"The girl is not to blame," he said to himself again and again. "Rotha is innocent, whoever may be guilty."

He put the case to himself so frequently in this way, he tried so hard to explain to his own mind that Rotha at least was free of all taint, that the very effort made him conscious of a latent suspicion respecting Sim.

As to Sim's bearing towards w.i.l.l.y, it was the same as he had adopted towards almost the whole of the little world in which he lived; he took up the position of the guilty man, the man to be shunned, the man from whose contaminating touch all other men might fairly shrink. It never occurred to Sim that there lay buried at his own heart a secret that could change the relations in which he stood towards this younger and more self-righteous son of Angus Ray.

Perhaps, if it had once been borne in upon him that another than himself was involved in the suspicion which had settled upon his name--if he had even come to realize that Rotha might suffer the stigma of a fatal reproach for no worse offence than that she was her father's daughter--perhaps, if he had once felt this as a possible contingency, he would have shaken off the black cloud that seemed to justify the odium in which he was held by those about him, and lifted up his head for her sake if not for his own.

But Sim lacked virile strength. The disease of melancholy had long kept its seat at his heart, and that any shadow of doubt could rest on Rotha as a result of a misdeed, or supposed misdeed, of his had never yet occurred to Sim's mind.

And truly Rotha was above the blight of withering doubt. Rude daughter of a rude age, in a rude country and without the refinements of education, still how pure and sweet she was; how strong, and yet how tender; how unconscious in her instinct of self-sacrifice; how devoted in her loyalty; how absolute in her trust!

But deep and rich as was Rotha's simple nature, it was yet incomplete.

She herself was made aware that a great change was even now coming to pa.s.s. She understood the transformation little, if at all; but it seemed as though, somehow, a new sense were taking hold of her. And, indeed, a new light had floated into her little orbit. Was it too bright as yet for her to see it for what it was? It flooded everything about her, and bathed the world in other hues than the old time.

Disaster had followed on disaster in the days that had just gone by, but nevertheless--she knew not how--it was not all gloom in her heart.

In the waking hours of the night there was more than the memory of the late events in her mind; her dreams were not all nightmares; and in the morning, when the swift recoil of sad thoughts rushed in at her first awakening, a sentiment of indefinite solace came close behind it. What was it that was coming to pa.s.s?

It was love that was now dawning upon her, though still vague and indeterminate; it hardly knew its object.

w.i.l.l.y Ray took note of this change in the girl, and thought he understood it. He accepted it as the one remaining gleam of hope and happiness for both of them amid the prevailing gloom. Rotha avoided the searching light of his glances. When the work of the household was in hand she shook off the glamour of the new-found emotion.

In the morning when the men came down for breakfast, and again in the evening when they came in for supper, the girl busied herself in her duties with the ardor of one having no thought behind them and no feeling in which they did not share. But when the quieter hours of the day left her free for other thoughts, she would stand and look long into the face of the poor invalid to whom she had become nurse and foster-child in one; or walk, without knowing why, to the window neuk, and put her hand on the old wheel, that now rested quiet and unused beneath it, while she looked towards the south through eyes that saw nothing that was there.

She was standing so one morning a fortnight or more after Ralph's departure from Wythburn, when w.i.l.l.y came into the kitchen, and, before she was conscious of his presence, sat in the seat of the little alcove within which she stood.

He took the hand that lay disengaged by her side and told her in a word or two of his love. He had loved her long in silence. He had loved her before she became the blessing she now was to him and to his; to-day he loved her more than ever before.

It was a simple story, and it came with the accent of sincerity in every word.

He thought perhaps she loved him in return--he had sometimes thought so--was he wrong?

There was a pause between them. Regaining some momentary composure, the girl turned her eyes once more aside and looked through the neuk window towards the south. She felt the color mounting to her cheeks, and knew that the young man had risen to his feet beside her. He, on his part, saw only the fair face before him, and felt only the little hand that lay pa.s.sively in his own.

"It's a sad sort of home to bring you to. It would be idle to ask if you have been happy here--it would be a mockery; but--but--"

"I _have_ been happy; that is, happy to do as Ralph wished me."

"And as _I_ wished?"

"As you wished too, w.i.l.l.y."

"You've been a blessing to us, Rotha. I sometimes think, though, that it was hardly fair to bring you into the middle of this trouble."

"He did it for the best," said Rotha.

"Who?"

There was a little start of recovering consciousness.

"Ralph," she answered, and dropped her head.

"True--he did it for the best," repeated w.i.l.l.y, and relapsed into silence.

"Besides, I had no home then, you know."

How steadfastly the girl's eyes were fixed oh the distant south!

"You had your father's home, Rotha."

"Ah, no! When it ceased to be poor father's home, how could it be mine any longer? No, I was homeless."

There was another pause.

"Then let me ask you to make this house your home forever. Can you not do so?"

"I think so--I can scarcely tell--he said it might be best--"

w.i.l.l.y let loose her hand. Had he dreamed? Was it a wild hallucination--the bright gleam of happiness that had penetrated the darkness that lay about him at every step?

How yearningly the girl's eyes still inclined to yonder distant south.

"Let us say no more about it now, Rotha," he said huskily. "If you wish it, we'll talk again on this matter--that is, I say, if you _wish_ it; if not, no matter."

The young man was turning away. Without moving the fixed determination of her gaze, Rotha said quietly,--

"w.i.l.l.y, I think perhaps I _do_ love you--perhaps--I don't know. I remember he said that our hearts lay open before each other--"

"Who said so, Rotha?"

There was another start of recovering consciousness. Then the wide eyes looked full into his, and the tongue that would have spoken refused that instant to speak. The name that trembled in a half-articulate whisper on the parted lips came upwards from the heart.

But the girl was ignorant of her own secret even yet.

"We'll say no more about it now, Rotha," repeated w.i.l.l.y in a broken voice. "If you wish it, we'll talk again; give me a sign, and perhaps we'll talk on this matter again."

In another moment the young man was gone.

CHAPTER XIX. THE BETROTHAL.

It was not till she was alone that the girl realized the situation.

She put her hand over her eyes--the hand that still tingled with the light pressure of his touch.

What had happened? Had w.i.l.l.y asked her to become his wife? And had she seemed to say No?

The sound of his voice was still lingering on her ears; it was a low broken murmur, such as might have fallen to a sob.

Had she, then, refused? That could not be. She was but a poor homeless girl, with nothing to recommend her to such a man as he was. Yet she knew--she had heard--that he loved her, and would one day ask her to be his wife. She had thought that day was far distant. She had never realized that it would be now. Why had he not given her time to think?