"Wha am I, to be speirt sic a queston! Wha but yersel' wad hae daurt it, Mistress Mellis?"
"Huly (softly), huly, Miss Horn!" expostulated her questioner. "I hae nae wuss to pry intill ony secrets o' yours, or—"
"Secrets!" shouted Miss Horn!
But her consciousness of good intent, and all but assurance of final victory, upheld Mrs Mellis.
"—or Jean's aither," she went on, apparently regardless; "but I wad fain be sure ye kent a' aboot yer ain hoose 'at a body micht chance to see frae the croon o' the caus'ay (middle of the street)."
"The parlour blind 's gane up crookit sin' ever that thoomb fingert cratur, Watty Witherspail, made a new roller till 't. Gien 't be that ye mean, Mistress Mellis,—"
"Hoots!" returned the other. "—Hoo far can ye lippen to that Jean o' yours, mem?"
"Nae farer nor the len'th o' my nose, an' the breid o' my twa een," was the scornful answer.
Although, however, she thus manifested her resentment of Mrs Mellis's catechetical attempts in introducing her subject, Miss Horn had no desire to prevent the free outcome of her approaching communication.
"In that case, I may speyk oot," said Mrs Mellis.
"Use yer freedom."
"Weel, I will. Ye was hardly oot o' the hoose last nicht, afore—"
"Ye saw me gang oot?"
"Ay did I."
"What gart ye speir than? What for sud a body come screwin' up a straucht stair—noo the face an' noo the back o' her?"
"Weel, I nott (needed) na hae speirt. But that's naething to the p'int.—Ye hadna been gane, as I was saying', ower a five meenutes, whan in cam a licht intill the bedroom neist the parlour, an' Jean appeart wi' a can'le in her han'. There was nae licht i' this room but the licht o' the fire, an' no muckle o' that, for 'twas maistly peat, sae I saw her weel eneuch-ohn been seen mysel'. She cam straucht to the window, and drew doon the blind, but lost hersel' a bit or she wad never hae set doon her can'le whaur it cuist a shaidow o' hersel' an' her doin's upo' the blind."
"An' what was 't she was efter, the jaud?" cried Miss Horn, without any attempt to conceal her growing interest.
"She made naething o' 't, whatever it was; for doon the street cam the schuilmaister, an' chappit at the door, an gaed in an' waitit till ye came hame."
"Weel!" said Miss Horn.
But Mrs Mellis held her peace.
"Weel!!?" repeated Miss Horn.
"Weel," returned Mrs Mellis, with a curious mixture of deference and conscious sagacity in her tone, "a' 'at I tak upo' me to say is—Think ye twice afore ye lippen to that Jean o' yours."
"I lippen naething till her! I wad as sune lippen to the dottle o' a pipe amo' dry strae. What saw ye, Mistress Mellis?"
"Ye needna speyk like that," returned Mrs Mellis, for Miss Horn's tone was threatening: " no Jean."
"What saw ye?" repeated Miss Horn, more gently, but not less eagerly.
"Whause is that kist o' mahogany drawers i' that bedroom, gien I may preshume ta spier?"
"Whause but mine?"
"They're no Jean's?"
"Jean's!"
"Ye micht hae latten her keep her bit duds i' them, for onything I kent!"
"Jean's duds i' my Grizel's drawers! A lik'ly thing!"
"Hm! They war puir Miss Cam'ell's, war they?"
"They war Grizell Cam'ell's drawers as lang she had use for ony; but what for ye sud say puir till her, I dinna ken, 'cep' it be 'at she's gane whaur they haena muckle 'at needs layin' in drawers. That's neither here nor there.—Div ye tell me 'at Jean was intromittin' wi thae drawers? They're a' lockit, ilk ane o' them—an' they're guid locks."
"No ower guid to hae keyes to them—are they?"
"The keyes are i' my pooch," said Miss Horn, clapping her hand to the skirt of her dress. "They're aye i' my pooch, though I haena had the feelin's to mak use o' them sin' she left me."
"Are ye sure they war there last nicht, mem?"
Miss Horn seemed struck.
"I had on my black silk last nicht," she answered vaguely, and was here silent, pondering doubtfully.
