Leezbeth went up on Monday, as a commissioner from Drumsheugh, and that masterful woman made no doubt that she would unravel the mystery; but she was distinctly awed by Mrs. McIntosh s tone, which was a fine blend of anxiety and importance.
“Hoo are ye, Leezbeth, an' hoo's Drumsheugh? There's threatenin' tae be a scoorie, but it 'ill maybe haud up till the aifternoon. Wull ye come in tae the kitchen the day? The gude man's no hansel' the noo, and he's sittin' ben the hoose.”
“That's what a' cam' aboot,” said Leezbeth, rebelling against the solemnity of the atmosphere; “we heard doon bye that he wes sober (ill), an' the maister's aff tae Dunleith, and cudna get up tae speir for him. What's the natur' o' the tribble? Wes t sudden?”
Janet knew she was mistress of the situation for once, and had no fear that Leezbeth could bring her down from her high places in this rough fashion.
“It's rael freendly o' ye, an' a'm muckle ob-leeged; the fouk are awfu' ta'en up aboot Peter, an' there's juist ae word on a'body's mooth. A' ken what's comin' as sune as a' see a neebur crossin' the fields.
“Ye may be sure, Leezbeth, a' wud tell ye, gin a' kent masel,” and Janet wagged her head; “it's nae pleesure tae me that there sud be naethin' noo at kirk or market but Peter's tribble, and tae hae half the Glen deavin' me wi' questions.
“Wumman, a' tell ye, as sure as a'm stan-nin' here, a' wud raither hae Peter gaein' aboot at his wark instead o' a' this tiravee (commotion), and him girnin' frae mornin' tae nicht in his chair. Div ye hear him ragin' at Mary?”
“Gae awa oot o' there,” and Peter was evidently rejecting some office of attention; “gin ye come near me a 'll tak ma stick tae yir shoothers, ye little trimmie; ma word, a'm het eneuch withoot a plaid.”
“This is a terrible hoose the noo,” and Janet struggled vainly with a natural pride; “there's been naethin' like this wi' oor forbears sae far back as a' can mind, an' a' doot gin there's been the marra o't in the Glen.”
“Hoo's he affeckit?” for Leezbeth was much exasperated by Janet's airs, a woman who, in ordinary circumstances, could not have withstood her for an instant. “Ye can surely say that muckle. It 's no his chest; that 's in fine fettle; it 'ill be aither his legs or his head; maist likely his head frae the wy he's carryin' on.”