Part 71 (1/2)

”There's naething I could na tell ye 'at ever I thoucht or did i'

my life, my leddy; but it's ither fowk, my leddy! It's like to burn a hole i' my hert, an' yet I daurna open my mou'.”

There was a half angelic, half dog-like entreaty in his up looking hazel eyes that seemed to draw hers down into his: she must put a stop to that.

”Get up, Malcolm,” she said kindly, ”what would my father or Mrs Courthope think?”

”I dinna ken, an' I maist dinna care; atween ae thing an' anither, I'm near han' distrackit,” answered Malcolm, rising slowly, but not taking his eyes from her face. ”An' there's my daddy!” he went on, ”maist won ower to the enemy--an' I daurna tell even him what for I canna bide it!--Ye haena been sayin' onything till him-- hiv ye, my leddy?”

”I don't quite understand you,” returned Florimel, rather guiltily, for she had spoken on the subject to Duncan. ”Saying anything to your grandfather? About what?”

”Aboot--aboot--Her, ye ken, my leddy.”

”What her?” asked Florimel.

”Her 'at--The leddy o' Gersefell.”

”And why? What of her? Why, Malcolm! what can have possessed you?

You seem actually to dislike her!”

”I canna bide her,” said Malcolm, with the calm earnestness of one who is merely stating an incontrovertible fact, and for a moment his eyes, at once troubled and solemn, kept looking wistfully in hers, as if searching for a comfort too good to be found, then slowly sank and sought the floor at her feet.

”And why?”

”I canna tell ye.”

She supposed it an unreasoned antipathy.

”But that is very wrong,” she said, almost as if rebuking a child.

”You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What!--dislike your own mother?”

”Dinna say the word, my leddy,” cried Malcolm in a tone of agony, ”or ye'll gar me skirl an' rin like the mad laird. He's no a hair madder nor I wad be wi' sic a mither.”

He would have pa.s.sed her to leave the room.

But Lady Florimel could not bear defeat. In any contest she must win or be shamed in her own eyes, and was she to gain absolutely nothing in such a pa.s.sage with a fisher lad? Was the billow of her persuasion to fall back from such a rock, self beaten into poorest foam? She would, she must subdue him! Perhaps she did not know how much the sides of her intent were p.r.i.c.ked by the nettling discovery that she was not the cause of his unhappiness.

”You 're not going to leave me so!” she exclaimed, in a tone of injury.

”I 'll gang or bide as ye wull, my leddy,” answered Malcolm resignedly.

”Bide then,” she returned. ”I haven't half done with you yet.”

”Ye mauna jist tear my hert oot,” he rejoined--with a sad half smile, and another of his dog-like looks.

”That's what you would do to your mother!” said Florimel severely.

”Say nae ill o' my mither!” cried Malcolm, suddenly changing almost to fierceness.

”Why, Malcolm!” said Florimel, bewildered, ”what ill was I saying of her?”