A Noble Life | Page 9

had never yet seen him, the poor little earl came to
his ancestral door.
But on Sunday morning all things were changed, with one of those
sudden changes which make this part of the country so wonderfully
beautiful, and so fascinating through its endless variety.
A perfect June day, with the loch glittering in the sun, and the hills
beyond it softly outlined with the indistinctness that mountains usually
wear in summer, but with the soft summer coloring too, greenish-blue,
lilac, and silver-gray varying continually. In the woods behind, where
the leaves were already gloriously green, the wood-pigeons were
cooing, and the blackbirds and mavises singing, just as if it had not
been Sunday morning, or rather as if they knew it was Sunday, and
were straining their tiny throats to bless the Giver of sweet, peaceful,
cheerful Sabbath-days, and of all other good things, meant for man's
usage and delight.
At the portico of Cairnforth Castle, for the first time since the hearse
had stood there, stood a carriage--one of those large, roomy, splendid
family carriages which were in use many years ago. Looking at it, no
passerby could have the slightest doubt that it was my lord's coach, and
that my lord sat therein in solemn state, exacting and receiving an
amount of respect little short of veneration, such as, for generations, the
whole country-side had always paid to the Earls of Cairnforth. This
coach, though it was the identical family coach, had been newly
furnished; its crimson satin glowed, and its silver harness and
ornaments flashed in the sun; the coachman sat in his place, and two
footmen stood up in their place behind. It was altogether a very
splendid affair, as became the equipage of a young nobleman who was
known to possess twenty thousand a year, and who, from his castle
tower --it had a tower, though nobody ever climbed there--might, if he

chose, look around upon miles and miles of moorland, loch, hill-side,
and cultivated land, and say to himself--or be said to by his nurse, as in
the old song--
"These hills and these vales, from this tower that ye see, They all shall
belong, my young chieftain, to thee."
The horse pawed the ground for several minutes of delay, and then
there appeared Mr. Menteith, followed by Mrs. Campbell, who was
quite a grand lady now, in silks and satins, but with the same sweet, sad,
gentle face. The lawyer and she stood aside, and made way for a big,
stalwart young Highlander of about one-and-twenty or thereabouts,
who carried in his arms, very gently and carefully, wrapped in a plaid,
even although it was such a mild spring day, what looked like a baby,
or a very young child.
"Stop a minute, Malcolm."
At the sound of that voice, which was not an infant's, though it was thin,
and sharp, and unnatural rather for a boy, the big Highlander paused
immediately.
"Hold me up higher; I want to look at the loch."
"Yes, my lord."
This, then--this poor little deformed figure, with every limb shrunken
and useless, and every joint distorted, the head just able to sustain itself
and turn feebly from one side to the other, and the thin white hands
piteously twisted and helpless-looking--this, then, was the Earl of
Cairnforth.
"It's a bonnie loch, Malcolm."
"It looks awful' bonnie the day, my lord."
"And," almost in a whisper, "was it just there my father was drowned?"
"Yes, my lord."

No one spoke while the large, intelligent eyes, which seemed the
principal feature of the thin face, that rested against Malcolm's shoulder,
looked out intently upon the loch.
Mrs. Campbell pulled her veil down and wept a little. People said Neil
Campbell had not been the best of husbands to her, but he was her
husband; and she had never been back in Cairnforth till now, for her
son had lived, died, and been buried away in Edinburg.
At last Mr. Menteith suggested that the kirk bell was beginning to ring.
"Very well; put me into the carriage."
Malcolm placed him, helpless as an infant, in a corner of the
silken-padded coach, fitted with cushions especially suited for his
comfort. There he sat, in his black velvet coat and point-lace collar,
with silk stockings and dainty shoes upon the poor little feet that never
had walked, and never would walk, in this world. The one bit of him
that could be looked at without pain was his face, inherited from his
beautiful mother. It was wan, pale, and much older than his years, but it
was a sweet face--a lovely face; so patient, thoughtful-- nay, strange to
say, content. You could not look at it without a certain sense of peace,
as if God, in taking away so much had given something--which