“Folks will be talking anon.”
“They are talking already. Do you think that I did not hear all this clash and clavers before? Lucky Sims, and Marget Roy, and every fish-wife in Pittendurie, know both the beginning and the end of it. They have seen this, and they have heard that, and they think the very worst that can be; you may be sure of that.”
“I’m thinking no wrong of Sophy.”
“Nor I. The first calamity is to be born a woman; it sets the door open for every other sorrow—and the more so, if the poor lassie is bonnie and alone in the world. Sophy is not to blame; it is Andrew that is in the fault.”
“How can you say such a thing as that, Mother?”
“I’ll tell you how. Andrew has been that set on having a house for his wife, that he has just lost the wife while he was saving the siller for the house. I have told him, and better told him to bring Sophy here; but nothing but having her all to himself will he hear tell of. It is pure, wicked selfishness in the lad! He simply cannot thole her to give look or word to any one but himself. Perfect scand’lous selfishness! That is where all the trouble has come from.”
“Whist, Mother! He is most at the doorstep. That is Andrew’s foot, or I am much mista’en.”
“Then I’ll away to Lizzie Robertson’s for an hour. My heart is knocking at my lips, and I’ll be saying what I would give my last bawbee to unsay. Keep a calm sough, Christina.”
“You need not tell me that, Mother.”
“Just let Andrew do the talking, and you’ll be all right. It is easy to put him out about Sophy, and then to come to words. Better keep peace than make peace.”