Chapter XIII: Baffled Hopes

EDWARD PRYSE followed the remains of his wife's relative to the grave as chief and only mourner. No one came forward then to claim kinship with the lonely and unloved old man. But as nearly the whole of Muirstane belonged to him, a goodly number of tenants joined the funeral procession. Already they looked upon Edward as their new master, and accordingly began to pay court to him, hoping they would find in him a more indulgent landlord. Not a few were eager to inform him of facts they would not have cared to make public during Mr. Macdonald's lifetime, and willingly gave him all the assistance in their power, while he made a careful and patient investigation of every matter respecting his wife.

The letter he wrote to Liverpool had only brought a curt reply that no lady of the name of Pryse, or of the description he had given, had sailed in the "Ocean Queen." But the belief that Ermyn must be Ethel's child had taken too strong a hold of him to be entirely set aside even by this. He must seek for some other clue. But in the meantime, it was his duty to turn from this engrossing matter to the immediate necessity of settling his uncle's affairs.

Mr. Tod, the lawyer, who had drawn up the hidden document, was absent from home at the time of Mr. Macdonald's decease, but returned with all speed in answer to Edward's summons. Mr. Pryse informed him accurately of all that had taken place since his arrival at Muirstane, to which the lawyer listened in professional silence. When everything had been stated, Mr. Tod asked the following question slowly and deliberately:

"Then if this document is found—and there can be no doubt of its existence, from all you tell me and from what I know myself—can you throw any light as to the whereabouts of the unfortunate lady, his niece, who is entitled to this property under her uncle's gift? Or, if she is dead, whether she left a child to take it?"

"I have reason to believe," replied Edward, "that my wife, the lady you refer to, whom I married as Ethel Macdonald, was drowned in the steamer 'Ocean Queen,' which was wrecked in the St. George's Channel in the year 18—. But I have yet to prove that this was the case. If I am right in my conjecture, I can produce her only child, a girl, whom I accidentally discovered living under another name in South Wales. She is supposed to be the daughter of a poor woman, who, however, confessed to me that the girl was not her own child."

The lawyer expressed much surprise at this piece of information, and promised all the help he could give towards unravelling the interesting mystery, and ways and means were accordingly discussed most earnestly. However, the disquisition ended by their coming back to the point they started from: the document must be found first, before any other steps could be taken.

Meantime, efforts were made to track the guilty fugitives, who had departed immediately Edward had closed the doors upon them. Thanks to the stupidity of the thieves, some valuable property was soon recovered. But it needed a long and careful search before the man and his wife were finally captured. Alas it was found that most of the costly and massive family plate had been previously carried off; and as it had been sold and melted down at once, none of it could be recovered. Some of the jewels were discovered by their peculiar setting, and were found in the possession of pawnbrokers and country people, totally ignorant of their great value, but others could not be traced.

The search for the will continued with the aid of careful workmen, under the supervision of Edward himself. But again and again he was disappointed and baffled. The oak panels of each room had been carefully removed, but no secret drawer could be discovered.

Meanwhile, rumours began to reach Edward of certain Macdonalds who were about to dispute his right to act, and he was daily harassed by letters from distant relatives of the late laird, each claiming to be heir-at-law. He therefore fully expected the case would ere long be brought before some court.

One day, as he was seated buried in desponding cogitations, a reminiscence of his childhood flashed into his mind. He recollected his mother's curious ancient cabinet of inlaid wood and silver, and how one day, as she was cleaning and putting it to rights, she by accident saw what appeared to be merely a tiny worm-eaten hole. Into this she inserted a fine knitting-needle, and started with surprise when a small drawer shot out, containing some old family documents and a few rare coins. This incident had faded from his mind until present circumstances revived it.

He rose, determined not to summon the workmen again; he would go alone and recommence the search. Of course, as is generally the case, they had hunted through all the likely places first, and Ethel's little sanctum was the last to be invaded. This also was panelled in oak. In several of the other rooms, two or three sliding panels had been detected by the accidental touching of springs. But the secret drawer which Mr. Macdonald had mentioned could not be found. Ethel's room, it was argued, being in such a remote situation, would certainly contain nothing valuable. The search there had consequently been less careful.

"Here is a sliding panel!" cried Edward, with delight, as he stood in a dark corner on one side of the bookcase, in the room which he had entered on the night when he appeared as an unbidden guest.

