If she did, he felt that she was wiser than he, since, sitting so beside her, sure of her sympathy, her confidence, it seemed incredible that he should have fled from this sure haven of his own free will. He told her all, it seemed to him without a pang; told her of his dismissal, of the change in his prospects. Yet, when he put Jeanie Duncan's letter into her hands, and walked away to the window while she read it, he felt more of a cur than he had ever done in all his life before. What would the girl say? What could she say but that it served him right? If she dismissed him also, and told him that she did not care to exchange her love for his, would not that serve him right also!

And so, as he stood frowning moodily at the growing glint of sunshine far out in the West driving the mists in dense ma.s.ses up the Glen, her voice came to him as she laid down the letter with a sigh:

"I am glad she called him Paul."

He turned quickly to her in a sort of incredulous amaze! Was that all she had to say? A sort of chill crept over him, even though he found himself at her feet, with her hands in his, kissing them softly as he told her, with a break in his voice, that she was too good--too good for any man. The thought brought him a certain consolation, as she went on, evidently with the desire of taking all sting from his memories--to speak of the strange coincidence of little Paul's devotion to her, and of her liking for the lovable little lad. Surely, if Gleneira had to go, he would far rather it went to him than to some stranger, who would care nothing for her and her ways.

"Why?" she said, a trifle tearfully; "he has been so much with me lately, since old Peggy died, that I felt quite lost without him when he went yesterday for a farewell visit up the Glen to the Macintoshes.

The boys were his great playmates. So you see, Paul, it will not matter so much, for he will live with us, of course, and it is a long, long time before he comes of age. And even then I don't believe he will turn you out of house and home altogether. We will teach him better things than that! Won't we?"

In truth, spoken of in her calm, clear voice, and with her wise eyes on his, and that sweet convincing "we" in her phrases, the prospect did not seem so hopeless. Yet he caught himself wishing that she had not taken his renunciation quite so much as a matter of course; wishing that she appreciated his victory over temptation more keenly.

Yet, how could she, when he had not told her that part of the business, or how near he had been to purchasing peace with dishonour by destroying Jeanie Duncan's letter and the marriage certificate it contained. But there were many things in his past, he told himself, with a sigh, of which it was better she should continue to know nothing; for her own sake, not for his. He could scarcely fear her blame, and it would have been a certain comfort to, as it were, bring her closer to him by confession. But Paul Macleod was too much of a gentleman for that kind of self-indulgence, and he was realising for the first time in his life the supreme impotence of repentance either in the past or the future. Had he not, even at the time, repented him of the evil in regard to Jeanie Duncan; yet had not a Nemesis grown out of his very repentance?

"Come with me part of the way back, dear," he said, when the necessity for writing business letters broke through even his desire to linger within touch of her kind hand. "I can't bear somehow to lose sight of you for an instant, but I must go--there are the lawyers--and Dr.

Kennedy."

"I can tell Tom if you like," replied Marjory. "I write to him most days."

Something rose up in her hearer and cursed Tom, though the next moment he was reviling himself. That sort of thing would have to be put away for ever when he was Marjory's husband.

"You will have to marry me as soon as you can," he said, with what to her seemed great irrelevance.

"I will marry you as soon as you like, Paul; you know that," she replied cheerfully.

Yes! so far was easy; but afterwards? How would she ever put up with him? Yet the question was once more forgotten in the charm of the present.

It was the end of a soft day, and the summitless mountains looked purple and green under the mist wreaths which every now and again seemed to descend to fill the valley and leave sparkling drops of dew on the little curls below Marjory's cap, while the river ran roaring beside them, making a kind of droning accompaniment to the shriller drip from the trees upon the stones. Then the fine rain would cease, the birds begin to twitter, rustling the damp leaves, and sending a faster shower on the path; while from the West a gleaming blade of light would sever the mists, and give a glimpse of a new heaven and a new earth, where the sun was setting peacefully.

As she walked along beside him, her face seemed to hold the sunshine, his the mist, and once, in the middle of some talk over the future, he paused to hark back to the past.

"If we could begin it all over again from the day I first met you on the river, I think I might have a better chance--at least, I would not play the fool so utterly--at least, my memories of _you_ would be free from pain--and I should have left undone the things that I have done."

"Why should you say that?" she asked. "Is it not enough that what you did made me love you?"

"Your G.o.dfathers and G.o.dmothers should have christened you Barnabasina," he replied, with an effort after his old, light manner, "for you are verily a daughter of consolation, Marjory; but even you cannot take the sting out of some things. If I could have the past over again! Nothing short of that will satisfy me."

Her quick, bright face grew brighter.

"Then you shall have it, dear, as far as I'm concerned. Yes! you shall! It will be pleasant for me, too. Don't laugh at my fancy, for I like fancies sometimes; they help one along the dead level bits of the road. I'll say 'good-bye' here, Paul, here in the very spot where you said good-bye before--do you think I could forget it? And then to-morrow----" she hesitated in her very eagerness.

