“Wha is she, mem!” he returned. “I
whiles think she maun be the laird’s guid angel,
though in shape she’s but a wee bit lassie.
She maks up for a heap to the laird.—Him
an’ her, mem, they ’ve disappeart thegither,
naebody kens whaur.”
Mrs Stewart laughed a low unpleasant laugh, but made
no other reply. Malcolm went on.
“An’ it’s no to be wonnert at gien
fowk wull hae ’t ’at ye maun ken something
aboot it, mem.”
“I know nothing whatever,” she returned
emphatically. “Believe me or not, as you
please,” she added, with heightened colour.
“If I did know anything,” she went on,
with apparent truthfulness, “I don’t know
that I should feel bound to tell it. As it is,
however, I can only say I know nothing of either of
them. That I do say most solemnly.”
Malcolm turned,—satisfied at least that
he could learn no more.
“You are not going to leave me so!” the
lady said, and her face grew “sad as sad could
be.”
“There’s naething mair atween ’s,
mem,” answered Malcolm, without turning even
his face.
“You will be sorry for treating me so some day.”
“Weel than, mem, I will be; but that day’s
no the day (today).”
“Think what you could do for your poor witless
brother, if—”
“Mem,” interrupted Malcolm, turning right
round and drawing himself up in anger, “priv’
’at I ‘m your son, an’ that meenute
I speir at you wha was my father.”
Mrs Stewart changed colour—neither with
the blush of innocence nor with the pallor of guilt,
but with the gray of mingled rage and hatred.
She took a step forward with the quick movement of
a snake about to strike, but stopped midway, and stood
looking at him with glittering eyes, teeth clenched,
and lips half open.
Malcolm returned her gaze for a moment or two.
“Ye never was the mither, whaever was the father
o’ me!” he said, and walked out of the
room.
He had scarcely reached the door, when he heard a
heavy fall, and looking round saw the lady lying motionless
on the floor. Thoroughly on his guard, however,
and fearful both of her hatred and her blandishments,
he only made the more haste down stairs, where he
found a maid, and sent her to attend to her mistress.
In a minute he was mounted and trotting fast home,
considerably happier than before, inasmuch as he was
now almost beyond doubt convinced that Mrs Stewart
was not his mother.
Ever since the visit of condolence with which the
narrative of these events opened, there had been a
coolness between Mrs Mellis and Miss Horn. Mr
Mellis’s shop was directly opposite Miss Horn’s
house, and his wife’s parlour was over the shop,
looking into the street; hence the two neighbours
could not but see each other pretty often; beyond
a stiff nod, however, no sign of smouldering friendship
had as yet broken out. Miss Horn was consequently
a good deal surprised when, having gone into the shop
to buy some trifle, Mr Mellis informed her, in all
but a whisper, that his wife was very anxious to see
her alone for a moment, and begged her to have the
goodness to step up to the parlour. His customer
gave a small snort, betraying her first impulse to
resentment, but her nobler nature, which was never
far from the surface, constrained her compliance.
