"What?" said the cold-blooded Italian; "wilt thou become my wife?" These words recalled Mary's wandering senses, but only to consign them to the power of exhausted nature. She fell senseless at the feet of her perfidious persecutor. Approaching footsteps were at this instant heard, which caused the Italian to retreat; and, when Mary recovered, she found herself in the arms of her father, who led her slowly home.
When examined by her father, Mary pretended that some unknown person had surprised her on the hill. Her father stated that he thought he perceived Giulio Massetto part from her when he came up. To this she gave no very distinct answer, pretending that she was not very sure whether it was Giulio or not. This was not at all satisfactory to her father, because he was aware that she had fainted in consequence of the violence of the person who had suddenly left her on his approach; and if Giulio had been the individual, she could not have failed to know him. He felt unwilling, however, to press his daughter farther, because she seemed quite incapable of supporting any lengthened conversation on this subject, which seemed to be one of great pain to her.
The weight upon the mind of Mary increased; for she was now overcome by a feeling of total dependence upon the will of another. The depression of spirits produced by this accession to her disquietude acted with increased force on her frame, which daily became more attenuated. It was observed that she now ceased entirely from speaking of Giulio Massetto with disrespect or anger. When his name was mentioned, she was spell-bound and silent. One night a noise was heard at the window, as if some person had tapped at it in a peculiar and concerted way. William Glenday looked at his daughter, and asked what it was; she replied it was rats, and that she had heard the sound often. In a short interval, however, she arose from her seat, and signified to her father that she had occasion to leave the house for a few minutes. The latter asked her whither she intended to go, adding, that, in her present weak state, she had better remain in the house. She replied, she was just going to visit a neighbour; and her father not having suspected any connection between the sound at the window and the departure of his daughter, offered no further opposition to her expressed wish.
It was about ten o'clock when Mary went out; eleven struck, and she was no yet come home. William Glenday became alarmed, and sent to inquire if she was in the neighbour's house she had mentioned. The servant came back, and informed him that she had not called there for many months. This increased her father's alarm, and he ran immediately over to the house of John Connal, to inquire if she was there. John said that he had not seen her for some days; but his affection for her suggested stronger dread than that felt even by her father; and seizing his hat, he rushed out of the house to search for the object nearest to his heart. On going round the King's Park, he thought he observed two people standing in the shadow of a house at the corner of the clump of trees, called at that time the "King's Orchard." On coming nearer, he heard the voice of Giulio Massetto, and then that of Mary Glenday. He was struck with intense agony. Could it be that he was now, in his turn, the unsuccessful rival of the Italian? Everything indicated that fact; and his fancy, fired by jealousy, now saw distinctly the reason why Mary would not consent to name another day for their marriage. Her statements about the murder of his father were used as a device to get quit of her obligation and pledge to him, and leave her at liberty to wed his rival. Her bad health was produced by the intensity of a new passion, and the struggle between conscience and inclination. Her distress, on being surprised by her father on the night of their visit to Duddingston, was all affectation; for, as her father himself had stated, she had been in the company of the Italian, and wished to conceal it.
Stung to the heart by this supposed baseness on the part of his lover, John went forward, determined that either he or Giulio should die on the spot. Before he came up, however, the pair separated—the Italian going one way, and Mary another. John followed Mary, and overtook her.
"Is that you, Mary Glenday?" he cried. "What are ye doing here at this time o' nicht?"
"O John, dinna ask me what I'm doing here," answered Mary; "but let me get hame, where I hae mair need to be than in this place at sic an untimous hour."
"Why are ye here, then, Mary?" said John, with asperity.
"Because I have need to be here," answered she. "And if ye love me, dinna, for heaven's sake, ask me ony mair aboot it."
"Had Giulio, the Italian, need to be here too?" asked John, significantly.