“Hout,” said Ratcliffe, “what signifies keeping the poor lassie in a swither? I’se uphaud it’s been Robertson that learned ye that doctrine when ye saw him at Muschat’s Cairn.”
“Was it him?” said Effie, catching eagerly at his words—“was it him, Jeanie, indeed?—O, I see it was him—poor lad, and I was thinking his heart was as hard as the nether millstane—and him in sic danger on his ain part—poor George!”
Somewhat indignant at this burst of tender feeling towards the author of her misery, Jeanie could not help exclaiming—“O Effie, how can ye speak that gate of sic a man as that?”
“We maun forgie our enemies, ye ken,” said poor Effie, with a timid look and a subdued voice; for her conscience told her what a different character the feelings with which she regarded her seducer bore, compared with the Christian charity under which she attempted to veil it.
“And ye hae suffered a’ this for him, and ye can think of loving him still?” said her sister, in a voice betwixt pity and blame.
“Love him!” answered Effie—“If I hadna loved as woman seldom loves, I hadna been within these wa’s this day; and trow ye, that love sic as mine is lightly forgotten?—Na, na—ye may hew down the tree, but ye canna change its bend—And, O Jeanie, if ye wad do good to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he was sorry for poor Effie or no!”
“What needs I tell ye onything about it?” said Jeanie. “Ye may be sure he had ower muckle to do to save himsell, to speak lang or muckle about ony body beside.”
“That’s no true, Jeanie, though a saunt had said it,” replied Effie, with a sparkle of her former lively and irritable temper. “But ye dinna ken, though I do, how far he pat his life in venture to save mine.” And looking at Ratcliffe, she checked herself and was silent.