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  CAIN'S BRAND

  I.--ON THE MOOR.

  Cain's brand! that is no fact of the far past, no legend of the MiddleAges, for are there not Cains among us; white-faced, haggard-featuredCains to the last? Men who began with a little injury, and did not dreamthat their gripe would close in deadly persecution? Cains who slew thespirit, and through the spirit murdered the body? Cains unintentionally,whom all men free from the stain of blood, and to whom in the Jewisheconomy the gates of the Cities of Refuge would have stood wide open,yet who are never again light of thought and light of heart? On theirheads the grey is soon sprinkled, and in the chamber of their hearts isdrawn a ghastly picture, whose freshness fades, but whose distinctcharacters are never obliterated.

  Of this class of men, of hot passions, with rash advisers, who meditatedwrong, but not the last wrong, victims of a narrow, imperious code ofhonour, only to-day expunged from military and social etiquette, was theLaird of the Ewes. Many of us may have seen such another--a tall, lithefigure, rather bent, and very white-headed for his age, with a wistfuleye; but otherwise a most composed, intelligent, courteous gentleman ofa laird's degree. Take any old friend aside, and he will tell, withrespectful sympathy, that the quiet, sensible, well-bred Laird, hassuffered agonies in the course of his life, though too wise and modest aman to hold up his heart for daws to peck at, and you will believe him.Look narrowly at the well-preserved, well-veiled exterior, and you willbe able to detect, through the nicely adjusted folds, or even when it isbrightened by smiles, how remorse has sharpened the flesh, and griefhollowed it, and long abiding regret shaded it.

  Twenty years before this time, Crawfurd of the Ewes, more accomplishedthan many of the lairds, his contemporaries, and possessed of the slyhumour on which Scotchmen pride themselves, had been induced to write aset of lampoons against a political opponent of his special chief. Hewas young then, and probably had his literary vanity; at least heexecuted his task to the satisfaction of his side of the question; andwithout being particularly broad and offensive, or perhaps very fine intheir edge, his caricatures excited shouts of laughter in the parish,and in the neighbouring town.

  But he laughs best who laughs last. A brother laird, blind with fury,and having more of the old border man in him than the Laird of the Ewes,took to his natural arms, and dispatched Mr. Crawfurd a challenge tofight him on the Corn-Cockle Moor. No refusal was possible then, noneexcept for a man of rare principle, nerve, and temper. The Laird of theEwes had no pretensions to mighty gifts; so he walked out with hissecond one autumn morning when his reapers were flourishing theirsickles, met his foe, and though without the skill to defend himself, heshot his man right through the head. He was tried and acquitted. He wasthe challenged, not the challenger; he might have given the provocation,but no blame was suffered to attach to him. His antagonist, with aforeboding of his fate, or by way of clearing his conscience, as theknights used to confess of a morning before combat, had exoneratedMr. Crawfurd before he came upon the ground. The Court was stronglyin his favour, and he was sent back to his family and property withoutanything more severe than commiseration; but that could never reach hisdeep sore.

  How was this gentle, nervous, humorous Laird to look out upon the world,from which he had sent the soul of a companion who had never even harmedhim? The widow, whom he had admired as a gay young matron, dwelt not amile from him in her darkened dwelling; the fatherless boy wouldconstantly cross the path of his well-protected, well-cared-forchildren. How bear the thousand little memories--the trifling dates,acts, words, pricking him with anguish? They say the man grew sick atthe mere sight of the corn-cockle, which, though not plentiful on othermoors, chanced to abound on this uncultivated tract, and bestowed on itits name; and he shivered as with an ague fit, morning after morning,when the clock struck the hour at which he had left his house. He did insome measure overcome this weakness, for he was a man of ordinarycourage and extraordinary reserve, but it is possible that he enduredthe worst of his punishment when he made no sign.

  The Laird was a man of delicate organism, crushed by a blow from whichhe could not recover. Had he lived a hundred years earlier, or been asoldier on active service, or a student walking the hospitals, he mighthave been more hardened to bloodshed. Had his fate been different, hemight have borne the brunt of the offence as well as his betters; butthe very crime which he was least calculated to commit and surviveencountered him in the colours he had worn before the eventful day.

  Yet there was nothing romantic about Crawfurd of the Ewes, or aboutthe details of his deed, with one singular exception, and this wasconnected with his daughter Joanna. The rest of the family werecommonplace, prosperous young people, honest enough hearts, but tooshallow to be affected by the father's misfortune. The father's sourgrapes had not set these children's teeth on edge. Joanna--Jack, orJoe, as they called her in sport--whom they all, without any idea ofselfishness or injustice, associated with the Laird, as one member ofthe family is occasionally chosen to bear the burdens of theothers,--Joanna was papa's right hand, papa's secretary, steward,housekeeper, nurse. It had always been so; Joanna had been set asideto the office, and no one thought of depriving her of it, any morethan she dreamt of resigning it.

  Joanna was the child born immediately after the duel, and on the waxenbrow of the baby was a crimson stain, slight but significant, which twofingers might have covered. Was this the token of retribution--thethreat of vengeance? The gossips' tongues wagged busily. Some said itwas Cain's brand, "the iniquity of the fathers visited on the children;"others alleged more charitably that it ought to prove a sign in theLaird's favour, to have the symbol of his guilt transferred to ascape-goat--the brow of a child. However, the gossips need not havehidden the child's face so sedulously for the first few days from themother. Mrs. Crawfurd took the matter quite peaceably, and was relievedthat no worse misfortune had befallen her or her offspring. "Poor littledear!" it was sad that she should carry such a trace; but she daresayedshe would outgrow it, or she must wear flat curls--it was a pity thatthey had gone quite out of fashion. It was the father who kissed themark passionately, and carried the child oftenest in his arms, and lether sit longest on his knee; and so she became his darling, and learntall his ways, and could suit herself to his fancies, and soothe hispains, from very youthful years. The public recognised this peculiarproperty of her father in Joanna, and identified her with the sorrowfulperiod of his history. She was pointed out in connexion with thestory--the tragedy of the county,--and she knew instinctively that therewould be a whispered reference to her whenever it was told in society.

  The Crawfurds had a cousin visiting them--an English cousin, PollyMusgrave--from the luxury and comparative gaiety of her rich,childless aunt's house in York. Polly was a well-endowed orphan, hadno near family ties, and had been educated in the worldly wisdom andepicurean philosophy of a fashionable girls' school. She had come tospend a few weeks, and get acquainted with her Scotch country cousins.Polly had not found her heart, but it was to the credit of her senseand good-nature that she made the very best of a sojourn that hadthreatened to be a bore to her. She dazzled the girls, she romped withthe boys, she entered with the greatest glee into rural occupations,rode on the roughest pony, saw sunset and sunrise from Barnbougle, andthreatened to learn to milk cows and cut corn. She broughtinconceivable motion and sparkle into the rather stagnant countryhouse, and she was the greatest possible contrast to Joanna Crawfurd.Joanna was a natural curiosity to Polly, and the study amused her,just as she made use of every other variety and novelty, down to thepoultry-yard and kitchen-garden at the Ewes.

  The girls were out on the moor, in the drowsy heat of a summer day,grouped idly and prettily into such a cluster as girls will fall intowithout effort. Susan, the beauty--there is always a beauty amongseveral girls--in languid propriety, with her nice hair, and herscrupulously falling collar and sleeves, and her blush of a knot ofribbon; Lilias, the strong-minded, active person, sewing busily atcharity work, of which all estimable households have now their share
;Constantia, the half-grown girl, lying in an awkward lump among the hay,intently reading her last novel, and superlatively scorning the societyof her grown-up relatives; Joanna, sitting thoughtfully, stroking oldGyp, the ragged terrier, that invariably ran after either Joanna or herfather; and Polly, who had been riding with Oliver, standing with hertucked-up habit, picturesque hat and feathers, smart little gentleman'sriding-gloves and whip, and very _espiegle_ face--a face surrounded bywaves of silky black hair, with a clear pale skin, and good eyes andteeth, which Polly always declared were her fortune in the way of goodlooks; but her snub nose was neither of a vulgar nor coarse tendency--itwas a very lively, coquettish, handsomely cut, irresistible cock nose.

  If these girls on the moor had been tried in the fire heated seventimes, it would not have been to the strong-minded, broad-chested,dark-browed Lilias that they would have clung. They would have comecrouching in their extremity and taken hold of the skirt of round, soft,white Joanna, with the little notable stain on her temple.

  Polly was detailing her adventures and repeating her news with a relishthat was appetizing.

  "We went as far as Lammerhaugh, when Oliver remembered that he had acommission for your father at Westcotes, just when my love, Punch, wasbroken off his trot, and promised to canter, and the morning was sofresh then--a jewel of a morning. It was provoking; I wanted Noll tocontinue absent in mind, or prove disobedient, or something, but yougood folks are so conscientious."

  "Duty first, and then pleasure," said Lilias emphatically.

  "That was a Sunday-school speech, Lilias, and spoken out of school; youought to pay a forfeit; fine her, Susie."

  "Aren't you hot, Polly?" asked Susan, without troubling herself to takeup the jest.

  "Not a bit--no more than you are; I'm up to a great deal yet; I'll go tothe offices and gather the eggs. No, I am warm though, and I don't wantto be blowsy to-night; I think I'll go into the house to the bath-room,and have a great icy splash of a shower-bath."

  "You'll hurt your health, Polly, for ever bathing at odd hours, as youdo," remonstrated Joanna.

  "All nonsense, my dear; I always do what is pleasantest, and it agreeswith me perfectly. In winter, I do toast my toes; and you know I eathalf-a-dozen peaches and plums at a time like a South Sea Islander,only I believe they feast on cocoa-nut and breadfruit; don't they,Conny? You are the scholar; you know you have your geography at yourfinger-ends yet."

  "Oh, don't tease me, Polly!" protested Conny impatiently.

  "Dear Jack, hand me a sprig of broom to stick in Conny's ear," persistedPolly in a loud whisper.

  Constantia shook her head furiously, as if she were already horriblytickled, and that at the climax of her plot.

