the october winds, tossing the late oats and the frosted heather, were lashing the otter sea into heaving waves and flakes of foam. that western sea has its annals and its trophies, as well as den and moor. edward bruce crossed it to give to ireland as dauntless a king as he whom a woman crowned, and who found a nameless grave; and there, in the glassy calm of a summer night, the vessel, with its passengers lulled in fatal security and slumber, sank like lead, fathoms beyond the aid of modern science with its myriads of inventions and its hardy self-confidence.

the few fishers of otter were exposed to the swell rolling from new england and labrador to galloway and argyle; many a lamp stood day and night in cottage windows, many an anxious woman forsook her brood, and under her sheltering plaid ran here and there, dizzy and desperate, to beg for counsel, and for tidings of the husband and father whose boat was due, and who was still exposed to the pitiless fury of the tempest.

hector garret was early summoned to marshal his men in order to succour those who were within his reach; to [page 260]think, plan, and act to the last for those who were amissing, but might yet be rescued. he had been upon the beach all day; he had been handling rope and line; he had been ready at any moment to launch his own boat among the breakers.

leslie, too, had been abroad. she had been in several houses, especially in those whose young children were of the same age as leslie. in all she met the same abandonment; whether the heads of the families chanced to be young or old, worthy or unworthy, mattered not; they were now the sole thought, the object of racking anxiety, lamented over beforehand with sore lamentation. if they were safe, all was well; if they were lost, these wives and mothers were bereaved indeed. the sabine women did not cling to their rough masters with more touching fidelity. the men were in trouble—their imprudence, their intemperance, their violence were blotted out.

leslie went home in disturbance and pain. she, too, placed a light in her window; she, too, left her infant untended, and strained her eyes to pierce the storm. hector garret must have descried her figure as he approached the house, for he came straight to her room, and stood a moment with his dripping clothes and a glow on his face.

"don't go, leslie; i'll be back presently."

she put a restraint upon herself, and became busied with the refreshments laid out for him. he came in immediately, and advanced towards her with the same eager phrase, "don't go, leslie," and he grasped her gown lightly. she sat down while he ate and drank.

"i'll have a cup of tea, leslie; pour me out my tea as [page 261]you used to do." she had always poured out tea for him, but not always with him close by, and his detaining hand upon her dress.

"this is like old times. they were very foolish—those old times, but they have their sweetness to look back upon them."

she interrupted him—"they are all safe, are they not?"

"every man of them, thank god."

he was spent with his exertions; he was fevered and incoherent; she let him speak on, detailing the minutest particulars. she even said with animation, and the tears in her eyes—

"their protector and deliverer! god will bless you for this, hector garret."

he bent his head, but he held out his arms: "will you bless me, leslie?"

his voice was thick and hoarse; it petrified her, so still was she—so dumb; and at that moment the knocker sounded, and importunate voices were demanding the laird of otter.

he obeyed the summons, spoke with his servants a little time, and returned to find leslie in the same arrested posture, with the same blanched face. he had resumed his seaman's coat, and carried his cap in his hand. he was calm now, and smiling, but with a face wan and shadowed with an inexpressible cloud.

"it may not be, leslie," he said, soft and low; "nigel boswell's boat is in sight, struggling to make earlscraig; he was always rash and unskilled, though seaward born [page 262]and bred. if he is not forestalled, his boat will be bottom upmost, or crushed like glass within the hour. i trust i will save him; but if there be peril and death in my path, then listen to what i say, and remember it. whatever has gone before, at this moment i am yours; you may doubt it, deny it—i swear it, leslie. despise me, reject me if you will; i cannot perish misinterpreted and misjudged. i loved alice boswell. my love is ashes with its object. i did not love you once; i love you now. i love a living woman truer, higher, holier than the dead; and for my love's sake, not for my vows—the first for love, if it be the last."

he had her in his arms; his lingering kisses were on her eyes, her hair, her hands. he was gone, and still she remained rooted to the ground. was it amazement, anger, terror?—or was it a wild throb of exultation for that, the real moment of their union? or because she had won him, and was his who had slighted her, sinned against her—but who was still hector garret, manly, wise, and noble—the hero of her girlhood.

she was roused reluctantly by the entrance of bridget kennedy, shaking in every limb.

"madam, why did you let master hector go?—he has had the look of a doomed man this many a day. it is thus that men are called, as plain as when the banshee cries. madam, say your prayers for master hector while he is still in life."

"i must go to him, bridget; i must follow him. don't try to keep me. he is my husband, too. the poor women were crowding on the beach this morning. let me go!"

