"O! burn it, and say it was accident. How slow you are!"

"I cannot tell a lie," said Annie. "And the steward would only get another copy of the paper, and look over it carefully,--No, we have only to give him back the papers, and thank him, without agitation."

"I cannot do that," exclaimed Lady Ca.r.s.e. "If you will not tell a lie in such a case, I shall act one. I shall go and pretend to be asleep.

I could not contain myself to speak to that man, with my deliverers almost within hearing perhaps, and that detestable Saint Kilda within sight."

She commanded herself so far as to appear asleep, when the steward looked in, on his return. Annie remarked on the news of the rebels, and saw him depart evidently unaware of the weighty nature of what he carried in his pocket.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

OPENINGS.

The autumn of this year is even now held in memory in the island as the dearest ever known. The men were all gone to Inverness, to act under the orders of President Forbes in defending the king's cause; and the women they left behind pined for news which seldom or never came. As the days grew short and dark, there was none of the activity and mirth within doors which in northern climates usually meet the advances of winter. In the cl.u.s.ter of houses about Macdonald's farm, there was dulness and silence in the evenings, and anxious thoughts about fathers, husbands, and brothers, with dread of the daylight which would bring round the perpetual ineffectual watch for a boat on the waters, bearing news of the brave companies of the Macdonalds and Macleods. Sir Alexander remained in Skye, to watch against treason and danger there, while Macleod had gone with the two companies. Such a thing as murmuring against the chief was never heard of; but there were few of the women who did not silently think, now and then, that Sir Alexander might let them have a little more news--might consider their anxiety, and send a messenger when he had tidings from Inverness. This was unjust to Sir Alexander, who was no better off for news than themselves.

The rebels were so far successful that messengers could not carry letters with any security by land or sea. It was only by folding his notes so small as to admit of their being hidden in corners of the dress that the President could get them conveyed to the authorities at Edinburgh; and his correspondence with the Government was managed by sending messengers in open boats to Berwick, whence the garrison officer forwarded the despatches to London. In such a state of things, the inhabitants of remote western islands must bear suspense as well as they could.

No one bore it so well as the Widow Fleming. Her only son was in one of the absent companies; she had no other near relation in the world; and she had on her hands a sinking and heart-sick neighbour, whose pains of suspense were added to her own. Yet Annie was the most cheerful person now on the island. When Helsa was fatigued and dispirited by her attendance on Lady Ca.r.s.e, and was sent home for a day's holiday, she always came back with alacrity, saying that after all, the Macdonalds'

side of the island was the most dismal of the two. n.o.body there cared to sing, whereas Annie would always sing when asked, and often was heard to do so when alone. And she had such a store of tales about the old sea-kings, and the heroes of these islands, and of Scotch history, that some of the younger women came night after night to listen. As they knitted or spun, or let fall their work, while their eyes were fixed on Annie, they forget the troubles of their own time, and the blasts and rains through which they should have to find their way home.

At the end of these evenings, Lady Ca.r.s.e often declared herself growing better; and she then went to sleep on the imagination that she would soon be restored to Edinburgh life by Mr Hope's means, and be happy at last. In the morning, she always declared herself sinking, and fretted over the hardship of dying just when her release was drawing near.

Annie thought she was sinking, and never contradicted her when she said so; but yet she tried to bring some of the cheerfulness of the evenings into the morning. She sympathised in the pain of suspense, and of increasing weakness when life was brightening; but she steadily spoke of hope.

She was sincerely convinced that efforts which could not fail were making for Lady Ca.r.s.e's release, and she thought it likely that the mother and children would meet on earth, though it were only to exchange a hope that they might meet in heaven. Sincerely expecting some great and speedy change in the poor lady's fortunes, she could dwell upon the prospect from day to day with a sympathy which did not disappoint even Lady Ca.r.s.e. Every morning she rose with the feeling that great things might happen before night; and every night she a.s.sured her eager neighbour that no doubt somebody had been busy on her behalf during the day. Whether Lady Ca.r.s.e owned it to herself or not, this was certainly the least miserable winter she had pa.s.sed since she had left Edinburgh.

"I am better, I am sure," she joyfully declared one night: "better in every way. How do I look? Tell me how I look."

"Sadly thin; not so as to do justice to the good food the steward sent you," said Annie, cheerfully. "I should like to see these little hands not quite so thin."

"Ah! that is nothing. Everybody is thin and smoke-dried at the end of a stormy winter," declared Lady Ca.r.s.e. "But I feel so much better! You say it is hope; but you see how well I bear suspense."

"I always have thought," said Annie, "that nothing is so good for us all as happiness and peace. Your happiness in hoping to see your children soon, and in obtaining justice, has done you a great deal of good; and I trust there is much more in store yet."

"O yes; and when I get back to my friends again, I shall be happier than I was. We learn some things as we go on in life. I sometimes think that I should in some respects act differently if I had to live my life over again."

"We all feel that," said Annie.

