Part 87 (1/2)
”I got it, my lord, whaur there's mair like it.”
”Show me them.”
”I hae shawn ye plenty for a swatch (pattern), my lord.”
”You refuse?” said the marquis; and the tone of the question was like the first cold puff that indicates a change of weather.
”I div, my lord,” she answered imperturbably.
”If they are not my property, why do you bring me this?”
”Are they your property, my lord?”
”This is my handwriting.”
”Ye alloo that?”
”Certainly, my good woman. You did not expect me to deny it?”
”G.o.d forbid, my lord! But will ye uphaud yersel' the lawfu' heir to the deceased? It lies 'atween yer lords.h.i.+p an' mysel'--i' the meantime.”
He sat down, holding the sc.r.a.p of paper between his finger and thumb.
”I will buy them of you,” he said coolly, after a moment's thought, and as he spoke he looked keenly at her.
The form of reply which first arose in Miss Horn's indignant soul never reached her lips.
”It's no my trade,” she answered, with the coldness of suppressed wrath. ”I dinna deal in sic waurs.”
”What do you deal in then?” asked the marquis.
”In trouth an' fair play, my lord,” she answered, and was again silent.
So was the marquis for some moments, but was the first to resume.
”If you think the papers to which you refer of the least value, allow me to tell you it is an entire mistake.”
”There was ane thoucht them o' vailue,” replied Miss Horn--and her voice trembled a little, but she hemmed away her emotion-- ”for a time at least, my lord; an' for her sake they're o' vailue to me, be they what they may to yer lords.h.i.+p. But wha can tell?
Scots law may put life intill them yet, an' gie them a vailue to somebody forbye me.”
”What I mean, my good woman, is, that if you think the possession of those papers gives you any hold over me which you can turn to your advantage, you are mistaken.”
”Guid forgie ye, my lord! My advantage! I thoucht yer lords.h.i.+p had been mair o' a gentleman by this time, or I wad hae sent a lawyer till ye, in place o' comin' mysel'.”
”What do you mean by that?”
”It's plain ye cudna hae been muckle o' a gentleman ance, my lord; an' it seems ye're no muckle mair o' ane yet, for a' ye maun hae come throu' i' the meantime.”
”I trust you have discovered nothing in those letters to afford ground for such a harsh judgment,” said the marquis seriously.
”Na, no a word i' them, but the mair oot o' them. Ye winna threep upo' me 'at a man wha lea's a wuman, lat alane his wife--or ane 'at he ca's his wife--to a' the pains o' a mither, an' a'