“Parfect nonsense! There is nae ill wish that is mair than idle breath, if it be na His will.”
Just at dusk there was an outcry and a clamor of women’s voices followed by passionate wailing, and a few minutes afterward Mistress Raith ran shrieking into the cottage. “The ‘Allan Campbell’ has gone to the bottom, and my boy Laurie wi’ her. Oh, the ill heart, and the ill tongue o’ you, Maggie Promoter! I’d like fine to send you after him! Gie us a help, wives, and let’s gie her a ducking at the vera least!” The wretched mother was half crazy, and Maggie fled from her presence. The circumstance was the seal to her purpose. She knew well how her few angry words would be held against her, and she said mournfully, “There’s nae hope o’ kindness nor justice here for me. I should hae gane this morning when the thocht came to me. I wad hae been on the road to Stirling ere this.”
There was a constant succession of visitors at the cottage until late, but as soon as all was quiet, Maggie went to her wretched hearthstone, and silently made herself a cup of tea. Janet Caird sat rocking herself to and fro, bewailing the dead, and the living; but yet carefully watching the unusual proceedings and dress of her niece. At length, finding Maggie was not to be provoked into words, she pretended suddenly to observe her kirk clothes—“Whatna for hae you that fine merino on this night? Surely, Maggie Promoter, you arena thinking o’ going to the house o’ mourning —you, that ought to be on your bended knees for the ill wishes you sent the puir lad to the bottom wi’. And after a’ it wasna Angus but little Laurie that got the weight o’ your ill thochts!”
“Do stop, aunt. Say them words to the minister, and hear the reproof you’ll get! As if the breath o’ an angry woman could make Him turn the keys that nane turn but Him. And if you want to ken whar I am going, I may as weel tell you now, as the morn. I am going to my brither Davie, for I cannot thole the bad tongue and the bad heart o’ you, anither day.”
“Hear to the wicked lass! My bad tongue! My bad heart! I sall scream oot at sich words—”
“Dinna flyte mair at me for ony sake, Aunt Janet. You’ll get the hoose to yoursel’ in the early morning.”
“And then what sail I do? A puir auld woman wiled awa’ frae her ain hame.”
“Aunt Janet, you can go back to your ain hame. There is nane to hinder you. When you are ready, lock the door, and gie the key to Elder Mackelvine. But if you like this bien comfortable cottage better than the one bit empty room David took you from, you can stay in it your lane. I wadna bide wi’ you anither day for gude words, nor gude gold; no, nor for onything else.”
“My bite and sup were aye sure at Dron Point; but what will I do here at a’? Hae you made a provision for the five shillings weekly?”
“Na, na; I hae paid that o’er lang. At Dron Point you spun your pickle o’ tow, and you nursed the sick folk. There is mair spinning here, and mair sick folk. You are nae waur off, but better. And it is little o’ the siller I hae given you that has been spent. A’ expenses hae come oot o’ my pocket.”