“They tell me Mistress Stewart’s rinnin’ aboot the toon claimin’ me!”
“Claiming you!—How do you mean?”
“For her ain!”
“Not for her son?”
“Ay, sir—that’s what they say. But ye haena h’ard o’ ’t?”
“Not a word.”
“Then I believe it’s a’ havers!” cried Malcolm energetically. “It was sair eneuch upo’ me a’ready to ken less o’ whaur I cam frae than the puir laird himsel’; but to come frae whaur he cam frae, was a thocht ower sair!”
“You don’t surely despise the poor fellow so much as to scorn to have the same parents with him!” said Mr Graham.
“The verra contrar’, sir. But a wuman wha wad sae misguide the son o’ her ain body, an’ for naething but that, as she had broucht him furth, sic he was!—it’s no to be lichtly believed nor lichtly endured. I s’ awa’ to Miss Horn an’ see whether she’s h’ard ony sic leein’ clashes.”
But as Malcolm uttered her name, his heart sank within him, for their talk the night he had sought her hospitality for the laird, came back to his memory, burning like an acrid poison.