I thought I would risk changing the subject to what was really uppermost in my mind.
“And Charlotte?” I ventured, as blandly as I could muster.
“I wonder you are not shamed!” she said, with a glint in her eye that hardly yet expressed complete forgiveness. “I know all about that. And if you think you can come to me bleating like a sore wronged and innocent lamb, you are far mistaken!”
So this was the reason of her long silence. Charlotte had babbled. I might have known. Still, I could not charge my conscience with anything very grave. After all, the intention on both sides—Charlotte’s as well as mine,—had been of the best. She wanted to marry her Tam of the Ewebuchts, which she had managed—I, to wed Irma, from which I was yet as far off as ever.
So I made no remark, but only walked along in a grieved silence. It was not very long till Irma remarked, a little viciously, but with the old involuntary toss of her head which sent all her foam-light curls dipping and swerving into new effects and combinations—so that I could hardly take my eyes off her—“Would you like to hear more about Charlotte?”
“Yes!” said I boldly. For I knew the counter for her moods, which was to be of the same, only stronger.
“Well, she has two children, and when the second, a boy, was born, she claimed another five hundred pounds from her father to stock a farm for him—the old man called it ‘a bonny bairn-clout’ for our Lottie’s Duncan!”
“What did you say the bairn’s name was?”
“Duncan—after you!” This with an air of triumph, very pretty to see.
“And the elder, the girl?” I asked—though, indeed, that I knew—from the old letters of my Aunt Jen.