  "Never mind, Conny, I'll protect you. What a shame, Polly, to spoil herpleasure!" cried Joanna indignantly.

  "I beg your pardon, Donna Quixotina."

  "I wonder you girls can waste your time in this foolish manner,"lectured Lilias, with an air of superiority; "you are none of you betterthan another, always pursuing amusement."

  "What a story, Lilias!" put in Polly undauntedly; "you know I sew yardupon yard of muslin-work, and embroider ells of French merino, andtask myself to get done within a given time. Aunt Powis says I makemyself a slave."

  "Because you like it," declared Lilias disdainfully; "you happen to be aclever sewer, and you are fond of having your fingers busy andastonishing everybody--besides, you admire embroidery in muslin andcloth; and even your pocket-money--what with gowns and bonnets, ticketsto oratorios and concerts, and promenades, and 'the kid shoes andperfumery,' which are papa's old-fashioned summing up of our expenses,bouquets and fresh gloves would be nearer the truth--won't always meetthe claims upon your gold and silver showers; and Susan," added Lilias,not to be cheated out of her diatribe, and starting with new alacrity,"practising attitudes and looking at her hands; and Conny reading hertrashy romances."

  "It is not a romance, Lilias," complained Conny piteously; "it is a taleof real life."

  "It is all the same," maintained the inexorable Lilias; "one of the mostaggravating novels I ever read was a simple story."

  "Oh, Lilias, do lend it to me!" begged Polly; "I'm not literary, but itis delightful to be intensely interested until the very hair rises onthe crown of one's head."

  "I don't know that you would like it," put in Joanna; "it is not one ofthe modern novels, and it has only one dismal catastrophe; it is thefine old novel by Mrs. Inchbald."

  "Then I don't want it; I don't care for old things, since I have not apalate for old wines or an eye for old pictures. I hate the musty,buckram ghosts of our fathers."

  "Oh! but Mrs. Inchbald never raised ghosts, Polly; she manoeuvredstately, passionate men and women of her own day."

  "The wiser woman she. But they would be ghosts to me, Jack, unless theywere in the costume of the present day; there is not an inch of me givento history."

  "And you, Joanna," concluded Lilias, quite determined to breast everyinterruption and finish her peroration, "you have listened, and smiled,and frowned, and dreamt for an hour."

  "I was waiting in case papa should want me," apologized Joanna,rather humbly.

  "That need not have hindered you from hemming round the skirt ofthis frock."

  "Oh, Lilias! I am sorry for you, girl," cried Polly. "You're in adiseased frame of mind; you are in a fidget of work; you don't know theenjoyment of idleness, the luxury of laziness. You'll spoil yourcomplexion; your hair will grow grey; no man will dare to trifle withsuch a notable woman!"

  "I don't care!" exclaimed Lilias bluntly and magnanimously. "I don'twant to be trifled with; I don't value men's admiration."

  "Now! Now!! Now!!! Now!!!!" protested Polly; "I don't value men'sadmiration either, of course, but I like partners, and I would not befond of being branded as a strong-minded female, a would-be LadyBountiful, a woman going a-tracking; that's what men say of girls whodon't care to be trifled with. But, Lilias, are you quite sure you don'tbelieve in any of the good old stories--the 'goody' stories I would callthem if I were a man--of the amiable girl who went abroad in the oldpelisse, and who was wedded to the enthusiastic baronet? My dears, youmust have observed they were abominably untrue; the baronet, weak andfalse, always, since the world began, marries the saucy, spendthriftgirl, who is prodigal in rich stuffs, and bright colours, and becomingfits, and neat boots and shoes--who thinks him worth listening to, andlaughing with, and thinking about--the fool."

  "Really, Polly, you are too bad," cried both Susan and Lilias at once;their stock-in-trade exhausted, and not knowing very well what theymeant, or what they should suggest further if this sentence were notanswer enough.

  "Now, I believe Joanna does not credit the goody stories, or does notcare for them, rather; but we are not all heroines, we cannot all affordan equal indifference."

  Joanna coloured until the red stain became undistinguishable, and evenPolly felt conscious that her allusion was too flippant for the cause.

  "So you see, Lilias," she continued quickly, "I'm not the least ashamedof having been caught fast asleep in my room before dinner the otherrainy day. I always curl myself up and go to sleep when I've got nothingbetter to do, and I count the capacity a precious gift; besides, I willlet you into a secret worth your heads: it improves your looks immenselyafter you've been gadding about for a number of days, and horriblydissipated in dancing of nights at Christmas, or in the oratorio week,or if you are in a town when the circuit is sitting--not present as aprisoner, Conny."

  "Polly!" blazed out Constantia, who, on the plea of the needle-likesharpness and single-heartedness which sometimes distinguishes herfifteen years, was permitted to be more plain-spoken and ruder than hersisters; "I hate to hear you telling of doing everything you like withsuch enjoyment. I think, if you had been a man, you would have been anabominable fellow, and you are only harmless because you are a girl."

  Polly laughed immoderately. "Such a queer compliment, Conny!"

  "Hold your tongue, Conny."

 
"Go back to your book; we'll tell mamma," scolded the elder girls;and Conny hung her head, scarlet with shame and consternation.

  Conny had truth on her side; yet Polly's independence and animaldelight in life, in this artificial world, was not to be altogetherdespised either.

  Polly maintained honestly that the girl had done no harm. She was gladshe had never had to endure senior sisters, and if she had beenafflicted with younger plagues, she would have made a point of notsnubbing them, on the principle of fair play.

  "And you were a little heathenish, Polly," suggested Joanna, "not givingfair play to the heroism of the ancients."

  But Susan had long been waiting her turn, testifying more interest inher right to speak than she usually wasted on the affairs of the state.She wished to cross-examine Polly on a single important expression, andalthough Susan at least was wonderfully harmless, her patience couldhold out no longer.

  "Why are you afraid of being blowsy to-night, Polly?"

  "I'm not frightened, I would not disturb myself about a risk; but you'vekept an invitation all this time under my tongue, not in my pockets, Iassure you;" and Polly elaborately emptied them, the foppish breastpocket, and that at the waist.

  "It is only from Mrs. Maxwell," sighed Susan; "we are never invitedanywhere except to Hurlton, in this easy way."

  "But there is company; young Mr. Jardine has come home to Whitethorn,and he is to dine with the Maxwells, and we are invited over to Hurltonin the evening lest the claret or the port should be too much for him."

  The girls did not say "Nonsense!" they looked at each other; Joanna wasvery pale, the red stain was very clear now. At last Lilias spoke,hesitating a little to begin with, "It is so like Mrs. Maxwell--withouta moment's consideration--so soon after his return, before we had metcasually, as we must have done. I dare say she is sorry now, when shecomes to think over it. I hope Mr. Maxwell will be angry with her--theprovoking old goose," ran on Lilias, neither very reverently nor verygratefully for an excellent, exemplary girl.

  "There is one thing, we can't refuse," said Susan with marvellousdecision; "it would be out of the question for us to avoid him; it wouldbe too marked for us to stay away."

  "Read your book, Conny," commanded Lilias fiercely; "you weresufficiently intent upon it a moment ago; girls should not be madeacquainted with such troubles."

  "I don't want to be a bar upon you," cried the belated Conny, rising andwalking away sulkily, but pricking her ears all the time.

  "Joanna, you had better mention the matter to papa."

  "Don't you think you're making an unnecessary fuss?" remarked Polly. "Ofcourse, I remembered uncle's misfortune," she admitted candidly, "thoughnone of you speak of it, and I noticed Oliver stammer dreadfully whenMrs. Maxwell mentioned Mr. Jardine; but I thought that at this time ofday, when everybody knew there was no malice borne originally, and UncleCrawfurd might have been killed, you might have been polite andneighbourly with quiet consciences. I tell you, I mean to set my cap atyoung Mr. Jardine of Whitethorn, and when I marry him, and constitutehim a family connexion, of course the relics of that old accident willbe scattered to the winds."

  "Oh! Polly, Polly!" cried the girls, "you must never, never speak solightly to papa."

  "Of course not, I am not going to vex my uncle; I can excuse him,but Joanna need not look so scared. There is not such a thing asretribution and vengeance, child, in Christian countries; it is youwho are heathenish. Or have you nursed a vain imagination ofencountering Mr. Jardine, unknown to each other, and losing yourhearts by an unaccountable fascination, and being as miserable asthe principals in the second last chapter of one of Conny's threevolumes? or were you to atone to him in some mysterious, fantastic,supernatural fashion, for the unintentional wrong? Because if you havedone so, I'm afraid it is all mist and moonshine, poor Jack, quite asmuch as the twaddling goody stories."

  "Polly," said Joanna angrily, but speaking low, "I think you might spareus on so sad a subject."

  "I want you to have common sense; I want you to be comfortable; nowonder my uncle has never recovered his spirits."

  "Indeed, Polly, I don't think you've any reason to interfere inpapa's concerns."

  "I don't see that you are entitled to blame Joanna," defended sisterLilias, stoutly;--Lilias, who was so swift to find fault herself.

  "There, I'll say no more; I beg your pardon, I merely intended to showyou your world in an ordinary light."

  "Do you know, Polly, that Mrs. Jardine has never visited us since?"asked Susan.

  "Very likely, she was entitled to some horror. But she is a reasonablewoman. Mr. Maxwell told me--every third party discusses the story behindyour backs whenever it chances to come up, I warn you--Mr. Maxwellinformed me that she never blamed Uncle Crawfurd, and that she sent herson away from her because she judged it bad for him to be brought upamong such recollections, and feared that when he was a lad he might betampered with by the servants, and might imbibe prejudices and aversionsthat would render him gloomy and vindictive, and unlike other people forthe rest of his life; she could not have behaved more wisely. I aminclined to suppose that Mrs. Jardine of Whitethorn has more knowledgeof the world and self-command than the whole set of my relations here,unless, perhaps, my Aunt Crawfurd--she will only speculate on yourdresses--that is the question, Susan."

  II.--THE ORDEAL.

  "Would you not have liked to have gone with the other girls, Joanna? forConny, she must submit to be a _halflin_ yet. But is it not dull for youonly to hear of a party? country girls have few enough opportunities ofbeing merry," observed Mr. Crawfurd, with his uneasy consciousness, andhis sad habit of self-reproach.

