Out of her Shroud

Front matter

[All Rights Reserved.] By HENRY OCHILTREE AUTHOR OF "REDBURN" LONDON ADAM & CHARLES BLACK CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. AT THE MILL ...... 7 II. A STEP IN THE DARK ..... 27 III. A DISCOVERY ...... 44 IV. ALL FOR LOVE ...... 54 V. A STUDENT OF TRINITY . . . -73 VI. AT THE MERMAID ..... 84 VII. AN ASSEMBLY OF THE OLD DAYS . . . IO3 VIII. CITY EXPERIENCES . . . . .123 IX. AT THE MERMAID AGAIN . . . I38 X. BAILIE DUFF'S SECRET ..... 156 XI. MORNING EXPERIENCES — A PLOT . . . I67 XII. THE BURNING OF THE PLAYHOUSE . . . 182 XIII. REFLECTIONS AFTER THE PLAY . . .195 XIV. A NEW MUSICAL BOX ..... 207 XV. MAKING ENDS MEET . . . ' . . 217 XVI. COMING TO THE RESCUE . . . .231 XVII. CROSSING THE BAR ..... 24O XVIII. A THROW AT A VENTURE .... 249 XIX. MONA MAKES HER DEBUT .... 258 XX. A TRAGEDY ...... 269 CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE XXI.

UNDER COMPULSION ..... 284 XXII. A LAST WILL AND TESTIMONY . . -293 XXIII. A FACE AT THE WINDOW .... 307 XXIV. REVELATIONS IN THE MERMAID . . . 321 XXV. IN SEARCH ...... 336 XXVI. IN DROOL VALLEY ..... 350 XXVII. A RESURRECTION ..... 361 XXVIII. OFF TO BALLYMAHONE ....

Chapter I At The Mill Earl's

Glen is situated far up among the Cringate Hills, and through it flows the swiftly bounding Water of Carvon. The hills themselves are neither lofty nor picturesque, but mossy and heather-grown, they are as weird and desolate as God made them at the first ; and the Glen, dotted with sleepy farmhouses and cotters' dwellings at wide intervals, has an aspect gloomy in the extreme. There are few other places where the rain falls more heavily or the sun shines more fiercely, where the wind blows in greater hurricanes or the snow drift lies more deeply. All day long during the season of summer the lapwing screams, and the timid curlew pipes her eerie notes on lea and meadow-land. In the early morning the dark-brown moorcocks bicker ; and when the sun shines, the bees and other heather insects keep up a continual hum ming.

Added to these gentle signs of life and activity, the shrill call or whistle of a shepherd helps to subdue the native gloom of the Glen. Beyond these slight aspects of nature's generosity, the dreary solitude is not any otherwise relieved. Notwithstanding that fact, it is said that the in habitants make money as fast as the bees make honey — the farmers by dealing in little rough-horned sheep and black cattle, the cotters by prudent industry in the making of weavers' " thread-pirns," which they turn out in large quantities from the hard birchwood indigenous to the craggy slopes of their native hills ; but, unlike their prototype, they spend it not in winter, so that they have grown rich during the passing generations. For three centuries or more the Glen has known little change. The stream of human life flows on the same as it ever did, sleepy and unruffled.

The bald, rugged scars and crags, the bounding river, the grassy meadows, the ling and heather, black cattle and horned sheep, are there as of yore, unchanged to human perceptions. The mill-wheel at Netherton turns to-day as it did three centuries ago, and the lade which drives it, rush-grown now and slimy with mud, is yet not otherwise altered after the wear of years. Netherton is beautifully situated on a slight eminence just above the brow of the river. Old fashioned, with small windows, low ceilings, and whitewashed walls, it looks very quaint among its elm and fir trees. In the days of Morton Sibbald it was considered very gay and grand. Morton Sibbald was a strange-minded kind of person who very seldom in his peregrinations passed the bounds of his own lands. His chief and daily occupation was to walk round his sheep pastures, and on his return to sit with folded arms on a spur of rock, watching the turning of the wheel, while the men hoisted or lowered sacks of grain and meal from the high mill-door.

