“My lord tells me,” she said, folding a pair of lovely hands on her lap, “that you see my poor unhappy boy sometimes.”
“No sae dooms (absolutely) unhappy, mem!” said Malcolm; but she went on without heeding the remark.
“And that you rescued him not long ago from the hands of ruffians.”
Malcolm made no reply.
“Everybody knows,” she continued, after a slight pause, “what an unhappy mother I am. It is many years since I lost the loveliest infant ever seen, while my poor Stephen was left to be the mockery of every urchin in the street!”
She sighed deeply, and one of the fair hands took a hand-kerchief from a work-table near.
“No in Portlossie, mem,” said Malcolm. “There’s verra feow o’ them so hard-hertit or so ill-mainnert. They’re used to seein’ him at the schuil, whaur he shaws himsel’ whiles; an’ he’s a great favourite wi’ them, for he’s ane o’ the best craturs livin’.”
“A poor, witless, unmanageable being! He’s a dreadful grief to me,” said the widowed mother, with a deep sigh.
“A bairn could manage him,” said Malcolm in strong contradiction.
“Oh, if I could but convince him of my love! but he won’t give me a chance. He has an unaccountable dread of me, which makes him as well as me wretched. It is a delusion which no argument can overcome, and seems indeed an essential part of his sad affliction. The more care and kindness he needs, the less will he accept at my hands. I long to devote my life to him, and he will not allow me. I should be but too happy to nurse him day and night. Ah, Mr MacPhail, you little know a mother’s heart! Even if my beautiful boy had not been taken from me, Stephen would still have been my idol, idiot as he is—and will be as long as he lives. And—”