The Underworld Part 33

But Mysie only cried, uncontrollably, and hid her face in her hands; for the homely doric on Robert's tongue touched her and it came readier to him in moments like these, and the tender touch of his hand upon her head gave her comfort, soothing her, and staying her grief, as a child is quieted by the loving hand of a mother.

"I'll tell you a' aboot it, Rob," she said at last after a short time.

"An' I hope you'll no' tell onybody. There's naebody to blame but mysel'

for a' that has happened, an' I maun bear the punishment if there is punishment gaun," and bit by bit, with many an effort to compose herself as she spoke, she told him the whole sad story from beginning to end.

"There was naebody to blame, Rob--naebody but mysel'! I should hae kent better. But I never thocht it wad hae turned oot as it has done. I hae been gey ill, an' I maun say that Peter has been awful guid to me. He's done his best to get me better, so that he can marry me afore it happens. I lay for nearly six months, an' I wasna carin' whether I died or no'! I was fair heartbroken, an' didna mind what happened. This is the first day I hae been oot. He cam' this mornin' frae his lodgings tae ask me tae gang oot a wee while in the suns.h.i.+ne, seein' that it was sic a guid day, and Mrs. Ramsay brocht me oot here, and warned me to sit till she cam' back. When I saw you comin' I got up to run awa', but I dinna ken whaur to run to; for this big toon is a' strange to me, an'

I'm feart."

"Oh, if I had only kent! You maun keep yoursel' as free frae worry as possible, an' try an' get better," he went on, trying to speak as lightly as possible. "Keep up your spirits, an' you'll maybe soon be a'

better."

"Aye, Rob," she said, "but it's no' easy. An' I hae been gettin' waur instead o' better. I ken mysel' that I'm no' improvin', an' I often think it wad hae been better if I had died. When folk don't want to live--when they've nothing to be happy aboot they are better to dee!"

"But you maunna talk like that, Mysie," he said again. "You'll get better yet, an' be as happy as ever you were. It is only because you are ill noo an' you sae weak, that mak's you talk like that. An' forby you maun mind that there are ither folk wha'll be vexed if you dinna get better. Your faither and your mither wad like to see you weel an' happy, an' oh, Mysie, Mysie, I want you to get weel!" he broke out pa.s.sionately--pleadingly, the misery in his voice going to her heart as it cried to her, ached for her, and suffered for her. "Wad you hae married me, Mysie, if I had asked you afore you went awa'?" and his hands were again stroking tenderly the brown hair and patting the thin cheeks as he spoke and plead.

"Ay, Rob," she answered simply, "I wad hae married you. I sometimes think yet that I'll never marry onybody else. As a la.s.sie I aye dreamed in my ain mind that I'd be your wife. It's awfu' hoo the things that folk want maist are aye the things they never get!"

"Mysie, wad you marry me yet?" he asked, impulsively. "Jist this minute?

An' I'll tak' you hame, an' naebody will ken onything. I'll take a' the blame, an' you can say that it was me. I'll nurse you back to health again wi' my mither's help an' naebody need ken the richt wye o' it!"

"No, Rob," she said after a short pause. "I couldna dae that. It wad neither be fair to you or me, nor to onybody else."

"But, Mysie," he went on in the low tender voice that was so difficult to withstand, "you don't like Peter weel enough to be his wife. You say you never intended to be onybody's wife but mine; an' what wye should you no' do as I propose? You ken I'll never do onything else but love you. You ken that, Mysie!"

"Ay, Rob," she answered, "I ken a' that. Naebody kens it better than me noo; and that's what mak's it sae awfu' hard to refuse. But it wadna be richt at a', an' that's a' that can be thocht aboot it. You maunna ask me ony mair."

"But I will ask you," he cried in another burst of pa.s.sion, "an' I'll keep on askin' you. You ken you are mine, an' naebody else has a richt to you. I love you, Mysie! Oh, can you no' see, la.s.sie, that it wad be a' richt if you'd do as I want you?"

"No, no, Rob. Dinna say that. It wadna be richt at a', an' I'd be doin'

anither wrang thing if I did."

"But you said jist the noo, that you sometimes thocht you wadna marry onybody else?"

"Yes, I ken I said that," she replied. Then with pain in her voice as it grew more pitiful, "Dinna ask me, Rob, to do that. I ken it wadna be richt, an' you munna ask me ony mair; for though I said that I sometimes thocht I wadna marry onybody else, I canna marry you noo. Oh! if only my mither kent, it would break her heart, an' my faither wad dee o' the disgrace! What do they think o' me, Rob? Tell me a'--hoo are they, an'

if they miss me very much."

"Your faither and mither nearly broke their hearts," he said simply, "an' at nicht your mother lies an' thinks an' wonders what has come owre you. You ken hoo a mither grieves an' worries aboot her bairns. She never thocht o' sic a thing happening in her family. She was aye sae prood o' them a'. I heard her say ane day to my mither that she doot.i.t you maun be deid, or you wad hae sent her word; and that you wadna hae gane wrang. She never, she said, kent o' you takin' up wi' men, an' was sure that naething o' that kind had happened."

"Did she really think that, Rob?" asked Mysie, glad to know that her mother had believed in her virtue, yet pained. "Rob, if only mithers wad be mair open wi' their la.s.sies an' tell them o' the things they shouldna' do, an' the dangers that lie afore them. But tell me aboot them a'. What did my faither say aboot it? How are they a' keepin'?"

This was the question which Robert had feared most, for although Matthew Maitland had said very little, everybody knew that he grieved sorely over his daughter's disappearance, and at the time was lying very ill.

