Chapter 4

O then the warm west winds will blow,And all in the sunny weatherIt's over the moorlands we will go,You and I, my love, together.Chorus: And then the birds will begin to sing,And we will sing too, my dear,To give good welcoming to the spring,In the primrose-time o' the year—In the primrose-time,In the primrose-time,In the primrose-time o' the year—To give good welcoming to the spring.In the primrose-time o' the year.Yes; and it was in the coming spring-time that he was to try for the certificate in forestry; and thereafter—if he were so fortunate as to get that—he might set forth on the path that the Americans had so confidently sketched out for him—the path that was now to lead him to Meenie, as the final crown and prize. 'You may find me a gray-haired woman, Ronald,' she had said, 'but you will find me a single woman.' But still he was young in years; and there was hope and courage in his veins; and what if he were to win to her, after all, before there was a single streak of middle age in the beautiful and abundant brown tresses?Then, again, on the evening before the morning on which he was to meet her in the Botanic Gardens, he undid the package containing that anthology of verse devoted to Meenie; and began to turn the pieces over, wondering which, or if any of them, would please her, if he took them to her. But this was rather a visionary Meenie he found in these verses; not the real and actual Meenie who had sate beside him on a bench in the West End Park, and placed her hand in his, and pledged her life to him, while the beautiful, tear-filled eyes sought his so bravely. And could he not write something about this actual Meenie; and about Glasgow; and the wonder she had brought into the great, prosaic city? He tried his hand at it, anyway, for a little while:The dim red fires of yonder gleaming forgeNow dwell triumphant on the brow of night;A thousand chimneys blackest smoke disgorge,Repelling from the world the stars' pale light:A little taper shines adown the street,From out her casement where she lingers stillTo listen to the sound of passing feet,That all the night with leaden echoes fill——But he soon stopped. This was not like Meenie at all—Meenie, who was ever associated in his mind with flowers and birds and fair sunlight and the joy of the summer hills. He threw that spoiled sheet into the fire; and sought among the old pieces for one that he might copy out fairly for her; and this is what he eventually chose:All on a fair May morningThe roses began to blow;Some of them tipped with crimson,Some of them tipped with snow.But they looked the one to the other,And they looked adown the glen;They looked the one to the other,And they rubbed their eyes again,'O there is the lark in the heavens,And the mavis sings in the tree;And surely this is the summer,But Meenie we cannot see.'Surely there must be summerComing to this far clime;And has Meenie, Love Meenie, forgotten,Or have we mistaken the time?'Then a foxglove spake to the roses:'O hush you and cease your din;For I'm going back to my sleeping,Till Meenie brings summer in.'Well, it was but a trifle; but trifles are sometimes important things when seen through lovers' eyes.Next morning he went along to the Botanic Gardens; paid his sixpence with equanimity (for he had dispensed with the ceremony of dining the previous day) and entered. It was rather a pleasant morning; and at first sight he was rather shocked by the number of people—nursemaids and children, most of them—who were idly strolling along the trimly-kept walks or seated in front of the wide open parterres. How was he to find Meenie in such a great place; and, if he did find her, were they to walk up and down before so many eyes? For he had guessed that Meenie would be in no hurry to tell her sister of what had happened—until the future seemed a little more clear and secure; it would be time enough to publish the news when that had assumed a more definite character.But on and on he went—with glances that were keen and sharp enough—until suddenly, just as he had passed the greenhouses, he came almost face to face with Meenie, who was seated on a bench, all by herself, with a book before her. But she was not reading. 'O and proudly rose she up'; and yet shyly, too; and as he took her hand in his, the joy with which she regarded him needed no confession in words—it was written there in the clear tender eyes.'Indeed I am so glad to see you, Ronald!' she said. 'I have been so miserable these two days—'But why?' he asked.'I don't know, hardly. I have been wondering whether I had done right; and then to go about with my sister, keeping this secret from her; and then I was thinking of the going away back to Inver-Mudal, and never seeing you, and not knowing how you were getting on. But now—now that you are here, it seems all quite right and safe. You look as if you brought good news. What does he think, Ronald?''He?' he repeated. 'Who?''The old man out there at Pollokshaws, is it?'Ronald laughed.'Oh, the old gentleman seems pretty confident; but for very shame's sake I had to let him have a holiday to-day. I am not going over till to-morrow.''And he thinks you will pass?''He seems to think so.''I wish the time were here now, and that it was all well over,' she said. 'Oh, I should be so proud, Ronald; and it will be something to speak of to every one; and then—then that will be but the beginning; and day by day I shall be expecting to hear the news. But what a long, long time it seems to look forward to.''Ay, lass; and it will be worse for you than for me; for there will be the continual trying and hoping for me, and for you nothing but the weary waiting. Well——''Oh, but do you think I am afraid?' she said bravely. 'No. I have faith in you, Ronald. I know you will do your best.''I should deserve to be hanged and buried in a ditch if I did not,' said he. 'But we will leave all that for a while, Meenie; I want you to come for a stroll along the banks over the Kelvin. Would ye wonder to find some sea-gulls flying about?—they're there, though; or they were there a week or two ago. And do you know that I got a glimpse of you at the railway station on Wednesday morning?——''I did not see you, Ronald,' she said, with some surprise.'No, no; I kept out o' the way. It's not for me, lass, it's for you to say when any of your folk are to be told what we are looking forward to; and for my part I would as lief wait till I could put a clearer plan before them—something definite.''And that is my opinion too, Ronald,' she answered, in rather a low voice. 'Let it be merely an understanding between you and me. I am content to wait.''Well, then,' said he, as they reached the top of the high bank overhanging the river, and began to make their way down the narrow little pathways cut through the trees and shrubs, 'here is a confession: I was so glad to see you on that morning—and so glad to see you looking so well—that I half lost my senses, I think; I went away through the streets in a kind o' dream; and, sure as I'm here, I walked into a public-house and ordered a glass of whisky——'She looked up in sudden alarm.'No, no, no,' said he contentedly, 'you need not fear that, my good lassie; it was just that I was bewildered with having seen ye, and thinking of where ye were going. I walked out o' the place without touching it. Ay, and what think ye o' Dunoon? And what kind of a day was it when ye got out on the Firth?'So she began to tell him of all her adventures and experiences; and by this time they had got down near to the water's edge; and here—of what value would his knowledge of forestry have been otherwise?