In Honour Bound

Front matter

IN HONOUR BOUND BY CHARLES GIBBON, AUTHOR OF "ROBIN GRAY," "FOR LACK OF GOLD," "FOR THE KING," ETC. " A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles., Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles." WOKDSWOKTH. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON. 1874. All rights reserved. CONTENTS OF VOL. III. ■CIlArTER I'AGB I. GONE AWAY I II. A PROBLEM 20 III. THE DAY OF REST 35 IV. "IT WAS MY fault" 45 V. ON THE TRAMP 58 VI. IN DREAMLAND 70 VII. BY THE WAYSIDE S9 VIII. FAILURE 105 IX. FORGIVEN '. 124 X. AFTER DINNER AT DALMAHOY 140 XI. "GOING, GOING — GONE!" 157 XII. WALTER'S TRIAL 173 XIII. THE DAME'S WHIM 1 Contents. IV CHAPTER PAGE- XIV. "THE BRAIDER GREW THE SEA " 2o6 JS XV. ON THE THRESHOLD 221 XVI. OVER THE THRESHOLD 232 XVII. SUNRISE 243, VOL. III. 1 IN HONOUR BOUND.

Chapter I. Gone Away

LL the vague fears which had dis turbed him dunno; the night were suddenly reflected upon his mind. He heard the sob of the wind; he looked with dazed eyes on the confused movements of the fisher-folk ; he turned to the heaving sea, and a thought which terrified him — -which he tried to beat out of his brain, took possession of him. Was he to take his place amongst these mourners, not as their guide and comforter, but as their fellow-sufferer ? Had ths cruel sea robbed him also of his treasure ? Bound. 2 Impossible — she could not be so mad, so wicked as to venture upon the sea last night. Then he remembered her craving to know what lay beyond the horizon-line of her life, her passionate nature, and her indifference to the perils of the sea. If she could only have witnessed such a spectacle as he had seen that morning !

He did not know how her nature had changed since the birth of Baby; he still thought her capable of any wild act which might present itself to her fancy. He remembered, however, that there was no boat in the Witch's Bay now since the adventure of Teenie and Grace, and so he had one fear the less. She might have obtained a boat elsewhere, but that was not at all likely. Then he was confronted by the enigma : What had she done ? Whither had she g-one ? To Dalmahoy ? To Craigburn ? No, she would not go to either of these places in the humour she was in last night ; and there was no other place to which there was the least probability of her going. He thought, with bitter remorse, of the many trifling acts of neglect of which he had been guilty towards her ; he magnified them into cruelties of the first importance.

He thought of how often he might have given her pleasure when he had turned from her, com plainingthat she took no interestin his labours, and how important it was that all his thought and time should be concentrated upon the duties he had undertaken. He wished the old time back, that he might be more loving and less exacting. Ah, how kind he would be ! how merciful to all her sins ! how proud of all her pretty ways, and how .blind to all her faults ! He thought of these things when it was too late ; he condemned himself utterly and with out pity. " God help us, Ailie ; I fear we too have had a wreck last night." " What's wrang — and what gar'd you ask i — Boiuid. 4 about Teenie, when you maun have been wi' her a' night ?" "No — we quarrelled — I stayed in my room. She did not go to bed. I thought she was with you."

" God be here !" exclaimed Ailie, in terror ; " no wi' you, and no wi' me ! — then she's drowned !" He felt sick as he listened to this echo of his own first thought. Both had remembered her mermaid-like ways, and leapt to the con clusion that the worst had happened. The idea never occurred to them that she could have adopted the commonplace method of travelling — on her feet. As usual, in matters of mystery, the wildest possible explanations obtained the first attention, whilst the real ex planation was quite simple. His head bowed, brows knit, cheeks white, and his hands clutching the staff which he held across his body — as if holding himself in, trying by physical means to restrain himself from any violent outburst of passion or grief — he stood gazing at the sand ; deaf now to all the din of wind and waves, of voices in sorrow or joy, and blind to the grandeur of the scene around him.

