New York Dispatch

Romance of
history
FOR THE KING
OR, THE
DAYS OF THE PRETENDER
BY CHARLES GIBBON.

CHAPTER IX.
THE VENTURE

Elvanlee sat with his elbows resting on the table, and his head compressed by two feverish hands. Everything was so like a dream. He could not even now feel the dread issue which depended on this night. He could not yet realize the full pain of his position, and understand that a few hours would decide his life or death.

He had made all arrangements demanded of one who knows that his hours are numbered but he had done it all with a vague sense that he was enacting for another person, or that he himself possessed two individualities the one dreamily conforming to certain grim laws, the other standing and wondering.

He was not quite sure that he had understood the doctor correctly; but there was the port-hole open. The hour appointed was twelve o'clock, and a mile to leeward a boat would be in waiting, to be distinguished by light appearing and disappearing.

He got up, determined to shake off this lethargy, which threatened to frustrate the plans which the doctor had, in spite of every difficulty, contrived to communicate to him. It was better and nobler at all events, to die in attempting to escape from an unjust sentence, than to perish like a felon who had neither courage nor wit enough to strike one blow for liberty.

That quickened him, and he became anxious for the arrival of the moment at which the struggle was to begin. The only doubt now was, whether or not the sergeant had guessed the meaning of the story by which the scheme of escape had been detailed in his presence, and, in a measure, with his assistance.

He thrust his head out at the port-hole. There would be no difficulty in squeezing his body through, and then there was a tumble of about fifteen feet into the water. There would be a splash, and perhaps an alarm, at which he must dive and make the best of it.

The wind was blowing fresh seaward, and the water was rolling in gentle waves that would present no difficulty to an expert swimmer. In two hours the night would be darker than at present, and, if it did not change, the wind as well as the tide would be in his favor.

The waves plashed against the vessel's side with a subdued murmur as the great hulk swung drowsily on the bosom of the water Elvanlee looked downward into its dark depth. and felt that if the worst were to happen he had a friend there to save him from a death of shame.

Some one spoke behind him, and he drew his head in with a quick jerk. A man stood on the threshold of the cabin staring at him.

Without showing any confusion, Elvanlee asked him what he wanted.

"The captain's compliments, sir; and if there is anything you wish to have, he hopes you will name it."

"There is nothing, thank you, except that I would like the captain to spare me a few minutes of his time."

"All right, sir."

The man saluted, and retired, his suspicions partly allayed by the nature of the prisoner's request.

Elvanlee hastily wrote a few lines to General Gardiner, begging him to use his influence to obtain, for Lady Oliphant's sake, a thorough investigation into the circumstances under which her husband had been condemned.

He was writing the superscription when the captain entered.

Elvanlee asked him to read the letter.

"I have thought of this since Doctor Fairlie left me. The general's influence will greatly serve my cause. Will you, sir, see that this is given to a trusty messenger?"

"I will be the messenger myself, sir," said the captain, "and you may be satisfied that within ten days your letter shall be in the general's hands if he is alive."

This generous assurance was acknowledged with earnest thanks. Elvanlee winced a little at the thought that this proof of good nature had been elicited by a species of trick; for he had desired to see the captain merely to blind the man who had discovered him at the port-hole; and he had only thought of addressing Gardiner, because it afforded a reason for his request.

When the captain left him it was half-past ten. There was a whole hour and a half to elapse yet before the moment of the crisis.

Suspense lengthened the prospect of that brief space into an age of torture.

Hope and doubt were alternately uppermost in his mind: now he was buoyant and confident of success; again he was despondent, and regarded the venture as only a desperate means of protesting against the sentence which had been pronounced upon him.

He kept his watch constantly before him. How horribly slow the hands moved; and they were five minutes' fast, too? He had never understood what a period five minutes could make in a life until now.

Eleven o'clock.

He advanced to the door and listened. He heard the man on guard humming an air to himself, and occasionally pausing to yawn: he had no heed for the fate which awaited the prisoner in the morning.

Elvanlee turned away, and again looked out at the porthole. Dark clouds were rapidly drifting overhead, presaging a storm. At intervals the water lay in deep shadow, through which it would be impossible to discern any object at a distance of four oars' length; but again the shadow was lifted as the clouds left a clear space in the sky, and at such a moment those on deck would have little difficulty in descrying a man afloat.

He watched the clouds with painful eagerness; hope failing when they seemed to brighten, and hope returning when they seemed to darken.

Half-past eleven.

Some one at the door. He hastily dropped on a stool, and pretended to be deeply engaged in the study of the Bible which had been left on the table for his instruction. But he was not disturbed; it was only somebody speaking to the sentinel. The voice sounded like that of Colonel Strang. The listener was not sufficiently familiar with it, however, to be certain.

The conversation was brief; whatever might have been its purport, then, save the low plashing of the waves, the soft creaking of the timbers, and an occasional footstep overhead, there were no sounds to interrupt the repose of the prisoner.

