“There’s naething mair atween ’s, mem,” answered Malcolm, without turning even his face.
“You will be sorry for treating me so some day.”
“Weel than, mem, I wull be; but that day’s no the day (to-day).”
“Think what you could do for your poor witless brother, if——”
“Mem,” interrupted Malcolm, turning right round and drawing himself up in anger, “priv’ ’at I’m your son, an’ that meenute I speir at you wha was my father.”
Mrs Stewart changed colour—neither with the blush of innocence nor with the pallor of guilt, but with the gray of mingled rage and hatred. She took a step forward with the quick movement of a snake about to strike, but stopped midway, and stood looking at him with glittering eyes, teeth clenched, and lips half open.
Malcolm returned her gaze for a moment or two.
“Ye never was the mither, whaever was the father o’ me!” he said, and walked out of the room.
He had scarcely reached the door, when he heard a heavy fall, and looking round saw the lady lying motionless on the floor. Thoroughly on his guard, however, and fearful both of her hatred and her blandishments, he only made the more haste down stairs, where he found a maid, and sent her to attend to her mistress. In a minute he was mounted and trotting fast home, considerably happier than before, inasmuch as he was now almost beyond doubt convinced that Mrs Stewart was not his mother.