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Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police: A Tale of the Macleod Trail

by Ralph Connor · English · Gutenberg #3241 · 718,995 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police: A Tale of the Macleod Trail

Author: Ralph Connor


        
Release date: May 30, 2006 [eBook #3241]
                Most recently updated: March 3, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3241

Credits: Donald Lainson and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CORPORAL CAMERON OF THE NORTH WEST MOUNTED POLICE: A TALE OF THE MACLEOD TRAIL ***




CORPORAL CAMERON OF THE NORTH WEST MOUNTED POLICE

A TALE OF THE MACLEOD TRAIL


By Ralph Connor




               Contents

BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I.     THE QUITTER
CHAPTER II.    THE GLEN OF THE CUP OF GOLD
CHAPTER III.   THE FAMILY SOLICITOR
CHAPTER IV.    A QUESTION OF HONOUR
CHAPTER V.     A LADY AND THE LAW
CHAPTER VI.    THE WASTER'S REFUGE
CHAPTER VII.   FAREWELL TO CUAGH OIR
CHAPTER VIII.  WILL HE COME BACK?

BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I.     HO FOR THE OPEN!
CHAPTER II.    A MAN'S JOB
CHAPTER III.   A DAY'S WORK
CHAPTER IV.    A RAINY DAY
CHAPTER V.     HOW THEY SAVED THE DAY
CHAPTER VI.    A SABBATH DAY IN LATE AUGUST
CHAPTER VII.   THE CHIVAREE
CHAPTER VIII.  IN APPLE TIME

BOOK THREE
CHAPTER I.     THE CAMP BY THE GAP
CHAPTER II.    ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM
CHAPTER III.   THE STONIES
CHAPTER IV.    THE DULL RED STAIN
CHAPTER V.     SERGEANT CRISP
CHAPTER VI.    A DAY IN THE MACLEOD BARRACKS
CHAPTER VII.   THE MAKING OF BRAVES
CHAPTER VIII.  NURSE HALEY
CHAPTER IX.    “CORPORAL” CAMERON




CORPORAL CAMERON




BOOK ONE


CHAPTER I

THE QUITTER


“Oh-h-h-h, Cam-er-on!” Agony, reproach, entreaty, vibrated in the clear
young voice that rang out over the Inverleith grounds. The Scottish
line was sagging!--that line invincible in two years of International
conflict, the line upon which Ireland and England had broken their
pride. Sagging! And because Cameron was weakening! Cameron, the
brilliant half-back, the fierce-fighting, erratic young Highlander,
disciplined, steadied by the great Dunn into an instrument of Scotland's
glory! Cameron going back! A hush fell on the thronged seats and packed
inner-circle,--a breathless, dreadful hush of foreboding. High over the
hushed silence that vibrant cry rang; and Cameron heard it. The voice he
knew. It was young Rob Dunn's, the captain's young brother, whose soul
knew but two passions, one for the captain and one for the half-back of
the Scottish International.

And Cameron responded. The enemy's next high punt found him rock-like
in steadiness. And rock-like he tossed high over his shoulders the
tow-headed Welshman rushing joyously at him, and delivered his ball far
down the line safe into touch. But after his kick he was observed to
limp back into his place. The fierce pace of the Welsh forwards was
drinking the life of the Scottish backline.

An hour; then a half; then another half, without a score. And now the
final quarter was searching, searching the weak spots in their line. The
final quarter it is that finds a man's history and habits; the clean of
blood and of life defy its pitiless probe, but the rotten fibre yields
and snaps. That momentary weakness of Cameron's like a subtle poison
runs through the Scottish line; and like fluid lightning through the
Welsh. It is the touch upon the trembling balance. With cries exultant
with triumph, the Welsh forwards fling themselves upon the steady Scots
now fighting for life rather than for victory. And under their captain's
directions these fierce, victory-sniffing Welsh are delivering their
attack upon the spot where he fancies he has found a yielding. In vain
Cameron rallies his powers; his nerve is failing him, his strength is
done. Only five minutes to play, but one minute is enough. Down upon
him through a broken field, dribbling the ball and following hard like
hounds on a hare, come the Welsh, the tow-head raging in front, bloody
and fearsome. There is but one thing for Cameron to do; grip that
tumbling ball, and, committing body and soul to fate, plunge into
that line. Alas, his doom is upon him! He grips the ball, pauses a
moment--only a fatal moment,--but it is enough. His plunge is too late.
He loses the ball. A surge of Welshmen overwhelm him in the mud and
carry the ball across. The game is won--and lost. What though the Scots,
like demons suddenly released from hell, the half-back Cameron most
demon-like of all, rage over the field, driving the Welshmen hither and
thither at will, the gods deny them victory; it is for Wales that day!

In the retreat of their rubbing-room the gay, gallant humour which the
Scots have carried with them off the field of their defeat, vanishes
into gloom. Through the steaming silence a groan breaks now and then. At
length a voice:

“Oh, wasn't it rotten! The rank quitter that he is!”

“Quitter? Who is? Who says so?” It was the captain's voice, sharp with
passion.

“I do, Dunn. It was Cameron lost us the game. You know it, too. I know
it's rotten to say this, but I can't help it. Cameron lost the game, and
I say he's a rank 'quitter,' as Martin would say.”

“Look here, Nesbitt,” the captain's voice was quiet, but every man
paused in his rubbing. “I know how sore you are and I forgive you that;
but I don't want to hear from you or from any man on the team that word
again. Cameron is no quitter; he made--he made an error,--he wasn't
fit,--but I say to you Cameron is no quitter.”

While he was speaking the door opened and into the room came a player,
tall, lanky, with a pale, gaunt face, plastered over the forehead with
damp wisps of straight, black hair. His deep-set, blue-grey eyes swept
the room.

“Thanks, Dunn,” he said hoarsely. “Let them curse me! I deserve it all.
It's tough for them, but God knows I've got the worst of it. I've played
my last game.” His voice broke huskily.

“Oh, rot it, Cameron,” cried Dunn. “Don't be an ass! Your first big
game--every fellow makes his mistake--”

“Mistake! Mistake! You can't lie easily, Dunn. I was a fool and worse
than a fool. I let myself down and I wasn't fit. Anyway, I'm through
with it.” His voice was wild and punctuated with unaccustomed oaths; his
breath came in great sobs.

“Oh, rot it, Cameron!” again cried Dunn. “Next year you'll be twice the
man. You're just getting into your game.”

Right loyally his men rallied to their captain:

“Right you are!”

“Why, certainly; no man gets into the game first year!”

“We'll give 'em beans next year, Cameron, old man!”

They were all eager to atone for the criticism which all had held in
their hearts and which one of them had spoken. But this business was
serious. To lose a game was bad enough, but to round on a comrade was
unpardonable; while to lose from the game a half-back of Cameron's
calibre was unthinkable.

Meanwhile Cameron was tearing off his football togs and hustling on his
clothes with fierce haste. Dunn kept his eye on him, hurrying his own
dressing and chatting quietly the while. But long before he was ready
for the street, Cameron had crushed his things into a bag and was
looking for his hat.

“Hold on! I'm with you; I'm with you in a jiffy,” said Dunn.

“My hat,” muttered Cameron, searching wildly among the jumble.

“Oh, hang the hat; let it go! Wait for me, Cameron. Where are you
going?” cried Dunn.

“To the devil,” cried the lad, slamming the door behind him.

“And, by Jove, he'll go, too!” said Nesbitt. “Say, I'm awfully sorry I
made that break, Dunn. It was beastly low-down to round on a chap like
that. I'll go after him.”

“Do, old chap! He's frightfully cut up. And get him for to-night. He
may fight shy of the dinner. But he's down for the pipes, you know,
and--well, he's just got to be there. Good-bye, you chaps; I'm off!
And--I say, men!” When Dunn said “men” they all knew it was their
captain that was speaking. Everybody stood listening. Dunn hesitated a
moment or two, as if searching for words. “About the dinner to-night:
I'd like you to remember--I mean--I don't want any man to--oh, hang it,
you know what I mean! There will be lots of fellows there who will want
to fill you up. I'd hate to see any of our team--” The captain paused
embarrassed.

“We tumble, Captain,” said Martin, a medical student from Canada, who
played quarter. “I'll keep an eye on 'em, you bet!”

Everybody roared; for not only on the quarter-line but also at the
dinner table the little quarter-back was a marvel of endurance.

“Hear the blooming Colonist!” said Linklater, Martin's comrade on
the quarter-line, and his greatest friend. “We know who'll want the
watching, but we'll see to him, Captain.”

“All right, old chap! Sorry I'll have to cut the van. I'm afraid my
governor's got the carriage here for me.”

But the men all made outcry. There were other plans for him.

“But, Captain; hold on!”

“Aw, now, Captain! Don't forsake us!”

“But I say, Dunn, see us through; we're shy!”

“Don't leave us, Captain, or you'll be sorry,” sang out Martin. “Come
on, fellows, let's keep next him! We'll give him 'Old Grimes!'”

Already a mighty roar was heard outside. The green, the drive, the
gateways, and the street were blocked with the wildest football fanatics
that Edinburgh, and all Scotland could produce. They were waiting for
the International players, and were bent on carrying their great captain
down the street, shoulder high; for the enthusiasm of the Scot reaches
the point of madness only in the hour of glorious defeat. But before
they were aware, Dunn had shouldered his mighty form through the
opposing crowds and had got safely into the carriage beside his father
and his young brother. But the crowd were bound to have him.

“We want him, Docthor,” said a young giant in a tam-o'-shanter. “In
fac', Docthor,” he argued with a humourous smile, “we maun hae him.”

“Ye'll no' get him, Jock Murchison,” shouted young Rob, standing in
front of his big brother. “We want him wi' us.”

The crowd laughed gleefully.

“Go for him, Jock! You can easy lick him,” said a voice encouragingly.

“Pit him oot, Docthor,” said Jock, who was a great friend of the family,
and who had a profound respect for the doctor.

“It's beyond me, Jock, I fear. See yon bantam cock! I doubt ye'll hae to
be content,” said the doctor, dropping into Jock's kindly Doric.

“Oh, get on there, Murchison,” said Dunn impatiently. “You're not going
to make an ass of me; make up your mind to that!”

Jock hesitated, meditating a sudden charge, but checked by his respect
for Doctor Dunn.

“Here, you fellows!” shouted a voice. “Fall in; the band is going to
play! Get into line there, you Tam-o'-shanter; you're stopping the
procesh! Now then, wait for the line, everybody!” It was Little Martin
on top of the van in which were the Scottish players. “Tune, 'Old
Grimes'; words as follows. Catch on, everybody!”

          “Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
             Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
           Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
             Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn.”

With a delighted cheer the crowd formed in line, and, led by the little
quarter-back on top of the van, they set off down the street, two men at
the heads of the doctor's carriage horses, holding them in place behind
the van. On went the swaying crowd and on went the swaying chant, with
Martin, director of ceremonies and Dunn hurling unavailing objurgations
and entreaties at Jock's head.

Through the uproar a girl's voice reached the doctor's ear:

“Aren't they lovely, Sir?”

The doctor turned to greet a young lady, tall, strong, and with the
beauty of perfect health rather than of classic feature in her face.
There was withal a careless disregard of the feminine niceties of dress.

“Oh, Miss Brodie! Will you not come up? We can easily make room.”

“I'd just love to,” cried the girl, “but I'm only a humble member of the
procession, following the band and the chariot wheels of the conqueror.”
 Her strong brown face was all aglow with ardour.

“Conqueror!” growled Dunn. “Not much of a conqueror!”

“Why not? Oh fudge! The game? What matters the game? It's the play we
care about.”

“Well spoken, lassie,” said the doctor. “That's the true sport.”

“Aren't they awful?” cried Dunn. “Look at that young Canadian idiot up
there.”

“Well, if you ask me, I think he's a perfect dear,” said Miss Brodie,
deliberately. “I'm sure I know him; anyway I'm going to encourage him
with my approval.” And she waved her hand at Martin.

The master of ceremonies responded by taking off his hat and making a
sweeping bow, still keeping up the beat. The crowd, following his eyes,
turned their attention to the young lady, much to Dunn's delight.

“Oh,” she gasped, “they'll be chanting me next! Good-bye! I'm off!” And
she darted back to the company of her friends marching on the pavement.

At this point Martin held up both arms and called for silence.

“Second verse,” he shouted, “second verse! Get the words now!”

          “Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
             Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done,
           Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
             Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done.”

But the crowd rejected the Colonial version, and rendered in their own
good Doric:

          “Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
             Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done,
           Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
             Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done.”

And so they sang and swayed, following the van till they neared Queen
Street, down which lay the doctor's course.

“For heaven's sake, can't they be choked off?” groaned Dunn.

The doctor signalled Jock to him.

“Jock,” he said, “we'll just slip through at Queen Street.”

“We'd like awfully to do Princes Street, Sir,” pleaded Jock.

“Princes Street, you born ass!” cried Dunn wrathfully.

“Oh, yes, let them!” cried young Rob, whose delight in the glory of
his hero had been beyond all measure. “Let them do Princes Street, just
once!”

But the doctor would not have it. “Jock,” he said quietly, “just get us
through at Queen Street.”

“All right, Sir,” replied Jock with great regret. “It will be as you
say.”

Under Jock's orders, when Queen Street was reached, the men at the
horses' heads suddenly swung the pair from the crowd, and after some
struggling, got them safely into the clear space, leaving the procession
to follow the van, loudly cheering their great International captain,
whose prowess on the field was equalled only by his modesty and his
hatred of a demonstration.

“Listen to the idiots,” said Dunn in disgust, as the carriage bore them
away from the cheering crowd.

“Man, they're just fine! Aren't they, Father?” said young Rob in an
ecstasy of joy.

“They're generous lads, generous lads, boy,” said Doctor Dunn, his old
eyes shining, for his son's triumph touched him deeply. “That's the only
way to take defeat.”

“That's all right, Sir,” said Dunn quickly, “but it's rather
embarrassing, though it's awfully decent of them.”

The doctor's words suggested fresh thoughts to young Rob. “But it was
terrible; and you were just on the win, too, I know.”

“I'm not so sure at all,” said his brother.

“Oh, it is terrible,” said Bob again.

“Tut, tut, lad! What's so terrible?” said his father. “One side has to
lose.”

“Oh, it's not that,” said Rob, his lip trembling. “I don't care a sniff
for the game.”

“What, then?” said his big brother in a voice sharpened by his own
thoughts.

“Oh, Jack,” said Rob, nervously wreathing his hands, “he--it looked as
if he--” the lad could not bring himself to say the awful word. Nor was
there need to ask who it was the boy had in mind.

“What do you mean, Rob?” the captain's voice was impatient, almost
angry.

Then Rob lost his control. “Oh, Jack, I can't help it; I saw it. Do
you think--did he really funk it?” His voice broke. He clutched his
brother's knee and stood with face white and quivering. He had given
utterance to the terrible suspicion that was torturing his heroic young
soul. Of his two household gods one was tottering on its pedestal. That
a football man should funk--the suspicion was too dreadful.

The captain glanced at his father's face. There was gloom there, too,
and the same terrible suspicion. “No, Sir,” said Dunn, with impressive
deliberation, answering the look on his father's face, “Cameron is
no quitter. He didn't funk. I think,” he continued, while Rob's
tear-stained face lifted eagerly, “I know he was out of condition; he
had let himself run down last week, since the last match, indeed, got
out of hand a bit, you know, and that last quarter--you know, Sir, that
last quarter was pretty stiff--his nerve gave just for a moment.”

“Oh,” said the doctor in a voice of relief, “that explains it. But,” he
added quickly in a severe tone, “it was very reprehensible for a man on
the International to let himself get out of shape, very reprehensible
indeed. An International, mind you!”

“It was my fault, Sir, I'm afraid,” said Dunn, regretfully. “I ought to
have--”

“Nonsense! A man must be responsible for himself. Control, to be of any
value, must be ultroneous, as our old professor used to say.”

“That's true, Sir, but I had kept pretty close to him up to the last
week, you see, and--”

“Bad training, bad training. A trainer's business is to school his men
to do without him.”

“That is quite right, Sir. I believe I've been making a mistake,” said
Dunn thoughtfully. “Poor chap, he's awfully cut up!”

“So he should be,” said the doctor sternly. “He had no business to get
out of condition. The International, mind you!”

“Oh, Father, perhaps he couldn't help it,” cried Rob, whose loyal,
tender heart was beating hard against his little ribs, “and he looks
awful. I saw him come out and when I called to him he never looked at me
once.”

There is no finer loyalty in this world than that of a boy below his
teens. It is so without calculation, without qualification, and without
reserve. Dr. Dunn let his eyes rest kindly upon his little flushed face.

“Perhaps so, perhaps so, my boy,” he said, “and I have no doubt he
regrets it now more than any of us. Where has he gone?”

“Nesbitt's after him, Sir. He'll get him for to-night.”

But as Dunn, fresh from his bath, but still sore and stiff, was
indulging in a long-banished pipe, Nesbitt came in to say that Cameron
could not be found.

“And have you not had your tub yet?” said his captain.

“Oh, that's all right! You know I feel awfully about that beastly remark
of mine.”

“Oh, let it go,” said Dunn. “That'll be all right. You get right away
home for your tub and get freshened up for to-night. I'll look after
Cameron. You know he is down for the pipes. He's simply got to be there
and I'll get him if I have to bring him in a crate, pipes, kilt and
all.”

And Nesbitt, knowing that Dunn never promised what he could not fulfil,
went off to his tub in fair content. He knew his captain.

As Dunn was putting on his coat Rob came in, distress written on his
face.

“Are you going to get Cameron, Jack?” he asked timidly. “I asked
Nesbitt, and he said--”

“Now look here, youngster,” said his big brother, then paused. The
distress in the lad's face checked his words. “Now, Rob,” he said
kindly, “you needn't fret about this. Cameron is all right.”

The kind tone broke down the lad's control. He caught his brother's
arm. “Say, Jack, are you sure--he didn't--funk?” His voice dropped to a
whisper.

Then his big brother sat down and drew the lad to his side, “Now listen,
Rob; I'm going to tell you the exact truth. CAMERON DID NOT FUNK. The
truth is, he wasn't fit,--he ought to have been, but he wasn't,--and
because he wasn't fit he came mighty near quitting--for a moment, I'm
sure, he felt like it, because his nerve was gone,--but he didn't.
Remember, he felt like quitting and didn't, And that's the finest thing
a chap can do,--never to quit, even when he feels like it. Do you see?”

The lad's head went up. “I see,” he said, his eyes glowing. “It was
fine! I'm awfully glad he didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it.
You tell him for me.” His idol was firm again on his pedestal.

“All right, old chap,” said his big brother. “You'll never quit, I bet!”

“Not if I'm fit, will I?”

“Right you are! Keep fit--that's the word!”

And with that the big brother passed out to find the man who was
writhing in an agony of self-contempt; for in the face of all Scotland
and in the hour of her need he had failed because he wasn't fit.

After an hour Dunn found his man, fixed in the resolve to there and then
abandon the game with all the appurtenances thereof, and among these the
dinner. Mightily his captain laboured with him, plying him with varying
motives,--the honour of the team was at stake; the honour of the country
was at stake; his own honour, for was he not down on the programme for
the pipes? It was all in vain. In dogged gloom the half-back listened
unmoved.

At length Dunn, knowing well the Highlander's tender heart, cunningly
touched another string and told of Rob's distress and subsequent relief,
and then gave his half-back the boy's message. “I promised to tell you,
and I almost forgot. The little beggar was terribly worked up, and as
I remember it, this is what he said: 'I'm awfully glad he didn't quit,
'specially when he felt like it.' Those were his very words.”

Then Cameron buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud, while Dunn,
knowing that he had reached his utmost, stood silent, waiting. Suddenly
Cameron flung up his head:

“Did he say I didn't quit? Good little soul! I'll go; I'd go through
hell for that!”

And so it came that not in a crate, but in the gallant garb of a
Highland gentleman, pipes and all, Cameron was that night in his place,
fighting out through the long hilarious night the fiercest fight of his
life, chiefly because of the words that lay like a balm to his lacerated
heart:

“He didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it.”



CHAPTER II

THE GLEN OF THE CUP OF GOLD


Just over the line of the Grampians, near the head-waters of the Spey, a
glen, small and secluded, lies bedded deep among the hills,--a glen that
when filled with sunlight on a summer day lies like a cup of gold; the
gold all liquid and flowing over the cup's rim. And hence they call the
glen “The Cuagh Oir,” The Glen of the Cup of Gold.

At the bottom of the Cuagh, far down, a little loch gleams, an oval of
emerald or of sapphire, according to the sky above that smiles into
its depths. On dark days the loch can gloom, and in storm it can rage,
white-lipped, just like the people of the Glen.

Around the emerald or sapphire loch farmlands lie sunny and warm, set
about their steadings, and are on this spring day vivid with green,
or rich in their red-browns where the soil lies waiting for the seed.
Beyond the sunny fields the muirs of brown heather and bracken climb
abruptly up to the dark-massed firs, and they to the Cuagh's rim. But
from loch to rim, over field and muir and forest, the golden, liquid
light ever flows on a sunny day and fills the Cuagh Oir till it runs
over.

On the east side of the loch, among some ragged firs, a rambling Manor
House, ivy-covered and ancient, stood; and behind it, some distance
away, the red tiling of a farm-cottage, with its steading clustering
near, could be seen. About the old Manor House the lawn and garden
told of neglect and decay, but at the farmhouse order reigned. The trim
little garden plot, the trim lawn, the trim walks and hedges, the trim
thatch of the roof, the trim do'-cote above it, the trim stables, byres,
barns and yard of the steading, proclaimed the prudent, thrifty care of
a prudent, thrifty soul.

And there in the steading quadrangle, amidst the feathered creatures,
hens, cocks and chicks, ducks, geese, turkeys and bubbly-jocks, stood
the mistress of the Manor and prudent, thrifty manager of the farm,--a
girl of nineteen, small, well-made, and trim as the farmhouse and its
surroundings, with sunny locks and sunny face and sunny brown eyes. Her
shapely hands were tanned and coarsened by the weather; her little feet
were laced in stout country-made brogues; her dress was a plain brown
winsey, kilted and belted open at the full round neck; the kerchief that
had fallen from her sunny, tangled hair was of simple lawn, spotless
and fresh; among her fowls she stood, a country lass in habit and
occupation, but in face and form, in look and poise, a lady every inch
of her. Dainty and daunty, sweet and strong, she stood, “the bonny like
o' her bonny mither,” as said the South Country nurse, Nannie, who had
always lived at the Glen Cuagh House from the time that that mother was
a baby; “but no' sae fine like,” the nurse would add with a sigh. For
she remembered ever the gentle airs and the high-bred, stately grace of
Mary Robertson,--for though married to Captain Cameron of Erracht,
Mary Robertson she continued to be to the Glen folk,--the lady of her
ancestral manor, now for five years lain under the birch trees yonder by
the church tower that looked out from its clustering firs and birches
on the slope beyond the loch. Five years ago the gentle lady had passed
from them, but like the liquid, golden sunlight, and like the perfume of
the heather and the firs, the aroma of her saintly life still filled the
Glen.