  "Oh, Mr. Crawford, it would not have done--not the first time--Joannahad much better stay at home on this occasion. She is too well broughtup to complain of a little sacrifice."

  It is curious how long some wives will live on friendly terms with theirhusbands and never measure their temperaments, never know where the shoepinches, never have a notion how often they worry, and provoke, and paintheir spouses, when the least reticence and tact would keep the ship andits consort sailing in smooth water.

  Mrs. Crawfurd would have half-broken her heart if Mr. Crawfurd had notchanged his damp stockings; she would fling down her work and look outfor him at any moment of his absence; she would not let any of herchildren, not her favourite girl or boy, take advantage of him; she wasa good wife, still she did not know where the shoe pinched, and so shestabbed him perpetually, sometimes with fretting pin-pricks, sometimeswith sore sword-strokes.

  "My dear, I wish you were not a sacrifice to me." It is a heart-breakingthing to hear a man speak quite calmly, and like a man, yet with aplaintive tone in his voice. Ah! the old, arch spirit of the literaryLaird of the Ewes had been shaken to its centre, though he was atolerable man of business, and rather fond of attending markets, sales,and meetings.

  "Papa, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Joanna indignantly. "I amvery proud to help you, and I go out quite as often as the others. Doyou not know, we keep a card hung up on Lilias's window-shutter, and wewrite down every month's invitations--in stormy weather they are notmany--and we fulfil them in rotation. You don't often want me in theevenings, for you've quite given me up at chess, and you only condescendto backgammon when it is mid-winter and there has been no curling, andthe book club is all amiss. Lilias insists upon the card, because theparties are by no means always merry affairs, and she says thatotherwise we would slip them off on each other, and pick and choose, andbe guilty of a great many selfish, dishonourable proceedings."

  "Lilias is the wise woman in the household. I'm aware there is a wisewoman in every family--but how comes it that Lilias is the authoritywith us? It always rather puzzles me, Joanna; for when I used to imploreMiss Swan to accept her salary, and pay Dominie Macadam his lawfuldemand of wages for paving the boys' brains in preparation for the HighSchool, they always complimented me with the assurance that you were myclever daughter."

  "Because they saw your weak side, I dare
say, my dear," suggestsMrs. Crawfurd.

  "No, I am the cleverest, papa; I am so deep that I see that it is easierto live under an absolute monarchy than to announce myself a member of arepublic, and assert my prerogatives and defend my privileges--but Iconfess I have a temper, papa. Lilias says I am very self-willed, and Imust grant that she is generally in the right."

  "You don't feel satisfied with the bridle, child, till it gets intostronger hands."

  "Yes, Joanna has a temper," chimed in Mrs. Crawfurd, pursuing her ownthread of the conversation. "Strangers think her softer than Susan; butI have seen her violent, and when she takes it into her head, she is themost stubborn of the whole family. I don't mean to scold you, my dear;you are a very good girl, too, but you are quite a deception."

  "Oh, mamma! what a character!" Joanna could not help laughing. "I mustamend my ways."

  Of course, Joanna was violent at times, as we imagine a sensitive girlwith an abhorrence of meanness and vice, and she was stubborn when shewas convinced of the right and her friends would assert the wrong. Mr.Crawfurd's idea was, that Joanna had a temper like Cordelia, not whenshe spoke in her pleased accents, "gentle, soft, and low," but when shewas goaded into vehemence, as will happen in the best regulated palacesand households.

  "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Crawfurd, five minutes afterwards, disturbingthe cosy little party round the tea-table by her sudden air of distress."Oh! dear, dear me! Susie has left her pearl sprigs behind her. Therethey are on the loo-table. My pearl sprigs, Mr. Crawfurd, that I usedto wear when I was young; they have come in again for the hair, andSusie settled they were just the thing to give a more dressed look toher spring silk--these easy way parties are so ill to manage, and Pollywas of the same mind, and she came in to show me the effect, for Ialways like to see the girls after they are dressed, and be satisfiedhow they look--and there she has forgotten the box, and she will appearquite a dowdy, and be so vexed."

  "I don't think it will signify very much, mamma; Susan looks very wellin her blue silk."

  "But it is such a pity, Joanna; so unfortunate,--she only put them outof her hand for one moment, and you see there they are still;" and soMrs. Crawfurd sounded the lamentation, and dwelt on its salient points,and ingeniously extracted new grounds of regret, till, by dint ofrepetition, in ten minutes more Mr. Crawfurd and Joanna were almostpersuaded that Susan had sustained a serious loss.

  "Send a servant with the foolery," proposed Mr. Crawfurd, seeking alittle relief, and tolerably affronted at his interest in the question.

  "I don't think it would do. Would it, Joanna? There is always suchconfusion at Hurlton when there is company? and then they have peopledining. There would be a mistake, and my pearls are no joke, Mr.Crawfurd. They cost papa fifty pounds when they were so prettily set togo to Sir William's ball. Ah! you don't remember it. There would be afuss, and Lilias would not like it. If Oliver had not been there atdinner, or Charlie had been at home--"

  "Of the two evils choose the least," recommended Mr. Crawfurd, taking uphis book.

  "If you are very anxious, mamma," said Joanna, "as it is very early, andthey set out to walk round by the garden at Houndswood to get somegeraniums, which Polly saw yesterday, and set her heart upon; if youorder out the ponies and Sandy, I think Conny and I could easily rideover to Hurlton, and deliver the little parcel to the girls in time. Itwould be a nice evening ride for us, since you are afraid that Connyhangs too much over her books."

  "Thank you, dear; that is just like you, Joanna, you are so sensible andhelpful, no wonder papa monopolizes you. I will be so glad that Susiehas the pearls. Such a pity, poor dear! that her evening should bespoilt, and they lying ready to be put on. Conny? Yes, indeed, that girlwill be getting spine complaint, or the rickets. In my day it was sewingin frames that twisted girls; but these books in the lap, the head pokedforward, one shoulder up, and knees half as high as the shoulder, are athousand times worse."

  "Good luck to you, Jack. Now you deserve your name, since you constituteyourself groom of the chambers to your sisters."

  Joanna laughed back to him. "Come and meet us, papa." And in theshortest interval given to tie on their hats and skirts, the girls wereracing along to Hurlton.

  In that moorland country, with outlying moorland fields where it was notprimitive nature--in a large family like that of the Crawfurds, roughwalking ponies swarmed as in Shetland. They were in constant request atthe Ewes, and the girls rode them lightly and actively, with thetable-boy, Sandy, at their heels, as readily as they walked. PerhapsJoanna was the least given to the practice, though she availed herselfof it on this domestic occasion.

  Joanna was a deception, as her mother said. She was a little, round,soft thing, whom you would have expected to flash over with sunshine.She was not a melancholy girl--as you may have been able to judge--andit was not her blame that anything in her position had developed herinto a thoughtful, earnest character. But then she was always fanciedyounger than she really was; people supposed her as easy as her mother,while she could be vehement, and was firm to tenacity. Perhaps thereason of the puzzle might be, not only that she had a little of thatconstitutional indolence which serves to conceal latent energy, butthat, in trifles, she did inherit, in a marked degree, the unexacting,kindly temper which causes the wheels of every-day life to turn easily.She allowed herself to be pushed aside. She accepted the fate orsuperstition which linked her with her father's sorrow; she was content,she thought, to suffer the dregs of his act with him; she wished shecould suffer for him; the connexion had indeed a peculiar charm for herenthusiasm and generosity, like her admiration of this Corncockle Moor.

  Corncockle Moor, in its dreariness, loneliness, and wildness, now hungout a vast curtain, which Joanna and Conny were skirting under thegolden decline of day, not so far from the spot where the little groupof men had gathered on the autumn morning, and the two sharp, shortcracks, and the little curl of blue smoke had indicated where one lifehad gone out, and another was blasted in a single second. Joanna hadscarcely got time to wonder how Harry Jardine and her sisters would lookat each other, and she did not allow herself to think of it now. Shewould wait till she had skilfully avoided any chance of encountering thecompany, delivered her mother's errand, and was safe with Conny,cantering homewards. Even then she would not dwell on the notion, lesther father should allude to the stranger, and she should betray anyfeeling to discompose him. "I must take care of papa. Papa is mycharge," repeated Joanna, proud as any Roman maid or matron.

  What malign star sent Mrs. Maxwell into the bedroom, just as Joanna hadentered it? She ought to have been only quitting the dining-room forthe drawing-room, but Mrs. Maxwell was always to be found where she wasleast expected. She was a good-natured, social, blundering body, whomgirls condescended to affect, because she liberally patronized youngpeople, proving, however, quite as often the marplot, as the maker oftheir fortunes--not from malice, but from a certain maladroitness andfickleness. Mrs. Maxwell took it into her head to lay hands on Joanna,and to send out for Conny, whom Joanna had cautiously deposited in thepaddock, and to insist that they should remain, and join the party. Shewould take no denial; she never got them all together; it was so cruelto leave out Joanna and Conny, a pair of her adopted children, since shehad no bairns of her own to bless herself with. She had plenty ofpartners, or the girls would dance together. Yes, say no more aboutit; she was perfectly delighted with the accession to her number--itwas to be.

  Conny's eyes sparkled greedily. "Oh, Joanna! mamma won't be angry."

  Oh, Conny! you traitor!

  "There, it will be a treat to Conny, and there is nothing to prevent it.Conny has let the cat out of the bag, as Tom would say. Conny consents,Joanna may sulk as she pleases."

  "I won't sulk, Mrs. Maxwell; I'll go off by myself, and leave youConstantia, since she wishes it."

  "To hear of such a thing! You girls won't allow it. It is very shabby,Susan, Lilias, Miss Musgrave, that Joanna should not have a littleamusement with the rest."

  "I'm
sure we won't prevent it, Mrs. Maxwell, we don't stand in the way,"said Lilias stiffly; "Joanna is free to remain or return as she chooses.Joanna, you had better stay, or there will be a scene, and the wholehouse will hear of it."

