CHAPTER XVI.

THE FACTOR OF BALNAVRAIN

*WHITE HEATHER.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*A MESSAGE.*

Clear and brilliant in their blue and white are these shining northern

skies; and the winds that come blowing over the moorland are

honey-scented from the heather; and the wide waters of the loch are all

of a ruffled and shimmering silver, with a thin fringe of foam along the

curving bays. And this is Love Meenie that comes out from the cottage

and comes down to the road; with perhaps less of the wild-rose tint in

her cheeks than used to be there, and less of the ready light of

gladness that used to leap into her blue-gray eyes; but still with that

constant gentleness of expression that seems to bring her into accord

with all the beautiful things in the landscape around her. And, indeed,

on this particular morning she is cheerful enough; walking briskly,

chatting to the ancient terrier that is trotting at her side, and

equably regarding now the velvet-soft shadows that steal along the

sunlit slopes of Clebrig, and now the wheeling and circling of some

peewits that have been startled from their marshy haunts by the side of

the stream.

'And who knows but that there may be a message or a bit of news for us

this morning?' she says to the faithful Harry. 'For yonder comes the

mail. And indeed it's well for you, my good little chap, that you can't

understand how far away Glasgow is; I suppose you expect to see your

master at any minute, at every turn of the road. And if he should send

you a message--or Maggie either--how am I to tell you?'

The pretty Nelly is at the door of the inn, scattering food to the

fowls.

'It's a peautiful moarning, Miss Douglas,' she says.

And here is Mr. Murray, with his pipe, and his occultly humorous air.

'And are you come along for your letters, Miss Meenie?' he says. 'Ay,

ay, it is not an unusual thing for a young leddy to be anxious about a

letter--it is not an unusual thing at ahl.'

And now the mail-car comes swinging up to the door; the one or two

passengers alight, glad to stretch their legs; the letter bags are

hauled down, and Miss Douglas follows them indoors. Mrs. Murray, who

acts as post-mistress, is not long in sorting out the contents.

'Two for me?' says Meenie. 'And both from Glasgow? Well, now, that does

not often happen.'

But of course she could not further interrupt the post-mistress in the

performance of her duties; so she put the letters in her pocket; passed

out from the inn and through the little crowd of loiterers; and made for

the high-road and for home. She was in no hurry to open these budgets

of news. Such things came but once in a while to this remote hamlet;

and when they did come they were leisurely and thoroughly perused--not

skimmed and thrown aside. Nevertheless when she got up to the high-road

she thought she would pause there for just a second, and run her eye

over the pages, lest there might be some mention of Ronald's name. She

had heard of him but little of late; and he had never once written to

her--perhaps he had no excuse for doing so. It was through Maggie that

from time to time she got news of him; and now it was Maggie's letter

that she opened first.

Well, there was not much about Ronald. Maggie was at school; Ronald was

busy; he seldom came over to the minister's house. And so Meenie, with

a bit of a sigh, put that letter into her pocket, and turned to the

other. But now she was indifferent and careless. It was not likely

that her sister had anything to say about Ronald; for he had not yet

called at the house. Moreover, Mrs. Gemmill, from two or three

expressions she had used, did not seem anxious to make his acquaintance.

And then the girl's breath caught, and she became suddenly pale.

'_Drinking himself to death, in the lowest of low company_'--these were

the words confronting her startled eyes; and the next instant she had

darted a glance along the road, and another back towards the inn, as if

with a sudden strange fear that some one had overseen. No, she was all

alone; with the quickly closed letter in her trembling hand; her brain

bewildered; her heart beating; and with a kind of terror on her face.

And then, rather blindly, she turned and walked away in the other

direction--not towards her own home; and still held the letter tightly

clasped, as if she feared that some one might get at this ghastly

secret.

'_Ronald!--Ronald!_'--there was a cry of anguish in her heart; for this

was all too sharp and sudden an end to certain wistful dreams and

fancies. These were the dreams and fancies of long wakeful nights, when

she would lie and wonder what was the meaning of his farewell look

towards her; and wonder if he could guess that his going away was to

change all her life for her; and wonder whether, if all things were to

go well with him, he would come back and claim her love--that was there

awaiting him, and would always await him, whether he ever came back or

no. And sometimes, indeed, the morning light brought a joyous assurance

with it; she knew well why he had not ventured to hand her that

tell-tale message that he had actually written out and addressed to her;

but in the glad future, when he could come with greater confidence and

declare the truth--would she allow father, or mother, or any one else to

interfere? On these mornings the Mudal-Water seemed to laugh as it went

rippling by; it had a friendly sound; she could hear it

_'Move the sweet forget-me-nots_

_That grow for happy lovers.'_

And at such times her favourite and secret reading was of women who had

been bold and generous with their love; and she feared she had been

timid and had fallen in too easily with her mother's schemes for her;

but now that she understood herself better--now that her heart had

revealed itself plainly to her--surely, if ever that glad time were to

come--if ever she were to see him hasten along to the little

garden-gate--on the very first moment of his arrival--she would not

stint her welcome of him? White, white were the mornings on which such

fancies filled her head; and the Mudal laughed along its clear brown

shallows; and there was a kind of music in the moorland air.

'_Drinking himself to death, in the lowest of low company:_' black night

seemed to have fallen upon her, and a wild bewilderment, and a crushing

sense of hopelessness that shut out for ever those fair visions of the

future. She did not stay to ask whether this might not be a woman's

exaggeration or the mere gossip of a straitlaced set; the blow had

fallen too suddenly to let her reason about it; she only knew that the

very pride of her life, the secret hope of her heart, had been in a

moment extinguished. And Ronald--Ronald that was ever the smartest and

handsomest of them all--the gayest and most audacious, the very king of

all the company whithersoever he went--was it this same Ronald who had

in so short a time become a bleared and besotted drunkard, shunning the

public ways, hiding in ignoble haunts, with the basest of creatures for

his only friends? And she--that had been so proud of him--that had been

so assured of his future--nay, that had given him the love of her life,

and had sworn to herself that, whether he ever came to claim it or no,

no other man should take his place in her heart--she it was who had

become possessed of this dreadful secret, while all the others were

still imagining that Ronald was as the Ronald of yore. She dared not go

back to Inver-Mudal--not yet, at least. She went away along the

highway; and then left that for a path that led alongside a small burn;

and by and by, when she came to a place where she was screened from all

observation by steep and wooded banks, she sat down there with some kind

of vague notion that she ought more carefully to read this terrible

news; but presently she had flung herself, face downward, on the

heather, in an utter agony of grief, and there she lay and sobbed and

cried, with her head buried in her hands. '_Ronald! Ronald!_' her

heart seemed to call aloud in its despair; but how was any appeal to be

carried to him--away to Glasgow town? And was this the end? Was he

never coming back? The proud young life that promised so fair to be

sucked under and whirled away in a black current; and as for her--for

her the memory of a few happy days spent on Mudal's banks, and years and

years of lonely thinking over what might have been.

A sharp whistle startled her; and she sprang to her feet, and hastily

dried her eyes. A Gordon setter came ranging through the strip of

birch-wood, and then its companion; both dogs merely glanced at

her--they were far too intent on their immediate work to take further

notice. And then it quickly occurred to her that, if this were Lord

Ailine who was coming along, perhaps she might appeal to him--she might

beg of him to write to Ronald--or even to go to Glasgow--for had not

these two been companions and friends? And he was a man--he would know

what to do--what could she do, a helpless girl? Presently Lord Ailine

appeared, coming leisurely along the banks of the little stream in

company with a keeper and a young lad; and when he saw her, he raised

his cap and greeted her.

'Don't let us disturb you, Miss Douglas,' said he. 'Gathering flowers

for the dinner-table, I suppose?'

'I hope I have done no harm,' said she, though her mind was so agitated

that she scarcely knew what she said. 'I--I have not seen any birds--nor

a hare either.'

'Harm? No, no,' he said good-naturedly. 'I hope your mamma is quite

well. There's a haunch of a roe-buck at the lodge that Duncan can take

along this afternoon----'

'Your lordship,' said the keeper reprovingly, 'there's Bella drawing on

to something.'

'Good morning, Miss Douglas,' he said quickly, and the next moment he

was off.

But even during that brief interview she had instinctively arrived at

the conclusion that it was not for her to spread about this bruit in

Inver-Mudal. She could not. This news about Ronald to come from her

lips--with perhaps this or that keeper to carry it on to the inn and

make it the topic of general wonder there? They would hear of it soon

enough. But no one--not even any one in her own household--would be

able to guess what it meant to her; as yet she herself could hardly

realise it, except that all of a sudden her life seemed to have grown

dark.

She had to get back to the cottage in time for the mid-day dinner, and

she sate at table there, pale and silent, and with a consciousness as of

guilt weighing upon her. She even did her best to eat something, in

order to avoid their remarks and looks; but she failed in that, and was

glad to get away as soon as she could to the privacy of her own room.

'I'm sure I don't know what's the matter with Williamina,' Mrs. Douglas

said with a sigh. 'She has not been looking herself for many a day

back; and she seems going from bad to worse--she ate hardly a scrap at

dinner.'

Of course it was for the Doctor to prescribe.

'She wants a change,' he said.

'A change,' the little dame retorted with some asperity, for this was a

sore subject with her. 'She would have had a change long before now,

but for her and you together. Three months ago I wanted her sent to

Glasgow----'

'Glasgow--for any one in indifferent health--' the highland Doctor

managed to interpolate; but she would not listen.

'I'm sure I don't understand the girl. She has no proper pride. Any

other girl in her position would be glad to have such chances, and eager

to make use of them. But no--she would sooner go looking after a lot of

cottar's children than set to work to qualify herself for taking her

proper place in society; and what is the use of my talking when you

encourage her in her idleness?'

'I like to have the girl at home,' he said, rather feebly.

'There,' she said, producing a letter and opening it--although he had

heard the contents a dozen times before. 'There it is--in black and

white--a distinct invitation. "Could you let Meenie come to us for a

month or six weeks when we go to Brighton in November?"'

'Well,' said the good-natured Doctor, 'that would be a better kind of a

change. Sea-air--sunlight--plenty of society and amusement.'

'She shall not go there, nor anywhere else, with my cousin and his

family, until she has fitted herself for taking such a position,' said

the little woman peremptorily. 'Sir Alexander is good-nature itself,

but I am not going to send him a half-educated Highland girl that he

would be ashamed of. Why, the best families in England go to Brighton

for the winter--every one is there. It would be worse than sending her

to London. And what does this month or six weeks mean?--Surely it is

plain enough. They want to try her. They want to see what her

accomplishments are. They want to see whether they can take her abroad

with them, and present her at Paris and Florence and Rome. Every year

now Sir Alexander goes abroad at Christmas time; and of course if she

satisfied them she would be asked to go also--and there, think of that

chance!'

'The girl is well enough,' said he.

She was on the point of retorting that, as far as he knew anything about

the matter, Williamina was well enough. But she spared him.

'No, she has no proper pride,' the little Dresden-china woman continued.

'And just now, when everything is in her favour. Agatha never had such

chances. Agatha never had Williamina's good looks. Of course, I say

nothing against Mr. Gemmill--he is a highly respectable man--and if the

business is going on as they say it is going, I don't see why they

should not leave Queen's Crescent and take a larger house--up by the

West End Park. And he is an intelligent man, too; the society they have

is clever and intellectual--you saw in Agatha's last letter about the

artists' party she had--why, their names are in every newspaper--quite

distinguished people, in that way of life. And, at all events, it would

be a beginning. Williamina would learn something. Agatha is a perfect

musician--you can't deny that.'

