Part 7 (2/2)
”Hoot, Anerew! she's duin' jist as well as ony la.s.sie o' her years could in justice be expeckit,” interposed the grandmother. ”It's seldom the Lord 'at sets auld heid upo' yoong shoothers.”
The words were hardly spoken when a light foot was heard coming up the stair.
”--But here she comes to answer for hersel'!” she added cheerily.
The door of the room opened, and a good-looking girl of about eighteen came in.
”Weel, yoong Eppy, hoo 's a' wi' ye?” said the old man.
The grandmother's name was Elspeth, the grand-daughter's had therefore always the prefix.
”Brawly, thank ye, gran'father,” she answered. ”Hoo 's a' wi' yersel'?”
”Ow, weel cobblet!” he replied.
”Sit ye doon,” said the grandmother, ”by the spark o' fire; the nicht 's some airy like.”
”Na, grannie, I want nae fire,” said the girl. ”I hae run a' the ro'd to get a glimp' o' ye 'afore the week was oot.”
”Hoo 's things gaein' up at the castel?”
”Ow, sic-like 's usual--only the hoosekeeper 's some dowy, an' that puts mair upo' the lave o' 's: whan she's weel, she's no ane to spare hersel'--or ither fowk aither!--I wadna care, gien she wud but lippen til a body!” concluded young Eppy, with a toss of her head.
”We maunna speyk evil o' dignities, yoong Eppy!” said the cobbler, with a twinkle in his eye.
”Ca' ye mistress Brookes a dignity, gran'father!” said the girl, with a laugh that was nowise rude.
”I do,” he answered. ”Isna she ower ye? Haena ye to du as she tells ye? 'Atween her an' you that's eneuch: she's ane o' the dignities spoken o'.”
”I winna dispute it. But, eh, it's queer wark yon'er!”
”Tak ye care, yoong Eppy! we maun haud oor tongues aboot things committ.i.t til oor trust. Ane peyt to serve in a hoose maunna tre't the affairs o' that hoose as gien they war her ain.”
”It wad be weel gien a'body about the hoose was as partic'lar as ye wad hae me, gran'father!”
”Hoo's my lord, la.s.s?”
”Ow, muckle the same--aye up the stair an' doon the stair the forepairt o' the nicht, an' maist inveesible a' day.”
The girl cast a shy glance now and then at Donal, as if she claimed him on her side, though the older people must be humoured. Donal was not too simple to understand her: he gave her look no reception. Bethinking himself that they might have matters to talk about, he rose, and turning to his hostess, said,
”Wi' yer leave, gudewife, I wad gang to my bed. I hae traivelt a maitter o' thirty mile the day upo' my bare feet.”
”Eh, sir!” she answered, ”I oucht to hae considert that!--Come, yoong Eppy, we maun get the gentleman's bed made up for him.”
With a toss of her pretty head, Eppy followed her grandmother to the next room, casting a glance behind her that seemed to ask what she meant by calling a lad without shoes or stockings a gentleman. Not the less readily or actively, however, did she a.s.sist her grandmother in preparing the tired wayfarer's couch. In a few minutes they returned, and telling him the room was quite ready for him, Doory added a hope that he would sleep as sound as if his own mother had made the bed.
He heard them talking for a while after the door was closed, but the girl soon took her leave. He was just falling asleep in the luxury of conscious repose, when the sound of the cobbler's hammer for a moment roused him, and he knew the old man was again at work on his behalf. A moment more and he was too fast asleep for any Cyclops' hammer to wake him.
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