“Ae day, I cam upon her sittin’ by the ingleneuk i’ my ain kitchen, haudin’ a close an’ a laich confab wi’ Jean. I had Jean than, an’ hoo I hae keepit the hizzy, I hardly ken. I think it maun be that, haein’ nae feelin’s o’ my ain, I hae ower muckle regaird to ither fowk’s, an’ sae I never likit to pit her awa’ wi’oot doonricht provocation. But dinna ye lippen to Jean, Malcolm—na, na!—At that time, my cousin, Miss Grizel Cammell—my third cousin, she was—had come to bide wi’ me—a bonny yoong thing as ye wad see, but in sair ill health; an’ maybe she had het freits (whims), an’ maybe no, but she cudna bide to see the wuman Cat’nach aboot the place. An’ in verra trowth, she was to mysel’ like ane o’ thae ill-faured birds, I dinna min’ upo’ the name o’ them, ’at hings ower an airmy; for wharever there was onybody nae weel, or onybody deid, there was Bawby Cat’nach. I hae hard o’ creepin’ things ’at veesits fowk ’at’s no weel—an’ Bawby was, an’ is, ane sic like! Sae I was angert at seein’ her colloguin’ wi’ Jean, an’ I cried Jean to me to the door o’ the kitchie. But wi’ that up jumps Bawby, an’ comin’ efter her, says to me—says she, ‘Eh, Miss Horn! there’s terrible news: Leddy Lossie’s deid;—she’s been three ooks deid!’—‘Weel,’ says I, ‘what’s sae terrible aboot that?’ For ye ken I never had ony feelin’s, an’ I cud see naething sae awfu’ aboot a body deein’ i’ the ord’nar’ w’y o natur’ like. ‘We’ll no miss her muckle doon here,’ says I, ‘for I never hard o’ her bein’ at the Hoose sin’ ever I can.’ ‘But that’s no a’,’ says she; ‘only I wad be laith to speyk aboot it i’ the transe (passage). Lat me up the stair wi’ ye, an’ I’ll tell ye mair.’ Weel, pairtly ’at I was ta’en by surprise like, an’ pairtly ’at I wasna sae auld as I am noo, an’ pairtly that I was keerious to hear—ill ’at I likit her—what neist the wuman wad say, I did as I ouchtna, an’ turned an’ gaed up the stair, an’ loot her follow me. Whan she cam’ in, she pat tu the door ahint her, an’ turnt to me, an’ said —says she: ‘An wha’s deid forbye, think ye?’—‘I hae hard o’ naebody,’ I answered. ‘Wha but the laird o’ Gersefell!’ says she. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, honest man!’ says I; for a’ body likit Mr Stewart. ‘An’ what think ye o’ ’t?’ says she, wi’ a runklin o’ her broos, an’ a shak o’ her heid, an’ a settin o’ her roon’ nieves upo’ the fat hips o’ her. ‘Think o’ ’t?’ says I ; ‘what sud I think o’ ’t, but that it’s the wull o’ Providence?’ Wi’ that she leuch till she wabblet a’ ower like cauld skink, an’ says she—‘Weel, that’s jist what it is no, an’ that lat me tell ye, Miss Horn!’ I glowert at her, maist frichtit into believin’ she was the witch fowk ca’d her. ‘Wha’s son’s the hump-backit cratur,’ says she, ‘’at comes in i’ the gig whiles wi’ the groom-lad, think ye?’—‘Wha’s but the puir man’s ’at’s deid?’ says I. ‘Deil a bit o’ ’t!’ says she, ‘an’ I beg yer pardon for mentionin’ o’ him,’ says she. An’ syne she screwt up her mou’, an’ cam closs up till me—for I wadna sit doon mysel’, an’ less wad I bid her, an’ was sorry eneuch by this time ’at I had broucht her up the stair—an’ says she, layin’ her han’ upo’ my airm wi’ a clap, as gien her an’ me was to be freen’s upo’ sic a gran’ foondation o’ dirt as that!—says she, makin’ a laich toot-moot o’ ’t,—‘He’s Lord Lossie’s!’ says she, an’ maks a face ’at micht hae turnt a cat sick—only by guid luck I had nae feelin’s. ‘An’ nae suner’s my leddy deid nor her man follows her!’ says she. ‘An’ what do ye mak o’ that?’ says she. ‘Ay, what do ye mak o’ that?’ says I till her again. ‘Ow! what ken I?’ says she, wi’ anither ill leuk; an’ wi’ that she leuch an’ turned awa, but turned back again or she wan to the door, an’ says she—‘Maybe ye didna ken ’at she was broucht to bed hersel’ aboot a sax ooks ago?’—‘Puir leddy!’ said I, thinkin’ mair o’ her evil report nor o’ the pains o’ childbirth. ‘Ay,’ says she, wi’ a deevilich kin’ o’ a lauch, like in spite o’ hersel’, ‘for the bairn’s deid, they tell me—as bonny a lad-bairn as ye wad see, jist ooncoamon! An’ whaur div ye think she had her doon-lying? Jist at Lossie Hoose!’ Wi’ that she was oot at the door wi’ a swag o’ her tail, an’ doon the stair to Jean again. I was jist at ane mair wi’ anger at mysel’ an’ scunner at her, an’ in twa min’s to gang efter her an’ turn her oot o’ the hoose, her an’ Jean thegither. I could hear her snicherin’ till hersel’ as she gaed doon the stair. My verra stamack turned at the poozhonous ted.
