Scotland -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
‘It is rather curious that I should be going to Fullarton to-day; I am
on my way there at this moment. I had meant to make you a long visit
to-morrow but I could not resist the temptation of turning in as I
passed this door just now. Suppose I were to carry the letter? No good
will come of it, I am sure, but, if the Captain wishes it to go, go it
must. Can you not persuade him to think better of it?’
‘Indeed, if he heard you had been here on your way to Fullarton and I
had not sent it, he would be annoyed. But how am I to forgive you for
such a niggardly visit? You have hardly been here five minutes.’
‘By allowing me to pay you a liberal one to-morrow,’ replied the astute
Barclay. ‘I can then assure you of the safety of the letter. What am I
to do? Give me all directions.’
‘You are to hand it to Mr. Fullarton and ask him to address it and send
it to Miss Raeburn. It is a very queer business, is it not?’
‘It will smooth down. I attach no importance at all to it,’ replied he.
‘You are mighty cool about it, seeing that Mr. Fordyce is such a
friend.’
‘It can come to nothing,’ said he.
He was determined she should not suspect his feelings, which were, in
reality, tinged with dismay. If Speid should baffle them still! The
letter might reach him in time and he might easily act upon it. A
torrent of silent abuse was let loose in his heart against Granny
Stirk. He had hated her roundly for some time, and now he would have
given anything to be able to turn her off the Whanland estate
altogether. He promised himself that he would see what could be done
when this affair of Fordyce’s marriage was off his mind.
‘Mr. Fordyce should thank me for warning you,’ said Mrs. Somerville,
‘if he has any sense he will hurry on the wedding-day after this.
Whatever happens, do not betray me!’
A look in her face suggested to him that she might, in her heart,
suspect what he had in his mind. He would make sure.
‘I suppose I dare not delay this for a day or two?’ he said,
tentatively, looking from her to the letter.
‘Oh, no! no!’ she cried, in alarm. ‘Oh! what would happen if anyone
found out that I had told you?’
‘I am only joking,’ he laughed, much relieved, ‘pray, pray don’t upset
yourself, ma’am.’
‘I really do not know whether I have not done sadly wrong in speaking,’
said she, turning her eyes down. ‘I have many scruples. My name must
never, _never_ be mentioned.’
‘You insult me, Mrs. Somerville, when you talk in that way. Your name
is sacred to me, as it has ever been, and your action is most timely,
most obliging. I only regret that your own wishes forbid my telling
Fordyce of your kind interest in him--in us, I should say, for I
identify myself with my friends. I am nothing if not true. You, surely,
of all people can give me that character.’
Playfulness returned to her.
‘Come, come,’ she said, ‘you may go away. I shall not tell you what I
think for fear of making you vain!’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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