The advantage to one who writes, not a tale of imagination, but a simple record of events, is this: He need not be bound by the recognized canons of the story-telling art—need not exercise his to mislead his reader—need not suppress some things and lay stress on others to create mysteries to be cleared up at the end of the tale. Therefore, using the privilege of a plain narrator, I shall here give some account of what became of Miss Rowan, as, so far as[235] I can remember, I heard it some time from her own lips.
The old Scotchwoman’s funeral over, and those friends who had been present departed, Madeline was left in the little farm-house alone, save for the presence of the two servants. Several kind bodies had offered to come and stay with her, but she had declined the offers. She was in no mood for company, and perhaps being of such a different race and breed, would not have found much comfort in the rough sympathy which was offered to her. She preferred being alone with her grief—grief which after all was bound to be much lightened by the thought of her own approaching happiness, for the day was drawing near when her lover would cross the border and bear his bonny bride away. She felt sure that she would not be long alone—that the moment Carriston heard of her aunt’s death he would come to her assistance. In such a peaceful, God-fearing neighborhood she had no fear of being left without protection. Moreover, her position in the house was well-defined. The old woman, who was childless, had left her niece all of which she died . So Madeline to wait quietly until she heard from her lover.
Still there were business matters to be attended to, and at the funeral Mr. Douglas, of Callendar, the executor under the will, had suggested that an early interview would be desirable. He offered to drive out to the little farm the next day, but Miss Rowan, who had to see to some feminine necessaries which could only be supplied by shops, decided that she would come to the town instead of troubling Mr. Douglas to drive so far out.
Madeline, in spite of the element in her character, was a brave girl, and in spite of her refined style of beauty, strong and healthy. Early hours were the rule in that home, so before seven o’clock in the morning she was ready to start on her drive to the little town. At first she thought of taking with her the boy who did the rough out-door work; but he was busy about something or other, and besides, was a lad who would be certain to the whole way, and this morning Miss Rowan wanted no companions save her own thoughts of sadness and joy. She knew every inch of the road; she feared no evil; she would be home again long before nightfall; the was quiet and sure-footed—so away went Madeline in the strong vehicle on her lonely twelve miles’ drive through the fair scenery.
She passed few people on the road. Indeed, she remembered meeting no one except one or two pedestrian tourists, who like sensible men were doing a portion of their day’s task in the early morning. I have no doubt but Miss Rowan seemed to them a passing vision of loveliness.
But when she was a mile or two from Callendar, she saw a boy on a pony. The boy, who must have known her by sight, stopped and handed her a telegram. She had to pay several shillings for the delivery, or intended delivery of the message, so far from the station. The boy away, congratulating himself on having been spared a long ride, and Miss Rowan tore open the envelope left in her hands.
The message was brief: “Mr. Carr is seriously ill. Come at once. You will be met in London.”
Madeline did not scream or faint. She gave one low moan of pain, set her teeth, and with the face of one in a dream drove as quickly as she could to Callendar, straight to the railway station.
Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, she had money with her, so she did not waste time in going to Mr. Douglas. In spite of the crushing blow she had received the girl had all her wits about her. A train would start in ten minutes’ time. She took her ticket, then found an idler outside the station, and paid him to take the pony and carriage back to the farm, with the message as repeated to Carriston.
The journey passed like a long dream. The girl could think of nothing but her lover, dying, dying—perhaps dead before she could reach him. The miles flew by unnoticed; crept on; the carriage grew dark; at last—London at last! Miss Rowan stepped out on the broad platform, not knowing wh............