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Presently I could hear the cry of "Vive la Republique," then came a sharp rattle of musketry, some of the bullets pinging against the walls above our heads. "Come on, Wetherholm, I think I can find out where the Count is quartered; we may be in time to help him."
On making inquiries of the servant, she discovered that a man exactly answering his description had, while they were out, knocked at the door and asked all sorts of questions. "She could not mind what exactly," she said. "They were about Mr Wetherholm. Where he had come from! When he had got married? What he was doing? And all sorts of such like things."
Old Mrs Wetherholm was delighted to receive my poor mother and me, and took the very fondest care of us, as did Aunt Bretta, while my father proceeded on his voyage. Soon after this I was christened under a name which may sound somewhat fine to southern ears, Willand Wetherholm; but, as will be seen, I did not very long retain it. My mother had another trial soon after this.
I have been at sea for many years, and have never heard from her or my aunt. Can you tell me where they are gone?" "Sit down, young man, and let me think. I cannot answer all in a hurry," said she, and I thought her tone was much pleasanter than at first. "Your name is Wetherholm, is it? and what ship did you go to sea in?" I told her. "The Kite! That is strange," said she.
"I should know something about that vessel. If Margaret were here, she would tell me, but my memory is not as good as it was. You want to know where your relatives are. Now I come to think of it, the old lady who lived in this house before me had a daughter. They came, I have heard, like my poor niece's family, from Shetland. Wetherholm was her name.
"I am Willand, your grandchild, Granny!" I exclaimed, springing across the room. "Young man, you have made a strange mistake," said the old lady, in a voice which sent a chill through my heart. "I never had a grandchild. You take me for some one else." "Beg pardon, marm," said I, trying to recover myself. "I took you for my grandmother, Mrs Wetherholm, who once lived here.
My father, Eric Wetherholm, was a Shetlander. He was born in the Isle of Unst, the most northern of those far-off islands, the Shetlands.
"I shall want you to look out by and by, when I keep my watch," he said; "and meantime you, Wetherholm and Hagger, take charge of the raft, and I hope in a short time to be able to let you lie down." Saying this, Mr Harvey laid down on a small platform which we had built for the purpose of enabling two of us at a time to be free of the wash of the water.
So he walked in and found Margaret in the room alone, and he told her, in an off-hand sort of way, that he loved her, and that, if she would marry him, he would give up the sea and live on shore, and make her comfortable and happy for the rest of her days." "Did she accept him? did she marry him?" I exclaimed, interrupting the old lady. "You shall hear, Mr Wetherholm," she answered quietly.
I remember we had to run across an open space, and were nearly wetted through by the tremendous rain which poured down upon us. It was blowing very hard too, the wind howled and shrieked among the buildings of the fort, while the windows and doors rattled till I thought that they would be forced in. "I was afraid, Wetherholm, that we were going to have a dirty night of it," observed Mr Harvey.
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