“So Randal Burnside’s back again?” said Bell. She did not pay much attention to John’s further animadversions upon Robert, who was the man-of-all-work at the Manse. Having at last got at the scrap of information she wanted, she got up and bestirred herself about the supper, and listened to just as much as interested her and no more. In this way at his own fireside, without even Jeanie to disturb him, and no bell to break the thread of his discourse, John loved to talk.
The next day was Saturday, which Bell allowed to pass without any attempt to execute her commission; but when Sunday came, after the service was over, the sermon ended, and the kirk “skailing,” in all decency and good order, she seized her opportunity. “Will you speak a word, Mr. Randal?” she said, lingering behind the rest. “Na, no afore a’ the folk; but if you’ll come round to me at poor Sir Ludovic’s tomb yonder, where I’m gaun to see if ony weeding’s wanted.”
Randal gave a hasty assent. His heart began to beat, in sympathy, perhaps, with Margaret’s heart, which had beat so wildly when she gave the commission now about to be communicated to him. He got free of the people, doubly tiresome at this moment, who insisted on shaking hands with the Minister’s son as part of the performance, “Eh, what a sermon the Doctor’s given us!” the kind women said. Perhaps Randal had not been so much impressed by his father’s eloquence; but he was very eager to make an end of these weekly salutations and congratulations. He hurried back to Bell, with such an increase and quickening of all the currents of his blood, that the old woman looked with surprise upon his glorified countenance. “I never thought he was such a bonnie lad,” Bell said to herself. As for Randal, he tried very hard, but with no success, to persuade himself that what she wanted with him must be some trifling business of her own. But his heart travelled on to Margaret, and to some chance message from her, with a determination which he could not resist.
“Well, Bell, what is it?” he said.
“I am real obliged to you, Mr. Randal. It’s no my business, and it’s a thing I canna approve of, that maun be said to begin with. Mr. Randal, I was writing to my young lady, to Miss Margret—”
“Yes?” said Randal, a little breathless, and impatient of the suspense.
“Ay, just that—and ye’ll no guess what happened. Rob Glen, that’s him that is Mrs. Glen’s son at Earl’s-lee farm, a lad that was to be a minister—you’ll ken him by name at least—Rob Glen?”
“Yes, I know him;” Randal felt as if she had thrown a deluge of cold water upon him; his very heart was chilled. “Oh yes,” he said, coldly, “I know Rob Glen.”
“Well, sir, what does that lad do but come to me with a bit letter in his hand. ‘When ye’re writing to Miss Margret, will ye send her that for me?’ he said. You may think how I glowered at him. ‘For Miss Margret!’ I said. He gave me a kind of fierce look, and ‘Just for Miss Margret,’ he says. You might have laid me on the floor with a puff o’ your breath. Miss Margret! so young as she is, far ower young to get letters from ony man, far less a lad like Rob Glen.”
“But why are you telling me this?” said Randal, half angry, half miserable. “I hope you will not tell it to any one else.”