—he managed to find a seat for her. They were quite alone here—the brown river before them; several sea-gulls placidly paddling on its surface, others flying and dipping overhead; and if this bank of the stream was in shadow, the other—with some small green meadows backed by clumps of elms and maples—was bright and fair enough in the yellow autumn sunshine. They were in absolute silence, too, save for the continual soft murmur of the water, and the occasional whirring by of a blackbird seeking safety underneath a laurel bush.'Meenie,' said he, putting one hand on her shoulder, 'here are some verses I copied out for ye last night—they're not much worth—but they were written a long time ago, when little did I think I should ever dare to put them into your hand.'She read them; and there was a rose colour in her face as she did so: not that she was proud of their merit, but because of the revelation they contained.'A long time ago?' she said, with averted eyes—but her heart was beating warmly.'Oh,' he said, 'there are dozens and dozens of similar things, if ever ye care to look at them. It was many a happy morning on the hill, and many a quiet night at home, they gave me; but somehow, lass, now that I look at them, they hardly seem to grip ye fast enough. I want something that will bind ye closer to myself—something that ye can read when you are back in the Highlands—something that is known only to our two selves. Well, now, these things that I have written from time to time—you're a long way off in them somehow—the Meenie that's in them is not this actual Meenie, warm and kind and generous and breathing——''And a little bit happy, Ronald, just at present,' she said, and she took his hand.'And some day, when I get through with busier work, I must try to write you something for yourself——''But, Ronald, all these pieces you speak of belong to me,' she said promptly, 'and I want them, every one—every, every one. Yes, and I specially want that letter—if you have not kept it, then you must remember it, and write it out for me again——''I came across it last night,' said he, with an embarrassed laugh. 'Indeed I don't wonder you were angry.''I have told you before, Ronald, that I was not angry,' she said, with a touch of vexation. 'Perhaps I was a little—a little frightened—and scarcely knowing how much you meant——''Well, you know now, Meenie dear; but last night, when I was going over those scraps of things, I can tell you I was inclined to draw back. I kept saying to myself—"What! is she really going to see herself talked about in this way?" For there's a good deal of love-making in them, Meenie, and that's a fact; I knew I could say what I liked, since no one would be any the wiser, but, last night, when I looked at some of them, I said—"No; I'm not going to provoke a quarrel with Meenie. She would fling things about, as the American used to say, if she saw all this audacious song-writing about her."''I'll chance that quarrel, Ronald,' she answered to this, 'for I want every, every, every one of them; and you must copy them all, for I am going to take them with me when I leave Glasgow.''And, indeed,' said he, 'you'll understand them better in the Highlands; for they're all about Ben Loyal, and the Mudal, and Loch Naver, and Clebrig.''And to think you hid them from me all that time!''Why, Meenie darling, you would have called on the whole population to drive me out of the place if I had shown them to you. Think of the effect produced by a single glance at one of them!—you tortured me for weeks wondering how I had offended you.''Well, you can't offend me now, Ronald,that way,' said she, very prettily.And so their lovers' talk went on, until it was time for Meenie to think of returning home. But just beyond these Botanic Gardens, and down in a secluded nook by the side of the river, there is a little spring that is variously known as the Three-Tree Well and the Pear-Tree Well. It is a limpid little stream, running into the Kelvin; it rises in a tiny cavern and flows for a few yards through a cleft in the rocks. Now these rocks, underneath the overarching trees, have been worn quite smooth (except where they are scored with names) by the footsteps of generation after generation of lovers who, in obedience to an old and fond custom, have come hither to plight their troth while joining hands over the brooklet. Properly the two sweethearts, each standing on one side, ought to join their hands on a Bible as they vow their vows, and thereafter should break a sixpence in twain, each carrying away the half; but these minor points are not necessary to the efficacy of this probably pagan rite. And so—supposing that Ronald had heard of this place of sacred pilgrimage, and had indeed discovered its whereabouts in his rambles around Glasgow—and supposing him to have got a friendly under-gardener to unlock a gate in the western palisades of the Gardens—and then, if he were to ask Meenie to step down to the river-side and walk along to the hallowed well? And yet he made of it no solemn ceremony; the morning was bright and clear around them; and Meenie was rather inclined to smile at the curious old custom. But she went through it nevertheless; and then he slept across the rill again; and said he—'There's but this remaining now, Meenie darling—"Ae fond kiss and then we sever."'She stepped back in affright.'Ronald, not with that song on your lips! Don't you remember what it goes on to say?''Well, I don't,' he answered good-naturedly; for he had quoted the phrase at random.'Why, don't you remember?—"Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne'er been broken-hearted."'My good-hearted lass,' said he, interlinking his arm with hers, 'ye must not be superstitious. What's in a song? There'll be no severance betwixt you and me—the Pear-Tree Well has settled that.''And that is not at all superstition?' said she, looking up with a smile—until she suddenly found her blushing face overshadowed.CHAPTER VIII.THE COMING OF TROUBLES.These were halcyon days. Those two had arrived at a pretty accurate understanding of the times of each other's comings and goings; and if they could snatch but five minutes together, as he was on his way over to the south, well, that was something; and not unfrequently the lingering good-bye was lengthened out to a quarter of an hour; and then again when high fortune was in the ascendant, a whole golden hour was theirs—that was as precious as a year of life. For their hastily-snatched interviews the most convenient and secret rendezvous was Hill Street, Garnet Hill; a quiet little thoroughfare, too steep for cabs or carriages to ascend. And very cheerful and bright and pleasant