“Dinna be frichtit, mem. I ‘m come.
Sen’ the lassie hame, an’ du wi’
me as ye like. I canna haud aff o’ me.
But I think I ‘m deein’, an ye needna
misguide me.”
His voice, although it trembled a little, was clear
and unimpeded, and though weak, in its modulation
manly.
Something in the woman’s heart responded.
Was it motherhood— or the deeper godhead?
Was it pity for the dignity housed in the crumbling
clay, or repentance for the son of her womb? Or
was it that sickness gave hope, and she could afford
to be kind?
“I don’t know what you mean, Stephen,”
she said, more gently than he had ever heard her speak.
Was it an agony of mind or of body, or was it but
a flickering of the shadows upon his face? A
moment, and he gave a half choked shriek, and fell
on the floor. His mother turned from him with
disgust, and rang the bell.
“Send Tom here,” she said.
An elderly, hard featured man came.
“Stephen is in one of his fits,” she said.
The man looked about him: he could see no one
in the room but his mistress.
“There he is,” she continued, pointing
to the floor. “Take him away. Get
him up to the loft and lay him in the hay.”
The man lifted his master like an unwieldy log, and
carried him convulsed from the room.
Stephen’s mother sat down again by the fire,
and resumed her knitting.
Malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary
ride, when one of the maids informed him that a man
from Kirkbyres wanted him. Hiding his reluctance,
he went with her and found Tom, who was Mrs Stewart’s
grieve, and had been about the place all his days.
“Mr Stephen’s come hame, sir,” he
said, touching his bonnet, a civility for which Malcolm
was not grateful.
“It’s no possible!” returned Malcolm.
“I saw him last nicht.”
“He cam about ten o’clock, sir, an’
hed a turn o’ the fa’in’ sickness
o’ the spot. He ‘s verra ill the noo,
an’ the mistress sent me ower to speir gien
ye wad obleege her by gaein’ to see him.”
“Has he ta’en till ’s bed?”
asked Malcolm.
“We pat him till ’t, sir. He ‘s
ravin’ mad, an’ I ‘m thinkin’
he ’s no far frae his hin’er en’.”
“I ‘ll gang wi’ ye direckly,”
said Malcolm.
In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road
to Kirkbyres, neither with much to say to the other,
for Malcolm distrusted every one about the place,
and Tom was by nature taciturn.
“What garred them sen’ for me—div
ye ken?” asked Malcolm at length, when they
had gone about halfway.
“He cried oot upo’ ye i’ the nicht,”
answered Tom.
When they arrived, Malcolm was shown into the drawing
room, where Mrs Stewart met him with red eyes.
“Will you come and see my poor boy?” she
said.
“I wull du that, mem. Is he verra ill?”
