“Why, Malcolm!” said Florimel, bewildered, “what ill was I saying of her?”
“It’s naething less than an insult to my mither to ca’ yon wuman by her name,” he replied with set teeth.
It was to him an offence against the idea of motherhood—against the mother he had so often imagined luminous against the dull blank of memory, to call such a woman his mother.
“She’s a very ladylike, handsome woman—handsome enough to be your mother even, Mr Malcolm Stewart.”
Florimel could not have dared the words but for the distance between them; but, then, neither would she have said them while the distance was greater! They were lost on Malcolm though, for never in his life having started the question whether he was handsome or not, he merely supposed her making game of him, and drew himself together in silence, with the air of one bracing himself to hear and endure the worst.
“Even if she should not be your mother,” his tormentor resumed, “to show such a dislike to any woman is nothing less than cruelty.”
“She maun pruv’ ’t,” murmured Malcolm—not the less emphatically that the words were but just audible.
“Of course she will do that; she has abundance of proof. She gave me a whole hour of proof.”
“Lang’s no strang,” returned Malcolm “there’s comfort i’ that! Gang on my leddy.”
“Poor woman! it was hard enough to lose her son; but to find him again such as you seem likely to turn out, I should think ten times worse.”