"And he was the only one who ever came making inquiries?" asked Paul.

"Yes, the only one."

Paul's hopes were dashed to the ground again. Still, the man must have had some reason for coming North; no one would come all the way from England to make inquiries unless something of importance lay at the back of it.

"What kind of questions did he ask?" continued the young man.

"It is a good many years since," replied the woman, "and I am afraid I did not encourage him much. But as far as I can call to mind now, he asked how long since she had left, and whether anything had happened to her."

"And did you tell him"--and Paul's voice was almost hoa.r.s.e as he spoke--"did you tell him of--of what you call her disgrace?"

"No," replied the woman harshly. "I am not one of that kind. Donald Lindsay's name is a good one, and I'm proud of it myself. Besides, I thought she was dead, and so--well, I said nothing."

"And that is all you can tell me?"

"That is all."

From the little farmstead Paul went to "Highlands," but his visit seemed in vain. The people who occupied the house had lived there for some twelve years, and they had bought it from an agent as a summer residence.

They had heard that the previous owner lived in Edinburgh, but they were not sure. They only knew he was in the habit of letting the house during the summer months.

"Did you know the Grahams?" Paul asked.

"No. I've heard they lived in England, in London, in fact, but we knew nothing about them. I have been told that they were a large family, and came here during the three summer months, but that's twenty years ago now, and so nothing is known."

"And they have not been here during your time?" asked Paul.

"No," was the reply.

And this was all he learnt. He asked many questions, but the answers were all vague and tentative.

From "Highlands" he went to Willie Fearn's farm. He thought perhaps his mother's one-time admirer might be able to give him some information, but Willie Fearn was a dour Scotsman, who said he knew nothing. When Paul approached the subject of Willie's former relation to Jean Lindsay and his hopes of making her his wife, the Scotsman set his lips firmly together and refused to speak. He admitted presently how he had heard "that the la.s.s had gut into sore trouble, and then went away and died.

But there's nae proof," he said, "there's nae proof. And it's a warning to Scotch la.s.ses to have nothing to say to Southern strangers. And Jean was a good la.s.s," he added confidentially, "and would have made a good saving wife for a sober man with a little siller. She had a grip of doctrine, too. She was well versed in the fundamentals and would have made a good elder's wife. But, ay, man, the tempter comes in many a form, and it behoves us all to be very careful."

So far, Paul's visit to his mother's old home had been entirely without result. As far as he could see, he could make not one step forward.

Moreover, in spite of the looseness of thought concerning Scotch marriage, he saw that there was a doubt as to whether the wedding was legal or not. But he had not finished yet. He had from time to time read such books as came in his way bearing upon Scotch law, and in one of these was a definite statement that if a man and woman were known to take each other as husband and wife, this was proof that their marriage was legal. So, remembering his mother's words, he made his way towards the little inn where they had stayed on the night of their marriage. He took the road which she had told him of, and presently came to the spot where she and Douglas Graham had taken each other as man and wife. The woman must have described the scene with great accuracy, for he recognised it the moment he came to it. The patch of lonely pine trees, the little lake by which the road ran, the burn coming down the rocky valley, and the great wild moorlands stretching away northward. And they had stood within the shade of the pine trees while the setting sun sent its rays of light through the branches. He believed he recognised the spot on which they knelt when Douglas Graham prayed that their union might be blessed.

A shiver pa.s.sed through him as he stood there, and he called to mind the words they had spoken: "I, Douglas Graham, take thee, Jean Lindsay, to be my wife, and I promise to be faithful to thee as long as I live." In spite of sad memories, it seemed like holy ground, and however the marriage had appeared to the bridegroom, to him it was real and sacred.

It was late that night when he came to the inn near the Scottish border, but the innkeeper welcomed him eagerly. It had been a wet summer, and they had had but few visitors. Both the innkeeper and his wife, therefore, were glad to see Paul, and were hoping he would spend some days with them. Both of them were Scotch people, although they had lived for many years on the English side of the border.

"Have you kept this inn long?" asked Paul after supper.

"For more than thirty years," replied the man. "When we came here first it was very lonely, and there were few people who came. Just a stopping place it was for wagoners and that sort of people. But now, both English and Scotch people are realising that there's no lovelier part in the whole of the British Isles. That's why they come. You see, there's many a.s.sociations around this neighbourhood too. Tammy Carlisle was born and reared not many miles from here. And then, as you know, Gretna Green is not very far away."

"But the days of Gretna Green are over?" suggested Paul.

"Ay," he replied. "But not altogether. We've had many a couple come to us directly after their marriage, and I believe that lots of them have just gone over the border for a Scotch marriage."

"By the way," asked Paul, "do you remember twenty-five years ago this very month that a young man brought his wife here? It was on the twenty-ninth of August. Think, now; do you remember it?"

"Ay, I think I do, but my wife has a better memory than I. Meg! Will you come here?"

The old lady was keenly interested in Paul's questions. "Why, of course, Angus. I've thought about them many a time since. He was fair and she was dark."

"That's it," said Paul eagerly. "That's it."

"She had black een, I remember," said the woman. "Een as black as sloes, and her hair was like the sheen of a raven's wing. And they did love each other, too, I could see that."

"And did they sign any register or anything of that sort?" said Paul.

"Do you keep a register of your visitors?"

"Nay," said the woman. "We kept no register then, but we do now. People came and went then, and we thought not so much of it. All the same, they did write something."

"Both of them?" asked Paul.

"Ay, both of them. You see, I wasna so sure about them, and I wondered whether it was a runaway match. The lad introduced the la.s.s as his wife, but they seemed mighty nervous, and the lad had been here a few weeks previously with some others, and I am sure he had nae thought of marrying then."

"Did you say he wrote his name and she wrote hers?" asked Paul eagerly.

"You seem mighty interested," said the woman. "One might think---- Ay, now I look at your face again, ye remind of the la.s.s. Your eyes and hair are as black as hers, and ye have the same kind of face, too. It might be that she was your mother."

"Think for a moment that she is my mother," said Paul. "Let me see the writing in the book."

The woman went to the bookcase by her side and took down an encyclopaedia, and there, on the flyleaf, he saw the names, "Douglas Graham, Jean Graham, August 29th, 18--."

"And they left the next day, didn't they?" asked Paul.

"Ay, they left the next day, and they looked as though they were going to a funeral, both of them. I wondered if they had quarrelled or something, but they seemed so loving that that seemed impossible. But I've thought of them many a time since."

"Let me see," said Paul. "This is on the English side of the border, isn't it?"

"Ay," replied the woman. "It is the English side."

On leaving the next day Paul made his way to the nearest town of importance on the Scotch side, and was soon closeted with a lawyer.

"I am come to ask for information," said Paul.

The Scotsman looked at him keenly, and wondered how much he could charge him.

"Maybe you are in trouble?" he said.

"No," replied Paul; "I'm not in trouble. I only want information concerning a matter of Scotch law."

"And there's no man north of the Tweed that knows more about Scotch law."

And the old lawyer stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But what phase of Scotch law are ye interested in?"

"Scotch marriage."

"Maybe you're thinking of getting wed? If ye are, take the advice of a man who has had to do with hundreds of weddings, and don't! If there's one thing for which I'm thankful to Providence, it is that I've always been strong enough to resist the la.s.ses. Trouble came with the coming of a woman into the world, and they have been at the heart of nine-tenths of it ever since."