But here the big Doctor rebelled; and he brought the weight of his

professional authority to bear upon her.

'Now, look here, Jane, when I said that the girl wanted a change, I

meant a change; but not a change to singing-lessons, and music-lessons,

and German lessons, and Italian lessons, and not a change to an

atmosphere like that of Glasgow. Bless my soul, do you think _that_

kind of change will bring back the colour to her cheek, and give her an

appetite, and put some kind of cheerfulness into her? Queen's Crescent!

She's not going to Queen's Crescent with my will. Brighton, if you

like.'

'Brighton? To get herself laughed at, and put in the background, as a

half-educated ignorant Highland peasant girl? So long as she is what

she is, she shall not go to Brighton with my will.'

So here was an absolute dead-lock so far as Meenie's future was

concerned; but she knew nothing of it; and if she had known she would

not have heeded much. It was not of her own future she was thinking.

And it seemed so terrible to her to know that there was nothing she

would not have adventured to save this man from destruction, and to know

that she was incapable of doing anything at all. If she could but see

him for a moment--to make an appeal to him; if she could but take his

hand in hers; would she not say that there had been timidity, doubt,

misapprehension in the past, but that now there was no time for any of

these; she had come to claim him and save him and restore him to

himself--no matter what he might think of her? Indeed she tried to put

all thought of herself out of the matter. She would allow no self-pride

to interfere, if only she could be of the smallest aid to him, if she

could stretch out her hand to him, and appeal to him, and drag him back.

But how? She seemed so helpless. And yet her anxiety drove her to the

consideration of a hundred wild and impossible schemes, insomuch that

she could not rest in her own room, to which she had retreated for

safety and quiet. She put on her bonnet again and went out--still with

that guilty consciousness of a secret hanging over her; and she went

down the road and over the bridge; and then away up the solitary valley

through which the Mudal flows. Alas! there was no laughing over the

brown shallows now; there was no thinking of

_'the sweet forget-me-nots,_

_That grow for happy lovers';_

all had become dark around her; and the giant grasp of Glasgow had taken

him away from her, and dragged him down, and blotted out for ever the

visions of a not impossible future with which she had been wont to

beguile the solitary hours. '_Drinking himself to death, in the lowest

of low company:_' could this be Ronald, that but a few months ago had

been the gayest of any, with audacious talk of what he was going to try

for, with health and happiness radiant in his eyes? And it seemed to

her that her sister Agatha had been proud of writing these words, and

proud of the underlining of them, and that there was a kind of vengeance

in them; and the girl's mouth was shut hard; and she was making vague

and fierce resolutions of showing to all of them--far and near--that she

was not ashamed of her regard for Ronald Strang, gamekeeper or no

gamekeeper, if ever the chance should serve. Ashamed! He had been for

her the very king of men--in his generosity, his courage, his

gentleness, his manliness, his modesty, and his staunch and unfaltering

fealty to his friends. And was he to fall away from that ideal, and to

become a wreck, a waif, an outcast; and she to stand by and not stretch

out a hand to save?

But what could she do? All the day she pondered; all the evening; and

through the long, silent, and wakeful night. And when, at last, as the

gray of the dawn showed in the small window, she had selected one of

these hundred bewildered plans and schemes, it seemed a fantastic thing

that she was about to do. She would send him a piece of white heather.

He would know it came from her--he would recognise the postmark, and

also her handwriting. And if he took it as a message and an appeal, as a

token of good wishes and friendliness, and the hope of better fortune?

Or if--and here she fell a-trembling, for it was a little cold in these

early hours--if he should take it as a confession, as an unmaidenly

declaration? Oh, she did not care. It was all she could think of

doing; and do something she must. And she remembered with a timid and

nervous joy her own acknowledged influence over him--had not Maggie

talked of it a thousand times?--and if he were to recognise this message

in its true light, what then? '_Ronald! Ronald!_' her heart was still

calling, with something of a tremulous hope amid all its grief and pity.

She was out and abroad over the moorland long before any one was astir,

and searching with an anxious diligence, and as yet without success.

White heather is not so frequently met with in the North as in the West

Highlands; and yet in Sutherlandshire it is not an absolute rarity; many

a time had she come across a little tuft of it in her wanderings over

the moors. But now, search as she might, she could not find the

smallest bit; and time began to press; for this was the morning for the

mail to go south--if she missed it, she would have to wait two more

days. And as half-hour after half-hour went by, she became more anxious

and nervous and agitated; she went rapidly from knoll to knoll, seeking

the likeliest places; and all in vain. It was a question of minutes

now. She could hear the mail-cart on the road behind her; soon it would

pass her and go on to the inn, where it would remain but a brief while

before setting out again for Lairg. And presently, when the mail-cart

did come along and go by, then she gave up the quest in despair; and in

a kind of bewildered way set out for home. Her heart was heavy and full

of its disappointment; and her face was paler a little than usual; but

at least her eyes told no tales.

And then, all of a sudden, as she was crossing the Mudal bridge, she

caught sight of a little tuft of gray away along the bank and not far

from the edge of the stream. At first she thought it was merely a patch

of withered heather; and then a wild hope possessed her; she quickly

left the bridge and made her way towards it; and the next moment she was

joyfully down on her knees, selecting the whitest spray she could find.

And the mail-cart?--it would still be at the inn--the inn was little

more than half a mile off--could she run hard and intercept them after

all, and send her white-dove message away to the south? To think of it

was to try it, at all events; and she ran as no town-bred girl ever ran

in her life--past the Doctor's cottage, along the wide and empty road,

past the keeper's house and the kennels, across the bridge that spans

the little burn. Alas! there was the mail-cart already on its way.

'Johnnie, Johnnie!' she called.

Happily the wind was blowing towards him; he heard, looked back, and

pulled up his horses.

'Wait a minute--I have a letter for you to take!' she called, though her

strength was all gone now.

And yet she managed to get quickly down to the inn, and astonished Mrs.

Murray by breathlessly begging for an envelope.

'Tell Nelly--tell Nelly,' she said, while her trembling fingers wrote

the address, 'to come and take this to the mail-cart--they're

waiting--Johnnie will post it at Lairg.'

And then, when she had finished the tremulous address, and carefully

dried it with the blotting-paper, and given the little package to Nelly,

and bade her run--quick, quick--to hand it to the driver, then the girl

sank back in the chair and began laughing in a strange, half-hysterical

way, and then that became a burst of crying, with her face hidden in her

hands. But the good-hearted Mrs. Murray was there; and her arms were

round the girl's neck; and she was saying, in her gentle Highland way--

'Well, well, now, to think you should hef had such a run to catch the

mail-cart--and no wonder you are dead-beat--ay, ay, and you not looking

so well of late, Miss Meenie. But you will just rest here a while; and

Nelly will get you some tea; and there is no need for you to go back

home until you have come to yourself better. No, you hef not been

looking well lately; and you must not tire yourself like this--dear me,

the place would be quite different althogether if anything was to make

you ill.'

*CHAPTER II.*

*IN GLASGOW TOWN.*

It was as late as half-past ten o'clock--and on a sufficiently gray and

dull and cheerless morning--that Ronald's landlady, surprised not to

have heard him stirring, knocked at his room. There was no answer.

Then she knocked again, opened the door an inch or two, and dropped a

letter on the floor.

'Are ye no up yet?'

The sound of her voice aroused him.

'In a minute, woman,' he said sleepily; and, being thus satisfied, the

landlady went off, shutting the door behind her.

He rose in the bed and looked around him, in a dazed fashion. He was

already partially dressed, for he had been up two hours before, but had

thrown himself down on the bed again, over-fatigued, half-stupefied, and

altogether discontented. The fact is, he had come home the night before

in a reckless mood, and had sate on through hour after hour until it was

nearly dawn, harassing himself with idle dreams and idle regrets,

drinking to drown care, smoking incessantly, sometimes scrawling

half-scornful rhymes. There were all the evidences now on the table

before him--a whisky-bottle, a tumbler, a wooden pipe and plenty of

ashes, a sheet of paper scrawled over in an uncertain hand. He took up

that sheet to recall what he had written:

_King Death came striding along the road,_

_And he laughed aloud to see_

_How every rich man's mother's son_

_Would take to his heels and flee._

_Duke, lord, or merchant, off they skipped,_

_Whenever that he drew near;_

_And they dropped their guineas as wild they ran,_

_And their faces were white with fear._

_But the poor folk labouring in the fields_

_Watched him as he passed by;_

_And they took lo their spades and mattocks again,_

_And turned to their work with a sigh._

_Then farther along the road he saw_

_An old man sitting alone;_

_His head lay heavy upon his hands,_

_And sorrowful was his moan._

_Old age had shrivelled and bent his frame;_

_Age and hard work together_

_Had scattered his locks, and bleared his eyes--_

_Age and the winter weather._

_'Old man,' said Death, 'do you tremble to know_

_That now you are near the end?'_

_The old man looked: 'You are Death,' said he,_

_'And at last I've found a friend.'_

It was a strange kind of mood for a young fellow to have fallen into;

but he did not seem to think so. As he contemplated the scrawled

lines--with rather an absent and preoccupied air--this was what he was

saying to himself--

'If the old gentleman would only come striding along the Port Dundas

Road, I know one that would be glad enough to go out and meet him and

shake hands with him, this very minute.'

He went to the window and threw it open, and sate down: the outer air

would be pleasanter than this inner atmosphere, impregnated with the

fumes of whisky and tobacco; and his head was burning, and his pulses

heavy. But the dreariness of this outlook!--the gray pavements, the gray

railway station, the gray sheds, the gray skies; and evermore the dull

slumberous sound of the great city already plunged in its multitudinous

daily toil. Then he began to recall the events of the preceding

evening; and had not Mrs. Menzies promised to call for him, about

eleven, to drive him out to see some of her acquaintances at Milngavie?

Well, it would be something to do; it would be a relief to get into the

fresher air--to get away from this hopeless and melancholy

neighbourhood. Kate Menzies had high spirits; she could laugh away

remorse and discontent and depression; she could make the hours go by

somehow. And now, as it was almost eleven, he would finish his dressing

and be ready to set out when she called; as for breakfast, no thought of

that entered his mind.

Then he chanced to see something white lying on the floor--an

envelope--perhaps this was a note from Kate, saying she was too busy

that morning and could not come for him? He went and took up the

letter; and instantly--as he regarded the address on it--a kind of

bewilderment, almost of fear, appeared on his face. For well he knew

Meenie's handwriting: had he not pondered over every characteristic of

it--the precise small neatness of it, the long loops of the _l_'s, the

German look of the capital R? And why should Meenie write to him?

He opened the envelope and took out the bit of white heather that Meenie

had so hastily despatched: there was no message, not the smallest scrap

of writing. But was not this a message--and full of import, too; for

surely Meenie would not have adopted this means of communicating with

him at the mere instigation of an idle fancy? And why should she have

sent it--and at this moment? Had she heard, then? Had any gossip about

him reached Inver-Mudal? And how much had she heard? There was a kind

of terror in his heart as he went slowly back to the window, and sate

down there, still staring absently at this token that had been sent him,

and trying hard to make out the meaning of it. What was in Meenie's

mind? What was her intention? Not merely to give him a sprig of white

heather with wishes for good luck; there was more than that, as he

easily guessed; but how much more? And at first there was little of joy

or gladness or gratitude in his thinking; there was rather fear, and a

wondering as to what Meenie had heard of him, and a sickening sense of

shame. The white gentleness of the message did not strike him; it was

rather a reproach--a recalling of other days--Meenie's eyes were

regarding him with proud indignation--this was all she had to say to him

now.

