From the moment she discovered herself fooled, she had been imagining all manner of terrible things—yet none so terrible as the truth. There was no end to her objurgations, exclamations, anathemas, and interjections.
“Now I can leave you in peace, my lady!” said Donal, who had not resumed his seat.
“Noo ye can bide whaur ye are, an’ be thankfu’!” said mistress Brookes. “Wha daur meddle wi’ ye, an’ me i’ the hoose! An’ wha kens what the mad yerl—for mad I s’ uphaud him, an’ fit only to be lockit up—wha kens what he may do neist! Maister Grant, I cannot lat ye oot o’ the hoose.”
“I was only going as far as mistress Comin’s,” replied Donal.
“Weel, ye can gang; but min’ ye’re hame i’ guid time!”
“I thought of putting up there, but I will do as my lady pleases.”
“Come home,” said Arctura.
Donal went, and the first person he saw when he entered the house was Eppy. She turned instantly away, and left the room: he could not help seeing why.
The old woman welcomed him with her usual cordiality, but not her usual cheerfulness: he had scarcely noted since her husband’s death any change on her manner till now: she looked weary of the world.
She sat down, smoothed her apron on her knees, gave him one glance in the face, then looked down at her hands, and said nothing.