Chapter 6 CONFESSION.

That night he slept long and soundly, and his dreams were all about Inver-Mudal and the quiet life among the hills; and, strangely enough, he fancied himself there, and Meenie absent; and always he was wondering when she was coming back from Glasgow town, and always he kept looking for her as each successive mail-cart came through from the south.

And then in the morning, when he awoke, and found himself in the great city itself, and knew that Meenie was there too, and that in a few hours they were to meet, his heart was filled with joy, and the day seemed rich and full of promise, and the pale and sickly sunlight that struggled in through the window panes and lit up the dusty little room seemed a glorious thing, bringing with it all glad tidings. 'You, fortunate Glasgow town!' he had rhymed in the olden days; and this was the welcome that Glasgow town had for Meenie-sunlight, and perhaps a glimpse of blue here and there, and a light west wind blowing in from the heights of Dowanhill and Hillhead.

He dressed with particular care; and if his garments were not of the newest fashionable cut, at least they clung with sufficient grace and simplicity of outline to the manly and well-set figure. And he knew himself that he was looking less haggard than on the previous day. He was feeling altogether better; the long and sound sleep had proved a powerful restorative; and his heart was light with hope. The happy sunlight shining out there on the gray pavements and the gray fronts of the houses!-was there ever in all the world a fairer and joyfuller city than this same Glasgow town?

He was in Blythswood Square long before the appointed hour; and she also was a little early. But this, time it was Meenie who was shy and embarrassed; she was not so earnest and anxious as she had been the day before, for much of her errand was now satisfactorily accomplished; and when, after a moment's hesitation, he asked her whether she would not go and have a look at the terraces and trees in the West End Park, it seemed so like two lovers setting out for a walk together that the conscious blood mantled in her cheeks, and her eyes were averted. But she strove to be very business-like; and asked him a number of questions about Mr. Weems; and wondered that the Americans had said nothing further about the purchase of an estate in the Highlands, of which there had been some little talk. In this way-and with chance remarks and inquiries about Maggie, and the Reverend Andrew, and Mr. Murray, and Harry the terrier, and what not-they made their way through various thoroughfares until they reached the tall gates of the West End Park.

Here there was much more quietude than in those noisy streets; and when they had walked along one of the wide terraces, until they came to a seat partly surrounded by shrubs, Meenie suggested that they might sit down there, for she wished to reason seriously with him. He smiled a little; but he was very plastic in her hands. Nay, was it not enough merely to hear Meenie speak-no matter what the subject might be? And then he was sitting by her side, with all that wide prospect stretched out before them-the spacious terraces, the groups of trees, the curving river, and the undulating hills beyond. It was a weird kind of a morning, moreover; for the confused and wan sunlight kept struggling through the ever-changing mist, sometimes throwing a coppery radiance on the late autumn foliage, or again shining pale and silver-like as the fantastic cloud-wreaths slowly floated onward. The view before them was mysterious and vast because of its very vagueness; and even the new University buildings-over there on the heights above the river-looked quite imposing and picturesque, for they loomed large and dusky and remote through the bewildering sunlit haze.

'Now, Ronald,' she said, 'I want you to tell me how it was you came to lose heart so, and to give up what you undertook to do when you left Inver-Mudal. Why, when you left you were full of such high hopes; and every one was sure of your success; and you were all anxiety to begin.'

'That's true, Miss Douglas,' he answered, rather absently. 'I think my head must have been in a kind of a whirl at that time. It seemed so fine and easy a thing to strive for; and I did not stop to ask what use it would be to me, supposing I got it.'

'The use?' she said. 'A better position for yourself-isn't it natural to strive for that? And perhaps, if you did not care much to have more money for yourself-for you have very strange notions, Ronald, about some things-you must see how much kindness can be done to others by people who are well off. I don't understand you at all--'

'Well, then,' said he, shifting his ground, 'I grew sick and tired of the town life. I was never meant for that. Every day--'

'But, Ronald,' she said, interrupting him in a very definite tone of remonstrance, 'you knew that your town life was only a matter of months! And the harder you worked the sooner it would be over! What reason was that?'

'There may have been other reasons,' he said, but rather unwillingly.

'What were they?'

'I cannot tell you.'

'Ronald,' she said, and the touch of wounded pride in her voice thrilled him strangely, 'I have come all the way from the Highlands-and-and done what few girls would have done-for your sake; and yet you will not be frank with me-when all that I want is to see you going straight towards a happier future.'

