“What I mean, my good woman, is, that if you think the possession of those papers gives you any hold over me which you can turn to your advantage, you are mistaken.”
“Guid forgie ye, my lord! My advantage! I thoucht yer lordship had been mair o’ a gentleman by this time, or I wad hae sent a lawyer till ye, in place o’ comin’ mysel’.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s plain ye cudna hae been muckle o’ a gentleman ance, my lord; an’ it seems ye’re no muckle mair o’ ane yet, for a’ ye maun hae come throu’ i’ the meantime.”
“I trust you have discovered nothing in those letters to afford ground for such a harsh judgment,” said the marquis seriously.
“Na, no a word i’ them, but the mair oot o’ them. Ye winna threep upo’ me ’at a man wha lea’s a wuman, lat alane his wife—or ane ’at he ca’s his wife—to a’ the pains o’ a mither, an’ a’ the penalties o’ an oonmerried ane, ohn ever speirt hoo she wan throu’ them, preserves the richt he was born till o’ bein’ coontit a gentleman? Ony gait, a maiden wuman like mysel’ wha has nae feelin’s will not alloo him the teetle. Guid forbid it!”
“You are plain-spoken.”
“I’m plain-made, my lord. I ken guid frae ill, an’ little forbye, but aye fand that eneuch to sare my turn. Aither thae letters o’ yer lordship’s are ilk ane o’ them a lee, or ye desertit yer wife an’ bairn——”
“Alas!” interrupted the marquis with some emotion—“she deserted me—and took the child with her!”
“Wha ever daurt sic a lee upo’ my Grizel?” shouted Miss Horn, clenching and shaking her bony fist at the world in general. “It was but a fortnicht or three weeks, as near as I can judge, efter the birth o’ your bairn, that Grizel Cam’ell——”