“I canna say what was true or what was fause i’ the scandal o’ her tale, nor what for she tuik the trouble to cairry ’t to me, but it sune cam to be said ’at the yoong laird was but half-wittet as weel ’s humpit, an’ ’at his mither cudna bide him. An’ certain it was ’at the puir wee chap cud as little bide his mither. Gien she cam near him ohn luikit for, they said, he wad gie a great skriech, and rin as fast as his wee weyver (spider) legs cud wag aneth the wecht o’ ’s humpie—an’ whiles her after him wi’ onything she cud lay her han’ upo’, they said—but I kenna. Ony gait, the widow hersel’ grew waur and waur i’ the temper, an’ I misdoobt me sair was gey hard upo’ the puir wee objeck—fell cruel til ’m, they said—till at len’th, as a’ body kens, he forhooit (forsook) the hoose a’thegither. An’ puttin’ this an’ that thegither, for I hear a hantle said ’at I say na ower again, it seems to me ’at her first scunner at her puir misformt bairn, wha they say was humpit whan he was born an’ maist cost her her life to get lowst o’ him— her scunner at ’im ’s been growin’ an’ growin’ till it’s grown to doonricht hate.”
“It’s an awfu’ thing ’at ye say, mem, an’ I doobt it’s ower true. But hoo can a mither hate her ain bairn?” said Malcolm.
“’Deed it’s nae wonner ye sud speir, laddie! for it’s weel kent ’at maist mithers, gien there be a shargar or a nat’ral or a crookit ane amo’ their bairns, mak mair o’ that ane nor o’ a’ the lave putten thegither—as gien they wad mak it up till ’im, for the fair play o’ the warl. But ye see in this case, he’s aiblins (perhaps) the child o’ sin—for a leear may tell an ill trowth—an’ beirs the marks o’ ’t, ye see; sae to her he’s jist her sin rinnin’ aboot the warl incarnat; an’ that canna be pleesant to luik upo’.”
“But excep’ she war ashamed o’ ’t, she wadna tak it sae muckle to hert to be remin’t o’ ’t.”
“Mony ane’s ashamed o’ the consequences ’at’s no ashamed o’ the deed. Mony ane cud du the sin ower again, ’at canna bide the sicht or even the word o’ ’t. I hae seen a body ’at wad steal a thing as sune ’s luik at it, gang daft wi’ rage at bein’ ca’d a thief. An’ maybe she wadna care gien ’t warna for the oogliness o’ ’im. Sae be he was a bonny sin, I’m thinkin’ she wad hide him weel eneuch. But seein’ he’s naither i’ the image o’ her ’at bore ’im nor him ’at got ’im, but beirs on ’s back, for ever in her sicht, the sin ’at was the gettin’ o’ ’m, he’s a’ hump to her, an’ her hert’s aye howkin a grave for ’im to lay ’im oot o’ sicht intill: she bore ’im, an’ she wad beery ’im. An’ I’m thinkin’ she beirs the markis —gien sae it be sae—deid an’ gane as he is—a grutch yet, for passin’ sic an offspring upo’ her, an’ syne no merryin’ her efter an’ a’, an’ the ro’d clear o’ baith ’at stude atween them. It was said ’at the man ’at killt ’im in a twasum fecht (duel), sae mony a year efter, was a freen’ o’ hers.”
“But wad fowk du sic awfu’ ill things, mem—her a merried woman, an’ him a merried man?”
“There’s nae sayin’, laddie, what a hantle o’ men and some women wad du. I hae muckle to be thankfu’ for ’at I was sic as no man ever luikit twise at. I wasna weel-faured eneuch; though I had bonny hair, an’ my mither aye said ’at her Maggy hed guid sense; whatever else she micht or micht not hae. But gien I cud hae gotten a guid man, sic-like ’s is scarce, I cud hae lo’ed him weel eneuch. But that’s naither here nor there, an’ has naething to du wi’ onybody ava’. The pint I had to come till was this: the wuman ye saw haudin’ a toot-moot (tout muet ?) wi’ that Cat’nach wife, was nane ither, I do believe, than Mistress Stewart, the puir laird’s mither. An’ I hae as little doobt that whan ye tuik ’s pairt, ye broucht to noucht a plot o’ the twasum (two together) against him. It bodes guid to naebody whan there’s a conjunc o’ twa sic wanderin’ stars o’ blackness as yon twa.”
“His ain mither!” exclaimed Malcolm, brooding in horror over the frightful conjecture.
The door opened, and the mad laird came in. His eyes were staring wide, but their look and that of his troubled visage showed that he was awake only in some frightful dream. “Father o’ lichts!” he murmured once and again, but making wild gestures, as if warding off blows. Miss Horn took him gently by the hand. The moment he felt her touch, his face grew calm, and he submitted at once to be led back to bed.