There came an answering cry from the closet; Annie rushed out, half-undressed, and threw her arms about her husband.
“Joseph! Joseph!” she said, in a voice hard with agony—almost more dreadful than a scream—“gien ye speyk like that, ye’ll drive me mad. Lat the lassie gang, but lea’ me my God!”
Joseph pushed her gently away; turned from her, fell on his knees, and moaned out—
“O God, gien thoo has her, we s’ neither greit nor grum’le: but dinna tak the faith frae ’s.”
He remained on his knees silent, with his head against the chimney-jamb. His wife crept away to her closet.
“Peter,” said Malcolm, “I’m gaein’ aff the nicht to luik for the laird, and see gien he can tell ’s onything aboot her: wadna ye better come wi’ me?”
To the heart of the father it was as the hope of the resurrection of the world. The same moment he was on his feet and taking down his bonnet; the next he disappeared in the closet, and Malcolm heard the tinkling of the money in the lidless teapot; then out he came with a tear on his face and a glimmer in his eyes.
The sun was down, and a bone-piercing chill, incarnate in the vague mist that haunted the ground, assailed them as they left the cottage. The sea moaned drearily. A smoke seemed to ascend from the horizon half-way to the zenith, something too thin for cloud, too black for vapour; above that the stars were beginning to shine. Joseph shivered and struck his hands against his shoulders.
“Care’s cauldrife,” he said, and strode on.
Almost in silence they walked together to the county town, put up at a little inn near the river, and at once began to make inquiries. Not a few persons had seen the laird at different times, but none knew where he slept or chiefly haunted. There was nothing for it but to set out in the morning, and stray hither and thither, on the chance of somewhere finding him.