The Underworld Part 26

CHAPTER XVII

MYSIE RUNS AWAY

It was a gray, sultry summer night, with one small patch of red near the western horizon when Mysie, making the excuse of going to the village to visit her parents, had stolen over the moorland path on her way to join the evening train for Edinburgh at a neighboring village station.

She had left early, so as to have plenty of time on the way, and also because she was really ill, and could not hurry.

She had forced herself to work, so as not to attract attention to her weak state during the past few weeks. Peter, who had already gone some days before, had now everything ready for her, and this was her final break with the old life.

She knew she was ill, but thought that when she got to Edinburgh, with good medical attention and treatment, she would soon be all right again.

Perhaps a rest and the change would help her as much as anything; and she'd soon get well and strong, and she would work hard to fit herself for the position she was to occupy as Peter's wife.

But her legs did feel tired, as she trudged over the moor, and her steps dragged heavily. She sank down for a few moments upon a thyme-strewn bank to rest; the scent of the wild moorland bloom brought back the memory of that evening in the copse. She shut her eyes for a moment, and heard again the alarmed protest of the whaup, and the grumble of the burn; saw again the moonlight patterns upon the ground, as it flittered through the trees, like streams of fairy radiance cast from the magic wand of night and, above all, heard Peter's voice, praising her eyes, her hair, her figure.

Her cheeks burned again, and her heart throbbed anew--she heard his tones, hoa.r.s.e, vibrant and warm, as his breath scorched her cheek. She felt his arms about her, the contact of his burning lips upon her own.

Then the calm which follows the wake of the storm, the consciously averted eyes, and the very conscious breathing, which had in it something of shame; the almost aversion to speak or touch again, and over all, the deep silence of the moor, broken only by the burn and the whaup, and the thick cloud, kindly dark, that came over the moon.

But, behind it all, the remorse and the agony that would never die; the anxiety and uncertainty, and the secret knowledge for which each had paid so high a price.

She rose from the bank and went slowly along the lovely moorland path.

Her breath was labored and the cough troubled her. She was hot, and besides the tired sensation in her limbs, there was a griping feeling about her chest that made breathing difficult.

She reached the station just a minute before the train was due, and entered an almost empty compartment, glad to be seated and at rest.

The train soon moved out of the station, and an intense desire took hold of her to go back. The full consciousness of her action only seemed to strike her now that she had cut the last tie that bound her to the old life, and involuntarily she rose to her feet, as if to get out. A man sitting in the opposite corner, thinking she was going to close the carriage window, laid a restraining hand upon her.

"Don't close it," he said, "fresh air is what we all need, though we may not in our ignorance think so. But you take it from me, miss, that you can't get too much fresh air. Let it play about you, and keep it always pa.s.sing through your room, or the railway carriage when traveling, and you'll never be ill. Look at me," he continued aggressively, almost fiercely, and very pompously, "the very picture of health--never had a day's illness in my life. And what is the reason? Why, fresh air. It is the grand life-giver. No, miss, leave the window open. You can't get too much of it. Let it play about you, draw it deeply into your lungs like this," and he took a great deep draught, until Mysie thought he was going to expand so much that he might fall out of the carriage window, or burst open its sides. Then, he let it out in a long, loud blast, like a miniature cyclone, making a noise like escaping steam; while his eyes seemed as if they had made up their minds to jump out, had the blast and the pressure not eased them at the last critical moment.

Then he stood panting, his shoulders going up and down, and his chest going out and in, like a pair of bellows in a country blacksmith's shop.

"Nothing like fresh air, miss," he panted. "You take my tip on that.

I've proved it. Just look at me. I'm health itself, and might make a fortune by sitting as an advertis.e.m.e.nt for somebody's patent pills, only I feel too honorable for that; for it is fresh air that has done it.

Fresh air, and plenty of it!" and he turned his nose again in the direction of the window, as if he would gulp the air down in gallons--a veritable glutton of Boreas.

Mysie could not speak. She was overwhelmed by the blast of oratory upon air, and a woman who sat on the far side of a closed window, with tight-drawn lips and smoldering eyes, looked challengingly at this fresh air fanatic, observing with quiet sarcasm: "A complexion like that might make a fortune, if done with colors to the life, in advertising some one's 'Old Highland'!"

The fresh air apostle gasped a little, looking across at the grim set mouth and the quiet, steady eyes, as if he would like to retort; but, finding no ready words, he merely wiped his forehead, and then subsided helplessly in his corner seat, as the lady rose, and, going over to the window, said to Mysie, as she closed it: "It is a little cold to-night, after the scorching heat of the daytime, and one is apt to catch cold very readily in a draught at an open carriage window. There, we'll all feel more comfortable now, I fancy. It is a little chilly." The poor worm who had always lived and thrived upon fresh air felt himself shriveling up in the corner, and growing so small that he might easily slip through the seam at the hinges of the carriage door.

Mysie merely lay back in her corner without speaking. She had never traveled much in the train; and this journey, apart from its eventfulness, was sufficient in itself to stupefy her with its newness and immensity. She had never before had a longer journey than to the county town, which cost sixpence; and here she was going to Edinburgh! a great city, of which she had all the dread of the inexperienced, unsophisticated country girl. A slight shiver soon began to creep down her back, and gradually she became cold; but she sat never speaking, and the other two occupants were so engrossed in thinking out maledictions against each other, that they had no thoughts to bestow upon her.

