And thus it was that Käthchen remained ignorant of this curious fact—that day by day these excursions were gradually being shortened. Day by day Mary Stanley found that her strength would not carry her quite so far: she had to be content with a lesser height. And at last she had altogether to abandon that laborious task of breasting the hill; she merely, and wearily enough, walked away up the Minard road—whence you can see a portion of the southern and western horizon; and there she would sit down on the heather or a boulder of rock—with a strange look in her eyes.
"Mamie!" said Käthchen, one evening—and there was grief in her voice. "Won't you tell me what has happened! I cannot bear to see you like that! You are ill. I tell you, you are seriously ill; and yet you will not say a word. And there is no one here but myself; I am in charge of you; I am responsible for you; and how can I bear to see you killing yourself before my eyes?"
Mary was lying on the couch, her face averted from the light.
"You are right in one way, Käthchen," she said, rather sadly. "Something has happened. But no good would come of speaking about it; because it cannot be undone now. And as for being ill, I know what will make me well. It is only sleep I want. It is the sleep that knows no waking that I wish for."
Käthchen burst out crying, and flung herself down on her knees, and put her arms round her friend.
"Mamie, I declare to you I will not rest until you tell me what this is!" she exclaimed passionately.
Nor did she. And that very evening, after an unheard-of pleading and coaxing on the one side and despairing protest on the other, all those recent occurrences were confided to the faithful Käthchen. She was a little bewildered at first; but she had a nimble brain.
"Mamie," she said, with a firm air, "I don't know what doubts, or if any, may still be lingering in your mind; but I am absolutely convinced that that story of Purdie's is a lie—a wicked and abominable lie. And I can guess what drove him to it: it was a bold stroke, and it was nearly proving successful; but it shall not prove successful. I will make it my business to get Donald Ross back to Lochgarra—and then we shall have an explanation."
"Do you think he will come back to Lochgarra? Then you do not know him," Mary made answer, and almost listlessly. "Do you imagine I have not considered everything, night after night, ay, and every hour of the night all the way through? He will never come back to Lochgarra—if it is to speak to me that you mean. I have told you before: it seems a fatality that he and his should receive nothing but injury and insult at our hands, from one member of our family after another; and never has there been a word in reply—never a single syllable of reproach—but only kindnesses innumerable, and thoughtfulness, and respect. Well, there is an end of respect now. How can he have anything but scorn of me? If I were to confess to him that I had believed that story—even for one frightened moment—what could he think of me? Why, what he thinks of me now—as a base creature, ignoble, ungrateful, unworthy—oh! do you imagine I cannot read what is in that man's heart at this moment?"
"Do you imagine I cannot?" said Käthchen, boldly. "I have not been blind all these months. What is in that man's heart, Mamie, is a passionate love and devotion towards you; and there is no injury, and no insult, he would not forgive you if he thought that you—that you—well, that you cared for him a little. Oh, I know both you and him. I know that you are wilful and impulsive; and I know that he is proud, and sensitive, and reserved; but I think—I think—well, Mamie, no more words; but I am going to have my own way in this matter, and you must let me do precisely what I please."