“You’s the man!” said the Mistress, with a certain triumphant contempt in her voice; “just the very same dirty Frenchman that Huntley brought to the house this day. I’m no mista’en. He’s wanting his wife, and he’ll find her, and I wish her muckle joy of her bonnie bargain. That’s just the ill-doing vagabond of a husband that’s run away from Marie!”
“Mother,” said Cosmo, eagerly, “you know quite well how little friendship I have for Marie—”
When he had got so far he stopped suddenly. His suggestion to the contrary was almost enough to make his mother inform the stranger at once of the near neighborhood of his wife, and Cosmo paused only in time.
“The mair shame to you,” said the Mistress, indignantly, “she’s a suffering woman, ill and neglected; and I warn you baith I’m no’ gaun to send this blackguard to Melmar to fright the little life there is out of a puir dying creature. He shall find out his wife for his ain hand; he shanna be indebted to me.”
“It is like yourself, mother, to determine so,” said Cosmo, gratefully. “Though, if she had the choice, I daresay she would decide otherwise, and perhaps Madame Roche too. You say I am always thinking of them, but certainly I would not trust to their wisdom—neither Madame Roche nor Marie.”
“But really—have some pity upon my curiosity—who is Marie, mother?” cried Huntley, “and who is her husband, and what is it about altogether? I know nothing of Pierrot, and I don’t believe much good of him; but how do you know?”
“Marie is the French lady’s eldest daughter—madame would have married her upon you, Huntley, my man, if she had been free,” said the Mistress, “and I woudna say but she’s keeping the little one in her hand for you to make up for your loss, as she says. But Marie, she settled for hersel’ lang before our Cosmo took news of their land to them; and it just shows what kind of folk they were when she took up with the like of this lad. I’ve little skill in Frenchmen, that’s true; if he’s not a common person, and a blackguard to the boot, I’m very sair deceived in my e’en; but whatever else he is, he’s her man, and that I’m just as sure of as mortal person can be. But she’s a poor suffering thing that will never be well in this world, and I’ll no’ send a wandering vagabond to startle her out of her life.”
“What do you say, madame,” screamed a voice at the door; “you know my wife—you know her—Madame Pierrot?—and you will keep her husband from her? What! you would take my Marie?—you would marry her to your son because she is rich? but I heard you—oh, I heard you! I go to fly to my dear wife.”
The Mistress rose, holding back Huntley, who was advancing indignantly:—
“Fly away, Mounseer,” said Mrs. Livingstone, “you’ll find little but closed doors this night; and dinna stand there swearing and screaming at me; you may gang just when you please, and welcome; but we’ll have none of your passions here; be quiet, Huntley—he’s no’ a person to touch with clean fingers—are you hearing me man? Gang up to your bed, if you please this moment. I give you a night’s shelter because you came with my son; or if you’ll no’ go up the stairs go forth out of my doors, and dinna say another word to me—do you hear?”