Part 22 (1/2)

But Mysie did not answer just then, and they both turned and pa.s.sed into the grove, walking separately, as if afraid of each other's touch, and something repellent keeping them apart.

They sat down, carefully avoiding the place where they had sat on that other fateful occasion, nearly a month before, and a long silence elapsed before words were again spoken.

”Now, Mysie,” said Peter at last breaking the silence, and bracing himself to hear unpleasant news, ”I want to know what is wrong. What is the matter?” and he feared to hear her tell her trouble.

But again only tears--tears and sobs, terrible in their intensity as if the frail little body would break completely under the strain of her grief.

”Mysie,” he said, and his voice had a note of tender anxiety in it, ”what is it, dear? Tell me.”

”You shouldn't need to ask,” she replied between her sobs. ”You shouldn't need to ask when you should ken.”

Again a long silence, and Peter felt he had got a heavy blow. A sickening feeling of shame smote his heart at the knowledge hinted at--a knowledge he had feared to learn.

”Is it--is it--am I the cause of it, Mysie? Is--is it--?” and his voice was hoa.r.s.e and dry and pained.

She nodded, and Peter knew beyond all doubt that he was the cause of the misery.

Again a long silence fell between them, in which both seemed to live an eternity of silence and pain. Then clearing his throat, Peter spoke.

”Mysie,” he said, ”there is only one thing to be done then,” and there was decision in his voice and a desire which meant that he was going to rise to a height to which neither he nor Mysie ever expected he would rise. ”We must get married.”

She looked at him, with eyes still wet, but searching his face keenly.

”Ay. It's a' richt sayin' that now, efter the thing's done,” she said bitterly.

”But it is the only thing, Mysie, that can be done,” he replied quickly.

”I can't think of anything else.”

”You should hae thought aboot that afore. It's nae use now,” she said bluntly.

”Why, Mysie,” he asked in surprise. ”Why is it no use? Wouldn't you like to marry me?”

”No,” she replied firmly. ”I would not! Do you think I have no thought o' mysel'? If nothing had happened, you would never hae thought aboot me for your wife. But now that you've done something you canna get oot o'

you'd like to mak' me believe you want to help me bear the disgrace, while a' the time you don't want to. But it's no' my disgrace,” and there was heat creeping into her voice. ”It is yours, an' you should hae thocht aboot a' that afore,” and her voice was very angry as she finished.

”You are wrong, Mysie,” he replied mollifyingly. ”I love, you and I told you that before it happened, and I also hinted that I wanted to marry you.”

”Ay, but that was just at the time. Maybe if nothing had happened, an' I had never been in your company again, you'd soon hae forgotten.”

”No, Mysie, you are wrong. I love you, and I've brought you to this, for which I am sorry, so we must be married,” he said decisively.

”Why?” she asked, and her eyes met his honestly and fairly.

”Because it is the right thing to do,” he replied quietly.

”Is that a'?” she asked.

”Is it not enough? What else is there to do?” Mysie was silent, and after a while Peter went on;--”It is a duty, dear, but I am going to face it, and shoulder the responsibility. It is the right thing to do, and it must be done.”

”Ay, an' you are gaun to dae it, just as a bairn tak's medicine; because you are forced. I asked if that was a', and it seems to be. But what if I don't have onything mair to dae with you?”

”You would not do that, Mysie,” he said hurriedly, and incredulously. It had never entered his mind that she would refuse to marry him, and he looked upon his offer as a great service which he was doing her. ”Why, what could you do otherwise?” he asked looking blankly at her.