A quarter to twelve. He looked anxiously at the door, and vainly sought for some means of securing it on the inside. Not discovering anything he proceeded to prepare for the venture.

He removed his neckerchief and his boots and unbuttoned his coat, making ready to throw it off when the time came. He removed everything that was likely to encumber him in the water, and looked at his watch again. It was five minutes to twelve; but he could wait no longer.

He listened at the door, and heard nothing. He sprung to the port-hole, threw off his coat, and looked out. The water was perfectly clear. and he drew back with a gasp of dismay.

The shadows began to gather again, and he watched them, counting the loud throbs of his pulse as the dark line slowly advanced, blackening the glistening crests of the waves. Nearer came the shadows, until they closed in one black mass, measuring the length of the vessel He thrust his head and his shoulders out and slid downward till he hung by the knees, Then, with a jerk to clear the vessel's side, he threw himself out, falling head first into the water with a loud splash,

There was an immediate rush on deck to the gunwale, and a seaman passed the word "man overboard!"

Elvanlee had risen for an instant to obtain breath after his fall, and had been seen before he dived again.

Colonel Strang was near, and he at once suggested that the prisoner had attempted to escape, The cabin was examined and his suspicion confirmed.

Meanwhile the long-boat had been lowered by order of the second lieutenant, who entered it with four marines and as many sailors Colonel Strang accompanied them.

They pushed off, all keeping a sharp look Dut. After a few strokes of the oar the rowing ceased, and the boat was allowed to drift until something should indicate the direction the fugitive had taken. At present the water was too dark to permit them to see anything at the distance of more than an oar's length. Far to the leeward, however, they could make out a light which appeared and disappeared with curious regularity.

The clouds broke, the waters cleared, and the man at the helm sang out—

"There he is—right ahead."

Half a dozen strokes brought the boat to the place where he had been seen; but he had dived again.

"Hold yourselves in readiness," said Strang coolly, "and when he rises next fire on him."

As he spoke the fugitive appeared. All saw him—the word was given and the marines fired.

Elvanlee seemed to rise in the water, uttering a sharp cry of pain; his arms were uplifted and then he sank like a stone.

At the same time the clouds mingled in one black mass as if to shadow the cruel work which had been accomplished.

"That's the last of him," said the second lieutenant; "poor devil, he won't trouble any of us to-morrow."

"Yes, he has contrived to advance the hour of his execution," replied Strang, peering into the darkness, as if determined to give the victim no chance of escape.

They cruised about for half an hour without finding any trace of Sir Malcolm Oliphant; and they returned to the Tiger to report his death, and to detail the circumstances under which he had perished.

There was one circumstance, however, which escaped their observation, namely, that immediately after the marines had fired, the moving light disappeared. When the long boat had given up the chase, and was heading for the Tiger, the light re-appeared; this time it had a hazy look as if shining through a mist.

The effect was produced by drawing a white handkerchief over the lantern.

At regular intervals it became invisible, as at first, and then suddenly seemed to drop down and float upon the water.

Dr. Fairlie managed the lantern, and, lest its motions should attract the attention of the pursuers, he had lowered it into the little fore-castle or cupboard of the smack, when the discharge of guns acquainted him that Elvanlee's attempted escape had been detected.

He waited, breathless and almost despairing, for ten minutes. Then, determined to risk everything in order to ascertain his friend's fate, he bade his men row straight toward the lights of the man-of-war.

The smack moved slowly. The doctor drew up the lantern, covered it as described in order to produce the effect of distance, and continued to make the signal.

A faint cry reached him from the water, and he lowered the lantern by a cord. A few seconds of waiting and watching, and Elvanlee was dragged on board the smack.

He was wounded, but not dangerously; he was alive, and yet dead to the world—dead to fame, and to his own name.

CHAPTER X

Lady Oliphant traveled to London as fast as her horses could carry her.

But the friends to whom she applied for assistance belonged to the Jacobite party, or were suspected of belonging to it, and that was quite as bad as in the present crisis. They were powerless. To have asked mercy for one who was accused of betraying the government would have been to afford confirmation of the suspicion with which they were regarded, and to subject themselves probably to active measures of restraint.

The Chevalier was now reported to be marching rapidly upon the Lowlands. The numbers of his forces were greatly exaggerated by the policy of his friends and the alarm of enemies, and the Lords Regent (King George was in Hanover at the time of the outbreak), who had been at first indifferent, were startled into the utmost activity. London was the declared destination of the prince, and the metropolis was in a panic. The government did not know how many secret adherents of the exiled house might be only waiting the proper moment to rise in a body, with the shout, "Long live King James, and down with the usurper of Hanover!" There was no time to give attention to a Scottish gentlewoman's appeal for the life of her husband.

At the end of a week she was informed by the Secretary of State for Scotland (the Marquis of Tweeddale) that her petition had been forwarded to the Lord President (Forbes), who would deal with it as the circumstances might warrant. On the same day, a letter from her sister Agnes intimated that Elvanlee had been condemned to death.

