The "every day" on which Mr. Roy had reckoned for seeing his friend, or
whatsoever else he considered Miss Williams to be, proved a failure. Her
youngest pupil fell ill, and she was kept beside him, and away from the
school-room, until the doctor could decide whether the illness was
infectious or not. It turned out to be very trifling--a most trivial
thing altogether, yet weighted with a pain most difficult to bear, a
sense of fatality that almost overwhelmed one person at least. What the
other felt she did not know. He came daily as usual; she watched him
come and go, and sometimes he turned and they exchanged a greeting from
the window. But beyond that, she had to take all passively. What could
she, only a woman, do or say or plan? Nothing. Women's business is to
sit down and endure.
She had counted these days--Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
Saturday--as if they had been years. And now they were all gone, had
fled like minutes, fled emptily away. A few fragmentary facts she had
had to feed on, communicated by the boys in their rough talk.
"Mr. Roy was rather cross today."
"Not cross, Dick--only dull."
"Mr. Roy asked why David did not come in to lessons, and said he hoped he
would be better by Saturday."
"Mr. Roy said good-by to us all, and gave us each something to remember
him by when he was out in India. Did Miss Williams know he was going out
to India? Oh, how jolly!"
"Yes, and he sails next week, and the name of his ship is the _Queen of
the South_, and he goes by Liverpool instead of Southampton, because it
costs less; and he leaves St. Andrews on Monday morning."
"Are you sure he said Monday morning?" For that was Saturday night.
"Certain, because he has to get his outfit still. Oh, what fun it must
be!"
And the boys went on, greatly excited, and repeating everything Mr. Roy
had told them--for he had made them fond of him, even in those few
months--expatiating with delight on his future career, as a merchant or
something, they did not quite know what; but no doubt it would be far
nicer and more amusing than stopping at home and grinding forever on
horrid books. Didn't Miss Williams think so?
Miss Williams only smiled. She knew how all his life he had loved "those
horrid books," preferring them to pleasure, recreation, almost to daily
bread; how he had lived on the hope that one day he--born only a farmer's
son--might do something, write something. "I also am of Arcadia." He
might have done it or not--the genius may or may not have been there; but
the ambition certainly was. Could he have thrown it all aside? And Why?
Not for mere love of money; she knew him too well for that. He was a
thorough book-worm, simple in all his tastes and habits--simple almost to
penuriousness; but it was a penuriousness born of hard fortunes, and he
never allowed it to affect any body but himself. Still, there was no
doubt he did not care for money, or luxury, or worldly position--any of
the things that lesser men count large enough to work and struggle and
die for. To give up the pursuits he loved, deliberately to choose
others, to change his whole life thus, and expatriate himself, as it
were, for years--perhaps for always--why did he do it, or for whom?
Was it for a woman? Was it for her? If ever, in those long empty days
and wakeful nights, this last thought entered Fortune's mind, she stifled
it as something which, once to have fully believed and then disbelieved
would have killed her.
That she should have done the like for him--that or any thing else
involving any amount of heroism or self-sacrifice--well, it was natural,
right; but that he should do it for her? That he should change his whole
purpose of life that he might be able to marry quickly, to shelter in his
bosom a poor girl who was not able to fight the world as a man could,
the thing--not so very impossible, after all--seemed to her almost
incredible! And yet (I am telling a mere love story, remember--a
foolish, innocent love story, without apologizing for either the folly or
the innocence) sometimes she was so far "left to herself," as the Scotch
say, that she did believe it: in the still twilights, in the wakeful
nights, in the one solitary half hour of intense relief, when, all her
boys being safe in bed, she rushed out into the garden under the silent
stars to sob, to moan, to speak out loud words which nobody could
possibly hear.
"He is going away, and I shall never see him again. And I love him
better than any thing in all this world. I couldn't help it--he couldn't
help it. But, oh! It's hard--hard!"
And then, altogether breaking down, she would begin to cry like a child.
She missed him so, even this week, after having for weeks and months been
with him every day; but it was less like a girl missing her lover--who
was, after all, not her lover--than a child mourning helplessly for
the familiar voice, the guiding, helpful hand. With all the rest of
the world Fortune Williams was an independent, energetic woman,
self-contained, brave, and strong, as a solitary governess had need to
be; but beside Robert Roy she felt like a child, and she cried for him
like a child,
"And with no language but a cry."
