Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete by Walter Scott (best new books to read .TXT) 📖
- Author: Walter Scott
Book online «The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete by Walter Scott (best new books to read .TXT) 📖». Author Walter Scott
“Robertson?—Lord hand a care o’ us! what Robertson?”
“Why, the fellow we were speaking of, Gentle Geordie, as you call him.”
“Geordie Gentle!” answered Madge, with well-feigned amazement—“I dinna ken naebody they ca’ Geordie Gentle.”
“Come, my jo,” said Sharpitlaw, “this will not do; you must tell us what you did with these clothes of yours.”
Madge Wildfire made no answer, unless the question may seem connected with the snatch of a song with which she indulged the embarrassed investigator:—
“What did ye wi’ the bridal ring—bridal ring—bridal ring? What did ye wi’ your wedding ring, ye little cutty quean, O? I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o’ mine, O.”Of all the madwomen who have sung and said, since the days of Hamlet the Dane, if Ophelia be the most affecting, Madge Wildfire was the most provoking.
The procurator-fiscal was in despair. “I’ll take some measures with this d—d Bess of Bedlam,” said he, “that shall make her find her tongue.”
“Wi’ your favour, sir,” said Ratcliffe, “better let her mind settle a little—Ye have aye made out something.”
“True,” said the official person; “a brown short-gown, mutch, red rokelay—that agrees with your Madge Wildfire, Mr. Butler?” Butler agreed that it did so. “Yes, there was a sufficient motive for taking this crazy creature’s dress and name, while he was about such a job.”
“And I am free to say now,” said Ratcliffe
“When you see it has come out without you,” interrupted Sharpitlaw.
“Just sae, sir,” reiterated Ratcliffe. “I am free to say now, since it’s come out otherwise, that these were the clothes I saw Robertson wearing last night in the jail, when he was at the head of the rioters.”
“That’s direct evidence,” said Sharpitlaw; “stick to that, Rat—I will report favourably of you to the provost, for I have business for you to-night. It wears late; I must home and get a snack, and I’ll be back in the evening. Keep Madge with you, Ratcliffe, and try to get her into a good tune again.” So saying he left the prison.
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. And some they whistled—and some they sang, And some did loudly say, Whenever Lord Barnard’s horn it blew, “Away, Musgrave away!” Ballad of Little Musgrave.
When the man of office returned to the Heart of Mid-Lothian, he resumed his conference with Ratcliffe, of whose experience and assistance he now held himself secure. “You must speak with this wench, Rat—this Effie Deans—you must sift her a wee bit; for as sure as a tether she will ken Robertson’s haunts—till her, Rat—till her without delay.”
“Craving your pardon, Mr. Sharpitlaw,” said the turnkey elect, “that’s what I am not free to do.”
“Free to do, man? what the deil ails ye now?—I thought we had settled a’ that?”
“I dinna ken, sir,” said Ratcliffe; “I hae spoken to this Effie—she’s strange to this place and to its ways, and to a’ our ways, Mr. Sharpitlaw; and she greets, the silly tawpie, and she’s breaking her heart already about this wild chield; and were she the mean’s o’ taking him, she wad break it outright.”
“She wunna hae time, lad,” said Sharpitlaw; “the woodie will hae it’s ain o’ her before that—a woman’s heart takes a lang time o’ breaking.”
“That’s according to the stuff they are made o’ sir,” replied Ratcliffe—“But to make a lang tale short, I canna undertake the job. It gangs against my conscience.”
“Your conscience, Rat?” said Sharpitlaw, with a sneer, which the reader will probably think very natural upon the occasion.
“Ou ay, sir,” answered Ratcliffe, calmly, “just my conscience; a’body has a conscience, though it may be ill wunnin at it. I think mine’s as weel out o’ the gate as maist folk’s are; and yet it’s just like the noop of my elbow, it whiles gets a bit dirl on a corner.”
“Weel, Rat,” replied Sharpitlaw, “since ye are nice, I’ll speak to the hussy mysell.”
Sharpitlaw, accordingly, caused himself to be introduced into the little dark apartment tenanted by the unfortunate Effie Deans. The poor girl was seated on her little flock-bed, plunged in a deep reverie. Some food stood on the table, of a quality better than is usually supplied to prisoners, but it was untouched. The person under whose care she was more particularly placed, said, “that sometimes she tasted naething from the tae end of the four-and-twenty hours to the t’other, except a drink of water.”
Sharpitlaw took a chair, and, commanding the turnkey to retire, he opened the conversation, endeavouring to throw into his tone and countenance as much commiseration as they were capable of expressing, for the one was sharp and harsh, the other sly, acute, and selfish.
“How’s a’ wi’ ye, Effie?—How d’ye find yoursell, hinny?”
A deep sigh was the only answer.
“Are the folk civil to ye, Effie?—it’s my duty to inquire.”
“Very civil, sir,” said Effie, compelling herself to answer, yet hardly knowing what she said.
“And your victuals,” continued Sharpitlaw, in the same condoling tone,—“do you get what you like?—or is there onything you would particularly fancy, as your health seems but silly?”
“It’s a’ very weel, sir, I thank ye,” said the poor prisoner, in a tone how different from the sportive vivacity of those of the Lily of St. Leonard’s!—“it’s a’ very gude—ower gude for me.”
“He must have been a great villain, Effie, who brought you to this pass,” said Sharpitlaw.
The remark was dictated partly by a natural feeling, of which even he could not divest himself, though accustomed to practise on the passions of others, and keep a most heedful guard over his own, and partly by his wish to introduce the sort of conversation which might, best serve his immediate purpose. Indeed, upon the present occasion, these mixed motives of feeling and cunning harmonised together wonderfully; for, said Sharpitlaw to himself, the greater rogue Robertson is, the more will be the merit of bringing him to justice. “He must have been a great villain, indeed,” he again reiterated; “and I wish I had the skelping o’ him.”
“I may blame mysell mair than him,” said Effie; “I was bred up to ken better;
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