“But,” interrupted the lady hurriedly, “you were going to tell me the one comfort he has.”
“It’s his leeberty, mem—jist his leeberty; to gang whaur he lists like the win’; to turn his face whaur he wull i’ the mornin’, an’ back again at nicht gien he likes; to wan’er——”
“Back where?” interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly.
“Whaur he likes, mem—I cudna say whaur wi’ ony certainty. But aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin’, an’ watch the stars sheenin’! —There’s a sicht o’ oondevelopit releegion in him, as Maister Graham says; an’ I div not believe ’at the Lord’ll see him wranged mair nor’s for ’s guid. But it’s my belief, gien ye took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him.”
“Then you won’t help me!” she cried despairingly. “They tell me you are an orphan yourself—and yet you will not take pity on a childless mother!—worse than childless, for I had the loveliest boy once—he would be about your age now, and I have never had any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my son, and I will bless you—love you.”
As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground.
“’Deed, mem, I can an’ wull promise ye naething!” he said. “Are ye to play a man fause ’cause he’s less able to tak care o’ himsel’ than ither fowk? Gien I war sure ’at ye cud mak it up, an’ ’at he would be happy wi’ ye efterhin, it micht be anither thing; but excep’ ye garred him, ye cudna get him to bide lang eneuch for ye to try—an’ syne (even then) he wad dee afore ye hed convenced him. I doobt, mem, ye hae lost yer chance wi’ him and maun du yer best to be content withoot him—I’ll promise ye this muckle, gien ye like—I s’ tell him what ye hae said upo’ the subjec’.”
“Much good that will be!” replied the lady, with ill-concealed scorn.
“Ye think he wadna unnerstan’ ’t; but he unnerstan’s wonnerfu’.”
“And you would come again, and tell me what he said?” she murmured, with the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope.