The last words were a masterpiece of insolent civility.
A gilt-framed glass hung on the wall, one of the possessions that she had brought with her from France. David suddenly caught sight of his own head reflected in it above the lace cravat for which he had paid so much; the spectacle gathered up his recollections and his present mortification, and fused them into one stab of hurt vanity.
“I see that you can make no further use of me,” he said.
“None.”
He walked out of the room. At the door he turned and bowed.
“If you will allow me, I will call for my horse myself,” said he.
He went out of the house and she stood where she was, thinking of what he had told her about his brother; she had set her heart upon Archie’s success in taking Logie, and now the man had left the country and his chance was gone. The proposal to which she had just listened did not matter to her one way or the other, though he had offended her by the attitude he took up when making it. He was unimportant. It was of Archie that she thought as she watched the judge and his servant ride away between the ash-trees. They were crossing the Kilpie burn when her maid came in, bringing a letter. The writing on it was strange to Christian.
“Who has brought this?” she asked as she opened it.
“Just a callant,” replied the girl.
She read the letter, which was short. It was signed ‘R. Callandar, Captain,’ and was written at Archie Flemington’s request to tell her that he was under arrest at Brechin on a charge of conspiring with the king’s enemies.