“Jeanie,” he said, after their first greetings were over, “I am going away.”
“Going away!” She had to grasp at his arm to support herself. “Ay,” she said, drearily, after a pause, “nae doubt; I aye kent that was how it would have to be.”
“I only knew it myself yesterday,” he said; “I have not lost a moment in telling you. How did you know that this was how it would be?”
“Oh, I kent it,” she said, holding her hands clasped to support herself; “it was easy to divine—it was no such a mystery. Weel, Maister Glen, ye’ll go to her ye’ve chosen, and ye’ll be—real happy with her. She’s bonnie, and she’s good, and she’ll give ye more, far more, than the like of us could give you. I wish ye luck with a’ my heart. Ay, a’ my heart! baith her and you.”
Jeanie withdrew a step from his side as she spoke, and her voice took something of the soft wail of the dove in the inflections and modulations which mark the native tongue of Fife. It was in a kind of soft cadence that she spoke—too soft to be tragic, but pitiful and wailing, the most pathetic of utterances. Jeanie did not rebel—it was natural, it was right; but the blow went to her heart.
“My foolish Jeanie,” he said; “what are you thinking of? Do you think it is Margaret that has sent for me? Do you think she is going to acknowledge me all at once, and that all our troubles are over? No, my dear; you are too simple and too good, my bonnie Jeanie. It is not that. Margaret takes no notice of me. I am going to Edinburgh—to a situation, not for ease, not very far away—and not to her, Jeanie. You must not give me up so soon.”
He put his arm round her, and drew her close to him; and Jeanie, though full of better resolutions, was weak with the shock she had just received. She was thankful to lean against him for a moment.
“No that—not to her? when she could settle a’ if she pleased. Eh, Rob, ladies are no like—they’re no like—”
“You, Jeanie? No; who is like you? Always kind—whatever happens, always ready to forgive. What is that in the Bible, ‘Suffereth long, and is kind.’ I think that must have been made for you.”
“Oh!” said Jeanie—like Margaret, in the soft long breath of that ejaculation—“we shouldna quote Scripture, you and me! for what we are doing is a’ wrang. Oh, Rob, it’s a’wrang! You that are troth-plighted to another lass—though she is a lady—and me, that—”