and 
the manager. 

In her heart Fenella, primed as she was with 
Duncan's view of the case, could not but wish him 
victory in the struggle, though she did so with an uneasy 
feeling of disloyalty towards Julia, whose chances of some 
day becoming Mrs. Berrell seemed to be steadily growing. 

"He's trying the boycotting trick now," explained 
Duncan wrathfully, in answer to her inquiry; "wanting 
to keep me out of the crews by keeping me out of the 
good claims. It's come to this, that any crew with me 
in it is bound to get the poorest claim in the quarry. 
Every time the ist comes round he hopes to see me 
dropped by the others. But he doesn't know our 
people. They don't turn their backs easily upon one of 

The Compromise, 11^ 3 


their own kind. So far, they have stuck to me all right, 
which of course makes him all the angrier. To hear 


him talk, you would think I was a revolutionist, when 
all I want is my own rights, without touching his. He'd 
hunt me out of the country in a moment, if he could." 

Duncan stooped to pick a pebble from the sand 
beside him as he added: 

"But Tm not one to be hunted. If ever I do leave 
the old country, it will be by my own free will, and not 
by that of any other man." 

"But surely you are not thinking of that?" asked 
Fenella astonished. 

"Not just now. I couldn't leave father. But father 
once gone, it's a plan I've thought of at times — if a 
thing I'm thinking of were to happen." 

"And is the thing likely to happen?" 

"More likely with every day that passes," said 
Duncan, gazing away with unblinking eyes over the 
mysterious shimmer of the loch. 

Fenella looked at him perplexed, conscious of a 
quite unexpected feeling of regret. 

"But surely it would hurt you to leave your country, 

"CLAMS." 19 

"A man's life is made of hurts, it seems to me," he 
said, with a short laugh, his gaze still fixed upon the 
loch, his fine profile, with the well-cut nose and thick, 


short beard, standing out sharply from the background 
of unreal-looking hills. 

"And where would you go to?" 

"The world's big enough. Miss Fenella, but it's 
Canada I'd try for. If the book I have on my shelf 
speaks true, it must be a splendid land — a land where 
a stout heart and a pair of strong arms can do almost 
anything, and where a man isn't looked down upon for 
using these arms." 

"I suppose I ought to be going home," said Fenella, 
after a silence, during which she had been turning over 
this new idea in her mind. 

She got up rather in a hurry as she said it, looking 
about her with astonished eyes. Really, she had no 
idea that it was as late as this. 

"The basket's over-heavy for you. Miss Fenella," 
interposed Duncan, as she stooped for it; "you'll let me 
carry it for you as far as the road, anyway." 

It ended by his not only carrying the basket as well 
as his tool-bag, but also helping her over the broken 



ground; for those funnily shaped pools in the turf, 
which even at midday offered glorious opportunities for 
the spraining of ankles, became positive snares in this 
deceptive light. As she steadied herself by his broad 
hand, what more natural than that in her mind a com- 
parison should arise between these toil-worn fingers and 
another hand in which hers had lately lain in frequent 
greeting. It was far from being the hand of an impotent 
drawing-room man, and yet, what a difference! And 
from placing, in fancy, the two hands near each other, 
she easily arrived at confronting the two figures, with 
the way they moved, the clothes they wore, all the 
abyss that lies between Eton and Ardloch, a crack 
London tailor and ready-made corduroys — and that 
other abyss between the two lives: a perpetual holiday 
on one side, a never-ending work-day on the other — a 
being carried by the stream, and an inch by inch fight 
against that same stream — no thorns on the rich man's 
rose-bush — no roses among the poor man's thorns. Oh, 
what a difference! what a difference! 

The road reached, Fenella put out her hand for the 
basket decisively, being half afraid that he would offer 
to carry it to the Rectory door. But he yielded it up 

"CLAMS." 21 

without demur; and though nothing was said beyond a 
remark touching the shortness of the remaining way, it 
seemed to be tacitly understood between them that the 
escapade of the evening need not necessarily be pressed 
upon the notice of the family. 



Ever since Ella's days, "dressing for dinner" had 
remained an institution at the Rectory. So had the 
retirement of the ladies after dessert, even though that 
dessert itself might consist of three bananas and six 
biscuits, just as the "dressing" might be represented by 
a change of blouse or a lace collar of the vilest quality 
produced by Oban spring sales. In this respect, John 
alone, having been given up as hopeless, enjoyed im- 
munity. Other relics of Ella's sway likewise survived, 
such as the dishes known as "entries," the glass troughs, 
and the embroidered doylies which she herself had 
laboriously copied from those at the Episcopal table. 

In Albert's and Julia's hands these small but eloquent 
trifles were not likely to fall into dishonour; and it was 
only lately that Fenella had discovered in herself a cer- 
tain impatience regarding them, and had come to the 


conclusion that they were rather foolish than otherwise, 
and, at any rate, quite superfluous. 

To-day she had astonished Julia by a remark as to 
whether it would not be better to have only one dinner- 
dish and plenty of it, instead of the mere pickings of 

"Dinner would be ever so much quicker to eat that 
way," she argued. 

"And to cook," put in Janet, with warm approval, 
as she removed the ruins of the "entry," but was im- 
mediately frowned into silence by Julia. 

The difficulty with which this domestic pillar was 
restrained from mixing in the conversation was another 
of the standing trials of this aspiring household. Be- 
fore guests Janet had indeed learned to hold her tongue, 
or at any rate, not to go beyond those soft groans and 
other related soimds, with which she was wont to ex- 
press her feelings; but why she should maintain this 
stoical demeanour before the members of a family with 
the very dams in whose stockings she was intimately 
familiar, and each single member of whom, when met 
on the staircase, she could with impunity address, sur- 
passed her comprehension. Individually, they were 


even open to jokes; collectively, they would not suffer 
so much as an uncalled-for monosyllable. And all be- 
cause of appearances, she was told. But "appearances" 
were a thing which Janet seemed constitutionally unable 
to grasp. Even her silence on "party nights" was due 
to threats, and not to conviction. 

On any other day, Fenella's revolutionary remark 
would infallibly have produced a discussion, as well as 
a severe reprimand from Albert, but to-day his mind 
was otherwise occupied. 

"Oh, bother that just now!" he cut short Julia's 
astonished reply. "I*ve to be off again by daylight to- 
morrow, you know, and there's something else I want 
to talk out with you. I saw Berrell just before coming 
in, Julia." 

"Yes," said Julia placidly, in no way disturbed by 
the pointedness of the address. She was growing used 
by this time to having the manager regarded as her 
private property. 

"He*s getting wild at Duncan McDonnell. The pig- 
headedness of that fellow is beyond words. Nothing 
will induce him to give up the prosecution — about that 
Wasting accident, you know." 


"Oh, yes, something would induce him," spoke up 
Fenella, upon some sudden impulse of boldness. "Let 
Mr. Berrell grant full compensation to Adam, and let 
him advise the company to give the steel tools, and 
Duncan will drop the provention at once. He told me 
so himself." 

Albert looked at his sister in a passing surprise. 

"The steel tools will come in time, no doubt, but 
Berrell can't give the compensation now without making 
himself ridiculous; he has too loudly declared that none 
was due." 

"Well, he shouldn't have declared it, for it certainly 
is due, and he will make himself much more ridiculous 
by sticking to his declaration than by simply acknow- 
ledging that he had made a mistake." 

"Fenella!" reproachfully ejaculated Julia, for the 
criticisms levelled at her acknowledged suitor seemed 
personally mortifying even to her good nature. 

"Pm sorry, Julia! Tve no doubt Mr. Berrell thinks 
he's in the right, but he's in the wrong, all the same." 

"Right or wrong, he's got to be upheld," pronounced 
Albert, planting his claret-glass decisively upon the table. 
"He represents authority, and that is enough — or any- 


way, it's got to be enough for the present," he added, 
as though in answer to the socialist within him, who, 
though marvellously adaptable to circumstances, was 
always there, quietly biding his time. "Mr. Berrell is 
the man in power, and Duncan is the man in revolt, 
and, as the world stands now, the only way to escape 
anarchy is to back up Power. That's why I say that 
Duncan has got to be muzzled. He's becoming a nuis- 
ance, that young man. Father, can't you have a go at 
him? Christian charity and forbearance, and all that 
sort of thing, you know." 

John sighed a little wearily. 

"I have spoken to him, Bertie; but it doesn't seem 
to reach him, somehow. No doubt it's my own fault" 

"The fault of his devilish temper, rather." ("He 
always was for firing up, even as a bairn," interpolated 
Janet, fortunately unheard.) "The whole vindictiveness 
of the Gael seems to be packed into that young man." 

"Oh, Bertie, no! He's not vindictive. It's not for 
himself he is fighting, you must remember, it's really for 
his father, who has lost his work — who is old and blind, 
and needs the money. It breaks Duncan's heart to see 
bim wanting anything." 


Fenella stopped, flushed up to the temples with the 
eagerness of her defence,, nor losing any of the glow 
under the astonished glances bent upon her. The at- 
tention around was inconvenient, but to have kept 
silence now would have struck her as cowardly. This 
speaking up for Duncan seemed in some way to be an 
atonement for that other piece of cowardice that day 
upon the bank. 

It was her father who came to her aid. 

"You are in the right, Fenella. It's not vengeance 
that Duncan looks for, it's only justice. His temper is 
hot, no doubt, but I know that his heart is sound." 

"But when on earth has Duncan told you all this?" 
inquired Julia, staring with wide and rather startled 
eyes at her sister. 

"At the cottage, when I'm visiting his father, and 
sometimes, too, I have met him on the road," said 
Fenella, strong in her new boldness. 

"But surely — " began Julia, when Albert inter- 

"I've got an idea, Fenella! Since you seem to have 
made friends with Duncan, how would it be if you had 
a go at taming the savage? Now, if you asked him as 


a personal favour to drop the persecution, do you think 
he would do it?" 

"I — I really don't know," said Fenella, in her turn 
taken by surprise. 

"It would be no more than gratitude, surely, con- 
sidering the trouble you've taken over his father. What 
do you say? Are you inclined to try your hand?" 

Albert smiled very pleasantly at his sister, as he 
twirled his empty wine-glass between his fingers. He 
really was pleased with his idea, — more pleased than he 
might have been had his work at the loch-end, and the 
building of that second air castle to which, seeing the 
first so well under way, he had turned his more ex- 
clusive attention, permitted him to keep a closer look- 
out upon Fenella's more recent doings. From Julia, 
though on the spot, no warning was to be looked for. 
Even with disengaged attention she was not likely to 
have taken alarm. How should she, with a suitor as 
Mr. Macgiluray in view, and evidently favoured? 

But to her brother's proposal she nevertheless, out 
of deference to "appearances," demurred, never having 
been able to rise to the audacity of his methods, either 


with regard to the tint of the "family hair," or to that 
of the family origin. 

"Really, Bertie," she objected, "I think that would 
be getting into far closer touch with the family than we 
at all wish to be." 

But Albert only laughed, serenely confident. 

"I don't say it isn't, but it's a choice of evils, as I 
take it Duncan has got to be muzzled; and apparently 
no one else can do it Fenella has started the role of 
Angel of Mercy, she may as well add that of Angel of 

"Yes, yes," agreed John; "that's the very thing! I 
have noticed that Duncan is very attentive to what 
Fenella says." 

"It would save Berrell a world of annoyance, mind 
that, Julia! and it would save Duncan more than mere 
annoyance, I think; since, even if he wins the suit, Ard- 
loch will no longer be a possible place for him. The 
company won't drop Berrell — I've got that from a safe 
quarter — and trust him for finding some way of closing 
the quarry gates against his detractor." 

"You think he will have to go away?" asked Fenella, 


"I am pretty sure there won't be room for both him 
and Berrell in the place. So if you really take any in- 
terest in the fellow, Fenella, it would be as well to see 
what you can do." 

"Very well, I will try," said Fenella, after a moment's 
thought; "but I don't know whether he will listen to 

* 'Twould be downright perverseness if he didn't, — • 
after the armchair and everything," Janet gave it as her 
opinion, as she somewhat snortingly deposited the finger 



"How shall I do it?" was the question which, on 
Sunday afternoon, followed Fenella up the glen. She 
had chosen Sunday, as a likely day for finding Duncan 
at home. But here her difficulties did not end; for 
firstly, the management of a tete-a-tete was imperative, 
and secondly, she had not yet made up her mind as to 
what exactly she would say. Besides the financial re- 
nunciation entailed, she was conscious of asking a great 
sacrifice from Duncan's pride, and she wondered whether 
she had the right to do so. Altogether she felt nervous 
as to the mission undertaken, and yet determined to 
undertake it The dark hints dropped by Albert had 
quickened her courage, for the prospect of seeing Dun- 
can hunted out of the country was not one to please 
her, by any means. 

To-day she passed the chattering burns without 


hearing them, the tall, white cross — which to a M*Don- 
nelPs eye was not white — but red with blood — without 
seeing it Neither the stone which had received the 
"red-coat's" confidence, nor the heather bloom just ap- 
proaching its glory, nor the bog myrtle, so vividly 
bordering the road, could take her attention from the 
task before her. 

It was a warm, though "covered" day, and the door 
of the cottage stood open. Even before reaching it she 
caught the sound of a monotonously-speaking voice. On 
the threshold she stood still. Adam, his discoloured face 
attentively composed beneath the shade covering his 
sick eyes, sat upright in the padded armchair; opposite 
to him Duncan in his Sunday clothes, with an open 
book before him, from which he was reading aloud with 
all the ease which an obviously stiff and dazzling white 
collar permitted him. Loath to interrupt, Fenella hesitated 
beside the door. 

"*You have heard that it hath been said: An eye 
for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. But I say to you 
not to resist evil; but if one strike thee on thy right 
cheek, turn to him also the other; and if a man will 
contend with thee in judgment, and take away thy coat, 


let go thy cloak also unto him. And whosoever will 
force thee one mile — '" 

"Sure there's someone in the doorway," interrupted 
Adam, with the quickly-developed observation of the 

Duncan turned and started to his feet. 

"Go on, please," said Fenella, genuinely embarrassed. 
"There's no hurry for me." 

"Miss Fenella. No, no — shut up the Book, Duncan. 
There's always a hurry for me when it's Miss Fenella. 
Seems to me as that's about as much Scripture as I 
can carry for once. Beautiful sayings, of course, but 
hard ones. Miss Fenella, hard ones. Maybe you could 
make it a bit clearer to me by talking it out." 

"What do you want made clearer?" asked Fenella, 
taking place on the chair which Duncan had set for her. 

"That about the loving them that hate you? As for 
the eye and the tooth I can follow the teaching so far, 
for I'm no ways inclined to scratch out Mr. Berrell's or 
anybody else's eyes because of havin' lost my own." 
He laughed g<56d-naturedly and feebly. "But what I 
can't no ways get over is that 'other cheek,' and the 
cloak ye're told to give away with the coat Strikes me 

The Comfromhe, II, \ 


as how that would come to the bullies and the thieves 
having by far the best time in the world." 

"They've got that, as it is," remarked Duncan, with 
a short, deep laugh. 

"What Duncan says is that it's not meant to be 
taken literal, but sort of allegorical. We're given a point 
to aim at which it's well known we can't hit, just to 
prevent us shooting too low. Maybe he's right" 

"Yes, perhaps that is it," agreed Fenella, relieved to 
see a clue out of the ethical dilemma into which she 
found herself plunged unawares. "But of course," she 
added, in a mixture of confusion and resolution — for it 
had flashed upon her that this was an opportunity not 
to be lost — "the general lesson remains — that about 
bearing no grudge to our enemies." 

She did not quite dare to look at Duncan as she 
said it, but she knew that he could not help hearing, 
and began to feel as though a preliminary step had 
been taken. She was just gathering courage to elaborate 
her remark when Duncan decisively observed that it 
was time for his father to get his tea, and that if Miss 
Fenella did not mind moving a bit he would put the 
kettle oh the fire. It was clear that the subject of 


Christian forbearance did not, for the time being, appeal 
to him. 

During the rustic meal which followed, various things 
were talked of, such as the recent out-put of the quarries 
and the health of Bessie's baby, but the Sermon on the 
Mount was referred to only by Adam, whose difficulty 
of detaching his mind from any train of thought once 
started was constitutional, and who, while munching his 
oat-cake, startled the company by observing that if the 
cloak were an old one, and not fit to keep out the rain, 
he might find it in him to follow the precept, even to 
the letter. Duncan, who was holding the cup from 
which his father was drinking in nursery fashion, put it 
down in order to laugh — a laugh in which Fenella joined, 
though somewhat faintiy, because of the preoccupation 
of the explanation to come. Her comparative silence 
had aroused Adam's attention, for presently he began 
to complain a littie querulously, as was growing his habit. 

"What's become o' your voice the day. Miss Fenella? 
It's all I've got of you, mind, and you so sparin' with 
it! You're no feelin' tired, are you, or maybe ill? which 
God forbid." 

"I'm perfectiy well," assured Fenella, rousing her- 


self. "Pm only busy looking at those flowers on the 
mantelpiece. How smart they make the room! Only, 
do you know, Duncan, I don't think I should pack them 
quite so tight together." 

She rose as she spoke, and took down one of the 
china jam-pots which were serving out their time in the 
character of flower vases, and wherein dahlias, double 
daisies, and a few other rustic flowers, were condensed 
into a ball, the firmness of whose consistency would have 
scarcely dishonoured a cannon. 

"I believe you that it's smart," commented the 


pleased Adam. "Why, I can smell them, though I can't 
see them," and he raised his poor, purple-stained face 
in order the better to sniff* the air. "Duncan's keen 
upon the flowers, especially of late; but he has his dif- 
ficulties. Talkin' o' flowers, Duncan, how would it be 
if you asked Miss Fenella to throw an eye upon that 
climber that you can't coax up the south wall? Maybe 
she can tell you what ails it, such a hand at gardening 
as she is." 

"Oh, yes, show it me," said Fenella eagerly, seeing 
her opportunity at last 

Just a minute ago she had been thinking that there 


would be nothing for it but lo ask Duncan to accom- 
pany her down the glen. But this was much better. 

She rose at once, leaving the flowers she had begun 
to arrange lying scattered on the table, and looking ex- 
pectantly towards Duncan. 

Outside, somewhat shamefacedly, he showed her a 
badly-mildewed climbing rose, which had evidently been 
both pruned and watered to within an inch of its life. 

"I planted it in spring," he explained, and added, 
as though in self-justification; "A climber would make 
the cottage look gayer, even on the grey days." 

After a few instructions, vaguely given but piously 
listened to, Fenella, having looked about her, hesitatingly 
moved again towards the cottage, but instead of re- 
entering, sat down upon the slab of slate-stone beside 
the door, which she had had the presence of mind to 
dose as she came out behind Duncan. It was the same 
seat she had occupied on the day of her first visit to 
the cottage; and, as on that day, Duncan stood again a 
pace or two from her, but of the bitterness which had 
then been on his face there remained nothing now, nor 
of the indignation in her heart which his bearing had 
then awakened. Just at this moment that heart was 


beating rather fast, for the critical juncture had arrived, 
as she knew, and she began to speculate upon the con- 
sequences. It was always so difficult to know how 
Duncan would take a thing. She looked about her, 
trying to draw composure from the sight of familiar ob- 
jects. The climber on the south end of the cottage was 
not a solitary horticultural attempt A row of plants 
from which the dahlias within had come, and a narrow 
flower-border edged with pieces of slate-stone, were there 
to prove it, while in a comer an ancient fuchsia bush 
rioted in the luxuriance of that wholesome neglect which 
had been denied the rose. From between the tree-trunks 
to the right, bits of the road were distinguishable wind- 
ing gently upwards and out of sight into the fastnesses 
of the hills and through. that dreadful Pass, down which 
the supplementary murderers had come upon the night 
of terror; while down by the river-side the blackened 
fragments of walls, half-smothered in brambles, still 
stood as monuments to that same night — for it was only 
in the course of years that Ardloch had crept out of 
the glen, and nearer to the quarry from whence it drew 
its daily bread. 

"Duncan," began Fenella nervously, staring hard at 


the dahlias, "you know, don't you, that I think you are 
right in your quarrel with Mr. Berrell?" 

"I have no quarrel with Mr. Berrell," he replied, 
after a pause of surprise. "I want my right from him, 
that is all." 

"But one's right is a thing so few people get, and 
sometimes it costs so much bitterness and anger to get 
it; and we are told to avoid bitterness and anger, you 
know, and to be good to our enemies. You have heard 
it again to-day. Mr. Berrell is your enemy, I know; but 
would it not be nobler to forgive him than to demand 
from him the last farthing?" 

"I see," said Duncan, after another pause, and in a 
harder voice already; "you are wanting to apply the 
lesson of to-day; you are expecting me to turn the other 
cheek. But it's no good. Miss Fenella, I'm not made 
that way." 

"But Duncan—" 

"You've heard what I think of the precepts. They 
were not meant to be taken by the letter, nor calculated 
for practical life, and I don't mean to take them 


There was so sharp a decision in his tone that 


Fenella sat discomfited — evidently the religious motive 
would not work here. She must try another. 

"Well, but Duncan, there is another consideration 
which has to do with practical life — your own interest 
Mr. Berrell is furious against you — everybody says so; 
and even if you win the suit he will do you some harm. 
I am sure he will — either force you to leave the country, 
or something of that sort." 

"Let him try to," said Duncan very quietly, as with 
a gesture far beyond the words he folded his arms upon 
his chest and squared his mighty shoulders. 

Not even his terrible Sunday coat — so far less ap- 
propriate to his personality than the oldest of his work- 
day garments — could weaken the language of that 
movement Fenella, gazing up at him with reluctant 
admiration, seemed to see in the towering figure, in the 
proudly poised head, in that gaze which sternly swept 
the distance, the very impersonation of resistance, and 
felt her hopelessness growing with her alarm. 

"But you will gain nothing, Duncan," she said, less 
calmly this time; "and your father will suffer too." 

"I am strong enough to stand by my father." 

The appeal to self-interest had failed as ignominiously 


as that to conscience. There remained but one card to 

"But if you were asked, Duncan — asked as a favour 
to waive your rights, to withdraw your claim — would 
that not move you?" 

"If I was asked? By whom?" 

"By me, Duncan." 

She said it almost humbly, in deep agitation, her 
eyes raised deprecatingly to his face. 

For one instant only they met his, coming back from 
the distance with a flash of surprise. 

"By you?" he said; and then, without another 
word, turned and took a step away from her, and there 
stood still, his face averted, but his whole immovable 
figure betraying that every fibre within him waited for 
her next words. 

"If I ask you, Duncan, as a favour to myself — ^just 
to please me, you know — to drop the prosecution, would 
you do it then? I should be so sorry if you had to 
leave the country — we have become such friends, have 
we not?" 

Still there came no reply; and she, thinking herself 
repulsed, since from his averted face she could take no 


warning — continued to plead more urgently, and even 
with a point of reproach, suggested by wounded vanity. 

"Really, Duncan, I did not think that you would 
have been so obstinate. It is the first thing I have ever 
asked of you — and for your own good — " 

She stopped short, for he had turned his face towards 
her, and what she saw there struck her into silence. 

"What's the use of all those words?" he was saying, 
in a deep breathless voice, and with a gesture as of im- 
patience. "Don't you know that one would be enough? 
Don't you know that if you asked me for my right hand 
— or for my head, for the matter of that, I would have 
nothing to give you because they belong to you already? 
Fou begging favours of me, indeed! your little finger. 
Miss Fenella, that's all you would have to raise, to do 
with me what you would want" 

And then, as Fenella, rigid with astonishment, did 
nothing but stare at him, wide-eyed, he went on in a 
hurry, as though in answer to himself. 

"Of course you cannot know. How should you? 
I've kept my secret too well for that. I had meant to 
keep it to the end, but it will out. It has been over- 
long at work within me, not for weeks, as maybe you 


are thinking, and not for months either, but for years, 
and many of them too. Pm not sure that I remember 
the time dearly when it was not at work. Long before 
I had a beard on my face, and when you were no 
higher than this. Miss Fenella," and with a hand visibly 
unsteady, he indicated a height somewhere on a level 
with his waist, "and when you wore your hair down 
your back, blowing free in the wind, I would hide behind 
the palings to see you pass; and when you had passed, 
it was to me as though the sun had come and gone 
again. And on the day when you came into our cottage 
beside the minister it was just the same to me as though 
the sky had opened and one of the angels come down 
to visit us. Do you think the cottage has ever been 
the same place to me again? — and the hearthstone you 
have sat at, and the cups and saucers you have touched? 
If you do, then you don't know what it is to have your 
heart set in one place." 

He paused, passing his hand across his eyes, as 
though in the effort to restrain his own emotion, but 
Fenella, nailed to her seat by an astonishment that was 
almost terror, gave no sign. 

"And all this summer. Miss Fenella, it has been a 


bit of heaven; IVe got to tell you this, even though by 
telling it you I am putting myself out of the heaven. It 
was more than I ever hoped for. For I have hoped for 
nothing, Miss Fenella, though at times, quite lately, the 
foolish dreams would come. It's foolishness! I know, 
but I want you to tell me that it's foolishness. That's 
why I had to speak. To hear the word from your own 
lips will make the wild thoughts lie still, maybe. Tell me 
that I am mad. Miss Fenella," he pleaded, with a new and 
urgent agony in his voice; "tell me that nothing can ever 
come of my liking for you — that it's an impossible thing — " 

"Of course it's impossible — quite impossible!" 
declared Fenella, her toiigue suddenly loosened, and in- 
stinctively shrinking back a little against the cottage wall, 
for Duncan, in his urgency, had come a step nearer. 
"Of course you are mad, Duncan, to think of such a 
thing — quite, quite mad! Why, you see it yourself." 

At her shrinking movement he stopped short, as 
though only now aware of his forward one. The in- 
cision of her words — for she had spoken with the 
vehemence of extreme agitation, and with a sharpness 
that was a little too like disdain — seemed to have pro- 
duced theu: effect He stood silent for a moment, his 


features slowly settling, as though he were using all his 
power of will to collect himself, while his black eyes grew 
suddenly keen. When he spoke again his voice sounded 
measured, almost cold. 

"Yes; I thought it would be so. I did not hope for 
anything. That is one question answered, but I want 
another. It's impossible, I allow you; but I want 
to be told that what makes it impossible for you is just 
that Fm not the right man. I'm too big, and too 
clumsy, and too unlearned for you ever to turn your 
thoughts my way — that's it, is it not? Tell me that, 
Miss Fenella; don't tell me that it's because I gain my 
bread with my hands, and because I don't wear London 
coats that you find it impossible. It will hurt me to 
hear that I am not the right man, but it would hurt me 
far more to have to think badly of you." 

"I have told you that it is impossible; that is enough ! " 
flashed out Fenella, with a return of that haughtiness 
which had been for so long out of sight. "I don't see 
what right you have to question me." 

"Maybe you don't, and maybe, too, you think that 
I'm forgetting my station in speaking as I do. But per- 
haps. Miss Fenella, it's you who are forgetting that our 


Stations are not so far apart as it would seem from the 
outside, nor our bloods so strange to each other. You 
don't like remembering, perhaps, that our grandfathers 
were brothers, and that our fathers have worked at the 
same bit of slate — yes, and bored at the same hole too, 
many a day. But what's all that?" — and with a sweep 
of his arm he seemed to be putting some trifle aside — 
"what's the station got to say to a real fondness? I've 
not read many books in my life, and I've not lived too 
many years in the world, and yet I've learnt enough to 
know that when the heart is in it neither station nor 
money can be in it too. Do you think it would make 
any difference to me if you were a gypsy in the woods, 
instead of the minister's daughter? In one of the books 
on the shelf in there, there is the story of the king who 
wedded the beggar maid. I've always wished you more 
good than to myself. Miss Fenella, and yet I've caught 
myself wishing that I could see you in rags, and myself 
in a king's mantle, just for the sake of being able to lift 
you on my horse. That's my way of looking at the 
thing. Miss Fenella — to me it is the holiest thing in the 
world — and that's why it would almost kill the soul 
within me to believe that you have it in you to sell 


your own heart for a fine income and a grand country 
house — or to let your family sell it for you. It's not 
much I'm asking for surely — only that you should tell 
me that in saying no to me, and in saying yes to — to 
some other man, as no doubt you will do some day, you 
are acting after your own warm heart, and not after any 
cold calculation." 

With the last words there had come into his voice a 
note of entreaty which could not but beat down Fenella's 
indignation of a minute ago. In ill-concealed agitation 
she looked at the man who was begging her to tell him 
that she felt nothing for him, casting about the while 
for some word which should not hurt him overmuch. 
She had not found it yet when Duncan turned im- 
patiently, for the garden gate had clicked. A dark, 
delicate-looking young woman with a baby in her arms, 
and followed by a stalwart man in smart but profes- 
sional-looking gaiters, was entering. 

"It's Bessie," said Duncan, below his breath, in tones 
that were neither fraternal nor hospitable. 

With a feeling of deliverance Fenella rose quickly. 
It was not the first time she had here encountered 
Duncan's sister, who, married to the forester, up there 


in the "Pass," looked after her stricken father to the 
small degree which her delicate health allowed. In 
Fenella's eyes no Sunday visit could have been more 
opportunely timed. To admire the baby — the same 
baby whose successful appearance had changed Adam's 
agonies to thankfulness on the day of the accident — was 
of course unavoidable; but having paid her tribute to 
maternal vanity, Fenella escaped in a hurry which made 
her forget to take leave of Adam, and even to fetch 
her gloves, which she had left l)ring upon the deal table 
beside the scattered flowers. It was these flowers which 
greeted Duncan when he re-entered the cottage, dis- 
ordered and already fading they lay beside the empty 
tea-cup. With a pang at his heart he gathered them 
together. Was this all that was to remain to him of 
this summer's bliss? 

For it had been bliss, despite the absence of any- 
thing that could reasonably be called hope. Hope, even 
in the shape of those wild dreams just confessed, had 
never had any real part in that love of years, which, 
from the very force of secrecy, had so concentrated its 
strength as to become the mainspring of his life, and 
of almost every action in it. That love of order and 


all that well-nigh pedantic attention to details which 
had caused him to be joked at as an old maid had 
their root there. When he had begun to bake oat- 
cakes and scrub the flagstones, it had been with the 
object of proving to his father how superfluous a woman 
was, and thus stemming the current of these persuasions 
to matrimony which pursued him; for though, of course, 
Fenella could never be his wife, yet was he determined 
never to be the husband of any other woman. Gra- 
dually he made another discovery, viz., that by straighten- 
ing and cleaning things he was raising himself in his 
own eyes, and lessening the moral distance between 
himself and the object of his passion. This once realised, 
his struggles to rise above the brutalities and defile- 
ments of poverty, to lay hold of all the attainable refine- 
ments of life, had become strenuous. Thence those 
laboriously-burnished grates, thence the paper fringes 
and over-tended rose bushes. For this it was that he 
forced his big hands to small tasks not fitted for them; 
for this that he grudged himself every hour of his hard- 
earned rest. It was that "eloquence of action" signalised 
by Pascal as the work of true passion — all the more 
eloquent as for long he had never expected her eyes to 

The Compromise. II, \ 


rest upon the fruits of his labours. That in time the 
results of these labours should in themselves become a 
pleasure was, of course, inevitable. Having once tasted 
of the charms of that order and that cleanliness which 
are the luxury of the poor man, he could never again 
sink to the domestic level of his neighbours. But never- 
theless, it was Fenella alone who was the author of the 

Let this man not be thought of with pity. Nobody 
whose life is ruled by an idea is ever quite unhappy, 
even though the idea proves to be an ideal, and there- 
fore unattainable. 

He could not be sorry for the impulse on which he 
had to-day betrayed his secret Without betra)dng it, 
it would be impossible to get the assurance which he 
wanted, and of which Bessie's inopportune advent had 
deprived him. It was not the thought of Fenella's in- 
difference, but that of her possible egotism, which pur- 
sued him, and which he wanted set at rest His vanity 
was scarcely mortified by his rebuff. Of course he was 
not good enough for her; but that was only because no 
man in the world was good enough for her; not be- 
cause a man with a name and a fortune was any 


worthier of her in his eyes than he was himself. Though 
there was too much natural chivalry in him to let him 
name his rival, he knew that rival well, and in his 
heart despised him, undazzled by the halo of worldly 
glory, and proudly aware of being the better man of 
the two. 



"In short, if I was to talk till to-morrow, I should 
never get you to understand how absolutely stunning 
she is. That sort of brownie-green eyes, don't you 
know, that make you think of trout pools, and precious 
deep ones too. And the colour of her hair! How am 
I to give you any idea of that? The likest thing I 
can think of is a bank of bracken in November, like 
that pheasant cover here beyond the shrubbery, after it 
has had a touch of frost, all reddish and goldish, but 
on a wet day, mind, when it looks as though it had 
been newly varnished. When I think that in two days' 
time I shall be looking on it again, and into those en- 
chanting eyes, I feel quite hot, and then again quite 
shivery. Don't laugh at me. Jack — I couldn't stand 
that; and whatever you do, don't tell me I'm throwing 


myself away. What's the use of having a lot of money 
and one's place in the world all ready-made, if one 
can't marry the woman one wants to? I'm going to 
put my fate to the touch first chance I have. I'm pretty 
hopeful, for she's been awfully nice to me. Jack; but 
there are moments again when it seems almost too good 
to be true." 

• • • • • 

The above extract of one of Ronald Macgiluray's 
very rare epistolary efforts, addressed to an intimate, 
was serving the purpose of a safety-valve — a letting off 
a little of that so tightly bottled up sentiment which 
had been consuming him all summer. 

Having penned the phrases in the comfortable sanc- 
tuary of the Rockshiel smoking-room, the unusual labour 
solaced by, pulls from a very superior brand of cigar, 
the stricken youth, leaning back in his well padded 
chair, actually breathed more freely. 

If anyone, looking over his shoulder, had chanced 
to smile sardonically at the last quoted phrase about its 
being almost too good to be true, it would only have 
required a second glance into his face in order to 
establish the perfect sincerity of the sentence. Duncan 


had been quite right in saying that where the heart is 
in it, worldly advantages cannot be in it too; and 
Ronald, being in his own way quite as much in love as 
was Duncan himself, was therefore quite as modest with 
regard to his own worth. 

And there were other qualities in him besides sin- 
cerity and modesty which were as little exploited as 
are the minerals in an undiscovered vein; and which, 
owing to the layer of indolence which overlaid them, 
bred by temperament and fostered by ease, would 
probably never be exploited. Money had been his 
ruin, as it is bound to be the ruin of all but excep- 
tional characters. Stuck in the slough, not of Despond, 
but of material prosperity, he had never felt that spur 
in his side, never that scourge on the back which are 
the chief motives of human action. Here again, the 
worst that could be said of him, was that he was not 
exceptional. In South Africa, had the idea of volun- 
teering happened to occur to him, he would certainly 
have fought as toughly, and probably have roughed it 
as cheerfully, as any C I. V. of the lot Given an 
adequate motive, he was always ready to exert himself, 
though until now the only object which appeared to 


him adequate were those connected with guns, rods, 
and horses. 

It was only lately that other — and oh, how worthy 
motives of exertion! — had stirred his slow blood. Also, 
it was with a quite unusual alacrity that he made his 
preparations for departure, and gave the final orders. 
He was going hopefully, as he had told his confidant. 
Jack, and yet in trepidation. 

And over there, at Ardloch, he was being expected 
hopefully too, but likewise in trepidation. 

The few days which elapsed between the explanation 
with Duncan and Mr. Macgiluray's return to Balladrochit 
had been employed by Fenella in a sort of general tidy- 
ing up of her thoughts and sensations. The discovery 
that for years past she had been the beacon-star of a 
man's life could not but impress her, despite the humble 
station of that man, or perhaps because of it. And yet 
— flattered vanity notwithstanding — the dominating im- 
pression remained a disagreeable one. For that urgent 
appeal of Duncan's, that vehement condemnation of a 
course of action which had hitherto appeared to her 
both harmless and natural, had startled into life some 
new consciousness. Was it then really so ignoble, so 


debasing a thing to bestow the gift of one's hand with- 
out the accompanying gift of the heart? without being 
what people called "in love?" Apparently it was, since 
even an uncultured man like Duncan seemed so to judge 
it. To Fenella this was almost a discovery; for although 
she could not have married Mr. Berrell even with a 
milHon in his hand, a moderate degree of s)anpathy — 
so long as everything else was satisfactory — had hitherto 
appeared to her as amply sufficient By everything else 
she really meant money and position, though, even to 
herself, she never put it quite so plainly as this. In the 
matter of love versus worldly advantages, Fenella was 
something in the position of Ethel Newcome, whose 
worldly catechism had been taught her in the nursery, 
but who had to compose the catechism of the heart all 
by herself. 

Now for the first time she had heard the language 
of love, and it was a language which strangely disturbed 
her. If this was the way one ought to feel towards the 
object of one's choice, then certainly it was high time 
to try and strike something warmer out of that barely 
tolerant liking for her declared suitor. It ought really 
noi to be difficult. The idea of not being able to feel 


anything for so amiable and irreproachable a person — 
and one who evidently felt so much for her — was al- 
most rather absurd. For the first time she now began 
to wonder what it was exactly that he did feel for her. 
Could it be anything resembling what Duncan had de- 
scribed? This speculation only made her more anxious 
to reciprocate adequately. 

Decidedly she must lose no more time in getting the 
picture of the future into proper focus. No pains should 
be spared, so that if ever Duncan should be presumptuous 
enough to repeat that strange question of his she should 
be able to give him an answer that was both decisive 
and true. She did not want to sink in Duncan's esti- 
mation, nor in her own; but neither did she want to give 
up the dazzling future opening before her. And such a 
model husband, into the bargain, as Ronald promised 
to be! Kind, good-tempered, generous — she began to 
check off his qualities upon her fingers. In fact the ten 
of them hardly sufficed for the purpose. 

She had arrived at the strange result of determining 
to be in love with one man, in order not to incur the 
contempt of another. Never had so gracious a recep- 


tion been prepared for an absentee as that awaiting 
Ronald Macgiluray. 

All, then, seemed well under way, and Fenella her- 
self most hopeful as to results when almost on the eve 
of the suitor's reappearance, her mind which seemed 
settling down so satisfactorily received a rude shock 
from the most unexpected of all quarters — for who could 
ever have discerned a danger-signal on the calmly de- 
corous countenance of Lady Atterton? 

Lately, indeed, Fenella had been aware of having 
become an object of increasing interest to the stately 
dowager. At moments she would catch her large grey 
eyes fixed upon her with an approval not easily ex- 
plained, since appreciation of Ronald's obvious intentions 
was scarcely to be looked for from any member of the 

But the solution of the problem was close at hand. 

Albert, home for his week-end, had gone over to 
Balladrochit, taking Fenella with him, presumably in the 
character of a gooseberry. During the next few days 
the house would be as good as closed to him, since he 
was far too wise to provoke comparisons between his 
own clothes, and even his own manners, and those of 


the English sportmen summoned to kill Mabel's grouse 
for her. To-day still belonged to him — so he believed, 
and he meant to make the most of it. 

Mabel, over her tea-cup, had been holding forth in 
her usual random fashion upon what she considered to 
be the duties of a Highland hostess. 

"The only things I foresee their jibbing at are the 
bag-pipes and the porridge. Pve a good mind to make 
a plate of porridge obligatory as a preliminary to break- 
fast No porridge, no breakfast — that would be the 
proper rule. I don't mean to let them off, even though 
I have to feed them myself with a spoon." 

"My dear Mabel — you should not talk so wildly," 
admonished Lady Atterton, apprehensively listening. 

She had a certain alarmed and expectant way of 
looking at her daughter as though at a dangerous and 
incalculable animal from whom the worst was to be ex- 

The talk having wandered to table decoration, and 
Albert having expressed a wish to see the heather and 
bracken arrangement in which Mabel had been experi- 
menting, with a view to coming festivities, Fenella pre- 
sently found herself alone with the dowager. 


Lady Atterton opened the tite-a-tete with a semi- 
apologetic sigh. 

"Dear Mabel is so scatter-brained, but her heart is 
very true, all the same." 

Fenella murmured acquiescence shyly and a Httle 
perplexedly. Here, too, the absence of disapproval was 
astonishing. The fact that for weeks past the heiress 
had been flirting outrageously with an obscure and pen- 
niless engineer ought surely to have awakened the dis- 
pleasure of the heiress's mother. Why did it not do so? 
Fenella was just about to learn. 

When she looked up again she found the dowager's 
eyes fixed meaningly, almost tenderly upon her. 

"You know, do you not, that we are expecting 
Ronald to-morrow?" she asked, with a significance which 
sent the blood shooting to Fenella's cheek, making her 
stumble over her reply. 

"Yes, I know." 

"Don't be distressed, my dear. There is no cause 
for confusion, only for rejoicing. You must not think 
me indiscreet, but I'm an old woman, after all, and I 
have been wanting for so long to tell you how much I 


And, almost to Fenella's consternation, she put out 
her well-cushioned and carefully tended hand, and gave 
a small, decorous pinch to the girl's fingers. 

"But I don't understand," protested Fenella; and 
really there was a good deal she did not understand 
about it. 

"No; of course you would not. But I will explain, 
if you care to hear." 

Here it was the dowager who, in her turn, displayed 
the symptoms of a shyness never before observed by 
Fenella — a heightened colour, an averted glance, and a 
bosom which visibly laboured under the faultlessly-cut 

"I have hardly ever spoken of it, but also I have 
hardly ever forgotten it, though it happened so long ago. 
But just this summer, with — so much going on around 
me, it has grown more alive. I think you know that I 
was once a poor girl without fortune or position, just 
like yourself, my dear," she added, with a directness 
which somehow was not offensive. "I made what people 
call 'a good match.' All my friends nearly died of envy 
when I made it. I have been pointed at as one of the 
lucky ones of the earth. Was ever success such as my 


success? people asked. And yet, do you know" — 
Lady Atterton leaned a little forward and sank her voice 
by a tone — "it has not been success at all, it has been 

Fenella, seized with a sudden, acute interest, said 
nothing, but the questions worked within her stood 
written in her eyes. 

"It was this way, you see," went on the dowager, 
more hurriedly and more shamefacedly; "when I was 
about your age I cared for somebody else — somebody 
who had neither money nor position, and I gave him up 
in order to become Lady Atterton. I thought the riches 
would make up for the sacrifice of my feelings, but they 
did not. The regret for the delights of that pure, un- 
mixed affection has never died, and never will. That 
is why the — the affairs of the heart attract me so deeply. 
I cannot see two young people getting fond of each 
other without absolutely trembling for their happiness. 
From the moment that Ronald began to be occupied 
with you I have followed events with an interest which 
perhaps appears to you ridiculous. But I seem to be 
seeing something of my own story again — only one side 
of it, of course, for you are luckier than I was, since 


your heart goes along with your worldly interest. I am 
so glad for your sake that Fate is kinder than she was 
to me. And I am so glad to see that dear Ronald has 
it in him to choose after his heart alone. And Mabel 
too; but of course I have no right to speculate upon 
Mabel's intentions — she does not give me her confi- 

Agitated and a little touched, Fenella gazed back at 
her interlocutor. This discovery of this hidden mine of 
sentiment stowed away so carefully behind so measured 
a demeanour was almost overwhelming, while the equally 
unsuspected kind-heartedness, increased her emotion. 

"And you think that you would actually have been 
happier if you had married the — the other man?" she 
asked incredulously. 

"I would, at any rate, have known what happiness 
is; I would have tasted that young dream of love of 
which the poet says — ah, how truly! — that nothing in 
life is half so sweet. What more can love want than to 
be put to the test? To care for a man enough to be 
able, for his sake, to fling everything else aside, is that 
not in itself an ecstasy, enough to support self-esteem 
during a lifetime, by giving you fellowship with the 


noblest spirits of the world? And I might have tasted 
that joy, had I so chosen. I was put to the test, and I 

On her way back across the loch, Fenella, to her 
dismay, discovered that chaos had come again into her 
so carefully tidied-up thoughts. This from the arriviste! 
It was a blow indeed. And how explain the strange 
concurrence of her views upon love with those of so 
different a person as Duncan McDonnell. 

Had Fenella been a little older, or a little calmer, 
she might perhaps have been less impressed by the con- 
fidence just received. She might possibly have suspected 
that that blossom of sentiment, so carefully tended in the 
depth of the ex-governess's heart, owed half its luxuri- 
ance to this very seclusion, and that, free to spread its 
leaves in the rough air of everyday life, it might not im- 
probably have fallen a victim to its sharp frosts and 
rude winds. While darning the socks of the man of her 
choice, was it so absolutely certain that another sanctuary 
would not have gradually built itself up in her heart, 
wherein another regret flourished — the regret of the 
brilliant position sacrificed to sentiment? The mere fact 
that she had been able to sacrifice it seemed to point to 


the conclusion that, although occasionally the world may 
be well lost for Love, Lady Atterton was not one of 
those to whom this loss would have been pure gain. 

But Fenella was not at an age at which such re- 
flections easily occur. 

lite Compromise. //. 




As he slowly mounted the hill, John McDonnell's eyes 
had that peculiar, unseeing look in them which char- 
acterised them in moments of mental abstraction. And 
a shadow too was there. 

Only a few minutes ago he had made a discovery, 
which although not so sensational as the one which he 
and Ella had once mutually fallen upon, had nevertheless 
considerably disturbed him. 

It was Albert who this time had operated upon his 
mental blindness, and the instrument used in the opera- 
tion had been a reproachful question. 

"Dearest father, what can have possessed you to call 
away Fenella yesterday when Mr. Macgiluray was here? 
I had just manoeuvred them so neatly into the garden, 
and felt pretty sure that when next I saw them again 
the job would be done. It was like getting a knock on 
the head to see you leading her off to wait upon some 

"boxer." 67 

old woman or other, who probably wanted nothing but 
a gossip." 

Upon which John's bewildered reply: 

"But, Bertie dear, it wasn't an old woman, it was 
Mary M*Laren's little girl who has got to be kept in bed, 
and Fenella's fairy stories are about the only thing to 
keep her there. And besides, I don't understand — what 
job was to be done?" 

"What job? Why, Macgiluray's proposal, of course, 
which as anyone with half an eye can see, has been 
hovering on his lips for days. If you had left them un- 
disturbed yesterday for only ten minutes longer you 
w^ould to-day have been the prospective father-in-law of 
Mr. Macgiluray of Rockshiel!" 

And Albert folded his arms dramatically, as much 
as to say: "There now!" 

In silence John staied back at his son, his thin face 
slowly losing colour. 

"You mean to say that Mr. Macgiluray wants to 
marry Fenella?" he asked at last, in a voice which 

"And you mean to say that you aren't aware of a 


fact which has been patent to the neighbourhood for 
quite two months now?" 

Albert was gazing at his father with a sort of affec- 
tionate amusement, as at a sort of natural curiosity, rare 
of its kind. 

"And Fenella will accept him?" 

