He greeted Tallisker with a peculiar kindness, and held his hand almost lovingly.  His friendship for the dominie—­if he had known it—­was a grain of salt in his fast deteriorating life.  He did not notice the dominie’s stern preoccupation, he was so full of his own new plans.  He began at once to lay them before his old friend; he had that very day got the estimates from the Edinburgh architect.

Tallisker looked at them a moment with a gathering anger.  Then he pushed them passionately away, saying in a voice that was almost a sob, “I darena look at them, laird; I darena look at them!  Do you ken that there are fourteen cases o’ typhus in them colliers’ cottages you built?  Do you remember what Mr. Selwyn said about the right o’ laborers to pure air and pure water?  I knew he was right then, and yet, God forgive me!  I let you tak your ain way.  Six little bits o’ bairns, twa women, and six o’ your pit men!  You must awa to Athol instanter for doctors and medicines and brandy and such things as are needfu’.  There isna a minute to lose, laird.”

Helen had risen while he was speaking with a calm determination that frightened her father.  He did not answer Tallisker, he spoke to her:  “Where are you going, Helen?”

“Down to the village; I can do something till better help is got.”

“Helen Crawford, you’ll bide where you are!  Sit still, and I’ll do whatever Tallisker bids me.”

Then he turned angrily to the dominie.

“You are aye bringing me ill tidings.  Am I to blame if death comes?”

“Am I my brother’s keeper?  It’s an auld question, laird.  The first murderer of a’ asked it.  I’m bound to say you are to blame.  When you gie fever an invite to your cotters’ homes, you darena lay the blame on the Almighty.  You should hae built as Mr. Selwyn advised.”

“Dominie, be quiet.  I’m no a bairn, to be hectored o’er in this way.  Say what I must do and I’ll do it—­anything in reason—­only Helen.  I’ll no hae her leave the Keep; that’s as sure as deathe.  Sit down, Helen.  Send a’ the wine and dainties you like to, but don’t you stir a foot o’er the threshold.”

His anger was, in its way, as authoritative as the dominie’s.  Helen did as she was bid, more especially as Tallisker in this seconded the laird.

“There is naething she could do in the village that some old crone could not do better.”

It was a bitterly annoying interruption to Crawford’s pleasant dreams and plans.  He got up and went over to the works.  He found things very bad there.  Three more of the men had left sick, and there was an unusual depression in the village.  The next day the tidings were worse.  He foresaw that he would have to work the men half time, and there had never been so many large and peremptory orders on hand.  It was all very unfortunate to him.

Tallisker’s self-reproaches were his own; he resented them, even while he acknowledged their truth.  He wished he had built as Selwyn advised; he wished Tallisker had urged him more.  It was not likely he would have listened to any urging, but it soothed him to think he would.  And he greatly aggravated the dominie’s trouble by saying,