'We must see each other very little, Ronald,' she said, as they set out

to leave the Park. 'People would only talk----'

'But to-morrow----'

'No. My sister is going down to Dunoon to-morrow to see about the

shutting up of the house for the winter, and I am going with her. But

on Friday--if you were in the Botanic Gardens--early in the

forenoon--perhaps I could see you then?'

'Yes, yes,' said he eagerly; and as they went down towards the Woodland

Road he strove to talk to her very cheerfully and brightly indeed, for

he could not but see that she was a little troubled.

Then, when they were about to part, she seemed to try to rouse herself a

little, and to banish whatever doubts and hesitations may have been

harassing her mind.

'Ronald,' she said, with a bit of a smile, 'when you told me of that

girl in the Highlands that you knew, you said you--you had never said

anything to her that would lead her to imagine you were thinking of her.

But you wrote her a letter.'

'What?'

'Yes; and she saw it,' Meenie continued; but with downcast eyes. 'It

was not meant for her to see; but she saw it. It was some verses--very

pretty they were--but--but rather daring--considering that----'

'Bless me,' he exclaimed, 'did you see that?'

She nodded. And then his mind went swiftly back to that period.

'Meenie, that was the time you were angry with me.'

She looked up.

'And yet not so very angry, Ronald.'

'_But Love from Love towards school with hoary looks._' Not always.

Five miles an hour or so was the pace at which Ronald sped over to

Pollokshaws: and very much astonished was the nervous little Mr. Weems

over the new-found and anxious energy of his quondam pupil. Ronald

remained all day there, and, indeed, did not leave the cottage until it

was very late. As he walked back into the town all the world around him

lay black and silent; no stars were visible; no crescent moon; nor any

dim outline of cloud; but the dusky heavens were flushed with the red

fires of the ironworks, as the flames shot fiercely up, and sent their

sullen splendour across the startled night. And that, it may have

occurred to him, was as the lurid glare that had lit up his own life for

a while, until the fires had gone down, and the world grown sombre and

dead; but surely there was a clear dawn about to break by and by in the

east--clear and silvery and luminous--like the first glow of the morn

along the Clebrig slopes.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*AT THE PEAR-TREE WELL.*

He was almost glad that Meenie was going away for these two days, for he

was desperately anxious to make up for the time he had lost; and the

good-natured little Mr. Weems, instead of showing any annoyance or

resentment, rather aided and abetted this furious zeal on the part of

his pupil. All the same, Ronald found occasion to be within easy

distance of the railway station on the morning of Meenie's departure

and about a few minutes to eight he saw herself and her sister step out

of one of the cabs that were being driven up. If only he could have

signalled a good-bye to her! But he kept discreetly in the background;

glad enough to see that she was looking so fresh and bright and

cheerful--even laughing she was, over some little mishap, as he

imagined. And then so trim and neat she was in her travelling attire;

and so daintily she walked--the graceful figure moving (as he thought)

as if to a kind of music. The elder sister took the tickets; then they

entered one of the carriages; and presently the train had slowly rolled

away from the platform and was gone.

That glimpse of Meenie had filled his heart with unutterable delight; he

scarcely knew what he was doing when he got out into the open air again.

The day seemed a festal day; there was gladness abroad in the very

atmosphere; it was a day for good-companionship, and the drinking of

healths, and the wishing of good wishes to all the world. His thoughts

were all with Meenie--in that railway carriage flying away down to

Greenock; and yet here, around him, there was gladness and happiness

that seemed to demand some actual expression and recognition! Almost

unconsciously--and with his brain busy with very distant matters--he

walked into a public-house.

'Give me a glass of Highland whisky, my lad,' said he to the young man

standing behind the counter: 'Talisker, if ye have it.'

The whisky was measured out and placed before him. He did not look at

it. He was standing a little apart. And now Meenie would be out by

Pollokshields, in the whiter air; by and by she would pass through

Paisley's smoke; then through the placid pastoral country until she

would come in sight of Dumbarton's castled crags and the long wide

valley of the Clyde. And then the breezy waters of the Firth; and the

big steamboat; and Meenie walking up and down the white deck, and

drawing the sealskin coat a little tighter round the slight and graceful

figure. There would be sunlight there; and fresh sea-winds blowing up

from Arran and Bute, from Cumbrae and Cantire. And Meenie--

But at this moment his attention was somehow drawn to the counter, and

he was startled into a consciousness of where he was and what he was

doing. He glanced at the whisky--with a kind of shiver of fright.

'God forgive me--I did not want it,' he said to the astonished youth who

was looking at him, 'but here's the money for 't.'

He put down the few coppers on the counter and hurriedly left the place.

But the sudden fright was all. As he sped away out to Pollokshaws he

was not haunted by any consciousness of having escaped from danger. He

was sure enough of himself in that direction. If a mortal craving for

drink had seized him, he would almost have been glad of the fight; it

would be something to slay the dragon, for Meenie's sake. But he had

naturally a sound and firm constitution; his dissipation had not lasted

long enough to destroy his strength of will; and indeed this incident of

the public-house, so far from terrifying him with any doubts as to the

future, only served to remind him that dreams and visions--and brains

gone 'daft' with access of joy--are not appropriate to the thoroughfares

of a business city.

No; as he walked rapidly away from the town, by way of Strathbungo and

Crossmyloof and Shawlands, what he was chiefly busy with was the

hammering out of some tune that would fit the winter song he had chanced

upon a few days before. And now he did not regard those gay and

galloping verses with a stupefied wonder as to how he ever came to write

them; rather he tried to reach again to that same pitch of

light-heartedness; and of course it was for Meenie's delight, and for

hers only, that this tune had to be got at somehow. It was a laughing,

glad kind of a tune that he wanted:

_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--_

_In the primrose-time,_

_In the primrose-time,_

_In the primrose-time o' the year--_

_To give good welcoming to the spring._

_In the primrose-time o' the year._

Yes; and it was in the coming spring-time that he was to try for the

certificate in forestry; and thereafter--if he were so fortunate as to

get that--he might set forth on the path that the Americans had so

confidently sketched out for him--the path that was now to lead him to

Meenie, as the final crown and prize. 'You may find me a gray-haired

woman, Ronald,' she had said, 'but you will find me a single woman.'

But still he was young in years; and there was hope and courage in his

veins; and what if he were to win to her, after all, before there was a

single streak of middle age in the beautiful and abundant brown tresses?

Then, again, on the evening before the morning on which he was to meet

her in the Botanic Gardens, he undid the package containing that

anthology of verse devoted to Meenie; and began to turn the pieces over,

wondering which, or if any of them, would please her, if he took them to

her. But this was rather a visionary Meenie he found in these verses;

not the real and actual Meenie who had sate beside him on a bench in the

West End Park, and placed her hand in his, and pledged her life to him,

while the beautiful, tear-filled eyes sought his so bravely. And could

he not write something about this actual Meenie; and about Glasgow; and

the wonder she had brought into the great, prosaic city? He tried his

hand at it, anyway, for a little while:

_The dim red fires of yonder gleaming forge_

_Now dwell triumphant on the brow of night;_

_A thousand chimneys blackest smoke disgorge,_

_Repelling from the world the stars' pale light:_

_A little taper shines adown the street,_

_From out her casement where she lingers still_

_To listen to the sound of passing feet,_

_That all the night with leaden echoes fill----_

But he soon stopped. This was not like Meenie at all--Meenie, who was

ever associated in his mind with flowers and birds and fair sunlight and

the joy of the summer hills. He threw that spoiled sheet into the fire;

and sought among the old pieces for one that he might copy out fairly

for her; and this is what he eventually chose:

_All on a fair May morning_

_The roses began to blow;_

_Some of them tipped with crimson,_

_Some of them tipped with snow._

_But they looked the one to the other,_

_And they looked adown the glen;_

_They looked the one to the other,_

_And they rubbed their eyes again,_

_'O there is the lark in the heavens,_

_And the mavis sings in the tree;_

_And surely this is the summer,_

_But Meenie we cannot see._

_'Surely there must be summer_

_Coming to this far clime;_

_And has Meenie, Love Meenie, forgotten,_

_Or have we mistaken the time?'_

_Then a foxglove spake to the roses:_

_'O hush you and cease your din;_

_For I'm going back to my sleeping,_

_Till Meenie brings summer in.'_

Well, it was but a trifle; but trifles are sometimes important things

when seen through lovers' eyes.

Next morning he went along to the Botanic Gardens; paid his sixpence

with equanimity (for he had dispensed with the ceremony of dining the

previous day) and entered. It was rather a pleasant morning; and at

first sight he was rather shocked by the number of people--nursemaids

and children, most of them--who were idly strolling along the

trimly-kept walks or seated in front of the wide open parterres. How

was he to find Meenie in such a great place; and, if he did find her,

were they to walk up and down before so many eyes? For he had guessed

that Meenie would be in no hurry to tell her sister of what had

happened--until the future seemed a little more clear and secure; it

would be time enough to publish the news when that had assumed a more

definite character.

But on and on he went--with glances that were keen and sharp

enough--until suddenly, just as he had passed the greenhouses, he came

almost face to face with Meenie, who was seated on a bench, all by

herself, with a book before her. But she was not reading. 'O and

proudly rose she up'; and yet shyly, too; and as he took her hand in

his, the joy with which she regarded him needed no confession in

words--it was written there in the clear tender eyes.

'Indeed I am so glad to see you, Ronald!' she said. 'I have been so

miserable these two days--

'But why?' he asked.

'I don't know, hardly. I have been wondering whether I had done right;

and then to go about with my sister, keeping this secret from her; and

then I was thinking of the going away back to Inver-Mudal, and never

seeing you, and not knowing how you were getting on. But now--now that

you are here, it seems all quite right and safe. You look as if you

brought good news. What does he think, Ronald?'

'He?' he repeated. 'Who?'

'The old man out there at Pollokshaws, is it?'

Ronald laughed.

'Oh, the old gentleman seems pretty confident; but for very shame's sake

I had to let him have a holiday to-day. I am not going over till

to-morrow.'

'And he thinks you will pass?'

'He seems to think so.'

'I wish the time were here now, and that it was all well over,' she

said. 'Oh, I should be so proud, Ronald; and it will be something to

speak of to every one; and then--then that will be but the beginning;

and day by day I shall be expecting to hear the news. But what a long,

long time it seems to look forward to.'

'Ay, lass; and it will be worse for you than for me; for there will be

the continual trying and hoping for me, and for you nothing but the

weary waiting. Well----'

'Oh, but do you think I am afraid?' she said bravely. 'No. I have faith

in you, Ronald. I know you will do your best.'

'I should deserve to be hanged and buried in a ditch if I did not,' said

he. 'But we will leave all that for a while, Meenie; I want you to come

for a stroll along the banks over the Kelvin. Would ye wonder to find

some sea-gulls flying about?--they're there, though; or they were there

a week or two ago. And do you know that I got a glimpse of you at the

railway station on Wednesday morning?----'

'I did not see you, Ronald,' she said, with some surprise.

'No, no; I kept out o' the way. It's not for me, lass, it's for you to

say when any of your folk are to be told what we are looking forward to;

and for my part I would as lief wait till I could put a clearer plan

before them--something definite.'

'And that is my opinion too, Ronald,' she answered, in rather a low

voice. 'Let it be merely an understanding between you and me. I am

content to wait.'