The sun had at last overcome the mist, and burst in a broad golden glare upon sea and rocks, which sparkled and gleamed with many brilliant colours, as if the jocund morning were ready to make amends for the dismal shadows of the night. Ailie was an active, bustling old wife, in deed she was apt to bustle too much, and to make everybody uncomfortable by her restless endeavours to keep everybody right. So she quickly recovered from her astonishment. " It canna be, minister, that she's no in the house. She's just been making fun of you, as she used to do with me. Often she would go away for a whole day without saying a word, and for no other end than to have a laugh at me. She'll be hode somewhere about the house. I'll go see." " Very well ; I'll follow you presently." There was something unpleasantly quiet in the way he said this ; at the same time he raised his head, and the face Avas cold and stone-like.

As Ailie was hurrying off, he made a quick movement as if to stay her ; but he let her go. His thought had been to bid her keep silent about the fears they entertained regard ing Teenie ; but then if she had really disap peared, the wider the fact was known the sooner she would be discovered. But his heart writhed under the sense of shame, and the prospect of the scandal which all this in volved. There was a bitter seeling growing up within him, which made his blood cold, and gave an unnatural clearness to his thoughts. He turned to the fisher-folk — they did not suspect how* entirely he shared in their sor rows ; they were grateful for his kindness, but they did not feel his sympathy so warm at this moment as they had felt it a little while ago. " Go up to the station, Davie," he said to Tak'-it-easy, "and telegraph to Aberdeen, Peterhead, Bervie, and to any of the stations they can communicate with, for early news of the missing boats.

I hope we may have good news in a few hours." Davie pledged himself to perform the task with dispatch, and to wait for the answers. He set off with what was for him a singularly swift step ; but on emergency he could exert himself like other folk. Walter next gave directions about Red Sandy and the funeral ; ordered various com forts for the wife and bairns ; told those who were waiting in suspense to be patient — if they cjdld ; that amendment came with bitterness out of his own suffering. But he was perfectly clear and considerate in all his instructions. He did not forget anything or anybody. The people who were not absorbed in their own afflictions or alarms, observed that he was " gey weary-like," but they supposed it was due to the exertions and anxieties of the morning. None suspected the anguish he was enduring on his own account.

When he had made all necessary arrange ments for what had happened and for what might happen, he started homeward ; his hat was pulled low over his brow, his staff struck the ground heavily as if he needed support. Passing through the village, he heard the shouts and laughter of children — a strange contrast to the lamentations on the beach below*. Habbie Gowk was marching down the street, strumming as loudly as he could "The Campbells are coming," on a Jew's harp, or " trump," as it is called ; Beattie followed him, and on the back of the donkey were two touzy-headed girls of four or five years, whilst a boy of about nine held them securely in their places. A troup of children gambolled about this droll procession, shout ing, and making fun of the poet and his com panions. The twang of the trump was only heard at intervals above the din of the urchins.

As soon as he saw Walter, Habbie took the instrument from his mouth and saluted him. " Bad work down yonder, minister," he said,. nodding towards the beach ; " I did not go after you, for I thought it would be ower muckle for my nerves, and I could do nothing. But it made me feel angry, the thought of it ; and what do you think I did ?" " Went home to your breakfast, perhaps, and tried to forget that there was sorrow in the world." " No, sir, I could not do that, seeing what I've been tholing mysel' for Guid kens how long. I just gaed up to that lawyer body, Currie, and roused him out of his bed — that would be good for him — I dinna believe he has seen this side of eight o'clock for years. He was for refusing to see me, but he was mis taken on that score. I banged intil his bed chamber, and got him in his night-gown.

" ' What do you want at this untimely hour of the night ?' says he. " ' Night !' says I ; ' it's broad day, and I'm ashamed of a man come to your years to speak that way of the Lord's blessed light. I want to ken when I'm to get that fortune, and I'll have no more putting ofs's about it." " ' How can I tell you ?' says he ; 'it de pends upon the court : it may be next week, and it may not be for years. I've told you that often enough, and you're a fool, Habbie, to annoy me in this way.' " ' A fool,' says I, looking at him as though it was at the far end of a fiddle, ' a fool in troth for listening to you. You've just worried the sowl out of me with your fortune ; but you ■can take it to the deevil if you like, for I'll have no more ado with it.' " And with that 1 tramped out. It was a sore temptation to give him a walloping, for he had naething but his night-sark on ; but I thought of the bailies, and I resisted tempta tion.

