“It’s a God’s mercy I hae no feelin’s,”
she said to herself. “To even (equal) my
bonny Grizel to sic a lang kyte clung chiel as yon!
Aih, puir Grizel! She’s gane frae me like
a knotless threid.”
Miss Horn was interrupted by the sound of the latch
of the street door, and sprung from her chair in anger.
“Canna they lat her sleep for five meenutes?”
she cried aloud, forgetting that there was no fear
of rousing her any more.—“It’ll
be Jean come in frae the pump,” she reflected,
after a moment’s pause; but, hearing no footstep
along the passage to the kitchen, concluded—“It’s
no her, for she gangs aboot the hoose like the fore
half o’ a new shod cowt;” and went down
the stair to see who might have thus presumed to enter
unbidden.
In the kitchen, the floor of which was as white as
scrubbing could make it, and sprinkled with sea sand—under
the gaily painted Dutch clock, which went on ticking
as loud as ever, though just below the dead—sat
a woman about sixty years of age, whose plump face
to the first glance looked kindly, to the second, cunning,
and to the third, evil. To the last look the plumpness
appeared unhealthy, suggesting a doughy indentation
to the finger, and its colour also was pasty.
Her deep set, black bright eyes, glowing from under
the darkest of eyebrows, which met over her nose, had
something of a fascinating influence—so
much of it that at a first interview one was not likely
for a time to notice any other of her features.
She rose as Miss Horn entered, buried a fat fist in
a soft side, and stood silent.
“Weel?” said Miss Horn interrogatively,
and was silent also.
“I thocht ye micht want a cast o’ my callin’,”
said the woman.
“Na, na; there’s no a han’ ‘at
s’ lay finger upo’ the bairn but mine
ain,” said Miss Horn. “I had it a’
ower, my lee lane, afore the skreigh o’ day.
She’s lyin’ quaiet noo—verra
quaiet—waitin’ upo’ Watty Witherspail.
Whan he fesses hame her bit boxie, we s’ hae
her laid canny intill ‘t, an’ hae dune
wi’ ’t.”
“Weel, mem, for a leddy born, like yersel’,
I maun say, ye tak it unco composed!”
“I’m no awaur, Mistress Catanach, o’
ony necessity laid upo’ ye to say yer min’
i’ this hoose. It’s no expeckit.
But what for sud I no tak’ it wi’ composur’?
We’ll hae to tak’ oor ain turn er lang,
as composed as we hae the skiel o’, and gang
oot like a lang nibbit can’le—ay,
an lea’ jist sic a memory ahin’ some o’
’s, Bawby.”
“I kenna gien ye mean me, Miss Horn,”
said the woman; “but it’s no that muckle
o’ a memory I expec’ to lea’ ahin’
me.”
“The less the better,” muttered Miss Horn;
but her unwelcome visitor went on:
“Them ’at ‘s maist i’ my debt
kens least aboot it; and then mithers canna be said
to hae muckle to be thankfu’ for. It’s
God’s trowth, I ken waur nor ever I did mem.
A body in my trade canna help fa’in’ amo’
ill company whiles, for we’re a’ born in
sin, an’ brocht furth in ineequity, as the Buik.
says; in fac’, it’s a’ sin thegither:
we come o’ sin an’ we gang for sin; but
ye ken the likes o’ me maunna clype (tell tales).
A’ the same, gien ye dinna tak the help o’
my han’, ye winna refuse me the sicht o’
my een, puir thing!”
