The Underworld Part 35

"You are lookin' a wee better the nicht, Matthew," said Mrs. Maitland after a long thoughtful pause, as she drew in her chair beside his.

"Ay, I'm feelin' no' sae bad," he answered feebly. Then, as if having made up his mind about something, he went on, as he looked into the glowing fire, "Do you ken, wife, I hae been thinkin' a lot aboot oor Mysie a' day. I wonder what'll be the cause o't? But a' day she has been in my mind, an' I only hope naething has come to her."

"I dinna ken, Matthew," she said; for this was the first time he had spoken about their missing daughter since the day they had learned of her disappearance. He had always remained silent when she had given expression to her thoughts regarding Mysie; but thinking this an encouragement, she spoke about her, and he too, in a way that made her wonder; for he was never talkative at any time, and it seemed as if his heart was hungering to talk of their bairn.

"I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin's o' her could be got. Puir Mysie! I liket that wean, wife--liket her maybe owre weel; an'

my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin' what has come o'

her!"

Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough ap.r.o.n and wiped her eyes, as she cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missing daughter.

"Do you think she'll be living, Matthew?" she asked looking through her tears at her husband anxiously.

"That's hard to say, wife," he replied, a break in his voice. "Sometimes I think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way. I think we liket her weel enough, an' she kent it, and she was ay a guid la.s.sie at a' times."

"Ay, she was," replied the mother, "a guid bairn, an' a clever yin aboot the hoose; an' I never had an angry word frae her a' my days. Oh, Matthew," she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbing pitifully, "what is't we hae done to be tried like this? Mysie gane, an'

guid kens where she is, an' John ta'en awa' jist when oor battle was beginnin' to get easier. Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel', an' G.o.d kens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose! Oh, dear, but it's a hard lot we hae to suffer!" and she sobbed in silence, while her husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weeping eyes.

"Wheesht, la.s.sie!" he said brokenly. "Dinna you break doon noo, for you hae been the mainstay o' us a', when we wad hae lost heart often. I used to think that oor lot couldna be harder, when the bairns were a' wee, an' we were struggling frae haun' to mooth, to see them fed an' cled.

But wi' a' the hards.h.i.+ps, thae days were happy. We were baith young, an'

I was aye fairly healthy an' when we locked the door at nicht, we were satisfied that a' that belanged to us were inside, an' in safety, even though their wee stomachs maybe werena' ower fu'. But noo we canna do that, wife. Some hae gane to where want an' poverty canna hurt them, an'

that is a consolation; but where will oor la.s.sie be, that never gi'ed us a wrang word a' her days? Is she in want this nicht, the same as we are oorsels? Will she be hungry an' homeless, ill clad, an' oot in the storm? If she is, then G.o.d peety her. If only we had her aside us, hunger wad be easier tholed for us a'," and Matthew, unable to control himself longer, completely broke down and wept, mingling his tears with those of his wife, because of their misery and poverty and suffering.

The girl outside could hardly restrain herself at thus hearing her parents speak. She sobbed and held on to the window ledge, her eyes fixed greedily upon the open c.h.i.n.k in the shutter, listening to, and looking at her parents in their misery, as they sat and talked so kindly and anxiously about her--talked so that every word was a stab at her heart; for she had never heard them open their hearts like this before.

"Ay, wife," he said after a time, "it was a sair blow to me. I could hae fain dee'd at the time; I was fair heartbroken. It's a gey queer world that brings the keenest pangs frae them that yin likes best. I could hae dee'd gladly to hae saved that bairn frae the slightest hurt!"

"Matthew," said the mother, speaking with all her soul in her eyes, as she looked at him, "if by ony chance it should turn oot that Mysie gaed wrang an' fell into disgrace, wad ye tak' her back, if she should come hame again?" and there was a world of pleading in the mother's voice as she spoke.

"Tak' her back! Oh, G.o.d, I'd dae onything to hae her here at this meenit, nae matter though it should be proved that she was guilty o' the warst sin under the sun. Tak' her back! Oh, wife! my heart is breakin'

for her!" and he lifted his thin worn hand to his eyes and sobbed in his grief.

"Weel, Matthew," returned the wife, "if ever she does come back, nae matter when it may be, or hoo it may be, I'm glad you'll no be harsh wi'

her. You'll just speak to her as if naething had happened; for I ken she'll be mair feart to face you than onybody else. Jist try an' mak'

her believe, when you speak, that she had gane awa' to the store a message, or to the well for watter, an' that she had bidden owre lang, as she an' ither weans used to do when they got started the play, an'

forget to come hame. Jist speak to her that way, Matthew, an' the hame-comin', if ever it comes, will no' be sae hard for the puir bairn.

For G.o.d knows, it micht be hard enough for her!"

The girl outside, listening eagerly to every word, tried to cry out with the pain of all this talk by her parents, but her tongue clove to her parched mouth, and her lips were stiff and dry.

"I'll never be harsh wi' a bairn o' mine, wife," he replied brokenly. "I liket Mysie owre weel ever to be harsh wi' her. Oh, if only I could see her afore me this nicht, I wad gie a' I ever had in the world. To hae her sittin' here, as she used to sit, her wee heid wi' its soft hair against my knee, an' my haun clappin' it, an' her bonnie een lookin' up at me, as if I was something she aye looket up to, as bein' better than ony living being she ever kenned, wad be mair pleasure for me this minute than if I got a' the money in the world. I'd swap heaven and my chances o' salvation, wife, jist to hae her sittin' here on the fender, as she used to sit. Hunger an' a' the rest wad be easy borne for that."

