"
"There's naething mair atween 's, mem," answered Malcolm, without
turning even his face.
"You will be sorry for treating me so some day."
"Weel than, mem, I will be; but that day's no the day (today)."
"Think what you could do for your poor witless brother, if--"
"Mem," interrupted Malcolm, turning right round and drawing himself
up in anger, "priv' 'at I 'm your son, an' that meenute I speir at
you wha was my father."
Mrs Stewart changed colour--neither with the blush of innocence
nor with the pallor of guilt, but with the gray of mingled rage and
hatred. She took a step forward with the quick movement of a snake
about to strike, but stopped midway, and stood looking at him with
glittering eyes, teeth clenched, and lips half open.
Malcolm returned her gaze for a moment or two.
"Ye never was the mither, whaever was the father o' me!" he said,
and walked out of the room.
He had scarcely reached the door, when he heard a heavy fall, and
looking round saw the lady lying motionless on the floor. Thoroughly
on his guard, however, and fearful both of her hatred and her
blandishments, he only made the more haste down stairs, where he
found a maid, and sent her to attend to her mistress. In a minute
he was mounted and trotting fast home, considerably happier than
before, inasmuch as he was now almost beyond doubt convinced that
Mrs Stewart was not his mother.
CHAPTER LIX: AN HONEST PLOT
Ever since the visit of condolence with which the narrative of
these events opened, there had been a coolness between Mrs Mellis
and Miss Horn.
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