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"Ay, lass," said her sister, "that's lightly said, but no sae lightly credited frae ane that winna ware a word for me; and if it be a wrang word, ye'll hae time enough to repent o' 't." "But that word is a grievous sin." "Well, weel, Jeannie, never speak mair o' 't," said the prisoner. "It's as weel as it is. And gude-day, sister. Ye keep Mr. Ratcliffe waiting on.
It's no use for people to bring their bodies to the mountains, if they can't bring souls in them!" And Marmaduke Wharne turned on his heel, and, without further courtesy, strode away. "What an old Grimgriffinhoof!" cried Jeannie under her breath; and Elinor laughed her little musical laugh of fun. Mrs. Linceford drew up her shawl, and sat down again, the remnant of a well-bred smile upon her face.
One more human item lay still and stiff, one more account was closed for good or evil, the echo of one more tread had passed from the earth for ever. The old million-numbered tragedy in which all must take a part had repeated itself once more down to its last and most awful scene. Yes; the grim farce was played out, and the little actor Jeannie was white in death!
When this form had been gone through, and the maid-of-all-work had once more made her appearance and cleared the table, Jeannie spoke again. "Gus," she said, "I want you to put me to bed and then come and read to me out of 'Jemima's Vow' where poor Jemima dies, you know. It is the most beautiful thing in the book, and I want to hear it again."
"The two met under the gas-lamp that is so conspicuous a night feature of the north side of Locust Street, between Ninth and Tenth. "The woman gave no attention to the man. So exhausted was she that she leaned helplessly against the fence. The man ran forward, shrieking like a lunatic. "'Jeannie! "The woman lifted her eyes in a dull kind of amazement and whispered: "'Donald!
Marry him? yes she would marry him: she would do anything for money to take her sister away! What did she care for herself when her darling was dying dying for the want of two hundred pounds! Just then Jeannie woke up, and stretched her arms out to her. "So you are back at last, dear," she said in her sweet childish voice. "It has been so lonely without you. Why, how wet you are!
Any man looking on, or hearing of Stonor's dilemma, would have said, 'Leave the girl alone to come to her senses. But only a stupid man would himself have done it. Stonor caught her two hands in his, and drew her into his arms. 'Look, here, Jeannie, you're dreadfully wrought up and excited tired, too. 'No! She freed herself, and averted the tear-stained face.
At such times Jeannie Welsh would usually manage to pilot the conversational craft along smooth waters; but if she were not present, hot arguments would follow, and finally a point would be reached where Carlyle and Spencer would simply sit and glare at each other.
Jeannie, educated in devout reverence for the name of the Deity, was awed, but at the same time elevated above all considerations save those to which she could, with a clear conscience, call him to witness.
She is strongest in what she has seen, not in what she imagines; and here she is the opposite of Dickens, who paints from imagination. There was never such a man as Pickwick or Barnaby Rudge. Sir Walter Scott created characters, like Jeannie Deans, but they are as true to life as Sir John Falstaff.
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