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"Oh my puir wean! My bonnie bairn!" crooned Mrs. Maitland, as she bent
over the figure of her daughter who, clinging to Matthew's knees, was
looking up into his face, as he lay back in his chair where he had
fallen, when Mysie fell at his feet. "Oh, my puir lamb, you're wet to
the skin, an' fair done; for God knows its an' awfu' mess you hae cam'
hame in."
"Puir thing," she wailed and crooned, again breaking out after having
kissed and fondled Mysie's wet face. "We hae lang hungered for
you--hungered for you for a gey lang time, an' noo you hae cam' hame,
near to daith's door. But we'll nurse you back. We'll mak' you strong
and healthy again. Oh, Mysie, my puir lassie. What ails you? Where hae
you been? What has happened to you a' this time? But what am I thinking
aboot," she broke off, "sitting here, when I should be gettin' some dry
claes for you, an' a bed ready."
She rose and began to busy herself shaking up a bed and diving into
drawers, bringing clean clothes forth and hanging them over a piece of
rope which stretched across the fireplace, so as to air and heat them,
the tears streaming from her eyes and occasionally a low moan breaking
from her as if forced by some inward pain; while Matthew, nearly
overcome with excitement, could only lie back in his chair, his eyes
closed and his hands stroking tenderly the wet young head that lay
against his knee.
"Faither," murmured Mysie, brokenly and weakly, "oh, faither, I've come
back. Jist let me lie here near you. I jist want you to clap my held, to
lean against you, an' gang to sleep. Are you angry wi' me, faither? Are
you--" and Mysie's eyes closed in a faint, as she lay limp against his
knee.
Just then the door opened and Mrs. Sinclair came in. She always came in,
after she had got everyone in the house to bed, to see how Matthew felt.
It was her first errand in the morning and her last before retiring at
night. She was generally the last visitor, and the door was always
locked and barred when she went away.
"Oh, Nellie, come awa' in," said Matthew. "You're a God's send this
nicht. I'm glad to see you. Mysie's jist cam' back, an' she has fented.
Gie's a bit haun' wi' her to get her into bed. Puir thing. She's fair
done up," and Matthew tried to raise up the prostrate figure of his
bairn; but sank back too weak, and too overcome to do anything.
"Dinna you trouble yourself, Matthew," said Mrs. Sinclair, gathering the
prostrate girl in her arms and raising her up on her knee like a child.
"Bring some dry claes. Jenny, an' get some warm watter bottles in the
bed. Puir thing, she's in an awfu' state. She's a' tremblin' an' maun
hae been awfu' ill," and she worked with and stripped the wet clothes
from the girl and soon had her in bed, but in spite of all her efforts
Mysie remained unconscious. She then left to get the doctor summoned,
leaving the sorrowing parents to look after the girl till she returned.
When she did come back, Matthew was in bed and his condition very much
worse. The excitement had been too much for him in his weakened state
and he lay exhausted, crying like a child.
Soon the doctor came and did all in his power. At the end of an hour
Mysie's eyes opened and she looked about her.
"Where's my faither?" she asked weakly. "Oh, I'm gled I'm hame."
"He's in bed," answered Mrs. Sinclair. "An' you're no' to talk the
nicht, Mysie. Jist lie still, like a good lass, an' drink this, an' in
the mornin' you'll may be a bit better." And Mysie drank, and with a
sigh of happy contentment, she turned her face to the wall, glad she was
now at home--home with her wounded spirit and broken life.
The soft easy chaff bed gave her more of rest and satisfaction than if
it had been eiderdown. She traced as of old the roses upon the cheap
paper with which the box bed was papered, and which had been her
mother's pride when it was put on. Mysie watched the twining and
intertwining of the roses, as they reached upward toward the ceiling
through a maze of woodbine and red carnations, and noted that the
curtains upon the bed were the same as they were when she had last slept
there.
The old wag-at-the-wa' clock which had belonged to her grandfather,
wheezed wearily from the corner and the shrill eerie call of a courting
cat outside broke familiarly upon her ear. Thus surrounded by the sights
and sounds of old, a glad contentment in her heart, she soon dozed off
into a deep sleep.
