"Listen to me," said Chatterton. "It is time I spoke plainly. I have been called a hard man, but I hope I am equally just, and I had to fight desperately for a foothold at the beginning. Well, I kept a mental ledger, and no man ever robbed or assisted me but I made against his name a debit or credit entry. Some of those debts were heavy, but in due time I paid them back in full."

For a moment Chatterton certainly looked a hard man as he shut his hand slowly, and with a very grim expression in his heavy-jawed visage, stared steadily at Dane. Then the grimness vanished as he added:

"There is still a sum standing to the credit of Henry Dane, and I feel ashamed often that I have let it stand so long. There is still one way in which you could help me wipe it off, if none of those mentioned already suits you. My niece will not leave me dowerless – and – for if it had not been so I should not have spoken – you expressed your admiration pretty openly some years ago."

Dane had no enviable task before him, but, remembering his compact, he was determined to accomplish it, even if it should be necessary to use a little brutality.

"I am afraid I see two somewhat important objections, sir," he answered quietly. "In the first place, it is not apparent that the lady approves of me."

"Pshaw!" said Chatterton. "When I was your age I never allowed such trifles to daunt me. You surely did not expect her to say she had been patiently waiting for you?"

"I think I mentioned two objections, sir, and the second is of almost equal importance," Dane responded gravely. "I am at present a poor man, you see."

Thomas Chatterton faced round on him again with his jaw protruded, and a deeper hue in his generally sufficiently florid countenance.

"You need not be, unless you are fond of poverty. You mean – "

"That a boy and girl attachment seldom lasts long – on either side."

Chatterton moved a few paces forward, with the dry cough which those who knew his temper recognized as a danger signal, then wheeled round upon his heel and strode toward the house; and Dane noticed that he kicked an unoffending dog he usually fondled.

As luck would have it, the next person Dane met was Lilian, and she looked very winsome as she stood bareheaded under the morning sunshine in her thin white dress. Dane's lips set tight as he watched her, then suddenly his face softened again.

"I am glad to see you recovering, Hilton," she greeted him. "That hat hides my bandages nicely. Do you feel able to walk slowly over to Culmeny with me to-day?"

It was a tantalizing question: Dane felt not only able but very willing to walk across the breadth of Scotland in Lilian Chatterton's company. He feared however, that his moral strength would prove unequal to the strain the excursion might impose, for it was growing very difficult to observe the conditions of the indefinite compact.

"I am very sorry, but I have letters to write," he said.

Lilian Chatterton was a trifle quick-tempered, and though Dane knew it, and considered it not a fault but a characteristic, he wondered at the ways of women as she answered:

"I could not, of course, expect you to delay your correspondence, which is no doubt important. Have you run out of those new powder cartridges?"

Dane felt that, under the circumstances, this was particularly hard on him, but he smiled dryly.

"The correspondence relates to my departure for London. I want you to listen, Lilian. I have just had an interview with your uncle, which makes my absence appear desirable. Perhaps you can guess its purport, and the gist of what he said."

The clear rose-color deepened a little in the girl's cheeks, but she answered steadily.

"I will admit the possibility. The most important question is what you said to him."

Now Dane had not only subdued mutinous alien laborers, and held them to their task, but he had even been complimented by a South American Spaniard upon the incisive vocabulary which helped him to accomplish it. Nevertheless, at that moment he felt almost abject, and found speech of any kind very difficult.

"Are you ashamed of your answer?" asked the girl.

"I am," Dane admitted. "There was, however, only one way in which I could satisfy Mr. Chatterton without running the risk of allowing him to apply considerable misdirected energy to the task of convincing a second person. Therefore, though I did not like it, I took that way. He was not pleased with me."

"You told him – " Lilian began, coloring still more.

"I did," said Dane grimly. "Horribly unflattering, wasn't it; but it was the best I could do for you."

The girl first experienced a wholly illogical desire to humiliate the speaker; but, recognizing the unreasonableness of this, she reflected a moment, and then laughed mirthlessly.

"It should certainly prove effective. Still, a woman would have found a neater way out of the difficulty!"

Lilian left him, and when the man passed out of earshot into the shrubbery, he used a few pointed and forbidden adjectives in connection with what he termed his luck.

