CHAPTER LVIII: MALCOLM AND MRS STEWART
When her parents discovered that Phemy was not in her garret,
it occasioned them no anxiety. When they had also discovered that
neither was the laird in his loft, and were naturally seized with
the dread that some evil had befallen him, his hitherto invariable
habit having been to house himself with the first gleam of returning
day, they supposed that Phemy, finding he had not returned, had
set out to look for him. As the day wore on, however, without her
appearing, they began to be a little uneasy about her as well. Still
the two might be together, and the explanation of their absence a
very simple and satisfactory one; for a time therefore they refused
to admit importunate disquiet. But before night, anxiety, like
the slow but persistent waters of a flood, had insinuated itself
through their whole being--nor theirs alone, but had so mastered
and possessed the whole village that at length all employment was
deserted, and every person capable joined in a search along the
coast, fearing to find their bodies at the foot of some cliff. The
report spread to the neighbouring villages. In Portlossie Duncan
went round with his pipes, arousing attention by a brief blast, and
then crying the loss at every corner. As soon as Malcolm heard of
it, he hurried to find Joseph, but the only explanation of their
absence he was prepared to suggest was one that had already occurred
to almost everybody--that the laird, namely, had been captured
by the emissaries of his mother, and that, to provide against
a rescue, they had carried off his companion with him--on which
supposition, there was every probability that, within a few days
at farthest, Phemy would be restored unhurt.
"There can be little doobt they hae gotten a grip o' 'm at last,
puir fallow!" said Joseph. "But whatever 's come till him, we
canna sit doon an' ait oor mait ohn kent hoo Phemy 's farin, puir
wee lamb! Ye maun jist haud awa' ower to Kirkbyres, Ma'colm, an'
get word o' yer mither, an' see gien onything can be made oot o'
her."
The proposal fell on Malcolm like a great billow.
"Blue Peter," he said, looking him in the face, "I took it as a
mark o' yer freen'ship 'at ye never spak the word to me. What richt
has ony man to ca' that wuman my mither? I hae never allooed it!"
"I 'm thinkin'," returned Joseph, the more easily nettled that
his horizon also was full of trouble, "your word upo' the maitter
winna gang sae far 's John o' Groat's. Ye 'll no be suppeent for
your witness upo' the pint."
"I wad as sune gang a mile intill the mou' o' hell, as gang to
Kirkbyres!" said Malcolm.
"I hae my answer," said Peter, and turned away.
"But I s' gang," Malcolm went on. "The thing 'at maun be can be.
--Only I tell ye this, Peter," he added, "gien ever ye say sic a
word 's yon i' my hearin' again, that is, afore the wuman has priven
hersel' what she says, I s' gang by ye ever efter ohn spoken, for
I'll ken ''at ye want nae mair o' me."
Joseph, who had been standing with his back to his friend, turned
and held out his hand. Malcolm took it.
"Ae question afore I gang, Peter," he said. "What for didna ye tell
me what fowk was sayin' aboot me--anent Lizzy Findlay?"
"'Cause I didna believe a word o' 't, an' I wasna gaein' to add to
yer troubles."
"Lizzy never mootit sic a thing?"
"Never."
"I was sure o' that!--Noo I 'll awa' to Kirkbyres--God help
me! I wad raither face Sawtan an' his muckle tyke.--But dinna ye
expec' ony news. Gien yon ane kens, she's a' the surer no to tell.
Only ye sanna say I didna du my best for ye."
It was the hardest trial of the will Malcolm had yet had to
encounter. Trials of submission he had had, and tolerably severe
ones: but to go and do what the whole feeling recoils from is to be
weighed only against abstinence from what the whole feeling urges
towards. He walked determinedly home. Stoat saddled a horse for him
while he changed his dress, and once more he set out for Kirkbyres.
Had Malcolm been at the time capable of attempting an analysis
of his feeling towards Mrs Stewart, he would have found it very
difficult to effect. Satisfied as he was of the untruthful--even
cruel nature of the woman who claimed him, and conscious of a strong
repugnance to any nearer approach between them, he was yet aware
of a certain indescribable fascination in her. This, however, only
caused him to recoil from her the more--partly from dread lest it
might spring from the relation asserted, and partly that, whatever
might be its root, it wrought upon him in a manner he scarcely
disliked the less that it certainly had nothing to do with the
filial. But his feelings were too many and too active to admit of
the analysis of any one of them, and ere he reached the house his
mood had grown fierce.
He was shown into a room where the fire had not been many minutes
lighted. It had long narrow windows, over which the ivy had grown
so thick, that he was in it some moments ere he saw through the
dusk that it was a library--not half the size of that at Lossie
House, but far more ancient, and, although evidently neglected,
more study-like.
A few minutes passed, then the door softly opened, and Mrs Stewart
glided swiftly across the floor with outstretched arms.
"At last!" she said, and would have clasped him to her bosom.
But Malcolm stepped back.
"Na, na, mem!" he said; "it taks twa to that!"
"Malcolm!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion--of
some kind.
"Ye may ca' me your son, mem, but I ken nae gr'un' yet for ca'in'
you my--"
He could not say the word.
"That is very true, Malcolm," she returned gently; "but this
interview is not of my seeking. I wish to precipitate nothing. So
long as there is a single link, or half a link even, missing from
the chain of which one end hangs at my heart--"
She paused, with her hand on her bosom, apparently to suppress
rising emotion. Had she had the sentence ready for use?
"I will not subject myself," she went on, "to such treatment as
it seems I must look for from you. It is hard to lose a son but it
is harder yet to find him again after he has utterly ceased to be
one."
Here she put her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Till the matter is settled, however," she resumed, "let us be
friends--or at least not enemies.--What did you come for now?
Not to insult me surely. Is there anything I can do for you?"
Malcolm felt the dignity of her behaviour, but not the less, after
his own straightforward manner, answered her question to the point.
"I cam aboot naething concernin' mysel', mem, I cam to see whether
ye kent onything aboot Phemy Mair."
"Is it a wo?--I don't even know who she is.--You don't mean
the young woman that--?--Why do you come to me about her? Who
is she?"
Malcolm hesitated a moment: if she really did not know what he
meant, was there any risk in telling her? But he saw none.
"Wha is she, mem!" he returned. "I whiles think she maun be the
laird's guid angel, though in shape she's but a wee bit lassie.
She maks up for a heap to the laird.--Him an' her, mem, they 've
disappeart thegither, naebody kens whaur."
Mrs Stewart laughed a low unpleasant laugh, but made no other reply.
Malcolm went on.
"An' it's no to be wonnert at gien fowk wull hae 't 'at ye maun
ken something aboot it, mem."
"I know nothing whatever," she returned emphatically. "Believe
me or not, as you please," she added, with heightened colour. "If
I did know anything," she went on, with apparent truthfulness, "I
don't know that I should feel bound to tell it. As it is, however,
I can only say I know nothing of either of them. That I do say most
solemnly."
Malcolm turned,--satisfied at least that he could learn no more.
"You are not going to leave me so!" the lady said, and her face
grew "sad as sad could be."
"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.
