He heard a faint sob; he could see that tears were gliding stealthily down her half-hidden face; and his heart was hot with anger against himself that he had caused her this pain. But how could he go away? A timid hand sought his, and held it for a brief moment with a tremulous clasp.
'I am very sorry, Ronald,' she managed to say, in a broken voice. 'I suppose it could not have been otherwise—I suppose it could not have been otherwise.'
For some time they sate in silence—though he could hear an occasional half-stifled sob. He could not pretend to think that Meenie did not understand; and this was her great pity for him; she did not drive him away in anger—her heart was too gentle for that.
'Miss Douglas,' said he at length, 'I'm afraid I've spoiled your walk for you wi' my idle story. Maybe the best thing I can do now is just to leave you.'
'No—stay,' she said, under her breath; and she was evidently trying to regain her composure. 'You spoke—you spoke of that girl—O Ronald, I wish I had never come to Glasgow!—I wish I had never heard what you told me just now!'
And then, after a second—
'But how could I help it—when I heard what was happening to you, and all the wish in the world I had was to know that you were brave and well and successful and happy? I could not help it! ... And now—and now—Ronald,' she said, as if with a struggle against that choking weight of sobs; for much was demanded of her at this moment; and her voice seemed powerless to utter all that her heart prompted her to say, 'if—if that girl you spoke of—if she was to see clearly what is best for her life and for yours—if she was to tell you to take up your work again, and work hard, and hard, and hard—and then, some day, it might be years after this, when you came back again to the north, you would find her still waiting?——'
'Meenie!'
He grasped her hand: his face was full of a bewilderment of hope—not joy, not triumph, but as if he hardly dared to believe what he had heard.
'O Ronald,' she said, in a kind of wild way,—and she turned her wet eyes towards him in full, unhesitating abandonment of affection and trust, nor could she withdraw the hand that he clasped so firmly,—'what will you think of me?—what will you think of me?—but surely there should be no hiding or false shame, and surely there is for you and for me in the world but the one end to hope for; and if not that—why, then, nothing. If you go away, if you have nothing to hope for, it will be the old misery back again, the old despair; and as for me—well, that is not of much matter. But, Ronald—Ronald—whatever happens—don't think too hardly of me—I know I should not have said so much—but it would just break my heart to think you were left to yourself in Glasgow—with nothing to care for or hope for——'