Then Sir David spoke:
“It is not,” he said, “a question now, of my wishes. So long as I felt justified in considering myself alone, I had no hesitation. But to-night I have to face this: What is my duty?”
“Eh? How, now!” Master Simon stuttered, and could find no word. “Pooh! fudge!” He thrust out a testy hand for the letter.
“Read!” said the master of Bindon, “and then you will understand.”
Master Simon seized the document and, stooping to the light began to read the words aloud to himself, according to his custom. Ellinor drew near and listened. Nothing could have now kept her from yielding to her intense desire to know.
“‘Dear Brother,’” read the old gentleman (“Dear Brother!—A dear sister she’s proved to you!”) “‘It is very likely you may never read these lines’ (if that isn’t a woman all over! ... where am I?) ‘according to your heartless custom’—(Ha!” said Master Simon, shooting a swift ironical look at Sir David from under his ever-hanging eyebrows, “since when has Lady Lochore become qualified to pronounce upon heartlessness? Pooh!”)
Sir David made no reply. His eyes were fixed on some inward visions. The simpler gave a snort, and resumed his reading:
“‘Oh, David, let me see my home once more!’ (No, Madam!) ‘Let me come to you alone with my child. I am ill——’ (Devil doubt her—they’re all ill when they don’t get their way!) ‘I am ill, dying, and sometimes I think that it is because you have not forgiven me. In the name of our father, in the name of our mother,’ (’pon my word, she’s a clever one!) ‘I have a right to demand this! I must see my home before I die.’”
Sir David’s compressed lips suddenly worked. He rose and walked across to the other side of the platform, where against the lambent sky, his form once more became a mere silhouette. Master Simon proceeded quietly to finish the letter.
“There’s a postscript,” he said, and read out: “‘You cannot refuse me the hospitality of Bindon for a few weeks, remember that I, too, am a child of the house.’”