Again Lady Oliphant traveled night and day, dreading now that she might be too late even to receive his last commands. It was a dismal journey; the highest speed of the horses seemed little better than a snail's pace.

Within an hour after the arrival in Edinburgh, she knew the worst. The whole story was repeated to her of the attempted escape, the pursuit, and the death of Oliphant.

At that moment, she succumbed. As long as there had been hope, she had found strength to strive; but, the hope dispelled, she sank under the blow. There was nothing more to struggle for now, she thought, in the first moments of her affliction.

She was conveyed to Elvanlee, where Agnes awaited her. The place, which had been lately so full of life and bustle, was now silent and desolate. The village was deserted, for the men who had volunteered to serve under their laird had been drafted into the company raised by a neighboring proprietor. There were few left behind, save the aged, and the women and bairns. Dr. Fairlie had advised the tenantry to go, as their readiness to serve King George would be accepted, he thought, as one proof of the intentions of their master.

Margaret shuddered at the gloom which surrounded her, and would have fled from the tower at once, but she was too weak to move yet.

At noon on the following day, Dr. Fairlie arrived.

He was complacent as ever, outwardly, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety in his manner which Lady Oliphant detected at once.

"Do you bring us news of a royal command to quit Elvanlee?" she said, with bitter emphasis. "I presume the Elector attends to such matters carefully enough, although he cannot even find a servant to see that justice is administered to his subjects."

"No order of forfeiture has been made yet," he answered; "but, by my certes, madam, it would be made and executed promptly if you had been overheard by unkindly ears just now."

"I am indifferent."

"To your own safety you may be, but not to your husband's credit. You are reckless, because you are without hope, rather than because you have much wrong to complain of in the treatment Oliphant received. But you must calm yourself, and try to get well, for it is still worth while proving to the country that he was an honest man, and you must do that."

"Oh, if there were any means of showing how generous and how blameless he was!" she cried, her eyes kindling at the suggestion.

"We will find the means, madam. Some discretion and a good deal of patience are requisite for the task, but I trust you to find both."

He turned quietly to Agnes, and desired her to fetch him some wine. He was thirsty, and would be served by none but herself. He said that with a smile; but there was more sincerity in the words than she suspected.

She left Margaret pallid and terror-stricken, seated on the couch. She returned, and found her standing with face flushed, eyes bright, and the whole form quivering with new life.

The sight amazed the girl, and she paused at the threshold involuntarily.

"Shall we tell her?" the doctor was asking.

"No," replied Margaret, decisively; "if there is danger in the knowledge, let us spare her. She has had sorrow enough on our account."

At that moment they observed Agnes approaching.

"What is the matter?" she said, wondering as she placed the wine on the table.

The doctor took snuff, and Lady Oliphant answered, in a firm tone:

"I have learned Malcolm's will, Agnes. It is that I should redeem his honor by establishing his innocence. But you must not be dragged into the pitiful hazards which the task will involve."

"You do not wish me to leave you? He bade me stay with you."

"No, no, Aggie, you must stay with me, but you must not question me until I am free to explain everything to you."

"I would rather share your danger and help you, whatever the risk may be."

"You will help me most by not sharing it. I will be happier and stronger, Aggie, if I feel that you are safe."

"But what is the danger—what is the—"

"Hush!" and she silenced her with an embrace.

In that way it was settled that Agnes should be kept in ignorance of the object which Fairlie had come to explain. It was an unfortunate decision; but that was not discovered until long afterward. As much mischief is worked by silence as by speech at certain junctures of life.

Agnes submitted, but she was pained by what seemed a want of confidence in her discretion. Presently, however, she forgot the annoyance, although her curiosity remained. Subsequent events heightened her curiosity and puzzled her extremely.

Lady Oliphant and her sister quitted Elvanlee for a destination which was not made known to any of the domestics. They were escorted by Dr. Fairlie, who had previously made arrangements for relays of horses. They traveled by the least frequented routes available, and without interruption reached Kirkcaldy, where lodgings had been taken for them.

On the way, Agnes had been informed that for the better security of her plans it would be necessary in the meanwhile to address her sister as plain Mrs. Malcolm, and to conceal from every one their real position.

They had not been in the town more than half an hour when Mrs. Malcolm went out, accompanied by Dr. Fairlie. She did not return until late, and then she seemed fatigued and excited. She was sad and yet full of joy.

She went out again on the following day, and Agnes observed the same peculiarities of manner on her return. These secret excursions were continued regularly for a week, and the doctor had called only twice during that period.

Mrs. Malcolm was preparing to go out as usual on the morning of the ninth day, when a mounted soldier drew rein before the door.

She became pale at sight of him, and she trembled when a letter was handed in, addressed to her in the name she had assumed.

It was from Colonel Strang; but it was only to inform her, with professions of sincerest respect, that accident had favored him with the knowledge of her whereabouts and disguise.

He was using his best endeavors to save the estates of Elvanlee for her. She might depend upon his faithful observance of the privacy she evidently desired to maintain; and she might count upon him as a friend ready to serve her to the utmost whenever and wherever she might need help.

