Kenneth Lee

Chapter I. Wild Flowers

Spring had fairly set in. Nature wore in that genial season her loveliest as well as her liveliest garb. Everything looked fresher and greener from the sprightly maiden's talismanic touch, giving token of vigour and life in the wild, weird visage of the magnificent scenery around. Nowhere do the beauties of nature shine so luxuriantly as in the dej^ths of rural scenery, and, perhaps, nowhere is her hand more lav ishly bestowed than on the country districts of Scotland — wildly stern, yet mild and grand. The rugged Scottish Alp, the secret solitude of the glen, the murmuring of some musical rill, or leaping cataract, have charms to soothe as well as to elevate the soul to the Maker and Sustainer of the great universe. Hill, or mountain, rearing its majestic front from the bosom of some romantic valley or echoing dell, then suddenly descending with rapid sweep, on the opposite side, to the margin of a broad sheet of glassy water, looking like a plate of burnished gold, as the rays of the vertical sun dance and gleam along its unruffled breast, which mirror and flash back the images of the surrounding scenery.

Loch Lomond, celebrated on account of past associations, and pre-eminently beautiful in the "land of the mountain and the flood," presented such an appearance on the day our story opens. Lying nestled amid the mountains, illuminated with the glancing sunbeams, its surface was fearfully calm suggesting a depth at once treacherous and limitless. Along its banks the bulrushes arranged themselves in stately array, ever and anon bending beneath the fitful breeze, and lifting their watery heads in triumph from their congenial element Up in the green lanes, too, that stretched in various di rections from the lake, stood rows of tapering foxglove, opening their crimson bells to taste the gladening sunshine, and the modest hyacinth raised its pale blue face to the light that the breeze might fan its pretty cheek.

It was nature's jubilee ! Then, in the distance, little white-washed cottages dotted the plain and the hillside, the blue wreaths of smoke curling from their chimneys, expanding and vanishing imperceptibly into their native ether above. Still a little further up stood a more ambitious house, looking like the ancient barou's mansion frowning upon his vassals' huts beneath. This edifice, though not baronial, was built of stone, solid, yet tasteful. An elegant porch decorated the front where woodbine, eglantine, and honeysuckle clustered and climbed in rich profusion. This house, the archi tecture of which was a strange admixture of the Gothic and modern style, being the minister's manse, that "topped the neighbouring hill." The day was mild, yet fitful and capricious, sunbursts and gladness alternately with lowering clouds and drizzling rain.

Overshadowed by the arms of an aged and crooked tree, which dipped its extreme branches, extending far outward, into the water, a young man heedless of the shower, because accustomed to it, sat absorbed in the contents of a book. He raised his eyes for a moment, and looked around him, as if to feast them on the beauty and grandeur of the scene. His complexion, it could be seen, was ruddy and cheerful, his eyes luminous and glancing, as he looked towards the sun, and his entire countenance prepossessing. There was a subdued refinement settled on his face, which marked him above the order of common, country people; but from the home-made, yet comfortable, clothing he wore, to that order he certainly belonged. The face was one we sometimes see in youth, not often — it was placid, thoughtful, composed, with incipient lines of age, indicating a wisdom and mental calibre far beyond his years.

His age was apparently about eighteen. There was one other solitary figure standing at a considerable distance, gazing listlessly into the lake below. This was a lady young and richly attired, but who was evidently a stranger in the Highland district, from tho manner in which she scrutinized each object — strange to her it would appear — that must have been familiar to the reg ular resident. Besides, she was delicately pale, and bore unmistakable traces of being used to society and city life. Just at that moment a drizzling shower .began to fall. She looked around, as if in search of shelter, imagining her self, doubtless, to be alone; but suddenly observing the young man reclining at the lake side at a distance, she turned quickly to hasten away. The rain fell thicker and faster. Kenneth Lee — for that was his name — observing the young lady and her apparent embarrassment, rose from the brink of the loch, and called after her.

Hearing his voice she stopped, looking back in a confident and fearless manner. He ran to where she stood, and was speedily at her side. He now came before her silent and abashed, her self possession contrasting somewhat strongly with his abrupt yet kind-hearted proceeding. The beauty of her face, nevertheless had dazzled him— that face so irresistible and angelic. He had not been accustomed to creatures of so delicate a mould, and felt as if he had now trod upon enchanted ground. " Pardon me," said he, somewhat tremulously, " I see you have been caught in the shower, and I have come to offer you my plaid." "Thanks," she replied, politely; "I have not very far to go, and see, the shower is wearing oft' already." " But the interval between the showers may not be of long duration," he urged, with more courage, " and you may be the better for my plaid."