He was leaning moodily upon a gate, looking down on a sunlit stubble-field the following afternoon, when the next link was forged in the chain of circumstances which, beginning with Chatterton's fishing, would drag him through strange adventures. There was late honeysuckle on the hedges, and festoons of warm-tinted straw. Running water sang soothingly beneath the pine branches overhanging a neighboring hollow; while all the wide vista of river, moor, and fell was mellowed by the golden autumn haze. Dane, however, was far from happy. He was in no way jealous of Carsluith Maxwell, which was perhaps surprising; but, in addition to his other troubles, it did not please him that the latter should have accompanied Miss Chatterton home on foot from Culmeny. They had also been an inordinate time over the journey.

Presently, a little brown-faced child came pattering barefooted down the lane, and stopping, glanced at him shyly, as though half afraid. She was a pretty, elfish little thing, though her well-mended garments betokened industrious poverty. She apparently gathered courage when the man smiled at her.

"Whom are you staring so hard at, my little maid?" said he.

The child fished out a strip of folded paper from somewhere about her diminutive person, and held it up to him.

"Ye will be the Mr. Dane who's staying at The Larches?"

Dane nodded, and the girl glanced up and down the lane suspiciously.

"Then Sis telt me to give ye this when there was naebody to see."

"And who is your sister, and what's it all about?" asked Dane; and the little thing smiled roguishly.

"Just Mary Johnstone. Maybe it would tell ye gin ye lookit inside it, sir."

She vanished the next moment, with a patter of bare feet, leaving Dane to stare blankly at the folded paper.

"Now, who is Mary Johnstone, and what can she want with me?" he wondered, as he prepared to follow the child's advice and read the missive. When this had been done, however, he was not greatly enlightened.

"I'm taking a great liberty," it ran. "I am in great trouble, and you are the one person who can help me. If you would not have two little children go hungry all winter, you will meet me by the planting at Hallows Brig in the gloaming to-morrow. I saw you at The Larches, and thought I could trust you."

"Very confiding of Miss Johnstone, whoever she is, but I'm thankful my conscience is clear," thought Dane. It was unfortunate that he did not obey the first impulse which prompted him to destroy the note. Instead of this, he lighted another cigar, and sat down to consider the affair.

Just then the local constable, who on an eventful occasion had also stuck fast in the hedge, came tramping through the stubble with elephantine gait.

"Grand weather the day, sir," he beamed. "Ye will have heard we grippit the man who broke yere heid."

"I'm summoned as a witness; but who is Mary Johnstone?" asked Dane. "You should know everybody about here."

"Old Rab Johnstone's daughter; and that's no great credit to the lass. Rab's overfond of the whisky, and never does nothing when he can help it, which is gey often, I'm thinking. The daughter's a hard working lass – sews for the gentlefolks; and she and her brither between them keep the two mitherless bairns fed. It's him we've got in the lock-up for breaking yere heid."

"Oh," said Dane, as a light dawned upon him. "Then Mary Johnstone would be the pretty, light-haired girl I saw sewing for Miss Chatterton?"

"That same, sir," answered the constable, with professional alacrity. "Miss Chatterton has missed nothing, has she?"

"Of course not!" Dane said impatiently. "I was only inquiring out of curiosity. You need not mention it. Would this coin be of any use to you?"

The official admitted that it might be; but when he appeared to smother a bovine chuckle, Dane turned upon him.

"What the deuce is amusing you so?"

"Naething, sir," the man answered sheepishly. "I'm taken that way whiles in hot weather."

The constable furnished further particulars about the poacher's family before he departed; and Dane, reflecting that his must be the most damaging testimony against the prisoner, understood why Mary Johnstone had sent for him. It was perhaps foolish, but the child's face had attracted him; and deciding that the lot of the pretty seamstress, struggling to bring up her sisters under the conditions mentioned, must be a hard one at the best, he resolved at least to hear what she had to say.

CHAPTER V
THE TRYST AT HALLOWS BRIG

It was a clear, cool evening when Carsluith Maxwell leaned on the rails of a footbridge which spanned the river, looking up at the old place of Culmeny. It rose from the stony hillside, a straggling pile of time-worn masonry, with all its narrow windows aflame with the evening light, and the green of ivy softening its rugged simplicity. A square tower formed its major portion, and this had been built with no pretense at adornment in troubled days when the Maxwells had won and held their possessions with the mailed hand. They had been, for the most part, soldiers of fortune, and their descendant recalled the traditions of his race as, turning, he looked south and east across the shining flood-tide toward the Solway sands.