A man's voice was heard outside; the door was brusquely opened; Jimmy

Laidlaw appeared.

'What, man, no ready yet? Are ye just out o' your bed? Where's your

breakfast? Dinna ye ken it's eleven o'clock?'

Ronald regarded him with no friendly eye. He wished to be alone; there

was much to think of; there was more in his mind than the prospect of a

rattling, devil-may-care drive out to Milngavie.

'Is Kate below?' said he.

'She is that. Look sharp, man, and get on your coat. She doesna like to

keep the cob standing.'

'Look here, Laidlaw,' Ronald said, 'I wish ye would do me a good turn.

Tell her that--that I'll be obliged if she will excuse me; I'm no up to

the mark; ye'll have a merrier time of it if ye go by yourselves; there

now, like a good fellow, make it straight wi' her.'

'Do ye want her to jump doon ma throat?' retorted Mr. Laidlaw, with a

laugh. 'I'll tak' no sic message. Come, come, man, pull yoursel'

thegither. What's the matter? Hammer and tongs in your head?--the

fresh air 'll drive that away. Come along!'

'The last word's the shortest,' Ronald said stubbornly. 'I'm not going.

Tell her not to take it ill--I'm--I'm obliged to her, tell her----'

'Indeed, I'll leave you and her to fight it out between ye,' said

Laidlaw. 'D'ye think I want the woman to snap my head off?'

He left, and Ronald fondly hoped that they would drive away and leave

him to himself. But presently there was a light tapping at the door.

'Ronald!'

He recognised the voice, and he managed to throw a coat over his

shoulders--just as Kate Menzies, without further ceremony, made her

appearance.

'What's this now?' exclaimed the buxom widow--who was as radiant and

good-natured and smartly dressed as ever--'what does this daft fellow

Laidlaw mean by bringing me a message like that? I ken ye better,

Ronald, my lad. Down in the mouth?--take a hair o' the dog that bit ye.

Here, see, I'll pour it out for ye.'

She went straight to the bottle, uncorked it, and poured out about a

third of a tumblerful of whisky.

'Ronald, Ronald, ye're an ill lad to want this in the morning; but what

must be, must; here, put some life into ye. The day'll be just splendid

outside the town; and old Jaap's with us too; and I've got a hamper; and

somewhere or other we'll camp out, like a band of gypsies. Dinna fear,

lad; I'll no drag ye into the MacDougals' house until we're on the way

back; and then it'll just be a cup o' tea and a look at the bairns, and

on we drive again to the town. What's the matter? Come on, my

lad!--we'll have a try at "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen" when we get away frae

the houses.'

'Katie, lass,' said he, rather shamefacedly, 'I'm--I'm sorry that I

promised--but I'll take it kind of ye to excuse me--I'm no in the humour

someway--and ye'll be better by yourselves----'

'Ay, and what good 'll ye do by pu'ing a wry mouth?' said she

tauntingly. '"The devil was ill, the devil a saint would be." Here,

man! it's no the best medicine, but it's better than none.'

She took the whisky to him, and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder.

There was a gleam of sullen fire in his eye.

'It's ill done of ye, woman, to drive a man against his will,' he said,

and he retreated from her a step or two.

'Oh,' said she proudly, and she threw the whisky into the coal-scuttle,

and slammed the tumbler down on the table, for she had a temper too, 'if

ye'll no be coaxed, there's them that will. If that's what Long John

does for your temper, I'd advise you to change and try Talisker. Good

morning to ye, my braw lad, and thank ye for your courtesy.'

She stalked from the room, and banged the door behind her when she left.

But she was really a good-hearted kind of creature; before she had

reached the outer door she had recovered herself; and she turned and

came into the room again, a single step or so.

'Ronald,' she said, in quite a different voice, 'it 'll no be for your

good to quarrel wi' me--

'I wish for no quarrel wi' ye, Katie, woman----'

'For I look better after ye than some o' them. If ye'll no come for the

drive, will ye look in in the afternoon or at night, if it suits ye

better? Seven o'clock, say--to show that there's no ill feeling between

us.'

'Yes, I will,' said he--mainly to get rid of her; for, indeed, he could

scarcely hear what she was saying to him for thinking of this strange

and mysterious message that had come to him from Meenie.

And then, when she had gone, he rapidly washed and dressed, and went

away out from the house--out by the Cowcaddens, and Shamrock Street, and

West Prince's Street, and over the Kelvin, and up to Hillhead, to

certain solitary thoroughfares he had discovered in his devious

wanderings; and all the time he was busy with various interpretations of

this message from Meenie and of her reasons for sending it. At first,

as has been said, there was nothing for him but shame and

self-abasement; this was a reproach; she had heard of the condition into

which he had fallen; this was to remind him of what had been. And

indeed, it was now for the first time that he began to be conscious of

what that condition was. He had fled to those boon-companions as a kind

of refuge from the hopelessness of the weary hours, from the despair

with regard to the future that had settled down over his life. He had

laughed, drunk, smoked, and sung the time away, glad to forget. When

haunting memories came to rebuke, then there was a call for another

glass, another song. Nay, he could even make apologies to himself when

the immediate excitement was over. Why should he do otherwise? The

dreams conjured up by the Americans had no more charms for him. Why

should he work towards some future that had no interest for him?

_Death is the end of life; ah, why_

_Should life all labour be?_

And so Kate Menzies's dog-cart became a pleasant thing, as it rattled

along the hard stony roads; and many a merry glass they had at the

wayside inns; and then home again in the evening to supper, and singing,

and a good-night bacchanalian festival at the Harmony Club. The hours

passed; he did not wish to think of what his life had become; enough if,

for the time being, he could banish the horrors of the aching head, the

hot pulse, the trembling hands.

But if Meenie had heard of all this, how would it appear to her? and he

made no doubt that she had heard. It was some powerful motive that had

prompted her to do this thing. He knew that her sister had been making

inquiries about him; his brother's congregation was a hot-bed of gossip;

if any news of him had been sent by that agency, no doubt it was the

worst. And still Meenie did not turn away from him with a shudder? He

took out the envelope again. What could she mean? Might he dare to

think it was this--that, no matter what had happened, or what she had

heard, she still had some little faith in him, that the recollection of

their old friendship was not all gone away? Reproach it might be--but

perhaps also an appeal? And if Meenie had still some interest in what

happened to him----?

He would go no farther than that. It was characteristic of the man

that, even with this white token of goodwill and remembrance and good

wishes before his eyes--with this unusual message just sent to him from

one who was generally so shy and reserved--he permitted to himself no

wildly daring fancies or bewildering hopes. Nor had the majesty of the

Stuarts of Glengask and Orosay anything to do with this restraint: it

was the respect that he paid to Meenie herself. And yet--and yet this

was a friendly token; it seemed to make the day whiter somehow; it was

with no ill-will she had been thinking of him when she gathered it from

one of the knolls at the foot of Clebrig or from the banks of

Mudal-Water. So white and fresh it was; it spoke of clear skies and

sweet moorland winds: and there seemed to be the soft touch of her

fingers still on it as she had pressed it into the envelope; and it was

Meenie's own small white hand that had written that rather trembling

'_Mr. Ronald Strang_.' A gentle message; he grew to think that there

was less of reproach in it; if she had heard evil tidings of him,

perhaps she was sorry more than anything else; Meenie's eyes might have

sorrow in them and pain, but anger--never. And her heart--well, surely

her heart could not have been set bitterly against him, or she would not

have sent him this mute little token of remembrance, as if to recall the

olden days.

And then he rose and drove against the bars that caged him in. Why

should the ghastly farce be played any longer? Why should he go through

that dull mechanical routine in which he had no interest whatever? Let

others make what money they choose; let others push forward to any

future that they might think desirable; let them aim at being first in

the world's fight for wealth, and having saloon-carriages, and

steam-yachts on Lake Michigan, and cat-boats on Lake George: but as for

him, if Lord Ailine, now, would only let him go back to the little

hamlet in the northern wilds, and give him charge of the dogs again, and

freedom to ask Dr. Douglas to go with him for a turn at the mountain

hares or for a day's salmon-fishing on the Mudal--in short, if only he

could get back to his old life again, with fair skies over him, and

fresh blowing winds around him, and wholesome blood running cheerily

through his veins? And then the chance, at some hour or other of the

long day, of meeting Meenie, and finding the beautiful, timid, Highland

eyes fixed on his: 'Are you going along to the inn, Ronald?' he could

almost hear her say. 'And will you be so kind as to take these letters

for me?'

But contracted habits are not so easily shaken off as all that; and he

was sick and ill at ease; and when the hour came for him to go down and

see Kate Menzies and her friends, perhaps he was not altogether sorry

that he had made a definite promise which he was bound to keep. He left

the envelope, with its piece of white heather, at home.

Nevertheless, he was rather dull, they thought; and there was some

facetious raillery over his not having yet recovered from the frolic of

the previous night; with frequent invitations to take a hair of the dog

that had bitten him. Kate was the kindest; she had been a little alarmed

by the definite repugnance he had shown in the morning; she was glad to

be friends with him again. As for him--well, he was as good-natured as

ever; but rather absent in manner; for sometimes, amid all their

boisterous _camaraderie_, he absolutely forgot what they were saying;

and in a kind of dream he seemed to see before him the sunlit

Strath-Terry, and the blue waters of the loch, and Mudal's stream

winding through the solitary moorland waste--and a young girl there

stooping to pick up something from the heather.

*CHAPTER III.*

*A RESOLVE.*

The days passed; no answer came to that mute message of hers; nay, how

could she expect any answer? But these were terrible days to her--of

mental torture, and heart-searching, and unceasing and unsatisfied

longing, and yearning, and pity. And then out of all this confusion of

thinking and suffering there gradually grew up a clear and definite

resolve. What if she were to make of that bit of white heather but an

_avant-courier_? What if she were herself to go to Glasgow, and seek

him out, and confront him, and take him by the hand? She had not

overrated her old influence with him: well she knew that. And how could

she stand by idle and allow him to perish? The token she had sent him

must have told him of her thinking of him; he would be prepared; perhaps

he would even guess that she had come to Glasgow for his sake? Well,

she did not mind that much; Ronald would have gentle thoughts of her,

whatever happened; and this need was far too sore and pressing to permit

of timid and sensitive hesitations.

One morning she went to her father's room and tapped at the door.

'Come in!'

She was rather pale as she entered.

'Father,' she said, 'I would like to go to Glasgow for a while.'

Her father turned in his chair and regarded her.

'What's the matter with ye, my girl?' he said. 'You've not been looking

yourself at all for some time back, and these last few days you've

practically eaten nothing. And yet your mother declares there's nothing

the matter. Glasgow? I dare say a change would do you good--cheer you

up a bit, and that; but--Glasgow? More schooling, more fees, that would

be the chief result, I imagine; and that's what your mother's driving

at. I think it's nonsense: you're a grown woman; you've learned

everything that will ever be of any use to you.'

'I ought to have, any way, by this time,' Meenie said simply. 'And

indeed it is not for that, father. I--I should like to go to Glasgow

for a while.'

'There's Lady Stuart would have ye stay with them at Brighton for a few

weeks; but your mother seems to think you should go amongst them as a

kind of Mezzofanti--it's precious little of that there's about Sir

Alexander, as I know well. However, if you're not to go to them until

you are polished out of all human shape and likeness, I suppose I must

say nothing----'

'But I would rather go and stay with Agatha, father,' the girl said.

He looked at her again.

'Well,' said he, 'I do think something must be done. It would be a fine

thing for you--you of all creatures in the world--to sink into a

hopeless anaemic condition. Lassie, where's that eldritch laugh o' yours

gone to? And I see you go dawdling along the road--you that could beat

a young roedeer if you were to try. Glasgow?--well, I'll see what your

mother says.'