On examining it by the aid of a taper, he observed a little hole in the back. But he had nothing at hand small enough to insert in it. Suddenly he recollected Ethel's workbox, turned to it, and lifted the lid. There lay a slender stiletto, covered with rust, in its silken band. Would it serve his purpose? He drew it out, and inserted the point in the hole, when out sprang a secret drawer, which contained the "Will of Alexander Macdonald, of Muirstane, Esquire," giving the estate to his niece for life, and after her death to her eldest surviving child.

Who can describe Edward's feelings, as he fell on his knees to utter a fervent "Thank God!"

With this in his possession, he could hold the estate while he searched for the wife and child to whom it belonged. But before he went out into the world to find them, one task yet remained to him. He unlocked the old man's desk, and took out the bundle of letters that had never reached their destination. His passionate rage boiled up again as he read his own letters from America, full of loving, tender words, which had not even been seen by the dear eyes that had looked up so wistfully into his, the day he had said "Farewell." Those words would have poured balm into the wounded lonely heart, and filled it with patient waiting for his return.

"He murdered her!" said he bitterly.

Then recollecting his words of forgiveness uttered beside the dying bed, he checked the further outburst of wrath. There were only two or three of Ethel's letters, and these were directed to the shipping office in Liverpool whither he had told her to write first. They wrung his heart as he read them, being full of tender longings for his return, even ere he had left England. There were hopes and fears concerning the future, and entreaties that he would, if possible, come back before their child should be born. Then followed a heart-rending account of her lonely life. But all this was before she had returned to Muirstane House, so they told nothing of her miseries there.

"I must go and look for Nannie, soon," she had written in a postscript attached to the last letter.

At first Edward could not think to whom she referred. But it gradually dawned upon his recollection that this must be the faithful old nurse, Nannie McEwen, who had come with her to Muirstane, and stayed until she was grown-up. He had never seen her, because, owing to circumstances in her own family, she had been obliged to leave her situation before he came to Scotland. This woman was now the missing link in his chain of evidence; he must set out to find her. But to obtain any news of her was a difficult matter, as in the lapse of years there had been considerable alterations at Muirstane. The post-office had changed hands, and though several of the inhabitants could tell him about Nannie's departure, no one could recollect whither she had gone.

At last one old man said, "She used to tell o' her brither at Portree, in Skye; didna she gang to him?"

This dubious information, scanty as it was, was all Edward had to act upon. But he lost no time in setting out on his journey to this distant place. All necessary directions, together with the management of the estate, were left in the hands of his factor, and a respectable man and his wife were placed in charge of the house.

The railway only took him a comparatively small part of the way, but he was not sorry to exchange it for a seat on the top of a coach, which started early one September morning. The country through which it took him was wild and beautiful, and the autumnal tints on the foliage were red and rare. On, on he went all day, over brown moorlands, past lonely tarns, up and down steep braes, until the sun sank to rest behind the purple mountains, and still a fresh set of horses was needed for yet another stage. It was midnight when the coach finally stopped at a ferry, where most of the travellers turned in thankfully to sleep at the little wayside inn close at hand. Not so Edward Pryse; he had neither time nor inclination to loiter on his way with such an end in view.

A boat was rocking on the water, and he, with some others, stepped into it. It was scarcely discernible by the pale light of stars. The persons who seated themselves formed a picturesque group. Two Highland lassies were together, and Edward had helped a lame beggar in, he was followed by the bearer of the mail-bags. One of the boatmen held a bull's-eye lantern, whose red light flashed brightly on the figures as they rowed through the mysterious and shadowy darkness. The girls began singing Jacobite songs, much to the delight of the men, who cheered heartily, and Edward enjoyed the plaintive sound of the voices, combined with the gentle movement of the gliding boat. They were soon across, and after the party had scrambled up the slimy, slippery landing-place, the boatman came to demand his fares.

"I canna pay ye," said the mendicant. "Ye'll surely tak' me for naethin'; I'm ganging to the sacrament at Murthlie."

Edward heard the whining tones of remonstrance, and thrust some coppers into the outstretched hand, which were received with a burst of grateful thanks.

"How soon can I go on?" he asked at the inn, to which a few footsteps brought him.

"Ye maun either gang the nicht in her Majesty's mail-cart, or bide till to-morrow nicht the same hour," replied the woman, who had come out to greet him.

Edward looked up at the twinkling stars. "It is a fine night," he thought; "by this time to-morrow there may be pouring rain."

"I will continue my journey now," he said aloud, as he followed the woman.