In the meanwhile the special purpose of this epistle was to inform her that the temporary success of the Chevalier was attributed to his knowledge of the instructions issued to General Cope, which he had obtained from the dispatches entrusted to the late Sir Malcolm Oliphant. This circumstance embittered the minds of those in authority against the memory of her husband; and Colonel Strang therefore advised most earnestly that she should take every precaution to conceal her identity until he should have the happiness of telling her that there was no longer suspicion or opprobrium attached to the name she bore.

Nothing could be more disinterested than this; but she was not deceived by it. However, the courier was waiting for a reply; she sat down and wrote with a firm hand an acknowledgment of the colonel's courtesy, and thanks for his proffered assistance.

Except in its brevity, there was no shade in this note of the haughtiness with which she had received the man on his arrival at Elvanlee: there was no hint even of the wrath with which she regarded him for his conduct toward her husband.

Both letters were given to Agnes, who read them, and looked at her sister for an explanation.

"We must leave this place," said Mrs. Malcolm, composedly, "since Colonel Strang has discovered our retreat. I cannot be contented here. I fear him, and do not understand why."

"I do," said Agnes, promptly; "when you first refused him, you did not care about him; now he wishes to renew his suit and you dislike him. Why should we not leave Scotland when we have the opportunity? You would be safe enough from him then."

Margaret's head was bowed on her hands in silence for a little while. Then, quietly:

"I cannot leave Scotland yet."

Agnes did not urge the suggestion further; but the course seemed so obvious and so simple, that she concluded the secret which caused its rejection must be a very important one.

Naturally, the more important it appeared to be, the more eager she became to understand it; and she was obliged to exert a constant self-control in order to restrain the inquiries which were perpetually rising to her lips.

Her silence was the strongest proof of affection she could have given: for hers was a nature of impulse and of little depth. She was not one who could walk confidently in the dark.

Mrs. Malcolm did not go out on this day, as she had intended. She waited until night; and when she returned her manner had settled into the calmness of one who had become resigned to an inevitable ordeal.

"Dr. Fairlie is attached to the staff of General Kerr," she said, to Agnes; "to-morrow we will remove to Stirling."

From that day they continued to flit from place to place: and curiously enough, they were frequently within a short distance of the encampment of General Kerr's troops. They speedily became acquainted with the General, and with his nephew, Captain Laurence Spence.

The latter took every opportunity of accompanying Dr. Fairlie to pay his respects to Mrs. Malcolm—and her sister. At these times Agnes forgot to be curious about Margaret's movements.

But, wherever they went, Colonel Strang, directly or indirectly, found means of intimating his knowledge of their place of residence, and of his faithful watch over the interests of Lady Oliphant.

Finally, when the Chevalier was retreating toward the scene of his disastrous defeat, Culloden, Mrs. Malcolm occupied a substantial, old-fashioned cottage in Dunkeld, within the precincts of the cathedral.

CHAPTER XI.
AFTER CULLODEN

The victory of the Duke of Cumberland was succeeded by a series of unnecessary cruelties which would have disgraced a campaign of savages. The north country was placed at the mercy of the soldiers, who, drunk with success, and, in many cases, fired by the example of their officers, thought only of making a harvest of their conquest, giving little or no heed to the claims of justice or humanity.

Helpless fugitives were pursued and slaughtered with remorseless energy. There was not even a pretense of trial. Houses were plundered and burnt to the ground. Cattle and horses were driven away to be sold to the first bidder for a few shillings. Eighteenpence was a common price for a horse, and half-a-crown was accounted dear.

The homesteads of those who had taken no part in the rising were too frequently subjected to the same treatment as those of the malcontents. Everything depended on the whim of the dragoons or Hessians, who were scouring the land in search of rebels and booty. Men were hunted like rats, and killed with as little ceremony. Women and children, even, suffered cruelly from the uncontrolled excesses of the soldiers.

The penalty of death was declared against any who gave a bite of bread or shelter to the insurgents; and the hint of a spiteful nature, or of one desirous of screening himself by casting suspicion upon others, sufficed to consign a household to destruction.

There was no appeal against these outrages. The headquarters of Cumberland were fixed at Fort Augustus, and there riot and debauchery held high carnival unchecked. President Forbes, the most energetic and the most faithful servant of the house of Hanover, ventured to remind the duke that his soldiers were breaking the law of the land.

"The laws, my lord," said his excellency, fiercely, "by G—I'll make a brigade give laws."

Afterward he spoke of the President as "that old woman who talked to me about humanity."

With such sentiments prevailing in the breast of the conqueror, those who fell under suspicion had little mercy to expect from an appeal to him, even when appeal might have been permitted.

Prince Charles was pursuing his perilous wanderings westward. The men had proved in death their fidelity to his cause. His army scattered to the winds and himself a fugitive, the glory of his enterprise was sunk in a pitiful race for life.