this still neighbourhood looked on those October mornings; for there was yet some crisp and yellow foliage on the trees; and the little patches of green within the railings lay warm in the light; and on the northern side of the street the house-fronts were of a comfortable sunny gray. Ordinarily there were so few people about that these two could walk hand in hand, if they chose; or they could stand still, and converse face to face, when some more than usually interesting talk was going forward. And it was quite astonishing what a lot of things they had to say to each other, and the importance that attached to the very least of them.But one piece of news that Meenie brought to these stolen interviews was by no means insignificant: she was now receiving marked attentions from a young Glasgow gentleman—attentions that her sister had perceived at a very early period, though Meenie had striven to remain blind to them. Nor was there anything very singular in this. Mr. Gemmill was exceedingly proud of his pretty sister-in-law; he had asked lots of people to the house for the very purpose of meeting her; she was the centre of interest and attraction at these numerous gatherings; and what more natural than that some susceptible youth should have his mind disturbed by an unwitting glance or two from those clear Highland eyes? And what rendered this prospect so pleasing to the Gemmills was this: the young man who had been stricken by these unintentional darts was no other than the only son of the founder of the firm in which Mr. Gemmill was a junior partner—the old gentleman having retired from the business some dozen years before, carrying with him a very substantial fortune indeed, to which this son was sole heir. In more ways than one this match, if it were to be a match, would be highly advantageous; and Mrs. Gemmill, while saying little, was secretly rejoiced to see everything going on so well. If Meenie chanced to ask what such and such a piece was (Mr. Frank Lauder played a little), even that slight expression of interest was inevitably followed by her receiving the sheet of music by post next morning. Flowers, again: one cannot very well refuse to accept flowers; they are not like other gifts; they may mean nothing. Then, it was quite remarkable how often he found himself going to the very same theatre or the very same concert that the Gemmills had arranged to take Meenie to; and naturally—as it chanced he had no one going with him—he asked to be allowed to go with them. He even talked of taking a seat in Maple Street Church (this was the church that the Gemmills attended), for he said that he was tired to death of the preaching of that old fogey, Dr. Teith, and that Mr. Smilie's last volume of poems (Mr. Smilie was the Maple Street Church minister) had aroused in him a great curiosity to hear his sermons.And as for Mr. Frank Lauder himself—well, he was pretty much as other young Glasgow men of fashion; though, to be sure, these form a race by themselves, and a very curious race too. They are for the most part a good-natured set of lads; free and generous in their ways; not anything like the wild Lotharios which, amongst themselves, they profess to be; well dressed; a little lacking in repose of manner; many of them given to boating and yachting—and some of them even expert seamen; nearly all of them fond of airing a bit of Cockney slang picked up in a London music hall during a fortnight's visit to town. But their most odd characteristic is an affectation of knowingness—as if they had read the book of nature and human nature through to the last chapter; whereas these well-dressed, good-natured, but rather brainless young men are as innocently ignorant of that book as of most other books. Knowing but one language—and that imperfectly—is no doubt a bar to travel; but surely nowhere else on the face of the globe could one find a set of young fellows—with similar opportunities set before them—content to remain so thoroughly untutored and untravelled; and nowhere else a set of youths who, while professing to be men of the world, could show themselves so absolutely unversed in the world's ways. But they (or some of them) understand the lines of a yacht; and they don't drink champagne as sweet as they used to do; and no doubt, as they grow into middle age, they will throw aside the crude affectations of youth, and assume a respectable gravity of manner, and eventually become solid and substantial pillars of the Free, U.P., and Established Churches.This Frank Lauder was rather a favourable specimen of his class; perhaps, in his extreme desire to ingratiate himself with Meenie, he assumed a modesty of demeanour that was not quite natural to him. But his self-satisfied jocosity, his mean interpretation of human motives, his familiarly conventional opinions in all matters connected with the arts, could not always be hidden beneath this mask of meekness; and Meenie's shrewd eyes had discerned clearly of what kind he was at a very early period of their acquaintance. For one thing, her solitary life in the Highlands had made of her a diligent and extensive reader; while her association with Ronald had taught her keen independence of judgment; and she was almost ashamed to find how absolutely unlettered this youth was, and how he would feebly try to discover what her opinion was, in order to express agreement with it. That was not Ronald's way. Ronald took her sharply to task when she fell away from his standard—or rather their conjoint standard—in some of her small preferences. Even in music, of which this young gentleman knew a little, his tastes were the tastes of the mob.'Why do you always get away from the room when Mr. Lauder sits down to the piano?' her sister said, with some touch of resentment.'I can endure a little Offenbach,' she answered saucily, 'when I'm strong and in good health. But we get a little too much of it when he comes here.'Of course Ronald was given to know of these visits and of their obvious aim; but he did not seem very deeply concerned.'You know I can't help it, Ronald,' she said, one morning, as they were slowly climbing the steep little Randolph Terrace together, her hand resting on his arm. 'I can't tell him to go away while my sister keeps asking him to the house. They say that a girl can always show by her manner when any attention is displeasing to her. Well, that depends. I can't be downright rude—I am staying in my sister's house. And then, I wouldn't say he was conceited—I wouldn't say that, Ronald—but—but he is pretty well satisfied with himself; and perhaps not so sensitive about one's manner towards him as some might be. As for you, Ronald,' she said, with a laugh, 'I could send you flying, like a bolt from a bow, with a single look.''Could you, lass?' said he. 'I doubt it. Perhaps I would refuse to budge. I have got charge of you now.''Ah, well, I am not likely to try, I think,' she continued. 