After hastily swallowing some slight refreshment which she quickly set before him, he took his seat behind the driver of the primitive and clumsy looking mail-cart, with one other passenger, a girl, and the rough vehicle presently jolted off. The driver had a boon companion by his side, and the two kept up a ceaseless guttural chatter in Gaelic, not one word of which Edward could understand. The girl was inclined to be friendly and communicative, but, finding her companion taciturn and absent, she soon relapsed into silence.

They travelled on in this way for about two hours, when they reached a lonely bit of moorland with the lights of a village glimmering faintly in the distance, and will-o'-the-wisps flitting over the fens, as if to beguile the unwary traveller. The girl jumped down.

"There is my home," she said to Edward, pointing in the direction of the lights.

The driver remarked something to her in Gaelic as she handed him his fare, and laughing her reply, she ran fearlessly off into what seemed to Edward a lonely, hopeless path.

"She is certain to find what she seeks," thought he; "as for me, I may be chasing a will-o'-the-wisp."

Edward Pryse never forgot that journey; its silence and isolation pressed upon his spirit, and everything that came into his mind took a sombre tinge of melancholy. The long white roads seemed endless, and he grew numb and chilled, waiting at the doors of wayside public-houses, into which the driver and his friend disappeared to indulge in potations which would have rendered driving a perilous risk if the horses had not known their way.

Edward was thankful to warm himself by trudging up the long hills, pausing every now and then to listen to the impetuous rushing of mountain streams he could not see. He watched through that mysterious hour when night and dawn meet, when the transition from darkness to light is so gradual that it is scarcely perceptible. By degrees the faint green tinge in the sky melted into lemon, then red and purple streaks were painted in bold dashes of colour, and all the glorious pomp that ushers in the king of day came up in bright triumph, and spread across the heavens. The great Cuchullin Mountains that in the dim early twilight had loomed out in giant obscurity, were now bathed in morning blue, and stood out grand and glowing in a shimmering haze. An awe crept over Edward's spirit as he gazed.

"How little," thought he, "appear the joys and sorrows of human life, when looking at those eternal hills that stand enfolded with the majesty of God."

And then, almost unconsciously, his heart rose higher than the highest of those mighty peaks, to God Himself. The grand old words of the prayer of Moses came back to his remembrance:

"'Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.'"

The earthly radiance represented, though but faintly, the spiritual day-dawn, which with its everlasting light doth touch the awakened soul, bidding it reflect the heavenly glory, and stand in God's eternal sunshine for evermore.

Edward's meditations were suddenly interrupted by the driver informing him that Portree was in sight. And after a few more miles of level road, the mail-cart rattled into the sleeping town, for it was still early, and few of the inhabitants were astir.

A good breakfast and comfortable bed were not unwelcome to our exhausted traveller, who, after recruiting worn-out nature for a few hours, rose in eager haste to seek Nannie McEwen.

The place was certainly not an inviting one, for the huts of the very poor people were little better than pigsties, full of peat-reek and unpleasant odours. The women looked prematurely old, and sunken low in the scale of civilisation, as they trudged past him, carrying on their backs the stacks of peat they had been cutting from the bogs.

Edward spoke to several of them, but a shake of the head, or an answer in Gaelic, was all he received in return. There were many in the town itself that spoke English, but they stared with surprise on hearing Nannie McEwen inquired for. At last, after a fruitless wandering of more than an hour, he returned to the hotel, and consulted with the landlord.

"Maybe Janet kens wha he means," quoth he.

And a pleasant elderly woman was summoned.

"Nannie McEwen!" she said thoughtfully, as if hunting through the storehouse of her memory. "Ay, I ken fine wha ye're seeking. She cam' frae Muirstane auchteen years syne, to nurse her sick brither. I mind it weel, for it was sune after my Jeannie was born, and she cam' to help me through my trouble when I had nane but hersel' to be wi' me."

"And where is she now?" asked Edward, breathing shortly.

"'Deed, that I dinna ken. Her brither dee'd a year after she cam' to Portree, an' after the burial, she gaed South, but whaur tae, nane kens but Him that's above. She lived in yon wee hoose," she added, pointing with her hand; "but they're a' fremd fowk that bides there noo."

Edward's heart sank to the depths; no more questions would come to his lips, and he turned away a hopeless, desolate man. The feeble clue had snapped, and he was as much in the dark as ever.

He strode on fiercely, past the outskirts of the town, not caring whither his footsteps led him, and wandered lonely for miles along bare, brown tracts of moorland, feeling the sterile scenery was in keeping with his dashed hopes. The light that had glimmered like a guiding-star upon his dark, uncertain way had proved a false meteor, luring him on but to mock him at last.

