By Right of Salvage

By S. R. CROCKETT.

HE time, by chance, was Christmas Eve, but it was in the Scotland of thirty years ago, so the fact made no difference; the Scriptures had not declared Christmas unto them; the minister was silent on the subject, or spoke only to fulminate against "prelates," "Englishers," and others who "regarded times and seasons."

But it was the field-night of the "Choral Union," and the little Whinnyliggate schoolhouse had never been fuller. There was a light snow on the ground—a sprinkling only, for the frost of December had been long and black. Many a man there had a back stiff with the slow lift and drive as he sent the channel-stone up the rink. But the "Singing School" concert—ah! that brought out all in the upper end of the parish who were neither deaf nor bedridden.

If you had gone to the four little steps that led up to the steep schoolhouse brae, you would hardly have seen the light from the windows for the heads clustering thick without and within. The young men who had had to take care of the horses and see them safely stabled at the smithy or at Gatehead Farm, arrived late, and mostly found themselves without seats. But in revenge they stood about the windows, and even threw conversation lozenges in the direction of the dainty half -circle about the precentor, where the singers were fluttering the lace sleeves of their best gowns and shaking their ringlets, one on each side falling low on the shoulder rebelliously, or tossing them back with the prettiest gesture of the head.

They were only awed into attention by the waving baton of Robert Affleck, of the Garioch, noble-hearted man and excellent musician, who only looked ridiculous when he began to sing. That is, to those who did not know him. Those who did, thought nothing of strange screwing of the mouth, the twitching nostrils, or the rise and fall of the shaggy black eyebrows as he twanged the tuning-fork and prepared to attack the fortress of "Ring the Bell, Watchman," or even "The Watch on the Rhine"; for it was the time of the Franco-German war, and, in English versions, warlike songs ravaged the remotest country parishes, otherwise haunts of ancient peace.

Here and there a greybeard elder shook his head and confided to his brother in office: "If they were to sing the Hundredth Psalm, it wad fit them better than a' that clinkum-clankum! Hear to thae craiturs, 'Ring, ring, ring'! Ye wad think it was a smiddy. I tell ye what, Drumglass, I'm no on wi' thae vain sacrifices."

"There's the harps," suggested Drumglass in the speaker's ear. "If you and me are on the road 'Up Yonder,' we had better be gettin' accustomed to the like o' that."

But the Hallelujah Chorus, murdered wilfully in the first degree and without extenuating circumstances, silenced both office-bearers. They remained, critic and apologist, with dropped jaws till the final "Amens" seemed to escape through a broken roof.

The little stove in the centre on its red sandstone foundation was growing ruddy when at last the benediction was said. Then the door was opened, and those nearest it fell out as turnips fall from an over-full cart when both pins are out and the backboard comes away with a clatter.

Mr. Goodlison, the minister, was going from group to group buzzing the wonted compliments. His wife was shaking her long side curls at him from the doorway as a signal to him to be done and come away home to his supper. She held ready in her hands the minister's white knitted comforter. Abraham was so sensitive to colds, so forgetful and careless, and yet withal, so cunning, that (will it be believed?) he would sometimes sneak into the "soiled" linen cupboard and get out a worn shirt and collar which she had put away, alleging as an excuse, when taxed with his crime, that "a stiff one choked the word of God in a man's throat."

But the young people were all outside early arranging their affairs. Those who could walk home had generally their companions trysted long beforehand. The moon was at its full, of course; indeed, Christmas Eve had been chosen for the festival entirely on this account.

Those living at greater distances drove. One or two well-to-do married farmers had their gigs. But such hurried homegoings by no means satisfied the young people. The longest farm-carts had been covered with a thick felting of sacks along the shelving sides. The cart bottom was deep in straw, while all the rugs, wraps, and coverlets in the house had been requisitioned for the homecoming.

There was much laughter. Invitations, audacious and mock-tender, rang through the air. Young men who were to sit in the corner to drive, offered more quietly special accommodation by their sides and promised to be "douce." There was but one of all the singers who stood aloof, showing no preference, accepting no invitation of all those laughingly or wistfully extended to her.

Alison Cairns, called from her rebellious locks "Curly," pouted disdainfully apart. Roy McFarlane asked her, "majorin'" the worth of his turnout like an auctioneer. He retired snubbed. Andro Crossmyloof ventured in, was refused, and fell back amid the muttered jeers of his comrades.

But the other girls, who envied Curly her good looks and her position as premier soloist, said, loud enough for each other to hear: "Oh, I know, Will Arnott has gone home with Lizzie Baker."

