“What makes you say that, mistress Brookes?” asked Donal.
“It’s no ilk ane I wud answer sic a queston til,” she replied; “but I’m weel assured ye hae sense an’ hert eneuch baith, no to hurt a cratur; an’ I’ll jist gang sae far as say to yersel’, an’ ’atween the twa o’ ’s, ’at I hae h’ard frae them ’at’s awa’—them ’at weel kent, bein’ aboot the place an’ trustit—that whan the fit was upo’ him, he was fell cruel to the bonnie wife he merriet abro’d an’ broucht hame wi’ him—til a cauld-hertit country, puir thing, she maun hae thoucht it!”
“How could he have been cruel to her in the house of his brother? Even if he was the wretch to be guilty of it, his brother would never have connived at the ill-treatment of any woman under his roof!”
“Hoo ken ye the auld yerl sae weel?” asked Mrs. Brookes, with a sly glance.
“I ken,” answered Donal, direct as was his wont, but finding somehow a little shelter in the dialect, “’at sic a dauchter could ill hae been born to ony but a man ’at—weel, ’at wad at least behave til a wuman like a man.”
“Ye’re i’ the richt! He was the ten’erest-heartit man! But he was far frae stoot, an’ was a heap by himsel’, nearhan’ as mickle as his lordship the present yerl. An’ the lady was that prood, an’ that dewotit to the man she ca’d her ain, that never a word o’ what gaed on cam to the ears o’ his brither, I daur to say, or I s’ warran’ ye there wud hae been a fine steer! It cam, she said—my auld auntie said—o’ some kin’ o’ madness they haena a name for yet. I think mysel’ there’s a madness o’ the hert as weel ’s o’ the heid; an’ i’ that madness men tak their women for a property o’ their ain, to be han’led ony gait the deevil pits intil them. Cries i’ the deid o’ the nicht, an’ never a shaw i’ the mornin’ but white cheeks an’ reid een, tells its ain tale. I’ the en’, the puir leddy dee’d, ’at micht hae lived but for him; an’ her bairnie dee’d afore her; an’ the wrangs o’ bairns an’ women stick lang to the wa’s o’ the universe! It was said she cam efter him again;—I kenna; but I hae seen an’ h’ard i’ this hoose what—I s’ haud my tongue aboot!—Sure I am he wasna a guid man to the puir wuman!—whan it comes to that, maister Grant, it’s no my leddy an’ mem, but we’re a’ women thegither! She dee’dna i’ this hoose, I un’erstan’; but i’ the hoose doon i’ the toon—though that’s neither here nor there. I wadna won’er but the conscience micht be waukin’ up intil ’im! Some day it maun wauk up. He’ll be sorry, maybe, whan he kens himsel’ upo’ the border whaur respec’ o’ persons is ower, an’ a woman’s ’s guid ’s a man—maybe a wheen better! The Lord ’ll set a’thing richt, or han’ ’t ower til anither!”
CHAPTER LIV.
LADY ARCTURA’S ROOM.
The next day, when he saw lady Arctura, Donal was glad to learn that, for all the excitement of the day before, she had passed a good night, and never dreamed at all.
“I’ve been thinking it all over, my lady,” he said, “and it seems to me that, if your uncle heard the noise of our plummet so near, the chimney can hardly rise from the floor you searched; for that room, you know, is half-way between the ground-floor and first floor. Still, sound does travel so! We must betake ourselves to measurement, I fear.—But another thing came into my head last night which may serve to give us a sort of parallax. You said you heard the music in your own room: would you let me look about in it a little? something might suggest itself!—Is it the room I saw you in once?”
“Not that,” answered Arctura, “but the bedroom beyond it. I hear it sometimes in either room, but louder in the bedroom. You can examine it when you please.—If only you could find my bad dream, and drive it out!—Will you come now?”