So the week ended and Sunday came, kept at Mrs. Dalziel's like the Scotch
Sundays of twenty years ago. No visitor ever entered the house, wherein
all the meals were cold and the blinds drawn down, as if for a funeral.
The family went to church for the entire day, St. Andrews being too far
off for any return home "between sermons." Usually one servant was left
in charge, turn and turn about; but this Sunday Mrs. Dalziel, having put
the governess in the nurse's place beside the ailing child, thought
shrewdly she might as well put her in the servant's place too, and let
her take charge of the kitchen fire as well as of little David. Being
English, Miss Williams was not so exact about "ordinances" as a Scotch
woman would have been; so Mrs. Dalziel had no hesitation in asking her to
remain at home alone the whole day in charge of her pupil.
Thus faded, Fortune thought, her last hope of seeing Robert Roy again,
either at church--where he usually sat in the Dalziel pew, by the old
lady's request, to make the boys "behave"--or walking down the street,
where he sometimes took the two eldest to eat their "piece" at his
lodgings. All was now ended; yet on the hope--or dread--of this last
Sunday she had hung, she now felt with what intensity, till it was gone.
Fortune was the kind of woman who, were it given her to fight, could
fight to the death, against fate or circumstances; but when her part was
simply passive, she could also endure. Not, as some do, with angry grief
or futile resistance, but with a quiet patience so complete that only a
very quick eye would have found out she was suffering at all.
Little David did not, certainly. When hour after hour, she sat by his
sofa, interesting him as best she could in the dull "good" books which
alone were allowed of Sundays, and then passing into word-of-mouth
stories--the beautiful Bible stories over which her own voice trembled
while she told them--Ruth, with her piteous cry, "Whither thou goest, I
will go; where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried;"
Jonathan, whose soul "clave to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him
as his own soul"--all these histories of passionate fidelity and agonized
parting--for every sort of love is essentially the same--how they went to
her heart.
Oh, the awful quietness of that Sunday, that Sabbath which was not rest,
in which the hours crawled on in sunshiny stillness, neither voices nor
steps nor sounds of any kind breaking the death-like hush of everything.
At length the boy fell asleep; and then Fortune seemed to wake up for the
first time to the full consciousness of what was and what was about to
be.
All of a sudden she heard steps on the gravel below; then the hall bell
rang through the silent house. She knew who it was even before she
opened the door and saw him standing there.
"May I come in? They told me you were keeping house alone, and I said I
should just walk over to bid you and Davie good-by."
Roy's manner was grave and matter-of-fact--a little constrained, perhaps,
but not much--and he looked so exceedingly pale and tired that; without
any hesitation, she took him into the school-room, where they were
sitting, and gave him the arm-chair by Davie's sofa.
"Yes, I own to being rather overdone; I have had so much to arrange, for
I must leave here tomorrow, as I think you know."
"The boys told me."
"I thought they would. I should have done it myself, but every day I
hoped to see you. It was this fellow's fault, I suppose," patting
Davie's head. "He seems quite well now, and as jolly as possible. You
don't know what it is to say 'Good-by,' David, my son." Mr. Roy, who
always got on well with children, had a trick of calling his younger
pupils "My Son."
"Why do you say 'good-by' at all, then!" asked the child, a mischievous
but winning young scamp of six or seven, who had as many tricks as a
monkey or a magpie. In fact, in chattering and hiding things he was
nearly as bad as a magpie, and the torment of his governess's life; yet
she was fond of him. "Why do you bid us good-by, Mr. Roy? Why don't you
stay always with Miss Williams and me?"
"I wish to God I could."
She heard that, heard it distinctly, though it was spoken beneath his
breath; and she felt the look, turned for one moment upon her as she
stood by the window. She never forgot either--never, as long as she
lived. Some words, some looks, can deceive, perhaps quite unconsciously,
by being either more demonstrative than was meant, or the exaggeration of
coldness to hide its opposite; but sometimes a glance, a tone, betrays,
or rather reveals, the real truth in a manner that nothing afterward can
ever falsify. For one instant, one instant only, Fortune felt sure,
quite sure, that in some way or other she was very dear to Robert Roy.
