At once she led the way, and he followed her in silence up the stair and into the dead-chamber.
There on the white bed lay the long, black, mis-shapen thing she had called “the bit boxie:” and with a strange sinking at the heart, Malcolm approached it.
Miss Horn’s hand came from behind him, and withdrew a covering; there lay a vision lovely indeed to behold!—a fixed evanescence —a listening stillness,—awful, yet with a look of entreaty, at once resigned and unyielding, that strangely drew the heart of Malcolm. He saw a low white forehead, large eye-balls upheaving closed lids, finely modelled features of which the tightened skin showed all the delicacy, and a mouth of suffering whereon the vanishing Psyche had left the shadow of the smile with which she awoke. The tears gathered in his eyes, and Miss Horn saw them.
“Ye maun lay yer han’ upo’ her, Ma’colm,” she said. “Ye sud aye touch the deid, to haud ye ohn dreamed aboot them.”
“I wad be laith,” answered Malcolm; “she wad be ower bonny a dream to miss.—Are they a’ like that?” he added, speaking under his breath.
“Na, ’deed no!” replied Miss Horn, with mild indignation. “Wad ye expec’ Bawby Cat’nach to luik like that, no?—I beg yer pardon for mentionin’ the wuman, my dear,” she added with sudden divergence, bending towards the still face, and speaking in a tenderly apologetic tone; “I ken weel ye canna bide the verra name o’ her; but it s’ be the last time ye s’ hear ’t to a’ eternity, my doo.” Then turning again to Malcolm.—“Lay yer han’ upon her broo, I tell ye,” she said.
“I daurna,” replied the youth, still under his breath; “my han’s are no clean. I wadna for the warl’ touch her wi’ fishy han’s.”
The same moment, moved by a sudden impulse, whose irresistibleness was veiled in his unconsciousness, he bent down, and put his lips to the forehead.
As suddenly he started back erect with dismay on every feature.
“Eh, mem!” he cried in an agonised whisper, “she’s dooms cauld!”