"Weel, mem, jist ye put on yer black silk again the morn's nicht, an' come ower aboot aucht o'clock; an' ye'll be able to jeedge by her ongang whan ye're no i' the hoose, gien there be onything amiss wi' Jean. There canna be muckle ill dune yet—that's a comfort!"
"What ill, by (beyond) meddlin' wi' what doesna concern her, cud the wuman du?" said Miss Horn, with attempted confidence.
"That ye sud ken best yersel', mem. But Jean's an awfu' gossip, an' a lady like yer cousin micht hae left dockiments ahint her 'at she wadna jist like to hear procleemt frae the hoose tap. No 'at she'll ever hear onything mair, puir thing!"
"What mean ye?" cried Miss Horn, half frightened, half angry.
"Jist what I say—neither mair nor less," returned Mrs Mellis. "Miss Cam'ell may weel hae left letters for enstance, an' hoo wad they fare in Jean's han's?"
"Whan I never had the hert to open her drawers!" exclaimed Miss Horn, enraged at the very notion of the crime. "I hae nae feelin's, thank God for the furnishin' o' me!"
"I doobt Jean has her full share o' a' feelin's belangin' to fallen human natur'," said Mrs Mellis, with a slow horizontal oscillation of the head. "But ye jist come an' see wi' yer ain een, an' syne jeedge for yersel': it 's nae business o' mine."
"I'll come the nicht, Mrs Mellis. Only lat it be atween 's twa."
"I can haud my tongue, mem,—that is, frae a' but ane. Sae lang 's merried fowk sleeps in ae bed, it 's ill to haud onything till a body's sel'."
"Mr Mellis is a douce man, an' I carena what he kens," answered Miss Horn.
She descended to the shop, and having bought bulk enough to account to Jean for her lengthened stay, for she had beyond a doubt been watching the door of the shop, she crossed the street, went up to her parlour, and rang the bell. The same moment Jean's head was popped in at the door: she had her reasons for always answering the bell like a bullet.
"Mem?" said Jean.
"Jean, gaein' oot the nicht. The minister oucht to be spoken till aboot the schuilmaister, honest man. Tak the lantren wi' ye to the manse aboot ten o'clock. That 'll be time eneuch."
"Verra weel, mem. But thinkin' there's a mune the nicht."
"Naething but the doup o' ane, Jean. It's no to ca' a mune. It's a mercy we hae lantrens, an' sic a sicht o' cairds (gipsies) aboot."
"Ay, lantren lats them see whaur ye are, an' haud oot o' yer gait," said Jean, who happened not to relish going out that night.
"Troth, wuman, ye're richt there!" returned her mistress, with cheerful assent. "The mair they see o' ye, the less they 'll meddle wi' ye—caird or cadger. Haud ye the licht upo' yer ain face, lass, an' there's feow 'll hae the hert to luik again."
"Haith, mem, there's twa sic like o' 's!" returned Jean bitterly, and bounced from the room.
"That's true tu," said her mistress—adding after the door was shut, "It's a peety we cudna haud on thegither."
" gaein' noo, Jean," she called into the kitchen as she crossed the threshold at eight o'clock.
She turned towards the head of the street, in the direction of the manse; but, out of the range of Jean's vision, made a circuit, and entered Mr Mellis's house by the garden at the back.
In the parlour she found a supper prepared to celebrate the renewal of old goodwill. The clear crystal on the table; the new loaf so brown without and so white within; the rich, clear complexioned butter, undebased with a particle of salt; the self satisfied hum of the kettle in attendance for the guidman's toddy; the bright fire, the golden glow of the brass fender in its red light, and the dish of boiled potatoes set down before it, under a snowy cloth; the pink eggs, the yellow haddock, and the crimson strawberry jam; all combined their influences—each with its private pleasure wondrously heightened by the zest of a secret watch and the hope of discomfitted mischief—to draw into a friendship what had hitherto been but a somewhat insecure neighbourship. From below came the sound of the shutters which Mr Mellis was putting up a few minutes earlier than usual; and when presently they sat down to the table, and, after prologue judged suitable, proceeded to enjoy the good things before them, an outside observer would have thought they had a pleasant evening, if not Time himself, by the forelock.