"He sat down by the river-side to meditate."
"Miss Carnegie … I did not know you were here … I thought you were in London," and Carmichael stood before Kate in great confusion.
"Nor did I see you behind that tree"—Kate herself was startled. "Yes, the General and I have been visiting some old friends, and only came home an hour ago.
"Do you know"—Kate was herself again—"the first thing I do on arrival is to make a pilgrimage to this place. Half an hour here banishes the dust of a day's journey and of …
"Besides, I don't know whether you have heard"—Kate spoke hurriedly—"that it is now settled that I … we will be leaving the Lodge soon, and one wants to have as much as possible of the old place in the time remaining."
She gave him this opportunity in kindness, as it seemed, and he reproached himself because he did not offer his congratulations.
"You will, I … the people hope, come often here, Miss Carnegie, and not cast off Drumtochty, although the Lodge be not your home. You will always have a place in the hearts of the Glen. Marjorie will never be grateful enough for your readings," which was bravely said.
"Do you think that I can ever forget the Glen and my … friends here? Not while I live; the Carnegies have their own faults, but ingratitude is not one. Nor the dear Rabbi's grave." Then there was silence, which Carmichael found very trying—they had been so near that day in Kilbogie Manse, with only the Rabbi, who loved them both, between; but now, although they stood face to face, there was a gulf dividing them.
"It may not be easy for me to visit Drumtochty often, for you know there has been a change … in our circumstances, and one must suit oneself to it."
Carmichael flushed uneasily, and Kate supposed that he was sympathising with their losses.
"I hope to be a busy woman soon, with lots of work, and I shall use every one of my little scraps of knowledge. How do you think I shall acquit myself in my new role?"
It was a little hard on Carmichael, who was thinking of a countess, while Kate meant a governess.
"You need not ask me how I think you will do as … in any position, and I … wish you every success, and … (with a visible effort) happiness."
He spoke so stiffly that Kate sought about for reasons, and could only remember their quarrel and imagine he retained a grudge—which she thought was rather ungenerous.
"It occurs to me that one man ought to be thankful when we depart, for then he will be able to call Queen Mary names every Sunday without a misguided Jacobite girl dropping in to create a disturbance."
"Drumtochty will have to form its own opinion of poor Mary without my aid," and Carmichael smiled sadly in pardon of the past, "for it is likely, although no one knows this in the Glen, that I shall soon be far away."
"Leaving Drumtochty? What will Marjorie do without you, and Dr. Davidson, and … all the people?" Then, remembering Janet's gossip, and her voice freezing, "I suppose you have got a better or more convenient living. The Glen is certainly rather inaccessible."
"Have I done anything, Miss Carnegie, to justify you in thinking that I would leave the Glen, which has been so good to me, for … worldly reasons? There is enough to support an unmarried man, and I am not likely to … to marry," said Carmichael, bitterly; "but there are times when it is better for a man to change his whole surroundings and make a new life."
It was clear that the Bailie's daughter was a romance of Janet's Celtic imagination, and Kate's manner softened.
"The Rabbi's death and … your difference of opinion—something about doctrine, was n't it? we were from home—must have been a great trial, and, as there was no opportunity before, let me say how much we sympathised with you and … thought of you.
"Do you think, however, Mr. Carmichael"—she spoke with hesitation, but much kindness—"that you ought to fling up your work here on that account? Would not the Rabbi himself have wished you to stick to your post?… and all your friends would like to think you had been … brave."
"You are cruel, Miss Carnegie; you try me beyond what I can endure, although I shall be ashamed to-night for what I am to say. Do you not know or guess that it is your … on account of you, I mean, that I must leave Drumtochty?"
"On account of me?" Kate looked at him in unaffected amazement.
"Are you blind, or is it that you could not suspect me of such presumption? Had you no idea that night in Dr. Davidson's drawing-room? Have you never seen that I … Kate—I will say it once to your face as I say it every hour to myself—you won my heart in an instant on Muirtown Station, and will hold it till I die.
"Do not speak till I be done, and then order me from your presence as I deserve, I know that it is unworthy of a gentleman, and … a minister of Christ to say such things to the betrothed of another man; only one minute more"—for Kate had started as if in anger—"I know also that if I were stronger I could go on living as before, and meet you from time to time when you came from the Castle with your husband, and never allow myself to think of Lady Hay as I felt to Miss Carnegie. But I am afraid of myself, and … this is the last time we shall meet, Miss Carnegie. Forgive me for my love, and believe that one man will ever remember and … pray for you."
Carmichael bowed low, the last sunshine of the evening playing on his fair hair, and turned to go.
"One word, if you please," said Kate, and they looked into one another's eyes, the blue and brown, seeing many things that cannot be written. "You may be forgiven for … loving me, because you could not help that"—this with a very roguish look, our Kate all over—"and I suppose you must be forgiven for listening to foolish gossip, since people will tell lies"—this with a stamp of the foot, our Kate again—"but I shall never forgive you if you leave me, never"—this was a new Kate, like to the opening of a flower.
"Why? Tell me plainly," and in the silence Carmichael heard a trout leap in the river.
"Because I love you."
The Tochty water sang a pleasant song, and the sun set gloriously behind Ben Urtach.