“Maybe ay, maybe no—I winna promise.—Hae ye ony answer to sen’ back to my lord’s letter, mem?”
“No; I cannot write; I cannot even think. You have made me so miserable!”
Malcolm lingered.
“Go, go;” said the lady dejectedly. “Tell your master I am not well. I will write to-morrow. If you hear anything of my poor boy, do take pity upon me and come and tell me.”
The stiffer partizan Malcolm appeared, the more desirable did it seem in Mrs Stewart’s eyes to gain him over to her side. Leaving his probable active hostility out of the question, she saw plainly enough that, if he were called on to give testimony as to the laird’s capacity, his witness would pull strongly against her plans; while, if the interests of such a youth were wrapped up in them, that fact in itself would prejudice most people in favour of them.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE BLOW.
“Well, Malcolm,” said his lordship, when the youth reported himself, “how’s Mrs Stewart?”
“No ower weel pleased, my lord,” answered Malcolm.
“What!—you haven’t been refusing to——?”
“Deed hev I, my lord!”