“Dinna ca’ ’im ill names, Ma’colm. I canna bide it, though I hae no richt to tak up the stick for him.”
“I wadna say a word ’at micht fa’ sair on a sair hert,” he returned; “but gien ye kent a’, ye wad ken I hed a gey-sized craw to pluck wi’ ’s lordship mysel’.”
The girl gave a low cry.
“Ye wadna hurt ’im, Ma’colm?” she said, in terror at the thought of the elegant youth in the clutches of an angry fisherman, even if he were the generous Malcolm MacPhail himself.
“I wad raither not,” he replied, “but we maun see hoo he cairries himsel’.”
“Du naething till ’im for my sake, Ma’colm. Ye can hae naething again’ him yersel’.”
It was too dark for Malcolm to see the keen look of wistful regret with which Lizzy tried to pierce the gloom and read his face: for a moment the poor girl thought he meant he had loved her himself. But far other thoughts were in Malcolm’s mind: one was, that her whom, as a scarce approachable goddess, he had loved before he knew her of his own blood, he would rather see married to an honest fisherman in the Seaton of Portlossie, than to such a lord as Meikleham. He had seen enough of him at Lossie House to know what he was, and puritanical fish-catching Malcolm had ideas above those of most marquises of his day: the thought of the alliance was horrible to him. It was possibly not inevitable, however; only what could he do, and at the same time avoid grievous hurt?
“I dinna think he’ll ever merry my leddy,” he said.
“What gars ye say that, Ma’colm?” returned Lizzy, with eagerness.
“I canna tell ye jist i’ the noo; but ye ken a body canna weel be aye aboot a place ohn seein’ things. I’ll tell ye something o’ mair consequence hooever,” he continued. “Some fowk say there’s a God, an’ some say there’s nane, an’ I ha’e no richt to preach to ye, Lizzy; but I maun jist tell ye this—’at gien God dinna help them ’at cry till ’im i’ the warst o’ tribles, they micht jist as weel ha’e nae God at a’. For my ain pairt I ha’e been helpit, an’ I think it was him intill ’t. Wi’ his help, a man may warstle throu’ onything. I say I think it was himsel’ tuik me throu’ ’t, an’ here I stan’ afore ye, ready for the neist trible, an’ the help ’at ’ll come wi’ ’t. What it may be, God only kens!”