Malcolm

"Back where?" interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly.

"Whaur he likes, mem—I cudna say whaur wi' ony certainty. But aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin', an' watch the stars sheenin'!—There's a sicht o' oondevelopit releegion in him, as Maister Graham says; an' I du not believe 'at the Lord 'll see him wranged mair nor 's for 's guid. But it 's my belief, gien ye took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him."

"Then you won't help me!" she cried despairingly. "They tell me you are an orphan yourself—and yet you will not take pity on a childless mother!—worse than childless, for I had the loveliest boy once—he would be about your age now, and I have never had any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my son, and I will bless you—love you."

As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground.

"'Deed, mem, I can an' wull promise ye naething!" he said. "Are ye to play a man fause 'cause he's less able to tak care o' himsel' than ither fowk? Gien I war sure 'at ye cud mak it up, an' 'at he would be happy wi' ye efterhin, it micht be anither thing; but excep' ye garred him, ye cudna get him to bide lang eneuch for ye to try—an' syne (even then) he wad dee afore ye hed convenced him. I doobt, mem, ye hae lost yer chance wi' him and maun du yer best to be content withoot him—I'll promise ye this muckle, gien ye like—I s' tell him what ye hae said upo' the subjec'."

"Much good that will be!" replied the lady, with ill concealed scorn.

"Ye think he wadna unnerstan' 't; but he unnerstan's wonnerfu'."

"And you would come again, and tell me what he said?' she murmured, with the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope.

"Maybe ay, maybe no—I winna promise.—Hae ye ony answer to sen' back to my lord's letter, mem?"

"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.

CHAPTER XXXVI: THE BLOW

"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 couldn'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 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."

"Why should you doubt what a lady tells you?"

"I wadna be ower ready, but I hae hard things, ye see, an' bude to be upo' my gaird."

"Well, I suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot—" His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment; but Malcolm's manner revealed nothing except waiting watchfulness.

"—I must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for her," he concluded.

"Ye winna du that, my lord," cried Malcolm, in a tone of entreaty; but his master chose to misunderstand him.

"Who's to prevent me, I should like to know?" he said.

Malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered—but calmly:

"Me, my lord. I wull. At ony rate, I s' du my best."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Lord Lossie, "you presume sufficiently on my good nature, young man!"

"Hear me ae moment, my lord," returned Malcolm. "I've been turnin' 't ower i' my min', an' I see, plain as the daylicht, that bun', bein' yer lordship's servan' an' trustit by yer lordship, to say that to yersel' the whilk I was nowise bun' to say to Mistress Stewart. Sae, at the risk o' angerin' ye, I maun tell yer lordship, wi' a' respec', 'at gien I can help it, there sall no han', gentle or semple, be laid upo' the laird against his ain wull."

The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too, and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right.

"Go to the devil you booby!" he said—even more in impatience than in wrath.

" thinkin' I needna budge," retorted Malcolm, angry also.

"What do you mean by that insolence?"