But all his followers had not accepted the defeat at Culloden as final. A considerable number of the men in the central Highlands were still inclined to maintain their position; and about a month after the battle a meeting of chiefs was held at Muirlaggas, near the head of Loch Arkaig, in Lochaber. It was resolved, at the instigation of those whose enthusiasm blinded them to the hopelessness of the venture, to make one more desperate effort for King James, and to obtain vengeance if not victory.

The meeting was held on the 8th of May, and the rising was appointed to take place on the 15th of the same month. The place of rendezvous was Auchmacarry.

To check this movement, the Earl of Loudon and General Kerr were dispatched to take possession of Lochaber.

The general encamped at Strathtay, near Dunkeld, guarding the pass into the Lowlands, and awaiting information as to the maneuvers of the insurgents.

Dr. Fairlie and Captain Laurence Spence rode together to the residence of Mrs. Malcolm.

The doctor's good nature had been put to the severest test he had yet experienced. On the way, Spence had told him of his love for Agnes Murray, and he had besought the doctor in his suit.

Fairlie was unreasonably angry at this for a few seconds; he was not surprised, however, save at himself; and then he had given a species of grunt, which concealed a very deep sigh, and remained silent.

The captain—a youth of light limbs, high spirits, and with the courage of a lion—waited respectfully for his friend's answer, in spite of the suspense which he endured. He watched his companion anxiously, and observed that when he was not taking snuff he was frowning, as if the request had troubled him more ways than one.

And so it had; for, first, there was the question of Agnes' relationship, which could not be explained without betraying her sister; and, next, there were the doctor's own feelings to be considered. As to the first, he determined to be silent in the meanwhile; and as to the second, he determined to throw the feelings overboard if he could. He owned to himself now that the girl had awakened the affections which had so long lain dormant in him; he, Dr. Fairlie, loved her!

"Old enough to be her father—it's clean ridiculous!" he muttered to himself, striving to find consolation for his chagrin. "She would make me miserable every hour of my life, if she were fool enough to marry me. A coquette—what could she ever care about surgery? But she's a kind-hearted creature, though a wee, shallow thing, maybe. I'm doting. I must e'en take a dose of castor oil, and let the bonnie lassie go."

When they had dismounted at the inn and left their horses to the care of the ostler, the doctor linked his arm in that of Captain Spence, and led him down the road in the direction of the cathedral.

"It's a bargain, sir," he said, presently; "I'll do what you want of me, although match-making is not in the ordinary course of my practice."

"I shall be your debtor for life, doctor," cried Spence, warmly.

"Which is a big saying, meaning nothing. But Mistress Agnes is a bonnie lass and a good lass, and you are a decent sort of a man; so I'll do what I can for you, but I'll not let you be my debtor so long as you would like. You shall pay me prompt cash."

"Only show me how."

"Then find out for me whether the Jacobite Earl of Strathroy is living or dead."

"Depend on me for that. It is certain that he did not fall at Culloden, for all the gentlemen who fell there, or who were taken prisoners, have been identified."

The doctor shuddered and took snuff.

"Ugh! the bare mention of Culloden gives me a qualm in the stomach," he growled, as if made irritated, adding, abruptly. "You don't doubt my loyalty to King George?"

"Assuredly not," said Spence, amused and surprised.

"Well, you will not misunderstand me," Fairlie proceeded with subdued vehemence, "when I say that his Grace of Cumberland had an easy victory. He had double the number of the Chevalier's men, and they were in good condition, while the poor breathless devils on the other side were hungry and weary. He could not help winning, and having won, his mighty highness would have done just as much service to the country if he had spared us the butcherings of defenseless fugitives that are going on. Even the helpless women folk do not escape, and—damn it, sir! that's more than enough to make even a doctor's blood curdle."

"But these extreme measures may be excused by the fact that the rebellion is not yet extinguished."

"Nothing can excuse them, sir. Because two or three dozen fools want to die, sword in hand, that's no reason why the whole country should be given over to the ravages of conscienceless mercenaries."

"But you forget, doctor," said Spence, as mildly as possible; for his own reasons, he did not wish to excite the passions of his companion, who seemed to be unusually irritable at present, "you forget that only this morning General Kerr received sure intelligence that the remnants of the clans, to the number of two thousand, are gathering in Lochaber. A force like that, backed by the mountain fastnesses, may harass the peace of the country for a long time yet."

"If the old fool is living, Strathroy will be there," commented Fairlie, his thoughts diverted into a new channel.

"Was it not with him that the traitor, Sir Malcolm Oliphant, was connected?"

Spence had made this inquiry in the hope of still further diverting the doctor's thoughts from the main subject of vexation; but he found that he had touched a still more sensitive chord.

"He's dead a year ago—let him be," was the gruff response.

"Then you are not aware of the rumor that he is still alive?"

"Eh—eh?" ejaculated Fairlie, startled and thrown off his guard. Then, with additional gruffness to conceal the discomfort he felt: "It's nonsense. He was shot in attempting to escape, and drowned into the bargain. I saw the report myself, and what is more, I had private information from the second lieutenant of the Tiger, who commanded the pursuing party."