"Of course she will accept him, since she doesn't 
happen to be an idiot." 

There was a long pause, after which John said to 
himself, more than to his son: 

"I wonder if she will be happy?" 

This time Albert's amusement became hilarity. 

"Father dear — you're more like yourself than ever 
to-day! Your daughter draws a prize in the marriage 
market, far beyond our wildest dreams of ambition, and 
you begin by wondering whether she will be happy! 
Why, it's ten thousand a year, if it's a penny. And Mr. 
Macgiluray will make an excellent husband," he added, 
as a supplementary reflection, but not the less with 

There followed various minute instructions touching 
future behaviour on the occasions of Mr. Macgiluray*s 
visits, all listened to meekly and silently by John. . 

"boxer." 69 

As he mounted the road, which from this, the south 
end of the village wound up into the hills, his mind 
overflowed with the revelation just received. There was 
a sick parishioner somewhere in this direction; but to- 
day the sick-call was more of a pretext than an object. 
The first sharp wrestle with a disappointment is best got 
over in solitude; and this latest news was to John a 
most bitter disappointment. 

During all this summer, while so many air-castles 
had been building around him, John too had been at 
work upon a modest construction of his own, the first 
stone of which had been laid on the day on which 
Fenella had volunteered to accompany him to Adam's 
cottage. He had suffered too long and too bitterly from 
the invisible barrier between himself and his children, 
not to rejoice almost immoderately at this new departure. 
Nor had further developments tended to discourage him. 
If Fenella had not inclined to his own views of life, she 
never could have persisted as she had done in her visits 
to Adam, nor have been so ready to undertake new 
patients. That help in his ministry which he had once 
looked for in vain in his wife, seemed about to be 
realised in his daughter. During the whole of this 


summer they had been slowly drawing closer. They 
would draw closer yet, he did not doubt. Even his 
simplicity could not expect to have her by him for ever, 
but nevertheless he had settled the future to his satis- 
faction. A few more years of common work, and then, 
no doubt, she would seek another field for those activities 
which it would have been his delight to develop. What 
a helpmate she would make to any earnest worker in 
the great vineyard ! The physical distance between father 
and daughter would scarcely constitute a real separation, 
since in spirit they would still be labouring side by side. 
And now, with a few cruelly brief, cruelly clear 
words Albert had destroyed the dream. The child in 
whom he had seen a disciple was in reality a traitor. 
She too, like the others, had gone over to the enemy's 
side, had deserted into the camp of that "world," against 
which his whole life had been one long struggle. Even 
granted that her decision was actually uncoloured by 
social ambition, what chances were there of the seed 
he had sown not being choked by the deceitful ness of 
riches? To any poor curate with the requisite qualities 
he could have surrendered her almost without a pang — 
but to Mr. Macgilutay of Rockshiel! To John it was 

"boxer." 7 1 

almost as hard as surrendering her to the Power of 

Had he not known his way so well as to be able to 
follow it almost automatically, it is likely he would have 
found himself astray upon the hill-side. One side-glance 
only he cast at the small Catholic chapel standing almost 
at the extremity of the village, with the tiny presbytery 
growing out of one of its walls like some petrified fungus. 
It was a habit of his when passing this way to look in 
that direction with a sort of angry curiosity, and to-day 
the look was both angrier and more curious than usual. 
The inhabitant of that small dwelling might find the 
winter evenings rather long perhaps, but at any rate, he 
would be spared such moral shocks as the one under 
which John was groaning in spirit. Was it better to 
have been able to enjoy the hopes of the summer, or 
worse to see them brought to the dust? 

With the question still unsolved, John climbed slowly 
upwards. Beyond the chapel a few stray cottages, after 
that, only low and rambling stone walls,, seemingly held 
together by the brambles and wild roses which sprawled 
across them, and for the rest the wild hill-side, dotted 
with sheep and with boulders, so alike in their greyish 


whiteness that, at a distance, immobility and motion 
could alone distinguish them. The croft towards which 
John was mechanically directing his steps lay still out 
of sight, round a shoulder of the hill. He had almost 
got to the turn when a sound of furious barking brought 
him out of the depth of his reflections. Human notes 
of distress mingling with those of caniae rage caused 
him to hurry his steps and to grasp his stick more 
tightly. Fully prepared to see some bare footed bairn 
brought to bay by David Stuart's savage collie, he 
hurriedly turned the comer, but what he did actually 
see was quite a different picture. The collie indeed 
was in it, but so was Father Grey's fox-terrier, while the 
old priest himself, armed with a stout umbrella, was 
distributing resounding and impartial whacks between 
the two animals, which, however, seemed powerless to 
loosen the deadly embrace in which they were inter- 

"Wait a moment — my stick will do it!" called out 
John, as he hastened to the rescue. 

"A stick is no good, unless we beat him into a pulp. 
The tails is the only thing." 

"The tails?" 

"BOXER." 73 

"Yes. Just you catch hold of that collie's near to 
you, and Pll manage Boxer!" 

Dropping his umbrella, Father Grey, with a nimble- 
ness which spoke of previous practice, pounced upon 
the fox terrier's caudal apparatus, and proceeded to tug 
away against John, who had faithfully imitated his 
action. Considering the bushiness of the one tail com- 
pared to the slippery smoothness of the other, John's 
job was by far the easier of the two, and yet it was to- 
wards the priest's side that the interlocked combatants 
began presently to gravitate — without separating. 

Even the united efforts of the two old men were, 
obviously, no match for youthful blood-thirstiness. 

Suddenly Father Grey seemed to be visited by an 
idea. "Water!" he said aloud. "I had forgotten the 

.And, dropping the lever he was working upon, with 
a suddenness which was all but fatal to John's equi- 
librium, he first picked his black hat from the ground 
where, in the heat of combat, it had been shed, together 
with a small, shabby volume, and then darted off to the 
side of a bum close by. In a moment he was back 
with his hat full of water which he emptied — again im- 


partially — onto both hairy heads. Then back again to 
the bum. At the fourth hatful, martial ardour cooled 
sufficiently to allow of the successful intervention of the 
stick. With his tail between his legs, the collie scam- 
pered off down the road, while Boxer, blood-stained but 
triumphant, sat down in the dust with his tongue half- 
way down his chest 

Somewhat ruefully Father Grey contemplated his 
soaked hat, picked up and dusted his breviary, and 
then looked about for some possible spot of repose — 
for the work had been severe. The low stone wall was 
here free of brambles, and upon it the two old men sat 
down side by side, both using their pocket-handker- 
chiefs, and both still breathing rather hard. 

John, as he mopped his forehead, was surreptitiously 
regarding his companion sitting there bare-headed, with 
the tonsure showing like a pink wafer on the top of the 
white head. 

Though not strangers to each other — occasions of 
meeting in public being unavoidable at Ardloch — this 
was actually the first time that they found themselves 
en tete-a-iite. The small, neat figure of the priest had 
beeii known to John for four years now, but as to what 

"BOXER." 75 

sort of mind might dwell under the shining white locks 
which, worn rather long, covered his ears and curled 
round his collar with an exuberance which suggested 
the frill of a freshly washed skirt, the minister could not 
hazard a guess. Father Grey was the sixth or seventh 
in the gallery of "papists" which Ardloch had seen; 
short appointments being apparently the principle fol- 
lowed. Since Father Flinter's time quite a choice of 
priests — and also of dogs — had reigned at the Pres- 
bytery. These pastors of souls — no less than the shep- 
herds on the hills — seemed to find canine assistance 
useful in the herding of their flocks; or else it may have 
been that in the filling up of what might otherwise have 
been considered a domestic blank, their methods hap- 
pened to agree. After Father 0*Bream and his dis- 
reputable Irish terrier, there had been an athletic priest 
with a bull-dog, a delicate priest with a pug, an excitable 
priest with a no less excitable Skye terrier, each of which 
had left its mark upon the memory of Ardloch. In fact, 
so large did these clerical animals loom in the public 
eye, that occasionally it was the dog, as the stronger 
individuality of the two, that overshadowed its master. 
When reminiscences were being unearthed, it was not 


unusual among Catholics, and even among non-Catholics, 
to hear a given period defined as "in the bull-dog's 
time," or to be told that such and such a thing had 
happened, "while the Skye terrier was at the Chapel 

Boxer was the latest representative of pastoral dogs, 
and no unworthy one either, supposing worthiness to 
consist in a spirited embodiment of the Church militant 
After such episodes as the one just closed, he was 
nevertheless liable to attacks, if not of remorse, yet of 
uneasiness touching his master's view of the case. At 
this moment, sitting on the ground and licking those of 
his wounds which were in an attainable position, he was, 
despite his nonchalant attitude, taking immense pains 
not to catch Father Grey's eye, in which he rightly 
divined disapproval to be written. For this reason the 
wounds were licked much more thoroughly than was at 
all necessary, after which he proceeded to discover some- 
thing quite new and absorbingly interesting about an 
inoffensive blade of grass in his immediate neighbour- 

"Ah, you sinner!" murmured Father Grey, returning 
his handkerchief to his pocket. "To put me through 

"BOXER." 77 

such exercise on a day like this! And my hat ruined 

"You seem to have a good deal of practice in the 
matter, though," remarked John, with an irrepressible 

The old priest's eyes twinkled. This time when he 
spoke, the cheerful Httle chirp which was habitual to 
him had returned to his voice. 

"He keeps me in practice. That dog labours under 
the impression that the world has been created for his 
private and sole convenience. But it is especially the 
four-footed things that strike him as intruders. Perhaps 
you won't believe me when I tell you that I've seen him 
go for a panter in the jungle." 

"You have been in India?" asked John, with 
quickened interest. 

"To be sure. Boxer and I have sampled one or 
two climates between us." 

"On Mission work, of course?" 

"Exactly! It's ^bout all the work I've done." 

"Then you must have had a pretty rough life of it, 
I suppose?" 

Father Grey's eyes twinkled again. 


"It wasn't all just a bed of roses, by any means; 
but, as you see, both Boxer and I have come out of it 

"It must be absorbing work," said John reflectively. 
"I have often thought that that must be the perfection 
of — of human endeavour. I wonder," he added, with a 
touch of timidity, "whether you would mind telling me 
a little about it?" 

Father Grey, though visibly surprised, did not ob- 
ject, and, once under way, chirped out his tale of what 
had obviously been a chequered and arduous career, 
with growing animation and a refreshing want of self- 
consciousness. For half an hour John listened entranced, 
drinking in the story of such a fight as exactly appealed 
to the innermost wants of his soul. Yes; that was the 
sort of thing he could have done — this casting of every- 
thing behind him, in order to go forth to preach the 
Word, with no thought of the morrow — either for him- 
self or for anybody else. Something of this sort it had 
been which had hovered before his eyes, years ago, 
while he was arming for that home mission which, in 
his eyes, stood no lower than those distant undertakings. 
And yet how differently it had all turned out! 

"BOXER." 79 

It happened at one moment that, in the eagerness 
of the narrative, the little priest's sleeve, slipping back, 
laid bare an ugly-looking scar upon his thin wrist — a 
scar which, somehow, by its peculiar and significant ap- 
pearance, instantly arrested John's attention. His eyes 
fastened upon it irresistibly. 

"And that?" he abruptly inquired, pointing at the 
mark. "Is that not a reminiscence of Mission work?" 

Father Grey pulled down his sleeve in as much con- 
fusion as though he had been guilty of an indecency. 

"Oh that," he laughed, "is a reminiscence certainly 
— of a little experiment that Boxer's namesakes tried 
upon me while I was on the Chinese station." 

John said nothing at once, but continued to gaze 
intently and with something like envy in his eyes at the 
now shrouded wrist. It would seem that the distant 
stations had, afler all, some advantages over the home 

"Was it not a great wrench to be moved from one 
post to the other? " he asked presently, following a train 
of thought, "just as you were beginning to reap the 
fruits of your sowing?" 

"At first it was. But in time one gets to see that 


it's all one post really, and that it may be one man's 
business to sow and another's to reap. With a little 
practice one leams to pack up one's moral baggage as 
easily and as quickly as the material one." 

"Ah, yes, you wouldn't be much bothered there. 
Just a portmanteau and a hand-bag, I suppose, and a 
shirt or two chucked in." 

"Not always two/* laughed Father Grey, as at some 
diverting reminiscence. 

"And nobody, of course, to scold you when you lose 
your pocket-handkerchiefs," John pursued, musing, "and 
no fixed hours for meals." 

"Not unfrequently no meals," chirped the Httle 
priest, "or nothing dignified enough to deserve the 

With his glance fixed sideways upon his companion, 
John sunk into a moody silence. He was mentally 
comparing him to the whole string of his predecessors, 
and wondering what it was that created a point of re- 
semblance between all these so very unresembling 
celibates. Father Grey himself, with his small, dapper 
figure and those same clear and fearless eyes, might 
aimost have been Father Flinter grown old, or else a 

"BOXER." 8 1 

reincarnation of the miniature, doll-like priest But even 
the physically unlikest of them had an indefinable family 
likeness to each other which puzzled and irritated 

"Tell me," he said suddenly, upon an impulse 
which would not be restrained, "have you really never 
yearned for a home?" 

The little priest looked at him for a moment rather 

"But I am at home everywhere — I have a choice of 

"Yes, yes," persisted John, pushed by a curiosity 
which was as old as his own ministry; "but I mean the 
real home — the domestic home, which men prize so 

Father Grey withdrew his eyes from John's face, 
and for a moment devoted almost as exclusive an atten- 
tion to Boxer's still bristling back as Boxer himself had 
a moment ago bestowed upon the grass-blade. His thin 
lips had closed into an almost whimsical tightness, but 
presently they unlocked. 

"Til tell you a story," he said quietly — "a very 

The Compromise, II, ^ 


short Story. When I was a boy, I had a schoolfellow 
whose dreams were of nothing but of military glory. If 
anyone was ever predestined for a soldier it was that 
lad; and he realised his dream too, for his name has 
become famous since. One day, when we were both 
about ten years old, we met at a children's party. 
There was a large collection of exquisite Httle girls in 
white frocks and with golden manes. Somebody seeing 
him pass them in review, asked him whether he had 
yet picked out his future wife, and was answered by an 
indignant shake of the head. *I shall never need a 
wife,' he protested, *for I don't mean to marry.' 'And 
why not?' asked the amused questioner. 'Because I 
don't want people to cry when I go to battles.' 

"Well, I agree with that boy, for I also am a 
soldier, though we are not enrolled in the same army. 
I also don't want people to cry when I set out, nor to 
worry if I am late in returning. I — am not sure enough 
of myself, you see — not certain enough that my strength 
would suffice to bear the burden of earthly affections 
along with the — other burden. And besides," said the 
little priest, with a laugh, which was evidently intended 
to give a lighter turn to an all too delicate subject, and 

"BOXER." 83 

relapsing into his brightest chirp, "there's the Pride of 
Life, you know." 

"The Pride of Life!" 

"Yes; you can't have a home without a household, 
I take it, and you can't have a household without Vanity 
Fair trying to poke its finger into it — at least, I know 
that / couldn't keep her out. But I beg your pardon," 
and Father Grey got off the wall rather suddenly, per- 
haps not sorry to escape. "I am afraid I must leave 
you. I was in the middle of my breviary when that 
beast created a diversion, and I've got to hurry up too, 
since to-morrow is Sunday, and I haven't got a mortal 
word of my sermon ready yet." 

"Neither have I," said John, rising likewise. "Dear 
me, is it so late? Yes, I suppose I ought to be going 

David Stuart got no visit that day. In fact John, 
pursuing the downward way in deeper absorption than 
ever, had forgotten all about him. 

"The Pride of Life," he mused as he walked. "Yes, 
it's wonderful what it will do. It's that and nothing 
else which is taking Fenella from me." 



When that evening after dinner John retired to his 
own room he began by looking blankly at the sheet of 
paper which he had laid upon his table that morning, 
and which still patiently awaited the notes for to- 
morrow's sermon. But presently, as he stared, the words 
which were pursuing him seemed to stand out black 
upon the immaculate surface, as though traced by an 
invisible hand. 

"Of course, that's it!" he said aloud, as taking up 
a pen, he sat down in a sudden hurry to his task. 



"I SAW all the doings that happen under the sun, 
and behold, all is vain, and a grasping at the wind." 

In the same plain and unadorned pulpit in which 
a quarter of a century ago John had introduced himself 
to his flock, he stood once more, not so upright indeed 
as on that long, distant Sunday — with narrow shoulders 
stooping, and bleached hair tossed back from high fore- 
head — but with a light upon his face which had not 
been there even then. This was the spot on which his 
natural shyness always dropped from him as drops a 
cloak. But to-day there was more than a mere absence 
of self-consciousness, a strange new aggressiveness of 
demeanour. The mild, brown eyes were no longer the 
eyes of a dove, but rather of some fierce bird of prey, 
poising to sweep upon its victim. 

"And nothing of what my eyes desired did I deny 
them, and refused no pleasure to my heart" 


The words of the preacher-king rang through the 
crowded space with that penetrating note which nervous 
exaltation alone can give. 

"And as I gazed upon all the works of my hands, 
and upon the doings which I have accomplished, behold 
it was all vain and grasping at the wind, and there was 
no gain under the sun." 

His body a little drawn back from the pulpit-wall, 
upon which his thin hand rested, he paused, measuring 
the congregation with an eye which seemed to challenge 

"You have heard the words before, all of you — for 
they are not mine, as you know well; they are those of 
the man who perhaps of all men on earth, either before 
or since, had taken the fill of all the goods of the earth 
— who had fed his greed with gold, his appetite with 
delicate meats, his lust with the beauty of women, his 
fancy with every device that could amuse it Nothing 
which his eyes desired did he deny them, it is he who 
says it. And the end? Behold all is vain, and a 
grasping at the wind ! It is the sentence of the Pride 
of Life, spoken by one who had tasted it to its dregs, 
and found but bitterness in the cup — by one who had 


plucked the fruit, and in whose mouth it turned to 
ashes. And this man accounted the wisest man of the 
old world. 

"And we, my brethren, into whose ears these words 
of wisdom have been called ever since we were children, 
how do we follow their lesson? Are we wise enough to 
learn by another's experience? Oh, foolish and blind! 
We will not believe in the bitterness of the cup until we 
have tasted it ourselves; we grasp at it, we pursue it, 
breathless, on bleeding feet, over all obstacles. And 
when we have reached it — we find that we have grasped 
the wind. Rich or poor, high or low, that deadly thing, 
the Pride of Life, has us all in his clutches. For what 
is this poor man's envy of the rich but Pride of Life? 

"And some of us dream only of gold, and of the 
ease it brings, and of the luxury in which it will enable 
us to revel — forgetting the while that ease without work 
is no ease but weariness, and that the grosser luxury 
swells, the more quickly it palls — and that there must 
come a day— and be it the day of his death, on which 
the rich man who has been only a rich man, blushes to 
find himself no higher than the animals. 

"This also is grasping at the wind! 


"And some of us again dream only of hearing our 
names in the mouths of men, of seeing theit backs bend 
before us, of revelling in the pomp and circumstance of 
fashion. But if we sit down to think we shall here blush 
again; for who would be honoured because of his gold- 
bags, or because of the chance of his birth? 

"This also is a grasping at the wind! 

"All, all is a grasping at the wind which has only 
this life in view — this atom of time lost in Eternity. It 
is not — here that our satisfaction is to be found. How 
should it be, since it is not for these things that we are 
made? Our soul-hunger demands other food. And 
what holds back the hand that proffers it? The Pride 
of Life — only the Pride of Life." 

In the chapel not a head moved, and scarcely an 
eyelid blinked. What had come over their minister to- 
day? — for that something had come over him seemed 
patent to the least observant Never had they seen the 
flame within him leap so high as this. For minute after 
minute they listened, a little bewildered, for in truth the 
Pride of Life had as small a place in the hard-working 
community as it can have in any but that of monks. 
What had they done to deserve this severe moral 


scourging? they asked themselves, even while carried 
away by the current of ardent words, and a trifle awed 
by the fierceness which contrasted so strangely with their 
pastor's usual mild benevolence of utterance. He was 
speaking like a man moved by personal hatred, almost 
vindictiveness. That Pride of Life at which he shot his 
arrows might have been an enemy with whom he had a 
deadly score to settle. 

Yet not one among the congregation guessed that, 
for the moment, that imaginary antagonist was clothed 
in the flesh of Ronald Macgiluray. John himself scarcely 
guessed it He was not preaching at anybody, nor 
acting upon any reasoned motive, but purely upon one 
of those impulses that will not be denied, tearing open 
his soul, in order to save it from suffocating under the 
burden of the disappointment which had fallen upon it. 

"Father was in famous form to-day, was he not. 
Miss Atterton?" was the remark which, half an hour 
later, Albert made outside the chapel door. 

No one, from the light-hearted detachment of his 
tone, could have guessed that he had just been assisting 
at a wholesale demolishing of his own private gallery of 
gods. Such are the advantages of an objective point of 


view. The sermon, as a sermon, had been first class, 
and he had an inherent admiration for the first class 
work, in whatever department of human activity it might 
show. Not for long had he felt so pleased with his odd 
and incomprehensible father as he felt to-day. 

"Didn't you find him quite exciting?" he inipartially 
inquired; to which Mabel, with scarcely less enthusiasm, 

"I found him adorably typical. That's the true 
Gaelic fire which is usually buried so deep. I kept re- 
gretting all the time that I hadn't my kodak with me — 
only I suppose I should have been turned out of the 
chapel if I had tried to use it He would look lovely 
in an album, and still more lovely on a post-card; a 
National Preacher series, or something of that kind, don't 
you know?" 

"It's a pity, of course, he stumbled upon so hare- 
brained a subject. Rather late in the day to exhume 
poor old Solomon, in order to prop up the old, exploded 
legend about the emptiness of riches. But I'm bound 
to say that the result justified the choice." 

"Oh, was he pitching into money? How amusing! 
I didn't notice. I suppose I was too busy watching his 


gestures, and trying to catch the h'ght upon those delight- 
ful wisps of hair which wou/d ketp tumbling into his eyes." 

Julia alone did not seem caught by the general 

"I've often heard father talk nonsense," she observed 
bluntly; "but never quite such arrant nonsense as to-day. 
As though being comfortable must necessarily mean being 
bored with everything." 

"Talking of being bored," broke in Mabel; "would 
it bore you to expound to me some new Scotch songs I 
have just got? Ronald is no good for that sort of thing. 
I'm rid of my Sassenachs at last, so the coast is clear. 
Come over to dinner to-morrow, will you? or does the 
loch-end hold you too tightly?" 

"Not when Balladrochit is the goal," said Albert, 
provoked with himself for the irresistible flush of plea- 
sure under which he felt his cheeks tingling. 

"And your sisters will come too, I hope." Some 
quality of cordiality had gone from the tone in which it 
was said, but the fact of its being said at all sufficed 
for several of the hearers. 

Between the chapel and the Rectory one of those 


very small incidents occurred which gain their true im- 
portance only by retrospection. 

They were close to the Rectory gate when, upon the 
other side of the road, Duncan McDonnell passed them, 
with one of his brief salutes, and barely turning his 

"By the way, Fenella," said Albert, "that reminds 
me — I haven't congratulated you yet upon your success 
in taming the bear. Duncan has actually withdrawn his 
suit, and all is smoothed over." 

The deep red blood rushed to Fenella's face. 

"Oh, has he really?" she breathlessly asked. "lam 
so glad! Oh, how generous he is! I scarcely expected 
— I did not know what to hope — " 

The disturbance in her voice was so evident that 
Albert, glancing at her in surprise, and reading the 
same disturbance in her glowing face, was for a moment 
just a trifle taken aback. By an association of ideas, 
which was more instinctive than reasoned, his eyes 
sought the broad-shouldered figure fast diminishing upon 
the road. A fine specimen of manhood, certainly — 
even in his Sunday clothes. He remembered having 
heard that half the girls in the village were secretly 


languishing for Duncan's favours. Perhaps it might be 
as well to put a stop to those visits to Adam's cottage. 
But even as he formed the thought, Albert smiled at 
the grotesqueness of his own fancy. The ghost of an 
idea which for a moment had startled him, was not to 
be taken more seriously than any other sort of ghost. 

That afternoon Fenella sat for a long while upon 
the shore where the gulls, winging through the sunshine 
and filling the air with their short, sharp, complaining 
notes that might almost have been the bark of aii ill- 
tempered dog, were so clearly reflected in the motionless 
water that it seemed as a though a second set of rather 
darker birds were there performing identical antics. But 
Fenella was not conscious of seeing either the real or the 
counterfeit gulls. She was conscious only of the words 
she had heard that morning. They had played the part 
of a sort of moral earthquake; and now she was sitting in 
in the midst of the ruins of all her convictions, of all 
those principles which had been so laboriously piled 
into her young heart. 

Was this, then, really the whole value of those goods 
which she had been taught to prize above everything, 
whose praises had sounded in her ears ever since she 


could remember anything? An empty grasping at the 
wind! Condemnations of worldly goods she had indeed 
heard before, without seeing anything in them beyond 
a pious fa^on de parler. These words of her father's 
were the first which had actually gripped her. Just 
supposing they were actually true? Consternation was 
bom of that thought, and yet the consternation was not 
all surprise. Almost it seemed to her that she must 
partly have expected this. Had not Lady Atterton 
said something very like it when she asked: "Was ever 
success such as my success?" and had answered her- 
self: "It was not success at all — it was failure?" 

And to this emptiness, to this failure she was about 
to sacrifice — what? Her own self-esteem, for one thing, 
as well as the esteem of others — of some others, at 
least Would she be able to do it? At this moment she 
could not say, she could only sit helpless and bewildered 
among the wrecks of principles which she had thought 
founded upon rocks. 

How strange that her father should preach such a 
sermon just now! She had heard of people the course 
oi whose lives had been changed by such things as a 


sermon or a book; but whether this was to be for her 
one of those decisive turning-points she was still too 
blinded by the dust of the ruins to be able to discern. 
She had heard, too, of earthquakes which, by levelling 
the walls of prisons, had set captives free. Was it 
possible that she had been living in a prison until now, 
and that the words heard that morning had been words 
of liberation? Almost it seemed to her that some sort 
of chains had fallen from her. And now she peered 
about her, blinking her eyes in the new daylight and 
wondering which road to take. 

For though the minister had that morning ac- 
complished far more than he suspected, he had not ac- 
complished exactly that which would have been his aim had 
there been any motive in his action. From his pre- 
misses she had drawn her own conclusions. To his 
spiritual heights she could not follow him — could only 
gaze up at them awestruck, wondering whether they 
really were attainable by human strength; but neither 
could she go back again into the prison out of which he 
had led her. Those words of scorn, those gestures of fire 
had cheapened worldly goods irrevocably in her eyes. 
No, that was not what made life worth living; there 


must be something else, since the instinct of her youth 
told her that worth Hving it was. 

Far off, in the back regions of her consciousness, a 
small voice was already murmuring suggestions as to 
the possible nature of that "something else," but the 
murmur was so little articulate as scarcely to call for 
any stopping of the inner ear. 

She went home at last, dazed, having drawn no 
practical conclusions from her reflections, and seeing no 
clearer into the future than she had seen that morning 
when she had sat in the chapel, quivering as though 
under a lash. 

Had proof been wanting for her nerves being off 
their balance, it would have been supplied by her very 
strange behaviour that evening after the cold supper 
which, on Sundays alone, replaced the orthodox meal. 

They were alone in the bow-windowed drawing- 
room — the three young people — and after the somewhat 
severe ecclesiastical discipline of the day, secular interests 
were enjoying their rights, which they could all the more 
safely do as the minister was spending the evening 
with Adam. 


"Well, Tm blowed!" exclaimed Albert, lifting his 
face from the latest Scotsman, "Just listen to this: 

"'Elopement in High Life. — It is confidently affirmed 
that the Honourable Miss Lilian Larrington* — {* That's 
that pretty girl who was staying with her mother, Lady 
Calder, at the Bishop's last year,' interpolated Albert) 
— *lefl her home on Wednesday night, accompanied by 
Mr. George Butt, under whose tuition her younger 
brother, the Honourable Edward Larrington, had been 
recently placed, and has since been clandestinely married 
to him. Lady Calder has fallen ill in consequence of 
the shock received.'" 

"Good gracious!" was all Julia could say, having 
emerged from her novel, in order to listen. After a 
moment's earnest reflection she added: "I suppose she's 

"Either mad or bad; for she can't seriously mean to 
remain Mrs. Butt all her life." 

"Why shouldn't she mean it?" asked Fenella sud- 

"My dear child, because people brought up as Miss 

The Compromise, II, *\ 


Larrington has been brought up don't shake down into 
the sort of life which the Mr. Butts lead." 

"But if she cares for him enough?" 

"The more she cares for him — that is, the more 
passion there is in the matter — the quicker it will fizzle 
out, and the stronger will the reaction be," explained 
the youthful philosopher, with as much assurance as though 
half a century of experience stood behind him. "When 
the poor girl awakes from her intoxication she will find 
herself caught in her own toils, and the natural result 
will follow. Really, Pm quite sorry for her; and she 
was such a good hand at tennis too." 

"Tm not sorry for her at all!" burst out Fenella, 
with that kind of vehemence which betrays a tension 
seeking relief, and with dangerously shining eyes. "I 
think she is to be envied, not pitied. It must be a 
glorious thing to care for anyone as much as that! — 
better than anything else in the world, and to have the 
courage to give it all up for his sake. What more can 
love want than to be put to the test?" 

She broke off, grasping her forehead with her hand. 
Were those her own words, or had she not heard them 
lately upon other lips? The blank astonishment in the 


two pairs of eyes fixed upon her scarcely confused her, 
since she was only half aware of it. 

"Fenella, you have been reading too many novels," 
said Julia severely, after a long and ominous pause. "I 
shall have in future — " 

"Leave her alone," interrupted Albert, in a voice 
almost as measured as usual. "She's a little overdone, 
that is all. It's been rather a hard day's work, what 
with that long session in chapel this morning, and every- 
thing. She wants a night's rest Don't bother her, 
Julia, and don't take away the novels from her. She 
isn't a baby, after all." 

He finished with carelessly smiling lips, but eyes 
which had narrowed watchfully in their sockets. 

"What ts the matter with her?" asked Julia, a few 
minutes later, alone with her brother. "I have never 
heard her talk like that before." 

"I don't think you'll ever hear her talk like that 
again — at any rate, not after Mr. Macgiluray has come 
to the point. But do you know what I'm thinking, 
Julia? I'm thinking it's lucky that we're to dine at 
Balladrochit to-morrow. The quicker this thing is settled 

the better it will be for us all." 




Julia stared at her brother aghast "But, Bertie, 
what do you mean? There surely isn't any doubt 
about — " 

"I never said there was," remarked Albert, and fell 
into reflective silence. 

The ghost he had seen that morning was trying to 
frighten him again, and almost succeeding this time. 
Should he communicate to Julia that strange observation 
he had made? A brief consideration decided for No. 
Julia meant well, but her discretion did not stand above 



In the Balladrochit drawing-room a bright fire 
crackled upon the altar of approaching Autumn, while 
the French windows, standing open to the ground, 
seemed hospitably to assure departing Summer that the 
hour of her exile, though close, had not yet struck. 
Framed in the doorway lay the moonlit shrubs, with 
pale-looking gravel walks winding among them, their 
pallor chequered by fantastically black shadows, and 
straight beyond— with seemingly no space between — the 
marvellous glitter of the sleeping loch. 

At the piano Mabel was snatching a brief respite 
from her musical efforts — for the evening stood in the 
sign of Harmony — and meanwhile exchanging bantering 
comments with the company in general, and with Albert 
in particular, who, as he hovered about her chair, was 
diligently making up for that time of which the 
"Sassenachs" had robbed him. 


Julia, who had no appreciation for music, but a very 
vivid appreciation for the quality of her food, was trying 
hard not to fall asleep, and with this view had taken 
refuge in a mental recapitulation of the menu just con- 
sumed, joined to speculations as to which of those 
wonderful dishes might possibly be within the scope of 
Janet's culinary talents. Straight opposite to her Lady 
Atterton was trying just as hard not to cry, though it 
was only by keeping her eyes fixed steadily upon her 
embroidery that she was able to conceal the moisture 
which, at the bidding of Melody, had welled up from 
that hidden source of sentiment so unsuspected by all 
but a few intimates. Close to her sat Fenella, pretend- 
ing to turn over a trayful of photographs, but, in reality, 
using her ears to the exclusion of her eyes; for that 
musical sense lacking in the elder sister was doubly 
present in the younger. So absorbed was she in listen- 
ing that, for the moment, she had forgotten that pursuing 
and imploring gaze which had disturbed her during the 
whole of dinner. Since the reappearance of the two 
men, Ronald Macgiluray's conduct had been a series of 
extremely naive and easily-defeated manoeuvres for 
isolating her from the rest of the company. Fenella 


had answered them by clinging to Lady Atterton's side, 
not because she had come to any conclusions with her- 
self, but exactly because she had not come to them, 
and wanted a little more respite after the moral earth- 
quake of yesterday. As she sat there in her white 
dinner-dress, with the lamp-light illuminating the white- 
ness of her bare arms, and pouring an intensified flood 
of gold upon her bent head and glowing tresses, Ronald's 
eyes would indeed have needed to be made of stone not 
to hang upon her. To-day — oh, surely, to-day — he 
would find the long-sought opportunity of putting his 
fate to the test His mission at Balladrochit was 
accomplished. In absence of any very pressing invita- 
tion from Mabel he could not well prolong his stay. 
Hence that pleading look in the blue eyes, which 
Fenella would not see — had, in fact, forgotten for the 
moment. From her he glanced occasionally towards her 
brother, with a look that was significantly questioning. 
The two had been alone in the dining-room for quite 
twenty minutes, and the last words exchanged just out- 
side the drawing-room door had run somewhat as 

"Leave it to me. Til manage it somehow." 


Had the speaker of these words forgotten his promise 
in the absorption of the music? Ronald asked himself 
with anguish as the evening advanced. 

"The "Banks and Braes" and the "Flo'ers o' the 
Forest," together with the most virulent of the Jacobite 
songs, had already echoed far into the night, and echoed 
wondrously too, for many long-haired Stgnors and dis- 
hevelled Herrs had laboured at the cultivation of MabePs 
fine organ, and now other national utterances were com- 
ing to their rights — plain homely English, to begin with, 
as represented by such ancient ditties as "Tell me, Mary, 
how to woo thee," or the venerable "Ben Bolt," upon all 
of which Mabel, between whiles, kept up a running fire 
of comment 

"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, 
Sweet Alice, with hair so brown; 
She wept with delight when you gave her a smile, 
And trembled with fear at your frown." 

"What a goose that sweet Alice must have been!" 
burst out the singer, having barely taken her hands 
from the keys. "Fancy weeping with delight because 
anyone gives you a smile! Can you imagine me doing 
that, Ronald, even in the tenderest days of our youth?" 


and across the room she shot a glance at her cousin. 
"And rd just like to have seen myself trembling with 
fear at the thousands of frowns you used to give me 
when I got your line entangled in my hair, or else let the 
worms escape." 

"Is there an)rthing in the world that could make you 
tremble? " 

The question was Albert's. 

"Not many things — nor weep either. It's to relieve 
their feelings that people cry, isn't it? Well, I think I 
could relieve mine more effectually by kicking — and I 
should kick hard, too." 

She was looking past him, right across the room and 
out into the moonlit landscape, not dreamily, but with a 
gleam of something bellicose in the corners of her grey 

"You promised to sing an Italian song," timidly sug- 
gested Fenella. 

The "Canzonetta" was followed by a "Rondeau," 
and this again by a "Lied," for all nations seemed to be 
represented in Mabel's portfolio. 

"I wonder if any of you have ever heard a Russian 
song?" she presently asked. "I've got one here, with 


the words done into English, which isn't half bad — the 
music, I mean, for there isn't any real sense about the 
verses. It's called *The Angel.' Here goes!" 

"From heaven at midnight an angel flew down. 
And softly a song he sang; 
And there hearkened the moon, and the stars, and the clouds, 
As its tones through the silence rang. 

** He sang of the bliss of those happy souls 
Who dwell under Eden's trees; 
Of the greatness and mercy of God he sang 
Who reigns o*er the lands and the seas. 

"Within his arms, on its way to life 
He bore an infant soul. 
And the glorious melody of his song 
Deep into that spirit stole. 


And all through its pilgrimage here below 
It yearned, amidst sorrow and mirth, 

For the heavenly song it could not forget 
For all the songs of the earth." 

Mabel's singing was, in itself, a paradox. Those 
mystical wants which were so conspicuously absent from 
her personality seemed in some inexplicable way to have 
housed themselves in her voice, but only in her singing- 
voice, for to hear her speak was only to admire the 

"meet me by moonlight alone!" 107 

vigour of her lungs, while the moment she began to 
sing there came a wail into that same voice which 
straight and inevitably went to the heart. It was one 
of those curious examples of merely physiological causes, 
of the construction of the windpipe, of the resonance of 
the palate — unless indeed it could mean that somewhere 
within her — unknown even to herself — a soul lay im- 
prisoned and dumb, articulate only under the magic 
wand of Music. 

She had scarcely done singing when, according to 
her habit, she proceeded to break the spell she had 

"The man who invented those verses — he ends in 
off, of course — killed himself when he was twenty-two, 
which doesn't surprise me at all, since he certainly must 
have been a little cracked. Even if angels did sing 
songs to babies — which of course they don't, since they 
aren't nursery-maids — the baby could never remember 
it all its life. Oh, by-the-bye, I believe it was a duel 
he was killed in; but that doesn't really alter the case, 
since sane people don't fight duels." 

"Mabel, let us have another of the old English 


songs," came Lady Atterton's voice, as measured as 
ever. "They are my favourites, you know." 

"All right, mater! What shall it be? 'Cherry Ripe?' 
*rd be a Butterfly?' Oh, here's one of your prime 
favourites, *Meet me by Moonlight alone,' most appro- 
priate with the moon in its present quarter. Don't you 
think so, Mr. McDonnell?" 

"So appropriate, in fact," said Albert, whose eye 
had just encountered that of Ronald Macgiluray, "that 
I should suggest an adjournment of the audience to the 
garden. With the real article rippling around us the 
effect will be enhanced by at least a hundred per cent 
Come along, Fenella! come along, Julia!" he briskly 
commanded, while Mabel herself laughed immoderately 
at what she defined as a coup de theatre,** 

"Julia, I say!" 

"I believe she's asleep," laughed Fenella, but Albert, 
who considered that two gooseberries were better than 
one, was inexorable, and so irresistibly brisk that pre- 
sently the dazed Julia was wondering to find herself 
standing in the night air, with her cloak about her 
shoulders, and her eyes blinking at the gleam of the 
loch. Her brain, not sufficiently awake to grasp his 


motive, could only puzzle over it, aggrieved — for that 
chair had been so comfortable. Not two steps from 
her a white female phantom leaned against the low wall 
which separated the shrubbery from the road, and in 
the background hovered two black, masculine phantoms, 
not very distinguishable from the shadows. 

"Meet me by moonlight alone, 
And then I will tell you a tale, 
Must be told by the moonlight alone, 
In the grove at the end of the vale." 

The trivially sentimental verses, rolling out upon the 
wonderful night, seemed to borrow from it a dignity not 
intrinsically their own. Fenella heard them, without quite 
receiving them into her inner consciousness, in which 
the "Angel" still reigned supreme. Each one of those 
other words, so clearly formed by Mabel's well-trained 
voice, had penetrated her soul. As with the last of 
them the full sense of the poem had been borne in 
upon her, a figure had risen up in her inner vision: the 
figure of her father. He had always seemed to her in- 
explicable—now she thought she was beginning to 
understand. Nothing before had helped her to grasp 
his personality as did the conception of the ill-fated 


Russian poet, even in the faulty English translation. It 
was almost as though she had laid her hand upon a 
key which she had been groping after for long. 

"But the heavenly song he could not forget 
For all the songs of the earth." 

Yes, that might be it Looked at from this point 
of view, he became explicable. He was one of those 
few whose ears have not been sealed to the Angel's 
song, and therefore necessarily remain sealed to the 
grosser voices of the visible world. 

Just such a night as this it might have been when 
that spotless soul was borne to the earth — through just 
such silver transparency might the mighty angel have 
winged his way. And this very moon; and those very 
stars were those which had stood listening — 

"Miss Fenella!" 

The hand which lay upon the top of the low wall 
jerked with the surprise, as Fenella, sharply turning her 
head, discovered that she was alone with Ronald Mac- 

"Miss Fenella, I have been trying all evening — all 
this fortnight, I mean, to — to speak to you. You will 


listen to me now, won't you? Perhaps you can make 
a guess at what I want to say. But I don't know how 
to say it — not one bit" 

His face was in the shadow of an overhanging 
bough, but the young voice, so eloquently unsteady, be- 
trayed all. 

Fenella, her heart hammering as hard as that of a 
bird caught in a net, faced him, wide-eyed and silent, 
knowing that there was no escape from his next words, 
knowing also what they would be, but not yet knowing 
how she was going to answer them. 

"Miss Fenella, you know that I care for you dread- 
fully, do you not? and that I care for nobody but you. 
I'm not worthy of you, of course — I don't think that 
any fellow is worthy of you; but still I would do my 
best — if only you would have me — " 

He stopped, looking at her expectantly; but Fenella 
neither moved nor spoke, and the same big blotch of 
shadow which was upon his own face veiled hers 
from him. 

"I can't expect you to care for me as I do for you, 
of course; but you have been so kind to me this summer 
that I can't help hoping." 


Still Fenella stood opposite to him, dumb as a statue, 
and white also as a statue, in her flowing dress and 
evening cloak. The pure lines of the youthful figure 
were enough to quicken the blood in his pulses, while 
at sight of a passivity so very like acquiescence, hope 
hastened to apply her spur. 

"I am right, am I not? You do care for me a bit?" 
he lu-ged, drawing suddenly close, and thereby into the 
full moonlight, whose silver knife laid bare the smile of 
dawning, but not over-intelligent beatitude, upon his 
honest face. His arms spread irresistibly, in expecta- 
tion of the sweet burden which they hoped, within a 
moment, to be supporting. 

He had all but touched her, when vehemently she 
drew back. 

"No, no!" she said, in a voice which terror had 
made almost guttural — "not that — I did not mean that!" 

He stopped, disconcerted, but not convinced. 

"But you do care for me, surely?" he asked, with 
a little of the rich suitor's appreciation of his position 
piercing right through his very sincere depreciation of 
his person. 

Then Fenella gave that same lame answer which is 


the Stereotyped answer of those women who have allowed 
themselves to be led to market, but who, feeling the 
buyer's hand upon their halter, decide to wrench them- 
selves free at all costs. 

"Not in that way. I mean, I could not marry you. 

I am sure now that I could not. It would be wrong 

— even towards you. I can't explain; but it is like 

She spoke in short, breathless sentences, averting 
her eyes and tightening the folds of her cloak around 
her, as though the more effectually to isolate herself 
from her companion. 

"Then you mean that all this summer — " 

"I was i^ot plapng with you; no — I can swear to 
you that I was not I really thought that I should be 
able to do it; but now I find I can't Don't be too 
angry with me, Mr. Macgiluray. I can't help it now, 
though I ought to have helped it before. Please forgive 
me if you can 1 " 

She had to look at him now, and immediately was 
pierced to the heart by the anguish of his face; but it 

T^ Compromise. II, 


was an anguish which only made her more determined 
to act fairly by the man — at last 

"Oh, Mr. Macgiluray, I didn't think you would take 
it like this!" came over her lips, conscience-stricken. 

His answer was another stereotyped question: 

"Is there no hope for me at all?" 

She shook her head with compassionate eyes, but 
dosed lips, and a further defensive tightening of the 
cloak about her figure. 

"What a brute I must be to deserve this!" said the 
poor boy, after another pause, and speaking in the 
dazed voice of one who still reels under a recent 

The tears rushed to Fenella's eyes. 

"You don't deserve it, that is just it It is I who 
am the brute. Oh, Mr. Macgiluray, couldn't we be 

Once more a stereotyped question — one which has 
probably been answered by more lies than any other 
question in the world. Fenella, as she asked it, re- 
leased the edges of her cloak, and in the exaltation of 
her remorse held out both her hands. 

But the hands were not taken, nor was the conven- 


tional lie spoken tx)-day; not because Ronald was so far 
above picking up the scrap thrown to him, but because 
just then, from among the musical sounds pouring out 
through the open door, her nervously alert ears dis- 
entangled another and far more commonplace sound — 
that of a heavy step upon the gravel. For one instant 
a movable shadow detached itself from the background 
of immovable ones — to be swallowed up again in the 
next, to the sound of now retreating steps. 

"We had better go in — we are not alone," said 
Fenella, hastily putting back her hands under the shelter 
of her cloak, and snatching just as hastily at the pretext 

"One of the gardeners probably," muttered Ronald, 
as with lowered head he followed her. 

Nor did he even hate the intruding gardener very 
hotly, not being calm enough yet to find any comfort in 
the charitable plaster offered to his bleeding wound. 

Oh, how thankful was Fenella for the bustle of de- 
parture! how thankful to the loch-end, whose urgent 
claims upon the young engineer separated the sisters 

from the brother at the very landing stage of Balla- 



drochit! Questioning looks, however keen, are easy to 
evade during a few minutes. 

Owing to which circumstance Albert was able to 
enjoy his long, moonlit row with a mind as unclouded 
by doubts as was the firmament above him by shadows. 


IN THE "PASS." I 17 


The Ardloch glen, with its feathering of alders and 
oaks, was a thing of wildness and of beauty; but the 
"pass" beyond, to which it served but as an approach, 
was of a wildness almost too grim for such a term as 
beauty, too oppressive to be even quite endurable to 
sensitive nerves. 

It was at the turn of the road, where the trees were 
left behind, that the savage genius of the desert lay in 
wait for the intruder. Nothing so comforting as trees 
here; no shelter, no screens, such as weak humanity 
loves, nothing but the elemental lines of rock and earth 
to be faced, unsoftened by a single leafy veil; at this 
season redeemed only from utter desolation by the wan- 
ing bloom of the heather, and the sombre green of the 
bracken already past its prime. Upon the flanks of the 
harsh hills which show their jagged teeth against th^ 


sky in what looks like a grin of defiance, innumerable 
bums, each turned into a waterfall by the laws of gravi- 
tation, have scattered stones of all sizes, sometimes in 
bands as broad as a river-bed, though with perhaps 
only a thread of water to show for their winter turbu- 

In all the petrified solitude nothing moves visibly 
except these very bums, hastening, ever hastening into 
the embrace of the river below, leaping down the hill- 
side in a series of white columns that fall so straight 
and so compact that even they seem motionless, or else 
sliding like grass over the face of the rock. The ob- 
jectless-looking pieces of loose wall into which the stones 
have at places been piled, mnning up a bit of hillside, 
to die away again in half-hearted fashion, serve only to 
underscore the solitude — proofs as they seem to be of 
the failure of man to take possession of the fortress. 
Even the road made by human hands, and winding 
with the windings of the river, at the bottom of the 
dreadful pass, does no more than deepen this impres- 
sion — so puny and insignificant it looks, so like a poor 
and attenuated worm, compared to the pathless heights 
on either side. 

