‘What has he to do with it?’ exclaimed Gilbert, his brows lowering.
‘Fegs! A’ would hae liked terrible to ask him that mysel’. He came ben an’ he began, an’ says he, “A’ve heard tell he’s to get married,” says he; an’ “What do ye think about it?” says he. A’ was that angered, ye ken, laird, an’ a’ just says till him, “Just wait,” says I, “an’ a’ll speir at him,” says I, “an’ then ye’ll ken. A’ll tell him ye’re terrible taken up about it—impident deevil that ye are.” A’ didna say “deevil” to him, ye ken, laird, but a’ warrant ye a’ thocht it. What has the likes of him to do wi’ you? Dod! a’ could see by the face o’ him he wasna pleased when a’ said a’d tell ye. “My good woman,” says he—here Granny stuck out her lips in imitation of Barclay’s rather protrusive mouth, “dinna fash yersel’ to do that;” an’ syne when ye came in-by, he was roond about an’ up the road like an auld dog that’s got a skelp wi’ a stick.’
‘Did he say anything more?’ inquired Gilbert gravely.
‘Ay, did he—but maybe a’ll anger ye, Whanland.’
‘No, no, Granny, you know that. I have a reason for asking. Tell me everything he said.’
‘Ye’ll see an’ no be angered, laird?’
‘Not with you, Granny, in any case.’
‘Well, he was sayin’ a’body says ye’re courtin’ Miss Raeburn. “Let me get a sicht o’ the roof,” says he “that’s what a’ come here for.” By Jarvit! he didna care very muckle about that, for a’ the lang words he was spittin’ out about it!’
Gilbert got up, and stood on the hearth with his head turned from the old woman.
‘A’ve vexed ye,’ she said, when she saw his face again.