“Then he seemed all at once to bethink himsel’ o’ something, an’ he ran to his coat that was hangin’ behind the door on a nail, an’ he drew oot a letter fra the pocket, an’ here it is.
“‘Are ye Robert’s Aunt Jean?’ he asked, and I tell’t him, an’, ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘an’ I did na’ think ye old enough to 435 be his Aunt Jean.’ Then he began to excuse himsel’ for forgettin’ to mail that letter. ‘I promised him I would,’ he said, ‘but ye see, I have na’ been wearin’ my best coat since he left, an’ that’s why. We gave him a banket,’ he says, ‘an’ I wore my best coat to the banket, an’ he gave me this an’ told me to mail it after he was well away,’ an’ he says, ‘I knew I ought not to put it in this coat pocket, for I’d forget it,’––an’ so he ran on; but it was no so good a coat, for the lining was a’ torn an’ it was gray wi’ dust, for I took it an’ brushed it an’ mended it mysel’ before I left Paris.”
Again Jean paused, and taking out her neatly folded handkerchief wiped away the falling tears, and sipped a moment at her tea in silence.
“Tak’ ye a bit o’ the scones, Jean. Ye’ll no help matters by goin’ wi’oot eatin’. If the lad’s done a shamefu’ like thing, ye’ll no help him by greetin’. He maun fall. Ye’ve done yer best I doot, although mistakenly to try to keep it fra me.”
“He was sae bonny, Ellen, and that like his mither ’twould melt the hairt oot o’ ye to look on him.”
“Ha’e ye no mair to tell me? Surely it never took ye these ten days to find oot what ye ha’e tell’t.”
“The man was a kind sort o’ a body, an’ he took me oot to eat wi’ him at a cafy, an’ he paid it himsel’, but I’m thinkin’ his purse was sair empty whan he got through wi’ it. I could na’ help it. Men are vera masterfu’ bodies. I made it up to him though, for I bided a day or twa at the hotel, an’ went to the room,––the pentin’ room whaur I found him––there was whaur he stayed, for he was keepin’ things as they were, he said, for the one who was to come 436 into they things––Robert Kater had left there––ye’ll find oot aboot them whan ye read the letter––an’ I made it as clean as ye’r han’ before I left him. He made a dour face whan he came in an’ found me at it, but I’m thinkin’ he came to like it after a’, for I heard him whustlin’ to himsel’ as I went down the stair after tellin’ him good-by.
“Gin ye had seen the dirt I took oot o’ that room, Ellen, ye would a’ held up ye’r two han’s in horror. There were crusts an’ bones behind the pictures standin’ against the wa’ that the rats an’ mice had been gnawin’ there, an’ there were bottles on a shelf, old an’ empty an’ covered wi’ cobwebs an’ dust, an’ the floor was so thick wi’ dirt it had to be scrapit, an’ what wi’ old papers an’ rags I had a great basket full taken awa––let be a bundle o’ shirts that needed mendin’. I took the shirts to the hotel, an’ there I mended them until they were guid enough to wear, an’ sent them back. So there was as guid as the price o’ the denner he gave me, an’ naethin said. Noo read the letter an’ ye’ll see why I’m greetin’. Richard’s gone to Ameriky to perjure his soul. He says it was to gie himsel’ up to the law, but from the letter to Hester it’s likely his courage failed him. There’s naethin’ to mak’ o’t but that––an’ he sae bonny an’ sweet, like his mither.”
Jean Craigmile threw her apron over her head and rocked herself back and forth, while Ellen set down her cup and reluctantly opened the letter––many pages, in a long business envelope. She sighed as she took them out.
“It’s a waefu’ thing how much trouble an’ sorrow a man body brings intil the world wi’ him. Noo there’s Richard, trailin’ sorrow after him whaurever he goes.”