'Well, then,' said he, as they reached the top of the high bank

overhanging the river, and began to make their way down the narrow

little pathways cut through the trees and shrubs, 'here is a confession:

I was so glad to see you on that morning--and so glad to see you looking

so well--that I half lost my senses, I think; I went away through the

streets in a kind o' dream; and, sure as I'm here, I walked into a

public-house and ordered a glass of whisky----'

She looked up in sudden alarm.

'No, no, no,' said he contentedly, 'you need not fear that, my good

lassie; it was just that I was bewildered with having seen ye, and

thinking of where ye were going. I walked out o' the place without

touching it. Ay, and what think ye o' Dunoon? And what kind of a day

was it when ye got out on the Firth?'

So she began to tell him of all her adventures and experiences; and by

this time they had got down near to the water's edge; and here--of what

value would his knowledge of forestry have been otherwise?--he managed

to find a seat for her. They were quite alone here--the brown river

before them; several sea-gulls placidly paddling on its surface, others

flying and dipping overhead; and if this bank of the stream was in

shadow, the other--with some small green meadows backed by clumps of

elms and maples--was bright and fair enough in the yellow autumn

sunshine. They were in absolute silence, too, save for the continual

soft murmur of the water, and the occasional whirring by of a blackbird

seeking safety underneath a laurel bush.

'Meenie,' said he, putting one hand on her shoulder, 'here are some

verses I copied out for ye last night--they're not much worth--but they

were written a long time ago, when little did I think I should ever dare

to put them into your hand.'

She read them; and there was a rose colour in her face as she did so:

not that she was proud of their merit, but because of the revelation

they contained.

'A long time ago?' she said, with averted eyes--but her heart was

beating warmly.

'Oh,' he said, 'there are dozens and dozens of similar things, if ever

ye care to look at them. It was many a happy morning on the hill, and

many a quiet night at home, they gave me; but somehow, lass, now that I

look at them, they hardly seem to grip ye fast enough. I want something

that will bind ye closer to myself--something that ye can read when you

are back in the Highlands--something that is known only to our two

selves. Well, now, these things that I have written from time to

time--you're a long way off in them somehow--the Meenie that's in them

is not this actual Meenie, warm and kind and generous and breathing----'

'And a little bit happy, Ronald, just at present,' she said, and she

took his hand.

'And some day, when I get through with busier work, I must try to write

you something for yourself----'

'But, Ronald, all these pieces you speak of belong to me,' she said

promptly, 'and I want them, every one--every, every one. Yes, and I

specially want that letter--if you have not kept it, then you must

remember it, and write it out for me again----'

'I came across it last night,' said he, with an embarrassed laugh.

'Indeed I don't wonder you were angry.'

'I have told you before, Ronald, that I was not angry,' she said, with a

touch of vexation. 'Perhaps I was a little--a little frightened--and

scarcely knowing how much you meant----'

'Well, you know now, Meenie dear; but last night, when I was going over

those scraps of things, I can tell you I was inclined to draw back. I

kept saying to myself--"What! is she really going to see herself talked

about in this way?" For there's a good deal of love-making in them,

Meenie, and that's a fact; I knew I could say what I liked, since no one

would be any the wiser, but, last night, when I looked at some of them,

I said--"No; I'm not going to provoke a quarrel with Meenie. She would

fling things about, as the American used to say, if she saw all this

audacious song-writing about her."'

'I'll chance that quarrel, Ronald,' she answered to this, 'for I want

every, every, every one of them; and you must copy them all, for I am

going to take them with me when I leave Glasgow.'

'And, indeed,' said he, 'you'll understand them better in the Highlands;

for they're all about Ben Loyal, and the Mudal, and Loch Naver, and

Clebrig.'

'And to think you hid them from me all that time!'

'Why, Meenie darling, you would have called on the whole population to

drive me out of the place if I had shown them to you. Think of the

effect produced by a single glance at one of them!--you tortured me for

weeks wondering how I had offended you.'

'Well, you can't offend me now, Ronald, _that way_,' said she, very

prettily.

And so their lovers' talk went on, until it was time for Meenie to think

of returning home. But just beyond these Botanic Gardens, and down in a

secluded nook by the side of the river, there is a little spring that is

variously known as the Three-Tree Well and the Pear-Tree Well. It is a

limpid little stream, running into the Kelvin; it rises in a tiny cavern

and flows for a few yards through a cleft in the rocks. Now these

rocks, underneath the overarching trees, have been worn quite smooth

(except where they are scored with names) by the footsteps of generation

after generation of lovers who, in obedience to an old and fond custom,

have come hither to plight their troth while joining hands over the

brooklet. Properly the two sweethearts, each standing on one side,

ought to join their hands on a Bible as they vow their vows, and

thereafter should break a sixpence in twain, each carrying away the

half; but these minor points are not necessary to the efficacy of this

probably pagan rite. And so--supposing that Ronald had heard of this

place of sacred pilgrimage, and had indeed discovered its whereabouts in

his rambles around Glasgow--and supposing him to have got a friendly

under-gardener to unlock a gate in the western palisades of the

Gardens--and then, if he were to ask Meenie to step down to the

river-side and walk along to the hallowed well? And yet he made of it

no solemn ceremony; the morning was bright and clear around them; and

Meenie was rather inclined to smile at the curious old custom. But she

went through it nevertheless; and then he slept across the rill again;

and said he--

'There's but this remaining now, Meenie darling--"Ae fond kiss and then

we sever."'

She stepped back in affright.

'Ronald, not with that song on your lips! Don't you remember what it

goes on to say?'

'Well, I don't,' he answered good-naturedly; for he had quoted the

phrase at random.

'Why, don't you remember?--

_"Had we never loved sae kindly,_

_Had we never loved sae blindly,_

_Never met--or never parted,_

_We had ne'er been broken-hearted."_

'My good-hearted lass,' said he, interlinking his arm with hers, 'ye

must not be superstitious. What's in a song? There'll be no severance

betwixt you and me--the Pear-Tree Well has settled that.'

'And that is not at all superstition?' said she, looking up with a

smile--until she suddenly found her blushing face overshadowed.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*THE COMING OF TROUBLES.*

These were halcyon days. Those two had arrived at a pretty accurate

understanding of the times of each other's comings and goings; and if

they could snatch but five minutes together, as he was on his way over

to the south, well, that was something; and not unfrequently the

lingering good-bye was lengthened out to a quarter of an hour; and then

again when high fortune was in the ascendant, a whole golden hour was

theirs--that was as precious as a year of life. For their

hastily-snatched interviews the most convenient and secret rendezvous

was Hill Street, Garnet Hill; a quiet little thoroughfare, too steep for

cabs or carriages to ascend. And very cheerful and bright and pleasant

this still neighbourhood looked on those October mornings; for there was

yet some crisp and yellow foliage on the trees; and the little patches

of green within the railings lay warm in the light; and on the northern

side of the street the house-fronts were of a comfortable sunny gray.

Ordinarily there were so few people about that these two could walk hand

in hand, if they chose; or they could stand still, and converse face to

face, when some more than usually interesting talk was going forward.

And it was quite astonishing what a lot of things they had to say to

each other, and the importance that attached to the very least of them.

But one piece of news that Meenie brought to these stolen interviews was

by no means insignificant: she was now receiving marked attentions from

a young Glasgow gentleman--attentions that her sister had perceived at a

very early period, though Meenie had striven to remain blind to them.

Nor was there anything very singular in this. Mr. Gemmill was

exceedingly proud of his pretty sister-in-law; he had asked lots of

people to the house for the very purpose of meeting her; she was the

centre of interest and attraction at these numerous gatherings; and what

more natural than that some susceptible youth should have his mind

disturbed by an unwitting glance or two from those clear Highland eyes?

And what rendered this prospect so pleasing to the Gemmills was this:

the young man who had been stricken by these unintentional darts was no

other than the only son of the founder of the firm in which Mr. Gemmill

was a junior partner--the old gentleman having retired from the business

some dozen years before, carrying with him a very substantial fortune

indeed, to which this son was sole heir. In more ways than one this

match, if it were to be a match, would be highly advantageous; and Mrs.

Gemmill, while saying little, was secretly rejoiced to see everything

going on so well. If Meenie chanced to ask what such and such a piece

was (Mr. Frank Lauder played a little), even that slight expression of

interest was inevitably followed by her receiving the sheet of music by

post next morning. Flowers, again: one cannot very well refuse to

accept flowers; they are not like other gifts; they may mean nothing.

Then, it was quite remarkable how often he found himself going to the

very same theatre or the very same concert that the Gemmills had

arranged to take Meenie to; and naturally--as it chanced he had no one

going with him--he asked to be allowed to go with them. He even talked

of taking a seat in Maple Street Church (this was the church that the

Gemmills attended), for he said that he was tired to death of the

preaching of that old fogey, Dr. Teith, and that Mr. Smilie's last

volume of poems (Mr. Smilie was the Maple Street Church minister) had

aroused in him a great curiosity to hear his sermons.

And as for Mr. Frank Lauder himself--well, he was pretty much as other

young Glasgow men of fashion; though, to be sure, these form a race by

themselves, and a very curious race too. They are for the most part a

good-natured set of lads; free and generous in their ways; not anything

like the wild Lotharios which, amongst themselves, they profess to be;

well dressed; a little lacking in repose of manner; many of them given

to boating and yachting--and some of them even expert seamen; nearly all

of them fond of airing a bit of Cockney slang picked up in a London

music hall during a fortnight's visit to town. But their most odd

characteristic is an affectation of knowingness--as if they had read the

book of nature and human nature through to the last chapter; whereas

these well-dressed, good-natured, but rather brainless young men are as

innocently ignorant of that book as of most other books. Knowing but one

language--and that imperfectly--is no doubt a bar to travel; but surely

nowhere else on the face of the globe could one find a set of young

fellows--with similar opportunities set before them--content to remain

so thoroughly untutored and untravelled; and nowhere else a set of

youths who, while professing to be men of the world, could show

themselves so absolutely unversed in the world's ways. But they (or

some of them) understand the lines of a yacht; and they don't drink

champagne as sweet as they used to do; and no doubt, as they grow into

middle age, they will throw aside the crude affectations of youth, and

assume a respectable gravity of manner, and eventually become solid and

substantial pillars of the Free, U.P., and Established Churches.

This Frank Lauder was rather a favourable specimen of his class;

perhaps, in his extreme desire to ingratiate himself with Meenie, he

assumed a modesty of demeanour that was not quite natural to him. But

his self-satisfied jocosity, his mean interpretation of human motives,

his familiarly conventional opinions in all matters connected with the

arts, could not always be hidden beneath this mask of meekness; and

Meenie's shrewd eyes had discerned clearly of what kind he was at a very

early period of their acquaintance. For one thing, her solitary life in

the Highlands had made of her a diligent and extensive reader; while her

association with Ronald had taught her keen independence of judgment;

and she was almost ashamed to find how absolutely unlettered this youth

was, and how he would feebly try to discover what her opinion was, in

order to express agreement with it. That was not Ronald's way. Ronald

took her sharply to task when she fell away from his standard--or rather

their conjoint standard--in some of her small preferences. Even in

music, of which this young gentleman knew a little, his tastes were the

tastes of the mob.