A year after that grief had fallen, Moira, her one daughter, “the bonny
like o' her bonny mither, though no' sae fine,” had somehow slipped
into command of the House Farm, the only remaining portion of the wide
demesne of farmlands once tributary to the House. And by the thrift
which she learned from her South Country nurse in the care of her
poultry and her pigs, and by her shrewd oversight of the thriftless,
doddling Highland farmer and his more thriftless and more doddling
womenfolk, she brought the farm to order and to a basis of profitable
returns. And this, too, with so little “clash and claver” that her
father only knew that somehow things were more comfortable about the
place, and that there were fewer calls than formerly upon his purse
for the upkeep of the House and home. Indeed, the less appeared Moira's
management, both in the routine of the House and in the care of the
farm, the more peacefully flowed the current of their life. It seriously
annoyed the Captain at intervals when he came upon his daughter
directing operations in barnyard or byre. That her directing meant
anything more than a girlish meddling in matters that were his entire
concern and about which he had already given or was about to give
orders, the Captain never dreamed. That things about the House were
somehow prospering in late years he set down to his own skill and
management and his own knowledge of scientific farming; a knowledge
which, moreover, he delighted to display at the annual dinners of the
Society for the Improvement of Agriculture in the Glen, of which he was
honourary secretary; a knowledge which he aired in lengthy articles in
local agricultural and other periodicals; a knowledge which, however,
at times became the occasion of dismay to his thrifty daughter and her
Highland farmer, and not seldom the occasion of much useless expenditure
of guineas hard won from pigs and poultry. True, more serious loss was
often averted by the facility with which the Captain turned from one
scheme to another, happily forgetful of orders he had given and which
were never carried out; and by the invincible fabianism of the Highland
farmer, who, listening with gravest attention to the Captain's orders
delivered in the most definite and impressive terms, would make
reply, “Yess, yess indeed, I know; she will be attending to it
immediately--tomorrow, or fery soon whateffer.” It cannot be said that
this capacity for indefinite procrastination rendered the Highlander any
less valuable to his “tear young leddy.”

The days on which Postie appeared with a large bundle of mail were
accounted good days by the young mistress, for on these and succeeding
days her father would be “busy with his correspondence.” And these days
were not few, for the Captain held many honourary offices in county
and other associations for the promotion and encouragement of various
activities, industrial, social, and philanthropic. Of the importance of
these activities to the county and national welfare, the Captain had no
manner of doubt, as his voluminous correspondence testified. As to the
worth of his correspondence his daughter, too, held the highest
opinion, estimating her father, as do all dutiful daughters, at his own
valuation. For the Captain held himself in high esteem; not simply for
his breeding, which was of the Camerons of Erracht; nor for his manners,
which were of the most courtly, if occasionally marred by fretfulness;
nor for his dress, which was that of a Highland gentleman, perfect in
detail and immaculate, but for his many and public services rendered to
the people, the county, and the nation. Indeed his mere membership dues
to the various associations, societies and committees with which he
was connected, and his dining expenses contingent upon their annual
meetings, together with the amounts expended upon the equipment and
adornment of his person proper to such festive occasions, cut so deep
into the slender resources of the family as to give his prudent daughter
some considerable concern; though it is safe to say that such concern
her father would have regarded not only as unnecessary but almost as
impertinent.

The Captain's correspondence, however extensive, was on the whole
regarded by his daughter as a good rather than an evil, in that it
secured her domestic and farm activities from disturbing incursions.
This spring morning Moira's apprehensions awakened by an extremely light
mail, were realized, as she beheld her father bearing down upon her
with an open letter in his hand. His handsome face was set in a fretful
frown.

“Moira, my daughter!” he exclaimed, “how often have I spoke to you about
this--this--unseemly--ah--mussing and meddling in the servants' duties!”

“But, Papa,” cried his daughter, “look at these dear things! I love them
and they all know me, and they behave so much better when I feed them
myself. Do they not, Janet?” she added, turning to the stout and sonsy
farmer's daughter standing by.

“Indeed, then, they are clever at knowing you,” replied the maid, whose
particular duty was to hold a reserve supply of food for the fowls that
clamoured and scrambled about her young mistress.

“Look at that vain bubbly-jock there, Papa,” cried Moira, “he loves to
have me notice him. Conceited creature! Look out, Papa, he does not like
your kilts!” The bubbly-jock, drumming and scraping and sidling ever
nearer to the Captain's naked knees, finally with great outcry flew
straight at the affronting kilts.

“Get off with you, you beast!” cried the Captain, kicking vainly at the
wrathful bird, and at the same time beating a wise retreat before his
onset.

Moira rushed to his rescue. “Hoot, Jock! Shame on ye!” she cried. “There
now, you proud thing, be off! He's just jealous of your fine appearance,
Papa.” With her kerchief she flipped into submission the haughty
bubbly-jock and drew her father out of the steading. “Come away, Papa,
and see my pigs.”

But the Captain was in no humour for pigs. “Nonsense, child,” he cried,
“let us get out of this mess! Besides, I wish to speak to you on a
matter of importance.” They passed through the gate. “It is about
Allan,” he continued, “and I'm really vexed. Something terrible has
happened.”

“Allan!” the girl's voice was faint and her sunny cheek grew white.
“About Allan!” she said again. “And what is wrong with Allan, Papa?”

“That's what I do not know,” replied her father fretfully; “but I
must away to Edinburgh this very day, so you'll need to hasten with my
packing. And bid Donald bring round the cart at once.”

But Moira stood dazed. “But, Papa, you have not told me what is wrong
with Allan.” Her voice was quiet, but with a certain insistence in it
that at once irritated her father and compelled his attention.

“Tut, tut, Moira, I have just said I do not know.”

“Is he ill, Papa?” Again the girl's voice grew faint.

“No, no, not ill. I wish he were! I mean it is some business matter you
cannot understand. But it must be serious if Mr. Rae asks my presence
immediately. So you must hasten, child.”

In less than half an hour Donald and the cart were waiting at the door,
and Moira stood in the hall with her father's bag ready packed. “Oh, I
am glad,” she said, as she helped her father with his coat, “that Allan
is not ill. There can't be much wrong.”

“Wrong! Read that, child!” cried the father impatiently.

She took the letter and read, her face reflecting her changing emotions,
perplexity, surprise, finally indignation. “'A matter for the police,'”
 she quoted, scornfully, handing her father the letter. “'A matter for
the police' indeed! My but that Mr. Rae is the clever man! The police!
Does he think my brother Allan would cheat?--or steal, perhaps!” she
panted, in her indignant scorn.

“Mr. Rae is a careful man and a very able lawyer,” replied her father.

“Able! Careful! He's an auld wife, and that's what he is! You can tell
him so for me.” She was trembling and white with a wrath her father had
never before seen in her. He stood gazing at her in silent surprise.

“Papa,” cried Moira passionately, answering his look, “do you think what
he is saying? I know my brother Allan clean through to the heart. He
is wild at times, and might rage perhaps and--and--break things, but he
will not lie nor cheat. He will die first, and that I warrant you.”

Still her father stood gazing upon her as she stood proudly erect,
her pale face alight with lofty faith in her brother and scorn of his
traducer. “My child, my child,” he said, huskily, “how like you are to
your mother! Thank God! Indeed it may be you're right! God grant it!” He
drew her closely to him.

“Papa, Papa,” she whispered, clinging to him, while her voice broke in a
sob, “you know Allan will not lie. You know it, don't you, Papa?”

“I hope not, dear child, I hope not,” he replied, still holding her to
him.

“Papa,” she cried wildly, “say you believe me.”

“Yes, yes, I do believe you. Thank God, I do believe you. The boy is
straight.”

At that word she let him go. That her father should not believe in Allan
was to her loyal heart an intolerable pain. Now Allan would have someone
to stand for him against “that lawyer” and all others who might seek to
do him harm. At the House door she stood watching her father drive down
through the ragged firs to the highroad, and long after he had passed
out of sight she still stood gazing. Upon the church tower rising out of
its birches and its firs her eyes were resting, but her heart was
with the little mound at the tower's foot, and as she gazed, the tears
gathered and fell.

“Oh, Mother!” she whispered. “Mother, Mother! You know Allan would not
lie!”

A sudden storm was gathering. In a brief moment the world and the Glen
had changed. But half an hour ago and the Cuagh Oir was lying glorious
with its flowing gold. Now, from the Cuagh as from her world, the
flowing gold was gone.



CHAPTER III

THE FAMILY SOLICITOR


The senior member of the legal firm of Rae & Macpherson was perplexed
and annoyed, indeed angry, and angry chiefly because he was perplexed.
He resented such a condition of mind as reflecting upon his legal and
other acumen. Angry, too, he was because he had been forced to accept,
the previous day, a favour from a firm--Mr. Rae would not condescend to
say a rival firm--with which he for thirty years had maintained only
the most distant and formal relations, to wit, the firm of Thomlinson &
Shields. Messrs. Rae & Macpherson were family solicitors and for three
generations had been such; hence there gathered about the firm a fine
flavour of assured respectability which only the combination of solid
integrity and undoubted antiquity can give. Messrs. Rae & Macpherson had
not yielded in the slightest degree to that commercialising spirit
which would transform a respectable and self-respecting firm of family
solicitors into a mere financial agency; a transformation which Mr. Rae
would consider a degradation of an ancient and honourable profession.
This uncompromising attitude toward the commercialising spirit of the
age had doubtless something to do with their losing the solicitorship
for the Bank of Scotland, which went to the firm of Thomlinson &
Shields, to Mr. Rae's keen, though unacknowledged, disappointment;
a disappointment that arose not so much from the loss of the very
honourable and lucrative appointment, and more from the fact that the
appointment should go to such a firm as that of Thomlinson & Shields.
For the firm of Thomlinson & Shields were of recent origin, without
ancestry, boasting an existence of only some thirty-five years, and, as
one might expect of a firm of such recent origin, characterised by the
commercialising modern spirit in its most pronounced and objectionable
form. Mr. Rae, of course, would never condescend to hostile criticism,
dismissing Messrs. Thomlinson & Shields from the conversation with the
single remark, “Pushing, Sir, very pushing, indeed.”

It was, then, no small humiliation for Mr. Rae to be forced to accept
a favour from Mr. Thomlinson. “Had it been any other than Cameron,” he
said to himself, as he sat in his somewhat dingy and dusty office,
“I would let him swither. But Cameron! I must see to it and at once.”
 Behind the name there rose before Mr. Rae's imagination a long line
of brave men and fair women for whose name and fame and for whose good
estate it had been his duty and the duty of those who had preceded him
in office to assume responsibility.

“Young fool! Much he cares for the honour of his family! I wonder what's
at the bottom of this business! Looks ugly! Decidedly ugly! The first
thing is to find him.” A messenger had failed to discover young Cameron
at his lodgings, and had brought back the word that for a week he
had not been seen there. “He must be found. They have given me till
to-morrow. I cannot ask a further stay of proceedings; I cannot and I
will not.” It made Mr. Rae more deeply angry that he knew quite well
if necessity arose he would do just that very thing. “Then there's his
father coming in this evening. We simply must find him. But how and
where?”

Mr. Rae was not unskilled in such a matter. “Find a man, find his
friends,” he muttered. “Let's see. What does the young fool do? What
are his games? Ah! Football! I have it! Young Dunn is my man.” Hence to
young Dunn forthwith Mr. Rae betook himself.

It was still early in the day when Mr. Rae's mild, round, jolly,
clean-shaven face beamed in upon Mr. Dunn, who sat with dictionaries,
texts, and class notebooks piled high about him, burrowing in that
mound of hidden treasure which it behooves all prudent aspirants for
university honours to diligently mine as the fateful day approaches.
With Mr. Dunn time had now come to be measured by moments, and every
moment golden. But the wrathful impatience that had gathered in his
face at the approach of an intruder was overwhelmed in astonishment at
recognising so distinguished a visitor as Mr. Rae the Writer.

“Ah, Mr. Dunn,” said Mr. Rae briskly, “a moment only, one moment, I
assure you. Well do I know the rage which boils behind that genial smile
of yours. Don't deny it, Sir. Have I not suffered all the pangs, with
just a week before the final ordeal? This is your final, I believe?”

“I hope so,” said Mr. Dunn somewhat ruefully.

“Yes, yes, and a very fine career, a career befitting your father's
son. And I sincerely trust, Sir, that as your career has been marked by
honour, your exit shall be with distinction; and all the more that I am
not unaware of your achievements in another department of--ah--shall I
say endeavour. I have seen your name, Sir, mentioned more than once,
to the honour of our university, in athletic events.” At this point Mr.
Rae's face broke into a smile.

An amazing smile was Mr. Rae's; amazing both in the suddenness of
its appearing and in the suddenness of its vanishing. Upon a face of
supernatural gravity, without warning, without beginning, the smile,
broad, full and effulgent, was instantaneously present. Then equally
without warning and without fading the smile ceased to be. Under its
effulgence the observer unfamiliar with Mr. Rae's smile was moved, to a
responsive geniality of expression, but in the full tide of this emotion
he found himself suddenly regarding a face of such preternatural gravity
as rebuked the very possibility or suggestion of geniality. Before the
smile Mr. Rae's face was like a house, with the shutters up and the
family plunged in gloom. When the smile broke forth every shutter was
flung wide to the pouring sunlight, and every window full of flowers
and laughing children. Then instantly and without warning the house
was blank, lifeless, and shuttered once more, leaving you helplessly
apologetic that you had ever been guilty of the fatuity of associating
anything but death and gloom with its appearance.

To young Mr. Dunn it was extremely disconcerting to discover himself
smiling genially into a face of the severest gravity, and eyes that
rebuked him for his untimely levity. “Oh, I beg pardon,” exclaimed Mr.
Dunn hastily, “I thought--”

“Not at all, Sir,” replied Mr. Rae. “As I was saying, I have observed
from time to time the distinctions you have achieved in the realm of
athletics. And that reminds me of my business with you to-day,--a sad
business, a serious business, I fear.” The solemn impressiveness of
Mr. Rae's manner awakened in Mr. Dunn an awe amounting to dread. “It is
young Cameron, a friend of yours, I believe, Sir.”

“Cameron, Sir!” echoed Dunn.

“Yes, Cameron. Does he, or did he not have a place on your team?”

Dunn sat upright and alert. “Yes, Sir. What's the matter, Sir?”

“First of all, do you know where he is? I have tried his lodgings. He is
not there. It is important that I find him to-day, extremely important;
in fact, it is necessary; in short, Mr. Dunn,--I believe I can confide
in your discretion,--if I do not find him to-day, the police will
to-morrow.”

“The police, Sir!” Dunn's face expressed an awful fear. In the heart of
the respectable Briton the very mention of the police in connection
with the private life of any of his friends awakens a feeling of gravest
apprehension. No wonder Mr. Dunn's face went pale! “The police!” he said
a second time. “What for?”

Mr. Rae remained silent.

“If it is a case of debts, Sir,” suggested Mr. Dunn, “why, I would
gladly--”

Mr. Rae waved him aside. “It is sufficient to say, Mr. Dunn, that we are
the family solicitors, as we have been for his father, his grandfather
and great-grandfather before him.”

“Oh, certainly, Sir. I beg pardon,” said Mr. Dunn hastily.

“Not at all; quite proper; does you credit. But it is not a case of
debts, though it is a case of money; in fact, Sir,--I feel sure I may
venture to confide in you,--he is in trouble with his bank, the Bank
of Scotland. The young man, or someone using his name, has been guilty
of--ah--well, an irregularity, a decided irregularity, an irregularity
which the bank seems inclined to--to--follow up; indeed, I may say,
instructions have been issued through their solicitors to that effect.
Mr. Thomlinson was good enough to bring this to my attention, and to
offer a stay of proceedings for a day.”

“Can I do anything, Sir?” said Dunn. “I'm afraid I've neglected him. The
truth is, I've been in an awful funk about my exams, and I haven't kept
in touch as I should.”

“Find him, Mr. Dunn, find him. His father is coming to town this
evening, which makes it doubly imperative. Find him; that is, if you can
spare the time.”

“Of course I can. I'm awfully sorry I've lost touch with him. He's been
rather down all this winter; in fact, ever since the International he
seems to have lost his grip of himself.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Mr. Rae. “I remember that occasion; in fact, I was
present myself,” he admitted. “I occasionally seek to renew my youth.”
 Mr. Rae's smile broke forth, but anxiety for his friend saved Mr.
Dunn from being caught again in any responsive smile. “Bring him to my
office, if you can, any time to-day. Good-bye, Sir. Your spirit does you
credit. But it is the spirit which I should expect in a man who plays
the forward line as you play it.”

Mr. Dunn blushed crimson. “Is there anything else I could do? Anyone I
could see? I mean, for instance, could my father serve in any way?”

“Ah, a good suggestion!” Mr. Rae seized his right ear,--a characteristic
action of his when in deep thought,--twisted it into a horn, and pulled
it quite severely as if to assure himself that that important feature
of his face was firmly fixed in its place. “A very good suggestion! Your
father knows Mr. Sheratt, the manager of the bank, I believe.”

“Very well, Sir, I think,” answered Mr. Dunn. “I am sure he would see
him. Shall I call him in, Sir?”

“Nothing of the sort, nothing of the sort; don't think of it! I mean,
let there be nothing formal in this matter. If Mr. Dunn should chance to
meet Mr. Sheratt, that is, casually, so to speak, and if young Cameron's
name should come up, and if Mr. Dunn should use his influence, his very
great influence, with Mr. Sheratt, the bank might be induced to take a
more lenient view of the case. I think I can trust you with this.” Mr.
Rae shook the young man warmly by the hand, beamed on him for one brief
moment with his amazing smile, presented to his answering smile a face
of unspeakable gravity, and left him extremely uncertain as to the
proper appearance for his face, under the circumstances.

Before Mr. Rae had gained the street Dunn was planning his campaign; for
no matter what business he had in hand, Dunn always worked by plan. By
the time he himself had reached the street his plan was formed. “No use
trying his digs. Shouldn't be surprised if that beast Potts has got
him. Rotten bounder, Potts, and worse! Better go round his way.” And
oscillating in his emotions between disgust and rage at Cameron for his
weakness and his folly, and disgust and rage at himself for his neglect
of his friend, Dunn took his way to the office of the Insurance Company
which was honoured by the services of Mr. Potts.

The Insurance Company knew nothing of the whereabouts of Mr. Potts.
Indeed, the young man who assumed responsibility for the information
appeared to treat the very existence of Mr. Potts as a matter of slight
importance to his company; so slight, indeed, that the company had not
found it necessary either to the stability of its business or to the
protection of its policy holders--a prime consideration with Insurance
Companies--to keep in touch with Mr. Potts. That gentleman had left for
the East coast a week ago, and that was the end of the matter as far as
the clerk of the Insurance Company was concerned.

At his lodgings Mr. Dunn discovered an even more callous indifference to
Mr. Potts and his interests. The landlady, under the impression that
in Mr. Dunn she beheld a prospective lodger, at first received him with
that deferential reserve which is the characteristic of respectable
lodging-house keepers in that city of respectable lodgers and
respectable lodging-house keepers. When, however, she learned the real
nature of Mr. Dunn's errand, she became immediately transformed. In a
voice shrill with indignation she repudiated Mr. Potts and his affairs,
and seemed chiefly concerned to re-establish her own reputation for
respectability, which she seemed to consider as being somewhat shattered
by that of her lodger. Mr. Dunn was embarrassed both by her volubility
and by her obvious determination to fasten upon him a certain amount of
responsibility for the character and conduct of Mr. Potts.

“Do you know where Mr. Potts is now, and have you any idea when he may
return?” inquired Mr. Dunn, seizing a fortunate pause.

“Am I no' juist tellin' ye,” cried the landlady, in her excitement
reverting to her native South Country dialect, “that I keep nae coont o'
Mr. Potts' stravagins? An' as to his return, I ken naething aboot that
an' care less. He's paid what he's been owing me these three months an'
that's all I care aboot him.”

“I am glad to hear that,” said Mr. Dunn heartily.

“An' glad I am tae, for it's feared I was for my pay a month back.”

“When did he pay up?” inquired Mr. Dunn, scenting a clue.

“A week come Saturday,--or was it Friday?--the day he came in with a
young man, a friend of his. And a night they made of it, I remember,”
 replied the landlady, recovering command of herself and of her speech
under the influence of Mr. Dunn's quiet courtesy.

“Did you know the young man that was with him?”

“Yes, it was young Cameron. He had been coming about a good deal.”

“Oh, indeed! And have you seen Mr. Cameron since?”

“No; he never came except in company with Mr. Potts.”

And with this faint clue Mr. Dunn was forced to content himself, and to
begin a systematic search of Cameron's haunts in the various parts of
the town. It was Martin, his little quarter-back, that finally put him
on the right track. He had heard Cameron's pipes not more than an hour
ago at his lodgings in Morningside Road.

“But what do you want of Cameron these days?” inquired the young
Canadian. “There's nothing on just now, is there, except this infernal
grind?”

Dunn hesitated. “Oh, I just want him. In fact, he has got into some
trouble.”

“There you are!” exclaimed Martin in disgust. “Why in thunder should
you waste time on him? You've taken enough trouble with him this winter
already. It's his own funeral, ain't it?”

Dunn looked at him a half moment in surprise. “Well, you can't go back
on a fellow when he's down, can you?”

“Look here, Dunn, I've often thought I'd give you a little wise advice.
This sounds bad, I know, but there's a lot of blamed rot going around
this old town just on this point. When a fellow gets on the bum and gets
into a hole he knows well that there'll be a lot of people tumbling over
each other to get him out, hence he deliberately and cheerfully slides
in. If he knew he'd have to scramble out himself he wouldn't be so
blamed keen to get in. If he's in a hole let him frog it for awhile, by
Jingo! He's hitting the pace, let him take his bumps! He's got to take
'em sooner or later, and better sooner than later, for the sooner he
takes 'em the quicker he'll learn. Bye-bye! I know you think I'm a
semi-civilised Colonial. I ain't; I'm giving you some wisdom gained from
experience. You can't swim by hanging on to a root, you bet!”

