"
"What does it matter, now she 's dead and gone?" said the marquis,
false to the dead in his love for the living.
"Deid an' gane, my lord! What ca' ye deid an' gane? Maybe the great
anes o' the yerth get sic a forlethie (surfeit) o' gran'ur 'at they
're for nae mair, an' wad perish like the brute beast. For onything
I ken, they may hae their wuss, but for mysel', I wad warstle to
haud my sowl waukin' (awake), i' the verra article o' deith, for
the bare chance o' seein' my bonny Grizel again.--It 's a mercy
I hae nae feelin's!" she added, arresting her handkerchief on its
way to her eyes, and refusing to acknowledge the single tear that
ran down her cheek.
Plainly she was not like any of the women whose characters the
marquis had accepted as typical of womankind.
"Then you won't leave the matter to her husband and son," he said
reproachfully.
"I tellt ye, my lord, I wad du naething but what I saw to be richt.
Lat this affair oot o' my han's I daurna. That laad ye micht work
to onything 'at made agane himsel'. He 's jist like his puir mither
there."
"If Miss Campbell was his mother," said the marquis.
"Miss Cam'ell!" cried Miss Horn. "I 'll thank yer lordship to ca'
her by her ain, 'an that 's Lady Lossie."
What if the something ruinous heart of the marquis was habitable,
was occupied by his daughter, and had no accommodation at present
either for his dead wife or his living son. Once more he sat thinking
in silence for a while.
Pages:
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646