It was not true, but Alison Cairns turned her face away towards the sheeted hills that stood up white on the farther side of the Loch.

She did not believe it of Will. Of course not. She knew why these girls said it, and she smiled pleasantly at the nearest, Bell Burns, ruddy even in the moonshine.

"I will wait," she said; "there's never a lad in this end of the parish worth the snap of a finger!"

"Come with us, Ailie," cried Agnes Begbie, more tender-hearted than the others, reaching a hand to help her up.

"Let her bide, if she's sae upsettin', the proud madam!" murmured the more jealous. "Drive on, Roy!"

Now, there was enough of truth in all this to hurt, and Alison Cairns felt very angry indeed to be thus publicly shamed. Will Arnott had promised to be there waiting for her, and—no, no, it was impossible. She knew Will. There must be some accident. She was sure there must be some accident. All the same, a sudden resolve came to her. The little, strongly shod foot stopped tapping the hard-beaten snow, on which the wheels of many gigs and carts had executed fantastic curves and circles in turning.

In another moment the minister and his wife came out. Mrs. Goodlison was busy rectifying the sit of the white comforter about her husband's neck, for well she knew that in Scotland, at least, a minister's throat is his fortune.

"Bless me!" said the minister, "is that not one of the maids I see going alone round the turn at the smithy?"

Well he knew that it was not good Whinnyliggate custom to permit anything of the kind. The young men ought to be ashamed of themselves. Now, in his time! "Should not I?" he stammered, "should not we, Marion? That is to say, I do not like any of the young women returning home alone at this time of night."

But Marion pulled him round sharply. the comforter was not yet entirely to her mind, and she gave it an extra twitch because he was talking nonsense.

"We shall do no such thing, Abraham," she said. "You will go doucely home with this old woman here present, and then you will take your milk-gruel while it is hot. Then to bed you will go like a decent man! As for the lassie, it will only be Jess Kelly from the Greystane. She has only the corner to turn, at any rate. And yonder is Will Arnott, with an empty gig, following her up!"

"Good night, Will," the minister called out.

"Good night, sir," said a voice from the gig, with an unusual strain in it.

"Why, what's the matter, Will?" cried the minister, stopping, in spite of the forward tug of a wifely hand on his arm. "What's that on your face? Blood?"

"Only a bit of a spill, sir," said Will Arnott. "Someone let fall a lantern in front of Bess as we drove out of the inn yard, and before I could get her mastered she tumbled me out at the Well corner."

"Come your ways into the manse, Will," said Mr. Goodlison; "it's wise that these things should be seen to at once."

"No, thank you, sir," said Will; "it's really nothing, and there's the mare—she's not to be trusted even yet—and"

"What, Will?"

"Did you happen to see" (Will had a delicacy in mentioning names) "a young lady waiting"

"Who was to go home with you, William?" said the minister's wife, who loved to get to the point in such matters.

"Ah, well—that is to say, I hoped, I expected Miss Alison Cairns," the youth stammered, occupying himself with the mare's restlessness to hide his own growing confusion.

"Alison?" said Mrs. Goodlison reassuringly. "Oh, of a certainty she will have found a seat in one of the long wagons. I saw Roy McFarlane speaking to her before she left the schoolroom."

"Oh, thank you; no doubt," said Will Arnott, as little reassured as possible by the information. "Good night, madam! good night, Mr. Goodlison!"

For Will had been at college, and was accounted by far the most mannerly young man in the parish. He was a favourite, also, with the minister's wife, who thought him much too good for any of the village, or even for the farmers', daughters.

But the minister, in spite of fifty years and a strict régime of comforters, had a warm spot in his heart for honest swains.

"I saw somebody that looked like Ailie Cairns," he called out as Will drove off, "going round the Smithy turn a minute or two ago!"

"Nonsense—it was only the Kelly lass from the Greystane!" interrupted his wife. But Will had whipped up the mare, and by this time was rounding the turn himself.

"Oh, these young people," said the minister's wife, "they think of nothing else but love-making! I wish they were more awake to their higher duties."

"Remember the Long Loaning, Marion!" said Mr. Goodlison, giving his wife's arm a quick squeeze under his.

"For shame, Abraham! Think of your age and position."

"Ah, I am thinking!" sighed Mr. Goodlison, and they walked all the way home, silent both of them.