Dunn listened in silence, then replied slowly, “I say, old chap, there's
something in that. My governor said something like that some time ago:
'A trainer's business is to train his men to do without him.'”

“There you are!” cried Martin. “That's philosophy! Mine's just horse
sense.”

“Still,” said Dunn thoughtfully, “when a chap's in you've got to lend
a hand; you simply can't stand and look on.” Dunn's words, tone, and
manner revealed the great, honest heart of human sympathy which he
carried in his big frame.

“Oh, hang it,” cried Martin, “I suppose so! Guess I'll go along with
you. I can't forget you pulled me out, too.”

“Thanks, old chap,” cried Dunn, brightening up, “but you're busy, and--”

“Busy! By Jingo, you'd think so if you'd watch me over night and hear my
brain sizzle. But come along, I'm going to stay with you!”

But Dunn's business was private, and could be shared with no one. It was
difficult to check his friend's newly-aroused ardour. “I say, old chap,”
 he said, “you really don't need to come along. I can do--”

“Oh, go to blazes! I know you too well! Don't you worry about me! You've
got me going, and I'm in on this thing; so come along!”

Then Dunn grew firm. “Thanks, awfully, old man,” he said, “but it's a
thing I'd rather do alone, if you don't mind.”

“Oh!” said Martin. “All right! But say, if you need me I'm on. You're a
great old brick, though! Tra-la!”

As Martin had surmised, Dunn found Cameron in his rooms. He was lying
upon his bed enjoying the luxury of a cigarette. “Hello! Come right
in, old chap!” he cried, in gay welcome. “Have a--no, you won't have a
cigarette--have a pipe?”

Dunn gazed at him, conscious of a rising tide of mingled emotions,
relief, wrath, pity, disgust. “Well, I'll be hanged!” at last he said
slowly. “But you've given us a chase! Where in the world have you been?”

“Been? Oh, here and there, enjoying my emancipation from the thralldom
in which doubtless you are still sweating.”

“And what does that mean exactly?”

“Mean? It means that I've cut the thing,--notebooks, lectures,
professors, exams, 'the hale hypothick,' as our Nannie would say at
home.”

“Oh rot, Cameron! You don't mean it?”

“Circumspice. Do you behold any suggestion of knotted towels and the
midnight oil?”

Dunn gazed about the room. It was in a whirl of confusion. Pipes and
pouches, a large box of cigarettes, a glass and a half-empty decanter,
were upon the table; boots, caps, golf-clubs, coats, lay piled in
various corners. “Pardon the confusion, dear sir,” cried Cameron
cheerfully, “and lay it not to the charge of my landlady. That estimable
woman was determined to make entry this afternoon, but was denied.”
 Cameron's manner one of gay and nervous bravado.

“Come, Cameron,” said Dunn sadly, “what does this mean? You're not
serious; you're not chucking your year?”

“Just that, dear fellow, and nothing less. Might as well as be
ploughed.”

“And what then are you going to do?” Dunn's voice was full of a great
pity. “What about your people? What about your father? And, by Jove,
that reminds me, he's coming to town this evening. You know they've been
trying to find you everywhere this last day or two.”

“And who are 'they,' pray?”

“Who? The police,” said Dunn bluntly, determined to shock his friend
into seriousness.

Cameron sat up quickly. “The police? What do you mean, Dunn?”

“What it means I do not know, Cameron, I assure you. Don't you?”

“The police!” said Cameron again. “It's a joke, Dunn.”

“I wish to Heaven it were, Cameron, old man! But I have it straight from
Mr. Rae, your family solicitor. They want you.”

“Old Rae?” exclaimed Cameron. “Now what the deuce does this all mean?”

“Don't you really know, old chap?” said Dunn kindly, anxiety and relief
struggling in his face.

“No more than you. What did the old chap say, anyway?”

“Something about a Bank; an irregularity, he called it, a serious
irregularity. He's had it staved off for a day.”

“The Bank? What in Heaven's name have I got to do with the Bank? Let's
see; I was there a week or ten days ago with--” he paused. “Hang it,
I can't remember!” He ran his hands through his long black locks, and
began to pace the room.

Dunn sat watching him, hope and fear, doubt and faith filling his heart
in succession.

Cameron sat down with his face in his hands. “What is it, old man? Can't
I help you?” said Dunn, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“I can't remember,” muttered Cameron. “I've been going it some, you
know. I had been falling behind and getting money off Potts. Two weeks
ago I got my monthly five-pound cheque, and about ten days ago the usual
fifty-pound cheque to square things up for the year, fees, etc. Seems to
me I cashed those. Or did Potts? Anyway I paid Potts. The deuce take it,
I can't remember! You know I can carry a lot of Scotch and never show
it, but it plays the devil with my memory.” Cameron was growing more and
more excited.

“Well, old chap, we must go right along to Mr. Rae's office. You don't
mind?”

“Mind? Not a bit. Old Rae has no love for me,--I get him into too much
trouble,--but he's a straight old boy. Just wait till I brush up a bit.”
 He poured out from a decanter half a glass of whiskey.

“I'd cut that out if I were you,” said Dunn.

“Later, perhaps,” replied Cameron, “but not to-day.”

Within twenty minutes they were ushered into Mr. Rae's private office.
That gentleman received them with a gravity that was portentous in its
solemnity. “Well, Sir, you have succeeded in your task,” he said to Mr.
Dunn. “I wish to thank you for this service, a most valuable service to
me, to this young gentleman, and to his family; though whether much may
come of it remains to be seen.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Dunn hurriedly. “I hope everything will be all
right.” He rose to go. Cameron looked at him quickly. There was no
mistaking the entreaty in his face.

Mr. Rae spoke somewhat more hurriedly than his wont. “If it is not
asking too much, and if you can still spare time, your presence might be
helpful, Mr. Dunn.”

“Stay if you can, old chap,” said Cameron. “I don't know what this thing
is, but I'll do better if you're in the game, too.” It was an appeal to
his captain, and after that nothing on earth could have driven Dunn from
his side.

At this point the door opened and the clerk announced, “Captain Cameron,
Sir.”

Mr. Rae rose hastily. “Tell him,” he said quickly, “to wait--”

He was too late. The Captain had followed close upon the heels of the
clerk, and came in with a rush. “Now, what does all this mean?”
 he cried, hardly waiting to shake hands with his solicitor. “What
mischief--?”

“I beg your pardon, Captain,” said Mr. Rae calmly, “let me present Mr.
Dunn, Captain Dunn, I might say, of International fame.” The solicitor's
smile broke forth with its accustomed unexpectedness, but had vanished
long before Mr. Dunn in his embarrassment had finished shaking hands
with Captain Cameron.

The Captain then turned to his son. “Well, Sir, and what is this affair
of yours that calls me to town at a most inconvenient time?” His tone
was cold, fretful, and suspicious.

Young Cameron's face, which had lighted up with a certain eagerness
and appeal as he had turned toward his father, as if in expectation of
sympathy and help, froze at this greeting into sullen reserve. “I don't
know any more than yourself, Sir,” he answered. “I have just come into
this office this minute.”

“Well, then, what is it, Mr. Rae?” The Captain's voice and manner were
distinctly imperious, if not overbearing.

Mr. Rae, however, was king of his own castle. “Will you not be seated,
Sir?” he said, pointing to a chair. “Sit down, young gentlemen.”

His quiet dignity, his perfect courtesy, recalled the Captain to
himself. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Rae, but I am really much disturbed.
Can we begin at once?” He glanced as he spoke at Mr. Dunn, who
immediately rose.

“Sit down, Mr. Dunn,” said Mr. Rae quietly. “I have asked this young
gentleman,” he continued, turning to the Captain, “to remain. He has
already given me valuable assistance. I fancy he may be able to serve us
still further, if he will be so good.”

Mr. Dunn bowed in silence.

“Now let us proceed with what must be an exceedingly painful matter for
us all, and out of which nothing but extreme candour on the part of Mr.
Allan here, and great wisdom on the part of us all, can possibly extract
us.” Mr. Rae's glance rested upon the Captain, who bowed, and upon his
son, who made no sign whatever, but remained with his face set in the
same sullen gloom with which he had greeted his father.

Mr. Rae opened a drawer and brought forth a slip of paper. “Mr. Allan,”
 he said, with a certain sharpness in his tone, “please look at this.”

Cameron came to the desk, picked up the paper, glanced at it. “It is my
father's cheque,” he said, “which I received about a week ago.”

“Look at the endorsement, please,” said Mr. Rae.

Cameron turned it over. A slight flush came to his pale face. “It is
mine to--” he hesitated, “Mr. Potts.”

“Mr. Potts cashed it then?”

“I suppose so. I believe so. I owed him money, and he gave me back
some.”

“How much did you owe him?”

“A considerable amount. I had been borrowing of him for some time.”

“As much as fifty pounds?”

“I cannot tell. I did not keep count, particularly; Potts did that.”

The Captain snorted contemptuously. “Do you mean to say--?” he began.

“Pardon me, Captain Cameron. Allow me,” said Mr. Rae.

“Now, Mr. Allan, do you think you owed him as much as the amount of that
cheque?”

“I do not know, but I think so.”

“Had you any other money?”

“No,” said Allan shortly; “at least I may have had a little remaining
from the five pounds I had received from my father a few days before.”

“You are quite sure you had no other money?”

“Quite certain,” replied Allan.

Again Mr. Rae opened his desk and drew forth a slip and handed it to
young Cameron. “What is that?” he said.

Cameron glanced at it hurriedly, and turned it over. “That is my
father's cheque for five pounds, which I cashed.”

Mr. Rae stretched out his hand and took the cheque. “Mr. Allan,” he
said, “I want you to consider most carefully your answer.” He leaned
across the desk and for some moments--they seemed like minutes to
Dunn--his eyes searched young Cameron's face. “Mr. Allan,” he said, with
a swift change of tone, his voice trembling slightly, “will you look at
the amount of that cheque again?”

Cameron once more took the cheque, glanced at it. “Good Lord!” he cried.
“It is fifty!” His face showed blank amazement.

Quick, low, and stern came Mr. Rae's voice. “Yes,” he said, “it is for
fifty pounds. Do you know that that is a forgery, the punishment for
which is penal servitude, and that the order for your arrest is already
given?”

The Captain sprang to his feet. Young Cameron's face became ghastly
pale. His hand clutched the top of Mr. Rae's desk. Twice or thrice he
moistened his lips preparing to speak, but uttered not a word. “Good
God, my boy!” said the Captain hoarsely. “Don't stand like that. Tell
him you are innocent.”

“One moment, Sir,” said Mr. Rae to the Captain. “Permit me.” Mr. Rae's
voice, while perfectly courteous, was calmly authoritative.

“Mr. Allan,” he continued, turning to the wretched young man, “what
money have you at present in your pockets?”

With shaking hands young Cameron emptied upon the desk the contents of
his pocketbook, from which the lawyer counted out ten one-pound notes,
a half-sovereign and some silver. “Where did you get this money, Mr.
Allan?”

The young man, still silent, drew his handkerchief from his pocket,
touched his lips, and wiped the sweat from his white face.

“Mr. Allan,” continued the lawyer, dropping again into a kindly voice,
“a frank explanation will help us all.”

“Mr. Rae,” said Cameron, his words coming with painful indistinctness,
“I don't understand this. I can't think clearly. I can't remember. That
money I got from Potts; at least I must have--I have had money from no
one else.”

“My God!” cried the Captain again. “To think that a son of mine
should--!”

“Pardon me, Captain Cameron,” interrupted Mr. Rae quickly and somewhat
sharply. “We must not prejudge this case. We must first understand it.”

At this point Dunn stepped swiftly to Cameron's side. “Brace up, old
chap,” he said in a low tone. Then turning towards the Captain he said,
“I beg your pardon, Sir, but I do think it's only fair to give a man a
chance to explain.”

“Allow me, gentlemen,” said Mr. Rae in a firm, quiet voice, as
the Captain was about to break forth. “Allow me to conduct this
examination.”

Cameron turned his face toward Dunn. “Thank you, old man,” he said,
his white lips quivering. “I will do my best, but before God, I don't
understand this.”

“Now, Mr. Allan,” continued the lawyer, tapping the desk sharply,
“here are two cheques for fifty pounds, both drawn by your father, both
endorsed by you, one apparently cashed by Mr. Potts, one by yourself.
What do you know about this?”

“Mr. Rae,” replied the young man, his voice trembling and husky, “I tell
you I can't understand this. I ought to say that for the last two weeks
I haven't been quite myself, and whiskey always makes me forget. I can
walk around steadily enough, but I don't always know what I am doing--”

“That's so, Sir,” said Dunn quickly, “I've seen him.”

“--And just what happened with these cheques I do not know. This
cheque,” picking up the one endorsed to Potts, “I remember giving to
Potts. The only other cheque I remember is a five-pound one.”

“Do you remember cashing that five-pound cheque?” inquired Mr. Rae.

“I carried it about for some days. I remember that, because I once
offered it to Potts in part payment, and he said--” the white face
suddenly flushed a deep red.

“Well, Mr. Allan, what did he say?”

“It doesn't matter,” said Cameron.

“It may and it may not,” said Mr. Rae sharply. “It is your duty to tell
us.”

“Out with it,” said his father angrily. “You surely owe it to me, to us
all, to let us have every assistance.”

Cameron paid no attention to his father's words. “It has really no
bearing, Sir, but I remember saying as I offered a five-pound cheque, 'I
wish it was fifty.'”

“And what reply did Mr. Potts make?” said Mr. Rae, with quiet
indifference, as if he had lost interest in this particular feature of
the case.

Again Cameron hesitated.

“Come, out with it!” said his father impatiently.

His son closed his lips as if in a firm resolve. “It really has nothing
whatever to do with the case.”

“Play the game, old man,” said Dunn quietly.

“Oh, all right!” said Cameron. “It makes no difference anyway. He said
in a joke, 'You could easily make this fifty; it is such mighty poor
writing.'”

Still Mr. Rae showed no sign of interest. “He suggested in a joke, I
understand, that the five-pound cheque could easily be changed into
fifty pounds. That was a mere pleasantry of Mr. Potts', doubtless. How
did the suggestion strike you, Mr. Allan?”

Allan looked at him in silence.

“I mean, did the suggestion strike you unpleasantly, or how?”

“I don't think it made any impression, Sir. I knew it was a joke.”

“A joke!” groaned his father. “Good Heavens! What do you think--?”

“Once more permit me,” said Mr. Rae quietly, with a wave of his hand
toward the Captain. “This cheque of five pounds has evidently been
altered to fifty pounds. The question is, by whom, Mr. Allan? Can you
answer that?” Again Mr. Rae's eyes were searching the young man's face.

“I have told you I remember nothing about this cheque.”

“Is it possible, Mr. Allan, that you could have raised this cheque
yourself without your knowing--?”

“Oh, nonsense!” said his father hotly, “why make the boy lie?”

His son started as if his father had struck him. “I tell you once more,
Mr. Rae, and I tell you all, I know nothing about this cheque, and that
is my last word.” And from that position nothing could move him.

“Well,” said Mr. Rae, closing the interview, “we have done our best. The
law must take its course.”

“Great Heavens!” cried the Captain, springing to his feet. “Do you mean
to tell me, Allan, that you persist in this cursed folly and will give
us no further light? Have you no regard for my name, if not for your
own?” He grasped his son fiercely by the arm.

But his son angrily shook off his grasp. “You,” he said, looking his
father full in the face, “you condemned me before you heard a word from
me, and now for my name or for yours I care not a tinker's curse.” And
with this he flung himself from the room.

“Follow him,” said Mr. Rae to Dunn, quietly; “he will need you. And keep
him in sight; it is important.”

“All right, Sir!” said Dunn. “I'll stay with him.” And he did.



CHAPTER IV

A QUESTION OF HONOUR


Mr. Rae in forty years' experience had never been so seriously
disturbed. To his intense humiliation he found himself abjectly
appealing to the senior member of the firm of Thomlinson & Shields. Not
that Mr. Thomlinson was obdurate; in the presence of mere obduracy Mr.
Rae might have found relief in the conscious possession of more generous
and humane instincts than those supposed to be characteristic of the
members of his profession. Mr. Thomlinson, however, was anything but
obdurate. He was eager to oblige, but he was helpless. The instructions
he had received were simple but imperative, and he had gone to unusual
lengths in suggesting to Mr. Sheratt, the manager of the Bank, a course
of greater leniency. That gentleman's only reply was a brief order to
proceed with the case.

With Mr. Sheratt, therefore, Mr. Rae proceeded to deal. His first move
was to invite the Bank manager to lunch, in order to discuss some rather
important matters relative to one of the great estates of which Mr. Rae
was supposed to be the guardian. Some fifty years' experience of
Mr. Sheratt as boy and man had let Mr. Rae into a somewhat intimate
knowledge of the workings of that gentleman's mind. Under the mollifying
influences of the finest of old port, Mr. Rae made the discovery that as
with Mr. Thomlinson, so with Mr. Sheratt there was every disposition to
oblige, and indeed an eagerness to yield to the lawyer's desires; it was
not Mr. Sheratt, but the Bank that was immovable. Firm-fixed it stood
upon its bedrock of tradition that in matters of fraud, crime should be
punished to the full limit of the law.

“The estate of the criminal, high or low,” said Mr. Sheratt
impressively, “matters not. The Bank stands upon the principle, and from
this it cannot be moved.” Mr. Sheratt began to wax eloquent. “Fidelity
to its constituency, its shareholders, its depositors, indeed to the
general public, is the corner-stone of its policy. The Bank of Scotland
is a National Institution, with a certain National obligation.”

Mr. Rae quietly drew from his pocket a pamphlet, opened it slowly,
and glanced at the page. “Ay, it's as I thought, Mr. Sheratt,” he said
dryly. “At times I wondered where Sir Archibald got his style.”

Mr. Sheratt blushed like a boy caught copying.

“But now since I know who it is that writes the speech of the Chairman
of the Board of Directors, tell me, Sheratt, as man to man, is it you or
is it Sir Archibald that's at the back of this prosecution? For if it is
you, I've something to say to you; if not, I'll just say it where it's
most needed. In some way or other I'm bound to see this thing through.
That boy can't go to prison. Now tell me, Tom? It's for auld sake's
sake.”

“As sure as death, Rae, it's the Chairman, and it's God's truth I'm
telling ye, though I should not.” They were back again into the speech
and spirit of their boyhood days.

“Then I must see Sir Archibald. Give me time to see him, Tom.”

“It's a waste of time, I'm tellin' ye, but two days I'll give ye, Sandy,
for auld sake's sake, as you say. A friendship of half a hundred years
should mean something to us. For your sake I'd let the lad go, God
knows, and there's my han' upon it, but as I said, that lies with Sir
Archibald.”

The old friends shook hands in silence.

“Thank ye, Tom, thank ye,” said Mr. Rae; “I knew it.”

“But harken to me, ye'll no' move Sir Archibald, for on this particular
point he's quite mad. He'd prosecute the Duke of Argyll, he would. But
two days are yours, Sandy. And mind with Sir Archibald ye treat his Bank
with reverence! It's a National Institution, with National obligations,
ye ken?” Mr. Sheratt's wink conveyed a volume of meaning. “And mind you,
Rae,” here Mr. Sheratt grew grave, “I am trusting you to produce that
lad when wanted.”

“I have him in safe keeping, Tom, and shall produce him, no fear.”

And with that the two old gentlemen parted, loyal to a lifelong
friendship, but loyal first to the trust of those they stood pledged to
serve; for the friendship that gives first place to honour is the only
friendship that honourable men can hold.

Mr. Rae set off for his office through the drizzling rain. “Now then,
for the Captain,” he said to himself; “and a state he will be in! Why
did I ever summon him to town? Then for Mr. Dunn, who must keep his eye
upon the young man.”

In his office he found Captain Cameron in a state of distraction that
rendered him incapable of either coherent thought or speech. “What now,
Rae? Where have you been? What news have you? My God, this thing is
driving me mad! Penal servitude! Think of it, man, for my son! Oh, the
scandal of it! It will kill me and kill his sister. What's your report?
Come, out with it! Have you seen Mr. Sheratt?” He was pacing up and down
the office like a beast in a cage.

“Tut, tut, Captain Cameron,” said Mr. Rae lightly, “this is no way for
a soldier to face the enemy. Sit down and we will just lay out our
campaign.”

But the Captain's soldiering, which was of the lightest, had taught him
little either of the spirit or of the tactics of warfare. “Campaign!” he
exclaimed. “There's no campaign about it. It's a complete smash, horse,
foot, and artillery.”

“Nonsense, Captain Cameron!” exclaimed Mr. Rae more briskly than his
wont, for the Captain irritated him. “We have still fighting to do, and
hence we must plan our campaign. But first let us get comfortable. Here
Davie,” he called, opening the office door, “here, mend this fire. It's
a winter's day this,” he continued to the Captain, “and goes to the
marrow.”

Davie, a wizened, clean-shaven, dark-visaged little man, appeared with a
scuttle of coal. “Ay, Davie; that's it! Is that cannel?”

“Ay, Sir, it is. What else? I aye get the cannel.”

“That's right, Davie. It's a gran' coal.”

“Gran' it's no',” said Davie shortly, who was a fierce radical in
politics, and who strove to preserve his sense of independence of all
semblance of authority by cultivating a habit of disagreement. “Gran'
it's no',” he repeated, “but it's the best the Farquhars hae, though
that's no' saying much. It's no' what I call cannel.”

“Well, well, Davie, it blazes finely at any rate,” said Mr. Rae,
determined to be cheerful, and rubbing his hands before the blazing
coal.

“Ay, it bleezes,” grumbled Davie, “when it's no' smootherin'.”

“Come then, Davie, that will do. Clear out,” said Mr. Rae to the old
servant, who was cleaning up the hearth with great diligence and care.

But Davie was not to be hurried. He had his regular routine in
fire-mending, from which no power could move him. “Ay, Sir,” he
muttered, brushing away with his feather besom. “I'll clear oot when I
clear up. When a thing's no' dune richt it's no dune ava.”

“True, Davie, true enough; that's a noble sentiment. But will that no'
do now?” Mr. Rae knew himself to be helpless in Davie's hands, and he
knew also that nothing short of violence would hasten Davie from his
“usual.”

“Ay, that'll dae, because it's richt dune. But that's no' what I call
cannel,” grumbled Davie, glowering fiercely at the burning coal, as if
meditating a fresh attack.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Rae, “tell the Farquhars about it.”

“Ay, Sir, I will that,” said Davie, as he reluctantly took himself off
with his scuttle and besom.