«DACC '> 

IN THE "PASS." I 19 

And if this was the look of the road, what of that 
speck of humanity which, on this dull September day, 
moves along its length? Is it alive to its own incon- 
gruity to the surroundings? Does it expect the heights 
to fall upon it and bury it, as the meed of this rash in- 

Nothing of the sort; for this particular speck happens 
to be mentally too busy for any very vivid outward im- 
pressions. Even roused from their trance of thought, 
these native eyes could have looked without terror on 
the theatre of so many bold, if not strictly moral, an- 
cestral deeds. Even, with fancy to back them, they 
might conjure up the herds of long-homed cattle, driven 
down this same track by wild, kilted men; or glancing 
upwards, might have rested upon the very deft in the 
rocks which had served as stabling for the ill-gotten 
goods, and at whose entrance the dauntless raiders had 
many a time defended their prey at the point of the 

Two days had passed since the musical evening at 
Balladrochit without the bubble of Fenella's unlooked- 
for action having yet burst. She was employing the in- 
terval in bracing herself against the shock which must 


needs come. Her decision could not but take her family 
by surprise, seeing how much it had taken herself by 

It was when Ronald had spread his arms to her that 
she knew she could never marry him; and before she 
slept that night she knew also why she could not marry 
him. She had at last been startled into looking her 
own soul in the face. 

So this was what people called being in love? She 
remembered the strange trepidation which had come 
over her on the day of her first visit to Adam's cottage, 
while she waited outside for her father's summons. She 
had thought then that her heart was beating because of 
the fear of the sight of death; but now she knew that 
it had been the dawn of love that had been near, and 
whose thrill her unconscious soul felt Also she knew 
why she had been so assiduously encouraging the un- 
fortunate Ronald — it had been to protect herself against 
the thought of Duncan; and for this he had had to suffer. 
All this she admitted, without reserve, yet without joy. 
She could not fight against her love, which had con- 
fronted her full-grown, something in the way that a royal 

IN THE "PASS." 121 

scion brought up secretly in the shadow of the temple 
might confront the usurper of his father's throne. In 
its cradle she might have strangled it, had she been 
aware of its existence, but at the first meeting already 
she knew that it had outgrown her own strength. To 
kill it she could not hope, but neither did she mean to 
surrender to it. 

Of course, she could never marry another man — she 
had learned that in that moonlight night — but that 
simply meant that she would never marry at all, since 
at the bare idea of becoming Duncan M^DonnelPs wife, 
social prejudice, so carefully fostered, leaped to arms. 
Besides, even supposing herself sunk so low as this, 
there was her family to consider. The mere thought of 
Albert was enough to put an extinguisher upon audacity. 
For between applauding the action of a Lilian Larring- 
ton and feeling capable of imitating it, there lies a gulf. 
It was as a misfortune that her attachment chiefly struck 
Fenella as yet, partly also as a disgrace. She was even 
a little angry with the cause of it all. Why had he 
needed to cross her path at so critical a juncture? Why, 
especially, had he, by revealing to her his own secret, 
troubled her with glimpses of such a passion as she had 


read of only in story-books? A shade of irritation had 
never quite left their intercoiu'se. In spite of the punc- 
tilious "Miss Fenella," there had been a want of ob- 
sequiousness about his demeanour, under which her 
vanity smarted. He had so many ways of giving her 
to understand that only an accident separated their 
stations in life. Arrived at this point in her reflections, 
Fenella used occasionally to branch off into surmises as 
to what would have happened if her father, instead of 
taking orders, had remained in the quarry, and she and 
Duncan had met on the same social level. But these 
visions, being recognised as disturbing, were quickly put 

One other thing would be more disturbing still: a 
meeting — which was why, when called upon by her 
father to visit Bessie Stuart, the forester's wife, whose 
precious baby was ailing, Fenella had set out in some 
trepidation. The chances of meeting Duncan at his 
sister's house were not great, but they existed. That 
danger was over now, and Fenella's face set homewards. 
But there would be Adam's cottage to pass a second 
time. Even in going, she had cast a quick glance in 
that direction, Vvopm^ ^Vv^ ^as not observed, though at 

IN THE "PASS." 123 

this early afternoon hour there was little fear of Duncan 
being back from the quarry. 

Alone in the pass, and wrapped in a silence which 
was broken only by an occasional eagle's cry, or by the 
distant rolling of a stone under the foot of a mountain 
stag, Fenella*s thoughts could not but follow the same 
path they had been following for two days, and leading 
always to the same conclusion: The frank admission of 
her love and the firm determination not to yield to it. 
A profound concealment was, of course, the first condi- 
tion to be aimed at. She would hug her secret to her- 
self, like the seals in the loch, who preferred to die out 
of sight among the seaweed, rather than gratify the eyes 
of their slayer. No; he should never know that she 
was conquered. As Fenella registered the vow, she put 
up her head at an angle, which showed that she had 
many lessons yet to learn in the school of love. The 
image of the seal pleased her particularly; she lingered 
upon it, as an excited fancy, athirst for emotions, is 
apt to linger over some choice morsel of pain. It pleased 
her, too, to picture to herself her solitary future stretch- 
ing away before her, as dreary and desolate as this very 
road, which wound away so emptily under her eyes. 


As she pursued the thought her step faltered; for 
at that very moment the road appeared to her to be 
not quite solitary after all. She had caught sight of a 
man's figure sitting on a stone by the wayside, immov- 
able and apparently waiting for something. And by that 
stone she would have to pass. There were no side- 
paths in the desert, and not a scrap of an ambush be- 
hind which she could hope to escape his eyes. Not that 
at this distance she could see his face, and yet never 
for a moment did she doubt his identity. 

After a brief pause of flurry she resolutely mended 
her pace, having summoned all her latent indignatioa 
to her aid. What right had he to waylay her in this 
fashion? What had they to say to each other? With 
stiffened neck and tightly compressed Ups she stepped 
bravely forwards, determined quickly to get over what- 
ever might be coming. 

When from a little distance she saw him rise and 
again remain immovable, the determination of the gesture 
made her courage waver somewhat; and when, nearer 
still, she could distinguish his features, a sort of mental 
dizziness began to blur the outline of the plan of action 
just laid ready. To pass him by with just a friendly 


IN THE "PASS." 125 

salutation had been the foremost item ' of that plan, in- 
stead of which, at the very first sound of his voice, she 
found herself standing still. 

"Miss Fenella!" Was it really those same two words 
which Ronald had spoken two evenings ago? "I have 
waited for you here, just to say one word — about father," 
he added quickly, as though in answer to her outspoken 

"Well?" she said, as naturally as her fast-beating 
heart would allow. 

"He is pining sorely after you; your visits have be- 
come so rare. But I do not blame you, I blame myself 
for those mad words I said to you that Sunday, before 
the cottage. I can guess that it is the fear of hearing 
them again that keeps you away, and that makes you 
hurry off so early, before the quarry hours are up. I 
want you to put that fear away from you. Miss Fenella. 
I saw you pass now on your way to Bessie — for father 
has been ailing worse than usual, and I stayed away 
from the quarry — and I followed you here to tell you 
this. It breaks my heart to think that you should be 
afraid of me. But you need not be. I shall never 
speak such words to you again." 


He stepped and looked at her across the road which 
separated them, gravely, calmly, obviously master of each 
one of his words and movements, yet with a new stamp 
of pain upon his face. 

Fenella nodded vaguely, aware of a convulsive con- 
traction in her throat, such as usually comes before 

"You believe me. Miss Fenella?" 

"Yes," she uttered very low. 

"And you will come again to the cottage, without 
fear? You will come in and out, as in the summer days? 
I would not have father suffer through my fault" 

"Yes, I will come." 

"Thank you, Miss Fenella. And thank you too for 
believing me. I would rather cut out my tongue than 
let it again say a word that can disturb you." 

"That is all, I suppose," said Fenella, with a very 
faint smile, and making an uncertain step onward as 
though to close the interview, with an immense sense of 
desolation beginning to wrap her round. 

"There is another thing as well. I wanted to explain 
to you how I came to be in the Balladrochit garden the 

«nACC *> 

IN THE "PASS. 127 

other night, when the music was going on. It would 
make me mad to think that you could believe I was 
spying upon you and upon Mr. Macgiluray." 

With a glow that was almost a pain the blood rushed 
to Fenella's face. 

"That was you?" she exclaimed, standing abruptly 
still. "I thought it was a gardener." 

"It was I; but I had no more thought of spying 
than of robbing the house. I had rowed over with a 
message of father's to Alick M'Laren, the head gardener 
— his first wife was our cousin; the minister's sister, you 
know," added Duncan, with a trifle of emphasis, "and 
father was keen about seeing him, because of some 
money matters concerning the children. I meant to 
come straight home again, but the music seemed to take 
hold of me, and I couldn't get away — I've always been 
foolish about the music. I thought the garden was 
empty, but as I came round a turn I saw you and Mr. 
Macgiluray. I did not hear a word, I swear to you! 
but I couldn't help seeing that your hands were held 
out to him, and I knew what that meant. But I went 
away in that same instant. Miss Fenella." 


In the pause that followed she felt his eyes upon 
her, fixed and expectant — perhaps of some corrobora- 
tion. But instead of speaking she jerked down her chin 
a little lower, intent apparently upon boring a hole in 
the hard road with the point of her umbrella. A strange 
illusion had possession of her — a curious sense of isola- 
tion from all the rest of the world. Ever since he had 
begun to speak it had seemed to her as though the 
heights on either side divided them definitely from their 
fellow-creatures, as though nothing mattered, nothing 
counted, almost nothing existed outside this wilderness 
of stone and water, in which he and she stood face 
to face, with only the breadth of the road between 

Had she dared to brave his eyes just then she would 
have seen the expectancy upon his face pass into signs 
of hesitation, the brief struggle being ended by some 
words spoken with a sort of artificial steadiness, evidently 
calculated to soothe all possible alarm. 

"God knows that I want to wish you happiness, 
Miss Fenella; but there is just one more word I need to 
hear from you before I can do it truly; just that word 
which I asked you for once before, when Bessie came 

IN THE "PASS." 129 

between. Tell me with your own lips that your heart 
is in it, and I shall rest content." 

"I don't understand you," said Fenella, in a flurry, 
understanding the while perfectly, and even in the midst 
of the flurry wondering how she would have stood the 
searching tone of that deep, judicial voice if indeed she 
had been guilty before the bar of her own heart. 

"You are questioning my right to ask you, maybe; 
but has not every man the right to fight for his own 
holy things? And to believe in your goodness has been 
the holiest thing in my life, Miss Fenella. No; I don't 
think the right would be on your side if you refuse me 
an answer. You would not want to destroy my idea of 
what a good woman should be, Miss Fenella?" 

A new anxiety, bom of her silence, was creeping 
into his voice. 

"No; I would never do that," said Fenella, with a 
sudden uplifted feeling at the thought of the crime 
escaped; and then, with scarcely a break between, she 
heard her own voice saying: "Mr. Macgiluray has gone 
away," and even in saying it wondered why she was 
giving this unnecessary piece of information. 

The Com^-omise. 11, 9 


"And when may he be returning?" 

"I don't know — perhaps never." 

Again the speaking of the words seemed to be quite 
unconnected with any operation of her will. A second 
and yet stronger illusion had hold of her now — that of 
her personality having been abruptly split into two halves. 
There were two Fenellas now, of which the one looked 
on at the doings of the other in an astonishment that 
was entirely powerless. 

A moment of tense silence followed before Duncan 
said, in forcibly calm tones: 

"You have quarrelled with him — already?" 

"No, I have not quarrelled with him; I mean to be 
friends with him, if he will let me." 

"No more than friends. Miss Fenella?" 

"Never more than that" 

"But I believed—" 

"So did I; but it was a mistake. I have sent him 
away. I am, after all, not so base as perhaps you 
thought I was, Duncan." 

Her head went up as she said it This time the 
triumph of meeting his eyes with rescued self-esteem 
written broad in her own had overborne every other 

UnAdd ff 

IN THE "PASS. 131 

consideration. That something else besides triumph 
might be written there had not occurred to her, and yet 
it must have been so, for Duncan, meeting that gaze, 
shivered suddenly, as though at the approach of fever. 
When, after a moment, he trusted himself to speak, it 
was with that extreme and rather ponderous slowness 
which is the most elementary way of governing a grow- 
ing excitement 

"If you did not love him, then I thank God that 
you sent him away. Another man will be more for- 
tunate, and he will find your heart free." 

Fenella said no word as across the road their eyes 
once more irresistibly drew together. 

"He will find your heart free?" asked Duncan, with 
an acuter note in his voice. 

But Fenella had borne his gaze as long as was in 
her. Down went her chin again, and back went the 
umbrella-point into the half-bored hole. 

"Your heart is free, Fenella?" 

She had a mad desire to fling up her hands over 

her face, so as to escape those inquisitorial eyes, but 

made, instead, a faintly negative sign, while her lips 

gave nervous jerks, and her eyelids burned intolerably. 



He looked at her as though doubting his senses; and 
when suddenly a clear drop splashed upon the labour- 
ing umbrella, and hung there for a moment like a crystal 
bead, he made a quick step forward, and checking him- 
self, drew back again. 

"Don't play with me. Miss Fenella," he said, with a 
new and rather stern solemnity. "Am I the man?" 

There was that in the urgency of his tone which beat 
down even bashfulness. Almost as solemnly as the ques- 
tion came the low but clear answer: 

"Yes; it is you." 

Again he made an impetuous forward movement, 
and again stopped himself forcibly, keeping still rigidly 
to his side of the road. 

"Miss Fenella!" he said deliberately, "this cannot be 
done in a hurry, not unless you are quite certain that 
you know what you are doing. Maybe it is pity that is 
moving you; but I would not be taken out of pity." 
All the old scorn was in his voice as he said it. 

"It is not out of pity, Duncan." 

"And you will not regret what you are giving up? 
I would rather have nothing than only half your 


IN THE "PASS." 133 

"You shall have the whole," Fenella Number One 
heard Fenella Number Two steadily declaring. 
"You are ready to be a workman's wife?" 
"I am ready to be your wife, Duncan." 
"And you are strong enough for the fight? — for a 
bitter fight it will be." 

"With you I am strong enough for anything." 
He paused one moment longer, then slowly came 
across the road, and slowly took her two hands in his. 
But for the way in which they shook, his outward calm- 
ness might have deceived her. Very slow too and gentle 
was the first touch of his lips upon hers. 

But the second was different, for already something 
had begun to race in both their veins. The first kiss 
had been that of the humble worshipper at the feet of 
his goddess, the second was that of the human lover to 
human love. 

Then for a space Fenella leaned dizzily against his 
arm. Round her the hills seemed to turn in a circle — 
a magic circle which kept out the world. A long, long 
breath came over her lips, such a breath as is breathed 
at the end of a struggle, both by the vanquisher and 
the vanquished. 


After a space Duncan spoke thoughtfully: 
"And now it is we two against all the others." 
"We two against all the others," she repeated; and 
a moment later added: 

"Not against all, father will be on our side, I think." 




Frowningly Albert McDonnell watched the dip of 
the oars in the water. The week-end was not yet 
reached, but a note from Julia called him home. It 
contained a good piece of news, though not the one he 
had been looking for. Mr. Berrell had spoken, and all 
was right between him and Julia. So far so good. 
That cat was killed, anyway. But in proportion as 
there had been little doubt regarding this issue, so was 
elation at the accomplished fact tempered. The affair 
still waiting to be dealt with was of a far more critical 
nature, as ^ after the note of this morning he could no 
longer doubt; for it had brought news of Fenella as well, 
though crowded into a postscript by the writer's per- 
sonal preoccupations. 

"I can't make her out at all," Julia wrote at the 
bottom of the page. "Nothing seems to have happened 


between her and Mr. Macgiluray the other night And 
yet she doesn't seem at all unhappy, although I heard 
yesterday that he has left Balladrochit" 

It was this postscript which, like a trumpet-note of 
alarm, was calling Albert to Ardloch. He could have 
lived two days longer without pressing Mr. BerrelPs 
hand, but he felt that he could not sleep another night 
without knowing the reason of Ronald Macgiluray's de- 
parture. Julia was the pretext of the visit, but Fenella 
was the object. Clearness as to what exactly had passed 
in the Balladrochit garden was, of course, the foremost 
necessity. That Ronald should have let slip the so care- 
fully engineered opportunity seemed scarcely credible 
What remained? A dismisal on Fenella's part was of 
course not to be seriously considered; but might she 
not, moved by one of those attacks of bashfulness from 
which Albert understood young ladies to suffer, have 
given him some sort of half-and-half answer which settled 
nothing? With a lesser suitor such games might be 
legitimate; but this was too big a fish to be played 
with. To point this out to her was a duty which, con- 
sidering the incompetence of the nominal head of the 
house, clearly devolved upon Albert Duty, in fact, 


was the word which loomed largest before his mind*s 
eye during that long, silent row, and with never a doubt 
or a scruple to obscure the clear vision. Having dis- 
covered what were the only things worth living for, he 
could not look on at one so near and dear to him play- 
ing fast and loose with the very elements of social 
existence. And as to the authenticity of his discovery, 
no doubts had yet assailed him, his mind being still at 
that raw but vigorous stage at which conviction cheer- 
fully undertakes the work of experience. In furthering 
this marriage he honestly and sincerely believed himself 
to be acting for Fenella's best; and this in spite of the 
fact in the bottom of his heart he despised Ronald 
Macgiluray, as the man of action, even free from con- 
ceit, can scarcely escape despising the man of mere 
leisure. The glamour of his riches had to Albert's keen 
eyes cast just as little an aureole around his person as 
to the jealous ones of Duncan McDonnell. He knew 
that the man would be nothing without his money, not 
fit for such a fight as he was fit for himself; but the 
money itself was enough. Hence the necessity of reason- 
ing with Fenella. 

But, judicial though his frame of mind was, it was 


likewise benevolent He meant to deal very gently with 
Fendla, to make allowances for girlish caprice — being 
prepared to play not only the father but the mother 
too, if needs be. She would find in him a firm but 

indulgent guide, unless indeed But at this point 

of his reflections Albert angrily jerked his head either 
in order to get rid of an importunate midge buzzing 
about his ears, or perhaps to rid himself of something 
else equally importunate, though less definite. 

It was unpleasantly significant that of all the recent 
impressions of his sister, the flushed face and shining 
eyes with which she had proclaimed her sympathy 
with Lilian Larrington should be the one that most ob- 
stinately persisted. And her agitation of the morning, 
too, when a figure which had not been that of Ronald 
Macgiluray had passed them in the road. That tor- 
menting midge again! Albert grabbed at it mentally, 
with the view of a closer investigation. It was but a 
poor insect, after all, and not really alarming. An ex- 
cited fancy, a somewhat too warm sympathy, fostered 
by injudicious intercourse — this much he was prepared 
to admit; but as to any real danger, his imagination 
refused to stretch to so preposterous a point Girlish 


fancies were proverbially inflammable; his fraternal busi- 
ness it should be to apply the cooling lotion which would 
save Fenella from herself, while securing the future of 
the family. Fate had been too uniformly kind during 
this wonderful summer to make it reasonable to suspect 
a pitfall on the path. 

With the thought Albert's glance shot over the water 
towards the grey walls of Balladrochit just coming into 
view, while a smile of mingled triumph and tenderness 
curved his lips. 

At the Rectory he began by taking his measures, 
which consisted in giving Julia her orders, tacked straight 
onto the somewhat hurried felicitations — for an undis- 
turbed half-hour with Fenella was the first requirement. 

It was in the bow-windowed sitting-room that they 
were left alone very speedily — Fenella nervously busy 
with the flowers in the window-box, Albert somewhat 
provoked at missing his habitual perfect coolness, and 
thinking best to conceal the fact by a restless peregrina- 
tion of the room. 

"I am sure Julia will be very happy," he observed, 
as the door closed upon the new fiancie. Then, as 


Fenella said something acquiescent but not quite intelli- 
gible, he went on without a pause: 

"And how about you, Fen? Surely your little affair 
is settled by this time? It would be rather good fun 
to make a double event of it? " 

Out of the arsenal of weapons at his command he 
had selected this breezy and bantering tone as the one 
most suitable for an attack which would probably, after 
all, be only a skirmish. 

Fenella, with her back to the room, bent a little 
lower over a cyclamen from which she was picking the 
withered leaves, and remained silent. 

"Come, Fenella, you have something to tell me, 
have you not?" 

This time there was a touch of bonhomie added to 
the breeziness. 

"Yes; I have something to tell you." 

The voice seemed to come up from among the 
cyclamen, half suffocated by the crowded blossoms. It 
was the last minute in which that secret which she had 
been hugging to her heart since yesterday would be a 
secret, and the pain of exposing it to publicity was 
almost as great as the apprehension of results. 


"The die has fallen, then?" 


"You are engaged to Mr. Macgiluray?" 

Fenella stood up straight, and, with a sort of wrench 
of resolution, faced round towards her brother. 

"I am engaged, Albert — to Duncan M*Donnell." 

The words were quite plain to Albert's ears, and 
even to his understanding, if that which beats against 
our consciousness without being admitted into its inner 
circle can be said to be plain. 

"Duncan McDonnell?" was all he said, without either 
astonishment or anger, and with as great a blank in 
his voice as though he had never heard the name 

"Yes — our cousin, you know, Albert." 

"Since when?" asked the same blank voice. 

"Since yesterday." 

Albert happened to be standing near a chair when 
the blow fell; he sat down upon it without taking his 
eyes off his sister — all the restlessness suddenly died out 
of his limbs, and in the new position still continued to 
stare at her with an attention which seemed struggling 
to transform what he had just heard into an intelligible 


thought. She had drawn nearer now, and was speaking 
in haste. 

"Listen, Bertie; I know, of course, that you will not 
like it — you cannot like it — and it hurts me to go 
against you, but I cannot help it I have been fighting 
against it all summer — I know it now — but it has con- 
quered me. That is why I sent away Mr. Macgiluray. 
I meant to keep my secret and never to marry anybody; 
but yesterday, in the Pass, I met Duncan, and then — it 
— it happened." 

"You have sent away Mr. Macgiluray?" cried Albert, 
getting to his feet again, and in the action shaking off 
the hand which Fenella had laid upon his shoulder. 

It was the first item of her speech upon which his 
mind felt able to fasten. Here was something which 
lay within the limits of comprehension and of belief; 
whereas the rest — 

"Of course, I have sent him away. What would be 
the use of his stapng here, now that I am engaged to 

"You are not engaged to Duncan!" said Albert, 
very quickly, turning upon his sister, with a touch al- 
most of savageness. "It is absurd and nonsensical to 


talk of it as an engagement, just because he had the 
impudence to make love to you in the Pass yesterday." 

The numb blankness was gone from both voice and 
eyes now, and in its place rage was beginning to circu- 
late in his brain, as the revived blood circulates in the 
veins of a half-frozen body. 

Fenella turned very red, but her eyes did not fall 
before those of her brother. I 

"He did not make love to me — he did not mean 
to; he thought I had accepted Mr. Macgiluray. It was 
I who betrayed myself." 

"You?" Albert's lips twitched into a sneer. "Has 
the intercourse with peasants, which I was mad enough 
to tolerate, brought you as low as this, Fenella?" 

Although she grew redder, yet her head went up 
by another inch. 

"I don't know what you mean by being brought low. 
Duncan cares for me, and I care for him, and have let 
him see it — ^just as Julia has let Mr. Berrell see that 
she — that she is ready to marry him. If it is no dis- 
grace for her, then why for me?" 

"And you imagine that you will be allowed to marry 
this boor?" 

144 "^"^^ COMPROMISE. 

"I am sure father will allow it." 

For another long moment Albert stared, almost gaped 
at his sister, as though at an utter stranger. Was this 
indeed the Fenella he had known for eighteen years— 
so sweetly reasonable, so amenable to guidance? He 
was experiencing the unpleasant surprise of a person 
who, putting his teeth confidently into a soft and deli- 
cate-looking peach, finds himself biting against a hard 
stone. What had come over her? What was this new 
light in her eyes? This new set of her lips? 

It was not from Fenella herself that he could have 
got the answer, since even to herself she was something 
of a stranger still in this new form. Was she really the 
same person who had trembled yesterday at the mere 
thought of Albert's wrath? who had doubted her own 
capabilities of sacrifice? Now, in the heat of the fray, 
she could have laughed at the coward she had been 
yesterday, and even though, from the mere force of 
habit, she had begun to-day too by trembling. And all 
this transformation because between the beginning and 
the end of the Pass she had crossed the boundary of a 
new and magic land; all because of the touch of another 
pair of lips upon her own, breathing into her veins the 


courage of the heart which is so much more indomitable 
than the courage of the nerves. There were not two 
Fenella's to-day, there was only one, and this one ready 
to fight for her happiness to the death, if need be. The 
lesson she had had to learn had been learned within a 

Although the apprehension of the truth lay beyond 
Albert's emotional perceptions, yet was he quick to re- 
cognise a new factor to be counted with. Even in that 
pause while he faced her in indignant inquiry he was at 
work already upon his scattered senses. Evidently this 
was not the way to go about the matter. She was not 
to be brow-beaten, therefore he supposed that he would 
have to stoop to reasoning with her. There were plenty 
of appeals to be made; but in order to obtain a calm 
hearing they would have to be calmly uttered. It was 
at this juncture that the habit of self-control came vic^ 
toriously to Albert's aid. One turn in the room sufficed 
to shut down his struggling fury under hatches, as use- 
less for the time being, and to steady his voice almost 
to its habitual tone. 

"Look here, Fenella," he said, standing still after 
that one turn, and even making an attempt at a smile, 

The Compromise, IT, "V^ 


"we are both a little excited, it seems, but excitement 
won't do here. Let us try and talk this over quietly. 
I understand from you that Duncan M'Donnell has pre- 
sumed to make you a proposal of marriage, and that 
you have allowed yourself to be persuaded into ac- 
quiescence. You also imagine yourself to care for him, 
and I am sure you are sincere in your belief. Probably 
your fancy has been excited by the circumstances under 
which you met him, perhaps by the unusual sort of 
acquaintance, and, of course, also you are sorry for him 
in his love-plight; for though it is cheeky of him to be 
in love with you, it isn't at all incredible. I don't blame 
you for having let your fancy be caught, but I do blame 
you for having given him an assurance which you know 
you will never be able to fulfil, for you cannot seriously 
see yourself as a workman's wife. It is an awkward 
business, certainly, but I have no doubt I can arrange 
it. Leave Duncan to me; he will listen to reason, and 
the more readily the more he cares for you." 

"He will not Hsten to your reason^, Bertie," said 
Fenella, with a curiously confident smile upon her lips, 
a remark which Albert preferred not to heaik 

"He will not want to spoil your future, and such a 


future as it might have been — as it might still be — for I 
am certain that it would only require a note to bring 
back Mr. Macgiluray. Let me write that note, Fenella 
— let me write it. I will arrange everything. I will get 
you out of the scrape into which you have got yourself. 
See if I don't!" 

"I don't want to be got out of it, Bertie." 

The very steadiness of her tone was beginning to 
unsteady him once more. He went on talking more 
quickly, and with an eagerness which betrayed the 
anxiety behind the show of assurance. He appealed to 
her head — it had apparently abdicated in favour of her 
heart; to her ambition — it had died a sudden and 
mysterious death; to her family affection — it had been 
crowded out of the first place by a new and mightier; 
to the memory of her dead mother — it could not stand 
against the living presence. He even descended to 

"I see what it is," he openly sneered. "Duncan is 
bigger and better- looking than Ronald Macgiluray; I 
grant you that. His eyes are very black, and his shoulders 
very broad — a fine piece of humanity, no doubt — but I 



never for a moment imagined that you were the sort of 
girl to succumb to such allurements." 

There was insult in his glance now, but his thought 
lay too many miles away from Fenella's comprehension 
to let offence be possible. The serenity of her reply told 
him that his shot had missed fire. 

"I don't think I understand that, Bertie. Of course 
I love Duncan's black eyes, since I love himself; but 
it is not those sort of things I love him for most — I am 
sure it is not," she repeated musingly, as though striving 
to puzzle out the question. "It is not so much because 
he is big that I love him, as because, with all his bigness, 
he is so kind to things that are small and weak — to 
Bessie's baby, for instance; he will hold it for hours, she 
told me, and he is so patient with his father, and so 
sturdy and so strong, and lives the life of a — " 

" — of a workman," threw in Albert sharply. 

"Of a man, I was going to say; a man who relies 
upon himself and not upon — mere accidents." 

"Thank you in Mr. Macgiluray's name!" said Albert, 
with the fury struggling back into his voice. 

"I can't help it, Bertie; I can't help comparing the 


two. I believe I have been doing it all summer — and 
the one life seems so empty beside the other." 

"Empty — with all that money!" echoed Albert, with 
a naivete of accent and expression which lay nowhere 
within his intention. And then, at sight of her obvious in- 
flexibility, and for the second time to-day, the mentor 
lost his head, and this time definitively, as is apt to 
happen to mentors, however well primed with principles, 
however addicted to the cult of cold blood, when they 
have only twenty-three summers behind them. During 
five minutes he raged and threatened after the fashion 
of ordinary, angry mortals, at a pitch of voice which cast 
prudence to the winds, and with a countenance so in- 
flamed that Fenella instinctively retreated before him, as 
though in fear of physical violence. It was almost a 
relief when the door-handle turned, and Julia's alarmed 
face appeared in the chink, even though this meant only 
the advent of a fresh antagonist 

"What is the matter, Bertie? Why are you so angry 
with Fenella?" 

Striding to the door, Albert pulled the new ally into 
the room. 

"There — look at her!" he hoarsely jeered, taking 


Julia by the shoulders, so as to make her face the now 
trembling Fenella, "do you know who that is? You 
think it's the future Mrs. Macgiluray of Rockshiels, per- 
haps? Not a bit of it! It's the future Mrs. Duncan 
McDonnell of Ardloch Quarry, ha, ha!" 

The bitter laugh jarred even upon Julia's nerves. 

"What — what — I don't understand — " she stam- 
mered, her full lips dropping apart 

In a torrent of scathing words she was enlightened, 
and, being enlightened, her first action was to look about 
her for a seat, her second to pull out a capacious hand- 
kerchief, and burst into tears into it. Julia was accustomed 
to do even her crying comfortably. 

"But that's impossible — impossible!" she sobbed, 
with a tremendous heaving of her agitated bosom. 
"Fenella, you can't be so mad, and so — so heartless! 
Good gracious, it will spoil everything! And what will 
George" — George was Mr. Berrell's Christian name — 
"say? As likely as not he will throw me over; he will 
never stand having Duncan as brother-in-law. Oh, 
Fenella, Fenella! No, you can't! you can't!" 

In the shrilly ascending voice an hysterical note was 
beginning to pierce. 


Fenella, standing now with her back against the wall, 
as though repelling a material attack, and with tears of 
mortification gathering in her eyes, held out as long as 
she was able; then abruptly, in the middle of a double 
stream of reproaches, gathering herself together, darted 
across the room and out by the door. It looked like an 
ignominious flight, but it was in reality more of a rescue 
excursion than a flight — an abrupt calling in of reserves. 
In the thick of this universal disapproval the desire of 
sympathy had irresistibly seized her. She thought she 
knew where she would find it. 

Left together, Albert and Julia began by staring at 
the door through which their victim had fled, and then 
at each other. 

"Surely she is mad!" gasped Julia. "Oh, Bertie, 
you will never allow it, will you?" 

"No, I will never allow it!" he said with sharp, 
almost venomous decision. 

He had flung himself into a chair, as though ex- 
hausted by the excitement of the last half-hour, and now 
abruptly sank into a moody silence. It was not clear 
whether the stream of incoherent lamentations, surmises 


and prognostications which for several minutes flowed 
over Julia's lips, even reached his consciousness. 

Suddenly he got up. "Is father at home?" 

"Yes, I believe he is in his room." 

He was already striding towards the door. A word 
of Fenella's had started up like a warning in his memory. 
That danger must be forestalled. It was the first time 
in his life that Albert found it necessary seriously to 
reckon with the actual head of the family. Writhe as he 
would under the consciousness, the young man could 
not but acknowledge that the final decision did not rest 
with himself. Forlorn hope though an appeal to com- 
monsense in that quarter must be, yet the hope must be 
attempted. Thinking to know his father so well, he still 
knew him so little as to find it inconceivable that worldly 
blindness could be pushed to the point of accepting 
Duncan McDonnell as son-in-law. 

In the moment that he opened the door, he knew 
that he was forestalled. The minister had pushed back 
the worn, leathered-covered armchair from the writing- 
table, and upon one of the broad arms sat Fenella. The 
two right hands were clasped, the young face and the 
old face turned towards each other. 


With an oath upon his lips, Albert stood still in the 

Fenella looked across at her brother, her eyes 
swimming in tears, which were not tears of grief. 

"Come in, Bertie," she said, trying to keep the 
triumph out of her voice. "I have been speaking to 
'father — he will tell you — " 

John turned calmly towards his son. His brown 
eyes were soft and happy, yet with a haze, which seemed 
like the remnant of a great bewilderment floating mistily 
over their clearness. 

"Yes — Fenella has been telling me — about Duncan. 
It was a great surprise." 

Albert shut the door, and with a deliberately ag- 
gressive movement walked up to the very edge of the 

"Surprise is far too weak a word, father. It is a 
scandal — a disgrace. You cannot mean by this surely 
that you intend to give your consent to this piece of in- 

"I have given it already," said John gently, still 
keeping Fenella*s hand between his own. 

154 "^^^ COMPROMISE. 

"It is social suicide," said Albert, his face turning of 
that livid pallor peculiar to red-haired men. 

John smiled his vaguely abstracted smile. "Do we 
need Society?" 

"But think what you are doing, father — think!" 
urged Albert, clutching the old man by his thin shoulder 
as though in the desperate hope of shaking reason into 
him. "Fenella's husband a workman! A labourer!" 

"Her husband will be what her father was." 

Albert ground his teeth upon each other. "But he 
is nothing — he has got nothing!" 

"That makes it all the more certain, does it not, that 
her affection is genuine?" 

For a long, speechless moment Albert gazed at his 
father, very much as Ella had gazed at him on the day 
of the great mutual discovery. Between father and son 
there was exactly that want of understanding which had 
been between husband and wife. 

"And you will actually let this thing happen?" 

"It has happened without me," smiled John — "and 
if God wills it so, it will be accomplished." 

Albert's clenched hand came down upon the table, 
making the inkstaud rattle and the pens dance. 


"No, it shall not be accomplished," he said, all the 
more intensely for speaking low. "I swear to you that 
it will not! If you are struck blind, I am not; if you 
will not act I will. It shall not happen — I will prevent it" 

He bent across the table to send his challenging look 
deep into Fenella*s troubled eyes. 

"What are you going to do?" she asked suddenly, 

"I do not know yet what I shall do," and Albert 
slowly straightened himself, "but it shall not happen." 



"Tell him that I am in a hurry, that he is to come 
at once. I shall be waiting here, beside the spae-wife's 

It was to a bare-footed urchin that Albert gave the 
directions, together with a copper coin; and then — the 
messenger departed towards the quarry — sat down upon 
a green hillock close at hand, and set himself de- 
liberately and moodily to wait. The resting-place was 
one not usually favoured as such by the prejudices of 
Ardloch, since, if tradition spoke true, the oblong green 
mound by the roadside covered unhallowed bones. 
Straight opposite stood the old ferry-house, driven out 
of its raison d'etre by the advent of steamers, and sunk 
now to the level of a crofter's dwelling. Alongside the 
rough pier, Ukewise a lumber of the past, but still 
holding its own as the starting-place for the water-side 
funerals — its black slate-stone point the last bit of main- 


land crossed by the average Ardlochian. On one such 
occasion it had been — thus ran the legend — that the 
remains of a certain old woman of uncanny reputation, 
having already been shipped, had perforce been un- 
shipped again, by reason of one of those abruptly risen 
storms by which the beautiful, treacherous loch loved 
to startle even its own children. For three days the 
coffin stood at the ferry-house, and at every lightening 
of the weather the attempt was renewed, with ever the 
same result; until at last panic seized the beholders, 
and recognising that the consecrated ground of the 
island refused to receive the spae-wife into its bosom, 
they hurriedly dug a hole by the roadside and shoved 
her away out of sight In the days when lame Liz had 
not yet been lame Liz, she had been wont, when passing 
this way, to cast lingering glances upon the weird 
mound. Though she might not go the length of 
envying the legendary old woman's resting-place, she 
could not but think with a certain admiration of the 
position which in her lifetime that person must have 
occupied in the village. 

In his normal, everyday mood, Albert himself might 
have preferred to choose a less ill-reputed seat, but to- 


day, plunged in painful reflections, he had no attention 
over for extraneous circumstances. 

Only yesterday still so clear a horizon, and now 
this cyclone, threatening to sweep away not only the 
hopes regarding Fenella, but other hopes, nearer and 
dearer yet! For, even at the risk of discrediting the 
perspicacity of this genially perspicacious young man, it 
is time to confess that he seriously believed in his 
chances of winning the Balladrochit heiress. To be 
keen-sighted and sharp-witted about other people's aflfairs 
is not exactiy the same thing as being keen-sighted and 
sharp-witted about one's own. An extraordinary piece 
of good luck, of course, but showing, to his supreme 
self-confidence, no incredible feature. It was as though 
all the naivete belonging to his years, and so sternly 
eliminated from his consciousness, had taken refuge in 
this comer of his nature. That shower of favours of 
which he had been a recipient all summer, what else 
should it mean but the crowning of his wishes? Those 
smiles, those services accepted and even solicited, what 
but that could explain them? Ah, he had a whole 
collection of proofs — proofs which weighed all the heavier 
because they were the first of their sort which had come 


under his notice, since in his almost austere Hfe — and 
ambition can be quite as austere as asceticism — woman 
had, so far, played no part. 

Ah, how kind a face Fate had shown all summer, 
and not to himself alone. Such a happy conglomeration 
of circumstances had at moments seemed almost too 
good to be true. Alas, it had been too good. The 
present catastrophe was there to prove it. Would not 
Fenella's small hand prove to be that of an executioner? 
Whatever the heiress might feel for him, would she not 
shrink from the thought of such a connection as Duncan 
McDonnell? Could he even dare to suggest to her to 
become the sister-in-law of a quarryman? And Julia's 
new-made engagement, was it safe any longer? The 
whole future position of the family was trembling in the 
balance. If any mortal ever turned in his grave, surely 
Ella had every excuse for doing so! The threatened 
union would undo the work of twenty-five years. Duncan 
McDonnell would prove the dead-weight which dragged 
them all back to the social depths from which they had 
so laboriously risen. 

But it should not be — no, if there was any justice, 
in human affairs and power in human will, it should 


not be! As to ways and means of prevention, he had 
not had time even to look about him, but he would 
begin by the most obvious one — that of an appeal to 
the chief offender himself — to his good sense, and pre- 
cisely to that affection which had made the mischief, 
and which alone could unmake it again. A bitter pill 
to swallow; but Albert was not the man to shrink even 
from humiliation, in a good cause. There was no time 
to lose. These few hours snatched from his work at 
the loch-end was all he could risk. The boat that was 
to take him back before nightfall waited at the old pier 
close by. But before going he must know how matters 
stood. That was why he now sat waiting upon the 
spae-wife's grave. 

He had waited for ten minutes and more when the 
figure he spied for came striding down the road. As 
it approached he watched it critically, turning upon it 
an attention of which it had never before been con- 
sidered worthy. With a certain sinking of the heart 
he noted the fine set of the shoulders, the harmonious 
swing of the step — all things which tended to lessen the 
chances of his undertaking, since it was with Fenella's 
eyes that he was attempting to view this man. 


Duncan stood still upon the road, a couple of 
paces from the grave-hill. 

"You wish to speak to me?" he asked, with a just 
perceptible note of challenge piercing through the careful 
deference of his tone. 

"Yes; that is why I sent you the message." 

For a moment after he had said it there was silence 
between them. Albert was continuing upon Duncan's 
face the same critical observation he had applied to his 
figure, and with the same discouraging results. Duncan, 
on his side, was likewise scrutinising. He knew that 
they stood on the verge of a struggle. How bad was 
the struggle going to be? It was this he was attempting 
to read out of Albert's face. 

During that first minute Albert had not changed his 
position. To keep his seat upon the mound while 
Duncan stood there before him was an assertion of his 
social superiority which appeared to him essential at 
this juncture. But for the interview itself the spot was 
too public 

"Come along," he said, rising abruptly, and leading 
the way up a steep lane which at this point branched 
towards the hill. 

The Compromise, II, i I 


A few Steps secured the privacy required, and now 
he faced round towards Duncan. 

"I sent for you because I want to speak to you 
about my sister." 

Duncan said nothing; but continued to look at him 
expectantly from under his down-drawn brows, still in 
search, as it were, of his intentions. 

"She has told me about — what has passed between 
you, and that she has allowed herself to be persuaded 
into what she considers an engagement" 

In a general sort of way Albert meant to keep his 
temper as long as proved feasible, though his failure of 
the morning had sadly shaken his confidence in his 
own powers of self-control; but no good resolves could 
keep the haughtiness, even the disdain out of his tone. 
The mere thought of having to stand here and parley 
on such vitally personal topics with a man in duck 
trousers and a coat powdered with slate-dust, was enough 
to exclude anything like a tone of equality. 

Duncan's scrutinising glance relaxed on the instant 
Evidently he had found out what he wanted to know 
concerning his questioner's frame of mind. 

"Persuaded is not the right word, Mr. Albert," he 


said, with guarded slowness. "I have persuaded Miss 
Fenella to nothing. Our hearts have met, that is all." 

That "Miss" and the "Mr." were satisfactory in 
themselves, but a good deal spoiled by the tone in 
which they were uttered. 

"You cannot seriously suppose that the family will 
recognise such a — such a piece of imprudence "-^(he 
had all but said "folly," but something in the face op- 
posite caused him to modify the term) — "as binding. 
My sister did not know what she was doing yesterday; 
she is a mere child, not fit for such decisions." 

"And if she had decided to marry — another, would 
you have thought her too much of a child for that 

Albert waived the point aside as irrelevant, and also 

"Don't you see that you are spoiling her chances 
for life? The most brilliant prospect was opening be- 
fore her — such a prospect as comes to few girls." 

"She had but to take it," said Duncan, in an accent 
in which Albert, to his consternation, recognised a 
haughtiness far beyond his own. In face of it a more 
conciliating tone appeared advisable. 


"Look here, Duncan," he said, with a supreme effort 
at good-temper, "I know that you care for her, and I 
am sure that your affection is disinterested; but it is 
just because you care for her that you cannot surely 
mean to ruin her whole future, by taking advantage of 
her present mood. Her fancy is excited by your at- 
tachment, and in her excitement she imagines that she 
returns it; no doubt she does return it for the moment, 
but such — such arrangements are too unnatural to last. 
Just think of the rough life she would have to lead, of 
the comforts, the refinements she would miss, of the 
intercourse she would be brought to; can all that help 
wearing out her present liking for you? and will not a 
day come when she reproaches you for taking her out 
of her proper station? Surely, oh, surely she is worthier 
and fitter to shine in a palace than to be buried in a 
hut! No, Duncan, if your love is real, if it is dis- 
interested, you will release her from her foolish promise." 

There was genuine appeal in his eyes as he gazed 
into the dark face before him. Soflened by his own 
earnestness, he had become for the time being almost 

"Stop a moment!" said Duncan, slightly raising his 


hand just as Albert's lips opened afresh, and with a 
painful contraction of the brow. "Tell me one thing! 
Has Miss Fenella sent you?" 

For an instant Albert hesitated, then regretfully 
renounced the useless lie. 

"No; she has not sent me." 

"Then you do not speak in her name?" asked 
Duncan, the frown slowly relaxing. 

"I speak in the name of the family." 

"What? In the name of the minister?" 

Once more Albert hesitated. 

"My father is not the man to trouble himself about 
such questions as this. You know that he lives only for 
his ministry. It is I who have to represent him in these 

"Maybe. But I doubt whether you represent his 
opinion of the matter," said Duncan, with a confidence 
which could not be otherwise than exasperating to 
Albert's overstrained nerves. 

While he was grasping about him for arguments, 
Duncan deliberately went on: 

"I have listened to you, Mr. Albert, and now I ask 


you to listen to me. All that you have said to me 
about the change of station, and the giving up of the 
things she is used to, I myself said to Miss Fenella in 
the Pass yesterday, and she answered me — as I had not 
dared to hope that she would answer me. And it is 
true what you say about her being fit to shine in a 
palace; I have no quarrel with you there — to my mind, 
in fact, there's no palace in the world that is good 
enough for her. It was the thought of this which kept 
my tongue tied all summer, until the unlucky — no, the 
lucky day when I let my secret slip. And it is true 
also that what we are undertaking would be a piece of 
madness unless our love be very big; but there! it is 
big, God knows it! Of my own I have known it for 
years, and of hers I believe it since yesterday. I do not 
think I am mistaken. But if there come to her one 
single doubt she is free in that same moment She has 
but got to say a word, and I will never again so much 
as come under her eyes, if I can help it But until I 
have that word — from her own lips, mind! — it will be 
better for no person to try and come between us. I had 
never hoped to win her; but, having won her, I will hold 
her against the world, and against all the brothers, and 


all the sisters in it — though not against the father. To 
his will and to her will I shall bend." 

"You shall never many her!" broke out Albert, with 
the rage of the morning rising within him like a tide. 

Every word spoken by Duncan had but added to 
his discomposure. With each of them he had angrily 
become more aware of the dominating personality of the 
man he had to deal with. Men who have the makings 
of efficiency in them cannot help recognising efficiency 
in others. This deliberateness, this obvious sincerity, 
this very moderation, were new offences. Had he seemed 
inclined to take unfair advantages, he would have been 
much less formidable than he was. But not so much 
as a reference to their detestable relationship, to that 
common blood which burnt so unendurably in Albert's 
veins — a mentiX)n of which must, at so critical a mo- 
ment, have infallibly worked as a taunt — had escaped 
him. To have to recognise in his sister's suitor the 
raw material of a gentleman only made matters worse, 
by diminishing the chances of Fenella reconsidering her 

Duncan watched the struggle in his face with a 
toleration which verged upon compassion. 


"I can well believe that it should put you out, Mr. 
Albert, and you with such plans in your head. But is 
it so certain that we shall trouble you? We shall not 
be forcing ourselves on your attention, be sure of that! 
If it were not for father, I should be for leaving the 
country — it would be easier for Miss Fenella herself; 
but I cannot leave him in his ailing state." 