'Why do you always get away from the room when Mr. Lauder sits down to

the piano?' her sister said, with some touch of resentment.

'I can endure a little Offenbach,' she answered saucily, 'when I'm

strong and in good health. But we get a little too much of it when he

comes here.'

Of course Ronald was given to know of these visits and of their obvious

aim; but he did not seem very deeply concerned.

'You know I can't help it, Ronald,' she said, one morning, as they were

slowly climbing the steep little Randolph Terrace together, her hand

resting on his arm. 'I can't tell him to go away while my sister keeps

asking him to the house. They say that a girl can always show by her

manner when any attention is displeasing to her. Well, that depends. I

can't be downright rude--I am staying in my sister's house. And then, I

wouldn't say he was conceited--I wouldn't say that, Ronald--but--but he

is pretty well satisfied with himself; and perhaps not so sensitive

about one's manner towards him as some might be. As for you, Ronald,'

she said, with a laugh, 'I could send you flying, like a bolt from a

bow, with a single look.'

'Could you, lass?' said he. 'I doubt it. Perhaps I would refuse to

budge. I have got charge of you now.'

'Ah, well, I am not likely to try, I think,' she continued. 'But about

this Mr. Lauder, Ronald--you see, he is a very important person in Mr.

Gemmill's eyes; for he and his father have still some interest in the

warehouse, I suppose; and I know he thinks it is time that Mr. Gemmill's

name should be mentioned in the firm--not mere "Co." And that would

please Agatha too; and so they're very polite to him; and they expect me

to be very polite to him too. You see, Ronald, I can't tell him to go

away until he says something--either to me or to Agatha; and he won't

take a hint, though he must see that I would rather not have him send

flowers and music and that; and then, again, I sometimes think it is not

fair to you, Ronald, that I should allow anything of the kind to go

on--merely through the difficulty of speaking----'

He stopped, and put his hand over the hand that lay on his arm: there

was not a human being in sight.

'Tell me this, Meenie darling: does his coming to the house vex you and

trouble you?'

'Oh no--not in the least,' said she, blithely and yet seriously. 'I am

rather pleased when he comes to the house. When he is there of an

evening, and I have the chance of sitting and looking at him, it makes

me quite happy.'

This was rather a startling statement, and instantly she saw a quick,

strange look in his eyes.

'But you don't understand, Ronald,' she said placidly, and without

taking away her eyes from his. 'Every time I look at him I think of

you, and it's the difference that makes me glad.'

Halcyon days indeed; and Glasgow became a radiant golden city in this

happy autumn time; and each meeting was sweeter and dearer than its

predecessor; and their twin lives seemed to be floating along together

on a river of joy. With what a covetous care she treasured up each

fragment of verse he brought her, and hid it away in a little thin

leathern case she had herself made, so that she could wear it next her

heart. He purchased for her little presents--such as he could

afford--to show her that he was thinking of her on the days when they

could not meet; and when she took these, and kissed them, it was not of

their pecuniary value she was thinking. As for her, she had vast

schemes as to what she was going to make for him when she got back to

the Highlands. Here, in Glasgow, nothing of the kind was possible. Her

sister's eyes were too sharp, and her own time too much occupied.

Indeed, what between the real lover, who was greedy of every moment she

could spare for these secret interviews, and the pseudo lover, who kept

the Queen's Crescent household in a constant turmoil of engagements and

entertainments and visits, Rose Meenie found the hours sufficiently

full; and the days of her stay in Glasgow were going by rapidly.

'But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;' and the

ending, in this case, was the work of the widow Menzies. Kate felt

herself at once aggrieved and perplexed by Ronald's continued absence;

but she was even more astonished when, on sending to make inquiries, she

found he had left his lodgings and gone elsewhere, leaving no address.

She saw a purpose in this; she leapt to the conclusion that a woman had

something to do with it; and in her jealous anger and mortification she

determined on leaving no stone unturned to discover his whereabouts. But

her two cronies, Laidlaw and old Jaap (the skipper was away at sea

again), seemed quite powerless to aid her. They knew that Ronald

occasionally used to go over to Pollokshaws; but further than that,

nothing. He never came to the Harmony Club now; and not one of his

former companions knew anything about him. Old Mr. Jaap hoped that no

harm had come to the lad, whom he liked; but Jimmy Laidlaw was none so

sorry over this disappearance: he might himself have a better chance

with the widow, now that Kate's handsome cousin was out of the way.

It was Kate herself who made the discovery, ami that in the simplest

manner possible. She and mother Paterson had been away somewhere

outside the town for a drive: and they were returning by the Great

Western Road, one evening towards dusk, when all at once the widow

caught sight of Ronald, at some distance off, and just as he was in the

act of saying good-bye to a woman--to a young girl apparently. Kate

pulled up the cob so suddenly that she nearly pitched her companion

headlong into the street.

'What is it, Katie dear?'

She did not answer; she let the cob move forward a yard or two, so as to

get the dog-cart close in by the pavement; and then she waited--watching

with an eager scrutiny this figure that was now coming along. Meenie

did not notice her; probably the girl was too busy with her own

thoughts; but these could not have been sad ones, for the bright young

face, with its tender colour rather heightened by the sharpness of the

evening air, seemed happy enough.

'Flying high, he is,' was Kate Menzies's inward comment as she marked

the smart costume and the well-bred air and carriage of this young lady.

And then, the moment she had passed, Kate said quickly--

'Here, auntie, take the reins, and wait here. Never mind how long.

He'll no stir; if you're feared, bid a laddie stand by his head.'

'But what is't, Katie dear?'

She did not answer; she got down from the trap; and then, at first

quickly, and afterwards more cautiously, she proceeded to follow the

girl whom she had seen parting from Ronald. Nor had she far to go, as

it turned out. Meenie left the main thoroughfare at Melrose Street--Kate

Menzies keeping fairly close up to her now; and almost directly after

was standing at the door of her sister's house in Queen's Crescent,

waiting for the ringing of the bell to be answered. It needed no

profound detective skill on the part of Mrs. Menzies to ascertain the

number of the house, so soon as the girl had gone inside; and thereafter

she hurried back to the dog-cart, and got up, and continued her driving.

'Well, that bangs Banagher!' she said, with a loud laugh, as she smartly

touched the cob with the whip. 'The Great Western Road, of a' places in

the world! The Great Western Road--and he goes off by the New City

Road--there's a place for twa lovers to forgather!

_"We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,_

_Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side."_

But the Great Western Road--bless us a', and the laddie used to write

poetry!'

'But what is it, Katie?'

'Why, it's Ronald and his lass, woman: didna ye see them? Oh ay, he's

carried his good looks to a braw market--set her up wi' her velvet hat

and her sealskin coat, and living in Queen's Crescent forbye. Ay, ay,

he's ta'en his pigs to a braw market----'

'It's no possible, Katie dear!' exclaimed mother Paterson, who affected

to be very much shocked. 'Your cousin Ronald wi' a sweetheart?--and him

so much indebted to you----'

'The twa canary birds!' she continued, with mirth that sounded not quite

real. 'But never a kiss at parting, wi' a' they folk about. And that's

why ye've been hiding yourself away, my lad? But I jalouse that that

braw young leddy o' yours would laugh the other side of her mouth if her

friends were to find out her pranks.'

And indeed that was the thought that chiefly occupied her mind during

the rest of the drive home. Arrived there, she called for the

Post-Office Directory, and found that the name of the people living in

that house in Queen's Crescent was Gemmill. She asked her cronies, when

they turned up in the evening, who this Gemmill was; but neither of them

knew. Accordingly, being left to her own resources, and without letting

even mother Paterson know, she took a sheet of paper and wrote as

follows--

'SIR--Who is the young lady in your house who keeps appointments with

Ronald Strang, formerly of Inver-Mudal? Keep a better look-out. Yours,

A Friend.'

And this she enclosed in an envelope, and directed it to Mr. Gemmill of

such and such a number, Queen's Crescent, and herself took it to the

post. It was a mere random shot, for she had nothing to go upon but her

own sudden suspicions; but she was angry and hot-headed; and in no case,

she considered, would this do any harm.

She succeeded far better than she could have expected. Mr. Gemmill

handed the anonymous note to his wife with a brief laugh of derision.

But Agatha (who knew more about Ronald Strang than he) looked startled.

She would not say anything. She would not admit to her husband that

this was anything but an idle piece of malice. Nevertheless, when Mr.

Gemmill left for the city, she began to consider what she should do.

Unfortunately, as it happened that morning, Meenie just played into her

sister's hand.

'Aggie dear, I am going along to Sauchiehall Street for some more of

that crimson wool: can I bring you anything?'

'No, thank you,' she said; and then instantly it occurred to her that

she would go out and follow her sister, just to see whether there might

be any ground for this anonymous warning. It certainly was a strange

thing that any one should know that Meenie and Ronald Strang were even

acquainted.

And at first--as she kept a shrewd eye on the girl, whom she allowed to

precede her by some distance--all seemed to go well. Meenie looked

neither to the right nor to the left as she walked, with some quickness,

along St. George's Road towards Sauchiehall Street. When she reached

the wool shop and entered, Mrs. Gemmill's conscience smote her--why

should she have been so quick to harbour suspicions of her own sister?

But she would still watch her on the homeward way--just to make sure.

When Meenie came out again from the shop she looked at her watch; and it

was clear that she was now quickening her pace as she set forth. Why

this hurry, Mrs. Gemmill asked herself?--the girl was not so busy at

home. But the solution of the mystery was soon apparent. Meenie

arrived at the corner of Hill Street; gave one quick glance up the quiet

little thoroughfare; the next moment Mrs. Gemmill recognised well

enough--for she had seen him once or twice in the Highlands--who this

well-built, straight-limbed young fellow was who was now coming down the

steep little street at such a swinging pace. And Meenie went forward to

meet him, with her face upturned to his; and she put her hand on his arm

quite as if that were her familiar custom; and away these two

went--slowly, it is true, for the ascent was steep--and clearly they

were heeding not anything and not anybody around.

Agatha turned away and went home; she had seen enough. To say that she

was deeply shocked would hardly be true; for there are very few young

women who have not, at some time or other in their lives, made an

innocent little arrangement by which they might enjoy an unobserved

interview with the object of their choice; and, if there are any such

extremely proper young persons, Agatha Gemmill knew that she had not

been in the category herself. But she was resolved upon being both

indignant and angry. It was her duty. There was this girl wilfully

throwing away all the chances of her life. A gamekeeper!--that her

sister should be for marrying a gamekeeper just at the time that Mr.

Gemmill expected to have his name announced as a partner in the great

firm! Nay, she made no doubt that Meenie had come to Glasgow for the

very purpose of seeking him out. And what was to become of young Frank

Lauder? Indeed, by the time Meenie returned home, her sister had

succeeded in nursing up a considerable volume of wrath; for she

considered she was doing well to be angry.

But when the battle-royal did begin, it was at first all on one side.

Meenie did not seek to deny anything. She quite calmly admitted that

she meant to marry Ronald, if ever their circumstances should be so

favourable. She even confessed that she had come to Glasgow in the hope

of seeing him. Had she no shame in making such an avowal?--no, she

said, she had none; none at all. And what had she meant by encouraging

Mr. Lauder?--she had not encouraged him in any way, she answered; she

would rather have had none of his attentions.