'But about this Mr. Lauder, Ronald—you see, he is a very important person in Mr. Gemmill's eyes; for he and his father have still some interest in the warehouse, I suppose; and I know he thinks it is time that Mr. Gemmill's name should be mentioned in the firm—not mere "Co." And that would please Agatha too; and so they're very polite to him; and they expect me to be very polite to him too. You see, Ronald, I can't tell him to go away until he says something—either to me or to Agatha; and he won't take a hint, though he must see that I would rather not have him send flowers and music and that; and then, again, I sometimes think it is not fair to you, Ronald, that I should allow anything of the kind to go on—merely through the difficulty of speaking——'He stopped, and put his hand over the hand that lay on his arm: there was not a human being in sight.'Tell me this, Meenie darling: does his coming to the house vex you and trouble you?''Oh no—not in the least,' said she, blithely and yet seriously. 'I am rather pleased when he comes to the house. When he is there of an evening, and I have the chance of sitting and looking at him, it makes me quite happy.'This was rather a startling statement, and instantly she saw a quick, strange look in his eyes.'But you don't understand, Ronald,' she said placidly, and without taking away her eyes from his. 'Every time I look at him I think of you, and it's the difference that makes me glad.'Halcyon days indeed; and Glasgow became a radiant golden city in this happy autumn time; and each meeting was sweeter and dearer than its predecessor; and their twin lives seemed to be floating along together on a river of joy. With what a covetous care she treasured up each fragment of verse he brought her, and hid it away in a little thin leathern case she had herself made, so that she could wear it next her heart. He purchased for her little presents—such as he could afford—to show her that he was thinking of her on the days when they could not meet; and when she took these, and kissed them, it was not of their pecuniary value she was thinking. As for her, she had vast schemes as to what she was going to make for him when she got back to the Highlands. Here, in Glasgow, nothing of the kind was possible. Her sister's eyes were too sharp, and her own time too much occupied. Indeed, what between the real lover, who was greedy of every moment she could spare for these secret interviews, and the pseudo lover, who kept the Queen's Crescent household in a constant turmoil of engagements and entertainments and visits, Rose Meenie found the hours sufficiently full; and the days of her stay in Glasgow were going by rapidly.'But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;' and the ending, in this case, was the work of the widow Menzies. Kate felt herself at once aggrieved and perplexed by Ronald's continued absence; but she was even more astonished when, on sending to make inquiries, she found he had left his lodgings and gone elsewhere, leaving no address. She saw a purpose in this; she leapt to the conclusion that a woman had something to do with it; and in her jealous anger and mortification she determined on leaving no stone unturned to discover his whereabouts. But her two cronies, Laidlaw and old Jaap (the skipper was away at sea again), seemed quite powerless to aid her. They knew that Ronald occasionally used to go over to Pollokshaws; but further than that, nothing. He never came to the Harmony Club now; and not one of his former companions knew anything about him. Old Mr. Jaap hoped that no harm had come to the lad, whom he liked; but Jimmy Laidlaw was none so sorry over this disappearance: he might himself have a better chance with the widow, now that Kate's handsome cousin was out of the way.It was Kate herself who made the discovery, ami that in the simplest manner possible. She and mother Paterson had been away somewhere outside the town for a drive: and they were returning by the Great Western Road, one evening towards dusk, when all at once the widow caught sight of Ronald, at some distance off, and just as he was in the act of saying good-bye to a woman—to a young girl apparently. Kate pulled up the cob so suddenly that she nearly pitched her companion headlong into the street.'What is it, Katie dear?'She did not answer; she let the cob move forward a yard or two, so as to get the dog-cart close in by the pavement; and then she waited—watching with an eager scrutiny this figure that was now coming along. Meenie did not notice her; probably the girl was too busy with her own thoughts; but these could not have been sad ones, for the bright young face, with its tender colour rather heightened by the sharpness of the evening air, seemed happy enough.'Flying high, he is,' was Kate Menzies's inward comment as she marked the smart costume and the well-bred air and carriage of this young lady.And then, the moment she had passed, Kate said quickly—'Here, auntie, take the reins, and wait here. Never mind how long. He'll no stir; if you're feared, bid a laddie stand by his head.''But what is't, Katie dear?'She did not answer; she got down from the trap; and then, at first quickly, and afterwards more cautiously, she proceeded to follow the girl whom she had seen parting from Ronald. Nor had she far to go, as it turned out. Meenie left the main thoroughfare at Melrose Street—Kate Menzies keeping fairly close up to her now; and almost directly after was standing at the door of her sister's house in Queen's Crescent, waiting for the ringing of the bell to be answered. It needed no profound detective skill on the part of Mrs. Menzies to ascertain the number of the house, so soon as the girl had gone inside; and thereafter she hurried back to the dog-cart, and got up, and continued her driving.'Well, that bangs Banagher!' she said, with a loud laugh, as she smartly touched the cob with the whip. 'The Great Western Road, of a' places in the world! The Great Western Road—and he goes off by the New City Road—there's a place for twa lovers to forgather!"We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side."But the Great Western Road—bless us a', and the laddie used to write poetry!''But what is it, Katie?''Why, it's Ronald and his lass, woman: didna ye see them? Oh ay, he's carried his good looks to a braw market—set her up wi' her velvet hat and her sealskin coat, and living in Queen's Crescent forbye. Ay, ay, he's ta'en his pigs to a braw market——''It's no possible, Katie dear!' exclaimed mother Paterson, who affected to be very much shocked. 'Your cousin Ronald wi' a sweetheart?—and him so much indebted to you——''The twa canary birds!' she continued, with mirth that sounded not quite real. 'But never a kiss at parting, wi' a' they folk about. And that's why ye've been hiding yourself away, my lad? But I jalouse that that braw young leddy o' yours would laugh the other side of her mouth if her friends were to find out her pranks.'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 believethat. 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 theChicago 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 theChicago Citizenwould 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 theN. Y. Sunwhen 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. TheChicago Citizenpaid 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

