She made a long course to the Spindle after this, and I avow that it was a long walk for a young lady alone; but then she was in a condition in which our own thoughts are our best companions; and she liked the soft silence, the long meditative walk, the murmur of the sea. The day was fine, and shone with that pathetic brightness which a Scotch summer day so often has after a storm—as if Nature made anxious amends to her children for those frequent interruptions which she could not prevent. The sea was full, washing up to the very foot of the grey fantastic rock. Little blue wavelets, fairy curls of foam, crept about it, as if trying to soften the silent giant. They came up in little child-like rushes, as of glee irrepressible, to the very edge of the mossy grass; and Marjory had not been long there before she perceived the girl in, whom she had been so much interested, wrapped in a shawl, and seated in her former place before the door of the cottage. An old woman, with the old “mutch,” bound with a black ribbon, which has almost fallen out of use in Scotland, stood in the doorway. She had just placed a pillow to support the sick girl, and was looking at her wistfully, with an evident love, which had seriousness, and even severity, in it. Marjory went up to her with some eagerness. She was welcomed with a smile from the girl, who rose faltering in her pleasure. “Eh! but I’m glad to see you!” she cried; then dropped into her chair, too weak to stand. She seemed to Marjory to look even feebler than on the previous day.
“Good day!” said Marjory, addressing the old woman at the door; “I am afraid she is very weak; has the storm harmed her? and will you let me ask if she has the wine and strengthening food she requires? I beg your pardon if I am taking a liberty.”
Scotch cottagers are not always to be depended on in such particulars. Marjory knew that she might be speaking to some one as proud as a grand-duchess, though arrayed in an ancient mutch.
“I thank ye kindly, mem,” said the old woman, “we need nothing; but it was a kind thought. Na, she’s wanting for nothing, nothing; except an easy conscience, and the comfort of them that tell the truth.”
“Poor child,” said Marjory; “I am sure she tells the truth.”
“And that I do!” said the girl. “Oh, leddy, you said God never misunderstood; bless you for that; but whiles the best in this world do, and the kindest—Oh, mother, dinna speak. This lady’s heart speaks for me; she does not blame me. Tell her nothing but what I tell her. And if you would be real good and kind, mother dear, let me speak to her in peace.”
“I’ll do that!” said the mother, with a movement of anger; but in another moment she called Marjory aside with a sudden gesture, and whispered to her. “This lass,” she said, solemnly, “God help her; she’ll never be better; she’s my youngest, and she dying before my very ein. But she’s dying with something on her conscience; she tells me one story, and this horrible world believes another. She’s taken a great fancy to you. Oh, my bonnie leddy, take pity upon a poor family that’s heart-broken; bid her no go down to the grave with a lie in her right hand. I’ll forgive all the meesery and the shame if she’ll tell the truth.”
Tears were glittering in the woman’s eyes; tears which did not fall, but moistened the eyelids with a painful dew—though the eyes were red, as if they had wept much.
“If I were in your place I would believe her,” said Marjory. “Did she ever tell you lies before?”
“Never, never! never till now!” cried the mother; and two tears fell on the apron which she raised to her eyes hastily; but she added: “She never had any occasion; she never did a thing to be ashamed of—my poor, poor bairn!—till now.”