This tone of quiet assurance and that "we" was the 
last drop in the cup of Albert's wrath. Such a descent 
into details seemed to put a seal of certainty upon a 
thing which he still persisted in treating upon the level 
of a more bogey. 

"You are a blackguard," he said, between his dosed 
teeth, yet plainly enough, while by his sides his hands 
nervously closed. 

"And you are — her brother, else you might well 
happen to choke upon that word." 

The face of the elder man had grown dark and 
hard, but scarcely discomposed. 

With craned neck and starting eyes, his hands still 
clenched by his sides, his body taut and ready, Albert 
stood close before him. One movement of Duncan's 
would inevitably have precipitated a physical collision, 


that old, original way of settling quarrels, to which, in 
moments of elementary passion, even civilised and even 
educated Man occasionally returns. But Duncan, al- 
though his eye held that of Albert in a grip that in 
itself was a warning, moved as little as does a big dog 
when a little dog is snarling into its face. His hands 
were in his pockets, nor did he even take the precaution 
of withdrawing them, and as little as thera was a pre- 
paration of defence, as little was there a provocation to 

For the space of a few breaths Albert's tense attitude 
persisted, then gradually relaxed, and with the relaxa- 
tion camera rush of smarting shame. The boy's im- 
potent fury felt itself silently rebuked by the man's 
mature self-mastery. 

To end the interview with as little further loss of 
dignity as was possible seemed all that remained. 

"Oh, it is no use talking while you are in this pig- 
headed mood," he declared, gathering together the 
fragments of his initial haughtiness. "But you will think 
better of it, and so will Fenella; I will make her think 
better of it. And, in any case, this preposterous thing 


shall not happen. What am I here for, I should like 
to know?" 

And without waiting for a retort which was not 
coming, Albert fiung away down the lane, his brain 
seething with wild plans of action, his vanity smarting 
under the consciousness that the advantage of the inter- 
view had not been on his side. 



Upon its deathbed of withering heather and yellow- 
ing bracken, the Ardloch summer lay beautifully dying; 
and from that very bed, as from a bed of birth, autumn 
rose up, with in her face a sadder, milder, more in- 
sinuating because more suggestive beauty. Day by day 
the burden of seaweed, which in spring had lain like a 
living yellow ribbon along the shore, marked the tide- 
line with a more sombre brown, or floated in darker 
masses just below the water's surface, staining the pure 
grey-green of the loch, as an unsoiled imagination may 
be stained by underlying dark thoughts. Day by day, 
too, as the veil which summer had woven over the hills 
grew thinner, the^ stern, stony features looked out more 
plainly. The steep slopes grew rusty with dead bracken, 
grey with grim sheets of stone. It was the time of the 
bracken harvest, when boats laden with the convenient 


litter would be seen plying across the loch, like floating 
islands of golden brown, and when women were to be 
met upon the road, bent double under the brilliant loads 
upon their backs. The squalls, which were begiQning 
to whip up the loch out of its summer peace, were al- 
ready alive with flying leaves, and the dog-roses in the 
village street stood naked of all but the perennial harvest 
of family washing. 

For Fenella this season of passage was a passage 
in more senses than one. These stormy autunm weeks 
held for her both a new bliss and a new torture. She 
had been too used to cherishing — even though calculat- 
ing — care, to petting and approval, to be able to bear 
disapproval lightly. So much coldness after so much 
warmth could not but chill her to the heart How much 
greater would have been her happiness had she been 
able to share it with those nearest her! Yet not even 
Julia's easy good-nature could produce sympathy here. 
If in early days she had cheerfully brought sacrifices to 
her sister's future, it was chiefly because she so firmly 
believed in that future. Every single slice of pudding 
renounced seemed now to throw its weight into the 
balance holding Fenella's guilt; for Julia M'Donnell was 


one of those people who are always perfectly amiable, 
on the sole condition of not being crossed in their ap- 
petites. The promise of more and better puddings in 
times to come had, so to say, lain at the root of the 
cheerfulness. Judge, then, of the blankness of dis- 
appointment which a prospect of porridge and oatcakes 
— what more would Duncan McDonnell's table be able to 
afford? — brought to the female hon-vivant! And would 
she have a table of her own to fall back upon? That 
question had, to say the least, become doubtful. What 
wonder that under this shadow, the milk of human 
kindness should show signs of turning sour! 

Without her father's support, there were moments 
when Fenella's courage might have tottered. And even 
this support was but a passive one. To John, after the 
first astonishment, nothing appeared more natural than 
that Fenella and Duncan should marry. In the relief of 
the escape from the dreaded worldly union, he felt 
quite able to renounce his own private dream. Unable 
as he was to appreciate Albert and Julia's objections, 
he was likewise unable to furnish Fenella with suitable 
arguments wherewith to meet them. Nor could she ask 
these arguments from Duncan, whose pride she shrank 


from wounding — even if in his presence any arguments 
had appeared necessary. She had but to stand beside 
him for her leaping heart to give her all the arguments 
she wanted. Within his presence, she knew that she 
was right; with her hand in his, she felt sure of not 
being the lunatic that Albert would make of her. 

These weeks of betrothal, full of secret happiness, 
were nevertheless empty of what is usually understood 
as joy. This was as Fenella had known it must be. 
Even when, in the Pass, she had felt Duncan's hands 
upon her own, and had raised her face to meet his, it 
had been with an overflowing, but not with a light 
heart. She had sinned against a social law, and must 
pay the penalty. The very scene of their betrothal- 
stern and hard-featured — seemed to warn the young 
people of that which lay before them: no pleasant 
dalliance, but a bitter struggle with the prejudice of a 
caste. Yet, for all the voice of reason, it remained 
hard to be treated as a traitor to a common cause. 

Albert spoke little now of the subject about which, 
obviously, he incessantly thought To Dimcan he had 
addressed no further word, but had unexpectedly gained 
an ally in Duncan's father. Even without Albert's inter- 


ference, it was doubtful whether Adam's failing powers 
would not have instinctively rebelled against the start- 


ling novelty of this idea. New ideas never had much 
chance with Adam; and this one outraged his innate 

"He's crazy, Mr. Albert, I tell you," had been his 
verdict. "The idea of wanting to marry Miss Fenella! 
To my mind, it's as unsuitable as though he wanted to 
marry the Queen. No, no; it's Elsie Robson that is the 
wife for him, as I'm telling him for ever." 

The very depth of his reverence for the good angel 
of his sickness fed his resistance. 

"The idea of Miss Fenella living in a cottage, and 
maybe having to sweep the hearth herself!" he would 
indignantly quaver. "No — I could not bide the thought 
of that. Duncan's crazy, I tell ye — crazy!" 

Fenella's own acquiescence in the arrangement 
weighed for nothing with him. On that point he had 
his own theory. It might not be respectful to apply to 
her the same adjective as to Duncan, but there could 
be no objection to considering her bewitched. In his 
heart of hearts, Adam began to suspect his son of 


having applied to Lame Liz, in whose occult powers he 
cherished a hidden but unshakable belief. 

And this unlooked-for attitude of Adam was no small 
addition to Fenella's trials. 

From the outer public the situation still remained 
screened, the engagement being so far unpublished— 
the one concession wrung by Albert from his father. So 
long as it was not announced it remamed possible to 
consider it as non-existent; which meant a gain of time 
for further measures. The absence of the Attertons on 
a round of visits struck Albert as a providential arrange- 
ment, since even well-guarded secrets have a way of 
leaking out 

To Mr. Berrell, however, it had been necessary to 
speak; precisely for fear of this leaking process. True, 
in the statement which Albert, in some trepidation, per- 
sonally made to his future brother-in-law the fact did 
not figure as a fact, but rather as a danger to be averted 
Even in this modified shape Julia's fiance took it badly. 

"That fellow? The troublesome workman?" he 
repeated, in a tone of arrogant astonishment. "Has 
your sister gone off her head. How did she get ac- 
quainted with him?" 


Somewhat shamefacedly Albert explained about the 

"Deucedly imprudent of you to allow such a thing I 
Young girls are just like young cats — certain to be 
after the biggest Tom agoing. At her age a fine lump 
of flesh is enough to strike any of them silly. If she 
wasn't moonstruck she'd probably feel sick at the idea 
of marrying a man with a tool-bag on his back." 

"But she's not going to marry him," hastily ex- 
plained Albert, not very pleasantly touched at recognis- 
ing his own taunt* in this more brutal garb. "It's just 
a passing fancy, of course, and it's the business of her 
relations — the rational ones — to prevent her making a 
mess of her life. Trust me for that! I'll make it im- 
possible, somehow; but meanwhile I think you ought to 
know how matters stand, considering your impending 
connection with the family." 


Mr. Berrell, sitting in his office-chair, before a table 
piled with ledgers, fell into a brown study, whose depth 
by no means beautified his low-browed, thick-lipped 

"How about Macgiluray of Rockshiel? He's just 

The Compromise II, 12 


been making fools of you all, I suppose. If he had 
come to the point this couldn^t have happened. That 
would have fixed her up, you bet!" 

Here, also, making a virtue of necessity, Albert con- 
fessed the truth, whose primary result was to cause the 
manager to bound in his chair in an almost shuttle-cock 

"What! Refused him? Decidedly you'd better 
hand her over to the nearest asylum. Preferring a 
quarryman to a landowner — why, it*s not even decenti 
A fine connection, indeed, ha, ha! — and I who have 
been saying to Julia that Mr. Macgiluray's influence would 
probably be able to get me onto a better job than 

He sat down again, drumming impatiently with his 
thick fingers upon the arms of the chair, and lending 
only half an ear to Albert's soothing assurances. 

"How do you mean to prevent it?" he ungraciously 

"First by gaining time. His father is against it, 
mercifully, and he is ill; that will delay things anyway 
through the winter; and during the winter it's ten to one 
Fenella will become rational." 


"And if she doesn't?" 

"Then something else may happen, — will happen, 
in fact. I don't know what, but it's just got to." 

"I know what would happen if she was my daughter," 
and Mr. Berrell disclosed his large teeth suggestively. 
"Bread and water and solitary confinement until she 
came to her senses." 

Not without a touch of regret Albert pronounced the 
arrangement unfeasible. 

"How about buying him off?" suggested the manager, 
after another gloomy pause. "A hundred pounds goes 
a long way with a man who earns thirty shillings a 
week. And I shouldn't mind going halves if it rids us 
of him." 

Albert shook his head, with increased decision. To 
Duncan's interlocutor of the other day Mr. Berrell's 
proposal seemed almost humorous. 

"Ah, high and mighty, is he? That's the worst sort 
to deal with. Yes, I might have known it, — had a taste 
of him in spring. A regular pig-headed, cantankerous 
fellow; and always just he crossing my path." 

"And mine as well," laughed Albert bitterly. "We're 



in the same boat, so far as that goes; but surely we'd 
need to be idiots not to find a way out of it ! " 

"Well, find a way out of it! It's your business to 
do so, since it's your imprudence that is to blame." 

Through the words there rang a certain note of 
warning, appreciated by Albert at its full value. 

Left to himself, the black-haired manager remained 
scowling into space, which was his fashion of being de- 
pressed. It really would be an awful bore to have to 
break off his engagement, but it would be a still greater 
bore to have Duncan McDonnell for a brother-in-law. 
Rather than that he would let Julia go. At this point 
of his meditations Mr. Berrell noisily expelled the air 
from his puffed cheeks, — his fashion of sighing. For, 
though practical considerations had been the chief motor 
of his action, they had not been the only ones. It was 
his reason which had pointed out to him the advisa- 
bility of "settling down," but it was his taste which had 
selected Julia, whose large and 'somewhat "loud" per- 
sonality had for him that peculiar attraction which bright 
colours and big patterns have for certain primitive minds. 
In his opinion she quite outshone her sister, if only for 
the reason that there was more of her. To renounce 


her would unquestionably cost a pang: the mere thought 
of it quickened his spite against the cause of that pos- 
sible renunciation. Sympathy here joined hands with 
antipathy; for despite the suit withdrawn, Duncan's pre- 
sumption of the spring still rankled, and always would; 
and this offence was blacker than the first Ah, but he 
should be made to feel it, just as he had been made to 
feel it in summer. There were ways and means enough, 
the heavens be praised! 

In the solitude of the room his heavy face ex- 
panded. The bully within him was gloating over a con- 
genial prospect. 

When on the next "first" Duncan McDonnell, com- 
ing up with his crew for the renewal of their holding, 
found it already disposed of, while one of the poorest 
and hardest to be worked bits of the quarry was in- 
dicated to him as the only one available, he knew what 
that meant. So little astonished was he that he actually 
smiled into the manager's face on receiving the curt in- 
formation, and with a resolute heart set to work upon 
the poor holding. It was but another instalment of the 
price to be paid for his happiness; and, but for the 
difficulty of keeping hi$ father in cpmfort upon lesser 


earnings, he would not have had it otherwise; for the 
very pressure of the discomfort made the happiness 
seem more real. 

But the men who worked beside him did not smile, 
and presently began to frown, the quality of the slate 
having revealed itself as even worse than their surmises. 
On the next "first" there were defections. Throughout 
the persecution of the summer they had held to him 
faithfully, but this unexpected renewal of hostilities was 
more than even staunch friendship could stomach. To 
be in Duncan's company clearly meant not only being 
shut out from all the good slate, but likewise being put 
off with the worst tools a going, and submitted to a 
series of petty annoyances in the matter of blasting re- 
gulations and other so-called safety measures. Most of 
them were too poor to act as loyally as they felt 

"It's not that Pd be for turning my back on you, 
Duncan," one of them explained, "but it's just that I've 
five children at home, and so I can't afford to be in the 
manager's black books." 

"You're the best workman in the quarry," assured 
another; "but what's a good workman without good 
slate? and how are Jessie and I ever to get married, 


unless I lay by a few pounds before spring? I'm sure 
you'll understand." 

"I understand perfectly." 

"Pm blest if I know what the manager has got 
against you this time." 

"I think I know," said Duncan, in a wonderfully 
good humour. 

"And couldn't you make it right with him?" 

"Of course I could; but Pm not going to." 

"Then what will you do?" 

"Just be my own crew, I suppose." 

So in November Duncan found himself working with 
two boys young enough to be flattered at their ad- 
mittance to the quarry on any terms — he meanwhile 
doing the work of three men, and whistling gaily as he 
did so — a habit quite lately acquired. 

This part of the persecution, being purely material, 
was really lighter than the moral martyrdom undergone 
by Fenella, for whom Albert's suggestive silences were 
even harder to bear than Julia's unfailing reproaches. 
Nor was she spared inner doubts, not as to where her 
happiness lay, but as to whether she had any right to 
claim it 


Thus when Julia, entering the room in tears, pushed 
a letter just received into her hands, with a "There now! 
That's what comes of it!" — it was guiltily that she began 
to read the page. The note was from Mrs. Berrell's 
mother at Glasgow, with whom Julia had been about to 
spend a few weeks, for trousseau purposes. Her box 
was packed already, but might as well be unpacked 
again, since upon a pretext which obviously was only a 
pretext, the invitation was now withdrawn. There was 
no hurry about the trousseau y it appeared, since the 
marriage was not in the immediate future. 

**0f course one knows what that means," gasped 
Julia. "Not in the immediate future! Is it in the 
future at all? That's the question. George began by 
talking of November — this very month, and now he's at 
February already, and presently it will be May. And if 
before that you haven't given up that wretched Duncan 
then probably it won't be at alL Oh, Fenella, what 
have I done to you that you should be so determined 
to rob me of my happiness." 

Fenella sat there with the letter in her lap, visibly 

"And it is not me alone — it is all of us. Don't 


you see — don't you know what you are doing to 
Bertie ? " 

"1 am disappointing him very much, I know that," 
said Fenella, almost remorsefully. 

"More than that! You are undermining his happi- 
ness just as you are undermining mine. He tells me 
that he had fully made up his mind to risk a declara- 
tion; but of course he cannot risk it now, Fenella, 
Fenella, what have we done to deserve this? Is it be- 
cause, even in the nursery, we always gave up every- 
thing to you that you use us in this way?" 

"Julia — have mercy!" was all Fenella could say be- 
tween the quickly risen sobs, for the slow torture of the 
last weeks had unsteadied her nerves. 

"Rather have you mercy! Can you reconcile it with 
your conscience to sacrifice our happiness to your own 
— or rather to your mere fancy — for of course you can't 
really be happy living in a cottage, with straw to the 
roof, and with butcher's meat on the table twice a week, 
if that!" 

To this Fenella, even in a calmer moment, would 
have attempted no reply. She had heard such argu- 


ments before, and had given up all hope of answering 
them with any prospect of mutual comprehension. 

Somehow or other she got out of the room and into 
the garden, where the chill of the damp air struck grate- 
fully upon her hot face and still brimming eyes. She 
was still there, sheltered by the half-stripped bushes, 
when the little iron gate clanged and she saw the 
narrow black figure of her father coming up the path. 

In a moment she knew what she wanted. In an- 
other moment she had reached his side. Shyly — for it 
was the first time she had ever turned to him in any 
inner difficulty — she laid the question before him: Was 
it right, could it always be right to be happy? Was 
happiness always legitimate?" 

Her shyness had no reflection in John. In the 
moment that the sense of her action became clear to 
him, even the appearance of diffidence forsook him. 

"Is happiness always legitimate? Not when it is 
purchased at the cost of another's happiness." 

He spoke with quiet authority. The priest within 
him was moving in his own element 

Fenella thrilled as though a wound had been touched. 

"Then perhaps I have no right to be happy." 


"You, my child?" He looked down at her in mild 

"Julia has been speaking to me. It is such a dif- 
ficult case. I will tell you all, father." 

And hanging upon his arm, in the sheltered walk 
into which she had drawn him, she repeated the con- 
versation just passed. At the end she saw that he was 

"A difficult case, you call it? I think it is very easy. 
If it was their happiness that was in play, your duty 
would be plain — you would have to give up your own. 
But what is really in play? Their material interests, 
and especially their vanity — that Pride of Life which 
reigns over so many souls." He spoke the word with, 
in his eyes, that same glitter of hate which had shone 
there in the pulpit upon a certain Sunday. "To these you 
are not called upon to sacrifice a pure affection. It 
would be like buying dross with gold." 

"But if both marriages fail because of me — " 

"Then you will have saved them both from unworthy 
unions, since true affection — if such there were — would 
cast off worldly considerations." 

"Oh, thank you, father! Yes, I see it now," said 


Fenella, with a deep, ecstatic breath of recovered 

How simple it really was, though it had required as 
simple a faith as John McDonnell* s to open her eyes. In 
one moment all the false arguments had dropped away 
harmlessly; the doubts of the past weeks had been killed 
with one stroke. 

Not many minutes later she was standing upon the 
little stone bridge beyond the village at the entrance of 
the glen — a spot which Duncan had perforce to pass oa 
his homeward way, and lately raised to the rank of a 
trysting-place. In the joy of her deliverance from doubt, 
she had hastened there to-day earlier than need be; 
and, though her eyelids still smarted from the tears 
so recently shed, these minutes of waiting in the waning 
November daylight were among the happiest she had 
yet known. With her arms upon the low parapet she 
gazed down at the fantastically formed ro.cks, gnawed 
into such curious shapes by the untiring teeth of the 
water — with the black holes beneath them, and the pale 
green slabs of stone which lay at the bottom of the 
pools over whose surface the crystal scollops danced. 
Upon the banks the moss was as vivid as ever, dented 


with little hollows like velvet-lined bowls, now brimming 
with the dead leaves which the wind had swept into 
them, and which the perpetual moisture of the river-spray 
kept almost red. 

Presently, through the rush of the water she caught 
another sound, and her lips curved into a smile even 
before she turned. 

For a moment they stood with hands, locked, and, 
but for what their eyes said to each other, they might 
have been good acquaintances, and no more, for the 
bridge was not the Pass, and the village stood close. 

"You have been crying," were almost the first words 
he said, and with a note of anxiety in his voice: "What 
is wrong?" 

"Nothing is wrong now. Father has made it all 
right It was just a stupid mistake which made me cry 
half an hour ago." 

"You will tell me what the mistake was, will you 
not? " 

"I would rather not think of it any more." 

"And I would rather know," said Duncan, keeping 
hold of her hand and looking closer 4nto her face, over 
which the colour was spreading. 


She tried to turn it off, laying her second hand 
softly, upon his. It was a favourite gesture of hers. 
The contact of that hard, worn hand — a hand which 
had handled such much homelier instruments than golf- 
clubs and polo sticks — filled her with a sort of pride. 
The marks of toil upon it — the scarred palm, the 
blunted nails — appeared to her as the honourable wounds 
gained in the fiercest of all battles: the battle for daily 
bread. Nothing pleased her so much as to caress that 
hard hand between her two soft ones. 

"It has been a difficult day, has it not?" she asked, 
solicitous, "and you have been hanging upon that hor- 
rible rope again, I can see it by those blisters." 

But Duncan was not to be drawn from his point 

"Perhaps a guess will help me to that mistake. It's 
me they've been making you cry about. Mr. Albert has 
been at you again." 

"No, not Albert — it was Julia," acknowledged Fenella. 

"You will tell me what she said," he stated, rather 
than asked. Then, having waited for a moment while 
Fenella gazed away silently into the shadows: 

"Is this the confidence which we have promised each 
other for life?" 


The reproach of the tone was too much for her, — to 
that and to the masterfulness of the man she yielded. 

Without a word he listened to the outline of the 
scene with Julia. There was scarcely anything in it 
which he did not know already. 

**And how did the minister make it all right?" he 
asked, at the end. 

"He said that I was not preventing their happiness; 
for if there was real love between them the obstacle 
would count for nothing." 

"He spoke truth there," said Duncan, and then, 
droppmg Fenella's hand, stood silent for a space — "He 
spoke truth, but, for all that, they have a fine show of 
reason on their side — and they won't spare you their 
reasons either — no, not even as my wife. Will you be 
able to live under their taunts? There lies the question." 

"Duncan, what do you mean?" she said, with panic 
at her heart. 

"1 mean this, Fenella, that now that you have had a 
taste of the disrepute into which you will fall as my wife, 
you are better able to judge than you were that day in 
the Pass whether or not you have undertaken more than 
your strength can do. It is time now to see things 


clearly. I can bear giving you back your word now, but 
I could not bear to have to think, later on, that you 
would like it back, when it is too late. Now don't huny 
to speak, but just look into your heart" 

"Duncan!" was all she could say, with hands 
mechanically clasping, while through the quickly-risen 
tears she gazed at him aghast 

"If their taunts are to trouble you as I see they 
trouble you," said Duncan, with a touch almost of his 
father's stolidity, and keeping his eyes off her face, "then 
we are better apart. I could not bear to see your 
trouble, nor to think that I have spoiled your life." 

"You have not spoiled it, — you have made it You 
have given me my life! I was not really alive before • 
we met, — before I understood my own heart Oh, 
Duncan, you are not going to abandon me?" 

With her clasped hands stretched before her she 
moved towards him, and such was the passion of her 
gesture that for a moment it seemed as though she were 
about to sink at his feet — there, upon the public road. 
Instinctively, almost brusquely, he put out his hand, 
meaning to stay her, his brow ruffling the while. The 
mere thought of anything so humbling offended his 


deepest pride. The woman whom he loved must not 
stoop so low. His queen must never lie in the dust. 
But the thought had not been in Fenella's mind; it was 
nothing but the excess of nervous excitement which had 
caused her to sway in that forward movement. She 
clutched at his coat, and for a moment she stood lean- 
ing against him, breathing fast, with closed eyes, like a 
person recovering from a bad fright. His arm laid itself 
round her waist, not before a quick look had been cast 
up and down the road. At the touch she lifted her 
beautiful face, divided between tears and smiles, much 
as the loch was at moments divided between the rain 
driving at one end of it and the sun shining on the other. 

"You believe nxe, Duncan? You will trust me? If 
I was cowardly at all, it was only because of the fear of 
being selfish. You will not give me up because you think 
I am too weak for the struggle?" 

"I believe you," said Duncan, with a sort of solemnity. 

And ever after it appeared to them both that that 
meeting upon the bridge had been their second betrothal. 
• • • • • 

The man who lives in a continual tite-a-tite with 
one idea — who has in it a fellow-workman, an unseen 

The Compromise. II, "^^ 


guest at his table, a companion in his leisure hours, and 
a bed-fellow to boot — soon begins to show the symptoms 
of this slavery in his face. In these days it was noticed 
by some that Albert's narrow physiognomy was sharpen- 
ing visibly, while his keen eyes assumed that peculiar 
brilliancy and intermittent fixity of look which betrays 
an inner consuming fire. That "something" which was 
to avert the family misfortune still remained formless, or 
rather it showed i new and more fantastic- form each 
day. The most fantastic, perhaps, being the wild idea 
of enlisting Ronald Macgiluray personally, and entrapping 
Fenella into a marriage with him — perhaps by means of 
a compromising situation, not hard to construct But 
nothing promised well enough. 

With Mr. Berrell, his tacit ally, he had taken no 
further direct counsel until one day in late November, 
when on the point of returning to his work — now ra- 
pidly approaching completion — he followed him to the 
quarry, on a small personal errand. Just before the 
week-end, the last of his spirit-levels had come to griefi 
smashed by a clumsy workman, and, despite a wire to 
Oban no substitute had yet arrived. Unwilling to return 
to the loch-end without the almost, indispensable instru- 


ment, he had bethought himself of the manager as the 
possible possessor of one. 

But the shot proved a false one. Mr. Berrell too 
was out of spirit-levels. 

"It's the deuce of a bore," said Albert. "I can't 
wait for it, and I can't very well do without it, just for 
to-morrow's job." 

"It's bound to be here by next post. You'll just 
have to make your sisters send a boat" 

"I suppose so," grumbled Albert, and was about to 
take leave. But as he put out his hand in farewell, Mr. 
Berrell's eyes bored themselves into his. 

"How are you getting on? Made any progress to- 
wards upsetting that accursed marriage?" 

Albert flushed rather painfully. 

"Not so far — but it's coming — never fear! I've got 
an idea which I hope will work. I mean to persuade 
my father that Fenella ought to leave us for a bit We've 
got friends in Glasgow; I'll get her an invitation; and, 
once she's gone, there are all sorts of possibilities. She's 
so pretty that she's bound to pick up admirers, and if 
Duncan gets jealous — and his devil's pride will serve 
well here — a mistake so easily arises," 


He was speaking with that hurried eagerness, that 
brilliancy of gaze which betrays a fever of mind and 
almost of body. As Mr. Berrell watched him a curious 
smile distended his thick lips. 

"I see. And if a mistake refuses to arise, I suppose 
it wouldn't be so difficult to give it a shove, eh?" 

Albert's flush deepened, but his eyes did not drop. 

"If it was to save her from life-long misery I should 
consider even subterfuge allowable." 

It was boldly said, under the instinctive conviction 
that here was no need for over-delicate consideration of 
nice points of honour. 

Mr. Berrell said nothing. He was looking away 
from Albert now, towards the face of rock opposite on 
which the human ants were busy. 

"It's not a bad idea, I think?" persisted Albert 

"Deuced slow, and deuced uncertain. There must 
be quicker ways than that" 

"I can think of no quicker way which wouldn't col- 
lide with the law of the land," said Albert, with a 
nervous laugh, devoid of all gaiety. 

"There he is!" remarked the manager suddenly, 
pointing a big finger across the abyss at their feet 



"That fellow on the rope — there beside the long 
cleft — the one swinging just now — see?" 

Albert strained his eyes towards the man, who, sus- 
pended from a height of some forty feet, was at that 
moment swaying rapidly from side to side in avoidance 
of some loose stones from above, and with a sheer wall 
of some two hundred feet descending straight from un- 
der him. The face of rock on which he worked bristled 
with iron spikes as a pincushion with pins. After five 
or six lively swings, he checked himself by one of them, 
and astride upon that perilous seat, set to work again 
with his tool. Although the sight was not new to Albert, 
yet merely to look on gave a slightly sick feeling. 

"It would be an awful fall," he said, speaking low. 
"He would be smashed to pieces, I suppose?" 

"To smithereens! That's a quick way, if you like!" 

He laughed in a fashion which grated strangely upon 
Albert's nerves. The young man could not forbear a 

"But these accidents are very rare, are they not?" 

"Pretty rare. If they slip off the peg, there is the 
rope, you see." 


"And does the rope never break?" 

"Never is a big word. They're periodically in- 
spected, of course; but with the amount of firiction they 
go through, mishaps can't be quite excluded. It all 
depends upon the man above. If the fastening isn't 
secure, or if the rope gets rubbed through, it's he who is 

Albert laughed in his turn, a little shrilly. "I 
shouldn't like the man above to have a grudge against 

"Might be awkward, certainly, considering that one 
slice of his pocket-knife would send you to glory. And 
the man above isn't a man at all in this case, as you 
see, but a mere boy. He can't get anything but a crew 
of boys nowadays. Strikes me as a bit foolhardy of 
him to put his life into such juvenile hands." 

"Foolhardy, beyond words," said Albert, with con- 

With an elaborate yawn, the manager turned, and 
gave a quite superfluous kick to a broken wheel, shed 
by some decrepit truck years ago, and rusting away 
peaceably under the shelter of nettles and docken-leaves. 

"Well, a fool's blood will fall on nobody's head but 


his own. But no doubt he'll have a fool's luck. It's 
always the inconvenient accidents that happen." 

He gave another awkward laugh, his white-negro 
face looking almost foolish as he did so. For a moment 
or so the two men, avoiding each other's eyes, stared 
across at the grey wall of the amphitheatre, with the 
scars over the blasts, and the white quartz veins running 
over its face, while the familiar "chip, chip" sounded 
loud in their ears. 

"It's shocking to think of," said Albert quickly, after 
that moment, and, for the second time to-day, put out 
his hand. 

For the second time Mr. Berrell delayed taking it, 
jerking his eyes back to the other's face. 

"You have heard of the return?" 

"Whose return?" 

"The Attertons. Due at Balladrochit on Satur- 

"How do you know?" asked Albert precipitately. 

"Had it from Mrs. Perkin, who had it from the 
Balladrochit housekeeper. It's quite fixed." 

Albert stood for a moment longer, apparently trying 
to collect his thoughts. Then finally took his leave. 


"I'm afraid you're in for a bad spell. Looks like 
dirty weather." 

**rm afraid so too. All the more reason for getting 
over in time." 

He walked rapidly away, shaken by a new and 
strong feeling of repulsion for his future brother-in-law, 
but nevertheless aware that the seed of some sort of a 
new idea had been dropped into his mind. 




Between Ardloch and the loch-end the seed grew 
apace, with a forced growth, as it were, for which that 
parting piece of news had to be thanked. Mabel to be 
back within a week, and nothing yet done to blot out 
the family disgrace! Once upon the spot, would it be 
possible to hide from her quick eyes the blackness of 
Fenella's guilt? And was not revelation synonymous 
with the renunciation of his hopes? 

Throughout these wild questions one vision ran like 
a thread; the vision of Duncan dangling on the face of 
the cliff, with the thickness of a rope between him and 
destruction. One slice of that lad's knife and the thing 
would be done. What a cutting of the Gordian knot 
— in the literal sense of the word — would be that! A 
quiqk way, indeed; and one whose quickness, after the 
weary stagnation of the past weeks, lured mightily. 
He got as far as wondering what lad it was who had 


charge of Duncan's rope, whether it was a sharp lad, a 
bold lad, one ready to take a risk for the sake of a 
price. He even calculated the price, and then desper- 
ately threw the whole mad idea aside, horrified at the 
antics of his own fancy. Yet, horror notwithstanding, 
he continued to dally with the idea. TAai way would 
not do; but there must be others. No doubt Berrell 
thought so too. He had but used the sliced rope as 
the handiest illustration of his meaning — for not for a 
moment had Albert been in doubt as to whither that 
meaning pointed — and one which would serve as well 
as any other, to guide his hearer's thoughts into the de- 
sired channel. The identity of their wishes with regard 
to the longevity of Fenella's future husband was patent, 
though it had been for Albert a disagreeable sensation 
to hear it put, not into plain words indeed, but quite 
sufficiently comprehensible. 

The other way? The other way? — for there must 
be another way! 

Let it not be forgotten that the man now racking 
his head over the problem was the same who, months 
ago, had said to Mabel: "When you are marching to- 
wards a goal, you can't stop to negotiate with obstacles; 


they have got to be either cleared away or else trampled 

He had tried the clearing-away process, and had 
failed. There remained the trampling — not so com- 
pletely uncongenial an idea to the descendant of such 
ancestors as Albert McDonnell could boast of The up- 
lifting of his narrow head and the quiver of his thin 
nostrils, as he viewed the prospect, said as much. 
Worldly wisdom notwithstanding, Mabel had probably 
been right when she surmised that a dirk in his hand 
would prove a more than usually dangerous instrument. 
The untamed Gaelic blood might be deeply overlaid by 
utilitarian principles, but for all that it still lived, as a 
coal lives under the ashes. A wild desire to fight out 
the matter with Duncan, physically and palpably, came 
over him again to-day, as it had come over him on the 
day when he had all but sprung at his throat in the 
lane beside the spae-wife's grave. Projects — mediaeval 
in their simplicity — of proposing to his antagonist a 
sort of rustic duel, upon whose issue the decision should 
depend, whirled through his brain, only to be as in- 
evitably rejected as the first suggestion. What remained? 
Nothing that he could see, beyond a general resolve to 


keep his senses on the alert, and a vague confidence in 
that saying which asserts that the gods have a habit of 
helping those who help themselves. Ah, but they would 
have to help quickly, with Saturday so close! 

The "dirty" weather predicted by Mr. Berrell had 
become dirtier by next day. So wild was the morning, 
and the loch so formidable with white crests, that 
Albert, having taken a look around, perforce gave up 
all hope of seeing his spirit-level that day. The post 
was bound to have disgorged it by this time, but it 
would need to be a bold boatman who undertook to 
reach the loch-end between two squalls, and there was 
no other way of reaching it It was no single storm 
which raged over the country, rather it was a dozen 
storms of varying degrees of fury. As in a procession 
they passed, treading hard upon each other's heels, with 
barely an hour's lull between; and ever the same pro- 
cess; the rapid lowering of the sky, the moan of the 
wind rising to a shriek, the hills suddenly blotted out 
by the driving sheets of rain, which presently grew thin 
and were gone, the shriek sinking back to a moan, and 
the hills looking out again like ghosts from behind the 
rent curtain, while sometimes a gleam of pale sunshine 


would light up the dripping landscape like a smile too 
disdainful to be trusted. Half-a-dozen times in the 
course of the forenoon Albert's men made for the shelter 
of any rock or bush that happened to be handy. By 
midday he called off the men, and returned, drenched, 
to the cabin which formed his temporary headquarters. 
Smithy work was about all the day was fit for, ap- 
parently; so, having given his orders for a general over- 
hauling of implements, Albert retired to his den and to 
his primitive lunch. 

He had barely done eating it, without the smallest 
relish — since nothing nowadays seemed to have any taste 
in his mouth — when, gazing idly through the window, 
in one of the comparatively peaceful intervals, he let 
out an "Ah!" of surprise, for upon the tumultuous field 
of water a black speck which could only be a boat was 
ploughing its way onward. 

"Can it be my spirit-level, after all?" he asked 
himself, well-pleased. "Julia must have bribed that fel- 
low finely!" 

That the craft was making for the loch-end was 
clear, from the simple fact that there was nowhere else 
to make for. 


He waited until the shape of the plunging boat be- 
came plain, and then, taking his cap, walked down to 
the water's edge, and stood there expectantly. The tide 
was at its highest just then, and the rocky galleries, run- 
ning along for a mile or two on either side of the nar- 
row loch-end, deeply submerged, with only some trailing 
end of their seaweed draperies floating up at moments 
into sight The four or five boats tethered at the land- 
ing-stage were curtseying tumultuously, and, with the 
rage of the last squall barely spent, its successor was 
already pushing its black head round the shoulder of 
the hill. The herons that dwelt among the ash-trees 
above came flapping back uneasily from a brief fishing 

When the boat was within a hundred yards of the 
shore, Albert suddenly craned his neck and kept it rigid, 
his eyes narrowing in their sockets. 

Surely it could not be — yes, it was, though! Every 
instant and every oar-stroke made it more impossible 
to mistake the cast of those shoulders and the sit of 
that dark head. To see here, in the flesh, the man 
who for weeks past had filled all his thoughts, whose 
image since yesterday had become an unbearable ob- 


session, was almost like seeing a ghost. Whatever had 
possessed him? Fenella's doing, perhaps? The broken 
questions shot through his head. He was so completely 
astonished that he remained immovable at the water's 
edge, with no thought of avoiding the meeting. 

Nor did he move yet when Duncan, having with 
some difficulty made the landing-stage, fastened the boat 
and then stood up, touching his cap as he did so. 
The wet dripped from him, and there was a pool of 
water at the bottom of the boat Taking from the 
stern a small parcel wrapped in oil-cloth, he stepped 
ashore, shaking himself the while, in the fashion of a 
Newfoundland dog fresh from his bath. 

"Your sisters were anxious for you to have this to- 
day," he said, with as perfect an equanimity as though 
they had parted last on the most friendly of terms; 
"and so I made a shift to come over." 

"Oh, very well," Albert managed to utter, as he 
took the parcel, and then stopped, plunged in an em- 
barrassment usually foreign to his nature. But in the 
same moment he pulled himself together sufficiently to 
reflect that the first necessity here was to avoid attract- 
ing attention. From the men's quarters they stood in 


full view, which made it desirable to give to the meet- 
ing a normal and conventional appearance. Any signs 
of strained relations might prove dangerous to the family 
secrets. He must perforce, at least, to a bird*s-eye 
view, treat Duncan as he would treat any other boatman 
who had undertaken this errand. With this thought in 
his mind he grew frigidly civil. 

"Thank you. You must have had a bad tossing. 
I am obliged to you. Had you to leave your work for 

"The quarry is shut to-day. In this wet — " 

"To be sure. Of course, work would be impossible. 
Well, I am glad you have not lost anything by your 

"I came because your sisters wished it," said Dun- 
can again, with a slight emphasis which reminded Albert 
only too plainly of whose wish he meant to speak. 

He stood silent again, asking himself desperately 
how to close the interview, and aware that Duncan was 
watching him closely and rather expectantly. 

It was during that brief pause that the significant 
whistle of the wind began to rise again in their ears. 


"Another squall coming, Tm afraid," said Albert, 
snatching at the obvious remark. 

"I'm afraid so too, Mr. Albert, and I am sorry for 
it, for it makes it impossible for me to free you of my 
company as soon as I should have wished. Whether I 
will or no, Til have to bide out what's coming." 

He spoke differently now, with a flavour of bitter- 
ness in both voice and mien. Whatever his expecta- 
tions had been, it was dear that they were deceived. 

"Of course," said Albert, making the one more ef- 
fort which appeared necessary. "You can't start in this 
weather, and no doubt you'll be hungry too. The men 
have only just had dinner — they will be able to give you 
something. That's their quarters over there." 

With a would-be careless nod he turned towards his 
own cabin. 

Duncan sent one look after him, gave one more 
shake to his wet shoulders, then slowly moved in the 
given direction. 

It was time to do so; for already, beyond the two 
nearest shoulders of hill, seen like things in a dream, 
all had grown void. The distance of the loch was one 
sheet of driving cloud. There, on the very spot where 

T!ke Compromise, If. '^\ 


the eye caught the familiar fantastic crests, it was met 
by a pale whitish-grey emptiness, streaked only at mo- 
ments by the slanting lines of that wall of rain which, 
like a thing alive, came rushing on, ready, it would 
seem, to swallow up not only the loch, but the world as 
well. One minute more, and already, round the fra3 
cabins, the tempest howled like a wild beast, himgering 
to tear down their walls; while between the hiss of the 
waves the bumping of the ill-treated boats against each 
other could be plainly distinguished. It was the worst 
squall the day had yet brought. 

Alone in one of the cabins — for the men had re- 
turned to the smithy — Duncan sat before the fire, re- 
flectively smoking his pipe, while the steam rose from 
his wet clothes. It would seem that he had come for 
nothing. For it was not the delivery of the spirit-level 
alone which had decided him to risk the stormy transit 
When last night Fenella had told him of the difficulty 
of finding a boatman for the loch-end in this weather, 
the idea of offering himself for the errand had struck 
him like an inspiration. If it did nothing else it would 
show Albert that he bore no grudge for the encounter 
in the lane, and might prove the first step towards an 


understanding being come to. Fenella had first caught 
at the idea, and then demurred, because of the possible 
danger, at which objection Duncan, as able an oarsman 
as any that Ardloch held, merely laughed. Perhaps 
the weather would have improved by next day, she 
had hopefully surmised; and then — whether they could 
get another boatman or no, Duncan would take the 

It was not improved, as so happened — quite the 
reverse; but for Duncan's purpose almost preferable. 
By raising the value of the service rendered, it would 
be more likely to make on Albert the favourable im- 
pression he hoped for. He made haste to be off, 
without again encountering Fenella. 

But now it would seem that he might as well have 
stayed at home — so far as any advance in their interests 
was concerned. Albert's cold politeness told him more 
than any repetition of his late excitement could have 
done. He could read that fixed eye and tightened lip. 
It came to this, then, that he had been a fool for his 
pains — and as likely as not would not be able to get 
back before nightfall, certainly not if this wind held on 


much longer, which would mean a world of worry for 
his father, and perhaps of anxiety for /ter. 

And while he sat musing, solitary, another solitary 
man likewise mused. 

In the very first moment Albert had been too much 
taken by surprise to do more than decently get through 
the unlooked-for meeting. Now, in the enforced interval 
of leisure, some order began to get back into his thoughts. 
Was not this an opportunity which ought somehow to be 
made use of? Could he let Duncan go without making 
one more attempt to bring him to reason? If he did 
he knew that self-reproach would follow. That first 
appeal had been too unreflected, too wild — he saw that 
now. Where that almost childish petulance had failed 
a calmer argument might prevail. And this time he 
would be calm at all costs. Another tone altogether 
would have to be adopted, — so much he had learnt 
Bitter though it might be, he would descend to argue 
with Duncan upon equal ground. He would speak to 
him, not as the cultured man to the workman, but as 
one man to another. Neither would he be so extreme 
in his demands. The word "rupture" should not be 
pronounced, but only that of "postponement" Suppos- 


ing, now, Duncan would consent to put off the marriage 
— not without a shudder could he pronounce the word 
even in thought — until Fenella was of age. Plausible 
arguments to support this demand positively abounded: 
leisure for Fenella to make sure of her resolve, even 
the security of Duncan's own future happiness, etc., etc. 
This would mean close upon three years gained, which 
to Albert meant the gaining of the cause. No — he 
could not let Duncan go without trying this one more 
chance. And as he thought so, he became aware 
that the room, lately so dark, was perceptibly lighten- 

He stepped to the window. One after the other — 
as each veil in turn was lifted — the ghostly forms of the 
hills were emerging from the cloud-curtains, until, as 
though by magic, the void is filled, the circle completed. 
Mountain and mist begin to draw apart. From moment 
to moment it becomes more triumphantly clear that the 
world, after all, is not all grey. As the cloud-veils drift 
away the browns and purples of the foreground, the 
azures and amethysts of the distance, creep back into 
the picture. And now a watery sunbeam — the last of 
the day — falls into a hollow, black but a moment since, 


and fills it to overflowing with a luminous vapour, as a 
cup is filled with wine. 

"He will be off" now!" was Albert's thought, as, 
snatching up his cap, he stepped forth. 

At the door one of his men met him with the news 
that two of the boats had been torn from their moorings 
during the squall, one of these being Duncan's. 

"He'll just take one of ours," said Albert impatiently. 
"Where is he? I want to speak to him." 

"We've only two soimd ones remaining, sir. Niel 
Moffat's boat got a leak on Friday, if you remember." 

" Well, one is enough to catch the others with. Never 
mind about that now. Ah, there he comes! Back to 
your work, Donald!" 

As Duncan stepped out of the next cabin, Albert 
went forward to meet him. 

"You will not mind my borrowing a boat, Mr. Albert, 
I trust," said Duncan stiffly. "Mine has got loose, and 
I've no time to go hunting it If I don't get home be- 
fore night father will be fretting." 

"All right, all right One moment, Duncan — I've a 
word to say to you." 



"Mind you don't take Niel Moffat's boat," Donald 
called after them. "It's no just sound." 

With a fairly successful display of a calm which he 
did not feel, Albert, while the two men walked towards 
the landing-stage, brought forward his suggestion. It 
had been planned as an appeal; but the bodily presence 
of the hated man turned it almost into a demand. Away 
from his enemy it had been possible to think mildly; in 
his actual vicinity the conciliating tone aimed at refused 
to be struck — the words of peace stuck in his throat. 
The coldness of his tone was reflected in Duncan's 

"Your demand would be just, Mr. Albert, if your 
sister was of that mind. It is her wishes I go by, not 
my own; and I happen to know that she does not wish 
to delay beyond the spring." 

"She might consent to a delay, if the reasons were 

"And, if she consented, would you pass your word 
to give up your opposition to the marriage?" asked 
Duncan, with a piercing side-long glance. 

Then, in face of the other's visible hesitation, he 
smiled grimly. 


"Don't trouble to speak, Mr. Albert Your face says 
that you wouldn't — whatever your tongue might say. 
What, then, would be the gain for us? If I thought it 
was for her peace of mind I would wait, light-heartedly; 
but I see that it would only be a drawing out of the 
pain. It's a kind of torture she's living in, as it is, and 
the sooner it's put an end to the better." 

"Then you will not fall in with my propMDsal?" 

"I cannot fall in with it" 

"And you imagine that you will marry her in 

Already there was a new vibration in the voice, so 
laboriously commanded until now. 

"I more than imagine it, Mr. Albert Short of an 
act of God, I do not see what is to prevent me." 

They were at the landing-stage already, and before 
he had done speaking, Duncan had clambered into the 
nearest of the three boats — the only ones whose chains 
had held — and was busy fitting the oars into the row- 
locks. All three had rain-pools at the bottom, but the 
fading daylight warned too loudly to let him consider 
the advisability of baling out the water. 

Albert, numb with the return of that fury which he 


had been keeping under so forcibly, and, as it now 
seemed, so completely in vain, watched him helplessly. 
The half-gesture of conciliation, coldly refused, had be- 
come an ignominy. His baffled plan pressed upon him 
with an almost unbearable bitterness, gripping at his 
throat and laying before his eyes a blood-red cloud of 
rage and hatred. 

Duncan was just loosening the chain when he ap- 
peared to remember something. 

"Pm all right in this boat, am I not? Didn't Donald 
say something about a leak?" 

"Yes, you're all right," said Albert mechanically, 
seeing neither the boat nor Duncan. 

But, even with his words, the blood-red cloud passed 
away, and he saw both boat and boatman clearly. 


There was a scarcely perceptible pause before Albert 


"Good evening, then, Mr. Albert. It will be night 
before I make Ardloch, but I trust to get in before the 
next storm." 