O then the warm west winds will blow,

And all in the sunny weather

It's over the moorlands we will go,

You and I, my love, together.

Chorus: And then the birds will begin to sing,

And we will sing too, my dear,To give good welcoming to the spring,In the primrose-time o' the year—In the primrose-time,In the primrose-time,In the primrose-time o' the year—

And we will sing too, my dear,To give good welcoming to the spring,In the primrose-time o' the year—

And we will sing too, my dear,

To give good welcoming to the spring,

In the primrose-time o' the year—

In the primrose-time,

In the primrose-time o' the year—

To give good welcoming to the spring.

In the primrose-time o' the year.

Yes; and it was in the coming spring-time that he was to try for the certificate in forestry; and thereafter—if he were so fortunate as to get that—he might set forth on the path that the Americans had so confidently sketched out for him—the path that was now to lead him to Meenie, as the final crown and prize. 'You may find me a gray-haired woman, Ronald,' she had said, 'but you will find me a single woman.' But still he was young in years; and there was hope and courage in his veins; and what if he were to win to her, after all, before there was a single streak of middle age in the beautiful and abundant brown tresses?

Then, again, on the evening before the morning on which he was to meet her in the Botanic Gardens, he undid the package containing that anthology of verse devoted to Meenie; and began to turn the pieces over, wondering which, or if any of them, would please her, if he took them to her. But this was rather a visionary Meenie he found in these verses; not the real and actual Meenie who had sate beside him on a bench in the West End Park, and placed her hand in his, and pledged her life to him, while the beautiful, tear-filled eyes sought his so bravely. And could he not write something about this actual Meenie; and about Glasgow; and the wonder she had brought into the great, prosaic city? He tried his hand at it, anyway, for a little while:

The dim red fires of yonder gleaming forgeNow dwell triumphant on the brow of night;A thousand chimneys blackest smoke disgorge,Repelling from the world the stars' pale light:A little taper shines adown the street,From out her casement where she lingers stillTo listen to the sound of passing feet,That all the night with leaden echoes fill——

The dim red fires of yonder gleaming forge

Now dwell triumphant on the brow of night;

A thousand chimneys blackest smoke disgorge,

Repelling from the world the stars' pale light:

A little taper shines adown the street,

From out her casement where she lingers still

To listen to the sound of passing feet,

That all the night with leaden echoes fill——

But he soon stopped. This was not like Meenie at all—Meenie, who was ever associated in his mind with flowers and birds and fair sunlight and the joy of the summer hills. He threw that spoiled sheet into the fire; and sought among the old pieces for one that he might copy out fairly for her; and this is what he eventually chose:

All on a fair May morningThe roses began to blow;Some of them tipped with crimson,Some of them tipped with snow.But they looked the one to the other,And they looked adown the glen;They looked the one to the other,And they rubbed their eyes again,'O there is the lark in the heavens,And the mavis sings in the tree;And surely this is the summer,But Meenie we cannot see.'Surely there must be summerComing to this far clime;And has Meenie, Love Meenie, forgotten,Or have we mistaken the time?'Then a foxglove spake to the roses:'O hush you and cease your din;For I'm going back to my sleeping,Till Meenie brings summer in.'

All on a fair May morning

The roses began to blow;

Some of them tipped with crimson,

Some of them tipped with snow.

But they looked the one to the other,

And they looked adown the glen;

They looked the one to the other,

And they rubbed their eyes again,

'O there is the lark in the heavens,

And the mavis sings in the tree;

And surely this is the summer,

But Meenie we cannot see.

'Surely there must be summer

Coming to this far clime;

And has Meenie, Love Meenie, forgotten,

Or have we mistaken the time?'

Then a foxglove spake to the roses:

'O hush you and cease your din;

For I'm going back to my sleeping,

Till Meenie brings summer in.'

Well, it was but a trifle; but trifles are sometimes important things when seen through lovers' eyes.

Next morning he went along to the Botanic Gardens; paid his sixpence with equanimity (for he had dispensed with the ceremony of dining the previous day) and entered. It was rather a pleasant morning; and at first sight he was rather shocked by the number of people—nursemaids and children, most of them—who were idly strolling along the trimly-kept walks or seated in front of the wide open parterres. How was he to find Meenie in such a great place; and, if he did find her, were they to walk up and down before so many eyes? For he had guessed that Meenie would be in no hurry to tell her sister of what had happened—until the future seemed a little more clear and secure; it would be time enough to publish the news when that had assumed a more definite character.

But on and on he went—with glances that were keen and sharp enough—until suddenly, just as he had passed the greenhouses, he came almost face to face with Meenie, who was seated on a bench, all by herself, with a book before her. But she was not reading. 'O and proudly rose she up'; and yet shyly, too; and as he took her hand in his, the joy with which she regarded him needed no confession in words—it was written there in the clear tender eyes.

'Indeed I am so glad to see you, Ronald!' she said. 'I have been so miserable these two days—

'But why?' he asked.

'I don't know, hardly. I have been wondering whether I had done right; and then to go about with my sister, keeping this secret from her; and then I was thinking of the going away back to Inver-Mudal, and never seeing you, and not knowing how you were getting on. But now—now that you are here, it seems all quite right and safe. You look as if you brought good news. What does he think, Ronald?'

'He?' he repeated. 'Who?'

'The old man out there at Pollokshaws, is it?'

Ronald laughed.

'Oh, the old gentleman seems pretty confident; but for very shame's sake I had to let him have a holiday to-day. I am not going over till to-morrow.'

'And he thinks you will pass?'

'He seems to think so.'

'I wish the time were here now, and that it was all well over,' she said. 'Oh, I should be so proud, Ronald; and it will be something to speak of to every one; and then—then that will be but the beginning; and day by day I shall be expecting to hear the news. But what a long, long time it seems to look forward to.'

'Ay, lass; and it will be worse for you than for me; for there will be the continual trying and hoping for me, and for you nothing but the weary waiting. Well——'

'Oh, but do you think I am afraid?' she said bravely. 'No. I have faith in you, Ronald. I know you will do your best.'

'I should deserve to be hanged and buried in a ditch if I did not,' said he. 'But we will leave all that for a while, Meenie; I want you to come for a stroll along the banks over the Kelvin. Would ye wonder to find some sea-gulls flying about?—they're there, though; or they were there a week or two ago. And do you know that I got a glimpse of you at the railway station on Wednesday morning?——'

'I did not see you, Ronald,' she said, with some surprise.

'No, no; I kept out o' the way. It's not for me, lass, it's for you to say when any of your folk are to be told what we are looking forward to; and for my part I would as lief wait till I could put a clearer plan before them—something definite.'

'And that is my opinion too, Ronald,' she answered, in rather a low voice. 'Let it be merely an understanding between you and me. I am content to wait.'