  "Keep her, Mrs. Maxwell, please," cried Miss Polly mischievously; "mycousin Joan is so scarce of her countenance, that I want to know how shecan behave in company."

  "Very well, I assure you," avouched Mrs. Maxwell zealously; then shebegan to remember, and start, and flounder--"only she is so modest.Joanna, my dear, you cannot be so stupid as to hesitate from a certainreason?"

  "Oh, no. You can send back Sandy, Mrs. Maxwell, since you are so good.Mamma knows what we will require; or I will write a little note."

  Joanna could have borne any encounter rather than a discussion of theobstacle with Mrs. Maxwell--a discussion which might be gone over againany day to anybody.

  But Joanna was terribly vexed and provoked that she had exposed herselfto this infliction, though she was fain to comfort herself with theargument that it would make no difference to papa's feelings; and shetrusted that she and Conny would slip into the drawing-room when theguests were occupied, and subside into corners, and escape attention.

  Joanna was established in her recess, nearly confident that she was notconspicuous, and considerably interested in watching Harry Jardine.

  Mrs. Jardine's intentions had been in a great measure fulfilled. Theyoung Laird of Whitethorn had grown up at his English school and Germanuniversity without the cloud which rested on his father's end descendingon his spirit. He was as strong and pleasant and blithe as his father,with the self-possession which a life amongst strangers, and theavailable wallet of a traveller's information, could graft upon hisgentle birth and early manhood. At the same time, there was no deceptionabout Harry Jardine. While he was gay and good-humoured, he had an airof vigour and action, and even a dash of temper lurking about his blackcurls and bright eyes, which prepared one for hearing that he had notonly hobnobbed with the Goettingen students, but had also won theirprizes, and thrashed them when they aspired to English sports; and hadtravelled four nights without sleep, under stress of weather, to reachWhitethorn on the day he had fixed to his mother. He had brought asteady character along with him, too; they said that he had been a goodson, and had remembered that his mother was a widow, and had enduredenough grief to last her all her days. Mrs. Jardine, who was not aflatterer, declared that Harry had not cost her a care which she neededto grudge. There is enough temptation, and to spare, for men like HarryJardine, but it is not in such that early self-indulgence and lamentableweakness may be feared.

  Harry Jardine was the style of man fitted to command the admiration ofJoanna Crawfurd. Contemplative girls love men of experience. Staid girlslove men with a dash--a dash of bravery, self-reliance, or even ofrecklessness. Harry Jardine's gladness to be at home; his interest ineverything and everybody; the pleasant tone in which he referred to hismother; the genuine fun of which he gave a glimpse; the ring of hislaugh, were all set store upon by Joanna with a sober satisfaction.

  Harry had not been so agreeable, or felt the world so pleasant, twohours before. It was impossible to escape memories or to hide wincing;but he had said to himself that these associations ought to have beenworn threadbare by familiarity, or to have been approached gradually,and he could not conquer his awkwardness or crush his susceptibility.But youth is pliable and versatile, and Harry Jardine was determined toevince no dislike, and make no marked distinction. Very soon the MissCrawfurds and their cousin blended with the other young ladies in hisview,--nay, he discovered that he had come across a cousin of theirssettled abroad, and was qualified to afford them information of hisprospects and pursuits handsomely.

  So far Joanna's penalty had been moderate, until, towards the close ofthe evening, when most of the young people had gone into the library toget some refreshments, she found herself left in her corner almostalone, with Mr. Jardine talking to Mrs. Maxwell within a few yards ofher. This was the occurrence which Joanna had dreaded. "By the prickingof her thumbs" she was aware of a wicked destiny approaching her. Mr.Jardine in his conversation glanced towards her, then looked away, andbeat his foot on the carpet, and a twitch passed over the muscles of hisface, and his smile, though he still affected a smile, had lost all itsglow. Joanna dared not look any longer. Mrs. Maxwell was certainlyspeaking of her. Perhaps in her rash inconsiderate way she hadvolunteered information.

  Perhaps Harry Jardine had himself made inquiry--the pale girl who keptin the background, with the little scar--was it--on her temple? Joannaquivered under the process, and the witness beneath the light brown hairthrobbed painfully. She was glad when Mr. Jardine walked away quickly;but the next moment he came back and turned directly towards her.

  "I have been introduced to your sisters, Miss Crawfurd, and you mustexcuse further ceremony from me. Will you allow me to take you intothe next room and get a glass of wine or a biscuit for you? You shouldnot try fasting at an evening party. Mrs. Maxwell would call it a verybad example."

  He spoke fast, with a laugh, and crimsoned all over. She knewperfectly well what he was about. He was determined to perform allthat could possibly be required of him. He would put down invidiouscomments, disarm gossip, in short cut off the gorgon's head at thefirst struggle. They might term it unnatural, overdone, but at leastit would not be to do again; and Harry Jardine's was the temper, that,if you presented an obstacle to it, it itched the more to grapple withthe obstacle on the spot.

  Precisely for the reason that she could not ride away from the party,after Mrs. Maxwell assailed her with a motive for her conduct, Joannacould not repel his overture. It was incredibly trying to her. He sawhow differently she was affected from her sisters. He was aware ofanother influence. He felt very uncomfortable. Why, the very flesh ofhis arm, which she touched lightly enough, crept, when the superstitionof the old ordeal of the bier flashed upon him, as he caught, with afurtive glance, the tiny brand prickling and burning to fieryincandescence above the waxen face. Was it a splash of his father'sblood impressed there, till the "solid flesh" would verily "melt"? Wasit his neighbourhood which brought out the ruddy spot, that, like thescarlet streaks down Lady Macbeth's little hands, would not wash off?Absurd folly! But he wished he had done with it. He wished old ladieswould confine themselves to their own concerns. He hoped fainting wasnot heard of among the girls of the moors--that would be a talk! Hesupposed he must say something commonplace and civil; he must task hisbrains for that purpose. He coined a remark, and Joanna answered himquietly and with simplicity. She must have possessed and exercisedgreat self-command. It struck Harry Jardine. It was a quality he valuedhighly, possibly because he felt such difficulty in looking it up on hisown account. All through the few minutes' further conversation andassociation between them, it impressed him, conjointly with the oddrecoiling sensations, which he had so rapidly shaken off, where hersisters were concerned.

  Harry had the faults of his kind, not inveterately, for he spoke goodEnglish to women; but as he indulged in his dear island slang to men, hefelt bound to use it to himself. "This poor little woman is thoroughgame," he said to himself. "I can see that she is as tender as a littlebird, yet she has shown as much pluck as a six-foot grenadier? She hasnot flinched at all. I can do justice to this spirit." He remembered itall the time when Polly Musgrave was sounding him, and when he did notchoose to give her the slightest satisfaction.

  "I saw you with my cousin Joanna, Mr. Jardine; you'll find her in theSpanish style."

  "Not in complexion certainly. Do you mean in name?"

  "Oh, no! Do you know so little about the south of Scotland after all?You had better conceal this piece of ignorance. I am sure you understandthis much--a general acquaintance with the whole habitable globe wouldnot atone for a deficiency with regard to this one dear little spot ofearth. Joanna is as common a name in the south of Scotland as Dorothy isin the north of England. Examine the register, and see if you have nottwenty Jardine cousins christened Joanna. I call
Joanna in the Spanishstyle, because, although she conceals it, and you cannot have found itout yet, she is a vestige of romantic chivalry. Joanna is a DonnaQuixotina, an unworldly, unearthly sort of girl, with a dream of tiltingwith the world and succouring the distressed. I term it a dream,because, of course, she will never accomplish it, any more than theknight of La Mancha, and she will be obliged to descend from her stiltsby-and-by. I call Susan in the beautiful style, and Lilias in the goodstyle, and Conny in the sweet sixteen style."

  "Miss Musgrave, I am not versed in ladies' styles, you must teach me;"and Polly and he looked into each other's eyes, and laughed and feltthey were match for match.

  And Joanna had a little regret that Mr. Jardine should, like most men,be caught with Polly Musgrave; not that Joanna did not admire Polly,though she was her antithesis, and count her handsome and brilliant inher way, like any sun-loving dahlia or hollyhock; but Joanna had noenthusiasm in her admiration of Polly, and she had a little enthusiasmin her estimation of Harry Jardine.

  III.--"HE LAY DOWN TO SLEEP ON THE MOORLAND SO DREARY."

  Polly Musgrave was gone with flying colours. She had been indefatigablein procuring her aunt, uncle, and cousins, parting gifts that would suittheir tastes; she had actually toiled herself in paying courtesy-callsround the neighbourhood; and she had written half-a-dozen letters, andevinced a considerable amount of successful management in procuring aninvitation for two of her cousins to join her during the week or weeksof York's gaieties. She would have had Joanna also, but Joanna would notleave home at the season when her father was liable to his worstrheumatic twinges. Polly had shown herself really good-natured under herease and luxury, and Joanna had been a little penitent and vexed thatshe did not like Polly any more than in a cousinly way. Whether Pollywas right in saying that Joanna was romantic or not, Polly had not aparticle of romance in her constitution, though much was flourishing,fresh, and fragrant, in pure, commonplace, selfish, good-naturedworldliness, for it is a mistake to suppose that quality (withouthypocrisy) has not its attractive guise. Without knowing herselfromantic, Joanna was apt to quarrel in her own mind with cleverer girls,accomplished girls, pleasant girls, even good girls, sensible women,business women, nay religious women, until she feared she must befault-finding, satirical, sour--as her sisters protested at intervals.Joanna, sour? Joanna, so charitable and sympathizing? Take comfort,Joanna; the spirit is willing, though the flesh is weak.

  The Ewes was in its normal condition; the parish was in its normalcondition; the excitement of Harry Jardine's return to Whitethorn haddied out; he might shoot, as it was September, or fish still, or farm,or ride, or read as he pleased. He retained his popularity. His fatherhad been a popular man, fully more popular than Mr. Crawfurd of theEwes. Harry was even more approved, for mingling with the world hadsmoothed down in him the intolerance of temper which beset his father.What did Joanna Crawfurd say to such compromising agreeability? Joannawas disarmed in his case; she contradicted herself, as we all do. Shehad the penetration to perceive that many externals went to raise HarryJardine's price in the eyes of the world; externals which had little todo with the individual man,--youth, a good presence, a fair patrimony,freedom from appropriating ties. Strip Harry of these, render himmiddle-aged, time-worn or care-worn, reduce him to poverty, marry him,furnish him with a clamorous circle of connections, land-lock him withchildren! Would the difference not be startling? Would he need to becondemned for the world's favour, then? Joanna trowed not.

