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Updated: May 26, 2025
"Yer mither's been sair upo' ye, I doobt!" he said. "But it'll sune blaw ower. She cuils as fest 's she heats." As he spoke he set himself down on the sand beside her. But Lizzy started to her feet, crying, "Dinna come near me, Ma'colm. I'm no fit for honest man to come nigh me. Stan' awa'; I hae the plague."
"Young Mistah Ma'colm gwine 'way on de boat ter Noo Yo'k dis ebenin', suh, en I'm takin' his things down ter de wharf, suh." This was news to me, and I heard it with regret. My wife looked sorry, too, and I could see that Mabel was trying hard to hide her concern. "He's comin' 'long behin', suh, en I 'spec's you'll meet 'im up de road a piece.
"I thank ye frae mine," answered Malcolm, and again they shook hands. "But eh, Ma'colm, my man!" he added, "hoo will I ever shaw my face again?" "Fine that!" returned Malcolm, eagerly. "Fowk's terrible guid-natur'd whan ye alloo 'at ye're 'i the wrang. I do believe 'at whan a man confesses till 's neebor an' says he's sorry, he thinks mair o' 'im nor afore he did it.
To think o' Ma'colm MacPhail turnin' his back upo' them 'at's been freens wi' 'im sin ever he was a wee loonie, rinnin' aboot in coaties!" "Hoot, man! what's gotten intill yer heid?" returned his wife. "It's no Ma'colm; it's the illwully factor. Bide ye till he comes till 's ain, an' Maister Crathie 'll hae to lauch o' the wrang side o' 's mou'."
She did not like to tell him that she had been alarmed by his dropping asleep: and in her confusion she fell back on the last subject. "There maun be some mistak, Mr Crathie," she said. "I wuss ye wad tell me what gars ye hate Ma'colm MacPhail as ye du."
"Div ye railly think it, Ma'colm?" sighed the factor with a flush. "I div that, sir. Only whan ye grow better, gien ye'll alloo me to say't, sir, ye maunna lat Sawtan temp' ye to think 'at this same repentin' was but a wakeness o' the flesh, an' no an enlichtenment o' the speerit." "I s' tie mysel' up till 't," cried the factor eagerly.
Then came the voice of Lizzy in an agony from the door: "Haud aff o' yersel', Ma'colm: I canna bide it. I gie ye back yer word." "We'll manage yet, Lizzy," answered Malcolm, and kept warily retreating toward a window. Suddenly he dashed his elbow through a pane, and gave a loud shrill whistle, the same instant receiving a blow over the eye which the blood followed.
"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.
But I maun haud my tongue the nicht, for I wad fain ye had a guid sleep, an' I'm needin' ane sair mysel', for I'm no sae yoong as I ance was, an' I ha'e been that anxious aboot ye, Ma'colm, 'at though I never hed ony feelin's, yet, noo 'at a' 's gaein' richt, an' ye're a' richt, and like to be richt for ever mair, my heid's just like to split. Gang yer wa's to yer bed, and soon may ye sleep.
"What gars ye say that, Ma'colm?" returned Lizzy, with eagerness. "I canna tell ye jist i' the noo; but ye ken a body canna weel be aye aboot a place ohn seein things.
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