Hech me!"
"God forbid she sud be merried upon ony sic a bla'guard!" cried
Malcolm.
"Dinna ca' 'im ill names, Ma'colm. I canna bide it, though I hae
no richt to tak up the stick for him."
"I wadna say a word 'at micht fa' sair on a sair hert," he returned;
"but gien ye kent a', ye wad ken I hed a gey sized craw to pluck
wi' 's lordship mysel'."
The girl gave a low cry.
"Ye wadna hurt 'im, Ma'colm?" she said, in terror at the thought
of the elegant youth in the clutches of an angry fisherman, even
if he were the generous Malcolm MacPhail himself.
"I wad raither not," he replied, "but we maun see hoo he cairries
himsel'."
"Du naething till 'im for my sake, Ma'colm. Ye can hae naething
again' him yersel'."
It was too dark for Malcolm to see the keen look of wistful regret
with which Lizzy tried to pierce the gloom and read his face: for
a moment the poor girl thought he meant he had loved her himself.
But far other thoughts were in Malcolm's mind: one was that her
whom, as a scarce approachable goddess, he had loved before he knew
her of his own blood, he would rather see married to an honest
fisherman in the Seaton of Portlossie, than to such a lord as
Meikleham. He had seen enough of him at Lossie House to know what
he was, and puritanical fish catching Malcolm had ideas above
those of most marquises of his day: the thought of the alliance
was horrible to him.
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