  The Crawfurds met Mr. Jardine occasionally, but there was no probabilityof the acquaintance ripening, since Mr. Crawfurd could not call forHarry at Whitethorn, and Harry did not see the necessity of offering hiscompany at the Ewes. Mrs. Jardine had not visited much since the shockof her widowhood, and she only now began to recur to her long-disusedvisiting-list on Harry's account. Though a reasonable woman, it isscarcely requisite to say that she did not propose to renew herfriendship with the family at the Ewes. The blow which rendered herwithout control did not break her spirit, but it pressed out itsbuoyance. Mrs. Jardine was a grave, occupied, resigned woman, no longera blithe one, very fond and proud of Harry, but grateful, not glad inher fondness and pride.

  The frost had come early, strong, and stern on those Highlands of theLowlands, those moors of the south. The "lustre deep" at twilight anddawn, the imperial Tyrian dye at noon, the glorious "orange and purpleand grey" at sunset and sunrise, which, once known and loved, man neverforgets, nor woman either--all would soon be swept away this year, andJoanna regretted it. She liked the flower-garden, but, after all, thegarden was tame to the moor. The moor's seasons were, at best,short--short the golden flush of its June; short the red gleam of itsSeptember. Not that the lowland Moor has not its dead, frosted grace inits winter winding-sheet, and its tender spring charm, when curlewsscream over it incessantly. But Joanna had never seen the autumn soshort as this year; and she had heard them tell, that in the Fall, whenpoor Mr. Jardine was killed, the heather remained bright till November.

  Thinking of that date caused Joanna, when she strolled out on the moorone morning, to go near the scene with its melancholy celebrity.

  It was quite early in the morning, a hail shower lying all around,though the sky was a deep sapphire blue, with the wan ghost of the moonlingering on the horizon, and the atmosphere bitter cold. The breakfastwas late at the Ewes, owing to Mr. Crawfurd's delicate health, andbecause Mrs. Crawfurd had her fancies like Mrs. Primrose. Thus Joannawas frequently abroad before breakfast, and, like most persons ofhealthy organization, was rather tempted to court the stinging air as itblew across the heather, bracing her whole frame, nipping her fingersand toes, and sending blush-roses into her cheeks.

  Joanna was walking along, feeling cheerful, although she was in thatneighbourhood, and vaunting to herself that their moor was infinitelysuperior to a park, when a grey object caught her eye, lying beyondsome whin bushes--a thing raised above the ground, but stretched stilland motionless. Joanna stopped with a strange thrill. No! it was noton that piece of earth; but so must he have lain on that disastrousmorning, far removed from the abundance, and garnered goods, andheartiness of harvest.

  Joanna stood a moment, then reproaching herself with cowardice, egotism,inhumanity, she advanced, her heart fluttering wildly. Yes, it was a manin tweed-coat, trousers, and cap; and stay! was that a gun by his side?Joanna could not go a step further; she closed her eyes to hide theblood which she felt must be oozing and stealing along the ground, orelse congealed among the heather and it was only after she had toldherself how far she was from home, and how long it would be ere shecould run back for assistance, that she opened them and approached thefigure. There was no blood that she could see; the man might not bedead, but stupefied or insensible. Oh, dear! it was Harry Jardine ofWhitethorn; the hail-drops among his black curls, the sprigs of theheather dinted into his brown cheek.

  It darted into Joanna's mind like inspiration how the chance hadoccurred. She remembered Susan had said, yesterday, that she had met Mr.Jardine going in shooting garb across the moor in the afternoon, and hehad stopped her and asked if she had seen a dog. He had taken out a newdog and lost it, and was vexed at wasting half the morning in thepursuit. She recalled, with a peculiar vividness of perception, thatsomebody had observed, one day lately, that Mr. Jardine was not sostrong as he looked; that he had fever while abroad, just before he camehome, and that his mother was annoyed because he would not take care ofhimself, and complained that he was constantly over-taxing hisunrecovered powers, and subjecting himself to fresh attacks of illness.Joanna remembered, with a pang, that she had laughed at the remark,mentally conjuring up Harry Jardine's athletic, sunburnt comeliness.

  Joanna freed herself more quickly from this phantom than from the last,and, while she did so, called out his name, and stepped to his side,stooping down and even touching him. He was breathing, though he wasvery cold and stiff, and she did not rouse him. Oh, Joanna was verythankful! But what should she do next? Life must be very faint, andfrozen in the musc
ular, active young man. He had loitered at his sporttill the dusk; he had been bewildered on the moor--strange to him as toa foreigner; he had wandered here and there impatient and weary; butstill more angry with himself than alarmed. He had sat down in theintense chill and dim darkness to recover himself; no way forewarned,"simply because he was on Corncockle Moor, so near home," on a Septembernight. He had sunk down further and further, until the stealthy foesprang upon him and held him fast--the sleep from which there is sotardy an awakening.

  Joanna dared not leave the faint, vital spark to smoulder down or leapout. The moor was very unfrequented at this hour; at certain periods ofthe day, portions of it, intersected by meandering tracks, were crossedby men labouring in the adjacent fields or quarry; but till then it wasonly the circumstance of alarm being excited on Harry's account, or herprotracted absence giving rise to surmise and search, that could bringthem companions.

  As a forlorn hope Joanna raised her voice and cried for assistance; fearand distress choked the sound, and the freezing air caused it to fall onthe silence with a ringing quaver. She persevered, however, every nowand then varying the appeal, "Papa, Lilias, Sandy, do some of you cometo me; I want you here, for God's sake! here."

  She took his big hands and chafed them between her own little ones; shelifted his head on her lap, her fingers getting entangled in his curlyhair, she prayed for him that he might be restored to them.

  He continued to breathe dully and heavily; his eyes never unclosed; shefelt tempted to raise the lashes, as she would lift up and peep underthe lids of a child. Ah! but she feared to see the balls sightless andglazing over fast. The marked, lively face was placid as if it were setin death, and the slight contraction between the brows, which she hadremarked the first night she saw him, was almost effaced. How dreadfulit would be if he died on her knees there, in the solitude of the moor!The son at the daughter's feet, as his father at her father's. How wouldhis mother bear it? Her father would never survive this mournfulre-writing of the old letters traced in blood. It should be she ratherwho should die; and Joanna in her piety, her goodness, her great lovefor her father, her exquisite kindness for Harry Jardine, did ask God ifHe sought a life, in His justice and mercy, to allow hers to pay forHarry's, to substitute her in some way for Harry; and Joanna wellremembered that prayer afterwards.

  Joanna was beginning to cower and fail in her trial. Suddenly she shookherself up, when she was lapsing into a heap nearly as passive as thatbeside her; a suggestion darted across her brain; she detected in thelittle pocket of her dress a bottle of a strong essence and perfume,which Polly Musgrave had forced upon her the day she left.

  Joanna was quick and clear in following out a notion. With tremblingfingers she poured the hot, stimulating, subtle liquid into her hollowhands, and bathed his forehead. She unloosed his cravat, and sent thewarm stream over his throat and chest, rubbing them with her free hand,while she supported his head on the other arm; and inspired with freshcourage and trust she called anew this time a shrill, echoing call, andHarry Jardine shivered, sobbed, and stretched himself, and slowly openedhis sealed eyes, looking her first vaguely and then wonderingly in theface, and her father's and Lilias's voices rose from opposite sides ofthe heath, near and far in reply. "What is it, Joanna? What has keptyou? What has happened? We missed you; we were getting anxious; we arecoming, coming!"

  IV.--MERCY AND NOT SACRIFICE.

  Harry Jardine was taken to the Ewes some hours before his mother, whohad happily been deceived as to his return on the previous night, waseven apprised of his narrow escape. He received the greatest kindnessfrom the Crawfurds, and his mother herself found it incumbent on her towrite a little note to the Ewes, thanking the family for their humanityand benevolence towards her son. It is possible, had Mrs. Jardine beenawakened to her son's danger a little sooner, and before its traces wereentirely blotted out, the expressions in the note might have been a fewshades less general and cold.

  Mr. Crawfurd excused her fully. He would not have expected Harry to comeback to the Ewes, though he rejoiced, from the bottom of his heart, thatJoanna had served the young fellow. How much his poor father would havebeen delighted in him? Mr. Crawfurd rejoiced, although he was toorighteous and humble-minded to say to himself that God was appeased, orthat He had permitted this atonement as a sign in answer to hislife-long penance.

  Harry Jardine represented a different theory; he would be a dolt, abrute, unpardonably vindictive, if he did not cherish all friendlyfeelings to the Crawfurds; if he did not visit them openly and frankly.He did visit at the Ewes, but he found the plainest opportunities readymade for him during one fortnight at Hurlton, to come in contact withJoanna Crawfurd. She had gone there to look after Conny, suborned byMrs. Maxwell, and laid up with a sore throat, and forlorn and wretchedif one of her sisters was not looking after her.

  This intercourse could scarcely fail to have one grand climax. Joanna,the thoughtful, imaginative, true, tender woman--a fair woman besides,with that one little blot which singularly appealed to him with a harshsweet voice--a sufficiently rare woman, to stand quite distinct from hersisters and companions in the light of the practical, active, ardent,honest heart--became the one mistress in the world for Harry Jardine,coveted and craved by him as the best gift of God, without which theothers were comparatively worthless, and for which he could have beenwilling to sacrifice them one and all. Harry himself, in after years,confessed that since the moment he awakened from that leaden drowsinesson the moor, the image of Joanna Crawfurd, tending him as a mother hersick child, was constantly before him.

  Joanna had not precisely the same experience. From the moment that, withthe prescience of a woman where feelings are concerned, she saw the end,she avoided Harry Jardine with all her power. Harry's generousdetermination and daring, his fearlessness, confidence, andsteadfastness overpowered her.

