HIGHNESS

In spite of her black, close-clustering hair Patsy had the dark blue
eyes of her Uncle Julian. Young men and older ones also (who ought to
have known better) were in the habit of calling them violet when they
walked with Patsy in the twilight, when many unforeseen things happen.

Then Patsy knew exactly what to think. For her Uncle Julian had told her
that when a man is in love, he becomes colour blind. When asked how he
knew, Julian said that once on a time he had friends who used to confide
their love affairs to him. But he smiled as he said it--the
believe-as-much-of-that-as-you-like smile which was Patsy's own, and was
her heritage from a less grave race than the Ferrises of Cairn Ferris.

Julian had the same smile when he condemned the Free Trade as an
interference with the financial policy of King George, and at the same
time drew a jug from a jar of "special" Hollands, or from such an anker
of cognac as could not be found elsewhere in Scotland. He had found
both, as it were dropped from heaven, in a corner of his stable, but Tam
Eident, whom he had carefully catechized, knew nothing about the matter.
He had, he averred, been asleep at the time in his bed in the
stable-loft.

Doubtless the Free Traders thought they were paying for some
complaisance on the part of the master of Abbey Burnfoot. But his light
burned steadily up in his study window. He had never looked down on the
flitting torches, the turmoil of the loading, the black figures crossing
and recrossing the glimmering strips of sand, the clinking of shod feet
on the banks of pebble, the jingling of the chains of the pack saddles.
He had been wisely deaf and had carried his lamp upstairs to the little
turret chamber, where he chose to sleep on wild nights, that he might
the better hear the wind swirl about him, the wind thresh and the sea
roar and churn on the beaches and snore in the spouting-crags of the
Burnfoot.

So on nights when strange noises came from without, and the wild birds
keckled with a sound that might be mistaken for the neighing of horses,
Julian Wemyss betook himself to his strong tower, and, locking the door
at the top of the stone staircase, went peacefully to sleep, till the
morrow showed up wide wet sands, whipped by the wind, many tracks of
horses among the dunes, and, dipping far down the channel towards St.
Bees, the top-sails of a schooner, which might be the much-sought-for
_Good Intent_, or, again, might not.