With these words Mr. Galbraith started forth into the night, in all the grandeur of indignation, leaving the club of rural gossips much disconcerted. He had taught the most of them all they knew of book-learning, and there were few who had not a certain awe of the Maister who had corrected his youth. There was silence when he went out, followed after an interval by a feeble attempt at a laugh. ‘The Dominie’s mounted his high horse,’ somebody said in the darkness; but there was no immediate echo of the sentiment. And what the Dominie had commenced was accomplished triumphantly by Mrs. Macwhirter, the smith’s wife, who came forward with her baby in her arms, to sound a note of victory over the discomfiture of ‘the men.’
‘Eh, but ye’ve weel deserved it!’ she said, ‘clashing and clavering like a wheen auld wives. That I should say sae! There’s no an auld wife in the country-side that’s a man’s match for an ill tongue. A’ the nasty stories that are ever told in this parish, and mony a parish mair, trace them up, and ye’ll ay find they’ve come frae the smiddy, or the public, wherever there’s men meeting. Eh, lads, I would think shame——’
‘Gang back to your weans!’ said the smith, peremptorily. ‘It’s late, friends, and time we were a’ in our beds. I’ll wish ye good night, for it’s time to shut up the place. Gang back, I say, woman, to your weans.’
And the meeting of the rural convocation was brought to a sudden close.
CHAPTER XXXIX
The morning rose anxiously over all the personages of this little drama. Isabel, sleepless, fatigued, and unresolved, rose pale to the new day which she felt might bring change incalculable to her life. Jean, who kept hovering about her, watching with keen attention every movement she made, increased Isabel’s suppressed agitation. There was a permanent flush on her face; her eyes were abstracted, and took little note of what was going on. She seemed scarcely aware of the passage of time, and was irritated when she was called upon to sit down at the table and eat, and go through all the ordinary domestic routine. ‘Oh, if you would leave me quiet!’ she exclaimed, half unconsciously, turning away her face from the scrutiny of which she was only half aware.
‘My bonnie woman! you’re no weel?’ said Jean.
‘I am quite well; there is nothing the matter with me. I have—a headache. I don’t feel—able to talk,’ said Isabel, stumbling from one sentence to another. And then she wound up with the plaint of weariness, so familiar in its sound, ‘Oh, if you would let me be!’
Let her alone—leave her to revolve and re-revolve the questions that were rushing through her mind in endless succession without any answer! Poor Jean did her best to answer this prayer. She went and shut herself up in the kitchen with her children, and gave them their dinner. And then she thought the broth was exceptionally good, and that fasting was bad for a headache; so she got up from her own meal and carried a basin of the family soup into the parlour. ‘They’re real good the day,’ she said, wistfully; ‘try a spoonfu’, Isabel.’
Isabel was standing at the window once more looking out. She turned round quickly at the sound of the opening door, and a blaze of momentary anger came across her face. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I could not eat;’ and then sat down suddenly, drawing her work to her. Jean stood in the doorway and gazed, holding always the basin in her hand.