Lord Lossie was roused from his reverie by a tap at the door, which he knew for Malcolm’s, and answered with admission.
When he entered, his master saw that a change had passed upon him, and for a moment believed Miss Horn had already broken faith with him and found communication with Malcolm. He was soon satisfied of the contrary, however, but would have found it hard indeed to understand, had it been represented to him, that the contentment, almost elation, of the youth’s countenance had its source in the conviction that he was not the son of Mrs Stewart.
“So here you are at last!” said the marquis.
“Ay, my lord?”
“Did you find Stewart?”
“Ay did we at last, my lord; but we made naething by ’t, for he kent noucht aboot the lassie, an ’maist lost his wuts at the news.”
“No great loss, that!” said the marquis. “Go and send Stoat here.”
“Is there ony hurry aboot Sto’t, my lord?” asked Malcolm, hesitating. “I had a word to say to yer lordship mysel’.”
“Make haste then.”
“I’m some fain to gang back to the fishin’, my lord,” said Malcolm. “This is ower easy a life for me. The deil wins in for the liftin’ o’ the sneck. Forbye, my lord, a life wi’oot aither danger or wark’s some wersh-like (insipid); it wants saut, my lord. But a’ that’s naither here nor there, I ken, sae lang ’s ye want me oot o’ the hoose, my lord.”