Part 20 (1/2)

”I see Matthew Maitland's ither la.s.sie has started on the pit-head,” he said to his mother, as one night they sat by the fire before retiring.

”Ay,” answered Mrs. Sinclair. ”Matthew has the worst o' it by noo. Wi'

his twa bits o' laddies workin', an' Mysie in service, an' Mary gaun to the pit-head, it should mak' his burden a wee easier.”

”I dinna like the idea o' la.s.ses gaun to work on the pithead,” he said simply. ”I aye mind of the time that Mysie an' me wrocht on it. It's no'

a very nice place for la.s.ses or women.”

”No,” his mother said. ”I dinna like it either. Nae guid ever comes o'

la.s.ses gaun there. They lose a' sense o' modesty an' decency, after a while, an' are no' like women at a' when they grow aulder. Besides, it mak's them awfu' coorse.”

”I wad hardly say that aboot them a',” he ventured cautiously. ”Mysie's no' coorse, an' she worked on the pithead.”

”No, Mysie's no' coorse,” admitted his mother; ”but Mysie didna work very lang on the pit-head. An' forby, we dinna ken but what Mysie micht hae been better if she had never been near it, or worse if she had stayed langer. Just look at Susan Morton, an' that Mag Lindsay. What are they but shameless lumps who dinna ken what modesty is?” and there was a spark of the old scorn in her voice as she finished.

”Oh, but I wadna gang as faur as you, mither,” he said, ”wi' your condemnations. I ken that baith Susan Morton an' Mag Lindsay are guid-hearted women. They may be coa.r.s.e in their talk, an' a' that sort o' thing; but they are as kind-hearted as onybody else, an' kinder than some.”

”Oh; I hae nae doot,” she answered relentingly. ”I didna mean that at a'; but the pit-head doesna make them ony better, an' it's no' wark for them at a'.”

”I mind,” said Robert reminiscently, ”when Mysie an' me started on the pit-head, Mag Lindsay was awfu' guid to Mysie; an' I've kent her often sharin' her piece wi' wee d.i.c.ky Tamson, whiles when he had nane, if his mother happened to be on the fuddle for a day or twa. There's no a kinderhearted woman in Lowwood, mither, than Mag Lindsay. She'd swear at d.i.c.ky a' the time she was stappin' her piece into him. It was jist her wye, an' I think she couldna help it.”

”Oh, ay, Mag's bark is waur then her bite. I ken that,” was the reply.

”An' wi' a' her fauts a body canna help likin' her.”

”Speakin' of Mysie,” said Robert with caution, ”I hinna seen her owre for a while surely. Wull there be onything wrang?” and then, to hide the agitation he felt, ”she used to come owre hame aboot twice a week, an' I hinna seen her for a while.”

”Oh, there canna be onything wrang,” replied Nellie, ”or we wad hae heard tell o' it. But t' is time we were awa' to oor beds, or we'll no'

be able to rise in time the morn,” and rising as she spoke, she began to make preparations for retiring, and he withdrew to his room also.

Still, day after day, he hung about the moorland path, but no Mysie, so far as he knew, ever came past. She had visited her parents only once since the games and her mother was struck by her subdued and thoughtful demeanor. But nothing was said at the time.

Robert grew impatient, and began to roam nearer to Rundell House, in the hope of seeing her. Always his thoughts were full of Mysie and the raging pa.s.sion in his blood for her gave him no rest. He loved to trace her name linked with his own, and then to obliterate it again, in case anyone would see it. All day his thoughts were of her; and her sweet, shy smile that day of the games was nursed in memory till it grew to be a solace to his heart and its hunger.

He saw likenesses to her in everything, and even the call of the moor-birds awakened some memory of an incident of childhood, when Mysie and he had, with other children, played together on the moors. Even the very words which she had spoken, or the way she had acted, or how she had looked, in cheap cotton frock and pinafore, were recalled by a familiar cry, or by the sudden discovery of a bog-flower in bloom.

It was a glorious afternoon in late July. The hum of insect life seemed to flood the whole moor; the scent of mown hay and wild thyme, and late hawthorn blossom from the trees on the edge of the moor, was heavy in the air, and the sun was very hot, and still high in the heavens. The hills that bordered the moor drowsed and brooded, like ancient G.o.ds, clothed in a lordly radiance that was slowly consuming them as they meditated upon their coming oblivion.

The heather gave promise, in the tiny purple buds that sprouted from the strong, rough stems, of the blaze of purple glory that would carpet the moors with magic in the coming days of autumn. Yet there was a vague hint, in the too deep silence, and in the great clouds that were slowly drifting along the sky, of pent-up force merely awaiting the time to be set free to gallop across the moor in anger and destruction. The clouds, too, were deeply red, with orange touches here and there, trailing into dark inky ragged edges.

Far away, at the foot of the hills a crofter's cow lowed lazily, calling forth a summons to be taken in and relieved of its burden of milk. The sheep came nearer to the ”bughts,” and the lambs burrowed for nourishment, with tails wagging, as they drew their sustenance, prodding and punching the patient mothers in the operation of feeding. Robert, noting all, with leisured enjoyment strolled lazily into the little copse, and lay down beneath the cool, grateful shelter of the trees.

Drugged by the sweetness and the solitude, he fell asleep, and the sun was low on the horizon when he awoke, the whole copse ringing with the evening songs of merle and mavis, and other less musical birds, and, as he looked down the glade, he saw, out on the moorland path, coming straight for the grove, the form of Mysie--the form of which he had dreamed, and for which he had longed so much.

The hot blood mounted to his face and raced through his frame, while his heart thumped at the thought that now, in the quietness of the dell, he would meet her and speak to her. He would speak calmly, and not frighten her, as he had done on that former occasion; and he braced himself to meet her.

Impatiently he waited, and then, as he saw her about to enter the grove, he rose as unconcernedly as he could, trying hard to a.s.sume the air of one who had met her by accident, and stepped on to the path when Mysie was within ten yards or so of him.

The color left her face, and her limbs felt weak beneath her, as she recognized him, and he was quick to note the change in her whole appearance.

She was paler, he thought, and thinner, and the bloom of a few weeks ago was gone. Her eyes were listless, and the soft, shy look had been replaced by an averted shame-stricken one. She was plainly flurried by the meeting, and looking about trying to find if there were not, even yet, a way of evading it.

”It's a fine nicht, Mysie,” he began, stammering and halting before her, ”though I think it is gaun to work to rain.”