“You 're the dullest man in all Drumtochty,” cried Kilspindie, wheeling round—one might have fancied—but that is absurd—“and the truest. Did you think that a Hay would let a Baxter go for all the kirks that ever were built? You supposed that I wanted you to play the knave for your farm, and this was the news you were to carry home to Jean; it's too bad of you, Burnbrae.”
“Ma Lord, a'... ye ken—”
“It's all right, and I'm only joking; and the play was carried on a bit too long for both of us, but I wanted to hear your own mind upon this matter,” and Kilspindie called for the factor.
“Is the Burnbrae lease drawn up?”
“It is, at an advance of sixty pounds, and I've got a man who will sign it, and says he will give no trouble about kirks; in fact, he 'll just do... ah... well, whatever we tell him.”
“Quite so; most satisfactory sort of man. Then you 'll reduce the rent to the old figure, and put in the name of John Baxter, and let it be for the longest period we ever give on the estate.”
“But, Lord Kilspindie... I... did you know—”
“Do as I command you without another word,” and his Lordship was fearful to behold. “Bring the lease here in ten minutes, and place it in Mr. Baxter's hands. What I've got to say to you will keep till afterwards.
“Sit down, old friend, sit down;... it was my blame.... I ought to be horse-whipped.... Drink a little water. You 're better now.... I 'll go and see that fellow has no tricks in the conditions.” But he heard Burnbrae say one word to himself, and it was “Jean.”
“There are mony things a' wud like tae say, ma Lord,” said Burnbrae before he left, “but a full hert maks few words. Gin lifting a dark cloud aff the life o' a family an' fillin' twa auld fouk wi' joy 'ill gie ony man peace, ye 'ill sleep soond this nicht in yir castle.