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Updated: June 3, 2025
On the evening of the Sunday following the events related in the last chapter, Mrs Catanach had, not without difficulty, persuaded Mrs Findlay to accompany her to the Baillies' Barn, with the promise of a wonderful sermon from a new preacher a ploughman on an inland farm.
And there comes the difficulty, that she has already made an altogether different statement." "It gangs for naething, my lord. It was never made afore a justice o' the peace." "I wish you would go to her and see how she is inclined." "Me gang to Bawbie Catanach!" exclaimed Miss Horn. "I wad as sune gang an' kittle Sawtan's nose wi' the p'int o' 's tail. Na, na, my lord.
In the meantime, a whisper awoke and passed from mouth to mouth in all directions through the little burgh whence arising only one could tell, for even her mouthpiece, Miss Horn's Jean, was such a mere tool in the midwife's hands, that she never doubted but Mrs Catanach was, as she said, only telling the tale as it was told to her.
When she learned that he was lodged so near Portland Place, she concluded that he was watching his sister, and chuckled over the idea of his being watched in turn by herself. Every day for weeks after her declaration concerning the birth of Malcolm, had the mind of Mrs Catanach been exercised to the utmost to invent some mode of undoing her own testimony.
She probably believed the lady to have been Mrs Stewart, and the late marquis the father of the child. Should he see Mrs Catanach? And what then?
Tired as he was he set out at once for the burgh, and the first person he saw was Mrs Catanach standing on her doorstep and shading her eyes with her hand, as she looked away out to the horizon over the roofs of the Seaton. He went no farther.
Men and women gave place to her, and she went surging into the midst of the assembly. "Whaur's that lass o' mine?" she cried, looking about her in aggravated wrath at failing to pounce right upon her. "She's no verra weel, Mrs Findlay," cried Mrs Catanach, in a loud whisper, laden with an insinuating tone of intercession. "She'll be better in a meenute.
He fired the gun, rowed back to the Seaton, ate his breakfast, and set out to carry the best of his fish to the House. The moment he turned the corner of her street, he saw Mrs Catanach standing on her threshold with her arms akimbo; although she was always tidy, and her house spotlessly trim, she yet seemed forever about the door, on the outlook at least, if not on the watch.
Admitted to his lordship's presence, he had a question to ask and a request to prefer. "Hae ye dune onything my lord," he said, "aboot Mistress Catanach?" "What do you mean?" "Anent yon cat prowl aboot the hoose, my lord." "No. You have n't discovered anything more have you?" "Na, my lord; I haena had a chance. But ye may be sure she had nae guid design in 't." "I don't suspect her of any."
As softly, he lifted the latch, when, almost of itself, the door opened a couple of inches, and, with bated breath, he saw the back of a figure he could not mistake that of Mrs Catanach. She was stooping by the side of a tent bed much like his own, fumbling with the bottom hem of one of the check curtains, which she was holding towards the light of a lantern on a chair.
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