If the next minute he had taken her into his arms, and said or looked the
words which, to an earnest-minded, sincere man like him, constitute a
pledge for life, never to be disannulled or denied, she could have hardly
have felt more completely his own.
But he did not say them; he said nothing at all; sat leaning his head on
his hand, with an expression so weary, so sad, that all the coaxing ways
of little Davie could hardly win from him more than a faint smile. He
looked so old, too, and he was but just thirty. Only thirty--only
twenty-five; and yet these two were bearing, seemed to have borne for
years, the burden of life, feeling all its hardships and none of its
sweetnesses. Would things ever change? Would he have the courage (it was
his part, not hers) to make them change, at least in one way, by bringing
about that heart-union which to all pure and true natures is consolation
for every human woe?
"I wonder," he said, sitting down and taking David on his knee--"I
wonder if it is best to bear things one's self, or to let another share
the burden?"
Easily--oh, how easily!--could Fortune have answered this--have told him
that, whether he wished it or not, two did really bear his burdens, and
perhaps the one who bore it secretly and silently had not the lightest
share. But she did not speak: it was not possible.
"How shall I hear of you Miss Williams?" he said, after a long silence.
"You are not likely to leave the Dalziel family?"
"No," she answered; "and if I did, I could always be heard of, the
Dalziels are so well known hereabouts. Still, a poor wandering governess
easily drops out of people's memory."
"And a poor wandering tutor too. But I am not a tutor any more, and I
hope I shall not be poor long. Friends can not lose one another; such
friends as you and I have been. I will take care we shall not do it,
that is, if--but never mind that. You have been very good to me, and I
have often bothered you very much, I fear. You will be almost glad to
get rid of me."
She might have turned upon him eyes swimming with tears--woman's
tears--that engine of power which they say no man can ever resist; but I
think, if so, a woman like Fortune would have scorned to use it. Those
poor weary eyes, which could weep oceans alone under the stars, were
perfectly dry now--dry and fastened on the ground, as she replied, in a
grave steady voice,
"You do not believe that, else you would never have said it."
Her composure must have surprised him, for he looked suddenly up, then
begged her pardon. "I did not hurt you, surely? We must not part with
the least shadow of unkindness between us."
"No." She offered her hand, and he took it--gently, affectionately, but
only affectionately. The one step beyond affection, which leads into
another world, another life, he seemed determined not to pass.
For at least half an hour he sat there with David on his knee, or rising
up restlessly to pace the room with David on his shoulder; but apparently
not desiring the child's absence, rather wishing to keep him as a sort of
barrier. Against what?--himself? And so minute after minute slipped by;
and Miss Williams, sitting in her place by the window, already saw,
dotting the Links, group after group of the afternoon church-goers
wandering quietly home--so quietly, so happily, fathers and mothers and
children, companions and friends--for whom was no parting and no pain.
Mr. Roy suddenly took out his watch. "I must go now; I see I have spent
all but my last five minutes. Good-by, David, my lad; you'll be a big
man, maybe, when I see you again. Miss Williams" (standing before her
with an expression on his face such as she had never seen before),
"before I go there was a question I had determined to ask you--a purely
ethical question which a friend of mine has been putting to me, and I
could not answer; that is, I could from the man's side, the worldly side.
A woman might think differently."
"What is it?"
"Simply this. If a man has not a half-penny, ought he to ask a woman to
share it? Rather an Irish way of putting the matter," with a laugh, not
without bitterness, "but you understand. Ought he not to wait till he
has at least something to offer besides himself: Is it not mean,
selfish, cowardly, to bind a woman to all the chances or mischances of
his lot, instead of fighting it out alone like a man: My friend thinks
so, and I--I agree with him."
"Then why did you ask me."
The words, though low and clear, were cold and sharp--sharp with almost
unbearable pain. Every atom of pride in her was roused. Whether he loved
her and would not tell her so, or loved some other woman and wished her
know it, it was all the same. He was evidently determined to go away
free and leave her free; and perhaps many sensible men or women would say
he was right in so doing.
"I beg your pardon," he said, almost humbly. "I ought not to have spoken
of this at all. I ought just to have said 'Good-by,' and nothing more."
