Malcolm felt the dignity of her behaviour, but not the less, after his own straightforward manner, answered her question to the point.
“I cam aboot naething concernin’ mysel’, mem; I cam to see whether ye kent onything aboot Phemy Mair.”
“Is it a wo——?—I don’t even know who she is.—You don’t mean the young woman that——?—Why do you come to me about her? Who is she?”
Malcolm hesitated a moment: if she really did not know what he meant, was there any risk in telling her? But he saw none.
“Wha is she, mem!” he returned. “—I whiles think she maun be the laird’s guid angel, though in shape she’s but a wee bit lassie. She maks up for a heap to the laird.—Him an’ her, mem, they’ve disappeart thegither, naebody kens whaur.”
Mrs Stewart laughed a low unpleasant laugh, but made no other reply. Malcolm went on.
“An’ it’s no to be wonnert at gien fowk wull hae ’t ’at ye maun ken something aboot it, mem.”
“I know nothing whatever,” she returned emphatically. “Believe me or not, as you please,” she added, with heightened colour. “If I did know anything,” she went on, with apparent truthfulness, “I don’t know that I should feel bound to tell it. As it is, however, I can only say I know nothing of either of them. That I do say most solemnly.”
Malcolm turned,—satisfied at least that he could learn no more.
“You are not going to leave me so!” the lady said, and her face grew “sad as sad could be.”