“That is not the question,” said Mr. Charles with some heat, not liking the turn these remarks had taken. “If we were to keep to our business we’d get on all the quicker. This man was in the service of my nephew, Mr. Tom Heriot?”
“No altogether in his service. He keepit his dogs; he did an odd thing about the lodge now and then; he was just a serviceable person about the place.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Charles, “since you know so much about him, you will probably know that something is supposed to have happened in Mr. Heriot’s life there, about which his friends are anxious to have information.”
“Now what could that be?” said the woman, putting up her hand to her forehead, with that natural artifice which we call theatrical. It was exactly what commonplace actors would have done in the endeavour to look puzzled, and full of candid simplicity. “What could that be? I’m no so instructed in Mr. Heriot’s life as I might be. John, ye’ll may mind something? But if you’ll tell me what it is, Sir, I’ll tell our—friend; no that’s he just what you would call a friend.”
“Your memory is so good that I am sure you could recollect were you to try,” said Mr. Charles. “Of course, as it is my niece that wants to know, not me, I am not authorised to make any explanations.”
“Eh me, what a pity the young leddy’s no at hame!” said the woman with ingenuous regret.
“But,” resumed Mr. Charles, “you know that there are sometimes connections which a young man forms, unpleasant things for the family. Young men will be young men, you know—and what’s perhaps only the fancy of a day may leave results behind, and may bring great trouble into a family. If you had it in your power now to prevent a great deal of disturbance and heart-burning, and perhaps a law-suit, and the succession of an old estate from being disputed—I cannot tell—perhaps you know nothing at all about it—”
“Oh, my man kens a great deal more than he says. Now what can it be about, John?” said the wife.
In the meanwhile John was undergoing internal struggles of a very severe description. He was a large brawny man, more slow in speech and heavy in aspect than men in his position, rubbed up into sharpness, at least, by contact with imperious sportsmen, generally are. He twisted his limbs so that he seemed all shoulder, he screwed up his features till he seemed all mouth.
“I’ll no do it,” he burst forth at length, “I’ll no do it! I’ll no wrong a poor lass, nor be mansworn!”