CHAPTER XI. THE LAST DROP IN THE CUP OF BITTERNESS.
We wanted Janet with us; but Bessie clung to her, and we did not insist on our wish, being loath to rob our neighbor of the comfort which Janet's company afforded her.
In less than half a twelvemonth after Steenie's death a son was born to perpetuate his name. Great was the mother's joy, and great was the joy of us all, though we rejoiced in trembling because of our persecutors. The bairn was christened Stephen, as may be supposed. He was a fair, fine child. Soon he laughed and crowed, quite unconscious that he had come into a world of trouble.
Sometimes, in my visits to Janet and the bairn, I saw Robert; and sometimes we were left alone together. His manner towards me was always gentle and considerate; and I felt drawn towards him, whether because of Steenie's dying injunction, or from some other cause, I cannot rightly tell. One evening as he accompanied me home, he said as we parted, "Effie, I wish we had lived in other times, or that we may outlive this evil time, that I may make known to you the dearest wish of my heart."
He said no more; but he pressed my hand, and I heard a sigh as he turned away. I had for a long time known that he loved me, but I never appreciated till then the affection of his warm, honest heart. I have no doubt that if he had known the change in my feelings towards him he would have been encouraged to say more. But that was a long way back in the past, very long, it seems to me.
But time wore on. I kept myself always busy, for that is the best way to get through trouble. Besides there was need that I should be employed. I had an eye over Jamie's bairns, for their mother was thronged with labors and cares. Her stout heart and ready hand had enough to do to keep above want. Many a garment did I make for them from those of the dead, who were now clad in purer robes. I had our own home to keep also, for mother was feeble; and, with all our other troubles, I had constantly to bear up under the pressure of poverty.
We were in this situation when Richie, whose health had gradually failed since his terrible captivity, took to his bed, never to rise again. This was in the spring of 1684, and before the heather bloomed he was laid to rest.
Death is always sad; but we who had witnessed so many deaths by the hand of man could not but feel that in Richie's case the sting had been less sharp. He had breathed his last peacefully in his bed; yet we knew that his end was brought on by the exposure in Edinburgh.
Ellen came to us. She was now alone, her two children having died of fever a few months before their father's death. We welcomed her, for we had need to gather about us the few friends that were left us. Yet we could ill afford to feed another out of our scanty means. If Ellen had been like Margaret, she would have found a way to earn an honest penny herself. But there have always been differences in folk, and there always will be. "The ane can do, and the ither maun be done for; and we will not be hard on Ellen," said my mother. We had few of our kin left. She was company for us. At best, the days passed wearily, the evenings were dull and sad, and the nights often brought no sleep. We still lived in fear and dread, although we felt that our best had already been taken from us, and whatever could come to us now must be less than that which we had already suffered.