FRASER'S MAGAZINE. JUNE 1880. THE CROOKIT MEG: A STORY OF THE YEAR ONE. XXIII. Do not believe that in all their after lives that soft October even IDing, when the mellow autumn twilight melted into moonlight, was forgotten by Alister and Eppie. Eppie had at length abandoned herself to the stream which was bearing her gently to the Happy Islands; Alister was infected by her dreamy bliss. They wandered among the rocks where they had wandered as children; they crossed in mere wantonness the mauvais pas at the Bloody Hole; they laughed gleefully when their old friend the peregrine rose screaming and scolding from his rock. The Scrath Pillar was black with cormorants, who were balancing themselves in all sorts of grotesque attitudes on impossible pinnacles; they laughed again at the uncouth gambols of the solemn and funereal birds. Then they went into the house, where supper had been prepared for them by Mennie. Eppie ran up to her mother's room, and returned radiant. Mrs. Holdfast was a shade better, and would see Alister. So Alister was taken into the sick room, and the sick woman smiled into his face, and pressed his hand with an air of soft entreaty. Was she resigning to the lover the mother's jealous rights in her wilful pet? In these last hours the soul, 'beginning to be freed from the ligaments of the body,' rises into a finer air, and sees right and wrong, the true and the false, the noble and the ignoble, as they are seen by the eyes of immortality. But neither Eppie nor Alister knew that when the wan woman laid her trembling hands upon his hand it was a farewell blessing she meant to convey to him. Then they returned into the little parlour which opened into Eppie's sitting-room, where they found the simple fare of the farm-house-oat cakes, fresh butter, fragrant honey, creamy milk (do not scorn it,-on such fare the Ossianic heroes were bred)-arranged for them on a heavy oaken buffet, elaborately carved in fruit and flowers, which Marie Touchet may have brought with her from Fontainebleau. electors? Are the little Irish boroughs to be retained as political units, and is such a county as Sutherland, with its teeming electorate of 316 souls, to return a member all to itself? Are small boroughs to be grouped together into districts, or are they to be thrown into the counties in which they are situated? Is the county unit and the borough unit to be maintained, or are these old landmarks to be swept away to make room for a brand-new system of electoral districts? Such are a few of the questions which are contained in the phrase 'assimilation of the county and borough franchise, and redistribution of seats,' which has come so glibly to the lips of so many speakers during the recent election. It is apparent that there is material in this question alone to tax the energies of the new Parliament, and the discipline and loyalty of the new majority. Mr. Lowe has counselled the leaders of the Liberal party to use the golden hours,' and bring forward their great measures at once. We should counsel a very different scheme of operations. We would beg the new administration to do nothing in a hurry. They have work enough upon their hands for the present, if they get the finances of the country into order, and repair the damages of the last six years. But while they are refitting and performing the necessary administrative and legislative duties which are demanded of a ministry, let them inform themselves in the best way possible of all the facts bearing on the great question of a redistribution of seats. Let there be nothing haphazard-let there be no leap in the dark-when they come to lay their Reform Bill before Parliament. This very session the work should be commenced. A commission should be issued to consider the whole question, and to prepare the ground for future legislation. This is the heaviest piece of work which has fallen to any administration since 1832, and it cannot be done hastily, and it must not be scamped. It is to be hoped that the moderate section of the party will recognise the necessity of thoroughness in the undertaking, and will not lose heart if more than one of their cherished landmarks should disappear. It is to be hoped, equally, that the more advanced section of the party will submit to the soothing influences of the magic of patience,' in reference to this and to other matters in which they may be interested. If they should be too exacting and too obstinately zealous in pursuit of their own special aims, the very strength of the Liberal party will become a weakness, and their great majority a snare. No one will be to blame except the members of the majority themselves if the Liberals do not enjoy a prolonged lease of power. 6 NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS. Communications to the Editor should be addressed to him at 39 Paternoster Row, E.C. As the Magazine has an ample staff of Contributors, MSS. are not invited without previous correspondence, and uninvited MSS. cannot be returned except at the convenience of the Editor. No copies of Verses can be FRASER'S MAGAZINE. JUNE 1880. THE CROOKIT MEG: A STORY OF THE YEAR ONE. XXIII. Do not believe that in all their after lives that soft October evening, when the mellow autumn twilight melted into moonlight, was forgotten by Alister and Eppie. Eppie had at length abandoned herself to the stream which was bearing her gently to the Happy Islands; Alister was infected by her dreamy bliss. They wandered among the rocks where they had wandered as children; they crossed in mere wantonness the mauvais pas at the Bloody Hole; they laughed gleefully when their old friend the peregrine rose screaming and scolding from his rock. The Scrath Pillar was black with cormorants, who were balancing themselves in all sorts of grotesque attitudes on impossible pinnacles; they laughed again at the uncouth gambols of the solemn and funereal birds. Then they went into the house, where supper had been prepared for them by Mennie. Eppie ran up to her mother's room, and returned radiant. Mrs. Holdfast was a shade better, and would see Alister. So Alister was taken into the sick room, and the sick woman smiled into his face, and