From Albert there came no response. With his 


hands deep in his pockets he stood immovable upon 
the rock, watching the boat as it tumbled away upon 
the surf among the gathering shadows, his eyes seeriiingly 
nailed to it, his lips so tightly pressed against each other 
that they almost disappeared. 

The boat had got away some twenty yards when he 
took his hands from his pockets, and put them to his 
mouth, as though he were about to shout; but no sound 
came. Plunging them back again, he turned upon his 
heel, and, without one glance backwards, regained his 



It was the sun-god in person who kissed Albert 
from out of one of those dreamless spells of oblivion 
from which memory, and even the sense of identity, 
drags itself but slowly. That something had happened, 
he knew long before he knew what that something was. 
Between yesterday and to-day some big rent had been 
made, some abyss been opened — of this he was con- 
fusedly aware; but even with the sun in his eyes, the 
reason of it all still escaped him. The sunshine itself 
made recollection more difficult It seemed to belong 
to so different a world from that in which that strange 
thing had taken place — for the storm had at length 
raged itself out, and nothing but the rags of clouds, of 
which a brisk breeze was busily sweeping clear the pale 
blue sky — that and the still leaping waters of the loch — 
spoke of yesterday's tumult. 

This square of moving water it was, framed in the 


small window, which brought recollection to Albert- 
first, of the hours which had immediately preceded that 
heavy sleep, and of the fierce exaltation of mind that 
had filled them, — of how he had sat listening to the 
wind, risen for its last spell of fury, and wondering the 
while whether even a sound boat could live in its teeth. 
It was the better to revel in these thoughts that he had 
kept the vigil — or was it perhaps because he was not 
sure of being able to sleep? The reaction of accomplish- 
ment, the false quiet of the irretrievable was upon him, 
— but its end already foreseen. He remembered the 
whisky-bottle, too, called in to postpone the next stage 
of reflection, perhaps also to procure sleep — which it had 
nobly done. And earlier still, his memory, working 
backwards, led him down to the landing-stage at 
Duncan's side, showed him the moment at which, as in 
a flash of lime-light, he had seen his chance, and photo- 
graphed for him the gesture with which he had put his 
hands to his mouth, and had dropped them again, 
without shouting. 

This point of his reflections found him standing upon 
the bare floor beside his rough bed, his hands clapped 
to his temples — for at last he knew all. So it was not 


in another century that this thing had happened? There 
was no more than a night between him and that hesita- 
tion of a moment which might have cost a human life! 
— which — what was that small voice piping in the back 
of his head? — an objection to the conditional verb? 
Oh, to be sure, he had no certainty yet of Duncan's 
safety. But no doubt he would have it soon. 

Already, in feverish haste, he was dressing, his mind 
filled with one thought alone: the attainment of that 
certainty. From those hours of oblivion secured by the 
whisky fumes, the nervous exaltation had not recovered, 
nor yet that fury and that hate whose crisis had preceded 
it A rising panic had submerged them. He was ready 
to forgive Duncan anything, to concede him everything 
at the sole price of being alive. 

Barely dressed and not having breakfasted, he hurried 
to the landing-stage. 

Several of the men were assembled there in loud 

"He's been and took the wrong boat, after all!" 
Donald's shout met him rather shrilly. 

"Surely not!" 

There was a fair show of consternation in both 


mien and tone — he had kept his head quite sufficiently 
for that 

"I fancied you had seen him off, sir?" said Donald, 
respectfully reproachful. 

"So I did, but the light was failing, and the man in 
such a confounded hurry. Was Niel Moffat's boat the 
one with the black stripe?" 

He knew it was, but a show of imcertainty seemed 

"Aye — sure enough." 

"Then I'm afraid he took it. Was there no other 
boat here yesterday besides these two?" 

Another point upon which information was super- 

"Was the leak a bad one?" he was on the point of 
asking — for indeed he was not aware of the extent of 
the damage — but kept back the question. He would 
rather not know exactly how bad it was. 

In order to avoid comments upon the probable fate 
of the boatman, he gave curt and peremptory orders. 
The men were sent back to their work, one of them 
only being picked out as oarsman, for he meant to be 
at Ardloch before two hours were passed. To the grave 


head-shakes with which they obeyed he was purposely 
blind; and when he ordered Duncan's own boat — re- 
captured by this time — to be got ready, and someone 
muttered ominously, "He'll no be needin' it again, Fm 
thinkinV' he did his best neither to hear nor to shudder. 
As a boatman, he had chosen the man who he knew 
would speak least, but this taciturn person annoyed him, 
all the same, greatly by squinting continually to the right 
and to the left, scanning the rough surface of the loch, 
almost as though he were on the look-out for something 
that might be floating there. Albert himself, as he bent 
to the second oar, resolutely resisted the temptation to 
look about him; and as the minutes passed the tempta- 
tion lessened, perhaps because the physical movement 
stirred his blood, perhaps because the sunshine, so long 
missed, and the dancing waves themselves seemed to 
laugh craven fears to scorn; but principally because he 
was Albert McDonnell, with whose doings he was famihar, 
and among which murder refused to be conceivably 
ranged. There were all sorts of possibilities. Even 
unsound boats often got across all right — "in fair 
weather," completed that same little piping voice of inner 
consciousness. Whereupon the howl of yesterday's 

224 '^'^E COMPROMISE. 

tempest again filled the ears of his fancy, and for a 
moment the hair bristled sensibly upon his head. 

Yet the voyage itself was bearable. So long as he 
rowed hard, with the sunshine warm upon his spine, he 
could almost persuade himself that his fears were un- 
founded. It was on reaching dry land that the trepida- 
tion of impending certainty was upon him again. He 
would attain it quickest, no doubt, by going straight to 
the Rectory, but it was towards the glen that he turned 
his steps. Fenella he would rather not face just yet 
As a mere informer, Adam would do as well, and better. 

With his hand upon the cottage latch he paused to 
listen intently. One tone of Duncan's deep voice would 
have caused him to drop it again, — his visit proved 
superfluous. But the voice which reached him was not 
Duncan's; it was a weak and wailing woman's voice, 
unfamiliar to his ear. With a jerk of resolution he lifted 
the latch. 

"Duncan? It's you? Thank God, my lad! At last!" 

This time it was Adam's voice; and at the haste of 
the quavering tones Albert's heart turned suddenly to 

"It's no Duncan — it's Mr. Albert, father," said Bessie^ 


having risen from the bedside, and speaking in the empty 
tones of disappointment 

"It is I, Adam. I came to — " 

"Mr. Albert? God bless you! It's news of Duncan 
you're bringing us, to be sure. He spent the night at 
the loch-end, no doubt, and thank God for it, for all 
that I've been in an awfu' fash about him. Is he with 
you, iAr. Albert?" 

"I have not brought news — I came to get some," 
said Albert, wondering the while whether any crime was 
big enough for the punishment he was bearing as he 

The arms of the blind man in the bed, stretched 
hungrily forward, fell back upon the coverlet. From the 
livid pallor, slowly spreading, the thick stains, left by the 
action of the powder, stood out in startling contrast. 

"You're sayin' that he did no sleep at the loch-end?" 
he asked presently, in a shaking whisper. 

"He would not stop. He left last night. I hoped 
to find him here." 

Bessie broke the short silence which followed by 
throwing her apron over her head, and beginning to wail 
behind its shelter. 

T^e Compromise, //. 1$ 


"The corpse lights! The corpse lights! It was but 
two days ago that Maggie Maclish spied them! Oh, the 
black day! The black, black day!" 

And she rocked her slender body to and fro in a 
very ecstasy of grief. 

"Nonsense!" said Albert, all the more sharply be- 
cause of being angrily aware of a distinct increase of the 
horror within him. 

Adam did not speak, though the knotted hands on 
the coverlet visibly shook as he turned his face helplessly 
from one to the other, out of the mere force of a habit 
carried on from his seeing days. 

It was for fear of anything he might say that Albert 
now spoke quickly: 

"He may have landed on the other side, seeing how 
rough it was, and not been able to get over yet" 

"That's what Miss Fenella was saying," sobbed Bessie, 
bringing an inflamed face to view; "and if it wasn't for 
the corpse lights I might have held with that, but this 
way — " 

"Has Fenella been here?" came Albert's precipitate 

"Aye — before daylight a'most — to ask our news." 


"And she — she was very anxious, I suppose?" 

"She wouldn't let on that she was. Leastways she 
spoke a lot about Duncan's rowing, and about the stout- 
ness of our boat, and more things of the sort." 

"I see," said Albert, pressing the nails into the 
palms of his hands. "I — I daresay she is right. It 
would be foolish to despair so soon." 

He talked on rather at random, marshalling all the 
hopeful arguments which crossed his mind, to the ac- 
companiment of Bessie's subdued lamentations, not so 
disturbing to his mind as Adam's shaking silence. 

"Inquiries must be started at once — I'm off!" he 
declared at last, unable to bear those sightless eyes any 

Before he reached the door, the call he feared had 

"Mr. Albert," said the quavering voice; and with 
his teeth grinding hard against each other he returned 
to the bedside. 

"Mr. Albert!" 

The work-worn hands were groping about, and in a 

sort of desperation he met them. 

"You will find him for me, won't you? You won't 



let him be carried out to sea? To have had but one 
boy, and him not on the Island, would be a harder 
punishment than I see my way to deserving. He was a 
good son always — except in that matter of Elsie Robson 
— and though he was so presumptuous as to raise his 
eyes to Miss Fenella, you'll no be gnidgin' him his 
Christian burial because of that, Tm thinkin." 

"I'll find him for you, and I'll bring him to you— 
on his feet!" came from Albert almost in a cry, as, 
wrenching his hand from the trembling fingers, he 
stormed out again into the glen. 

A rescue party to be organised at once — the shores 
of the loch to be scoured between Ardloch and the 
loch-end — such were the plans that teemed in Albert's 
brain as he almost ran back to the village. Volunteers 
must be at once called for. It was the only way to 
reach certainty. Even that certainty to which poor, 
meek Adam's failing understanding had already sub- 
scribed would be better than another hour of this hor- 
rible suspense. 

But to the Rectory he could not go yet At the 
mere thought of meeting Fenella's eyes, he ran through 
the whole scale of those sensations usually belonging to 


physical cowardice: the fluttering heart, the loose knees, 
the chilly damp of temples and palms. She still hoped, 
that was evident. Let her hope a little longer. 

He had not taken a hundred steps down the village 
street, when the news met him full in the face, like a 
squarely planted blow: Niel Moffat's boat had been 
found, stranded and a wreck, just below Ardloch. The 
inference seemed so obvious, that alone his almost 
automatic self-control saved Albert from a public ex- 
hibition of weakness. He managed to dismiss his in- 
formant without betraying himself, but for the moment 
this was the last of his efforts. For although he walked 
on quite steadily and with decently governed features, 
fit to deceive any onlooker, himself he could no longer 
deceive. His nerve had given way, and he knew it 
After all, he was too honest, or perhaps only too young, 
to dabble with impunity in crime; and in this moment 
he recognised — regretfully maybe — the discrepancy of 
his practice as weighed in the balance of his theories. 
With a feeling akin to humiliation, he acknowledged that 
the grit of the true criminal was not in him. 

He had been on his way to the beach; but now, 
after a few moments of half-stunned reflection, he ab- 


ruptly changed his durection. The rescue could wait 
now, since there was no longer a person, but only a 
thing to be rescued. There was a much more urgent 
need pressing upon him — that of disburdenment At 
all costs, he must free himself of the load that weighed 
upon his soul. If the secret of his guilt was to be bonie, 
he must share it with another. Confession must be- 
not to Fenella — that thought still remained as unbearable 
as the guilt itself. And yet he was walking towards the 
Rectory. Within its walls he saw but one room — the 
humblest it contained — and in that room a face, old 
and mild, smiled at too often in light-hearted mockery, 
— now transformed in one instant into that of a judge. 
What gave him the knowledge that there alone he would 
find understanding — and perhaps even mercy — he could 
never say. It was the first time in his life that he felt 
the need of his father, and felt it with an urgency whidi 
would not be denied. 



But between him and the relief he sought there lay 
the ordeal he feared. Stealthily though he entered, 
noiselessly though he slunk towards the staircase, there 
was an ear listening which would not be deceived. He 
had got his foot upon the first step when a door beside 
him opened quickly, and Fenella reached his side as 
surely and as swiftly as though she had been lying in 

Just at first he could do nothing but look helplessly 
into her face; all his energy had been used up in re- 
sisting the mad impulse of flight. He managed to keep 
his ground, but he could not at once speak. Neither 
was it necessary; for Fenella herself was talking faster 
and more volubly than her wont He was so fearfully 
scanning her face that he scarcely heard what she said, 
but gathered the general import of a determined hope- 


fulness, of that sort of hopefulness which, as it savagely 
defends itself against all attacks of reason, displays at 
moments the grin of despair. She did not appear to 
have wept, but about her eyes there was a brilliancy, 
and about her lips a twitching restlessness, which were 
much more ominous than tears. 

"I heard you had come, Bertie — I spoke to the 
boatman — and I felt sure you had gone to the glen. 
We had thought that Duncan had slept at the loch-end, 
but that man says he didn't. He's a grumpy old fellow, 
but I got that much out of him. I have been trying 
to reassure Adam, and also Bessie; for really there is 
no reason to suppose that anything bad has happened, 
is there? When he saw he couldn't get over, he pro- 
bably landed somewhere on the other side, and will be 
here presently. Don't you think so? No doubt he was 
very tired after yesterday, though he is such a splendid 
oarsman. He was quite fit when he started, wasn't 

"Quite fit," muttered Albert, looking at her hair, for 
the sake of not having to look at her eyes, and noticing 
with a strange sort of relief that it was dressed as 
carefully as usual, Somehow h^ had half expected 


dishevelled locks, as one of the orthodox adjuncts to 

"You shouldn't have let him start; but of course 
Duncan isn't to be stopped when he wants to do a 
thing. It's the effects of the suspense upon his old 
father which I dread. And then of course the wet 
clothes. He doesn't take cold easily, but still I can't 
help being anxious. A chill at this season may be a 
bad thing. And of course he may have had an accident 
with the boat and not be able to get across. That is 
why I have been waiting for you to ask you to have 
something done — a search-party, or whatever you call 
it. He may be on a desert island, don't you see, just 
like a person in a story-book" — and she gave a brave 
little laugh, which unluckily rang false. "You will help 
me, Bertie, will you not? I can't help being anxious — 
about the chill, you know." 

Of any misunderstanding between them because of 
the missing man, there was no trace in her speech. The 
great stumbling-block of the past weeks was not so 
much forgotten as swallowed up by the new terror. 
Everyone of her words breathed the normal confidence 
of a sister in a brother, and therefore each one of them 

234 ""^ COMPROMISE. 

was a separate and searching dagger to his con- 

"Say you will help me, Bertie!" 

"I will help you/' he said, with a dulness which, 
for all her flaunted confidence, she was too distracted 
to note. 

"Oh, thank you, Bertie! I knew I could count upon 

He shuddered at the contact of her arms flung 
around him. Upon the tip of his tongue it sat to 
scream: "Don't touch me!" But all he did was roughly 
to free himself as again he turned to the stairs. 

"Where to, Bertie? Are you not going — " 

"Yes; I am going. But I have first to — consult ray 

Turning his back upon her, he made blindly for 
his father's door. 

"She is scarcely able to stand already — what will 
it be when she knows what I know? Can it be anything 
but death? — death over again?" 

As with a whip of scorpions, the thought drove him 


In the little square room with the windows to the 
back, father and son sat opposite to each other in a 
silence which still throbbed with the words just spoken. 
The minister's long, thin figure was huddled into the 
depths of the elbow-chair in an ungoverned, broken- 
backed fashion, which shrunk it to half its size, while 
his bewildered eyes looked across in an agony of inquiry 
at the youth who sat there with his head between his 
hands. Several times John's bleached lips moved before 
they succeeded in framing a question. 

"Was it a bad leak? Might he not have ma- 
naged — " 

Albert shook his head with the hidden face. 

"Don't, father! I've tried all that, and there's 
nothing to be got from it. I don't know what the leak 
was like, but even the smallest would have served under 
the circumstances. Think of last night's wind! Be- 
sides, I tell you that the boat has been found." 

"Found? I had not imderstood — " 

"Yes, an hour ago. Until then I had still managed 
to hope; but to go on hoping after this would be 
childish. No, no, I've not bungled this thing, be sure 
of that!" 


Under the burst of bitter laughter which came, half 
suffocated, from behind the shielding hands, the figure 
in the elbow-chair seemed to sink a little deeper into 

Presently, with an effort, John raised his head. 

"But, Albert, you say it was dusk, and you were 
not thinking of the boats until just the last moment 
May you not have mistaken — " 

"There is no mistake about it. What mistake can 
there be, once the boat is identified?" 

He spoke with the sharpness of irritation. These 
details were but a torture. With the least possible 
delay he wanted every shred of doubt cleared away 
from the fact of his guilt, else the load would be on 
him again, unshared. 

"I know, I know — it's not that I mean. But the 
whole thing happened so quickly, as you say — you may 
not have been really conscious of what you were doing; 
and when you wanted to shout and did not do so, may 
it not have been the instinctive conviction that he was 
out of ear-shot already which stopped you? The mis- 
fortune, of course, remains the same, but not the sin— 
for sin is only where the soul gives full consent 


Think, Bertie, think! Perhaps you are innocent after 

A growing, pressing earnestness spoke out of the 
tones, — almost a prayer. He seemed to be pleading 
with his son for one word of self-justification. The 
brown eyes that hung upon the hidden face clearly 
begged a favour. 

But it was not granted. As Albert dropped his 
hands, John knew the truth without his words. 

"No, father," he said, as coldly and as sternly as 
though it were he who was the judge instead of the 
old man in the armchair. "It is no use. I could 
blind you with excuses, perhaps, but I could not blind 
myself. I did know what I was doing; I did consider, 
and even if I had made a mistake about the boats, 
that could not justify me; for the intention was there — 
the full intention. And it is the intention that matters 
— you should know that — it is your business to know 
it I wanted this result Do you not remember how, 
on the day when I found Fenella here, in this room, I 
told you that I should prevent the marriage — somehow. 
That thought has not left me since then; and yesterda)' 
my opportunity came, and I took it — that is all." 


John had fallen back again in his chair as though 
the so mercilessly positive words had been so many 
blows. Now he gazed at his son with wide eyes which 
seemed to be waiting for more. 

"From the first that marriage had been to me an 
abomination. It was the upsetting of a plan of life— 
not for myself alone, but for us all — the surrendering 
of all the advantages we had so laboriously gained. On 
her deathbed I had promised mother to fight for them; 
to me it was a duty — almost sacred. How could I look 
on peacefully at Fenella's social degradation? I feel 
the same way about it just now; the abomination is still 
there just the same, but the sensations of to-day are 
more abominable still. I am not able to bear the sight 
of Adam's and of Fenella's faces with my secret upon 
me. A matter of nerves, I suppose. That is why I 
have spoken." 

With each word John's white head had sunk a little 
lower upon his breast When Albert ceased he did not 
move, nor give the answer which the young man's eyes 
more demanded than entreated. 

"Father!" cried Albert, in an altered tone, after a 
moment of this numb silence. "Speak to me! Tell me: 


Is my crime past forgiveness? What is there I can do? 
Can my secret be kept — or would that be a second 
crime? Can you still think of me as a son, or is the 
sin too enormous in your eyes?" 

With a sudden sharp groan he once more covered 
his face and waited. Then, just as the silence had 
grown almost unbearable, he felt a light weight upon 
his shoulder. It was his father's hand; and, looking up, 
he saw his father's face bending towards him. There 
was no condemnation in the brown eyes, rather a deep 
and humble trouble. 

"The sin is great indeed, — but I do not know that 
it is all yours, my son." 

"Not all mine? But, father—" 

"It is not you who have done this thing. It is the 
Pride of Life; and into this house the Pride of Life 
should have had no entry if — others had been faithful." 

His eyes wandered to the window vaguely, and to 
Albert's ears the very sense of his words seemed to be 

"Father!" he urged, for already it seemed as though 
the minister had forgotten his presence. "Is this all you 
have to say to me? Will I find forgiveness?" 


"There is forgiveness for all," murmured John, "but 
it is the unfaithful who will seek for it furthest" 

"And my punishment?" 

He had to repeat his question before John looked 
back at him with a little start of remembrance. 

"Your punishment will be written in your sister's 
face. But mine? But mine?" 

In bewilderment Albert gazed: but before he had 
spoken the minister, with an effort, had recovered himself. 

"Go, my boy," he said in a tone of authority that 
was almost calm. "I must be alone; I will speak to 
you again, but not now. Do what you can. Keep your 
sister from despairing yet, and keep your secret from 
her and from all. Do you not see that this second 
blow would kill her?" 

A minute later John sat alone, and knew by the load 
in his breast and by the clamour of accusing tongues 
in his head that one of life's great and most appalling 
moments was upon him : a moment of self-enlightenment 
Straight in front of him he was gazing, not at the worn 
wood and dulled varnish of his writing-table, but back, 
far back into dead years. From the vantage-ground of 
this day's crisis he looked back upon the road which 



lay behind him — back to the very starting-point. The 
sweetness of those early dreams was upon him again for 
a little. Unbounded devotion to a cause, and that the 
greatest on earth — complete self-surrender to one beckon- 
ing mission — towards these things his young soul had 
yearned with a mighty, heart-whole desire. That, then, 
had been the starting-point And the goal? Was it 
towards this that he had been steering all these years? 
With Albert's confession still ringing in his ears, it 
seemed impossible to connect the two moments. His 
son a murderer; his daughter bereaved and almost 
widowed by this son's act; his household revealed to 
him as a very hotbed of baffled ambition and frustrated 
greed. Almost for a space he doubted his own identity. 
How did he, John McDonnell, come to this pass? — he, 
in whose youthful visions that thing called the "World" 
had had no portion, — nor its prizes, nor its cares? 

Heavily his trembling under-lip sank; for he knew 
the answer already: by unfaithfulness. Not the common- 
place and palpable unfaithfulness of the lax pastor — not 
unfaithfulness at all in the literal and legal sense of the 
words, but a far more intimate personal defection from 
an individual vocation. With a clearness undimmed by 

7%e Compromise^ II, lO 


any haze of doubt, he was conscious of having been 
called upon for sacrifices beyond those of the mass of 
his fellow- workers; of having been one of the chosen 
ones who are singled out for complete surrender. But 
before the order to quit "everything" his renunciation 
had failed. Touched by human passion, he had sought 
to compromise with divine commands. 

Vividly, after all these years, he could recall his own 
almost indignant astonishment that day in the quarry 
when Tim M*Laren had twitted him with a future wife. 
How conscious he had been of the misfit in the picture 
of the future, how determined to keep himself untram- 
melled by human fetters. And then had come Ella's 
blue eyes and her red lips, and he had succumbed as 
weakly and as easily as any worldling. No use to tell 
himself that he sought in her a helpmate for his work. 
At the moment itself the excuse might serve, but not 
now as seen from the vantage-ground, with the pitiless 
light of experience upon it It was not Ella's virtues 
which had drawn him, it was her bodily charms. To 
the flesh he had succumbed, not to the spirit 

And the result? That of most compromises: the 
imperfect attainment of both ends aimed at He had 


been a bad husband and a bad father, and certainly 
not so good a priest as he had it in him to be. He 
knew now that the uneasiness of his defection had never 
quite left him; and that though he had worked harder 
than most men he had not worked with an undivided 
mind. His very zeal had in it a touch of fever, meant 
to convince himself that his earthly ties were no im- 
pediment. The hidden sting had, upon occasion, put 
harsher words into his mouth, more exaction into his 
spiritual demands than would have come to him natur- 
ally. At such moments the fanatic within him had 
gained the upper hand of the gentle shepherd of souls. 
And towards his family he was more guilty than to- 
wards his flock. Repulsed in his first attempts at 
guidance, he had allowed a reserve, which he could not 
but recognise as pride, to build up a wall of separa- 
tion. He had yearned towards his children; but, rather 
than struggle with their mother for their possession, he 
had surrendered them. He had gone his way, allowing 
them to go theirs — and this was the spot it had led to. 
"Unfaithful servant! Unfaithful servant!" he murmured 
with his chin upon his breast. 

Presently he raised his head and looked up towards 


244 ^^"^^ COMPROMISE. 

the hillside, where between the leafless trees of the 
back garden the spire of a little grey chapel was visible. 
What was that the funny old man who dwelt up there 
had said? "I am not sure enough of myself you see; 
not certain enough that my strength would suffice for 
the burden of earthly affections, along with the — other 

There was another, then, who was afraid of his own 
weakness; but that one had acted accordingly. Not 
able to bear both burdens; — was any man able? John 
would not dare to say No, being far too humble-minded 
to judge of others' strength. It was himself only that 
he judged. Others, even in matrimonial fetters, might 
be "solicitous for the things that belong to the Lord," 
and for those alone; of himself, he knew that the Apostle 
had been right to call such a one "divided." The un- 
faithfulness had been his own private unfaithfulness. 

And the punishment was upon him now. The 
harvest of shame and tears reaped to-day had been 
sown on the day when he yielded to Ella. Those 
laborious years of study, those painfully hoarded sav- 
ings, had all led to this, because of one moment of 
weakness. The "step" which he had climbed with only 


spiritual objects in view had been used as a ladder to 
social success. The Pride of Life flourished upon the 
results of efforts planned for its destruction. 

Unsteadily he folded his hands in his lap. The 
confession, so recently heard, rang again in his ears. 
Who was he to absolve, whose own soul yearned for 
disburdenment? Once more his heavy eyes sought the 
grey spire on the hillside. Up there was another old 
man, — one of those who had made no compromises, 
whose ear had listened to the tale of many failings, 
whose lips were sealed upon them with a sevenfold 
seal. He, and such as he, might appreciate the acute- 
ness of this intimate reproach, which to others would 
doubtless rank as a symptom of approaching dotage. 

For a moment John played with the fantastically im- 
possible idea, then dismissed it with a smile that was no 
gayer than a sigh. 



Stealthily, as he had entered the house, with aD 
the precautions of a thief in the night, Albert left it 
again, this time mercifully unperceived. 

Once out of sight of the windows he set headlong 
about all that there seemed to do: the search for the 
body. But first the danger of the report touching the 
wrecked boat reaching Fenella's ears had to be guarded 
against. Strict orders were given, regardless of the im- 
pression necessarily produced upon the uninitiated, and 
even though the precaution struck himself as futile. 
So long as the last proof was not to hand, he could not 
bring himself to take the veil from her eyes. That 
proof he now set about procuring with an energy that 
was almost savage. He wanted to know, once for all, 
what was to be his own attitude towards the future, and 
until he had looked into Duncan's dead face he could 
not know iVvis. 


Besides, a movement which aimed at both physical 
and mental exhaustion was the sole condition just now 
under which consciousness seemed supportable; the one 
thing, too, which gave him a plausible pretext for keep- 
ing out of the range of Fenella's eyes. As it was, the 
whole day was but a process of bracing himself to meet 
their inquiry when dark would, perforce, suspend opera- 
tions. He had hoped to be too tired to care; but 
though he had scarcely eaten or rested since morning, 
his tense nerves threw off weariness with that fatal ease 
known only to the supreme junctures of life. Almost 
he hoped that enlightenment would have come to her 
during his absence, — that he should find her prostrate 
under the blow. It seemed the probable event. Must 
not every hour that struck have been like the hammer- 
ing in of fresh nails into the coffin of hope? But in the 
moment of seeing her again he knew that hope was still 
struggling for life — tooth and nail, as it were — that the 
killing of the thing still remained to be done. Upon 
Fenella's cheeks fever-spots burned, and in the depths 
of her eyes, under their weight of unshed tears, delirium 
gleamed, but she still held her head high, still kept up- 
right, and even made a feint of going about her usual 


occupations, with the dim idea, apparently, that by 
doing ordinary, everyday things she was proving to her- 
self and others that nothing out of the ordinary had 
happened. Of sympathy she would have none: the ac- 
ceptance of it would have admitted too much. Even 
her father's tender approaches were repulsed with an 
irritation that was almost fierce ; and Albert, having given 
his negative report, was once more put through the 
torture of surmises, as wildly hopeful as they were im- 
probable. Though her dinner obviously choked her she 
ate it conscientiously; and, despite Julia's suggestion of 
an early retirement, sat up till her usual hour, filling 
up the usual square in her embroidery — with a wrong 
shade of colour, to be sure — but to the last stitch. 
She was sure there would be news in the morning. It 
was clear to her now that Duncan must have lost his 
oars, and there was no saying, of course, how far the 
boat might have drifted; but by to-morrow they would 
hear more. 

Later on Albert crept to her door and listened fear- 
fully. To have heard her sobbing would have relieved 
a little of his most immediate fear; but all he heard 
was her restless step upon the carpet, and occasionally 


a groan begun and quickly checked. Even alone she 
did not dare to loosen that monster of despair, which 
already dragged so furiously at its chain. 

That night it was only Julia and Janet who slept at 
the Rectory. To the other pillows, mostly untouched, 
sleep never came near. The minister spent the night 
upon his knees, while his son lay in his clothes, count- 
ing the hours till the daylight, which would make re- 
newed action possible. When he closed his eyes, it 
was always to see the same vision: the submarine colon- 
nade at the mountain-base. In his ears sounded the 
familiar sucking sound of the water as it drew in to the 
slimy, shell-encrusted recesses. What secrets might not 
that gallery of caves hold? Upon what things might 
not those trailing curtains of seaweed have dropped? 
Would he ever know? 

But because the picture came so surely with the 
lowering of his eyelids he was obliged to wait wide-eyed 
for the dawn. 

Nor did he even wait for it quite. When the window- 
square began to whiten, he was already on his feet — 
and the weary round began again. 

Yesterday a few sanguine spirits had still talked of 


the undertaking as a "rescue;" to-day it was frankly 
called a "search;" the more readily so as the tale of 
the Corpse Lights had by this time spread. Not that 
criticisms of the omen were wholly wanting, and 
criticisms which came from competent quarters too. For 
it was Maggie Maclish who had seen the lights; and it 
was no new thing for Maggie to compete for the re- 
putation long enjoyed by Lame Liz alone. When there- 
fore it became known that Liz turned up her nose at 
Maggie's "lights," a division of opinion was unavoidable. 
In her day Liz had been great at seeing the "lights," 
but immoblised now in a position which for ever shut 
out the Burial Island from her view, she had developed 
a marked scepticism on the subject 

"As likely as not she'd had a drop o' whisky too 
much," she was reported to have said on this occasion. 
"'Twould be more to the point if she minded her billy- 
goat, and kept the dirty beast from tramplin' down my 
cabbages, and pokin' its ugly head a'most through the 
window-pane, instead o' moonin' about after lights 
and things that were never meant for the likes o* 

From which it will be seen that the sins of the billy- 


goat, brought home by near neighbourhood, had served 
considerably to aggravate those of its mistress. 

When Albert saw his sister again, which was not 
until midday, he told himself that some sort of break- 
down, whether moral or physical, could not now be far 
off. Over-night her face had sharpened strangely, and 
the delirium in her eyes looked to-day more akin to 
madness. There was nothing more said about the chill 
which Duncan might be supposed to have caught. In- 
deed, there was little at all said. Upon the breathless 
volubility of yesterday had fallen an abstracted silence. 
But the formal admission of hopelessness still refused 
to cross her lips. Before surrendering finally, she was 
maybe still waiting for that which Albert himself waited 
for: the sight of Duncan's dead face. 

But for that she might wait for ever, as Albert, with 
the vision of those submarine caves in his mind, and 
with his knowledge of the forest of sea-weed at the 
bottom of the loch, well knew. When he left the house 
after the midday repast, it was with the firm resolve 
not to see his sister again until certainty had been 
reached. Already the idea of summoning professional 
divers from Oban or Glasgow was occuppng him. 


Even when, after dark, he again touched the shore, 
empty-handed, he was determined not to go to the 
Rectory. He would sleep anywhere in the village rather 
than face that questioning gaze again. He would con- 
coct a message which would let them believe that he 
had gone on to Bonnet Ferry. He was in the middle 
of composing it when across the road he heard himself 

"McDonnell, by Jove! What news?" 

The loud voice, cutting through the darkness, 
touched him disagreeably, though just at first he could 
not have said why. Out of the shadows a burly, black 
figure stepped to his side with a hand extended. 

"Bless me, you do look done up! Fished him up 
yet? Eh?" 

Albert abruptly pocketed the hand he had half ex- 
tended. He knew now why the voice had touched him 
unpleasantly. It was very coldly that he said: 

"We have found nothing yet" 

"So I reckoned," said Mr. Berrell, as he comfortably 
tucked his arm under that of the younger man. Then, 
his voice considerably tempered: "Well, McDonnell, 
you're doing this thing quite tip-top. To hear of your 


scourings of the loch, one would suppose it was your 
sweetheart you were hunting for instead of your sworn 
enemy. Quite impossible to accuse you of tepidity. 
But, I say, Providence do seem to know its own busi- 
ness, after all, don't it?" 

"I don't know what you mean." 

"Oh, yes, you do. Only got to jerk back your mind 
to that last little talk we had in the quarry, not longer 
ago than Monday — about accidents and so on, don*t- 
cher-know? We're cute fellows, both of us, yet neither 
of us guessed that the very storm was brewing that 
would do the job. No; I'll never suffer a word said 
against Providence again; for I suppose it was Pro- 
vidence that managed it single-handed, wasn't it?" 

There was a just perceptible emphasis in the inter- 
rogation; but it was not because of that that Albert 
shuddered, it was under the confidential squeeze of the 
big arm resting upon his. But his lips remained 

"I didn't quite catch the drift of the matter, but 
there is some talk, isn't there, about an unsound boat, 
and some bungle at the start? Eh? You were on the 
spot, I gather, so perhaps you can enlighten me." 


"No, I cannot," said Albert stonily, feeling the other's 
inquisitive eyes boring at his face through the dark- 

"Hum ! I wonder you take on about this. Of course 
your sister will be bad for a bit; but, bless you, at her 
age things don't last She'll live yet to thank you,-— I 
mean, of course, to thank Providence for its spirited 
management of this matter. The coast is clear now, 
and no mistake. And when you consider — " 

The sentiment remained unfinished, for Albert, wrench- 
ing himself free, had broken away from his tormentor. 

So distracted was his mind that, despite his recent 
resolution, he turned in mechanically at the Rectory gate. 
Nor was there to be any correcting of the mistake, for 
upon the door-step stood Julia, waiting. 

"Oh, Bertie, at last! No news, I suppose? Now 
just turn back, like a good boy, and fetch Fenella for 
me. She's in the glen with father. An hour ago there 
came a message from Bessie, sa)dng that Adam was 
sinking fast, and they two set out at once. Father will 
probably stop there all night, and unless you fetch her 
home, Fenella will do the same, and it will kill 



"She may as well stay there as not," said Albert 
wearily. "It won't kill her quicker than she is being 
killed here. I can't go there, Julia." 

But Julia protested, and, after a brief struggle, 
Albert desperately acquiesced. 

All his slow, reluctant way up the dark glen he was 
thinking of the way back, and of how each step beside 
Fenella would be like a step upon burning coals. Would 
she keep up the farce much longer? or would she per- 
haps, under the cover of darkness, throw off the mask? 
It was difficult to say which alternative he more pas- 
sionately dreaded. Once or twice, between two of the 
hillside bums, when the sound of running water was out 
of his ears, he was indistinctly aware of a step on the 
road behind him — a slow and halting step — that of some 
foot-sore tramp, or weary pedlar, maybe — to which he 
gave no second thought. 

The glimmer of the lighted pane, burning of a dusky 
orange in the darkness, guided him easily up to the very 
door. Then abruptly his courage failed. The thought 
of Fenella's questioning eyes beat down all other con- 
siderations. And then there was Adam. He did not 
know which would be more impossible to bear: his 


dumb resignation or her sham optimism. No, he could 
not face that Happen what may he would not cross 
that threshold. When he consented to do so he had 
overvalued his own strength. 

With a jerk he turned, and aimlessly began retracing 
his steps, this time almost with the precipitation of a 
flight But not for far; for already those other steps he 
had heard, and not heeded, rang close. The figure too, 
which after a few dozen paces took body out of the 
shadows, remained unheeded until it was close enough 
for him to see that the supposed tramp limped badly. 
When one pace from him the man stood still; he scented 
a beggar as well as a tramp, and with an abusive ex- 
clamation had all but brushed past him when he heard 
his name spoken in a voice which first seemed to stop 
the blood in his veins, and then sent it surging dizzily 
towards his heart 

"Mr. Albert!" 

For the space of a few heart-beats he stood rigid, 
with that icy sensation about the backbone which visits 
the natural man when he suspects the presence of the 
supernatural. Then, with the leap of a cat, he was 
upon him, clutching at the arm he encountered, as 


though with claws and pushing his face close to the 
other's half-seen face, for purposes of identification. 

"Good God, Duncan! You? Alive!" 

The words stumbled over his shaking lips, while his 
fingers passed eagerly over the figure before him as 
though to assure himself that it was actually flesh and 
blood. Yet even in this light doubt could not stand. 
Bareheaded, dishevelled, and lame, as damp to the touch 
as though indeed he had been fished up from the bottom 
of the loch, Duncan stood before him, with a face as 
ghastly as a ghost's truly, and yet no ghost 

"Yes; I am alive; but it was the wrong boat I was 
in, after all, Mr. Albert." 

"I know, Duncan, I know! I will tell you all — ah, 
thank God!" 

Duncan put up his hand. 

"You had better not tell me, Mr. Albert — Pd rather 
not know. Things are well enough as they are." 

"But how? But when? I don't understand — " 

"You shall presently; but just now I'm in a hurry 
to reach father, — and after that — " 

"She's here! She's here!" almost shouted Albert, 
beginning to drag Duncan forward at a pace which 

TTie Compromue, II, ^T 


sublimely ignored the injured foot "Your father is 
rather worse, I beUeve; but this will cure him at once. 
And Fenella — ah, now I can go in! I was running 
away, you know. Oh, if I had guessed when I heard 
that step!" 

He was talking almost light-headedly as he hurried 
the lame man forward, with breaks of laughter between, 
and a breath that panted audibly. 

At the last moment, as by a miracle, some glimmer 
of prudence visited him. 

"Stop one minute outside, while I prepare them. 
We had better not be too sudden. It might kill her." 

He went in alone, but the words of preparation upon 
his lips were never uttered; for the reason that his tell- 
tale face blurted out everything in the first instant 
Fenella, catching sight of it, started forward out of the 
group beside the bed, with a wave of blood suffusing 
her face. 

"Bertie! Tell me quickly! You have news? He has 
come?" she passionately asked, and would have rushed 
past him, had he not stopped her. 

"He has come," was all he could say, as he turned 
to beckon to Punc^n behind him, 


And immediately the gaunt, ragged and dishevelled 
man limped forward into the light 

"Here he is, Fenella," said Albert hoarsely, giving 
Duncan a little push as though towards her. 

He saw the transformation of her face; he heard the 
faint cry from the bed, and then turned and went out 
again into the night. He had not been able to bear 
their despair, but it had come aver him that he had no 
right to witness their joy. 




Some two weeks or so after the day on which Dun- 
can M*Donnell had returned as from the dead, Mabel 
Atterton, attired in a black and scarlet Parisian "crea- 
tion," which admirably set off her dark beauty, sat in a 
well-appointed lowland drawing-room, exchanging com- 
monplaces with some half-dozen other maidens and 
matrons, pending the male invasion from the dining- 

Among the different pairs of eyes present, it was 
Mabel's that turned most persistently towards the door, 
just as it was her ears which listened most attentively 
for the ascending steps. Arrived barely in time for 
the dressing-gong, she had been agreeably surprised to 
find her cousin, Ronald Macgiluray, figuring among the 
actors in to-morrow's drama, to which the famed pheasant 
coverts of Bash wood were to furnish the scene. But 
leisure for more than a passing greeting there had been 


none, and she had se<^eral things to say to him. That 
was why she looked so hard at the door, and also why 
she had chosen the seat in the room which seemed to 
ensure the most privacy. 

The door once opened, and his eye caught, it re- 
quired no more than a slight move of her feather-fan 
to bring him to her side. At dinner already she had 
privately noted that he was not looking as cheerful as 
the prospect of to-morrow's slaughter ought to have 
made him; and while he crossed the room towards her, 
the impression was strengthened. The observation fixed 
her determination to say what she had to say. 

First a few airy generalities, so as to get under weigh, 
then, upon the same tone: 

"Tm fresh from Balladrochit, you know. YouVe 
heard of our latest Ardloch sensation, have you not?" 

Over the top of her fan with which she was pre- 
tending to shield herself from the glare of a neighbour- 
ing lamp, Mabel watched her cousin curiously. For 
months past, she had puzzled her head as to how far 
exactly that flirtation in summer had gone, and to-day 
she meant to know. 

The start of pain he gave, as palpable as though 


the word "Ardloch" had been the point of a sharp 
knife, could not escape her, nor the halting of his voice 
as he said: 

"You mean about the missing boatman and the 
search in the loch; and then his turning up again? I 
saw something about it in the Scotsman," 

"It was quite exciting, I assure you, — quite a story- 
book sort of affair. They were talking of nothing else 
when I got home. Nobody for a moment believed 
they'd ever see him again; and if he hadn't happened 
to be an A I swimmer, they never would. Even as it 
was, and though he did manage to fight his way to land, 
he nearly smashed his skull in doing so, being hurled 
straight onto the rocks, *as helpless as a bunch of sea- 
weed,' according to his own version. And like a bunch 
of sea- weed he lay there all night, as good as dead. 
It was there that a party of poachers found him at 
break of day — the very same wretches, I do believe, 
who have been thinning out my grouse lately — sprawling 
all over a rock with his legs in the water. Between 
them, they dragged him off to their lair — some cave in 
the hills, I'm told, where they have been housing for 
weeks past, to the distraction of my keepers. When 


they'd brought him round with whisky and things, he 
naturally wanted a message sent to Ardloch; but the 
amateur Samaritans quite as naturally objected to the 
publicity of the proceeding. As he was too weak to 
move immediately, and being, at any rate, on the wrong 
side of the water, there was, therefore, nothing for it 
but to lie low. That's what he was doing during that 
whole first day while they were scouring the shore and 
plumbing the depths. Next day, when the search had 
moved further down the loch, he managed to crawl 
forth; but it took him the whole day to reach the 
nearest house, that is Balladrochit, for his ankle, too, 
had been ill-treated by the rocks. There he nearly 
gave Alick — the gardener, you know — a fit, by stalking 
in in the dusk and demanding a boat I believe he had 
to punch the man's head in order to convince him that 
he wasn't a ghost. And the rest, of course, was all 
tears of joy, and so on. It's quite a shilling shocker; 
don't you think so?" 

"Yes," said Ronald abstractedly. 

She waited for a moment to see whether he was 
going to say more; for the shilling shocker had a 
sequel, which likewise had found its way into the papers. 


in a more or less delicately veiled form. But Ronald, 
though visibly uneasy, said nothing. It was to her that 
the initiative remained. Nor would she let it slip. 
Yet, determined though she was to reach clearness, and 
innocent of diffidence on ordinary occasions, something 
at this moment made an indirect way of approaching 
the desired subject seem preferable to a direct one. 
Simultaneously such a way presented itself to her mind. 

The laugh she gave now, still shading her face from 
the lamp, seemed the continuation of some amused inner 

"Yes; Ardloch has been quite exciting lately. Events 
just tumbling over each other. Why, your humble ser- 
vant herself got mixed up in them. You'll never guess 
what happened to me no later than the day before 

She looked at him with a glance which plainly said: 
"Don't you want to know" — then without waiting for a 
demand that was evidently not coming, rattled on: 

"I got a proposal of marriage. There now! And 
from a native, too — that young man with the red hair, 
the minister's son, you know. Never was so taken aback 
in my life. He had been very useful all summer" (his 


failure in one of the uses he had been put to, that of 
stirring her present hearer's jealousy, was necessarily left 
unmentioned) — "and perhaps I had been a little too 
imprudently grateful; but how was I to guess that he*d 
take it for anything but gratitude? When I saw how 
cut up he was, I felt dreadfully wicked — really 1 did. 
For the future I mean to be unapproachable to any 
person under fifty. But, all the same, it is rich, isn't 
it? That young man will go far yet." 

Through Ronald's transparent physiognomy some- 
thing Hke the sympathy of fellow-feeling was looking, as 
though from a window. 

"By Jove, that's cheek! But, all the same — I'm 
sorry for the fellow." 

"So am I. He's such a queer mixture of sharpness 
and simplicity. When I said No, he seemed to jump 
to the conclusion that it was his sister's marriage that 
was putting me off. You have heard about that too, 
probably. It's the proper romantic ending to the boat 

Over the feathery edge of her fan Mabel's eyes grew 
keen with the words, superfluously keen, for the growing 
agitation was writ large. 


"Yes — I — there was something in the Scotsman about 
that too; but I wasn't sure whether it wasn't just talk." 

"It's past the stage of talk, by this time, quite a 
properly attested fact; and it isn't nearly so startling 
either as it looks at first sight The man is her own 
cousin after all; and though she wears, more or less, 
fashionable frocks now, her father began by working in 
the quarries, just the same as his father did. In a way 
the marriage is quite suitable; though in another way 
it's of course a big come-down. Nobody seems pleased 
except the minister — and, yes, to be sure, mamma. 
You should see her patting the girl's head as approvingly 
as though she had just finished a dictation which needed 
no corrections. I've suspected for some time back that 
mamma's a fraud. My young man seems to feel the 
thing a good deal. He would have felt it more, no 
doubt, if they had stayed in the country, but he assures 
me that they won't. Going to decamp to Canada or 
somewhere. The old father, who would have been the 
difficulty, has only a little bit of tether to run, it seems. 
They're not quite sure whether it was the shock of losing 
his son or the joy of getting him back which is killing 
him, but anyway his days are numbered. I have all 


this at first-hand, from my red-haired swain, who used 
it, mind you, as a means of persuasion. The workman- 
brother-in-law wasn't a real objection, he argued, since 
he was going to vanish from the horizon. That he 
himself might be the objection did not seem to have 
occurred to the innocent youth." 

She paused and again waited, and this time it was 
clear that something was coming. One little shove more 
and reserve would topple over. 

"Have you ever heard of anything so preposterous?" 
she asked, with an insinuating trailing of her words. 

"It wouldn't have been preposterous if you had 
cared for him," stammered Ronald, deep-red in the 
face, and very intent upon the toes of his evening pumps. 

"But one doesn't care for that sort, usually." 