Withal, he was fond of conversation when he chanced to find congenial company. While he spoke, he usually kept his face towards his auditors and spoke at them rather than to them, strongly, earnestly, even when he discussed the most commonplace topics. In many ways, despite his strange manner, he was very popular at the mill, and people used to look in frequently as they passed, either to tell or be told some new thing. Accordingly he received news from the north and the south, the east and the west. He also read a great deal, devouring every book he could lay hands on ; and thus waxed great in knowledge and wisdom — so much so that his finding was con sidered final on most things. Morton Sibbald, therefore, was a man who felt a deep interest in the affairs of the world, notwithstanding his abrupt and at times morose manner.

People who knew him well said he had never been the same man since the day he laid his young wife in the cold clay of the Earl's Churchyard. The wrench which her death made in his heart had changed him entirely. He had been seldom seen to smile since, and all his former humour had disappeared. He had become eager and nervously earnest in all things, and, when put to it, "dour as a door-nail." He had one object of supreme interest and care, however, his only child, a little girl of five years at the time of her mother's death. In Mona, for that was her name, he saw the image of his wife reflected, and it comforted his heart greatly to behold it. Always at meal - time he watched the play of her features with heartfelt pride, and used to tell her she was her mother's lass, how like she was to her, and many things he remembered fondly and sadly of his wife's sayings and doings — strongly desiring to keep alive in the girl's mind the memory of her who had borne her.

As the years passed, the girl's resemblance to her mother became more and more marked, much to the ever-increasing delight of her father. Slowly, but surely, he saw the return of his wife in the form and face of his daughter, — the same rounded arms and snowy hands, the arched forehead and dimpled chin, — and a new gladness like unto the old swelled his heart. Gradually a smile began now and then to lighten his face, and people heard him at an odd time make a joke, and marvelled. Only in one point did the maternal likeness fail. This characteristic also became more marked with the increase of years, and partly brought anxiety into Morton's breast. Some times it alarmed him. It was the wild, unsettled flash of his daughter's eyes. They were eyes full of passion and romance, and danced in her head like animated diamonds.

Many years had now passed, and Mona had become a tall, stately lass of eighteen summers, well versed in letters, and of bewitching conversation. This was also a source of great delight to her parent who had entrusted her education to the care of an aged and learned divine. In all respects he was satisfied with his daughter's accomplishments in letters, in music, and in the art of housekeeping ; and now his thoughts turned to the possibilities of her future. She was capable of occupying a high place in the world and doing honour to it. Indeed, he thought she might make as good a marriage as any lady in the land, and he would be pleased to give her such a dowry as few could boast of. There was the young laird of Ellrigg than whom he could desire no better match for his only child. It would be the greatest pleasure in his life to witness a union between these young people.

Indeed, Morton Sibbald had already some good ground for hoping that the desire which he piously entertained would be realised, for Ralph Hardie of Ellrigg Castle had of late become a constant visitor at the mill, finding often an excuse in the most trifling matters for his presence there. He had noticed, too, how the pleasurable blush suffused the young man's cheek when Mona drew nigh to speak a word, or made a pretty curtsey as she rose from her chair to welcome him into the house. Affairs remained pretty much in this way for a considerable time. Ralph made his regular visits to the mill — still continuing to blush and stammer when he met Mona, for he was a remarkably bashful young man ; while she on her part continued to curtsey, as at the first, but retaining all through a certain reserved and icy manner.

At times she felt bored by his presence, but, on the whole, enjoyed his companion ship tolerably well. For some time Morton had noticed that matters were not progressing so favourably as he would have liked. Indeed, the relationship between his daughter and the laird of Ellrigg remained, so far as he knew, exactly in the same position as at the first. What observations he had been able to make only revealed the truth that the fault lay entirely on the side of his daughter ; and so he let no opportunity pass of stating in her presence what " a fell guid fallow " was Ralph. How often she had heard these words fall from her father's lips she could not tell ; at anyrate, she grew more and more tired of their repetition, and, as a rule, began to yawn when her father broke out in praise of Ralph.