" O, they are but April showers and cannot last," said she, smiling. " Yes ; but they wet while they do last, yet they bring us our May flowers," said he. "Accept the shelter of my plaid." " You are a stranger, sir," she interposed. "Yes," he replied, with more confidence ;" but no oje should be a stranger to humane actions when his assistance would either alleviate or protect." " Or be evidences of gallantry," she replied, with an archly bewitchiug smile and modest inclination of the head. " I have often heard of Highland hospitality, and am glad to find a living proof in yourself, sir." " You flatter, miss." "Not so." " It is but duty, deserving no other name or reward. Both duty and hospitality are demanded in a stranger's embarrass ment, and all the more so when there is a lady in question."

She was quite taken aback at the manner of his conversa tion, his graceful and unobtrusive deportment ; she expected to find a country lad bred in the West Highlands, rough in exterior and awkward in bearing. She was, therefore favourably disposed to pursue the conversation. They had now turned to the road which led to the manse. The prospect before them was one of rural loveliness. She steadily refusing his offer of the plaid the while, however. " I presume you are a stranger here, come to see our beautiful loch ; you will not be disappointed at the sight, I hope. Will you allow me to lead you on to the main road, clear of these brambles and bushes." She nodded assent. They walked on leisurely. " I know every crevice," he continued. " I was born here, and live in the light and love of nature."

"Ah ! you are quite poetical," she replied, laughing; "but you speak truly. Who could live here and not love the place, it is so charming !" "Yes," was the laconic reply. But he felt he could not account for the sudden and mysterious impression — the dazzle of her eyes outshone the lustre of the flowers of varied dye that lay at his feet. "You spoke of May flowers," she resumed; "in April even, I see your flowers are abundant and beautiful. One would think you required no April showers to bring you any more roses in May." "Our fields are clothed, literally clothed, with flowers in May — a perfect paradise. How I love to revel in fields of flowers !" " I am so seldom in the country that I am totally ignorant of its beauties." said she, sighing. " In May you will see the garniture of spring in full bloom ; the hillside " " No ; I will not see May in full bloom here," she said somewhat quickly, with a deep blush ; " I leave this place to-morrow."

"To-morrow !" he exclaimed. "Yes; to-morrow," she reiterated, looking into his face snrprisedly. " So soon V " Yes ; so soon. I wish I could stay longer, but I cannot." " I wish you could." " I must return home to-morrow." " You live in the city, may I ask V "I do." " London V "No." " I would like to see the city," he said, perplexed a little. "And I would willingly exchange places with you," she replied, gaily. " Localities you mean, I suppose. I am an humble cottar, poor enough indeed." " Localities be it then, if you will. Poor ! no, no ; com pared with us you are rich. Rich and blessed in your poverty, you possess wealth we can know nothing of, except an occasional snatch like this. Look at your unclouded sky, your blue lake, your scented fields, your breezy mountains, your groves of music, and your healthy cheek ; then the simplicity of your pastimes, the goodness and humility of your hearts, free from the contagion of city life.

Oh ! you ave rich. Father always prefers the city though ; for there, I have heard said, by his own industry, perseverance, and shrewd commercial qualities, he has made himself wealthy." " I fear you overrate us. I thank you for your good opinions however. Your father is a merchant, I suppose? '.' " Not exactly." Seeing she was not communicative on this point, nor re garding the place of her habitation, he pursued the subject no further. " But will you not wait over and see our May sports, then, which you have been good enough to commend just now. They will interest you, perhaps ; at least, in their plainness, they will be a variety to city scenes, though a dull contrast, I doubt not," he urged, his voice a little husky. " I am sorry to say I cannot. I have only been permitted for a short time to visit a few friends here ; my time is ex pired ; and I am expected home to-morrow evening.

" My father is imperious, and mother will be so anxious. Oh ! 1 cannot stay." "You will perhaps come back again, then, before the summer ends," he urged inquiringly. "Alas! I fear that cannot be," she replied, mournfully " I leave Scotland in autumn," she answered with astonishing frankness. The book which he carried under his arm now fell upon the ground, and he stooped nervously to lift it. This posture luckily served to conceal the crimson of his face. " You read," she said, briskly, resuming her characteristic vivacity of spirit. " No ; yes," confusedly. " You are quite a philosopher." " Yes ; O, no, miss ; but I like books." "Bulwer?" she inquired, with a side look. "You have the advantage of me; I am not extensively read, and know nothing of that author. This is Locke on the Human Understanding — it is only interesting if you are seeking instruction."