Outside, the bairns were cuddling Beattie, and wanting a ride ; so I put them on, and felt happier nor I've done since the day I first heard of the fortune. I would not take it now if they were to pay me for it. The thought of it has been naething but a misery to me, and now I'm beginning to feel like my old self. So we're going for a daun der." Walter listened to all this as patiently as if he had no care of his own ; never attempting to interrupt, never displaying the least irrita tion. When he had done — " I have no doubt )*ou will be a happier man, Habbie, forgetting the fortune than you could be waiting for it. If it is yours, it will perhaps come to you in time ; but, at any rate, you can do without it ; that is a great conso lation. There are many to whom it would bring happiness : as it is, there are many to whom it has brought nothing but vexation."

" It's a' vanity, minister, and there's nae telling what a vexation of spirit it has been to me. But I'm for no more of it ; I'll sell my ballants, sing my sangs, and let the deevil flee awa' with the fortune." " Where are you going now ?" " Wherever the Lord wills and ballants may be sold ; to the fairs and markets, and to see our auld friends throughout the country. The Lord be thanked we have no fortune to taigle or fash us now." " Will you go by Dalmahoy, and say that I would like to see the Laird at once ?" " I'll go to John o' Groat's if you like — hereabout or far awa', it's a' ane to Dandy." " Dalmahoy will be far enough to oblige me at present. And yet — yes ; I would like you to go on to Craigburn, and tell Miss Wishart " He stopped : Habbie filled up the pause. " I was going there at any rate.

I want to tell Miss Grace what I've done. She's been a good friend to me." " She has been a good friend to every one. I'll give you a note for her." He took out his pocket-book, and wrote — " In trouble. Come to Druraliemont if you can. — W.B." He tore the leaf out, folded, addressed it, and handed it to Habbie. ■3 " All right, sir ; Beattie and me will be there in nae time. Am I to wait for an an swer r " Don't trouble about that. Good - bye, Habbie, and success be with you wherever you go." " Thank you, sir ; it's rale kind of you to say the word — there are few folk ken what a lift a kind word is at whiles to a puir sowl. There's many a bonnie flower that would die for want of rain, but that the drap of dew comes and saves it." " You are a philosopher, Habbie, as well as a poet." " God kens what I am, for I dinna.

Whiles I feel myself such a good-for-nothing crea ture, that I think it would be best to make a hole in the water, and have done ; but then what would come of Beattie ? that holds me back ; and syne I hear a lad or a lass lilting one of my ballants, or see them louping wi' joy to the tune of my fiddle, or maybe to the twang of this bit trump, and I say to myself, ' Cheer up, ye deevil ; if you can make folk blithe for an hour or twa at a time, you're no such a worthless wratch as you thought yourself So I go on as before, taking my dram, and seeking sunshine on the hills and in the valleys, roost ing in couthie farm-houses, or singing my ballants in a bothy. I never was down right miserable till I heard tell of that d — d. fortune; and I'm blithe again now that I have cast it overboard." " You are fortunate in being able to cast your care overboard ; some people can not."

" So muckle the waur for them. Good bye, sir. — Now, bairns, you must get down, and you shall have another ride and another tune when I come back." He helped the children to the ground with much gentleness ; gave one a pinch and the other a " kittle " under the arms, till they screamed with laughter; then he mounted Beattie, and rode off to Dalmahoy. Walter encountered Ailie at the gate. She had been looking for him. " I'm in great tribulation, sir," she said ; " she's no in the house anywhere, and the lass kens naething about her. Oh, what have you been doing or saying, that the poor bairn should have been driven out of her ain house in such a night as it was ?" He was not surprised by the information that Teenie could not be found ; but he winced at what he knewr would be the general exclamation — what had he been doing or saying to drive her away ?

The blame and the indignation of the folk would fall upon him ; nobody would take the trouble to investigate the real state of the case ; and everybody would at once condemn him. Although he was ready enough to condemn himself, he disliked the idea of other people doing it, and regarding him as a monster. The disgrace of his position would soon tell upon him ; right and left he would hear murmurs of re proach at his conduct ; and he must be silent. Iu Honour Bound. He could not defend himself without accusing Teenie, and that he could not and would not do. He must be silent, and wait with what patience he could command for the conclusion of the adventure. She was gone : that was clear ; and he must set himself to discover in what direction she had turned. She did not go by sea, be cause there was no boat ; and if she had gone by land, it would be an easy thing to over take her ; but how was it possible to discover the route she had taken ?