'I dare not tell you, you would be angry.'

'I am not given to anger,' she answered, calmly, and yet with a little surprised resentment. For she could but imagine that this was some entanglement of debt, or something of the kind, of which he was ashamed to speak; and yet, unless she knew clearly the reasons that had induced him to abandon the project that he had undertaken so eagerly, how was she to argue with him and urge him to resume it?

'Well, then, we'll put it this way,' said he, after a second or two of hesitation-and his face was a little pale, and his eyes were fixed on her with an anxious nervousness, so that, at the first sign of displeasure, he could instantly stop. 'There was a young lass that I knew there-in the Highlands-and she was, oh yes, she was out of my station altogether, and away from me-and yet the seeing her from time to time, and a word now and again, was a pleasure to me, greater maybe than I confessed to myself-the greatest that I had in life, indeed.'

She made no sign, and he continued, slowly and watchfully, and still with that pale earnestness in his face.

'And then I wrote things about her-and amused myself with fancies-well, what harm could that do to her?-so long as she knew nothing about it. And I thought I was doing no harm to myself either, for I knew it was impossible there could be anything between us, and that she would be going away sooner or later, and I too. Yes, and I did go away, and in high feather, to be sure, and everything was to be for the best, and I was to have a fight for money like the rest of them. God help me, lassie, before I was a fortnight in the town, my heart was like to break.'

She sate quite still and silent, trembling a little, perhaps, her eyes downcast, her fingers working nervously with the edge of the small shawl she wore.

'I had cut myself away from the only thing I craved for in the world-just the seeing and speaking to her from time to time, for I had no right to think of more than that; and I was alone and down-hearted; and I began to ask myself what was the use of this slavery. Ay, there might have been a use in it-if I could have said to myself, "Well, now, fight as hard as ye can, and if ye win, who knows but that ye might go back to the north, and claim her as the prize?" But that was not to be thought of. She had never hinted anything of the kind to me, nor I to her; but when I found myself cut away from her like that, the days were terrible, and my heart was like lead, and I knew that I had cast away just everything that I cared to live for. Then I fell in with some companions-a woman cousin o' mine and some friends of hers-and they helped to make me forget what I didna wish to think of, and so the time passed. Well, now, that is the truth; and ye can understand, Miss Douglas, that I have no heart to begin again, and the soldiering seemed the best thing for me, and a rifle-bullet my best friend. But-but I will keep the promise I made to ye-that is enough on that score; oh yes, I will keep that promise, and any others ye may care to ask; only I cannot bide in Glasgow.'

He heard a faint sob; he could see that tears were gliding stealthily down her half-hidden face; and his heart was hot with anger against himself that he had caused her this pain. But how could he go away? A timid hand sought his, and held it for a brief moment with a tremulous clasp.

'I am very sorry, Ronald,' she managed to say, in a broken voice. 'I suppose it could not have been otherwise-I suppose it could not have been otherwise.'

For some time they sate in silence-though he could hear an occasional half-stifled sob. He could not pretend to think that Meenie did not understand; and this was her great pity for him; she did not drive him away in anger-her heart was too gentle for that.

'Miss Douglas,' said he at length, 'I'm afraid I've spoiled your walk for you wi' my idle story. Maybe the best thing I can do now is just to leave you.'

'No-stay,' she said, under her breath; and she was evidently trying to regain her composure. 'You spoke-you spoke of that girl-O Ronald, I wish I had never come to Glasgow!-I wish I had never heard what you told me just now!'

And then, after a second-

'But how could I help it-when I heard what was happening to you, and all the wish in the world I had was to know that you were brave and well and successful and happy? I could not help it! ... And now-and now-Ronald,' she said, as if with a struggle against that choking weight of sobs; for much was demanded of her at this moment; and her voice seemed powerless to utter all that her heart prompted her to say, 'if-if that girl you spoke of-if she was to see clearly what is best for her life and for yours-if she was to tell you to take up your work again, and work hard, and hard, and hard-and then, some day, it might be years after this, when you came back again to the north, you would find her still waiting?--'

'Meenie!'

He grasped her hand: his face was full of a bewilderment of hope-not joy, not triumph, but as if he hardly dared to believe what he had heard.