" You have the advantage of me there also," she said, good-humouredly; "I know nothing of your book, and wouldn't understand it if I had it, I dare say." They were now approaching one of the little white-washed cottages that lay so snugly embowered among the huge trees. They remained silent for some time ; his thoughts were all engrossed in the recent conversation. Again he conned it over in his mind word upon word, then revolved and analysed it a second time ; how it concerned him ; yet what could it be to him ; their positions in the world were very different ; their acquaintance but very recent ; his prospects but that of a poor shepherd ; her departure sudden, and her return impossible ; nevertheless, he felt troubled and unnerved. His nature was to love, but this love was unaccountable and premature.

He could not tell why. He would inquire more of the matter from her — if he could but ascertain her name. "This is my mother's cottage, miss," he voluuteered. " Will you come in and rest awhile 1" " Thank you," she replied, firmly. " I beg you'll excuse me. You are very kind, but I must be going. My friends will be waiting ; my way lies np the hill there." Whereupon, suddenly springing from his side, she waved an adieu, and tripped lightly over the grass, her silk cloak blowing sail-like full in the breeze. He stood astounded, and gazed after her. She looked round once only and smiled — still she sped on. That smile aroused him ; he was half decided to follow and trace her to the whereabout of her lodgment. But she was now nearly out of sight, and the thought was vain. Still he stood fixed to the ground, gazing mutely, his hand upon the door latch.

She disappeared among the trees on the distant hillside — disappeared from him, for ever disappeared ! His head was giddy ; in a moment all seemed like a dream, or the pageant of fairyland, to him. Even if he had but known her name : that was now impossible. He turned and entered the house sadly, thinking how unfortunately he had mentioned his mother's humble cottage.

Chapter II. Assurance

The next day broke clear and bright over the undisturbed lake; the lowering vapours floated fast to the west, and gradually disappeared, giving place to clouds of gossamer and fleecy texture, that laced the serene and azure vault above. Kenneth Lee was not at his wonted place by the brink of the lake. The scene was lonely and deserted ; the bending figure of the student was wanting. Nature reigned supreme • a hallowed calm pervaded the atmosphere. Though not prosecuting his studies under the branches of his favourite tree, he was as usefully employed under the roof of his mother's cottage. Mrs Lee was old, and had been ailing for a few weeks past. Her son, Kenneth, proved a faithful and dutiful attendant at his mother's bedside. His father, the village sexton, had long himself been laid in the village churchyard.

The hallowed remembrance of his sanctified life remained vividly present with them and all who knew him. The interior of this cottage, which was so snugly embowered among the huge trees, though humble in its requirements, was, nevertheless, neat and orderly in its arrangements. The house consisted of but two apartments, a but and ben, as a room and kitchen in the vernacular are still called. There was an air of com fort and contentment reigning throughout the little domicile. Mother and son were the only occupants. The day now began to be chilly. Keen gusts of wind were blowing suddenly and fiercely against the window panes; but the turf fire blazing cheerfully up the wide chimney made the apartment both cozy and warm. Old Mrs. Lee sat by the fireside, in an old-fashioned, high backed chair, her feet resting on a very unassuming and home-made hassock.

Her dress also belonged to the more remote periods of fashion. On her head she wore a high, crowned cap with a very broad border ; over this cap, and under her chin, was tied a black band or napkin, giving her whole aspect a very antique look indeed. On her knee lay open a well-worn, well-thumbed, leather-covered, family Bible, which she perused intently through her spectacles. Her son, Kenneth, sat opposite, carelessly turning over the leaves of Locke, but his thoughts that day, and for the first time, were wandering otherwhere. To-day the unknown lady was to leave his rural home; one of the roses of his loved vale was to be plucked, and it was to be plucked from his heart. She was to leave for — he knew not where, nor did he even know her name. He only knew she was to leave Scotland in autumn — but with whom 1 and for what ?

The gloomiest side of the question presenting itself just as it invariably does t« the unsettled spirit. A pang shot across his heart invol untai'ily. He aroused himself from his dreamy lethargy. One thing, he thought — was it a resolve ? — must be done ; that was, he must wipe away her image from his memory, and for ever ! He heaved a deep sigh, and looked up mechanically and vacantly. His mother was now looking steadfastly at him. " You are ill, dear, I am afraid?" she said, tenderly. "No, mother," he rejoined; "I was only thinking." " Ah ! child, you think too much; these books will put you astray in the mind. I've heard of great men who went out of their wits with reading too much and poring over books." " There is no fear of that with me, mother. I'll take care. You look better to-day; I hope you feel better," said he, adroitly changing the subject.