Worse than all, she had become conscious of a deep-seated desire in her own heart to escape from the solitary wilds of the Earl's Glen. Frequently she wandered away up the hill slopes and by the banks of the river, to widen, if possible, the bounds of her own little world. It chanced one day that she wandered farther than usual, for seldom did her peregrinations carry her beyond the Hermitage, which was situated on a shoot of rock that overhung the river ; but to-day she found herself a good stretch below the Hermitage, sitting on a bank of sandstone by the water's edge. For long she idly watched the straws and rushes that had been caught in a whirling eddy, tossing in the white foam. Suddenly she was roused from her reverie by the appearance of a man bounding over the jagged rocks with a rod and line in his hand.

When he came near, he doffed his hat and bowed low, a politeness which she nattily returned. She watched how deftly he plied his rod, how easy were all his movements. It was exceedingly pleasant only to watch, and so she waited until he landed one fish, then another, and an other, and so on until he had half a dozen goodly trout lying on the bank. Nor was she blind to the fact that while his eye eagerly followed the flies of his line over the surface of the water, it also darted cunning side glances at herself. She wondered how it was she felt inwardly pleased by these attentions, but did not try to find any explanation. Only she desired to watch a little longer the stranger ply his line. For some reason, however, which she had not yet dis covered, he wound it up and laid his rod on the bank.

Now she resolved to go away, but as she rose, she heard the softest, pleasantest voice she thought she had ever heard. " Pardon me, madam, if I intrude, but by accepting this small parcel of fish you will bestow upon me a favour which I shall consider great," said the angler, at the same time holding out the parcel referred to. " You are very kind, sir," replied Mona, while she dropped one of her most elegant curtseys, "but I hesitate to accept a favour so unmerited." " Excuse me, madam, but I think the favour is all the other way. Permit me, if you please ; " and he again bowed. " If I knew from whom I were asked to receive this handsome gift, I might have less hesitation in doing so," she replied, with an arch smile that made her even more beautiful than before. " My name is Frederick Anton, at your service, music-master, Edinburgh."

" I thank you, Master Anton, for your kindness, though in what way I am to repay you I do not yet perceive." " By coming here to-morrow at the same hour and receiving a similar gift." Mona smiled happily at the compliment, " Do you come here every day ? " " Every day for a week to come," he replied. " You are a music-master, you say ? " " That is so." " How can you stay away so long from your music? Don't you feel lonely without it?" " I should not like it always ; but it is pleasant for a little, especially when one gets such splendid fishing. Are you fond of music yourself?" " Oh, I think it the most divine gift that man has received from the Creator. I never think I live at all, truly live, except when I listen to some beautiful melody." " I am glad you think so. It is my opinion too. Oh, must you go now ?

" "Yes. I fear my father will be feeling lonely by this time." "That is thoughtful. Shall I expect you, then, for some trout to-morrow ? " " If I walk abroad to-morrow, I shall probably find you here. I delight to see fishing when it is well done." The stranger bowed at the compliment, and Mona took her way homeward, thinking all the while about flies and lines and the handsome young man who could ply them so deftly. Sometimes she unfolded the fish she had received, from their bundle of rashes, and looked at them with a certain pride ; and alto gether she experienced a new kind of sensation which was certainly more pleasant than otherwise. Whatever it was, it exerted a strong influence over her, for already she had resolved to go back on the following day, only, of course, to watch the art of angling in its perfection and to hear the interesting stranger discourse on music.