Nothing remained for him to do now, but to retrace his way to the drear and desolate abode at Muirstane. Time was now no object to him, for there was nought to be gained by extra speed; the wheels were off his chariot, and he drave it heavily. His bitter disappointment destroyed all the self-confidence and certainty of success with which he had started. He could only go on living over and over again the sad, sad past, from the very beginning to the bitter end.

How bright and careless were the happy days of childhood! Those butterfly chases across the dappled meadows, with his merry little sister, the child Minnie of long ago; their schemes and plans laid together; their mischievous pranks and the punishments that followed, and Minnie's anguish when the sentence of chastisement fell on him. He could see her now, standing in one corner of the study, with her fingers in her ears and her pinafore over her fair curls, screaming with all her might, so as not to hear the sounds attendant on the whipping he was led off to receive. And since then, she had gone to sleep, so early, oh, so early, under the hushing sycamore trees.

The love of his sister Silexa too, how deep and true it was, shown so often in pleadings and entreaties for the youthful culprits! Edward recalled the countless times she had screened them at her own expense from their father's anger. Indeed, he could never remember anything but the most passionate devotedness to himself on the part of both his sisters. He saw now how it had ministered to his selfishness. Silexa would have sacrificed anything she possessed to this daring, handsome brother, and thought nothing too good or costly, if only it would gratify him. This was the one weak point in that strong woman's nature. She would have given her life for Edward.

He now recalled with sorrow that morning in his sunny youth when he had bidden a joyful farewell to school life and his old home at the Rectory, to begin what he believed would be a bright independent career in the great city of London. Minnie's tears and caresses had made his heart ache a little on saying good-bye, and so had Silexa's dry earnest eyes, so full of yearning love and anxiety as she thrust a purse of her own making into his hands, filled with some months' savings of her scanty allowance. He never knew of what self-denial that little sum was proof.

He had chafed impatiently at the words of counsel and advice, given somewhat sternly by his father at the gate, not being able to discern the high sense of honour and the parental love from which they sprung. He was free now to be his own master; and with that feeling predominant, the bold, blithe boy had gone out into life, determined to enjoy himself at any cost.

For a year all went prosperously. Mr. Lyndwood, his father's oldest friend, was prepared to love him as a son, and consequently allowed him many indulgences which as a stranger he would not have had. Alas, for Edward! He lacked the foundation of all prosperity—

"'The fear of the Lord, which is the beginning of wisdom...'"

And therefore, when temptation presented itself, he turned aside and fell in to the snares of the Evil One, who took him captive at his will.

Bad companions first led him astray, and though Edward shrunk from some of their ways, remembering his upright father and his pure-minded sisters at home, he by degrees was drawn into a vortex, the slope towards which begins with a little downhill which is very gradual. Unknown to his friend and protector, he frequented gambling-houses, and there betted heavily, his first winnings encouraging him to go on recklessly.

At last, the crash came; he owed two hundred pounds, which was to be paid at once. He dared not write to his father, and he knew Silexa had no money at her command. Mr. Lyndwood would probably turn him from his office, and expose his disgrace to the whole world. There was but one course open to him, so thought he in his blinded folly. This was, to take the money from the office, where he had the handling of considerable sums; he thought he could pay it back by instalments. It was a secret impossible to keep long; he got an inkling that the accounts were about to be looked into, so, having just received his salary, he absconded suddenly.

Mr. Lyndwood, irrespective of the loss of the money, felt so keenly for Dr. Pryse, that he positively refused to make the matter public either by instituting a search for Edward or letting any one beyond his own office know of it. He believed the wild youth knew him well enough to be assured of his forgiveness for his father's sake, should he confess his guilt bravely and honestly. Therefore, after writing to his old friend at St. Elvis, he declined to move further in the matter.

We are already cognizant of the effect this dire news had at the Rectory, but only Edward knew of a visit to his home in disguise. After having waited in vain for an answer to his advertisement, he came down to St. Elvis, and under cover of darkness crept round to the study window and peeped in. The window was open, and while standing under shelter of the thick ivy, he heard Silexa pleading for the outcast, and then what seemed to the youth his father's cruel, bitter words. He was to be disowned as a son until he had shown his repentance by repaying the money, and his sisters were forbidden to hold any communication with the offender. Edward crept away again; rage, hatred, and pride struggling in his heart.

"Yet why should I care," he argued, "when he has treated me so shamefully? I hope I may never see his face again."

