Greatheart | Page 2

happy here," mused Biddy.
That to her mind was the only thing on earth that really mattered,
practically the only thing for which she ever troubled her Maker. Her
own wants were all amalgamated in this one great desire of her

heart--that her darling's poor torn spirit should be made happy. She had
wholly ceased to remember that she had ever wanted anything else. It
was for Miss Isabel that she desired the best rooms, the best carriages,
the best of everything. Even her love for Master Scott--poor dear young
man!--depended largely upon the faculty he possessed for consoling
and interesting Miss Isabel. Anyone who did that earned Biddy's
undying respect and gratitude. Of the rest of the world--save for a
passing disapproval--she was scarcely aware. Nothing else mattered in
the same way. In fact nothing else really mattered at all.
Ah! A movement from the bed at last! Her quick ears, ever on the alert,
warned her on the instant. She turned from the window with such
mother-love shining in her old brown face under its severe white cap as
made it as beautiful in its way as the paradise without.
"Why, Miss Isabel darlint, how you've slept then!" she said, in the soft,
crooning voice which was kept for this one beloved being alone.
Two white arms were stretched wide outside the bed. Two dark eyes,
mysteriously shadowed and sunken, looked up to hers.
"Has he gone already, Biddy?" a low voice asked.
"Only a little way, darlint. He's just round the corner," said Biddy
tenderly. "Will ye wait a minute while I give ye your tay?"
There was a spirit-kettle singing merrily in the room. She busied herself
about it, her withered face intent over the task.
The white arms fell upon the blue travelling-rug that Biddy had spread
with loving care outside the bed the night before to add to her mistress's
comfort. "When did he go, Biddy?" the low voice asked, and there was
a furtive quality in the question as if it were designed for none but
Biddy's ears. "Did he--did he leave no message?"
"Ah, to be sure!" said Biddy, turning her face for a moment. "And the
likes of me to have forgotten it! He sent ye his best love, darlint, and ye
were to eat a fine breakfast before ye went out."

The sad eyes smiled at her from the bed, half-gratified, half-incredulous,
like the eyes of a lonely child who listens to a fairy-tale. "It was like
him to think of that, Biddy. But--I wish he had stayed a little longer. I
must get up and go and find him."
"Hasn't he been with ye through the night?" asked Biddy, bent again to
her task.
"Nearly all night long!" The answer came on a note of triumph, yet
there was also a note of challenge in it also.
"Then what more would ye have?" said Biddy wisely. "Leave him
alone for a bit, darlint! Husbands are better without their wives
sometimes."
A low laugh came from the bed. "Oh, Biddy, I must tell him that! He
would love your _bon-mots_. Did he--did he say when he would be
back?"
"That he did not," said Biddy, still absorbed over the kettle. "But there's
nothing in that at all. Ye can't be always expecting a man to give
account of himself. Now, mavourneen, I'll give ye your tay, and ye'll be
able to get up when ye feel like it. Ah! There's Master Scott! And
would ye like him to come in and have a cup with ye?"
Three soft knocks had sounded on the door. The woman in the bed
raised herself, and her hair fell in glory around her, hair that at
twenty-five had been raven-black, hair that at thirty-two was white as
the snow outside the window.
"Is that you, Stumpy dear? Come in! Come in!" she called.
Her voice was hollow and deep. She turned her face to the door--a
beautiful, wasted face with hungry eyes that watched and waited
perpetually.
The door opened very quietly and unobtrusively, and a small,
insignificant man came in. He was about the size of the average

schoolboy of fifteen, and he walked with a slight limp, one leg being a
trifle shorter than the other. Notwithstanding this defect, his general
appearance was one of extreme neatness, from his colourless but
carefully trained moustache and small trim beard to his well-shod feet.
His clothes---like his beard--fitted him perfectly.
His close-cropped hair was also colourless and grew somewhat far back
on his forehead. His pale grey eyes had a tired expression, as if they
had looked too long or too earnestly upon the turmoil of life.
He came to the bedside and took the thin white hand outstretched to
him on which a wedding ring hung