“Has anything happened?” I said. “What is the matter, Margaret?”
“Ower muckle—ower muckle,” said the housekeeper of Greenshaw, lifting her apron to her eyes; “oh, for onysake dinna gang in!—and yet he maun ken—there’s nae use trying to keep it frae him.”
The last part of the sentence was spoken under her breath; I became very much agitated.
“What is it, Margaret? Is Lilias ill? What has happened?”
“I’ll tell ye, Mossgray,” said Margaret, quickly, the arm which she had extended to bar my entrance falling to her side. “It wad be dearly telling her, she had been ill this day. She’ll live yet to ken, that the sorest fever that ever chained a mortal to a sick bed wad hae been a blessed tether o’ her wilful feet this woefu’ morning. Dinna think o’ her, Maister Adam. I ken it’s hard, but ye maun try; dinna think o’ her—she’s no wurdy o’t.”
I clutched the woman’s arm, angry and eager. I could not speak.
“Weel then, she’s gane—she’s away—her that was the light o’ our e’en—that we couldna see ill in—that I’ve heard ye even to the very angels, Mossgray. She’s gane—fled out from her father’s house with yon young haverel o’ a doctor, that has neither wealth to keep, nor wit to fend for her. Oh, guid forgie me, Mr Adam! what have I dune?”
My face alarmed her, I fancy. I pressed blindly in—Walter Johnstone stood before me. I was close upon him before I was aware of his presence; I looked in his face.
He turned from me with a burst of emotion, which seemed to wake me from some terrible nightmared sleep.
“Mossgray, I did not know it—I had no suspicion of this. Believe me, Adam, believe me, that I am blameless! She has deceived us all!”