But it was when the elder sister began to speak angrily and

contemptuously of Ronald that the younger sister's eyes flashed fire and

her lips grew pale.

'A gentleman?' she retorted. 'I might marry a gentleman? I tell you

there is no such gentleman--in manner, in disposition, in education--I

say there is no such gentleman as he is comes to this house!'

'Deary me!' said Agatha sarcastically, but she was rather frightened by

this unwonted vehemence. 'To think that a gamekeeper----'

'He is not a gamekeeper! He will never be a gamekeeper again. But if

he were, what should I care? It was as a gamekeeper that I learnt to

know him. It was as a gamekeeper that I gave him my love. Do you think

I care what occupation he follows when I know what he is himself?'

'Hoity-toity! Here's romance in the nineteenth century!--and from you,

Meenie, that were always such a sensible girl! But I'll have nothing to

do with it. Back you pack to the Highlands, and at once; that's what I

have got to say.'

'I am quite willing to go back,' the girl said proudly.

'Ah, because you think you will be allowed to write to him; and that all

the fine courting will go on that way; and I've no doubt you're thinking

he's going to make money in Glasgow--for a girl as mad as you seem to be

will believe anything. Well, don't believe _that_. Don't believe you

will have any fine love-making in absence, and all that kind of stuff.

Mother will take good care. I should not wonder if she sent you to a

school in Germany, if the expense were not too great--how would you like

that?'

'But she will not.'

'Why, then?'

'Because I will not go.'

'Here's bravery! I suppose you want something more heroic--drowning

yourself because of your lost love--or locking yourself up in a convent

to escape from your cruel parents--something that will make the papers

write things about you? But I think you will find a difference after

you have been two or three months at Inver-Mudal. Perhaps you will have

come to your senses then. Perhaps you will have learnt what it was to

have had a good prospect of settling yourself in life--with a

respectable well-conducted young man--of good family--the Lauders of

Craig themselves are not in the least ashamed that some of the family

have been in business--yes, you will think of that, and that you threw

the chance away because of an infatuation about a drunken

ne'er-do-weel----'

'He is not--he is not!' she said passionately; and her cheeks were

white; but there was something grasping her heart, and like to suffocate

her, so that she could not protest more.

'Anyway, I will take care that I shall have nothing to do with it,' the

elder sister continued; 'and if you should see him again before you go,

I would advise you to bid him good-bye, for it will be the last time.

Mother will take care of that, or I am mistaken.'

She left the room; and the girl remained alone--proud and pale and

rebellious; but still with this dreadful weight upon her heart, of

despair and fear that she would not acknowledge. If only she could see

Ronald! One word from him--one look--would be enough. But if this were

true?--if she were never to be allowed to hear from him again?--they

might even appeal to himself, and who could say what promise they might

not extract from him, if they were sufficiently cunning of approach?

They might say it was for her welfare--they might appeal to his

honour--they might win some pledge from him--and she knowing nothing of

it all! If only she could see him for one moment! The very pulses of

her blood seemed to keep repeating his name at every throb--yearning

towards him, as it were; and at last she threw herself down on the sofa

and buried her head in the cushion, and burst into a wild and

long-continued fit of weeping and sobbing. But this in time lightened

the weight at her heart, at any rate; and when at length she rose--with

tear-stained cheeks and tremulous lips and dishevelled hair--there was

still something in her look that showed that the courage with which she

had faced her sister was not altogether gone; and soon the lips had less

of tremulousness about them than of a proud decision; and there was that

in the very calmness of her demeanour that would have warned all whom it

might concern that the days of her placid and obedient girlhood were

over.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*IN OTHER CLIMES.*

Never was there a gayer party than this that was walking from the hotel

towards the shores of Lake George, on a brilliant and blue-skied October

morning. Perhaps the most demure--or the most professedly demure--was

Miss Carry Hodson herself, who affected to walk apart a little; and

swung carelessly the fur cape she carried in her hand; and refused all

kinds of attentions from a tall, lank, long-haired young man who humbly

followed her; and pretended that she was wholly engrossed with the air

of

_'I'm in love, sweet Mistress Prue,_

_Sooth I can't conceal it;_

_My poor heart is broke in two---_

_You alone can heal it.'_

As for the others of this light-hearted and laughing group of young

folk, they were these: Miss Kerfoot, a fresh-coloured, plump,

pleasant-looking girl, wearing much elaborate head-gear rather out of

proportion to her stature; her married sister, Mrs. Lalor, a grass-widow

who was kind enough to play chaperon to the young people, but whose

effective black eyes had a little trick of roving on their own

account--perhaps merely in quest of a joke; Dr. Thomas P. Tilley, an

adolescent practitioner, who might have inspired a little more

confidence in his patients had he condescended to powder his profuse

chestnut-brown hair; and, finally, the long and lank gentleman who

waited so humbly on Miss Hodson, and who was Mr. J. C. Huysen, of the

_Chicago Citizen_. Miss Carry had at length--and after abundant meek

intercession and explanations and expressions of remorse--pardoned the

repentant editor for his treatment of Ronald. It was none of his doing,

he vowed and declared. It was some young jackass whom the proprietors

of the paper had introduced to him. The article had slipped in without

his having seen it first. If only her Scotch friend would write

something more, he would undertake that the _Chicago Citizen_ would

treat it with the greatest respect. And so forth. Miss Carry was for a

long time obdurate, and affected to think that it was poetical jealousy

on his part (for the lank-haired editor had himself in former days

written and published sentimental verse--a fact which was not forgotten

by one or two of the wicked young men on the staff of the _N. Y. Sun_

when Mr. Huysen adventured into the stormy arena of politics); but in

the end she restored him to favour, and found him more submissive than

ever. And in truth there was substantial reason for his submission. The

_Chicago Citizen_ paid well enough, no doubt; but the editor of that

journal had large views; and Miss Hodson's husband--if all stories were

true--would find himself in a very enviable position indeed.

'Mayn't I carry your cape for you, Miss Hodson?' the tall editor said,

in the most pleading way in the world.

'No, I thank you,' she answered, civilly enough; but she did not turn

her head; and she made believe that her mind was wholly set on

_'I'm in love, sweet Mistress Prue,_

_Sooth I can't conceal it.'_

This timid prayer and its repulse had not escaped the sharp observation

of Miss Kerfoot.

'Oh,' said she, 'there's no doing anything with Carry, ever since we

came to Fort George. Nothing's good enough for her; the hills are not

high enough; and the place is not wild enough; and there's no catching

of salmon in drenching rain--so there's no amusement for her. Amusement?

I know where the trouble is; I know what amusement she wants; I know

what makes her grumble at the big hotels, and the decent clothes that

people prefer to wear, and the rattlesnakes, and all the rest. Of

course this lake can't be like the Scotch lake; there isn't a handsome

young gamekeeper here for her to flirt with. Flirtation, was it? Well,

I suppose it was, and no more. I don't understand the manners and

customs of savage nations. Look at her now. Look at that thing on her

head. I've heard of girls wearing true-love knots, and rings, and

things of that kind, to remind them of their sweethearts; but I never

heard of their going about wearing a yellow Tam-o'-Shanter.'

Miss Carry smiled a superior smile; she would pay no heed to these

ribald remarks; apparently she was wholly engrossed with

_'I'm in love, sweet Mistress Prue.'_

'It isn't fair of you to tell tales out of school, Em,' the young matron

said.

'But I wasn't there. If I had been, there would have been a little

better behaviour. Why, I never! Do you know how they teach girls to

use a salmon-rod in that country?'

The question was addressed to Mr. Huysen; but Miss Kerfoot's eyes were

fixed on Miss Carry.

'No, I don't,' he answered.

'Oh, you don't know,' she said. 'You don't know. Really. Well, I'll

tell you. The gamekeeper--and the handsomer the better--stands

overlooking the girl's shoulder; and she holds the rod; and he grips her

hand and the rod at the same time.'

'But I know how,' the young Doctor interposed. 'See here--give me your

hand--I'll show you in a minute.'

'Oh no, you shan't,' said she, instantly disengaging herself; 'this is a

respectable country. We don't do such things in New York State. Of

course, over there it's different. Oh yes; if I were there

myself--and--and if the gamekeeper was handsome enough--and if he asked

me to have a lesson in salmon-fishing--don't you think I would go? Why,

I should smile!'

But here Miss Carry burst out laughing; for her friend had been caught.

These two girls were in the habit of talking the direst slang between

themselves (and occasionally Miss Carry practised a little of it on her

papa), but this wickedness they did in secret; outsiders were not

supposed to know anything of that. And now Dr. Tilley did not seem very

much pleased at hearing Miss Kerfoot say 'I should smile'; and Miss

Kerfoot looked self-conscious and amused and a little embarrassed; and

Carry kept on laughing. However, it all blew over; for now they were

down at the landing stage; and presently the Doctor was handing them

into the spick and span new cat-boat that he had just had sent through

from New York that autumn.

Indeed it was a right joyous party that now went sailing out on the

clear lapping waters; for there was a brisk breeze blowing; and two

pairs of sweethearts in one small boat's cargo make a fair proportion;

and Lake George, in October, before the leaves are beginning to fall, is

just about as beautiful a place as any one can want. The far low hills

were all red and brown and yellow with maple and scrub oak, except where

the pines and the hemlocks interposed a dark blue-green; and nearer at

hand, on the silvery surface of the lake, were innumerable small wooded

islands, with a line of white foam along the windward shores; and

overhead a perfectly cloudless sky of intense and brilliant blue. And

if these were not enough for the gay voyagers, then there were other

things--laughter, sarcasm, subtle compliments, daring or stolen glances;

until at last the full tide of joy burst into song. Who can tell which

of them it was that started

_'I'se gwine back to Dixie, no more I'se gwine to wander,_

_My heart's turned back to Dixie, I can't stay here no longer'?_

No matter; nor was it of much consequence whether the words of the song

were of a highly intellectual cast, nor whether the music was of the

most distinguished character, so long as there was a chorus admirably

adapted for soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. It was very speedily clear

that this was not the first time these four had practised the chorus

(Mrs. Lalor was allowed to come in just where she pleased), nor was

there any great sadness in their interpretation of the words--

I'se gwine back to Dix-ie, I'se gwine back to

Dix-ie, I's gwine where to or-ange blos-soms grow, ...

... For I hear the chil-dren call-ing, I see their sad tears

fall-ing, My heart's turn'd back to Dix-ie, And I must go.

[Illustration: Music fragment]

It is impossible to say how often they repeated the chorus; until Mrs.

Lalor asked the girls why they were so fond of singing about orange

blossoms, and then presently they turned to something else.

All this time they were beating up against a stiff but steady head-wind;

the Doctor at the tiller; the lank editor standing by the mast at the

bow; the girls and their chaperon snugly ensconced in the capacious

cockpit, but still having to dodge the enormously long boom when the

boat was put about. The women-folk, of course, paid no attention to the

sailing; they never do; they were quite happy in leaving the whole

responsibility on the owner of the craft; and were entirely wrapped up

in their own petty affairs. Nay, so recklessly inconsiderate were they

that they began to be angry because Dr. Tilley would not get out his

banjo--which was in the tiny cabin, or rather locker, at the bow. They

wanted to sing 'Dancing in the Barn,' they said. What was the use of

that without a banjo to play the dance music?

'Very well,' said the complaisant Doctor, 'we'll run into some quiet

creek in one of the islands; and then I'll see what I can do for you.'