And he took her hand.
There was on it one ring, not very valuable, but she always liked to wear
it, as it had belonged to her mother. Robert Roy drew it off, and put it
deliberately into his pocket.
"Give me this; you shall have it back again when I am dead, or you are
married, whichever happens first. Do you understand?"
Putting David aside (indeed, he seemed for the first time to forget the
boy's presence), he took her by the two hands and looked down into her
face. Apparently he read something there, something which startled him,
almost shocked him.
Irresolute, alas! Too late; for just then all the three Dalziel boys
rushed into the house and the school-room, followed by their grandmother.
The old lady looked a good deal surprised, perhaps a little displeased,
fro on to the other.
Mr. Roy perceived it, and recovered himself in an instant, letting go
Fortune's hands and placing himself in front of her, between her and Mrs.
Dalziel. Long afterward she remembered that trivial act--remembered it
with the tender gratitude of the protected toward the protector, if
nothing more.
"You see, I came, as I told you I should, if possible, to bid Miss
Williams good-by, and wee Davie. They both kindly admitted me, and we
have had half an hour's merry chat, have we not Davie? Now, my man,
good-by." He took up the little fellow and kissed him, and then
extended his hand. "Good-by, Miss Williams. I hope your little pupils
will value you as you deserve."
Then, with a courteous and formal farewell to the old lady, and a most
uproarious one from the boys, he went to the door, but turned round,
saying to the eldest boy, distinctly and clearly--though she was at the
farther end of the room, she heard, and was sure he meant her to hear
every word:
"By-the-by, Archy, there is something I was about to explain to Miss
Williams. Tell her I will write it. She is quite sure to have a letter
from me tomorrow--no, on Tuesday morning."
And so he went away, bravely and cheerily, the boys accompanying him to
the gate, and shouting and waving their hats to him as he crossed the
Links, until their grandmother reprovingly suggested that it was Sunday.
"But Mr. Roy does not go off to India every Sunday. Hurrah! I wish we
were all going too. Three cheers for Mr. Roy." "Mr. Roy is a very fine
fellow, and I hope he will do well," said Mrs. Dalziel, touched by their
enthusiasm; also by some old memories, for, like many St. Andrews folk,
she was strongly linked with India, and had sent off one-half of her
numerous family to live or die there. There was something like a tear in
her old eyes, though not for the young tutor; but it effectually kept her
from either looking at or thinking of the governess. And she forgot them
both immediately. They were merely the tutor and the governess.
As for the boys, they chattered vehemently all tea-time about Mr. Roy,
and their envy of the "jolly" life he was going to; then their minds
turned to their own affairs, and there was silence.
The kind of silence, most of us know it, when any one belonging to a
household, or very familiar there, goes away on a long indefinite
absence. At first there is little consciousness of absence at all; we
are so constantly expecting the door to be opened for the customary
presence that we scarcely even miss the known voice, or face, or hand.
By-and-by, however, we do miss it, and there comes a general, loud,
shallow lamentation which soon cures itself, and implies an easy and
comfortable forgetfulness before long. Except with some, or possibly
only one, who is, most likely the one who has never been heard to utter a
word of regret, or seen to shed a single tear.
Miss Williams, now left sole mistress in the school room, gave her
lessons as usual there that Monday morning, and walked with all four boys
on the Links all afternoon. It was a very bright day, as beautiful as
Sunday had been, and they communicated to her the interesting facts,
learned at golfing that morning, that Mr. Roy and his portmanteau had
been seen at Leuchars on the way to Burntisland, and he would likely have
a good crossing, as the sea was very calm. There had lately been some
equinoctial gales, which had interested the boys amazingly, and they
calculated with ingenious pertinacity whether such gales were likely to
occur again when Mr. Roy was in the Bay of Biscay, and, if his ship were
wrecked, what he would be supposed to do. They were quite sure that he
would conduct himself with great heroism, perhaps escape on a single
plank, or a raft made by his own hands, and they consulted Miss Williams,
who of course was peripatetic cyclopedia of all scholastic information,
as to which port in France of Spain he was likely to be drifted to,
supposing this exciting event did happen.