'O Ronald,' she said, in a kind of wild way,-and she turned her wet eyes towards him in full, unhesitating abandonment of affection and trust, nor could she withdraw the hand that he clasped so firmly,-'what will you think of me?-what will you think of me?-but surely there should be no hiding or false shame, and surely there is for you and for me in the world but the one end to hope for; and if not that-why, then, nothing. If you go away, if you have nothing to hope for, it will be the old misery back again, the old despair; and as for me-well, that is not of much matter. But, Ronald-Ronald-whatever happens-don't think too hardly of me-I know I should not have said so much-but it would just break my heart to think you were left to yourself in Glasgow-with nothing to care for or hope for--'

'Think of you!' he cried, and in a kind of wonder of rapture he was regarding Meenie's tear-filled eyes, that made no shame of meeting his look. 'I think of you-and ever will-as the tenderest and kindest and truest-hearted of women.' He had both her hands now; and he held them close and warm. 'Even now-at this minute-when you have given yourself to me-you have no thought of yourself at all-it is all about me, that am not worth it, and never was. Is there any other woman in the world so brave and unselfish! Meenie, lass-no, for this once-and no one will ever be able to take the memory away from me-for this once let me call you my love and my darling-my true-hearted love and darling!-well, now, that's said and done with; and many a day to come I will think over these few minutes, and think of sitting here with you in this West End Park on the bench here, and the trees around, and I will say to myself that I called Meenie my love and my darling, and she was not angry-not angry.'

'No, not angry, Ronald,' and there was a bit of a strange and tender smile shining through the tears in the blue-gray eyes.

'Ay, indeed,' said he, more gravely, 'that will be something for me; maybe, everything. I can scarcely believe that this has just happened-my heart's in a flame, and my head's gone daft, I think; and it seems as if there was nothing for me but to thank God for having sent you into the world and made you as unselfish and generous as you are. But that's not the way of looking at it, my-my good lass. You have too little thought for yourself. Why, what a coward I should be if I did not ask you to think of the sacrifice you are making!'

'I am making no sacrifice, Ronald,' she said, simply and calmly. 'I spoke what my heart felt; and perhaps too readily. But I am going back to the Highlands. I shall stay there till you come for me, if ever you come for me. They spoke of my going for a while to my mother's cousins; but I shall not do that; no, I shall be at Inver-Mudal, or wherever my father is, and you will easily get to know that, Ronald. But if things go ill, and you do not come for me-or-or, if ye do not care to come for me-well, that is as the world goes, and no one can tell before-hand. Or many years may go by, and when you do come for me, Ronald, you may find me a gray-haired woman-but you will find me a single woman.'

She spoke quite calmly; this was no new resolve; it was his lips, not hers, that were tremulous, for a second or so. But only for a second; for now he was all anxiety to cheer her and comfort her as regards the future. He could not bring himself to ask her to consider again; the prize was too precious; rather he spoke of all the chances and hopes of life, and of the splendid future that she had placed before him. Now there was something worth striving for-something worth the winning. And already, with the wild audacity that was now pulsating in his veins, he saw the way clear-a long way, perhaps, and tedious, but all filled with light and strewn with blossoms here or there (these were messages, or a look, or a smile, from Meenie), and at the end of it, waiting to welcome him, Love-Meenie, Rose-Meenie, with love-radiance shining in her eyes.

He almost talked her into cheerfulness (for she had grown a little despondent after that first devotion of self-surrender); and by and by she rose from the bench. She was a little pale.

'I don't know whether I have done well or ill, Ronald,' she said, in a low voice, 'but I do not think I could have done otherwise. It is for you to show hereafter that I have done right.'

'But do you regret?' he said quickly.

She turned to him with a strange smile on her face.

'Regret? No. I do not think I could have done otherwise. But it is for you to show to all of them that I have done right.'

'And if it could only be done all at once, Meenie; that's where the soldier has his chance--'

'No, it is not to be done all at once,' she said; 'it will be a hard and difficult waiting for you, and a slow waiting for me--'

'Do you think I care for any hardness or difficulty now?' he said. 'Dear Meenie, you little know what a prize you have set before me. Why, now, here, every moment that I pass with you seems worth a year; and yet I grudge every one--'

'But why?' she said, looking up.

'I am going over to Pollokshaws the instant I leave you to try to pick up the threads of everything I had let slip. Dear lass, you have made every quarter of an hour in the day far too short; I want twelve hours in the day to be with you, and other twelve to be at my work.'

'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.