“No; I cannot write; I cannot even think.
You have made me so miserable!”
Malcolm lingered.
“Go, go;” said the lady dejectedly.
“Tell your master I am not well. I will
write tomorrow. If you hear anything of my poor
boy, do take pity upon me and come and tell me.”
The stiffer partizan Malcolm appeared, the more desirable
did it seem in Mrs Stewart’s eyes to gain him
over to her side. Leaving his probable active
hostility out of the question, she saw plainly enough
that, if he were called on to give testimony as to
the laird’s capacity, his witness would pull
strongly against her plans; while, if the interests
of such a youth were wrapped up in them, that fact
in itself would prejudice most people in favour of
them.
“Well, Malcolm,” said his lordship, when
the youth reported himself, “how’s Mrs
Stewart?”
“No ower weel pleased, my lord,” answered
Malcolm.
“What!—you have n’t been refusing
to—?”
“Deed hev I, my lord!”
“Tut! tut!—Have you brought me any
message from her?”
He spoke rather angrily.
“Nane but that she wasna weel, an’ wad
write the morn.”
The marquis thought for a few moments.
“If I make a personal matter of it, MacPhail—I
mean—you won’t refuse me if I ask
a personal favour of you?”
“I maun ken what it is afore I say onything,
my lord.”
“You may trust me not to require anything you
could n’t undertake.”
“There micht be twa opinions, my lord.”
“You young boor! What is the world coming
to? By Jove!”
“As far ‘s I can gang wi’ a clean
conscience, I’ll gang,—no ae step
ayont,” said Malcolm.
“You mean to say your judgment is a safer guide
than mine?”
“No, my lord; I micht weel follow yer lordship’s
jeedgment, but gien there be a conscience i’
the affair, it’s my ain conscience I’m
bun’ to follow, an’ no yer lordship’s,
or ony ither man’s. Suppose the thing ’at
seemed richt to yer lordship, seemed wrang to me,
what wad ye hae me du than?”
“Do as I told you, and lay the blame on me.”
“Na, my lord, that winna haud: I bude to
du what I thoucht richt, an’ lay the blame upo’
naebody, whatever cam o’ ’t.”
“You young hypocrite! Why did n’t
you tell me you meant to set up for a saint before
I took you into my service?”
“’Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord.
Surely a body micht ken himsel’ nae sant, an’
yet like to haud his han’s clean!”
“What did Mrs Stewart tell you she wanted of
you?” asked the marquis almost fiercely, after
a moment’s silence.
“She wantit me to get the puir laird to gang
back till her; but I sair misdoobt, for a’ her
fine words, it ’s a closed door, gien it bena
a lid, she wad hae upon him; an’ I wad suner
be hangt nor hae a thoom i’ that haggis.”