When Mrs. Sinclair went home just as midnight was striking she found
Robert sitting by the fire wondering at her absence. He had just
returned from a meeting at a neighboring village, and finding his
brothers and sisters all in bed and his mother not in the house with his
tea ready for him as usual, he wondered what was the matter.
"I was owre at Matthew's," she replied in answer to the question she
knew he was going to ask.
"Is he waur the nicht?" he asked quickly.
"Weel, it's no' him, although he's gey upset too; but Mysie has cam'
hame the nicht, an' puir lassie she is in an awfu' state," and she was
quick to note the soft blanching of his cheek as she spoke.
"Mysie hame," he echoed with quick interest.
"Ay, puir lassie; but I doot if I'm no' cheated that Mysie'll no' be
lang anywhere. The doctor says she's to be keepit quate; for she's gey
low. In fact he felt me at the door that he dinna think she could last a
week."
Robert sat a long time looking into the fire, while his mother got ready
his tea, and described to him all that she knew of Mysie's return and of
her sad condition.
"You'd hardly ken her," she went on. "She's that thin and white and faur
gane lookin', forby havin' a boast that wad fricht you. Puir lassie, I
was vexed for her an' Matthew too is gey upset aboot it. Dae you ken,
Rob, I believe they mun be gey hard gruppit. Wi' Matthew being off
work, and John deein' an' a' the ither troubles they had this while, I
think they canna be ower weel off."
"Ay," he said, "they canna be ower weel off; for they hae had a lot to
dae this while. You micht look to them, mither. We are no sae ill off
noo, an' we can afford tae help them."
"Weel, Rob, I've been aye givin' them a bit hand, buying beef for soup
an' that' an' daein' a' I could. But I'm awfu' puttin' aboot ower puir
Mysie. She's gey faur gane, an' wherever she has been she's been haein a
bad time of it."
"I saw her at Edinburgh," he said quietly, as she paused to pour out the
tea.
"In Edinburgh?"
"Ay," he replied. "Last month when I was at the conference," and Robert
told his mother the whole story of his meeting with Mysie and of her
disappearance and all that had happened to her from the time she had
gone away.
"But you never telt yin o' us, Rob," she said after he had come to the
end of the story.
"No, I never telt ony o' you; for Mysie made me promise no' to tell; an'
forby she wadna' gi'e me her address. But I was that upset that day that
I couldn't collect mysel' an' I minded o' a lot o' things I should hae
done an' said after I left her. It was terrible," and he relapsed into
silence again, as he went on with his supper.
His mother saw all the pain in his heart that night, though neither
spoke much of the state of his feelings for Mysie; but it was evident to
her who saw all the cross currents of fate, perhaps more clearly than
Robert knew.
She looked at him with furtive pride. There was no showy parading of
what he felt, but only the set of the mouth was a little firmer perhaps
than usual and the eyes a little softer and glistening. That was all.
"Ay, Robin," she said brokenly, unable to hide her pride and weakness.
"I ken a' that you hinna telt me. I guessed it years syne; but I'm sure
noo. An' I'm awfu' vexed, laddie; ay, I'm awfu' vexed," and with that he
withdrew to his room, more touched with her simple words of sympathy
than anything she had ever said to him in all her previous life.
Mrs. Sinclair went to bed, but she knew her laddie had not done so. She
heard him in his room and knew that in the silence of the night and in
the privacy and secrecy of his own room he was fighting out his battle
with fate, and she knew that no one could help him--that only the fiber
of his own soul could help him through.
In the morning he rose early and went for a walk, for it was Sunday.
Returning, he found his mother with the latest news of Mysie's
condition. She waited until the other members of the house had gone out,
and then with a sigh observed very quietly but with a world of tender
sympathy in her voice:
"Mysie's sinkin' fast, Robin. I think you should gang ower and see her.