"Yes, to-morrow, Marjory?" he echoed.

"To-morrow you shall meet me at the old place on the river--you remember it, of course, and we shall begin all over again--all over again from the very beginning, to the very end. I remember them all, Paul; everything, I believe, that you ever said--everything, at any rate, that you ever said which I disliked. Is that unkind? And so when the time comes for those bits you shall not say them--we will cut them out of the past."

"It will be Hamlet with the Prince left out," he said, falling in with her playful mood.

"Not a bit of it! Besides if it were I should not mind. It was never the prince I liked, but Paul--the real Paul."

"I wonder which one that is," he replied quickly, yet with a smile; for her radiant face would not be cheated of its due.

"We shall see to-morrow--good-bye, Paul."

He shook his head.

"No! No! Marjory. Neither that, nor adieu, any more. Till to-morrow--_Auf-wieder-sehn_, my love! _Auf-wieder-sehn_."

CHAPTER XXVII.

The beginning of a new day, a new life!

That, perhaps, should have been Marjory's first thought when, drawing up the blind, she stood in the early dawn at the window looking out on a world white with h.o.a.r frost. But it was not; for her eyes fell upon a bunch of late rowans still adorning the tree, which stood so close that, on windy nights, the berries would tap against the panes like some ghostly visitant claiming admittance. They also were veiled in a silvery tracery, and so the trivial remembrance of a certain ball-dress came uppermost, instead of any sober reflection. As a matter of fact, the larger half of existence can be excellently executed on a penny whistle.

What a very good imitation those berries had been which Tom had sent from Paris; and how unlikely it was, since she and Paul were both poor, that she would have so magnificent a garment again. It would not be wanted, that was one comfort, if they lived quietly at Gleneira, which, of course, they must do, unless Paul were to try and get back to active service again. She must talk that over with him--that and many another thing--when they began life again down by the river side.

"It's ill singing the mavis' song but in the mavis' time," quoted Mrs.

Cameron, with a wise shake of the head, when Marjory came whistling down the stairs to breakfast. "And half-past eight o' the clock on a chill November morn in a white world is no the time for anything save a sup o' hot porridge."

"I wasn't singing the mavis' song," she laughed; "it was the lark's, and they always begin early." And her clear voice broke gaily into the phrase, "And Ph[oe]bus 'gins to rise."

"Then it's ill singing on an empty stomach," persisted the old lady; "and ill manners, too, to be sae blithe when ye are leaving us. What's up wi' you, la.s.sie?"

Marjory gave her a queer look. "Everything! it's going to be a fine day for one thing."

"Wha kens? That's no a thing ye can say at half-past eight o' the clock. Sing you the 'Flowers of the Forest,' my bairn; that's more o'

the truth in this world."

Her old, faded voice quavered over the first line, "I've seen the morning, wi' gold the hills adorning," and Marjory's clear, young one took up the song cheerfully, "And loud tempest storming before the mid o' day." Then she paused mischievously. "That's a foolish version, though; the old one is better: 'I've heard the lilting at our yowe milking, La.s.sies a' lilting before the dawn o' day.' And dawn is before half-past eight o' the clock, even in November."

Mrs. Cameron looked at her somewhat mollified, beating time with her mittened fingers to the familiar rhythm.

"Weel! weel! One way or the t'ither it's the bonniest song ever sung in this world, and I mind, when I was a la.s.sie, thinkin' that my jo--he wasna John, my dear,--sang it like the angels out o' heaven.

But there! commend me to a la.s.sie that's in love wi' the most ordinair' o' men for a blaspheemous sacrileegous creature, if he's weel favoured, and that's the truth. There isn't one o' the cardinal virtues, but she'll dig up--maybe from some ither decent man's kale yard and plant it amang his weeds wi' a light heart. Aye! and watter it wi' tears too when she finds it no thrivin'. It's the way o' women, and she's happier when she gives up the gairdening and sets to rear bairns instead."

"I wish Will could hear you admit that children are a comfort,"

laughed Marjory, from her porridge.

"And what's hindering him but sloth?" asked the old lady, rushing eagerly to an old battle ground. "But there! was it not predicted as the end o' a' things. Just a great Darkness as o' Night, and that is what folks is coming to nowadays. It just beats me to roust the hussies from their beds before six. And it's no from them bein'

hirelings a'together, for it's the same with the cottages. Where the peat smoke used to go up wi' the mist wreaths at the earliest blink, there's naething but an empty lum. Aye! and a cauld hearth! Not even a gathering peat to keep the warmth o' home aboot the place. But there!

what could ye expec' wi' such names as they give the matches--Lucifers and d.a.m.nstickers."

"My dear mother!" exclaimed Will, in horrified accents, as he lounged in lazily.

"I'm no swearing, William," she retorted, with great dignity. "Tho'

maybe I hae a claim to be angry an' sin not, wi' a farmer son that comes down to his breaking o' bread when the beasts have begun to chew the cud."