No, no, they said; they wanted to sing sailing; they did not wish to go

ashore, or near the shore. Well, the amiable Doctor scarce knew how to

please them, for he could not steer the boat and play the banjo at the

same time; and he was not sure about entrusting the safety of so

precious a cargo to the uncertain seamanship of the editor. However,

they were now a long way from Fort George; they might as well take a run

back in that direction; and so--the boat having been let away from the

wind and put on a fair course for the distant landing-stage--Mr. Huysen

was called down from the bow and directed as to how he should steer; and

then the Doctor went forward and got out the banjo.

Now this 'Dancing in the Barn' (the words are idiotic enough) has a very

catching air; and no sooner had the Doctor--who was standing up on the

bit of a deck forward, where Jack Huysen had been--begun the tinkling

prelude than the girls showed little movements of hands and feet, as if

they were performing an imaginary 'cake-walk.'

_'Oh, we'll meet at the ball in the evening,_

_Kase I love to pass the time away'_

--they were all singing at it now; they did not wait for any chorus; and

Miss Carry had caught Miss Em's hand, and was holding it on high, and

keeping time to the music, as if she were in reality leading her down

the barn.

As we move so grace-ful-ly

We're as hap-py as can be

Den swing you partners all to-

[Illustration: Music fragment]

ge-ther, Kase now's the time for you to larn, Ban-jos

ring-ing, Nig-gers sing-ing, And danc-ing in the barn.

[Illustration: music fragment]

Then came in the rippling dance--played as a solo on the banjo; and so

catching was it that the two girls stood up, and made believe to dance a

little. You see, the boat was running free before the wind, and there

was scarcely any appreciable motion, though she was going at a good

speed, for her mainsail was enormously large and the breeze was brisk.

'I say, Huysen,' the Doctor called, while he was playing the dance,

'look what you're about. Never mind the singing. Keep her bow straight

for the landing-stage.'

Then the next verse began--

_'Den we's off to work in de morning,_

_Singing as we go out to de field,'_

and they all went at it with a will. And then the chorus; and then the

light rippling dance--

[Illustration: music fragment]

and the two girls were on their feet again, making believe to posture a

little, while the sharp clear notes of the banjo tinkled and tinkled,

amid the steady swishing noise of the water along the side of the boat.

But all of a sudden there was a startled cry of warning--the banjo was

dropped on the deck, and the Doctor sprung aft in a vain effort to check

what he had seen was coming; the next moment the great boom came heavily

swinging along, accelerating its pace as it went out to leeward, until

there was a frightful crash that seemed to tear the whole craft to

pieces. And then, in this wild lurch, what had happened? Tilley was

the first to see. There was something in the water. He tore off his

coat and slipped over the boat's side--heeding nothing of the piercing

screams of those he had left, but shaking the wet from his eyes and nose

and mouth, and looking all around him like a Newfoundland dog. Then he

caught sight of a small floating object--some dozen yards away--and he

made for that: it was the yellow Tam-o'-Shanter, he could see; then he

heard a half-stifled cry just behind him, and turning round was just

able to catch hold of Carry Hodson before she sank a second time.

However, she was quite passive--perhaps she had been stunned by a blow

from the boom; and he was an excellent swimmer; and he could easily keep

her afloat--if only Jack Huysen knew enough about sailing to get the

boat back speedily. It was in vain to think of swimming with her to the

shore; the land was too far off; and the weight of her wet clothes was

increasing. He looked after the boat; it seemed a terrible distance

away; but as far as he could make out--through the water that was

blinding his eyes--they had got her round into the wind again and were

no doubt trying to make for him.

Meanwhile, Jack Huysen had been so thunderstruck by what had occurred;

when his own carelessness or an awkward gust of wind had caused the

great boom to gybe, that for some seconds he seemed quite paralysed, and

of course all this time the little craft was swinging along before the

breeze. The shrieks of the women bewildered him, moreover. And then it

occurred to him that he must get back--somehow, anyhow; and more by

instinct than of knowledge he jammed down the helm, and rounded the boat

into the wind, where the big sail began to flop about with the loose

mainsheet dragging this way and that. And then he set about trying

little experiments--and in a frantic nervousness all the same; he knew,

or he discovered, that he must needs get in the mainsheet; and

eventually the boat began to make uncertain progress--uncertain, because

he had been terrified, and was afraid to keep proper way on her, so that

she staggered up into the wind incessantly. But this at all events kept

them near the course they had come; and from time to time she got ahead

a bit; and the women had ceased their shrieking, and had subsided, the

one into a terrified silence, the other into frantic weeping and

clasping of her hands.

'Can't you--can't you look out? Why don't you look out for them?' he

cried, though he scarce knew what he said, so anxious was he about the

tiller and those puffs of wind that made the boat heel over whenever he

allowed the sail to fill.

And then there was a cry--from Mrs. Lalor.

'Look--look--this way--you're going away from them.'

He could only judge by the direction of her gaze; he put the boat about.

She began to laugh, in a hysterical fashion.

'Oh yes, yes, we are getting nearer--we are getting nearer--he sees

us--Em, Em, look!--poor Carry!--Oh, quick, quick with the boat--quick,

quick, quick!'

But the wringing of her hands was of little avail; and indeed when they

did eventually draw cautiously close to the two people in the water, the

business of getting them dragged on board proved a difficult and anxious

matter, for the girl was quite unconscious and lay in their hands like a

corpse. The young Doctor was very much exhausted too; but at least he

preserved his senses. He sat down for a minute to recover his breath.

'Jack,' he gasped, 'put my coat round her--wrap her warm--Mrs. Lalor,

get off her boots and stockings--chafe her feet and hands--quick.'

And then he rose and went to where she was lying and stooped over her.

'Yes, yes, her heart is beating--come away with that coat, man.'

But it was his own coat that Jack Huysen had quickly taken off; and when

Carry Hodson was wrapped in it, and when the women were doing what they

could to restore her circulation, he fetched the other coat for the

young Doctor, and made him put that on, though the latter declared he

was all right now. And then the Doctor took the tiller, slacked out the

mainsheet, and once more they were running before the wind towards Fort

George. Not a word had been said about the cause of the mishap or its

possible consequences.

These at first--and to Jack Huysen's inexpressible joy--seemed to be

trivial enough. Immediately she had recovered consciousness she sate

up, and began to say a few words--though with some difficulty; and

indeed, so brave was she, and so determined to do something to relieve

the obvious anxiety of these good friends of hers, that when at length

they reached the landing-stage and got ashore she declared that she was

quite recovered, that she could walk to the hotel as well as any of

them, that she had never felt better in her born days. Nay, she made a

joke of the whole matter, and of her heavy skirts, and of the possible

contents of Jack Huysen's coat-pockets; and when they did reach the

hotel, and when she had changed her wet garments, she came down again

looking perfectly well--if a little bit tired.

It was not until the afternoon that she began to complain of shiverings;

and then again, when dinner time arrived, Mrs. Lalor came down with the

message that Carry had a slight headache, and would rather remain in her

room. Next morning, too, she thought she would rather not get up; she

had a slight cough, and her breathing was difficult; she had most relief

when she lay quite still.

'What does this mean, Tom?' Jack Huysen said--and as if he feared the

answer.

'I hope it means nothing at all,' was the reply; but the young Doctor

looked grave, and moved away, as if he did not wish to have any further

talking.

However, there was no perceptible change for the worse that day; and

Miss Carry, when she could speak at all, said that she was doing very

well, and implored them to go away on their usual excursions, and leave

her to herself. A servant might sit outside in the passage, she said; if

she wanted her, she could ring. Of course, this only sufficed to set

Emma Kerfoot into a fit of weeping and sobbing--that Carry should think

them capable of any such heartlessness.

But on the following morning matters were much more serious. She could

hardly speak at all; and when she did manage to utter a few panting

words she said it was a pain in her chest that was troubling her--not

much; no, no, not much, she said; she wished they would all go away and

amuse themselves; the pain would leave; she would be all right by and

by.

'Jack, look here,' said the young Doctor, when they were together; 'I'm

afraid this is pneumonia--and a sharp attack too.'

'Is it dangerous?' Huysen said quickly, and with rather a pale face.

The answer to this was another question;

'She left her mother at home, didn't she?'

'Yes,' said he breathlessly. 'Do you want to send for her? But that

would be no use. Her mother could not travel just now; she's too much

of an invalid; why, it was she who sent Carry away on this holiday.'

'Her father, then?'

'Why, yes, he's at home just now. Shall I telegraph for him?'

'No--not yet--I don't want to frighten her. We'll see in the morning.'

But long before the morning came they discovered how things were going

with her. Late that night Mrs. Lalor, who had undertaken to sit up till

her sister should come to relieve her, stole noiselessly along to the

room of the latter and woke her.

'Em, darling, who is Ronald?' she whispered.

'Ronald? I don't know,' was the answer--for she was still somewhat

confused.

'Carry is asking that one Ronald should be sent for--do come and see

her, Em--I think she's wandering a little--she says there's never any

luck in the boat except when Ronald is in it--I don't understand it at

all----'

'But I do--I do now,' said the girl, as she hastily got up and put a

dressing-gown and some wraps around her.

'And you'll have to send for the Doctor at once, Mary--he said he would

not be in bed till two. She must be in a fever--that's delirium--if she

thinks she is in the Highlands again.'

And delirium it was, though of no violent kind. No, she lay quite

placidly; and it was only at times that she uttered a few indistinct

words; but those around her now perceived that her brain had mixed up

this Lake George with that other Scotch lake they had heard of, and they

guessed that it was about salmon-fishing she was thinking when she said

that it was Ronald that always brought good luck to the boat.

*CHAPTER X.*

*A CHALLENGE.*

On the evening of the day on which Agatha Gemmill had made her

portentous discovery about the secret interviews between her sister and

Ronald, Mr. Gemmill--a little, red-headed man with shrewd blue

eyes--came home in very good spirits.

'Look here, Aggie--here's an invitation for you,' he was beginning--when

he saw-that something was wrong. 'What is it now?' he asked.

And then the story was told him--and not without a touch of indignation

in the telling. But Mr. Gemmill did not seem so horror-stricken as his

wife had expected; she began to emphasise the various points; and was

inclined to be angry with him for his coolness.

'Girls often have fancies like that--you know well enough, Agatha,' he

said. 'All you have to do is to take a gentle way with her, and talk

common sense to her, and it will be all right. If you make a row, you

will only drive her into obstinacy. She will listen to reason; she's

not a fool; if you take a quiet and gentle way with her----'

'A quiet and gentle way!' his wife exclaimed. 'I will take no way with

her at all--not I! I'm not going to have any responsibility of the

kind. Back she goes to the Highlands at once--that's all the way I mean

to take with her. See, there's a letter I've written to mother.'

'Then you mean to make a hash of this affair amongst you,' said he, with

calm resignation. 'You will merely drive the girl into a corner; and

her pride will keep her there----'

'Oh yes, men always think that women are so easily persuaded,' his wife

broke in. 'Perhaps you would like to try arguing with her yourself?

But, any way, I wash my hands of the whole matter. I shall have her

packed off home at once.'

