“Dinna come near me, Ma’colm. I’m no fit for honest man to come nigh me. Stan’ awa’; I hae the plague.”
She laughed, but it was a pitiful laugh, and she looked wildly about, as if for some place to run to.
“I wadna be sorry to tak it mysel’, Lizzy. At ony rate I’m ower auld a freen’ to be driven frae ye that gait,” said Malcolm, who could not bear the thought of leaving her on the border of the solitary sea, with the waves barking at her all the cold winterly gloamin’. Who could tell what she might do after the dark came down? He rose and would have taken her hand to draw it from her face; but she turned her back quickly, saying in a hard forced voice:
“A man canna help a wuman—’cep it be till her grave.” Then turning suddenly, she laid her hands on his shoulders, and cried: “For the love o’ God, Ma’colm, lea’ me this moment! Gien I cud tell ony man what ailed me, I wad tell you; but I canna, I canna! Rin laddie; rin’ an’ lea’ me.”
It was impossible to resist her anguished entreaty and agonized look. Sore at heart and puzzled in brain, Malcolm yielding turned from her, and with eyes on the ground, thoughtfully pursued his slow walk towards the Seaton.
At the corner of the first house in the village stood three women, whom he saluted as he passed. The tone of their reply struck him a little, but, not having observed how they watched him as he approached, he presently forgot it. The moment his back was turned to them, they turned to each other and inter-changed looks.
“Fine feathers mak fine birds,” said one of them.
“Ay, but he luiks booed doon,” said another.
“An’ weel he may! What’ll his leddy-mither say to sic a ploy? She ’ll no sawvour bein’ made a granny o’ efter sic a fashion ’s yon,” said the third.
“’Deed, lass, there’s feow oucht to think less o’ ’t,” returned the first.