When she came near, and notions changed into visible facts, she neither wept nor wailed.She felt very miserable, it is true, but it was at finding that the evident impossibility of returning thither for a long time, woke in her pleasure and not pain.So utterly altered was the look of everything, that had she come upon it unexpectedly, she would not have recognized either place or house.They went up to a door.She seemed never to have seen it;but when they entered, she knew it as one from the hall into a passage, which, with what it led to, being gone, the inner had become an outer door.A quantity of sand was heaped up in the hall, and the wainscot was wet and swelled and bulging.They went into the dining-room.It was a miserable sight--the very picture of the soul of a drunkard.The thick carpet was sodden--spongy like a bed of moss after heavy rains; the leather chairs looked diseased; the colour was all gone from the table; the paper hung loose from the walls; and everything lay where the water, after floating it about, had let it drop as it ebbed.
She ascended the old stone stair which led to her father's rooms above, went into his study, in which not a hair was out of its place, and walked towards the window to look across to where once had been her own chamber.But as she approached it, there, behind the curtain, she saw her father, motionless, looking out.She turned pale, and stood.Even at such a time, had she known he was in the house, she would not have dared set her foot in that room.
Gibbie, who had followed and entered behind her, preceived her hesitation, saw and recognized the back of the laird, knew that she was afraid of her father, and stood also waiting he know not what.
"Eh!" he said to himself, "hers is no like mine! Nae mony has had fathers sae guid's mine."Becoming aware of a presence, the laird half turned, and seeing Gibbie, imagined he had entered in a prowling way, supposing the place deserted.With stately offence he asked him what he wanted there, and waved his dismissal.Then first he saw another, standing white-faced, with eyes fixed upon him.He turned pale also, and stood staring at her.The memory of that moment ever after disgraced him in his own eyes: for one instant of unreasoning weakness, he imagined he saw a ghost--believed what he said he knew to be impossible.It was but one moment but it might have been more, had not Ginevra walked slowly up to him, saying in a trembling voice, as if she expected the blame of all that had happened, "Icouldn't help it, papa." He took her in his arms, and, for the first time since the discovery of her atrocious familiarity with Donal, kissed her.She clung to him, trembling now with pleasure as well as apprehension.But, alas! there was no impiety in the faithlessness that pronounced such a joy too good to endure, and the end came yet sooner than she feared.For, when the father rose erect from her embrace, and was again the laird, there, to his amazement, still stood the odd-looking, outlandish intruder, smiling with the most impertinent interest! Gibbie had forgotten himself altogether, beholding what he took for a thorough reconciliation.
"Go away, boy.You have nothing to do here," said the laird, anger almost overwhelming his precious dignity.
"Oh, papa!" cried Ginevra, clasping her hands, "that's Gibbie! He saved my life.I should have been drowned but for him."The laird was both proud and stupid, therefore more than ordinarily slow to understand what he was unprepared to hear.
"I am much obliged to him," he said haughtily; "but there is no occasion for him to wait."At this point his sluggish mind began to recall something:--why, this was the very boy he saw in the meadow with her that morning!--He turned fiercely upon him where he lingered, either hoping for a word of adieu from Ginevra, or unwilling to go while she was uncomfortable.
