"You blind less, can you
not see a little in my wretched heart? Do you not think when I sit
there, reading in that fool-book that I have just burned and be
damned to it, I take ever the least thought of any stricken thing
but just yourself? Night after night I could have grat to see you
sitting there your lone. And what was I to do? You are here under
my honour; would you punish me for that? Is it for that that you
would spurn a loving servant?"
At the word, with a small, sudden motion, she clung near to me. I
raised her face to mine, I kissed it, and she bowed her brow upon
my bosom, clasping me tight. I saw in a mere whirl like a man
drunken. Then I heard her voice sound very small and muffled in my
clothes.
"Did you kiss her truly?" she asked.
There went through me so great a heave of surprise that I was all
shook with it.
"Miss Grant?" I cried, all in a disorder. "Yes, I asked her to
kiss me good-bye, the which she did."
"Ah, well!" said she, "you have kissed me too, at all events."
At the strangeness and sweetness of that word, I saw where we had
fallen; rose, and set her on her feet.
"This will never do," said I. "This will never, never do. O
Catrine, Catrine!" Then there came a pause in which I was debarred
from any speaking. And then, "Go away to your bed," said I. "Go
away to your bed and leave me."
She turned to obey me like a child, and the next I knew of it, had
stopped in the very doorway.
"Good night, Davie!" said she.
"And O, good night, my love!" I cried, with a great outbreak of my
soul, and caught her to me again, so that it seemed I must have
broken her. The next moment I had thrust her from the room, shut
to the door even with violence, and stood alone.
The milk was spilt now, the word was out and the truth told. I had
crept like an untrusty man into the poor maid's affections; she was
in my hand like any frail, innocent thing to make or mar; and what
weapon of defence was left me? It seemed like a symbol that
Heineccius, my old protection, was now burned. I repented, yet
could not find it in my heart to blame myself for that great
failure. It seemed not possible to have resisted the boldness of
her innocence or that last temptation of her weeping. And all that
I had to excuse me did but make my sin appear the greater--it was
upon a nature so defenceless, and with such advantages of the
position, that I seemed to have practised.
What was to become of us now? It seemed we could no longer dwell
in the one place. But where was I to go? or where she? Without
either choice or fault of ours, life had conspired to wall us
together in that narrow place. I had a wild thought of marrying
out of hand; and the next moment put it from me with revolt. She
was a child, she could not tell her own heart; I had surprised her
weakness, I must never go on to build on that surprisal; I must
keep her not only clear of reproach, but free as she had come to
me.
Down I sat before the fire, and reflected, and repented, and beat
my brains in vain for any means of escape. About two of the
morning, there were three red embers left and the house and all the
city was asleep, when I was aware of a small sound of weeping in
the next room. She thought that I slept, the poor soul; she
regretted her weakness--and what perhaps (God help her!) she called
her forwardness--and in the dead of the night solaced herself with
tears. Tender and bitter feelings, love and penitence and pity,
struggled in my soul; it seemed I was under bond to heal that
weeping.
"O, try to forgive me!" I cried out, "try, try to forgive me. Let
us forget it all, let us try if we'll no can forget it!"
There came no answer, but the sobbing ceased. I stood a long while
with my hands still clasped as I had spoken; then the cold of the
night laid hold upon me with a shudder, and I think my reason
reawakened.