Though not disposed to reveal the real secret of his heart — i which he felt to be a hopeless secret — yet he was deeply con cerned about the state of his aged mother's health. The object of his love was shadowy and chimerical ; he had no lover to reveal or to confide in, and none in whom he could repose his confidence. The worm of his passion was unmerci fully doomed " to feed on his damask cheek." " You are troubled, child, about me. I am old and infirm, surely, but all of us must die. They say, you know, ' The young may die, but the old must die.' Good is the will of God. It is well," she added, clasping her hands together, "for the people who are prepared for that great change. I can only leave you my blessing and advice; and when I am gone, let your walk and conversation through life be such as will become the name of Kenneth Lee.

Your father went down to the grave with a spotless character, rejoicing in the name of his Saviour. I have tried to teach you to follow in his footsteps, and to walk in mine too. Make this, child," holding up the Bible, "your guide in life. And when your own earthly race is run, we will welcome you in the mansions of our heavenly Father, where we will live for ever in joy and peace, praising the Lord." She took off her spectacles, and slowly wiped her eyes. " O, mother !" he said, while the tears were running down his own manly cheeks, "don't speak so; don't speak of dying; you cannot die; you will not die now, and leave me alone in the world." "We all must die, child, when our time comes; but God always was and always will be a father to the orphan, as he has been a husband to the widow. He will be a father to you; put your trust in Him, child."

Old Mrs. Lee, after uttering these pathetic words, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Kenneth started from his seat, and shrieked out the one word— "Fainted!" "No, dear," she said, in a low mellowed tone, "not sainted; but I can see heaven better with my eyes closed." A slight knock at that moment was heard at the door. The young man went at once and opened it. The Rev. Joseph Duncan was standing at the cottage door when Kenneth opened to the knock. This gentleman, whose manse we have already referred to in the first chapter, was the parish minister of the place. He was greatly beloved by his parishioners for his gentleness of demeanour and sympathy of soul for suffering humanity. He was now on his daily round of visitation, but he visited Mrs. Lee very frequently on account of her age and infirmity.

He also took a lively interest in Kenneth, who, he was assured, had parts of no common order. Kenneth was glad to see him, and gave him a very hearty welcome. " O, Mr. Duncan, come away — mother will be so glad to see you;" and the lad, with a smile of welcome on his countenance, led the way into the house, and provided a chair for the visitor. " Don't trouble yourself, Kenneth (be addressed the young man plainly, for they were on familiar terms), I'll find myself a seat. I have called to see how your mother is to-day." Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Mrs. Lee, and kindly inquired the state of her health. " Indeed, sir, I am not much better. People can't live always, and at my time of life it's not to be expected that I can be very well. Only waiting my time, sir, but I am very content," said the old woman, resignedly.

" True," said the reverend gentleman ; " and I am exceedingly glad to find so much resignation. I hope, at least I feel assured, you are quite prepared to enter on the great eternity." " Yes; I think I am prepared. I have assurance in the finished work of my Redeemer. I've lived long in this world, sir, and find it to be a weary world, though it has its pleasures as well as its pains. I would willingly leave it to-day. There is only one thing I regret — there is only one thing I cling to it for, Mr. Duncan." "What is that, Mrs. Lee?" inquired Mr. Duncan, anxiously. "Kenneth, there," said the old woman; " my Kenneth," pointing to her son. " When I am gone, he will be a poor, helpless orphan, left alone in the world, as he says himself; but God will provide." " Yes, Mrs. Lee, God will provide.

He has assured us himself that he will be a husband to the widow, and a father to the fatherless." " Yes, yes, Mr. Duncan, I have found it to be so even with me, great sinner as I am," said old Mrs. Lee, again wiping away the tears that trickled down her withered cheeks. " I had one hope," she resumed, sobbing — " one hope, sir." "What was that?" " I thought to have left my boy under your own kind care when I was in the clay; but I hear you're for leaving us too— going away to the big town to be a minister to the rich people. But it's maybe for the best; it's maybe for the best. Our parish will miss you sore, sir. You have been a good man to us all. God bless you wherever ye go ; God bless ye." "Never mind that, Mrs. Lee. I have not settled my mind exactly concerning that matter yet. Your boy will be looked to, rest content on that score; your boy will be looked to."

The old woman looked up earnestly into the clergyman's face, half dubiously, half confidently, her mind apparently undecided ; but as the complex thoughts rushed and mixed and dissolved upon her weak brain, she drooped her head despondingly. Then, with a sudden start, as if recollecting herself, she exclaimed — " Assure me of that, sir — assure me of that." " I assure you." She then ejaculated fervently, raising her hands in the attitude of prayer, " Lord, I go in peace." Mr. Duncan, after engaging in prayer with the little household, shook hands cordially with Kenneth and his mother. Seeing her critical state of health, he promised faithfully to call on the morrow, and immediately thereafter took his departure.

