Part 21 (2/2)

”But, Madge,” continued Sharpitlaw, ”were I to send you to the workhouse in Leith Wynd, and gar Jock Daigleish lay the tawse on your back--”

”That wad gar me greet,” said Madge, sobbing, ”but it couldna gar me mind, ye ken.”

”She is ower far past reasonable folks' motives, sir,” said Ratcliffe, ”to mind siller, or John Dalgleish, or the cat-and-nine-tails either; but I think I could gar her tell us something.”

”Try her, then, Ratcliffe,” said Sharpitlaw, ”for I am tired of her crazy pate, and be d--d to her.”

”Madge,” said Ratcliffe, ”hae ye ony joes now?”

”An ony body ask ye, say ye dinna ken.--Set him to be speaking of my joes, auld Daddie Ratton!”

”I dare say, ye hae deil ane?”

”See if I haena then,” said Madge, with the toss of the head of affronted beauty--”there's Rob the Ranter, and Will Fleming, and then there's Geordie Robertson, lad--that's Gentleman Geordie--what think ye o' that?”

Ratcliffe laughed, and, winking to the procurator-fiscal, pursued the inquiry in his own way. ”But, Madge, the lads only like ye when ye hae on your braws--they wadna touch you wi' a pair o' tangs when you are in your auld ilka-day rags.”

”Ye're a leeing auld sorrow then,” replied the fair one; ”for Gentle Geordie Robertson put my ilka-day's claise on his ain bonny sell yestreen, and gaed a' through the town wi' them; and gawsie and grand he lookit, like ony queen in the land.”

”I dinna believe a word o't,” said Ratcliffe, with another wink to the procurator. ”Thae duds were a' o' the colour o' moons.h.i.+ne in the water, I'm thinking, Madge--The gown wad be a sky-blue scarlet, I'se warrant ye?”

”It was nae sic thing,” said Madge, whose unretentive memory let out, in the eagerness of contradiction, all that she would have most wished to keep concealed, had her judgment been equal to her inclination. ”It was neither scarlet nor sky-blue, but my ain auld brown thres.h.i.+e-coat of a short-gown, and my mother's auld mutch, and my red rokelay--and he gied me a croun and a kiss for the use o' them, blessing on his bonny face--though it's been a dear ane to me.”

”And where did he change his clothes again, hinnie?” said Sharpitlaw, in his most conciliatory manner.

”The procurator's spoiled a',” observed Ratcliffe, drily. And it was even so; for the question, put in so direct a shape, immediately awakened Madge to the propriety of being reserved upon those very topics on which Ratcliffe had indirectly seduced her to become communicative.

”What was't ye were speering at us, sir?” she resumed, with an appearance of stolidity so speedily a.s.sumed, as showed there was a good deal of knavery mixed with her folly.

”I asked you,” said the procurator, ”at what hour, and to what place, Robertson brought back your clothes.”

”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 s.n.a.t.c.h of a song with which she indulged the embarra.s.sed 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.

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