"That's richt. But what gars ye aye ca' me Mister Gray noo? Ye didna use to do that when ye were a wee lassie, and I used to bring ye sweeties and whiles gie ye a ride on my powny. Od, it sounds queer in my lugs, when naebody ever ca's me ought but Cairnieford or Robin Gray. I'm thinking, Jeanie, ye're getting unco fine in your ways." And he smiled good-naturedly as he bade her good night, as if he were not altogether displeased to discover that she was different from other lasses, even in such a small matter as a form of address. CHAPTER V. THE FARMER OF CAIRNIEFORD. "There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, BUT the respectful distance Jeanie preserved in speaking to him was not so much on account of any idea of the politeness due from a poor fisherman's daughter to a well-to-do farmer like him of Cairnieford, as on account of a certain shyness with which his own conduct had inspired her. Robin Gray was not a man to hide any of the sentiments of his nature. If he liked a person he showed it, and if he disliked anybody he showed it quite as freely. For instance, he disliked the Laird of Clashgirn; and although McWhapple was the proprietor of the lands Robin farmed, he had shown his contempt for him in various disagreeable ways. But Robin was the best farmer in the country, he had a wellstocked steading, and his rent was always ready at twelve o'clock on the term day. So the Laird lifted his rent, and whatever he might have felt or thought he said nothing. On the other hand, Robin was fond of Jeanie. He had watched her growing up from a healthy bairn to a bonnie thrifty woman, and he had said to himself one day she would make a good wife to some honest chield. By what process of reasoning he arrived at the idea that he himself might be that honest chield, it is not easy to explain. Usually such conclusions are obtained at a leap, in defiance of logic-the reasoning, if it come at all, coming afterward, when it must perforce arrive at the result previously fixed upon. At any rate Robin got it into his head that he would dearly like Jeanie to become mistress of Cairnieford. He had a "bein" house, he was not altogether an evil-disposed person, and although his years certainly did remove him from the category of youthful suitors-he being about thirty years her senior-still he was a hale hearty fellow, likely to last for thirty years more, and then he would be able to leave her well provided for. Robin became conscious that there were a great many grey hairs in his head and amongst his whiskers. He had never till then realized the fact that he was growing old; and that fact, although it was not sufficiently powerful to make him forego his new desire, delayed the declaration which otherwise he would have made at once. Every time he saw Jeanie he became more and more painfully sensible of the disparity of their years; more and more sensible of the ridicule which the folk would be apt to cast upon the "auld man and his young dearie." He hesitated, and whilst he hesitated the passion of the man's heart was gaining that strength of love which makes a Hercules of a pigmy; that strength which overrides all other feelings, hopes, and aims, and blinds the lover to all consequences of good or ill. He had not spoken of this to Jeanie or her parents, and he did not fancy that it was suspected by them. But the good dame had more than once thought to herself that her daughter might be mistress of Cairnieford if she liked, and that she might be couthie and comfortable there. As for Jeanie, she noticed certain queer wistful looks with which Robin had lately regarded her; and although she was in no way vain, she suspected their meaning with intuitive delicacy. She tried by increased respect and distance in speaking to him to let him understand that any hopes he might have of winning her could never be realized. That was why she called him "mister," and that was why she was almost afraid to accept any favour from him. Robin did not comprehend this; and as his passion became stronger, and the difficulties in the way became consequently less in his eyes, the probability is that he would have spoken several weeks before Adam Lindsay's accident, had not James Falcon, two days previous to his conversation with the Laird, told Robin Gray that he was to marry Jeanie. Falcon was puzzled by the quick way in which Robin asked him if the lassie had agreed; and then huskily wished him joy, and suddenly left him. The farmer had gone home that day with a bowed head, a position in which nobody had seen him since his mother's burial, twenty years ago nearly. He took a good deal of toddy that night, and he got up next morning with a headache. He went about the farm all day in such a queer state that all his servants noticed that there was "something wrang wi' the maister." He was little better on the day following, and his