The Laurel Bush | Page 4

it was merely an outside thing, this
treatment of both as mere tutor and governess. After all (as he
sometimes said, when some special rudeness--not himself, but to
her--vexed him), they were tutor and governess; but they were

something else besides; something which, the instant their chains were
lifted off, made them feel free and young and strong, and comforted
them with comfort unspeakable.
"She bade me apologize. No, I am afraid, if I tell the absolute truth, she
did not bid me, but I do apologize."
"What for, Miss Williams?"
"For your having been brought out all this way just to go back again."
"I do not mind it, I assure you."
"And as for the lost lesson--"
"The boys will not mourn over it, I dare say. In fact, their term with me
is so soon coming to an end that it does not signify much. They told me
they are going back to England to school next week. Do you go back
too?"
"Not just yet--not till next Christmas. Mrs. Dalziel talks of wintering in
London; but she is so vague in her plans that I am never sure from one
week to another what she will do."
"And what are your plans? You always know what you intend to do."
"Yes, I think so," answered Miss Williams, smiling. "One of the few
things I remember of my mother was hearing her say of me, that 'her
little girl was a little girl who always knew her own mind.' I think I do.
I may not be always able to carry it out, but I think I know it."
"Of course," said Mr. Roy, absently and somewhat vaguely, as he stood
beside the laurel bush, pulling one of its shiny leaves to pieces, and
looking right ahead, across the sunshiny Links, the long shore of
yellow sands, where the mermaids might well delight to come and
"take hands"--to the smooth, dazzling, far-away sea. No sea is more
beautiful than that at St. Andrews.
Its sleepy glitter seemed to have lulled Robert Roy into a sudden

meditation, of which no word of his companion came to rouse him. In
truth, she, never given much to talking, simply stood, as she often did,
silently beside him, quite satisfied with the mere comfort of his
presence.
I am afraid that this Fortune Williams will be considered a very
weak-minded young woman. She was not a bit a coquette, she had not
the slightest wish to flirt with any man. Nor was she a proud beauty
desirous to subjugate the other sex; and drag them triumphantly at her
chariot wheels. She did not see the credit, or the use, or the pleasure of
any such proceeding. She was a self-contained, self-dependent woman.
Thoroughly a woman; not indifferent at all to womanhood's best
blessing; still she could live without it if necessary, as she could have
lived without anything which it had pleased God to deny her. She was
not a creature likely to die for love, or do wrong for love, which some
people think the only test of love's strength, instead of its utmost
weakness; but that she was capable of love, for all her composure and
quietness, capable of it, and ready for it, in its intensest, most
passionate, and most enduring form, the God who made her knew, if no
one else did.
Her time would come; indeed, had come already. She had too much
self-respect to let him guess it, but I am afraid she was very fond of--or,
if that is a foolish phrase, deeply attached to--Robert Roy. He had been
so good to her, at once strong and tender, chivalrous, respectful, and
kind; and she had no father, no brother, no other man at all to judge
him by, except the accidental men whom she had met in society,
creatures on two legs who wore coats and trousers, who had been civil
to her, as she to them, but who had never interested her in the smallest
degree, perhaps because she knew so little of them. But no; it would
have been just the same had she known them a thousand years. She was
not "a man's woman," that is, one of those women who feel interested
in any thing in the shape of a man, and make men interested in them
accordingly, for the root of much masculine affection is pure vanity.
That celebrated Scottish song,
"Come deaf, or come blind, or come cripple, O come, ony ane o' them

a'! Far better be married to something, Than no to be married ava,"
was a rhyme that would never have touched the stony heart of Fortune
Williams. And yet, let me own it once more, she was very, very fond of
Robert Roy. He had never spoken