'I don't think you will,' the husband said quietly. 'I was going to tell

you: the Lauders are giving a big dinner-party on the 27th--that is a

fortnight hence; and here is an invitation for the three of us; and

Frank Lauder as good as admitted this morning that the thing was got up

for the very purpose of introducing Meenie to the old folk. Well, then,

I have already written and accepted; and I will tell you this--I'm not

going to offend the old gentleman just because you choose to quarrel

with your sister.'

'Quarrel?' she retorted. 'Oh yes--she never can do any wrong. She has

made a fool of you with her pretty eyes--as she does to every man that

comes to the house. Why, they're like a set of great babies when she's

in the room; and you would think from the way they go on that she was

the Queen of Sheba--instead of the ill-tempered little brat she is.'

But Mrs. Gemmill was a sensible woman too.

'Of course we can't offend the old people. She'll have to stay. But as

soon as that is over, off she goes to the Highlands again; and there she

can stop until she has recovered her senses.'

However, this invitation was but an additional grievance. She went with

it at once to Meenie's room.

'Look at that. Read that.'

The girl glanced at the formal note--with no great interest.

'Do you know what that means? That was meant to introduce you to Frank

Lauder's family and friends.'

'I do not wish to go,' Meenie said perversely.

'But you'll have to go, for we have accepted for you. We can't offend

and insult people simply because you are bent on making a fool of

yourself. But this is what I want to say: I had intended sending you

back to Inver-Mudal at once; but now you will have to stay with us

another fortnight. Very well, during that time I forbid you to have any

communication with that man, of any kind whatever--do you hear?'

She sate silent.

'Do you hear?'

'Yes, I hear,' she said.

'Well?'

'Very well.'

'But it is not very well,' the elder sister said angrily. 'I want to

know what you mean to do.'

The answer was given with perfect calmness.

'I mean to do precisely as I have been doing. I am not ashamed of

anything I have done.'

'What? You are not ashamed? Do you mean to tell me that you will keep

on meeting that man--in the public streets--making a spectacle of

yourself in the streets of Glasgow--and bringing disgrace on yourself

and your family?'

'You are talking like a mad woman,' Meenie said proudly.

'You will see whether I act like one. I say you shall not be allowed to

misconduct yourself while you are under this roof--that I will make sure

of.'

'What will you do?' the girl said, in a strangely taunting tone: indeed,

one could scarcely have believed that this was Meenie that was speaking.

'Lock me up in my room? They only do that in books. Besides, Mr.

Gemmill would prevent your doing anything so ridiculous.'

'Oh, it's he that would come to let you out?' the elder sister said.

'You've discovered that, have you? What more, I wonder!'

But here the scene, which threatened to become more and more stormy,

came to a sudden end. There was a sharp call from below--Mr. Gemmill

having doubtless overheard some of these wild words.

'Agatha, come downstairs at once!'

So the girl was left once more alone--proud and pale and trembling a

little, but with her mind more obdurate than ever. Nor would she go

down to supper that night. Mr. Gemmill went twice to the door of her

room (his wife would not budge a foot) and begged her to come

downstairs. The first time she said she did not wish for any supper.

The second time she said that if her conduct had been so disgraceful she

was not fit to associate with his family. And so, being by nature a

kindly-hearted man, he went away and got some food for her, and carried

the little tray to her room with his own hands--a proceeding that only

made his wife the angrier. Why should she be spoilt and petted with

such foolish indulgence? Starvation was the best cure for her pride.

But of course he was like the rest of the men--made simpletons of by a

pair of girl's gray eyes.

Alas! all her pride and courage went from her in the long dark hours of

the night, and her sister's threats assumed a more definite and terrible

meaning. It was true she had a fortnight's respite--during that

fortnight she was her own mistress and could do as she pleased--but

after? Would she be shut up in that little hamlet in the northern

wilds, with absolutely no means of learning anything about Ronald, not

permitted to mention his name, cut off from him as though he were in

another world? She saw month after month go by--or year after year

even--with no word or message coming to keep alive the fond hope in her

breast. He might even be dead without her knowing. And how all too

short this fortnight seemed, during which she might still have some

chance of seeing him and gaining from him some assurance with regard to

a future that looked more than ever uncertain and vague.

The next day it had been arranged between them that they were not to

meet, for he was to be at home all that day and busy; but her anxiety

was too great; she resolved to go to his lodgings and ask for him. She

had never done that before; but now the crisis was too serious to let

her heed what any one might say--indeed she did not think for a moment

about it. So all the morning she went about the house, performing such

small duties as had been entrusted to her, and wondering when the heavy

rain would leave off. At last, about noon, when the dismal skies gave

no sign of clearing, she got her ulster and deerstalker's cap, put on a

thick pair of boots, and, armed with a stout umbrella, went out into the

black and dripping world. No one had attempted to hinder her.

And yet it was with some curious sense of shame that she timidly rang

the bell when she reached these obscure lodgings. The door was in a

dusky entry; the landlady who answered the summons did not notice how

the girl's cheeks were unusually flushed when she asked if Mr. Ronald

Strang were at home.

'Yes, he is,' the woman said; and then she hesitated, apparently not

quite knowing whether she should ask the young lady to step within or

not.

'Will you tell him that I should like to see him for a moment--here!'

she said.

In less than a minute Ronald was with her--and he had brought his cap in

his hand; for he had guessed who this was; and instinctively he knew

that he could not ask her to come within doors. But when she said she

had something to say to him, and turned to face the dismal day outside,

he could not but glance at the swimming pavements and the murky

atmosphere.

'On such a morning, Meenie--

'Oh, but I am well wrapped up,' she said, quite happily--for the mere

sight of him had restored her courage, 'and you shall have the

umbrella--yes--I insist--take it--well, then, I ask you to take it as a

favour, for I am not going to have you get wet on my account.'

Of course he took the umbrella--to hold over her; and so they went out

into the wet streets.

'I am so glad to see you, Ronald,' she said, looking up with a face that

told its own story of joy and confidence; 'don't blame me; I have been

miserable; I could not help coming to ask you for a little--a little

comfort, I think, and hope----'

'But what have you been doing to your eyes, Meenie, darling? What kind

of a look is that in them?'

'Well, I cried all last night--all the night through, I believe,' said

she simply; but there was no more crying in her eyes, only light and

love and gladness. 'And now, the moment I see you I think I must have

been so foolish. The moment I see you everything seems right; I am no

longer afraid; my heart is quite light and hopeful again.'

'Ay, and what has been frightening you, then?'

And then she told him all the story--as they walked along the wet

pavements, with the bedraggled passers-by hurrying through the rain, and

the tramway-cars and omnibuses and carts and cabs keeping up their

unceasing roar. But Agatha's threats were no longer so terrible to

her--now that she had hold of Ronald's arm; she glanced up at him from

time to time with eyes full of courage and confidence; a single glimpse

of him had driven away all these dire spectres and phantoms. Indeed, if

the truth were known, it was he who was most inclined to take this news

seriously; though, of course, he did not show that to her. No; he

affected to laugh at the idea that they could be kept from communicating

with each other; if she were to be sent back to Inver-Mudal, he said,

that was only anticipating what must have happened in any case; it would

no doubt be a pity to miss these few stolen minutes from time to time;

but would not that be merely a spur to further and constant exertion?

'Ay, lass,' said he, 'if I could have any reasonable and fair prospect

to put before them, I would just go to your friends at once; but all the

wishing in the world, and all the work in the world, will not make next

spring come any the quicker; and until I'm a certificated forester I'm

loth to bother Lord Ailine, or anybody else, about a place. But what o'

that? It's not a long time; and unless Mr. Weems is making a desperate

fool o' me, I've a good chance; and Lord Ailine will do his best for me

among his friends, that I know well. In the meantime, if they will not

let you write to me----'

'But, Ronald, how can they help my writing to you, or coming to see you,

if I wish?'

'I was not thinking of your sister and her folk,' he answered--and he

spoke rather gravely. 'I was thinking of your father and mother. Well,

it is not a nice thing for a young lass to be in opposition to her own

folk; it's a sore trouble to both sides; and though she may be brave

enough at first, time will tell on her--especially when she sees her own

father and mother suffering through her defiance of them.'

'Then I am not to write to you, Ronald, if they say no?' she asked

quickly, and with her face grown anxious again.

Well, it was a difficult question to answer off-hand; and the noise in

the streets bothered him; and he was terribly troubled about Meenie

having to walk through the rain and mud.

'Will you do this for me, Meenie?' he said. 'I cannot bear to have ye

getting wet like this. If we were to get into an omnibus, now, and go

down the town, I know a restaurant where we could go in and have a

comfortable corner, and be able to talk in peace and quiet. You and I

have never broken bread together, quite by ourselves. Will you do that?'

She did not hesitate for a moment.

'Yes--if you think so--if you wish it,' she said.

And so they went down to the restaurant, which was rather a big place,

cut into small compartments; and one of these they had to themselves,

for it was but half-past twelve as yet; and by and by a frugal little

lunch was before them. The novelty of the situation was so amusing--to

Meenie at least--that for a time it drove graver thoughts away

altogether. She acted as mistress of the feast; and would insist on his

having this or that; and wondered that he had never even tasted

Worcester sauce; and was altogether tenderly solicitous about him;

whereas he, on the other hand, wished not to be bothered by any of these

things, and wanted only to know what Meenie meant to do when she went

back to Inver-Mudal.

'But you must tell me what you would have me do,' she said timidly.

'Well, I don't want you to quarrel with your mother and father on my

account, and be living in constant wretchedness. If they say you are

not to write to me, don't write----'

'But you said a little while ago there would be no difficulty in our

hearing from each other,' she said, with wide open eyes.

'I have been thinking about it, good lass,' said he, 'and I don't want

you to anger your folk and have a heavy heart in consequence. In the

meantime you must look to them--you must do what they say. By and by it

may be different; in the meantime I don't want you to get into

trouble----'

'Then it's little you know how this will end, Ronald,' she said, rather

sadly. 'I have thought over it more than you have. If I go back to

Inver-Mudal prepared to do everything they wish me to do--I mean my

mother, not my father, for I don't know what he might say--then it isn't

only that you will never hear from me, and that I shall never hear a

word from you; there's more than that: I shall never see you again in

this world.'

He turned very pale; and, scarcely knowing what he did, he stretched his

hand over the narrow little table, and seized her hand, and held it

firm.

'I will not let you go, then. I will keep you here in Glasgow, with me,

Meenie. Do you think I can let you go away for ever? For you are mine.

I don't care who says ay or no; you are mine; my own true-hearted girl;

the man or woman is not born that will sunder us two.'

Of course he had to speak in a low tone; but the grip of his hand was

sufficient emphasis. And then he said, regarding her earnestly and yet

half-hesitatingly--

'There is one way that would give you the right to judge what was best

for yourself--that would give you the right to act or say what you

pleased--even to leave your father's house, if that was necessary. Will

you become my wife, Meenie, before you go back to Inver-Mudal?'

She started, as well she might; but he held her hand firm.

'The thing is simple. There is my brother the minister. We could walk

over to his house, go through the ceremony in a few minutes, and you

could go back to your sister's, and no one be a bit the wiser. And then

surely you would be less anxious about the future; and if you thought it

right to send me a letter, you would be your own mistress as to that--

'It's a terrible thing, Ronald!'

'I don't see that, Meenie, dear; I've heard of more than one young

couple taking their fate in their own hand that way. And there's one

thing about it--it "maks sikker."'