  Mr. Crawfurd was dreadfully upset by Harry Jardine's application to him,his claim for forbearance, his entreaty for grace, and his candidconfession that his mother was violently opposed to his suit. It was acase which could neither be considered nor rejected without remorse. Oh,bitterness, which spread like an infection through so many years, andinto such different relations, and spoilt even the young man'sfairness, good faith, free forgiveness, and the purity and earnestnessof his passion, the pearl of his manhood, which, if lost to him, wouldbe a loss indeed! How Harry implored Mr. Crawfurd to spare it to him, toreflect that it was the greatest benefit which he asked at his hands, topause before he denied it to him solely because he had been theunfortunate means of depriving him of his father!

  Harry had agitating scenes with his mother besides; these two had neverbeen placed against each other before, and the contest between them wasneither gracious nor good for either heart.

  "Harry, I am horrified at you; it is a dishonour to your poor father'smemory; it is shocking to think of it; and if you have been so lost toduty as to fall into so unnatural an entanglement, it is surely theleast you owe to both parents to give it up."

  "Mother! I cannot see it as you do; my father fully exonerated Mr.Crawfurd--you have told me so a hundred times. No one, not you, hiswidow, mourned my father as Mr. Crawfurd mourned--nay, mourns him tothis day."

  "Harry, do you wish to see a bloody guest present at your wedding?"

  "Mother, that is a baseless, cruel horror. You would not wish me tomaintain a hereditary feud on the principle of my forefathers. I cannottell what the Christian religion teaches if it does not enjoinforgiveness of injuries."

  "I hope I am a Christian, Harry, and I have tried to forgive myenemies, but it is one thing to make every allowance for them andentertain charitable feelings towards them, and another to ally myselfwith them, and constitute them my closest friends. Harry, the wholeneighbourhood would shrink from the idea of what you contemplate."

  "If my principles and my heart said Yes, not the neighbourhood, butthe whole world might cry No, and I would not feel bound to listen tothe clamour."

  "A young man's improper b
oast, Harry, and since you force me to it, notthe world alone--I tell you nature objects to that girl--that girl ofthem all; how can you look her in the face and think of love?"

  "Would you have me think of hate? Since you make the allusion, I declareto you, mother, that mark appeals to you and me in another fashion.Cain's brand! do they call it? And who set the brand, and when, onCain's brow? Sovereign clemency, after the wanderer's punishment wasmore than he could bear, if the reflection of my father's blood wastransmitted to so innocent and noble a proxy, it must have been designedto teach such as you and me New Testament lessons of perfect charity."

  "Harry, I have never been able to look that girl in the face."

  "Mother, I pray never to forget that face, although it remain like anangel's face to me, because it is the fairest example of the human facedivine that I ever hope to behold."

  "Harry Jardine, you are mad, or worse; these are some of the sickeningFrench and German sentimentalities against which I have been warned.There is such a thing as a wholesome sense of repulsion, an honestmanly recoil, a pure instinct of loathing, a thousand times to bepreferred to this morbid mixture of good and evil, friend and foe, lifeand death, this defiance of decency and general opinion."

  "Very true, mother; but there are a thousand exceptional cases, and amillion points of ruthless prejudice. 'An eye for an eye, and a toothfor a tooth,' sounded very righteous and respectable in the ears of theJews, yet I believe the sentence had its condemnation, and the amendmentwas neither French nor German."

  "Harry, you are profane, and you forget what is due to yourself and me."

  The last saying was a hard one; his mother could be no judge of hisprofanity, but he had been a good son, and it had not been withouta curb upon him that the strong man had accustomed himself to leaveso much of the power and authority of Whitethorn in the wilfulwoman's hands.

  In the library at the Ewes Mr. Crawfurd was addressing Joannavery gently.

  "My dear, I am very sorry it cannot be; of course Mrs. Jardine willnever consent, but it goes to my heart to grieve you."

  "Papa, I cannot help it."

  "And to grieve Harry Jardine."

  "Papa, that is worse; but do not think that anybody--that heblames you."

  "We shall trust, my dear, that he will soon recover thedisappointment."

  "Of course--it is not a great loss."

  "My dear, pray don't smile when it hurts you, for I cannot bear it; itis natural that this should be a heavy cross to you; but setting itaside as unavoidable, is there no respect in which I can lighten it toyou? No indulgence which you could fancy that I could procure for you?No old wish of his Joan's that papa could by an effort gratify? Surely Icannot be so miserable, child."

  "Oh, no, papa! I mean you can please in a great many things; you alwayscould, and you always will. Women are not like men, their natures arenot so concentrated. They have so many tastes and whims, you know; Ipossess them by the score, and I will never cease to relish theirfulfilment so long as you and I keep labouring together, papa. I am notgoing to be a hypocrite, papa. This strange story has vexed me a gooddeal, but I was aware from the first of its unsubstantial character. Istill want money to be charitable on my own account, like Lilias. I've anotion to revive our old greenhouse; I've a longing to see a little ofthe world with you, sir, in spring and summer; I've never beenindifferent to silks and muslins, though I think my chief weakness indress is the very finest of fine chintz prints, ever so dear a yard,papa, which an artist might paint, and more of a Duchess's wear thanvelvet. All these matters are acceptable to me, papa."

  "You are sure that you are my pet and darling."

  "Yes, papa; you have spoilt me."

  Joanna was gone to her own room; there she laid her head on her arm, andasked her heart bitterly, "Have I succeeded in deceiving papa? Can hebelieve for a moment that any poor precious treasure in the wide worldwill make up to me for the want of Harry Jardine; that there is anythingleft me but Heaven instead of Harry Jardine? But then there is papa,dear papa, and I used to be papa's. What will not women do for theirchildren? I always thought I could attain as much for papa. I was proudto prove my love to him, and I will drive out Harry's image for papa'ssake, though I should die in the struggle."

  Harry did not altogether admire this resolution. He was a good fellow,an excellent fellow, and he had the true, ineffable devotion to JoannaCrawfurd; but he was not free from jealousy and irritation, as well assorrow and fear, when he was compelled to part from her for a time, andcontent himself with swearing fidelity on his own account, and seeingher occasionally as an ordinary acquaintance, until their relativepositions should be changed, or his truth fail.

  The common world rolled on its course; the seasons succeeded each other,although even they seemed to culminate in dull, monotonous vanity andvexation of spirit. The frosty wind had swept "that lustre deep fromglen and brae," and the chill watery mosses alone looked green and freshwhen the snow melted. It was the cold under which Joanna Crawfurdshivered and shrank; at least so she assured every friendly person whoremarked that she was thin, and paler than ever. Mrs. Jardine had lookedher in the face, nay, kept nervously glancing at her when she wasvisible at church, on the loch where the curling match was played, or inthe concert-room at the county town.

  Of course the girl would get over it; yet Joanna bore a suspiciouslikeness to Mrs. Jardine's sister Anne, who did not "get over" such across. Mrs. Jardine remembered well her sister Anne's parting look, andnow, strive as she would, she could not resist the conviction that itwas hovering over Joanna Crawfurd's face. Mrs. Jardine, like the Lairdof the Ewes, could have cried, "Pray do not smile, girl; you do not knowhow you look; we, the initiated, have not stony enough hearts to standthat." Mrs. Jardine was surprised that Harry could be so foolish as toredden and appear displeased at Joanna Crawfurd's gaiety.

  Mrs. Jardine almost complained against Providence that she was condemnedto punish her only child. Then she could not help speculating whether,if by some unimaginable arrangement of events, she had been thesufferer, and Harry's father had been spared to him, he would havedenied Harry his happiness in the name of her memory, and from a senseof righteous animosity, whether, if she could have looked down purifiedand peaceful from the spirit-world, she would have desired thesacrifice, and whether she would not have pleaded against it for loveand mercy's sake?

  The winter was gone, the early spring was at hand, and all around theoutskirts of the moor, like an incense to spring and the Lord of thespring, rose the smoke of the whin burnings which were to clear theground for the sweet young grass, to employ the nibbling teeth ofhundreds on hundreds of sheep and lambs. Joanna Crawfurd had never sosighed for spring, never sat in such passive inertness (highlyprovocative to Lilias), receiving and realizing what it brought to her.

  But the period of listlessness and inaction, life-long to some, wasnearly ended for this pair. With the last snowdrops of the garden inFebruary, and the first glinting gowans of the lea in March, came thenews to the country-side of the bankruptcy of one of the first of thechain of banks, whose defalcations have accomplished more in causingproperty to change hands than the lances of the moss-troopers. The youngLaird of Whitethorn held money in the shape of his father's shares inone of those unlucky banks; and so it fell upon him one morning like aclap of thunder that he was responsible for about as much as the acresof Whitethorn would retrieve, besides the trifling morsel to whet hisappetite in the loss of his loose thousands. Harry Jardine was likely toknow himself as "landless, landless," as ever a proscribed Macgregor.

  Harry rose to the encounter. "I am sorry for you, mother, and I do notpretend that I shall not regret the old moorland acres; but I shall dovery well, notwithstanding. I'm old to learn a profession; but how manyvolunteers and retired lieutenants had to study and serveapprenticeships after the long wars! I will stick in; I don't mind it onmy own account, and I will be proud to provide for you. I say, mother,don't vex yourself; perhaps it is the best thing that can happen to me.I don't t
hink a fellow gets well seasoned unless he is knocked about atsome time: better late than never. I have been coveting change--anychange and occupation, an engrossing occupation--for the last fewmonths." He said that to reconcile her to what was an overwhelming blowto her, and his words aroused her with a sharp pang. Had Harry becomeso miserable and sick of his blessings that he was ready to welcome thecold-bath of labour and poverty as a relief to his oppressive languor,and a ground of hope for his fainting mind?

  But Harry came in to her with a troubled face, on another day--a mildday--a subtle, penetrating, relaxing day, under whose balmy breath it isdoubly difficult to contend with encircling difficulties, and reject theone clue suddenly vouchsafed to lead us out of the labyrinth.