And so it was that Mona was constrained to visit on the morrow that shady part of the river which had now become hallowed in her eyes. For the same reasons she made a daily pilgrimage to the same spot for many more days to come ; and Frederick Anton in some mysterious way found it congenial to his tastes to prolong his stay in those parts far beyond the time he had anticipated. Meanwhile, Ralph Hardie kept up his regular visitation at the mill, blushing and stammering more than ever, while Mona continued to curtsey only more distantly and coldly. During these days the expression on Morton Sibbald's face became graver and gloomier. One evening at the gloaming, as it happened, he sat on the spur of rock near the water-wheel, gazing blankly at the rush of water as it bounded down its rocky channel ; Mona was near him, half-reclining on a disused millstone, with a piece of some linen stuff, which she had been sewing, neatly folded up lying on her lap.

" Mona," said the father, suddenly turning towards his daughter with a quiver in his voice. "Yes, father," replied Mona inquiringly, seeing that he spoke with hesitation and considerable emotion. " You are my only child, my only hope and joy. I've seen ye grow up frae bairnhood to womanhood. First ye were my bonnie, sweet wee lass, wi' rosy cheeks, and blithely did I cuddle ye and feel your round, fat arms circle round my neck ; and then your mither gaed awa', — it's a' fresh afore me yet ; sair, sair it was to bide, and my heart has ne'er been the same sin' syne, — she gaed awa', and you were a' that was left me. You were aye a guid bairn, and the big lowe ye kindled in my breast got aye the bigger, and I was proud to see ye loupin' ower the lea wi' the lambs, friskin' like ane o' themsel's. Then when ye were a bit slip o' a lass, wi' your hair a' fleein in the wind and your een dancin' i' your head, I saw your mither's very image, and richt glad I was.

It was like the auld days come back again. Noo ye're a big, braw woman, — a' the woman ye'll e'er be, — and ye're as like her as ae pea is like anither. I've lived to see't. It's an answer to my prayers, and my heart's desire is satisfied ; but there's juist ae thing yet I'd like to mak' me happy. Ye see I'm growin' auld, and the grey hairs are thick aboot my chafts. In the nature o' things I'll be awa' afore ye, and gin ye were settled doon in a hoose o' your ain, wi' a guid true love to care for ye, my very heart wad loup wi'joy. Ye see my meaning, d'ye? It's been a fyke1 in my mind for a lang time, and I thocht I'd speak o't the nicht. Na, dinna answer juist yet. Hear my story oot, and then I'll hearken till ye as lang's ye like. Oor guid neighbour, Ralph Hardie, as ye maun see for yersel', — a richt guid fallow he is, and weel come, — comes aft aboot the mill noo.

It's no' aye to 1 Fyke — troublous thing. crack wi' me he comes, I trow, although he's nane the less welcome for a' that. His een's aye glancin' ower ye, and weel I wat he has a big place for ye in that great heart o' his. D'ye no' think ye could look the same airt as he does? An ye could think o't, ye'd gladden your auld faither's heart. I could then join your mither on the ither side wi' muckle peace and joy. I've putten my story afore ye, and noo I'll hearken till ye as lang's ye like." There were tears in Mona's large eyes as she listened to her father's earnest entreaty, and the mention of her mother's name brought a wistful longing to her eyes. She said not a word in reply, but nervously fingered the corner of her seam. " Hae ye naething to say to me ava, lass ? " he continued, with much affection and tenderness.

" Father, I could speak, but my words will not be welcome to your ears. I have tried to be a faithful and dutiful daughter. Had it been any other request you had made, it would already have been granted. Ralph is very good, and is kindness itself; but I can never give him the love he deserves, never — I know it." " It gars my heart stound to hear ye speak that gait. I'd set my heart sae sair on't, I hardly ken whaur I'm sitting. By and by ye micht think better o't. Time works miracles, ye ken. It's been a desire I've had lang and eager. There couldna be a better match, as our godly minister says. He tells me the blessing o' heaven would be on't." " You're my father, dear to me beyond aught else. I love you as a daughter should ; but it cannot be. I love another, and my heart has no place but for him alone."

