Just before she came in sight of the Spindle, a very unlooked-for encounter happened to Marjory; she had heard steps following her for some time, but was too much pre-occupied to notice them; nor was it until she heard a voice from behind addressing her that she thought at all on the subject. When she heard herself called, she turned round hastily, and to her great surprise found herself face to face with the young woman whom she had seen at Pitcomlie, and at the family burying-place. Her aspect, however, was changed; she it was now who accosted Marjory; and there was an amount of anxiety in her round face which changed its expression entirely; she kept calling, as if this anxiety had excited her beyond all ordinary habits of self-control. “Miss Heriot, Miss Heriot!” she cried, as she came forward, stumbling among the whin-bushes in her excitement. “Where are you going, where are you going?” A certain sharp sense of amusement, mingled with anger, a perception of the ludicrous inappropriateness of the question, as addressed to herself by a person who had steadily refused to afford her any information as to her own movements, struck Marjory, amid all her impatience. She smiled as she turned round, and waited for a moment, in answer to the urgent appeal.
“Where am I going?” she said.
“Ay, Miss Heriot, where are you going? You may think I’ve nae right to ask!” cried the girl, breathless; “but you’re a leddy, and I’m but an ignorant lass. Maybe I have something to hide, but you have nothing. Oh, for the sake o’ a’ that’s merciful, tell me! it’s straightforward and simple to you, but no’ to me. You’re going for your diversion, or for kindness, or for I kenna what; but me, I’m travailing and working for life and death; for the life or death of a poor sorrowful creature that’s perishing of grief and shame, and has done nothing, nothing to be so sore punished!” she cried, with sudden tears.
Marjory had stopped, arrested, in spite of herself, by the passion in the girl’s voice. Her heart softened unawares towards this penitent opponent, who had refused all explanation on her own part, and yet demanded it with such confidence. “I am going to the cottage at the Spindle,” she said. “You have no right to ask, nor to interfere; but I tell you because you are in trouble; because you seem to think I have something to do with it.”
“No!” said the girl, pausing in her breathless course; “no you; but them that belong to you. Oh, dinna be angry, dinna upbraid me! It maun be God that’s brought you here. When I heard of the leddy, something told me it was you; but I wouldna believe it. I wanted to do a’, a’ mysel’; to bring her up from the gates o’ the grave, to give her back her good name, to be her Saviour in this world. Eh, the Lord’s hard upon us whiles! He’ll let you do all the foolishness you please; but if there’s one great thing, one good thing that ye would like to do, and then die—oh me, oh me! He brings in other folk; when your heart’s full of hope, and ye see your way clear before ye—He brings in other folk!”
Here she sat down and covered her face and wept. That these tears sprung from some disappointment connected with herself, Marjory divined, though she could not understand how this could be. She stood by for some time, respecting the strong emotion which she did not understand. At last, however, she went up to her, and laid her hand softly on the young woman’s shoulder.
“If I am to help you in anything,” she said, with a sudden inspiration, as unaccountable to herself as all the rest, “do not stop and cry, and lose precious time; but come, like a brave girl, as I am sure you are, and show me the way.”
“I will!” cried the girl, springing suddenly to her feet. “I will! there is enough for both you and me.”
The cottage door stood half open; everything was still about; there was at first no one to be seen. A lonely place, musical with ripple of waves, with soft sough of the quiet winds, with those mysterious breathings of nature which make for themselves a language in solitary places. The two anxious and excited human creatures, one full of a sorrow and enthusiasm which had taken possession of her whole being—the other almost as much excited with that suspense of uncertainty, curiosity, and wonder which is equally enthralling—brought their painful life into the stillness, like creatures of another sphere, dispersing the natural sentiment of the place.
“There is no one here,” said Marjory, unawares; but her voice produced a strange echo, a low cry from the half open door, and immediately after the figure of the sick girl appeared, holding herself up by the door, and gazed out eagerly. Her face was suddenly suffused with colour and life as she saw them.