With that he laid himself down p.r.o.ne upon the mound again, his face in the gra.s.s, 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, la.s.sie, 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, la.s.sie. No, you are a la.s.sie 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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!"

"G.o.d 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 h.e.l.l-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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed beyond the farthest cottage. Then back again they swung, and this time it was to the "c.o.c.k 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 sh.o.r.e 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.