By this time Archie was in the condition of a hunted beast. He had come, braced and resolute; he was to trace out a line of conduct for the pair of them in a few cold, convincing sentences; he had now been there some time, and he was still staggering round the outworks and undergoing what he felt to be a savage cross-examination.
“Mr. Frank!” she cried. “What nex’, I would like to ken?”
“He spoke most kindly and truly.”
“What like did he say?”
“I am not going to tell you; you have nothing to do with that,” cried Archie, startled to find he had admitted so much.
“O, I have naething to do with it!” she repeated, springing to her feet. “A’body at Hermiston’s free to pass their opinions upon me, but I have naething to do wi’ it! Was this at prayers like? Did ye ca’ the grieve into the consultation? Little wonder if a’body’s talking, when ye make a’body yer confidants! But as you say, Mr. Weir,—most kindly, most considerately, most truly, I’m sure,—I have naething to do with it. And I think I’ll better be going. I’ll be wishing you good evening, Mr. Weir.” And she made him a stately curtsey, shaking as she did so from head to foot, with the barren ecstasy of temper.
Poor Archie stood dumbfounded. She had moved some steps away from him before he recovered the gift of articulate speech.
“Kirstie!” he cried. “O, Kirstie woman!”
There was in his voice a ring of appeal, a clang of mere astonishment that showed the schoolmaster was vanquished.
She turned round on him. “What do ye Kirstie me for?” she retorted. “What have ye to do wi’ me! Gang to your ain freends and deave them!”