"I don't like to leave you here; it goes against me--there is no woman
near you; and you cannot remain in the circumstances, you know, my
dear, after Mr. Ewart returns. I only wish you would come with us.
But that would never do; Mr. Ewart would be my enemy for life, and I
could not blame him."
"Cale will be here," I said. "I have been wanting to tell you
something."
I told her of my relation to him; what it meant to me. I told, and to
her amazement, of my connection with her of whom both the Doctor and
Cale had spoken--and I told it all with a flood of tears, my head on
her shoulder, her arms around me.
And she thought I was crying for that Past!
Those tears saved my brain.
When she left me, I had given her my promise that if ever I should need
a home, I would make hers mine.
"But you will hardly need it, my dear. Mr. Ewart will make this the
one spot on earth for you--and it is right that your future should
compensate for your past."
Jamie whistled all day; it got at last on my nerves. When I begged him
to stop, he looked at me reproachfully and said never a word, which was
unlike Jamie Macleod who has a Scotch tongue--a long and caustic one on
occasion.
He steadily refused to say goodby to me, or more than, "I shall see you
in Scotland next summer--you and Ewart; give my love to him."
He put his hand from the coach window, and said in a low voice:
"I made such an ass of myself, Marcia, you know how. Forgive me, won't
you?"
I forced a smile for answer. There is such a thing as the comedy of
irony.
When they drove away, I turned to the empty house--empty except for the
dogs--with a sigh of relief. It was good to be alone.