He spoke the words with perfect composure, but as soon as they were uttered, burst into a wail, and sobbed like a child.
“Ye’ll be my ain father than?” said Malcolm.
“No, no, my son. She’ll not pe anything that’s your own at aal!”
And the tears flowed down his channelled cheeks.
For one moment Malcolm was silent, utterly bewildered. But he must comfort the old man first, and think about what he had said afterwards.
“Ye’re my ain daddy, whatever ye are!” he said. “Tell me a’ aboot it, daddy.”
“She’ll tell you all she’ll pe knowing, my son, and she nefer told a lie efen to a Cawmill.”
He began his story in haste, as if anxious to have it over, but had to pause often from fresh outbursts of grief. It contained nothing more of the essential than I have already recorded, and Malcolm was perplexed to think why what he had known all the time should affect him so much in the telling. But when he ended with the bitter cry—“And now you’ll pe loving her no more, my poy: my chilt, my Malcolm!” he understood it.
“Daddy! daddy!” he cried, throwing his arms round his neck and kissing him, “I lo’e ye better nor ever. An’ weel I may!”
“But how can you, when you’ve cot none of ta plood in you, my son?” persisted Duncan.