She answered their questions with her usual ready kindliness. She felt
like a person in a dream, yet a not unhappy dream, for she still heard
the voice, still felt the clasp of the strong, tender, sustaining hands.
And tomorrow would be Tuesday.
Tuesday was a wet morning. The bright days were done. Soon after dawn
Fortune had woke up and watched the sunrise, till a chill fog crept over
the sea and blotted it out; then gradually blotted out the land also, the
Links, the town, every thing. A regular St. Andrews "haar;" and St.
Andrews people know what that is. Miss Williams had seen it once or
twice before, but never so bad as this--blighting, penetrating, and so
dense that you could hardly see your hand before you.
But Fortune scarcely felt it. She said to herself, "Today is Tuesday,"
which meant nothing to any one else, every thing to her. For she knew
the absolute faithfulness, the careful accuracy, in great things and
small, with which she had to do. If Robert Roy said, "I will write on
such a day," he was as sure to write as that the day would dawn; that is,
so far as his own will went; and will, not circumstance, is the strongest
agent in this world.
Therefore she waited quietly for the postman's horn. It sounded at last.
"I'll go," cried Archy. "Just look at the haar! I shall have to grope
my way to the gate."
He came back, after what seemed an almost endless time, rubbing his head
and declaring he had nearly blinded himself by running right into the
laurel bush.
"I couldn't see for the fog. I only hope I've left none of the letters
behind. No, no; all right. Such a lot! It's the Indian mail. There's
for you, and you, boys." He dealt them out with a merry, careless hand.
There was no letter for Miss Williams--a circumstance so usual that
nobody noticed it or her, as she sat silent in her corner, while the
children read noisily and gaily the letters from their far-away parents.
_Her_ letter--what had befallen it? Had he forgotten to write? But
Robert Roy never forgot any thing. Nor did he delay any thing that he
could possibly do at the time he promised. He was one of the very few
people in this world who in small things as in great are absolutely
reliable. It seemed so impossible to believe he had not written, when he
said he would, that as a last hope, she stole out with a plaid over her
head and crept through the sidewalks of the garden, almost groping her
way through the fog, and, like Archy, stumbling over the low boughs of
the laurel bush to the letter-box it held. Her trembling hands felt in
every corner, but no letter was there.
She went wearily back; weary at heart, but patient still. A love like
hers, self-existent and sufficient to itself, is very patient, quite
unlike the other and more common form of the passion; not love, but a
diseased craving to be loved, which causes a thousand imaginary miseries
and wrongs. Sharp was her pain, poor girl; but she was not angry, and
after her first stab of disappointment her courage rose. All was well
with him; he had been seen cheerily starting for Edinburgh; and her own
temporary suffering was a comparatively a small thing. It could not
last: the letter would come tomorrow.
But it did not, nor the next day, nor the next. On the fourth day her
heart felt like to break.
I think, of all pains not mortal, few are worse than this small silent
agony of waiting for the post; letting all the day's hope climax upon a
single minute, which passes by, and the hope with it, and then comes
another day of dumb endurance, if not despair. This even with ordinary
letters upon which any thing of moment depends. With others, such as
this letter of Robert Roy's--let us not speak of it. Some may imagine,
others may have known, a similar suspense. They will understand why,
long years afterward, Fortune Williams was heard to say, with a quiver of
the lip that could have told its bitter tale, "No; when I have a letter
to write, I never put off writing it for single day."
As these days wore on--these cruel days, never remembered without a
shiver of pain, and of wonder that she could have lived through them at
all--the whole fabric of reasons, arguments, excuses, that she had built
up, for him and herself, gradually crumbled away. Had she altogether
misapprehended the purport of his promised letter? Was it just some
ordinary note, about her boys and their studies perhaps, which, after
all, he had not thought it worthwhile to write? Yet surely it was worth
while, if only to send a kindly and courteous farewell to a friend, after
so close an intimacy and in face of so indefinite a separation.
A friend? Only a friend? Words may deceive, eyes seldom can. And there
had been love in his eyes. Not mere liking, but actual love. She had
seen it, felt it, with that almost unerring instinct that women have,
whether they return the love or not. In the latter case, they seldom
doubt it; in the former, they often do.
"Could I have been mistaken?" she thought, with a burning pang of shame.