There was a soft rustling sound at the window as he spoke, and a slow step was heard, which seemed to drag along towards the door, then a fumbling at the sneck, the handle lifted, and the door opened slowly inwards, as if reluctant to reveal its secret.

It was a tense poignant moment for all; for both the father and mother, weak as the former was, rose to their feet expectantly, their eyes searching the slowly opening door, as a thin pale draggled figure entered and staggered forward with a low pitiful cry of "Faither!

Mother! I've come hame!" and tottering forward, fell at Matthew's feet, clasping his knees with the thin fragile hands, while the tears of a heart-breaking sorrow flowed from the appealing eyes, upturned to the amazed parents.

"Mysie! Mysie!" he sobbed, clasping her to his thin worn knees, and kissing the bent head, as she sobbed and cried. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! but you hae been a lang time at the store!"

CHAPTER XXIII

HOME

"Oh my puir wean! My bonnie bairn!" crooned Mrs. Maitland, as she bent over the figure of her daughter who, clinging to Matthew's knees, was looking up into his face, as he lay back in his chair where he had fallen, when Mysie fell at his feet. "Oh, my puir lamb, you're wet to the skin, an' fair done; for G.o.d knows its an' awfu' mess you hae cam'

hame in."

"Puir thing," she wailed and crooned, again breaking out after having kissed and fondled Mysie's wet face. "We hae lang hungered for you--hungered for you for a gey lang time, an' noo you hae cam' hame, near to daith's door. But we'll nurse you back. We'll mak' you strong and healthy again. Oh, Mysie, my puir la.s.sie. What ails you? Where hae you been? What has happened to you a' this time? But what am I thinking aboot," she broke off, "sitting here, when I should be gettin' some dry claes for you, an' a bed ready."

She rose and began to busy herself shaking up a bed and diving into drawers, bringing clean clothes forth and hanging them over a piece of rope which stretched across the fireplace, so as to air and heat them, the tears streaming from her eyes and occasionally a low moan breaking from her as if forced by some inward pain; while Matthew, nearly overcome with excitement, could only lie back in his chair, his eyes closed and his hands stroking tenderly the wet young head that lay against his knee.

"Faither," murmured Mysie, brokenly and weakly, "oh, faither, I've come back. Jist let me lie here near you. I jist want you to clap my held, to lean against you, an' gang to sleep. Are you angry wi' me, faither? Are you--" and Mysie's eyes closed in a faint, as she lay limp against his knee.

Just then the door opened and Mrs. Sinclair came in. She always came in, after she had got everyone in the house to bed, to see how Matthew felt.

It was her first errand in the morning and her last before retiring at night. She was generally the last visitor, and the door was always locked and barred when she went away.

"Oh, Nellie, come awa' in," said Matthew. "You're a G.o.d's send this nicht. I'm glad to see you. Mysie's jist cam' back, an' she has fented.

Gie's a bit haun' wi' her to get her into bed. Puir thing. She's fair done up," and Matthew tried to raise up the prostrate figure of his bairn; but sank back too weak, and too overcome to do anything.

"Dinna you trouble yourself, Matthew," said Mrs. Sinclair, gathering the prostrate girl in her arms and raising her up on her knee like a child.

"Bring some dry claes. Jenny, an' get some warm watter bottles in the bed. Puir thing, she's in an awfu' state. She's a' tremblin' an' maun hae been awfu' ill," and she worked with and stripped the wet clothes from the girl and soon had her in bed, but in spite of all her efforts Mysie remained unconscious. She then left to get the doctor summoned, leaving the sorrowing parents to look after the girl till she returned.

When she did come back, Matthew was in bed and his condition very much worse. The excitement had been too much for him in his weakened state and he lay exhausted, crying like a child.

Soon the doctor came and did all in his power. At the end of an hour Mysie's eyes opened and she looked about her.

"Where's my faither?" she asked weakly. "Oh, I'm gled I'm hame."

"He's in bed," answered Mrs. Sinclair. "An' you're no' to talk the nicht, Mysie. Jist lie still, like a good la.s.s, an' drink this, an' in the mornin' you'll may be a bit better." And Mysie drank, and with a sigh of happy contentment, she turned her face to the wall, glad she was now at home--home with her wounded spirit and broken life.

The soft easy chaff bed gave her more of rest and satisfaction than if it had been eiderdown. She traced as of old the roses upon the cheap paper with which the box bed was papered, and which had been her mother's pride when it was put on. Mysie watched the twining and intertwining of the roses, as they reached upward toward the ceiling through a maze of woodbine and red carnations, and noted that the curtains upon the bed were the same as they were when she had last slept there.

The old wag-at-the-wa' clock which had belonged to her grandfather, wheezed wearily from the corner and the shrill eerie call of a courting cat outside broke familiarly upon her ear. Thus surrounded by the sights and sounds of old, a glad contentment in her heart, she soon dozed off into a deep sleep.

When Mrs. Sinclair went home just as midnight was striking she found Robert sitting by the fire wondering at her absence. He had just returned from a meeting at a neighboring village, and finding his brothers and sisters all in bed and his mother not in the house with his tea ready for him as usual, he wondered what was the matter.

"I was owre at Matthew's," she replied in answer to the question she knew he was going to ask.

"Is he waur the nicht?" he asked quickly.

"Weel, it's no' him, although he's gey upset too; but Mysie has cam'

hame the nicht, an' puir la.s.sie she is in an awfu' state," and she was quick to note the soft blanching of his cheek as she spoke.

"Mysie hame," he echoed with quick interest.

"Ay, puir la.s.sie; but I doot if I'm no' cheated that Mysie'll no' be lang anywhere. The doctor says she's to be keepit quate; for she's gey low. In fact he felt me at the door that he dinna think she could last a week."