'Well, then,' said he, as they reached the top of the high bank overhanging the river, and began to make their way down the narrow little pathways cut through the trees and shrubs, 'here is a confession: I was so glad to see you on that morning—and so glad to see you looking so well—that I half lost my senses, I think; I went away through the streets in a kind o' dream; and, sure as I'm here, I walked into a public-house and ordered a glass of whisky——'

She looked up in sudden alarm.

'No, no, no,' said he contentedly, 'you need not fear that, my good lassie; it was just that I was bewildered with having seen ye, and thinking of where ye were going. I walked out o' the place without touching it. Ay, and what think ye o' Dunoon? And what kind of a day was it when ye got out on the Firth?'

So she began to tell him of all her adventures and experiences; and by this time they had got down near to the water's edge; and here—of what value would his knowledge of forestry have been otherwise?—he managed to find a seat for her. They were quite alone here—the brown river before them; several sea-gulls placidly paddling on its surface, others flying and dipping overhead; and if this bank of the stream was in shadow, the other—with some small green meadows backed by clumps of elms and maples—was bright and fair enough in the yellow autumn sunshine. They were in absolute silence, too, save for the continual soft murmur of the water, and the occasional whirring by of a blackbird seeking safety underneath a laurel bush.

'Meenie,' said he, putting one hand on her shoulder, 'here are some verses I copied out for ye last night—they're not much worth—but they were written a long time ago, when little did I think I should ever dare to put them into your hand.'

She read them; and there was a rose colour in her face as she did so: not that she was proud of their merit, but because of the revelation they contained.

'A long time ago?' she said, with averted eyes—but her heart was beating warmly.

'Oh,' he said, 'there are dozens and dozens of similar things, if ever ye care to look at them. It was many a happy morning on the hill, and many a quiet night at home, they gave me; but somehow, lass, now that I look at them, they hardly seem to grip ye fast enough. I want something that will bind ye closer to myself—something that ye can read when you are back in the Highlands—something that is known only to our two selves. Well, now, these things that I have written from time to time—you're a long way off in them somehow—the Meenie that's in them is not this actual Meenie, warm and kind and generous and breathing——'

'And a little bit happy, Ronald, just at present,' she said, and she took his hand.

'And some day, when I get through with busier work, I must try to write you something for yourself——'

'But, Ronald, all these pieces you speak of belong to me,' she said promptly, 'and I want them, every one—every, every one. Yes, and I specially want that letter—if you have not kept it, then you must remember it, and write it out for me again——'

'I came across it last night,' said he, with an embarrassed laugh. 'Indeed I don't wonder you were angry.'

'I have told you before, Ronald, that I was not angry,' she said, with a touch of vexation. 'Perhaps I was a little—a little frightened—and scarcely knowing how much you meant——'

'Well, you know now, Meenie dear; but last night, when I was going over those scraps of things, I can tell you I was inclined to draw back. I kept saying to myself—"What! is she really going to see herself talked about in this way?" For there's a good deal of love-making in them, Meenie, and that's a fact; I knew I could say what I liked, since no one would be any the wiser, but, last night, when I looked at some of them, I said—"No; I'm not going to provoke a quarrel with Meenie. She would fling things about, as the American used to say, if she saw all this audacious song-writing about her."'

'I'll chance that quarrel, Ronald,' she answered to this, 'for I want every, every, every one of them; and you must copy them all, for I am going to take them with me when I leave Glasgow.'

'And, indeed,' said he, 'you'll understand them better in the Highlands; for they're all about Ben Loyal, and the Mudal, and Loch Naver, and Clebrig.'

'And to think you hid them from me all that time!'

'Why, Meenie darling, you would have called on the whole population to drive me out of the place if I had shown them to you. Think of the effect produced by a single glance at one of them!—you tortured me for weeks wondering how I had offended you.'

'Well, you can't offend me now, Ronald,that way,' said she, very prettily.

And so their lovers' talk went on, until it was time for Meenie to think of returning home. But just beyond these Botanic Gardens, and down in a secluded nook by the side of the river, there is a little spring that is variously known as the Three-Tree Well and the Pear-Tree Well. It is a limpid little stream, running into the Kelvin; it rises in a tiny cavern and flows for a few yards through a cleft in the rocks. Now these rocks, underneath the overarching trees, have been worn quite smooth (except where they are scored with names) by the footsteps of generation after generation of lovers who, in obedience to an old and fond custom, have come hither to plight their troth while joining hands over the brooklet. Properly the two sweethearts, each standing on one side, ought to join their hands on a Bible as they vow their vows, and thereafter should break a sixpence in twain, each carrying away the half; but these minor points are not necessary to the efficacy of this probably pagan rite. And so—supposing that Ronald had heard of this place of sacred pilgrimage, and had indeed discovered its whereabouts in his rambles around Glasgow—and supposing him to have got a friendly under-gardener to unlock a gate in the western palisades of the Gardens—and then, if he were to ask Meenie to step down to the river-side and walk along to the hallowed well? And yet he made of it no solemn ceremony; the morning was bright and clear around them; and Meenie was rather inclined to smile at the curious old custom. But she went through it nevertheless; and then he slept across the rill again; and said he—

'There's but this remaining now, Meenie darling—"Ae fond kiss and then we sever."'

She stepped back in affright.

'Ronald, not with that song on your lips! Don't you remember what it goes on to say?'

'Well, I don't,' he answered good-naturedly; for he had quoted the phrase at random.

'Why, don't you remember?—

"Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne'er been broken-hearted."

"Had we never loved sae kindly,

Had we never loved sae blindly,

Never met—or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted."

'My good-hearted lass,' said he, interlinking his arm with hers, 'ye must not be superstitious. What's in a song? There'll be no severance betwixt you and me—the Pear-Tree Well has settled that.'

'And that is not at all superstition?' said she, looking up with a smile—until she suddenly found her blushing face overshadowed.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE COMING OF TROUBLES.

