“Then in the name of wonder, what did you say?” exclaimed the stranger. “I shall have serious suspicions, I assure you, my good woman, if you answer me so. Why was the girl afraid to speak to her master? and what do you mean?”
The heavy drops from the eaves had fallen one by one on my head—my hair was wet with them—my brow damp with more painful dew. I rang my bell hurriedly.
“Ye can bide till I come down,” I heard Mrs Mense say, as she shut the door, “and I’ll ask the laird, since ye will hae’t; but ye’ll stay where ye are till I come back again.”
In a minute or two after she appeared at the door of my study; her ruddy face was paled by emotion, and her eyes turned upon me with a painful solicitous look that smote me to the heart.
“What is the matter?” I asked as calmly as I could, “and why do you not bring that man up to me at once, Nancy, instead of keeping him so long at the door?”
Again she looked at me—a conscious, terrified look, which I trembled to interpret.
“Oh, Mossgray! for the Lord’s sake tak tent o’ yoursel! you’re an innocent lad—ye aye were an innocent lad—ye kenna what ill may be brewing. I saw ane that saw Mr Charlie in the toun yestreen—oh, Mr Adam, dinna look sae fearsome!—and if ye canna meet this man—if ye’ve ony fear—just say the word, and I’ll send him away.”
I felt large drops of moisture burst upon my brow; I shuddered through my whole frame; I felt an irresistible inclination to flee away, and escape from all these miseries for ever. I had indeed awakened from my frenzy of grief—and such an awakening!
“Why should I fear to see him?” I asked, the words refusing to come plainly from my stammering tongue. “What is this? Do you think—do you think I am mad?”
She did not answer; but with tears streaming from her eyes she continued to fix that painful, terrified, conscious look upon my face.