Although he knew
nothing of the so called world, and hence could recognize neither
the Parisian air of her dress nor the indications of familiarity
with fashionable life prominent enough in her bearing, he yet could
not fail to be at least aware of the contrast between her appearance
and her surroundings. Yet less could the far stronger contrast
escape him, between the picture in his own mind of the mother of
the mad laird, and the woman before him; he could not by any effort
cause the two to coalesce.
"You have had a long ride, Mr MacPhail," she said; "you must be
tired."
"What wad tire me, mem?" returned Malcolm. "It's a fine caller
evenin', an' I hed ane o' the marquis's best mears to carry me."
"You'll take a glass of wine, anyhow," said Mrs Stewart. "Will you
oblige me by ringing the bell?"
"No, I thank ye, mem. The mear wad be better o' a mou'fu' o' meal
an' watter, but I want naething mysel'."
A shadow passed over the lady's face. She rose and rang the bell,
then sat in silence until it was answered.
"Bring the wine and cake," she said, then turned to Malcolm. "Your
master speaks very kindly of you. He seems to trust you thoroughly."
"I'm verra glaid to hear 't, mem; but he has never had muckle cause
to trust or distrust me yet."
"He seems even to think that I might place equal confidence in
you."
"I dinna ken. I wadna hae ye lippen to me owre muckle," said Malcolm.
"You do not mean to contradict the good character your master gives
you?" said the lady, with a smile and a look right into his eyes.
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