"One does, Mab — sometimes. That's what happened 
to me. I don't know if you guessed — " 

And then the flood-gates burst, and the story of his 
rejected love poured unchecked, though brokenly, from 
his lips. With the mere act of speaking, his ill-treated 
young heart grew lighter. After months of tongue-tied 
brooding, merely to put his grievance into words was to 
diminish it 


Sunk among the sofa-cushions, with her fan now 
dropped to her lap, Mabel listened in a sort of con- 
sternation. She had not guessed this. That he had 
been smitten, she knew, but never in her wildest spe- 
culations had her surmises gone as far as an actual pro- 
l)Osal of marriage. Her natural arrogance of mind for- 
bade alike the thought of her cousin stooping so low, 
as of the minister's daughter not leaping at the prize. 
At the most she had concluded that, aware of the grow- 
ing entanglement, Ronald had fled from the sphere of 
danger. It seemed a sufficient explanation of his pre- 
cipitate retirement; and in her heart she had commended 
his prudence. 

To-day's revelation was as unexpected as it was 
mortifying. But, though the tears of spite had actually 
started to her eyes, they were resolutely crushed be- 
tween her eyelashes. Commonsense had already pointed 
out that to betray this mortification would be not only 
perilous, but likewise foolish, since the minister's daughter 
was no longer to be feared. In a flash she saw her 
chance. For what was it that at this moment Ronald 
most urgently required? A confidante and sympathy. 
He should have both. Before he had done stammering 


out his Story she had recovered her self-control and 
chosen her part. His last words found her hand steal- 
ing into his, in the shelter of the feather-fan. 

"Poor Ronny! Now I understand. I really had not 
before appreciated the depth of your sentiment You 
must forgive me for those stupid jokes. What a bad 
time youVe had of it! But you're not the man to cry 
out your eyes for the moon, are you? And she's quite 
as unattainable to you as the moon, you know; though 
it's rather a reversal of the positions really. Just fancy 
preferring a great, hulking quarryman to you!" 

The glance which went to illustrate the words carried 
a balm equally applicable to a wounded heart as to 
wounded vanity, and laid it on pretty thick too, for this 
was not a case which called for any far-fetched subtlety 
of treatment, as her intimate knowledge of the patient 
told her. 

"Thank you, Mab — thank you!" And he pressed 
the fingers within his with a vigour which made the 
smile she sent him seem heroic even to herself "It's 
good to have you on my side. I may talk to you about 
it sometimes, mayn't I?" 

"As much as you like. A song? Delighted, Lady 


Anne, I'm sure!" — the last sentence being pitched con- 
siderably higher, and addressed to the hostess, who, 
across the room, had been pleading for some music 

A minute later Mabel sat at the piano, with her 
cousin turning over the pages for her; and an hour after 
that, having dismissed her maid, her dressing-gown 
wrapped about her, her place was at her bedroom fire- 
that spot, and that attire, and likewise that hour — which 
witnesses so many self-communings. 

"Six months," she mused, as she poked the coals. 
"I'll give him that — I think six months will do it But, 
all the same, it's just as well that Duncan McDonnell is 
not lying at the bottom of the loch." 

She smiled into the embers — a smile of trust in the 
future. Things would, after all, work out to that so 
satisfactory arrangement which she had had in her eye 
all along. For those who knew Mabel best knew that, 
for all her random chatter and reckless bearing, she 
had a most excellent business head upon her shoulders 
— a far better business head than, for instance, the 
stately ex-govemess. It was not from the casual daughter, 
it was far more likely from the precise mother that an 
act of sentimental folly might be looked for. 



And yet there was something tender too about that 
smile of trust and triumph. After all it was not only 
because he had a fine estate of his own, and because 
he would make an excellent and useful master for Balla- 
drochit, and a most comfortable, submissive husband, 
that she meant to marry Ronald, it was also a little be- 
cause he was just himself. 



To Maggie Maclish the reappearance in the flesh of 
Duncan McDonnell had been as annoying as it had been 
gratifying to Lame Liz. Had she not all along main- 
tained that Maggie's corpse lights were a fraud? But 
presently the triumph was tempered by Adam's demise, 
which, taking place within the fortnight, seemed to justify 
Maggie in her declaration that she had mentioned no 
names, and that the "lights" would do for the father 
quite as well as for the son. Her occult reputation, 
though having sustained a narrow shave, still survived; 
and at the thought that the omen had not been wasted, 
all Ardloch breathed more freely. 

It was on a still, white day, with the air full of 
noiseless snowflakes, behind whose moving curtain the 
hills had vanished away as though they had never been, 
that Adam set sail for the Island. Among those who 


Stood waiting upon the little slate-stone pier beside the 
old ferry-house, round whose black tongue every boat in 
the place had been gathered, there were full-grown men 
who could not remember such a snowfall as this. As 
they kicked the snow from their boots, pending the 
arrival of the funeral procession from the glen, the elder 
ones dug precedents from their memories, while the 
pessimists foretold great things in floods. Yet the general 
impression on the public was stimulating, even exciting. 
These dazzling, whirling masses, this unbroken white- 
ness on all sides, was a little awe-inspiring, to be sure, 
because so unfamiliar; yet, by virtue of this very un- 
familiarity, festive as well as fearful. Winding-sheet or 
bridal veil? The likeness held either way. Yet, even 
among the nearest mourners, there were some to whom, 
despite their sorrowful hearts, this white world appeared 
to smile rather than to weep. 

As the little fleet of boats full of black figures which 
the flakes were doing their best to paint white — at its 
head the one, coffin-laden, in which the minister's sur- 
plice looked almost grey by contrast with its surround- 
ings — drew to the Island there was the usual whirr and 
flutter overhead, as the white birds, and the black birds. 

The Compromise, II. "V^ 



the gulls and the crows, rose screaming into the air from 
the snow-laden trees. 

"It's real wonderful how the minister keeps up, and 
him loving him same as a brother/' whispered one man 
to another during the wait that followed; for the tide 
was at its lowest, and to hoist a coffin containing a man 
of Adam's size up a face of rock eight feet high, re- 
quired both muscle and ingenuity. By merely roimding 
the nearest point, where the shore dipped abruptly, a 
much easier landing was to be effected; but, chilly work 
though it was to sit still in a boat with the snowflakes 
creeping down the back of your neck, and sticking in 
your eyelashes, the idea of such an expedient did not 
so much as enter into the heads of the most shivery of 
the mourners. Had not this inhospitable rock been the 
M'Donnell landing-place for generations past? To have 
made use of the Robson or the Stuart's equally time- 
honoured stages would have so gravely offended Ardloch 
tradition as to endanger the repose of Adam in his 
grave. Such a breach of Island etiquette could not 
even be contemplated. Ardloch, used to these little 
tussles with the fortress of Death, waited patiently; in a 
silence broken only by the shouts of the men hauling at 


the ropes, and the grinding of the boats against each 
other. The bank straight opposite lay there barely 
visible, and as still as the Island itself; for all hands 
had turned out in honour of the dead comrade. That 
familiar "chip, chip" which seemed like the voice of the 
place, was to-day hushed under the deserted sheds. 

Presently, muscle having triumphed, the dusky pro- 
cession wound away among the white billows, scarcely 
recognisable as the usually so familiar mounds — the 
perfect carpet of snow trampled to tatters beneath the 
many feet. It was a new place to them all to-day, dimly 
seen through the ceaseless snow -dance. The raised 
horizontal slabs had become more than ever like tables, 
by virtue of the white cloths spread upon them; or, 
with snowy cushions piled, and thickening every moment, 
seemed to be inviting to a chilly repose. Even the up- 
right stones bore rims of white, which soon would trickle 
over the worn names of the dead in showers of cold 
tears. Among all this whiteness the new-dug grave alone 
yawned dark. 

Beside it stood John McDonnell, with the flakes fly- 
ing about his white, uncovered head, his narrow figure 
upright amid the restless whirl. The speaker of a few 


minutes back had not been the only one who had fdt 
a vague astonishment at the minister's bearing. One and 
all, they knew of the affection which had imited these 
two men since boyhood; one and all — Christian resigna- 
tion notwithstanding — they had exj>ected to see him 
deeply bowed under this loss — for they knew him to be 
of tender heart Some had wondered whether he would 
have the strength to conduct the ceremony. All had 
expected to hear his voice falter, and to see his head 
droop over the heavy task. And now that the moment 
was come, that white head seemed poised a little higher 
than usual; and his brown eyes were to-day not those 
eyes of the dove which they knew so well, but those of 
the eagle, which also they knew, for having, at rare 
moments, trembled beneath this glance, and shining 
from them a light which they did not know. Nor was 
it the voice of a broken man which spoke the words of 
the Burial Service. 

That something sustained him while he stood up- 
right on the edge of the open grave, they all indistinctly 
felt, without suspecting the real nature of the invisible 
prop. And when — the last words spoken — the minister 
stooped suddenly, and, gathering up a handful of earth, 


threw, rather than dropped it onto the top of the lowered 
coffin, there was not one man present ^ho came near 
to guessing at what the act meant to the doer of it. 

That evening Albert sought out his elder sister. It 
was his last chance of a private conversation, since his 
box was packed, and in order to meet the boat at 
Bonnet Ferry he would have to be gone next morning 
before the house was well astir. With the conclusion of 
his own particular job at the Loch End he had succeeded 
in obtaining employment in Glasgow, and thither he 
was hastening without the loss of a single day, thankful 
to shake the dust of ungrateful Ardloch from his feet. 
What work remained for him here? As little as at the 
Loch End. 

When he had found Julia alone, and having made 
the usual remarks about being called in the morning 
and touching an early breakfast, he relapsed into mo- 
mentary silence, then said, with sudden decision just 
touched with embarrassment: 

"Just one question, Julia, before I go. Are you 
quite determined to marry Berrell?" 

Julia looked up with astonishment from the sand- 
wiches she was packing for his journey. 


"Dear me, Bertie, of course you know that I am! 
Whatever makes you ask?" 

"You esteem him, I suppose?" 

"Of course I do. Why shouldn't I? A man in his 
position is surely worthy of esteem." 

"And if I could show you that he isn't worthy of 

She stared at him, round-eyed, and very nearly open- 

"But, Bertie, what's the matter? I thought you were 
so pleased with my marriage?" 

"So I was — until quite lately. But the fact is I've 
changed my mind about Berrell. I've had a chance of 
seeing the real man, and you haven't; and before you 
bind yourself for life I think I ought to tell you that he 
isn't the man we took him for. Don't ask me for par- 
ticulars — I couldn't give them; but this much I will tell 
you: his respect for human life is not — well, not what 
one takes for granted that it is in every respectable 
person — certainly not what one wants it to be in those 
nearest one." 

Under the stress of the astonishment Julia had sat 
down. She even grew a little pale. 


"Good gracious, Bertie, you don't mean that he's 
killed anybody?" 

"No, oh, no! He hasn't hurt a fly, to my know- 
ledge — not a man, anyway; I don't believe he'd have 
the pluck to do it; but he's capable of egging on an- 
other, under safe cover for himself. I know he is, and 
since I knew it the thought of seeing you his wife 
troubles me." 

For a brief space after her brother paused Julia sat 
there, a prey to visibly perplexed reflection. Very soon, 
however, the surface agitation — it was no more than that 
— died away as infallibly as die away the circles upon 
the water into which a stone has been thrown. Within 
a minute her broad, good-humoured face had again be- 
come as placid as any unvisited pond. Then she 
laughed, her usual, comfortable laugh. 

"Really, Bertie, you quite frightened me! I thought 
you had spotted George as some unpunished criminal! 
It's very good of you to warn me and all that, of course, 
but those surmises of yours — and I'd rather take them 
only as surmises — aren't enough to scare me off." 

"He isn't a good man, Julia — I know he isn't." 

"Did I ever say he was? I'm not marrying him for 

his virtues, but for his position and his income — parti- 
cularly his income; to you I don't mind saying this. Not 
the man we took him for! But what did we take him 
for but a quarry manager who understands his work, 
and with eight hundred a year? He remains that, 
doesn't he, even supposing his sentiments are not quite 
so elevated as you took them to be — mercy knows why? 
ril never have such another chance, even if I have an- 
other chance at all. What can I hope for, now that 
Fenella has made mince-meat of the family prospects? 
And after George has consented to overlook the objec- 
tion of the relationship ! No, no, I'd be a fool to break 
now. He'll feed me and house me in the way I like to 
be fed and housed, and he won't ill-treat me — I'll an- 
swer for that — for he's the sort who likes a wann 
chimney-comer, and I could easily make it too wann 
for him, if I chose. Never fear for me, Bertie, I'll hold 
my own! He'll respect my life, whatever he may do 
about other people's!" 

And she laughed robustly and heartily. 

Albert left her, insisting no further — perhaps not 
absolutely sorry to have failed. The fibre of conscience 
which had insisted on the warning was satisfied with the 


mere speaking of it Whatever Julia did now she would 
be doing with open eyes. It was to his own concerns 
that his thoughts returned. 

Harder to bear than the shock of MabePs rejection 
of his love, had been the haughty astonishment with 
which his declaration had been received. It was not 
only that she did not love him, but that the mere idea 
of his aspiring to her love obviously struck her as some- 
thing between a joke and an impertinence. The shock 
of this recognition had brought him to his senses, chas- 
ing him with one sword-stroke out of that fool's paradise 
in which he had been wandering all summer. Furiously 
he turned upon his own naivete — the one unpardonable 
sin in his private code. The thought that he, the would-be 
man of the world, had made a fool of himself in a 
woman's — but more particularly in his own — eyes rankled 
deeper than the loss of the woman herself. 

But though subdued, he was as little crushed by the 
disappointment as by the agony of soul traversed so 
recently. During those awful two days of Duncan's 
disappearance he had indeed learned that there are some 
prices too high to pay for worldly success, but the 
reaction of relief had shown him that the article was still 


worth paying a good deal for. And he still meant to 
try for it, — more circumspectly this time, not being of 
the sort whom one failure can baffle. And this time 
his personal success need be his only goal. He could 
set out on the conquest of the future, unhampered by 
anxiety for others. Julia had chosen her fate, — and so 
had Fenella. He was powerless to alter either. For his 
elder sister he would hope for the best To the younger 
too his thoughts would fly at moments across the ocean, 
but they would be the sort of gently regretful thoughts 
that are given to the dead. 

When next morning dawned, a new Ardloch stood 
revealed, an Ardloch of a beauty so immaculate as 
scarcely to appear quite earthly. As though hewn in 
white marble, the circle of hills, illusively vast and 
illusively high, towered over the loch. Slate roofs and 
straw thatch had alike disappeared under beautifully 
fitting snow-caps; while to the very edge of the water 
the universal white lay, with no more than irregular 
bulges to betray the whereabouts of the buried seaweed 
wreaths. As perfect as this it could not last for a day; 


but while it lasted it made a picture not to be forgotten 
by the eyes which looked upon it. 

Upon that dead white afternoon, the minister, walk- 
ing a little beyond the village, became aware of a canine 
clamour on the shore below. He looked impatiently in 
that direction, for the sharp yaps disturbed his train of 
thought Having looked, he stood still, and having stood 
still for a moment, he turned decisively from the road; 
and, along a path freshly trodden in the snow, approached 
the spot where Father Grey was struggling with Boxer 
for a bit of driftwood which the latter was supposed to 
be retrieving, but from which, at the given moment, he 
found it too great a sacrifice to part Just as John 
reached the dark line of the shore — for here the tide 
had already been busy — the priest was triumphantly 
holding the recovered stick aloft, while the dripping 
beast leaped frantically around him, with bright eyes 
almost starting from its head, and deafening barks filling 
the air, and all the other symptoms of canine lunacy, 
commonly produced on a fox-terrier by the combination 
of a piece of stick and a surface of water. Father Grey 
nodded apologetically in John's direction, but it was not 
until the stick had been thrown, and Boxer, with a 


splash worthy of a Newfoundland bent upon salvage 
work had plunged in after it, that speech became pos- 

"You find me in difficulties again/' laughed the little 
priest, wiping his sandy fingers upon the hem of his 
soutane, "Coming to the rescue, eh?" 

"No; I was not coming to the rescue. I wanted to 
tell you something." 

"Ah?" said Father Grey, glancing up with a touch 
of curiosity, for there was a curious smile upon the 
minister's lips, and his voice, too, had about it a ring 
which the other did not know how to classify. 

"Yes. I have come to tell you that there is now 
nobody more remaining to cry when I go out to battle." 

"When you go out to battle?" repeated Father Grey, 
not comprehending, and therefore a little foolishly. 

"Yes. Don't you remember telling me a story about 
the boy who wanted to be a soldier, but who didn't 
want to found a family, because of — " 

A flash of understanding passed through the priest's 
eyes. "Ah — I know. And you mean — ?" 

"Just what I say. There is nobody remaining to 
cry over me now. I buried the last of them yesterday." 


For a moment Father Grey looked out silently across 
the water towards the white hills. He was beginning to 
understand; and he had classified the tone as one of 
secret triumph. 

"But your daughters? Your son?" 

"My son has gone out into the world. He does not 
need me. He never has needed me, except once, for 
one hour. My daughters have both chosen husbands. 
One of them is going out of my life for ever, to the 
ends of the world." For just one second his voice 
faltered, and then recovered. "I am glad of it; it is 
better so. The other will not be far distant, in body, 
perhaps, but she has never been near me at all. She 
also does not need me. On the day they leave my 
house I shall be as alone as though I had never had a 
child. That is why I say that there is nobody remain- 
ing to cry over me. Do you understand at last?" 

"At last I understand," said Father Grey. 

Immediately after, and with a rather knowing little 
smile upon his lips, he glanced up into the face of the 
man so barefacedly glorying in his isolation. 

"If that's where you wanted to get to, you haven't 
taken quite the shortest cut to it, have you?" 


Whatever John's answer was it became drowned in 
a fresh volley of barks — for Boxer, wetter and more 
frantic than ever, was upon them again, furiously demand- 
ing a resumption of the game. 

• • • • 

Note. — It was not until years later that John took 
his last trip to the Island. Those who saw him before 
he started never forgot the look of happiness upon the 
dead face, — so much happier than any they had ever 
seen upon any living one. 

"I know why that is," said Fenella to herself, when 
the tale of that death-bed reached her in her far-oflf 
Canadian home, where love and courage had come to 
their own — "it is because the angel who took him back 
to heaven sang the same song as the one who brought 
him down from there." 



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Published with Continental Copyright by special agreement 
with the authors. Vide p. i, 

3898 Volumes. 397 British, 49 American Authors. 

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— Price 1 M. 60 Pf. or 2 Fr. per Volume. — 

Adams, Rev. W., j- 1848. 
Sacred Allegories x ▼. 

Aguilar, Grace, f 1847. 

Home Influence 2 ▼. — The Mother's 
Recompense 2 v. 

A'idi, Hamilton. 

Rita IV. — Carr of Carrlyon 2 v. — The 
Marstons 2 v. — In that State of Life i v. — 
Morals and Mysteries x v. — Fenruddocke 
2 V. — "A nine Days' Wonder" i v. — 
Poet and Peer 2 v. — Introduced to Society 

X V. 

Ainsworth,W. Harrison, f 1 882. 

Windsor Castle it. — Saint James's i v. 
— Jack Sheppard (with Portrait) it. — 
The Lancashire Witches 2 v. — The Star- 
Chamher 2 v. — The Flitch of Bacon x v. — 
The Spendthrift i v. — Menryn Clitheroe 
2 V. — Ovingdean Grange i v. — The Con- 
stable of the Tower i v. — The Lord 
Mayor of London 2 v. — Cardinal Pole 
2 V. — John Law 2 v. — Tlie Spanish 
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fret 2 V. — Tbe SoMt\i-Sea Bubble 2 v. — 
Hilary St. lvc» a ^. — TaSooX-^^xX^tv^ 

J V Tower HW\ \ t . — "fto%co\>Ok. i n . - 

TbP Good 0\4T\mesav,~^«Trj^w^- 

land 2 ▼. —The Goldsmith's Wife 2 t.— 
Preston Fight 2 v. — Chetwynd Calverley 
2 V. — The Leaguer of Lathora 2 t. — 
The Fall of Somerset 2 v. — Beatrice 
Tyldesley 2 t. — Beau Na»h 2 v. — Stanly 
Brereton 2 v. 

Alcott, Louisa M. (Am.), f 1888. 

Little Women 2 ▼. — Little Men i v. — 
An Old-Fashioned Girl x v« — Jo's Boys 

1 V. 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey (Am.). 

Maijorie Daw and other Tales x t. ^ 
The Stillwater Tragedy x ▼. 

Alexander, Mrs. (Hector), f 1902. 

A Second Life 3 ▼. — By Woman's Wit 
X V. — Mona's Choice 2 v. — A Life In- 
terest 2 V. — A Crooked Path 2 v. — Blind 
Fate 2 y. — A Woman's Heart 2 t. — For 
His Sake 2 v. — The Snare of the Fowler 

2 V. — Found Wanting 2 t. — A Ward in 
Chancery i v. — A Choice of Evils 2 t. — 
A Fight with Fate 2 v. — A Winning 
Hazard i v. — A Golden Autumn i v.— 
Mrs. Crichton's Creditor x v. — Barbara, 
Lady's Maid and Peeress i v. — The Cost 
of Her Pride 2 v. — Brown, V.C. i v.— 
Tlncough Fire to Fortune x v. — A Missing 
^l^ev^i ^ N.— TXa Yellow Fiend x t. - 

^'^\xoT.5gKt'^7ca\^H^^^ .— ^i^sSc^CosteUo i f. 

Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List, 

Alice, Grand-Duchess of Hesse, 

t 1878. 

I^etters to Her Majesty the Queen (with 
Portrait). With a Memoir by H. R. H. 
Princess Christian 2 v. 

Alldridge, Lizzie. 

By Love and Law 2 v. — The World she 
awoke in 2 v. 

Allen, Grant, f 1899. 

The Woman who did x ▼. 

"All for Greed," Author of 

(Baroness de Bury). 

All for Greed x ▼. — Love the Aveng^er 
2 v. 

Anstey, F. (Guthrie). 

Tlie Giant's Robe 2 v. — A Fallen Idol 
1 v. — The Pariah 3 v. — The Talking 
Hone and other Tales i v. — Voces 
Populi (First and Second Series) x v, — 
The Brass Bottle z v. — A Bajrard from 
Bengal z ▼. — Salted Almonds x v. 

Argles, Mrs. : vide Mrs. Hunger- 

''Aristocrats, the," Author of: 
vide Gertrude Atherton. 

Arnold, Sir Edwin, j- 1904. 
The Light of Asia (with Portrait) x ▼. 

Arnold, Matthew, f 1888. 

Essays in Criticism 2 v. — Essays in Criti- 
cism (Second Series) i V. 

Atherton, Gertrude Franklin 


American Wives and English Husbands 
IV. — The Califomians x v. — Patience 
Sparhawk and her Times 2 v. — Senator 
North 2 V. — The Doomswoman 1 v. — The 
Aristocrats x v. — The Splendid Idle Forties 
IV. — The Conqueror 2 v. — A Daughter 
of the Vine i v. — His Fortunate Grace, 
etc. IV. — The Valiant Runaways x v. — 
The Bell in the Fog, and Other Stories x v. 
— The Travelling Thirds (in Spain) x v. 

Austen, Jane, f 18 17. 

Sense and Sensibility i v. — Mansfield 
Park XV. — Pride and Prejudice i v. — 
Korthanger Abbey, and Persuasion x v. — 
"Emma i v. 

"Autobiography of Lutfullah,'* 
Author of: vide £. B. Eastwick. 

Avebury, Lord: vide Sir John 

Bagot, Richard. 
A Roman Mystery 2 v. — Casting of Nets 
2 v. — The Just and the Unjust 2 v. — 
Donna Diana 2 v. — Love's Proxy i v. — 
The Passport 2 v. 

Baring- Gould, S. 
Mehalah i v. — John Herring 2 ▼. — 
Court Royal 2 v. 

Barker, Lady: v. Lady Broome. 

Barrett, Frank. 
The Smuggler's Secret i ▼. — Out of the 
Jaws of Death 2 ▼. 

Barrie, J. M. 
Sentimental Tommy 2 v. — Margaret 
Ogilvy IV. — Tommy and Grizel 2 v. — 
The Little White Bird x v. 

**Bayle's Romance, Miss," Au- 
thor of: vide W. Eraser Rae. 

Baynes, Rev. Robert H. 
Lyra Anglicana, Hjrmns and Sacred Songs 

X V. 

Beaconsfield, Lord: vide Dis- 

Beaumont, Averil (Mrs. Hunt). 

Thornicroft's Model 2 v. 

Bell, Currer (Charlotte Brontfi— 
Mrs. Nicholls), f 1855. 
Jane Eyre 2 v. — Shirley 2 v. — Villette 
2 V. — llie Professor x v. 

Bell, Ellis & Acton (Emily, 
f 1848, and Anne, f 1849, 
Wuthering Heights, and Agnes Grey 2 v. 

Bellamy, Edward (Am.), j- 1898. 
Looking Backward i v. 

Benedict, Frank Lee (Am.). 

St. Simon's Niece 2 v. 

Bennett, Arnold. 

The Grand Bab^lo^ ^cJ«\ x -« . — •"'5^^^ 
. Gates ol ^Ta.\>cv -l n . — KQ»^^^^.^i^^'^ ^ ^ 

Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List, 

Benson, E. F. 
Dodo XV. — The Rubicon i v. — Scarlet 
and Hyssop x v. — The Book of Months i v. 

— The Relentless City x v. — Mammon 
& Co. 2 V. — The Challoners x v. — An 
Act in a Backwater x v. — The Image in 
the Sand 2 v. — The Angel of Fain 2 v. 

Besant, Sir Walter, f 1901. 
The Revolt of Man i v. — Dorothy 
Forster 2 v. — Children of Gibeon 2v, — 
The World went very well then 2 v. — 
Katharine Regina x v. — Herr Paulus 2 v. 

— The Inner House i v. — The Bell 01 
St. Paul's 2 V. — For Faith and Freedom 
2 v. — Annorel of Lyonesse 2 v. — Ver- 
bena Camellia Stephanotis, etc. x v.— 
Beyond the Dreams of Avarice 2 v. — 
The Master Craftsman 2 v. — A Fountain 
Sealed x v. — The Orange Girl 2 v. — 
The Fourth Generation x ▼. — The Lady 
of Lynn 2 v. 

Besant, Sir Walter, -f- 1901, & 

James Rice, f 1882. 
The Golden Butterfly 2 v. — Ready- 
Money Mortiboy 2 v. — By Celia's Arbour 
2 v. 

Betham- Edwards, M. 
Tlie Sylvestres i v. — Felicia t v. — 
Brother Gabriel 2 v. — Forestalled i v. — 
Exchange no Robbery, and other No- 
velettes IT. — Disarmed i v. — Doctor 
Jacob XV. — Pearla i v. — Next of ICin 
Wanted x v. — The Parting of the Wa3rs 
I y. — For One and the World i v. — 
The Romance of a French Parsonage 
I v. — France of To-day i v. — Two Aunts 
and a Nephew x v. — A Dream of Mil- 
lions IV. — The Curb of Honour i v. — 
France of To-day {Second Series) 1 v. — A 
Romance of Dijon x ▼. — The Dream- 
Charlotte XT. — A Storm-Rent Sky t v. — 
Reminiscences x v. — The Lord of the 
Harvest i v. — Anglo-French Reminis- 
cences, 1875—1899 I v. — A Suffolk Court- 
ship IV. — Mock Beggars' Hall i v. — 
East of Paris x v. — A Humble Lover x v. — 
Barham Brocklebank, M.D. x v.— Martha 
Rose, Teacher x v. 

Bierce, Ambrose (Am.). 
In the Midst of Life x v. 

Birchenough, Mabel C 
Potsherds iv. 

Bisland,E.: •u.'RVio^aL'Bx^>a.^- 


Bismarck, Prince: vide Butler. 
Vide also W^ilhelm Gorlach 
(Collection of German Authors, 
p. 29), and Whitman. 

Black, William, -j- 1898. 
A Daughter of Heth 2 v. — In Sflk At- 
tire 2 V. — The Strange Adventures of a 
Phaeton 2 ▼. — A Princess of Thule 2 v. — 
Kilmeny x v. — The Maid of Killeena, and 
other Stories x v. — Three FeaUiers 2 v. — 
Lady Silverdate's Sweetheart, and other 
Stories X v. — Madcap Violet 2 v. — 
Green Pastures and Piccadilly 2 v.— 
Macleod of Dare 2 v. — White Wings 
2 V. — Sunrise 2 v. — The BeautifulWtetch 
X v. — Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in 
the Highlands ; The Four Macnicols ; The 
Pupil of Aurelius i v. — Shandon Bells 
(with Portrait) 2 v. —Judith Shakespeare 
2 V. — The Wise Women of Inverness, 
etc. I v.— White Heather 2 v.— Sabina 
Zembra 2 ▼. — The Strange Adventures 
of a House-Boat 2 v. — In Far Locbaber 
2 V. — The New Prince Fortunatus 2 v.— 
Stand Fast, Craig-Roy^ton 1 2 v. — Donald 
Ross of Heimra 2 t. — The Magic Ink, 
and other Tales x v. — Wolfehberg 2 v. — 
The Handsome Humes 2 v. — Highland 
Cousins 2 ▼.— Briseis 2 v.— Wild Eelin 2 v. 

«* Black- Box Murder, the," 
Author of. 
The Black-Box Murder x v. 

Blackmore, Richard Doddridge, 
t 1900. 

Alice Lorraine 2 v. — Mary Anerley 3 v. 
— Christowell 2 v, — Tommy Upmore 
2 V. — Perlycross 2 t. 


Tales from "Blackwood" f First Series) 
X V. — Tales from "Blackwood *' (Second 
Series) iv. 

Blagden, Isa, \ 1873. 

The Woman I loved, and the Woman 
who loved me ; A Tuscan Wedding x v. 

Blessington, Countess of (Mar- 
guerite Gardiner), j- 1849. 
Meredith x v. — Strathem 2 t. — Me- 
TBsm^ <i^ -a^ ¥«mme de Chambre x v. — 
■^V^TtiaaSsxJMk lAsx>Q)«s\^. t '«^, — Country 

Tauchnttz Edition. Complete List. 


Bloomfield, Baroness. 

Reminiscences of Court and Diplomatic 
Life (with the Portrait of Her Majesty 
the Queen) 2 ▼. 

Boldrewood, Rolf. 

Robbery under Arms 2 v. — Nevermore 

2 V. 

Braddon, Miss (Mrs. Maxwell). 

J^ady Audley's Secret 2 v. — Aurora 
Floyd 2 V. — Eleanor's Victory 2 v. — John 
Marchmont's Leg^acy 2 v. — Henry Dun- 
bar 2 V. — The Doctor's Wife 2 v. — 
Only a Qod 2 v. — Sir Jasper's Tenant 
2 V. — The Lady's Mile 2 v. — RupertGod- 
win 2 V. — Dead-Sea Fruit 2 v. — Run to 
Earth 2 ▼. — Fenton's Quest 2 ▼. — The 
Lovels of Arden 2 v. — Strangers and 
pilgrims 2 V. — Lucius Davoren 3 V. — 
Taken at the Flood 3 V. — Lost for Love 
2 V. — AStrange World 2 v. — Hostages 
to Fortune 2 v. — Dead Men's Shoes 

2 V. — Joshua Haggard's Daughter 2 v. — 
Weavers and Weft x v. — In GreatWaters, 
and other Tales x v. — An Open Verdict 

3 V. — Vixen 3 V. — The Qoven Foot 3 v. 

— The Storv of Barbara 2 v. — Just as I 
am 2 V. — Asphodel xv. — Mount Royal 
2 V. — The Grolden Cauf 2 v. — Flower and 
Weed IV. — Phantom Fortune 3 V. — 
Under the Red Flag x v. — Ishmael 3 v. 

— Wyllard's Weird 3 v. — One Thing 
Needful 2 v. — Cut by the County x v. -^ 
Like and Unlike 2 v. — The Fatal Three 
2 V. — The Day will come 2 v. — One 
Life, One Love 2 v. — Gerard 2 v. — 
The Venetians 2 v. — All along the River 
2 v. — Thou art the Man 2 v. — The Christ- 
mas Hirelings, etc. i v. — Sons of Fire 
2 V. — London Pride 2 v. — Rough Justice 
2 V. — In High Places 2 v. — His Darling 
Sin I V. — The Infidel 2 v. — The Conflict 
2 V. — The Rose of Life 2 v. 

Brassey, Lady, f 1887. 

A Voyage in the "Sunbeam" 2 v. — 
Sunshine and Storm in the East 2 v. — In 
the Trades, the Tropics and the Roaring 
Forties 2 v. 

"Bread -Winners, the, Author 
of (Am.). 
The Bread -Winners x v. 

Bret Harte: vide Har^e. 

Brock, Rev. William, -j- 1875. 
Sir Henry Havelock, K. C. B. x v. 

BrontS, Charlotte: vide Currer 

BrontS, Emily & Anne: vide 
Ellis & Acton Bell. 

Brooks, Shirley, j- 1874. 
The Silver Cord 3 V. — Sooner or Later 

Broome, Lady (Lady Barker). 

Station Life in New Zealand z v. — 
Station Amusements in New Zealand 
XV. — A Year's Housekeeping in South 
Africa IV. — Letters to Guy, and A Dis- 
tant Shore — Rodrigues x v. — Colonial 
Memories x v. 

Broughton, Rhoda. 

Cometh up as a Flower x v. — Not 
wisely, but too well 2 v. — Red as a Rose 
is She 2 V. — Tales for Christmas Eve 
XV. — Nancy 2 v. — Joan 2 v. — Second 
Thoughts 2 V. — Belinda 2 v. — Doctor 
Cupid 2 V. — Alas ! 2 v. — Mrs. Bligh 
XV. — A Beginner x v. — Scylla or 
Chaiybdis? x v. — Dear Faustina x v. — 
The Game and the Candle x v. — Foes in 
Law XV. — Lavinia x v. 

Broughton, Rhoda, & Elizabeth 
A Widower Indeed x v. 

Brown, John, j- 1882. 
Rab and his Friends, and other Papers x v. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrel 
t 1861. 

A Selection from her Poetry (with Por- 
trait) XV. — Aurora Leigh i v. 

Browning, Robert, f 1889. 

Poetical Works (with Portrait) 4 V. 

Bullen, Frank T. 

Tauchnitz Edition, Complete List, 

Bulwer, Edward, Lord Lr3rtton, 

t 1873. 

Pelham (with Portrait) i v. — Eugene 
Aram i v. — Paul Clifford i v. — Zanoni 
XV. — The Last Days of Pompeii xv. — 
The Disowned i v. — Ernest Maltravers 
XT. — Alice IT. — Eva, and The Pilg^ms 
of the Rhine i v. — Devereux x v. — 
Godolphin and Falkland x v. — Rienzi 
XV. — Night and Morning x v. — The Last 
of the Barons 3 v. — Athens a v. — The 
Poems and Ballads of Schiller i v. — 
Lucretia 2 v. — Harold 2 v. — King Arthur 
a V. — The New Timon, and St. Stephen's 
X V. — The Caxtons 2 v. — My Novel 4 V. — 
What will he do with it? 4 V. — Dramatic 
Works a V. — A Strange Story 2 v. — 
Caxtoniana 2 v. — The Lost Tales of Mile- 
tusi V. — Miscellaneous Prose Works 4 v. — 
Odes and Epodes of Horace 2 v. — Kenelm 
Chillingly 4 V, — The Coming Race x v. — 
The Parisians 4 V. — Pausanias, the Spar- 
tan X V. 

Bulwer, Henry Lsrtton (Lord 
Dalling), f 1872. 

Historical Characters 2 v. — The Life of 
Viscount Palmerston 3 v. 

Bunyan, John, f 1 688. 

The Pilgrim's Progress x v. 

"Buried Alone," Author of 
(Charles Wood). 
Buried Alone x v. 

Burnett, Mrs. Frances Hodg- 
son (Am.). 

Through one Administration 2 v. — Little 
Lord Fauntleroy x v. — Sara Crewe, 
and Editha's Burglar x v. — The Pretty 
Sister of Jose x v. — A Lady of Quality 
2 V. — His Grace of Osmonde a v. 

Bumey, Miss (Madame D*Ar- 
blay), j- 1840. 
Evelina x v. 

Bums, Robert, f 1796. 
Poetical Works (with Portrait) x ▼. 

Burton, I^chatd IP., \ \^^^» 

A Pilgrimage to Mecca Mv^lAeaAtv*. >^^. 

Bury, Baroness de: vide ''All 
for Greed." 

Butler, A. J. 

Bbmarck. Hb Reflections and Re- 
miniscences. Translated from the great 
German edition, under the supervision of 
A. J. Butler. With two Portraits. 3 v. 

Buxton, Mrs. B. H., f 1881. 
Jennie of "The Prince's," 2 v. — Won 
2 V. — Great Grenfiell Gardens 2 v. — 
Nell — on and off the Stage 2 v. — From 
the Wings 2 v. 

Bjrron, Lord, f 1824. 

Poetical Works (with Portrait 5 v. 

Cafi^m, Mrs.Mannington (lotaX 

A Yellow Aster x ▼. — Children of Cir^ 
cumstance 2 v. — Anne Manleverer « y% 

Caine, HaU. 

The Bondman 2 v. — The V^w^man 
2 V. — The Christian 2 v. — The Etenal 
City 3 V. — The Prodigal Son 2 v. 

Cameron, Vemey Lovett 
Across Africa s v. 

Campbell Praed, Mrs.: vide 

Carey, Rosa Nouchette. 
Not Like other Girls 2 v. — <* B«t Men 
must Work" x v. — Sir Godfrey's Grand- 
daughters 2 v.— The Old, Old Story 2 v. 
— Herb of Grace 2 v. — The Highway of 
Fate 2 V. — A Passage Perilous 2 v. — At 
the Moorings 2 v. 

Carlyle, Thomas, f 1881. 
The French Revolution 3 v. — Fre- 
derick the Grreat xj v. — Oliver Crom- 
well's Letters and Speeches 4 V. — The 
Life of Schiller x v. 

Carr, Alaric. 
Treheme's Temptation 2 v. 

Castle, Agnes ft Egerton. 

The Star Dreamer 2 v. — Incomparable 
Bellairs i v. — Rose of the World x v. — 
French Nan i v. — " If Youth but knew ! " 

I V. 

Castle, Egerton. 

C,ows,tQjiMstv5L«s. •». ^, — ««Ia Bella," and 

Tatichnitz Edition, Complete List, 

Charles, Mrs. Elizabeth Rundle, 
f 1896 : vide Author of "Chro- 
nicles of the Sch5nberg-Cotta 

Charlesworth, Maria Louisa, 

1 1880. 

Oliver of the Mill z v. 

Cholmondeley, Mary. 

Diana Tempest 2 v. — Red Pottage a v. 

— Moth and Rust x v. 

Christian, Princess: vide Alice, 
Grand Duchess of Hesse. 

"Chronicles of the Schdnberg- 
Cotta Family," Author of (Mrs. 
E. Rundle Charles), f 1896. 

Chronicles of the Schdnberg-Cotta Fa- 
mily 2 v. — The Draytons and the 
Davenants 2 v. — On Both Sides of 
the Sea 2 v. — Winifred Bertram x v. — 
Diary of Mrs. Kitty Trevylyan x v. — 
The Victory of the Vanquished x v. — 
The Cottage by the Cathedral and other 
Parables i v. — Against the Stream 2 v. 

— The Bertram Family a v. — Conquer- 
ing and to Conquer x v. — Lapsed, but not 
Lost x V, 

Clark, Alfred. 
The Finding of Lot's Wife x v. 

Clemens, Samuel L.: v. Twain. 

CUfford, Mrs. W. K. 

Love-Letters of a Worldly Woman x v. 
— Aunt Anne 2 v. — ^The Last Touches, and 
other Stories x v. — Mrs. Keith's Crime 
X V. — A Wild Proxy x v. — A Flash of 
Summer x v. — A Woman Alone i v. — 
Woodside Farm x v. 

Clive, Mrs. Caroline, \ 1873: 
vide Author of" Paul FerroU." 

Cobbe, Frances Power, j- 1904. 
Re-Echoes x v. 

Coleridge, C R. 

Aa "EngVuh Squire 2 v, 

Coleridge, M. £. 
The King with two Faces 2 v. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 
t 1834. 

Poems z V. 

Collins, Charles AUston, f 1^73* 
A Cruise upon Wheels 2 ▼. 

Collins, Mortimer, f 1876. 

Sweet and Twenty 2 v. — A Fight with 
Fortune 2 v. 

Collins, Wilkie, t 1889. 

After Dark i v. — Hide and Seek 2 v. — 
A Plot in Private Life, etc. x v. — The 
Woman in White 2 v. — Basil x v. — No 
Name 3 V. — The Dead Secret, and other 
Tales 2 V. — Antonina 2 v. — Armadale 
3 V. — The Moonstone 2 ▼. — Man and 
Wife 3 V. — Poor Miss Finch 2 v. — Miss 
or Mrs. ? x ▼. — The New Magdalen 2 v. — 
The Frozen Deep i v. — The Law and the 
Lady 2 v. — The Two Destinies i v. — My 
Lady's Money, and Percy and the Prophet 
IV. — The Haunted Hotel 1 v. — The 
Fallen Leaves 2 v. — Jezebel's Daughter 
2 v. — The Black Robe 2 v. — Heart and 
Science 2 v. — "I say No," 2 v. — The Evil 
Genius 2 v. — The Guilty River, and The 
Ghost's Touch x v. — The Legacy of Cain 
2 T. — Blind Love 2 v. 

"Cometh up as a Flower," Au- 
thor of: vide Rhoda Brough- 

Conrad, Joseph. 

An Outcast of the Islands 3 ▼. — Tales 
of Unrest x y. 

Conway, Hugh (F. J. Fargus), 
t 1885. 

Called Back x v. — Bound Together 
2 V. — r Dark Days x v. — A Family Aflfair 
2 V. — Living or Dead 2 v. 

Cooper, James Fenimore (Am.), 
t 1851. 

The Spy (with Portrait) x v. — The Two 
Admirals x v. — The Jack O'Lantem x v. 


Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 

Corelli, Marie. 

Vendetta lav. — Thelnia 2 v. — A 
Romance of Two Worlds 2 v. — ** Ardatb ** 
3 V. — Wormwood. A Drama of Paris 
2 V. — The Hired Baby, with other Stories 
and Social Sketches i v. — Barabbas ; A 
Dream of the World's Tragedy 2 v. — 
The Sorrows of Satan 2 v. — The Mighty 
Atom XV. — The Murder of Delicia x v. — 
Ziska XV. — Boy. A Sketch. 2 v. — The 
Master-Christian 2v. — "Temporal Power'* 
2 V. — God's Good Man 2 v. — Free 
Opinions z v. 

Cotes, Mrs. Everard. 
Those Delightful Americans z v. 

"County, the,** Author o£ 
The County z v. 

Craik, George Lillie, f 1866. 

A Manual of English Literature and of 
the History of the English Language a v. 

Craik, Mrs. (Miss Dinah M. 

Mulock), t 1887. 

John Halifax, Gentleman 2 v. — The 
Head of the Family 2 v. — A Life for a 
Life 2 V. — A Woman's Thoughts about 
Women i v. — Agatha's Husband i v. — 
Romantic Tales z v. — Domestic Stories 
z V. — Mistress and Maid z v. — The 
Ogilvies z V. — Lord Erlistoun z v. — 
Christian's Mistake z v. — Bread upon 
the Waters z v. — A Noble Life z v. — 
Olive 2 v. — Two Marriages i v. — Studies 
from Life x v. — Poems x v. — The 
Woman's Kingdom 2 v. — The Unkind 
Word, and other Stories 2 v. — A Brave 
Lady 2 v. ^ Hannah 2 v. — Fair France 
z V. — My Mother and I z v. — The Little 
Lame Prince z v. — Sermons out of Church 
XV. — The Laurel -Bush ; Two little Tinkers 
z V. — A Legacy 2 v. — Young Mrs. Jardine 
2 V. — His Little Mother, and other Tales 
and Sketches i v. — Plain Speaking z v. — 
Miss Tommy x v. — King Arthur z v. 

Craik, Georgiana M. (Mrs. May). 

Lost and Won z v. — Faith Unwin's 
Ordeal z v. — Leslie Tyrrell z v. — Wini- 
fred's Wooing, etc. z V. — Mildred z v. — 
Esther Hill** Secret a v. — Hero Tre- 
velyan i v. — WitVxoul "KaOq. ot "KXtv ^n . — 
Only a Buttetfty i v. — S^ViXa?* C\io\cfc\ 
Theresa 2 v. - Au^xe WaWvcV x n. - 

Craik, Georgiana M., & M. C 

Two Tales of Married Life (Hard to 
Bear, by Miss Craik ; A True Man, by M. 
C. Stirling) 2 v. 

Craven, Mrs. Augustus: vide 
Lady PuUerton. 

Crawford, F. Marion (Am.). 
Mr. Isaacs z v. — Doctor Claudius zv. — 
To Leeward z v. — A Roman Singer 
XV. — An American Politician z v. — 
Zoroaster z v. — A Tale of a Lonely Parish 
2 V. — Saracinesca 2 v. — Marzio's Crucifix 
X v.— PaulPatoff 2 v. — With thelnunortals 
IV. — Greifenstein 2 v. — Sant' Bario 
2 V. — A Cigarette - Maker's Romance 
X V. — Khaled z v. — The Witch of Prague 
2 V. — The Three Fates 2 v. — Don Orsino 
2 v. — The Children of the King z v. — 
Pietro Ghisleri 2 v. — Marion Darche z v. 
— Katharine Lauderdale 2 v. — The Ral- 
stons 2 v. — Casa Bracdo 2 v. — Adam 
Johnstone's Son z v. — Taquisara 2 v. — 
A Rose of Yesterday z v. — Corleone 
2 V, — Via Cruds 2 v. — In the Palace of 
the King 2 ▼. — Marietta, a Maid of 
Venice 2 v. — Cecilia 2 v. — The Heart 
of Rome 2 v. — Whosoever Shall Offend... 
2 V. — Soprano 2 v. 

Crockett, S. R. 
The Raiders 2 v. — Cleg Kelly 2 v.— 
The Grey Man 2 v. — Love Idylls z v. — 
The Dark o' the Moon 2 v. 

Croker, B. M. 
Peg£7 of the Bartons 2 v. — The Happy 
Valley z v. — The Old CaAtonment, with 
Other Stories of India and Elsewhere z v. 

Cross, J. W.: vide George 
Eliot's Life. 

Cudlip, Mrs. Pender: vide A 

Cummins, Miss (Am.), f 1866. 

The Lamplighter z v. — Mabel Vaughan 
z V. — El Fureidis zv. — HauntedHeans zv. 

Cushing, PauL 
The Blacksmith of Voe 2 v. 

••Daily News." 

War Correspondence, Z877, ^7 Azdu« 
Vi^d. Forbes and others 3 v. 

TaUcknitz Edition. Complete List, 

Davis, Richard Harding (Am.). 

Gallegher , etc. i v. — Van Bibber and 
Others i v. — Ranson's Folly x v. 

