Malcolm

"It's an awfu' thing 'at ye say, mem, an' I doobt it 's ower true. But hoo can a mither hate her ain bairn?" said Malcolm.

"'Deed it 's nae wonner ye sud speir, laddie! for it 's weel kent 'at maist mithers, gien there be a shargar or a nat'ral or a crookit ane amo' their bairns, mak mair o' that ane nor o' a' the lave putten thegither—as gien they wad mak it up till 'im, for the fair play o' the warl. But ye see in this case, he's aiblins (perhaps) the child o' sin—for a leear may tell an ill trowth—an' beirs the marks o' 't, ye see; sae to her he's jist her sin rinnin' aboot the warl incarnat; an' that canna be pleesant to luik upo'."

"But excep' she war ashamed o' 't, she wadna tak it sae muckle to hert to be remin't o' 't."

"Mony ane's ashamed o' the consequences 'at's no ashamed o' the deed. Mony ane cud du the sin ower again, 'at canna bide the sicht or even the word o' 't. I hae seen a body 't wad steal a thing as sune's luik at it gang daft wi' rage at bein' ca'd a thief. An' maybe she wadna care gien 't warna for the oogliness o' 'im. Sae be he was a bonny sin, thinkin' she wad hide him weel eneuch. But seein' he 's naither i' the image o' her 'at bore 'im nor him 'at got 'im, but beirs on 's back, for ever in her sicht, the sin 'at was the gettin' o' 'in, he's a' hump to her, an' her hert's aye howkin a grave for 'im to lay 'im oot o' sicht intill she bore 'im, an' she wad beery 'im. An' thinkin' she beirs the markis—gien sae it be sae—deid an' gane as he is—a grutch yet, for passin' sic an offspring upo' her, an' syne no merryin' her efter an' a', an' the ro'd clear o' baith 'at stude atween them. It was said 'at the man 'at killt 'im in a twasum fecht (duel), sae mony a year efter, was a freen' o' hers."

"But wad fowk du sic awfu' ill things, mem—her a merried woman, an' him a merried man?"

"There's nae sayin', laddie, what a hantle o' men and some women wad du. I hae muckle to be thankfu' for 'at I was sic as no man ever luikit twice at. I wasna weel faured eneuch; though I had bonny hair, an' my mither aye said 'at her Maggy hed guid sense; whatever else she micht or micht not hae. But gien I cud hae gotten a guid man, siclike's is scarce, I cud hae lo'ed him weel eneuch. But that's naither here nor there, an' has naething to du wi' onybody ava. The pint I had to come till was this: the wuman ye saw haudin' a toot moot (tout muet?) wi' that Cat'nach wife, was nane ither, I do believe, than Mistress Stewart, the puir laird's mither. An' I hae as little doobt that whan ye tuik 's pairt, ye broucht to noucht a plot o' the twasum (two together) against him. It bodes guid to naebody whan there's a conjunc o' twa sic wanderin' stars o' blackness as you twa."

"His ain mither!" exclaimed Malcolm, brooding in horror over the frightful conjecture.

The door opened, and the mad laird came in. His eyes were staring wide, but their look and that of his troubled visage showed that he was awake only in some frightful dream. "Father o' lichts!" he murmured once and again, but making wild gestures, as if warding off blows. Miss Horn took him gently by the hand. The moment he felt her touch, his face grew calm, and he submitted at once to be led back to bed.

"Ye may tak yer aith upo' 't, Ma'colm," she said when she returned, "she means naething but ill by that puir cratur; but you and me—we'll ding (defeat) her yet, gien't be his wull. She wants a grip o' 'm for some ill rizzon or ither—to lock him up in a madhoose, maybe, as the villains said, or 'deed, maybe, to mak awa' wi' him a'thegither."

"But what guid wad that du her?" said Malcolm.

"It's ill to say, but she wad hae him oot o' her sicht, ony gait."

"She can hae but little sicht o' him as 'tis," objected Malcolm.

"Ay! but she aye kens he's whaur she doesna ken, puttin' her to shame, a' aboot the country, wi' that hump o' his. Oot o' fowk's sicht wad be to her oot a' thegither."

A brief silence followed.

"Noo," said Malcolm, "we come to the question what the twa limmers could want wi' that door."

"Dear kens! It bude to be something wrang—that's a' 'at mortal can say; but ye may be sure o' that—I hae hard tell," she went on reflectingly—"o' some room or ither i' the hoose 'at there's a fearsome story aboot, an' 'at 's never opent on no accoont. I hae hard a' aboot it, but I canna min' upo' 't noo, for I paid little attention till 't at the time, an' it 's mony a year sin' syne. But it wad be some deevilich ploy o' their ain they wad be efter: it 's little the likes o' them wad heed sic auld warld tales."

"Wad ye hae me tell the markis?" asked Malcolm.

"Na, I wad no; an' yet ye maun du 't. Ye hae no business to ken o' onything wrang in a body's hoose, an' no tell them—forbye 'at he pat ye in chairge. But it 'll du naething for the laird; for what cares the markis for onything or onybody but himsel'?"

