37
"You’re looking rightly, too” ventured Agnes tentatively, when her
husband’s steps had died away.
Fergus gave the short bitter laugh of a man who could reveal untold
agony within if he had a mind to. "I was thinking of putting an end to
myself in the lough" he said, gazing straight into the fire.
“Here ye now?” queried Agnes looking up from her knitting, "Aye,
maybe you're not as well as ye look - come, tell ould Agnes.”
Her remark had the desired effect. Pentland’s reserve went down
like a flimsy barrier before the trouble he had been nursing for so long,
springing up from his chair, he thrust his hands into his pockets and
strode distractedly up and down the kitchen. "To tell ye the God’s truth,
Agnes, l*n a verry worrit man, and I dont know what way to turn, at all!”
Re come back to her and the crisp bulbs dangled and swung bohind his head.
“S1t down, son" said Agnes, "and tell me what’s putting these wild
thoughts in your head. Hut the little outburst had eased him, and as ho
sat down he felt his trouble to be unreal after all, and he regretted that
he had come.
He sat gazing gloomily at the dancing flames, his head sun in his
shoulders. ‘Ach, it’s nothing" he said at last “My mind’s aye chasing
mice.”
"Ah, it's something, or ye wudna carry on like that" returned Agnes,
Jerking her knitting back into her lap. “Hae ye got your_elf into trouble
wi' a girl, or something o* that sort?"
"In a manner o' speaking - yes,"
"Is it Stewartie Purdy’s lass?"
It is not:” he declared emphatically, looking sharply at her,
“Aye, well then, is it Martha Gomartin’s girl?"