'Thank you, father,' she said, but she did not leave at once. 'I think

I heard you say that Mr. Blair was going south on Monday,' she timidly

suggested.

This Mr. Blair was a U.P. minister from Glasgow, who was taking a

well-earned holiday up at Tongue--fishing in the various lochs in that

neighbourhood--and who was known to the Douglases.

'You're in a deuce of a hurry, Miss,' her father said, but

good-naturedly enough. 'You mean you could go to Glasgow under his

escort?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I will see what your mother says--I suppose she will be for

making a fuss over the necessary preparations.'

But this promise and half permission had instantly brought to the girl a

kind of frail and wandering joy and hope; and there was a brief smile on

her face as she said--

'Well, you know, father, if I have to get any things I ought to get them

in Glasgow. The preparations at Inver-Mudal can't take much time.'

'I will see what your mother thinks about it,' said the big,

good-humoured Doctor, who was cautious about assenting to anything until

the ruler and lawgiver of the house had been consulted.

The time was short, but the chance of sending Meenie to Glasgow under

charge of the Rev. Mr. Blair was opportune; and Mrs. Douglas had no

scruple about making use of this temporary concern on the part of her

husband about Meenie's health for the working out of her own ends. Of

course the girl was only going away to be brightened up by a little

society. The change of air might possibly do her good. There could be

no doubt she had been looking ill; and in her sister's house she would

have every attention paid her, quite as much as if she were in her own

home. All the same, Mrs. Douglas was resolved that this opportunity for

finally fitting Meenie for that sphere in which she hoped to see her

move should not be lost. Agatha should have private instructions. And

Agatha herself was a skilled musician. Moreover, some little

society--of a kind--met at Mr. Gemmill's house; the time would not be

entirely lost, even if a little economy in the matter of fees was

practised, in deference to the prejudices and dense obtuseness of one

who ought to have seen more clearly his duty in this matter--that is to

say, of Meenie's father.

And so it was that, when the Monday morning came round, Meenie had said

good-bye to every one she knew, and was ready to set out for the south.

Not that she was going by the mail. Oh no, Mr. Murray would not hear of

that, nor yet of her being sent in her father's little trap. No; Mr.

Murray placed his own large waggonette and a pair of horses at her

disposal; and when the mail-cart came along from Tongue, Mr. Blair's

luggage was quickly transferred to the more stately vehicle, and

immediately they started. She did not look like a girl going away for a

holiday. She was pale rather, and silent; and Mr. Blair, who had

memories of her as a bright, merry, clear-eyed lass, could not

understand why she should be apparently so cast down at the thought of

leaving her father's home for a mere month or so. As for old John

Murray, he went into the inn, grumbling and discontented.

'It is a strange thing,' he said,--for he was grieved and offended at

their sending Meenie away, and he knew that Inver-Mudal would be a quite

different place with her not there,--'a strange thing indeed to send a

young girl away to Glasgow to get back the roses into her cheeks. Ay,

will she get them there? A strange thing indeed. And her father a

doctor too. It is just a teffle of a piece of nonsense.'

The worthy minister, on the other hand, was quite delighted to have so

pretty a travelling companion with him on that long journey to the

south; and he looked after her with the most anxious paternal

solicitude, and from time to time he would try to cheer her with the

recital of ancient Highland anecdotes that he had picked up during his

fishing excursions. But he could see that the girl was preoccupied; her

eyes were absent and her manner distraught; sometimes her colour came

and went in a curious way, as if some sudden fancy had sent a tremor to

her heart. Then, as they drew near to the great city--it was a

pallid-clear morning, with some faint suggestions of blue overhead that

gave the wan landscape an almost cheerful look--she was obviously

suffering from nervous excitement; her answers to him were inconsequent,

though she tried her bravest to keep up the conversation. The good man

thought he would not bother her. No doubt it would be a great

change--from the quiet of Inver-Mudal to the roar and bustle of the vast

city; and no doubt the mere sight of hundreds and hundreds of strangers

would in itself be bewildering. Meenie, as he understood, had been in

Glasgow before, but it was some years ago, and she had not had a long

experience of it; in any case, she would naturally be restless and

nervous in looking forward to such a complete change in her way of life.

As they slowed into the station, moreover, he could not help observing

how anxiously and eagerly she kept glancing from stranger to stranger,

as they passed them on the platform.

'There will be somebody waiting for you, Miss Meenie?' he said at a

venture.

'No, no,' she answered, somewhat hurriedly and shame-facedly as he

thought--and the good minister was puzzled; 'Agatha wrote that Mr.

Gemmill would be at the warehouse, and--and she would be busy in the

house on a Monday morning, and I was just to take a cab and come on to

Queen's Crescent. Oh! I shall manage all right,' she added, with some

bravado.

And yet, when they had seen to their luggage, and got along to the

platform outside the station, she seemed too bewildered to heed what was

going on. Mr. Blair called a cab and got her boxes put on the top; but

she was standing there by herself, looking up and down, and regarding

the windows of the houses opposite in a kind of furtive and

half-frightened way.

'This is Port Dundas Road?' she said to the minister (for had not

Maggie, in her voluminous communications about Ronald, described the

exact locality of his lodging, and the appearance of the station from

his room?).

'It is.'

She hesitated for a second or two longer; and then, recalling herself

with an effort, she thanked the minister for all his kindness, and bade

him good-bye, and got into the cab. Of course she kept both windows

down, so that she could command a view of both sides of the

thoroughfares as the man drove her away along the Cowcaddens and the New

City Road. But alas! how was she ever to find Ronald--by accident, as

she had hoped--in that continuous crowd? She had pictured to herself

her suddenly meeting him face to face; and she would read in his eyes

how much he remembered of Inver-Mudal and the olden days. But among

this multitude, how was such a thing possible? And then it was so

necessary that this meeting should be observed by no third person.

However, these anxious doubts and fears were forcibly driven from her

head by her arrival at Queen's Crescent, and the necessity of meeting

the emergencies of the moment. She had but a half recollection of this

secluded little nook, with its semicircle of plain, neat, well-kept

houses, looking so entirely quiet and respectable; and its pretty little

garden, with its grass-plots, and its flower-plots, and its trim walks

and fountain--all so nice and neat and trim, and at this minute looking

quite cheerful in the pallid sunshine. And here, awaiting her at the

just opened door, was her sister Agatha--a sonsy, sufficiently

good-looking young matron, who had inherited her buxom proportions from

her father, but had got her Highland eyes, which were like Meenie's,

from her mother. And also there were a smaller Agatha--a self-important

little maiden of ten--and two younger children; and as the advent of

this pretty young aunt from Sutherlandshire was of great interest to

them, there was a babble of inquiries and answers as they escorted her

into the house.

'And such a surprise to hear you were coming,' her sister was saying.

'We little expected it--but ye're none the less welcome--and Walter's

just quite set up about it. Ay, and ye're not looking so well, my father

says?--let's see.'

She took her by the shoulders and wheeled her to the light. But, of

course, the girl was flushed with the excitement of her arrival, and

pleased with the attentions of the little people, so that for the moment

the expression of her face was bright enough.

'There's not much wrong,' said the sister, 'but I don't wonder at your

being dull in yon dreadful hole. And I suppose there's no chance of

moving now. If my father had only kept to Edinburgh or Glasgow, and got

on like anybody else, we might all have been together, and among friends

and acquaintances; but it was aye the same--give him the chance of a

place where there was a gun or a fishing-rod handy, and that was enough.

Well, well, Meenie, we must wake ye up a bit if you've been feeling

dull; and Walter--he's as proud as a peacock that you're come; I declare

it's enough to make any other woman than myself jealous, the way he

shows your portrait to anybody and everybody that comes to the house;

and I had a hint from him this morning that any bit things ye might

need--mother's letter only came on Saturday--that they were to be a

present from him, and there's nothing stingy about Wat, though I say it

who shouldn't. And you'll have to share Aggie's bed for a night or two

until we have a room got ready for you.'

'If I had only known that I was going to put you about, Agatha----'

'Put us about, you daft lassie!' the elder sister exclaimed. 'Come away,

and I'll show you where your things will have to be stored for the

present. And my father says there are to be no finishing lessons, or

anything of that kind, for a while yet; you're to walk about and amuse

yourself; and we've a family-ticket for the Botanic Gardens--you can

take a book there or some knitting; and then you'll have to help me in

the house, for Walter will be for showing you off as his Highland

sister-in-law, and we'll have plenty of company.'

And so the good woman rattled on; and how abundantly and secretly glad

was Meenie that not a word was said of Ronald Strang! She had felt

guilty enough when she entered the house; she had come on a secret

errand that she dared not disclose; and one or two things in her

sister's letters had convinced her that there were not likely to be very

friendly feelings towards Ronald in this little domestic circle. But

when they had gone over almost every conceivable topic, and not a single

question had been asked about Ronald, nor any reference even made to

him, she felt immensely relieved. To them, then, he was clearly of no

importance. Probably they had forgotten that she had once or twice

asked if he had called on them. Or perhaps her sister had taken it for

granted that the piece of news she had sent concerning him would

effectually and for ever crush any interest in him that Meenie may have

felt. Anyhow, his name was not even mentioned; and that was so far well.

But what a strange sensation was this--when in the afternoon she went

out for a stroll with the smaller Agatha--to feel that at any moment, at

the turning of any corner, she might suddenly encounter Ronald. That

ever-moving crowd had the profoundest interest for her; these rather

grimy streets a continuous and mysterious fascination. Of course the

little Agatha, when they went forth from the house, was for going up to

the West End Park or out by Billhead to the Botanic Gardens, so that the

pretty young aunt should have a view of the beauties of Glasgow. But

Meenie had no difficulty in explaining that green slopes and trees and

things of that kind had no novelty for her, whereas crowded streets and

shops and the roar of cabs and carriages had; and so they turned

city-wards when they left the house, and went away in by Cambridge

Street and Sauchiehall Street to Buchanan Street. And was this the way,

then, she asked herself (and she was rather an absent companion for her

little niece), that Ronald would take on leaving his lodgings to get

over to the south side of the city, where, as she understood from his

sister's letters, lived the old forester who was superintending his

studies? But there were so many people here!--and all seemingly

strangers to each other; scarcely any two or three of them stopping to

have a chat together; and all of them apparently in such a hurry. Argyll

Street was even worse; indeed, she recoiled from that tumultuous

thoroughfare; and the two of them turned north again. The lamplighter

was beginning his rounds; here and there an orange star gleamed in the

pallid atmosphere; here and there a shop window glowed yellow. When they

got back to Queen's Crescent they found that Mr. Gemmill had returned;

it was his tea-time; and there was a talk of the theatre for the older

folk.

Well, she did not despair yet. For one thing, she had not been anxious

to meet Ronald during that first plunge into the great city, for Agatha

was with her. But that was merely because the little girl had obtained

a holiday in honour of her aunt's coming; thereafter she went to school

every morning; moreover, the household happened to be a maidservant

short, and Mrs. Gemmill was busy, so that Meenie was left to do pretty

much as she liked, and to go about alone. And her walks did not take

her much to the Botanic Gardens, nor yet to the West End Park and Kelvin

Grove; far rather she preferred to go errands for her sister, and often

these would take her in by Sauchiehall Street and the top of Buchanan

Street; and always her eyes were anxious and yet timorous, seeking and

yet half-fearing to find. But where was Ronald? She tried different

hours. She grew to know every possible approach to that lodging in the

Port Dundas Road. And she had schooled herself now so that she could

search long thoroughfares with a glance that was apparently careless

enough; and she had so often pictured to herself their meeting, that she

knew she would not exhibit too great a surprise nor make too open a

confession of her joy.