She canna' last very lang, puir thing, an' she was askin' aboot you when
I was ower. I think she wad like to see you. You'll gang ower and see
her, Rob," she entreated, a sob in her throat as she spoke. "She'll be
awfu' pleased to see you."
"Ay, I'll gang ower, mither," he replied simply. "I'll gang ower efter a
wee while."
But it was drawing near to the darkness when he managed to summon
sufficient resolution to face the ordeal.
Mysie was lying in the room and he went in to see her--her whom he would
have given his own life to restore to activity and health again. A low
moan occasionally escaped her as she panted and battled for breath and
the color came and faded from her cheeks in quick fleeting waves.
Oh God! Was this Mysie--this faint apparition of the girl whom he had
loved? Even in the short month when he had seen her in Edinburgh a very
great change had been wrought upon her. The eyes, softly glowing with a
quiet radiance as they rested upon his face, were sunk, and the voice
faint and weak. A thin white hand lay upon the coverlet and the great
waves of brown hair which had been his pride, were tumbled about the
thin face framing it in a tangled oak brown frame of deepest beauty.
She lifted her hand as he approached, a sweet smile breaking through
her pain, caught him in radiance of love. "I'm glad you've come, Rob,"
she panted. "I jist wanted to see you again--an'--an' tak' good-by wi'
you," and the quick catch in her words gripped his heart as he knelt
beside the bed, taking the thin hand between his while the tears started
from his eyes and fell upon the white bed cover.
"Oh, Mysie," he said brokenly. His voice refused to go further and he
bent his head upon the bed, trying hard to control himself and keep from
breaking down before her.
"I'm awfu' vexed, Rob," she said, after a while. "It was a' a mistak'
an' naebody's to blame. I ought to hae kent better mysel'," and she
paused again for breath. "I--I should hae kent better, that nae guid
could come--oot o' it--I was just carried awa'. Dinna ever blame
lasses--nor men either, when things happen. They--they canna help
themsel's--" and here again she paused for breath, gasping and fighting
at every word.
"It's a' a mistake, Rob, an' I think it's a' in the way folk look at
thae things." Another pause, while her chest heaved and panted. "Maybe
we dinna look at thae things richt," she again resumed. "We--we mak'
mistak's and canna help oorsel's; but God dinna mean it as--as a
mistak'. It's a' because we think it is. Everything's richt--but we mak'
them wrang in the way we look at them. It wad hae--been a' richt--in oor
mind, if I had been married afore--afore it happened--but because we
werena married--it was wrang. It's a' a mistak' Rob, a' a--" and a burst
of coughing nearly choked her and a flood of blood began to gurgle in
her mouth.
Robert grew alarmed and lifting a cloth began to wipe the blood from her
mouth, looking on her so concerned and anxious that she tried to smile
to him to reassure him.
Presently she lay back with eyes closed and her hand limp in his. A wild
fear took possession of him as he looked upon the scarcely moving
breast, a fear which seemed to communicate itself to the sufferer, and
she opened her eyes again, but the voice was weak and very far away.
"Dinna be angry wi' onybody, Rob. It was you I liket, it was you I
wanted--but it was a' a mistake."
"I'm no' angry, Mysie," he said stifling his sobs, his tears falling
upon the white thin face. "Oh, Mysie, I'm only vexed. I'm only vexed
aboot the hale sad business. There now, dearie," he said bending low
over her and kissing and stroking the pallid brow and caressing the face
so dear to him. "There noo, I'm no' angry. You're mine, Mysie. You've
always been mine, an' I'm no' angry. But oh, I love you, Mysie, an' it's
breaking my heart to part frae you. Oh, God!" he groaned in agony. "What
does it a' mean? I canna' bear it,--I canna' bear't," and a wild burst
of grief swept over him as he flung his head and arms upon the bed in a
vain attempt to control his sobbing sorrow.
A long pause--then the white hand was raised and crept slowly over his
shoulder, working its way among the thick shaggy hair of his head as the
fingers strayed from curl to curl, patting him and soothing him as a
child is soothed by a mother's hand. It rested upon his bent head and
the eyes opened again.
