“That's it, Kate; you understand, don't you? A chance. I'm a boy no longer. I want to be a better man—” The sentence trailed off, for the Chamberlain could not but see himself in the most contemptible of lights.
“A better man!” said she, her knitting and her hands drowned in her lap, her countenance hollow and wan. “Lord keep me, a better man! And am I to be any the better woman when my old lover is turned righteous? Have you no' a thought at all for me when I'm to be left with him that's not my actual husband, left without love, hope, or self-respect? God help poor women! It's Milk-and-Water then; that's settled, and I'm to see you at the kirk with her for a lifetime of Sundays after this, an honest woman, and me what I am for you that have forgotten me—forgotten me! I was as good as she when you knew me first, Sim; I was not bad, and oh, my God! but I loved you, Sim Mac-Taggart!”
“Of all that's damnable,” said the Chamberlain to himself, “there's nothing beats a whining woman!” He was in a mortal terror that her transports could be heard across the room, and that would be to spoil all with a vengeance.
“God pity women!” she went on. “It's a lesson. I was so happy sometimes that it frightened me, and now I know I was right.”
“What do you say, my dear?” cried out Petullo across the room, suspiciously. He fancied he had heard an over-eager accent in her last words, that were louder spoken than all that had gone before. Fortunately he could not make out her face as he looked, otherwise he would have seen, as Montaiglon did with some surprise, a mask of Tragedy.
“I'm giving Mr. MacTaggart my congratulations on his coming marriage,” said she quickly, with a miraculous effort at a little laugh, and the Chamberlain cursed internally.
“Oh! it's that length, is it?” said Petullo with a tone of gratification. “Did I no' tell you, Kate? You would deny't, and now you have the best authority. Well, well, it's the way we a' maun gang, as the auld blin' woman said, and here's wishing you the best o' luck!”
He came across to shake hands, but the Chamberlain checked him hurriedly.
“Psha!” said he. “Madame's just a little premature, Mr. Petullo; there must be no word o' this just now.”
“Is it that way?” said Petullo. “Likely the Baron's thrawn. Man, he hasna a roost, and he should be glad—” He stopped on reflection that the Frenchman was an intimate of the family he spoke of, and hastily returned to his side without seeing the pallor of his wife.