"I ha'e my ain ways o' thinkin'. I've aye had them and in my younger
days I ha'e nae doot I was a sair trial to Andra. He had juist to get
used to it, however, and noo he lets me alane and maybe I am a better
woman for that. At ony rate, I am quite prepared to dee for the Cause
if the Lord wills, but I'm no' gaun to look for my death as Andra is
sometimes ready to dae in ane o' his uplifted moods, by daein' onything
silly. Ye've seen him sit by the fireside sometimes, wi' his heid in
his haun's, groanin'. He is a guid man, as naebody kens better than I
dae: but every noo and then he gets terrible upset aboot himself. Maist
days he is quite sure that he is ane o' the elect. But every noo and
then, if he tak's haggis to his supper, he's in a black mood next day
and is quite sure that he is ane o' the castaways. Mony a time I ha'e
heard him wrestlin' wi' the spirit, wi' mony groans, and when I ha'e
gane to him he has been moanin'--'I'm no' sure. Am I ane o' the elect
or am I no'?' I ken weel it's no his conscience but only the haggis
that's tormentin' him. So I juist gi'e him a dish o' herb tea, and next
day he is that uplifted that he thinks he's fit to be ta'en like Elijah
in a chariot straicht to heaven."
Her face melted in a smile, and for the first time I saw that the
winsomeness of Mary's smile was a gift from her mother: then she
continued:
"You're very ceevil. You aye ca' me Mistress Paterson, and I suppose
that's only richt, but it's a wee bit stiff. It makes me think o' the
meenister at a catechisin'. My name's Janet, but naebody ever ca's me
that but Andra--and only when he's no' weel pleased wi' me. I'm Jean to
them I like, and to them that like me, an' ye can ca' me Jean if it
pleases ye."
*CHAPTER XX*
*LOVE THE ALL-COMPELLING*
As the days passed I began to be able to go further and further afield.
I needed no support save the good ash stick which Andrew had given to
me, but for love's sweet sake I dissembled if Mary was at hand to help
me.
A day came when I gave serious thought to my future. I was unwilling to
tear myself away from Daldowie, for the spell of love bound me, but I
felt that I could not continue to trespass indefinitely upon the
hospitality of my friends.
And there was another matter of grave moment. Apparently, from what Jean
had told me, Lag was in the habit of visiting Daldowie from time to
time. So far, he had learned nothing of my presence there; but a day
might come when I should be discovered, and that would expose my friends
to deadly peril. I dared not think of that possibility, and yet it was
real enough. I turned these things over in my mind, but always
hesitated on the brink of decision, because I could not live without
Mary.
We were thrown much together. Sometimes I would accompany her when she
went about her duties on the farm; and many a pleasant hour we spent
together on the green hill-side. Almost daily I discovered some new and
beautiful trait in her character. To know her was to love her. No words
can paint her. Vivid, alluring, she was like a mountain stream--at one
time rippling over the shallows of life alive with sunny laughter, or
again, falling into quiet reflective pools, lit by some inner
light--remote, mysterious. Her haunting variety perplexed me while it
charmed me.
Sometimes I was tempted to throw ardent arms about her and pour my love
into her ears in a torrent of fervid words. That is the way of the bold
lover, but I feared that to declare my love in such cavalier fashion
might defeat its end. None but a woman with some rude fibres in her
being can care to be treated in such fashion--and I imagined that Mary's
soul was delicate and fragile as a butterfly's wing, and would be
bruised by such mishandling.
My love for her grew daily, but I hesitated to declare it till I should
know whether it was returned. And Mary gave me no clue. If on a day she
had lifted me to the heights of bliss by some special winsomeness, she
would dash my hope to the earth again by avoiding me for a time so that
I was thrown back on my thoughts for companionship. And they gave me
little solace. Over and over again I remembered the warning of the dear
old saint of the hills: "She's no' for you. The dove maunna mate wi'
the corbie."
At nights I lay awake distraught. Was her kindness to me, her winning
sweetness, no more than the simple out-pouring of a woman's heart for a
man she pitied? I had no need of pity: I hated it: my heart hungered
for love. I had yet to learn that there is always pity in a woman's
love.
At last I brought my fevered mind to a resolute decision. I would
speak. For the sake of those who had succoured me I must leave
Daldowie, but before I went I must try to find out the secret in Mary's
heart.
The hour came unsought, and took me almost unaware.
We had wandered further afield than was our wont, and on a mellow autumn
afternoon we sat by the side of a burn. We had been chatting gaily,
when, suddenly, silence fell between us like a sword.
I looked at Mary. Her eyes were fixed on distance, and my gaze fell
from the sweet purity of her face to the rich redness of the bunch of
rowan berries set in the white of her bodice.
"Mary," I began, "I have something to say to you." She turned and
looked at me quickly, but did not speak.