The old woman nods her head and lays her hand gently on his arm. "Ay, laddie, wedded this morn. She bade me tell ye, with her love, that she was happy; that she hoped to see ye, her auld friend and playmate—and would ye wait here till her return?"
"Happy is she?" His voice is very cold and stern. His blue eyes flash angrily. Then a short harsh laugh escapes his lips. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, though the news is unexpected. Married—Lorry married! God! What a fool I've been!"
He gets up and walks over to the window and looks out, though nothing does he see of the objects on which he gazes so intently. "Married!" so run his thoughts; "and to-day, too! Couldn't she have waited? Couldn't she have told me? It is three months since I wrote to her mother, and not a line. And I—like an idiot—taking silence for consent, and rushing back here as fast as steam could take me. Married! Good Heaven! I can't believe it. Lorry, my darling little playmate, my sweetheart—the girl who vowed to be true to me for ever—married! Never to be mine—another man's wife! O God! What am I to do?"
He groans aloud at this juncture, and the sympathizing old woman comes to him and her heart aches for her nursling's sorrow. "Dinna take on so," she says; "ye were but bairns togither; ye could na' tell how ye're minds would agree in time to come."
He turns away from the window, and walks to his seat and flings himself moodily back. It is too early to accept consolation, but he takes refuse in hot anger. He rails against womankind—their wiles and ways, their treachery and fickleness, until poor old Nannie is bewildered. His fury vents itself in this manner for the space of a good half-hour, during which time Nannie listens and agrees and consoles to the best of her ability, but with very poor results.
Then there comes a stir, a bustle—the noise of feet—the sound of voices. Nannie sits up erect and listens.
"They're coming back," she says.
He turns very white again, then looks appealingly at the old woman.
"I can't face them all—it's impossible," he says. "But if I could see her alone—just for five minutes. Oh, Nannie, manage it for me! I know you can."
"I'll e'en do my best," she says, rising and hobbling away on her stick, her grey silk gown rustling, her snowy cap, with its lavender ribbons, carried very erect on her white head. "But ye'll nae be cross to the bonnie bairn. I canna have her frightened and disturbed on sic a day. Ye'll mind?"