The Captain was bursting with fretful impatience. “Impudent old rascal!”
 he exclaimed. “Why don't you dismiss him?”

“Dismiss him!” echoed Mr. Rae in consternation. “Dismiss him!” he
repeated, as if pondering an entirely new idea. “I doubt if Davie would
consider that. But now let us to work.” He set two arm-chairs before the
fire, and placed a box of cigars by the Captain's elbow. “I have seen
Sheratt,” he began. “I'm quite clear it is not in his hands.”

“In whose then?” burst forth the Captain.

Mr. Rae lit his cigar carefully. “The whole matter, I believe, lies now
with the Chairman of the Board of Directors, Sir Archibald Brodie.”

“Brodie!” cried the Captain. “I know him. Pompous little fool!”

“Fool, Captain Cameron! Make no mistake. Sir Archibald may have--ah--the
self-importance of a self-made man somewhat under the average height,
but he is, without doubt, the best financier that stands at this moment
in Scotland, and during the last fifteen years he has brought up the
Bank of Scotland to its present position. Fool! He's anything but that.
But he has his weak spots--I wish I knew what they were!--and these we
must seek to find out. Do you know him well?”

“Oh, yes, quite well,” said the Captain; “that is, I've met him at
various functions, where he always makes speeches. Very common, I
call him. I know his father; a mere cottar. I mean,” added the Captain
hurriedly, for he remembered that Mr. Rae was of the same humble
origin, “you know, he is thoroughly respectable and all that, but of
no--ah--social or family standing; that is--oh, you understand.”

“Quite,” said Mr. Rae drily.

“Yes, I shall see him,” continued the Captain briskly. “I shall
certainly see him. It is a good suggestion. Sir Archibald knows my
family; indeed, his father was from the Erracht region. I shall see him
personally. I am glad you thought of that, Mr. Rae. These smaller men,
Sheratt and the rest, I do not know--in fact, I do not seem to be able
to manage them,--but with Sir Archibald there will be no difficulty, I
feel quite confident. When can you arrange the interview?”

Mr. Rae sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire, more and more convinced
every moment that he had made a false move in suggesting a meeting
between the Captain and Sir Archibald Brodie. But labour as he might he
could not turn the Captain from his purpose. He was resolved to see Sir
Archibald at the earliest moment, and of the result of the meeting he
had no manner of doubt.

“He knew my family, Sir,” insisted the Captain. “Sir Archibald will
undoubtedly accede to my suggestion--ah--request to withdraw his action.
Arrange it, Mr. Rae, arrange it at once.”

And ruefully enough Mr. Rae was compelled to yield against his better
judgment.

It was discovered upon inquiry that Sir Archibald had gone for a day or
two to his country estate. “Ah, much better,” said the Captain, “away
from his office and away from the--ah--commercial surroundings of the
city. Much better, much better! We shall proceed to his country home.”

Of the wisdom of this proposal Mr. Rae was doubtful. There seemed,
however, no other way open. Hence, the following morning found them on
their way to Sir Archibald's country seat. Mr. Rae felt that it was
an unusual course to pursue, but the time was short, the occasion was
gravely critical, and demanded extreme measures.

During their railway journey Mr. Rae strove to impress upon the
Captain's mind the need of diplomacy. “Sir Archibald is a man of strong
prejudices,” he urged; “for instance, his Bank he regards with an
affection and respect amounting to veneration. He is a bachelor, you
understand, and his Bank is to him wife and bairns. On no account must
you treat his Bank lightly.”

“Oh, certainly not,” replied the Captain, who was inclined to resent Mr.
Rae's attempts to school him in diplomacy.

“He is a great financier,” continued Mr. Rae, “and with him finance is a
high art, and financial integrity a sacred obligation.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” again replied the Captain, quite unimpressed
by this aspect of the matter, for while he considered himself distinctly
a man of affairs, yet his interests lay more in matters of great public
moment. Commercial enterprises he regarded with a feeling akin to
contempt. Money was an extremely desirable, and indeed necessary,
appendage to a gentleman's position, but how any man of fine feeling
could come to regard a financial institution with affection or
veneration he was incapable of conceiving. However, he was prepared
to deal considerately with Sir Archibald's peculiar prejudices in this
matter.

Mr. Rae's forebodings as to the outcome of the approaching interview
were of the most gloomy nature as they drove through the finely
appointed and beautifully kept grounds of Sir Archibald Brodie's estate.
The interview began inauspiciously. Sir Archibald received them with
stiff courtesy. He hated to be pursued to his country home with business
matters. Besides, at this particular moment he was deeply engrossed in
the inspection of his pigs, for which animals he cherished what might
almost be called an absorbing affection. Mr. Rae, who was proceeding
with diplomatic caution and skill to approach the matter in hand by way
of Sir Archibald's Wiltshires, was somewhat brusquely interrupted by the
Captain, who, in the firm conviction that he knew much better than did
the lawyer how to deal with a man of his own class, plunged at once into
the subject.

“Awfully sorry to introduce business matters, Sir Archibald, to the
attention of a gentleman in the privacy of his own home, but there is a
little matter in connection with the Bank in which I am somewhat deeply
interested.”

Sir Archibald bowed in silence.

“Rather, I should say, it concerns my son, and therefore, Sir Archibald,
myself and my family.”

Again Sir Archibald bowed.

“It is, after all, a trivial matter, which I have no doubt can be easily
arranged between us. The truth is, Sir Archibald--,” here the Captain
hesitated, as if experiencing some difficulty in stating the case.

“Perhaps Captain Cameron will allow me to place the matter before you,
Sir Archibald,” suggested Mr. Rae, “as it has a legal aspect of some
gravity, indeed of very considerable gravity. It is the case of young
Mr. Cameron.”

“Ah,” said Sir Archibald shortly. “Forgery case, I believe.”

“Well,” said Mr. Rae, “we have not been able as yet to get at the
bottom of it. I confess that the case has certainly very grave features
connected with it, but it is by no means clear that--”

“There is no need for further statement, Mr. Rae,” said Sir Archibald.
“I know all about it. It is a clear case of forgery. The facts have all
been laid before me, and I have given my instructions.”

“And what may these be, may I inquire?” said the Captain somewhat
haughtily.

“The usual instructions, Sir, where the Bank of Scotland is concerned,
instructions to prosecute.” Sir Archibald's lips shut in a firm, thin
line. As far as he was concerned the matter was closed.

“But, Sir,” exclaimed the Captain, “this young man is my son.”

“I deeply regret it,” replied Sir Archibald.

“Yes, Sir, he is my son, and the honour of my family is involved.”

Sir Archibald bowed.

“I am here prepared to offer the fullest reparation, to offer the most
generous terms of settlement; in short, I am willing to do anything in
reason to have this matter--this unfortunate matter--hushed up.”

“Hushed up!” exclaimed Sir Archibald. “Captain Cameron, it is
impossible. I am grieved for you, but I have a duty to the Bank in this
matter.”

“Do you mean to say, Sir,” cried the Captain, “that you refuse to
consider any arrangement or compromise or settlement of any kind
whatever? I am willing to pay the amount ten times over, rather than
have my name dragged through legal proceedings.”

“It is quite impossible,” said Sir Archibald.

“Come, come, Sir Archibald,” said the Captain, exercising an unusual
self-control; “let us look at this thing as two gentlemen should who
respect each other, and who know what is due to our--ah--class.”

It was an unfortunate remark of the Captain's.

“Our class, Sir? I presume you mean the class of gentlemen. All that
is due to our class or any other class is strict justice, and that you,
Sir, or any other gentleman, shall receive to the very fullest in this
matter. The honour of the Bank, which I regard as a great National
Institution charged with National responsibilities, is involved, as is
also my own personal honour. I sincerely trust your son may be cleared
of every charge of crime, but this case must be prosecuted to the very
fullest degree.”

“And do you mean to tell me, Sir Archibald,” exclaimed the Captain, now
in a furious passion, “that for the sake of a few paltry pounds you will
blast my name and my family name in this country?--a name, I venture to
say, not unknown in the history of this nation. The Camerons, Sir, have
fought and bled for King and country on many a battlefield. What matters
the question of a few pounds in comparison with the honour of an
ancient and honourable name? You cannot persist in this attitude, Sir
Archibald!”

“Pounds, Sir!” cried Sir Archibald, now thoroughly aroused by the
contemptuous reference to what to him was dearer than anything in life.
“Pounds, Sir! It is no question of pounds, but a question of the honour
of a National Institution, a question of the lives and happiness of
hundreds of widows and orphans, a question of the honour of a name which
I hold as dear as you hold yours.”

Mr. Rae was in despair. He laid a restraining hand upon the Captain, and
with difficulty obtained permission to speak. “Sir Archibald, I crave
your indulgence while I put this matter to you as to a business man. In
the first place, there is no evidence that fraud has been committed
by young Mr. Cameron, absolutely none.--Pardon me a moment, Sir
Archibald.--The fraud has been committed, I grant, by someone, but by
whom is as yet unknown. The young man for some weeks has been in a state
of incapacity; a most blameworthy and indeed shameful condition, it is
true, but in a state of incapacity to transact business. He declares
that he has no knowledge of this act of forgery. He will swear this. I
am prepared to defend him.”

“Very well, Sir,” interrupted Sir Archibald, “and I hope, I sincerely
hope, successfully.”

“But while it may be difficult to establish innocence, it will be
equally difficult to establish guilt. Meantime, the young man's life
is blighted, his name dishonoured, his family plunged into unspeakable
grief. I venture to say that it is a case in which the young man might
be given, without injury to the Bank, or without breaking through its
traditional policy, the benefit of the doubt.”

But Sir Archibald had been too deeply stirred by Captain Cameron's
unfortunate remarks to calmly weigh Mr. Rae's presentation of the case.
“It is quite useless, Mr. Rae,” he declared firmly. “The case is out of
my hands, and must be proceeded with. I sincerely trust you may be able
to establish the young man's innocence. I have nothing more to say.”

And from this position neither Mr. Rae's arguments nor the Captain's
passionate pleadings could move him.

Throughout the return journey the Captain raged and swore. “A
contemptible cad, Sir! a base-born, low-bred cad, Sir! What else could
you expect from a fellow of his breeding? The insolence of these lower
orders is becoming insupportable. The idea! the very idea! His bank
against my family name, my family honour! Preposterous!”

“Honour is honour, Captain Cameron,” replied Mr. Rae firmly, “and
it might have been better if you had remembered that the honour of a
cottar's son is as dear to him as yours is to you.”

And such was Mr. Rae's manner that the Captain appeared to consider it
wise to curb his rage, or at least suppress all reference to questions
of honour in as far as they might be related to the question of birth
and breeding.



CHAPTER V

A LADY AND THE LAW


Mr. Rae's first care was to see Mr. Dunn. This case was getting rather
more trying to Mr. Rae's nerves than he cared to acknowledge. For a
second time he had been humiliated, and humiliation was an experience to
which Mr. Rae was not accustomed. It was in a distinctly wrathful frame
of mind that he called upon Mr. Dunn, and the first quarter of an hour
of his interview he spent in dilating upon his own folly in having
allowed Captain Cameron to accompany him on his visit to Sir Archibald.

“In forty years I never remember having made such an error, Sir. This
was an occasion for diplomacy. We should have taken time. We should have
discovered his weak spots; every man has them. Now it is too late.
The only thing left for us is fight, and the best we can hope for is a
verdict of NOT PROVEN, and that leaves a stigma.”

“It is terrible,” said Mr. Dunn, “and I believe he is innocent. Have you
thought of Potts, Sir?”

“I have had Potts before me,” said Mr. Rae, “and I may safely say that
though he strikes me as being a man of unusual cleverness, we can do
nothing with Mr. Potts. Of course,” added Mr. Rae hastily, “this is not
to say we shall not make use of Mr. Potts in the trial, but Mr. Potts
can show from his books debts amounting to nearly sixty pounds. He
frankly acknowledges the pleasantry in suggesting the raising of the
five-pound cheque to fifty pounds, but of the act itself he professes
entire ignorance. I frankly own to you, Sir,” continued Mr. Rae, folding
his ear into a horn after his manner when in perplexity, “that this case
puzzles me. I must not take your time,” he said, shaking Mr. Dunn warmly
by the hand. “One thing more I must ask you, however, and that is, keep
in touch with young Cameron. I have pledged my honour to produce him
when wanted. Furthermore, keep him--ah--in good condition; cheer him up;
nerve him up; much depends upon his manner.”

Gravely Mr. Dunn accepted the trust, though whether he could fulfil it
he doubted. “Keep him cheerful,” said Mr. Dunn to himself, as the door
closed upon Mr. Rae. “Nice easy job, too, under the circumstances.
Let's see, what is there on? By Jove, if I could only bring him!” There
flashed into Mr. Dunn's mind the fact that he was due that evening at a
party for students, given by one of the professors, belated beyond the
period proper to such functions by one of those domestic felicities
which claim right of way over all other human events. At this party
Cameron was also due. It was hardly likely, however, that he would
attend. But to Dunn's amazement he found Cameron, with a desperate
jollity such as a man might feel the night before his execution, eager
to go.

“I'm going,” he cried, in answer to Dunn's somewhat timid suggestion.
“They'll all be there, old man, and I shall make my exit with much
eclat, with pipe and dance and all the rest of it.”

“Exit, be blowed!” said Dunn impatiently. “Let's cut all this nonsense
out. We're going into a fight for all there's in us. Why should a fellow
throw up the sponge after the first round?”

“Fight!” said Cameron gloomily. “Did old Rae say so?”

“Most decidedly.”

“And what defence does he suggest?”

“Defence? Innocence, of course.”

“Would to God I could back him up!” groaned Cameron.

Dunn gazed at him in dismay. “And can you not? You do not mean to tell
me you are guilty?”

“Oh, I wish to heaven I knew!” cried Cameron wildly. “But there, let it
go. Let the lawyers and the judge puzzle it out. 'Guilty or not guilty?'
'Hanged if I know, my lord. Looks like guilty, but don't see very well
how I can be.' That will bother old Rae some; it would bother Old Nick
himself. 'Did you forge this note?' 'My lord, my present ego recognizes
no intent to forge; my alter ego in vino may have done so. Of that,
however, I know nothing; it lies in that mysterious region of the
subconscious.' 'Are you, then, guilty?' 'Guilt, my lord, lies in intent.
Intent is the soul of crime.' It will be an interesting point for Mr.
Rae and his lordship.”

“Look here, old chap,” asked Dunn suddenly, “what of Potts in this
business?”

“Potts! Oh, hang it, Dunn, I can't drag Potts into this. It would
be altogether too low-down to throw suspicion upon a man without the
slightest ground. Potts is not exactly a lofty-souled creature. In fact,
he is pronouncedly a bounder, though I confess I did borrow money of
him; but I'd borrow money of the devil when I'm in certain moods. A man
may be a bounder, however, without being a criminal. No, I have thought
this thing out as far as I can, and I've made my mind up that I've got
to face it myself. I've been a fool, ah, such a fool!” A shudder shook
his frame. “Oh, Dunn, old man, I don't mind for myself, I can go out
easily enough, but it's my little sister! It will break her heart, and
she has no one else; she will have to bear it all alone.”

“What do you mean, Cameron?” asked Dunn sharply.

Cameron sprang to his feet. “Let it go,” he cried. “Let it go for
to-night, anyway.” He seized a decanter which stood all too ready to his
hand, but Dunn interposed.

“Listen to me, old man,” he said, in a voice of grave and earnest
sadness, while he pushed Cameron back into a chair. “We have a
desperately hard game before us, you and I,--this is my game, too,--and
we must be fit; so, Cameron, I want your word that you will play up for
all that's in you; that you will cut this thing out,” pointing to the
decanter, “and will keep fit to the last fighting minute. I am asking
you this, Cameron. You owe it to yourself, you owe it to me, you owe it
to your sister.”

For some moments Cameron sat gazing straight before him, his face
showing the agony in his soul. “As God's above, I do! I owe it to you,
Dunn, and to her, and to the memory of my--” But his quivering lips
could not utter the word; and there was no need, for they both knew that
his heart was far away in the little mound that lay in the shadow of the
church tower in the Cuagh Oir. The lad rose to his feet, and stretching
out his hand to Dunn cried, “There's my hand and my honour as a
Highlander, and until the last fighting moment I'll be fit.”

At the party that night none was gayer than young Cameron. The shy
reserve that usually marked him was thrust aside. His fine, lithe
figure, set off by his Highland costume, drew all eyes in admiration,
and whether in the proud march of the piper, or in the wild abandon of
the Highland Fling, he seemed to all the very beau ideal of a gallant
Highland gentleman.

Dunn stood in the circle gathered to admire, watching Cameron's
performance of that graceful and intricate Highland dance, all
unconscious of a pair of bright blue eyes fastened on his face that
reflected so manifestly the grief and pain in his heart.

“And wherefore this gloom?” said a gay voice at his side. It was Miss
Bessie Brodie.

Poor Dunn! He was not skilled in the fine art of social deception. He
could only gaze stupidly and with blinking eyes upon his questioner,
devoutly hoping meanwhile that the tears would not fall.

“Splendid Highlander, isn't he?” exclaimed Miss Bessie, hastily
withdrawing her eyes from his face, for she was much too fine a lady to
let him see her surprise.

“What?” exclaimed Dunn. “I don't know. I mean--yes, awfully--oh,
confound the thing, it's a beastly shame!”

Thereupon Miss Bessie turned her big blue eyes slowly upon him. “Meaning
what?” she said quietly.

“Oh, I beg pardon. I'm just a fool. Oh, hang it all!” Dunn could not
recover his composure. He backed out of the circle of admirers into a
darker corner.

“Fool?” said Miss Brodie, stepping back with him. “And why, pray? Can
I know? I suppose it's Cameron again,” she continued. “Oh, I know all
about you and your mothering of him.”

“Mothering!” said Dunn bitterly. “That is just what he needs, by Jove.
His mother has been dead these five years, and that's been the ruin of
him.”

The cheers from Cameron's admirers broke in upon Dunn's speech. “Oh,
it's too ghastly,” he muttered.

“Is it really so bad? Can't I help?” cried Miss Brodie. “You know I've
had some experience with boys.”

As Dunn looked into her honest, kindly eyes he hesitated. Should he tell
her? He was in sore need of counsel, and besides he was at the limit
of his self-control. “I say,” he said, staring at her, while his lips
quivered, “I'd like awfully to tell you, but I know if I ever begin I
shall just burst into tears before this gaping crowd.”

“Tears!” exclaimed Miss Bessie. “Not you! And if you did it wouldn't
hurt either them or you. An International captain possesses this
advantage over other mortals: that he may burst into tears or anything
else without losing caste, whereas if I should do any such thing--But
come, let's get somewhere and talk it over. Now, then,” said Miss Brodie
as they found a quiet corner, “first of all, ought I to know?”

“You'll know, all Edinburgh will know time day after to-morrow,” said
Dunn.

“All right, then, it can't do any harm for me to know to-night. It
possibly may do good.”

“It will do me good, anyway,” said Dunn, “for I have reached my limit.”

Then Dunn told her, and while she listened she grew grave and anxious.
“But surely it can be arranged!” she exclaimed, after he had finished.

“No, Mr. Rae has tried everything. The Bank is bound to pursue it to the
bitter end. It is apparently a part of its policy.”

“What Bank?”

“The Bank of Scotland.”

“Why, that's my uncle's Bank! I mean, he is the Chairman of the Board
of Directors, and the Bank is the apple of his eye; or one of them, I
mean--I'm the other.”

“Oh, both, I fancy,” said Dunn, rather pleased with his own courage.

“But come, this is serious,” said Miss Brodie. “The Bank, you know, or
you don't know, is my uncle's weak spot.”

Mr. Rae's words flashed across Dunn's mind: “We ought to have found his
weak spots.”

“He says,” continued Miss Brodie with a smile--“you know he's an old
dear!--I divide his heart with the Bank, that I have the left lobe.
Isn't that the bigger one? So the Bank and I are his weak spots; unless
it is his Wiltshires--he is devoted to Wiltshires.”

“Wiltshires?”

“Pigs. There are times when I feel myself distinctly second to them. Are
you sure my uncle knows all about Cameron?”

“Well, Mr. Rae and Captain Cameron--that's young Cameron's father--went
out to his place--”

“Ah, that was a mistake,” said Miss Brodie. “He hates people following
him to the country. Well, what happened?”

“Mr. Rae feels that it was rather a mistake that Captain Cameron went
along.”

“Why so? He is his father, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is, though I'm bound to say he's rather queer for a father.”
 Whereupon Dunn gave her an account of his interview in Mr. Rae's office.

Miss Brodie was indignant. “What a shame! And what a fool! Why, he is
ten times more fool than his son; for mark you, his son is undoubtedly
a fool, and a selfish fool at that. I can't bear a young fool who
sacrifices not simply his own life, but the interests of all who care
for him, for some little pet selfishness of his own. But this father
of his seems to be even worse than the son. Family name indeed! And I
venture to say he expatiated upon the glory of his family name to my
uncle. If there's one thing that my uncle goes quite mad about it is
this affectation of superiority on the ground of the colour of a man's
blood! No wonder he refused to withdraw the prosecution! What could Mr.
Rae have been thinking about? What fools men are!”

“Quite true,” murmured Mr. Dunn.

“Some men, I mean,” cried Miss Brodie hastily. “I wish to heaven I had
seen my uncle first!”

“I suppose it's too late now,” said Dunn, with a kind of gloomy
wistfulness.

“Yes, I fear so,” said Miss Brodie. “You see when my uncle makes up his
mind he appears to have some religious scruples against changing it.”

“It was a ghastly mistake,” said Dunn bitterly.

“Look here, Mr. Dunn,” said Miss Brodie, turning upon him suddenly, “I
want your straight opinion. Do you think this young man guilty?”

They were both looking at Cameron, at that moment the centre of a group
of open admirers, his boyish face all aglow with animation. For the
time being it seemed as if he had forgotten the terrible catastrophe
overhanging him.

“If I hadn't known Cameron for three years,” replied Dunn slowly, “I
would say offhand that this thing would be impossible to him; but you
see you never know what a man in drink will do. Cameron can carry a
bottle of Scotch without a stagger, but of course it knocks his head
all to pieces. I mean, he is quite incapable of anything like clear
thought.”

“It is truly terrible,” said Miss Brodie. “I wish I had known yesterday,
but those men have spoilt it all. But here's 'Lily' Laughton,” she
continued hurriedly, “coming for his dance.” As she spoke a youth of
willowy figure, languishing dark eyes and ladylike manner drew near.