He was fast nearing the end, which most colliers of the day reached--cut off in middle life, made old by bad ventilation in the mines, and black damp. His condition was almost despaired of by the doctor, and when Robert left Lowwood that evening for Edinburgh, he was in a very critical state. Two months before, the oldest boy, who was some two years younger than Mysie, had been taken suddenly ill, and had died after a few days' illness.

How was he to tell Mysie of this? How tell her that John was dead, and her father perhaps dying? How tell of her mother eating out her heart in the hungry longing for news of the missing girl, and killing herself with work and worry?

"Your faither's no' very weel, Mysie," he began evasively, his eyes turned away from her, in an attempt at hiding what he felt.

"What's wrang wi' him, Rob?" she asked, the quick alarm in her voice cutting his heart as she spoke.

"He hasna been workin' for fully a fortnicht," he replied.

"But what's wrang?" she persisted. "Is he ill?"

"Mysie, I'd raither onything than be the means o' painin' you, for you are no' in a fit state to be worried."

"You maun tell me, Rob," she cried fiercely, her face showing excitement. "What is it that is wrang? Is he awfu' ill?"

"He's lyin' gey bad, Mysie, an' when I cam' awa' this mornin', I didna like the look o' him at a'. He was kind o' wanderin' in his mind, an'

speakin' to you an' John, jist as he used to speak when we were a'

bairns thegither. He was liltin' some o' thae auld sangs he used to sing to us. But dinna greet, Mysie, you'll mak' yoursel' waur. You are no very strong, you ken, an' if you worry it'll mak' you waur. You should raither try an' bear up, an' get strong, an' maybe gang an' see him.

He'd be awfu' prood to see you, an' so wad your mither."

"No, no," she cried. "I canna gang. It wad kill them to see me noo, an'

I couldna bear't, if they should be angry wi' me. I couldna face their anger, Rob."

"Weel, Mysie," he said, drawing a long breath, as if to face a stiff proposition, "there is no other way out of it, but that you'll hae to marry me now--just this minute, an' gang back wi' me. If you do that, I can tak' you back wi' me, an' gang to your faither an' say that it was me that was responsible. It can be done, Mysie, if only you'll agree to it. Come, Mysie!" he cried in a burst of pa.s.sionate pleading. "I want you. Mysie, Mysie! Say that you'll come."

Robert looked at her pale, thin, emaciated face with greedy pleading in his eyes. He saw the thin-looking, hungry body as it shook with her sobs, and that terrible cough, which seemed as if it would carry her away before his eyes. "Say you'll come, Mysie!" he pleaded, his hands held out appealingly. "Say you'll come, an' it'll be so easy."

"No, no," she sobbed vehemently, "I canna do that. Dinna ask me ony mair, Rob, I canna do that. It wadna be fair."

A hopeless look came into his eyes as he listened to her words, for he knew that Mysie could never consent to his proposal. Frail as she was, and torn by her wish to agree, yet he knew she meant it, when she said no.

"Where do you live, Mysie?" he enquired at last, thinking to find some way of helping her. "Wad you gie me your address, so that I'll ken where you bide?"

"No, I dinna want to tell you, Rob. You'd better gang awa' noo. Mrs.

Ramsay will soon be comin' for me. Gang awa' an' leave me. I want to be a wee while by mysel'. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!"

Robert stole away on tiptoe, as if he were afraid longer to intrude upon her grief--his mind in a whirl, and his heart heavy with sorrow. He returned to the Conference to find that the debate was in full swing, and that Davie Donaldson, was laying about him in vigorous style, denouncing the leaders for recommending the terms to the men, and telling them that the "wee chocolate-moothed Chancellor had again diddled them."

But he felt no interest in Davie's denunciation, and could not smile at his picturesque language. His mind would revert to the gardens in Princes Street, and he saw the thin white figure on the seat, the picture of hopeless misery, her frail form torn with sobs; and heard the wail in her voice as she moaned, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!"

Some of the young delegates wondered why Sinclair remained silent in such an important debate. They had succeeded in raising a question which at any other time would have brought him to his feet; but he sat impa.s.sive and silent, and above all the clash and glamor, above the applause and the interruptions, above all the witty sallies which brought unexpected laughter, he saw only the thin, white lonely figure--the dejected and outcast, the poor plaything of fate, and heard the heart-breaking cry, "Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!"

and in every syllable there was a stab of pain.

The Conference ended, and the delegates made homeward. The terms had been agreed to, so far as Scotland was concerned, and all pointed to peace.

"You didna speak the day, Sinclair, and I fairly thocht you wad hae been into the fecht," said one delegate to Robert, as the train moved away from the station.

"No, I wasna feelin' up to the mark," he returned, in a tone that hinted that he did not want to be troubled, and he sat back in his corner in silence. In the gray quick gloaming the moors and the hills, viewed from the train, seemed to him a country without hope. There was sadness in it, and pain, and the gray wintry sky brooded of sorrows to come.

Occasionally a few sheep would start away from where they had been grazing close to the railway, startled by the noise of the train. Thin wisps of gray ragged clouds hung low, as if softly descending upon the hills, in fateful sinister storms, and a fiery flash of yellow left a strip of anger on the western horizon, where the sun had gone down a short time ago.

Gray mists and grayer moors, with occasionally a solitary tree standing out in the distance, as if to accentuate the loneliness and the sorrow of the world in their ragged branches, which seemed ready to pierce the sky in defiance of the anger of the, as yet, unleashed storm.

On rushed the train, and through the mists there kept coming before his eyes the white lonely figure, moaning in fatal grief--grief inexorable and unrelenting, while the flying wheels groaned and sobbed and clicked, with the regular beat of a breaking heart, as if they were beating out the sorrows of the world, and over all they sang the dirge of the broken life of a maid. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!"