“I will remain thus, madam, under your favour,” answered Margaret, without changing her posture; “I would rather you heard me without seeing me.”
“In God's name, maiden,” returned her patroness, “what is it you can have to say, that may not be uttered face to face, to so true a friend as I am?”
Without making any direct answer, Margaret only replied, “You were right, dearest lady, when you said, I had suffered my feelings too much to engross me of late. I have done very wrong, and you will be angry with me—so will my godfather, but I cannot help it—he must be rescued.”
“He?” repeated the lady, with emphasis; “that brief little word does, indeed, so far explain your mystery;—but come from behind the chair, you silly popinjay! I will wager you have suffered yonder gay young apprentice to sit too near your heart. I have not heard you mention young Vincent for many a day—perhaps he has not been out of mouth and out of mind both. Have you been so foolish as to let him speak to you seriously?—I am told he is a bold youth.”
“Not bold enough to say any thing that could displease me, madam,” said Margaret.
“Perhaps, then, you were not displeased,” said the lady; “or perhaps he has not spoken, which would be wiser and better. Be open-hearted, my love—your godfather will soon return, and we will take him into our consultations. If the young man is industrious, and come of honest parentage, his poverty may be no such insurmountable obstacle. But you are both of you very young, Margaret—I know your godfather will expect, that the youth shall first serve out his apprenticeship.”
Margaret had hitherto suffered the lady to proceed, under the mistaken impression which she had adopted, simply because she could not tell how to interrupt her; but pure despite at hearing her last words gave her boldness at length to say “I crave your pardon, madam; but neither the youth you mention, nor any apprentice or master within the city of London—”
“Margaret,” said the lady, in reply, “the contemptuous tone with which you mention those of your own class, (many hundreds if not thousands of whom are in all respects better than yourself, and would greatly honour you by thinking of you,) is methinks, no warrant for the wisdom of your choice—for a choice, it seems, there is. Who is it, maiden, to whom you have thus rashly attached yourself?—rashly, I fear it must be.”
“It is the young Scottish Lord Glenvarloch, madam,” answered Margaret, in a low and modest tone, but sufficiently firm, considering the subject.
“The young Lord of Glenvarloch!” repeated the lady, in great surprise—“Maiden, you are distracted in your wits.”