De Foe, Daniel, -f 1731. 

Robinson Crusoe x v. 

Deland, Margaret (Am.). 
Tobn Ward, Preacher x ▼. 

•* Democracy," Author of (Am.). 
Democracy i v. 

" Demos," Author of: vide George 

"Diary and Notes," Author 
of: vide Author of "Horace 

Dickens, Charles, f 1870. 

The Pickwick Club (with Portrait) 2 v. — 
American Notes i v. — Oliver Twist i v. — 
Nicholas Nickleby a v. — Sketches i v. — 
Martin Chuzzlewit 2 v. — A Christmas 
Carol ; The Chimes ; The Cricket on the 
Hearth x v. — Master Humphrey's Clock 
(Old Curiosity Shop; Bamaby Rudge, etc.) 

3 y. — Pictures from Italy x v. — Dombey 
and Son 3 V. — David Copperfield 3 V. — 
Bleak House 4 V. — A Child's History of 
England (2 v. 8®M. 2,70.) — Hard Times 
IV. — Little Dorrit (with Illustrations) 4 v. 

— The Battle of Life ; The Haunted Man 
IV. — A Tale of two Cities 2 v. — Hunted 
Down ; The Uncommercial Traveller i v. 

— Great Expectations 2 v. — Christmas 
Stories, etc. i v. — Our Mutual Friend 
(with Illustrations) 4 V. — Somebody's 
Luggage ; Mrs. LIrriper's Lodgings ; Mrs. 
Lirriper's Legacy i v. — Doctor Mari- 
gold's Prescriptions; Mugby Junction i v. 

— The Mystery of Edwin Drood (with 
Illustrations) 2 v. — ITie Mud fog Papers, 
IV. — The Letters of Charles Dickens, ed. 
by his Sister-in-law and his eldestDaughter 

4 V. — Vtde also Household Words, Novels 
and Tales, and John Forster. 

Dickens, Charles, & Wilkie 

No Thoroughfare; Tlie Late Miss Hol- 
Ungford z r. 


Disraeli, Benjamin, Lord Bea- 
consfield, + 1881. 

Coningsby i v. — Sybil 1 v. — Contarini 
Fleming (with Portrait) i v. — Alroy i v. — 
Tancred 2 v. — Venetia 2 v. — Vivian 
Grey 2 v. — Henrietta Temple i v. — 
Lothair 2 v. — Endymion 2 v. 

Dixon, Ella Hepworth. 
The Story of a Modem Woman i v. — On© 
Doubtful Hour i v. 

Dixon, W. Hepworth, f 1879. 
Personal History of Lord Bacon i v. — 
The Holy Land 2 V. — New America 2 v. — 
Spiritual Wives 2 v. — Her Majesty's 
Tower 4 V. — Free Russia 2 v. — History 
of two Queens 6 v. — White Conquest 
2 ▼. — Diana, Lady Lyle 2 v. 

Dixon, Jr., Thomas, (Am.). 
The Leopard's Spots 2 ▼. 

Dougall, L. (Am.). 
Beggars All 2 v. 

Dowie, M6nie Muriel. 
A Girl in the Karpathians i v. 

Doyle, Sir A. Conan. 

The Sign of Four i v. — Micah Clarke 
2 V. — The Captain of the Pole-Star, and 
other Tales i v. — The White Company 
2 V. — A Study in Scarlet i v. — The 
Grreat Shadow, and Beyond the City 1 v. — 
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes 2 v. 
— The Refugees 2 v. — The Firm of 
Girdlestone 2 v. — The Memoirs of Sher- 
lock Holmes 2 v. — Round the Red Lamp 
XV. — The Stark Munro Letters x v. — 
The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard x v. — 
Rodney Stone 2 v. — Uncle Bemac x v. — 
The Tragedy of the Korosko x v. — A 
Duet IV.—- The Green Flag i v. — The 
Great Boer War 2 v. — The War in South 
Africa IV. — The Hound of the Basker- 
villes IV. — Adventures of Gerard i v, — 
The Return of Sherlock Holmes 2 v. 

Drummond, Professor Henry, 

t 1897. 

The Greatest Thing in the World ; Pas 
Vobiscum ; The Changed Life i v. 

Dufferin, the Earl of. 
Letter* itom 'H\^'\-.^'6to^^e%. x '^ . 


Tctiichnitz Edition. Complete List* 


vide Th. Watts-Dun- 

Earl, the, and the Doctor. 

South Sea Bubbles x ▼. 

Eastwick, Edward B., f 1883. 
Autobiography of LntfuUah x v. 

Edgeworth, Maria, vide Series 
for the Young, p. 29. 

Edwardes, Mrs. Annie. 

Archie Lovell 2 v. — Steven Lawrence, 
Yeoman 2 v. — Ought we to visit her? 2 v. 

— A Vagabond Heroine i v. — Leah : A 
Woman of Fashion 2 v. — A Blue-Stock- 
ing I V. — Jet : Her Face or Her Fortune? 
XV. — Vivian the Beauty i v. — A Ball- 
room Repentance 2 v. — A Girton Girl 
2 V. — A Playwright's Daughter, and 
Bertie Griffiths i v. — Pearl-Powder x ▼. 
The Adventuress x v. 

Edwards, Amelia B., f 1892. 

Barbara's History 2 v. — Miss Carcw 
2 V. — Hand and Glove 1 v. — Half a Mil- 
lion of Money 2 v. — Debenhani's Vow 
2 V. — In the Days of my Youth 2 v. — 
Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequented Val- 
leys IV. — Monsieur Maurice i v. — A 
Night on the Borders of the Black Forest 
XV. — A Poetry- Book of Elder Poets 
IV. — A Thousand Miles up the Nile 2 v. 

— A Poetry-Book of Modem Poets i v. — 
Lord Bracken bury 2 v. 

Edwards, M. 

Betham-: vide 

Edward, Eggleston (Am.). 
The Faith Doctor 2 v. 

Elbon, Barbara (Am.). 
Bethesda 2 v. 

Eliot, George (Miss Evans — 

Mrs. Cross), | 1 880. 

Scenes of Clerical Life 2 v. — Adam 
Bede 2 v. — The Mill on the Floss 2 v. — 
Silas Marner i v. — Rc^mola 2 v. — Felix 
Holt 2 V. — Dav\\ft\"D«toTvda. ^ v. — The 
Lifted VeW, and. "BtovVi^T "^^ncOa ^ N.- 
Irapressio'ns ol T\ieov>axas\Ais ^>j.c\v 

Fs4v8 and -Lea-ve* Itom a. ^^"^^'^^^ 
XV - George BWslAle, e^x^^^\.>J V« 
Husband, 3. ^V. Cross ^v. 

"Elizabeth and her German 
Garden,*' Author of. 

Elizabeth and her Grerman Garden i v.— 
The Solitary Summer x v. — The Bene- 
factress 2 V. — Princess Priscilla's Fort- 
night XV. — The Adventures of Elizabeth 
in Riigen x v. 

Elliot, Mrs. Frances, f 1898. 

Diary of an Idle Woman in Italy 2 v.— 
Old Court Life in France 2 v. — The 
Italians 2 v. — The Diary of an Idle 
Woman in Sicily x v. — Pictures of Old 
Rome IV. — The Diary of an Idle Woman in 
Spain 2 V. — The Red Cardinal i v. — 
The Story of Sophia x v. — Diary of an 
Idle Woman in Constantinople x v. — 
Old Court Life in Spain 2 v. — Roman 
Gossip X V. 

" Englishwoman's Love-Lct- 
ters, an," Author of. 
An Englishwoman's Love-Letters 1 v. 

Enroll, Henry. 
An Ugly Duckling x v. 

Esler, E. RentouL 
The Way they loved at Grimpat x v. 

"Essays and Reviews," the 
Authors of. 
Essays and Reviews. By various Autbon 

I V. 

"Estelle Russell," Author of. 
Estelle Russell 2 v. 

Esterre- Keeling, Elsa D*. 

Three Sisters i v. — A Laughing Philo- 
sopher XV. — The Professor's Wooing i t. 
— In Thoughtland and in Dreai^and 
IV. — Orchardscroft x v. — Appassionata 
IV. — Old Maids and Young 2 v. — The 
Queen's Serf i v. 

"Euthanasia," Author of. 
Euthanasia x v. 

Ewing, Juliana Horatia, f 1885. 

Jackanapes; The Story of a Short Life; 
Daddy Darwin's Dovecot x v. — A Flat 
Iron for a Farthing x v. — The Brownies, 
and other Tales x v. 

"Expiated," Author of. 

Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 


Farrar, F. W. (Dean), f 1903. 
Darkness and Dawn 3 v. 

"Fate of Fenella, the," Authors 
The Fate of Fenella, hy 24 Authors x v. 

Felkin, Alfred Laurence: vide 
E. T. Fowler. 

Felldn, Mrs.: vide E. T. Fowler. 

Fendall, Percy: vide F. C 

Fenn, George ManviUe. 

Tlie Parson o' Dumford 2 v. — The 
Clerk of Portwick 2 v. 

Fielding, Henry, f 1754. 
Tom Jones 2 v. 

Findlater, Mary and Jane: vide 
. Kate Douglas Wiggin. 

Five Centuries 
of the English Language and Literature : 
John Wycliffe. — Greofl&rey Chaucer. — 
Stephen Hawes. — Sir Thomas More. — 
Edmund Spenser. — Ben Tonson. — John 
Locke. — ^Thomas Gray (vol. 500, published 
i860) I V. 

Fleming, George (Am.). 
Kismet x v. — Andromeda 2 v. 

Forbes, Archibald, t 1900. 

My Experiences of the War between 
France and Germany 2 v. — Soldiering 
and Scribbling i v. — Memories and 
Studies of War and Peace 2 v. — Vide also 
** Daily News,'* War Correspondence. 

Forrest, R. E. 
Eight Days 2 v. 

Forrester, Mrs. 

Viva 2 V. — Rhona 2 v. — Roy and Viola 
2 V. — My Lord and My Lady 2 v. — I 
have Lived and Loved 2 v. — June 2 v. — 
Omnia Vanitas x v. — Although he was a 
Lord, and other Tales x v. — Corisande, 
and other Tales x v. — Once Again 2 v. — 
Of the World, Worldly i v. — Dearest 
2 v. — The Light of other Days x v. — 
Too Late Repented x v. 

Forster, John, f 1876. 
The Life of Charles Dickens (with lUus- 
tradons and Portrait) 6 v. — Life and 
Times of Oliver Goldsmith 2 v. 


Fothergill, Jessie. 

The First Violin 2 v. — Probation 2 v. — 
Made or Marred, and "One of Three'* 
XV. — Kith and Kin 2 v. — Peril 2 v. — 
Borderland 2 v. 

"Found Dead," Author of: vide 
James Payn. 

Fowler, Ellen Thomeycroft 

(Mrs. Alfred Laurence Felkin). 

A Double Thread 2 v. — The Farring- 
dons 2 v. — Fuel of Fire x v. — Place and 
Power 2 V. 

Fowler, Ellen Thorneycroft 

(Mrs. A. L. Felkin) & Alfred 

Laurence Felkin. 
Kate of Kate Hall 2 v. 

Fox, Caroline, f 187 1. 

Memories of Old Friends from her Jour- 
nals and Letters, edited by Horace N. 
Pym 2 v. 

"Frank Fairlegh," Author of 
(F. E. Smedley), f 1864. 
Frank Fairiegh 2 v. 

Francis, M. £. 
The Duenna of a Genius x v. 

Frederic, Harold (Am.), j- 1898. 
Illumination 2 v. — March Hares x v. 

Freeman, Edward A., f 1892. 

The Growth of the English Constitution 
IV. — Select Historical Essays x v. — 
Sketches from French Travel x v. 

Froude,Jame8Anthony,-|- 1894. 

Oceana x v. — The Spanish Story of the 
Armada, and other Essays x v. 

FuUerton , Lady Georgiana, 
t 1885. 

Ellen Middleton i v. — Grantley Manor 
2 V. — Lady Bird 2 v. — Too Strange not 
to be True 2 v. — Constance Sherwood 
2 V. — A Stormy Life 2 v. — Mrs. Geralds* 
Niece 2 v. — The Notary's Daughter x v. — 
The Lilies of the Valley, and The House of 
Penarvan 1 v. — TVxeCo\«i\.'esfi.^<&"^'a>'«ttR?4'aiw 
\ V. — 'ELose'L.^Vaxvc -i.n .— '^«^«^'^'^"^^'*^'«' 


Tauchniiz Edition. Complete List, 

kerchief at the Window a v. — Eliane 
3 V. (by Mrs. Augiistus Craven, translated 
by Lady Fullerton). — Laurentia i v. 

Gardiner, Marguerite: vide 
Lady Blessington. 

Gaskell, Mrs., j ^^^S- 

Mary Barton i v, — Ruth 2 ▼. — North 
and South z v. — Lizzie Leigh, and other 
Tales I V. — The Life of Charlotte Bronte 
a V. — Lois the Witch, etc. x v. — Sylvia's 
Lovers 2 v. — A Dark Night's Work 
XV. — Wives and Daughters 3 v. — Cran- 
I'ord XV. — Cousin Phillis, and other Tales 
1 V. 

"Geraldine Hawthorne," Author 
of: vide Author of **Mi8s 

Gerard, Dorothea (Madame Lon- 

gard de Longgarde). 
Lady Baby 2 v. — Recha i v, — Ortho- 
dox IV. — TheWrong Man i v. — A Spot- 
less Reputation x v. — A Forgotten Sin i v. 

— One Year i v. — The Supreme Crime i v. 

— The Blood-Tax x v. — Holy Matrimony 
I v. — The Eternal Woman x v. — Made 
of Money x v. — The Bridge of Life x v. 

— The Three Essentials x v. — The Im- 
probable Idyl X V. 

Gerard, E. (Emily de-Laszowska). 
A Secret Mission x v. — A Foreigner 2 v. 

— The Extermination of Love 2 v. 

Gibeme, Agnes. 

The Curate's Home x v. 

Gissing, George, f 1903. 
Demos. A Story of English Socialism a v. 

— New Grub Street 2 v. 

Gladstone, Rt Hon. W. £., 

t 1898. 

Rome and the Newest Fashions in Re- 
ligion XV. — Bulgarian Horrors, and 
Russia in Turkistan, with other Tracts 
■The Hellenic Factor in the Eastern 

I V. 

Problem, with other Tracts x v. 

Glyn, Elinor. 
The Visits of Elizabeth x v. — The Re- 
flections of Ambrosine i v. — The Vicissi- 
tudes of EvangeVvuft in,— 'Sie.iavA \3ckft, 
Rocks IV. \ r^ 

Godfrey ,HaX ipiaxVoM^O'^oT.^xA ^'^'^^^^ K%.<i5^^.;i^ ^:^acvOTn5 
The Rejavenatlon oi^v^^^^^^ 

Goldsmith, Oliver, f 1774. 
Select Works (with Portrait) x v. 

Goodman, Edward J. 
Too Curious z v. 

Gordon, Julien (Am.). 

A Diplomat's Diary z ▼. 

Gordon, Major -Gen. C G., 

t 1885. 

His Journals at Kartoum. Introduction 
and Notes by A. £. Hake (with eighteen 
Illustrations) 2 v. 

Gore, Mrs., f 186 1. 

Casdes in the Air z v. — The Dean's 
Daughter 2 v. — Progress and Prejudice 
2 V. — Mammon 2 v. — A Life's Lessons 
2 v. — The Two Aristocracies 2 v. — Hcck- 
ingtpn 2 V. 

Grand, Sarah. 

Our Manifold Nature z v. — Babs the 
Impossible 2 v. 

Grant, Miss. 

Victor Lescar 2 v. — The Sun-Maid 2 v. 
— My Heart's in the Highlands 2 v. — 
Artiste 2 v. — Prince Hugo a v, — Cara 
Roma a ▼. 

Gray, MaxwelL 

The Silence of Dean Maitland a v. — The 
Reproach of Annesley 2 v. 

Grenville: Murray, E. C(Trois- 

Etoiles), t 1 88 1. 

The Member for Paris a v. — Young 
Brown 2 v. — The Boudoir Cabal 3 V,— 
French Pictures in English Chalk CPird 
Series) 2 v. — The Russians of Tonday 
XV. — French Pictures in English ChaJk 
(Second Series) 2 v. — Strange Tales 
X V. — That Artful Vicar 2 V. — Six Months 
in the Ranks x v. — People I have met x v. 

Grimwood, Ethel Sl Clair. 

My Three Years in Manipur (with Por- 
trait) X v. 

Grohman, W. A. Baillie. 

,'\.'^\ci\'»a!itiieTyrolese z v. 


Tauchnitz Edition^ Complete List, 


Guthrie, P. Anstey : vide Anstey. 

"Guy Livingstone," Author of 
(George Alfred Laurence), 
t 1876. 
Guy jLivingstone x v. — Sword and 
Gown XV. — Barren Honour x v. — 
Border and Bastille x ▼. — Maurice Derlng 
XV. — Sans Merci 2 v. — Breaking a 
Butterfly 2 v. — Anteros 2 v. — Ha- 
garene 2 v. 

Habberton, John (Am.). 

Helen's Babies & Other People's Chil- 
dren XV. — The Bowsham Puzzle x v. — 
One Tramp ; Mrs. Mayburn's Twins x v. 

Haggard, H. Rider. 

King Solomon's Mines x v. — She 2 v. — 
Jess 2 V. — Allan Quatermain 2 v. — The 
Witch's Head 2 v. — Maiwa's Revenge 
XV. — Mr. Meeson's Will x v. — Colonel 
Quaritch, V. C. 2 v. — Cleopatra 2 v. — 
Allan's Wife x v. — Beatrice 2 v. — Dawn 
2 V. — Montezuma's Daughter 2 v. — The 
People of the Mist 2 v. —Joan Haste 2 v. — 
Heart of the World 2 v. — The Wizard 
XV. — Doctor Therne x v. — Swallow 
2 V. — Black Heart and White Heart, 
and Elissa x v. — Lysbeth 2 v. — A Winter 
Pilgrimage 2 v, — Pearl-Maiden 2 v. — 
StcHla Fregelius 2 v. — The Brethren 2 v. 

— Ayesha. The Return of * She ' 2 v. — 
The Way of the Spirit 2 v. 

Haggard, H. Rider, & Andrew 
The World's Desire 2 v. 

Hake, A. E. : vide Gen. Gordon. 

Hall, Mrs. S. C, f 1881. 
Can Wrong be Right? x v. — Marian 2 v. 

Hamerton, Philip Gilbert, 
Marraorne x v. — French and English 2 v. 

Hardy, Miss Iza: vide Author of 
"Not Easily Jealous." 

Hardy, Thomas. 
The Hand of Ethelberta 2 v. — Far 
from the Madding Crowd 2 v. — The Re- 
turn of the Native 2 v. — The Trumpet- 
Major 2 v. — A Laodicean 2 v. — Two on 
a Tower 2 v. — A Pair of Blue Eyes 2 v. 

— A Group of Noble Dames x v. — Tcss 
of tho D'UrberviUes a v. — Life's LitUe 

Ironic* x v. —Judo the Obscure 2 v. 

Harland, Henry, -j* 1905. 

The Cardinal's Snu£f-Box x v. — The 
Lady Paramount x v.— My Friend Prospero 
X v. 

Harraden, Beatrice. 

Ships that pass in the Night i v. — In 
Varying Moods x v. — Hilda Strafford, 
and The Remittance Man x v. — The 
Fowler 2 v. — Katharine Frensham 2 v. 

— The Scholar's Daughter x v. 

Harrison, Agnes. 

Martin's Vineyard x v. 

Harte, Bret (Am.), -j- 1902. 

Prose and Poetry (Tales of the Argo- 
nauts : — The Luck of Roaring Camp ; 
The Outcasts of Poker Flat, etc. — 
Spanish and American Legends; Con- 
densed Novels; Civic and Character 
Sketches; Poems) 2 v. — Idyls of the 
Foothills IV. — Gabriel Conroy 2 v. — 
Two Men of Sandy Bar x v. — Thankful 
Blossom, and other Tales x v. — Tho 
Story of a Mine i v. — Drift from Two 
Shores x v. — An Heiress of Red Dog, 
and other Sketches x v. — The Twins ot 
Table Mountain, and other Tales x v. — 
JefFBriggs'sLove Story, and other Tales 
XV. — Flip, and other Stories x v. — On 
the Frontier x v. — By Shore and Sedgo 
XV. — Marina x v. — Snow-bound at 
Eagle's, and Devil's Ford x v. — Tho 
Crusade of the "Excelsior" i v. — A 
Millionaire of Rough - and - Ready, and 
other Tales i v. — Captain Jim*s Friend, 
and the Argonauts of North Liberty x v. 

— Cressy x v. — The Heritage of Dedlow 
Marsh, and other Tales x v. — A Waif of 
the Plains x v. — A Ward of the Golden 
Gate XV. — A Sappho of Green Springs, 
and other Tales i v. — A First Family of 
Tasajara i v. — Colonel Starbottle's Client, 
and some other People i v. — Susy i v. — 
Sally Dows. etc. x v. — A Protegee of 
Jack Hamlin's, etc. x v. — The Bell- 
Ringer of Angel's, etc. x v. — Clarenco 
IV. — In a Hollow of the Hills, and Tho 
Devotion of Enriquez xv. — TheAncestors 
of Peter Atherly, etc. xv. — Three Partners 
XV. — Tales of Trail and Town x v. — 
Stories in Light and Shadow i v. — Mr. 
IV. — From Sand-Hill to Pine i v. — 
Under the Redwoods x v. — On the Old 
Trail x v. — Tte.tvt'^Tws^i.'^. 


Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List, 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel (Am.), 
t 1864. 

The Scarlet Letter z v. — Transforma- 
tion (The Marble Faun) 2 v. — Passages 
Irom the English Note-Books of Nathaniel 
Hawthorne 2 ▼. 

Hector, Mrs.: vide Mrs. Alex- 

•* Heir of Redclyffe, the," Author 
of: vide Charlotte M. Yonge. 

Helps, Sir Arthur j- 1875. 

Friends in Coiindl 3 ▼. — Ivan de Biron 
2 T. 

Hemans, Mrs. Felicia, f 1835. 

Select Poetical Works z v. 

Hewlett, Maurice. 

The Forest Lovers z v. — Little Novels 
of Italy z V. — The Life and Death of 
Richard Yea-and-Nay 2 v. — New Can- 
terbury Tales z V. — The Queen's Quair ; 
or, The Six Years' Tragedy 2 v. — Fond 
Adventures xv, -^ The Fool Errant 2 v. 

Hichens, Robert 

Flames 2 v. — The Slave 2 v. — Felix 2 v. 
— The Woman with the Fan 2 v. — The 
Garden of Allah 2 v. — The Black Spaniel, 
and Other Stories i v. 

Hobart Pasha, Admiral,-}- 1886. 
Sketches from my Life x v. 

Hobbes, John Oliver. 

The Gods, Some Mortals and Lord 
Wickenham x v. — The Serious Wooing 

1 v. 

Hoey, Mrs. Cashel. 
A Golden Sorrow 2 v. — Out of Court 

2 V. 

Holdsworth, Annie £. 
The Years that the Locust hath Eaten 
I V. — The Gods Arrive z v. — The Val- 
ley of the Great Shadow z v. — Great Low- 
lands z V. — A Garden of Spinsters z v. 

Holme Lee: vide Harriet Parr. 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell (Am.), 

t 1894- 

Hope, Anthony (Hawkins). 

Mr. Witt's Widow z v. — A Change 
of Air XV. — Half a Hero z v. — The In- 
discretion of the Ducbess z v. — The God 
in the Car z v. — The Chronicles ofGrant 
Antonio z v. — Comedies of Coortship 
z V. — The Heart of Princess Osra x v. — 
Phroso 2 V. — Simon Dale 2 t. — Rupert 
of Hentzau z v. — The King's Mirror 
2 v.— Quisante z v. — Tristram of Blent 2 v. 

— The Intrusions of Peggy 2 v. — Doable 
Harness 2 v. — A Servant of the Public 2 v. 

Hopkins, Tighe. 

An Idler in Old France z v. — The Man 
in the Iron Mask z v. — The Dungeons 
of Old Paris x v. — The Silent Gate i v. 

" Horace Templeton," Author of. 
Diary and Notes z v. 

Homung, Ernest William. 

A Bride from the Bush z t. — Under 
Two Skies z v. — Tiny Luttrell z v. — 
The Boss of Taroomba z v. — My Lord 
Duke z V. — Young Blood z v. — Some 
Persons Unknown z v. — The Amateur 
Cracksman z v. — The Rogue*s March i v. 

— The Belle of Toorak z v. — Peccavi i v. 

— The Black Mask z v. -—The Shadow of 
the Rope z v. — No Hero z v. — Denis 
Dent z V. — Irralie's Bushranger and The 
Unbidden Guest z v. — Stingaree z v. — 
A Thief in the Night z v. 

"Household Words." 

Conducted by Charles Dickens. X85Z-56. 
36 V. — Novels and Tales reprinted from 
Household Words by Charles Dickens. 
X856-59. zz V. 

Houstoun, Mrs. : vide " Recom- 
mended to Mercy." 

"How to be Happy though 
Married," Author of. 
How to be Happy though Married z v. 

Howard, Blanche Willis (Am.), 

t 1899- 
One Summer zv. — Aunt Serena zv. — 
Guenn 2 v. — Tony, the Maid, etc. z v. — 
The Open Door 2 v. 

Howard, Blanche Willis, f 1 899, 
& William Sharp, j- 1905. 
K.Y«Jlft^e and His Wife z v. 

Tlie Autocrat of t\ie BteaLVlMX.-T^jQXft . ^a,^^,^\\^ >m-nv ^ .. x 

1 V. — The Professor at t\ie Bte2^d^^.-\ JAQr«€\^,NlVC^^^,a^ (^.'j. 

Tablo X V. — The Peel at tVve-BxeaVA^sV 
XabJe X V. — Over the Teacup x n. 

Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List, 


Instance 2 v. — The Undiscovered Country 
XV. — Venetian Life (with Portrait) z v. 

— Italian Journejrs x v. — A Chance Ac- 
quaintance X V. — Their Wedding Journey 
IV. — A Fearful Responsibility, and 
Tonelli's Marriage x v. — A Woman's 
Keason 2 v. — Dr. Breen's Practice x v. — 
The Rise of Silas Lapham a v. — A Pair 
of Patient Lovers x v. — Miss Bellard's In- 
spiration X V. 

Hughes, Thomas, f 1898. 

Tom Brown's School-Days x v. 

Hungerford, Mrs. (Mrs. Argles), 

t 1897. 
Molly Bawn 2 v. — Mrs. GeoflFrey 2 v. 

— Faith and Unfaith a v. — Portia a v. — 
Loys, Lord Berresford, and other Tales 
XV. — Her First Appearance, and other 
Tales XV. — Phyllis 2 v. — Rossmoyne 
2 V. — Doris 2 v. — A Maiden all Forlorn, 
etc. z V. — A Passive Crime, and other 
Stories XV. — Green Pleasure and Grey 
Grief 2 V. — A Mental Struggle 2 v. — 
Her Week's Amusement, and Ugly 
Harrington x v. — Lady Branksmere 2 v. 

— Lady Valworth's Diamonds i v. — A 
Modem Circe 2 v. — Marvel 2 v. — The 
Hon. Mn. Vereker x v. — Under-Cur- 
rents 2 v. — In Durance Vile, etc. i v. — A 
Troublesome Girl, and other Stories x v. — 
A Life's Remorse 2 v. — A Bom Coquette 
2 V. — The Duchess x v. — Lady Verner's 
Flight XV. — A Conquering Heroine, 
and "When in Doubt" i v. — Nora 
Creina 2 v. — A Mad Prank, and other 
Stories XV. — The Hoyden 2 v. — The 
Red House Mystery x v. — An Unsatis- 
factory Lover x v. — Peter's Wife 2 v. — 
The Three Graces x v. ^ A Tug of War 
XV. — The Professor's Experiment 2 v. — 
A Point of Conscience 2 v. — A Lonely 
Girl XV. — Lovice x v. — The Coming of 
Chloe X V. 

Hunt, Mrs. : vide Averil Beau- 

Hunt, Violet 
The Human Interest x v. 

Ingelow, Jean, f 1897. 

Off the Skelligs 3 V. — Poems 2 v. — 
Fated to be Free 2 v. — Sarah de 
Berenger 2 v. — Don John 2 v. 

Inglis, the Hon. LAdy. 

The Siege of Lucknow i v. 

Ingram, John H.: vide E. A. 

Iota: vide Mrs. Mannington 

Irving , Washington (Am.), 

t 1859. 
The Sketch Book (with Portrait) x v. — 
The Life of Mahomet x v. — Lives of the 
Successors of Mahomet x v. — Oliver Gold- 
smith XV. — Chronicles of Wolfert's Roost 
XV. — Life of George Washington 5 v. 

Jackson, Mrs. Helen (H. H.) 

(Am.), t 1885. 
Ramon a 2 v. 

Jacobs, W. W. 

Many Cargoes x v. — The Skipper's 
Wooing, and The Brown Man's Servant 
XV. — Sea Urchins x v. — A Master of 
Craft XV. — Light Freights x v. — At Sun- 
wich Port IV. — The Lady of the Barge i v. 

— Odd Crafl x v. — Dialstone Lane x v. 

— Captains All x v. 

James, Charles T. C 
Holy Wedlock x v. 

James, G. P. R, f i860. 

Morley Emstein (with Portrait) t v. — 
Forest Days x v. — The False Heir i v. — 
Arabella Stuart x v. — Rose d'Albret 
X V. — Arrah Neil x v. — Agincourt i v. — 
The Smuggler x v. — The Step-Mother 
2 V. — Beauchamp x v. — Heidelberg 
XV. — The Gipsy x v. — The Castle of 
Ehrenstein x v. — Darnley x v. — Russell 
2 V. — The Convict 2 v. — Sir Theodore 
Broughton 2 v. 

James, Henry (Am.). 

The American 2 v. — The Europeans 
XV. — Daisy Miller ; An International 
Episode ; Four Meetings x v. — Roderick 
Hudson 2 V. — The Madonna of the 
Future, etc. x v. — Eugene Pickering, 
etc. IV. — Confidence x v. — Washing- 
ton Square, etc. 2 v. — The Portrait of a 
Lady 3 V. — Foreign Parts x v. — French 
Poets and Novelists x v. — The Siege of 
London; The Point of View; A Pas- 
sionate Pilgrim x v. — Portraits of Places 
XV. — A Litde Tour in France x v. 

Jeaffreson, J. Cordy. 

A BooV. a\ic»\\. XiocXars. ^ "^^ 

— ^ 


Tanchnitz Edition, Complete List, 

Jenldn, Mrs. Charles, f ^^^S- 

"Who Breaks— Pays 


1 V. 


mishing x v. — Once and Again a v. — 
Two French Marriages 2 t. — Within an 
Ace XV. — Jupiter's Daughters x v. 

Jenkins, Edward. 

Ginx's Baby, his Birth and other Mis- 
fortunes ; Lord Bantam 2 v. 


»»— » »» 

Jennie of *The Prince's,* 
Author of: vide B. H. Buxton. 

Jerome, K. Jerome. 

The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow 
XV. — Diary of a Pilgrimage, and Six 
Essa}rs x v. — Novel Notes x v. — Sketches 
in Lavender, Blue and Green x v. — 
The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow 
IV. — Three Men on the Bummel x v. — 
Paul Kelver 2 v. — Tea-Table Talk x v. 
— Tommy and Co. x v. — Idle Ideas in X905 

X V. 

Jerrold, Douglas, f 1857. 

History of St. Giles and St. James 

2 V. — Men of Character 2 v. 

"John Halifax, Gentleman," 
Author of: vide Mrs. Craik. 

Johnny Ludlow: vide Mrs. 
Henry Wood. 

Johnson, Samuel, -j- 1784. 

Lives of the English Poets 2 v. 

Jolly, Emily. 

Colonel Dacre 2 v. 

"Joshua Davidson,** Author of: 
vide Mrs. £. Lynn Linton. 

Kavanagh, Miss Julia, f 1877. 

Nathalie a v. — Daisy Bums 2 v. — 
Grace Lee 2 v. — Rachel Gray x v. — 
Adele 3 V. — A Summer and Winter in 
the Two Sicilies 2 v. — Seven Years, and 
other Tales 2 v. — French Women of 
Letters x v. — English Women of Letters 
XV. — Queen Mab 2 v. — Beatrice 2 v. — 
Sybil's Second Love 2 v. — Dora 2 v. — 
Silvia 2 V. — Bessie 2 v. — John Dorrien 

3 v. — Two Lilies 2 v, — Forget-me-nots 
2 V. — Vide also Senes lot ^^ Xovti^, 

p. 29. 

Keary, Annie, ^ 1^7^. 
Cldbury 2 y. - Cast^^ \>^^ ^^• 

Keeling, D'Esterre-: vide £s- 

Kempis, Thomas a. 
The Imitation of Christ. Translated 
from the Latin by W. Benhaun, b.d. x t. 

Kimball, Richard B. (Am.), f 
Saint Leger x v. — Romance of Student 
Life Abroad x v. — Undercurrents x v. — 
Was he Successful? xv. — To-DaymNew 
York I V. 

Kinglake, Alexander William, 
t 1891. 

Eothen x v. — The Invasion of tbe 
Crimea X4 v. 

Kingsley, Charles, f 1875. 
Yeast XV. — Westward hoi 2 v. — Two 
Years ago 2 v. — Hypatia 2 v. — Alton 
Locke XV. — Hereward the Wake 2 v.— 
At Last 2 V. — His Letters and Memories 
of his Life, edited by his Wife 2 v. 

Kingsley, Henxy, f 1876. 
Ravenshoe 2 v. — Austin Elliot x v. — 
Geoflfiy Hamlyn 2 v. — The Hillyars and 
the Burtons 2 v. — Leighton Court x v. — 
Valentin x v. — Oakshott Castle i v. — 
Reginald Hetherege 2 v. — The Grange 
Garden 2 v. 

Kinross, Albert 
An Opera and Lady Grasmere x v. 

Kipling, Rudyard. 

Plain Tales from the Hills x v. — The 
Second Jungle Book x v. — The Seven 
Seas XV. — '* Captains Courageous" 
X V. — The Day's Work x v. — A Fleet 
in Being x v. — Stalky & Co. i v. — From 
Sea to Sea 2 v. — The City of Dreadful 
Night XV. — Kim x v. — Just So Stories i v. 
— The Five Nations x v. — Traffics and 
Discoveries x v. 

Laffan, May. 

Flitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor, 
etc. X V. 

Lamb, Charles, f 1834. 

The Essay's of Elia and Eliana x t. 

Lang, Andrew: vide H. Rider 

Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 


"Last of the Cavaliers, the," 
Author of (Miss Piddington). 
The Last of the Cavaliers 2 v. — The 
Gain of a Loss 2 v. 

Isaszowska, M<nc de: vide E. 

Laurence, George Alfred, 
Author of: vide " Guy Living- 

Lawless, the Hon. Emily. 

Hurrish x v. 

"Leaves from the Journal of 
our Life in the Highlands:" 
vide Victoria R. L 

Lee, Holme, \ 1 900 : vide Harriet 

Lee, Vernon. 
Pope Jacynth, etc. x v. — Genius Loci, and 
The Encnanted Woods x v. 

Le Fanu, J. S., f 1873. 

Uncle Silas 2 v. — Guy Deverell 2 v. 

Lemon, Mark, -j- 1870. 

Wait for the End 2 v. — Loved at Last 
2 V. — Falkner Lyle 2 v. — Leyton Hall, 
and other Tales 2 v. — Golden Fetters 

2 V. 

"Letters of Her Mother to 
Elizabeth, the," Author of: 
vide W. R. H. Trowbridge. 

Lever, Charles, f 1872. 
The O'Donoghue x v. — The Knig^ht of 
Gwynne 3 V. — Arthur O'Leary 2 v. — 
Harry Lorrequer 2 v. — Charles O'Mal- 
ley 3 V. — Tom Burke of "Ours" 3V. — 
Jack Hinton 2 v. — The Daltons 4 V. — 
The Dodd Family Abroad 3 V. — The 
Martins of Cro' Martin 3 V. — The For- 
tunes of Glencorei 2 v. — Roland Cashel 

3 V. — Davenport Dunn 3 V. — Confessions 
of Con Cregan 2 v. — One of Them 2 v. — 
Maurice Tiemay 2 v. — Sir Jasper Carew 
2 v. — Barrington 2 v. — A Day's Ride 
2 V. — Luttrell of Arran 2 v. — Tony Butler 
2 v. — Sir Brook Fossbrooke 2 v. — The 
Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly 2 v. — A 
Rent in a Cloud x v. — That Boy of Nor- 
cott's X V. — St. Patrick's Eve; Paul 
GossietVs Confessions x v. — Lord Kil- 

gobbin a r. 

Levett-Yeats, S. 

The Honour of Savelli x v. — Tlio 
Chevalier d'Auriac x v. — The Traitor's 
Way XV. — The Lord Protector x v. — 
Orrain x v. 

Lewes, G. H., + 1878. 

Ranthorpe i v. — The Physiologfy 01 
Common Life 2 v. — On Actors and the 
Art of Acting x v. 

Linton, Mrs. E. Lynn, f 1898. 

The true History of loshua Davidson 
XV. — Patricia Kemuall 2 v. — The 
Atonement of Learn Dundas 2 v. — The 
World well Lost 2 v. — Under which 
Lord? 2 V. — With a Silken Thread, and 
other Stories x v. — Todhunters' at Loan- 
in* Head, and other Stories x v. — *' My 
Love I " 2 V. — The Girl of the Period, 
and other Social Essays x v. — lone 2 v. 

Lockhart, Laurence W. M., 

j- 1882. 
Mine is Thine 2 v. 

Loftiis, Lord Augustus. 
Diplomatic Reminiscences X837 - x862 
(with Portrait) 2 v. 

Longard, M™e de: vide D. 

Longfellow, Henry Wads- 
worth (Am.), f 1882. 
Poetical Works (with Portrait) 1 v. — 
The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri 
3 V. — The New-England Tragedies i v. 
— The Divine Tragedy x v. — Flower-de- 
Luce, and Three Books of Song x v. — 
The Masque of Pandora, and other Poems 

X V. 

Lonsdale, Margaret 

Sister Dora (with a Portrait of Sister 
Dora) I V. 

Lorimer, George Horace (Am.). 

Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to his 
Son XV. — Old Gorgon Graham x v. 

" Lost Battle, a,** Author of. 
A Lost Battle 2 v. 

Lubbock, Sir John (Lord Ave- 

The Pleasures of Life x v. — The Beau.- 
ties of Nature (^vi\'CcvY\v«>'«^'C\oxv«\ -». ^. — 
TYxe\i%e oVlivle -t-i . — SefeT.«>3 ^^^^T^'^^^ 

1 8 

Tauchnttz Edition, Complete List. 

"LutfuUah**: vide Eastwick. 
Lyall, Edna, f 1903. 

We Two 2 V. — Donovan 2 v. — In 
the Golden Days 2 v. — Knight-Errant 
2 V. — Won by Waiting 2 v. — Wayfaring 
Men 2 V. — Hope the Hermit 2 v. — 
Doreen a v. — In Spite of All 2 v. — The 
Hinderers x v. 

Lytton, Lord: vide E. Bulwer. 

Lytton, Robert Lord (Owen 
Meredith), -f 1891. 
Poems 2 V. — Fables in Song 2 v. 

Maartens, Maarten. 

The Sin of Toost Avelingh i v. — An 
Old Maid's Love 2 v. — God's Fool 2 v. 

— The Greater Glory 2 v. — My I«ady 
Nobody 2 v. — Her Memory x v. — Some 
Women I have known x v. — My Poor 
Relations 2 v. — Dorothea 2 v. — The 
Healers 2 v. 

M^Aulay, Allan: vide Kate 

Douglas Wiggin. . 

M acaulay , Lord , Thomas 

Babington, f 1859. 
History of England (with Portrait) xo v. 

— Critical and Historical Essaj's 5 V. — 
LajTS of Ancient Rome i v. — Speeches 
2 v. — Biographical Essa3rs x v. — Wil- 
liam Pitt, Atterbury x v. — (See also 

M«*Carthy, Justin. 
The Waterdale Neighbours 2 v. — 
Dear Lady Disdain 2 v. — Miss Misan- 
thrope 2 V. — A History of our own Times 

5 V. — Donna Quixote 2 v. — A short 
History of our own Times 2 v. — A 
History of the Four Georges vols, x & 
2. — A History of our own Times vols. 

6 & 7 (supplemental) . — A History of the 
Four Georges and of William IV. Vols. 3, 
4 & 5 (supplemental). 

Mac Donald, George, -j- 1905. 

Alec Forbes of Howglen 2 v. — Annals 
of a Quiet Neighbourhood 2 v. — David 
Elginbrod 2 v. — The Vicar's Daughter 
2 V. — Malcolm 2 v. — St. George and 
St. Michael 2 v. — The Marquis of 
Lossie 2 v. — Sir Gibbie 2 v. — Mary 
Marston 2 v. — The Gifts of the Child 
Christ, and ot\ier Ta\e& \v. — The Prin- 
cess and Curdie \ v. 

Mackatness, 'Wits., \ \^V. 

Sunbeam Stories x ^. - i^^^ 
Wife 2 V. - A MmsVe^^^tn ax. 

Mackay, Eric, f 1898. 

Love Letters of a Violinist, and other 
Poems X V. 

MC Knight, Charles (Am.). 
Old Fort Duquesne 2 v. 

Maclaren, Ian. 

Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush x v. — 
The Days of Auld Langsyne i v. — His 
Majesty Baby x v. 

Macleod, Fiona, -|- 1905. 

Wind and Wave x v. — The Sunset of Old 
Tales X v. 

Macleod, Norman, f 1872. 
The Old Lieutenant and his Son i v. 

Macpherson, James, j 1796: 
vide Ossian. 

Macquoid, Mrs. 

Patty 2 V. — Miriam's Marriage 2 v. — 
Pictures across the Channel 2 v. — Too 
Soon IV. — My Story 2 v. — Diane 2 v. 

— Beside the River 2 v. — A Faithful 
Lover 2 v. 

"Mademoiselle Mori," Author 
of (Miss Roberts). 

Mademoiselle Mori 2 ▼. — > Denise i t. 

— Madame Fontenoy x v. — On the 
Edge of the Storm x v. — The Atelier da 
Lys 2 V. — In the Olden Time 2 v. 

Mahon, Lord: vide Stanhope. 

Maine, £. S. 
Scarsdift Rocks 2 v. 

Malet, Sir Edward, G.C.B.1 

Shifting Scenes x t. 

Malet, Lucas. 

Colonel Enderby's Wife 2 v. — The 
History of Sir Richard Calmady 3 v. 

Malmesbuxy, the Earl of; G.C.B. 

Memoirs of an Ex-Minister 3 v. 

Mann, Mary £. 
A Winter's Tale x v. — The Cedir 

Tauchnitz Edition, Complete Ltst» 


Mark Twain: vide Twain. 

"Marmome," Author of: vide 
P. G. Hamerton. 

Marryat, Capt, f 1848. 

Jacob Faithful (with Portrait) x r. — 
Perdval ICcene i v. — Peter Simple x v. — 

iaphet in Search of a Father i v. — 
lonsieur Violet 1 v. — The Setdcrs in 
Canada x v. — The Mission 1 v. — The 
Privateer's-Man x v. — The Children ot 
the New- Forest i v. — Valerie i v. — 
Mr. Midshipman Easy x v. — The King's 
Own X V. 

Marryat, Florence, -I* 1899. 

Love's Conflict 2 v. — For Ever and 
Ever a V. — The Confessions of Gerald 
Estcourt 2 V. — Nelly Brooke 2 v. — 
Veronique 2 v. — Petronel 2 v. — Her 
Lord and Master 2 v. — The Prey of the 
Gods XV. — Life and Letters of Captain 
Marryat x t. — Mad Dumaresq 2 v. — 
No Intentions 2 v. — Fighting the Air 
2 V. — A Star and a Heart ; An Utter Im- 
possibility XV. — The Poison of Asps, 
and other Stories x v. — A Lucky Disap- 
pointment, and other Stories x v. — "My 
own Child" a v. — Her Father's Name 
2 v. — A Harvest of Wild Oats 2 v. — 
A Little Stepson x v. — Written in Fire 
a v. — Her World against a Lie 2 v. — 
A Broken Blossom 2 v. — The Root of 
all Evil 2 v. — The Fair-haired Alda 2 v. — 
With Cupid's Eyes 2 v. — My Sister the 
Actress 2 v. — Phyllida 2 v. — How they 
loved Him 2 v. — Facing the Footlights 
(with Portrait) 2 v. — A Moment of Mad- 
ness, and other Stories x v. — The Ghost 
of Charlotte Cray, and other Stories 
XV. — Peeress and Player 2 v. — Under 
the Lilies and Roses 2 v. — The Heart 
of Jane Warner 2 v. — The Heir Pre- 
sumptive 2 V. — The Master Passion 2 v. 

— Spiders of Society 2 v. — Driven to Bay 
2 V. — A Daughter of the Tropics 2 v. — 
Gentleman and Courtier 2 v. — On Cir- 
cumstantial Evidence 2 v. — Mount Eden. 
A Romance 2 v. — Blindfold 2 v. — A 
Scarlet Sin x v. — A Bankrupt Heart 2 v. 

— The Spirit World x v. — The Beautiful 
Soul I V. — At Heart a Rake 2 v. — 
The Strange Transfiguration of Hannah 
Stubbs XV. — The Dream that Stayed 
2 V. — A Passing Madness i v. — The 
Blood of the Vampire i v. — A Soul on 

FJre XV.— Iris the Avenger i v. 

Marsh, Mrs. Anne (Caldwell), 

t 1874. 
Ravenscliffe 2 v. — Emilia Wyndham 
2 V. — Castle Avon 2 v. — Aubrey 2 v. — 
The Heiress of Haughton 2 v. — Evelyn 
Marston 2 v. — The Rose of Ashurst 2 v. 

Marshall, Mrs. Emma, f 1899. 
Mrs. Mainwaring's Journal x v. — 
Benvenuta x v. — Lady Alice x v. — 
Dayspring x v. — Life's Aftermath i v. — 
In the East Country x v. — No. XIII ; or. 
The Story of the Lost Vestal x v. — In 
Four Reigns x v. — On the Banks of the 
Ouse XV. — In the City of Flowers r v. — 
Alma XV. — Under Salisbury Spire x v. 

— The End Crowns All i v. — Winchester 
Meads x v. — Eventide Light i v. — 
Winifrede's Journal x v. — Bristol Bells 
XV. — In the Service of Rachel Lady 
Russell XV. — A Lily among Thorns x v. 

— Penshurst Castle x v. — Kensington 
Palace x v. — The White King's Daughter 
IV. — The Master of the Musicians x v. 