"He cares for 's dauchter," said Malcolm.

"Ow ay!—as sic fowk ca' carin'. There's no a bla'guard i' the haill queentry he wadna sell her till, sae be he was o' an auld eneuch faimily, and had rowth o' siller. Haith! noo a days the last 'ill come first, an' a fish cadger wi' siller 'ill be coontit a better bargain nor a lord wantin 't: only he maun hae a heap o' 't, to cower the stink o' the fish."

"Dinna scorn the fish, mem," said Malcolm: "they're innocent craturs, an' dinna smell waur nor they can help; an' that's mair nor ye can say for ilka lord ye come athort."

"Ay, or cadger aither," rejoined Miss Horn. "They're aft eneuch jist sic like, the main differ lyin' in what they're defiled wi'; an' 'deed whiles there's no differ there, or maist ony gait, maybe, but i' the set o' the shoothers, an' the wag o' the tongue."

"An' what 'll we du wi' the laird?" said Malcolm.

"We maun first see what we can du wi' him. I wad try to keep him mysel', that is, gien he wad bide—but there's that jaud Jean! She's aye gabbin', an' claikin', an' cognostin' wi' the enemy, an' I canna lippen till her. I think it wad be better ye sud tak chairge o' 'm yersel', Malcolm. I wad willin'ly beir ony expense—for ye wadna be able to luik efter him an' du sae weel at the fishin', ye ken."

"Gien 't had been my ain line fishin', I could aye ha' taen him i' the boat wi' me; but I dinna ken for the herrin'. Blue Peter wadna objeck, but it 's some much work, an' for a waikly body like the laird to be oot a' nicht some nichts, sic weather as we hae to encoonter whiles, micht be the deid o' 'm."

They came to no conclusion beyond this, that each would think it over, and Malcolm would call in the morning. Ere then, however, the laird had dismissed the question for them. When Miss Horn rose, after an all but sleepless night, she found that he had taken the affairs again into his own feeble hands, and vanished.

CHAPTER XXVI: NOT AT CHURCH

It being well known that Joseph Mair's cottage was one of the laird's resorts, Malcolm, as soon as he learned his flight, set out to inquire whether they knew anything of him there.

Scaurnose was perched almost on the point of the promontory, where the land made its final slope, ending in a precipitous descent to the shore. Beneath lay rocks of all sizes and of fantastic forms, some fallen from the cape in tempests perhaps, some softly separated from it by the slow action of the winds and waves of centuries. A few of them formed, by their broken defence seawards, the unsafe natural harbour which was all the place enjoyed.

If ever there was a place of one colour it was this village: everything was brown; the grass near it was covered with brown nets; at the doors were brown heaps of oak bark, which, after dyeing the nets, was used for fuel; the cottages were roofed with old brown thatch; and the one street and the many closes were dark brown with the peaty earth which, well mixed with scattered bark, scantily covered the surface of its huge foundation rock. There was no pavement, and it was the less needed that the ways were rarely used by wheels of any description. The village was but a roost, like the dwellings of the sea birds which also haunted the rocks.

It was a gray morning with a gray sky and a gray sea; all was brown and gray, peaceful and rather sad. Brown haired, gray eyed Phemy Mair sat in the threshold, intently rubbing in her hands a small object like a moonstone. That she should be doing so on a Sunday would have shocked few in Scaurnose at that time, for the fisher folk then made but small pretensions to religion; and for his part Joseph Mair could not believe that the Almighty would be offended "at seein' a bairn sittin' douce wi' her playocks, though the day was his."

"Weel, Phemy, ye're busy!" said Malcolm.

"Ay," answered the child, without looking up. The manner was not courteous, but her voice was gentle and sweet.

"What are ye doin' there?" he asked.

"Makin' a string o' beads, to weir at aunty's merriage."

"What are ye makin' them o'?" he went on.

"Haddicks' een."

"Are they a' haddicks'?"

"Na, there's some cods' amo' them; but they're maistly haddicks'. I pikes them out afore they're sautit, an' biles them; an' syne I polish them i' my han's till they're rale bonny."

"Can ye tell me onything about the mad laird, Phemy?" asked Malcolm, in his anxiety too abruptly.

"Ye can gang an' speir at my father: he's oot aboot," she answered, with a sort of marked coolness, which, added to the fact that she had never looked him in the face, made him more than suspect something behind.

"Div ye ken onything aboot him?" he therefore insisted.

"Maybe I div, an' maybe I divna," answered the child, with an expression of determined mystery.

"Ye'll tell me whaur ye think he is, Phemy?"

"Na, I winna."

"What for no?"

"Ow, jist for fear ye sud ken."

"But a freen' till him."

"Ye may think ay, an' the laird may think no."

"Does he think you a freen', Phemy?" asked Malcolm, in the hope of coming at something by widening the sweep of the conversation.