‘Cecilia, what is all this nonsense?’ exclaimed Lady Eliza, seeing her adopted niece’s figure appear on the threshold. ‘(Stop your havering, girl, till I speak to Miss Raeburn.) Come here, Cecilia. I can’t hear my own voice for this screeching limmer. (Be quiet, girl!) What is it, Cecilia? Can’t you answer, child?’
The maid had all the temperament of the female domestic servant, and was becoming hysterical.
‘Put her out!’ cried Lady Eliza. ‘Cecilia! put her into the passage.’
‘There’s a man downstairs,’ sobbed the maid, who had talked herself into a notion that Macquean was a poacher trying to effect an entrance into the house.
‘A man, is there? I wish there were more, and then we should not have a parcel of whingeing[[1]] women to serve us! I wish I could put you all away, and get a few decent lads in instead. Take her away, Cecilia, I tell you!’
When the door was shut behind the servant, and Lady Eliza had directed her niece to have the stablemen sent with all despatch to the dovecot, she drew a heavy plaid shawl from the cupboard and went downstairs to sift the matter. Her wig was replaced and she had turned her skirt up under the plaid.
Macquean was still below. Having delivered himself of his news, he had no wish to be sent out again. He did not know where the servants’ hall might be, or he would have betaken himself there, and the maid had fled to her own attic and locked herself in securely.
‘Have you got a lantern?’ said Lady Eliza over the banisters. ‘I am going out, and you can light me.’
‘Na,’ said Macquean, staring.
Without further comment she went out of the house, beckoning him to follow. She crossed the yard and opened the stable-door, to find Cecilia, a cloak over her shoulders, caressing the nose of the bay mare. Seeing the maid’s distracted state of mind, she had roused the men herself. A small lantern stood on the corn-bin. The mare whinnied softly, but Lady Eliza took no notice of her.