  "I must tell you, mother, though, of course, it cannot be in thecircumstances--he does not see it--but there is no fatality to bindme to his views. Mr. Crawfurd of the Ewes sent for me this morning,and I went to him immediately; I could not tell what he might haveto say to me."

  "Without consulting your mother, Harry?"

  "Yes, mother," answered Harry, with unconscious sternness, "because itmight have been my own business, entirely my own affair, with which nomortal, not even you, can be entitled to interfere. But it was only tooffer and urge upon me a loan of money to enable me to satisfy thebank's claims, if they come to the worst, and retain Whitethorn, payinghim at my leisure. I assure you that it was delicately done; my father'sghost may rest in peace. I beg your pardon, mother; I did not mean topain you. I am afraid I do speak queerly at times. Well, well; it was akind, confiding, neighbourly action, though I refused it decidedly, fromthe man whose alliance is forbidden to us. I had no resource but torespect myself, as I respected him; and it is no great matter that ithurt me to cut up that gentle, inoffensive old man, endeavouring to showhis rue for having proved, twenty years ago, what my father was to atleast an equal degree, and what I have no assurance that I would nothave found myself, to a far greater extent than either of them--a slaveto a false code of honour."

  Harry sat down, haggard, dispirited, half-desperate. His mother made noreply. All the rest of the day she walked about the house like arestless spirit; half the night she paced up and down her chambersoftly, lest Harry should hear her, and come in again, and begin tocaress her; for she could not endure Harry's kisses now--they were likeJoanna Crawfurd's smiles.

  Was Harry quarrelling with his father's memory? It was a ghastlysacrilege to her; yet might he not arrive at cursing in his heart, evenwhile he was grasping the devil within him by the throat? What had itnot cost him? First, his young love and the cream of his happiness; andnow his paternal acres, and his position among the independent,influential gentlemen of his native county. He might not value the lastin his present fever and rashness, but he would weigh it more justlyhereafter. The moorland inheritance was not of great money purchase, butit had descended to its possessors through long generations. It washallowed by venerable associations. The name and the property togetherwere of some importance in this nook of the south. Harry's father had afamily affection for his _place_, and, doubtless, Harry entertained italso, undeveloped as yet, but to grow and acquire full maturity one day,addressing him at every pensive interval with a vain craving andyearning. And, again, in the confusion and distraction of Mrs.Jardine's feelings, there was her sister Anne haunting her dreams, andreproaching her with having forgotten her; and lastly, one verse in herwell-worn Bible was constantly standing out before her aching eyes inletters of fire, and shining into her rebellious but scared heart, "Iwill have mercy and not sacrifice."

  It is one thing to have been Christians all our lives, drawn along by acurrent, only broken by comparatively trivial, every-day temptations,contests and sacrifices, and another thing to wrestle with a decree thatall at once confronts and contradicts a master-passion, a deeply-foundedverdict, a strongly-rooted opinion whose overthrow will shake the entireframework of our lives.

  Mrs. Jardine descended the stairs the next morning very pale andexhausted, and for the first time (though she was a widow by apeculiarly sorrowful visitation), with a certain wistful air which Harryhad observed in Mr. Crawfurd. It touched him--a fiery, doggedman--extremely, in the one case as in the other. His mother, on theannouncement of his loss, had insisted on undertaking various domesticexaminations with respect to general retrenchment; he had humoured her,under the impression that it diverted her mind, and broke the force ofwhat was a great calamity to her. He believed that she had over-exertedherself, and he commenced to remonstrate in the imperious, reproachful,affectionate tone, which the mother loves in her manly son.

  "Yes, Harry, I have undertaken too much, and therefore I have requestedthe company of two friends, who will be willing to lighten our burden."

  "Strangers in the house at this time, mother?" exclaimed Harry,bewildered. "Well, if you can bring yourself to suggest it, and wish it,I need have no objection. Never mind me, mother. Besides, I shall befrom home. Yes, I do believe it will be a good plan."

  "I thought, Harry," said Mrs. Jardine, so tremulously that Harry feltquite alarmed for his upright, obdurate mother, "as Mr. Crawfurd hadbeen so friendly in his intentions towards you--the only man who hascome forward with such a proposal and entreaty--isn't he, Harry?--thattwo of the Miss Crawfurds might consent to pay us a visit at last. Ibelieve they would waive all ceremony, and their father would like it.It would show that we were willing, at least, to be reconciled in ourevil day; that we appreciated their magnanimity; that we were not meanas well as malicious, Harry."

  Harry stared, "Mother," he said slowly, colouring violently, "are youprepared for the consequences of inviting the Miss Crawfurds here, orwhat do you mean?"

  "I have counted the cost, Harry; I have written and sent away a note,asking if Miss Joanna and one of her sisters will have so muchconsideration for an old afflicted woman."

  Harry burst away from her, that she might not read the glow which was inhis eyes and searched through his whole being.

  Mrs. Jardine cried a little, as a woman might say, quietly andcomfortably; a strange thing for her, since she was one of those womenwho shed vehement tears or none at all; then she dried her eyes andfolded her hands reverently, saying, "I have a strange sense of calmand of Divine favour this morning. I am sure I am not mystical, but onejogs along the beaten way, and gets stupified, and doubts whether onecan be a Christian or no, there is so little conviction of the fact inwhat divines, from the Bible, call 'the inner man of the spirit;' butwhen we conquer our wills, and obey one of His everlasting decrees, thenwe do feel that we must belong to Him, and we have an assurance of Hispresence, which is a great enough reward without the gratification ofearthly afflictions. Ah! I have had dear old Annie's voice ringing in myears all the morning; and I have heard George Jardine bidding me takecare of Harry, as he always did before he went from home, except thelast day when he dared not face me."

  The Crawfurds came to Whitethorn. Mr. Crawfurd sent them at once; hewould not listen to a single objection or obstacle, though Lilias andConny were with Polly Musgrave, and it was inconvenient to spare theothers on a moment's warning. Susan could not understand it--why theyshould be bidden to Whitethorn now, when it had been so long debarred tothem; but Susan liked company, even company under a cloud; and she had acuriosity to inspect Whitethorn, into which not one of them had put afoot, except papa and mamma, long ago. Joanna made no demur, though, amonth before, nothing would have induced her to believe that she wouldbe staying with Susie this March at Whitethorn. Mr. Crawfurd walked withhis daughters to the great gate, and Joanna, looking back, saw him, onhis return, switching the thistle-heads in the hedge, as she had neverwitnessed him attempt in her experience; she could almost fancy he waswhistling, as Harry Jardine went piping along before he fell in lovewith her.

  It was a trial when Harry Jardine was introduced into the Crawfurds'company; but Mrs. Jardine was very hospitable and kind, and Harryrapidly recovered or assumed his usual ease and animation, and Susansoon lost all peculiar consciousness, and
Joanna fell back on thewoman's armour, dinted, but not broken, of her self-control. In a fewhours they did wonderfully well together. Susan was delighted with thenovelties of the old-fashioned country-house, and Harry was notparticularly downcast in his misfortunes; he was almost as amusing asever, and invented fun for her as if he had never heard the name ofbank, and, finally, he did not complain of the arrangement, of whichSusan highly approved, that she should be Harry's companion, and Joannashould belong to Mrs. Jardine. Joanna was so sedate, and, although shewas not a business-woman like Lilias (how Susan would boast of theground she had gained when she wrote and amazed Lilias!) she was used toassociating with older people, and could suit herself to their ways andbe handy to them.

  Harry smiled blandly on the partition for three whole days. At theclose of the third day, when Susan and Joanna were brushing their hairtogether, Susan started the proposal that they should return to theEwes whenever Mrs. Jardine's inventories, and settling and sorting ofaccounts, were brought to an end; "because, Joanna, Harry is gettingcross; I am sure of it; he is not half so agreeable as he was thefirst night. I think he is angry because his mother keeps you toherself, and sends me to talk to him and give him music. When I cometo think of it, it is a very senseless plan of hers, and perhaps sheis spiteful though she is so attentive, and I am not frightened at herany longer. She is a quick woman, but as pleasant as possible; but ifyou please, Joanna, you can be shut up with her, and go out with hertill we leave, for I should not care for it very much, and I see nocall for it on my part; and I am certain we had better fix on goinghome again as soon as we can manage it."

  "Very well, Susan; only you speak very fast; I can scarcely followyou. It strikes me you are wrong on one point. I never noticed thatHarry Jardine was tired of being your host, or that he minded who satnext him."

  "Not tired of me exactly, or careless of my enjoyment, because, to besure, Harry Jardine is courting all of us. Nonsense, Joanna, you neednot affect to be sage and precise and unconcerned. I am not so silly,and it is very conceited of you, and I have no patience with you. Ofcourse I was not blind and deaf, and I have not lost my memory. HarryJardine is continually looking after you, whatever his mother persuadesherself. He never notices what I wear, and he remembered ribbons youwore months since. I put on mine, and he looked at it and said, 'That islike one of Joanna's; is it not?' Now I know very well he never callsany of us by our Christian names to other people, and only you to one orother of us, and he does it pointedly, as if to express, 'I mean to beyour brother-in-law one of these days, and I want to keep you in mind ofmy intentions, so I take the liberty.'"

  "Why don't you say, 'Mr. Jardine, Joanna does not like a liberty takenwith her name'?"

  "I dare say! and have him reply, 'Did Joanna tell me so herself?' Ibelieve he would be only too glad to have you speak to him on anysubject, and I put him into such a fume about your appearance, Jack! Ofcourse, I intended no harm, the words came out somehow. You remember,last night, his showing me an engraving he had bought. 'Tell me some onethat is like,' he said to me. It was the least in the world like you, orlike your mode of dressing your hair, but it flattered you, as thesechance likenesses always do. 'Is it a little like Joanna?' I askedtrying him; and I continued, 'Our Joanna would be rather a pretty girlif it were not for the blemish;' and there I stopped short, for Irecollected that I should not have mentioned it to him. I wish you hadseen him, how hot and haughty he was, as if you were not my own sister,and as if I had not more business with you than he had yet. 'I wonderhow any one who has any regard for Joanna can term that mark a defect:it is very sacred and beautiful, otherwise Joanna is without spot'--andthere he caught himself and turned away--he was about to add, 'orwrinkle or any such thing,' and I am afraid it was a quotation from theBible; but I fancy he felt that he was making a fool of himself, andheld his tongue. We ought to speak of going home."