“Well, here you are at last! What a hunt I have had! I am quite
exhausted, I assure you,” cried the youth, fanning himself with his
handkerchief. “And though you have quite forgotten it, this is our
dance. What can you two have been talking about? But why ask? There is
only one theme upon which you could become so terrifically serious.”

“And what is that, pray? Browning?” inquired Miss Brodie sweetly.

“Dear Miss Brodie, if you only would, but--ugh!--” here “Lily”
 shuddered, “I can in fancy picture the gory scene in which you have been
revelling for the last hour!” And “Lily's” handsome face and languid,
liquid eyes indicated his horror. It was “Lily's” constant declaration
that he “positively loathed” football, although his persistent
attendance at all the great matches rather belied this declaration. “It
is the one thing in you, Miss Bessie, that I deplore, 'the fly in the
pot--' no, 'the flaw--' ah, that's better--'the flaw in the matchless
pearl.'”

“How sweet of you,” murmured Miss Brodie.

“Yes, indeed,” continued “Lily,” wreathing his tapering fingers, “it is
your devotion to those so-called athletic games,--games! ye gods!--the
chief qualifications for excellence in which appear to be brute strength
and a blood-thirsty disposition; as witness Dunn there. I was positively
horrified last International. There he was, our own quiet, domestic,
gentle Dunn, raging through that howling mob of savages like a
bloody Bengal tiger.--Rather apt, that!--A truly awful and degrading
exhibition!”

“Ah, perfectly lovely!” murmured Miss Brodie ecstatically. “I can see
him yet.”

“Miss Brodie, how can you!” exclaimed “Lily,” casting up his eyes in
horror towards heaven. “But it was ever thus! In ancient days upon
the bloody sands of the arena, fair ladies were wont to gaze with
unrelenting eyes and thumbs turned down--or up, was it--?”

“Excellent! But how clever of them to gaze with their thumbs in that
way!”

“Please don't interrupt,” said “Lily” severely; “I have just 'struck my
gait,' as that barbaric young Colonial, Martin, another of your bloody,
brawny band, would say. And here you sit, unblushing, glorying in their
disgusting deeds and making love open and unabashed to their captain!”

“Go away, 'Lily' or I'll hurt you,” cried Dunn, his face a brilliant
crimson. “Come, get out!”

“But don't be uplifted,” continued “Lily,” ignoring him, “you are not
the first. By no means! It is always the last International captain, and
has been to my certain knowledge for the last ten years.”

“Ten years!” exclaimed Miss Brodie in horrified accents. “You monster!
If you have no regard for my character you might at least respect my
age.”

“Age! Dear Miss Brodie,” ejaculated “Lily,” “who could ever associate
age with your perennial youth?”

“Perennial! Wretch! If there is anything I am sensitive about, really
sensitive about, it is my age! Mr. Dunn, I beseech you, save me from
further insult! Dear 'Lily,' run away now. You are much too tired to
dance, and besides there is Mrs. Craig-Urquhart waiting to talk your
beloved Wagner-Tennyson theory; or what is the exact combination?
Mendelssohn-Browning, is it?”

“Oh, Miss Bessie!” cried “Lily” in a shocked voice, “how can
you? Mendelssohn-Browning! How awful! Do have some regard for the
affinities.”

“Mr. Dunn, I implore you, save me! I can bear no more. There! A merciful
providence has accomplished my deliverance. They are going. Good-night,
'Lily.' Run away now. I want a word with Mr. Dunn.”

“Oh, heartless cruelty!” exclaimed “Lily,” in an agonised voice. “But
what can you expect from such associations?” And he hastened away to
have a last word with Mrs. Craig-Urquhart, who was swimming languidly
by.

Miss Brodie turned eagerly to Dunn. “I'd like to help you awfully,” she
said; “indeed I must try. I have very little hope. My uncle is so strong
when he is once set, and he is so funny about that Bank. But a boy is
worth more than a Bank, if he IS a fool; besides, there is his sister.
Good-night. Thanks for letting me help. I have little hope, but
to-morrow I shall see Sir Archibald, and--and his pigs.”

It was still in the early forenoon of the following day when Miss
Brodie greeted her uncle as he was about to start upon his round of the
pastures and pens where the Wiltshires of various ages and sizes and
sexes were kept. With the utmost enthusiasm Miss Brodie entered into his
admiration of them all, from the lordly prize tusker to the great mother
lying broadside on in grunting and supreme content, every grunt eloquent
of happiness and maternal love and pride, to allow her week-old brood to
prod and punch her luxuriant dugs for their breakfast.

By the time they had made their rounds Sir Archibald had arrived at his
most comfortable and complacent mood. He loved his niece. He loved her
for the sake of his dead brother, and as she grew in years, he came to
love her for herself. Her sturdy independent fearlessness, her
sound sense, her honest heart, and chiefly, if it must be told, her
whole-souled devotion to himself, made for her a great space in his
heart. And besides all this, they were both interested to the point of
devotion in pigs. As he watched his niece handling the little sucklings
with tender care, and listened to her appraising their varying merits
with a discriminating judgment, his heart filled up with pride in her
many accomplishments and capabilities.

“Isn't she happy, Uncle?” she exclaimed, lifting her brown, sunny face
to him.

“Ay, lassie,” replied Sir Archibald, lapsing into the kindly “braid
Scots,” “I ken fine how she feels.”

“She's just perfectly happy,” said his niece, “and awfully useful and
good. She is just like you, Uncle.”

“What? Oh, thank you, I'm extremely flattered, I assure you.”

“Uncle, you know what I mean! Useful and good. Here you are in this
lovely home--how lovely it is on a warm, shiny day like this!--safe from
cares and worries, where people can't get at you, and making--”

“Ah, I don't know about that,” replied her uncle, shaking his head with
a frown. “Some people have neither sense nor manners. Only yesterday
I was pestered by a fellow who annoyed me, seriously annoyed me,
interfering in affairs which he knew nothing of,--actually the affairs
of the Bank!--prating about his family name, and all the rest of it.
Family name!” Here, it must be confessed, Sir Archibald distinctly
snorted, quite in a manner calculated to excite the envy of any of his
Wiltshires.

“I know, Uncle. He is a fool, a conceited fool, and a selfish fool.”

“You know him?” inquired her uncle in a tone of surprise.

“No, I have no personal acquaintance with him, I'm glad to say, but I
know about him, and I know that he came with Mr. Rae, the Writer.”

“Ah, yes! Thoroughly respectable man, Mr. Rae.”

“Yes, Mr. Rae is all right; but Captain Cameron--oh, I can't bear him!
He came to talk to you about his son, and I venture to say he took most
of the time in talking about himself.”

“Exactly so! But how--?”

“And, Uncle, I want to talk to you about that matter, about young
Cameron.” For just a moment Miss Brodie's courage faltered as she
observed her uncle's figure stiffen. “I want you to know the rights of
the case.”

“Now, now, my dear, don't you go--ah--”

“I know, Uncle, you were going to say 'interfering,' only you remember
in time that your niece never interferes. Isn't that true, Sir?”

“Yes, yes! I suppose so; that is, certainly.”

“Now I am interested in this young Cameron, and I want you to get the
right view of his case, which neither your lawyer nor your manager nor
that fool father of his can give you. I know that if you see this case
as I see it you will do--ah--exactly what is right; you always do.”

Miss Brodie's voice had assumed its most reasonable and business-like
tone. Sir Archibald was impressed, and annoyed because he was impressed.

“Look here, Bessie,” he said, in as impatient a tone as he ever adopted
with his niece, “you know how I hate being pestered with business
affairs out here.”

“I know quite well, Uncle, and I regret it awfully, but I know, too,
that you are a man of honour, and that you stand for fair play. But that
young man is to be arrested to-day, and you know what that will mean for
a young fellow with his way to make.”

Her appeal was not without its effect. Sir Archibald set himself to give
her serious attention. “Let us have it, then,” he said briefly. “What
do you know of the young man?”

“This first of all: that he has a selfish, conceited prig for a father.”

With which beginning Sir Archibald most heartily agreed. “But how do you
know?”

“Now, let me tell you about him.” And Miss Brodie proceeded to describe
the scene between father and son in Mr. Rae's office, with vigorous and
illuminating comments. “And just think, the man in the company who was
first to condemn the young chap was his own father. Would you do that?
You'd stand for him against the whole world, even if he were wrong.”

“Steady, steady, lass!”

“You would,” repeated Miss Bessie, with indignant emphasis. “Would you
chuck me over if I were disgraced and all the world hounding me? Would
you?”

“No, by God!” said Sir Archibald in a sudden tempest of emotion, and
Miss Bessie smiled lovingly upon him.

“Well, that's the kind of a father he has. Now about the young fellow
himself: He's just a first-class fool, like most young fellows. You know
how they are, Uncle.”

Sir Archibald held up his hand. “Don't make any such assumptions.”

“Oh, I know you, and when you were a boy you were just as gay and
foolish as the rest of them.”

Her arch, accusing smile suddenly cast a rich glow of warm colour
over the long, grey road of Sir Archibald's youth of self-denial
and struggle. The mild indulgences of his early years, under the
transforming influence of that same arch and accusing smile, took on for
Sir Archibald such an aspect of wild and hilarious gaiety as to impart a
tone of hesitation to his voice while he deprecated his niece's charge.

“What, I? Nonsense! What do you know about it? Well, well, we have all
had our day, I suppose!”

“Aha! I know you, and I should love to have known you when you were
young Cameron's age. Though I'm quite sure you were never such a fool as
he. You always knew how to take care of yourself.”

Her uncle shook his head as if to indicate that the less said about
those gay young days the better.

“Now what do you think this young fool does? Gets drinking, and gets so
muddled up in all his money matters--he's a Highlander, you know, and
Dunn, Mr. Dunn says--”

“Dunn!”

“Yes, Mr. Dunn, the great International captain, you know! Mr. Dunn says
he can take a whole bottle of Scotch--”

“What, Dunn?”

“No, no; you know perfectly well, Uncle! This young Cameron can take
a whole bottle of Scotch and walk a crack, but his head gets awfully
muddled.”

“Shouldn't be surprised!”

“And Mr. Dunn had a terrible time keeping him fit for the International.
You know he was Dunn's half-back. Yes,” cried his niece with enthusiasm,
suddenly remembering a tradition that in his youth Sir Archibald had
been a famous quarter, his one indulgence, “a glorious half-back, too!
You must remember in the match with England last fall the brilliant work
of the half-back. Everybody went mad about him. That was young Cameron!”

“You don't tell me! The left-half in the English International last
fall?”

“Yes, indeed! Oh, he's wonderful! But he has to be watched, you know,
and the young fool lost us the last--” Miss Bessie abruptly checked
herself. “But never mind! Well, after the season, you know, he got going
loose, and this is the result. Owed money everywhere, and with the true
Highland incapacity for business, and the true Highland capacity for
trusting people--”

“Huh!” grunted Sir Archibald in disapproval.

“--When his head is in a muddled condition he does something or other to
a cheque--or doesn't do it, nobody knows--and there he is in this awful
fix. Personally, I don't believe he is guilty of the crime.”

“And why, pray?”

“Why? Well, Mr. Dunn, his captain, who has known him for years, says it
is quite impossible; and then the young man himself doesn't deny it.”

“What? Does NOT deny it?”

“Exactly! Like a perfectly straightforward gentleman,--and I think it's
awfully fine of him,--though he has a perfectly good chance to put the
thing on a--a fellow Potts, quite a doubtful character, he simply says,
'I know nothing about it. That looks like my signature. I can't remember
doing this, don't know how I could have, but don't know a thing about
it.' There you are, Uncle! And Mr. Dunn says he is quite incapable of
it.”

“Mr. Dunn, eh? It seems you build somewhat broadly upon Mr. Dunn.”

The brown on Miss Bessie's check deepened slightly. “Well, Mr. Dunn is a
splendid judge of men.”

“Ah; and of young ladies, also, I imagine,” said Sir Archibald, pinching
her cheek.

It may have been the pinch, but the flush on her cheek grew distinctly
brighter. “Don't be ridiculous, Uncle! He's just a boy, a perfectly
splendid boy, and glorious in his game, but a mere boy, and--well, you
know, I've arrived at the age of discretion.”

“Quite true!” mused her uncle. “Thirty last birthday, was it? How time
does--!”

“Oh, you perfectly horrid uncle! Thirty indeed! Are you not ashamed to
add to the already intolerable burden of my years? Thirty! No, Sir, not
by five good years at least! There now, you've made me tell my age! You
ought to blush for shame.”

Her uncle patted her firm, round cheek. “Never a blush, my dear! You
bear even your advanced age with quite sufficient ease and grace. But
now about this young Cameron,” he continued, assuming a sternly judicial
tone.

“All I ask for him is a chance,” said his niece earnestly.

“A chance? Why he will get every chance the law allows to clear
himself.”

“There you are!” exclaimed Miss Bessie, in a despairing tone. “That's
the way the lawyers and your manager talk. They coolly and without a
qualm get him arrested, this young boy who has never in all his life
shown any sign of criminal tendency. These horrid lawyers display their
dreadful astuteness and ability in catching a lad who never tries to run
away, and your manager pleads the rules of the Bank. The rules! Fancy
rules against a young boy's whole life!”

Her uncle rather winced at this.

“And like a lot of sheep they follow each other in a circle; there is
absolutely no independence, no initiative. Why, they even went so far as
to suggest that you could do nothing, that you were bound by rules and
must follow like the rest of them; but I told them I knew better.”

“Ah!” said Sir Archibald in his most dignified manner. “I trust I have a
mind of my own, but--”

“Exactly! So I said to Mr. Dunn. 'Rules or no rules,' I said, 'my
uncle will do the fair thing.' And I know you will,” cried Miss Brodie
triumphantly. “And if you look at it, there's a very big chance that the
boy never did the thing, and certainly if he did it at all it was when
he was quite incapable. Oh, I know quite well what the lawyers say. They
go by the law,--they've got to,--but you--and--and--I go by the--the
real facts of the case.” Sir Archibald coughed gently. “I mean to
say--well you know, Uncle, quite well, you can tell what a man is
by--well, by his game.”

“His game!”

“And by his eye.”

“His eye! And his eye is--?”

“Now, Uncle, be sensible! I mean to say, if you could only see him. Oh,
I shall bring him to see you!” she cried, with a sudden inspiration.

Sir Archibald held up a deprecating hand. “Do not, I beg.”

“Well, Uncle, you can trust my judgment, you know you can. You would
trust me in--in--” For a moment Miss Brodie was at a loss; then her eyes
fell upon the grunting, comfortable old mother pig with her industrious
litter. “Well, don't I know good Wiltshires when I see them?”

“Quite true,” replied her uncle solemnly; “and therefore, men.”

“Uncle, you're very nearly rude.”

“I apologise,” replied her uncle hastily. “But now, Bessie, my dear
girl, seriously, as to this case, you must understand that I cannot
interfere. The Bank--hem--the Bank is a great National--”

Miss Bessie saw that the Guards were being called upon. She hastened to
bring up her reserves. “I know, Uncle, I know! I wouldn't for the world
say a word against the Bank, but you see the case against the lad is at
least doubtful.”

“I was going on to observe,” resumed her uncle, judicially, “that the
Bank--”

“Don't misunderstand me, Uncle,” cried his niece, realising that she had
reached a moment of crisis. “You know I would not for a moment
presume to interfere with the Bank, but”--here she deployed her whole
force,--“the lad's youth and folly; his previous good character,
guaranteed by Dunn, who knows men; his glorious game--no man who wasn't
straight could play such a game!--the large chance of his innocence, the
small chance of his guilt; the hide-bound rigidity of lawyers and bank
managers, dominated by mere rules and routine, in contrast with the
open-minded independence of her uncle; the boy's utter helplessness; his
own father having been ready to believe the worst,--just think of it,
Uncle, his own father thinking of himself and of his family name--much
he has ever done for his family name!--and not of his own boy,
and”--here Miss Brodie's voice took a lower key--“and his mother died
some five or six years ago, when he was thirteen or fourteen, and I
know, you know, that is hard on a boy.” In spite of herself, and to her
disgust, a tremor came into her voice and a rush of tears to her eyes.

Her uncle was smitten with dismay. Only on one terrible occasion since
she had emerged from her teens had he seen his niece in tears. The
memory of that terrible day swept over his soul. Something desperate
was doing. Hard as the little man was to the world against which he had
fought his way to his present position of distinction, to his niece
he was soft-hearted as a mother. “There, there!” he exclaimed hastily.
“We'll give the boy a chance. No mother, eh? And a confounded prig for a
father! No wonder the boy goes all wrong!” Then with a sudden vehemence
he cried, striking one hand into the other, “No, by--! that is, we
will certainly give the lad the benefit of the doubt. Cheer up, lassie!
You've no need to look ashamed,” for his niece was wiping her eyes
in manifest disgust; “indeed,” he said, with a heavy attempt at
playfulness, “you are a most excellent diplomat.”

“Diplomat, Uncle!” cried the girl, vehement indignation in her voice and
face. “Diplomat!” she cried again. “You don't mean that I've not been
quite sincere?”

“No, no, no; not in the least, my dear! But that you have put your case
with admirable force.”

“Oh,” said the girl with a breath of relief, “I just put it as I feel
it. And it is not a bit my putting it, Uncle, but it is just that
you are a dear and--well, a real sport; you love fair play.” The girl
suddenly threw her strong, young arms about her uncle's neck, drew him
close to her, and kissed him almost as if she had been his mother.

The little man was deeply touched, but with true Scotch horror of a
demonstration he cried, “Tut, tut, lassie, ye're makin' an auld fule o'
your uncle. Come now, be sensible!”

“Sensible!” echoed his niece, kissing him again. “That's my living
description among all my acquaintance. It is their gentle way of
reminding me that the ordinary feminine graces of sweetness and general
loveliness are denied me.”

“And more fools they!” grunted her uncle. “You're worth the hale
caboodle o' them.”

That same evening there were others who shared this opinion, and none
more enthusiastically than did Mr. Dunn, whom Miss Brodie chanced to
meet just as she turned out of the Waverly Station.

“Oh, Mr. Dunn,” she cried, “how very fortunate!” Her face glowed with
excitement.

“For me; yes, indeed!” said Mr. Dunn, warmly greeting her.

“For me, for young Cameron, for us all,” said Miss Brodie. “Oh, Rob, is
that you?” she continued, as her eye fell upon the youngster standing
with cap off waiting her recognition. “Look at this!” she flashed a
letter before Dunn's face. “What do you think of that?”

Dunn took the letter. “It's to Sheratt,” he said, with a puzzled air.

“Yes,” cried Miss Brodie, mimicking his tone, “it's to Sheratt, from Sir
Archibald, and it means that Cameron is safe. The police will never--”

“The police,” cried Dunn, hastily, getting between young Rob and her and
glancing at his brother, who stood looking from one to the other with a
startled face.

“How stupid! The police are a truly wonderful body of men,” she went on
with enthusiasm. “They look so splendid. I saw some of them as I came
along. But never mind them now. About this letter. What's to do?”

Dunn glanced at his watch. “We need every minute.” He stood a moment or
two thinking deeply while Miss Brodie chatted eagerly with Rob, whose
face retained its startled and anxious look. “First to Mr. Rae's office.
Come!” cried Mr. Dunn.

“But this letter ought to go.”

“Yes, but first Mr. Rae's office.” Mr. Dunn had assumed command. His
words shot out like bullets.

Miss Brodie glanced at him with a new admiration in her face. As a
rule she objected to being ordered about, but somehow it seemed good to
accept commands from this young man, whose usually genial face was now
set in such resolute lines.

“Here, Rob, you cut home and tell them not to wait dinner for me.”

“All right, Jack!” But instead of tearing off as was his wont whenever
his brother gave command, Rob lingered. “Can't I wait a bit, Jack, to
see--to see if anything--?” Rob was striving hard to keep his voice in
command and his face steady. “It's Cameron, Jack. I know!” He turned his
back on Miss Brodie, unwilling that she should see his lips quiver.

“What are you talking about?” said his brother sharply.

“Oh, it is all my stupid fault, Mr. Dunn,” said Miss Brodie. “Let him
come along a bit with us. I say, youngster, you are much too acute,” she
continued, as they went striding along together toward Mr. Rae's office.
“But will you believe me if I tell you something? Will you? Straight
now?”

The boy glanced up into her honest blue eyes, and nodded his head.

“Your friend Cameron is quite all right. He was in some difficulty, but
now he's quite all right. Do you believe me?”

The boy looked again steadily into her eyes. The anxious fear passed
out of his face, and once more he nodded; he knew he could not keep his
voice quite steady. But after a few paces he said to his brother, “I
think I'll go now, Jack.” His mind was at rest; his idol was safe.

“Oh, come along and protect me,” cried Miss Brodie. “These lawyer people
terrify me.”

The boy smiled a happy smile. “I'll go,” he said resolutely.

“Thanks, awfully,” said Miss Brodie. “I shall feel so much safer with
you in the waiting room.”

It was a difficult matter to surprise Mr. Rae, and even more difficult
to extract from him any sign of surprise, but when Dunn, leaving Miss
Brodie and his brother in the anteroom, entered Mr. Rae's private office
and laid the letter for Mr. Sheratt before him, remarking, “This letter
is from Sir Archibald, and withdraws the prosecution,” Mr. Rae stood
speechless, gazing now at the letter in his hand, and now at Mr. Dunn's
face.

“God bless my soul! This is unheard of. How came you by this, Sir?”

“Miss Brodie--” began Dunn.

“Miss Brodie?”

“She is in the waiting room, Sir.”

“Then, for heaven's sake, bring her in! Davie, Davie! Where is that man
now? Here, Davie, a message to Mr. Thomlinson.”

Davie entered with deliberate composure.

“My compliments to Mr. Thomlinson, and ask if he would step over at
once. It is a matter of extreme urgency. Be quick!”

But Davie had his own mind as to the fitness of things. “Wad a note no'
be better, Sir? Wull not--?”

“Go, will you!” almost shouted Mr. Rae.

Davie was so startled at Mr. Rae's unusual vehemence that he seized his
cap and made for the door. “He'll no' come for the like o' me,” he
said, pausing with the door-knob in his hand. “It's no' respectable like
tae--”

“Man, will ye no' be gone?” cried Mr. Rae, rising from his chair.

“I will that!” exclaimed Davie, banging the door after him. “But,” he
cried furiously, thrusting his head once more into the room, “if he'll
no' come it's no' faut o' mine.” His voice rose higher and higher, and
ended in a wrathful scream as Mr. Rae, driven to desperation, hurled a
law book of some weight at his vanishing head.

“The de'il take ye! Ye'll be my deith yet.”

