“But,” continued Jane, “I’ve no one else to talk to and confide in. You are thoughtful and wise, and see a great deal, and then say nothing about it. You know how Sir Murray and my lady have been of late, and how he has behaved.”
“Yes—yes,” said Sandy; “he’s been feeling just as I used to feel when—”
“Don’t, please—don’t say any more about that.”
“Not I, lassie,” said Sandy, caressingly.
“But this soft way of his, now, I don’t like it,” said Jane. “My life on it, he’s never had any cause for his jealousy. I believe now it was all due to that wicked wretch saying things of my dear lady, and Sir Murray getting to hear of them.”
“Hoot, not so fast, lassie. What wicked wretch?”
“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Jane, with pained face. “You know who I mean.”
“So I do, lassie—so I do,” said Sandy, smiling, and softly rubbing his hands. “But he’ll do nae mair mischief.”
“Well,” said Jane, eagerly, “I saw Sir Murray only this morning talking gently to my lady, and as soon as he left her, he was looking that evil, and muttering so, that it was horrible. I don’t believe in him, and there’s something wrong. She has offended him, and he hasn’t forgiven her. You know how I love my lady.”
“Gude sake, yes, lassie, and I love ye for’t.”