hear. He called her by the foulest of woman’s names, and almost struck her. Then it was that her tears ceased. Her blood began to rise; her eyes lost their look of mild reproach, and kindled into rage. She rose up, with the child in her arms, flushed with passion. She pointed to the door, talking thickly. She placed the baby on the bed, and cried:
“Out o’ this house, man!—and God forgie ye for your fause leein’ names. Awa’, I say, ye coward! Ye fause-hearted, puir-spirited coward! Awa wi’ ye!”
He retreated unconsciously, before her dark flushing face.
“Shame on ye for a sinner, Jessie Cameron!” he cried fiercely, as he crossed the threshold. She closed the door after him. The place swam round her—dark blots floated before her eyes—and she fell on the floor heavily, with a hysterical sob. The excitement had been too much for her.
There she lay, a thing piteous to see, with only half her senses about her, the most innocent of human beings. The hours passed on; but there she lay, oblivious to all save her own misfortune. The baby fell asleep, and lay quiet as a lamb.
If the reader has followed me thus far, he will have detected the stupid clumsiness of the scheme adopted by the mother of the infant. I have already observed that a medical man could soon have cast new light upon the affair by exonerating Jessie. So, for that matter, could any matron in the village. The perpetrator of the villany had never thought of this. Obviously, she was a silly, ignorant woman, driven to despair through her dread of public exposure, and had thoughtlessly hazarded the dangerous expedient. It was certain that the truth—or the part of it which related to the innocent girl—must come out sooner or later. The scheme was rotten in itself, and would not stand the test of severe examination.
Jessie never dreamed of these hopes; she was overcome by the sense of danger. Jock was still blinder. He had not been bred up among perfect people; sins of the kind were common enough in most country places. He was of the Scotch breed, Scotchy, and did not take all externals for granted. Besides, Jessie’s face, pretty as it was, had not driven him crazy: he was fully aware that his sweetheart might have her little weaknesses—and her great ones. When he thought of a wife he acted like a man buying a cheese, in a cheese shop where the cheeses are many; he took the best and most profitable he could set eyes on. So he condescended to vulgar abuse, got into a violent passion, and, not having paid for it, thought fit to return his cheese as hard and hollow. Mind, I am not making a hero; I am simply describing a man. He neither tore his hair, nor went up in a balloon. He simply felt that he was an ill-used fellow, and that Jessie deserved all the odium that might be cast upon her. He never for a moment doubted her guilt; the circumstantial evidence fairly conquered his country head. He set to work, a little down-hearted, and made up his mind to a bad job. I am of course aware that he ought to have gone into heroics, and that my romantic reader will deem him a poor apology for a lover. Take him for what he is worth. There he is; and I assure you that you will meet with many like him in every Scotch village.
Jessie Cameron lay where she had fallen, with her head on the hearthstone. The hours passed slowly by, till it was mid-day. She rose at last, and walked instinctively to the bedside. Somehow or other, the child slept on, belying the childish nature. She bent over the little sleeper with the tears in her eyes.
“Puir wee thing,” she said, sadly, “ye hae fa’un on a sad warl. Oh, but ye’re bonnie, bonnie, wi’ your wee blue een and snaw-white brow! Ye come o’ a bad lot, my wee bit bairn; the Lord hae pity on ye.”
The girl started: there was a knock at the door. She made no answer, and stood stock-still, fear-stricken. There was a slight pause. A moment afterwards the lock moved, the door opened, and Mrs. Cameron entered, the big basket on her arm and the latch-key, which she had seemingly taken with her, in her hand. Plainly, she had not calculated on finding her step-daughter within. She started back with a low cry. The dull-eyed woman was thinner and paler than usual. She had the appearance of a person who had just recovered from a violent illness.
Jessie was about to rush forward, and pour the whole strange story into her stepmother’s ears, when the latch-key caught her eye. I don’t know how it happened, but she restrained herself in the sudden movement. A thought struck her, as new as it was fearful and extraordinary. She looked into the dull-eyed woman’s face; it was white with terror. The thought doubled and trebled itself in a moment; it became a terrible conviction. Some few suspicious recollections arose to endorse it. She ran quickly into the inner room. Strange to say, Mrs. Cameron seemed utterly stunned. Once or twice her lips attempted to utter words of anger and abuse; but the words died away unheard. The girl’s face seemed to appal and startle her. A cold sweat ran over her body. She was speechless and unable to move from the threshold.
Jessie returned to the kitchen in a moment, with her bonnet and shawl thrown loosely on. Her face was very pale, her lips were set closely together, and her hands were tightly clenched. But utter pity, not cruelty, was in her heart. As she walked calmly by the panic-stricken woman, she whispered hotly in her ears:
“If God forgies ye for the wrang ye hae wrought, woman, sae dae I. For the sake o’ the faither that’s gane, I forgie ye. I wadna tell on ye, and folk would ca’ me leear if I did. Nae words o’ mine shall say wha sinned the sin, and cam’ to my dead faither’s house i’ the nicht, to wrang my faither’s dochter. But look whaur it sleeps, the wee wean! Ye maun keep your ain!” She passed swiftly through the door into the street. The dull-eyed woman followed, and watched her till she disappeared. She had taken to one of the roads which led out of the village.
Mrs. Cameron was reassured by those last words—the only absolutely heroic words simple Jessie Cameron ever spoke. Her dull eyes brightened. She found herself strong enough to run
