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Updated: June 3, 2025
"Hoot, laird! nae offence!" returned Mrs Catanach. "I thocht ye was luikin' whaur ye cam frae," returned the man in tones apologetic and hesitating. "'Deed I fash wi' nae sic freits," said Mrs Catanach. "Sae lang's ye ken whaur ye're gaein' till," suggested the man "Toots!
Mrs Catanach must have discovered it the same night on which he found her there, had gone away by it then, and had certainly been making use of it since. When he smelt the sulphur, she must have been lighting a match. It was now getting towards morning, and at last he was tired. He went to bed and fell asleep.
"I s' warran' she'll be in her bed an' snorin'," said Jean; "but I s' gang an' see." Ere she went, however, Jean saw that the kitchen door was closed, for, whether she belonged to the class "honest folk" or not, Mrs Catanach was in Miss Horn's kitchen, and not in her nightcap. Jean returned presently with an invitation for Malcolm to walk up to the parlour.
"Weel, my lord, I hae gruppit her at last, an' I bude to come an tell ye. "Leave your beastly gibberish. You can speak what at least resembles English when you like." "Weel, my lord, I hae her unner lock an' keye." "Who, in the name of Satan?" "Mistress Catanach, my lord!" "Damn her eyes! What's she to me that I should be waked out of a good sleep for her?"
" began Mrs Catanach, prefacing fresh remark. But at her name the mother flew into such a rage that, fearful of scandal, seeing it was the Sabbath and they were on their way to public worship, her companion would have exerted all her powers of oiliest persuasion to appease her. But if there was one thing Mrs Catanach did not understand it was the heart of a mother. "Hoots, Mistress Findlay!
Notwithstanding the quarrel, Mrs Catanach did not return without having gained something; she had learned that Miss Horn had been foiled in what she had no doubt was an attempt to obtain proof that Malcolm was not the son of Mrs Stewart.
"Hoots! ye'll jist lea' the troot wi' me. Ye'll be seekin' a saxpence for 't, I reckon," she persisted, again approaching the basket. "I tell ye, Mistress Catanach," said Malcolm, drawing back now in the fear that if she once had it she would not yield it again, "it's gauin' up to the Hoose!" "Hoots! there's naebody there seen 't yet. It's new oot o' the watter."
But indeed, Lady Florimel did not want to steer; she was so much occupied with her thoughts that her hands must remain idle. Partly to turn them away from the more terrible portion of her adventure, she began to reflect upon her interview with Mrs Catanach if interview it could be called, where she had seen no one.
"Ill deedit," returned Malcolm, " whan ye flang my bonny salmon troot till yer oogly deevil o' a dog." "Ho! ho! ho! Ill deedit, am I? I s' no forget thae bonny names! Maybe yer lordship wad alloo me the leeberty o' speirin' anither question at ye, Ma'colm MacPhail." "Ye may speir 'at ye like, sae lang 's ye canna gar me stan' to hearken. Guid day to ye, Mistress Catanach.
An ill man, or wuman, like Mistress Catanach, for enstance, 'at's a'boady, 'cep' what o' her 's deevil," "Nonsense!" said the marquis, angrily; but Malcolm went on: " maun be jist fu' o' ghaists! An' for onything I ken, that 'll be what maks ghaists o' themsel's efter they 're deid, settin' them waukin', as they ca' 't.
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