These were halcyon days. Those two had arrived at a pretty accurate understanding of the times of each other's comings and goings; and if they could snatch but five minutes together, as he was on his way over to the south, well, that was something; and not unfrequently the lingering good-bye was lengthened out to a quarter of an hour; and then again when high fortune was in the ascendant, a whole golden hour was theirs—that was as precious as a year of life. For their hastily-snatched interviews the most convenient and secret rendezvous was Hill Street, Garnet Hill; a quiet little thoroughfare, too steep for cabs or carriages to ascend. And very cheerful and bright and pleasant this still neighbourhood looked on those October mornings; for there was yet some crisp and yellow foliage on the trees; and the little patches of green within the railings lay warm in the light; and on the northern side of the street the house-fronts were of a comfortable sunny gray. Ordinarily there were so few people about that these two could walk hand in hand, if they chose; or they could stand still, and converse face to face, when some more than usually interesting talk was going forward. And it was quite astonishing what a lot of things they had to say to each other, and the importance that attached to the very least of them.

But one piece of news that Meenie brought to these stolen interviews was by no means insignificant: she was now receiving marked attentions from a young Glasgow gentleman—attentions that her sister had perceived at a very early period, though Meenie had striven to remain blind to them. Nor was there anything very singular in this. Mr. Gemmill was exceedingly proud of his pretty sister-in-law; he had asked lots of people to the house for the very purpose of meeting her; she was the centre of interest and attraction at these numerous gatherings; and what more natural than that some susceptible youth should have his mind disturbed by an unwitting glance or two from those clear Highland eyes? And what rendered this prospect so pleasing to the Gemmills was this: the young man who had been stricken by these unintentional darts was no other than the only son of the founder of the firm in which Mr. Gemmill was a junior partner—the old gentleman having retired from the business some dozen years before, carrying with him a very substantial fortune indeed, to which this son was sole heir. In more ways than one this match, if it were to be a match, would be highly advantageous; and Mrs. Gemmill, while saying little, was secretly rejoiced to see everything going on so well. If Meenie chanced to ask what such and such a piece was (Mr. Frank Lauder played a little), even that slight expression of interest was inevitably followed by her receiving the sheet of music by post next morning. Flowers, again: one cannot very well refuse to accept flowers; they are not like other gifts; they may mean nothing. Then, it was quite remarkable how often he found himself going to the very same theatre or the very same concert that the Gemmills had arranged to take Meenie to; and naturally—as it chanced he had no one going with him—he asked to be allowed to go with them. He even talked of taking a seat in Maple Street Church (this was the church that the Gemmills attended), for he said that he was tired to death of the preaching of that old fogey, Dr. Teith, and that Mr. Smilie's last volume of poems (Mr. Smilie was the Maple Street Church minister) had aroused in him a great curiosity to hear his sermons.

And as for Mr. Frank Lauder himself—well, he was pretty much as other young Glasgow men of fashion; though, to be sure, these form a race by themselves, and a very curious race too. They are for the most part a good-natured set of lads; free and generous in their ways; not anything like the wild Lotharios which, amongst themselves, they profess to be; well dressed; a little lacking in repose of manner; many of them given to boating and yachting—and some of them even expert seamen; nearly all of them fond of airing a bit of Cockney slang picked up in a London music hall during a fortnight's visit to town. But their most odd characteristic is an affectation of knowingness—as if they had read the book of nature and human nature through to the last chapter; whereas these well-dressed, good-natured, but rather brainless young men are as innocently ignorant of that book as of most other books. Knowing but one language—and that imperfectly—is no doubt a bar to travel; but surely nowhere else on the face of the globe could one find a set of young fellows—with similar opportunities set before them—content to remain so thoroughly untutored and untravelled; and nowhere else a set of youths who, while professing to be men of the world, could show themselves so absolutely unversed in the world's ways. But they (or some of them) understand the lines of a yacht; and they don't drink champagne as sweet as they used to do; and no doubt, as they grow into middle age, they will throw aside the crude affectations of youth, and assume a respectable gravity of manner, and eventually become solid and substantial pillars of the Free, U.P., and Established Churches.

This Frank Lauder was rather a favourable specimen of his class; perhaps, in his extreme desire to ingratiate himself with Meenie, he assumed a modesty of demeanour that was not quite natural to him. But his self-satisfied jocosity, his mean interpretation of human motives, his familiarly conventional opinions in all matters connected with the arts, could not always be hidden beneath this mask of meekness; and Meenie's shrewd eyes had discerned clearly of what kind he was at a very early period of their acquaintance. For one thing, her solitary life in the Highlands had made of her a diligent and extensive reader; while her association with Ronald had taught her keen independence of judgment; and she was almost ashamed to find how absolutely unlettered this youth was, and how he would feebly try to discover what her opinion was, in order to express agreement with it. That was not Ronald's way. Ronald took her sharply to task when she fell away from his standard—or rather their conjoint standard—in some of her small preferences. Even in music, of which this young gentleman knew a little, his tastes were the tastes of the mob.

'Why do you always get away from the room when Mr. Lauder sits down to the piano?' her sister said, with some touch of resentment.

'I can endure a little Offenbach,' she answered saucily, 'when I'm strong and in good health. But we get a little too much of it when he comes here.'

Of course Ronald was given to know of these visits and of their obvious aim; but he did not seem very deeply concerned.

'You know I can't help it, Ronald,' she said, one morning, as they were slowly climbing the steep little Randolph Terrace together, her hand resting on his arm. 'I can't tell him to go away while my sister keeps asking him to the house. They say that a girl can always show by her manner when any attention is displeasing to her. Well, that depends. I can't be downright rude—I am staying in my sister's house. And then, I wouldn't say he was conceited—I wouldn't say that, Ronald—but—but he is pretty well satisfied with himself; and perhaps not so sensitive about one's manner towards him as some might be. As for you, Ronald,' she said, with a laugh, 'I could send you flying, like a bolt from a bow, with a single look.'

'Could you, lass?' said he. 'I doubt it. Perhaps I would refuse to budge. I have got charge of you now.'

