'She has friends, but, as she says, none near of kin. Her nephew looks after the works--iron works, you know--he has shares in them.'
'She is evidently very lonely,' he answered gravely.
'What shall I do?' she asked, and I knew she was waiting to hear him urge her to stay; but he did not see, or at least gave no heed.
'I cannot say,' he repeated quietly. 'There are many things to consider; the estates--'
'The estates seem to trouble you,' she replied, almost fretfully.
He looked up in surprise. I wondered at his slowness.
'Yes, the estates,' he went on, 'and tenants, I suppose--your mother-in-law, your little Marjorie's future, your own future.'
'The estates are in capable hands, I should suppose,' she urged, 'and my future depends upon what I choose my work to be.'
'But one cannot shift one's responsibilities,' he replied gravely.
'These estates, these tenants, have come to you, and with them come duties.'
'I do not want them,' she cried.
'That life has great possibilities of good,' he said kindly.
'I had thought that perhaps there was work for me here,' she suggested timidly.
'Great work,' he hastened to say. 'You have done great work. But you will do that wherever you go. The only question is where your work lies.'
'You think I should go,' she said suddenly and a little bitterly.
'I cannot bid you stay,' he answered steadily.
'How can I go?' she cried, appealing to him. 'Must I go?'
How he could resist that appeal I could not understand. His face was cold and hard, and his voice was almost harsh as he replied--'If it is right, you will go--you must go.'
Then she burst forth--
'I cannot go. I shall stay here. My work is here; my heart is here. How can I go? You thought it worth your while to stay here and work, why should not I?'
The momentary gleam in his eyes died out, and again he said coldly--'This work was clearly mine. I am needed here.'
'Yes, yes!' she cried, her voice full of pain; 'you are needed, but there is no need of me.'
'Stop, stop!' he said sharply; 'you must not say so.'
'I will say it, I must say it,' she cried, her voice vibrating with the intensity of her feeling. 'I know you do not need me; you have your work, your miners, your plans; you need no one; you are strong. But,' and her voice rose to a cry, 'I am not strong by myself; you have made me strong. I came here a foolish girl, foolish and selfish and narrow. God sent me grief. Three years ago my heart died. Now I am living again. I am a woman now, no longer a girl. You have done this for me. Your life, your words, yourself--you have showed me a better, a higher life, than I had ever known before, and now you send me away.'
She paused abruptly.
'Blind, stupid fool!' I said to myself.
He held himself resolutely in hand, answering carefully, but his voice had lost its coldness and was sweet and kind.
'Have I done this for you? Then surely God has been good to me.
And you have helped me more than any words could tell you.'
'Helped!' she repeated scornfully.
'Yes, helped,' he answered, wondering at her scorn.
'You can do without my help,' she went on. 'You make people help you. You will get many to help you; but I need help, too.' She was standing before him with her hands tightly clasped; her face was pale, and her eyes deeper than ever. He sat looking up at her in a kind of maze as she poured out her words hot and fast.
'I am not thinking of you.' His coldness had hurt her deeply. 'Iam selfish; I am thinking of myself. How shall I do? I have grown to depend on you, to look to you. It is nothing to you that I go, but to me--' She did not dare to finish.
By this time Craig was standing before her, his face deadly pale.
When she came to the end of her words, he said, in a voice low, sweet, and thrilling with emotion--'Ah, if you only knew! Do not make me forget myself. You do not guess what you are doing.'
'What am I doing? What is there to know, but that you tell me easily to go? She was struggling with the tears she was too proud to let him see.
He put his hands resolutely behind him, looking at her as if studying her face for the first time. Under his searching look she dropped her eyes, and the warm colour came slowly up into her neck and face; then, as if with a sudden resolve, she lifted her eyes to his, and looked back at him unflinchingly.
He started, surprised, drew slowly near, put his hands upon her shoulders, surprise giving place to wild joy. She never moved her eyes; they drew him towards her. He took her face between his hands, smiled into her eyes, kissed her lips. She did not move; he stood back from her, threw up his head, and laughed aloud. She came to him, put her head upon his breast, and lifting up her face said, 'Kiss me.' He put his arms about her, bent down and kissed her lips again, and then reverently her brow. Then putting her back from him, but still holding both her hands, he cried--'Not you shall not go. I shall never let you go.'
She gave a little sigh of content, and, smiling up at him, said--'I can go now'; but even as she spoke the flush died from her face, and she shuddered.
'Never!' he almost shouted; 'nothing shall take you away. We shall work here together.'
'Ah, if we could, if we only could,' she said piteously.
'Why not?' he demanded fiercely.
'You will send me away. You will say it is right for me to go,'
she replied sadly.
'Do we not love each other?' was his impatient answer.
'Ah! yes, love,' she said; 'but love is not all.'
'No!' cried Craig; 'but love is the best'
'Yes!' she said sadly; 'love is the best, and it is for love's sake we will do the best.'
'There is no better work than here. Surely this is best,' and he pictured his plans before her. She listened eagerly.
'Oh! if it should be right,' she cried, 'I will do what you say.
You are good, you are wise, you shall tell me.'