Meanwhile, Will Arnott was on the trail as hard as the mare could go, and, indeed, she laid herself well down to her work, as if she knew her master's heart. The corner came. They flashed round the quick turns about Greystane and up the long alley of beech and birch, their naked twigs winnowing in the moonlight. No Ailie was to be seen. The avenue to the bridge, and beyond it as far as Willowbank, white on its hill, glimmered pearly pale, delicately patterned by the branch shadows, all the way to the knoll from which you look down on the Loch. Instinctively Will laid the whip-lash along the mare's glistening side. Bess bounded forward, and, eager on his chase. Will let her go.

It seemed as if he reached the top of the Urioch brae in a dozen strides. As they topped the rise something moved behind a broom bush on the steep face from which in summer the children dig pig-nuts. Whereupon Bess, quick to resent anything after the sting of the whip-lash in the avenue of beeches, laid back her vicious ears, set her head between her knees, and went down the steep hill at full gallop.

Now, at the foot was the smallest sort of burn, tinkling and murmuring, half hidden in summer, but now, of course, frozen stiff. Then came three awkward turns, where already more than one man had found his end. A little beyond Bess swerved to the left, where was only a steepish, rough bank, down which the wheels skidded. She struck the ice of the Bogle Thorn Pool, which broke beneath her weight. There must have been a spring there, for a black column of water rose churning in the frosty air. It was crested with white—the broken, snow-covered ice of the Pool. It sank, and all was still. To the watcher behind the whin-bushes on the brae, only a little black patch broke the white uniformity of the lake, a blot irregularly shaped, but, as it seemed, no bigger than a man's hand.

How Alison Cairns got out of her hiding-place, how fast she crossed the crisp meadow grass, hard as iron underneath, how she found herself standing on the verge of splintered ice, she never knew.

She saw a whip-lash floating, that which had done all the mischief. The butt was still held down under the water. Something told her there was a chance. She dared not hesitate, but still less dared she pull. For she knew that the whip might be her only guide to the hand that grasped it.

Taking firm hold of the branch of a scraggy thorn which overhung the pool, Alison let herself down into the water. She did not feel the chill. She only felt herself sinking. The branch snapped, and she swerved in the direction of the outer edge of the ice. She felt her feet entangled; then suddenly they rested firm. Up the whip-handle a hand had come as if by magic into hers. She pushed violently shorewards, striking the solid mass which was beneath her feet to give her an impetus, and the face of Will Arnott came up close to hers, darkly white and wet under the moon.

She had her hand on the branch—a stronger branch—then on the roots of the whins. There was a long struggle, but Will was out on the snow Silent, cold, and, it seemed, dead on the steep, rough bank. Then quite suddenly Alison's courage deserted her. She threw her arms about his face, crushed it against her, crying out:

"Oh, Will, Will, forgive me, do forgive me!"

At that moment she felt this horror was all her fault, and she wept over him, chafing his hands and wooing the life that would not come back into her sweetheart's body.

"I have killed him! I—I—who loved him!"

So busy was Ailie that she had not heard the jingle of horse-accoutrement on the road above. Two men slid down the embankment, leaving another in the wagon.

"What's this, what's this, Ailie?" said her father, standing tall and grave beside her.

"It's Will," she sobbed, giving way completely now that all was over. "I frighted the horse and drowned him!"

Her father was bending over Will Arnott. He was a quick, brusque man, and generally ordered everybody about rather roughly, but he was gentle that night.

"Let us get him first to the mill," he said, "and then you, Rob, drive Alison home as fast as may be"

"I shall stay with Will!" she cried. "I must—I killed him! But I only meant to frighten him. He had made me wait at the school-gate. Oh, father, I am not wet—or cold! Indeed, I am not!"

Her father sucked a little, low comprehensive whistle between his lips.

"Whew-ew!" he murmured. "So, Master Will!"

And in ten minutes all were safe in the mill-house—Will in bed, and the miller's wife bustling about to find dry clothes for Ailie out of her daughter's store.

The next morning David Cairns strode into the room, flicking his high riding-boots free of snow, Alison sat with Will's hand in hers, and, strange enough, did not seem in the least abashed.

"Now, young people," said her father, "be good enough to tell me the meaning of all this."

With a faint smile and happy eyes, Will referred him to his daughter.

"If it had not been for Ailie," he said, "I would have been lying beside Bess in the pool at the Bogle Thorn!"

"And then?" said Mr. Cairns, turning to his daughter. "Will is mine," affirmed that young woman brazenly. "I saved him and I mean to keep him! Besides, he needs someone to keep him from careering madly about the country. Even you will admit that."

"And if it had not been for me," said Mr. Cairns, "pray where would the pair of you have been?"

"Dear father!" said Ailie, laying her hand upon his arm with the treacherous and selfish affection common to daughters on such occasions.