She was a florid, plump, good-looking woman, over forty, with thick auburn hair, brushed smooth--one of those women comely in soul as well as body, who are always to the discomfiture of wrong and the healing of strife. Left a young widow, she had refused many offers: once was all that was required of her in the way of marriage! She had found her husband good enough not to be followed by another, and marriage hard enough to favour the same result. When she sat down, smoothing her apron on her lap, and looking him in the face with clear blue eyes, he must have been either a suspicious or an unfortunate man who would not trust her. She was a general softener of shocks, foiler of encounters, and soother of angers. She was not one of those housekeepers always in black silk and lace, but was mostly to be seen in a cotton gown--very clean, but by no means imposing. She would put her hands to anything--show a young servant how a thing ought to be done, or relieve cook or housemaid who was ill or had a holiday. Donal had taken to her, as like does to like.
He did not hurry her, but waited.
"I may as weel gie ye the haill story, sir!" she recommenced. "Syne ye'll be whaur I am mysel'.
"I was oot i' the yard to luik efter my hens--I never lat onybody but mysel' meddle wi' them, for they're jist as easy sp'ilt as ither fowk's bairns; an' the twa doors o' the barn stan'in open, I took the straucht ro'd throuw the same to win the easier at my feathert fowk, as my auld minnie used to ca' them. I'm but a saft kin' o' a bein', as my faither used to tell me, an' mak but little din whaur I gang, sae they couldna hae h'ard my fut as I gaed; but what sud I hear--but I maun tell ye it was i' the gloamin' last nicht, an' I wad hae tellt ye the same this mornin', sir, seekin' yer fair coonsel, but ye was awa' 'afore I kenned, an' I was resolvt no to lat anither gloamin' come ohn ta'en precautions--what sud I hear, I say, as I was sayin', but a laich tshe--tshe--tshe, somewhaur, I couldna tell whaur, as gien some had mair to say nor wud be spoken oot! Weel, ye see, bein' ane accoontable tae ithers for them 'at's accoontable to me, I stude still an' hearkent: gien a' was richt, nane wad be the waur for me; an' gien a' wasna richt, a' sud be wrang gien I could make it sae! Weel, as I say, I hearkent--but eh, sir! jist gie a keek oot at that door, an' see gein there bena somebody there hearkin', for that Eppy--I wudna lippen til her ae hair! she's as sly as an edder! Naebody there? Weel, steek ye the door, sir, an' I s' gang on wi' my tale. I stude an' hearkent, as I was sayin', an' what sud I hear but a twasome toot-moot, as my auld auntie frae Ebberdeen wud hae ca'd it--ae v'ice that o' a man, an' the ither that o' a wuman, for it's strange the differ even whan baith speyks their laichest! I was aye gleg i' the hearin', an' hae reason for the same to be thankfu,' but I couldna, for a' my sharpness, mak oot what they war sayin'. So, whan I saw 'at I wasna to hear, I jist set aboot seein', an' as quaietly as my saft fit--it's safter nor it's licht--wud carry me, I gaed aboot the barnflure, luikin' whaur onybody could be hidden awa'.
"There was a great heap o' strae in ae corner, no hard again' the wa'; an' 'atween the wa' an' that heap o' thrashen strae, sat the twa. Up gat my lord wi' a spang, as gien he had been ta'en stealin'. Eppy wud hae bidden, an' creepit oot like a moose ahint my back, but I was ower sharp for her: 'Come oot o' that, my lass,' says I. 'Oh, mistress Brookes!' says my lord, unco ceevil, 'for my sake don't be hard upon her.' Noo that angert me! For though I say the lass is mair to blame nor the lad, it's no for the lad, be he lord or labourer, to lea' himsel' oot whan the blame comes. An' says I, 'My lord,' says I, 'ye oucht to ken better! I s' say nae mair i' the noo, for I'm ower angry. Gang yer ways--but na! no thegither, my lord! I s' luik weel to that!--Gang up til yer ain room, Eppy!' I said, 'an' gien I dinna see ye there whan I come in, it's awa' to your grannie I gang this varra nicht!'
"Eppy she gaed; an' my lord he stude there, wi' a face 'at glowert white throuw the gloamin'. I turned upon him like a wild beast, an' says I, 'I winna speir what ye 're up til, my lord, but ye ken weel eneuch what it luiks like! an' I wud never hae expeckit it o' ye!'
He began an' he stammert, an' he beggit me to believe there was naething 'atween them, an' he wudna harm the lassie to save his life, an' a' the lave o' 't, 'at I couldna i' my hert but pity them baith--twa sic bairns, doobtless drawn thegither wi' nae thoucht o' ill, ilk ane by the bonny face o' the ither, as is but nait'ral, though it canna be allooed! He beseekit me sae sair 'at I foolishly promised no to tell his faither gien he on his side wud promise no to hae mair to du wi' Eppy. An' that he did. Noo I never had reason to doobt my yoong lord's word, but in a case o' this kin' it's aye better no to lippen. Ony gait, the thing canna be left this wise, for gien ill cam o' 't, whaur wud we a' be! I didna promise no to tell onybody; I'm free to tell yersel,' maister Grant; an' ye maun contrive what's to be dune."
"I will speak to him," said Donal, "and see what humour he is in.
That will help to clear the thing up. We will try to do right, and trust to be kept from doing wrong."
Donal left her to go to his room, but had not reached the top of the stair when he saw clearly that he must speak to lord Forgue at once: he turned and went down to a room that was called his.
When he reached it, only Davie was there, turning over the leaves of a folio worn by fingers that had been dust for centuries. He said Percy went out, and would not let him go with him.
Knowing mistress Brookes was looking after Eppy, Donal put off seeking farther for Forgue till the morrow.