pressed his hand with an air of soft entreaty. Was she resigning to the lover the mother's jealous rights in her wilful pet? In these last hours the soul, 'beginning to be freed from the ligaments of the body,' rises into a finer air, and sees right and wrong, the true and the false, the noble and the ignoble, as they are seen by the eyes of immortality. But neither Eppie nor Alister knew that when the wan woman laid her trembling hands upon his hand it was a farewell blessing she meant to convey to him. Then they returned into the little parlour which opened into Eppie's sitting-room, where they found the simple fare of the farm-house-oat cakes, fresh butter, fragrant honey, creamy milk (do not scorn it,-on such fare the Ossianic heroes were bred)-arranged for them on a heavy oaken buffet, elaborately carved in fruit and flowers, which Marie Touchet may have brought with her from Fontainebleau. Alister had been commissioned by Uncle Ned (who was confined to the house by a feverish attack) to implement a promise which he had long ago made to Eppie. The Saint's Rest,' the family Bible (in which Eppie's was the latest entry among the births), and one or two manuals of Calvinistic divinity lay on the window sole of the parlour; but there was no Shakespeare' in the limited library of the farmhouse. The whole of that wonderful fable-land (except for Uncle Ned's reminiscences) was a terra incognita to Eppie, who, indeed, from her childhood, like the old lords of the district, had loved better to hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak. This day Alister had brought one of the prized volumes in his pocket, and when the meal was finished Eppie insisted that he should read her a bit of a play.' Their conversation had begun to flag; the girl had grown shy and conscious-adorably shy and conscious; the open book was a barrier behind which she instinctively retreated. She pushed the volume across the table, and sat looking at him as he turned the leaves, with her hands in her lap. The volume had opened at Romeo and Juliet.' Juliet?―ay, here was a braver Juliet, and as he ran rapidly over the earlier incidents of the tragic story, which is bitter with the bitterness of things too sweet, his thoughts wandered away from fair Verona to return to the Fontainbleau farmhouse. Romeo's boyish rapture, indeed, could poorly compare with his steadier and manlier love; but Juliet's novel abandonment of passion suited Eppie's mood. Here at last, set in articulate speech, was that ideal world of which she had been dreaming-dreaming since she awoke. She sat looking at him, her lips apart, her hands pressed together, as if fascinated. Had he spoken at that moment, all might have been well. But when he came to It was the lark, the herald of the morn, Eppie started up: 'Stay, Alister, stay, I hear mither movin',' she exclaimed in a voice that sounded tense and excited, as she darted out of the room. Alister's heart was full. Love had told him that Eppie was altered. Her voice was softer-her mood more playful and yet more tender. There was an unfamiliar moisture of happiness in her eyes. Alister was a simple lad; but love quickens the apprehension. He felt that the spring-time had come at last. He waited for her to return. He would take her in his arms, and whisper the story of a devotion of which after all Romeo's wayward vehemence was but a dim reflection. -- See how she leans her head upon her hand, O that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek. No-no, the direct energy of his passion would employ no such tortuous diplomacy. And Eppie, this new Eppie, so changed from At this moment he heard a low whistle outside-(the window was open)—' Hist-Hist-Miss Eppie-Miss Eppie!'-and then a scrap of paper wrapped round a pebble fell upon the floor at his feet. He sprang to the window through which it had been flung; but though the moonlight was clear as day on the moors, this side of the house was in deep shade, and he saw no one. Then he picked up the scrap of paper which had become detached by the fall. He looked at it involuntarily involuntarily his eyes followed the words. There were only a couple of hastily scrawled lines; but he staggered as if struck by a blow. 'Darling Eppie,' it said, 'Eppie darling, dinna let the gauger leave-by hook or by crook keep him from Hell's Lum.' And it was initialed 'H. H.' 6 I need make no mystery about this fateful scroll. Harry Hacket on his way to the Cove had learned at the Alehouse Tavern that Alister (whose movements had been anxiously watched) was still at Fontainbleau; and he had immediately despatched the Deevilikie ' with the lines which he had hurriedly scrawled at the bar. The Deevilikie,' with the perverse ingenuity of his connection, had cleverly conveyed it to the wrong hand. XXIV. 'I SWEAR by the God who made me that it is false!' Eppie exclaimed passionately, as with a bitterness of pain past all words she clung to her lover,-seeking with one last frantic despairing effort to detain him. Treachery was abhorrent to every instinct of the better nature which love was fashioning, and this was treachery of which she was accused,-mean and base and senseless treachery to the man she loved. But Alister would not relent-would not indeed listen; the simple honest heart had grown implacable in a moment. Had he known women better he would have known that this mad passion of despair was genuine,-that no actress could have thrown all that heartbreak into spoken words, that only an agony of love and longing could have forced this icy maiden to cling to him as she did. But he did not believe her-her treason was too patent,—even thus with her arms about him she was only obeying the mandate of his rival. Then the clock struck ten: the rosy hours as they read together had slipped away unnoted. "Ten o'clock, by God, and the men at Collieston.' It was the first time that anyone had heard Alister take that high name in vain: but he was not himself. Then without another word he tore himself from the clinging arms, and went out swiftly into the moonlight. There might yet be time. The image of Love had been irreparably fractured; but the failure of duty might be repaired. |