The Scottish Cavalier: An Historical Romance, Volume 3 (of 3) — John Shaqi
The Scottish Cavalier: An Historical Romance, Volume 3 (of 3)Grant, James
History
The Scottish Cavalier: An Historical Romance, Volume 3 (of 3)
Grant, James
Scotland -- History -- 1649-1660 -- Fiction
Now all her former fear and indignation revived in full force, and
she wept passionately. Reflecting how completely she was at the
mercy of Clermistonlee, whose character for reckless ferocity, and
steady obstinacy of purpose, she knew too well; she resolved to
endure with patience, and await with caution an opportunity for
release or escape. How little she knew of what was acting in
Edinburgh! And her beloved kinswoman, so revered, so tender, and
affectionate, but so aged and infirm.
"O horror!" exclaimed Lilian, wringing her hands, "this must have
destroyed her."
"Open Madam Lilian," said the voice of Beatrix Gilruth, as she
knocked at the door; "open, my lord awaits you at breakfast in the
hall."
Lilian hesitated; but aware that resistance would not better her
fortune, with her usual frankness ran to the door, opened it, and
despite the repulsive sternness of Gilruth's aspect, impelled by a
sense of loneliness, and a wish to gain her friendship, she bade her
good morning, and lightly touched her hand. Her air of innocence and
candour impressed the misanthropic heart of Beatrix, and she smiled
kindly. While leading her before the mirror to assist in arraying
her for breakfast, the bosom of the unfortunate castaway could not
repress a sigh, and a scanty tear trembled in either eye, as she
writhed her withered fingers in the soft masses of Lilian's hair.
"I will shew thee my bairn what a braw busker I am," said Beatrix,
"though 'tis long since these poor fingers have had aught to do with
top-knots and fantanges."
Resigned and careless of what was done with her, Lilian remained with
a pale face of placid composure and grief, gazing unconsciously upon
her own beautiful image as reflected in the polished mirror; and
though she marked it not, there was a vivid and terrible contrast
between her statue-like features, and those of her tire-woman--keen,
attenuated, and graven with the lines of sorrow, rage, bitterness,
and misanthropy; the true index of that storm of evil passions and
resentful thoughts that smouldered in her heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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