"Oh, why did he not speak--just one word? After that, I could have borne
any thing."
But he had not spoken, had not written. He had let himself drop out of
her life as completely as a falling star drops out of the sky, a ship
sinks down in mid-ocean, or--any other poetical simile, used under such
circumstances by romantic people.
Fortune Williams was not romantic; at least, what romance was in her lay
deep down, and came out in act rather than word. She neither wept nor
raved nor cultivated any external signs of a breaking heart. A little
paler she grew, a little quieter, but nobody observed this: indeed, it
came to be one of her deepest causes of thankfulness that there was
nobody to observe any thing--that she had no living soul belonging to
her, neither father, mother, brother, nor sister, to pity her or to blame
him; since to think him either blamable or blamed would have been the
sharpest torture she could have known.
She was saved that and some few other things by being only a governess,
instead of one of Fate's cherished darlings, nestled in a family home.
She had no time to grieve, except in the dead of night, when "the rain
was on the roof." It so happened that, after the haar, there set in a
season of continuous, sullen, depressing rain. But at night-time, and
for the ten minutes between post hour and lesson hour--which she
generally passed in her own room--if her mother, who died when she was
ten-years old, could have seen her, she would have said, "My poor child."
Robert Roy had once involuntarily called her so, when by accident one of
her rough boys hurt her hand, and he himself bound it up, with the
indescribable tenderness which the strong only know how to show or feel.
Well she remembered this; indeed, almost every thing he had said or done
came back upon her now--vividly, as we recall the words and looks of the
dead--mingled with such a hungering pain, such a cruel "miss" of him,
daily and hourly, his companionship, help, counsel, every thing she had
lacked all her life, and never found but with him and from him. And he
was gone, had broken his promise, had left her without a single farewell
word.
That he had cared for her, in some sort of way, she was certain; for he
was one of those who never say a word too large--nay, he usually said
much less than he felt. Whatever he had felt for her--whether
friendship, affection, love--must have been true. There was in his
nature intense reserve, but no falseness, no insincerity, not an atom of
pretense of any kind.
If he did not love her, why not tell her so? What was there to hinder
him? Nothing, except that strange notion of the "dishonorableness" of
asking a woman's love when one has nothing but love to give her in
return. This, even, he had seemed at the last to have set aside, as if
he could not go away without speaking. And yet he did it.
Perhaps he thought she did not care for him? He had once said a man
ought to feel quite sure of a woman before he asked her. Also, that he
should never ask twice, since, if she did not know her own mind then, she
never would know it, and such a woman was the worst possible bargain a
man could make in marriage.
Not know her own mind! Alas, poor soul, Fortune knew it only too well.
In that dreadful fortnight it was "borne in upon her," as pious people
say, that though she felt kindly to all human beings, the one human being
who was necessary to her--without whom her life might be busy, indeed,
and useful, but never perfect, an endurance instead of joy--was this
young man, as solitary as herself, as poor, as hard-working; good,
gentle, brave Robert Roy.
Oh why had they not come together, heart to heart--just they two, so
alone in the world--and ever after belonged to one another, even though
it had been years and years before they were married?
"If only he had love me, and told me so!" was her bitter cry. "I could
have waited ever so hardly, and quite alone, if only I might have had a
right to him, and been his comfort, as he was mine. But now--now--"
Yet still she waited, looking forward daily to that dreadful post hour;
and when it had gone by, nerving herself to endure until tomorrow. At
last hope, slowly dying, was killed outright.
One day at tea-time the boys blurted out, with happy carelessness, their
short-lived regrets for him being quite over, the news that Mr. Roy had
sailed.
"Not for Calcutta, but Shanghai, a much longer voyage. He can't be heard
of for a year at least, and it will be many years before he comes back.
I wonder if he will come back rich. They say he will: quite a nabob,
perhaps, and take a place in the Highlands, and invite us all--you too,
Miss Williams. I once asked him, and he said, 'Of course.' Stop, you
are pouring my tea over into the saucer."
This was the only error she made, but went on filling the cups with a
steady hand, smiling and speaking mechanically, as people can sometimes.
When the tea was quite over, she slipped away into her room, and was
missing for a long time.
So all was over. No more waiting for that vague "something to happen."