The book went crashing against the door-frame just as Miss Brodie was
about to enter. “I say,” she cried, darting back. “Heaven protect me!
Rob, save me!”

Rob sprang to her side. She stood for a moment gazing aghast at Mr.
Dunn, who gazed back at her in equal surprise. “Is this his 'usual'?”
 she inquired.

At that the door opened. “Ah, Mr. Dunn, this is Miss Brodie, I suppose.
Come in, come in!” Mr. Rae's manner was most bland.

Miss Brodie gave him her hand with some hesitation. “I'm very glad to
meet you, Mr. Rae, but is this quite the usual method? I mean to say,
I've heard of having advice hurled at one's head, but I can't say that I
ever was present at a demonstration of the method.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Rae, with bland and gallant courtesy, “the method, my
dear young lady, varies with the subject in hand.”

“Ah, the subject!”

“And with the object in view.”

“Oh, I see.”

“But pray be seated. And now explain this most wonderful phenomenon.” He
tapped the letter.

“Oh, that is quite simple,” said Miss Brodie. “I set the case of young
Mr. Cameron before my uncle, and of course he at once saw that the only
thing to do was withdraw the prosecution.”

Mr. Rae stood gazing steadily at her as if striving to take in the
meaning of her words, the while screwing up his ear most violently till
it stuck out like a horn upon the side of his shiny, bald head. “Permit
me to say, Miss Brodie,” he said, with a deliberate and measured
emphasis, “that you must be a most extraordinary young lady.” At this
point Mr. Rae's smile broke forth in all its glory.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Rae,” replied Miss Brodie, smiling responsively at
him. “You are most--” But Mr. Rae's smile had vanished. “What! I beg
your pardon!” Miss Brodie's smiling response was abruptly arrested by
finding herself gazing at a face whose grave solemnity rebuked her smile
as unwarranted levity.

“Not at all, not at all!” said Mr. Rae. “But now, there are matters
demanding immediate action. First, Mr. Sheratt must receive and act
upon this letter without delay.” As he spoke he was scribbling hastily
a note. “Mr. Dunn, my young men have gone for the day. Might I trouble
you?”

“Most certainly,” cried Mr. Dunn. “Is an answer wanted?”

“Bring him with you, if possible; indeed, bring him whether it is
possible or not. But wait, it is past the hour appointed. Already the
officer has gone for young Cameron. We must save him the humiliation of
arrest.”

“Oh, could I not warn him?” cried Miss Brodie eagerly. “No,” she added,
“Rob will go. He is in the waiting room now, poor little chap. It will
be a joy to him.”

“It is just as well Rob should know nothing. He is awfully fond of
Cameron. It would break his heart,” said Mr. Dunn.

“Oh, of course! Quite unnecessary that he should know anything. We
simply wish Cameron here at the earliest possible moment.”

Dunn went with his young brother down the stairs and out to the street.
“Now, Rob, you are to go to Cameron's lodgings and tell him that Mr. Rae
wants him, and that I want him. Hold on, youngster!” he cried, grabbing
Rob by the collar, “do you understand? It is very important that Cameron
should get here as quick as he possibly can, and--I say, Rob,” the big
brother's eyes traveled over the darkening streets that led up into the
old town, “you're not afraid?”

“A wee bit,” said Rob, tugging at the grasp on his collar; “but I don't
care if I am.”

“Good boy!” cried his brother. “Good little brick! I wouldn't let you
go, but it's simply got to be done, old chap. Now fly!” He held him just
a moment longer to slap him on the back, then released his hold. Dunn
stood watching the little figure tearing up the North Bridge. “Great
little soul!” he muttered. “Now for old Sheratt!”

He put his head down and began to bore through the crowd toward Mr.
Sheratt's house. When he had gone but a little distance he was brought
up short by a bang full in the stomach. “Why, what the deuce!”

“Dod gast ye! Whaur are ye're een?” It was Davie, breathless and furious
from the impact. “Wad ye walk ower me, dang ye?” cried the little man
again. Davie was Free Kirk, and therefore limited in the range of his
vocabulary.

“Oh! That you, Davie? I'm sorry I didn't see you.”

“A'm no' as big as a hoose, but a'm veesible.” And Davie walked
wrathfully about his business.

“Oh, quite,” acknowledged Dunn cheerfully, hurrying on; “and tangible,
as well.”

“He's comin',” cried Davie over his shoulder; “but gar it had been
masel',” he added grudgingly, “catch me!”

But Dunn was too far on his way to make reply. Already his mind was on
the meeting of the lawyers in Mr. Rae's office, and wondering what would
come of it. On this subject he meditated until he reached Mr. Sheratt's
home. Twice he rang the bell, still meditating.

“By Jove, she is stunning! She's a wonder!” he exclaimed to himself as
he stood in Mr. Sheratt's drawing-room. “She's got 'em all skinned a
mile, as Martin would say.” It is safe to affirm that Mr. Dunn was not
referring to the middle-aged and highly respectable maid who had
opened the door to him. It is equally safe to affirm that this was the
unanimous verdict of the three men who, half an hour later, brought
their deliberations to a conclusion, frankly acknowledging to each
other that what they had one and all failed to achieve, the lady had
accomplished.



CHAPTER VI

THE WASTER'S REFUGE


“I say, you blessed Colonial, what's come over you?” Linklater was
obviously disturbed. He had just returned from a summer's yachting
through the Norway fjords, brown and bursting with life. The last
half-hour he had been pouring forth his experiences to his friend
Martin. These experiences were some of them exciting, some of them
of doubtful ethical quality, but all of them to Linklater at least
interesting. During the recital it was gradually borne in upon him that
his friend Martin was changed. Linklater, as the consciousness of the
change in his friend grew upon him, was prepared to resent it. “What the
deuce is the matter with you?” he enquired. “Are you ill?”

“Never better. I could at this present moment sit upon your fat and
florid carcass.”

“Well, what then is wrong? I say, you haven't--it isn't a girl, is it?”

“Nothing so lucky for a bloomin' Colonial in this land of wealth and
culture. If I only dared!”

“There's something,” insisted Linklater; “but I've no doubt it
will develop. Meantime let us go out, and, in your own picturesque
vocabulary, let us 'hit the flowing bowl.'”

“No, Sir!” cried Martin emphatically. “No more! I am on the water wagon,
and have been all summer.”

“I knew it was something,” replied Linklater gloomily, “but I didn't
think it was quite so bad as that. No wonder you've had a hard summer!”

“Best summer ever!” cried Martin. “I only wish I had started two years
ago when I came to this bibulous burgh.”

“How came it? Religion?”

“No; just horse sense, and the old chief.”

“Dunn!” exclaimed Linklater. “I always knew he was against that sort of
thing in training, but I didn't think he would carry it to this length.”

“Yes, Dunn! I say, old boy, I've no doubt you think you know him, I
thought so, too, but I've learned some this summer. Here's a yarn, and
it is impressive. Dunn had planned an extensive walking tour in the
Highlands; you know he came out of his exams awfully fagged. Well, at
this particular moment it happened that Balfour Murray--you know the
chap that has been running that settlement joint in the Canongate for
the last two years--proposes to Dunn that he should spend a few weeks
in leading the young hopefuls in that interesting and uncleanly
neighbourhood into paths of virtue and higher citizenship by way of
soccer and kindred athletic stunts. Dunn in his innocence agrees,
whereupon Balfour Murray promptly develops a sharp attack of pneumonia,
necessitating rest and change of air, leaving the poor old chief in the
deadly breach. Of course, everybody knows what the chief would do in any
deadly breach affair. He gave up his Highland tour, shouldered the whole
Canongate business, organised the thing as never before, inveigled all
his friends into the same deadly breach, among the number your humble
servant, who at the time was fiercely endeavouring in the last lap of
the course to atone for a two years' loaf, organised a champion team
which has licked the spots off everything in sight, and in short, has
made the whole business a howling success; at the cost, however, of all
worldly delights, including his Highland tour and the International.”

“Oh, I say!” moaned Linklater. “It makes me quite ill to think of the
old chief going off this way.”

Martin nodded sympathetically. “Kind of 'Days that are no more,' 'Lost
leader' feeling, eh?”

“Exactly, exactly! Oh, it's rotten! And you, too! He's got you on this
same pious line.”

“Look here,” shouted Martin, with menace in his voice, “are you
classifying me with the old chief? Don't be a derned fool.”

Linklater brightened perceptibly. “Now you're getting a little natural,”
 he said in a hopeful tone.

“Oh, I suppose you'd like to hear me string out a lot of damns.”

“Well, it might help. I wouldn't feel quite so lonely. But don't
violate--”

“I'd do it if I thought it would really increase your comfort, though
I know I'd feel like an infernal ass. I've got new light upon this
'damning' business. I've come to regard it as the refuge of the mentally
inert, not to say imbecile, who have lost the capacity for originality
and force in speech. For me, I am cured.”

“Ah!” said Linklater. “Dunn again, I suppose.”

“Not a bit! Clear case of psychological reaction. After listening to
the Canongate experts I was immediately conscious of an overwhelming
and mortifying sense of inadequacy, of amateurishness; hence I quit.
Besides, of course, the chief is making rather a point of uplifting the
Canongate forms of speech.”

Linklater gazed steadily at this friend, then said with mournful
deliberation, “You don't drink, you don't swear, you don't smoke--”

“Oh, that's your grouch, is it?” cried Martin. “Forgive me; here's
my pouch, old chap; or wait, here's something altogether finer than
anything you've been accustomed to. I was at old Kingston's last night,
and the old boy would have me load up with his finest. You know I've
been working with him this summer. Awfully fine for me! Dunn got me on;
or rather, his governor. There you are now! Smoke that with reverence.”

“Ah,” sighed Linklater, as he drew in his first whiff, “there is still
something left to live for. Now tell me, what about Cameron?”

“Oh, Cameron! Cameron's all up a tree. The last time I saw him, by Jove,
I was glad it was in the open daylight and on a frequented street. His
face and manner suggested Roderick Dhu, The Black Douglas, and all the
rest of that interesting gang of cutthroats. I can't bring myself to
talk of Cameron. He's been the old chief's relaxation during dog-days.
It makes me hot to see Dunn with that chap.”

“Why, what's the trouble?”

“He tried him out in half a dozen positions, in every one of which he
proved a dead failure. The last was in Mr. Rae's office, a lawyer, you
know, Writer, to use your lucid and luminous speech. That experiment
proved the climax.” At the memory of that experience Martin laughed loud
and long. “It was funny! Mr. Rae, the cool, dignified, methodical, exact
man of the law, struggling to lick into shape this haughty Highland
chieftain, who in his heart scorned the whole silly business. The
result, the complete disorganisation of Mr. Rae's business, and
total demoralisation of Mr. Rae's office staff, who one and all swore
allegiance to the young chief. Finally, when Mr. Rae had reached the
depths of desperation, Cameron graciously deigned to inform his boss
that he found the office and its claims quite insupportable.”

“Oh, it must have been funny. What happened?”

“What happened? You bet old Rae fell on his neck with tears of joy, and
sent him off with a handsome honorarium, as your gentle speech has it.
That was a fortnight ago. Then Dunn, in despair, took Cameron off to his
native haunts, and there he is to this day. By the same token, this is
the very afternoon that Dunn returns. Let us go to meet him with cornets
and cymbals! The unexpected pleasure of your return made me quite
forget. But won't he revel in you, old boy!”

“I don't know about that,” said Linklater gloomily. “I've a kind of
feeling that I've dropped out of this combination.”

“What?” Then Martin fell upon him.

But if Martin's attempts to relieve his friend of melancholy forebodings
were not wholly successful, Dunn's shout of joy and his double-handed
shake as he grappled Linklater to him, drove from that young man's heart
the last lingering shade of doubt as to his standing with his friends.

On his way home Dunn dropped into Martin's diggings for a “crack,” and
for an hour the three friends reviewed the summer's happenings, each
finding in the experience of the others as keen a joy as in his own.

Linklater's holiday had been the most fruitful in exciting incident.
For two months he and his crew had dodged about among quaint Norwegian
harbours and in and out of fjords of wonderful beauty. Storms they
had weathered and calms they had endured; lazy days they had spent,
swimming, fishing, loafing; and wild days in fighting gales and
high-running seas that threatened to bury them and their crew beneath
their white-topped mountainous peaks.

“I say, that must have been great,” cried Dunn with enthusiastic delight
in his friend's experiences.

“It sounds good, even in the telling,” cried Martin, who had been
listening with envious ears. “Now my experiences are quite other. One
word describes them, grind, grind, grind, day in and day out, in a
gallant but futile attempt to justify the wisdom of my late examiners in
granting me my Triple.”

“Don't listen to him, Linklater,” said Dunn. “I happen to know that he
came through with banners flying and drums beating; and he has turned
into no end of a surgeon. I've heard old Kingston on him.”

“But what about you, Dunn?” asked Linklater, with a kind of curious
uncertainty in his voice, as if dreading a tale of calamity.

“Oh, I've loafed about town a little, golfing a bit and slumming a
bit for a chap that got ill, and in spare moments looking after Martin
here.”

“And the International?”

Dunn hesitated.

“Come on, old chap,” said Martin, “take your medicine.”

“Well,” admitted Dunn, “I had to chuck it. But,” he hastened to add,
“Nesbitt has got the thing in fine shape, though of course lacking the
two brilliant quarters of last year and the half--for Cameron's out of
it--it's rather rough on Nesbitt.”

“Oh, I say! It's rotten, it's really ghastly! How could you do it,
Dunn?” said Linklater. “I could weep tears of blood.”

To this Dunn made no reply. His disappointment was even yet too keen
for him to treat it lightly. “Anything else seemed quite impossible,” at
length he said; “I had to chuck it.”

“By the way,” said Martin, “how's Cameron?”

Again Dunn paused. “I wish I could tell you. He's had hard luck this
summer. He somehow can't get hold of himself. In fact, I'm quite worried
about Cameron. I can't tell you chaps the whole story, but last spring
he had a really bad jolt.”

“Well, what's he going to do?” Martin asked, somewhat impatiently.

“I wish I knew,” replied Dunn gloomily. “There seems nothing he can
get here that's suitable. I'm afraid he will have to try the Colonies;
Canada for preference.”

“Oh, I say, Dunn,” exclaimed Martin, “it can't really be as bad as all
that?”

Dunn laughed. “I apologise, old chap. That was rather a bad break,
wasn't it? But all the same, to a Scotchman, and especially to a
Highlander, to leave home and friends and all that sort of thing, you
know--”

“No, he doesn't know,” cried Linklater. “The barbarian! How could he?”

“No, thank God,” replied Martin fervently, “I don't know! To my mind any
man that has a chance to go to Canada on a good job ought to call in his
friends and neighbours to rejoice with him.”

“But I say, that reminds me,” said Dunn. “Mr. Rae is coming to have a
talk with my governor and me about this very thing to-morrow night. I'd
like awfully if you could drop in, Martin; and you, too, Linklater.”

Linklater declined. “My folks have something on, I fear.”

Martin hesitated, protesting that there was “altogether too much of this
coddling business” in the matter of Cameron's future. “Besides, my work
is rather crowding me.”

“Oh, my pious ancestors! Work!” exclaimed Linklater in disgust. “At this
season of the year! Come, Martin, this pose is unworthy of you.”

“If you could, old man,” said Dunn earnestly, “we won't keep you long.
It would be a great help to us all.”

“All right, I'll come,” said Martin.

“There'll be no one there but Mr. Rae. We'll just have a smoke and a
chat.”

But in this expectation Dunn was reckoning without his young brother,
Rob, who, ever since a certain momentous evening, had entered into
a covenant of comradeship with the young lady who had figured so
prominently in the deliverance of his beloved Cameron from pending evil,
and who during the summer had allowed no week to pass without spending
at least a part of a day with her. On this particular evening, having
obtained leave from his mother, the young gentle man had succeeded in
persuading his friend to accept an invitation to dinner, assuring her
that no one would be there except Jack, who was to arrive home the day
before.

The conclave of Cameron's friends found themselves, therefore,
unexpectedly reinforced by the presence of Miss Brodie, to the unmingled
joy of all of them, although in Martin's case his joy was tinged with a
certain fear, for he stood in awe of the young lady, both because of her
reputation for cleverness, and because of the grand air which, when it
pleased her, she could assume. Martin, too, stood in wholesome awe
of Doctor Dunn, whose quiet dignity and old-time courtesy exercised a
chastening influence upon the young man's somewhat picturesque style of
language and exuberance of metaphor. But with Mrs. Dunn he felt quite
at ease, for with that gentle, kindly soul, her boys' friends were her
friends and without question she took them to her motherly heart.

Immediately upon Mr. Rae's arrival Cameron's future became the subject
of conversation, and it required only the briefest discussion to arrive
at the melancholy, inevitable conclusion that, as Mr. Rae put it, “for
a young man of his peculiar temperament, training, and habits, Scotland
was clearly impossible.”

“But I have no doubt,” continued that excellent adviser, “that in
Canada, where the demand for a high standard of efficiency is less
exacting, and where openings are more plentiful, the young man will do
very well indeed.”

Martin took the lawyer up somewhat sharply. “In other words, I
understand you to mean that the man who is a failure in Scotland may
become a success in Canada.”

“Exactly so. Would you not say so, Mr. Martin?”

“It depends entirely upon the cause of failure. If failure arises from
unfitness, his chances in Canada are infinitely less than in Scotland.”

“And why?” inquired Miss Brodie somewhat impatiently.

Martin hesitated. It was extremely difficult in the atmosphere of that
home to criticise one whom he knew to be considered as a friend of the
family.

“Why, pray?” repeated Miss Brodie.

“Well, of course,” began Martin hesitatingly, “comparisons are always
odious.”

“Oh, we can bear them.” Miss Brodie's smile was slightly sarcastic.

“Well, then, speaking generally,” said Martin, somewhat nettled by her
smile, “in this country there are heaps of chaps that simply can't fall
down because of the supports that surround them, supports of custom,
tradition, not to speak of their countless friends, sisters, cousins,
and aunts; if they're anyways half decent they're kept a going; whereas
if they are in a new country and with few friends, they must stand alone
or fall. Here the crowd support them; there the crowd, eager to get on,
shove them aside or trample them down.”

“Rather a ghastly picture that,” said Miss Brodie.

“But true; that is, of the unfit. People haven't time to bother with
them; the game is too keen.”

“Surely the picture is overdrawn,” said Doctor Dunn.

“It may be, Sir,” replied Martin, “but I have seen so many young fellows
who had been shipped out to Canada because they were failures at home. I
have seen them in very hard luck.”

“And what about the fit?” inquired Miss Brodie.

“They get credit for every ounce that's in them.”

“But that is so in Scotland as well.”

“Pardon me, Miss Brodie, hardly. Here even strong men and fit men have
to wait half a lifetime for the chance that calls for all that's in
them. They must march in the procession and the pace is leisurely. In
Canada the chances come every day, and the man that's ready jumps in and
wins.”

“Ah, I see!” exclaimed Miss Brodie. “There are more ladders by which to
climb.”

“Yes,” cried Martin, “and fewer men on them.”

“But,” argued Dunn, “there are other causes of failure in this country.
Many a young fellow, for instance, cannot get a congenial position.”

“Yes,” replied Martin quickly, “because you won't let him; your caste
law forbids. With us a man can do anything decent and no one thinks the
less of him.”

“Ah, I see!” again cried Miss Brodie, more eagerly than before. “Not
only more ladders, but more kinds of ladders.”

“Exactly,” said Martin with an approving glance. “And he must not be too
long in the choosing.”

“Then, Mr. Martin,” said Mr. Rae, “what would you suggest for our young
friend?”

But this Martin refused to answer.

“Surely there are openings for a young fellow in Canada,” said Dunn.
“Take a fellow like myself. What could I do?”

“You?” cried Martin, his eyes shining with loving enthusiasm. “There are
doors open on every business street in every town and city in Canada for
you, or for any fellow who has brain or brawn to sell and who will take
any kind of a job and stay with it.”

“Well, what job, for instance?”

“What job?” cried Martin. “Heaps of them.”

At this point a diversion was created by the entrance of “Lily”
 Laughton. Both Martin and Dunn envied the easy grace of his manner, his
perfect self-possession, as he greeted each member of the company.
For each he had exactly the right word. Miss Brodie he greeted with an
exaggerated devotion, but when he shook hands with Dunn there was no
mistaking the genuine warmth of his affection.

“Heard you were home, old chap, so I couldn't help dropping in. Of
course I knew that Mrs. Dunn would be sure to be here, and I more than
suspected that my dear Miss Brodie,” here he swept her an elaborate bow,
“whom I discovered to be away from her own home, might be found in this
pleasant company.”

“Yes, I fear that my devotion to her youngest boy is leading me to
overstep the bounds of even Mrs. Dunn's vast and generous hospitality.”

“Not a bit, my dear,” replied Mrs. Dunn kindly. “You bring sunshine with
you, and you do us all good.”

“Exactly my sentiments!” exclaimed “Lily” with enthusiasm. “But what are
you all doing? Just having a 'collyshog'?”

For a moment no one replied; then Dunn said, “We were just talking about
Cameron, who is thinking of going to Canada.”

“To Canada of all places!” exclaimed “Lily” in tones of horrified
surprise. “How truly dreadful! But why should Cameron of all beings
exile himself in those remote and barbarous regions?”

“And why should he not?” cried Miss Brodie. “What is there for a young
man of spirit in Mr. Cameron's position in this country?”

“Why, my dear Miss Brodie, how can you ask? Just think of the heaps of
things, of perfectly delicious things, Cameron can do,--the Highlands in
summer, Edinburgh, London, in the season, a run to the Continent! Just
think of the wild possibility of a life of unalloyed bliss!”

“Don't be silly!” said Miss Brodie. “We are talking seriously.”

“Seriously! Why, my dear Miss Brodie, do you imagine--?”

“But what could he do for a life-work?” said Dunn. “A fellow must have
something to do.”

“Oh, dear, I suppose so,” said “Lily” with a sigh. “But surely he could
have some position in an office or something!”

“Exactly!” replied Miss Brodie. “How beautifully you put it! Now Mr.
Martin was just about to tell us of the things a man could do in Canada
when you interrupted.”

“Awfully sorry, Martin. I apologise. Please go on. What do the natives
do in Canada?”

“Please don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Martin. I am extremely
interested. Now tell me, what are the openings for a young fellow in
Canada? You said the professions are all wide open.”