  "Susie, dear, don't be unreasonable; you know what a claim this familyhas upon ours; you know what papa desires."

  "I know nothing except that Harry Jardine wants me out of his way, andyou in his way. It is very disagreeable to me, and a greatresponsibility to me. You are an interested party, you cannot beexpected to see things as you should."

  "Why not? I told you to correct him when he was wrong. But I thought youwere great friends; and poor Mrs. Jardine, Susan, I can be of use to herin her adversity. I can do things for her as I do for--"

  "As you do for papa; there is a fine confession!"

  Joanna ensconced herself in silence. Susan had provocation, but Joannatook great care next day not to support Harry Jardine in his levity anddiscontent. All the morning she spent with Mrs. Jardine; she pinnedherself to her sleeve until, after luncheon, she was taken by the oldlady into her own room, with its bright fire and shining dogs, itsbroad, easy couch, its table, with the handsome ponderous writing-desk,flanking the handsome heavy dressing-case, and its look-out from thewarmly-curtained windows quite across the moor.

  "What a comfortable room, Mrs. Jardine!" Joanna could not helpexclaiming; "I never saw a more fresh, inspiriting view to my taste, andsuch a stretch of sky,--you may sit and foretell all weathers here."

  "Yes, my dear, and I have foretold all weathers here. I'll talk to you alittle of my nice room, and why I am so sorry to think of leaving it."

  "We hope you will not leave it," Joanna ventured, timidly.

  "Ah! that rests with others now. But I came here a gay girl; I visitedat Whitethorn before my marriage, Joanna; I dwelt here a thoughtless,happy young wife; and here I kept Harry, not quite so troublesome asnow; and here I lay a heart-stricken widow while they were bringing homethe corpse of my husband, who had left me a vigorous, determined man twohours before."

  "It must have been dreadful! dreadful!" murmured Joanna faintly; butlifting up her face to Mrs. Jardine with the earnest confiding eyes, theblanched cheeks, and that seal on her brow--"Oh, how often papa and Ihave thought of it, and pitied you and ourselves!"

  "My dear, it was one of those dispensations of Providence which onenever forgets to the end of a long life. But I was a sinner, I deservedwhat I bore; we all deserve the sorest evil that can afflict us; and,thank God, there is mercy mingled with the greatest misery. I do notspeak often of it, but I can do so to-day; and I find it is a relief totalk to you of our misfortune, because you can sympathize with me; youwere a sufferer in it like myself; it cannot be to many other livingpersons what it is to us two. I have had that brought home to me, mylove. I do not grieve or frighten you, Joanna?"

  "No, Mrs. Jardine, I have lamented it all my life. I am very gratefulthat you should let me say that papa was very sorry; they sound verylittle words, Mrs. Jardine, but you understand them, and papa willnever cease to be sorry in this world, and we have only wanted tocomfort you."

  "Poor fellow!" sighed Mrs. Jardine absently. "Crawfurd of the Ewes, anaccomplished, pleasant fellow--so broken a man!"

  They talked a little longer of the tragedy with composed but strongmutual interest and commiseration; and Mrs. Jardine acknowledged thatsuch pity was not like the world's pity, but was delicate and tender asthe ministry of any Barnabas or son of consolation; and when shefinished, she kissed Joanna on the forehead, and said to herself, "Harrywas right. If this is the sign of George Jardine's blood, it was placedthere to pay her father's debt, and set her apart for us."

  "Now, the sun is shining out, Joanna--'a clear shining afterrain,'--don't you like the Bible words?--I know you do. You must have awalk yet. Why, the violets will be out in another ten days. Hand me mygarden bonnet, and we will have a turn in the garden or shrubbery. I sawHarry and your sister take the way there. My dear, you have the look ofa sister I was very fond of, and I think Mr. Jardine would have admiredyou. Yonder they are, Joanna. I should like that you would send MissCrawfurd to me, and have a stroll with Harry yourself. You will injureyour health, child, if you do not attend more to yourself. And, Joanna,if my son questions you as to what I said to you, for he is a curiousfellow, tell him I have been reading a text
for myself this morning, andfor several mornings--'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.' Andalthough I am an old woman, I have got it by heart. And bid him show youthe thorn walk."

  Joanna did not like to decline a commission of Mrs. Jardine's, but shecould no more have asked Harry to walk with her than if he had been aduke. However, Harry was loitering and watching them, and came forwardat this moment, and Mrs. Jardine herself appropriated Susan, andtransferred Joanna to Harry.

  "I am very much obliged to you for your kindness to my mother," saidHarry formally--no Joanna this time, no name at all. "I never saw mymother take so much to any one," he continued eagerly; "she is naturallya self-reliant, reserved woman; but she has opened up to you?"

  "Yes," answered Joanna softly; "and do you know, she has been talking tome of the past."

  Harry started. "What did she say, Joanna? She could not offend you. Praywhat did she say to you?"

  "She did not offend me--far from that--she was very good, and she gaveme a message to you, if you were inquisitive--she had been studying atext, 'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.'"

  "Ah! I am very happy to understand it."

  "It seems easily understood; and she advised us to walk in the thornwalk. Is it near at hand? Shall we have time?"

  "We must take time, we cannot disappoint my mother. The thorn walk is afavourite with her all the year round, although it is only in its beautyin the month of May. Shall I explain to you why she has selected itto-day?"

  "Yes, if you please."

  "My father lived here, when he was a young man, with his uncle thelaird. They had no near female relative. It was a dull house, as dull anestablishment as my mother and I maintain together."

  "Much duller, I should think."

  "No; for before a certain time he was not sensible of its deficiency; hehad no definite wishes or hopes for an increase to their circle, are-modelling of their housekeeping. My mother was distantly related tohim; she came on a visit to my grand-uncle with an elderly lady, who wasalso a connexion; she was a lively young girl then. My father often toldher afterwards to what an incalculable degree her presence brightenedthe old house and the two forlorn gentlemen; it would have been utterdarkness if she had left them again to their old hazy sunlessness; so myfather took the desperate step of leading her to the thorn walk. It wasthe month of May then, and it was covered with blossoms, sending a whiteshower on their bent heads from a whole line of trysting trees; but,when I think of it, March, which is lightly esteemed, is preferable toMay, for March has all the promise of the year in prospect; and see, ithas cloth of gold and silver to step upon, in the shape of the bright,commonplace, unjustly overlooked crocuses."

  "You have been reading the seedsman's tallies, Mr. Jardine."

  "Never mind; you agree with me?"

  "The world and the poets choose May. And you begin to be eccentric andchoose March."

  "My father conducted my mother here; she has told me the circumstances ahundred times, though she is a quiet woman; and she wore such a clothgown as you wear to-day."

  "Mr. Jardine, you are talking nonsense; this is a new stuff, I assureyou it has not been half-a-dozen months out of the looms; and do yousuppose, sir, that I shall wear this dress in the month of May?"

  "That comes of confiding those details to men. I always thought it was agown like this one; and he asked her to abide at Whitethorn, and crownhis lairdship and gladden and sweeten his entire future career; and hesucceeded at last in winning her consent. And this is the thorn walk,Joanna, and I am free to re-enact the old passage in two lives, andplead with you not to desert Whitethorn if we are to retain it. I ampoorer by a few thousands since I first made the same prayer to you; butyour father puts no weight on the difference, or, in his raregenerosity, lets it tell in my favour; and I don't think we need breakour hearts about our little loss, if we look to our great gain. Here Ibeg you, as the humblest and most sincere of your petitioners, to putyour life into my life, and cause the united life to bud and blossominto the May of the heart."

  "And November and December would come to that year likewise."

  "Yes, they will; but they will tread hard upon the real new-year, theveritable new year, that will

  "Ring out the false, ring in the true"

  of this hoary world. Will you travel to it with me, Joanna? Shall westrive and pray, and help each other to reach it together? Shall webegin it even here? Your father will bestow you solemnly and gladly; mymother will accept you with a blessing."

  Joanna said, "Yes; God bless us, Harry," reverently; and, reverently,God blessed them.

  Harry was energetic, and Joanna was prudent, and old Mrs. Jardine wasproud of the spirit with which they saved the swamped estate ofWhitethorn even from Mr. Crawfurd's bond; and having helped themselves,they helped others, then and ever afterwards.

  Polly Musgrave applied to them in time. Polly had written on JoannaCrawfurd's marriage a jeering, jibing letter. "So you have gone and doneas I prophesied, after all your wrath on the moor, and preciseness atHurlton. But, first, you were as silly as possible, and wanted to revivethe Middle Ages, which was quite in Don Quixote's tone; you to pine anddie, and he to shoot himself (as violent deaths are hereditary), oraddict himself to loose living and destruction. Then, when he loses hismoney, and in common sense you may both think better of it, shake handsand go your several ways; you make all up, post haste, and come togetherwith a flourish of trumpets, and poverty _will_ come in at the door, andlove fly out at the window. Fie! I am ashamed of you, after all!"

  But Polly wrote in a different strain a year or two later:--"DEARCOUSIN JOANNA,--I am not so healthy and heartless as I used to be,and I have been teased with a desire to come to Whitethorn, and perhapsprofit by your carriage in this world, as I never dreamt of once upon atime. But I will say this for myself, I only wrote and crowed over youwhen you were quite able to afford it. I was very glad of yourhappiness, child (as our grandmother wrote, and one of our grandmotherswas the same person! think of that, Harry Jardine!). Is Harry Jardine aspromising as he used to be before you took him in hand; or is thepromise fulfilled in an upright, generous, gladsome (and because of thatlast word you would insist on adding godly) man? He was a man of whom tomake a spoon or spoil a horn, and you were the woman to perform thedelectable feat."

  Polly had found her heart not a very lofty one, not a very sensitiveone--but an honest and kind heart in the main, which was permitted toextricate itself from the slough of luxury and self-indulgence, and beatwarmly and faithfully throughout the rest of its course.