“Just what you mean to do.”
“I wish you would tell me that.”
“Now I tell you, Maimie,” said Kate, “if you go on with Ranald so any longer I will just tell him you are playing with him.”
“Do,” said Maimie, scornfully, “and be careful to make clear to him at the same time that you are speaking solely in his interest!”
Kate's face flushed red at the insinuation, and then grew pale. She stood for some time looking in silence at her friend, and then with a proud flash of her dark eyes, she swept from the room without a word, nor did Maimie see her again that afternoon, though she stood outside her door entreating with tears to be forgiven. Poor Kate! Maimie's shaft had gone too near a vital spot, and the wound amazed and terrified her. Was it for Ranald's sake alone she cared? Yes, surely it was. Then why this sharp new pain under the hand pressing hard upon her heart?
Oh, what did that mean? She put her face in her pillow to hide the red that she knew was flaming in her cheeks, and for a few moments gave herself up to the joy that was flooding her whole heart and soul and all her tingling veins. Oh, how happy she was. For long she had heard of the Glengarry lad from Maimie and more from Harry till there had grown up in her heart a warm, admiring interest. And now she had come to know him for herself! How little after all had they told her of him. What a man he was! How strong and how fearless! How true-hearted and how his eyes could fill with love! She started up. Love? Love? Ah, where was her joy! How chill the day had grown and how hateful the sunlight on the river. She drew down the blind and threw herself once more upon the bed, shivering and sick with pain—the bitterest that heart can know. Once more she started up.
“She is not worthy of him!” she exclaimed, aloud; “her heart is not deep enough; she does not, cannot love him, and oh, if some one would only let him know!”
She would tell him herself. No! No! Maimie's sharp arrow was quivering still in her heart. Once more she threw herself upon the bed. How could she bear this that had stricken her? She would go home. She would go to her mother to-morrow. Go away forever from—ah—could she? No, anything but that! She could not go away.
Over the broad river the warm sunlight lay with kindly glow, and the world was full of the soft, sweet air of spring, and the songs of mating birds; but the hours passed, and over the river the shadows began to creep, and the whole world grew dark, and the songs of the birds were hushed to silence. Then, from her room, Kate came down with face serene, and but for the eyes that somehow made one think of tears, without a sign of the storm that had swept her soul. She did not go home. She was too brave for that. She would stay and fight her battle to the end.
That was a dreary week for Ranald. He was lonely and heartsick for the woods and for his home and friends, but chiefly was he oppressed with the sense of having played the fool in his quarrel with De Lacy, whom he was beginning to admire and like. He surely might have avoided that; and yet whenever he thought of the game that had swept away from Rouleau all his winter's earnings, and of the cruel blow that had followed, he felt his muscles stiffen and his teeth set tight in rage. No, he would do it all again, nor would he retreat one single step from the position he had taken, but would see his quarrel through to the end. But worst of all he had not seen Maimie all the week. His experience with Harry in the ordering of his suit had taught him the importance of clothes, and he now understood as he could not before, Maimie's manner to him. “That would be it,” he said to himself, “and no wonder. What would she do with a great, coarse tyke like me!” Then, in spite of all his loyalty, he could not help contrasting with Maimie's uncertain and doubtful treatment of him, the warm, frank friendliness of Kate. “SHE did not mind my clothes,” he thought, with a glow of gratitude, but sharply checking himself, he added, “but why should she care?” It rather pleased him to think that Maimie cared enough to feel embarrassed at his rough dress. So he kept away from the Hotel de Cheval Blanc till his new suit should be ready. It was not because of his dress, however, that he steadily refused Harry's invitation to the picnic.