More of his forbears had, when there was scarcity at Culmeny – which was generally the case – ridden that way in steel cap and dinted harness than ever rode back, and Carsluith Maxwell had hitherto fulfilled the family destiny, chancing his life in modern ventures where the risks were perhaps as heavy as any the old moss-troopers ran. Now, however, he had come to a turning-point in his career, and that night must decide whether he applied his energies to the slow conversion of barren mosses into arable land, or went forth again to seek his fortune over seas. The wandering life appealed to his instincts; and fortune had not wholly evaded him; but he had recognized of late that unless he could share it with one woman, even prosperity would have little value for him. There was a trace of melancholy almost akin to superstition in his nature, and it was with a curious smile that he turned toward Culmeny to put his fate to the test. If Lilian Chatterton would not listen, it was high time to begin his search for the African mine.

In the meantime, Hilton Dane sat in the hall of Culmeny waiting for a word with Maxwell, and also until it was time to keep his appointment at the Hallows Brig. Three narrow, diamond-paned windows with rose lights in the crown of their lancets pierced one end of the hall, and the fading sunlight beating through, forced up into brightness the pale-tinted dresses of his companions. They were young and comely women, and, because the rest of the dark-paneled room was wrapped in shadow, neither face nor dainty figure suffered from being silhouetted against a somber background. A cluster of late roses in a silver bowl, and the tawny skin of an African leopard on the polished floor, both touched by the tinted gleam, formed by contrast glowing patches of color. Nevertheless, Dane's eyes most often rested upon Lilian Chatterton, who sat near an open window with a ruddy glory blazing in her hair, while the dark oak behind it emphasized the delicate chiseling of her face. There was a stamp of decision upon it as well as refinement.

"Is it not wonderfully peaceful to-night?" she said, glancing out across the velvet lawn. A few roses still flowered along one side of it, a tall clipped hedge hemmed it in, and, beyond the lawn, fir wood, yellow stubble, and meadow rolled down to the silver shining of the sea. The whole lay steeped in the sunset, serenely beautiful; but the black shadow of the firs lengthened rapidly across the grass.

"You are all very silent," the girl continued. "Why does not somebody agree with me? Don't you think it peaceful, Margaret? This might be an enchanted garden, and yonder hedge a barrier impassable to care. It is good to talk nonsense occasionally; and to-night one could almost fancy that no cause for trouble might enter here."

As she spoke, Dane noticed that the gloom of the firs had swallowed most of the lawn, and the coincidence struck him as an unfortunate augury. Lilian had known little of either sorrow or care; and having learned by painful experience that the balance of light and darkness is determined by immutable law, the man trembled for her.

Margaret Maxwell laughed a little.

"You are distinctly fanciful. Culmeny has seen very little of either peace or prosperity. The spot where this very garden stands was once worn down by the hoofs of stolen cattle, and the feet of armed men bent on exterminating the gentle Maxwells who plundered them. We also read that the serpent entered Eden, and have the authority of Milton and others for picturing the Prince of Darkness as a somewhat courtly gentleman; while one notices that when there is unusual harmony, trouble not infrequently follows the advent of a man. It is a coincidence, but that ditty should herald Carsluith's coming."

A voice rose out of the adjoining meadow chanting a plaintive ditty in an unknown tongue. The air resembled nothing Lilian had heard before, and she leaned forward listening, for the refrain, pitched in a mournful minor key, was equally striking.

"I did not know your brother sang so well; but I do not like that song. It strikes one as uncanny," she said.

Margaret Maxwell nodded.

"It is West African, and that, I understand, is an uncanny country. My brother spent some time there. He really sings – as he does most things when he thinks it worth while, which is not always – tolerably well."

The song died away as Carsluith Maxwell came lightly across the lawn, and Dane noticed that the last of the sunlight faded and the shadows shut in both himself and Lilian Chatterton when the newcomer entered through the open window.

"I did not know I had such an audience, or I should have been too diffident to play the nightingale," Maxwell laughed.

"Miss Chatterton did not like your song, though she admired its rendering," said Margaret mischievously. "But what put that doleful composition into your head to-night?"