Chapter III. Night And Morning

The day was now wearing to its close ; and the great sun, rapidly declining behind the western hill, shot gushing from its half-seen face a stream of golden light, that blazed with a fiery gleam against the window panes. Thick and murky clouds were fast gathering from the east, and converging, like a dome of darkness, right above the little cottage, in the blackeniug vault above. Now the sun sank, and great black clouds drove along the sky to revel in the gloom. Night settled down, and intense darkness hid the huge mountains that appeared like shadowy spectres in the distance, and enveloped the surrounding scenery, as if enviously endeavouring to efface the beauties of the day. " Kenneth, dear," said his mother, breaking the silence, " it is surely cold — I think the fire has gone out." " Oh ! mother, I had entirely forgotten that, but I '11 soon mend it, there is plenty of turf in the house."

So saying, he rose and heaped turf upon the fire; but it was useless, the fire was dead, and the white scattered ashes were lying withered and lifeless on the hearthstone. " I hope you are not cold, mother, it is all my neglect, but I '11 soon make a light;" he uttered these words whilst busily engaged in striking a flint. "I'm not very cold, child; the fire has just gone out while you were reading; I don't mind the fire much, but you will hurt your head, as I told you before, with these deep books, and so much learning. I don't blame you, I don't blame, child. My Kenneth, my darling Kenneth, my bonnie boy." She ejaculated these last words many times to herself inaudibl}', as she rocked to and fro in her chair. " What 's wrong with the fire, I can't get it to kindle," muttered Kenneth, as he plied light upon light to the grate ; it must have been long out, for it is quite dead.

" Just a little patience and it will kindle," said his mother, seeing his trouble the fire; "just a little patience; and there's even a great lesson in that, teaching us how to go through the world with patience, how to endure its crosses with patience, and how to leave it with patience, too," ever anxious to improve every little circumstance for his future welfare in life. He busied himself again with the fire. Mrs. Lee bent her head musingly. " I am in a straight betwixt two Kenneth, crouching before the gate, assiduously endea vouring to give it vitality, looked up at his mother's face enquiringly. " which of the two to choose," she muttered to herself, her eyes closed the while. " What are you saying, mother?" "Nothing, child, nothing," she answered quickly; "I was only thinking of Paul, who was a great sinner and a great saint.

Kenneth resumes his kindling, but in vain. " Open the door, child, there is some one knocking, may be it's Mr. Duncan." " I heard no one," said the lad, in surprise. "Oh! yes," persisted his mother, "I hear the knocking now." He opened the door as desired, he opened it widely, and looked into the darkness, penetratingly; but all was black and dismal, there was no one there. He returned, after shutting and barring the door, and said — " It must have been the wind, mother, there is no one there," " Maybe so, maybe so," she replied; it might be the wind. " I feel wearied, Kenneth, I think I'll go to bed; will you help me over, I am too frail now to walk over." " Yes, yes, mother, I '11 assist you ; you have sat up quite too long, I fear you are worse." " No, no, child, I am only wearied." He rose with alacrity, and gently assisted her over to the bed.

She lay down, while he placed the bed-clothes over her with great care and tenderness. He succeeded, by the aid of his flint, in lighting a little oil lamp which he placed upon a small table standing at the bedside. He sat down beside this table and buried his face in his hands. His thoughts became mixed and confused, he forgot the past, aud the present, and the future. How long he remained in this state of torpor he could not determine ; but when he aroused himself, his mother was sleeping. Then the crowd of fancies that coursed through his mind before it grew dark, came back upon him, and to shake them off, he rose to walk about. He paced the floor once or twice, and turning to where his mother lay, he saw her eyes were wide open, they were gazing full at him ; her features were rigid, and her eyes were lustreless and stony ; she was gazing fixedly at him.

He shuddered and trembled fearfully ; cold drops of sweat stood upon his brow. He advanced towards the bed, her lips were moving, and he bent his ear to listen. She was muttering — " To die, and be with Christ, which is far better ; " evidently repeating in detached forms, the passage she had been reading during the day. He said — " Mother." " Well, child," she answered faintly. As she spoke, the film that glazed her eye cleared partly away — a gleam of light returned, bringing with it signs of life. Observing this, the beating of Kenneth's heart quieted a little, for he could hear the beating of his own heart distinctly. " I thought, mother," — he uttered timidly. "What, child?" "I thought you were — dying, mother. Oh! how I tremble." " Don't tremble, dear, I am not dying — I am not dying now.