“I’m just telling you, Laird. The Rosscraig family is clean ruined—no much wonder if ye think of a’ the on-goings they’ve had. There’s to be a roup, and the estate itsel’ by private contract, or if nae offer comes—”
“Get out of my room, woman,” cried Drumcarro. “Bring me my clothes. You steek everything away as if a gentleman was to be bound for ever in his bed. I’m going to get up.”
“Sir!” cried Marg’ret in dismay. “It’s as much as your life is worth.”
“My life!” he said with a snarl of angry impatience, but as he struggled up in his bed Drumcarro caught sight of himself, a weird figure, lean as an old eagle, with long hair and ragged beard, and no doubt the spring of sudden energy with which he raised himself was felt through all his rusty joints so long unaccustomed to movement. He kept up, sitting erect, but he uttered a groan of impatience as he did so. “I’m not my own master,” he said—“a woman’s enough to daunton me that once never knew what difficulty was. Stop your infernal dusting and cleaning, and listen to me. Where’s that lass in London living now? Or is she aye there? Or has she taken up with some man to waste her siller like the rest of her kind?”
“Sir, are ye meaning your daughter Kirsteen?” said Marg’ret, with dignity.
“Who should I be meaning? Ye can write her a letter and send it by the post. Tell her there’s need of her. Her father’s wanting her, and at once. Do ye hear? There’s no time to trouble about a frank. Just send it by the post.”
“If ye were not in such an awfu’ hurry,” said Marg’ret, “there might maybe be an occasion.”
“I can wait for none of your occasions—there’s little feeling in her if she cannot pay for one letter—from her father. Tell her I’m wanting her, and just as fast as horses’ legs can carry her, she’s to come.”
“Maister,” cried Marg’ret with great seriousness drawing close to the bed, “if ye’re feeling the end sa near and wanting your bairns about ye, will I no send for the minister? It’s right he should be here.”