"Association of ideas, most probably," answered Maxwell, with a smile on his lips, but none in his eyes. "I met the post-carrier, and must decide forthwith whether I shall follow up my African scheme or not. It is curious, but by the same token I'm standing with my heel on the neck of the leopard, and I feel inclined to say God send it be a true augury. You have your foot upon him, too, Miss Chatterton; and that is a very ill-omened beast."

"How so?" asked Lilian. "It cannot be very large or terrible, to judge by its skin."

"It holds a country larger than Scotland in terror," replied Maxwell. "There are whole tribes of black men who tremble at the sight of a tuft of leopard's fur."

"As an insignia, I suppose; but the beast is clearly vulnerable." Lilian stooped and pointed to the fur. "Surely that is the work of a bullet."

"You have keen eyes," said Maxwell. "The taxidermist did his best to hide it. That hole was made when I first pitted myself against the leopard by shooting one to convince my carriers the thing was mortal. For some time I suspected that was the beginning of a duel."

"And now?" interposed his sister, with a trace of anxiety.

"Now I almost hope I was mistaken," said Carsluith Maxwell. "With your permission, I have one or two things to see to, and should like a word with Hilton."

They went out together, and presently Dane returned alone to bid Miss Maxwell adieu.

"You have been very patient during the last hour," said that lady. "Now that you have seen Carsluith, one could not, of course, expect too much from you."

"I have been very self-indulgent," said Dane, who had seen the elfish child again and promised to meet his correspondent. "Still, there is a limit to everybody's opportunities for enjoyment, and unfortunately I must tear myself away."

Margaret Maxwell glanced at him sharply, for she fancied that he spoke with sincerity, as indeed he did; but Dane, having given his promise, intended to keep it. She also glanced at Lilian, and decided that Miss Chatterton was not wholly pleased.

"Carsluith proposed to drive you both home. Can you not wait until he is ready?" she suggested.

"I fear I cannot," answered Dane, with a trace of confusion. "The fact is, I have an appointment to keep."

He left them a trifle abruptly, and Miss Maxwell turned to Lilian.

"Whom can your guest have an appointment with? He looked positively guilty. I fear that he must have fallen into the toils of some rustic beauty, which, considering his opportunities, shows a deplorably defective taste."

If Lilian felt any resentment she showed no sign of it; but she was a little more quiet than usual while they awaited the return of Carsluith Maxwell.

Dane, remembering Lilian's glance of interrogation, hurried toward the Hallows Brig in a somewhat uncertain humor. Though the hillside was still projected blackly against a pale gleam of saffron above, it was nearly but not quite dark when he reached the bridge, and the water sang mournfully through the deepening gloom of the firs. The cool air was fragrant with the faint sweetness of honeysuckle, and the calling of curlew rose from a misty meadow; and it seemed to Dane that the slight, shadowy figure which presently flitted toward him was in keeping with the spirit of the scene. When the girl halted beside him there was still just sufficient light to show that her face was comely. Hilton Dane was not given to wandering fancies, and had long carried Lilian Chatterton's photograph about with him; but he felt compassionate when he saw the anxiety in the thin face, and noticed that the girl's lips were quivering.

"Miss Johnstone, I presume?" he said. "Will you please tell me why you sent for me?"

"I will try, sir," was the answer. "I have two little sisters to bring up on what I earn by my needle, and what Jim can spare; but work has been ill to get at the quarries, and, now when Jim's in prison, and winter's no far away, I'm afraid to wonder what will be the outcome if he is convicted."

"He should have considered such risks before he attempted to steal another man's partridges," said Dane, with a poor attempt at severity.

"Poaching is not stealing, sir!" There was a ring in the girl's voice. "Sorrow on the game that steals the farmer's corn to make a rich man's pleasure, and tempts a poor man to his ruin! May ye never learn, sir, what it is to choose between stealing and starving."

"The question is, what do you wish me to do?"

"To let Jim off, sir," was the answer; and the girl's eyes were eager to tearfulness as she fixed them on the man, who frowned, perhaps because he felt the appeal in them almost irresistible. "It was a dark night, and maybe ye could not be quite certain. It was the others who tempted him. He will go no more poaching if he once wins clear, and if the fiscal sends him to prison the bairns will be hungry often or the winter's through. It's for their sakes I'm asking; and the neighbors say there will be no conviction if ye cannot swear to Jim."