And at last her patient waiting was rewarded. It was in Renfield Street

that she suddenly caught sight of him--a long way off he was, but coming

towards her, and all unconscious of her being there. For a moment her

schooling of herself gave way somewhat; for her heart was beating so

wildly as almost to choke her; and she went on with her eyes fixed on

the ground, wondering what she should say, wondering if he would find

her face grown paler than it used to be, wondering what he would think

of her having sent him the bit of white heather. And then she forced

herself to raise her eyes; and it was at the very same instant that he

caught sight of her--though he was yet some distance off--and for the

briefest moment she saw his strange and startled look. But what was

this? Perhaps he fancied she had not seen him; perhaps he had reasons

for not wishing to be seen; at all events, after that one swift

recognition of her, he had suddenly slunk away--down some lane or

other--and when she went forward, in rather a blind and bewildered

fashion, behold! there was no Ronald there at all. She looked

around--with a heart as if turned to stone--but there was no trace of

him. And then she went on, rather proudly--or perhaps, rather, trying

to feel proud and hurt; but there was a gathering mist coming into her

eyes; and she scarcely knew--nor cared--whither she was walking.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*A BOLDER STEP.*

As for him, he slunk aside hurriedly and all abashed and dismayed. He

did not pause until he was safe away from any pursuit; and there was a

lowering expression on his face, and his hand shook a little. He could

only hope that she had not seen him. Instantly he had seen her, he knew

that he dared not meet the beautiful clear eyes, that would regard him,

and perhaps mutely ask questions of him, even if there was no indignant

reproach in them. For during these past few days he had gradually been

becoming conscious of the squalor and degradation into which he had

sunk; and sometimes he would strive to raise himself out of that; and

sometimes he would sink back despairing, careless of what might become

of him or his poor affairs. But always there was there in his room that

mystic white token that Meenie had sent him; and at least it kept him

thinking--his conscience was not allowed to slumber; and sometimes it

became so strong an appeal to him--that is to say, he read into the

message such wild and daring and fantastic possibilities--that he would

once more resume that terrible struggle with the iron bands of habit

that bound him.

'What is the matter wi' Ronald?' Kate Menzies asked of her cronies. 'He

hasna been near the house these three or four days.'

'I'm thinking he's trying to earn the Blue Ribbon,' said old Mr. Jaap.

'And no thriving weel on't, poor lad,' said Jimmy Laidlaw. 'Down in the

mouth's no the word. He's just like the ghost o' himsel'.'

'I tell ye what, Mistress,' said the big skipper, who was contemplating

with much satisfaction a large beaker of hot rum and water, 'the best

thing you could do would be just to take the lad in hand, and marry him

right off. He would have somebody to look after him, and so would you;

as handsome a couple as ever stepped along Jamaica Street, I'll take my

oath.'

The buxom widow laughed and blushed; but she was bound to protest.

'Na, na, Captain, I ken better than that. I'm no going to throw away a

business like this on any man. I'll bide my ain mistress for a while

longer, if ye please.'

And then mother Paterson--who had a handy gift of facile

acquiescence--struck in--

'That's right, Katie dear! Ye're sich a wise woman. To think ye'd throw

away a splendid place like this, and a splendid business, on any man,

and make him maister! And how long would it be before he ate and drank

ye out o' house and ha'?--set him up with a handsome wife and a splendid

business thrown at his heed, and scarcely for the asking! Na, na, Katie,

woman, ye ken your own affairs better than that; ye're no for any one to

come in and be maister here.'

'But I'm concerned about the lad,' said Kate Menzies, a little absently.

'He met wi' none but friends here. He might fa' into worse hands.'

'Gang up yersel', Mistress, and hae a talk wi' him,' said the skipper

boldly.

Kate Menzies did not do that; but the same evening she wrote Ronald a

brief note. And very well she could write too--in a dashing, free

handwriting; and gilt-edged was the paper, and rose-pink was the

envelope.

'DEAR RONALD--Surely there is no quarrel between us. If I have offended

you, come and tell me; don't go away and sulk. If I have done or said

anything to offend you, I will ask your pardon. Can I do anything more

than that? Your cousin and friend,

'KATE MENZIES.'

Of course he had to answer such an appeal in person: he went down the

next morning.

'Quarrel, woman? What put that into your head? If there had been

anything of that kind, I would have told you fast enough; I'm not one of

the sulking kind.'

'Well, I'm very glad to ken we're just as good friends as before,' said

Kate, regarding him, 'but I'm not glad to see the way ye're looking,

Ronald, my lad. Ye're not yourself at all, my man--what's got ye

whitey-faced, limp, shaky-looking like that? See here.'

She went to the sideboard, and the next instant there was on the table a

bottle of champagne, with a couple of glasses, and a flask of angostura

bitters.

'No, no, Katie, lass, I will not touch a drop,' said he: and he rose and

took his cap in his hand.

'You will not?' she said. 'You will not? Why, man, you're ill--you're

ill, I tell ye. It's medicine!'

He gripped her by the hand, and took the bottle from her, and put it

down on the table.

'If I'm ill, I deserve to be, and that's the fact, lass. Let be--let be,

woman; I'm obliged to ye--some other time--some other time.'

'Then if you winna, I will,' she said, and she got hold of the bottle

and opened it and poured out a glass of the foaming fluid.

'And dinna I ken better what's good for ye than ye do yersel'?' said she

boldly. 'Ay, if ye were ruled by me, and drank nothing but what ye get

in this house, there would be little need for ye to be frightened at

what a wean might drink. Ye dinna ken your best friends, my lad.'

'I know you wish me weel, Katie, lass,' said he, for he did not wish to

appear ungrateful, 'but I'm better without it.'

'Yes,' said she tauntingly. 'Ye're better without sitting up a' night

wi' a lot o' roystering fellows, smoking bad tobacco and drinking bad

whisky. What mak's your face sae white? It's fusel-oil, if ye maun

ken. Here, Ronald, what canna hurt a woman canna hurt a man o' your

build--try it, and see if ye dinna feel better.'

She put a good dash of bitters into the glass, and poured out the

champagne, and offered it to him. He did not wish to offend her; and he

himself did not believe the thing could hurt him; he took the glass and

sipped about a teaspoonful, and then set it down.

Kate Menzies looked at him, and laughed aloud, and took him by the

shoulders and pushed him back into his chair.

'There's a man for ye! Whatna young ladies' seminary have ye been

brought up at?'

'I'll tell ye, lass,' he retorted. 'It was one where they taught folk

no to force other folk to drink against their will.'

'Then it was different frae the one where I was brought up, for there,

when the doctor ordered anybody to take medicine, they were made to take

it. And here's yours,' she said; and she stood before him with the

glass in her hand. She was good-natured; it would have been ungracious

to refuse; he took the glass from her and drank off the contents.

Now a glass of champagne, even with the addition of a little angostura

bitters, cannot be called a very powerful potion to those accustomed to

such things; but the fact was that he had not touched a drop of any

alcoholic fluid for two days; and this seemed to go straight to the

brain. It produced a slight, rather agreeable giddiness; a sense of

comfort was diffused throughout the system; he was not so anxious to get

away. And Kate began talking--upbraiding him for thinking that she

wanted to see him otherwise than well and in his usual health, and

declaring that if he were guided by her, there would be no need for him

to torture himself with total abstinence, and to reduce himself to this

abject state. The counsel (which was meant in all honesty) fell on

yielding ears; Kate brought some biscuits, and filled herself out

another glass.

'That's what it is,' she said boldly, 'if you would be ruled by my

advice there would be no shaking hands and white cheeks for ye. Feeling

better, are ye?--ay, I warrant ye! Here, man, try this.'

She filled his glass again, adding a good dose of bitters.

'This one I will, but not a drop more,' said he. 'Ye're a desperate

creature, lass, for making folk comfortable.'

'I ken what's the matter wi' you better than ye ken yoursel', Ronald,'

said she, looking at him shrewdly. 'You're disappointed--you're out o'

heart--because thae fine American friends o' yours hae forgotten you;

and you've got sick o' this new work o' yours; and you've got among a

lot o' wild fellows that are leading ye to the devil. Mark my words.

Americans! Better let a man trust to his ain kith and kin.'

'Well, Katie, lass, I maun say this, that ye've just been ower kind to

me since ever I came to Glasgow.'

'Another glass, Ronald----'

'Not one drop--thank ye'--and this time he rose with the definite

resolve to get away, for even these two glasses had caused a swimming in

his head, and he knew not how much more he might drink if he stayed.

'Better go for a long walk, then,' said Kate, 'and come back at three

and have dinner with us. I'll soon put ye on your legs again--trust to

me.'

But when he went out into the open air, he found himself so giddy and

half-dazed and bewildered that, instead of going away for any long walk,

he thought he would go back home and lie down. He felt less happy now.

Why had he taken this accursed thing after all his resolves?

And then it was--as he went up Renfield Street--that he caught his first

glimpse of Meenie. No wonder he turned and slunk rapidly away--anxious

to hide anywhere--hoping that Meenie had not seen him. And what a

strange thing was this--Meenie in Glasgow town! Oh, if he could only be

for a single day as once he had been--as she had known him in the happy

times when life went by like a laugh and a song--how wonderful it would

be to go along these thoroughfares hoping every moment to catch sight of

her face! A dull town?--no, a radiant town, with music in the air, and

joy and hope shining down from the skies! But now--he was a cowering

fugitive--sick in body and sick in mind--trembling with the excitement

of this sudden meeting--and anxious above all other things that he

should get back to the seclusion of his lodging unseen.

Well, he managed that, at all events; and there he sate down, wondering

over this thing that had just happened. Meenie in Glasgow town!--and

why? And why had she sent him the white heather? Nay, he could not

doubt but that she had heard; and that this was at once a message of

reproach and an appeal; and what answer had he to give supposing that

some day or other he should meet her face to face? How could he win

back to his former state, so that he should not be ashamed to meet those

clear, kind eyes? If there were but some penance now--no matter what

suffering it entailed--that would obliterate these last months and

restore him to himself, how gladly would he welcome that! But it was

not only the bodily sickness--he believed he could mend that; he had

still a fine physique; and surely absolute abstention from stimulants,

no matter with what accompanying depression, would in time give him back

his health--it was mental sickness and hopelessness and remorse that had

to be cured; and how was that to be attempted? Or why should he attempt

it? What care had he for the future? To be sure, he would stop

drinking, definitely; and he would withdraw himself from those wild

companions; and he would have a greater regard for his appearance; so

that, if he should by chance meet Meenie face to face, he would not have

to be altogether so ashamed. But after? When she had gone away again?

For of course he assumed that she was merely here on a visit.

And all this time he was becoming more and more conscious of how far he

had fallen--of the change that had come over himself and his

circumstances in these few months; and a curious fancy got into his head

that he would like to try to realise what he had been like in those

former days. He got out his blotting-pad of fragments--not those

dedicated to Meenie, that had been carefully put aside--and about the

very first of them that he chanced to light upon, when he looked down

the rough lines, made him exclaim--

'God bless me, was I like _that_--and no longer ago than last January?'

The piece was called 'A Winter Song'; and surely the man who could write

in this gay fashion had an abundant life and joy and hope in his veins,

and courage to face the worst bleakness of the winter, and a glad

looking-forward to the coming of the spring?

