whether he had ever seen her before, I cannot certainly say.She felt herself trembling in his presence, while he advanced with perfect composure.He was a man no longer young, but in the full strength and show of manhood--the Baron of Rothie.Since the time of my first description of him, he had grown a moustache, which improved his countenance greatly, by concealing his upper lip with its tusky curves.On a girl like Mysie, with an imagination so cultivated, and with no opportunity of comparing its fancies with reality, such a man would make an instant impression.
'I beg your pardon, Miss--Lindsay, I presume?--for intruding upon you so abruptly.I expected to see your father--not one of the graces.'
She blushed all the colour of her blood now.The baron was quite enough like the hero of whom she had just been reading to admit of her imagination jumbling the two.Her book fell.He lifted it and laid it on the table.She could not speak even to thank him.Poor Mysie was scarcely more than sixteen.
'May I wait here till your father is informed of my visit?' he asked.
Her only answer was to drop again upon her low stool.
Now Jenny had left it to Mysie to acquaint her father with the fact of the baron's presence; but before she had time to think of the necessity of doing something, he had managed to draw her into conversation.He was as great a hypocrite as ever walked the earth, although he flattered himself that he was none, because he never pretended to cultivate that which he despised--namely, religion.
But he was a hypocrite nevertheless; for the falser he knew himself, the more honour he judged it to persuade women of his truth.
It is unnecessary to record the slight, graceful, marrowless talk into which he drew Mysie, and by which he both bewildered and bewitched her.But at length she rose, admonished by her inborn divinity, to seek her father.As she passed him, the baron took her hand and kissed it.She might well tremble.Even such contact was terrible.Why? Because there was no love in it.When the sense of beauty which God had given him that he might worship, awoke in Lord Rothie, he did not worship, but devoured, that he might, as he thought, possess! The poison of asps was under those lips.His kiss was as a kiss from the grave's mouth, for his throat was an open sepulchre.This was all in the past, reader.Baron Rothie was a foam-flake of the court of the Prince Regent.There are no such men now-a-days! It is a shame to speak of such, and therefore they are not! Decency has gone so far to abolish virtue.Would to God that a writer could be decent and honest! St.Paul counted it a shame to speak of some things, and yet he did speak of them--because those to whom he spoke did them.
Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr.Lindsay in a question of genealogy, that he begged his lordship to call again in a few days, when he hoped to have some result of research to communicate.
One of the antiquarian's weaknesses, cause and result both of his favourite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank.Had its claims been founded on mediated revelation, he could not have honoured it more.Hence when he communicated to his daughter the name of their visitor, it was 'with bated breath and whispering humbleness,' which deepened greatly the impression made upon her by the presence and conversation of the baron.Mysie was in danger.
Shargar was late that evening, for he had a job that detained him.
As he handed over his money to Robert, he said,'I saw Black Geordie the nicht again, stan'in' at a back door, an'
Jock Mitchell, upo' Reid Rorie, haudin' him.'
'Wha's Jock Mitchell?' asked Robert.
'My brither Sandy's ill-faured groom,' answered Shargar.'Whatever mischeef Sandy's up till, Jock comes in i' the heid or tail o' 't.'
'I wonner what he's up till noo.'
'Faith! nae guid.But I aye like waur to meet Sandy by himsel' upo'
that reekit deevil o' his.Man, it's awfu' whan Black Geordie turns the white o' 's ee, an' the white o' 's teeth upo' ye.It's a' the white 'at there is about 'im.'
'Wasna yer brither i' the airmy, Shargar?'
'Ow, 'deed ay.They tell me he was at Watterloo.He's a cornel, or something like that.'
'Wha tellt ye a' that?'
'My mither whiles,' answered Shargar.