"Ay, Rob, I'm vexed for your sake--but it was a' a mistake." She went on
halting and very weak. "It was a' a mistak'--an' naebody is to blame. We
are just--driven alang, an'--we canna help oorsel's--it's awfu' to
hae--sic feelin's--an'--an' no' hae any poo'er--to guide them
richt--it's ay the things we want maist--that we dinna get. Kiss me,
Rob--kiss me, as you kissed me--yon--nicht on the muir. Haud me like
you--an' I think I can--gang content. Oh, Rob,--ay liket you--it was you
I wanted a' the time!"
He clasped her tenderly in his arms as he kissed her mouth, her eyes,
her brow, her hair, stroking her and fondling the dear face, catching
hungrily the smile that came to the pale lips, and lingered there like a
blink of sun upon a hillside after the rest of the landscape is clothed
in shadow.
Again there was a pause while he searched the pale face with the
lingering smile, noting the veined, almost discolored eyelids,
transparent and closed over the tired suffering eyes. Then a burst of
coughing again and the blood in thick clots gurgled up from the throat.
Then after a little she spoke again.
"Oh, Rob, you hae made me very happy. But I'm vexed aboot you--an'--an'
Peter. He tried to dae what was richt; but it wasna to be--I hope
you'll--no'--be angry wi' him. He was like me--he couldna' help it."
"Oh, Mysie, I'm no' angry wi' him," he replied brokenly, trying hard to
make his voice sound dearly. "I'm no' angry wi' onybody."
"I'm glad o' that, Rob," she said, her hand caressing his head. "You was
ay a guid hearted laddie--I'm awfu' glad." Then her mind began to wander
and she was back in Edinburgh speaking of her father and John.
"Oh, faither," she rambled on. "Dinna be angry wi' me. There's naebody
to blame. Dinna be angry."
Then Robert was conscious that others were in the room, and looking up
he beheld his mother and Jenny Maitland and behind them with anxious
face and frightened eyes stood Peter Rundell, the picture of misery and
despair.
"She's kind o' wanderin', puir thing," he heard the mother say in
explanation to the others. "She's kind o' wanderin' in her mind."
It was a sad little group which stood round the dying girl, all anxious
and alarmed and watchful. Then after a while she opened her eyes again
and there was a look of startled surprise as if she were looking at
something in the distance. Then she began to recognize each and all of
them in turn, first Robert, who still held her hand, then her mother and
Nellie, and Peter. A faint smile came into her eyes and he stepped
forward. Her lips moved slowly and a faint sound came falteringly from
them.
"Dinna be angry wi' onybody," she panted. "It was a'--a--mistake."
Then raising her hand she held it out to Peter, who advanced towards the
bedside and placing his hand on Robert's she clasped them together in
her own. "There noo--dinna be angry--it was a' a mistake. It was Rob I
liket--it was him--I wanted. But it--was--a' a mistak'. Dinna be--" and
the glazed sunken eyes closed forever, never to open again, a faint
noise gurgled in her throat, and the dews of death stood out in beads
upon the pale brow. A tiny quiver of the eyelids, and a tremor through
the thin hands and Mysie--poor ruined broken waif of the world--was
gone.
"Oh, my God! She's deid," gasped Robert, clasping the thin dead hands in
a frenzy of passionate grief. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! Oh God! She's deid,"
and his head bent low over the bed while great sobs tore through him,
and shook his young frame, as the storm shakes the young firs of the
woods. Then suddenly recollecting himself as his mother put her hand
upon his bent head saying: "Rise up, Robin, like a man. You maun gang
oot noo." He rose and with tears in his eyes that blinded him so that he
hardly saw where he was going, he stumbled out into the darkness under
the pale stars--out into the night to the open moor, his grief so
burdening that he felt as if the whole world had gone from his
reckoning.
"Oh, my poor Mysie," he groaned. "It was all a horrible mistake," and
the darkness came down in thick heavy folds as if the whole world were
mourning for the loss of the young girl's soul, but it brought no
comfort to him.