Donal was forced to leave it thus, but he did his utmost to impress upon Doory that all he had was at her disposal.
“I had new clothes,” he said, “before I came; I have all I want to eat and drink; and for books, there’s a whole ancient library at my service!—what possibly could I wish for more? It’s a mere luxury to hand the money over to you, Doory! I’m thinkin’, Doory,” for he had by this time got to address her by her husband’s name for her, “there’s naebody i’ this warl’, ’cep’ the oonseen Lord himsel’, lo’es yer man sae weel as you an’ me; an’ weel ken I, you an’ him wad share yer last wi’ me; sae I’m only giein’ ye o’ yer ain guid wull; an’ I’ll doobt that gien ye takna sae lang as I hae.”
Thus adjured, and satisfied that her husband was content, the old woman made no difficulty.
CHAPTER XLIII.
EPPY AND KENNEDY.
When Stephen Kennedy heard that Eppy had gone back to her grandparents, a faint hope revived in his bosom; he knew nothing of the late passage between the two parties. He but knew that she was looking sad: she might perhaps allow him to be of some service to her! Separation had fostered more and more gentle thoughts of her in his heart; he was ready to forgive her everything, and believe nothing serious against her, if only she would let him love her again. Modesty had hitherto kept him from throwing himself in her way, but he now haunted the house in the hope of catching a glimpse of her, and when she began to go again into the town, saw her repeatedly, following her to be near her, but taking care she should not see him: partly from her self-absorption he had succeeded in escaping her notice.
At length, however, one night, he tried to summon up courage to accost her. It was a lovely, moonlit night, half the street black with quaint shadows, the other half shining like sand in the yellow light. On the moony side people standing at their doors could recognize each other two houses away, but on the other, friends might pass without greeting. Eppy had gone into the baker’s; Kennedy had seen her go in, and stood in the shadow, waiting, all but determined to speak to her. She staid a good while, but one accustomed to wait for fish learns patience. At length she appeared. By this time, however, though not his patience, Kennedy’s courage had nearly evaporated; and when he saw her he stepped under an archway, let her pass, and followed afresh. All at once resolve, which yet was no resolve, awoke in him. It was as if some one took him and set him before her. She started when he stepped in front, and gave a little cry.
“Dinna be feart, Eppy,” he said; “I wudna hurt a hair o’ yer heid. I wud raither be skinned mysel’!”
“Gang awa,” said Eppy. “Ye hae no richt to stan’ i’ my gait!”
“Nane but the richt o’ lo’ein’ ye better nor ever!” said Kennedy, “—gien sae be as ye’ll lat me ony gait shaw ’t!”
The words softened her; she had dreaded reproach, if not indignant remonstrance. She began to cry.