“Not like Glendochart, though he’s a clever gentleman and a real good man to her that has the wit to guide him. A young lad, long and straight and with a bonny black e’e—and a clever tongue, but leein’, for he says very ceevil things to me. He’s ceevil to every one about the place, and great friends with the Laird—and I canna tell what ails her at him, if there’s anything ails her at him. She was just real pleased to see him till twa three weeks ago; and then she took an ill turn—but wherefore I canna say. Wha can say what whimsies come into a lassie’s mind?—and I’ve been muckle taken up,” said Marg’ret. She paused a moment, and if she had been a Roman Catholic would have crossed herself; the impulse was the same, though nothing would have more horrified a Scotch Protestant than to be told so. She paused, and in a low voice said, “Muckle taken up—with her that needs nae mortal’s service mair—”
And there was silence between them for a moment, and thought, that travels so fast, stopped remorseful with a sense of compunction, feeling how recent was the event, and how swift was the current of life which had already began to flow.
“You have not told me who he is?” said Kirsteen presently in a subdued tone.
“Well,” said Marg’ret rousing herself with a smile of pride and pleasure, “his is a kind of what they ca’ incognity at the lodge; but I’m thinking, though I’m not quite sure, that it’s just one of the Duke’s sons.”
“One of the Duke’s sons,” cried Kirsteen aghast.
“Well, my bonny dear! And wherefore no?—the Douglases are as good blood as any in Scotland, if it were the Queen herself—”
“Oh, Marg’ret,” cried Kirsteen, “my poor little Jeanie! Do ye think she cares for this man?”
“I make nae doubt ye are used to grander persons than that; but it’s no just ceevil to call the young lord ‘this man.’”
“Ye don’t understand.—Oh! ye don’t understand,” cried Kirsteen, wringing her hands. “The blood of the Douglases may be a very fine thing, but it will not make her a match for the Duke’s son—Marg’ret, you that have so much sense! And what does my father say?”
“I mind the time,” said Marg’ret, “when ye wouldna have said I didna understand. Maybe my sister Jean—Oh, my bonny dear, forgive me, I’m just a jealous fool, and I didna mean it. But there’s naething in it that’s hard to understand; a bonny lad that’s young and ganging his ain gait—and he sees a bonny lass, that is just like a flower, the pride of the place. Is he to wait and reckon, will my father be pleased, and will my leddy mother be pleased? Set them up! Not to be owerproud of a Douglas in their house, and a beauty like Jeanie. The pride used to be on our side once,” said Marg’ret, tossing her head, “if a’ tales be true.”