They had some anxious talk over this sudden project--he eager, she

frightened--until the restaurant began to get crowded with its usual

middle-day customers. Then Ronald paid his modest score, and they left;

and now, as they made away for the western districts of the city, the

day was clearing up somewhat, and at times a pale silvery gleam shone

along the wet pavements. And still Meenie was undecided; and sometimes

she would timidly steal a glance at him, as if to assure herself and

gain courage; and sometimes she would wistfully look away along this

busy Sauchiehall Street, as if her future and all the coming years were

somehow at the end of it. As for him, now that he had hit upon this

daring project, he was eager in defence of it; and urged her to give her

consent there and then; and laboured to prove to her how much happier

she would be at Inver-Mudal--no matter what silence or space of time

might interpose between them--with the knowledge that this indissoluble

bond united them. Meenie remained silent for the most part, with

wistful eyes; but she clung to his arm as if for protection; and they

did not hasten their steps on their homeward way.

When they parted she had neither said yes nor no; but she had promised

to write to him that night, and let him know her decision. And in the

morning, he got this brief message--the handwriting was not a little

shaky, but he had scarcely time to notice that, so rapid was the glance

he threw over the trembling lines:--

'DEAR RONALD--If it can be done quite, quite secretly--yes. L.M.'

The signature, it may be explained, consisted of the initials of a pet

name that he had bestowed on her. She had found it first of all in some

of those idle verses that he now copied out for her from time to time;

and she had asked him how he had dared to address her in that way, while

as yet they were but the merest acquaintances. However, she did not seem

very angry.

*CHAPTER XI.*

*A WEDDING.*

This golden-radiant city of Glasgow!--with its thousand thousand

activities all awakening to join the noise and din of the joyous

morning, and its over-arching skies full of a white light of hope and

gladness and fair assurance of the future. The clerks and warehousemen

were hurrying by to their desks and counters; work-folk were leisurely

getting home for their well-earned breakfast; smart young men and

slim-waisted women were already setting the shop windows to rights;

great lorries were clattering their loads of long iron bars through the

crowded streets; and omnibuses and tramway-cars and railway-trains were

bringing in from all points of the compass their humming freight of

eager human bees to this mighty and dusky hive. But dusky it did not

appear to him, as he was speedily making his way across the town towards

his brother's house. It was all transfigured and glorified--the

interminable thoroughfares, the sky-piercing chimneys, the masses of

warehouses, the overhead network of telegraph-lines, the red-funnelled

steamers moving slowly away through the pale blue mist of the

Broomielaw: all these were spectral in a strange kind of way, and yet

beautiful; and he could not but think that the great mass of this busy

multitude was well content with the pleasant morning, and the nebulous

pale-golden sunlight, and the glimpses of long cirrus cloud hanging far

above the city's smoke. For the moment he had ceased to hang his

happiness on the chance of his succeeding with the Highland and

Agricultural Society. Something far more important--and wonderful--was

about to happen. He was about to secure Meenie to himself for ever and

ever. Not a certificate in forestry, but Meenie's marriage-lines--that

was what would be in his pocket soon! And after?--well, the long

months, or even years, might have to go by; and she might be far enough

away from him, and condemned to silence--but she would be his wife.

And then, just as he had reached the south side of the river, he

paused--paused abruptly, as if he had been struck. For it had suddenly

occurred to him that perhaps, after all, this fine project was not

feasible. He had been all intent on gaining Meenie's acquiescence; and,

having got that, had thought of nothing but winning over the Reverend

Andrew into being an accomplice; but now he was quickly brought up by

this unforeseen obstacle--could Meenie, not being yet twenty-one, go

through even this formal ceremony without the consent of her parents?

It seemed to him that she could not--from his reading of books. He knew

nothing of the marriage law of Scotland; but it appeared to him, from

what he could recollect of his reading, that a girl under twenty-one

could not marry without her parents' consent. And this was but the

letting in of waters. There were all kinds of other things--the

necessity of having lived a certain time in this or that parish; the

proclamation of banns--which would be merely an invitation to her

relatives to interfere; and so on. He resumed his walk; but with less

of gay assurance. He could only endeavour to fortify himself with the

reflection that in the one or two instances of which he had heard of

this very thing being done the young people had been completely

successful and had kept their secret until they judged the time fitting

for the disclosing of it.

When he reached his brother's house, the Reverend Andrew was in his

study, engaged in the composition of the following Sunday's sermon; he

was seated at a little table near the fire; a pot of tea on the

chimney-piece; a large Bible and Cruden's Concordance lying open on the

sofa beside him. The heavy, bilious-hued man rose leisurely, and rubbed

his purplish hands, and put them underneath his coat-tails, as he turned

his back to the fire, and stood on the hearth-rug, regarding his

brother.

'Well, Ronald, lad, ye're not frightened for a cold morning, to come out

with a jacket like that.'

'The morning's well enough,' said Ronald briefly; and forthwith he laid

before his brother the errand on which he had come, and besought his

assistance, if that were practicable. He told the story simply and

concisely; not pleading any justification; but rather leaving the facts

to speak for themselves. And would his brother help?--in other words,

supposing there were no other obstacle in the way, would Andrew perform

this ceremony for them, and so render their future proof against all

contingencies? He was not asked for any advice; he was not asked to

assume any responsibility; would he merely exercise this clerical

function of his on their behalf--seeing how urgent matters were?

The Reverend Andrew was very much puzzled, not to say perturbed. He

began to walk up and down the room; his head bent forward, his hands

still underneath his coat-tails.

'You put me in a box, Ronald, and that's a fact,' said he. 'I'm

thinking my wishes as a brother will be for setting themselves up

against my duty as a minister of the Gospel. For I dare not counsel any

young girl to defy the authority of her own people----'

'She has not asked you for any counsel,' Ronald said curtly. 'And

besides we don't know what the authority might be. I dare say, if her

father knew all the circumstances, he would be on our side; and I

suppose he has as much right to speak as her little spitfire of a

mother.'

This was hard on Mrs. Douglas, who had always treated Ronald with

courtesy--if of a lofty and distant kind; but impetuous young people,

when their own interests are at stake, are seldom just to their elders.

However, the Reverend Andrew now began to say that, if he were

altogether an outsider, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to

see this wish of his brother's accomplished. He had observed much, he

said; he had heard more; he knew the saving influence that this girl had

exercised on Ronald's life; he could pray for nothing better than that

these two should be joined in lawful bonds, towards the strengthening of

each other, and the establishment of a mutual hope and trust.

'But it would never do for me to be mixed up in it, Ronald,' he

continued. 'When it came to be known, think of what ill-minded folk

might say. I must have regard to my congregation as well as to myself;

and what if they were to accuse me of taking part in a conspiracy?'

'A conspiracy?' Ronald repeated sharply. 'What kind of a conspiracy?

To steal away a rich heiress--is that it? God bless me, the lass has

nothing beyond what she stands up in! There's the sealskin coat

Glengask gave her; they can have that back, and welcome. What

conspiracy would ye make out?'

'No, no, lad; I'm thinking what ill tongues might say.'

'Let them lick their own venom till they rot! What care I?'

'Yes, yes, yes, lad; but ye're not a placed minister; ye've but yourself

and her to think of. Now, just wait a bit.'

He had gone back to his chair by the fire, and was seated there, staring

into the red coals.

'I suppose you've heard of Dugald Mannering, of Airdrie?' he said, at

length.

'Yes, indeed,' was the answer. 'Meenie--that is--Miss Douglas and I

went to hear him the Sunday before last, but there was not a seat to be

got anywhere--no, nor standing-room either.'

This Mr. Mannering was a young divine of the U.P. Church who had an

extraordinary popularity at this time among the young people of the

south of Scotland, and especially the young people of Glasgow, and that

from a variety of causes. He was a singularly eloquent

preacher--flowing, ornate, and poetical; he was entirely unconventional,

not to say daring, in his choice of subjects; his quotations were as

commonly from Shakespeare and Coleridge and Byron and Browning as from

the usual pulpit authorities; he was exceedingly handsome, and rather

delicate-looking--pale and large-eyed and long-haired; and he had

refused the most flattering offers--'calls' is the proper word--from

various west-end congregations of Glasgow, because he considered it his

duty to remain among the mining-folk of Airdrie. When he did accept an

invitation to preach in this or that city church, the young people from

far and near came flocking to hear him; and a good many of their elders

too, though these were not without certain prickings of conscience as to

the propriety of devoting the Lord's day to what was remarkably like a

revel in pure literature.

'Dugald's coming over here this afternoon,' the elder brother continued,

as if he were communing with himself. 'He's an enthusiastic kind of

fellow--he'll stick at nothing, if he thinks it's right. I wish, now, I

had that portrait--but Maggie's away to school by this time----'

'What portrait?' Ronald asked.

The Reverend Andrew did not answer, but rose, and slowly and

thoughtfully left the room. When he came back he had in his hand a

photograph of Meenie framed in a little frame of crimson velvet, and

that he put on the table: Ronald recognised it swiftly enough.

'He has got an eye for a handsome young lass, has Dugald,' the minister

said shrewdly. 'I'll just have that lying about, as it were. Ay, it's

a straightforward, frank face, that; and one that has nothing to hide.

I'll just have it lying about when Dugald comes over this afternoon, and

see if he doesna pick it up and have a good look at it.'

'But what mean ye, Andrew?' his brother said.

'Why, then, lad, I think I'll just tell Dugald the whole story; and if

he's not as hot-headed as any of ye to carry the thing through, I'll be

surprised. And I suppose if he marries ye, that's just as good as any

one else?--for to tell you the truth, Ronald, I would rather not be

mixed up in it myself.'

'And the banns?' said Ronald quickly. 'And the length of time in the

parish? And the consent of her mother and father?'

The minister waved his hand with a superior air; these were trivial

things, not to say popular errors; what had been of real consequence was

the extent to which he dared implicate himself.

'I will not say,' he observed slowly, 'that I might not, in other

circumstances, have preferred the publication of banns. It would have

been more in order, and more seemly; for I do not like the interference

of the secular arm in what should be a solely sacred office. Besides

that, there is even a premium put on publicity, as is right; five

shillings for the one proclamation, but only half-a-crown if you have

them proclaimed two following Sundays. Well, well, we mustn't complain;

I see sufficient reason; from all I can learn--and you were ever a

truth-teller, Ronald, in season and out of season, as well I mind--it

seems to me you are fulfilling the laws of God, and breaking none of

man's making; so just you go to the Registrar of the parish, and give

him the particulars, and deposit a half-crown as the worthy man's fee,

and then, eight days hence, you call on him again, and he'll give you a

certificate entitling you to be married in any house or church in the

Kingdom of Scotland. And if there's no other place handy, ye're welcome

to the room you're standing in at this minute; though I would as lief

have the marriage take place anywhere else, and that's the truth,

Ronald; for although I can defend what little I have done to my own

conscience, I'm no sure I should like to stand against the

clishmaclavers of a lot of old wives.'

'Where am I to find the Registrar, Andrew?' he asked: he was a little

bewildered by the rapidity with which this crisis seemed approaching.