"You know that feeling? Well, there have been some things in myself which I rather wonder at now; some things that I would not do now. I once struck my husband."

"Once!" thought Annie in amazement.

"And I think I may have been too peremptory with the children. There was n.o.body then to lead me to discover such things as I do when I am with you; and I believe now that if I were at home again--I hope--I think--"

"What will you do if it pleases G.o.d to restore you to your home?"

"Why, I _have_ been told that they were afraid of me at home. Heaven knows why! for I should have thought that pompous, heartless, rigid, tyrannical wretch, my husband, was the one to be afraid of; and not a warm-hearted creature like me."

"Perhaps they were afraid of him too."

"O yes, to be sure; and that is why I am here. But they need not have cared for anything I say under an impulse. They might have known that I love people when they do me justice. That, I own, I cannot dispense with. I must have justice. But if people give me my due, I am ready enough to love them."

"And how will you do differently now, if you get home?"

"I think I would be more dignified than I sometimes have been. I would rely more upon myself. I may have encouraged my enemies by letting them see how they could wound my sensitive feelings. I should not have been so ill-treated by the whole world if I had not made some mistake of that kind. I would rely more on myself, and let them see that they could not touch my peace. Would not that be right?"

"Certainly; by your having a peace which they could not touch."

There was a short pause; after which Lady Ca.r.s.e said, in no unamiable tone, "I do not say these things by way of asking your advice. I know my own feelings and circ.u.mstances, and the behaviour of my family to me, better than you can do. I may be left to judge for myself; but it is natural, when a summons may come any day, to tell you what I think of the past; and of how I shall act in the time to come."

"I quite understand that," said Annie. "And I like to hear all you like to tell me without judging or advising, unless you ask me."

"Well, I fairly own to you--and you may take the confession for what it is worth--if I had to live the last twenty years over again, I should in some respects act differently, I now believe that I have said and done some things that I had better not. But I was driven to it. I have been most cruelly treated."

"You have."

"And if they had only known how to treat me! Why, you are not afraid of me, are you?"

"Not in the least."

"And you never were?"

"Never."

"Why, there now! But you are a woman of sense."

"I am not afraid of you, and never was," said Annie looking calmly in her face; "but I can understand how some people might be."

"Not people of sense," exclaimed Lady Ca.r.s.e quickly.

"Perhaps not; but we do not expect all that we have dealings with to be people of sense."

"No, indeed! n.o.body need ever look for sense in Lord Ca.r.s.e, for one.

Well! I am so glad you never were afraid of me; and I am sure, moreover, that you love me: you are so kind to me!"

"I do," said Annie, smiling in reply to the wistful gaze.

Lady Ca.r.s.e's eyes filled with tears.

"Good night! G.o.d bless you!" said she.

"She says," thought Annie, "that I may take her confession for what it is worth. How little she knows the worth of that confession!--a confession that any acquaintance she has would blush or mock at, and that any pastor in Scotland would rebuke! but to one who knows her as I do, how precious it is! I like to be called to rejoice with the neighbours when a child is born into the world: but it is a greater thing to sit here alone and rejoice over the birth of a new soul in this poor lady. It is but a feeble thing, this new born soul--born so much too late; it is little better than blind and helpless, and with hard struggles coming on before it has strength to meet them. But still it is breathing with G.o.d's breath; and it may come freely to Christ.

Christ always spoke to souls; and what were the years of man's life to Him? So I take it as an invitation in such a case as this, when He says, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me.' O may the way be kept clear for this infant soul to come to Him!"

Annie had all the kindly and cheerful instincts which simple hearts have everywhere; and among them the wish to welcome the newly born with music. With the same feeling which make the people of many a heathen island and Christian country pour out their music round the dwelling which is gladdened by a new birth, Annie now sang a cheerful religious welcome to the young conscience which she trusted must henceforth live and grow for ever. Her voice was heard next door, just so as to be favourable to rest. Without knowing the occasion of the song, the lady reposed upon it; and without knowing it, Annie sang her charge to sleep, as she had often done when Rollo was an infant on her knee.

When at daylight she rose to put out her lamp, and observe the weather, she saw what made her dress quickly, instead of going to bed for her needful morning hour of sleep. A boat was making for the harbour through the difficulties of the wintry sea. It rose and was borne on the long swell so fast and so fearfully, that it appeared as if nothing could save it from dashing on the ledges of projecting rock; and then, before it reached them, it sank out of sight, to be lifted up and borne along as before. There were four rowers, a steersman, and two others, m.u.f.fled in cloaks. Annie watched them till the boat disappeared in the windings of the harbour; and she was out on the hill-side, in the cold February wind, when she saw the whole party ascending from the sh.o.r.e, and taking the road to Macdonald's.

Here was news! There must be news. Better not tell even Helsa till she had heard the news. So the widow made what haste she could by the nearer road; but her best haste could not compare with the ordinary pace of the strangers. They had arrived long before she reached Macdonald's gate.