“They were decent folk; they would say the truth if they were found—John Macgregor and his wife—they wouldna have countenanced any sin; you may believe that, mother. Folk like them would never have countenanced what was a shame to think of. I told nobody, because he said it—no one, not even Agnes. I aye hoped, and he aye hoped. But then there came the terrible news—the awfu’ news; it was in the papers. If it was not that I’m going—to him—I couldna speak of that day. Dinna ask me more. I mind nothing more, till I wakened up, and my bairn was born; and I was a disgrace and a shame!”
“No, no, Bell; no a disgrace!” cried the mother, with tears streaming from her eyes. “It was a’ for the truth that I fought—the truth. I born minded nothing more.”
“And ye believe me now, because I’m dying! there’s no other reason. I was as true then as I am now. Oh, if these decent folk were but here, that ken a’,” she cried with an effort. Another abrupt outbreak of sudden sobbing came from the other end of the room; Isabell raised herself up—partly it was the beating of her heart that forced her into an erect position, partly a curiosity, which was stronger than her self-restraint. When she saw the strangers, she uttered a sudden cry; excitement blazed up like flame, over her delicate face, lighting wild lamps in her eyes, and bringing colour to her cheeks; a gleam as of stormy sunshine came over her. “They’re here!” she cried, with an infantile laugh of pleasure, the last utterance of weakness. “Oh, make them speak! is it no true?”
“It’s Gospel,” cried the man, sobbing. “Oh, Bell, my bonnie woman, to see you come to this! it’s a’ Gospel truth. Speak out, Jean, if you’re a woman, and no a stone; speak out, I tell you! It’s true, Sir—as sure as death—as true as the Bible. God! woman, will ye no speak?”
“I’ll speak if ye’ll leave me time,” said Jean. “I’m no to be pushed that gate, and pushed the other, and never left to mysel’. She was never an ill lass. I’ve kent her since she was this height; a bit genty creature, never just like other folk. Ye ken yourself, Sir, I said we could never swear against Bell—she’s a good lass. There was some nonsense of the kind went on atween her and young Mr. Heriot—”
Isabell raised herself almost erect in her bed. Her fragile white figure shook with the heavings of her heart. But for this the flush upon her face, the overwhelming brightness of her eyes, might have banished even from the spectator most deeply interested, any idea of mortal sickness. She looked at the woman with a smile.
“I’m dying!” she said, in a voice that was strangely sweet and strong. “Answer, before God—and me. Ye’ll never see me mair—till the last day. Ye’ve my name and my bairn’s in your hands. Speak out! I ask you nae favour; speak the truth—- before God, and me.”
“Oh, Bell!” cried the woman, terrified, raising her hand to her face; “oh, dinna look at me with those blazing e’en! Sir, we meant nae harm—John and me. We never made our house a tryst, with an ill meaning. He went on his knees to me to let him see her. We wer’na the folk to lead gentlemen astray, nor lasses neither; it was not our blame.”
“Speak, ye deevil!” cried the man, furious; “or let me speak. It comes better from a woman. Who thinks of you and me? Sir, Sir! it’s a’ true.”
The tears were running down his rough face. With his stumbling, awkward step, too big for the place, he pushed forward. “If we didna come forrit before, it was for the fear o’ man,” he said. “She thought it was a story that would lose me my place—like as if we was entrapping lads to marry. Oh, Bell, forgive me! it was the fear of man.”