Ah, if Silexa had but known who was outside under the stars that night, things might perhaps have turned out differently.

As it was, Edward quitted the home of his childhood that same hour, and after travelling day and night finally set foot on board a vessel bound for America. On landing there, his way was prosperous, for he had invented a most plausible story to satisfy the friends he had made during the voyage, several of whom were most anxious to do their utmost for the handsome young man. He had a marvellously winning address and manner, which went far to gain him supporters, so that when he had succeeded in quieting his conscience, he congratulated himself on his so-called lucky hits.

He obtained without much difficulty a lucrative post in a good office, and ended by being employed by a large and well-known American firm. After working steadily and honourably for some years, he was by degrees advanced to a position of great trust, and received a high salary.

To do Edward Pryse justice, he did not forget that some day he ought to restore the two hundred pounds he had stolen. Indeed, his pride could not brook the idea of being branded as a thief for life. But his dull and blunted conscience could not show him his sin in its true light, as a guilty offence towards God.

"If once," he argued, "the amount were actually paid, no blame ought to attach to me."

But he did not think it necessary meantime to deny himself anything that contributed towards his enjoyment of life. He must have everything he wanted just the same, and some day, when he was a rich man, and could do it without discomfort to himself, he would discharge the debt.

One day, he was sent for by his employers, who informed him they wished him to undertake a journey to Scotland on behalf of the firm. He assented willingly, and was then told that his errand was to a certain Alexander Macdonald, Esquire, of Muirstane, who had a large sum of money invested in the business. There were some affairs to be transacted with him which could only be entrusted to a confidential person, able to undertake the commission.

In fulfilment of this errand, a handsome stranger suddenly appeared at Muirstane, to the no small astonishment and curiosity of its inhabitants, who watched him making his way up to the big house, where he was at once received as a guest.

The remainder of Edward's story may be easily conjectured. He was detained on this business several months, and during that period he made the most of his time. He had not been many days a guest in the spacious mansion before he discovered he had fallen hopelessly in love with the old man's niece, Ethel Macdonald, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. The attachment was mutual, for Ethel, nothing loth, gave her heart quickly away to this noble-looking and fascinating man.

Mr. Macdonald never dreamt of such a possibility, though the young people were necessarily much thrown together, for Ethel was in his mind as much disposed of as if the marriage he wished for her had already taken place. A wealthy suitor had come forward to win the hand of the beautiful girl, and it mattered little to the hard old man that she had openly expressed her great dislike to this proposal.

Alexander Macdonald had an iron will, which few dared to dispute. He was consequently both a tyrant and a coward. His anger was great, therefore, when one morning, about a month after Edward's arrival, the young man formally asked his consent to make Ethel his bride. A direct refusal was of course the answer. And it was politely hinted to the guest that it would be desirable for him to take up his quarters in the village during the remainder of his stay—a request acceded to at once.

But Edward's will was strong also. Like a spoiled child, he felt that what he wanted he must have at any cost. And without pausing to consider the consequences of his hasty and selfish purpose, he persuaded Ethel, during her uncle's absence of a week from home, to consent to their marriage before his return. They were accordingly united in the presence of witnesses, who heard them solemnly pronounced to be man and wife.

Excuse must be made for the lonely orphan, who had been brought up without a mother's care, and whose life had hitherto been so loveless and forlorn. Whatever her uncle's feelings were towards her, he never outwardly had manifested any fondness for her, and she naturally turned from him to rest in one whom she deemed in every way worthy of her heart's best affections. She had yet to learn by fierce and adverse winds that her trust must be placed far higher than in mortal man. The sharp storm drove her to seek refuge in the cleft of the Rock, and "through much tribulation" to "enter into the kingdom of God."

Edward's conduct was, on the contrary, most culpable and selfish, for he knew that in four months he must depart again for America alone. It did not suit his plans to take Ethel with him: she must therefore be left behind to carry on the battle of life single-handed. His purpose was to leave her at Muirstane, and return to America to wind up his connection with the firm; this he thought would not take him long to accomplish. He hoped then to return, and find some employment in England which would enable him to settle down with his wife there.

The terrible fear of losing Ethel before he could come back would not allow him to defer the marriage, for she had told him of her uncle's designs with regard to the rich and detested man he was bent on her accepting. The thought of another winning his darling was too abhorrent to be tolerated for an instant. It was this that silenced the voice of his conscience. As soon as she was lawfully his own, he brought his wife to the small cottage he had taken in Muirstane, where he intended to leave her during his absence.