“He put the room, and a’ in it, under my care, aunt. The books are worth mair siller than you ever counted; and I wouldna let ony-body—unless it was the minister an orra time—stay in it.”
“What’s the matter wi’ the lassie? Maggie, you are no to be bided! I’ll hae this room for mysel’, and that’s the end o’ the controversy.”
She had sat down in the big rush chair, by the still burning turfs, and she was looking round her with the critical eye of a person who is calculating the capabilities of a place. Maggie left her sitting there, and began to tidy up the house. In half an hour Janet re-appeared, and went to her kist—a great wooden box painted light blue—and began to undo its many cords and lock. Then Maggie closed the door of the disputed room, turned the key, and put it in her pocket.
The noise instantly arrested the old woman. She stood up, and cried out in a passion, “What’s that you’re doing, Maggie Promoter?”
“I’m locking Mr. Campbell’s room. I’ll no see you break into ony one’s right, be they here, or far awa’.”
“You hizzy! You! You’ll daur to call me a thief, will you?”
“Dinna fight me at the outset, Aunt Janet. If I am wrang, when Davie comes hame at the New Year, I’ll gie you the key. But I’ll no do it, till he says sae, no, not if I die for it! Now then?”
“Setting yoursel’ up in a bleezing passion wi’ a person auld enough to be your mither! Think shame o’ yoursel’, Maggie Promoter!”
Maggie was certainly in a passion. Her eyes were full of tears, her face burning, her form erect and trembling with anger. Yet she was bitterly annoyed at her own weakness; she felt degraded by her outburst of temper, and was just going to say some words of apology, when a number of women entered the cottage. There was Jenny and Maggie Johnston, and Kirsty Buchan, and Janet Thompson and Mysie Raith; five buxom wives in linsey and tartan, all talking together of their “men” and their families.
Maggie’s instincts revolted against any public discussion of her own affairs, and Aunt Janet was not disposed to tell her grievance while Maggie was present. So both women put it aside to welcome their visitors. There was much hand-shaking, and loud talking, and then Janet Caird said with a bustling authoritative air, “Put on the kettle, Maggie, a cup o’ tea when kimmers meet, mak’s talk better;” and Maggie, dumbly resentful at the order, obeyed it.