“Sit doon, mem, sit doon; ye hae naething to gang upo’ yet,” exclaimed Mr Mellis, who, being a bailie, was an authority.
“I can sit nae langer, Mr Mellis,” returned Miss Horn. “I hae eneuch to gang upo’ as lang ’s I hae my ain flure aneth my feet: the wuman has nae business there. I’ll jist slip across an’ gang in, as quaiet as a sowl intill a body; but I s’ warran’ I s’ mak a din afore I come oot again!”
With a grim diagonal nod she left the room.
Although it was now quite dark, she yet deemed it prudent to go by the garden-gate into the back lane, and so cross the street lower down. Opening her own door noiselessly, thanks to Jean, who kept the lock well oiled for reasons of Mrs Catanach’s, she closed it as silently, and, long-boned as she was, crept up the stair like a cat. The light was shining from the room; the door was ajar. She listened at it for a moment, and could distinguish nothing; then fancying she heard the rustle of paper, could bear it no longer, pushed the door open, and entered. There stood Jean, staring at her with fear-blanched face, a deep top-drawer open before her, and her hands full of things she was in the act of replacing. Her terror culminated, and its spell broke in a shriek, when her mistress sprang upon her like a tigress.
The watchers in the opposite house heard no cry, and only saw a heave of two intermingled black shadows across the blind, after which they neither heard nor saw anything more. The light went on burning until its final struggle with the darkness began, when it died with many a flickering throb. Unable at last to endure the suspense, now growing to fear, any longer, they stole across the street, opened the door, and went in. Over the kitchen-fire, like an evil spirit of the squabby order, crouched Mrs Catanach, waiting for Jean; no one else was to be found.
About ten o’clock the same evening, as Mr Graham sat by his peat fire, some one lifted the latch of the outer door and knocked at the inner. His invitation to enter was answered by the appearance of Miss Horn, gaunt and grim as usual, but with more than the wonted fire gleaming from the shadowy cavern of her bonnet. She made no apology for the lateness of her visit, but seated herself at the other side of the deal table, and laid upon it a paper parcel, which she proceeded to open with much deliberation and suppressed plenitude. Having at length untied the string with the long fingers of a hand which, notwithstanding its evident strength, trembled so as almost to defeat the attempt, she took from the parcel a packet of old letters sealed with spangled wax, and pushed it across the table to the schoolmaster, saying—
“Hae, Sandy Graham! Naebody but yersel’ has a richt to say what’s to be dune wi’ them.”
He put out his hand and took them gently, with a look of sadness but no surprise.
“Dinna think I hae been readin’ them, Sandy Graham. Na, na! I wad read nae honest man’s letters, be they written to wha they micht.”
Mr Graham was silent.