"Such was the report at the time; and whether true or not, it was an unhappy business, for I am told that he was a brave fellow."

"Brave!" and at that the doctor resumed something of his kindly humor. "You know Sergeant Coupland, who has been doing such wonders under your uncle, General Kerr?"

"Yes, the shrewdest and boldest man in our regiment."

"Well," and the doctor took snuff complacently, "if Oliphant had been living, and placed under similar circumstances, he would have rivaled your pet, Coupland."

"By the way, what became of his widow?"

The doctor coughed, and stooped to fasten his gaiter.

"His widow? oh, she is in Scotland still, I believe—somewhere, hiding herself under an assumed name. But here we are at Mrs. Malcolm's gate, and we are forgetting your affairs. Wait here until I call you. I pledge my word that, say in ten minutes, I will let you know your fate."

"My happiness is in your hands, doctor."

"That's a pity, for happiness is such a brittle article, that it is never safe in the owner's possession, and it is altogether at hazard when another has the keeping of it."

He opened the gate, and passed up the trim pathway to the door, which was protected by a large porch. Roses and honeysuckle climbing over the woodwork gave the entrance the appearance of a bower.

"So, I am to add another branch to my profession," he reflected, while waiting for the door to open, "and I am to become the healer of broken hearts as well as of broken limbs. Ah, happy middle age—this sadly enough—when one becomes the confidant of fond youth, without any suspicion that middle age itself ought to be a wooer, and do a little business on its own account."

He was ushered into the parlor, the window of which overlooked the garden and the gate.

Agnes came to him in a great hurry, and he took her hands with such a droll assumption of paternal familiarity to mark the lover's gentleness, that the wonder was a sharp-sighted young lady should have remained unconscious of his real sentiments. There was an honest disregard of self in all his actions, which enabled him to find in the happiness of others compensation even for the sacrifice of his brightest dreams to the service of a rival. That was what blinded her.

"Ah, my child, how do we find ourselves to-day?" he said, looking into her eyes earnestly, although he was smiling cunningly all the time.

"Still pale; why there has not been a bloom on your cheeks—let me see—since you last saw Captain Spence."

"What could Captain Spence have to do with my looking well or ill?" she retorted, trying to hide a little petulance with a forced laugh.

"Oh! dear me, nothing—nothing in the world," he said, with mock contrition; and, as if purely from habit, feeling her pulse while he studied her features attentively. "And how has your sister been since I last saw her?"

She seemed disappointed at this sudden change of subject, but replied promptly:

"Much as usual, kind and generous to me; firm and calm in bearing her own misfortunes. But do you know, doctor, her manner perplexes me exceedingly?"

"Why so?"

"Because ever since poor Malcolm's horrible death she has been at times in the most miserable of humors, and again in the gayest, without any apparent cause for either. A week ago she confessed that there was an important secret to be disclosed to me soon, and that you were the only person beside herself who knew the nature of it. I wonder what it is?"

"So do I," coughing drily, "but I am thinking of yourself; pulse irregular, mind troubled, digestion out of order. Humph, I think I know the cause."

"I am much better now, thank you," she said, quickly, and then, quite carelessly, "By the way, I was going to ask you, where is Captain Spence now?"

"I will be able to tell you all about him presently," and the doctor sighed gently as he glanced out at the window, and saw the captain impatiently pacing backward and forward in front of the gate. "You are not so well as you wish me to believe, and I wish you to sit down and describe the sensations you have experienced during the last five weeks!"

"How can I do that? There is nothing the matter with me"—blushing awkwardly, and sitting down as he directed, but praying for opportunity to escape the ordeal to which he was about to subject her.

"I want to prescribe for you, my child, and I must first know the symptoms of your ailment. It is just five weeks since I was here, and Spence with me—that was before the Culloden affair. Since then you have suffered a certain languor at times."

"Yes, but everybody does." (laughing).

"Quite so; most people do at one period or another. But you have also suffered from anxiety and depression."

"Yes" (hesitatingly).

"About what? Not my safety?"

"I don't know quite what it was about."

"Did it concern your sister?"

"No; it concerned nobody" (still laughing, but biting her lips with vexation).

"And nobody is always a lover—did I tell you that Captain Spence had been wounded?"

"Not seriously?" she cried, starting, and forgetting everything else.

"Very seriously," said the doctor, with mock solemnity; "he will carry the mark of it to his grave; but it will not shorten his life, and I may say that he is now beyond actual danger."

"Are you sure of that?" she said, eagerly, and her face brightening.

"Quite sure," replied the malicious friend, smiling; "I see you are interested in the captain's welfare."

"Very much;" and at the confession she bit her lip and endeavored to explain; "that is, you know of course, he is a great friend of my sister."

"Just that; just that; and maintains his friendship with her by proxy, eh? However, to-day he has some business with her which he must transact personally. He has a great respect for Mrs. Malcolm, and often speaks of her."