_Keen blows the wind upon Clebrig's side,_

_And the snow lies thick on the heather;_

_And the shivering hinds are glad to hide_

_Away from the winter weather._

_Chorus: But soon the birds will begin to sing,_

_And we will sing too, my dear,_

_To give good welcoming to the spring_

_In the primrose time o' the year!_

_Hark how the black lake, torn and tost,_

_Thunders along its shores;_

_And the burn is hard in the grip of the frost,_

_And white, snow-white are the moors._

_Chorus: But soon the birds will begin to sing, etc._

_O then the warm west winds will blow,_

_And all in the sunny weather,_

_It's over the moorlands we will go,_

_You and I, my love, together._

_Chorus: And then the birds will begin to sing,_

_And we will sing too, my dear,_

_To give good welcoming to the spring,_

_In the primrose-time o' the year!_

Why, surely the blood must have been dancing in his brain when he wrote

that and the days white and clear around him; and life merry and

hopeful enough. And now? Well, it was no gladdening thing to think of:

he listlessly put away the book.

And then he rose and went and got a pail of water and thrust his head

into that--for he was glad to feel that this muzzy sensation was going;

and thereafter he dried and brushed his hair with a little more care

than usual; and put on a clean collar. Nay, he began to set the little

room to rights--and his life in Highland lodges had taught him how to do

that about as well as any woman could; and he tried to brighten the

window panes a little, to make the place look more cheerful; and he

arranged the things on the mantel-shelf in better order--with the bit of

white heather in the middle. Then he came to his briar-root pipe; and

paused. He took it up, hesitating.

'Yes, my friend, you must go too,' he said, with firm lips; and he

deliberately broke it, and tossed the fragments into the grate.

And then he remembered that it was nearly three o'clock, and as he

feared that Kate Menzies might send some one of her friends to fetch

him, or even come for him herself, he put on his cap, and took a stick

in his hand, and went out. In half an hour or so he had left the city

behind him and was lost in that melancholy half-country that lies around

it on the north; but he cared little now how the landscape looked; he

was wondering what had brought Meenie to Glasgow town, and whether she

had seen him, and what she had heard of him. And at Inver-Mudal too?

Well, they might think the worst of him there if they chose. But had

Meenie heard?

He scarcely knew how far he went; but in the dusk of the evening he was

again approaching the city by the Great Western Road; and as he came

nearer to the houses, he found that the lamps were lit, and the great

town settling down into the gloom of the night. Now he feared no

detection; and so it was that when he arrived at Melrose Street he

paused there. Should he venture into Queen's Crescent?--it was but a

stone's throw away. For he guessed that Meenie must be staying with her

sister; and he knew the address that she had given him, though he had

never called; nay, he had had the curiosity, once or twice in passing,

to glance at the house; and easily enough he could now make it out if he

chose. He hesitated for a second or two; then he stealthily made his

way along the little thoroughfare; and entered the crescent--but keeping

to the opposite side from Mrs. Gemmill's dwelling--and there quietly

walked up and down. He could see the windows well enough; they were all

of them lit; and the house seemed warm and comfortable; Meenie would be

at home there, and among friends, and her bright laugh would be heard

from room to room. Perhaps they had company too--since all the windows

were ablaze; rich folk, no doubt, for the Gemmills were themselves

well-to-do people; and Meenie would be made much of by these strangers,

and they would come round her, and the beautiful Highland eyes would be

turned towards them, and they would hear her speak in her quiet, gentle,

quaint way. Nor was there any trace of envy or jealousy in this man's

composition--outcast as he now deemed himself. Jealousy of

Meenie?--why, he wished the bountiful heavens to pour their choicest

blessings upon her, and the winds to be for ever soft around her, and

all sweet and gracious things to await her throughout her girlhood and

her womanhood and her old age. No; it did not trouble him that these

rich folk were fortunate enough to be with her, to listen to her, to

look at the clear, frank eyes; it might have troubled him had he thought

that they might not fully understand the generous rose-sweetness of her

nature, nor fully appreciate her straightforward, unconscious

simplicity, nor be sufficiently kind to her. And it was scarcely

necessary to consider that; of course they all of them would be kind to

her, for how could they help it?

But his guess that they might be entertaining friends was wrong. By and

by a cab drove up; in a few minutes the door was opened; he ventured to

draw a little nearer; and then he saw three figures--one of them almost

assuredly Meenie--come out and enter the vehicle. They drove off; no

doubt they were going to some concert or theatre, he thought; and he was

glad that Meenie was being amused and entertained so; and was among

friends. And as for himself?--

'Well,' he was inwardly saying, as he resumed his walk homeward, 'the

dreams that look so fine when one is up among the hills are knocked on

the head sure enough when one comes to a town. I'll have no more to do

with these books; nor with the widow Menzies and her friends either.

To-morrow morning I'm off to the recruiting-sergeant--that's the best

thing for me now.'

By the time he had got home he was quite resolved upon this. But there

was a note lying there on the table for him. 'That woman again,' he said

to himself. 'Katie, lass, I'm afraid you and I must part, but I hope

we'll part good friends.'

And then his eyes grew suddenly startled. He took up the note, staring

at the outside, apparently half afraid. And then he opened it and

read--but in a kind of wild and breathless bewilderment--these two or

three lines, written in rather a shaky hand--

'DEAR RONALD--I wish to see you. Would it trouble you to be at the

corner of Sauchiehall Street and Renfield Street to-morrow morning at

eleven?--I will not detain you more than a few minutes. Yours

sincerely,

'MEENIE DOUGLAS.'

There was not much sleep for him that night.

*CHAPTER V.*

*A MEETING.*

Indeed there was no sleep at all for him that night. He knew not what

this summons might mean; and all the assurance and self-confidence of

former days was gone now; he was nervous, distracted, easily alarmed;

ready to imagine evil things; and conscious that he was in no fit state

to present himself before Meenie. And yet he never thought of slinking

away. Meenie desired to see him, and that was enough. Always and ever

he had been submissive to her slightest wish. And if it were merely to

reproach him, to taunt him with his weakness and folly, that she had now

sent for him, he would go all the same. He deserved that and more. If

only it had been some one else--not Meenie--whose resolute clear eyes he

had to meet!

That brief interview over--and then for the Queen's shilling: this was

what was before him now, and the way seemed clear enough. But so

unnerved was he that the mere idea of having to face this timid girl

made him more and more restless and anxious; and at last, towards three

o'clock in the morning, he, not having been to bed at all, opened the

door and stole down the stair and went out into the night. The black

heavens were pulsating from time to time with a lurid red sent over from

the ironworks in the south; somewhere there was the footfall of a

policeman unseen; the rest was darkness and a terrible silence. He

wandered away through the lonely streets, he scarcely knew whither. He

was longing that the morning should come, and yet dreading its approach.

He reached the little thoroughfare that leads into Queen's Crescent: but

he held on his way without turning aside; it was not for this poor

trembling ghost and coward to pass under her window, with 'Sleep dwell

upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast' as his unspoken benediction. He

held on his way towards the open country, wandering quite aimlessly, and

busy only with guesses and forebodings and hopeless desires that he

might suddenly find before him the dark-rolling waters of Lethe, and

plunge into them, and wash away from him all knowledge and recollection

of the past. When at length he turned towards the city, the gray dawn

was breaking in the dismal skies; the first of the milk-carts came

slowly crawling into the town; and large waggons laden with vegetables

and the like. He got back to his lodgings; threw himself on the bed;

and there had an hour or two of broken and restless sleep.

When he awoke he went quickly to the window. The skies were heavy;

there was a dull drizzle in the thick atmosphere; the pavements were

wet. It was with a sudden sense of relief that he saw what kind of a

day it was. Of course Meenie would never think of coming out on so wet

and miserable a morning. He would keep the appointment, doubtless; she

would not appear--taking it for granted he would not expect her; and

then--then for the recruiting-sergeant and a final settlement of all

these ills and shames. Nevertheless he dressed himself with scrupulous

neatness; and brushed and rebrushed his clothes; and put on his

deerstalker's cap--for the sake of old days. And then, just as he was

leaving, he took a little bit of the white heather, and placed it in his

waistcoat pocket; if the talisman had any subtle power whatever, all the

good luck that he could wish for was to find Meenie not too bitter in

her scorn.

He made his way to the corner of Sauchiehall Street some little time

before the appointed hour. But it was actually raining now; of course

Meenie would not come. So he idly paced up and down; staring absently at

the shop windows; occasionally looking along the street, but with no

great expectation; and thinking how well content and satisfied with

themselves these people seemed to be who were now hurrying by under

their streaming umbrellas. His thoughts went far afield.

Vimiera--Salamanca--Ciudad

Rodrigo--Balaklava--Alma--Lucknow--Alumbagh--these were the names and

memories that were in his head. An old school companion of his own had

got the V.C. for a conspicuous act of daring at the storming of the

Redan, and if that were not likely to be his proud fate, at least in

this step he was resolved upon he would find safety and a severance from

degrading bonds, and a final renunciation of futile ambitions and

foolish and idle dreams.

He was looking into a bookseller's window. A timid hand touched his

arm.

'Ronald!'

And oh! the sudden wonder and the thrill of finding before him those

beautiful, friendly, glad eyes, so true, so frank, so full of all

womanly tenderness and solicitude, and abundant and obvious kindness!

Where was the reproach of them? They were full of a kind of half-hidden

joy--timid and reluctant, perhaps, a little--but honest and clear and

unmistakable; and as for him--well, his breath was clean taken away by

the surprise, and by the sudden revulsion of feeling from a listless

despair to the consciousness that Meenie was still his friend; and all

he could do was to take the gentle hand in both of his and hold it fast.

'I--I heard that you were not--not very well, Ronald,' she managed to

say.

And then the sound of her voice--that brought with it associations of

years--seemed to break the spell that was on him.

'Bless me, Miss Douglas,' he said, 'you will get quite wet! Will you

not put up your umbrella--or--or take shelter somewhere?'

'Oh, I do not mind the rain,' she said, and there was a kind of

tremulous laugh about her lips, as if she were trying to appear very

happy indeed. 'I do not mind the rain. We did not heed the rain much

at Inver-Mudal, Ronald, when there was anything to be done. And--and so

glad I am to see you! It seems so long a time since you left the

Highlands.'

'Ay; and it has been a bad time for me,' he said; and now he was

beginning to get his wits together again. He could not keep Miss

Douglas thus standing in the wet. He would ask her why she had sent for

him; and then he would bid her good-bye and be off; but with a glad,

glad heart that he had seen her even for these few seconds.

'And there are so many things to be talked over after so long a time,'

said she; 'I hope you have a little while to spare, Ronald----'

'But to keep you in the rain, Miss Douglas----'

'Oh, but this will do,' said she (and whatever her inward thoughts were,

her speech was blithe enough). 'See, I will put up the umbrella, and

you will carry it for me--it is not the first time, Ronald, that you and

I have had to walk in the rain together, and without any umbrella. And

do you know why I do not care for the rain?' she added, glancing at him

again with the frank, affectionate eyes; 'it's because I am so glad to

find you looking not so ill after all, Ronald.'

'Not so ill, maybe, as I deserve to be,' he answered; but he took the

umbrella and held it over her; and they went down Renfield Street a

little way and then into West Regent Street; and if she did not put her

hand on his arm, at least she was very close to him, and the thrill of

the touch of her dress was magnetic and strange. Strange, indeed; and

strange that he should find himself walking side by side with Meenie

through the streets of Glasgow town; and listening mutely and humbly the

while to all her varied talk of what had happened since he left

Inver-Mudal. Whatever she had heard of him, it seemed to be her wish to

ignore that. She appeared to assume that their relations to each other

now were just as they had been in former days. And she was quite bright

and cheerful and hopeful; how could he know that the first glance at his

haggard face had struck like a dagger to her heart?

