“You can’t do better,” said Mr Graham. “The report itself may be false—or true, and the lady mistaken.”
“She’ll hae to pruv ’t weel afore I say haud,” rejoined Malcolm.
“And suppose she does?”
“In that case,” said Malcolm, with a composure almost ghastly, “a man maun tak what mither it pleases God to gie him. But faith! she winna du wi’ me as wi’ the puir laird. Gien she taks me up, she’ll repent ’at she didna lat me lie. She’ll be as little pleased wi’ the tane o’ her sons as the tither—I can tell her, ohn propheseed!”
“But think what you might do between mother and son,” suggested the master, willing to reconcile him to the possible worst.
“It’s ower late for that,” he answered. “The puir man’s thairms (fiddle-strings) are a’ hingin’ lowse, an’ there’s no grip eneuch i’ the pegs to set them up again. He wad but think I had gane ower to the enemy, an’ haud oot o’ my gait as eident (diligently) as he hauds oot o’ hers. Na, it wad du naething for him. Gien ’t warna for what I see in him, I wad hae a gran’ rebutter to her claim; for hoo cud ony wuman’s ain son hae sic a scunner at her as I hae i’ my hert an’ brain an’ verra stamach? Gien she war my ain mither, there bude to be some nait’ral drawin’s atween ’s, a body wad think. But it winna haud, for there’s the laird! The verra name o’ mither gars him steik his lugs an’ rin.”
“Still, if she be your mother, it’s for better for worse as much as if she had been your own choice.”
“I kenna weel hoo it cud be for waur,” said Malcolm, who did not yet, even from his recollection of the things Miss Horn had said, comprehend what worst threatened him.
“It does seem strange,” said the master thoughtfully, after a pause, “that some women should be allowed to be mothers!— that through them sons and daughters of God should come into the world—thief-babies, say! human parasites, with no choice but feed on the social body!”
“I wonner what God thinks aboot it a’! It gars a body spier whether he cares or no,” said Malcolm gloomily.