The wild, bleak moors rolled past, as the train rushed onward, and the telegraph poles seemed to scamper along, as if frightened by the noise of the train. She gazed away to the far horizon, where the sun had left a faint glow upon the western clouds, and she tried to think of something that would not betray her nervousness, but her mind was all chaos and excitement, and strange expectation.

What would be waiting for her at the end of the journey? Suppose Peter failed to be at the station, what would she do in a strange city? What if he were ill, and would not come? Or if he was doing this deliberately, and did not mean to meet her? Thus, torn by anxiety, and worried almost to death by nameless other fears, she spent the hour-long journey which seemed like a day, making herself ill, so that she could scarcely leave the carriage when the train steamed into Princes Street Station.

"Have you any luggage that I can a.s.sist you with?" asked the fresh air man, as Mysie seemed reluctant to get out, now that she had arrived at her destination.

"No," she replied simply, forgetting to thank him for his kind consideration, and rising slowly to her feet, she followed the stream of pa.s.sengers down the platform, keeping a keen look-out for Peter.

"Here we are, Mysie," he said cheerily, striding towards her, with real welcome in his voice, and she clung to him like a child, so glad that he had been true to his word. "I have a cab waiting," he rattled on brightly. "Just come along, and we'll soon be at your digs, and we'll talk as we drive along," and he piloted her to a waiting cab; and getting in beside her, it moved off, as she heard him say "Gra.s.smarket"

to the driver.

But she had little interest in anything, now that Peter was here. She felt a sense of security in his company that she had never felt before.

She trusted him, now that all her bearings were lost. The fear of the city, and the strangeness of her experiences, made her turn to him as her only prop upon which she could lean; and she clung to his arm as they drove along, the cab rattling over the stones and through what seemed to Mysie interminable streets of houses.

"Did you manage to get away all right, without anyone knowing?" he asked, as he felt her trembling hands upon his arm.

"Yes, I think sae," she replied. "I never saw onybody. I jist let on that I was gaun hame, an' gaed owre the muir, an' got the train. I didna see onybody that I kent."

"That was right, Mysie," he said. "I was afraid you might decide at the last moment not to come."

"I did feel awfu' frightened," she confessed, "an' I could fain hae bidden at hame; but I can never gang hame noo," she added with a slight tremor in her voice, at the realization of all it meant. "I can never gang hame noo!" and the tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke.

What a noise, and what a mult.i.tude of houses, she thought. She would never be able to go out and find her way back. She would get lost in all this noise and hurry and confusion.

"I have taken a little house for you, Mysie," said Peter, in explanation of his plans. "I have also a woman engaged to help you for a time, to look after you till you get acquainted with the place; and I'll come home to you every evening, and spend as much of my time with you as I can, superintending your lessons. I am going to teach you myself for a while, and we'll live together and be as happy as we can. But first of all, you must get better," he said, as a fit of coughing seized her.

"You've got a bad cold. Luckily, the old man allows me plenty of money, so that we need not worry."

Mysie sat lost in wonder at it all, and presently the cab stopped, and Peter helped her out, paid the fare and, taking her arm, led her up a long flight of stairs--stairs that seemed to wind up and up till she felt dizzy, before he came to a halt at one of the many doors opening on the landing, entering which she found herself in a neat little room and kitchen, simply furnished, but clean and tidy.

"This is Mrs. Ramsay, my landlady," he said as they entered, leading Mysie forward to where a middle-aged woman of kindly demeanor stood with a smile of welcome for them. Mrs. Ramsay stepped forward and began to help Mysie to take off her hat. With a few words she soon made the girl feel more at ease, and then left them to get tea ready.

"Is that the woman you stay wi'?" asked Mysie, as Mrs. Ramsay went to the other room.

"Yes, she's my landlady," he replied.

"An' does she bide here too?"

"Well, she'll stay just as long as you think necessary. Whenever you think you can get on without her, let me know. Her daughter is looking after her own house till she returns. She's a good, kindly soul, and will do anything to help you."

"Are you gaun to stay here now, too?"

"Well, that is for you to say, Mysie," he said seriously. "Certainly I should like to stay with my wife, for we'll be married to-morrow. But if you would rather stay alone, I can easily remain in my digs, and just attend to your lessons In the evening."

"If you stay here, will she need to stay too?"

"Of course that will all lie with you, Mysie," he replied. "Perhaps it might be better for her to stay and help you for a few weeks, and by that time your cold may be better. But you can think it over to-night and tell me your decision in the morning."

Mrs. Ramsay's return cut short any further conversation, and they all sat down to tea, a strange little party. Mysie did not eat much. She was too tired, and felt that she would rather go to bed. She looked ill and very wretched, and at last Peter went out, leaving the women together.

"I'll be round for you by half-past ten in the morning, Mysie," he said, as he was going. "So you must be up, and be as bright as you can.

So take a good long sleep, and you'll feel ever so much better in the morning. Mrs. Ramsay will see you all right," and he was off before Mysie realized he was going.

It was all so strange for Mysie. She was lost in wonder at it all, as she sat quietly pondering the matter while Mrs. Ramsay washed the dishes and cleared the table. The noises outside; the glare of the street, lamps, the tier upon tier of houses, piled on top of each other, as she looked from the window at the tall buildings, and the Castle Rock, grim and gray, looking down in silence upon the whole city, but added to Mysie's confusion of mind.

Shouts from a drunken brawl ascended from the street; the curses of the men, and the screams of women, were plainly audible; while over all a woman's voice, further down the street, broke into a bonnie old Scots air which Mysie knew, and she could not help feeling that this was the most beautiful thing she had heard so far.