Nothing could happen now. He was far away across the seas, and she must
just go back to her old monotonous life, as if it had never been any
different--as if she had never seen his face nor heard his voice, never
known the blessing of his companionship, friendship, love, whatever it
was, or whatever he had meant it to be. No, he could not have loved her;
or to have gone away would have been--she did not realize whether right
or wrong--but simply impossible.
Once, wearying herself with helpless conjectures, a thought, sudden and
sharp as steel, went through her heart. He was nearly thirty; few lives
are thus long without some sort of love in them. Perhaps he was already
bound to some other woman, and finding himself drifting into too pleasant
intimacy with herself, wished to draw back in time. Such things had
happened, sometimes almost blamelessly, though most miserably to all
parties. But with him it was not likely to happen. He was too clear
sighted, strong, and honest. He would never "drift" into anything. What
he did would be done with a calm deliberate will, incapable of the
slightest deception either toward others or himself. Besides, he had at
different times told her the whole story of his life, and there was no
love in it; only work, hard work, poverty, courage, and endurance, like
her own.
"No, he could never have deceived me, neither me nor any one else," she
often said to herself, almost joyfully, though the tears were running
down. "What ever it was, it was not that. I am glad--glad. I had far
rather believe he never loved me than that he had been false to another
woman for my sake. And I believe in him still; I shall always believe in
him. He is perfectly good, perfectly true. And so it does not much
matter about me."
I am afraid those young ladies who like plenty of lovers, who expect to
be adored, and are vexed when they are not adored, and most nobly
indignant when forsaken, will think very meanly of my poor Fortune
Williams. They may console themselves by thinking she was not a young
lady at all--only a woman. Such women are not too common, but they exist
occasionally. And they bear their cross and dree their weird (i.e.,
endure); but their lot, at any rate, only concerns themselves, and has
one advantage, that it in no way injures the happiness of other people.
Humble as she was, she had her pride. If she wept, it was out of sight.
If she wished herself dead, and a happy ghost, that by any means she
might get near him, know where he was, and what he was doing, these
dreams came only when her work was done, her boys asleep. Day never
betrayed the secrets of the night. She set to work every morning at her
daily labors with a dogged persistence, never allowing herself a minute's
idleness wherein to sit down and mourn. And when, despite her will, she
could not conquer the fits of nervous irritability that came over her at
times--when the children's innocent voices used to pierce her like
needles, and their incessant questions and perpetual company were almost
more than she could bear--still, even then, all she did was to run away
and hide herself for a little, coming back with a pleasant face and a
smooth temper. Why should she scold them, poor lambs? They were all she
had to love, or that loved her. And they did love her, with all their
boyish hearts.
One day, however--the day before they all left St. Andrews for England,
the two elder to go to school, and the younger ones to return with her to
their maternal grand-mother in London--David said something which wounded
her, vexed her, made her almost thankful to be going away.
She was standing by the laurel bush, which somehow had for her a strange
fascination, and her hand was on the letter-box which the boys and Mr.
Roy had made. There was a childish pleasure in touching it or any thing
he had touched.
"I hope grandmamma won't take away that box," said Archy. "She ought to
keep it in memory of us and Mr. Roy. How cleverly he made it! Wasn't he
clever now, Miss Williams?"
"Yes," she answered and no more.
"I've got a better letter-box than yours," said little Davie,
mysteriously. "Shall I show it to you, Miss Williams? And perhaps,"
with a knowing look--the mischievous lad! and yet he was more loving and
lovable than all the rest, Mr. Roy's favorite, and hers--"perhaps you
might even find a letter in it. Cook says she has seen you many a time
watching for a letter from your sweetheart. Who is he?"
"I have none. Tell cook she should not talk such nonsense to little
boys," said the governess, gravely. But she felt hot from head to foot,
and turning, walked slowly in-doors. She did not go near the laurel bush
again.
After that, she was almost glad to get away, among strange people and
strange places, where Robert Roy's name had never been heard. The
familiar places--hallowed as no other spot in this world, could ever
be--passed out of sight, and in another week her six months' happy life
at St. Andrews had vanished, "like a dream when one awaketh."
Had she awaked? Or was her daily, outside life to be henceforth the
dream, and this the reality?