After various ineffectual attempts to draw from her any explanation of the cause of her grief, he ceased to interrogate her, wisely resolving to consult Dame Christie on the subject, and they drove on in silence until they reached their home in Marietta.
As they entered the house they were met by Harry Gregson, who led the way into the parlour, where he placed in the merchant’s hand a paper which had arrived during his absence, and which proved to be an extensive order for articles to be shipped for St. Louis on the following day.
Whilst David Muir ran his eye over the list, calculating the amount of profit which he might expect to realise from the whole, young Gregson, observing the tears not yet dry upon Jessie’s cheek, cast upon her a look of anxious affectionate inquiry, which seemed only to increase her confusion and distress.
“Father, I am tired,” she whispered, in a subdued voice, “and will go to my room to rest.” Having received his embrace, she turned towards the door, where Gregson presented to her a candle that he had lighted for her, and in so doing he took her hand and pressed it; she withdrew it gently, and, in reply to his “Good night, Miss Jessie,” gave him in silence a parting look so full of mingled tenderness and grief, that his anxiety was no longer to be controlled, and he resolved to draw from the merchant some explanation of her agitation. Seeing that he had at length finished his careful perusal of the paper, he said, “I think, sir, that Miss Jessie looks very unwell this evening; has any thing happened to hurt or alarm her?”
“Naething, naething, my gude lad, only I tauld her some news that ought to have made her blithe as a lavrock,[74] and she thought fit to wet her een wi’ dool[75] anent it.”
“That is strange, indeed,” replied the young man; and he added, in a hesitating tone, “I hope, sir, you will not think me impertinent, as I take so much interest in all that concerns your family, if I inquire what was the nature of the good news that you communicated to Miss Jessie?”
“Why, Hairy,” replied the merchant, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper, “as ye’re a discreet cannie lad, that’ll no crack[76] about they things all ower the toon, I may just tell ye that, Jessie—“
“David! David!” screamed a shrill voice from the room above, “are ye gaun to haver[77] there the lee–lang night?”
“Comin’ this moment, Christie,” said the obedient husband, leaving the room as he spoke, with the air and countenance of one so thoroughly hen–pecked, that Harry Gregson, in spite of his anxiety, laughed outright; saying to himself, as many a lover has said before and since, “How unlike is Jessie’s voice to that of her mother!”