In a house in Edinburgh, not far removed from Holyrood, clad in deep
black, there lingered restlessly a Border woman, for whom the months had
dragged with halting foot since a certain spring night near Norham.
"Will he come?" to herself she whispered for the hundredth time. "Surely
he must come."
And as she waited, a flush leapt to her cheek at the sound of a step
nearing her door. A man entered, grave, almost stern, of face, and she
sprang to her feet with a cry, and with outstretched arms, that sank
slowly to her side, as her eyes questioned those of her visitor.
"You have come," she said unsteadily; "you have come. And you know ...
my husband ... is dead?"
"Rumours had reached me," he answered coldly. "When did he die?"
"It was in the spring, five months since. He was bitten by a dog, and he
died ... raving mad."
"Bitten by a dog?" he queried.
"Do you not remember? The dog you brought with you bit him. He never
recovered. And ... and he died mad."
"It was my dog that bit him? And he died mad in consequence of that
bite? I do not understand. My dog is alive and well; he was never mad."
Her eyes fell. What need to plead further! She knew now too well that
his love for her was indeed dead and buried.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237