'Ah, well, I am not likely to try, I think,' she continued. 'But about this Mr. Lauder, Ronald—you see, he is a very important person in Mr. Gemmill's eyes; for he and his father have still some interest in the warehouse, I suppose; and I know he thinks it is time that Mr. Gemmill's name should be mentioned in the firm—not mere "Co." And that would please Agatha too; and so they're very polite to him; and they expect me to be very polite to him too. You see, Ronald, I can't tell him to go away until he says something—either to me or to Agatha; and he won't take a hint, though he must see that I would rather not have him send flowers and music and that; and then, again, I sometimes think it is not fair to you, Ronald, that I should allow anything of the kind to go on—merely through the difficulty of speaking——'

He stopped, and put his hand over the hand that lay on his arm: there was not a human being in sight.

'Tell me this, Meenie darling: does his coming to the house vex you and trouble you?'

'Oh no—not in the least,' said she, blithely and yet seriously. 'I am rather pleased when he comes to the house. When he is there of an evening, and I have the chance of sitting and looking at him, it makes me quite happy.'

This was rather a startling statement, and instantly she saw a quick, strange look in his eyes.

'But you don't understand, Ronald,' she said placidly, and without taking away her eyes from his. 'Every time I look at him I think of you, and it's the difference that makes me glad.'

Halcyon days indeed; and Glasgow became a radiant golden city in this happy autumn time; and each meeting was sweeter and dearer than its predecessor; and their twin lives seemed to be floating along together on a river of joy. With what a covetous care she treasured up each fragment of verse he brought her, and hid it away in a little thin leathern case she had herself made, so that she could wear it next her heart. He purchased for her little presents—such as he could afford—to show her that he was thinking of her on the days when they could not meet; and when she took these, and kissed them, it was not of their pecuniary value she was thinking. As for her, she had vast schemes as to what she was going to make for him when she got back to the Highlands. Here, in Glasgow, nothing of the kind was possible. Her sister's eyes were too sharp, and her own time too much occupied. Indeed, what between the real lover, who was greedy of every moment she could spare for these secret interviews, and the pseudo lover, who kept the Queen's Crescent household in a constant turmoil of engagements and entertainments and visits, Rose Meenie found the hours sufficiently full; and the days of her stay in Glasgow were going by rapidly.

'But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;' and the ending, in this case, was the work of the widow Menzies. Kate felt herself at once aggrieved and perplexed by Ronald's continued absence; but she was even more astonished when, on sending to make inquiries, she found he had left his lodgings and gone elsewhere, leaving no address. She saw a purpose in this; she leapt to the conclusion that a woman had something to do with it; and in her jealous anger and mortification she determined on leaving no stone unturned to discover his whereabouts. But her two cronies, Laidlaw and old Jaap (the skipper was away at sea again), seemed quite powerless to aid her. They knew that Ronald occasionally used to go over to Pollokshaws; but further than that, nothing. He never came to the Harmony Club now; and not one of his former companions knew anything about him. Old Mr. Jaap hoped that no harm had come to the lad, whom he liked; but Jimmy Laidlaw was none so sorry over this disappearance: he might himself have a better chance with the widow, now that Kate's handsome cousin was out of the way.

It was Kate herself who made the discovery, ami that in the simplest manner possible. She and mother Paterson had been away somewhere outside the town for a drive: and they were returning by the Great Western Road, one evening towards dusk, when all at once the widow caught sight of Ronald, at some distance off, and just as he was in the act of saying good-bye to a woman—to a young girl apparently. Kate pulled up the cob so suddenly that she nearly pitched her companion headlong into the street.

'What is it, Katie dear?'

She did not answer; she let the cob move forward a yard or two, so as to get the dog-cart close in by the pavement; and then she waited—watching with an eager scrutiny this figure that was now coming along. Meenie did not notice her; probably the girl was too busy with her own thoughts; but these could not have been sad ones, for the bright young face, with its tender colour rather heightened by the sharpness of the evening air, seemed happy enough.

'Flying high, he is,' was Kate Menzies's inward comment as she marked the smart costume and the well-bred air and carriage of this young lady.

And then, the moment she had passed, Kate said quickly—

'Here, auntie, take the reins, and wait here. Never mind how long. He'll no stir; if you're feared, bid a laddie stand by his head.'

'But what is't, Katie dear?'

She did not answer; she got down from the trap; and then, at first quickly, and afterwards more cautiously, she proceeded to follow the girl whom she had seen parting from Ronald. Nor had she far to go, as it turned out. Meenie left the main thoroughfare at Melrose Street—Kate Menzies keeping fairly close up to her now; and almost directly after was standing at the door of her sister's house in Queen's Crescent, waiting for the ringing of the bell to be answered. It needed no profound detective skill on the part of Mrs. Menzies to ascertain the number of the house, so soon as the girl had gone inside; and thereafter she hurried back to the dog-cart, and got up, and continued her driving.

'Well, that bangs Banagher!' she said, with a loud laugh, as she smartly touched the cob with the whip. 'The Great Western Road, of a' places in the world! The Great Western Road—and he goes off by the New City Road—there's a place for twa lovers to forgather!

"We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side."

"We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,

Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side."

But the Great Western Road—bless us a', and the laddie used to write poetry!'

'But what is it, Katie?'

'Why, it's Ronald and his lass, woman: didna ye see them? Oh ay, he's carried his good looks to a braw market—set her up wi' her velvet hat and her sealskin coat, and living in Queen's Crescent forbye. Ay, ay, he's ta'en his pigs to a braw market——'

'It's no possible, Katie dear!' exclaimed mother Paterson, who affected to be very much shocked. 'Your cousin Ronald wi' a sweetheart?—and him so much indebted to you——'

'The twa canary birds!' she continued, with mirth that sounded not quite real. 'But never a kiss at parting, wi' a' they folk about. And that's why ye've been hiding yourself away, my lad? But I jalouse that that braw young leddy o' yours would laugh the other side of her mouth if her friends were to find out her pranks.'

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 believethat. 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.'

'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 theChicago 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 theChicago Citizenwould 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 theN. Y. Sunwhen 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. TheChicago Citizenpaid 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

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