But no sooner had the word Tam passed from her lips, than a large red cat came from the rug, and looking up in her face, mewed in so very expressive a way that the sadness which the recollection of her boy had inspired passed suddenly away, and was succeeded by a comical look; and rubbing Bawdrons “along of the hair,” as Mr Dickens would express it, the true way of treating either cats or cat-witted people, she continued addressing the favourite—
“And you, Tam, and I will be better acquainted before the twa thousand merks are paid to Writer George.”
“What does the woman mean?” said the burgess. “What connexion is there between that animal and my wife’s fortune?”
“Ye’ll ken that when the time comes,” was the answer; “but coming nearer to the subject in hand, ye’ll take care to hae twa witnesses in the blue-painted parlour, next to your bed-room, when I’m untwining the mistress o’ her burden, whether it be a dead bairn or a living ane.”
“And what good will that do me if both the mother and child should die?” inquired he.
“Ye’ll ken that when Writer George comes and asks ye for the tocher,” was the answer.
Nor did Mrs Euphan Lythgow wait to throw any further light upon a subject which appeared to the burgess to require more than the candle of his own mind could supply if he should snuff it again and again, and arn’t we, every one of us, always snuffing the candle so often that we can see nothing? But Mrs Lythgow was what the Scotch people call “a skilly woman.” She could see—to use an old and very common expression—as far into a millstone as any one, and it was especially clear to her that she would deliver Mrs Whitelaw of a dead child, that death would deliver the mother of her life, and Writer George would deliver Maister Whitelaw of two thousand good merks of Scotch money, unless, as a poor salvage out of all this loss, she could deliver the burgess out of the hands of the writer. And so the time passed till the eventful evening came, when the wasted invalid was seized with those premonitory pains which have come right down from old mother Eve to the fair daughters of men, as a consequence of her eating the too sweet paradise pippin. The indispensable Mrs Euphan Lythgow was sent for express and came on the instant, for she knew she had unusual duties to perform, nor did she forget as one of the chief of those to get Mrs Jean Gilchrist, a neighbouring gossip, and Robina Proudfoot, the servant, ensconsed in the said blue-painted parlour, for the sole end that they should hear what they could hear, but as for seeing anything that passed within the veil of the secret temple of Lucina, they were not to be permitted to get a glimpse until such time as might please the priestess of the mysteries herself.
All which secrecy has been followed by the unfortunate consequence that history nowhere records what took place in that secret room for an hour or two after the two women took up their station in the said blue-painted chamber. But this much we know, that the house was so silent that our favourite Tom could not have chosen a more auspicious evening for mousing for prey in place of mewing for play, even if he had had all the sagacity of the famous cats of Tartesia. As for Mrs Gilchrist and Robina, they could not have listened more zealously, we might even say effectually, if they had been gifted with ears as long as those of certain animals in Trophonia; and surely we cannot be wrong in saying they were successful listeners, when we are able to report that Mrs Gilchrist nipped the bare fleshy arm of Robina, as a sign that she heard what she wanted to hear.
“That’s the scream o’ the wean!” said she.
“Ay, and may the Lord be praised!” was the answer of Robina, in spite of the nip.