“Lucy Murray.”
I was roused by Lucy’s letter, roused in some degree to remember my manhood, and to think how I wasted it; but one struggle does not overcome a grief like this. So I fell into a bitterly selfish mood, contrasting her lot with mine—her cold womanlike submission with my self-torture—and while I thought of the conclusion of her letter, with a certain degree of idle languid wonder, I hugged my calamity closer to my heart. No one had fallen from so bright a heaven into so blank an earth as I; no one had ever equalled my misfortune, and who but myself could comprehend my grief.
The wailing breeze suited me; I opened the window and leaned out, resting my brow upon my hands. Heavy raindrops fell from the eaves upon my unsheltered head—I did not heed them.
The sound of voices below arrested my attention; I remember wondering that they did. No later than the day before they would have made me shrink into myself jealously, in fear of contact with the speakers; now I only remained still and listened.
“My good woman, I want to see Mr Graeme,” said a strange voice; “I assure you I will take no denial from you, so it is needless to keep me here on the damp soil—my feet are quite wet enough already.”
“Your feet are nae concern o’ mine,” said Mrs Mense, with some ill-humour in her tone; “nae doubt ye can change them when ye gang hame, like other folk. But my maister’s no heeding about seeing strangers; and sae I tell ye—no meaning ony disrespect—once for a’.”
“But your master does not choose to let you answer for him, I presume,” said the stranger. “You can surely ask him at least.”
“And wha has as guid a right to answer for him, puir lad!” said Mrs Mense, her voice sinking to an under-tone, “as me, that have fended for him a’ his days? I tell ye there’s nae need for asking, Sir; I ken weel enough he’ll no see onybody.”
“This is insufferable!” said the applicant for admission. “Here, my good girl, do you go and tell your master that I want particularly to speak with him—I, Doctor Pulvers of Edinburgh.”
“Eh, I daurna for my life!” exclaimed the shriller voice of Janet, Mrs Mense’s niece; “I wadna face Mossgray for—”