It took a little persuasion to get Martin started again, so disgusted
was he with Laughton's references to his native country. “Yes, Miss
Brodie, the professions are all wide open, but of course men must enter
as they do here, but with a difference. Take law, for instance: Knew a
chap--went into an office at ten dollars a month--didn't know a thing
about it. In three months he was raised to twenty dollars, and within a
year to forty dollars. In three or four years he had passed his exams,
got a junior partnership worth easily two thousand dollars a year. They
wanted that chap, and wanted him badly. But take business: That chap
goes into a store and--”

“A store?” inquired “Lily.”

“Yes, a shop you call it here; say a drygoods--”

“Drygoods? What extraordinary terms these Colonials use!”

“Oh, draper's shop,” said Dunn impatiently. “Go on, Martin; don't mind
him.”

“A draper's clerk!” echoed “Lily.” “To sell tapes and things?”

“Yes,” replied Martin stoutly; “or groceries.”

“Do you by any chance mean that a University man, a gentleman, takes a
position in a grocer's shop to sell butter and cheese?”

“I mean just that,” said Martin firmly.

“Oh, please!” said “Lily” with a violent shudder. “It is too awful!”

“There you are! You wouldn't demean yourself.”

“Not I!” said “Lily” fervently.

“Or disgrace your friends. You want a gentleman's job. There are not
enough to go round in Canada.”

“Oh, go on,” said Miss Brodie impatiently. “'Lily,' we must ask you to
not interrupt. What happens? Does he stay there?”

“Not he!” said Martin. “From the small business he goes to bigger
business. First thing you know a man wants him for a big job and off he
goes. Meantime he saves his money, invests wisely. Soon he is his own
boss.”

“That's fine!” cried Miss Brodie. “Go on, Mr. Martin. Start him lower
down.”

“All right,” said Martin, directing his attention solely to the young
lady. “Here's an actual case. A young fellow from Scotland found himself
strapped--”

“Strapped? What DOES he mean?” said “Lily” in an appealing voice.

“On the rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“Dear me!” cried Miss Brodie impatiently. “You are terribly lacking in
imagination. Broke, he means.”

“Oh, thanks!”

“Well, finds himself broke,” said Martin; “gets a shovel, jumps into a
cellar--”

“And why a cellar, pray?” inquires “Lily” mildly. “To hide himself from
the public?”

“Not at all; they were digging a cellar preparatory to building a
house.”

“Oh!”

“He jumps in, blisters his hands, breaks his back--but he stays with the
job. In a week the boss makes him timekeeper; in three months he himself
is boss of a small gang; the next year he is made foreman at a hundred a
month or so.”

“A hundred a month?” cries “Lily” in astonishment. “Oh, Martin, please!
We are green, but a hundred pounds a month--!”

“Dollars,” said Martin shortly. “Don't be an ass! I beg pardon,” he
added, turning to Mrs. Dunn, who was meantime greatly amused.

“A hundred dollars a month; that is--I am so weak in arithmetic--twenty
pounds, I understand. Go on, Martin; I'm waiting for the carriage and
pair.”

“That's where you get left,” said Martin. “No carriage and pair for this
chap yet awhile; overalls and slouch hat for the next five years for
him. Then he begins contracting on his own.”

“I beg your pardon,” says “Lily.”

“I mean he begins taking jobs on his own.”

“Great!” cried Miss Brodie.

“Or,” continued Martin, now fairly started on a favourite theme, “there
are the railroads all shouting for men of experience, whether in the
construction department or in the operating department.”

“Does anyone here happen to understand him?” inquires “Lily” faintly.

“Certainly,” cried Miss Brodie; “all the intelligent people do. At
least, I've a kind of notion there are big things doing. I only wish I
were a man!”

“Oh, Miss Brodie, how can you?” cried “Lily.” “Think of us in such a
contingency!”

“But,” said Mr. Rae, “all of this is most interesting, extremely
interesting, Mr. Martin. Still, they cannot all arrive at these exalted
positions.”

“No, Mr. Rae. I may have given that impression. I confess to a little
madness when I begin talking Canada.”

“Ah!” exclaimed “Lily.”

“But I said men of brawn and brains, you remember.”

“And bounce, to perfect the alliteration,” murmured “Lily.”

“Yes, bounce, too,” said Martin; “at least, he must never take
back-water; he must be ready to attempt anything, even the impossible.”

“That's the splendid thing about it!” cried Miss Brodie. “You're
entirely on your own and you never say die!”

“Oh, my dear Miss Brodie,” moaned “Lily” in piteous accents, “you are so
fearfully energetic! And then, it's all very splendid, but just think
of a--of a gentleman having to potter around among butter and cheese,
or mess about in muddy cellars! Ugh! Positively GHAWSTLY! I would simply
die.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn't, 'Lily,'” said Martin kindly. “We have afternoon
teas and Browning Clubs, too, you must remember, and some 'cultchaw' and
that sort of thing.”

There was a joyous shout from Dunn.

“But, Mr. Martin,” persisted Mr. Rae, whose mind was set in arriving at
a solution of the problem in hand, “I have understood that agriculture
was the chief pursuit in Canada.”

“Farming! Yes, it is, but of course that means capital. Good land in
Ontario means seventy-five to a hundred dollars per acre, and a man
can't do with less than a hundred acres; besides, farming is getting to
be a science now-a-days, Sir.”

“Ah, quite true! But to a young man bred on a farm in this country--”

“Excuse me, Mr. Rae,” replied Martin quickly, “there is no such thing in
Canada as a gentleman farmer. The farmer works with his men.”

“Do you mean that he actually works?” inquired “Lily.” “With the plough
and hoe, and that sort of thing?”

“Works all day long, as long as any of his men, and indeed longer.”

“And does he actually live--? of course he doesn't eat with his
servants?” said “Lily” in a tone that deprecated the preposterous
proposition.

“They all eat together in the big kitchen,” replied Martin.

“How awful!” gasped “Lily.”

“My father does,” replied Martin, a little colour rising in his cheek,
“and my mother, and my brothers. They all eat with the men; my sister,
too, except when she waits on table.”

“Fine!” exclaimed Miss Brodie. “And why not? 'Lily,' I'm afraid you're
horribly snobbish.”

“Thank the Lord,” said “Lily” devoutly, “I live in this beloved
Scotland!”

“But, Mr. Martin, forgive my persistence, I understand there is cheaper
land in certain parts of Canada; in, say, ManitoBAW.”

“Ah, yes, Sir, of course, lots of it; square miles of it!” cried Martin
with enthusiasm. “The very best out of doors, and cheap, but I fancy
there are some hardships in Manitoba.”

“But I see by the public newspapers,” continued Mr. Rae, “that there is
a very large movement in the way of emigration toward that country.”

“Yes, there's a great boom on in Manitoba just now.”

“Boom?” said “Lily.” “And what exactly may that be in the vernacular?”

“I take it,” said Mr. Rae, evidently determined not to allow the
conversation to get out of his hands, “you mean a great excitement
consequent upon the emigration and the natural rise in land values?”

“Yes, Sir,” cried Martin, “you've hit it exactly.”

“Then would there not be opportunity to secure a considerable amount of
land at a low figure in that country?”

“Most certainly! But it's fair to say that success there means work and
hardship and privation. Of course it is always so in a new country; it
was so in Ontario. Why, the new settlers in Manitoba don't know what
hardships mean in comparison with those that faced the early settlers in
Ontario. My father, when a little boy of ten years, went with his father
into the solid forest; you don't know what that means in this country,
and no one can who has not seen a solid mass of green reaching from the
ground a hundred feet high without a break in it except where the trail
enters. Into that solid forest in single file went my grandfather,
his two little boys, and one ox carrying a bag of flour, some pork and
stuff. By a mark on a tree they found the corner of their farm.” Martin
paused.

“Do go on,” said Miss Brodie. “Tell me the very first thing he did.”

But Martin seemed to hesitate. “Well,” he began slowly, “I've often
heard my father tell it. When they came to that tree with the mark on
it, grandfather said, 'Boys, we have reached our home. Let us thank
God.' He went up to a big spruce tree, drove his ax in to the butt, then
kneeled down with the two little boys beside him, and I have heard my
father say that when he looked away up between the big trees and saw the
bit of blue sky there, he thought God was listening at that blue hole
between the tree-tops.” Martin paused abruptly, and for a few moments
silence held the group. Then Doctor Dunn, clearing his throat, said with
quiet emphasis:

“And he was right, my boy; make no doubt of that.”

“Then?” inquired Miss Brodie softly. “If you don't mind.”

Martin laughed. “Then they had grub, and that afternoon grandfather cut
the trees and the boys limbed them off, clearing the ground where the
first house stood. That night they slept in a little brush hut that did
them for a house until grandmother came two weeks later.”

“What?” said Doctor Dunn. “Your grandmother went into the forest?”

“Yes, Sir,” said Martin; “and two miles of solid black bush stretched
between her and the next woman.”

“Why, of course, my dear,” said Mrs. Dunn, taking part for the first
time in the conversation. “What else?”

They all laughed.

“Of course, Mother,” said her eldest son, “that's what you would do.”

“So would I, Mamma, wouldn't I?” whispered Rob, leaning towards her.

“Certainly, my dear,” replied his mother; “I haven't the slightest
doubt.”

“And so would any woman worth her salt if she loved her husband,” cried
Miss Brodie with great emphasis.

“Why, why,” cried Doctor Dunn, “it's the same old breed, Mother.”

“But in Manitoba--?” began Mr. Rae, still clinging to the subject.

“Oh, in Manitoba there is no forest to cut. However, there are other
difficulties. Still, hundreds are crowding in, and any man who has the
courage and the nerve to stay with it can get on.”

“And what did they do for schools?” said Mrs. Dunn, returning to the
theme that had so greatly interested her.

“There were no schools until father was too big to be spared to go
except for a few weeks in the winter.”

“How big do you mean?”

“Say fifteen.”

“Fifteen!” exclaimed Miss Brodie. “A mere infant!”

“Infant!” said Martin. “Not much! At fifteen my father was doing a man's
full work in the bush and on the farm, and when he grew to be a man he
cleared most of his own land, too. Why, when I was eleven I drove my
team all day on the farm.”

“And how did you get your education, Mr. Martin?”

“Oh, they kept me at school pretty steadily, except in harvest and hay
time, until I was fourteen, and after that in the winter months. When I
was sixteen I got a teacher's certificate, and then it was easy enough.”

“And did you put yourself through college?” inquired Mr. Rae, both
interest and admiration in his voice, for now they were on ground
familiar in his own experience.

“Why, yes, mostly. Father helped, I suspect more than he ought to, but
he was anxious for me to get through.”

“Rob,” cried Miss Brodie suddenly, “let's go! What do you say? We'll get
a big bit of that land in the West, and won't it be splendid to build up
our own estate and all that?”

Rob glanced from her into his mother's face. “I'd like it fine, Mamma,”
 he said in a low voice, slipping his hand into hers.

“But what about me, Rob?” said his mother, smiling tenderly down into
the eager face.

“Oh, I'd come back for you, Mamma.”

“Hold on there, youngster,” said his elder brother, “there are others
that might have something to say about that. But I say, Martin,”
 continued Dunn, “we hear a lot about the big ranches further West.”

“Yes, in Alberta, but I confess I don't know much about them. The
railways are just building and people are beginning to go in. But
ranching needs capital, too. It must be a great life! They practically
live in the saddle. It's a glorious country!”

“On the whole, then,” said Mr. Rae, as if summing up the discussion, “a
young man has better opportunities of making his fortune, so to speak,
in the far West rather than in, say, Ontario.”

“I didn't speak of fortune, Mr. Rae,--fortune is a chance thing, more or
less,--but what I say is this, that any young man not afraid of work,
of any kind of work, and willing to stay with his job, can make a living
and get a home in any part of Canada, with a bigger chance of fortune in
the West.”

“All I say, Mr. Rae, is this,” said Miss Brodie emphatically, “that I
only wish I were a man with just such a chance as young Cameron!”

“Ah, my dear young lady, if all the young men were possessed of your
spirit, it would matter little where they went, for they would achieve
distinct success.” As he spoke Mr. Rae's smile burst forth in all its
effulgent glory.

“Dear Mr. Rae, how very clever of you to discover that!” replied Miss
Brodie, smiling sweetly into Mr. Rae's radiant face. “And how very sweet
of you--ah, I beg your pardon; that is--” The disconcerting rapidity
with which Mr. Rae's smile gave place to an appearance of grave, of even
severe solemnity, threw Miss Brodie quite “out of her stride,” as
Martin said afterward, and left her floundering in a hopeless attempt to
complete her compliment.

Her confusion was the occasion of unlimited joy to “Lily,” who was not
unfamiliar with this facial phenomenon on the part of Mr. Rae. “Oh, I
say!” he cried to Dunn in a gale of smothered laughter, “how does the
dear man do it? It is really too lovely! I must learn the trick of that.
I have never seen anything quite so appallingly flabbergasting.”

Meantime Mr. Rae was blandly assisting Miss Brodie out of her dilemma.
“Not at all, Miss Brodie, not at all! But,” he continued, throwing
his smile about the room, “I think, Doctor Dunn, we have reason to
congratulate ourselves upon not only a pleasant but an extremely
profitable evening--ah--as far as the matter in hand is concerned. I
hope to have further speech with our young friend,” bowing to Mr. Martin
and bringing his smile to bear upon that young gentleman.

“Oh, certainly,” began Martin with ready geniality, “whenever you--eh?
What did you say, Sir? I didn't quite--”

But Mr. Rae was already bidding Mrs. Dunn goodnight, with a face of
preternatural gravity.

“What the deuce!” said Martin, turning to his friend Dunn. “Does the old
boy often go off at half-cock that way? He'll hurt himself some time,
sure.”

“Isn't it awful?” said Dunn. “He's got me a few times that way, too. But
I say, old boy, we're awfully grateful to you for coming.”

“I feel like a fool,” said Martin; “as if I'd been delivering a
lecture.”

“Don't think it,” cried Miss Brodie, who had drawn near. “You've been
perfectly lovely, and I am so glad to have got to know you better. For
me, I am quite resolved to go to Canada.”

“But do you think they can really spare us all, Miss Brodie?” exclaimed
“Lily” in an anxious voice. “For, of course, if you go we must.”

“No, 'Lily,' I'm quite sure they can't spare you. Just think, what could
the Browning-Wagner circle do? Besides, what could we do with you when
we were all working, for I can quite see that there is no use going to
Canada unless you mean to work?”

“You've got it, Miss Brodie,” said Martin. “My lecture is not in vain.
There is no use going to Canada unless you mean to work and to stay with
the job till the cows come home.”

“Till the cows come--?” gasped “Lily.”

“Oh, never mind him, Mr. Martin! Come, 'Lily' dear, I'll explain it to
you on the way home. Good-night, Mr. Dunn; we've had a jolly evening.
And as for our friend Cameron, I've ceased to pity him; on the contrary,
I envy him his luck.”



CHAPTER VII

FAREWELL TO CUAGH OIR


Once more the golden light of a sunny spring day was shining on the
sapphire loch at the bottom, and overflowing at the rim of the Cuagh
Oir. But for all its flowing gold, there was grief in the Glen--grief
deep and silent, like the quiet waters of the little loch. It was seen
in the grave faces of the men who gathered at the “smiddy.” It was heard
in the cadence of the voices of the women as they gathered to “kalie”
 (Ceilidh) in the little cottages that fringed the loch's side, or dotted
the heather-clad slopes. It even checked the boisterous play of the
bairns as they came in from school. It lay like a cloud on the Cuagh,
and heavy on the hearts that made up the little hill-girt community of
one hundred souls, or more.

And the grief was this, that on the “morrow's morn” Mary Robertson's son
was departing from the Glen “neffer to return for effermore,” as Donald
of the House farm put it, with a face gloomy as the loch on a dark
winter's day.

“A leaving” was ever an occasion of wailing to the Glen, and many a
leaving had the Glen known during the last fifty years. For wherever
the tartan waved, and the bonnie feathers danced for the glory of the
Empire, sons of the Glen were ever to be found; but not for fifty years
had the heart of the Glen known the luxury of a single rallying centre
for their pride and their love till the “young chentleman,” young Mr.
Allan, began to go in and out among them. And as he grew into manhood so
grew their pride in him. And as, from time to time, at the Great Games
he began to win glory for the Glen with his feats of skill and strength,
and upon the pipes, and in the dances, their pride in him grew until
it passed all limits. Had he not, the very year before he went to the
college, cut the comb of the “Cock of the North” from Glen Urquhart,
in running and jumping; and the very same year had he not wrested
from Callum Bheg, the pride of Athole, the coveted badge of Special
Distinction in Highland Dancing? Then later, when the schoolmaster would
read from the Inverness Courier to one group after another at the post
office and at the “smiddy” (it was only fear of the elder MacPherson,
that kept the master from reading it aloud at the kirk door before the
service) accounts of the “remarkable playing” of Cameron, the brilliant
young “half-back” of the Academy in Edinburgh, the Glen settled down
into an assured conviction that it had reached the pinnacle of vicarious
glory, and that in all Scotland there was none to compare with their
young “chieftain” as, quite ignoring the Captain, they loved to call
him.

And there was more than pride in him, for on his holidays he came back
to the Glen unspoiled by all his honours and achievements, and went
about among them “jist like ain o' their ain sels,” accepting their
homage as his right, but giving them in return, according to their
various stations, due respect and honour, and their love grew greater
than their pride.

But the “morrow's morn” he was leaving the Glen, and, worse than all, no
one knew for why. A mystery hung over the cause of his going, a mystery
deepened by his own bearing during the past twelve months, for all these
months a heavy gloom had shrouded him, and from all that had once been
his delight and their glory he had withdrawn. The challenge, indeed,
from the men of Glen Urquhart which he had accepted long ago, he refused
not, but even the overwhelming defeat which he had administered to his
haughty challengers, had apparently brought him no more than a passing
gleam of joy. The gloom remained unlifted and the cause the Glen knew
not, and no man of them would seek to know. Hence the grief of the
Glen was no common grief when the son of Mary Robertson, the son of the
House, the pride of the Glen, and the comrade and friend of them all,
was about to depart and never to return.

His last day in the Glen Allan spent making his painful way through
the cottages, leaving his farewell, and with each some slight gift of
remembrance. It was for him, indeed, a pilgrimage of woe. It was not
only that his heart roots were in the Glen and knit round every stick
and stone of it; it was not that he felt he was leaving behind him a
love and loyalty as deep and lasting as life itself. It was that in
tearing himself from them he could make no response to the dumb appeal
in the eyes that followed him with adoration and fidelity: “Wherefore
do you leave us at all?” and “Why do you make no promise of return?” To
that dumb appeal there was no answer possible from one who carried on
his heart for himself, and on his life for some few others, and among
these his own father, the terrible brand of the criminal. It was this
grim fact that stained black the whole landscape of his consciousness,
and that hung like a pall of death over every living and delightsome
thing in the garden of his soul. While none could, without challenge,
condemn him, yet his own tongue refused to proclaim his innocence.
Every face he loved drove deeper into his heart his pain. The deathless
loyalty and unbounded pride of the Glen folk rebuked him, without their
knowing, for the dishonour he had done them. The Glen itself, the hills,
the purpling heather, the gleaming loch, how dear to him he had never
known till now, threw in his face a sad and silent reproach. Small
wonder that the Glen, that Scotland had become intolerable to him. With
this bitter burden on his heart it was that young Mr. Allan went his way
through the Glen making his farewells, not daring to indulge the luxury
of his grief, and with never a word of return.

His sister, who knew all, and who would have carried--oh! how
gladly!--on her own heart, and for all her life long, that bitter
burden, pleaded to be allowed to go with him on what she knew full well
was a journey of sorrow and sore pain, but this he would not permit.
This sorrow and pain which were his own, he would share with no one,
and least of all with her upon whose life he had already cast so dark
a shadow. Hence she was at the house alone, her father not having yet
returned from an important meeting at a neighbouring village, when a
young man came to the door asking for young Mr. Cameron.

“Who is it, Kirsty?” she inquired anxiously, a new fear at her heart for
her brother.

“I know not, but he has neffer been in this Glen before whateffer,”
 replied Kirsty, with an ominous shake of the head, her primitive
instincts leading her to view the stranger with suspicion. “But!” she
added, with a glance at her young mistress' face, “he iss no man to be
afraid of, at any rate. He is just a laddie.”

“Oh, he is a YOUNG man, Kirsty?” replied her mistress, glancing at her
blue serge gown, her second best, and with her hands striving to tuck in
some of her wayward curls.

“Och, yess, and not much at that!” replied Kirsty, with the idea of
relieving her young mistress of unnecessary fears.

Then Moira, putting on her grand air, stepped into the parlour, and saw
standing there and awaiting her, a young man with a thin and somewhat
hard face, a firm mouth, and extraordinarily keen, grey eyes. Upon her
appearing the young man stood looking upon her without a word. As a
matter of fact, he was struggling with a problem; a problem that was
quite bewildering; the problem, namely, “How could hair ever manage
to get itself into such an arrangement of waves and curls, and golden
gleams and twinkles?” Struggling with this problem, he became conscious
of her voice gravely questioning him. “You were wishing to see my
brother?” The young man came back part way, and replied, “Oh! how does
it--? That is--. I beg your pardon.” The surprise in her face brought
him quite to the ground, and he came at once to his business. “I am Mr.
Martin,” he said in a quick, sharp voice. “I know your brother and Mr.
Dunn.” He noted a light dawn in her eyes. “In fact, I played with them
on the same team--at football, you know.”

“Oh!” cried the girl, relief and welcome in her voice, “I know you,
Mr. Martin, quite well. I know all about you, and what a splendid
quarter-back you are.” Here she gave him both her hands, which Mr.
Martin took in a kind of dream, once more plunged into the mazes of
another and more perplexing problem, viz., Was it her lips with that
delicious curve to them? or her eyes so sunny and brown (or were they
brown?) with that alluring, bewitching twinkle? or was it both lips and
eyes that gave to the smile with which she welcomed him its subtle power
to make his heart rise and choke him as it never had been known to do in
the most strenuous of his matches? “I'm awfully glad,” he heard himself
say, and her voice replying, “Oh, yes! Allan has often and often spoken
of you, Mr. Martin.” Mr. Martin immediately became conscious of a
profound and grateful affection to Allan, still struggling, however,
with the problem which had been complicated still further by the charm
of her soft, Highland voice. He was on the point of deciding in favour
of her voice, when on her face he noted a swift change from glad welcome
to suspicion and fear, and then into her sunny eyes a sudden leaping of
fierce wrath, as in those of a lioness defending her young.

“Why do you look so?” she cried in a voice sharp and imperious. “Is it
my brother--? Is anything wrong?”

The shock of the change in eyes and voice brought Martin quite to
himself.

