‘You have told me nothing about Ailie,’ she said, when she was once more seated in the little parlour before the cheerful fire.
‘She’s taken to wandering far and near,’ said Jean, ‘ay in her white gown. Some say she’s clean daft, poor lass; but I canna think it’s as bad as that. She’s awfu’ good to the poor folk, and whiles will stop and say a word—if you’ll believe me, Isabel—mair like our Margret’s words and mair comforting and reasonable than when she spoke in the power.’
‘But her heart is broken,’ said Isabel, with a sigh, which came from the depths of her own.
‘And there’s something, they say down by, in this week’s paper about Mr. John. But you’ll hear better than me. Some awfu’ business there’s been in France about killing the king. They say he’s one of thae revolutionaries. But I havena seen the paper myself,’ said Jean. ‘I’m thinking I hear the wheels of the gig coming up the brae.’
Isabel gave a hurried glance up in her face, and another at her child. A glance not of suggestion, but of speechless, bewildered appeal.
‘Go out and meet your man, my bonnie woman,’ her stepmother added hurriedly, ‘and give me the bairn.’
Not another word was said between them on the subject. There was no confidence made, no counsel asked. But Isabel understood that her stepmother saw vaguely, yet truly, what was in her heart. The wintry afternoon was growing dark; the stars were already half visible in the frosty sky.
‘Make haste, for it is getting late!’ Stapylton shouted from the door. Isabel put on her own outdoor dress with trembling hands, while Jean dressed her child. Then she took little Margaret into her arms under her cloak. Her face was deadly pale with excitement, and resolution, and terror. She put up her white lips to her stepmother to kiss her, though such salutations were rare between them—and then went out firmly with her precious hidden burden—her heart bounding wildly against her breast.
‘Make haste, Isabel!’ her husband shouted from the gig. He did not get down to help her into it, having already begun to glide out of the habits of a lover. And, after an awful moment of fear, she found herself seated by his side, without remark on his part. The baby moved and struggled under the cloak, but Stapylton took no notice. ‘What are you putting in now to delay us?’ he cried to Jean, who was placing the child’s little basket of ‘things’ behind. He was full of impatience to be off, and thought of nothing else for the moment. ‘It will be quite dark before we get home,’ he said, with almost a scowl at the delay.
Jean stood and gazed after them as they darted from the door. ‘Oh, canny, canny, down the brae!’ she cried. She had not shed a tear over the parting, but her heart was heavy and sore. ‘She’ll repent it but once, and that will be a’ her life,’ she said to herself, as the black speck disappeared over the hill, ‘and it’s begun already. I ay said it, if that were ony satisfaction; but she never would listen to me.’