"The dress suits
you thoroughly. I didn't know you at first. I thought it must be
some friend of papa's. Now I remember he said once you must wear
the proper dress for a henchman. How do you like it?"
"It's a' ane to me," said Malcolm. "I dinna care what I weir.--
Gien only I had a richt till 't!" he added with a sigh.
"It is too bad of you, Malcolm!" rejoined Florimel in a tone of
rebuke. "The moment fortune offers you favour, you fall out with
her--won't give her a single smile. You don't deserve your good
luck."
Malcolm was silent.
"There's something on your mind," Florimel went on, partly from
willingness to serve Mrs Stewart, partly enticed by the romance of
being Malcolm's comforter, or perhaps confessor.
"Ay is there, my leddy."
"What is it? Tell me. You can trust me!"
"I could trust ye, but I canna tell ye. I daurna--I maunna."
"I see you will not trust me," said Florimel, with a half pretended,
half real offence.
"I wad lay doon my life--what there is o' 't--for ye, my leddy;
but the verra natur o' my trouble winna be tauld. I maun beir 't
my lane."
It flashed across Lady Florimel's brain, that the cause of his
misery, the thing he dared not confess, was love of herself. Now,
Malcolm, standing before her in his present dress, and interpreted
by the knowledge she believed she had of his history, was a very
different person indeed from the former Malcolm in the guise of
fisherman or sailor, and she felt as well as saw the difference:
if she was the cause of his misery, why should she not comfort him
a little? why should she not be kind to him? Of course anything more
was out of the question; but a little confession and consolation
would hurt neither of them.
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