'I suppose you've a good Scotch tongue in your head, and can ask for the

loan of a Directory,' was the laconic answer. The Reverend Andrew had

taken up the photograph again, and was regarding it. 'An honest, sweet

face; as pretty a lass as ever a man was asked to work and strive for

and to win. Well, I do not wonder, Ronald, lad--with such a prize

before you---- But off you go now, for I must get to my work again; and

if you come over and have a cup of tea in the afternoon, between four

and five, I suppose Dugald Mannering will be here, and maybe ye'll be

the best hand to explain the whole situation of affairs.'

And so Ronald left to seek out the Registrar; and as he went away

through the busy and sunlit streets, he was asking himself if there was

not one of all those people who could guess the secret that he carried

with him in his bosom, and that kept his heart warm there.

The Rev. Dugald Mannering, as it turned out, was not nearly so eager and

enthusiastic as Ronald's brother had prophesied; for it behoves a

youthful divine to maintain a serious and deliberative countenance, when

weighty matters are put before him for judgment. But afterwards, when

the two young men were together walking away home through the dusky

streets of Glasgow, the U.P. minister became much more frank and

friendly and communicative.

'I see your brother's position well enough, Mr. Strang,' said he. 'I

can understand his diffidence; and it is but right that he should be

anxious not to give the envious and ill-natured a chance of talking. He

is willing to let the ceremony take place in his house, because you are

his brother. If I were you, I would rather have it take place anywhere

else--both as being fairer to him, and as being more likely to ensure

secrecy, which you seem to think necessary.'

Ronald's face burned red: should he have to ask Meenie to come to his

humble lodgings, with the wondering, and perhaps discontented and

suspicious, landlady, as sole on-looker?

'Well, now,' the young preacher continued, 'when I come to Glasgow,

there are two old maiden aunts of mine who are good enough to put me up.

They live in Rose Street, Garnethill; and they're very kind old people.

Now I shouldn't wonder at all if they took it into their head to

befriend the young lady on this occasion--I mean, if you will allow me

to mention the circumstances to them; indeed, I am sure they would;

probably they would be delighted; indeed I can imagine their

experiencing a fearful joy on finding this piece of romance suddenly

tumbling into the middle of their prim and methodical lives. The dear

old creatures!--I will answer for them. I will talk to them as soon as

I get home now. And do you think you could persuade Miss Douglas to

call on them?'

Ronald hesitated.

'If they were to send her a message, perhaps----'

'When are you likely to see her?'

'To-morrow morning, at eleven,' he said promptly.

'Very well. I will get one of the old ladies to write a little note to

Miss Douglas; and I will post it to you to-night; and to-morrow morning,

if she is so inclined, bring her along and introduce yourself and

her--will you? I shall be there, so there won't be any awkwardness; and

I would not hurry you, but I've to get back to Airdrie to-morrow

afternoon. Is it a bargain?'

'So far as I am concerned--yes; and many thanks to ye,' Ronald said, as

he bade his companion good-bye and went away home to his solitary

lodgings.

But when, the next morning, in Randolph Terrace--and after he had

rapidly told her all that had happened--he suggested that she should

there and then go along and call on the Misses Mannering, Meenie started

back in a kind of fright, and a flush of embarrassment overspread her

face. And why--why--he asked, in wonder.

'Oh, Ronald,' she said, glancing hurriedly at her costume, 'these--these

are the first of your friends you have asked me to go to see, and do you

think I could go like _this_?'

'_This_' meant that she had on a plain and serviceable ulster, a smart

little hat with a ptarmigan's wing on it, a pair of not over-new gloves,

and so forth. Ronald was amazed. He considered that Meenie was always

a wonder of neatness and symmetry, no matter how she was attired. And

to think that any one might find fault with her!

'Besides, they're not my friends,' he exclaimed. 'I never saw them in

my life.'

'They know who your brother is,' she said. 'Do you think I would give

any one occasion to say you were marrying a slattern? Just look.'

She held out her hands; the gloves were certainly worn.

'Take them off, and show them the prettiest-shaped hands in Glasgow

town,' said he.

'And my hair--I know it is all rough and untidy--isn't it now?' she

said, feeling about the rim of her hat.

'Well, it is a little,' he confessed, 'only it's far prettier that way

than any other.'

'Ronald,'she pleaded, 'some other time--on Friday morning--will Friday

morning do?'

'Oh, I know what you want,' said he. 'You want to go and get on your

sealskin coat and your velvet hat and a new pair of gloves and all the

rest; and do you know what the old ladies are like to say when they see

you?--they'll say, "Here's a swell young madam to be thinking of

marrying a man that may have but a couple o' pounds a week or so at

first to keep house on."'

'Oh, will they think that?' she said quickly. 'Well, I'll--I'll go now,

Ronald--but please make my hair smooth behind--and is my collar all

right?'

And yet it was not such a very dreadful interview, after all; for the

two old dames made a mighty fuss over this pretty young creature; and

vied with each other in petting her, and cheering her, and counselling

her; and when the great event was spoken of in which they also were to

play a part they affected to talk in a lower tone of voice, as if it

were something mysterious and tragic and demanding the greatest caution

and circumspection. As for the young minister, he sate rather apart,

and allowed his large soft eyes to dwell upon Meenie, with something of

wistfulness in his look. He could do so with impunity, in truth, for

the old ladies entirely monopolised her. They patted her on the

shoulder, to give her courage; they spoke as if they themselves had gone

through the wedding ceremony a hundred times. Was she sure she would

rather have no other witnesses? Would she stand up at the head of the

room now, and they would show her all she would have to do? And they

stroked her hand; and purred about her; and were mysteriously elated

over their share in this romantic business; insomuch that they

altogether forgot Ronald--who was left to talk politics with the

absent-eyed young parson.

Between this interview and the formal wedding a whole week had to

elapse; and during that time Agatha Gemmill saw fit to deal in quite a

different way with her sister. She was trying reason now, and

persuasion, and entreaty; and that at least was more agreeable to Meenie

than being driven into a position of angry antagonism. Moreover, Meenie

did not seek to vaunt her self-will and independence too openly. Her

meetings with Ronald were few; and she made no ostentatious parade of

them. She was civil to Mr. Frank Lauder when he came to the house.

Indeed, Mr. Gemmill, who arrogated to himself the success of this milder

method of treating the girl, was bold enough to declare that everything

was going on well; Meenie had as much common sense as most folk; she was

not likely to throw herself away; and when once she had seen old Mr.

Lauder's spacious mansion, and picture galleries, and what not, and

observed the style in which the family lived, he made do doubt but that

they would soon have to welcome Frank Lauder as a brother-in-law.

Trembling, flushed at times, and pale at others, and clinging nervously

to Ronald's arm, Meenie made her way up this cold stone staircase in

Garnethill, and breathless and agitated she stood on the landing, while

he rang the bell.

'Oh, Ronald, I hope I am doing right,' she murmured.

'We will let the future be the judge of that, my good girl,' he said,

with modest confidence.

The old dames almost smothered her with their attentions and kindness;

and they had a bouquet for her--all in white, as became a bride; and

they had prepared other little nick-nacks for her adornment, so that

they had to carry her off to their own room, for the donning of these.

And when they brought her back--rose-red she was, and timid, and

trembling--each of them had one of her hands, as if she was to be their

gift to give away; and very important and mysterious were they about the

shutting of the doors, and the conducting the conversation in whispers.

Then the minister came forward, and showed them with a little gesture of

his hand where they should stand before him.

The ceremonial of a Scotch wedding is of the simplest; but the address

to the young people thus entering life together may be just anything you

please. And in truth there was a good deal more of poetry than of

theology in these mellifluent sentences of the Rev. Mr. Mannering's, as

he spoke of the obligations incurred by two young folk separating

themselves from all others and resolved upon going through the world's

joys and sorrows always side by side; and the old dames were much

affected; and when he went on to quote the verses

_'And on her lover's arm she leant,_

_And round her waist she felt it fold,_

_And far across the hills they went_

_In that new world which is the old,'_

they never thought of asking whether the lines were quite apposite; they

were sobbing unaffectedly and profusely; and Meenie's eyes were rather

wet too. And then, when it was all over, they caught her to their arms

as if she had been their own; and would lead her to the sofa, and

overwhelm her with all kinds of little attentions and caresses. Cake and

wine, too--of course she must have some cake and wine!

'Should I, Ronald?' she said, looking up, with her eyes all wet and

shining and laughing: it was her first appeal to the authority of her

husband.

'As you like--as you like, surely.'

But when they came to him he gently refused.

'Not on your wedding day!' the old ladies exclaimed--and then he raised

the glass to his lips; and they did not notice that he had not touched

it when he put it down again.

And so these two were married now--whatever the future might have in

store for them; and in a brief space of time--as soon, indeed, as she

could tear herself away from these kind friends, she had dispossessed

herself of her little bits of bridal finery; and had bade a long and

lingering good-bye to Ronald; and was stealing back to her sister's

house.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*IN DARKENED WAYS.*

It was with feelings not to be envied that Jack Huysen stalked up and

down the verandah in front of this Fort George hotel, or haunted the

long, echoing corridors, eager to question any one who had access to the

sick room. All the mischief seemed to be of his doing; all the help and

counsel and direction in this time of distress seemed to be afforded by

his friend Tilley. It was he--that is, Huysen--whose carelessness had

led to the boating catastrophe; it was the young Doctor who had plunged

into the lake and saved Carry's life. Not only that, but it was on his

shoulders that there now seemed to rest the burden of saving her a

second time; for she had gone from bad to worse; the fever had increased

rapidly; and while Doctor Tilley was here, there, and everywhere in his

quiet but persistent activity, taking elaborate precautions about the

temperature of the room, instructing the two trained nurses whom he had

telegraphed for from New York, and pacifying the mental vagaries of the

patient as best he might, what could Jack Huysen do but wander about

like an uneasy spirit, accusing himself of having wrought all this evil,

and desperately conscious that he could be of no use whatever in

mitigating its results.

She was not always delirious. For the most part she lay moaning

slightly, breathing with the greatest difficulty, and complaining of

that constant pain in her chest; while her high pulse and temperature

told how the fever was rather gaining upon her than abating. But then

again, at times, her face would grow flushed; and the beautiful soft

black eyes would grow strangely bright; and she would talk in panting

whispers, in an eager kind of way, and as if she had some secret to

tell. And always the same delusion occupied her mind--that this was

Loch Naver; that they had got into trouble somehow, because Ronald was

not in the boat; that they had sent for Ronald, but he had gone away;

and so forth. And sometimes she uttered bitter reproaches; Ronald had

been ill-treated by some one; nay, she herself had been to blame; and

who was to make up to him for what he had suffered at her hands?

'Not that he cared,' she said, rather proudly and contemptuously, one

hushed evening that the Doctor was trying to soothe her into quietude.

'No, no. Ronald care what a conceited scribbling schoolboy said about

him? No! I should think not. Perhaps he never knew--indeed, I think he

never knew. He never knew that all our friends in Chicago were asked to

look on and see him lectured, and patronised, and examined. Oh! so

clever the newspaper-writer was--with his airs of criticism and

patronage! But the coward that he was--the coward--to strike in the

dark--to sit in his little den and strike in the dark! Why didn't Jack

Huysen drag him out? Why didn't he make him sign his name, that we

could tell who this was with his braggart airs? The coward! Why,

Ronald would have felled him! No! no! He would not have looked the way

the poor pretentious fool was going. He would have laughed. Doctor, do

you know who he was? Did you ever meet him?'