“Hoot!” returned Mrs Crathie, blurting out her Scotch fast enough now, “I s’ warran’ ye can lee weel eneuch whan ye ha’e occasion. Tak yer siller, an’ du as I tell ye.”
“Wad ye ha’e me damned, mem?”
Mrs Crathie gave a cry and held up her hands. She was too well accustomed to imprecations from the lips of her husband for any but an affected horror, but, regarding the honest word as a bad one, she assumed an air of injury.
“Wad ye daur to sweir afore a leddy,” she exclaimed, shaking her uplifted hands in pretence of ghasted astonishment.
“If Mr Crathie wishes to see me, ma’am,” rejoined Malcolm, taking up the shield of English, “I am ready. If not, please allow me to go.”
The same moment the bell whose rope was at the head of the factor’s bed, rang violently, and Mrs Crathie’s importance collapsed.
“Come this w’y,” she said, and turning, led him up the stair to the room where her husband lay.
Entering, Malcolm stood astonished at the change he saw upon the strong man of rubicund countenance, and his heart filled with compassion. The factor was sitting up in bed, looking very white and worn and troubled. Even his nose had grown thin and white. He held out his hand to him, and said to his wife, “Tak the door to ye, Mistress Crathie,” indicating which side he wished it closed from.
“Ye was some sair upo’ me, Ma’colm,” he went on, grasping the youth’s hand.
“I doobt I was ower sair,” said Malcolm, who could hardly speak for a lump in his throat.