“Oh, well, never mind,” said she; “tell me a story.”
“I have no time just now,” he answered.
Nan’s uncle came round the corner of the dyke, no sound from his footsteps, his hands in his pockets, his brows lowering. He looked at the two of them and surmised the reason of Nan’s discourse with Black Duncan.
“Women—” said he to himself vaguely. “Women—” said he, pausing for a phrase to express many commingled sentiments he had as to their unnecessity, their aggravation, and his suspicion of them. He did not find the right one. He lifted his hand, stroked again the tangled beard, then made a gesture, a large animal gesture—still the satyr—to the sky. He turned and went down to the riverside. Mid-way he paused and stroked his beard again, and looked grimly up at where the maid and the manservant were blue-black against the evening sky. He shrugged his shoulders, “Women,” said he, “they make trouble. I wish—I wish——” He had no word to finish the sentence with, he but sighed and proceeded on his way.
Nan seemed to be lazily watching his figure as she sat in the grass, herself observed by Black Duncan. But she really saw him not.
“Ah well! never mind the story, Duncan,” she said at last; “I know you are tired and not in the mood for sguullachd, and if you like I will sing you my song.”
“You randy!” he said to himself, “you are going to have it out of me, my dear.” And he bent the more industriously to his task.
“Stop! stop!” he cried before she had got halfway through the old song of “The Rover.” “Stop! stop!” said he. He threw the binding bands from him and faced the crimson west, with his back to her.
“Any port but that, my dear! If you are grieving because you think you are going abroad you need not be anything of the kind, my leddy. This is the place for you, about your father’s door and him away where the fevers are—aye and the harbours too with diversions in every one of them.”
“And Uncle Jamie’s going to keep me, is he?” said she. “Lucky me! I was aye so fond of gaiety, you mind.”