“Thank ye, my leddy,” said Geordie; “an’ whan I need mair, I’ll just tak the liberty o’ makin yer leddyship my banker. Guid day, my leddy.” And, with a low bow, reaching nearly to the ground, he departed.
The result of this interview satisfied Geordie that what he had suspected was true. Sir Marmaduke had not yet returned, and his lady, having been unfaithful to him, and given birth to a child, had resolved upon putting it out of the way, in the manner already detailed. He had no doubt that the lady thought the child was dead; and he did not wish, in the meantime, to disturb that notion; for, although he knew that the circumstance of the child being alive would give him greater power over her, in the event of her becoming refractory, he was apprehensive that she would not have allowed the child to remain in his keeping; and might, in all likelihood, resort to some desperate scheme to destroy it.
On returning home, Geordie drew his seat to the fire, and sat silent. His mother, who was sitting opposite to him, asked him if he had earned any money that day, wherewith he could buy some clothes for the child he had undertaken to bring up. With becoming gravity, and without appearing to feel that any remarkable change had taken place upon his finances, Geordie slowly put his hand into his pocket, drew out the twenty pounds, and gave his mother one for interim expenditure. As he returned the money into his pocket, he said, with an air of the most supreme nonchalance, “If ye want ony mair, ye can let me ken.”
The mother and daughter looked at each other with surprise and astonishment, mixed with some pleasure, and, perhaps, some apprehension. Neither of them put any question as to where the money had been got; for Geordie’s look had already informed them that any such question would not be answered.
Meanwhile, no great change seemed to have been produced in Geordie Willison’s manner of living, in consequence of his having become comparatively rich. He lounged about the streets, joking with his acquaintances—went his messages—sometimes appeared with a crowd of boys after him—dressed in the same style—and, altogether, was just the same kind of person he used to be.
Time passed, and precisely on the same day next year he went to Lady Maitland’s. In the passage, he was met by the housekeeper, Louise Grecourt, who asked him what he wanted. He looked at her intently, and recognised in this person’s voice the same tones which had arrested his ears so forcibly on the night of the attempted murder of the child. To make himself more certain of this, Geordie led her into conversation.
“I want my Leddy Maitland,” answered Geordie—“are ye her leddyship?”
“No,” answered the housekeeper, with a kick of her head, which Geordie took as a sign that his bait had been swallowed; “I am not Lady Maitland—I am in de charge of her ladyship’s house. Vat you vant vit her ladyship? Can Louise Grecourt not satisfy a fellow like you?”
“No exactly at present,” answered Geordie; “tell her leddyship that Geordie Willison wants to speak to her.”
Louise started when he mentioned his name, certifying Geordie that she was in the secret of his knowledge. Her manner changed. She became all condescension; and, leading him up stairs, opened a door, and showed him into a room where Lady Maitland was sitting.