Perhaps it was Dane's duty to sternly rebuke the pleader, but she appeared half-fed and desperately anxious; and the face of her tiny sister, with its look of childish confidence, rose up before his fancy. He had once, and with little compunction, cut down with a shovel a frenzied Italian laborer who led a mutiny, but now, though he set his lips firmly for a moment, his eyes were pitiful.

"I am afraid what you suggest would not be right," he said presently. "Does your father not help you at all?"

The girl's "No," expressed a good deal, and the despair in her voice completed the man's discomfiture.

"I'm sorry; I had no right to ask," he said. "I am sure, at least, that it was not your brother who broke my head, because – because he was not in a position to attack anybody just then – and, for the sake of the little ones, if there is any doubt at all – and I dare say there will be, he shall have full benefit. But I cannot set him at liberty to continue poaching; and the neighboring land-owners will probably see that he gets no more work at the quarries; so he must take a letter from me to a contractor who will no doubt find him employment."

Here, to the consternation of Dane, who did not know that his underfed and overworked companion had done a courageous and, in the eyes of her neighbors, a very suspicious thing, the girl broke out into half-choked sobbing.

"You really must not cry," he pleaded awkwardly. "It is distressing to me; and it is not my fault that your brother's friends cut my head open. However, as I am the unfortunate cause of your distress, if the little ones have suffered already it would be my duty to – to see they didn't – you understand me?"

The girl, though still tearful, drew herself up with some show of pride.

"I'm no asking ye for money. The relief was just overmuch for me; but, and it's a last favor, ye will no tell Miss Chatterton. Her good word means work and bread to me."

"I am not likely to tell Miss Chatterton," the man assured her; then added in haste: "If I did, she would not blame you."

"Maybe! Ye will not tell her," the girl said enigmatically, and then once more caught her breath.

Dane, being unpleasantly uncertain what she might say or do in an hysterical attack, felt it incumbent on him to soothe her, and laid a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. It is possible that his companion found comfort in the grasp, or instinctively recognized the touch of an honest man, for she made no effort to evade it. As it happened, the lane was grass-grown and sandy, and the river frothed noisily down a rapid beyond the bridge. Thus neither of them heard the fall of hoofs until a sudden glare of light beat into the face of the man. Fate had decreed that the driver of the approaching vehicle should not only light the lamps a little earlier than usual, but choose the longest road.

The result was unfortunate, for Dane, acting on impulse, drew the girl farther back into the shadow of the hedge, and stood before her with his hand still on her arm. The light had partly dazzled him, but he recognized in the occupants of the dog-cart Lilian Chatterton and Carsluith Maxwell, and barely choked back an expletive. Neither, if they had seen him, showed any sign of recognition, which, however, was hardly to be expected under the circumstances. Then, as the vehicle jolted on, the girl, seeing the chagrin in the man's face, gazed at him curiously, and with half-coherent thanks hurried away, leaving Dane in a state of savage dismay.

"It is confoundedly hard on an unfortunate and innocent man! This is a situation which will require considerable explaining, and I shall probably never have an opportunity for attempting it," he muttered.

In the meantime Lilian Chatterton felt the hot blood surge upward from her neck, and was thankful that the darkness partly hid her face. It is true that she had effectively, so she hoped, put an end to any aspirations Dane might have cherished; but when he had once accepted the position there was no longer any necessity to conceal the fact that to a certain degree she found his society congenial, or to consider how far her interest in him might carry her. His complaisance had been the more gratifying because she fancied it was not every woman who could bend such an individual to her will. Lilian, however, had not only set up a somewhat elevated standard of conduct for herself, but was inclined to judge harshly those who fell beneath it; and now she was unmistakably, if illogically, angry. The knowledge that the man had gone out fresh from her presence to keep such an assignation stung her pride to the quick, and brought the crimson to her very forehead. It was, she considered, an unforgivable insult. Still, she had but seen him dimly for a second, and might be mistaken, and so she turned toward her companion.

"It is curious that I should fancy there was something familiar in the voices we overheard," she said as lightly as she could.

Maxwell had learned discretion.