"Of Margaret?" said Agnes, with evident disappointment.

"Yes; but as you are interested in him, you shall be the first to judge of his convalescence."

He threw open the window, beckoned, and in another moment Spence was in the room.

The doctor smiled and nodded. The captain accepted the signal as indicative of success, and, without more ado, he attempted to embrace the bewildered lady.

But she recovered herself at that moment, and, drawing back, observed sarcastically:

"As you have particular business with my sister, Captain Spence, please do not let us detain you. She is in the next room."

The captain halted, looked sheepishly at Fairlie, and began to think he had made a mistake. But his friend still smiled, and that emboldened him.

"I shall have no occasion to see her unless with your permission to ask her sanction to our marriage," he said.

She blushed, and trembled; he advanced, and this time she did not resist his embrace.

"And with a furious charge of small arms the cavalry won the day," muttered the doctor, taking snuff, and bidding a farewell to his own hopes.

At this juncture Mrs. Malcolm entered. She stood astounded by the singular position of affairs, and looked at Fairlie for an explanation.

"It means, madam," he said, answering the look, "that there has been a steady siege of nine months: the garrison held out bravely, but they have at length been taken by storm, and obliged to surrender unconditionally."

"It means, madam," added Spence, frankly, while Agnes hung her head, "that I have come to ask you, as the sister and guardian of this lady, to resign your charge to me."

Margaret did not reply. She had suspected this, and feared it.

"How shall I answer them?" she whispered to Fairlie; "were my father to learn that Agnes, like me, was to become the wife of his enemies, it would madden him."

"Your refusal will make them both wretched. Remember, they love each other. You cannot advise it?" she said, with a sad smile.

"I see this is a conspiracy, and I must yield."

Agnes flung her arms round Margaret's neck with a profusion of tenderness.

"Thank you, Madge, thank you," she cried. "I was almost jealous of your hesitation."

"But there is a condition—"

"We accept it," interrupted Spence, gaily.

"It is you, Agnes, who must accept it. You must promise me, for the sake of Captain Spence, that you will not become his wife until General Kerr agrees to join your hands."

"That will be as soon as we make our engagement known to him," said Spence, again breaking in.

Margaret kept her eyes fixed on her sister, and Agnes returned the gaze with a curious expression, as if seeking the motive of the condition. Then, as if overcoming some unworthy doubt, she answered, impulsively:

"I agree to your condition, Madge, freely."

"Then we are all quite well now," said the doctor, paternally; "and you young folk can take an airing in the garden while we old folk have a talk together about your affairs. I will come out to you presently, and I promise beforehand that I will not find you."

The lovers laughed, and made their escape.

CHAPTER XII.
A MESSAGE FROM THE CAMP.

"I have done right, since it has made them happy," was Margaret's reflection, as she saw the lovers pass the window.

She turned eagerly to the doctor, who was carefully shutting the door.

"What news do you bring me from Malcolm?"

He raised his hand warningly.

"I am not acquainted with anybody of that name except yourself," he rejoined, cautiously; "but I am in a position to tell you something of a person named Coupland."

"We are quite safe here," (a little impatiently).

"Cautious habits save remorse; that's a good rule to go by at all times, and more especially when our lives are at stake. Coupland is well, and his wild scheme has succeeded better than we dared to hope."

She drew breath relieved.

"That is good news, and helps me to bear the unpleasant surprise I have had this morning."

"What was that?"

"A note from Colonel Strang to say that he would visit me to-day. That man haunts me like an evil shadow. How can I receive him without showing that I loathe him?"

"Don't do that above all things. Be patient only for a few weeks—perhaps a few days more—and I hope to be able to relieve you of his importunities, and to tell you that Coupland is free to declare himself."

"I will try; but tell me of Malcolm. I can do anything that is necessary for his safety."

"Of Coupland, you mean?" persisted Fairlie, and proceeded in an undertone. "Well, you remember that when I fished him out of the water, and carried him to the cottage where you saw him, he declared his resolution to enter the ranks of the Government troops, and as a common soldier, prove his fidelity to the cause for which he had taken arms.

It was a noble thought, and he has carried it into action bravely," she said, her cheeks glowing with admiration; "but I think it might have been happier for him and for me if he had escaped with me to another land as we prayed him to do."

"It was a mad thought, you and I decided at the time; and now we must acknowledge our blindness. His services have made him a favorite with every officer of the regiment, and have won for him the special regard of General Kerr. He is now Sergeant Coupland, and I would not be very much astonished if he would obtain a commission before long."

"Then he was right, doctor, and it was wisest as it was bravest to give this proof of his truth; for, without friend or favor, he is winning his way back to the position of trust and honor of which he was so unjustly deprived. Ah, doctor, you make me very happy. I begin to see the end of all this wretched masquerading."

"I hope it is close at hand, but—we are not through the wood yet."

"How—is there still danger?"

"Great danger. I have submitted a statement of his case to Forbes and besought his intercession. But in the meanwhile Cumberland's dragoons and Hessians settle everything in their own way."

