Chapter IV: Part 4

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.

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-

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.

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--

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.