Slowly Jean bowed her head, her face flushing guiltily. Surely she had the more need to ask his forgiveness. She had not expected to find such nobility of character, and it moved her deeply.
“There is naught to forgive,” she cried in a low stifled voice. “I alone am to blame. I am unfit, unworthy to be your wife. Oh, I’m so miserable, so unhappy,” and she burst into tears.
Souter led old Donald silently out of the room. There was nothing either one could say to the wretched couple, so they sat outside and talked it all over in the way old men have. They had not been seated long, however, when they espied coming toward them, at a furious gallop, a horse and rider. As they drew near Souter perceived with sudden apprehension that it was none other than Squire Armour. He rose anxiously to his feet.
“Do ye ken wha’ it is, Souter?” inquired Donald in a quavering voice.
“It’s Squire Armour himsel’,” whispered Souter cautiously.
“Ma certie!” ejaculated Donald, shaking his white locks in mild alarm.
“I’d better warn the lass,” said Souter hastily, as the Squire drew up to the gate. Going to the door he quickly told them of the newcomer, then turned to intercept the irate visitor, who was coming swiftly up the walk.
“Heavens, my father here!” cried Jean in a frightened whisper. “Oh, I dare not face his wrath. Protect me, Robert,” and she clung to him fearfully.
“Out o’ my way, mon!” they heard the harsh voice of Squire Armour shouting. “Out o’ my way,” and pushing aside the courageous little man he strode wrathfully into the room.
“Weel, I’ll stay and see the fun through,” said Souter to himself grimly.