“Wrong? Not a bit,” he hastened to say, “but just the finest thing in
the world. It is all here in this letter. Dunn could not come himself,
and there was no one else, and he thought Cameron ought to have it
to-day, so here I am, and here is the letter. Where is he?”

“Oh!” cried the girl, clasping her hands upon her heart, her voice
growing soft, and her eyes dim with a sudden mist. “I am so thankful!
I am so glad!” The change in her voice and in her eyes so affected Mr.
Martin that he put his hands resolutely behind his back lest they should
play him tricks, and should, without his will, get themselves round her
and draw her close to his heart.

“So am I,” he said, “awfully glad! Never was so glad in all my life!” He
was more conscious than ever of bewilderment and perplexity in the midst
of increasing problems that complicated themselves with mist brown eyes,
trembling lips, and a voice of such pathetic cadences as aroused in
him an almost uncontrollable desire to exercise his utmost powers of
comfort. And all the while there was growing in his heart a desperate
anxiety as to what would be the final issue of these bewildering desires
and perplexities; when at the extremity of his self-control he was saved
by the girl's suggestion.

“Let us go and find my brother.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Martin, “for heaven's sake let us.”

“Wait until I get my hat.”

“Oh! I wouldn't put on a hat,” cried he in dismay.

“Why?” enquired the girl, looking at him with surprised curiosity.

“Oh! because--because you don't need one; it's so beautiful and sunny,
you know.” In spite of what he could do Mr. Martin's eyes kept wandering
to her hair.

“Oh, well!” cried Moira, in increasing surprise at this strange young
man, “the sun won't hurt me, so come, let us go.”

Together they went down the avenue of rugged firs. At the highway
she paused. Before them lay the Glen in all the splendid sweep of its
beauty.

“Isn't it lovely!” she breathed.

“Lovely!” echoed Martin, his eyes not on the Glen. “It is so sunny, you
know.”

“Yes,” she answered quickly, “you notice that?”

“How could I help it?” said Martin, his eyes still resting upon her.
“How could I?”

“Of course,” she replied, “and so we call it the Glen Cuagh Oir, that
is the 'Glen of the Cup of Gold.' And to think he has to leave it all
to-morrow!” she added.

The pathetic cadences in her voice again drove Martin to despair. He
recovered himself, however, to say, “But he is going to Canada!”

“Yes, to Canada. And we all feel it so dreadfully for him, and,” she
added in a lower voice, “for ourselves.”

Had it been yesterday Martin would have been ready with scorn for any
such feeling, and with congratulations to Cameron upon his exceptionally
good luck in the expectation of going to Canada; but to-day, somehow it
was different. He found the splendid lure of his native land availed not
to break the spell of the Glen, and as he followed the girl in and out
of the little cottages, seeking her brother, and as he noted the perfect
courtesy and respect which marked her manner with the people, and their
unstudied and respectful devotion to their “tear young leddy,” this
spell deepened upon him. Unconsciously and dimly he became aware of a
mysterious and mighty power somehow and somewhere in the Glen straining
at the heart-strings of its children. Of the nature and origin of this
mysterious and mighty power, the young Canadian knew little. His
country was of too recent an origin for mystery, and its people too
heterogeneous in their ethnic characteristics to furnish a soil for
tribal instincts and passions. The passionate loves and hatreds of the
clans, their pride of race, their deathless lealty; and more than all,
and better than all, their religious instincts, faiths and prejudices;
these, with the mystic, wild loveliness of heather-clad hill and
rock-rimmed loch, of roaring torrent and jagged crags, of lonely muir
and sunny pasture nuiks; all these, and ten thousand nameless and
unnamable things united in the weaving of the spell of the Glen upon the
hearts of its people. Of how it all came to be, Martin knew nothing,
but like an atmosphere it stole in upon him, and he came to vaguely
understand something of what it meant to be a Highlander, and to bid
farewell to the land into whose grim soil his life roots had struck
deep, and to tear himself from hearts whose life stream and his had
flowed as one for a score of generations. So from cot to cot Martin
followed and observed, until they came to the crossing where the broad
path led up from the highroad to the kirkyard and the kirk. Here they
were halted by a young man somewhat older than Martin. Tall and gaunt
he stood. His face, pale and pock-marked and lit by light blue eyes, and
crowned by brilliant red hair, was, with all its unloveliness, a face of
a certain rugged beauty; while his manner and bearing showed the native
courtesy of a Highland gentleman.

“You are seeking Mr. Allan?” he said, taking off his bonnet to the girl.
“He is in yonder,” waving his hand towards the kirkyard.

“In yonder? You are sure, Mr. Maclise?” She might well ask, for never
but on Sabbath days, since the day they had laid his mother away under
the birch trees, had Allan put foot inside the kirkyard.

“Half an hour ago he went in,” replied the young Highlander, “and he has
not returned.”

“I will go in, then,” said the girl, and hesitated, unwilling that a
stranger's eyes should witness what she knew was waiting her there.

“You, Sir, will perhaps abide with me,” suggested Mr. Maclise to Martin,
with a quick understanding of her hesitation.

“Oh, thank you,” cried Moira. “This is Mr. Martin from Canada, Mr.
Maclise--my brother's great friend. Mr. Maclise is our schoolmaster
here,” she added, turning to Martin, “and we are very proud of him.”
 The Highlander's pale face became the colour of his brilliant hair as he
remarked, “You are very good indeed, Miss Cameron, and I am glad to make
the acquaintance of Mr. Martin. It will give me great pleasure to show
Mr. Martin the little falls at the loch's end, if he cares to step that
far.” If Mr. Martin was conscious of any great desire to view the little
falls at the loch's end, his face most successfully dissembled any such
feeling, but to the little falls he must go as the schoolmaster quietly
possessed himself of him and led him away, while Miss Cameron, with
never a thought of either of them, passed up the broad path into the
kirkyard. There, at the tower's foot, she came upon her brother, prone
upon the little grassy mound, with arms outspread, as if to hold it in
embrace. At the sound of his sister's tread upon the gravel, he raised
himself to his knees swiftly, and with a fierce gesture, as if resenting
intrusion.

“Oh, it is you, Moira,” he said quietly, sinking down upon the grass. At
the sight of his tear-stained, haggard face, the girl ran to him with
a cry, and throwing herself down beside him put her arms about him with
inarticulate sounds of pity. At length her brother raised himself from
the ground.

“Oh, it is terrible to leave it all,” he groaned; “yet I am glad to
leave, for it is more terrible to stay; the very Glen I cannot look at;
and the people, I cannot bear their eyes. Oh,” he groaned, wringing his
hands, “if she were here she would understand, but there is nobody.”

“Oh, Allan,” cried his sister in reproach.

“Oh, yes, I know! I know! You believe in me, Moira, but you are just a
lassie, and you cannot understand.”

“Yes, you know well I believe in you, Allan, and others, too, believe in
you. There is Mr. Dunn, and--”

“Oh, I don't know,” said her brother bitterly, “he wants to believe it.”

“Yes, and there is Mr. Martin,” she continued, “and--Oh, I forgot! here
is a letter Mr. Martin brought you.”

“Martin?”

“Yes, your Martin, a strange little man; your quarter-back, you know. He
brought this, and he says it is good news.” But already Allan was into
his letter. As he read his face grew white, his hand began to shake, his
eyes to stare as if they would devour the very paper. The second time he
read the letter his whole body trembled, and his breath came in gasps,
as if he were in a physical struggle. Then lifting arms and voice
towards the sky, he cried in a long, low wail, “Oh God, it is good, it
is good!”

With that he laid himself down prone upon the mound again, his face in
the grass, sobbing brokenly, “Oh, mother, mother dear, I have got you
once more; I have got you once more!”

His sister stood, her hands clasped upon her heart--a manner she
had--her tears, unnoted, flowing down her cheeks, waiting till her
brother should let her into his joy, as she had waited for entrance into
his grief. His griefs and his joys were hers, and though he still
held her a mere child, it was with a woman's self-forgetting love she
ministered to him, gladly accepting whatever confidence he would give,
but content to wait until he should give more. So she stood waiting,
with her tears flowing quietly, and her face alight with wonder and joy
for him. But as her brother's sobbing continued, this terrible display
of emotion amazed her, startled her, for since their mother's death none
of them had seen Allan weep. At length he raised himself from the ground
and stood beside her.

“Oh, Moira, lassie, I never knew how terrible it was till now. I had
lost everything, my friends, you, and,” he added in a low voice, “my
mother. This cursed thing shut me out from all; it got between me and
all I ever loved. I have not for these months been able to see her face
clear, but do you know, Moira,” here his voice fell and the mystic light
grew in his eyes, “I saw her again just now as clear as clear, and
I know I have got her again; and you, too, Moira, darling,” here he
gathered his sister to him, “and the people! and the Glen! Oh! is it not
terrible what a crime can do? How it separates you from your folk, and
from all the world, for, mind you, I have felt myself a criminal; but I
am not! I am not!” His voice rose into an exultant shout, “I am clear of
it, I am a man again! Oh, it is good! it is good! Here, read the letter,
it will prove to you.”

“Oh, what does it matter at all, Allan,” she cried, still clinging to
him, “as if it made any difference to me. I always knew it.”

Her brother lifted her face from his breast and looked into her eyes.
“Do you tell me you don't want to know the proof of it?” he asked in
wonder. “No,” she said simply. “Why should I need any proof? I always
knew it.”

For a moment longer he gazed upon her, then said, “Moira, you are a
wonder, lassie. No, you are a lassie no longer, you are a woman, and, do
you know, you are like mother to me now, and I never saw it.”

She smiled up at him through her tears. “I should like to be,” she said
softly. Then, because she was truly Scotch, she added, “for your sake,
for I love you terribly much; and I am going to lose you.”

A quiver passed through her frame, and her arms gripped him tight. In
the self-absorption in his grief and pain he had not thought of hers,
nor considered how with his going her whole life would be changed.

“I have been a selfish brute,” he muttered. “I have only thought of my
own suffering; but, listen Moira, it is all past; thank God, it is
all past. This letter from Mr. Rae holds a confession from Potts (poor
Potts! I am glad that Rae let him off): it was Potts who committed the
forgery. Now I feel myself clean again; you can't know what that is; to
be yourself again, and to be able to look all men in the face without
fear or shame. Come, we must go; I must see them all again. Let us to
the burn first, and put my face right.”

A moment he stood looking down upon his mother's grave. The hideous
thing that had put her far from him, and that had blurred the clear
vision of her face, was gone. A smile soft and tender as a child's stole
over his face, and with that smile he turned away. As they were
coming back from the burn, Martin and the schoolmaster saw them in the
distance.

“Bless me, man, will you look at him?” said the master in an awestruck
tone, clutching Martin's arm. “What ever is come to him?”

“What's up,” cried Martin. “By Jove! you're right! the Roderick Dhu and
Black Douglas business is gone, sure!”

“God bless my soul!” said Maclise in an undertone. “He is himself once
more.”

He might well exclaim, for it was a new Allan that came striding up
the high road, with head lifted, and with the proud swing of a Highland
chieftain.

“Hello, old man!” he shouted, catching sight of Martin and running
towards him with hands outstretched, “You are welcome”--he grasped
his hands and held them fast--“you are welcome to this Glen, and to me
welcome as Heaven to a Hell-bound soul.”

“Maclise,” he cried, turning to the master, “this letter,” waving it in
his hand, “is like a reprieve to a man on the scaffold.” Maclise stood
gazing in amazement at him.

“They accused me of crime!”

“Of crime, Mr. Allan?” Maclise stiffened in haughty surprise.

“Yes, of base crime!”

“But this letter completely clears him,” cried Martin eagerly.

Maclise turned upon him with swift scorn, “There was no need, for anyone
in this Glen whatever.” The Highlander's face was pale, and in his light
blue eyes gleamed a fierce light.

Martin flashed a look upon the girl standing so proudly erect beside
her brother, and reflecting in her face and eyes the sentiments of the
schoolmaster.

“By Jove! I believe you,” cried Martin with conviction, “it is not
needed here, but--but there are others, you know.”

“Others?” said the Highlander with fine scorn, “and what difference?”

The Glen folk needed no clearing of their chief, and the rest of the
world mattered not.

“But there was myself,” said Allan. “Now it is gone, Maclise, and I can
give my hand once more without fear or shame.”

Maclise took the offered hand almost with reverence, and, removing his
bonnet from his head, said in a voice, deep and vibrating with emotion,

“Neffer will a man of the Glen count it anything but honour to take
thiss hand.”

“Thank you, Maclise,” cried Allan, keeping his grip of the master's
hand. “Now you can tell the Glen.”

“You will not be going to leave us now?” said Maclise eagerly.

“Yes, I shall go, Maclise, but,” with a proud lift of his head, “tell
them I am coming back again.”

And with that message Maclise went to the Glen. From cot to cot and from
lip to lip the message sped, that Mr. Allan was himself again, and that,
though on the morrow's morn he was leaving the Glen, he himself had
promised that he would return.

That evening, as the gloaming deepened, the people of the Glen gathered,
as was their wont, at their cottage doors to listen to old piper
Macpherson as he marched up and down the highroad. This night, it was
observed, he no longer played that most heart-breaking of all
Scottish laments, “Lochaber No More.” He had passed up to the no less
heart-thrilling, but less heartbreaking, “Macrimmon's Lament.” In a
pause in Macpherson's wailing notes there floated down over the Glen the
sound of the pipes up at the big House.

“Bless my soul! whisht, man!” cried Betsy Macpherson to her spouse.
“Listen yonder!” For the first time in months they heard the sound of
Allan's pipes.

“It is himself,” whispered the women to each other, and waited. Down the
long avenue of ragged firs, and down the highroad, came young Mr. Allan,
in all the gallant splendour of his piper's garb, and the tune he played
was no lament, but the blood-stirring “Gathering of the Gordons.” As
he came opposite to Macpherson's cottage he gave the signal for the old
piper, and down the highroad stepped the two of them together, till they
passed beyond the farthest cottage. Then back again they swung, and this
time it was to the “Cock of the North,” that their tartans swayed and
their bonnets nodded. Thus, not with woe and lamentation, but with good
hope and gallant cheer, young Mr. Allan took his leave of the Glen Cuagh
Oir.



CHAPTER VIII

WILL HE COME BACK?


It was the custom in Doctor Dunn's household that, immediately after
dinner, his youngest son would spend half an hour in the study with his
father. It was a time for confidences. During this half hour father and
son met as nearly as possible on equal terms, discussing, as friends
might, the events of the day or the plans for the morrow, school work
or athletics, the latest book or the newest joke; and sometimes the talk
turned upon the reading at evening prayers. This night the story had
been one of rare beauty and of absorbing interest, the story, viz., of
that idyllic scene on the shore of Tiberias where the erring disciple
was fully restored to his place in the ranks of the faithful, as he had
been restored, some weeks before, to his place in the confidence of his
Master.

“That was a fine story, Rob?” began Doctor Dunn.

“That it was,” said Rob gravely. “It was fine for Peter to get back
again.”

“Just so,” replied his father. “You see, when a man once turns his back
on his best Friend, he is never right till he gets back again.”

“Yes, I know,” said Rob gravely. For a time he sat with a shadow of
sadness and anxiety on his young face. “It is terrible!” he exclaimed.

“Terrible?” inquired the Doctor. “Oh, yes, you mean Peter's fall? Yes,
that was a terrible thing--to be untrue to our Master and faithless to
our best Friend.”

“But he did not mean to, Dad,” said Rob quickly, as if springing to
the fallen disciple's defence. “He forgot, just for a moment, and was
awfully sorry afterwards.”

“Yes, truly,” said his father, “and that was the first step back.”

For a few moments Rob remained silent, his face sad and troubled.

“Man! It must be terrible!” at length he said, more to himself than
to his father. The Doctor looked closely at the little lad. The eager,
sensitive face, usually so radiant, was now clouded and sad.

“What is it, Rob? Is it something you can tell me?” asked his father in
a tone of friendly kindness.

Rob moved closer to him. The father waited in silence. He knew better
than to force an unwilling confidence. At length the lad, with an
obvious effort at self-command, said:

“It is to-morrow, Daddy, that Cameron--that Mr. Cameron is going away.”

“To-morrow? So it is. And you will be very sorry, Rob. But, of course,
he will come back.”

“Oh, Dad,” cried Rob, coming quite close to his father, “it isn't that!
It isn't that!”

His father waited. He did not understand his boy's trouble, and so he
wisely refrained from uttering word that might hinder rather than help.
At length, with a sudden effort, Rob asked in a low, hurried voice:

“Do you think, Dad, he has--got--back?”

“Got back?” said his father. “Oh, I see. Why, my boy? What do you know
of it? Did you know there was a letter from a man named Potts, that
completely clears your friend of all crime?”

“Is there?” asked the boy quickly. “Man! That is fine! But I always knew
he could not do anything really bad--I mean, anything that the police
could touch him for. But it is not that, Dad. I have heard Jack say he
used to be different when he came down first, and now sometimes he--”
 The lad's voice fell silent. He could not bring himself to accuse his
hero of any evil. His father drew him close to his side.

“You mean that he has fallen into bad ways--drink, and things like
that?”

The boy hung his head; he was keenly ashamed for his friend. After a few
moments' silence he said:

“And he is going away to Canada to-morrow, and I wonder, Dad, if he
has--got--back? It would be terrible--Oh, Dad, all alone and away
from--!”

The boy's voice sank to a whisper, and a rush of tears filled his eyes.

“I see what you mean, my boy. You mean it would be terrible for him to
be in that far land, and away from that Friend we know and love best.”

The lad looked at his father through his tears, and nodded his head, and
for some moments there was silence between them. If the truth must be
told, Doctor Dunn felt himself keenly rebuked by his little son's words.
Amid the multitude of his responsibilities, the responsibility for his
sons' best friend he had hardly realised.

“I am glad that you spoke of it, Rob; I am glad that you spoke of it.
Something will be done. It is not, after all, in our hands. Still, we
must stand ready to help. Good-night, my boy. And remember, it is always
good to hurry back to our best Friend, if ever we get away from Him.”

The boy put his arms around his father's neck and kissed him good-night;
then, kissing him again, he whispered: “Thank you, Daddy.”

And from the relief in his tone the father recognised that upon him the
lad had laid all the burden of his solicitude for his friend.

Later in the evening, when his elder son came home, the father called
him in, and frankly gave him the substance of the conversation of the
earlier part of the evening.

Jack laughed somewhat uneasily. “Oh, Rob is an awfully religious little
beggar; painfully so, I think, sometimes--you know what I mean, Sir,” he
added, noticing the look on his father's face.

“I am not sure that I do, Jack,” said his father, “but I want to tell
you, that as far as I am concerned, I felt distinctly rebuked at the
little chap's anxiety for his friend in a matter of such vital import.
His is a truly religious little soul, as you say, but I wonder if his
type is not more nearly like the normal than is ours. Certainly, if
reality, simplicity, sincerity are the qualities of true religious
feeling--and these, I believe, are the qualities emphasised by the
Master Himself--then it may indeed be that the boy's type is nearer the
ideal than ours.”

At this point Mrs. Dunn entered the room.

“Anything private?” she enquired with a bright smile at her husband.

“Not at all! Come in!” said Doctor Dunn, and he proceeded to repeat the
conversation with his younger son, and his own recent comment thereupon.

“I am convinced,” he added, “that there is a profundity of meaning in
those words, 'Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little
child, he shall not enter therein,' that we have not yet fathomed. I
suspect Wordsworth is not far astray when he suggests that with the
passing years we grow away from the simplicity of our faith and the
clearness of our vision. There is no doubt that to Rob, Jesus is as real
as I am.”

“There is no doubt of that,” said his wife quickly.

“Not only as real, but quite as dear; indeed, dearer. I shall never
forget the shock I received when I heard him one day, as a wee, wee boy,
classifying the objects of his affection. I remember the ascending scale
was: 'I love Jack and Daddy just the same, then mother, then Jesus.' It
was always in the highest place, Jesus; and I believe that the scale is
the same to-day, unless Jack,” she added, with a smile at her son, “has
moved to his mother's place.”

“Not much fear of that, mother,” said Jack, “but I should not be
surprised if you are quite right about the little chap. He is a queer
little beggar!”

“There you are again, Jack,” said his father, “and it is upon that point
I was inclined to take issue with you when your mother entered.”

“I think I shall leave you,” said the mother. “I am rather tired, and so
I shall bid you good-night.”

“Yes,” said the father, when they had seated themselves again, “the
very fact that to you, and to me for that matter, Rob's attitude of
mind should seem peculiar raises the issue. What is the normal type of
Christian faith? Is it not marked by the simplicity and completeness of
the child's?”

“And yet, Sir,” replied Jack, “that simplicity and completeness is the
result of inexperience. Surely the ideal faith is not that which ignores
the facts and experiences of life?”

“Not exactly,” replied his father, “yet I am not sure but after all,
'the perfect love which casteth out fear' is one which ignores the
experiences of life, or, rather, classifies them in a larger category.
That is, it refuses to be disturbed by life's experiences, because among
those experiences there is a place for the enlarged horizon, the clearer
vision. But I am not arguing about this matter; I rather wish to make
a confession and enlist your aid. Frankly, the boy's words gave me an
uneasy sense of failure in my duty to this young man; or, perhaps I
should say, my privilege. And really, it is no wonder! Here is this
little chap actually carrying every day a load of intense concern for
our friend, as to whether, as he puts it himself, 'he has come back.'
And, after all, Jack, I wonder if this should not have been more upon
our minds? The young man, I take it, since his mother's death has little
in his home life to inspire him with religious faith and feeling. If she
had been alive, one would not feel the same responsibility; she was a
singularly saintly woman.”

“You are quite right, Sir,” said Jack quickly, “and I suspect you rather
mean that I am the one that should feel condemned.”

“Not at all! Not at all, Jack! I am thinking, as every man must, of my
own responsibility, though, doubtless, you have yours as well. Of course
I know quite well you have stuck by him splendidly in his fight for a
clean and self-controlled life, but one wonders whether there is not
something more.”

“There is, Sir!” replied his son quickly. “There undoubtedly is! But
though I have no hesitation in speaking to men down in the Settlement
about these things, you know, still, somehow, to a man of your own
class, and to a personal friend, one hesitates. One shrinks from what
seems like assuming an attitude of superiority.”

“I appreciate that,” said his father, “but yet one wonders to what
extent this shrinking is due to a real sense of one's own imperfections,
and to what extent it is due to an unwillingness to risk criticism, even
from ourselves, in a loyal attempt to serve the Master and His cause.
And, besides that, one wonders whether from any cause one should
hesitate to do the truly kind a

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