— An Escape from the Tower x v. — A 
Haunt of Ancient Peace x v. — Castle 
Meadow x v. — In the Choir of West- 
minster Abbey x v. — The Young Queen 
of Hearts x v. — Under the Dome of St. 
Paul's XV. — The Parson's Daughter 

1 V. 

Mason, A. E. VI. 
The Four Feathers 2 v. — Miranda of 
the Balcony x v. — The Courtship of Mor- 
rice Buckler 2 v. — The Truants a v. — 
The Watchers x v. 

Mathers, Helen (Mrs. Heniy 
"Cherry Ripel" 2 v. — "Land o' the 
Leal " XV. — My Lady Green Sleeves 2 v, 

— As he comes up the Stair, etc. x v. — 
Sam's Sweetheart 2 v. — E3rre's Acquittal 

2 ▼. — Found Out XV. — Murder or Man • 
slaughter? x t. — The Fashion of this 
World (80 Pf.)— Blind Justice, and "Who, 
being dead, vet Speaketh " x v. — What 
the Glass Told, and A Study of a Woman 
XV. — Bam Wildfire 2 v. — Becky 2 v. — 
Cinders x v. — "Honey" x v. — GrrifF of 
Griffithscourt x v. — The New Lady Teazle, 
and Other Stories and Essays z v. — The 
Ferryman x v. 

Maurice, Colonel. 
The Balance ot 1&?K>^t^ "^oNa^x vcw 


Trilby a^. — TVe^^xXlvw^a^- 


Tauchnttz Edition. Complete List, 

Maxwell, Mrs.: v. MissBraddon. 

Maxwell, W. B. 
The Rai^ged Messenger 2 v. 

"Mehalah," Author of: vide 

Melville, George J. Whytc, 
t 1878. 
Kate Coventry 1 v. — Holmby House 
2 V. — Digby Grand 1 v. — Good for No- 
thing 2 V. — The Queen's Maries 2 v. — 
The Gladiators 2 v. — The Brookes of 
Bridlemere 2 v. — Cerise 2 v. — The 
Interpreter 2 v. — The White Rose 2 v. — 
M. or N. 1 V. — Contraband x v. — 
Sarchedon 2 v. — Unclejohn 2 v. — 
Katerfelto x v. — Sister Louise x v. — 
Rosine x v. — Roys' Wife 2 v. — Black 
but Comely 2 v. — Riding Recollections x v. 

Memorial Volumes: vide Five 
Centuries (vol. 500) ; The New 
Testament (vol. 1000); Henry 
Morley (vol. 2000). 

Meredith, George. 

The Ordeal of Richard Feverel 2 v. — 
Beauchamp's Career 2 v. — The Tragic 
Comedians x v. — Lord Ormont and his 
Aminta 2 v. — The Amazing Marriage 

2 V. 

Meredith, Owen: vide Robert 
Lord Lytton. 

Merrick, Leonard. 

The Man who was good x v. — This 
Stage of Fools x v. — Cynthia i v. — One 
Man's View i v. — The Actor-Manager 
XV. — The Worldlings x v. — When Love 
flies out o* the Window i v. — Conrad in 
Quest of His Youth i v. — The Quaint 
Companions i v. —Whispers about Women 

X V. 

Merriman, Henry Seton,-j- 1903. 

Young Mistley x v. — Prisoners and 
Captives 2 v. — From One Generation to 
Another i v. — With Edged Tools 2 v. — 
The Sowers 2 v. — Flotsam 1 v. — In 
Kedar's Tents t v. — Roden's Corner 
IV. — The Isle of Unrest i v. — The Velvet 
Glove I V. — The Vultures i v. — Barlasch 
of the Guard i v. — Tom^&o's Fortune, and 
Other Storiea 1 v. — T\ife\*aaX"^o^ a^. 

Menitnan, H.S., &^.O.T«\\«^ 

The Money-Spmnct, etc. x v. 

Milne, James. 

The Epistles of Atkins x v. 

Milton, John, f 1674. 
Poetical Works x v. 

"Molly, Miss," Author of. 
Geraldine Hawthorne x t. 

"Molly Bawn," Author of: vide 
Mrs. Hungerford. 

Montgomery, Florence. 

Misunderstood x v. — Thrown To- 
gether 2 V. — Thwarted it. — Wild Mike 
XV, — Seaforth 2 v. — The Blue Veil 
IV. — Transformed x v. — The Fisher- 
man's Daughter , etc. x v. — Colond 
Norton 2 v. — Prejudged x v. — An Un- 
shared Secret, and Other Tales i v. 

Moore, Frank Frankfort 
•*I Forbid the Banns" 2 v. — A Gray 
Eye or So 2 v. — One Fair Daughter 
2 v. — They Call it Love 2 v. — The 
Jessamy Bride i v. — The Millionaires i t. 

— Nell Gwyn — Comedian i v. — A Damsel 
or Two IV. — Castle Omeragh 2 v. — Ship- 
mates in Sunshine 2 v. — The Original 
Woman x v. — The White Causeway x v. 

— The Artful Miss Dill i v. 

Moore, George. 

Celibates x v. — Evelyn Innes 2 v. — 
Sister Teresa 2 v. — The Untilled Field 1 v. 

— Confessions of a Young Man z v. — The 
Lake x v. 

Moore, Thomas, f 1852. 

Poetical Works (with Portrait) 5 r. 
Morgan, Lady, f 1859. 

Memoirs 3 v. 

Morley, Henry, j 1894. 

Of English Literature in the Reign of 
Victoria. With Facsimiles of the Signa- 
tures of Authors in the Tauchnitz Edition 
(v. 2000, published x88i) z v. 

Morris, VS^illiam. 
A Selection from his Poems. Edited 
with a Memoir by F. Hueffer i v. 

Morrison, Arthur. 

Tales of Mean Streets i v. — A Child 
of the Jago x v. — To London Town i v. 

— Cunning Murrell x v. — The Hole in the 
Wall IV. — The Green Eye of Goona x ?. 

— Divers Vanities x v. 

Muirhead, James Fullarton. 

"^^ La^nd of Contrasts i v. 

^^xsNoOt^^^Cv^^'-.-viViit Mrs. Craik. 

Tatcchnitz Edition* Complete List, 


Murray, Grenville : v. Grenville. 

«*My Little Lady," Author of: 

vide E. Frances Po3mter. 

New Testament, the. 
The Authorised English Version, with 
Introduction and Various Readings from 
the three most celebrated Manuscripts of 
the Original Text, by Constantino Tischen- 
dorf (vol. zooo, published 1869) z v. 

Newby, Mrs. C. J. 
Common Sense 3 v. 

Newman, Dr. J. H. (Cardmal 

Newman), f 1890. 
Callista z v. 

Nicholls,Mrs.: T'zV^fCurrerBell. 
«Nina Balatka," Author of: 

vide Anthony TroUope. 
"No Church," Author of (F. 

No Church 2 v. — Owen : — a Waif 2 v. 

Noel, Lady Augusta. 

From Generation to Generation z v. — 
Hithersea Mere 2 v. 

N orris, Frank (Am.), \ 1902. 
The Octopus 2 v. — The Pit 2 v. 

Norris, W. E. 
My Friend Jim x v. — A Bachelor's 
Blunder 2 v. — Major and Minor 2 v. — 
The Rogue 2 v. — Miss Shafto 2 v. — Mrs. 
Fenton x v. — Misadventure 2 v. — Saint 
Ann's IV. — A Victim of Good Luck 
XV. — The Dancer in Yellow x v. — 
Qarissa Furiosa 2 v. — Marietta's Mar- 
riage 2 V. — The Fight for the Crown 
I V. — ThoWidower i v. — Giles Ingilby iv. 
— The Flower of the Flock i v. — His 
Own Father i v. — The Credit of the County 
IV. — Lord Leonard the Luckless i v. — 
Nature's Comedian x v. — Nigel's Vo- 
cation z V. — Barham of Beltana i v. 

Norton, Hon. Mrs., f 1877. 

Stuart of Dunleath 2 v. — Lost and 
Saved 2 v. — Old Sir Douglas 2 v. 

" Not Easily Jealous," Author of 

(Miss Iza Hardy). 
Not Easily Jealous 2 v. 

"Novels and Tales": vide 
"Household Words." 

O'Conor-KccJes, Charlotte: vide 
Hal Godfrey. 

Oliphant, Laurence, f 1888. 

Altiora Peto 2 v. — MasoUam 2 v. 

Oliphant, Mrs., j 1897. 
The Last of the Mortimers 2 v. — Mrs. 
Margaret Maitland z v. — Agnes 2 v. — 
Madonna Mary 2 v. — The Minister's 
Wife 2 v. — The Rector and the Doctor's 
Family x v. — Salem Chapel 2 r. — The 
Perpetual Curate 2 v. — Miss Marjori- 
banks 2 v. — Ombra 2 v. — Memoir oi 
Count de Montalembert 2 v. — May 2 v. — 
Innocent 2 v. — For Love and Life 2 v. — 
A Rose in June i v. — The Story of 
Valentine and his Brother 2 v. — White- 
ladies 2 v. — The Curate in Charge x v. — 
Phoebe, Junior 2 v. — Mrs. Arthur 2 v. — 
Carita 2 v. — Young Musgrave 2 v. — 
The Primrose Path 2 v. — Within the 
Precincts 3 V. — The Greatest Heiress in 
England 2 v. — He that will not when he 
may 2 v. — Harry Joscelyn 2 v. — In 
Trust 2 v. — It was a Lover and his Lass 
3 v. — The Ladies Lindores 3 v. — Hester 
3 V. — The Wizard's Son 3 V. — A 
Country Gentleman and his Family 2 v. — 
Neighbours ontheGreen x v. — TheDuke's 
Daughter x v. — The Fugitives i v. — 
Kirsteen 2 v. — Life of Laurence Oliphant 
and of Alice Oliphant, hisWife 2 v. — The 
Little Pilgrim in the Unseen x v. — The 
Heir Presumptive and the Heir Apparent 
2 V. — The Sorceress 2 v. — Sir Robert's 
Fortune 2 v. — The Ways of Life i v. — 
Old Mr. Tredgold 2 v. 

"One who has kept a Diary": 
vide George W. E. Russell. 

Osboume, Lloyd. 
Baby Bullet z v. 


The Poems of Ossian. 
James Macpherson x v. 


Idalia 2 v. — Tricotriu 2 v. — Puck 2 v. — 
Chandos 2 v. — Strathmore 2 v. — Under 
two Flags 2 V. — Folle-Farine 2 v. — A 
Leaf in the Storm ; A Dog of Flanders ; 
A Branch of Lilac; A Provence Rose 
XV. — Cecil Castlemaine's Gage, and other 
Novelettes i v. — Madame la Marquise, 
and other Novelettes x v. — Pascarel 2 v. 
— Held in Bondage 2 v. — Two Utde 
Wooden S\\o«» xn .— '£A«aa.V^\^^ w?«six^ 

Translated by 


Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List. 

XV. — Wanda 3 r. — Frescoes and other 
Stories i v, — Princess Napraxine 3 v. — 
Othmar 3 V. — A Rainy June (60 Pf.). Don 
Gesualdo (60 Pf.) . — A House Party i v. — 
Guflderoy 2 v. — Syrlin 3 V. — Ruffino, and 
other Stories z v. — Santa Barbara, etc. 
XT. — Two Offenders x v. — The Silver 
Christ, etc. i v. — Toxin, and other Papers 
XV. — Lo Solve, and Tonia x v. — The 
Massarenes a v. — An Altruist, and Four 
Essays x v. — La Strega, and other 
Stones XV. — The Waters of Edera x v. 

— Street Dust, and Other Stories i v. — 
Critical Studies z v. 

** Outcasts, the," Author of: vide 
"Roy TeUeL" 

Parker, Sir Gilbert 
The Battle of the Strong 2 v. — Donovan 
Pasha, and Some People of Egypt z v. — 
The Seats of the Mighty 2 v. 

Parr, Harriet (Hohne Lee), 
f 1900. 

Basil Godfrey's Caprice 2 v. — For 
Richer, for Poorer 2 v. — The Beautiful 
Miss Barriugton 2 v. — Her Title of 
Honour z v. — Echoes of a Famous 
Year x v. — Katherine's Trial z v. — The 
Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax 2 v. — Ben 
Milner's Wooing x v. — Straightforward 
av. — Mrs. DenysofCote 2 v. — A Poor 
Squire z v. 

Parr, Mrs. 
Dorothy Fox z v. — The Prescotts of 
PamphUlon 2 v. — The Gosau Smithy, etc. 
XV. — Robin 2 v. — Loyalty George 2 v. 

Paston, George. 
A Study in Prejudices x v. — A Fair 
Deceiver x v. 

Paul, Mrs. : videAvXYiox of "Still 

"Paul FerroU," Author of (Mrs. 
Caroline Clive), f 1873. 

Paul Ferroll i v. — Year after Year i v. 

— Why Paul Ferroll killed his Wife x v. 

Payn, James, f 1898. 
Found Dead i v. — Gwendoline's Har- 
vest IV. — Like Father, like Son 2 v. — 
Not Wooed , "butW oxv 2 v . — Cec\V%Tr^t 
~ A 'Woman*& "Vew^^cMvcft t. ^. 

Fallen Fortunes 2 v. — What He costHer 
2v. — By Proxy 2 v. — Less Black than 
we're Painted 2 v. — Under one Roof 
2 V. — High Spirits i v. — High Spints 
(Second Series) \ v. — A Confidential 
Agent 2 V. — From Exile 2 v. — A Grapa 
from a Thorn 2 v. — Some Private Views 
IV. — For Cash Only 2 v. — Kit : A Me- 
mory 2 V. — The Canon's Ward (with 
Portrait) 2 v. — Some Literary Re- 
collections XV. — The Talk of the Town 
XV. — The Luck of the Darrells 2 v. — 
The Heir of the Ages 2 v. — Holiday Tasks 
IV. — Glow -Worm Tales f First Series) 
XV. — Glow- Worm Tales (Second Series) 
IV. — A Prince of the Blood 2 v. — The 
Mystery of Mirbridge 2 v. — The Barat 
Million 2 v. — The Woid and the WiU 
2 V. — Sunny Stories, and some Shadj 
Ones IV. — A Modem Dick Whitting- 
ton 2 V. — A Stumble on the Threshold 
2 V. — A Trying Patient i v. — Gleams 
of Memory, and The Eavesdropper 1 v. — 
In Market Overt z v. — The Disappear- 
ance of George Dri£Fell, and other Tales 
IV. — Another's Burden etc. 1 v. — The 
Backwater of Life, or Essays of a Literary 
Veteran i v. 

Peard, Frances Mary. 

One Year 2 v. — The Rose-Garden i v. — 
Unawares i v. — Thorpe Regis i v. — A 
Winter Story z v. — A Madrigal, and 
other Stories i v. — Cartouche i v. — 
Mother Molly i v. — Schloss and Tows 
2 V. — Contradictions 2 v. — Near Neigh- 
bours IV. — Alicia Tennant i v. — Ma- 
dame's Grranddaughter z v. — Donna 
Teresa i v. — Number One and Number 
Two XV. — The Ring from Jaipur i v. 

Pemberton, Max. 

The Impregnable City i v. — A Woman 
of Kronstadt x v. — The Phantom Army 
IV. — The Garden of Swords x v. — The 
Footsteps of a Throne i v. — Pro Patria i v. 

— The Giant's Gate 2 v. — I crown thee 
King IV. — The House under the Sea i v. 

— The Gold Wolf i v.— Doctor Xavier i v. 

— Red Mom 1 v. — Beatrice of Venice 2 v. 

— Mid the Thick Arrows 2 v. — My Sword 
for Lafayette x v. 

Percy, Bishop Thomas, f 1811. 
Reliques of Ancient English Poetxy 3 V. 

^V\\iT5S, F. a 

1 V. ~ A. woman, a ^ *s\\ti,^5*.\*v-'o «. ^. — \ . . , v.- ,^x 
\r,ir«liv»B Master x -v. — It^ t'tve B.«^«.tl av\ K.% va ^^^^iiMo^^^JSiwa.^'^ — The Dean 
Murphy s ^***ff V* -^ _ K\.^a.«VTv?Od^^^W^x^xvv,.--^.^^^^^^^^ 
a HiU, and other^«>5^^_5 J- >^ \ ^\;fl.c5«.^ 

Walter'* Word 

2 "w. 

.— "B-allN** 

Tauchm'tz Edition. Complete List. 


Young Mr. Ainslie's Courtshipx v.— Social 
Vicissitudes i v. — Extenuating Grcura- 
stances, and A French Marriage x v. — 
More Social Vicissitudes xv. — Constance 
2 V. — That Wicked Mad'moiselle, etc. 
I V. — A Doctor in Difficulties^ etc. i v. — 
Black and White x v. — 

"One Never 
Knows" 2 V. — Of Course i v. — Miss 
Onnerod's Prot^g* x v. — My little Hus- 
band XV. — Mrs. Bouverie x v. — A 
Question of Colour, and otherStories x v. — 
A Devil in Nun's Veiling x v. — A Full 
Confession, and other Stories i v. — The 
Luckiest of Three i v. —Poor Little Bella 
I V. — Eliza Clarke, Governess, and Other 
Stories i v. — Marriage, etc. i v. — School- 
girls of To-day, etc. x v. — If Only, etc. i v. 
— An Unfortunate Blend x v. 

Philips, F. C. & Percy Fendall. 
A Daughter's Sacrifice x v. — Margaret 
Byng I V. 

Philips, F. C & C J. Wills. 
The Fatal Phryne iv. — The Scudamores 
IV. — A Maiden Fair to See x v. — Sybil 
Ross's Marriage i v. 

Phillpotts, Eden. 

Lying Prophets 2 v. — The Human Boy 
XV. — Sons of the Morning 2 v. — The 
Good Red Earth i v. — The Striking Hours 
XV. — The Farm of the Dagger i v. — 
The Golden Fetich i v. 

Piddington, Miss: vide KvlW^ot oi 
"The Last of the Cavaliers." 

Poe, Edgar Allan (Am.), f 1849. 

Poems and Essays, edited with a new 
Memoir by John H. Ingram i v. — Tales, 
edited by John H. Ingram x v. 

Pope, Alexander, f 1744. 

Select Poetical Works (with Portrait) x v. 

Poynter, Miss E. Frances. 

My Little Lady 2 v. — Ersilia 2 v. — 
Among the Hills x ▼. — Madame de 
Presnel i v. 

Praed, Mrs. Campbell. 

Zero XV. — Affinities x ▼. — The Head 
Station 2 v. 

Prentiss, Mrs. E. (Am.), f 1878. 
Stepping Heavenward i v. 

Prince Consort, the, f 1861. 

His Principal Speeches and Addresses 
(with Portrait) i v. 

Pryce, Richard. 
Miss Maxwell's Affections x v. — The 
Quiet Mrs. Fleming i v. — Time and the 
Woman x v. 

Pym, Hor. N. : v. Caroline Fox. 
Queen, H. M. the: z/^Vfe Victoria 
R. I. 

Quiller-Couch, A. T. ("Q")- 
Noughts and Crosses i v. — I Saw Three 
Ships X V. — Dead Man's Rock i v. — la 
and other Tales x v. — The Ship of Stars 
IV. — The Adventures of Harry Revel i v. 
— Fort Amity i v. ^ Shakespeare's Christ- 
mas, and Other Stories x v. 

Rae, W. Eraser, f 1905. 
Westward by Rail i v. — Miss Bayle's 
Romance 2 v. — The Business ofTravel i v. 

Raimond, C. E. (Miss Robins). 
The Open Question 2 v. — The Magnetic 
North 2 V. — A Dark Lantern 2 v. 

"Rajah's Heir, the," Author of. 
The Rajah's Heir 2 v. 

Reade, Charles, f 1884. 
"It is never too late to mend" 2 v. — 
•*Love rae littie, love me long" 1 v. — 
The Cloister and the Hearth 2 v. — Hard 
Cash 3 V. — Put Yourself in his Place 2 v. — 
A Terrible Temptation 2 v. — Peg Wof- 
fington XV. — Christie Johnstone i v. — 
A Simpleton 2 v. — The Wandering Heir 
XV. — A Woman-Hater 2 v. — Readiana 
IV. — Singleheart and Doubleface x v. 

"Recommended to Mercy," 

Author of (Mrs. Houstoun). 
Recommended to Mercy " 2 v. — Zoe's 
•* Brand " 2 v. 

Reeves, Mrs.: t;. Helen Mathers. 

Rhjrs, Grace. 
Mary Dominic x v. — The Wooing of 
Sheila x v. 

Rice, James : v. Walter Besant 

Richards, Alfred Bate, f 1876. 

So very Human 3 v. 

Richardson, S., f 1761. 

Clarissa Harlowc 4 v. 

Riddell, Mrs. (F. G, TtafCc^x^\. 




Taitchnitz Edition, Complete List, 

Souls X V. — The Tester* x v. — The Mas- 

Jaeraden 2 r. — Queer Lady Judas 2 ▼. — 
'rince Charming x v. 

Ritchie, Mrs. Anne Thackeray: 
vide Miss Thackeray. 

Roberts, Miss: vide Author of 
•* Mademoiselle Mori." 

Robertson, Rev. Frederick W., 

t 1853. 

Sermons 4 v. 

Robins, Miss: vide Raimond. 

Robinson, F.: vide Author of 
"No Church." 

Ross, Charles H. 
The Pretty Widow x v. — A London 
Romance 2 v. 

Ross, Martin: vide Somerville. 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, f 1882. 
Poems XV. — Ballads and Sonnets x v. 

**Roy Tcllet." 

The Outcasts x v. — A Draught of 
Lethe i v. — Pastor and Prelate 2 t. 

Ruffini,J., + 1881. 
Lavinia 2 v. — Doctor Antonio 1 v. — 
I^orenzo Benoni x v. — Vincenzo 2 v. — 
A Quiet Nook in the Jura x r. — The 
Paragreens on a Visit to Paris i v. — 
Carlino, and other Stories x v. 

Ruskin, John, f 1902. 
Sesame and Lilies x v. — The Stones of 
Venice 2 v. 

Russell, W. Clark. 
A Sailor's Sweetheart 2 v. —The "Lady 
Maud" 2 V, — A Sea Queen 2 r. 

Russell, George W. E. 

Collections and Recollections. By One 
who has kept a Diary 2 v. — A Londoner's 
Log-Book x V. 

Sala, George Augustus, f 1895. 
The Seven Sons of Mammon 2 v. 

Saunders, John. 

Israel Mort, Overman 2 v. — The Ship- 
owner's Daughter 2 v. — A Noble Wife 2 v. 

Saunders, "Ka^Stit-Tvcit (^ts. 

Savage, Richard Henry (Am.), 

t 1903. 
My Official Wife it.— The Little Lady 
of Lagunitas (with Portrait) 2 v. — Prince 
Schamyl's Wooing i v. — The Masked 
Venus 2 V. — Delilah of Harlem 2 v. —The 
Anarchist 2 v. — A Daughter of Judas 
X V. — In the Old Chateau x v. — Miss 
Devereux of the Mariquita 2 v. — Checked 
Through 2 v. — A Modem Corsair 2 v. — 
In the Swim 2 v. — The White Lady of 
Khaminavatka 2 v. — In the House of His 
Friends 2 v.— The Mystei y of a Shipyard 2 v. 
— A Monte Cristo in Khaki x v. 

Schreiner, Olive. 

Trooper Peter Halket 
land X V. 

of Mashona- 

Scott, Sir Walter, f 1832. 

Waverley (with Portrait) x v. — The 
Antiquary i v. — Ivanhoe x v. — Kenil- 
worth XV. — Quentin Durward i v. — Old 
Mortality x v. — Gruy Mannering x v. — 
Rob Roy IV. — The Pirate i v. — The 
Fortunes of Nigel i v. — The Black Dwarf; 
A Legend of Montrose x v. — The Bride 
of Lammermoorx v. — The Heartof Mid- 
Lothian 2 V. — The Monastery x v. — The 
Abbot IV, — Peveril of the Peak 2 v. — 
Poetical Works 2 v. — Woodstock i v. — 
The Fair Maid of Perth x v. — Anne of 
Geierstein i v. 

Seeley, Prof. J. R., M.A., f 1895. 

Life and Times of Stein (with a Portrait 
of Stein) 4 V. — The Expansion of Eng- 
land XV. — Goethe x v. 

Sewell, Elizabeth. 

Amy Herbert 2 v. — Ursula « v. — A 
Glimpse of the World 2 v. — The Journal 
of a Home Life 2 v. — After Life 2 v. — 
The Experience of Life 2 ▼. 

Shakespeare, William, f 16 16. 

Plays and Poems (with Portrait) (Second 
Edition) 7 V. — Doubtful Plays i v. 

Shakespeare'' s Plajrs may also be had in 
37 numbers, at jH 0,30. each number. 

Sharp, William: vide Miss 
Howard and Swinburne. 

anA. o^cx t2\«*^ 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, f 1822. 


Joan MerryvfeatVxet, ;itiA ot^« ^^\ ^cv^tj^^t^.'^^^^^V^s^n^w^^ 

Tatichnitz Edition. Complete List. 


Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 
t 1816. 

The Dramatic Works x v. 

Shorthouse, J. Henry. 
John Inglesant 2 v. — Blanche, Lady 
Falaise z v. 

Slatin Pasha, Rudolf C, C.B. 
Fire and Sword in the Sudan (with 
two Maps in Colours) 3 v. 

Smedley, F. E. : vide Author of 
"Frank Fairlcgh." 

Smollett, Tobias, f 1771. 

Roderick Random z v. — Humphry 
Clinker i v. — Peregrine Pickle 2 v. 

" Society in London," Author of. 
Society in London. By a Foreign 
Resident x t. 

Somerville, E. C£., & Martin 

Naboth's Vineyard i v. — All on the 
Irish Shore x v. 

•* Spanish Brothers, the," Author 
The Spanish Brothers 2 v. 

Stanhope, Earl (Lord Mahon), 

t 1875. 
The History of England 7 V. — Reign 
of Queen Anne 2 v. 

Steel, Flora Annie. 

The Hosts of the Lord 2 v. — In the 
Guardianship of God z t. 

Steevens, G. W., -j- 1900. 

From Capetown to Ladysmith x v. 

Sterne, Laurence, f 1768. 
Tristram Shandy x v. — A Sentimental 
Journey (with Portrait) z v. 

Stevenson, Robert Louis, f 1 894. 

Treasure Island z v. — Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde, and An Inland Voyage z v. — 
Kidnapped i v. — The Black Arrow x v. — 
The Master of Ballantrae z v. — The Merry 
Men, etc. z v. — Across the Plains, etc. i v. 
— Island Nights' Entertainments i v. — 
Catriona z v. — Weir of Hermiston i v. — 
St. Ives 2 V. — In the South Seas 2 v. — 
Tales and Fantasies x v. 

«*StUl Waters," Author of (Mrs. 

StiYl Waters j v. — Dorothy, x v. De 

Cress/ X V, — Vticle Ralph j v, — Maiden 

Sisters z v. 
x V. 

■ Martha Brown z v. — Vanessa 

StirUng, M. C : vide G. M. Craik. 

Stockton, Frank R. (Am.). 
The House of Martha z v. 


Story of a Penitent Soul, the," 
Author of. 
The Story of a Penitent Soul z v. 

" Story of Elizabeth, the," Author 
of: vide Miss Thackeray. 

Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher 

(Am.), f 1896. 
Uncle Tom's Cabin (with Portrait) 2 v. — 
A Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin 2 v. — Dred 
2 V. — The Minister's Wooing i v. — Old- 
town Folks 2 V. 

"Sunbeam Stories," Author of: 
vide Mrs. Mackarness. 

Swift, Jonathan (Dean Swift), 

t 1745. 
Gulliver's Travels z v. 

Swinburne, Algernon Charles. 

Atalanta in Calydon : and Lyrical Poems 
(edited, with an Introduction, by William 
Sharp) z V. — Love's Cross-Currents z v. 

Symonds, John Addington, 

t 1893. 
Sketches in Italy z v. — New Italian 
Sketches z v. 

Tallentyrc, S. G. : v. H. S. Merri- 

Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill 2 v. 

Tautphoeus, Baroness, f 1893. 
Cyrilla 2 v. — The Initials 2 v. — Quits 
2 v. — At Odds 2 v. 

Taylor, Col. Meadows, f 1876. 

Tara ; a Mahratta Tale 3 v. 

Tenipleton: vide Author of 
"Horace Templeton." 

Tennyson, Alfred (Lord), f 1 892. 

Poetical Works 8 v. — Queen Mary 
z V. — Harold z v. — Becket; TKeCMs^v 
The Falcou x v, — Y.od«A«^ l&."a&k. ^ ^vis:^ 
Yearsaltet ;T\vo^tomvifeoV^^-j ^^>x«i^^ 

and ot\\eT "Pocm^ x v . — ^^ "U.^vaovt . ^^ 

His Sou ^vl\^.\l1?otUaiJ«^ ^n. 


Taiichnitz Edition, Complete List. 

Testament, the New: vide New. 

Thackeray, William Make- 
peace, f 1863. 
Vanity Fair 3 V. — Fendennii 3 v. — 
Miscellanies 8 v. — Henry Esmond 3 v. — 
The English Humourists of the Eighteenth 
Century x v. — TheNewcomes 4T. — The 
Virginians 4 V. — The Four Georges ; 
Lovel the Widower z v. — The Adventures 
of Philip 2 V. — Denis Duval x v. — 
Roundabout Papers 3 r. — Catherine 

1 v. — The Irish Sketch Book 3 v. — The 
Paris Sketch Book (with Portrait) 3 v. 

Thackeray, Miss (Mrs. Ritchie). 

The Story of Elizabeth i v. — The Village 
on the QifF x v. — Old Kensington s v. — 
Bluebeard's Keys, and other Stories x v. — 
Five Old Friends x v. — Miss Angel i v. — 
Out of the World, and other Tales z v. — 
FulhamLawn, and other Tales iv. — From 
an Island. A Story and some Essays x v. — 
Da Capo, and other Tales i v. — Madame 
do Sevigne; From a Stage Box; Miss 
Williamson's Divagations x v. — A Book 
of Sibyls XV. — Mrs. Dymond 3 v. — 
Chapten from some Memoirs z v. 

Thomas a Kempis: v, Kempis. 

Thomas, A. (Mrs. Pender Cudlip). 
Denis Donne 2 v. — On Guard 2 v. — 
Walter Goring 2 v. — Played Out 2 v. — 
Called to Account 2 v. — Only Herself 

2 v. — A Narrow Escape 2 v. 

Thomson, James, f 1 748. 

Poetical Works (Mrith Portrait) x v. 

"Thoth," Author of. 
Thoth I V. 

"Tim," Author of. 
Tim z T. 

Trafford, F. G.: z/. Mrs. Riddell. 

Trevelyan, Right Hon. Sir 

George Otto. 

The Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay 
(with Portrait) 4 V. — Selections from the 
Writings of Lord Macaulay 2 ▼. — The 
American Revolution (with a Map) 2 v. 

Trois-Etoiles , vide Qrenville: 

TroUope, kn^oTi'v,-^ 1882. 

Doctor Thome a -v. — tVirv "aesNx^To* 
— The ■Watdetv x >i. — "a^x«iJtie.%v«t 

Twain, Mark 
Clemens) (Am.). 
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer x v. — 
The Innocents Abroad ; or , The New 
Pilgrims' Progress 2 v. — A Tramp Abroad 
2 v. — "Roughing it" 1 ▼. — The In- 
nocents at Home x v. — The Prince and 
the Paaper a v. — The Stolen White 
Elephant, etc. i v. — Life on the Mis- 
sissippi 2 V. — Sketches (with Portrait) 
X V. — Huckleberry Finn 2 v. — Selections 
from American Humour x v. — A Yankee 
at the Court of King Arthur 2 v. — Th« 
American Qaimant i v. — The £ x 000000 
Bank-Note and other new Stories x v. — 
Tom Sawyer Abroad x v. — Pudd'nhead 
Wilson XV. — Personal Recollections 0/ 
Joan of Arc 2 v. — Tom Sawyer, Detective, 
v^xA. c»*Cci«x Tales z v. — More Tramps 
^«^^^^^"»-^»— "^^^'Ck^&aa. that cornipttti 

— North America 3 V. — Orley Farm 3 v. 

— Rachel Ray 2 v. — The Small House 
at Allington 3^v. — Can you forgive her? 
3 V. — The Belton Estate 2 v. — Nina 
Balatka i v. — The Last Chronicle o\ 
Barset 3 v. — The Claverings 2 v. — Phineas 
Finn ^v. — He knew he was right 3 V.— 
The Vicar of Bullhampton 2 v. — Sir Harry 
Hotspur of Humblethwaite z v. — Ralph 
the Heir 2 v. — The Golden Lion ot 
Granpere x v. — Australia and New Zea- 
land 3 V. — Lady Anna 2 v. — Harry 
Heathcoteof Gangoil x v. — The Way we 
live now 4 V. — The Prime Minister 4 V.— 
The American Senator 3 V. — South Africa 

2 V. — Is He Popenjoy ? 3 v. — An Eye for 
an Eye x v. — John Caldigate 3 v. — Cousin 
Henry x v. — The Duke's Children 3 v. — 
Dr. Wortle's School z v. — Ayala's Angel 

3 v. —The Fixed Period i v. — MariimFay 
2 v. — Kept in the Dark x v. — Frau Froh- 
mann, and other Stories z v. — Alice Dog- 
dale, and other Stories x v. — La Mere 
Bauche, and other Stories it.— The 
Mistletoe Bough, and other Stories i v. — 
An Autobiography z v. — An Old Man's 
Love I v. 

Trollope, T. Adolphus, f 1892. 

The Garstangs of Gaistang Grange 2 v. 

— A Siren 2 v. 

Trowbridge, W. R. H. 

The Letters of Her Mother to Elizabeth 
IV, — A Girl oi the Multitude z v. — That 
Little Marquis of Brandenburg x v. — A 
Dazzling Reprobate z v. 

(Samud L. 

2 V, 

Tauchnitz Edition. Complete List, 


"Two Cosmos, the," Author of. 
The Two Cosmos x v. 

Vachell, Horace Annesley. 

Brothers 2 v. — The Face of Qay x r. 
"Venus and Cupid," Author of. 

Venus and Cupid i v. 

"Vira," Author of. 
Vfcra XT. — The H8tel du Petit St. 
Jean x v. — Blue Roses 2 v. — Within 
Sound of the Sea 2 v. — The Maritime 
Alps and their Seaboard 2 v. — Ninette x ▼. 

Victoria R. I. 

Leaves from the Journal of our Life in 
the Highlands from 1848 to i86x x v. — 
More Leaves, etc. from X862 to X882 x v. 

"Virginia," Author of. 
Virgfinia x v. 

Vizetelly, Ernest Alfred. 
With Zola in England x v. 

Walford, L. B. 
Mr. Smith a v. — Pauline 2 v. — Cousins 

2 T. — Troublesome Daughters a v. — 
Leddy Marget i v. 

Wallace, D. Mackenzie. 
Russia 3 V. 

Wallace, Lew. (Am.), f 1905. 
Ben-Hur 2 v. 

W^arburton, Eliot, + 1852. 
The Crescent and the Cross 2 v. -— 
L>arien 2 y. 

Ward, Mrs. Humphry. 
Hobert Elsmere 3 v. — David Grieve 

3 V. — MissBretherton x v. — Marcella 3 v. 
13essie Costrell 1 v. — Sir George Tressady 
2 V. — Helbeck of Bannisdale 2 v. — 
Eleanor 2 v. — L^^y Rose's Daughter 2 v. 

— The Marriage of William Ashe 2 v. — 
Fenwick's Career 2 v. 

Warner, Susan vide: WetherelL 
Warren, Samuel, f 1877. 

Diary of a late Physician 2 v. — Ten 
Thousand a- Year 3 V. — Now and Then 
X V. — The Lily and the Bee x v. 

"Waterdale Neighbours, the," 

Author of : z;. Justin McCarthy. 

Watts*Dunton, Theodore. 

Aylwin 2 v. 

Wells, H. G. 
The Stolen Bacillus, etc. i v. — - The War 
of the Worlds 1 v.— The Invisible Man i v. 

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of Chance x v. — Anticipations i v. — The 
First Men in the Moon x v. — The Sea Lady 
X v. — Mankind in the Making 2 v. — Twelve 
Stories and a Dream x v. — The Food of 
the Grods x v. — A Modem Utopia x v. — 
Kipps 2 V. 

Westbury, Hugh. 
Acte 2 V. 

Wetherell, Elizabeth (Susan 

Warner) (Am.), f 1885. 
The wide, wide World x v. — Queechy 
2 V. — The Hills of the Shatemuc 2 v. — 
Say and Seal 2 v. — The Old Helmet 2 v. 

Wejrman, Stanley J. 
The House of the Wolf x v. —The Story 
of Francis Cludde 2 v. — A Gentleman of 
France 2 v. — The Man in Black x v. — 
Under the Red Robe x v. — My Lady 
Rotha 2 V. — From the Memoirs of a Minis- 
ter of France x v. — The Red Cockade 2 v. 

— Shrewsbury 2 v. — The Castle Inn 2 v. 

— Sophia 2 v. — Count Hannibal 2 v. — In 
Kings' Byways i v. — The Long Night 2 v. 
— The Abb^ of Vlaye 2 v. — Starvecrow 
Farm 2 v. 

Wharton, Edith (Am.). 
The House of Mirth 2 v. 

"Whim, a, and its Conse^ 

quences," Author of. 
A Whim, and its Consequences x v. 

Whitby, Beatrice. 

The Awakening of Mary Fenwick 2 ▼. — 
In the Suntime of her Youth s v. 

White, Percy. 
Mr. Bailey-Martin xv.-TheWestEndav. 
— The New Christians x v. — Park Lane 2 v. 

— The Countess and The King's Diary x v. 

— The Triumph of Mrs. St. George 2 v. — 
A Millionaire's Daughter x v. — A Pas- 
sionate Pilgrim IV. — The System 2 v. — 
The Patient Man x v. — Mr. John Strood 

X V. 

White, Walter. 

Holidays in Tyrol x v. 

W^hiteing, Richard. 
The Island; or. An Adventure of a Per- 
son of Quality x v. — No. 5 Jolin Street i v. 
-The Life of Paris x v.-TheYellowVan x v. 

— Ring in the Ne^w \ n . 

WYviXrcvBitv, ^\^Tv«^ . . 

lmpeT\a\ Oexmaxvi v n. -- '^r^^^ieiv^' 


Tauchmtz Edition. Complete List, 



XV. — Reminiscences of the King^ of 
Roumania, edited by Sidney Whitman x v. 

— Conversations with Prince Bismarck, 
edited by Sidney Whitman x v. — Life of 
the Emperor Frederick 2 v. 

"Who Breaks— Pays/' Author 
of: vide Mrs. Jenkin. 

Whyte Melville, George J.: 
vide Melville. 

Wiggin, Kate Douglas (Am.). 

Timothy's Quest x v. — A Cathedral 
Courtship, and Penelope's English Ex- 
periences X ▼. — Penelope's Irish Experi- 
ences XV. — Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm 
X V. — The Affair at the Inn x v. (By K. D. 
Wiggin, M. & J. Findlater, and Allan 
McAulay.) — Rose o' the Rjver x v. 

Wilkins, Mary £. (Am.). 
Pembroke i v. — Madelon i v. — Jerome 
2 V. — Silence, and other Stories x v. — 
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Wills, a J., vide F. C Philips. 

Winter, Mrs. J. S. 

Regimental Legends x v. 

Wood, Charles: vide Author of 

"Buried Alone." 

Wood, H. F. 
The Passenger from Scotland Yard x v. 

Wood, Mrs. Henry (Johnny 

Ludlow), f 1887. 
East Lynne 3 V. — The Channings 2 v. — 
Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles 2 v. — 
Vcrner's Pride3 v. — The Shadow of Ash- 
lydyat 3 V. — T^revlyn Hold 2 v. — Lord 
(Jakburn's Daughters 2 v. — Oswald Cray 
2 V. — Mildred Arkell 2 v. — St. Martin's 
Eve 2 v. — Elster's Folly 2 v. — Lady Ade- 
laide's Oath 2 V. — Orville College x v. — 
A Life's Secret x v. — The Red Court Farm 
2 V. — Anne Hereford 2 v. — Rolanc^ 
Yorke 2 v. — George Canterbury's W^ill 
2 V. — Bessy Rane 2 v. — Dene Hollow 
2 V. — The Foggy Night atOfford ; Martyn 
Ware's Temptation; The Night -Walk 
over the Mill Stream x v. — Within the 
Maze 2 V. — The Master of Greylands 2 v. 

— Johnny Ludlow 2 v. — Told in the 
Twilight 2 V. — Adam Grainger x v. — 
Edina 2 v. — Pomeroy Abbey 2 v. — Court 
Netherleigh 2 v. — (The following by 
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Other Tales i v. — ATale of Sin, and Other 
Tftles XV. — Anne, swadO^ctTaXcfcx^i, — 

The Mjrstery of Jes 
Tales XT. — Helen 
and Other Tales i 
Dorothy Grape, and 

Woodroffe, D; 

Tangled Trinities i v. 

X V. 

Woods, Marg 

A Village Tragedy 
bonds XV. — Sons o 

Wordsworth, ^ 

Select Poetical Wor] 

W^raxall, Lasc 
Wild Oats X V. 

Yates, Edmun 

Land at Last 2 v. — B 

— The Forlorn Hope 
2 V. — The Rock Ah 
in Port 2 V. — Dr. V 
2 V. — Nobody's Forti 
2 V. — A Waiting Ra 
Flag 2 v. — Tbelmp< 
Two, by Tricks x v. 
2 V. — Recollections i 

Yeats: vide Le 
Yonge, Charloi 

The Heir of Redely! 
2 V. — The Daisy Chj 
Terrace 2 v. — Hopes 
The Young Step-Mot 
2 V. — The Clever Wc 
2 V. — The Dove in th 

— The Danvers Papei 
the Page x v. — Th« 
2 V. — The two Guardis 
Lion 2 V. — The Pilla 

— Lady Hester i v. — 
2 V. — The Three Bri« 
kind 2 V. — Magnum 1 
and Life x v. — Unlui 

— Stray Pearls (with 1 
Armourer's Prentices 
Sides of the Shield 2 \ 
2 V. — Beechcroft at 
A Reputed Changelinf 
less Princesses x v. — 
Grisly Grisell x v. — ' 
2 V. — Modem Broods 

«* Young Mistlc 
vide Henry St 

Zangwill, I. 
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"Z. zr 

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ring Children x v. 


sar IV. — Three Tales for Boys 
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ik, Georgiana M. (Mrs. May) 
Trix, and her Welcome Tales x v. 

>^eworth, Maria, f 1849. 

Tales XV. — Popular Tales 2 v. 

^anagh, Bridget & Julia, 

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od 1847. 

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rryat, Captain, f 1848. 

man Ready x v. 

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Rex and Regina x v. 

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, Sintram, etc. x v. 

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(Second Edition) x v. 

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30 Tatichmtz Edition. Collection of Cer man Authors , Students* Seriti 

Kohn, Salomon. 
Gabriel z v. 

Lessing, O. £., f 1781. 
Nathan the Wise and Emilia Galotti z v. 

Lewald, Fanny, f 1889. 
Stella 2 V. 

MarUtt, E., f 1887. 
The Princess of the Moor [das Haide- 
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Nathusius, Maria, + 1857. 

Joachim v. Kamern, ana Diary of a 
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Heuter, Fritz, f 1874. 

In the Year 'Z3 z v. — An old Story i( 
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Richter, J. P. Friedrich Qefi 
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Eliot, George (Miss Evans- 
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The Mill on the Floss. Von Dr. //. 
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Ewing, Juliana Horatia^f 1885. 
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Hughes, Thomas, f 1898. 
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Scott, Sir Walter, f 1832. 
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W. R. H. Trowbridge, i vol.- 

A very original study of high life and 
society in England, in which it is shown 
how hard regeneration is made for a fallen 

The Way of the Spirit. By 
H. Rider Haggard. 2 vols.- 

wb\c\v a Aau«\x\.« ^^^^^^If^ble. 

Latest Volumes.— July 1906. 

"If Youth but knew!" By 
Agnes and Egerton Castle. 
I vol.- 3885. 

An idyl of Westphalia in the days of 
Jerome Bonaparte's pinchbeck court and 
reign. A deh'cate and pretty love-story. 

, Mr. John Strood. By Percy 
White, i vol. -3886. 

A story, written somewhat on the lines 
of " Mr. Bailey-Martin/' of the career of 
a public man. The snobbishness of the 
quondam friend who is here supposed to 
' Write the biography is cunningly revealed 

The Artful Miss DilL By 
F. Frankfort Moore, i voL- 

A modern English romance, the open- 
ing scene of which, however, is laid in 
Caracas, and is of a most stirring nature. 

Genius Loci, and The En- 
chanted Woods. By Ver- 
non Lee. I vol. - 3888. 

A collection of essays and articles on 
towns and villages in France, Germany, 
Italy, and Switzerland, in which the 
authoress paints her impressions of their 
■romanticism or interest. 

The House of Mirth. By 

Edith Wharton. 2 vols.- 

An American society novel in which 
the hollow life of a certain moneyed clique 
of New York is admirably described. 

Ring in the N ew. By Richard 
Whiteing. I vol. -3 891: 

This book might almost be described 
as socialistic. It is a description of the 
difficulty experienced at the present day 
by man or woman of earning their daily 

Beyond the Rocks 

. Elinor, GlyJi.^ i vol.- 

A love-story,' treating of mode 
Ksh life, by the favourite and wel 
authoress of '< The Visits of Eliza! 

Fenwick's Career. Bj 
Humphry Ward. 2 


Mrs. Ward's new book descr 
life of an artist in England, the vie 
through which he passes, an4 his 
reconciliation with the wife who ha 
doned him. 

The Face of Clay. By » 

Annesley Vachell. I 


A story of Brittany, in which i 
of artists are made a principal then 
the author's great bopk, ** Brothe 
work has already been enthusiast! 

Martha Rose, Teache 

M. Betham-Edwards. 

This is a new story of Suffolk 
life by an author who has made the 
habits and dialect of th^ county her 

Salted Almonds. By] 

stey. I vol. - 3897. 

A collection of short stories d.nd i 
of English life by one of the foren 
mourists of the aay. 

Whispers about Wc 

By Leonard Merrick. 

The unexpected is alwajrs wel 
fiction, and Hiese new stories and i 
of Mr.. Merrick's are nearly all iA 
vsed by originality of detumememi 


TAe Tauchnitz Edition is to \)e Kad of a\l Boo\^\Xt 
r> .7 T 'i.^^^c^ nti the Continent, •^rite JWi>^<>. ot 

per volume. A comp^^i^ 

this work. . 

<^*jm^lm^^ 4r% 


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