" Weary fa' me ! I've had sair trouble in my life time, but this is the sairest trial o' ony. I was fear'd for what you've telt me noo, and till my deein' day I'll ne'er agree till 't. It'll be a black mote on my conscience till a' eternity that I let ye wander a' your lane doon the waterside. I have faith in Providence, though, and I trow it'll come richt yet. We'll say nae mair the noo, but I hae juist ae ither request, that ye'll think and pray ower 't for a while. Will ye promise that ? " " Yes, that request I'll grant. For your sake I'll think and pray over it." Already the weeks had sped, but during the interval Morton Sibbald made no reference whatever to the conversation which had passed between his daughter and himself regarding her future welfare. Mona thought he had banished the subject from his mind, but still a cloud hung over his forehead, and there was an expression about his mouth she did not like.

He sat more constantly on the spur of rock near the mill-wheel, and spoke hardly ever a word, so that strangers coming about the mill began to say that the miller had become a man of few words. Others, who had known him for a longer time, said "he was aye a dull kind o' body a' his days." The days were fast shortening, and the autumnal winds in the evenings played eerie music among the trees, delightful to Mona's soul. It was on one of these evenings that there came a knock to the door. Mona was lost in a pleasant reverie. Her spirit was away on the breast of the sighing winds ; while her father gazed abstractedly at the rushlight which burned dimly on a little table in front of the awmrie. A second knock sounded hollow in the stone-flagged hall before either of them had been sufficiently aroused to realise the meaning of the first.

Presently the serving - woman opened the parlour door and announced the arrival of the young laird of Ellrigg. He bowed as he entered, and at length stuttered out some sort of " Good evening." The miller was profuse in his welcome, but Mona's face became very pale ; she held out her hand without rising, and the tone of her voice was cold. During the evening her manner considerably thawed. The conversation was interesting in a way, — it was mainly about sheep and black cattle and the quality and prices of "yits." On these and other topics her father had grown eloquent and enthusiastic, while the young laird said " amen " to everything, and laughed loud and long at the jokes. When supper was served, there came a lull, and the talk became forced and stilted. They had just finished the evening meal when the miller assumed a grave aspect of countenance.

He appeared nervous and fidgety. Looking toward his daughter, who sat at the head of the table, he began, with a very perceptible tremble in his voice — " Mona, a while back ye promised me to think and pray ower a solemn matter that we spak' o' ootby at the mill-wheel there. I wad sair wrang ye as a faithfu' dauchter, gin I were to hint that it's ne'er cost ye a thocht, for I hae seen wi' my ain een that ye've been byeless thrang wi' the Holy Buik. Ilka day ye hae fingered it a round score o' times, and my heart is brimfu' o' joy the nicht to think on't. It's no' for me to say anither word. Oor guid friend Ralph is here himsel' : I'll leave him to tell his ain tale ; " and with these words he flashed his glowing eyes on Ralph, who sat with his head slightly inclined over the table, and a bright red colour on his neck and cheeks.

When he heard these last words of the miller, he grew still redder about the face, and, rubbing his hands nervously, looked sidewise at the girl and said, in little more than an undertone — " Will you be my wife, Mona ? " He spoke very earnestly, and when he had asked the question, he heaved a great sigh of relief, as if he felt that he had accomplished a big work, and was glad it was finished. He was not a little disconcerted, however, when the girl replied, in a firm yet quiet voice, that it was impossible. He sat bolt upright in his seat, and stared first at Mona, and then at her father. Nor could there be the slightest doubt that he was taken by surprise. The possibility of a refusal had never dawned on his mind, nor did he yet quite understand that he had received a refusal in answer to his proposal.

