BY THE OLD DIAL-STONE.

“So heroes may well wear their armour,
And, patient, count over their scars;
Venus’ dimples, assuming the charmer,
Shall smooth the rough furrows of Mars.”
Dibdin.

ENERAL GRANT MACKENZIE was lounging at breakfast one morning in his private rooms in the big barn-like barracks of C——. At his right hand sat one of his captains, with whom he was talking—languidly enough, it must be confessed.

“You are right, Moore. By Jove, you’re right; and to-day I send in my resignation. Here have we been lying waiting the French for more than a year, and the rascals won’t show front. No; I shall go in for club life in London now.”

“We’ll miss you, general.” “Ah, Moore, it is good of you to say so; but what can a fellow do? When I rejoined the service, I expected to see some fighting. Disappointed. And now I’m parted from my daughter, and lying in this old barn positively getting mouldy. Besides—”

“Some one to see you, sir,” said the servant.

“Why, Richards, my dear old boy, who could have expected to see you? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“No, everything right—more than right. Prepare to hear news that—”

He glanced at the captain.

“My friend Captain Moore. No secrets from him—knows everything.—Captain Moore, Mr. Richards, my family lawyer, and, bar yourself, the best fellow in existence.”

Richards bowed.

“Well, Jack’s come. Had terrible fighting. I hurried over to tell you.”

“But not for that alone?”

“Nay, friend. Now sit down, or catch hold of something. I’m going to startle you. Your old uncle is dead.”

“What, the man that disinherited me?”

“The same; only—you are heir to Glen Pollok. It is all yours—a cool £10,000 a year.” The general could not speak for a moment; then he grasped the kindly old solicitor’s hand once more, and with tears in his eyes.

“God in heaven bless you, Richards,” he exclaimed, “and his name be praised. Poor Jack and dear Flo, they will not now be beggars!”

“And, Richards,” he added, “Flora shall be wedded with all the pomp and glory due to a daughter of the proud house of Grant Mackenzie.”

“Ah!” laughed Richards, “there is the old reckless Celtic blood asserting itself again. Don’t forget, my friend, that even £10,000 a year can be spent, and that right easily too.”

“I won’t, I won’t; you shall be my guide.”

“And then, you see,” continued Richards, “there is the mortgage to pay off on Grantley Hall.”

“Grantley Hall! why, isn’t that sold long ago?”

Richards laughed heartily now. “O bother,” he cried. “I’ve let the cat out of the bag, and I didn’t mean to. I meant to give you such a pleasant surprise. Well, well, well,—

‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men
Gang aft agley.’”

Then Richards told him all he had done. The tears stood in General Mackenzie’s eyes. “Richards,” he said, “I could not have believed such kindness possible. I—I—I can’t say another word.”

The meeting between Tom Fairlie and Flora was all that lovers could desire. Mary positively hugged Jack. He was still her boy. I’m not sure she did not shower upon him “luv and sweet kisses.”

“But, bless me, Jack,” she said, “how tall you’ve got! and really you makes poor me feel old.”

Gerty met Jack with a bonnie blush.

Ah! how he longed to take her in his arms and tell her all, and all she had been to him throughout the last two long and eventful years. But no, he would not, dared not. When in a few months’ time a ship was once more at his command, he would go quietly away to sea; but he ne’er would speak of love.

For his old Highland pride had come to his rescue. She was rich; he was very poor indeed.

No, it never could be. And so he told Tom, and so he told his sister. The former laughed at his scruples; the latter thought her brother was right.

Richards and the general were at Grantley Hall and as busy as the traditional bonnet-maker. They had a little secret between them, for neither Jack nor Flora had yet been told of the change in the fortunes of the Grant Mackenzies. It would be such a delightful surprise. And so the two old friends worked away, as merrily as school-boys building a rabbit-hutch, and in a few weeks’ time the old place was put to rights, and every nick-nack and every curio and souvenir and picture replaced in the drawing-room, just as it had been in the dear, reckless days of long ago.

But near the finish of the arrangements M?Hearty was invited down and let into the delightful secret, for he it was who should bring Jack and his sister, with Tom, Gerty, and Mary the maid, down to the old place.

“Do you know,” said M?Hearty about a week after this, as he stood with Jack and his sister on the balcony of the priest’s drawing-room at Torquay, “I’m dying to see old Grantley Hall just once again.”

“And I too would like to see it,” sighed Jack, “if—if I thought Flora could stand it.”

“Oh I think I could.”

“Well, the weather is delightful; why shouldn’t we sail round?”

“Agreed,” said Jack; “we shall.”

They hired a yacht, not a very fast one. There were no Thistles in those days. But she was most clean and comfortable, and the party had favouring winds all the way round, and in due time arrived safely in Lowestoft harbour.

Then nothing less than a coach and postillions would suit M?Hearty.

“It shan’t be at your expense though, Captain Jack,” he said, “nor yours either, Tom. Why, I have made oceans of prize-money, and an old bachelor like me doesn’t really know how to spend it.”

The surprise began when they reached the lodge gate. “Why,” cried Jack, “there is some one living here. I expected to find the place in ruins.” The surprise increased when they reached the lawn, for here the general and sly old Richards met them laughing. But when the party were ushered into the drawing-room, and saw everything in its place as it had been years ago, and the general and Richards “ready to die” stifling a laugh, why, then the surprise reached a climax.

“Pinch me, Tom,” cried Jack. “I’m in a dream.” What a happy first-coming that was, to be sure! but there were many more to follow.

The autumn tints were on the trees, evening primroses and dahlias nodded by the pathways, and many a rare old flower besides.

One evening Jack, with his sister and Gerty, was walking in the bright moonlight along the broad and grassy path that swept under the lime avenue. Flora had gone on, and Jack had given Gerty his arm.

Suddenly they came to the old dial-stone. And here they stopped, for Jack had remembered his dream. He was Gerty’s equal now in every way, and so he told her his dream, and he told her something else; told her of all his manly love that neither absence nor the vicissitudes of war could ever banish from his heart. And much more, too, he told her that we need not pry into. Flora went on and on. Just once she glanced behind. Gerty was very close to Jack.

When, a whole hour after this, they entered the great drawing-room arm in arm, they looked very happy indeed. There was no one there but Richards and the general. “Why, where ever have you two truants been?” said the latter. “We have been cleaning the moss off the old dial-stone, and rolling back the scroll of time. Father, let me present to you your future daughter-in-law.”

“My own brave boy,” said the general. “Gerty Keane.”

That was all; but I do not know yet which was the happier man of the two—Jack’s father or Mr. Richards.

As for Mary, as soon as she heard the glorious news she must seek out “her boy” at once. She found him in his room, and with the best grace he could muster he had to submit to “luv and sweet kisses” on the spot, Mary assuring him that he had made her the happiest girl in all Norfolk.

There is a good deal of similarity about weddings; but it was generally admitted that the double event that took place at Grantley Hall in the spring of ’99—namely, the marriages of Tom and Flora, and Gerty and Jack—was the gayest wedding, or rather pair of weddings, that had ever taken place in the north. I cannot say that bonfires blazed on every hill, because there are no hills in Norfolk worthy of the name; but the rejoicing far and near was universal, and with all his old Highland hospitality and lavishness, General Grant Mackenzie, ably supported by Richards and the gallant M?Hearty, kept open house for a whole fortnight to all comers.

Meanwhile, in a charming yacht, under blue skies and with favouring winds, the happy couples were sailing round the shores of merry England and green Caledonia.

Ah! there is many a less happy life than that of the sailor, and many worse people than sailors; and had I my time to begin again, I should still be sweeping through the deep.