“Lad, gin ye fa’ by Chairlie’s side,
To rid this land o’ shame,
There will na be a prouder bride
Than her ye left at hame;
But I will see ye whaur ye sleep
Frae lowlands to the peat,
And ilka nicht at mirk I’ll creep
To lay me at yer feet.”
“You sing well,” said Christian when he had stopped; “now go.”
She inclined her head and turned from the window. As his broad back, so grotesque in its strange nearness to the ground, passed out between the gate-posts of Ardguys, she went over to the mantelpiece.
Her face was set, and she stood with clasped hands gazing into the fireplace. She was deeply moved, but not by the song, which only stirred her to bitterness, but by the searching tones of the beggar’s voice, that had smitten a way through which her feelings surged to and from her heart. The thought that Archie had not utterly broken away from her unnerved her by the very relief it brought. She had not known till now how much she had suffered from what had passed between them. Her power was not all gone. She was not quite alone. She would have scorned to admit that she could not stand in complete isolation, and she admitted nothing, even to herself. She only stood still, her nerves quivering, making no outward sign.
Presently she rang a little hand-bell that was on the table.
The genteel-minded maid appeared.
“Mysie,” said Madam Flemington, “in three days I shall go to Edinburgh.”
[*] Stomach.