"Voices are always deceptive," he answered. "One should never trust to a fanciful resemblance. The bridge is a favorite trysting-place for rustic lovers; as one result of the sudden appearance of a pair of them, this excitable beast managed to upset me the last time I approached it."

Carsluith Maxwell had done his best for his friend, and it was not his fault that he had only confirmed the girl's suspicions, and set her wondering if all men were equally perfidious.

"That being so, was it not very thoughtless of you to drive me this way?" she inquired, with some asperity.

"Guilty," laughed Maxwell. "May I plead in extenuation that it is the longest?"

He sprang down and looped the reins round a gatepost when they reached the winding drive which led up to The Larches.

"Do you mind alighting here, Miss Chatterton?" he asked.

"No," said Lilian. "But may I inquire the reason?"

"A desire not to risk your safety a second time. The drive is very dark, the horse addicted to bolting on opportunity; and it would be hard to do justice to what I must tell you if I were forced to watch him. The task is sufficiently beyond me already; I would give a good deal for the power of eloquence."

Lilian was startled, for the speaker had certainly not worn his heart on his sleeve.

"Could you not wait until to-morrow?" she asked with some trepidation.

"I am afraid not," said Maxwell, a trifle grimly. "I fear this must be a surprise to you, but circumstances prevent my waiting, and it is even better to hear one's sentence than to remain in suspense. Won't you listen?"

Lilian, seeing there was no escape, bent her head; and, if Maxwell had not the gift of eloquence, he could compress a good deal into a few brief sentences. There was no superfluous protestation. The man spoke abruptly, but Lilian could not doubt the earnestness in his voice, or, as he stood hat in hand under the lamplight, mistake the look in his eyes. She saw that what he offered was the enduring love of one who could be trusted to the utmost, and the few pointed words revealed depths of tenderness she had hardly suspected in him.

"I am sorry, very sorry – but it is impossible," she said softly.

Maxwell moved a pace or two forward, and his face seemed to have grown suddenly haggard.

"Think," he urged hoarsely. "This means so much to me. Will it always be impossible? I shall not change."

Lilian fancied she could believe him. She looked him fully in the eyes as she answered.

"It can never be possible. I am sorry. If I had known, I should have tried to warn you. You must forget me."

Maxwell recognized finality in her tone. For the space of several seconds he turned his head away. Then he faced round again, speaking very quietly:

"You have nothing to reproach yourself with. The mistake was mine. I shall, however, never forget you; and I want you to promise that if any adversity overtakes you – which God forbid – you will remember me. I sail for Africa shortly, and it may be long before we meet again. Now I will walk with you up the drive."

He held out his arm, and Lilian wondered a little at his composure as she laid her hand on it and they passed together into the blackness of the firs.

Miss Chatterton had not long joined her aunt when Dane came in, and glanced in her direction as he made some not oversapient observation to Chatterton. She did not avoid his gaze, but met it coldly, and, gathering up some needlework, moved without ostentation, but deliberately, out of the room. No speech could have been plainer, and Dane grew hot, while the fingers of one hand contracted without his will.

"You don't look well, Hilton," remarked Thomas Chatterton. "Is your head troubling you?"

"No," said Dane. "I must have walked tolerably fast, and I am perhaps a trifle shaky yet. With Mrs. Chatterton's permission I will go out and smoke a cigar."

He passed out, and the iron-master smiled as he looked at his wife.

"Can you tell me what is the meaning of this?" he asked.

"Your inquiry is indefinite; and why do you ask me?"

"Because I think you ought to know," Chatterton answered dryly. "Women generally have a finger in it whenever there is trouble."

"Even if true, that is not strikingly original," Mrs. Chatterton retorted. "I have not noticed anything unusual."

"Then listen," and Chatterton pointed toward the window. "When a young man goes out for a stroll he does not usually stamp in that savage fashion upon the gravel. Now, I want your candid opinion."

"You shall have it," said the lady, smiling. "I believe that no good ever resulted from a choleric elderly gentleman's interference in affairs beyond his comprehension."

Meanwhile Carsluith Maxwell stood talking to his sister in the hall of Culmeny.

"After what has happened, the sooner I get out on my African venture the more pleasant it will be for all concerned," he said gloomily. "It is a good country where one can forget one's troubles; in fact, there are so many peculiarly its own that I don't know a better."