There were no relations to whom she would go ; and she had left not the least trace of her course. It was a bewildering position ; but once satisfied that she had not wilfully given her life to the sea — he argued himself into that belief with a dogged persistency, which indi cated the trembling fears lurking behind it — he was disposed to regard her disappearance as a mere outburst of petulance, and he felt sure that she would return by-and-by. Before Ailie he displayed no emotion, except what might be seen in the white face and quivering lips. But in his heart the struggle was terrible between his passion as a mere man and his sense of duty, reverence, and submission as a minister. He was trying hard to find the true path in this darkness which had fallen upon him. His wife had done wrong, and he was angry with her ; but at the same time he felt that he, too, had failed.

He was eager to discover in what, so that he might make all the atonement in his power. Still his heart felt cold and hard. He had to write to a neighbouring clergy man, to ask him to officiate in his stead on the following day, for he thought himself quite unfitted to administer the Sacrament in his present mood. Opening his desk to take out paper, he saw the rough sketch he had made of Grace and Teenie in the garden at Craigburn, on the occasion of the first visit there with his betrothed. Then the old feeling of tender love came back to him and helped him. VOL. III. In Honour Bound. 18 Teenie's face seemed to be full of yearning and doubt ; Grace's calm, and pathetically beautiful. He remembered the happiness he had experienced when he saw that those two were friends ; and his thoughts travelled on to the day on which they had come up to in spect Drumliemount.

He recalled the sweet promises they had exchanged, the bright hopes and dauntless faith which had inspired him. And now ! — those bubbles were very beautiful, and their existence very brief. " Ah, my poor lass," he said, his eyes fixed dreamily on the sketch ; " you cannot know how much I loved you, or you would not have left me. You cannot guess how much my life was bound up in yours, or you would have forgiven me my sins against you, and tried to help me to accomplish some little part of my ambitious dream. So you would have made me a better man, and made me love you more. But the dreams were only dreams, and the reality is this !" He glanced round the room, in which furniture and books lying in confusion assumed to his fancy an air of desolation. He put the sketch away tenderly, and yet as if he could not bear the sight of it. He felt that it would do him good if his eyes would run with tears. But they were quite dry. 2 —

Chapter II

A PROBLEM. ||g|§jipjE looked back and saw what a little r|w|^l height he had gained in the great yilllli Work which he had set before him self to accomplish. He looked forward and saw the hills rise, height over height, until the goal was lost in the silver clouds of summer ; so utterly beyond his reach, that it seemed as if there were nothing for him to do but look upward yearning, and die. But this was the wicked prompting of de spair — it was weak and contemptible. There was something better to do than yield to this weakness ; he was bound to accept humbly and bravely the fate which was given to him, and to strive earnestly to do what was right and best under the circumstances, no matter what pain it cost him. He would try to do that. He examined the bed-room ; she had not taken any extra clothes with her.

He looked into a drawer where they kept small sums of money: she had not apparently taken any with her. Then she had not gone far, and she must travel on foot, or borrow a vehicle from some one who knew them. In that case they would soon trace her. He tried to fancy in what position she had been standing in the room ; then how she had descended to the ground floor. He followed the steps, and suddenly he remembered that low sob at his door. His pulse quickened to pain in the bitterness of chagrin that he had not sprung up and saved her. What fiend of evil humour had kept him in his seat at that moment? The sob echoed in his brain; he saw her with hands stretched towards him, pleading for pity and forgiveness ; he had been silent, and she faded away into the mist. " That is the true irony of fate — when it is busiest we are blindest," he muttered ; " God knows what mad act she may have been tempted to perpetrate, thinking my heart was changed towards her."

The cold sense of undefined fear again extinguished all angry thoughts regarding her. At the door he encountered the Laird, who had been for the last five minutes listening to Ailie's description of the calamity which had befallen them. The Laird was neat and spruce as usual, but the crows'-feet were more distinctly marked than they had been a few months ago, and any one seeing him now would have been able to make a near guess at his actual age. " So," he said, his hands clasped behind him on the knob of his riding-whip, which he swung between his legs as he spoke. " So, the honey is all eaten, and there's only the bitter wax left in the hive. This is an admirable comment upon your grand contempt for my worldly and selfish counsels — as you called them." " You counselled wisely, father, according to your view of things; I tried to act honestly, according to mine.