The wave of surprise that passed over the laird's face was nothing, however, when compared with the look of astonishment that possessed the old man's. He became suddenly ashy pale ; his lips quivered, and for a few seconds his eyes remained rigid in their sockets. The next moment he had risen to his feet. " Mona ! " he shouted, almost at the pitch of his voice, and trembling from head to foot ; " though ye're my ain dauchter, — and the Almichty kens I lo'e ye better than my ain soul, — ye'll no' defy me in my ain hoose. Though ye were as dour as the Muckle Binn, and as haughty as it is heigh, ye'll yield obedience to me this nicht, or something waur will happen." The girl also rose to her feet. Her hand rested on the high back of the chair. She was white as marble, and all the muscles of her face became stiff.

" Father, this is unseemly, " she replied, with marvellous calmness. " You wrongly accuse me." " Hush ! " he shouted ; " not another word. Not even my only child will dare speak to me like that." " Be calm, sir," interposed the younger man. " I would gladly woo and win your daughter, but not by force. It would be too much like leading her in a tether-string — a ramsh * pleasure, though the clover were e'er so sweet." " She must obey. I've set my heart on 't. I'd bury her wi' greater pleasure than see her marry that town-bred fiddler — a gangrel, a scoundrel ; " and he hissed the words through his teeth, so that the foam gathered on his lips. "Father, father," she entreated, "will you not hear me? I will stay with you always. I will never leave you, only do not" — "Silence! I will hear nothing.

I have already said "— 1 Ramsh — coarse, " Master Sibbald, you do sorely wrong yourself, and Mona too. I cannot bide the sight of such a tulzie.1 Believe me, I would rather woo the lass myself with a silken cord, than have her broken in with a thick bridle-bit and long sharp rowels." The miller spoke not in reply, but still his lips quivered and his eyes flashed fire. " Mona," began Ralph, turning to the object of his love with more than usual courage, " I love you as well as ever man loved woman, but I would rather be rolled in my shroud than break your heart by forcing you into an alliance which your heart rebels at. I'm but a blunt fellow, that knows more about crossing swords and slitting the throats of reevers than making love ; but gin you should think different o't by and by, I'll tell you what — you'll find as bield a bit at Ellrigg to build your nest as any place in braid Scotland, and one there that likes the very ground you tread on."

" You are very good, Master Hardie, and I am much your debtor. Were I to attempt to thank you, my words would be but a feeble expression of what I feel. I shall, therefore, only say that I feel your kindness keenly, but at the same time I hope you will pardon me when I also say I must reject your offer, as my heart and conscience alike command me." 1 Tulzie — strife. " Mona ! " her father burst out, even more furiously than before ; " if the sun, moon, and stars should fall and consume me, I forbid you to" — " Hold there, sir ! " demanded the young laird, springing to his feet. "There was never deeper or stronger friendship than between thee and me ; but, sir, as a man I am bound to protect your daughter, even from her father. Mona has given her answer, as any fair lady should. She must not, and will not, therefore, suffer on my account, at least if I can help it.

Whatever change may be wrought in her affections in time to come lies in the hands of Providence alone, not in yours or mine. Sir, if it be your will, let us turn to other subjects of conversation less fruitful of high words and strong feeling. And, madam," he continued, turning to Mona, " while I regret that you cannot share the same feelings with myself, yet I thank you for your courtesy." Mona thanked him graciously, but her father lay down on a broad couch that stood near the wall, breathing heavily, but saying not a word. Long after Ralph had departed, and Mona had gone to rest for the night, he still lay on the couch, wrapped in moody thoughts.

Chapter II

A STEP IN THE DARK ON the following morning, Morton Sibbald made his usual round of the sheep pasture, and on his return took up his position, as was his wont, on the boulder near the wheel. There, for the best part of the day he sat with his legs crossed and a dark cloud on his face. The men of the mill marvelled at the strange aspect of his countenance, for they had never seen so dark a shadow on their master's brow heretofore, but each kept his own counsel, fearing to remark on the matter, and feeling much sorrow, for, after all was said, Master Sibbald was a good man and a kind master. When many days had gone past they became accustomed to the strangeness of his manner and appearance, for during all that time the cloud had never lifted from his brow, nor was there a ray of sunshine in his whole countenance.