“Then, as you wish them abased and tormented, you must help me to abase and torment mine—my husband, and Lord Lovat—”
“Lord Lovat!” repeated many wondering voices.
“And Sir Alexander Macdonald; and his tenant of this place; and—”
As Mr Ruthven looked round him, perplexed and amazed, one of Macdonald’s people went up to him, and whispered into his ear that this lady had come from some place above or below, for she was drowned last week. Mr Ruthven half smiled.
“I will know,” cried the lady, “what that fellow said. I will hear what my enemies tell you against me. My only hope is in you. I am stolen from Edinburgh; they pretended to bury me there— Eh? what?” she cried, as another man whispered something into the pastor’s other ear. “Mad! There! I heard it. I heard him say I was mad. Did he not tell you I was mad?”
“He did; and one cannot— really I cannot—”
As he looked round again in his perplexity, the widow rose from her seat, and said, “I know this lady; my son and I know her better than anyone else in the island does; and we should say that she is not mad.”
“Not mad!” Mr Ruthven said, with a mingling of surprise in his tone which did not escape the jealous ear of Lady Carse.
“Not mad, sir; but grievously oppressed. If you could quietly hear the story, sir, at a fitting time—”
“Ay, ay; that will be best,” declared Mr Ruthven.