I have not repented — Teenie was a good wife." " Who the devil said she wasn't ? I think she was a splendid lass, and she would have made any man's home bright and pleasant, if he only gave her a fair chance. You cannot have done that." " I tried." " But trying is not enough — we must do. I am vexed about this squabble ; I like Teenie — why, her pretty ways almost per suaded me that it was worth while losing an old family home in order to learn what real affection was; and she showed it to me, whom she had no reason to value much. What have you been doing to drive her away?" " I cannot tell — I do not even know how the quarrel began ; but there were bitter words — the fault is mine." The Laird looked at him curiously, observed the restraint he placed upon himself, and the anguish he was suffering.

Then holding out his hand — " Wattie, my lad, you're down : I won't strike. I'm glad you are so ready to take the blame to yourself. That's right : and now we'll find the runaway, and give her a sound rating for frightening us all." Walter grasped the offered hand warmly. The two men had never thoroughly sym pathized with each other until that moment. They were drawn closer together than ever before, and they seemed to understand each other better. The circumstances of the disappearance were explained. " It is a puzzle to know where to look for her," said Dalmahoy, "but you take the horse, and make a circuit northward ; I'll take the gig, and go southward. We are sure to find somebody on the road who has seen her. What was the colour of her cloak ?" " Dark gray." " That's not very distinguishing.

Do you know what she had on her head ?" "A Leghorn hat, I believe, with a blue ribbon." " That's better. _Now off you go — we'll soon find her. She must take the road some where, and there are only about a dozen roads for her to choose from. I'll get a gig at the inn, instead of going back to Dalmahoy ; and, I say, you'd better tell the women-folk here to hold their tongues, for the fewer who know of this business, the more comfortable it will be for Teenie when she comes back." Walter saw the force of that suggestion ; indeed, one of the many disturbing thoughts roused by this escapade of Teenie, was that of the scandal which would spread through out the county. " The minister's wife run awa' — ay, sirs, but it's a queer world." He dreaded hearing that exclamation, although at first, in his anxiety to find her, he had been disposed to brave it.

But now, for her sake, he saw that it was best to keep the adventure as quiet as possible. He arranged with Ailie to take the letter to the clergyman, whose friendly help he had asked for the following day ; and he left a note for Grace, in the event of her calling during his absence. Then he set out upon his sad journey. He took the old coach road first, and the fleet foot of the horse was very slow to his eager spirit. He reached over the neck of the animal, as if that would bring him the sooner to his object. He drew up beside a stonebreaker, who was busy at work in a hollow by the roadside. "Were you out early this morning, my man ?" The man dropped his long shafted hammer, and took off his goggles to have a good look at his questioner, whom he recognized, for it was only about ten miles from Rowanden.

"Ay, I was out at six." " Many folks passed this way ?" "Oo, ay, plenty folk; there was Brunton's cattleman ; and there was a drove o' sheep, with the shepherd and twa dogs ; and now there's yoursel'." "You did not see any — women-folk ?' " Never a petticoat, and there's no ane like to pass without me seeing it. But there was twa strapping queans passed yesterday wi' their kists in a cart, flitting from Broomie knowe." " Thank you.' " Oo, you're walcome. He passed on, up to Farmer Brunton's, where his inquiries met with the same result. Then he cut across country, pursued his search in a number of surrounding villages, visited strange farmhouses, and inquired at the cots of the labourers. Occasionally he found a woman at home in the cottages, who, after the first shyness and doubt as to the object of the inquirer, became loquacious enough about everything that had happened during the past fortnight — how the " clock ing " hen had brought forth thirteen ducks, and was " rale proud o' the decking ;" how the sow's litter was likely to do weel ; and how the cow had calved in the middle of the night, and nearly died.

But generally he found in the cots only the bairns, whose parents were out at work, whilst the household was left under the charge of a chubby matron of eight or ten years. The result was the same in every instance: he obtained not the least hint about Teenie. The day passed into gloaming, gloaming into night, and still he was apparently as far as ever from the object of his quest. There was a curious stillness in the at mosphere, as if portending another storm. The occasional chirp of birds, the call of a man to his horses as he led them home, or a brief snatch of a milkmaid's song, mellowed and endowed with peculiar charm by place and time, were the only sounds which broke upon the quietude of the evening. There was a melancholy feeling inspired in him by this awful stillness of nature. As the shadows darkened upon them, the mighty mountains impressed him with a sense of eerie solitude and grandeur.