Moreover, the rain gradually ceased; the umbrella was lowered; a light

west wind was quietly stirring; and by and by a warmer light began to

interfuse itself through the vaporous atmosphere. Nay, by the time they

had reached Blythswood Square, a pallid sunshine was clearly shining on

the wet pavements and door-steps and house-fronts; and far overhead, and

dimly seen through the mysteriously moving pall of mist and smoke, there

were faint touches of blue, foretelling the opening out to a joyfuller

day. The wide square was almost deserted; they could talk to each other

as they chose; though, indeed, the talking was mostly on her side.

Something, he scarcely knew what, kept him silent and submissive; but

his heart was full of gratitude towards her; and from time to time--for

how could he help it?--some chance word or phrase of appeal would bring

him face to face with Meenie's eyes.

So far she had cunningly managed to avoid all reference to his own

affairs, so that he might get accustomed to this friendly conversation;

but at length she said--

'And now about yourself, Ronald?'

'The less said the better,' he answered. 'I wish that I had never come

to this town.'

'What?' she said, with a touch of remonstrance in her look. 'Have you

so soon forgotten the fine prospects you started away with? Surely not!

Why, it was only the other day I had a letter from Miss Hodson--the

young American lady, you remember--and she was asking all about you, and

whether you had passed the examination yet; and she said her father and

herself were likely to come over next spring, and hoped to hear you had

got the certificate.'

He seemed to pay no heed to this news.

'I wish I had never left Inver-Mudal,' he said. 'I was content there;

and what more can a man wish for anywhere? It's little enough of that

I've had since I came to this town. But for whatever has happened to me,

I've got myself to blame; and--and I beg your pardon, Miss Douglas, I

will not bother you with any poor concerns of mine----'

'But if I wish to be bothered?' she said quickly. 'Ronald, do you know

why I have come from the Highlands?'

Her face was blushing a rosy red; but her eyes were steadfast and clear

and kind; and she had stopped in her walk to confront him.

'I heard the news of you--yes, I heard the news,' she continued; and it

was his eyes, not hers, that were downcast; 'and I knew you would do

much for me--at least, I thought so,--and I said to myself that if I

were to go to Glasgow, and find you, and ask you for my sake to give me

a promise----'

'I know what ye would say, Miss Douglas,' he interposed, for she was

dreadfully embarrassed. 'To give up the drink. Well, it's easily

promised and easily done, now--indeed, I've scarce touched a drop since

ever I got the bit of heather you sent me. It was a kind thing to think

of--maybe I'm making too bold to think it was you that sent it----'

'I knew you would know that it was I that sent it--I meant you to know,'

she said simply.

'It was never any great love of the drink that drove me that way,' he

said. 'I think it was that I might be able to forget for a while.'

'To forget what, Ronald?' she asked, regarding him.

'That ever I was such a fool as to leave the only people I cared for,'

he answered frankly, 'and come away here among strangers, and bind

myself to strive for what I had no interest in. But bless me, Miss

Douglas, to think I should keep ye standing here--talking about my poor

affairs----'

'Ronald,' she said calmly, 'do you know that I have come all the way to

Glasgow to see you and to talk about your affairs and nothing else; and

you are not going to hurry away? Tell me about yourself. What are you

doing? Are you getting on with your studies?'

He shook his head.

'No, no. I have lost heart that way altogether. Many's the time I have

thought of writing to Lord Ailine, and asking to be taken back, if it

was only to look after the dogs. I should never have come to this town;

and now I am going away from it, for good.'

'Going away? Where?' she said, rather breathlessly.

'I want to make a clean break off from the kind of life I have been

leading,' said he, 'and I know the surest way. I mean to enlist into one

of the Highland regiments that's most likely to be ordered off on

foreign service.'

'Ronald!'

She seized his hand and held it.

'Ronald, you will not do that!'

Well, he was startled by the sudden pallor of her face; and bewildered

by the entreaty so plainly visible in the beautiful eyes; and perhaps he

did not quite know how he answered. But he spoke quickly.

'Oh, of course I will not do that,' he said, 'of course I will not do

that, Miss Douglas, so long as you are in Glasgow. How could I? Why,

the chance of seeing you, even at a distance--for a moment even--I would

wait days for that. When I made up my mind to enlist, I had no thought

that I might ever have the chance of seeing you. Oh no; I will wait

until you have gone back to the Highlands--how could I go away from

Glasgow and miss any single chance of seeing you, if only for a moment?'

'Yes, yes,' she said eagerly, 'you will do nothing until then, anyway;

and in the meantime I shall see you often----'

His face lighted up with surprise.

'Will you be so kind as that?' he said quickly. And then he dropped her

hand. 'No, no. I am so bewildered by the gladness of seeing you

that--that I forgot. Let me go my own way. You were always so generous

in your good nature that you spoiled us all at Inver-Mudal; here--here

it is different. You are living with your sister, I suppose? and of

course you have many friends, and many things to do and places to visit.

You must not trouble about me; but as long as you are in Glasgow--well,

there will always be the chance of my catching a glimpse of you--and if

you knew what it was--to me----'

But here he paused abruptly, fearful of offending by confessing too

much; and now they had resumed their leisurely walking along the

half-dried pavements; and Meenie was revolving certain little schemes

and artifices in her brain--with a view to their future meeting. And

the morning had grown so much brighter; and there was a pleasant warmth

of sunlight in the air; and she was glad to know that at least for a

time Ronald would not be leaving the country. She turned to him with a

smile.

'I shall have to be going back home now,' she said, 'but you will not

forget, Ronald, that you have made me two promises this morning.'

'It's little you know, Miss Douglas,' said he, 'what I would do for you,

if I but knew what ye wished. I mean for you yourself. For my own

self, I care but little what happens to me. I have made a mistake in my

life somehow. I----'

'Then will you promise me more, Ronald?' said she quickly; for she would

not have him talk in that strain.

'What?'

'Will you make me a promise that you will not enlist at all?'

'I will, if it is worth heeding one way or the other.'

'But make me the promise,' said she, and she regarded him with no

unfriendly eyes.

'There's my hand on't.'

'And another--that you will work hard and try and get the forestry

certificate?'

'What's the use of that, lass?' said he, forgetting his respect for her.

'I have put all that away now. That's all away beyond me now.'

'No,' she said proudly. 'No. It is not. Oh, do you think that the

people who know you do not know what your ability is? Do you think they

have lost their faith in you? Do you think they are not still looking

forward and hoping the time may come that they may be proud of your

success, and--and--come and shake hands with you, Ronald--and say how

glad they are? And have you no regard for them, or heed for

their--their affection towards you?'

Her cheeks were burning red, but she was far too much in earnest to

measure her phrases; and she held his hand in an imploring kind of way;

and surely, if ever a brave and unselfish devotion and love looked out

from a woman's eyes, that was the message that Meenie's eyes had for him

then.

'I had a kind of fancy,' he said, 'that if I could get abroad--with one

o' those Highland regiments--there might come a time when I could have

the chance of winning the V.C.--the Victoria Cross, I mean; ay, and it

would have been a proud day for me the day that I was able to send that

home to you.'

'To me, Ronald?' she said, rather faintly.

'Yes, yes,'said he. 'Whatever happened to me after that day would not

matter much.'

'But you have promised----'

'And I will keep that promise, and any others you may ask of me, Miss

Douglas.'

'That you will call me Meenie, for one?' she said, quite simply and

frankly.

'No, no; I could not do that,' he answered--and yet the permission

sounded pleasant to the ear.

'We are old friends, Ronald,' she said. 'But that is a small matter.

Well, now, I must be getting back home; and yet I should like to see you

again soon, Ronald, for there are so many things I have to talk over

with you. Will you come and see my sister?'

His hesitation and embarrassment were so obvious that she instantly

repented her of having thrown out this invitation; moreover, it occurred

to herself that there would be little chance of her having any private

speech of Ronald (which was of such paramount importance at this moment)

if he called at Queen's Crescent.

'No, not yet,' she said, rather shamefacedly and with downcast eyes;

'perhaps, since--since there are one or two private matters to talk

over, we--we could meet just as now? It is not--taking up too much of

your time, Ronald?'

'Why,' said he, 'if I could see you for a moment, any day--merely to say

"good morning"--that would be a well-spent day for me; no more than that

used to make many a long day quite happy for me at Inver-Mudal.'

'Could you be here to-morrow at eleven, Ronald?' she asked, looking up

shyly.

'Yes, yes, and gladly!' he answered; and presently they had said

good-bye to each other; and she had set out for Queen's Crescent by

herself; while he turned towards the east.

And now all his being seemed transfused with joy and deep gratitude; and

the day around him was clear and sweet and full of light; and all the

world seemed swinging onward in an ether of happiness and hope. The

dreaded interview!--where was the reproach and scorn of it? Instead of

that it had been all radiant with trust and courage and true affection;

and never had Meenie's eyes been so beautiful and solicitous with all

good wishes; never had her voice been so strangely tender, every tone of

it seeming to reach the very core of his heart. And how was he to

requite her for this bountiful care and sympathy--that overawed him

almost when he came to think of it? Nay, repayment of any kind was all

impossible: where was the equivalent of such generous regard? But at

least he could faithfully observe the promises he had made--yes, these

and a hundred more; and perhaps this broken life of his might still be

of some small service, if in any way it could win for him a word of

Meenie's approval.

And then, the better to get away from temptation, and to cut himself

wholly adrift from his late companions, he walked home to his lodgings

and packed up his few things and paid his landlady a fortnight's rent in

lieu of notice, as had been agreed upon. That same night he was

established in new quarters, in the Garscube Road; and he had left no

address behind him; so that if Kate Menzies, or the skipper, or any of

his cronies of the Harmony Club were to wonder at his absence and seek

to hunt him out, they would seek and hunt in vain.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*CONFESSION.*

That night he slept long and soundly, and his dreams were all about

Inver-Mudal and the quiet life among the hills; and, strangely enough,

he fancied himself there, and Meenie absent; and always he was wondering

when she was coming back from Glasgow town, and always he kept looking

for her as each successive mail-cart came through from the south. And

then in the morning, when he awoke, and found himself in the great city

itself, and knew that Meenie was there too, and that in a few hours they

were to meet, his heart was filled with joy, and the day seemed rich and

full of promise, and the pale and sickly sunlight that struggled in

through the window panes and lit up the dusty little room seemed a

glorious thing, bringing with it all glad tidings. 'You, fortunate

Glasgow town!' he had rhymed in the olden days; and this was the welcome

that Glasgow town had for Meenie--sunlight, and perhaps a glimpse of

blue here and there, and a light west wind blowing in from the heights

of Dowanhill and Hillhead.

He dressed with particular care; and if his garments were not of the

newest fashionable cut, at least they clung with sufficient grace and

simplicity of outline to the manly and well-set figure. And he knew

himself that he was looking less haggard than on the previous day. He

was feeling altogether better; the long and sound sleep had proved a

powerful restorative; and his heart was light with hope. The happy

sunlight shining out there on the gray pavements and the gray fronts of

the houses!--was there ever in all the world a fairer and joyfuller city

than this same Glasgow town?