"But they would not harm one who has shown himself a true comrade?" she cried breathlessly.

"That is just where the trouble lies," observed the doctor, taking snuff with ostentatious placidity to hide his real anxiety; "but you must not alarm yourself; and you must look steadily at the position of affairs. Were he identified before the council has declared him an innocent man, his presence in the ranks of General Kerr would only win for him the fate of a spy."

She raised a hand to shade her eyes, and remained quite still. Her cheeks became a shade paler than before, but otherwise she displayed no sign of the terror which was agitating her heart.

"Does he know this?" she said at length, huskily.

"Ay, as well as myself; for he, like me, has seen men who might have been blameless as I am, dragged to the front of a file of soldiers and shot within half-an-hour of the accusation being made against him."

A slight tremor passed over her at this, and again she remained silent for a little while. Then, inquiringly—

"We can do nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing more than pray that Forbes may obtain a speedy decision of the council. I do not fear discovery, however, and only make you aware of the peril of it that you may be more guarded in your dealings with Strang, who comes, I believe, straight from Fort Augustus with instructions from the Duke for General Kerr."

"I will be careful," was all she said; but the misery of her position seemed to be intensified by the proximity of relief.

It was a bitter fate to which she had submitted. For nearly a whole year she had been a widow, without a widow's freedom; a wife without the protection of a husband. She had been compelled to fly from place to place to hide her name, and to endure the attentions of a man she hated, because a too firm repulse given to him might have obliged her to flee the land where her husband was struggling to win back his honor. More, it might have aroused suspicion, which it was of the greatest consequence to suppress. She had been obliged to endure the bitterest of all humiliations—that of being compelled to practice constant dissimulation.

While suffering from all that, she was tortured by the dread that any hour might bring her tidings of the death of husband or father—or both. Every skirmish that occurred, every rumor that she heard was the source of exquisite pain to her. She had no friend to whom she could utter her anguish, and so find relief; for she shrank from the bare possibility of involving Agnes in the annoyance, and danger to which she was herself exposed by making her a party to the wild project which Elvanlee had adopted.

She endured bravely; she smiled often when her heart was aching most keenly; and only at night, when alone in her chamber, she wept sad tears as she looked at the mighty influences which rose between her and happiness, and felt how little strength she had to cope with them.

She asked if he had heard anything of Strathroy, and the doctor told her about the projected rising in Lochaber. That was enough; she knew her father's nature too well to have any doubt of his whereabouts now, if he were alive.

A serving maid brought the intimation that a man named Johnston wanted to see Mrs. Malcolm.

"Send him here!" said Margaret, quickly.

"That is from the camp," observed the doctor; "I hope your correspondence may not betray us some day. When you have read your letter you will find me in the garden."

And the doctor quitted the room as Neil Johnston, the old servant of Elvanlee, entered.

Neil had discovered his master's secret, and determined not to be separated from him he had obtained an engagement in the canteen of the regiment, and was now the chief manager of it. His services proved invaluable to the husband and wife, who, during the period of suspense, had found no opportunity of meeting. Johnston had acted as a courier, and hitherto he had accomplished his task without discovery.

As Mrs. Malcolm received the letter he now presented her face glowed with pleasure. For the moment all the terrors which surrounded her were forgotten. She took Johnston's hand, thanking him with an earnestness that made the old man proud, and inspired him with the courage to risk anything to afford her so much joy. He was to wait for an answer, and as he had to see about a barrel of whisky "up the town," which was his ostensible mission to Dunkeld, as he informed his mistress, he went off on that errand to return speedily.

She opened the letter. The sight of the words dazzled her eyes as if the sunlight had flashed in them, blinding her with its glory. As she read, she almost fancied that his voice was audible; she had never known how sweet a sound it was until left with only memory's echo of it.

"My own Wife—"

She kissed the insensible paper, and answered the words:

"Ay, Malcolm, always yours."

"My Own Wife: Nearly a whole year has passed since we were together. Scarcely a year, and yet a dreary age of misery and suspense has been concentrated in that brief space."

"Ah! Malcolm," she sighed, "it has been a long year."

Then she read on:

"But the hour of our triumph is near. I have returned to-day successful from an expedition which nobody but myself would undertake. The general has publicly acknowledged my services to the government: and, thanks to his favor, I hope in a few days to be able to declare myself, and to claim the reversion of the sentence so hastily pronounced upon me. Be glad, then, for our separation will only endure a little while longer.

"Commend me to our sister Agnes and to your own good thoughts.

"Your true lover and husband, MALCOLM."

When she had read this many times, finding with each perusal new pleasure from its tidings, she sat down to write the response.

She had just taken the pen in hand when the door opened, and the domestic announced:

"Colonel Strang."

Margaret hastily concealed Malcolm's letter, and rose to receive the visitor. She was flushed and unable to control her agitation altogether.

The colonel, perceiving these signs at his entrance, accepted them as auguries of his success.

[To be continued.]