Drumcarro sat taller and taller in his bed, and let forth a string of epithets enough to make a woman’s blood run cold. “Ye old bletherin’ doited witch!” he said, “ye old——“ His eloquence had not failed him, and Marg’ret, though a brave woman, who had taken these objurgations composedly enough on previous occasions, was altogether overwhelmed by the torrent of fiery words, and the red ferocious light in the eyes of the skeleton form in the bed. She put up her hands to her ears and fled. “I’ll do your will—I’ll do your will,” she cried. A letter was not a very easy piece of work to Marg’ret, but so great was the impression made upon her mind that she fulfilled the Laird’s commission at once. She wrote as follows in the perturbation of her mind—
“Your fader has either taken leave of his senses, or he’s fey, or thinks his later end is nigh. But any way I’m bid to summons you, Kirsteen, just this moment without delay. I’m to tell ye there’s need of you—that your fader’s wanting ye. Ye will just exerceese your own judgment, for he’s in his ordinar’ neither better nor warse. But he’s took a passion of wanting ye and will not bide for an occasion nor a private hand as may be whiles heard of—nor yet a frank that could be got with a little trouble. So ye will have this letter to pay for, and ye’ll come no doubt if ye think it’s reasonable, but I cannot say that I do for my part.
“P.S. The Carmichaels of Rosscraig are just ruined with feasting and wasting, and their place is to be sold and everything roupit—a sair downcome for their name.”
Kirsteen obeyed this letter with a speed beyond anything which was thought possible in the north. She drove to the door, no longer finding it necessary to conceal her coming. Marg’ret’s postscript, written from the mere instinct of telling what news there was to tell, had already thrown some light to her upon this hasty summons. Drumcarro lay propped up by pillows waiting for her, with something of the old deep red upon his worn face. He was wonderfully changed, but the red light in his eyes and the passion which had always blazed or smouldered in the man, ready to burst out at any touch, even when covered with the inevitable repressions of modern life, was more apparent than ever. His greetings were few. “Eh, so that’s you?” he said. “Ye’ve come fast.”
“I was told that you wanted me, father.”
“And maybe thought I was dying and there was no time to lose.” He noticed that Kirsteen held in her hand a newspaper, at which he glanced with something like contempt. A London newspaper was no small prize to people so far off from all sources of information. But such things were at present contemptible to Drumcarro in presence of the overwhelming pre-occupation in his own mind.
“I see,” he said, “ye’ve brought a paper to the old man; but I have other things in my head. When ye were here before ye made an offer. It was none of my seeking. It was little likely I should think of a lass like you having siller at her command—which is just another sign that everything in this country is turned upside down.”
Kirsteen made no reply, but waited for the further revelation of his news.
“Well,” he said with a slight appearance of embarrassment and a wave of his hand, “here’s just an opportunity. I have not the means of my own self. I would just have to sit and grin in this corner where a severe Providence has thrown me and see it go—to another of those damned Campbells, little doubt of that.”
“What is it?” she said. Kirsteen had lifted her head too, like a horse scenting the battle from afar. She had not her father’s hatred of his hereditary foes, but there was a fine strain of tradition in Kirsteen’s veins.