He was in Blythswood Square long before the appointed hour; and she also

was a little early. But this, time it was Meenie who was shy and

embarrassed; she was not so earnest and anxious as she had been the day

before, for much of her errand was now satisfactorily accomplished; and

when, after a moment's hesitation, he asked her whether she would not go

and have a look at the terraces and trees in the West End Park, it

seemed so like two lovers setting out for a walk together that the

conscious blood mantled in her cheeks, and her eyes were averted. But

she strove to be very business-like; and asked him a number of questions

about Mr. Weems; and wondered that the Americans had said nothing

further about the purchase of an estate in the Highlands, of which there

had been some little talk. In this way--and with chance remarks and

inquiries about Maggie, and the Reverend Andrew, and Mr. Murray, and

Harry the terrier, and what not--they made their way through various

thoroughfares until they reached the tall gates of the West End Park.

Here there was much more quietude than in those noisy streets; and when

they had walked along one of the wide terraces, until they came to a

seat partly surrounded by shrubs, Meenie suggested that they might sit

down there, for she wished to reason seriously with him. He smiled a

little; but he was very plastic in her hands. Nay, was it not enough

merely to hear Meenie speak--no matter what the subject might be? And

then he was sitting by her side, with all that wide prospect stretched

out before them--the spacious terraces, the groups of trees, the curving

river, and the undulating hills beyond. It was a weird kind of a

morning, moreover; for the confused and wan sunlight kept struggling

through the ever-changing mist, sometimes throwing a coppery radiance on

the late autumn foliage, or again shining pale and silver-like as the

fantastic cloud-wreaths slowly floated onward. The view before them was

mysterious and vast because of its very vagueness; and even the new

University buildings--over there on the heights above the river--looked

quite imposing and picturesque, for they loomed large and dusky and

remote through the bewildering sunlit haze.

'Now, Ronald,' she said, 'I want you to tell me how it was you came to

lose heart so, and to give up what you undertook to do when you left

Inver-Mudal. Why, when you left you were full of such high hopes; and

every one was sure of your success; and you were all anxiety to begin.'

'That's true, Miss Douglas,' he answered, rather absently. 'I think my

head must have been in a kind of a whirl at that time. It seemed so

fine and easy a thing to strive for; and I did not stop to ask what use

it would be to me, supposing I got it.'

'The use?' she said. 'A better position for yourself--isn't it natural

to strive for that? And perhaps, if you did not care much to have more

money for yourself--for you have very strange notions, Ronald, about

some things--you must see how much kindness can be done to others by

people who are well off. I don't understand you at all----'

'Well, then,' said he, shifting his ground, 'I grew sick and tired of

the town life. I was never meant for that. Every day----'

'But, Ronald,' she said, interrupting him in a very definite tone of

remonstrance, 'you knew that your town life was only a matter of months!

And the harder you worked the sooner it would be over! What reason was

that?'

'There may have been other reasons,' he said, but rather unwillingly.

'What were they?'

'I cannot tell you.'

'Ronald,' she said, and the touch of wounded pride in her voice thrilled

him strangely, 'I have come all the way from the Highlands--and--and

done what few girls would have done--for your sake; and yet you will not

be frank with me--when all that I want is to see you going straight

towards a happier future.'

'I dare not tell you, you would be angry.'

'I am not given to anger,' she answered, calmly, and yet with a little

surprised resentment. For she could but imagine that this was some

entanglement of debt, or something of the kind, of which he was ashamed

to speak; and yet, unless she knew clearly the reasons that had induced

him to abandon the project that he had undertaken so eagerly, how was

she to argue with him and urge him to resume it?

'Well, then, we'll put it this way,' said he, after a second or two of

hesitation--and his face was a little pale, and his eyes were fixed on

her with an anxious nervousness, so that, at the first sign of

displeasure, he could instantly stop. 'There was a young lass that I

knew there--in the Highlands--and she was, oh yes, she was out of my

station altogether, and away from me--and yet the seeing her from time

to time, and a word now and again, was a pleasure to me, greater maybe

than I confessed to myself--the greatest that I had in life, indeed.'

She made no sign, and he continued, slowly and watchfully, and still

with that pale earnestness in his face.

'And then I wrote things about her--and amused myself with

fancies--well, what harm could that do to her?--so long as she knew

nothing about it. And I thought I was doing no harm to myself either,

for I knew it was impossible there could be anything between us, and

that she would be going away sooner or later, and I too. Yes, and I did

go away, and in high feather, to be sure, and everything was to be for

the best, and I was to have a fight for money like the rest of them.

God help me, lassie, before I was a fortnight in the town, my heart was

like to break.'

She sate quite still and silent, trembling a little, perhaps, her eyes

downcast, her fingers working nervously with the edge of the small shawl

she wore.

'I had cut myself away from the only thing I craved for in the

world--just the seeing and speaking to her from time to time, for I had

no right to think of more than that; and I was alone and down-hearted;

and I began to ask myself what was the use of this slavery. Ay, there

might have been a use in it--if I could have said to myself, "Well, now,

fight as hard as ye can, and if ye win, who knows but that ye might go

back to the north, and claim her as the prize?" But that was not to be

thought of. She had never hinted anything of the kind to me, nor I to

her; but when I found myself cut away from her like that, the days were

terrible, and my heart was like lead, and I knew that I had cast away

just everything that I cared to live for. Then I fell in with some

companions--a woman cousin o' mine and some friends of hers--and they

helped to make me forget what I didna wish to think of, and so the time

passed. Well, now, that is the truth; and ye can understand, Miss

Douglas, that I have no heart to begin again, and the soldiering seemed

the best thing for me, and a rifle-bullet my best friend. But--but I

will keep the promise I made to ye--that is enough on that score; oh

yes, I will keep that promise, and any others ye may care to ask; only I

cannot bide in Glasgow.'

He heard a faint sob; he could see that tears were gliding stealthily

down her half-hidden face; and his heart was hot with anger against

himself that he had caused her this pain. But how could he go away? A

timid hand sought his, and held it for a brief moment with a tremulous

clasp.

'I am very sorry, Ronald,' she managed to say, in a broken voice. 'I

suppose it could not have been otherwise--I suppose it could not have

been otherwise.'

For some time they sate in silence--though he could hear an occasional

half-stifled sob. He could not pretend to think that Meenie did not

understand; and this was her great pity for him; she did not drive him

away in anger--her heart was too gentle for that.

'Miss Douglas,' said he at length, 'I'm afraid I've spoiled your walk

for you wi' my idle story. Maybe the best thing I can do now is just to

leave you.'

'No--stay,' she said, under her breath; and she was evidently trying to

regain her composure. 'You spoke--you spoke of that girl--O Ronald, I

wish I had never come to Glasgow!--I wish I had never heard what you

told me just now!'

And then, after a second--

'But how could I help it--when I heard what was happening to you, and

all the wish in the world I had was to know that you were brave and well

and successful and happy? I could not help it! ... And now--and

now--Ronald,' she said, as if with a struggle against that choking

weight of sobs; for much was demanded of her at this moment; and her

voice seemed powerless to utter all that her heart prompted her to say,

'if--if that girl you spoke of--if she was to see clearly what is best

for her life and for yours--if she was to tell you to take up your work

again, and work hard, and hard, and hard--and then, some day, it might

be years after this, when you came back again to the north, you would

find her still waiting?----'

'Meenie!'

He grasped her hand: his face was full of a bewilderment of hope--not

joy, not triumph, but as if he hardly dared to believe what he had

heard.

'O Ronald,' she said, in a kind of wild way,--and she turned her wet

eyes towards him in full, unhesitating abandonment of affection and

trust, nor could she withdraw the hand that he clasped so firmly,--'what

will you think of me?--what will you think of me?--but surely there

should be no hiding or false shame, and surely there is for you and for

me in the world but the one end to hope for; and if not that--why, then,

nothing. If you go away, if you have nothing to hope for, it will be

the old misery back again, the old despair; and as for me--well, that is

not of much matter. But, Ronald--Ronald--whatever happens--don't think

too hardly of me--I know I should not have said so much--but it would

just break my heart to think you were left to yourself in Glasgow--with

nothing to care for or hope for----'

'Think of you!' he cried, and in a kind of wonder of rapture he was

regarding Meenie's tear-filled eyes, that made no shame of meeting his

look. 'I think of you--and ever will--as the tenderest and kindest and

truest-hearted of women.' He had both her hands now; and he held them

close and warm. 'Even now--at this minute--when you have given yourself

to me--you have no thought of yourself at all--it is all about me, that

am not worth it, and never was. Is there any other woman in the world

so brave and unselfish! Meenie, lass--no, for this once--and no one

will ever be able to take the memory away from me--for this once let me

call you my love and my darling--my true-hearted love and

darling!--well, now, that's said and done with; and many a day to come I

will think over these few minutes, and think of sitting here with you in

this West End Park on the bench here, and the trees around, and I will

say to myself that I called Meenie my love and my darling, and she was

not angry--not angry.'

'No, not angry, Ronald,' and there was a bit of a strange and tender

smile shining through the tears in the blue-gray eyes.

'Ay, indeed,' said he, more gravely, 'that will be something for me;

maybe, everything. I can scarcely believe that this has just

happened--my heart's in a flame, and my head's gone daft, I think; and

it seems as if there was nothing for me but to thank God for having sent

you into the world and made you as unselfish and generous as you are.

But that's not the way of looking at it, my--my good lass. You have too

little thought for yourself. Why, what a coward I should be if I did

not ask you to think of the sacrifice you are making!'

'I am making no sacrifice, Ronald,' she said, simply and calmly. 'I

spoke what my heart felt; and perhaps too readily. But I am going back

to the Highlands. I shall stay there till you come for me, if ever you

come for me. They spoke of my going for a while to my mother's cousins;

but I shall not do that; no, I shall be at Inver-Mudal, or wherever my

father is, and you will easily get to know that, Ronald. But if things

go ill, and you do not come for me--or--or, if ye do not care to come

for me--well, that is as the world goes, and no one can tell

before-hand. Or many years may go by, and when you do come for me,

Ronald, you may find me a gray-haired woman--but you will find me a

single woman.'

She spoke quite calmly; this was no new resolve; it was his lips, not

hers, that were tremulous, for a second or so. But only for a second;

for now he was all anxiety to cheer her and comfort her as regards the

future. He could not bring himself to ask her to consider again; the

prize was too precious; rather he spoke of all the chances and hopes of

life, and of the splendid future that she had placed before him. Now

there was something worth striving for--something worth the winning.

And already, with the wild audacity that was now pulsating in his veins,

he saw the way clear--a long way, perhaps, and tedious, but all filled

with light and strewn with blossoms here or there (these were messages,

or a look, or a smile, from Meenie), and at the end of it, waiting to

welcome him, Love-Meenie, Rose-Meenie, with love-radiance shining in her

eyes.

He almost talked her into cheerfulness (for she had grown a little

despondent after that first devotion of self-surrender); and by and by

she rose from the bench. She was a little pale.

'I don't know whether I have done well or ill, Ronald,' she said, in a

low voice, 'but I do not think I could have done otherwise. It is for

you to show hereafter that I have done right.'

'But do you regret?' he said quickly.

She turned to him with a strange smile on her face.

'Regret? No. I do not think I could have done otherwise. But it is

for you to show to all of them that I have done right.'

'And if it could only be done all at once, Meenie; that's where the

soldier has his chance----'

'No, it is not to be done all at once,' she said; 'it will be a hard and

difficult waiting for you, and a slow waiting for me----'

'Do you think I care for any hardness or difficulty now?' he said.

'Dear Meenie, you little know what a prize you have set before me. Why,

now, here, every moment that I pass with you seems worth a year; and yet

I grudge every one----'

'But why?' she said, looking up.

'I am going over to Pollokshaws the instant I leave you to try to pick

up the threads of everything I had let slip. Dear lass, you have made

every quarter of an hour in the day far too short; I want twelve hours

in the day to be with you, and other twelve to be at my work.'