"I'm with you there," says he. "I was paid good money for that job, and I ken what I ken, and mair—what I've found out. Ye'll no' hiv great mind o' Scaurdale's son? No? Aweel, he was a bog-louper, and wild, wild at that, but he fell in wi' some south-country lady—a cousin o' his ain, that stopped for years at Scaurdale—a young thing that was feart to haud the man, but fond o' him too. I canna mind the name o' her. The long and short of it was jeest this—she married on an Englishman, a landed man and weel bred—Stockdale they ca'ed him—but he turned oot ill after a', and the first wean was a lass instead o' a boy. And I'm jalousin' she would be getting her keel-haulings for that, poor lady. Ye ken weel that young Scaurdale broke his neck, and ye ken where.
"'I'll be in hell or hame,' says he, 'in forty minutes.' At the Quay
Inn it was, and his horse lathered and foaming and wild wi' fear.
Aweel, Mr Hamish, he's no hame yet.
"Things were going from bad to worse with the lass he lost, and her man aye at the bottle, and sometimes she would be finding him lookin' at the wean and cursing, so what does she do but get word to the old Laird o' Scaurdale, who was fond o' her and a just man. I'll wager ye, he did not hang long in irons. The thing was done circumspectly, mind you—nae high-handedness—but Belle's folk were about Glen Scaur, a droll wandering band, claiming great descent from Eastern folk, and with horses and dogs and spaewife among them; and Belle (as they will be calling her) was the daughter o' the Chief, a very proud man.
"They were a wandering tribe, Mr Hamish, and they wandered into the south country, and I'm thinking ye saw the bonny spaewife coming back her lane, except for a wean, on a morning ye ploughed stubble.
"But here's the droll bit," says he. "Stockdale was kilt an his horse, too, in his ain park, for he scoured the place like a madman after the wean was lost. Weel, weel, that finished the lady, poor body. Ye'll see how things are now, Mr Hamish," says he.
"Yon's an heiress. An' that's a' I'll be saying," says he, for McKinnon came in from his stable, "but the Laird, your uncle, was in the ploy," says he, "or I'm sair mistaken, and the Mistress too."
With that we rose to be going, and had a glass, and the captain's last words were—"Ye'll mind yon: 'I'm not wanting the wean to grow up like a cadger's dog.'"
As I was walking home that night the thought came into my head of the wisdom of Betty at the big house.
I minded her saying to me on the Sunday that Belle took the wean in the tartan shawl to the Mistress—her very words came back to me—
"The wean has the look o' John o' Scaurdale."