[page 263]she understood that he was exposing himself for another—that his life hung on the turning of a straw. she ran upstairs, but she did not seek her child, and when she descended, bridget had still to fetch her mantle and bonnet. the old woman did not seek to detain her, but ejaculated through her chattering teeth, as she peered out after her and wrung her hands, "she will bring the master back, if anything can; nought will harm her. i, poor miserable wretch, would but clog her swiftness. ay, he will hearken to her voice; he has been waiting for the sound weeks and months. who would have said that master hector, like samson, would twice be given a prey to a woman! he will hear her above the winds and waves; body or soul, he will obey her, as he did alice boswell twenty years ago in fire and ruin."

leslie hurried on in the darkness, her little feet tripping, her slight form borne back by the blast. not thus had she wandered on those sunny, summer days when she first knew otter; but there was that within, in the midst of her distress, that she would not have resigned for that light life twice over.

she reached the beach; the roar of the surf and the shriek of the wind were in her ears, but no human presence was visible. there flashed back upon her the vision of her hopelessness and helplessness on such another blustering, raging night—but the recollection brought no comfort. she paused in dismay, with nothing but the mist and the driving rain before her. stay! obscurely, and at intervals, she caught sight of a light, now borne on the crest of these giant waves, now sunk and lost. hark! a [page 264]pistol-shot! that must be boswell's appeal for aid; and yonder lay earlscraig—yonder also was hector toiling to rescue his ancient friend and persistent foe. she should be there too. at earlscraig their destiny would be wrought out.

leslie sped along in the tumult of earth and sky; the road was more than a mile, and at such a season and in such weather very toilsome and dangerous—but what deeds have not tender women achieved, strung by love, or hate!

when leslie gained the promontory, she found the old house deserted—the few servants were on the shore, aiding or watching hector garret and his men in their efforts to save the last of his line, cast away within the shadow of his own rocks and towers.

leslie shrank from descending among the spectators; she remained spent and breathless, but resolute still, where she could spy the first wayfarer, hear the first shout of triumph, and steal away in the darkness, fleeing home unmarked and undetained.

it was the first occasion on which she had been close to earlscraig. the situation, at all times exposed, was now utterly forlorn. the spray was rising over the land, the waves were sapping its old foundation, the weird winds were tearing at the coping of the shattered house; and on the side where alice boswell's turret had stood, stones were rumbling, and wild weeds streaming. the scene was very dismal and eerie, but leslie did not shudder or faint; her senses were bent on one aim, she was impervious to all else. she sank down in a kneeling position, staring with unwinking eyes, praying with her whole heart in an agony. [page 265]the light which had beguiled her, passed beyond her sight after tossing for some time to and fro. she could not regain it, she could only continue ready to seize the first signal of bliss, or woe.

it did not come. the storm raged more madly; the desolation grew more appalling; leslie's brain began to whirl; the solitude was rife with shapes and voices.

above all stood fair alice boswell, wreathed in white flames—from the wavering cloudy mass of forms the gallant exile plunged anew into the flood, now seething and rushing to meet its prey.

"oh woman—alice boswell—i did not steal your lover! you kept him from me long after god and man had given him to me. there are no vows and caresses in the grave. we have had but one meeting and parting; but one! oh, stranger, he is spending his life for her brother, as you were ready to fling down yours for her. will none of you be appeased? then take us both; in mercy leave not the other! in death let us not be divided!"

the pang was over; leslie passed into insensibility. when she recovered herself, the spectres of that horrible dream still flitted around her, for did she not distinguish through the surge and the blast hector garret's foot speeding to receive his doom?

but "leslie," not "alice," was his cry. beneath the very arches of earlscraig, where fair alice boswell, her rich hair decked for one, her bright eyes sparkling for another, her sandal buckled for a third, had stood, and waved to him her hand—"leslie! leslie!" was his cry, [page 266]uttered with such aching longing, such utter despair. it was the wail of no mocking ghost, but the human cry of a breaking heart.

leslie's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; but there was no need of speech to indicate to him his weak, fluttering treasure. found once more! found for ever! raised and borne away swiftly and securely. no word of explanation, no reproach for folly and desperation, no recital of his labours, no information regarding others, but—strange from hector garret's stern lips, and sweet as strange—murmurs of fondness and devotion: "sweet leslie! mine only—mine always!" scoutings at weariness, cheery reckonings of their way, his heart beating against hers, her cheek to his; and it was only when bridget kennedy opened the door, and he asked her whether she had yet a chamber for this truant, that leslie was aware how well hector garret had performed his part, and how many guests the hospitable walls of otter sheltered that eventful night.

bridget was solemnly praising heaven, whose arm had been about them, and restored them both in the flower of their days, to otter, and to their bairn.

"we have come back for more than otter and the bairn, leslie. bridget and all the men of ayr could not have held her here, my faithful wife that needs must be my love, she has proved herself so true!"

he was throwing off her drenched cloak, and chafing her cold hands. one of them was clenched on its contents. he opened the stiffened finger, and found a lock of hair.

[page 267]"it was all belonging to you that i had, hector," she whispered; "i took it long ago, with your knowledge but without your consent. i would not look at it, or touch it; i kept it for little leslie. but you said that you were mine, and it was something of yours to hold; you were mine, and it was part of you."

"better for scotland that weans greet than bearded men," averred the lord of glammis; but he did not say, better for the men, or better for those who plight hand and heart with them, that the keen, clear eye melt not, either with ruth or tenderness. nay, the plants of household faith and love, scathed by some lightning flash, pinched by some poverty of soil, will lift their heads and thrive apace when once they have been watered with this heavenly rain—and like the tree of the psalmist growing by the river, will flourish pleasantly, and bear much goodly fruit thenceforth, and fade not at all, but instead, be transplanted into "the land that is far away."