housekeeper asked him if there was anything the matter. From that moment he got better, so far as outward appearance could indicate. He had brought all the strength of a really strong and generous nature to bear upon the subject, and he had said to himself “Gif I can jist help to make her happy that'll be enough for me. If I can jist feel that I hae dune something to make her life smoother than it micht be without my help, an' I can see her noo and again smilin' and prosperous, that will satisfy me. Sae I'll help James Falcon to stock his farm, an' do what I can to prosper him, in spite o' that auld beggar the Laird.” When he had reached that kindly resolution, he was more at ease within himself, and the darkness which he had felt closing upon him when the hope that had grown so strong was crushed, began to lighten. But Falcon did not get the farm; and before Robin had another opportunity of seeing him and offering that assistance which might have altered his whole plans, he was away in the Colin with Ivan Carrach. When Robin heard the news-and Adam Lindsay was his informant—he was amazed and puzzled. But his determination did not swerve. He had no thought of taking advantage of his rival's absence. Plain and straight-forward in act and thought, Falcon's absence or presence made no difference to him, once Jeanie had given her word to become his wife. He would wait till Falcon came back, and then he would set the young folk up; for James was an honest lad, and likely to do well. Meanwhile he could watch over Jeanie, and see her sometimes, and comfort her when she was in trouble. That was all the pleasure he could hope for now, and he tried to be satisfied with it. Never a word, never a hint of that old yearning which he was trying so bravely to bury in his heart, escaped him. He knew that Adam and his wife were friendly toward him, and that if he were only to speak, they would willingly use their influence with their daughter to persuade her to break off with Falcon; but Robin could not see how that would further her happiness, which was his chief object. Besides, he had a sturdy pride which would not permit him to rob another man of his promised wife, even if the lass were ready to be a party to the robbery, which she certainly would not be in the present case. He knew too that he had a sufficiently jealous disposition to make himself and his wife miserable, if he suspected that another lived who had a greater share in her thoughts than himself. So he set himself sturdily to the task before him; to make the most pleasure he could out of his wrecked hope and to further her happiness. But Jeanie had only divined the nature of the passion with which he regarded her; she knew nothing of the sharp pangs with which he had first heard of her betrothal to Falcon; of the agony he had undergone, and the brave manhood which had lifted him above the meaner issues of human nature under such circumstances; and, consequently, she misinterpreted almost everything he said and did. On that account, when she gave her promise to apply to him whenever she might need help, she had no intention of troubling him unless dire necessity compelled her. That dire necessity arrived much sooner than might have been expected. The morning after the storm was misty and unsettled; and although the wind had abated, the sea was still moving restlessly, and murmuring a doleful requiem over the mischief of the previous night. Jeanie had been attending to her father all night, only obtaining an occasional nap on one of the wooden chairs which she had drawn close to the bed. Adam was awake by daylight. He was feverish and thirsty; and Jeanie thought that the best thing for him would be a coggieful of new milk. She went out to the byre, which was a thin shed of wood. She was not surprised to see that the storm had used it roughly. The door had been wrenched from its hinges, and lay broken upon the ground. But when she entered and found that Crummie was gone, she stared about her, wondering where the cow could have got to. Crummie was a staid beast, and one not likely to break from her fastenings. "The tether's got loose some way, and seeing the door open, she's gaen out to the grass," was Jeanie's thought. She looked for the cow up and down the road, but could not see her; and then she was afflicted with the thought that Crummie had got into the water somehow, and been drowned. She ran down to the beach, but could not find any hoof marks. She ran back again to the byre; and again to the road. This time she observed on a soft piece of ground beside the long stalks of kale, some of which had been trampled down, the marks of Crummie's hoofs leading to the road. What was most remarkable, she also observed here the impress of a man's feet. It was not until then that the idea of robbery entered her head, and it puzzled her greatly when it did D |